I have a bad feeling. It started as soon as we left the gates of Rājadhānī, built with every step we took away from our home and now it races through my veins like wildfire. Dread knots my shoulders and I can’t keep my hands still, keep playing the reins of my horse through my fingers like coins through a gambler’s hands. It’s all I can do to keep myself from squirming in the saddle like an impatient child and I at last can no longer stand the awful tightness in my knees.

It should have been simple enough. Dismount the horse, drop down and march with my knights. But, as I swing my left leg over the saddle, I feel disaster strike. The loose joint in the greave of my armor catches hold of the stirrup. It pulls tight and yanks me off balance. For one horrifying moment, I’m staring straight down at the hardpacked dirt road, ready to meet it face first in what’s sure to be a humiliating experience.

Strong hands catch my shoulders. “Come on, then, Commander,” Ùisdean, my adjutant, says around barely restrained laughter. “Let us have a walk.”

He pushes me back toward the center of the horse’s back then leans around its left flank to free my greave. My boot pops free and I hop down with a solid thump, my right knee feeling a bit pained from the awkward dismount. “By the Ancients,” I hiss, my cheeks burning beneath the golden glow of my visor’s rune display. “Is anyone looking?”

Ùisdean glances surreptitiously behind us. “No, I believe you are in the clear. You should have the artificers look at your armor when we return home. That plate should not be jutting out like that.”

I glance down at the greave in question. Our armor is living metal that responds to our every command, a series of thin plates with joints that seal shut for complete integrity. My suit boosts my strength, speed, hearing, and sight. It also comes with a full complement of short range communication spells and bio-runes capable of tracking the vitals of every soul in my battalion. What it cannot seem to do, however, is realize that one joint at the very top of my left greave is forever jutting out.

“I have had it looked at,” I tell him at last. “It has been like that since…since the crypts.”

Ùisdean’s shoulders stiffen and he lays a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Ah. I see. Well then perhaps we might get you some new armor.”

He takes the reins from my hand and gives them over to the banner bearer. The flag of our country, Cēna Barēkara, flits lazily in the light breeze. Golden chains, seized by an armored fist that shatters them into pieces, the same mark reflected on our golden breastplates. His hand on my shoulder propels me forward and we set off, walking at the head of my battalion side by side.

I let out a long sigh. There’s a click as my armor’s internal thermoregulator kicks in, registering the temperature change caused by my embarrassment. Necessary or not, the coolness flooding the pads along my neck and chest is soothing, just enough to help me relax. The battalion shuffles behind me, a steady thump of their footsteps and the light rattle of packs against armor. Dust follows us for at least a mile, kicked up by nearly one thousand marching feet. But, beyond that, there’s no other sound.

“It is very quiet,” I murmur.

“Very quiet. Too quiet. When the knights of Cēna Barēkara march, their foul marching songs and exaggerated war stories can be heard for miles around. Hardly a word out of them this entire time.”

“What do you hear from the knights?” It shames me that I have to ask. As their commander, I should know their thoughts, their opinions, their fears. But try as I might, I haven’t been able to bridge that gap with any of my knights in months.

“They are afraid.” Ùisdean glances over at me and I catch the slightest glimpse of his serious white eyes through the golden shield of his helmet’s visor. “They believe that they will find something awful here, something dreadful.”

I glance around again. Nothing about the landscape looks out of the ordinary. Plains spread out around us for miles, dotted with the occasional meadow and spring. There’s no sign of movement, not even of animals, which is odd for this time of year. We’re in that lull between the pressing heat of summer and the cold wetness of winter, that glorious in-between where everything is turning brilliant colors of orange and red and the temperature is just right.

I blink-click a rune glimmering on the lower right side of my visor. All knights and Scythians have the Far Speak nodule that lets them speak to the Battle Mages from a mile away. But there’s a special setting between the commander, their adjutant and captains alone, a way for them to discuss unpleasantry without their knights overhearing. The Quiet Speak spell crackles to life with a hissed whisper and Ùisdean looks over at me in surprise as our voice grills seal shut to keep our voices from being overheard.

“Quiet Speak?” he says and his voice echoes through the nodule just below my left ear. “This must be interesting.”

“I have felt something this past week,” I tell him quietly.

“What do you mean?”

The skin prickles along my arms and back of my neck as I let myself focus on the sensation, the niggling presence of apprehension. “Fear,” I say at last. “I do not know of what but I am afraid, Ùisdean. Have been since we left Rājadhānī and it has only gotten worse the closer we have come to Mari Jag’hā.”

 Concern draws Ùisdean’s white eyebrows together. “I have felt a bit of unease myself. I feel as though we are marching toward something that may change everything.”

“We must be prepared.” My hands have closed into fists without me realizing it and I have to breathe out before I can uncurl them. “Whatever has happened, we must stop it before it can spread. I am not satisfied with only fourteen years of peace, my friend.”

“Neither am I.”

