High Faelen Tarir-dal held a scented glove to his nose. The light breeze carried the stench of the enemy troops directly towards him. They were swine, never washing, then covering the rank odor with cheap, distasteful perfumes.

  The tall sergeant stood stiffly to attention before his ragged unit. His gray eyes and ragged copper hair marked him as an Erudoran, though he looked more like a beggar in his battered uniform. Tarir-dal’s nose wrinkled. This man was the source of the stench, as though he had been rutting through excrement.

  “Bow,” Tarir-dal commanded.

  Half of the ragged men in the enemy company practically folded in the middle, but the wretched Erudoran just stood there, defying him. Tarir-dal wanted to burn his eyes out. He wanted to bring him to heel and break his will. This man was as bad as the leybound abominations. He was the manifestation of the very disease that the Mazral army sought to eradicate from the continent. The lack of respect for their betters, the lack of obedience.

  “Your officer made an offer under a flag of parley for myself and everyone under my command to leave, and I accepted it. Will you honor it?” the sergeant asked.

  The brazen defiance made Tarir-dal want to have him flayed. Blood pounded in his ears, and his fingers twitched, aching to form a working and burn him from this world. But there were officers behind him from other regiments, and if breaking his word would shame him, forging a working for such a lowly creature as this sergeant would be his ruin.

  Tarir-dal took a steady breath and regained his composure. The war would be won, and those like him would be ground under foot as the Faelen took their rightful place as masters of the continent. “I will respect the word of my officer. All those under your command will leave. Though you will give me your sword and all other weapons, it is right that you return in shame.”

  The sergeant began to untie his sword belt, looking up sharply as shouts, grunts, and crashes came from within the farmhouse.

  The door flew open with a flare of arcane light and the sound of a rock cracking in half and a man came tumbling out groaning and clutching at a dark wound on his shoulder.

  A prisoner stumbled out after him and ripped off his filthy gag. “I surrender to the Faelen, I have information!” he cried.

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  Tarir-dal glared unblinkingly at the arcane ley power that fell from the man's hands like liquid smoke, and he veritably shook with rage. “Leybound abomination,” he seethed, pointing a trembling finger. “Seize him!”

  “Take him back inside!” The Erudoran sergeant drew his sword, his eyes locked on Tarir-dal. “This man is my prisoner. On your honor, you said we could leave.”

  Tarir-dal felt the venom of the sergeant's gaze like a physical blow. That the wretch even dared to draw his blade almost made him vomit with indignation. Insolent, indolent worm! His mere presence was an affront. Had they no officers, no noblemen? How they insulted him!

  “I said, get him inside,” the sergeant shouted, and several figures drew weapons and stepped toward the prisoner with the grim expressions of executioners.

  “Stop,” Tarir-dal commanded. It was a simple working and the wretches froze in place, the muscles of their faces contorting as they struggled against the command.

  The officers behind Tarir-dal murmured their surprise. There would be consequences. But he cast the thought aside and addressed the prisoner. “Come forward.”

  The prisoner stepped forward hesitantly. His hair and beard were matted and as rank as the smock he wore, stained black by the arcane ley power that corrupted his body. His bound hands bore the scars where their arcanists had mutilated him.

  “Abomination,” Tarir-dal declared, hearing the murmur of assent behind him. “Be thankful that I have already guaranteed you safe passage, for I should eradicate you.”

  “No, I have information to share about the wikkan.”

  The prisoner had a proud bearing, clear even under the muck, a clipped accent from the East, and a confidence born of his station.

  “You are no commoner.”

  “I’m a captain, my Lord. Betrayed by both the Arcanum and the witches.”

  Though the Mazral waged war for control of the continent, battlefield glory had never interested Tarir-dal. He fought his war in the shadows, with secrets, lies, and information. His true enemies were the wikkan.

  “Tell me what you know.”

  “An emissary is being sent from the Sun Tower in Morbian. I know more, but I need assurances of protection.”

  Tarir-dal’s body tensed, his eyes boring into the prisoner, wondering if the man knew that the very mention of the Sun Tower was a death sentence for all of the ragged men behind him.

  Creating a working and breaking his word could shame him, but losing the Sun Tower would cost him his life and spell defeat for their army. If they lost the Sun Tower, the grey-eyed Erudorans would come in their tall ships filled with leybound abominations.

  What Tarir-dal knew for sure was that these blue uniformed cretins had heard too much to be able to live. Thankfully, it also meant that he could now kill the insolent Erudoran sergeant.

  “Take the prisoner, kill the others,” Tarir-dal ordered.