Gauid experienced a lot in his tenure as an Antarchon. He ate dinners with the Emperor. Battled members of the Razsinate’s Zatwari family. Ul-Baqsha’s mightiest group of warriors. He hunted vulsaats and griffins and the largest of elderwyrms. Taken any number of countless dwarven lives. All these accomplishments slathered his name in gold. A legend of elvenkind, up there with Archon Sulvadan and the Cobbled Goddess. A legend thought to be unbesmirchable, by words or bad etiquette.

  This was not true. As this random Victus aspersed Gauid in his bumbling state. This elf—who was practically a peasant—with eyes like mashed cherries and behavior like a diseased wolf pup. Gauid, in his regal platinum armor and dark green eyepatch, despised this interloper. Barely three seconds into meeting him. The commander across from Gauid barked his words into the void. Vaelar heard them, but the Antarchon couldn’t be bothered to listen.

  Gauid burgeoned with disgrace. This Victus had to answer for his horrendous lack of manners. So, the Antarchon asked… “Why are you in my tent, Victus?”

  It was as if the elf had no concept of the word ‘humility.’ His chin always faced the sky. A grin painted on his cheeks the size of a river. Vaelar swayed his frothy black hair like he invented frothy black hair. Gauid didn’t even know this Victus’ name yet, and he could read him as succinctly as professors read their classes’ textbooks. Such a swirling persona of pride and self-importance.

  The Victus said, “I do apologize, sirs.” He faced a solid flap of tent parallel to his superiors. Talking to it. Gauid guessed Vaelar’s cherry-red eyeballs were deeply wounded. And that the Victus was blind. Worthy of note, but irrelevant to making him more sympathetic.

  “Victus Vaelar at your command.” He flashed a cheeky lip curl, along with a half bow. “I have news to tell you from the Corpse Pile closest to Fort Blavim.”

  Quite a zone of interest, this Fort Blavim. Gauid gathered the whispers passed around Entlig about the happenings of the fort. First, an eruptive clash of Legus and Razsinate. As well as an ambush of the Prima. Slaughtering dwarves like roaches. Culminating in a spectacular capture of the youngest Ultin. By a commander unknown to him. Dreyadus—the lot of them whispered.

  None of this was related to a Corpse Pile. But it cycled through the annals of his consciousness nonetheless. Gauid wondered what glorious information this thrall of arrogance had for him. He humored Vaelar.

  “Don’t leave us in suspense.” Gauid said.

  Vaelar took a breath. A breath unordinary. It was off—it spelled deception. “A dracokin mercenary in the Ul-Baqshan’s company attacked the Corpse Pile. Killed fifty soldiers with his swordplay and sorcery! Me and—”

  He snapped for Sternus. The mush-faced subordinate nervously entered. Shoulders at his at his earlobes. Made himself small. “—Sternus here. Only we survived.”

  That odd breath Vaelar had taken? Gauid knew why it was so unsettling. It was a tell. Of course the Victus that shoved his head up his ass was lying about his battle accolades. Pride and lies went together as well as beef and bread. The question remained: Why? With deception as blatant as this, it’s always ‘why?’

  Gauid turned to the Commander. “Shall we strategize at a different time?”

  He umm’d and uhh’d. “It is crucial that we keep—”

  “We shall strategize at a different time. Thank you for your patience.” The Antarchon presented the tent flaps. Message received, as the commander left. Squeezing by the two charlatans.

  “Vaelar. Say what you just said one more time.”

  The tell happened once more. Clear as a sunny sky. A long breath gave away Vaelar’s chances at being believed. “We were attacked by a dracokin mercenary—”

  “Okay. I understand you’re stressed. Been through a lot of pain. That would explain the lying. Which I’m not fond of.”

  Vaelar recoiled. He was a bird snatched from its nest. Facing a completely different direction from Gauid. “Sir, I’m confused. I didn’t lie.”

  “I agree. You are confused.” Gauid retorted. “Use the night to straighten your facts. I’d like to know your story, but I hate sifting through deceit to get there.”

  “Sir, I…”

  “We will speak again in the morning. See the castrorum to have our workers set up a tent for you. Now leave.”

  Vaelar couldn’t spin his lies with Gauid. He wouldn’t allow it. Every word emitted from that elf’s tongue and teeth stunk with subterfuge. Gauid would know, because of the politics in Ontullia’s upper courts. So many half-truths and white lies and black lies. Yet Vaelar couldn’t deceive like a master could. Gauid knew Archons that built their whole career on bending reality with their words. Vaelar had years to go if he wanted to reach those heights.

