The cobblestone streets of Ralloc were filled with citizens of all births: noble, minor noble, commoners, bastards, prostitutes, and servants. The breathtaking casket, made from the rare white-rose wood from the elyfian lands, passed down the main road. The only time this road was ever used was for ceremonial purposes. Gold gilding graced the crystal adorned coffin. House Dathyr spared no expense. Miniature busts decorated the corners, the archaic religion that House Dathyr kept. The casket progressed slowly, carried on the shoulders of six Royal Guards; their full ceremonial dress painstakingly prepared, the phthalo armor gleamed, catching the light from the suns and radiated luster. The refined silver outlining their breastplates, pauldrons, and greaves shown like mirrors. Their white, ceremonial under robes were drawn tight, their silver cloaks like floating gossamer.

  Though he failed as a steward of the government he was entrusted with, the people loved Kayis Dathyr, never realizing his duplicitous and controversial nature. Some frowned at him for shunning his former master, Judas Lakayre, but he still held their respect in other aspects. Kayis made the lives of his citizens better while breaking the back of the Kothlere Council. Meristal now attested to the fact.

  Within the packed streets, a lone figure wove through the forest of people, apologizing for jostling them, interrupting their time of mourning. His black hair, probably once brushed, was now disheveled. He pushed people without an ounce of grace when they did not move, but usually a soft hand on the shoulder would alert them to his passing, and they shifted mere inches, letting him squeeze by. Sobs filled the air as the coffin traversed past rows and rows of mourners coming to pay their last respects. But this young man did not cry. He knew the truth, any decent reporter would. His vibrant blue eyes spotted his target, his quarry, and he surged through the last of onlookers blocking his path.

  “Warlock Lakayre,” he breathed into Judas’s ear.

  The other turned to eye him. “Todd,” he greeted in a flat voice.

  “I was just wondering—” the younger man began.

  “Now is not the time, Todd. This is a funeral. You being here, asking to continue the interview, aren’t you? It smacks of disrespect, and I expected more out of you.”

  Todd’s features flushed crimson at the rebuke, and his eyes hardened, but he said no more as he watched the casket in silence. Meristal stirred beside Judas, casting a glance back at the reporter. Her face was expressionless, masked, placid.

  Kayis, dying at less than four Ages—and at the hands of the savage monster—made Dathyr a martyr to the younger generation. Many feared that his death would lull the raging war spirit of the people, but the magically inclined and those without, joined the common cause. The War Council had reported a surge in scabs joining their swelling ranks of indentured servitude. Those with skills in magic filled the ranks of the Royal castes of Battlemages. Blacksmiths, farmers, horse breeders, and the like felt compelled to lower the prices of their goods and services all in the name of patriotic duty.

  The wood and crystal sarcophagus made its way by the slow military procession to its final resting place among his forefathers. Many people came forward with words of kindness, fond memories, compassion, and other accounts of the man that lay before them. The mourning of his passing was expected, but many people feared that his death would lull the raging war spirit of the people. Even the staunch supporters of Warlock Lakayre gave pause, but since the Battle of the Corridor, Xilor had made no moves against the realm. It was odd, but not unexpected … he had always been a creature of honor.

  The weeping and mourning carried on as the burial song rang out, drifting on the wisps of the wind. The family of the fallen walked behind the coffin, and Kayis’s sire and grand sire stood vigil as the mourners paid their respects.

  The Heir sat at his desk in House Eti and read the tiny scrawl that belonged to Xenomene.

  The cute red head. Nearly the same color as Meristal’s, but darker.

  He read the news with a heavy heart, but he did not let it show on his face. He was the Heir, and he had to be strong, even when he didn’t want to be.

  Raven was a good man, young for a Do-don, but a veteran, loyal, and he ran a tight squad. Daniel hoped Xeno proved worthy of stepping up in his place.

  He looked up to the Hand of Xenomene’s squad. “I will give you two new Krey to replace the ones lost. You can take them tonight.”

