The morning sun was halfway to its noon position as the four of them – under [Stealth] – approached the Temple, the rectangular structure dwarfing the army camps scattered all around it. The camps were a hive of activity. Soldiers in linen shirts and tied shorts sat on rocks jutting from the ground as they polished their armour and weapons. Others sat together talking and laughing as they shared a late breakfast. Some were using the latrines on the northern side, in clear view of the rest of the camp, though thankfully, the light breeze in the air was carrying the smells towards the north. Others walked among the tents, looking for friends to play a game of marbles or cards.

  Around the perimeter, near an invisible wall, soldiers patrolled in groups of six-to-eight men, staring out into the fields beyond, though Lyla could tell they weren’t focused. Why would they be? They’d been there for nigh on six months and the last they knew, the Rhianians had been routed. The patrols were just going through the motions – badly, at that – secure in the knowledge that they were out here alone.

  Her eyes flickered towards Elliott on her left. She almost sighed. Not that she cared for the soldiers in any way, but it almost seemed cruel that they had no idea what they were about to face.

  Elliott stared straight ahead, eyes looking beyond the army camps and the banners fluttering in the wind. His eyes were on the wide marble stairs and the massive entrance at its top, as tall as the fluted marble columns that held up the barrel-vaulted roof. It was wide enough for fifty men abreast, a whirlpool of colour spiralling towards a point at its centre.

  “The ranked soldiers and the leaders will be at the base of the Temple entrance,” she said, a thumb stroking the hilt of one of her daggers. The hilt was black obsidian, covered in leather, grooved to exactly how she liked to wrap her fingers around it.

  “Will they have any Starforged?” Isabel asked, walking on the other side of Elliott. Elsie was perched on Isabel’s shoulder, soundlessly cricking her neck and flexing her knuckles.

  Lyla shook her head. “The Empire didn’t send any with their men here, and the Order don’t have Starforged.” After a pause, she added, “That I know of.”

  Isabel snorted and Lyla raised an eyebrow at her.

  “You said something similar when we were taking care of the spies,” Isabel said, looking over at Lyla. “It’s rather astute to cover your bases.” She winked.

  “Well, I don’t want one of you suddenly taking my head off for something I didn’t know,” Lyla replied, a smile on her lips.

  “Isabel. Elsie,” Elliott cut in. “Work your way around from the other side. Lyla will take care of this side, right to the leadership,” he glanced towards the maid. Well, Lyla knew she wasn’t a maid but she sure liked to dress like one. “One minute until I bring the barrier down.”

  “No witnesses?” Isabel asked as Elsie cocked her head to one side.

  “Everyone dies except the leaders. I need to question them.” His voice wasn’t even cold or chilling. Just matter-of-fact. Like he was discussing cleaning a home. Isabel shot off towards the south, running around the invisible barrier to the other side, picking up speed so Lyla was barely able to catch her movements, but she was almost already halfway around. Lyla turned her gaze to Elliott as they walked the last hundred metres to the outermost patrol.

  “Do we have to kill them all?” Lyla asked. “Most of these men will have families to feed. Wives. Children.”

  Elliott focused his small, black eyes on her, a slight smile on his lips. “So would have some of the many men I have no doubt you’ve killed.”

  She was silent for a moment before answering. “That was for the Empire.”

  “And that makes a difference?”

  She shook her head. “But you’re not the Emperor.”

  “Well, your Emperor knows the fundamental rule of power - crush your enemies. As far as I’m concerned, these men chose to join your army. If you choose to kill, you’ve chosen to be killed. I’m sure that’s what your life taught you?”

  His words weren’t wrong. Even though she had been in servitude, how many enemies had she made? How many widows and orphans had she created? How many would like to see her dead?

  Elliott’s voice softened. “There are times when mercy is possible. But not on the battlefield. Not against those who would see you dead as soon as your back is turned.” He turned back to the camps. “The only way to ensure you won’t have to kill again…is to crush the ones at the very top.”

  There was something about the way he said it and the way he seemed to be looking beyond the Temple that made Lyla think he wasn’t talking about the Emperor.

  “Once the barrier comes down, you have five minutes to get us to the base of the stairs. Are you ready?”

  Lyla drew two of her daggers, gripped them firmly in her fingers and nodded. She could not be merciful today. Not with Elliott watching.

  Alwyn yawned as he stared at the empty fields for the hundredth time. The yawn was so large, it almost felt like it would break his jaw. It was the same routine every day. Wake up at the crack of dawn. Use the latrine. Have a quick wash with cold water. Get dressed. Put his armour on. Find the others in his patrol.

  Then stand on the perimeter for several hours staring at nothing. After two months of seeing zilch, his eight-man team had taken to leaving one man on patrol while the others played cards nearby, gambling away their coin. For the ones that had lost their coins, they’d started to gamble their meals.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Everyone knew the patrols were an illusion of defence. Like anyone would attack them out here. Especially when there were five thousand soldiers and three hundred of them were ranked. Even if the Rhianian resistance had considered it, only the truly foolish would think they had a chance to win.

  He yawned again, as someone tapped his armoured shoulder. He turned around to find Petr grinning at him, halberd in one hand, a bread pastry in the other as he tore some off between his teeth.

  “My turn to stare at grass,” he said, in between his sloppy chewing. Alwyn briefly glanced at the sun. Still a couple of hours to noon, and then three more before they were relieved. He nodded at Petr.

  “I find if you look into the distance to try and find Tarnov, it makes the time go faster,” Alwyn winked as he walked past the younger soldier.

  Pit-pat. Pit-pat.

  He stopped in his tracks and cocked his head, turning around to gaze at the fields. He was sure he had heard the beginnings of rain. The pitter-patter of something soft hitting the floor but the skies were clear, the fields as dry as they had been. Petr stood there, his eyes on Alwyn, his eyebrows raised.

