Fortress Al-Mir

“Damn snakes,” Katja said, shaking her head.

The meeting with the Abbey of the Light had been long and trying. As she had consolidated most of the military power inside Cliff City under her banner, they knew that she had the technical capability to throw them out of the city. They also knew that she wouldn’t do that. If she did, another riot might break out in the city, this time with her as its target of ire. The Abbey was too popular.

She needed a way to turn them into villains. Put them against the court of public opinion and have them found guilty. But they were too careful. They were taking special measures against anything that might be seen as negative. For as benevolent as Katja was trying to be, supported in her rule through Arkk’s near-endless resources of both food and gold, some people of the city still fell through the cracks. The Abbey had a preternatural sense for finding and helping those people, giving them far too much goodwill to do anything about.

The general populace didn’t know of the Abbey’s drive to ally with Evestani. The Duke had announced it, not the Pontiff. They came away from that ordeal smelling like roses.

And they hadn’t spoken out against her. Both privately, at these meetings, and publicly, they even seemed to support Katja. It was more likely that they knew just how unpopular the Duke had been in his final days and showing any support for him would have been something she might have been able to use against them.

Just as Katja was plotting against them, she knew they were plotting against her. Behind their smiles and offers of cooperation was a dagger poised to strike at her back the moment they saw an opportunity.

And that opportunity was on its way.

Prince Cedric. Katja had honestly never heard of the man prior to taking over the Duchy. Life as a slave and then as a bandit out on the western edge of the kingdom didn’t make an education in the goings on of the eastern side of the kingdom all that important. But her manor had a large library of historical texts, collected by the Duke—or his predecessors and servants, since Katja didn’t see him doing all that much historical reading in his spare time.

That let her look at some records of his current domain, Vaales. There had been a minor uprising. Rebels against the King. Prince Cedric had been sent in.

The texts had to exaggerate. The way it was written, it was like Prince Cedric had slaughtered everyone in the entire region and resettled it from scratch with loyalists. According to a quote from the Prince, ‘All are complicit. There are no innocents. The rebels are obvious in their guilt but the so-called innocent allowed the rebels to form and failed to put down the treasonous actors. If nothing else, they are guilty of wasting my time.’

And he was coming here.

This was not how they had planned. Katja and Arkk wished for the Duke to be seen as incompetent and a traitor, someone unable to keep the population in line while also courting favors with the invaders. Katja was to be the populist, the one all the people would support. She had sent letters to the King, stating her intent to align with his rule. All she needed was a writ of regency.

Although King Abe had returned letters with cordial words on the paper, his actions in sending his son were… not in line with his statements.

“What to do… What to do?”

If Prince Cedric were to be killed in her lands, she could easily imagine King Abe deciding to dispense with whatever air of pleasantry he had and launch a full assault. Then again, if he were killed by the Evestani, perhaps…

That would cement the Kingdom against Evestani without a doubt. The Abbey of the Light was pushing for an alliance even with her in charge, trying to focus both nations against Arkk in the fear that he was going to destroy the world. She had no doubt that the Abbey was pushing on the King for the same. Yet the King would never overlook their hated neighbors killing his son.

Arkk would like that. More importantly, Katja would very much like to not come face-to-face with Prince Cedric.

But how? She was probably going to have to frame Evestani. Maybe they would kill him on their own if he ventured too close to their holdings. Katja wasn’t the type to leave luck to its own devices. She made her own fate.

It needed to be convincing. Witnesses needed to see the Prince die at the hands of individuals who could not be doubted. She…

“Lady Katja.” Horrik entered the room, ducking slightly to pass through the door. “Sorry to disturb you. We found another.”

Taking a short breath, Katja nodded her head. She stood from the round table—in an attempt to distance her appearance from that of the Duke, she had been neglecting to use his throne room for most meetings. She kept her hair wildly styled and wore attire that left her arms bare, showing off her striped tattoos. No golden rings adorned her fingers. It was important, at least for now, to be a regent for the people, of the people.

She followed Horrik through the manor, heading down into the dungeons. Most of the cells were empty. Troublemakers were held in the garrison, apprehended by the local guard. Her private cells weren’t for anyone so mundane.

At the end of the corridor, with two of her loyal bandits—former bandits—standing guard outside, she found a cell holding one young boy. Fifteen years old at the most. He had brown hair and a pudgy face with familiar features.

Katja had seen that face all over the manor. The Duke apparently loved to look at his own face.

“Do you know why you are here?” Katja asked, stepping inside the cell. Horrik followed behind her. The other two remained outside.

