 
Max Clarke

Prologue

Beams of dying sunlight spattered across the sand and melted down dunes, dim shafts making contact with a scavenged corpse in the decaying daylight. A hunkered brown form, down and dirty in the midst of its meal, shivered as the chilled hands of the night wind began to pass over its hunched back. The last strips of tender meat came free from pillars of bone as flesh and skin slapped and squelched in the animals jaw. The prey's blood dribbled out in claggy globs as it escaped the desert runner's mouth, drying on the desert ground. But the animal was cleverer than that, there could be no escape as with surgical precision the hunter intercepted the escaping drool, tongue smacking lips after to ensure no more delicious juice could escape.

A stronger gust buffeted the animal, and with nature's instinct to sense when things are wrong it reared up, snout first, and sniffed. A cold breeze, a dying day and something else... The desert runner stood on its hind legs, ears pricked and keen, the nose sniffed away and worried eyes scanned the dimming horizon of sandy wasteland and distant verdant forest. Another breath and the teeth of frosty wind bit into the runner, through the fur and down the veins until it chilled the heart. This time the runner yelped, abandoning the dinner in front of it and pelted off into the distance, away from the frozen wind, far from the rotting sunbeams and out of reach of something else...

I don't know if it happened in the womb, during my maturation from embryo to human form, or if perhaps it was later, when I was playing as a young child amongst the fronds and the vines and the mudflats of the anomalous Carthidium jungle, but all I know is I have a great affinity for nature. Not flowers and plants or the common or garden bird, but the true nature, the nature behind it all, the untamed force that lingers within everything, and some things more than others.

Humanity itself is somewhat a resemblance of the ancient desert runners, the first mammals God put on this blessed planet, beings that ran and ran for miles across the dunes for food, water, and eventually, salvation, before primitive man hunted them to extinction. In this respect we are no different; we run, we discover, and like the desert runners we evolved better ways of dealing with change. Adaptive, I think the scholars call it.

I am no different, I must eat, sleep and drink to survive like the rest of us. But the rest are not like me. They all lack that extra spark. It's hard to fathom a thing more powerful than human civilisation, and many of the non-believers refuse that this is possible. Why would God have created things to be perfect if only to be one day destroyed? It's a valid argument when you consider the facts: God put us here to be dominant; we are dominant. God let us explore the world to its edges and it's corners only to find it wasn't flat, but a sphere of immense complexity; we are travelled. God gave us the knowledge to be better than each other; we have seen empires rise and fall, kings installed and kings betrayed, secrets kept and then dropped like a weight on a glass pane. If there's anything our vengeful god has taught us, it's how to know when you're beaten, but even more so, to know when you can win.

So it's natural to assume that we choose the winning side when we get the choice? It seems preposterous to assume you wouldn't, but I've been surprised. The world goes on oblivious of truth, and so I must bring the truth to them, one step at a time. Baby steps, until the truth becomes recognised, and humanity can choose their side by themselves, whether they will unite and be strong together, or if there will have to be a push in the right direction.

If you're looking for answers you've come to the right place. But it'll cost you. I did a great many things in my life, not all of them good, but this one was magnificent, marvellous. So please, as a dead man's wish, give me some of your time and listen. In situations such as these it's easy to be cryptic, but I promise it'll all make sense in the end.

### Chapter 1

It was bitter cold and the crisp snow topping on the Dais Cardinalia refracted a thousand rays of silvery blue as he dived through the mossy cloud-bank, further into the frigid air. A million lamps all held in golden hands lit the way along the streets as the bankers, bakers, brokers and beggars of Sarriont took to the street, arm in welcoming arm, singing their praises to the heavens whilst the marbled squares and cobbled courtyards thronged with the luminous faces of children clutching at fallen snow. Icicles of dreamy brightness formed on the arms of monuments and ledges of buildings, theatres and coliseums playing host to choir and opera alike as crowds emerged for festivities. Frozen bells tolled and the through windows laden with frost spiralling candles of artisan craft radiated their warmth into the hearts of men.

And he felt it all, soaring above the parties and gatherings, masses and marches, floating on currents of air. And he could smell it too, the cracking nuts on the fire, the copper tang of a full goblet, the scent of newly lacquered beams in a newly built tavern, laughter and small talk, gossip and conversation melding into an infinite whirlpool of nostalgia. The wine pouring down the back of his gullet in a fluted glass that extended beyond reasonable proportions, sloshing purple in the blue corners of cold cheeks, diving and swirling in a dizzying blend of fine art and devilish majesty, intoxicating to the core and room-spinningly divine, a head of dreams and clear thought washed away in a tide of dark veined alcohol seeping into the grain of his wooden mind, the nooks and crannies absorbing the evil touch as the wine melted through his vision, bright bars now apparent as he looked upon what must be a room made of light. Light that beckoned him on into its warm embrace, light that stung his eyes, light that made knives stick in his brain, light that spoke... My lord, my lord, my lord...

'...My lord?'

The tendons seized up as Calschtott realised not only was his brain made of wood but also the rest of his sturdy frame too.

'My lord, can I help you?'

Blissful thoughts and snatches of imagination lifted their way off his head and flew beyond reach as he wondered what this was all about. There had been a castle, no, a cathedral, and it was covered in grass and- no that wasn't right, grass doesn't fall from the sky.

'My lord marshal, you instructed me to-'

A muffled groan became reply as Lord Marshal Calschtott fumbled for the bed sheet, rolling too far to one side and ramming his head into the cold stone wall. His vision flared up for a moment and the throbbing added to the muddy puddle that clouded his thoughts. He let things settle for a moment as the bemused guard stood in awkward silence, unsure if waking the marshal had been a lads' joke always pulled on the new recruits. After a minute or so Calschtott uttered a new groan.

'Thank you... I needed to... get up, yes, get up.'

'Err,' unsure of how to go about this, the man just went straight on. 'My lord marshal, you instructed me to wake you at this time-'

'Huh.'

'-Because of the meeting of great importance-'

'Mmm.'

'-In the situation room.' He stood for a while as Calschtott forced his eyes open past tiny cracks of light. 'This is still on your schedule, my lord?'

'Is it? Why am I still suffering those blind incompetents?' is what he wanted to say, but the reply was a much simpler 'Yes.'

Calschtott tipped his head back to indicate he had no idea what was going on, finally making eye contact with the man standing above his bed. Tall, dark with chiselled cheek bones and a vaguely knobbly chin, pleasant round face and a build that looked promising for a burgeoning soldier, though perhaps a little thin.

'The meeting is in... ten minutes, my lord.'

Calschtott found the will to swing his legs off the bed and jumped up to face the man, the sudden feeling of vertigo reminding him he wasn't fit enough to do that anymore, but he had to appear to have some leadership quality. He beamed at the guard in the way only a drunk criminal could, surprising the man with his sudden escape from lethargy. The soldier saluted nonetheless and took a step back to leave, kicking an upturned decanter loitering on the floor. A dark orb of alcohol trembled at the lip of the flask, hanging accusingly over a dark stain below.

'Yours, sir?'

The marshal didn't reply.

No matter how hot the atmosphere of stifling the air, the sandstone and marble making up the walls of the fortress were always cool. The corridors, when they became communal, were grand parades that could take marches ten men wide with room for spectators and the ceilings stretched some ten metres high, paintings and sculptures leering above, gilded in the spoils of war, molten Que'tarn armour turned into decoration and art. The pillars of various different length marked turn offs to doorways and staircases and by themselves were so impressive they looked like miniature bastions of shining stone and ribbed ivory, framing the walls of dark stone in the colour of golden sunrise. The floor didn't knock so loudly under the thick soles of Calschtott's hardy boots now that the new carpets had been fitted. Emblazoned with intricate patterns of all the latest styles to catch on in Sarriont, they were resplendent in tiny labyrinths and cubic mysteries, beasts and daemons cowering in the dark space just out of arm's reach.

However grand, the fortress served three purposes: embassy, barracks and prison. The communal corridors and officer's quarters were well fitted and presented, fashioned from the rarest of materials to woo foreign diplomats seeking refuge inside the central basilica. The soldier's quarters were never visited unless necessary, the officers were all too high born to share the cramped lower barracks with their men, although Calschtott tried to make the effort when he could, not forgetting his roots.

The part where no one went when they could avoid it was the dungeon. Had it been an ordinary prison the place may not have become taboo, but unfortunately the advantage of having an impenetrable fortress in the middle of a desert is how remote it is. So the very worst enemies of the king end up here: those who committed treason, violent political activists, heretics and worse. The dungeon became a place where soldiers secretly whispered ancient prayers and inscribed small wards on scraps of cloth, quietly defying the doctrines of the Cardinalia that said ancient gods and devils did not exist. If it helps them sleep at night, Calschtott mused, I see nothing wrong with it.

His long walk to the situation room took him past the still incomplete throne room. A space had always been set aside in the plans for the battle fortress to include a space for a warlike king to play toy soldiers with men's lives, lounging on a brass throne spouting how great a general he is. But if the king was coming visit, he'd have nowhere to sit. The raised platform to where the throne should be was only half finished, sandstone blocks showing where marble hadn't been placed and the chair itself sitting like a sullen ghost with a sheet over its head. The columns, laced with scaffolding, looked like gnawed bones being picked upon by highly organised carnivores and tiles waiting in withered baskets for when the workmen came down from the turrets where Calschtott had seen them building something, but apparently what they were doing was a secret even to a lord marshal.

The noise of nasal voices and pompous conversation built up in the corridor like a diseased clot and signalled to him that the situation room was only around the corner. Situation was a bit of a vague term, Calschtott preferred 'lie palace' but the planners hadn't agreed to change the name, insisting it was 'far too late for that sort of thing'. Three hard and drawn faces gazed sternly at a central disc in the arched gothic room, one in full plate and another two in military robes. The first snapped to attention, gauntlets clanking as his awkward salute pushed the joints to their limit. The second made sure to look uninterested, going to salute but practically wiping his brow of invisible sweat. The third simply stared ahead, preferring to watch the miniature exercise play out in front of him, his rank not requiring he saluted. Calschtott simply beamed since he knew how much it annoyed the pair.

'Good morning, lord marshal,' the man in armour said in greeting. 'Glad you could convene with us this morning,' and he smiled back, the only genuine smile in the room.

'It's only protocol, Sergeant Marit, but thank you.'

The second person, who Calschtott knew as general Ghaer, spoke nothing, but his eyes said 'late'. Calschtott ignored him and focussed on the third man, the well waxed facial hair and string of medals giving him away as lord marshal Vass.

'Hastur,' he purred.

'Ergard,' Calschtott replied. 'I didn't know you and the esteemed general here would be joining us for so long, I thought the situation here was under control.'

'Indeed, it is rather odd to have two War Cabinet members... of the _same rank_ ,' which he practically spat, 'in the same warzone.'

'Well, glad to have a relief force. Do you come by the council or king's authority?'

'The king's, naturally.' Vass puffed out his chest like a ridiculous mating bird at this point, evidently pleased to be called in to save the day, the waxed moustache palpably quivering with arrogance. Worse than that, if he was here on the king's authority there was no way of getting rid of him.

'So who's garrisoning the eastern front? I thought that was second priority and under your division?'

'It was, it was, but lord marshal Orrn has been relocated after I took residence here.'

'Makes a change from Skrandava, eh?'

'Indeed.' Vass was not amused by Calschtott's attempt at small talk. 'My division is now positioned on the western flank of Carces with defences under construction stretching from here to Carthidium.'

'We have plenty of space for your men inside the walls, camping so close to Carthidium may be unwise.'

The voices in the room became hushed upon hearing someone criticise the lord marshal and his eyes flared with angry fire before he regained composure.

'My men are suitably equipped, lord marshal, and the vantage point we gain from the plateau is unparalleled.'

Despite the fact that he knew you could see further from the west tower, Calschtott simply nodded his head in agreement. 'Of course, very wise. And you've assessed the situation, what do you think of the current defence plan?'

It was Ghaer's turn to pipe up with his insolent, high pitched voice. 'My lord,' he sneered, 'the lord marshal and I believe your defence plan is robust.'

High praise indeed.

'We hope our forces can bolster the garrison to make this fortress truly impenetrable. I have men working on field defences as we speak.'

'Thank you, general, but this isn't a pitched battle. Tensions with Que'tar have been rising in recent years and war is certainly possible in the near future, but I don't think the latest scraps have been a result of-'

'The "War on Terror" is not a plausible argument, marshal,' Vass interrupted. 'It is clear that these are probing attacks sent by direct order from the court of Quar'tep, we are being played and very soon Zor Khan will make the first strike against this fortress and catch us whilst we are still-'

'Marshal Vass, whilst I appreciate your forte is in "glorious battle", we cannot risk aggression against Que'tar even with this battle fortress. It looks bad enough already that we have Carces in some else's country, but this recent escalation in our forces has caused much outrage in his court, though I do not think these attacks are coming from him. The attack patterns reflect the work of bandits and not special operatives and so far nothing of any value has been taken from us.

'Then why do you believe I was sent here?' Vass smashed his hand onto the strategy board in front of him, drawing more than a few pairs of eyes from across the room, the large disc shaking the models of platoon deployments like an earthquake shaking apart the world. 'The king is evidently concerned that this region is under threat.'

Calschtott took a long breath and leant closer to the table, whispering in the face of marshal Vass. 'Between you and me, the king is still unstable and his decisions are rash, monarchy is growing on him slowly, but he has his moments of wisdom, the "War on Terror" being one of them. War is changing, Ergard, change with it.'

Vass snarled as knew full well he could not court martial Calschtott. He could see it in Vass' eyes that he agreed, but coming from a long line of high born generals he had been moulded into arrogance and selfishness, but at times Calschtott could see the decent man within him come out, and he took those opportunities to appeal to him.

'Very well, Hastur.' Vass straightened up again and turned to the general. 'Give the order to assign more watchmen at night, we're not looking for a specific group anymore, spread out-'

'But marshal Vass-'

'No, general Ghaer, if the esteemed marshal is correct they are nothing more than thugs and bandits, still dangerous, but most likely not very organised and not coming from the Que'tarn court.'

Ghaer swallowed his pride now that his chance to be the hero of the hour had vanished, nodding glumly at more watch duty. That's right, no heroics for you.

