Phyletta chose the poorest of times to be locked away behind her spiritual barrier. Arnzos and Palmgrease collided through their steel proxies. Roxbane and Godbrisk. Arnzos furiously swiped at his opponent’s hand. Had to disarm him. Letting him keep Godbrisk was too dangerous. But, just like their previous battle, Palmgrease knew too many defensive maneuvers. He shielded himself from the violence; Three rapid strikes from Godbrisk protected the Lord from harm.

  “Such an amateur.” Palmgrease remarked. He let his sword fly, blotching Arnzos’ shirt with a shallow cut. Leaky drops of blood flowed. Arnzos retreated.

  The Lord sighed in disappointment. “Ugh, what a mess you’ve caused. Your words can chop like iron, yet your swordsmanship is as sharp as a dog’s tail.”

  Arnzos strategized. Offensive, brutish power plays were clearly not working. Each wild slash tired him out and left his foe with opportunities to retaliate. He leapt to a defensive play instead. Guarding his body with Roxbane. He angled his sword toward the floor. Both of his blue scaled hands gripping the hilt as if they were glued to it. He pushed Roxbane toward Palmgrease in small bursts. Like he was telling him ‘attack me.’ ‘I dare you to attack me.’ The Lord had no physical response for him.

  He tried another method to lower Palmgrease’s safeguard. A verbal method. “You know Modra is planning to betray you.” Arnzos said, eagle-eyed and with a steadied breath. “Whether or not I’m here, someone’s going to get you by surprise.”

  Palmgrease’s rapier slumped, as he scoffed. Unamused. “Are you so shitty with a blade that you must fabricate such malarkey to throw me off?”

  “Believe it. Or don’t. Won’t change the inevitable.”

  In a roundabout sense, Arnzos’ plan worked. Palmgrease flicked his rapier at Arnzos’ neck. Barely countered by his quick reaction with Roxbane. He believed with the Lord attacking and him defending, he could stand a chance at slaying the minidrake. This was furthest from the truth. Arnzos’ hope to get any attacks in was to wait for Palmgrease to slip up in his ferocity and then counterattack with a deadly blow.

  To his ever increasing shock, Palmgrease did not have any openings. Even in his barbaric state. His slices at Arnzos were predictably unpredictable. Just as Arnzos thought he gathered a pattern by which the Lord barraged him, he would switch into a new stance. A new flurry of hungry slashes. He groaned in frustration as his tactic gained him nothing. He tried to break Palmgrease’s pattern. Hurling a quick overhead to break his footing.

  Not only did Palmgrease deflect, but he followed it up with a gash in Arnzos’ side. Waning was his assurance that he could harm Palmgrease in any way. Let alone win this duel. It was no wonder that the only time Arnzos could hit him was when he was distracted by his knights—soaking in their admiration for him. Perhaps the plan he should follow… was to abandon all plans and bolt.

  Plan number two started—to flee from the manor completely. Arnzos selected a chair to hack away at. He left it as a shiny bundle of wood and torn cotton. Arnzos kicked the wood pieces at Palmgrease. Projectiles that he had to avoid. Dividing attention between these airborne fragments. He swatted a few of them away. Others bumped against his plated head. Ultimately, it didn’t matter if they hurt him.

  Arnzos used the diversion to sprint out of the lounge. He kicked back a large but lightweight couch to cover his exit. Stomping his foot across the door. Hinges splintered. Planks fractured. Truly, a maelstrom of cedar mayhem. Like a baby bird free from the nest, Arnzos flourished in his freedom. Though his liberty was only halfway guaranteed.

  More knights appeared from the staircase. Terrified at the sight of Arnzos with Palmgrease’s cherished wool. “He murdered the Lord!” one sobbed.

  Harsh words echoed from the lounge down the hall. From the Lord—still up and kicking. Contrary to that one bandit’s belief. “I’m fine, you morons! Capture him already!”

  “Did he say capture?” A knight asked.

  “Stop talking and rush him, idiot!” his sister replied.

  A person might think it not possible to ‘tumble up stairs,’ yet the horde of Butcherie knights managed to make it reality. In their ragged leather armor and makeshift hoods colored crimson and black, they climbed over each other just to get a chance at slicing down Arnzos. The frenzied horde was frightening. Until Arnzos recognized a weak point.

  With a little bit of blunt force, gravity could be their downfall. The central bandit, rushing Arnzos first, would be the test for his theory. He made it to the penultimate step, but never landed his blade on scales. For a bulky blue leg catapulted into his sternum. It sent him flying. His whispered whimper turned into a resonant shriek, as gravity befell him. He crashed onto his allies; gravity was quite greedy that night.

  They tumbled like dominoes. Broke their bones. Tore their tendons. Screamed in anticipatory horror—the giant tumbling of meat and clothes took them all the same. Lucky stragglers clenched the wall and avoided the brunt of the chaos, but there was still Arnzos to deal with. He rushed the stragglers in their daze. Picking them off wasn’t hard when they were preoccupied.

