Chapter 5: The Rose and the Midnight Sun
The sun was sinking into the west. In another hour, it would pass below the horizon, ushering in the cool of the evening. For now, however, a searing wind raged unabated. The stench of blood and sweat mingled in the air, a nauseating reek that permeated everything.
With the battle approaching its tipping point, the imperial camp was in mild chaos. Messengers raced in from the battlefield, delivered their reports, then left just as quickly. The camp aides scanned the reports and moved the pawns on the map accordingly before handing a summary of their contents to the woman at the head of the table.
“The bulk of the battle seems decided, Your Highness. The Jötunheimites’ victory appears certain.”
Liz took the newest report from the aide’s hands, brushing her hair back behind her ear as she scanned its contents. The man’s cheeks reddened at the gesture. He hurriedly looked away, focusing his attention instead on the white wolf at her feet.
“Good work,” she said. “Have our forces reached their camp?”
“Not yet, Your Highness. According to the reports, they stumbled across an ambush. They dispatched the enemy without incident, but reforming their ranks took some time, so they’re a little behind schedule.”
“I see. That’s no problem. We’re still on track to finish before the day is out.”
In a sense, it was impressive for a battle with fifty-five thousand participants to conclude in a single day. The Nidavellirites’ low morale was partially responsible, of course, but it was the Jötunheimites’ martial prowess that had truly tipped the scales. They had broken through the famed Nidavellirite shield wall like so much dry timber. The reports described Skadi claiming the heads of commander after commander, sending her soldiers’ spirits soaring, before discovering and routing an enemy force that was attempting to sneak around the left flank, tipping the odds further in their favor. Regrettably, the enemy commander had managed to escape and the Jötunheimite forces had briefly encountered resistance on the main field, but Skadi’s return had immediately restored their momentum—a testament to her prowess as a leader.
“The beastfolk are a warlike people,” Liz mused. “It’s like they were born to fight.”
They tended to charge straight at their problems, for better or worse. In that sense, they were not given to compromise. That was apparent even in the ongoing battle. They had committed almost all of their resources to the field, leaving only a light guard behind. Thanks to Skadi’s sixth sense, they had intercepted the Nidavellirite troops bearing down on their camp, but they had come a hair’s breadth from disaster. By contrast, the dwarves might have been natural artisans, but they were also blessed with business acumen. Admittedly, that trait had invited corruption, but for most of Steissen’s history, the two peoples had balanced one another’s strengths and weaknesses to create a stable nation.
“Still, there’s no telling what the future holds.”
The age of the dwarves was coming to an end, and there was no way to know what kind of path the beastfolk would walk in their stead.
“The senate is supposed to keep things under control. I can only hope it does its job.”
Hopefully, the Jötunheimites would fill the senate with diverse and fair leadership rather than attempting to control it like the dwarves.
“But we can’t count our chickens just yet. First, we need to win this battle.”
Liz returned her attention to the map on the table. It would be difficult for the Nidavellirite troops to rally now. The Jötunheimites’ momentum would not be easily halted. That said, the Nidavellirites would not go quietly to their graves. They could still fall back behind the walls of Galza and try to incite the rest of Steissen to rise up, although it was hard to believe their oppressive rule would find much support.
“Still, if it turns into a siege, this war’s going to drag out.”
That would be inconvenient for the empire. With the throne empty and most of its heirs dead, Liz couldn’t afford a prolonged absence. Ideally, she wanted to capture Utgard here, today, and bring the fighting to an end as soon as possible.
She sighed, smoothing out the wrinkles between her eyebrows, and turned to the closest aide. “Has there been any word from the scouting party?”
Tris had been slow to return, and she was starting to get worried.
“Not yet, Your Highness. I can’t imagine they will take much longer.”
Knowing Tris, he might just have been checking farther afield than necessary out of an abundance of caution, but he would never have neglected to send word. Liz tried to ignore her vague unease as she considered the merits of assembling a new scouting party.
“Urgent word! I bring urgent word!”
At that moment, a soldier stumbled into the tent, covered in dust and matted with mud and blood. All eyes converged on him as the aides stopped and stared.
“Enemy troops sighted on the right flank, making for the camp! They number about two thousand! I repeat, two thousand!”
“An ambush?!”
The aides shot to their feet, quaking in astonishment. Liz remained seated, but her eyes widened. Cerberus sprang up at her feet, disturbed by the commotion, and Liz reached down to stroke the white wolf’s head as if to distract herself from her fears.
The aides had clustered around the map and were beginning to question the soldier.
“How long ago did you see them?”
“Not more than twenty minutes ago, sir.”
“Then they can’t have gone far. I’m sure you must be tired, but could you point out their location?”
The man nodded and approached the map, leaning on a nearby aide’s shoulder for support. “I saw them here, near these woods, maybe two hundred rue from the camp. They numbered around two thousand, all cavalry.”
“Someone send the lookouts to check. There aren’t many routes the enemy could take and stay unseen. Tell them not to miss a single speck of dust!”
Several men scattered at the order.
“We still have nineteen hundred men here at camp. That’s enough to fight.”
“Tell the officers to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. There’s no telling where they’ll come from.”
So far, nobody had said anything about Tris, but Liz only closed her eyes and listened. Blood dripped from her hands where her nails had cut into her palms. Cerberus nuzzled her leg, sensing her distress. She smiled gently at the white wolf. A commander could not afford to lose her composure. If she wanted to be worthy of the throne, she could not prioritize her personal concern for Tris over the ongoing discussion.
“Why are you alone?” one of the aides asked. “Where’s the rest of your unit?”
The soldier’s face crumpled. “It seems Brutus was in league with the Nidavellirites, sir. He ambushed us not long after we discovered the enemy force. I don’t know what happened to the other unit, but I can only assume they didn’t survive.”
The aides were flabbergasted. For the empire to offer its aid to a foreign nation only to send a traitor was an unmitigated embarrassment.
“I was lucky, sir. I never would have gotten away if Tris hadn’t held them off.”
Silence fell over the tent. The aides went stiff, like they had been struck by lightning. A roomful of sympathetic gazes turned to Liz. They all knew how much Tris had meant to her. He might not have been high in rank, but soldiers at every level whispered that he had stood by her when nobody else did. They could only stand and stare. There was nothing to say.
At that moment, more bad news arrived.
“The Jötunheimite camp calls for reinforcements! They’re under attack!”
The aides blanched. Groans rose from their ranks. Their hearts might have leaped from their mouths in shock. For a moment, they seemed entirely stunned, but Liz’s presence rallied them.
“If it’s not one thing, it’s another,” one man spat. “Where did the enemy come from?”
“From the left-hand side of the camp, sir. To the fore.”
“Ridiculous. Did the Jötunheimites let them get away? Did they not even check whether they had routed the enemy?!” He struck the table in anger before rounding on the messenger again. “How many are there? We’ve only just gotten word of an attack ourselves. We have no men to spare.”
