《The Savage Lands》 Chapter 1 This was the night when he, Hadar Kertz, would die again and be reborn in a single breath of smoke. He stood hulking in a hooded robe at the window of the abandoned fortress ¨C face horribly burnt and contorted, hands on his back ¨C looking out at the rugged mountains and the twin moons. The red-tinted moon of Orasina hung above the northern peak, and the smaller, icy blue moon of Elios was just now rising behind the ridge. His calculations had been correct. Tonight, the moons would kiss for the first time in twenty years. A wolf howled in the distance, a piercing, drawn-out sound that cut through the night. The wind, sharp and cold, tugged at his robe, carrying the smell of pine and damp earth from the mountains below. This was a beautiful, vibrant world full of life. But he dealt in death. One only needed to open the door down to the dungeons to be sure of that. Corpses piled knee-high, a mass of twisted limbs, some rigid and blue, others putrid and black, loose in the flesh. Tonight, he himself would pass over. His stomach tightened with fear, a sour taste rising in his throat. You blithering weakling! Death isn¡¯t something to fear but to cherish! He had worked more than three decades for this moment and ought to feel jubilant, not fearful. Fear was for lesser creatures. But still, there was a tremble in his jaw. His palms were slick with sweat despite the chill in the air. He heard shuffling sounds and turned his head just enough to see the broken one hunched over at the door, his face tilted to see through his one good eye. ¡°Master,¡± he said with a lisp, grabbing the door frame. ¡°The time is nearing.¡± Gilnar had once been a stable boy. Now, this broken thing was the only help Hadar had in this, his most important endeavour. It hadn¡¯t always been like this. Once he had commanded more than a hundred loyal souls. And he would again. The lords that had burnt him at the stake were all dead, and to their successors, Hadar Kertz ¨C the esteemed court mage that turned foul ¨C was just a bad memory, dead and buried for decades. Well, it took more than fire to kill a master necromancer for whom death was only life seen from another angle. From a crease in his robe, he took out a glass tube, corked at both ends, and held it up against the moons. The dark liquid inside shimmered green. Blackwater. It took a certain kind of man to harvest all those bodies down in the dungeon, and remain somewhat human, but he had done it. He had extracted the blackwater from his victims¡¯ skulls, mixed it with the blood of a pregnant grizzle, and kept it exposed to the moons for a whole lunar cycle. It was as charged and potent as it would ever be. So much death only to produce life. ¡°Master?¡± ¡°Yes, Gilnar. You are quite right,¡± Hadar turned toward the broken one. ¡°It is time.¡± Gilnar had a crescent indentation at the side of his skull. One eye was partially pushed out of its socket, staring with a bloated, surprised look. The horse that had caved his temple in had also bashed most of his wits away, together with most of his memory. If Hadar¡¯s fear had a source, it was that soon everything would rest in the hands of this halfwit. His pulse quickened as the thought tightened his chest. Hadar could, of course, summon one of his followers, but that wasn¡¯t how this play was written. He wanted a triumphant return, to be hailed in ecstatic fits and religious marvel. He couldn¡¯t be seen like this, disfigured and weak. The boy lurched sideways through the damp corridor, steadying himself with his knuckles. Hadar followed with a torch, black smoke billowing and twisting in the draft. They ascended the stairs to the crenelated roof. The only noise disturbing the peace was the suppressed sobbing from the young fair-haired man that was tied ¨C hands and feet apart ¨C on a slab at the centre of the roof. In every corner of the slab, oblong mirrors stood, angled to reflect the lunar light down on the man. A wooden table and a sturdy chair equipped with leather straps stood beside it. Plungers, bowls, and coiled-up tubing made of animal veins lay on the table. When the man heard them, he turned his face to them, shivering with cold, tears streaming down his face. ¡°Ple-ease. I will tell no one if you let me go.¡± Hadar removed the hood, exposing his burnt face and leathery scalp. The man on the slab whimpered. Hadar disrobed and soon stood in only a loincloth. Goosebumps rose on his skin. He was a big man, towered in crowds, and was built more like a farmhand than a scholar. The man on the slab, lips twitching, was himself a big man, but his core lacked steel. He was a whimpering, blubbering crier, but he hadn¡¯t been chosen because of his person, but for his frame and face, which both were appealing to the eye. ¡°Is everything prepared?¡± Hadar asked over his shoulder. ¡°It is, master. Gilnar has prepared everything. All master must do is die.¡± Hadar sat down in the chair. There was a faint smell of alchemical ingredients from the table. The leather straps were cool against his skin, pressing tightly against his ankles as Gilnar fastened them, creaking with each tug. The boy hummed a simple farmer¡¯s song as he worked. ¡°It is going to be violent,¡± Hadar muttered through the side of his mouth, his tongue dry, as if the words themselves drained him. ¡°But no matter my pleas, you will not release these straps. Do you understand?¡± ¡°I do, master. I do.¡± The boy stopped humming and worked the straps around his wrists with silent concentration. Hadar could feel the boy¡¯s hot breath on his neck as he worked, the smell of sweat and something slightly sour. ¡°It¡¯s done, master.¡± He stepped back, wetting his upper lip with a lizard-like tongue. ¡°Repeat for me the process after my death.¡± ¡°When you¡¯re dead and your heart stops, I will take the medium plunger and empty your heart of blood and¡­¡± Hadar nodded as Gilnar went through the steps. The man on the slab cried and jerked with his tethered limbs, realizing that Gilnar¡¯s gruesome account of events to come applied to him in equal measures. When Gilnar silenced, the man had gone as limp as a boned-out fish. He just lay there, blinking up at the stars. Hadar nodded. The boy knew what to do. ¡°And what is the most important thing of all?