I tasted ash. It swirled in flurries wrought by smoke columns and hungry flames. Great plumes of black rose in the sky like pillars of a vengeful god’s hall; the fires below made it all the more unnatural. From far enough away, it might even look like another world. That of chaos and suffering. Some underworld, perhaps. One of my making.

  I opened and closed my eyes, and the scene withered away with some effort before vanishing altogether. A life of memories, of a past destined for repetition.

  Sorcery was a taxing thing. Even as powerful as I was, with as rich of a supply as I had, the natural rebelliousness of Souls and the ties that bound them combined with the sheer volume was taking its toll. Since I hard more cautiously regulated the process, Corruption wasn’t an issue, but still, the strain this Sorcery was causing to my body and mind was evident even to Feia. She had suggested, in her own demanding way, that I rest and allow myself time to recover. Not an unwise course of action, but wisdom was not the guiding principle in my purpose.

  I was the fist of vengeance, the will of retribution, the voice of demands for the lost thousands, millions. For the generations that would never come to be. They cried out in the void, begging, pleading, demanding. I had to answer them. Whatever my scruples, whatever my concerns for moderation, I had to succeed.

  Indeed, in the days since the others had left us here in Drazivaska, I’d found records. Records in absolute abundance, tattered and degraded, written in many hands—none of which I knew. Digging language from the minds of the Shells here was impossible, for they were simply too long dead, their High Souls entirely separated from their near-skeletal bodies. In the end, it was Feia’s suggestion that I use the portal which spurred the breakthrough. It was a portal to the Low, designed to allow greater access to the power that drove Sorcery to fuel grand Spells. Not only had the portal broken before truly working, but it had also inverted. It was not merely a well for power, but a siphon, in a sense, at least in the moments of its collapse. For their ambition, their drive, these Vasian Sorcerers and the people of the city were punished with a nearly eternal damnation: some of their Souls were trapped in the broken portal shards of ivory. Not entirely, of course, but significant portions of their Low and High.

  Some might call what I did next murder, but I thought it a far kinder duty. That of mercy.

  I extracted, in as complete fashion I could, the most whole Souls from the broken portal and absorbed all useful pieces. Certainly, I might have been able to resurrect them, at least parts of them, for questioning and servitude, but something prevented me from taking that step. Was it too far? Too sinister? I did not know, but I decided to let the Souls finally rest when I had what I needed: language. Some ancient Vasian tongue and script, primarily, though I developed a working knowledge of two sets of local languages of both Eastern and Western Kosican, originating from a tribal beginning, by the clumsy translation to written word. There were a few other boons to my work, such as knowledge of the city, a more thorough catalog of the items that were once here, and even some basic grasp of the infrastructure in the surrounding region—much of it made irrelevant by time’s decay and change, of course. All this was done slowly and cautiously to avoid Corruption, of course.

  Following the breakthrough, I began my process that would continue for the next week, draining me of much, worrying Feia to no end. When I had the strength, I busied myself with turning the Shells into my own Soulborne. It took Soul energy from the portal as well as other Shells, so there was a loss in the conversion, but to reap an army of such scale with so few resources in so little time… I was satisfied with the inefficiency. When I lacked the energy myself, exhausted and burned out, I turned to reading. Most of it I cast aside quickly, realizing the irrelevance of what remained within, but some of it kept me up late into the night, reading by scavenged candlelight. I was looking for histories.

  I read of old wars of Vasia against barbarian hordes, enemy nations, and a few sole Sorcerers, often unnamed. Armies of the Dead were the greatest threat, it seemed, wreaking havoc to this northern region on a consistent basis, leading to the construction of a long wall that was now likely just rubble and bones. I looked for mention of Pethya, but the name never came up. In a treatise on the foundations of Vasia, the author spoke of an opposing collection of barbarian tribes that had almost wrought its destruction. Still, Vasia survived, defeating it in a following war—one in which the Sorcerers there cursed their own lands and raised Dead to kill all in sight. It took a decade to finally eliminate the threat, but by then, severe damage was done to Eastern civilization, and not just from the Dead. Order had decayed, supply chains and communication lines broke down, leading to mass starvation and plague, only spurred on by the abundance of Dead flesh carrying diseases. It also opened the way for Vasian domination, swooping up half-broken states with relative ease in a timeframe of only ten years.