“Only around six hundred, sir. But the Jötunheimites have committed most of their troops to the field. The few men they left won’t be able to hold out for long.”
“Two thousand on one side, six hundred on the other...”
Although there were only nineteen hundred men left in the imperial camp, there was nothing for it but to split them in two.
“We could leave the Jötunheimite camp to its fate,” another aide suggested.
“And let it be said that the empire abandons its friends? Don’t be a fool.”
“The battle is already won. Would losing their camp truly do that much harm? Their commander is on the front line. They will quickly recover.”
“But what if that leads to bad blood between us? We don’t want to risk antagonizing our future allies.”
Opinion remained undecided. The battle had been going so smoothly that the aides were struggling to adjust now that things had gone wrong. What was more, with the pressure of time bearing down on them, panic was beginning to cloud their judgment.
“This is no argument at all!” one man cried. “The enemy is bearing down on us as we speak! We ought to ride out and rout them! What dishonor would be worse than losing our encampment?!”
“Perhaps it seems simple if you only care about shortsighted victory,” another replied. “But if we forsake our allies, we will be the laughingstock of the continent.”
The tent was growing more and more heated. The argument seemed on the verge of coming to blows.
“Enough.” Liz’s voice doused them like cold water. Her glare was so icy that their breath caught in their throats. “This is no time to be arguing among ourselves. Any more of this foolishness and you will undermine our troops’ confidence.”
“B-But, Your Highness—” one man spluttered.
“Enough.”
“Yes, Your Highness. Forgive me.”
Her displeasure cut sharper than any blade. Sweat broke out on the man’s forehead.
As silence fell over the tent once more, Liz stood up from her chair and began to move pawns across the map. “Send one thousand men to the Jötunheimite encampment,” she commanded. Surprise spread across her aides’ faces, but she continued unperturbed. “Four hundred men will stay here. I will lead the remaining five hundred to deal with this army at our rear.”
She turned, her mantle fluttering, and began to walk toward the exit. Cerberus followed on silent paws. The aides’ eyes bugged as they watched her go. Soon, they were in an uproar.
“Your Highness, I beg you to reconsider! You are placing yourself in far too much danger!”
Liz stopped before the entrance and looked back over her shoulder. “If our allies’ camp falls, the enemy will come straight here. They will strike at the same time as the force to our rear. We’ll be surrounded.”
“Then why not make our stand here?” one of the aides protested.
Liz turned to face him. “If the Jötunheimite camp falls, the war in Steissen will drag on.”
At this stage, the Nidavellirite army’s goal was to turn their defeat into a stalemate. They might be losing the war, but razing their enemies’ encampment—and damaging the imperial camp, to boot—would provide fertile ground to promote their cause. With the help of a few creative liberties, Utgard would no doubt find new supporters in no time. Miraculous victories drew admiration from listeners of all stripes.
“Besides,” Liz continued, “the fighting isn’t over yet. We’re in a strong position, but a mishap on the back lines would be a disaster for morale.”
The sun would soon set. If the Jötunheimites had no camp to return to, it was not difficult to imagine what would become of them if the war wasn’t over by then. That said, while Liz’s aides seemed to understand her assessment, their expressions showed that they were having difficulty accepting it.
“I have a plan, if you would put your faith in me.” She turned to face them and offered a smile. “I know that I can overcome any trial so long as I have you by my side.”
A gust of wind blew through the tent. It caught the entrance flap and lifted it aside, showering her in the brilliance of the sunset. The aides stared, struck dumb by her majesty. After a long moment, they straightened their backs and sank as one into imperial bows.
“As you command, Your Highness.”
Bit by bit, she was cultivating a ruler’s presence. Who could have imagined that the child nobody had expected to amount to anything, the runt of the royal family, would mature so remarkably? Nobody called her a little girl anymore. Certainly, the aides seemed to realize afresh that they were looking at their next empress, and they hurried to their tasks with a newfound urgency.
“Send word to the officers and get those units assembled, sharp. We’re sending aid to the Jötunheimites!”
“Have we heard from the lookouts? Have they tracked down that force to our rear?”
They had always been capable. When given a task, they spared no effort to see it done; that was the imperial way. Liz nodded to herself contently and turned back to the exit.
“What about the scouting party, Your Highness? We know where they engaged the enemy. There may be survivors—”
“Don’t worry about that. Focus your efforts on the enemy.”
With that, she left the tent.
＊＊＊＊＊
“Looks like we’re almost in view,” Keight murmured to himself. He was a dwarven youth, twenty-four years of age, but already with a lustrous beard. He was also a member of the elites and the vice-commander of the force currently bearing down on the imperial camp.
“I think we’re as close as we can get, my lord,” he said to the commander beside him.
Andh nodded. “It’s close enough. The only question now is how badly we take them by surprise.” He smiled as he gazed at the encampment atop the hill from beneath the cover of the trees.
“Word has come from our own camp, my lord. They say the battle is still undecided.”
“I should hope so. We would be in a spot of trouble if it finished without us. Well, most of those men are fighting for the families Utgard has taken prisoner. They won’t give in easily.” The dwarf chuckled in amusement.
Keight smiled too. “I can only imagine how furious they’ll be when they learn their families are now slaves.”
“I suppose I’ll have to return those humans in our keeping,” Andh muttered.
Keight thought back to when he was last in his commander’s mansion. He did not recall having seen anybody resembling a hostage. “Which humans, sir? I don’t remember anything like that when I visited.”
“We put them underground.” Andh pointed down toward the earth.
Keight nodded to himself. “Underground quarters. I can see the reasoning. Otherwise, they might run away.”
Andh waved a hand. “No, no. The shrews wouldn’t stop their wailing, so we buried them.” A grin spread across his face.
Keight’s mouth hung slack. As a member of the elites, he had no love for other races either, but neither did he particularly despise them. He certainly wasn’t a sadist like his commander.
Andh didn’t seem to notice his revulsion. “So you see, they can be as furious as they like. Their loved ones won’t be coming back to meet them. Not that they were ever going to last that long in the first place, of course. If anyone deserves their ire, it’s their parents for not giving birth to dwarves.”
With a smirk on his face and derision in his voice, he looked positively deranged. Keight had little sympathy for their enemies, but he feared for his sanity if he listened any longer. He hurriedly changed the subject.
“Oh, that’s right, my lord. Word came that our men wiped out an imperial scouting party a little while ago.”
“Did they? Excellent work. I doubt those imperials even suspected we had an informant in their ranks.”
“Unfortunately, my lord, it appears that informant perished in the battle.”
“Bah. That’s humans for you, frail as they come.” Andh said nothing more. He did not seem especially perturbed by the loss.
“I also hear that General Golmo is trying to force this battle into a stalemate.”
Andh nodded sagely. “An attempt to salvage the failures of our army, no doubt. I can imagine his frustration. That said, between finding this informer and using the main force as bait, it’s an ambitious plan he’s come up with.”
