Peter Roberts

Told In Stone Chapter 16: Into the Echo

The heavy rain burst the banks of the river Grave and forty thousand marching Faelen infantry turned the ground around the looming gateway to a muddy quagmire.

Riot struggled through the bog, the sticking mud pulling at his boots. The flood waters had seeped into the Echo itself and small shoots of grass had appeared. Would the gateways breathe some life into the Faelen prison? It seemed hard to believe, as far as he could see the land was brown and dry, with naked red rock formations littering the horizon.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a horse? It might help you get off on the right foot with your half-company, perhaps inspire them a little,” Deacon asked as she rode beside him.

No-one who had ever seen Riot clinging miserably onto the neck of horse would call it inspirational, besides horses cost money, and even though captains were paid better, none of the regiments had been paid anything for a month. “I’m better on my own two feet, ma’am.”

“I’m not a soldier, Riot. Deacon will do.”

Riot still wasn’t sure how to take the Wikkan. They’d fought together, they’d drunk together. But the slip of a girl still wore a face like a stone mask most of the time. Though today he sensed she sagged a little in the saddle, and he would have said that she looked often to the shadows. But that was Wikkan, wasn’t it? Married to the shade, or something.

“Have to keep up appearances when we’re traveling with royalty, ma’am,” Riot replied, nodding to the gaudy golden carriage ahead of them.

The future king of the Faelen leaned out of the window of the golden carriage, waving regally to the Faelen heading through the Echo to Fallow. All saluted him, calling out commiserations for the queens passing and praising him as the new king of the Faelen.

The future king of the Faelen leaned out of the window of his golden carriage, giving encouragement to the two dozen Faelen infantry that struggled to move the monstrous carriage through the mud.

Two more heavy wagons were lined up behind. One held supplies, tents, and a dozen large barrels of water and three barrels of the precious whisky ration that was the only thing that would keep the Leybound marching. The other was loaded with furniture, clothes, and a dozen other useless items that Gwilhelm had insisted on bringing. A carved writing desk was strapped to the back that would at least be useful for firewood, given the lack of trees.

At last the carriage and the wagons were freed and the Faelen cheered.

“He’s not even crowned yet, and they love him,” Deacon mused.

“Let’s see how many of them are still cheering in winter when the siege is six months old and they’re taking a shivering shit in a ditch,” Riot replied.

“Ever the optimist, captain.”

Captain. Riots hand strayed back to the pendant on the metal chain around his neck. The weight of it felt right, and would feel even better if Leguard ever arrived to see it. “No sign of the Erudorans,” he said, looking back at the looming gateway.

“We won’t for Leguard and that’s fine with me. You’ll not repeat this, Riot, but the man is an ass. Travelling without him will be much more pleasurable. Ah, it looks like your half company have found their way here.”

Riot almost laughed out loud to see them. He thought Kerne would saddle him with a company of detachments made up of broken down regiments, but instead fifty of the first Leybound regiment sat around off to the side of the main road, watching the endless stream of traffic pass by them into the Echo. They smoked, lounged and generally grumbled and among them twelve who wore darker blue uniforms scrambled up to greet Riot warmly, congratulating him on his recent promotion.

Deacon nodded approvingly as she was introduced to them. “The hero’s of Morbian, seems I’m in good company.”

“We saw you at the battle for the gate, Warcaster. That was something I dare say I’ll never forget for the rest of my days,” Rimmer said, tipping his hat.

“The road we take will be easier I promise you. His highness has insisted we detour to visit the site of the breaking of the Echo, and after that we should arrive in time for the battle at Fallow. Here’s a map for you, Riot. I’ll inform the Prince we’ll be leaving immediately,” Deacon said, urging her horse gently in the direction of the golden carriage.

Riot glanced at the map. It was more like a sketch, lines that could have been trails winding between high rock formations, and this was the first he’d heard of any detour. But those empty sections of the map could be where Fletcher and Miller were being held. He folded the map.

“Good to have you back, Sir.” Crease said.

“Crease, still alive?” Riot asked the tall cutthroat.

“Barely sir, couple of close calls.”

“You been living like a Lord, Sir?” Oliver, the youngest of the unit asked.

“I’ve been bloody bored up till now and I can’t promise it’ll get any more interesting than this.” Riot replied. “Rimmer, thought you’d have wanted to stay on the front lines?”

Rimmer gave a wide gap toothed grin. He was one of the shrewdest men in the unit at shirking hard work and when they’d first met he’d pissed and moaned at every order Riot gave. But now he was one of Riot’s bed men, and one of the bravest in a fight.“Came for Fletcher and young Miller, Sir. We getting them out?”

The men looked to him, all radiating concern for their missing comrades. “Our job is to protect his highness through to Fallow.” The heads of the men dipped slightly and Riot felt the weight of the pennant around his neck. Getting the two men back would mean dropping Gwilhelm off and heading right back into the Echo. It would mean loosing the commission, but in the end there wasn’t even a choice. “I won’t leave them in some long-ear prisoncamp, so keep your eyes and ears open, when this is done, we’ll get the lads back. Now form up, marching order.”

Loic looked doubtfully up at the red sky above them, the clouds racing across with no breath of wind to drive them. “We’re really going in there?” He asked in a low voice.

“The Prince is, and we’re here to see him safely through. That’s the job.”

“Join the regiments, you’ll see the world they said. But they never said which one,” the northman grumbled and lowered his voice as he went on. “About Fletcher and Miller. I tried to look in to the prisoner lists, had to bribe the clerk a guilder.” The northman paused, waiting expectantly.

Riot sighed before fishing out a half guilder coin and handing it over. Loic had likely threatened the man for the information, but he knew the men only cleared a silver Duke and eleven measly splits a day, and they were owed backpay for three months.

“They weren’t there.” Loic went on. “But I found out something else. Twenty Leybound were on patrol from from the second Leybound company. They’re all missing, no prisoners reported.”

So more Leybound were missing than just Fletcher and Miller. Kerne must have known, but she said nothing. Not that that was much of a surprise. Were they also taken by these Cetic monks Deacon told him about? Twenty two men to think about now. “Three days to the battle Loic, then we come back and put those red-robed bastards to the sword until they found out what was going on.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. Might have a nosey around for some of that gold while we’re at it.”

Though their road took them away from the marching Royal Faelen regiments, they were not alone. The fortune seekers had finally been admitted to the Echo and their slow moving trail of humanity stretched into the distance. Swaying wagons heaped with tools rolled alongside shabby miners carrying only a knapsack and a pickaxe over one shoulder.

Riot gave a rare smile and settled into the comfortable rhythm of a march. There was none of Colonel Worthy’s blustering to worry about, no Captain Clarkson being given special treatment. After so many years slogging it out in the ranks, then being made Leybound, things were finally starting to look up.

Riot chatted with the men, sharing jokes. Rimmer gave them a few warbling choruses of marching songs and they all admitted that Fletcher sang better, and wondered how the old soldier was faring in the Faelen prisons.

At noon, a camp formed on the horizon and as they approached Riot saw that it was a town of sorts. It was mostly tents of varying sizes, but there were a handful of buildings, and the start of what looked to be a chapel of the Prior.

“How in all the hells did they get that built so damn quickly?” Loic said.

Deacon went ahead to investigate and after a time rode back to meet them, the hooves of her horse kicking up red dust. “The place doesn’t even have a name yet, a frontier town and likely the last before we head deeper into the Echo. Gwilhelm wants to stop, he says the carriage is too hot.”

“Place like that might have a tavern,” Loic added.

“I expect so, but I don’t think you can expect much in the way of comfort,” Deacon said.

“What he means, ma’am is that if this lot get within a half mile of a tavern we’ll never get them out again until the barrels have been licked clean.” Riot gazed around and pointed to a spire of a rock formation on the other side of the settlement. “Loic, take the men and the wagons around and keep your distance.”

“They won’t like it, sir, perhaps something to sweeten the pot?” Loic asked a hopeful tone in his voice.

“Double whisky ration tonight when we stop.”

Loic grinned and snapped off a smart salute.

“You let him take command of a half company?” Deacon asked, watching Loic stride away bellowing orders at the Leybound.

