alvel chapter one through three

7/29/2019 Alvel Chapter One Through Three

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Keystones, Book One

Alvel

PrologueServant

~.~

For four days the Shaman had walked with as little rest as his body permitted.

The trees around him had gotten taller, the jungle floor beneath them darker. The leaves of

the looming colossi formed an unending roof above his head, and he could only sporadically feel a

sunbeam brush over his dark skin.

Slowly but steadily, the damp jungle air had fallen silent. Birdsong had died out. The buzzing

of insects had dissipated. Even the howls of the monkeys, normally ever so eager to announce theirpresence, were distant and uncertain.

Grey rock loomed underneath the twining roots rock far too angular to be natural, its

smooth faces gleaming with metallic shine underneath the lichen. Those were the houses of the Men

Long Dead older than the jungle above, older than the rock underneath, lying ever in waiting.

All living could feel it humming that could only barely be heard, gleams of blue that could

only barely be seen. Birds dared not squawk. Insects dared not fly. The jungle was silent, and waited

with the ruins.

Yet the Shaman walked on. The thick callus on his sore feet was ruptured and bleeding, but

he could not stop now, knowing he was so close to the end of his journey. His feet ran on willpower

and instinct alone, and his lungs toiled in the damp air of the forest, but he could not stop.

He splashed on through over the moist soil, his feet leaving deep footprints in the dark mud,and a view emerged that had grafted itself tightly into his memory. Grey metallic constructs towered

over him, droning their soundless vibration, untouched by age and nature. High above, their

creaseless summits disappeared into the mist that veiled the jungle.

Old memories welled up from the corners of his mind. He had stood here before, gazing at

the ruins just as exhausted as he was now, and a dozen times more terrified. He had barely passed

his rite of adulthood, and had only just proven himself worthy to be the apprentice of the Shaman of

his then-small tribe. He had been led here, to this exact spot, by a voice in his head. Trembling with

fear, he had stood here fear of the loneliness during the journey, fear of the breath-taking ruins,

fear of the voice that had called him from inside.

Only determination was left of that fear, now. He was no longer a boy, but a man; no longer

weak, but in the prime of his life; no longer an apprentice, but the leader of his race. He was theShaman of the Tribe of the Golden Hand. He was the Shaman of the Rainfolk. But still, he wore the

same leather rags he had worn twenty-five years ago, and not a Shamans Garb of Bones. After all, he

was not here as the leader of a nation but as a servant, returning to his master.

As he approached the walls of the ruins, he tugged on the hilt of his sword, finding it tightly

fastened to his belt. The blade of yellowed bone was one provision he had lacked on his first visit.

But it was not his most powerful weapon. Not by far.

He loosened a small bag from his shoulder and reached inside, taking out the icon that his

master had granted him so long ago.

The Mask of At.

He refitted the leather bag and rubbed his thumb over the thick metal of the Mask, holding it

as he had held it hundreds of times. It looked deceptively harmless, no more than a crude plate of


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grey metal that could roughly fit around a head, but the Shaman wasnt deceived. Hed seen the

havoc it could wreak.

The Mask looked back at him with hollow eyes, the metal of its featureless face vibrating

eagerly, the veins of blue that riddled it pulsing in anticipation. It could feel home.

The Shaman approached the grey walls until he could almost touch them, and held the Mask

high. It shivered, reluctantly at first but with growing fervour, and then fell still.Silence enveloped the Shaman as even the humming of the walls paused. The air tensed, and

the world held its breath.

Then, the ruins answered.

A vibration not heard with the ears but with the gut bellowed through the forest, shaking the

earth so vigorously the leaves of the trees susurrated in panic. A portion of the wall slid down with

the grinding of metal against metal, scraping off lichen and moss as it lowered seamlessly into the

ground.

Behind it was a walkway, shrouded in darkness, illuminated only with the blue pulses emitted

by its faultlessly smooth walls.

The Shaman stepped inside, feeling the aversion of the dead wash over him. A tingle crawled

up his legs, agitating until all his hairs stood erect, but dissipated when it felt the Mask. The houses ofthe Men Long Dead allowed no trespassers but the Shaman was not simply a creature of the jungle,

but a servant of the master that slept within this ruin.

He trod onwards through the gloom, leaving a trail of muddy footprints over the ancient and

unblemished floor, until again grey stone barred his path.

The metallic wall stirred as he stroked it. He remembered standing here, trembling with fear

and anticipation. Even now, he trembled, but only because of the exhaustion. He feared the creature

within these ruins, but it was rightful, zealous fear but still, the memories of what his words would

unleash upon him lurked in his mind.

He forced back the terror, lifted the Mask into the air and raised his voice.

At! Lord of Rain! My master!

His voice rasped and grated, and phlegm rolled through his throat, but he continued.

I have fulfilled your demands! I have faced your tests and I have endured!

He waited as the last resonances of his calls slowly faded, the Mask shaking in his hand and as soon

as they had, a deafening racket filled the hall. The Shaman covered his ears with his hands as the

ruins shifted, and a wall slid down behind him, trapping him in a space but a few paces wide.

Then, the floor began to fall.

His stomach churned, his head felt light, and an invisible force pushed into his ears as the

ceiling above him raced upwards, but before he could scream, an unseen hand flattened him against

the ground and pushed the air out of his lungs.

The floor had stopped, and around him loomed a chamber with a ceiling as high as the sky.

Veins of blue light ran across the room, surging and converging over the featureless floor of

metallic stone, joining in the centre in a single point. On top of it lay a blue crystal, no bigger than the

Shamans thumb, streaming blue fire upwards towards the far ceiling.

Above it, floating motionless in the coiling flames, was At.

As the Shaman fell to his knees, he could feel the blue crystal burrow through his mind,

searching through his thoughts until it had found what it sought.

Muak


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Muak. His birth name. Had one of his subordinates uttered it, he wouldve had them flogged,

but the crystal spoke with an innocent resolution that melted any rage that welled up and he

remembered it, from all those years ago, when it had said the same.

He also remembered the voice.

You return.

The voice echoed through the room, surging through his ears directly to the limbs, leaden

with determination and command.

But as whom?

The Shaman briefly glanced at the contour of At before averting his eyes.

A servant master. As a mere servant.

The being took a long pause before speaking again.

And what of the servants task?

The Shaman raised his head, careful not to risk the insult of looking into the eyes he could

not see, and spoke plainly, his sore throat aching.

From the Eighty Tribes I forged one, and all of Mu fears and serves you. No one between the

Four Shores dares scorn the Lord of Rain.

Again, the contour took a long pause.

Good.

Another pause.

It is time, then. Time for the next phase. Force the Folk of the Isles to build a fleet that can

tame the seas. Muster every one of Mus warriors. Sail with them Eastwards.

Eastwards? the Shaman exclaimed in surprise. He felt the eyes he could not see glare at his

through the haze of the flame, and lowered his head in shame, proceeding more humbly.

But Master, eastwards lies only Nai, and then the Endless Waters!

The voice went silent. Only after what seemed an eternity, it continued.

Endless Waters? Only as endless as your knowledge of it. Far beyond Nai lies another land.

On it lives a breed of Men. They are corrupted by greed, struggling for breath as they drown in their

own muck. Their entire society has rotten beyond saving. All that can be done now is extermination,

and you, Shaman, will be the cure.

They are blasphemers, then? the Shaman ventured carefully. Heretics to your faith?

At paused. The Shaman risked another quick glance into the coiling flame. He saw only light, the

contour inside barely visible but he would have sworn he saw a grin.

Blasphemers, yes. And blasphemers, my Shaman, should be eradicated.

~.~


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He was a strange sight, the man entering the small camp. He wore only rags, and his bare

feet were cut open and bleeding. On his belt, a yellow-white barb-sword was fastened, next to an

odd-looking, engraved mask. He was undoubtedly worn out, but walked with pride. As the man

walked between the warriors of the camp, they followed him warily with their eyes, wondering who

he was.

Without hesitation, the man made his way to the central fire, where the four Warlords sat.The four men sat silently, but the tension of the discussion still hung in the air. The eyes of Orur, first

among equals, were shooting daggers towards Mohg the Tall. Rheg the Bright, sitting furthest from

the fire, was gritting his teeth. Taor the Tusked, a lumbering shape of dark skin and bulging muscle,

grimaced deeply, his bushy eyebrows curling like scuttling caterpillars.

Taor was the first to see the man in rags approach. He rose from the ground, his bone

armour rattling around him, and grasped the advancing stranger by the shoulder with one massive

hand.

Who dares? he demanded in his bellowing voice.

The man reached up, softly laying a hand on Taors bone-plated wrist. The sleek hands nails

were white as the clouds, and from elbow to the tip of its fingers, its natural dark-brown colour was

shifted to the deepest black.Only then, Taor looked lower, finding the Mask with his eyes, and sagged to his knees.

My Shaman! he thundered. I did not know-

A simple mistake, Taor, the Shaman said. He looked around to his Warlords, and they

kneeled as they were touched by his gaze.

