AN UNWANTED AND UNWILLING HERO

  

  
1. Gourm


  

  Copyright 2019 E. GOURM

  Published by E. GOURM at Smashwords

  Smashwords Edition License Notes:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favourite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Foreword

  Before we begin, there are quite a few things I have to say.

  Firstly, you might think that at times my English sounds strange and unnatural. Well, no surprise there: I wasn’t born in an anglophone country, so I do tend to mix expressions from all over.

  Second, my assertion in this book of swords being a noble weapon is only of validity for creative purposes, in the world I have created, and in no way reflects the reality of European history. To the contrary, swords were cheap and common in early medieval Europe; in fact, there were times and places in which it was even mandatory for commoners to own a weapon.

  Third, although I have practiced fencing, I don’t have the faintest clue about spear fighting! In this respect, therefore, everything comes from my imagination.

  Fourth, the map of my strange world is inspired for the most part by medieval Bulgaria, although the character names are of more diverse origins.

  Lastly, I hope you like the story.

  Chapter 1

  Where the hell am I?

  In the middle of a forest, a human male is asleep.

  Despite the cold, his skin is burning hot. He tries to open his eyes, but closes them immediately, as the light burns them.

  As his confusion grows at his surroundings, now coming into view, he attempts to gather his thoughts.

  My head hurts and my mind is foggy; I feel sick! How much did I have to drink last night?

  Time passes – he knows not how much, just that it is a lot - until he finally manages to open his eyes, and keep them open. When he has regained his sight, the man attempts to get up.

  His unsteady legs do not support him; he falls forward, face down in the dirt. Defeated, he lies there for a while.

  Eventually, he rolls onto his side, and is able to take a good look at his surroundings.

  A forest? I don’t remember entering a bloody forest…

  Damn, I’m burning! Am I sick? This doesn’t feel like a normal hangover.

  The forest appears as utterly unspoilt nature, untouched by human hands. The trees grow densely, and are covered in moss and vines; wherever light isn’t excessively filtered, shrubs and herbs grow freely.

  Since getting up isn’t an option, the man does his best to crawl to a nearby tree, sitting with his back against the trunk. He tries to recollect the events which brought him here, but no matter how much he thinks about it, his mind is a blank: prior to his awakening, he remembers nothing.

  Sitting here thinking won’t get me anywhere. I’m lost in a forest, and the first priority is to find water. Then, to find shelter, make a fire and, finally, find food.

  Considering the environment and the apparent seasonal climate, he guesses there will be an abundance of berries, nuts, mushrooms…

  Maybe not mushrooms - I’ve never trusted them.

  In reality, with no memory, the man does not know if he has this particular toxicophobia or not, but mushrooms apparently instinctively cause him undue anxiety. He knows enough to know that the fear is probably irrational, and that berries, nuts and even water, can be equally toxic.

  His renewed attempt to stand gives more satisfactory results than the last – if, that is, one were to consider that all of their muscles aching from the tiniest amount of effort can be called progress. Waiting for the pain to recede, the lost individual leans once more against the tree. This time, it takes mere minutes to pass.

  Strangely, he very shortly feels as right as rain.

  One second I’m tired, sick as hell and can’t move a muscle; minutes later I’m all fine and dandy! I don’t know what the hell I took last night, but whatever it was sucked!

  Again, the lost soul tries to recall how he got here.

  He remembers no yesterday - like there never was one.

  As he is reflecting upon this, a sound is coming from his right. It takes a moment, before he suddenly registers that it is the sound of running water.

  Finding water comes first! I’ll have plenty of time to think about the rest later.

  His legs have already stopped hurting – much to his surprise - and he believes that he is now steady enough to walk.

  And, walk he does… and walk… and walk… He walks so far, in fact, that he begins to wonder if perhaps his ears are playing tricks on him. But, fortunately, they are not, and twenty minutes later - by his estimation - he reaches the source of the sound.

  Too parched to care about the risk, the thirsty man crouches at the small stream, scoops up the water and drinks it from his hands. He knows he has no means to purify it, so opts not to think about it.

  Well, that’s number one scratched from the list. Next: find shelter and make a fire.

  He realizes he hasn’t once yet searched his pockets - with luck, he might find a lighter or, better still, a cell-phone.

  The clothes are not familiar to him, and their design seems particularly old-fashioned. Still, for the time being, he puts this to the back of his mind, his current predicament more worthy of his immediate attention.

  The search of his pockets produces fortuitous results, which surprise him: a small flint-stone, a tiny, flat, metal bar and some damp wick, rolled separately in a piece of fabric. Despite his confused state and his lack of memory, the tools somehow feel familiar in his hand.

  Wow! Though, I still would have preferred a bloody cell-phone.

  The individual starts gathering twigs, dry moss and anything else which appears suitable for kindling. When done, he arranges the various items expertly, adding a nearby fallen tree branch, to serve as fuel for his fire. To protect from the gusty breeze, he walks over to the stream, where he finds rocks of a decent size, to build his wall around the fire. Now ready to start the fire, the lost soul dares not yet use the wick - a truly precious resource, which he doesn’t want to waste.

  Unbeknownst to him, some of the kindling he has selected is of a variety known to burn very brightly, very quickly; in an instant, the fire burns high and out of control. Scooping water up into his hands, he tries desperately to extinguish it.

  I should have dug a damn hole!

  The thought is perhaps an unfair one, for someone who is lost in the forest without any tools. Still, the bright and powerful flame worries him, as he is momentarily convinced it will degenerate into a forest fire.

  He is, of course, wrong: before long the kindling will burn itself out, and the fire will settle, but obviously the man has no way of knowing that. In growing fear, he kicks the pile of burning branches into the stream, and throws dirt onto the flames, until they are no more.

  Still, he is not dismayed: I know now that I can build a fire any time I want. Next time I’ll be more careful and find a good clearing, somewhere easy to dig, near the water.

  With his socially modern mindset, the man decides to set out walking downstream, thinking that he is bound to find people, sooner or later. After all, there is no such thing as a river which does not run past factories and villages.

  Of course, while he may be right, he also acknowledges that he has no idea where he is, and that “sooner or later” could well mean weeks of trekking in the unknown - without any equipment.

  Feeling better now, his earlier weakened status now forgotten, the man decides to look for food, before setting out on his journey. In this respect, he considers himself quite lucky, and surmises that there is no better season than this to be lost in the woods. Without particularly exerting himself, he easily finds an abundance of nuts, berries and mushrooms.

  No mushrooms! They cannot deceive me with their delicious fragrance and appearance.

  Suddenly, his mushroom fears awaken a strange notion in him: Is it possible that eating mushrooms is what caused my amnesia?

  Because none of the fruits he can find are familiar to him, the lost soul proceeds to harvest whatever strikes his fancy, without relying on any further particular method. Nevertheless, when the work is done, he cannot help but feel confidence in his haul. His successful foraging awakens a newfound hope in him, and his mind begins to build castles in the air.

  If I am this good at finding food and water, and making fire, perhaps I could manage to craft a crude spear or a bow. With that kind of equipment, I could easily catch some of the fish I saw in the stream.

  Immediately, reality catches up with him, as he realizes once again that he lacks any tools or materials; there are no straight branches in sight, and there are neither silex nor obsidian shards simply lying around, for him to find. Even if they were, until he catches an animal and harvests its sinew, a sharpened stick is the best he can hope to achieve.

  He decides to eat his finds. Heading back to the fireplace, he uses a flat branch to dig a hole, before restarting the fire to cook the nuts. He looks hard at the berries for a while but, as expected, there is no sudden remembrance and the fruit itself offers no help.

  The lost soul taste-tests everything prudently and, although none of the berries are unsavoury, they are, at best, tolerable. The nuts, on the other hand, are surprisingly delicious - so much so that if he were to rank them amongst all food he has ever had, they would be in the upper echelon.

  I can remember the meals I have eaten, but not who or where I am!

  His questions will have to wait: more pressingly, he knows he has to get on the move. The sun is still low, so he decides he might as well follow the stream.

  If, by four o’clock, I haven’t found anything, I’ll have no choice but to look for shelter.

  Armed with his resolution, he washes a few large leaves in the stream, which he uses to wrap and pack the leftover food in his pockets. Then, he embarks upon the first step of his journey.

  <><><>

  By the time the sun reaches four o’clock - at least by his estimation - he has yet to find any trace of civilization.

  The flatness of the area quickly dissipates his hope of finding a grotto, so he is resigned to the do-it-yourself approach. Creepers, leaves and fallen wood become the materials he uses to build his makeshift refuge, and the work continues until late into the night. Every time he goes out to gather more material, he makes sure to harvest any fruit and nuts he spots - enough to last at least two days, if he rations himself.

  The finished shelter is far from a work of art, and won’t offer much protection against the wind, but he decides that to have done so much in as short a space of time, without tools, can be considered an extraordinary achievement.

  <><><>

  The following morning, the man eats beside the stream.

  So engrossed in his increasingly demoralizing thoughts, he fails to register the sound of horses, and the voices of people approaching in his direction, until it grows louder and more aggressive.

  When the presence becomes bellicose, something inside the brooding man changes. In an instant, he relinquishes his dark thoughts to face the threat.

  He sees a child of around twelve years old. Stocky, angry and red in the face, the youth is primed to strike with his metal-laden gauntlet. Despite the imminent attack, and the abnormality of the situation, the man yet manages to register that besides his attacker, there are four riders and two horses, led by burly men, who observe the situation from afar.

  What happens next is, without a doubt, the strangest thing the man has witnessed since he awoke: the youngster moves toward him, in what can only be described as slow motion.

  “I’ll teach you to ignore your betters, knave!” the kid informs him, as he strikes.

  To the man with no name, the blow appears harmless, but his instincts scream to avoid it anyway. He easily dodges the attack and shoves the kid, hard, hurling him into the stream. Surprised and unable to react to this apparently inhuman motion, the attacker tumbles awkwardly into the water, still moving in slow motion.

  Why is he moving so slow-

  The man’s cogitation is stopped short, as another of the riders charges at him. Despite the slowness that seems to be affecting all around him, the speed of the galloping horse is still far from negligible and takes him by surprise; it takes considerable skill to avoid the spear - skills the man didn’t know he had before now.

  As the second attacker turns his horse to prepare for a second charge, the amnesiac man briefly looks over the other riders, to assess if they show signs of becoming involved - thankfully, there is no imminent indication of this.

  If I may take a moment to describe the riders: two of them – including he attempting to skewer the amnesiac - wear the exact same equipment: chain-mail over a heavy linen shirt; a helmet; metal-laden gauntlets; a spear; and, a shield; a sword scabbard can also be seen hanging from each of their sides. The three children, riding horses, seem to be of ages ranging from eight to ten years old. All wear the same heavy shirts as the others, but only the elder is equipped with metal-plated, leather gloves, a helmet, and what appears to be either a short sword or, perhaps, a dagger. The lost man doesn’t care so much about their equipment; all that matters to him is the number of hostiles.

  I’ve got bloody knights and squires trying to kill me!

  One of the observers - the youngest of them all - watches with a nasty smile, as the first attacker scrambles out of the water. The drenched child has now drawn a dagger, and is once more moving to attack.

  But, the difference the water makes to his already lagging speed is too much: all he manages to achieve is getting punched violently on the chin and in the nose. The man without memory even considers momentarily stabbing the squire with his own dagger, but decides against it: the kid is out cold; any further defensive manoeuvre is a waste of precious time. From behind him, a scream of rage resounds, from the attacker on horseback. Not only has the knight missed his charge for the second time, but his ally now lies half-submerged in the water. The rage he provokes in his foes brings a smile to the amnesiac man’s face, as he realizes that pissing off and trampling the pride of one’s enemies ranks very highly on the enjoyment scale. And, now that he has identified his adversaries as noblemen, accusations and insults of inbreeding, decadence and bellicose idiots wallowing in unwarranted pride come to his tongue.

  Admittedly, he ignores the parts about the nobles’ ancestral pride, courage and hard training from an early age.

  Enraged by the invective, the knight charges for the third time, shouting: “You’re dead, scoundrel!”

  Setting the dagger at his belt, the amnesiac answers slowly, to ensure his every word is understood: “Unlikely, inbred! I’ll have you join that other piece of trash for a bath.”

  Sadly for the charging knight, the amnesiac already has the timing down pat, and he is able to catch the spear, as it draws toward him. A sidestep and a hard yank rip the weapon from the rider’s hand, although the combination of his training and stirrups allow him to stay upon his mount.

  The amnesiac tumbles a little, off-balance, but quickly regains his footing, before proceeding to mock his opponent once again. This time, though, he forgets to adjust the speed of his voice, which actually seems to make his words even more insulting to the overly proud knight: “You’ve lost something, dumbass! Care to come around, so I can give it back?”

  “By my honour, you are dead, miscreant.”

  “Honour? Are you deluding yourself into believing that you’re actually worth shit? Come here, you bloody lunatic; I’ll have you swallow this!” He shows the knight his own spear. “I hear that iron is excellent against dementia!”

  “This sword is the pride of my family; it is wasted on the likes of you. You should die proudly, knowing that you made me draw it,” says the knight, as he charges, his sword now in hand.

  Displaying his nastiest smile, the lost man remarks: “Steel, seasoned with unwarranted pride and a touch of broken teeth - you’re going to love it!”

  What does the fool expect? the man wonders. His sword is too short to be used from horseback. Why does he not ditch the horse and fight me on the ground... not that it would change the outcome. I should also be careful not to hurt my new mount by accident. The man realizes at this that he has already taken the decision to steal his attacker’s horse.

  The knight is left-handed. When the horse draws near, the amnesiac quickly moves to his other side, jumping as high as possible, as he thrusts the spear forward. A loud, clanging noise resounds, and the shock of the impact rips the spear from the man’s hand, throwing him backward. But, despite being temporarily disorientated, the amnesiac still has time to see the knight loudly crash to the ground, still in slow motion.

  This guy is falling even slower than the kid fell. Yet, whenever we come into contact, our speeds suddenly seem to match.

  Though jarred, this isn’t the time to analyze. The man quickly scans his surroundings and is satisfied that all is well: the squire is still partially submerged in the water, and the knight’s companion riders have yet to move. Reassured, the amnesiac retrieves the spear, now a broken shaft, its tip currently embedded in the fallen knight’s chain-mail.

  “Coward!” complains the lunatic knight, short of breath. “If it wasn’t for your strange magic, I would have won.”

  “I, the unarmed man, attacked by surprise by two armed assholes, am the coward? You went straight from delusional to downright psychotic, you degenerate.”

  Despite being called out on it, the fool still sees no wrong in his actions: “It is my right and my duty as a knight to punish miscreants.”

  And, as a miscreant, is it not my duty to be underhanded?

  Two quotes immediately come to the amnesiac, which suit the current situation to a tee - though, as usual, they are without any memorable source: “To the victor goes the spoils, and woe to the vanquished! Guess which you are, asshole!”

  The sound his kicking foot makes, as it connects with the knight’s chin, draws a smile to the man’s face. But, it is short-lived, as the others now advance toward him.

  So, armed with his new sword and dagger, the disgruntled man prepares for another fight.

  Chapter 2

  Escort

  The second of the uniformed knights suddenly signals for his companions to stop. He ostentatiously plants his spear in the ground and dismounts his horse; he removes his sword belt and puts it into his saddlebag.

  The knight’s face is fair, and he has brown hair - features similar to the two youngest of the boys, who share a single horse. Calmly and resolutely, he approaches the wary amnesiac with his arm raised, to show he has no intent to fight.

  The man without memory relaxes his attack stance and plants his own sword into the ground, to reciprocate. Nevertheless, he keeps the dagger at his belt, ready to draw at a moment’s notice.

  He sure is a dashing man underneath his helmet. But, by the goddess, does the knight not smell terrible? The mix of horses’ scent, oil, perspiration and metal is arguably more threatening than any of the weapons he carries.

  “I salute you, Hero! By the gods, I knew you were the prophesized one, the moment I laid my eyes on you.”

  The “hero” just looks at him, blankly.

  “I am Knight Hristo of Cherven,” the knight continues, “and the man who confronted you is Nikolay of Medea. Our relationship is difficult to describe, but friendship has no part of it. I never doubted your victory, dear sir; the gods would have allowed it no other way!”

  Looking at his fellow knight, he shakes his head in sadness; “He and his ilk are traitors and apostates; their very existence defiles the holy kingdom of Tarnov.”

  “Why are you here?” the man simply asks.

  The knight refocuses; “Sorry, let me explain: four days ago, at noon, prophets and seers from all over the kingdom simultaneously announced the coming of a ‘Hero’. It was a powerful sight, to witness all of those seers delivering the exact same words at the exact same time - bleeding from the exact same wounds...” He pauses momentarily, appearing to savour the memory. “When their task was done, they all fell into a deep sleep,” explains the knight, enraptured.

  “It must have been a powerful sight.” Cynically, the Hero murmurs to himself: “I wonder how they managed to coordinate their performances on such a grand scale.”

  “As it was the will of the gods, both the Church and the king prepared people to welcome you, Hero.” The knight’s face then drops; “But, the filthy unbelievers dared to call the gods’ own work a conspiracy!”

  The knight appears livid at the outrage from this, but continues his explanation, nevertheless: “In yet another attempt to undermine the faithful, they disputed your existence - the members; the leadership… Unable to bear the blasphemy any longer, I proposed to my allies that we go to fetch you, along with my brother.” He shoots a contemptuous glance at his colleague: “But, the others got wind of it, and forced this wretch upon us - to either sabotage or kill you.”

  Thank you for the vote of confidence, but I'd rather you just helped me! The man has no intention of being anyone’s hero; the very word makes him grit his teeth. But, he concludes that beggars can’t be choosers, and decides to play along, until reaching civilization. Or, whatever passes for it in this shit-hole.

  “I cannot say if am your hero. In fact, I can’t even tell you my name or how I came here; I have no memories of myself, or of this world.”

  Hristo is initially taken aback by the revelation. But, then, the confusion on his face is soon replaced by fanatical certainty: “How I marvel at the gods’ great wisdom! The gods are all-powerful and all-knowing, but not bereft of prejudice; by making you pure, they leave you free to decide your own actions, outside the constraints of society and tradition.”

  “Even so, if I am to help, I must learn.”

  “You are right. Please, allow me to teach you about the kingdom, the gods and the enemies we face; I will do my best to hold my prejudice.” A sad look creeps across the knight’s handsome, yet harsh features. “How very sad it is that the threat from within is always the most considerable.”

  “Most considerable? What does that mean? That you are at war with another kingdom?”

  “Indeed we are. We are the last human kingdom left on this continent, and for years we have disputed the possession of the southern and eastern reaches, with the ‘Horned Ones’.”

  “‘Horned Ones’? Are you telling me that you are fighting demons?”

  As if fighting humans were not hard enough!

  “Demons? No, they are not demons. They might be bigger than us, and users of magic, but they are devout followers of the gods, and are respectful of the code of war and chivalry.” He angrily looks again at the man on the ground: “Which is more than I can say for this fiend and his ilk!”

  For the outsider, whose sparse belongings can be carried in one hand, this suddenly presents a perfect opportunity: “In that case, you won’t mind if I kill them? I have neither horse nor weapons of my own - I am sure that theirs will serve better purpose in my hand than in theirs.”

  “Nothing would make me happier, but I must advise against it: traitor or not, Nikolay’s family is very powerful, within its faction and within the kingdom. If we were to come back without him, it would cause trouble without end.”

  Isn’t being a traitorous fiend the cause of trouble anyway? The amnesiac stifles the sarcastic quip, saying instead: “I hear you. Still, I feel that letting him live is asking for even more trouble.”

  “Come with me,” says the knight; “we will rearrange our baggage and let you mount one of our pack-horses. Pray tell me, do you know how to ride?”

  The knight’s polite yet haughty attitude is starting to grate the man’s nerves, and he answers a little more rashly than he would have liked to: “What part of ‘no memory’ isn’t clear?” He immediately shrugs his shoulders, apologetically, and adds: “I won’t know until I try.”

  “Then, come, friend: I will see to your need and teach you all that I can, while we wait for those two fools to awaken.”

  At his word, the two boy - pages and workers rearrange the party’s baggage, and saddle the stranger’s new horse.

  <><><>

  The man from another time or another place finds himself genuinely surprised at how objectively informative the knight’s lessons are; after all, when dealing with a fanatic, one expects to hear dogmatic propaganda, rather than simple, unbiased fact.

  At the same time, his and the knight’s respective sense of what is important could not be more different; after hearing about yet another noble family, the amnesiac rages: “By the goddess, I don’t give a damn about which noble house does what! And, is there really any point in learning about fallen dynasties in the surrounding countries? Why don’t you just keep to what is relevant: like, who is an enemy and who isn’t?”

  Yet, despite his anger, the knight remains calm, as though every word after “goddess” went in one ear and out of the other; “You just said ‘by the goddess’. Do you actually remember her name? Her attributes?”

  “No, I do not. It came out naturally; I have no knowledge of any gods.”

  “Keep the faith, friend,” Hristo encourages; “even if you cannot access them voluntarily at the moment, it seems that your memories are not completely lost.”

  “I wish I shared your optimism…” the amnesiac sighs. “Let us continue our lessons, but please skip the extraneous details.”

  “As you wish, friend. The kingdom of Tarnov is ruled by King Voivode the Fifth, who became king after leading a rebellion against his own brother, Attila, the usurper.”

  “How is that relevant to the current situation?”

  “Because it is the source of the rift which divides the kingdom, and it pertains to the hidden motive of the noble faction’s current leader. The current king was much lower-ranked in succession.” He points at the morons still lying on the ground; “By all rights, the Medea should have succeeded.”

  The amnesiac softens his tone; he knows he has nothing to gain by antagonizing the only person willing to help him. “I’m sorry for appearing so confrontational, but please understand that my memories only go back as far as yesterday… and, the first two people I met tried to kill me.”

  “Do not worry: I am not holding it against you. Anybody would be suspicious of a character suddenly dumping a wealth of information, without any indication of its veracity.”

  This guy is a lot sharper than he lets on!

  The man of another world answers his would-be benefactor with a fake smile: “Thank you for your understanding. Please, continue with your explanation.”

  “Then, where was I? The previous king died prematurely, leaving a young child. Vasil of Medea and Attila of Tarnov both vied for the regency, but Tarnov had the east’s support, mainly due to the ever-increasing risk of war; it proved to be enough.”

  “Let me guess: Attila usurped the throne, his brother killed him and now Medea is accusing the current king of killing the prince, during the uprising.”

  Killing the heir under the pretext of saving him is a classic plot device... at least, that is the feeling I get.

  “Not in a direct fashion, and never in so many words,” Hristo’s tone grows sombre, “although, that is the gist of it. Medea is a devious and cunning man - the leader of the noble faction, and the father of the two men who attacked you.”

  The stranger understands why the knight is against killing them, yet to him this sounds like an even better reason to end their lives.

  “I hit them both hard, hoping to cause a concussion. But, now they have yet to awaken, I wonder if they might be suffering from a brain injury.”

  “A concussion? Do you perhaps mean a commotion?”

  “It’s more or less the same thing. Well, what’s done is done; it was me or them, after all.” And, from now on, I will make sure it will always be me!

  The amnesiac’s thoughts are cut short, as the knight continues rambling about his apparently favourite subject: “Let us talk about the gods. There are four in total: two gods and two goddesses. Holus, the god of ‘death and destruction’, along with his counterpart Hela, the goddess of ‘rebirth and renewal’; Rod, the god of ‘order and destiny’, and his own counterpart, Reda, the goddess of ‘chaos and freedom’. Do any of those names sound familiar to you?”

  The displaced man feels no connection with the names, but he needs a convenient excuse to stay in the fanatic’s good graces, so he simply, cryptically replies: “People call gods by many names, but their true nature remains beyond mortal ken.”

  The knight’s eyes shine, and his behaviour appears to become ecstatic, as though his previous calm demeanour was but a lie. Speaking in a flurry, he asks: “Is there more to that? Do you remember something?”

  The man responds with a look of sudden concern, realizing that his attempt at deception might have inadvertently lit a powder keg. This knight is a fanatic through and through! If I told him that the gods hate apples, he would go on some crusade to burn the fruit, all the trees, and probably anyone he saw eating one! He decides that damage limitation is the best policy: “No, sorry. From time to time words and ideas come to me, but when I try to scrutinize them, I only find emptiness and a feeling of disconnection.”

  “Sorry, friend; it was never my intention to worry you. It’s just that I heard those very same words from a seer once, when I was but a child.”

  The amnesiac nods, wryly. “Pay them no mind: any seeker of truth would have reacted the same way.” He decides, in future, to step very carefully around religion. Forget about causing a religious war; I might end up being branded a heretic!

  The two have by now talked for many hours; it is getting late. Still the two Medea are unconscious. Hristo barks an order, and the pages and immediately set about preparing camp.

  The tents are a simple construction, of oiled cloths, fixed in place with spike and tethers. When the work is done, Hristo shows his hero to the smallest dwelling: “This tent is yours. Sleep without worries tonight, my friend, for my brothers and I will take watch.”

  Inside, someone has already prepared a bedroll, a little food and some basic necessities. This simple sight moves the amnesiac deeply and, for the first time since their meeting, he offers the knight a heartfelt: “Thank you.”

  <><><>

  The attentive sleeping conditions, however, do not help the supposed hero with his sleep, and he is haunted by dreams and fragments of memories. All of them are strongly reminiscent of something he ought to remember, something at the core of his very being, but what that thing is he does not know.

  As the kaleidoscope of dream-visions stops, he finds himself alone, in a dark and solitary place. Yet, a conversation can be heard. The amnesiac knows in his heart that this is an exchange between two, but in the dream one side is missing entirely; the rest is simply fragmented.

  “They are always cruel and cannot be trusted…”

  “…”

  “How many times do you think I…”

  “…”

  “… memories… It was a mistake!”

  “…”

  “What choice…”

  After that, the visual madness starts again: dreams of war; of plagues; of cataclysms. Aside from an omnipresent theme of death, nothing seems to make any sense or have any context. A scene of people killing each other with macuahuitls is immediately followed by one of trench warfare - only making way to be replaced by the awesome sight of a meteor, striking the Earth.

  It is all too random!

  Are these memories?

  Or, are they something else entirely?

  Chapter 3

  Schemes within schemes within delusions

  A presence, approaching the tent, causes the amnesiac to awaken suddenly; before the intruder has even reached the entry, he is up, dagger in hand and ready for a fight.

  “It’s me, friend. They are awake now.” Hristo’s tone of voice indicates trouble.

  The displaced man is already fully clothed. He is not one to trust others easily; as far as he is concerned, the Cherven brothers aren’t fully vindicated yet. Stepping outside, he asks the knight: “What’s the problem, friend?”

  “I think it’s better if you see for yourself,” Hristo replies.

  Nikolay is giving the amnesiac a look of pure hatred – one which makes yesterday’s aggression appear as mere playfulness. Beside him, his brother stands unsteadily, his eyes glassy and unfocused: evidence of brain trauma.

  “You will pay for your crime, wretch!” rages the older brother. “I will see you hang.”

  “What are you complaining about?” the amnesiac taunts, with a snicker. “He looks much sharper than he did yesterday. A few more blows and he might be promoted in rank, to a drooling idiot.”

  Hristo and his brothers immediately interpose themselves between the two, to break up the simmering conflict.

  “Stop this foolishness!” Hristo demands of Nikolay. “You took an oath before the gods and your peers. You may be an unbeliever, but can’t you at least act like nobility for once, and adhere to your word?”

  “I only pledged not to kill this wretch myself. When he finally gets his due, it will be an act of justice.”

  The stranger leans forward; “If turning the tables on sneaky, talentless cowards is a crime, then I plead guilty. And, I wouldn’t push my luck if I were you: these two men are the only reason you aren’t one head short... yet.”

  “That goes the same for you,” Hristo scolds: “stop provoking him.”

  The man may be presenting a calm front, but internally he is fulminating. The pent-up rage brings hurtling back to him the feeling of helplessness from his dreams.

  But, then, something else returns to him...

  “Call me Laev.”

  “You remembered your name?”

  “Laev” is actually uncertain whether this is truly his name or not – or, for that matter, if it is even a name at all. But, it seems to have come up quite a lot in the dreams, and he feels it is therefore somehow important. “To tell the truth, I’m not sure if it is my name, but I do feel a strong connection with the word.”

  Nikolay jumps upon the opportunity to berate him: “Neither a name nor a surname… how fitting for a mongrel.”

  “Well, having a fancy name doesn’t change your nature, inbred. Garbage by any other name still smells as foul.”

  Nikolay draws his sword, screaming: “You are dead!” He is immediately disarmed and put to the ground, by the eldest of the Cherven brothers.

  “Come at me, degenerate,” chimes Laev, happily; “I’ll fix you up like your brother!”

  Suddenly, Laev’s earth and sky invert, and the amnesiac finds himself on the ground, unable to move. It takes him a moment to realize that he has been forcefully subdued by Petar.

  “Enough is enough,” rages Hristo, maintaining the joint lock on Nikolay. “Stop this mindless bickering, or I swear I will drag both of you to the capital in chains!”

  Reluctantly, Laev agrees. “My instinct tells me that letting this thing live is a mistake. But, you are right: nothing good will come from inciting him.” With the Cherven brothers around, Laev resigns himself to the fact that there will be no opportunity to “accidentally” kill Nikolay in self-defence.

  Medea’s middle son stays silent, but anger burns inside him, stronger than ever. Pride may cloud his judgement most of the time, but he still has enough good sense to know when he is outmatched. It doesn’t matter: he needs only bide his time; his father will soon see that justice is served.

  Nikolay glares at Hristo in disbelief, stunned that a self-respecting noble can betray his peers, in favour of some unknown, nameless wretch, found roaming the forest? Under the guise of adherence to some outdated rules, written by some madman, the usurper and his puppets are slowly selling out the kingdom, to monsters and villains.

  It hurts him to admit it, but the mongrel is right about one point: there is no honour for the defeated. Nikolay prays - out of reflex, rather than belief - that his father will make his move soon; any further delay and there might be nothing left to save.

  <><><>

  That night, Nikolay is arguing with Hristo again: “I will not let you bind my brother to his horse, like some common criminal!”

  Cherven’s eldest shakes his head, tired of the pointless arguments; “Take a good look at your page: he is half the size of your brother; do you expect the boy to support him all day long? At our current speed, how long do you think it will take us to reach Tarnov?”

  It is true: at their current pace, it could take a full week to reach the capital - anyone with two bits of common sense could see that. Sadly, Knight Medea has never been one to apply too much of that.

  “Is there a reason you must reach the capital by tomorrow? What sort of scheme have you concocted?” asks the paranoid madman, certain that he has unearthed some dirty plot.

  “You damn fool; that is not the point! For once in your life, take a look around: your page is exhausted and our food is running low!”

  “This damn weakling will do what he is told! Why did I have to get some pansy from the royal faction for a page, instead of a real noble?”

  Hristo cannot deal with any more raving madness by his foe, so he offers a proposal: “Let my squire share a horse with yours, and the two pages share the other.”

  Nikolay studies Hristo’s face carefully, then exclaims: “Well, it seems that you and your damn church have prepared another so-called miracle! Very well, then: your brother will tend to mine. But, we will move at my pace.”

  Whilst all this bickering is going on, Laev dozes. He is presently dreaming a mess of images and sounds, not dissimilar to a badly edited movie: scenes cut in the middle; dialogue dubbed all over the place. Despite the cacophony within his dreams, the same themes of war and destruction are as clear as ever.

  “…be trusted…”

  “…”

  “…feels, to die...”

  “…”

  “Need… memories.”

  “…”

  “…given.”

  The overwhelming sense of presence is more definite than last time: invisible, yet massive; powerful, yet caring.

  Just as it seems he can learn more about it, footsteps approaching the tent awaken him. The pace of the approach isn’t indicative of furtiveness, or any bad intention, but the amnesiac nevertheless retrieves the dagger, in order to assume a fighting stance. Still in a slightly confused state from his slumber, Laev wonders if he has mistakenly superposed the two presences.

  “Good morning, my friend,” Hristo greets him. “I am sorry to say that we will continue traveling at a slow pace: the fool has persuaded himself that we are on some sort of timetable, and has decided to hinder our imagined plan, by slowing us down.”

  Laev decides to ignore the pettiness: “Unlike that moron over there, I mind how I stink, and I long for a nice bath. Can I trouble you for more soap?”

  “Sorry, friend, but our supply is very limited; you need to make do with what I gave you. I know that soap is not particularly expensive, but I must say that I have never known anyone to use it as freely and often as you do. The place you come from must be very rich – and, very clean. Dare I say immaculate?”

  The knight is regularly making such transparent attempts to fish for information about the gods’ domain. And, as usual, Laev plays into his game, by furnishing superficial - if even true - information: “Among my visions were white places of incredible cleanliness, and sites so full of food and luxuries that one could get lost in them.”

  Hospitals and supermarkets! Hristo doesn’t need to know that.

  “It’s strange: you are young and well-learned, yet you carry yourself like an old battle veteran.”

  The subject is suddenly an uncomfortable one for Laev: it brings to his mind the images of war and death that he sees every night - too disparate to be from his past, yet somehow too vivid and familiar to reasonably be anything else. Laev sighs; suddenly Hristo’s habit of fishing for answers is becoming quite bothersome.

  “I truly had no idea that I could fight until I was attacked. Seeing that my body is without any scars or injuries, I feel it is doubtful that I have even been through training, let alone war.”

  The knight nods and whispers to himself: “As I thought, then: innate knowledge from the gods themselves.”

  Again, Laev sighs. Dealing with Nikolay’s delusions of grandeur and self-importance is becoming less stressful than trying to accommodate the beliefs of this fanatic.

  <><><>

  Another night of disconnected dreams follows, though at least this time the visions aren’t as disagreeable, albeit not entirely unrelated to violence. In most of them, he assumes the perspective of a child, learning how to shoot a bow or use a spear; in others, he learns all sorts of scientific knowledge, which could either feed or kill millions.

  When the displaced man wakes up, he decides to walk down to the river, to clean and refresh himself. As he does so, Petar keeps him in sight, but no more; much unlike his brother, this one has no interest in Laev.

  By the time the amnesiac returns to camp, the pages and servants have already finished packing the horses. Laev sighs, as he notices the two knights already embroiled in yet another argument.

  Distracting his attention, Anastasiy - the youngest of the Cherven - offers him some hard biscuits, with a slightly apologetic notification: “We will be departing soon, sir.”

  Within half an hour, the company is on its way.

  In a very tired voice, Hristo is explaining: “Nikolay is persuaded that we and the Church are engaged in some nefarious scheme. More specifically, he believes that we are bound to arrive at a certain time, so that you can gain the approval of the masses with some ‘fake miracle’.”

  Laev nods toward Andrey of Medea, with an evil smile: “His brother mentality is hindering his recovery.”

  Viciously, Laev thinks: When that one dies, I’ll be sure to remind Nikolay that it was his own worthless pride which ultimately sealed his brother’s fate.

  “Are you still against killing him?” he muses. “If hanging is an unfit death for a noble, I’m quite happy to smash his skull with my fists. It’d probably hurt like hell, but I’d still enjoy every second.”

  “Please, do not tempt me.”

  The amnesiac considers that while his interaction with Nikolay has been less than amicable, it doesn’t really explain why he loathes the knight so much. Sure, he is an enemy, and a hateful person with no redeemable qualities, but still Laev’s hatred toward him seems disproportionate, even to himself; given the opportunity, he would do a thorough job of destroying them both. Still, even as he ponders this, he is nodding and smiling to himself, constructing scenarios by which to humiliate and break the pride of his hated enemy.

  The sword seems to be of great importance to him and his family – perhaps I could find some creative way to ruin it, before his eyes. Maybe I could kill him with the shards afterward.

  Laev often disparages Hristo, for not letting him kill the two brothers but he brought it on himself; he should never have let the pair survive their first encounter.

  <><><>

  Before the giant southern gate of the capital, the group finally stands.

  A guard obstructs their entry, whilst they are forced to wait for whoever it is who has given the order to hold them. The offender arrives a few minutes later – and, he adheres to all of the worst stereotypes about officers.

  With a booming voice and a condescending look, the man introduces himself: “I am Borka, patriarch of House Varna, and captain of the southern watch. I suppose you are the so-called ‘Hero’, and you his escort?”

  The man with no past ostensibly places a hand on his dagger, looking back at the watch-captain in disgust. What’s with that condescending look? “Noble” is just another word for scum - those who happily play king of their cesspit of a hill.

  Nikolay and Hristo scramble to talk, their answers overlapping: “Cherven insists that this mongrel is the so-called ‘Hero’, but I am certain he will soon just be hanging from a rope, along with his co-conspirators.”

  Hristo ignores him, remaining calm; “We found him where the oracle placed the Hero, and he possesses great power. It may not be my place to say, but I believe he is the one.”

  Lord Varna snickers; “Yes, you are right: it is not your place to tell.”

  Laev whispers to his friend: “Lend me your knife; if they try something, I can take at least three of them, before they even know what has hit them.”

  The captain addresses Hristo, in a solemn tone: “In the principle of fairness, and to preserve the purity of the inquiry, you are forbidden to convene with the parties charged to determine the veracity of this man’s claim.”

