"Are they in place?" asked Senn.

"Yes. As well as they can ever be. They're disposable."

"Even trash has a purpose. They'd better achieve it, or the Lord will be angry at them."

"At us."

Senn smiled and turned to look at the other man. His grin made Izal uneasy and he looked away. Senn knew his general as well as any man, but that didn't mean he trusted him.

"At you," said Senn. "The Lord looks upon me as his Herald. I've gotten us this far. No matter how much you want it, you should remember that everyone hungers, but the Lord of Greed ranks his men not for their ambition but for their ability to get things done as well."

The second-in-command frowned. What Senn was saying was true, but it was Senn who would cast the fault upon him, not the Lord. Their God was prone to disappear for long stretches and wouldn't stay still long enough to pass judgment, so the Herald's voice was the God's own for all intents and purposes.

Senn took one step sideways, turned toward Izal, and walked away. No one in the Lord of Greed's army would simply turn his back on a rival. They always slipped away far enough to avoid a dagger in the back, which made them seem courteous people unless you knew the movements for what they were.

He climbed down. In front and around him, a ring of mountains circled a kind of bay, a tongue of water that came from beyond the plains and lapped the feet of the mountains, holding a flat sliver of an island over it. The water barely moved, and the isle itself was ringed by steep buffs that made it seem inhospitable. But it was Senn who had learned it was anything but lifeless. It held dangers far worse than any the midlands themselves or their inhabitants could claim. What they could be hiding was enough to frighten Senn and make him angry as well.

He had fought that enemy for years and years. It was his oldest enemy, even before he knew about it or recognized it for what it was. He had seen it in multiple faces, hiding amongst men who should have known better, whom he had thought were above it. But his enemy was insidious like no other and wouldn't cease to assault the men of the plains. He had fought them openly and under cover of darkness, and they had turned some of his own men against him. A few had swelled their ranks, but Senn didn't fear being outnumbered again. This was but a trickle of water evaporating in the windswept plains. It was nothing but a plague, and some men couldn't be touched by it. Like Senn, they had been inoculated before they ever really caught the disease. But it had a way of spreading that could make even the immune pause and consider it.

He had tracked the disease to that isle. There were other places that were harder to reach, but the fugitives gave more weight to being close to their victims than to safety. They were probably right. There is no safe place anywhere. Damned pretenders. They could have picked a better place to make their last stand. The walls won't hold anyway, so why stall?

But Senn's dichotomy persisted. There were no inroads to the isle, no bridge to close the gap. And no man of the midlands had walked over water or sunk in it as long as he could remember. He didn't know how they had gotten there. But they had done so for sure since he had captured a fugitive in the surrounding mountains and made him talk in ways in which no man could hold a lie for long. The Lord of Greed's interrogators were eager and precise in their work, as if they extracted pleasure from each new emotion or fact unearthed from their subjects. There was more than sadism in it, for those who excelled at cruelty were drawn to the Forever King's host instead. The hunger was what characterized the All Eater, and his men followed suit in a myriad of ways, be it hunger for power or knowledge, or even pettier things.

Senn's battalion had set up camp in the inner circle of mountains, in the broad crystallized expanse that separated them from the water. The crystal on the floor was a strange sight still, and the sun's reflection on it forced everyone to walk with their faces covered in bandages or clothes. They had learned quickly to avoid the brightness. Some men were still suffering from debilitating headaches because of it, and one had been blinded. The ground was also unyielding: no stake or shovel could penetrate the outer crystal surface. So the camp was an even more ramshackle affair than what was usual in the midlands, as the tents were held up by poles protruding from bags or tied up to rocks brought from above.

Needless to say, the men were less than comfortable and complained constantly. But among the whole thousand of the lot there were enough of the Sparked —about two dozen— to hold them in line and remind them that the only way to the god's grace was by following their Herald in this mission. At the best of times, Senn thought, the whole army remembered that the way to fill their hunger was through succeeding in their joint mission; at the worst, each Sparked tugged in his own direction and the whole battalion risked succumbing to infighting before even catching a glimpse of any enemies. Senn had made his peace with it all, though: no man could lead the Lord of Greed's army without dealing with the inherent nature of the men under his command, nor could he fault them for it. After all, even in that, they were following their god.