My warriors, the Shaman greeted them. I return with a purpose.

He took a long pause, and only Orur had the courage to respond. The First Warlord raised his head,

not quite looking the Shaman in the eyes.

And What is it?

It is exactly what you craved, the Shaman answered. It is war.


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Chapter One

Healer

~.~

Halt!

On his horse, the Commander held up his hand. Behind him on the road, the oxcarts of the

convoy came to a mooing stop.

We rest here for the night.

Elaine sighed. Finally, some rest.

Most of the travellers on the convoy were soldiers, and the Commander ran it on a military

schedule. No stopping before the sun touched the horizon, and back on the road before it got the

time to rise again. She knew he was doing his job, and that the convoy was already sluggish enough,

but if there was one thing a Healer couldnt live without, it was sleep. Shed already lost count of the

days theyd been on the road.Lyssa, her fellow Healer who had been sitting next to her for the entirety of the journey,

steered their ox-cart off the road and brought the beast to a stop. Around them, the other carts of

the convoy came to a halt on the patch of grass next to the road, eight of them in total: five carts

with military supplies, one other Healers cart, one cart driven by Imperial Battlemages, and their

own, all of them pulled by oxen. Travelling with them were a small detachment of soldiers, who took

turns walking and riding on the carts, and three men on horses. One was the Commander, who led

the convoy, and two were Brothers, Priests of the Lord of Mercy, who had joined them halfway.

The presence of the twoBattlemages had her worried at first. She knew the Empire was fond of itsmages, and didnt spend them without going over all the alternatives. She knew little about war, but

the appearance of a Battlemage amongst the soldiers seemed to be an indication that whatever fight

they were being sent to wasnt going well.But they werent the only ones among the convoy who unsettled her. She was even more

worried about the two Brothers, a feeling that she couldnt quite place. Yes, they did wear the

characteristic brown cloaks with their marked metal cloak-clasps, and yes, they had greeted them

with the words of the Lord of Mercy, but their expressions were not open and calm, as Elaine knew a

priests would often be, but torn into constant grimaces. Perhaps strangest was that the taller of the

two carried a two-handed sword on his back and continuously drank from a small flask unsuitable

luggage for a Brother of Mercy.

The rest of the travellers, like the two Brothers, bore dark expressions, but one shed grown

accustomed to in soldiers sent to the front. She didnt blame them for it there was nothing cheery

about where they were going, and shed long ago grown accustomed to the aversion to Healers. She

shook the worries out of her head, noticing that her neck had grown stiff from the ride on the bumpyroads. When they had just left the city of Rellen, the roads had been nicely paved and straight. Now,

they were in the rural hinterlands, where the roads were little more than wheel tracks and

hoofmarks in the dirt. As she jumped down unto the ground from the cart bench, she could feel her

legs protest against the sudden movement. Around her, the other travellers began making camp.

On their nightly stops on the first few days of the journey, the Commander had insisted that

they arranged the carts into a circle, as to create a defensible position in the event of an attack. The

idea hadnt lasted long. The travellers had become weary, and the carts were scattered over a flat

patch of grass next to the road like dice cast on a table.

Elaine yawned, and when she hid her mouth with her hand, smelled her red Healers glove.

The heavy smell of hay, inhuman sweat and excrement penetrated her nose. It smelled of ox.

Everything smelled of ox.


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She walked to the back of the cart and pulled back the cloth that covered the contents.

Scents whiffed upwards, hundreds of them, driving off the stench smells of herbs, bottles of

concoctions, fresh white rags and slightly mouldy heaps of long, white patient gowns.

The only thing that wasnt there was her bag of belongings or her bedroll.

Lyssa, she said, did you nick my stuff again?

Wasnt me, Lyssa yawned. Its your stuff. Keep an eye on it yourself, sleepy.Elaine pressed her fingers against her drowsy eyes and tried to remember. Last night, the

two Healers carts had been parked next to each other. She mustve put her stuff in the wrong cart.

Now, that cart stood on the other side of the camp.

She sighed again. Shed rather be among the soldiers as little as possible. Even though their

superstitions were explainable, they werent less frightening.

As she walked between the carts of the small camp to the other Healers cart, she could see

the soldier glancing at her with worried frowns and wary eyes, a mix of disgust and fear. She knew

those glances from back in Rellen, but there the people werent wearing thick armour, and certainly

werent grasping the handles of their weapons as she passed. She pulled her red robes hood further

over her head and fastened her pace.

At the other Healers cart, one of the two Healers was burrowing through some bags andpouches. The other sat on the ground, his back resting against the carts wheel, his hood making it

uncertain whether he was awake or not. Next to the sitting man lay her bag of belongings, somewhat

grimed but otherwise as she had left it. As she approached it, the man she had thought sleeping gave

a nudge in the bags direction.

Sthat yours?

Yes, Im sorry I-

Nproblm, the man interrupted her, giving her a barely noticeable shrug.

Elaine ignored his rudeness and picked up her bag. Exhaustion made her even less wanting of

conversation than usual, and niceness was far too tiring for them both.

As she walked back to Lyssa and their cart, bag on her shoulder, her path was suddenly

blocked by one of the soldiers. She braced herself for an outburst of cropped-up hate, fear and

superstition. However, there was no contempt in the soldiers voice, although there was something

elsea trembling she couldnt quite place.

Youre a Healer, arent you?

Elaine smirked at his bad attempt to start a conversation, making a meaningless gesture at her red

robes.

Obviously, she said.

The soldier glanced left and right, and when he was convinced no-one was looking, rolled up

his right sleeve to his elbow. Then, for just an instant, he pulled the sleeve up to his shoulder.

It revealed a sickly grey scar, running all the way over his bicep, the flesh around it riddled

with half-ruptured bulbs of pus. Before Elaine could get a better look, the soldier pulled his sleeve

down again.

As Elaine stared at the sleeve, the Healer in her took over. A scar left by a Healing, either

done by an unexperienced Healer or one in a rush. Three weeks old, perhaps three and a half,

showing the typical discolouration but in dire need of treatment.

She craned forward to see in the soldiers eyes. Just before he recoiled from her, she saw

what he was looking for in the dim light small, black blots, littering the white of his eyes.

Derringers Blots, mid-stage. Shed seen it often enough but rarely at patients that werent

screaming in pain or foaming at the mouth.

When the soldier spoke again, she realised what was off about his voice: it trembled with

pain.

Do you have anything that can help me?

Elaine tried her best to produce a smile.

A cartful, actually, she said, jerking a thumb to the oxcart. Follow me.


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At the cart, Lyssa was already lying on what she thought passed for a bed, peering into the

darkening sky. As she saw Elaine and the soldier approaching, she frowned with a sigh that was so

utterly filled with annoyance it could singlehandedly drive any happy man into a depression.

What is it this time? she lamented,

Elaine ignored her self-pity and walked to the back of the cart, digging through the bags of

herbs. Lyssa pushed herself up to her elbows and raised a brow.Whatre you doing?

I need bluebliss and bandages, and one of the wound-cleaners, Elaine responded. Give me

a hand here, would you?

Blue What? Why? Lyssa pointed a convicting finger towards the soldier. If he wants to

get high on herbs, he can go ask the mages!

Elaine paced back to the wounded soldier and, without a word, pulled up his sleeve. Lyssas

eyes briefly widened, and after a few moments, she nodded, her voice softer than her usual

detestable tone.

Bluebliss, yeah, weve got that. She found her old tone in but moments. Dont give him

too much, though. Theyve already packed us too little and were going to need it once we make it to

the warcamp. No sense using it all before we even arrive.Lyssa stood up and rolled over some of the bags lying in the cart.

It should be Ah, here it is.

She lifted a wooden lockbox out of the cart, placed it on the ground and extended her hand

towards Elaine.

Key, she said.

Elaine reached down her robes collar and fished the small brass key from her breastpocket.

She threw it towards Lyssa, who grasped it out of the air and stuck it into the lockboxs keyhole.

Instead of turning it, however, she suddenly looked up as if she was struck with an idea, and turned

towards the wounded soldier.

Wait just a moment. Why now?

What? the soldier stuttered, his face tearing into a look of terrified desperation.

Why now? Lyssa repeated. Youve had that wound for at least a few weeks. Why not seek

a Healer immediately after it began doing Before it festered like that?

The soldier looked at his feet.

Its nothing for you to be concerned about.

Lyssa narrowed her eyes.

Are you afraid of Healers?

What? No, not at all!

Startled by his own voice, the soldier looked around the camp with hunted eyes. When he

was sure none of his fellows were paying any attention, he continued in a lower tone.

Dont you understand? Im a Shieldspear. He tried to raise his arm, and failed. This is my

shield armthis arm is all I got! If my Sergeant finds out my shield arm is mangled this badly, its

over! Out! Theyll toss me aside like a broken tool!

