The night air was cool as Wyatt followed the old man into the camp. The fire was lit again, showing scores of men that gathered nearby. They were all fully equipped and ready to fight. All of them glared at him, and Wyatt knew that, at Yarran’s command, he would be torn to shreds.

I’d better not sneeze and startle them.

Yarran stood in front of the blazing fire; a dagger clutched in his hand. His weathered face looked much more tired since the last time he had seen him, and he had shaved the last of his dark hair, leaving him bald.

“You have come far, outlander,” Yarran said. He tossed his dagger to his other hand, then stopped. “Why should I accept your challenge?”

“Because it would dishonour you and your people if you refused it outright,” Wyatt said, his voice loud and unafraid. That was in stark contrast to how he felt. Wyatt was terrified, and it was all he could do to appear strong. “You must accept the challenge.”

“I must?” Yarran asked, smiling crookedly. He chuckled softly. “I must.”

“Many men say how things must be,” Yarran continued solemnly, and Wyatt found himself leaned forward to hear him. “It rarely ever is.”

“I am the leader of my clan,” Wyatt said, his heartbeat accelerating as he prepared himself for whatever came next. He shifted, and many others around him shifted as well. “You must answer my Challenge now.”

“I have led my clan for years and led them well,” Yarran said. He slid his knife along his palm, grimacing as blood began to spill from it. “I would lead them still.”

“The Challenge has been accepted,” the old man said, walking in between them. He looked at Yarran, giving him a look full of hidden meaning. Yarran bowed his head, and the old man shifted his heavy gaze to Wyatt.

The full weight of tradition was behind the old man’s gaze, and Wyatt found himself bowing his head as well. He mentally acknowledged the Kulok tradition for what it was: a chance to save his people and potentially many others.

“The Challenge will only end when one remains,” the old man decreed. He stepped back, followed by everyone else, save Yarran and Wyatt. The crowd formed a rough circle around them. Wyatt looked around the circle, judging the distance that he now had. Roughly ten paces, Wyatt thought quickly. Small, but still enough to maneuver.

Wyatt looked back at Yarran. He stared back with his sword drawn and chest heaving. “You should never have brought the Zak here,” Yarran growled, his voice low with rage. “You have killed us all.”

“The only dead man here is you,” Wyatt snapped back. He drew his sword and held it above his head, falling into his battle-ready stance. I need to kill him quickly.

“Begin!” the old man called.

Wyatt rushed forward, swinging as hard as he could. Yarran skipped out of the way with a slash. Wyatt swiped away Yarran’s strike, smoothly following it up with a swift slash. Yarran managed to deflect the strike, but Wyatt’s sword slid up Yarran’s blade, slicing into the Kulok Chieftain’s hand. Yarran didn’t react and kept fighting, which Wyatt grudgingly respected.

Wyatt didn’t let up. He couldn’t. He fought hard and fast, making a wide-eyed Yarran either sidestep or deflect a flurry of sweeping blows. It was all the Chieftain could to defend himself. The clearing was quiet save for the heavy breathing of Yarran, the sounds of shuffling feet and clashing swords.

Wyatt continued to beat at his opponent, substituting nuance for fury. Almost immediately, Yarran was sliced again, this time on the shoulder. He cried out and barely dodged Wyatt’s finishing thrust that would’ve disembowelled him. Yarran slapped a hand to his shoulder, growling when it came back bloody.

Wyatt advanced, and Yarran took a step back, then another. He could barely deflect the crushing blows Wyatt was sending his way. Yarran had almost been pushed back into the crowd when he threw himself into a roll away from Wyatt, putting some much-needed space between them.

Azmar’s Ruin, Wyatt mentally cursed. I almost had him.

“You fight like a savage,” Yarran said, rising from his crouch and panting. His shoulder bled quite heavily, but it wasn’t enough to disable him.

Wyatt bared his teeth and advanced, then took a step back when Yarran pressed forward.