I cancel the Quiet Speak spell with another blink of my eyes. We’ve said what we needed to say and now it’s time to return to lighter thoughts. “I have not thanked you,” I tell him after a moment’s silence, nudging his shoulder with mine.

“For what?”

“For this. For agreeing to become my adjutant. You have turned down many promotions. I must admit, I did not expect you take this one, not even for me.”

Ùisdean snorts and glances away. “I would be lying if I said I was pleased to find myself here. I know in my heart that I am a rank and file man, doomed to be an enlisted knight for the entirety of my days. But you needed me and so I said yes.” He pauses, then, “And we have not spent much time together since the crypts. I…well, I have missed your presence.”

I can’t look at him. We walk in silence for a moment, our trudging footsteps echoed by the knights at our back. “You sell yourself short,” I tell him at last. “You are more than a simple line sergeant. You have potential, you always have. Had you not turned down your promotions, you would be a captain or a battalion commander right now. You and Pantea, you should be leading this army right now.”

“Ah, but it is you and Pantea who are the ones leading this army,” he reminds me with a smile. “War Mistress. If not for Pantea saving Queen Kittur’s life, you would have taken charge of First Battalion and become War Master over us all.”

“Pantea is much better suited to that job. I do not think I would enjoy leading a battalion while claiming command over the entire army. It is too much work. Have you not heard her complain about how she never has time to go out into the field?”

“Still. What powerful friends I have made.”

I grimace at that. “I am not so powerful. Not anymore.”

“You are a born leader, Maddox.”

“Not since the crypts.” I glance over my shoulder at my banner bearer, who glances away before I can meet his eyes. “They fear me, now, more than they fear you. Or despise me. I do not know which is worse.”

Ùisdean falls silent again. “Are you afraid of me?” he asks after a long moment.

I draw back in shock. “Of course not!”

“I have their lavender skin, their white hair and eyes. I am the carbon copy of the creatures that took you into those crypts. Is that why you have avoided me these past few months?”

“No!” I step to the side of the road and draw him to a stop beside me. “By the Ancients, Ùisdean, no, never. I have never feared you. I only kept my distance because…well, I did not wish to tarnish your reputation with my friendship.”

Ùisdean puts a hand on my shoulder. The touch is gentle and so the spells worked into the armor allow me to feel it the press of his hand on my skin. “I could never hate you. I felt…unsure of how to broach the subject with you. Not to mention Pantea stayed close by your side like a thunderstorm for weeks. I thought she might take my head if I got too close.”

“She is very protective. But no, Ùisdean, I could never fear you. We have been friends since the academy, fought through the Rebellion together. You are one of my truest friends.” I wince. “One of my two truest friends. You and Pantea are all I have now.”

Ùisdean lets out a relieved sigh. “I must say, that has weighed heavy on my mind for weeks now. People look at me and see only my mixed blood, an abomination of Human and Suṭō breeding. Though that has faded through the years.”

“Many see only your skill as a knight and a captain. Your exemplary military career has wiped away the sins of your ancestors. I only wish that I could say the same.”

“Give it time,” Ùisdean assures me as he launches back into motion and I follow his lead. “It will fade.”

“It has been over a year. I do not believe people will ever forget.”

“Then you will simply have to be content with only Pantea and I to keep you company.” He claps my shoulder and this time the armor hardens enough so I feel only a jolt of pressure. Ùisdean glances around and sighs. “Māṛī Jag’hā is just around this bend. We should find a place to stash our belongings in case we meet resistance.”

“There,” I say after a quick glance around. “A meadow, maybe a quarter mile from the walls.”

Ùisdean nods in agreement and we pass the next half mile in a companionable silence. As always, he has to shorten his stride to match mine. At six feet, three inches, I’m not a short man, but Ùisdean towers a foot taller than me. He’s willowy where I am broad, sinewy, lean muscle to my heavy bulk. It took the artificers an extra week to mold his armor and account for his unnatural height.

It's not rare for a half-blood to join the army. The majority of my people are mixed. But most of them are Ṭhaḍā, Human mixed with Bati. The Bati aren’t a kind people, too bureaucratic for my taste, but they aren’t feared. Ùisdean is a Ḍarōliga, half Human, half Suṭō. That’s where the problem lays. The Suṭō are cruel creatures, hated across the continent, maybe even across the world if we had the capability to forge out into the uncharted sea. The lists of wrongs they have committed against my people could wrap around the globe twice over.

It's rare for Ḍarōliga to survive past infancy. Most are killed before they can draw first breath, strangled with their birth cords. The Suṭō believe in genetic purity and consider it a weakness to dilute their bloodlines. Only the love Ùisdean’s Suṭō grandmother had for her Human lover and half-blood child paved the way for Ùisdean to be born. She died escaping Zamīna Suṭō, chased down and murdered on the northern shores of the Surakhi'ā Strait while giving her Human lover time to cross the waters with their child in tow. An unusual story for the Suṭō, one Ùisdean loves to tell.