The boy looked at her, eyes widening as his eyes roamed over her arms. Katja well knew that most of the city’s population likely didn’t know what she looked like as far as her face was concerned. Knowledge of the tattoos she bore had become commonplace. So it wasn’t surprising when he narrowed his eyes and spat out, “My father, I presume.”

Katja dipped her head. The Duke had been unwed and had no official children. Unofficial, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. Buried deep in the records room, someone had taken an accounting of mistresses and potential heirs. Many were dead. Many died under suspicious circumstances just before reaching the age of majority. Only one before this boy had been found and… well… the likelihood of that boy being the Duke’s child had drastically gone down.

This boy, aside from being far thinner below his pudgy jowls, was the spitting image of the late Duke.

Reaching into her pocket, Katja withdrew a small box. Removing its lid, she held it out toward the boy.

A brilliant, gold ring encrusted with several gemstones which bore the ducal signet.

“Place this on your finger.”

“Uh. No, thank you.”

Katja put on a grin, leaning forward to put her eyes on his level. “I shall not mince words. Do it or we will kill you. Painfully.”

The boy bit his lip, staring at her. She cocked an eyebrow in turn.

“Do you think I jest?”

“They said you were nice. Kind. Better than my father.”

“No one is one-note. I choose to be kind. I choose to be cruel. Put the ring on and you may see a nicer side of me.”

The boy gnawed at his lip a little more before stretching his hand forward. He took the ring from the box gingerly, as if it were a snake about to bite. An accurate assessment. Nevertheless, he slipped the ring onto his finger.

Nothing happened.

Katja grinned. “Less crispy than the last one,” she said as an aside to Horrik.

“Aye.”

“What—”

“It is an enchanted ring,” Katja said, interrupting the boy’s question. “Only one of Duke Levi Woldair’s blood can don it without consequence. Congratulations, you truly are his bastard.”

He scowled.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Roland.”

“Well, Roland. Although you seemed to know the truth of your parentage beforehand, now that it has been confirmed, there is a bit of an unfortunate conundrum here. You see, the first thing any competent usurper does upon usurping a position is eliminate anyone else who might have a better claim to the position. For you and me, that means heirs.”

The boy, for his age, was quick in the head. He understood her meaning immediately. His eyes widened again and he backed up against the wall of the dungeon. “I… I don’t want to be a duke.”

Katja put on a smile. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t revoke your claim to the throne. Even if you venture out to the hills and live out your life as a hermit, any children you have will be in line, as will any children they have. It gets messy. Ah, ah. Don’t panic just yet. You see, I wouldn’t be telling you this if I intended to kill you immediately. It’s a waste of breath. I would just kill you and be done with it.

“No. Rather than kill you, I think I could find a few uses for you. For one, there is a vault in this manor that can only be opened by one wearing that enchanted ring.”

“And then you kill me.”

“Not necessarily. I said a few uses for you. I’m trying to legitimize my rule as much as possible, as quickly as possible. You represent a few possible paths to legitimacy.”

Katja doubted that Prince Cedric would care much if she was married to an heir or if she adopted one if even half the rumors of his personality were correct. It was nevertheless a possibility. One she was more than willing to explore. There was little that Katja wouldn’t do if it meant both gaining power and surviving with that power.

“So here is the deal, Roland. You open the vault for me and then we find ways to make you useful to me. You move in here, enjoy a status your position as a bastard would never have normally allowed. It might seem like something of a gilded cage, I’m sure, but at least the meals will be far better than that hovel the Duke shoved you into. And if you play your cards right, there might be plenty of other benefits to a positive relationship with me.”

Katja paused and then added, “Or we kill you right now. Trust me, you are hardly the only bastard our dear Duke had. One of them will be more than happy to take me up on my offer. So. What will it be?”

To his credit, the boy didn’t hesitate for long.

“Hey. Did you guys feel something?”

Milos opened his eyes, disturbed by the sudden voice. He hadn’t really been asleep. Milos was the sort of person who found it difficult to sleep in the wilderness at the best of times. Freezing cold, huddled up as close to the fire in the center of their thin tent, with a heavy cloak failing to stave off the chill, were far from the best of times. He wasn’t sure that he had slept properly since the Sultanate ordered his family to provide a soldier for their campaign.

The others slept easily. He had thought long marches through snow-covered terrain would wear him down to the point where he wouldn’t be able to stand the exhaustion. It never had. He slept just as fitfully as ever.