Lyssa gave the man a piercing glare and gestured around the camp. Do you know any of

them well? she asked.

Not really, Im a transfer, the soldier said with a whimper. Im I was 567th

, and this is the

304th

. Ive only been with them on this convoy.

Okay, good. Theyre sleepy, its getting dark, and theyll forget your face before they even

realised they saw you. Dont worry about your Sergeant. Its not like we keep track of our patients

anyway, she added with a shrug.

You mean you dont, Lyssa, Elaine said. Ive been filling in your forms for months.

The soldiers eyes darted between the two of them. So youll keep this between us?Youll

keep it still?

Just keep still and let us take care of that wound, Elaine said.

Lyssa grinned as she turned the key of the lockbox.


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Well keep it still, all right, she said. Lets see how still youll be able to keep it.

~.~

It was already dark when Elaine looked down upon the soldiers wound and was satisfied

with their work.

The soldier lay on his back, next to the Healers cart, still in the grasp of the bluebliss. His

mouth was stretched open, and his tongue and his eyes synchronously moved slowly from left to

right. The wound on his arm was covered with a wrapping, stained red by herbs and blood.

If he followed their advice, and kept the wrappings there, the wound would look better in

just a few days. The ruptures would close, the scar would lose its black colour, and the pus-blights

would disappear however, the flesh around it would always remain a sickly shade of grey, the scar

would never completely vanish, and the pains would lessen, but persist.

As Lyssa put the lockbox and the bags of herbs back into the cart, Elaine saw a figure

approaching from the darkness of the camp. At first, she feared it might be the wounded soldierssuperior, but as the contour got closer, she noticed it didnt wear metal mail or the light-blue tunic of

the Army, but a thick, grey robe. When the contour stepped even closer, the shimmer of a campfire

brushed his wrinkled face, and Elaine recognised him an as the eldest of the two Battlemages.

When the light caught his hands, there wasnt any doubt left. Over his fingers ran black lines,

forking like thin ebon veins. The Dolor of man born as Arcane Mage, Elaine knew. Shed always

wondered if it hurt in the same way a Healers Dolor did.

Evening, Healer, the mage said. He gave her an emotionless nod, an acknowledgement of

her existence more than a greeting, and reached into his coat.

As he did, Elaine could catch just a glimpse of something hanging from the mages necklace: a

crystalline gemstone, almost as big as her forefinger, glowing in the night with a faint blue glow.

When the mage closed his coat again, Elaine couldnt ignore the feeling that was slithering up to her -

the feeling that, somehow, the gem had looked back.

The mage, now holding a leather purse in his hand, opened his mouth to say something, saw

the wounded soldier, and closed his mouth again. Only after baring his lower teeth in a disgusted

glance, as if he was looking at a pile of dog vomit, he turned back to Elaine. The corners of his mouth

curled upwards slightly, but in his eyes, the disgust remained.

I see you are busy, he said with a tone that could flash-freeze a lake. Ill keep this brief.

How much do you Healers charge for a decent going of anaesthetics?

He shook the purse in his hand like one would shake a box of sweets at a child, and the bag

chimed with promises of coin.

Before Elaine could answer, Lyssa appeared from behind the cart, wearing a scowl.

By the Gods, mage, she snapped at the aging man, this isnt a vegetable store!

What she means is that we cant accept pay for healing works, Elaine added.

Ah yes, that oath of yours, the mage said, scratching his badly shaven chin. How very

refreshing to see someone actually sticking to their principles. Well then, how about I, eh, donate a

sum to your noble cause, and you grant an old man a remedy against his migraines?

Well, we do have sedatives, Elaine said, But donations can only be received at-

Just give him something and be done with it, Lyssa interrupted her. Weve already wasted

enough time on that soldier you dragged in. Time weve couldve spent sleeping.

Lyssa grasped a small pouch from the cart and threw it towards the surprised mage, who

caught it expertly with his face.

Redeye seeds, Lyssa said, gesturing atthe bag as it fell in the Battlemages hands. Itll fight

the migraines just as well as anything else. Dont use more than one a day or youll get the runs.

Ah, redeye, the mage said, eyeing the bag and forgetting the red blot on his cheek.

Havent had those in months. Its marvellous stuff.


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Without as much as a simple thanks, the mage put the seeds and his purse back into his inner

pocket. Again, Elaine could feel her eyes drawn to the crystal, still dangling from its chain. The

glimpse she could catch gave her the same odd feeling she had felt the first time, as if she was being

watched by something that lacked eyes, yet could see.

Seemingly oblivious to her gawks, the mage turned around and waved in their general

direction.Sleep well.

~.~

The little girl ran through the narrow alleys of Rellen, her small feet clattering over the

cobblestones. It was already getting dark inside the city, but she wasnt afraid. Dad was coming

home. Dad was a soldier. Dad was safety.

There he stood, on the middle of the road, wearing his full armour. In one hand, he held his

steel helmet, in the other, his bow. The little girl ran towards him and flew into his arms or into hisknees, because Dad was very big.

Elaine! Dad said, stroking her brown hair. Look at how tall youve grown!

Tawl, the girl chattered back.

Besides Dad, Mum and Len appeared. Dad gave them both a big hug and a kiss Len on the

cheek, Mum on the lips.

With a grin, Dad put his metal helmet over the little girls head. It was so big that it rested on

her small shoulders and the nose-guard reached to her chin.

Look at the little soldier girl, Dad said to Mum, both proudly smiling.

Sawdier, the girl chittered. Len crouched unto a knee besides her, showing her beautiful

white teeth in a lively laugh, and pinched the little girls cheek just like Mum always pinched hers.

Normally, she hated it when her sister did that, but right now she didnt mind. She felt strong. Dad,

Sis, Mum. With them, she was always safe.

But as Len walked back to Mum and Dad, the little girl could sense something wasnt right.

She couldnt see because of the helmet, but she could feel something, smell something. Something

black. Something wicked. She lifted the heavy helmet off her head, and as it plummeted onto the

ground with a clang, saw the cobblestone.

Small pores had wrought their way between the stones under their feet. They were black,

coal-black, gaping upwards. There were only a few at first, but there came more, and more, and

more, a thousand tiny mouths pointed towards the sky. They began to hiss and bubble, and pitch-

black liquids welled upwards. Mum and Dad and Len didnt see it creeping towards them, didnt feel

it grasping their ankles. They just stood there and hugged.

The little girl knew where the black goo was coming from. It was hers. She knew she could

stop it, but only if she tried hard enough. She tried to run towards Len, but the sludge grasped her

own ankles, too. When she tried to scream, tried to warn Mum and Dad, the goo covered her mouth,

constricted her head, squeezed every breath out of her throat.

She couldnt stop it. She was too scared. She wasnt strong enough.

The liquid thickened under Lens feet, forming a large pool, and crept upwards over her body

to her knees, to her belly, to her shouldersbut she didnt feel it, didnt resist it. When it reached

her neck, her eyes widened, but her mouth was covered before she could scream. Dad didnt even

notice as the liquid hauled Len out of his embrace.

Beneath Len, as she struggled against the ooze that covered all of her body, the pores fused

into a huge, black maw, the goo that was wrapped around her sticking out of it like a tongue. Just

when the tongue retracted, when Len was dragged into the maw, Elaine woke with a shock.


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She pressed herself up from her shoddy bedroll, her family making way for a snoring Lyssa,

the ooze evaporating into the still night sky.

Elaine rubbed her hands against her face and fell back on her bed. It was the first time shed

had her nightmares while on the convoy. Shed been without them for a month, but just as shed

begun to hope, just as she thought she was free of them, they were back.

With the fear she had felt in the nightmare still pulsing in her temples, she prayed whatever Godlistened it was the last.

~.~

Psst, Elaine!

Elaine felt a sharp poke in her side and woke from her dreamless sleep.

After shaking the sleep out of her head, she silently threw a few curses at Lyssa. Just when

shed finally managed to fall asleep on the moving cart, Lyssa had to wake her up again. As she tried

to bring her mind back to the here and now, she felt something strange, like something was missing.Then, she realised what it was. The cart wasnt moving at all.

When she turned to Lyssa, she saw that her fellow Healer was staring blankly in front of her.

Elaine wanted to ask her what she poked her for, but could only yawn. What she saw when she

followed Lyssas stare, however, woke her up waster than a bucket of water to the face.

The entire convoy had stopped, and the carts stood still on the narrow road that pierced the

forest, its travellers quieter even than usual. About a hundred paces in front of the foremost cart of

the convoy was Markhill, the town that theyd been scheduled to pass today.

Or what was left of it.

Roofs had collapsed, walls had crumbled, the beams that stuck from the buildings remains

charred black by fire. Wisps of smoke still trailed towards the sky, carrying the heavy smell of burned

wood and, more subtly, a slightly sweet scent that Elaine wished she hadnt recognised.

