“How many casualties, General?” Arianell Duna asked him. He’d seen that look before. It was the look given to him his whole life. The look of men and women who thought themselves above him. The look of contempt for everything he represented. The common folk.

A look he’d never once been given by the King. That was why he served him.

“Seventy-three,” he admitted finally. “Fourteen wyverns, twenty-four wolves.”

“And a fucking Matriarch?”

Borou flashed her a look of remorse. He made sure she saw it before casting his gaze away from her. Borou had to protect the King’s interests. The Freia girl wasn’t truly worthy of being granted her own Clan assembly. For what? Sacrificing her fool sister, a runaway Augur? Borou knew sacrifice. He’d lived it, breathed it. Gave up everything for his King. If anyone deserved to be the head of a lesser Clan, it was him. “The demons on the other side, I’ve never--”

“Allanan Borou,” she interrupted. “Do not think me stupid. Greater men than you have discovered what happens when they try. You describe them as great killing beasts, and yet thousands of men just so happened to retreat back to Embrayya unscathed? Explain that, General. Explain how the great Commoner-General Allanan Borou gave the order of retreat and lost less than a hundred men?”

Borou took a deep breath. Clan Mother or not, Arianell Duna was gnawing on his last nerve. “Matriarch,” he said cleanly. “With all respect to your station and your deeds, you were not there. Do you truly believe the combined forces of Embrayya would run if the lives of each and every one of us were not in immediate danger? I saw wyverns and their riders simply explode. Men struck down by some invisible force, all while we were being attacked from every possible direction while surrounded in white smoke by men and demons who only moments earlier were not there.” He took a breath. “You know as well as any that every man here would gladly give their lives for the King’s mission. They would face down the Wasted Hordes, the Sons of Turzan, even the Dashani Zealots without flinching.” He pointed toward the World Tree. “But those Outworlders, they fought in ways we couldn’t even have imagined. They used the air itself against us. The sky. It was like they rose up out of the ground and we couldn’t even tell where they were attacking us from.”

The Clan Mother took in what he said, then folded her arms. “I pray you are mistaken, General.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Because,” she explained. “The alternative is that we have woken a sleeping lion that the combined forces of Embrayya are helpless to stop.”

Borou looked over to the World Tree. Not a single Outworlder had attempted to follow them through as of yet. Perhaps they couldn’t. Or perhaps, like their counterattack, they were merely planning and biding their time, waiting to strike when they’d grown complacent.

He didn’t have the luxury of hoping it would never come to pass. The World Tree needed to be destroyed, but it was impervious to any blade. Since that morning, they’d lost another half-dozen Augurs merely trying to commune with the Elder Law that was keeping the Shimmer open and convince it not to.

None of the attempts had resulted in success, and Borou wasn’t about to keep throwing Augurs at the problem, and morale was already suffering after the mishap with the Outworlder’s vehicle that had been pushed through the World Tree-- which had taken twelve men and four ropes to do. One of his engineers had been focused on attempting to make it work-- and make it work he did, lurching it forward with a roar and killed four horses, five men and injuring a half-dozen others, including the fool engineer.

The thing Borou hated most was to show weakness, particularly to those with higher standings than him. But before this Clan Mother, he felt small. Borou detested the woman for that. But he was not stupid.

“Clan Mother Duna,” Borou said. “I admit we grew complacent-- we’ve won so many victories. So many battles. We grew complacent in our strength because none could stand against us. The King’s ambition--”

“Stay your tongue, Borou,” she spat. “Do not invoke our King in this. I don’t think he’d appreciate his dog barking about him.”

“I would never!” Borou said. “But his ambition was clear. We were to establish a beachhead in Outworld with swiftness. And we did! Look!” He pointed out the sea of men in the fields below the hill. “Fifty thousand were to cross over. Regular supplies from all across Embrayya were-- and still are-- flooding to Mercer’s Mound. Our camp was secure, and all the information we had told us they could not commune with the Elder Law. But the demons we saw were unlike any I’ve ever laid eyes on, and even the most loyal of your men will attest to that.”

“Are you saying the Outworlders can commune with the Elder Law?”

