Loren stood in a shadowy hall, waiting for his turn to die. A muted roar sounded, a murmur in the stones, and sent the gladiator’s stomach leaping and sweat beading on his tanned, scarred skin. Loren had fought in the arena many times, and Nibenay’s people seemed unmoved. The fight before him was different, for the people shouted for him. If he won, he would be free.

He was not alone in the small, bare chamber set aside for arena gladiators. Two hunched slaves stood on either side of the double doors, awaiting the order to pull them open. Skulls, scalps, and other trophies hung from the wood, good luck charms most gladiators touched on their way out to the pit.

Loren’s partner leaned against the far wall. Aeris was short, slight, and seemed out of place in the arena. He wore ill-fitted, studded leather armor, a cap one size too big, and he was examining a large glove bristling with spikes. He looked up to Loren and said something, but the noise from outside drowned out his words.

Loren could feel the old fear worming through his guts. He had survived some two dozen matches in Nibenay without being maimed or killed, an accomplishment in its own right. Each time he waited to fight, he felt the same dread chewing inside him, a flutter in his stomach, and slight dizziness. They were fears. They fled before any actual work had to be done.

Any other match and Loren could tell himself he had a good chance at winning. The arena masters hated it when prized gladiators went free and made it their task to kill anyone who got too close. Nibenay was no different from any other city-state in the Seven Cities. The gladiator’s life was short and brutish and almost always ended bleeding out on crimson sands to the crowd’s roars.

novels set in athas,
the world of dark sun®

City under the Sand
JEFF MARIOTTE

Under the Crimson Sun
KEITH R. A. DECANDIDO

Death Mark: The Dread of this Desolation
ROBERT J. SCHWALB

Dungeons & Dragons®
Dark Sun®
DEATH MARK
©2011 Wizards of the Coast LLC

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe. Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

DARK SUN, D&D, Wizards of the Coast, their respective logos, and Dungeons & Dragons are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Cover art by: Justin Sweet
Map by: Robert Lazzaretti

eISBN: 978-0-7869-5940-2

For customer service, contact:
U.S., Canada, Asia Pacific, & Latin America: Wizards of the Coast LLC, P.O. Box 707, Renton, WA 98057-0707, +1-800-324-6496, www.wizards.com/customerservice
U.K., Eire, & South Africa: Wizards of the Coast LLC, c/o Hasbro UK Ltd., P.O. Box 43, Newport, NP19 4YD, UK, Tel: +08457 12 55 99, Email: wizards@hasbro.co.uk
Europe: Wizards of the Coast p/a Hasbro Belgium NV/SA, Industrialaan 1, 1702 Groot-Bijgaarden, Belgium, Tel: +32.70.233.277, Email: wizards@hasbro.be

Visit our websites at www.wizards.com
www.DungeonsandDragons.com

v3.1

For Stacee Smith,
Without you, this would not have been possible.

beneath a crimson sun lie wastelands of majestic desolation and cities of cruel splendor, where sandal-clad heroes battle ancient sorcery and terrible monsters. This is Athas, the world of the Dark Sun, a dying planet of savagery and desolation. Sand, rock, sun, burning heat—these are the only properties that Athas possesses in abundance. Every living creature in the world works constantly to obtain food and safeguard water. Hunters might go days without finding suitable prey, and herders must drive their flocks from place to place to find good grazing. Water is scarce in the known regions of Athas, and those who control life-giving wells or springs jealously guard access to such riches.

City dwellers enjoy more security than do nomads or villagers living in the deserts, but it takes legions of workers—most of them slaves—toiling in the fields to support a city’s population. Great and terrible sorcerer-kings rule the city-states, each a long-lived tyrant who crushes dissent. Rapacious nobles, corrupt templars, ruthless merchants, and legions of brutal soldiers profit from or support the sorcerer-kings’ reigns, while the common folk groan under unjust laws and harsh taxation. Slaves survive only as long as they can earn one more day’s worth of food and water with their backbreaking toil. For most people, life is a choice between struggling to survive in the wasted wilderness and trading freedom for the relative safety of the oppressive city-states.

This is Athas, a world of cruelty and tyranny, a place of savage beauty and barbaric splendor—a world of heroes.

Whoever controls the mines controls the world,” said Thaxos Vordon. “It is as simple as that.”

The whip-thin, gray-haired man leaned forward in his chair, his palms pressed on his knees. He swept his gaze across the gathering of lords and ladies who reclined on couches, where they sipped wine, smoked pipes, and, for the most part, pretended he wasn’t there. About twenty nobles with twice as many retainers sat around the hall. Those of higher standing claimed the padded couches ideal for passing the hours in a stupor, while the servants, who just a few months back would have been slaves, navigated their betters, pouring wine into wide bowls and offering fruits, confections, and other delicacies heaped on wooden platters.

The room itself was just large enough to hold the assembled crowd. The high ceiling, somewhat obscured by the smoke, held a mosaic displaying benevolent nobles attending slaves in all the labors they were expected to perform, from toiling in the fields to pleasing their masters and mistresses in the bedchamber. Even the columns demonstrated the nobles’ authority, each boasting intricate bas-reliefs showing humans, dwarves, and other races at work.

From the nobles, there was no answer to Vordon’s pronouncement, no response beyond muttering and laughter. Vordon studied his audience. He found a mass of painted faces and garish costumes, sneering expressions and glares. He found no welcome and no interest in those gathered and sensed their annoyance at his intrusion.

Yet Vordon remained. He sat, still and watching, waiting for a response, some word, some sign of acknowledgment before he pressed on with his business.

“Dune trader, you did not come all this way to state the obvious,” said a noblewoman clothed in a clingy dress stained dark by her sweat from her fleshy body. “You will find everyone here is well acquainted with Tyr’s situation. We know our beloved city-state struggles.”

Vordon allowed himself a small smile at the attempted insult. Dune traders were common merchants, travelers, and peddlers far below his station. His riches were no guarantor of respect or honor from the lot before him, though. Even the mightiest merchant princes were expected to show deference to the nobility, and their derision brooked few doubts in Vordon’s mind about their opinions of him.

“Is that so, Lady Gorgol?” he said. “All evidence suggests otherwise, I am afraid. If you understood matters as you claim, why is it our city-state’s fortunes have fallen so low? Why do the mines still stand closed even now after the late King Kalak closed them?”

Another noble, a gaunt man in red robes, far too heavy for the room’s closeness and warmth, said, “You know as well as we, King Tithian has refused to open them, despite the promises he made to gain his crown. I, and others here as well, have spoken with him at great length about reopening the mines, yet he resists.”

“And his reason?” asked Vordon.

“He may not say it aloud, but a shortage of cheap labor seems likely,” sneered another noble from behind a feathered mask.

“Yes. Labor. Slaves. How the world has changed now that slaves are free, yes?” said Vordon.

“This new freedom,” said Lady Gorgol, “will destroy us all. How are we to attend our crops without slaves to work the fields? Without them, the people will starve.”

“You are correct. But without iron from the mines and flesh on the auction block, Tyr has nothing to trade. And without trade, I cannot see how Tyr will ever escape its doom,” said Vordon, emphasizing the last.

Vordon pressed on, “We live in a new age, my lords and ladies, a time unlike any other in Tyr’s history. The old king Kalak was a cruel and tyrannical master, but he was one who understood the workings of the world, even if his understanding became clouded in the end. His death changed everything. Power shifted to the chattel who now pull the strings of the puppet we put on Kalak’s throne in the Golden Tower.”

“Treason!” piped a fastidious little man named Lord Ruel, slight with pinched features. Rumors about what he had done to his slaves sullied his reputation, and whether true or not, the damage had put him in a precarious political situation.

“Is it treason to lament the changes sweeping through our city?” asked Vordon. “Is it treason to hope for a return to a time when slaves pulled iron from our mines, worked our fields, and served us all? For the time when coin flowed into our coffers?”

Vordon abandoned his seat. More whispers. More stares.

“I have no doubts about what our upjumped-templar king would think of these words. Treason indeed. I think, however, I have heard enough from his kind. No more games, lords and ladies. Do not waste my time or yours with feeble protestations of loyalty to the crown. I know your hearts. We might differ in station, but we are the same when it comes to our new king, Tithian.”

Vordon gestured for a servant to refill his bowl with wine. He set it on a side table, leaving the vintage unsampled. He turned toward a cough.

“Have you forgotten?” said a handsome woman in a long, thin gown. “King Kalak closed the mines, ordered our slaves seized, and then bled the city dry. For what? To construct an edifice to himself. The Ziggurat. Kalak’s Folly. That grotesque testament to the old king’s madness will mar our city for ages until someone has the stones to tear it down.”

“Of course, you are correct, Lady Eremy,” said Vordon. He nodded. “King Kalak was not without his flaws, but we still do not know why he did what he did. Perhaps the Ziggurat was to protect the city from some as yet unrealized threat. Perhaps he had it built to contain some dangerous relic? Who knows for certain? He was struck down before he could reveal its purpose. Yes, the cost was high—maybe too high—but condemning him without the facts is, well, foolish.”

“He was mad. The Ziggurat fed the sorcerer-king’s vanity,” answered another voice from a man Vordon could not see.

“It is no matter. Kalak is dead and we, merchants and nobles, are no better off now than we were before,” said Vordon. “You asked me why I came here this night, why a mere merchant believes he has the right to address such an esteemed body. Well, I come to you as a patriot. I may have foresworn my loyalties to king and crown when I donned the merchant’s mantle, but Tyr is my home as much as yours, and there is nothing I want more than to restore this city to its rightful place as the leader of the Seven Cities. So long as Tithian sits on the throne, Tyr will stumble and flail like a diseased man until someone else comes to deliver the killing blow.”

“So it’s to be rebellion, then? An uprising?” asked a shadowed figure leaning against a column.

“If it comes to that, yes,” said Vordon.

“You cannot be serious!” shouted Lord Ruel. “You heard the rumors about Urik. We already appear weak, and a civil war will be an invitation for King Hamanu’s legions to invade.”

“He’s right,” interjected another. “Whether we like Tithian or not, he is our best hope to protect what little we have left. We should stand with our king, combine our armies, and defend the city.”

“We could. And if we could unite the various factions behind Tithian, perhaps we might even win. However, once we send King Hamanu’s dogs running home, what’s to stop another sorcerer-king from finishing what Urik began? How many wars can we fight, impoverished, without slaves, without iron? Also, I have heard Tithian’s templars are weak, stripped of their magic when Kalak died.”

A woman opened her mouth to speak, but another, called the Scorpion behind raised hands, interrupted, “A pretty speech. Some of us might agree with the substance, if not the particulars, of what you have said. You’ve still not told us what it is you want.”

Vordon spread his arms and bowed. “My deepest apologies, lady. To the point, then. Regardless of who sits on the throne, Tyr will never be strong until the mines reopen. And without slaves to work them, the mines will never produce what they did. What I want is to abolish the ridiculous ban against slavery. So long as Tithian answers to the ‘people,’ there is no hope of returning the city to what it was or guiding it forward to what it could be.

“We must remove the king and replace him with one friendlier to our ambitions. We must also act now. Otherwise, we might as well throw open the gates to King Hamanu when he comes calling. But even then Hamanu will not reward us for handing him the city, and I expect my head to line the walls along with all of yours. Urik is just beyond the horizon, and the desert lies between us. Hamanu’s armies could be here in weeks. And then the Lion King will conquer Tyr. But doing so would expose him too much for him to hold it. No. Urik will plunder the city, enslave its people, and raze it to the ground. If someone amenable to Hamanu took the throne, however, someone who gave Urik the iron and slaves needed to mine it, perhaps everyone here would benefit. We can name a reasonable price, and Hamanu will come out ahead for it. Taking the city, holding the city, will cost him far, far more.”

“What do you gain from this, dune trader?” asked Lady Gorgol. “How does risking your own neck plotting against King Tithian profit you? We are not fools to think your sudden patriotism does not mask some ulterior motive.”

Vordon chuckled. “Quite right. Quite right. King Kalak devastated my house when he closed the iron mines, and what was a terrible situation worsened with the present ban against slavery. My fortunes are failing under the present regime, and moving to a different city would put my family at too great a disadvantage. My rivals would destroy me just as Hamanu will destroy Tyr. So, to cite a cliché, I have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

“I will remove Tithian from the throne and install a king who understands he rules by your consent alone. A change from what we have known these long centuries. Tyr will become strong again. You will reclaim your power, your influence, and all the property taken from you when the king freed the slaves will be restored.”

“And the price?” asked the Scorpion.

Vordon clasped his hands. “Iron. House Vordon gets exclusive rights to trade any ore extracted from the mines once production resumes.”

Arguments broke out all across the room, and the noise drowned out Vordon’s efforts to quiet them. As they bickered, Vordon scanned the shadows, picking out servants who stood apart from the rest, almost lurking in the shadows. He raised his hand and showed his palm. A shadow nodded. No one else noticed.

The Scorpion rose from the couch where she had been sitting. She raised her hands to silence her fellows. She was striking, slender with long black hair and an olive complexion. “Thaxos Vordon, I am not certain what arrangement you had with King Kalak to think we would hand over Tyr’s greatest resource to someone who’s not even a citizen of the city. Even if we somehow agreed to this, everything turns on replacing King Tithian. With what army will you overthrow the king? Furthermore, who would replace him? Produce a name.”

“Ah. The new king? Yes. I would be the king. I can think of no one better to guide Tyr into the future than myself,” said Vordon with a bow.

Quiet settled over the room. They offered incredulous stares and slack jaws. A few titters then became open mockery.

“You can’t be serious,” said Lord Ruel. “A merchant king?”

“These are serious matters, are they not?” asked Vordon. “Why not a merchant? The templars have proven themselves useless, and yet we must now endure an insufferable one on the throne. The nobles are too divided to rally behind their own. And no one would put a commoner on the throne. A merchant is above the city’s politics. Commerce is the merchant’s true concern, and commerce is what Tyr needs to survive the troubled days ahead. Under my rule, Tyr would regain its prominence in the Seven Cities and enter a new era of power and prosperity. So yes. Me.”

The Scorpion broke the silence. “We thank you for your concerns, Master Vordon, and we will consider your proposal with all the gravity it deserves.” Her smirk gave the lie to her words.

Vordon nodded and looked them all in the face, one by one. “You have made your decision already, I can see,” he said. “A pity. In any event, I will take up no more of your time.”

He walked toward the door. Before he reached it, though, he closed his left hand into a fist. Had he been turned toward the servants, he would have noticed a change in their posture, a shift in their stances, and the drawing of long knives. He abandoned the room to the laughter and arguments and walked into the hall beyond. The door shut behind him, though their mockery could be heard still.

Two guards, in House Vordon’s red and black, stepped away from the wall from either side of the door and followed their master, spear butts thumping on the floor as they walked. They crossed the short hall toward grand wooden doors, where two servants—dwarves, hairless and with brutish features—pulled them open. Neither dared to look upon the merchant or his bodyguards as they passed.

Once outside the estate, Thaxos Vordon found his guards already mounted on the large bipedal lizards called crodlus. With long necks, small heads, and striped, scaly bodies, they were bred for speed and agility. A few grumbled and chirped, stamping their feet and swishing their tails. The guards gripped spears, scanning the gloomy landscape lit by the twin moons Ral and Guthay.

“We are leaving,” said Vordon to the guards as he walked toward his own mount, where a short, childlike figure held its reins.

“I take it the meeting did not go well, master?” he asked.

“As expected, Watari, as expected. They are fools and refuse to see what is in front of them,” said Vordon. He swung up into the saddle.

“Humans lack perspective,” said Watari.

“And what would a halfling know of humans?” said Vordon. He extended a hand down to the little man, noting with some revulsion the leather thong around his neck and the withered strips of flesh hanging from it.

Watari took his hand and struggled into the saddle behind Vordon. He chuckled. “I know how they taste.”

Vordon smirked. Halflings were a feral people, wild, uncivilized, dangerous. They ate anything and everything, including sentient peoples. “I would have been surprised had they agreed to my terms,” he said, shifting the subject back to the matter at hand.

The halfling nodded. “I am sure you have a greater plan, master. If you knew they would not help, why reveal your plans? They will tell the king, will they not?”

“If I let them have the chance. Yes, I would be concerned.”

A scream sounded from within the estate. More screams joined the first.

Vordon looked over his shoulder to the halfling as he kicked his heels into the crodlu’s flanks. “Each of those fools has opposed Tithian in the past. They are no friends to the new king, and many opposed him when he claimed the throne. Others have voiced concerns about Tithian’s ties to the rabble. The nobles’ support and their soldiers would have made my next step easier, but they can still be useful to me dead, a state my assassins are ensuring even now.”

“How so?” asked the halfling, who looked back to the building.

“Rumormongers even now spread tales about how these fools were plotting against the king. The other noble families will believe Tithian was behind the attack. Such a naked show of force will unite those families against the king or at least keep them from interfering when we move against the king. Furthermore, it will make Tithian look like he fears for his crown and, thus, vulnerable. With Urik looming, the other nobles will support whoever brings stability to the city. I am certain.”

Watari was silent as the estate vanished in the distance as the group followed the road around a hill. Ahead, Tyr glowed in the night. The great Ziggurat, its tiers tiled in different colors, rose above the walls, almost eclipsing the Golden Tower beyond. All around the city, just visible in the moons’ light, were the farms and nobles’ estates, fruit trees and grain fields arranged in neat squares, each fighting a desperate battle against the encroaching desert creeping closer and closer every season.

After they had traveled a mile, Vordon turned to Watari, who fidgeted behind him in the saddle. “We can wait no longer. Call in our friends. Call them all in—every house, every dune trader, every mercenary in our employ. I want them in Tyr, and I want them now.”

The crodlu chirped when Alaeda Stel pulled on its reins. She leaned forward and patted its neck, offering it reassurance. It had served her well on her journey from Raam, and there was reason to push it as hard as she had. It cocked its head toward her, amber eyes blinking, then swung around, searching the dunes for predators.

Alaeda covered her eyes with her hand and scanned the way south. Dunes and more dunes extended until they vanished in the heat shimmers. She turned around in her saddle, careful not to disturb the packs, water skins, and other gear as she searched for the guards who followed her.

A crodlu-mounted rider slipped through a gap between the sandy hills, and one by one, weary riders, mounted as well, followed. One rider broke off from the rest, and she could see him lashing the beast’s flanks with a switch. She watched the rider’s approach until, a dozen or so paces out, he slowed.

She knew him by the easy way he sat in the saddle: Phytos. Her other guards were exhausted by the ferocious pace she set. They sagged. She didn’t pity them, though she felt for their steeds. Her mission was too important to rest them for long periods, and the dead mounts they left behind were an unfortunate but necessary sacrifice.

As Phytos maneuvered his steed alongside her, he blew out his breath. “We’re close, then?” He lifted the leather goggles with crystal lenses from his eyes and loosened the scarf from around his neck. Although Alaeda herself was drenched with sweat, Phytos showed no discomfort from the heat or the oppressive sun overhead. His striped tunic was dirty but showed no sweat stains. She shouldn’t have been surprised. He was a mul, an unnatural blend of man and dwarf, and his people’s stamina was legendary. They could work for days without stopping or fight endless battles in the deadliest arenas, even after being mortally wounded. She knew the legends about muls. The sorcerer-kings bred them for battle to raise armies of tireless slave-soldiers, and of all the muls Alaeda had met, Phytos was among the best.

Alaeda scanned the sandy wastes and pointed at a low hill a few miles ahead. She pulled her own scarf down from her mouth and said, “Not far. We should arrive sometime after dark.”

Phytos nodded and wheeled his beast, a massive crodlu with green scales. It was the one mount in House Stel’s stables able to bear his bulk.

Alaeda followed his gaze and saw he was watching the rest of the retinue make their way toward them. “How are the others holding up?” she asked.

“Thirsty, tired, but they keep their complaints to themselves,” Phytos said, turning back to her, “even if they don’t understand the nature of this mission.”

Alaeda studied the mul’s face. He was ugly, even by mul standards. Horrific scars lined his face, and Alaeda knew scores more crisscrossed his body. He had heavily lidded eyes beneath a pronounced brow, a bare scalp, and dark holes where he once had ears. She no longer shuddered when she looked upon him, and he looked far better than when she found him in the Black Pit of Death in Urik.

“I’m worried, Alaeda. I don’t trust those Shom bastards,” he said.

“Nor should you. They’ve never given anyone reason to trust them. But we need them,” she said. She had turned away from him to watch her warriors’ approach.

“I’m not questioning your judgment, Stel.” She had saved his life after the gladiator champion beat him in Urik’s arena. “I am concerned about your family and your place in it. This whole thing stinks like mekillot shit.”

She nodded. “I know. We’ve been chasing after the Shoms to make a deal for months now. I thought when the younger Shom refused to help, we’d be done. Apparently not. It would have been nice to have a few days away from the desert, but that wasn’t to be.

“I appreciate your concern and loyalty. You’ve more than earned your price, my friend, and had I known what I was going to get when I bought you from your handler, I would have paid three times the asking price.” She smiled at his discomfort created by her compliments.

He had been in bad shape when she found him. Most people didn’t escape the Black Pit without being maimed by the arena itself. The obsidian walls were barbed and jagged, and drawing too close to them risked a nasty cut. Such injuries often meant the difference between life and death in the contests fought there. The reigning champion Gorbin, on the other hand, was terrifying. He had won more fights than most could remember, and Phytos, for all his skill, didn’t stand a chance. He showed courage and gave almost as good as he got, at least until Gorbin cut him down. Alaeda had been impressed and paid for his healing. She bought him from his owner who had all but given up on the mul. Phytos’s loyalty, courage, and prowess more than made up for the investment.

He coughed. “So who are we meeting this time?”

“Some Shom lackey named Mordis. He’s a snake, treacherous and self-interested to a fault,” she said. “Still, he has Giovvo Shom’s ear, and my family believes he can be bought.”

“I don’t like this. I don’t know much about you merchants, but I can’t see how climbing into bed with Shom will bring about anything good.”

She frowned. “Between us, I agree. I don’t like them either. But we need this truce if we are ever going to get the iron out of Tyr.”

“What?” snapped Phytos.

“Nothing. I’ve said too much. I promise I’ll tell you more later. Look. This mission has to succeed. I’m nothing to my family, a minor relation with no standing, no power, no influence. I’ve spent the last years running errands and have nothing to show for it. This is my chance to prove myself, to earn my house’s respect. We will succeed.”

He ground his teeth, but before he could say anything else, the first of the guards reached earshot.

“Let’s go,” she said, and kicked her mount’s flanks. The crodlu chirped again, and its splayed, clawed feet kicked up sand and grit as it trotted off.

Alaeda endured Phytos’s frequent stares as they traveled through the afternoon in silence. Even the guards stayed muted during their infrequent breaks, sipping water and chewing dried meat without a word among them. Just as the sun began to set, Alaeda spied dark mountains rising into view, a line of sooty peaks known as the Black Spine, where banshees and gith and other foulness lurked. To the south, the dunes surrendered to a white expanse, a salt flat known as the Great Ivory Plain. In the failing light, she could see the Mekillot Mountains beyond, a low range named for its resemblance to the enormous horned lizard used throughout the lands as a beast of burden. Somewhere near those mountains stood Fort Inix, one of House Shom’s few remaining outposts.

Rock cactus sprouted from the ground nearby, and Alaeda wanted to avoid their nettles by keeping away from them. She dismounted and led her crodlu around the cacti. Phytos and her guards did the same. The rock cactus responded to vibration. Get too close, and they’d fill a person full of barbs.

“I hate these things. I got stung once,” Alaeda said. “It took me an hour to cut the barb free.”

“Seems a strange place to build an outpost,” said Phytos, pointing ahead. “Aren’t even any roads.” He watched the cacti. They quivered.

Alaeda examined the landscape. She searched for anything dangerous. A tiny black scorpion scuttled into the rocks. There was nothing else. “There used to be. A long time ago,” she said.

Phytos grunted. “Must have been. There are no signs of them now.”

“I heard there was once an oasis not far from Fort Inix. That’s why Shom chose the place,” said Alaeda. “The oasis was large enough to cover the land for miles around with green. And the fort wasn’t alone out here. Several villages and farms claimed this area too. They didn’t have to fear the sorcerer-kings or the merchants. They were free. Truly free. Shom made a good fortune supplying the outer settlements with lumber, foodstuffs, and, of course, inix.” The big armored lizards fetched a high price at the markets, for they were strong enough to carry several riders, some growing large enough to hold howdahs. They were temperamental creatures and could turn on their handlers with the slightest provocation.

“So what happened?” he asked.

“Waste, excess, foolishness, all the sorts of things you’d expect from Shom. The merchants bred so many beasts and staffed so many people here, they took more than the land could produce. Grazing wiped out the brush. The fort and the villages drained the oasis. It didn’t take long before what was considered a paradise looked like pretty much everywhere else.”

“So why keep the fort?”

“Pride? Delusion? I honestly don’t know. I’ve heard they cart water here all the way from Nibenay. I can’t imagine the cost.”

“They don’t still raise inix, do they?” he asked.

“No, not for years. Though I believe they still have stables and a staff of trainers stationed at the fort just in case Shom decides to start again.”

“Unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head.

Another hour crawled by, and the sun had vanished behind the mountains. Purple shadows slid across the lands. The ground had become flat and rubble strewn. Ahead, the party could see Fort Inix perched atop an earthen mound. Watch fires burned atop its walls. Alaeda and Phytos slowed their pace.

She turned her mount, looking at the beleaguered warriors, their clothes salt stained, faces drawn and haggard. “Fort Inix expects us, but I don’t quite know what we’ll find. I don’t want any trouble while we’re there, so keep your weapons sheathed but keep them close. Show respect to our hosts for as long as we shelter in their walls. They might bait you. They might test you. Don’t answer and cause no trouble. Understood?”

Almost as one, the soldiers nodded.

She smiled. “One night. In and out. When we get out of here, I’ll double your pay.”

As they sped across the last mile to the fort, Alaeda could get a better sense of the place. Like most, it was designed to protect the goods and people inside. Square and simple, four forty-foot-high walls rose from the hillock’s crown, and in each corner stood a turret. A single ramp made from piled stones led up to a shadowed portal in which two wooden doors stood closed. Filth stained the outer wall, and rubbish littered the ground at its base. The closer Alaeda got to the fort, the clearer its neglect became. Pits and cracks covered the walls, and in places there were holes large enough to accommodate a mekillot. Fort Inix might have been strong once, but no longer.

At the ramp’s base, Alaeda called out to the sentries. She could just make out on the walls.

A voice drifted down to her from above. “Who calls?”

“Alaeda Stel of House Stel,” she answered.

Her crodlu stamped around. It was as nervous as she was, and the minutes spent waiting for an answer made it worse.

The doors opened. Alaeda could see two hulking half-giants pulling them inward. Past the doors, in a wide courtyard with a few buildings beyond, stood a tall, slender man and several armed warriors dressed in shabby armor made from bits of bone and wood.

Alaeda, having dismounted, led her mount through the gate. The half-giants waited for her retinue to pass before shouldering the doors closed once more. They had blank expressions, dull eyes, and slack mouths. As with the muls, the sorcerer-kings created half-giants from an unlikely pairing of human and giant to create obedient slaves and warriors for their armies. They were not known for great intellect.

Once inside, slaves came forward to take Alaeda’s mount and those of her soldiers. Alaeda gave hers a pat and a soothing word before the slaves drew the beasts to an empty pen across the courtyard.

She then turned to the man before her. That he wasn’t human did not surprise her. Many merchant houses employed peoples from a wide variety of races and did not let bigotry blind them to any assets they might have. Still, she gasped when she realized what he was. He was belgoi. He might have passed for human in a dark room, but in the light of day his pale blue skin; his twisted, emaciated features and long spindly fingers were startling. They were a wicked people, a cursed race of desert vagabonds, raiders, and thieves. Any veteran traveler knew about the villains and their queer bells. Their merry chimes lured people into the dunes, never to be seen again. Some said they devoured their victims. Others claimed they ensorcelled travelers merely to destroy them. Belgoi were unwelcome in civilized lands, and dune traders, who endured the worst of their depredations, shunned them if they could not kill them.

He showed black teeth and bowed until his head nearly touched his knees.

Shaken, Alaeda returned the gesture with a nod. She did not trust him enough to look down. After the exchange, he beckoned her to follow with a curled finger capped with a long, black talon. Having little choice, Alaeda followed the belgoi with Phytos at her heels, leaving her warriors behind. Although the belgoi unsettled her, she was not about to let the thing intimidate her. She straightened her back and crossed the empty yard, walking toward the row of buildings standing opposite the gate.

There were few buildings nearby. Warehouses stood in a cluster in one corner. A barn, a vaulted longhouse, and a few smaller structures fronted a large and empty corral. Cracked walls with flaking paint and holes in the roofs reflected the same neglect. The place was dying.

The belgoi turned to look at her several times as they neared a two-story, square building with a flat roof and shuttered windows in its face. He grinned each time, and each time Alaeda’s stomach jumped. The blue-skinned guide clambered up the two steps leading to the wooden door and pushed it open. Alaeda nodded once more and moved inside. As she passed him, she felt him paw at her arm. She ignored it.

The small room inside was stifling. Someone had built a fire in the hearth, but it was still too early for the chill to settle over the desert. A couple of chairs, tables, and ostentatious art pieces decorated the room, a mishmash of styles from all over the Seven Cities, gaudy in their dissimilarity. A stout man levered himself from a chair, smoothing messy brown hair going to gray at the temples. House Shom’s three white dragonflies stood out on the shoulder of his black doublet.

“Ah! Welcome,” he said. “Peruvan Bollos. I am the chief trader here. You would be Alaeda Stel, yes?”

She nodded.

“Far prettier than my reports suggested,” he said and put an arm around her shoulders, leading her inside.

His friendliness did not extend to his grip. His strength did little to put her at ease. He was a man unaccustomed to hunger, she could see, with his paunch and jowls, yet there was strength in him still. He led her to a wooden chair and took the one opposite. Phytos leaned against the wall, his face blank.

Peruvan leaned forward. “Master Mordis will be along in a moment, I am sure. Can I offer you any refreshments? You must be tired from the journey. We receive so few visitors here.”

Although quite thirsty, Alaeda waved away his hospitality. House Shom honored few customs of hospitality, and any offered cup could contain more than wine or water.

“It is a great honor to play host to House Stel,” he said. “In fact, I cannot remember the last time we received anyone from your family.”

Alaeda nodded. “An oversight, I am sure.”

Peruvan’s eyes did not match his smile. “An oversight I hope we can correct. I have always hoped for more cooperation between the great merchant houses.”

When Alaeda said nothing, Peruvan settled back in his chair and examined his nails.

After several minutes, Alaeda said, “Mordis is here, yes?”

“He is; he is. And he’s very keen to meet you. He should be along in a few moments.” He crossed his legs. “It’s a great honor to host Master Mordis. A wise and great trader like himself and all gracing my doorstep.” He smiled again. “This must be an important meeting to draw him from Nibenay?”

“It is,” she said. His ignorance about the meeting revealed much about Peruvan. Alaeda had heard Fort Inix was something of exile for traders and merchants who somehow displeased Giovvo Shom, and an assignment there was often the last stop before the grave.

The chief trader’s face fell, but he recovered. “I have rooms prepared for you. Your men can stay in the barracks.”

She expected he’d love to keep her soldiers penned up. She didn’t trust the people there. A belgoi stood outside. She expected trouble and wasn’t about to cloister her soldiers, not when she might need them.

“Very generous of you. My men will be more comfortable in the courtyard, though.”

“Ah. Well. Very well,” he said.

Peruvan pursed his lips and tried again. “Have you ever been to Nibenay?”

“I have,” said Alaeda.

“And how did you like the City of Spires?” he asked.

“Well enough. I wasn’t there long.”

“Oh?”

Alaeda smiled and nodded but offered nothing further.

“Did you take in any games while you were there?” he asked.

“I am afraid I did not.” She thought back. “I recall something about a champion’s game or some such while I was there. I didn’t see it, though.”

“Ah, champion’s day! How very exciting.”

“As I said, I didn’t attend. It was almost a year ago,” she said.

“A shame you didn’t,” he said. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward once more. “Champion’s day is a grand spectacle, an event like no other at the arena, with fabulous matches pitting the city’s best warriors against the worst desert beasts. Teams take on visiting warriors from other cities. Jaz’zt dancers carve up criminals. There are dramas, comedies, and sometimes the Shadow King himself emerges from the Hidden City to address the people. It is all very exciting.” He leaned back and rubbed his bearded chin. “I haven’t been home in many years, but while I was there, I went as often as I could.”

Phytos grunted. Alaeda knew he had no love for the arena games.

“Yes. I do miss the city. Oh, but don’t get me wrong. I am grateful to hold this post, even if it denies me simple pleasures. It is a great honor to be chosen to serve at Fort Inix.”

“I imagine. How long have you held this post?”

“Several months, since last High Sun. Hard to believe it’s been that long.”

Alaeda nodded.

Peruvan filled the silence with more stories from Nibenay, but Alaeda stopped listening. She was worried about the delay and fought against her anger for having to wait. It was a common enough tactic and one she herself had used. Anticipation bred sloppiness, and a careless word or angry outburst could upset what promised to be a delicate negotiation, mistakes she imagined Mordis wanted her to make. She emptied her mind and let Peruvan’s words fill the air.

She knew little of Mordis beyond what she had told Phytos. Ambitious, cunning, and self-serving, his loyalty to House Shom was above reproach. Through his efforts alone, House Shom had escaped complete destruction incurred by its masters’ excesses, and Mordis always found a way to keep coin in the house’s coffers. There were limits, however, and Mordis was running out of coin. Giovvo Shom’s appetites were vast. House Shom needed funds soon. House Stel would be happy to provide those funds, provided Shom did them a service. House Stel wanted House Shom to harry Tyr enough to divide King Tithian’s attention between Shom-sponsored raids on caravans and farmsteads and Urik’s fast-approaching army. Shom needed coin. Stel needed brigands.

A dwarf in a smock appeared in the hallway. She was plain, unremarkable but for the dragonfly brand on her forehead. It marked her as a slave. The dwarf did not raise her eyes when she said, “Master Mordis will see you now.”

Peruvan blinked several times before he slapped his hands on his knees. “Ah. Well. You have been pleasant company, my dear. Dor will take you to Master Mordis. If you need anything, call.” They all stood and Peruvan watched Alaeda and Phytos follow the dwarf down the hallway until they reached the door at the end.

The slave rapped three times.

“Come.”

She opened the door for Alaeda and Phytos, giving them a bow as they walked past her and into the small meeting room beyond. A round table took up most of the space, and canvas and wood chairs sat around. Bone statuettes stood on display atop a sideboard laden with crystal cups and water in a decanter. A gaudy chandelier, also made from bones, hung from the ceiling, its spurs reaching down like claws hovering a few feet above the table.

Several guards lined the far wall, all in carapace armor and armed with spears. Their master, Alaeda guessed, sat at the table, watching her from behind steepled fingers. He was younger than she had expected. A thin beard darkened his cheeks, and a faint mustache colored his upper lip. Alaeda felt an instant attraction to the man, an attraction she quashed when she remembered her purpose and how dangerous he was rumored to be.

“If there is nothing else?” asked the slave.

Mordis dismissed her with a wave. “Alaeda Stel, yes?” he asked. He had a faint lisp.

Alaeda nodded.

Mordis indicated she should sit with another gesture. He looked to Phytos and said, “Be a good man and close the door, would you?”

Phytos grunted. The door shut with a click behind Alaeda. She could feel Phytos standing behind her, guessing his arms were crossed and radiating menace as he always did during negotiations.

Neither Alaeda nor Mordis spoke. Each seemed to wait for the other to begin. Mordis’s bright blue eyes, smooth features, and manicured nails told her of a life of luxury and comfort. The golden ring on his pinky finger, a serpent eating its own tail, hinted at wealth. He wore mauve robes, slashed with white stripes. The black cuffs and collar made him seem out of place in the wilderness. He didn’t belong in the rotting outpost any more than she did.

Mordis broke the silence. “Welcome to Fort Inix.”

“Thank you.”

“Your man, can he be trusted?”

“Without question. Yours?”

“What they hear they cannot repeat. I had their tongues torn out long ago,” he said, as if such mutilation happened every day. “We could sit here all night, exchanging little pleasantries, but I am a busy man and have made a long journey to reach this wretched place. You have done the same, I imagine. Our houses have never been friendly. We have, in fact, found ourselves on opposite sides of no few battles, as I’m sure you know. So imagine my surprise when I receive a letter to meet you. I was even more surprised to find out you had spent time with my master’s son, Jebea Shom.”

“I did,” she said, her voice as neutral as she could make it to control her surprise.

“And how was he? We do not hear from him.”

“Beset,” she said.

“Explain.”

She bristled. “I found him besieged by gith. I have never seen so many. They crawled out from the tunnels in the mountains like vermin. To even reach the gates, we had to carve a path, and to ensure we could … negotiate, House Stel contributed to the outpost’s defense. I would not give it more than a few weeks before the gith overrun it. Without reinforcements, Jebea Shom is dead.”

Mordis almost smiled, corrected himself, and frowned. “Dire news. It would be a great tragedy to lose a Shom heir.”

“Any fool can see why he’s there. Alone. You mean for him to die.”

Mordis bristled. “Me? I have no intentions for Jebea.” He leaned back in his chair. “So this is the reason for the meeting? House Stel is throwing its support behind a Shom heir?”

Alaeda felt her frustration building. The conversation had gotten away from her, but she felt moved to defend the man she had met and abandoned a month earlier. “He wants change. He wants reforms, an to end the excess. He wants to save Shom from itself.”

“He is an idealist,” he said, but he didn’t disagree.

“And he will die for his ideals. I have never met a more irrational man,” she said.

“Irrational?”

“Change on the scale he wants takes coin. I offered. He refused,” she said.

“Did he give a reason?”

“I believe he said something about not selling his birthright.” Alaeda did not mention the long night they shared, during which time he confessed his hatred for his father and his fear for his life. “But Jebea Shom and his plight are not why I asked for a meeting.”

“No. No, it’s not, though he impressed you. However, you are a merchant, and you would have expected something in exchange for your generous gift. Jebea refused and so you come to me. Interesting. What is at stake that you found it necessary to travel from one side of the world to the other to make a bribe? And even if I accepted your offer, what makes you think I can do anything? Or would do anything? I am Giovvo Shom’s most valued and trusted servant. So why would I help you remove Giovvo from power?”

It was Alaeda’s turn to lean back in her chair. Mordis was close to the truth, but he had misinterpreted her house’s intent. House Shom was too far gone to ever be a threat to House Stel, whether Giovvo Shom remained in power or not.

After almost a minute, Alaeda resorted to the truth. “Your house is dying, and the fault for this rests on Giovvo Shom’s shoulders. While your master tickles his slave girls and bets on arena matches, your agents drain your family’s coffers, taking their ‘fair share’ from the profits. Your emporiums”—she raised both hands, indicating Fort Inix as an example—“rot. The remaining power House Shom has left lays in the fading memory of stronger, better days.”

“You came all this way to insult my house?” he spit, angry.

“It’s not your house, but it could be.”

“Ah. There it is,” he said. He smoothed his robes, covering his effort to control his emotions. “Lady, you are mistaken. I am not for sale. I will not betray my house.”

“I’m not trying to buy you, sir. Neither is House Stel,” she said.

“Then what? What is it you want?” he sneered.

“We want to help you. We don’t want a world without House Shom, especially with House Tsalaxa on the move, claiming markets once held by your master. House Shom’s fall will upset the balance and, thus, endanger my own house,” she said.

“I see. I am afraid you are in error about Shom. We are strong still, and we will continue to be strong for the foreseeable future. Master Shom indulges his interests, but we are not impoverished. Even if we were as bad off as you say, I can say with confidence my master would never allow charity. I am sorry you have wasted your time, but this meeting is at an end.” He made to stand.

Alaeda felt her control slipping. She would not fail. She felt her nervousness from encountering the belgoi fade, her uncertainty about the mission vanish. Anger drove her toward an aggressive stance. “Then you are deluded. Sit down. I have not finished yet.”

The guards stepped forward at her tone. Phytos did the same, a step quicker, balling his hands into fists.

Mordis froze, face flushed, mouth set in a tight line.

Alaeda pressed. “You and I both know Shom is the laughingstock of the great houses. Look at this place. Waste and excess all around us. These are drains on your resources, hastening the rot your mad master began. We both know Shom has seen better days. Why deny it?”

Mordis had no answer.

“What Shom needs—what you need—is capital. Giovvo Shom has done great damage to your house’s fortunes, yet in every city, in every outpost, I hear rumors about how your people steal your goods and line their pockets with the profits. And Temmnya Shom is as bad as her father. If she comes to power, there’s no hope for you at all. My family is your last, best chance. We’re offering you a gift, a way to rebuild, to cut out the cancer, and heal your house.”

“Such generosity would come at a price,” he said, retaking his seat.

Alaeda realized she was breathing hard. She controlled herself. “Tyr,” she said. “It involves Tyr.”

The z’tal growled at Korvak from behind the bars of its little cage. It wanted to be free from its prison, and it prowled the edges, looking for escape. Korvak studied the lizard, noting its gleaming scales and the tiny rows of serrated teeth in its maw. The golden eyes were alert and aware, revealing a cunning Korvak found unnerving in something anyone else would consider vermin.

Although the z’tal remained in the cage and Korvak sat outside it, they were both prisoners. Korvak’s cage just didn’t have bars. And just as Korvak felt unmoved by the creature’s plight, he knew his masters, the institution of the templars, and even the new king had no sympathy for his own.

He raised himself from the chair. He stretched his arms over his head until he heard his joints pop then resumed his pacing through the dusty Vault of Records, the great repository of useless information, the fate Korvak earned by remaining loyal to the dead sorcerer-king. In the light cast by the flickering green globes drifting near the ceiling, Korvak saw the endless racks and shelves holding scrolls and ledgers recording all the lore collected during King Kalak’s thousand-year reign. Hidden in the piles were histories, records, and more, priceless recollections about Tyr’s past. Such knowledge was never intended for the common person to learn and remained in the templars’ hands, where it had remained since Kalak raised his first templars.

In another life, Korvak might have indulged his interests, exploring the writings from greater men than he. As he looked at them, they held all the appeal of a prison cell. He stopped and cast a glance at the desk, which had for many weeks served as his bed. There, inventory lists and meaningless records sat in a heap alongside a stack of fresh papyrus, an ink pot, a pouch of sand, and a quill. The copyist’s life was his fate for choosing the wrong side in the uprising, for remaining loyal to a mad king whose designs and intentions were beyond even the templars’ best guess.

No one checked his progress. No one made sure he completed his work. He was out of the way, hidden in Tyr’s bowels where he could cause no further trouble for the new regime. Korvak had managed well in the aftermath. Even as outspoken as he had been in his support of the old king, he retained his office and holdings. Everything changed when Korvak confronted the king about the nobles murdered at an estate on Tyr’s outskirts. The assassins had burned the building, but Korvak’s investigation had turned up enough evidence to suggest the king had a hand in their deaths. King Tithian listened to Korvak’s accusations then him sent away.

Korvak sighed. Looking back, Korvak was sure he could have approached the king with a little more subtlety. Tithian’s ambition and ascent to power annoyed him, though. Tithian was one of Kalak’s most favored templars, and yet he swept in to claim the crown without a thought for his deceased master. Tithian needed to be humbled. Korvak had tried. Korvak had failed. And he earned the room he stood in for his trouble.

He glanced at the cage. He fished out a small wooden ball from one of the pockets sewn into his cassock and rolled it around in his hand. The lizard watched him.

“To think, I am here,” he said. “You might not believe it, little friend, but I was once among the highest and most esteemed templars in Kalak’s service. At a word, I could strip a noble of his titles and holdings. With a command, I could have the skin flayed from his back. I had the authority of the sorcerer-king. Few stood higher than I did in my master’s eyes. And yet here I am. This,” he said, gesturing to the scrolls, “is how my new masters repay loyalty to the old.”

The z’tal cocked its head.

“I should be grateful for my life? I should be grateful for the few freedoms accorded to me? My peers didn’t keep me alive out of mercy. I can name ten others who fought at my side who were not spared, who supported my accusations against the king. They are dead. Yet I still live. Why? Because I still have power. I can still call up Kalak’s magic when so few others can. I can leave this room whenever I wish. How could they stop me?

“Allow me to demonstrate,” he said. He extended and flattened his left hand, palm up, the wooden sphere unmoving. He pointed his index finger at the object, his eyes and concentration fixed upon it. He didn’t need much power for such a minor spell, a mere fraction of what was required to hurl the magic he had used in service to the late sorcerer-king. Magic, however, was a ravenous ally, and it refused to obey any command without a sacrifice.

Korvak opened his mind. His awareness expanded to find the life he needed to manipulate the sphere. One by one, faint lights ignited in his thoughts, the squirming worm eating through the parchment scrolls, the rapid, staccato beat of a tiny rodent skittering across the floor, and the more immediate life-force shining from the caged lizard. Without thinking, Korvak snuffed out the tiny lights. He burned away the worms, and the sphere began to rise. A faint squeak sounded from behind a shelf as the rodent’s heart stopped to let the sphere rise higher and circle Korvak’s head. Finally, the z’tal sagged in its cage and made pathetic mewling sounds, the spell draining away its life. Faster and faster the sphere spun, bouncing as it made its circumlocutions around Korvak’s head.

Even such a minor spell awakened dark hunger. Korvak wanted to draw more and more, to channel even greater power. He knew he could blow the doors off their hinges if he wanted. Anyone who tried to stop him would die. Tyr would be his. He would cut down the pretender Tithian, burning him to ashes before he could even raise a hand in protest. Then he, Korvak, would be king forever after, greater even than Kalak himself.

The magic coursing through him almost blinded him to the z’tal’s suffering—almost but not quite. The sphere fell from the air, bounced onto the floor, and rolled away under a rack filled with scrolls. A bitter, acrid stench filled the air, and a black shadow covered the floor in all directions, extending out just a few feet. Korvak knew the shadow was magic’s price. He had killed the world around him, and forever after the area would remain dead, unable to sustain or support life. Nothing would grow there, even after Tyr was in ruins, and not a trace of the city remained. There would be a circle of death there until the end of days.

The twisted fantasies faded with the magic. He sighed and returned to the desk. The z’tal still lived but had curled itself up in a tight ball.

“So you see, little friend, they fear me,” he whispered to the creature. “They have lost the magic and may never get it back. Why? The sorcerer-king, of course. King Kalak gave us our power in exchange for our loyalty, our obedience, our service. We drew our power from him, and so long as he lived and so long as we served, the magic would be ours. But he is dead, and the templars have lost everything but their titles. Well, all the templars but me and perhaps a few others who have managed to keep their abilities secret.

“Until they determine how I have retained what they have lost, I will live, tucked away in this vile room until they can take me apart, piece by piece, and steal my magic for themselves.

“They are so desperate now. And who can blame them? Not even a year ago, everyone in Tyr feared the templars and for good reason. We were Kalak’s eyes and ears, his chosen representatives. Our word was law. And now? We are nothing more than harmless bureaucrats. Correction. They are harmless and they hide behind King Kalak’s memory. Someone will grow wise to their impotence, and when they do, old enemies will come out from the woodwork and exact a well-deserved vengeance.”

Korvak inspected the z’tal. Its breathing was less ragged; its tail twitched. It even gave him a halfhearted hiss. It would live. Korvak’s concern stemmed not from any sympathy for the lizard; he needed it. He doubted the few servants still loyal to him and free to act on his behalf could smuggle in a replacement without the guards growing wise to what Korvak was doing—practicing. Korvak had to find out just how much power he still had, and the occasional rodent was insufficient for working spells of any consequence. The z’tal was somewhat hardier.

With the z’tal struggling back to its feet, Korvak left the table to continue prowling the room. His black templar’s cassock swished with each step. He picked at the silvery tassel hanging from his cord belt. He blamed himself for his situation.

He had chosen the losing side, and his enemies could, by rights, do what they wanted. A fool would have seen what was happening in Kalak’s last days. The sorcerer-king’s obsession with the Ziggurat had bankrupted the city, cost the nobles their slaves, and shut down the mines.

Korvak followed orders. He was an obedient henchman. Yet he had seen an opportunity for himself. He expected the uprising. He even hungered for it. Discontent might have shaken Kalak loose from his madness or driven him over the brink, shifting more power and responsibility onto his templars. The Ziggurat would have been abandoned, the slaves back in the mines and fields. But who could have guessed a mere gladiator could slay a thousand-year-old sorcerer-king with a flung spear. Never.

Korvak rubbed his hands on his face and examined the scroll he had been reading. It catalogued grain stores from two centuries past. He had no idea what he was to do with it, so he dropped it to the floor. He needed to get out, get away from his room. He needed to think, to find some way to make peace with the new king.

A faint scratching at the door drew him from his thoughts. Puzzled and doubting what he had heard, he moved through the racks to the wooden door set in the far wall. The noise came again. The templars would have just opened the door, and an assassin wouldn’t bother knocking. Korvak crossed the room and pulled the door open to reveal an enormous, upright insect, something like a humanoid praying mantis. A thri-kreen. The creature waved its one remaining antenna.

“Zick-Ticks,” said Korvak, mangling the thri-kreen’s language. He lacked the mandibles to say their names let alone hold a conversation in their complex tongue.

Korvak admitted his bias toward humanity, having found little to like in the lesser races. Elves were too shifty, dwarves too focused, halflings too violent. He did not recognize thri-kreen as people. They were giant vermin who pretended to have personalities. Korvak was convinced they aped human personalities so they could get close enough to eat their victims. Xixtix, however, had proved loyal and had endured terrible hardships on his behalf, including beatings, torture, and worse, to keep Korvak’s movements secret. Korvak could see the signs of the creature’s suffering in the missing forelimbs and its cracked and pitted exoskeleton. Xixtix peered at him through faceted eyes, his one antenna twitching with apprehension.

Korvak fought back his revulsion, reminding himself though Xixtix was a wretched creature, it, or maybe he, was ever loyal. Korvak left him at the door and waved for him to follow.

“Master,” it spit, “I bring news.” It mangled the Common tongue as Korvak did its own language.

At the desk, Korvak added, “Close the door after you.”

Xixtix scuttled inside. The door clicked shut.

“Were you followed?” asked Korvak.

“No, master. Never. No one notices Xixtix.”

He was right. It was part of the reason he was so useful.

“Good. The news?”

The thri-kreen looked around the chamber as if it had never been there before and said, “Master, the scouts returned. They meet with King Tithian as we speak.”

“Kalak’s bones! I should be there,” said Korvak.

“That, master, is why Xixtix has come.”

“When did the meeting begin?” asked Korvak.

“Moments ago,” he said.

“Where?” he asked, though he knew the answer and was walking toward the door.

Xixtix scampered after him, “The Adviser’s Chamber.”

The higher Korvak climbed, the more sand clogged the steps and the louder became the wind’s screaming. The way to the Golden Tower in which he would find the Adviser’s Chamber was via a narrow bridge extending from the observation spire, across the gap, to the larger, palatial building where the new king lived. Korvak climbed the steps, using the rail to pull himself higher. Xixtix struggled to follow him.

At the top, reached by passing through an opening in the rooftop, Korvak found himself battered and whipped by the wind and grit, yet he ignored the difficulty as he took in the city and the surrounding landscape, the fields and orchards ringing the city and the desert beyond. To the north and west, he saw the Ringing Mountains clawing at the sky, their jagged peaks almost lost in the haze swirling around their heights.

Korvak shielded his eyes against the blowing grit and winced as it clawed at his face and arms. He looked for the bridge to the Golden Tower. It was a gleaming, almost glowing spire. It had been the residence for the last sorcerer-king and his personal guard for ages. The new king wasted little time claiming Kalak’s chambers and, perhaps, the secrets they contained.

Both towers, the Golden and the observation, rose from the bureaucratic district of Tyr, a quarter known as the Golden City. There the king ruled over Tyr’s people. There the templars lived, worked, and schemed. The Golden City, with its broad streets and expansive gardens, its delicate statues and enthralling beauty, stood in stark contrast to the ramshackle expanse that was the rest of Tyr.

Korvak looked out over the Old City, where the rabble lived, and spotted the great arena and the multitiered Ziggurat rising above it all. Ringing those central structures was a tangle of streets and adobe structures set atop one another like a child’s blocks. Craning his neck, Korvak could see the far gate, leading out from the city and the Merchant District where the merchants plotted their own skullduggery.

Xixtix scrambled up the last step but stayed low to keep his footing on the exposed rooftop. Together, they walked toward the bridge. Every templar knew the winds around the bridge were not natural. Elementals bound to the ancient stones protected the causeway from intrusion by anyone not wearing a templar’s cassock or not accompanied by such.

Korvak felt a malevolence rising from the span, a presence wanting nothing more than to dash them both on the stones hundreds of feet below. Each step they took toward the bridge caused the winds to build into a shrieking and moaning storm, yet the moment he stepped on the span, all became still. Korvak could sense them still. Their hatred and outrage were so intense, he could feel them. Although he was safe from their attacks, the few moments across the bridge proved harrowing. It wasn’t until Korvak passed through the darkened archway on the opposite side that he felt his heartbeat begin to slow.

The bridge took them to an antechamber. Two onyx staircases swept up through the ceiling to what Korvak knew was the library. Ornamental statuary in gold and silver, all wrought to resemble fabulous creatures whose names and habits were long forgotten, stood around the chamber. Across the room, tall iron-bound doors led into the room once called the royal receiving room. Two hulking guards, half-giants, stood on either side of the door. They lowered their spears across the doors to bar the way.

Xixtix cringed and made pitiful clicking noises. Korvak ignored him and approached the guards until he stood a few paces away. He leveled his gaze at the one on his left. The half-giant wore an expression of dim menace, exaggerated features making it seem stupid and brutish. The guards were exceptional. They were tall, each ten feet if they stood upright, and muscled to the point of being grotesque. Korvak had no doubt they could crush the life from him with little effort at all.

“Let me pass,” said Korvak.

The guard on Korvak’s left raised his spear. He seemed taken aback by Korvak’s command. The other was not as moved and instead pointed his spear’s iron tip so it rested on Korvak’s chest.

“I know you,” sneered the guard.

“Then you know to step aside,” said Korvak. Menace lurked in the spaces between his words.

“Astini said you can’t enter,” said the guard.

Korvak cursed under his breath. Astini. His master would keep him away. Being seen by Tithian would be dangerous for Korvak. But he had to get inside. He had to know. No one in the city knew more about Urik than he did. It was his chance at redemption, the chance to get out from under the pompous high templar’s thumb.

Before he could answer, angry shouts sounded through the door. The guards half turned. Korvak took his chance. He whispered a quick incantation, reaching for Xixtix’s life energy to power the spell. The thri-kreen moaned and crumpled. The magic gripped the guards so that when they turned toward him, they did so slowly that Korvak could have danced around them. The guard on the left fell to the floor, even as the other raised his spear as if to attack. Before he could shove the weapon forward, his eyes rolled in his head and he joined his partner on the floor.

Korvak frowned. There would be repercussions for using magic against Tithian’s guards. It was a risk, however, he was willing to take. The council meeting beyond was too important to miss. He opened the door, using the commotion within to cover his entrance, and left Xixtix writhing on the floor in the hall. Korvak knew the guards would cause trouble for the thri-kreen. The regrettable situation was not enough to stop Korvak from entering the royal receiving room.

The late King Kalak did not use the royal receiving room often in his last years. His interests lay in his own secret plans and the Ziggurat, and he seemed content to leave the business of dealing with the nobility to his templars. So long as the slaves kept pace with the impractical schedule he set for completing the monstrous structure in the Old City’s center, he didn’t care what else happened. Kalak’s disinterest in the city’s affairs meant it had been years since Korvak had last set foot in the large chamber, and he was surprised to see it had changed little.

Rows of fat, fluted columns supported copper-gilded rafters, each equipped with several glowing globes. A cushion-littered dais rose from the floor opposite the heavy doors. King Kalak’s ornate iron throne was gone, replaced by a simple wooden chair.

Through the templars, nobles, freemen, and gladiators filling the room near to bursting, Korvak could just make out the new king, Tithian. He still wore his templar robes, long and black, fine silk. His auburn hair hung down his back in a single braid. His gaunt features and hawkish nose gave him the predatory look Korvak knew was true to the king’s personality. Anger had created spots in his cheeks, though he kept quiet as a brawny mul Korvak recognized as Rikus spoke. The scarred arena champion had hurled the spear that had impaled the sorcerer-king. The warrior, famed for his arrogance, was boasting about his gladiators and how they would fight to protect Tyr even if the nobles and templars were too craven to fight. The muttering in the chamber rose to shouts until Korvak could no longer hear his words.

Korvak nudged the door closed behind himself and followed the wall, moving from pillar to pillar. The scouts had already delivered their reports and stood, wavering, in the room’s center. Blood-soaked bandages suggested they paid heavily for the information they brought.

Tithian raised his hand for silence. After a moment, only a quiet murmur filled the air. In Kalak’s time, silence meant silence. No one would have dared voice even a whisper. Tithian said, “Thank you, Rikus. Your gladiators will form the core of the Crimson Legion, our glorious army. They will prevail under your leadership.”

The mul made no comment, features unreadable. A beautiful red-haired woman put a restraining hand on Rikus’s muscled arm. Korvak recognized her. She was Sadira, a cunning witch and former slave who had helped overthrow the sorcerer-king. Her friends and reputed magical power were the reason Korvak could imagine a half-elf would be allowed to appear in the king’s presence. Rumor also suggested she was a member of the Veiled Alliance, a terrorist organization operating in Tyr throughout the sorcerer-king’s reign. The Alliance undermined the templars and caused trouble for Kalak, thwarting their plans. Some whispered they had a hand in the sorcerer-king’s assassination.

A black-robed templar raised a hand to his mouth, whispering to a fat, little man Korvak recognized as his own master, Astini. Korvak stepped closer to listen.

“A clever though risky move, installing the mul as the commander,” said the man.

Astini nodded. “Not so risky as one might think. Tithian does sit easy on his throne, and the mul is no friend to him. The king will benefit from sending Rikus against King Hamanu. If Rikus succeeds, Tyr is safe and all will praise Tithian for his wisdom. If Rikus fails, neither he nor his gladiators will be around to trouble us any further.”

“Rikus cannot succeed against King Hamanu. What does a mere gladiator know of warcraft?” said the fat templar. “Our king would sacrifice the city to rid himself of a rival?”

Tithian’s voice cut through the noise again. “While I have every confidence in your abilities, from what the scouts report, Urik’s armies are far more numerous than the gladiators you would lead.”

Rikus interrupted. “Each one of my warriors is worth ten of those Urikite bastards.”

Tithian glowered. “I am sure you are correct, but I could not, in good conscience, send you without help.” He turned to the assembled host, looking for volunteers.

A few nobles pledged support, offering troops from their personal garrisons and supplies to sustain the army on the march to face Urik’s legions. Then a high templar, whose name Korvak could not remember, also pledged templars to the city’s defense.

