Gerrard Price fell to his hands and knees and flooded the scars on his forearms in an attempt to purge himself, but he knew it wasn’t enough. The hedron had been opened and it drew in arcane power as irresistibly as the pull of the moon on the vast oceans of the world. He bellowed as the ley power wormed its way through his body seeking an escape before exploding from his left eye, leaving half of his face in bloody ruin.

  The pressure relented, and Price took a few shuddering breaths and mumbled a prayer, knowing the worst was yet to come.

  The hedron had gorged itself, and there was a moment of tense calm as the world seemed to hold its breath, before a maelstrom of arcane power eviscerated everything in its path. Screams rose in a tortured chorus and when the howling storm relented, it left a metallic stench of burned bodies that made Price’s stomach heave.

  Two Faelen officers and twenty rankers had stormed into the breach made by Tarir-dal and only one staggered out, his red uniform a ragged, bloody mess and most of his face missing. The pain-filled shriek was abruptly silenced by a Faelen dart that struck him in the chest.

  Tarir-dal lowered a shaking hand, taking ragged breaths. The skin of the High Faelen's face was waxy and covered in beads of sweat. The area around himself and Price remained undamaged, shielded by his arts.

  “I have spared you for now, abomination. You have information about an emissary from the Sun Tower. What will this emissary deliver?” Tarir-dal asked.

  “A treaty,” Price croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. “A treaty the Arcanum will accept.”

  The news seemed to please the High Faelen. “It will be Myam-tal’s destruction. Bring him,” he ordered.

  Hands seized Price, and he whimpered as he was hauled up and tied onto a horse. A small vial of rancid liquid was pressed to his lips, and he drank it greedily, recognizing the scent of the Faelen weed and feeling it seep into his system to dull the edge of the pain.

  Hours of riding followed on a journey that was one of the darkest of Price's existence. He would have wept for his lost eye, but tears would not fall from the burned ducts. When he gathered the courage to inspect the wound, his trembling fingertips touched upon a raw, empty cavity in his face. Parts of his hair and beard had been burned away, the skin of his face tender and blistered.

  As much as it repulsed him, he gently opened himself up to the ley line, letting a trickle of the burning ley power fill the channels it had carved into him years ago, giving some relief from the pain. He allowed himself more, beyond the point where he thought he might vomit, then forced it back. With a heavy sigh, he watched as the dirty gray light bled out from the scars and runes on his hands, dripping like liquid smoke that left blackened trails across his skin.

  It was midday when they entered the army camp. Smoke from the fires that licked the bottom of blackened pots of thin soup filled their air, along with the shit and reek of the precious cavalry horses and the livestock that would be used as food. Figures in red uniforms were all around. There were hundreds upon hundreds of tents in neat rows and this was just one of the armies of the Mazral army.

  “Bring him down,” Tarir-dal commanded.

  Price was pushed from the horse, landing in the mud and excrement churned by hooves and marching boots. Tarir-dal towered over him. The High Faelen stood straight enough, but the strain of his injuries was clear in the deep lines on his face. “You will present the information you have,” he said, and strode away.

  Price was pulled to his feet and escorted into a vast tent, the inside lit by the gentle flickering glow of dozens of candelabras on a long, polished table. Dishes of fruit and meat were piled high between large crystal jugs of wine. The floor was lined with rugs and pillows, and all around the edge were comfortable-looking couches and small smokeless braziers that gave the space a deep warmth that soaked into Price’s frozen bones.

  Tarir-dal took a seat at the table with two other Faelen. With their powdered wigs, painted faces, and embroidered uniforms, they reminded him of one of the street shows he used to watch as a child, back when the Faelen were still fairytales and had not yet become a nightmare.

  “The Leybound, General,” the guard announced, performing a crisp salute before backing out.

  The Faelen at the head of the table wore the thick gold chain from which hung the pendant of a general. So this was Bimil-pal, one of the great generals of the Mazral army and master of war. He had shattered the armies of the Tarian Kingdom and sacked the great city of Fallow, and was now poised to push the ruined remains of the fractured Arcanum regiments into the ocean.