¡± Gilnar licked his upper lip again, his bloated eye looking even bigger, excited to know the answer. ¡°The lunar eclipse, master. It all has to happen during the lunar eclipse, or all is wasted. The dark arts become stronger the closer the moons are to one another, but they are never as strong as when they eclipse.¡± Hadar nodded. It was a rehearsed answer. He didn¡¯t know how much the boy understood, but it didn¡¯t matter. The only thing that did matter was what the boy did during the eclipse. The wind howled at the edges of the fortress, cold and biting, but Hadar''s skin had long since grown numb to it. His thoughts churned as he gazed at the moons. They kissed. Soon Orasina would start eating the smaller Elios. During the twelve minutes he was in her belly, Hadar¡¯s transformation needed to be completed. ¡°We don¡¯t have much time, Gilnar. Set the needle.¡± Gilnar bobbed his head. ¡°Yes, master!¡± Gilnar scuttled over to the table and grabbed a coil of animal veins. It made a strange slithering noise when he uncoiled it. The end of it was equipped with a needle of iron grass, cut at an angle. He turned to the man on the slab. The man¡¯s eyes went wide, and he started squirming. ¡°Oh no, please! Please don¡¯t!¡± Gilnar clamped his arm down and rammed the needle in with all the finesse of a butcher¡¯s apprentice. The man screamed and drummed his heels against the slab. ¡°Oh, shut it,¡± Hadar muttered. ¡°Is there blood?¡± ¡°Oh yes, master! It¡¯s drip-drip-dripping at the end of the tube, but not quite running.¡± ¡°Good. Now, attach the plunger.¡± Gilnar wiggled the tip of a metal plunger into the tube. It was filled to the brim with a poison that could stop a heart in less than ten beats. ¡°You need to hurry. Now the smoke.¡±Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°The smoke. The smoke,¡± Gilnar repeated and fetched a tin plate from the table and placed it between Hadar and the stone slab. From the pouch hanging from the belt of his worn-out tunic, he emptied a grey powder. The powder caught the combined lunar light, glowing faintly with a greenish hue, as if absorbing the energy of the moons. The light spilling over the sobbing man had shifted from the bluish grey of ordinary lunar light to an eerie kind of purple. ¡°By the gods, what are you doing?¡± the man gulped between sobs, his breath catching as his voice broke. Gilnar took the torch Hadar had brought and set it to the powder. It caught fire with a fizzle and sparks. The smoke billowed up, unnaturally dense. Hadar closed his eyes and breathed the heavy, sweet smoke. He heard the man cough on the slab, but he could no longer see him. ¡°Now, the poison,¡± Hadar said with a coarse voice and thumping heart. The shadow of Gilnar came wrestling through the smoke with a wooden bowl in his cupped hands. He put the bowl to Hadar¡¯s lips. The liquid filled his mouth, bitter like crushed apple seeds, and burned its way down his throat. His stomach clenched like a fist. He exhaled and said in a perfectly calm voice: ¡°If you mess this up, Gilnar, I will haunt you from the other side. In every waking hour and every strand of sleep you¡¯ll get, I¡¯ll be there waiting for you.¡± Gilnar paled, the bowl trembling in his hand. ¡°I will not, master! Gilnar will do as instructed. Gilnar will not disappoint.¡± ¡°Good. Go kill that sobbing twat now.¡± Gilnar gave a sharp nod and went into the smoke. It swirled around him, his figure barely visible in the dim light. Hadar heard the man on the slab scream and plead with a voice that rose to a high shriek of terror. Then, he suddenly fell silent. Gilnar had pressed the plunger. Hadar felt light-headed. His vision blurred, his pulse quickened, each beat a sharp, thunderous echo in his chest. A sudden cramp hit his stomach, like being stabbed by a thousand knives. The pain tore through his insides, white-hot and unbearable. He slammed his head against the backrest and sputtered air through his nose. The pain! Panic invaded him, seizing his mind, reducing everything to the singular sensation of his body burning from within. His limbs were on fire, his back arched. He sputtered again, blood and froth spewing from his mouth. He sloshed it around, whipping his head left and right. Distantly, he heard Gilnar¡¯s panicked ¡°Master!¡± but the excruciating pain left Hadar¡¯s mind with only one thought: death needed to come fast, or his mind would irreparably break. The billowing smoke let him see a brief glimpse of the sky, the moons hazy and distant through the swirling fog. He saw the last sliver of Elios disappear behind Orasina, and then... ...he died. There was darkness. Cold, vast, all-consuming darkness. He floated in it, weightless, his body numb. Naked in both body and soul. There was no up and no down. The concept of thought had not yet reached him. He was a newborn in the void, a womb of his own making. But then, there was a speck of light, faint to the point of imagination, but strong enough to break the dark monotony. Thoughts started to form and they raced ahead of emotion. His mind clawed for recognition, for identity. A surge of dread rose within. Was he to spend eternity here? Left to the mercy of his own mind and his revenge unfulfilled? He was no longer naked in soul. It filled with weakness, with fear, spreading through his very being like venom. His mind started to slip, but that speck of light, no more than a needle prick in the dark, anchored him. There was something familiar about it, even if it was as distant as the most distant star in the sky. And then, it started to grow ¨C rapidly. His eyes went wide. The pull in his stomach told him that the light wasn¡¯t coming to him, but rather he was being hurled towards it. He was standing on the stake again, the rough wood of the post digging into his naked back. He looked at the executioner¡¯s torch, its flickering light casting long, wavering shadows across the square. The high lords and the fatherless boy king were standing on the dais before him, people crowding around the square. There was none of the usual jeering and mockery. It was dead silent. They feared him still, even when he was tied to the stake with his hands behind his back. They feared him, and they wanted him gone. And by the dark lord, he was afraid. Then he saw