“My king, you shall have two thousand of my finest warriors,” said a voice over the halfhearted efforts to assemble the Crimson Legion.

Tithian craned his neck to see who had spoken. Several merchants backed away, revealing a slender man with gray hair and a smirk on his face. He wore a smart, rust-red doublet with a black iron diamond pinned to his collar. Korvak recognized him as Thaxos Vordon, head of House Vordon, a merchant house somewhat diminished in King Kalak’s last days. With the mines closed and slaves bent toward other purposes, House Vordon’s fortunes fell with all the nobles who had themselves lost their slaves. Given iron’s scarcity and Tyr’s role as sole supplier of the ore to the Seven Cities, the entire city-state’s economy collapsed, all to build the great eyesore standing in the city’s center.

Thaxos Vordon threw in his lot with the rebels, perhaps believing the new king would see the wisdom in keeping iron flowing across the desert. Tithian had still not opened the mines, perhaps because he knew he lacked the slaves to mine them. Or perhaps for some other reason. Korvak did not know for certain. What he did know was House Vordon had struggled to maintain its prominence in the marketplace even though its two main commodities—slaves and iron—remained unavailable in Tyr. House Vordon’s soldiers, who maintained the peace in the city-state since the templars were out of favor, drew attention from the merchant house’s rivals.

Tithian, too, seemed surprised by the offer. “Master Vordon,” he began, “your … aid … is appreciated. It is most unexpected. Tyr thanks you for your pledge.”

Thaxos inclined his head and stepped back. He then stooped to confer with a halfling dressed in a uniform similar to the one he himself wore. People closed around the merchant prince and blocked Korvak’s view. A moment later, Thaxos was gone.

“This will be enough for today,” said Tithian. “Rikus, I will leave it to you to assemble your forces. If what the scouts have reported is true, we will not have long before Urik is at the Caravan Gate.” He stood and stepped down from the dais, heading through a side door to his private chambers. Rikus and Sadira followed him.

Korvak rubbed his hand over his mouth as he reflected on the situation. It seemed the rumors about the war were true. Tyr would field an army to fight Urik. Korvak knew Tyr had little hope of beating back Urik. Urik had the greatest army in the seven city-states, their endless soldiers armed with weapons ripped from their considerable obsidian mines. Worse, Rikus was no general. He was a slave, a gladiator, and nothing more. His talents lay in single combat. The fat templar was right. A gladiator would know nothing about leading an army. Not even his companions and fellow rebels would be of much use there.

Then there was the matter of Thaxos Vordon. Merchant houses avoided entangling themselves in wars among the city-states. Throwing in their lots with one or the other was bad for business. Also, House Vordon was in financial straits. Korvak knew there must be another motive, yet he could not see it.

“What are you doing here?” said a familiar voice.

Korvak looked around then down. Master Astini glared up at him, fists resting on wide hips.

“As I was saying, Master Astini, I would never have left the important work you assigned for me had not the servant come to fetch me. He claimed you yourself had called, knowing my expertise on the subject of Urik,” explained Korvak to the rotund templar.

He did his best to keep his eyes on Astini’s desk, examining an unpleasant paperweight made from a child’s skull. It might have been a halfling’s, but Korvak knew Astini’s tastes enough to dismiss the thought.

“I sent no servant,” said Astini, a frown creasing his features.

“Well, master, if you didn’t, someone did on your behalf,” said Korvak. He paused for effect. “Do you think someone wanted me away from the vaults?”

Astini, who had been pacing with his arms folded behind his back, stopped and turned his piggish face toward him. “You are clever, Korvak, too clever by far.”

“Why, Master Astini, whatever do you mean?” he said.

“I am sure the guards I instructed outside the hall’s doors were also instructed to let you pass?”

“I imagine so since they made no effort to stop me or my servant from entering,” he said, the lies coming easily.

Astini watched him, looking for any sign of deception, but evidently found nothing. The templar fell into his chair. “So given your vast knowledge about Urik, have you any opinions on the matter?”

Korvak, of course, heard nothing the scouts had reported. He kept his ignorance to himself lest he cast doubt on his story. If he had been summoned, surely he would have been there from the start. He opted for a different approach. “I found Vordon’s offer most surprising.”

Astini screwed up his face. “Why? He was extending the same service he had offered since Tithian came to power.”

“True. Of course. However, I am also sure you have considered Thaxos Vordon gains nothing by surrendering his soldiers to the king.”

“Whatever do you mean?” asked Astini, his confusion plain.

Korvak hid a smile at his better’s ignorance. “House Vordon has done nothing but suffer since the final days of the late king’s reign.”

“Yes, so?”

“What does Vordon want more than anything?”

Master Astini shrugged.

“He wants the mines reopened, and I’d be willing to bet my cassock he also wants slavery reinstituted. He’s been helping Tithian quash the riots and keep the peace to gain his confidence. This must be why his soldiers still patrol the streets along with the templars and Rikus’s gladiators,” explained Korvak.

“Yes, yes, I know all this. Get on with it,” said Astini.

“Tithian promised to reopen the iron mines, and though he has not yet, it is just a matter of time,” said Korvak.

Astini raised his hands to say he wasn’t following Korvak’s reasoning.

“So what does Vordon get out of this? What does Vordon gain from handing over his soldiers? Two thousand soldiers, if I am correct, accounts for every sword and spear he has in the city. What about his caravans? Does he not need guards for them? Also, with the city emptied of warriors, would not his own troops be better positioned to grow his influence in the city?”

“You are looking for treachery where none exists. Tithian has renewed Vordon’s contracts with the crown, thus giving them sole control over the city’s iron exports. Perhaps this is Vordon’s way of thanking the king for his generosity,” said Astini.

“Perhaps,” said Korvak. “But remember, Tithian’s been dragging his heels on the iron matter since he took the crown a year ago.”

Astini ignored him and said, “As for his soldiers for his caravans, it will take time yet for work to resume in the mines, so no caravans will be heading out anyway. Furthermore, Vordon’s gift pleases me. It puts him back in his place and out of city politics. A merchant house has no business policing the streets.”

“I am shortsighted, Master Astini. I thank you for your wisdom,” Korvak said without meaning it.

Astini’s eyes glittered. He wrung his fat hands and peered up at Korvak, who was still standing. “You don’t believe anything I’ve said, do you?”

Korvak said nothing. He was prepared to go back to sorting scrolls. He weighed several things he could say, but instead chose silence.

Astini raised a hand. “We both know there is nothing in there worth stealing from the vaults. You are far too clever to be locked away in some dusty, old room. And you have talents useful to the templars, talents you could use to get to the bottom of this ‘conspiracy’. Your concern about losing Vordon’s guards intrigues me. We shall need templars to fill their boots. I think a patrol in the Warrens would suit you. A little contact with our finer citizens might do you well. Report to Master Dark for your assignment.”

Korvak bowed. Getting out from the vault was just what he wanted. Being in the streets would give him a chance to look into the merchant prince and see just what he was up to. Also, if he was reading Astini right, he had room enough in his new position to gather what information he could. He bowed to his master and walked from the chamber. He needed more eyes, he reflected, as he walked out from the office, and he knew just the pair he needed.

Loren stood in a shadowy hall, waiting for his turn to die. A muted roar sounded, a murmur in the stones, and sent the gladiator’s stomach leaping and sweat beading on his tanned, scarred skin. Loren had fought in the arena many times, and Nibenay’s people seemed unmoved. The fight before him was different, for the people shouted for him. If he won, he would be free.

He was not alone in the small, bare chamber set aside for arena gladiators. Two hunched slaves stood on either side of the double doors, awaiting the order to pull them open. Skulls, scalps, and other trophies hung from the wood, good luck charms most gladiators touched on their way out to the pit.

Loren’s partner leaned against the far wall. Aeris was short, slight, and seemed out of place in the arena. He wore ill-fitted, studded leather armor, a cap one size too big, and he was examining a large glove bristling with spikes. He looked up to Loren and said something, but the noise from outside drowned out his words.

Loren could feel the old fear worming through his guts. He had survived some two dozen matches in Nibenay without being maimed or killed, an accomplishment in its own right. Each time he waited to fight, he felt the same dread chewing inside him, a flutter in his stomach, and slight dizziness. They were fears. They fled before any actual work had to be done.

Any other match and Loren could tell himself he had a good chance at winning. The arena masters hated it when prized gladiators went free and made it their task to kill anyone who got too close. Nibenay was no different from any other city-state in the Seven Cities. The gladiator’s life was short and brutish and almost always ended bleeding out on crimson sands to the crowd’s roars.

Loren checked his gear for the tenth time. He knew it was fine. The armor fit as best as he could make it. The weapons he carried were loose in their scabbards. Another examination would do nothing to prepare him further, yet he checked himself again. He started at his feet and worked his way up. Old, scarred, brown shells clacked as he loosened and retightened the straps on his armor. Like Aeris’s armor, Loren’s was sized for someone else, someone dead, he was sure, given the crude stitching holding together obvious cuts and tears. He pulled off the helmet, more a mask, and ran his thumb along the toothy protrusions marching in a line from the crown to the neck’s nape. Loren tossed the helmet aside. The small eyeholes would ruin his peripheral vision.

The arena master assigned weapons and armor to each gladiator based on the contest’s theme. The heavy armor held no clues about what Loren and Aeris would be fighting, and the weaponry proved as mysterious. The quartermaster had handed him an alhulak, just one more of the ridiculous, flashy weapons popular in the fighting pits. The alhulak was not much more than a grapple attached to a short rope. Loren shrugged. In his experience, a weapon was as good as the hand using it. He hung the rope loop, tied with a knot he could undo with little work, on his weapon belt and drew a heavy stone sword from the scabbard hanging against his back.

Loren smiled at the rippled blade. He had chipped the blade to razor sharpness, giving it an almost serrated appearance. Heavy and ugly, the arena master hated the sword and told Loren so at every opportunity. It was the one thing Loren owned from his time in Tyr, and he refused to give it up, killing two guards and enduring thirty lashes from a templar. The first match in Nibenay ensured he got to carry it for the rest of his career. He took eight heads and won the day, all with his sword. Even if he didn’t use it, he was never without it in battle, a concession from the arena master to Loren’s stubbornness.

When Loren slid the blade back into the scabbard, Aeris came forward so they could talk.

“I hate this,” said Aeris.

Loren offered him a grim smile. “You always say that.”

“Yeah. And I always mean it,” he said. He sopped sweat from his forehead with a filthy rag.

“You may be the worst gladiator I’ve ever met, Aeris,” said Loren.

“What gave it away?” said Aeris. “Is it my delicate body or my utter lack of talent for shit like this?” He raised the spiked glove. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“You? I have no idea,” said Loren. “I suppose you should tie it on your arm. You will have to do more than slap your enemy, though. The spikes seem to be on the back of the hand rather than the palm.”

Aeris grunted. “Five years, Loren. We’ve been doing this for five years.” The half-elf shook his head. “I have no idea how I’ve made it this long.”

“Me either,” said Loren.

Aeris looked up. His usual sarcastic smirk was gone. “Thanks.”

Another roar shook the room.

“For?” said Loren, looking at the doors.

“You know. For watching my back. For keeping me alive. You didn’t have to.”

Loren snorted. “I owed you. I was just a new guy from Tyr. Strange city. Strange customs. You had been here a while already. You knew what to do, where to go, what friends to make, and who to avoid. I suppose I had to repay the favor in the arena.”

Aeris smiled again. “A human watching out for a half-elf. Who would have believed it?” Aeris brushed lank auburn hair from his face and ran his hand over his stubbled mouth. His elf blood revealed itself in his thinness and his angular features. His ears, slightly pointed, stayed hidden beneath his hair.

Loren never put much stock in bloodlines. In his experience, the pure-bloods were some of the worst folks out there. Half-elves had it bad. Humans and elves didn’t get along as a rule, so a merging of the two was tantamount to abomination. Loren could remember several occasions where other human and elf gladiators refused to share tables with Aeris, even though they themselves sat together, or times when some tough guy thought to show off by pounding on the half-elf. Loren always intervened when he could, and the barracks soon figured out Aeris was off limits.

Loren clapped Aeris on the shoulder. “Just a few more minutes.”

“Wonderful. Just a few minutes left to live, then. Too bad there isn’t a pretty girl here to take my mind off my impending death.”

“Don’t worry so much. We’ve done this before.”

“Right. Just a few more murders and then it’s all whores and broy going forward,” muttered Aeris.

“Hey, at least they didn’t make us run the tunnels.”

“Yeah, and that worries me,” said Aeris. “I’ve seen a couple of gladiators make it this far, and each one of them had to run the labyrinth below the arena before they went free. None of them made it, or made it intact. So there’s some game being played here. Something is not right.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. It won’t matter if we’re dead. One step at a time, right?” A bell sounded deep in the complex, alerting the door guardians the time to open the gate was at hand.

“You ready?” asked Loren.

Aeris checked his equipment. In addition to the armor and the spiked gauntlet, he carried a mean-looking crescent axe with a wide bone blade strapped to a wooden haft.

“What am I to do with this?” he said, raising the axe.

“Swing it,” Loren offered. “Hold it by the wooden part and try not to cut yourself.”

“Thanks,” he said. “But I’d rather use this instead.” He hooked the axe to his belt and pulled the crossbow he had slung over his shoulder. He loaded the weapon and cranked the bolt back. “I like to avoid face-to-face confrontations when I can.”

Loren grinned but became serious when struck by a thought. “No magic.”

“I would never,” said Aeris.

“I am serious. You’ve used spells a few times in the past. Today is not the day. The arena masters are looking for any excuse to fill us full of arrows. They don’t like it when their slaves go free. They will see a big, flashy spell reason enough to take us both out.”

“Right, right. I know the story. Nibenay and his brides alone wield magic. I, as you can see, am not the sorcerer-king nor a templar, and yet I can still do this.” He snapped his fingers, and a small ball of light appeared in the air over his hand.

Loren felt a weird twinge in his stomach as if something had just grabbed his innards and gave them a twist. “Knock it off Aeris.”

The light winked out.

The bell rang again. The slaves stepped forward and grasped the heavy stone rings. They strained against the doors’ weight. Each one had been a gladiator. Loren knew them both. Utek, the brawnier of the two, lost his right arm to a tarek’s axe, and poison blinded Analla. As neither could fight, the masters assigned them to menial tasks until they could no longer work, at which point they were denied food and water until they died. Most gladiators too maimed to fight killed themselves.

Bright light flooded the waiting room. Deafening noise followed. A short passage led to a lowered bone portcullis. Beyond it waited the killing floor. From their vantage, they could both see the blood-spattered wall ringing the sandy floor and the crowded stands rising above it. As the portcullis began to rise, Loren and Aeris checked themselves one last time and started walking toward the arena.

When they emerged into the bright light, the crowd greeted them with a deafening roar. Common folk and nobles alike leaped to their feet. Some shook their fists in the air. Others waved banners. Loren raised his fist in answer, and they responded with even greater excitement.

Although Loren had fought there many times in the five years spent in the city, the arena’s size always impressed him. The arena was more like some massive crater, the bottom at least three hundred feet below the rest of the city. The upper stands started at street level and worked their way down to about twenty feet above the floor. Columns stood at various points in the stands, offering shade to the spectators who could afford it. Wide staircases cut through the middle of each side and in the corners. That offered easy passage in and out and provided something of a market for merchants to peddle refreshments, food, and odds for betting. The arena’s size and simplicity concealed the massive complex required to house the gladiators and their barracks, infirmaries, armories, training grounds, and more, all underground, all out of view.

Looking at the crowd, Loren felt as if all of Nibenay had come to see him fight and, perhaps, die in his final contest. The mob was hungry for blood.

As attention shifted to Loren and Aeris, another match was dying down. Across the arena floor, parti-color dancers were working to entertain the waiting crowds. The jaz’zt dancers dazzled their audience with bright costumes and complex acrobatic stunts so beautiful and so striking, one almost missed the flashing knives they used to dispatch their unwilling partners—the criminals and lesser warriors tossed out to die on the dancers’ blades.

The seven dancers who had, until a moment before, circled in a weaving motion, tumbled and flipped away, scattering to the arena’s corners with unnerving speed. They left behind evidence of their bloody work. Four dwarves lay bleeding out on the ground, sacrificed for the delight and amazement of the crowd.

Aeris grabbed his arm. Loren tore his eyes from the writhing victims and the bowing dancers to look at a large gate not twenty paces away. The bone portcullis rose. When it lifted a foot above the sandy floor, a wide, furry claw raked out through the gap. Both could see great furred beasts straining against chains holding them, claws and fangs worrying the ground and mauling the handlers who got too close. They looked like great cats, brown fur, striped white, with long horns curling out from their skulls. Loren spotted extra pairs of legs on each one.

Even as the first gate climbed, another one on the arena’s opposite side flew open. Two slavering lizards in harnesses burst free from the tunnel, dragging a wheeled, bladed chariot behind them. Standing tall in the wheeled monstrosity was a great humanoid terror, a tarek Loren knew more by reputation than from an actual encounter. Pogren the Foul was big even by tarek standards, and members of the wasteland-dwelling people could reach upwards of seven feet. He had the bestial features common to the people, leathery brown skin and small eyes beneath a pronounced bone ridge, replete with jutting tusks. He was an unpleasant vision, made worse by his cursing as the lizards carried his chariot forward. Worst of all was the hide cloak flapping from Pogren’s back. Loren saw the holes pocking it were once eyes and mouths. Every story Loren had heard about the arena champion ended with him tearing his victim’s face off. The stories were true, it seemed.

As the lizards built up speed and closed the distance between them, Loren saw he wore heavy armor made from lacquered wooden strips arranged in horizontal rows. Here and there, metal spikes jabbed out, ready to catch and tear the flesh of any who drew too close. The chariot sped by, and Pogren swept an axe in a lazy swipe, as if to show Loren and Aeris the instrument of their deaths. The axe had a wide crescent head of obsidian, notched in the center. It was so large, so preposterous, no human could even hope to lift it, let alone wield it in battle. The crowd responded with an enthusiastic cry. Their approval drowned out all other thoughts as the chariot rounded for another pass. The lizards screamed and bounced into each other. Their eyes rolled in pain caused by harness posts driven into their necks.

Aeris grabbed Loren again and shifted him to see what he had noticed. While Pogren had been posturing, the other gate was up all the way. One monster was free already. Blood matted its coat where the gate’s teeth drug furrows into its back as it wriggled free. Two others crept from the shadows. One roared at the crowd. The other slunk low, mere inches above the ground. All three fixed yellow eyes on the fighting pair.

“Kirre!” shouted Aeris into Loren’s ear.

Loren did not know the name, but he garnered enough from Aeris’s expression that he should be worried. The beasts looked like hunters. They had sleek bodies with eight legs, each ending in a clawed paw. Horns emerged from the backs of their heads and looked thick enough to stop an axe blow. As if they were not fearsome enough, something about their movements, their gaze, their very presence hinted at a bestial cunning. They would be no easy foes to face, and with mad Pogren racing about, Loren scrambled for a plan.

The bleeding beast wasted no more time. It sprang toward Loren and Aeris, flinging itself across twenty paces or more, barbed tail swishing and claws extended.

Aeris said something. The crowd noise drowned out the words. Aeris raised the crossbow and fired. The bolt slammed into the kirre’s neck near midleap, so rather than rake them both with its claws, it landed in a rolling heap, throwing up sand in a sheet.

Before the beast could struggle to its feet, Loren was in motion. Leaping forward and wrenching his sword free, he spun the blade to reverse the grip so when he landed, he did so with two feet of chipped stone planted through the monster’s skull. Crimson ropes flew into the air. Loren pulled on the blade, trying to free it from the skull, but it snapped just before it disappeared into the skull.

He spun around with his broken blade. Aeris had cranked another bolt into the crossbow. The other two kirres charged him, covering the distance in effortless leaps. Loren ducked beneath the first, grunting as its claws savaged his back. He then twisted away from the second and rolled across the sand. The bloody streak he left sent fear thrilling through him.

A twang let Loren know Aeris had fired again, yet with little result since Loren could see the puff of sand where the bolt hit the ground.

One of the kirres stalked forward. Loren scrambled to his feet. He kept the broken blade in front of him, parallel to the ground. The beast crouched and watched him. Rather than spring forward as they had so far, it opened its mouth as if to roar. No sound came forth, however. Yet Loren could feel something in his bones, something powerful battering his body and mind. The force threw him backward, head over heels until he landed on his back. Air burst from his lungs on impact. He retched to catch his breath. Black spots hung in his vision. He forced himself up and noted Aeris stood a few paces away, struggling to reload in the face of two approaching kirres.

Loren was moving toward Aeris when he remembered Pogren. He spun and saw the chariot had rounded the arena floor and was racing toward them. The tarek swung his axe over his head, round and round, unmindful or uncaring of how exposed he was.

A kirre leaped. Loren dived and slammed into Aeris, to send him and his crossbow bouncing across the arena floor. The crossbow fired a bolt into the stands. Some unlucky spectator died. The crowd roared again with approval. The body fell from the stands, thrown by the bloodthirsty crowd, and landed near enough to a kirre that it jumped back.

Aeris scrambled away, fumbling for his axe as Loren once more regained his feet.

The kirre that had jumped away from the corpse landed in the chariot’s path. The panicked lizards collided with the beast in a tremendous crash, the impact sending the chariot cartwheeling through the air. Pogren and his ridiculous axe landed several feet away.

Someone screamed. Loren turned. The second kirre had reach Aeris and worried him with its claws. Loren freed the alhulak and charged the beast. At the last moment, he swung the strange weapon with all his strength and managed to hook the beast in its jaw. The kirre struggled. The rope twisted around the horn. Loren pulled. The monster was strong, but Loren was stronger. Foot by foot, he hauled the creature back. The beast scrambled. Sand flew. With one final pull, Loren stepped forward and slammed his broken blade through the kirre’s left eye. It screamed, kicked, and died.

Blood ran down Loren’s back. He felt cold and dizzy. He released the alhulak and recovered Aeris’s axe. Aeris was alive. Loren could see him struggling to stand. He would get to his knees and fall down again. Blood from too many cuts told him it wouldn’t be long before he died. Loren could do nothing for him.

Just beyond the thrashing lizards, trapped by their traces and the kirre chewing on them, was Pogren. He broke free from the wreckage. His left arm hung at an odd angle. He gripped the oversized axe in his right hand, still managing to hold on to it despite his injury.

Loren dropped into a wide stance. He planted his feet and held his axe in both hands.

Pogren walked, slow as death. He cut off a lizard’s head as he closed. The remaining kirre scurried back, gleaming eyes tracking the warrior.

The people stood in the stands. It was what they had come to see.

Pogren stopped three paces away. He assessed Loren. His small eyes picked out every cut, scrape, and wound Loren had sustained so far. The tarek was looking for a sign of weakness, anything he could use to end the contest.

Loren did the same. A bone jutted out from the tarek’s arm. Dark blood oozed from the wound.

The tarek said something Loren couldn’t make out. Pogren repeated it. Loren still couldn’t hear. The tarek shrieked and charged.

Loren tensed. As the tarek’s axe dropped, Loren stepped forward and brought his own axe up between Pogren’s legs. The tarek’s roar became a screech. Loren pulled back, spun away, and swept the axe across the tarek’s face.

The tarek stumbled, snot and blood spraying from the appalling injury. Loren pressed the advantage. He grabbed the bone sticking out from the tarek’s broken arm and wrenched it forward.

Pogren screamed and pissed all over the ground. He flailed his fist. Loren felt each strike impacting like a mace head. He would not, could not, let go. Pogren brought his fist down again and again. Loren flipped his axe and sent it up into the tarek’s groin once more. The angle was poor, but the wound still sprayed blood in such torrents, Loren wobbled on his feet. His weapon squirted out from his grip. Pogren doubled over and Loren, still holding the bone, pulled and ripped it free from the arm.

The tarek crumpled. Loren adjusted his grip on the bone. He almost dropped it, so slippery was it in his hands. He looked out across the grounds, shouted, and brought the bone down with a swift stab to the tarek’s neck.

Melech used his teeth to pull the last scrap of meat from the bone skewer he had purchased from a street vendor while his bodyguards scrapped in the alley. They had waited an hour for the sun to cross overhead, avoiding the punishing heat so that they might cover a block without sucking down all the water in their skins. Even in Tyr, high sun was a time to find shade and hold it, even when the work was easy.

The muls did not seem bothered by the heat. Their dwarf blood ensured they could withstand hardships lethal to humans. And Ugly and Uglier, as Melech called them, were tough even by mul standards. Before the king died, they fought in the arena. The piercings and tattoos covering their bodies commemorated the many victories and rare defeats they found in Tyr’s fitting pit. Or so they said. Melech had no taste for blood sport and never went to the games to watch. He went to steal.

That, he reflected, was a different life. It had been years since he prowled Shadow Square, clipping purses and hustling travelers. He had not robbed a merchant at knifepoint in months, and since he was climbing the organization’s ranks, his time as a thief was over. Instead, Melech collected. And he hated it.

Collections were easy. His rivals all wanted the work. Just walk the city, knock on doors, stick out the palm, and offer thanks for the coins placed there. Rich or poor, sick or healthy, people paid. To do otherwise was to find one’s home burgled, burned, or worse. To do otherwise meant learning to walk with a limp or burying a beloved child or pet. Tyr was a dangerous place, and keeping the danger at bay was expensive. The organization provided a unique service. Pay for protection or find out just how nasty Tyr could be.

Melech hated the work.

The muls broke out clubs and took turns smashing the other on the head.

Melech flicked away the skewer. He had been stealing for as long as he could remember. Taking coin from other folks was never a problem, provided Melech got to choose his mark. In the collecting business, his master, the nefarious Torston, made all the choices, and he never cared if his victims could afford to be robbed or not. It was never a factor.

Each time Melech took the ceramic pieces from an artisan or peddler, he knew it was water from their mouths, food from their families. Stealing from the poor was useless. They didn’t have anything worth stealing in the first place. Worse, people down to their last couple of bits were less inclined to part with them if it meant starving to death. Melech brought along the toughs to make sure people paid even when they couldn’t.

Melech shook himself. Fretting about the work didn’t make it any easier. He checked the shadows. The sun had slid past the zenith and the day would begin to cool off, little by little, until night fell.

“Let’s go,” he said to the muls. Bright blood leaked from their split lips, and one’s eye had swollen shut. They pulled themselves from the ground and fell in on either side, grumbling and muttering as normal.

The muls were not cruel. They were brutal and effective. They hated slavers and saw their work as a chance to get revenge for every time some master scourged their backs. The trouble was in their eyes, anyone who wasn’t a slave at one time was by default a slave owner. When Melech argued, one or the other would explain even if they did not own slaves, they thought about it.

Maybe they had a point, Melech considered as they emerged from the alley and joined the people streaming down a busy thoroughfare. Melech had never owned slaves and perhaps would himself have been one if it hadn’t been for the hand of fate snatching him from the auction block when he was a boy. Torston saved him from some unspeakable fate—a slave’s career opportunities ranged from the sad to the cruel to the downright awful. Melech owed him and did pretty much whatever Torston said, even if it did make him feel sick.

“Next?” piped a high-pitched voice at his side. The voice belonged to Kep, another constant companion, friend of many years, and fellow pincher. Melech nicknamed the halfling Munch for his disgusting eating habits. Halflings were a strange, diminutive people rumored to come from somewhere beyond the Ringing Mountains to the west. Melech never asked where Kep came from. He never cared. They were a tribal, savage folk, keeping strange customs and beliefs about the world. All Melech knew about halflings was they spoke their own language; were rather short; and ate anything that walked, crawled, or slithered across the earth.

Although they never spoke much about their past, they worked well together when thieving. Kep would often play the part of a small, crying child. He would start bawling and some do-gooder would happen along to help. By the time the mark figured out the child was not, in fact, a child, but a dirty halfling, Melech was already a block away with the mark’s purse in hand. It was a good scam, and Melech missed its simplicity.

Melech hadn’t seen Kep all morning. Kep had a habit of running off when he should be working. Him making it back after high sun was a surprise.

“Old Finster. The apothecary on Stink Street?”

Kep nodded. “Don’t like him.”

Ugly grunted. Uglier fished something horrid from his nostril.

“Kalak’s wrinkled stones. You don’t like anybody, Kep,” said Melech. “What’s wrong with Finster?”

Kep, as serious as he could be, said, “He wouldn’t let me eat his lizard.”

Ugly laughed, a horrible chuffing noise.

Melech sighed. “If I had a lizard, I would object if you tried to eat it. And, now we’re talking about it, I need you to hold back on the biting.”

Kep scowled.

“These strolls through the Warrens”—Melech gestured at the crumbling buildings rotting to all sides—“are pleasant and all, to say nothing of the company,” he winked at Uglier, “but our customers cannot pay us if you chew off their faces.”

The scowl deepened.

“So why don’t we let Finster keep his nose. Oh. And his fingers, toes, and … yes, how about we just don’t bite Finster at all.”

Kep kicked a bit of clay, sending it skidding down the street.

The four left the main street and ducked into the Warrens’ narrow streets, turning one way, then another, doubling back again before inching a bit closer to their destination. The Warrens made tangled look tidy. The entire community was a jumble, with streets created from opportunity rather than from foresight or planning. Melech had spent his childhood there. Even though he knew the ins and outs, the Warrens could surprise him, such as when a pile of buildings collapsed and erased a convenient short cut. There were also few legitimate businesses in the Warrens. The ones who prospered were not much more than bone pickers, folks who made ends meet by scouring the ruins for things someone, somewhere might find valuable.

Finster’s Apothecary was not quite in the Warrens, though it was close, just on the edge of the Tradesmen’s District, where the widespread ruin and squalor abated a bit. It was a nasty little hole tucked between two warehouses. Old Finster just claimed the gap between the larger buildings, borrowing their walls, and slapping some boards overhead. He built up the other two walls using bricks stolen from the Warrens.

A year past, the templars would have paid a pretty coin to even hear about Finster’s. They were always sniffing out those who dealt in sorcery. Yet Finster’s clientele and the thieves who protected him kept their mouths shut. But the templars didn’t care so much anymore. Finster catered to illegals, bringing in all sorts of forbidden things to sell to the other folk who dabbled in magic’s forbidden arts. As one of a scant few with the stones to engage in the business, he had a veritable monopoly because the elf dealers who sometimes dealt in the same commodities couldn’t be trusted and because Finster’s customers were all handpicked by other customers. No one who shopped there wanted to see old Finster dancing at the end of a rope.

Melech had visited Finster three times since taking up the collections trade, and each time it was like squeezing water from a stone to get his coin. Last time, Ugly had to get a little rough with the merchandise before Finster made good on his debt. Melech hoped the muls would not have to go so far this time. Not because he cared whether or not Finster escaped the meeting with both legs intact. Melech did not like wizards or their kind. They were a nasty lot, using life energy to power their spells, or so someone had explained to him once. Melech worried one day his thugs might go too far and old Finster might use a spell to sort them all out. Melech had no interest in facing down sorcery.

They rounded the last corner before the apothecary’s shop, bringing it into view at the end of a dingy alley. A stone step led up to a wooden door hairy with peeling paint. Odd markings adorned the frame, arcane symbols. They set the place out as being safe for mages, or so Melech guessed.

Ugly made a step toward the building, but Melech caught his arm. “Wait.” Finster might owe money to Torston, but just strolling in and making demands was a bad idea. Wizards in Tyr were more brazen since the old sorcerer-king was gone. King Kalak hated wizards and had his templars hunt them down. Melech had even seen a few moving in the open. Even though a few templars still hunted wizards, Finster could get away with a spell or two.

The mul bristled.

“All right, gentlemen, we’re here and just in time too.”

The sun hung like a bloody wound above, staining the tortured sky an unhealthy red. Sunset brought out all the nasty folk, and Melech wanted to get his last stop done and over with so he could go back to the Rat’s Nest, Torston’s winesink, where Melech could get on with seducing young Poxy.

Melech turned to Kep. “I want you to give the shop a quick look. Let me know if anyone’s around. Other than Finster. You two,” he said, pointing at the muls, “stay here.”

Kep nodded and scampered toward the shop. He slowed when he reached the corner and slid into the ally like a shadow.

Melech pulled his bone knife and used it to pick dirt from under his nails. Ugly whistled. Uglier worked on his nostril.

Kep reappeared at the corner a few moments later. He grinned. He beckoned them to follow with a big, swooping motion.

“Good grief,” Melech muttered. When he reached the halfling, he added, “Subtle? Wait here and let us know if anyone comes snooping.”

“Now we go,” he told the brutes, “before we have company.”

Melech marched down the alley, doing his very best to ignore the shadows and filth. The two toughs flanking him gave him courage. Melech kicked in the door. The whole building shuddered. The shop’s interior was a mess of sagging shelves, tables, and displays loaded with bones, bundles of dried herbs, bottles whose contents ranged from multicolored fluids to embalmed organs. Knives, sparkling orbs, maps, scrolls, and more offered windows into an occult world. It was an appalling mess. Melech was certain if the place had anything valuable at all, Finster had lost it somewhere in the room’s mess.

“Finster!” he shouted. “Time to pay up!”

No answer.

“Ugly. Break something.” Ugly shattered a glass. A foul odor filled the room.

“Not nice,” said a new voice, a familiar voice. It came slithering out from behind a shelf blocking the view to the back room.

“Aw, shit,” said Melech.

The muls raised their clubs.

A robed human man in his middle years in black templar robes stepped out from behind the shelf.

“Korvak,” spit Melech. He retreated a bit.

“Heh. Just one of him and three of us,” said Uglier. The muls stepped forward. They brandished their weapons.

Korvak sighed. A black rod slid out from his sleeve and into the palm of his hand. He snapped it up and whispered a word painful to Melech’s ears. Black rays leaped from the rod’s obsidian tip and struck the muls at the same time. They fell to the floor, writhing.

Melech raised his hands. “Korvak! Good to see you. What’s it been?”

Korvak stepped over the muls and closed in until he stood nose to nose with Melech. The templar placed the rod’s tip right under Melech’s chin.

Korvak had the look of a nobleman. For one, he was clean and didn’t reek of sweat. He also had a straight nose, tanned skin, and gray eyes flecked with purple. His black cotton robe almost hid a fit body, uncommon for those in the templar business. “Melech,” he said.

They had crossed paths a few times before, each time with Melech wriggling out of his grasp and avoiding a lengthy stint in the iron mines for his less-than-legal indiscretions. Melech’s run-ins with the man required every ounce of cunning and luck to escape. As much as Melech hated the templar, he respected him.

“I figured you’d be out sacrificing children or making a bid for the throne now Kalak’s dead,” said Melech.

Korvak raised Melech’s chin with the rod.

“Er,” he said, using the finger he loved the least to push the rod away from his face. “Don’t you remember? We’re old friends.”

Korvak held the rod for a moment longer then lowered it. He stepped back and looked Melech up and down. “You look good. Healthy. The uprising treated you well, it seems.”

“Have you fallen on bad times, Korvak? It’s not like you to walk the streets like a common watchman.”

Korvak snarled and took Melech’s arm. He patted him down, finding all the knives and daggers Melech kept on his person. Each time, he dropped the discovered blade on the floor.

“Hey now, careful,” quipped Melech.

“Your mouth will be the death of you but not today,” said Korvak. He let Melech go. Korvak’s eyes gleamed.

Melech stammered then withered beneath the templar’s gaze. “So? What do you want?”

Korvak watched the muls squirm on the floor, senseless to the conversation just a few feet away. “I’ve spent the whole day looking for you,” he said.

“I’m honored,” said Melech. “You could have found me at the Nest. Why here? And, again, for what?”

“Two lizards, one stone,” said Korvak. “I teach Finster about what it means to sell illegal merchandise while also giving us a little privacy to have this conversation.”

Melech arched an eyebrow.

Korvak continued, “You have a knack for hearing things, Melech. I’d like you to be my eyes and ears.”

Melech straightened his tunic. “Oh. I see. Business. Well, I should tell you I’m already employed. It’s against my personal code to conduct other business while working.”

“You’re testing my patience, thief.” Korvak slipped his hand into his tunic and produced an iron disk, as big as Melech’s palm. Iron was so rare, a coin of the size Korvak produced could keep Melech comfortable for two lifetimes. “You want this? I see you do. If you’re good and you help me, this and more like it will be yours. If not, we’re done. Think quick now.”

Iron. Couldn’t hurt to hear what the templar wanted. Might turn another coin or two in the end. Furthermore, “done” could mean many things to a templar. Melech swallowed and nodded.

Korvak grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the back of the shop. The muls groaned.

The back room was dirtier than the front. Finster lay on the floor.

“This is serious. And I don’t trust you. You have connections, though, connections I need. So you’re going to listen. And then you’re going to do as I say. Accepting this coin doesn’t mean you’re just working for me; you’re working for Tyr.”

“A bit dramatic,” said Melech. Before Korvak could answer, Melech added, “but, yeah, sure, whatever you say.”

“There is unrest in the merchant houses. One house particular. Vordon. Do you know it?” Korvak asked.

“Sure. Iron. Slaves. Powerful. Personal armies. Connected. Or at least they were.”

Korvak paused. Melech could sense the doubt in the other man. The templar shook his head and pushed on. “You’re right. About it all. But they’ve fallen far.”

“Well,” said Melech, “their guards seem to be everywhere, so they must be making up their shortfalls somehow. King’s coffers perhaps?”

“Yes and no. Thaxos Vordon did Tithian a favor by lending him his troops, but everyone knew it was just a short-term arrangement. A bit of help to ease the transition to the new government.”

“All this is interesting and all. You seem to have all the facts already, though. What do you need me for?”

Korvak snarled, “I’m getting to that. You need to know some things first so you can ask the right questions. In case you haven’t heard, Tyr and Urik are headed toward war. The army of Tyr is due to march in twelve days. Vordon has offered up his two thousand soldiers to go along with them.”

“Generous.”

“It’s too generous. Vordon’s holdings are unprotected with his armies marching. And as a merchant house, he’s untouchable—remember, merchants aren’t supposed to take sides. Even if Urik swept through and took the city by force, Vordon and his house would keep going. Probably. Though if King Hamanu found out Vordon fought for Tyr, Vordon would be ruined.”

“So it doesn’t make sense for Vordon to have such a keen interest in making sure Tyr wins,” said Melech.

“Correct,” said Korvak.

Melech stepped away from the templar. “So? What do you want me to do? And why should I do it?”

“You like your freedom, I presume? You think you’ll be free once Urik knocks down our front door? If you’d like to keep it, you’ll do your best to help me. As for what I want you to do, well, I want you to do what you do best. I want you to look around. Listen. Learn all you can about Thaxos Vordon and what he’s into. And as for the why. Because you owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

“For all the times I let you go.”

“Let me go!” Melech laughed. “Fine. It’ll cost you far more than an iron coin. Add a dozen and I’ll be your spy.”

“Six,” said Korvak.

“Nine.”

“Six.”

“Fine.”

“Also,” said Korvak, “this arrangement is between the two of us. Don’t breathe a word of this to Torston or anyone else in the Rat’s Nest. Understood?”

“What about them?” Melech said, cocking his thumb at the muls.

“They haven’t heard anything we’ve said.”

Melech frowned.

“I’m serious, Melech. You would be better served hitching your cart to another kank,” said Korvak. “Torston is a dangerous, self-interested man. Remember, just do what you do best. Watch and listen. If you see or hear anything out of the ordinary, let me know at once.” Korvak rubbed his hands together.

“Torston is going to be a problem,” Melech said. “He has eyes everywhere.”

Korvak shrugged. “You are a clever and resourceful young man. I have every confidence you’ll find a way to keep our secret.”

“He’ll kill me if he finds out I’m working for you,” said Melech.

“I’ll kill you if he finds out,” replied the templar.

“Great. Fine. I’ll take those nine coins, then,” said Melech, hand extended.

Korvak placed six tokens in Melech palm and closed his hand around Melech’s. The templar tightened his grip until the coins’ hexagonal edges bit into Melech’s palm.

Korvak whispered something profane, beyond Melech’s understanding. Inky black threads formed in the air around Melech’s hand and laced his skin before fading. Melech felt coldness spreading through his gut, a chill that grew into sharp pain. Melech wrenched his hand free. The coins slipped from his hand, but he caught them before they hit the floor.

The templar smiled. “You are mine now, Melech. Betray me at your peril. Good day and remember: watch and listen.” Korvak vanished into a patch of darkness, leaving a faint pain in Melech’s stomach and hand to suggest he was ever there at all.

Pain greeted Loren when he woke. He struggled to breathe in the fetid air. Groans, cries, and whimpers sounded all around him. He could not see, could not open his eyes. He tried to raise his arm.

“Stop struggling.”

Loren fought to rise. Firm hands pushed him down. He pushed them aside and sat up. His strength returning, he scraped away whatever was keeping his eyes shut. A moment later he blinked away the blindness.

He was on a table. Sunlight cut through the gloom from gaps in the ceiling. A few flies roamed the air, crawling on the bodies lying on the tables filling the room. Some twitched. Others lay still. Pale-faced slaves, linen tabards black from their work, moved between them, offering water and what comforts they could.

“Lie back down, fool.” The voice belonged to a fat dwarf in a simple linen tabard. The dwarf held a bloody cloth in one hand and a bone-sewing needle in the other. “I’m trying to stitch you up.”

Loren noted the three wavy lines on the dwarf’s skull. Loren had been in the infirmary enough times to recognize the markings of an elemental priest, and he guessed his attendant served the earth spirits by the brand on his head. Loren knew little of their kind, though he knew enough to respect them and the power they could call.

“Who are you?” he asked. He remembered going into the arena, fighting, and killing but little else.

“The one who saved your life.”

“What happened?” Loren’s voice was a croak. He coughed.

“You won,” said the dwarf, who, still holding the cloth, used it to push Loren onto his back. “I’ve already got the back, but I’ll be damned if I’ll do it again. So quit wiggling, boy, or you’ll pop the stitches.”

“So I’m free, then,” muttered Loren.

“Oh, yes, you’re free. Free to pay yer debts.” The dwarf pushed the needle through the skin on Loren’s flesh, drawing the cord through and tightening the cut left by the kirre across his chest.

“Debts?” Loren opened his eyes.

“You don’t think this is free, do you?” said the dwarf.

Loren had no money. Loren owned nothing—not even a sword, at least not anymore. That was how they would get him to fight again, to pay his debts.

Just as Loren was about to tell the priest he didn’t have any coin, he remembered his friend. “Where’s Aeris?” They had been through so much together, it would be a cruel twist to find his friend dead.

“Who?” The dwarf leaned forward to bite the cord off.

Loren grunted. The dwarf straightened. “The half-elf. He fought at my side.”

“Oh, him. He lives. Lost some blood. The spirits saw fit to draw him from the brink. Weak as a fat halfling. He’ll pull through, I imagine.” The stitching done, the dwarf scrubbed the skin around with sand.

Loren gritted his teeth. The dwarf was anything but gentle.

As Loren tried to come up with a way to pay the dwarf, he noticed a slender man enter the infirmary. He was of middling height, thin, and dressed in a black robe with white dragonflies embroidered on the sleeves. He took a slave by the arm. They exchanged a few words, then the man looked at Loren and walked his way.

“How is our glorious champion?” asked the man when he reached Loren’s table.

“He will live,” said the dwarf. He looked at Loren, expectation of coin plain on his blocky face.

“I—”

“Allow me, my friend,” said the newcomer. He placed a small leather pouch in the dwarf’s hand. “This should cover your time and effort, I believe.”

The dwarf nodded, stood, and picked up his things. A moment later, he was working on someone else.

“Uh, thanks,” said Loren.

“No trouble. Our master would hate to see a fine specimen such as you go to waste after such an exciting match.”

“Master? Wait. What do you mean by ‘our’?”

“Master Shom, of course.” The man gestured at the dragonflies. “Master Shom has taken an interest in you and your career. He would like to meet you.”

“Career?” Loren laughed. The room spun around him. “I’m done fighting, so I guess I have no career. Thanks for paying the priest, but I think I’ll pass on the meeting.”

The man’s bearing changed. He was still smiling, but his eyes were cold. “I am afraid I must insist. Master Shom is an important man, and his generosity saved your life. You owe him a debt, a debt you must pay.”

Loren slid off the table. He was weak, but he wasn’t about to be pushed around by a messenger.

As if sensing Loren’s implicit threat, the servant added, “I know my master would hate to see any harm befall your friend Aeris. I understand it was a close thing.”

“Look, I won my freedom. I did my part. The slave collar is gone.”

The messenger sneered, “Right. Go on thinking like that, and you’ll be a slave again. We all have masters, free or not. Sometimes we get to choose them, but people like us? We get what fate hands us. Now come. Not everyone gets to see Master Shom.”

Loren took a step forward and would have fallen had he not caught himself on the table. When his vision cleared, he saw Aeris lying on a table, unconscious. Loren would not leave him there unprotected. “Fine. I’ll go. But I want to see Aeris first.”

The messenger cocked his head. “I assure you, no harm will come to him.”

“Just take me to him.”

The man shrugged then maneuvered around the tables, avoiding the grasping hands and ignoring the mewling cries of the injured.

Aeris lay on a blood-slicked table. He was gaunt, slight of frame, with pinched features and a face twisted into a sneer even while he slept. His auburn hair lay plastered to his pale brow, and his mouth hung open. Drool cut a path through the grime on his cheek and pooled on the table. Grimy bandages covered him from nipples to groin. Dark stains marked where the kirre’s claws had torn the flesh.

“He should be dead,” said Loren.

The messenger said nothing. Loren could feel his tension.

Loren leaned down and put a hand on the half-elf’s shoulder. Even his light touch brought a groan. “Aeris,” he said.

The half-elf stirred.

“Get up, man. We lived. Time to go.”

Aeris opened bleary eyes. “Let me die.”

“Just a few cuts. Nothing to cry about. Now get up. Important people are waiting.”

Aeris coughed, blood flecking his lips. “You’ll have to give them my regrets. I think I’ll just stay here if it’s all the same to you.”

Shom’s man said, “We mustn’t keep Master Shom waiting, warrior. Leave him. He’ll still be here.” He stepped toward the door.

“Aeris, now listen. I’ll be back for you soon. Then we’ll get the hell out of here and find some doxies and swill to pass the time. See you soon.”

The messenger led Loren through a maze of passages and chambers, up several staircases, and out from the arena compound. No one stopped them, and for the first time Loren realized he could no longer feel the bone collar he had worn around his neck for so long. He was free, but he was still leaping to a master’s call, still going where others wanted him to go. The meeting with Shom would be his last. Once he figured out what Shom wanted, he and Aeris would leave Nibenay behind forever. Loren had heard Tyr was free. It would be nice to go home.

They emerged from the complex near the arena gate. The portal stood in the middle of the western wall, where beggars congregated in the shadows to escape the afternoon sun. Hungry eyes and drawn faces watched the gladiator and his guide as they passed, following them until they reached the twisting streets and cluttered buildings making up the city’s Western District.

Loren had few occasions to leave the arena during his time in the City of Spires. To the north, he could see the great cliff towering in the sky, a brown wall fissured and pitted with deep caves marking the city’s northern border. Between it and the arena, spires reached up from the sprawl like a forest, each one stretching for the cliff top but not quite equaling its height. Even with all the towers’ splendor, Loren could not help but notice the Naggaramakam, the great city within the city, the sorcerer-king’s demesne hidden behind steep walls whose dizzying heights could not quite conceal the structures or the great trees rising above them.

The messenger cleared his throat and scowled. “Impressive, is it not?”

“It is,” said Loren.

“You put any thought of going there out of your mind. There are wonders inside, magic, and women so beautiful, to see them is to see your death. I have never been inside them. The great Shadow King permits no one he himself does not invite. Come along, gladiator. We must not keep the master waiting.”

Loren followed and after a few moments became lost. The man made too many turns down too many tight, cramped streets. Tiny shops, grocers, apothecaries, carpenters, and glassblowers flew by. Strange faces peered at them as they walked, some threatening, others inviting, all alien and unnerving. There were humans among them but plenty of other races, some with malformed features, extra eyes and limbs, odd coloration, and some with bestial aspects. Here and there, Loren spied other peoples, dwarves but also halflings, short stature and youthful features suggesting they might be children if not for their cold eyes and confident postures. Tareks, all muscle and dark threats, loomed in the shadows. Mul enforcers dressed in riotous livery shouldered through the crowds. Loren thought he even saw one of the thri-kreen folk, but it was a glimpse, nothing more than a shadow cast on a wall.

When they left the Western District, the messenger said, “It is not far now. This is Cliffside. Most of the great merchant houses make their homes in the Sages’ District, but House Shom is special. The other houses have many fine places, gardens and the like, but none compare to House Shom’s holdings.” They rushed down the streets, and when they turned a corner, Loren saw the man was correct. The sun hung low on the horizon, but it was light enough to see the compound was indeed massive. Stone walls stretched out along the road for as far as Loren could see. It was crowded with buildings, domes, and other structures inside.

“There are many ways into the estate, but the Dragonfly Gate is safest for visitors,” said the messenger, gesturing to a broad portal. Double doors of stout agafari wood blocked the entry. They were plain, aside from two bronze rings set in each face. Such metal demonstrated the house’s power and wealth. Two guards, brutish half-giants, stood in front of the doors. They wore carapace armor, making them look like hulking insects. Each guard held a pike long enough to skewer an inix. They wore eyeless helmets with the Shom dragonfly just above where the eyeholes should have been. The guards wasted no time dragging the doors open when the pair approached.

The messenger bobbed his head and hurried through. Loren followed and found himself in a garden. Wild greenery choked the place. Trees, shrubs, flowers, and more covered everything but a small cobbled path. Loren could hear splashing water from somewhere ahead. He slowed his pace to take in the sights. Here and there, nude statues in suggestive positions hinted more than commerce went on there. The stone path meandered beneath palm trees, flowers in every hue imaginable punctuated by ferns, creepers, and decorative bushes. All was rich, alive, and beautiful. There was something else. A smell, a foulness not unlike rotting meat, hung in the air. Loren’s hand fell to his belt, reaching for a sword no longer there. The messenger paused a dozen paces ahead and gestured for him to hurry.

Loren felt eyes on him. He kept walking, though he scanned his surroundings. The deeper into the garden he walked, the more buildings he could see. Peaked roofs marking graves, perhaps, or small shrines dedicated to honored ancestors. Slender towers reached up and cast long shadows.

“My, my, I see father’s taste remains exquisite,” said a voice. A young woman stepped out from behind a gnarled tree. Swollen, spiny fruit hung from its knotted branches. Loren felt his heart skip. Her silk dress concealed what was necessary and revealed creamy white skin and soft curves. Her blue eyes crawled up his body. A lock of long black hair fell free. She ignored it. Her red-stained lips parted to reveal her pink tongue resting on white teeth. She reminded him of the kirre, not just for her slow, graceful movements as she approached him, but also for the predatory glint he spotted in her eyes.

Loren realized he was alone. His escort had gone on ahead. He looked around for him. When he turned back, the woman stood at his side. Loren could smell cinnamon in her hair, could feel her hot breath on his face.

He stepped back.

“Bashful? That’s a surprise.”

Loren said nothing and held his ground.

“Not even going to ask who I am?” she purred.

Loren felt himself become aroused by her presence, yet she troubled him. He distrusted those of high station. They were all a self-serving lot.

“Mute? Or am I speaking too fast for you?” she smiled.

“I am expected.”

“Yes, yes, by my father. I am his daughter. He will forgive the delay if I ask nice. I am Temmnya Shom.” She ran a finger along the edge of the bandage on his arm. She tugged hard at the last, sending a spike of pain as the stitches pulled.

He moved into her touch to ease the pain. “Then what do you want?”

“I have ideas. None of them are good ones. That has never stopped me before.” She stepped closer. He felt unsettled.

A polite cough interrupted their conversation. Temmnya frowned. Loren turned.

“Spying on me again, Mordis? I was just escorting this brave champion to Father.”

Mordis wasn’t much older than Loren. He was a man accustomed to the easy life. Soft hands, smooth features, and trimmed hair all marked him as a merchant or, perhaps, a noble. He was thin with a narrow face. A short, oiled beard covered his chin. The soft mauve robe made him look feminine, a perception aided by the red sash tied around his waist. Three dragonflies in flight stood out from the sash’s end.

“Of course you were, mistress. I came to ensure you did not frighten our guest.” To Loren he made the slightest bow. “You are, of course, Loren, slayer of Pogren, champion of the Shadow Arena. I am Farlahn Mordis. I work for Giovvo Shom. I am certain you are confused as to why you are here, and I assure you all will be explained soon. If you will follow me?”

Loren glanced at Temmnya. She had lost interest in him, and she searched the foliage. She said, “Ger, to me.”

A lizard about half his height answered and emerged from the undergrowth, all razor claws and sharp teeth, orange eyes stealing the last rays of light. They followed Loren and Mordis as they continued along the twisting path.

No one said anything as they walked. The sun disappeared behind the walls, and the garden grew dark. The air was cool, a welcome relief from the day spent fighting. Loren was accustomed to fighting, not to conversation’s subtleties. He thought about battle. In combat, he knew what to do: fight or die. It was straightforward and simple. In the fancy gardens, he felt out of his element, lost, and uncertain. What did such people want? What was the girl after?

All concerns fled his mind when he rounded the last corner, coming to an open courtyard. Torches burned along the perimeter, scorching low branches. Two fountains sprayed colored water. The mist made the cooling air chill. In the center of the plaza sat the fattest man Loren had ever seen. He was a great, naked mound of flesh. Veined and warty rolls spilled everywhere, hanging in folds from his arms and chest, and it all kept him modest despite his nudity. Wine dried on his pale flesh, while drippings and grease clotted in pools of red fluid. Loren guessed he was Giovvo Shom.

Four men stood to one side. Loren’s arrival had interrupted a conversation, and they watched, their kohl-lined eyes glittering in the firelight. They wore yellow robes, and their swarthy skin and black beards glistened with oil.

The vast man shifted his bulk and raised his eyes to take in Loren. At his side and whispering in his ear was the man Loren met at the infirmary.

Mordis bowed and said, “Master Shom, I present to you Loren of Tyr.”

Loren never mentioned he was from Tyr.

The robed men whispered to each other behind raised hands. They each had long black nails. Loren spied anger, maybe loathing, in their expressions.

The fat man shoved away the man who paid for Loren’s recovery and leaned forward. Puddles on his breasts spilled and ran in rivers down his bulk. “You have kept me waiting, slave.”

“Oh, Father,” said Temmnya as she flounced on a cushion by his side, “he is blameless. I delayed him in the garden.”

“I am no slave,” said Loren.

The yellow attendants gasped. Temmnya smiled. Mordis showed nothing.

“Of course,” murmured Giovvo, “of course. But in a way, we are all slaves to something, are we not?”

The fat man leaned back. He raised his hand, and two naked young women came forward bearing food and drink on wooden platters. Two more appeared. One offered a bowl of wine to Loren.

“Be at ease, Loren. You are among friends here,” said Shom.

Loren nodded at the slave attending him. Dark bruises marred her tanned skin. Her eyes were dead, lifeless. She fixed her mouth in a tight smile. She lingered then backed away.

Shom drained the cup, wine leaking from the corners of his mouth, running down his chest. He threw the cup away. “We have been watching your progress in the arena, friend Loren, watching with great interest. I have always enjoyed the games and, as my emptied coffers can attest, am a great benefactor to them.”

He paused. Loren wondered if the man expected gratitude or something else.

“I have taken an interest in your achievements. I, and with no reservations I might add, am impressed.”

Another pause. Another deep, rattling breath.

“I am certain you know you are in rare company, having won your freedom from the fighting pits?”

Loren nodded.

“Why, I can think of three before you. Their names escape me. It is a tragedy, though.”

Loren must have looked confused since Temmnya, at his side, explained, “They all died,” offered Temmnya at his side.

Mordis spoke to the courtiers in a voice too low for Loren to hear.

“Yes, Daughter, they all died. Loren, why do you think these brave warriors met such tragic ends after gaining their freedom? After they found so much success as slaves?”

“I can’t say,” said Loren.

“Protection,” said Shom. He lifted his arms with great effort to fold his fingers together across his belly. “Yes, protection. You see, Loren, you are a gifted warrior, a peerless example of the gladiatorial arts. All your talent, your strength, your cunning avail you little now. You know the arena, but little else. What would you do if you didn’t fight?”

Loren felt his anger rising. He won his freedom with blood and sweat. He might not know what he was going to do, but he earned his chance to find out.

“Loren, our liege, the Shadow King, does not permit his slaves to gain their freedom. It sets a bad example. The reason why so few escape the pits is not because there’s a dearth of talent. It is because the arena masters sabotage anyone who comes too close to the prize. The Shadow King does not want rivals to his fame or affection, even if the people want otherwise.”

“What are you saying?” snapped Loren.

“I wish to reveal my part in your good fortune, friend Loren. You see, it was I who ensured your survival. I shepherded you from the crude pits. I let you to find true glory. And at no little cost, I might add.”

“You want thanks?”

“No, Loren, not thanks. I want recompense.”

“I’m no slave,” said Loren, as much to drive the point home as to reassure himself.

“True, but you have a debt, and as a merchant, I find it best to repay those debts.”

“I could kill you, fat man,” Loren snarled.

Temmnya giggled. Her beast hunkered near the ground.

“You wonder what happened to those who came before you?” Shom smiled. He showed no fear, but he waved his own threat away. “Loren, Loren, Loren, you are too valuable to discard. We have invested too much in you to throw it all away. Listen to my proposal.”

“Why should I? I’ll die before you put a collar on me again.”

“Did I say anything about a collar? You ask why. Because, Loren. Because you have an injured friend in the arena infirmary. Because he will die. Because you will be tortured and maybe you will die. And then you will serve me in death. Loren, we offer you a chance to live, to savor your hard-won freedom with honest employment in an occupation to which you are suited. It is your choice, friend Loren, but make it quick. Serve me, and live. Refuse me, and I’ll take everything you care about away.”

Loren felt Temmnya watching him. He would not be a slave again. He would rather die than face the collar again. But could he choose for Aeris? Could he refuse and consign his one friend to death? Loren nodded.

“The task is simple, a few months in my employ,” said Shom.

“Fine. What is it? What do you want from me?” said Loren.

“I want you to protect my daughter.”

They had been on the road for almost three weeks since leaving Fort Inix. Alaeda Stel was accustomed to travel through the desert, experienced in surviving the rigors and evading the vicious predators haunting the wastes, yet she was tired and had little left in her to keep pushing onward. She and Phytos moved through Silver Spring Oasis’s gates, having paid an exorbitant fee; she could not be bothered to dicker down the price to something reasonable. They were free to camp inside the outpost’s walls.

Alaeda and Phytos had parted with their entourage at a tiny outpost halfway to the oasis. There, she paid them, thanked them, and sent them on their way. She no longer needed armed guards for what lay ahead. Her contact at the outpost was clear she and Phytos were to meet another agent to receive instructions. What those instructions would entail, Alaeda could not even guess.