This time, Wyatt was walking backward as Yarran threw everything he had at him. Yarran tried everything: swift overhead strikes, fast cuts at his sides, and everything in between. He was good, great even, but Wyatt saw at least three times he could have potentially stepped in and finished it. Instead, Wyatt waited for the right moment so he could finish him without risking himself.

It came just a few moments later when Yarran over-extended himself, lunging for Wyatt’s gut. Wyatt twirled around the stab, shoving the blade away with his sword in one hand and drawing his dagger with the other.

Yarran’s cry of horror became a gurgle as Wyatt slammed his dagger into the Kulok Chieftain’s skull. He stood there, bleeding out his mouth and staring at him uncomprehendingly until he crumpled and fell.

Wyatt ignored the silent crowd, panting as he put his foot on Yarran’s back and drew his dagger from the former chieftain’s brain with a fleshy squelch. He wiped it on Yarran’s cloak, sheathed his dagger and sword, then turned to face the crowd of Kulok.

The Kulok tribe that would now called him Chieftain.

The old man came from the crowd, not sparing Wyatt a glance as he sped over to Yarran to check on him. He lifted his head, grimaced, and then lowered it back to the ground gently.

“The Challenge is completed,” the old man said. His voice was dull and full of repressed emotion. “We have a new Chieftain.”

No one moved. Wyatt took a deep breath, then another, trying to get his breathing under control. The fight with Yarran had been quick, but it had still taken a decent amount of energy out of him.

“Chieftain!” came a shout. It was half-hearted, but it soon echoed everywhere. The shouts built up strength and zeal until Wyatt could hear nothing else.

“CHIEFTAIN! CHIEFTAIN! CHIEFTAIN!”

The shouts were angry and afraid. Tears were running down some of the faces. None of them looked happy or pleased with what they were doing. They’re doing this because they feel as though they must, Wyatt realized. They’re doing this because of the traditions that bind them together. The thought was sobering.

Wyatt raised his hands. The crowd immediately quietened, waiting expectantly. Wyatt nodded, pleased that at least they were willing to listen to him. He turned to the old man next to him. The old man glowered at Wyatt, his eyes full of unshed tears and rage. “What is your name?” Wyatt asked him.

The old man was taken aback before his lips twitched upward. His eyes were still full of grief, but the rage had flickered and fizzled as he puzzled over the question. “Gyek,” Gyek said gruffly. “Why?”

“I need you to translate what I am about to say,” Wyatt told him.

Gyek considered this before he nodded. “It will be as you say, Chieftain,” Gyek said, almost spitting out the last word.

“My name is Wyatt,” Wyatt began. “I know little of your traditions, of your people, of your history. I knew enough to challenge your leader, and now he is dead. I have come to lead all of you into battle.”

Wyatt waited as Gyek translated this. He was ready for a wave of angry shouts or interruptions, but there was nothing. He looked through the sea of faces, turning his head to match eyes with as many of them as he could. Most were stone-faced, others were still angry, and all were still expecting more from him.

“The castle that myself and my people took shelter in has killed most of my people. Those that are left include Marek, who I fear has been consumed by the spirit that lingers within Ashenstead.”

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Wyatt waited for the shouts and accusations as Gyek dutifully repeated his words. Once again, he was disappointed. There were a few gasps, some pointing and whispering, but for the most part, they remained silent.

“I have come to lead you all in an assault on Ashenstead. Yarran threatened to kill us if we tried to flee, which is why Marek tried to seize a weapon that is guarded by the castle. I fear that it will cost him greatly.”

There was a cry, and then a man shoved his way through the crowd. He was tall and well-muscled. A sword was attached to his hip, and he wore an assortment of armored leathers. He was young, and he quivered in rage as he stopped a few paces away from Wyatt.

“Mla mlugzo klún vot ba!” he screamed, spittle flying from his lips. His expression was wild. When Wyatt said nothing, he whirled on Gyek.