them. His people. They were standing intermingled with the crowd, giving him silent nods. None of them was going to intervene because he had told them not to. The others were there too, the ancient enemies, standing silent, their hoods casting shadows over their faces ¨C silently revelling in his fast-approaching death. One of the lords spoke with a powerful voice, reading out the allegations. The boy king stood next to him, pale with red-rimmed eyes. The sky was overcast, the air sick with moisture, and when the executioner put the torch to the hay, it started to rain. But that didn¡¯t stop the fire. It crackled and hissed, growing louder as it licked the soles of his feet. He turned inward. Tried to block out the pain, tried to go through his trial with as much dignity as possible, but in the end he screamed like they all did; howled to the sun that was but a pale thumbmark behind the clouds. No, this wasn¡¯t real¡­ This had already happened. Just the afterglow of a lightning strike in his mind. He gritted his teeth. Then there was a distant booming sound. It was his own heartbeat, he realized, emanating from his unconscious body in the physical world. He focused on the booming sound and pulled himself back, away from the fire. Hadar opened his eyes. He was on his back, his head feeling like a split-open tooth, his body numb with cold. The first thing he saw was the swell of Elios on the right side of Orasina, like the moon giving birth. For a moment, he was paralyzed, unable to move his arms and legs, not even able to twitch his fingers. Then he breathed in sharply and blinked. ¡°Master?¡± Gilnar approached the slab cautiously, both hands clenched to his chest. Hadar smiled. The motion didn¡¯t pull and strain his face. Smiling was smooth and effortless. His new flesh felt supple, almost unfamiliar, like silk brushing his bones. ¡°Yes, Gilnar. It is me.¡± Gilnar looked at him with unbelieving eyes. ¡°Remove the needles and untie me, Gilnar.¡± Gilnar did, and Hadar rose to his feet, rubbed his wrists, and breathed in the cold night air. He smiled again, then he laughed. Gilnar did as well, but hesitantly so. ¡°Oh, my¡­ Gilnar. You wouldn¡¯t believe what I¡¯m experiencing now.¡± ¡°What, master? What are you experiencing?¡± The surge of power within. He tensed his lips and clenched his fists. Fists that could crack a mountain top to bottom. He could feel the heat of life burning through his veins, each pulse a fiery reminder of his newfound strength. This young body was now his. He had passed over with the smoke, and he could become smoke again, whenever he wanted. He was finally free, in every sense that mattered. Free to pursue his goals, to get his revenge, and put this whole world at the stake. They should feel what he had felt. Experience what he had experienced. Only then, when they fully understood, could he accept them as his subjects. This world belonged to him and his true master, just as this body did. ¡°I can¡¯t describe it, Gilnar. I¡¯d better just show you.¡± He grabbed Gilnar by the back of his head, pulled him close, pressed his lips against his, and breathed out the smoke. ¡°Master!¡± Gilnar screamed and stumbled backward, wiping his lips, eyes pinched shut, his feeble mind in disarray. Then, suddenly, he stilled. His face relaxed, and he dropped his arms and shoulders. He opened his eyes, and Hadar experienced another mind-wrenching moment when he looked back at himself. ¡°Remarkable,¡± he said with Gilnar''s mouth, looking down at his hands. ¡°Four hands are better than two, considering what we are about to do,¡± Hadar answered himself. On the chair, still strapped in, the immense husk of his former body sat slumped, mouth drooping and eyes looking over the armrest with an uninterested stare. The two men, who were now one, untied the corpse and, with considerable effort, lifted it to the slab. There it lay, slack-jawed, staring up at the sky. They worked fast and without words. Gilnar uncoiled more of the tubing while Hadar fingered the spot at the base of the corpse¡¯s skull. He reached backward, and Gilnar placed the tube with the needle in his hand. Hadar aligned the needle and started pressing, careful not to bend the petrified straw and shatter it. It broke through the bone with a snap and went up into the brain at a perfect angle. He took the double-corked vial out of his pocket, gave it a quick shake against the moons, just to make sure that it still had the greenish sheen to it. It did. The vial made a faint clink as it tapped against the edge of the slab, the liquid inside swirling, thick and viscous. Gilnar put the end of the tubing in his mouth and sucked. He jerked his head back and spat out black blots of blood, the thick metallic tang making the men gag in unison. Gilnar pinched the tube closed with his thumb before handing it to Hadar. Hadar didn¡¯t need to ask for the needle; Gilnar gave it to him as if they had performed this procedure many times. They hadn¡¯t, but Hadar had gone through it a thousand times in his head. He wiggled the needle onto the end of the tubing and then pressed it through the end of the double-corked vial. He pressed it until he saw the needle shoot up in the black liquid. Then he pulled the cork at the other end of the vial, releasing the vacuum. There was a sucking sound as the vial drained. Then there was only silence. The two men stared down at the corpse on the slab. ¡°Soon,¡± they said in unison. Wasn¡¯t there¡­? Yes, an almost unnoticeable tension in the jaws of the corpse. The two men gasped as one and leaned closer. The corpse bit its jaws together with a sharp clack! The tendons in its throat tensed. It rolled its eyes, and they fogged over, becoming pale moons of their own. It kept clicking its teeth. Click-click-click-click. The burnt corpse swung its legs down and sat up with gritted teeth and a tense grin. Then it got to its feet. Reality wobbled. Hadar saw the burnt body of his former self with two sets of eyes, simultaneously, while looking back with those fogged-over eyes. Being inside the reanimated mind of Hadar Kertz was like standing inside a windswept ruin, the black broken stone cold with moisture and mildew. There was no spark left, just a planted desire, and Hadar could feel it like a throbbing heart ¨C a desire to spread and grow. It was a seed, more powerful than whole armies of swords. But there was a limitation here. Hadar''s mind darkened. A very unfortunate limitation. Three minds at any given time ¨C that was the limitation of the smoke. It was unfortunate but manageable. Hadar once again secured Gilnar¡¯s head with both hands and put his mouth against his. He breathed in, feeling the hot smoke rush past his teeth, coil over his tongue, and deflate Gilnar¡¯s lungs. Gilnar blinked, and his bloated eye did a confused roll in its socket. He looked at the tall and radiant figure of Hadar Kertz and blinked again. ¡°Master? Is it done?