As they rode their steeds along the wide, dusty road, she did her best to ignore the elf traders hawking their wares. Alaeda had known enough elves not to trust them. A shifty race, they were vagabonds and nomads, stealing and defrauding everywhere they went. Without a doubt, they had suffered from the sorcerer-kings, faced annihilation in the ancient wars most did not even remember, and yet rather than exacting vengeance against the tyrants who oppressed them, the elves made do by making everyone else miserable.

One pushy trader shoved cheap glass jewelry in her face. He jabbered at her in the musical tongue of the elves, saying something about fine workmanship and precious stones. He was tall and gaunt with angular features and greasy hair. His yellow robe had faded almost to white. She pushed past him without comment.

Doubt about House Stel’s plans had been crowding out her confidence. She knew what she had to do. She knew what she wanted. Yet it felt strange using a rival merchant house to create a distraction. House Vordon had controlled iron exports from Tyr for generations and got quite rich doing so. House Stel wanted the iron trade, and even though Urik would defeat Tyr, so long as House Vordon stayed clear of the fighting, Urik would have little reason to take the export rights from the merchant house. Thus the plan. Brigands would hit House Vordon’s caravans so hard they would be in shambles by the time King Hamanu walked through Tyr’s Caravan Gate. House Stel, which had enjoyed a relationship with Urik’s self-styled Lion of the Desert, would swoop in and take over the operation.

Alaeda had heard disturbing rumors out of Tyr. Vordon’s own soldiers policed the city’s streets both to protect their own interests and to ensure they maintained good standing with the new king. So long as Vordon remained in the city, the house had first claim on the ore. Even if the impossible happened and Tyr won, Vordon’s close relationship with the new king made it almost impossible for Stel to get their hands on the iron. So in a Tyr victory, Stel would have to weaken and diminish Vordon so much that Tithian would have no other choice but to hand the rights to a different house. Stel would need to keep its hands clean. House Shom could take the fall instead.

It seemed her house was hedging its bets in the upcoming war so Stel would emerge better off no matter who won. The problem was House Shom. She did not trust them, and she did not see why she had to go to them in the first place when they could just hire slave tribes to do the work for them. They had done so before with great success against the elf tribes around Urik. So why not?

She would do as instructed, though. She could think of no other way to improve her standing. Obedience was why she traveled all the way to Jebea Shom a few months back and why she then bargained with Mordis at Fort Inix. And that was why she and Phytos were at the Silver Spring Oasis, a hotbed of intrigue if ever there was one. As comfortable as she was on the road and in such places, Alaeda missed her home, Urik. It was clean, neat, and House Stel had both respect and influence. She hadn’t been there in months, and she wondered if she would ever see it again.

The sun vanished behind the Ringing Mountains, a dark line marking the world’s western edge. Lanterns arranged along the encampment’s walls came to life, shining green, blue, and red light. They almost gave the oasis a festive quality. The elves began to sing, lamenting the end of a new day and greeting the new moons as they claimed their place in the night sky.

Silver Spring was small, not much more than a square compound with room enough for a bazaar, a scattering of small tents used by the Silver Hands tribe, and of course the oasis for which the outpost was named. The elves living there were unusual. Elves were nomads. They ranged the desert wastes, drifting here and there, slipping into a city where they could peddle “found” wares and slip away before their victims realized they had been ripped off.

There wasn’t room at the oasis to accommodate many caravans at once, so the elves welcomed those who paid the best price and turned all others away. The elves promised their guests security, yet the great risk to travelers was from the elves themselves, who would rob even their guests. It made Alaeda wonder why anyone would stop there at all. Water, of course, was the only thing she came up with. Walk the desert, and one finds water worth any price. The dozen silver coins she dropped into the elf’s long-fingered hands had won her and Phytos a spot to raise their tent and insurance against sticky fingers prowling through their belongings.

When they rounded the bazaar, they saw they were not the only guests. Camped near the muddy water’s north shore stood a knot of tents, supplies, and a few wagons. The other caravan sprawled across the entire space, leaving little room for Alaeda and Phytos to camp. Alaeda pulled up on her reins to stop her mount. She dismounted, as did Phytos, and they led their beasts to a quiet spot near the wall. Firelight from the other merchants threw shadows against the walls. Phytos raised their tent and unpacked their supplies while Alaeda watched. She searched the cluster of tents for a symbol to designate the house—a black diamond, House Vordon.

She laughed then turned to their beasts.

Phytos looked up from his work, curious.

“We have Vordon for neighbors,” she said.

He chuckled and pulled out their near-empty water skins to refill them from the oasis.

She would have been surprised had Phytos understood the implications. She had kept much from him about her house’s plot to destroy House Vordon and seize their contracts. She trusted him; he just didn’t need to know. He was aware of the deal she had struck with Mordis, and though it was clear he didn’t like it, he had so far kept his opinions to himself.

“Let me,” she said, reaching for the skins.

He shrugged and handed them over.

“I won’t be long,” she said and headed off to the oasis. Drawing near the other camp, she saw at once it wasn’t just any Vordon merchant caravan. She knelt when she reached the muddy shore and dipped the bags into the filthy water—neither silver nor a spring. She kept her eyes on the Vordon camp. They didn’t carry cargo, or at least not saleable cargo. Instead, it looked as if they were moving equipment, chairs, desks, weapons, foodstuffs, and the like, all tied down on wagons or heaped in piles next to the mekillots, great armored beasts of burden, who bore them on their broad backs. The beasts lowed as their handlers brought them food.

As she scanned the encampment, she spotted someone watching her. Dark eyes peered out at her from the flat, brutish features. A dwarf, young and female, also fetched water. Her simple garb suggested she was a slave, as did the bone collar around her neck. She had noticed Alaeda’s attention, and Alaeda could sense she was suspicious.

Alaeda looked down and pulled the bag from the water. She capped it and dipped in her hands to take a drink. It was foul, dirty stuff, filled with silt and something worse. She stood and turned back but looked once more at the slave and found her staring still. Alaeda touched her brow and hastened back to Phytos.

Pakka watched the slim woman walk away from the oasis. There was something about her she didn’t like. She couldn’t see her very well, but she could see she had been watching the camp with interest. She wasn’t even put off by Pakka’s warning glare. No surprise. Pakka was a slave, after all.

“Silly Pakka,” she imagined Rek saying, “so concerned with your mistress, you see enemies in every shadow.” The guard captain had gently mocked her for as long as they had known each other. She would have been offended had he not also been so kind to her in other ways. Still, he couldn’t understand her commitment to Talara Vordon. Pakka had dedicated her life to making sure the Vordon heir was both safe and sound. Pakka had hidden her singular dedication to her mistress from everyone, even Talara herself, since few understood how serious such an oath could be. It was more than an oath, more than some vow. It gave Pakka her identity, her reason for being. So long as Pakka lived, nothing would harm Talara. The ancestors ensured anyone who failed to uphold their oaths did not rest easy in death, and she would face an eternity struggling to make restitutions for her failure.

Pakka filled the second bucket with water. The water was foul. Pakka would clean it before she’d let her mistress drink. Excrement, poisons, and worse substances swirled in the fluid. Drinking too much would sicken even Pakka, despite her constitution. The buckets full, she lifted them by their rope handles and walked back to Lady Vordon’s tent. She maneuvered around the guards seated around campfires, sipping broy and throwing dice to pass the time. None spared her even a glance. No one noticed slaves.

Talara’s tent stood in the camp’s center, where some two score guards and servants attended the mistress and also the caravan’s guard captain, Pakka’s oldest friend, Rek. She spotted the human warrior. He stood outside his tent, smoking a pipe. Ghostly rings hung in the still air. He nodded.

Rek had always been kind to her. He had favored her with small gifts. He made sure she had enough to eat. He even gave her rare treats such as flowers and the small, honeyed almonds she adored. She blushed, just thinking of it, and ducked through the tent’s flaps without spilling a drop.

Inside, Talara Vordon sat on a folding cot’s edge, leaning forward to catch the light from an oil lantern hanging from one of the support poles. She was reading the scroll again. She read it several times a day since they left Vordon’s Watch, a tiny outpost not far from Urik. She had kept the contents to herself, except to say her cousin Thaxos Vordon had ordered the outpost abandoned and called for their return to Tyr. Pakka hadn’t wanted to leave; it had been her home for a decade. She knew her place, though, and voiced no complaint. Her sadness was hers alone, though she suspected Talara felt as she did.

Talara noticed Pakka. When the trader looked up, a lock of her long red hair fell across her face. She brushed it aside. “You were gone longer than I expected. No trouble I hope?”

Pakka thought about the woman she saw but set it aside. “No, mistress. I am sorry for the delay.”

“No worries. How is the water?”

“Undrinkable, mistress,” she said.

“Silver Spring hasn’t changed, then,” Talara replied. She stood, stretching her long legs. She folded the scroll and slipped it under the pillow on the cot.

In the light, Pakka could see Talara was exhausted. Dark circles ringed her eyes. “Trouble?”

“No more than usual,” she walked to Pakka’s side and peered into the buckets.

“It will take me a moment to purify the water, mistress,” said Pakka.

“Fine,” said Talara. She left Pakka to her water and went to her desk, where she examined the maps. It had been a while since Talara had been in Tyr.

While Talara reviewed the route, Pakka drew a small pouch on the leather cord around her neck. The leather bag held herbs, leaves, and bits of bark. She shook a few pieces into her hand so she could pick out the ingredients she needed. She replaced the rest. Using her thumb to grind them into a powder, Pakka sprinkled them into the murky water. She then raised her hands and began an incantation. She whispered to the spirits of the clouds and the essence of morning dew, rain, and laughing streams long forgotten. She called them forth, evoking the primal magic she needed to cleanse the water. Although she spoke each evocation with strength, her words were nothing more than a whisper. The herbs floating on the oily water’s surface spun until they formed into tiny eddies. Dark mist rose from them, carrying the disease and filth away. A moment later the water was clear enough that Pakka could see to the bottom.

She dropped her hands and breathed hard for a few moments. When she recovered, she filled a clay cup to sample the water. It was clean. She fetched another cup and brought the freshened water to Talara.

“I don’t like magic, Pakka,” said Talara.

“I understand, Mistress Vordon. I do not work magic, though.”

“Looks like magic to me,” said Talara.

Pakka paused, searching for a way to explain. “I suppose you are correct, mistress. I did use magic. But I did not use the magic of the sorcerer-kings and their templars. Their magic requires life energy from plants, animals, anything living. Each spell cast destroys a part of the world.

“My magic comes from the land itself. Nothing is harmed. Nothing is damaged. My spells, evocations if you will, call forth the land’s spirits to heal the damage, to restore life and health and vigor. I serve the living land and fight death. Am I making sense?”

Talara snorted. “Evocation, spell, whatever. I have always felt no good can come from sorcery. Still,” she took the cup and sampled the water, “if this is the result, I cannot complain.”

Both moons hung high in the night sky when their agent entered the encampment. Alaeda stood watch. At first she thought he was a thief. She had her steel short sword at his neck in a blink.

“Old friends abound,” said the intruder. He spoke the words. He was the contact.

Alaeda released him. Phytos threw his thin blanket aside, drew his mace, and sat up.

“It’s fine. He’s a … friend,” she said.

Phytos climbed to his feet and stepped away from the small fire. He watched from the shadows by the mounts.

The visitor was human. He was middle-aged, his brown hair streaked gray, and wine stained his left cheek. He wore a hooded desert cloak. Alaeda could see his rust-red uniform underneath. He appeared to be a member of the Vordon entourage.

“I was beginning to wonder,” said Alaeda.

The man smirked.

“So? Why are we here?”

He looked around for eavesdroppers. Not even Phytos was in earshot anymore.

“You’re to go with Talara Vordon. To Tyr.”

Alaeda stifled a groan. “Tyr? If I’m needed in Tyr, I could have just gone straight there. I would have been there by now.”

The agent shrugged.

She could kill the man before he could blink. She stayed her hand. Instead, he saw the threat in her gaze.

He paled. “I don’t know why they didn’t send you. Seems to me they want you to infiltrate the caravan.”

“So I gathered,” she said. “They already have guards. I doubt they’ll need two more.”

“I’m making the preparations tonight. There will be two vacancies by morning. Just see you’re there at dawn. I’ll vouch for you.”

“Fine. We go to Tyr. Then what?”

He looked around again then continued. “When you reach Tyr, go to the Red Kank and wait for your contact. He or she—I’m not sure which—will have your description, but they’ll test you to be sure of your identity. When you’re approached, say ‘Hear the lion’s roar.’ He should then say, ‘All tremble before its fury.’ Got it?”

Alaeda nodded.

“Repeat it back to me,” he said.

She did so. “So what am I to do in Tyr?”

The man shrugged.

She waved him off. He got up and disappeared into the shadows beyond the firelight. Alaeda saw him in the Vordon camp a few moments later. He was laughing and jesting with the caravan guards as if he belonged there.

Phytos returned a moment later. “What was that all about?”

“New marching orders,” she said with a sigh. “We’re guards now.”

The dream shattered when screams woke Pakka. She struggled up from the pallet. Talara had already left.

Pakka scrubbed her face with her hands and got to her feet. More shouting. Pakka pushed through the tent’s flaps. There, Rek, Talara, and the Silver Hands’ chieftain, a rogue named Toramund, argued.

“We paid your ridiculous fee for protection, you treacherous bastard. Now I have two dead guards on my hands and who knows what missing from my wagons.”

“I assure you,” said Toramund, his voice as oily as the water he peddled, “none of my people had anything to do with it. By the spirits of my ancestors, we work very hard to ensure none of our guests come to harm.”

“Then explain them,” said Talara, pointing to two guards whose names Pakka couldn’t remember lying in a heap. Their throats had been cut.

“I cannot. I would suggest you look to your own for the culprit. I do recall many of your men were deep in their cups last night. Women, dice, and spirits can all lead to arguments. And even the best of friends can resort to violence over any of those things as I’m sure you know.”

Rek shook with fury. The muscles in his neck bunched up. He balled his hands into fists and looked as if he might strike the elf.

The elf ignored him.

Talara placed a hand on Rek’s arm. “I am sure Toramund is right. My sincerest apologies for bringing this trouble to your door.”

If Pakka was surprised, Rek was doubly so. He spun on Talara and started to argue. He looked to the tents. Pakka followed his gaze. There, across the oasis, waited twenty elves. Each held a bow, arrows nocked and ready to fire.

“It is I who should apologize,” said the elf, but he offered nothing more. “If there is nothing else?”

Talara’s lips pressed to a thin line. She shook her head.

Toramund bowed and walked away. Pakka could hear him chuckling.

“We could have taken them,” said Rek when the chief was gone.

“We already have two deaths. We don’t need any more. Let’s just put as much distance between us and this … place … as possible.”

She made as if to return to her tent but stopped when a caravan guard came forward. “Mistress?” He looked down at the guards and blanched. Standing at his side was the woman from the night before along with the ugliest mul Pakka had ever seen.

“Yes, Rukan?” said Talara, gesturing to two slaves to haul off the dead.

“This is not the best time, but I ran into these two at the oasis.”

Talara nodded in greeting.

“This is Alaeda and …”

“Phytos,” said the woman.

“I’ve known her for a long time,” he said. “Seems they’re in need of work.”

“I see,” said Talara.

Pakka felt it was all too convenient. She inched over to Rek’s side to get his attention.

“We appear to have … two vacancies,” said Talara.

Pakka reached up for Rek’s arm. She stopped when Talara said, “Get your things. I mean to be gone within the hour.”

The two bowed and hurried off.

“Lady Vordon,” Pakka whispered, “is this wise? They had to be involved. I saw her watching the camp last night.”

“I’m sure they were. But I’d rather keep my enemies where I can see them.”

Late in the afternoon on the same day they left Silver Spring Oasis, the guard captain, Rek, called a halt. A wagon had thrown a wheel. It would take until nightfall to repair it. Rek had made it clear he would not travel by night. The roads between the city-states were in dreadful repair, and great sections would vanish beneath the sands at a time, freed for short times when sandstorms tore across the landscape.

Alaeda had not caught more than a glimpse of Phytos since they left the oasis. No one trusted them. Alaeda couldn’t blame them. When their contact said he would set them up to join the caravan, she never expected such sloppy work. The guard captain put them on either side of the caravan. Since they had stopped, Alaeda got guard duty on one side of the camp and Phytos stood on the other.

When night fell, so did the temperature. It got cold in the desert. Alaeda drew her cloak around her and leaned on her spear. Her breath plumed as she watched the sands.

She had little confidence in the spear. Crude, it was not much more than a bone haft shaved down to a point at the end. It would be good for about one strike. Firelight shone from behind her. She could hear muted laughter as the guards ate and chatted around the fires. Although she would have preferred the warmth, she believed it would be better to focus on her task.

Across the road, Alaeda could see the dark smudge marking the Ringing Mountains. Something moved.

She lowered her spear and widened her stance. She stared. All was still. To her side, she glimpsed something. She couldn’t tell if it was person or a shadow. And then it was gone.

Just as she opened her mouth to sound a warning, someone cried out. Shouts rose up all around.

Alaeda looked back. The firelight blinded her. She saw Phytos and a few other guards fighting, though what or who, she couldn’t make out.

She took a few steps back. Several shapes burst up from the sand on all sides. They were stunted things, hideous mockeries of men, flabby faces and knobby features. Each one shrieked and hooted as it closed. One shouted, “Charge the blood!”

They grasped for her, claws extended. Alaeda punched the first in the face with her spear. She lifted it, but the weapon snapped. A second rubbery monster, a few paces away, howled and stamped its feet. As it did, crackling blue energy danced across the sand, fusing it into glass. The light built until it was too much to look upon, and just as Alaeda turned away, the energy coalesced into a burning claw. It snaked out and wrapped around her. She was helpless to resist the jolting pain, the agony making it a struggle to fight against its pull. She screamed and stumbled but somehow managed to draw her sword from its scabbard. When she got close enough, she slashed. The blade bit. The monster’s magic leaped away into the desert, bursting a dune one hundred paces away. Alaeda stumbled again but recovered enough to plunge the blade through the creature’s throat.

Alaeda regained her feet and surveyed the battle. The other enemies had already moved into the camp. More erupted into lightning. Actinic blasts blew men to chunks of meat. Other monsters attacked with claws. Flesh curled into ribbons beneath their assault.

Alaeda caught her breath. She charged the nearest enemy, catching it by surprise. One stab into its neck and she pulled the blade free in one smooth motion. Crimson strings of blood flew in the air to splash onto the sand.

She spied Phytos as she searched for another enemy. He was caving in skulls with his stone-headed mace, but there were too many. He fell back. He called to the other guards to form up into ranks. Alaeda stepped up to join him but saw a hideous monster leading two smaller wretches, each crackling with energy, toward Talara and her dwarf slave. Talara and the dwarf had slain two monsters, but they had paid with blood. Numerous cuts bled. The new threat was bigger than the rest. Each step he took caused the sand to rumble with violent force.

Alaeda rushed forward, though not in time to stop it from blasting Talara and Pakka with blue lightning. Talara fell to the ground. Pakka went to one knee then stood. She called out in a loud voice, “Aqalnor!”

In answer, a shimmering, translucent being emerged from the ground. Water droplets fell from its body to spatter on the sand. The great water spirit slammed the monster, crushing bones with a single swing from its massive fist.

Alaeda was still too far to help. The monstrous leader crashed into the spirit and ripped it into watery gobbets the sand drank greedily. The monster then dived into the sand and erupted out from the sand at Talara’s side. It reached for her throat with clawed hands. Alaeda stepped into its embrace to shoulder it to the ground.

Alaeda saw Pakka. Fresh blood spilled from her nostril. Could the watery thing’s demise have harmed her? Pakka called out the name once more, and the damp sand gave birth to another watery horror. It started spinning, becoming a raging storm of swirling sand, debris, and bodies. Although the summoned monstrosity ripped apart the other creatures, it did not touch Alaeda or Talara. Death spread out in all directions. The attacker’s leader fled. Alaeda gave chase. She sprang into the air and landed on the fiend’s back. With one arm wrapped around its neck, she shoved her blade down into its neck. It fell and excreted filth as its body jerked. Alaeda struggled to stand. Pakka’s summoned servant raged.

The surviving raiders fled into the sands. The wind’s howl died down, and the spirit vanished. Quiet. They would not return. At least not in the same night.

Groans and cries rose from the survivors. One stood out from the rest. Pakka knelt by Talara, cradling her head in her hands. She looked to Alaeda, tears streaming down her face.

After four days of waiting, Korvak still had nothing. He fumed as he walked the wide streets of the Merchant District. Iron Square lay ahead. There the mighty merchant houses dealt with the public. The day was bright, hot, and crowded with people from all across the Seven Cities, their tongues and dialects swirling together in a confusing noise. Master Astini’s patience would soon run out, and it would be back to the Vault of Records for Korvak.

By the third day, Korvak had begun to question his going to Melech in the first place. The man, not much more than a boy, was unreliable at best. Korvak believed he was the kind of man who would respond to only pain. And by response, he would do anything to flee it. So Korvak used the curse on Melech. It didn’t have any lasting power and would fade after a few minutes. Until Melech figured out the spell had broken, he would, Korvak hoped, do his best to dig up the information Korvak needed. Korvak knew the same tactic had worked on Melech before. The thief’s master, Torston, had beaten Melech until he knew his place. So Korvak was confident Melech would serve him, for a while at least. Or so Korvak hoped. Melech could not serve two masters, and just as soon as Torston wised up to what Melech was doing, it would be all over for the thief.

Korvak entered the wide thoroughfare ringing Iron Square. Offices and warehouses formed a block of buildings in the center. Wagons drawn by kanks, common giant insects similar to ants, carried goods in and out of the busy place. The people were a mixture, the typical assortment of humans with a smattering of elves, dwarves, and half-giants looming over them all. As Korvak rounded the block, he saw the house sigils displayed over the doors—Vordon’s iron diamond, Wavir’s silver crodlu, Shom’s white dragonflies, and the yellow eyes of Tsalaxa, every merchant house had offices and warehouses there.

Korvak loathed the merchants. They abided by no laws but their own. They bowed and scraped like the rest before the kings, yet they followed their own customs, acknowledged their laws alone. They were a people apart, loyal to their own and unpredictable when dealing with others.

Patriotism did not drive Korvak to expose Thaxos Vordon. Korvak, more than anyone, knew the price of nationalism. His own loyalties cost him status, power, and influence. No. Korvak wanted to expose Vordon because the old merchant didn’t play by any rules, not even those set down by the merchants themselves.

After a quarter hour spent leaning against a wall and watching traffic flowing in and out from the Vordon Emporium, Korvak determined he would learn nothing there. Commerce cared nothing for kings and their struggles. Korvak expected they would conduct business even as Urik’s soldiers marched through the streets, slaughtering civilians on their way to siege the Golden Tower and raze it to the ground. Korvak pushed off from the wall and headed for a narrow street off Iron Square.

There the cobbled road gave way to an old, dry riverbed. No one in Tyr remembered when water flowed there, and few people used the path. It hadn’t been long since nobles filled the corridor to bid on slaves from the auctioneers who displayed their goods from the high bridge spanning the gulch. As he rounded the corner, the bridge came into view, and Korvak could see the brightly dressed nobles with their attendant servants coming and going, some laden with packages and others with coins. The Elven Market, which wasn’t far from the bridge, was the place to acquire goods of dubious and rare origin. Korvak preferred to keep away from the market. Thieves abounded there. There were times, however, when even he needed to navigate its perilous pathways.

He walked up and out from the gulch and into the decaying Warrens. There one would find true human misery. All around, buildings sagged and crumbled. Korvak ignored the dirty and hungry faces staring at him from squalid, decaying hovels.

Few templars dared enter the Warrens, for the people there were desperate enough to kill even the king’s servants. Korvak hoped the scum would try it. He needed an excuse to loose his magic, to burn his enemies with lightning and fire. And he was disappointed when none dared.

Korvak’s rounds patrolling the city took him into the Warrens every day. Astini, Korvak was certain, thought someone would knife him at some point and, thus, remove the troublesome templar from service. Korvak, however, was one of the rare templars to still hold the magic granted by the late king and, thus, had nothing to fear from thugs or gangs. He did, however, fear the people he sought, the Veiled Alliance.

Korvak turned down a narrow alley. He searched the clay bricks for the telltale signs the Alliance sometimes used to communicate with its members. The few people who knew about them thought they might come out into the open after Kalak died. Some had. Most hadn’t. Korvak had been hunting their kind for most of his career and had himself led a few raids into their safe houses to root them out.

He had been fighting the Veiled Alliance for almost his entire career. They were a society of magic-users; however, they rejected the defilers’ methods and opposed anyone who supported those dark wizards. Most Veiled Alliance members were what some called preservers. They fueled their arcane magic with life energy, but they never took too much, never drained their environments to the extent Korvak and his colleagues did, and instead supplemented the energy with energy from within. Preserving techniques were inferior to defiling in terms of raw power, yet they left the world intact, something no defiler ever did.

Different views on magic’s use combined with their subversive efforts to undermine the sorcerer-king’s authority had made the Veiled Alliance one of King Kalak’s direst foes, and thus it fell to the templars to destroy them, root and branch. The Veiled Alliance never proved an easy foe, however. Secretive and cunning, they stayed hidden, moving from safe house to safe house, keeping their identities veiled so they could work from the shadows to topple the greatest defiler in Tyr: King Kalak.

Although Korvak had killed many Veiled Alliance members throughout his career, he sympathized with their efforts and their methods. He was not blind to the cost his spells exacted from the environment, and the devastation wrought from even a minor spell left him wondering if the power gained was worth the price to the world. After all, was it not the sorcerer-kings who reduced the landscape to its present desolate state?

His responsibility and expectations were clear, though, and he did his duty to his master. He did, however, find it was useful to allow the Alliance to keep a few hideouts. Korvak never knew when Kalak would demand a few preserver heads or if the Alliance would one day prove useful to him. Korvak had found several locations, yet he never exposed them to his masters.

The place he sought was a network of tunnels under Kalla-Kouro. He learned about the hideout two years earlier, and there was nothing to suggest they had abandoned it. The site was fascinating but one a passerby would miss. Locals knew the place to be haunted, sick with ghosts, and if the haunts didn’t get you, a falling rock or the noisome vapors rising through the floors would. Kalla-Kouro was once a bathhouse, in a time when water was more plentiful, a place of dubious report where secret deals between the nobles occurred. When the local wells dried up, the neighborhood died along with all the luxuries the nobles enjoyed.

As Korvak drew nearer to the old bathhouse, he noticed the buildings beginning to change. In the decaying architecture, Korvak could still see signs of wealth and power. One rubble pile was indistinguishable from any other rubble pile, and the bones of palaces mingled with those of huts, yet here and there an old statue would stand in the ruins of an old noble’s townhouse or a cracked fountain remained in a community square.

Kalla-Kouro had not changed since he saw it last. Korvak slowed as he approached and ducked behind a crumbling wall across the street from the bathhouse to watch for movement. He saw no one.

The building was not much to look at. Only a few outer walls still stood, revealing a shattered interior, a rubble-strewn maze. Somewhere in the ruins, Korvak would find the Alliance. He just had to look.

He waited ten minutes. No one entered. No one came out. When he could stand it no more, he stood up and walked into the ruined building. His first step inside summoned a green, ghostly form. It resembled an elf woman. Something had torn out her throat. She moaned and pawed at him, but her touch proved harmless. Korvak ignored the apparition and took another step. A foul, yellowish cloud rose up from the broken tiles. He held his breath and moved deeper inside. More hauntings, rattling noises, and other deterrents revealed themselves. None were more than an annoyance, all tricks and traps designed to keep locals from exploring too far. Korvak’s patience trickled away.

“I thought you were wizards,” he shouted. “This”—he gestured to the freakish displays—“any prestidigitator could do.”

Rocks tumbled from behind him. He turned toward the noise. “Final—”

A thunderous wave blew him backward through a wall. Bricks tumbled down on top of him.

He was surprised. His head spun. When the world stopped spinning, he pushed aside the rubble to sit up. He was bleeding. He felt a sharp pain. He had broken a rib, maybe more.

“Templar scum,” said a female voice echoing around him.

Korvak looked up just in time to see a fiery ball streak toward him. He threw up his arms and fell back. Fire rushed over him, scorching his robes and singeing his hair.

Disembodied laughter filled the air.

Korvak felt his anger building. “Impudent bitch.”

He stayed low to the ground and drew his rod free from his robes. He peered through the tendrils of rising smoke.

“Come out, come out, little man,” she called. “I didn’t kill you yet, did I?”

He waited. The spell he held was burning his tongue.

The smoke cleared and he saw her, beautiful with long brown hair and fey features. She appeared to be a gifted witch, a powerful mover in the mage circles. She also hated templars, it was clear. She wouldn’t listen to what he had to say. He expected he would have to kill her.

The witch searched the ruins for Korvak, calling for him to come out. When she looked away from where Korvak had been hiding, he stood, raised the rod, and spoke the incantation. An emerald ray shot through the haze and slammed into her arm, spinning her from the impact.

Korvak whispered Kalak’s name and grinned when eldritch shadows emerged from the ground to claw at her body. Her groans and cries almost made up for his own injuries.

“I hope I didn’t kill you yet,” he mocked as black ashes swirled in the air around him. The curse he laid upon her twisted her features into something monstrous. He had destroyed a lot of life with his spells so far and wasn’t sure there was enough left there to keep fighting her. He kept his implement raised for another spell as he cast out his senses to find additional energy to power his next spell.

He regretted not casting another spell.

She recovered from his attack and threw multicolored sand into the air. The dim sunlight struck the granules, and they exploded into color. All sense fled Korvak’s mind. He loosed a crackling lance of eldritch energy. Unable to see her, he flung the spell and missed her, blowing a hole through a phantom ghost still moaning yards away.

When he shook his head clear, she was gone again. He coughed. His head felt as though it would split apart. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

More laughter. “I think you’re the one who’s getting hurt.” From behind a wall, a black ray lanced out and would have hit Korvak had he not ducked in time. The wall behind him where the beam struck crumbled to dust.

He responded by launching an arcane pulse at the woman who had stepped into his sights to fire her last spell. His silvery ray struck and encircled her with scintillating bands. As they tightened, they lifted her into the air.

She struggled for a moment but stopped after she turned green and retched.

“Now. Stop,” he said. He was breathing hard. He sank to his knees.

He let the spell go a moment later. She dropped to the ground, though she was as injured as he.

“Are you going to stop?” he asked. “I … I can explain … why I’m here.”

She shuddered and took a step forward. A flame burned at the end of her staff.

“I’m serious. I have no quarrel with you, but if you test me any further, I’ll kill you if you force me.”

She hesitated. The fire burned.

“I want to talk with Matthias.”

“No chance,” she said. Her voice’s hoarseness told him she was as drained as he was.

Korvak closed his eyes, opening the pathways in his mind. He did not often resort to the Way, the path to psionic power, but he did know a few tricks. He imagined himself as a sphere made from green fire and hurled that thought construct at her mind. She was unprepared. Her whimper told him she was his.

He opened his eyes in time to see a bead of blood drip from her nose and spatter on the rocks. She fell to the ground. Her staff guttered out, falling from her nerveless fingers.

Korvak stumbled over to her and kicked her staff away.

“Matthias?” he repeated. Matthias was the purported leader of the Veiled Alliance in Tyr. He avoided attention by keeping to the shadows. Few had seen him; fewer even believed he existed. More than one templar believed he was a phantom the Alliance invented to keep the templars chasing after nothing and to protect the organization’s true leaders.

She answered in a monotone, “He isn’t here.”

“Damn it.”

He loosened the psychic hold. She curled into a tight ball and panted. “You’re not half bad,” she said after a few moments.

“I think we’re far beyond compliments.”

“Indeed.”

“What are you after, templar? Besides Matthias.”

“It’s Korvak.”

“I know who you are,” she sneered.

“Help.”

Her eyes widened. She started laughing. She wiped blood from her mouth. “The great and mighty Korvak needs help?”

Korvak raised his rod.

She flinched then stiffened. “You’ll get no help here.”

“Just hear me out.”

“Talk all you want,” she said.

Korvak looked around. No one else had appeared. Had another wizard appeared, he was sure he would be the one on the ground, spilling all his secrets, instead of her. Korvak knew the very best lies contained a seed of truth. “A new enemy threatens Tyr, an enemy I believe to be operating within the city. This enemy plots against Tithian and against Tyr’s new freedom.”

“And who is this enemy?” she asked.

“I suspect Thaxos Vordon,” he said.

“A merchant? What do I care for a merchant’s plotting?”

Korvak told the woman Vordon had pledged his soldiers to the Crimson Legion and explained his suspicions. He twisted the truth when he also told her he believed Vordon intended to betray Tyr and hand the city over to Urik.

She started laughing halfway through. “You and your intrigues. No. You won’t get any help from us.”

“But Thaxos could be plotting something against the king. He might betray all of us.”

“So? Tithian is no better than Kalak. And even if Urik conquered the city, King Hamanu can’t be in two places at once. He’ll just install an administrator. In fact, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if Hamanu did win. It would remove Tithian, and Urik would be weaker for dividing its attention between two cities.”

“You know Hamanu isn’t a fool. He’d just enslave the free folk and burn the city to ashes. You know what this would mean for the people.”

She said nothing.

“They’d be slaves,” he pressed. “Some might live. But have you ever seen the slaves from the obsidian mines? No? After a year, they’re so mangled, they don’t even look human anymore. What kind of life would they have pulling obsidian out from blistering tunnels until the glass walls cut them one time too many? Or maybe some horrible creature in the dark drags them off screaming?”

She looked at him, puzzled. “Of all people, you are the last I ever expected to defend a slave.”

“You’re not the only one who’s surprised,” he said. He shook his head.

“So why come to us?” she said. She levered herself into a seated position.

“The Alliance has spent years avoiding attention, listening, watching, and acting in secret. My fellows don’t believe me. They don’t see Vordon as a threat. Tithian’s seduced them and blinded them to the facts. Vordon is up to something and Tyr will be the worse for it. All I want you to do is watch. Listen. Do what you do. But share it with me.”

“I’ll be sure to march up to the Golden Tower and report. Right. Get the hell out of here, and if I see you here again, I won’t go easy on you,” she said.

Korvak bristled.

“But. Fine. If I run across anything suspicious, I will let you know. Maybe.”

Damn that woman!”

“Gone again, eh?” said Aeris.

Loren pushed aside the flap and entered the tent. “How am I supposed to protect her when she keeps disappearing?”

“Loren, relax. If she gets herself killed, it’s not your fault,” said Aeris.

Loren didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, he busied himself with his gear. He checked the straps on his armor, the edges on his new swords, anything to avoid answering his friend.

Aeris muttered.

Loren put his kit away and sat on the cot. He rubbed his face and looked over at Aeris, who had busied himself with an enormous scroll. A week had done his friend well. His color was back; his eyes were clear. The healer had done a fine job stitching up the wounds, and Loren could not remember the last time his friend complained about the cuts on his chest. He was almost back to normal. Shom’s threat clouded everything though, and Loren’s silence about it had begun to strain their friendship.

Loren whispered, “You have no idea, Aeris. No idea at all.”

“Hmm?” said Aeris, distracted.

Aeris’s health was Loren’s first excuse for his silence. Telling the mage he had forfeited their freedom to protect them both would not have helped Aeris recover. He didn’t need to know. In fact, Loren believed the less Aeris knew about their arrangement, the better. There would be nothing to forgive. Loren could keep Aeris safe. Loren suspected he may have been wrong. He should have been honest with his friend and told him their true situation. Yet he resisted. He could not guess how Aeris would react to being a playing piece in Shom’s game. He might even do something as foolish as sacrifice himself to help Loren escape. If Aeris were dead, Loren could do as he pleased, provided, of course, he could fight his way through Temmnya’s other guards and survive the desert without food, water, or adequate protection.

Instead of the truth, Loren had stumbled through a lie, explaining they had to leave Nibenay and Loren had hired them both onto a House Shom caravan bound for Silver Spring Oasis.

The cot creaked under Loren’s weight.

Aeris dropped the scroll. Loren could see it was a map before it curled in on itself.

“Loren,” he said. “Really, it’s fine. You can’t tame the wind. Why would you try to tame her?”

Loren met Aeris’s eyes. He wanted to tell him, had to tell him. He sighed and cracked his knuckles. Desperate for a drink, he left the cot for the ewer on the table. He filled his cup with wine and said, “So what’s ahead?”

Loren saw his friend wince. Maybe he was still injured. Aeris recovered the map and hobbled over to the table, where he spread it flat, using small stones to hold down the corners.

“I think we’re here,” he said. He pointed at a large brown swath, somewhere west of a small mountain range with a green band underneath.

“These are the Windbreak Mountains,” he said, gesturing to the mountains. “Provided we keep them at our backs, we should reach Silver Spring in a few days.” He pointed out a spot of blue on the opposite side of the smear. “But this isn’t going to be easy with two hundred mouths to feed and water,” Aeris added. “We should be traveling by night.”

The days since his meeting with Giovvo Shom had sped by so fast, Loren saw everything as a blur. He recalled rounding up Aeris before returning to the Shom compound. When he had returned the next day, he found Temmnya Shom and some two hundred soldiers assembled in the courtyard. They set out for the desert. Where they were headed and what they were supposed to do, Loren had not yet been able to sort out.

Loren and Aeris stared at the map for a few minutes. Loren drained his cup and refilled it.

“All right, Loren. Cut the shit. What are we doing here?”

“I already told you; I signed us up with House Shom. We’re muscle. Protection. Nothing more,” Loren said.

“Protection. Fine.” Aeris smirked. “I understand. But what are we protecting her from? What can we do that those soldiers can’t?” Aeris poured himself a few fingers of wine and downed the contents in a swallow.

Loren shrugged.

“This is stupid, Loren. Utterly stupid. I can’t believe you signed us up for guard duty when we were free. We should have just walked away from Nibenay and never looked back.”

“Don’t you think I feel the same?” Loren snapped. “We didn’t have two ceramic bits between us. How do you think I paid that sawbones to stitch you up? Shom gave us the money to survive.”

“This smells bad. Real bad,” said Aeris.

Loren refilled and drained the cup again. The ewer was empty. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Are you sure you can’t tell where she went?” Loren asked, hoping to drop the conversation.

“I’m serious, Loren. This won’t end well. Merchants are like nobles. They’re all in it for themselves. But fine, I can see you’re not listening. No, I can’t tell where she went. I examined the circle, but the magic’s beyond what I can do.”

Each night, Temmnya vanished. The first night she went missing, Loren tore the camp apart. He looked in every tent, under every rock, and searched the wastes with no luck. He was just about to organize the soldiers to lead a search in the nearby foothills when a soldier brought word from Aeris. Loren rushed to Temmnya’s tent. Aeris had found an intricate circle chalked onto the stony ground in the center of her tent. He said it was some kind of transportation magic, a ritual perhaps. She had left or someone had taken her. So Loren spent the night in her tent, waiting. He watched the circle, new sword resting on his knees. Sure enough, a flash of light brought her back.

She was delighted to find him there and took him to her bed as a reward. Sex did little to assuage his anger at her disappearance. She promised him she wouldn’t go again without telling him, yet in the seven days they had been traveling, she had vanished each night without a word or explanation. And when Loren tried to confront her about the risks, she stopped him with a kiss.

“Each circle bears a coded inscription corresponding with a specific destination. I’ve studied the copies I made, but as far as I can tell, she’s been heading to places in sand wastes. Random spots.”

Loren knew his limits. He knew nothing about magic and trusted Aeris to sort out the details.

“What I don’t understand is if she can travel a couple hundred miles in a single night, why the trip? Why all the soldiers? She could have done this from Nibenay,” muttered Aeris.

“I haven’t been able to sort that out either. She’s determined to do what she wants, no matter what I say,” said Loren. “But it’s our lives she’s toying with.”

Loren could see Aeris was getting upset. “Don’t worry about it,” he said to Aeris. “You should get the inscription before she returns, yeah?”

Scowling, Aeris stormed out of the tent, writing kit in hand.

Loren followed him. It was late and Ral and Guthay were high in the night sky, one green, the other gold and small. The stars shimmered in the darkness. White tents stood all around, twenty-five in neat squares around small campfires. The wind had stripped away the dirt and sand, leaving bare rock behind, rock littered with small rocks and bones, except where silt gathered in the pitted surface.

Outside their tent, Aeris made for the large red- and black-striped tent where Temmnya slept in the center of the camp. Although Loren shared a tent with his mage companion, he had spent most nights since leaving Nibenay with Temmnya. Loren, angry about her secrets and recklessness, also craved her touch, the feel of her lips pressed against his own, the smell of her hair.

Temmnya’s impracticality showed itself in the impossible contents strewn around her tent—a massive bed, two wardrobes, tables, chairs, candelabra, more cushions than Loren could count, plus other oddities and mementos brought along for some inscrutable purpose. Animals grunted in cages. Glass jars holding murky fluid lined shelves. Scrolls and implements lay strewn about, while herbs dried on strings hung from the poles overhead. The sole clear area was the teleportation circle inscribed in chalk on the rocky ground.

Aeris shook his head in disbelief, as if he were seeing the tent’s contents for the first time. He had inspected the tent every time Temmnya vanished. He moved to the circle, knelt, and examined the blocky lettering.

Loren moved to a cage holding a furry animal curled up on the wicker bars that made up the cage’s floor. Bright eyes flickered open and watched him as he fed it a bit of meat. The animal clambered to its feet and arched its back in greeting. It sniffed at Loren’s offering.

“This is different,” said Aeris.

“What’s different?” said Loren. He leaned over his friend’s shoulder. The writing was gibberish.

“She’s … I think … yes. She’s gone to Tyr,” said Aeris.

“Tyr?” What did Tyr have to do with it? What was Shom up to?

Aeris looked up at him. “I think you know something. Secrets, Loren, after all these years?”

“Aeris, I’m in the dark as much as you are.”

“You share her bed. You’re telling me you don’t know what this is all about?”

Loren clenched his fists. “She ignores my questions. We’re heading west. I know nothing more.”

“Well, west puts us toward Tyr,” said Aeris. He stood, brushing his hands on his shirt. “This doesn’t make any sense at all. Why march two hundred soldiers across the Tablelands? Why go through the expense at all when she can just rattle off a ritual and be there in a flash?”

Loren had nothing to add, though he felt dread gnawing at his innards. Aeris was right. It made no sense. Unless Temmnya intended to use the soldiers for something. But what? Two hundred would have a hard time taking on a modest slave tribe. They had no hope of besieging a city. How did Tyr fit into everything?

Aeris’s face reddened at Loren’s silence. “This isn’t an escort, Loren. This is an army. Did you get us tangled up in some merchant war?”

“Damn it, Aeris, she hasn’t told me anything. I’ve already told you, House Shom hired us to protect her. She hasn’t told me anything,” said Loren.

“Well, find out! Push her. You signed me up without asking me. You pulled me into this … whatever this is. We’re no better off than we were in the arena.”

Loren spit, “Nothing is trying to kill us. In my mind, we’re a bit better off.”

“Nothing yet,” muttered Aeris. “You’ve been holding something back since Nibenay.”

Loren could not hold it back anymore. “Fine. Fine. You want to know? I’ll tell you. We’re here because it was the only way I could save your life.”

“What does that even mean?” Aeris said, his voice rising.

“You were dying. We didn’t have any coin to pay the healer. House Shom paid. They told me I had a debt to pay and if I didn’t, they would kill you. I felt I had no choice. So here we are.”

Aeris opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head. He stormed out from the tent without another word.

“Bloody merchants,” Loren growled. He dropped himself onto the bed to wait for Temmnya.

A black-robed templar watched Melech as he threaded the crowd. He was a flat-faced man with small squinty eyes. Two muscled toughs, humans, with old scars crisscrossing their faces, stood nearby. One cracked his knuckles as Melech approached.

“Evening, gentlemen,” said Melech.

The templar nodded. The guards glared.

With the templar behind him, Melech’s thoughts turned to Korvak. Since his unfortunate encounter with the man, Melech had had little time and little luck in digging up anything the templar would find interesting. Well, anything related to House Vordon. Melech knew plenty of things Korvak would love to know, but he wasn’t about to divulge all his secrets.

Having failed to find anything in plain view meant Melech had to turn over stones he would rather leave alone. Melech had friends aplenty, contacts he could call on. He had enemies too, and his face was not always welcomed no matter how much he smiled or how fast he spoke.

The sun had set hours before, but the shops and winesinks crowding the main road through Tyr never closed. Caravan guards were always looking for ways to spend their hard-earned coin, and the businesses there specialized in parting them from their pay. In the Merchant District and Iron Square behind him, the shops were legitimate businesses. They sold supplies, weapons, armor, and the usual kits mercenaries needed for desert crossings. Farther up the street, closer to the Caravan Gate, the honest enterprises made way for less pleasant haunts. Brothels and dreaming dens, winesinks and brawling halls all came into view. The shops there catered to every vice.

Melech waved off a gap-toothed woman leaning in a door frame. She didn’t press him, since a strapping mul warrior stopped to chat and dicker about the price for a tumble in the alley.

There were people all around, humans of every size and shape, sprinkled with races ranging from the recognizable to the downright strange. Melech saw street vendors selling shiny fruit, delicacies drugged to bring the customers back again and again. Fortunetellers offered glimpses into the future, while entertainers played instruments and sang bawdy ballads on subjects able to make even Melech blush.

Through them all, Melech walked and did his best to remember which side street led to the Golden Inix, the place he would try that night. The last time Melech darkened the Golden Inix’s doorway, he had been tossed out on his back by the half-giant doorman. He hadn’t done much to warrant such treatment. He had taken a few coins plucked from oblivious patrons. The witch running the inn had sized him up at once. She had had him removed, and not at all gently, ignoring Melech’s protests the entire time. He hadn’t been back since. They knew his face, and Melech knew he wasn’t welcome there.

Yet he was headed there again, walking up the broad street called Caravan Way, against his better judgment. The Golden Inix was a rare bright spot in an area crowded with shadows. He knew it sat at the end of one of the smaller arteries branching off the main road. Finding it was part of the problem; he would have to come up with some way to convince the guard he was there as an honest customer and not to pick purses from drunks. He hoped the guard wasn’t working there anymore. And if he was, Melech hoped he had forgotten about their last meeting. Melech could think of a dozen places he could go where he wouldn’t face a beating, but none of them except the Golden Inix had Mila Risani.

She had a sharp mind and a habit of chatting up the out of towners, asking the right questions to coax forth rumors and whispers about the other city-states. Since merchants had their claws in the markets throughout the Seven Cities, she was bound to know if something was cooking with Vordon. Melech intended to charm it out of her. Then once he nailed down what Korvak wanted, Melech could be through with the templar and get back to life as normal. It would be nice to have to look over his shoulder for only the usual sorts of enemies and not have to watch out for his friends eying him too.

He recognized a few familiar shops. He saw a corner restaurant specializing in Draji cuisine—lots of rice and spices. So he was close. A darkened gap and a wooden post from which hung a sign stood a few paces ahead. On smelling roasting meat, he knew he had found it. The sign, positioned at the alley’s end, bore a golden inix—a massive lizard—and a wine bottle. He turned the corner, ducking under the sign, and made his way down the alley. A few beggars and unconscious sellswords littered the path.

The Golden Inix wasn’t much to look at. It was a long, low structure, as narrow as the road at whose end it stood. A single wooden door under a sign matching the one at the alley’s mouth marked the entrance. A familiar hulking half-giant sat on a stone outside.

Melech had never had a conversation with a half-giant that went well. They couldn’t quite nail down their personalities. One day you might find one all friendly and personable. The next, he’d be sulking and brooding. Half-giants tended to pick up the personality traits of those around them. Put one in a templar’s care, and you’re bound to get a wicked, cruel, murderous wretch. The same half-giant installed in a healing house could be as gentle and sweet as a baby.

Jaryx, the Golden Inix’s doorman, was a puzzle. He seemed just as happy sitting on his stone as he was twisting off the head of a drunken lout. He engaged each with the same cheery enthusiasm. Melech liked his head where it was, so he reminded himself to watch his mouth.

“Evening, sir,” said Melech as he made for the door.

The half-giant rose from his stone and lifted a spiked club, extending it out across the entrance.

Melech stopped.

Jaryx stooped, cocking his head to inspect Melech’s face. Jaryx’s head was twice the size of Melech’s own. It brought to mind a mountainside, all rough and craggy with a bulbous nose, thick lips, and teeth like spades. He stank of cheese.

“I know you,” he said. Jaryx seemed pleased with himself about recognizing Melech.

“Oh?” said Melech.

Jaryx scratched his chin as he nodded.

“I am afraid I don’t quite recall when and where such a meeting might have occurred,” a little formal speech might throw him off. “Say, was it at the Red Kank?”

The half-giant shook his head.

“Maybe the Arena Market, then? I am sure we met there.”

The half-giant smirked and shook his head again.

Melech sighed. “Here,” he handed over a smattering of copper coins.

The half-giant straightened but swung his prodigious club toward Melech’s face with a warning. “No stealing or I’ll crack your skull. Got it?”

Melech raised his hands in protest. “I would never!”

“Heh. Right. You lift even a bone from a plate, and we’ll see what’s in that head of yours besides lies and clever talk.”

Melech rubbed his neck. When Jaryx settled down on the stone, Melech went inside. He heard the half-giant chuckling behind him.

Melech hit the bar first. Mila leaned on the counter, talking to a Raamite merchant. The place wasn’t much to look at. A few tables and chairs occupied the main room, and a staircase rose to the upper floor, where Risani had rooms for rent. The patrons were guarded. Grizzled veterans, prim merchants, and the usual adventuring sorts all engaged in muted conversation. A few peered as Melech passed, but no gaze lingered.

Melech took a stool next to a wiry fellow with a mess of blond hair and sunburned skin. He was in a uniform, but Melech didn’t recognize the white slashes on his arms. The man gave Melech a sidelong look. He had a blue eye and a green one. He nodded. Melech returned the gesture.

Melech dropped a few bits on the counter. They were clippings from the ceramic water tokens most used as currency in Tyr.

Mila turned away from the man she was chatting up at the sound. On seeing Melech, she frowned. “You have a lot of nerve coming back here.”

Melech shrugged. “Just drinking tonight, milady. And I’ll keep my hands to myself the whole time.”

The man seated next to him inched his stool a little farther away.

She kept frowning. “What’ll it be, then?” she asked.

“Ah, hmm. Broy?”

She never stopped watching him as she poured a stone cup full of the thick liquid.

She had been pretty once. Time had done its best to erase whatever virtues youth might have given her. A few silvery threads had crept into her black tresses. A gaunt face, wrinkles around the eyes and lips. She had elf blood, though. Slightly pointed ears, upward-slanting eyes, and a slender frame gave her an exotic appearance.

Melech always felt a bit bad for the half-elves. Few ever found a place in the world, with most winding up in the worst and solitary professions. Running a place such as the Golden Inix, however, was a testimony to her determination and strength.

She placed the cup on the bar and scooped up the bits. “Anything else?”

“Maybe later,” he answered. He needed to think a bit, to figure out how to approach her about the information he sought. He also needed to soften her up a bit, help her forget their first meeting all those months before.

Mila checked on the trader, refilled his ale, and resumed her conversation with the Raamite.

Melech listened for a while, picking up what scraps he could. From the way the swarthy merchant spoke, Raam was in trouble. It was an old city, once among the mightiest of the Seven Cities, but disaster after disaster had chewed up the city’s resources until the people were rioting in the streets. The Raamite blamed Tyr’s liberation for his home city’s troubles and was certain it wouldn’t be long before Raam’s people rose up and threw down their decadent queen. Politics bored Melech. He turned to the man at his side.

“Where you from?” he ventured.

The man looked up from the bones on his plate. “Mira’s Halo, not that it’s any of your business.”

“Relax, friend, just being sociable,” said Melech. He took another swallow to choke down the broy. The stuff was foul.

The trader did the same.

Melech soaked in the conversation around him for a few minutes before trying again. “Long way off?”

The trader, suspicious, looked away from the spot on the wall he had been staring at. “A bit,” he said.

“Never been outside of Tyr, myself,” said Melech.

The trader shrugged.

“I’m guessing, by your smart uniform, you’re some sort of trader.”

Nothing.

Undeterred, Melech continued, “I don’t recognize the colors, though. Not Vordon, are you?”

A less keen eye would have missed the flinch. Melech caught it.

The trader dropped a shiny copper coin on the table and stood up.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to pry. You don’t have to go,” said Melech in a rush.

The trader left without another word.

“Driving off my customers? You are stealing from me,” said Mila, frowning again.

“Madam, I did nothing of the sort. A few questions. Promise.”

“A thief’s promise isn’t worth a pile of kank shit.”

Melech offered his best smile. He noticed the Raamite had gone too.

She refilled Melech’s cup when he laid out a few more bits. She leaned one arm on the counter and looked at him square in the face.

“I don’t often get Torston’s cronies in my place,” she said.

No point in hiding it, he thought. “I’m not here in any official capacity.”

“Melech, right?”

He nodded.

“So what are you doing here?”

“Can’t have a couple cups of your finest broy?”

“As long as you’re paying, I don’t care what you drink. I’m still curious why you chose my place after the beating Jaryx gave you last time.”

Melech propped both arms on the counter. Between them rested a silver coin.

Mila’s eyes widened. She reached for it but stopped herself. “You’re after something.”

“Correct.” He unfolded his arms, and as he did so, he slid the coin over to her.

She put her hand on it but left it there. “Before I take your … donation, ask.”

Melech thought for a second then said, “House Vordon.” She nodded.

“What do you know about them?”

“Some. Be more specific.”

He pursed his lips. “Anything strange?”

It was her turn to think. Melech noticed her slender fingers closed around the coin. “No. Not really. I heard they’re sending their soldiers away with the gladiator Rikus, the one who skewered the old king. Vordon’s soldiers marching with Tyr’s army. Strange, I suppose,” she said.

“Why so?”

“Well, Vordon used to be pretty powerful. Then they weren’t. They seem to be rebuilding now. I’ve heard they’ve been abandoning their outposts and shutting down their remote operations. I’ve also heard they aren’t hiring new guards. They’ve been cutting back on their caravans, sending out a few at a time.”

“I don’t know much about merchants,” said Melech.

“King Tithian promised to reopen the iron mines. He gave Vordon the contracts to haul the ore out of here. You’d think old Thaxos would be building up for new business and not scaling back,” she explained.

“I don’t follow.”

She gave him a flat look. “Vordon made their fortunes in iron. The reason most folk think Vordon has been so cozy with the king was to get the mines reopened and resume trade. Vordon has this now.”

“Right. So Vordon needs the soldiers he’s sending out with Tyr’s army to guard the caravans, to secure his holdings in the city and elsewhere …”

“Also,” she said, inching forward, “if he’s sending out all those soldiers, then why isn’t he hiring new ones to guard the caravans he’s still using? You know, now you’ve brought this up, it doesn’t add up, does it?”

Melech shook his head, thoughtful. “Have you come across anything else? Maybe involving their operations?”

“There’s not much. The whole city is bracing for war. Everyone is distracted. There have been a lot of new merchant houses coming into the city. Though small ones, none worth even mentioning except they’ve been bringing soldiers in with them. The fellow you drove off? He’s one of them. Part of a new house, Qual, I think.”

“He said he was from Mira’s Halo.”

“Really?” she asked, surprised.

“Yeah. Is that important?”

“Might be. I thought the Halo was a Vordon outpost.”

A new house in a Vordon fortress, a new house with an abundance of soldiers. Melech tucked the thought away for Korvak. “Say, Mila, did the Qual fellow have any company tonight? Aside from me?”

Mila grinned. “He might have but you’ll have to pay extra to find out.”

Melech groaned. He was running through his purse like a Draji meal through his stomach. He fished out another coin. Mila stopped him.

“No. Not another coin. I want something else.”

So I’ve charmed her after all, he thought. He gave her a wink.

She noticed and colored. “No, not that either.” She leaned in close and put her mouth to his ear. “I want Torston to stay away from my place. I don’t want his protection. I don’t want his attention either.”

“Have you been approached?” he asked.

“Not yet. It’s bound to happen. Soon.”

Melech nodded. She was right. Torston had eyes on any place that turned a profit. It was just a matter of time before he put the squeeze on the Golden Inix.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said.

“Not good enough,” she said.

Melech frowned and ran his hand through his damp hair. He sighed. “I’ll keep Torston out of your hair,” he said. It was a promise he didn’t know if he could keep. He would try, though.

She studied him. Melech hid his doubts well enough. She nodded after a moment and said, “Yeah. There was someone else. He sat in your seat.”

“What did he look like?”

Mila described a halfling, short hair, very clean, but with one large eye and one squinty one. The information didn’t stir up any recollections.

“Did you hear anything they said?”

She almost looked ashamed, but she said, “I heard a little. There’s some meeting going down in two nights at a place called Gebbler’s Well.”

“I know the place,” said Melech without thinking. It was an abandoned well not far from the Noble Quarters on the north side of the city. Templars shut down the well when things started crawling out of it. “Odd place for a meeting.”

Mila didn’t comment. She turned away when an attractive man dressed in dark leathers took a seat where the Raamite had been.

Melech took the hint and pushed himself off the stool. When Mila came back, he said, “Thanks, Mila. And here.” He slid another silver coin to her. “This is to forget our chat.”

“You just keep him off my back, and it’ll be like we never talked.” Nevertheless, she tucked the coin in her pocket.

The caravan stopped at a muddy oasis miles from the attack. The journey since that hellish night had been a long brutal stretch punctuated by few stops. With Talara injured, Rek had taken charge and pushed the caravan hard. He had set a grueling pace, stopping only to feed and water the mounts and keep the beasts alive long enough to reach the city. Still, many beasts and guards had died along the way. The dead littered the road behind them, a trail of rotting corpses leading all the way to the site where everything went awry.

During one brief speech, Rek explained the urgency. The attackers had been hejkins, and one defeat would not stop them from trying again. The hejkins followed them, Rek believed, tracking their movements from under the sands, waiting for the chance to attack again. Facing those horrors once was enough for Pakka, and calling forth the primal spirit to defend herself and her mistress had cost her much. As exhausted as she was, her first responsibility was to her mistress, and it was not one she was about to set aside no matter what discomforts she herself had to endure.

Pakka had stolen a few moments of sleep in the palanquin while Talara rested. She glanced over at the woman. Talara lay on cushions in the shade, where the sun couldn’t reach her through the curtains keeping out the light and sand. Pakka always marveled at Talara’s beauty. She was striking by human standards, with a rounded, womanly figure; regal features; and fiery red hair. Pakka had made her as comfortable as she could, and Talara rested in a loose shirt and soft linen breeches. Rest was not easy. Every time the mekillot bearing them took a step, the boxy shelter rocked and Talara stirred.

The hejkin had left deep cuts in Talara’s shoulder, and though Pakka had cleaned them, packed them with a poultice, and covered the injuries, the flesh around the cuts remained red and hot to the touch.