“Hey? Anyone—”

“For the love of the Golden Good, shut up Jovan,” Zayd snapped, eyes still closed as he tried to keep hold of his sleep. His voice, louder even than Jovan’s, caused stirring among the other members of the Golden Army Pathfinder unit.

The stirring didn’t amount to much. A few weeks ago, when the air had been even colder and the days even more exhausting just trying to keep alive, Milos wouldn’t have been surprised if a brawl had broken out over the lost sleep, thus making the idiots lose even more sleep. Assuming anyone would have worked up the energy for it, anyway. Although the nights were still freezing, the weather was warming to the point where daytime wasn’t so much of a struggle, so a little disturbing of their sleep wasn’t quite as big of a deal.

Milos would still prefer if they were back with the main army. The Pathfinders were scouts and watchers, leaving them out in the cold far in advance of everyone else who enjoyed the blessings of the Golden Order. They could remain warm at night even in the absence of any flame.

When Jovan didn’t speak again, everyone settled back down. Even Milos closed his eyes once more.

It wasn’t sleep. It was just resting his mind. Nevertheless, he settled into a comfortable stillness, taking solace in the heat of the fire against his face. He could almost imagine his mind shutting down enough to call what he was doing ‘sleep’.

Until he felt it.

It was faint. Just a slight strange sensation in the ground. Someone brushing against him in a crowded market would have been more of a shock. Yet someone brushing against him would have been expected to the point where he probably wouldn’t have noticed. Out here in this Gold-forsaken land, he expected the ground to stay put under his feet.

Yet, there it was again. A slight bump.

In an instant, whatever semblances of sleep he managed to grasp hold of escaped as a jolt of adrenaline struck his heart. The light weight in his eyelids vanished, leaving him staring at the fire with wide eyes.

Slowly, he looked up and away from the fire. Of the six men huddled around, only Jovan had his eyes open as well, wide and full of fear. Jovan looked to Milos, looking relieved that someone else was taking note.

It happened again. The flames in the middle of the tent, though small and dim as they needed another log thrown in, jolted to the side. A slight shudder ran through the thin wisps of smoke as they traveled up to the opening in the tall, pointed tent. One log, precariously propped against another, shuddered and fell, sending a small cloud of ash and embers up into the air before it all fell back into the fire pit.

“See?” Jovan hissed. He was trying to be quiet but was too panicked to succeed.

“I swear,” Zayd said, sitting up. “If you don’t—”

“He’s right,” Milos said. “Something is… There. Again. Did you feel it?”

Zayd, eyes open now, just glared. He waited, feeling and thinking, before shaking his head. “Even if it is something, it isn’t anything to worry about. Tarek and Kian are on watch. They’ll wake us if it is important. You two can join them out in the cold and leave us to our sleep if you’re that worried.”

Jovan, for as worried as he was, quickly settled down at the mention of venturing out of the tent. Kian and Tarek had special coins, magically made so that they would keep warm even in the coldest parts of winter. But there weren’t enough of those for everyone, so only those on watch got to hold them.

While Jovan might be unwilling to brave the cold, Milos wasn’t. It wasn’t like he was sleeping anyway. He stood, pulled his cloak a little tighter, and wrapped a scarf around his face. Pulling loose the tent’s flaps, he hurried out, trying to keep as little cold air from invading the warmth of their shelter as possible. No sense in irritating everyone else more than necessary.

He did hear Zayd scoff as he secured the flaps from the outside.

The cold immediately bit at the skin around his eyes. That only served to further his alertness, making the next shallow thump feel all the more intense.

Their unit was currently occupying one of the most forward positions that Evestani held. They weren’t a large group. Just a forward scouting unit that had been dispatched to keep an eye on things after some incident that got everyone in charge all riled up. And that was after the disaster of the falling rocks during Gleeful Burg’s occupation.

Milos had never been enthused with being forced into the army. Yet, up until that moment, he carried a sort of pride in his nation. Led by a living prophet to finally destroy their heretical neighbors? Milos hadn’t known too much about those who occupied Chernlock before joining the army but the stories he had heard since gave him enough of a drive to put his best foot forward in serving his country.

Now, their unstoppable advance had ground to a halt. It was… disappointing. How could an army blessed by the Golden Good have ended up like this?

“Who’s there?”

Milos froze as the pointed tip of a spear dropped in front of his face, barring his way through the thick forest. The spear remained steady only until the next thump—more vibrant than the previous ones—at which point, it fell by the wayside.