In front of their cart stood the Battlemages. The eldest mage had his hand stuck into his robe

and sat hunched over protectively, glancing left and right into the thick forest. Next to him, his

younger colleague stood upright on the cart bench, nose stuck in the air. He was inhaling draughts of

breath as if there wasnt a better smell in the whole world, his face wrought into a feral grin of

delight.

Dunno. A fire, maybe?

Elaines thoughts were interrupted by the voice of one of two soldiers standing next to her

cart. They were watching the destroyed town with wary eyes, clasping their spears close.

Fires dont destroy entire villages, you idiot.

You have a better idea, then? It cant have been the savages. The front is tens of miles

away.

Bandits? Outlaws? A mage?

Bandits and outlaws wouldnt take the time to do this. Makes no sense for them. It couldve

been a mage. The soldier gave the younger Battlemage a glance. I mean, you never know. If those

mages try anything, theyll have my spear to hey, Healer, keep your damn eyes to yourself.

Elaine quickly glanced away, burying deeper into her hood, but kept her ears pricked up.

It was them, a familiar voice said.

She wounded soldier from the evening before hobbled closer from the corner of her eyes, struggling

to drag along his massive wooden shield.

You dont know the savages, he snapped, his eyes twitching from one of the two soldiers to

the other. Youre new. You werent there when they burned the North. These savages are not here

for our land, or our gold, or our womentheyre here to destroy the world of civilised Man! Kals

blood, are you really dense enough to feel safe?

Dont say his name, you madman! the soldier barked back.


11/28

Whose? Kals? Do you think even He could thrust you into a deeper hell than youre already

in?

Just when Elaine was about to nudge Lyssa for the comfort of conversation, her eyes caught

movement between the trees.

A man had shambled out of the undergrowth. Before she truly saw the man himself, she saw

the wounds old, dark-green bruises, plaques of dried blood, feet torn open. All he wore was aloincloth, the rest of his dark-skinned body bare. He shuffled even closer, walking with the gait of a

drunk, and

Dark skin.

Her mind picked it up, turned the thought around and set everything in reverse. Shed never

seen the savages the Army fought, and heard little, but one thing she knew they had dark skin.

Somewhere, deep inside, she knew she should scream, warn the soldiers, shake Lyssa, but she could

only sit transfixed, her eyes glued to the wounded savage.

His mouth moved, and she could hear some of his mumbling drifting on the breeze even in

his coarse language, she could hear he whimpered.

Lyssa- Elaine whispered.

Before she could say more, the man grasped his stomach, folding over his belly with agrimace of pain. His watery eyes looked straight at her, not even the soldiers but only her, eyes filled

with agony, confusion, panic. In one last maddened act, he thrust his arm forward, hopelessly

grappling for aid.

Black lines riddled the outstretched arm, running from the fingertips as high as his elbow,

standing out even on his dark skin and they pulsed.

Elaine didnt even have the time to pity. The man twitched and jerked, and the lines on his

skin bulged as if there were mice running over his bones. Then, as if he was struck by lightning from

the inside, the man ruptured. His body exploded into a blaze of blinding light, and the silence of the

forest was torn apart by a sundering crack as the blaze expanded outward.

Trees splintered like twigs, wood and soil hurled into the sky. A stone-hard wall of air hit

Elaine, and she was slammed into the air, flung off the cart.

She toppled and twisted through the air until, finally, she smashed into the ground. As her

consciousness slipped away, she could faintly feel pain shooting through the left side of her body.

~.~

The next thing she felt was the cold dirt in her face.

She was lying on her stomach, her left side aching with pain. She rolled to her right, but it helped

little. She could feel lukewarm liquid streaming out of her nose, and when it reached her mouth, she

could taste copper.

Bags of herbs and bundles of bandages lay scattered around her. Behind it, the card stood on

its side, the ox entangled in the ropes. She could see it low, throwing its head back, but she couldnt

hear.

Trees lay flattened, scattering away from where the wounded man had stood and bounding

over them, shooting past the broken branches, were the savages. A tide of dark-skinned men ran

onto the road, crude spears and swords above their heads, mouths open to scream, crashing against

the hastily clustered line of Alveli soldiers. The air should have been filled with sounds yelling,

barking, the pounding of swords on shields, but all she could hear was a ringing.

And then, one of the savages was with her. He stood above her at a few paces distance, eyes

wide, jaw clutched shut, arms trembling with fear and the rush of battle.

Slowly, he came towards her.


12/28

Elaine tried to stand, pushing herself off the ground, but immediately stumbled to her knees.

With her lame legs beneath her, she crawled, pulling on the grass, but she couldnt crawl fast

enough.

The savage reached her within moments, raising his bine club. Just before the strike, a silver

blur swooped through the air above Elaine, and the savages throat burst open..

Elaine could feel her robes being grasped by the back, and a strong arm pulling her to herfeet. Once she stood, she saw that the arm belonged to the tall Brother of the Lord, his bloodied two-

handed sword unsheathed in his other hand. She could see his mouth opening and closing, but his

words were lost to her ringing ears.

The Brother let go again, and Elaines legs folded underneath her. Before she even hit the

ground, the Brother was away, the great blade of his sword swinging with mathematical precision,

dancing underneath crude spears and over bone shields faster than such a chunk of metal ever

should.

Elaine tried to crawl again, mustering enough energy to get up on her knees. She needed

safety. She needed to hide. The forest was far, too far to crawl. Much closer was the cart of the

Battlemages, toppled to its side by the blast, provisions and garments spilling over the road.

Itd have to do.When she crept closer, she saw that what she had thought to be some bags and pouches was

actually a body. The old Battlemage lay motionless on the ground, his eyes staring blankly at the skies

and a small stain of blood creeping from his nose, but his chest still undulated sluggishly.

A few steps away from him lay the blue crystal, torn off its necklace by the blast. It shone as it

lay in the grass, less faint than before, its blue hue glistering invitingly.

It seemed serene, peaceful, out of place in the chaos. Her legs still feeble, Elaine crawled

towards the gem, her nails filling with dirt, and took it into her hand. As she did, the blue hue became

stronger and now that she held it, the crystal feeling lukewarm in her hand, she couldnt shake the

feeling that it was as alive as she was.

In the corner of her eyes, she saw the savages move, circling around the convoy. She

scrambled back, pressing her back against the cart and the crystal against her chest.

Three of them ran past without seeing her, but a fourth paused.

He wasnt like the others. A yellow-white harness of bone encased his chest, and the sword

he held was more than a shard of bone, elegantly curved with a malicious edge.

He grinned, pointed a long finger at her, and barked a command.

As three savages closed in, she felt her hand burn. The crystal glowed between her finger,

trembling and whirring, burrowing through her arm and into her mind.

It shuffled through her thoughts, digging until it found what it was searching for, and pulled

the word upwards into her consciousness.

Elaine

In an act of instinct, she thrust the gem forwards, the glow blinding her eyes and burning her fingers.

She saw the bone-wearing savage widen his eyes, saw him turn, but too late.

~.~

Elaine could feel a hand pulling her up by her robes, and was glad to see her legs obeyed her

again. Even when she was standing, however, the helping hand didnt let go of her. When she looked

up, she stared into the eyes of the old Battlemage, full of fury.

What did you do? he barked at her, his voice hoarse and wheezing.

Elaine had to think for a moment, her mind still as cloudy as her body was sore. She looked

over the mages shoulder at the surrounding destruction.


13/28

The first explosion had slammed a crater into the dirt. The road was littered with goods of all

kinds, weapons and armour, bundles of herbs, waterskins and spare socks. The air was thick with the

scent of blood and dismayed oxen.

Also scattered along the road were the bodies. Savages lay over and under each other, cold

hands still clinging to their clubs. Other wore the blue tunics of Alvel, held by their brothers in arms.

Lyssa stood among them, her sleeves rolled up and her hands as red as her robes.Four dead savages lay close enough for her to touch, but they didnt bleed, their bodies

showing not a single cut but they smouldered.

The mage shook her back and forth with the little strength he had left in his arm.

What did you do?

Elaine had no idea what shed done, and the mage continued his rant nonetheless her

silence.

What gives you the right? he snapped, opening his free hand. It revealed the crystal

gemstone, its blue hue all but gone, hissing softly. What gives you the right?These do not simply

grow out of the ground as do your herbs, Healer! These are painstakingly pried from the clawing

hands of forces you could not even begin to comprehend, by the most adept mages of the Empire,

and gifted only to the most highly esteemed, to be used with care and consideration! You do notsimply throw these at your enemies and hope itll kill the lot of them!

Next to the mage appeared the tall Brother of the Lord, his brown coat red with blood, his

two-handed sword strapped to his back.

Unhand the Healer, Halmore, he said as he calmly pulled the old man off Elaine.

The mage gave a grumble, opened his mouth, and met the Brothers icy stare. He sniffed, and hissed

his last words at Elaine before storming off.

Your superiors will hear of this!

Highly unlikely, the Brother said when the mage was out of earshot.

Sorry?

The Brother reached into his leather coat, pulling out a small silver flask.