Ùisdean turns to shout new orders to the army at our back. It startles me out of my reverie and I realize we’ve made it to the meadow I pointed out. I’m a bit embarrassed to have allowed myself to be so distracted and I take the reins of my horse back from the banner bearer, pull the horse toward a tree as the battalion grinds to a halt along the road. Ùisdean drops his pack to the ground and I secure the horse’s lead to a tree branch before following suit.

My horse nudges my shoulder. I lean down to check all six of his legs, make sure all of them are in good condition. He nudges me again and I scratch at the purple fur beneath the straps of the saddle. He blinks his front set of eyes at me while the set on either side of his head keeps watch for predators and prey. There’s enough grass here to keep him fed and, if the worst happens, the plains are filled with plenty of small prey. He’ll chew through his reins and head off to hunt. Rejoin his kin somewhere near the heart of the plains.

I step away from him to pull my pack off my shoulders. It catches at the cloak clasped around my neck, gives it a hard tug. I flick the cloth back so that it hangs behind the hilt of the sword at my hip, a practiced move that keeps it smooth and out of the way. For a moment, I let my armored fingers caress the fine, deep purple cloth, run them up to where the black pelt encircles my shoulders. Ùisdean lets out a low chuckle.

“You have gotten good at that,” he says with a nod toward the cloak. “Remember when Queen Kittur first placed that around your shoulders? You could barely draw your sword without catching the edge of it.”

I turn away from him to hide the look of displeasure on my face. “I have had plenty of time to practice.”

“You refused to wear it for quite some time.” Ùisdean pauses and his voice softens. “But you have begun to wear it again these past few weeks.”

“Of course you would notice,” I mutter.

“Of course I would,” Ùisdean shoots back archly. “Do you think I stopped paying attention simply because we stopped speaking?”

I blow out a breath. Now I’ve offended him. “I just…I needed something to remind me of the good I have done. That my whole life has not been a waste.”

Ùisdean’s shoulders relax and he shakes his head. “Do you think you got to where you are now by chance? Became Commander Maddox Vel without earning it?”

“No. No, I suppose not.”

“You and Pantea saved our Queen. Ended the Rebellion, ended seven years of bloodshed and pain. You and Pantea are both heroes and that will never change.”

I swallow hard and glance away as the skin along my arms prickles. “Perhaps if I had not helped Pantea end the war, I would not be…as I am now.”

Ùisdean lays a hand on my shoulder and shakes me hard. “Then it would have been another knight in those crypts, one without your stubborn resilience and mental guards. Who knows what would have happened then?”

I force a smile to my lips but, as always, it feels wooden and dead smeared across my face. “You are right, as ever. Do you and Pantea ever tire of always knowing exactly what to say and when to say it?”

“It can be exhausting at times.” He snorts and glances around at the battalion with a sigh. “Dark mood. Most unpleasant march I have ever been a part of.”

My hand comes up to my chin unbidden and I stroke the lower half of my helmet. “No one knows what to expect. The dispatches from Māṛī Jag’hā were…distressing, to say the least.”

Ùisdean grunts his agreement. “Let us get back to the march. I am eager to see this through.”

The golden river forms up on the path once more. One thousand knights, thirty Scythian Sisters, and a gaggle of mages maneuvering their way through forests that slowly thin out into plains. The Scythians in their black armor look like shadows against the knights in their golden armor, short and lithe where most knights are more my size. A result of Suto genetic tampering that persists even to this day, breeding programs that created tall, strong fighters for their slave army.

“Hmm. ‘Get out or die.’ What do you think that means?”

I frown over at him. “What?”

Ùisdean shrugs. “The last message we received from Māṛī Jag’hā. What do you think it means?”

Māṛī Jag’hā’s silhouette looms ahead. The gates are shut, the road is abandoned and I have to take deep breath to still my racing heart. Birds sing in the trees, the wind sweeps through the grass and caresses my armor, the afternoon sun burns bright overhead. Warm, quiet, peaceful. But there’s something chilling about the stillness of Māṛī Jag’hā and I give Ùisdean a dark look through my visor.

“I think it means something went terribly wrong here,” I tell him in a low voice.

I hold my hand up in a fist to bring the battalion to a halt. We’ve reached the gates. Hewn from black wood and bound together by ropes. The dust around the gate hasn’t been disturbed in what looks like days. Have they been closed since they sent that last dispatch? Ùisdean cranes his head back to peer up to the tops of the walls. They’re nothing compared to the towering walls of Rājadhānī or even Samūha but they’re still strong and sturdy.

“Do you hear that?” Ùisdean whispers.

“What?”

He lays his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Nothing. Nothing but absolute silence. I see no gate guards, no patrols, nothing. It is midday. The market should be loud with vendors hawking their wares and we should have seen someone on the road.”

The space between my shoulder blades crawls and I turn to the battalion. “Second and Third company, secure the perimeter,” I order in a tight voice. “I want sweeps of the forest and constant patrol.”