  “I understand, sir. Goodbye then.” The Victus said.

  Nearly crashing into the side of the tent, Vaelar oof’d into a wooden pole holding it up. Before Sternus came to direct him again. They left, as Gauid had time to think alone. A powerful mercenary. One to frighten even the Quintus Prima. Certainly fake, but why did he choose such verbiage? He could think alone, at the war table. But perhaps it would serve him to deliver his questions to someone material. To let them escape the prison in his head. See how they sounded in the open.

  Gauid whistled in three consecutive tones. One high pitched, like the chirp of a robin. Then, a lower one. Ending with the lowest—like a horn of war. Beside him opened a black cavity, independent of space and time. It whirred and murmured, as if a beast within was whispering; Just loud enough to perceive but quiet enough not to hear. A figure stepped out of the cavity.

  The woman they call Ubique. Swathed in loose robes and scarves and a black shemagh. Gloves and socks and draping cloth. Truthfully, she seemed more like living articles of clothes rather than a mortal. Still, she was in there. Behind all the brown and black fabric. Ubique remained. Although, it bewildered her to be summoned in Gauid’s tent. Very brazen. Not in a confident way. She hesitated to call him moronic, but…

  Confidence can very easily loop back around to stupidity.

  “What does the Antarchon see in the shadows?” Ubique said.

  “He sees a snake. Desiring to choke its prey. It sings. Horribly. Have you seen what I’ve seen?”

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  She nodded and fell to her knees. “I have. Naughty, naughty snake.”

  “Do the shadows wonder why it sings?”

  Ubique jumped up. Landing on her toes. She began to walk on them. Inhaled lightly and circled Gauid. “The shadows do. They believe the snake is building stories.”

  “Stories for what exactly?”

  “So that the snake may become a dragon.”

  Telling tales to climb a ladder. An art form that built many kingdoms. Though it had less use within a kingdom already built. Unless one’s tongue was forked enough. “If shadows may inquire,” Ubique spoke again. “Shall the snake be returned?”

  That question coiled into dozens of different ones. Every individual consequence of a ‘return’. They were intricate. Had to be handled with the finest of care. One mistake and it would all be compromised. However, what made it easier to think about was the state of Vaelar’s self. A miserable sight with miserable sight. In fact, Gauid would be helping him. This cruel existence loved to punish its lessers. How merciful the Antarchon could be to ‘return’ him.

  “The snake shall sing again. If ears bleed, the snake returns.”

  Ubique smiled. She hopped from her toes to her soles. To end her sweet caper, she planted a dry kiss on Gauid’s right pointer finger. “Shadows mold your will, Antarchon.”

  ?

  Arnzos answered. Leaving his shack vulnerable. Even more so than it already was. He wasn’t sure if this voice was actually Modra’s or not, until he answered it. He had only heard a similar resonance once before. Back at the lake, near the cemetery of Psiona Constructs. Hearing a noise one time was hardly enough to store it in the recesses. Brains could be sponges, yet many times they malfunction at one simple purpose.

  He didn’t need to worry much anyway. The rodinkin was indeed there and many of the other knights continued in their menial tasks. Ignoring the exchange between the two of them. After the skull hemorrhaging and Phyletta’s disappearance though, Arnzos frowned at this prospect of Palmgrease hassling him again.

  “So you can speak after all.” Arnzos joked.

  “Fuck off.” Modra said. “I have a proposition for you. Let’s talk somewhere private.”

  “Look, I respect Palmgrease,” he lied. “But I’m fucking exhausted. So when I wake up tomorrow, you can bother me then. With whatever the Lord desires.”

  “This isn’t Palmgrease wanting to talk to you. This is all me. I know you’re scheming about something. Your face gives away your judgements. The two of us could benefit from scheming together.”

  Oddly, Arnzos didn’t get the sense that Modra was lying. About the ‘two of us could benefit’ statement at least. When he told Arnzos about his face giving away judgements, that felt like a bluff. He wasn’t stone-faced every second of every day, but he could definitely hide his feelings well. Came with the package of being a mercenary. A bluff and then telling the truth was a weird combination. It smelled of urgency. A feeling Arnzos knew all too well.

  “Modra. I don’t like you. You’re generally detestable. I’m sure I’m not the only one with that opinion. Still, even if I did and I laughed and applauded when you killed that felinian, why would I put my faith in you? All you are is a worker bee. Resting on a pillar just a bit higher than everyone else.”