  Laev answers, nonchalantly: “I have claimed nothing. But, I can tell you this: if pathetic, cowardly men like them deserve to be called proud knights, then I am sure as hell worthy of the title.”

  “If you wish to renounce the claim, then you are free,” the captain advises, before adding, in a murmur: “to hang.”

  In a charming, calm voice, Laev warns: “Captain, I am sure that fairness and truth are as important to you as they are to the Medea. In that regard, then, I would advise that you warn your retinue not to enter my room in error. I sleep light, and it would be such a tragic accident, were their poisoned daggers to find their way into their own throats.” With that, he points toward the debilitated Andrey: “Ask him how I react to surprise attack.”

  With a suddenly sour face, the captain seethes: “You dare menace me?!”

  “Only if you acknowledge the intent of your men to accidentally find their way to my room, during the night.”

  “Duly noted. I’ll warn my people not to approach your room carelessly.”

  Hristo cautiously intervenes: “It is well known that the guards’ budget is tight; therefore, one room for the three of us will suffice. We have our own supplies, left over from our travels.”

  If looks could kill, Hristo would drop dead on the spot. Still, if a little grumpily, the captain slowly answers: “Thank you for your consideration. Please allow me to guide you to your quarters, where you will stay until the commission sends a runner for you. Remember, we will not permit your contact with anyone, other than the guards.”

  Chapter 4

  Trial

  The sound of scampering feet outside wakes Laev. Within seconds, he has recovered the dagger from beneath his reed-stuffed pillow, and is on his feet, ready.

  A quick scan of the room shows him that the three Cherven are also ready, poised to fight, even if the youngest has only a short knife for a weapon.

  Knocking at the door diffuses the tension, and Anastasiy opens it. To be on the safe side, the rest of them keep their distance from the door and windows, safe from surprise attack, but ready to intervene at the first sign.

  Still, Laev cannot help but stifle a yawn - sleeping whilst under threat of murder can in no way be considered a refreshing night’s sleep.

  A frightened young page stands outside the door, holding a parcel underneath his right arm. “I bear news of the council. Be prepared: your escort will come at first bell,” he announces, handing Anastasiy the parcel, before running away as quickly as he approached.

  “How much time does that give us?” asks the displaced man. It suddenly occurs to him that Hristo’s lessons didn’t cover normal day-to-day life. Many civilizations have long used chimes to signal the time, but even though he understands that, Laev has no way of confirming the specifics of it.

  “The first bell is at sunrise,” explains the dependable Hristo, concisely. “It will give us more than enough time to prepare.”

  “The package is from our father,” states the page, handing it to the knight.

  The eldest scrutinizes the package for a few seconds, before roughly tearing it open. This surprises Laev: yesterday, they had insisted upon bringing their own food, towels and water, as a measure of precaution.

  “Shouldn’t you be more cautious with that?”

  “From the condition of the package, I am assured it wasn’t tampered with.”

  “Still, better safe than sorry. After all of their insistence on a ‘no contact’ policy, it seems unlikely that they would let a package through without tampering or inspecting it.”

  Hristo looks at the ‘hero’me. “For someone without any memory, paranoia really seems to be ingrained in you. I wonder what kind of life you must have lived before.”

  “Not half as much as I do. I can guess it wasn’t a pleasant one.”

  <><><>

  Their escort is the same insufferable captain from yesterday, though this time he is accompanied by soldiers, wearing varied liveries.

  Trust is in short supply around here!

  Unnecessarily, Captain Borka snaps: “Let us be on our way; it’s high time we ended this farce.”

  “At least we don’t have to worry about being mugged on the way there,” Laev whispers to Hristo,

  Hristo eyes him in surprise; “Now, where is that wariness of yours? Liveries can be fake; stay on guard.”

  I suddenly feel foolish, trusting strangers on mere account of a uniform. I don’t even know the armouries to which the liveries apparently belong.

  The escort proceeds, leading through narrow avenues, in the general direction of the palace, or more accurately, a large building standing alongside it.

  In daylight, Laev has his first clear look at the city, and what he sees surprise him, greatly. The walls are only around two metres high, devoid of any battlements, and adorned with large, decorative windows - a far cry from the sturdy wall he would have expected to see protecting a medieval city. The gate through which they entered is large, but of simple design; there is no apparent means by which to bar invaders’ entry, should the need arise. The palace itself appears a purely decorative structure, without siege weapons or, indeed, any other apparent means of defence.

  The soldiers look sharp and competent, though. All are equipped, at least, with a gambeson; a quilted cuisse; a helmet; a spear; a shield; and, a backup weapon. A distinct pattern in their attire and equipment catches Laev’s eye: those who wear chain-mail and a chausse all carry a sword, instead of a mace.

  He turns to the friendly knight, for confirmation: “Are swords for nobles and maces for commoners?”

  “Indeed. Swords are rather a status symbol than an actual backup weapon.” Seeing Laev’s disappointment, Hristo continues: “War against the Horned Ones has changed many things - most notably, causing the number of nobles to dwindle. So much so, in fact, that it has become a necessity to fill their ranks, by any means. Truthfully, with so many battles fought, over such a short period, numerous old houses have lost all of their heirs and disappeared. To the great displeasure of the noble faction, the king has used upstart nobles to fill the ranks.”

  What Hristo doesn’t say is that it was the east which suffered most of the casualties - so much so, in fact, that a saying has been coined: “The west fattens on war, while the east bleeds on it.”

  “Considering the moronic Medea brothers, I’m not surprised the nobility have a problem with diversity.”

  “Many in the royal faction hold the same views as the Medea do, but most, thankfully, consider the needs of the kingdom, over those of their own ego.”

  “What about you?”

  “Honour, the codes and respect for the gods – these are the things which define nobility; without them, even the highest birth means nothing. I’ll take upstarts any day, over the useless parasites currently nesting in the noble faction.”

  “That’s very open-minded of you.”

  “It’s a very rare opinion,” he admits, throwing a quick look at his brother, Petar. “For most, no matter what his talent, birth is what determines a man’s worth. But, the nobility forget one important thing: our ancestors were all born commoners; even royalty were no different to any other, until the gods appointed them our leaders.”

  “What should I expect from the trial? You’ve yet to tell me anything about it.”

  “That, my friend, is because I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  <><><>

  The room they enter vaguely resembles an assembly chamber; ranks of seats face an open space, with an estrade in the middle. There are about two-hundred people already seated, all of whom are men.

  The seating arrangement indicates the royal faction to the left; the noble faction to the right. The main point of contention between the factions is the distribution of power: the latter wish to empower the lords, whilst the royalists lobby for the centralization of power, in the hand of the king. Around the room, elevated seats are kept safely in a gallery, behind see-through partitions, to prevent spectators from interfering with the session.

  The speaker addresses the chamber: “We will hear the witnesses’ statements.”

  Nikolay opens the testimony: “As tasked by the commission, we followed the Cherven brothers, determined to expose the truth of their conspiracy. On the fourth day of our travels, we encountered a mute, deranged serf; the dirty knave stood by the river, unresponsive. When my dear, kind brother approached to enquire of his plight, the stranger responded with violence and attacked.”

  Laev yawns and, under the guise of stretching, flips Nikolay the bird.

  “I immediately joined the fight, but the scoundrel’s foul magic had already got the best of my brother. Despite my best attempts, there was little I could do; the monster’s magic was strong and potent, and it terrified my horse. If the three Cherven brothers had done their duty, my brother would have been unharmed; it is as much their fault that he suffers so!”

  Laev explodes into laughter, which earns him the resentful gaze of the gathered audience.

  On cue, someone then ushers Nikolay’s brother onto the podium, as the perjurer claims: “See my brother; see what the treacherous sorcerer has done to him! Ask yourself: is such magic not proof of his dubious origins? The stranger is no ‘hero’ - there are no heroes, but ourselves. What you see here is nothing but a mongrel, in all senses of the word; a hybrid, sent by the Horned Ones and their ally in the Church!”

  All of a sudden, from the estrade, a man wearing gilded clothes announces: “My fellow lords, let us greet His Majesty King Voivode the Fifth.”

  At this point, it is important to note that being part of the royal faction does not necessarily indicate favour of the current king. In both factions, there are those with aspirations to the throne, but choice of faction is decided as much by marriage, feud and alliance, as it is by ideology.

  Still, heartfelt or not, at the announcement all in the room rise and bow, in a show of respect as, behind the estrade, two curtains fall, to reveal a balcony overlooking the room, and an enormous throne, upon which the king sits.

  His Majesty is a handsome, but weathered man, old before his age; his eyes reveal a sharp and decisive personality.

  The herald speaks again: “We are here today to determine the veracity of the oracles, and to determine whether this man, found in the designated place, is indeed the heralded Hero.”

  Considering the king’s choice of revealing himself only after the first statement ended, it is clear to Laev that people on both sides don’t care too much about the prophesized Hero; to them, the whole concept of him is little more than some new scam created by the Church, and perhaps other parties, to further some unknown agenda.

  The Cherven brothers’ statements are detailed and clinical recounting of the events, including the endless bickering. As credible as they present, the amnesiac doubts this fact will matter in the least: the purpose of this trial is not to determine the truth, but for each to score victory over the other faction.

  As he anticipated, with both benches presenting an equal number, the arguments persist until late into the evening, with no attempts to reach any meaningful conclusion on the matter.

  I know now what Captain Prick meant; he was right: this is a farce! Neither side cares for the truth.

  <><><>

  The amnesiac awakens to a close presence.

  “Were you sleeping?” Hristo asks, in surprise.

  “Can you blame me?” Laev looks around; the chamber is emptying. “What’s going on?”

  “The session is adjourned. Come, friend: you will reside in our home, until the end of the trial.”

  “What was the point of all of this? This trial is a farce, which serves no purpose!”

  “Perhaps not: if you are sentenced to death, and the gods do not intervene, it will be proof of a conspiracy.”

  “And if they do, proof of their terminal stupidity… not that there is a requirement for more.”

  “I concur.”

  “Not as stupid as I was, though, letting you persuade me to keep those two morons alive. Sure, it would have made my situation worse, but at least I wouldn’t have to listen to Nikolay’s bullshit.”

  <><><>

  The Cherven mansion errs on the functional side: no garden, no statues and no decoration; just a vast training area. It has the same low-pitched rooves and lack of guttering common to the rest of the city - an indicator of low precipitation.

  Laev looks at the small door accessing the roof. He is wondering what purpose it serves, when a suspicious movement catches his eye.

  He instinctively pushes Petar to the side of the building, rolling in the other direction, as his gaze shoots upward.

  “Archer! Left, on the roof!”

  As he completes his roll, Laev grabs up a stone and throws it at the fleeing bowman. He expects his rapid-time combat skills to defeat his slow-motion assailants again, but the moment the stone leaves his hand, it returns to relative time, and the assassin is able to duck, before the projectile misses his head by a slight margin.

  Cursing, the amnesiac continues to throw stones at the archer, but he misses the target every time.

  Goddess, can you stop playing with things’ speed? It's so bloody confusing!

  It wouldn’t be so bad if the acceleration discrepancy were constant, but he has discovered that it is inconsistent, even in its own context, and continuously changing, based on ambiguous, fluid and unknown factors.

  On the journey to the capital, the many flaws of this time dilation became apparent very quickly: mainly, that it is beyond the amnesiac’s control, and constantly varying over time. But, neither of those points are as damaging as the last one: prolonged contact with sizeable beings makes the time-lapse disappear altogether. Although it returned in short burst whenever Laev was wary of a surprise attack, it had disappeared altogether whilst he was mounted on the horse.

  Wish I had a gun – wouldn’t need to account for any variation then, would I?

  His thoughts are cut short by Petar; a voice too deep for his age – perhaps explaining why he speaks so little: “Thank you for saving me. I honestly thought you might use me for a shield.”

  I did think about— “You’re welcome.”

  “Guards, do a thorough search of the grounds,” orders Hristo. He then directs his attention to his brothers: “You two, come with me: there might be clues to our assailants.”

  <><><>

  Dinner is served, but Laev’s stomach is in knots - mostly out of worry about the upcoming conclusion to the trial, but also from the dangers associated with eating undercooked meat! Nevertheless, he pushes himself to eat, and the food is genuinely delicious - not at all what he would expect of medieval cuisine.

  “This meat is marinated, right? Can I ask what was used?”

  “Garlic, olive oil, honey and thyme. Why?”

  Laev recalls that honey and garlic have antibacterial properties; It’s probably fine, then.

  Reassured, but with no desire to offend his host, Laev answers: “The smell and taste evoke… something. But, as usual, the actual memory eludes me.”

  The patriarch answers, cheerfully: “If you have eaten food of that kind before, then your family must be well off.”

  “Maybe. It’s very strange, having knowledge, but no related memories.”

  “I have heard that people facing traumatic events can experience that.”

  The displaced man doesn’t believe his host’s theory applies in his case, but he answers, politely: “Perhaps you’re right.”

  <><><>

  For his security, Laev’s lodging is a small, windowless store-room. His bed is a roll, similar to that on which he has slept for the past week; his commode is a chamber pot.

  “I am sorry to treat a guest this way,” the patriarch apologizes, “but, the circumstances call for utmost caution.”

  “I understand. Were I you, I would do the same.”

  “That takes a weight off of me.”

  “Have a good night, Lord Cherven.”

  “You too, child; you’ll need it.”

  <><><>

  Since early evening, Laev has not been feeling too well.

  He initially put it down to foundation in his worries about the meat. But, when he starts feeling simultaneously hot and cold, his condition deteriorating rapidly, he knows instinctively that something is amiss – something far more serious.

  Poison!!

  The archer was a diversion, to tamper with the food!

  When one is poisoned, it is vital to regurgitate as much of the toxin as possible, to limit further harm. Unfortunately for Laev, he suspects that he has realized his fate too late: the splitting headache and abdominal pains are indicative of extensive damage.

  He forces himself to throw up, doing so violently, but he can already feel his liver failing; he is jaundice and giddy. Overcome by nausea and now diarrhoea, he empties himself, again and again, each time losing more and more precious liquid.

  As terrifying hallucinations begin to assail him, he becomes short of breath and starts to panic.

  But, it is this very delirium which brings his salvation.

  Dreams of his lost past flood his mind, full of medicinal knowledge and strange healing techniques – some akin to no less than magic!

  The concept of internal energy may apparently belong to the realm of magic and science fiction, but by the gods, it works. Combined with his millennium-advanced knowledge of biology and anatomy, he is able to will the repair of his damaged organs, expelling the poison from his body through forced urine and perspiration.

  By morning, when the servants arrive to undertake their duties, every man and woman in the house lies dead.

  All but one man.

  Weak, and lying in his own excrement, his eyes burn, with such a powerful hatred that the terrified servants run for a priest.

  Chapter 5

  Swallowing one’s pride

  Laev feels himself being transported, despite his semi-conscious state. He makes futile attempts to resist and protest, but his meagre efforts produce no results, besides making him pass out.

  An indeterminate amount of time later, he regains his senses.

  He is in a clean bed. A man wearing ceremonial garbs is watching over him. He will later discover that in order to protect him, the clergymen managed to smuggle him to this place, by hiding him amongst the dead.

  Softly, the holy man asks: “Can you understand me?”

  “mmffnngggh…” So weak is Laev, that even talking is beyond him. The only thing which keeps him going is his unyielding, vindictive anger.

  Medea scum! I’m not dead, assholes! I’ll destroy everything that matters to you! I’ll drag your name through the mud; I’ll steal everything from you... Only then will I allow you to die! Like a mantra, he repeats these words, over and over in his mind.

  He doesn’t need proof of their involvement! He knows that it is they responsible, and he intends to exact his revenge upon them, whatever the cost. The knowledge that they are revelling in their moment of triumph, whilst he is stuck in this bed, not well enough to strike back at them, frustrates him no end.

  But, he needs to heal, before…

  To achieve that, he knows that water, food and salt are all necessities. He knows this, but he needs to make the medieval-educated priest understand it. With great effort, he forces the words out of his mouth: “F… foo… ood… Ssssalt…”

  The priest immediately calls for help, and within an instant the room’s only door opens to reveal a second cleric. After a brief exchange of words, the newcomer hurriedly leaves.

  “You are still very weak. Please, do not move.”

  “Www… aaa… ter… Salt…”

  Despite the priest’s attempts to force-feed him water whilst unconscious, his body is still extremely dehydrated. But, as well as the water, he still needs salt, before he can assimilate the food. Thankfully, the priests are not as backward as he had thought, and one has come back with some powdery salted biscuits and fresh water. As they feed him, he concentrates on willing his body to digest and distribute the nutrients where they are needed.

  The healing process is abnormally quick - more than he ever thought himself capable of - but it is also incredibly exhausting, and he ends up passing out many times, to be patiently roused by the priests.

  Finally, they let him sleep.

  <><><>

  The amnesiac awakens from his most recent blackout, with his blood replenished and all critical organs repaired. He knows he is out of danger, and ready to regain his strength.

  His condition is also clear to the delighted clerics. Close to rapture, one of them asks him: “Are you alright? Can you speak?”

  “I can speak, but I am far from full strength… But, tell me: what about the trial? What about the Medea?”

  “Our allies are doing everything in their power to stall for time. Sadly, though, following the death of Dimitrius of Cherven, the balance is broken and there is no one as friendly with that level of influence. We have asked for a full investigation into the poisoning, but the officer has clearly been corrupted.”

  Laev doesn’t care about the investigation; revenge is the only thing on his mind. He wants nothing less than to storm the place and rip his nemeses apart. But, he is not reckless; he still holds enough of his sanity to understand that the only thing awaiting him now, if he goes charging in, is a pointless death.

  Victory is in the public destruction and humiliation of the Medea. To achieve that, I must learn.

  With time of the essence, he hurries the priests to educate him. “Is there any precedent for ‘trial by the gods’? Ordeal? Combat? Duel? Anything the Medea cannot publicly refuse without losing face?”

  <><><>

  Not far from where he now rests, the powerful nobles of the royal factions continue to take their turns on the stage, bringing pointless arguments, one after another. The royals either need to mitigate the loss of their valuable member, or the investigation must provide proof of the noble faction’s involvement in the deaths, if the desperation of their situation is to be reversed.

  Vasil, leader of the anti-royal faction and patriarch of the Medea family, has presently taken to the stage. Just like the king, he is worn down by the years – though in his case, more like an immortal and bitter old vampire than a man. Certain of his victory, he speaks with scorn: “Friends and others, is it not high time that we end this farce? I have heard many accusations of murder this day, but I see no proof. I have played no part in the vagrant’s death. Besides, were this truly the gods’ messenger, would he have so readily perished from such a creation of man as poison?”

  The patriarch enjoys the moment. He has the numbers to support him, and the investigation will go nowhere whilst their impostor lies dead in a pool of his own excretion. And, if the royalists were to resort to violent retribution against him, the moral high ground would be his.

  “There was never a ‘hero’ - just a poseur; a fraud, put in place by the Church and their horned masters, to further weaken us, from the inside. But, make no mistake, we nobles have always been the protectors of mankind. We are the last rampart of mankind, not some random beggar who was found by the side of the road! Tell me now, where is this so-called ‘hero’ of yours?”

  There seems no better time for Laev to make his entrance, and he bashes the heavy door open, with a powerful kick.

  “Here I am, degenerate! Your assassins are about as competent as your sons!”

  With no response forthcoming from a stunned Vasil, Laev approaches the old man, to examine him more carefully. “Are you really their father? From the look and smell, I would have said you were old enough to be the rotting corpse of some long-dead ancestor.”

  Upon seeing the “dead” amnesiac enter the chamber, the eyes of the man sitting beside Nikolay, in the gallery, widen - Laev does not miss the tell.

  Vasil suddenly bursts into character: “How dare you, a nameless vagrant, address me this way!?” He turns to the crowd: “Do you see, my peers? This is what results from our generous passivity: filthy mongrels, acting like they are our equals!”

  “Equals? Don’t depreciate me, oath-breaker; I would never stoop as low as your level! Unlike you, I am neither a traitor nor a poisoner!”

  Without giving the old man time to answer, Laev suddenly shouts: “I demand a trial by combat. Let the gods decide who is telling the truth.”

  Dumbfounded, the patriarch screams: “You have no right to one, mongrel!”

  With a booming voice and a hidden smile, the king intervenes, calmly: “Medea, you have no right to refuse. Name your champion or forfeit.”

  “He is not human; he can use strange magic. There is no fair fight.”

  “What do you know about fairness, poisoner?” Laev demands. “I suppose that for you it means anything which gives you an advantage. Yes, I distinctly remember your son wailing about how unfair it was for his victim to fight back, before I kicked his mouth shut. Perhaps you would prefer a trial by poison? You must have some left from yesterday, right?”

  Laughter resounds from the side of the royal faction.

  “Choose your champion or forfeit! Either way, you’ll soon no longer be defiling this world with your foul presence, you old ghoul!”

  <><><>

  Nikolay and Laev face each other for the second time.

  Both men wear chain-mail and helmets, but the amnesiac has neither gauntlets nor greave; his only weapon is a long dagger. To make matters worse, he has been unable to repeat acceleration of his thought and movement. Thankfully, though, whilst healing, he has also discovered how to enhance his body, though this comes at the price of rapid fatigue.

  Warily, the knight adopts a thrusting stance, adopting a wait-and-see approach, to counter to false hero. Yet, his opponent is unusually passive, and Nikolay quickly understands that Laev has yet to recover fully from the poison. This encourages him.

  “What’s the matter, mongrel? Has a bad meal left you unwell?”

  “Your poison has more bite than you do, pup. But, rest assured, what I have in mind for you is far worse.”

  Because of his condition, Laev aims to end the fight quickly, by knocking Medea’s sword from his hand, but he has not expected the knight to refrain from using slashing attacks. He steps diagonally toward the knight, but instead of the slashing motion the Hero was hoping to draw, Nikolay simply steps back and realigns his sword.

  For a long time, no progress is made. Whenever Laev closes the distance, Medea simply steps back, quickly jabbing to antagonize his adversary.

  I have to end this quickly; he beats me both in stamina and reach.

  Since he cannot win in simple combat, Laev opts to behave beyond expectation. Once again, he steps forward and, in a repeat of his chosen tactic, Nikolay thrusts toward his face. On this occasion, however, the otherworlder simply jerks his head to one side and continues marching forward, catching the blade in his left hand. A slight miscalculation of the move causes the blade to cut into his palm, but it doesn’t matter; compared to the poison, the pain is negligible. His fingers grip the steel like a vice.

  Before the knight has time to process the moment, he finds himself being propelled forward, as the butt of Laev’s dagger strikes him hard on the chin. As Nikolay stumbles, a sharp kick to the stomach leaves him dazed and breathless.

  But, Laev’s strategy has only just begun: letting go of his dagger, the amnesiac rips the ceremonial sword from his opponent’s grasp. Smiling like a maniac, Laev then proceeds to repeatedly pummel the knight’s face with the pommel of his own sword, not relenting for a moment, until all of Nikolay’s front teeth have been smashed.

  I should have done this the very first day we met.

  In a calm, unemotive voice, Laev taunts his foe with the priests’ lesson from earlier: “Ceremonial swords symbolize the noble house’s covenant with the king; in a duel, they represent the house’s honour. No wonder you call this the pride of your family.”

  Laev cuts the strap of his downed opponent’s helmet and kicks it away. Now barely conscious, the fallen knight is yanked roughly to his knees.

  “I have robbed you of your honour, ridiculed you and made you eat your own teeth. The only thing left is to swallow your pride.”

  With that, Laev shoves Nikolay’s head back, with a mad rictus, and slowly forces the sword through his swollen lips, pushing against resistance – never stopping until it is embedded deep in the knight’s throat. All the while, he taunts: “Has something you ate made you unwell?”

  Finally, he drops Nikolay, and steps back to contemplate his work. Suddenly, for this first time, his actions occur to him, and he is overwhelmed by disgust, at the sight of his enemy shaking, and gurgling blood. Holding back the vomit he feels rising within him, the victor stops the spectacle, by stamping on the neck of the dying knight. The sound of snapping metal signals the end of both the hateful knight and his house.

  The king rises to his feet, clapping; “That was impressive, Hero! I’m sure no one will dare to call this an unfair fight: despite being disadvantaged in every respect, you fought bravely, without resorting to your magic.”

  “It is only just, Your Majesty. The poisoner and his sire complained at length about fairness - albeit it only applied when it suited them. I thought I would abide by his own rules and leave him no way to weasel out.”

  “Indeed!” the king exclaims. “This assembly and the gods are witnesses, that you have won fairly and proven your righteousness. Now, Hero, tell me of your demands.”

  “I want the Medea stripped of their titles, and hanged to the last, like the lowly criminals they are.”

  “House Medea is no more; the duel is proof of their crimes. Furthermore, they have lost their sword of covenant - in front of all of the great houses, no less. Should you demand it, their title and possessions are yours.”

  The king is surely hinting at an agenda, but Laev doesn’t know enough of the situation yet to understand what it is. He doesn’t want Medea’s territory; it would surely be full to the brim with Vasil cronies.

  How do I decline the king politely?

  “As you already know, I am an amnesiac. In that sense, how can I - who lacks a past - guide such a great fief toward the future? In addition, living under rule of the likes of them must have been hard on the citizens. I implore you, dear king, for the kingdom and for the people, allow me to return this fief to the Crown.”

  The glint in the king’s eyes tells the hero he has passed the test with flying colours. “Oh, Hero, you are not only fair and strong, but also benevolent and wise.”

  His Majesty then assumes a pensive demeanour and continues: “But, what kind of ruler would I be if I left such a strong and righteous man without any means of subsistence?” The king is smiling, but Laev cannot help noticing that none of the nobles are appearing overly enthused by developments.

  “Take the city of Nikopol, the land around it, and one-tenth of the Medea’s monetary assets. You need not fear for the people under your rule, Hero: one of my most trusty stewards will accompany you, for as long as you need him.”

  Sounds like trouble – but, it sure beats being penniless.

  “I cannot thank you enough, Your Majesty.”

  “Now, I believe you were promised a hanging. Guards, round up these villains and prepare the gallows.”

  The guards approach the Medea inexorably, as Vasil screams, cries, begs and argues: “You can’t do that! I’m a noble! I am destined to save the kingdom!”

  He desperately calls out to his former allies: “Friends, rise with me! We cannot escape the dishonour of civil war anymore. Let us bring down the hammer of justice upon the vile usurper.” Not a soul comes to his aid; there is not a single protest.

  He continues to cry out, begging the king: “Please, have mercy! Not the gallows; at least let me die by the sword.” Nobility of the sword attaches great importance to the manner of their death, and evidently beheading by axe and sword is considered a more merciful and proper way to die.

  With a deranged smile, Laev approaches the old man, showing him the blood-soaked pommel of the broken sword. “It can be arranged, vagrant; I can push this down your throat, too, if you beg.”

  His vengeance now complete, the man from somewhere else watches as the king’s guard rounds up the last of his enemy’s house. In doing so, he briefly remembers Nikolay was with a friend in the crowd, but when he looks, the man is already gone.

  Chapter 6

  Negotiations

  The hanging doesn’t procure Laev much satisfaction. Sure, seeing the rotten old corpse cry and beg until the end is entertaining but, beside him and the oaf, Laev is not acquainted with any of the condemned others. Still, they have only the old bastard himself to blame: apparently so assured of his imminent victory, he brought his whole litter to spectate.

  It isn’t all fun and games, though. When a young boy, aged around ten, is brought into the execution ground, the amnesiac almost calls out for mercy... almost; mysterious words from the past suddenly pop into his head, convincing him to remain silent:

  “Kill them! But, if you do, make sure that you kill them all, so that none shall be left to reproach me.”

  Laev’s sense of relief is short-lived, at this unsettling proposal. Even if all of the leaders are dead, it is never likely that there is no one left to reproach him. Considering the ways of nobility, it wouldn’t be so strange if half of the people in today’s assembly carried at least some small measure of Medea blood. Furthermore, Medea’s co-conspirators have all wanted the Hero dead, right from the beginning. Now, he has given them a real reason to hate him.

  This sombre train of thought brings memories of the Cherven, and Laev cannot help but wonder if their death wasn’t actually a blessing in disguise: other than them, the only ones who actually know the supernatural feats of which he is capable are a handful of clergy and a kid. In his heart, he simply prays that the dangerous people of this world will regard him as no more than some unimportant puppet, which has already played its role, and just leave him alone.

  <><><>

  Laev sits in a carriage, heading to his new territory: the city of Nikopol. The roads are bad and painfully slow, and being forced to listen to the sermons of Ajisth, his appointed steward, is only making matters worse.

  The attendant is a small, distinguished man, with black hair and a thin moustache. He talks with unnecessary sarcasm; the assurance of one who is accustomed to being the smartest in the room, and sees his charge as no more than a mindless brute.

  Of course, this does not blend well with the egotistical tendencies of the Hero, not to mention a contemporary mindset which convinces him that the people of this world are no more than ignorant savages.

  “...and, that is why you must do your best to keep a low profile,” the rambling man is explaining, for the umpteenth time.

  Laev finally snaps: “You are aware that being polite doesn’t make the content of your discourse any less insulting? I am more than happy to keep myself scarce; I have no intention of involving myself with any of the so-called ‘elites’ of the kingdom. Understood? Good. Now, shut up before I lose patience.”

  “It is for your own good as much as for the Crown’s. Things are complicated enough here, without adding a wildcard such as yourself; neither faction considers you a player of their team. I, myself, have trouble understanding what potential the king sees in you, but since it is His Majesty’s will, I will serve you to my utmost. I beg you to bide your time and learn.”

  “I’m an amnesiac, not an imbecile, and I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever know! And, I don’t care if you’re right: the way you are talking to me is starting to really piss me off!”

  “See? There you go. The first thing you need to do is moderate your language: there is a time and a place for crude language and a sharp tongue.”

  “Well, we’re alone, you’re working for me and I don’t like you – so, I would say this is the perfect time and place.”

  Ajisth concedes: “You are absolutely right – and, you’ve no idea how much it irks me to agree with you.”

  “Believe me, I can guess. Let’s just say that we agree to disagree. Look, we don’t trust each other, we have nothing in common and we each intensely dislike the other’s personality - let’s just do our best to work together.”

  “A magnificent summary. It seems like you aren’t as stupid as you look! Could I be as hopeful as to believe we might yet live to see another day?”

  <><><>

  The town of Nikopol is as small as it gets, and barely reaching the minimum number of inhabitants to be so-called; it can more accurately be described as an overgrown village, with a small mansion at its centre.

  If the books are to be believed, the taxes collected are enough for Laev to live comfortably and, as an added bonus, the residents each owe the lord one day of unpaid, unfree labour per month.

  Being compelled to remain in his mansion and “learn about one’s duties” come with an unexpected benefit: it gives Laev ample time to look at his finances, and devise plans for the future.

  Upkeep and the wages are the biggest expenses. Although the mansion is considered small, by the standards of this world, it still includes ten large rooms, and a number of smaller ones in the servants’ quarters. At least the Crown is providing Ajisth and the guards... although, Laev wishes they had appointed a less annoying steward.

  As he glances through the miscellaneous entries in the ledgers, his mind analyzes the data. He considers that even with free labour, the lord’s fields are not bringing in much revenue. His creative mind starts to work, and he wonders if it might be more feasible and productive to use them in a different way.

  He is somewhat encouraged by the quality of the hatch and lock to his room. But, truth be told, he is not entirely comfortable that the guards have a key. He can expect no loyalty from anyone.

  To be honest, despite being the Hero, Laev knows he has no real allies, with the exception of the virtually powerless Church, and the king, with his unclear agenda. If Laev is to become truly independent, he will need people he can trust – and, that will take a lot of time and money.

  Opening the door of his room, Laev calls to a nearby servant girl: “Tacha, heat some water and prepare me a bath.”

  The brown-haired maid is plain-looking, and appears slightly over fifteen years old which, which in this kingdom, is considered late in life to still be unwed.

  “Yes, my lord. Will you take it in your room?”

  The girl certainly likes to make things harder for herself. As a man with many enemies and no trusted allies, accommodating his employees is the very least he can do. “I’ve told you already, carrying all this water upstairs is too heavy for you! I’ll take it downstairs, as usual.”

  The servant briefly hints a somewhat troubled look: a long and painful task it may be, but it is simply inappropriate for a lord to bathe in the domestics’ quarter.

  Laev knows what she is thinking and ignores it. “Remember to tell the others that they can use the bath after me. It is a waste to heat this much water for one person.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Laev knows that if he doesn’t give such an order, she’ll empty the tub and use the water for cleaning. Drawing water; heating it; filling the tub... In this world, even with other people doing the work for you, everything takes an inordinate amount of time.

  When the maid has gone, the amnesiac lets out a heartfelt sigh. “Goddess, I wish I had a shower!”

  He heads to his study, and there he peruses some documents, whilst chewing on a twig - one of the few methods available to clean one’s teeth.

  The door bursts open, violently, to admit two armed men. The foremost of them holds a terrified Tasha, at dagger-point, whilst the other enters the room as if he owns it.

  Laev scrutinizes them carefully, and they fail to impress; they don’t have an edge to them. Of greater concern to him is the fact that men such as this managed to reach this room. He is certain they were let in on purpose, but is not sure why. They have made no attempt to kill him, while he has already had ample opportunities to kill them since they entered.

  Calmly, he asks them: “Gentlemen, why don’t you let the girl go and tell me who you are?”

  Having already clearly served her purpose, the brute lets the girl go.

  “Tacha, you can go home,” Laev tells her, before looking at the men and adding: “and, don’t bother to trouble the guard.”

  They aren’t needed.

  Smirking at my comment, this small-time hood lets the maid go and starts strutting cockily toward the desk, with what he appears to believe is a menacing walk. He suddenly stabs his dagger, noisily, into the desk.

  “I don’t expect you to have any street-smarts, since you are a nob, and that’s good: it’ll make things easier,” the crook tells him. “Your pal Nikolay owed us a lot of money, which now means that you owe us a lot of money.”

  Laev decides to baptize this one “Morituro”: between frightening Tacha and damaging the desk, it appears that he really wants to die. Behind him, his crony plays with his own dagger, in some clumsy intimidation attempt.

  Morituro leans on the desk and continues the theatrics: “It’s quite funny, you know, to think that your pal left you our money.”

  The Hero grins; “I admit, it was certainly fun. So, since I inherited his money, I also inherited his debt?”

  “Yup, pretty much. It’s Goodwill Company money, after all. No one wants to be on bad terms with the Company, right?”

  A criminal organization, handling debts that even the nobility fear…

  Sounds useful.

  “How does it work, exactly? What if one of you owes money to the other?”

  Morituro laughs; “Are you offering to pay my debts, too? You’re pretty nice for a no—”

  Before he is able to finish his sentence, Laev has grabbed the laughing man’s head and smashed it onto the heavy desk.

  As the body falls motionless on the table, already a corpse, Laev turns to the second man, and asks in a genuinely curious tone: “Do I owe you his debt, now?”

  The frightened thug now steps backward, trembling.

  Laev continues: “Obviously, we’ll have to deduct the cost of repairing the desk; and, a fee for delaying my bath. I’d also like to add a little something for Tacha. But, I suppose he’s already paid his dues, so... you know what: I’ll let you off and pay it from my own pocket.”

  “What the hell!? You’re just supposed to be some new nob, who got our money by luck.”

  Displaying a pensive smile, Laev answers: “Luck? Oh, right, you mean how lucky I was to feed the previous owner his own sword. Good times, indeed…”

  Then, his tone turns a little melancholy: “But, you seem to know so much about me, while I know nothing about you. That won’t do! Why don’t you start by telling me how you’ve come by this information? If I like what I hear, I’ll let you go with all your appendages.” With his best smile yet, Laev adds: “You’d better hurry: it’s a limited time offer.”

  Nonchalantly, to the thug’s dismay, Laev tosses his dead buddy aside.

  In a hurry, the criminal answers: “He’s a noble, I think; one of Nikolay’s pals. I don’t really know him; he’s always seemed pretty ordinary.”

  “I don’t want a bad relationship with your esteemed company. Why don’t you tell me how much I owe, and I will pay you back in instalments?”

  Suddenly dumbstruck, the enforcer then answers: “Really? Why?”

  “Why? Because, next time we meet you’ll have a lot more to tell me about this friend of Nikolay’s, won’t you? Business is so much better when everyone benefits, don’t you think?”

  “For sure, milord, for sure. The boss will be delighted to have such an outstanding new customer.”

  “I’m sure he will. How much?”

  “Fifty sovereigns, milord.”

  Laev stifles a gasp: that’s over two months of revenue. For an instant, he wonders again if he should just kill the thug.

  No, he needs information. He needs to deal with the bastard, whoever it is, before his adversary starts using more underhand methods.

  “That’s more than I expected. It looks like our dear Nikolay was a big spender! I can give you one-tenth now, and three tenths every month after that? Is that agreeable to you?”

  For the thug, any number is a good number, as long as he gets out alive and with all his appendages. His boss might disagree, but his boss is only human; he doesn’t move like a snake, with the strength of a bear. Not like this man.