“The beastfolk are impulsive. I am sure they will fall for it.”
Andh snorted. “A pack of fools, the lot of them. They bite their master’s hand when they would be far better off accepting their collars. This war will be a fine opportunity to teach them who’s really in command.” He reached for the axe on his back. “We’d better get going. Any longer and we’ll earn ourselves a reprimand.”
The dwarf’s eyes gleamed with battle fervor as he licked his lips. Warfare truly seemed to delight him. He had won many accolades without ever tasting defeat.
“Kind of these imperials to come all this way just so I could win glory from their destruction.”
This battle would be a chance to prove his strength. Bounteous rewards awaited success. How could he not enjoy the bloodshed? He was second only to General Golmo in skill. These human imperials stood no chance.
“My arm’s itching to hew some human necks.” He gave his axe a few practice swings before resting it on his shoulder. “It’s time. We’ll charge from the treeline and strike the camp hard and fast.”
“Understood, my lord. I will relay that to the others.” Keight signaled with his flag.
Andh held his axe high. “Raise our banners! Proclaim our glory! Show these imperials the strength of the dwarves of Nidavellir!”
As soon as the last syllable left his mouth, the Nidavellirite forces surged out of the woodland toward the camp. The thunder of horseshoes swallowed the silence, shaking the ground in their fury. Arms and armor gleamed as they scattered the sun’s light.
“Hah!” Andh bellowed. “Victory is in si—”
“Charge!” came a cry.
“What?”
A stunning impact struck the dwarven force in its right flank. A flame-wreathed sword carved Andh’s head from his shoulders, eyes still wide with surprise. It spun through the air, skin melting, flesh burning, blood boiling. By the time it struck the ground, it was nothing but a charred lump that dissipated on the wind.
As the dwarf’s headless torso toppled from his horse, Keight returned to his senses. He raised his sword to catch the blade rushing toward him.
“What the— Agh!”
A second head soared high, burning to ash. The upper half of Keight’s sword fell down to stick into the earth, severed cleanly from the rest.
As the two commanders fell, the soldiers behind them grimaced in dismay. Riders in unfamiliar colors were pouring out of the woods to the right. At the rear of the force, countless golden lion standards billowed in the wind. The fear of death took hold of the dwarves as they saw they were outnumbered.
To add to their misfortune, they had already committed to a full-speed charge toward the imperial encampment, They could not change direction easily. Caught in the flank by a vicious blow, their force of two thousand quickly found itself split in two.
“About face! And be quick about it! We’re under attack!”
In an instant, the ambushers had become the ambushed. There was nothing so terrifying as believing oneself the hunter only to abruptly find the positions reversed. Their minds refused to comprehend the situation, rejecting reality in order to preserve their pride, fatally slowing their response.
“Out of my way,” said a cold voice.
A mounted figure tore through the Nidavellirite ranks, crimson hair streaming, scarlet flame trailing behind her. The dwarves stopped and stared. She looked like a goddess on horseback. Even amid the carnage of the battlefield, it was impossible not to be left stricken by her beauty; her very presence drew the eye, turning the blood and gore around her into the vermilion petals of a rose.
Her blade was as gentle as a spring breeze, but it brooked no resistance. None could stand before its crimson steel. Storied swords shattered, and sturdy armor gave way. A trail of Nidavellirite bodies lay in her wake, eyes wide with astonishment. Corpses piled high in an orgy of carnage.
“Bloom in splendor, Lævateinn.”
A maelstrom of fire whipped up around her, reaching to the sky. The dwarves winced in pain as a scorching wind blew over them.
“What are you?!”
One soldier bore down on her, propelled by terror, but his lifetime of training cut only empty air. He scowled and made to strike again. The chance never came. His headless body slumped to the ground, blade still in hand.
The crimson-haired woman brought her horse to a stop. Immediately, her royal guard converged around her, protecting her with a wall of steel. A standard bearer raised a lily high—the livery of the sixth princess—which was quickly joined by a golden lion. There was no mistaking the command.
“Leave none alive.”
Liz raised the Flame Sovereign skyward before sweeping it down. Screams rose across the battlefield in answer. The imperial troops numbered only five hundred and the Nidavellirites two thousand, but it was from dwarven throats that the cries issued.
“Victory to the Rose Princess!” the imperials roared.
With its commanding officers slain before the fight had even begun, the Nidavellirite force descended into confusion. The troops had been deceived by the volume of imperial flags and went to their graves believing they were outnumbered. No matter how superior the dwarves’ physical prowess, with their chain of command shattered, they were no better than a mindless mob—a headless snake that could not hope to best the imperial lion. Their ranks fell apart as they descended into panic, caring only for preserving their own lives.
The melee was a desperate place at the best of times, but the imperial soldiers fought without carelessness or overconfidence, dispatching the Nidavellirites swiftly and thoroughly. They struck like lightning, leaving their opponents helpless before their advance. The dwarves’ last hope was their remaining officers, but with even individual units losing cohesion, these superiors were easily picked out and cut down.
“Ah... Aaahh...”
Some began to wail in despair. It did not take them long to realize that victory was impossible. Their dignity meant little next to their lives. They cast down their weapons and began to flee.
“Stay away, curse you! Stay away!”
Swords and shields alike struck the earth as they turned their horses about and galloped away. Broken spirits let terror seep in. The enemy was coming, and they had to flee. The valiant few who refused to run were left to be crushed beneath the imperial boot. The two-thousand-strong force shattered in an instant, and worse still awaited.
“After them,” Liz commanded. “Don’t let them escape.”
It was an easy decision. The best way to ensure the Nidavellirites would not rise up again was to sow the seeds of fear in their hearts. She raced ahead over the carpet of corpses, leaving her troops with no choice but to follow. They plunged once more into the fray, cutting down the dispirited dwarves where they stood.
“They’re coming after us! Run for your lives!”
The Nidavellirites fled in screaming confusion, and the imperial soldiers hounded them like lions pursuing their prey. The soldiers fought with strength far beyond their usual limits. Perhaps they wondered to themselves what filled them with such vigor; more likely, they had no time to entertain such useless questions. All they knew was that a flame filled their breasts, compelling them to cut down their commander’s enemies.
“Foolish dwarves! Bow before our Rose Princess!”
Their spears lashed out with stunning force. Having cast down their shields and weaponry, the dwarves had only their armor to rely on, and it made for poor protection. They toppled from their steeds, run through from behind.
As the would-be ambush scattered like ants, a victory cry sounded in the distance. Only then did the crimson-haired woman abandon her chase.
“That sounds like Skadi’s won the battle.”
Liz cast a glance at the sunset-hued sky to the north and expelled a long breath. The cloying stench of blood pricked at her nose as she filled her lungs with air.
“I’m calling off the pursuit,” she said to her aides. “Tell the men to focus on securing the area.”
