The hedron drew in arcane power, as irresistible as the pull of the moon on the vast oceans of the world.

Gerrard Price fell to his hands and knees and flooded the scars on his forearms in an attempt to purge himself, but he knew it wasn’t enough, and he bellowed as the ley power wormed its way through his body seeking an escape before exploded from his left eye, leaving half of his face in bloody ruin.

The pressure relented, and Price took a few shuddering breaths and mumbled a prayer, knowing the worst was yet to come.

The hedron had gorged itself, and there was a moment of tense calm as the world seemed to hold its breath, before a maelstrom of gray light burst forth. The flare of arcane power eviscerated everything in its path, and screams rose in a tortured chorus around him. When the howling storm relented, it left a metallic taste in the air and a stench of burned bodies that made his stomach heave.

Twenty Faelen officers stormed into the breach made by Myam-tal, and only one staggered out, his yellow uniform a ragged, bloody mess and most of his face missing. The pain-filled shriek that came from his open mouth was abruptly silenced by a faelen dart that struck him in the chest, and he collapsed.

Myam-tal lowered a shaking hand, taking ragged breaths. The skin of the high faelen's face was waxy and covered in beads of sweat and the area around himself and Price remained undamaged, shielded by his arts.

“I have spared you for now, abomination. Now tell me, what will this emissary deliver?” Myam-tal said.

“A treaty,” Price croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. “A treaty they will accept.”

“Then he seeks to betray me,” Myam-tal said to himself. “Bring him,” he ordered.

Hands seized Price, and he whimpered as he was hauled onto a horse and tied there. A small vial of rancid liquid was pressed to his lips, and he drank it greedily, recognizing the scent of the Faelen weed and feeling it seep into his system and dull the edge of the pain.

Hours of riding followed, and the journey was one of the darkest of Price's existence. He would have wept for his lost eye, but tears would not fall from the burned ducts. When he gathered the courage to inspect the wound, his trembling fingertips touched upon a raw, empty cavity in his face. Parts of his hair and beard had been burned away, and the skin of his face was tender and blistered.

As much as it repulsed him, he gently opened himself up to the ley line, letting a trickle of the burning ley power fill the channels it had carved into him years ago. It gave some relief from the pain, and he allowed more and more until he thought he might vomit. Then he banished it and sighed as the dirty gray light leaked out of the scars and runes on his hands and fell like liquid smoke, leaving blackened trails on his skin.

It was midday when they entered the army camp. Smoke from the fires that licked the blackened pots of thin soup filled their air, along with the shit and reek of the precious cavalry horses and the livestock that would be used as food. Figures in red Covenant uniforms were all around, and he saw hundreds upon hundreds of tents in neat rows.

“Bring him down,” Myam-tal commanded.

Price was pulled from the horse and landed on the cold floor and Myam-tal towered over him. The high faelen stood straight enough, but the strain of his injuries was clear in the deep lines on his face.

“You will present the information you have,” was all he said before he strode away.

Price was pulled to his feet and escorted into a vast tent, the inside lit by the gentle flickering glow of dozens of candelabras on a long, polished table. Dishes of fruit and meat were piled high between large crystal jugs of wine. The floor was lined with rugs and pillows, and all around the edge were comfortable-looking couches and small smokeless braziers that gave the space a deep warmth that soaked into Price’s frozen bones.

Myam-tal took a seat at the table with two other faelen. With their powdered wigs, painted faces, and embroidered uniforms, they looked like one of the street shows he used to watch as a child, back when the faelen were still nothing more than a fairytale.

“The leybound, General,” the guard pronounced, performing a crisp salute before backing out.

In the hand of the powdered, perfumed faelen at the head of the table was a long baton made of polished red wood and inlayed with gold script. A dark red light leaked out, seeming to warp the air around it. Price knew that this was Bimil-pal, one of the great generals of the Covenent army, who had shattered the armies of the Tarian kingdom and sacked the great city of Fallow-Neck and was now poised to push the ruined remains of the fractured regiments into the ocean.

“Why have you brought us this abomination, Myam-tal?” Bimil-pal asked.

“He professes to have information, my lord, regarding enemy activity in Morbian,” Myam-tal replied smoothly.

“You should have exterminated him immediately; he sullies the sanctity of the ley lines.” The third Faelen sneered at Price with open hostility. Though the tent was almost stiflingly hot, he wore a short cape with a fur collar, and his uniform was crusted with gaudy medals. He was the kind of officer that every soldier dreamed of dragging from his horse in battle, killing, and looting.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“If he has nothing useful to say, then I give you the honor, Tarir-del,” Myam-tal said, with a genteel inclination of his head.

Though Myam-tal spoke to the faelen officer, Price felt the words were directed at him. If his information was not useful, then his fate would be sealed.

“Speak then,” Bimil-pal ordered.

Price had been ready for the question and took a deep breath. “What assurances–”

The baton thudded onto the table, and a dark red light flared out. “None. You will tell us, or I will have you sent to the inquisition.” Bimil-pal didn’t need to shout; he held enough power in his hands to bring down a city wall.

Price had already overplayed his hand and cast his eyes down, his shoulders rounded. Let them see him as they wish, humbled and weakened. “The sun tower is sending an emissary to the conservatory of the arcanists and to the wikkan. The terms of a treaty will be accepted,” he said.