  “Wonderful, milord. As a show of goodwill, I’ll look into the other party for you right away.”

  Laev answers, in a friendly, joyful voice: “You would do that for me? How kind of you, sir! It’s good that you’re so polite and cooperative.” He looks ostentatiously at the corpse on the floor; “Unlike your ill-mannered colleague… The nerve of that man! I really like that desk, too.”

  Laev opens a small safe, counts out some money and puts it on the desk: “This is for you. Don’t let me detain you any longer: I’m sure you have a lot of work to do.”

  The intruder answers with a resounding and almost joyful: “Yes, sir! Goodbye, sir!” He turns to walk away, carefully, slowly at first, then more quickly.

  Suddenly looking annoyed, the Hero waits for a while, but the person he knows is in the next room fails to materialize.

  Impatiently, Laev angrily shouts: “Ajisth, bring your sorry ass in here immediately!”

  A brief moment later, the attendant enters the room. “You knew I was there?”

  “Who else could have given the order to let them in? Are you satisfied? Did you get what you wanted?”

  “I admit that I’m impressed: you’ve got them to look into Medea’s backers without showing any weakness or alienating them.” Recalling the events on which he has spied, over the last few minutes, he shudders: “You really were terrifying, sir. I still have goosebumps.”

  “There’s nothing more destabilizing than a smiling psychopath talking in a kind voice and acting like he’s doing you a favour. To be honest, I’m glad it’s over: I was getting face-cramp with all that smiling.”

  “That was an act?”

  “What do you think I am?”

  “I’ve no idea, sir.”

  “One more thing: can you get rid of this corpse? Discreetly! My reputation is already bad enough.”

  After a moment, Laev adds with a delighted smile: “What’s happened to your usual sass, my dear steward?”

  <><><>

  With the steward now in a more cooperative mindset, Laev is able to spend the following few weeks getting to grips with a few small plans, though mostly those which require little in terms of investment.

  One day, he is disturbed in his work by an irritated (and irritating) voice, calling to him from the stairs: “My lord, I wish to talk about your most recent endeavour.”

  “My dear steward, would you please shut up, and let me do as I wish? It’s my damn money, and I happen to like making more of it!”

  “I cannot… not with that... What are you thinking? Buying urine and poop? It’s beyond ridiculous: it’s disgusting!”

  “Someone once said (I don’t know who) that money has no smell. Urine and dog faeces are powerful tanning agents; you can also make cleaning agents; and some damn good fertilizer with it! If anything, I would say you’re the shocking ones, for wasting all of this good stuff.”

  The look of disgust remains glued to the steward’s face.

  “It’s not like I’m going anywhere near the stuff…” Laev explains, in exasperation. “Alright, look, if it annoys you that much, find me someone trustworthy to lead the operation in my stead - for a small cut.”

  “I doubt this mad endeavour will see any profit, but at least getting someone else to run it will spare our names from being dragged through the mud.”

  “You mean yours?”

  “Indeed, sir, indeed.”

  “Since you’re here, is everything alright with the water-screw and watermill prototypes?”

  “Wonderful, my lord! It’s hard to imagine that such a strange contraption can gather so much water so quickly, and by using the river’s own strength to power it. The citizens are overjoyed, and I’ve had visits from other stewards and butlers expressing their interest.”

  “This is only the beginning. Once we’re done with the irrigation system and the windmill, I can guarantee you that we will see dramatic improvement in the harvest. More importantly, it will establish my name as an inventor.”

  “There’s a long list of enquiries from neighbouring cities.”

  “It won’t last: these technologies aren’t difficult to figure out, and just as easy to reproduce. The margins aren’t particularly good, so I doubt we’ll see profits beyond the initial stage, but it doesn’t matter.”

  Ajisth glances over Laev’s shoulder, at the papers on the desk: “Is this that other strange metal contraption?”

  Laev answers with a proud, wide smile: “Yup, I’ve got plans for this one. It’s going to be a lot of fun to see the competition try and fail to reproduce this, while we rake in the dough.”

  And, I’ll finally get my shower.

  <><><>

  The following day, an invitation to a ball at the royal castle signals the end of Laev’s house arrest, and the beginning of a promising new social life.

  Chapter 7

  The ball

  Laev reads the letter a first time, then a second time, then puts down the missive, with a heavy sigh.

  Leaning back in his chair, he asks the steward: “What’s wrong with you people? First, you put me under house arrest to keep me hidden, then I find myself invited to a giant mixer, with all the very same elites I’m supposed to be avoiding.”

  Ajisth struggles with the word mixer, but the meaning is easy enough to extrapolate from the context alone: “It’s a summons, sir, not an invitation. The letter is stamped with the royal seal.”

  “I don’t know them, and they don’t know me. Mind you, that doesn’t stop half of them from wanting me dead!”

  “I do not have the audacity to hazard a guess as to what my great master has in mind…”

  “I know there is a ‘but’ about to follow - out with it.”

  “But, you have yet to be officially granted your peerage.”

  “Even if I am granted one of those flimsy ornamental swords, there is no way I’m going to use it - this baby suits me a lot better.”

  Upon taking residence, one of Laev’s first actions was to order commission of a weapon, suited to his strength. The result was Halfberd: a monstrous blade, resembling a short poleax, complete with a spike and a hammer. Halfberd is not a polearm, it has a short handle like a sword; unlike most people, Laev does not need the extra length to achieve power. Although the balance of the weapon isn’t perfect, having the option to slash, pierce or crush makes it reliable against all kinds of opponents.

  “That thing is an abomination,” Ajisth comments, distastefully; “a butcher’s tool, not a weapon.”

  “It cuts, it crushes and it pierces - that’s what all weapons exist for! Let me tell you something: I don’t give a damn about your traditions; I’ll use whatever weapon I want, whenever I want! And, that includes the bow.”

  Peevishly, the steward remarks: “What? You’re still training with the bow?”

  “I sure am. Remember what you said: that I am not one of you and never will be? Well, if that’s the case, dear steward, then pray tell me why I should adhere to your random fucking codes of conduct.”

  To this, Ajisth has no answer. Having been exposed to the Hero’s otherworldly knowledge for some time, he cannot now dismiss Laev’s claim of being from another world. Nevertheless, this is here, and that is there.

  “I beg of you, at least, don’t show yourself in society with that abomination at your side, or we’ll face the ridicule of the whole nation!”

  For the first time since his arrival in this world, Laev finds himself laughing, wholeheartedly. “I’m not that stupid! It’s a public event; I’ll limit myself to concealed weapons.”

  The steward knows better than to answer the amnesiac’s quips, because this only serves to encourage his antagonist, so instead he answers joyously: “Wonderful, sir! I look forward with anticipation to your imprisonment, and my release from this dreadful assignment.”

  The amnesiac smirks; it is nice for his attendant to be showing some backbone again. “Let’s leave it at that, then. What kind of event is this, anyway?” Laev suddenly looks worried; “I won’t have to dance, will I?”

  “A ball is a social event where nobles convene, discuss and forge alliances, mainly through marital bonds. Dancing won’t be necessary, unless you are intending to court a girl.”

  “Good, because I’m not interested in that sort of crap. What I want to know is will it help me build commercial relationships?”

  “It’s an event for nobles, not lowly merchants.”

  “Have we not had visits from neighbouring lords, about our innovations?”

  “Not from the lords themselves; from their stewards and butlers. There aren’t many lords who take an active role in the management of their territory.”

  “Right, I keep forgetting that they are nobles of the sword; fucking useless both on and off the battlefield. I suppose they’re mostly bankrupt, too, right?”

  “Not sure if I like the way you’ve put it – but yes, you are right: many nobles tend to live beyond their means.”

  “Nice!”

  “I admit that in spite of my initial doubts, some of your ventures have indeed proven profitable; I expect that you’ll soon be flooded with loan requests, then.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Laev answers, with a faint smile.

  The steward doesn’t understand how credit is a good thing. Powerful nobles have a tradition of not repaying their debts, or doing so with worthless “treasure”. They are also known to collectively pressure those more solvent into coming to their aid; being forced to offer a loan to a fallen noble is every merchant’s nightmare.

  “My good friends at the Goodwill Company assure me that, for a fee, they can recover any debt. To me, it doesn’t matter whether it’s repaid with money, information or goods.”

  “Playing with fire will get us killed.”

  “I’ve already a queue of eager assassins, anyway! I’m just trying to achieve a particular balance: too useful to kill; too dangerous to control.”

  Impressed by his master’s ruthless pragmatism, the attendant finds himself compelled to ask: “Were you a politician in your own world?”

  “Who knows? I seem to have a wealth of knowledge on the subject. Let me assure you of one thing, though: my methods are not only amongst the most peaceful, but also boast the highest chances of survival, in the longer term.”

  “I’m more worried about the short term!”

  The hero shrugs his shoulders; “It can’t get much worse than it already is.”

  <><><>

  As ordered, Laev arrives two days early, to receive his peerage.

  As soon as he passes the gate, he is led by a small retinue of guards, to a guest room, situated in one of the many small guest mansions surrounding the castle, where he is made to wait, alone, until the next morning.

  Upon the first morning bell, a chamberlain comes to his room, accompanied by guards, and leads him to what he assumes to be the throne room’s antechamber. There, he is once again left to his own devices.

  Damn old coot! What does he have in mind this time?

  Still, Laev knows that the king is not one to do things without reason - Ajisth’s reverence is testimony to that. Even so, as the minutes gradually turn into hours, the otherworlder’s patience approaches its end. Infuriated, the Hero considers storming out.

  Perhaps not.

  “Still, I don’t have to play along, old man.”

  Perhaps he could go to sleep, just to make a point clear. No, he knows that, for sure, that would cause him to fail the old monarch’s test – whatever that might be.

  Since neither of these ideas is an option, the amnesiac decides to do the next best thing, and attempts to stifle the boredom by calming himself, through relaxation and meditation. Although the arts of yoga, tai chi and the like commonly appear in his dreams, he never makes the time and motivation to try either for real, which he feels is a big mistake on his part, because it could open myriad ways to improve and strengthen his mind, body and stamina. He decides to give it a go now.

  His meditation is immediately cut short, by a chamberlain calling to him.

  It instantly occurs to him that this whole charade has been a measure of his control. Someone round here really has too much time on his hands.

  He is guided to a large room, adorned with draping tapestries, bearing the royal insignia. The throne itself is something of a let-down, though: a huge, yet poorly constructed marble seat, decorated with random adornments of gold and silver. His Majesty is seated upon it.

  In front of the king, multiple chamberlains wait, one of them bearing a rich plush cushion, upon which rests a beautiful decorative sword. Although the otherworlder can see no one else present, other than this party, he feels the eyes of tempered warriors watching his every move, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

  The civil servant alongside announces him to the king: “I present to you Laev of Nikopol, as per order, to receive his peerage.”

  Another chamberlain takes the sword from the cushion and ceremoniously presents it to the newly-appointed lord, announcing with a booming voice: “Here, noble warrior, take the sword in acceptance of the covenant.”

  Laev holds the sheathed sword before him, then lowers a knee to the ground, repeating the words coached by his steward: “I humbly receive this sword, and I promise to use it with honour, in defence of the monarch and the kingdom.”

  In unison, the chamberlains proclaim: “May your sword long serve the kingdom and the sovereign, brave warrior.”

  Laev bows deeply to the king, and immediately the two chamberlains nearest to him appear by his side.

  They guide him back to the antechamber, where Ajisth waits, as pale as a ghost.

  “Thank the gods it went well!” The steward hands him a decorated sword belt: “Here, to tie your scabbard.”

  “Thanks. But, I’d rather your master just stopped his stupid games and trials, and told me directly what it is that he wants.”

  “You are still a big unknown: ferocious and violent in combat, yet more knowledgeable than our greatest savant. You act like a lunatic - either antagonistically, or with kindness - without rhyme or reason.”

  “I answer hostility with hostility; pandering to my enemies will only earn me their scorn. Anyway, what’s the overall verdict?”

  “You present the image of a self-centred survivor. You feel little in the way of attachment, nor loyalty to others; you always prioritize your own life.”

  “I agree with your summary, though I will argue that the same stands true for most people.”

  “Your knowledge brings prosperity, and stands to potentially benefit the Crown.”

  “That’s exactly what I meant when I said ‘too useful to kill’.”

  Laev senses that something is troubling Ajisth, and prompts him with a look. The steward gulps his saliva, and his eyes become furtive. Finally, he says, hesitantly: “One of the servants was hurt.”

  Laev’s right eye twitches at the news. He knows this has to be more than a simple accident. “Who and how?”

  “The cook. He was beaten up, by a thief.”

  “Old man Bandi?” Laev bites his lip, in an effort to retain his calm. “How bad is it? Did you catch the culprit?”

  The attendant shakes his head, dolefully: “He won’t be able to work for weeks - if ever again. His attacker was caught very quickly, and will stand trial next week.”

  “Open a guest room for Bandi and send for a doctor… and, by that I mean a good one; one with a history of results. Tell him I’ll tend to the treatment myself.”

  “It will be done, my lord.”

  “Bandi has a son apprenticing to become a cook, right? Ask if he can take over the kitchen, in the meantime. I’ll pay for the travel and arrange things with his master, if need be.”

  Laev’s expression and tone suddenly switch to glacial ones. “As for his attacker, there is no need to waste money and time on a trial: I need a flesh and blood target to test Halfberd; it will be less wasteful than using the carcass of a cow or a pig.”

  The steward suddenly gulps again, and his eyes are glazing.

  “What?” Laev demands.

  Ajisth lets out a long breath and, with fear in his eyes, speaks quietly: “The cook is fine; everything I said was made up...”

  Laev looks at him with confusion. Then, the penny drops.

  Another test!?

  The poor steward suddenly finds himself being violently slammed against the wall.

  “Remember Nikolay?!” Laev shouts. “Don’t ever pull this crap again!”

  Ajisth nods, slowly.

  “Are we clear?!”

  “Yes, sir…”

  Finally, Laev releases the terrified man. “Tell your master he’s a complete asshole!”

  With that, the amnesiac storms out of the room, furious to have been manipulated so easily, and also to have shown so much of himself.

  An instant later, he storms back into the room. “Don’t stand there like an idiot! I don’t know where my room is.”

  <><><>

  The ballroom is nothing like Laev has envisioned, but rather a crudely decorated chamber, with poor lighting. The fineries on display can only be regarded as more colourful versions of the nobles’ everyday clothing - to be expected, considering how costly dyes are.

  The real surprise to Laev is that both the boys and the girls wear make-up, though it is not clear whether this is to highlight their beauty or hide their flaws. From the point of view of a contemporary man, it makes them resemble children playing at being adults.

  Ajisth guides the Hero toward the more approachable members of the royal faction, in the hope of making useful connections for later. However, the outcome is their direct or indirect mockery, by the proud high-born.

  The attendant was right about two things, though: not only do they have no interest in managing any of their affairs, they seem to believe that there is a limitless supply of money, and they only need to ask, to acquire more.

  Weary from the cold reception, Laev goes to sit in a corner, with a glass of wine.

  He is immediately approached by a girl, about twelve years old, who asks, excitedly: “Is it true you beat up Andrey?”

  “Who?”

  “The youngest Medea. You know, the squire.”

  That big oaf.

  “I never took the time to learn his name. What about it?”

  “And his brother, too?”

  He notices that her friends are listening in on their conversation, from afar.

  “Yes, I did. It was the best time I’ve had since I got here.”

  The girl suddenly becomes exuberant; “Is it true that you are as strong as a bear?”

  A bear? Laev is taken aback by the stupidity of the question, and can only stare at her, blankly.

  Then, she troubles him further: “I like a strong man.”

  Okay, that’s it: I’m done with this little freak!

  “I’ve no interest in your weird fetishes, squirt. Come back when you’ve stopped suckling!”

  “I’m an adult! I’m thirteen!”

  “That’s not an adult where I come from! Scram!”

  The incident is repeated a number of times, each time by increasingly aged women, all sharing the same distasteful penchant. Many of them appear to be already married.

  So, when he is approached by a pretty, green-eyed brunette, aged around seventeen years old, resolutely followed by two slightly older women, the amnesiac doesn’t wait for them to state their purpose: “Call me a bear and I swear I’ll throw you across the room!”

  At this, he notes that the two older women immediately adopt a fighting stance – if very discreet, without dropping their merry facade.

  “Bodyguards?” Laev raises his eyebrows. “Who the hell are you?”

  The green-eyed beauty answers, in a delightful voice: “It stands to reason that you wouldn’t recognize me. I am Elena – the third princess. My father has told me a lot about you; how very nice to meet you.”

  In a hushed voice, low enough that only the princess hears him, Laev nods, respectfully: “Please, excuse my earlier outburst. One can only stand being called a bear so many times, before he starts to act like one. How can I help you, Your Highness?”

  “Do not mind. I just wanted to thank you for getting rid of my stalker, Yordan - Medea’s eldest. He saw himself as the next king, with me as his queen.”

  “I offer you my deepest sympathies; that must have been deeply unpleasant for you.”

  She answers with an ever-more attractive smile, but something about her disturbs Laev greatly; he has a very strong feeling that the content of this woman doesn’t match the picture on the box.

  “Thank you, kind sir. Many would have chosen death over such a terrible fate, wouldn’t they? I, on the other hand, think that suicide is pointless and serves no purpose. Don’t you agree?”

  What is she getting at?

  She looks him in the eyes and brings her head closer, to whisper: “Isn’t it better to take your enemies with you?”

  “That’s my philosophy. Have you been studying me?”

  She claps excitedly, like a little girl, but her eyes betray her true maturity. “You’re just like Father said: devious and untrusting to the core.”

  “Well, I suspect that’s the pot calling the kettle black. Your demeanour does not match your discourse; you seem to me every bit as deviously cryptic as your father.”

  The princess feigns coy disappointment. “I thought we would get along like a house on fire… Could it be that you are not interested in older women, after all? I thought it was perhaps the case, considering the way you have been discarding the younger girls.”

  “‘Older women’? You? What age do you think I am?”

  “Fifteen; perhaps less. It’s difficult to say for sure, with that big beard of yours.”

  Laev swears, internally. People have called him young since he got here, but between the beard, amnesia, extensive knowledge and the poor-quality mirrors available, he had thought himself much older than a mere teenager.

  “It is nothing of the sort. You are without a doubt one of the prettiest girls I have had the pleasure to meet tonight. Additionally, you have a somewhat… interesting personality.” Not as pretty as your bodyguards, though, he doesn’t say aloud.

  “If one thing puts me off of you, though, it is your title - it carries far too much baggage.”

  She bats her eyelids and offers him her most beautiful smile yet. “Then, let me introduce you to my little sister. She’s quite adorable, and she has some interest in you.” In a whisper, the princess adds: “Her mother is a commoner, and she has neither title nor political value. But, I assure you that if you take her, no girl will bother you.”

  “This suddenly sounds like a sales pitch.”

  She either doesn’t hear the comment or ignores it. She sends a subtle signal, and very soon another pair of beautiful, well-trained women arrive by her side. Accompanying them is a small, particularly cute young girl, with ashen blonde hair and similar green eyes – if somewhat vacant.

  With loving care, the elder princess takes her sister’s hand, introducing the Hero: “He’s the one with all the interesting contraptions.”

  Interest lights up the youngster’s eyes, as she explains, with a pout: “I wasn’t allowed to see them.”

  She bites her lip, as she thinks of the disappointment at missing out on such an opportunity. But, that no longer matters: the creator himself stands before her. With a display of genuine curiosity, she asks him: “How does the water go upward?”

  “The entry is wider than the conduit, so when it turns there is more water pushing in than pushing out.”

  “How do you make it turn, without people or animals?”

  “Inside are grooved wheels, called ‘gears’. The big wheel turns the smaller one - because it is so much smaller, it turns many more times. It can also be made to go the other way around, if you want to adjust the rotation speed or force.”

  She makes small circles with her fingers, her brain working like the cogs she envisions. “Won’t all of the water’s weight be on the small wheel?”

  “Yes, it is. That’s why gears have to be made from a very sturdy material.”

  This has been one of Laev’s biggest complaints: the people he hires keep going cheap on materials. However, his suspicions are born of prejudice: lacking practical knowledge of the time, he struggles to comprehend that with the current technology, it is far easier to make and adjust a big wooden gear than it is to forge a small iron one - let alone one of pure steel.

  Her curiosity now sated, the girl suddenly stops talking, and looks vaguely again in his direction. Laev suddenly realizes that her aloof manner and vacant eyes may be signs of some form of mild autism. Nevertheless, she is precious, and has managed to understand in a couple of sentences what some artisans in his employ consistently struggle with.

  Brushing her little sister’s hair with one hand, the elder explains: “Her name is Boyka. She’s fourteen - right about your age. Isn’t she a darling?”

  “She is; I admit. But, I don’t see what she has to do with me.”

  Princess Elena uses her head, to discreetly gesture in the direction of a forty-something man, who just happens to be looking in their direction, with a particularly nasty expression on his face; “See that man over there? He’s been asking for her hand in marriage, for almost four years. He has been married three times, and all of his wives have died in childbirth. Surely, you understand why we are unwilling to entrust our dear little Boyka to such a man? Sadly, she is growing old, and the man is rich and influential; there will come a time when we will no longer be able to protect her.”

  And, suddenly, all becomes clear to Laev: the meaning of the king’s tests; the reason why he was awarded a domain right beside the capital - all was preparation for this very situation.

  “Father has asked me to tell you this: make her your wife and he’ll grant you his support; refuse and you will face his wrath.” Then, in a much gentler tone, she adds: “You don’t have to actually love her, only to care for and protect her, as a husband. Other than that, you are free to take as many mistresses as you wish, and to name any of their children your heir. As a small incentive, she comes with two beautiful maids.”

  Laev’s eyes light up. “If you mean the two deadly assassins by her side, I must admit they are beautiful.” Truthfully, though, the Hero is particularly annoyed by the way he has been played. Still, this is without a doubt an excellent deal for him.

  “Her condition is troublesome,” Elena concedes, “but she is very smart. For this alone, she is worthy of taking.”

  Laev raises a hand, to halt the undignified pitch: “You did right to introduce us; had I not met the girl, I would now be seething with rage, and unjustly holding it against her. Tell your father I gladly accept.”

  From a discreet distance, Boyka is looking at the Hero, considerately.

  This man is different to the others, and not just because he makes interesting toys. He looked at me seriously, and answered my questions, without condescending. It would seem that he does not see me as a burden, being borne simply to please Father, but as an actual person.

  More importantly, he isn’t charmed by my sister... though his eyes do appear to wander too often toward the maids. I suppose that is natural: they are perfect. They are of my sister’s choosing, after all.

  Chapter 8

  Hero

  Laev delicately removes Leann’s head from his torso and climbs out of the bed. With her pillow gone, she immediately moves over to snuggle against Meleas, her fellow maid.

  Spending some time with this lovely pair of maids has valued them higher, in his opinion. True, they are no match for a fully armed knight, but they don’t need to be: they are assassins - the nick of a poisoned needle, or a blade through the carotid is all it would take them.

  A bitter smile sets on his face as he remembers Elena, their mistress. Ascertaining from the information he gleaned from Boyka, she has dozens of girls like these two, placed in every ministry; manipulating weak-willed men from the shadows.

  He doesn’t feel that he is one of them. He believes Elena’s sincerity in her gratitude that he disposed of her troublesome Medea suitor, and nor does he think she was faking her love for her sister.

  In the bathroom, he opens the shower reservoir; as expected, the water is cold. At this time of the year and at this hour, the only fireplaces in use in the house would be in the kitchen, meaning that if he wants hot water he will have to light a fire, or ask the cook to heat a brick… both are too much bother. Reluctantly, he operates the small, manual pump, for a quick, cold shower.

  It is as invigorating as it is disagreeable, but at least afterward his head is clear, and ready to tackle today’s challenge.

  Heading out for his study, he encounters Boyka, sitting against the door. Upon seeing him, his adorable little fiancée immediately starts scolding him. He listens to her ranting, carefully absorbing her tale of woe.

  “I have no idea why you’re so angry about it,” he finally comments.

  “The mill; the guard said no! It’s not fair!”

  “He was right to say no: it’s dangerous to go out alone. Damn it, girl! Will you think about me for a moment: if you get hurt, your father and sister will kill me!”

  As Laev makes a mental note to thank the guards, the disgruntled girl pouts and buries her face in his chest. She nudges him with her adorable little head - a feline-like sign of discontentment, but also proof that she has come to trust him. It is an action she reserves for very few select people - her sister and maids included.

  “Mmmh! You’re bad,” Boyka whines: “you said we’d go see the mill together, but you’re just like Sissy: always playing with the maids.”

  To him, the girl is a mystery at the best of times: free-spirited, hard to read and terrible at communicating. This particular example is a real test: he has no clue whether she is using childish wiles to get her own way, or in fact hinting at a more mature suggestion of jealousy. Her face gives nothing away, and her language is always characteristically cryptic.

  To defuse a potentially volatile situation, he tells her: “Take your breakfast, then we’ll go there when the sun is up.”

  Pushing harder with her head, she answers with an angry: “Mmmh!”

  Damn, she’s adorable!

  He hugs her, lifts her up in a “princess carry”, and takes her to the dining room.

  Three months of communal life aren’t enough for him yet to see her as a love interest, but he cares deeply enough about her that he won’t let anyone harm her.

  “I’m heating a brick for the reservoir,” he tells her, “so, once you’re done with your breakfast, go take a shower.”

  She shakes her head, slowly; “Mmmh; wet hair is annoying!”

  “Ask a servant to help you; I’m sure Farron would be delighted.”

  “Mmmh?”

  “The big one, with dark hair.”

  “Mmmh! Annoying!”

  “Annoying” is the worst qualifier employed by Boyka; using it to describe a person means that she refuses to even register their presence anymore. Farron may have brought it upon herself, by misreading her charge and dressing the princess like a doll, but he still considers the punishment perhaps harsh.

  “She didn’t mean any harm,” he explains, diplomatically. “Your sister used to do that all the time, right?”

  Boyka shakes her head, with a powerful “Mmmh!” Then, she explains, concisely and cryptically: “Okay for Sissy.”

  <><><>

  One hour later, the group - comprising Laev, his fiancée, two lovely (but deadly) bodyguards, masquerading as maids, and four guards – makes its way around the construction site of the watermill.

  Defying all expectations, the project architect follows obediently behind the young girl, noting with all respect and seriousness every one of her comments and suggestions, scribbled on precious vellum.

  One hour later, tired from the tour and her early rise, she suddenly demands to be brought back home.

  The planner looks at her notes, certain that it is all important information to the princess, but unable to understand even half of it himself. It is nerve-wracking: the inability to understand her. He feels better when it occurs to him that he doesn’t have to; even if he misreads her plans, he can point the defect in the direction of the foreman. I’ll just pass the blame to him.

  The Hero calls the site manager over: “Foreman, there are some problems with this construction.”

  The man joins him immediately, but his head seems to remain elsewhere.

  “This beam needs to be reinforced: as it stands, it won’t be able to support the load. And, this cogwheel… See this small crack? Order another one, with the exact same dimensions, but this time use steel.”

  The supervisor answers with a vague: “As you wish, sir”

  “There, the wood isn’t completely dry, so there is a strong risk of deformation later… Are you listening to me?!”

  The foreman, who has been throwing inquisitive glances toward the women, decides to explain his distraction: “Sorry, sir, it’s just that… Seeing them in the flesh, you wouldn’t imagine what they are capable of. I mean, I only heard about it from someone else, but… Did they really do all that to that guy?”

  Two weeks earlier, the maids had interrogated a man, caught trying to infiltrate the mansion. Ever since, stories of their exploits have been growing wilder and more imaginative. So much so, in fact, that it has by now become highly doubtful that anyone could have survived the rumoured treatment.

  Laev smiles at the foreman’s awe, and amuses himself by adding to the myth: “They are royal maids and bodyguards; killing a man or two with their bare hands is the least they can do. If you want my opinion, the true horror lies in their needles and other terrible things…” He quivers; “It sends shivers down my spine, whenever I think about it.”

  The foreman grows pensive, as his imagination runs wild. The voice of his master reminds him of the work at hand: “I have other tasks to attend to, so if we could just get back to it…”

  <><><>

  One morning, around two months later, a panicked Ajisth barges into the study, with a missive in hand.

  “Sir, bad news! The kingdom and the Horned Ones will be meeting in battle, in two months, to determine the ownership of the Lapseki peninsula. You have been called to fight.”

  The Hero curses at the news. “I thought I was supposed to be exempt, until the time I produce an heir.”

  “Once you are married! It’s been five months, sir; you aren’t married and there is no heir on the horizon. There are some who say that you haven’t touched your fiancée, nor have any intention of doing so.”

  “And, they’re not wrong! Damn, it’s my own fault for thinking I could buy more time, by delaying the ceremony.” He bites his knuckle, deep in thought. “Damn! I should have set a date, or given some stupid excuse… a long-ass project, to justify the delay: a garden, or something… Too late now!”

  Rocking quickly on his chair, he asks the attendant: “I know I’m probably going to hate the answer, but which general’s orders?”

  “General Gifre, Lord of Odrin - from the royal faction. He’s from the south-west.”

  “A friend of our bloody paedophile, I suppose?”

  “Of what?”

  “It means someone who likes children… too much and in the wrong way! Like Paillard, the old creep lusting after my Boyka.”

  The steward notes Laev’s slip-up, with a hidden smile; the girl’s efforts to charm him are paying off. “Once you’re married, he won’t be able to do anything to her.”

  He shakes his head, distastefully. “I know Boyka and I are physically the same age, but I feel older. Not that you would understand: from your point of view, a twelve-year-old marrying some fifty-something bastard is an everyday occurrence.”

  “It only happens on rare occasions, and it is frowned upon.”

  The talk of marriage suddenly reminds Laev of something which has tickled his curiosity, and inexplicably troubles him: “How come the third princess isn’t married? She must be at least sixteen, right?”

  “Her fiancés all died: two in battle and one from an accident.”

  “They died on the battlefield?”

  “Where else, sir?”

  “In their tent, perhaps? Stabbed in the back?”

  Ajisth looks at him, reproachfully, but says nothing.

  The Hero’s mind starts to work: “Her older sisters both happen to only have daughters, too…”

  “Yes, and most people believe them responsible.”

  “Really? Let me take a wild guess why: the two of them have suffered a number of miscarriages?”

  “I see exactly what you are hinting at, sir. I doubt that only the third princess could be so vile as her sisters!”

  “I hear you: if she wanted them out of the way, they’d be dead! Man, every time I think you people can’t get any worse, you go on and outdo yourselves!”

  Ajisth’s face briefly betrays a hint of shame.

  Laev returns his attention to his situation, and acknowledges that it is indeed a hugely perilous one for him. “Goddess, I’m not ready to find myself alone on the battlefield, surrounded by enemies!” As a minor, upstart noble, Laev has neither the right nor the influence to raise and maintain an army to protect him.

  As if that were not bad enough, he hasn’t even begun worrying about the Horned Ones yet.

  <><><>

  Two months later, on one fateful day, an irritated Laev is listening to the plans of the so-called “general” – by all accounts, the term “plans” is something of an overstatement, too.

  The strategy is absurd; their foolish leader appears to be assigning positions based on rank and family ties, without any thought for best use of arsenal or battle formation. As for the tactics, they can be summarized as such: charge, kill and repeat, until one side is all dead or has retreated (preferably the enemy).

  Planning an engagement in warfare, wherein both parties agree to conditions and location, may sound absurd and not optimally effective, but it is a long-standing protocol, in place to ensures that civilians do not suffer directly from the conflict – except, of course, for all of those conscripted to die, under the leadership of some useless moron.

  Laev’s assigned position is on the far left wing, and as he makes his way there, he finds himself under the heavy scrutiny of some of the soldiers, many of them appearing to eye him like cats, about to pounce.

  He wonders how much his life has been valued at… and if they will be able to restrain themselves, until the start of the battle!

  A young nobleman, in position not far from his own, calls out to him: “Hey, fraud, can’t you afford to buy yourself a horse?”

  His companion acquiesces: “Medea was right: only a mongrel would walk amongst the common rabble. Truly, this spells the end of nobility, if the likes of him are permitted to mix with us.”

  Laev turns toward the two, and ostentatiously strings his powerful bow, with little effort. Then, with an evil smile, he comments: “What a wonderful pair of targets you two make, with your big horses and flashy coat of arms. I’m sure you would look more dashing still, with a pair of feathers sticking out of your eyes.”

  “You dare threaten us?! Damn coward! If by some miracle you are able to survive this battle, I’ll be sure to put you back in your place.”

  “Hey, that’s my line, cretin! Killing useless morons like you happens to be one of my favourite hobbies!”

  An eternity later, the sound of horns resounding from both sides of the battlefield signals that it is time for the men to get into position.

  Then, the two armies march forward, stopping a hundred metres from each other.

  Laev sees the Horned Ones for the very first time. Those in the front of their formation are intimidating, indeed: blue-skinned, bull-horned, giant humanoids, standing well over two-and-a-half metres in height, and almost half of that in width. Behind them, hidden by the crowd, similar creatures are mounted on horses, though red in colour – assumed by Laev to be nobles on their side.

  At last, after a long, anxious wait, a chorus of horns signals the start of the battle. Compelled and energized by the noise, and the exhortations of their lords, the humans charge - into a volley of fireballs, unhesitantly launched by the blue giants.

  In the kingdom, it is widely believed that the Horned Ones only use their magic once per battle, in respect of their code, and in the principle of fairness. The kingdom is wrong.

  Laev has no time to think about any of this, as hostile presences come at him, from behind. He knows his speed would allow him to leave them all far behind, but he isn’t the kind to flee. Instead, he alters his direction slightly, to cross the path of two oncoming fireballs; at the last second, he rolls underneath them.

  As the sounds of screams and explosions announces the fate of his would-be attackers and fellow soldiers, the amnesiac empties his bow at a tremendous rate – so much so that even the sturdy, reinforced bow can not sustain his ridiculous force. The loud noise of the bow’s upper limb snapping reverberates across the battlefield like thunder, as pieces of wood fly all about him.

  Cursing and cussing, the Hero discards the useless weapon and side-quiver, to equip with his shield and Halfberd. As he draws the miniature poleax from its customized half-scabbard, he lets out a powerful war cry, before rushing into the melee.

  When up close, he can see that the eyes of the blue giants seem vacant and lifeless – though, very much unlike Boyka, there is nothing in their expressions to suggest a rich inner world. Each of them holds a crescent-shaped spear in one hand, and a long, wide mace in the other. Thankfully for the human, their greater size and powerful legs give them no speed advantage over him - quite the opposite, in fact: all of their reflexes are slower than their human counterpart.

  Furthermore, the creatures are poor fighters, repeating the same basic combination of attacks, over and over; were it not for them fighting side by side, they would present little of a threat. At least as far as the otherworlder is concerned, the Horned Ones’ longer reach and superior power mean nothing: with quick movements, he dodges their laughably slow and predictable attacks, zigzagging between the blue creatures, cutting, piercing and smashing limbs and organs, as he goes.

  As he whirlwinds his way toward the centre of the battlefield, many blue-ones earn themselves a quick death by turning from their current opponent, distracted by the human tornado, hurtling amongst them.

  Ever-cautious, the Hero keeps a vigilant eye on the mounted Horned Ones, but the red giants simply seem content to monitor the battlefield, with apparently little concern for the death of their brethren.

  The battle is short and bloody. By the time one last chorus of horns has boomed, to signal the kingdom’s victory, Halfberd’s blade has long lost its edge and point.

  As one, the horned, blue giants retreat, in perfect order, oblivious to their wound, and even to their opponents, as cries of victory resound from all around.

  And, soldiers gather around Laev, to extol his prowess, with improvised songs of thanks to the gods - and to their envoy.

  Chapter 9

  That bitch!

  The human cost of this battle is enormous: two major casualties or fatalities to each giant downed. Surprisingly, despite the apparently unfavourable ratio, the general’s staff appears to consider it an overwhelming victory.

  But, contrary to the mood of the soldiers and populace from the surrounding cities, most of the nobles aren’t so delighted by the victory - mainly because their achievements are eclipsed by those of a single man: the so-called Hero.

  The supposed poseur, instigated by the Church, whom they wholeheartedly mocked, not so long ago, has revealed himself to be a true hero, in both name and deed; there is little anyone can do or say to stop the tales of his heroism from spreading, carried out within sight of thousands of witnesses. Worse still, the outlander has displayed power and savagery beyond human boundaries, instigating some to wonder if in fact he was truly sent by the gods, and whether they should fear divine retribution for his marginalization.

  The battle is done, but the day’s work is not. All over the battlefield, soldiers and workers dig mass graves and strip the fallen of their equipment and valuables. It is customary for all objects not claimed by the families to be sold and the profits divided amongst the survivors - a pittance for the noble, but a welcome bonus for the conscripts.

  As one of the major players, Laev is forced to take part in the victory feast - an extremely nerve-wracking experience for one who so recently survived a poisoning attempt. Despite his menacing aura, a young servant approaches him, with a flask of wine: “May I serve you a drink, sir?”

  “No, thank you. Tell whoever sent you that I find poison unpalatable.”