¡± ¡°It is,¡± Hadar said, taking the knife from the slab. ¡°I had a dream, master, that you and I were one¡­ and that ¨C¡± Hadar slit Gilnar¡¯s throat with a single swipe ¨C left to right. The blade hissed through flesh, and the wound gaped open. Blood started to well. Gilnar pawed at the wound, his one good eye full of confusion ¨C pain not yet a factor. ¡°Master?¡± Gilnar uttered, his voice barely a rasp as his pallor turned ghostly white, and then his body crumpled to the floor. The Seed stood silent and heavy as a statue, foggy eyes unmoving, hands halfway clenched as if ready to spring to action. And spring to action it would. In the courtyard, a cage housed a lumbering, snarling creature ¨C a gore hound. It was as big as a bull and reanimated weeks in advance; revived because no living thing would carry the Seed on its back. The gore hound had a disproportionately thick neck and shoulders, a misshapen heap of muscle and sinew, nature¡¯s cruellest joke made flesh ¨C as hideous in appearance as its name suggested; its face contorted in fleshy wrinkles, embedding small eyes that shone with a dull red gleam. Its mouth twisted in a perpetual grin, saliva dripping from its jaw as it breathed in wet snarls. ¡°Mount the beast and ride north to the place you know best. Wait for me there.¡± The Seed, now dressed in Hadar¡¯s black robe, answered with a gruff exhale. The hood laid most of his face in lunar shadow, but the protruding, burnt lower lip and the yellowed nose that ended in a black necrotic stump were still visible. The Seed unlatched the cage, the metal screeching as the door swung open, and mounted the beast. The gore hound, despite its massive size, moved like flowing water, its large canine paws thudding against the ground. And then they were gone, taken by the night. Hadar looked up at the twin moons, Elios now again parted from his eternal lover Orasina, and smiled. A new world was born. Chapter 2 Hadar reached the village at dusk, a collection of hovels huddled together on hard soil, surrounded by stony fields. The sun shone a diluted pink behind the western peaks and wisps of snow tumbled in the air. All the chimneys were dead, except for the one on the oblong building in the middle. The villagers held their meetings there, but Hadar didn¡¯t think they were holding one tonight. He had been here before, hunting. The young body he now possessed had worked these fields as recently as last month. It seemed the spooked villagers had stopped sleeping in their own houses, seeking refuge together. He imagined the stale air inside, thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, the sound of nervous whispers as they lay in rows, trying to sleep like frightened children while the wind howled outside. But there were worse things than storms to fear, as they¡¯d learn tonight. Hadar started down the narrow mountain path, gravel crunching beneath his boots, steadying himself with strong arms as he descended. It was a wonderful thing, being young again. By the time he reached the village, darkness had fallen. A flock of crows, backlit by the moons, flapped lazily into the sky. He passed empty hovels and approached the central building. The windows were shuttered, but light seeped around the woodwork and under the door. He paused, hearing hushed voices from within. Perfect; they were all gathered. He practiced his smile before knocking. The voices silenced abruptly, and for a moment, only the wind whispered through the mountains. ¡°Who¡¯s there?¡± someone called, voice shrill. ¡°It¡¯s me, Glen,¡± Hadar replied. The voices resumed, hushed but hurried, likely debating whether to open the door. It would be easier for everyone if they did. Footsteps approached. ¡°Is it really you?¡± a woman¡¯s voice, wet and almost weeping, asked. Hadar made a calculated guess and said, with half a laugh: ¡°Don¡¯t you recognize your own son¡¯s voice, mother?¡± The door cracked open, and a watery blue eye peered out. He felt the tension of everyone inside holding their breath. The woman¡¯s eye twitched, and then she flung the door wide, wrapping herself around his neck, sobbing against his ear. He smiled, patting her back. ¡°There, there. Everything¡¯s going to be all right, mother,¡± he lied. The villagers crowded at the door, crying and praising the gods. An old man with a grey face touched his arm, as if to make sure the boy he knew as Glen was really there. Glen¡¯s mother let go, stroking his face with rugged palms, lips trembling, her eyes radiant with joy. ¡°You came back to me. I knew the gods couldn¡¯t be that cruel. You¡¯re back with us, my son, and I¡¯ll never lose you again.¡± They led him to a long table near the firepit, where Glen¡¯s mother placed a bowl of watery soup before him, urging him to eat. The villagers huddled around as he dipped a wooden spoon into the soup. Potato and cabbage by the looks of it. ¡°Where have you been?¡± Glen¡¯s mother asked. ¡°Did you see Mejka?¡± a man with a patchy beard and desperate eyes asked. ¡°I did not,¡± Hadar replied. ¡°Or Heli?¡± a woman asked. ¡°She disappeared the week after you.¡± Hadar shook his head. ¡°But where have you been?¡± Glen¡¯s mother pressed. ¡°When I went to your house that dreadful morning, the door was open, the table overturned, and your blankets on the floor.¡± She sobbed again, rubbing his shoulder as she did. Hadar spooned the soup, realising he was hungrier than he¡¯d thought. This young body needed far more food than his old, broken one had. Across the table sat a girl with milky white skin and intense red hair, about Glen¡¯s age. She watched him with a suspicious frown. Hadar assumed she and Glen had known each other, and that they had known each other well. He smiled at her, but she didn¡¯t smile back. Hadar glanced around at the gathered villagers. ¡°I was abducted by an evil mage.