Senn reached the shimmering bank with a thud after slipping the last couple of feet. The crystal grew into the mountainside and was often covered in dirt, so you didn't realize you were stepping on smooth glass until your feet slipped. Once he recovered his balance, he covered his head with the white scarf he wore around his neck and set out to inspect the rest of the camp. The scarf was so thin he could see through it, though only blurred images, but that was better than being blinded by the light or by a dark cloth.

The men sat, squatted, or lay everywhere, but no one rose to greet him or even straightened up. Some of his men had done so in the past, but the habit was quickly bred out of them in favor of more useful attitudes, like watching attentively for any weakness he might show in hopes of catching him off guard. The Lord of Greed encouraged killing only when one's own status or material wealth could improve by doing so, not at all times like many of the more ignorant men of the plains thought. But that was enough motive for a third of the men in the camp to want to kill Senn. The other two-thirds were so far below him that killing him would grant them nothing. At most, they would be thanked by someone in a position to take advantage of the power vacuum and then likely stomped on just to make sure they didn't threaten the new leader.

The main army was mostly rabble, there to swell the ranks and bear the brunt of the damage, to lift and push. What worried him was holding his Sparked in check and making sure they stood in position to help them achieve their goal. That's why he had brought the carts. The midlands were bereft of trees, so every pole and cart was a luxury. There was no way he could build enough rafts for his army, so his strategy was to keep his army back in position to surround the enemy and stop any escape attempt once his attack started. But he still needed a way across.

The Sparked were all gathered in one place, near the water. As he approached, he felt a growing apprehension. Being around so many of them always made him uneasy, and there were good reasons for that. He had faced half a dozen assassination attempts since he was the Herald, and would face more. The Sparked were the next in line to succeed him, and while their ambition roared in their stomachs, it would only take one of them flaring the hunger in another man enough to push him toward killing Senn. The attacks he had suffered had been like that, though he had no way of proving who had been behind them. He held no illusions about finding the culprit: most probably, all of them had tried it at some point. And that was the way of things.

As he stood before them, they all turned to face him, two dozen men with burning eyes and twitchy fingers. That was the hunger showing, and Senn knew it better than anyone, though it sometimes surprised him to see the effects in others, for he could not see that in himself.

In the midst of the Sparked, there was a triple row of Husks. They were not guilty like the men they were chasing, but they were Leashed anyway, so that made their lives forfeit. They were tied with ropes made out of roots, their arms outstretched and tied to the backs of the men in front. There had to be a few women and children among them, but Senn didn't bother to check. His men would have been conscious to use mostly men for the task since women had to be kept for breeding and children would be useless for the task.

"Are we ready?" he asked.

"Yes," said Mirai, foremost among the Sparked. Senn still remembered when he was a boy and he had taken it upon himself to guide him and turn him into the believer he was now. Mirai had always called him 'Lord Senn', but not in the last year or so. He would not be surprised to find him driving a dagger into him some time. In a way, he would be proud.

"All right. Then do it. What are you waiting for?"

“We thought you'd want to watch.”

"Greed. You should have taken your glory when you could. Now it's mine."

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Mirai bowed a little and hissed, his reproach aimed mostly at himself.

"Do it," he said, but the others hadn't waited for him. Each one was already pushing since they had heard Senn's words.

Don't expect them to follow, boy. Lead, and make them run to keep up.

The push was anything but physical. Each Sparked stood still, concentrating on the Husks. Sweat stained their scarves and bandages as they increased the hunger in the captive men. There were no complaints, not even a grunt. The Husks knew their station. They recognized the hunger for what it was, not an ailment of the body but a desire that raged in their stomachs until it burned all through their bodies. The Lord of Greed inhabiting their every cell. And with it, a little voice that came from within, but which every Sparked used to their advantage.

Maybe this is not death. I can survive it. If I do, I'll be raised to be a follower. Maybe even a Sparked!

They were all like that. Even the lowliest of the Husks held the Lord's Gift. Senn looked at the captives’ advance and beamed with pride. Only the Lord of Greed could do this. Some men didn't even hold cruelty in their hearts until it was put there, but all of them felt the touch of hunger, real hunger that taught them that greed was necessary to survive.