Captain Frumka Spanier steps forward, her back ramrod straight. “What are we sweeping for?”

Her steady voice calms me a bit. My captains are experienced, reliable women and men. I can rely on them no matter their opinion of me. “Anything out of the ordinary,” I tell her. “Ensure there is no one lurking outside these walls.”

She salutes me, her right fist slamming against her breastplate just over her heart. “I will comply.”

Second and Third peel off, each company taking opposite paths around the town. I look up at Ùisdean and take a deep breath. “Help me open the gates.”

We press our palms against the gates and push hard. Five knights join us, lean their shoulders against the gates and strain. There’s a low groan, then a jolt and I stagger forward as the gates swing open. A rush of air, thick and coppery, pours over me, and I pull away, biting back a curse.

“By the Ancients,” Ùisdean murmured. “What is that?”

It could just be mud. A thick, churned layer of it, concentrated to the broad road just within the gates. But my eyes pick pieces out of the shattered mosaic. Fingers, bones, the sliced remnants of a face. A reddish tint to the mud, thick black chunks of coagulated blood. Scraps of golden metal, shredded clothes, one intact slipper. How many bodies are here? How many people were torn to pieces to make a mud this thick?

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For a moment, I can’t breathe. Fear tingles its way up my arms, itches across my shoulders, and I freeze. My armor filters out the stench but not before it reminds me of the crypts, the coppery tang of old blood and the sharp stench of agonized terror. Silence reigns here. My knights are as quiet as the dead and Ùisdean stands stock still at my side.

Responsibility to my battalion, to this city, breaks my fugue. “Battle Mages,” I call over my shoulder as I take my first reluctant steps into the city. “Take your positions.”

Five people in hulking black plate armor form up along the interior of the walls. Battle Mages, armed with only their heavy gauntlets and impervious to all but the most powerful of magic and weapons. They move slowly but surely in their massive armor and they raise their hands as they find their place. A song coils out of their voice grills, a spell woven within the words, and I feel the gentle, calming touch of their magic a split second later.

I continue into the city. Mud squelches beneath my boots, rising to coat my greaves up to mid-calf. Nausea surges up my throat as I feel the cold, wet touch of the muck slide through the broken joint of my left greave but the Battle Mages’ song settles the discomfort. It’s enough to loosen the tight knot in my chest and I slog further into the city with the knights at my back.

I raise my hand to call their attention. “First and Fourth, fall out in a search pattern. Search and rescue. I want no stone unturned. If there are survivors here, we will find them.”

The company commanders salute. Both companies break by squads and spread out into the city and I turn to my Aural Reader. “Lily, see if you can find anyone alive.” She gives me a curt nod and my two Slyphid coax the wind currents around her, lifting her up into the air to give her full view of the city. I turn to the Scythian Sisters where they wait, clearly tense in their shining black armor. “Sisters, set up a triage just outside the gates in case we find wounded.”

“Maddox, what happened here?” Ùisdean murmurs as the Scythians get to work readying their medical supplies.

I eye the sprays of blood on the inside of the walls and try to ignore the shiver working its way up my spine. “They were trying to escape.”

“How can you tell?”

I pace back to the city entrance and place my armored fingertips in four furrows scarred into the surface of wooden gate. “They tried to climb their way out.”

“Ancients.”

The air inside my armor feels stuffy. Not even the spells and enchantments can chase away the sudden claustrophobia that tightens the skin between my shoulder blades. I long to breathe fresh air, to let my helmet fall away and feel the wind on my cheeks. Not a good idea here, in this dead and rotting city. Best to just get it over with so we can all be free of this place.

“Come,” I tell Ùisdean, stepping toward the heart of the city. “Let us begin our own search.”

This isn’t the worst day of my life but it comes closer than any other. The hours drag by as my knights obediently search every nook and cranny, every house and shop, door to door and alley by alley. The Battle Mages follow us as we move and their spells keep the worst of the horror at bay. Their spells keep the horror muted, hold the crippling terror and rage at bay. If not for that small boon, I don’t think any of my knights could have performed effectively.

Thankfully, the circle of chewed up blood and bodies stops a good fifty feet away from the gates. The rest of the city is dry and silent, with only the sound of my knights opening doors and calling out to one another. I can’t quite understand what has happened here. There is no destruction, no signs of a struggle. No blood, besides the wreckage at the gate, and no bodies yet. It’s as if everyone simply vanished into thin air.

The Far Speak nodule in my helmet crackles. “Commander,” a Battle Mage whispers.

“Go ahead.”

“Lily is having difficulty sensing through the amount of death. She cannot find any trace of living beings but that may not be entirely accurate.”

“Acknowledged.”

“Nothing?” Ùisdean asks from my side.

“Nothing.”

There’s a click and I glace down to see the Quiet Speak rune blinking at me. I accept the request with a quick blink. “What is it, Ùisdean?”

 “Maddox, if this happened here, it could happen at Rājadhānī,” he says, his voice pinched down and tight.

