Rosalind De Cheney finished telling her story of glowing maps, and secret locations in forests.

  Her audience wasn’t the most receptive. Wynter’s face always looked like she was about to stab you. Rake had his dismissive face on—the one he showed the world, except those few people he trusted. The Guvnah’s smile seemed friendly, but Chinara trusted him least when he was smiling.

  As for Chinara ‘Vixen’ Makinde? To me, it all sounds more Rotten Apples than Golden Blades. She hadn’t become a merc to get involved with magic and quests. But the fact was, they were all Apples now. The Blades had lost and the Apples had won—partly because they’d been willing to take on precisely this kind of mission.

  “Dorwich looks like it’s back on its feet,” Rosalind said. “You’ve done well.”

  Ordinarily, Chinara would interpret speaking into silence and compliments as signs of weakness. But the woman had a certain way about her—a confidence that allowed her to be pleasant.

  “Dorwich can survive without us.” Wynter had decided to speak. “That’s not the issue.”

  “Then what is?”

  “There’s two. First, The Harvester has returned to the city. He served in the Golden Blades. But he never signed up with Stiff.”

  “You think he should?”

  “I think this mission smells like trouble. We could do with him.”

  “Then fine. I’ll hire him on Stiff’s behalf.”

  “He’s expensive,” Wynter warned. “Level nine.”

  De Cheney’s eyes widened, as well they might. The Harvester was the highest level operator in Gal’azu. “I’ll square it with Stiff when I see him next. The second issue?”

  “Clamor’s already gone looking for trouble. He went to Urlay, to investigate what happened there. There are rumours the wight has returned.”

  “I see. Given the location, it’s possible the place we need to investigate is connected with all of that. Stiff emphasised that we should take care, and pull out if necessary.”

  “Fine. But before we march into this forest, we need to go looking for Clamor. Find out what he’s discovered.”

  Rosalind shrugged. “Of course. I’d rather Clamor came with us.”

  Both women looked around, judging the reaction of the others.

  “Then we’re agreed,” Wynter said. “Rake, go find The Harvester will you?”

  They set off for Urlay. In the absence of Clamor, The Guvnah scouted ahead. Only De Cheney was interested in keeping up with the long-legged stride of The Harvester. Which meant Chinara could walk with her favourite people, Wynter and Raimy. It was a pleasant route along the river, on a nice day, and it was one of those times when she had to pinch herself that she was actually getting paid to do this.

  Her gaze locked, resentfully, on the two figures ahead. De Cheney wore a dark fur cloak that made her look even more glamorous. The Harvester had his two-hander strapped across his back, and had chosen to make the journey in his heavy plate mail. “How is it that Vytenis is talking to Rosalind? I swear I have never seen him speak with a woman before.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Wynter said. “Until today, I assumed we were literally invisible to him.”

  Chinara laughed at that. “Maybe there’s something we don’t know about her?”

  “Oh please,” said Raimy. “There’s no need for bitchiness.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Defending De Cheney already?” Chinara responded. “Looks like Rake is locked on to a new target.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he complained.

  “Yes, Vixen, don’t be ridiculous. The woman is clearly old enough not to fall for his bullshit. The young and the dumb are his bread and butter.”

  Chinara laughed wickedly. “Talking of which, how is Clara doing?”

  “Absolutely fine, if Stiff didn’t have me writing to her all the time.”

  “That’s kind of what you’re supposed to do,” Wynter explained, “when your girl writes to you. Most people don’t need to be paid by a third party to write back.”

  “I didn’t realise today was pick on Raimy day,” Rake complained. “I’d have bought some ear mufflers.”

  “Alright,” said Chinara. “Back to The Harvester. Seriously, what’s his deal? Why does he talk to you?”

  “I’m a man, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t talk to half the men either. He never said a word to Rylan, I believe.”

  Raimy sighed. “Seriously? I think it’s because I fight without a shield. He respects that. Doesn’t believe in shields.”

  Chinara rolled her eyes. She would never get used to the macho nonsense she heard from certain male warriors.