  “I thought I heard something.”

  Petr laughed. “Out here? You starting to hear things, old man?”

  “Old man?” Alwyn replied, though he had a smile on his lips. “I’m barely older than you, you cheeky git!”

  They had a laugh together, before Alwyn turned around and began walking towards the other six of his team, less than twenty metres away. They were sat in a circle – some on the ground, some on the boulders that jutted out from the grassy field – a deck of cards spread between them as the dealer asked for the bet.

  Alwyn never heard what the bet was.

  Bells sounded across the camps, from high in the air, like a thousand basilicas were sounding their calls to prayer. Except these bells weren’t for prayer. They were alarms. Alarms Alwyn had never thought they would hear.

  “The barrier!” a colleague said, though Alwyn was looking around watching the camp explode into motion, seeing soldiers scamper to grab their armour and weapons, exactly like his patrol were doing in front of him. They discarded their cards, put their sword belts back on amid shouts from other soldiers nearby and the clanging of metal as men hastily donned their armour.

  Somewhere to his right, he heard a scream.

  Behind him, he heard a dull thud of something falling to the floor, then the sound he had heard earlier.

  Pit-pat. Pit-pat. Pit-pat.

  He and his patrol turned to the source of that noise.

  It was a small stitched doll, with round eyes, pink lips and pink hair flaring to either side of her round head. She had a patchwork dress in light browns and dark oranges, pink and blue striped stockings and blue and pink boots.

  She marched towards them like a soldier on a military parade, raising one foot high, bent at the knee, then stomping down as she raised the other. In her small hands, she held tiny brass cymbals that she crashed together in step with the ringing of the bells and the stomping of her feet.

  “What the…” the voice trailed off. Alwyn could guess why. Beyond the doll, Petr’s lifeless body lay on the ground, eyes open and staring at the sky as blood gushed from his open throat.

  He glimpsed movement to his left. Hery. A novice of a soldier, really, barely two years in the job. He was a big man for his age, over six-feet tall and muscles that were still growing. He charged forward at the doll, swinging his leg behind him like he was about to kick a ball. His boot connected with the mud underneath, kicking up a cloud of grass and soil, obscuring Alwyn’s view of the doll.

  When the dirt cleared, Alwyn blinked. Twice.

  The cymbals were gone, the doll using a tiny hand to hold Hery’s foot in place. She smiled at the rest of them.

  Then she placed her other tiny hand around Hery’s foot. She couldn’t have held more than half-an-inch of his boots but it didn’t matter. She lifted him – all six feet and two hundred pounds of him. Hery rose into the air, his eyes widening, barely having time to register what was happening as the doll hoisted him overhead and slammed him into the ground with such a force that it vibrated through Alwyn’s legs.

  The doll herself bounced upwards from the tremor but as soon as her tiny boots settled on the floor, she raised Hery again, hoisting him the other way, slamming him to the floor again.

  And again.

  And again.

  And again.

  When she finally stopped, she let go of Hery and stepped back, spreading her small arms wide and gesturing with her hands for the rest of them to see like she had just finished a magic trick.

  The rest of them did see. Hery’s body was a tangled mess. Alwyn couldn’t tell which part was which.

  He dropped his halberd, his shaking hand pulling his sword free of its scabbard as he heard his colleagues do the same, metal rasping in unison but he could tell it was already too late. Multiple black pins formed around the doll. One, two, four, eight. He stopped counting. His legs were rooted to the spot. He was trying to urge them forwards, trying to raise his sword hand to strike down at this thing.

  It was only a doll.

  Two pink and baby blue threads with tiny spearheads on their ends shot from the dolls hip, embedding themselves with a thwack into the chin of a soldier to his right. A puff of air spouted behind her as the doll shot across the air faster than he could see, but he heard the slash as she swiped across the soldiers neck. The blond-haired man clasped his throat immediately, but even before he could fall, the doll somersaulted to the soldier beside him, landing on his forehead. She jammed two pins into the man’s eyes before pulling them out and running down his face, his chest, his arms, slicing and dicing as she went, pieces of the soldier falling to the ground in her wake, but she’d already moved on to her next victim.

  Alwyn’s legs finally obeyed him, when he turned his body and pushed forward. There would be no fighting this creature, whatever it was. He spun on his heels and bolted, heading towards the ranked soldiers. They were their only hope. All around him, chaos spread as soldiers shrieked and metal clanged against metal. He glanced to his right, hearing a soldier beg for their life and saw the gleam of a black axe blade raised high in the air. He put his eyes forward, willed himself to run faster than he ever had, his breath coming in gasps, his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest, his boots churning through the grass.

  Then something struck the side of his head with such power that it sent him tumbling, his legs tangling among themselves as he crashed into the dirt ahead, his sword flung from his hand. He lay there a moment, stunned, shaking his head, trying to understand what had happened. He could feel a throbbing pain from his left temple and he raised his hand there. His fingers found a small globe. He grasped it, gritting his teeth as he pulled it free of his head and held it to his eyes. A small, black pin.

  He pushed himself upright, legs sprawled out. The clamour of shouts and screams and the clash of steel around him were muted, drowned out by the ringing in his ears. He took a deep breath. He needed to move. He wasn’t about to die in the piss-end of Rhian. He wanted to go home. He would survive this.

  Something sharp struck him, like a needle being inserted into his forehead.

  Liquid began streaming over his eyebrows, his eyelids and down his cheek. He put his hand there and when he examined his fingers, he could see the glistening red of blood.

  His blood.

  He looked up.

  The doll sailed through the air towards him on the ends of baby blue and pink threads, black pins in either hand.

  Her pink lips curved into the sweetest smile.