It had been years since Byorick had seen Nuem break as sweat. The day of the offworlder’s attack was different. The mage barked that day, screamed and shouted orders till his lungs ran dry. At first the troops had called him cowardly, had even begun to question the judgement of their leader and his quick turn of tail, scolded him for his rash cries. That was not for long. The beacons of light could be seen for a near mile. It was like the finger of the heavens, coming down to squash the soldiers like scattered bugs, like the clouds themselves had declared war on the very creatures that reverred their presence with saintly words. Still it was nice to clear themselves from the presence of the Dalious and whatever vermin-like creatures served it’s wretched cause.

  Loyalty to Nuem however, outlined all. They had sent more scouts to trace out the area where the prisoners had escaped, all in hopes to see if the lizard had been successful. It was only when perched on a nearby hill overlooking the pit did their forces get a glimse at the rapture of bodies left after the imperial column had slewn the creature and vanished on marching footing.

  None returned alive.

  Only a few hours later now they had returned to the pit oncemore, with an army at their backs. Nuem had spared no time in forging several bands of their attack-squads into a makeshift army. It was some six hundred ratlings and ten thousand mercenaries from the west. Most we’re fresh-faced recruits from the other continent. Little resembled the Dalious’s infected army.

  Still it was a group that would have made cities tremble. Far more organized and intelligent than the ratling horade.

  The new recruits language was thick and weapons showed the uniform design and smelting tars of the master’s pits. Byorick liked to joke as them being “westerlings” with the troops, this however was no time for pleasentries. The carrion that was left behind was no laughing matter. In contrast, Nuem regarded them as underlings compared to their regular troops. He was even more horrified when he realized the imperials had stolen his supply of the cure. Still Byorick and others had been smart enough to store the drug in bottles and flasks for their own disposal.

  That wasn’t what horrified the others.

  They returned to a slaughter.

  The stench of two thousand dead ratlings hung like a volcanic fume in the still air. There were spots where alchemical bombs had been leashed like common arrows, hundreds of cracked pottery shards discarded like nothing. Thankfully while pilfered, a large quantity of their supplies still remained. Nuem however was furious when he discovered the state of his tent.

  The attacking army hadn’t been large enough to even bother burning the creatures bodies. The Primelord was dignified enough to order funeral rites for his own men before ordering them to salvage what they could. What was even more terrifying was the fact so little imperials had perished. Only twenty or so bodies we’re neatly buried next to the putrid muck and blood.

  Many eyes drifted over the Dalious’s severed head. Even more we’re haunted by the site of so many ratlings stacked like kindling from a fallen tree.

  Nuem however remained cool, he was scouting the armoury tent now, ordering the lesser equipped “westerlings” to take up the remaining weapons while mulling over what to do next. The survivors salvaged their belongings and what gold remained.

  It was a small defeat but one that surely would have spelled different had the watcher’s not been present. Byorick had seen first-hand what Nuem was capable of, and the older mage had a lived experience that made slaughtering a hundred ratlings seem like a flick of the wrist.

  He approached the other now, carrying what salvageable maps he could from the tents burning wreckage. Things may have been bad but there was little the imperials could do now, the only hiccup in the plans revolved around the scribes' escape. Regardless with how many spies, troops and monsters their group had lurking in these parts it was too late. The pieces we’re in motion. The game was set and contingency upon contingency had been laid out like leaves on a forest floor. Each one willing to flutter down and take the other’s place at a moment’s notice. No matter how much fire burned they would succeed.

  Nuem was talking to a lowly westerling stable-boy. They we’re next to a horse that drew more of the Primelord’s siege equipment. He looked scared as he looked down into the child’s eyes. It was a surreal sight but second-in-command ignored them and walked forward.

  “Primelord they took maps, I’m not sure which ones but it’s too late to cha…..”

  The mage suddenly shifted it’s appearance. He seemed dishevelled with tired eyes and a wary expression.

  “I know, it’s too late for us to change them and even more late for them to respond relax.” Nuem replied.

  The mercenary turned to leave before the Primelord stopped him.

  “Byorick, stay, we’re having a conversation, something we need to discuss”

  “Can we dismiss this soldier? I also have something important to say”

  “The boy stays” Nuem responded coldly.

  The’re was a reason the three others we’re here.

  Suddenly, Byorick noticed something that made his spine curdle. The boy’s eyes had rolled back. Two more like him we’re flanking the peasant’s side. Their hands we’re stuck to their sides like saplings wrouting from the ground. Their mouths opened in close in succession, all speaking, tongues twisting, words lisping at the same time.