It is highly unlikely they will hear of this, he said conversationally as he screwed off the cap,

Seeing as this never happened. You killed four savages using your talents as a Flesh Mage. Your

superiors will commend your bravery and will absolve the minor trifle of using your talents

offensively.

I wouldnt! Elaine blurted. I mean, I couldnt, and even if I couldI wouldnt dare do that

to anyone! Im a Healer!

And yet you did, the Brother said darkly. He took a draught from his flask, savouring it

before swallowing, and continued in his calm voice.

You heard a voice in your head, did you not? he said.

It wasnt much of a conversation, Elaine snapped.

Probably not. Just your name, then? Ah, yes. It has that effect on people. This, however, he

added with a gesture at the smoking savages, is more uncommon.

He screwed his flask shut and pocketed it.

Did you hear anything else? See anything else?

Elaine pressed shut her eyes, trying her hardest not to remember what she didsee. She was a

Healer, and blood and guts were her business, but still, some things never ceased to haunt you.

Nothing, she said. Nothing that it showed me. Just blinding light.

Right, the tall Brother said. What did you say your name was?

I didnt, I-

The mans cold glare stopped her tongue in its tracks.

Elaine, she said meekly. Elaine Morris.

Well then, MissMorris,the man said, keep an eye on the mail.

With that, he was off, pacing towards his colleague who stood calming their horses. Elaine

turned, but kept her ears pricked. Over the clamouring of the wounded and the lowing of the oxen,

she could just catch a conversation.


14/28

Done with the Healer, Lunell? Found out what you-

No last names.

-what you wanted to know, er, Brother Reynard?

Quite. Were leaving the convoy. Theyll want to know about this.

I thought we were done with this whole Keystone fiasco.

Weare. What they do with it is their own to decide. Ill send a message per swallow, and asfor the rest well let the Nine of Ten sort out their own problems.


15/28

Chapter Two

Bastard

~.~

Keon pushed the flap of his Segments tent open and stepped into the warcamp.

Instinctively, his nostrils contracted, but that what he braced for never came. Only when he inhaled

firmly through his nose, he found it again.

The stench.

Every war-camp always bore the same stench. Dirt. Sweat. Grub. Shit. The smell followed the

Army wherever she went, like a stray dog following a meat salesman. Still, as Keon stepped though

the tent-flap, it was more like a nagging whiff, not the usual penetrating odour. He was used to it

being much stronger, and its lessened intensity was almost upsetting.

Then again, everything about this camp upset him. It was all too new, too clean. The white-

rimmed blue of the tents and the tunics stood out between the omnipresent brown grime and dirt,

and the tents hadnt even been torn or patched yet. The tools in the hands of the soldiers thatpopulated the ant-mound that was the warcamp shone in the sun, their mail gleaming. Even the

cutlery hadnt rusted yet. But it wasnt the gear that distressed him most it was the soldiers

themselves.

The vast majority of the camp came from the south and the east, from Rellen and the plains

around it, from Serend and its grasslands, some even from Alvel and its far shores. They were fresh,

their blue tunics unsmudged, and perhaps hadnt even seen a single savage in their lives. They had

optimism, courage, inspiration, all assembled from the Empires trustworthy propaganda. Optimism

that Keon knew all too well was misplaced.

Just months ago, these plains had been the peaceful hinterlands, mostly unspoiled by war

save for the grieving widows and empty stores. Now, this very camp was the line, the foremost front,

between the Alveli Empire to the South and East and the lands lost to the savages in the North-West.This camp was simply the next phase in the cycle: the Army had been driven back by the hordes, and

now, strengthened by reinforcements, they again tried to make a stand. Keon knew it wouldnt last,

just as it did the past times. It didnt even matter if every Alveli soldier killed two savages, or ten, or a

hundred. There were always more, ready to fight, ready to die. The savages were uncountable the

Alveli soldiers were not. The Army would be forced to give more land to the savage hordes, until

more reinforcements would start the whole cycle all over again. It had gone like that since Herac.

Herac. The word burrowed into his mind as it always did, releasing the same memories he

saw every time he closed his eyes. Blood. Bodies. Broken spears and swords sticking out of the dust

like the ribs of a festering corpse. Hed seen his Segment die. Hed seen his Sergeant die. Hed seen

an army washed away by the tides of the savage horde.

He blinked away the visions and found his hand clasping the locket that rested in his tunicsbreastpocket, his grasp far too tight for such a frail silver thing. Two passing Shieldspears in shining

armour gave him estranged looks, hastening their steps when he met their eyes.

Even they reminded him of Herac. The camp had been just as clean as this one, set upon the

same dusty ground, and theyd been as optimistic as these soldiers were, even Keon himself. He had

cheered with the others of the 314th

Segment of the Bastard, drank with them, laughed with them,

but those memories seemed far more distant than those of the battle. Back then, there hadnt yet

been anything to be pessimistic about the landing of the savages had been a vast surprise, sure, but

their bone and numbers couldnt stand up against the steel and order of the Army of the Alveli

Empire. After the surprise, the Army had almost forced the horde back into the red-sailed boats they

had arrived in. And then, of course, had come the battle of Herac.

Herac had been the first loss, the first disaster. A bitter wake-up for Alvel. He and the rest of

the 314th

had fought at Herac. Only half remained after just a day. The Generals had called the battle


16/28

a victory, but Keon knew it wasnt. Only because your enemy lost does not mean you won. Nobody

won at Herac.

Now, months later, the 314th

was filled with replacements. Before the war, his Segment had

stood out among the others of the Bastards, even though that didnt mean much. Sergeant

Madman Malloreys 314th

had been filled with true Bastards not pleasant men, not courageous or

chivalrous men, but at least soldiers who were good at what they did. But Malloreys 314

th

had diedwith him at Herac. The Segment had turned out just like the other Segments of the Bastard: a waste

pit for Commanders and Generals to dump soldiers that stirred up trouble those too feral, too full

of pride, too lacking in coordination and only feared because of their fierceness, not their skill. Only

the name had stayed the same, and only the name bound him to the others of the 314th

.

Keon envied the fresh soldiers, in a way. They hadnt seen what he had seen. They could walk

through the camp without wearing their full armour under their tunics, without having their weapons

on their waist, their back or within the reach of their arm, and still feel safe. He couldnt. He knew

why Herac turned into a bloodbath, and he wouldnt repeat that mistake, even if the other soldiers

did. He didnt care his mail burdened him. He didnt care the Bastards steel pauldrons, arm-plates

and finger-gauntlets weighted him down. And he certainly didnt care his bastard-sword toiled his

back and his dagger pressed uncomfortably against his side. It consoled him, because he knew thesavages could appear as unexpectedly as lightning out of a blue sky, and he had to be ready for them.

He absentmindedly reached to his back for his sword, gripping the ragged leather of its hilt

and giving it a testing tug. Just as he lowered his hand again, he was woken from his thoughts by the

sounds of an argument.

A few tents away, a small crowd of soldiers had gathered. From the middle of the group

came an angered voice that had such a heavy rural-Serendi accent Keon could barely understand it.

Only when he moved closer, he saw they stood in a mob but in a circle.

In the middle of the group stood a hooded woman. Around her slim shoulders fitted robes

that stood out on the brown and grey of the camp like a campfire at midnight, a polar opposite of

even the clean tunics of the soldiers that encircled her. Blood-red robes. Healers robes. Between

these robes, her cowl and her red gloves, all that was visible of her was the ends of the chin-length

brown hair that flowed out of her cowl. Around her stood a mass of soldiers counting over thirty,

arranged in a circle Shieldspears, a handful of Longbows and Bastards and a single, massive Lancer

at the back. They were silent, avoiding the hooded woman like a storm avoids its eye, all doing not

much more than watching all but one.

A single Shieldspear had stepped closer, close enough that the wild gestures of his rant only

barely missed her. He paced around her like a predator, but never stepped within an arms reach.

stuffed him full of those herbs of yours and dragged him into one of them damned white

tents, and when he finally got out, days later, theyd carved his sword hand open from wrist to

shoulder, half his face looked like he was as old as my grandmother, he had to walk with a cane for

two months and couldnt lift a sword to save his life!

As the Shortsword caught a breath, Keon pushed through the ring of soldiers and stepped

into its empty centre.

Whats this all about? he asked, glancing at the front row of soldiers. He didnt need to ask.

Some people relieved their tension by sitting in a corner and crying. Other laughed or told stories.

Some threatened Healers. It was the way soldiers were. Hells, hed walked past a crowd like this in

silence dozens of times, minding his own business But then, one day, you watched a fellow from

your own Segment leak to death in your arms and you wished to whatever God listened that there

was one of the red-robes Healers in earshot of your screams.

The Shortsword glanced at the sword that hung from Keons back and grimaced.

Keep yourself out of this, Bastard!

Why? Keon answered drily, not giving the Shieldspear the delight of backing down now.

What problem do all of you have with her?