'Sergeant major, I trust your men are fully equipped for jungle construction?'

Marit made a blunt salute as far as the armour let him. 'Of course sir, preparations can begin from midday.'

Vass stared back at the strategy board as the two soldiers left on their orders.

'My thanks, marshal.'

Ergard Vass gave a grudging look up at Calschtott. They were still enemies of a sort, the sort that manage to get along in times of crisis, but very different men at heart. Lord marshal Hastur Calschtott saw himself out.

In the shelter of the outer walls the wind could not penetrate the grand courtyard and the air was stale and humid, thick with hot moisture from the Carthidium belt some miles to the south. How that place could stay hydrated in such harsh sunlight was testament to the power of nature, but more probably because there was a lot of water in it. A perk of being so close to this vast lake was that there was always water being taken into the fortress every day to keep the soldiers from grumbling about the heat. An army that couldn't drink wasn't going to fight.

Calschtott didn't pass anyone on his route which didn't surprise him. This route around the grounds was considered unholy by the more superstitious given its proximity with the dungeons, but it was in the shade for those on guard duty or who didn't mind the "ghosts". Supplies for the dungeon came in through a larger entrance near the front of the fortress, but Calschtott took the shorter side passage, preferring the solitude that it gave him for a few minutes. That and it was shorter. It was the only passage where he could leave the fortress without alerting himself to the other senior officers, as if they knew who he was going to see they'd bog him down with so much unnecessary paperwork just to stop him leaving.

He nodded at the men-at-arms flanking the last passage and they directed him to the exit, a low frame wedged between the stones of the outer wall with a thick wooden bulkhead. A third man stood by the exit and eyed him suspiciously, but knowing better than to ask where he was going.

'Pass?'

'Lord marshal Calschtott, director of the Southern Fronts Deployment.'

A pair of dubious eyes looked him up and down, likely confused that the marshal would take such a forgotten path.

'Right y'are, my lord,' and the door clanked open on black steel chains. Calschtott made his way to the exterior stables, mounting his white horse and setting off across the sands under the watchful gaze of blazing sun. He had a rare afternoon, so it was time to see an old and very unlikely friend.

As he approached the sunlit village, the marshal was reminded of the times he'd spent there long ago, back in his days as a junior officer, and he thought of the bond he'd formed with the man even longer ago. Someone doesn't save your life and deserve to be forgotten after all. Many a time he's sought refuge in the small hut when he needed to get away from military duty.

The horse stopped suddenly, startling Calschtott before he could regain control. It refused to go any further, and no matter his coaxing, it would not move, so he jumped onto the sandy ground and left it by a post. He hadn't brought much baggage, just some horse feed and water, even leaving his sabre back in his quarters many miles away. The surroundings were dappled in early evening light and Calschtott looked beyond the collection of buildings to see lush trees roughly two hundred metres from the village's edge, small farms and patches of soil being tended to by the locals. It looked utterly ridiculous to see nothing but sand in one direction and verdant jungle in the other, a quirk of nature that defied all reasonable scientific explanation but drew all sorts of druids and shamans claiming they had harnessed the magic of the site, though he was sure the residents of the village cared little for spectacled scientists, just that the crops would grow every year.

He continued to pass through the assembled huts and made his way to where he remembered the house to be, nodding at the occasional people sitting outside their homes fashioning cutlery from sticks or rolling all sorts of banned plants into thick cigars, shooting suspicious looks back in his direction. A couple of the children smiled back, but the expressions were cut short as anxious mothers ushered them inside, well aware of tales about the dangerous white men of the north.

Calschtott turned down a thin alley and at the other end of the village, wondering if he'd taken a wrong turn somewhere, until out of the corner of his eye he spied the place he knew so well. As if plucked from his memory itself, the building had remained completely unchanged on the outside like Nazair had left it that way just for him. As the front door loomed he didn't know how to greet his old friend, whether a hand shake was too formal or a hug was too close after years of separation. By Sato, he didn't even know if he still lived here. What if he'd moved away? What if he had died? He hated to imagine it but in the world's current climate it was possible, oh please say he wasn't dead. Should he knock? Should he call? Might disturb the neighbours. Oh fuck it.

_Tap tap tap_ his knuckles rapped on the door. Expectation built as he waited longer, afraid he'd got things wrong. Maybe he'd missed a vital letter a few years ago saying he'd moved. Could be, post to the lord marshal was always being checked for content before it got to him, and one from a mysterious "Mister Nazair" would certainly be burned before opening. Calschtott turned round to see two men pass him in the dusty street, briefly drowning his thoughts in their own conversation.

The door swung open and Calschtott snapped his head forward to lock eyes with a dark and impassive gaze that belonged to the owner of the building. It took the eyes a moment to register the marshal, and then the voice spoke in fluent Midden.

'Cal...'

'Nazair.'

The dark skinned man was standing in the way doorframe in baggy orange robes, his bald head emerging from the top with some faint tattoos drawn on one side, deep yellow eyes staring into Calschtott's soul. His friend had certainly changed over the years, he didn't remember the robes being a thing...

'I wasn't... I didn't... we haven't...'

Calschtott could not resist not smiling anymore. 'We haven't seen each other in ages.'

Nazair was taken aback by the hug, his aversion telling Calschtott something was wrong, but he didn't want to ask and spoil the moment. Then the façade dropped and Nazair smiled back.

'It's been a long time, Cal, I didn't know if you'd remembered me.'

'I couldn't forget, nothing would let me.' The smile fell awkwardly off his face as he realised he probably looked like a grinning maniac. 'How long has it been? Five years?'

'Six.'

'I'm sorry I never wrote.'

'No, I understand, you're tied up in all sorts of things with the military.' A disdainful look coloured Nazair's face.

'Yes, and sadly some things were unavoidable. But I've never forgotten my roots.'

A sunbeam smile beamed on Nazair's face. 'You and me both, brother. But I never left them behind, embracing them as God-given is the way forward. You are always luckier than someone else.'

'Well if you don't mind, I'm glad I don't squat in that shit hole anymore,' and Calschtott laughed, something alien to him out here. 'The fortress is no palace when you consider the company, I have the rank but not the class. Not that I'd rather be one of them anymore, the footsloggers, but it's hard to get along with many of the officers.'

'Peace in the soul is shared with like-minded people.'

'Since when did you become so "wise"?' Calschtott chuckled.

Nazair ignored the joke. 'I remember you'd been promoted to colonel back then, but look at you now. You must have been what, twenty six, twenty seven?'

'Sounds about right. I'm getting old.'

'Middle aged.'

Calschtott smiled this time. He'd forgotten quite how much he enjoyed the company of Nazair. Something was different this time though, he was more distant, a changed man almost, something Calschtott couldn't put his finger on.

'I still remember that day, some twenty years ago. You were training in the Que'tra Academy, I was on the diplomatic staff as a man at arms. Now obviously, some... complicated circumstances came up, unfortunate as they were, and you, just a scholar, you saved my life. Why?'

'Would you rather I'd left you there?'

'Oh, well no...' Calschtott realising the conversation had taken a darker turn, 'I just mean you put yourself in harm's way and we'd never seen each other before.'

'Must have been fate.'

'Oh come on, you don't believe that do you?' Calschtott enjoyed poking into Nazair's complex beliefs when he could, knowing his friend would take it well.

'I learnt many things in the priesthood, some of them I've come to regret. Good job I did though, right?'

'Thanks, I suppose.'

'You've said that far too often. I knew the risks, they wouldn't have lain a finger on me. Think of it as my contribution to diplomacy.'

Calschtott stood for a moment in the small porch, taking the interior of the familiar building in. 'And where has life taken you since?'

'I left the priesthood because I disagreed with the doctrine. I have always wondered about what is beyond our reach and how we may one day touch it, which to the patriarchs of the temple was blasphemous, they thought that if you messed with foundations of God's creation you were no better than a heretic. I cannot make scientific discovery if I am hounded by old men who fear your knowledge, restricting me from ever answering real mysteries: why the apple falls from the tree, why the snake bite kills, why water dries up in the river delta-'

'And why the Carthidium doesn't.'

'Indeed, things they wanted to assume God took care of. So I've been offering my services to various industries and traders, practising my craft where no priest can stop me.'

'And you've done well out of it?'

'Not entirely, my discoveries have mostly been quite mundane and often lead to me being kicked out for "wasting resources", but I can work metal well so I sought out various smiths and landed a job with the Que'tra militia armoury, but it was far too regimented for me.'

'Sounds like you're aiming for the clouds here, my friend. Wouldn't be surprised if next time I'd heard you had been looking for Zeius.'

'Zeius is a fairy tale for the children of Middenmark.'

'And your God isn't?' Calschtott teased.

The words were daggers to Nazair and Calschtott instantly regretted the quip. 'My God is as real as the sun that sets and the water that flows. I just haven't found him yet.'

At that point Calschtott heard a scrape from the room next door and small shuffling sound.

He eyed Nazair. 'You have visitors?'

'One, a man I came to know three years ago.'

'I'm sorry I didn't mean to keep you so long, it was just a flying visit.' Calschtott looked around for a moment and then turned back to Nazair. 'I'll go if you're occupied, I don't wish to-'

'No stay,' Nazair said, grabbing his arm in a hurry, eye wide with a certain fanaticism he'd not seen before.

Calschtott nodded, following his friend gingerly through the close confines of the house, finding himself in a room with a table and three chairs. The man who had made the noise stood up painfully from his wicker seat, wearing the same orange robes with his right sleeve longer than the left, his head also shaved and tattooed. Calschtott felt a knot in his stomach upon noticing these similarities between the stranger and his friend, keeping his opinions to himself getting harder by the moment. The man's back was bent over slightly, but he didn't look old, probably a few more years on Calschtott but not as many that age would be taking its toll. The stranger took a step towards Calschtott and offered a left handed hand shake whilst Nazair planted himself in a chair.

'So you would be the marshal that Nazair has told me so much about,' the man said, surprising Calschtott who had expected something closer to a rasp and a wheezy cough, instead finding his ears assaulted with softly spoken and strangely well-chosen words.

'Hello, I'm...' he felt the words taken from him, something wrong about man he looked at that evoked an old, primal fear.

A warm smile greeted him. 'I'm Sathamar. Come, sit down, we were just getting started.'

### Chapter 2

The humble house in which he sometimes lived was small but perfect for his needs. It consisted of a bedroom and a larger open space that could be anything from kitchen to lounge to meeting room with a spacious domed top that gave it a slightly unsettling echo if you raised your voice. The windows around the side had only small panes of glass that he'd scavenged over the years, meaning light could penetrate without the ever-present wind blasting its way through too.

On a sturdy wooden chair reclined Sathamar the wise, Sathamar the great alchemist, Sathamar the king's favourite.

Sathamar the exile.

He placed his scarred left hand on the left arm of the chair, reaching to the table for a tobacco stick and taper, lighting it in a manoeuvre that didn't have to include his shattered hand. His head rocked back and rested on the wall, closing his eyes at the sound of the peace and quiet, a rare moment for him in this busy world. He eased his legs out in front of him and stretched them out. He could feel himself getting older, every day was one closer to forty, but it was also one closer to the truth, if he could live long enough to see it.

A knock on the front door made his heart race, but he let Nazair get up to answer. He had tried to be less jumpy in the last few years, though his ordeal still scarred him, so he tolerated his peace and quiet disturbed. Nazair disappeared into the small hallway beyond and answered the door, Sathamar preferring to rest his aching bones, cursing his feebleness. Nazair had been gone longer than normal so Sathamar shuffled his chair closer to the edge of the room, listening for tell-tale sounds of trouble. There was a second voice, not a local accent, and his heart skipped a beat. Could the northerners also be after him? He plotted an escape quickly, the window to his right could be smashed with a jug and he'd climb out, or more likely fall out of in his current state. As he prepared to get up, he heard what sounded like laughter and stopped, straining to hear the conversation. It couldn't possibly be the man Nazair had mentioned, the one from Middenmark, some old friend of his.

Eager to know more, Sathamar grasped the sides of his chair and tried to lift himself up to get closer to the floating voices in the hall, wincing as he put weight on his right arm. He pushed down with as much effort as he could, making a slow ascent to stand on his feet. His arm slipped, he'd been too confident, and he found himself back in the seat pushing the chair back across the floor and into the wall plaster, kicking his feet in the vain attempt to stop himself.

Silence cut through air and Sathamar made the reasonable guess he might have caused it. He made out an apology and something else followed by hushed whispers. He imagined Nazair had been taken by surprise by this visit and if it was the northerner, then he'd probably end up inviting him in. Typical Nazair, his sentimentality made him weak, a weakness he had to iron out soon or three years of training would be wasted.

The door opened to reveal the curious stranger and Sathamar noticed he was still in his almost, slightly sand encrusted, white marshal's battle dress, a flat tunic with golden trim and trousers to match, spurred, black cavalry boots clanking across the stony floor. The tunic looked particularly inconvenient to pull over your head in the morning and the man wearing it seemed to be sweating from the journey. The sarcastic greeting would be 'I hope I haven't inconvenienced you', but he realised that might not start things off too well. Nazair was obviously still talking him into this because it took a while for the marshal to stop hesitating in the doorway. Strange land, strange people, but after some gentle encouragement he entered. The lord marshal made a move to sit at the table warily as the two exchanged wary introductions

'You can take your boots off.'

He stopped, looking cautiously at Sathamar.

'We don't bite. Not other humans anyway.' Sathamar managed a strained laugh which seemed to ease some of the tension.

Nazair closed the door and turned round to face the two now sat at the small table. The newcomer hovered for a second, wondering if he'd really done the right thing staying, looking suspiciously at Sathamar's robes and pendants.

'I'm Sathamar', he started. He'd hoped to avoid any awkward introductions. The less this white fascist across from him knew the better.

The marshal turned to face him. 'Lord marshal Hastur Calschtott of His Majesty's-'

'Yes, I know who you are, I don't need the full title.'

The marshal started, not sure what to say, looking to Nazair who had perched himself on another chair across the room from them.

'I didn't know he had a visitor.'

'At least you haven't come to arrest me then.' He stifled a laugh seeing that Calschtott was confused, knowing he'd better explain himself.'

