It was a scene from nightmare. Bodies were strewn across the battlefield. Some alive, most not. The dirt that had been thrown into the air by the explosion covered everything and everyone, mixing with the blood so that only a hint of blood peeked out from around the edges of the clumps of mud.

If you didn’t look closely the still corpses looked like they were sleeping. Taking a dirt nap.

The smell on the other hand, told a different story. It filled the air, and clung to the mouth.

All of it in happened an instant. A single streak of light darting from the top of the palisade, then an impact more felt than heard, and the left wing of the army surrounding the Alakesh garrison was erased from existence.

The right wing largely broke and ran, leaving a few stouthearted individuals willing to risk another smiting, crawling through the dirt-covered bodies, picking out those who breathed from those who didn’t.

Each of these brave, selfless men and women froze when they heard the sound of the gates rattling open again.

What emerged was just barely better than the enemy.

It was the Morkels, their banner raised in victory, their mind-slaves marching in lockstep, including some brand-new Vith acquisitions.

They’d actually come out of the battle with more force than they’d started with.

The survivors near the road scurried away like frightened animals. The rumors of Morkels press-ganging random civilians into their own army was widely known, and nobody was stupid enough to get close to them.

Which was why nobody noticed none of them were alive.

***Tom Graves***

I can’t even tell they’re not alive, Tom thought glancing back and forth across the marching Wratz’got. They were, on average, belligerent, arrogant bastards who despised everyone save themselves.

They passed as Morkels brilliantly.

With the possible exception of their impulse for physical violence, rather than mental or magical violence.

Still, nobody had even gotten close enough to notice the minor inconsistencies.

With the addition of the Wratz’got to the army, Tom had more military might than any other chief in the conglomeration of tribes, so he had given the rest of the villagers an out: anyone who wanted to continue raising hell could join the ‘Morkels’ as a ‘mind-slave’ while those who wanted to live in peace in the Dinamore stretch could use the dust cloud from the explosion to flee north along the coast.

About a fifth of the warriors had a taste for it, but the rest felt as though they had already avenged the defeat six years prior. They and the noncombatants had sprinted through the dimmed evening light at nearly forty miles an hour as the mushroom cloud settled, decreasing visibility to almost nil for hours.

Gunn, strangely enough, was one of those who wasn’t interested in stopping. The old man was wise, but he held a grudge. He strapped a mind-slave shield to his stump and hefted one of their pikes with ease, marching with the rest of the warriors.

Nema stubbornly insisted that she wasn’t losing ‘man number five’ so she marched alongside the others.

A hundred Vith warriors, a hundred and eighty Wrat’zgot, a Greater Wratz’got (Carol), twelve undead, Suzie, Nema, and Mr. Fluffybottom, who’d received an upgrade in the form of the deadly Gardor one of the lead Morkel had been riding.

With the loss of roughly eight hundred Vith warriors, Tom had come out of the battle weaker in pure fighting force, but far more flexible, not having to prioritize the safety of the civilians.

Now we can attempt a good-old suicidal Trojan Horse.

“Get your head down, pathetic worm!” one of the Wratz’got sneered, rapping Tom with his boot as he rode past, causing the chains around his neck to clatter.

“Was that really necessary?” Tom asked, clutching his ear, which felt like it’d nearly been torn off.

“Never know if someone might be watching, boss!” the ‘Morkel’ said, grinning evilly back at him.

Tom felt a ripple.

“Game face.” Tom said.

The ‘Morkel’s’ face went flat and he faced forward, ignoring Tom like a true Morkel would.

He felt space split behind him, revealing Raze, whose massive hand landed on Tom’s shoulder.

“Damn -”

***A half mile away***

“-It,” Tom muttered as the sun flickered overhead, shifting almost imperceptibly as they crossed an unknown distance.

“What do you want?” Tom asked, detaching the manacles and wrapping the chains around his arms. If he had to defend himself, so be it. Tom couldn’t risk using the cursemark this early in the game unless his life was truly in danger.

Raze’s gaze drifted down to Tom’s fake chains.

“You’re not a prisoner,” he said.

The killer’s gaze turned toward the distant Morkel flag, eyes burning with intelligence.

“The Morkels are dead, and you’re puppeting their corpses. Clever. No one of consequence will inspect their disguises from any closer than fifty feet.”

Tom remained silent. Waiting to see what the unpredictable Kinzena would do with that information.

“Well, with that, I’ve found a corpse that ‘belongs’ to you, and now I must deliver your ‘head’ to Vendrith. My ability to delay has run its course. I must deliver your head now. Choose whether it will be your head or your entire body, weapon included.”

“Believe it or not, you’ve already set in motion a sequence of events that will deliver me to Vendrith’s doorstep.” Tom said. he pointed at the army in the distance. “Where do you think we’re headed?”