The same as with all witches! We dont want her kind here, do we, men?


17/28

The crowd of soldiers produced a cautious but approving mumble. The Shieldspear gave

Keon a smug smile and took his eyes off him, pointing another convicting finger at the Healer.

Healers, they call themselves. Phah! They do not heal, they corrupt! Theyre like vultures,

scouring for half-dead soldiers to drug and exert their foul experiments on. Well, not me, thank you

kindly!

Does she look like a witch or a vulture to you? Keon said, gesturing towards the Healer. Shestill just stood there, any emotion on her face hidden beneath the red cloth of her cowl, silently

enduring the tirade of the man in front of her.

Now, a different soldier answered an older Longbow on the second row of the circle. There

wasnt any anger in his voice, but dread, genuine dread.

Thats just the outside, Bastard. Ive seen what lurks within their palms. Inside theyre all the

sameblack and wicked and hungry.

Keon turned to the man with a grimace, pointing an armoured finger at his eyes.

She comes here from Gods know how far with the single purpose of helping the soldiers,

helping you, and this is how you thank her? he barked.

A soldier at the back set his hands on his mouth.

Youre just helping er cause shes got tits! he yelled.Keons plate-gauntlets screeched as he clenched his fists. Im helping her, he said, turning

to the soldier, because theres thirty of you and one of her. Look at her, Keon said, gesturing

towards the Healer. How could she possibly pose a threat to thirty of Alvels soldiers?

You say that now, the close Shieldspear responded. But shes a mage. My mate was on a

convoy with this creature and some others of her ilk, and you know what happened? Those mages

blew it up, and miss black-hands here disfigured a Shieldspears arms!

Barely audible, the red-hooded woman spoke, her voice more sad than frightened.

Hes lying.

Figured as much, Keon mumbled back.

The Shortsword again pointed his prying finger at the Healer, taking a step towards her back

to the just-short-of-arms-reach distance, a trio of spit-drips departing from his lips as he sneered.

Be quiet, witch, before I cut your tongue out!

Keon shoved the Shieldspear away from the Healer, his gauntlets scraping over the soldiers mail,

and met his eyes.

Try and Ill return the favour.

The soldier stepped forwards, his red-shot face close to Keons, the crooked nose almost

touching his. The Shieldspears hand had slipped to the hilt of the dagger at his belt, and Keon felt his

own hand move up to the haft of his bastard-sword.

Just as the Shieldspear bared a thumbs breadth of his dagger, the Lancer stepped forward

into the circle, putting a heavy gauntlet on the Shieldspears shoulder.

Watch it, Galfrey, he said in leaden tones. He was one of Malloreys Bastards. Ive seen

him fight at Haven Griff. This is no animal you want to anger.

Angering? Im not angering anyone, the soldier responded, his eyes shooting over every

fibre of Keons face. Im enlightening, thats what Im doing!

The Lancer didnt withdraw his arm, his face grimacing under the cylinder of his helmet.

You dont understand. He is Crazed.

The Shortsword shook the hand of his shoulder with a frustrated twitch, yet something

shifted in his eyes, a hidden flicker of doubt. The dagger snuck down into its sheath and, as subtle as

he managed, the Shieldspear took a step back.

Crzed? he said, his voice cracking. He gave a humourless laugh, but took another step

back as he did it, his mail clunking awkwardly against the Lancers plate.

Im surprised they let you off your leash, doggie! No wonder youre sticking up for her

youre as bad as she is!

Im sticking up for her, Keon growled, because by tomorrow, I may be lying in those tents

of theirs, barely holding together, with her being the only one who can stitch me back in one piece,


18/28

witch or patron of the shadows or not! He took a step forward, and the Shieldspear scrambled past

the Lancer and pressed against the first line of the circle. And if you keep that tone, Keon

continued, You may by lying there a lot sooner.

The Shieldspear maintained his scowl, but his eyes darted to find an exit, the shoulders of the

soldiers forming a wall around him. When the Lancer spoke, Keon could swear he sighed in relief.

Leave it, Galfrey. Your Sergeant needs you intact.The Shieldspear drew himself up to his full height, standing just a thumb higher than Keon, and gave

him a wide smirk.

Looks like youre in luck this time, little doggie, he said. He turned, wading through the

soldiers, throwing one last wave of apathy towards the Healer. When she gets someone killed, dont

say you werent warned!

The Lancer gave a massive shrug when the Shieldspear had left and made his own way out,

the soldiers forming a path for him. The others, however, stayed, looking at Keon and the Healer, in

their eyes the hope that the whole street play hadnt yet ended.

Have you no better things to do? Keon groaned at them from between his teeth.

Hesitantly, they dispersed between the tents of the warcamp. The Longbow who had cried out

before turned around, sewtting his hands on his mouth again.Snitch!

After a gaze from Keon, he huddled after the other soldiers as they returned to their respective

duties, until only Keon and the Healer remained.

Thanks for that, she said softly. She turned her head towards Keon, her cowl shuffling back

just far enough to allow Keon a peek of her face. But you didnt have to help me

Keon shrugged, his pauldrons creaking over his mail. They looked like they were going to put

you to the stake.

Thats just appearance. They dont actually dare to touch me. Theyre too scared. A slight,

humoured smirk appeared on her lips, as if only half her face was smiling. Nice to see a soldier

whos got his mind in the right place, though.

Two men in my squad were Healed, Keon said. The Healer nodded. That was all there was

to be said.

The nod shifted her hood and let her chi-length hair slip to the side, revealing her cheek.

From her temple all the way to her jawline ran a disfiguring bruise, a smudge of yellow and green.

Keon stretched out his hand and slightly lifted her hood with a finger, ignoring her surprised

flinch when he did. Her green eyes were wide with surprise, but rimming it were even more bruises,

almost the same green.

If they didnt touch you, howd you get these?

Before she could answer, a noise from their left turned both their heads, the Healer swiftly refitting

her cowl when Keon retracted his finger.

From between two tents, another Healer appeared, her hood on her shoulders. Stacked in

her arms were two wooden boxes, heavy enough to make her wobble. After a few steps and grunts,

she carelessly deposited the crates on the ground and set her hands on them, turning her cold gaze

of frustration towards her colleague as she blew her black hair out of her face.

Elaine, are you going to help me with these or not? she said. Time is finite, you know.

Ill be right there, the Healer before Keon said. The soldiers were stewing again.

Stewing? The black-haired Healer pointed a prying finger at Keon and paced towards him

until the finger almost reached the stubbles of his upper lip. If you as much as clip her nail, I will

make your life a living-

Please, Lyssa, it wasnt him. the first Healer interrupted her, gently pushing down her

extended hand.

Oh. The scowl of the black-haired Healer softened, but only for a moment. Not this time,

anyway, she said. She grabbed her colleague by the sleeve and pulled her over to the crates.

Soldiers. Theyre all the same.

You should get somehelp with those crates, Keon said.


19/28

The short-haired Healer parted her lips to speak, but the other was ahead of her.

Were good. Come on, shoo, Im sure you have more important things to do. Perhaps

getting cut up, like you soldiers always do.

Ill get right to that. Keon nodded his head at the short-haired Healer. Ill see you around.

You best hope you dont, she answered, smirking under her hood.

~.~

They came in waves. They always came in waves.

Keon peered into the haze through the T-shaped opening of his helmet. The savages had

retreated, but he knew it was only for the moment. All he could see was a curtain of dust, the brown

grime of the mud under his boots merging seamlessly with the sky. The bare feet of the savages and

the armoured boots of the Alveli had stampeded over the dirty plains, flicking up the dust as a

plaything for the breeze. Dust ground between his teeth, creaked between the plates of his

armguards, burned in his eyes. He poked an armoured finger through the opening of his helmet andwriggled in his eyes, but it only increased the burning. He blinked profusely and peered back at the

duststorm, trying to decipher the screaming of his Sergeant that stood bellowing to his right.

With the savages, it was always waves. They came like the sea, tide after tide, slowly but

steadily chipping off the rock that that was the line of the Alveli. They had clashed against the wall of

Alveli blades and shields and then quickly subsided, time and time again. Theyd followed them, Keon

and his Segment, but they couldnt go far. They had cut down the most sluggish of the savages and

ran back. Losing your way now was certain death whether it was by the savages, the half-blind

Alveli or the arrows that whizzed aimlessly overhead.

Blood smeared the blade of his bastard-sword, trickling down at the crossguard. Already,

there were the bodies. He hadnt kept count of how many were his own doing.

Even the dead were deadly, now. Catch your foot beneath a stray arm and you died. Stumble

over a discarded helmet and you died. Slide over a lost shield and you died.

Beneath the instinct, his mind raced. These werent the real warriors. The savages were

barely armoured, clothed only in thin rags, armed with simple weapons of wood and chipped bone.

These werent the warriors he had fought at Herac. These were simple men and women, sent not to

kill them, but to wear them out. These were simply to wear them out the killing strike was still to

come.