¡±You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. Gasps filled the room, and hands covered mouths. ¡°An evil mage?¡± Glen¡¯s mother repeated, her eyes wide with fear. ¡°Yes, a foul necromancer, a collector of souls. He kept me in an abandoned fortress high in the mountains.¡± ¡°And you didn¡¯t see anyone else there?¡± the man with the patchy beard pressed. Hadar shook his head again. ¡°But why?¡± an older woman with a woollen scarf asked. ¡°What did he want with you?¡± ¡°He wanted my soul, to kill me. If not for a good friend who helped me escape, I¡¯d still be up there.¡± ¡°Who was this friend?¡± the man with the beard asked, eyes narrowing. ¡°You just said you didn¡¯t see anyone. Was he one of ours?¡± Hadar smiled. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. You¡¯ll meet him soon enough. He¡¯s on his way and should be knocking any time now.¡± Glen¡¯s mother stroked his arm again. ¡°But, Glen, who is he? Is he someone we know?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t call him that,¡± the red-haired girl interrupted, her green eyes hard as glass. ¡°Call him what?¡± ¡°Glen,¡± she said. ¡°He¡¯s not Glen. He might look like him and sound like him, but listen to his words. He¡¯s not Glen.¡± Glen¡¯s mother gave a shrill laugh, rubbing his arm. ¡°Don¡¯t be silly, girl. Of course he¡¯s Glen!¡± The girl locked eyes with him, her mouth a bloodless line. ¡°What is my name?¡± Hadar smiled, then laughed. ¡°Well, braaavo.¡± He clapped slowly, his applause echoing in the tense silence. ¡°Braaavo. Head on straight with the young one over there.¡± ¡°Say her name,¡± Glen¡¯s mother urged, laughing nervously. ¡°Just tell her, Glen. Make her stop saying these awful things about you.¡± Hadar chuckled, turning to her. ¡°I don¡¯t think I can, Mum.¡± Glen¡¯s mother paled, and a low murmur spread around the table. ¡°You¡¯re tired. Exhausted, even. You need a night¡¯s rest and tomorrow everything will be well.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t say my name because you don¡¯t know it!¡± the girl screamed, rising. ¡°Whatever happened, you wouldn¡¯t forget me. You¡¯re not Glen, demon!¡± She pulled a knife and pointed it at him. ¡°Do you even know the name of the woman next to you ¨C your mother?¡± Hadar met Glen¡¯s mother¡¯s pleading eyes and shook his head, still smiling. ¡°I must confess, I cannot.¡± People rose from the benches, eyes wild with fear as the truth dawned on them. Their murmuring edged toward screams, then three heavy thuds on the door silenced them. ¡°There¡¯s my friend now,¡± Hadar said. ¡°Why don¡¯t you fine folks let him in?¡± ¡°No! Don¡¯t open it!¡± the red-haired girl shouted, her knife trembling in her hand. ¡°If you didn¡¯t want him here,¡± Hadar grinned, spreading his hands, ¡°you really should have locked the door.¡± The doorknob began to turn. The villagers froze, staring at it. Then the door swung open. In the doorway stood the hooded hulk that had once been Hadar, its face burned to a snarling mask, eyes milky white. A young boy screamed, a high-pitched wail rising until it cracked. The red-haired girl stared, knife trembling in her hand. ¡°By the gods,¡± the man with the patchy beard mumbled, backing away. Pandemonium erupted. The villagers screamed, clawing at each other to escape, but there was only one door, and the Seed already stood in it. As it entered, desperation spiked, and some fell to their knees, pleading to the gods. Glen¡¯s mother clung to Hadar¡¯s arm, her clawing frantic. ¡°Please stop it! Please! My son!¡± Hadar ignored her, his focus on the Seed. He knew what would come next, but he had yet to see it for himself. The Seed halted, leaned forward, and opened its mouth. Hadar leaped over the table, knocking the red-haired girl to the floor. Her knife spun away with a faint scrape against the wood. He jerked her to her feet, clamping his hand over her mouth. ¡°Mpfh!¡± she uttered, wriggling and trying to kick back at his knee. Her teeth bit into his palm, but he ignored the pain and pressed her closer, hissing in her ear, ¡°I¡¯m doing you a favour, girl. Just watch.¡± The Seed¡¯s mouth opened, not naturally, but as if cracked apart, unhinged like a snake¡¯s jaws. Its eyes narrowed to slits, then it spewed a dense cloud of flies. A vibrant buzzing filled the room. The girl went limp in his grip, her jaw slack. Villagers shrieked as the flies formed writhing tendrils, darkening the room. Their screams faded to coughs and whimpers as they sank to the floor, clawing at their throats, mouths wide open. Hadar watched with excitement, shuffling sideways with the girl to get a better view of the man with the patchy beard. He lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, one leg kicking feebly, his face covered in a glistening mass of flies crawling into his mouth. After a moment, the flies fell silent and dropped. The Seed straightened, its mouth closing, expression blank. The girl stirred, hot tears wetting Hadar¡¯s hand. He removed it but held her in place, forcing her to look at the villagers on the floor. ¡°I spared you this,¡± he said. ¡°You have a more important task. You will receive the smoke, not the flies.¡± ¡°You demon! Why did you kill them?¡± she cried. ¡°I haven¡¯t killed them. I¡¯ve given them immortality, made them part of something greater ¨C a part of me.¡± ¡°You¡¯re mad,¡± she said, anger hardening her voice. ¡°You think you¡¯re some kind of god, but you¡¯re not. You¡¯re just mad. Now, let me go!¡± ¡°Wait,¡± he murmured in her ear. ¡°It¡¯s happening. These are second-generation seeds. It won¡¯t take long. Any time now.¡± As if on command, the bodies began to stir, limbs rustling through the dead flies. Glen¡¯s mother was closest to them. Her doughy face tensed, started twitching like the face of a sleeping cat. Her fingers tapped and rattled against the floor as if playing some morbid tune on a clavier. The girl stopped breathing in his arms. Glen¡¯s mother sprang her eyes open. They were completely black, as if injected with ink. ¡°Oh, by the gods,¡± the girl said with a shudder, all her feisty strength gone. ¡°Please let this nightmare end.