  I looked for more information on these early days but found little. None seemed to speak of these ‘opposing barbarians’ I suspected as Pethya. Indeed, nearly all gestures of its existence were seemingly forgotten, with one other notable exception: a ledger of records in the tower’s libraries. It showed additions and withdrawals from the collections, starting as far back as two hundred years before the portal’s collapse. I pieced together that almost at the very beginning, a significant selection of writings had been removed and sent to the Column at Nova. There was even a note attached to the list, saying such histories were under Column supervision.

  Column supervision. The phrase related to the sealed Souls of priests I’d spoken to—the Reaving and its cover-up, perhaps. But if the histories were brought to the Column, why were Column priests in charge of the mission to eliminate me and deal with Pethya sealed away? Was death not sufficient? Perhaps it was done to avoid their knowledge being accessible from their corpses via their lingering High Souls?

  Regardless, the pondering lasted only a little while, for the realization that their claim was now at least partially verified sunk into me like an assassin’s jagged blade. I had killed many thousands with my Dead. Even unintentionally, through a lack of control, it was still my doing. The blood of my countrymen was on my hands, in no small part. For all my efforts to live up to Demetria’s wishes, to bring her back to a peaceful, prospering world, I had failed most monumentally.

  This understanding, this weight bore down on me with oppressive severity. For two days, I did not eat, did not sleep, and sat in a meditative state induced by shock, loss, and depressive self-pity upon the top of the tower, unguarded from the elements. Feia tried to convince me to stop, even with force, but eventually, she succumbed to my self-punishment and tended to me as best she could with blankets and fires. At the time, I barely registered her presence, lost in sorrow as I was.

  At the end of the second night, weary as I was, on the verge of collapse from exhaustion, staring into the night sky, searching for some escape from this damning discovery, I saw the colors change. From darkness, red so vibrant and deep it looked like blood slit the mountainous horizon open to bleed the glory of dawn. I watched the sky change and come to life. Cliff faces painted a dark contrast to the rebirth of the sky behind. A jagged edge of darkness. The rise of light, growing, brightening. And then the warm blush of the sun broke through, casting aside shadow with impossibly powerful rays, undaunted, unstoppable. My heart ached, squeezed by the incorporeal hand of anguish. Tears shed fresh, wobbling sight, rasping breath. In that horizon, somehow, I saw her, real as in my dreams, in my memories. Demetria was not upon a stake, not a lifeless corpse I howled over, but standing, reaching out to me. She was smiling. And in the whisper of wind, the distant birdcalls impossible in a city of death, I heard her voice. She told me it would be okay.

  Everything would be okay.

  Soon after, I collapsed in a deep sleep. And I dreamt not of loss, not of sorrow, but of pleasant memories of a past before war.

  …

  “Daecinus,” came a whisper.

  I opened my eyes. The sun was warm on my skin. Evening. Had I slept for so long? Feia was leaning over me, crouched on her haunches, necklaces draping down over her loose warm-weather tunic. An irrational thought floated through my mind, Did I sleep through Spring? I could only chuckle at the notion as I sat up, body aching and tired.

  “At least you deign us with a pleasant mood,” she said, snorting, handing me a skewered slab of steaming red meat, almost carmelized from a firey sear, smelling like a pleasant afterlife. “Eat. And I won’t allow any protests.”

  I cleared my throat and replied, “Thank you.” I took the stick and tore into the food, savoring every bite. I ate in silence for a few minutes, devouring it as fast as I dared, drinking from a skin of cold water she’d provided.

  “I was worried about you.”

  The statement gave me pause. I lowered the meat and looked at her. Feia’s face was not beautiful in the traditional sense, with its scars, an odd combination of her relative youth, a harsh life’s wearings that aged her beyond her years, and a certain sharpness that could make most wary. She always carried a look of unguarded suspicion, holding her lips thin and turned down. Indeed, her face, when expressionless, still might appear hostile to most. But her eyes, as harsh as they usually were, held expression beyond explanation. They told tales. Ones I understood, ones I knew myself. And with that knowledge, that insight, I had found striking beyond compare. But now I saw the toll of my own breakdown reflected in her: exhaustion, worry, and fear.

  “I am sorry,” I said, reaching out with my clean hand to hold hers. She gripped mine back after a moment. “I wish I could say that I shouldn’t have done that or that I ought to have handled it differently—”

  “But that is an unrealistic and unkind ask of me,” she finished. “I know.” Feia held my hand and looked out to the mountains in the east where that sunrise had so enraptured me only this morning. Her face was impassive, a shield against the emotions within; once more, only her eyes revealed the desperately buried turmoil raging inside. “I will tell you things I have not told anyone. You must hear them. And I must say them.”