“I gave you the opportunity to end the war immediately, yet you chose a path that involves further violence.” Raze rumbled, his eyes narrowing.

“I chose the path that doesn’t involve you killing me as soon as the cursemark is depleted,” Tom retorted.

Raze blinked.

“I know about your ‘decision’. I know exactly what you’re gonna do if you’re allowed to act on it. So if you think I’m gonna follow along with your plans, you’ve got another thing coming. I’m gonna kill Vendrith, but I’m gonna do it my way, and if you become a problem, I’m going to kill you.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Head it is,” Raze shrugged, space warping around him.

Tom triggered one of the expensive rings he’d purchased from proceeds of the slaughter, the blood sword popping into his palm.

He spun toward the spinning section of space and jammed the razor-sharp blade of blood into it.

Raze blinked into existence.

His eyes widened, and he glanced down at the sword that was reminiscent of an insect wing, buried four inches into his sternum.

“Interesting,” he muttered, reaching up and tapping the blade. Tom’s eyes widened as he saw the space around Raze’s hand crack, and an instant later, space filled in those cracks, severing the blood sword by bypassing the toughness of the material entirely.

Raze snapped a finger, and Tom ducked a spreading crack in space, backing away to get away from those deadly blades composed of nothing.

“You could send those a lot further in my dream,” Tom said, his left hand hovering close to the Cursemark in his jacket as his heart pounded violently. One mistake and it would be too late to tell Raze to stop. “Are you holding back on me?”

“I’m hobbled,” Raze said without emotion. “Naturally I can’t fight to the fullest extent of my ability.”

“That must make it pretty hard to bring Vendrith my head, doesn’t it?”

“I did expect this to be easier,” Raze said as Tom danced out of the way of another teleport grab, lacerating Raze’s arm in exchange for losing another foot off the sword. It was more of a stub at this point.

“You know what would be really easy?”

“Do tell.” Raze said, shifting his foot and teleporting a huge disc of bedrock above Tom’s head.

Tom rolled out of the way before it even appeared.

BOOM!

“If you can find a corpse that belongs to me, why not deliver a head that belongs to me?” Tom asked as he scampered out of the way of Raze’s follow-up attack. “I’ve got a wooden carving of my head in the camp. Hell, you could choose any of my Wratz’got, take their head. Maybe even that one that kicked me.”

“If I do that, Vendrith will know I can resist his commands and have me killed. If I am killed, I cannot follow through on my decision.”

“You won’t be killed,” Tom said. “He can’t kill you.”

“Explain.”

“The cursemark is too degraded. It’s hanging on by a thread. Every time I scried the future, the cursemark unraveled with the very next command Vendrith gaze you. He’s already in checkmate. One more order given in anger and you’re free. You don’t even need me for that.”

Raze cocked his head in thought.

“Now, if I can put a blade in your sternum and catch your hand through a portal, what do you think I can do with this?”

THUMP.

With a flicker of the power in Tom’s chest, running through his newly purchased ring, the stump of a sword was replaced with Jacob’s heavy steel magnum.

“Between me and Vendrith, I’ve got the better chance of killing you and putting your ambitions to rest. I’ve seen it.” It was a bullshit bluff, but it had the veneer of truth.

C’mon, buy it, buy it…

Raze took a step back and the fluctuations in space around them stabilized and smoothed out. He plucked the tip of the blood sword out of his stomach, his wounded arm hanging by his side.

He inspected the tip of the sword that was slowly losing cohesion, seemingly deep in thought as it dripped through his fingers.

“I suppose I probably should have killed you outright,” Raze said. “Your brush with death has made you much more difficult to handle.”

“Probably.” Tom agreed.

“En’hol.” Raze shook his head. “You remind me a lot of Merida En’hol. She always put a gun in my face every time we met.”

That is true, Tom thought.

“Very well. I suspect my chances of dying here are approximately equal to my chances of dying to Vendrith. All other things being equal, I’ll take my chances with the stupid old man.”

“Hold on,” Tom said as space began to twist around Raze.

“What?”

“There’s a good chance Marida En’hol will be there…with a gun.”

“I see. Much appreciated.”

“Enough to not kill my daughter?”

“Compromise is the path a Morkel uses to control you. I cannot compromise my decision, because I do not know if anything I experience is truly real.”

“How about not warning Vendrith about the fake Morkel army heading for the capital?” Tom compromised.

“It hadn’t even crossed my mind.” Raze said, his voice seemingly coming through a long tube as he vanished.

Once Tom was sure the giant was truly gone, his knees gave out and he collapsed to the ground, his heart fluttering like a caged bird as his army grew closer.

“Jesus Christ, that was scary.”

***Sasha Honnuken***

I’m starting to understand why Uncle goes on vacation so often, Sasha thought, rubbing her temples to remove the headache. The stress was still there, though.