  Currently Bimil-pal was engaged in a relentless assault on a large meal, not shovelling food like an animal, but eating in a near nonstop stream of movement as if he knew what it was to be hungry. “Why have you brought us this abomination, Tarir-dal?” He asked between mouthfuls.

  “He professes to have information, my Lord, regarding enemy activity in Morbian,” Tarir-dal replied smoothly.

  “You should have exterminated him immediately. He sullies the sanctity of the ley lines,” drawled the third Faelen, as if each word was an inconvenience.

  Instead of a uniform, he wore a long quilted coat embroidered with flowers and exotic birds with eyes that glittered with precious stones. Lace dripped from the collar and cuff of his jacket, and his soft leather riding boots were sewn with gold thread. He wore no weapon, a civilian then, the kind of coward that suckled on the teets of war, growing fat while others fought and died.

  “If he has nothing useful to say, then I give you the honor, Myam-tal,” Tarir-dal said, with a genteel inclination of his head.

  Though Tarir-dal spoke to the Faelen, Price felt the words were directed at him. If his information was not useful, then his fate would be sealed.

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  “Speak,” Bimil-pal ordered, waving a striped chicken bone.

  Price had been ready for the question and took a deep breath. “What assurances–”

  “None.” Bimil-pal slammed his hand onto the table, and dark red light warped the polished wood. “You will tell me, or I will have you sent to the inquisition.” Bimil-pal didn’t need to shout, he held enough power in his hands to bring down a city wall.

  Price had already overplayed his hand and cast his eyes down, his shoulders rounded. Let them see him as they wished, humbled and weakened. “The Sun Tower is sending an emissary to the conservatory of the arcanists and to the wikkan. The terms of a treaty will be accepted,” he said.

  The civilian, Myam-tal, gave a snort of contempt. “My alliance with the Sun Tower is intact. This is a wikkan plot to distract us. If he has nothing useful to say, remove him, the stench of his burned flesh offends me.”

  Price felt a stab of desperation. “It is true that an emissary has been sent, but I have more. The wikkan have their own plan to destroy the Sun Tower, whether Sumner Nixton allies with them or not.”

  This brought a raised eyebrow from Bimil-pal, his fork poised halfway between plate and mouth. “How would they achieve this? The arcane towers are practically indestructible,” the general asked.

  Price had the general’s attention now, and he felt some of his confidence return. “They stole a powerful hedron from the arcanists. They plan to use the emissary as a cover to get their own agent close to the tower.”

  “Which is why the Erudoran had the hedron,” Tarir-dal said, to himself.

  “I was the wikkan agent, under the orders of Ritta Kerne. But I stole the hedron, to bring to you as a show of good faith.”

  A deadly silence followed his words, and Price knew that he had overstepped. The Faelen might look like relics from another age, but they were not fools.

  “Unnecessary lies of self-preservation will not aid your cause,” Bimil-pal said, a note of warning in his voice.

  Price met the eyes of the Faelen general and knew that he stood on the edge of a blade and that hungry beasts prowled beneath, waiting for him to fall. “Forgive me, my lord,” he muttered.

  Bimil-pal grunted and continued attacking each type of food on his plate in turn, wearing them down equally.

  “He cannot help but lie, general, he is a wikkan tool, sent here to divide our forces. We cannot be deterred from our pursuit, we must press forward and crush them against the ocean," Myam-tal declared.

  Tarir-dal stood, flicking his cape to one side to better show his medals and his blade. “We know of Ritta Kerne of the wikkan, and it was true that one of them had a hedron. The destruction of the Sun Tower would open the ocean channel to whomever held the citadel of Morbian. The Arcanum could be marching a division through the hills as we speak to secure the citadel. We have a token force there at best, they are lazy and undisciplined,” he countered.

  Myam-tal stood and pointed an accusatory finger at Tarir-dal. “My unit garrisons the citadel of Morbian, as you are well aware. You could not be trusted to guarantee its security, and now you bring in this abomination to sow discord. This creature needs to be exterminated. This war is being won through my alliance with the Sun Tower, Tarir-dal, not through your spies and trickery.”