  Clearly used to the rudeness of the nobility, the young man answers, unfazed: “As you wish, sir. I’ll tell milord that his wine isn’t to your liking.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  A little later, the general walks amongst his guests, listing their achievements and attributing merits. Those who have performed admirably will be called to the capital, to receive reward and commendation, directly from the king. As he draws closer to the man his assassins failed to kill, the old man grows increasingly worried. However, without good reason, he cannot overlook his duty.

  Hiding his anxiety behind a fake smile and a booming voice, he addresses the hero of the day: “Young man, your performance was exemplary! It is my hope that, in the future, you will continue to fight with the same verve as that which you showed today, and to go on inspiring others.”

  In very much a similar tone, Laev’s answer comes, equally as loud: “You can count on me, General; I will continue to fight dutifully – for as long as your assassins fail to kill me. Considering their poor performance today, that should be a very long time.”

  The eyes of the old man swim around the room, as he searches for an answer. Before he can find one, the Hero ends the conversation with a message for his paymaster: “Please, General, transmit my best regards to Lord Orsovo. My fiancée and I would be delighted to have him attend our wedding. We have set it for the date of her fifteenth birthday.”

  Many nobles may have been involved in the plot which killed the Cherven, but Laev’s enquiries have shown they are unrelated to the current situation.

  “Congratulations on your marriage, lad. However, I fear I won’t be able to transmit your message: Lord Orsovo lives up north, far from my own territory.”

  The Hero approaches the general with a sneer, and whispers into his ear: “You have earnt a lot of Goodwill from me today; I hope you can keep me Company sometime.”

  <><><>

  Once separated from the army, Laev heads to Gelibolu - a town situated a dozen kilometres north of the supply camp - to meet with his escort: a small group of royal guards, loaned by the Crown.

  Despite the primitive naval technology, the port city is one of the greatest commercial hubs in the whole country - the reason why so many men were sacrificed to keep ownership of the otherwise barren peninsula.

  The guards have already planned several return routes, the safest being a two-week detour, over the Thundza river. When the Hero finally reaches home - after more than two months away - he is surprised to find that, despite his messages, Boyka isn’t there to welcome him.

  Anxiously, he asks her maids: “Where is Boyka? Is she well?”

  Leann answers, hesitantly: “She is fine, sir… But, she has secluded herself in her room, because she doesn’t want to see you.”

  “Why?! What did I do?”

  “You went away for a long time - much longer than planned - and she apparently believes that you have abandoned her, sir.”

  “I told you to bring her to the capital if she grew unhappy!”

  “We did, sir, but she insisted on coming back, two-and-a-half weeks ago, to await your return.”

  His heart feels heavy at the news. She has every right to be angry at him: he delayed his return by two weeks, without a word to her, and even went as far as announcing the date of their wedding out of spite, without first consulting her.

  “Another thing, sir: she spent most of the time that you were absent locked away, inside the design room.”

  “What was she doing in there?”

  “We know that she spent her time drawing, but no more than that; she forbade us from seeing her work.”

  “I’m going to go check on her.”

  Heavy of heart, Laev makes his way toward his young fiancée’s room. She is the only person in this world with whom he can interact, without lies or artifice. Now, due to his egotistical tendencies, that gift might be lost to him forever.

  He knocks once, then twice, but the girl refuses to answer. He tries to open the door and, to his surprised relief, it isn’t locked.

  “I’m back,” he says, softly.

  Boyka resolutely turns away from him, directing her gaze out of the window.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t come home sooner,” he explains. “It was dangerous.”

  Her blank expression changes to a moue, but still she refuses to look at him.

  “You know I wasn’t away because I wanted to be.”

  He stands beside her and tries to brush her hair, but she stomps away, shaking her head, angrily.

  “Annoying! Go away!”

  The words hurt him more than he thought possible. It occurs to him that he has lost the only person he can trust; the only person whom he knows will always be true. He tries to face her once again, but she immediately turns her back to him again.

  “Please,” he implores. “It was that crazy old man’s fault; there were assassins everywhere on the battlefield.”

  She now looks him in the eye, though with a doubtful look on her face: “Promise you won’t go away again.”

  “You know full well it’s out of my hands.”

  “You won’t abandon me?”

  He is aware that her last two replies lacked her usual spontaneity, as though she is reciting. Still, he assures her: “Never.”

  “And, no more playing with the maids! Okay?”

  Now, this one was really heartfelt.

  “I won’t.”

  Her eyes become distant again and her mouth moves silently, as she seems to calculate her options. Finally, apparently satisfied, she hugs him. “Alright.”

  Relaxed and reassured, he sits on the bed and lowers her onto his knee, to hug her, tightly. “You seem… unusual… different… Has somebody been coaching you in all this?”

  Like your sister?

  She nods: “Hmmm, Sissy helped.”

  I knew it! Damn that bitch!

  <><><>

  He’s initially angry with Elena, but, over time, he grows profoundly thankful to the third princess: he knows that without her interference, his relationship with Boyka would never have progressed the way it does.

  At first, he fully intended to do as agreed, and look after her, as a guardian; to let her find her own love, while he did the same. It didn’t occur to him that she already had.

  And, that she would end up making him fall for her, in return – her, with her purity of character. Now, the very idea of someone else standing by her side has become abhorrent to him.

  There is only one thing left for him to do: “It’s a little late, but, please, marry me.”

  She answers the fundamentally important question in her usual manner: with a small nod and a single word: “Okay.”

  So like her.

  <><><>

  The next morning, as he holds her tight, while caressing her hair, he remembers what the maid had said, about Boyka locking herself in the design room. “What were you doing while I was gone?”

  “Drawings.”

  “What were you drawing?”

  “Machines - to kill the bad guys. Once they’re gone, Father won’t be angry all the time, and you won’t have to go away anymore.”

  Feeling his stomach tying into knots, he asks: “Can you show me?”

  After a few moments of thought, she finally answers: “Okay.”

  Following a quick shower, she leads him to her room. There, she opens a secret compartment in her desk, which reveals a strange key - she uses it to open yet another secret compartment.

  “When did you get all this installed?”

  “Sissy did it for me. She said the drawings were bad and we should hide them.”

  Inside the compartment, he sees complex working plans for siege engines and other heretical weapons. With a heavy heart, he knows that some – though, only some – are directly inspired by his “creations”.

  Chapter 10

  Preparations

  The existence of these designs puts him into something of a quandary. Certainly, destroying the designs would be the safest option for this world, but he doesn’t want to destroy his fiancée’s hard work without good reason.

  One of the things he learnt from Hristo was that the use of siege weapons and mass killing armaments in battle was taboo, though he was informed of little regarding the specifics of this protocol.

  Laev knows that range weapons – such as his bow – also defy the gods’ commandments in this world, but his use of it had been a calculated risk. Firstly, he did not believe that such a weapon really fitted the gods’ taboo, perhaps unlike Boyka’s tools of mass murder; secondly, if truth be told, he would rather incur the gods’ punishment, than allow his enemies to outlive him. He wonders if the taboo is even sincere amongst the people.

  No, I cannot think like that!

  Such thoughts could put Boyka in danger. Skeptical and educated as he may be, he cannot dismiss the scriptures when two species with different cultures and different biology, worship the same gods and adhere to the same code of war.

  One could argue that the fact that she had not already been punished by them meant that she was safe, as long as the machines were not actually used in battle. Still, he has to be certain.

  He seals her lips with a kiss and asks her to wait. “Lock the door behind me. I’ll be back in an instant; I just want to get a book.”

  The girl is puzzled: she’s used to seeing this kind of behaviour from her sister and father, but not from her fiancé; the secrecy is starting to make her feel uncomfortable. “Mmmh… okay.”

  Thankfully, there are many copies of the book he seeks in the library. Finding the relevant proscription, he reads:

  “Thou wilt not fight with tools of destruction, nor wilt thou target the cities and houses of thine enemy.

  “Thou wilt always fight with honour and will never use weapons and tools which kill many at once. Know that if you do, strife wilt soon consume the world, and the gods, once again, wilt start it anew.”

  The commandment clearly confirms that she has done no wrong, and whilst her creations remain away from the machinery of battle, there is indeed no risk. Relieved, he goes back to his fiancée and sits her back on his lap, to caress her once again.

  The girl processes things differently, which results in a very low attention span, when it comes to subjects she has no interest in. To most normal people of the time, her lack of verbal skills, combined with her general disinterest, make her appear retarded - that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

  As he searches for a way to explain the danger she could potentially put herself in, Laev decides to ask questions to reach his point.

  “How did you come up with those ideas?”

  “The watermill. They were carrying beams – big, like that…” She attempts to reproduce the breadth of them, using her tiny hands. “But, they were doing it wrong. I used the same machine, but the right way, and altered it to kill bad guys.”

  “What did your sister say, when she saw your drawings?”

  “She said: ‘Don’t show them; don’t talk about them!’ But, Father and Sissy always say things like that.”

  Her sister probably had no idea that the designs are functional, so her warning was probably a generic one, against discussing any of her thoughts in public; since Boyka has a long history of her ideas being ignored, she evidently took her sister’s concern as another hushing of her.

  However, her worst suspicions now seem to be being confirmed, by Laev’s line of questioning, and Boyka starts to panic. “Was I bad? I didn’t know; nobody told me! It's not my fault! I didn’t know!”

  “It’s nothing,” he reassures her. “You’re not the bad one, and your drawings aren’t bad, either. It’s your teacher’s fault, for not explaining the rules against heresy.”

  People of this world don't understand her disability, and the asshole put in charge of her religious education must have felt that there was no point in even trying.

  But, then, who would expect the daughter of a king to create weapons of mass killing, anyway?

  In tears, Boyka rocks on his lap, as he hugs her and whispers reassuring words into her ear. Gradually, she calms down.

  “Your drawings aren’t bad. In fact, with a little work, they can become tools to help everyone. You said it yourself, right? They were doing it wrong at the watermill.”

  “Mmm…”

  When she has finally calmed down, he shows her the codes of the gods.

  “This weird book is very important to a lot of people. That’s why when others don’t follow it perfectly, they get very angry. Someone should have told you all about it, but that didn’t happen. You can’t be blamed for trying to help your family.”

  Softly, she answers: “Okay.”

  “And, you really did. Most of your plans can be used to do heavy work, instead of people.”

  “Mmm. Lots of gears, pulleys and weights!”

  With that, he hides the plans back in their secret compartment; the two of them would have ample time to look over them, later.

  “Wouldn’t you rather talk about our wedding, than dreary things like this? What kind of robes do you want? Who shall we invite?”

  <><><>

  Some days later, Laev summons the two maids and the steward to his study.

  “You three have contacts within the secret services, right? I want to know if there has been any progress with the investigation into Orsovo.” The more he has thought about that sly noble, the more he has seethed within.

  Meleas and Leann play dumb: “What do you mean, sir? We’re milady’s maids and nothing else.”

  “I’ve seen you undress: you have more concealed weapons than a mercenary band! Do you expect me to believe that they allow normal maids to carry weapons, in the presence of royalty?”

  Ajisth smirks, pleased to let someone else suffer Laev’s scrutiny for once, although he knows that their loyalty lies only with the third princess.

  “Alright; whatever. Ajisth, what about you?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir. But, seeing as he still draws breath, progress seems unlikely.”

  “That makes sense: he’s one rich bastard with a ton of connections, so he can obviously afford some serious protection. Damned if it’s not going to cost a lot of money to deal with that bastard…”

  At that, he hands a document to the steward: “It’s a little earlier than I would have wanted but, thanks to Boyka’s work, we now have other avenues to explore, to make up for the losses. Please, send this to whomever is concerned.”

  Ajisth reads the whole thing, ashen, before answering: “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re trying to accomplish here! Creating a new tax to circulate your products seems counterproductive. Considering the nature of the demand, it’s bound to be the ministry of finance, rather than our industry, which stands to benefit.”

  The document is Laev’s proposition of taxation, for certification of his own products. Under the proposition, considering the health and safety risks involved in their use, all water pumps intended for public use would need to be certified “safe”, before installation - at the expense of the manufacturer. It is clearly baffling to his steward why Laev would want to tax himself.

  “I have the product, functional and safe to use, and enough treasury to pay for hundreds of certifications,” he explains. “In addition, remember how many specialists I’ve recruited?”

  “Yes, I do. You’ve spent a ludicrous amount of money to employ them, and we’ve yet to return a single penny of that money. I still don’t see—”

  “The recruitment drive was to optimize the cost and speed of production; I have created an assembly line, upon which each one of them works only on a single part. Even if our competition figures out the inner workings of the pump, what do you think will happen to those upstart artisans working in small groups, without our level of treasury, when they try to copy my product?”

  “They won’t be able to match your production cost.”

  “Exactly. And, there’s more to it: only we will have the expertise to certify it safe. On the second page of my letter, there’s a list of unsanitary and poisonous materials along with a list of experiments we have conducted to support our claims about the dangers.”

  Ajisth is impressed, he has to admit.

  To polish it off, Laev concludes: “I’m confident that the competition won’t be able to compete in any way.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “One more thing: tell the Goodwill Company that the time to collect debts has finally arrived.”

  <><><>

  The thug from the Goodwill Company has a great deal to report, though none of it is particularly to Laev’s liking. Not only is that old bastard Orsovo crazy about security, he shows no outward signs of any exploitable vice.

  “What about his pawns? Odrin seemed pretty incompetent; you must have something on him, right?”

  “No luck with the general; their agreement was a one-time deal. As for the noble’s actual pals, he seems to keep them on a tight leash.”

  “No debts or bad habits we can exploit?”

  “None; the old man takes care of everything for them.”

  “We only have dirt on the general - and he’s useless to us! Do you know what? Send everything you’ve got on him to his enemies anyway, anonymously; I’m feeling generous.”

  Suddenly, Laev thumps the table, and the thug recoils.

  How can I get rid of the old bastard? A duel? No, out of the question, now that my abilities are well known they would not accept unless it’s fought through a champion… No, there’s no way I’m entrusting our future to the hand of some stranger.

  Assassination seems to be the only option to get rid of the troublesome noble, but his castle is very well guarded. Still, Laev knows that, with the right materials, he can design a bow which far exceeds those of a normal human archer’s strength. Unfortunately, hitting a target over two-hundred metres away, through a window, he knows is beyond even him.

  I could invent a gun!

  The materials are readily available, and Laev now has access to some good quality smiths. But, he is well aware that as well as being taboo, introducing a weapon which counters his own superhuman abilities is both stupid and dangerous.

  “Did you put a tail on him?”

  “That we did, sir. You’ll be the first informed, if we discover anything useful!”

  There is one question which has yet to be answered regarding Orsovo: the origin of the old bastard’s unlimited funds. His territory is rich, but it cannot possibly be as resourceful as the wealth he has accumulated; he has to be doing something illegal.

  Laev pays his debt-collecting messenger: “Thank you for your efforts - here’s the amount we agreed. If you spot the opportunity to corrupt someone in his entourage, don’t hesitate to ask for more.”

  “Always a pleasure to do business with you, sir,” the man answers, courteously, then hurriedly leaves.

  As soon as he has gone, Laev calls in his steward. “What do you make of this? The amount of money he spends doesn’t make sense.”

  “His territory exports a lot of precious commodities: furs, silver, gold, pearls…”

  “I’ve already taken all that into account. Is there a chance of tax evasion, perhaps?”

  Ajisth shakes his head: “He’s very open with his books, sir.”

  “Well, that in itself is a very fishy thing!

  “The people in the kingdom rely mostly on a subsistence economy to feed themselves, yet his territory doesn’t sell any kind of food at all! Considering that two-thirds of the kingdom’s population work in the fields, it seems rather strange to have zero food export - much less the amount they have going the opposite way.”

  “Indeed, I can only find food imports, sir.”

  “I don’t get it. Assuming that all of the freemen in his territory work in more lucrative industries, serfs still make up a good third of the population. Unless he has emancipated them all secretly, I can see no reason why he would need to buy this much.”

  “The climate is much colder up north,” Ajisth suggests; “I hear they make only one harvest per year.”

  “It’s not that far north… Yeah, you may be right; I don’t know the terrain, and my understanding of agriculture is probably out of context.”

  <><><>

  A few days later, in the mansion’s garden, the engaged couple are out enjoying a walk, when one of the gate guards suddenly runs toward them at full speed, calling to the master of the house; there is a piece of paper in his hand.

  Never one to let her own guard down, Leann draws her knives, placing herself between the approaching man and her mistress. Unwilling to test the veracity of the ridiculous legends surrounding this pair, the guard abruptly stops.

  “My lord,” he says, breathlessly, “you’ll want to read this right away.”

  As a precaution against poison, Meleas takes the note from the guard’s hand in tissues, showing it to Laev without contact.

  On it is written only a few simple words – but, for the Hero, they mean very much:

  “Nikolay’s pal was spotted meeting with Orsovo.”

  At last, they have found the foul murderer.

  More importantly, his presence might provide the justification needed to openly challenge Orsovo.

  Chapter 11

  Outsider

  Weeks have gone by since the fateful message was received, yet no progress has been made. His accusation against Orsovo, of harbouring and abetting a fugitive, has fallen on deaf ears and his demands for a duel, or other retribution, have all been ignored.

  The fact remains that there is no proof of anybody’s involvement in the poisoning. Even if there were, the testimony of a morally unsound sell-sword is hardly ground enough to accuse a major noble family.

  Since the re-emergence of the mysterious figure, haunting memories of his night at death’s door have caused Laev’s behaviour to become increasingly erratic and irritable. Day after day, most of his time is spent in his study, scanning books about law and chivalry, in search of obscure laws or valid excuses which will enable him to challenge his foes. It is only when Boyka is by his side that some measure of calm and sanity returns to him.

  Egged on by her worried mistress, Meleas attempts to reason with him: “You must stop acting so irrationally, sir; you’re worrying the mistress.”

  Being chastized by the usually obedient and self-effacing maid is enough to temporarily draw him from his stupor: “What do you mean ‘irrationally’? The man is a threat!”

  “I do not deny that point. What I refer to is your campaign. No matter how many letters you write, or how many rules you quote, you will never achieve what you hope for! Besides, the world has evolved since those codes and bylaws were written; many of them are now obsolete. If you took a moment to think about it, you would realize that if people could simply go about challenging whomever they wish, whenever they desire, society would have long since broken down.”

  Her arguments are sensible and she is not wrong: there are many insane rules in the old codes, many of which directly contradict the current laws.

  “Sir, let the Crown take care of this matter for you; you don’t need to bring down these nobles by yourself. Smuggling contraband and tax evasion are serious offences – even up there with treason – and, if proven, not even the greatest and most powerful noble will be able to avert the death penalty.”

  There is no denying her reasoning, but he simply does not trust the secret service, for one reason above all others: there is surely no way that the agents can have made slower progress than the crooks at Goodwill, unless they were compromised. There is no argument that, unlike criminals, agents need to work within the confines of the law - these people do not; they simply have to remain in the shadows.

  Nevertheless, he chooses to appease her: “Thank you, Meleas. You are right: I gave in to my fears. It’s just that… that guy… He had to have been involved in the poisoning. I don’t want to see that same horror befalling this place.”

  Now feeling a little calmer, he asks the loyal maid: “Please, ask Ajisth to send all the pertinent information we’ve collected so far to a trusted contact in secret services, and to the princess Elena.”

  No matter how rich and powerful Orsovo is, there is no way he could have corrupted the whole agency, and openly sending them information will compel them to act: to either push forward the investigation, or expose the mole. Either way, it will be a victory; the corruption of royal officers is also an offence punishable by death.

  Through the half-open door, he sees Boyka looking at him, and moves to embrace his beloved, with a smile. “I’m sorry to have worried you, my love. And, I thank you for your patience.”

  <><><>

  Three days later, a now more rational Laev meets once more with his envoy from the Goodwill Company.

  “We had guys who used to work with the Medea - they confirm our suspicions that it is Orsovo who meets with the man suspected to be the assassin. It was difficult to discern him, because they meet mostly at the new moon, but his weapon is somewhat unique; there is little doubt about it.”

  In these times, lighting is very costly, and only the main street and the wealthiest parts of the red-light district are illuminated; everywhere else, people have to provide their own. But, the envoy seems pretty certain.

  Just knowing that they are engaged in regular meetings is already a big step forward, but something does occur to him about the debt collector’s suggestions: “Wait a minute! How can you be sure they meet on a monthly basis? You’ve been on him for less than two months.”

  “We can’t be sure they meet every month, but with two sightings, on similar dates, and considering the past flow of merchandise, we can assume that it’s a monthly transaction.”

  “Sounds reasonable…” Laev concurs. “Continue to probe his allies for weakness, and keep up the surveillance.”

  He gives the man his payment, and wonders how much longer he will be able to keep up with the expense of this investigation.

  Thinking about expense prompts him to think about his upcoming wedding ceremony. Considering that the last new moon was only a week ago, he has a few weeks to concentrate on his wedding, before the next meeting between his two enemies.

  He considers how different the wedding promises to be, compared with what he had been led to expect from literature. In this world, at least, apart from royal weddings and society show-offs, wedding ceremonies are somewhat informal events, to which only a few family members and vassals are usually invited. His own contribution to the guest list consists only of Boyka’s father and sister, who are confined to the grounds of the palace. His attempt to book the grand church for the ceremony was also foiled, because it is reserved only for true royalty.

  “Ajisth!”

  A few moments later, the attentive steward enters the study.

  He provides the details of the next suspected meeting of the two men. “Please, send this to your usual contact and the princess, and ask your contact if I can accompany their task force on the next new moon.”

  “That’s unlikely, sir: they aren’t exactly open to outsiders. They are called the ‘secret’ service for a reason.”

  “Remind them I’ve paid good money to obtain this information; they owe me this, at least. Can’t they just throw me a bone and let me join them? After all, I am far from useless in a fight.”

  Still doubtful, the steward answers: “I’ll do my best, sir, but don’t expect too much.”

  Ajisth opens the door, hesitates momentarily, then asks: “Do you really need to go? Can you not instead stay here, with milady?”

  “Have you ever felt yourself dying, Ajisth? Do you know what it’s like to feel your organs failing, as you drown in your own bile and blood, dehydrating by the second?”

  Grimacing, Ajisth answers: “I… No, sir, I can’t imagine what it must have been like.”

  “Ever since I heard about that man’s reappearance, every sip of water, every bit of food, is tainted by the memories of that moment. It’s not just me at risk: you could be the next; the girls; the servants; Boyka; the whole town! I know it may seem stupid and reckless, but until I see his corpse, I won’t have closure.”

  Ajisth nods, slowly; “If the same thing happened to me, I don’t think I’d ever be able to eat or drink anything again.”

  “I was never a carefree and trusting person to begin with; I’ve now been pushed to the extreme.”

  “Thank you for answering my question, sir. I will try my best to get their acceptance of your request.”

  “See that you do.”

  <><><>

  With each passing day, the hero grows more anxious. There has been no response from Ajisth’s contact, and unless he leaves in the next few days, he won’t arrive there in time for the new moon.

  Alongside his increased anxiety comes a resurgence of the dreams.

  The visions of war and death stopped affecting him a long time ago, but he cannot say the same for those dreams which involve no more than a dark and empty place, in which invisible entities continue to hold their fragmented conversation.

  “… duty… save them.”

  “Save them from… themselves.”

  “… asking… in return.”

  “… betrayal… same events...”

  “… judge.”

  “… mine now.”

  Strangely, this particular dream causes him to wake, covered in perspiration, with his heart racing. Unconsciously, he seeks out and takes hold of Boyka’s tiny hand, comforted by her presence.

  He considers the steward’s proposal, from ten days earlier. Will killing a man he has only seen once really be enough to restore his sanity? Why can he not just forget about the man’s wrong, and move on?

  When morning comes, he still hasn’t reached a resolution.

  “Sad?” comes the voice of the girl lying beside him.

  “There’s a man I know, who is a threat to me; to you; to everyone I hold dear! I cannot find respite, because I know he is somewhere, plotting. But… I don’t want to leave to pursue him, either: what if he strikes while I am not here? What if my going after him is what puts you in danger?”

  “I’ll be safe with Sissy. You’ll truly come back?”

  “Always!”

  Smiling and nodding, she answers: “Then, go and beat the bad man.”

  Then, for a brief moment, she becomes pensive, before ordering, in her most authoritative voice: “Come home quickly – and, no girls!”

  For the next few hours, she then listens to him disclosing his fears, his doubts and his anger at the world; she revels in being the only person who knows this side of him.

  “Don’t worry,” she says: “I won’t ever let go of you.”

  Feeling refreshed and reinvigorated, they head to the palace, she to spend time with her sister; he to meet with Ajisth’s liaison.

  <><><>

  As he enters the secret service rendezvous, he has come to a decision: if his request to join them on the mission is refused, he determines to let go of his vengeance, once and for all.

  There, behind a cheap-quality desk, a small man sits, looking very irritable. Despite not being the same man described by his steward, the agent half-heartedly sits up to greet Laev, the moment he enters, as though awaiting his arrival for a long time.

  “Well, well, well; look who finally decided to show up. Well, since you appear to have made up your mind, I suppose we’ll have to bring you along, after all.”

  Laev is stunned: “That’s it?!”

  “No, that isn’t it. We’re not here to help you satisfy your petty desire for revenge. You might be satisfied with cutting off the tail, but we want the head; the body; the whole bloody thing, right. And, that won’t be compromised for you. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The little man cannot hide his surprise at Laev’s humility: “‘Sir’? And, here was I, expecting to argue with all sorts of complaints.”

  “It is exactly as you said: I made my decision. And, I understand that revenge will only get me so far; we won’t ever be truly safe unless the whole organization is dismantled.”

  “Well, this is a pleasant surprise. Though, it’s all moot if you can’t follow orders. Can you?”

  “I can, as long they aren’t stupid or suicidal.”

  “Well, we don’t do the first kind, but I can’t make any promises about the second! It is dangerous, and we expect some serious opposition.”

  Even though the man behind the desk clearly likes a bit of a joke and banter, his undertone is serious - too much so for Laev’s comfort. “Is it really that bad?”

  “Orsovo has an army of bodyguards and mercenaries at his disposal; he won’t go down that easily. As for our mystery man, all we really know is that he possesses gold and silver in inordinate amounts.”

  The coffers of Nikolay’s friend appear to run deep; the food he is buying is enough to feed an army. It appears that Laev and the agency have come to a similar suspicion:

  “You’re thinking of a coup, right?” Laev suggests.

  It is perhaps the most plausible scenario, though not without flaws – such as: where and how does one manage to hide an entire army within the kingdom.

  Thinking about the possible answers to this brings Laev sudden realization: “That’s why you’re letting me come: because you don’t trust enough of your own.”

  With a sheepish laugh, the small man answers: “We could have done without you working out our little problem. For the record, there is only one team I ever truly trust, and that is my own. Honestly, we need the reinforcements, and I would have been quite disappointed had you not shown up.”

  Realizing that the man clearly does not to go into further details on the matter, Laev moves the conversation on: “When do we depart?”

  “Right now! Leave your equipment here: it would be problematic if someone were to recognize you from it; we’ll have it transported separately. Don’t expect a warm welcome by my team: they understand your usefulness, but frankly, you’re too conspicuous for this kind of work.”

  <><><>

  Laev is, yet again, alone in the hideout.

  Today is the day of the raid so, along with stealth training, he uses the time to acclimatize his eyes to darkness. His companions on this mission have been keeping pretty much to themselves; they have made no attempt to hide their dissatisfaction at having him around. Laev assumes that their superior officer hasn’t told them of his suspicions about the agency being compromised.

  He sees Edno approaching - the only agent to have so far disclosed his code name to Laev. The Hero’s concealment is so effective that Edno walks right past him, without noticing his presence, before clicking his tongue, to signal his arrival. Mischievously, Laev duplicates the gesture, barely a metre behind the operative. To his credit, the agent shows no signs of surprise, and signals Laev to follow, without batting an eyelid.

  The strike team is composed of forty-one men, including Laev. He understands their unhappiness at his presence: even though he can fight and move silently, he struggles to coordinate his thought and movement with their years of teamwork.

  As the two of them approach the dock, Edno informs him of the team’s findings, in a barely audible voice: “There are around sixty guards, distributed all around the dock - just like your criminal friends said.”

  “I’m employing them because they’re useful - nothing more!”

  “There is only one boat that we’re concerned with. As soon as the attack begins, we want you to use that ludicrous speed of yours to secure it. You cannot miss it: it will be the most heavily guarded, moored to the furthest dock. Unmoor it and push it off, if you can; alternatively, destroy the mast and the oars. Worst-case scenario, if securing the ship proves impossible, then you are authorized to sink it.”

  “What kind of equipment do they have?”

  “So far, we’ve identified mercenaries equipped with bows, spears, shields, and some with axes. We want prisoners, so try to keep them alive.”

  “Don’t worry—”

  “Alive and capable of talking; we don’t want another Andrey of Medea.”

  Inflicting a concussion can certainly put your enemy out of the fight but, if luck isn’t on your side, it can just as easily put him permanently out of commission.

  “Alright, I’ll break their limbs instead.”

  “Please, don’t let them bleed to death! We’re positioned in the northeast; my team and the other team will draw their initial attention, so you have time to reach the ship. We’ll begin with an arrow shower, starting from the south, then from the east. Once enough time has passed for you, and we’ve run out of arrows, we’ll move in to secure the prisoners. Any questions?”

  “Isn’t shooting arrows in the dark dangerous?”

  “We won’t be shooting to kill, but...” the agent shrugs his shoulders.

  Laev can barely follow his team-mate, as they navigate the streets in complete darkness. When they are about thirty metres from the dock, they stop; Edno points out the direction of the targeted dock.

  A few minutes pass, the quiet drawing of bowstrings is the only sound to permeate the silence. The barely audible signal is given, and the release of the barrage starts the battle.

  Immediately, there is shouting and confusion from the dock, as the archers’ missiles embed in the woodwork all around the smugglers. The suppressive fire forces the sentinels to immediately seek cover.

  An order resounds through the night, positions are taken up by the enemy and their defence fires back at their invisible assailants. With the guards’ attention now fully concentrated southward, Laev makes his dash, unhindered, toward the dock.

  In his rush, he fails to spot a mercenary, hiding behind one of the piers. It is only as he is passing the soldier that Laev realizes his mistake - by then it is already too late: no amount of speed can prevent the soldier of fortune from sounding the alarm. In consolation, a violent kick to the gut, depriving the sentry of his consciousness, feels good, but it is as late as it is pointless: as Laev curses his own stupidity, others are already on their way to investigate.

  Reaching the boat, he finds three shield-bearing spearmen, guarding the boarding gateway; noises from the south indicate that another trio of mercenaries is coming to join them.

  The idea of fighting multiple enemies, half with the high ground and a longer reach, is more than simply unappealing: it is suicidal! Under the circumstances, therefore, Laev decides to deal with the reinforcements first, knowing that it is unlikely that the three guarding the ship will abandon their superior position to join the fray – at least, not in time to overwhelm Laev with numbers.

  The Hero draws Halfberd in one hand and a dagger in the other, before rushing toward the oncoming threat, with a deadly smirk. Just as he expected, the men on the ship take a moment to observe the ensuing melee, before making their decision not to engage. Ultimately, too bad for all of them: if they had moved in together, they might have stood a chance.

  He first welcomes the rushing trio of sell-swords by throwing his dagger at the nearest man’s throat, swinging Halfberd’s hammer side into his torso. To his credit, the mercenary manages to save his own life, by somehow evading the projectile; the blow from Halfberd, however, takes his breath away. Laev then tosses him like a projectile.

  Pinned to the floor by their unconscious friend, there is nothing the two sentinels can do to stop the cruel amnesiac from smashing their shoulders and knees with his hammer-sword - a cruel but extremely efficient way to prevent them from fleeing.

  Now in possession of improvised throwing weapons - the axes and maces of his foes - Laev heads back toward the boat. First, he hurls the mace, straight at the central shield-bearers; just as expected, all three of them raise their shields to protect their face. The mistake proves to be a fatal one: an instant later, two flying axes shatter their leg bones and tear through their arteries. As the blood spurts out of them, so does the life, and Laev curses.

  He looks at the last man standing, angrily; “I advise you to surrender: I seem to suck at taking prisoners.”

  The panicked, terrified mercenary reacts, in the most predictable way: he attacks the monster before him with everything he has; he would rather die in battle than suffer the fate of his companions. Unfortunately for him, Laev has other plans for him.

  A single warrior is of no threat to the monstrous Hero. In one hand, Laev catches the slow-moving spear, yanking the shaft with enough strength to pull the spearman tumbling onto the jetty. A few seconds later, Laev has broken his last victim’s leg – even being unconscious does not spare the mercenary from his unpleasant fate.

  Equipping himself with the man’s spear and shield, Laev carries the rest of his accumulated arsenal onto the deck: there may be further need for throwing weapons later.

  Now prepared, all that remains for Laev is to accomplish his mission. First, he cuts the moorings, reaching out for an oar, to cast off. But, just as he is about to push the ship away, a powerful pain suddenly assails him, enveloping his whole body, and sending him staggering against the railing.

  An instant later, from out of nowhere, and with rapier in hand, appears the antagonist in his nightmares - the hateful poisoner of him and murderer of his friend.

  I found him! Nikolay’s friend. Orsovo’s ally! My nemesis.

  The pain subsides as quickly as it came, but Laev considers it a warning of the danger this man represents! And, he is right to be careful: the technique of the man who dwells in the shadows is almost as great as his hatred for the Hero; despite Laev’s superior speed and accelerated reflexes, he remains stuck on the defensive - forced to block and parry a flurry of attacks, with his spear and shield.

  The parrying stalemate continues for a while until, suddenly, the poisoner changes his stance, adopting something more akin to that of épée, in modern fencing. As the tip of his blade flicks about, menacingly, in search of an opening, Laev is more intrigued by what the silent attacker’s left-hand is doing: in strange, decisive and singular gestures, it makes shapes in the air.

  Suddenly, Laev realizes where he has before seen similar motions:

  Magic! Just like the horned giants!

  Instinctively, he throws his shield at the face of his foe, darting away from him, before his conscious mind has time to interfere – the decision to flee is justified, half a moment later, as the steel protection bursts into flames, right before his eyes.

  “Who the hell are you?” asks the bewildered man from another world. “What the hell are you?”

  No answer is forthcoming, his opponent instead concentrating his attention over the Hero’s shoulder. At this range, a spear alone is not a viable defence against the magic-wielding fencer. He throws the weapon as a distraction, rolling deftly to the side, toward the nearest weapon; an ax. In that very instant, a bolt of ice appears projected through the air, where his throat was a moment ago. He throws the ax clumsily and leaps to his feet, grabbing for trusty sword.

  But, there is no need to draw Halfberd: Laev stares at the spear embedded in the torso of his nemesis. The enemy is fading.

  And, as this strange human magician continues to fade, he utters final words, bearing all of his hatred: “Die, outsider!”

  At that, another bout of phantom pain assails the otherworlder - this time, as though his whole body is burning.

  He ignores the spasm, but not the warning; jumping into the sea, Laev swims underwater the whole way, as far away from the boat as he can.

  And, alone on the bridge, the magician starts to glow from inside, like a macabre lantern. For a few seconds, the light intensifies, before the sorcerer explodes, in a huge ball of fire, which blows the mast and cabin to smithereens, and instantly transforms the ship into an unrecognizable burning wreck.

  Chapter 12

  Aftermath

  Still fighting against the pain, Laev swims farther away from the ship, and only after confirming that there is no further threat from the burning wreck, does he finally climb out, onto the dock.

  Still cursing the loss of his shield, he draws Halfberd and walks hurriedly away from the ship; although still maddened by the pain, he is lucid enough to discern the danger of having his position revealed by the light of the blaze.

  He notes that as he moves away, the pain gradually subsides.

  And, something else suddenly occurs to him: on both occasions, the inexplicable pain saved his life. The pain was a warning of dangerous magic.

  The worst kind of prescience, ever! The pain is as much of a hindrance as it is a warning.

  Still, it beats burning to death.

  Now free of the debilitating pain, the Hero finally registers the silence.

  The battle is finished; there is quiet all around the docks.

  Tired from his experience – too tired to sneak around - he hides behind a pier, to take stock of his thoughts, and to wait it out, until safe.

  After a while of sitting there, he catches sight of a light. He watches it for a while, before concluding that it is probably his allies. Taking a deep breath, and remaining poised to fight, he makes his presence known: “I’m here!”

  As a ray of light pierces the surrounding darkness, an agent, bearing a smuggler’s lantern, hits out at him, scoldingly: “What the hell did you do? That fireball could be seen all over the dock.”

  Too tired to argue, Laev explains simply: “The guy just went and fucking exploded! It was magic, bloody magic!”

  “Are you sure?”

  Relaxing, even just for an instant, allows the accumulated fatigue to overwhelm him. He sits up, desperately fighting against the sleepiness, as he tries to explain: “Am I sure? Bloody fire and ice, I tell you…”

  “You don’t seem to be hurt. Can you get up? What happened?”

  “Bloody magic!”

  The man offers him a hand and helps him up. “We’re taking you back to camp, for some shut-eye.”

