Out of the yurt and down the main thoroughfare he ran, the people of the hold scattering out of the way. Everyone here, from the youngest child to the oldest warrior knew what that horn meant and had enough training to react accordingly. Building this close to Lercel had always made a preemptive strike a possibility, and Atriat traveled to the north, assuming it was indeed them. A thin, follow-up warble from the horn told him he was correct in his destination, and he increased his pace; though he couldn’t sense the air against his cheeks or his feet striking the ground, the scenery around him changed faster than before, and he thanked the Aspects for giving him a strong body to carry out their will.

As he ran for the Northern Gate, the sun drew his eye, which was surprisingly high. If the attackers were Gold users, they would need some light to strike from a distance, but he could think of few advantages to attacking when both sides could see so clearly. Perhaps they were planning for a protracted fight and so wanted to be able to see clearly for as many hours as possible.

Other possibilities ran through Atriat’s mind as he neared the gate, such as the attackers being from Blood Tribe instead, or perhaps even a combined force. If the latter, they might give him some trouble, but if so, he would use the opportunity to humble both parties. The sooner the Tribes here learned the futility of resisting Death, the sooner they could all return to an honorable way of life.

He was through the North Gate, and a quick look at the surrounding forest showed him that the enemy was to the left, eight or so keshe facing off against a line of some twenty spidra warriors and their bondees.

Angling toward them, he felt more than saw the still bodies of his fellows with his ris. The death sense invaded his normally tranquil body, creating a tugging pull toward five human bondees scattered near the back, who were always the first to fall, and a single spidra warrior, lying in a twisted heap of limbs and armor off to the side. As was usual for Gold fighters, they were using their shimmering barriers to keep the standing spidra warriors at a distance. Some soldiers struck at them with their zumai and bondees fired their arrows, but all such weapons ricocheted off of the protective ris. The barriers would fall eventually, especially those that were being drained by the handful of spidra warriors who were hanging back, using their third seal to strip the ris from the keshe. However, none had yet to break, or if they had, those keshe had shifted to the rear, letting others who still had enough charge to defend themselves hold the line.

This, combined with the fact that Atriat felt no such dead bodies on the side of the enemy, dictated his next move.

“Fall back!” Atriat called. If he needed, he would tether to each of them and send his command that way, just as he had spoken with Oliak.

However, his forces heard him and did not resist the order, immediately retreating in quick, measured steps while keeping their eyes upon the enemy. Atriat could also hear the soldiers who had followed him out of the hold massing behind them, but he was confident they would stay back, too, after hearing his words. This let Atriat cover the remaining distance alone, until he stood some ten paces from the line of keshe. A few tried striking him as he approached, but he paid them little mind, spreading the three blows out among his own bondees, so that all of the dogs would hardly notice a twinge here or there.

Some of the keshe were growling in frustration at his lack of response, their sharp teeth reminding Atriat of his pack, but they queited and stopped their attacks when one keshe, much older than the others, began to speak.

“You retreat before us faster than expected,” he wheezed. Atriat saw that the Gold ris on his thin arms shone like burnished metal, meaning he still had a great deal of charge left despite having fought at the center of the line. “Though,” the keshe continued, “I suppose that will save me the time of knocking over your walls.”

From the spy reports, Atriat knew who this was: Sha-Ahn-Ras, the leader of the Wall Division of Knights. For Lercel to have sent him in person was a bold move indeed, and one that they would regret.

It was only with the barest trepidation that Atriat slid his eyes from left to right, and a smokey, grey tether snapped into being between him and the old keshe, immediately putting those brief nerves to rest. This was hardly the first time that forces of Death and Gold had fought, and from those previous encounters, the war councils of Haldorae had learned that the Archon’s fifth seal of Gold nullified any attempts to tether. That was one reason the Lesser Host had been sent now, because spies had confirmed that the previous Archon was dead, and it seemed the reports were true that a new one had yet to be selected--or at least that person didn’t stand before him now.

“You are overmatched,” Atriat said to all the keshe in a clear voice and then looked back at Sha-Ahn-Ras. How strange that the keshe had the name Sha, the same that Atriat and so many others in Death carried. Probably a long forgotten connection to the days when they had all been one tribe, and yet another reminder that such a return was possible. “Go back to Lercel and have your people open the gates when our forces arrive. From the tabard you wear”--Atriat did not wish to give away the existence of their spies--“you are clearly someone of note within the city. Use that to save your people from an unnecessary death.”

The old keshe looked disdainfully down at him, standing even taller than Oliak despite a clear hunch.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“The only death will be your own. Your forces here must be beyond weak to put faith in a single human, and you’ve wasted enough of my time.”

