With few exceptions, Redmane had left small spawn in every Zone he’d conquered and claimed. Usually they were birds or fast moving rodents. This allowed him to monitor things as needed, see through the eyes of a creature in a particular area, or to travel great distances quickly by trading bodies.

  At all times, he had a peripheral awareness of the condition and location of these extensions of himself. Like knowing the count of one’s fingers and toes without having to move them.

  And of course, one would immediately notice these small appendages the instant someone lit them on fire.

  Redmane sat at the edge of the cliff side, upon the mountaintop where the Seal of the Kirin had been built, letting the wind dry the sweat from his face as he looked out over the stark beauty of the terrain, contemplating his next move and wondering how his allies fared.

  The burning sensation interrupted his train of thought.

  He felt it in the forests of southern Asgoph.

  He felt it west of there, in Morazan Valley, the place where he’d discovered the true nature of the Gruu.

  He felt it in the wooded hills south of the Skalla Caverns, where he’d first fought the Sicarius the Numantians posted there to ambush him.

  He felt it around the town of Barograd, and on the perimeter of Castle Redmane, and most of all in Midva Forest.

  There he felt himself burning repeatedly.

  It felt like the time Aric Morholt made him press his hand flat to an iron skillet still hot from the stovetop, except repeatedly.

  A fire was taking the lives of his spawn. Perhaps it was a forest fire. But forest fires didn’t simultaneously erupt in five places at once.

  With a growing sense of alarm, Redmane realized what was going on. The Numantians were at his doorstep. They had already cleared the way from Taracon and had siege weapons all over his domain. Weapons that would burn away the very thing that made his land so strong.

  Flora’s forest.

  Redmane’s eyes grew wide.

  The thought of her name stopped time. Several moments passed in breathless shock, a sudden coldness sinking into his core.

  His slammed his eyes shut and sent his perception to Midva Forest, searching for any spawn left alive. There were few. He selected a bird in the high limbs of a tree and jumped.

  Immediately his eyes stung, watering from the thick smoke in the air. The air seemed to shimmer and warp from the heat emanating off the ground. From the flame-engulfed undergrowth beneath him, consuming the blanket of grasses and dry leaves and brittle branches on the forest floor. A dense layer of smoke obscured the sun, casting an orange-tinted haze over all.

  Like a painter’s rendition of hell come to life.

  The sounds of the forest fire filled his senses, the crackling of fire, the snapping of wood, and the crashing of falling trees filled the air, accompanied by the distant cries of other creatures caught in the blaze. The smell was a potent mix of wood smoke and the distressing scent of singed flesh, fur and feathers.

  But there were other sounds. Unnatural ones.

  The sound of wheels crunching over bushes and tree limbs. Rhythmic pumping sounds, reminiscent of a blacksmith working a billows. Then something discharged with a high-pitched whistle, accompanied by a whoosh of flames.

  Redmane scanned around for the sources of those sounds, which seemed to come from a dozen places around the perimeter of the forest. Which is when he saw Flora’s burnt corpse on the ground beneath him.

  It lay on the forest floor, pinned under the trunk of a fallen tree. Her skin was charred and blackened, the features of her face barely recognizable, a single pointed ear singed at the tip, the other melted off. What remained of her verdigris hair was a matted mess clinging to the right side of her skull.

  Two boiled eyeballs stared up at the sky, and the inside of her open mouth — frozen in a scream — was black with soot.

  He stared at it for what felt like a very long time.

  First came the cold, empty feeling.

  But then his muscles quivered. His teeth clenched together, ground against each other. As his body tensed, he felt his heartbeat grow harder, louder, faster, until it thundered against the inside of his ribcage. Heat flushed through him and a sweat broke out on his brow, a sweat which had nothing to do with the fire raging around him.

  For the fire within burned hotter.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  The sound of a heavy wheel snapping a branch drew his attention. His eyes, sharpened by rage, zeroed in on the source of the sound. It was a siege engine, with steel-belted wheels and a large horn-like extrusion which belched gouts of fire ahead of it. The thing was small. Piloted by one man, most likely.

  He would go over there and rip it open. Rip the pilot open for good measure.

  Then he would tear apart and devour the others.

  He would find their base camp and make sure none survived.

  He would destroy these shadows, these puppets made in the likenesses of men.

  And when that was done, he would find the puppet master.

  Then…

  Then whoever it was, whoever had the audacity to harm his woman, his land, his world, whoever among these interlopers deigned to decide who lived and who died, who should profit and who should suffer, whoever thought they could do as they wished and there would be no consequences for them.

  Redmane would deliver the consequences.

  He would burn every detail of their face into his memory as they begged him for mercy.

  And he would cherish the fear in their eyes when he denied them.

  Jarel Craith stared intently at the atlas, zoomed in on the Zone with the highest concentration of brass dragons at work. Which, by no coincidence, was the Zone with the highest concentration of that unnatural forest growth.