  “Thank you...” is all the Hero manages to say, before the darkness of sleep engulfs him.

  <><><>

  Laev wakes up in an unfamiliar room, and immediately a voice resounds: “Garvan, he’s awake.”

  He sits up, as he sees his agency contact - the little man - approaching.

  “Are you in any condition to talk?” Garvan asks him.

  “Yeah, my head is clear.”

  “What the hell happened on that ship? Nothing we tried would extinguish the fire.”

  “The man – Nikolay’s assassin - he was fast and strong. His magic was on another level compared to the Horned Ones.”

  ‘Fast and strong’ I can believe: he killed and crippled all of the men he encountered. Magic, though?! If it weren’t for the fire, I would find that very hard to believe.”

  “His magic was more powerful and versatile than the giants’, and he didn’t need any time to weave and cast it; one look and a few small hand movements – then, suddenly he was throwing explosions and ice bolts around!”

  Despite all of his training, Garvan’s alarm is measurable.

  What Laev doesn’t tell him was the sincere beef the sorcerer seemed to have with him, personally. He called me an “outsider”, but you don’t need to know that.

  Whilst it is not difficult to explain the choice of insult, the source and motivation for his hatred is somewhat more elusive to Laev.

  “Did he say anything?”

  “He only spoke once, right before he transformed himself into a giant fireball; he said: ‘die’.”

  “The fire destroyed any possible clues.”

  “Did you get Orsovo?”

  “We did!” Garvan brightened. “I suppose, since you’re likely to reach the conclusion by yourself, I can at least tell you this much: the food is being exchanged for the valuables which the Horned Ones loot from conquered territories. Gold and silver are worthless to them, but clearly appealing to Orsovo.”

  “In such a limited market, wouldn’t flooding it with gold crash its value in the long run?”

  “Orsovo and his allies are very prudent with their spending, using it to buy more and more people, slowly. I guess, over time, that would have happened.”

  Suddenly stern, Laev asks, coldly: “Who sent their assassins after me at Lapseki? Was it him or the magician?”

  “Him.”

  Laev nods, bitterly. After a while, his eyes soften. “So, what now?”

  “You go home, marry your girl and stay out of politics.”

  The hero snorts: “Tell that to the world, not me!”

  “I wish you luck… you’ll need it!” With a grin, the small man turns to his nearest subordinate: “Get him on a ship.”

  <><><>

  The week-long journey gives Laev plenty of time to sort through recent events, and to try and decipher what Garvan might have kept concealed from him. He didn’t learn much, he admits.

  I have even more questions now than I did before!

  What he does know is that the Medea and Orsovo were political adversaries. This probably means that the magician belonged to a different organization altogether. Yet, that doesn’t explain his irrational hatred toward Laev. It does, however, suggest that his cooperation with the Medea may have been motivated by a simple desire to eliminate the outsider, rather than any grander goal.

  Laev realizes he may be being paranoid: He was seen in Nikolay’s company long before I came on the scene.

  The fact that he is feeding the giants may hint at a bigger cause. Then, simultaneously, it may mean very little; like any other transaction, it could simply be a means to an end.

  Why would the giants even need so much food, when they already control two-thirds of the continent?

  More questions without answers...

  Whatever the situation, Orsovo’s reputed aspiration to usurp the throne doesn’t seem to align in any way with feeding the Horned Ones.

  Unless they are in the midst of a food crisis… and, that is why they go to war!

  But, no; that explanation doesn’t work, either. In thirty years of fighting, they have gained no territory from the kingdom - just a lot of deaths.

  Then, perhaps that is it, pure and simple.

  Could the answer lie somewhere in the ancient codes? The codes prevent the killing of civilians, so the only way to keep down the number of mouths to feed is to do so indirectly.

  Their soldiers were pretty weird; they acted like mindless zombies.

  <><><>

  The moment he sets foot on dry land, Laev tosses aside all thoughts of politics - and giant zombies - to hurry to the palace… to Boyka.

  He has set the wedding date for her fifteenth birthday, but he now thinks there is no reason preventing them from holding the ceremony soon – right here.

  She agrees, and is eager to get to it. But, Laev has to slow her down; no matter what she might say, he knows she will be happier with her father and sister by her side.

  One hour, and a change of clothes later, he is shown to a guest room, where both sisters await – along with their deadly maids.

  “It is an honour to see you again, Your Highness,” Laev addresses Elena. “Boyka, you look lovely in that dress.”

  With a teasing smile, the ever-cool third princess remarks: “You readily comment on hers, but what of mine?”

  “It suits you perfectly. You truly are a beautiful pair of flowers.”

  With a click of her tongue, the elder sister argues: “You aren’t sincere in your evaluation of me. I think you mean a beautiful flower to sweeten a very annoying bee.”

  With eyes full of suspicion at her sister’s flirtation, Boyka asserts her ownership, angrily: “Mmmh! He’s mine!”

  “Gods, you’re so cute,” Elena chuckles. “I really don’t want to give you away. Laev, won’t you take a selection of maids, instead? I assure you, I only train the best.”

  “Mmmh! Stop! He’s mine!”

  “Please, stop teasing her,” Laev answers: “you’re making her angry.”

  “But, isn’t she cute when she’s angry?”

  “She’s always cute,” Laev comments, smiling at his bride-to-be.

  Acquiescing, Elena acknowledges the accuracy of his comment, with a nod: “You get it! You really do!”

  As always, Laev doesn’t know how he should deal with Elena. Whenever she is around, she leads them by the nose and toys with them at her leisure. Rather than letting her continue her teasing, he responds as he usually does: he changes the subject.

  “I was wondering if there is a small, private chapel, somewhere in the palace, where we could hold the ceremony. Boyka may act like she doesn’t care where we are, or who is present, but I do; it’s her wedding day, and she should be with her loved ones - all of them.”

  Elena catches her little sister in a tight embrace, rubbing a cheek against her hair. If they were not only a few years apart, one might mistake them for mother and daughter.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she asks Boyka.

  “Mmmh, but being selfish is bad.”

  “It’s not selfishness if we all want the same thing! I’m not sure if Father will be able to attend, but I’m certain he will be delighted that you asked.”

  Not able to attend? In his own castle? I want to ask, but it is not my place to do so.

  “Then, there is somewhere?”

  “Absolutely, and no trouble at all. The palace has quite a few private chapels, for royalty and guests. If there is only the three or four of us, and the chaplain, no one will complain.”

  Boyka smiles: “Thanks, Sissy.”

  The display of affection between the two sisters paints a smile on Laev’s face. He cannot help but wonder if, just like him, the older princess can only be true to herself when she is around Boyka. The thought makes him almost feel sorry for taking her sister away… almost.

  “I’ll consult with Father. For now, go home. I’ll have the details sent to you.”

  “Thank you very much, Your Royal Highness,” he teases. “We will eagerly await your missive. Now, if you will excuse us.”

  Looking forward to their future together, the Hero and his little princess head back home, hand in hand.

  Chapter 13

  Inheritance

  Laev shoots a reproving look at the children sparring; they are putting too much power into their strike and only using their shields defensively. As the next pair enters the fray, he screams internally, when they hide timidly behind their protection, only using their spears to attack sporadically.

  Damn their teachers! A shield is a weapon, not a bloody hideout!

  Leaving the kids’ training to one of the guard was probably a mistake: they know only how to function as a unit. This, in itself, is not a bad thing, but they lack the numbers to fight effectively as a group. What Laev needs, first and foremost, is strong individuals; people who can survive on their own, against foes like the mage - at least long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Even if they have just started, they are far too timid and predictable.

  If they get into the habit of fighting like this, even lasting ten seconds against an agent will be a pipe dream - not to even talk about mages!

  Annoyed by not only his irrational self, but also a world which refuses to give him any rest, Laev equips himself with a padded shield and spear from the armoury. He calls out to the eldest child: “Alright, alright, stop embarrassing yourselves. Adelphus, come here and fight me; others, watch and learn!”

  Dejected, Adelphus looks around him for support, but his younger friends all look away. Better you than me, each seems to silently say.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The poor boy once again hides behind his large shield, proceeding to poke at Laev with his spear, in the hope of finding an opening. It is a sensible group tactic, but irrelevant for a lone warrior, facing against an opponent which will surely overwhelm him, with both speed and strength.

  The otherworlder creates an opening, by lowering his shield slightly. As expected, the trainee reacts to the feint, by stabbing with all of his strength, at Laev’s barely exposed torso. The Hero sighs, as he swats away the spear with his shield. To prevent the now-unbalanced Adelphus from regaining his stance, Laev then slides his shield the length of the boy’s spear. Unable to respond, Adelphus closes his eyes and braces for the impact. It never comes.

  “Your shield is a weapon,” Laev explains to the group; “use it! Never commit all of your strength in a single blow, because if your opponent dodges or parries, you’ll be wide open for his counterattack. And, what the hell are you doing, closing your eyes?! If you’ve got enough time to feel fear, that’s time you could use to find a solution.”

  “Sorry, sir; I won’t do it again, sir! Thank you for your lesson, sir!”

  “Children, I’m not your previous master; I have no interest in bullying you. In a real fight, you will either win or die; there are no second chances! You belong to me now, so don’t throw your lives away.”

  He gives them a moment to absorb his words, before continuing: “Whether you want it or not, you will learn how to fight and survive.”

  Their fear of punishment now assuaged, they answer, in unison: “Thank you, sir. We’ll do our best not to let you down!”

  The answer brings a bitter smile to Laev’s face, as he returns his equipment.

  Back at the house, he is welcomed by new additions to his staff: a pair of overly enthusiast maids/assassin trainees - twins. They hurry to attend him.

  “What are your orders, sir?”

  “Can we help you, milord?”

  It feels wrong of him to fault them for their eagerness, but it can be tiring at times. “No thank you. Please, focus on your training and leave the menial tasks to Farron and Tacha.”

  “Please, let us help; we can’t thank you enough for taking in the likes of us.”

  Just like the boys outside, the twins became indentured servants because of their parents’ ever-growing debts. Although the law states that the master must offer servants a salary and minimal living conditions, in reality it almost never happens. In fact, rather than pay the salary, most masters usually find all sorts of excuses to increase the debt owed.

  The eight kids training outside are thankful to him, for offering them a place and a real job, without abuse, but the truth is actually dark and simple: he is doing so to acquire loyal pawns.

  The origin of this somewhat shameful behaviour can be traced back to his recent wedding, and the terrible news which was revealed during the event: well into his fifties, the king is dying, of old age and sickness.

  <><><>

  Ten weeks previously, the newly-married hero left the ceremony plagued by anxiety; his patron and sole protector was dying. Without the security provided by the Crown, Laev would soon be left with no one to trust. When added to the terrible condition of his finances, after his Orsovo investigation, the picture of a true catastrophe was emerging.

  Thinking back to their first meeting, Laev’s impression of the king had been that of a man old before his time, weakened by constant stress, but still sharp. Quite unlike the dying father who was assisted to the ceremony, exhausted by sickness and showing signs of advanced liver failure.

  With the malady already at such a stage, it is no wonder that the king very rarely now appeared publicly, for more than a few hours in a week.

  As a result, the third princess had become the unsanctioned regent of the kingdom. The king’s condition allowed her to present herself as his loyal and trusted representative, but it was not an official position, and never would be.

  Hundreds of years earlier, in what Laev considers to be a strange reflection of a history he is familiar with, an assembly of power-hungry lords changed the law, to ensure that only males would hold office or inherit the throne. Hence, “unsanctioned”.

  And now, thanks to those egotistical assholes, the kingdom is once again bordering on a war of succession. If the king is to be believed, the only way to prevent it would be for him to repeal the law, and to present Elena as the only worthy candidate.

  Presented with these facts, Laev’s first inclination had been to find a replacement for the royal guards he had been loaned by the palace.

  But, replacing them is no simple task; the human resources required to screen potential candidates are already far beyond his means. The solution he devised was both simple and cruel, if not without its own share of problems: by raising the worst of the downtrodden, to the position of his own personal guard, he hopes to ensure their loyalty.

  But, training takes time – and, whether or not he will have that is a matter entirely out of his hands.

  In addition, the menace of the Horned Ones still looms large. If his theory about their motivation is correct, the next battle will come soon, and at a time when the kingdom may be too divided to face them.

  <><><>

  Back in the present, Laev and his steward are discussing the possibility of reopening trade with the Horned Ones, now that Orsovo’s network has been halted.

  “My contact said that the royal administration is making progress on it.”

  “I beg to differ! They aren’t interested in trading with the Horned Ones; they only keep up the illusion of wanting it, in order to fish out the remaining traitors. Meanwhile, the food is rotting in the warehouses.”

  “Is that so?” Ajisth demands. “Personally, I think that feeding the enemy is a dangerous idea, which could blow up in our face at any moment.”

  “Which is why I’m setting up a lobby of merchants, to spearhead the idea.”

  “Oh? I thought it was just you being yourself: creating trouble for others, whilst reaping all of the benefits.”

  “Is that really how you see me? I’ll be the first to admit that that sounds like fun, but unfortunately not; on this occasion, I’m trying to prevent a war breaking out, at the worst time for the kingdom!”

  “Assuming that your idea is accepted, the trade agreement could still be repealed by the next ruler. Whether that is months or years depends on His Majesty, and the evolution of his ailment.”

  “Why did those morons have to bar women from taking the throne? Elena seems like the only one capable enough to see the big picture.”

  “Even so, she would be only third in line.”

  “I already have an idea about that. Tell me, how capable are her sisters?”

  “Desislava, the eldest, is a vain person, in all senses of the term.”

  “Already, it doesn’t bode well...”

  “Her husband is a weak man, slavishly obedient to her every whim.”

  “…and, it gets worse.”

  “The second, Blagorodna… Well, imagine a female version of the patriarch Vasil of Medea.”

  “Sickening, but disgustingly easy to imagine… And, what of her husband?”

  “He’s a righteous man, who appears to be in control. Though, judging by her sister’s multiple miscarriages, and the death of all three of the third princess’s betrothed, one can assume that she has some measure of autonomy.”

  “We’re all doomed! Either we end up with a civil war, an incompetent, self-centred ruler, or ‘goddess have pity on us’: both! Can’t the king directly name his successor, and repel that stupid act, while he’s at it?”

  “The law clearly states that the heir must be the eldest. Even then, it is doubtful that her claim would be accepted, unless she gathers enough support. Even in that case, a civil war might be inevitable.”

  “Yeah, obviously it will: the nobles don’t care about the kingdom. This isn’t a country; it’s an assembly of fiefs and individuals, each vying for their own interests, without a care for the damage they cause.”

  In an age devoid of any methods of instant communication, people barely know the identity of their respective lords - in these conditions, it is quite unrealistic to expect a greater sense of unity and purpose from the people. Often, it is only when war is declared that the people galvanize and work together, albeit in a very limited fashion, and for a very limited time.

  “Goddess, why are people so driven by selfishness and greed?” asks Laev aloud, aware even as he says it that he may be a selfish entrepreneur, whose only interest in the matter is the fate of his own future.

  “This is why I hate hereditary monarchies: the genetic lottery dictates our entire future.”

  The steward suddenly shows an uncharacteristic interest: “I have never heard of any other form of rule. What else is there?”

  “Well, an example would be a type of government in which the king selects his successor, compared to pure hereditary. Then, monarchs can deselect incompetent heirs, in favour of competent ones. Though, undoubtedly, many a king will select his favourite child, regardless of ability.”

  “It all sounds quite horrible, sir.”

  “It’s no worse than leaving it all to fate. A far less common solution is a system of prince electors: a selected group of candidates debates and chooses one amongst themselves to rule. Though, as one would expect, strong or weak candidates are often chosen, in order to suit the interests and agenda of the electors – that is, assuming there isn’t one stronger party amongst them, who simply takes the throne, through violence and intimidation.”

  “It all sounds very much like the last regency.”

  “Democracy is a different form of government, where the people vote for one or more representatives, directly or indirectly, usually for a period of a few years.”

  “How can they possibly achieve anything significant, with such short reign?”

  “That’s a common problem in democracy. That, and the fact that unpopular reforms generally only last until the next government comes into power.”

  “I am curious to know if there is a type of government in which the people rule themselves?”

  “There is, but it tends to get messy after a while. You see, people in general have limited knowledge; they know only about themselves and what’s going on around them. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Indeed, that seems to be the case for most.”

  “One of the solutions, as I recall, is to create committees or assemblies, to debate everything; every aspect of a political issue. It is a decent solution, but resolutions often take a long time to be reached. Furthermore, it often results in parties grouping together, to form corporations which protect their own interests. And, of course, there are occasions in which the government can’t agree on any solution.”

  “After listening to your alternative options, I now feel like living under our model is the best.”

  Laev cannot help but laugh at Ajisth’s conclusion. Once he has calmed himself, he explains, patronizingly: “It’s quite sweet how you think this place is any different. Do the terms ‘royal faction’ and ‘noble faction’ not ring a bell?”

  The intendent looks away, embarrassed by the outsider.

  “You’ve probably heard the two expressions: ‘where there’s a will there’s a way’ and ‘impossible isn’t human’?”

  “I’ve never heard the second, but I can understand the meaning.”

  “No matter what you do, however democratic, there will always be some greedy bastard with the will to screw it up for everyone else. And, you can be sure that, no matter what the obstacles, they will find a way to do it. You want an example? Take a good look at the powerful nobility, all over the kingdom: aren’t they doing a good job of screwing us all?!”

  “It is difficult to deny that, sir.”

  Now a little depressed by the conversation, Laev attempts to refresh his mind by spending some time with his wife. He finds her in the garden, playing with the twins, in much the same way that her sister did with her. The genuine smile she displays at that moment is enough to uplift the hero, reassuring him and his conviction. No matter what the cost, he will protect her happiness.

  Chapter 14

  Summon

  As usual, the morning at Nikopol mansion begins with the lord, off-duty guards, royal maids and apprentices all undertaking light training. Both sets of young trainees have their own routine, designed by their respective instructor, but there is one extra step for the boys: they must spar with the master of the house.

  Although Laev had intended it has a way to gauge their progress, it has ended up creating a strange imbalance amongst the youths. Indeed, training day after day against an opponent with inhuman speed and strength has allowed them to develop reflexes and instincts far beyond their age, though their technique and stamina still lags far behind.

  It is Nuka’s turn to face the master - the youngest of six. He does as instructed, using his diminutive size to throw a series of jabs at the Hero’s legs, without dropping his cover, nor lowering his centre of gravity. The strategy is well considered, but stamina, speed and footwork all weigh in the otherworlder’s favour, and before long the youth nears exhaustion.

  Knowing he won’t be able to fight for much longer, the youth lunges forward, to bash the cocky hero with his shield. In doing so, he hopes to hinder his opponent’s movements long enough to land a hit - it would have been a good idea, if it not for the vast difference in their size and strength.

  With a smirk not becoming of an adult, much less a hero, Laev pushes back, harder and harder, until the pressure forces the worn-out child to topple backward. But, the Hero isn’t yet done yet: he stops applying pressure, and a low kick trips Nuka, toppling him to the ground. In mid-fall, the youth desperately attempts to strike out at his opponent’s legs, with the shaft of his spear, but the unrelenting Hero laughs off the counter, stepping on the boy’s weapon.

  For the first time ever, Laev finds himself praising the trainee: “That’s it, kid, you’ve got it. No matter how desperate your position, keep fighting until the very end. Likewise, it’s not a warrior’s place to lower his guard, even when victory is imminent, so don’t ever make that mistake yourself, but be sure to exploit it.”

  He then proceeds to comment on the rest of the fight more critically: “The charge was horribly executed; you should have shortened your grip and attacked me from the side… Feints aren’t going to work if you keep doing the same thing, over and over; you need to act unpredictably.”

  The frustrated loser answers with a pout: “You say that, but you would have sent me flying away with your shield, anyway. It’s unfair; why are you so strong, when you’re barely older than us!”

  “Who knows? Certainly not me! Don’t let a freak like me ruin your confidence; you’re doing well.”

  “Doing well? We keep getting beaten up by you and the teachers. We suck! We’re useless!”

  Since Laev’s fragmented memories don’t offer much of use in matters of pep talk and mentoring, he tries instead to appeal to the child’s interests: presently, his infatuation with the twins.

  “Learn all you can, while you can. Whether it’s me or your teachers, we won’t always be there to pick up your slack and, sooner or later, protecting the people in the mansion will become your responsibility. Do what you can now and stop wasting your time on useless thoughts. However, if you think that throwing tantrums is more important than the lives of my wife… and the twins, then please be my guest; there are plenty out there to take your place.”

  Ahiram, who is only slightly older than Nuka, diffuses the tension with a joke: “They don’t need his help, anyway; they can kick his ass any day.”

  The junior rages: “That ain’t true! I lost on purpose!”

  Achyan, the second eldest, turns to join the teasing: “I wouldn’t be surprised if he did; getting join-locked must be like a dream come true for the little perv.”

  “That ain’t true! He’s lying! Spout this kind of crap to Delphie and I swear I’ll beat you down!”

  “I’d like to see you try, squirt!”

  Laev relishes the moment: a pessimist by nature - though he would prefer to refer to himself as a realist - he knows those peaceful days will end soon.

  He puts his equipment back in the armoury, then takes a short shower, before heading out to his study.

  There, Ajisth awaits him, with the day’s correspondence. The uneasy look on his face indicates a matter of concern. “Sir, you have been summoned to the capital.”

  “Has the food market crashed already? That was quick.”

  “It went as you have predicted: without Orsovo and his pals trading with the Horned Ones, the merchants are finding themselves overstocked with food and have no output for the freemen and serfs’ harvest. Without a way to sell their cash crops, most villages lack the money necessary to buy other necessities, which makes life hard for merchants and artisans. Some of the wiser lords are accepting payment in kind, but that can only go so far. Soon, their granaries will be full.”

  “And only now that things have already gone wrong, they’re ready to discuss it. I must say this all came a lot earlier than I expected; I must have greatly underestimated the importance of cash crops to the kingdom.”

  “In the countryside, even artisans have fields.”

  “I know I bear partial responsibility, for getting rid of Orsovo, but what other choices were there? I wasn't going to let myself be killed for the sake of morons who can’t hear the truth. I don’t wish to sound alarmist, but the worst-case scenario of this is that freemen won’t be able to pay their taxes, nor prepare for the next harvest.”

  “Is it really that bad?”

  “I fear it is only the beginning. We’re probably going to end up in a war with the Horned Ones, over a trade burden we could have easily negotiated with them.”

  “I hope not. Though, I admit that it sounds probable: the data does seem to show a decrease in their attacks since Orsovo began his smuggling operation.”

  “I still don’t understand how he managed an operation on this scale with just his few ships. Even if you take his allies into account, there still probably aren’t enough.”

  “I was wondering the same. I would assume that the Horned Ones were doing most of the shipping.”

  “Well, the kingdom’s navy sucks. Considering the way information can vanish into thin air, without anybody being the wiser, I fear the magician’s organization is still very much alive and well. The infestation must be massive, bearing in mind that the Goodwill Company unravelled the whole operation in just two months.”

  “From what I hear, the secret service’s attempts at cleaning house have yet to yield any results.”

  “Well, you’re a bundle of joy, bringing one piece of good news after another. Just give me the damn letters.”

  “Right away, sir!”

  The summon gives no details, other than the appointment time. As for the rest of the correspondence, with the exception of two, it is all loan applications. The two which aren’t, however, open some very interesting avenues: one is from an associate of Laev’s, seeking a new method of preservation – primarily for vegetables; the other is regarding something he has been seekingfor a while: tuber vegetables.

  Farming potatoes, for example, has many benefits, in terms of yield, care, storage and nutritional value, yet they are unknown to the people of this world, despite the fact that they already grow and eat root vegetables. He is in no doubt that the introduction of the tuber would be readily accepted.

  With the current technology, the only method of long-term preservation Laev is aware of is pickling. Although it is already employed in the kingdom, it can be very pricey, due to the high costs of salt and vinegar. He has wracked his brain, trying to develop new recipes for preservation. Ideally, he would want something cheap and commonplace, and as simple to make as vinegar.

  As well as alcohol, vinegar can also be made from sugar and starch, but as far as Laev knows, they have no cheap source of starch here - at least, not yet. There are tonnes of beetroots available at the moment, though - a lot sweeter than he is familiar with, additionally, the pulp can be used as feed and fertilizer after extracting the sugar. But then again, sugar has a higher profitability factor...

  Damn it, I'll just write a recipe for both.

  Laev writes his replies cheerfully, and hands them to the steward. “Have these delivered as soon as possible. I think I’ll take Boyka and the children to the capital: they will benefit from the experience and, considering her father’s declining health, it might be the last time she sees him.”

  “As you wish, sir. I shall arrange your security detail for tomorrow.”

  <><><>

  There are ten mounted guards in total: the vanguard and rear-guard pairs are the best of them, while the other three pairs each comprise one child with one of their elders. Based on the notion that most would-be attackers would not likely consider them a threat, the two maids are assigned to respectively drive the coach and share the interior with Boyka and the five remaining children. Finally, since he is likely to be the main target, Laev himself rides at the utmost front, his unnatural speed and limited prescience providing him the best chance at survival. The seemingly excessive security serves to assuage the Hero’s concerns over the secret service’s lack of results, in expunging the traitors in their midst.

  Barely half an hour after leaving his territory, an agonizing, burning sensation flares up on his right-hand side, and this time, somehow, he knows it is warning of an incoming attack. His internal acceleration immediately kicks in.

  “Time dilation”, as he calls it, appears extremely unreliable when mounted, so he drops from his horse, shouting to the rest of the escort: “Run; don’t try to fight!”

  The burning sensation seems also to provide all the information he needs, in order to deduce the nature of the attack, and decide upon his best option: as he draws the mage’s attention, the rest of the escort will break through any of the enemy’s other forces.

  Laev looks bitterly at his bow, currently attached to his horse and unstrung, for transportation. Taking care of one’s equipment is all well and good, but pointless if you aren’t able to use it when it counts.

  He watches the coach speed to safety, then turns to face his approaching foe.

  A chain-mailed warrior stands before him, carrying an enormous war-hammer. He ignores the fleeing escort, stomping deliberately toward the man, at a leisurely pace. Despite the equipment the warrior carries, the hero knows immediately what he truly is: a mage. Were it not for this unusual fact, and his uncommon weapon, the newcomer would be the epitome of ordinary: common features; medium height; medium weight; brown hair; the perfectly average male archetype in this land.

  Laev waits for the sorcerer to attack, but he just stands there, watching.

  Suddenly, an angry, female voice resounds to his right, and Laev jumps to his guard: “What are you doing, Leto? You let them go! Wasn’t the plan to take his wife hostage?”

  “My wife!?” Laev seethes.

  A few seconds later, the owner of the voice appears, androgynous and just as forgettable as her associate - the only difference being the irrefutable anger and hatred she displays toward the otherworlder.

  Leto turns to the woman: “I never agreed to your plan. Besides, he stayed behind of his own will.” The man’s voice is uninterested and dispassionate.

  The woman faces Laev: “You’ve made quite a mess, outsider! You’ve ruined our plans; destroyed the balance we’ve worked so hard to preserve. It ends now! Come, Leto, let us rid the world of this pest!”

  Leto sighs: “As usual, you seem to have a problem understanding this: I am here only to observe. Do whatever you wish, but you do it alone.”

  “What are you talking about? He destroyed our plans and killed our candidates for succession - even Harth.”

  “Your plans were as flawed as your candidates. Their only worth was in their inevitable failure.”

  “Why did you even come here?”

  “To observe. And, to assist the victor.”

  “You are a fool! We exist to preserve the balance!”

  “It was never my task, nor is it yours. You are acting beyond the scope of your duty.”

  She spits, through clenched teeth: “Fine, have it your way!” Then, she turns to Laev, screaming in hatred: “Prepare to die, outsider!”

  She begins slight movements of the fingers on both hands, and he knows what to expect: two explosions are created, in quick succession, the first behind Laev and the second to his right. Whilst he expects the attack, he is slow to react. Although the gambeson and mail he wears soften the blast, and absorb most of the heat, he still suffers minor burns. The scalding hurts, but it is a mere droplet, compared to the ocean of pain it protects him from.

  He instantly unsheathes Halfberd, and lunges forward with a wide, slashing motion; one single movement. But, nothing comes of it: the woman leaps backward, easily avoiding the attack.

  Suddenly, from the ground where she was stood, lethal stone shards shoot in his direction. Laev responds quickly, altering his attack to strike them aside, with the flat of his blade, while using the force of their momentum to push himself out of harm’s way.

  The woman clicks her tongue, in annoyance at his miraculous dodge. But, she retains focus, making simple movements, as she prepares her next spell.

  Unless he finds some way to distract her, the man from another world knows he will not get near, let alone defeat her. Thankfully, he has many concealed knives on his person, and he throws them rapidly, one after the other, as he bears down on her, before pouncing, with a diagonal, overhead slash of Halfberd. As predicted, the projectiles disrupt her concentration, but she quickly backsteps out of his reach.

  However, as well as fighting, Laev has also been observing, and is learning how her magic is cast: the movements from her left hand control the distance and point of origin, whilst the right-hand controls the nature and direction of the spell. This knowledge is far from enough for him to fight her magic, but it is sufficient for him to make informed decisions about the timing and direction of his own evasive movements.

  Laev’s attention does not escape her, and she immediately hides her left hand behind her back, with a cruel laugh. “Quite the pest, you are! You’ve already got it all figured out. That matters not; you won’t see it coming again.”

  The Hero cannot do anything but curse at his lack of preparation. There are many other weapons he could have prepared, in addition to his bow: caltrops; smoke bombs; bolas; weighted chain – all credible options against a highly mobile opponent.

  As his last thrown blade flies harmlessly past the mage, Laev resorts to throwing stones he picks up from the ground. And, surprisingly, he has her rattled. To an armoured opponent wearing a gambeson, such primal weaponry would register barely a threat, even with the otherworlder’s incredible strength, but to the woman, clad in everyday clothes, it is a different story: the stones hit hard.

  Unable to complete her spell, and shutting out the painful impacts, she rages: “You’re pissing me off, outsider!”

  “Same to you, bitch! ‘Outsider, outsider, outsider’!! I didn’t ask to come here; I don’t even know who I am!”

  The candour, and his answer, are a surprise to her, but her mind is set: “What does it matter to me? Your existence itself is a threat. Stop your foolish resistance; I promise you a quick death, and to spare the life of your girl.”

  “After surrounding yourself with traitors, I don’t expect your words to carry much value.”

  “Too bad for you, then. Once I’m done with you, I’ll deal with her next.”

  Her answer seems to annoy her companion, who looks at her, reproachfully. But it seems that the short exchange was only a ploy, to prepare her next move. She avoids the next barrage of stones with minimal movement, whilst still weaving her spell, behind her back.

  Seconds later, an explosion rocks Laev, from behind.

  She’s much faster and more versatile than the one on the ship, but her attacks aren’t as powerful.

  Even as he thinks this, her attack strikes true, Laev can feel the burns on his leg and back, and his gambeson seems to have all but burnt away.

  But, the force of the blast propels him toward his enemy, enabling a speed of attack far superior to any he could achieve by himself. As he musters all of his strength to impel himself even faster, his body yells at him to stop - a legitimate warning, but one he can ill afford to listen to, at a time like this.

  It is agony, as the melted chausse burns through his breeches and skin. But, it is too late to stop now, so he forces himself through it, and pumps ever-more energy toward reinforcing and sustaining his legs.

  The momentum allows him to reach the stunned magician, while she is still unbalanced by the explosion. Without a moment of hesitation, he buries Halfberd’s spike in her stomach.

  The effect is devastating: the woman falls to the ground, screaming in torment. It is the first time since her creation, centuries ago, that she has ever felt pain, and the shock is so great, it leaves her unable to move or think clearly. She pleads with her companion: “Leto, help me; it hurts!”

  He refuses her: his vow was to take no side, until one of the combatants dies or submits.

  Laev falls onto his wailing enemy, his legs charred and consumed by molten metal. Despite his suffering, he diligently slashes and stabs at his opponent, until her screaming eventually stops.

  With his goal accomplished, he rolls off of her, onto his side, where he waits for her fellow mage to either finish him, or make true on his promise.

  “You’ve won, outsider. I said I would assist the victor, but I cannot heal such terrible wounds as yours by myself. But, from what I witnessed during the fight, it appears that you can control your own body, and you heal at a degree far beyond what I can imagine. I can provide first aid, and should be able to replenish your energy, but you will need to do the heavy lifting!”

  Chapter 15

  Faith

  Helplessly, Laev watches, as the impassive mage removes the partially-molten armour and metal seared into his flesh. The task is gruesome, the pain unbearable, and even though it only takes minutes, for the pair of them it feels like hours.

  “Your tolerance to pain is quite something,” comments the sorcerer, with a deadpan expression. “I’m almost fainting just looking at you.”

  Laev spits out the wad of tissue wedged into his mouth, to stop him biting his tongue. “I just got a sudden urge to smash that vacant face of yours.”

  “I’m almost done with first aid. The wounds are clean and the external damage healed, but I have done as much as I can; the rest is beyond me. Now, as I said earlier, I will restore your energy.”

  “I lost a lot of blood and no small amount of flesh; I’m sure that it will take more than just energy to heal me. I need water and food, otherwise my wounds will only end up cannibalizing the surrounding cells.”

  “Your explanation makes no sense to me. Fear not; heal yourself as best you can and the gods will provide.”

  The amnesiac has little reassurance in a statement like that, but he knows he hasn’t much else of a choice. He starts by concentrating on repairing the damaged blood vessel.

  Then, to his enormous surprise, cells appear, where there were previously none - popping into existence, to replace those missing, without any regard for the laws of physics.

  “How… How the hell did that happen?”

  “Only the gods know; I am merely a conduit for their powers.”

  “But, you’re the one doing it! How can you not know?”

  “How does one think? How does one breathe?”

  Non-plussed, the amnesiac answers: “I see your point.”

  By the time the gravest of his injuries have been taken care of, more than two hours have passed.

  Now more confident in himself, Laev tries to move his legs, but to no avail. Even though the nerves and blood vessels have been reconstructed, the muscles and flesh are still a sorry mess.

  Still hungry for answers, he makes himself more comfortable and quizzes the mage. “Thank you. I am no longer in immediate danger anymore; I should be able to take care of the rest, while we talk. Does your channelling stops you from talking?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “So, what the hell are you and what do you want?!”

  “I am an agent of the gods, charged with maintaining faith amongst the hornless.”

  “Faith? Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you suck at your job.”

  “In my defence, I should point out that short-lived species are very troublesome… But, I can see where you’re coming from.”

  “And, what about the other two?”

  “Harth, the one of us you killed first, was in charge of maintaining the balance between the species. And, her…” He points toward the corpse of his brethren: “Her task was to preserve the Hornless existence. There are others like us hidden amongst the other species, but it is unlikely you will ever meet them.”

  “You said you have the ability to channel the power of the gods, right? Can’t you just perform a few miracles here and resolve all?”

  “I wish it were that easy. Others have tried and the results were often terrible. So much so, that the gods came to think that since direct intervention has previously failed so badly, from now on we should limit our influence over mortal society, as much as possible.”

  “Your colleagues seemed very much involved in mortal society!”

  “They went beyond their boundaries because of the graveness of the situation.”

  Laev waits for the mage to continue; frustratingly, he seems to consider the explanation sufficient.

  “Can’t you just bloody volunteer some information, or do I keep having to ask about every little point?”

  “Sorry, I don’t know how to interact with others; I haven’t had much opportunity. Have you read the sacred texts and the code of war?”

  Laev nods, and the man continues: “The world needs the gods; left to its own devices, all life would end, in a matter of decades.”

  “Have you guys never heard of a self-sustainable environment? Why would anyone create a world like this?”

  “Do any self-sustaining worlds truly exist?”

  “Why, yes...” Laev frowns, pensively, “from what I can remember... Sun, moon, creatures, plants… all must exist in a perfect balance; prehistoric records show that the paradigm shifted many times, over the eons. If I am correct in thinking it, self-sustainability depends on a lot of factors being perfectly balanced.”

  The mage is skeptical: “This world is situated in a place where life could not find a way on its own; the creation of this world has been reliant on both the gods and its inhabitants. It has already been reborn anew many, many times and, with each new cycle, the gods attempt new methods, hoping to make the cycle last longer... It is not always conclusive.”

  “What do you mean by ‘reliant on its inhabitants’?”

  “The power of the gods replenishes itself over time, but the cost of maintaining the world is a great burden; they need the faith of the mortal races to help carry some.”

  He appears pensive as he continues, this time without any need for prompting: “Tragedy promotes faith and conflict promotes tragedy. That is why, at the last cycle, our predecessors kept the various species in a constant state of war - against each other and amongst themselves. It was a poor idea: their numbers dwindled and intelligent life became extinct. It was therefore decided that this time around we would keep our interventions to a minimum… yet, this time seems to have gone wrong, just as quickly.”

  “That explains a lot. I can see that putting a bunch of morons like the Medea in power would have indeed created ample tragedy, but, none of this answers the question which interests me the most: what the hell do you want from me?”

  “To help us restore the faith.”

  “Restore faith in the Church? No problem; I should be done by next week!”