I gaze eastward where, miles away, the capital sits protected by its high walls and hordes of knights, Scythians, and mages. The thought of my beloved home falling prey to something like this puckers the scar tissue on my arms and I have to swallow twice before I can respond.

“Rājadhānī is the most well-defended city in our country.”

“And we took away half of her defenders by coming here.”

I turn at that and give Ùisdean a hard look. “What do you mean by that?”

He raises his palms in a placating gesture. “I am not doubting your decision to come here, friend. I am only pointing out the obvious. Only one battalion remains to hold vigil over our home and we are too far away to reinforce them in time should the worst happen.”

My hands curl into fists. “We will send a visual when we are done here and tell them what we have found.”

Ùisdean gestures around at the city and shrugs his shoulders. “What have we found, Maddox?” he whispers.

I look down at the bloody muck on my boots. Thanks to that broken joint, my left foot is nauseatingly wet with what I can only assume is pieces of Humans and Thada. Another shiver crawls up my spine and I shake my head. “Death,” I say at last. “We have found death.”

We press onward. Homes are left unsecured, the barracks that should have housed two full platoons of knights is empty. In the Warrens, the home of the mages and Scythians, the training rooms and meditation cells are utterly abandoned. Food sits spoiled on tables, clothes hang in closets, beds are made and tidy. Where have they all gone?

“By the Ancients, this is a nightmare,” I murmur we trail along behind a squad of knights wearily searching yet another residential street.

“I believe it is worse than that.” Ùisdean steps aside to lean into a house then shakes his head before giving me a grave look. “What do you hear?”

I give the question serious thought and cycle through the various auditory amplifiers in my helmet. “Nothing but our knights,” I reply after a moment.

“Yes. All that death at the front gates, so much rotting meat, and yet do you see any scavengers? Any carrion birds or wild dogs?”

I touch my hand to my chin and try to steady my breathing. “No, I do not. That is odd.”

“I think whatever happened here was magical in nature. Why else would wildlife avoid this place?”

I let the idea sink into the current situation, mull over it for a moment. It makes a horrible kind of sense. What else could have reduced that many bodies to so much meat but magic? Beneath my armor, my heart leaps into overdrive as the skin of my arms and torso crawls with disgust. Ùisdean quickly lays his hand on my shoulder.

“Stay strong, Maddox. We will work through this together.”

I catch sight of Captain Tericius from the corner of my eye and I hold up a hand. “Captain, how goes the search?”

The lanky man gives me a solemn salute. “We have finished searching our sector,” he reports in a listless voice. “The last place to search is the town hall.”

I look into his eyes through his visor. Tericius is young, all new and shiny compared to the rest of my captains. He joined long after the end of the Rebellion and so this is his first taste of true horror. There’s a shadow in his green eyes, one that wasn’t there before, and sympathy for him tightens my throat.

“Pull your company out,” I tell him kindly. “Ùisdean and I will search the hall.”

Relief eases the furrow on his brow and he salutes me again. “I will comply.”

Ùisdean eyes me as Tericius all but sprints away with his knights. “Giving the boy a break, eh?”

“They seem so young,” I tell him. “How many of them do you think were even old enough to hold a sword during the war?”

“Maybe a quarter. Mostly career sergeants and a few of our problem children who cannot hold their rank to save their lives.”

I snort and shake my head. “Come. We will search the hall and then find somewhere to bathe. I for one cannot abide this mud on my boots for much longer.”

The two story town hall is as untouched as the rest of the city. It sits at the very center of the marketplace, in a wide courtyard filled with flower gardens and blooming bushes. Spring flowers line the cobblestone path with bursts of bright yellows and reds and the sweet scent of them filters through my helmet. This hall is nowhere near as glorious as the main keeps of other cities but it still manages to exude a stately calm.

Ùisdean pushes open the double doors. We enter with our hands on the hilts of our swords, ready to draw at a second’s notice, though we needn’t have bothered. The echoing first floor is empty, from the welcome desk to the lord’s hall. Chairs and benches sit in orderly rows and banners hang limp in the stale air. We head upstairs to the lord’s quarters and Ùisdean draws up short at the doorway of the private dining room once used to host smaller groups of delegates.

We stare into the room in shock. There are ten women here, all in golden body gloves, all dead. They’re slumped over the table, their bald heads shining in the light from the glow globes overhead. Horror tingles its way over my arms. It cannot be. This cannot have happened. I have to take a deep breath to force myself into the room, pick up one of the cups on the table and give it a sniff. My helmet analyzes the dregs of liquid inside the cup and my eyes widen as the result scrolls out across my rune display.

“Poison,” I hiss.

Ùisdean whirls. “Poison? Maddox, these were this town’s Scythians! You cannot kill a Sister with poison!”

I scan their dead bodies. “Massive brain hemorrhaging, coupled with cardiac arrest and systemic organ failure. All signs of poisoning.”

Ùisdean presses his hands against his helmet. “Ancients. This cannot be. What poison is it?”