  He slayed four vagabonds and reached the bottom of the stairs. A crowd of crying knights greeted him there. Certain to not be fighting in battles any time soon. Now, real liberty was close. He ran for the manor entrance. He huffed and panted. Braced his shoulder for a painful impact. Wa-bam! Arnzos barreled through another door. The sleeves of Palmgrease’s coat flapping around his chest.

  This sensation. This crisp zephyr caressing his cheeks. Night air, like a playful lover’s touch. Arnzos witnessed the tall thistled foliage. Almost like the branches waved at him. It was nice to feel congratulated. No one had really rooted for him in this whole ordeal. Phyletta maybe? Hardly. She wasn’t even here now. Anyway, he couldn’t be mad at her—she saved his life after all. Arnzos focused on nabbing a horse. He cleared thoughts of the spectral empress.

  “Shoulda killed me, blue.” Modra—a thumping wound on his forehead—heaved a massive club over his body.

  It nearly matched the size of him. Arnzos evaded him clumsily. Tripping and plunging to the dirt below. Oh, Arnzos so wanted to cuss every expletive in the language at Modra. However, his mouth tasted like sour foam. Dehydration’s gift to him. Arnzos had his prize, but it didn’t stop the spirit of battle from dwindling within him. Weakening—were his muscles. Were his brain’s responses.

  His reaction time slowed and left him a puffing mess. Modra seemed quicker to recover. The bastard.

  “I’m not…” Arnzos struggled to speak. “I’m not… dying here.”

  “Not your choice to make.” Modra said. “It’s MINE!!”

  Modra heaved once more. He hauled his weapon in a horizontal motion. Sent it straight at Arnzos. He couldn’t dodge. He was too tired. The club struck his back, as prickles of blunt pain pulsated down his spine. Arnzos hollered… before faceplanting in the soil below. Modra fired off a kick, directed at Arnzos’ face. It connected. Knocking him out. Modra prepared another overhead blow, but not before his Lord came from the manor. Guards at his side.

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  “Modra! He’s mine to deal with.” Palmgrease said. “Back up.”

  If Modra let his club fly, he would have smashed Arnzos’ head like a watermelon. He felt so tempted. To finally get rid of this thorn that he knew hated him. Still, Modra had to present his spotless image. The reliable second-in-command. He lowered the club. A deep dissatisfaction lingered. Though he could not realistically quell it.

  “Blais. Armond.” The Lord ordered. “Bind him in rope and throw him in one of the empty shacks out back.” They saluted and got to work. “Modra. Get my fucking coat off of him.”

  “What’s your plan with ‘im?” Modra said.

  “To watch him swing from a tree.”

  ?

  Visnie wrapped the final bandage around Sternus’ head. She was ordered to treat the poor broken-jawed fellow, who was surprisingly cheery for having his mouth turn to jelly. Truly, a disgusting sight. Red poppings and chipped teeth and swollen nodes like cherries. But Visnie had treated worse. In her six decades as a field sage for the Ontullian Legus, she saw and fixed (or attempted to at least) thousands of wounds that would make the nobles in charge hurl. It was only flesh and liquid, she thought. There are much scarier sights to see.

  She fastened a splint underneath Sternus’ head. It locked his face in place—uncomfortable, definitely, but the alternative was much much worse. He sulked but understood the consequences of not having his jaw splinted. She gave him a bowl to drink from, flowing with a greenish-blue herbal beverage. Visnie helped Sternus by supporting his hands. He sipped little by little. To ease the pain. Calm the nerves and their billions of overlapping signals.

  Visnie gave him a sweet, wrinkled smile. Wrinkles and crow’s feet were aplenty at her age—even as an elf—but it endeared her more than it harmed her. Honestly, this young man reminded her of her grandson. A tad bit older, but with a similar temperament.

  Visnie said, “It isn’t too uncomfortable? Your neck is okay?”

  “Ey fuyl graed. Dhancs dokdir!”

  To her, good spirits was always a sign of good health. Or the potential to reach good health, at least. Many soldiers—upon being wounded—thought the worst and assumed it was the end of their life. It’s true that they’re right in many cases, but a majority of the flesh wounds they endured could be remedied. Visnie glanced at the other elves in this temporary infirmary. Missing limbs or eyes or groaning and sobbing from a never-ending agony somewhere internal. Sternus was a fortunate fellow. His mouth really looked worse than it was.

  “You’re welcome. Make sure to stay in bed and get your rest. Keep any quick movements of your neck at a minimum. If you need anything else, call for Tertia.” Visnie pointed to a younger assistant in a black and white gown. A beanie on her head. “Would you like a book to pass the time with?”

  Sternus shrunk in embarrassment. “Ehm… Ey kan’d reet dat wehl.”

  “Oh… I apologize. I shouldn’t have assumed.” She thought for a moment. “Would you like me to read to you?”

