Myam-tal held a scented glove to his nose. The light breeze carried the stench of the enemy troops directly towards him. They were swine, never washing, then covering the rank odor with cheap, distasteful perfumes.

A tall sergeant awaited him, standing stiffly to attention before his ragged unit. His gray eyes and long hair gathered in a dirty leather pouch behind his neck marked him as an Erudoran, though he looked more like a beggar in his battered uniform. Myam-tal’s nose wrinkled; this man was the source of the stench, as though he had been rutting through excrement.

“Sergeant Riot, I present High Faelen Myam-tal. My Lord, this is the man who stole your personal effects,” Alar-dal proclaimed.

The barbaric sergeant glared openly in a manner that made Myam-tal want to burn his eyes out. He wanted to bring him to heel and break his will. This man was as bad as the leybound abominations. He was the manifestation of the very disease that the Covenant sought to eradicate from the continent. The lack of respect for their betters, the lack of obedience.

“Bow,” Myam-tal commanded.

Half of the ragged men in the enemy company practically folded in the middle, but the wretched Erudoran just stood there, defying him.

“Your officer made an offer under a flag of parley for myself and everyone under my command to leave, and I accepted it. Will you honor it?” The sergeant asked.

The brazen defiance with which he spoke made Myam-tal want to have him flayed. Blood pounded in his ears, and his fingers twitched, aching to form a working and burn him from this world. But there were officers behind him from Tarir-del’s regiment, and if breaking his word would shame him, forging a working for such a lowly creature as this sergeant would be his ruin.

Myam-tal took a steady breath and regained his composure. The war would be won, and those like him would be ground under foot and broken; it was the honorable way. “I will respect the word of my officer. All those under your command will leave. Though you will give me your sword and all other weapons, it is right that you return in shame.”

The sergeant began to untie his sword belt, looking up sharply as a sound like a cracking of stone exploded from the farmhouse.

Shouts, grunts, and crashes came from within, and with a great crack and a flare of arcane light, the door flew open. An old man with a dirty beard came tumbling out and lay on the ground, groaning, a dark hole gently smoking in his shoulder.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

A prisoner stumbled out after him and ripped off his filthy gag. “I surrender to the Faelen; I have information!” He cried.

Myam-tal glared unblinkingly at the arcane ley power that fell from the man's hands like liquid smoke, and he veritably shook with rage. “Leybound abomination,” he cried, pointing a trembling finger. “Seize him!”

“Take him back inside!” the Erudoran sergeant shouted, drawing his sword to check the advance of Myam-tals officers. “This man is my prisoner; on your honor, you said we could leave.”

The tall sergeant glared at Myam-tal with such menace that it struck him like a physical blow. That he dared to draw his blade almost made him vomit with indignation. Insolent, indolent worm! His mere presence was an affront. Had they no officers, no noblemen? How they insulted him!

Several of the ragged men stepped toward the prisoner with the grim expressions of executioners.

“Stop,” Myam-tal commanded. It was a simple working and the wretches froze in place, the muscles of their faces contorting as they struggled against the command. The officers behind Myam-tal murmured their surprise. There would be consequences. But he cast the thought aside. “Come forward,” Myam-tal instructed.

The prisoner stepped forward hesitantly, glancing at the Erudoran, whose face was contorted with rage as he fought against the command. He was filthy; his hair and beard rank and matted. His face and brown smock were stained black by the arcane ley power that corrupted his body, and his hands bore the scars where their arcanists had mutilated him.

“Abomination,” Myam-tal declared, hearing the murmur of assent behind him. “Be thankful that I have already guaranteed you safe passage, for I should eradicate you.”

“No, I have information to share about the Wikkan.” The prisoner had a proud bearing, clear even under the muck, a clipped accent from the East, and a confidence born of his station.

“You are no commoner.”

“I am a captain, my Lord. Betrayed by both the arcanists and the witches.”

Though the Covenant waged war for control of the continent, battlefield glory had never interested Myam-tal. He fought his war in the shadows, with secrets, lies, and information. His true enemies were the Wikkan.

“Tell me what you know.”

“An emissary is being sent from the sun tower in Morbian. I know more, but I need assurances of protection.”

Myam-tal remained very still, his eyes boring into the prisoner, wondering if the man knew that the very mention of the sun tower was a death sentence for all of the ragged men behind him. Creating a working and breaking his word could ruin him, but losing the sun tower would cost him his life and possibly cost Bimil-pal his army. What he knew for sure was that they had heard too much to be able to live. The only consolation was that he could now kill the insolent Erudoran sergeant.

“Take the prisoner; kill the others,” Myam-tal ordered.