  “Silence,” Bimil-pal said softly.

  At his command, the two Faelen sat down. Outwardly, they were composed, but the look that passed between them was filled with venom.

  The general conquered his meal with a triumphant mouthful that contained an equal amount of each ingredient, stood and moved to a side table, staring down at a map. “Myam-tal, you told me that the witches would not trust Sumner Nixton, and that he was too arrogant to ally with the Arcanum.”

  “He is,” Myam-tal confirmed.

  “But the wikkan know, as we do, that if the Sun Tower falls and they hold the citadel, then the Erudoran fleet will pass through the channel and reach Helgan’s Rest. If we are forced to retreat and return in the spring, I would not have the Erudoran army standing alongside this rabble of regiments ready to face me.”

  “General, let me offer my new battalion.” Myam-tal interjected. “If the emissary exists they will find them. If not, they will seek out any traitors in our own ranks.” Myam-tal’s mocking gaze resting on Tarir-dal as if to leave in no doubt who’s name might be summarily found on a list of traitors.

  “No, Myam-tal. You allowed an emissary to leave the city, a failure on your part.” Bimil-pal frowned at the map and slid some heavy clay figurines to the west.

  “My battalion is ready to march, general. Let me secure the city, with real troops instead of common guardsmen,” Tarir-dal declared.

  Bimil-pal returned to the table, pulling more food onto his plate and laying a fresh napkin on his lap. “You have shamed me, Tarir-dal. You crafted a working to deal with common soldiers. Now the Emperor will think my High Faelen lower themselves to brawling like hogs in the dirt.”

  “Shameful,” Myam-tal muttered with a barely disguised smile.

  “You will leave the battalion and you will not return until you have found this emissary and the spy, or unravelled this wikkan plot.”

  Tarir-dal's mouth twisted as if he had eaten a bitter fruit. “Yes, my lord,” he said.

  Myam-tal gave a polite cough. “Perhaps my lord will also allow me to regain my honor. I will return to Morbian and reinforce my own household troops.”

  Bimil-pal waved a chicken drumstick airily. “Very well.”

  Price felt the situation slipping away from him, and he desperately clawed at the only lifeline he could see. He had known great generals, and they only became great by dividing their allies as surely as their enemies.

  “My Lord, I know who the spy is, and I know how they work,” Price said.

  Bimil-pal’s eyebrows raised slightly, and he looked at Price as if he had quite forgotten that he was there.

  “Information I will pry from you before I depart,” Tarir-del said, his eyes narrowing.

  Price pressed on as if Tarir-del had not spoken. “I pledge myself to you, general. I will track them down and bring you the hedron to prove my worth. If Tarir-dal will allow me to be your own prisoner.”

  “You wish to fight against your creators, Leybound?" Bimil-pal asked.

  Price let the dirty gray ley power bleed out of the scars and fall to the floor like liquid smoke. “They did this to me. I want to see them pay for their crimes.”

  “The monster they created turned against them? A poetic justice the Faelen can well appreciate. Tarir-dal, you will give me your prisoner?”

  Tarir-dal’s fixed glare was unreadable, but his reply was smooth as always. “Of course, My Lord.”

  “Very well, Leybound, you shall travel with Tarir-dal and prove yourself by capturing the spy sent by the wikkan and anyone else involved in this plot. Fail, and I will see that you pay for your deception with your life.”

  “If I succeed, help me with my revenge on the wikkan, Ritta Kerne, and the arcanist, Riley,” Price said.

  He knew he was pushing his luck, but the whole Mazral cause was a fight for vengeance for the thousands of years the Faelen spent trapped in their prison. If any argument swayed them, it would be this.

  Tarir-dal rose, clutching the hilt of his sword. “You dare to dictate–”

  Bimil-pal cut him off with a raised hand. “You forget Tarir-dal, he is my prisoner now. Prove yourself to me, Leybound, and we shall talk of revenge.”

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