“Most of them will follow me, but the ones that don’t will come because they’re scared of him,” Riot replied.

The town was one dusty street with a hundred of half finished wooden buildings on either side. A workman stood on a rickety ladder putting the finishing touches to a sign that proclaimed a rickety wooden shack to in fact be a general store.

Gwilhelms golden carriage drew attention as it rumbled through, but at the sight of a Wikkan most made the wise decision to busy themselves with their own tasks.

Only one man who sat on the shadow of a half finished building watched them. He was a Tarian with a swarthy face, deeply tanned with a small black moustache and a pointed goatee. The studded leather armour he wore was good quality and the sword breaker at his waist looked well used. Leaning on a fence post near him was a seven foot tall Orc with a face all squinty like he was always looking into the sun. His shaved head covered in his clan markings and the scimitar at his waist almost grazed the floor.

Mercenaries. Riot watched them calmly and the Tarian gave him a small wave.

Gwilhelm leaned out of his carriage window and complained loudly about the heat and declared he wanted to visit the ale house.

Deacon dismounted, but Riot waved her on. “I’ll watch over the carriage.”

It only took a handful of minutes before the Tarian approached, the Orc trailing several steps behind. “Ho traveller, come to seek your fortune in the red land? If you find your self short of hands I’d be open to offering our services, for a fee of course.”

“Bring your own shovel and pickaxe do you?” Riot asked.

The Tarians bright smile showed a row of bright white teeth but did not reach his small eyes. “Unless I miss my guess, you’re not prospecting, and our talents lie in other areas.”

“I see.” Riot pointed to the spire of rock where a low cloud of dust was catching the breeze. “I have fifty talented men over there, they can do all sorts of things, they have shovels too, we try to dig four foot deep most of the time or the rats get in.”

The Tarian held out his hands, palms out. “I meant no offence, only I see those bindings on your hands, Leybound. I’ll tell you for free that the deep Echo is a dangerous place for folk such as yourselves. My Captain will see you safe on your journey.”

“For a price?”

“Nothing in this world is free, friend.”

The door to the tavern swung open and Deacon and Gwilhelm emerged. The young Princes face was twisted in a scowl and his elderly Valet, Paulie struggled on behind him, bowed under the weight of a large clay jug.

“I’ll have to turn you down, friend,” Riot said, waiting until he heard the carriage groan before he turned and followed.

“Trouble?” Deacon asked falling back to ride beside Riot.

“A couple of sell-swords looking for work,” Riot replied. Looking back he saw the two mercenaries mount their horses and head back out of the town, away to the south.

“There will be many more than that now the gateways are open and the Mazral army have been forced back.”

“All looking to get rich on Faelen gold?” Riot scoffed.

Deacon flashed a smile. “There’s enough buried under this red land for everyone, Riot, I’ve seen it.”

Riot marched on, wishing he’d bought a couple of pickaxes after all.

Told In Stone Chapter 15: Yega

The manor belonged to a spinster, last in the line of a prominent family who had gifted her entire estate to Wikkan. Now it was in the possession of Master Quell. The mysterious figure that had given her more power than she could ever imagine. She didn’t even know his true name, but what did that matter? That he was using this house freely proved that even the Wikkan bowed to his wishes. How high did his influence spread? All the way to the Wikkan Seat?

The heavy wooden doors stood ajar, the entrance hall silent, the large heath full of cold ashes. She forged a minor working, holding the grey power of the Arcane close to her fingertips, her eyes tracking the shadows. The bust of a hook nosed woman lay smashed on the marble floor, her remaining eye giving a last bitter rebuke.

Long hallways held curious antiques covered in a fine layer of dust, glimpses though open doorways revealed cold, darkened rooms hanging with somber paintings.

Haunted sounds crept through the empty hallways. Voices talking, and a soft sobbing. The sounds led her to a cathedral-like atrium, crowned with a towering dome of metal and glass. A blight had taken the array of plants that had once thrived here. Dark fronds hung over the pathway and the smell of rot and decay hung in the air, dead insects crunched underfoot.

The voices were clear now and she recognised the wheedling nasal tone of Isan Wane, the other was a deep sonorous voice that caused her heart to hammer in her breast. What a fool she was, a woman of forty-five summers that behaved like a girl of half that age in his presence.

“Antonietta, welcome,” her master said, as she stepped into the central space of the atrium.

“Master Quell,” she said, with a deep bow.

He stood before a blackened, gnarled tree that had given bloom to dark flowers. He held one of the blooms in his fingers, gently twisting the stem, it was almost violet in the centre. Today he was elvish, tall and lithe of stature with high sharp cheekbones and copper skin. Last time he had been a Northman, broad of shoulder with wide strong hands.

Antonietta pulled herself back to the present. “Wane,” she said, giving a curt nod to the other occupant of the room.

Isan Wane lounged in a heavy chair, his lizard like tongue flicking across his mouth as he appraised her. Even his gaze felt like a violation. Before he was excised from the Arcanum they called him the needle, or more likely he gave himself the moniker. He liked to get under peoples skin.

Antonietta took one of the two remaining chairs, avoiding looking to the empty one. She had heard Sumner Nixton was dead, though she heard many things and in her estimation he was almost impossible to kill. She suspected he was alive and hiding in one of his deeper holes.

“What progress have you made, Antonietta?” Quell asked.

She controlled her breathing, radiating what confidence she could. “The most recent tests have been promising, master. The procedure is survivable, now we will work on the binding. The last Leybound we captured were weak, only recently bound. Hemler believes that they need to have mastered their Arcane leyline before we can bind them. With more Leybound we will succeed.”

A silence followed these words, and a droplet of sweat rolled down her back. She had other news for her master, but not now. Not in front of Isan Wane. Perhaps never, some things were best withheld, power nurtured. And such power it was she could scarcely believe she hadn’t seen it before.

“Perhaps you should let the Cetic whip you instead of himself?” Wane said with a nasty chuckle.

Antoinetta kept her eyes on Quell. Isan Wane was a worm, and when she had succeeded, she would crush him. “Foral-nar will continue to comply, but he was no match for the Warcaster.”

Master Quell held the flower to his nose momentarily. “A half company of Leybound have been dispatched to the Echo. They will pass close to the Cetic sept in days.”

A half company meant at least thirty leybound, more than she could have hoped for. She would have the breakthrough she needed inside a month, long before Isan Wane. “I will instruct Foral-nar to apprehend them. They will be no match for the Cetic once they are inside.” Her words tripped over each other in their haste to get out, but she fell silent as Quell raised a gloved hand.

“The Leybound will travel with three Erudoran Arcanists, a Warcaster and the future king of the Faelen. Take the Leybound and kill the others, but Prince Gwilhelm must reach his destination at Fallow. Do you understand?”

An unnecessary complication but Antoinette kept her mouth shut. It was manageable for such rewards. “I understand.”

Quell approached, and held out the small flower. “I am pleased with your efforts, I know you will not fail me.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she took the bloom with a trembling hand. “Thank you, master Quell,” she whispered.

Isan Wane fidgeted in his chair before interrupting. “Master. If you are ready I will make my presentation. I believe you will find it pleasing.”

Quell took the third seat and gestured for Isan Wane to continue. The skinny arcanist left up and loped toward a doorway. He had lost a foot in some childhood mishap and the heavy wooden foot he wore scraped slightly with every step.

He disappeared through the doorway and reappeared a moment later ushering a young boy wearing household livery. The boys once white leggings were dirty and ripped, and his handsome green and gold tailcoat was so stained so badly it almost appeared black. His face was smeared with dirt and tears and his eyes flickered into the shadows of the room with a fear that was palpable.

Antonietta shrank back in her chair as the second figure appeared. She was at least seven feet tall and wore a tattered black robe. Her features were that of a woman, but no woman had skin like a cracked porcelain mask, the expression blank, with only a thin slit for her mouth.

She had never seen a Yega, but she knew enough about them to want to create a working and hurl it at the creature. The Wikkan claimed to have hunted them all down, but there would always be a darker hole in the abyss to hide in. It was said that if any saw their true features under the mask it would cause an instant death.

