Jaelin, Mila, and Larik waited outside Henrik’s smithy. At last, Rilie appeared.

  “Well?” the halfling asked, spreading her arms wide. Henrik had reinforced the leather with metal rivets. “Do I look good?”

  “You look wonderful,” Mila enthused.

  Jaelin raised an eyebrow.

  “What?” Rilie asked him. “You don’t think so?”

  “Armour is about protection, not looks. Can you move around in it, just as freely as you used to?”

  The halfling considered this. She proceeded to shoot her arms down and kick her knees high, prancing about like this for some time.

  Jaelin and Mila couldn’t help laughing at her.

  “Think I can move just fine,” Rilie concluded.

  “Good,” said Larik, far less amused. “That’s our business in Eisenberg done now, isn’t it? It’s taken long enough. We have another dungeon to explore, you know. Who are we waiting on?”

  “Bletcher’s sat in the Pig and Iron,” Mila said. “Ready to go.”

  “So that just leaves the dwarves,” said The Bludgeoner. “Who said they’d be back from the mine by now.”

  “I get the impression,” said Jaelin, “that dwarves need collecting from mines, rather than expecting them to leave of their own accord.”

  Larik let out a heavy sigh. “Very well. I shall collect them, if you two can keep an eye on this one, and the sorcerer.”

  “The joys of leadership,” Jaelin suggested.

  “Leader? Me?”

  “Well, yes. It might not feel like it, but we wouldn’t have got this far without you.”

  Larik gave a grunt at that.

  But Jaelin thought it was a pleased grunt.

  ***

  Wilson was still sour about it. But Tree’s potion did its job, and Fortune healed from his wounds.

  With the squad recovered, they said their farewells to the Sargassians, and their mountain village of Varena, and began their journey south. They reached the valley where they had first met Og-Grim-Dog.

  “Well,” said Grim. “This is where we leave you.”

  “Thanks again for your help,” said Ashlyn.

  “You’re most welcome,” said Og. “Thanks for the pike. I quite like it.”

  “We’ll miss you,” Wilson heard himself say. He still wasn’t quite sure how he had grown so attached to an ogre, of all things.

  “Dog?” Grim said.

  The third head sighed. “Friends, it's like this. We never intended to linger in Gal’azu. I’ve always wanted to explore the mountain kingdoms of Old Nahru, you see. We were on our way there, when we met Hubert, and had so much fun we didn’t want to leave. But we can’t stay here forever. So we were wondering, would you take him with you? He’s a good lad. Good fighter and very loyal, as you’ve seen.”

  “And have him join the Rotten Apples?” Tree asked, clearly unsure at the idea.

  “Why not?” Og demanded. “You have a warg already. And you don’t discriminate against bears, do you?”

  “Well—” Henning said, put on the back foot. Og grimaced, his canines protruding menacingly. “I mean, no. Of course we don’t.”

  “Good,” Grim said. “That’s settled then.”

  ***

  Amotken’s army stood tall and still, as Emperor Sahale inspected his troops.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Stricken waited with Eyota and her new bodyguard, who called himself Clamor. My pets, the princess had begun to call them. Except it was obvious to Stricken which of them the favourite pet was, and which was the unloved, mangy old stray.

  With them were the other members of the emperor’s family. They were all that was left of the original Sargassian Empire. The new recruits were the descendants of those Sargassians, or the unfortunate settlers from other lands Amotken had recently captured.

  To one side, Stricken’s master watched on. He had a haggard look, a result of the days and nights spent forging this new force. The magic he wielded to make these Silent Warriors—unthinking, obedient servants—was not on the scale he had used to draw Eyota back from Gehenna. But it was the sheer numbers of them he had produced that had cost him his health.

  The Sargassian army was thousands strong. Stricken had only seen the like once, when Eyota had attacked the goblin horde south of Urlay. But this was different. Those goblins had been leaderless and cowardly. This force was well armed and well led; and unlike the goblins, they wouldn’t run from battle.

  The emperor completed his inspection and returned. “Well done, Amotken. Most impressive. You have done all I asked for.”

  “Is it time to deploy at last?” Eyota asked. “As the emperor’s Right Arm, I am desperate to restore his lands.”

  Stricken caught the sneers of her half-brother Tyee, and the boy’s mother. But it seemed that was all they were capable of—her position as general of this army seemed secure, a confidence she had won hundreds of years ago.

  “We have all been patient in our own ways,” Sahale said. “Now is the time to reward that patience. Yes, I declare the army ready.”