The heat didn’t help. Humans might have inherited the world, yet they were ill suited for the harsh desert. Where Pakka’s own people, dwarves, could endure hunger, thirst, and hardship, humans could never quite keep up. They were fragile and short lived, and their recklessness had made their lives harder. Blame for the world’s slow death rested on their shoulders. After all, the sorcerer-kings were human, or so most believed, and humanity made the worst defilers. Such responsibility might color how many dwarves saw humanity, and Pakka had few reasons to love humans. Talara and Rek were exceptions. Pakka had vowed to serve her, to protect her, and nothing would move her from those responsibilities, even if those vows came after Talara purchased her from a slaver’s stable.

Pakka might have been a slave, but Talara never treated her as such. The human was kind, virtuous, and fair. Never had she raised a hand to Pakka, and she never shouted, bullied, or committed any of the other crimes common to most slave owners. Compared to Pakka’s last master, Lady Vordon was a dream.

Talara stirred again. Her eyes fluttered. Pakka froze.

“Pakka,” said Talara, scratchy and faint.

Pakka poured tepid water into a clay cup and pressed it to Talara’s lips. “Drink. Slow now.”

Talara did as instructed, but after a few swallows, she pushed the cup away. “Where are we?” she asked.

Pakka frowned.

Talara sat up from the cushions, wincing. Pakka took her elbow and helped her so she could sit up. Talara took the cup again and drained it.

“Stopping worrying over me. Where are we?” she said.

Pakka bobbed her head. “I believe we are not far from the crossroads.”

“That far?” Talara asked. “I don’t remember much. Tell me what happened.”

“There will be time for tales soon enough. You should rest now.”

“I am not a babe to be coddled. Tell me,” she said. The steel in Talara’s voice was new.

“What do you remember?”

“Not much, to tell you the truth,” Talara said. She combed her fingers through her hair. “It was night when they attacked. They came up from the ground, so fast. Our guards fought. Something came for me.” She paused, remembering. “Thank you, Pakka.”

She blushed. “It was my duty. I am shamed I could not have spared you that.” She gestured to the bandages. “I would take your place if I could.”

Talara snorted, though Pakka could see gratitude and admiration in the human’s eyes. “Well, I remember nothing after the attack.”

Pakka explained what happened, downplaying her role in the conflict. With no little reluctance, she revealed Alaeda’s own efforts. “Perhaps I was wrong about her,” Pakka said.

Talara shrugged. “Why have we stopped?” she asked as she struggled to her knees to peer through the howdah’s curtains.

“Rek,” said Pakka.

Talara sat back down.

“He decided we would go on ahead rather than return to Silver Spring,” she added.

“He was right to push on. I do not trust those elves at all, even if they weren’t behind the murders.”

Pakka felt a sudden urge to speak for Alaeda. The mercenary went beyond her duty in the battle. She knew she shouldn’t trust her, not after the mess in the elf camp, but she did put herself at great risk to save Talara. Pakka would honor her.

“After what Alaeda did in the battle, I can’t believe she was the killer,” she said.

“Just because she saved my life doesn’t mean she didn’t kill those guards. She wants something from us, something that requires I, or maybe you, stay alive. Nevertheless, friend or foe, she did us, she did me, a great service. She should be rewarded. Bring her to me.”

Pakka stepped off the rope ladder, dropping from the howdah down the mekillot’s side and onto the dusty ground. She gave the massive beast a pat. It was old, like Pakka, and had served the Vordons for decades. Like her, it was perhaps making its final journey. The reptile had mottled rust-red and black plates armoring its spine, with a flanged plate extending out from the back of its skull to protect its neck. Pakka walked away and the beast turned its head toward her. It lowed in recognition. She waved and smiled at the creature in farewell.

Two guards, Rorak and Pung, sheltered under a lean- to set up against the beast’s side. They watched as her momentary happiness drained away. Their armor lay in a heap in front of them. They kept their hands on their spear hafts. Since the attack at Silver Spring, there wasn’t much trust among the Vordon retainers. Anyone could be a traitor since the traitors had not been caught. She understood their suspicion. It still rankled her.

She left the guards and their stares and marched toward the tents clustered near the oasis, not much more than a muddy puddle, where she hoped to find Rek. She crossed sun-scorched grass and the gritty sands. Rocks replaced sand, and gray mud replaced the rocks as she neared the pool. She navigated the crowded tents, not looking up. Though she wouldn’t see them, she felt eyes on her and heard whispers, gossip about Pakka’s magic.

A twinge of guilt struck Pakka when she thought about what she was about to do. Talara had sent her out to find Alaeda, yet Pakka was headed for Rek instead. Pakka felt she needed to talk to the guard captain. Unlike Talara, Pakka knew he had a head clear of fever. Pakka could not disobey Talara. The vow she spoke was more than words. It defined her. Pakka had made such promises before, and each time they consumed her, defined her existence until everything she did was to fulfill the obligations of the oath. Her people were just that way. It was how they made sense of the world and their place in it. Humans didn’t understand and never would. She tempered her unease about not finding Alaeda right away by resolving herself to the fact that talking to Rek was a necessary first step toward completing her task.

As kind as Rek had always been to Pakka, he frightened her still. He was big and battle scarred, having fought in Tyr’s arena for many years until his master sold him to Vordon. She and the warrior joined Vordon’s house on the same day, almost ten years earlier. They did not see each other often. She heard things, though. She heard he was quiet and reserved. He never mingled with other guards and preferred to keep his own company. Others thought him arrogant, and his refined speech and good manners reinforced those beliefs. He, however, had an education. He could read, a skill unthinkable for a slave. He spoke several languages, including the tongue of dwarves. He was courteous when they met and made certain to ask after her and ensure she was well. Pakka felt a twinge of guilt, but she always questioned his motives.

Anyone might have killed those guards. Could it have been Rek? Pakka doubted it. The entire caravan owed their lives to the man. Rek was a warrior, though, and no good graces could cover up the menace radiating through his cool demeanor. Pakka saw him fight the hejkin, and, while grateful for his prowess, he was like a wild animal, his axes ripping through the twisted bodies as if they were claws. Although many more dead would have been left behind from the attack had it not been for Rek, Pakka had seen enough violence in her fifty years to fear its masters.

Seeing the guard captain’s white tent drew her from her thoughts. A faint breeze stirred the flaps of the linen over a wooden frame, offering access to the interior.

“Captain?” she said, just outside the tent.

“Come,” his gruff voice answered.

It was cool inside. A battered rug covered the clay ground. A thin wooden pole supported the frame overhead, where a hole in the center let in light. A tight mesh covered the hole to keep sand from falling in and helped fight the sun’s bright light.

Rek sat on a stool before a folding table on which laid a curled map.

“How is Lady Vordon?” he asked. He did not face her. He did not offer water, as was the custom—not that a slave was worthy of water or attention.

“She rests, Captain.” Pakka kept her hands to her sides, eyes on the rug.

“She rests? That tells me nothing.” Rek turned around.

Pakka risked a glimpse.

He was no less fearsome. He wore a simple brown tunic and breeches cinched at the waist with a giant-hair rope. A short, stabbing sword hung in a leather sheath at his side. His long hair hung down his back in braids, and his murky eyes were inscrutable, almost alien.

He, too, was a slave, so she lifted her head and looked him in the eyes. “She woke today.”

“Good news, then. I thank you for bringing it.” He returned to the maps on his desk.

Pakka ignored the dismissal and held her position.

He sighed and turned back to her. “Was there something else?”

“She is not well. Her minor cuts and scrapes are healing. The worst cuts still worry me.”

“What of your magic?” he asked. “Where are your spirits?”

“They are not my spirits, and they answer my calls when they choose to. She needs rest. What help the spirits have given have almost all but been undone by the mad pace you have set for us.”

He arched his brow. “Apologies, mother. These troubles tax us all.” He stood. “You are thirsty. Allow me.”

He left his maps for a side table on which stood a ewer and cups. He poured one and brought it Pakka.

“You do me great honor,” she said. “More than I deserve.” She took the cup but sipped. His calling her “mother” chilled her. He meant it as a sign of respect for her age, but she was a mother to some, though she never knew them. The templars had used her to breed muls for their armies and laborers. And as soon as the babes were born, they were taken from her.

The dark memories melted away when Rek said, “You fear me.”

Pakka averted her eyes.

“Have I not brought you this far? Have I ever given you cause to doubt me?”

“No, Captain. You have done much for House Vordon,” she answered, her voice quiet.

His face was blank.

“I … I’m just worried for Lady Vordon.”

“You are right to, of course. I thought I explained my reason for haste. Mother, we have lost too many warriors to protect the caravan, and there are dangers to all sides. Urik’s armies are on the move, and the scouts have reported other threats besides.”

Pakka didn’t want to know what other dangers there could be, so she nodded.

“I’ve stopped us for now. She should use this time to rest,” he said.

“She won’t,” said Pakka. “She wants me to fetch Alaeda.”

“That is not a good idea,” he said.

“Lady Vordon wishes to reward Alaeda for her service,” Pakka explained.

“For her service? You did as much. No. You did more. Where is your reward?” he said.

“My reward is my service,” she said.

“She would free you. She freed me when word came from Tyr about Tithian’s decree,” he said. “I know she tried to free you.”

“More than once,” whispered Pakka.

“You don’t have to be a slave anymore.”

“I have taken an oath.”

Rek laughed. “Oaths. Yes, of course you would see it that way. Oaths can bind only when freely given. But I’m wise enough not to argue with a dwarf on the matter of vows.” His even voice suggested no slight. “Your promises won’t matter when we pass through Caravan Gate. You will be a slave no longer. There are no slaves in Tyr.”

He didn’t say anything else. They locked eyes. He turned away first and rubbed his scalp. “You will do what you want. If your ‘oath’ is more sacred than freedom, so be it.”

“Will you stay with Vordon? After we reach Tyr?” she asked.

“Yes. I am a soldier. It seems Vordon pays well. And I have few other talents aside from killing.”

Pakka straightened her tunic. The sun was already descending. It would soon be time to move on. She nodded.

“You are dutiful and I share your concerns for our lady. We’ll take it slower, at least until Talara recovers. I just hope we lost those creatures. Now go. Find Alaeda so Lady Vordon can rest.”

The soldiers were still breaking camp by the time Pakka returned to the howdah with Alaeda in tow. The soldiers, many in bandages, tore down tents and packed them onto the kanks, while others checked the mekillot and the few other surviving animals. Guards and servants scurried around while the sun slid across the sky toward the distant mountains in the west.

Pakka scrambled up the rope ladder, Alaeda at her heels, and when she reached the top, she clambered inside. Alaeda entered a moment later. Pakka noted Alaeda appeared stiff. The dwarf had not even considered Alaeda might have been injured. She had said nothing after the battle.

“Where have you been?” said Talara.

Pakka turned, startled. Talara was awake and sitting up. Dark circles ringed her eyes.

“Ah, with Captain Rek.” She watched her, feeling ashamed. “And I have brought Alaeda, as you commanded.”

“Commanded?” Talara said and fixed her attention on Alaeda.

Alaeda looked haggard but determined.

“Thank you for coming, Alaeda.”

The woman nodded and sat on the stool Pakka offered.

“I invited you here because I owe you a debt. You put your life at risk to save my own.”

Alaeda shrugged.

“I want to reward you. First, a token.” She reached over and picked up something heavy wrapped in oilcloth. She handed it to Alaeda, who pulled aside the cloth. Inside was a slim, steel dagger in a tooled leather sheath. It was an incredible gift. Iron was rare but steel was rarer. Few knew the old arts of metallurgy.

Although Alaeda already wore a steel blade on her hip, her gratitude showed. “I am honored,” she said in a quiet voice.

Pakka could see the blade had the Vordon’s diamond stamped into the pommel. It was Talara’s personal weapon.

“Second,” Talara continued, “whatever you did or did not do at Silver Spring, for whatever reason you have entered my service, for good or ill, I no longer care. From this moment forward, you have my trust. Forgive me … for doubting you.”

It was as if it cost Talara a great deal to speak the words. She sagged into her cushions. Pakka moved to her side at once, so she could not see Alaeda’s reaction. When she had made sure Talara was comfortable, Alaeda was already standing. She bowed and said, “It has been my honor to serve you, ma’am. I hope I can prove myself worthy of your trust.”

Talara nodded.

“Very well,” said Pakka. “I am sure there is something you should be doing before we set out.”

Alaeda looked at her and seemed about to say something. She caught Pakka’s warning glance. “Speedy recovery, ma’am,” was all she said, and she left the howdah, disappearing from view.

A half hour later, the howdah lurched as the mekillot struggled to its feet.

Pakka spit a curse. Her mistress must be thirsty, and Pakka was fretting over the meeting. She plucked a water skin hanging from a hook and brought it to her mistress’s side.

Talara waved it away. “How far to Tyr?”

“Rek said a few days, maybe more,” Pakka said.

Talara sighed and winced as her hand rose to her breast where the claw had torn the flesh. Talara’s hand stopped and dropped to her side. She crawled over to the window and pulled aside the curtains to take in the desert. She was sweating.

“We must hurry,” she whispered.

Pakka shook her head. “You must rest, mistress. Your wounds are severe.”

Talara let the curtain fall, and she slid back down to the cushions. Pakka felt her eyes upon her as she tidied up the area, rinsing out soiled bandages in already filthy spirits.

“Pakka.” Talara paused. “Thank you again.”

“It was my duty, lady, to protect you,” whispered Pakka.

“Few slaves would die for the masters. But I suppose I should not be surprised. You have always stood by my side, lending your wisdom whenever I need it. For this, thanks,” added Talara.

Pakka was grateful for the comment, but Talara could never understand what her vow meant and what was at stake should she fail. Talara had abandoned her melancholy.

“I don’t fear death. Know this, Pakka,” she said, her voice fierce.

“Of course, mistress, you are brave and strong. You will recover, I’m certain,” she replied, adding, “You must,” in a whisper.

“No, dearest Pakka, this would be a killing wound had you not acted. It may still be but not before I get to Tyr.”

Pakka changed the subject. “So if it was not Alaeda and her mul companion who killed the guards, who did?”

“Maybe Chief Toramund was right. Maybe it was a fight. Maybe the murderer is in our own ranks. Maybe it was someone trying to kill me? Maybe it was someone from Urik,” she laughed. “They want our iron. Tyr’s iron.”

“I have never been to Urik, mistress. Have you?” Pakka asked. She cleared away the cushions around her until she made a circle. She sat.

“Once. It is a strange place, filled with fearful people and prideful templars. One such as you would have died in Urik’s obsidian mines long ago, if you were lucky. But, no. It couldn’t be Urik. They gain nothing for killing two guards. It also violates too many laws to count.”

Pakka pulled stones from a pouch around her neck, laying each one in a circle around her. “Then who, mistress?”

“That, Pakka, is the question. Who indeed.”

“Well, it is time,” Pakka said.

Talara looked up and saw the stones around the dwarf handmaiden. Her eyes narrowed.

“You have nothing to fear. Indeed, lady, these spirits have saved your life, if you recall.”

“I recall it was Alaeda, but yes, your … spirits have helped.” Resigned, Talara lay back, eyes closed.

Pakka chanted, each syllable hard as stone and filled with secrets of dark places, of cool earth and hidden grottos. As she spoke, her voice deepened until it became a rumble. If Talara’s eyes were open, she would have seen Pakka’s flesh lose its pallor, assuming a chalky appearance, fissured with dark cracks. She would have noticed the dust leaking from her joints as she evoked the primal spirits of earth, sand, and stone, drawing them into that quiet place to lend their healing powers. As Pakka’s chanting became one low rumble, the stones arranged around her moved, an inch at first then in a jumble, tumbling across the floor in a clatter as they gathered into a swaying manikin.

The slight transformation faded when Pakka opened her eyes. The stone servant wavered before her. “Child of stone, I beg you, lend aid to my injured mistress and let the earth’s strength sustain her.”

Two cracks appeared on the small rock serving as its head to form into dark eyes, windows into an ancient world. The elemental spirit waddled over to Talara and touched her feverish skin. Through the connection, the world’s magic flowed, and after a moment, it was done and the manikin collapsed into a pile of stones once more. Pakka left them where they were as she inspected her mistress. Her pallor was improved, and the stubborn cuts and scrapes seemed to have faded a little more. But there was a long road yet to travel if Talara Vordon would be hale once more.

Temmnya Shom returned as she always did. She silenced his complaints with her mouth. By morning, Loren found himself drained, as if the fears and anger had been bled dry from their lovemaking.

After the last disappearance, she had managed to stay with the expedition for several days. Their small force drifted across the Tablelands at a crawl.

At dawn, Temmnya had new orders. Loren, Aeris, and a team of soldiers would attack a caravan coming down the road. They would fight.

After hours of planning and preparation, Loren sat on his erdlu steed, a mount similar to the crodlu but bred for war. From atop a granite slab, he looked out across the blasted terrain. His mount rumbled in complaint and flapped its vestigial wings. It shifted from leg to leg and shook its crested head. Loren held the reins firm with one hand and carried an obsidian sword in the other.

Boulders and rocks littered the landscape for as far as Loren could see. The hot wind scoured his face and arms with sand. Shielding his eyes, Loren could make out the dust left by a long wagon train about a mile up the road. As it drew nearer, Loren spotted inix-drawn wagons armored in bone and carapaces with guards marching on all sides, about twenty in all.

There were a few boulders and rocks but not enough to cover Loren’s small force as they closed in on their quarry. The guards would spot them and pick them off with arrows before they even got close. It was impossible. Clicking his tongue, he urged the erdlu from the slab toward the sixty warriors who waited for his command. The warriors all wore Shom colors—white and black with dragonflies displayed on their uniforms. Loren made every tenth man a squad leader, and the lucky bastards got to wear banners on their backs so the soldiers under their command could stay somewhat organized. Each banner had a couple of dragonflies but done up in a different color to distinguish one squad from the other.

At the bottom, Loren hopped down from the saddle and handed the reins to a waiting soldier. The warriors had impressed Loren so far. They had discipline and could handle themselves in a fight. A few looked up at his approach. The rest stared at the ground or focused on sharpening their weapons. Loren had no illusions about what they thought about him. Most warriors in front of him were better suited to command, having actual military experience. Loren could fight, but he was no leader. He guessed they accepted his commands because Temmnya wished it, because Loren was her personal guard and lover. And they were right. He knew the next hour or so would determine whether the soldiers would accept him out of fear of invoking Temmnya’s wrath or because Loren had earned their respect. Of course, Loren wanted the latter. He hated being seen as a pet.

The squad leaders were a varied lot. Pyer, a stout, muscular man with a bristly beard, cracked his knuckles. Tyba and Cressi, brown-skinned Draji, stood by, arms crossed. Rab, a blocky dwarf dressed in hard carapace armor, glared at Kutok, a brawny ex-gladiator who had gained some notoriety in the Black Pits of Urik. The two hated each other. Cormal, a ranger who claimed to know the terrain better than anyone, was the last squad leader. They would fight and they would fight well. Each knew what was coming. Every man and woman was ready to face death and poke it in the eye. House Shom may have bought their loyalty with coin, but Loren expected them to do well on the battlefield. To do otherwise was to die.

“Well?” said Pyer, impatient.

Loren nodded. “They’re out there, just as Temmnya said they would be.”

“How far?” said Rab.

“I put them at a mile,” Loren answered.

“So what’s the plan, Captain?” asked Pyer.

Loren grunted at the title. A week before, the warriors wouldn’t have spared him a glance. Loren suspected his “promotion” came in response to his questions into her disappearance. She might have meant the position as an apology, though Loren was almost certain she did it to get him out of her hair.

“We hit them in the face. As hard as we can.”

Rab grunted, “You’d have to have a long arm to hit an enemy a mile away.”

“That’s it? We go out and attack. What kind of plan is that?” asked Pyer, incredulous. “Surely they’ll see us. When they see us, they’ll have all the time they need to circle those wagons of theirs and pepper us with bolts. This is suicide.”

“As you say,” Loren said, his voice low, “it would be suicide, but we have Aeris.”

The lanky half-elf looked up at his name. “What?” He sat on a rock, frowning. He had been studying a vellum scroll since before dawn.

“I was just explaining how we’re going to attack the caravan. You want to add something?” Loren asked.

“No. I don’t, Loren. I’ve barely had a chance to study this ritual. If we’re lucky, and I mean if, the enemy won’t see you coming until you’re right on them.”

Pyer stepped up. “And if we’re not, what then?”

“You won’t be around to worry about it. Dragon’s stones, Loren, I thought these were soldiers,” Aeris muttered.

Kutok growled. The Draji women drew katars. Loren did not know much about the eastern city-state of Draj, except they believed their king was in fact a god, the son of the two moons. They were a long way from home.

Loren raised his hands. “Settle down. I trust Aeris. The ritual will work.” He looked around at the others. “Get the men ready. We march in five. And when we move, no one drifts more than a few paces apart. We have to stay together for the magic to work,” said Loren. Aeris had made that part very clear and warned the ritual would work only if they all stayed together.

As the squad leaders broke apart and relayed the orders to the other soldiers, Loren looked to his friend. “This will work, right?”

Aeris shrugged. “Hells, Loren, who knows? I just got the scroll a few hours ago. I’ve read through it once.”

Loren gripped his friend’s shoulder. “It’s going to work because you’ll make it work.”

Aeris shrugged off the hand. “We’ve been through this, I know, but I’m going to say it one more time. Maybe it will sink in to your thick skull. Forget the bitch. Let’s get the hell out of here. You said we were to protect her, not slaughter caravans.”

“I know. And you’re right. But we don’t want her for an enemy. She’s a witch. We run now, she’ll find us. And then we’re dead,” said Loren.

“Ah hells, Loren. Forget it. Just give me a few more minutes to get these components ready. Keep those bastards close together. Got it?”

“Right.” Loren stalked off. He knew Aeris was right. They should run. He felt like he was standing on silt and no amount of flailing would keep him from drowning in the dust. Loren could not understand the power Temmnya held over him. Every time he wanted to say no, he heard himself saying yes. He was no soldier. He was also no bandit. What was he doing there in who knows where? Loren cursed her, Giovvo Shom, and fate itself as he walked among the mustering soldiers.

He felt their eyes on him. He smelled their fear. Too much rested on Aeris’s magic. One misstep, and they’d all be dead. He looked off to the south, straining to see anything of the encampment where the rest of the force waited. The boulders hid them. They were alone.

A soldier with a mop of bright orange hair on his head brought Loren’s erdlu forward. “Let’s go, people!” he shouted and swung himself into the saddle. He drew his sword and turned the beast to the rise over which the force would run as they closed in on the enemy.

Aeris scrambled on top of the large rock, cursing as he did. Five squads gathered into ranks. Everyone had a weapon drawn. Spears, swords, axes, and more exotic weapons, the sorts of things one might find in the arena such as the cahulaks, a four-bladed nightmare at the end of a long rope used to pull down enemies, and the trikal, a polearm fitted with three blades at the end. They weren’t ordinary mercenaries. Many had fought in the arena. Giovvo Shom must see the fighting pits as some sort of bazaar as much as he shopped there for soldiers. While they might not know much about military formations, and neither did Loren, they knew how to kill and were not afraid to die.

Aeris shouted to the men, “Get closer, damn you.”

The guards grumbled and muttered but obeyed. Their shoulders touched.

The half-elf held the scroll high, and herbs, powders, and crystals lay on the ground before him. Aeris then withdrew a small obsidian shard and clenched it. Loren had never seen it before and wondered where Aeris had come across it. The half-elf read the words aloud, each syllable strange, somehow twisting and unsettling. Loren saw the letters on the scroll burn. Smoke rose from the parchment until it caught fire. The shard pulsed, a throbbing knot of darkness in the half-elf’s hand. Loren felt a cold chill settle in his guts and saw the other soldiers felt the same. The magic claimed its price from the warriors, draining away seconds of life to fuel the incantation. As the last ashes from the burned scroll drifted in the wind, Aeris wavered and fell to his knees. “It’s done,” he said. “Go! Before the magic unravels!”

Loren kicked his mount and sprang forward. They raced across the shattered landscape at a trot, yet for all their armor and weapons, they made no sound. The caravan ahead showed no sign of slowing nor did the searching guards notice the approaching force. Loren paced his beast so he wouldn’t outrun the foot soldiers following, and he leaned low to his erdlu’s long neck, holding his sword out and away from his body. The closer they got, the more Loren could see. It wasn’t just inixes pulling the wagons. There were also kanks, crodlus, and a few things Loren didn’t recognize. The caravan had expected a fight. Chitin plates reinforced the wagons, and archers sat on the roofs, crossbows loaded and ready.

Two hundred paces away.

A seething, dark sphere trailing smoke and flame screamed overhead, coming from behind, and smashed into the lead wagon. It exploded. Men, beasts, and debris flew in all directions. The second wagon crashed into the first. The rest veered off the path. Warriors spilled out from them as merchants hunkered down in panic.

Aeris’s spell faded when they were still a hundred feet or more away. Panic spread through the caravan. Crossbow bolts started flying toward them. They didn’t get as close as Loren would have liked, but they were close enough to close the gap without taking too many casualties. Loren roared and kicked his heels into the beast. The erdlu ran faster.

Black smoke rose from the lead wagon, fouling the air. The soldiers under Loren’s command shouted their own battle cries as they joined the charge.

A terrified young man was the first in Loren’s path. Loren sawed on his mount’s reins, turning the beast so Loren could strike. His mount stumbled forward, screaming, and threw Loren from the saddle. He rolled across the ground and saw his mount had sprouted a feathered bolt from its eye. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the scrapes, and brought his blade up in time to deflect his enemy’s spear. The caravan guard hesitated. Loren pushed forward. He slashed again, pushing the foe back. The guard stabbed his spear at him, but Loren knocked it aside and brought the blade back around to take the man’s head off at the neck. Blood fountained as the body crumpled.

Another guard rushed out from the smoke. Loren caught him on his sword and tore the blade free in a savage arc. Hot blood and torn entrails spilled to the ground. Loren moved on, his sword rising and falling, severing heads, arms, and legs as he carved a bloody path through the foe. He roared with rage. Gore made his hands slick, yet he held on.

The sun burned the sky. The smoke mingled with the stench of the dead. Screams and shouts, pleas for mercy, and the sounds of butchery echoed all around.

As Loren fought, he saw bolts flying from the wagons. Rab caught one in the chest. One of the Draji twins fell when the heavy stone bolt punched through her neck. His soldiers fell all around him. He had to take out the archers at once.

Eight men worked hard to reload their weapons from behind the cover from a tipped-over wagon. They cranked back the bowstrings to reload. Loren sprang toward them. Two looked up, saw him, and dropped their weapons in panic. They ran, disappearing into the boulder field before Loren could cut them down. The rest died. Their blood fed Loren’s thirsty blade.

The battle lasted a mere ten minutes. To those fighting, though, it felt like days.

Loren, chest heaving, heart pounding, stopped. There was no one left to kill. Strings of blood fell from his sword. Exhaustion settled over him. He dropped to the ground. A score of cuts and scrapes across his body bled. It was over.

The carrion birds descended from the skies to take part in the feast.

Sweat cut tracks in the gore painting his body. His force had won, he supposed. He could not guess at the casualties. He felt as though he should stand, take charge, and see to the survivors. He ignored his duty and sat until he could catch his breath.

The caravan was better protected than he had expected or had been warned. The guards fought like demons. Why? A few bolts of cloth? Maybe some food? They had to die, not out of any grudge Loren had for them, but because it was what his mistress demanded and he, as he was discovering, was her servant.

After a few minutes, the light-headedness passed. He regained his feet and wandered through the carnage.

Many of the beasts were dead or dying. An inix lay on its side, thrashing. Several kanks were dead too, foul flesh already putrid and weeping through cracks in their carapaces. Aeris, he guessed, had lent them support late in the battle. Throughout the fight Loren had spotted arcs of violet lightning crashing down from the cloudless sky. Loren hadn’t expected such power. Aeris had never used battle magic to such an extent before. If it hadn’t been him, though, then whom? They would have to talk.

As Loren walked, he could see lightning and fireballs had created as many corpses of his men as had the enemy fire. Loren wondered why Aeris or whoever else was behind the magical support could not have been more precise, yet he feared there might be some other reason, some price exacted for the magic used to get them close.

His soldiers were gathering. He joined them. A quick head count put their numbers at a dozen. Kutok stumbled out from the smoke. Thirteen, then. No one else was alive or healthy enough to regroup.

He pointed at two men sporting minor wounds. “You and you, check the bodies. Give mercy to the enemies. Bring ours, if they live, back here. The rest of you, gather the wagons and salvage what you can from the rest.” They did as Loren commanded.

He knew they were tired and hurting, and he wasn’t about to let them do all the work. He pitched in and noticed several nodded with respect. It took an hour to get the wagons ready. They had to round up the few escaped beasts and haul out the heavy crates from wreckage to the few intact wagons. Loren found the crates held the expected foodstuffs, textiles, and common traders’ fare. What he didn’t expect to find were a half dozen crates filled with rusting iron. One place in all the lands produced iron in such quantities: Tyr. Each crate bore a black diamond on the side. Loren didn’t know its significance. There was a fortune in iron, though.

Of the eight wagons they had attacked, they saved four. They didn’t have the beasts to pull the fifth wagon, so they left it behind as it contained trade goods not worth hauling back. They loaded their dead and injured among the stolen crates and supplies and made the grueling trek back to where Aeris waited.

The mage sat on a flat stone. The ground was black with ashes all around him. The soldiers handling the kanks that were pulling the vehicle tapped the lead with a reed to call them to a halt. Aeris got up and trotted over to the wagon. He climbed up to take the seat next to Loren.

Loren noted Aeris looked drained. Bruises darkened his eyes. He slouched. Weary, he said, “I’m glad to see you lived. With all those explosions, I had my doubts.”

Loren grunted. “Your aim stinks.”

“Hey, it wasn’t me. You think I could throw a spell across a mile?” Aeris replied, his voice haggard. Loren noticed Aeris wasn’t looking at him.

“Aeris, I appreciate the help, but by the Dragon, your spells took out as many of us as they did the enemy.”

The driver, who sported no few burns himself, glared. The mage didn’t catch it. “I mean it, Loren. It wasn’t me. The ritual wiped me out. You were far outside my range anyway.”

“If it wasn’t you, who was it?” Loren asked.

“I don’t know,” Aeris grumbled. “But I saw someone out there. Someone behind you. Right before the explosions, I could just make out a burst of blackness. Hell, if you turn around and look, you can see the dead spots where the spells were cast.”

“So?” said Loren.

“The dead spots mean wizardry. I’ve told you before. Magic requires life energy. Some wizards find ways to draw life without killing. Most don’t. We had a defiler on our side.”

Loren didn’t bother to look, but he said, “So you saw the bursts, but you didn’t see anyone in them?”

“If I did, I would tell you. Whoever it was shifted the battle to our favor.”

“I suppose so,” said Loren.

He left Aeris sitting on the rock and realized he did not believe his friend. He had never doubted Aeris before, never had reason to. But Loren was sure the half-elf was lying. Aeris could have followed them. The smoke was everywhere. No one would have seen him. And those black spots he had mentioned. There was one all around where Aeris had been sitting. Did the half-elf take him for a fool?

Even if Aeris hadn’t been at their backs, hurling magic, he himself had defiled. One person other than Aeris possessed such ability: Temmnya. And she must be a defiler as well. Loren didn’t know much about magic, but he knew deep down defiling sounded evil, more evil than anything Loren had ever faced or encountered before.

Night in Tyr was not much warmer than a night spent in the desert, a fact driven home to Melech as he crouched on a rooftop, each exhale pluming. He had spent many nights on Tyr’s streets enough to know that he didn’t like them. It was too cold. It was also dangerous in the Warrens, where no one cared if you screamed and where corpses turned up in the alleys far too often to make an evening stroll anything but hair raising. He used to take a lot of heat from his colleagues about his reluctance to take on night missions when he was still just a common pickpocket. If he were going to steal, he’d rather just do it in broad daylight; it took skill and finesse, and it was also warmer.

The whole business with serving two masters was losing its novelty. Melech spent his days visiting shops and taverns, where he convinced impoverished folk to part with their last bits, and his nights haunting any place where traders might congregate in the hopes he might pick up something, anything useful. He knew Korvak was getting impatient. The Crimson Legion, as Tyr’s army had taken to calling itself, was making the final preparations to march to war, and the warriors had taken over the Arena Market for drills and training. Melech hadn’t heard much good about their efforts so far. Rikus was a marginal leader at best. Oh, he was astonishing in the arena—Melech had seen him fight—but he knew nothing about leading men. So while an ill-prepared army made ready to march, it seemed Thaxos Vordon was drawing ever closer to hatching his own sinister plot.

The intelligence Melech had picked up was spotty at best. His hottest lead came from Mila at the Golden Inix. In the days since their conversation, Melech had done everything he could think of to avoid coming to the meeting Mila had told him about. He even shirked his responsibilities to Torston. He had made a halfhearted effort to collect by day so he could chase down rumors and ply contacts with coin to learn anything he could so he would not have to be shivering on a rooftop at such an obscene hour.

But there he was all the same, shivering on the rooftop of an abandoned building overlooking Gebbler’s Well in a rotting corner of the Old City. The moons crawled across a sky strewn with stars. Aside from a few moths flitting in the dark, there had been no movement, no activity, nothing at all to signal some importance to the task the templar had set for him.

Melech was not about to give up. Since talking with Mila, he had pieced together a little more about what was to happen during the night. Representatives from a half dozen or so minor houses were meeting with someone called the Architect. No questioning or bribes revealed the Architect’s identity or the meeting’s purpose. Melech didn’t press the issue with his contacts. Too many questions would have invited attention, attention that could get him killed. He was already dodging questions from his friends. Kep, in particular, had become suspicious. If the halfling found out, Torston would too, and Melech stood a better chance surviving a fall from the Golden Tower than he would facing Torston’s wrath when the old man found out his best collector was also working for a templar. The sooner he gave Korvak what he wanted, the sooner life would get back to normal. Or so Melech hoped.

A sound echoed up from the square below. Melech crept up to peer over the roof’s edge. Blowing sand chewed away the whitewash covering the bricks marking the rooftop’s edge. Age had made them soft and crumbly. They would not bear his weight, but they could keep him out of sight provided he stayed low.

Over the crumbling wall, Melech saw the whole courtyard lit up below from torches held by armored toughs representing a wide range of races. The lights threw sinister shadows against the walls of the other abandoned buildings that bounded the small clearing. As Melech watched, other people came into the square from the narrow streets, each accompanied by more guards. They didn’t mingle. Instead, they clustered in small groups. Even though Melech was several stories up, he could tell from their postures that they were wary and maybe a little suspicious.

The guards were the usual sorts, mercenaries, veterans in beast hides and armed with swords, spears, clubs, and the like. Most had their hoods pulled up so Melech couldn’t see their faces. The robed merchants all wore masks fashioned to resemble animals with exaggerated features, making them seem strange, almost monstrous.

Melech marveled at the numbers. The Architect could not have chosen a better meeting site. No one had lived around Gebbler’s Well in years. Neighboring communities stole bricks and other materials from the buildings, making them too sketchy for even squatters to claim. Then there were the rumors about the well.

Locals claimed ghosts haunted the neighborhood. Kalak the Merciless killed hundreds when he conquered the city more than a thousand years past, and their spirits were said to still walk the streets on certain nights. Melech had never seen any ghosts there, but then he was smart enough not to go looking for them.

The well itself was steeped in local legend. Like most in the city, a low wall encircled the hole. Someone had put a heavy stone slab over the opening either to keep people out or to keep something in. Graffiti covered the slab, but it was not the usual gang signs. They were disturbing images, carnal acts and cruelties beyond counting. What he could see made his eyes want a good scrubbing.

The courtyard surrounding the well was modest. It might have been a plaza at one time, where locals traded rumors and goods. The square was still a crossroads. Four twisting alleys came together in a square, rubble-choked space. Other pathways spilled into the square, little more than holes in walls and gaps created by fallen buildings.

Melech withdrew from the roof’s edge and stretched out flat, facing the sky. As he watched the glittering stars, he remembered another night under the sky, many years earlier. He was a boy. His fellow slaves claimed he had a mother, but if he did, he never knew her. His parents were the whip and the whisper; his siblings were pain and betrayal. He was too small to work his master’s plantation, too weak to fight in the arena, so he wasn’t good for much. The useless slaves did not receive food, clothing, or other comforts.

He had survived because his masters assigned him to the women. He helped pick and sort the vegetables grown in the water-starved fields. He walked between the rows, searching for the vermin and squishing them with his thumb. He even patched clothing. He did anything he could to get his ration of water and his portion of the nightly meals.

He lacked talent in most things, but the one thing he was good at was avoiding attention. He knew the paths the guards walked; the overseers’ habits; where the hostile, grabby slaves slept; and the best dark corners to hunker down in for the night. He made himself visible when he had to, but he stayed out of the way, avoiding trouble and attention when he could. Melech lived on the fringes. He had no friends, but he had no enemies.

As isolated as Melech felt, he learned to make the most of his situation. He heard things. People opened up when they thought no one was around. Secrets, Melech learned, had value. Sharing or hiding a bit of information could win him a bit more porridge, an extra blanket, or a tumble with Pretty Sala. Melech was careful never to get his hands dirty, to keep his confidences, and to never betray without masking his part in it. The slaves loved him for the information he learned. The guards rewarded him for the rumors he shared from the slaves’ quarters. In time, the old overseer stopped whipping him. Food and water were abundant. Life improved.

Melech rolled over once more and gave the square another look. As he did so, he displaced some small stones. He froze when they clattered. He held his breath for a full minute then risked another look. He had been heard. A guard had been looking up at Melech’s roof. But just as Melech had raised his head, the guard turned toward a newcomer to the square.

Light slid across the courtyard from torches carried by soldiers ringing a diminutive figure approaching from one of the twisting alleys. The figure could have been a child. Melech guessed he or she was a halfling. It would not make sense otherwise. The merchants’ guards raised their torches higher. A few nervous ones drew weapons and adopted threatening postures, though their masters waved them back.

As the halfling neared, Melech could see he was as Mila described—one large eye, one small. Melech could see him smirking. He and his retinue marched into the plaza’s center. There, the halfling scrambled on top of the stone capping the well. His guards spread out to keep watch. Each dressed in a rust-red and black uniform, Vordon’s colors. Melech thought it rather brazen. But then he considered. If Vordon was willing to move in the open, it meant he was ready to put whatever wheels he had into motion. Or it meant he was up to nothing and the whole expedition was nothing more than an incredible waste of his time.

The halfling spoke. Melech strained to hear, and he watched the halfling’s lips. He couldn’t make out everything he said, but he could make out something about the time being at hand and all things approaching readiness. Several masked men nodded. The halfling then pulled out a wax tablet and stylus. He turned to each mask-wearing merchant. Melech picked out enough to suspect the halfling was directing them to different places around the city. An abandoned estate in the Noble Quarters, someplace in the Brickyards, and so on. It seemed he was putting each merchant in a different quarter of the city.

Melech suspected the locations would house something or someone, though what or who wasn’t clear until the halfling started talking about numbers. Each masked merchant said something, and the halfling recorded the answers.

Something moved in the corner of Melech’s eye. Melech looked across his roof and over at the next building. There was nothing. He turned back to the scene below him.

The halfling said, “Nine days. Look for the signal in the sky. Then you will all act as you have been instructed.”

Melech had missed something important. Maybe Korvak would be able to piece it all together. He hoped what he had witnessed would be enough.

He sensed movement again. He was certain a shadow had moved. Melech drew a long-bladed bone knife and reversed his grip. He held it close to his chest so he could lash out if anyone came too close. He knew he should leave. He wanted to be sure, though, so he waited and watched.

The square began to clear as the various groups moved away down the alleys and out of sight. One man, wearing a rat mask, stayed behind. He approached the halfling and started speaking.

Something had kicked a pebble. Melech dropped behind the covering wall and flipped over, bone knife in hand. A shadow detached itself from the far side of the roof and crept forward. Melech raised his blade. The moonlight revealed a grimy child’s face and wide, dark eyes. It was Kep.

Melech glanced over the wall, tucking his blade into its sheath, and was relieved to see the activity below covered the sound. He turned back. The halfling was at his side. “What you doing?” he said.

“What are you doing, Kep?”

“Followed you,” he said. He expected an answer.

Melech lied, “Torston sent me on an errand.”

The halfling scrunched his face and looked over the roof’s edge. He pulled back right away and spit a name like a curse, “Watari!”

“What’s that?”

“Him,” said Kep.

“Who?” said Melech, confused.

“The halfling. Down there,” said Kep.

“You know him?”

Kep nodded then said, “What does Torston want with Watari?”

Melech shrugged.

The halfling growled, “We should kill him.”

Melech’s eyes widened. “No. No, we shouldn’t. Torston … Torston wants him alive.”

He felt guilty for lying to his friend. Torston had paired them up years earlier, not long after Torston snatched Melech from the auction block after his master sold off his slaves when the farm failed. Kep taught Melech a lot about thieving, and they were as close to being friends as two rogues could ever be. In spite of their camaraderie, Melech did not trust the halfling. Kep had declared his loyalty to Torston on more than one occasion, and Melech suspected the halfling would put the crime lord’s interests first in all things. There was something in Kep’s past that bound him to Torston, something to ensure Kep would serve for as long as Torston required. Until Melech could identify the connection, he would never let the halfling get closer than arm’s length.

Melech whispered, “How do you know him?”

Kep said, “Same tribe. He’s a sh’taka.”

“Shitaka?”

“Betrayer of custom,” said Kep. “We should kill him now.”

“No. No. We’re just watching.” Melech was unsettled how it had become “we.”

Kep looked over the wall. He turned back. “We need to leave. Now.”

“Us leave? Yes, a fine idea. Too damned cold to be out anyway.”

“No, Watari is leaving. I’m following. Maybe the spirits will give me a chance to stick a knife in him.” Kep crept along the wall.

“Damn it.” Melech scrambled to his feet, staying as low as he could. He did not want Kep involved. Melech had no doubts Kep would share their outing with Torston, and that meant trouble. Kep might be small enough to stay out of view, but Melech wasn’t. Kep seemed determined to kill the halfling. Melech could not imagine they stood a chance fighting Watari’s guards. Melech could fight when he had to. He just made it a point to avoid fights whenever possible. The two of them against almost ten guards was not the way Melech planned to make his exit from the world.

“Stay down, Kep,” he hissed. If Kep heard, he showed no sign. He was off near the edge of the wall. Melech followed him. A few paces later, they stood together at the building’s edge. Watari and his escort walked down the cramped street below them.

The building across was lower and followed the road for thirty feet. The gap wasn’t far. Kep backed up and ran, leaping at the last moment to land on the far rooftop without making a sound. Melech knew there was no way he could be as quiet, so he crouched and waited until the last guard moved out of sight. Kep didn’t wait for him. He sped off. He leaped another gap and continued after the halfling.

Melech cursed. He swung his legs over the side of the wall and climbed down to the street. He dropped the last six feet and chased after the halfling, following the light coming up from below on the street.

Watari seemed to be in no hurry. The procession took their time leaving the Warrens. They took a circuitous route toward what Melech guessed was the Merchant District. Their sluggish pace allowed Melech to keep pace with little effort. It seemed his quarry would explore the whole Warrens, turning down side streets and doubling back again. They moved through a few more open squares, maneuvered around a corpse lying in the street, and picked up speed when they reached the dry gulch known as the Elven River. Through it all, Melech could see Kep on the rooftops, leaping and climbing, all the while never making any sound, almost as if he were a ghost. If Melech hadn’t worked with him before, he’d have been as oblivious about the halfling as were the guards they both followed.

Darkness blanketed everything except for the flickering lights fed by burning dung in braziers every few yards or so. The dry Elven River twisted and turned until it spilled into the Merchant District at the open area marking the border between the upscale commercial center and the slums’ rundown squalor. The buildings crowded close there, row houses and tenements, open windows dark, leather flaps stirring in the rare breeze. Laundry lines stretched between the gaps. No clothing hung from them.

Kep dropped down from the rooftops to join Melech. The pair ran. Their bare feet made little noise on the streets. They slowed when they heard voices. Kep took the lead; Melech followed, a larger shadow. They rounded a corner just as Watari and his guards entered Iron Square.

The Merchant District was Tyr’s commercial heart, where the great merchant houses kept their emporiums and their private estates. Iron Square boasted several warehouses and shop fronts and was where most houses did their business. Dune traders and caravans from all over the region congregated in that wealthy corner, storing goods brought at great expense from places as strange and distant as Raam and Nibenay or from out farther. Working its streets was risky since the merchant guards tended to deal with thieves in their own way, with a knife across the throat.

Kep half ran, half walked down the street to the corner around which Watari and his guards vanished. When Kep reached the edge, he peered around the clay brick wall. He yanked his head back and waved for Melech.

Melech crossed the street. He looked for himself and saw the guards had stopped about thirty yards away. They mingled out front of Vordon’s building. The thief wasn’t worried. The lit street spoiled the guards’ sight, and the halfling was gone.

Aside from towering double doors, there were no other entrances into the place, not even windows. Two banners hung from rods. Each was busy with a diamond pattern Melech recognized.

Just as Melech pulled back, he heard loud singing coming from down the street. Melech scrambled back as he saw a guard move to investigate.

Melech looked around for Kep and found the halfling disappearing through a dark doorway into a nearby building. Melech followed the halfling, ducking into the darkness. He didn’t wait for his eyes to adjust. He closed the door not enough for the latch to fall, but enough to fool any passersby. He waited.

The singing grew louder.

A whimper sounded behind him. Melech turned. Through the murk, he saw Kep sitting on an old man. The halfling rested his bone knife just below his prisoner’s eye. The old man was smart. He didn’t move. Melech looked at Kep. The halfling ignored him. He licked his lips.

The singing stopped. Loud voices. An argument. A shout. A thump. Quiet. Fading footfalls.

The old man moaned. Melech glared at him. He noted the tears cutting tracks down wrinkled cheeks.

A boot scuffed just outside the door. Melech looked at Kep. The halfling looked at the old man, who in turn cast wide eyes at the door, hopes for rescue clear in his features.

Melech pulled his foot away from the door as he moved into a fighting stance.

Silence.

The footfalls faded. Melech breathed and fell back against the wall. He was in a stairwell. An unlit lamp sat in a niche nearby. A rail followed the steps up to the second floor. Three doors led to what Melech guessed were apartments. The old man and Kep were still on the floor. Melech pushed off from the wall to crack the door for a look outside. A short, sharp cry turned him around. Kep pulled his knife from the man’s eye socket. He licked the blade clean.

“Kalak’s stones! You didn’t have to kill him,” hissed Melech.

“He saw us,” said Kep.

“We could have bribed him.”

“Too risky. Plus, I’m hungry.”

Kep was not reckless. Just seeing Watari had awakened something sinister in the often light hearted halfling. Melech trembled. The man didn’t need to die. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Melech had done plenty of terrible things, but he wasn’t a murderer. It was too much.

The old man had voided his bowels. The stench filled the cramped space.

“Get rid of him, Kep. Now.”

Kep didn’t move. They locked eyes. Melech saw nothing in the halfling’s gaze—no grief, no remorse, not even hate, just emptiness. When Melech looked away, Kep stood up and dragged the body behind the stairs. The killing wound hadn’t bled much. A little blood, a little shit, just a few small signs someone had died there.

Melech left the building. He did not care whether Kep followed or not. The street outside had grown quiet. Nothing stirred, not even the wind. Kep was behind him. The halfling was chewing on something. Melech moved away to resume his place at the building’s corner, and Kep followed.

A ramp led up to the open warehouse doors. Most of the guards moved inside. Two stayed outside and argued while a third dragged a body up the ramp. The guards must have killed one of the revelers. After a minute, another guard kicked dirt over a bloody spot on a street then walked up the ramp. The doors closed a moment later.

Melech sagged. “I’m a dead man.”

Thaxos Vordon considered his reflection in the polished steel mirror—a smooth, high brow and an aquiline nose, straight and proud. He had a strong jaw, hidden behind gray stubble matching the cropped hair on his head. No wrinkles. No spots. He had confronted time, and he had proved the stronger. He looked no older than his midforties, though he knew he faced a century with the forthcoming Sun Declining.

He rested his fingertips on the polished metal’s mirrored surface. There was no heat in his touch, and he left no smudge. There were prices for longevity, yet he found himself willing to meet them if it meant keeping death at bay.

He lowered the mirror to his desk. Metal was too precious to be used for such foolish vanity, but he was Thaxos Vordon, patriarch of House Vordon. Why should he deny himself the little vanities? He would be king soon. The time to put his plans into action was upon him. Tithian would abdicate. If he didn’t, he would die, just as old King Kalak did.

Thaxos wanted vengeance.

Kalak had ruined everything. His mad intent to complete the Ziggurat, an edifice to his staggering ego, proved a grotesque waste of lives and coin. To complete the Ziggurat, Kalak had seized the slaves from the nobles’ estates, had sealed the mines, and had put every able body in and around Tyr on the project. The focus brought Tyr to such a fragile state. Kalak deserved the death he received. Had not the gladiator thrown the spear, Thaxos himself might have done the deed.

In his seventy-five years ruling House Vordon, Thaxos had always placed his house’s interests first. Everything he did was to expand the family’s influence throughout the Seven Cities, to dominate trade, and to secure their place in history as the greatest merchant house the world had ever known. And King Kalak, in one mad act, managed to unravel everything.

Thaxos knew he was strong, cunning, and capable, all traits his father lacked. Thaxos never regretted having his father murdered. His death allowed Vordon to achieve its meteoric rise to power. He used a bard to do the deed. Bards were performers but were also well known for using poison. Thaxos had seduced the young minstrel with gifts and the occasional tryst in a shadowed alcove. It did not take long to convince him to do the deed. The bard, whose name Thaxos had long forgotten, had slipped into the elder Vordon’s chambers and dribbled the poison into the old man’s mouth. Thaxos inherited his family’s fortunes, their outposts and fortresses, and the riches exporting Tyr’s iron brought.

Thaxos had the bard killed, of course. He named him his father’s killer, claiming to have witnessed the young man slipping into his father’s chambers. Who would believe the word of a bard over the house’s heir? And when the bard cried out he had done the deed out of love, Thaxos had just laughed. He was already betrothed a pretty young woman, a match designed to grow Vordon’s fortunes. At Thaxos’s command, the guards hacked the young man to pieces. Not long after, evidence Thaxos had planted linked the bard to Vordon’s enemy, House Shom.

Everything Thaxos Vordon had ever done was out of duty to his house, and his singular dedication had rewarded him well, a fact reflected in his sumptuous offices. He ran his finger along the agafari wood desk commanding the room. The warlock who oversaw its manufacture claimed a fey spirit still resided in the wood, and Thaxos could sometimes see its features in the grain.

Duty. Duty ensured Thaxos wed the horrible woman. He stayed married to her for a decade until he rid himself of her with a strangling cord in their bedroom. Man or woman, sexuality was a tool, a weapon useful for bending people to his will, as useful as iron, favor, or status. He had taken many lovers over the years, but as he grew older, he found himself taking ever more desperate measures to extend his life, and those measures cost him the physical talents required for seduction. It made no difference, though. He had other arrows in his quiver.

For many years, he had been content running the most powerful and influential merchant house in all the Seven Cities. Such power meant he could bend even the sorcerer-kings to his ear. Anything he wanted was his. At his word, people lived and died. Diverting a caravan could destroy an entire village, disrupting a region for a generation.

He had been content until Kalak’s madness grew unbearable. Kalak’s Folly, as the Ziggurat had become known, honored the mad king’s thousand-year reign. However, Thaxos knew better. It served some other purpose. Why else would the king have set every concern aside?

For fifteen centuries, the Vordons had dominated trade throughout the Seven Cities, and all had come to an end, or close enough. Thaxos refused to let it happen, which was why he threw in with the rebels, why he lent them his soldiers to crush the templars, and why his soldiers worked to restore order to the city. Tithian, who himself had betrayed King Kalak in the end, had promised him the mines would be reopened if Vordon would throw his support behind his bid to claim the crown. Tithian had sworn Vordon would be strong again. They were empty promises in the end. The mines were still closed, and the last of the ore Thaxos had set aside was on caravans bound for Nibenay and elsewhere. And after the last profits came in, Vordon would be ruined.

The time for talk was over. The solution, as Thaxos saw it, was to take the throne for himself.

A soft knock brought him back.

“Come,” he said.

Derlan Watari entered. Of all the servants Thaxos employed, Watari was his favorite. He could play the part of the fool well enough, delighting his guests with his antics, but behind the jester’s facade was a mind as sharp as his own. He wore a rust-red uniform with a black diamond on his collar. His face was comical, his larger eye swiveling around in his head while the smaller, squinty eye seemed to wander.

The halfling bowed.

“Report,” he said.

“All went as planned. Each house has their orders, and they now move to the prepared locations.”

“Very good. It won’t be long now.” Thaxos rose from his seat and folded his arms behind him as he paced.

“Witnesses?”

“One,” said the halfling.

“Have you dealt with it?”

“I intend to, master. In the morning,” said the halfling.

“Who was it?”

“A thief, sir. He goes by Melech. He has been asking the questions,” he answered.

“He’s working for someone. Who?” said Thaxos.

“It is not Torston, as I had thought. Someone else is pulling Melech’s strings.”

“Find out quick. We cannot delay. Plans are already in motion. We must deal with this thief.”

“Shall I kill him?” asked the halfling, hopeful.

Thaxos had used him for such work several times, and he considered doing so again. “No. There are too many trails back to my door. Tip off Khyben Torston. Suggest this Melech has been working for the Poison Sting. That should take care of our curious friend.” The Poison Sting was a nasty group operating in Under-Tyr, the extensive cave system running from one side of the city to the other. They were Torston’s fiercest competitors for control over the city’s criminal underworld.

The halfling nodded.

“My cousin is at the Caravan Gate as we speak. I want you there when I greet her.”

Watari bowed and left.

When the door closed, Thaxos returned to the window and thought about what he would wear for his coronation.

The caravan limped into Tyr just before dawn, passing through the Caravan Gate and moving down the wide thoroughfare toward Iron Square. The gate sentries stalled their progress. They denied entry to all until dawn. Bribes changed their mind.

The last time Alaeda had come to Tyr, the sorcerer-king still sat on the throne and House Vordon had a stranglehold on the iron trade. Alaeda had come with her house leader, Hargan Stel, to negotiate with Thaxos Vordon for a better price on the iron. Thaxos proved disturbing. He had an ageless face and impeccable manners. Alaeda could sense something evil about him, something unnatural about his eyes. The negotiations hadn’t gone well, and House Stel came out the poorer. The failed effort put House Stel’s plans into motion.

As they traveled down Caravan Way, Alaeda walked alongside Phytos at the procession’s end. She had chosen the spot so they could slip away once the caravan reached road’s end. She looked down to her belt, where she saw the steel dagger Talara had given her. She felt guilty but quashed the unpleasant feeling with irritation. Each night since she gained the knife, Alaeda had spent time with Talara. She was generous and pleasant company. She had a strong sense of justice. Had Talara Vordon been across the table from Hargan Stel, Alaeda was certain there would have been a different outcome and the two houses would not be facing open war.

Vordon would not survive the coming storm. Stel was a rising power, and Vordon’s declining fortunes were no secret. Once King Hamanu conquered Tyr, Stel would gain the mines, and not even their hated rivals House Tsalaxa would be able to stand against them. As much as Alaeda looked forward to the new order, she had begun to consider what Stel’s ascent would mean for people such as Talara Vordon. They had become friends of a sort since the battle against the hejkin, and she felt a bit guilty for her duplicity. She chased off those feelings with a promise that she would make sure Talara had a place in House Stel once all the nasty business had been settled.

And then there was her slave, Pakka. The dwarf possessed incredible power, so it made no sense to Alaeda why she would consent to being a slave. Alaeda had sensed a connection between the women and knew nothing would break it.

Ahead, the mekillot roared as the handlers brought it to a halt. The caravan followed suit, and guards, servants, and workers set to work unloading the beasts and wagons. They did not delay, not even to stretch their legs. They were excited to be in Tyr. And who wouldn’t be? War might loom on the horizon, but until Urik’s armies knocked on the front gates, Tyr remained a thriving, exciting city with opportunities not found anywhere else in the Seven Cities.

Alaeda felt the new guilt rise again, but she didn’t shove it down. Urik would crush Tyr. Hamanu would make slaves of most, save those who caught his fancy. He had done it before. He wiped out entire villages when they offended him and threw the survivors into the mines, never to be seen again.

“Soon,” she whispered to Phytos, who had not left her side except when Talara invited Alaeda to talk at night.

Phytos nodded. He checked his bags and the backpack hanging from Alaeda’s shoulders so he looked busy.

Servants and workers boiled out from the Vordon emporium. New handlers led beasts to stables deeper in the Merchant District. Porters hauled off supplies. As she ran her eyes across the crowds, she spotted a familiar face, and a cold chill settled over her heart. Thaxos Vordon. At his side stood a halfling attendant, stylus and tablet in hand. Thaxos moved through the crowds, touching shoulders and lending an encouraging word wherever he went. His mere presence livened up the workers, and though they worked just as hard, the exhaustion from the difficult journey seemed to melt away.

He saw her. He nodded his head. Alaeda could not be certain if he knew her, but her face must have been familiar given his reaction. Alaeda turned away from him. She looked for a side street down which she and Phytos could flee. “Now,” she said. “Follow me.”

Instead of heading for the alley, Alaeda and Phytos moved in among the workers. They used a wagon for cover then made a sharp turn once a few porters could hide their movements. A few moments later, they were running down a street to put as much distance between themselves and the merchant prince as they could.

Pakka stood by Talara Vordon as she hugged her cousin Thaxos. There was real warmth in their embrace. There was no warmth from Thaxos Vordon’s manservant, an ugly little fellow whose large eye rolled and whose squinty eye remained fixed on Pakka. She felt uncomfortable under his stare and shifted from foot to foot.

“Cousin, it is good to be in Tyr,” said Talara.

“It is good to have you back. It has been far too long,” he replied. “You have fewer people than I expected. Was the journey difficult?”

“One attack was enough. Hejkin. The disgusting things claimed half my force.”

Thaxos nodded. “Reports from the caravans who make it back paint a grim picture about the roads these days.”

“I have much to tell you and many questions as well,” said Talara. “For one, why did you call us back?”

Thaxos raised his hands. His smile made him appear to be an indulgent grandfather. “In time, in time. Let me take you to the chambers I have had prepared for you. A real bed waits for you, as does a meal, something I hope will be better than trail rations.”

Talara sighed but nodded. She said, “I would like to extend an invitation to one of my guards. She saved my life.”

“Of course, of course,” he said. “Who?” He looked around.

Talara and Pakka did as well. Pakka guessed she was talking about Alaeda. They had grown close the past few days.

Talara smiled at Thaxos then turned to her workers. The hope on her face became disappointment when she couldn’t find her. Alaeda must have slipped away.

Thaxos placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s no matter. Your dwarf will find her and bring her at once.” He didn’t even look at her when he spoke.

“I will, mistress,” said Pakka. She curtsied and raced off to find the woman or the mul she traveled with.

She found Rek instead. He was overseeing the laborers who unloaded the beasts and wagons.