The Yega tugged on a length of dirty rope in her hand the other end of which was tied around the neck of a third figure that shuffled from the doorway. The Wikkan’s eyes were milky pools, her black hair hanging lank around her gaunt face. Her bare feet were filthy and cracked and she wrung her hands unceasingly. She hobbled forward, like her legs had been broken and set poorly. A Warcaster, presumably. A Wikkan with the blood of a Yega in her veins, now little more than a living key to transport the Yega to and from the abyss.

If Wane had taken such a dangerous ally to further his work it must mean he was close to a successful binding. Master Quell wore an expression of polite attentiveness. Wanes success would be her undoing. Quell would certainly give Wane control of her work, and the rewards.

“Master Quell. This boy has been successfully bound to a Wikkan leyline,” Wane announced.

Quell nodded his head slowly. “Show me.”

“Go on then, boy. Show him what you can do,” Wane snapped.

The boy shook his head, his face screwing up and fresh tears springing to his eyes. A strangled moan came from his lips and Wane slapped him so hard that he stumbled and fell on his backside.

“Use the leyline, you little bastard,” Wane snapped.

The boys high pitched moaning dropped a few octaves and he leaned forward and vomited dark green ichor over the flagstones. The thick, inky substance dribbled down his chin and when he looked up, his eyes were completely black.

The Yega hissed and even Isan Wane looked shocked, before he cleared his throat. “Now, form a witch bolt,” he commanded.

The boy remained on the floor, and looked at his hands as if he had never seen them before, then he smeered them in the dark vomit, giggling slightly.

“Impressive, you’ve ruined a perfectly good valet,” Antonietta remarked.

The ichor on the boys hands began to crawl up his arms and he panicked. “No,no,no,no,” he mumbled, trying in vein to rub the dark green tar from his skin, desperate to stop the tide that was consuming him.

“You have disappointed me, Isan,” Quell said over the sound of the boys panic.

“My Lord, if you will give me a moment.” Isan Wane summoned an Arcane working to his hands and flung it at the boy.

The grey light flared in the chamber and Antoinietta felt the power from where she sat. The working was unknown to her and jelousy rose in her throat like bile at the thought that Quell had favoured Isan Wane over her. But despite the power, when the light faded, the boy was standing, now completely consumed by the ichor. With a series of cracks, his bones broke and his limbs elongated, the long fingers ending in sharp, tattered nails. He coughed, flecks of black liquid flying from his mouth.

With a snarl, the boy whipped around and focussed on them. Antonetta scrambled out of her chair and backed away while Master Quell remained seated, his head slightly tilted as he appraised the apparition.

“Master,” Antonietta cautioned.

The apparition took two more unsteady steps forward and Master Quell spoke several words in a harsh tongue. At his command, the Yega struck, seizing the boy, her bony hands sinking into his body up to the wrists.

The boy screamed and shook violently, striking out at the Yega, but she forced him to his knees and his form shrank. Sickly green ichor flooding from him into a dark pool that seeped across the flagstones that reflected no light. In moments the boy lay on the floor, shivering, the Yega standing over him. He looked up at her, his black eyes blinking, and she grasped his head in her hands and ripped it off with barely any strain in her long arms.

Quell broke the silence, his voice cold. “Return to your work, Antonietta. Remember, the Faelen Prince must reach Fallow.”

Quells words snapped Antonietta out of the horror she had just witnessed. “Yes, master Quell,” she stammered, hurrying out of the chamber and into the manor.

She was halfway down the corridor when she heard the first of Isan Wane’s high pitched screams.

Told In Stone Chapter 14: Wikkan Archives

Archives of the Wikkan Seat - Report from Haland marsh, Far West of Parthanea.

Year of Thrall - 188 years before the present day.

Mistress,

Forgive me, but a local priest writes this missive as the last of my strength fails. Runala is captured. Silvia is dead and soon I will join her.

For two months we followed half tales and rumours of the witch that terrorised this land. We uncovered foul deeds. Homesteads burned, families mutilated. Men and boys taken, women and girls slain.

The settlement of Haland’s Green is now a grave site, the horrors inflicted there I will not commit to paper.

On the second night from the massacre, we came upon our quarry. A witch of fifteen winters in a campsite sitting alongside the body of a slain hunter.

She fled at our approach and we chased her through the woods. In a clearing. I find it hard to describe. We discovered a portal into a fell land and pursued her. Through this gatewayl I saw a village, ruined buildings, and many ragged figures, woman and girls, captive men.

It was a trap. We were set upon by three monstrous creatures, seven feet tall with white mask on their faces. They wielded strange powers and our own ley power was diminished. Though we fought as bravely as we could, Silvia was killed, and Runala was captured. I barely escaped with a mortal wound.

Would that I had the courage to strike Runala down than leave her to such a fate.

Wikkan Seat, I must tell you that, all three of these creatures were swollen with child.

I urge you to gather the Wikkan, the Arcanists, any allies you can find, before it is too late.

Told In Stone Chapter 13: Nine Duke and Five Splits

Hi everyone!

Sorry for the delay, it's been crazy releasing The Last Man - back on track now.

The Faelen Queen was dead, and the funeral bells tolled all day long in Gravetree. The rain didn’t care much of the death of the monarch and hammered down on the heads of the fortune seekers who shuffled through the gateway into the red land.

The army command centre had been established in a large house in the centre of the town, and as Riot ducked inside out of the rain, he saw a familiar figure before him in the anteroom.

“Clarkson?” Riot asked.

Captain Clarkson turned and Riot moved forward instinctively to catch him as he stumbled. Clarkson looked up with eyes were like twin pools of glass, the pupils the size of dinner plates and the whites thick with burst blood vessels. His skin felt hot to the touch and he was covered in a sheen of sweat. His nose, which was normally runny, was a constant stream of snot.

“Is that you, Riot?” The man mumbled, trying to focus and giving a small chuckle.

“Yes its me, what in the gods happened to you?”

“The smoke, who knew?” Clarkson exclaimed.

After some coaxing, Riot learned that after the disgrace of the battle, Colonel Worthy had ordered all contraband to be taken from the Leybound as punishment. Over six pounds of noxious Faelen weed the men smoked had been thrown onto a fire and when the wind changed the noxious smoke had blown over the regimental officers camp.

“Half of the officers are unconscious. Uncle is terribly sick from both ends. I’m here to report to command.” Clarkson tried to salute and poked himself in the eye.

Riot stifled a laugh and gave Clarkson into the charge of a passing ensign with orders to return him to his regiment. He was still grinning when he was summoned into Roveran’s office, though the smile drained from his face when he saw the stony expression of the general. Beside him, Ritta Kerne looked angry enough to chew rocks and spit gravel.

“Do you dislike me, Lieutenant Riot?” Roveran said, leaning back in his chair and fixing him with the steady gaze of his grey eyes.

Riot stood stiffly to attention, sweat dripping down the small of his back. “No my Lord.”

To the side, Ritta Kerne grunted.

“Then tell me why, even when you are placed somewhere where you could not cause me any problems, you still contrive to occupy my time?” Roveran asked.

Riot furrowed his brow. “I’m not sure I follow–” he began.

“Don’t play the dumb sergeant with us lad. The Echo, dammit!” Kerne shouted, her fists balled by her sides. “You agreed to take the Prince of the Faelen, our ally, into the damned Echo.”

“He wanted to go, better I go with him. Wikkan Deacon will be coming as well.”

Instead of soothing Kerne, this information seemed to make her even more angry. “Don’t you worry, I’ve spoken to Wikkan Deacon. What if he dies? Or is captured? Did you think of that? How long will our alliance last then? The generals will squabble and we lose a third of our fighting force.”

“I’ll make sure nothing happens to him,” Riot promised.

Roveran gazed down at his interlaced fingers. “I would like to hear your report from the battle for the gateway, Lieutenant, in your own words if you please. You may slander whomsoever you wish, your report will not leave this room.”

Riot blinked. Roveran wasn’t the type to ask off-hand questions and so he considered his words carefully. “We should have gone to support the Erudorans, but we didn’t.”

Roveran nodded, still not lifting his gaze. “Colonel Worthy’s ineptitude is noted. Continue please, anything that struck you about the encounter.”