  Something very wrong was happening. Something that should never had graced this world.

  “Failure, is not acceptable, Primelord, the boy was needed” They said in unison.

  The three we’re possessed. They straightened their backs like puppet’s on a string.

  “We needed a larger force, It was a slaughter, the’re was no hope, if I was told the scribe had charge, his true nature we wou……..”

  A strange sensation ran down their spies as it interrupted and clawed forward.

  “Do you think that I was not there?” the three hissed.

  “Did you think the’re was not a reason for you to administer those tests?”

  Their bodies remained still, almost as if the dead spoke. Byorick practically shivered in his armour. He looked around, more of the westerlings took notice but it seemed as though their own guilt ridden conscious caused them to look away. They toiled in unnecessary mundane tasks, desperate to distract themselves from what their leader consulted.

  “No my lord.” Nuem knelt.

  Byorick did the same. He had enough experience to know when to follow the Primelord’s leads. The infected spat and lisped crudely while they spoke, almost as if whatever marionette pulled the strings struggled with the controls.

  “The lizard was a……disappointement, too much original thought. Not bad for a creature who was suckling on moss and berries only two years ago, I’ve made an improvement on the latest model, it should help you track the boy”

  The three peasants motioned to the Dalious’s severed head. Strangely Nuem felt a tinge of emotion. Pity? Remembrance? The brute had been smarter than most of the abominations to date, a little too smart. It was starting to realize how things works.

  “The other Primelords have already begun to siege and convert this backwater capital” The creatures lisped.

  “You are the oldest of the group…Nuem, I gave you this task for a reason, why?”

  “Because it’s the most important?”

  “Yes, exactly, because it’s the most important” the three spoke, almost happy. It glimmered in a state that felt like it was pleased with it’s own voice.

  It was creepy, very creepy and enough to send Byorick into even more of a shiver. If this was how their leaders contacted Nuem then perhaps the coin and food that filled their sacks and bellies was a little more tained than previously devised.

  “Do you know where that offworlder comes from?”

  “Do you know where that offworlder comes from?”

  “Do you know where that offworlder comes from?” the three questioned in unison.

  “The demon ship in the seas?” Nuem responded.

  “The hell above our skies?” he added slowly.

  These details we’re far above Byrorick’s knowledge but he was smart enough to realize who they we’re talking too. He kept his mouth shut. Nuem was permanent. It knew Nuem, it liked Nuem, it was sentimental. Three month’s ago a new Commander had questioned orders and found themselves hung for little more than bickering.

  “No, neither, he was born up there, but he was raised and cherished here. I made sure of that. Do you know why they sent him?”

  “No” Nuem responded thoughtlessly.

  “To kill me, to kill all of us, to cleanse every spec of life on this “tainted” planet”

  The infected lisped as they spoke. All three we’re trying to utter words at the sametime but they coughed out of sync in a series of actions that made it seem like the original host had a little more sentience than the puppeteer wanted.

  “The’re not another one of him in this system. It will be thousands of years before they are fast enough to send another”

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  “We need him?”

  “Alive, yes but given these recent events. I’m making modifications, I’ll let you know later on if we only need the body”

  The ancient mage nodded. He turned to see more of his human troops forming a circle. The “westerlings” we’re leeting their curiosity get the better of their sense of self-preservation.

  “Sounds good, do you sugg….” Nuem tuened to ask the prophet.

  No response came. The three soldiers had their eyes roll forward and we’re now standing in a confused stupor. Little to no recollection of event’s shined through their frightened eyes. Nuem patted the youngest one on the back before placing his own supply of the cure into their hands. He ordered them to drink, it was the least he could do to discourage any more damage to their minds. Byorick shuddered to think of what “improvements” had been made on the Dalious’s successor’s designs.

  Only time would see.

  Byorick was starting to regret taking on this job.

  Still it did pay stupidly well.

  —--------------------------------------break—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

  “Still A few hours before the Colloseum game my Lord!”

  A panting servant followed the Jaen’s tail.

  The other shrugged and almost smiled to see the priest sweat.

  There was much work to be done in the city of Kag.