She urged her horse forward, surveying the field. The ground around her was a sea of blood strewn with unidentifiable lumps of flesh. Riderless horses cantered past her, whinnying sorrowfully. At last, the color of the ground returned to a familiar brown.
“Come on, Cerberus. Time to head back. That’s enough fighting for today.”
She turned to the white wolf, her little sister since her early youth. The beast’s fur was matted crimson with blood, dyeing her almost black in the amber tones of sunset.
“Cerberus?”
The white wolf squatted on the ground, nose in the air. She made no move to answer Liz’s call. For a moment, Liz wondered if she might be injured, but then the wolf suddenly took off running.
“Cerberus? Come back here!”
With her fearsome speed, Cerberus pulled away from Liz in an instant. The princess drove her heels into her horse’s flanks and followed.
Her guards cried out in surprise. “Your Highness? What’s the matter?!”
She could hear them chasing after her, but she kept her attention on the white wolf. They were far from the battlefield by the time her companion finally slowed.
“Is this...?”
The rest of the question hung in the air. A patch of woodland rose before her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Cerberus vanish into the undergrowth.
“Your Highness! Please, wait! Where are you going?” The soldiers brought their horses in as they finally caught up with her. “Is something wrong?”
Liz did not reply. She only stared wordlessly into the trees. As she came to the edge of the woods, she dismounted.
“Your Highness, you must return. It isn’t safe.”
She ignored them and strode in. Not once did she look back. Her feet led her straight onward, as though something were calling her in.
The woods were not particularly deep, the trees sparse enough that light was visible through their trunks. It made for easy going. She pushed through a patch of foliage and came to a stop at last. The air was stagnant here, and the verdant scents of the woods gave way to the stench of blood. Bodies littered the undergrowth, all clearly dead.
“Your Highness... Is this...?”
The clatter of armor broke the silence as Liz’s guards caught up. They beheld broken swords, axes protruding from tree trunks, blood-slicked grass crushed beneath the tread of armored boots. Every step produced an unpleasant squelch, and they tried not to wonder whether it was mud or blood.
One thing was clear: a great battle had been fought here. A nameless struggle far from the battlefield, one that had gone unseen and unnoticed, one that would never be written about in any history book. Here, brave warriors had challenged impossible odds to allow one man to deliver a vital message.
Liz offered a silent prayer for the deceased. None of them were men she had known, but Cerberus’s mournful howl echoed through the wood, putting paid to any faint hopes she might have nurtured.
One tree stood alone in a patch of amber sunlight. An old soldier leaned against its trunk, Cerberus nuzzling his arm with her nose. Liz walked closer, her footsteps quiet, as if she feared disturbing his slumber.
“I had so many things I wanted to tell you,” she said, kneeling down and gazing into his eyes. Holding back tears, she reached out to cup his cheeks in her hands. “But now... What am I supposed to say now?”
Tris had passed away with a smile on his face.
＊＊＊＊＊
The twenty-seventh day of the sixth month of Imperial Year 1026
A cold wind blew beneath a canopy of stars. The sun had long set, leaving Galza bathed in darkness. Once, it had been a thriving metropolis known as the capital of smithing, but years of oppression and forced conscription had seen its population decline dramatically. Now, Utgard’s palace was the only beacon of light that remained in this fading city, but with Utgard on campaign in the west, the building stood masterless, occupied only by the nobles he had left behind.
As ever, while the town was quiet, the palace was bustling. Cheerful singing echoed from its confines. Another banquet must have been in progress. The dwarven sentries on patrol cast resentful glances up at its walls before returning to their duties.
Hiro lay on his bed, listening to the clamor filtering in from the corridor. “They’re rowdy tonight,” he said, stifling a yawn. With an irritable scratch of his ear, he turned his attention to Muninn.
The scar-faced man kept his head bowed as he spoke. “Seems like Nidavellir’s lost the battle, chief.”
That came as no surprise. Hiro had predicted as much before swords were ever drawn. The Nidavellirite nobles, however, had not been so prescient; the city they had believed a safe haven would now become a battlefield, and the lavish banquets they had held in Utgard’s absence had ravaged its food stores. Judging by the fact that yet another feast was in full swing, they must not have received word of the Nidavellirites’ defeat.
“What’s happened to Utgard?” Hiro asked.
“Our agents say he managed to make himself scarce, although General Golmo and the rest of his advisors weren’t so lucky. Meanin’ they’re dead, that is. That news is three days old now, so Utgard should be back soon. Assuming he’s not managed to get himself caught in the meantime, of course.”
The capable had perished on the battlefield, while the incompetent had survived—a common tale, but no less pleasant to hear for its familiarity.
“I don’t have much sympathy for Golmo either, judging by what I’ve heard,” Hiro remarked.
Utgard was unlikely to be able to steward the city through a siege at the best of times. With the parasites in his palace draining his storehouses, holding out for any length of time would be next to impossible. On top of that, the soldiers’ morale was at rock bottom; they were only begrudgingly attending to their duties and beginning to openly voice dissent. If push came to shove, they would not hesitate to hand Utgard over to the Jötunheimites. Even Galza’s high walls could not hold off an assault if the city collapsed from within.
“Nidavellir is finished, I think.”
In that case, Hiro had no more business here. One last meeting with Utgard and he could return to Baum, his purpose accomplished.
“There’s one more thing, chief. But...” Muninn trailed off, looking a little like he had something stuck in his throat. Whatever it was, he seemed reluctant to say it.
Concerned, Hiro prompted him to continue. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s Tris, chief. Seems the old man didn’t make it through the battle.”
Hiro’s breath caught in his throat. The shock was so great that for a while he couldn’t speak. A tangle of emotions swelled inside him as the meaning of Muninn’s words permeated his mind, and something in his chest broke under the strain.
“That ain’t true!” A figure sped into sight from the side, lunging at Muninn. “It ain’t! Tris, dead?! Never! You must’ve made a mistake!”
It was Huginn. She had arrived to report to Hiro just before her brother. Her face was almost blue, like she had been flung into the frozen north, and her eyes were wide open in disbelief.
“He can’t be dead! He’s too strong to be dead! You know what he’s like!” She grasped her brother by the shoulders, her hands visibly shaking.
Muninn looked sideways, trying to get away from his sister’s furious glare. “Aye, I know. I checked, more than once. But it’s the truth. No gettin’ around it.”
“No... It can’t be true... He can’t be gone...”
Huginn sagged to the ground until her forehead touched the floorboards, shoulders trembling as she held back sobs. Luka crouched down beside her and softly stroked her head.
Hiro looked up at the ceiling and collapsed back onto the bed. “I see. So he’s dead, then.”
The man had been stubborn as a mule but kind for all his gruffness. Hiro had often trained with him alongside the new recruits.
“By all rights, he should have been a general.”
