The Red Hand of the Emperor never thought he’d be negotiating with gobbarts. But it was fitting for the middle of a dull and dragging week.

He sat on a tree stump, facing fourteen of the little buggers. Four stood right in front of him, and ten more waiting in the woods behind. They peered through snowy bushes or sat in the branches of the bare, Aerdian trees.

The gobbart in the lead, a slightly taller and broader creature, was the only one who spoke to the Hand. In its soft, scratchy voice, the gobbart said, “If you want anything from us, you’d best pay up, Dominion-slave.” Its teeth chattered angrily. The hollow sound reverberated through the small clearing.

“I already paid,” said the Hand. And it was true—he had paid a handsome sum of silver to the mountain gobbarts. In return, they would watch and make sure nothing crossed over the border between Sirdia and Aerdia without him knowing.

“You paid our northern brethren, yes,” the gobbart squawked, then pointed its thumb at itself. “But word passed through the mountains and through No Man’s Land, and now to us. You gave nothing to our hive yet, and we’re the ones bringing you this word. So, you’d best pay up.”

The Hand blew out a puff of air. It condensed into steam in front of his face. He pulled up the collar of his coat—a black frock coat—and tightened his single scarlet glove against his wrist. He put on his most formal, respectful voice, and said, “I paid once, and I’m short on funds at the moment. Perhaps there is another arrangement we can come to.”

“Silver, gold, maybe we’ll settle for ambersteel,” said the gobbart. “Nothing else will do. We could take you back to the queen, and perhaps she’d negotiate with you herself.”

“I can’t make such a journey.”

“Figured a man like yourself, a servant of the Dominion, would be wiser and better equipped.” The gobbart hoisted up its crude, rusty axe. It beckoned with its hand, and three of the other gobbarts stepped forward as well.

“Either you pay up,” the gobbart leader continued, “or you come with us. We didn’t come down to the edge of No Man’s Land just to have you back out of a deal. You should have kept to advising the Aerdians. Or sulking around, exiled and powerless.”

“We had no deal,” said the Hand, “and if you put words in my mouth again, you will regret it.”

The gobbart didn’t seem to spare one second to consider what the Hand had just said. It spat, “Hah!” then motioned with its hand, beckoning the other nearby gobbarts to march forward. “Rob this man-filth of anything valuable, and then maybe we’ll give him what he wants.”

That was about as well as the Hand thought it would go. He sighed.

The three gobbarts who had stepped forward all brandished weapons—a splintered spear with a rusty head each. The rest gathered in a circle around the clearing. They thought they were cutting off his escape, and admittedly, it was somewhat cute.

But, unluckily for them, the Hand was bored. Teaching these horrid little creatures a lesson couldn’t hurt his mood.

The first gobbart rushed forward, trying to skewer the Hand with a spear. In an instant, the Hand reached for his sword. His fingers slid into place perfectly, finding just the right spot on the hilt.

The Hand slid the sword out of its sheath in a half-second. As he drew his sword, he hacked the spearhead off the gobbart’s weapon in a single, fluid motion. A quick downward swipe, and he slashed the creature’s throat. He stepped aside just in time to avoid the spurt of black blood.

The other two gobbarts advanced. They were more cautious, but not fast enough. The Red Hand slipped around the back of one and with a precise cut, he hacked through the creature’s spine. It collapsed. He stopped his blade in the exact spot he meant to—right in place to deflect the last gobbart’s spear.

With a single thrust, he impaled the last gobbart. The tip of his sword punctured straight through its crude armour. As soon as the creature stopped writhing, the Hand ripped his weapon free. The gobbart’s black blood glinted, barely visible against the dark steel of his sword’s blade. He flicked his blade down, scattering droplets on the snow.

The sword was crescent-shaped and heavy. It was about three inches from the cutting edge to back edge, giving it extra weight and heft. When the leader of the gobbarts swung its axe at the Hand, all it took was a little nudge with the heavy blade to slice the axehead off.

Before the gobbart leader could register that it was disarmed, the Hand gripped its hair and hauled it closer, until its throat pressed against the blade of his sword.

All of the gobbarts at the edge of the clearing raised their weapons, but the Hand spun in a slow circle, showing them all his captive. Their queen would be angry if one of her captains was killed—and none of these subservient vermin wanted that.

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Except for the captain, it seemed. The creature threw itself back and forth, nearly slitting its own throat. The Hand grunted. He was getting properly annoyed, now. He threw the gobbart toward the stump, then nailed its hand to the rotting wood with the tip of his sword. “Now, gobbart, tell me: What did you find? What news do you bring me? Do not delay, or I will have your head.”

The gobbart howled and yelled.

“Tsk,” the Hand spat. He turned away, flicking the tails of his coat. “Speak, or I’ll kill you on the spot. You think I can’t wait a week for the mountain gobbarts to bring me the same news?”