“I do not know,” he said. “Some of the men were sensitive to the calling, but they say they could not feel it. We kept the Augurs here. But the… crafts and machines they had were unexpected. And perhaps it was my failure to recognize the threat they represented, but we simply couldn’t conceive of it.” He pointed to the Outworlder’s vehicle at the bottom of the hill. “We saw hundreds of machines like that while there. They were operated by commoners. Small boxes that sang songs. Light so powerful they lit up rooms brighter than the sun itself could ever hope by burning tiny flames in a glass bulb. I couldn’t even begin to describe half the things we saw, and their weapons--”

“--weapons?” the Clan Mother asked.

Borou called out to one of his men and instructed him to bring out a wrapped bundle he has ensured came back to Embrayya with haste. It was supposed to have been sent back to the King as part of Borou’s personal tribute to him. “We took these off the corpses of Outworlder constabulary,” he explained, unwrapping the bundle. He placed it on a nearby table and revealed them to her. They were two metal weapons, each with long tubes at one end and a handle at the other.

“These weapons killed a number of men and wolves,” he explained. He pointed to the end. “Pieces of solid metal fly out of this end at unheard of speeds. Faster than any arrow has ever flown, I’d wager. They impact the flesh and go through it, shredding the very insides of any man hit by it.” He pointed at the other end. “There is a trigger, here. Two Outworlders with these weapons killed nine men and five wolves before we could get near them.”

Arianell turned toward him in surprise. “Two?” she asked.

He nodded back at her.

“How do they work?”

“We still haven’t figured that out,” he explained.

“If these weapons are as dangerous as you say, then it’s imperative we discover that,” she said. “Give them to me,” she said.

Borou blinked. “I cannot. These are meant as tributes for the King,” he explained.

Arianell looked over her shoulder to her entourage. “Leave us,” she ordered. They bowed, then obliged. She waited a moment before speaking again.

“Allanan Borou, you and I both know if Othniel Caradoc gets these weapons it’ll be placed in a chest so far beneath the Sunshod Palace it may be centuries before it’s seen again. Give them to me, and I will ensure they are studied by the best engineers Embrayya has ever seen.”

Borou met her gaze, then looked back to the weapons. He considered her for a moment.

“And of course,” she continued, “I will ensure that poets all across Duna tell the tales of the People’s General, he of swift courage and mind, who turned the weapons of Outworld against them.”

Now he was certain of it. Arianell Duna was playing an angle. She wasn’t the type to be so giving.

He should have refused. He should have refused and reported this to the King.

But he also knew Arianell Duna was a good person to have on one’s side.

“Keep the glory,” he said. “You can have them in exchange for your favor.”

Arianell Duna seemed to consider it for a moment. She then looked up at him. “Ah yes,” she said. “I suppose you will be needing that. Very well. Favor you shall have.” She covered the weapons up with cloth and turned to her entourage. “I’ll send for it shortly. I have preparations to make. We will likely hear from the King before the night is through. You best prepare yourself for the worst, General.”

By the time Silvain Patria arrived at the Sunshod Palace, it was already beginning to grow dark. He’d only received the King’s Summons after he’d dined with his wife and children. He wasn’t certain what it was about, but since the talk of Tyrant’s Fall for the past day had been talking of the success in breaching into Outworld, he assumed he wouldn’t be summoned if everything was going to plan.

Silvain was a man who was used to being called upon when things went wrong. When the Sons of Turzan had united the tribes of the Trident, he was called upon. When the demons had began their raiding along the borderlands of Talei and Laerdan, he was the one who dealt with it. He’d long been a servant of Orest Caradoc during those years, and he was rewarded well for it. His Lesser Clan had been granted land near Tyrant’s Fall.

Unfortunately, Orest Caradoc had died, and now it was his son in charge.

Othniel Caradoc wasn’t a young man by any stretch. He was well into his forties. But as a King, he was inexperienced. Inexperienced and foolish. Not that Silvain would dare speak such things aloud. Silvain had been one of the few voices opposed to the annexation of Outworld after the Seed of Vaste’lon had been rediscovered. Admittedly, he never thought it would work, but he knew from history that when Kings sought out wars, they too quickly became tyrants. And tyrants, as the namesake of the capitol implied, were destined to fall, be it from grace or into Taydir’s well itself.

He did not want to see the line of Caradoc descend into tyranny.

Not that Othniel was a tyrant. Rather, he was far more polite and sociable than his father, and did not offend easily. But he was stubborn and near-sighted, and that made him a danger not just to himself, but to all of Embrayya.