The one called Tarir-del gave a snort of contempt. “Your alliance already proves unstable, Myam-tal, as I said it would. This is the extent of your so-called network? It is not news. If he has nothing useful to say, remove him; the stench of his burned flesh offends me.”

Price felt a stab of desperation. “It is true that an emissary has been sent, but I have more. The wikkan have their own plan to destroy the tower, whether Sumner Nixton allies with them or not.”

This brought a raised eyebrow from Myam-tal, and Price tried to avoid his gaze.

“How would they achieve this? The arcane towers are practically indestructible,” Bimil-pal asked.

Price had the generals attention now, and he felt some of his confidence return. “They stole a powerful hedron from the arcanists. They plan to use the emissary as a cover to get their agent close to the tower.”

“Which is why you had the hedron.” Myam-tal spoke mostly to himself, as if just clicking the final piece of a puzzle that had been irritating him.

“I was the wikkan agent, under the orders of Ritta Kerne. But I stole the hedron, to bring to you as a show of good faith.” A deadly silence followed his words, and Price knew that he had overstepped. The faelen might look like relics from another age, but they were not fools.

“Unnecessary lies of self-preservation will not aid your cause,” Bimil-pal, said, a note of warning in his voice.

Price met the eyes of the faelen general and knew that he stood on the edge of a blade and that hungry beasts prowled beneath, waiting for him to fall. “Forgive me, my lord,” he muttered.

“He cannot help but lie, general, he is a Wikkan tool, sent here to divide our forces. We cannot be deterred from our pursuit; we must press forward and crush them against the ocean," Tarir-del declared.

Myam-tal gave a polite cough. “I believe his information; we know of Ritta Kerne of the wikkan, and it was true that the leybound had a hedron. The destruction of the tower would open the ocean channel to whomever held the citadel of Morbian. We have a token force there; at best, they are lazy and undisciplined. The guild could be marching a division through the hills as we speak to secure it,” he countered.

Tarir-del stood and pointed an accusatory finger at Myam-tal. “My unit garrisons the citadel of Morbian, as you are well aware. You could not be trusted to guarantee its security then, and now you bring in this abomination to sow discord. This creature needs to be exterminated. This war is being won in battle, Myam-tal, not through your spies and trickery.”

“Silence,” Bimil-pal said softly.

At his command, the two Faelen officers sat back down. Outwardly, they were composed, but the look that passed between them was filled with venom.

The general stood and moved to a side table and stared down at a map, turning the baton slowly in his long fingers. “Myam-tal, you told me that Sumner Nixton was too arrogant to ally with the arcanum.”

“He is,” Myam-tal confirmed.

“But the wikkan know, as we do, that if his tower falls and they hold the citadel, then the Erudoran fleet will pass through the channel and reach Helgan’s Rest. We cannot allow this to happen. If we are forced to retreat and return in the spring, I would not have the Erudoran army standing alongside this rabble of regiments ready to face me,” Bimil-pal said.

Tarir-del stood, flicking his cloak aside and seizing the hilt of his sword. “General, let me offer my battalion.”

“No, Tarir-del. Your forces allowed an emissary to leave the city, a failure on your part. Myam-tal will take his company through the Castemere Hills, secure the tower and the town, and unravel this wikkan plot.”

“Yes, my lord,” Myam-tal said, with a gentle inclination of his head.

“Perhaps my Lord will allow me to regain my honor. I will hunt this emissary and the spy, and I will discover if they are working with any traitors in our own ranks,” Tarir-del said, his eyes locked on Myam-tal.

Bimil-pal nodded. “Very well.”

Price felt the situation slipping away from him, and he desperately clawed at the only life line he could see. He had known great generals, and they only became great by dividing their allies as surely as their enemies.

“My Lord, I know who the spy is, and I know how they work,” Price said.

Bimil-pal’s eyebrows raised slightly, and he looked at Price as if he had quite forgotten that he was there.

“Information I will pry from you before I depart,” Tarir-del said, his eyes narrowing.

Price pressed on as if Tarir-del had not spoken. “I pledge myself to you, general. I will track them down and bring you the hedron to prove my worth. If Myam-tal will allow me to be your own prisoner.”

“You wish to fight against your creators, Leybound?" Bimil-pal asked.

Price let the dirty gray ley power bleed out of the scars and fall to the floor like liquid smoke. “They did this to me; I want to see them pay for their crimes.”

“The monster they created turned against them, a poetic justice the faelen can well appreciate. Myam-tal, you will give me your prisoner?”

Myam-tals fixed glare was unreadable, but his reply was smooth as always. “Of course, My Lord.”

“Very well, leybound, you shall travel with Tarir-del and prove yourself by capturing the spy sent by the wikkan and anyone else involved in this plot. Fail, and I will see that you pay for your deception with your life.”

“If I succeed, help me with my revenge on the wikkan, Ritta Kerne, and the arcanist, Riley,” Price said.

He knew he was pushing his luck, but the whole Covenant cause was a fight for vengeance for the thousands of years the Faelen spent trapped in their prison. If any argument swayed them, it would be this.

Tarir-del rose to his feet, his hand straying to the hilt of his sword. “You dare to dictate–”

Bimil-pal cut him off with a raised hand. “Prove yourself to us, leybound, and we shall talk of revenge.”