There had been the first cavalry charge, and then a second when the strange Cetic monks had joined in. “There was another cavalry unit, with uniforms I didn’t recognise.” They charged straight for us, but it was the wrong move. They could have hit the Erudorans in the flank, the battle might have gone the other way, but they came for us.”

“The Cetic order indeed rode into battle. Why reason do you think that they might have had for this course of action?” Roveran prompted.

The golden carriage had been sat on the side of the hill catching the afternoon sun like a boil on a backside. A prime target and the reason Riot had called the retreat. “They wanted to capture the Prince?”

“The penny drops,” Kerne scoffed. “They were willing to risk losing the battle for the gateway to get him, and you just agreed to walk him right inside.”

Riot’s mind was still racing. “But there were at least a hundred of them and they weren’t there by chance. How did they know he would be there, and poorly defended?”

“How indeed?” Roveran nodded, a grim smile on his face. Looking closer, Riot saw he had large bags under his eyes. “If they have tried once before, logic dictates that they will try again. I tell you this to warn you, Riot. You will have to remain vigilant.”

“Tell Gwilhelm there’s been a change of plan. Send him through with his own regiments,” Riot suggested.

Roveran shook his head. “Prince Gwilhelm will not agree and I am facing mutiny from the Faelen generals who are accusing me of undue influence over his royal highness. One of them is also insisting that you be tried for assault.”

“I hardly touched him, Sir.”

“In any case it is a shrewd move by the Prince to keep his generals at arms length. They can scheme among themselves, using their energies to backstab each other before he arrives at Fallow.”

“Gwilhelm might be better at this that we hoped,” Kerne suggested. “The problem we have now is that someone knew where he would be, and when to strike, which means they have information from our regiments,” Kerne said.

“Isn’t that your job to find out who it is?” Riot asked.

Kerne’s black eyes rested on Riot. “It is my job. And I’m very good at it. I’m telling you so you can be careful who you trust while Gwilhelm is in your charge.”

“You will need this.” Roveran proffered a sheet of parchment and tossed a metal pennant attached to a dull chain onto the desk.

“A captaincy?” Riot read, looking up.

“Don’t think of this as a reward, Nathanial. Deacon will lead the expedition, but she can’t lead Arcanum troops, and you can’t lead a company as a lieutenant. That’s the only reason you have this,” Kerne added.

“Which company will I have?” Riot asked, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.

“I’ve found a half company for you. They’re rough, but you’ve done more with a lot less. Don’t look at me like that. At the insistence of the Prince you’ll also have Captain Leguard and several of his officers with you. I’ll need your word you’ll play nice with Leguard.”

“You have it ma’am,” Riot said. After all, Captain Leguard couldn’t give orders to Captain Riot, could he?

“This is a temporary captaincy which will end when Gwilhelm is safely installed with his own troops at Fallow,” Roveran clarified. “He must arrive at Fallow for the battle. The path of succession in Faelen houses is not clear. If he is not at the battle, then another will seize the opportunity. A cousin, a nephew, or uncle.

But his words fell on deaf ears as Riot picked up the metal pennant, thumbing the engraved word ‘captain’. It didn’t matter what they said. This was his now and he would make sure he kept it. There was more money too, captains drew nine silver dukes and five copper splits a day.

“What about the pay?”

***

The door closed on Riot and Kerne sat down heavily, rubbing her eyes. “You think he’ll be able to do it?”

Roveran was already examining the next piece of paper in the large pile next to him. “You have put the pieces on the board Ritta, and set them in motion, all we can do is see where they fall.”

“It’d be a shame to lose him. He’s been useful, he could be useful.”

Roveran moved on to the next piece of paper without looking up. “If I might be so bold Ritta, I would suggest you save your pity for anyone foolish enough to stand in his way.”

Told in Stone Chapter 12: Money and Spite

Riot’s head was pounding and his feet were in agony from the new leather shoes. The stiff uniform collar cut into his neck but at least it resembled a fighting man’s uniform, he’d managed to pull off most of the lace. The worst was the pounding in his head. As they had discussed their plans for securing Gwilhelm’s favour, the small Wikkan, Deacon had drunk him under the table.

“It has a kind of rustic charm, don’t you think, Nate?” Gwilhelm gushed, gazing around at the grand ballroom.

“Wonderful, your highness,” Riot replied, plucking a fluted glass from a passing tray and draining it. The wine was tart and the bubbles stung his nose. As for the house, creeping vines, and candelabras had been artfully placed around, but the cracks running up the walls were two inches thick at the top. Riot could likely wedge his blade in there and likely bring down the whole thing. He might do it to, if it would bring an early end to this night.

“I made the effort to understand your world, and now you shall see mine. I shall civilise you with conversation, music and dancing–”. The Princes exclamation was cut short and he took a step back, bumping into Riot. “Nate, I order you to save me from General Loe,” he hissed.

A large Faelen approached them, parting the crowd like gaudy warship. He bore the chain and pendant of a general and bowed low to the prince, the gold rings in his long ears chiming together. His uniform collar was so large and stiff that he could barely move his head. “Most glorious highness, let me be the first to extend my sympathies for the ill health of your mother, our most revered queen.”

The Prince stammered, stumbling over his words. “Thank you, General Loe. I really must–”

“If I may, my liege, myself and the other generals are of the opinion that the Erudorans should cead their position as first regiment for the upcoming battle at Fallow. It’s rather a question of respect, don’t you agree?”

“The battle? Well I expect that is something that Lord Roveran–” Gwilhelm began.

Loe gave a hurrumph of agreement and continued to speak over the stuttering boy. “Excellent, my liege, I am pleased that we are of one mind. Given the current circumstances, myself and the other generals feel that it would be necessary for you to accompany our troops through the Echo. Your presence at the battle will certainly bolster the moral of our regiments. After all,” Loe leaned in. “You might be the King of our people before then, it would do well to show leadership.”

Riot had been about to step in, but at the mention of the Echo he remained still. If Gwilhelm went into the Echo, then surely his equerry would go with him. Riot was sure he wouldn’t need long in the red land to catch the trail of the red robed Faelen monks.

Gwilhelm looked as if he wanted the ground to swallow him up. “I’m not sure how much use my presence would be.”

Gwilhelm nudged his boney elbow into Riots ribs and shoot him a desperate look. But Riot remained silent. He felt bad for the boy, but he had to do what he could for Fletcher and Martin.

“Your highness, will you be sharing any more of your musical compositions with us this evening?” a voice said.

“Wikkan Deacon!” Gwilhelm clapped his hands together.

Deacon approached and pointedly glared at general Loe. The older Faelen managed to withstand her gaze for a moment, before he gave a tight lipped bow and moved to one side.

“If it pleases you, your highness, the mistress of the house would surely wish to give you her respects. I was her charge for many years of my childhood.” Deacon’s voice was deadpan, but a wry smile played on her lips.

“You continue to arrive at the most astute of moments to rescue me, Wikkan Deacon. General, my apologies, I certainly want to hear your thoughts on…” he waved a hand airily. “Whatever it was you were talking about. But it will have to be another time,” Gwilhelm declared, taking Deacons arm in his and leading her away.

General Loe looked as if he had been struck in the face with a wet fish. His expression quickly turned to anger as he took a determined step forward, and stopped, glaring at Riot’s hand that was clasped around his arm. “What is the meaning of this? Unhand me!”

The generals exclamation drew the glances of several well dressed guests nearby and Riot leaned forward and spoke in a low tone before releasing the general.

“I’m going to get something to eat, enjoy the party,” Riot said in a louder voice, leaving the ashen faced general standing alone.

A long table was piled high with food that Riot didn’t recognise. He seized a small tart and sniffed it, recoiling slightly. It smelled like a rotten old boot.

“That is a gnomish tart, Lieutenant. As a race, they have a terrible sense of smell which I am afraid makes their culinary produce, especially, pungent.”

Roveran Listor stood behind Riot. The general of the combined Arcanum, Erudoran and Royal Faelen regiments wore his typical nondescript grey uniform, his grey beard trimmed to a neat point. His hands bore the same silvery scars as Riots, the bindings of the arcane leyline and Roveran’s were as fine as any Riot had seem. Hundreds of small runes cut into the flesh that seemed to move across his skin like birds in flight.

The short Wikkan, Ritta Kerne was in her customary place at his side.