And wear out they did. The breath of the soldiers around him wheezed even through the

storm of dust, and they didnt hold their blades and shields as high as they had before the first

charge. His own arms burned, but nowhere as bad as they could, and he still had a firm grip on his

bastard-sword. Wearing out wasnt yet a trouble for him but trouble there was.

It scratched against his ankles with a rhythmless regularity, scraped tiny scuffs over his wrist

like the claws of a rat, rubbed against the palm of his hand like the touching of skin riddled with

warts.

The Craze.

He knew it wasnt all actually there, that it was all in his mind but that made it all the

worse.

A soldier to his left yelled, words lost in the wind, but the tone clear as day. Keon grasped his

hands tighter around the hilt of his sword, trying to focus on its edge, trying to focus on the shapes

that appeared out of the dust.

Another wave spilled forward towards him. Savages, running at the Alveli line like a wall of

flesh, their crude weapons in hand and nothing but insane fear in their eyes. Some big, others small,


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some old, others young, some coloured almost black, others only bronze. And yet, despite their

variance, they formed a singular mass, a horde, bound together by their purpose.

The claws scraped upwards over his legs, prickling his arms, rubbing over his shoulders. With

every step the savages took, they scrambled higher, their nails cutting deeper into his sin. He tried to

shake them off, his shoulders twitching heavily, but they withdrew for only an instant before driving

their claws back into his flesh.To his right, his Sergeant yelled, waved, blew his flute to give orders, but it all amalgamated together

into a mess of sounds, no more intelligible than the barking of the savages in front of him. To Keon,

there were only the claws.

When the foremost savage was almost at him, the claws reached his head, and the scratching

ceased. For a moment, he felt hope, hope that he had fought it and won, but he knew even in that

instant that the hope was false.

The claws leapt back onto him like lashes, hooking around his limbs, coiling around his chest,

pulling on him downwards. Black blots drifted on the edge of his vision, floating inwards. As the

sounds of the battle around him became faint and muffled, he could only think one thing.

No, no, not now. Not while was in formation. Not while there were so many.

Keon shook again, shrugging his shoulders, but the claws did not relent. The foremost savage

was at him, spear already poised to strike. Keon wanted to parry, to block, to duck but the claws

had other plans. They grasped his arms and flung his blade into an arching swing, forcing his full

strength behind it.

Just as the edge of the bastard-sword kissed the savages neck, the claws pulled their final

heave.

The blots of black suffocated what was left of his vision. The nails of the claws left him,

leaving him alone in the gloom, the only sound the rapid pumping of his heart, the only sight the

crimson of blood.

~.~

Taor the Tusked, Warlord of the Golden Hand, stamped over the dust. In the distance,

screams and clangs merged into the chorus of war.

He should have been there. He should have stood with his Bone Warriors, crushing

blasphemers with his cudgel. Instead, all he could do was lingering at the back, shouting commands

like some sort of craven. His Shaman had forbidden him to dive into the glory of war, claiming a

Warlord was too precious to lose, claiming it did not matter that it would be his warriors to end the

blasphemers lives and not him.

Taor grimaced under his tusked helmet of bone. He would not have lost. Cowards like Orur or

Rheg the Bright, they might have lost. They shied away from battle, hiding behind their forces,

bothering with stealth and cunning. Taor did not. His cudgel has dented many a brighter mind, and

he still stood. He should have been with his warriors at the charge, as he always was, the first to

plummet into the fray, the first to crack open a skull. That was the way a true Warlord waged war.

Mohg the Tall had not understood that, and Mohg the Tall was dead, killed not in open battle but

with a blasphemers knife in the back as he slept.

Taor damned this alien land, kicking up motes of earth with his bare foot. He was far from

the battle, but even the dust and the wind rose up to assail him.

Dust and wind. That would be his enemy this day. No glory. No death. Not one grain of Ats

blessing.


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And just then, one of his warriors came rushing through the haze, kneeling before him with

panting breath.

My Warlord, the man wheezed into the wind. Your Bone Warriors have started their

charge.

Of course they have, Taor growled.

He scowled at the dust, but when he looked down again, the warrior remained.What more is there to say? Taor barked. Go, and kill!

My Warlord, the warrior said. One of the blasphemers has lingered off. His eyes glanced

up, meeting his Warlords. Hes killed three of us.

Taor frowned. Lingered off, hm, he mumbled. Somewhere in his slow mind, a plan began to

form. If he had lingered off, the blasphemer was not at the battle not truly. He would not break his

Shamans rules. And he had killed three of his Bone Warriors, three of the toughest the horde had to

offer. That made him worth the effort.

Hed kill him. It would undo the missed charge, and perhaps remind his warriors why Taor

was Warlord over them all.

Trap him, he said, but do not harm him. He is mine.

~.~

Keon blinked against the dust.

He stared at the brown haze, taking a moment to separate sky from ground. The wind blew

into his ears and tugged on his hair. His helmet was in his left hand, the top dented and red with

blood, the arm that held it aching. In his right was still his bastard-sword, his fingers so tightly

clutching it his nails had dug into the leather of his gauntlet.

Three of the plates of his left arm-guard hung loose, drooping down from their broken joints.

Three arrows with warty shafts stuck through his tunic at his chest, but he felt no pain. When he

moved, they shook with his mail, their heads stuck in the padding but not his flesh.

Everywhere was blood.

He stepped forward, tripped over a limp arm, and stumbled.

Two savages lay limp on the ground, their white bone cuirasses smudged and shattered. One

ley face-down in the dust, the ground underneath him darkening with moisture. The other lay with

his empty eyes staring at the sky, his armour torn open, the flesh underneath it mangled. Some way

off lay a third, but a contour in the storm.

Keon coughed the dust from his parched throat, struggled to put his helmet back on his head

and jerked the three arrows from his mail. Then, he patted his tunic.

His numb fingers found the small shape of the locket underneath the blue fabric, not a

thumbs width from where an arrow had struck. At least there was that.

He grasped his sword with both hands and peered into the haze. The noise of battle was still

there, but distant, a toy of the breeze.

Keon clasped his hands tighter around the hilt as he felt the claws rake over his spine. Get

lost and you die. Even if hed been fresh enough to run, he had no idea to where.

Then, they appeared from the haze, contours at first but proceeding fast. Four savages,

closing in a circle around him, eyes fixed on his sword and spearshafts steadily in their hands. Armour

of yellowed bone rattled around the chests, of the same make of the three that had fallen.

These werent the savages that he had faced before with his Segment. These spears were not

crude, but straight, polished, pointed with spearheads of gleaming bone as long as shortswords.

These were the warriors he had fought at Herac. In comparison to them, the rest were just peasants,

flesh for the Alveli to carve until they were exhausted.

But they bled, and they died.


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Four were many, too many, but he had no chance but fight. He couldnt run, not now. Even if

he could outrun their long strides, he might walk right into the savage horde.

Just as he raised his sword, a fifth contour appeared, and his last hope sank into his boots.

Dust whirled at the stride of his bared feet. Bone rattled around his limbs. He stepped over

his fallen kinsman without even a glance, his bloodshot eyes staring at Keon from underneath a

massive tusked helmet of bone, and grinned.Thick plates of milk-white bone covered every surface of his dark skin. Hollowed-out bones

the size no beast on the Continent reached socketed his legs and arms. Shoulder blades shielded his

waist. Ribs rattled against his sides. As he moved, the necklace that lay over his shoulders rattled,

dozens of fingerbones dancing over his chest.

The brute came forward, into the circle of his four fellows, and stopped mere paces away

from Keon. The man eyed him from behind his tusked helmet, glancing over Keons sword, his mail,

his bared teeth, his grin growing broader.

A scratch grazed Keons back, gently, beckoning to give in. Keon shook it off, focusing on

holding his blade high, on the pain in his shoulders, on the hands of the brute before him.

The savage grasped the shaft of the bone cudgel at his waist, muscles moving beneath his

mail like rigging-ropes, and raised it into the air.

Ghor ag taor ackal at! he roared into the storm.

Claws raked over Keons limbs as the four men around him raised their spears, resounding

the bark like an echo.

At!

The brute lowered his cudgel, glared for one more moment at the sword in Keons hands,

and dashed forward, storming with a speed so much muscle shouldnt posess.

The claws closed in, coiling around Keons limbs, making his arms his own.

He let them take him.

~.~

Keon was lying on the clouds.

A soft numbness encased him, like his limbs were filled with cotton-wool. When he opened

his eyes, he saw the sky above him. He didnt remember ever seeing it so white. So very pure white.

He could feel a faint pain, distant, somewhere around his left side. He ignored it. He had other things

to think about. Like the sky. So very white.

He tried to raise an arm, but failed. He didnt know where he was, but somehow, he didnt

care. He was here now, and it felt nice.

From the white sky descended a voice.

-laine, hes awake!

Shortly after, another voice answered, sweet even in its edginess.

What?