Tarek stepped out from behind the tree, shuddering as he let the spear drop to his shoulder. “Sorry about that. Jumpy. What in the fifteen hells is going on here?” he murmured, stepping up to Milos.

“No clue. Jovan woke everyone by freaking out over it. It felt stronger out here.”

He could still feel it, every few seconds another thump. It was enough to make him feel like the ground under his feet was going to give way. He could hear their horses in the distance, tied to a tree with heavy blankets on their backs, going wild with neighing and worrying.

“No,” Kian said, stepping up alongside Tarek. “It’s been getting stronger.”

“Some kind of monster?” Milos asked. “I hear these Light worshippers call on demons occasionally.”

“It better not be or we’re all dead men.”

“It sounds… large,” Tarek said. “I don’t think demons are very big.”

Kian shuffled, looking over at his partner with a frown. “Oh, you would know, would you?”

“I can read.”

“I’ll believe that when I—”

The ground underneath them rocked. Hard. All three men stumbled where they stood. Tarek’s spear fell from his fingers as he grasped hold of a tree for support. Milos mimed his actions with his own tree while poor Kian, standing a short distance from the nearest tree, stumbled hard enough to fall forward onto his hands.

They barely managed to recover before another heavy rumble threw them off the ground. A deep cracking of distant wood breaking and trees falling joined with the rumble in the ground. Shouts from the tent started up and, in a moment, the rest of the Pathfinder unit hurried out into the cold despite their earlier protests.

And not a moment too soon. The repeated quakes dislodged part of the tent. The linen, though treated with an alchemical concoction to avoid catching fire, couldn’t withstand falling directly onto an open flame.

Zayd, the commander of their group, tried to call for a report. Another quake interrupted him, this one strong enough to send everyone to the ground. The tree under Milos’ hand swayed back and forth far enough that he lost his balance and hit the ground. Jovan curled up, huddling in on himself just in time to avoid a broken branch from one of the trees landing right where he had been standing.

All attempts at talking were cut off as gusts of wind started blasting through the trees, each either preceded or followed by more of the quakes in the ground. The sheer noise of both the thumps and the wind forced Milos to cover his ears.

Even still, he heard the cry from one of his fellow Pathfinders.

“Good Gold!”

Milos stared up, unsure exactly what he was looking at. It was like his mind just couldn’t quite process what was going on. For a brief moment, he feared that something had happened to the sky again. Another slice cut out for that false moon to roll overhead.

But no. The night sky had changed. A column of darkness appeared between the tops of the trees, lit only by faint violet lights covering its surface.

The massive column moved. With steady, repeated hammerings in the forest around Milos, it steadily glided forward, passing overhead until he could see nothing but its underside. If he had emerged from his tent, absent all the thumping, and looked up, he might not have noticed a difference between the sky and this thing. At least not at first. Hundreds of tiny violet dots lined its underside, giving it the illusion of a night sky filled with stars. But they were all wrong. The lights were too orderly, too regular. They formed a grid-like pattern on the underside of this thing. And they illuminated too much of it, letting Milos see the maze-like pattern of shadowy material it was made from.

Something slammed into the forest a hundred paces away from Milos, forcing his eyes from the thing overhead. He could barely see it through the forest. A building-sized leg stretched up into the sky, bent back down, and then bent back up into the underside of the thing overhead. The gust of wind that followed the slam kicked up debris into his eyes, forcing him to cover his face and hunker down.

He could do nothing more than hope it would ignore him like he might ignore a single ant under his feet.

More thumping followed. More trees broke, more wind coursed through the forest. Slowly, the sound and the quakes faded.

When he finally opened his eyes and blinked the dust from his vision, he looked up to see just the circular peak of that monstrosity over the tops of the still-standing trees. Even that vanished toward the horizon with a few more repeated thumpings.

Without the wind and loud quakes, Milos could hear the others around him. He heard whimpering, swearing, prayers, and rambling mutters. It took him a long few moments to realize that his mouth was moving, though he couldn’t be sure if he was whimpering or praying. Milos managed to clamp his jaw but he couldn’t stop the trembling in his fingers.

Slowly, the rest of the Pathfinder team calmed down. Nobody spoke to one another, as if worried that proper conversation might draw that thing’s attention. They didn’t need to speak.

Milos could see the fear in their eyes. The uncertainty. The worry. None of them could do a thing about a walking mountain, or whatever that had been.

Yet they all knew one thing.

It was headed directly for the main Evestani army at the captured burg between the two mountains.

“We… We have to warn them…” Milos muttered.