¡± ¡°As you wish, my dear,¡± Hadar grunted, spinning her around. He pressed his lips to hers and exhaled the smoke. Her body stiffened, chest rising before she staggered back, wiping her mouth with disgust. Then her shoulders relaxed as the tension drained away. She looked up through strands of red hair, and she smiled. ¡°We did well,¡± she said. ¡°This body is perfect for our objectives.¡± ¡°It is. Now make haste. You know what to do.¡± The Seed grunted from the doorway. ¡°Yes, you and I have other things to take care of, more seeds to plant. Mount your beast and head for the plains.¡± Chapter 3 Castle Bleak, casting its shadow over the town of Tara, never looked as bleak as it did when it was raining. The castle had been built in the second era as Castle Belak ¨C after Tara¡¯s first lord, Belak Koda ¨C but no one called it that anymore, not even him, Thomas Koda, the son of the present lord. Its dreary appearance and dilapidated state had once been a source of bitterness for Thomas, but he had accepted the challenge to do what his father had failed to do: shower House Koda with honour and once again make it chief amongst its peers. Tara would be a bustling city again, and the castle¡¯s battlements strengthened to deter anyone with a conqueror''s mind. But today, the world was as bleak as the castle, the iron sky leaking a drizzle. Mud clung to Thomas¡¯s leather boots as he squelched toward the marketplace. He wore an expensive satin shirt, a rider¡¯s coat, and a black cloak, his blond hair tied back with a lilac velvet ribbon. Though in civilian clothes, he carried his sword at his hip, a privilege within the town walls granted only to the highborn and guards. Castle Bleak towered over the muddy, miserable marketplace. On a raised stage, nine men knelt with hands bound behind their backs, heads bowed, rain dripping from their chins. Behind them, the executioner stood with a broad-bladed axe, while a court officiant read the charges from a scroll. Thomas didn¡¯t listen; it was always the same: a border dispute resolved by a hundred men riding out, some dying on the battlefield, and a few more losing their heads to mark Lord Leylyn Koda¡¯s victory. Some prisoners, the lucky ones, had been sent home for ransom. Spoils of war and ransoms ¨C the cornerstone of the Vagoshian economy. The officiant finished reading. The executioner bent the first prisoner to the block and swung. The dull thud of the blade was followed by a splash of crimson across the stage, and the crowd cheered. A mother held her toddler high. The head rolled off the stage, landing in the mud, mouth half-open, one eye rolled up, wearing a funny, surprised expression that made Thomas chuckle. A spectator waddled over, grabbed the head by the hair, gave it a swing, and tossed it back up the stage, hitting the basket, prompting a roar of laughter. He did a silly dance, hands above his head. The axe fell again, another head rolled off, and the man, drunk on attention, chased after it. Thomas continued up the street. He¡¯d been fond of executions as a boy, but now they bored him. Blood on a stage was nothing when you¡¯d spilled it yourself on the battlefield. That blood was the best blood of all. The shops, a row of ramshackle houses of dark, wet wood, had their fronts open to the street. The smell of cooking and fresh bread mingled with the scents of wet wool and horse sweat. Steam billowed from a soup stand run by a fat woman dressed in green wool and thick scarves. Thomas passed the butcher¡¯s shop but stopped at the bakery, where they sold a pastry that seemed too luxurious for a town like Tara ¨C a butter scone topped with whipped cream and filled with raspberry jam. He stared at the pastries. Maybe such a delicacy could thaw a frozen heart? He¡¯d tried everything else. He bought a box for a handful of coppers. The girl handing it over cast down her eyes and dipped her knees. Thomas had tethered his horse at the foot of the cobbled incline leading up to Castle Bleak. He swung up onto his steed, whipped the reins, and thundered up, making sure his cloak billowed behind him for all below to see. The drawbridge was down. The guards pulled their spears close to their ornamented chests in salute as he passed. Thomas entered the gatehouse, the hooves of his horse thundering dark echoes. He left the horse to the groom before crossing the courtyard, entering the keep. The great hall of Castle Bleak was dark, with unlit braziers and air thick with the scent of damp stone and stale smoke. At the far end of the hall, there was a fireplace big enough to walk into. Above it hung the green and gold banner with the prancing bear of House Koda. On both sides of the fireplace were real bears ¨C stuffed ones ¨C standing on their hind legs, mouths open, clawing ferociously at the air. Their glass eyes were lustreless, and their fur was grey with dust. Thin light seeped through high stained windows in the west wall, casting faint illumination over the long table lined with sturdy wooden chairs. There was a stillness in the hall, as unrelenting as death. The cold air pressed against his face like a wet cloth. When he was young, these halls had been alight, full with bearded men who drank, laughed, and roared, his father at the high seat, presiding over it all. How bright his future had looked then! He had fantasised about the day when he would succeed his father and grow his own beard. But fortune doesn¡¯t always favour the bold. No man was bolder than his father ¨C or more reckless, for that matter ¨C and in the endless skirmishes of the Vagoshian aristocracy, he¡¯d lately found himself more on the losing side, watching his reputation diminish. When war was planned against the eastern coalition, it wasn¡¯t Leylyn Koda who summoned the lords, nor was it in his halls that they gathered to drink and roar. He had been one of those summoned. And when they rode out to battle, it was Lord Ragan who led them, bearing Garnak¡¯s silver sceptre ¨C not Leylyn Koda. The laughter of yesteryears lingered as an echo in Thomas¡¯ mind, reverberating through the dead hall as he walked. That was his father¡¯s legacy, but it wouldn¡¯t be Thomas¡¯ future. He would see to it that power once again filled the great hall of Castle Bleak. A broad staircase, covered with a threadbare green carpet, led him up to the archway that stretched the length of the great hall and continued to the living quarters. Here, the braziers were lit ¨C a little warmth and life, at last ¨C their dim glow reflecting off the armour flanking the walls, interrupted by green and gold banners. As always, when he walked the archway, his heart picked up pace ¨C not from the stairs, but from the thought of seeing her again. But first, he had to pass his mother¡¯s bedchamber. He knew better than to try sneaking by her; she¡¯d aged quickly, but her hearing remained as sharp as ever. ¡°Thomas?