The keshe lazily moved his hand to the side, as if brushing away a mosquito, and Atriat experienced a blow like never before in his life. It was as if he had been struck by a wall of ris, the force of it slamming into his entire right side. He stumbled a step, not because he was hurt, but from the shock of needing to transfer so much power all at once. Atriat split it as deftly as he could, but the immensity of the blow was so unexpected that the brunt of it fell upon Tumi, a boisterous brown dog who loved chin scratches, killing her instantly.

Atriat took a steadying breath; it had been years since he had let any of his pack die.

He heard a huff and looked up to see that the old keshe was looking at him consideringly, a bushy eyebrow raised.

“A human with multiple bondees,” Sha-Ahn-Ras wheezed. “It seems that life has a few surprises left for me.” He gestured past Atriat. “Kill the rest.”

The other keshe stepped forward to get into range of the Death forces, and Atriat pulled a thin dagger from inside his coat. It was one of the smallest zumai that the forgemasters of Haldorae had ever created, and it was the only weapon Atriat possessed.

The keshe warriors paused in their advance, eyeing him, but Sha-Ahn-Ras coughed a laugh. “You will need much more than that to defeat us.”

“No,” Atriat said solemnly. “I won’t.” With the power of the fifth seal, Atriat forced the tether between him and the old keshe into a bond--something normally impossible without the bondees consent--the rope of grey ris that connected them thickening. Then, Atriat slit his own throat

A line of red formed along the old keshe’s neck, and his eyes widened, unblemished but bony hands trying ineffectually to stem the flow of blood. He collapsed with a gurgled gasp, and the younger keshe cried out, showering Atriat with blows that he expertly diverted to the pack, spreading bruises among the dogs and a single bone break he could not avoid. As he did this, Atriat marked each of the remaining seven keshe with his eyes, tethers they could not see springing up between them. He then turned all of them into bonds, just as he had done against Sha-Ahn-Ras, and the moment that happened their attacks meant to kill him felled their own number instead: the redirected force of high kicks snapping necks and empowered punches crushing ribs. Four of the keshe perished--each appearing inside Atriat as the tug he felt toward all things deceased--before the others seemed to realize that their cause was lost. They did flee then, but Atriat could let none remain who had seen the power of the fifth seal, in case it was not already known in these lands, so he plunged the thin zumai into his heart.

The strike was fatal enough to topple two of the keshe, who joined their brethren, while the third managed to continue a lurching gait away. A twist of the knife dropped the last one as well, the wrist-thick bond of ris that connected Atriat to the runner dissipating into the air, just as all the others had when the keshe they were attached to died.

He pulled the zumai from his breast and a cloth from his belt, wiping it along the blade. His numb body hadn’t felt any of the self-inflicted wounds and there were no marks on his flesh since the cutting and stabbing had not really happened to him but to his unwilling bondeees.

His blood, however, was still there.

To think that cyclops and the humans of their tribe bloodlet those who could feel the knife. More cruelty to feed a twisted power, just like to the north, which was why the Lesser Host would be traveling west to Bheroth once Lercel had fallen.

The blade was small enough that Atriat had cleaned it and tucked it away by the time Oliak reached him.

“Are you hurt, Kal’Sha’Chon?’

He thought of Tumi, and Rigor with his broken leg. “No,” he answered, though he found the word harder to say than expected. “Of course not.”

“Offering them a chance to flee?” a rasping voice said.

Atriat didn’t need to turn to see who had joined them, one of his four local tethers having alerted him well before the general had spoken: Zarr was a lithe spidra of middle years who had suffered a throat wound before acquiring his first bondee and wore armor that was older than Atriat, dented and scratched from countless skirmishes the general had participated in. Zarr was the highest ranked person in the Lesser Host besides Atriat, and the only one who would dare question him where matters of war were concerned.

Atriat saw no point in answering the query and turned away from the keshe corpses, heading back toward the hold. Oliak and Zarr fell in on either side of him.

“Prepare the forces,” Atriat said. “We march on Lercel tomorrow.”

“Without additional troops?” Zarr said, his tone making it clear he thought the choice unwise. “Our numbers have already been depleted.”

“We have dealt them a heavy blow this day,” Atriat replied calmly, “one they will not soon recover from. Better to strike while they are weakened.”

The general didn’t respond and neither did Oliak, so they walked in silence past the place where the bodies of the human bondees and the lone spidra were being gathered. Atriat did not feel sadness at their deaths, as he knew the other wayward tribes did, for with Death, there was no loss. Each would become ris for their fellows, just like the seals that Atriat carried had come from the sacrifice of those before him. The same would be true for Tumi in Tralan’Hold, and the keshe bodies would go to the Death Aspects, further increasing their glory.

Be that as it may, Atriat hoped that the leaders of Lercel would be wiser than ancient Sha-Ahn-Ras had been. Purging of the Gold Aspects was a necessity but the same need not be true of the people.

Atriat hoped, but he was also not one to shy away from duty. If the Mountain City refused his offer…he and his zumai would do what they had been made for.