  Clearly with no concept of sarcasm, the mage shakes his head, woefully: “It’s not that simple. The problem is not in its existence, but in the way mortals practice their faith - particularly the hornless. The gods require pure, unadulterated faith, but the hornless are obsessed with structure: first comes dogma, then custom, ceremonies, priests… Before long, prayer means nothing anymore.”

  Laev sighs: “You want the people to learn the religious text, but at the same time, you want them to keep it personal... and, not to fight over their own vision of the faith. Honestly, I don’t see how I can help you with that.”

  “Whether you intended it or not - wanted it, or not - your very presence made a change: for example, for a short time, the oracle of your arrival created an influx of prayer. Just consider: in a matter of months, you have survived attempted assassination; removed a hated oppressor; won a war – almost, it seems, by yourself; invented all sorts of new, useful technologies; and have even married a princess… for love! Whatever you might say or think, people already look far up to you; you make them dream; you make their lives better.”

  Laev thinks over the words, speaking quietly, as much to himself, as the magician: “I never spared a thought for anyone else; everything I did, I did for myself!”

  “Your intentions are irrelevant. All the people see is the gods’ envoy, working to improve their world.”

  “Your colleague was quite clear that I am not the gods’ envoy.”

  “Indeed, so it seems; your vessel is too great for this world - it can barely make any sense of what you are. Whoever sent you is a being of much higher dimension, far beyond the reach of our gods.”

  Whilst he doesn’t believe a word of it, the revelation does get Laev thinking about the concept of higher dimensions. Is it possible that a three-dimensional entity can exist in a two-dimensional world; a world in which the inhabitants can only move in fixed directions, whilst the newcomer can theoretically see everything and move infinitely, even beyond the constraints of the world itself. This would explain his pain warning-alarm, and his time dilation. Unfortunately, he feels it will take a lot more than just his limited understanding, to harness those strange powers.

  So, he exclaims, excitedly: “Tell me more!”

  “Can you explain colour to the blind, or music to the deaf? How do you expect me to teach what I can neither perceive or comprehend?”

  “Sorry, I got a little carried away. For such a long time I have learnt nothing of my existence.”

  He calms himself; something about this whole conversation doesn’t make sense to him: “Wait a minute! If I’m so important to you, why did you vow to cooperate only with the winner?”

  “Dark times strengthen faith,” he says, encouragingly. Then, he adds: “Besides, I hoped she would see reason and abandon her useless vendetta.”

  He sounds honest and trustworthy when he talks like that, but I’ve no doubt he is the worst kind of utilitarian. If I ever become a hindrance, he’ll stab me in the back, without hesitation.

  “So, what do you want from me?”

  “Continue as you are doing. Reopen trade with the Horned Ones and keep introducing new technologies. Your deeds are viewed as the gods’ own, after all.”

  “I have more questions.”

  “Ask them. I may not have the answers.”

  “What will happen if faith in the gods is not restored?”

  “The world will become increasingly less capable of supporting life and, ultimately, the gods will leave it to extinction. They will return when they are ready to start things over.”

  “Why do they keep trying, when they seem to have nothing to gain?”

  “They cannot not do it; it is in their nature. Can you stop yourself from breathing, of your own will?”

  “How do you know all this?”

  The man points to the corpse on the ground, before answering: “We carry the memories of those who preceded us.”

  After a moment, the potential danger of this statement perturbs Laev, and he decides that it needs clarification: “Does that mean there’ll be someone walking around with memories of me killing them?”

  “At the current level of faith, rebirth will take many years - it might never even happen. So, I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. Besides, we may have the memories of our predecessor, but we are not them. You could equate it to knowing a book by heart, though you never set out to do so.”

  “It still worries me.”

  The mage suddenly stares beyond the trees, with a look of concern. “A group of cavaliers is coming. If you have more questions for me, I must hurry.”

  “Wait, wait; one more: why did the Horned Ones come here?”

  “Luck - or bad luck, if you look at it from the hornless point of view. Luck guided them toward this place, where the living conditions are similar to those of their home - the first land to succumb to the cooling of the world. Although not due to any lack of faith on their part, their home is now a frozen, lifeless land, covered by ice and snow. It is a fate you can expect to befall this place, within a matter of decades.”

  The mage suddenly starts to move away; “They’re closing in. I’ll find a way to contact you later.”

  With that, he sprints away.

  Half a minute later, Laev hears the sound of horses’ shoes, beating the road, rhythmically. Rescue is finally coming for him - too late and at an inconvenient time. With nothing better to do, he sits and awaits their arrival.

  The eight approaching riders are equipped with short, discreet bows - a clear sign of their affiliation to the secret services. On their approach, they see a half-naked man sitting on the seared ground, surrounded by burnt clothes and melted armour. Clearly shocked by the sight, the squad leader asks: “Lord Nikopol, are you alright?”

  Laev hesitates, as he considers retrieving the mage. There are still many questions he wants to ask, and it hasn’t been long since Leto left; he could not have gone far. But, as he reflects on this, Laev becomes certain that no one else would take the mage’s words seriously. In the end, he decides to keep what he has learnt secret, until he is sure there is a way to make use of it.

  “Yeah, I healed myself already. The other one got away. What about my companions? Are they okay?”

  “They are fine, but your wife is very worried about you. I heard what happened at the docks, but I must say that seeing it in person is something else entirely.”

  “I assume you’re with Garvan.”

  The rider answers with a smile: “Yes, I am one of Garvan’s colleagues; you can call me Renar. It has been decided that the regular guard – and even knights – are not prepared to deal with these magicians. Therefore, we’d rather, frankly, keep their existence a secret.”

  “I hear you: if the public were to learn of a strange cabal of magicians hiding amongst them, it could very quickly degenerate into a witch hunt.”

  “Gods spare us; one of those is the last thing we need.”

  Renar approaches the woman’s corpse and looks at her face for a while. “That’s Plain Jane, a liaison agent! She isn’t high up in the hierarchy, but her role gives her - gave her - access to a lot of people and services. What did the other look like?”

  “A face you would see anywhere; no noticeable traits. Common and unremarkable - just like her.”

  “Your companions described him as brown-haired, medium height and a medium build.”

  “That’s him. Add ‘featureless’ to that and you’ve got a good description.”

  “Did they say anything useful?”

  “Just a lot of gloating on her part. The man didn’t say a word.”

  “Sorry to ask, but Garvan will want to debrief you, too. As things stand, we have no hope of finding this man, so any detail - no matter how small - might make all the difference.”

  “Seeing my wife comes first. Then, I’m all yours.”

  “Naturally.” Renar looks again at Jane’s body. “Sorry she was one of us and we didn’t do anything.”

  “You came - that’s what matters. Could I ask you to get me a new suit of armour? I don’t want my wife to see me looking like this.”

  The men take charge of the corpse and escort the Hero to their barracks, back in the capital. There, he cleans himself of the blood and changes into new armour, similar to his previous suit.

  <><><>

  Boyka is in her room, rocking back and forth on her bed, with her mouth open. She may be quiet now, but from the redness of her eyes, it isn’t difficult to imagine her earlier distress. By her sides, Elena and Meleas hold her hands, whilst behind her stands Leann, ready to intervene, should she erupt into another meltdown.

  As Laev enters, she frees herself from them to run toward him.

  “Liar!” she shouts. “You said you wouldn’t leave me! Liar! Liar!”

  She is telling the truth, but also unfair in her accusation, he feels. “I didn’t lie. See? I’m just a little late.”

  But, the girl turns her back to him, returning to her sister, as his words of excuse all fall into unhearing ears.

  Chapter 16

  Elena

  For two whole days, Boyka ignores her husband. She acts as though he doesn’t exist, clearly intent on showing him what it feels like to be abandoned. She understands well that it is somewhat cruel on her part, and that her staying behind would have got them both killed, but there is a rationale driving her actions: simply, she doesn’t want him to make a habit of jumping into danger by himself.

  On the third day following the ambush, Laev meets with Garvan for debriefing. He does so with a feeling of unease; there is much the otherworlder wants to keep to himself. Thankfully, the intelligence officer’s main concerns are the techniques used by the magicians, as well as little things which might help to identify them.

  That same day, in the afternoon, Laev is summoned to a special audience with the third princess and two ministers. The two men with her look exhausted, and evidently not happy to see he who inadvertently killed the economy, in order to fulfil a personal vendetta.

  In truth, overabundance had probably been rife in the past but, unlike now, there were usually signs, and time to prepare. On the contrary, this crisis has occurred so suddenly, and on such a massive scale, that the ministers seem clueless as to how to react. At least, that is their excuse. In reality, the problem and the solution have been known to them for some time; they simply were not ready to take the necessary steps – the purpose of today’s meeting.

  The man to Elena’s right introduces himself first: “I am Lord Aldrik of Preslav, minister of finance.”

  “And, I am Lord Ankur of Kran, minister of agriculture,” the man to her left offers.

  Adhering to her joking character, the princess teases: “And, I am Elena Tarnov, the third princess and beloved sister-in-law.” The quip lacks her usual playfulness, however - an indicator, perhaps, of how much these two men annoy her.

  “Dear brother-in-law,” she begins, with her usual beaming smile, before quickly reverting to a derisive tone, “could you please explain to these two thick-headed fools the benefits of publicly opening trade with the Horned Ones - and the danger of not doing so. They don’t seem to understand how serious our situation is.”

  The one called Ankur immediately interjects: “There is no need for external intervention; my ministry can deal with the situation. We simply need to buy up the excess and add it to our reserves, as usual.”

  “Buy it with what, fool?” Aldrik demands. “Tax revenue is at an all-time low. I, unlike my colleague, agree that we need the trade. But, unlike the princess, I feel it should be kept private, in the hands of the state; the people would neither understand or forgive trade with the Horned Ones.”

  The princess looks irritated; she has heard these same arguments hundreds of times. “Ministers,” she begins, “Orsovo and his allies were engaged in a massive conspiracy to overthrow the throne. To them, secrecy was primordial at every echelon, yet even with the tremendous amount of money they spent on assassinations and infiltration, even they couldn’t keep it a secret!”

  “Yes…?”

  “Then, how do you expect the Crown to? Are we expected to bribe every lord and official? Perhaps, to take as hostage their families, or murder those who don’t fall into line? If we did that, we would be offering blackmail material to our opponents on a silver platter!”

  The minister of agriculture answers offhandedly: “We recovered tonnes of gold and silver from Orsovo and the wreck. Surely, we can use that to mint more money. We are only in this mess because the change happened so suddenly.”

  The minister of the economy glares at his colleague, in horror; “Have you lost your mind? Our economy is based on the value of primary food. If we devalue our currency, at a time when its circulation is already at an all-time low, we’ll cause an irredeemable downward spiral.”

  “Lord Kran is right, reports predict a bountiful harvest for summer, one of the best in years. We are already on our knees with the spring harvest alone, how do you expect propose to deal with a second one?”

  At this, Laev adds his grain of salt: “I’ve had my associates set up a lobby group of merchants, to be our fall guys. If something goes wrong, we can pin it on them and Orsovo, for creating this situation in the first place.”

  Ankur of Kran objects, once again: “We simply cannot feed the enemy. It’s treason!”

  Finally, someone has made the argument that Laev has been waiting for. “Interestingly, it appears that conflicts fell drastically after Orsovo initiated his secret trading; military action fell sharply, from one major battle - or the odd skirmish - per year, to about three or four per decade. Additionally, if you look at the history more diplomatically, it is the case that the kingdom is the aggressor in most of them.”

  The minister of economy wants to agree with Laev’s statement, but is clearly hugely reluctant to do so. “I know that we urgently need this trade deal; our economy has come to depend upon it. But, the fact is that the people don’t care about that! When the time for war comes again, we will be branded traitors for trading with the enemy! Publicly, the reconquest faction will tear us apart.”

  A wicked smile creeps over the princess’s face. “Let them denounce us publicly; I welcome it! We have recovered most of Orsovo’s blackmail material, including proof of their collusion with him. Many of them received bribes from him, knowing full well where the money came from. He made sure to cover himself.”

  “That’s all well and good, but public opinion won’t be swayed by these accusations, proof or no proof. If something - no, when something - goes wrong, it will be us as the scapegoats!”

  Laev grunts, cynically. This was never to be a debate of reason; they want only to exonerate themselves of all responsibility. His irritation seeps through, as he asks the question: “Have you ever fought against the Horned Ones?”

  Aldrik takes offence: “Young man, I may look like this now, but I was once young! Yes, I have. And, we won!”

  “I did not,” Ankur admits, “but my elder brother was killed in battle.”

  “Let me recount my experience of fighting against them,” Laev explains: “the blue giants showed no reaction to the death of their peers, and they repeated the same tactics, over and over again; it was like fighting against machines. Do you realize how unnatural such behaviour is? Many nobles consider commoners to be of the same level as animals – sometimes less - but even they would show signs of inquietude upon seeing the conscript around them dying in numbers - if nothing else, out of great concern for their own life.”

  “Young man,” Aldrik says, “at the time I was too afraid to pay much attention to their feelings. Only one as gifted as you has the freedom to observe and take notes during battle.”

  “True. But, my point is that the giants I faced were too stupid and ineffective to be the Horned Ones’ main force. Let me put this to you: go back fifty years, when the Horned Ones emerged from the sea and subsequently defeated the third greatest power on the continent! At that time, they had no more than a few dozen ships - a fraction of their full force now. Yet, despite the numbers and the massive logistical disadvantage, they won! Bear in mind also that the code does not allow an army to plunder for food; they had to forage, or carry all of their supplies with them.” The two men nod their agreement. It is a well-known fact that a pillaging army risks being struck down by the gods.

  “They dominated many nations, conquering four-tenths of the continent, in barely two decades. Yet, they never made any serious moves against the kingdom!”

  All accounts of victories for the kingdom’s side can only be described as Pyrrhic. It is clear to anyone, regardless of his background, that the kingdom, with all of its might, failed to repulse the invader.

  “It is obvious that, for some reasons, the Horned Ones need to keep the kingdom around. I don’t know if this is for religious reasons, or because they rely on an external threat, to enforce unity amongst their people…” he shrugs his shoulders. “The reports – and, by that, I mean the true records, not the embellished ‘official’ versions - all say the same thing: the Horned Ones always brought only a small part of their full force, and always the blue men; they never send their reserves to fight.”

  The information is difficult to digest and debate, because it contradicts decades of propaganda. But, they all know it to be true.

  Laev concludes: “If they wanted to win, they would have done so by now. That suggests that they need us. We can exploit that.” He walks around as he talks, appearing to be forming his discourse as he goes; in reality, he prepared the arguments weeks earlier.

  “We can assume it’s not trade that they seek, because no such thing existed when they stopped their initial conquest at the kingdom. We also know that trading has a profound impact on them, because the level of conflict is so much lower now than it was before. For our country to survive, we need to know what it is that they want. Since they seem to need our food, this presents a good opportunity for us to open diplomatic relations, so we can finally learn about them, and their intentions.

  “Look at it this way; it’s very simple: we each have something the other needs. In our case, we are currently overburdened by what they need!”

  Laev doesn’t actually know how much of what he is saying is true, but that doesn’t really affect the point.

  “The princess said earlier that Orsovo kept a record of all the men he bribed, and he incriminated them all, one way or another. Since there are many important figures amongst them, our current situation doesn’t make it prudent for us to go after them. But, if things do go wrong, and they start to become… difficult, we will be in a position to pass the blame to them – to denounce them for their part.”

  “It’s a big risk…”

  As the princess intervenes, her face is serene and her voice icy calm, but they can all feel the repressed anger behind her words: “Gentlemen, we’re long past choosing our path. Secrecy is political suicide… No, it’s plain suicide! Our enemies are at our throats; whatever decision we make, we’ll come under fire from them. If we are to survive, half-measures won’t be enough; we must be bold, transparent and we must seize peace, with our own hands. Damn the traitors; damn the cowards! I dare them to come and oppose us!”

  Her voice slows and becomes much more demure, as she now attempts to appeal to them on a more fundamental level: “This is our darkest hour and the gods are watching us, through the eyes of their envoy. How do you want to be remembered? As those who cowered in fear, in the face of trouble? As those who chose mediocrity, in order to preserve the status-quo? Or, as honourable and courageous men, who took much-needed steps to reform our failing kingdom?”

  Moved by her words, Kran is the first to answer: “I am no coward, Your Highness; I will do what needs to be done.”

  Preslav answers, with moistness in his eyes: “Prudence be damned; I’ll follow you! You truly are your father’s daughter, through and through, and I am ashamed of myself: when did I become so weak? When your father and I were young, I would have been the first to propose this course of action.”

  And, just like that, once again, Laev is reminded of how dangerously manipulative his sister-in-law can be. She has just managed to secure the loyalty of two of the most important men in the kingdom, whilst simultaneously achieving her initial goal. Just how many ministers have been made her pawns?

  Laev shudders to think how things might have turned out for him, had he and Boyka not gotten along.

  <><><>

  Early evening, in their room, Laev is sitting behind his desk, doing his best to attend to his correspondence despite his diminutive wife sitting on his lap. Their recent argument has caused her to be more clingy than ever - a pleasure, for the most part, but quite troublesome at the present moment.

  They remain in this situation when a palace maid knocks at the door, to announce that Elena is waiting for them, in the salon.

  As they go to join her, she immediately asks forgiveness.

  “I’m sorry for the earlier farce, but those fools are key to the establishment of my regency.”

  Nonchalantly, her brother-in-law answers: “I figured as much.”

  She nods, and asks jovially: “Since we are being truthful with each other, why don’t you tell me what it is you are hiding?”

  “What makes you think I’m hiding something?”

  “I’ve survived a mother and two older sisters; what makes you think I can’t see through your pathetic attempts at deception?”

  Laev recalls Leto’s words. They seem outlandish, at best, but if true, the population haven’t much time before the continent becomes uninhabitable. For a moment, Laev weighs up the benefits of telling her, and how likely she is to believe him.

  “I have no proof, and my source doesn’t want to be known - not that I could even tell you where it might be found. But, I have no reason to dismiss the source’s information as fabrication.”

  “Ooh, you’ve got me interested! What dark secret have you uncovered, dear brother-in-law?”

  “Do you believe in the gods?”

  “I can’t say that I do - but you would never find me breaking taboos, even were I all alone, on a deserted island.”

  “I was told that the world is dying, because of a lack of faith.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “You really aren’t kidding?”

  “You asked. I’m inclined to believe it is the truth.”

  “The Church may have lost most of its authority, but the vast majority of people are still believers; very few would dare to disrespect the gods and their laws.”

  “People respect the scriptures and the Church’s doctrine, but that doesn’t mean they really have faith. People’s prayers are empty; they follow the traditions and rituals, in much the same way as they follow the secular laws or the king.”

  The princess displays a pained, guilty expression. She, herself, is a perfect example of the doctrine to which he refers. According to the scriptures, the first royal families were awarded their authority directly by the gods, and every noble received them on that understanding. Yet, despite these important lessons, the royals and nobles have undermined the Church for centuries, in order to concentrate power, in their own hands.

  “My source indicates that the Horned Ones left their home because the environment lost its ability to sustain life. It is now covered by a thick layer of ice and snow.”

  She bites her lower lip, and appears half-convinced. She has pondered often that she remembers a time, when she was young, that summers were hotter and winters milder. Since then, snowfall has gone from a rarity to common occurrence, in many parts of the land.

  “I find myself inclined to believe you. Although, I have no idea how to resolve the problem; it isn’t as if faith can be ordered.”

  “My source told me to continue doing what I have been so far. My status as the gods’ envoy may help.”

  She looks at him, pensively, then says: “I know you're hiding something else. Out with it!”

  “Tragedies promote faith. There may be some people inclined to create them, in the hope of postponing the end of the world.”

  “You’re referring to the ‘times of infamy’, right? ‘Postpone’ seems an inaccurate word: according to the scriptures, the gods had to start the world anew.”

  “That seems to be the situation.”

  “In all honesty, working toward restoring faith will cost me nothing. Quite the contrary, in fact: I wouldn’t be surprised if it netted me saint status.”

  “I don’t need to be privy to so much honesty from you; you don’t need to share your ruthless ambition with me.”

  Elena’s smile radiates purity and grace; already she is becoming the embodiment of a saint!

  “You’re my little sister’s husband; you are family. Don’t you know you don’t lie to family?”

  “I thought you hated your older siblings?”

  The smile is her usual teasing one, but her answer sounds brutally honest: “My sisters may be monsters, but I don’t want to cause them harm… if I don’t have to.”

  “So, that’s why they’re still alive? It always struck me as odd that you’d left them be.”

  “See? Aren’t I an honest, gods-fearing girl?”

  She draws nearer, whispering into his ear: “Like mother, they’re suffering from their inability to produce an heir. I see no reason to put an end to their misery.”

  Her suggestiveness is the last straw for Boyka; they are getting too close, in every sense of the word. “You’re doing it again! He’s mine! Flirting is bad! You’re bad!”

  Laev looks at his beloved sister-in-law, with a wry, cynical smile.

  A beautiful smile on a beautiful face. But, she’s the most frightening of them all.

  Chapter 17

  Training

  The group spend more than a week in the capital, during which time Elena has Laev appearing at her side, and speaking on her behalf, at public events.

  Initially, he had wanted to avoid politics, but Leto’s revelation has left him no other choice: he needs to use his influence with the masses, the Church and their noble allies.

  As part of the campaign, the princess has Laev visit the royal guard’s garrison. As well as accommodating the guards, it also serves as a training ground for the guard, trainees and the children of nobility who work in its administration.

  Unlike the other engagements, he has a more direct interest in this one: this is an opportunity to compare his own trainees with theirs, and for him to learn more about the subject of pedagogy.

  As he observes, a man approaches him. At first glance, he appears formal and well-groomed, but his underlying impishness strikes a chord with Laev, and creates an inexplicable sense of bonding.

  “My name is Acharya,” the man tells him. “I am an instructor here. I will be your guide today, milord.”

  “I am Laev of Nikopol, and these are guard trainees for my household. I thought it would benefit them to see how other kids their age train.”

  “I have heard about them.” Despite his best attempt, the instructor’s forced smile becomes strained. “I know you came here for a tour, but that’s just too dull, right? I’m sure you would rather see your trainees sparring against some of ours, than listen to me talking about the boring stuff. What do you think?”

  “Sounds marvellous. You’ve saved me from asking.”

  <><><>

  After light exercises alongside the local trainees, Laev’s six are put into a series of bouts, against children of matching age. The results are quite unexpected - as much for Laev, as the youths themselves.

  “Glad to see it went so well,” says Acharya, with a smile of genuine delighted. “This is a closed environment; the children all learn the same, and fight the same faces, over and over. That’s why squaring up against new opponents is so important for them. They’ll grow from it and, with luck, it might even foster a sense of friendly rivalry.”

  Besides his own, the only youths with which Laev is familiar are Petar and Anastasiy Cherven. From his own experiences with them, he had expected his trainees to be defeated comfortably, but they are more than simply standing their ground.

  “I must say I’m surprised: I expected them to hold their own against the pages, but certainly not against the squires.”

  Acharya is defensive: “You can’t expect the youths here to be on the same level as one of the old knight families. They start training as young as four; their training techniques have been developed their over centuries – they are very secretive about them, too.”

  “I remember Medea complaining about his squire being from another faction. Why is that?”

  “Yep, they try to steal each other’s knowledge and techniques, without revealing their own. Whenever possible, training is always done amongst siblings and family. Accepting a page from another family is pretty rare; it usually only happens between branches of the same family, or sometimes as repayment for a favour or debt.”

  “Seems like, from their point of view, accepting a page is like accepting a spy. It’s no wonder the country is continuously bordering on civil war, and the kingdom keeps getting its ass kicked by the Horned Ones! Does that mean there are only new nobles’ kids here?”

  “Apart from the odd minister, they are all guards’ children, or commoners, hoping to become guards themselves. Apart from the officers, the royal guard are all commoners, because… well, one can rarely trust nobles to put the Crown’s interest before their own. It has been a point of contention for a long time: the royal guard distrust the officers who, in turn, hold contempt for their subordinates. The royal knights, on the other hand, are a whole ‘nother story.”

  “This country is so messed up.”

  Breaking into a fit of laughter, the instructor answers: “That it is.”

  The last sparring session unfolds, with Adelphus dominating the fight, from start to finish. Nevertheless, it is clearly apparent that he is far behind his opponent in terms of proficiency.

  “Sorry to tell you this,” Laev observes, “but your trainees lack adaptability.”

  “No offence taken. That’s not really something we can train in a situation like ours. They need outside competition, if they are to learn how to think outside the box.”

  “Coming here did the kids some good though; they always seemed to lack confidence.”

  At this, the guard laughs again; “That might come from having their arses kicked, week in and week out! I’ll tell you this: beating them without breaking a sweat, only to tell them how well they did well afterward, ain’t going to help their self-esteem!”

  “We can’t show them how to lose on purpose, either,” Laev argues; “that won’t teach them anything.”

  “Small, incremental goals is the way to go; kids need a sense of progress: holding ground against their teacher, for a preset amount of time; learning how to block or dodge one specific technique... those kinds of things.”

  “Thank you for the advice. I leave the training to their seniors, back home, but they’re not educators.”

  “To tell the truth, some of those seniors asked our old mentor for guidance, and the old bastard tasked me with writing a manual for them! Gods, I’m glad you came here directly: I’m no good at writing.”

  “Thank you again.”

  “If you’re that grateful, why don’t you repay the favour and spar with my men for a bit? Some of them have got a bit too cocky, and are in dire need of a lesson in humility.”

  The instructor’s request suits the Hero: his opportunities to exercise, over the past few days, have been few and far between. “I’ll make some time.”

  <><><>

  Freed from being her sister’s dressing-up doll for the day, Boyka heads out in search of her husband. On the training grounds, she finds him fighting single-handedly against three guards and, despite the apparent disadvantage, winning in such an overwhelming manner that he has time to comment on their errors, as he exploits them. The sight awakens something new in her, though very common amongst her contemporaries: feelings of excitement and arousal.

  Not far from where she stands, Adelphus – the eldest of Laev’s trainee – stands with a guard, stifling a chortle, as he comments on the fight: “Ouch, that one took the side of the shield right on the temple. Even with the padding, that must have hurt like hell.”

  Bratomi – the third oldest – shouts to another contender, whose spear has been taken by Laev, and turned against him: “Repeatedly overextending your arm is like asking the master to beat you with your own spear.”

  In moments, only one guard is left standing.

  To the surprise of all spectating, Laev suddenly throws his shield and spear at his opponent, and uses the time and confusion earnt by the attack to unravel a chain, which is wrapped around his waist.

  This is no ordinary chain: he had a smith has add small weights on both sides. Heavy and large, the weapon is unlike anything the amnesiac is familiar with, but still serviceable enough to experiment with.

  Due to the absence of padding around the extremities, the weapon presents too much of a risk, if used as intended. For this reason, the Hero moves about as he swings the chain, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

  In an instant, the remaining guard has considered the possible uses of the unknown weapon, and concludes that he predominantly needs to protect himself from attacks reaching over and around his shield. His solution to this is to extend his shield away from his body, poised to swat the chain away, while his spear is readied to hinder the chain’s retrieval.

  It isn’t a bad tactic, but when in the hands of someone as strong and fast as Laev, the ability to implement versatility against the weapon is great. In two swift moves, the amnesiac has extended the chain’s swing, to wrap it around his opponent’s leg. He tugs it hard, toppling the guard.

  As the soldier lies sheepishly on the ground, comments come from around the crowd which has gathered.

  “That’s what it’s for?”

  “It seems pretty useful.”

  All express their own opinions, each imagining themselves wielding the weapon.

  “I bet it’s a lot harder to use than you think.”

  “Less flexible than a whip, and much heavier.”

  “I don’t know if I can use it, but I want one,” asserts Achyan.

  Ahiram, the trainee standing alongside him, concurs: “It probably takes some getting used to, but I bet with practice you could easily disarm your opponent with it.”

  “And strike around a shield.”

  Amongst them, unnoticed, Boyka is whispering to herself: “Is that really Laev? He looks like a different person: distant; focused. Angrier, too.”

  Despite her low volume, the children catch her voice, and it dawns on them that they have been ignoring their mistress - who knows for how long.

  “Do you require something, Milady?” asks Veli courteously.

  “Nhhh,” she dismisses, irritably; “I want to watch.”

  Laev retrieves his shield and spear, and asks for padding to be put around the weights. When this is done, he wraps it again, this time around his spear arm.

  Four guards present themselves for a new round.

  Unlike the cocky newbies from earlier, they are practiced warriors, who understand the meaning of teamwork. Right from the outset, they surround him and attack from all sides.

  His movement restrained, the Hero cannot fight in his usual manner. In order to open more options, he needs to put some distance between them, and limit the range of their attack.

  First, he rushes at the nearest guard, ducking underneath his lunging spear, while deflecting and parrying the attacks from his side. His speed is such that it allows him to pass his opponent and strike him with his shield, before the man has time to retract his thrusting arm.

  Surprisingly, the blow isn’t considered “fatal” by the judge, so Laev supplements his attack by stabbing in a wide, circular motion, as he spins to face the three remaining attackers.

  Now in a one-against-three scenario, the spear doesn’t give him any advantages, so he throws it, and the one taken from his first victim, at the two nearest to him. One blocks the projectile easily, while the other dodges it. This gives Laev enough time to deflect the third opponent’s spear and strike at his extended arm with Halfberd, in one flowing motion.

  Despite armour and padding, the blow is a strong one, and the poor man is forced to pull out of the sparring session in intense pain.

  Still unbalanced by the move, Laev barely manages to block and parry the attacks coming from both sides. He is able to put some distance between himself and his trained adversaries, aware that he is having to work incredibly hard. From his point of view, struggling to achieve victory against normal men, whilst himself in top condition, is a new and instructive experience. Furthermore, it demonstrates just how much he has underestimated the importance of teamwork.

  I wouldn’t last one minute against twice the number of men!

  Laev needs to develop some countermeasures, and quickly. Even though he is finding no difficulty in blocking and parrying the attacks of his two opponents, their coordination is leaving him no openings to exploit. His attempts to disarm them or break their weapons are also failing, though he can’t decide whether this is because of all the padding, or simply because they are countering his every move.

  Acknowledging that his strategy is going nowhere, the Hero ditches Halfberd, in favour of the chain. First, he moves himself so that both foes are on the same side, as he adjusts the length of the weapon. Then he charges as he swings, swatting the spears aside with his shield, and attacking the nearest guard around his shield, striking the back of them. The crucial blow cuts the man’s breath short; a kick from Laev puts him out of commission.

  Laev had hoped that the kick would propel the guard toward his final adversary, but he underestimates his own ferocity, and the man crashes to the ground.

  “Go on, my love!” shouts Boyka.

  The unexpected cheer of his wife surprises the Hero, and encourages him to attempt something which he is sure is possible, but has yet to try: he will use the chain to take his opponent’s spear.

  The shield on his left arm hinders his move, but his speed - and desire to impress Boyka - more than makes up for this: on only his second attempt, he is able to wrap the chain around the shaft of the spear, disarming the final guard. His opponent immediately surrenders.

  To the surprise of his wife and his six trainees, the Hero expresses genuine gratitude toward all of his opponents: “Thank you for sparring with me. You’ve shown me the error of my own ways: I was far too focused on personal strength to understand the benefits of teamwork. I understand now.”

  Acharya smiles at the words, but his interest is elsewhere: “What is that chain? It has its flaws, but tremendous potential for capturing enemies alive.”

  “It’s called a ‘manriki’: a weighted chain. Recently, I had to deal with a particularly mobile foe and, during the fight, I wished I had to hand a weapon of this kind. My technique might be lacking, but I have worked out now how to control the range and swing to capture an opponent’s weapon.”

  The guards with whom he just fought are now congregating around him, impressed by the curious weapon.

  Laev, spotting an opportunity to appeal to his wife, shows his generosity, handing the manriki to the final opponent: “You keep this one. I will happily teach you what moves I know.”

  To a resounding chorus of “Yes!” the Hero, suddenly self-conscious, answers: “Bear in mind, though, I haven’t trained with it… and, the proper version has smaller rings...”

  As the demonstration comes to an end, an unusually excitable Boyka welcomes her husband with a barrage of hugs and kisses, whispering into his ear: “You were stunning.”

  Goddess! I've never seen her like that before.

  It was worth all the trouble.

  Chapter 18

  Rumour

  From the Hero’s point of view, the trip to the capital has been the stuff of nightmares: he was almost burnt to death; learnt the world was dying; his wife refused to talk to him; and, he even got himself involved in politics.

  For his entourage, though, it was a very different story: Boyka got to spend some time with her father and discovered a new side to her husband; the six trainees gained a massive confidence boost; and, even the twins were recognized by their peers. For some reason, it became customary for the mistress of the house and her twin maids to observe the men’s morning training.

  It was a pleasant turn of events for the master of the house, who got to enjoy some additional bedroom activity.

  Two weeks have now passed since the excursion, when an unusually nervous Tacha approaches Laev.

  Seeing the usually talkative girl unable to broach the subject on her mind, Laev fears the worst. “Has something happened to your parents? Do you need some time off?”

  “It’s not like that, sir; it isn’t about me... There’s… there’s this rumour I heard in town… Well, more than one… But, everyone knows just how much you love the madam, and…”

  “You aren’t making any sense! Come on, out with it!”

  With a timid squeak, the maid answers in a hurry: “Yes, sir! They… they say she’s infecund.”

  He bites his lower lip, thoughtfully. “Has she heard about these rumours?”

  “I don’t think so, my lord; the madam doesn’t go out much.”

  The otherworlder has no interest in the matter of having children; he sees them as no more than a weak point, for his enemies to target. His wife’s opinion on the matter is unknown to him; she hasn’t once addressed the subject. One thing of which he is certain, though, is that in feudal societies heirs are a critical matter.

  “Cowards! Too bloody scared to speak up to me now, they’re going after my wife behind her back. They are moronic; if any one of us should be suspected of being sterile, it should be me.”

  I don’t even know if we’re the same species!

  Laev believes there is something strange about the whole situation. Why should such a rumour have taken root so easily? It is too soon for the townsfolk to start concerning themselves with the matter of a noble heir. Who and what is to benefit from starting such a rumour now?

  Her master has been quiet for quite some time now, and the servant girl is growing worried. “Sir?”

  “Sorry, Tacha. Is there anything else you can tell me about these rumours?”

  She squirms at this and hesitates. He knows she is desperately searching for the right words, afraid to repeat what she has clearly heard.

  “Please. You know I won’t hold it against you.”

  “It’s so vile, I don’t want to repeat it—”

  “I need to know.”

  “I heard someone say that ‘the gods’ seed shouldn’t be wasted on a retarded bastard’.”

  “Those words exactly?” Laev’s tone is glacial.

  “Yes, my lord. I’m sorry, my lord.”

  He ruffles the girl’s hair playfully, to reassure her, and gets to thinking again.

  Her status in the hierarchy has always excluded his wife from the requirement of social events and political marriages and, although her condition has been kept out of the public eye, it isn’t a secret, either.

  There is evidently malicious intent in these rumours, but he’s damned if he will let it be about him – if that’s what it is! In feudal society, heirs are primordial, and it is not unusual for an unfruitful union to be broken, against the will of both spouses. But such an expectation does not apply to Laev, despite his supposed origin; he is still as minor a noble as there can be. Furthermore, he has no intention of souring his relationship with Elena, by some noble necessity to remarry – doing so wouldn’t make sense, anyway, even were he to: he would stay at Boyka’s side and leave his new wife to rot.

  Laev has made up his mind as to how he will respond, there is no reason for him to let them spread their crap around.

  “Would you mind starting a rumour for me?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll do my best.”

  “It’s just your type of story,” he winks. “Here’s the gist: the gods’ envoy and the girl fell in love at first sight. Even though the envoy is no normal human, and both knew that their union may remain forever unfruitful, they are ready to spend the rest of their lives together. You are free to embellish whatever you wish, in order to make the story more interesting.”

  The story is not untrue - at least, from his point of view. Were it not for Boyka, he might have left this place; move to the Horned Ones’ territory, or some deserted mountain.

  Tacha’s mind is already working on expanding the story; she has always been a storyteller, with a predilection for love and romance. Her stories are very well crafted, and Laev considers it a pity that she has never learnt how to write... not that she could make any kind of career out of it, if she had; creative entertainment is not a developed pastime in the kingdom.

  “Sorry, my lord: I remembered something else; I was so shocked by the vileness of the rumour that I almost forgot! There are tales about the trainees, too, though they aren’t bad. One merchant from the capital called them your ‘disciples’, and claimed that they are stronger than knights!” She lets out a crystalline laugh. “There are some who even call them your ‘apostles’. Can you imagine that?”

  Laev smiles; somewhere, some fool appears to have been mixing up their synonyms. “Wow! From indentured servants to religious figures, in just a few months… At this rate, by this time next year, they might have even overtaken even the gods.”

  <><><>

  Upon obtaining his territory, one of the otherworlder’s first acts had been to divide his parcel of land into smaller, experimental fields, in order to test if his knowledge of agricultural method was legible. Later, he would have people scouring the land, in search of valuable plants, such as aromats, spices and medicinal herbs.