  “Wuhlly? Ue’d deu dat pha’ mee?”

  “Why not? I deserve a break every once in a while too. Plus, my son has written a few books. It’s my duty as a mother to share them.”

  “Wooaah. Das’ amaetheng!”

  “I know.” she humph’d. It was nice to share some of her personal life. If only for a moment. “Just don’t tell him I thought his first two books were rather boring.”

  While Sternus and Visnie shared tidbits of their goings-on, Vaelar and Gauid discussed matters regarding this ‘blue dracokin.’ Gauid towered over the sitting Vaelar, who relaxed on a coarse bedroll. It slumped inside a temporary refuge for the Victus. While the other tents were obviously temporary, this shoddy canvas was a shameful sight. A tent fit for a peasant. Gauid’s gift to this overconfident asshole. It wasn’t like Vaelar knew about the quality of his tent anyway.

  Without proper eyes, he couldn’t grumble at it.

  Gauid tapped his foot—before, “Are you ready to tell me the truth now?”

  Vaelar showed a hint of his tell. Gauid predicted that he likely practiced this story. From the time he interrupted his meeting until now. Probably paced around in this crappy tent, mumbling under his breath. But it wasn’t enough to practice for a day. Some people lied every day for their entire life and never realized they were terrible at it.

  “I misremembered the amount of bodies.” Vaelar said. No more cheeky lip curls and smug squints for him. “Still, there must have been around twenty or so soldiers killed.”

  Gauid sighed. “Try again, Vaelar. You’re still not telling me the truth.”

  He seemed exasperated. Long gone were the times of his scrunched, prideful smirks. The cocking of his eyebrows. The ‘I can lie to your face and not care what you think’ looks. No, he was crumbling. Like the rotten foundations of Fort Blavim. Gauid wouldn’t let the Victus recuperate; He applied constant pressure to eventually crack the truth out of him.

  “Sir. Please. I’m not lying.”

  “Tell your story. In full.”

  Vaelar stuttered over the first word. “I was ordered to take the bodies from Fort Blavim and bring them to the nearest Corpse Pile. In Gjoffir Greenage. I rallied the peasants to collect the dead and take them with me. We arrived at the pile the next day. We began to burn the bodies, but then…”

  “He appeared. Supposedly.”

  “That mercenary. He was like a Zatwari. Once I cure my blindness, I can go after him! Rid the dwarves of their new champion.”

  Gauid stood baffled at his audacity. “Cure your blindness? Are you mad? Your ramblings are so arrogant.”

  “I am in shock, sir. But... royalty has their secret healing magicks, do they not? I am not asking for a lot. Just enough to restore my sight. If we don’t act fast—”

  Gauid asked, “How come I’ve heard no reports of two or three dozen soldiers slain from the Corpse Pile?”

  “All due respect, sir. It hasn’t even been a full day!” Vaelar’s voice rose an octave. The words he twisted also twisted his larynx. “Could I meet with the Emperor? To explain what happened.”

  Gauid was getting sick of the act. Vaelar had dedication, the Antarchon would give him that at least. He was allergic to anything resembling fact. It was delusion to believe that the Emperor would actually meet with him, yet he presumed it true. He almost made Gauid believe it. However, Vaelar’s chance to come clean ended. Mercy should be given. The Victus had to be ‘returned.’

  Shadows willed it. Gauid whistled in his three tones again. One light, one medium, and one heavy. Vaelar swiveled his head in all directions. Befuddled. Until a cavity in space and time ripped the essence of reality apart. A dark, unforgiving hole. Ubique emerged, for she was the true shadow. She stepped out, a dagger in hand.

  “Returned?” she asked.

  “Returned.” Gauid replied.

  Vaelar said, “Who’s that? A woman? How’d she get—”

  In an instant, Vaelar’s throat opened up like a diced fruit. Though before he could spray his juices across the tent, Ubique clutched a thick hemmed length of cloth across his neck. It absorbed all the blood. Turning the elegant white into a foul red. Yet, it functioned as intended. The dirt was dry. His bedroll was dry. He continued to bleed, so she lugged his draining body and threw it into the hole from whence she came. He disappeared into it.

  Gauid nodded as a quick ‘thank you’ to Ubique. “The snake thought the Emperor could cure his affliction.”

  “Snakes may excel in survival, but are rarely known for their intelligence.” she said.

  Vaelar believed he was better than every Victus in the Ontullian’s army. He was not. He hoped to sit beside the Emperor and puppet him—as if strings attached from his hands to the Emperor’s head. His hopes were crushed. Octea and… his other mistress would not see him again. The upper courts would never know his person. The titles of ‘Optio’ or ‘Commander’ or ‘Antarchon’ or ‘Archon’ would never precede his name. Gauid thought of his death as mercy. The Emperor had no magicks to heal him.

  Gauid also hated liars. Too many of them already infested Ontullia’s high society. What was the harm in getting rid of a future parasite?