Being a war hero wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. She’d been buried under a mountain of congratulations and back-slaps, followed by a mountain of responsibility. Decide this, oversee that. It was honestly as if her family couldn’t figure out a damn thing themselves, constantly consulting ‘Corvos’ for his opinion.

But she couldn’t just ignore it. She had to double down on her efforts to make sure that the decisions she did make were worthy of her uncle. But it still seemed like she screwed up half the time.

Ugh, if only there was some way to relieve the stress and keep my head on straight.

She knew what her uncle would do, but she couldn’t do that.

Can’t you? Nobody knows who you are right, now, and it’s not like you’ll suffer any consequences. Contraception was laughably easy as a Honnuken woman.

Ugh, gotta think about something else other than how easy it is to abuse power.

Her mind wandered to the reception among the Vith. She’d never felt that good in her life. Maybe I could just hire a masseuse. Yeah. That would work for stress relief. Just a masseuse. A handsome one…

“Sasha Honnuken,” A giant in a faceless mask spoke as he popped into existence in her room.

“EEEK!” Sasha flinched hard, nearly toppling over the heavy wooden desk she was sitting behind. All the pens and papers jumped a few inches before settling back down, a jar of ink toppling over.

“Ahem,” Sasha lowered her voice. “My niece isn’t here right now, so- by the gods, what happened to you!?”

Raze was bleeding from the upper stomach and the right arm, where a laceration ran from his shoulder down to his forearm. Before she even thought about it, Sasha was rushing forward to make sure the giant’s arteries were intact.

His wounded arm was supporting what looked like a carved wooden head, while his other hand held a burning letter with the Morkel symbol on it.

I feel as though I shouldn’t have seen that.

“Nothing of consequence.” Raze said, crumbling the flaming ash in his hand. “Would you mind healing the damage, young lady? I’ve got a meeting with the Patriarch and want to be at my best.”

“H-How do you know it’s me?” she asked, patching up his torso and arm.

“Muscle density is different between men and women,” Raze said. “You may have made yourself look identical to your uncle. But your fat content is totally different. Sloppy job.”

He poked her in the shoulder, his finger sinking into the fake muscular anterior deltoid.

“Rude,” she said, covering herself with her hands.

“And accurate.” Raze said with a nod. “Good evening, miss. I wish you luck in locating your uncle. I’m sure he’ll be back shortly.”

The giant vanished.

Sasha crossed her arms in a huff. One tiny detail I missed and he picks up on it like a godsdamned blood-seeker.

Was that a carving of Grant?

Or perhaps, the other one? Sasha mused, her previous frustration forgotten in light of this new mystery.

What does he need with a bust and a letter from the Morkels?

Something told Sasha that things were about to get weird.

***Marida En’hol****

20 seconds, Marida thought, checking that the safety on her pistol was turned off.

“I’m disappointed I have to keep cleaning up your messes,” Marida said, carefully lining up where she wanted to stand that would give her the best shot on Raze before he had a chance to realize she was there.

It was only a fraction of a second. Timing and placement was everything.

“I’m convinced you just want to cripple my power,” Vendrith said, his arms crossed.

“Come off it,” Marida said with a scowl. “We both know I’m doing you a favor. You’ve lost control of Raze and he needs to be put down before he kills both of us. You’re only protesting to ease your twisted conscience.”

Vendrith fumed, but he didn’t contradict her.

Ten seconds.

Suddenly everything shifted, causing Marida to flinch as she experienced death breathing down her neck.

“Vendrith,” Marida said, her skin breaking out in a cold sweat. “Don’t use the cursemark. Under any circumstances. Don’t even say anything.”

“What are you-“

“Don’t do or say anything, if you want to live, understood!?” Merida demanded.

Vendrith closed his mouth and nodded. He might bluster, but he knew better than to doubt her.

2 seconds.

Marida’s gun blinked out of her hand as Raze arrived in front of Vendrith’s desk.

The enormous prodigy held Marida’s pistol in one hand and a wooden bust in the other.

“Here you go father, the boy’s head.” He said, placing it on the desk.

Vendrith reddened but said nothing.

Raze cocked his head, watching his father desperately restrain his indignation.

“No more orders for me?” he asked. “Not even a little one? Not a word from the mighty patriarch?”

He waited, but Vendrith kept a lid on it, his face turning purple.

The giant’s gaze turned to Marida. “I see. So it’s a stalemate, then. I guess I’ll just…wait.”

Raze vanished.

“It won’t be long,” his voice echoed through the office long after he’d disappeared.

“Really kind of wish we had an emperor right about now,” Vendrith said, glaring at Marida.

“Stuff it old man, I’ve got to get my nephew out of prison. Little shit was right,” Marida growled to herself.

The Great Houses were in a death spiral, and she had a good idea who was responsible.