That was why he distanced himself from the King, moving toward retirement. It was just as well. Othniel favoured Allanan Borou to lead the active forces of Embrayya. Borou was a capable man, but was afflicted by the same near-sighted ambition the King had.

To open a gateway to a place demons were known to be born, without even being able to survey the lands there or ascertain the state of their armies was a folly. The same folly that the Sons of Turzan made when they ventured too far out of the Trident. Not to mention the risk of pulling valuable soldiers away from the borderlands to engage in such a campaign. While the Sons were pacified and the demon forces of the Wasted Hordes were decimated, it was foolhardy to commit so many men.

The guards at the gate of the palace paid him no mind. His face was known to them. He was one of six others outside of Clan Caradoc who held such a privilege.

He made his way up the stairs and through the antechamber. A servant took notice and rushed ahead of him, opening the door at the top of the stairs that led to the Main Hall. He could hear the voices within arguing heatedly.

As he stepped into the room, he scanned it. There were a dozen people present, including two of the King’s children and his third wife, pregnant with his fourth child. Maelys, the eldest, was nowhere to be seen. The rest were members of the King’s Counsel, and what he assumed to be two riders stood silently in the corner of the room, their faces dirty.

Othniel turned to him. “Ah, General Patria,” he said. He slumped down in his chair. “Although it shames me to say, I believe your warning was not without merit.”

“Most High,” Sylvain greeted with a bow. “I am honored. What tidings summoned me here this evening?”

“Please, General,” Othniel said. “You need not be so formal. Your contributions to my father’s reign have earned you at least that.”

“You are too kind,” Sylvain replied.

“We’ve received word from Mercer’s Mound,” the King explained. “Our forces were routed from Outworld. Thousands of men. Embrayya’s strongest, in a matter of moments, I’m told.” He nodded in the direction of the riders.

“And General Borou?” Sylvain asked.

“Alive,” he explained. “Though he very nearly did not make it.” He pointed to several drawings on the table. “Sizilen Freia was killed, but he managed to take these back with him.” He sighed. “Glimpses of Outworld.”

Sylvain leaned over the drawings and looked at them. He studied them carefully for a moment in silence. “Are these accurate?” he asked.

“The girl was gifted at recreating things exactly as she saw them. I’ve no reason to believe they’re exaggerated.”

“This bridge. It’s… Most High, this bridge alone should be impossible. And these people-- they look human. They don’t bear the look of demons.”

“We’ll know for certain by tomorrow. Tributes are being transported here as we speak, save for the four killed along the way.”

“Killed?”

“They attempted to escape along the Lead road outside of Beniron, but several others are still coming in. Including at least one child.”

Sylvain furrowed his brow. He looked back at the picture of the great bridge and bit his lip. If the drawing was accurate, it was a feat of engineering beyond the capabilities of anyone on the continent. Perhaps even all of Ayndir. It made their greatest creations look like the odd invention of a common tinkerer.

How could Borou have laid eyes upon something like that and not realized?

He looked to the King and realized it was because both of them suffered from the same affliction. Ambition without consideration.

“Most High, if I may?” Sylvain asked.

“Please, that is why I summoned you here.”

“We should halt the supply trains to Mercer’s Mound. Keep two thousand men, have the rest fall back to Dunleth, Beniron and Zentha. If these Outworlders are as… dangerous as they seem, we cannot afford to lose the entirety of our forces in one fell swoop. At least for now, we should pull them back and have them fortify the Clan Holds.

“I concur, Most High,” said one of his advisors.

“I shall see it done,” the King responded.

“General Borou, for all his virtues, has never led an army in defense,” he continued. “He’ll need the support of a tactician.”

“Whom would you recommend?” Othniel Caradoc asked.

Sylvain chewed on the inside of his cheek for a long moment as he thought. There were several men he could recommend, but most were retired veterans scattered across the fifteen Clan Holds. None of which were any closer to Mercer’s Mound than he. He looked back up to the King and met his gaze. “Time is of the essence my King,” he explained. “There are none more qualified than I.”

“You are certain?”

He laughed. “I may have grown soft since retiring, my King,” he explained. “But I still fight for my family and my King.”

Othniel Caradoc sighed. “Very well,” he said. “I grant you full authority to take command of the campaign. I shall have a carriage prepared for you for the morning--”

“This can’t wait until morning. I’ll need a fast horse and two attendants,” Sylvain insisted. “But I’ll need a letter sent to my wife…”