  “We return to the Crimson Palace?” Eyota’s mother asked, longing in her voice.

  Sahale shared a look with Amotken. “Not yet, wife.”

  “There is good news from the east,” Amotken said. “The Kuthenians edge closer to a civil war. That leaves us free to do our work here, in the west. When these towns and villages are annexed, we will have the resources we need to expand east. I humbly submit to the emperor that until then, we leave the Crimson Palace empty. When the day comes to return, we won’t be sneaking into our old home, wary of it being taken from us again. We will have supplies, riches, settlements, and a people to govern. We are close to that vision becoming reality.”

  “Agreed,” said Sahale. “Listen to my words. Once our logistics are in place, the army moves. When we invade, there will be no half measures. Eyota, my Right Arm, will take our main force and head straight for their major city. It is called Avolo. Our enemies will have no time to respond. Amotken will accompany this force. We know there are those who have found our old weapons. They will try to stand against us. They must be converted to our cause.”

  Eyota placed a fist to her chest, lunging forward with her head bowed in a sign of obedience.

  “Tyee, you will lead our second force. Starting here in the west, you will take the farms and villages spread across the countryside. Our army must be well supplied, and you will ensure that your sister gets the food and other materials she needs.”

  Tyee made the same gesture as his sister.

  The emperor dismissed them.

  “Come,” said Eyota.

  Stricken and Clamor followed her, like the loyal hounds they were. They entered the isolated palace where Emperor Sahale and his family had slept all that time, while Amotken had toiled to find a way to bring a dead civilization back to life.

  Eyota led them along the empty, marble built corridors to her private rooms. “So, my worthless brother has been given a role. But it matters not. I am the Right Arm, and I will be commanding the Sargassian army once more. It is a moment of celebration. Come, pets. Drink with me!” She poured a clear drink into three cups and handed Stricken and Clamor theirs. “Well?” she demanded.

  “Congratulations!” Stricken said.

  “Congratulations,” Clamor repeated.

  Eyota had asked Amotken to keep part of the man conscious, rather than becoming a slave like those soldiers stood to attention outside amongst the trees. He could speak, and act independently. But his voice always sounded so dry and morose, as if a part of him knew he had been made a slave, and could do nothing about it.

  Eyota clinked cups with them, and drank. Stricken took his first gulp. It was earthy and strong. His hunger made him always ravenous, and he had to fight not to down the entire thing in one go. If he did that, Eyota would get angry, and call him an animal.

  Clamor sipped at his and Stricken envied the man his easy control. He didn’t starve; he still lived. And yet, he moped about gloomily as if no one suffered as much as him.

  “By the gods,” Eyota spat out, “I said this is to be a celebration!” She poured herself a second drink. “The parties my crew and I once held were something to behold! We would drink to a victory; drink to our fallen brothers and sisters; through the night and into morning.” She smiled at those distant memories, and drank. “There was music and dancing; men and women of all races; sometimes, we’d become a writhing mass of bodies, pleasuring one another. It didn’t matter that I was a princess—we were all equals, because we would all give our lives for one another.” She shrugged. “It’s alright. I will bring those days back.”

  Her hand charted a course from her neck, over her chest and stomach, to her genitals. She necked the remains of her drink and threw her cup to the ground, where it smashed. “Amotken is an idiot. He brought me to life because he wants me. But why give away my sword and armour? My most valued items? He is a worm who works in the darkness, not a warrior. But thou art a true warrior, Clamor. I could tell as soon as I set eyes on thee. And thou fought me like a beast. Would probably have killed me, if it wasn’t for Stricken.”

  She removed her cloak, then her tunic, revealing her naked torso. Stricken had seen it once before, the night Amotken had turned her bones to flesh. Her dark skin was muscled and scarred. She put a hand to her breasts, her nipples hardening. “Do you like what you see, Clamor? Stricken is a half man, but you are very much alive. Well?”

  “I—” Clamor stuttered, as if unable to answer.

  “Get on the floor,” Eyota commanded him, and he did as she ordered.

  She pulled at his clothing; tugged at his trousers.

  Stricken looked away, as an indescribable feeling made him feel uncomfortable. He would never have felt like that when alive. Quite the opposite, he would have relished the sight. A pang of hunger gripped him, and he had to force himself not to cry out with it.

  He could hear the noise of Eyota riding on top of Clamor. Her breathing was heavy, and she gasped with pleasure. From Clamor, only silence.

  Stricken made for the door, leaving them to it.

  “Where art thou running off to Stricken? I didn’t give thee permission to leave. Come here. I enjoy an audience.”