“I cannot tell. Nothing I have ever seen but its chemical makeup is stored in my helmet. We will take this back to Flora and see what she has to say.”

“They have not yet begun to decompose. This happened only a day or two ago.”

My hands are curled into fists. I open one to press my fingers against the left side of my helmet and open the Far Speak link with the Battle Mages. “Battle Mage.”

“Go ahead, Commander.”

“Send a Healing Hand to the lord’s quarters to collect ten dead bodies.”

“I will comply.”

I have to swallow hard. The Scythians will not like this. “Advise them that they are…were the Scythians of this town. Killed by poison, it seems.”

There’s a long pause as the Battle Mage processes the information. “Very well,” she says at last in a solemn voice.

“Maddox, we have not lost a Scythian in years,” Ùisdean whispers as the Far Speak spell crackles away. “To lose this many now…”

I turn to take his arm and lead him from the room. “Come. We must complete our search.”

A Healing Hand of five Scythians pass us on the stairs. Their Androleteira gives me a grim look through her visor and I grimace. “I am sorry, Sister.”

She raises her hands to sign then drops them with a shake of her head. Neither of us know what to say and so Ùisdean and I continue on down the stairs. A touch of dread breathes against the back of my neck as we hit the first floor and cross the marble to come to the back stairwell. The stairs curve down into inky blackness, the marble floor giving way to roughhewn stone. My armor registers a drop in temperature, more than one would expect even from a stone basement, and I have to force myself to put my boot on the first step.

It's so dark I have to adjust the visual receptors in my visor. The spell picks shapes out of the murk, bathes the walls and floor in a sickly orange glow. I boost my auditory receptors as well, just in case, and they pick up the sound of Ùisdean’s breathing, harsh and fast. He feels it, too. We’re both shaken by the death of the Scythians. We lose them to power exhaustion when they heal past the limits of their strength, but to be killed something so mundane as poison? It’s unheard of.

We finally reach the bottom. I feel the chill through the broken joint in my armor as we stand on the last step surveying the cavernous space. My armor pings, picking up an activation spell, and I blink in pain as a series of glow globes dancing along the ceiling burn to life. The visor clears and my vision returns, though I wish it hadn’t.

“Well,” Ùisdean murmurs. “I suppose we found the rest of the city.”

My heart thumps painfully within the confines of my chest. Bodies, spread across the floor, packed in wall to wall. They’re piled on top of one another in places, the bulk of them standing as high as my chest. Old blood stains the ground and forms thick rime of filth. I must be nose blind. I can’t smell the blood, even before my armor compensates for the stench. Just like the Scythians above, this could only have happened a couple days ago, judging by how intact the bodies seem.

“Maddox,” Ùisdean whispers.

I shake myself to life and move off the step to crouch beside the nearest body. A woman, late forties, her face leathery from the sun and hands calloused from hard work. One hand clutches a bloody dagger. I roll her over as gently as I can and her head tilts back, showing a gash running from one side of her throat to the other. It’s so deep I can see the bone white glint of her spine through the torn flesh.

“Throat slit,” I say as I lower her back to the floor and brush off my hands. My own throat aches, turns tight and dry in sympathetic pain.

“Same here,” Ùisdean calls from where he squats next to an elderly man. “And here. I can see a few knights in this mess, thought they are not in armor, only their duty uniforms. There are at least three hundred people down here. That is almost half of Mari Jag’hā’s population! This basement must run for several hundred feet, probably beneath a good portion of the town.”

“They are holding daggers.” I brush my armored fingers over my chin and frown.

“You do not think…” Ùisdean’s voice trails off. “Maddox, they could not have done this to themselves. Maddox, there are children here! They could not have killed their own young!”

I can’t look at them anymore. My eyes wander toward the crimson arcs of blood sprayed along the grey stone walls and I swallow hard. “Ùisdean. The walls.”

He hisses low in his throat. “What is that?”

Blood. Painted along the far wall, spread out in thick lines into some form of mural. Arcane symbols and illegible words looped out in dripping curves of blood and viscera. I force my way toward the wall, stepping carefully over the dead bodies, and brush my fingers over a symbol. The blood is fresh beneath my fingertips, almost warm against the frigid cold of the room.

“It looks like an incantation.” I think back, trying to remember the brief magic course that all knights learn in the Academy. “See here? The call to the Immaterium, the offerings sacrificed. But here, the intent of working. I have never seen anything like this before. Not that I am an expert.”

“Neither am I.” A pause, then, “Maddox, here.”

I turn to see him shuffling aside a group of bodies and leaning down on all fours. “What is it?” I ask as I forge my way to his side.

“A hole.” He runs a hand over the broken stone, dislodging a shower of dirt and pebbles. “Or what is left of one, anyway.”

 I think I’ve lost my horror. I examine the wall with a strange sense of detachment, though my arms still tingle and burn. “Cracks, running up the wall.” I turn a small circle. “This entire room is shot through with them.”

“Very strange.”