  After the burial of the fallen consul, Judas promptly returned to Cape Gythmel. The forty-five hundred men—nearly a Regiment—he had left to hold the town were ragged and tired. The arrival of another battalion of soldiers—an additional one thousand swords—helped relieved their fatigue and fledgling spirits. A short-lived reprieve rippled through the camp. Soon, the new bodies fell into the grind of life, filling roles and billets the force needed to continue fighting. The warlock, the recently promoted Kernoyl Dillon, and the new battalion kaptyn and his five leftenants, worked out a revolving shift for all duties: watch commander of the walls, mess hall workers, supporting forces for the guards on the walls, weaponry and armor maintenance supervision, and general cleaning crews. The plan: hold the Cape as long as possible, stall Xilor, and retreat. An all-hands withdraw required wisdom and timing; he hoped he possessed both.

  Unknown to all except those closest to him, Judas spent many of his younger years studying tactics, strategy, and war. He found an ancient scroll documenting a dying nation from long ago, around the time of Hagen: the nephiliam. The race dwindled until their numbers scarcely made up a tribe. Conquerors when provoked, they used magic except in battle, attacking their enemies with flawless tactics and simple weapons, defeating all who opposed. Rarely would a fight exceed a few hours, the resulting consequences would decimate their adversaries, bringing their enemy to the brink of extinction. Then, mysteriously, the nephiliam vanished without a trace, like they had been wiped from the face of Ermaeyth overnight. No other scroll, book, record, or account the warlock ever found spoke of them again. The mystical scroll and the lack of corroborative information perked his fascination.

  Even now, some speculated whether they existed at all.

  On the third night of the accord, the battlefront remained quiet. Xilor had made no move against them, but his army swelled larger by the day. Judas made several quick trips to Dlad City to oversee the raising of defenses, helping where needed. Other than those short jaunts, he waited with Kernoyl Dillon and the men of Cape Gythmel.

  Sitting on a makeshift wooden bench, watching the dancing flames, inattentive, Dillon sat opposite him, bringing Judas out of his reverie. The crackling fire warmed the cold man who gazed at the aging warlock. “Cold night,” Dillon started. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Yes, it is. Reminds me of so many other nights.”

  “What? One cold night reminds you of them all?” the kernoyl chuckled.

  “No. Just a select few,” he said. Judas sensed the kernoyl’s frustration and emotions, tired and worn, saddened by the loss of some of his closest friends in the fighting two days prior. The emotions rolled off him like an odor, and it burned to breathe in his presence. Some of the kernoyl’s frustration endured because of Judas’ss doing. Dillon had tried several times to talk to him on a personal level, but he evaded the interaction. The warlock recognized to gain the respect and obedience of the kernoyl would require him to open up.

  “The first cold night of any significance that I can remember…” Judas recalled his past, chuckling, “…was the first night I snuck out of my dormitory at school and broke into the library after hours.”

  The kernoyl withdrew a pipe from the folds of his tunic and lit the end. He puffed generously, offering to share the pipe.

  The warlock waved it graciously away. “I find when I smoke the elyfian leaf, I tend to conjure for amusement. Now would not be the time or place.”

  “Amusing conjury, huh?” Kernoyl Dillon echoed, a curl of smoke escaping from the corners of his curling lips.

  “Yeah, making a cat chase a mouse, and when it corners the mouse, I manipulate the rodent’s presence and make him three times bigger.”

  The kernoyl started to laugh heartily at the absurdity of the situation.

  “Then, the mouse chases a frightened cat. When it corners the cat, I return it to its normal size. An angry cat and a frightened mouse.” He threw up his hands in a helpless gesture.

  “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time. What else do you do?”

  “Well, I conjure a giant worm, and my chickens chase it all over the yard, but they never catch it, no matter how hard they try or how fast they run.”

  The kernoyl laughed again. Eventually, it died to a chuckle, and once he controlled his giggles, he spoke again. “I read about you, you know?” he murmured to the warlock.

  Judas was using the tip of his wand to doodle in the dirt by his feet. “What did you find?”

  “Not much, though I didn’t search for anything in particular. It was a project we had to do while in school. Modern marvels or some such, so, I did my research on you.” He took a swig from the jug sitting beside his left boot. “When I presented it to the class, the teacher was furious with me and with the school library. She told me to be quiet and to take my seat. After the class and all the students had left, she said she would give me a high passing grade for my effort, but forbade me from researching you again.” He took another swig of the bitter ale.

  “Why did she tell you not to research me?”

  “A few years before, you had been declared a warlock. She was furious with the library staff for not taking all references to you off their public shelves.” Another huge gulp went down his throat, and a few droplets dribbled down his scruffy chin.