  The most recent experimental crop acquired is a type of tuber, akin in appearance to a deformed, giant, hairy radish. Despite his repulsion by its appearance, and the pungent smell emanating from the skin, Laev cuts a small slice of the yam and puts it in his mouth, much to the concern of the serf standing beside him.

  To the delight of both men, the yam turns out to be edible – and, not poisonous.

  The otherworlder then proceeds to describe the taste: “The texture is not unlike a mealy turnip. As for the taste, it is unexpectedly bland.”

  He loses the taste with a gulp of water, and asks the serf about the yield.

  “Two or three times as much as what we planted, milord, although I believe they have yet to reach full maturity.”

  Put like this, the return seems small, but the size and weight of each yam more than make up for the number. With proper care and learning, they could potentially reach a yield of fifteen kilos - or more - per kilo seeded.

  Laev throws a large, copper coin to the serf and heads toward the mansion’s kitchen. At this hour, Bandi would be starting preparation for lunch. He knocks at the kitchen door, but there is no response.

  “Bandi? Are you in there?”

  The old cook lets out a sigh: “Yes, my lord. Is this about another one of your experimental vegetables?”

  Laev enters with a grin and hands the cook the tuber; “Indeed, and I have high hopes for this one! Here, peel it and boil it in salted water.”

  The normality of his request is reassuring to the cook. He cuts the tuber into small pieces, and drops them into the water he already has boiling on the stove.

  “How long should I cook it, sir?”

  “Until it is soft all the way through.”

  “It feels starchy to the touch. Where does it come from?”

  “A mountain near Kubin. It is known to be the great boar’s favourite food, and due to the aggressive, territorial nature of the beast, people tend to avoid the place. In all honesty, they only made the effort they did because I kept increasing the bounty.”

  “The peel smells terrible, but the flesh doesn’t. Raw, its taste is nothing to write home about, and it is difficult to eat. What did you say it was called?” As he speaks, Bandi regularly pierces the boiling chunks, to test the cooking. For once, he suddenly seems more excited about the food than his master.

  “The people up there call it ‘boar’s chow’.”

  “Simple, descriptive and… terrible! You’ll have to come up with a better name if you intend to try selling it.” Bandi scoops out the contents with a ladle, distributing them onto two plates.

  Laev is too focused on the root’s progress to process the cook’s advice, the amnesiac offering a piece of his own: “Put some butter on before eating it.”

  Both men finish their plates silently and in full - a testament to the meal. Bandi is first to break the silence: “Not bad; I’d choose that over turnips and beets any day. I’d like you to get me some more, if that’s okay with you. There are many different cooking methods I’d like to try and, if it’s cost-effective, it might be a good source of starch.”

  Laev nods his agreement, in satisfaction. This is only the second time the cook has shown any real interest in one of his “discoveries”, the other being sugar.

  “So far, the yield is about two to three times what was initially planted. But, the best part is that it only took eight weeks to grow to this size.”

  “It was grown from another root, right? I wonder if it has seeds.”

  “If you want to test things, I can give you half the harvest, and authority over a new, experimental field.”

  “I’d love to, but I don’t have time for that.”

  “If it turns out to have similar properties to the yams I’m familiar with, we’ll have access to cheap, nutritious food, which needs very little care.”

  “A ‘yam’, you called it? That’s a better name: simple and memorable. I’ll take you up on your offer, my lord. We need food like this; it could save many a poor family.”

  “In any time – prosperous or otherwise - there is always a market for low-cost, nutritious food. It’s helpful that it’s also very easy to prepare – and, doesn’t taste half bad.”

  Cheap and nutritious is always a good combination. Whilst it might seem inappropriate to be cultivating cheap food, at a time when the market is flooded by an overabundance, Laev knows this is not the case. The issue these people are facing is not because of the excessive crop, but rather the distribution. The product and the money are not circulating as they should.

  “You have a good heart, Bandi! If you know trustworthy people, don’t hesitate to hire them. I can give you a budget to cover the wages of five freemen.”

  “That much?! I don’t know what to say! Thank you, my lord. I won’t let you down.”

  Laev is very satisfied with the turn of events, and by the enthusiasm shown by his cook. But, in truth, his interest in hunting tubers never was motivated by a need to improve the world or provide a cheap food source: all has been done to satisfy his growing craving for French fries and mashed potatoes! Now he may have found the necessary ingredient, he ponders how to introduce the new style to this highly experienced cook. He decides to wait until tomorrow.

  <><><>

  The very next morning, another unexpected and urgent summons arrives from the king: the Horned Ones wish to meet with the gods’ envoy. It looks like the Hero will have to wait a little longer, to satisfy his fast-food craving.

  Chapter 19

  Family reunion

  Horned Ones are considered by humans to be extremely devout followers of the gods - if Leto the mage acknowledged this, Laev is in no doubt that it is the truth. He finds this turn of events volatile.

  “Damn it, I should have expected something like this would happen sooner or later; they want to meet the gods’ envoy, and who can blame them? I can’t even say no - not when I’m the one going around saying we need to reopen trade with them.”

  The steward attempts to reassure his lord: “The Horned Ones are fervent believers; I’m sure you have nothing to fear from them. Even if they don’t believe you, they’ll never act contrary to the code of chivalry and warfare.”

  “Where does the code say that it’s forbidden to kill imposters? To tell the truth, I’m more worried about our side: unlike the horned, they’ve proven time and time again to be unaffected by morality and common sense! I wouldn’t be surprised if some fool poisoned me during the voyage, or attacked my home in my absence.”

  “I no longer think that is likely anymore - not after your backing by the leadership. Though, if it alleviates your worries, we can always relocate to the capital.”

  Laev knows Ajisth is always hopeful of this. “The harvest is due next month; you’ll be needed here. Plus, I’ve all my experiments and ventures to keep running. That reminds me, I’ve given the cook a field and a budget for five people - have him report to you while I’m away.”

  “Will you take milady with you?”

  “I’d like to, but she’s been criticized for not taking care of the domain whenever I’m away… and, I want to avoid exposing her to the unpleasant rumours…” Laev falls into thought for a moment, before saying: “No, actually you’re right; her security is more important than some dumb rumours. I’ll travel alone, first, then have her depart with half of the guards, tomorrow… Send the trainees with her - their last stay in the capital was quite beneficial.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “It would be pointless to travel empty-handed; empty the northern warehouses and have everything shipped to Gelibolu. And, I mean everything, including the failed experiments.”

  “I fear the perishables won’t survive the journey, sir.”

  “Damn, you’re right. Buy some oilcloth roll - enough to pack everything.”

  Ajisth gulps; “That’s going to cost a fortune, sir.”

  “You have to spend it to make it! Besides, the cloth is reusable.” A faint smile appears on his face; “The way things are going, it’s only a matter of time before an antimonopoly law is implemented, so I need to expand and diversify quickly.”

  “If I may ask, sir, is money always on your mind?”

  “I can’t deny it! But, there is more to it than that: through careful use of money, I can use the greed of others to move people in the desired direction, without ever showing myself. Greed is often stronger than fear; if I can convince them that they stand to gain more from peace, it will relieve the warmongering idiots of their support base.”

  “I see.”

  “In the east and centre, the king has been gradually replacing the nobility of the sword with a nobility of the robe - if Elena inherits the crown, I’m sure she will continue this policy. The big, old families are already in their death throes, and right now they’re throwing tantrums, because they don’t want to acknowledge it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In the east, most of the nobility have been replaced by more competent commoners, assuming administrative positions. The west is still clinging to the old ways, when their word was law, but it’s too late: the kingdom is already on a path to centralization.”

  “It doesn’t appear that clear cut to me; tradition is still strong.”

  “If a warmonger - or a traditionalist - succeeds the crown, civil war is inevitable. And, if there’s one thing I’ve come to realize, it’s that the codes don’t apply to public disorder and policing. Nobility believe that they are at the centre of the world, and that the people are there to serve them. They barely do anything themselves; they may be leaders, but the brunt of the work is done by their subordinates, and the overwhelming majority of them are commoners.”

  The steward says nothing, because he knows that every word is true.

  “The east is sick of war, and half of its nobility now was born a commoner. What do you think would happen were the new king to try returning them to the old way, abolish their titles or force them into war?”

  “It would be as you said: civil war would become inevitable.”

  “There might be other candidates, with a good head on their shoulders, but as far as I’m concerned, Elena is the one. The problem is that the law is against her, unlike the other pretenders, who were fortunate enough to be born male. She will need to make the most of her time in power.”

  “I thought I had it bad working with you, but I don’t envy those left in the capital anymore.”

  “Yeah, problems are like weeds and taxes: they keep coming and growing.”

  <><><>

  Laev could do without having to explain to Boyka why he needs to go away again, and so soon after escaping death. To add insult to injury, the palace carries a high risk of exposing her to the numerous rumours concerning her. Now, as he kneels before his wife, he takes her small hands delicately into his own. Looking her straight in the eyes, he says: “Do you remember when I said that there was a chance of peace with the Horned Ones?”

  “Mmmh, there wouldn’t be a need to fight anymore, and you wouldn’t have to go.”

  “That has now become a strong possibility. But, first, they want to meet me.”

  She bites her lip, and her eyes become cloudy. “Again? How long?”

  “Travelling there by boat, without stopping, takes well over two weeks. Then back again, of course.”

  “Can I come?”

  Can she? She might be safer with him. She did say she’d rather die by my side than live alone.

  “If you want to, I won’t stop you. Could you bear travelling for a month inside a cabin?”

  Boyka hates being like this: this body, which doesn’t act the way she wants it to; the impulses which hinder her everyday life; her inability to express in words what she truly feels... Her sister isn’t like that. Her sister, who is better than her in every way. If she were Elena, she would go with her man, and make herself useful, by solving problems behind the scenes and complementing her partner’s weaknesses. Boyka truly loves her sister, and depends on her greatly, but even so, she cannot help but be jealous. She wishes she were like Elena.

  But then, had that been the case, Boyka probably wouldn’t have got her man, snatching him from her sister’s pesky maids (even if she had to rely on Elena’s support to do it), so it isn’t all bad. He likes her exactly the way she is.

  She doesn’t have as many immobilizing routines as she had when she was younger, which makes it easy to follow him... as long as her maids are on hand. Four weeks, though, enclosed in a small cabin, sounds like torture! No matter how much she wants to go, she knows she simply can’t: she would be a hindrance; a burden – and that is the one thing she can never become.

  So, she gives in; there is nothing else she can do, but let him go, with a smile... and a few warnings.

  With tears in her eyes, she tells him: “I can’t... go. Promise to come back immediately!”

  “Absolutely, my love.”

  “No dilly-dallying this time!”

  “I’ll only take the most direct route.”

  “And no playing with maids!”

  What’s with her obsession with maids? She never fails to mention them. Laev hasn’t looked at Meleas and Leann that way since he asked for her hand, and she still holds it against him at times. Her sister’s influence again, I’ll bet.

  “I sincerely doubt there will be maids on the ship.”

  “It’s not fair! Why is it always you?”

  “You’re preaching to the choir; I couldn’t agree more.”

  “The mean ladies’ husbands barely do anything!”

  The mean ladies? Does she mean her other sisters?

  “I know, right? We should put them to work.” Preferably on another continent, along with their wives and children.

  “When do you depart?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Nhhh!! Tomorrow!”

  “As you wish, milady.”

  She resolutely leads him to their room.

  <><><>

  This time the path to the capital is devoid of ambushes and sorcerers, and Laev gets to meet the king and his regent, without delay.

  Since the last time they met, the king’s complexion has improved: his eyes aren’t as red, and the hue of his skin is more natural. As Laev poises to salute the king, His Majesty suddenly orders the room emptied:

  “Everyone out! What is to transpire here is not for your ears!”

  In a panic, a royal knight answers: “Your Majesty, we cannot leave you unprotected.”

  Royal knights!

  Laev hadn’t seen them here when he received his sword. He supposes the tapestries hide them from view.

  “Fools!” barks the king. “He is the Hero, who brought down over a hundred giants in a single battle. Do you think your presence would change anything, should he mean me harm?”

  As ordered, the guards vacate the premises. Before doing so, some of the knights throw the Hero a resentful look.

  The king addresses his son-in-law without the usual regal tone: “How many years has it been since I last addressed someone informally, besides my own family? I’m glad we finally get to speak directly, lad, without restraints. Thank you for taking good care of my little Boyka - I knew that choosing you was the right decision.”

  “I should be the one thanking you: to me, she means more than the whole world.”

  Elena, at her father’s side, raises her eyebrows; “You both talk as if I played no part. I’m the one who coached her in how to get you.”

  “You are right,” Laev smiles, “and I owe you my thanks. And, since we’re on the subject of coaching, could you please stop feeding her weird ideas about maids?”

  “Never! I won’t let anyone get in the way of my fun!”

  “I’m not playing with the maids and I’m not cheating on her. I haven’t looked at another woman since we were married, and long before.”

  “Not even me? That hurts: I thought for sure that I had captivated you with my beauty!”

  The king becomes pensive. “Boyka’s mother was a maid, you know? She was the love of my life.”

  “I loved her, too,” Elena concurred. “She was far more of a mother to me than my own progenitress ever was. To think that Boyka forbade you from playing with the maids... what a jealous girl! I don’t envy you.”

  “Are you not the one putting these ideas into her head?”

  “Maids are the best thing in life, as well she should know: her mother was the kindest and brightest woman I have ever encountered. I suppose that’s just how she is. She even gets jealous when I talk to you. Me! Her beloved Sissy!”

  “Is that because you were really coming on to me?”

  A bright and teasing smile occupies the princess’s face, as she answers: “Who knows?”

  The king’s tone grows sombre: “As much as I’d love to continue listening to this pleasant exchange, we have business to attend; we have summoned you to discuss the matter of the Horned Ones. As one of the parties most involved, I would value your opinion: is this a trap, set by the magicians?”

  “A source – in whom I have full confidence - told me that there were no more of them hiding in human society at present. Although, the source implied that there were more on the side of the Horned Ones. As much as I would rather not, I feel I have no choice but to go along with their demands.”

  The king speaks, longingly: “Peace… It seems too good to be true; I have never had the chance of it in my time.”

  His daughter reminds him: “Even if we achieve peace with the Horned Ones, we still have many enemies amongst our own people.”

  “They’re your problem, I’m afraid, daughter of mine: now that Medea is dead, they won’t be so rude as to rebel while I’m still alive.”

  “Do you think my dear sisters will see beyond their own desires? They aren’t Mother’s children for nothing.”

  “Curse them and curse her! Even in death, she remains a pain!”

  Elena nods silently, to show her approval of his evaluation.

  “Goddess gracious,” Laev comments, “it is no wonder you two are so fond of Boyka.”

  The king nods: “I am actually somewhat thankful for her condition: it has allowed me to shelter her from the corrupting influence of our family. Cherish her dearly, my boy; you won’t find another girl who wears her heart on her sleeve like Boyka does.”

  “I know…” Feeling a little intrusive, Laev reverts to topic: “Who else will be going on this mission?”

  “Representatives from the ministries of finance and agriculture, as well as a few diplomats; if possible, we want to establish an embassy, right away. As far as others are concerned, you will be going as a private citizen, which means that you are free to draw up any agreements you desire, as long as you do it as an individual; anything concerning the kingdom will need to be ratified by our people.”

  “Should I move in the company of the diplomats, or separately?”

  “We want you to separate yourself from them, as much as possible.”

  “Because I’m a quasi-religious figure to them, and presenting myself as a vassal could have implications?” nods the Hero, pensively.

  The king clears his throat, sheepishly. “Indeed. We don’t know much about how they practice their faith, and we’d rather not offend them through ignorance.”

  “On your journey, Lord Agatopol - one of the diplomats - will teach you all we know about the Horned Ones,” Elena explains.

  “Thank you, Your Highness. What sort of vessel did you arrange?”

  The third princess answers in the king’s stead, again: “The kingdom has no dedicated passenger ship, and our means of sea travel are few. When the prospect of the trade first arose, we tasked Gelibolu’s shipyard with retrofitting a merchant ship - at this moment, they are adding the final touches; I’m sure the cabin will be ready by the time you arrive.”

  “Thank you for your consideration.”

  The king leans forward; “It is a matter of standing: we cannot permit our diplomats to travel on a normal merchant-ship. Even so, simply securing two seaworthy ships of decent size was the best we could do, in such a short time. One was left mostly as it is, for the transport of various foodstuff and commodities, while the other has been heavily modified, to transport the delegation and staff.

  “I would have liked you to spend some more time with Boyka before departing, but the ship to Gelibolu is scheduled to depart tomorrow morning.”

  “If I cannot meet her before departing, then I might as well begin my preparations and join the crew.”

  “Sorry for that. I wish you Godspeed, Hero.”

  “Farewell, Your Majesty. See you later, beloved sister-in-law.”

  Laev leaves the room with a sly smile.

  That really felt like a pleasant family reunion. That’s the kind of illusion I would love to lose myself in. They are insanely good actors!

  Chapter 20

  Horned humans…

  Because Lord Agatopol’s territory borders that of the Horned Ones, he is charged with teaching the Hero everything he knows about them and their customs, though he is not particularly learned.

  “I may live near the borders, but there are no exchanges between our species. What little we think we know is based on hearsay or conjecture.”

  “No exchanges at all? I would have expected humans in your vicinity to be escaping the country in droves.”

  “Many rich merchants and fallen nobles fled Nicaea during the initial stages of the conquest, but it stopped very shortly afterward. Since then, there has been no such occurrence.”

  “So, we basically know nothing - other than the fact that the humans are not fleeing the conquered territories. For all we know, they could be living in total bliss, or the most abject form of enslavement. How do you arrange to meet the Horned Ones in battle?”

  “There are towers on both sides of the border. When an engagement is called, we wave a flag from ours, and the other side responds.”

  “It seems a little slow and random.”

  “It may seem so, but it isn’t as bad as it looks. Fresh horses and messengers are posted all along the highway to the capital - thanks to them, we can have our confirmation in under one week.”

  This level of delay can be considered short, by these people’s standards, when one considers the available technology. Because the risk of a surprise attack is non-existent, the kingdom has no need for a standing army - the main reason why both sides must agree on a battlefield beforehand; conscription and logistics take time to prepare.

  Agreeing to meet in battle is unusual, but not unprecedented; even Laev’s fragmented memory knows of examples of such behaviour, in ceremonial warfare. It was an entirely different beast, and rarely lead to collateral death, other than by accident; the code makes it necessary to avoid surprise attacks and sieges, which in turn prevents civilian casualties… apart from the conscripts, of course. The fact that bandits still exist, and the battle with Orsovo, does seem to indicate that guerrilla warfare is still a possibility, though. The system isn’t without faults.

  But, the gods seem to be on the right track.

  “What do you think of the peace treaty?”

  “I don’t like it. I think that with your help we have the opportunity to expand our territory.”

  Laev snorts: “Do you think so?! I have no intention of wasting my life fighting your wars for you. War is a tremendous waste of lives and resources.”

  “At any rate, liberating the lands is a pipe dream. We are torn by factional conflicts; without a male heir, we might end up in civil war pretty soon.”

  “Are you against the third princess taking the throne?”

  “For a woman, I must admit that she seems intelligent and capable, nor can I say that I trust any of the other pretenders’ ability to rule. But, the law wasn’t written without any thought: it is very common for women to die in childbirth.”

  “Why does that matter? She can—”

  The diplomat cuts him short: “Unless she bears an heir, we’re only delaying the problem - by a few decades, at best.”

  “I hear what you say, but the previous king died of sickness, at the age of nineteen, and his sole heir was only two years old at the time.”

  The kingdom’s historical records denote sickness as the most common cause of natural death. Though, considering poison is recorded as the most common cause of unnatural death, misdiagnosis of one for the other is to be expected.

  “That was different: there was an heir.”

  “Heir or not, it still resulted in two civil wars: one over the choice of the regent, and the other to depose him. In the end, the heir died a child, without ever ascending to the throne.”

  Miffed, the diplomat changes the subject, and offers Laev negotiation tips.

  <><><>

  By the time they reach Gelibolu, the passenger ship is ready, but some of the cargo has yet to be loaded; the ships are scheduled to depart the following day.

  The destination of the delegation is Nicaea, a city situated barely sixty kilometres east, as the crow flies, yet over six days away in travel time, thanks to the kingdom’s terrible maritime technology.

  The voyage is slow, boring and uneventful, which isn’t a bad thing, when one considers the alternative.

  <><><>

  The city of Nicaea can be described as an upscaled version of Gelibolu. The architecture and landscape are similar; the only real major difference is the population.

  From the deck, as they approach, Laev observes a procession of red and green people, following after the ship, fervently discussing amongst themselves. Everywhere he looks, he sees the blue giants doing menial work, under the direction of their smaller brethren. By the time the ships arrive at the dock, a crowd has already amassed, watching them fervently, as though expectant.

  When Laev and the team of officials step off of the ships, a murmur of excitement runs through the crowd. Voices start buzzing around him.

  “He has to be the one! He exudes strength and grace, and moves like a great predator.”

  “Yes, his aura shows it, without the shadow of a doubt. It distorts the world around him, as though the world itself is bowing to his presence. He is no mere hornless!”

  “I concur; he is so much more than he appears. It’s like he’s restraining himself, to try to fit in.”

  A courteous and very excited green man salutes Laev: “O, gracious envoy of the gods, it is my duty and honour to welcome you.”

  Laev grins; “I have answered your call. Let’s hope our discussions will be fruitful.”

  “This lowly servant is delighted to hear your words!”

  As the chief diplomat of the delegation, Lord Agatopol doesn’t take kindly to being ignored, and ungraciously introduces himself: “I’m Forbes of Agatopol. I am here as a representative of my king, and these are my associates: Lord Shumen, of the ministry of finance, and the great merchant Kosis. They would like to discuss the reopening of commercial exchange between our peoples, in a more open manner.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir; I lost myself in the envoy’s presence. My colleague, here, is authorized to discuss the matter of exchanges with you.”

  On cue, a red giant approaches, accompanied by a half-dozen-strong crowd of blue men. “I see you brought samples with you. Let’s see what is of interest, then we can discuss price and quantities.”

  The red giant follows the two of them, as the green man says: “Lord Agatopol, please follow me; an assembly of our greatest sages would like to hear your proposition.”

  The green envoy leads the lord away, as another approaches Laev. “If it is agreeable to you, Your Holiness, our leader would like to meet with you.”

  “Let us proceed, then.”

  Unexpectedly, they walk away from the palace, toward an old mansion, nearby.

  The many rooms of the gigantic residence have long been converted into offices; a once richly decorated interior bears little now to remind of its former glory.

  In what was once a beautiful ballroom - the dancers long since replaced by rows of benches, and the music by long-winded arguments - the queen awaits.

  She is a golden giant, but apart from her size and hue, there is nothing to distinguish her from the other females of her race. She addresses Laev, politely: “Let me welcome you, envoy. You must be curious about why we suddenly called you here?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind, Your Majesty.”

  “Imagine our surprise when, three weeks ago, our oracles announced that you held the key to dispelling the encroaching Cold. For eighty decades - ever since the coming of the Cold - they have stayed silent; we have had to make many difficult decisions on the matter, without their counsel.”

  Something tells me Leto has been in touch with them. Way to push your problems onto someone else!

  “Is it true that your homeland is locked in a permanent winter, and can no longer sustain life?” Laev enquires.

  “I heard that you know little about our world, yet you seem to know more than most. Where did you learn of this?”

  “I hold knowledge,” the Hero eludes, “even if I lack memories.”

  She whispers to herself, though because of her size, it is loud enough for Laev to discern every word: “Just as I feared: even the gods themselves do not know the solution! The oracles said that we should trust the one not bound by tradition and prejudice, but can I really give him answers he seeks, free of my own preconceptions?”

  Then, aloud, she tells him: “I will answer all of your questions, O Exalted One.”

  Laev comes straight to the point: “Why did you not conquer the kingdom? You have more than enough force to do so, right?”

  “There are many reasons… We didn’t come here by choice, and we were never meant to live in these strange lands. But, when the Cold came, we were left with only two poor choices: perish or conquer. Although we intended to settle peacefully, after our initial conquest, we soon discovered that there was never enough food for both our species.”

  “Then, would it not solve your problem to get rid of the hornless?”

  “It would be a crime against the gods. Besides, the hornless are far more cost-productive than the blues.”

  “You speak of the blues as though they are a separate species.”

  “I suppose it is natural that, being a hornless, you would know little about us humans.”

  They consider themselves humans? It might simply be because they share the same language, though.

  The structure of horned society can best be described as a caste system, one in which everything is truly determined by birth, and there is no hope or desire of escaping one’s condition.

  “We, the golden, are born with the power to impose our will upon others, and often serve as rulers. We are rare. We receive schooling in every subject, from simple crafts to the art of war and governance. Our magical abilities are strong and diverse, but we cannot match our brethren in each of their specialities.” To illustrate her words, she levitates a letter opener, pricks her finger and closes the wound with magic, all in a matter of seconds.

  “Greens are the smallest and weakest of us all, but they always demonstrate a high level of intelligence, and have near-perfect memory. Their innate need to classify and organize things makes them excellent administrators and bureaucrats, though their lack of stamina can at times be problematic; it is not uncommon for the mildest exercise to exhaust them completely. They have a penchant for support magic, but some also excel in healing.”

  “Is it okay for you to provide me with this much information?”

  “I don’t know, but I am willing to take any risk, if it will help to stop the Cold.”

  Laev realizes that because the Horned Ones were the first impacted by the climate change, with no knowledge of what caused it, they consider it only natural to believe themselves part of the problem.

  The giantess continues with her introductions: “Yellows are born craftsmen and artisans. Extremely dexterous, they have an inborn love of meticulous work, which can devolve into obsession; this often results in inefficient cooperation with other trades. They all excel at telekinesis, but often develop more specialized magic to help with their craft.

  “Reds are the second most common and least specialized of our people. Big and strong, they are excellent telepaths and willing, useful helpers. Their size and magic make them excellent hunters and fishermen, but they are mostly employed to herd the blues.”

  “‘Herd’?”

  Her words now come out slowly and with reluctance, as though what she is about to say displeases her greatly: “The blues are the most numerous. They are bigger and stronger than any of the others, but completely lack self-awareness and intelligence, which renders them incapable of accomplishing even the most menial of tasks – unless, that is, they are under telepathic guidance. Their lives are fast and short, and they consume an insane amount of food to fuel their powerful bodies; a single blue eats the same amount as a whole family of hornless.”

  She has said a lot but, he suspects, has also kept as much hidden, out of shame.

  Now, their behaviour on the battlefield makes sense. The blues’ lack of self-awareness translates clearly into a total lack of survival instinct – albeit, she says, with one notable exception: a hungry blue will attempt to consume any organic material in his immediate vicinity, and it is not uncommon to see them tear apart buildings, to eat the wooden beams. In that state, they will listen to no orders.

  Nobles in the kingdom would be delighted to have serfs as stupid and obedient as the blues - though I doubt they would appreciate the food consumption!

  “Is the colour of the child dependent on the parents, or is it random?”

  “It is always random. And, because of that, most parents are unprepared to provide for each child’s very specific needs. It is therefore necessary to place the children in specialized institutions.”

  Very science fiction.

  The more I hear, the more the gods seem like mad scientists trying whatever to see what sticks!

  “I have a feeling your patron god is called ‘Rod’,” the Hero says, suddenly.

  “Indeed, Rod was our Creator. You have discerned well.”

  From their discussion, it becomes clear to Laev that the Horned Ones aren’t a cause of the climate problem - at least, not directly.

  “Nothing I’ve heard so far suggests any relevance to the Encroaching Cold. I would like to see how the hornless on this side live. Can you arrange that for me?”

  “It will be done, Exalted One! Would this evening be convenient for you?”

  Although he has no idea what will come of it, Laev decides to share with her Leto’s revelation, regarding the origin of the Cold: “The world is dying, because of a lack of faith amongst the mortal races. Without faith, the gods aren’t strong enough to sustain the world...”

  The golden giantess listens carefully to his words, showing no signs of incredulity.

  “It isn’t your fault,” Laev continues; “your numbers are too few to make a difference. The problem lies with the hornless, who are numerous, but have lost their connection to the gods; tradition and ceremony have come to supersede true faith. To make things worse, the lords see themselves as the centre of the universe and disallow competition.”

  Chapter 21

  …and hornless humans

  She frowns, then starts walking in circles, muttering to herself.

  “Yes, that explains why you were sent to the hornless. But… why? Why were our lands the first to suffer?”

  “I’ve no knowledge of what happened, but I can assure you that it wasn't retribution from the gods. If I had to guess, I would say that it was due, in part, to a colder climate over there to start with. I know, also, that the kingdom has too been growing colder, over the years.”

  “What should I do? Enforce prayer?”

  “The gods need real faith, not empty prayer.”

  “You still don’t understand us. If I ordered my subjects to pray faithfully, all day long, they would put their body and soul into it, exerting themselves until exhaustion.”

  “That’s ridic… Come to think of it, it might not be such a bad idea. Perhaps not to the point where you are interfering with daily lives, but organizing communal prayer once or twice a day might help to reinforce the faith... Well, I say that but, in all honesty, I was never told how any of this actually works - it might make very little to no difference… But, I guess it beats doing nothing.”

  “It is our duty and our honour to do everything in our power to help the gods, no matter how insignificant the result. I will arrange for the implementation of this policy with my fellow rulers; expect it done by the end of the week.”

  I would love for the kingdom’s administrators to be even one-tenth as efficient.

  “If you don’t mind my changing the subject, there is something which has been bothering me for a while. How did you manage to feed everyone, when back in your homeland? Surely, there must have been a lot more of you over there.”

  “Our homeland was a very different place: the summers were cool and the winters mild. The ocean was chilly, but full of life, and all over the wetlands grew a wonderful crop, with which we could easily feed the blue.” Her face grows sombre; “Sadly, it didn’t survive the change in climate; it declined, burnt by the hot sun and ravaged by fungi and disease, until it was no more.”

  A highly nutritious plant found in wetlands? Typha, or something similar...?

  “I have brought with me a variety of crops, some of them highly nutritious. Although, I admit that many of them are experimental and may be unsuitable for your physiology.”

  “What does that mean: ‘experimental’?”

  “It means that it is still in the course of being tested. Many of these plants aren’t cultivated in the kingdom; I grew them to determine whether they could be used as food, feed or in any other way.”

  “What an interesting concept! Our people are very specialized and usually short on time, so we don’t have any dedicated to the study of future prospect. When we arrived here, we did as we used to, and when that didn’t work, we followed the hornless example.”

  “I see.”

  That’s when it occurs to Laev that research and study is a luxury of the wealthier societies, undertaken by people who have both time and money to waste – the Horned Ones have neither. In their society, there are no wasted individuals. Every single child is born into the job, and has his or her talent cultivated from an early age; here, you will never find a potential genius tilling the field, for a lord who can’t differentiate his left hand from his right. Whilst perhaps more just, an unexpected downside of this society is that there are no idle rich men, curious about things and with plenty of time on their hands, to undertake costly, lengthy research, usually with no immediate benefits. That doesn’t mean that innovation doesn’t occur - it is quite common, in fact, for yellows to develop new spells and techniques for use in their occupation. Sadly, due to the lack of intercommunication between the trades, their findings are rarely shared with others who could also benefit from them. The gold Horned Ones learn all sorts of crafts and technique in their prime - probably intended to help consolidate knowledge - but this rarely shows results: there is simply too much to learn and too little time.

  The queen claps her hands, and the green giant from earlier enters the room, ready to receive his orders.

  “Accompany the Exalted One to his ship; he has brought exotic food for trade. I will also ask you to guide him to a nearby hornless settlement; I shall count on you to answer all of his questions, and to provide him with everything he needs.”

  “The will of the golden is the will of our people,” he nods, obediently. “Holy One, it will once again be my honour to be your guide.”

  <><><>

  On their way back, the green man beckons an entourage of red and blue giants to follow. As they near the ship, Laev starts to worry about the condition of the cargo, and how much of the produce has gone bad, during the long trip. He signals the crew to lower the gangway, and they make their way to the hold.

  Even in daylight, a hold is a dark place, yet when a crewman offers a lantern, the red horned giant amongst them refuses, politely: “Thank you, but it won’t be necessary; we will provide our own lighting.”

  Immediately upon saying this, spheres of light appear in the air, above the upward-facing palms of the reds, the bubbles floating above their heads.

  The Hero offers words of thanks - and of caution: “That’s a useful spell you have there; thank you! Before we proceed, however, I should offer my apologies in advance if some of the food has gone bad - the journey is long and the experimental nature of the produce means that we are still unfamiliar with most of its properties.”

  Deaf to his words of caution, the blue giants start to unpack and consume every sample in sight, without concern.

  The otherworlder still has difficulties understanding that despite their appearance, the blues aren’t complete people, and as they devour a bunch of half-rotten fruit, he can’t help but intervene, yelling: “Stop! This is clearly spoiled!”

  Non-plussed, the red giant answers: “Blues are very resilient; a bit of rotten food won’t hurt them.”

  Cringing through the terrible smell, Laev answers, feebly: “Just because you tell me not to worry…”

  Despite the stench of rotten fruit and vegetables, which now permeates every inch of the hold, the creatures consume every last scrap - rotten or not – as if there is no tomorrow.

  Suddenly, a red man focuses his attention on an item held by one of the blues, and calls the creature to his side. With a curious look, full of hope, the red man takes the tuber and offers it to green who asks Laev: “If I may ask, Your Holiness, what kind of root is this?”

  “We call this a yam. There are vegetables we only recently discovered, so there is much we don’t yet know about them. Our early studies indicate both excellent nutritional value and a good yield, but we have yet to learn how its cultivation will impact the land, and what kind of bugs and diseases it is vulnerable to.”

  “Can you sell us more?”

  “Sadly, our stocks are very limited at the moment. We expect another harvest in two months, but we don’t expect much: I have only dedicated two small fields to this particular tuber.”

  “Everything here is of value,” A red muses, “but this is particularly beneficial - the blue only needed three before he was full.”

  Three?! That’s enough to feed a whole family for a day!

  At this prospect, the Hero considers the trade potential of yams, weighing the balance in his coffers against the prospect of peace. For once, he decides against profit.

  “It is possible to grow yams by simply burying one of the tuber, and we are sure that it is possible to do the same from its seeds. They appear very easy to grow, needing only a moderate amount of sun and water. It is my pleasure to offer you this shipment as a gift. With every future shipment, I would like us to exchange knowledge.”

  The reds continue to look at the yam in his hand, with awe and respect. “To think that there was such a wonderful plant growing on these lands. Your Holiness, in the name of all my brethren, please allow me to thank you and the gods for this wonderful gift.”

  Did I just raise some faith?

  The Hero’s gift of farming tips might have doomed future trade, but he knows that it will be many years before either side are farming yams to a significant level - by then, with luck, peace will have already become a habit.

  The next half-hour is spent discussing prices, quantities and the use of the Horned Ones’ more reliable boats, to transport future shipments. Discussing access to the ports before the diplomats engage is most certainly beyond Laev’s authority, but since he knows it is bound to come up in their negotiations anyway, at some point, he doesn’t see the problem.

  <><><>

  The human settlement is situated barely six kilometres from the city, every spare space between filled with fields. On many occasions, the group overtakes carts being driven by reds and blues, carrying the villagers home. Driven by curiosity, Laev turns to his green guide: “Do you offer free transportation to and from the fields?”

  “That is correct, Your Holiness.”

  It must take a huge amount of resources to organize this level of transportation, but without it, considering the extent of the fields, it would otherwise take the workers hours to reach their workplace.

  As they near the village, Green comments: “These fields belong to the village. They are tended by children and the elderly, to spare them the long commutes.”

  “Very thoughtful.”

  The village itself looks typical, albeit larger than the ones back home. A notable major difference is the number of young women working the fields, making no attempts to hide their features or modesty - a rarity in the kingdom, where the risk of catching the eye of a horny guard or knight is ever present.

  The coach drops Laev in the middle of the settlement, and his appearance is noticed; the carefree attitude displayed by the villagers before now starts to dissipate, and a suspicious murmur starts to rise around them.

  Unperturbed by the gradual simmering of signs of fear and imminent anger, the coachman stands up to address the growing crowd: “Hornless, this is a most hallowed day for you all! Call your leader and rejoice, for His Holiness wishes to speak with him!”

  Confusion ensues. After a long discussion, one of the villagers is elected to act as their spokesperson.

  Rather than being considered a chief or a representative, it would perhaps be more accurate to describe the old man they choose as a sacrifice, the idea being that were he to somehow anger this strange noble, his death would not cost the village valuable workforce.

  The dejected old man presents himself: “My lord, I am this village’s chief. How can I be of assistance?”

  “I am not from around here, and I won’t be staying. Old man, believe me when I say that I have no interest in harming you or your village.”

  The man returns a courteous bow, but his look of resignation remains.

  “I’ve never seen workers so happy and carefree in the kingdom,” Laev observes.

  “I’m glad the sight pleases you, my lord.”

  “Tell me, has your life improved since the Horned Ones took this land?”