Now, their greed was driving them forward into the waters. The first men had already disappeared beneath the waters, and the rest followed without flinching. Not one of them tried to swim or escape. They went on walking until they couldn't reach the ground and then kept walking underwater until they couldn't breathe anymore. Senn watched them disappear and frowned. They hadn't even made it halfway to the isle. The water was deeper than they thought. It would take longer.

"Stop!" he yelled. The Sparked ceased their pushing, and the men who were still above water stopped walking. "We'll have to wait until the drowned resurface. If we keep pushing ahead, they'll pile up where they are. Once the dead are floating, the ones behind can keep pushing them."

It would take one or two more days to do it that way, but there wasn't a faster way. Senn slipped away and turned back to the camp. A gust of wind shook his scarf off and made it fly away. Without thinking, Senn reacted and used his speed to catch it in flight, faster than the wind. The god's gifts were many, some more subtle than others.

Before putting his scarf back on, he caught a glimpse of himself in the crystallized ground. He hadn't looked at his own face in a glass in a long while. He was older than he thought. Older than Mirai, a lot older than the little boy that scavenged for roots. He had come a long way since he was Leashed himself. A few locks of gray hair betrayed his age, though he wasn't sure how old he truly was. He hadn't kept count and when he was young he had had no one to ask. There was no point wondering about it, though. Everything was the same in the world day after day. It only grew harder until you weren't around anymore. Until the world caught up to you and your strength wasn't enough to offset your weakness. Senn had seen it happen time and time again, to men whom he had thought would live long lives due to their qualities. So why linger in the world if death was all there was to it? Why not walk to the water?

Senn shook his head, stunned. He wasn't prone to those thoughts, and getting caught up in them was a sure enough way to forsake his life. Any follower, Sparked or not, could see that hesitation in his eyes and that would be the end of it. Anything less than the fire of hunger in your eyes, and you could lose it all. Senn had seen it. He had been on the other side of that proposition.

He tied his scarf back on and walked toward his tent. It was less than grand, just a little bit bigger than the others, but he didn't have to share it like the rest of the followers. The Sparked and the Herald always slept alone, and not due to their rank. While they were away from Lordstown, not one of them risked sharing their tent even with women or whores of either sex. Some were said to take Leashed women who were too afraid to resist and posed no danger, but to Senn that was foolish. The leash could be long or short, but he knew firsthand that every captive, man or woman, harbored thoughts of revenge. Not freedom, for the only way to get that was through strength or through death, and most couldn't reach the first or risk the latter. But revenge was always close at hand yet desperately far away, until it wasn't and someone died and a Leashed one broke his bindings.

He lay down in his tent over a leather bedroll, taking out his twin daggers and holding them in his outstretched arms. He was a light sleeper, and that had saved his life more than once. A weakness came over him whenever he was about to sleep, telling him to relax, to wind down. But that road only led to death. Maybe after he got rid of the last fugitives... but that was a fool's thought. After that, there would be something else to fight, lust for, achieve. The God demanded so.

* * *

He knew it for a dream as soon as he saw himself in front of that fire. His body was his present, adult one, but the setting was not in his memories. He had been a child back then, some time after meeting the god for the first time. It wasn't just any fire he was sitting in front of; he recognized something about that night, the way the fire pulsed against the darkness. Or maybe he was wrong and he only thought he remembered it. Truth was, there was no other night that he remembered as vividly as that one. Most nights had been a haze of hunger, fear, and cold. Not that night.

In the dream, he sat in front of the fire, and across from it was Naial. She was a timid little thing, and that was a good and a bad thing in the plains. She didn't catch anyone's attention, but she also had no one to look out for her. Senn wanted to be the one to do that. She was small for her age, which he thought was around his own. She wouldn't blossom for a while yet, and that kept her safe. But once she did, once she started drawing glances, she would need someone to protect her. She hadn't said anything to him yet, but he had seen her looks and thought they held budding promises.

She had been abandoned like him. There was no attachment possible in the plains. Most parents only fed their children until they could fend for themselves. Senn didn't blame them for that. He wouldn't share his food or fire either until he met Naial, and even then he always hid things from her. Life was like that, and no one felt guilty for surviving. Guilt didn't last long when the other option was starvation.