He had accomplished countless feats of valor—well enough to have been rewarded with rank, if not for the fact that he had served Liz. It was widely known that Liz’s fellow royals had looked upon her with disdain from an early age, and their scorn only became more acute when she was chosen by Lævateinn. Her political rivals, threatened by her rise, had conspired to ship her off to a backwater province, and their machinations had continued to threaten her life. As her direct subordinate, Tris had been squarely in their line of fire, and yet he had continued to serve her faithfully.
“Tris, dead...”
Once, Liz had told him a little of her childhood. After losing her mother, she’d had nobody left to play with. It had been Dios and Tris who reached out to her. Knowing their actions would earn the nobles’ disapproval, fully aware that they were forfeiting their careers, they had taught her how to wield a sword—and through it, how to live.
When it rained that day...was that you, coming to see me?
Hiro looked at the window, where the full moon hung solemnly upon the night’s dark canvas.
What were you trying to tell me?
That was a question that could never be answered. The minds of the dead were not for the living to know. Hiro knew that better than anyone.
What are you thinking now as you look down on me? Do you feel anger or sorrow...or are you smiling?
He lowered his head to the window, pushed his mask back into place, and stood up from the bed.
“This ends tonight.”
At once, the air in the room shifted. The change was not natural but forcible, the atmosphere twisted out of shape by Hiro’s raw fury. All eyes converged on him as a baleful darkness began to flood the chamber.
“Chief?” Muninn blurted out.
Hiro gazed at the ceiling, saying nothing. After an uncertain amount of time, bathed in nigh-infinite silence, he took a step forward. “It’s raining,” he murmured.
Muninn glanced outside the window, where the stars shone bright and clear, and cocked his head. “Raining, chief?”
Hiro approached the door. “For days now, the sun has been hidden.”
As the door crashed open, the Nidavellirite guards rushed up to him, alarm on their faces. “Lord Surtr, you must return to your chambers. You cannot leave without Lord Thorkil’s permission.”
Hiro leveled a cold gaze at them. “Out of my way.”
In one fluid motion, he drew his black blade from its sheath and lopped off both of their heads. It quite literally happened in an instant. The guards’ heads parted from their torsos before either knew what had happened. Two heavy thuds echoed along the corridor as their bodies collapsed to the ground, spraying blood from their severed stumps. A gory stain spread across the red carpet.
Huginn and Muninn cast the corpses no more than a glance as they knelt behind Hiro. “What are your orders?” Muninn asked.
Hiro strained his senses for a moment, making certain that nobody else was around. “Spread the word. We’re putting our plan into action.”
“As you command.” Muninn vanished without a sound.
“Huginn, you’re in command of our collaborators in the town.” Seeing her look up with red-rimmed eyes, Hiro softly tousled her hair. “I’m counting on you.”
“Of course, Your Lordship!” She bowed deeply before vanishing as quietly as her brother.
A gentle weight pressed against his back: Luka. “And what of me?” came her voice in his ear.
“We’re going to the throne room.” With a smirk, Hiro strode ahead, treading on the decapitated bodies as he went.
A troupe of Nidavellirite soldiers converged on them, drawn by the noise. There were six in all. Hiro stared down the ones in front, while Luka turned to guard him from the ones behind.
“Come, Dáinsleif. It’s time to awaken.”
Blackness flooded the corridor, deeper and more cloying than night. Air, space, the very world itself split, rent, shattered. Eternal darkness poured forth, deep and black, bubbling like stagnant mud. So transformed, the darkness devoured all within view, birthing despair and ambition in equal measure.
The sight stopped the Nidavellirite soldiers in their tracks. “What’s going on?!” one cried. “Lord Surtr has lost his mind!”
“My concerto has only just begun.” Hiro pressed a finger to his lips, straining his ears to their limit. “So hush now and listen...to my requiem for a dear friend.”
His eyes narrowed like a snake’s beneath the shadow of his mask.
＊＊＊＊＊
A full moon hung in the sky, elegant and solemn as it cast its maiden light upon the land—a graceful sight belied by the thunder of horseshoes in the dark and the clatter of armor ringing loud in the night air. A man tore across the prairie as fast as his horse would carry him.
“How many of you are left?!” he bellowed.
It was Utgard. After his defeat at the hands of the Jötunheimites, he had barely escaped the battlefield with his life.
“Three, my lord! The rest fell by the wayside!”
“Damn and blast! How could General Golmo deliver this failure?!” Utgard slowed his mount a little, spitting bile as he caught his breath. “I’ll see his lands burned for this! I’ll send his family to the scaffold!”
“Please, my lord! Recall that General Golmo stayed on the field to buy you time to escape! To repay his loyalty by executing his family would be—”
“Silence!” Utgard spun around, eyes burning with indignation, and cut down the offending aide. Now riderless, the dwarf’s horse sped off into the dark. He watched it go, chest heaving, before turning to the other two. “Do you plan on lecturing me as well?”
“N-No, my lord,” one stammered. “We would never be so presumptuous.”
“Splendid. But be warned—if you ever have a change of heart, I won’t hesitate to cut you down as well.”
Utgard flicked the gore from his blade and returned it to its sheath before holding his hand out to one of the soldiers for water. He snatched the canteen from the dwarf’s grasp and drained it dry.
“A little warm, but still refreshing.” He sighed. “Why must I suffer this ill fortune?”
“We can still turn the tide, my lord,” one of them said. “The nearby nobles are still hale. We could levy troops from their lands. And Lord Surtr remains in Galza. He could help us to acquire coin from our neighbors.”
Utgard smiled as he looked up at Galza’s moonlit walls. He nodded to himself. “Indeed. He shall be of great use to us. I can see it now—we shall retreat to Galza and stall for time while we rile up our nobles, then pay bandits to burn the lands of any senator who dares side with the Jötunheimites. We shall show them where their interests lie.”
Time was all he needed to recoup his losses. With the first emperor’s necklace and the king of Baum to lure in more coin, he could quickly refill his empty coffers.
He chuckled to himself. “Heaven has not forsaken me yet. I shall watch from atop my impenetrable fortress as all my woes resolve themselves.”
Gazing admiringly up at the walls, Utgard approached the gate. However, it was not long before he noticed something amiss.
“Hm? Why is the gate open?”
“Strange,” one of the soldiers mused. “I see no guards.”
“One of you, go and see what’s— Whoa!” All of a sudden, Utgard’s horse reared up, pitching him to the ground. “Oof! What the...?”
The dwarf barely had time to register surprise. His horse toppled over, coming straight for him. He scrambled sideways, only barely avoiding it as it collapsed into the dust.
“What in the world was that?”
Again, he was given no time to process what had happened. A loud clamor arose behind him. He turned around.
“What are you doing here?”
A large crowd of other races stood before him, holding a motley variety of swords, spears, and axes. Some of them were dressed in rags and wielding hoes. They glared at him, eyes gleaming like beasts. At their feet lay the wretched corpses of the two soldiers, struck down before they had even had a chance to scream.
“Another dwarf, and he looks like a wealthy one besides! Get him!”
With a cry, they surged toward him.