  “And why did you consider me a modern marvel?”

  “You left the school at the age of nine, which only happened one other time, a feat yet repeated. It’ll never happen again. The Wizard’s War ended because of you: one man.” He shrugged. “Seemed appropriate.”

  “Well, I doubt never, I mean, there has been two of us now, there may be more. Maybe if my child attended…” Judas choked.

  “I’m sorry,” the kernoyl stammered. “I didn’t know.”

  “No need for an apology. How could you have known? It was kept secret, even from me until I finished the war,” the veteran said reflectively.

  “How powerful are you?”

  “I beg your pardon?” The question brought him back to the present.

  “How powerful are you? You must be exceptionally gifted to leave school so early. I bet your parents and your brother were proud. They had to be!” The kernoyl chuckled and took another swig. “That was before anyone knew you were a warlock. Probably before even you!”

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  “No,” Judas mumbled, the kernoyl grew quiet. “Proud is not what I would call it. I’m sure my mother, in her way, rejoiced, but my father? He attended me with disdain.”

  “Why?”

  “I am not the first born.”

  Judas took his leave, the turn in conversation killing his mood. The night ended uneventfully and dragged into the next day. With each dawn, the only movement detected was the amassing of Xilor’s army. Hours stretched into days which bled into weeks, but not every day passed without incident. Small parties sent by Xilor probed the defenses, usually under the cover of darkness. A few times, a couple hundred would attempt an assault, repelled with minimal effort, the runes on the walls holding firm. By the third week, the fortifications of Cape Gythmel ran at peak efficiency despite such small numbers. Soon, Xilor would grow bored of the lull and order an all-out assault, forcing them to retreat.

  Between Dlad City and Ralloc lay Cross Roads, a small village half the size of Dlad City. Cross Roads, already evacuated, the population having fled to Ralloc, left a booby-trapped ghost town in their wake. There was only one direction Xilor wished to go. Ralloc lay to the north of the ghost town, and Shadow City in the west; to the east, Vikal Village and the Elyfian Enclave in the Vikal Mountains.

  North-by-northwest.

  He already controlled the vampires to the west. As long as he didn’t tarry with the elyves to the northeast, his path remained clear to Ralloc. But Xilor wasn’t always the cleverest being. A vulnerable target like the Vikal Village below the enclave proved a tempting ambition, ready to be destroyed, and Judas bet Xilor would strike. Meristal, on Judas’ss urging, evacuated the village and left a small contingent of soldiers to act as residents. Outpost Dire loomed just above Vikal Village. The entire Hive of Krey would rise to attack any aggressors.

  Back at Cape Gythmel, the warlock discovered controlling fifty-five hundred men with only seven officers was difficult. In the time that followed, the kernoyl promoted more men: serjynt Leon to master serjynt, and a few men-at-arms to serjynts.

  From the night he spoke of his child, it became a ritual of the two men to meet around the fire.

  “Oh man, my grandfather is going to be proud, but my father is going to be so pissed when they find out!” Dillon exclaimed, hiccupping as he drank lavishly from the jug.

  “What do you mean?” he inquired, perplexed.

  “Well, you know how grandparents are: they are always proud. But my dad, not him. He will be furious. You see, I have been in the army for an Age and an Era, and I made serjynt on my own. To be honest, it’s not bad at all, because customarily, you stay in a particular rank anywhere from four Epochs to an Era. But now, I’ve been in for almost two Ages and an Era and made kernoyl. Well, my father has been in for three Ages and an Era and just made meyjour about a score of years ago.” The kernoyl laughed, chugging his ale for a handful of heartbeats, “He’s got to answer to his son! Ha, ha, ha. Doesn’t that beat all?”

  “It is amusing,” the warlock conceded. “Who’s your father?”

  “Meyjour Dillon Tyku Jr.,” he said with a laugh, taking another swig of ale.

  Judas’ss head snapped up from his gaze into the sputtering flames of the fire. “Tyku? Jr.?”

  “Yeah, why?” the kernoyl puzzled, intrigued.

  “Any relation to the teacher? Scholar Tyku?”

  “Yeah, he’s my grandfather,” the kernoyl said with a drunken laugh.

  The sudden revelation brought back a vivid memory for Judas, the past washing over him.