¡± she called before he¡¯d even reached her door. He placed the box of pastries on a chair outside her door before opening it. A wave of warmth met him. A maid in a white cap shot up from her chair, clasping her hands. His mother lay propped up on green velvet pillows, the heavy emerald bedspread pulled up to her waist. The hearth burned, and the air was a soft caress compared to the raw chill of the great hall. ¡°Young Master Thomas,¡± the maid said, bending her neck. ¡°Leave us,¡± he replied. The maid left, and his mother gave him a weak smile, having one of her good days. He sat beside her. Her once-thick auburn hair had thinned, streaked with grey. He remembered her as a strong woman with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, but she was strong no more. A faint lavender scent clung to her, a ghost of the woman she¡¯d been. Her eyelids fluttered with emotion as she stroked his cheek with the back of her fingers. ¡°So, you finally come to see me, my son.¡± ¡°I was here yesterday, Mother, and the day before that.¡± ¡°You were?¡± she asked, a frown of uncertainty creasing her smooth forehead as she slowly retracted her hand. He took her hand gently, smiling reassuringly. ¡°I was, Mother. We drank tea and had some of Miriam¡¯s butter cookies. Do you remember?¡± She smiled again, though tinged with the same uncertainty as her frown. ¡°Yes,¡± she said. ¡°Of course, I remember. It was very pleasant. Now, where is your father?¡± ¡°Out at Zandar, performing the Lord¡¯s justice.¡± She sank back against her pillows and pulled feebly at her duvet. He helped pull it up to her chin and kissed her forehead. Her skin was cool to the touch.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. ¡°I¡¯ll come back tomorrow, Mother. Be well.¡± She nodded and closed her eyes. Thomas slipped out, grabbing the box of pastries. Crossing the roofed bridge over the inner bailey, he wondered what she would be wearing, if she¡¯d be pleased with the pastries, and if this might finally be the day they shared pleasantries and smiles. He continued down the west corridor to that familiar door of dark wood, belted with studded iron. Heart trembling, he knocked. Another maid in a white cap opened the door just a crack. ¡°Is she decent?¡± he asked. The maid opened her mouth to answer, but a deep, husky voice cut in. ¡°She is.¡± The maid stepped aside. Viona Rada sat at her dressing table, removing her big golden earrings. She was informed then, that his father had gone and wouldn¡¯t visit her tonight. She wore a billowing dress of black satin, trimmed with glowing burgundy. The fabric shimmered in the low light, the faint sound of satin shifting as she moved. Her hair was styled in the elaborate fashion of highborn eastern women. She cast him an uninterested look in the mirror. Thomas handed his coat to the maid and nipped the sleeves of his satin shirt. He smiled at Viona, but she didn¡¯t look at him anymore. She was pulling pins out of her hair, and that obviously took all her attention. The metallic sound of the pins clicking against the wood of the table as she laid them down filled the silence. A surge of anger rose in his stomach. She showed far too much pride for a woman given as tribute by her own father. His attention was more than a woman like Viona Rada could hope for, yet all he received was cold indifference. He was tall, handsome, of noble birth. What was she compared to him? Nothing. She wasn¡¯t even beautiful, at least not in the ordinary sense. Her eyes were well-shaped, almond-like, but too far apart for his liking. Her mouth was broad and to his taste, but the lips weren¡¯t as full as he preferred. She never smiled. Her hair was not only dark but black as a raven¡¯s wing, and her skin had that coppery tone that all the eastern rabble had. But still, something about her made him tremble inside. Maybe it was that haughty look in her eyes or the dismissive curve of her lips, but he couldn¡¯t stop thinking about her. He told the maid to brew a pot of tea. She nodded and left. Thomas brought a stool to Viona¡¯s dressing table, setting the box of pastries beside her. ¡°What is that?¡± Maybe it wasn¡¯t her face that worked its magic on him, but that voice. Low and powerful, with just a hint of her brutish eastern accent. It resonated in his chest, like the echo of something primal. She wasn¡¯t love, strokes, and giggles. She was lust. That was it, he concluded ¨C carnal lust, nothing more. Once he¡¯d had her, she¡¯d hold no more interest, and the spell would be broken. And the fine thing was, if he wanted her, he could just take her. If Leylyn Koda¡¯s fortunes had shifted in recent years, it was nothing compared to the fortunes of Dankar Rada, a drunkard who¡¯d squandered everything his father gave him. He had joined the losing side of every war for over two decades, and House Rada, never prominent to begin with, had been reduced to nothingness. The reparations to House Koda were to be paid in full within ten years. First, Thomas¡¯ father had taken most of Rada¡¯s coin, then the family heirlooms. Then most of their land. Then he took all of their land. And when Dankar Rada ran out of wine and had nothing more to give, he gave up his daughters, as wards but, in reality ¨C as slaves. What could his father do with two girls of a dying house? They had no political value, but they weren¡¯t without value. Thomas¡¯ mother had moved out of the lord''s bedchamber years ago, and having Viona in the house saved his father a trip or two to the brothel every week. The surge of anger in Thomas¡¯ stomach became a black serpent of envy, curling and tensing. All of his feverish dreams about Viona Rada were a reality for his father, but Thomas didn¡¯t think he appreciated her as he would. ¡°Pastries, Lady Viona.