I look down to find Ùisdean’s head and shoulders in the hole and a spike of fear stabs my chest. I grab the savior strap melded to the back of his armor and drag him back with one quick pull. “You do not know what is in there!”

“It is cold!” he cries in surprise. “Look, see my visor? My armor’s thermoregulator just went mad.”

A rime of frost works its way across his helmet. Something rumbles below my feet, a small shudder that leaves me unsteady. It passes and I pull Ùisdean to his feet.

“The cracks must have effected the foundation. Go above, get the Scythians out and keep everyone out of here. Have them pull out of the city to be safe.”

Ùisdean nods. “What of you?”

“I will stay here, take a visual sensory of the area.” He hesitates and I give him a shove forward as another rumble shivers across the ground. “Go!”

“Hurry,” he warns as he rushes across the floor toward the stairs.

I’m left alone. Whatever detachment wrapped me in its comforting grips flees as soon as Ùisdean disappears up the stairs. Terror sets in, bites along the back of my neck, and my hands curl into fists. Silence rings in my ears and the dark hole in the wall seems to glare up at me. I take a careful step away from it, though I’m loathe to give it my back.

I stare at a rune on my rune display and blink. A static charge lifts the hairs at the back of my neck as the spell comes to life. A sensory capture can quickly drain the strength of my armor’s spells so I’ll have to be fast. Careful not to miss any details, I turn a slow, steady circle, capturing the bodies on the floor, the bloody graffiti on the walls, the black hole in the corner.

Another quake shakes a pile of stones loose from the ceiling. It lasts longer this time, almost an entire minute. I clench my teeth and move closer to the wall to capture the spell in its entirety. Mitera Tamar and First Mage Flora will know what to do with this information. The College of Rājadhānī is home to thousands of years’ worth of research and knowledge about magic and the Immaterium. If anyone can decipher this mess, it’s them.

The ground heaves like a giant shaking water from its back. I’m thrown to my hands and knees, slammed violently down onto the floor. A schism opens up between my hands, spreads down the length of the stone floor. Piles of bodies tumble down into the ground as the crack widens and I scramble to my feet, leap over the hole to race for the exit.

It's hard to manage the stairs. They shake and tremble, the walls around me crack to pieces. Rocks and dirt shower against my armor but I press on, at last make it to the first floor. The entire building groans in protest as I barrel across the marble floor. I can see the doorway just ahead, see Ùisdean charging toward me.

The floor lifts up, then abruptly drops. I go with it, losing my balance and sprawling out onto my belly. Ùisdean seizes me by my savior strap, hauls me to my feet using his height as leverage. Pieces of the first floor drop into the dark basement and we dodge the holes, stagger our way out of the doorway. I step foot on solid land just as the entire first floor crumbles into the depths. Ùisdean turns to watch but I haul him away, gain some distance in case the hole decides to spread.

“Blessed Writ, mark my story,” he murmurs.

Creaking girders and shattering stone is the only response. The town hall breaks to pieces before our very eyes, collapsing into the ground with a distressed howl that makes my ears ring in spite of my helmet’s best efforts to muffle the sound. A shower of dirt darkens the sky and hides the destruction for a long moment. When it clears, only a crater filled with rubble remains to stand testament to the once proud building.

“Did you get enough?” Ùisdean pants out.

“I believe so.” I check the rune just to be sure and breathe a sigh of relief to see that the visual is safely stored in my helmet. “We must get this to the Battle Mages.”

“I have moved everyone back to where we stored our equipment. Come, let us join them.”

We leave the empty city behind. Thoughts whirl in my head, memories of those bodies drained of their blood and that hole in the wall. It reminds me of tales of mass sacrifice, of mad mages reaching into the Immaterium to draw out something horrible. There are things out there in the aether made of nothing but avarice and hunger, that lurk and wait for the chance to devour worlds whole. Is that what they did here?

I say nothing of this to Ùisdean. I don’t think I need to. He’s unusually silent as we close the quarter mile and reach the camp. It’s a good bet that his thoughts follow the same path as mine, that he shares my fears. We walk back to our packs in silence and are met by my four company commanders.

Frumka is the first to step forward. Her golden armor is clean, her helmet retracted to show her vibrant red hair pulled back into a severe bun. She eyes me up and down with her sharp grey eyes, her hawkish face narrowed with suspicion.

“You found something, Commander.”

She doesn’t phrase it as a question but a demand. Borderline insubordination but I can see the uncertainty in her hard eyes, the need to be reassured. I can’t give her that. But what I can give her is the truth and I nod.

“Come,” I say, motioning toward a copse of trees a good distance away from the knights. “There is something you need to see.”

We gather in a huddle, all six of us. I project the visual from my helmet into their visors and watch them closely for their reactions. Tericius makes small sounds low in his throat every few seconds. Verena fidgets with the hilt of her sword and Aireo holds his arms tight over his stomach. Frumka seems to stiffen more and more with each passing second, her shoulders straightening and chin raising. Ùisdean doesn’t watch. He’s already seen the horror.