  “Of course.”

  She nodded and took a deep breath, a shaky one. “My village was raided and put to the torch. My husband was killed. One of my children. The other two were taken along with me to be sold as slaves. I tried to protect them, to draw the ire of the slavers… They hurt me more than anyone else. Than anyone could. And still, my daughters were—” She put a hand over her mouth, catching an unsteady breath. Eyes glassy. “They killed my babies. They… They killed them both in front of me. I died that night. I did not eat, sleep, or speak. I was dead. I was Dead. Days later, weeks, Oskar and a few others crossed paths with them, as fate would deem it, and I escaped my anguish to reap revenge.” She forced a teeth-gritted smile, face torn between sorrow and hate. “And I got it. Bloody and long. I did things that I never thought I could do.” The empty grin slid off, leaving her face slack and pale. She looked to me, eyes red, a strain there that I felt in my heart. “It gives me no reprieve, Daecinus Aspartes. None. And the gods laugh at my arrogance still, thinking I could have made anything right with my vengeance. And yet… And yet, nothing is right. My village was torched by Vasians fleeing prosecution from Oskar’s civil war. Some druzhina or hired mercenaries, I don’t know. But my village was under the empire’s protection, yet what protection did my family receive? What justice not wrought by the hands of rebels and one vengeful woman?” Her grip tightened around my own, squeezing it as if to break my bones. “We need to make it right. We need to bring them to justice.”

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  I looked at her, unable to tear my eyes away. Everything will be okay. Demetria’s words echoed in my heart, yet I could not say them. Not to Feia. Not to myself. They were the words of a woman lost, an ideal tarnished. Sundered. “This justice… It is a mantle I bear as well. I shall not sway from my duty. This I promise you. You shall have your justice, and I shall have mine.”

  “Good.”

  The night was one of activity. As Feia slept, recovering from a long time spent watching over me, I worked. First, I reviewed the items retrieved from the rubble of the city, some of which were cataloged and thus tracked down. Then there were the riches: gems, gold, silver, jewelry, and other fineries. I had it all collected and prepared for transport in multiple large chests similar to the one I’d given Oskar. Of the Artifacts, there was nothing as potent as the arm rings and diadem. Much of what was stowed here was intended for the portal’s construction or study. There were refined instruments for measurement and observation, hopelessly optimistic capacitors for limiting any overflow that clearly never saw much use, and uniquely padded tunics that were almost gambeson-like in construction but had thick weaves of Sorcery embedded inside to protect the wearer—these were found locked in a chest, not even worn when death came for all here. I set a few of my more anatomically complete Soulborne to the task of patching up the old and somewhat frayed garments, half-protected by the Sorcery imbued within. The Soulborne had to be instructed by Protis at first but caught on to the task well enough. Which, indeed, reinforced another rather strange difference in this time’s Soulborne—they could learn. There were also a few rather simple amplification Artifacts I left for Feia, for they would offer little to me at this point.

  There was one exception to the nature of the items I’d found here: it seemed a more cautious experimenter—likely a priest, given the Vasians’ religification of Sorcery—had brought along a weapon. A rather simplistic one, by my standards, but effective nonetheless in the world’s current state. It was, quite strangely, a glass sphere the size of an infant’s fist attached to dense iron links as if to serve as a necklace. Inside the glass sphere was an eye, remarkably preserved and entirely inhuman. It wasn’t a Shell’s, not a Soulborne’s, or anything tangential. Perhaps, spiderwebbed with minuscule blackened veins, it was the eye of a fully Corrupted Sorcerer, scarcely human. Intriguing indeed. The organ served as a macabre but excellent material for enchantment, taking on a Spell that could drain either targetted individuals or swaths of them with focused siphons, harvesting some of the runoff for itself, serving as an accessible well for personal access. I donned the weapon and felt oddly changed. As if I now wore the title of a necromancer unleashed rather than a terrified and isolated man. Perhaps it was the end of my journey, the actualization of what was inevitable since my awakening: Sorcery and vengeance.