A visage of a woman appeared above him. Soft, brown hair radiated from her head as the

rays of the sun, and vivid crimson flowed down from her shoulders. The look in her wide green eyes

was worried, fearful almost. Keon didnt know why. He felt perfectly fine. There was something

about those red robes, though. Something he knew he knew, yet had forgotten. It didnt seem that


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important, and he waved the thought away, watching it drift off into the white skies together with

his attention.

The serenity was broken by the angel above him, grasping him bluntly by his chin. She raised

one of his eyelids with a finger, peering into his pupil. It was quite strange, but perhaps, those green

eyes looked further than just his eyes, deeper, even though they did not seem judging. Then, the face

disappeared. Keon tried to get up, tried to follow it, but his limbs stayed numb and limp. Somewhereto his right, he heard her voice.

How much did you give him?

He tried to turn his head, but it seemed as heavy as a builder. He wasnt bothered by it. He

hadnt felt so comfortable since since

He frowned, or at least tried to frown. He didnt remember what memories had bugged him.

Somehow, that seemed the most relaxing of all.

A voice answered the angel, the voice that had spoken first.

Too much already.

The woman appeared again, her emerald-green eyes gleaming with pity. The words flowed

form lips like a cascade of honey and all things sweet.

Im sorry, but this is for your own good.

She raised her hands above his body, beautiful, snow-white hands-

No. He strained to see her hands were grey, and the fingers black as coal. As she held them above

his body, the blackness reached out, spilling into a pool. It ate the white sky, the radiance fading from

dim to dark to a blackness that was no longer a colour but the replete absence of it, lustreless and

hungering.

Then, the woman forced her hands against his side, and the blackness became a streaming

current. Ooze gushed from her hands and over his body, grasping it with a scorching chill, the feeling

of a thousand knives being forced into his skin. A disembodied screaming entered his ears, a feral

howl of pain and torment.

While the pain forced his consciousness into the depths of his mind, he realised that the

screaming was his own.

~.~

When Keon woke up, he immediately wished he hadnt.

Pain throbbed through his left side with every breath. He tried to grasp his forehead to press

out the headache, but his hand only came halfway before the pain forced it down again.

Memories still ran rampant through his mind. Dust and blood, savages and bone, a massive

brute raising his cudgel, an angel in red. As always, the Craze left crimson gaps in his memory

between them, as it had so many times.

But he was here, wherever here was, and he was alive, though the pain made him doubt he

was very fond of that. He pushed himself up to his elbows, blinking to get the blur out of his eyes.

The first thing he saw were his legs. They were bruised, but clean, and roughly where they were

supposed to be. From there up, things looked less optimistic. He wore the white, sleeveless shirt of

the wounded, its thin fabric reaching down to his knees. Near his left side it was torn open, revealing

only bandages underneath, soaked in brown liquid that spread a spicy smell. Below that, there was

only pain.

Good morning, sunshine.

Keon looked up, his neck straining. All around him were walls of white cloth, crammed from

side to side with anything a man could lie on planks on crates, rows of stool, upturned weapon

racks. Only a few, including his own, were still the actual operating tables of the Healers. All were


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covered with white cloth, and all were empty, although the cloth coverings were stained with dark,

dried liquids.

On one of them, close to the tents entrance, sat a woman in red robes.

Youve sure slept in, the Healer said. Then again, with all the bluebliss Lyssa gave you, its

a miracle you woke up at all.

The cowl of her robes lay over her head, but Keon recognised her in an instant. Her greeneyes werent as radiant and the brown of her hair was duller, but not all of her beauty had been the

work of the herbs. And hed seen her earlier, cowering into her hood, beset by a mob of soldiers.

Keon opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a gurgle. Only barely, he rolled

over to the side, away from the Healer, just as he felt it welling up in his throat. A thick liquid

slithered through his mouth leaving the taste of ash and dust, scattering in small gelatinous blobs as

it hit the dirt of the floor.

Keon stared at it as it wobbled, for a moment forgetting the pain.

What in all hells he muttered.

Youve been Healed, the Healer said, sliding off the table. She came towards him and

pulled his limp right arm over her head, helping him up with soft-gloved hands. Keons sight shifted

through all possible tints of purple, his heart throbbing in his throat and a wheezing dizzinessburrowing into his ears.

The Healer held it for some moment, and still he nearly toppled when she let go, his muscles

as stiff as the wood he sat on. He grasped the edge of the table top, his arms shuddering.

The Healer regarded him with a frown, only stepping out of arms reach when he stayed

upright for a while.

Im Elaine, she said. Im going to need your name, too. The General wants us to keep up

with the paperwork.

Keon, he answered, and mechanically following it, 314th

Bastards.

The Healer walked to the table she had been sitting on and began shuffling through some

parchments. Keon rubbed his face with one hand, keeping the other on the table.

So, what happened? he asked.

The Healing went as well as it could, the Healer said, scribbling something in a small

booklet. Except that you woke up, of course. Itll still hurt for weeks, and youll feel it for months, if

not years. The stiffness and dizziness is just the bluebliss. Thatll be gone in a few hours. As for the

black stuff-

No, not the healing, Keon interrupted her. I meant the battle.

Oh, right. Her look fell to the floor. Better than the other battles, if I can trust the word of

the soldiers. She let out a soft sigh, raising her eyes again. That didnt mean there werent more

wounded than fitted into the tents, though.

Good, Keon thought. That was good. If the soldiers said it was a victory if even these fresh

ones werent disappointed they mustve done well. With a grunt, pain throbbing into his side, he

let himself down from the table and onto his bruised feet.

Blots of purple again sprang into his eyes and his pulse thumped against his ears like the bells

of Alanres temple, but he stayed upright. The Healer rushed towards him, but he waved her off,

clasping the table for support and then, slowly, letting go.

She looked at him wobble for a few moments, her hands still ready to catch him.

You really shouldnt be standing up yet, she said.

Im fine, Keon croaked with a grunt of pain.

The muscles of his left side were still cramped, the bandages and the herbs itching his skin,

but he could stand. Now that the dirt tickled his bare feet, he felt light, almost drifting, without the

weight of his mail to push him down, and without his armguards he felt even more naked than he

already was. He turned towards the Healer as well as he could, almost tripping over his own feet.

Wheres my gear? he said.

Behind the tent, the Healer responded, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. Well, most of it

is. It isnt pretty.


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As she disappeared underneath of the tent flap, Keon grasped the table again to stop the

wobbling.

What do you mean, most of it? he called after her.

Within moments, she returned. In her hands was a sheet of bent metal he only recognised as

a blade at second glance. Two-thirds were gone, broken off at a jagged fracture. The leather straps

around the hilt had snapped, drooping down.You were still clasping it when they dragged you in, the Healer said regretfully. We had to

get a pair of soldiers to get it out of your hands. I hope you werent attached to it. Emotionally, I

mean. Joke not intended.

Keon smiled, the pain warping it to a grimace. I wasnt married to it. You dont get attached

to a tool. Im a soldier, not some damned noble.Requisition will get me a new one thats just as-

He coughed, his breath wheezing through his sore throat.

-just as sharp and cold, he finished.

Still, Keon gave the ruined remains a pained look. That was the sword he had held at Wrey, at

Herac, through almost all his time under Madman Mallorey. They didnt make them like that

anymore. It was a blade from before the war, when blacksmiths still took pride in quality, not just

quantity. The rest of his gear was more easily replaceable-All except for one thing.

He stumbled towards the Healer, clasping her upper arm to regain his balance.

The locket, he said. There was a locket in the breastpocket of my tunic. Where is it? Is it

here?

Look, you haveto relax, the Healer replied as she squeezed her arm out of his grip. Sit

down, and Ill go look for it.

Without any more words, she exited the tent again. Only when Keons legs were more

cramped than theyd already been, she returned. She held one hand closed, a small tail of a silver

necklace seeping out of it. Keon huddled over to her as fast as his legs allowed him, and she

deposited the locket and its chain into his palm.

Thank you, he said to her. This isnt as trivial as you may think it is.

He took the locket firmly in his fist. Only now that the dizziness had subsided, he noticed how

parched his throat really was.

Do you have something to drink? he asked the Healer.

Finally, you begin to think about your own health. Yes, I have something to drink. Whole

kegs.

~.~

General Marcard sat with her hands in her hair.

Before her on the table, a map was spread out, surrounded by stacks of forms, empty

inkwells and leaking quills.

Every move the Army took cost time, provisions, lives. Every move had to be calculated,

thought over, documented, and thought over again. A soldier couldnt eat an apple without it

appearing three times on a form. The numbers drifted before her eyes troop counts of the savages

noted down dryly, death tolls appearing in steady, cursive script. Paper knew no grief. She could see

the collapse of the Alveli Empire, there in the numbers, an abstract doom. The numbers could drive

one insane.

But she knew it was the price of order, and order was all that kept the Alveli Army alive.

Squander the details, let a cart pass through unlisted, shove a sword

alvel chapter one through three

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