  “Well then, it is evident the boy cheated,” the Overseer said when Scholar Tyku finished his story. The tale he wove involved a young pupil who finished the twelve-page exam in half an hour. Judas sat at the Overseer’s desk, his teacher hovering behind him. His hands held more interest than the conversation, waiting for his chance to speak.

  “I thought so, too, at first,” Tyku began, “but I possess no answer key, having memorized it. It is the same test I have been giving for the past five hundred plus years. There is no way the boy could cheat. Still,” Tyku said gazing down at the six-year-old, “he is the brightest in his class, by far. How he managed to do all the work inside his head is beyond me. Even you and I would have to write it down.”

  “Is the exam that hard?” the administrator intoned.

  “Yes, it is. I made it that way, on purpose. It starts easily, but as the assessment wears on, it asks questions I have yet to cover, and won’t be until they reach apprenticeship age.”

  “I see. So how are students supposed to pass a test they can’t even fully understand or answer?”

  “Simple. I grade them on what they completed, not on whether the exam is complete. It is obvious this boy possesses substantial skills,” Tyku said.

  “And he answered everything?”

  “Everything.”

  “How many did he get wrong?” the other inquired. His eyes sparkled with curiosity.

  “Just one.”

  “What?” the boy broke his silence.

  “Does this come as a shock to you? Thought you memorized the questions correctly?” the Overseer needled him.

  “No,” the boy said. “It’s impossible that I missed one; I got all right.”

  The two men exchanged glances.

  “Which one do you think I missed?”

  “Question one hundred and thirteen. In the battle of Dead Wood Forrest between the dwaven, elyves, and goblins, how many magic wielders contributed to the victory?”

  “Simple,” the boy answered. “Fourteen.”

  “No. Everyone knows only thirteen were present,” Tyku corrected.

  “You are mistaken,” the boy explained. “There were fourteen: three from the goblins, five from the dwaven, and six from the elyves.”

  “Son, only five elyves were present,” the administrator amended gently.

  “No, in the book Dead Wood Sunrise, written by Na Laa Lusen, she clearly states there were six to include her unborn child. She delivered her baby shortly after the battle due to the excess use of magic and recalled a glowing sensation from inside her womb. When her child was older and put under hypnosis, he described his first memory: his mother in danger. He only wanted it to stop, so he pushed with his mind and clamped down on the monster chasing her. When the Pharmacon wizards confronted her later, she said Borus the Evil chased her, but he suddenly imploded. So, as you can see from the passage, six, not five.”

  The two adults exchanged looks again, mouths agape in astonishment. Tyku recovered first, “Where did you find the book?”

  The boy blatantly told the two elders the truth. “From the library, in the apprentice’s history section.”

  “You are not allowed to search that section yet!” Scholar Tyku blurted.

  The Overseer called his attendant to retrieve the book. She brought it back, and the boy opened it and pointed to the correct chapter, paragraph, and lines.

  “By the stars, the boy is right,” Tyku muttered.

  “Told you so,” Judas said, unvarnished. Both the scrutinized the boy again.

  “Test him again,” the other instructed. “This time, alone, and under both of our supervision.”

  Led into another room and given the same assessment, he completed the exam before a half hour elapsed. The ever-skeptical administrator acquiesced to Tyku’s insistence, and Judas returned to class.

  “Wait,” the other man called out to him. “What is your name son?”

  “Judas Lakayre,” the boy replied.

  “Did you meet him?” the kernoyl smiled across the fire.

  “Who?” he asked, coming back from the long forgotten memory.

  “My grandfather? Scholar Tyku?”

  Judas nodded and smiled, but did not elaborate. Instead, he switched the topic from grandfather to father. “Where is your old man?”

  “Part of the reserve unit that stayed behind at Ralloc. I’m rather glad about that, too,” the kernoyl added as an afterthought. With another sip of ale, he shook his head. “He likes to be in the midst of things, doing it himself, instead of letting other people do their jobs. A micro-manager and a pain in the ass. You should have seen my childhood. He would have been right there leading the charge down to Xilor, right along with Consul Dathyr.”

  Judas smiled to himself at the thought of Kayis Dathyr becoming a symbol—a martyr indubitably. He felt neither upset nor jealous by this, the men needed a symbol, something to remember.

  Someone’s courage.

  It pained him that the rallying symbol came at the cost of life.