'And people would try to arrest you?' Although only guarded curiosity, Sathamar could see the man was coming out of his shell. This was not good, he couldn't have another army interfering with his efforts.

'They would, and they have tried to in the past.' He thought how best to swing the conversation in another direction. 'That was a long time ago however and now-'

The marshal was faster than he'd expected and caught the warily glance Sathamar had made.

'You're a wanted man, aren't you?' But Calschtott didn't look at Sathamar, he set his gaze firmly on Nazair, his expression enough to communicate his disbelief that such a close friend was harbouring a criminal.

'Please don't be so judgemental of our mutual friend, if you'd hear my story you might think differently.' Sadly this was his best bargaining chip, if he didn't say something the idiot white man devil would turn him in.

Calschtott sat back in his seat and looked long and hard at Nazair who stared back the same. Then they seemed to reach a silent agreement.

'Tell me more.'

'I can't run that much anymore, the temple made sure of that, but I have enough helpers that I can be assisted from place to place. I was thrown out of the same institution as Nazair here, thrown out by my employers, my colleagues, my friends.' He could see this interested the marshal, even if he tried to hide it, the idea of betrayal in the military mind meant court martial, but in his culture he had seen the state destroy people's lives in the blink of an eye, leaving them for dead or removing them entirely.

Calschtott took this in slowly, Sathamar seeing that a couple of fabrications could be woven in to the story to keep him less suspicious.

'Do you have a question, marshal?'

'Well, no, I just wondered-'

'You're curious, curious how I ended up like this? I used to be up on the high-horse like yourself, our backgrounds might be different as Nazair told me, but you have yet to fall from it. I can tell you that nothing makes someone more bitter than their power being taken from them.'

Lord marshal Calschtott sat back, evidently unused to the blunt way of sharing information, wrapped up in years of officer training, but he tolerated it. Sathamar knew he was different, his mind was open but bogged down with doctrine and drills. A high born officer would not have stayed a moment, so whilst he was not comfortable with the foreigner, he tried to get along.

'How were you betrayed?'

'Like anyone else in my society. You make your own rules, you get thrown out. They didn't like what I was doing. They tried to maim me, Hastur-'

'Lord marshal, or Calschtott.'

'Oh but I prefer first names.'

'Then what's yours?'

Sathamar could not help but smile. 'You have me there.' He returned to the subject. 'They destroyed part of me physically, but I still stand for everything I believed in then and the truth is more valuable than any position.'

Nazair's eagle eyes flickered between the two like an interrogator watching witnesses in a hearing. So far he hadn't contributed to the conversation but stared purposefully on. Sathamar appreciated his dedication, he was a promising student.

Calschtott started rolling his fingers together like wrapping a stick, a hungry expression as he longed for a fix.

'Tobacco?'

The hunger was fixed on Sathamar now, like a baby to its mother.

'I know it's illegal in your country but I won't tell.' He offered an off-white roll to the lord marshal.

'Thank you. It's amazing you can grow this stuff out here.'

'That's the work of Carthidium, my friend. The magical belt of water and flora that by all rights... shouldn't exist. One of the most valuable resources on this planet. I understand that is why Carces was built.'

'In the event that your-'Calschtott stopped himself, avoiding a delicate issue. 'That the Que'tarn court made a play for dominion over it, we would be able to contest them and assure what is rightfully the king's gets to his kingdom.'

'Don't talk about rightfulness.' The hostility was sudden and Calschtott fixed his gaze dead ahead once more.

'Your king has no claim over it, nor does my home. No government can take what isn't theirs, nature is sacred and should be treated as such.'

Curse his quick tongue, he'd said too much, aroused too much suspicion.

'I was never implying it was ours, the king knows better, it would be shared.'

'That doesn't make a difference. You army types think you own it all. You own nothing and you know nothing, go back to playing toy soldiers.'

Calschtott's eyes softened and he exhaled slowly. Perhaps he wasn't completely stupid and hot headed and Sathamar regretted his verbal assault. He tapped out the stick he had been smoking on the edge of the table where it joined plenty of similar burns. A drawn out silence descended like a tree canopy blocking out the life-giving sun. Even Nazair made no attempt to intervene.

'Then...' Calschtott spoke up, 'what is your definition of right?'

Sathamar pushed his anger back down, staring at his feet stretched out in front of him.

'I believe the world is a shared place and the plants and animals of the world around us remind us of the dominance of nature. It survives, it thrives, it has so many mysteries, and it has given us life, made humanity so dominant and intelligent, and we should nurture it, not crush it or oppress it or own it.'

'And that's why you were... let go?'

'My superiors did not see the work I was doing as being either very productive or holy.'

'And what was your work?'

He was in deep now, and the hard frown developing on the marshal's face was the first warning that the conversation was starting to turn sour. He couldn't reveal too much. Damn that Nazair and his idiot friend. Time to wrong-foot him.

'If this is your way of delving into my old government's secrets, you're getting nothing. I'm used to your white ways of deception you all-'

'It's nothing of the sort, I am merely interested. Nazair clearly thinks you have something important to say or he wouldn't have invited me in, the political intrigue can be left entirely out. Besides, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, you may find yourself in high standing with the king for simply defying Que'tar.'

Sathamar thought long and hard, his thoughts spinning round his brain. How could he explain himself when it was all so complex?

'Lord marshal you have to understand that I am a very driven man and what I'm about to say may not make a lot of sense, but if you don't believe me then remember that my nation is hunting me for this knowledge, trying to suppress me at every turn, to keep the truth at bay. Everything you know about science is about to be turned on its head.'

'I'm listening,' came the hesitant response after Nazair had nodded to Calschtott. He had a chance, a chance to escape this God-forsaken hole and at least find some sanctuary in Middenmark. Or he'd now be hounded by two nations instead of one. Shit, it was worth trying.

'I worked, secretly, in order to...' How to phrase it? 'Advance mankind. A very bold statement, but hear me out. I believe I have found something great that underlies all of nature and I don't know what it is yet, but we, mankind and all the many species of this planet, are bound by a greater force.'

Calschtott looked baffled, not seeing merit or reason, probably on the verge of calling him mad. Time to offer an incentive, offer the bait.

'And if I gained asylum in Sarriont, your king could be the first to harness it.'

Calschtott made an attempt to interrupt but Sathamar silenced him with a wave of his hand.

'I know how it sounds. This is the strangest, most important thing you will ever hear in your life, but I believe that under all things there is a great power at work. The manifestation of God? Perhaps, or perhaps something new. It shapes us, it guides us, it changes us. The influence it has is more powerful than any petty bureaucrat or politician, no head of state or monarch can ever match its majesty, yet it has sat here for millennia and watched us, dormant but present. The very forces of nature, the wind, the rain, the plants, all are defined by the power of raw nature. It's watching us, Calschtott, but it can be a force for good in the right hands.'

Calschtott blinked and sat back in the creaking chair, staring blankly at the floor. It was rather a lot to take in, and Sathamar imagined he didn't believe him. After all, he was just a rambling man to him.

'But, if what you say is true, and this is "a force for good", then how come you're sitting here and telling me now? It's no secret that you don't trust a man of my colour, let's be honest.'

'The world is not a simple place, it is full of complex things and occasionally, complex people. My discovery of this natural phenomenon made others wary I was mad, but soon the court found substantial evidence to back up my claims. I was younger then, more foolish, and I brought the most significant scientific discovery before the court. The following day my workshop had been ravaged and the guards stopped me at every turn. Other colleagues avoided me and all my papers had been burned. I found my desk had one solitary note left on it saying I had been reallocated elsewhere and a coach was waiting for me outside, but I knew better than that and fled the temple. Plenty of people like me had disappeared in similar circumstances and I wasn't going to join them.'

'If it's really to be sought after, why would do this?'

'Oh they understood the importance, but you have to understand people are greedy. The full weight of my discovery was realised by the king's advisors and he had to have it for himself. If you, marshal Calschtott, if you could control the wind, rain and all biological matter on this planet, how long do you think your enemies would last? In my blindness I thought I could put this discovery to good use, the medical applications it could have, the power to repair things we didn't even understand, and it has been here all along. The power to turn mankind into a species that was resistant to fatigue, plague, hunger, thirst, even immune to death. Do you understand the implications of this? My work in the wrong hands would tear the world apart and without me around my king tried to recreate what I had. He couldn't of course, because he had burned too many of the papers. None of his chief scientists understood how to recreate my experiments, only I knew.'

Calschtott looked dazed for a moment before standing up. The thought of some kind of pagan witchcraft too much for him to believe in one go. Sathamar gently leant over the table towards where he stood.

'Would you like me to put things into perspective?'

'I don't understand how any of this matters. How does your obsession with this "underlying power" affect anything I am doing? The king would have you turned over to Que'tar immediately.'

Sathamar was disgusted, all that time spent explaining this was starting to look like a waste.

'Nothing is coincidence, Calschtott, we are shaped by fate, but if we know, we can shape it.'

'I don't understand what you're talking about, all I'm doing out here is sitting in a big fort all day watching a lake.' Calschtott sat down again, the confusion hanging over him like the puppet strings of fate. But Sathamar could see despite refusal the man wanted to learn more. They didn't get along, but Sathamar was a good story teller.

'Calschtott, listen. You and I both know the mystery of Carthidium, every nation that has seen it has always wondered how such a large body of water and verdant jungle can exist in such an inhospitable place. What did the king tell you? That you're guarding part of the nation's water supply? That your little dispute with Khan is because you can't share a drink? Understand me, please,' and Sathamar grasped Calschtott's arm, 'you have no idea how important this is to you. Your king has spies in the court of Que'tar, it's no secret, there are spies in Middenmark too. You don't think that such a large discovery and the waves it made in Khan's court escaped anyone's notice did you? Before king Sammael's coronation, just before old Thalmar's death, king Thalmar commissioned the construction of Carces to protect his end of the Carthidium belt. Thalmar knew of the power I had found and like Khan, sought to control it, believing he could prevent his own death. Unfortunately for him, he never found out, but his son, your right honourable king, was equally interested. Carthidium is not some sea in the middle of nowhere, it's the answer to every question I have asked.

Nazair remained still on the opposite side of the room and Calschtott leant back as if the barrage of words had exhausted him, focussing on the intricate patterns the setting sun made on the domed roof as bronzed rays broke up on the lead window panes. Sathamar understood the look Calschtott had. He was connecting dots, staring at the scattered shadows and trying to piece them back together, finding his place in the grand scheme of things, considering the other explanations. Calschtott rubbed the growing stubble and looked to his old friend.

'You believe all of this?'

Nazair ignored the accusatory tone. 'I know it to be true, I've seen it, we all have.'

'We? Who's we?'

Sathamar couldn't stop Nazair in time. He was a good student, but Nazair was also not ready to accept he now lived in a world of secrecy and had to guard his every remark. He knew what he'd say.

'The brotherhood of course.'

Calschtott's eyes were wide now. Sathamar was aware of recent political events, the stand-offs at Carces, the growing tension for control of Carthidium and the apparent bandit attacks. Oh Nazair, why did you have to mention the brotherhood?

The marshal hastily stood up. 'I'm late, I shouldn't have been here so long.' Pulling his cavalry boots on he eyed Nazair, a look that stuck with Sathamar forever, one of contempt at being made a fool of, and then he turned that look on Sathamar.

'You're mad, you're crazy. You think you can belittle me with your pagan fables and claim to be the centre of everything. Tell me what my kingdom does assuming I don't know better, you're a liar and bad one at that. Your fairy tales don't scare me. And your arrogance, to think we'd give you asylum?' Calschtott practically scoffed the last remark.

He had been close to getting on with Calschtott, very close, but his stubborn disbelief destroyed any hope of a friendship.

'You'll see soon, lord marshal, you'll see very soon. I'd watch your king a little closer if I were you, he knows far more than he lets on.'

A simple scowl was all he got in return as the door closed.

Calschtott's mind was a whirr of information. Logic and reason was turned on its head and he felt sick. Never had anyone insulted his intelligence so much and assumed they had such influence in front of him before. Sathamar was deluded, some madman who had alienated his friend. That was the worst bit, what if Nazair became some self-centred moron? Nazair had been like a brother to him in the past, an unlikely one but nevertheless a close friend, but putting up with this nonsense? Sathamar was dangerous. A maddened criminal hoping to take advantage of him.

Shuffling footsteps sounded in the sand behind him and he turned abruptly, hand on the hilt of his sabre. It was Nazair.

'What the fuck was all that? You didn't want to tell me you were in some wacky cult so you brought me to him to do it instead?'

Nazair held Calschtott's arm to stop him going for his sword, not even realising he'd moved his hand there, confused by the turn of events.

'It's not like that, you don't understand.'

'Damn right I don't, you should know better.'

Nazair's sigh made his friend who always looked so fiery and alive suddenly seem aged and worn out, the burden of trying to stay in the good books of two people, one his friend and the other his enlightener, now evident in his blank face. Calschtott felt sorry for him, taking his sweating palm from the hilt and approaching Nazair. It was getting dark and the desert at night could be an unforgiving place, he couldn't stay long.

'I don't know what kind of shit you're in, but if any of this is real do you know what this means? Both my home country and yours are almost at war over a stupid lake, and saying you're an exile from your country is a very convenient way of lying to the opposite side.'

He hated to talk to Nazair like this, and he snapped his head up. The fire was back in his eyes but this time it was directed straight at him.

'What? You're saying he's an agent of Que'tar.' Nazair looked disgusted. 'Sathamar may be a boaster but he isn't a liar.'

'Oh really? You know I was sceptical too, but all those raids, the men I've lost, it all makes sense now. Sathamar is a dangerous man, and I think I know why. They're all coming from him, aren't they? He's a fucking terrorist and even if he isn't part of the standing army he makes a good mercenary. Oh, you don't think he could do that, do you? Snap out of-'

Horrified at what he was hearing Nazair pushed Calschtott back to the wall, faces pressed up against each other with every sinew in Nazair's forehead poking out. His face was etched with hot blood and rage, but he couldn't strike Calschtott, no matter how badly he tried.

Calschtott grunted through gritted teeth while pinned to the wall.

