‘Tell me, Alfie,’ Sal said. They looked out from the walls of Dorwich City, as the column of goblin warriors approached. ‘What do you make of your first assignment with The Golden Blades?’

‘Not gonna lie, mate,’ said The Guvnah. ‘It’s a little more intense than I was expecting.’

The answer tickled Sal, and he laughed out loud. He rarely laughed. It was probably the beginnings of hysteria.

The goblins lined up opposite the city walls, waiting for their comrades to bolster their numbers. It looked like only half the goblin army was here—making it likely the other half had gone to Linby. Still. A thousand warriors was more than enough. The walls of Dorwich were nothing like those of Avolo. The city hadn’t been built to keep an army out. Dorwich had been intended as a stepping stone to further expansion. A statement of intent for The Golden Blades, to match Sal's ambitions. Those ambitions were now moments away from crumbling to dust.

‘What do you think?’ Sal asked Clamor.

The merc pursed his lips. ‘I can’t sense the mage,’ Clamor croaked. ‘Doesn’t mean he’s not here.’

‘Let’s assume he’s at Linby,’ Sal decided. ‘Get into position.’

Clamor left, leaving just the two of them. Sal would keep The Guvnah and Clamor by his side today. They were the only two mercs he trusted with his life.

‘I am Salvador Blair, captain of The Golden Blades. I would speak with your king,’ he shouted. He didn’t use the king’s name. It was long and unpronounceable.

More goblins arrived. Sal studied them. They looked travel weary. They had walked a long way. They had no wargs, like the goblins the Apples had tangled with out west. They were a defeated army, so he’d heard: forced from their homeland by the expanding Kuthenian empire. But they were more than a match for his force, or any other in Gal’azu. A thousand armed warriors. Another fifteen hundred had travelled with them, many of whom could be called upon to fight if needed.

It took a while, but there was movement at last. A goblin, in chain mail, with a sword at his belt, approached with a dozen bodyguards.

Are you the king? Sal wondered, aware that a ruse wouldn’t be hard to implement. ‘You’ve come to take Dorwich?’ he shouted.

‘We have come to take all the lands here,’ the figure shouted up. ‘There will be a great goblin kingdom, and the humans shall be our slaves.’

The goblins roared their approval at these words.

Damned Kuthenians, Sal thought. They’ve turned them into our enemies. ‘Dorwich is mine,’ Sal shouted back. ‘I built it. I won’t be handing it over to anyone, you hear me? Maybe you can take it from me. But I’ll make you pay such a price in blood that your ambitions will be ruined. The best of your warriors will be dead. Your army will be fatally weakened, and the rest of Gal’azu will finish you off. There will be nowhere for you to run to then. Take my advice. Leave Dorwich. Take this force to Linby. Cross the river there. Your path to Avolo will be clear.’

‘The Golden Blades are mercenaries, are you not?’

‘Aye.’

‘Then switch your allegiance to the new ruler of Gal’azu. Show me fealty, and you can keep your company. Let us pass through this city, and we will leave it unharmed. That is the path open to you and your warriors.’

Maybe, Sal thought. Maybe, when I was younger, I would have fallen for that. ‘I lost a company once, to a king. That won’t be happening again. The Blades are mine. Dorwich is mine. You will be making a grave mistake in trying to take them from me.’

‘We will take Dorwich. At this very moment, I have a force taking Linby. We will take both bridges. We will take your farms, and enslave your people. Then we will all march on Avolo, and take your capital. You cannot stop us.’

‘Now!’ Sal shouted.

Clamor’s arrow flew from the city wall, arcing over the heads of the goblins, and striking the king in the neck.

He fell, dead. The goblins screamed their rage and defiance.

But there were no wails of grief. ‘That wasn’t their king,’ Sal said.

‘Probably not,’ The Guvnah agreed.

A drumming began. Deep sounds that echoed in the air and travelled along the ground, reaching the pit of Sal’s stomach.

The goblins ran at the walls.

‘Come,’ Sal said, backing away. ‘I have a palace to defend.’

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

***

Stricken dragged his sack into the Hollow, struggling with the encumbrance. When he reached the courtyard, he was done. He had taken it such a long way, and his energy was all gone. His body cried out for the sustenance that would replenish it.

Amotken opened the sack. ‘A mere bag of bones!’ Anger radiated from him.

Stricken avoided his yellow flecked eyes. ‘It was the only way to bring it here, master. The mercenaries stole the sword and armour.’

‘It is not thy fault, Stricken,’ the sorcerer said, using his kind voice. ‘Thou have done well, proving the faith I have in thee. But thou must do me one more service. The ritual cannot take place down here, in this hole. We must take her to the Crimson Palace. It is the only suitable location. Come. We must leave now.’

Amotken pulled his cloak around his shoulders and strode away.

Stricken lifted the sack and followed him. He would have to work harder, and not complain. Somehow, he had to ignore the hunger that threatened to consume him.