“Bla zul!” he roared, stepping in front of Gyek and screaming in his face, “Bla zul dva vot tunhez ba zyozo!”

Gyek said nothing, but something in his face changed. His eyes narrowed, and the rage in the younger man’s expression vanished as he bowed his head. His shoulders shook as he began to sob. “Bla zul,” he croaked. “Bla zul, Kol.”

Wyatt was bewildered, but he didn’t show it as Gyek opened his arms. The younger man threw himself into them, still sobbing. The clearing was silent save for the younger man’s sobs as he sought to gather himself.

I don’t have time for this.

The thought was harsh, but it was also the truth. Wyatt was sympathetic to the younger man’s plight—he clearly had loved Yarran—but Ako and Anton needed him. If Marek was still alive, he desperately needed his aid.

Wyatt was about to speak when the Gyek turned back to him. He let go of the younger man, and the man wiped his face and stood beside him, red-eyed.

“This is Votdú,” Gyek said, gesturing to the man beside him. “Yarran was my brother. Votdú is his nephew and heir.”

“Chieftain,” Votdú said through gritted teeth. He bowed his head in supplication, a move that looked as though it physically pained him.

Wyatt bowed his head incrementally, much less than what Votdú had done. “I greet you,” Wyatt said. “You seem to speak Common. What did you say?”

Something flashed across Votdú’s face, but it was too quick for Wyatt to catch. “It is not my place,” Votdú said. “I am not Chieftain.”

“And yet you still spoke,” Wyatt said. “If I am truly your chieftain, I command you. Speak.”

Votdú glared at him with such hatred that Wyatt wanted to draw his sword. Votdú’s hand twitched. Wyatt tensed himself for another fight, but the moment passed. Votdú sagged.

“You would kill us all if we went,” Votdú said. His voice was quiet at first, almost a mutter. When Wyatt didn’t react, his voice grew stronger and more certain. “To enter the Ekke Kyakú is madness.”

“And yet Yarran us forced to take shelter in there!” Wyatt exclaimed, exasperated. He stepped toward the youth, ignoring Gyek and everyone else in the clearing. “We never wanted any of this. We were guarding a caravan, not seeking riches or valour.”

“The Zak was the one we wanted,” Votdú said. “We know the treasure that lies within the Ekke Kyakú. Many have entered trying to claim it. None have returned.”

“We didn’t know about it,” Wyatt growled, his exasperation moving into anger. Marek didn’t know.”

“Your Zak was different,” Votdú said, shaking his head and crossing his arms at his chest. “He is powerful. He would have sensed it.”

“And ignored it,” Wyatt said. “He didn’t care for power and glory. He wanted to go home.”

“Can you guarantee that?” Gyek said, entering the conversation for the first time. Wyatt turned to Gyek and saw the man staring back at him grimly. “Can you guarantee that your friend would not have entered the Ekke Kyakú?”

Wyatt went to answer no, that of course, Marek wouldn’t have, but hesitated. Marek had always been too curious for his own good. If a strange castle appeared out of nowhere in front of him with a magical power lurking inside, he probably would’ve investigated it.

“He would’ve gone in,” Wyatt admitted. Votdú’s expression turned smug, which angered Wyatt again. “That isn’t to say he would’ve done anything. Yarran’s actions forced him to desperation and things he would’ve never attempted. After a night within the castle, we probably would’ve left.”

“Probably,” Votdú repeated, sneering. “It doesn’t matter anyway, Chieftain. What would you have us do?”

“I would lead all of the Kulok here into battle,” Wyatt said. “We will attack the castle as soon as we can and end this.”

“The way is barred,” Gyek said, his tone disbelieving. “The Ekke Kyakú is alive, Chieftain. It won’t let us in. You know this.”

“It will for me,” Wyatt said. “It wants me, for some reason. It let me leave.”