'He's making it up, it doesn't make sense otherwise. There is no "nature spirit" watching over us, it's mental. He's the source, his madness about this damned lake makes him such a perfect mercenary for Khan. And what's worse,' Calschtott appealed, 'is he's been lying to you. You used to be so wise but what might you become if you follow the likes of him?'

But Nazair simply dropped him, letting him crash onto the ground, walking off into the darkness of nightfall. Calschtott hit the ground with a thump and groaned. Spitting sand out of his mouth he got up, brushed himself down and checked for bruising. He was now alone on the street and his thoughts came thick and fast.

Is he the ring leader? Why would he launch raids on Carces? How did this "brotherhood" come about? Was there truth in all the madness? Why was Nazair so convinced it was the right thing to do? What did "human advancement" mean?

Stumbling back to the horse Calschtott looked into the distance. The shadows of great trees could be picked out against the horizon. He didn't like to think it, but something wasn't right. Something in that mysterious place was calling to him and him...

The wind rushed past him and something small ran past his leg, jolting him forward, looking in every direction for some kind of assailant, afraid someone was trying to mug him, but the world was still again. Paranoia, he told himself, mounting the horse and setting off toward the torch-lit glow of the fortress.

### Chapter 3

Distant echoes were stamped out of existence to the tune of the click-clack of Calschtott's black cavalry boots down the arched corridor. Silent serfs and jittery clerks evaded him whilst guards in full battle dress made awkward, armoured salutes when he passed. There were rumours the king considered coming down to Carces within the month and that the council had objected on the basis that it was a risk to national security. For the fortress, the implications were much worse.

If the king visited now the entire operation could fall to ruin. He was still very much a newcomer to power whatever his supporters might say, so coming down here to visit during such a tense period may spark a war they couldn't win. He was known for favouring shows of strength and power which was exactly what they didn't need right now. Everything was quickly spiralling out of control and the events of a few days ago were now the favourite whispered rumours of the situation room.

Two guards flanked a large, embossed iron doorway at the end of the corridor and not another soul could be seen nearby. The surrounding walls and ceiling held friezes of ancient battles and heroic generals standing on the bodies of the slain. Today bred no heroes and Calschtott was thankful for that.

Two brisk salutes went up when he approached the doors and the guards pushed them both open. Calschtott silently nodded thanks and stepped into the awaiting meeting, regretting it more and more with every step. The more he had thought about it, the more of what Sathamar had said niggled at his brain. The man was insane and a danger to the world, but he had Nazair in his pocket, and Calschtott could not risk his friend. But maybe he had a destiny and maybe this territorial dispute went deeper than he knew. The strange things he talked about, they messed with his mind but why would a terrorist reveal himself like that? Most likely hot-headedness on his part. Now he had to convince the collective he to remove this Sathamar from his sanctuary fast before he could corrupt Nazair wholly, which normally was quite difficult, except this time they thought it was the best idea ever and Carces was on full alert.

'Ah, lord marshal, you grace us with your presence.' More poncing about from Vass.

Calschtott took the third high-backed chair of three facing into the great round table, the one to his right occupied by Vass and the one next to that left empty in the absence of Orrn, whilst other lower officers sat facing into the centre. The large table was strewn with various documents, maps and charts detailing trade routes, action plans and security arrangements, signed and stamped by the seal of both his and marshal Vass'.

'I couldn't miss something of such importance, especially not when I bring the news.'

'Indeed, and what fascinating news it is.'

The collection of officers, from captains to the odd general, quietened down and stopped their various conversations, now waiting like vultures to snatch up Calschtott's statement. They all knew what he had to say but only in the vague sense that he had acquired new intelligence on insurgent movements. The eyes turned to him like twelve traps on a mouse, eager with mechanical hunger.

'As you all know', he started, trying his best to be authoritative, 'the recent raids upon this fortress and the outlying camps have drawn much attention for their frequency and efficiency, but there has never been any evidence to suggest they were linked. However...'

He now had the choice: he could confirm all of their suspicions and denounce the ring leader Sathamar as a monster and a threat, no matter how preposterous it was starting to sound to him, and in doing so doom his friend Nazair to the witch hunts of the Southern Fronts Deployment, the worst betrayal of someone who had saved his life, or throw them a new bone, a different lead that would take them somewhere else and leave Sathamar's little cult of strange pagans alone, but if they were the aggressors like many suspected, risk them growing in number and strength, threatening the entire region and putting the nation on a war front if they ever attacked.

'...I have found that they all operate under a single banner.'

Hungry glares became heated debate. Calschtott had always denied that they could come from the same place, so why the change of heart? Men furiously floundered around, bits of paper in clenched fists as sceptics tried to counter the evidence with points of their own, shut down by those who said they'd known all along. Even a chair made its way backwards onto the floor in the mayhem. Calschtott stood up and planted both hands firmly on the table.

'Silence!'

A sudden void greeted him as all voices faded out completely, leaving them all staring at the marshal. For once marshal Vass seemed to not be throwing a venomous look at Calschtott, turning his sharp nosed face to the twelve officers, etching the scowl into their collective retinas. The men returned to their positions and peace was restored temporarily.

'I have made it known in the past that I believed the attacks were divided and erratic, but I have conclusive evidence now that shows my good lord marshal Vass was right all along.' He expected a snide remark, but this time Vass was cooperating. 'Let me draw your attention to this.'

He pulled out a folded map and placed it so they could see. It showed Carces on one end, the northern edge of the jungle and part of the water of the Carthidium belt, and just at the edge, circled in ink, was a settlement. They all fixed their eyes on this and digested the information as best they could.

'Three days ago I attended a meeting in secret with someone claiming to be...' How to phrase it? '...a government whistle-blower for the court of Que'tar. I know, it seems unlikely at first but in times like these the Que'tarn court is making enemies. Annexing western Carthidium, deploying troops on the borders, conducting covert operations against us, a nation at peace. From him I learned a great many things about the crimes his state is willing to commit and the source of the attacks.'

His rhetoric captivated the minds of the officers and soon all were sitting, almost open mouthed, listening to the crimes listed before them. He appealed to their hearts rather than their heads, knowing men of pride would be more easily swayed if their pride was hurt and duty was questioned. He had never considered himself a speaker much but he just spoke and the words came streaming out, and they sounded right.

'Lord marshal, excuse me.' A young captain from halfway round the circle piped up, a querying look etched onto his brow. 'You have always been against this idea, why...' the man flustered, 'all of this?'

'Upon examining the situation first hand I've noticed a distinct pattern in the attacks that previously was so well concealed it appeared random. You see we've all been fooled by a very formidable organisation, not to say it comes from Que'tar itself, no, but a group of dangerous sympathisers have been taking the opportunity to cause damage and encourage a war that may not be feasibly won. The group themselves have not made themselves or their name known, but I can assure you if we don't move now I can only imagine Khan will take advantage of this.'

More quiet gossip rose from the gathered officers and Vass turned to Calschtott and whispered in his ear.

'You know I've never held you in much esteem, but I congratulate you, Hastur, you make... a good speaker.' Vass' eyes betrayed a thieving look and Calschtott was convinced the marshal would attempt to steal as much of the glory as he could. 'I'm glad you understand I was right, we can start preparations as soon as we are done here. Let's squash these insurgents before they can strike again.'

The words were oddly soothing and something Machiavellian stirred in his heart. They say power corrupts, but they're all wrong; power turns your lies into truth.

The arrayed officers were nodding in agreement now and all gradually turned to him for guidance. Spinning his lies and embellishing the truth, the reality dawned sickeningly upon him; Calschtott had doomed the only friend he had in this blasted desert to death and all over a petty rivalry with an old man. He had been consumed by the situation and the reality was harsher than he could take. A blizzard of thoughts and emotion whirled around his brain, consumed by the burden of duty and the debt of life to his friend, hounded by the voices and responsibility, but one thought escaped the maelstrom and landed squarely in front of him: he could still warn Nazair. Betrayal or no, he had a chance to save his friend.

'Err... right, council adjourned.'

The abruptness caught them by surprise.

'Go.'

'Lord marshal, we haven't discussed-'

'I am aware we have not discussed the preparations, but that can be done later, I need some time for my own preparations, as I'm sure Vass does too.'

Vass looked puzzled when he was mentioned though he decided to nod along with Calschtott.

'Indeed, the lord marshal is correct. Dismissed.'

One by one the meeting dispersed taking with it papers and maps and documents, grumbling back to their various offices and lobbies, leaving the chamber eerily silent. Vass had got up and paced around the table, likely already planning his first glory grab. Calschtott heard silence for the first time since he'd entered the room. Now he had the feeling of absolute control, and he couldn't give it up. Military action simply to save a friend he barely knew anymore, he couldn't believe he was doing this.

'I hope you're right, Hastur.'

'Don't worry, I'm certain.'

The sun was at its zenith over the scorched desert and not a living thing stirred on the sand. The trees were still and the plants static, the rich mud below their feet was soft to the touch and the scampering wildlife hid deep in the brush.

Two pairs of sandal-wearing feet passed by unnoticed as the Carthidium jungle grew around them.

'That man is dangerous.'

'That man is my friend.'

Nazair, when will you see the bigger picture? He thought to himself. Sathamar had bigger plans for him but at this rate he'd spend all his time trying to squeeze the last of his moral objections out.

'He gets in the way of everything we stand for. The man commands one of the most powerful armies in the world and you think he's going to just ignore us? What were you doing letting him in on everything?'

'Cal knows me better than you think, we've shared a lot of history, and he's a careful man. He doesn't like what he sees but he's not evil.'

'That so? He seemed fairly rash then, quite impulsive. I don't trust him.'

'We'll just have to live with that.'

The pair continued in silence and Sathamar took the time to embrace his surroundings. The trees spoke to him, the shrubs whispered to him, they were more alive than ever and he could feel it in his veins like roots pushing through flesh. It disgusted the human part of him to think like this, but he knew he was more than human now. Things were accelerating, he was running out of time. The Great Plan would go on ahead of schedule.

'Nazair, you make a very promising apprentice to me, but I think it's time we took things further.'

He studied his companions face and waited for the confused remark, but it never came.

'I had wondered what sort of secrets you'd been locking away.'

'Not secrets, we're not conspirators' tutted Sathamar.

'You know what I mean. You wanted to test my dedication. Well, here I am.'

'You need to know that everything we have ever worked on is leading to one ultimate goal: to make this world a better place. You and I both know that the answer lies in our environment.'

Sathamar gestured to the vines, saplings, fronds and foliage around them and a breeze picked up around their ankles. Bushes seemed to stir and shadows lurked in the tops of canopies. Sathamar perceived this as nature's song, lighting a path to freedom.

'You are aware of the experiments I have conducted personally. We have such a resource and we can make good use of it. How much progress have you made?'

Nazair turned his left arm over and pulled back the robes to reveal a forearm that at a glance, a man might mistake it for hideous necrosis. But Sathamar could see beauty in it, laced with wooden blood vessels and barky skin. It melded pink, raw flesh with deep greens and browns of the forest, haloed in an orange glow of earthy light. What was left of the flesh could be seen to be in flux, changing slightly over time as small pores opened and roots burst forth to bind with the skin.

'I have followed in your footsteps.'

To Sathamar this was a masterpiece of design. The curves were so natural and the knotted lumps of trunk and bone that poked through the surface reminded him of the truly random aspect that perfection took. He examined the grooves and nooks with care and pulled back his own sleeve. His arm had the faint red glow of autumn sunset and had grown more than Nazair's, but Nazair was younger than he was and his had formed better. Where Nazair had long strings of unbroken grain Sathamar was left with warped and stunted channels, more knotted lumps and thick roots.

His face lit up when he saw something scuttle across the surface of his companion's arm. Something microscopic and fast, but definitely what he thought it was.

'You have it! The seed has sprouted with you, oh this is wonderful.'

'I nurtured this for five weeks. Initially I had doubts, but this place contains wonders and secrets that you opened my eyes to.' Nazair was like a proud child showing off his newly learned walk. But to Sathamar this walk was just the first steps of something to be refined.

'You know the complications of doing this, and there are a few skeletons in the cupboard because of this research, some things we can never admit to, but I have been working on making the next move.'

Nazair was listening and the trees seemingly bent over to hear what Sathamar had to say.

'We have a duty to the world to make it a better place, and I have devised a way of doing so. What we and the other brothers have done is huge for us, but we cannot lead mankind to a better future in symbiosis if we cannot pass our gifts on.'

'Of course. And how do you plan to do this?'

'We need a fresh host. We need a tribute.'

### Chapter 4

The dingy chamber was invaded by the assaulting scent of incense burners wafting their aromatic smoke through the atmosphere, tickling his sinuses and circulating around his head. Devilish shadows played out like puppets on the wall in flickering candlelight, casting prophetic images from ancient fables and forgotten riddles. The heatwaves radiating from the wicks tickled at the hairs on his skin and tried singing his broken hand, but Sathamar welcomed it, not flinching, enjoying the sensation. No sound permeated the walls and all he had for company was the faint and vacant ringing in his ears, his tune to take him past the mortal coil and into the unknown. This was the one thing he had omitted to tell Nazair, his little secret.

He had made sure that he was completely alone and had locked himself in the chamber. Time ceased to exist within the blank walls and he couldn't tell if it had been minutes, hours or decades, but his first indication was the taper sitting upright in front of him burning down. The smoky haze puffed up into the air, alerting his smell to its dying breath. He opened one eye cautiously like a sobering drunk realising he couldn't fly, gradually extending his right arm to smother the remaining blackened end. If he remembered correctly, the last stage was coming to a close. His hand scrabbled on the ground for the ashes, remaining cross-legged and static with the rest of his body as if shackled by an invisible force. He kept scraping but the ashes fell off his fingertips. He cursed them running away from him and resorted to shovelling them between his nails, scooping them up and placing his fingers on his left arm. The next bit hurt, but every time he dug deeper with the sharp tips the more of the ashes found their way into his gnarly, petrified arm. Amber-red fluid ejected from the wounds and collected the smaller fragments of ash in a waterfall of sticky resin. The nerves that still worked on his shattered hand screamed out in pain and Sathamar winced in barely contained agony, resisting the urge to pull his fingers out of the cuts he had made. The yellowish liquid oozed around his forearm and dropped slowly onto the stony ground.