“Sir.” Riot stood to attention and saluted, then instantly felt a fool.

If Roveran noticed he didn’t show it. “It is fortunate that we should encounter you, Riot. Wikkan Kerne and I have just heard the strangest tale. It seems an Erudoran officer has been threatening some of our allies.”

Before being made a Lieutenant, Riot had been a sergeant in the rank and file for eighteen years and he instinctively took on the slightly miffed speaking-to-superior-officers expression. “Sir?”

“Apparently the officer threatened him with violence if he didn’t leave the Faelen prince alone,” Kerne supplied.

“Sounds like the general might have had a little to much wine, Sir,” Riot suggested.

“I did not, of course, mention that it was a general,” Roveran said, plucking a stuffed olive and popping it into his mouth as Riot silently cursed.

Roveran dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Naturally, I assured him that no officer under my authority would act that way, or they wouldn’t be an officer for much longer, don’t you agree?”

Riot nodded to show that he understood the reprimand.

“Capital. Now I must greet the Tarian ambassador. You will excuse me.”

Riot bent at the waist, but Roveran had already turned on his heel and left, leaving him bowing to empty air.

Kerne snorted and snatched some more food from a silver dish. “Did you really tell Loe that you would cut his strings?”

“How much trouble am I in?” Riot replied.

“Loe’s a windbag. Kerne made a dismissive gesture. “This gives him something to complain about other than who gets to march first.”

An easy silence fell between them. For all of her scheming, Riot found himself liking the short Wikkan. She didn’t have the pompous airs of the other nobles, and had never talked down to him.

“You like dangerous women, Nathanial?” Kerne asked, smiling as she saw the question catch him off guard. “First Natalia Quinn, now Deacon.”

Riot scoffed. “It’s nice to see you don’t know everything that happens around here.” There wasn’t anything especially wrong with Deacon. But apart from the fact that he was more than twice her age, she was a Warcaster. The years had done little to soften the stories of the horrific crimes her kind had committed.

“Wikkan Deacon is ambitious, and she has twice been exiled for falling prey to that ambition. Take care you do not do the same.”

Riot felt as though he stood at a crossroad. Deacon and Kerne were both the same in his book, but the Warcaster had offered him a way to look for his men, if Kerne couldn’t do the same, then he knew who he had to work with. “Two of my men were taken prisoner in the battle. Will you move them up the transfer lists?”

Kerne held Riot’s gaze for several long seconds, her black eyes unblinking. “No, they’ll come back eventually.”

Then there was no choice after all, he would work with Deacon.

Kerne took her leave and Riot stood alone. Musicians plucked their instruments, women’s tittering laughter rang out and cigar smoke clotted the air. Riot pulled open the top button of his tight collar. He needed to get out of here. He didn’t belong and the longer he stayed the more of a fool he would make of himself. He made his way around the back of the crowds, exchanging nods with the guards at the door who glared back at him. Dressed like this he wasn’t one of them any more.

Large doors gave way to a stone terrace with steps down to a sweeping garden. The overgrown foliage spilled out over cracked moss covered flagstones. Torches lined the pathways and groups of chattering and laughing guests were scattered around. A young woman served drinks from a silver tray and a man gave the particular barking laughter of the rich that grated on his senses.

Riots attention snapped back to the serving girl. She was tall, with sure movements and piercing blue eyes. Where had he seen her before? He took a step forward, but froze when he saw who it was that plucked a glass from her tray.

Captain Vincent Leguard was speaking to a large group of Erudoran officers and half a dozen woman in gowns. He finished telling his story with a flourish and the group erupted in laughter.

Riot reached for the hilt of his sword before remembering that formal uniforms didn’t have sword belts. He eyed the stone balcony, judging the drop. In a moment he could be making his way through the garden and back to the town. The lads would be enjoying a drink about now.

“Here he is, my lady,” Deacon said as she stepped onto the terrace.

Trailing the Wikkan was a woman wearing a slender gown with silver strands that caught the flickering torchlight. Her long black hair had grey streaks at her temples and hanging on a fine chain around her neck was the largest ruby Riot had ever seen. It would be enough for him to buy a half dozen captains commissions, perhaps even a majors title.

“Riot, this is Lady Marguerite,” Deacon announced.

“Ma’am,” Riot said with a small bow, taking Marguerites outstretched hand. Should he kiss it? There were likely a thousand rules of etiquette and he knew none of them. He settled for shaking it gently and felt a fool as she smiled indulgently.

Marguerite held onto his hand and turned it over so that she could look at the hundreds of silverly scared runes that allowed him to control the leypower. “At ease Lieutenant, this is a party not a parade ground,” the older woman said.

“This is Lady Marguerites house,” Deacon supplied.

Riots brain emptied and he looked up at the crumbling balconies and down at the cracked flagstones, desperate for something to say. “It’s very nice,” he managed.

“It’s a crumbling wreck, much like myself, held together with pride and spite,” Marguerite smiled as she spoke, carefully appraising Riot. She had a severe kind of beauty, like a bird of prey, but there was a crispness to his speech that made him feel like a tradesman confronted with the lady of the house. She kept glancing above his head and he felt as if he needed to smooth his hair.

He wished his hands weren’t empty. He should have grabbed a drink. The uniform was hot and he looked like a fool. He bowed again and caught the faint smile on Lady Marguerites lips.

“I’ve been telling her ladyship about the Leybound regiment. It was impressive to see them in action,” Deacon said.

“Yes, the Leybound are fascinating, everyone is talking about them. Tell me, do they have what it takes to beat back the Faelen?” Lady Margeritte asked.

Riot was grateful that the conversation moved to more familiar territory and he sensed that this was Deacons intention. “Not yet, my lady. But soon, with training I think we could stand against their lines.”

“If anyone stands toe to toe with the Mazral, it will be the Erudorans.” Leguard’s face was flushed with drink, the usual curl of his upper lip now a full sneer as he appraised Riot. “My lady,” he said, taking Marguerites outstretched hand and bringing it to brush against his lips. “I must advise you against taking military advice from Lieutenant Riotus. He is up from the ranks and apparently only knows how to give one order, and that’s to retreat.”

Marguerite looked deeply uncomfortable. Deacon’s face was a mask, her features carved in stone.

“Will you be leading your regiment into the Echo, captain?” Lady Marguerite asked.

Leguard sniffed. “Not at this time, my lady. The Erudoran and Arcane regiments will be going directly north to engage the enemy, while the Roya Faelen push the remnants of the Mazral out of the Echo and create another gateway. I assure you that by the time they arrive, the city will be taken.”

There was a movement in the crowd and Gwilhelm emerged, his face set in a pout that he directed at Riot. “Nate, you abandoned me to General Loe, and now I must travel through the Echo to watch a battle.”

Everyone bowed to the prince, but Gwilhelm was seemingly unaware and continued berating Riot, stamping his slippered foot. “I won’t travel with those frumpy old generals, Nate, you must take me,” he concluded, crossing his skinny arms and huffing.

“Your highness. I would be glad to offer my protection,” Leguard said, smoothly.

“I think his highness would be safe with his current equerry. What do you think, Lieutenant Riot?” Deacon asked.

Riot hesitated. He was his opportunity to go into the Faelen lands and look for Fletcher and Miller, but he’d planned to travel with a battalion of Faelen. Taking the Prince without the support of the generals in would be a risk. Kerne would flay him alive when she found out. But he had a duty to his men. “If you joined us, Wikkan Deacon, I think we would be more than a match for any enemy,” Riot confirmed.

“I insist in joining you as well, your highness. The Erudoran empire will protect you,” Leguard declared.

Gwilhelm clapped his hands, treating the three of them to a wide smile. “My trio of heroes, how wonderful. Off to the Echo we go, the things we will see. Wikkan Deacon, you must tell me what you know of the Echo, you know I have never been.” The Prince grasped Deacon by the arm and lead her away, chattering animatedly.

Leguard took a step toward Riot, his breath a wash of strong spirits. “You cannot hide behind the Wikkan forever, Riotus.”

“You’re crowding me,” Riot growled.

Lady Marguerite stepped neatly between the two of them and hooked her arm around Riots. “Lieutenant Riot, I simply insist on taking you for a tour of the grounds.”