He grinned at her and left the workers to their business. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he said, “How does freedom taste, mother?”

“The same as it did the day before,” she replied. “Have you seen Alaeda?”

“No, not since we came through the gate. Why?” He scanned the workers and guards.

“Talara would like her to attend her.”

“Your mistress places far more trust in that desert rat than I would,” he said. “Honestly—”

“If you see her?” she interrupted.

“I’ll send her to you.”

Pakka walked all the way around Iron Square and did not find Alaeda or Phytos. When she rejoined Talara Vordon as she was being escorted back to her quarters, Pakka saw that the halfling who had been at Thaxos’s side was gone.

Alaeda sent Phytos to secure rooms at an inn they had passed on the way to Shadow Square and left him with a promise they’d meet by midday. Away from the caravan and Phytos’s constant presence, Alaeda felt liberated. It was as if she had left all the expectations and responsibilities somewhere back at the gate. She turned a corner, moving past a mul bargaining with a shifty elf in the shadows cast by a red tent, and stepped into Tyr’s infamous marketplace. The square hadn’t changed since her last visit to the city. The vendors had altered the colors of the tents, but the same vibrancy, the same excitement remained. She knew there was no place better than the open-air market for securing work, picking up rumors, and finding trouble. It wasn’t large, but it was crowded enough that Alaeda couldn’t see the other side. Tents and stalls created a maze of twisting pathways, each choked by peoples from all across the Seven Cities. The humans were common, but the place also boasted representatives of every race Alaeda knew and several with which she was unfamiliar.

Dwarves hawked fine stone weaponry, while elves bandied insults alongside invitations, daring potential customers to examine their wares. Everything was for sale in Shadow Square, from weapons and armor, to common materials, to uncommon and even illegal things. Folk traded with impunity, for not even the king would dare interfere with the place or its people.

The merchants’ wares caught Alaeda’s eye. She spotted an iron sword with a jewel set in the pommel, a fine cloth cloak with colors shifting to match whatever it was against, powders and potions, poisons and toxins, all tools she could use. Of course, it was not the time for shopping. She had business.

Alaeda picked her way through the press, her hand never far from the sword she carried, both for protection and to keep thieves away. Her iron blade could feed a family for life. She avoided the market’s center, where it was most crowded, and kept to the fringes, where more permanent shops stood, doors open to invite passersby into their cooler interiors. It was early still, but it was already hot.

She was supposed to find her contact at the Red Kank. She would rather have just gone home to Urik and put all the intrigue behind her. Duty came first, though, as it always did.

As she walked, she couldn’t help but notice the looming Ziggurat. A gaudy thing, it was painted a rainbow of colors moving from deep indigo near the base up through the spectrum to a pinkish color at its top. Shadow Square and the Red Kank took up one corner of the busy market, and all stood in the Ziggurat’s shadow.

Thugs, sots, addicts, and thieves milled around. Alaeda passed the last few wine shops, brothels, and gambling dens then came to the Red Kank, a two-story building with an enclosed ground floor but with an open-air and terraced upper level affording a good view of the square that gave some relief from the stuffy interior. She spotted a hard man in sweat-stained white robes leaning against the rail above. His eyes followed her as she stepped inside.

A few drunkards and prostitutes leaned around in the common room. They watched her and turned back to their muted conversations. Alaeda took a seat near the door. As she sat, she noticed the man who had watched her from outside appear at the top of a rickety staircase leading up to the balconies reaching out over the common room. He stared at her. He had a shaved head. Black stubble darkened his round face. He might have been Nibenese or maybe Draji. Alaeda fingered the sword strapped to her hip.

“Don’t mind him; he’s with me. Insurance, you see,” said a voice in her ear.

Alaeda flinched. She breathed then turned to see who had sat next to her. “Hear the lion’s roar,” she said. She was surprised to see the speaker was an elf.

“All tremble before its fury,” he replied. “Alaeda?”

She nodded. “And you? I wasn’t told your name.”

“Galadan.”

Tension reigned between House Stel and the elven tribes. Stel had oppressed the elf tribes, taking slaves from them, raiding their own caravans, and worse. It was unusual for an elf to associate with any human merchant house, but it was unheard of for an elf to be in House Stel’s employ.

Galadan was lanky, and she guessed he was near seven feet tall standing up. He brushed long blond hair from his face.

“You’re careful, aren’t you?” she said, eyes searching the elf’s face.

“And you’re pretty. You move like an elf. But you’re not one. Not even a half-blood, are you?”

“And perceptive.”

“You’re late.”

“I’d love to try to keep up the banter. But let’s get to it, yes?”

“Certainly.”

“What’s the situation? I want a full rundown on what’s going on and orders from our friends about the next step.”

The elf smiled. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know?”

“This is my operation now.”

She blanched. “I’m sure I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true. I don’t have time to waste explaining how things work to a tardy little girl.”

Alaeda fumed. She held her tongue.

“This is going to go right on schedule from here on out. I stand to gain much when this mission is done, and if you prove yourself capable, you can come along for the ride. I might even forget about how late you are.”

She said nothing, so he continued. “I want you to lie low. Stay out of sight and wait for my call. Stay out of trouble. I’ve secured a room for you at the House of Fingers in the Bard’s Quarter. Here’s the key. Stay there and do not move until I send for you.”

“What about my man, Phytos?”

“Forget about him. I have something else in mind for him.”

She nodded. “You seem to have this all sorted out, don’t you?”

He smiled. “Indeed. Do you know anything about Khyben Torston?”

“No,” she said.

“Too bad. He’s a local crime boss, and he’s with us. If I have time, I’ll arrange a meeting. You look offended. Sorry about dashing your hopes. First come, first served. I’ll let you in on something, though. Torston sold out the city. He wants to be legitimate—lands, slaves, and a title. Seems a good price for access to his network. He has eyes and ears all over this damned city. So behave. I hear about you snooping around, and your last name ain’t gonna save you from me. Got it?”

She nodded and stood up. He didn’t stand. “Stay out of trouble and wait for me to send for you.”

Korvak sighed at Melech’s discomfort. Sweat beaded the young man’s face, plastering his hair to his forehead. The cockiness and self-confidence were absent in his worried expression. The thief had stammered and stuttered, stumbling over his words and jumbling the tale so Korvak had no idea what he was talking about.

He interrupted. “Calm down, Melech, and tell me what happened. From the beginning.”

“Calm down? Oh, sure. I’m a dead man, and you want me to relax. I’m finding it a little difficult, what with the noose you put around my neck.”

“What happened?” repeated Korvak, a bit more steel in his voice.

Melech threw himself in the empty chair. His leg bounced and he chewed on his thumbnail. “Torston knows. He has to know. I’m so dead, damn it!”

“Forget about Torston for now,” said Korvak. He glanced at the curtain hanging across the door. Beyond it was Finster, who had become very useful since their first meeting. Not wishing to find himself unconscious or dead, the apothecary had not objected to their meeting at his shop. The more the old man knew, the more dangerous everything would become. The old man would talk. Korvak would have to deal with the apothecary at some point.

“Are we going to sit here all day?” Korvak snarled.

“Better than finding a knife in my damn ribs.” Melech rubbed his forehead and dropped his hands to his lap. He took a deep breath. “No. Fine. I haven’t been able to put it all together myself. It seems big. Too big. There was this meeting, see? The halfling, I think his name is Derlan Watari?”

“Yes,” said Korvak; he knew the halfling.

“Well, he called together this meeting. All these masked fellows dressed up in uniforms showed up at a courtyard where they met with this fellow. The halfling told them places to go in the city and to wait for something. Maybe a command?

“What was funny was these folks were all from minor houses. I met one fellow at the Inix. You know the place?”

Korvak nodded.

“He was from House Qual. My contacts there revealed Qual held Mira’s Halo. Mean anything to you?”

“A Vordon outpost if I’m not wrong,” said Korvak.

“Right.”

Korvak raised a hand. At least one minor house was operating from a Vordon outpost. Impossible. Vordon didn’t hand over its holdings. If the old man had handed over one, had he handed over others as well? If so, why bring them back to Tyr? The minor trading houses were connected to House Vordon. The old man’s creature had rounded them up after all and sent them hopping to obey his orders. Could it be the small houses were fronts? Maybe to hide something?

“This is bad,” said Korvak, almost forgetting Melech sat in front of him.

“You’re telling me. I feel like I’ve stuck my head in a kirre’s mouth,” said Melech. “What have you gotten me into?”

Korvak frowned. “You have the pieces, Melech. It should be clear. I suspect Thaxos Vordon has been building an army in secret and he’s brought them to Tyr.”

“What?”

Another sigh and Korvak continued. “Thaxos Vordon would never sacrifice his outposts to another house, even a minor one. Doing so would create a rival. It also shows weakness. Vordon wants to appear weak.”

“But why?”

“So no one suspects what he’s doing. I think these tiny, insignificant houses are all fronts. I don’t know for certain, but I think Vordon has been amassing soldiers in secret and hiding them in more remote holdings where their presence would not arouse suspicions. And until he was ready for them. The time, it appears, is now. All these small houses, along with Vordon’s own family members, have come back to Tyr.”

Melech scratched his head. “But didn’t Vordon just pledge his soldiers to the Crimson Legion?”

“Yes. Look at the men and women he sent. Soldiers who have spent the last year keeping the peace here. They’re not much more than constables now. They might have been unwavering in their loyalty to Vordon in the past, but now they have families, roots, homes. Sacrificing that to serve a merchant prince’s machinations is more than they signed on for. I believe Vordon has another army. He’s brought it to Tyr under all our noses.”

“Why?” said Melech.

“To steal Tyr’s throne, fool. He’s bringing these soldiers back to Tyr from his holdings outside and is positioning them around the city until he’s ready to attack. Once Tithian’s army engages Urik, it will be too late for the king to recall them. The city will be defenseless. All Vordon has to do is stroll into the Golden Tower, kill Tithian, and the city is his.” Korvak paused as another idea struck him. “He means to hand the city over to King Hamanu once Urik crushes Tyr’s army. I’m sure he believes Urik would let the old man rule in Hamanu’s name. Slavery would be legal. And Vordon already has the infrastructure he needs to mine iron and get it to Urik’s markets.”

Melech paled. “There’s no one to stop him. It’s going to happen, isn’t it?”

Korvak nodded.

“We’re in serious trouble,” said Melech, slumping in a chair. “Let me tell you, Korvak, I don’t want to be a slave again. Not at all.”

“Yes. Yes we are in trouble. There are worse things than slavery, my friend. But you have something else for me?”

Melech struggled for a moment then blurted out his encounter with Kep.

Korvak asked, “Did you kill him?”

“No! What is it with you people and killing?”

“It would have saved you a lot of grief. Can you trust him?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. Probably not. Kep’s in tight with Torston. I spun a story. Even if he bought it, I’m sure he’ll mention it to the boss. Kep’s got a thing against the Watari fellow. Hates him. I bet he just walks right up to Torston and asks permission to kill him. Torston will want to know what he’s talking about. Kep will tell him everything. Then I’m dead.”

“Settle down, Melech.”

“Settle down? Some young purse snatcher, still damp with his mother’s milk, just came up to me all smiles not an hour past. He told me Torston wants a meeting. What if he knows? Who am I kidding? He knows. I’m dead.” His leg jumped again.

“Do you want protection?” Korvak smirked.

For a full minute, Melech considered the offer. They both knew Korvak’s protection would not amount to much. In fact, such protection would confirm Torston’s suspicions, landing Melech in even worse trouble. Melech shook his head.

“We’re done. Thanks, Melech. You’ve done … the crown … a great service.”

Melech made a rude gesture and stood up. “Thanks for nothing, Korvak. Do me a favor and forget you know me.”

As Melech ducked through the curtain, Korvak leaned back in his chair. The thief was right. He would be dead before sunset. Torston was as dangerous to his servants as Kalak had been to the templars. Korvak regretted sacrificing Melech in such a way. He had been useful and quite good at his job. But Melech was also a criminal. If Torston did not kill him, a rope around his neck one day would. It was not Korvak’s fault Melech chose the life he did.

He set aside Melech and the thief’s fate to consider his more important troubles. The situation was far worse than he had believed. He knew Thaxos Vordon was ruthless, but he never expected ambitions such as those suggested by Melech’s report.

Did it matter who sat on Tyr’s throne? Would Thaxos Vordon be any worse than Tithian? Perhaps not. However, King Hamanu would be a different master. Urik’s sorcerer-king would drain Tyr, shatter its walls, and enslave its people. Hamanu did not have to do that, but the freedom in Tyr set a bad precedent for the other city-states. If rumors coming out from Raam were true, other uprisings could follow, and uprisings endangered the sorcerer-kings’ hold over the civilized lands. Things would go back to the way they were when Kalak was king but worse, far worse.

Then again, he could flee. Where would he go? What city would take him? Him, a templar to a dead king? Urik would never have him. Raam was too unstable. The Moon Priests in Draj would carve his heart from his chest before he set foot in the city. The other cities had intrigues of their own. There was nowhere to run, no haven he could claim. Even shedding his cassock would be no shield. If he pretended he was a commoner, Urik’s soldiers would kill or enslave him anyway. No. He would see the conspiracy to its end, and if there was a way to stop Vordon, he’d find it or die trying.

He could not afford to stay any longer. He had his own rounds to make. He pulled aside the curtain and gave a warning glance to the old man. The man’s cringing pleased him. Korvak walked out onto the streets. He ignored the fearful stares his robes evoked in the people he passed. Kalak may be dead and gone, but the templar’s garb still evoked some respect.

As he walked, he considered what he had learned so far. The pieces fit together for the most part, except one. Why did Thaxos Vordon commit his soldiers to the Crimson Legion? He spun out a possible reason for Melech’s benefit, yet it didn’t sit right in his mind. Even if those soldiers had grown soft, grown connected to the city, they would still follow orders if doing so would make the city more secure.

Could it be Vordon wanted to save the city, to protect it from conquest by a foreign king? Maybe. It would explain his move to lend soldiers to the legion. If Vordon wanted the throne, he would need to stall Urik long enough before they came knocking on the city’s doors. Throwing more soldiers into the enemy’s teeth was a good way to do that. At the same time, it might give the legion a chance at victory. Korvak knew there was no love lost between Rikus and Tithian. It wasn’t clear how the ex-gladiator would react if there was a new king on the throne while he was away.

Then there was the matter of Thaxos Vordon himself. He had never shown much concern for the citizens, and he wasn’t charitable. His house had also been one of the premier slave traders in the Seven Cities, so there were plenty of former slaves who owed their time of servitude to the merchant prince. Vordon would not get help from the lower classes. But if he made a show of fighting for the city and demonstrated a change of heart, even if it was just a sham, he might just be able to hold the throne long enough to secure it for good.

More than anything, sending his troops away was a way to eliminate Vordon’s enemies. Not everyone in the merchant house would support such a power grab. Vordon abided by the same merchants’ code binding all the great houses. The code forbade them from violating the laws of the city in which they resided and commanded them to accommodate the sorcerer-kings lest the tyrants withdraw their favor. The declaration implied, in a vague sense, a connection between a city’s laws and the sorcerer-king, as if the reason for not violating a city’s laws was to avoid offending its liege. Since Tyr lacked a sorcerer-king, one could posit that violating Tyr’s law would have no consequences as set out by the code. It was a muddy interpretation, and there were holes all through it, but the right bribes could cement them over enough for rivals to look the other way.

Even if Vordon killed Tithian, the merchant prince would need support from the nobles. Then Korvak remembered the murders from a few weeks back. The victims had all been nobles, all outspoken opponents of King Tithian. Korvak had thought Tithian was just removing them from his path. Had Thaxos Vordon approached the nobility first? If so, their deaths revealed much of what they thought about a merchant as king. They wouldn’t have it. The other nobles, however, thinking Tithian ordered the deaths, would back anyone who removed him. Korvak scratched his chin.

A gang of urchins scattered when Korvak turned down a side street. A mutilated corpse lay on the street, the victim of the children’s attention. Korvak kept walking.

Korvak imagined Vordon’s first move on gaining the throne. He could end the war at once by giving Urik what it wanted: iron. Urik didn’t want Tyr’s troubles. So long as the city paid in metal, even if doing so broke the city, the enemy would withdraw. Given time and strong leadership, Tyr would recover. And one day it might be stronger than it was before.

The entire affair seemed too convoluted, too tangled and risky for even one with Vordon’s ambitions. Yet the information Melech uncovered suggested otherwise. Would Vordon destroy Tyr to save his house? Korvak knew the stories. There was little the merchant would not do in order to advance his own station. In that way, he and Korvak were similar. The difference was Korvak never took pleasure from using people.

Korvak felt he had the truth. What he lacked was evidence. He needed proof he could take to King Tithian, and he needed it soon.

Korvak’s opinion about the new king had not changed, but he needed the man. Tyr needed a strong leader to help them through the difficult times ahead, and while Korvak would rather have had Kalak, even as unhinged as he was, on the throne, Tithian was what he had to work with. Perhaps if he could expose the full plot, Tithian might even reward his efforts.

Thinking about his next step, House Qual came to mind. Perhaps he should pay them a visit.

Even a minor merchant house could be dangerous. One operating a front for House Vordon would be even more dangerous. Korvak drifted through Shadow Square to recruit muscle for his expedition. Most mercenaries rebuffed him; people still hated the templars, and not even silver could change their minds. Korvak found two gith warriors, ex-gladiators by the brands on their ugly faces. He was reluctant to hire them, though they looked capable enough. Common wisdom said never trust a gith. They were a scavenging people. They built no cities, made no contributions to civilization. They survived by raid and plunder, enslaving other peoples to labor in their poisonous tunnels. The two he hired, Pokcha and Mantla, were willing and, unlike other gith Korvak had met, were spoiling for a fight.

They found House Qual’s emporium closed on the Street of Plenty, a few blocks away from Iron Square. The Qual emporium blended in with the other buildings along the street, long and low to the ground. Little ornamentation set the brick building apart from the other structures. A brown banner with a red ring in the center identified the house’s ownership. From across the street, Korvak studied the structure. He noted a stout, wooden door in the front. Short and wide windows pierced the wall near the roof. They were narrow, and not even a halfling could fit through those openings.

They waited a quarter hour. The gith grew impatient. They drew and sheathed their wooden blades. They chattered in a clicking tongue. Korvak ignored them. He watched. There was no movement, no activity at all. There should be something. It was midafternoon on a trading day. The people coming and going down the street testified to that fact.

His curiosity won against his better judgment. He walked across the street. The guards trailed him. Korvak reached the front door and tested it—locked. The guards could have smashed in the door, but Korvak had no authority to do so, and a show of magic would be too obvious. There would, however, be a loading dock in the back. It might be locked too. Korvak could work his magic without attracting too much attention.

He motioned for the gith to follow him, and they moved through the gap between the Qual warehouse and an abandoned one that once belonged to House Ianto, a minor house now extinct thanks to the closed mines.

They exited onto a wide avenue, large enough to accommodate the bigger wagons and beasts used for desert crossings. Each warehouse had loading docks with double doors. Three stone steps led up to a smaller door adjacent to the dock gate.

There wasn’t much activity at the Qual warehouse. Korvak saw a kank-drawn wagon rolling away and a knot of mul laborers dicing in the shade.

The gith drew weapons. Their beady black eyes flicked back and forth. The mercenaries carried smooth blades made from lacquered wood. They were heavy and more durable than obsidian. In the right hands, a wooden weapon could hack off a limb or a head, and based on the gith’s postures, they were capable warriors.

Korvak gestured for one of the gith to open the smaller door. The gith tugged on the handle; the door rattled but did not open. On his own, he crossed the narrow ledge and checked the double doors. They, too, were locked.

The muls thirty yards away had stopped playing and turned to watch Korvak and his warriors. He could feel their suspicion, but Korvak did not expect them to interfere.

Locking the warehouse up made no sense. Caravans still came and went from the city, even under war’s shadow.

“Move,” he told the gith.

The gray-skinned humanoid ambled out of the way.

Korvak fished out a pouch from inside his shirt for a pouch that held the reagents necessary to perform a ritual. He dipped his finger inside and used it to paint a complex diagram on the door that would allow him to bypass whatever blocked his entry, knowing full well that the evidence of his ritual would fade upon completion.

A gith grunted.

Korvak saw the five muls had begun walking toward them. Korvak liked his odds.

“You can’t go in there,” said the obvious leader, a wall of muscle and scars.

Korvak smiled. “King’s business. Go back to your game.” The gith raised their blades.

The muls were unimpressed or deaf. One cracked his knuckles. “What are you doing?” asked the leader.

“Friend, you have seconds. Go about your business. You don’t want the king’s business to involve you.”

“Screw you, templar!” said the mul, and he threw himself at Korvak, leading with his fist.

Korvak stepped aside and used his rod to touch the mul. The mul screamed. His agony gave the gith the chance they needed to attack.

Pokcha jumped forward. He slashed at the lead mul’s face. Teeth and blood showered the ground. The second gith brought his blade down as if it were an axe and folded in the mul’s head down to the chin.

The mul fell and didn’t move. His fellows seemed ready to fight, yet Korvak’s glance changed their minds. They scurried away. Korvak cast a spell to burn away the mul’s body and was surprised to discover the mul wasn’t dead yet and his own life force proved sufficient to power the spell that would end his life. Acidic gel appeared all over the dying man’s skin, burning down through flesh and bone until a foul-smelling slick remained.

Korvak ignored the horrified expressions on the gith’s faces and turned back to the diagram he had just drawn. He incanted mystic words. He drew life force from his environment, causing the ground to blacken around the door. The sigils flared with eldritch fire. After a few moments, a loud thump signaled that whatever bar was holding the door shut had dropped to the ground.

Korvak gestured for the gith to lead the way. They scrambled forward, each eager to please. Korvak knew they would serve him without question. One spell was often all it took to bring people around to his way of thinking.

Mantla entered a large open room. Korvak had expected to find at least some goods there. There were none. Bunks and cots filled the entire space, enough to house about one hundred soldiers. There was no one around. Bedding covered the feather mattresses, tables held trenchers littered with bones next to cups holding broy. Whoever had been there had left in a hurry. The room confirmed Korvak’s suspicions. The lesser houses hosted Thaxos’s second army, and he would use them to take the city.

The gith fanned out and moved deeper into the room. Korvak found a lamp and worked to light it. When he coaxed the flame to life, the room filled with soft reddish glow. The gith lifted mattresses and kicked aside boxes. They found nothing and made an awful racket while doing so. Korvak felt no need to silence them. If there were people there, they were aware already thanks to the fight outside.

Lamp in hand, he followed the gith. He saw a curtain hanging across a door frame. The gith followed his gaze and moved without having to be ordered. One ripped the cloth down, revealing a long corridor ending at a turn, several paces away. Arches pierced the walls on either side, more flimsy curtains concealing their contents.

One gith crept down the passage. He glanced into the adjoining rooms.

The operation’s scope impressed Korvak. Vordon had managed to do the impossible. He had brought an army inside Tyr, used warehouses to quarter them, and positioned them throughout the city. As the gith moved to the edge of the light, Korvak thought it might be a good idea to question the mul toughs. The right pressure might coax out something Korvak could use. He dismissed the thought. They were long gone anyway. If they told anyone, word would reach his masters, who would come to investigate. Korvak smiled at the thought of Astini’s shock at what Korvak could tell him.

The gith turned the corner at the corridor’s end. A moment later, Korvak heard a sharp cry. Something wet splashed onto the floor in the passage.

The other gith looked worried and moved to investigate. Korvak followed, his implement ready and raised.

The lamp guttered and threw monstrous shadows on the walls. In the uncertain light, Korvak saw blood running down the wall where the passage turned to the right. The first gith must be dead.

Korvak prodded his remaining gith with his implement’s tip. The mercenary obeyed, reluctant to join its fellow in death. He crept toward the turn. There, he peered around the corner and fell to the ground. A crossbow bolt stuck out from between his eyes.

Korvak heard booted footsteps.

A human guard rounded the corner. Thick carapace armor painted red and brown covered him from head to toe. He had reloaded the crossbow and brought it up to fire. Korvak was faster and let loose a beam of blue light into the man’s face. The head exploded, painting the wall and ceiling with bits of bone and brain. Ashes swirled in the air.

Korvak withdrew. More guards would follow the first. The passage was too cramped for the enemy to rush him in any kind of numbers. But there were limits on how many spells he could cast.

He heard movement behind him, a curtain stirring. The noise saved his life. He ducked. A heavy spiked club sailed over his head and smashed into the wall to his side.

Korvak cursed, and shadows came to life around his attacker in a black, seething mass. The attacker was a monster of a tarek, stooped, naked, and armed with the club. The tarek screamed as the shadows clung to him, yet he pressed the attack. Korvak scuttled back to throw another spell. He stole power from the diminishing life left in the dying gith and called forth a cruel howling wind to whip the tarek. The tunnel’s close confines made the wind deafening. As they picked up speed, they lifted the tarek into the air and tore him to bloody pieces, spraying crimson up and down the passage.

Korvak stepped through the mess and ran for the barracks and, he hoped, the street beyond. As he exited the tunnel toward the sliver of light promising escape, something punched him in the arm, spinning him around and sending him sprawling. Black spots hung in his vision. Pain coursed from his shoulder. He was surprised to see a bolt rising from the joint. A human guard reloaded his crossbow in the passage behind him. As he worked, more warriors came around him to close in on Korvak. Korvak raised his good arm to shield his face. The guard raised his foot and kicked him. Another leveled a sword at Korvak’s neck. Wild eyes, open mouth, fear. The soldier would kill at any provocation. Korvak lay still.

“Well done, Micah,” someone said from the corridor’s end. Soft footfalls grew louder until the speaker joined the guards. Watari, Thaxos Vordon’s pet and henchman, looked down on Korvak.

“Seems we’ve found the one behind all the questions. Good. Sorry about your gith. Can’t stand them myself. No flavor. Oh, well. My master is desperate to meet you. Micah, secure him. Our friend here has an appointment I know he’s dying to keep.”

Loren chewed his lip in frustration. He sat on a rock and did his best to ignore the stench rising from the day’s corpses. The carrion birds screeched and flapped over the gruesome feast. Here and there, a cry for water, mercy, or a mother lifted above the noise.

Kutok, a savage warrior who had thus far survived every raid, dropped to the ground a few feet away from Loren. The warrior kicked his legs out and leaned back on his arms. Sweat drenched his long blond hair and tangled his beard. Scabs covered his body, some marking cuts left by desperate guards fighting for their lives or claw marks from beasts he had slain. He bore other scars as well—a rumpled patch marking where some spell had singed him, a missing ear from a bit of shrapnel launched from an exploded wagon. He was never a beauty, but he was downright hideous after the fights.

Loren ached and knew Kutok felt the same. The broken man next to him was his last surviving lieutenant, the last hired sword sent out from Nibenay entrusted with command.

Loren shifted in vain to make the rock more comfortable. “How many today?” he asked.

Kutok closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sky. He then dropped his chin to his chest to watch the kestrekels, vile carrion birds, dropping like stones from the sky to rip and tear, to feast on the dead and dying. His voice cracked, “Six more.”

Loren shook his head. The one hundred soldiers who had followed him into the raid against the first caravan had been winnowed down to a handful, a mere twenty men and women. Reinforcements trickled in. They were mercenaries, ex-gladiators, slaves, and desert scum. They would serve any master so long as there was water in the offering. Loren knew there wasn’t much water left, despite Temmnya’s assurances, and it wouldn’t be long before the new mercenaries left or turned on them.

Ten days. That’s all it had been. Each day had blurred into the next, one long stretch of marching, fighting, and marching again. If Temmnya were distant to start with, she had become a stranger. She did not even call him to her bed. He was exhausted. His desire died on the battlefield, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

Neither Loren nor Kutok bothered to mention what they should do with the dead. Temmnya had forbidden them from burning the corpses. She had explained there was no need. The kestrekels had to eat too. Loren did not like the command. He felt he owed something to the dead for their ultimate sacrifice, and to leave them lying in the sun seemed disrespectful. But he had learned not to question anymore. He did as he was told. It was how he slept at night.

There was no reason for the attacks. At first, it seemed as though they were focused on Vordon caravans. The first three battles saw Vordon’s guards and merchants dead. The rest had been against anyone who happened across Temmnya’s path. Each time they left the dead behind, unburied, to rot. Loren managed to cope with his part in killing innocents. His victims had done nothing to earn their deaths. He retreated inside himself when he heard their cries, when he answered their pleading with the rise and fall of his blade. He was a butcher and nothing more.

“Getting to you?” asked Kutok. Loren didn’t hear any compassion in the man’s voice. He asked in the same monotone way he had been using for quite a while.

Loren shrugged.

“It bothered me at first,” said Kutok. “You know, I’ve been fighting in arenas since I was a boy. I’ve killed a lot of people. Sometimes even people who had no business being in the pits. The templars called them criminals. It was my job to kill or be killed. This. This is different. These people. They’re just merchants and caravan guards. I saw their faces in my dreams, heard their cries when I slept. But I don’t now. Not anymore. I just feel … well … I just feel nothing.”

Loren looked at Kutok, who was still staring at the carrion birds. What could he say? He felt the same.

Loren put his hands on his knees and levered himself up. He needed to find Aeris. They had not spoken in days. His old friend had become a stranger since the first attack. Loren suspected it might have something to do with the queer black stone. Or it could be Aeris and Temmnya had become close over the past few days. Loren wasn’t jealous. He was worried.

She was a witch. Her nocturnal travels left no doubts in his mind. Aeris, having some talent at magic, feared her at first but seemed drawn to her more and more with each passing day. He had seen no signs of seduction, no efforts by Temmnya to befriend the half-elf, yet they seemed inseparable.

Loren left Kutok sitting on the ground and wandered off across the battlefield. They had attacked another caravan, small, just two wagons drawn by kanks and protected by seven guards. They were bound for Altaruk, a trade village at a crossroads to the south. The caravan had been transporting textiles and grains—valuable, Loren guessed, but not enough for their force to risk soldiers on an attack. Temmnya sent them out anyway, and Loren positioned the soldiers on either side of the old trade road. Loren led one team, and Kutok, the other. When the wagons were within thirty yards, Loren and Kutok led their forces out from the sands. They were merciless. They killed man and beast alike. It was over in minutes.

And it left Loren scrambling for justification. They headed toward Tyr, yet each time they attacked a caravan or outpost, they lost time. Rather than press on toward the city, they inched across the desert. They attacked without good reason, often at a tactical disadvantage, and each time, they left the dead where they lay and had even begun leaving valuables behind, taking food, water, and weapons to replace the ones they broke. After the fights, Temmnya pushed them at a grueling pace until sunset, at which point she’d vanish again. She always returned before dawn, always smelling of fire and covered in soot.

Loren stepped over a headless guard and climbed up to the top of a dune. There, he looked out over the sands. Emptiness. Rolling dunes. A boiling sky. It was all meaningless. The life he was living, everything he had ever done, changed nothing, meant nothing. He was as insignificant as a grain of sand, and where the wind blew, so he went.

The battlefield was hours old and miles away when Temmnya summoned Loren to her tent. He entered through the heavy flaps and saw the excessive trappings he had come to know so well. She lay on the bed, wearing a thin dress. Her pet lizard gnawed on what looked like a human arm. It held the limb with its foreclaws and ripped the meat from the bone. Aeris stood near the back of the tent. He wore pants and nothing else. Pink scars stood out from his pale skin, the marks left by the kirre almost two weeks gone. Aeris watched Loren and there was some unspoken challenge in his expression.

No circle covered the floor. No candles burned. Temmnya, it seemed, would stay for the night.

Temmnya lifted herself up on one arm and offered him a dazzling smile. “Loren.”

He nodded. He matched Aeris’s stare. Something had happened to them, come between them. Loren knew the thing was the woman on the bed.

“Can I get you something? Wine perhaps?”

Loren grunted.

“Aeris, be a dear and fetch Loren a cup of wine. The good bottle, please.”

The half-elf darkened but complied. A moment later, the half-elf pressed a wooden cup in his hand and turned away.

“There,” said Temmnya. “Please. Take a seat.”

Loren put the cup on a table and looked for a chair. There wasn’t one. Temmnya patted the bed.

“I have not yet washed from the fight. I’ll stand.”

She chuckled. “Loren, I am impressed. You have done all I have asked and more. I never expected you to be so skilled in battle. I’ve never seen your equal. Father told me you were gifted in the arena. I never imagined you would be able to adapt to desert fighting. House Shom thanks you. I thank you.”

Aeris did his best to ignore the conversation and feigned interest in a scroll he had found.

“I am also glad you have learned to accept your fate. Your questions had been growing tiresome. The best servants are the quiet ones. Wouldn’t you say, Aeris?”

The half-elf mumbled.

“Ah. Well. I see there’s some pain between you both. A pity. In any event there are things we need to discuss, Loren. First, Aeris tells me you never told him about our arrangement. Why? Whatever were you protecting him from? I settled this for you, Loren. I told Aeris everything about the terms of our contract and how you both found service in House Shom. I hope my part in revealing this little detail will put to rest any tensions between you. I would hate to think I have had a part in testing your friendship. You have mentioned how important Aeris is to you.”

Loren felt his face flush. He had nothing to say to either of them. Aeris would not look at him.

Temmnya looked from Loren to Aeris and back again. She laughed, a trilling noise Loren found irritating. The lizard on the floor looked up at the outburst then went back to its meal. A loud crack and wet slobbering noises followed.

“You men and your pride,” she said. She rose from the bed and moved to Loren. She traced his cuts and scrapes with a finger. She stopped when Loren refused to flinch. She frowned and returned to the bed.

Loren said, “Was there something else?”

Aeris grunted.

She turned back to them both. “Yes. These raids tire me. It is time to hunt bigger game.”

Loren blanched. Even Aeris looked up.

“Tomorrow, we pick up the pace for Tyr. We will reach Dremp by nightfall. I want you to take the village for me,” she said.

Loren blurted, “With what men?” She opened her mouth as if to answer, but Loren cut her off. “What few troops you have left are exhausted. I’m not sure I could find ten warriors still able to fight, let alone attack a village. The rest—and let me tell you we have less than half the number we started with—the rest are too damned injured to even march another day.” He realized he was shouting. He fought for control.

She grinned and rubbed her hands together. “Such passion! Oh, Loren, you amuse me so. I have summoned reinforcements to replace your warriors. They will be here by dawn. Do not worry about the injured. Live or die, they’ll serve my purposes.”

“They’re marching through the night? We will need at least a day for them to recover. They’ll be useless otherwise—”

She raised a hand to silence Loren. “Aeris, show him.”

Loren read the guilt in his friend’s face. Aeris moved deeper into the shadows, where a curtain hung from the roof. He pulled it aside. There stood a man. He was dressed in armor and was armed with a bone sword. Yet he wasn’t alive, couldn’t be alive. He offered no expression, his gray skin waxy, and his eyes flat and unmoving. Loren recognized him. It was Rab—one of the squad leaders who died in the first battle.

Loren reached for his sword. He ripped it from the sheath. “What sorcery is this?” Loren shouted.

He glared at Aeris and saw him in a new light. There was something wrong with him. He looked drained, sick, feverish.

“What have you done, Aeris?” Loren said, stepping back, blade raised.

“Don’t be such a fool, Loren,” said Temmnya, cutting off Aeris’s protestations. “Aeris did nothing but help. This soldier is my doing.” She seemed offended, as if Loren had somehow insulted her power. She stretched like a cat on her silk sheets. “The dead are meat. Why shouldn’t they serve? In fact, you will find them more obedient than the living soldiers you have been leading so far. They never tire, never need food nor water. They are yours to command. Provided, of course, you still serve me. Here, Loren, is your army. Give me a victory, Loren,” she purred, “and I’ll make sure to reward you in ways you can’t imagine.”

Dawn came far too quickly. As Temmnya had said, reinforcements arrived just as the sun crested the horizon. The zombie soldiers shuffled into ranks. He recognized many. Carrion eaters had been at them, but Loren still saw faces of the men and women he had slain, the fellow soldiers he had once led. Some were more intact than others. A few were nothing more than skeletons.

The stench was appalling, and a few of the living vomited.

Loren understood everything. Temmnya wanted them to leave the dead so she wouldn’t have to dig them up. The zombies were where she had been going. She had been building an army.

A few soldiers ran off in terror. Loren let them go. No one else moved to stop them. Could he blame them? Loren, too, wanted to run. He was looking at evil, and he was sickened.

Aeris and Temmnya had come out from her tent to inspect the army. She was radiant in her beauty, her pleasure plain for all to see. Aeris looked wretched, stumbling, and weak. Loren saw confusion in his friend’s expression. She was using Aeris, draining his life to fuel her dark magic. She didn’t need Loren anymore. She could do what she wanted without him. Loren could go. But if he did, Aeris would die. If not immediately, then when she fulfilled all her plans.

Loren shoved down his revulsion and turned to Kutok. “Get the men ready. We march for Dremp.”

Melech knew every step he took brought him closer to death, yet he still put one foot in front of the other. He shook not just from fear, but also fatigue. He hadn’t had time to sleep. When he wasn’t making his rounds, he was sitting on rooftops, chasing merchants, and witnessing murders. He did as Korvak wanted. He had found out what the templar wanted to know. He earned his iron coins. Too bad he’d never get to spend them. Torston knew. He had to know. And it was time to pay the price for betraying the organization.

Melech neared Shadow Square and the Rat’s Nest, where Torston would be waiting. Night was falling. He had wasted time fretting about the consequence he knew he would have to face. Betrayal. The templars were more or less in charge of the city, and Melech was doing what he was told to do. Yet Torston and the templars had been tangling for years, and working with the black-robed bastards was tantamount to slapping Torston in the face. If Kep had not shown up. If Kep had minded his own business, Melech could have been in and out with no one the wiser.

Melech knew what happened to other members of the organization who fell out of favor. They disappeared. His peers whispered about torture, broken limbs, being dragged off to the desert, and worse. Melech had to come up with something to tell Torston, some explanation, or he’d join the others who up and vanished after displeasing the master. The trouble was Melech couldn’t come up with anything. He had covered his tracks as best he could, but he had let his other duties slide, enough that even had Kep not stuck his nose in Melech’s side job, people would be talking.

Melech came to an intersection, and for a moment he wasn’t sure which way he should go. He turned left and hurried on.

He did not like letting Torston down, and not just for the punishment he was bound to face. Once, he saw his master as his rescuer, which he was. Torston saved him from the Ziggurat, saved him from the abbreviated life toil and want would create. Torston swept in and snatched Melech from the auction block at Elven Bridge. Melech, along with his previous master’s household, was being liquidated to pay off his master’s debts. The old noble was a wastrel and frittered away his fortunes on drink and women. When he could not pay his creditors because the farm failed, they killed him. Melech and the rest of the household became commodities to be sold so the debtors could recoup some of their investments. Toughs rounded up all the slaves, Melech included, and marched them to Elven Bridge, where most slaves were sold. The guards stripped them naked and paraded them one by one across the bridge where nobles and their agents could inspect them and place their bids.

Melech remembered their long faces, their bright costumes, but most of all, he remembered the looks they gave. Some were leering, others dismissive, but not a one showed compassion. Melech had waited for his turn at the back of the line, staying out of sight as he had his whole life. He knew he could apply his talents wherever he went, yet there was a girl, a young woman whom Melech might have loved. She was next. The guards tore away her simple shift and shoved her up onto the bridge. Melech could no longer remember her name. He did remember her tears. She had wept when an elf slaver fondled her breasts and smacked her rump to show off her assets. Some lecherous noble bought her right away, and she was led off, never to be seen again. Melech vowed then and there he would kill the elf who had sold his love, a promise he still meant to keep.

The line had inched on as more slaves were sold off. The elf guards had prodded them all forward toward the bridge. Melech was six slaves away from his moment. He remembered feeling shame and hatred boiling in his guts. He had been so distracted, he didn’t even notice when a bearded man with black skin had come to his side. Melech noticed when a guard approached. All color drained from the man’s face, terror evident in his widening eyes. The dark man had then placed a hand on Melech and said, “This one will do.” The slaver nodded and untied Melech from the rope binding him to the line. The dark-skinned man was Torston, and the one thing he said to Melech was, “I have bought your freedom, boy. If you’d like to stay free, follow me.” Melech hurried after the strange black man in his swishing orange robes, and together they disappeared into Tyr’s criminal underworld.

When Melech reached Shadow Square, he realized Torston never once explained why he had singled Melech out. It would not have made a difference. Melech was a good student. He learned everything he could to rise in his master’s esteem. Each conquest, each purse stolen, each mission undertaken lifted Melech from the rank-and-file criminals working for the crime lord until Melech joined the rare few who received the master’s special favor. Melech had since enjoyed a comfortable life. Fine clothing, money to spare, and the fear and respect his status in Torston’s crime syndicate deserved; they were grand rewards all.

Yet for the pleasures and successes he had experienced, he knew the freedom was a sham. It was a lie Torston told to keep him indebted and obedient. Melech’s fate was still decided by another, and if he failed, he would be punished. Melech did and went as instructed. He had to. He had to pay freedom’s debt. Torston may have cut the bone collar from his neck, but he put one just as weighty in its place.

Melech rounded the corner and entered Shadow Square. He knew the place well, and the traders knew him too. They met him with everything from frowns and rude gestures (to which Melech responded in kind) to the occasional wave or embarrassed smile—Fenewen the Maid was a pretty young man who walked the streets preying on undiscerning, drunken soldiers looking for a tousle in the alley. Fenewen had an eye on Melech and offered him a free tumble just about every day. Melech laughed off the invitation as he always did.

The Rat’s Nest stood just off Shadow Square. Melech could spot the usual assortment of hangers-on who loitered out front in the street. He should have headed straight there. Fear made him wait. He scrambled for something to say, some explanation, yet found nothing. Finally Melech resigned himself to what waited for him and continued toward the tavern.

Melech slipped between two tents. A tall, slim elf with shaggy blond hair eyed him through narrow slits. His hand fell to a slender blade tied to his leg. Melech nodded and kept his hands visible. He made a point of inspecting the crude jewelry arranged on a black cloth at the stall’s front as he moved past.

He slid through the market’s crowds until the tents thinned. Ahead, he saw square buildings, taverns and inns, fronting the square, each offering retreat from the sun and accommodations and custom for those with coin to spend. The Red Kank loomed to one side, a fine establishment to be sure. Melech did not go there often. He didn’t want anything to do with the mercenaries and self-styled adventurers who made a habit of warming its seats.

Melech made for the Rat’s Nest. It stood between a brothel and a dreaming house. The adjoining buildings were tall enough to keep the dingy tavern drenched in shadow all day long. Unlike the other places on Shadow Square, the Nest was for the Light Touch Boys, the thieves Torston employed.

One day at the House of Fingers was enough for Alaeda. She sat in the dark room and tried to stay comfortable despite the oppressive heat. She listened to the unsettling noises oozing up through the floorboards. Galadan had told her to stay put, to wait for orders. After a drunken man pushed through the door to her room and assaulted her, a struggle ending with her blade in his neck, she had had enough. The man had fought too well to be some drunken reveler. Alaeda suspected the broy stink was just cover for what she believed was an attempt against her life. She had left the body in her bed and slipped out into the night.

She needed to find Phytos. She suspected he might already be dead, attacked as she was. She had to be sure, though, so she crossed the city to reach the inn where she had left him. She almost entered, she almost went inside to search him out, but she realized if someone had sent a killer after her, there must be another assassin watching that inn as well. Few people in the city knew her, and none of them wanted her dead.

Maybe Vordon had recognized her. Maybe he had her followed. Even if the merchant knew who she was, she had done nothing to earn a death mark.

If not Vordon, then whom? Galadan? The elf was the only one who knew where she was for certain. He had rented the room. It had to be him, but why? Galadan had nothing to gain. He made it plain the operation was his, and she had given him no indication she would not follow his orders. She was loyal to House Stel and would do nothing to betray them. Galadan had mentioned Torston in their meeting, another troubling part of their business.

Alaeda had no idea who the man was, so she had asked some questions. He was a major player in Tyr’s underworld, and he had a finger in every district. Even the merchant houses paid him off to keep the Light Touch Boys from ransacking their storehouses. The last time she was in Tyr, she had heard even the templars wouldn’t touch him after one ambitious templar had tried to arrest him. Rumors said Torston sent pieces of the templar’s body to the Golden City every day for three months. Torston was a bad man. Alaeda was not thrilled to have him involved.

Alaeda took a gloomy and cramped room at the Golden Inix, where she waited until daybreak.

She decided she would pay Galadan a visit. She’d find out if he tried to kill her, and if he did, she would repay the gesture. If he didn’t order the attack, he would at least be able to help her find out who did. She also wanted to find out why Torston was getting in bed with House Stel. What had Galadan offered? And what guarantee did Galadan have that Torston wouldn’t just double-cross them? The whole situation stank like a rotting kank. The secrets weren’t just going to out themselves. If she wanted to learn them, she’d have to look for herself.

There were safer and better places in Tyr to get a drink than the Rat’s Nest, so passersby didn’t often drift into the tavern. The atmosphere encouraged outsiders who were not Light Touch Boys to finish their drinks and be on their way. The food was as one would expect from a place called the Rat’s Nest, and it was also a powerful motivator for outsiders to avoid the place. That was as Torston intended. The Rat’s Nest did not want for coin. The crime boss owned the place and used it as his personal office.

The Rat’s Nest was one big open room with a bar running along the back wall. Empty stools stood in a row in front of the bar, while small tables and chairs were set around the room. Booths lined one wall, each with curtains for privacy. Dartboards and targets for throwing axes hung on the opposite wall.

The place was almost empty. Two retired thieves nudged stones across a checkered board. A man slumped on the bar with dried vomit on his face. Poxy, a half-elf and a looker if not for the fever blister on her upper lip, waved at Melech from behind the bar, where she was wiping out wooden cups. She offered a nervous smile. Her eyes looked sadder than usual.

Torston held court in the third booth back, which was hidden by curtains. Even if Melech hadn’t known where to find the boss, the mul standing beside it would have given him a hint. Rude Kala, as she was known, had a habit of taking trophies from her victims. Like many toughs Torston employed, she had fought in Tyr’s arena, where she gained a reputation for making eunuchs of her victims when she felt moved to spare them. She had not given up her signature habit. There were plenty of shrill, neutered men running around the Warrens who could offer proof if one dared to look.

Kep was there too. He sat at a table not far off from Torston. The halfling eyed Melech. Poxy brought Kep a mug of something and a platter of raw meat, putting them on the table in front of the halfling.

Rude Kala drew a curved wooden knife when Melech reached the booth. It was dull. She winked at him and drew back the curtain.

Torston was there. He appeared calm. His lids were heavy, as if he had spent the night in the dreaming house next door. Torston wore his usual frown.

Melech slid onto the opposite seat.

Although Torston was no noble, he lived like one. He softened his curly black hair with oil. He had manicured nails. His clothes were of the current fashion, soft robes of pale blue pinstriped with silver. Gold rings sat on his thick fingers. A medallion boasting a grinning face hung from a chain around his neck.

“Melech. Thank the ancestors. You had me worried, boy.” Torston reached out and squeezed Melech’s forearm. “Are you well? You look terrible.”

Melech stammered.

Torston patted Melech’s cheek. “What is it, son? What delayed you?”

Although surprised, Melech knew enough to sense it was all some ruse.

Melech didn’t say anything. Torston nodded and dropped his hand to the table.

Then he punched Melech in the face, snapping his head back into the wooden backboard. Black spots swam in his vision. Blood gushed from his nostrils and spattered on the table.

“Just who do you think you are? I asked you a bloody question!” He grabbed Melech’s broken nose and twisted.

Melech wailed.

Torston shoved Melech’s face back so hard, his head knocked the board again.

Melech managed to say, “I … I was delayed.”

“I’d say you were delayed. But that’s not what I asked, now was it? Where. Have. You. Been?”

Melech’s mind raced. He searched for something, anything he could say that wouldn’t end with the mul cutting off his stones. “I … I … was taken.”

“Taken?”

A bit of truth makes the best lies. “A templar took me.”

“Who?”

Melech stammered, “Korvak.”

“Korvak,” said Torston. “I wanted the truth.” His aspect changed. He smiled again. He folded a cloth and dipped a corner in a mug of water. He used the damp cloth to wipe the blood from his hand. “So what did Korvak want?” asked Torston, mild and calm once more.

“Information,” he said. “Information about House Vordon.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Ah, not much. I didn’t know much,” said Melech.

“Specifics, Melech,” said Torston. His voice had an edge to it.

Melech took a deep breath to get some control over his pounding heart. He shook his head and looked at the man opposite him. There was nothing kind there, no affection. Melech wasn’t special to him at all. He was just another tool to be used and discarded. Melech wondered what he owed the man. Freedom? A warm bed, shelter, food? Could not Melech find those somewhere else? Bitterness rose inside him, yet he did his duty and told it all, starting with how Korvak recruited him, his mixed results in tracking down clues about Vordon’s plotting, and wrapped up with a discussion about the meeting in the square. He left nothing out but Kep’s killing of the old man. When he was done, the pain in his nose was a dull throb. Melech leaned back to wait for whatever punishment his master felt he deserved.

Torston covered his mouth with his left hand and rubbed his cheek with his fingers. With his right, he drummed on the table. He stared. Melech shifted in his seat. Torston dropped his hand to the table and said, “You did well, Melech. Very well. I just wish you had come to me straight away. I don’t like secrets. The templars should know to stay away from my people. A lesson Tithian’s lackeys seem to have forgotten.”

Torston paused and looked into Melech’s eyes. “No secrets from me, Melech. Never. You understand?”

Melech nodded. Relief chased away his bitterness. Maybe he did owe Torston something. The man had protected him. To throw everything away would be to go back to being nothing. Serving Torston meant a comfortable life. He was Torston’s man. “Of course, master. You’re right. I was mistaken. I … Thank you.”

“Good. I’m glad we can put this behind us.” Torston threw open the curtain. Melech saw everyone inside turn back to what they were doing. Poxy was terrified. She wiped another cup. Melech was almost too ashamed to look around. He noticed someone new seated at a table, alone. A pretty brown-haired human woman with tanned skin and nondescript clothing. She must have come in while Melech was having his nose broken. She stared into her cup.

Torston called, “Kep! Join us.”

Kep slid off his seat and padded over to the booth.

Melech moved to give the halfling some room.

Torston pulled the curtain closed again and leaned forward. His voice low, he said, “Now listen. I have a special job for you two.”

Alaeda knew something important was happening the moment she walked into the Rat’s Nest. Tension hung heavy in the air, and the few patrons and the employee all appeared nervous, attention focused on a closed curtain concealing a booth on the other side of the tavern. She heard a loud thump come from within, a wail, and another thump. Low voices. A whimper.

During the exchange, the half-elf bartender brought her a cup of wine, for which Alaeda paid without even looking at the girl.

She sat at her table. She waited. She listened.

The curtain opened. Torston leaned out and called to the halfling who had just finished a platter of raw meat. Alaeda risked a look inside the booth and saw a black-haired young man, spare frame, and blood splattered all over his face and staining his shirt. The curtain closed.

She had to hear what was going on inside the booth. The half-elf had left the bar, and the two old men at their game weren’t paying attention. The mul guard turned away from the booth and was arguing with someone in the hall behind her. Alaeda slipped away from her table and moved across the room to take the booth behind Torston’s.

She heard Torston speak in a low, whispery voice. “We have friends coming to the city,” he began, “friends who want to avoid attracting attention. I’ve instructed them to come in through the secret ways. I need you to let them in. Go down to the Tembo’s Teeth and take the passage marked with this.”

Torston paused long enough to show them something.

He continued, “At the end of the passage, you will find a locked gate. Use this,” he said, and something heavy slid across the table, “to open it. If there’s no one there, leave the doors open. I’m sure our friends will be waiting for you, though. Don’t talk to them. They’re … dangerous. When you’ve done this, come straight back here. Understood?”

Alaeda was pressing her luck. She peered out through her own curtain to see the mul had gone. The tavern was empty. Alaeda eased out from her booth and made for the front door. No one stopped her.

Outside, she walked until she came to the first corner and ducked around it. Torston was bringing someone into the city. Was that part of Galadan’s plan? Would more Stel agents be coming to help? Without knowing what the elf was planning, she wasn’t sure what her next move should be. She considered heading to the Red Kank to confront Galadan. But she saw Galadan walking toward then entering the Rat’s Nest when she risked a glance around the corner.

The conversation turned to rumors about the Poison Sting, a criminal outfit known to work in Under-Tyr. Torston obsessed over the rival gang and would listen to any rumor, no matter how unreliable. After Kep offered a few scraps, Torston dismissed them both. Kep and Melech left the booth. Melech kept his head very still.

“Come straight back, got it?” said Torston.

Melech nodded, wincing at the pain in his face.

The halfling headed toward the door. Melech followed. They almost collided with a blond-haired elf, tall, lanky, very familiar to Melech.

The elf shouldered through them without apology. Kep walked outside. Melech lingered a moment. He turned back to get another look. The elf walked to Torston’s booth.

“Galadan, it is good to see you, my friend,” said the crime boss.

“Yes, Torston, it is,” said the elf. He took the seat Melech had just occupied a moment before. The voice. Melech knew at once who he was. He was the slaver who had sold his girl.

Tyr’s army, the Crimson Legion, marched at dawn. Led by the former gladiator and hero of the city, Rikus, Tyr’s soldiers flowed up Caravan Way, ex-gladiators at the fore followed by templars, nobles’ soldiers, Tyr’s guard, and with Vordon’s two thousand bringing up the rear. From a balcony overlooking the street, Pakka watched them march. Talara stood at her side. Grim-faced warriors organized in ragged ranks followed the commander to what most citizens thought would be a disaster. Pakka leaned over the rail. She scanned the host for any sign of Rek or even another soldier in the Vordon retinue who had survived the journey from Silver Spring Oasis. She scanned the warriors for Alaeda Stel. She saw no one she knew. There was little to distinguish one from the other in the flowing river of fear and eagerness, regret and hopefulness.

Pakka turned at a noise from Talara Vordon, thinking she had said something. She was mistaken. Talara’s face was a controlled mask, anger showing in the tightness of her eyes. Pakka understood Talara’s frustration. She shared it. They hadn’t been in Tyr a day before Talara learned what would become of the soldiers who had escorted her to the city. Vordon conscripted them all to march against Urik, along with every man and woman in the house’s service able to carry a weapon, and sent along the rest to attend the supplies, field hospitals, and the like. Vordon had emptied his barracks of all but his personal guard and had left Talara unprotected. He had taken even Rek from her.

Talara discovered the orders at the same time she learned Thaxos had committed their soldiers to a war that had nothing to do with them. The merchant houses did not involve themselves in disputes among the city-states. Trading houses did fight from time to time, but they fought each other. No house ever involved itself in the city-states’ troubles. Doing so invited repercussions. Urik would be in its rights to name them outlaws and strip them of their trading rights. The other houses would crush them. One house violating the ancient agreements between the merchants and the tyrants could unravel the delicate peace that allowed the merchant clans to trade without interference for more than a thousand years.

It shouldn’t matter who ruled Tyr, so long as the iron flowed and the houses’ businesses were left to operate as they always had. Thaxos Vordon compromised their standing among the other houses by violating those compacts. More, he had single-handedly destroyed their presence in the region. Tithian already promised to reopen the mines. In the coming days, the iron trade would resume, and Vordon would be powerful once more. With no soldiers to guard the caravans, there would be nothing to stop other houses, to say nothing of the desert predators, slave tribes, and other horrors, from destroying them. Worse, Talara had learned Thaxos had recalled operatives from almost every trade outpost they occupied in the region. Vordon stood at the abyss’s edge. One nudge would destroy them all forever.

Vordon had said nothing about the commitments and nothing about his plans. Talara inspected the warehouses herself to find out what was going on. She discovered them stocked with all manner of goods. She had walked alongside the racks holding cloth and linen rolls, silk bolts from Raam, pottery from Urik and Draj, statuary, and more. There were commodities aplenty, but they were worthless while sitting there, gathering dust. Talara had suspected Thaxos had plundered his agents and drovers to meet his troop commitment. Finding the crodlu stables manned by just a few and the barracks empty of all but a handful of porters and workers confirmed her suspicions.

She kept silent about her findings. She said nothing about her misgivings until she dined with Pakka and Rek the night before Rek was to leave to fight against Urik. Talara had called it a farewell dinner for Rek. To them both, Talara confided her fears. She confessed Vordon was crumbling away and Thaxos must be either mad or plotting some villainy to let their house’s fortunes fall so low. Rek had agreed with her. He had spoken with other agents and soldiers and found them all mystified by their new orders. He had also revealed Thaxos had been using his soldiers to police Tyr’s streets since King Kalak’s fall, another violation of the Merchant’s Code.

Talara discussed confronting her cousin to get the truth about his plotting and, if finding him incompetent, telling him to step down. Rek argued against such a rash action. He had said, “I fear we’re seeing the tip of the silt horror’s tentacle. There is more to this than an unhinged mind. I have known Thaxos for many years, and I have yet to find a craftier man. But neither have I found a person more committed to this house. Trust him, lady. We may not know his reasons, but I believe he has our best interests at heart.”

The conversation then turned to matters of war, the role Vordon’s forces would play in the coming conflict, and other dull subjects of no interest to Pakka at all. She didn’t object to Rek’s counters, but she didn’t support them either. After all, it was Thaxos who had stripped Talara of her protectors. Thaxos seemed a man capable of anything, willing to bend or break any rule to advance his station, and Pakka feared he would soon add her mistress to his list of victims.

Pakka’s thoughts turned back to the soldiers marching below her. The last had moved out from their view and were followed by war wagons drawn by armored inix and mekillot, with kank-mounted warriors flanking their sides. Pakka touched Talara’s arm. “Come, mistress, you must eat.”

Talara jumped. She turned on Pakka, eyes flashing, but calmed almost at once. “You’re right. As always.”

They left the balcony and the soldiers to their fate. They left for the third-floor apartments’ cool interior. Thaxos owned the building and used the rooms for his honored guests, or so he had said. The main room was comfortable. A stuffed leather couch stood to one side, flanked by chairs all facing a small table. Near the balcony, a smaller wooden table stood with two wooden chairs on either side. Tapestries hung on the walls. One depicted a caravan scene. Another showed the city skyline. Other minor decorations cluttered the chamber. A small obsidian statue stood on an ornamental table by the door, and a hideous stone bust of Thaxos rested atop a short column in the corner.

There were a couple of doors in the walls. One led to a boudoir. A bowl of sand for cleaning the skin and tooth powders were among the many amenities Vordon’s generosity offered. The other door led to Talara’s bedroom and the side chamber where Pakka slept on a cot. In all, they were fine accommodations. Talara was not, however, comfortable in them. She spent her time out in the streets or, when forced to return, she leaned against the balcony railing to look out over the city.

Pakka guided Talara to the seat by the small table. Cut fruit lay in a bowl next to a platter filled with eggs, erdlu meat, and sweet cakes. A glass pitcher held clean, clear water. Condensation beaded and slithered down the sides to darken the soft red cloth covering the table.

When Talara sat, Pakka placed a napkin in her lap and stepped back to be of use should Talara need anything.