They travelled east, across land that had not yet been claimed by settlers. Stricken wondered where the humans Amotken had placed in the Hollow had come from. He was certain they were not from Gal’azu: they were not Hargon; or Livanian, Durnish, or Alinko. He had many questions about the people his master kept there, but he refrained from asking them.

On the second day, Stricken realised they were walking along an old road. It was mostly overgrown—nature concealing it. But occasionally it would reveal itself. They would walk along a section of weathered, paved slabs. How long the road had been here, and who had constructed it, Stricken didn’t know. But he realised there had to be a connection to Amotken, and the bag of bones he toiled with.

Night had fallen by the time he first caught sight of the Crimson Palace. High walls and towers loomed in the darkness. The moon was clear in the sky, and he could see the stone building had a blood red tinge to it.

They entered through a gap in the outer wall that looked like it had been torn with great violence. Rubble lay where it had fallen. A set of crimson stone steps took them up. They rose into the sky, the steps seemingly endless. They took them through a second wall. Various paths were now available, leading to the towers and spires of the palace, all built from the same crimson coloured stone. Amotken led Stricken to an alcove, the stone ceiling reaching twenty feet high. At the end of it was a heavy, reinforced door. It scraped along the floor when Amotken pushed on it.

They entered the palace, a stone flagged corridor offering three directions. When Amotken shoved the door shut, everything was left in darkness. Stricken was only just able to follow his master, who appeared to know exactly where he was going. They passed through an opening into a great chamber.

High windows on one side of the chamber revealed a scene of ancient devastation. Human skeletons, and those of other creatures—still in the tattered remnants of their clothes—lay where they had fallen. It was obvious that a great battle had taken place here. A long time ago. The bodies, the broken furniture, and the weapons, were covered in a layer of dust.

‘This is where Eyota fell,’ Amotken told Stricken, as if he was supposed to know who she was and what had happened here.

Stricken put his burden on the floor.

Amotken knelt by it and busied himself with his task. He pulled the bones from the sack and began to rebuild Eyota’s skeleton. It was painstaking work. Stricken sat and waited. The atmosphere in the palace was subdued. It was silent and still, save for Amotken’s work. If he had been alive, Stricken might have described it as restful. Now, though, he never seemed to truly rest. Certainly, he never slept. Time seemed to flow around him. He found he was increasingly losing connection to days, weeks, and the other measurements of time he had once relied on.

Amotken stood. He fetched a cloak, shaking it free of dust, before placing it on top of the reassembled princess. ‘There,’ he said, sounding satisfied.

‘Did she rule here?’ Stricken asked.

Amotken turned sharply, as if he had forgotten Stricken was even there. ‘Her father did.’ He returned his gaze to the long dead woman.

Time passed. After a while, Stricken noticed the sorcerer’s lips were moving. Later, he heard a sibilant muttering, only just loud enough to hear. It was a sound that set him on edge. Perhaps, he realised, because it sounded like several voices were muttering, while only Amotken’s lips were moving.

Next, a faint glow could be seen around the skeleton. It raised in intensity, until all Stricken could see was the white light. It became too much, and he was forced to look away. He saw Amotken’s body pinned in mid-air, held by some supernatural force that stopped him from falling. Amotken screamed in agony, a noise that tore at Stricken’s soul.

Amotken was dropped. His body crumpled to the floor.

There was a desperate gasp of air.

Stricken turned to see the white glow had gone. Princess Eyota was whole. Her eyes flicked open. She looked around, her blue eyes full of alarm, as her hand appeared to reach out for a weapon that wasn’t there.

Her body reacted quickly, moving as her eyes took in the slumped form of Amotken, and then Stricken. She was quick to her feet. The cloak slipped to the floor, revealing a nubile, muscled, dark skinned woman. Her skin was crossed with scars. Stricken knew his living body would have been filled with desire, even though that part of him had not been revived by his master.

‘Who are you?’ Eyota demanded.

‘Stricken. I serve Amotken,’ he said, gesturing over.

‘Amotken?’ she repeated, a mix of emotions in her voice he couldn’t interpret. She looked around the room, confused—angry.

The sorcerer raised his head. ‘Princess Eyota. Let me explain. Thou died here.’

‘Yes,’ she said, frowning. ‘The palace is overrun. Our last stand. Where is everyone?’

‘Thou died here,’ Amotken repeated. ‘I have protected thy body ever since, waiting for this moment. Thou are now reborn.’

She shook her head, as if unable to digest his words. ‘Where is my guard? My soldiers?’

‘Most who fought here fell with thee. Thou died here. Three hundred and sixty years ago.’

Her eyes bore into his. ‘Thou hast woken me from death?’

‘I have waited all this time, Highness. The empire fell all those years ago. But now there is a chance to restore it. Thou can lead us again.’

Eyota was breathing heavily, as if her body had gone into shock. ‘On whose orders? My father’s? Where is he? Is he alive?’

‘Your father lives. He sleeps. There is a chance for Sargassia now. I have waited all this time to seize an opportunity like this.’ His voice broke. ‘I have waited so long.’

She prowled towards him, seizing his cloak with both hands. ‘Take me to my father.’