  Sunlight glinted through Ilen’s helmet. It had only been a few hours since his departure and already the streets began to liven with the accolades of his unholy name. Imperial guards and statesmen cast shrewd glances in his direction as countless peasants lined up for a glance at the young protege. Fear mixed with intense admiration, horror twisted into wayward justice. He could taste them still spreading fowl rumours in the air with tales of Arloni blood. He relished every second of their fear.

  He was on a diplomatic mission for the Arlon, a mission to convert and control as many imperial lands as possible and one that had been moving smoothly over recent weeks.

  Something strange had been happening in Kag of late. Something that made Ilen’s gut quelch.

  “Would you like to try some of the loaves Lord-Jaen? They’re a specialty to the district?” the priest asked with his mouth full.

  “I hate loaves.” Ilen said with a tinge of a smile.

  “Oh no I hate them too, I thought we could….discuss how terrible they are Lord-Jaen” the man panicked for a moment obviously stuttering over his words.

  His struggle was a moderate pleasure to Ilen.

  The Jaen hated to be here again, he hated to return.

  It was only when his travels had taken him down Kag’s darkest allies that he stopped. Ilen had tried his best too look away, to pretend he to catch his eyes along the clouds or grunt in disgust at the muck of the streets. The priest must have chosen this street as a means of demeaing the imperials, a way to show off the superioirty of their homeland. On any other servant of the Arlon this crud-filled display would have hit it’s mark and served as even more propaganda to their virulent cause. For Ilen this was nothing more than a reminder. He knew where he was, a lifetime ago he could have counted every stone that marked the alley’s twisting road. Ilen had been a different man then. Twice they had passed alleyways where he had once slit throats over meagre handfuls of quands, houses he had burgled to steal the tiest morsels of bread, even bales of hay he had once slept in the night. He only hoped he could avoid them but it was only a few seconds before the first sight. A destitute peasant spoke at his feet begging for coin. Ragged green clothes draped over long filthy hair. It was when their gazes met that Ilen first felt it. A feeling of familiarity.

  He had known them in another life. In the past the two had been friends, near brothers living on the street together while begging for scraps. The Jaen paused for a moment and shifted in his robes oncemore as he tried to forget the name of the man who sat in rags infront. The words formed on his tongue like a bulbous bruise, a painful reminder not just of what he left but behind but who he had become.

  Percy

  That was their name. Percy. The words caused a warmpth to stir in his heart. The two had been like brothers once. They had risked everything, anything for eachother.

  Now they were two worlds apart.

  The idiot priest sneezed again. The Jaen almost had to squeeze himself from cutting of the promprous prick’s head.

  It was going to be a long day.

  At last, they reached the city square. Memories flashed between his vacant thoughts in pleading tones of regret. It felt empty yet almost serene to walk among the dead. They were near the end of the priest's tour and he had found it tiresome to pretend. Hours marvelling at the very streets he once squandered. Days commencing with vague tones at roads marred with his own tainted blood, voice unshaking as he hid his tainted past. He passed a street lamp as he walked. The same very place he was once flogged for stealing bread. He had to marvel at the same courthouse at which he had once stood in line for the gallows. The same poor-houses and lodgings he could barely afford. He wondered if they recognized him. The priest who had crushed his head for simply stealing tomatoes. Prick.

  He swore some of the guardsman did a double-take when they saw his face. It had not been that long ago, only ten, twelve years. It seemed to them dirt was the only difference. Splattered mud the only guise between humanity.

  “What about biscuits? Do you like biscuits?” the priest said with an armful of baked goods.

  Ideas had power. The Jaen and Ilen could not be too more dichotomizing opposites. There were few who even knew that was his true name.

  Water splashed on his feet. The Jaen’s boots still had a red tinge from when the traitors had tried to their failed coop. Ilen had believed in their cause, the Jaen had not.

  Sadly there wasn’t much distinction between the two these days.

  He looked the same, identical; they had to have recognized him. His face, his eyes were no different. It haunted him until the coins left his palm and into the beggar’s hand. A little more than a fortune had been handed out that day and Ilen could tell his companions were confused by his generosity. Now he could afford to purchase entire towns, as a chief adjuant of the Arlon, he operated and controlled the budgets of vassal states and entire nations. A few coins almost felt like a crime in face of what had transpired. A thimble of the wealth he managed on a single day would have changed the dead Ilen’s life forever. The soldier couldn’t care less.

  The priest returned. This time confused as to why his Lord-Ruler stood like a bundle of weeds on the sidewalk.

  “Uh would you like to continue the tour Lord Jaen?” the priest whispered again.

  “Shut up” Ilen responded.