  “Doesn’t believe in shields?” Wynter repeated. “I’m pretty sure they exist. I’ve seen them with my own eyes.”

  “Har har,” said Rake. “He takes combat very seriously. Gets all spiritual about it. I dunno, I kind of respect him. He’s from another time, isn’t he? The age of warriors. Codes to live and die by, and all that. They don’t make them like Vytenis any more.”

  Urlay was still deserted. While Dorwich had been sacked by the goblin horde, no one knew what had happened to the villagers here, or who had done it. No bodies had been left behind, which might have provided clues. It was unsettling to hear about; even worse to see all the empty homes.

  “Over here,” The Guvnah called, taking them inside one of the houses. “Clamor slept here,” he said, gesturing to the items neatly laid out before the fireplace.

  Rittel’s bedroll was there; a change of clothes; cooking equipment he’d probably used in the fireplace, then washed.

  “Looks like he planned on coming back,” Wynter said.

  “Aye,” said The Guvnah. “But never did.”

  They shared grim looks. De Cheney seemed worried, but ignorant of what had transpired. The Harvester stood to one side. He stared up at the roof, as if he could see through it, to the heavens above.

  “He mentioned the wight before he left Dorwich,” Chinara said. “I reckon he went looking for it.”

  Wynter nodded. “That’s our best bet. What say you, De Cheney? What if we were to wait on entering the forest, and go looking for Clamor instead?”

  “Of course.”

  ***

  “Bring him,” Eyota ordered.

  Stricken shoved their bound and gagged captive through the courtyard, deep in the Hollow, into the room where his master toiled.

  The sorcerer looked up when they entered, and the man who had hunted Stricken let out a squawk of alarm. Amotken’s stained yellow eyes had always been disquieting; and the underground Hollow gave everything a grey pallor. But his master looked ill. He was pale; his face lined and scabbed; his hair lank and greasy; his nails grown long like claws. His mouth was wet red, the gums receding.

  “I have caught this man,” the princess said. “I want him turning into a soldier for our army.”

  “Dost thou not know how hard I work for thy father?” Amotken spat out. “Night and day. I am struggling to meet his deadline, and there is no one who can help me. I am giving everything for Sargassia. I told thee last time, when thou brought those bodies to me. Raising a corpse from the dead like I did for thou, or Stricken, is the most punishing of all spells.”

  The sorcerer intruded images into Stricken’s mind. The dead of Urlay discarded, and rotting. The survivors, howling in distress, turned one by one into the sorcerer’s unthinking soldiers.

  “I know all that now,” Eyota said dismissively. She batted a hand, as if ridding her mind of the images. “I haven’t brought thee a dead thing, have I? Haven’t brought thee a horde? I have brought thee one man. He is an enemy, and I want him to become one of my soldiers.” She took a step towards Amotken, her hand hovering over the hilt of her weapon. “Needst I remind thee, Amotken, that I am the emperor’s Right Arm? Thou will talk to me with respect, no matter how hard pressed thou are.”

  The sorcerer stared back, his haggard expression looking like he was close to erupting, and Stricken wondered what terrible magic would be released if he did. But in the end, it was Amotken who looked away.

  “Very well, Eyota. I will turn him for thee.”

  “I thank thee, Amotken. But I would have thee keep some of him alive.”

  “What do thou mean?”

  “Like Stricken.”

  Amotken sighed irritably. “I have tried to explain. Stricken was dead.”

  “Not exactly like Stricken. The soldiers thou make are unthinkingly loyal. I need this one to be able to think and use his initiative, as well as obey. We cannot win wars only with the feeble-minded.”

  “I see. I hadn’t considered that, but what thou say makes sense. I will do my best to produce what thee ask for, princess.”

  “I am grateful, Amotken.” She put a hand to his cheek, gentle now. “Once thou have completed mine and my father’s work, thou must find time to rest. Thou are so important to the empire, and will not serve it by running thyself into the ground.”

  Tears came to his master’s eyes, and Stricken was left wondering where the power really rested in this reborn empire.