Sathamar was in exquisite pain, his only reward for it was his absolute belief that this was progress and necessary sacrifices had to be made. He began pulling his fingers out when the pain stopped, and he wondered for a second if he had gone too far. Adrenaline was rushing about his stomach and his heart rate jumped, his arm suddenly alight with vibrant sensation. His senses tickled like an ecstatic fire had been lit inside his body and was clouding his thoughts with dark smoke, a dark smoke that made him feel he was expanding, filling with all the good thoughts in the world and expanding to fill the room. His brain was a ball of gaseous ideas and emotions all running round in circles and he felt detached from them. His thoughts were floating away from him and he couldn't reach them, he couldn't move, he didn't want to move. Everything was so serene and right and he felt nothing.

His vision was alerted to something when a black spot moved in front of his eyes, but he couldn't tell what it was because the room was darker than before and the candles had got up and moved. Was that possible? He was vaguely aware of spinning debris and on closer inspection the ashes in front of him were coalescing into a hurricane of obsidian-dark wind, the shadows peeling off the walls and forming a black corona like a huge mantle of un-light. Then he saw the candles again, their recognisable pillar like flames were rising high into the air and meeting another upside down candle above. Upside down? They flickered in and out of his view like a wind had blown them out only for them to light, getting longer by the minute until they formed two rows of sharp flames held somehow stationary amidst the whirling maelstrom of black scaly matter spinning behind. And then Sathamar blinked, or thought he blinked, and for a moment, just a second and no longer, he saw exactly what he was looking at. He caught glimpses of dark carapace and oily skin covered in leaking pores and stretched over a ribbed skeleton. Yellowing teeth rose like mountainous sabres of ivory and eyes the colour of bright sunlight glared accusingly. Great spines of ridged spikes were arrayed along the back of the midnight exoskeleton and ended in a curled tail of monstrous length. He couldn't count the clawed feet, maybe it had two, or four, or a thousand. For this brief moment the devil himself had risen from the ground to confront him for his sins and he questioned everything his research had taught him. Then, it was gone and the dark, gaseous and whirling combination of light, dark and ash engulfed his senses once more and he was again disembodied. He knew instantly what this was.

Many people cry when faced with such undeniable truth of great power, but Sathamar didn't think he could. He felt nothing, his head was light and his senses were in flames, so he just tried to look back at the leviathan staring him down. He wondered if it could speak like that or if all of this was just a disembodied staring contest and just as he tried to ask...

'Of course I can speak,' the cosmic creature replied to the thought still embedded in his mind.

Sathamar was still in light shock, unsure if he was sat in a room or entering a new world were nothing had form.

'To you, my dear Sathamar, the world looks different, am I right?' The voice spoke with gravitas and authority, deep and slightly bestial but in charge.

'I... you... you're-'

'I am ethereal, Sathamar, I am corporeal and that is all you should know. I represent everything you have striven for,' the candle-teeth said, revealing the empty void behind them out of which only an icy wind emerged. 'I have waited long and you have answered the call.'

'The call? My fellow people... the humans, mankind... no one has heard the call...'

'On the contrary, you found it, didn't you?'

Of course, all his work, coming to fruition.

'But you... don't exist like I thought you did.' He tried speaking as officially as he could, but his light-headed dizziness would not let him.

'You have not seen the greater picture yet, my apprentice, there is a lot of work ahead of you.'

The image was never clear and he did not know if it was all in his mind or the two were having just a normal conversation. Was his mouth even moving? Did it even hold form? The candle teeth and hollow stare were just illusions, were they not?

'What are you?'

'I am many things and one, all of them too complex for you to understand at once. The truth hurts, Sathamar, my apprentice, but over time I can ease the burden until you know it all.'

'Do... d-do you have... a name?'

The wind-form of the creature rustled at this point and he thought he saw the candle-teeth form a grin. He stared deep into the vacuous throat and unwittingly his mind triggered an old memory, a primal instinct to run and hide. It was as if he had known this face before any other, yet he could never remember seeing it.

'In the past I have gone by many names, cultures as ancient as this rock itself have always known I existed. The way of humans has always intrigued me when I have paid attention, your ability to venerate superstition and revere the unknown is spectacular, so I have always had a place in your history.'

'B-but how... how would I know what you are?'

'Your home, Sathamar, the place you called home, Que'tar, you have a local religion where you pay tribute to a being you know only as "God", and a heathen you know as "The devil". Everyone knows of these figures, and you'd go so far as to say no one knows what they look like, but really you know it's wrong, don't you?'

It used an almost mocking tone, teasing his knowledge of the world and turning everything on its head.

'Yes... the world knows... I think, they know of you... but, don't...'

'As has every civilisation that ever lived. I am locked at the centre of societies spanning all of history without a single soul realising I exist. But then you, little Sathamar, stumble upon me one day.'

He considered the facts and it all added up but for one detail.

'How you speak... I mean... how do you, how...?'

'Speak your language?' He perceived the form in front of him in flux for a moment, like a dream melting away. 'I don't speak your language, apprentice. You all speak mine.'

The icicle gusts of wind wrapped their spindly fingers around what he thought was his body and he felt like his spine was in the process of freezing over. Small streams of ice flared up on the nerves of his left arm and the shock was so palpable it warped all he saw before him. The candle-teeth blew out and the wind dissipated, the room suddenly lighter, then instantly back to the grimy darkness and long, columnar teeth. He was aware on the surface that not all was as it seemed.

'I hope that didn't shake your perception too much, little one. Oh dear, and I hope you aren't really thinking that.'

The thing made a movement that suggested discontent but when something was formless it was hard to track its movements.

'I do not exist as you see me now, dispel that thought now.'

His mind was clear of wrong thoughts and Sathamar focussed on what he thought was ahead of him.

'You do good work, apprentice, you have brought people to this cause since your enlightenment and I detect you have plans far greater in mind, but do not lose sight of the goal. I have reached out to you with great effort and a ritual such as this is hard for a mere human to perform.'

'I... I understand, your...'

'Your master.'

'But don't you have... a name? And I don't... don't mean God or devil.'

'I am a figure of myth to most, but yes, a couple of names have stuck. I am sometimes known as "Mother Nature" or "Raw Nature" amongst others, but one stands out which has come to be my favourite.'

'What is that?'

'"The Maw".'

'The name struck like a jagged dagger in Sathamar's mind, ancient memories lifting from his brain like boulders defying gravity, spinning past his eyes and around his head until he was in a complex solar chart, him at the centre whilst his thoughts became planets revolving in perfect synchrony in his orbit. He realised that he was staring at the ultimate vision of perfection, but that whilst he knew it was there, he could not focus on the details.

'Perfection is what you want it to be, do not get distracted by desire, I am subjective now but if you succeed you may learn some more of the truth. Though even now I sense something is wrong...'

Sathamar tried to concentrate, hoping to think like "The Maw" did. He was taking baby steps into a new world.

'Good, you try to understand like I do, good, very good. Now focus, there is something happening in this instance close to here. Keep searching.'

Sathamar cleared his mind of shades and hurricanes and shut the light of the candles behind a curtain of blank thought. He saw something vague in the distance and focussed. It was a light, like a tiny image. He tried moving closer but could not and was frustrated by this.

'No, do not move, the world waits for you now, Sathamar.'

He stopped trying to move and instead tried the opposite. He saw the image and ordered it to come to him.

'Excellent.'

The picture grew, but it was dark and grainy and the edges were obscured by something he could not focus on. Sathamar tried to focus on the background objects but his eyes slipped over the cloudy features.

'Ignore the details, you cannot see them. All irrelevant information has been purged, focus on the important aspects, immerse yourself, step inside.'

Sathamar rejected the peripheral objects and focussed on the two pillars he saw, drawing himself closer to the world forming around his hazy view. The two pillars were coming into focus, one covered in ornamental white and gold with a pink top and the other in red and orange with a brown top. As he drifted into focus he noticed the pillars had individual limbs and knobbles and even hairs, and it dawned on him that he knew both of the pillars by name, one of which he despised greatly.

'This conversation is taking place right now and I think you need to understand what is happening. Enter their world.'

Sathamar felt his form being pushed and then he was falling, falling, falling onto the stone floor of a place he recognised.

A bitter chill rushed through the room and Calschtott felt cold despite the heat outside.

'That was cold,' and he hugged his body for warmth.

Nazair stared at him like he was mad.

'Cold? I haven't opened any windows yet, are you sure you're alright?'

'Oh, well, I don't know.' Calschtott fumbled around for a moment, wondering how to put impending and very sharp imperial doom into words. 'Look... I need to explain...'

'What?'

Nazair looked suspicious now, the look he had given Calschtott the night outside the village. Nothing good came of that look and Calschtott knew he was to blame. Nazair started pacing slowly back and forth over the tiles, scratching his left arm beneath the robe as if by some unconscious habit. Then he stopped and blinked like he had only just noticed. Calschtott cleared his throat.

'Look I-'

Then Nazair was suddenly furious and smashed his hand onto a table.

'You did it! Didn't you? You fucking spineless wretch you did it.'

Calschtott raised his arms in defence and backed against the wall.

'I... no wait... look please-'

'It was always the same with you, good fucking intentions all the time but you play the resident state lap dog, always trying to save your own skin.'

Nazair's narrowed eyes spat spite at him like venom and he just stared in horror at the enemy he had made. He tried explaining but Nazair stopped him.

'Don't fucking try,' the fist swinging in the air like a dart making to find the bullseye.

Calschtott ducked and rolled over the stone tiles until the table was between them. Nazair swung over and Calschtott went down on all fours, clambering underneath and crawling between the chair legs. He felt something grasp his foot and he was pulled by immense strength out from under top. A kick made for the side of his head but he grabbed the leg and swung it over him, causing Nazair to lose balance. It gave him the opening to get out from the table and stand at the other end of the room panting, trying desperately to find something he could defend himself with.

Nazair rubbed the back of his bruised head. 'Fucking traitor... you'd give up your best friend for your upstart king.'

'No you don't see, please I want-'

The next lunge came faster than he was ready for, just dodging in time to see the fist crack into the wall. The impact left a crater of plaster and stone and Nazair winced as he pulled the fist back.

'We don't need to do this!' Calschtott tried reasoning whilst evading further blows and thrusts. 'I'm here to help, I screwed up in a moment of weakness but I had no choice, I can save you though!'

He dodged another swipe and battered another punch out of the way.

'But I can't save your friend.'

Nazair stopped and Calschtott wondered if he suddenly understood him. The next blow however convinced him he didn't, but Calschtott was ready and grabbed the arm, surprised at the notched surface beneath the robe, but with no time to think about it he pulled Nazair off balance and his friend went careering into the floor. His friend was still for a few seconds and the floor was wet with blood, Nazair's nose was dripping with it, set at an angle it wasn't meant to be.

'Arrgh... you cowardly fuck... you come back after six years to betray me and him and the brotherhood to save your own skin, you act on your misguided impulses and look what happens. I should have left you to die.'

Nazair made a lunge through the air, not put off by the broken nose weeping blood all over.

'There was nothing I could do, but please, leave that fool Sathamar, come with me and you can be spared my stupidity, I-'

Nazair's flying punch never made contact with Calschtott. He tore his sabre out of the scabbard, a last resort, and slashed it across the air in hope that it would be ample warning.

Nazair's left forearm hit the ground with a gentle thud and the rest of his body crashed next to it, groaning in agony. Calschtott's rash actions had once again condemned him, there was no way he could convince his friend anymore. He watched open mouthed as the person who understood him more than anyone in the world lay in a heap moaning in pain at the wound he had inflicted. And then Calschtott saw it, the severed limb which he expected to be flesh and blood, was very different indeed. The tirade of madness Sathamar had spoken was now presented to him with undeniable truth. A hybrid of tree and shrub infused with flesh and oozing pussy amber blood, it sat accusingly on the tiles, dented and knotted, and Calschtott just gawped, eyes fixed on it in sheer terror at the symbol of betrayal to his best friend and biological monstrosity leaking onto the floor. Only now, after this grave act did he believe everything Sathamar had said, and that made the man all the more dangerous.

He made for the door, shooting a look back at Nazair who was rocking back and forth in an attempt to sooth the pain. He could never go back, not ever. Calschtott the coward, soon to be Calschtott the murderer.

A cold breeze spun Sathamar out of the picture and he flew through a void of absolute nothing until he could make out between the spins the light of candles. His mind was awash with anger and hot blood at the sight he had just witnessed, his greatest student betrayed by the foolish white man, the dangerous white man. Was he ok? Could Nazair get out? More to the point, where was he going? Sathamar kept floating through clouds of lost thoughts and collected emotion, deep red scars opening in the dark void. He was consumed by hateful passion and rising emotion, disgusted by the events he watched unfold. He thought he caught a glimpse of a voice but he couldn't remember who was talking. Candlelight flittered in and out in the distance like a great set of jaws closing behind titanic lips. Just for a second he felt like he had been watched, but he knew he had been alone all the time, or he felt like that. Nothing was certain and all he could see was in flux, thoughts torn from his mind and recent memories pulled away from him by an imaginary storm, the wind plucking the recent events out like blood from a wound and he fell, the red scars widening, his head getting smaller, squashing his enormous brain and making him feel claustrophobic, the world was waking up around him and he felt a great weight on his shoulders, realising it was his head. His spine felt crushed and his legs ached from stiffness, cold icicles melting in his body as a red scar opened wide enough to fall through, the black mist vanishing and candles rising on top of their wax in front of him, the shadows receding and the smell of burned out ashy incense tickling at his nose.

A sudden feeling made him tear his eyes open and his left arm felt like it had a thousand tiny feet scurrying on it. He snapped his head down to look and was amazed at what he saw. His left arm, the one Khan had personally smashed, was straight and perfect, all the fingers moving with precision and dexterity. Whatever trace of movement he felt left no signs as he examined the woody surface of the now repaired arm.