  He sat and stared. Waiting.

  If Redmane was going to reappear, it would be here and now.

  His gaze flitted between the System tags of the twelve brass dragons, observing them as they began at the edges of Midva Forest and worked their way in, methodically burning the whole of it to cinders. He glanced about to check the status of the other Zones where this operation was taking place, to make certain he wouldn’t miss it if Redmane or his accomplices surfaced elsewhere first.

  He also noted the locations of the Sicari he’d posted. The Neonates were visible and the Ancillae watched over them in stealth, and they were deployed in such a way that if one trap were sprung, the others would converge on that location with alacrity.

  If anyone were to take the bait, they would quickly find themselves outnumbered.

  Jarel closed his eyes, drew in a long, steady breath and let it out with a sigh.

  Things were under control.

  This was excessive, even. But it was better to be over prepared. Better to err on the side of caution.

  The likeliest outcome was that Redmane and his mutinous Imbued were dead and gone. That they had fled into the Abyss when his Sicari ambushed them and found themselves unable to navigate their return, as did nearly all mortal beings who found themselves in that netherworld unprepared.

  He set his mind on this version of things. Repeatedly assured himself that it was indeed what was most probable.

  But no matter how many times he said it, he couldn’t banish the icy fingers of doubt wrapping around his neck.

  Metal snapped like brittle wood as Redmane tore the wheel off the siege machine.

  He’d taken it in both hands and wrenched with all his strength, which was more than sufficient to not only sever the wheel from its mount but also break the front axle in two despite it being shod in sturdy steel. The thing fell forward, unbalanced and no longer able to move, all its weight tilted onto the corner of its frame without a wheel.

  Redmane flung the wheel away and tore into the body of the thing. In a moment his claws reduced its front half to a shredded ruin, the sturdy wood rent and smashed into a hail of toothpicks.

  There was indeed a pilot inside.

  A dull eyed Numantian legionnaire wearing a leather lorica and a dagger at his belt.

  Redmane ended him with a strike across the neck that sent his head spinning through the air.

  He paused, focusing on his senses, listening for the next nearest machine. When his ears found it he was off again, streaking through the forest as swiftly as he could run, his godly Might propelling him into a leap high and long enough to resemble taking flight with no wings.

  Then he landed atop the next one, smashed it into splinters and tore apart its pilot as well.

  Within minutes, he’d found the next one.

  This time he simply ran faster, and leapt later, generating so much force by these simple acts that when he struck the side of the siege engine, he had so much velocity that he blasted through it as if he were a cannonball.

  Jarel was in the middle of his spoken affirmations when the disappearance of a brass dragon caught his eye.

  He stared at the space it used to occupy for a few long moments.

  It was a malfunction, perhaps.

  Sometimes things broke. It was a normal development. These machines had been in storage for some time, after all.

  Then another one vanished.

  Jarel felt his stomach contract and go cold. He realized he was holding his breath, but he couldn’t seem to start again. His index finger tapped the table nervously, and he willed it to stop for a moment.

  It was alright. Not the greatest development, but it was no catastrophe.

  Then another vanished.

  The finger started tapping again, of its own volition. He balled his hand into a fist to stop it. A sudden, escalating thump-thump-thump in his chest made him aware his heart was racing.

  A third machine disappeared, and the possibility that this was a coincidence went with it.

  Something was hitting them. Something he couldn’t see. There were no other icons on the atlas, no hostile Imbued, no Monsters. Nothing. His Sicari hadn’t moved either, which meant they had either not yet encountered whatever this force was or it had some way to evade their senses and the eyes of the System itself.

  Jarel slowed his breathing down to try to still the shakiness of his limbs.

  There were ways to do this. Not many. But as for what they were, he knew who would have had to be involved.

  Lar Tathvaal. Or perhaps Mecia…

  No.

  She died. She fell into the sea, and her System tag went out.

  It had to have been that serpent of a Dicentis. He too fled into the Abyss that night, with the others.

  It is of no consequence, said Lifedrinker.

  So thy foes have confounded your searching spells. They are still no match for thee, said Soulstealer.

  Take the field thyself. Show thy enemies what they truly face.

  Doom.

  Destruction.

  Abjure thy doubts and fears, thy vacillation.

  Thou art the master of this world.

  Jarel squeezed his eyes shut. His breath came in long breaths through his nose. His hands balled into fists.

  Listening to them would only strengthen them. It would feed them.

  Even so… He wanted to do as they said. To meet whatever this was head on. Show them the power of strength born from discipline, and from faith. Even as he had these thoughts, he could feel the silent approval of Lifedrinker and Soulstealer. Their encouragement.

  Jarel Craith clenched his jaw. Slammed his fist on the table.

  No.

  He opened his eyes and sent a message to all the Sicari in the field. Accompanied by a manual waypoint on the map, marking the location of the last destroyed brass dragon.

  “Deploy to this point.”

  PATREON