  Then he turned.

  “Tell me, how many soldiers normally man the eastern wall?”

  Ilen motioned to the fortification on the distant horizon.

  “Around a thousand”

  “How many are there now?”

  “Near two hundred Lord Jaen” the priest responded confused.

  Ilen sighed. The past six hours he had been watching the soldiers every move in an almost possessed furvor. Blind devotion was as idiotic as it was useless. Regardless, they had made progress, emissaries from their capital rang throughout both halls. Irwain had hung a portrait of the Arlon in the capital libraries (only a mere three inches below that of the Emporer), three temples had been constructed and there was a startling increase in their flock. At this rate an abby would be constructed within a year, then perhaps a ruling class reforged. Still the Jaen shifted his gaze, he stared into the priests waving hands, wondering how quickly his pleasant tone and endless praise would stopped upon learning of Ilen’s past.

  Ilen would have stoned Ilen in the street at this point.

  The man would have stoned him in the street.

  “The Liane mage guild? I heard they were dismissed two days ago?”

  “Corruption, mylord, Irwain’s order”

  “They were the most prominent in the region no? Over a hundred members?”

  It had only been a day since Ilen’s arrival and already he had noticed it. Less troops in general, a short-stocked garrison, minimal guards on the streets. It wasn’t even that the imperial military was underfunded or spread thin. The vast majority of troops had simply been given the day off to watch the colosseum games. However the logic didn’t tick with Ilen, this fake national holiday, or celebration just seemed strange.

  He had to get to the bottom of Irwain’s actions. The Arlon demanded results and enemies moved in swaithes. Regardless, the securities and relaxed nature of Kag’s forces could be a display to welcome their arrival and give trust.

  There wasn’t an army in a weeks marching distance with the ability to so much as scratch Kag’s walls and while tensions were always high with Wei, the political fued was one more reserved towards intellectual competition. Neither kingdom truly wanted to decimate the other, merely prove they were better.

  Still it was uncanny for Kag to be this undefended.

  “Lord Jaen?” the priest asked again.

  “Do you like calligraphy Lord Jaen? There is a great guild only a block away!”

  He did in fact like calligraphy but again Ilen scoffed this time just to seeing the priest squirm put a smile to his face.

  Some of the older priests had realized quickly on that he was just messing with them but the youngest one was yet to catch on.

  “We have other plans today child” Ilen replied.

  There was a little irony present in the fact they were essentially the same age. More concerningly Ilen had noticed construction work on the cities sewers. He himself knew by imperial audit they were repaired only two years ago. No such restorations would have been needed.

  The pieces were there and it didn’t take a Jaen to know something bad was going to happen.

  Ilen just had to be prepared.

  A dent in his helmet pierced into the soldier's hair, he took it off, gazing at his reflection in the malformed metal. Slowly, Ilen turned to his companion, placing the helmet into the young soldiers' baited hands as they approached a nearby forge. Two more priests flanked his side, patchy brown robes, bearing an elegant holy seal. The sychophantics tried even more to appease him. He carried his own guise of fear, yet Ilen’s was more prevalent, virulent in its desires as crowds parted at their every glance.

  At last he saw their destination.

  Ilen smiled to his companion, motioning for him to enter first and accepting the priest's meagre salute. The two-story building was newly constructed with freshly painted signs hovering above a large steam vent and glass window. Ilen could tell it was Mage commissioned, smooth marble jutted over thin curves and minor twists to gleam along the street's narrow ridges. The owner scurried over a series of melting bars as magic crackled from their open palm. Fatigue drenched their pale features as an apprentice walked for to confront Ilen’s arrival. Vaulted ceilings and gilded mechanisms showed an intricate display of the worker's lives. Polished wooden tables and master-guided swords lined the smoke-stained walls as three large vats churned with molten iron. Ilen grabbed a blade from the nearest wall, testing its weight beneath his scarred palm. Satisfied, he motioned towards his companion, allowing the helm to slowly press into the apprentice’s hands.

  “A Jaen?” the blacksmith remarked. Turning his soot-plastered eyes to stare in wonder at the young knight.

  Ilen grimaced as the man bent into a deep bow, harsh laughter sprouting from his parched lips. Magic flickered as the flesh on his cheek began to part to reveal rotted twists. A single rune sat burned into his skin, archaic letters sprawled into a thin circle.

  “How could you tell?”