A candle flitted and blew out and he remembered the room he was sitting in. There was a marking a few feet ahead of him, a circle of burned ash like the pattern left by a sandstorm when the cyclone dissipated. He was puzzled that any wind could have penetrated down here and distinctly remembered he has only briefly scraped the ashes. But bigger things were afoot now and he stood up. The fluidity of his movements threw him off guard, his legs were suddenly strong and muscular, no longer shuffling for great lengths just to cross a room. He could run, jump, sprint, his body enhanced and repaired. He felt his ankles searching for what he thought might be there, and there it was: a faint, grooved texture encased his lower legs. This meant hope, his suspicions were right, and if his old body could grow again, so would Nazair's.

Sathamar blew out the candles with his distinctly cold breath and stalked out of the chamber in a way he hadn't been able to for years. It was time to act, they had exhausted all possible peaceful alternatives, and now he would take the world by force, starting with Carces.

### Chapter 5

'...And the king continues to show complete disregard for his men's lives as tensions continue over the hotly contested Carthidium Belt...'

The voice floated up through the darkness and into the open window to lord marshal Calschtott's chambers. He knew by the acoustics that it was coming from the courtyard, so considering the time of night it could only be the crier making his way around the fortress spreading his anti-war propaganda instead of real news. The direction things were going at the moment left Calschtott sleepless enough at night without being quietly scorned by journalists.

'...Meanwhile the king himself plans a visit to Carces in wake of these attacks, a bold move that has become characteristic of his rocky reign so far...'

He put down his quill and pushed back the chair. It was past ten in the evening and he found it impossible to concentrate with a sneering loud mouth below hiding his scorn behind perfectly pitched lines. He made pained steps toward the door, eyeing his damned sabre that lay on the chest of drawers. He hadn't touched it since yesterday and could not forgive himself for what he did. The door opened and he poked his head around to face the guards in the corridor.

'Excuse me, you two.'

The two faced him and saluted.

'Could you do me a favour? The crier's outside my window again spreading his filth as usual, would you mind showing him out?'

They both looked like they wanted to object but didn't know how. They all hated the crier.

'I know it's not protocol to abandon the post like this, but I promise I won't tell.'

'Yes sir.'

He watched them stroll down the hall to the west-wing staircase, then shut the door behind him. The babble continued to float up into his window and Calschtott returned to his desk to finish the routine supply report and stamping of various documents that needed executive approval. Ever since the fight he had been haunted by the feeling he was being watched and found concentration was impossible. Something felt wrong. He tried eating and things tasted bad, he tried sleeping and was plagued by bad dreams, he tried writing but could not get simple ideas down. Reading made him sick and exercise made him dizzy. He imagined these were in part reactions to the state of shock he was still in, but something still didn't add up, he just couldn't put his finger on it.

A knock at the door pulled him back to his senses and he answered saying he wasn't busy. A young officer, captain of some division he wasn't so familiar with, stepped into the room carrying a note of some kind.

'Good evening, lord marshal, I was sent by lord marshal Vass.'

That intruding ponce. 'Good evening, captain Fars, does our esteemed marshal have some dirty work for me to do again?'

Captain Fars emitted a short and high pitched laugh. 'Err, no, my lord, he wishes you take a look at the proposed preparations for the king's visit soon.'

Calschtott started reading through the list and the tone outside changed. A short stream of exaggerated outbursts popped the bubble of silence in the room, followed by snatches of insults and threats, getting quieter and quieter as someone was shuffled to somewhere else in the fort. Captain Fars opened his mouth ask the question Calschtott already knew.

'The crier,' the marshal said, not looking up from the list.

'Ah.'

'Everything seems in order, though I do have one question: the throne room, I saw it a week or so ago and it's not finished. Will it be in time?'

'Well I am afraid we have had trouble with the builders, my lord, they insist getting materials down here is difficult.'

'Of course, well hopefully it is in a state of usability for when His Majesty graces us with his presence.' Calschtott handed the list back. 'Yes everything seems in order, thank you, Fars.'

'My pleasure, thank you, lord marshal.'

Fars strutted out of the room and pulled the door shut behind him. A good officer, young but down to earth. Hopefully he did not get promoted too fast and deteriorate as power went to his head. Calschtott returned to writing and felt the feeling again, except this time less secure. He'd sent his guards down to the courtyard and it may be a while before they came back. Still, there were plenty of them running around the keep this evening anyway so he wasn't alone, even if he felt it. He returned to work and stamped through a couple of requests for equipment.

The silence shattered into thousands of tiny pieces at the sound of breaking glass down the corridor. His senses were instantly alerted and his hair stood on end. Judging by where he was, the closest window outside his room was fifty feet away. It could just have been a clumsy guard on patrol, but Calschtott's gut said this was worse than a case of accidental damages. He grabbed the sabre without second thought and quietly unhitched the door, peering one around in the direction he heard it. No one was around but he could see shards of lead-lined transparent material underneath the window as if it had been smashed from the outside. How was that possible? This floor was almost ten metres high. The corridor was deathly quiet and Calschtott could hear his heart beat in his chest. He couldn't see a rock or other object nearby, which told him the assailant had broken it themselves. It was him and someone, somewhere.

His feet padded lightly on the thick wooden boards, as lightly as cavalry boots could pad. He noticed a number of directions they could have gone and looked for any sign. There, on the floor, in the direction of tower staircase, Calschtott could make out something wet picking up the lantern light. The intruder had stepped on a piece of glass and was now leaving a bloody trail behind them. Like breadcrumbs, breadcrumbs that were red and tasted of iron. If the assailant was barefoot, then Calschtott had a very good idea of where they in the world they came from. Had he just made his own lie come true?

He followed the trail down the corridor towards the doorway to the spiral staircase, passing as quietly as he could, hoping there was another soul about so he could attract their attention. Was this the only break-in? It couldn't be, what would be the point of going alone? He'd find out soon enough anyway when someone raised the alarm. He was careful to keep to shadows so as not to add his own and risk being seen. The door was ajar and just as he reached go through he heard a small grunt and froze. There was someone behind it and it sounded like they'd stopped to examine the damage to the bleeding foot. Problem was, Calschtott didn't know if they had gone up or down the stairs, so he unsheathed his sabre and battered through the door.

Calschtott glared up the staircase, expecting to find the man sitting trying to pull the glass out of his foot, but instead was faced some empty steps. He turned to look down the stairs and found a dark skinned man looking quite shocked to know he was discovered and the two were locked in dumb eye contact for a moment.

'Err...'

The man wasted no more time, lunging up from his position to land on top of the marshal. He fumbled with the sword and fell backwards onto the boards, the pair of them rolling around together, bashing into the walls as they went this way and that. Calschtott managed to get a knee up and pushed as hard as he could, unseating the attacker and sending him flying back down to the floor.

'Oi! Hey! Up here!'

Another thrust collided with his side just as he had got up and they both went to the floor again. There was a rain of blows as the robed attacker tried to beat Calschtott into submission, but he hadn't got marshal for just sitting down all day like some of them and he fought back, using the momentum against him. Punch after punch missed and Calschtott kicked up, sending the assailant flying towards the lobby stairs. He could hear the sound of jangling boots approaching from the ground floor and Calschtott took the opportunity to use his better knowledge of the keep to his advantage.

'Oi, I'm here!'

The orange robed man had recovered and was charging at Calschtott. He feigned a brace and ducked at the last minute, going up to grab the man by the shoulders from behind and pushed. The attacker went tumbling down the stairs head first and landed noisily in a pile at the bottom, broken and bent, halting the rapid advance of soldiers who stopped abruptly to avoid joining him in the heap. Calschtott's breath came thick and fast and he stared at the act of cruelty lying below him, then to the soldiers looking sheepishly at him.

'Well come on! There could be more of them,' he ordered, running down the stairs and beckoning them to follow. The got out of the lobby and proceeded towards the courtyard when they heard shouting and three more breaking windows. From the looks of it the rest of the fortress was only just aware of the attack and that the man he had fought on the landing had probably broken his cover too early. Calschtott and the guards ran outside and into the inner courtyard, staring up at the walls high above. He could see multiple breakages and heard shouting and clashing metal and crashing furniture emerging from within.

'Split up, we'll cover more ground. If you must, kill them, but we need a few alive to know exactly where they operate from. Move.'

Calschtott took two with him and they entered the southern wing, responding to the call from the second floor. As they entered, the shouting and fighting got louder, new crashes being added to the mix coming from many different places. Calschtott suspected they were vandalising the place to create the illusion of many, a tactic he'd used back in the days of the siege battalion. Sow confusion and disarray to hide your true numbers.

They moved closer towards one of the chambers where the noises were coming from and stood either side of the door. One of the guards kicked the door open and burst in. They were confronted by a surprised looking man in orange robes tearing down shelves from the wall who had paused his display of anarchy in shock that he'd been found so soon. Something was slumped over the bed and Calschtott knew the body as Captain Fars, the officer's own weapon poking out of his back and staining the white and silver tunic red.

Both guards braced and Calschtott pulled out his own sabre, blocking the doorway and closing on the man. But he gave no second thought and pulled the shelves down in their path, stalling the approach. Calschtott watched on as the intruder pulled himself up onto the windowsill and without hesitating, made the fifteen metre jump to the ground below. The marshal ran to the window as fast as he could and peered out, spotting a robed form in the darkness below running across the courtyard. Somehow he had survived the fall, but Calschtott had guessed how. He'd seen the same markings on the man's skin as he had on Nazair's, the sickening pulsating flesh augmented by some form of parasite that seemed to turn his skin to wood, some kind of strange experiment that allowed these people reach greater achievements than a human of flesh and blood. But his luck had run out as Calschtott observed his path being suddenly obstructed by four guards. He may have trans-human endurance but Calschtott could see he had little if any training for fights, getting cornered and murdered by their brutal efficiency.

He moved away from the window and signalled to the guards the man had not made it out alive, going to the corpse of Fars. Only ten minutes had passed since this man was spreading his youthful glow through his chamber, and now all that he spread was entrails and bodily fluids. To Calschtott there was some morbid beauty in the way his corpse was slumped face down on the bed, legs dangling onto the floor. It was like a tragic accident, but he had died in a comfortable shape. Not that any of that would convince the family back home.

'Come on, I don't know what the hell is going on but this ends tonight.'

Calschtott lead the way out of the room and onto the darkening landing, making for the stairs when two figures dashed up to meet him. He wrenched the sword out of the scabbard and thrust for the necks, but stopped not a moment too soon as they both stopped in fright, worried faces lit by torches. Sergeant Marit and an attendant faced him.

Calschtott put his sabre back. 'My apologies, Marit, I'm jumping at shadows.'

'Of course, my lord, as we all are. What's the situation here? We heard shouting and intercepted a man who fell from the window.'

'Jumped.'

'Excuse me, lord?'

'He jumped,' Calschtott explained. 'They can do that, these people, look never mind that, we've dealt with it all up here, though sadly there was a casualty. Captain Fars is dead.'

Marit's face looked gaunt at the news. 'That's terrible, he was so highly decorated. A general in the making.'

'Indeed, but we must get moving before we lose more of his like. How is everything out there?'

'Well at first I thought it was an isolated case of vandalism-'

'Three hundred feet inside the most secure fortress in the world?'

'Err, well it does seem ridiculous, but I soon found that this is happening all over the keep. The barracks hadn't seen or heard anything and only the keep is under attack.'

'How many? I think I met the first one, he blew his cover too early and ended up cutting his foot on the glass.'

Marit searched his thoughts as they descended the stairs to the ground floor annex. 'Eight windows in the south and west wings, my lord, I cannot confirm for the other two but there could be more in hiding.'

'Unlikely, they're breaking the windows and entering from such a height to make a statement. If they wanted to sneak in they would have done so without us knowing. The king is right, this is war on terror tactics and not nations.'

'Understood sir. We'll take the-'

And then there was a smash to their left and a small object flew through the window. This was not in keeping with what they had seen, so what kind of surprises were in store? Calschtott observed as it curled through the air it was a globe of transparent glass with something liquid sloshing around inside as well as two jagged objects. He wanted to call the mechanism crude but both the design of the bauble was exquisite and he only had time to shout...

'Fire!'

It shattered into a million shards, the liquid within spreading all over the rug. Calschtott knew what would happen next, imagining the friction sending sparks flying all over the oiled carpet. The entire thing went up in flames and the five of them went sprawling over the boards in an attempt to get away from the licking flames. Hot teeth of fire snapped at the air and devoured the rug in ravenous greed, each fibre a new morsel to burn up and cough out in an ashen pile. In the hunger, the fire spread to the floorboards and moved slowly, the lacquer having to melt before a floorboard could be consumed.

They got up and didn't pause to brush themselves down, running for the end of the corridor in confusion and alarm, shouting others into action and making it known that the fire was moving. The cultist who threw it, as Calschtott had come to know the various robed figures as, saw this opportunity and leapt through the window he had broken, screaming in frenzied rage at the men he'd tried to burn. Calschtott threw a look behind him as he ran and saw the mad figure running straight at them, right through the flames as though they were merely clouds of harmless vapour. But his robes snagged on the bending boards and caught light in the feasting flames, tripping over onto the boards untouched by the fire, scrabbling to free himself by instinct even if he had some capacity to resist the heated forks. But the boards he lay on had finally had all the lacquer melted off and quickly joined the growing furnace, engulfing him, kicking and screaming, in the burning debris.

'Lord marshal,' Marit said, tugging at his sleeve. 'We need to go.'

Calschtott tore his eyes from the grisly spectacle and nodded, continuing to run further away from it. News spread faster than the fire and soon water from nearby kitchens was being brought up by guards braver than he in order to hold the fire at bay. At this stage the fire was probably containable, if it wasn't put out soon the chemical-fuelled flames would most likely dissipate almost entirely as it didn't have enough wood to burn before the next floorboard was ready to light. In this case, Calschtott thanked the architects dearly for their attention to detail.

He started panting and held his hand up to signify he wanted to stop to catch his breath. The fortress was awake now and the bees were swarming out of their hive to deal with the intruders, ensuring that soon enough the guards reported that not a single cultist had escaped their reach. It suddenly hit him that after all the excitement and death-defying escapes he was tired, so he leant in front of the only non-broken window he could find to rest his aching joints. This was going to cause a lot of drama later on and if his suspicions were to be confirmed, start a war they could not afford. He knew where they came from and felt suddenly terrible. What if Nazair had been among them? Would he ever know? If he had been he'd surely be unrecognisable. But he couldn't be, no one could have recovered from losing an arm like that. The memory hurt even more and he tried suppressing it. Nazair was in on this whole affair, and he was deep. What if he could regrow entire limbs? He wanted to be sick but realised that now was not an appropriate time.