“Stay away from me, you mongrels!”
Bewildered but realizing his life was in peril, Utgard drew his sword and ran the closest through. He pulled it out and hacked off another man’s arm. The mob backed off, surprised by his swordsmanship.
“Bastard!” one yelled.
“If you peasants think you’ll get the better of me, think again!”
Utgard brandished his sword wildly until the mob flinched back, then took his chance to flee through the gates. He cast them a mocking grin as they howled behind him. When he looked ahead again, however, his face paled.
“What happened here?”
The town was full of people, but their appearance was uncanny. They were roving the streets in packs with bloodstained swords in hand, carrying food or bottles of drink and draped in jewels. Their attention converged on Utgard as they noticed his presence.
“Look, there’s one left. And he’s dressed real fancy too.”
Utgard paled. He looked down to see his golden armor glinting in the torchlight.
“Decked yourself out real pretty in the coin you stole from us, eh?”
The loathing in their eyes pierced his breast. He tried to ward them off with his sword as they converged around him, but none faltered. They seemed more resolved than the others.
“How could this happen? What have those fools in the palace been doing?”
“Feasting all day and all night, that’s what. Didn’t you know?”
Utgard looked up at the palace on the hill. “Feasting?! Why, I— Oof!”
A fist struck his cheek, sending him sprawling. One of the commonfolk had punched him. As he lay on the ground, a boot came down on his face.
“Aye, that’s right! Feasting! With our food and our drink!”
“Stop this at once! Do you know who I— Argh!”
Utgard tried desperately to shield himself as the blows began to rain down, but before the violence of the mob, his resistance had little meaning.
＊＊＊＊＊
In the palace throne room, the feasting continued in blissful ignorance of the events outside. Nobles and worthies quaffed goblets of wine, arms around the shoulders of one prostitute and the waist of another. They were red-faced, staggering, and entirely submerged in the pleasures of drunkenness.
“Senator Phalaris! You’ve acquired a new hostage to serve you, I hear.”
“I had little choice. Used my last one a little too sorely, I fear. I sold Senator Perillus’s family to the slavers and kept the son for my own. Now the boy serves in my mansion.”
“Imagine returning from the battlefield to find that only his son remains. I pity the man.”
“Pity? Bah. He should be grateful that his heir still lives!”
Similar conversations repeated all around the chamber. Elsewhere, a group of nobles had gathered together the daughters of reputable houses and were auctioning them off. Some buyers took pleasure in torturing their new toys, while others dragged them away to the corner of the room to “break them in.” Drunkards knew little restraint. No doubt several corpses would need to be carted from the room by the time dawn broke.
There was no voice of reason. Thorkil, whom Utgard had left in charge of the palace in his absence, listened to the screams and cries with what looked like contentment on his face.
“Let them call us corrupt if they please. None of us will blush. These indulgences are the privilege of those who rule.”
The strong reveled in tormenting the weak. That was the way of the world, and this sight represented its natural state. The only escape was to remain on top, never once falling beneath another’s boot.
Thorkil leaned over to whisper in Phalaris’s ear. “I trust you recall our agreement, senator?”
The man nodded heartily. “Of course, of course. I have not forgotten. Once Lord Utgard returns in triumph, I will recommend that he find you a place in the senate.”
“I am pleased to hear it. By way of thanks, I will make sure to supply you with more durable slaves.”
Phalaris chuckled. “I look forward to it. Still, you needn’t worry so.” He gave an exasperated shrug. “When have I ever broken a pro—”
“Eh?”
Something warm and wet sprayed across Thorkil’s face. He lifted a stunned hand to his forehead.
“What in the...?”
His hand came away sticky and red. He looked down to see Senator Phalaris’s head destroyed, leaking brain matter.
A cloud of dust filled the room, and screams began to echo from all around. Plates crashed as they hit the floor. The squelch of food crushed underfoot mingled with groans of pain.
“Curses,” Thorkil spat. “Guards! Where are you?!”
He dived to the floor just as something swished above his head. He couldn’t see what was happening through the dust, but he could hear clearly enough. From all around came the sounds of dwarves staggering around in confusion. By far the loudest noise was the screaming, which only heightened his unease.
“Got to do something about this blasted cloud...”
Steeling himself, he stood up and began to run, relying on his mental map of the throne room. His goal was the large window leading to the balcony. If he could open it, he would at least be able to see what was going on.
He barged past figures that loomed from the dust, trying to ignore a variety of unsettling sensations underfoot, and barreled toward the window with such force that he crashed into it. The doors swung wide, but the impact shattered the glass, sending him tumbling out onto the balcony.
“Now, let’s see what this is all about...”
He peered back into the throne room. The dust swirled like a tornado as the air currents pulled it outside. The sweet aroma of splattered wine mixed with the iron tang of blood encrusting the floor, producing a nauseating stench that stung the nostrils. And as the air cleared...
“What are you doing here?” Thorkil blurted out in surprise.
The throne room was strewn with bodies, every face contorted in despair. In the middle stood a man carrying a blade as black as a piece of living night, shrouded in a fluttering white mantle that the carnage around him could not stain. It was like watching the sun rise in the dark of midnight.
“The Lord of the Midnight Sun...”
Thorkil’s eyes widened as he beheld the figure amid the sea of corpses—a lord reigning over an ocean of blood and flesh.
“Lord Surtr... Have you lost your mind?!”
His anger earned only a smirk. Surtr gave a theatrical shrug, spreading his arms wide. “I thought I might attend this banquet you’re having, but as you can see...”
He cast his eyes around the room. Thorkil followed his gaze. The surviving attendees were cowering behind pillars and tables, their faces smeared with tears and snot. Surtr smiled gently at them, but his expression was somehow unsettling, like its kindness concealed something cold and hard.
“Your hospitality is as rotten as your nation’s heart. I can’t very well take part in this.”
“Do you mock me?! You know well this was your doing!”
There was no need to press Surtr for an explanation. From his composed demeanor and the clean wounds on the corpses, it was clear what had occurred. Thorkil’s rage swelled. He crushed a fallen apple underfoot as he whipped his sword from its sheath.
“Why so upset? Is it because I spoiled all this food and drink you prepared?” There was no mistaking the taunt, for all that Surtr posed it as a question.
“You cut down my countrymen and that is all you have to say for yourself? You truly must be mad.” Thorkil sank into a fighting stance. His feet slid across the floor as he crept closer to Surtr. The technique was meant to disguise his approach, and it was an impressive show of skill.
“‘My countrymen,’ you say. And what have you done to all those hostages who weren’t dwarves? Come to that, what about the ones who were?”
Surtr produced a sheet of paper from his pocket and began to read it aloud. It was a list of all of the crimes the elites had committed to preserve their power: their purges of their fellow dwarves, their oppression of other races, their dealings with slavers, and the victims claimed by every one.