  Once the cataloging was done and I had a moment to think, I realized that I’d been grossly neglecting significant functionality in my newly acquired Soulborne. The ninety-three of them, to be exact. The final number astonished me, for I had not bothered to keep track as I created them in my daze of work. They were not merely weapons but tools. They managed to accomplish most basic labor with some instruction, though a few seemed to stand out from the rest with greater memory or capability for finer tasks, Protis foremost among them, of course. I had them spread through the city on numerous tasks. The first was to locate as much workable iron as possible and bring it back. The second was to hunt for food for myself and Feia as well as to feed my Soulborne.

  Once I had enough iron to work, I set Protis to the task of smithing. It turns out that one of the zealots from Protis’s ascension, as I deemed it, was a smith in his past life. This knowledge of craft seemed to leave behind remnants of workable skill and inspired me to sacrifice numbers for quality. Thus, for no reason beyond some human-minded notion of loyalty, I chose the Souborne that had been with me the longest and sacrificed no small amount of the portal’s bound Souls to raise them to ascended intelligence alongside Protis. However, I did not give them names—that, perhaps, would be a step too far. I had my ascended Soulborne lead groups of twenty in the increasingly-varying tasks. Some of the ascended Soulborne had workable skills they roughly passed on to their subordinates. However, none were as immediately useful as Protis’s blacksmithing nor as advanced as its fluid intelligence. Additionally, the newly ascended ones lacked Protis’s hand with language, strangely.

  Working non-stop, without more than an hour’s rest a day as needed, my Dead were productive beyond expectations. I had a working forge within a day, built in the ruin of what was once the tower’s smith, fueled with charcoal produced from the surrounding oak trees. The process was slower at first with only their claws and strength, but my wood production improved dramatically once Protis, leading a collection of others, began outputting workable iron implements. By the end of the first day, I was gaining an axhead every thirty minutes. By the end of the second, I had rudimentary ax handles fitted to the heads and enough weapons to arm every single Soulborne. Then I set Protis upon the task of nails, rivets, and, most importantly, armor plates in a style we’d theorized back in Pethya. The skulls of my Soulborne would be protected with a simple iron cap, as killing one was most easily done with a hearty blow to the head. Under different circumstances, with more time, resources, and labor, I might commit to a more thorough armoring, but as it was, I was battling against the worry of my discovery. Too much preparation, and I risked the Vasians organizing and fielding an army to counter my own, perhaps even gathering a coalition of allies. No, I had to move as quickly as I dared. But since my primary asset was that of the Dead, I had to keep them effective, and that meant safe—not just from death but from dismemberment and disablement. A fine line, certainly.

  With this philosophy in mind, I would have preferred a linen armor of linothorax or perhaps gambesons, but both demanded excessive textiles, which I lacked. Regular armor also meant straps for securing, which demanded processed leather—a more difficult endeavor that would take time I simply did not have. And since fabrics were not attainable with my lack of flax and cotton, I entrusted Feia with a half-dozen Soulborne bound to her—which was nearly her limit—a healthy amount of silver, and a best guess at the nearest settlement. I could not leave my Dead, for proximity was still a limiting factor, and I did not wish to bring the whole mass of Dead beyond the protection of Drazivaska just yet. More than anything, I wanted to avoid any advanced warning the Vasians might receive of my arrival. Buying local goods in such bulk with valuable, old coins was sure to alert authorities in time, but it was a risk I felt I had to take.

  Feia was gone for three days. In that time, I incorporated another twenty-one Soulborne, clearing out much of the Dead from the surrounding woods. I increased the production of armor and refined the designs to fit a lack of leather and textiles. The end design started with narrow strips of linked iron that protected the outer arm against cutting strikes, thereby reducing risk of dismemberment. I also decided a set of horizontal strips attached to whatever textiles Feia returned with across the chest would do as a basic lamellar harness; this would attach to the arm assembly with a rounded piece of iron for the shoulders. Paired with two-handed axes, my Soulborne would be death on any battlefield, even against three, four times their number of professional warriors. Cavalry might be an issue, with the modern prevalence of lances and heavy charges I’d learned about, even if horses feared the Dead. However, as I simply did not have enough numbers for pikes and as the strategy would be a poor utilization of my creatures’ natural talents anyway, I would have to accept that particular drawback to my approach. Any tactical deficit could be mitigated with proper strategic foresight, after all. We’d theorized, back in Pethya, on all sorts of armaments for a Soulborne army. Ultimately, shields didn’t make sense for an anatomy of such sheer resistance and lack of pain as Soulbornes, and one-handed weapon didn’t fully utilize their raw strength. Swords were expensive and required a good amount of skill, but axes? They were relatively cheap and simple to make, yet powerful, dealt with armor well enough, and were not difficult to use.