“And why should we enter the Ekke Kyakú?” Votdú demanded. “It is a trap.”

“Then we spring it,” Wyatt said. “If we don’t, then I don’t know what Marek will do with a staff of Dominion Wood. He is not himself anymore. With the staff, he would become all but invincible.”

“And you would want us to fight him? To sacrifice ourselves?”

Wyatt stepped close to Votdú and jabbed him in the chest with his finger. The man flinched but remained there, unmoving.

“I would sacrifice us all for the chance to save the rest of the world,” Wyatt hissed, well aware of the silent crowd that was watching and judging him. “You were there for the battle in the Huzha, weren’t you? You saw what Marek did with a wand. Now, he will have a staff, and the castle probably has him. What do you think he will be capable of now?”

Votdú opened his mouth to argue, then closed it as he considered Wyatt’s words. Eventually, he stepped back and bowed his head again, much lower this time. “I will obey, Chieftain,” he said.

Wyatt nodded. “Good.” He turned back to a waiting Gyek. “You will be my second. Prepare all your people for war. We will attack Ashenstead within two hours. I left because Marek hasn’t returned for the past day or so. One of my friends went down there and hasn’t returned. Something has happened, and we must confront him soon.”

Gyek nodded.

“You speak the truth,” he said. “A powerful Zak with a staff of Dominion Wood and possessed by a mlan?” The older man shuddered. He straightened and began yelling in Kulok.

The camp was soon bustling as people shouted and ran. They gathered their weapons and armor, preparing for the battle that was soon to come. Gyek was a natural sergeant, roaring orders. He called a few men and sent them running off to different parts of the woods. Probably to call back more of Yarran’s forces.

Wyatt looked back at Votdú. He was looking at the organized chaos with an indecipherable expression on his face. “Votdú,” Wyatt called, startling the younger man.

“Chieftain?” he asked, turning to him. At least looking like he didn’t want to kill me now, Wyatt thought. Skin me alive, yes, but not kill me immediately. I’ll take it.

“Are there any duties that you must currently be doing?”

“No,” Votdú said curtly.

“Then would you like to… move Yarran’s body?”

Votdú’s eyes shot to Yarran’s body. No one had moved it—in fact, everyone was doing a passable job ignoring it as if it weren’t there. Wyatt could almost buy if not for the fact such a wide radius was being given to the former chieftain’s body.

“Gather a few men and move Yarran’s body,” Wyatt said when Votdú didn’t respond. His head was bowed again. “Move it and bury it. You’ve some time before the attack.”

“Yes, Chieftain,” Votdú rasped, and hurried away.

Wyatt was alone, although at the same time, he wasn’t. He felt it though, alone in a flood of humanity that flowed around him.

There was something in the back of Wyatt’s mind. A weight that seemed foreign. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now that he knew something was there, it was very noticeable.

Wyatt turned and then stopped when he faced the east, toward Ashenstead. The pressure doubled, turning into a mild headache. Wyatt turned his head, and the pressure lessened. He turned back and glowered in the castle’s direction.

I’m coming for you, Claire, Wyatt thought, genuinely unsure if Claire could hear him. There was no response. I will charge through the open gates and kill you.

If Claire was listening, then that should’ve provoked a response, but again, there was nothing. Wyatt shook his head and turned away with trembling fists. Ever since his family had been taken from him, Marek’s company had slowly become his family. He cared for them all, and now they were all in mortal peril.

And for now, I’m stuck outside of Ashenstead’s walls, forced to wait while Claire does whatever she wishes, Wyatt thought.

“I’m coming, Anton,” Wyatt said softly, thinking of the wounded and scared blonde youth he was beginning to love like a son. His thoughts then turned to Ako, who had also suffered much and yet was such a positive and good person. Even Marek, who he disagreed with daily, was someone who had always tried to do the right thing. He had potentially damned himself to try and save the Company.

“I’ll save you all,” Wyatt vowed. “I swear it.”