“Silence! What do you know of us?!” Thorkil glared back hatefully, froth flecking the corners of his mouth. “You know nothing of our land. The rule of the elite is law in Nidavellir. You are an outsider! The rest of Soleil will not stand for this! Your actions will see your pathetic nation wiped from the map!”
Surtr returned a cold smile. Black contempt flitted across his face. “The rest of Soleil isn’t going to hear you, I’m afraid. If it’s any consolation, I only sped things up. It was just a matter of time before the people put you on trial, burned your homes, and slaughtered you and your families.”
Thorkil’s brow furrowed. It sounded like Surtr was talking past him.
With a disdainful snort, Surtr put a hand to his ear. His eyes closed behind his mask. “Can’t you hear it? Here they come...”
The air shuddered with a violent explosion. A thunderous boom ripped through the chamber—but it had not come from inside the palace.
“The footsteps of Nidavellir’s ruin.”
Another explosion followed—two, three, four, and they showed no sign of stopping. Thorkil spun around and rushed back out onto the balcony. The surviving attendees surged after him to see what had happened.
Galza was burning. Great tongues of flame sprouted from the city buildings, briefly dispelling the dark before fading away. The dwarves watched in confusion, visibly lost for words.
Behind them, Surtr—Hiro—spoke. “An armed uprising orchestrated by the townsfolk who escaped conscription. Nobody will suspect my involvement. After all, you had it coming.” He strode forward until he came to a stop before the throne. “You lit the flames of hell, and now you will burn in them.”
He settled himself in the lap of the chair and turned to the woman by the door.
“Luka, kill the rest.”
The gaggle on the balcony heard him. They spun around, eyes bulging, but Luka was already in front of the window with Vajra raised. She swung the greathammer with prodigious strength, striking the unfortunate handful at the back of the crowd. Air whistled. Bones crunched. Several screams trailed away as the blast wave sent several more dwarves sailing over the railing.
The swing took Luka off-balance herself, but she planted her feet and reined the hammer in before bringing it back with redoubled force. Terrible shrieks filled the chamber before rising skyward. Finally, she raised the hammer overhead and brought it down with crushing force.
“You wouldn’t—”
The dwarves whimpered as cracks shot through the balcony. They looked back up at Luka with half smiles, their minds addled by terror.
A broad grin spread across her face. “Die.”
Their footing crumbled, and they vanished into the darkness below.
“Oh?” Luka cocked her head. She walked up to where the window met the sky and looked down. Thorkil clung desperately to the pane, the wind threatening to tear him free at any moment.
His expression crumpled as he saw delight fill her eyes. No doubt he expected to be cast into the abyss. Instead, she set Vajra down, grabbed his wrist, and hauled him up.
“Your plaything yet lives,” she called over her shoulder.
Thorkil struck the floor hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. He whimpered in pain, but Luka only picked him up like a ball and flung him deeper into the room. His head struck the ground several times, eliciting a series of grunts. At last, he came to rest before the throne, whimpering in agony. Luka came up behind him, footsteps ringing loudly on the stone, and seized his leg.
“Gyaah!”
One look at his face was enough to see the terror Luka’s expressionless visage inspired in him. He stretched out his arm as far as it would reach, the fear of death overpowering his pain as he clung, teary-eyed, to Hiro’s boot.
“Lord Surtr...help me, I beg you...”
“Give me a reason and I’ll consider it.”
“M-My lord?”
“I’m offering you a trade, Thorkil. If you want to keep your life, offer me something of equal value.”
“I-I can secure you safe passage from Steissen! The palace guards will be on their way now. Let me live and I’ll talk our way past them!”
“Look outside. Do you see the city burning? Do you think the palace guard has any time to check on your ridiculous little gathering?”
Thorkil fell silent for a moment. “Then...then I’ll give you wealth! I know where Lord Utgard hides his treasures. There’s so much gold, you could buy a whole city and still have enough left over for another!”
“Not anymore, there isn’t.”
“What?”
Hiro gave a disdainful snort. “How do you think I funded this coup?”
That was not wholly true. He had sequestered a portion of Utgard’s wealth away in his treasury for future use, but there was no need for Thorkil to know that.
Spoils for the victor. I’ll make sure they go to good use.
“You stole that wealth from the people,” he continued. “I only returned it.”
A kick to the face shook Thorkil free. The dwarf’s nose broke, sending blood spurting. As he cradled his face, groaning in pain, he realized Luka was dragging him away. He scrabbled at the floor, but to no avail. Ten bloody streaks trailed behind him as his fingernails tore off.
“I’ll do anything! I’ll turn over a new leaf, devote my life to serving the people—”
The rest of the sentence caught in his throat as he saw Hiro glaring down at him, his face chillingly blank.
“Save your repentance for the abyss.”
“N-No... No, no, wait! Please! I don’t want to die! I don’t want to—”
He vanished into darkness, where neither moonlight nor firelight could reach him.
“Have mercy, I beg— Agh! What...? Gyaaah!”
Shrill screams gave way to the crunch of bone and the tearing of flesh. Through it all curled a woman’s laughter, a cheerful humming like a housekeeper preparing a meal.
Hiro turned to the shadows on the other side of the chamber. “You, trying to hide. Come out.”
There was no reply, but something trembled fearfully in the darkness.
“Come out or I’ll cut you down.” His voice left no doubt about his intent.
A group of dwarves stepped forth, several young women and a middle-aged man. Hiro frowned but beckoned them closer to the throne. The women—barely more than girls—were dressed in grimy sacks, while the man was encrusted in so many jewels he could only have been a noble.
“Well, there’s a whole family of you. Are these your daughters?”
The male dwarf nodded furiously, but the women blanched. That in itself said enough.
“I see.”
At a banquet this lavish, some nobles would undoubtedly have brought prostitutes, but these women seemed to be something else. They wore no makeup and seemed unfamiliar with courtly manners. Most likely, they had been kidnapped from somewhere or other. It stood as further testament to the elites’ depravity that they would do that to their own kin.
Hiro beckoned the middle-aged dwarf closer. When he approached, he seized him by the neck, eliciting a choked cry.
“I’ll let you live,” he said.
The dwarf’s eyes gleamed despite his pain.
“However,” Hiro continued, “I have a condition. The palace guard should be coming soon, wondering what all this noise is. I want you to stall them. Could you tell them they’re needed to keep the peace in the city?”
The dwarf nodded again.
With a sudden squeeze, Hiro snapped his neck. “Never mind. I lied.”
He released the dwarf’s throat, letting him fall to the ground like a broken doll. Small screams arose from the female dwarves, but they fell silent and covered their mouths as Hiro turned to them.
“The rioters will be focused on the north gate,” he said.
The north gate was where the nobles’ mansions were located. No doubt the mob was ransacking them at this very moment. It was clear what would happen to the women if they went that way.
“Go south. The gate should be open. You’ll be able to make an easy escape. Take whatever you like from the bodies here and bring it back to your families. Oh, and use the rear exit from the palace. There won’t be any sentries on watch.”