  “I become a lot more likeable when I put shinies in your pocket. There’s lots of shinies to make in an uprising.”

  Uprising? Shit. An uprising meant chaos. If chaos was inevitable, it would hurt his chances at securing the only item Arnzos wanted. Modra thought he had a chance at deposing the Lord? Maybe he was just delusional. Arnzos had an image of Aj-Malik appear in his mind. Another delusional tactician. Though you could barely describe them as such. Arnzos reckoned to ask…

  “How strong are your forces?”

  Modra tsk-tsk’d. “Follow me and I’ll tell you everything.”

  An array of different hypothetical scenarios began to play out. All imaginary, but possible. Firstly—the most reasonable option—it might be a trap. A ruse to lead Arnzos out into the blue-thistled darkness to be disposed of. Those stares Modra gave earlier didn’t feel like blank analyses. Those had intention. Those were hanging nooses ready to catch necks, or freshly bloodied knives craving more. The hatred was mutual.

  Secondly, it could be the truth. Modra staging a revolution. Troops ready to be unleashed. Likely just for power and money—he would leave Arhuinim’s villagers for the wolves. But isn’t evil killing evil a positive? Arnzos never took philosophy classes; It was the furthest concept from his mind. What good is revolution if the new leader is just as corrupt as the old? Too much mental weaving hurt his head. Regardless, this option seemed the least plausible.

  Another hypothetical: Modra started to piece together his rebellion. Modra started with him. One fact of this was clear to Arnzos. He had humbled the Lord in combat in front of many knights. A display of power like that—even with the surprise attack some might consider craven—would draw in followers. If a revolt against Palmgrease had a capable mercenary and his second in command, that’s a revolt worth joining. What Arnzos didn’t like about all of this was its unpredictability.

  Either he followed Modra and died in the woods, or he followed Modra and had a lesser chance of dying somewhere else. Coupled with that, an even lesser chance of stealing the wool coat. It was probable to be destroyed as a middle finger to Palmgrease or taken and worn by Modra, which… would just make Arnzos repeat what he’s already attempting to do. Plus, he could never forget what Modra did to that poor tribesman.

  Ultimately, Arnzos said, “I’ll parrot what you said earlier. Fuck off.”

  Modra let out a gruff ‘hmm’ before shaking his head. “You absolutely sure?”

  “Want me to say it again? Fuck. Off.”

  “Sad. I can’t have you knowing…”

  Modra brandished a knife. He yelped in horror, like he was being attacked. He screamed, “Help! Arnzos wants to kill me!”

  Damn it, of course he pulled that. His foe dove for his thigh. Knife still thirsty. Arnzos kneed him in the gut and catapulted his rough knuckles into Modra’s snout. His smaller frame wasn’t that dangerous. A lack of physical power, but not speed. Modra rolled around Arnzos, landing by his calf. He laid down two light gashes. Shnk! Shunk! Blood spilled into the time-eaten floorboards.

  “Gaahhh!” Arnzos groaned. He countered the rodinkin by catapulting his foot. Solid blow to Modra’s chin. He tumbled away, battered in gravel like a baked fish battered in bread. A fellow knight of his caught him before he could slam his head. The bandits telling campfire tales and playing truth or dare and describing their dream women all focused. They all had one target. One dracokin that their attention was solely absorbed by.

  They spit out loogies. They cracked knuckles and necks. They gathered their chains, whips, clubs, maces and swords. They imitated beasts of the darkness by howling and growling yawrling. A shanty camp, outside Palmgrease’s manor, mobilized for the death of one person.

  Arnzos wouldn’t accept being ripped apart. Not without trying to give them rage in return. He snatched Roxbane from beside an old shelf and laid it bare for the knights to see. Sheath off. He thought about that gravelly voice. The one that nearly ruptured his skull. Slay the Lord? Burn his cave? Maybe so.

  He preferred to wait. Find a better time to sneakily steal the wool coat. But if Modra was going to shove him into the flaming fields of battle (as he just did), then Arnzos deserved to have a treat. For his troubles. It was only five minutes ago that Arnzos was saving his escapade for the next night. Now he was forced to take it tonight or never see it again.

  He preferred to wait. Instead, he roared. Leaping like a crazed ape. Stabbing one of Palmgrease’s bandits right through the throat. His campmates gasped and covered their mouths. He slashed the meat off, as the corpse slumped. Tender and disgusting. They charged, their steel hungry. He charged, his pockets hungry.

  Burn the cave and slay the lord? Sure. As long as Arnzos had his special fleece first.