Marit was still standing by his side ten minutes after their trial by fire organising the routine security checks for hidden insurgents and getting clean-up details together.

'My lord we're checking every inch of this castle, if more are hiding they won't be for long.'

'Good... excellent work... we'll find them.'

'Are you ok, my lord? I can escort you back to your chambers.'

'A good general shows leadership no matter... how tired he is.'

'Very good, my lord. It is unlikely more have stowed themselves away but it will only take an hour to sweep this place thoroughly. We're beginning to sort out the mess.'

Calschtott pulled himself together, every bone telling him it wanted to rest.

'What about the casualties?'

'Sadly we lost a number of good men, I can't say for certain as I'm only working on scraps, but... maybe nineteen personnel in total. Four of staff and fifteen army, two of whom were junior officers.'

'Captain Fars.' He resisted the urge to shed a tear at the turn of events, how mere accidents and disagreements had severed his friendship and driven nineteen or more people to their death. What would follow could only continue the horror, this would play very badly amongst the War Cabinet and strategy meetings. Vass would be calling for war and the king, when he did arrive, would likely follow through. If only he could show them the truth.

'Very good, sergeant,' he started, wiping his eye discreetly. 'We'll see that vengeance is rightly delivered.'

'Most certainly my lord, and I...'

Marit stood open mouthed and stared out the window. Calschtott thought the man must have seen a ghost until he realised the much more obvious reason. He turned and glimpsed an orange robed figure on a rope, swinging with one foot outstretched towards the glass. Calschtott raised his arms and tried to dodge.

Glass exploded in slow motion and broke mid-air into minute fragments, spraying across the corridor and bouncing off the floor. Then everything went black.

'...You are sure don't remember anything after, my lord?'

Lord marshal Calschtott placed his hand to the bruise on the side of his head. Concussion, but nothing worse. Lucky for him he had a thick skull.

'No not really, people keep saying that like something miraculous happened.'

'You were incredibly fortunate, my lord, you landed on top of me which may have saved you from a possible broken neck.'

He smiled at the thought of Marit being so selfless as to protect him. 'That certainly is miraculous.'

'No my lord, the amazing thing was how you grabbed him afterwards and pulled him down and kept him there until his arrest. Are you absolutely sure you don't remember any of this?'

'Well honestly no, but I'd love to believe I did it, eh?' Calschtott laughed, unsure if this odd detail was true or just to make him feel better for being so incompetent as to stand next to a window.

'He was the last one, my lord. If anymore wish to come out and disprove it, we're ready.'

The man's optimism was the best medicine he could wish for and was glad to have some company instead of just the presence of his nightmares of Nazair breaking a window in order to strangle him. Much of last night's events were a blur and the most vivid images were the breaking glass next to his head and the corpse of poor Captain Fars.

A knock disturbed his brooding. Of course, it must be mid-afternoon by all accounts.

'Come in.'

A slightly ragged but healthy looking guard entered carrying a scroll of some sort with a wax stamp at the bottom. The man looked like he'd been given the king's personal wishes from the way he held it proudly. Oh no, it wasn't really happening was it? Of all the things this was the worst.

'My lord, developments are taking place downstairs and a reception party has already seen our most honoured guest His Majesty into the fortress.'

Calschtott wished he had broken his neck last night because nothing could more inappropriate in the current state of affairs than the bloody jumped up kid-king turning up on his doorstep. And what a time to get here.

'What excellent news, my good lad. Is that the king's own writ?'

'Indeed my lord,' the guard smiled back, his self-interested smirk evident on his tiny lips, so engrossed by his duty to His Majesty that he forgot to give the letter to Calschtott when he stood up to get it.

'Ah yes, my apologies, lord.'

'Thank you, you are dismissed.' If only to get rid of his smug little face.

The man looked horrified that he didn't get to stay for the reading but Calschtott knew he would have read it on the way over anyway. Besides, didn't he have a fortress to be fixing? As he slipped sulkily out Calschtott scanned over the immaculately hand-written paragraphs, picking out individual words such as "duty", "honour" and unfortunately, "war".

He made a sideways look at sergeant Marit.

'Looks like you and I have somewhere to be.'

Even in its unfinished state the throne room of Carces was magnificent in size, even if the hanging tarpaulins and scaffolding left the interior design wanting. A second floor existed higher up in the vaulted ceiling in the form of two walkways flanking either side, a balcony stretching further out of each one for observers to look down at the proceedings below. Large sections of unadorned marble had tapestries lying next to them waiting limply to be hung up whilst unfinished sculptures had been shuffled to one side of the room and placed under sheets, making them look like bad ghosts come to life from a children's story. Even with the occasionally missing tile and only half finished dais, the central throne emanated a sense of authority so that those who sat on it wouldn't need to, which was a good thing since the king was too young for anyone to believe he had any. It must be hard being king in your early twenties if people do what you say but can't take you seriously.

Calschtott entered through the wide archway and strutted as purposefully as was possible toward the central throne, bowing low as the king paid notice to his arrival, then joining one of two sides where the arrayed audience were lined up at either the left or right of the throne so the king could turn to face either one.

'Lord marshal Calschtott, the hero of the hour by most accounts and the hero that this nation needs.'

The king reclined on his throne as he noticed Calschtott nod his thanks.

'Your Majesty, a surprising visit for us all, but all the better you're here.'

He had the urge to chew his words up before they came out and spit on them, but despite the urge he stayed composed in front of possibly the most powerful man in the world. If Sathamar hadn't found a way to become more than that already.

'I always thought a show of strength was what kept this nation so formidable. Middenmark is an old kingdom and we don't keep it together by just sitting idly by.'

Nor do we keep it strong by going to war with every fucker who throws stones over our wall.

King Sammael the Second brushed his straight blond hair back into place on his fringe, always obsessing over his looks yet retaining the same round and ever so plump face he had had since childhood. Calschtott had only seen the king in some War Cabinet briefings and on a couple of state events, having dealt with his father Thalmar a little more in the past. He had to admit to himself that he was never fond of Thalmar or his pretentious son, but Sammael occasionally astounded him in a few speeches with moments of brilliance that all leaders should show, moments of wisdom that belied his age. Even if he was given some of the lines he was cleaver enough not to swat them away for patriotic drivel. So he wasn't fond, but he had some respect for the king.

'Indeed, your Majesty, and in times like these shows of strength are becoming ever more popular.'

A couple of lower officers shuffled around at the veiled poke of Sammael's key view, but the king himself seemed unfazed and even slightly delighted that someone would challenge his viewpoint.

'It's interesting that you still think this way, and perhaps we'll never shift you from that mentality, but matters are urgent and time is not on our side. Down to business gentlemen. To ensure our friend marshal Calschtott is up to date, I think we should cover the results of last night's intrusion.'

The king looked pleased at the information he was going to give out, as if it had been he who personally was put in charge of damage control during the chaos.

'Apart from some blatant vandalism, damaged property and the unfortunate loss of so many lives, nothing was taken from the keep. However, the surgeons in the outer-wall medical wards reported a broken window this morning, and apart from a couple of battered instruments, they don't believe anything was taken either, odd, don't you think, consider that part of the fort was supposedly left untouched.'

Sammael clapped his hands after this. 'All junior officers and staff, you are dismissed, this is now a War Cabinet meeting.'

Various officers and other servants and stewards filed out of the side doors and main archway leaving Calschtott with lord marshal Vass and generals Ghaer, Eroscont and Tarella. The mood of levity and surprise that had crowned the room before fell to the floor, usurped by a mood of foreboding and angst. Sammael pulled a bitter looking scowl and the young man inside him came out. His goblet crashed to the floor in a brief fit of temper, bouncing down the steps to land dented and warped at Vass' and Calschtott's feet, residues of earthy wine leaving splats on the marble like head wounds.

'The council in Sarriont are harassing my staff for comment on the status of the potential war front down here and I sense that at least half do not think the "War on Terror" makes for either an excuse to deploy here or a reason to not be at war officially. Half of those who doubt it want war and the other are utterly against it, but none of them believe it's a just reason to be... sitting here and waiting.'

He held his head in his hands and sat still. Calschtott would have pitied him if he hadn't already known what he'd say next.

Sammael the Second lifted his head and planted his arms firmly in his lap. 'Which is why we are going to act now, I cannot appease both any longer without risking some sort of mercenary action to provoke conflict. Gentlemen, war is foreseeable,' eyeing each one in turn until fixing his accusing glare on Calschtott. 'There's been too much pussy-footing around from all of you, and I was glad to learn before I departed for here that you had all made progress in locating the terrorists and marshal Calschtott had been gracious enough to even provide a map. Finally, a fucking improvement, a development I have been waiting on for six weeks. It has taken six weeks for you all to reach a unanimous decision. Six weeks. Six weeks of battling the incompetent council without even marshal Orrn to blind them with military details. I even sent Vass down here, but look at all the good that did. I am not going to be the first king to surrender to Que'tar when their armies come knocking on my door, because you know who won't back down? Zor Khan, that's who. Sato's bones, pull yourselves together, you're an army, you fight people, and right now I don't care whose but I need to go back with someone's head on a fucking plate!'

In the following void no one spoke up and Sammael stared them all down. Calschtott had an urge to step forward and defy the king, to tell him all the terrible things he'd had to put up with and the attitudes he couldn't shift. He wanted to explain the nature of the society he lived in that made cooperation impossible at the same rank and how ridiculous Vass and his staff had been. But he knew what would come of that, and if he did he'd only look the fool and likely end up being mentioned by every crier in the nation: "marshal stripped of honours after Carces ridiculing!"

'Your Majesty...'

Feigned relief was plastered over Sammael's face.

'Oh round of applause, the esteemed Hastur Calschtott is doing his job. Surprising though, Calschtott the pacifist, first to step forward. I'm ashamed in all of you but you, Calschtott, you may yet redeem yourself.

In Calschtott's stomach he felt a sudden knot tighten like the noose at his own hanging. He'd rushed into another decision, another ill-thought, head strong moment. But this one was different, and it was truly out of his control. Calschtott became dizzy and practically managed to mouth the king's words before he said them.

'Lord marshal Calschtott shall get the honour of leading the offensive on the "War on Terror". Our spies, using the map you provided, have managed to track down a potential base of operations within the fringes of the Carthidium jungle nearby the location you met that whistle-blower. Extended surveillance has shown that the people occupying this area wear the same orange robes, the very same that were here last night. The rest of you will deploy on the sands in front of the fortress, we're showing strength now, and I will leave you tomorrow morning.'

Sammael seemed almost pleased he was finally getting to action his favourite policy with blood, and he leant forward on the foreboding yet unfinished throne, sending a look at Calschtott he would never be able to forget.

'Marshal Calschtott, you will take your best men and storm the place tomorrow. I want all of them dead.'

In the flickering cave beneath the jungle the robed figures moved about on silent business, making preparations for the unspoken event that would live on forever. Two shadowy figures convened in a side corridor and spoke in hushed voices like the world was watching from their doorstep.

'Is it ready?'

'My dear friend, Nazair, if you have brought what we need then we will be ready soon for the biggest advancement in mankind's history. The world will know and accept the destiny laid out for them. Tomorrow the preparation shall be over and the end stage can begin.'

Between them Nazair held out his cradling arms and handed a bundle wrapped in cloth to Sathamar. Just as planned. He didn't realise he was doing it, but Sathamar smiled a candle-teeth smile.

### Chapter 6

The blazing morning sun hung over the team as they made their way across golden dunes and jade grass. The sun was hot and heavy in the sky but the atmosphere in the canopy was cool and wet. Snaking vines and fronds hung like inanimate tentacles and leaves the size of frying pans held enough water to last you half the day. The gentle buzz of animals and insects was often associated with the peace and harmony that nature bred, but to Calschtott it was a dirge of unnecessary noise. He hadn't slept at all through the night and had wondered if by doing so had psyched himself into a grim and focussed state. "The king's executioner" he had been called that morning, striking back at the insurgents to show the might of the mailed fist of Middenmark.

Calschtott the avenger, Calschtott the betrayer.

They stalked silently on, pushing past shrubs and bushes holding innumerable flowers of intricate patterns and colours. The jungle got deeper and thicker the further they got, when soon every ten metres would take twice as long as the last. Sunlight stared accusingly through the canopy when it could penetrate with its diamond hard rays, but so far the layer of trees proved to be resilient to all the great ball of fire could throw at them. The foliage seemed to grow so dense that Calschtott was tempted to turn back and face the wrath of failure until a pathfinder sent the signal to say "we're here".

Squeezing out of the leafy prison, Calschtott emerged in a glade surrounded by trees possibly hundreds of metres tall, impossible to see much further than twenty as the leaves spread out to claim dominion of the air and a freshness that told him they were very close to the lake itself. Chirping noises echoed downward and guided the marshal to a circular structure in the middle of the glade. It was like a small bump in the ground with a door into the earth sunken into the earth, built for single file passage into a tunnel that might stretch out for miles. If they were lucky, it took them exactly where they had to be. Despite the grim mood, Calschtott imagined it was exactly where he wanted to be. He was going to end this, for good.

Sergeant Marit approached the doorway first, moving gingerly in case of hidden traps or loud mechanisms, but found the entrance was left open, by design or by invitation, no one wanted to guess. None of them were what Calschtott would describe as superstitious, but the journey down the dark stone passages with only dim torchlight to lead the way certainly conjured up images of fairy stories about daemons being banished to the dark places of the world. Calschtott was almost expecting to see skulls leering from the wall, turning in place as the empty sockets marked his passing, but nothing adorned these passages but cobwebs and creepers. A smell of something faint hit his nostrils as they went deeper, getting thicker the further they went and he realised it was the same smell as the one he knew from passing the fortress kitchens on a hot day, piles of meat off-cuts that couldn't be saved and bones strung with fat, rotting in the sun's angry glare. Fetid and plague ridden, it hung like a disease until he was convinced he had entered a tomb.