He gave a dismissive wave. The dwarven women took off with whoops of joy, stripping jewels from the nearby corpses on the way out. Some of them seemed to care more for coin than their lives, scrambling to collect all they could carry on their way to the door. Hiro’s eyebrow rose at that, but it would not be his fault if their greed hindered their escape.
Once they were gone, the room fell quiet again, but for the night wind plucking vainly at the plundered corpses. In time, Luka returned to his side. Her tongue ran across her lips as she wiped the blood from her cheek, her allure on full display. She took a seat by Hiro’s feet and rested her head on his knees.
“Happy now?” he asked.
“Very much so. He proved quite robust in the end.” Her dull eyes gazed at nothing while she spoke.
Hiro smiled ruefully and looked around the hall. A fallen candlestick had set the bodies aflame, and with the aid of the wine spilled across the floor, the blaze was spreading quickly. Firelight danced across his mask, casting deep shadows.
“Two years now since you flew the nest.” He spoke to empty air. In a world of blood and moonlight, he stretched out a hand toward the growing flame. “What kind of person have you become, I wonder? One who smiles, perhaps? Or one who weeps?”
Surrounded by silence, he leaned back in the throne and gazed up at the ceiling.
“Liz...are your skies still clear?”
Nevermore would his eyes reflect the cloudless blue, only a dark and stagnant world. A gust of wind blew in through the broken balcony window, carrying away the stench of blood and fanning the flames higher.
“I’d like to see how you’ve grown someday.”
His smile widened amid the crackling sparks. The possibilities at her feet were boundless. But soon would come a convulsion of eras, and an age of bloodletting would descend.
“Blood will flow on the battlefield, and the world will begin to turn once more.”
Thousand-year-old gears were creaking into motion. Every race of Soleil would have its part to play. None could afford to stand on the sidelines—not even gods.
“Again and again, this chance has come. Every time a failure.” Hiro reached out as if to grasp the spreading blaze in his hand. “The Time of Turning is upon us.”
Luka gazed up at him with empty eyes as he began to chuckle. He sensed something sorrowful in her stare, but he could not afford to stop now. He could only forge ahead. From the moment he had chosen this path, there was no turning back.
“Look at me. What am I doing, I wonder...”
His laughter fell away and he sank back into the throne. For a moment, he thought he saw a hand before him: a lingering memory of the promise he had made with Liz so long ago.
“Liz...I’ll wait for you on the highest heights.” His formidable demeanor melted away and sorrow fell over his face. For once, he looked his age. “And there...”
He had only one desire. One he had held for a long time. Keeping it hidden would force a bitter choice upon her, he knew. But if he was to walk this road, there was no other way.
A crash echoed through the throne room. Dancing sparks scoured away the roiling darkness as they set new fires alight. Yet through it all came another, quieter sound. Hiro turned his attention to the ruined doorway.
“We’ve got Utgard, Your Lordship. Some of my instigators found him being beaten half to death.”
Huginn entered, grimacing at the heat. Two of her subordinates followed. They carried a dwarf between them, his arms restrained: Utgard.
“Fine work,” Hiro said.
He extended a hand. Recognizing the instruction, Huginn brought Utgard closer. The dwarf glared up at Hiro as he fell to his knees before the throne. There was outrage in his swollen face, but the gag in his mouth prevented him from putting it to words.
“Utgard. It’s been too long. You’re in good health for a deserter.” Hiro raised a hand, indicating for Huginn to remove the gag.
“What is the meaning of this?!” the dwarf spluttered. “Did you not come to Steissen to forge an alliance?!”
Hiro laid one hand on the arm of the throne, looking down at him scornfully. “Nobody ever said anything about an alliance. I said I was here to negotiate.”
“What?”
“I wanted you to undam the River Saale. The people of Lichtein are crying out for water.”
Utgard repeated the words dumbly, eyes wide. “Undam the River Saale? That’s all?”
“That’s all.” Hiro gave a helpless shrug.
Utgard flushed a deep crimson. “That is why you did all this? For a river?!”
“Not just for that. Don’t worry. I have some questions for you as well.”
Luka withdrew her head as she sensed Hiro rise. He stepped down from the throne and approached Utgard.
“Lord Thorkil! Lord senators! The commonfolk are revolting! What are your orders?!”
Panicked voices echoed from down the hall. Overwhelmed by the events in the city, a group of soldiers burst into the throne room, only to find it littered with corpses and awash with flame. They froze where they stood.
“Help me, you fools!” Utgard bellowed. “Do something about these faithless blackguards!”
His voice brought them back to life, and they drew their swords. “What have you done to Lord Utga—?!”
Utgard’s hope was short-lived. A hail of arrows from Huginn found the soldiers’ throats with fearsome precision. The blood drained from his face as he realized that he was once more at Hiro’s mercy.
“Have you gone mad? Do you mean to go to war with Nidavellir?!”
“You are a king with no castle, no army, no power. What is there to go to war with?”
“There are still those who support me! They will gladly give coin—”
“To a man with no nation?” Hiro’s presence magnified in weight, forcing Utgard to swallow whatever he had been planning to say next. “Nobody will stand with you. You have nothing left. Give up while you still can.”
“Then I will trade the River Saale for a peace agreement with Lichtein and use the slave markets to—”
Hiro’s shoe clacked on the floor, cutting Urgard off. “I regret to tell you that the river has already been freed. Ten thousand soldiers from the ducal army have seen to that.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t take more than five hundred men to bring a wall down from the inside.”
By now, the five hundred members of the Crow Legion who had accompanied Hiro into Steissen should have breached the border. Confident in the border wall’s reputation, Utgard had placed Thorkil in the palace to keep an eye on Hiro and recalled most of the guard to assist with the defense of Galza, leaving it with a skeleton crew. They would have quickly crumbled when attacked from behind. Once the wall was breached, the ducal army would have swept in like an avalanche, and it would have been over.
“That was your goal, all this time?”
“Well, not my only goal. But you don’t need to know about the rest.” Concentrated darkness bubbled forth from Hiro. His white mantle danced on the wind. “I can’t stay any longer. I don’t have any intention of burning alongside you.”
He signaled with his eyes for Luka and Huginn to go ahead. They exited the room, unhurried despite the raging flames. Once they were out of sight, he looked back down at Utgard.
“Now, then. I have one last question for you. It’s about your backers in the empire.”
“How do you know about that?” Utgard spluttered.
“Call it a happy accident.” Hiro reached out toward the dwarf’s neck, where a lion necklace glittered in the light of the flames. “I stumbled across it while I was looking into this. I couldn’t afford the chance, you see, no matter how slim.”
With a gentle touch, he removed the necklace and stowed it away carefully in depths of the Black Camellia. Once he was done, he grasped Utgard by the neck and lifted him up.
“And what did I find but that you don’t have any ties to Artheus at all?”
With a mirthful, mirthless smile, he raised his black blade.
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