“What are you doing?”

Pakka stammered, “Ah … attending you, lady?”

“Sit, Pakka. I’ll have no more of this nonsense from you.”

Stung, Pakka took the other seat. Talara scooped food onto her own plate then reached across the table to place it in front of Pakka in a generous act that took her by surprise. Her wonder must have shown since Talara said, “Eat.”

Talara herself picked at the offering. She bit into a melon cube and sampled one of the cakes.

Pakka ate, measuring her bites so if her mistress were still hungry, there would be food left for her. She would not take food from her mistress’s mouth.

Neither spoke through the meal. Pakka counted each bite and stared outside at a fluttering insect. Talara, too, seemed distracted, lost in her thoughts.

“I can’t believe he left me,” said Talara.

“Who? Rek?” asked Pakka.

“Of course. Before you say anything, I know he was doing as my cousin commanded. I just can’t believe he didn’t argue. He didn’t protest. He even defended my cousin’s actions.”

“We do not know if he argued or not. Not for certain,” said Pakka.

“And that woman. She quit us before we could brush the sand from our clothing.”

Pakka nodded. Alaeda’s disappearance unsettled her as well. “I am sure she left for good reason.”

“Perhaps because she was the killer after all,” Talara said, arching an eyebrow.

Pakka dropped her eyes so Talara wouldn’t see her suspicions reflected there.

“Thaxos Vordon is generous,” said Pakka.

“Indeed he is, Pakka. He is,” said Talara.

Pakka noted the flatness of her speech. She searched her mistress’s face but saw nothing there. “What is it, lady? Are you unwell?” asked Pakka.

“Of course not. I’m just tired,” Talara said. Her movements told a different story. She stood up from the table and stepped out onto the balcony. She gestured for Pakka to follow. She placed a finger to her lips, warning her to silence. Talara trembled. Her eyes ran over the outer wall.

Pakka took Talara’s hand in concern.

Talara pushed her hand away. “There are ears in these walls. It’s not safe to be too free with our words inside. I discovered our eavesdroppers this morning.”

Spies? Talara had spoken bitter words the previous night, words damning and dangerous if they reached Thaxos.

Talara knelt so she could whisper in Pakka’s ear. “Someone is watching us. I know, I spoke in anger last night. The damage is done, and there’s nothing to do about it now. We must look forward.”

Pakka turned to peer inside. Her hand fell to the knife she kept at her belt. Talara stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

“There are holes in the walls, one by the awful tapestry of the Ziggurat and another by the bust.”

Pakka shook her head, confused.

“They are there, trust me,” Talara said. “Guard your words.”

Nodding, Pakka whispered, “Why? I don’t understand. Are these people not our friends?”

“Once. Maybe. I don’t know. This trouble with the soldiers. The coming war. My cousin’s ambitions, whatever they may be, all paint a grim picture. I’ve heard stories about my cousin. He has secrets aplenty. I thought he called me back to Tyr to find a new assignment. I can’t believe how naive I was, thinking our kinship proof against treachery,” said Talara.

“But you are heir,” said Pakka.

“Just so. All the more reason for my cousin to think of me as a threat.”

“Then why bring you home?”

“I do not know.”

“You have me, lady,” said Pakka.

“Of course, Pakka, of course. You are always at my side.” Talara smiled. She touched her shoulder.

Pakka peered into the room, searching the walls for the holes Talara said were there. She saw nothing unusual. “What made you suspect?”

“I noticed a hole as I walked Rek to the door. Had I seen it earlier …”

Pakka nodded. If there were spies, it meant Rek might be in danger. “Spirits of my ancestors, we’re in danger!” she whispered. “So what do we do? Should I be worried? I mean, more worried than I am now?”

“I am still to attend dinner tomorrow night with Thaxos. He’ll have to answer some difficult questions. I will find out what he’s up to,” said Talara, thoughtful, worried.

“Be careful. Maybe we should run? We can be away from Tyr and start new lives somewhere else. Balic? It’s not so far,” she offered. Her mind raced about how they would get out, what they would need.

“And do what? No house would take me. And I will not send you to some quarry or field to work. No. I won’t run away from my responsibilities. House Vordon has withstood famine, plague, war, and worse for a thousand years. We are a people tested by fire and quick to take action. Vordon could drive us into oblivion. Perhaps it is time for me to take the reins.”

“What can I do?” said Pakka. The worry she felt was turning to nausea.

“I just can’t believe Vordon would empty our barracks. This is dangerous, Pakka, but I do need your help.”

“Of course.”

“I want you to go to the emporium and have a look. It was the one place we didn’t search. Come back to me at nightfall and tell me all you have learned.”

Pakka nodded.

“Be careful, though. If Thaxos is hiding something, you can bet it’s guarded.”

Pakka nodded again. Fear danced in her belly.

Talara took Pakka’s face in her hands and looked in her eyes. “What have I done to deserve such loyalty? You could have gone. It is your right. You are free now.”

Pakka, uncomfortable, pulled away. She said, “I live to serve. I can do nothing less than protect you.”

“You will have to explain what I did to earn such loyalty some day. Not now. I must get ready. I have business of my own. Good luck and I will see you tonight.”

Pakka hurried down Caravan Way. The street was still clear after the Crimson Legion left. People seemed reluctant to walk in their steps. Perhaps it was to honor them and their sacrifice. Then again, it might have been fear that kept them clear. Perhaps they thought by wandering on the street, they, too, would face what many believed was certain death against Urik’s armies.

It wasn’t far to the Vordon Emporium on Iron Square. Scant moments passed before Pakka reach a shadowed doorway with a good view of the Vordon trade hall. She drew back into the shadows. She was nothing but a servant, and neither Thaxos nor his wicked halfling would even notice her, she was sure. But there was no point taking unnecessary risks.

Other merchants conducted their business, carts coming and going, workers loading beds with whatever goods the house peddled. Vordon, though, was silent. Pakka hadn’t expected to find much activity there. The quiet just reinforced her mistress’s misgivings. Thaxos seemed to have set aside everything to help throw back the Urikite hordes. It would have been a grand and noble gesture by anyone else. Thaxos, however, had an ulterior motive.

Pakka had almost given up on the emporium and was plotting her course to the Vordon estate, which she had guessed would be somewhere close by, when Watari, Vordon’s henchman, exited the front door a human guard held open. The halfling licked his fingers. Blood? she thought. Watari said something to the guard. He bobbed his head in answer and pulled the door closed. The halfling signaled a passing rickshaw. The mul pulling it stopped. The halfling hopped inside, and a moment later, the mul hauled him away.

Indecision held Pakka in place. Each second she waited let Watari slip further away. The blood she spotted worried her. She could follow the rickshaw. But then, Talara wanted her to look around the emporium. With the halfling gone, maybe no one would be inside after all.

Getting inside proved easy. The guard hadn’t bothered to lock the door, so she slipped into a dim chamber lit by a few melting candles burning atop chipped crockery turned upside down. Heavy curtains blocked the light from shining through the windows. In the muted light, Pakka saw the place was a showroom of sorts. Empty weapon racks stood against one wall, suits of carapace, shell, and leather armor hung on dummies. Bins filled with spices and herbs overflowed onto the floor. Dried foodstuffs sat on shelves, while statues, artwork, and textiles were arranged throughout so customers could inspect the merchandise.

The guard was still in the room. He had settled in for a nap and leaned back in a wooden chair with his feet propped up on a crate. His dull human features were already slack with sleep. Pakka noticed spittle ran in a thin line from his bottom lip, darkening his red and black uniform.

Not wanting to wake the guard, she gave quick thanks to the spirits who had kept her hidden thus far and crept between the boxes. She peered up over them every now and then to make sure the guard still slept but moved toward the door leading into what Pakka guessed were more storerooms. The guard was revolting. His face looked as if it had been kicked. His nose laid flat against his cheek and one eye drooped below the other.

A counter blocked the way to the door. There was an opening a few feet away from the sleeping sentry. Thoughts of turning back vanished when she saw red droplets on the floor, spatters tracking all the way around the counter.

She took a deep breath and tiptoed around the counter. She avoided the blood so she wouldn’t smear it and give herself away. She stopped just before rounding the last turn and froze. The guard smacked his lips. He wiped the drool from his face and opened one bleary eye. Pakka felt the words to evoke the spirits crawling up her throat, demanding to be free, to kill the guard where he sat. Before she could release the evocation, the man nodded off again, letting Pakka breathe out the words unuttered.

Pakka was lost. She had no idea how it happened. Somehow she had gotten turned around. She followed her steps as best she could remember them. She left the main chamber, slipped through a dark storeroom, and descended a staircase into a tangle of tunnels. In her estimation, the tunnels should not have been there in the first place.

What was so infuriating was she had reached that dark place with little trouble. The guard hadn’t stirred, and she hadn’t found any others along the way. It was too dark for even her keen eyesight. A candle she had found in a box somewhere behind her had thus far held the gloom at bay, enough so she could make her way, but it wouldn’t last, and already the hot wax burned her fingers. She raised it up when she reached an intersection. The walls were not much more than piled stone blocks with rotting mortar between them. The tunnels were dry and musty with a bitter smell in the air. It was the fourth or maybe fifth intersection she had found.

She hadn’t remembered her father’s instruction to always trust the right hand until she had passed the second or third turn. Doubling back had made her situation worse since she wasn’t sure which way she had first gone. She was nervous and worried and wasn’t paying attention to her predicament.

She walked a bit farther and came across dusty chambers with old junk cluttering the floor. There, she found an armory, a granary, and a few storerooms. No one was around, and there were no signs anyone had been for some time. She was just about to turn back when she heard a boot scraping stone. Voices echoed in the passage.

The sound came from behind her, so she scurried forward to find a place to hide. Another intersection. She turned left. The voices grew louder, and she could make out bits of their conversation with words such as squealed, templar, and blood. The chatter made little sense, but it was ominous all the same. A few paces later, she found a door. She tested it by pushing against its smooth surface. It swung open. Her candlelight flowed over a huddled form lying on the floor. It was a cell. If it was, why wasn’t it locked? The sounds grew louder. There was no place else to hide, so she stepped inside the small room and behind the door so when it opened, no one would see her. She nudged the unlocked door closed with her foot.

“I tell you, Pesh. I’m not wild about holding a templar,” said the voice in the hall.

Pakka noticed her candle was still lit. She pinched the wick with her fingers.

“Hey, you leave a candle burning in there?” said a second voice.

“Nawp,” said the first. “You see something?”

There was a scraping sound. One drew a weapon from a scabbard, Pakka guessed. She held herself still. The door opened.

“Are you kidding me? Maken, who was the last guard on duty?”

“Geng. Why?”

“The door’s unlocked.”

“Aw, crap. Is the mighty templar still there?”

“Can’t tell. Give me your torch.” Light shone into the room followed by acrid smoke. A sigh. “No. He’s still here.”

“Is he alive?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. You’re right. Templars make bad prisoners. Boss should kill him and get him off our hands. Let’s go. And lock the door this time damn it.”

The door swung shut, and it rattled a few times as the guard secured it with what Pakka guessed was giant-hair rope.

The guards and their voices moved off. Pakka breathed in relief. They had left the torch in the hall outside or had lit another one. Light leaked through the small window high in the door.

The figure stirred. A hand appeared out from under the black cloth covering it and laid palm down on the floor.

Pakka cringed and pulled her knife.

The hand pushed the body upright. It paused then lifted its head. When it did, Pakka gasped.

It was a man, but he had been abused. His face was cut and bruised, oozing blood and drool; the black stubble on his chin was caked with filth.

He tried to speak, to form words with his damaged mouth.

Pakka approached.

“I …” he said.

“Yes?” she said, her voice faint.

“I don’t suppose you brought any water?”

Melech stumbled after the halfling. His head spun, his face throbbed, and he could see from the expressions he encountered that he looked frightful. His pain and appearance, though, were the last things on his mind. And he worked for Torston. The elf was the very same slaver that Melech had sworn to kill. He felt both excited to find him and frustrated he would not be able to touch him so long as he was chummy with Torston.

What was the connection? He wasn’t one of the gang. Melech knew every pickpocket and second-story man in the crime boss’s employ. He was someone outside the organization, and Melech wasn’t sure why his master would climb in bed with an outsider. It wasn’t like him. He didn’t make alliances. People worked for him or were victimized by him.

They hadn’t walked far before Kep turned down a dead-end alley. Melech followed. As he walked, he shook out his arms and rolled his head to loosen up his shoulders. He had to focus. He couldn’t let distractions—no matter how important—affect him. Melech needed Torston and his first priority was getting back into his master’s good graces.

Kep disappeared through a curtain leading into the dreaming den, a smoke-filled hovel where Tyr’s dregs could while away their days and nights inhaling smoke from burning pakla paste. Melech had never used the stuff. He heard there was nothing better for carrying away all the pains and worries. The templars had used it to control slaves. They handed out sticky blocks to the laborers at the end of their shift, giving them just enough to get a taste for the stuff. Addiction was just as good as loyalty.

Smoke filled the air. The few lit candles created blobby light in the haze. Melech saw dreamers lying on the floor or in bunks, little more than shelves. Humans, muls, dwarves, and even a few thri-kreen lay torpid and dull eyed, deep in the drug’s grasp. As Melech moved by them, he could see the old slave tattoos on their faces and arms. They may be free, but the templars’ gifts enslaved them still.

The mist swirled as a pale dwarf stepped forward in greeting. He wore a red tabard. Vomit stained the neck.

Kep gave a signal. The dwarf bowed, turned, and led them into the place. They followed him through a curtain and into a room where some toughs sat at tables playing tiles. Scarred faces grimly watched them move toward the stone staircase. It led down. Torches stuck out from holes drilled into the stone. They gave enough light to see the steps went down quite a ways. The dwarf handed Melech and Kep several unlit brands and gestured for them to descend.

Few people knew it, but Tyr was not the first city to stand on its foundations. There were at least two previous cities, victims of conquest, the latest of which was Kalak the Merciless. Rather than repair the destruction, he had the defeated people rebuild overtop the old. As new streets and new buildings rose from the ruins, they buried their culture, their lives, and their freedom for all time.

Much of the older city, however, survived. Under-Tyr, as the city’s rogues called it, was the thieves’ highway. Old broken streets led to every district, connecting the Warrens to the Brickyards, the Noble Quarters to the Golden City. People with money—nobles, merchants, and templars, for the most part—went to great lengths to seal off the hidden routes, sometimes bricking them up, other times filling them with rubble from cave-ins. If those methods failed, the king had just sent his templars in to sweep the ruins. They shooed out the squatters and the thieves. For a few days, weeks, maybe even a month, the tunnels stood empty. People returned in time and it became business as usual all over again.

Melech followed Kep down the stairs. In the flickering torchlight, Melech spied crude graffiti scrawled on the walls. Some depicted old Kalak engaged in lewd behavior with a great many different creatures. More recent markings had King Tithian doing the same in Kalak’s place or doing unthinkable things with Kalak himself. At another time, Melech might have added his own artistic talent to the mix, but not at the moment.

The tunnel grew darker the deeper they descended. Kep lit his torch from one of the last few brands lit on the wall. It sputtered, dropping cinders to the ground.

The staircase twisted and turned, wandering with little rhyme or reason. The walls ended as the steps wound down through the ceiling of a massive chamber. Melech marveled at its enormity. He could tell, even with the feeble torchlight, the chamber had once been a plaza. Buildings, some with columns still intact, supported the ceiling overhead. Where no serviceable structures remained, square struts, perhaps a thousand years old, held up the streets above. Kep’s torch flung light across the vast chamber. Shadows danced in answer. Melech could imagine things hiding in the gloom, pale, eyeless creatures thirsty for blood. It was so frightening an image, he almost forgot the elf slaver lurking in his thoughts.

Kep continued and took them one step at a time, testing each to ascertain its strength before putting any weight on the stone. The steps were narrow and cracked. Dust spilled from the sides to vanish into the shadows below. As Melech maintained Kep’s pace, he could see the old rock had given way in places, and as they neared the bottom, he could see their shattered remains littering the floor.

Stepping off the final step, Melech could not help but tremble. He lit his torch from Kep’s and moved off a little to examine one of the structures. The nearest one was a blocky tower. A black cavity led into its interior, and dark slits pocked its face. Burn marks and pits marred its surface. A weird symbol stood over what Melech guessed was a door. It was a snake eating its own tail.

“Melech,” said Kep. “Let’s go.”

Melech stared at the darkness, wondering who built the tower, what the people were like. The damage and the brittle bones lying all over the floor suggested something terrible had happened there. He turned away and found the halfling across the chamber. Kep walked down what used to be a road. To Melech’s eyes the light carried by the tiny figure seemed an intrusion to the mausoleum’s perfect darkness.

Alaeda had no trouble following the human and his halfling companion. She kept her distance, staying back just far enough so she could blend in to the crowds but close enough to follow. It was not long after the two left the Rat’s Nest when they picked up two more tails in front of Alaeda. Two hideous mul bruisers had stepped away from a terrified human merchant peddling smallclothes when the man, a young man, walked by. There was no mistaking the thugs’ intentions. Alaeda could see them craning their necks to watch the thief and the halfling. They hurried to keep up as they made their way through the Warrens. They were brutes good for one thing: killing.

Melech and the halfling entered a dreaming den. The muls had the common sense to wait a few minutes before following. Alaeda, far more accustomed to that sort of thing, waited for a weedy young man to stumble down the same alley to piss against the wall. When he had concluded his business, she took his arm, whispered something filthy, and escorted him inside. She dumped him off a few moments later with a pipe and a pouch of bits to pay for his smoke.

Her blade changed the dwarf proprietor’s mind about being helpful, and with the sword at his neck, he pointed out a staircase headed down. “Under-Tyr,” he said in a voice thick with pakla smoke. “Busy day for the old city.”

She had slipped him a silver coin and whispered in his ear, “Take the coin but don’t spend it right away. Look at it, treasure it, and forget where you got it. Don’t make me come back and kill you.”

A nod slight enough to keep him from pricking his skin on her blade’s point got him released from her grip, and he supplied her with torches so she could see in the under-city.

She followed the muls. There was no reason to stay too close. They made enough noise, she could have followed them if she were blind. They stumbled into every pile of bricks they happened upon, jostling each other and throwing stones into the dark as they walked. It was almost as if they wanted the human and halfling to know they were there. Maybe they did. Alaeda was certain they were there to kill them. She did not care about the thief. She wasn’t in Tyr’s bowels to save some boy with bad luck. No, she was there to see what they were up to, if they were up to anything. It might just be a lure to trap the thieves, and if so, she would lose an hour or two at most and could then go back to her business of sorting out her own house’s plots.

Alaeda was more and more certain the elf Galadan was behind the assassin’s attempt on her life. He knew where she was. He had separated her from her personal guard. But why? She knew too much. She had set up the meeting with House Shom. She had insinuated herself with House Vordon through Talara Vordon, and Alaeda had no doubts people knew she had saved Talara’s life. Furthermore, Galadan saw her as a threat. She was Stel, after all, and had every right to take over the operation in the city. She should have put the elf in his place at the Kank. But he caught her by surprise. Fatigue and confusion had left her unprepared for Galadan’s power grab. Once she determined what the thief and halfling were doing, she would head back up and have a chat with the elf. She touched her sword’s pommel.

The muls disappeared behind more ruins. She tracked them by the light shining above the broken walls. Alaeda followed.

“You hear that?” asked Melech.

Kep shrugged. “Lots of bad stuff down here. Snake-men and such.”

“Snake-men?” Melech almost laughed. He had heard the old stories but chalked them up to cautionary tales intended to keep children from exploring the tunnels. “Yeah. Sure. Thieves? Yep. Murderers? Uh-huh. Snake-men? Right.”

Kep frowned. “Snake-men. If we’re lucky, we won’t see any, but I, too, hear sounds. Could be them.”

Melech chuckled, though he heard his nervousness. Thieves used the paths all the time. Some team on some errand. Nothing to worry about.

They had been walking for an hour, and each turn revealed more and more of the ruined old city. Melech had never gone too far through the city’s underworld. Torston kept him in the markets and businesses, where his particular talents proved more useful.

They walked for some time. Each turn took them deeper into the ruins, and Melech was surprised by what he found. Evidenced from the intricate carvings and delicate architecture, a thriving community once lived there, lives, hopes, and dreams all dashed by a conqueror’s ambition. All those people, all those lives sealed up in a tomb, lost and forgotten almost as if they never were there at all.

He shook himself out of the dark thoughts and whispered, “Tell me about the halfling, Kep.”

Kep flinched but otherwise ignored the question. He searched the darkness as they picked their way across the uneven ground. He was following the thief signs scrawled on the walls, a code many of Tyr’s criminals used to pass along messages, such as “watch your step here,” or directions and indicators as to what was overhead. The last marking told them they were under the Noble Quarters, which meant they were close to the city’s outer wall.

After almost thirty minutes of walking, they reached the ancient city’s edges, where the ceiling had, at some point in the past, caved in, finishing the task Kalak started centuries earlier. Melech guessed many collapses in the area were recent since the nobles were more guarded about letting thieves enter their homes through the cellars. Such efforts were never sufficient. A man with pockets as deep as Torston’s could keep the pathways clear.

They left the ruins down a small corridor. Not long after, the passage opened onto a small chamber. A broken fountain stood in its center. The basin had cracked into three pieces, and an incomplete statue stood in the middle. As they neared it, Melech could see it was once white marble. Grime, mold, and dust obscured what must have been fine stone.

Kep wedged his torch in a crack in the floor and sat. “Rest. Food,” he said.

Melech’s face hurt but he wasn’t tired yet, so he snooped around the fountain. He was surprised to find water still pooled at the bottom. A pale vine with long, barbed thorns grew up from the murky liquid. Little teardrop fruits hung from the vine. They looked exquisite. He almost reached out to pluck one but then realized what he was doing. There was no telling what was in the fruit. He suspected they were poisonous. Why had he wanted one? Some queer influence from the plant. He abandoned the fountain and sat next to Kep, casting one last look at the plant.

The halfling fished a haunch of meat from his backpack. Melech could smell it was spoiled. He fought down his revulsion when Kep, after picking off a few maggots, set into it.

Between mouthfuls, Kep talked, every now and then wiping grease from his chin. “Watari is a traitor. A renegade. He is un-peopled.”

“Un-peopled? I don’t understand,” said Melech, surprised to get an answer to a question he fielded a quarter hour past.

“Means he’s no longer us.” He cocked a thumb toward his chest.

“So he pissed your people off? What could he have done?”

“He ate the elder.”

“Ate the elder?”

Kep nodded. “He also defiled the sacred grove.”

“I see. Let’s get back to the elder business. You’re saying he ate the elder.”

Kep took another bite.

“I didn’t think eating people was such a big deal.”

Kep shrugged. He threw the bone across the room, where it clattered in the dark. He clambered to his feet as he wiped his hands on his breeches. When he was done, he retrieved his torch. “Come. We move.”

“Hey, wait,” said Melech.

The halfling stopped and looked at him.

“I’m … I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. About the templar.”

The halfling smiled. “It is fine. We all have secrets.” He headed off toward the edges of the ruined city, where Tembo’s Teeth waited, where they would finish the task Torston set for them.

Rocks shifted somewhere behind them. Melech spun and drew his bone knife. He held his torch high to save his eyes and peered into the gloom. There was nothing. No movement. No more sounds. Snake-men, he thought. Heh.

“Be quiet!” said the mul Melech had named Ugly.

The second, whom Melech called Uglier, spread his arms in apology.

“He almost sees us, fool.”

The second scratched his lumpy chin. “Shame ’bout Melech. Like him.”

Ugly nodded. “Me too. Funny. Torston boss though, so we do what he says.”

“Me know, me know. We but pawns in big game of life,” said Uglier.

“You make noise?” asked Ugly. He knew there were snake-men in the tunnels, had even killed a few for sport. They were mean and had poisonous fangs.

“Me see snake. Me drive off,” said Uglier.

Ugly shuddered and rubbed his forearm where a snake-man had bitten him long past. “We go. Not here to kill snake-men. Kill Melech and take women, yes?”

Uglier showed a mouthful of blackened teeth.

Alaeda, who watched the exchange after killing a snake-man who had tried to catch her off guard, slipped back behind a rocky outcropping. The fools were not just going to kill the thief, whom she guessed was Melech, they would kill them all.

She wiped the black blood from her stabbing sword. The thing still thrashed at her feet. A clawed hand tried to stanch the blood pumping from the hole Alaeda had left in its neck. Alaeda ignored it.

It was a horrible thing. The creature was a snake-man to be sure, or yuan-ti by their proper name. Some thought the snake-men were human once, demon worshipers driven underground for their wickedness. Their wicked masters twisted them into a vile race of half man, half serpent. Abominations and mutations were so common, no two looked alike. The one she had killed was almost human. She was not fooled. The gleaming yellow eyes and snake fangs gave it away.

Alaeda had second thoughts about being there. At the edge of the muls’ torchlight, Alaeda could see more shadows move. To leave, she would have to fight her way free. She could not guess how many snake-men stood between her and the way out. She hoped Melech and his companion knew another exit.

The tunnel sloped deeper into the earth, below even Under-Tyr. The passage burrowed into the rock until it reached the tunnel complex known as Tembo’s Teeth. The place took its name from the rock formations jutting up from the floor and from those hanging from the ceiling. The formations were quite old and brittle. Broken stone littered the floor.

The tunnels were all wide enough to accommodate an army, which was why Kalak sealed them off in the first place. Some said they led out of the city, into the Ringing Mountains to the west.

There were few thief signs, suggesting they had moved into unexplored territory. The walls were not, however, unmarked. Melech could make out queer paintings. Serpents cavorted with men, devouring humans and slaughtering them too. A great horned snake appeared in many scenes, a terrifying figure with fire for eyes.

Melech lit his second torch, and they turned down a straight passage. At the end, he made out a heavy iron portcullis. The barrier didn’t surprise him; the material did. The rusting obstruction could keep Melech supplied with water for the rest of his life.

Kep moved down to the tunnel’s end. Melech wasn’t eager to see what was on the other side. He stayed a few paces back. He tightened his grip on his knife.

Just as the halfling knelt before them to inspect the chain looped around a metal hoop bolted into the stone, a figure resolved itself at the edge of his light beyond the bars. Melech yelped. He caught himself before he looked any more the fool. Kep hadn’t expected the visitor; he had fallen on his rump.

Melech thought the figure was a man, yet as the stranger moved closer, Melech could see his original assessment was not quite right. The creature was naked, skin the color of a bruise. There was a tremendous stink coming from its body, almost as if it were rotting. Red eyes glared out from a twisted face, the worst part of which being the mouth filled with sharp black teeth.

It hissed.

Kep cursed and ignored it while he worked on the chain. Kep slipped Torston’s key from a pouch and slid it into the padlock.

The visitor barked and turned back to say something to the moving shadows behind it. There were more creatures, just like the first.

Melech stared and thought, These are Torston’s secret visitors?

The first creature noticed and made a rude gesture with its mouth. Melech looked away, disgusted.

More cursing from Kep indicated the lock wasn’t cooperating.

Melech thought he should help, but he didn’t want to get any closer to the ghoulish creature beyond the bars than he was already. Behind the creature, he saw a few more men shuffling around. They didn’t move like men awake. They puttered as if sleepwalking.

Kep turned the key and backed the lock’s hook out from the top. He swung it free and pocketed the device. Locks were valuable. Two more ghouls, which was what Melech guessed the creatures were, came forward and lifted the gate until they slipped its bottom bar into a hook hanging from the ceiling. The beasts pulled the cart forward—more ghouls and gray-faced human soldiers dressed in bloodstained armor and sporting appalling wounds followed. The lead ghoul patted Kep’s head as it walked by.

The halfling looked ready to eat the ghoul’s arm yet showed incredible restraint.

Melech gulped when the ghoul came close. It smelled of the grave. It hissed, “Well done.” The thing’s breath was worse, rank with rot.

“Any—anytime,” said Melech. He stepped away, unsettled by the ghoul’s nearness. “Er … Kep. We have that thing to do?”

Kep looked confused.

“You know that thing?”

The ghoul laughed. “Run away, little ones. We’ll be seeing you soon enough.”

Melech took the creature’s advice and didn’t bother waiting for his partner. He got a few paces away when he heard Kep’s following footsteps behind him.

He looked back. “Let’s get out of here. Who were those guys?”

He could see them bringing the wagon up after them. They were about twenty, all the same, and had another hundred undead warriors with them.

Kep had no answer.

“What did we just let into the city, Kep?”

Kep said nothing.

The muls stopped a few paces ahead, and for the first time since setting out, they were quiet. They had even extinguished their torch. Alaeda expected darkness, so she was surprised to find there was light still. A green radiance came from mold growing on the walls. Although dim, it was enough for Alaeda to see the muls take positions behind a great jagged stalagmite thrusting up from the floor.

She herself had chosen an outcropping extending out over the cavernous room to hide. She pulled herself to the top and lay on a narrow, flat section. She could see the whole room. A tiny, glowing blue spider dragged off something struggling in a little net it had spun. Alaeda hadn’t sheathed her sword since killing the first yuan-ti. She expected to use it many more times before she left.

She and the muls waited.

There was a square passage cut into the chamber’s far wall. Melech came out first. Even in the gloom, she could see the dark circles under his eyes, his swollen and crooked nose. Blood flecked his youthful features. The halfling followed a few paces behind him.

Melech muttered. He walked toward the spire where the muls hid, oblivious to the danger waiting for him. Alaeda watched the halfling draw a knife. Commotion sounded behind them. Wheels crunched over uneven ground. Chittering echoed from the passage.

The way the halfling moved, his grip on the knife, and his attention on Melech’s back all told Alaeda he meant to kill the young man. For a reason she couldn’t explain, she felt as if she should warn the boy. She reminded herself he was nothing to her and if she showed herself, she would be as good as dead.

Shrill screams sounded from the chamber’s entrance. The muls jumped.

Melech noticed them. “Hey!”

Before he could piece together what was going on, the screaming’s source revealed itself. Scores of hideous cloaked men and women boiled out from the cave’s entrance opposite the passage from which Melech had just emerged. The yuan-ti had come.

As much as Melech didn’t care for Ugly and Uglier, he was relieved to see them. A bit more muscle would make certain he and Kep got out alive. But why were they there? Then he knew. They weren’t there to help. They were there to kill him. He turned to warn Kep and saw the halfling coming at him, knife raised to strike.

Melech cried out and rolled away from the halfling. His momentum carried him forward toward the muls. Ugly gripped a nasty axe in both hands. It was a wedge of stone mounted on a stout, wooden handle. Uglier hefted a wooden club with teeth hammered into the end. Kep caught himself on the stalagmite and twisted around to press the attack against Melech. Before the halfling could spring at him again and before the muls could close in to help, a mob of cloaked shrieking mutants spilled into the room and washed over them.

A spry old woman leaped up and wrapped her scaly legs around Ugly’s neck. She drove her flint knife into his ruined face. She giggled when the mul dropped his weapon and reached up to tear her away. Another freak leaped out from the shadows. Uglier caught it on his club, striking it in the head and sending a shower of gore splashing onto the ground.

More snake-men converged, swarming them all. Kep pulled a second blade and spun and danced, slashing and stabbing wherever he went.

Their efforts were not enough, not by a long shot. There were too many, and more kept coming in through the chamber’s entrance.

The first to attack Melech had a man’s body with the head of a hooded snake. It stopped and opened its maw wide, ejaculating noxious venom in a stream at Melech’s face. The thief ducked out of the path to avoid the spray so it struck the rocks instead. Where the venom fell, oily, yellow smoke rose. Melech flung his knife at the snake-man’s face. It sank into its eye, and it fell to the ground, clawing at the blade. Two more appeared to replace the first. One had snakes in place of eyes. The other was a comely woman, scales all over her naked body.

Melech cursed himself for throwing his weapon away. Panic rose in his chest. He cast around for anything he could use as the savages advanced.

Ugly fell. The same hag who had blinded him was busy ripping out his tongue with her teeth in an awful kiss. Six more hideous freaks surrounded Uglier. Blood streamed from hundreds of cuts in the mul’s body. Snot and tears poured from his face. He wept when he heard his partner’s wailing. The halfling broke free from a snake-armed horror and rushed at Melech.

Melech looked up to see a woman fighting her own battle on an escarpment not too far from the gap leading to escape. Who was she and what was she doing there?

Alaeda shoved her sword into the monster’s bloated gut and kicked it off her blade. Its O-shaped mouth worked as it dropped, trailing a fountain of filth from the wound as it fell. The moment it hit the ground, its body flew apart into squirming, slithering, banded serpents.

Her breaths came in hitches. She had killed six so far, enough to make her attackers think twice about joining their dead fellows. She flicked blood from her blade and used the reprieve to survey the battlefield. The muls were down. Melech was unarmed and had been backed up to a stalagmite by two yuan-ti, with the halfling not far behind. More screeching sounded from the darkness. More were coming.

Then a wave of gray- and purple-skinned horrors boiled out from the passage where Melech and the halfling emerged just moments earlier. They ran on all fours like beasts and sprang at the snake-men, slashing with claws and rending flesh with their teeth. Alaeda watched in horror as the snake-men stiffened and fell with just a touch from those claws, paralyzed.

Behind them came forth a mob of armored men. They shuffled, almost as if in a trance. They raised their weapons and chopped at any yuan-ti who came close.

It was past time to leave. Alaeda needed to find a way out.

The yuan-ti closed. The naked one hissed, running her clawed hands on her thighs in a sickening, sensual manner. Snake-eyes extended his appendages, fanged heads snapping. Melech retreated and felt his back hit a stalagmite.

Kep, his body slick with gore, walked toward the snake-men.

“A little help, Kep?” Melech asked.

Kep stopped his advance, as if willing to let the yuan-ti do his dirty work.

More screams drew their attention to the passage. The wagon had come free, and the ghouls and the undead soldiers had joined the battle. The ghouls ripped through the yuan-ti as if they were nothing. Their sudden appearance caused the snake-men to waver for a few moments, but they regained their resolve when another fifty yuan-ti joined the fight with an even more hideous monstrosity in tow.

It slithered out from the tunnel and straightened in the large cavern until it stood twelve feet tall. A giant snake’s tail supported a humanoid torso and arms, though the head was a green serpent’s. Great yellow eyes glowed in the gloom, and its forked tongue tasted the air. It gripped a crude blade of steel, twice as long as Melech was tall, and roared out a challenge in a strange language.

Melech knew he had found death and there would be no escape.

Alaeda was convinced she was going to die. She abandoned her position and slid down the rocky slope. The new monstrosity closed off the way she had come in. The way out was through the ghouls. To get through them, she would need help.

On reaching the slope’s bottom, she sprang forward to stab at the snake-eyed yuan-ti menacing Melech. She cut off one of its eyestalks and put her shoulder into its body to knock it, wailing, to the ground.

“Here, fool,” she said and tossed Melech the steel dagger Talara had given her. He at least had the wits to catch it.

She spun in time to stop the clawed nude woman from ripping off her face. Instead, the black talons dug into her shoulder and tore at her skin. Alaeda grunted and pulled away. She slipped around the monster and drove her sword into its back. It slid off her blade. She looked around for Melech.

The thief and the halfling circled each other, feinting and slashing with their blades.

“Idiots!” she shouted. “You can kill each other later. We have to get out of here.”

As if to prove her point, six yuan-ti charged them. She slew one and parried a heavy axe strike from another. Melech and Kep abandoned their duel and joined her to face the attackers.

Melech vowed he would marry the woman the first chance he got. The last wave of snake-men to attack convinced Kep to abandon his effort to kill him and join forces to fight off the common enemy. Back to back, they slashed and stabbed at the nightmarish forms spilling out of the gloom. The woman fought alongside them. She split a snake-man’s horrid face in two and pulled her sword free from its chin. The dead yuan-ti gave them an opening through the press.

“Let’s go!” she shouted. She ran toward the ghouls and zombies. The monstrous, giant snake-man loomed into view.

“Through them?” Melech answered, laughing.

Kep punched his blade into another snake-man’s groin and followed the woman.

Melech saw the abomination closing on him. He feinted to the left. His current opponent, a knot of snakes tied up in a humanoid form, followed his movement, giving Melech the chance he needed to run.

That’s a shame, then,” said Korvak when the guest in his cell said nothing. “I’m quite thirsty.”

The visitor was not much more than a moving shadow. The torchlight shining through the window in his cell door made it impossible for him to see more than a silhouette. His left eye had swollen shut. He had to give the Watari fellow credit. He knew pain well and could inflict it in many interesting ways.

He hurt everywhere. He recalled the hours before the guards tossed him in the cell as a hellish panorama of blood, pain, and a leering face. The halfling had cut him. He had carved chunks of flesh from his body and ate them in front of him. Korvak didn’t have the strength to take inventory of his body. He was too afraid to look. He felt wet between his legs. The halfling had taken his manhood while he had blacked out. A small blessing, he supposed.

He squinted with his good eye. He saw a pale face watching him from a shadowed corner. Short and blocky, a dwarf’s build.

“I can’t hurt you. There is no reason to be frightened. Come forward. I can’t see you. The guards shouldn’t be back for a while now.”

The shadow hesitated then stepped so Korvak could see his suspicions were correct. His visitor was a dwarf. She was bald like most of her race, and quite plain. He sighed and fell back to the wall. He felt cold. He suspected he would be dead in a matter of hours.

“If you’re just going to watch me die, you could at least tell me your name.” He closed his eye.

“P-Pakka.”

He chuckled. “Well, P-Pakka, what brings you here? Not to rescue me?”

He was so tired, though, so weak, he didn’t bother to open his eye, at least not until he felt a warm hand resting on his brow. The dwarf’s face was very close, and he could smell her breath, a sweet smell, life, rain evaporating in the sun.

“I … I … can help you,” she said.

“Doubtful, dear. Very doubtful,” he said. He had no reason to lie to himself. He was going to die.

The dwarf whispered something. Korvak could not understand the words. They weren’t Dwarven nor Common. Her words sounded like a stirring of the wind. Her hand grew cool. Beads of sweat broke out all over his body, joining those others dampening his robe. Each cut, each scrape, awoke in searing pain. He felt burning in his left eye and knew it wasn’t gummed shut but had been torn from his head. He felt the gouges in his flesh where the halfling’s sharp spoon had dug out bite-sized bits of living tissue. He felt the absence in his groin, and he cried for his loss.

The pain intensified. He screamed for her to stop. Even then the pain didn’t end, wouldn’t relent. He writhed and through it all, her hand remained on his face. The cursed, agonizing touch would not lift; the pain would not abate. He wondered how she was doing it, why she was torturing him. He felt his consciousness slipping away, death closing over him. Death enfolded him. It was over.

She sagged and collapsed on his chest. They breathed as one. Their chests rose and fell in time.

They laid for what could have been days. Her weight was not a burden; it was a comfort, a startling reminder he still lived and, thanks to her, might still live. He raised his hand and put it on her shoulder.

She pulled away and fell back to the blood-slick floor. “I … I … am sorry,” she said.

Korvak struggled to rise. He was still weak. And he hurt like hell. But still he lived, and he did not know how or why.

“Your injuries. You should have been dead. I … could do nothing for what you … lost.”

He understood. He could live without an eye, his manhood. He mourned their loss. His grief sharpened into anger, into hatred so raw, it threatened to consume him. He shook it off by reminding himself the time for vengeance would come soon enough. He breathed out again. He tested himself, feeling his body. The bleeding had stopped. The wounds were still raw, wet, and painful. She had restored him somewhat, enough so he could walk. It would be many months before he recovered, if he ever did.

He coughed. “You have saved my life. Pakka.”

She regained her feet and backed away from him.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Korvak.”

“Pakka.”

“Yes, you told me.” He offered her a smile. He was certain it was frightening.

“Oh. Right,” she paused. “Why are you here?” she asked, gesturing to the cell.

“I had the singular misfortune of putting myself in the hands of very bad people. Of equal importance, Pakka, why you are here?”

Through the gloom, he could see her scrunch her face either to spin a lie or to decide if she should tell him the truth.

“We’re friends now, Pakka. I owe you a debt. If you tell me, perhaps we can come up with a way for me to repay it.”

“My mistress sent me,” she began.

“To save me? Who is this mistress of yours?” he asked.

“No, no. My mistress, Lady Vordon, sent me to … er … look around.”

“Lady Vordon?” he asked.

“You know her?” she replied.

“No. Maybe. Who is this Lady Vordon?” he asked. He added, “Seems like I’m sick with Vordons,” under his breath.

“Talara Vordon. Thaxos Vordon’s cousin.” She answered his blank stare with, “Master Vordon called us to Tyr.”

“So you’re her spy?”

“I’m her sla … servant,” she answered.

Korvak knew she almost said “slave.” Curious. He was astonished by her power. “Look around for what?”

She peered at him, suspicion clear on her face. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“I am a templar. It is what I do.”

She paled and retreated again. “Spirit of my ancestors, what have I done?”

“You saved a man’s life. I won’t harm you. Now let’s get back to your mistress. You were just about to tell me what you were doing in this dungeon.”

Pakka thought Korvak must be an enemy to Thaxos Vordon. And if he was opposed to Thaxos, he could very well be an ally.

“Well, I got lost,” she began, and she told him the whole tale.

Korvak could tell the woman was not a conversationalist. She had to be coaxed to start talking, but once she began, she did not stop until she told Korvak everything she knew about her mistress, Thaxos Vordon, and how she came to be in the tunnels.

Korvak rubbed his temples. He had sat back on the floor, a spot not soiled by his shit and blood.

“So,” he mused aloud, “the old man called Lady Vordon back to Tyr. She had her warriors taken from her and sent with Vordon’s ‘generous’ donation, and now she suspects some foul play by her cousin. Am I right?”

Pakka nodded but added, “And someone murdered two of our guards at Silver Spring Oasis.”

“Yes, yes, but unimportant.”

“Tell it to the dead guards,” she whispered.

He ignored the comment. “Well, your mistress is right. Vordon is up to something, and I believe I know what it is.”

Pakka stared.

“I need to meet this Lady Vordon. At once.”

“How?” asked Pakka. “We’re stuck in this cell.”

He almost shouted at her, “Fool.” He caught himself, though. She had just saved his life.

“The guards will return. They left me here to die. They’ll need to get rid of the body. When they return, we’ll kill them.”

Pakka swallowed.

“You have a problem with killing?”

“No,” she said, “yes. The guards did nothing to us.”

He looked at her, incredulous. “My body tells a different story.”

Pakka nodded and looked away.

“You have power, friend dwarf. How did you come to be a slave?”

The dwarf sighed. “Like any other. I was taken from my village as a young woman. I was used as a breeder to produce muls.”

Korvak could hear the bitterness in her voice. “As poorly as you were treated by, as you say, my kind, you still healed me?”

“You were hurt. In such pain. I couldn’t let you suffer. I didn’t know you were a templar.”

He nodded. “But your gift. Where does it come from?”

“Before I was taken, I was an initiate to the spirits of rain and storm.”

“Ah. A priestess, then.” Priests were strange folk. They served powers ancient and mysterious. Some claimed to worship the sun, the stones, even rain. No, “worship” was the wrong word. Priests were partners with those primal powers, allies of the elemental forces.

“I am even more surprised by your generosity, Pakka,” he said, knowing at a different time and in a different place, they would be enemies. Priests served the world. He served, or at least he used to serve, a sorcerer-king. They were natural foes. The sorcerer-kings had wrought much suffering on the land, and their templars were no innocents themselves.

Pakka didn’t offer anything further as she studied the floor. He wondered if she regretted her choice.

They sat in silence for several hours, waiting for the guards to return. They had no food, no water, and even the torch in the hall had sputtered out. Pakka withdrew to her own thoughts and offered no further information. When Korvak tried to engage her, she responded with grunts and not much more.

When the silence and the waiting became almost unbearable, Korvak felt his clothing stir, his hair move. A breeze? Here? The wind grew stronger. Pakka looked up, afraid.

The swirling wind became a moan.

He struggled to stand. Pakka stood, clutching a small pouch in her hand.

Korvaaaaak, said the wind.

“I am here,” he said to the air.

I have searched as I promised, I have scoured the city for the information you sought. Thaxos Vordon moves even now to take the city. We believe Vordon is in league with defilers.

The wind sighed, swirled, and continued, We have found dead zones all around the city and under it. We will aid you this once, Korvak, but make no mistake, the Veiled Alliance will never serve the templars.

Then the wind died down and the cell was still once more. So he had convinced the Veiled Alliance to help him after all.

“Defilers?” asked Pakka.

Korvak waved a hand. “Wizards. Sorcerers. They draw power from living things to fuel their magic.” He suspected revealing he himself defiled would not improve their relationship, so he held it back.

“I know what a defiler—” the sound of footfalls from the hall cut Pakka off.

The men bickered outside. “I still can’t believe you left the door unlocked, Geng.”

“Leave off. I thought he was dead.”

“Did you check?”

“Did you see what the halfling did to him? Even if he was still alive, there was no way he was walking. I had to carry him here.”

“I heard you vomited.”

He gagged. “You would’ve too had you seen the halfling eat.”

“Settle down.”

Pakka moved to take a position behind the door. Korvak scrambled to where the guards had last seen him.

The door shook as they lifted the rope.

“Arms or feet?” asked the nameless guard.

“Arms. I seen enough of the other side. Poor bastard.”

“Didn’t figure you to be so soft, Geng. Stupid, yes. But soft?”

“Shut up.”

The door swung into the room. The guards filed in. They moved to grab Korvak by his arms and legs. Neither noticed as a small cloud billowed out from nothing, a swelling storm formed by Pakka’s magic. Both men stooped. One noticed the forming cloud behind the door. “Kalak’s stones! What—?”

The cloud coalesced into a dripping, man-shaped form, a storm’s violence bound in a humanoid shape. Pakka spoke an ancient word to command it, and it obeyed, lurching and grabbing one guard’s shoulders. It yanked him back. The second guard drew a bone sword and attacked. The elemental pulled the first guard apart as if he were nothing more than thin parchment. Organs and blood splashed onto the floor. The other guard vomited and wept. He begged for mercy.

Korvak struggled to his feet. Pakka came out from behind the door. The elemental advanced and brought a massive fist down with such force it ripped the head from the guard and sent it rolling across the floor. What was left of the man flopped, legs kicking, bowels voiding.

Korvak stared at the mess. He looked to the elemental and swung to Pakka.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. She gestured toward the elemental, and it flew apart in a brief shower of falling rain to mingle with the filth sullying the chamber floor.

Pakka hurried out from the cell. Korvak gave the room a final look then followed. He paused long enough to snatch a sputtering torch from the floor.

Pakka ran down the corridor. She took each turn as she came to them, almost as if she were choosing them at random. Korvak could not keep up. She had saved him from death, but he was a long way from healthy. After a few minutes, he called out to her, “Pakka … wait … I … I … can’t.” He stumbled and fell.

He heard her footfalls growing softer, stopping, then growing louder again.

He blinked sweat from his eye. Even holding the torch was an effort. Pakka moved into the light. He saw her eyes were red. Tears and snot fouled her brutish features.

Korvak sat on the floor. He breathed. She waited and, after a few minutes, wiped her face with the back of her hand.

“We’re lost, aren’t we?” he asked when he could talk again.

She set her lips in a tight line.

“We’re getting nowhere,” he said, more to himself than to the dwarf.

Pakka spun. “We have to get to Talara. I must warn her.”

“Yes, I know you do. We’re not going to find her by running in random directions.”

He took a breath. “Pakka. The thing you controlled. What was it?”

“A spirit of the world that once was,” she said.

“If you have such power, why didn’t you just open the door?” he said.

She clenched her hands into fists. Was his mind playing tricks, or did he see mist swirl around her when she stepped forward? He crawled backward. He did not want to see the elemental again.

She calmed herself. “Sorry. I am worried. My mistress is everything to me. I must protect her. As for the door. I saw what those guards did to you. They had to be punished. I did not want to kill them, but I was so angry, sickened, they had to pay. Not for your benefit, but for all the others they had harmed before. I was selfish then. And I fear we have wasted too much time already.”

“I understand,” said Korvak. “We need to be more cautious, though. Settle your mind and let’s find a way rather than hope we’ll stumble onto it.” His torch was sputtering, and he knew they would not have light for long.

They stood at another intersection, one like dozens of others they had found. “Let’s try the left passage this time.”

Pakka was about to say something but followed him.

They walked. They did not turn and stayed on their path. In the torch’s failing light, Korvak noticed the walls were changing. The fitted brick gave way to heavy stones with crumbling mortar between them. They were far from where they had started, but Korvak knew the passage had to lead somewhere. He pushed ahead, stubborn and ignoring the frustrated and concerned noises coming from the dwarf.

The torch died a few minutes later. They walked in darkness. They touched the walls to guide them. They tested the floor with each step. They were lost in the dark and very much alone. The city pressed down on them, the weight of centuries pushing on their shoulders.

Korvak’s confidence began to crumble, but they forged ahead.

What could have been an hour later, Pakka said, “Is that … is that light?”

He peered ahead. He could see nothing and said as much.

“No, there is light.” He felt her push past him. Her soft steps moved away from him. He hurried to catch up.

A bit farther, he realized he could see the walls, could make out cracks in the floor. Relief flooded through him.

Pakka’s dim outline stopped. He held back. “What?” he whispered.

“There’s someone there,” she said.

He strained to see, but it was still too dark.

Korvak moved a little closer. There was someone ahead. A shuttered lantern sat on floor beside a woman. She was sketching a pattern on the floor with chalk. She wore heavy black robes, and her long hair concealed her features.

Something alerted her and she turned away from the pattern, eyes blazing. “And what have we here?” she said.

Korvak fell back. “I suppose I should ask the same of you.”

She was quite striking, even in the feeble light. “Witnesses,” she muttered. She raised a hand. In it, Korvak saw she held a wand.

He cursed and threw red lightning bouncing down the corridor. Without his rod, he lacked accuracy and focus. The halfling had destroyed it first. His attack missed. Hers didn’t.

She responded by loosing a pale, gray beam from her wand, and the beam cut a line across Pakka’s body. The dwarf screamed as the top half of her body slid off the lower.

Korvak screamed in rage and drained all the life he could feel around him to fuel the roiling ball of fire he formed and hurled against the woman. The resulting explosion blinded him for a moment. When his vision cleared, the woman had gone.

He hobbled forward to search for her, but a moan drew him back. What remained of Pakka lay on the floor. He knelt by her side. Her lower half had crumbled to black ashes, and her top half was following. She should be dead already, yet somehow she clung to life.

He could think of nothing to say to her, so he looked into her eyes, watching as she died. “Talara,” she gasped, “must … must … protect …”

Korvak knelt until the witch’s spell reduced Pakka’s body to ashes. “Thank you, Pakka, thank you,” he whispered. He felt something. Not regret, not remorse, but gratitude, and he was amazed by the strangeness of the feeling.

House Shom’s army marched toward Tyr and left a string of burned-out villages in their wake. They approached the city-state from the south. They had looped around the outlying settlements and their failing plantations to strike at the richer, more populous communities sheltering in Tyr’s shadow. Temmnya explained she wanted to avoid a confrontation with the Crimson Legion, Tyr’s army. She assured Loren they would deal with Tyr’s mighty army once they had dealt with the city-state itself.

Loren was surprised Tyr hadn’t yet responded, hadn’t split its army to deal with the new threat from the east. Loren expected someone had to have noticed their approach and had escaped for safety in Tyr where they could warn the king. Was King Tithian that inept? But then what else could the king do? He had already committed his forces to the north. What troops Tithian had left he would employ to defend the city-state behind its towering walls. Assuming he even knew they were out there, circling like the damnable birds overhead.

Loren turned his gaze from the screeching flock to the village Temmnya’s army would shatter as surely as the sun would rise in the east. A low wall ringed the settlement and it bristled with spears, suggesting the defenders would not lie down and make conquest easy. It made no difference to Loren. He had buried his regrets and misgivings about their business in a shallow grave several miles away. He grieved for them from time to time, but he was a changed man, a man who accepted his lot, no matter how bad it was.

Kutok cracked his knuckles as he came to Loren’s side. Loren saw his own deadness reflected in the young warrior, in his flat eyes and slack posture. A sort of friendship had formed between them since Temmnya seduced Aeris. The warriors exchanged few words, little more than grunts and short answers. The sparseness of their conversation indicated the similarity in thought. What point was there to saying anything when each knew how the other felt, what the other believed. They were brothers, bound by their enemies’ blood, united in the horrors they had witnessed since setting out from Nibenay in what felt like a different lifetime.

Loren scanned the ruined plantations and burning hovels sitting on them. Temmnya’s undead warriors trampled everything underfoot as they marched into position. Some stood as still as gray statues, others ambled around, shuffling among the wreckage. Loren saw a zombie made from a young girl. She brushed her hair and pulled out locks and skin with each stroke.

Temmnya had named Loren commander. Of what? The dead? There were ranks upon ranks of sun-spoiled dead milling around. They didn’t answer his orders. They couldn’t even talk. The ragged few who still lived and still listened numbered but a handful, and they stayed close to Loren. They would have followed him into hell, for he had survived, had slaughtered the enemy in appalling numbers, until he had become, to them at least, Death itself, an apotheosis reinforced by the undead who dogged his every step.

He saw the necromancer, his mistress, climb onto an abandoned wagon’s back. She had been hurt. Her skin and hair had been burned, her black robes scorched. Aeris held her hand and supported her as she climbed the steps. She moved to position with the half-elf at her side. She looked out at the village then to Loren. He answered her gaze by clapping the heavy bone helmet on his head and drawing his new stone sword. It was an enormous thing with a chipped blade almost as long as he was tall. Its handle had room enough for four hands if not more. He gripped it in one hand and held it ready.

Temmnya stood with Aeris. He was bent almost in half, simpering. Where Aeris appeared weak, she was strong, imperious, a vision of terrible beauty. The wind stirred her long black robes so the white dragonflies seemed to fly around her.

She raised a pale hand and dropped it.

Loren sprang forward, running as fast as his legs could carry him. He screamed a meaningless battle cry, leading the fearful and the enthralled at the vanguard’s center, first to battle and last to leave it. The living lent their shouts to his, voices feeble in the silence of those hundreds upon hundreds following them.

The village wall loomed ahead as Loren drew near. Arrows flew into the air, streaking toward them, but Loren barreled on, undaunted. The first struck his sword and spun away. The rest followed, falling among his companions, thumping into dirt and flesh, a whooshing sound pierced by shrieks and moans. One bit into Loren’s chest, punching through the thick padded hides and into his skin. Another bounced off his helmet. A third sank into his thigh. He pushed on.

The wall was close. Loren carried his heavy blade and leaped the last few feet, throwing himself through the air to catching the wall’s top with one outstretched hand. A defender, a half-starved man with a basket for a helmet, moved to dislodge him. Loren wrenched himself up, using his legs and arm to draw himself onto the battlements. The guard slammed into him but bounced back, sprawling on the walkway. Other guards dropped bows and readied spears. One downward stroke from Loren sent the basket and head flying from the guard’s shoulders and cleared the path to the next foes to die. A few fell back in fear. Most wore grim expressions. They knew they stared at death and were resolved to die fighting.

Loren became their doom. The warriors jabbed at him with stone-tipped spears. Some even pricked his flesh, but Loren’s heavy blade rose and fell, chopping weapon hafts and hands, heads and limbs. Body parts flew up into the air along with crimson showers until the stones became slick with their blood.

More screams sounded from behind him. His men had reached the walls. Still the defenders fought. Their oaths and challenges turned to fearful screams when the undead host clambered up the wall and battered down their barricades.

Blazing fire streaked overhead. It fell into the community, exploding where it landed, greasy black columns rising up from craters dark sorcery created.

Loren spared a glace to where Temmnya and Aeris stood. Ashes swirled around them, the land dead all around, a consequence of her magic. Aeris crumpled. Loren had suspected she had been using him, but his fears were finally confirmed. Yet Aeris had gone to her willingly, hadn’t he?

He looked out across the village. People scrambled and fought the flames, throwing sand, dirt, and even precious water. A few had the wisdom to flee. Shrinking bodies ran up the dusty road, seeking shelter at Tyr, still miles away. Let them run. They would die like all the rest. There was no escape from Temmnya.

Loren surveyed the damage and swallowed his shame. He was a butcher of women and children, old men and cowards. He growled. The village burned. Bodies littered the ground. They had spared no one. The dead would rise. The dead would serve as all the others Loren had killed. It was worse than the convict fights back in Nibenay, when hundreds of club-wielding criminals were herded at spear point to face off against well-armored, well-armed, well-trained gladiators. He had been on the winning side of those nightmares more than once. He made peace with those memories. His foes then had been armed criminals after all. But the people he killed for Temmnya were blameless, their crime resting in their unwillingness to flee when they had the chance.

It wasn’t like Loren could have refused to fight. Last time he tried to hold his living soldiers back, Temmnya made it very clear who was in charge, and it wasn’t him. And if the warriors balked, gold’s promise eased their weapons from sheathes and closed their eyes to the wrongs they wrought at sword and spear point. He still ached from the agony her touch had imparted. Her cool hands could bring wondrous pleasure or pain worse than Loren imagined the Dragon himself could inflict.

Aeris was no better. He had surrendered to her. He was her henchman, a toady, a slave, and the feverish expression he wore, a mix of ecstasy and self-loathing, told Loren his partner was lost. And Loren hated him for it. Maybe he had hated Aeris for a while and refused to see it. But each time he looked at his one-time friend, he felt bitterness.

Temmnya sent Loren and the scant few soldiers who still lived to clean up. They had the unpleasant task of killing the dying. A swift slash across the throat was better than being food for the tembos—craven, doglike predators—they saw stalking the hills a day back.

Loren reached the village square. Scorch marks still smoked from the ground where Aeris and Temmnya’s spells had struck. Death clotted the air from the power they drew to hurl their filthy magic. It was little more than a few dozen paces across, with an old stone well standing in the center. A childish hand had scrawled pictures on the well’s stones, crude images hinting at the life there, at families, hard work, and quiet joys free from the hardships in the city but faced with the struggles life beyond its walls entailed.

Squat brick buildings stood on all sides. The roads were not much more than alleys, but they were the community’s arteries all the same, and like them, blood stained their walls. Laundry lines hung between the second-story windows, with stained clothing set to air out before serving another day. The streets would never again see the dramas and tensions, never hear the laughter and conversation, for the place, the village with no name, was dead, and its people, ashes and dust.

Loren spied another soldier limping down a side street, his face twisted in a grimace of distaste, dreading the moment he would find a survivor and knowing he would do what he had to do when he did. He threw a glance at Loren. The gladiator turned away before he could catch it.

The street beckoned and he complied. He took a few steps. He moved his sword to his other hand. Blasted heat made his hands slick. It was an hour past high sun, and the heat shimmers danced on the cobbled streets. Loren wiped his hand on his leather breeches and took his sword back.

Dark holes led into homes he had helped turn into tombs. Loren stepped inside each one. He examined the dead without touching them. He nudged an old dwarf with his boot and recoiled when a savage wound in its torso opened to release an oozing slick of congealed blood. The other bodies had been mauled as well.