Riot let himself be steered away. Traveling with Leguard would be trouble, but he cheered himself with the knowledge that the Echo was a large place, and accidents happened all the time in wild lands.

The summer air was filled with the scent of honeysuckle and tinkling water fell in the fountains.

“I apologise for Leguard,” Marguerite said.

“He was just drunk.”

“As well he would want to drink. He has money problems you know? Desperate for some kind of glory in battle he can turn into wealth. A frightfully borish man, but again most of the Erudoran officers are.” Margeritte clung to Riots arm, steering him through the gardens, past sweet flowers. “Not that I include you in that group, Lieutenant, you are something different entirely. The grandson of a regicide, promoted from the rank and file and made Leybound. It really is an extraordinary story.”

“I’m just a soldier, ma’am.”

“But you have the power of the leylines. The rumours about you swirl around polite society. Tell me, what is it like to be bound to such a power. Does it trouble you to control it?”

Riot found the cool air relaxing, and had no mind to return to the house. He described the barrier he had created to contain the leyline. Each Leybound had to tame the savage power in their own way, and Riot had formed his own monstrous regiment of faceless soldiers in his mind. On his order they parted and only then could the leypower seep into the Chanels it had cut into this body and fill his core. Though some leybound had learned to live side by side with the leypower, for Riot, it had been his rage that had cowed the leyline in the end. Now, they lived in a wary truce.

They were deep in the gardens now, the music from the terrace only a faint sound on the breeze. The sounds of amorous couples could be heard in some of the more secluded areas and the already hot uniform began to feel warmer.

“I wonder, Lieutenant, if you would visit my private garden? The night is young.”

She was beautiful in her pride and her boldness, but everything about this world felt like he were in a foreign land, and he didn’t know how to manoeuvre. Then there was Natalia Quinn, though she had made it clear he owed her nothing, he still wanted to.

“My lady, I cannot.”

There was a flash of annoyance that pinched the woman’s face, but a moment later it was gone and she gave an exaggerated sigh. “You find me too old?”

“No, not at all. I think you’re beautiful, but I have a woman. I think.”

“She is rather fortunate then. I wish you luck in the Echo.”

Riot took his leave and made his way back to the regimental camp. Another retreat to be sure, and more harrowing than the last one.

Told In Stone Chapter 11: A Wikkan Deal

Riot burst into the tavern sweating and panting to find Gwilhelm sat at a battered piano playing a janky tune. Around him a dozen hardened tavern brawlers were singing at the tops of their lungs, and judging by the words of the song it was one of the Princes own compositions.

Riot scanned the tavern and found to his surprise that no-one seemed to wish the young Faelen prince any harm, then he saw why. Despite the large crowd in the, one area was completely empty, and sitting at a small table nursing a mug of ale, was a Wikkan.

The witch looked straight at Riot, then pushed out the chair opposite her with her boot and nodded to it. The short blond hair was unmistakable. She was the Warcaster that had opened a black hole in the sky and called through creatures from the abyss that had ripped the Faelen to shreds. Not the type of girl to say no to.

“How many taverns did you go to before this one?” She asked as Riot sat down.

“Four taverns and two brothels,” Riot replied. “You followed us from the Inn? I didn’t see you.”

“That was rather the point. My name is Deacon, and you must be Nathanial Riot, the famous Last Man.”

She was smaller than he’d thought, short of stature with a soft, round face. She must have been around eighteen. You might be forgiven for thinking her harmless, but for the eyes, that were inky black like all witches.

A serving girl brought two mugs of ale and Riot took a deep draft, wiping his hand on the back of his mouth. “I’m going to guess Kerne sent you, so go ahead and tell her what happened. If there’s a worse punishment than being his babysitter then I think I’d actually like to see it.”

A smile cracked the Warcasters stoic expression and she drained her whole mug with the air of a professional. “Oh I don’t think we have to say anything about this to Ritta Kerne. The night is young, and you haven’t heard Gwilhelm’s rendition of ‘The Faelen Queen’s Boudouir’. If his mother heard it, she’d have him flayed alive.”

Riot scanned the tavern. Fighting men and women threw dark looks at the Wikkan, but aside from that Gwilhelm wasn’t in any immediate danger. In any case, if the Warcaster decided to summon some fiend to murder them all, there wasn’t much he could do about it anyway. He drained his cup and signalled the barkeep for another. “He hasn’t spoken to his mother in weeks.”

“He won’t be able to soon, she’s dying,” Deacon replied.

The news hung heavy in the air between them and Riot leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “The Faelen Queen is dying?”

Deacon nodded. “Gwilhelm could be King by the end of the span.”

The janky tunes of the piano struck up once more and the Wikkan watched him carefully. Riot flexed his hand, watching the silvery scars catch the firelight. The last time one of the witches took an interest in him he had been bound to an Arcane leyline that had tried it’s hardest to burn him to a crisp. That was the thing with Wikkan, they always had another game being played, or two.

“Why tell me? You need Gwilhelm to change your fortunes?” Riot asked, trying to make it an offhand comment.

There was a stillness to Deacon as if she was made of stone, giving nothing away. “My motivations are my own, but yours are clear enough, a fighting man reduced to babysitting a princeling. You want to fight–”

“And if the Queen dies, Gwilhelm will lead the Royal Faelen regiments,” Riot finished the thought for her.

He leaned back in his chair. Serving in the Faelen regiments couldn’t be any worse than the Arcanum, he could even see his way to wearing their ridiculous uniform. If he were a captain, he could lead a company. If he were a major, he could lead a half battalion.

“What if I’m happy where I am. I’m not getting any younger, a royal guard on full pay with all my arms and legs is a retirement most would dream of.”

“There’s also your men, taken prisoner. What were their names?”

Riot looked up sharply. “Fletcher and Martin. What about them?”

“They were taken into the by the Cetic. A religious order of monks that live in the deep Echo. They believe in the purity of the leylines, so you can imagine what they think of Leybound.

“They were the ones who attacked us at the battle. You’re telling me they’re just monks?” It made sense really when he remembered how lost they seemed after the charge.

“Just monks. If Gwilhelm is king he could easily give you the resources to go in and get your men. And I know my way around.”

Riot remained silent. Games upon games, and he knew he was a poor player.

Deacon continued. “I propose that together, we take a more central role in the welfare of the future king, what do you say?” Deacon, said, holding up her cup.

For Fletcher and Martin, his captains pendant, and a high ranking future? It wasn’t even a choice. He lifted his cup, knocking it against hers. “I’d say I’m here for a good life, not a long one.”

The Last Man available on Amazon

The Last Man—a story that has lived in my head for years and has taken months of planning, rewriting, reworking, and refining to finally bring to life.

Now its finally here.

Every battle, every twist, every spell and betrayal—it’s all been leading here. And if you’ve come this far with Riot and the world of Leybound, I just want to say: thank you. Truly. Your reads, comments, and support have meant more than you know.

This book was a labor of love. A full-length, professional-quality novel, released, chapter by chapter. And now I’m asking for help to give the book a big launch.

👉 If you enjoyed The Last Man, please take a moment to leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads. It helps more than you can imagine. Seriously.

🐺 Tell others about Riot's loyalty to his men and his dogged determination to survive and win.
🔥 Inspire them with tales of the Leybound, condemned to rot, but given a chance to be heroes.
💔 Teach them about Natalia and Price, damaged by a society that used them and tossed them away.
🧙‍♀️ Warn them about Ritta Kerne and witches’ bargains.
📘 Help them find Book 1 in the Leybound series and tell them that Book 2, Told In Stone is coming soon.

Thanks again for being part of this journey.
—Peter Roberts

Told In Stone Chapter 10: Incognito

The crashing noise that came from the chamber was followed by chorus of high pitched laughter. Halfway down the hallway, two young chambermaids who had been arranging the same vase of flowers for half an hour erupted into another fit of silent giggles.

Riot stood guard, glaring at the crack in the plaster of the wall in front of him. The young Faelen Prince seemed the type to hump anything that moved, and the bottomless purse to secure it. Riot couldn’t blame him, war was filled with dull moments made better by a tumble and a warm body by your side.