  “It’s easy, I heard about you on my way to work besides who else could carry an Arlen priest like a simplistic lackey”

  Scanning Ilen with a renewed temperament the apprentice backed away in shock, handling the helmet with extreme care. In contrast, the older man continued his work, now talking while he tempered the streaking bronze.

  “Are here to serve?” the forgesmith asked.

  “No, I had heard of your empire games, In Arlon such barbarity is forbidden, its pleasantries are seen as distasteful”

  “I thank the Arlon for his mercy” the old man replied.

  Ilen nodded. Seemingly satisfied with this remark. He continued to cast a glance around the room, cautious to not be heard. His armour shifted as he spoke, guiled metal grinding against his broad shoulders. It was time to move the conversation forward.

  “You are Laol I presume?” he asked.

  For a moment the blacksmith shuddered but then turned to face his accuser with his eyes caught in a subtle complexion. Laol began to tremble as a wave of fear struck into his heart. His apprentice noticed this, reaching forward to aid his master yet was quickly pressed back by Ilen’s hand.

  “So you lied?”

  “Yes,” Ilen laughed.

  The two began to walk in circles, Ilen pacing as he surveyed the room's intricate contents. Swinging the sword through the open air as if to test its compatibility, he smiled as it parted wind before motioning towards the nearby priest.

  The young soldier reached into his breastplate to produce a thin piece of paper. Its frayed edges were worn with travel and thin inked print flowing from every corner of the page. The sight frightened Laol who regarded its flimsy composure as would the baiting edge of hell.

  “I require this list to be completed by tomorrow”

  Laol took it, wrinkled hands trembling as his eyes scanned the weathered page.

  “This will be a great task”

  “I heard your people are good, and besides it’s essential,” Ilen remarked.

  The blacksmith nodded, motioning for his Apprentice to exit the room. The two would need to be alone. The priest seemed annoyed at first, yet Ilen’s stern glance kept him in line, causing his disciple to cower in shame.

  The temperament of the room instantly changed as the building's staff began to produce a series of hidden vials and brewing instruments. Steam wafted from copper pipes as various powders sat laced in open jars. Vats, cauldrons and flasks cascaded over pressure gauges. Ilen’s eyes caught the foreign instruments. His face tightened, wonder and majesty mixed with fear and tribulation.

  “You would need to administer the poison twelve hours prior” Laol noted. His voice tinged with emotion.

  “I understand”

  “No you don’t you idiots always administer it six or seven minutes beforehand, this takes time to take effect” The alchemist noted.

  Ilen nodded. He liked the man’s stern resolve. He would be useful in the future.

  “Do they hold the power?” Laol inquired.

  “Yes” Ilen responded.

  “Good, that will further amplify the effect”

  Slowly bending over the older man produced a thin grey vial, clear colourless liquid swirled beneath its thin glass rim. Light seemed to bend at its essence, magic imbued with a viel of unknown fragility. Ilen reached forward, fingers clasping around the tube body. It was surprisingly strong, glass undoubtedly reinforced by enchantment. He could feel the substance swirl, rapid oscillations beating against his palm.

  A crowd had flocked to the area where Ilen left the store's quiet demeanour. His fixed helmet to rest firmly over his green eyes. The priest waiting outside muttered in exclamation, motioning towards the Colosseum. Rumor had it, a famous imperial lived in Kag, a Sheriff by the name of Aloat Barka. Ilen had wished to meet her, the Arlon wanted her dead. Granted the Arlon wanted alot of people dead so it was an order he could thankfully ignore until imperials approved.

  “We’re going to be late Lord-Jaen!!”

  “Careful Lord Jaen!” another pipped.

  “Does that man even serve the Arlon? What are you doing?” the Priest conferred.

  Increasingly aware of the fickleness of his cheering squad Ilen sighed.

  The other magistrate’s gaze was questioning, full of intrigue and suspicion. He soldier almost choked on the gall of his heresy. A minor offical questioning the hand of lords. His hand drifted to his sword. It would only take a second to end the priests suffering. It didn’t matter anymore, soon it would all change for better or worse.

  “Prepare your priests to watch Abbot, I intend to show them the true measure of our glory”

  There was a reason guards were being drawn from the walls. Ilen could almost taste it. Sedition was in the air, and it was likely Irwain had more powerful games to play. The Emporer had given the Arlon his blessing Ilen would go unscathed. The Jaen was unsure if the Archmage’s loyalty remained true.

  He only hoped not too many ordinary people would get hurt.