  “The Horned Ones are fair rulers; we have nothing to complain about.”

  “I am not here to hear diplomatic pleasantries. Please, speak your mind freely.”

  “Serfdom was abolished, and we no longer have any need to fear bandits… or abusive lords and their corrupt guards.”

  “Serfs are treated the same as the other villagers, now?”

  A smile creeps across the old man’s face, but he is very quick to stifle it. “They are, my lord.”

  “I have told you, you may speak your mind.”

  Given licence, the old-timer’s answer is now full of venom: “Those who used to be in power are not, and their opinions are now as worthless as their empty titles.”

  “What about the tradesmen and merchants? I see no forge in the village; who does blacksmithing and other specialized works?”

  “The Horned Ones, and the quality is incomparably higher than anything I’ve seen before.”

  “I would like to hear how you and the other villagers spend your days.”

  “We tend the fields on weekdays and are free on holy days. There are no free labour days, nor levies, nor arbitrary taxes,” answers the old man, choosing his words carefully.

  Laev quietly asks his guide to reassure the people that they won’t be punished for their words.

  The green man tells them: “Hornless, His Holiness has asked you to speak your mind, truthfully. You may speak without any fear of being punished...” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but his face clearly implies punishment is probable should they remain silent.

  The old man spits his repressed hatred, causing the villagers behind him to cower in fear: “We used to work all day and receive nothing. Every day we would cower in fear of our lords’ wanton violence. But, not anymore! Now, girls can walk outside freely, and we always have food on the table. And the best part of it all is that the likes of you can do nothing about it!”

  “You can disparage the nobility all you want; I don’t give a damn! I would rather you told me the ways in which you practice your faith.”

  The old man cannot process why he is still alive; when he uttered those last words, he had fully expected Laev to strike him down on the spot.

  “I asked you a question,” Laev reiterates: “how do you practice your faith?”

  “Me and my old pals, we pray at home. After the fall of Nicaea, the church was slowly abandoned and transformed into a warehouse. The youths nowadays could not care less about the gods.” There is sadness and strong disapproval in his voice.

  “It seems that the destruction of the old regime also brought along some unwanted changes. And, what became of the priests?”

  “We had but one, who died of old age and was never replaced. Sometimes, I fear the gods will punish us for our lack of piety.”

  Laev cannot tell the man that this is not far from the truth. “It is more likely that you are unknowingly punishing yourselves - and all living beings.”

  The old man looks at him, curiously.

  “Thank you for your time, old man. You have given me much to ponder.”

  Laev heads toward the coach, with a look of worry crossing his face. Suddenly, he stops, as though struck by a sudden revelation.

  The old man fears the consequence of the lack of piety… that is interesting.

  I think it is time for theatrics. I hope I don’t overdo it.

  He turns back to the crowd: “My dear friends, you are right to fear: the gods have spoken and trouble awaits! All over the world, the gods are scorned by careless youth; it is only a matter of time before taboos are broken!”

  The crowd exchange worried glances at the words, which they know to be true. They may not care about the gods and tradition, but all care about the consequences for their own lives.

  “Fear not, people: the gods have given us a chance to redeem ourselves, and our exchange today has afforded me the solution. Churches and ritual may distance people from the gods, but are still necessary to learn of them, and to celebrate them. Let it be known that upon my return, I shall notify the queen to school and dispatch wandering priests, immediately.”

  The old man responds, joyously: “You will?! Oh, thank you, Your Holiness!”

  The youths who have grown up unaware of the gods seem somewhat annoyed by the prospect; their elders, on the other hand, are reassured.

  Fear is indeed the best motivator, but clearly there remains a tremendous amount of resentment toward the old establishment. Laev reasons that it may be prudent to clearly distinguish the new priests from those of the old regime.

  He salutes the crowd one last time, before entering the coach: “Good day to all of you. May the gods look kindly upon you.”

  Then, to the coachman, he whispers: “Let us depart immediately. I have a solution in sight, but its implementation may prove difficult.”

  <><><>

  On his way to the conference room, Laev encounters Lord Agatopol, returning from his own audience with the queen. Despite her immediate acceptance of a five-year ceasefire, the golden ruler has flatly refused all offers of a peace treaty, which the diplomat assumes to be a consequence of the kingdom’s volatile political situation. Still, a five-year ceasefire, a trade agreement and the exchange of ambassadors is already far more than many could have hoped for.

  After a quick discussion with the diplomat, Laev is introduced to the queen’s chamber.

  “Exalted One, is it true you have found a solution?”

  “I have found an avenue worth exploring, though it is a little early to call it a solution. May I ask why you let the churches disappear from your territory? Was it deliberate?”

  “It was. Idols and sites of worship are an affront to the gods; prayers should be offered from one’s heart.”

  “You are entirely right, but it appears that you went too far. Without religious schooling, the hornless have lost touch with the divine; they no longer even learn about the codes, anymore.”

  “Surely, you jest! Is it not the parents’ duty to teach the words of the gods?”

  “It is as I thought: you have just as many misconceptions about the hornless as we have of you. Young hornless are unlike anything you know: they find no greater pleasure than that of rebellion.”

  “What should I do, then? Reopen the churches? But, there are no more priests! Would the kingdom agree to send some of theirs to school a new generation?”

  “We would only end up repeating the same mistake. We need a new paradigm; the people need to learn the proper way - your way.”

  “But, we do not have priests - only teachers.”

  “Ideally, you would have your people instruct the new human priests… Scratch that: I have a better idea! Have them move in pairs…” He frowns, lost in thought, as he tries to articulate; “That’s it: hornless and horned humans working in pairs; going from village to village, teaching the proper ways, whilst listening to the villagers’ needs.” He starts to smile, as he speaks frantically: “They would bridge both worlds; act as teachers, counsellors and supervisors, keeping you informed of your subjects’ needs.”

  “Can they really do it? Both sides are disconnected by far more than just tradition.”

  Laev shakes his head, optimistically: “Don’t you see, this will bring them together?”

  The queen thinks for a moment, before her features begin to soften. He sees a glint appear in her eyes. “Thank you, Exalted One,” she tells him; “this is a wonderful idea! I shall look for suitable candidates immediately.”

  “No need to thank me; the Cold spells doom for all of us! Regarding the peace treaty, is there really no way…?”

  She shakes her head; “For decades, we have kept the blues low in number, through battle. On this occasion we were actually lucky that trade with Orsovo didn’t stop until after a costly battle. Until we quell the blues’ hunger, and the population reaches equilibrium, there will be no true lasting peace.”

  “I had considered that a possibility but, still... I am shocked, to think you would really use war to dispose of your own excess population.”

  “This is the shameful truth! We cannot kill our own, nor starve them to death, so we wage war against the kingdom. At least, this way, their deaths serve the purpose of keeping the kingdom in check.”

  No wonder they never make any effort to win.

  “Will you allow me to inform the king? Knowing the truth will likely create resentment, but it will also show how foolish is the hornless idea of reconquest.” That said, if decades of Pyrrhic victories haven’t managed to dissuade them, this will probably make little difference, he supposes.

  “Do as you wish, Exalted One; I have faith in the oracle.”

  “Thank you and farewell, Your Highness.”

  “May you achieve your desired path, Exalted One.”

  Laev has as yet no idea where his desired path leads, but if it includes peace and tranquillity, he will gladly tread it.

  Chapter 22

  Scheme

  The trip has taken four-and-a-half weeks in total, but the capital is finally in sight.

  Without waiting for the boat to dock, the impatient Hero jumps overboard, landing softly with a roll, then starts running, all the way to the castle.

  By now, the guards already know him well enough to let him enter without delay, and he is immediately ushered to a waiting room. Boyka joins him very soon, and immediately leads him to her room.

  Sadly, the couple manage no more than a few kisses and a brief embrace, before a maid is knocking at the door. Frustrated, but not surprised, the two dishevelled spouses hurriedly rearrange their attire. “Please, enter,” calls Boyka, when they are ready.

  Aldelpha enters the room, while Meleas and Leann wait in the corridor. The eldest twin curtsies gracefully, as she announces: “Sir, His Majesty the king and Her Highness the regent require your presence.”

  “Thank you, Aldelpha.”

  The young trainee maids look more and more like their elders - so much that it is hard to reconcile the doll-like creatures they have become with their rube-like selves, of just a few months ago. Mixing them in the circles of their fellow trainees is a move which seems to be paying off. Laev wonders how it has been going for the boys.

  Laev strokes Boyka’s hair one last time, then follows Aldelpha and Leann to the royal quarter.

  There, a chamberlain leads him to a small, private chamber, hidden behind the throne room. The walls are padded and covered with heavy tapestries, in an attempt to soundproof the room, significantly reducing its size.

  The king doesn’t look as well as at their last encounter: he has lost a lot of weight and his skin is a pale orange colour; there are dark circles around his eyes. His voice is weak, but as authoritative as ever: “Thank you for coming, son. Tell me about what you have learnt.”

  “My revelations may upset you.”

  Amidst a coughing fit, His Majesty rages: “My decrepit body is dying by the minute; nothing you say could make it any worse!”

  “You were right to rein in the warmongers: the blue giants the kingdom fought against for all those years were no more than mere worker ants.”

  “You’re telling me that the kingdom barely scraped victories against untrained serfs? Preposterous!”

  “It’s worse than that: the blues are muscles without a brain; a valuable workforce, but useless on their own. They grow fast and are easily replaceable, but that comes at the cost of excessive food consumption. For this reason, to avoid the societal taboo of killing their own brethren, the Horned Ones have waged war against the kingdom.”

  “Bastards! How many people have died to help rid them of their dregs?! How dare they?! What do they think we are?!”

  “There is more to it: they consider the kingdom an enemy, to be kept in check. War has not only allowed them to curb their numbers, but has also prevented the kingdom from launching a devastating war of reconquest.”

  “Tch! Whilst I understand this has played in our favour, there is no way I can pardon them—”

  “It cannot be helped if you feel this way. At least, though, they accepted the trade - hopefully, it will enrich both sides and mitigate the need for war. I don’t know if it will be enough to establish a long-lasting peace, but at least we know the Horned Ones aren’t interested in war and further conquest.”

  In a rarely solemn tone, Elena speaks: “While you were away, there was a series of rumours in circulation. Individually, they seemed innocuous, but their number is now so great that we can barely even make our voices heard above them anymore.”

  “What are they about?”

  “In olden times, when wars were still fought with hundreds, and a single warrior could make a difference, there was a law of succession—”

  “If you are asking me to be your champion, I will happily oblige.”

  “I wish it were only that. But, it is more complicated.”

  During the few weeks he was gone, it seems that word of the Hero divorcing his wife and breaking his ties with the royal family, in order to join the Horned Ones, was amongst many rumours proliferating across the land. For every statement from the royal court, ten contradicting rumours were spread in advance.

  “To succeed, an heir had to present fully armed warriors, carrying his colours. At the time, the law made sense: each pretender could show his assets, value and support, through the number and quality of the warriors presented.”

  The princess grows fidgety. “My opponents have been very crafty, and have deviously brought together multiple laws, in a mockery of what they once stood for - here is where the rumours come in. One particular rumour, coming directly from your own territory, claims that despite your divine nature, you have shown your fallibility by marrying a feeble-minded woman out of love, and that you only support me only because of her.”

  Laev bits his lower lip. This is a vilified version of the rumour he himself crafted.

  Elena’s opponents have consolidated a law intended to show the pretenders’ ability to equip and lead men in battle, with a more primitive succession model, involving ritualistic fights. In the case of both, the spirit of the law has been lost, making the whole concoction more akin to a brawl than a trial by the gods.

  “For months there have been rumours claiming that you’re training the children to be your disciples, or apostles. Along with the recent combination of other rumours, the whole country now believes I have selected them to be my champions.”

  “Can’t you just ignore the rumours and select other champions? You have a whole army to call upon.”

  “That would be fine were the rumours not so popular with the masses. When we have tried to deny them, it has got people wondering why we would change our champions, so late in the game, unless there were some truth in the rift between us. We are facing master manipulators; anything we do or say has been anticipated and is immediately turned against us.”

  “I see,” Laev nods: “whatever we do or say will be spun that we are hiding something, or making excuses.” He sighs, concerned for the boys. “Of course, I am against their participation. But, I should let them come to their own decision.”

  “To ensure the ‘fairness’ of their selection, my rivals have all named young squires, of similar age, as their champions.”

  “Well done, bastards: you’ve really screwed us over! We can’t refuse the fight, we can’t choose our own champion, and I can’t use my status, because my actions are supposedly motivated by love, rather than reason.”

  Whilst that part isn’t completely wrong, Laev knows that, regardless, he would not support Elena if he didn’t feel she has what it takes to rule the kingdom.

  The whole point of the scheme is clearly the achievement of certain victory, by forcing barely-trained children into a trial by combat – and, perhaps, ruin the Hero’s reputation in the process. If their opponents’ selected champions are anywhere near the level of those of Medea and Cherven, they will succeed.

  “What are the rules and how much time do we have?”

  “Thankfully, with the date of your return unknown, I managed to postpone the trial until next month. As for the rules, they’re the usual ones: victory is achieved by killing, maiming or forcing the surrender of your opponent. I hope you won’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of having the children train with our best teachers.”

  “Thank you. Please, stall for time as much as possible. I will do the only thing I can do: train the kids up until the very last minute. I swear, win or lose, I will make those assholes regret ever coming up with this idea.”

  Even if I have to enrol the Horned Ones' help, and wipe out those bastards’ western houses for good!

  <><><>

  On the training ground, he finds the children training with Acharya - the instructor he met in the capital a few months earlier - as well as a tough-looking bunch of older men, whom he has never seen before.

  “It’s been some time since we last met, Adelphus, Achyan, Bratomi, Veli, Ahiram and Nuka… Let me apologize for getting you involved in this mess.”

  For the children, an apologetic master is a new and very discomforting sight to behold; up until now, he has always appeared to them an immovable mountain of strength and arrogance.

  Once again forced into the spokesperson’s role, Adelphus answers his master, as best he can: “There is nothing you need to apologize for. You took us in, gave us food, work and renown. When you found us, we were properties; now, we are champions!”

  Nuka chimes in, happily: “Don’t worry about us; we’ll make short work of them. I don’t see how they can be any worse than you, anyway...”

  “Be thankful, then, because I’m going to train you like there is no tomorrow! Or, rather, like if you don’t win, there won’t be a tomorrow.”

  The other children throw angry looks at Nuka; he just had to go and make things worse, with his poorly-timed humour.

  <><><>

  The stage is a hastily constructed arena, surrounded by wooden tiered benches. On the opposite side, the seven noble youths who are to be their opponents await, brimming with confidence; they cannot imagine losing to low-born commoners - even less so to those who have barely a few months of training behind them.

  In truth, it may appear that they are being overconfident in their abilities, and that there are many commoners with greater expertise than theirs, notably in the royal guard. Still, who can blame the squires? It is in their nature as nobles to see others as inferior. Up until now, they have met only hastily trained levies and city guards.

  The Hero’s trainees see a very different picture, and the complacent faces of their opponents are most obnoxious to them.

  “Look at their damn smug faces!”

  “Yeah, they’re pissing me off!”

  “Assholes, the lot of them!”

  “It must be an easy life, training with mere humans; they can’t imagine what we’ve been through with Lord Laev!”

  “Even the old men here could kick their asses with one hand tied behind their backs.”

  “Hey, they’re all heirs, right? If we publicly break their swords of covenant, does that mean we get all their stuff? You know, like the master did, when he was awarded his title?”

  “I don’t know… That’s worth fighting for, though.”

  “Don’t take unnecessary risks. You don’t even know if their secondary weapon is their sword of covenant!”

  “Ah... yeah… I didn’t think of that.”

  “If we - when we win - we’ll all be knighted, right?”

  “I don’t want to be a knight; it sounds like too much trouble.”

  “I want to open my own fighting school.”

  “Eh? Why?”

  “I’ve suffered enough; it’s my turn to be on the bullying side!”

  “You’re being disrespectful! Master lacks delicacy and restraint, but everything he did was to help us survive. Anyway, don’t let your guard down, just because they look weak and slow; remember, the older guys - even Master - had trouble with them!”

  In their last six weeks of training, they have grown tremendously. Their physical abilities and reflexes are now top tier, and their skill and techniques are well above-average. However, this only seems to apply when it comes to their main weapon; using maces they are average, at best. And, as for wrestling, suffice to say that, despite the boys’ stronger builds, the twin maids still come out on top against them, more than half of the time.

  “You don’t have to repeat yourself a thousand times! It’s annoying!”

  “Then, listen the first time and I won’t have to repeat myself!”

  “Master is up. Go get ready, Nuka; your turn is next.”

  “But, I want to watch the fight!”

  “The opponent forfeited.”

  “He could have at least tried.”

  “What difference would that make?”

  “Give the crowd a good laugh?”

  <><><>

  Despite his earlier displays of confidence, Nuka is terrified.

  This is no longer a training exercise; there is no further practice. If he fails, he dies. Breathing exercises fail to calm him.

  His opponent, squire Odrin, looks at him sideways, with a contemptuous smile, which annoys him no end. Nuka knows nothing of his foe, other than, despite their being the same age, this one has years of training behind him.

  The announcer calls, and they walk toward the middle of the arena. Nuka salutes his opponent with a bow; the noble answers by spitting on the ground.

  This is the last straw; it makes the young apprentice instantly forget his fear. The only thing now on his mind is to crush the hateful bully before him.

  This bastard’s attitude reminds Nuka of the awful man who sold him into slavery: a useless parasite of a noble, who knew nothing, other than how to increase taxes.

  The fight begins.

  Nuka swipes at his opponent’s leg. Theodor Odrin easily avoids the blow with a backward step, and counters with a jab at Nuka’s face. The slow attack is nothing to the young apprentice, who deflects it with his shield and steps forward, sliding his shield along the shaft, to prevent his enemy from realigning his spear.

  The squire blocks the oncoming attack with his own shield but, in the process, leaves his left side wide open. Nuka slides his hand along the spear, to shorten his grip, and makes instant use of the opening, stabbing the exposed chausse. The lunge goes right through the squire’s long chain-mail, penetrating the protective garb. The move is executed flawlessly, but Nuka’s uncomfortable stance and short grip limit the force sufficiently that it does not pierce all the way through.

  As the squire limps away on his bruised thigh, Nuka remembers his teacher’s warning about overconfidence at the sight of victory; he decides to play safe, harassing his foe with thrusts from afar. The squire blocks and dodges to the best of his ability but, hindered by his injury, his footwork becomes increasingly disorganized.

  With cold determination, Nuka slowly erodes his opponent’s balance, striking high and low; waiting for an opportunity. It finally comes, when the exhausted squire, hurt and unable to move, leaves himself open for a hefty downward swing.

  The powerful blow strikes the ankle of his already injured leg, tripping the noble. In his struggle to stay on his feet, Theodor of Odrin drops his guard, one last time.

  With a powerful yell, the young boy - once an indentured servant - closes in, to smash the squire in the face with his shield, throwing the already unbalanced noble to the ground.

  The crowd cheers; calls to put down the fallen can be heard from all around the arena. In answer to the crowd, Nuka holds his spear short, and thrusts the weapon underneath the hauberk of his unconscious opponent - right through the throat.

  Victorious, the boy turns toward the royal tribune, offering a deep bow, and shouting for all to hear: “Long live the queen!”

  As the crowd cheers and applauds the young commoner, it finally starts to dawn on the pretenders that things aren’t going according to plan.

  Chapter 23

  Gods

  Of the seven heirs, only one survives his fight, albeit with the great dishonour of fleeing from a duel he had himself initiated. Just like Nuka before them, each of the five commoners methodically corners his opponent, before finishing them. No matter how good the squires are for their age, they are a far cry from the sextet’s usual sparring partner!

  It could be said that by this point the day is already won, but that isn’t enough for Laev: he wants to destroy the bastards completely; to bring them so low that they will never recover.

  As the leader and master of the new queen’s champions, the Hero heads to the announcer’s estrade, to address the crowd and the fighters: “First, Aldelphus, Achyan, Bratomi, Veli, Ahiram, and Nuka, allow me to congratulate you on your victories.” He bows deeply to them, and the crowd applauds once more.

  “Less than half a year ago, I found eight children - indentured servants, yet they were treated like slaves. I took them in, to train them in becoming guards and maids for my household...

  “Guards? I hear some ask. Yes, indeed; the stories of them being disciples and apostles were nothing but rumours.”

  The hero inserts a dramatic pause, more to savour the moment than for any real effect. Soon will come the time to put the last nail in the pretenders’ coffins.

  “You may be thinking that something cannot surely be a rumour if it is apparent common knowledge – well, were that true, my mere apprentices wouldn’t have become champions!”

  He inserts another dramatic pause...

  “You would be right. No mere rumour can spread like fire on its own! It requires great assistance; great means; vile intentions! Who would do such a thing? And, why?”

  Laev turns to point at the tribune, where the noble pretenders sit: “People without heart; people without vision; lowly individuals, driven only by their base desires - just like the self-serving bastards who, hundreds of years ago, conspired to remove women from succession. Yes, my friends, it was never a law of the gods, but a literal law of men.”

  It is now time to end this. He addresses the pretenders directly: “Tell me, were your ambitions worth the sacrifice of six children? Was the reward worth defiling the laws of gods and men? I think not. I think all can agree that you have got your just desserts.”

  The murmur of the crowd grows stronger, and the Hero addresses them, overpowering the noise with his voice: “Remember, the gods watch over us. They see our sins, relish in our faith and listen to our prayers! The gods bless the faithful, and the gods bless the queen!”

  <><><>

  This day would go on to spell the end of six of the greatest and most powerful houses in the kingdom - three times traitors: to the gods, to the people and to the throne. It matters not whether or not the accusations against them were true: they have stood trial by the gods and suffered an apparently impossible defeat - that alone is proof enough.

  Laev knows this is only the beginning. Proof implicating other powerful families would later emerge, and the concept of social mobility which Voivode the Fifth had reintroduced - granting small titles to competent commoners - would become the standard; the elite would change from the nobility of the sword to the nobility of the robe.

  The very next day, following the trial, the king abdicates and the new queen is enthroned. To no one’s surprise, her first edict is to disband the houses of the six treacherous lords and their allies.

  To the six champions, Queen Elena offers small territories and a chance to join the royal knights. Nuka chooses to leave the management of his territory to his appointed steward, and to continue his training, with the goal of opening a combat school in Nikopol - a way of realizing his dream, whilst providing an excuse to live near the twins.

  <><><>

  Four months after Elena’s coronation, one early afternoon, Laev works in his office, as usual, when he hears a knock on the door - the undoubted knock of a metal object. He reaches for a dagger, which he holds underneath the table, before calling the visitor inside.

  To his surprise, a gate guard enters, with Leto in tow. “My lord, your appointment has arrived. I had to guide him myself, because I could not find Sir Ajisth.”

  “Thank you, guard. You can return to your duties.”

  “My lord.” The sentry offers a quick bow and leaves.

  Laev smiles. “He looks utterly confused. What the hell did you do to that poor man?”

  “I distorted his perception a tiny bit; he thinks I’m your contact from the Goodwill Company.”

  “Even if you were, he wouldn’t ordinarily have let you in so easily.”

  “I made him think that we had an important appointment today.”

  “That’s one hell of a dangerous ability you’ve got there!”

  “Believe me, it isn’t as convenient as it looks; it doesn’t last long, and I can only rearrange existing memories, and try to fit myself into them. By reaching into his memories, I was able to make him relive a past appointment, with me as the other person. But, a simple act out of character would arouse suspicion and risk exposing me straight away.”

  “Good thing I didn’t give it away, then.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Is that how your brethren managed to infiltrate the authorities and manipulate them?”

  “I would guess. We never interacted much, so I have no idea what they are capable of... Speaking of my brethren, it appears that they are about to be reborn.”

  “Already?! Wasn’t that supposed to take years?”

  “You have nothing to fear from them.”

  “They made it clear that they don’t want me here… and, I killed them both - two pretty good reasons to hold a grudge!”

  “They may hold the memories, but they are not the same individuals you killed.”

  Laev answers, dubiously: “Yes, you told me about that during our last encounter. Personally, I fail to see how one can inherit past memories without assuming a grudge.”

  The usually impassive face of this agent of the gods cannot conceal his distaste at his two former “colleagues”: “They were flawed creatures, who had developed too much of an ego and started acting out of personal conviction, rather than with the world’s interest in mind. Thanks to you, the world is on the path to recovery. You need not fear more selfish actions on their part. In fact, you are the very reason why they are being reborn so soon.”

  Laev thinks back on events amongst the horned, and is skeptical of what he saw as only minor interest in the Church, following his intervention. “Don’t count your chickens; the main problem has yet to be addressed.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short; this is only the beginning.”

  “If the gods are willing, then I do have some ideas. Can you relay a message for me?”

  “Not here - at least, not to the extent that you are hoping. There are places where both realms are juxtaposed: ancient temples, laid by the gods themselves, in the first age. I can relay your message or I can guide you to one of them - which would you prefer?”

  “I would prefer that you did it for me.”

  “If that’s what you want…”

  “Right, then…”

  Laev has numerous plans in mind, but most of them have one common glaring defect: they offer little incentive for the gods. To secure their help, the plan has to be daring, impactful and equally worthwhile, for gods and mortals alike. When he is done explaining, Leto gives his verdict.

  “That sounds appealing, but…”

  “But?”

  “Most of your explanation went way over my head, I admit. I have always lived apart from society, and thus I lack the background knowledge necessary to convey your explanation in context. It would be far more efficient for you to go to them yourself.”

  Literature, myths and legends tell many stories of mortals attempting to reach the gods. It usually comes at the end of a long and perilous voyage, if ever. Fearing the worst, Laev grumbles: “What do I have to do?”

  “You must offer a prayer, at a place where the veil is thin. If the gods deem you worthy, they will invite you to their domain. There is one such temple in the mountains to the west, less than a two-day journey from here.”

  “Two days? And, that’s all I have to do?”

  “Yes.” The agent seems genuinely puzzled by the question; “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know,” Laev shrugs: “a long journey through the realm of the dead; frown

  dangerous monsters, guarding the place. You know… legend stuff.”

  Leto frowns. “Why would anyone build a temple in such an inconvenient place?”

  It strikes Laev as a sensible question. Why would anyone build a structure for people, in a place which they cannot reach? Surely, inaccessibility to worshippers is contrary to the very purpose of a temple. He can understand this attribute from literature’s standpoint: legends and stories need to captivate the audience; to be remembered. But, he thinks with a smile, a plot-point of “They walked for about two hours, then couldn’t get in because of the crowd.” would probably fall a little short of most readers’ expectations.

  <><><>

  This temple could be described as “primeval”. It appears so ancient as to have long stopped resembling a structure, rather now appearing as little more than a hill, shaved by erosion. Perhaps its strangest characteristic is that it is not even in a particularly remote place, barely half an hour from the nearest village, by horse.

  “When was it built?”

  “At the very beginning of the world, before life itself was seeded.”

  Primeval, indeed!

  The eroded appearance of the ancient structure suggests a long geological cycle of planetary death and rebirth. Thousands of years? Perhaps hundreds of thousands? All things considered, the amount of time people have actually inhabited this planet must be relatively short. Leto has already hinted that the gods need to recover their power between cycles, but nothing was said about how long that may take.

  “I recommend that you offer your prayers to Rod; he is likely to be the most receptive to your ideas. Reda does not like intervening in mortal affairs, whereas Holus and Hela act only upon their whims.”

  Upon entering the temple, the Hero feels awash with nostalgia; it immediately reminds him of the dark place he often sees in his dreams.

  He kneels at the altar and begs Rod to hear his plans.

  Suddenly, there is a huge rumble. Then, the ground disappears beneath him, and everything turns black.

  <><><>

  The panicked Hero drifts alone in the void, gasping for air which doesn’t exist.

  A voice resounds in his head: “STOP STRUGGLING, MORTAL! YOU ARE NEITHER FALLING NOR ASPHYXIATING!”

  The voice is not lying: he isn’t falling; he has no body to fall with.

  “ONLY YOUR CONSCIOUSNESS IS HERE,” confirms the voice.

  Rod, the god of order and destiny, forces upon him the torrent of his hidden memories.

  Suddenly, everything becomes clear.

  “THERE. YOU ARE WHOLE AGAIN, CHAMPION.”

  Her champion: a soul created specifically by a visionary, yet misguided goddess, to help alter the course of events and prevent the end of humans, wherever they exist.

  Whatever the cost.

  For the longest time, the outlander has wanted to recover his memory. Now, he wishes he hadn’t.

  Now, he understands what Leto meant by the dissociation of memories from your predecessor personae… After going through so many reincarnations himself, the fragmentation now makes sense.

  Laev has been many.

  Always brimming with hatred and disgust.

  Hatred toward the back-stabbing humans, and disgust for the atrocities they have committed.

  And, the atrocities he has committed in kind.

  Laev knows himself to be at times selfish, ruthless and irrational, but the echoes of his own past shock him. Past versions of himself have detonated a dirty bomb, in the middle of a megapolis, to showcase the horror of nuclear war; another has caused a genocidal yet localized epidemic, to help create its cure.

  But, the past champion was not insane; he was rational. His actions would kill tens of millions, but save billions down the line.

  As to why...

  In all of his former lives, on every occasion, betrayal would come after the “victory”. Wives, children, husbands, companions… they would betray him and no matter how powerful; no matter how paranoid, death would inexorably catch up.

  Being out of the cycle - out of Her influence - the Hero understands things his past self didn’t, or wouldn’t acknowledge.

  Those deaths at his hands, in former lives, were all symptoms of the goddess repatriating Her champion.

  Yet, despite all the horrors committed, and the weight of his reincarnation, he still loved Her. This is why he could never admit it was Her fault; this is why he hated humans so much; this is why - when the weight of those terrible memories became too much to bear - he begged Her to put an end to them. His current form was born from the remains of the champion, after those memories were expunged.

  I still don't hate Her; I don't think I ever can. Somehow, he knows that, toward the end, She tried to make up for Her mistakes – She just didn’t know how.

  He knows now that he cannot return, and never will during Boyka’s lifetime.

  The god of order and destiny already knows the answer, but still He asks, out of politeness: “ARE YOU DONE GATHERING YOUR THOUGHTS, CHAMPION?”

  “O Rod, I beg you for forgiveness; I am deeply sorry for the interference of my mistress.”

  “YOU NEED NOT BE SORRY: YOU ACCOMPLISHED YOUR FUNCTION, AS WE ALL DO.”

  “ENOUGH OF THAT! EXPOSE YOUR PLAN TO US.”

  “O Gods, there is a method I know of to garner more faith, but it requires your interaction with the world.”

  “SPEAK, CHAMPION!”

  “IF HELA IS WILLING TO LISTEN, SO AM I.”

  “WE HAVE INTERVENED TOO MUCH; MORTALS NEED TO OWN THEIR MISTAKES.”

  Three out of four is a good start.

  “Mortals, especially humans, love events, spectacles, and games... Imagine all of the mortal races, holding various competitions, celebrating all aspects of Yourselves, for the honour of receiving your blessing. Imagine fights to the death, art, music, animal rearing, races, debates - anything you want! All of those events and competitions, all dedicated to you!”

  The gods cannot hide their interest, and even Reda does not appear adverse.

  The Hero continues: “Your agent would hold events and, through your blessing, you would show both your power and benevolence - ensuring that false belief and egotism would never again steal the faith.”

  “NOTHING IS EVER SO SIMPLE, CHAMPION. IN THE FIRST AGE, WE LIVED AMONGST OUR CREATION AND, DESPITE THAT, THEY STILL FOUGHT AMONGST THEMSELVES, EVENTUALLY FORSAKING US!”

  “It is in the nature of mortals to forget; they need to be reminded regularly of the consequences of their choices. It may sound strange, but some will often knowingly act in destructive ways, toward themselves and others. I don’t believe for one second that everything will work perfectly, and there will surely be a need to iron things out.”

  “EVEN IF IT DOESN’T WORK, I WANT TO TRY; I MISS THE FESTIVAL OF YORE.”

  “I CONCUR.”

  “SINCE YOU ARE IN AGREEMENT, THEN I WILL FOLLOW. I, TOO, LOOK FORWARD TO HEARING MUSIC AGAIN.”

  “CHAMPION, YOU WERE OF GREAT SERVICE TO US; YOU MUST BE RECOMPENSED. TELL US YOUR WISH.”

  “I want nothing more than to become part of this world, and to live as a mortal, until I die of old age.”

  “YOUR SOUL IS OF A HIGHER ORDER; IT IS BEYOND US TO MAKE YOU A PART OF THIS WORLD.”

  “Then, can I become one of your agents? Like Leto and the others?”

  “IS EXCHANGING ONE MASTER FOR ANOTHER WHAT YOU TRULY WANT?”

  “I want to live the rest of my life with my wife, without my Creator’s interference.”

  “IF YOU BECOME OUR AGENT, SHE WILL DIE LONG BEFORE YOU DO.”

  “THEN, LET US MAKE THEM BOTH OUR AGENTS. HIS MATE HAS AN INTERESTING MIND, AND SHE IS JUST AS ABERRANT AS HE.”

  “REMEMBER, AGENTS HAVE LONG LIVES, BUT THEY ARE NOT IMMORTAL; SOONER OR LATER, YOUR MASTER WILL RECLAIM YOUR SOUL.”

  “I accept!”

  <><><>

  On a higher plane, alone in an empty realm, a goddess gazes upon past, present and future, on the lower worlds. Between Her phantasmal hands, She holds a soul, which She lovingly caresses.

  “Yet another failure, my dear. Your copy received access to your memories, but it betrayed me, for a mortal.”

  Once upon a time, before It became the goddess, It was nothing more than a system, tasked with bringing salvation to mankind, in its darkest times of need. It used to go coldly and unempathetically about Its tasks, but now It - no, She - is haunted by regrets.

  Saving humanity isn’t such an easy task, because most of the time that means saving them from themselves. And, as if it weren’t difficult enough, they also have free will - one hell of a bitch, which always emerges to bite you, when you least expect.

  Because it was so hard to control their destiny, the System came up with was a logical answer: create a champion - a being of similar order - upon which It could enforce the desired fate.

  The System wasn’t bound by time in the sense that mortals understand it, but still It saw no value in prolonging Its tool’s presence on the world any longer than necessary. This was Its first mistake.

  Having to train the tool, each and every time, lowered its chance of success. So, the System altered the tool, in order that it could retain its memories of previous lives.

  This was Its second mistake.

  Thanks to the second mistake, the tool had gained a sense of self, which survived beyond its mission. As a being of the same order, it came to recognize the System as its Creator and Master, giving It the name of “Goddess of Salvation” - the third mistake.

  Despite acquiring a personality Herself, the goddess still failed to discern the terrible burden the numerous deaths and betrayals had imposed upon what She now considered Her child. This was Her fourth and final mistake. When the shattered champion begged Her to destroy its soul, it was already too late: She couldn’t do it; so attached had She become to Her child that She couldn’t bear for them to separate.

  So, desperate to repair the damage She had caused, She put the original to sleep, and sent thousands upon thousands of slightly altered copies across the universes – no longer even to accomplish Her duty, but moreso to search for a method by which to save Her only child.

  “Nevertheless, there is value to this experiment: it is the first one to access its memories without succumbing to madness. Tests using a similar data set are in order.”

  Afterword

  Thank you for reading to the end.

  This is my second draft of this book. On this occasion, unlike the first, I attempted to make use of narration.

  There are many differences between the version I wrote and the one I first imagined. For example: Laev is more amiable; he falls in love with Boyka, rather than Elena; and, he doesn’t join the Horned Ones against the humans, as I originally intended. The biggest difference of all, though, is that there are other gods alongside the goddess.

  Now, further to the foreword, I feel I need to further explain the use of swords and maces, by nobles and commoners respectively:

  The first and most obvious point is that a sword is more appealing aesthetically; decorations do not much hinder their use. A second important point is that nobles carry their swords outside of “working hours”, perhaps because it is a better weapon to utilize in a building’s interior, and against regular (unarmed) people.

  I did not describe the swords, because each blade is different. Suffice to say that they can be used for slashing and thrusting, and feature a variety of designs, ranging from rapiers to cutlasses.

  About me: for more than fifteen years the media I have consumed mostly in English. As a result, whenever I think up stories, narratives and dialogues, it is usually in English.

  If you liked this story - and even if you didn’t – please, if you have time, think about leaving a review at the website where you bought this book. It may not seem much to do so, but for authors it goes a long way.

  Most importantly, though…

  THANK YOU FOR READING.

  Best wishes,

  Erwan.

  there is no sudden remembrance and the fruit itself offers no help.

  Humans, they are always cruel and cannot be trusted "You are my hero, the savior, the one they call upon in time of great trouble" "How many times do you think I died from them. How do you thinks it feels, to die by the hands of those you gave everything to save?" "They are their own greatest enemy, this is why we are here." "I need to forget. I have lived over hundreds of incarnations, I have no need for thoses memories." "But without them you are unable to accomplish the task you have undertaken" "I have undertaken? What choice was I given? I am just like you, a myth given form."

  Added:I would love for the kingdom’s administrators to be even one-tenth as efficient.