He let the memory of Natalia’s last visit carry him away from the dingy hallway. She had come to him three nights ago, and left in the blue hour before dawn, not before scolding him on his lack of progress with the leypower.

Riot tried the technique once again, drawing the leypower not out of the rutted scars on his forearms, but out of his skin. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as he willed the grey light to bleed from his skin. After half an hour his reserves were gone, and the empty channels in his body burned with a warning that he would not be able to touch the leylines again for at least a day.

Natalia Quinn, could fade into an ally on a dark night, but all Riot managed was a thumb that seemed slightly more darkened than the rest of his skin, through it was more likely just the shadow thrown by the cheap oil lamps.

The door to the Princes rooms flew open and his tutor emerged, her face flushed as she pulled her dress straight. “Lieutenant,” she said with a prim nod. “The Prince has indicated that he wishes to speak with you.”

“Lesson over is it?” Riot asked.

She threw him a haughty glare and strode off down the hall, past the still giggling chambermaids.

“Nate, Nate!” Called the high pitched voice from inside.

Prince Gwilhelm, the first of his name, heir to the throne of a powerful Faelen house, lounged on a long sofa plucking grapes from a silver tray. At least he had bothered to put on a robe this time. It was blue silk, covered with exotic birds.

“Your highness?” Riot asked.

Gwilhelm rolled his eyes. “Please will you cease to be so formal?” He stood to attention, saluting and marching on the spot. “Yes sir, no sir!” He barked as the giggling from the hallway turned into fully fledged hysterics.

Riot coughed. “Your robe, your highness,” he said, pushing the door closed.

Gwilhelm snatched the flimsy garment closed with a pout and threw himself back down on the sofa. “Paulie!” He shrilled.

The prices ancient valet entered from a side door, back bent with age, his long Faelen ears tufted with wiry white hair. “Yes, your highness?”

“Fire Isabel, the woman is an infernal distraction. Go and find me a new tutor, an old one, the uglier the better, someone who looks like their face has been staved in with a fire poker.”

“Yes, your highness.”

This was the boys third tutor in as many weeks. They could try to find ugly, but Riot thought that the boy would likely hump a half blind swamp hag.

The Prince pouted and threw a grape back into the bowl. “I wish my old tutor Hemler were here, he smelled like a barrel of old turnips, but he had a singular mind.” The Prince reached for a small note book and delicately touched the nib of a thin pencil to his tongue. “Now Nate, tell me, how many intimate partners have you had would you say?” He looked up expectantly, pencil hovering over the page. “Less than fifty?”

“Your highness, I really don’t–”

“Come now, Nathan. I owe you my life and you will let me repay you. I know you are self conscious about your weak command of the leypower and my technique will help you plumb their mysterious depths.”

“My lord, when I said I would like the same power as the Faelen I didn’t mean–”

The prince cut him off with a gesture. “I know what you meant, and I will make you great. Haha! Nate the Great!”

There was a neat rap on the door and Riot pulled it open to reveal the innkeeper, a portly man with his remaining hair gently teased over his sweating pate. He bowed and scraped, presenting two crisp letters before backing out, still in a half bow and pulling the door closed.

Gwilhelm threw the note pad aside and seized the letters, ripping them open. “Our invitations to the ball! I hope you have found something better to wear than those rags.”

“At the menders, your highness, needed more brocade,” Riot said automatically.

The Prince watched him carefully, resting a long finger on his lips. “Roveran is hosting a ball tonight Nate, as you well know. You also know that I wish you to join me as my equerry. Ritta Kerne said that you had to follow my orders, did she not?”

“She said I was to stand guard,” Riot corrected.

Gwilhelm threw open a chest and started to pull out items of clothing, making noises of distaste and flinging them across the room. “Then you can guard me into this miserable town to find you something decent to wear.”

“Don’t you have enough to choose from in there?” Riot asked.

“You know Nate, there is a well known saying,” Gwilhelm rattled of a stream of syllables in the lilting Faelen tounge as he held a florid shirt with a drooping lace collar to his chest. “Roughly translated to ‘Choice is ever the curse of the Faelen’.”

Riot’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll have the carriage brought around.” The Prince would just wear him down anyway and if he was honest he liked him. Gwilhelm didn’t have any of the stuffy arrogance of the aristocracy, and genuinely seemed to want to enjoy life.

“No carriages,” Gwilhelm exclaimed, pulling a nondescript cloak with a deep hood from the chest and flinging it around his bony shoulders. “We are going incognito. I want to mix with the common man, feel the beating heart of the Arcanum regiments.”

“You’re wearing enough gold to keep half a battalion sodden in ale for a month, it’s too dangerous.” Riot said.

The pout returned, pulling soft lines in the young princes face. “How can I be in danger when I have you, Nate the great?”

They passed close to the gateway to the Faelen Echo on their way into the town of Gravetree. A hundred paces wide and fifty yards high, its tattered edges fluttering between the living world and the red land that had served as a Faelen prison for over a thousand years.

Now that the battle was over, ranks and ranks of uniformed figures marched through the gateway, alongside platoons of cavalry and a seemingly unending line of wagons and carriages. Horses snorted and drivers yelled at each other. Guards shouted for order and officers rode through it all, demanding that their regiments be allowed to pass first.

Another crowd waited sullenly to the side of the road. Wagons of timber, tools, merchants caravans, entire families sat miserably huddled under waxed tarpaulins. These were the frontiers people, the pioneers, and opportunists, miners and prospectors, merchants and crooks, pimps and whores. The red land was open and full of Faelen gold.

“I wish to go to an alehouse, a real soldiers alehouse, with straw on the floor, and a bard playing the lute, common soldiers arm in arm singing songs of glorious victories,” Gwilhelm declared.

In the town of Gravetree, the straw on the floor of the ale houses would be rotten, the only bards were the wounded playing battered flutes for a few coppers, and if ever common soldier were arm in arm, it was because one was trying to kill the other.

“Let’s just get what we need and go,” Riot replied.

“Excuse me, sir, are you an officer?” came a woman’s voice from behind.

She wore a simple sensible dress tied with a belt, and threads of blond hair escaped the white bonnet on her head. Riot was never good at ages, but at best he would guess she was only a few years younger than him, that would put her around thirty, certainly no young maiden anymore but he certainly didn’t need the jab in the ribs from the Prince to tell that she was pretty.

“Ask her if she teaches. Any subject at all it doesn’t matter,” Gwilhelm hissed.

“I’m a Lieutenant,” Riot replied with a slight inclination of his head. “Can I help you miss?”

“We are trying to get into the Echo, but the guards won’t let us through, is there anything you can do?”

Riot followed her gaze to a sturdy wagon that had been pulled out of the line. Two uniformed Erudoran guards were talking with a man who gesticulated wildly. He wore a rough brown cassock tied with string at the waist, and the top of his head was shaved in a circle, leaving a crown of hair all around his head. “You’re missionaries?”

“Yes, from the Lost Coast. This wagon was blessed by the first priest of the Prior herself, we are on a mission to provide enlightenment to the heathens of the Echo,” the woman said.

The Erudoran guards watched Riot warily. “I’m sorry, there’s not much I can do. You’d best do what they say and wait. The army will be through in a day, I’m sure you can go through then.”

Instead of the quiet acceptance he expected, he saw a flash of anger on the girls face and felt the same tension he felt when someone drew a weapon on him. But in a moment it was gone and he wasn’t sure that he saw it at all.

“I have to go miss, my companion is waiting for me,” Riot said.

“What companion?” The woman asked, peering past Riot.

The muddy street behind them was almost empty, with no sign of Gwilhelm.

“Damn it,” Riot cursed.

Told In Stone Chapter 9: Black Boughs

Deacon tilted her head to let the cold rain sting her face, the water seeping into her dry skin. After two years in the blighted land of the Faelen Echo, she had almost forgotten the delight of the falling rain.

Whatever happened tonight, she would not go back there. The Echo was open now and a river of humanity already rallied to flood inside, hoping to scratch their fortune from the golden bones of the Faelen prison. Let them send others to spy and scheme, her exile was ended and now they would have to admit her to the ranks of the Warcasters.

She resumed her stony expression. She would need to be as a stone for this meeting. Immovable.