  He found it odd no one admired him for his courage in telling the truth throughout the Ages, though was glad for the absent adoration. By defying the government, he made sure to speak the truth to any who would listen, but as a warlock, people didn’t look up to him because of the stigma attached to his title. It made him suspicious as to why the kernoyl spent time trying to befriend him. What was in it for him? As soon as they left Cape Gythmel, he would drop him like a sack of stones unless he missed something.

  “So,” the elder grunted, pulling himself out of his reverie, “tell me about yourself.”

  The kernoyl glanced up at him, a puzzled look stumbling across his face. “What do you want to know?” he asked. A troubled expression gave away his unease and his voice dripped with wariness.

  The warlock’s brow frowned, and he conjured a sheet of paper, inscribed a message, and waved his wand over the parchment which vanished in a bright, quick flame. “Anything. Anything at all.”

  Over the next half hour, it became increasingly clear to Judas that Kernoyl Dillon Tyku hid something so significant that the man jumped across subject matter seemingly at random. Several times the kernoyl tried to excuse himself, and each time Judas politely insisted he stay and continue his story.

  “Warlock Lakayre, I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to be seen in your company for too long by the men. They might get anxious or nervous.”

  “Nonsense!” the elder shrugged off his attempt to leave again. There was a chattering of metal and mail as footsteps approached their fire. The warlock and the kernoyl studied the two newer leftenants walking up. The first stopped short, looked pointedly at Judas, and gave a slight shake of his head.

  With a small nod, he spoke authoritatively, “Continue, leftenants.”

  The leftenants bowed and began to turn away when the kernoyl’s eyes fell on a small piece of folded paper in the first leftenant’s hand. His eyes quickly shifted back to Judas, unsure what it meant.

  “So, tell me, kernoyl, what do you know about me?” the elder hedged, politer than he had spoken to the two junior officers.

  The kernoyl’s eyes darted around. Judas’ss lips pressed into a thin line as the officer noted his wand doodling in the dirt. Judas noted his nervousness. “Well … I, uh, that is to say … can, uh …” the kernoyl stammered and stuttered, trying to conjure a complete sentence.

  “What’s the matter, Kernoyl? Are you alright?” The man only nodded. “Perhaps you are sick?” Judas suggested. “Here, lie down and let me examine you. Perhaps it is food poisoning?”

  “Food poisoning?” Dillon exclaimed. “Do you think it is that? Would someone do that to their senior officer? Perhaps I should visit a Pharmacon mage.”

  “Yes, there is a motive for such a thing. Perhaps someone who is jealous of you and your excellent achievements?” He let the sentence hang there for a moment.

  “No, I’m sure I am fine. Don’t worry about me.” He waved Judas’ss help off.

  “Are you sure?” Judas pressed again. “You seem like you are barely—,” he paused, “—holding it together.”

  Running footsteps thundered behind them, the two leftenants pulling up short. One spoke to Judas. “We have him.” A roar of anger and frustration leaped from Judas’ss fiery innards, and he disappeared in a flashing blue mist, teleporting across the fire, his hand clutching the kernoyl by his throat.

  “You,” he growled. “I will ask you again, what do you know about me?” All the breezy nature and informality left his voice and expression. A cold, callous bearing filled his eyes, a faint glimmer of madness. In a fraction of a second, he went from an old man to a battle-hardened warrior.

  “That you are going to die,” the kernoyl croaked. Gritting his teeth and letting out a frustrated growl, Judas released the kernoyl and pointed his wand at him. With unspoken words, the end of his tip erupted in a blaze of light. A scream graduated into a howl of pain before giving way to an agonizing moan, a black mist dissolving. One of Xilor’s sheol: a xicx.

  “STAND TO!” the warlock shouted.

  In a jumble of motion and sound, bodies arrived at their posts in the well-rehearsed orderly fashion. Within minutes, all men settled into position, armored, and awaiting orders. They knew what hell awaited them, their jobs. Resist, evade, destroy, never stop and don’t die.

  Judas waited as the men settled. Absolute stillness descended upon the dying outpost. Then he heard it. They all did.

  The first footfalls of the advancing doom.

  “Flight one, go!” the warlock urged, and twenty-five battlemages ported away, ripping into the night in a blind race against time and death towards Dlad City, to the north. He just hoped they would get back in time.