The rest of the gobbarts took a step closer. Before any of them could lunge at him, the Hand glanced at his sword. In a second, he could rip it free, and in another second, he could cut down three of them. The gobbarts all stepped back.

“Windspores,” the gobbart captain hissed. “The message came on windspores, written on the sky in invisible blight.”

“What was the message?” the Hand demanded, enunciating every word with force. He turned back to his sword and gripped the hilt. “This is your last chance.”

“A Sirdian elf!” the gobbart grunted, panting. “Riding a gnatsnapper from the north! From Northvel, probably! He reeked of Essence!”

So the heir had finally come out of hiding. Perfect.

“He crashed some forty leagues east of here!” the gobbart continued. “That, the mountain gobbarts won’t tell you!”

The Hand ripped his sword out of the stump—and out of the gobbart captain’s hand—then marched away. When he reached the edge of the clearing, the gobbarts at the edge parted, allowing him through. Their hands were trembling.

Without another word, the Red Hand stormed off into the woods. He prowled through the thin layer of snow, pushing it aside with his boots.

Soon, the winter would break. He hadn’t thought he would hear anything about the Black-Haired Elf until the spring or summer, but he was wrong. The boy had gotten bold. That penniless nation of winter elves had probably managed to get him an infusion of Essence, and now the boy wanted to flaunt it around. He’d twist some Aerdian minds just to show he could.

As the Hand crossed a small stream, he wiped the rest of the blood off his sword and tucked it back into his sheath. The gobbarts wouldn’t try anything, but just in case, he kept his hand near the weapon’s hilt until he reached the trail.

He hadn’t been able to get his carriage any closer to the clearing where he’d met the gobbarts. It was large enough to carry four passengers inside its black-painted hull, and an elven coachman sat up front. Two horses whinnied and neighed, ready to trot off along the road they had stopped on.

On both sides of the carriage, a pair of elven riders in orange robes and ambersteel armour—translucent and elegant—waited. They carried auburn banners marked with a yellow star. It was the crest of the governor-king of Aerdia, to which the Hand was supposed to be an advisor, though he knew well enough that the governor-king was dead. Long dead. The rest of Aerdia…hadn’t yet been made aware of their king’s passing.

It didn’t matter. Aerdia was firmly a vassal of the Dominion. It would stay that way.

The Hand approached his carriage and pulled open its door. Before he stepped inside, he glanced at the coachman and said, “Take the southeast road until I say otherwise. Understood?”

Nodding, the elf picked up his horse’s reins. “Yes, sir.”

The Hand climbed inside his and sat gently on the cushions, then tapped on the window. The carriage began rolling.

“Are you…alright, sir?”

The Hand leaned back against the cushion. His two disciples sat on the bench across from him. One, an energetic satyr, and the other a drowsy seafolk girl with glittering gills and scarlet hair. Both of their Familiars waited in cages on the back of the carriage.

Forcing a smile, the Red Hand replied, “I am more than alright. We have a lead—finally.”

“You heard about the heir?” asked the satyr—Nael. He straightened up in his seat and stared directly at the Hand. “The wizard-king of Sirdia?”

A true wizard wouldn’t have tolerated such excitable behaviour from a disciple, but the Red Hand wasn’t a wizard. He couldn’t harvest the world’s natural aura, the Eane, and purify it into Essence. He had no Familiar. He couldn’t use any arcane techniques, nor could he improve his body or walk a Path. However, he had travelled to every nation in the Dominion and had learned from many wizards.

And he learned how to kill them. Whether they were Kindling-stage or Flare-stage, it didn’t matter. He sat outside their scaling and strength.

Wizards were all the same—stuffy, annoying, honour-bound, and easily offended. He didn’t want to teach his disciples any bad habits. No, he would teach them about skill and speed, about precision and power. And most importantly, he would teach them why, even in exile, he didn’t need magic to be the best warrior in the land.

Measuring his response, he simply told them, “Yes. The heir. The elf with black hair.”

“And…we’re pursuing him, right?” Nael asked. “Where are we heading?”

The heir had crashed forty leagues east. His gnatsnapper was probably injured, and he would be looking for transport. He’d head to the nearest city—Rootmine. That was where the Hand needed to go, too. He answered simply, “Rootmine.”

Nael nodded. The seafolk girl, Khara, yawned, then nodded as well.

“Now,” the Hand said. “You’ve practicing your cycling techniques, correct? Your Familiars are in the back. I want both of you to have your core full of Griffin Essence”—he looked at Nael—“and Boar Essence”—he looked at Khara—“by the end of the day.”

Both of his disciples shut their eyes and set themselves into a deep breathing pattern. The Hand enjoyed the silence.

Soon, the Hand would slay Sirdia’s wizard-king. The Emperor would let him out of exile, and he would return to the Dominion as a hero. It would just be a few more months…