Sathamar rose to the central altar. All his tools had been lain out before him as per request and he inspected each one individually. Long, spindly instruments of all shapes and sizes, holders and flasks sat in a wooden frame. But the jewel of them all, he thought, running his hands over the smooth surface, was this magnificent transparent bauble. Encrusted in a casing a thin glass there floated many bright green objects, turning round in the sphere whilst he held it up to examine. It was going to hurt, and there would be sacrifices, but it was worth it.

More of the cultists glided in respectfully of their leader as he took his place on the altar, forming a ring by the sides and waiting humbly until it was their time.

They had passed multiple passages on the way down into the rock, but Calschtott trusted his nose more than anything and moved toward the rotting meat smell. The tunnels were getting wider but the feeling of claustrophobia only heightened as they went down as if invisible hands were pressing into his sides and crushing him into a ball.

Armour and equipment lightly jangled by their sides and they slowed down as they left the nexus of tunnels, coming face to face with a double door and two side passages left and right. With a stealthy wave of the hand, the marshal ordered them to fan out down each one. The stench was intrusive, it was everywhere. Nothing could indicate more clearly that beyond these doors was the man himself. Was that chanting? He could hear all sorts of strange whispering passing through the lips of the people inside and didn't want to guess what they were saying. He'd passed multiple side rooms while coming down, hung with all sorts of plants, vials of curiously bright liquid illuminating the dark.

He brought six men with him to the front entrance and he pressed his ear against the door. From what he was hearing, they were right on time.

Sathamar washed his hands in the basin of cleansing Carthidium water and beckoned the crippled Nazair forward. Impressive, considering he had lost an arm, and yet it was already growing back in the most beautiful way. Notches and grains dug into barky flesh, tiny pores opening on it all the time as the arm lived and breathed by itself. To him, this was the ultimate goal, the perfect symbiotic relationship.

Nazair climbed the stairs to the top in reverence. The ritual was also ceremony, since nothing of this magnitude had been achieved before and Sathamar was shaking in his excitement.

'I made sure it was the right one,' Nazair started, taking the bundle he held and passing it into Sathamar's waiting arms. It seemed Nazair understood the goals well, another perfect tribute from his favourite apprentice. He placed the bundle in cloth down and closed his eyes, the rest of the brotherhood doing the same, heads bent in prayer. A cold wind began to sweep around the chamber, whistling past his ears and making hairs stand on end. He knew the wind now and welcomed the cold touch, raising his arms high above his head as though appealing to the stars.

Then the double doors burst open and Calschtott's butchers marched in.

As they swung open the smell was so strong he felt he had to swim through it. They had ended up in a circular, domed chamber at what must be the centre of the complex. Vines and plants grew down from some parts of the ceiling and stretched down to the floor, giving the appearance of plant-like walls separating various areas. The ground was probably stone, but he couldn't tell from what sat on it. Intricately folded structures of coloured tissue spread across the floor all the way into the chamber, arranged painstakingly in a way that made them spiral towards the middle. Underfoot they crunched like snow and would fly a few feet into the air if anyone ran through them. It all culminated with one dais right in front of him at the chamber's mid-point, rising a couple of feet above the ground on naturally hewn rock built to form a circular stairway all around it. There was a large slab of rock that formed a table, patterns he didn't recognise drawn into the side that looked far older than any language he knew. Somehow, a chill wind was penetrating down here and started rustling the tissue and the robes of the attending cultists. And there, the crown jewel, Sathamar the madman, arms to the heavens and chanting his pagan tune.

All eyes snapped to the door and Calschtott looked to his left and right. The rest of his men had ambushed the cultists at either entrance and they looked equally surprised to be interrupted. Sathamar himself had stopped staring at the ceiling and looked down at them maniacally, his great shadow almost too big for him in the candlelight. Without a single word, the robed cultists took to the air and spun high above the armoured knights.

Chaos ensued.

Fights broke out all over the chamber between the agile cultists and stalwart knights. They moved like the building wind itself and sometimes Calschtott glimpsed them disappear almost entirely as if carried off by the breeze only to land elsewhere. They were unarmed but had fists like iron, blows denting armour and snapping shields, ducking under sword thrusts. One of them even punched right through the breastplate of a knight, but his hand became caught in the jagged mess and the final act of the man in armour was to spear the attacker on his sword, the pair falling into eternal sleep on the paper floor. The air was lighting up with floating pinpoints of green energy whipped along in the circulating storm. He fought off the robed figures lunging with their green limbs, snaking vines extending to grapple weapons out of his belt. He even observed one who had some kind of ability to move objects short distances, tearing the swords and shields out the grips of soldiers.

Everywhere was a melee and it felt as thick as the foliage outside the cave. Calschtott bent and rolled to make his way through, dodging strike after strike, at one point being pulled up by a soldier thinking he was one orange-clad enemy. He spied his destination and made full speed to get there.

At the eye of the storm it was like a bubble, the effects of the outside world could not penetrate in here and in the peace and quiet his task continued. Various vials were opened and poured into one great big flask, swirling in its own little maelstrom. The candles flickered in the growing wind and Sathamar felt as if the shadows they held at bay were closing round him, taking him into a nothing place where they had come from.

A figure moved in the corner of his eye and distracted him momentarily. He looked around to see what he had missed and spied a man in white in the brawl below. Calschtott had come to exact his kingdom's righteous fury, but he looked different this time. No more soppy eyes, but a hard set, grim determination. The marshal got closer and closer, like a different storm of its own controlled rage, adrenaline and hormones held up in a case the shape of a man. This was the first time he'd ever felt respect for the man who continued his purposeful advance, he had will and strength that Sathamar had underestimated.

The ritual was not complete, the storm was only half built and the bauble still lay on the table. He eyed the white fury heading in his direction and became rushed, spilling precious fluid onto the rock and mixing measurements. He fumbled for a tube to contain it but it smashed on the floor, picking another further away. His hand fumbled, the elixir going down the side and into the vial at the same time. He was running out of time and the shadow of failure was holding his legs now, moving gradually up his body in dying candlelight. The maelstrom wailed and howled in persecution at being held in such a tortured state, writhing to be free of a curling storm. He imagined he could see grimacing faces set into the air currents, accusatory glances and stares all focussing on him. But work continued messily and the elixir was ready in double time, if not in the correct measurements.

There was a fluctuation in the hurricane, speeding up and slowing down. Small arcs of electricity sparked amongst the clouds above and shocked metal tools, touching Sathamar's back lightly as his skin channelled the energy. The half-finished liquid was the best he could produce in such short a time and he poured it over the altar. Sickly washed out green oozed like diseased amber from a pox-ridden tree and enveloped the altar in front of him. The wind roared its approval and urged he went faster. The candle flames grew taller around him like the stalagmites in a cave and the last ingredient was added. Sathamar was in awe of the globe and the floating green dots, they whirred and fell so gracefully he was convinced they might be alive.

The tornado was at its strongest now, the wailing and moaning at the loudest he had heard. Calschtott was close to the altar and would climb the steps shortly. Sathamar held the bauble in one hand and raised it to eye level, holding it up for a second. He plunged his hand into the rock and the glass shattered into his arm.

Calschtott pushed a robed maniac to the side. As the fighting slowly went on and Calschtott's men gained the upper hand, each opponent became more frenzied, like an undetectable pheromone had whipped them into a hysterical state. Pulling his sabre free of the commotion Calschtott found himself at the centre of the room, facing the dais. The mad Sathamar could be seen at the altar, his form distorted by powerful winds that tugged at his tunic, holding his hands to the stone with his head bent down, looking so quiet and serene.

Calschtott seized the opportunity and ran for the steps. The steps were like a challenge, the next harder than the last as the wind pushed him back the way he came. It screamed in his ears like a warning and made him stumble up. It tore all the control he thought he had of his limbs and made him fight his own weight, his muscle tension trying to keep his own mass from falling back down. He wanted to scream but he gritted his teeth. If he screamed he felt like all the energy would be drained from his mouth and he'd just be a withered husk, lying ironically on the steps so close to his objective.

He forced his way up the mountain. The wind hit him like a wall and Calschtott wondered if the air itself was making a concerted effort to throw him back. He thought he saw a mouth of yellow teeth for a second but saw only candles being tugged at by the storm. The altar was only a few steps away but each new one seemed to take a hundred years to climb, eroding under his feet like the rock wanted him to stop.

A shape loomed up through the gale and Calschtott looked into the eye of the storm. A hunched figure with his left arm held high and right arm drooping low, blood dripping from broken skin, had emerged out of sight. Calschtott hadn't noticed another figure on top of the altar until he looked into the eyes of the man. Two empty sockets had opened where his eyes should have been, or his pupils were so unnaturally large that all he saw was black, and Calschtott was faced with what was left of Sathamar. His dark skin was withered like a prune and the scalp of his bald head resembled dried, cracked mud, all traces of hair gone. His bony left hand stretched out to point at Calschtott and his wizened face contorted in rage, lightning from the storm crackling down from the roof, through his spine and out of his eyes, shooting out of his arm. Calschtott raised his gauntlets in self-defence and at the moment he stepped into the eye of the storm the electric bolt hit him. His weak body was pushed back at the whirling maelstrom but the strong gusts kept him inside the epicentre, refusing him passage back out.

Sathamar, or the withered thing in his place, kept trying. They channelled more and more power through the arm and Sathamar began to mutter and cackle, now so clearly in the grips of insanity but with no will to let go of his power. The two could have been locked in eternal conflict, Sathamar draining the power of the storm and Calschtott deflecting it with his gauntlets, but he remembered Sathamar's words on destiny and fate, choosing this moment to believe in what he'd ordinarily call nonsense. He gripped fate by the throat and made it his.

In an almighty effort and shout Calschtott pushed his arms out wide. The resulting feedback going in the opposite direction, hurtling towards the undefended Sathamar. He tried to scream but the pulse of electric power fried his arm and continued to jolt down the rest of his body, falling backwards into the maelstrom.

From his vantage point he had watched the battle take place and the storm build and subside. He had heard the monstrous cry of pain the wind seemed to make when it suddenly dissipated and strange mutterings Sathamar had made when he was dragged down from the altar steps, crippled but alive. In the resulting moment he had taken the chance to go down there and steal one thing left on the altar and he held it close to his chest like a precious gemstone.

He watched in horror from under his hood as he saw the remaining victorious knights pull Sathamar down to the floor and make him kneel. And he uttered a silent scream when Calschtott stepped in front of the prone form of his master, lifted his sabre high and made one clean sweep downwards. In the moment before he made his escape Cal looked up and two made eye contact.

Calschtott knew the deed was done and stared around the chamber. All he could see anymore was death, and having witnessed so much of it before he thought he might finally be immune to the galling feeling of murder. But each body, each face, was another skull whose sockets would stare at him accusingly for as long as he lived. The ultimate betrayal and the most obscene bloodshed that he had executed today told him it was time to hang up his badge and medals. He may have caused some kind of evil witchcraft to end, but no pagan ritual stopped would ever make up for the senseless loss of life. He hadn't looked when he beheaded Sathamar, he couldn't bear to see the now ancient looking figure so vulnerable, completely in his power. That kind of power, over life and death, was one Calschtott thought no man should have.

Silently he ushered them to split up whilst he stood over the body of the arch cultist, his men taking the dead into the tunnels for a proper burial, friend or foe, human or trans-human. He stood grimly for a moment and heard a spark. Looking up he saw the height of the chamber was still slightly charged, the atmosphere there looked unstable. They'd be out soon enough anyway and return for the ceremony, what heroes, eh?

Calschtott the defender, Calschtott the devil slayer.

He didn't know how, but something forced him to look up. There was a small passage he hadn't seen before, and in the darkness of the alcove lurked a figure with his hood over his head, cradling something in his arms. As the figure made to leave he turned his head and Calschtott was face to face his oldest friend once again, locked dumbly in place whilst he watched the man leave into the darkness of the small tunnel.

Something else fizzled out and then there followed a barely audible pop and everything went completely white in the last moments, Calschtott wondering if it was an explosion.

### Epilogue

The sun-baked dunes collapsed under foot and melted away as he frantically ran down the slopes and up the banks of each one. Shit, hot on his heels, had to run faster. It was vital he run faster. Thoughts spun through the matrices of his brain at a thousand miles per hour until the only thing he could process was the endless desert ahead of him.

Another dune plateau crumbled underneath his boots and he went hurtling down the sheer side of the sand-structure, plummeting head first and rolling down the steep slope. His pursuer hadn't reached the lip of the dune and the fall likely had given them a bit of distance.

He had left the Carthidium jungle alone, no memory of what happened after the sudden, white light. He had ended up in the desert... just running. Running was all he knew, it was the only thing he could do. He thought back to his history lessons a long time ago, the desert runners were the first mammals to exist in the deserts of the old world. He felt like one now, running from glaring sun with a madman in chase. His feet still moved and whilst they moved he was safe.

I suppose the ultimate question now is really, was I right? Was what I did really for myself or was I an agent of something else entirely? I cannot begin to guess the answer and pretend I knew, because it felt right when I did it. Looking back though, I understand the concerns the marshal had. Trans-humanism isn't exactly something we all take to, and I made mistakes in my approach.

My part in the great change was insignificant. I bore the blessings from birth maybe, but the events that unfolded are a merely a precursor of great things to come. The world will forget me but my legacy lives on in unseen ways. That movement in the corner of your eye and the extra shadow under the door. My agents are everywhere, hidden in plain sight, watching the world turn day by day, preparing for the inevitable ascension.

The favourite son did the best he could, hiding the precious cargo well. I failed now, but all it means is victory will come slower than planned. For the non-believers, time is running out. Embrace your fate and become like me, or risk what path may be chosen for you.

Breath came thick and fast, heart pounding in his chest like it wanted to burn up in a fountain of ash. His body felt alive and his blood boiled in the excitement. He'd never been so free, never in such absolute peril, never had his life on the line. He felt like an animal in the grips of a predator, making a foolish attempt to escape knowing it would ultimately end in death. But instinctive instructions kicked in and he made every possible effort to stave off death, if only for a bit longer.

The man crested the next dune and kept running, faster now he saw his destination in sight. The lights of distant Carces called to him from across the sands.

61