Loren backed out from the house into the bright light once more. He looked up the road and counted: a dozen more at least.

He sighed. He looked back to the square. He could still see the well. Something flapped down from the sky to perch on the lip. It was hideous with black and red feathers, a fleshy head with a wattle on the neck, and a long serrated beak. It screamed at Loren, cocking its head once it had voiced its rage. More kestrekels joined it until the square vanished beneath their feathers and droppings.

Loren returned to his task, angry at what he had to do. He gave cursory glances into each building, not bothering to climb up the rickety ladders to the flat roofs where many people slept at night. He found no one alive and thanked his father’s memory for it because he knew he could not kill anymore that day, even if it meant his own life.

Done with his section, or close enough for him, he made his way back to the encampment. Temmnya claimed the leader’s house, a fine house, though still small and crude by any city’s standards, not far from the village’s center. She would emerge at night to call forth the dead as she had in each village before, blue energy dancing through the streets, throwing up darkness as they passed and rousing the corpses from their homes to stumble out and join the swelling hordes she commanded.

Loren passed the few soldiers hunkered down inside the buildings where they drank stolen water and ate stolen food. One soldier offered a cup. Loren waved it away and continued.

He had a growing suspicion Temmnya intended to attack Tyr. It seemed madness. Kalak was dead, and with him went all the old truths. If one sorcerer-king could die, none were safe. The old order was showing its age. Perhaps it was the time for greater evils than even the sorcerer-kings could conjure. He shuddered to think of what Tyr would be like with Temmnya as its queen. She would kill all and make them undead slaves.

He pushed his way into the Temmnya’s command center, ignoring the complaint from the guard he shoved aside, and found his mistress leaning back in a chair, her legs propped up on a table. Her drake lay coiled up nearby, tail swishing and head rising as Loren approached. Aeris was there too, all gaunt and haunted. He noticed Loren but looked away, too ashamed to meet his old friend’s gaze. He had every reason for self-recrimination after the horrors he had helped create. Loren’s hands weren’t clean either. The damage to their friendship would never heal, though. Loren was certain.

“All done?” asked Temmnya. Her red lips parted in a smile, revealing white teeth behind.

Loren nodded.

“See, that wasn’t hard, now was it? You did well, Loren,” she said.

“I’m a butcher,” he replied, voice even.

“Oh, you are and it’s what you were born to be.”

Loren bristled. Changing the subject, he said, “I found fewer folk than I thought I would find.”

She didn’t answer him. She turned to Aeris. “You did very well too. I must say, for a slave,” she paused, “for a former slave, you did quite well. Who was your mentor?”

Aeris stammered. Loren watched. He wouldn’t know the name. Aeris never spoke of his past. Not once during all the long nights did he ever mention a person or place. Loren had been able to put together was he was Draji. It was clear in his accent and his swarthy skin.

When Aeris still offered nothing, Temmnya laughed, a shrill cackle rousing her drake and sending it slinking away. “I like him, Loren. I truly do. Such modesty. Such loyalty!” She laughed again, shaking her head. She stopped and frowned. She leaned forward, dropping the chair’s feet to the ground. Turning toward Aeris, all serious, she said, “I asked you a question, slave. Who taught you?”

Before Aeris could answer, a horn sounded from outside. All in the room turned toward the window. Loren wrenched his sword free. Aeris drew a fractured obsidian sphere. Temmnya’s anger fled. “Put those away. These are friends. Show respect.” She stood and snapped her fingers. Her drake waddled to her side. She affected a calm, relaxed posture. Loren had been around her long enough to read her tension. It was in the way she held her eyes, a slight twitch at the corners.

Loren lowered his sword but didn’t sheathe it. He notice Aeris still held his rock. Loren could not guess what it did or how it would help matters. Aeris had done many things he would never understand. Loren was surprised, however, to see worry in Aeris’s expression and even more surprised when Aeris mouthed, Trust me.

Commotion on the street alerted them visitors were close. Loren walked to the door, leaving Aeris and Temmnya behind. The soldiers had pulled back to make room for the new warriors. They were a ragged band, a mix of humans and other races. Each wore a horned badge on piecemeal armor, and the weapons they carried were shoddy and scavenged. They had a hard look about them and carried themselves like the warriors Loren knew they were.

A muscled giant of a man led the procession and stopped before Loren. The man radiated hatred. A hand on his arm broke his gaze, and he realized Temmnya was at his side.

“So sweet,” she murmured and shoved him behind her. “Kyjkar, be welcome,” she said and bowed her head.

The man nodded and gave Loren another look before returning his attention to the Shom woman. When he spoke, it was a rumble, a deep and unpleasant noise. “Temmnya. I bring one hundred swords, as we agreed.”

Temmnya bowed again and said, “My thanks, Kyjkar. Your fierce warriors will bring us a great victory.”

The leader nodded. He was waiting for something. Temmnya noticed.

“Ah. Payment, of course.”

His eyes burned.

“You’ll find them in the cellar.”

Kyjkar looked into the room and smiled.

“Perfect,” she said. “You and your men are tired. We need not be off until nightfall. Go. Claim your reward and be at ease.”

The slave tribe leader waved his warriors forward. Almost as one, they drew weapons and headed inside the leader’s house.

“Aeris, Loren? You had better come along. Now.” She hurried from the house, and Loren and the wizard followed. They weren’t but a few steps away when the victims’ screaming reached their ears.

Loren imagined what went on in the building behind him. Those savages would kill and rape and maybe even eat them. He could not bear to hear the cries and stormed off.

Temmnya and Aeris followed.

Loren could take no more. He would serve her no longer. He spun and grabbed Temmnya’s arm, wrenching her close. He grabbed her neck and squeezed. Loren knew he’d have to kill her or she’d kill him, but he could not do what she required anymore. He would not serve her evil. He tightened his grip. Her face purpled.

“Loren, no!” exclaimed Aeris.

He ignored the half-elf as he looked into the woman’s fluttering eyes. She struggled to breathe and thrashed in his grasp.

“Let her go, Loren,” Aeris said.

He turned from her and saw Aeris standing a few paces away at the front of twenty or more zombies, a groaning, clawing mass.

“What? You’ll kill me?” Loren laughed.

“And you’ll just serve her anyway. One last chance, Loren. Let her go.”

“But those people … they were innocent—”

“Just like all the others you killed.” Aeris raised his hand. In it sat the black stone. It had grown larger, darker, somehow expanding its presence. Threads of darkness wormed out from it, licking the air like serpents’ tongues.

Loren threw Temmnya to the ground. She pulled herself up, gasping. She clutched at her throat and had the temerity to look wounded. “Naughty, naughty Loren,” she croaked.

The undead withdrew at Aeris’s dismissal, though the half-elf remained, ready to destroy Loren should the ex-gladiator give him reason.

“I’m done. To the Nine Hells with both of you,” said Loren. He turned away and left them both behind. He saw Kutok and a few soldiers huddled in the shade cast by a roof.

He almost reached the corner before he felt as if he couldn’t take another step, as if there were no reason to keep walking, no point. I should go back. Temmnya needs me. He didn’t know where the thoughts came from. He tried to push them away, yet he found himself turning back. He turned and saw Aeris cringing and Temmnya standing, her hand extended toward him. She rubbed her throat with the other. The scorched ground around her confirmed she had used magic against him.

As he walked, he wondered if the undead felt as he did—no will, no control, a prisoner in one’s own body. He fought against each step, but in no time at all, he stood before her once more. She showed her teeth and placed a hand on his chest. “You’re mine, Loren, now and always. I should kill you, but you are less useful dead. From now on, Loren, you will do as I say for as long as I say. Don’t look for death, my darling. It holds no relief for you. When it’s time for you to die, it will be long and lingering. This I promise.”

Dawn came to the Ringing Mountains and found Melech seated on an escarpment overlooking a slope littered with jagged peaks and dark defiles. He sat with his head in his hands, exhaustion clinging lover-tight to his body. His eyes were slits, his face still swollen from his broken nose. His stomach rumbled and his mouth was far too dry. It had been at least a day since he and his companions had found any water and longer since he had sucked the marrow from the lizard he had managed to kill.

He hadn’t slept in just as long. He wouldn’t sleep, not while Kep was with him. The halfling had tried to murder him once, and Melech didn’t plan to make it any easier for his one-time friend. He looked up the slope to the ledge where Kep and the woman who called herself Alaeda had slept. She was up. She was always moving before dawn. Melech doubted she herself had rested. They were allies of circumstance, he and the Alaeda woman. She had no illusions about Kep and watched him with the same suspicion Melech had. Why she didn’t just kill him, or even both of them, was a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out.

He turned away from her and examined the loaned dagger. It was steel and worth enough for Melech to live like a noble for many years. What drew his eye, as it had several times since escaping from the cavern’s darkness, was the diamond set in the pommel. A glittering gemstone, itself of enormous value, was cut to resemble the House Vordon sigil. Alaeda had loaned him the blade, saving his life in the process, so the blade had to make her a Vordon.

He heard a few pebbles skitter down the slope and looked to see who was approaching. Alaeda picked her way between the rocks. When she reached Melech, she said, “Thanks for keeping watch.”

“You bet. Thanks for the dagger. You want it back?”

She reached for it, then closed her hand and let it drop to her side. “I don’t deserve it,” she said.

“So. I’m a bit curious. What were you doing in the under-city in the first place? Following us?” She had to be a spy. She had picked up on his inquires and came to see what he and Kep were up to. He cursed Korvak again.

Alaeda looked away. “We have a hard day’s travel ahead. We’ll need to get moving.”

Melech got to his feet, irritated. In another time and place, Melech might have been drawn to Alaeda. She had dusky bronze skin, a heart-shaped face, and intelligent brown eyes. Her brown-almost-black hair was cut short, but Melech could see the curls in the sweaty locks sticking to her forehead. Her clothes were simple—a tunic, breeches, boots reaching up to her knees. They were spattered with blood and venom left from their battle in the cave.

She started the climb back to the ledge and the trail. Melech followed. The trail was old, a winding path following the mountain’s contours. They had been traveling it for a day, hoping it would lead out from the mountains and into the valley below. They might have taken the wider route the undead had used, but Alaeda steered them off the path, fearing more undead in those tunnels.

Kep was awake. He hugged his knees, sitting near the rocky wall climbing up and out of sight overhead. Inscrutable as he had been since escaping the cave, his eyes tracked Melech’s movements. It was hard to believe they had come to such an end, he and Kep. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Torston wanted Melech dead and sent the halfling to make sure it happened. And if the halfling couldn’t do it, the muls would. Kep’s willingness to go through with it shocked Melech. It hung between them, a corpse of their camaraderie, and Melech couldn’t bear its stench.

“We need to move, gentlemen,” said Alaeda in a voice hoarse from thirst.

Melech slid the dagger into his belt as Kep packed up their meager possessions.

“Any idea how we’re getting off this mountain?” asked Melech.

Alaeda made a noncommittal noise. They had been wandering the mountains for two days, looking for some way down. The lower slopes were too sheer, too broken to make a descent possible. They might try, though Melech was sure a broken leg awaited him somewhere down there.

Alaeda walked down the trail. Melech and Kep sorted out who would go next. Melech was not about to let the halfling come up behind him, so he waited, arms crossed. Kep nodded and patted his knives before he followed the woman. Melech looked out over the broken landscape. Maybe he should just jump. It would be a quicker death at least. He left the thought behind when he hurried after his companions.

Alaeda had no idea how they were going to get out of the mountains. She hadn’t given up yet and pushed on despite the scratchiness in her throat and the pangs lancing through her innards. As the sun climbed higher, with the pair somewhere behind her, she returned to the regret she felt for interfering with the two. They hadn’t helped matters by coming along with her and had managed to spread thinner what little food they could scavenge. She was certain they would have killed each other by then, though their hands were never far from their weapons. She wished they would.

The path narrowed to just a few inches wide, forcing her to push against the wall so she could sidestep around the turn to what she hoped was a wider path on the other side. She couldn’t imagine who made those trails. They weren’t natural and were quite old.

A sudden wind rushed her, and she felt herself teetering forward. She saw the ground hundreds of feet below her spin, with rocks as sharp as spear points ready to catch her. She slipped but something caught her shirt and drew her back. She fought to catch her breath, closing her eyes and steadying herself. When she opened them, she saw the halfling.

She laughed and the halfling’s surprise made her laugh all the harder. She didn’t know what she found funny. Maybe it was the company she kept, the unexpected turns her life had taken, or perhaps it was the futility of it all. Her croaking laughter fell away, and she pulled herself together. When ready, she eased around the bend. To her relief, the path did widen, broad enough for them to walk side by side if they wanted. Better still, the trail sloped down and away from the mountains.

The relief raised all their spirits even though the trek took hours. They stopped at high sun under a rocky shelf to wait for the day to cool. The shadows offered little relief from the incessant wind or the heat. There wasn’t much room, so they had to sit next to each other, a situation Alaeda suspected made Melech and Kep uncomfortable.

“Thanks,” said Melech. “For the blade. And the help.”

His face was burned, dark hair a tangled mess from the wind.

When she didn’t say anything, he pushed on. “What I don’t get is why. So why?”

She shrugged.

“And why were you there? What does Vordon want with Torston?”

She flinched at the suggestion about her connection to the very house she had been working to undermine. “Not Vordon,” she answered.

“Then who?”

“What’s with these questions, Melech?” she asked.

“Er … nothing. The dagger,” he said and pointed to the glittering hilt. “I just wondered what Vordon’s interest was in our … mission. Is Torston involved with your house somehow?”

“Not my house, I told you. And no, not that I know of. I thought Torston was working with Stel, but now I wonder.”

“Stel? Who are they?” asked Melech.

“My house,” she answered. She should have held that back, but what difference did it make anymore?

“Your house? What do they want with us?”

She shook her head. “Melech, I can’t say.”

“Can’t? I think we’re a little beyond secrets now.”

“No, I don’t know. I thought … I thought my people were working with your people, but those undead …”

“So what do they want with Stel?” Melech asked.

“You tell me,” she answered. She wasn’t looking at Melech when she asked. She looked at the halfling. “Stel wouldn’t have anything to do with undead.”

The halfling kicked a stone from the path and sent it clattering to the rocks below. “Bad business, this,” he said.

Melech and Alaeda both looked at him.

“What do you know about this, Kep?” asked Melech.

The halfling glared at Melech. Alaeda didn’t expect him to say anything. After a few minutes, the halfling said, “Some. Galadan came to Torston a few weeks ago. The elf wanted to hire the boss to kill several merchants hidden in the city. I heard something about House Stel. Your people are dead.”

Alaeda shook her head in disbelief. “That bastard. I knew there was no way Stel would recruit an elf. Vordon was onto our plan from the start.”

“Sorry, Alaeda, I have no idea what this all means,” said Melech. “What does Galadan gain from killing your agents? Furthermore, what is Shom’s stake in this?”

“Hells,” said Alaeda, “it doesn’t matter now. I don’t know how Galadan found out about our plans, but I can guess at the reasons. House Stel has always taken a hostile stance toward the elf merchant tribes. My family crossed his at some point in the past I bet. Somehow he got wind of our plans, and he went to the only place he could. Vordon. But Vordon would not move against my people, not in the open. So he turned to Torston to do the dirty work. I wonder what the elf promised your master,” she said.

Melech still looked confused. “So aside from murdering me, why send us to the under-city? Is the elf tied to the undead?”

Alaeda shook her head. She didn’t know.

The halfling ran his tongue over his teeth. “A woman came to the Rat’s Nest a while back, just walked in bold as a mul. She told Torston she wanted him to let her friends into the city. She threatened him. I’ve never seen him so frightened.”

“A woman?” she said.

“Dragonflies,” said the halfling. “She wore a cloak covered in white dragonflies.”

“Shom,” she said. “Oh, those sons of bitches!”

Melech and Kep looked up. She said, “My house wanted to weaken Vordon so when Hamanu conquered Tyr or when he failed to conquer the city, the rights to mine and distribute the iron would be ours. I was told to bring House Shom into the plan, to use them to insulate ourselves against reprisals and suspicion. House Shom was supposed to hit Vordon caravans. House Shom aims to take the iron for themselves.”

She stood up. “We need to hurry.”

“To where?” asked Melech.

“Back to Tyr,” she said.

“Right. So we’re heading back to die.” He got to his feet anyway.

“You’ll die out here. Pick your death. Follow me or go your own way,” said Alaeda, and she sped off down the mountainside. Melech and Kep looked at each other, shrugged, and followed her.

Just as the sun slipped behind the peaks, drenching the mountains in shadows, they heard the footfalls of marching feet, the creak of wagons, and the rumble of many voices.

Alaeda hurried down the path, weaving around the debris littering the path with surprising agility given her fatigue. Melech and Kep kept pace. Melech didn’t think he could keep up for long. He glanced at the halfling and saw his companion was in about the same shape. The distance between them had shrunk somewhat after their earlier revelations. Melech still expected Kep to shove a blade between his ribs at any time.

Alaeda disappeared around another turn.

“Damn it,” rasped Melech. He tried to run faster, but his body refused, and he slowed to a trot, then a walk, so by the time he rounded the corner, he was holding himself up on a boulder.

The path joined a wide road leading further up into the mountains. Steep walls stood to either side, sheer with chisel marks showing the road had been cleared long past. Torches bobbed up the road. A procession descended from the mountains’ heights.

Alaeda retreated a few steps to get out of sight. Melech dropped down at her side. Kep was with them a moment later.

“Who are they?” asked Melech between breaths.

“How should I know?” spit Alaeda.

The light soon reached them, and the people materialized as a ragtag band of dirty, stained workers. Most carried picks and spades slung over their shoulders along with the torches lighting their way.

“Miners? I didn’t think Tithian had reopened them yet,” she said.

The miners hurried down the old road. Melech spotted many humans, scores of hairless dwarves, muls, and smatterings of other races well. They didn’t look like they were headed to work. From their angry expressions, Melech thought they were instead heading off to teach someone a lesson. He cringed when a half-giant came into view carrying a battle standard. Someone had nailed a templar to the wooden pole. The man was still alive.

They were a mob. There had to be a couple hundred at least. Melech was about to ask Alaeda what they should do when she stood up from behind the rock.

“What are you doing?” hissed Melech.

“Phytos!” she called.

A heavy-set mul marching with the workers stopped. A few brutes around him raised their weapons to defend him.

Kep stood up. Melech followed, reluctant.

“Alaeda?” asked the mul. He took a few steps forward. He pulled down a scarf from over his mouth to reveal a face equal to the ones belonging to Ugly and Uglier.

Alaeda ran forward. The mul caught her in a surprised but nevertheless fierce embrace. The guards shuffled their feet, confused.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Long story, Phytos. You?”

“Just as long, I’m afraid. Some elf said the deal was off and you had gone off to Urik. Didn’t think that was like you, but …” he trailed off.

“Galadan. He fooled me too. Phytos, I thought you were dead.”

The dwarf guards noticed Melech and Kep, and they took a step toward them. Both held heavy hammers in thick fists.

“Ah, Alaeda, dear, you haven’t forgotten us?” said Melech, hands raised.

The halfling made a movement, and Melech flinched away. Kep had just raised his hands.

“Oh. Right. Phytos, these two, they’re with me.”

The mul nodded. To the guards, he said, “Go on ahead with the others. Keep them marching. We’re not stopping until dawn. Understood?” The dwarves nodded and hurried off. “Come here,” said Phytos, waving Melech and Kep forward.

Alaeda made the introductions and filled Phytos in on what had happened.

The mul scratched his scarred cheek. “Undead? We should cut our losses and get the hell out of here.”

Alaeda didn’t disagree but shifted. “What about you? What have you been up to?”

“You sure we can trust them?” he asked.

“No, but they’re here, and I can deal with them if we need.”

He nodded. “Let’s walk. My boys tend to get rowdy when I’m not around.” As they moved down the gravel path, Phytos explained, “The elf—Galadan, I guess—told me you had gone and the mission was off. He told me to wait at the inn. Some hooded men broke into my room later and beat me with clubs until I was knocked cold. I woke up in the mines with a templar looking over me, expecting me to work the tunnels. The miners working there were treated bad and told me they had been since Tithian reopened the tunnels.”

Melech interrupted, “But he hadn’t. Not yet at least.”

“Oh, that’s what that bastard wants us to think. Tithian’s had miners working since right after the last king died. He’s been keeping the whole thing secret and using slaves for labor. They might have been free by law, but no one bothered to tell them. You can imagine they were none too pleased when I showed up, telling them they were free men. Can you believe it? Tithian had kept them working for a whole year. I figure the king had no choice. No one would work in there, what with the tunnel blight.”

“What blight?” Alaeda asked.

“Dunno. Well, not for sure. I think the metal might be tainted. They lose a few workers every couple of days. They just sicken and die, frothing at the lips. Like they were poisoned.”

“Wonderful,” said Alaeda. “So even if we got the mines out of Vordon’s grasp, we’d bankrupt ourselves trying to dig it out. So what are you doing?” She gestured at the marching miners.

“Well, after the templar tried to whip me when I said I wasn’t going to work, I broke his arm, his leg, and, well, I broke him. See, I did my stint in the obsidian mines. Never again. The miners got behind me, and we decided we’d march to the city to let folks know what’s going on. Plus, I owe the elf a bit of payback,” he said.

“Well, we have other problems,” said Alaeda. “Galadan’s in thick with the crime boss Torston. These two work for Torston.” She cocked a thumb at Melech and Kep. “And Torston, at least, is working for Shom.”

“Oh, that’s rich. I told you we shouldn’t have gotten into bed with those snakes. I’ll break Galadan’s neck, and then I think I’ll go find Mordis.”

Alaeda said, “No. Not yet. Torston has no reason to suspect anything is up.”

“Except for the fact Kep and his buddies never returned,” cut in Melech.

“You don’t think Torston would care, do you?” said Alaeda. “Still, Torston is a problem. We will have to take care of him, won’t we?”

Melech clamped his mouth shut. He supposed the mul meant to kill Torston. He wasn’t sure how he felt.

“I need time,” she said.

“For what? We take out the elf and Torston. Then we’re gone,” said Phytos.

“Vordon’s still a problem. So is Shom. Whatever the undead were doing in the city,” she said, “it isn’t good.”

“Look, Alaeda, I’ll do what you say, but something bad is cooking in this city, and I want to be as far away as I can be before someone takes the lid off. I can give you a day at most. These men are spoiling for a fight, and they’re gonna get revenge with or without me.”

“Right. How far are we from the city?” she asked.

“If you start walking, you should reach it by sunset tomorrow.”

Melech groaned.

Alaeda ignored him. “Phytos, we need food and water.”

“You got it. Anything else?”

“One more thing. Take him,” she said, gesturing to the halfling.

“Hey!” said Melech, not sure why he came to the halfling’s defense.

Phytos moved so fast, Melech did not even have a chance to blink. The mul crushed Kep to his chest with a muscled arm around his neck.

Kep thrashed; his face darkened. After a moment, he passed out. Phytos held him a second longer then released him.

“What the hells, Alaeda?” asked Melech.

“Don’t get soft, Melech. Kep was going to kill you. If not tonight, then he would sometime on the road to Tyr. We should kill him now.”

“No,” said Melech.

“No?” said Alaeda, incredulous. “Why not?”

“You don’t understand Torston. He has power over us all. We take out Torston, and Kep won’t be a problem. I … we’ve been through too much to kill him.”

Alaeda shook her head. “Fine. Whatever. Phytos, hold him as long as you can. He’s a clever rat, and I’m sure he’ll escape.”

Phytos looked skeptical but he nodded.

“Now about that water?”

Melech and Alaeda, after a brief rest, ran. Even at the killing pace Alaeda set for them, they still rested every hour or so to catch their breath and drain water from the skins the mul had given them. They were free from the mountains and raced across the rocky badlands, a rubble-strewn expanse of tortured earth. They slipped through dark canyons, rounded massive boulder piles, and slid down scree spilling after them.

They moved without caution. Alaeda felt confident nothing would trouble them so close to Tyr. There were creatures in the Ringing Mountains, but the city kept the worst away.

An hour after sunrise, they stopped at a vineyard. They picked a few grapes from vines strung along the fences in rows. Melech grabbed his side, cramping. Alaeda felt little better. Time was their enemy. It was as dangerous as the yuan-ti they had fought days earlier.

Melech looked up, a bead of sweat dripping from his nose. His voice was a whisper, “Let me kill the elf.”

“Galadan,” she answered. “So that’s why you haven’t run off.”

He nodded.

“You should go, Melech. Tyr’s no place to be. Urik is marching but before the sorcerer-king will step foot in the city, the merchant houses will tear it apart. Even then, Kep will kill you. You are a fool to believe otherwise.”

“I don’t care, Alaeda. I made a promise to kill the bastard, and it’s one I intend to keep.”

“I’m not going to stop you. You’d be doing me a favor. What, though, did he do to you?”

“It wasn’t me. It was a friend. He wasn’t even any worse than the other slavers, but I remember him. I remember how he treated her. He’s going to die, Alaeda. I promise.”

Alaeda had no idea what he was talking about. She decided it best not to press the issue.

“What about you?” he asked. “You could leave. You should leave. This isn’t your fight,” said Melech. “Hells, your house isn’t even involved anymore.”

“Obligation,” said Alaeda. “Vordon is corrupt and wicked. They’re not all bad, though. Talara Vordon. She’s what’s bringing me back to the city.”

“And your house’s interests?” asked Melech.

“What interests? All of our agents in the city are dead. If Stel gets the iron, they’ll have to rely on Hamanu. He would give us control over the iron mines anyway. Especially after he finds out Vordon has committed soldiers to Tyr’s defense. We’d have to use slaves to quarry the iron. It’s just too expensive without them.”

Melech scowled.

“I’m not advocating slavery, Melech. It’s just the way it is. Tyr’s free now. And it’s special. I think … I think Tyr needs to be free. But even if the city does fall, destroying Kalak has signaled a change to these lands, a call to action. I wouldn’t be surprised to see others follow suit.”

“You’re not making any sense,” said Melech.

“Look, I’m just saying Tyr should be free to work out its own fate, without the merchant houses pulling strings and manipulating innocents. I don’t give a damn about the iron or what my house wants. Not anymore. The only way they’ll be able to make a ceramic piece on iron is through slaves. Slavery isn’t coming back to Tyr unless Urik first kicks down its walls.”

“Then why bother to warn Talara?” Melech asked.

“Thaxos. He intends something. If he succeeds, everything falls apart. Tyr collapses. The merchant houses go to war. Talara is the one with the best chance to stop Thaxos. If she’s still alive.”

Melech nodded but he didn’t look convinced. “You’re a strange woman,” he said.

“I know,” she said, grinning.

The ropes bit into Loren’s arms. They chewed on his skin, already slick with blood. Loren had lost feeling in his arms hours earlier, just before he gave in to the darkness and embraced the relief unconsciousness offered. Yet he found no haven in the darkness. Disturbing visions troubled his dreams, swimming up from memory to show him those innocents he had cut down, faces pinched with hunger, toothless mouths round and screaming for mercy, wet eyes of those who had lost everything—families, homes, villages—to his thirsty blade. The guilt squeezed his heart, pangs sharp enough to rip him from unconsciousness, to the world of pain, blood-gummed eyes, and shame.

Raising his head was an accomplishment. He didn’t know where he was. Everything was a brown smear, a bouncing, uneven mass of sickening color. He shook his head and tried to focus. The smell was astonishing, a rancid rot he realized came from himself and from the dead marching alongside the wagon bearing him. He remembered.

Temmnya had ensorcelled him. She seized his mind with dark magic and made him her slave. He had fought her. He had struggled against her vile influence. And he had lost. She made him do things, terrible things, making of him a butcher and tormentor, all while she stood by, watching and laughing, clapping her hands with each new evil she forced him to perform. Aeris had been there, face stony and green. Even he could not bear what Loren did under her spell. Loren took small pleasure in Aeris’s noisy vomiting.

When Temmnya was no longer amused, she had her slave tribe warriors haul him up to a wooden post and mounted it on a wagon like a mast on a silt skimmer. He remembered her saying, “Aeris, what do you think of our fine, new battle standard?” Loren hadn’t heard the mage’s reply and lost consciousness when the jouncing wagon began to roll on. Zombies, hitched like beasts to its traces, never tired as they pulled. Loren had hung there for days as her army traveled toward Tyr. He would have cried out, but thirst had swollen his tongue and the useless organ stuck out from his mouth, cracked and blackened. If there would be any consolation to his sorry fate, it would be getting to see the city of his birth one last time.

Melech left Alaeda at the Stadium Gate. They slipped into the city with the refugees. They sought shelter in the city, begging for the king’s protection. At first Melech had thought they were speaking of the approaching Urikite force. The snippets he heard told a different tale. They suggested some new threat rising from the south, an army of corpses. Many believed it was Kalak returned from the grave to punish the wayward citizens for their disloyalty, for freeing the slaves, for his murder, and for any of a half dozen other justifications. Melech thought about asking for more information until a fight broke out between a noble’s entourage and several ex-slaves. What began as an isolated melee soon swept out of control, involving the few templars and guards who tried but failed to restore order.

They exchanged no farewells when they split. Alaeda hadn’t asked for her dagger back. He ran off on feet torn and bloody from their crazed race to the city. Phytos’s mob would be hot on their heels, and when they showed, they would be as fire to the tinder. They’d throw the whole damned city into flames. An armed mob was all Tyr needed. The city’s best warriors were out, fighting in the field, leaving only boys and old men to guard the door.

He had never felt more of a stranger in the city than he did at that moment. People watched him wherever he went, and he saw in each face the master who wanted him dead.

He followed the main path to the stadium walls, great, fat columns holding up the seats for the rabid crowds who once gathered every so many days to watch the drama of life and death unfold on the killing floor. There, he followed the columns to the northeast until he had moved beyond the great arena and reached the ziggurat dominating the city’s center.

Melech had bare threads of an actual plan. He didn’t know where he would find the elf. He guessed Torston would know where his quarry hid. Not that Torston would be at all cooperative; Melech was supposed to be dead, and the old crime lord hated it when things didn’t go according to plan. Melech would get his master to talk even if he had to cut off all the man’s fingers and toes. Melech didn’t have a lot of hope for success. He expected Torston to kill him.

Melech thought about lying low, maybe at the Golden Inix, at least until he could hitch a ride on a caravan for someplace, anyplace else. The desert was no place for him, though, and he doubted Mila would welcome him back. He was certain she wouldn’t if he told her Torston wanted his head. He realized he hadn’t done a thing for the Inix’s lady. He hadn’t had the chance to bring the matter up to Torston. Melech guessed Mila was paying out coins for protection like everyone else in the damned city and cursing Melech’s name with each one she dropped in her “protector’s” hands.

He sighed, knowing there was nothing he could do for her or anyone else. The best he could hope for was to get revenge or die trying.

Korvak wasn’t sure how long he had been a prisoner or how long he had wandered the tunnels after the dwarf died, but he wept like a child when he came up through a dreaming den’s floor. By the look of the place, it was in the Warrens, all run down and shabby. The tile players seated around a table looked up with alarm when they saw him staggering up the steps. Their fear turned into disgust. They made warding signs against evil when they saw the gore covering his face and arms, the filth clotting his sodden robes.

He stood dumbfounded by the light. He wiped blood and filth from his face. A rough-handed dwarf grabbed him and led him off to a private room. Korvak didn’t expect the act was done from kindness, but rather to assuage paying customers. The dwarf left him there on a cot with a cup of broy in his hand while he went off to calm frightened patrons and deflect their questions.

The room was small. A pot held sand for scrubbing, and a cracked mirror hung on a wall. The cot was lumpy and stained, little more than a large sack stuffed with sand or rocks, as it felt to Korvak’s seat. Korvak drained the cup and tossed it to the floor.

He reached for the pot and scooped sand to scrub away the dirt.

Looking at the pot brought him back to the quiet moments after Pakka’s death. He had left the dwarf where she lay. After all, there was little left but ashes. Before he continued his wandering, he had inspected the pattern the woman had scrawled on the floor. He knew enough about sorcery to know it was some sort of portal, a summoning circle, once activated, able to let something through. He didn’t know what would come through, but he did not want to wait around and find out what it was. He scrubbed out the chalk as best he could and wandered the tunnels until he escaped.

The dwarf returned. Heavy eyes stared at him from inside a sagging face. He wore soft velvets, threadbare at the elbows and frayed on the cuffs. “You can’t stay here,” he said, his voice high pitched.

Korvak barked a laugh. “Master dwarf, I have no intention of doing that. Tell me, though, where am I?”

“The Dew on the Lotus,” he said.

“And where is this place?” He stood up, having collected himself and removed the worst of his filth from his face and arms.

“Ah. Er … the Warrens, master templar. Not far from Shadow Square.”

Korvak imagined he was close to Talara Vordon if she was where Pakka said she would be.

The dwarf would not look at him. Korvak wasn’t surprised. The halfling had not been gentle.

“Many thanks, master dwarf. If you’ll show me the door?”

The dwarf bowed and led him out. Frightened stares and disgusted expressions followed him into the street.

Although in a rush, Alaeda took the time to interrogate a man about what many were calling Kalak’s army. He was maimed in the attack, and his description left Alaeda feeling queasy and frightened. Undead were on the march, led by a terrible witch. The walking corpses were villagers, farmers, soldiers, and they killed everything in their path and added to their numbers. The man’s village had been destroyed, and the dead rose up to join the slaves under the woman’s commands. The man had survived by hiding under the bodies of his wife and children, an act that disgusted Alaeda even though she understood it. She left the wretch, but he caught her arm with his one good hand. “Her name … a warrior said her name … Temmnya.”

Alaeda broke the man’s grasp and fled from him and the other ruined folk who were choking Stadium Gate. She forgot Melech, forgot Talara, forgot everything, such was the revulsion building inside her. Temmnya Shom. The halfling hadn’t lied. The army of the dead belonged to Shom. The attacks, the lives lost, all of it, was Alaeda’s fault. Her instructions to Farlahn Mordis were simple: attack a few villages, strike a few caravans, nothing much, just enough to draw King Tithian’s gaze from the city so she and her agents could move into position in the city. There was nothing in their bargain about building an army and using it to attack Tyr.

Alaeda ran several blocks until exhaustion slowed her down to a walk. She was somewhere in the Tradesmen’s District, a crowded neighborhood, where masters worked their craft, whether they were potters or weavers, weaponsmiths or cobblers. The street was quiet in the darkening afternoon, most business concluded and apprentices hurrying home to their evening meals. Alaeda didn’t know where she was, being unfamiliar with the streets, so she walked a little farther, looking for a major road she could use to cross the city to where she hoped Talara Vordon would still be found.

She had thought often about the red-haired woman and how she had affected her. There was something in Talara, a quality Alaeda hadn’t often come across. She wasn’t exceptional with a blade and didn’t seem to have any particular talent at trading. She had a quiet authority, though, and a natural charm capable of instilling loyalty in those people around her. Alaeda could be happy working for the Vordon woman.

Yet she was Stel. Her loyalty was to her house first. The conflict she felt made her question why she was rushing to Talara even as she thought about it. House Shom may have overstepped its orders, but would not attacking the city help Stel? The undead would wipe out the city. Temmnya’s rule would be cut short by Hamanu’s approaching armies. He would crush her like an insect, Shom would be ruined, and Stel would profit. In fact, Alaeda believed if she left Tyr, she would be rewarded.

She couldn’t do it, though. She would not condone Temmnya Shom’s evil. How could she live with herself if she did? Urik might crush the city, but the people would still be alive, even if they were slaves. Shom had to be stopped.

“Loren!”

He stirred. Pain shot through his arms; agony raced up through to his neck. He wondered how long he had been there. He coughed bloody phlegm into his mouth and spit it onto a zombie that gave no sign it noticed.

“Ah, our great warrior still lives,” said Temmnya. She sat in a saddle across the back of some great skeletal beast and rode alongside him. “You look awful, Loren, but your suffering is almost at an end. See.” She pointed at a smudge nestled amid the towering mountains blocking out the horizon ahead. “Tyr. Now will you be a good boy and fight as you promised, or should I leave you here to die?”

Loren tried to laugh. A wheezing, ratting noise sounded instead.

“Very good, Loren. You, cut him down. Make him ready to fight, and tend to his wounds. And give him a bath. He smells worse than my soldiers.”

A few moments later, a voice woke him again. “You’re just about impossible to kill, aren’t you, Loren?”

Loren grunted. Kutok’s haggard face swam into view.

He smirked. “Don’t know there’s much I can do for you, but I can at least make you comfortable.” Kutok lowered the water skin to Loren’s lips. Loren didn’t think he could scream any more, but the pain from simple water sent him thrashing.

The spy shifted from foot to foot, shrinking as Thaxos Vordon pinned him with his gaze. He held him there for a minute more, watching the elf’s narrow face, seeing the duplicity in his bright eyes, the droplet of sweat rolling down his long pointed nose to fall onto the rich Balican rug covering the office floor. Thaxos placed his hands on his desk’s surface and shoved himself up. “You have done very well, Galadan,” he said, “better than I had hoped.”

The elf’s relief was evident. He straightened. A smile spread across his face. He was tall and lanky, with sandy hair and modest clothing—a simple beige smock with black breeches. Thaxos disliked elves. They were a shifty, duplicitous lot. They had a habit of coming out on the winning side of things. He never would have placed any trust in an elf. Galadan loyalties could be bought and sold for just a few coins. But the elf’s connections were many, and his information, priceless, so Thaxos had set aside his misgivings and dealt with him.

Galadan had come to him months before about House Stel’s efforts to swoop in while Vordon was weak and scoop up the iron trade contracts. Galadan, it seemed, was a patriot. When Vordon asked the elf why he came forward with the information, the elf had said, “Stel is no friend to my people,” as if that explained everything. And it did. House Stel had a reputation for being intolerant when it came to nonhumans. Its leaders seemed focused on purifying the lands all around them, focusing their slave-taking operations on their settlements and outposts, killing any who resisted. All the animosity they expressed toward dwarves and thri-kreen were nothing, though, compared with what they did to the elf trade clans.

Stel had wiped out at least two tribes Thaxos knew of and was engaged in a near open war with the Swiftwing tribe. All along the caravan routes between Urik and Silver Spring Oasis were signs of their fighting—burned wagons, dead kanks, the bones of countless dune traders and caravan guards from both sides. Vordon didn’t know the source of their present tension. It had proved useful in distracting Stel from his own efforts to grow his house’s influence in Urik. Galadan’s eagerness to destroy Stel came as no surprise.

From what Thaxos could tell, after plying the elf with question, threats, and a little pain, he had come by the information from a Stel agent embedded in Tyr. Galadan, not willing to pass up the chance to stick a knife in a Stel operative, had done a little coaxing himself and discovered the plot to destroy House Vordon.

Another merchant might have been distraught at learning of a far-reaching plot with such dire consequences. Thaxos was not just another merchant, though. He found the whole thing amusing. Stel and Vordon had danced the dance before, and the new plan was just another move to expand their influence. Thaxos imagined the elf had hoped to receive a few coins as payment for his discovery and be on his way. Thaxos had other ideas. Galadan would take the Stel agent’s place and do all the Stel agent had planned to do. He would ferret out the agents and kill them. How he did that, Vordon didn’t care. But the elf managed it by hiring help.

Thus far, all the pieces had fallen into place except one: Alaeda Stel. Vordon had made it very clear to Galadan that Alaeda was supposed to die. She had killed the assassin sent to her chambers then vanished. Neither Galadan nor his contacts had managed to find her since she fled the House of Fingers. She was a threat, and he would not see the past years’ plotting unravel thanks to one unfortunate woman. He had considered holding off his coup until Galadan found her, and if the elf couldn’t, Vordon would find someone who could. Delay at that point would be as disastrous as anything she could do to him. He had to move before Urik defeated the Crimson Legion. Events had to proceed on schedule.

“Yes, Galadan, very well.”

“It is my pleasure to serve.” There was finality in his voice, an expectation his time in Vordon’s employ was at an end.

Thaxos was not done with him, however. “I have one final task for you, Galadan,” he said, smiling as the elf wilted once more.

“Anything, Master Vordon, anything at all.” He did not sound convincing.

“My cousin Talara Vordon. Kill her. Do this and our business is concluded.”

The elf blanched but he nodded in agreement. It wasn’t as if he had a choice. Vordon could kill him, and no one would notice or care. He would kill the elf but not right now. He remained useful. Perhaps he would give him to his pet halfling when their business was done.

He tossed him a pouch filled with ceramic coins, and the elf snatched it from the air. When Galadan left, Watari slid into the office.

“Send runners to our friends,” said Thaxos. “By dawn, the city will be mine.”

After sundown, Alaeda found Talara Vordon’s apartments. They were inside a three-story building fronting Caravan Way, a brick structure with wooden balconies overlooking the broad street, a flat roof, and a single door leading inside to a foyer. The building was one of several catering to the wealthy and powerful, with sumptuous rooms fit for envoys, merchant lords, and other well-to-do visitors.

Alaeda had few ideas where she would find Talara. She started in Iron Square, where she had last seen the dune trader when they had first arrived in the city. From there, she drifted up Caravan Way, paying bribes to locals to help narrow her search. It was easy. Talara had done nothing to hide her whereabouts. She stirred up the whole district with her questions about House Vordon and its activities. It was foolish since there could be no doubt her interest would get back to the merchant prince. However, that may have been what Talara was after. Stir up enough attention, and people might notice Vordon was up to no good.

She entered the building through the front door and ducked into a low tunnel extending several paces before opening onto a small courtyard with a statue in the center. The statue depicted a warrior; she could tell by its armor. It was missing its head and the hand at the end of an outstretched arm. Pots holding flowering cacti stood around it. Overhead, she could see the sky looming. Every ten feet or so, a walled promenade extended out from the floor to overlook the courtyard. Sturdy stairs connected the various levels. Flickering light from lamps hanging on posts hammered into the walls meant there would be few shadows for hiding.

Alaeda climbed the stairs, careful to make no sound as she moved. She drew her blade, expecting trouble at any moment. When she reached the first walkway, she saw the staircase to the third floor was on the other side. The toothless man she had interrogated minutes before claimed Talara had rooms on the third floor.

A scraping noise from overhead froze her in her tracks. She peered up to the next floor and spotted a shadowy figure racing out of view. Fearing an assassin, she abandoned all caution and ran around to the other staircase, taking two steps at a time until she reached the top.

Across the way, on the other side, she spotted the figure again. It was waiting for her and pointed a finger at her. In the flickering light, she could see it was a man. Scars made his face a maze. He wore black robes, marking him a templar. Behind him stood a closed door.

“Hold there, woman,” he said in a whispery voice.

Alaeda ignored the command and left the stairs. She crept around the walkway to close the distance. He tracked her with his finger. “I said hold!”

Something about the gesture told her to obey. “Have templars fallen so low, they have to resort to assassination?”

He smiled, showing a few broken teeth. He might have been handsome once, but something had gotten hold of him and what good looks he had were a ruin of still-healing scars. He was missing an eye, and jagged flesh surrounded the dark socket. “My dear, I would never deign to dabble in your trade. Now before I kill you, why don’t you be a good girl and tell me who sent you to kill Talara Vordon?”

Before Alaeda could answer, the door behind the templar opened to reveal another shadow, framed by light. The templar dropped his hand.

“Better still,” said the familiar voice, “why don’t you both tell me what you’re doing here.”

Pakka awoke. She was cold. There was darkness all around. She did not know where she was or what had happened. She felt strange, detached, untethered. She also felt angry. Then she remembered. She had failed. She had died. She was doomed.

Pakka screamed.

“What the hells was that?” said Melech, startled by the sudden noise. He had heard a scream like a horrible banshee wail, and a chill crawled up his back. There was nothing on that lonely street in the Warrens, no one who could have made such a noise. He waited a few minutes more. When no ghost materialized, he continued toward the Rat’s Nest.

He wasn’t far. It was the last place he wanted to be since he was sure Torston would be there and with him would be the excruciating death Melech wanted to avoid. Yet his feet ignored his protests and kept moving him closer to the place once his home. As errant and misbehaving as his feet were proving to be, he knew he had to go there. He had to find Galadan so he could kill him. Then fate could do with Melech what it liked.

His mind raced. He turned over every lie he could think of to get Torston to tell him where he could find the elf. It was futile, he knew. He had about the same chance of getting the crime lord’s help as he of did finding water in the desert, which was to say his odds didn’t look good. Maybe Torston wouldn’t be there. And if not, Poxy would tell him. She’d tell him anything. Lovely girl, Poxy.

Melech hurried down another street. He did his best to look as if he belonged. There were few people around, and the ones Melech had spied were up to no good. Hooded and cloaked, all furtive gestures and shifty movements, Melech could read the telltale signs and knew, with the tension gripping the city, the people out and about were ones on dark errands. Since leaving the Ziggurat, Melech had seen fewer and fewer folks. If even half the rumors were true, the new enemy would be crashing against the walls soon, perhaps that very night, maybe the next. People had withdrawn to their homes and shops to protect their families and belongings before some new tragedy fell.

He could see the Rat’s Nest ahead. Light spilled through the curtained opening. In another time, the wavering, bright slash might have been inviting. For Melech, it promised death, pain, and fear. Terror gnawed on his courage. Hatred drove him on, gave him the resolve to go through the curtain, borrowed dagger in hand.

Talara Vordon reacted to the news of Pakka’s death with a flinch and single tear. The other woman, who, once all the confusion was sorted out, introduced herself as Alaeda Stel, took the news a bit harder. He looked at the shattered bust on the floor and the cracked brick that had borne the brunt of Alaeda’s wrath. Korvak frowned.

Both women proved agreeable enough when he had stated his business. It galled him to bow and scrape to such lesser creatures. He needed Talara Vordon, and he suspected Alaeda might have some use herself. He had nothing against women, but he never had much use for them. Less since the halfling’s treatment.

Talara had seemed intent on skewering him, but she had stayed her hand when he mentioned Pakka’s name and the fact she had sent him. Alaeda had a harder time quashing Talara’s suspicions. Talara distrusted the other woman, and she stared at Alaeda throughout Korvak’s tale. When Korvak suggested there may be people watching, Talara waved them both into her chambers.

She questioned Korvak first. She was worried about her servant, a genuine concern Korvak found distasteful. He ran through the facts as he knew them, covering everything from the dummy houses Vordon used to hide his soldiers, to his plot to seize Tyr’s throne, and concluded by running through the last few hours he spent with Pakka. He had glossed over his torture, not wanting to appear weak. He didn’t want sympathy from either woman.

Neither seemed shocked by his revelations. He couldn’t help feeling a bit angry, although not having to argue his case was a relief. He had given up much to uncover Vordon’s plot. They had come to the same conclusions. Talara stirred up the city with questions. Alaeda got her information from Melech during their brief time together.

Korvak would have to teach Melech discretion’s importance.

The conversation soon shifted to Alaeda’s tale after she threw Thaxos’s bust across the room. Since much of Alaeda’s discoveries mirrored Korvak’s own, he had let their discussion wash over him, but the word undead brought him back.

“What did you say?” asked Korvak, leaning forward in his chair.

“I said Melech and Kep loosed undead into the city.”

“An army of the dead outside. An army of the dead underneath.”

“What?” asked Talara, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. Her stony exterior broke, and tears spilled down her cheeks as the enormity of Pakka’s death sank in.

Korvak had not described the woman who killed Pakka, so he did. “I suspect the diagram we found was a summoning circle, a doorway to let something into the city.”

Korvak rubbed his temples and closed his eyes. The women were silent, waiting for him to continue. He had nothing to add, so Alaeda resumed her story. She discussed the mountain trek, running across Phytos, and her return to the city. “So you see, you have to get out of Tyr,” she concluded.

Talara said nothing for a moment. “Quite the story. Even if some of what you say is true, how can I know? How can I believe anything either one of you says?”

“Talara, I don’t blame you for—”

“There is a third player in this game,” Korvak announced. “As to your concerns, Talara, set them aside. None of us has time for this foolishness. Trust us or don’t. That is your choice. But there is more to this drama than two houses bickering over iron or Vordon’s move to take the throne. House Shom means to destroy the city.”

Before either Alaeda or Talara could respond, a mul kicked in the front door.

Loren was strong enough to fight. He put the bone helmet on his head. He checked the sword on his back. A quick inspection of his body revealed crooked stitches holding wounds shut, bruises, abrasions, and extensive sunburns over most of his body. He doubted he would live through the coming fight. He lacked the will.

The campfire blazed and around it huddled the handful of living soldiers left from those who first set out. Kutok worked on a haunch of meat, tearing and chewing, ignoring the grease dribbling down his chin. Few others ate. They were gaunt, quiet, and forlorn, not a one of them without some grievous, maiming injury. Missing hands, fingers, and eyes were common, but a few had lost arms and legs.

Loren couldn’t bear their hollow-eyed stares, so he walked off into the fields. Temmnya’s army had settled in among the plantations surrounding Tyr. The undead had no use for the fruit trees, but the living did, both Loren’s warriors and the strange slave tribe soldiers who had come to lend their swords to Temmnya’s cause. Loren shuddered at the thought of them. Kutok had said they were cannibals and they had butchered and eaten the villagers in a horrific feast.

The moon Ral was shrinking away, spreading sickening green light across the undead army. He couldn’t count their numbers, but their glittering eyes seemed more numerous than the stars twinkling overhead.

Beyond the writhing mass loomed Tyr. Still several miles away, the lights cut through the darkness. Loren could make out the high walls girding the crowded city, whose buildings seemed piled atop one another. He could see the mighty Ziggurat. He marveled at the colors painting each tier. And behind the Ziggurat, reaching above its own monstrous height, stood the two towers of the Golden City, the cloistered district where King Kalak had once ruled.

In hours Loren would return to the city of his birth not as a citizen, but as a destroyer, a killer who would carve a blood swath through the city until his battered body gave out and he could lie down and die. A commotion drew Loren out from his bleak thoughts.

The dead parted. They withdrew or fell to the ground to make way for Temmnya Shom. She swept forward. The strange burns she had suffered glistened red in the dim light, but if they hurt her, she showed no sign. She held her head high. The stink from the mobile corpses did not affect her. Aeris stood at her side. Unlike Temmnya, who showed grace and poise, he stumbled and slipped, revulsion plain on his face.

Temmnya walked through the dead. She brushed her hands on ravaged bodies, ruined flesh, faces more bone than skin. Through them all she walked until she reached the far side of the stirring, twitching host, where she could look across the last few miles to Tyr, glowing in the night. Aeris followed through the press, and just as he reached her side, he fell to the ground, retching.

Temmnya stared at the city.

The wind moaned through the camp. A few dull zombies twisted and turned as if unsure what had disturbed them.

She threw up her hands, fingers splayed, and chanted.

The wind died. It wasn’t still; it quivered. The ground trembled. Loren’s hairs rose on the nape of his neck, his arms, and all across his body. The undead able to still make noise moaned in fear. Then a sharp pain stabbed him in the breast—a pain so fierce he could no longer stand.

He fell to the ground. A groan escaped him. Blue lightning danced across the gritty soil, emanating from his body and skittering toward Temmnya where she stood, arms raised. Loren tasted soot in his mouth and noted the ground all around him had blackened as Temmnya leeched every bit of life she could to power her magic. Black flakes swirled through the air, spreading out in a widening circle wiping out plants, small animals, and even a few weak soldiers. Trees curled up, branches falling until blackened stumps remained. Men and women screamed their last screams. Swirling vortices of ash, dust, and magical energy danced all around, and still Temmnya did not relent.

It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. All Loren knew was the pain stopped, and when it did and when his eyes fluttered open, black flakes fell from the sky, drifting down like feathers.

The ground trembled. Fissures opened, splitting up the powdery soil, spilling rivers into the cracks. Black smoke rose from the clefts and concealed the horrors clawing their way free. Skeletal hands reached up from the depths, clawing and grasping for handholds to help pull themselves free. Grinning skulls with burning red eyes followed, dragging rusted weapons as they clambered to their feet. At first there were just a few. After moments, two score became eight then eighteen then too many to count as a horde of pale bones answered the necromancer’s call.

Temmnya’s laughter sounded in greeting. “See, Aeris! Behold my power! Tonight Tyr shall be ours!”

Poxy dropped a wooden mug when she saw Melech push aside the leather tarp serving as the Rat’s Nest’s door. The clatter might have startled the place on an ordinary night, but the Nest was almost empty. Melech saw Rude Kala come out through the kitchen door. He had interrupted her meal, evident from her loud chewing. The curtain to Torston’s booth was open. Blood stained the table, the blood spilled from Melech’s nose.

It took a moment for Rude Kala to realize it was Melech who stood in front of her and Melech was not supposed to be alive. Astonishment lit her face.

“That’s right, bitch. I’m not dead.”

She snarled and yanked a hatchet from her belt.

Melech knew he could not take her in a fair fight. That fact did not stop him from raising his borrowed dagger.

Unimpressed, Rude Kala spit on the floor. She rounded the bar, axe in hand, muscles rippling as she shook out her arms. Melech noted Poxy had ducked behind the counter.

The ex-gladiator closed the distance with the same confidence a butcher might show a side of inix meat. She swung the axe, more to drive Melech back than to injure him.

Melech scrambled back. He said, “We don’t have to do this. I don’t have a problem with you.”

“Too late, boy. I aim to snatch yer stones and add ’em to my collection.”

She struck out again, bringing the axe up toward Melech’s groin.

Melech sprang back. “Sorry, Kala. I like them where they are,” he said. He feinted and jabbed his blade at her face.

He missed. She had stepped into his attack and struck him with her meaty fist. His nose exploded blood once more, and Melech felt consciousness drifting. Black spots blossomed. The world tilted. He staggered.

Kala brayed. She swept her axe at his face to finish him off. His inability to stand saved his life, for he fell hard on his back.

Kala growled. She straddled him like a lover. She dropped down with her knees on his arms and leaned down until they were face-to-face.

Her mouth opened to say something, but her teeth snapped shut, clipping off the tip of her tongue when a stone pan collided with her head. Kala fell forward, unconscious. Poxy retreated.

Melech cut Kala’s throat using the dagger, and blood sprayed into the air. She kicked a few times and died. Melech watched, chest heaving.

Poxy had fallen back to the bar. She sobbed, “Are … are … you all right, Melech?”

He looked up and gave her his best smile under the circumstances. Her eyes flicked up to a spot behind him. She gave the faintest squeak when the bolt slammed into her chest. She fell back and lay sprawled across the bar.

“Melech.”

He turned in answer. Torston filled the doorway, crossbow in hand. Behind him stood Kep.

Pakka knew she was neither alive nor dead. She was somewhere in between. The witch had killed her. She should have moved on, should have found the oblivion waiting for all. Yet she was still in the living world.

The old stories told about the fates of those dwarves who left oaths unfulfilled, promises not kept. Their vows became anchors on their spirits, and thus, they were doomed to walk the earth until they could find peace by completing the task they had set for themselves. Most banshees, as they were known, never managed to escape their trapped state and lingered for centuries.

That was, it seemed, Pakka’s fate. She had become something other because she was convinced Talara Vordon was in danger and she had failed to protect her. She would remain trapped, between life and death, until she could achieve some level of satisfaction her mistress would be safe. She knew what she had to do, but she had clarity enough to realize Talara would never, ever be safe. She might protect her for the time being, but what about the future? Would she linger throughout the rest of Talara’s life? And what would happen when she died?

Talara was a good woman, yet Talara was not worth such doom. Shame welled up inside her.

She willed herself to stand. She felt nothing in her limbs. She looked at her hands. They looked familiar, albeit gray. She could feel nothing from them. It then struck her as odd she could see them at all. The passage was dark, black even, yet she could make out each stone in the walls, could see the dust of her remains on the floor, a diagram sketched onto the ground.

The witch had gone. So had Korvak.

She tested her voice. She had cried out, but could she speak? “Ah … what have I become?” Her voice was as hollow as she felt. “Spirits,” she cried, “spirits, help me.”

The spirits did not answer.

She struggled to find the words to evoke them, to call them forth, but they were like dim memories, fragments and nothing more. She could grasp them with her mind but could not hold them long enough to speak them aloud. She groaned. No matter how hard she tried, the spirits would not answer. Her pouch containing her ingredients had been destroyed. She had nothing left, no connection to the world except for the oaths she had spoken.

Her anger grew and the stones in the walls shook and rattled. A new power awakened in her numbed body, a dreadful force that shocked her. Anger, outrage, and hatred were its source, and with it, she could get the vengeance she craved and make good on the promise she made.

Korvak annihilated the mul where he stood in the shattered frame that had once been Talara Vordon’s front door. The thug’s body flew apart in chunks of meat and bone, painting the walls with blood and organs. Korvak stood so fast, his chair fell backward. He drew power from the life force he sensed in Alaeda and Talara, turning flowers in a vase to dust as he gathered magical energy for the next attack.

Another guard, a human, rounded the corner, showing more caution than the first. He managed to squeeze off a shot from his crossbow before black energy flung him off the walkway to drop him three floors, where he landed with a splash in the courtyard below.

“Get in there, cowards!” shrieked a voice from outside.

“Is there any other way out of here?” asked Alaeda.

“Can you fly?” said Talara, panicked.

Two more guards wearing black and red rushed in through the door, each holding spiked clubs. Korvak blasted one. He spun away. The second nicked him before Alaeda rammed her blade between his ribs. The guard slid down, blood frothing his lips. Before he hit the floor, more soldiers spilled into the room, six in all. Talara retreated to the balcony; Alaeda stood next to Korvak.

The guards filed in, ignoring the dead, and formed a half circle, weapons held at the ready. A blond elf followed them in.

“Galadan!” hissed Alaeda.

“There you are. I was worried,” he said.

“Scum!” she said.

“Now, now,” he shot back.

“Enough of this,” said Korvak.

“Agreed,” said Galadan.

“Seems we’re stuck,” said Alaeda.

Korvak shrugged.

“I’m impressed, templar. You killed a few and in a most spectacular fashion, I might add. How many more do you think you could kill before my men here cut you down? One, three?”

“Maybe. I promise you’d be one of them.”

Galadan rewarded him with a frosty smile.

“My business is not with you, templar. It’s with her,” he nodded to Talara. She was busy tying knots into a sheet she had grabbed while they were fighting.

“Not on your life,” said Alaeda.

Galadan looked past Alaeda and said, “Talara, I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to make a deal.”

Korvak thought it an interesting offer.

“Ignore him. He’s a liar and a traitor,” said Alaeda.

“You keep calling me a traitor. What, might I ask, is a Stel agent doing with Talara Vordon, hmm?”

Alaeda snarled.

No one moved. Korvak said, “You said something about a deal?”

The elf nodded. “Thaxos wants you dead for some reason. In fact, he wants you both dead. Good work, by the way, with the thug my patron sent to tuck you in. I have worked for Vordon long enough, though, to know as soon as I’m no longer useful, he’ll kill me too.”

“So she’s insurance. Is that it?”

The elf nodded. “You—and just you, Lady Vordon—will come with me. We’ll vacation at Silver Spring for a few days, and then we can go our separate ways. The rest of you, you’re free to go. Now how does that sound?”