¡± She pulled the final pin, and her dark hair cascaded down her shoulders. The heavy scent of flowers and something more exotic bloomed in the air as her hair tumbled down. ¡°I don¡¯t like pastries.¡± ¡°Well, maybe just a cup of tea then.¡± ¡°Maybe,¡± she said. She brushed out her hair with long strokes and vacant eyes. The soft rasp of the brush against her thick, dark hair filled the silence, each stroke deliberate, yet detached. It had to be hard to be a woman, spending so much time just to please. And that was another thing about her ¨C nothing in her personality aimed to please, but she was bending over backwards to please his father. He was nineteen, she two years his elder. His father was over fifty. Surely, she would prefer him if she had the choice? Did his father care for her? Thomas didn¡¯t know and couldn¡¯t very well ask. If Viona was only a warm body to him, he wouldn¡¯t mind if Thomas warmed himself as well, but if her poison had gone deeper, Thomas would be overstepping his boundaries. ¡°How is my sister?¡± He smiled faintly. If she ever started a conversation, it was to ask about her sister. In Thomas¡¯s opinion, Velita Rada wasn¡¯t much to talk about, a plain-looking girl of fifteen who spent all her time reading, holding the books so close that her nose touched the pages. It looked ridiculous. Velita Rada didn¡¯t tempt Thomas, but his father had tasted her during the sister¡¯s first week at Castle Bleak. He hadn¡¯t returned to her chambers since. ¡°Well, reading as usual. It¡¯s a fortunate thing we have a big library.¡± ¡°It is,¡± Viona said in a flat voice and kept brushing her hair. She was quite the reader herself, and Thomas reminded himself not to say anything degrading about people who spent their lives reading about the triumphs of others instead of pursuing them for themselves ¨C like he did. He had served at the front of the war against the eastern coalition. The war had almost been over when he reached the front, but he had spent two weeks there, and even if he hadn¡¯t gotten the opportunity to draw his enemies¡¯ blood in combat, he had at least gotten to execute some of them on the battlefield. He had returned to Tara in triumph. The only thing that irked him were the malignant whispers that he had commanded more servants than soldiers in the war. He opened the box and showed her the pastries. ¡°There are four of them. I can¡¯t possibly eat them all.¡± ¡°Give them to the poor, then. There ought to be plenty of them around the market.¡± He sighed and took a bite of one of the pastries. The maid came back with a silver tray and poured them tea. And there! There it was! A shadow of a smile on Viona¡¯s lips when she thanked the maid, who bowed and returned to her corner. Thomas chewed and swallowed. ¡°It doesn¡¯t need to be like this,¡± he said, taking another bite. ¡°We could go for walks outside the castle, maybe to the theatre and to dinner.¡± He brightened. ¡°Maybe we could bring your sister as well?¡± ¡°That would be lovely.¡± ¡°You say that, but I don¡¯t hear it.¡± She put the brush down and looked at him. ¡°Thomas. I¡¯m your father¡¯s prize, not yours. You will not take me anywhere.¡± ¡°I will,¡± Thomas said in a voice that was all too eager. ¡°Father doesn¡¯t mind.¡± ¡°And the fine gentlemen we¡¯ll meet at the theatre? What do you think they will say?¡± ¡°I do not care what they say or think.¡± And, as if miracles still happened, she gave him that ghost of a smile. ¡°Your father will.¡± Well, yes, of course he would. His father was trying to get him married to one of Emperor Kasimir¡¯s seven daughters, and such a match would be impossible if he were seen in public with a tarnished woman like Viona. He finished his pastry, sipped the steaming tea. ¡°I care for you, Lady Viona.¡± ¡°Stop it with the ¡®lady,¡¯¡± she said with a frown. ¡°I¡¯m a lady no more. Your father took that away from me.¡± ¡°Well, pardon me for disagreeing, but your father did that when he gave you away.¡± And that actually shut her up. Her cheeks darkened, but he knew it was from anger, not embarrassment. A jolt of excitement. Finally, something more than indifference. If he couldn¡¯t get love strokes and giggles, her anger was the second-best thing. ¡°Do you prefer Miss Rada, then?¡± ¡°I would prefer if you left my room and never returned.¡± His heart stopped. His head cleared of thoughts. An empty void inside until rage came screaming in, filling him to the brim. His hand shot out and grabbed the back of her head, jerking her closer. Her upper lip curled in a rage that mirrored his own. This uppity fucking bitch denying him what was his to take! The maid gave a shriek of despair. ¡°You talk mighty bold for a slave, girl!¡± ¡°I wish you a thousand deaths, you son of a rapist,¡± she snarled. There was a sense of tremendous power, having her by the hair as he did. He clenched his fist, pressing her chin upwards. That slender neck. That throbbing vein. Those furious eyes staring at him. She was his to take, and gods be damned if he wouldn¡¯t! He grabbed a handful of her breast and squeezed as hard as he could. ¡°You like that, don¡¯t you?¡± he asked, his voice thick. ¡°I tried to treat you like a lady, but if you prefer to be treated like the whore you are, I¡¯m happy to oblige.¡± The power in him welled over. But he wasn¡¯t satisfied. He wanted to see fear in her eyes. He wanted her crying and whimpering, all that uppity nastiness gone, before he flipped her over and thumped her silly over her dressing table. He let go of her breast, whipped at the hem of her dress, and got his hand in. The satin rustled as he worked his way up to the forbidden place. He was dizzy with desire, fingering the inside of her thigh. Fear in her eyes now? Yes? He looked at her. No. Her smile was pure viciousness, and then, he couldn¡¯t even have imagined it ¨C she burst out laughing. ¡°You pathetic boy. You aspire to be more than just the son of a rapist, then?¡± He pulled his hand away as if he had burned himself, stumbling back. She turned her back to him, ran her fingers through her hair and once again looked at him through the mirror. ¡°I believe you were about to leave, young Master Thomas? Don¡¯t let me stop you.¡±