He got up and walked to her side of the fire. It was a small one, burning off the thick outer part of the edible roots of the plains. But it was all that kept them from the cold that would otherwise make them sick. Sickness led to weakness, and then to hunger. But at night, sometimes it was more than just a source of heat. For a brief few moments that night, something else burned in the fire, an emotion that Senn didn't recognize, and wouldn't do so for half a lifetime.

His dream started to diverge from his memories, but he didn't stop it. He had wanted to kiss Naial and he never had, and in the dream, she was his and only his.

* * *

The next day, the bridge was almost done. It wasn't steady and it didn't allow for more than one man across at a time, but it was enough for Senn's purpose. His army had already positioned itself all around the lake, cutting off all escape routes. The men they were chasing always seemed to be able to escape miraculously or to stay out of their reach by a hair's width. Senn planned to make them need a true miracle this time.

When he reached the bank, the Sparked were almost ready. A few stragglers were running from their tents, sheathing weapons or stopping to tie bootlaces as they approached. All were expectant, and for the first time in weeks, Senn was glad for the hunger they showed. This time, he could make something of it, directing it against their enemies and not have it squandered in musings of treason.

"Let's go," he said. "One man at a time, give yourselves a few paces' breadth. We don't know how steady it will be. Once you reach the other shore, spread out in a wide defensive formation. Archers first, just in case, and swordsmen at the back. Mirai, go with the first archers and secure that beach for me."

Mirai nodded, uncertain whether he should be glad he was chosen, annoyed that he was given that treatment instead of him taking the role for himself, or angry at being put in harm's way on purpose. But he led the men anyway, taking their first steps in the water up to where the bridge started. The bodies had bloated and lay limp on the surface, but the ropes held them. A few soldiers had gone over them before, retying the corpses together so the bridge wouldn't fall apart just as the Sparked crossed it. But even from Senn's vantage point, it was a horrible sight. It wasn't a true bridge, just something made up on the run, but Senn worked with the tools he was given. The bodies drifted apart and closer together at different points, so the people crossing the bridge had to stumble from one body to the other, being mindful of their footing. The bridge was tied to poles on the near shore so it wouldn't move, but on the other side it was loose, so the whole structure swayed noticeably.

Still, it worked. Mirai and the other four Sparked reached the shore and fanned out. The next group was already halfway through, their steps more confident now that they had ascertained the bridge's stability. Senn fondled his daggers and stepped into the water slowly. The first part was difficult, climbing onto the first bodies and finding his balance. It grew easier after that, but he started dreading the trip back, after he was done with the fugitives. There had to be a better way. They didn't have to do this to reach the isle. He repeated those words until the meaning of them became muddled. Was he talking about the fugitives, or about himself?

He reached the far shore at last, barely staying ahead of the last few Sparked. He stumbled onto the beach and found his men already climbing the buffs at a place where the erosion had formed a natural staircase. It was a hard climb, but he regained his poise upon reaching the top and spoke before anyone could question him.

"Did you see anything?"

"No," said one of the archers before Mirai could speak, glancing at him with hatred. "Not even a rustle in the trees."

Senn looked to the center of the island, and as the ground descended toward a small depression or valley, it was all covered by trees. They couldn't be seen from the other side, but there were far more trees on the island than he had seen in his entire life, which he could count with just one hand. All clumped together, some of them much taller than the squat pathetic things that clung to the mountainsides on the edges of the midlands. These were straight, tall, green-covered things, and Senn was taken aback by them. How had they missed that? Why had no one dared reach the isle before them? Another thought crossed his mind but he banished it. Maybe they had dared, but something stopped them.

In any case, the center of the isle seemed to be full of the green things. They had no choice but to venture under the trees. There was no other place for the fugitives to be hiding in unless they had buried themselves in the sand.

"Come on," he said. "Fan out, but keep within sight of each other. Call out with your whistles if you see anything."

The Sparked drew their weapons; curved daggers and swords, bows and throwing spears, glass arrowheads and chained spikes. It was the sound of the Lord's banner unfurling, his frustration being given free rein. The Herald watched them slowly fade among the trees, and used his hunger to flare their own.

The Hunt was on.