“What does this mean?” Tericius breathes as the visual ends. “Those people…what happened to them?”

“We cannot be sure,” Ùisdean hedges.

“No, we cannot.” I swallow hard and try to unclench my fists. “But we can make an educated guess. I believe that the people of this city made a mass sacrifice.”

“What of the bodies around the gates?” Tericius asks.

“Perhaps they wanted no part in the ritual, attempted to flee, and were destroyed whenever the spell was complete,” Ùisdean suggests.

“Perhaps,” I say with a nod. “Whatever the case, I think that they pulled something dark out of the Immaterium and made it real.”

“The hole in the wall,” Aireo murmurs.

Frumka shakes her head hard. “If it was pulled from the Immaterium, then how could it have come from the ground?”

“There are pockets of the Immaterium everywhere,” Ùisdean reminds her. “Hidden from us, little bits of unreality buried in the physical realm. There could have been one underneath Mari Jag’hā, one with something living within.”

“What could it have been?” Aireo asks with a clear hint of fear.

“An aetheric being,” I guess with a shrug. “Some ancient mage who discovered who to subvert death. We may never know.”

“Then what do we do?” Verena asks in her soft voice.

I touch my fingers to the side of my helmet. “First, we have the mages send this visual to Rājadhānī. Then, we spend the night here and make for home at first light.”

“We should go now,” Tericius snaps. “If something was released, then where is it? Why has it not attacked us, turned us into so much ground meat like the people trapped behind the gates?”

I fight the urge to glare around at the darkening forest. “We must allow the knights to rest. They will need their energy to march for Rājadhānī with all haste.”

A bit of the anger slips out of Tericius and he nods. “Very well.”

“The entire battalion is to sleep in their armor tonight. I want a platoon on patrol at all times. Work the schedule out amongst yourself but ensure they have enough time to rest.” I meet their eyes in turn, my face hard. “It is a four day march back to Rājadhānī. I want to be there in three.”

All four of them salute as one before turning on their heels and marching back to the camp. With I thought, I send my helmet sliding away, the scales clicking quietly downward. Cool evening air brushes over my heated cheeks and I take a deep, calming breath.

“What now?” Ùisdean asks.

“Now? Now we bathe. My boot is filled with muck.”

The sun has set by the time I’ve cleaned my armor, fed my horse, and prepared my pallet. In the distance, the Scythians are laying their dead to rest and I can see the flames rising up from their pyres. Ùisdean is already lying on his thin sleeping mat, helmetless and staring up at the canopy of trees overhead. I can feel the resting spell laid by the Battle Mages pulling at my eyes and I drop onto my pad beside him.

Ùisdean sits up to undo the thick braid of his hair. A hint of black shines up at me through his straight, waist long white hair and I hide a grin. “Ùisdean, you have a black hair.”

“What?” He grabs at his hair, his face aghast. “No! I am too young for black hair! Maddox, yank it out.”

“That only makes more grow—”

“Now!”

I obey, wrapping my fingers around the offending hair and pulling it free. “You know it would only make you look more Human to have black hair.”

“I do not care,” he sniffs. “It is a sign of aging for the Suṭō and I have at least ten more years of youth. Look at me, sleeping in my armor beneath the moon.”

I force a smile to my lips. None of us are sure how long Ùisdean will live. The Suto can live for over one hundred and forty years, outstripping Humans and Thada by leaps and bounds. But Ùisdean is a Ḍarōliga and there are so precious few of them. We have no records of a Daroliga living past puberty, so Ùisdean may be the first Daroliga to live this long. Whatever the case, I hope he lives long enough to see his hair turn completely black, to find love and create a family.

“Oh, yes,” I say at last, covering my lapse with a brief cough. “You practically glow with vitality. We are almost forty, you know.”

“The prime of our lives, dear Maddox.” He squirms on his sleeping mat with a grunt. “Though sleeping in my armor is less comfortable than I remember.”

“We were so exhausted back then that it did not matter. I could have laid down on a bed of spikes and slept soundly.” I gaze up at the trees overhead and sigh. “Twenty-one years, Ùisdean. How young we were back then.”

“Very young. And very stupid. Remember when Pantea nearly died in her first real battle?”

My stomach roils at the memory of Pantea lying on the ground, her life blood pouring from what should have been a fatal wound. “I do. Were it not for Laki, Pantea would have died that very day.”

“She learned from it. Got a wife from it, too.” He rolls onto his side and stares at me through the darkness, his white eyes reflecting the light from the full faced moon. “Do you think Rājadhānī is safe?”

I have to look away from him for a moment. “No,” I say after a slight pause. “No, I do not.”

He rolls onto his back and sighs. “Neither do I.”

The padding in my armor softens, lets my body relax somewhat. I close my eyes and recite the resting mantra, a little spell to help ease a person into sleep. It works immediately, as it always does, pulling me under and dropping me into a dreamless sleep.