The ale offered no respite from the unyielding discomfort of Maddin’s lich form. He could feel the liquid wash over his tongue, descend his gullet, but there was no taste, no resulting buzz to dull the pain.

  Still, there was something about the familiar motion, lifting a tankard to his lips and letting its contents slosh into his mouth, that brought a small measure of relief. It recalled better days spent in the company of friends, celebrations of victory and the founding of his court.

  Belladin’s hand slapped against his back. “How’s it taste, Second?”

  “Couldn’t tell you.”

  The bard’s face reddened with laughter. He knew. Of course he knew. Bastard. “Bet that deliching potion sounds enticing right about now.”

  “Not in the least. It’s Maddin, by the way. Not Second.”

  Belladin hunched over the bar, grinning at Maddin. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Maddin. And I’m glad to hear that.”

  Maddin’s gaze roamed the establishment. It looked like an oversize shack converted into a pub. The bar was little more than two planks propped up by four additional. Empty barrels served as seating while an ancient cast iron stove heated the place.

  Its bartender, a man who introduced himself as Ruzzy, was a tall fellow with a heavy paunch, ruddy features, and a head of shaggy, dirty blond hair. His friendly disposition was no doubt fuelled by a steady intake of his own product. As Ruzzy tended to his bar duties, he made conversation with his patrons, invariably fitting in some bawdy anecdote which he finished with a booming guffaw.

  This place did not help Maddin’s nausea. He felt queasy like his first time at sea, unused to the persistent motion of the water. In time, as before, I will gain my sea legs. Before long, he’d be accustomed to the feeling of death.

  “Tell us about this purpose of yours,” said Belladin.

  “You said I had a purpose, not me.”

  “But I weren’t wrong, was I?”

  Maddin met the bard’s hazel gaze with a sidelong glance. Slivers of green and gold fit together around the pinprick dots of his pupils. Schemes. Maddin saw layers of plots in Belladin’s eyes, the complex machinery behind them working ceaselessly. He’d known other men like that. Reegan was a man like that.

  This comparison gave him pause.

  “Where I come from, bards are men of little ambition.”

  “Oh, I find that hard to believe,” Belladin said. “Stories are not frivolous things. And you don’t dedicate your life to their telling if you consider them as such. Stories capture meaning, they infuse life with purpose. Consider your own, Second—” He threw up his hands, then corrected, “Maddin. The events that led you here, to Aldersi, form a chain that trails back through time, to whatever impetus animates you. Now, without story weaving these moments together, that impetus would have no bearing on your present circumstances. And yet, here you are, inhabiting a world totally foreign to you, a place you would never otherwise have come to had it not been for the magic that ties one turn of a tale to the next.”

  Maddin swigged again from his tankard, tried to imagine what the beer might’ve tasted like. He borrowed from memory, recalled the frothy, amber ale so popular throughout his home 3country. Bright, with sour, pear notes and a citrusy tail. While dousing his dry tongue, he substituted this recollection for the bland taste he sampled now.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  As the drink settled in his belly, he lifted a silent prayer to whichever god would grant it that his task would be through before such memories decayed. He did not wish to live long enough to see them rot. It would be like living through the deaths of his family all over again.

  “What is it you’re looking for?” he demanded from the bard.

  “As I said, a—”

  “Partner, yes, but what actually?”

  Belladin’s lips curled into a grin reflecting schemes stacked on top of schemes. “A spark.”

  Maddin scoffed. “I shouldn’t have expected a direct answer from a man who trades in metaphor.”

  “Allegory, mostly, but metaphor where brevity’s needed.”

  “A spark,” Maddin repeated. “And what conflagration are you hoping to kick off?”

  Belladin opened his mouth to answer, but before the words formed on his silver tongue, a commotion distracted them. At the entrance to the bar, a trio of men in matching uniforms stood in a row, blocking the patrons’ exit.

  They wore red tunics cinched with yellow belts from which empty scabbards dangled. The swords they ordinarily housed had been drawn, held at the side of each swordsman. The man in the middle cleared his throat, rolled his eyes before speaking. “Listen up! Emperor Fraygus commands Seconds to join his mage division. All new arrivals are to submit to an immediate inspection. Form an orderly line here.”

  “Bastards,” Belladin snarled into his beer.

  His antipathy provided a key piece of the puzzle. “You want to burn down the empire.”

  Belladin turned his head, both impressed and unnerved with the speed of Maddin’s deduction. “Fraygus bleeds the nation with his conquests, labels dissenters enemies of the people. Slaughters them.”

  As a line formed at the door, lich immigrants nervously awaiting the recruiters’ determination, Maddin quickly weighed his options. By his count, there were three. The first, to accept his conscription, the inevitable outcome if he submitted to the inspection. He’d led armies in his past life, was gifted preternatural violence upon his arrival in this world. There was no doubt as to his army worthiness.

  Fighting the emperor’s wars would leave little room to pursue his own.

  The second option perched on the barstool beside him. He could accept Belladin’s offer of partnership, thus earning a guide who would help him gain his feet in Aldersi. Rebellious idealism undercut Balladin’s scheming nature. Enough that Maddin could trust him?

  If not, his third and final option would be to go it alone. Venture alone into this world in search of his nemesis, who proved wily in the last one. No doubt Reegan would avail himself of Aldersian resources. He was quick and cunning, might’ve already begun his ascent of the existing hierarchy, well on his way to gaining the emperor’s trust.

  So he could knife him in his sleep.

  Maddin offered his hand to the bard, who shook it. “Partners.”

  “Very wise choice, Maddin.”

  A heavy hand landed on Maddin’s shoulder. He turned to view a soldier standing over him, glaring contemptuously back. “You,” he said, “what’s your Class?”

  “I believe that’s between me and the god who assigned it to me.”

  Annoyance showed in the soldier’s hooded eyes. “You can reveal it willingly or we’ll pin you to the floor while my commanding officer performs a reading.”

  “There’s a third option.”

  The quizzical expression on the soldier’s face was shortly erased by a series of six rapid-fire punches. Maddin employed his Fury Burst, which pulverized the soldier until his features flattened into a disorderly mess of flesh and blood.

  By the final strike, the light in his eyes dimmed into the eternal darkness which Maddin dodged by way of his transmigration.

  His body toppled over, the impact of its collapse rattling the pub up to its rafters.

  Before the remaining soldiers knew what happened, Belladin scrambled atop the bar and shouted, “None need enslave themselves to these fascists! Strike them down and scatter! Freedom over tyranny!”

  Chaos enfolded the bar. Maddin smirked, impressed with the bard’s talents.

  Perhaps he’d made the right call.

  “Come,” said Belladin, hopping down from the bar. “I have transport, but we must move quickly before the army catches up to us.”