“Sounds bad,” said Alaeda.

Korvak agreed but he kept silent. The elf was right. He could kill one or two more and still kill the elf. If he did, the surviving guards would just kill them anyway. He was about to speak up when Talara said, “I’ll go.”

What the hell are you playing at?” whispered Alaeda.

“Shut up, you,” said the guard behind her. He prodded her with his spear butt, shoving her forward a few steps.

As she had suspected, Galadan wasn’t about to let her go. He let the templar walk, which he did without even a wave. But Galadan rounded up Alaeda in the end, no matter how much Talara protested. They were tied up with giant-hair rope and being marched down the steps.

Galadan gloated. He smiled at Alaeda and brushed her cheek with his hand. He pawed her like an adolescent boy until Alaeda bit his hand. She ripped the skin as he pulled away. The soldiers then beat her until Talara begged them to stop. They jerked Alaeda to her feet and pushed her forward. Blood dribbled down her chin, more Galadan’s blood than Alaeda’s own.

He was still nursing his hand when they reached the courtyard. Two guards moved to the entrance while the remaining four watched Talara and Alaeda.

“Let’s go, already,” said Galadan to his guards.

“No so fast, elf,” said a shrill voice from overhead.

Galadan staggered and scanned the walkways.

A giggling noise bounced around the courtyard walls almost masking the slight clicking of booted footfalls.

“Who’s there?” Galadan shrieked.

“My master knew you would betray him. I doubted. I thought you were too frightened to turn against us. After all we had done for you, elf.” The voice said “elf” like a curse.

“I haven’t betrayed anyone,” he pleaded to the voice. “See, I have her. I have them both!”

“But I heard you, elf. I heard you through the walls. Everything you said.”

“You two,” Galadan said to the guards holding Talara, “go. Find whoever that is and kill him.”

Laughter rang again. Neither soldier moved, a mixture of pity and scorn on their faces.

“Oh, no.” Alaeda laughed. “Looks like you’ve been double-crossed yourself.”

“Shut up, bitch!” he yelled as he struck her. Alaeda didn’t fall. She spit out a tooth. It bounced off Galadan’s chest and clinked on the bricks.

“Bind him,” said the voice, its owner coming into view. It was the halfling Watari, Thaxos Vordon’s henchman.

The soldiers took Galadan by the arms. He resisted. He fought. One broke his finger. The other punched him in the gut. The elf crumpled, weeping.

The halfling wore a uniform reminiscent of something Thaxos Vordon might wear, a button-down jacket, snug breeches tucked into leather riding boots. He circled them all, inspecting them with a critical eye, his hands clasped behind his back. He stopped. “My master wants you all dead, so you will die. Since it has fallen to me to do the deed, I will do it in my way. You may relax for now. It will be hours yet before I get to the last of you.

“Come,” he said to the guards, clicking his tongue as if the sturdy men were beasts. “To my chambers.”

Thaxos Vordon adjusted his breastplate. It was an antique, a remnant from the first people who had lived in the city before it became Tyr with Kalak’s ancient conquest. No rust spotted the armor. A strange creature stood out embossed in the center. The long sword he carried, also steel, had been his grandfather’s, and it bore a screaming human face on the pommel. It was an exquisite weapon.

He stood in Iron Square, cleaning the blood from his hands. The firelight played on his polished breastplate, and the screaming from the Stel agents was as music. He had ordered his soldiers to secure the doors and light Stel’s emporium on fire. It was a fatal lesson to those plotting against him and his house, and one Stel was not in a position to avenge since he had billeted a few hundred trained warriors at the Stadium Gate to disperse the mob before they could create any trouble.

He had just received word that a mob had reached the city. There was fighting between Tithian’s defenders and the attackers. His spies told him the attackers were, in fact, miners. Vordon had not expected this development. Tithian had kept the mines open after all. He should have been angry. Instead, he used the knowledge to kill any last regrets he had about his actions.

He glanced over at his soldiers awaiting the next command. He had paid the very best for their services, and they had trained at Vordon compounds all over the region. The commanders arranged the soldiers in tight ranks. They held their spears straight and wore boiled-leather shields strapped to their arms. Most were human, though muls, halfelves, and even a handful of tareks were ready to fight for him as well.

The fires had become a blaze and swallowed the desperate cries from inside the burning building. He signaled the soldiers, and they marched away toward the two towers rising from the Golden City at the far side of the city. They turned down the side street toward the Brickyards. The city’s watch was there to greet them, a collection of old men and boys left behind to police the city. Thaxos regarded them with a critical eye. Their eyes widened with fear as Vordon’s force spread out into a battle formation, breaking into smaller three-man Vs, two shield bearers with a pikeman in the center. “Kill them and let’s be on with this,” he said.

Two wedges advanced. The watchmen ran off, dropping their weapons. Thaxos gestured to a rank of archers. As one, they pulled and fired. The watchmen died before they got ten yards.

“This will be easier than I thought.” He laughed.

Iron Square was in flames. The fires had consumed everything on the northwestern side and spread out toward the Warrens. She noted the Stel Emporium was among the casualties. People crowded the square. Some gawked. Others risked their lives to fight against the fires. Lines formed, with the leads throwing sand, hoping to smother the flames. People rushed around. No one paid any attention to Watari as he led the way toward the Vordon Emporium, where it had somehow managed to avoid catching fire.

They moved through the upper chambers, passing what was a showroom of sorts, and into the warehouse beyond the door. The soldiers lit torches to light the way down a flight of steps into the darkness below. They made many turns down almost identical passages, but the halfling never hesitated, never slowed. They walked for some distance until they reached a large open room. The halfling lit a few hanging braziers to shed more light. The illumination revealed tables and wheels, chairs and racks holding bizarre implements, a macabre assortment designed to create pain and bring about agonizing death.

Alaeda was terrified and she tried to find a way out from the horror the halfling would perform. A guard had disarmed her and tied her hands. She struggled against the knot. It held.

“Put the women in the cage. Make sure they are comfortable,” he said with a laugh. The thug who had enjoyed beating her after she bit Galadan shoved her inside the cramped cage and tossed Talara in after her. To Galadan, the halfling said, “If you won’t mind, hop up on the table.”

The elf moaned and struggled in the guards’ iron grip.

“Very well. Put him on the table.”

The guards lifted Galadan and laid him out flat. He tried to curl into a ball. The guards held him in place.

They continued to hold him while Watari took his time putting on his apron and selecting his first tool, a bone scoop stained black from use.

He started to work on the elf.

Alaeda had to look away. After the first hour, she covered her ears to drown out the screaming.

When Korvak raced out from the building, two brawny soldiers caught him by the arms.

“Where you going in such a hurry?” asked the one to his left.

They wore no colors, just simple leather jacks and short-bladed swords, pale blades drawn and ready should Korvak resist. He had never seen them before and had no idea where they had come from.

“Yeah, where you goin’?” snorted the other one, a dull-faced lackwit.

“Ah, I came to find you. Galadan’s been killed, and Lady Vordon is getting away,” lied Korvak.

The more cunning of the two guards chuckled. The other relaxed his grip just enough for Korvak to wrench his arm free. Korvak sprayed him in the face with a crackling black energy from his outstretched hand. The man fell, screaming. He clawed at his melting eyes. The other fell back, horror plain on his face.

“You don’t work for Galadan, do you?” Korvak asked.

The tough shook his head and stepped back farther.

Korvak advanced. “Who, then?” He could see flames crawling high into the sky from somewhere down the road.

“The half—halfling. Watari. Said to catch anyone trying to run away. Don’t hurt me. Please.”

“Is he here?”

The man nodded.

Every instinct told him to run for his life, to put as much distance between himself and the monster who had maimed him. He shuddered, recalling the memories. The guard seized on Korvak’s distraction and ran.

Korvak let him go. He turned to the door and looked into the courtyard. They hadn’t come down yet. If he ran, he’d be subjecting Talara and Alaeda to the same as he faced, if Watari were behind their capture. Korvak didn’t know what he could do. He was still outnumbered, and the guards would just kill the women if he went back inside. He didn’t care about Alaeda, but he needed Talara if he were going to stop Thaxos.

He watched the flames rising from the end of the street. He knew it was too late to stop the attack. The fire was all the evidence he needed. Vordon had begun his conquest. He whispered a farewell to the women and ran as fast as could for the Golden City.

Melech groaned. He pushed himself up, not sure where he was or how he got there. He could open one eye; the other was painful and swollen shut. He was on the street. He heard screaming. Garish light danced on the walls.

A small hand grabbed his hair and wrenched his head around. He grunted. Kep looked him full in the face then released him. “He’s awake.”

He recognized his surroundings. It wasn’t far from the Merchant District, the corner of Shadow Path and Ziggurat Row. The strange light came from flames licking the air, rising from what he guessed was Iron Square and the Warrens abutting it.

“Good.” Footfalls. Torston loomed overhead, glaring at him, fists on his hips. Melech could see Torston’s fists were split and bleeding. Then Melech remembered. Torston had beaten him. Kep had watched. He was sure Torston had been about to beat him to death. He was almost disappointed his master had not. It meant he was in for more pain.

Melech spit out blood. He felt around his mouth with his finger. He was a few teeth short.

“Don’t think I’m being merciful, Melech. I’ll still kill you. It can, however, be fast or slow depending on how helpful you are.”

“Hmm, a tough choice,” muttered Melech.

Torston kicked him in the ribs.

“Kep said you could still be useful. You have him to thank for what’s left of your miserable life.”

Melech managed a bloody smile. He hoped it conveyed all the hatred he had for the smug halfling. It did not have the desired effect. Kep just stood there.

Torston knelt by Melech. “I always liked you, kid. You had talent. You had a head for the business. I had even once entertained the notion you might take over when I retired. Too bad you had to go and get yourself tangled up with a templar. Those fellas, they’re bad for business.”

“Sorry to have disappointed you,” mumbled Melech.

The man laughed. “You were free and clear, Melech. I wouldn’t have followed you. You could have gone anywhere. Sure, the desert might have killed you, but you at least had a chance at making another life for yourself. Why’d you come back?”

“What, Kep didn’t tell you?”

He gave the halfling a sidelong look and said, “I’m asking you.”

Melech considered his words. “Galadan.”

“The elf? Why whatever for?”

“I came back to kill him,” said Melech.

Torston gave a belly laugh and stood up. “You are a fool, Melech. Galadan was a dead man anyway. If I didn’t kill him, Vordon would have.”

“I never figured you’d sell out to the merchants,” muttered Melech.

“Oh, why wouldn’t I? They pay just as well as anyone else.”

“But you betrayed them,” said Melech.

“Who? Vordon? Not at all. I did as I was asked. We eliminated the Stel agents and made our money. Shom? You did open the gates, did you not?”

Melech wasn’t willing to let the matter drop, though. “Those things we let into the city …”

“Are my partner’s friends. Enough. We need to get down to business, and then I can be about killing you. Kep seems to think you know where I might find Korvak.”

Melech stammered.

“Surprised? Don’t be. The templars need to learn to leave my people alone. Korvak overreached himself by using one of my agents. He won’t do it again.”

Melech owed Korvak nothing. He would hand over the templar in an instant if he knew where he was. He thought Kep knew that. The halfling was no longer watching the exchange. He was looking up the street. Melech followed the halfling’s gaze. There, he thought he saw fighting, men with picks battling Tyr’s guards.

Then Kep gestured. It was a hand signal. Trust me.

Melech started laughing. How could he trust the halfling? He had led Torston straight to him. And to poor Poxy.

“Er … Sure. I can set up a meeting. It’ll take a couple—”

“No. Now. Take me to him now.”

Kep must have put that idea in Torston’s head. He must have some place in mind. Kep had not been to any of the meetings. He thought back. Except the first one. The halfling had been just outside the apothecary’s shack.

“Oh. Sure,” he said. He struggled to his feet and stumbled away from the fighting and the flames for the Warrens. He just hoped Kep had a plan.

Korvak saw he was too late by the time he reached the stadium. The Golden Tower, the seat of King Tithian’s power, shone with awful light. From its top, magical death rained down. Brilliant fireballs cut white-blue streaks through the darkness, landing with flashes and booms shaking the city. Here and there, lightning lanced out from lower windows. Thunder rolled through the city. Other flashes of color; weird, twitching shadows; and uncountable other bizarre and unsettling magical eruptions surrounded the tower. Rising from the grounds in great billowing clouds were ashes, the greasy detritus thrown up from the wondrous gardens planted to feed their magic.

Vordon’s forces were not idle. Arrows flew up from fiery ruins. Most clattered against the walls. Every now and then an archer got lucky and a body tumbled from a window, vanishing into black smoke below. Vordon had magic of his own. Chunks of rock lifted from the ground as if hefted by some invisible giant and were thrown against the tower, smashing on its walls. Cracks spiderwebbed the tower.

More from curiosity than a sense he could do anything to help, Korvak moved into the chaos. There were three ways into the Golden City serving as Tyr’s palatial district. The Grand Gate led out into the surrounding countryside, but a heavy stone plug sealed it off. It would take forty men an hour to move the door aside. Two interior gates connected the Golden City to the rest of Tyr, one to either side of the stadium, both opening onto the tradesmen’s districts spreading out from the city’s center. Through those portals, one entered either the north or south quarters holding the bureaus and templar barracks. Even if Vordon could breach the walls, he would face a brutal gauntlet to access the inner gates leading to the tower itself. The cost in life would be staggering. In any other situation, a siege against the Golden City would be tantamount to suicide. With the Crimson Legion away fighting against Urik and with surprise on his side, Vordon might very well manage the impossible.

Korvak traveled down the side streets. He saw people fleeing the destruction, families running with what few belongings they could carry, dragging screaming children after them. He kept moving.

The smoke cleared enough for him to make out the gate to the templar district. Soldiers in red and black uniforms rushed through a gaping hole in the wall. Dead half-giants lay all around, some burning and twitching. Korvak knew he could end it with one spell, if he could find Thaxos.

A fiery orb dropped through the smoke and splattered against the ground. Korvak could see a dozen blackened silhouettes, men and women one moment, burning bones the next. Undeterred, he kept moving. He ducked as lightning streaked overhead to turn a two-story building into rubble.

The farther he went, the more destruction he encountered. The defenders would reduce the city to ruin before they surrendered. Unrecognizable lumps and the occasional limb littered the ground along with too many corpses to count.

Korvak reached the gap in the high inner wall. The portal he had walked through more times than he could remember stood shattered. Rubble and bodies were strewn everywhere. Soldiers rushed through the breach. They left the dead and dying behind. Through the smoke and flames, Korvak could see the king’s guard, half-giants and humans, forming into battle lines to block the attackers from pushing in farther. Their clashing arms and shouts rose up from the conflict, a dismal chorus to all the destruction raging around them.

Korvak hid behind a tall rubble pile and watched. Tithian’s templars had at least shown the wisdom to hold back on their more destructive spells so as not to destroy their own soldiers. Korvak searched the crowds. He saw no sign of Thaxos Vordon.

“You, there!” shouted a voice behind him.

He turned and saw a half dozen Vordon soldiers covered in soot.

Korvak knew they would just kill him. They weren’t interested in taking prisoners. He answered with raw, unformed magic fueled by the dying people all around. Black lightning sheeted into the soldiers, vaporizing a couple in an instant.

The survivors rushed forward.

Korvak dived to one side. He grunted when a spear pierced his side. The warrior jerked the weapon free, spun it, and brought it down to impale Korvak’s face.

Korvak was faster. A gesture caused flames to engulf his opponent until the flesh ran like melting wax.

The other soldiers withdrew, but they weren’t done yet.

Korvak struggled to stand.

The warriors rallied. They circled him.

Korvak knew he couldn’t take them all. So he surrendered. He raised his hands and hoped they would find him more valuable alive than dead.

A seething ocean of putrid flesh and twisted bone crashed against Tyr’s outer walls. The mad host, driven by the defiler’s magic, fought and clawed forward. They scrambled over the top of each other to climb the walls, to flow over Tyr’s defenses and bring the city to its knees.

Loren, Kutok, and a few survivors stood in the center of the horde. They formed a living wall around Temmnya, who herself rode a great skeletal beast. The cannibal slave warriors followed in tight ranks, held in reserve until they breached the walls. She cackled and screeched nonsense noises somehow rising above the din. Aeris sat behind her on the steed.

The city’s defenders were few, a ragtag crowd manning the walls above the huge Caravan Gate. Strong wooden doors reinforced with iron bands stood shut. It would be no obstacle to the undead. They climbed atop each other, scrambling up the walls and crushing the first ranks to stinking pulp. Like ants, they scurried up the walls, some falling away as arrows punched through their rotten faces or buried deep in their chests. Higher and higher they climbed, until Loren couldn’t see the wall beneath the animated soldiers.

Loren led his team toward the gate. The undead flowed around his island. He kicked the doors. They didn’t even rattle.

Temmnya shrieked out painful syllables. He felt her draw life and strength from him and his fellows. All sank to the ground, crippled by the pain washing through them. The agony ended as fast as it had begun. The iron bands turned from gray to red then to white. The wood caught fire. The doors burned.

The guards beat Korvak a bit before they led him, bloodied and bruised, to Thaxos Vordon.

The man had claimed a templars’ barracks as his command center. The common room Korvak remembered well from when he was first raised to templar was abuzz with activity. Runners ran forward to make reports to underlings, who in turn passed information to Thaxos. He stood at the center of the activity. He studied a map of the Golden City. A pale-faced youth ran past Korvak and the guards, rushing outside. He stopped, looking both ways. It was a mistake he would not have time to regret. A shimmering dart fell from above and killed the boy where he stood.

Korvak turned away from the corpse.

A man whispered in Thaxos’s ear, but the merchant noticed Korvak and the guards. He raised a hand to silence his adviser, who then bowed and retreated.

“Who is this and why have you brought him here?” asked Thaxos.

One guard cleared his throat. “He’s a templar, sir. We found him sneaking around at the wall. We thought he might be a spy or something.”

“Or something,” Thaxos sneered. “Get him out of here and kill him. We’re here to kill templars, not make prisoners of them.”

The guards saluted and pulled Korvak back.

“Wait!” said Korvak.

Thaxos had already turned away.

“Talara Vordon still lives.”

Thaxos looked at Korvak again, pursing his lips. “Doubtful. I dealt with her hours ago.”

“You sent Galadan to kill her; he made a deal with her instead.”

Thaxos smiled. “As I expected. My henchman was ready.”

“The halfling? Alaeda Stel killed him herself,” he lied. Melech would have been proud at how convincing he made it sound. Korvak fought back a grin when he saw he had touched a nerve.

“Is that so?” he said. He was paler than before, his face serious.

“It is,” he said. Before he could add anything else, something struck the building overhead. Bricks and timbers crashed around them. Wood caught fire. Smoke joined the dust to make staying inside impossible.

Korvak stumbled. The guard holding his arm let go. When the smoke cleared, he saw the man’s remains sticking out from under a pile of rubble.

All round, cries for help or mercy filled the air, silenced by falling debris and other explosions booming all around.

Sensing an opportunity to escape, Korvak staggered toward a hole in the wall.

“Not so fast, templar,” said Thaxos.

“Unfortunate,” Korvak said. Thaxos was still alive and right behind him. “My friends in the tower will be disappointed they missed.”

Thaxos had drawn a sword and held it parallel to the ground. It was a nasty thing, steel and well crafted. The blade shone with unwholesome light. Korvak had no weapon, no implement, nothing except for a few basic spells. Nothing sufficient to kill the merchant.

“I’m sure. They will be kneeling to me all the same by dawn,” he shot back.

“Master Vordon!” cried a voice. It came from outside.

“Here!”

A rail-thin young woman with shadowed eyes and a bloody sleeve peered into the gap in the wall. When she spotted them, she hesitated but clambered inside, waving her hand in front of her face.

“What is it?” Thaxos took an unsteady step toward Korvak. His sword wavered for an instant, but he steadied it.

“The army of the dead! They broke through Caravan Gate. The dead, sir. The dead are attacking the city.”

“You’ve led me on a merry chase, Melech, but my patience is running out,” said Torston. He held a loaded crossbow pointed at Melech’s back. Kep trailed them. He hadn’t said or signaled anything since they set out.

“Relax; we’re here,” said Melech. Just days earlier, he and Kep and two louts had been standing in that very spot, looking at the shadowed alley marking the way to the apothecary’s shop.

“Where is it?” said Torston.

“There,” he said, pointing to the dark opening.

“Stinks of a trap, Melech.”

“Oh, it is. I planned it while you were breaking my ribs. Didn’t you notice?”

“Shut your mouth.” He gave him a shove.

Melech stumbled toward the gap and drifted to the apothecary’s door. Shadows filled the open door.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home, does it, Melech? Let’s go. Get inside.” He shoved Melech again.

Melech was getting tired of being pushed around. He entered. “Hello? Finster?”

No answer.

Then he heard something. A wet, tearing noise, a squelching similar to chewing.

Torston shoved him again. There was a smell worse than any dead kank he had ever smelled. He remembered it.

Torston cried out, “Korvak! We’ve business.”

Melech couldn’t see a thing, but he was sure he heard movement. He backed up to the shelves, misjudged, and knocked over a table covered in small glass phials.

“Kep, light a torch,” said Torston.

A scraping and thumping noise sounded in the dark.

Melech guessed Torston was starting to think twice about being there. Melech heard him retreat toward the door. A scream and a heavy thumping sound told the tale. He had fallen. A twang hinted his master had fired his weapon.

Torston shouted, “You bastard! I’ll kill you, Melech.” He started screaming.

Nails clicked and scratched the floor.

Melech ran. Torston grabbed his foot. Melech fell, clawing on the floor to get out, but Torston was stronger and dragged him back.

Something growled. Wet, tearing noises. Torston screamed again.

Melech wriggled free. Torston grasped for him again, but something was pulling him into the dark. His angry shouts became piteous wailing.

Melech scrambled through the door. Kep was outside, his eyes wide. Melech had no idea what they just encountered. How did Kep know what was in there?

Torston’s screams had reached a pitch Melech didn’t think was possible; then they stopped.

Kep started running. Melech followed.

A roar blew out from the front door, and the cobbled bricks making up the front wall fell forward with a tremendous crash. Kep had rounded the corner into the brighter street beyond. Melech was right behind him. As he turned, he looked behind him and saw something that would haunt his dreams for years to come. Corpses spilled free and raced among them, with Torston’s limbs, head, and organs divided among them. The undead host rolled out from the building and gave chase.

“Run! Run! Run!” screamed Melech.

The halfling didn’t need the warning. He was already yards ahead. Melech followed.

The corpses trampled their own in their haste, crushed heads and broken bodies vanishing under the press. The naked ghouls hooted and gibbered as they sprang forward on all fours. The corpses were slow. The ghouls were not. Melech had no doubt death would catch him.

Galadan still lived. What remained of him lay quivering on the table. He couldn’t scream anymore. He couldn’t weep. He only shook and made strange chuffing and gurgling noises.

Watari had laughed and sighed through it all. What he cut away, he ate or dropped on the floor with distaste. Alaeda could not bring herself to watch. She still caught glimpses. A horrible smile. Bloody drool. Blood-painted skin and clothing.

Talara wept. Alaeda squeezed her arm for reassurance, though it was a hollow, empty gesture. There was no way out. They would join Galadan soon enough. They could hope only for was a quick end.

“I’m tired of elf,” announced the halfling. “I believe it’s time for the second course.” He went to the cage to inspect them. Drying blood and bits of flesh gave his childlike face a terrifying mask. “Which one? You know, fear gives the meat an interesting flavor, a special bite. I should save you for last,” he said to Talara. “Your fear should be exquisite. Pull the other one out and put her here,” he waved his butcher’s knife toward an empty table.

The two men moved at once. A third approached from the side, placing his blade against Talara’s neck. They appeared sickened by what they had seen and heard.

“Don’t fight, miss. We’ll hurt her if you do,” said the first. His breath stank of vomit. He had not enjoyed the spectacle any more than she had.

“You don’t have to do this. Please,” said Alaeda as the second opened the door.

“I do, miss, though I’d be lying if I said I wanted to. I’ve got orders.” He reached inside. She considered fighting. She considered clawing his eyes out.

Talara’s plight changed her mind. The guard’s blade had nicked her chin. She bled. Alaeda shoved away the guard’s hand and pulled herself out of the cage. She closed her eyes. She walked as slowly as she could manage toward the table Watari had indicated. She waited for the door to close on the cage, waited for the guards to relax and step away from Talara. She waited for the halfling, eager and excited to step close. The door closed. The guards moved. The halfling took a step. Alaeda struck out at the halfling.

He anticipated her and ducked under her swing. He moved with surprising quickness. He rolled forward and ran his knife across the top of her knee. The blade cut deep. The muscle jerked and rolled up her thigh, causing her to scream. Alaeda collapsed.

“Good try,” said the halfling after he hopped to his feet. “Table?” he said to the guards. They rushed to obey.

They put her on the table. Alaeda had been in control, had held it together through the whole hellish experience, but the agony in her leg broke her. She knew true fear.

The guards cuffed her arms and legs to hold her place. They weren’t gentle. When the guard pinned her leg, she screamed again.

The halfling rounded the table, watching her face. He pricked her skin with his knife to make her bleed. Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. He moved out from her view. He rattled the instruments on his worktable.

When he returned, he showed her a corkscrew made from bone. He lowered the tool to her eye and smiled like some horrid child.

“No.”

He looked up. The fury on his face twisted into a demonic mask.

Alaeda felt a cold presence wash over her, a chill unlike any she had ever known.

“Kill it!” the halfling shrieked.

The guard rushed by her. Alaeda twisted against her restraints to see what was happening. She struggled against the straps holding her down.

A scream.

“Free her.”

Shuffling steps.

“No,” screamed the halfling. He ducked under the table. The soldier who had spoken to her moments before came into view. Blood ran from his nostrils. His eyes were black and glassy. He fumbled with the straps.

“What’s going on? What’s happening?” Alaeda cried out.

The guard said nothing. He freed one of her hands. He grunted and dropped to the floor. Alaeda leaned over and undid the binding on her other arm.

The cold rushed up again, and twin moans sounded behind her.

She freed her leg.

“Come out, halfling. It is time to die.”

Alaeda freed her injured leg. Darkness clouded her vision.

The halfling had stabbed the guard who had started to free her and had been hacking at his neck and face to stop him. Watari glared at her then looked toward the door.

She saw what had happened.

Another man lay dead on the floor. Smoke rose from the crater in his head. Two more had turned on each other, fighting for their lives, eyes blackened much like the dead soldier’s. What happened to the others she couldn’t see, for the heat shimmer around the intruder who walked with purpose into the abattoir blocked her view.

She looked like a dwarf but was pale. A terrible injury ran from her neck down across her body. Her left arm hung limp. Alaeda knew her face. Even though pale as sand and eyes holding the same darkness as the creatures she had beguiled, there was something familiar.

“Pakka?”

Talara screamed from the cage.

The creature radiated hatred. Alaeda gasped.

The halfling had pulled up the cage door and was yanking at Talara, trying to drag her free.

“Come no closer!” he shouted.

“You will let her go,” said the thing. She did not, however, advance.

Alaeda slid from the table and leaned against it when the pain in her leg made her want to collapse. She rallied. “Let her go, Watari,” said Alaeda. “Now.”

The halfling’s fighting guards embraced each other, their blades punching into each other’s bowels. The spell holding them broke. They dropped to the floor, squirming as they died.

Watari held Talara by the arm. She fought him, grabbing the bars and kicking at his face. He slashed at her feet and legs. He couldn’t land a solid blow.

Pakka used his distraction to rush him. She moved far faster than her short legs and ruined body should allow. The halfling realized the danger at the last moment. He lashed out. The blade punched into their rescuer’s shoulder. It was about as effective as tapping her with a finger. She grabbed his head in both hands. The color in his face vanished at once. His skin turned blue-white, his lips blackened. He thrashed. She held on. His hair turned stark white, and still he fought. Pakka applied more pressure. A thin wail slipped through his chattering teeth, just before his skull collapsed with a wet clap.

Thaxos Vordon hesitated. His mind raced. He was so close.

“We’re at an impasse, it seems,” said the templar.

“Indeed,” he said.

“What will it be? Will you push on in this mad crusade and let the city die with you? Or have we had enough of Vordon’s ambitions?”

“We push on, of course,” said Thaxos.

Korvak’s eye widened in shock. “You heard what your messenger said. The city is under attack. Even if you defeat Tithian, it’ll cost you your army. You can’t hold the throne against them.”

Thaxos growled, “I am committed.”

“To annihilation? Look, if we combine forces, your soldiers and Tithian’s guard, we have a chance. It’s the one we have,” said Korvak. “The only one.”

The ground shook from another explosion in the streets. Dust and stones fell from the sagging roof.

“And then, once the battle’s done, I’ll be ruined,” said Thaxos. He lowered his sword a few inches.

Korvak tapped his chin with a finger, considering. “Maybe. Maybe not. Tithian is in the same situation. While he’s bottled up here, he can’t do anything either. I am certain you can come to an arrangement once this is done.”

The templar was right. The undead horde had taken Thaxos by surprise. He had hoped to take the Golden City after an hour at most. Where had the other army come from? Who did they fight for? Had he been able to take Tithian, he could have used his army to shore up Tyr’s defenders. He felt as if he had lost before he had even begun.

He could slip away. He had holdings in other cities still. He could start again. But the shame would be unbearable. To be driven out from his city, the city he would have ruled … He would rather see Tyr in ruins than face such shame.

Screams sounded from outside. Thaxos imagined it was some spell, some sorcery hurled by the king. It firmed his resolve to win. He stepped forward, sword ready to skewer the templar.

Korvak stumbled back, hands raised.

“There will be time enough to deal with this new enemy once I have secured my throne,” he said, and he raised the blade to strike.

The ghouls were behind them still. Melech could hear their shrieks and laughter as they barreled down the Warrens’ tight streets. He and Kep had been joined by the district’s wretched denizens, forming into a mob of the maimed, starved, and afflicted, all running for their lives from the things hunting them.

Kep took the next turn. He angled toward the fires raging in eastern fringes. Melech and the rest followed the halfling’s lead. They stumbled to a stop, piling up behind the halfling.

Four people stood in a line across the street. In the center stood a pudgy, balding man dressed in a simple tunic and breeches, the only concession to ornamentation being the copper armband he wore on each arm. Next to him was a beautiful half-elf woman in a long flowing dress. She gripped a staff in two hands. The other two were small gaunt humans. The man was haggard, and the woman crouched on the balls of her feet.

Melech had no idea who the people were. They weren’t templars. They weren’t nobles. And they were not warriors.

The bald man in the center shouted, “Stand aside!”

The ghouls appeared at the mouth of the street behind Melech. They howled and raced forward, claws extended, fangs bared.

Melech, Kep, and most of the refugees ran. A few were not fast enough and went down in a flurry of cloth, blood, and guts, their attackers rending their bodies with tooth and claw.

The four newcomers in the street, however, didn’t hesitate. They raised hands, orbs, staff, and wand and unleashed a magical torrent against the undead. The bald man cut down two ghouls with a radiant beam. The woman loosed green fire from her staff, while the others hurled glowing white dart after glowing white dart into the attackers.

The undead screeched and writhed. They lost their courage and turned to run. The magic cut them down. Yet even as the ghouls died, the walking dead who followed caught up. Their sightless, idiotic expressions and their grasping fingers told Melech they would not stop until destroyed.

The fat man in the center stepped forward and drew back his arms. He then thrust them forward, sending another wave of dreadful magical energy, a bow of golden radiance drifting toward the undead host. It seemed as though it would do nothing aside from a pretty show, but when it fell on the zombies, they exploded one by one with quiet pops, showering the street with their putrid meat.

At last, the undead were destroyed, and the survivors stared at each other in shock.

“Well, that was interesting,” said Melech.

The stone plug blocking the far end of Caravan Way blew away like a scrap of burning paper and tumbled through a row of buildings in a terrific crash before it vanished beneath the wreckage of a collapsed building. “Go, Loren. Give me my city,” said Temmnya.

She was awful and terrible and beautiful all at once. She shone with malign power, a corona of energy flickering around long black hair writhing in a supernatural wind. The skeletal beast she rode fell back on two legs and clawed the air. Aeris hung on as best he could. He was small and pale, a wisp of the man he once was.

Loren hated her but he was helpless to refuse her. So he ran down the tunnel, leading Kutok and the others, a tiny crowd of doomed men and women with the slave tribe on their heels. Behind them, undead hordes shuffled. Temmnya rose above them, her laughter bouncing around the dark passage.

On the other side, Loren found living foes waiting for him, a motley assortment of caravan guards, mercenaries, and adventurers with a smattering of templars. Many more were common folk, laborers and tradesmen armed with whatever they could find. They were few. Too few. But they were determined. It was their city, and they would not surrender it to the invaders.

Loren sought out the biggest enemy and found a hulking half-giant armed with a great stone held in its fists. Loren charged him. He leaped at the last moment to swing his blade across his opponent’s face. His blade took the brute’s nose and one eye. He fell back, spurting blood and fluid. Loren landed at the half-giant’s side, reversed his grip, and drove the blade into his remaining eye.

The battle surged around him. The cannibals carved through the defender’s ranks. The dead boiled out from the tunnel, crushing each other as they did. Temmnya rode in, untroubled by the press, and from her outstretched hands, pale gray rays flew. Where they fell, people died. She attacked without concern, destroying the living and the dead, friend and foe, anyone in her path. “Kill them! Kill them all!”

Loren paid for his distraction when a hideous tarek smashed him to the ground. A spear had run the savage all the way through, but still he fought. He smashed the ground with his club, aiming at Loren’s head but missing, thanks to Loren’s quick reflexes. The club snapped. Loren grabbed the spear sticking out from his opponent to pull himself up to his feet. The tarek’s eyes rolled with pain. Loren cut his opponent’s throat with a swift slash, and before the tarek hit the ground, Loren was searching for his next victim.

A scream drew Korvak away from the mad merchant. A young messenger racing toward the building fell to the ground when a naked, clawed monstrosity landed on her back. It sank fangs into the back of her neck and tore flesh, muscle, and bone free.

“Souls of my ancestors!” gasped Thaxos. “What is that?”

Shouts and panicked cries rose up from outside on the street. “I’d say our real enemy!” snarled Korvak.

He moved to the gap in the wall and peered out into the street, where he saw Vordon’s soldiers in battle with more ghouls and walking dead.

Thaxos joined him, all color draining from his face.

“You want the city, Thaxos? You’ll have to save it first,” spit Korvak. He had little magic left. He went out to face the monsters all the same, blasting them with red lightning and screaming a challenge.

More ghouls poured out from buildings. Scores of shuffling corpses followed on their heels. The attackers made no distinction between friend or foe. They killed anything they could, and when they dragged a victim down, they ate, tearing and ripping until the flopping limbs stopped.

Loren staggered back. Temmnya was a few feet away. She had lost her mount at some point. Kutok and three members of the slave tribe came forward to form a living wall around the witch against the living and the dead.

The ghouls’ ferocity drove back Tyr’s defenders, and they gave ground, retreating down side streets and ceding the opening to the invaders. With living victims out of reach, the ghouls swung horrid heads toward Temmnya’s force. She raised a hand, filthy magic holding many back. A few resisted and sprang forward to feast. Loren, Kutok, and the others cut them down. One got past them and bowled over Temmnya.

She fell hard to the ground. She was stunned. Her magical hold over Loren broke, and so did her control over the undead.

Ghouls, zombies, and worse turned toward their mistress and began to close in around them.

Kutok cursed. A few of the savages howled. Aeris cried out in fear.

Loren saw new horrors in the undead host. Slithering piles of meat crawled and flowed between the ranks. Tattered scraps of flesh bounced and skittered between feet. Dark things fluttered in the air. It seemed Temmnya’s spell had escaped her, had broken free, and more and more unnatural things joined the fight.

As Kutok and the other warriors tightened ranks and started hacking and stabbing at the closing undead, Loren stepped away and turned to the woman on the ground. For the first time in days, he could think.

“What have you done?” Loren shouted at Temmnya.

“My children, my children, my sweet children.” She laughed and pushed herself up to her hands. She shook her head. Blood fell from her nostril.

Greasy ashes swirled in the air.

Horrors slithered and scuttled forward. The undead fell along with the living as more and more terrible creatures joined the fight. The undead pressed in on them from all directions.

The slave tribe warriors howled battle cries and threw themselves at the undead in a wild, futile assault. The undead caught them and dragged them down to die. In moments, the slain rose to join their ranks, and thus did their numbers grow.

Loren searched for Aeris and found him sitting on the ground. The black shard he had carried was cupped in his hands. It was enormous, as big as a man’s head, a pulsing mass of darkness. Aeris stared into the stone, and his eyes turned as black as the rock he held.

Fire, smoke, and screaming greeted Alaeda when she limped out from the Vordon Emporium. She gripped her sword, plucked from a dead guard, and peered up the road. Through the haze, she saw a battle raging at the gate, Tyr’s people fought for their king, their city, their very lives against an appalling force. Some broke and ran. Many were cut down, hacked to pieces by the invading warriors or torn limb from limb by ravenous ghouls. Most held their positions, giving ground one foot at a time, but refusing to surrender. Alaeda understood. They had something to fight for. They fought for their freedom. They fought against the tyrant who led the hellish force to plunder their homes and bind them in shackles as tight as any Kalak had used.

Talara reached to her side. Coldness followed. Pakka drifted up and out from the dark.

“We have to help,” said Talara. “We must!”

Alaeda nodded. How? She could barely walk. There was no place left to run, no place she could hide.

Pakka flowed around them. “No,” she said. “I will not permit it. I failed you once, Talara, and I will not do it again by letting you die. You must flee this city. Run. Only then will you be safe.”

Talara regarded the dwarf with cool eyes. “Pakka, I never asked for your protection. I … I don’t know what happened to you; I feel as though I am to blame. I cannot thank you enough for saving us. But I must fight. I’m sorry, Pakka.”

The dwarf moaned, “Lady, I am bound to you. I cannot rest until you are secure.”

“I will never be secure, Pakka. I can never be as safe as you wish me to be. Pakka, you are free. I release you.”

Pakka wailed, a high-pitched, keening noise. She twitched and shook.

“Come on!” said Alaeda. She pulled Talara, leaving the undead dwarf behind.

Alaeda and Talara hobbled up the street. Alaeda’s injured leg slowed them. In the end, her pain saved their lives, for they were still hundreds of feet away when a new horror erupted from the street and roared a new challenge to the gathered warriors.

As long as eight mekillots in a row, it looked like a massive green grub. Slime sloughed from its segmented body, and rows of tiny, black eyes rolled around in their sockets. Long, whiplike tentacles flailed around its head, and each creature they struck fell dead, torn to pieces and dissolving in moments. The ponderous beast swung toward Alaeda and Talara and opened its cavernous maw. From the darkness came a rush of foul-smelling fluid, and floating in the mess were twitching skeletons carried by the filthy wave. The living touched by the flood melted down to the bones but did not die. They joined the other skeletons and turned against their friends, ripping and tearing with dripping claws.

The pudgy man who had saved them slumped. The woman with the staff supported him. The others, also fatigued, moved off, heading toward the city gates. The other survivors scattered like roaches in sudden light, scurrying for shelter where they could find it.

Kep dusted himself off.

“Quite the rescue, Kep. What with those things and all. How’d you know they’d be there?” Melech asked in a rush.

The halfling shrugged. “I didn’t. It wasn’t a rescue.”

“What was that ‘trust me’ business, then?” snapped Melech.

“We couldn’t kill you at the Nest. Too many eyes. Too many questions. Torston wanted the templar dead.”

“You were going to kill me?” asked Melech.

The halfling shrugged again.

“You little bastard,” Melech snarled and bunched his hands into fists.

“If you two are done?” said the woman.

Melech tore his gaze from the halfling.

She stood there, eyes narrowed to slits. “The city?”

“What about it?” said Melech and Kep together.

It was the man who spoke. “There’s dark magic afoot, and it’s coming from a source near the city gates. We must destroy it before it destroys us all.”

“Hey, I appreciate the help and all, but you are far better equipped for the whole hero business,” said Melech.

“I’ll go,” said the halfling.

“What?” asked Melech.

The halfling stepped forward to join the other two.

“You had better come along too. The undead are gaining numbers. And we won’t be here to protect you.”

Melech reflected a moment. She was right. Better to stick with the wizards. “Fine. Anyone have a weapon?”

The new horror reared back after disgorging the skeletons and launched its head at Kutok. The battered warrior rolled out of the way and swung his axe in a wide arc, severing two tentacles and sending them writhing to the ground.

Then another massive worm burst up from below to join the first.

The second fiend’s sudden arrival threw Kutok off balance, and his axe almost slipped from his fingers. Before he could right himself, the demon he had struck dived down again and swallowed Kutok whole.

Loren screamed in grief and rage. He left Temmnya and Aeris to cut a path through the milling zombies. It might be too late to save his friend, but he could still kill the beast.

Loren raced toward the horror. Before he could strike it, a tendril lashed his back and latched on to him. He roared. The ground fell away below him as the second worm monster lifted him into the air. Although he swung about, he could see Aeris far from the front lines, struggling to control the darkness in his hands.

Aeris looked up, shouted something, and death stalked the courtyard, defiling people, plants, and anything else in a wave of death rolling out from the pulsing black sphere. With the power he gathered, he hurled a sphere of glowing force at the monster. It struck the beast’s head and exploded. Chunks of burning meat flew in all directions. Loren tumbled free and crashed into the zombies below, which broke his fall.

Struggling to his feet, he swung around to find Aeris. Some distance away, he saw Temmnya wheel on Aeris. More ashes filled the air, and some magical force flung Aeris against the wall. He slid down and did not move. The growing black ball rolled free from his hands.

Korvak’s mad assault had proven a sufficient distraction, and Vordon’s forces, well trained as they were, struck together. They laid into the monsters with swords, axes, and spears. The ghouls killed dozens, but they were too few, and in moments they were dead.

Shouting above the monstrous squealing, Korvak said, “If you would save this city, if you have any courage and any honor, follow me!”

He ran for the ruined gate out from the Golden City. He did not know if any followed, and he didn’t care. They’d all be dead by dawn anyway.

Alaeda and Talara fought back to back. Alaeda’s blade claimed eyes, fingers, arms, and anything else in her reach. Talara proved almost as able. Her bone long sword rose and fell with shocking precision. Corpses littered the ground, but the undead still came, a flowing sea of filth and rot, undaunted by the death awaiting them.

The situation seemed hopeless. There were too many enemies. Alaeda saw others fighting, criminals and tradesmen, maimed ex-gladiators and templars, all striking against the invaders. More things crawled from the ground, things dead ages earlier and awakened to join the slaughter.

A great cheer went up from the defenders as one of the massive worms collapsed. There was still one more. Alaeda was astonished to see its maw forced opened and a man chopping his way free. The man’s flesh smoked from the thing’s corrosive fluids. His hair was gone and he was blind, but he hacked at the thing still. The worm tried to shake the ruined man free, yet he held on. And sliding out from the hole he created, he brought his axe down on its head with a tremendous chop. It split open and purple blood fountained as the thing fell.

A black blade flashed before her, mere inches from her face. A wild-eyed desert raider, black robes making him look like shadow, slashed again. She caught his blade with her desperate parry. She deflected the strike, though in her weakened state, it was a near thing. The man sensed her weakness and pressed his attack, each strike coming faster than the last. It was all she could do to keep her shorter weapon between herself and the warrior.

The warrior snarled in frustration and went high with his next strike. Alaeda fell for the feint, raising her blade, but he altered his weapon’s path, twisting down to strike at her injured leg. The blade bit deep, and the world heaved as she fell.

Korvak found several hundred soldiers and Thaxos Vordon himself had followed him. They ran through the battered Tradesmen’s District, up through the Brickyards, and around to Iron Square, which was all in flames. Through the fires, Korvak could see the battle raging ahead and the countless undead overwhelming the defenders.

“We’re too late,” panted Thaxos.

Korvak bit back a retort. “There’s still time. We can still turn the tide. Come on!”

Melech heard the battle’s din for many blocks, but it did nothing to prepare him for what he saw when he followed the wizards out onto Caravan Way. The fighting raged everywhere, pockets of living clashing against the relentless dead. In the center, Melech saw more horrors on the ground, thrashing.

The wizards did not delay. Brilliant missiles streaked from their fingertips to clear a path through the defenders. Each spell they cast weakened them further. They seemed to age before Melech’s eyes, hair turning white and brittle, wrinkles appearing all over. They were killing themselves to power their magic. However, the spells they launched killed. The woman with the staff, whom Melech learned had been working with Korvak, threw a ball of golden fire at one knot of ghouls feasting on corpses, and nothing but ashes were left of them when the fire cleared. The balding wizard moved into the battle’s thick, fire swirling around him, protecting him from attacks. As he walked, he loosed lightning bolt after lightning bolt. He walked with purpose toward a crazed woman in black robes who stood in the center of the fighting.

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” asked Melech.

Kep had left his side. He dived into the crowds, attacking with his knives. Melech found a discarded bone sword and picked it up. “To hell with it,” he said and threw himself forward.

Loren struggled to his feet. His back burned and he felt his injuries bearing down on him. Brilliant lights and explosions rebounded off the walls; corpses flew in every direction. He searched the battlefield. Aeris lay against the wall, a bloody smear showing where he had struck. Temmnya raised her hands, black energy crackling between her fingertips. She was going to kill him. After all they’d been through, after everything, she was going to kill him anyway. Loren lurched forward, chopping down one of the tribesmen who moved to block his path.

Alaeda struggled to rise. The agony in her leg was too much. Unconsciousness tried to draw her down into the blackness. She called out for Talara. She was gone, carried off by the battle tide. She raised her head. The warrior grinned and said, somehow audible through all the noise, “Your life will please my mistress.” He raised the blade. Alaeda tried to lift her own. She couldn’t. The scimitar wavered. It didn’t fall. Instead, a bone blade punched through the man’s chest. Blood frothed on his lips. The scimitar fell from his fingers, and the man toppled, revealing a terrified and much-abused Melech. He gave her his hand and a lopsided grin not matched by the fear his eyes revealed. “I think we’re even.”

The dying expired as Korvak harvested their dwindling life force to power his few remaining spells. Blazing red light shot from his fingertips, carving holes through the undead. Ruined faces and grinning skulls turned to face him and were at once bowled over by Thaxos and his soldiers as they crashed forward.

Korvak stumbled after them. He loosed crackling death every few steps. Vordon’s soldiers were skilled. They had already been fighting for hours, though, and without stopping for rest, they had started to fight again. It was too little, too late. They would not be enough. The undead spilled into the city, coming down the walls and flowing through the ruined gate, spreading into the Noble Quarters, Warrens, and everywhere else. He breathed out. He had done his best.

Thaxos’s blade left a pale arc as it slid through a slave warrior’s neck and deep into a stumbling zombie with gnashing black teeth. He moved with a dancer’s grace, his blade finding its mark with each strike. He shouted, “Vordon,” again and again as a battle cry to rally his troops.

He dispatched a skeleton clawing its way toward him by kicking the skull away. In the brief reprieve, a gap appeared in the fighting. Then he saw his cousin Talara. She fought a ghoul. It was a desperate fight. Blood streamed from countless nicks and cuts, and the monster pressed its advantage.

Thaxos stepped toward her, loyalty to his own blood propelling him. A gray-skinned, fanged horror with blazing eyes sprang at him, blocking his advance. He slashed and cut. His cousin faded from his thoughts.

“We’ve got to find Talara,” Alaeda shouted. She hobbled forward. She lacked the strength to raise her sword. Standing took too much effort. Melech supported her and protected her with his own strikes and parries. He was not much of a swordsman, but the zombies showed even less skill.

“There!” she cried. She saw Talara driven back by a ghoul. She struggled forward, smashing a skull and cutting free a zombie’s jaw.

Melech and Alaeda slashed and cut, fighting their way through the press. Melech shouted something.

“What?” she cried.

“Look! Isn’t that your friend?” he shouted.

She looked and saw Phytos and a handful of miners had joined the melee, crashing through the undead. The great host turned toward the new threat and gave Alaeda the opening she needed to reach Talara. Melech chased after her.

A bone-jarring explosion and falling ashes told Loren the monster holding Kutok was down. Loren fought his way through the undead, cutting a bloody swath through Temmnya’s forces. He would reach Aeris. He would! He saw a portly wizard hurling death, scattering the undead. More flowed in to replace each he burned away. There would be no help there.

A new force had come up from one of the side streets, a band of what looked to be miners. They were fresher than the other defenders and cut through the foes in their path.

Loren searched out Temmnya. The witch blasted Aeris again, and he flopped on the ground. Smoke rose from his body.

Loren screamed and threw himself through her defenders.

Thaxos discovered Talara at his side. The ghoul she had been fighting broke her blade and was moving in for the kill. Thaxos stepped around his enemy and shoved his sword through the ghoul’s back. It fell to ground, dead before it struck the cobbles. Talara and Thaxos exchanged a look, each surprised by his sudden charity. He saluted with his sword and turned around just in time to find a scimitar plunging through his innards.

Talara had left her. She vanished into the chaos and would die. Pakka would be trapped forever. There would be no rest, no relief. She would wander and haunt until what good was left shriveled and died. She screamed and raged; the darkness welled up inside. She fled the battle, leaving the woman to the fate she deserved. Pakka howled with fury. She murdered and slew as she wandered the battle’s fringes, exulting in the hot blood warming her cold flesh. The more she killed, the more guilt crept into her mind. She cared nothing for her victims. Responsibility kept tugging at her, though, a duty to protect Talara at any cost.

Pakka dropped a mangled Vordon guardsman to the ground and swung back around to the battle. Her black, soulless eyes sifted through the bodies until she found Talara. She fought. She was surrounded. She would die. Pakka screamed in frustration and rushed to help her.

Loren almost reached Temmnya. He grabbed her robes. Something thick and muscled hit him from the side. He fell, sprawling. He looked up and saw Ger, Temmnya’s damned lizard. It advanced on Loren, low to the ground, golden eyes gleaming. Loren struggled to rise. The beast sprang at him again and sank its talons deep in his chest and its fangs into his shoulder. They rolled and fought. He heard Temmnya’s laughter ringing in his ears. The drake shredded his flesh.

Alaeda saw Thaxos fall, and she struggled to reach Talara. She lost Melech somewhere behind her. She didn’t know what she would do if she got there, but she had to try.

Melech fought for his life. A ghoul, stinking like an abattoir, knocked his blade from his hands and sent it clattering away. Melech backed up, hands raised. The thing was almost human, might have once been human. Leprous flesh, sharp fangs, and shining red eyes told him humanity was a dim memory for the monster. The ghoul advanced, drool spilling from its gaping jaws.

The weight on Loren’s chest lifted. Burning meat’s stench filled his nostrils.

Temmnya shrieked. It was a mindless sound, pure grief and madness. Loren clambered up and saw the lizard twitching. He looked to the witch and saw Aeris swaying as he stood. He was standing. He had also picked up the pulsing, black sphere and raised it with both hands over his head. Loren couldn’t hear him, though he could read his lips. “Kill the bitch,” Aeris mouthed, and he threw the black orb to the ground.

Korvak saw Pakka. Shock made him stumble. He had seen her die! The undead fell away from her in fear. Talara lay on the ground, one arm still thrown up over her face. The dwarf stood over her mistress and blasted a ghoul with her gaze. A savage warrior attacked. The dwarf gestured and the wild man’s eyes went black. He turned and started attacking the undead, lending his aid until the horrors dragged him down.

Pakka’s hands darted out and tore the undead to pieces. The battle raged on. Korvak lost them in the flow of bodies.

Kep landed on a ghoul’s back. His blade dug deep into the creature’s sides, punching through its flesh and spilling black blood from the wounds. The ghoul clawed to dislodge the halfling, but it was to no avail. Kep hung on and stabbed and stabbed until the creature collapsed. Melech rushed to Kep’s side, noting he sported horrific claw marks on his arms, face, and sides. The halfling sagged against him. Melech took up the halfling’s knife and looked up. The dead closed in, hands reaching out.

The black sphere exploded when it hit the ground. Temmnya screamed in rage. She hurled a killing hex at the half-elf, and his flesh burned away to nothing. A black stain on the wall behind him indicated he was ever there. Ashes swirled around the witch. Her grief-stricken face was monstrous, pale and slick with blood. Her eyes bulged in their sockets. Filth matted her hair. She rounded on Loren, her hands up to launch another lethal spell against him, but he was faster. He charged forward, dodging the spell and hammering her face with his fist. Teeth and blood flew from her mouth. He landed on top of her, raising his fists to strike again and again. She screamed. She cried. He didn’t stop. Her cheekbone collapsed. Her jaw shattered. He raised his hand to strike again but checked himself. He held his fist up, ready to strike. Her blood dripped from his knuckle.

She glared at him. The wreckage of her mouth curled into a sneer. She tried to speak. He brought his fist down. It struck rock. She was gone, a wisp of gray smoke dispersed a moment later. Loren loosed all the rage, all the hatred, and all the guilt in a roar rising above the noise of the fighting. He closed his eyes to the devastation all around him.

One by one, the zombies fell, the magic fueling their unnatural forms fading. The ghouls, filled with panic, quit the battle, running for the under-city whence they came. The flitting shadows stilled. The savage tribesmen ran. And Tyr’s defenders cut them down.

Loren opened his eyes and looked out across the sea of corpses. Smoke and ash filled the air. The living picked their way through the dead. The fighting was done. His duty was done. He was done.

breaking the sphere ended the spell. Most undead zombies collapsed at once, and we were able to destroy the ghouls with little trouble. We didn’t find any more of those worm creatures, and the other creatures fled into the under-city or flew off,” explained Alaeda.

King Tithian nodded. “And what of those savages?”

“Routed. We killed most of them. I don’t think they will trouble you again.”

The king leaned back in his throne and turned his attention to Talara Vordon. “Your cousin?”

Talara stepped forward. “He was injured in the battle. I was sure he had died. I searched for him after. I couldn’t find him among the dead. I spoke with a few of his men. I heard different stories. Some said he escaped. Others say he was dragged off by my … ahem … by a spirit.”

“A spirit?” he asked.

Talara spread her hands as if to say it was rumor.

Tithian shook his head. “Korvak tells me your house was responsible for the attack against the palace, but it was also your house who helped save the city.”

“It does seem my cousin understood where his loyalties should lie in the end,” said Talara.

“Since your people created this mess, it seems fitting they clean it up,” he said. “As your cousin is nowhere to be found, I leave the work to your capable hands. You are the heir, yes?”

“I am,” she said, bowing.

“I imagine we can find the coin needed to pay for this reconstruction,” said Tithian, scratching his chin.

When Alaeda left Talara to bargain with the king about the price for their service, she found Phytos waiting in the hall beyond. He nodded and fell into step at her side. The woman had some gall, expecting compensation after her house had a part in the attack responsible for bringing the city to ruin’s brink. The king didn’t have much choice, though. Vordon’s arrival at the Caravan Gate helped turn the tide, and the soldiers, under Talara’s leadership, drove out the remaining undead not destroyed when Shom’s spell failed. Vordon was more popular than ever for helping to route Temmnya’s horde, and Tithian needed friends more than ever. Reports from the Crimson Legion were troubling. Rikus had done well in the first engagements, enough to route the Urikite armies. Against all common sense, though he pushed on toward Urik.

A litter carried Alaeda and Phytos from the Golden City to the Rat’s Nest, where she had hoped to find Melech and Kep. Repairs in the city were already under way. Workers had fixed the ruined gate and tore down the damaged structures to raise new ones in their places. Alaeda sat on the cushions and touched her leg where the halfling’s blade had cut her. It was tender, despite a fire priest’s magic. He had tended her after the battle, and the wound was not quite healed yet. She would walk again, though, in time.

The litter-bearers moved her through the city, up streets with more ruined buildings than intact ones. After the initial battle, more ghouls and worse had emerged from Under-Tyr. The Veiled Alliance had dealt with them in the end, having come forward to defend the city. Their leader, Matthias, suggested there may be more below and had asked Alaeda to carry the warning to the king. Tithian had listened and, for a moment, Alaeda thought she saw a glint in his eye, almost as if he were thinking how he could use those monsters. He covered himself well, though, and dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. The Veiled Alliance had not shown themselves since the fighting ended. It seemed they preferred secrecy.

They reached the Rat’s Nest just as the sun reached its highest point. She dropped a few coins in the lead litter-bearer’s hand and hurried inside the tavern. Phytos came in behind her. Melech, Kep, and the stranger named Loren sat at a table. Several empty mugs crowded the space between them. A young woman tended the bar. She looked familiar. A pretty thing, long hair, and a hint of a smile.

“You like the new girl, Alaeda?” slurred Melech.

Alaeda blushed and took a seat. Phytos wandered over to the bar.

“Her name’s Ashita,” he whispered. “Met her in the battle. I wouldn’t fool around with her, though. She’s”—he lowered his voice even further—“a wizard.”

Alaeda recognized her from the battle at Caravan Gate. She was part of the Veiled Alliance.

“What’s she doing here, then?”

“Keeping an eye on things,” said Melech.

Kep also slumped forward, eyes glazed from one cup too many of broy.

Loren alone was sober.

“You saved us,” she said to the ex-gladiator.

He grunted.

“Oh, and I did nothing, did I?” asked Melech.

Alaeda ignored him. “z are you headed next, Loren?”

“I’m thinking about Nibenay.”

She arched an eyebrow.

He looked her in the face. “I owe a very fat man a very short conversation.”

She smiled. “Mind some company?” She would love a chance to talk with Mordis.

“Why not?” he said. He didn’t smile but he didn’t frown either.

“You ever find Galadan?” she asked Melech.

“Nope,” said the thief. “From what you told me, there wasn’t enough left of him for me to kill. And if he lived, the fire did him in.”

“So aside from drinking, what are you into now?”

“Ah, my criminal days are done, Alaeda,” said Melech. “I’m an honest man now.”

The halfling snorted.

Korvak found Pakka standing in the ashes of the House Vordon emporium. He had searched for the dwarf since the battle’s end. He feared she was gone for good. He suspected she lingered there still, so he tried one last time. The sun had set, and night claimed the city once more.

“Templar,” she said.

“Dwarf.”

“No. Not anymore,” she said.

“Perhaps not,” he said, inspecting her pale flesh and the disturbing wound where Temmnya Shom had killed her. “Why are you still here?”

“I have nowhere else to go. I feel the darkness inside growing. I can’t stay but I have no future.”

Korvak nodded. “You’re free now.”

“I know the word, but not the meaning.”

Korvak sighed. “I think that’s true for us all.”

Robert J. Schwalb, a writer and award-winning game designer best known for his work on DUNGEONS & DRAGONS®, got his start in 2002 and has never looked back. He has designed or developed almost two hundred gaming books in both print and digital formats for WIZARDS OF THE COAST®, Green Ronin Publishing, Black Industries, Fantasy Flight Games, and several other companies. Some of his best-known books include the Dark Sun® Campaign Setting™, Player’s Handbook 3®, A Song of Ice and Fire Roleplaying, Grimm, and Tome of Corruption.