  When the Sorcerous gambesons were finally patched, I had two fit for myself and Feia, and the rest for my intelligent Soulborne to go under their armor. As I saw it, my army was susceptible to any Sorcery I couldn’t counter, especially my Dead commanders. While this was a good step, I knew it wouldn’t be sufficient, but there was little more I could do now, for the Soulborne were incapable of Sorcery for their own self-protection. It’d just be another hole for me to patch in my stratagems.

  Yet, I was not quite done with my production. I set another group to the manufacturing of basic carts, for I was certain we’d run across more Shells to convert and resources to utilize while also requiring them for our plundered loot. I had little to do with gold and silver for now, but what if I transitioned from an army of Dead to one of the living? Mercenaries required payment, for instance. Furthermore, there was always the possibility of using my treasure as bribes to open gates, poison wells, and burn granaries if the need arose. Whatever problems my Dead couldn’t solve, coin could. Finally, I had a batch of heavy javelins crafted with thick iron heads, capable, via demonstration, of being thrown as far and as with as much power as a portable ballista, though not so accurately. These javelins could be carried in the offhand, thrown before engagement, or utilized on the flanks.

  Ultimately, I only had one target: Nova. It bore high walls, Emalia had told me in our travels, and a large garrison, including personal retinues of all voivodes who stayed in the city. If I handled things right, I could simply walk some of my Dead in through open gates and take them as needed… And if that didn’t work, I would fall back to rouse. I couldn’t plan on siege, not with my numbers.

  Once all the traditionally practical steps were taken, I sat to ponder the necessities of a different sort of logistics: that of Souls. My Soulborne leeched energy off the natural environment—the more desolate, the harder the Sorcerous mechanisms had to work within to keep them sustained. That meant a drain on me, for it took effort just to keep them all bound, even with my expanded capacity. Traveling, let alone fighting, would stretch the limits of my mind—this is partly why I elevated other Soulborne and delegated command to them. It was easier giving orders to a half dozen than it was over a one hundred in this weakened, pathetic world’s state. With all this in mind, it was indeed a possibility that I’d need sacrifices along the way to sate their requirement for Soul energy. It was a necessity in Pethya, with the grand armies of the Dead, and there were systems and practices in place just for that to funnel criminals into the Sorcerous war machine. Here, however, I was not willing to go and sacrifice villagers who knew nothing of my people or the crimes against them, but animals? Yes, they were certainly an option, and thus, the carts and money. I could seize all I wished, but again, I did not desire to make commoners starve for my goal.

  Eventually, Feia returned with as much processed leather, linen, and wool as her small retinue could manage. It was just enough to finish the armor for all my Dead. When they were armored, holding large axes, their already-imposing size was enlarged dramatically. They would be bigger and stronger than the tallest warrior, fast and agile as a mountain lion, and more resistant to damage than any living thing. That, perhaps, was their greatest advantage. In war, men broke from fear long before they broke from pure damage incurred—the latter adding to the former, of course—but my creations did not have that same weakness. They would fight to the last, all the while inflicting such severe psychological damage that even the most battle-hardened warrior would be hard-pressed to stay and fight upon a full-strength charge. If it came to battle, and I certainly hoped it didn’t, they would destroy almost anything Vasia had to oppose them. It all came down, in the end, to my application of their usefulness. But I had waged war before. I had taken cities, destroyed armies, and made my enemies kneel in submission.

  It was not different now.

  And so, that night, I dined on hunted elk and berries, nuts, and tubers with Feia. We watched the sun set over the dead city near a crackling fire. We had sex with fervent desperation until we no longer could, ending with gasps and covered in sweat. For tomorrow, our venture south would begin. Whatever was to come next would offer no respite, no calm, no hesitation. In the darkness of night, awake with the worries of tomorrow, we spoke in hushed whispers of things we’d already planned. Contingencies, fallbacks, and the sorts of discussions when failure is not an option. We spoke until exhaustion overtook us, and Feia curled up beside me, snoring softly, her demeanor transforming into something that would let me protect her as I should, and I stared out into the night, thinking on the path ahead. It was a matter of seeing how the situation unveiled itself now.

  From there, I would act, and we would win.