The dark spires of the large house were hung with gargoyles choking on gushing streams of rainwater. Her mother had cleaned houses like this. Back breaking work each day, bowing and scraping to lords and ladies. Her father’s house had been as grand, but now it lay in ruin. The corners of her mouth turned up very slightly at the memory.

Deacon's footfalls echoed on the elaborate marble floor. The bust of a stern-faced woman with a hooked nose glared from its alcove. A lanky teenage boy hurried over. His stockings were ermine white and the green and gold coat he wore was better tailored than any garment she owned. He tried to take her cloak and she refused with a curt gesture. Undeterred, he proffered a soft hand towel and she spared it a scornful glance.

“Where is the Wikkan Seat?” She demanded.

“In the southern atrium, Wikkan,” the boy said, skipping along to match her strides. “She left instructions for you to wait in the drawing room, I can take you there?”

“Is Wikken Kerne here?” Deacon asked without slowing down.

“Ah, no, ma’am. The drawing room is just–”

“Leave me,” Deacon ordered.

She strode alone through hallways filled with priceless antiques, past doorways that gave glimpses into rooms hung with great works of art. It was one of the finest houses in Gravetree and still the meanest of the Wikkan’s holdings. Wealth untold, and they sit on it like wrinkled old dragons. She should burn it to the ground. Wikkan belonged to the wilds.

The atrium was a towering conservatory of metal and glass that rose to a great dome. Rain hammered against the panes transforming the world beyond into a dreary blur. Inside the air was warm and buzzed with the hum of insects. Tall fronds, palms and deep green plants from the tropics reached up to touch the glass ceiling. A fortune to import and keep alive. More needless indulgence.

In the centre stood a twisted, blackened tree without leaf or flower, unlike any  tree Deacon had ever seen. The Wikkan Seat stood before it, a pair of gleaming metal clippers in her hand. Two younger girls in black robes tended to plants nearby.

“Mistress,” Deacon said, bending her knee before the old woman.

Arabella Stoke offered her bony hand, the veins soft and blue under the baggy skin. It felt like holding hands with death. “Wikkan Deacon, welcome back to the fold. It has been a long time.”

“Two years in the Faelen Echo, mistress.”

“You have done well during your time there, thwarting the plans of our rivals, mapping the factions of the Faelen. The Wikkan Seat thanks you.”

“The Cove still operates, despite my efforts, mistress.”

Stoke glanced toward the younger girls. “Leave us,” she snapped.

Deacon watched them scurry away. She could have been one of them, once, bowing and scraping.

“Thoughts for the opportunity you turned down, Wikkan Deacon?” 

The old woman couldn’t read minds, but she had a lifetime of reading people, their emotions, needs, desires.

“I have found solace in my own path, mistress.” Deacon could feel her knee cramping up, yet she stayed on one knee clutching the withered hand in hers.

“You should be thankful it is only mild discomfort you are feeling. You are here because of your recent actions in the battle.”

“I sought only to protect the Prince of the Faelen, our ally,” Deacon said.

The old woman made a gesture for Deacon to rise. “Anti-Wikken sentiment is higher than ever. The people distrust us, and when distrust turns to disrespect, they will once again call us witches and blame us for their ills and their misfortunes. In the midst of this, you open a Wikkan gate, when none have been used for a hundred years.”

A lie. There had not been a Wikkan gate in view of outsiders in that time. But there were always Warcasters, forced to hide in shame.

“I give myself up to your judgement, mistress.”

Stoke turned her attention to the black tree, snipping off a stray branch with a neat click of the cutters. “It is not my judgement you should be concerned with.”

The door to the atrium slammed open with such force that the glass panes around them rattled. Even the plants seemed to shrink into themselves slightly as heavy footsteps approached.

Ritta Kerne was utterly soaked through, her hair a tragic mess tangled around her head. She must have been out in the tempest all morning. The young valet hurried in after her and set down a silver tray containing a gently steaming porcelain tea set.

Kerne spared Deacon a withering glance and approached the Wikkan Seat, dropping to one knee with a grunt and taking the older woman’s hand. “Mistress,” she murmured.

“Your knees are as bad as mine Ritta, up with you,” Stoke admonished.

Kerne struggled up and fell into a seat, snatching the towel from the valet and mopped her ruddy face.

This is what the Wikkan had become, the largest society of witches on Parthanea led by two old women.

Arabella Stoke was a spider. Politically ruthless and ambitious enough to rise to claim the Wikkan Seat and pacify any challengers. Even in these waning days of Wikkan power and influence, leaders of vast empires seek her approval and support, because she still holds the power to topple kings.

And Ritta Kerne. A perennial meddler of middling power. She traveled to the Erudoran court when the Faelen Echo was first broken open and followed Listor Roveran through his crusade of blood to unite the Erudoran empire. It was her that brought the Erudoran’s as allies against the rise of the self proclaimed Faelen emperor, Mazral, and the army that sprung up to carry his banners to reclaim the continent. The alliance earned her a place at the side of the Wikkan Seat, but Deacon wouldn’t be surprised if she learned that Kerne broke the Faelen out just to give herself the opportunity.

“Save your pleasantries, girl. I’ve just come back from dealing with one bone headed young fool, and now I have to deal with you.”

“Thank you, Simm, that will be all,” Stoke said, beginning to pour the tea.

Fluffy towels and tea. And they asked why the Wikkan were no longer respected? Deacon tried to excise the stray thought from her mind, but she was too late.

“You do not care for tea, Deacon?” Stoke asked, her black eyes seeming to stare at a place one inch inside Deacon's head.

“This young slip of a girl thinks we are soft, Bella,” Kerne sniped, throwing the towel to the floor and leaning back in the chair.

“It is true that my time in the Echo has reminded me of what we once were,” Deacon said.

“Lone Wikkan, wandering the wilds of the world dispensing their crooked sense of justice as they saw fit,” Kerne intoned, giving a derisive grunt. “I’ve heard some tales about your time in the red land. Some of your methods would certainly put you in good company with the witches of the past.”

“Outside of this house. We are at war,” Deacon pointed out.

“Such confidence. Confidence enough to break our rules, and open Wikkan gates? Scaring the living daylights out of half of an army?” Kerne countered.

“The Prince of the Faelen was in danger of being captured or worse. The decision to leave his protection to the Leybound abominations was a mistake,” Deacon replied.

The rain seemed to lash down harder on the glass panes of the greenhouse as Kerne gripped the arms of the chair and leaned forward, her voice a low hiss. “The problem is not why you acted, it’s how you acted. Warcasting is banned, forbidden. You know this.”

“Wikkan Kerne has been forced to arbitrate with the Arcanum and the Erudoran’s on your behalf. You should thank her,” Stoke interjected.

“I do not need you to intercede,” Deacon said.

Kerne’s voice was full of scorn. “You are a child playing with matches in a dry forest. There are things in the abyssal plane that would bend your will and leave you dribbling into your lap for the rest of eternity.”

Deacon almost laughed out loud. They thought her a child, but before she had even neared womanhood she had dealt with the darker realm.

Stoke intervened. “The battle for the gateway is won, and the Arcanum, Erudoran and Royal Faelen regiments will march through the Echo to Fallow. Now more than ever we need knowledge from the Echo. Your punishment will be postponed until you return.”

The words were uttered innocently enough, but they thudded like tombstones in Deacons consciousness. 

“I have served long in the Echo, mistress. Now I’m back, I hoped to stay.”

“And what would you do here?” Kerne asked, the question poison tipped.

“Serve.” Deacon's voice was like iron.

“Despite what you might have heard, Warcasters do not serve in the assembly. Those who walk the path are excommunicated,” Kerne said, her round farmers-wife face features twisted with angry creases.

“Lies we tell our allies. There are Warcasters who serve the assembly and I wish to join them. If the Wikkan seat would see fit.” Deacon bowed her head slightly.

“If Warcasters did serve the Wikkan Seat,” Stoke said carefully. “Then I would not yet see fit to admit you to their ranks. Your recent actions have shown that you lack judgement and your past proves that you lack restraint.”

A tidlewave of rage crashed down upon Deacon as Kerne sat back with her arms crossed, a satisfied smirk on her ruddy face. She tried to bury the rising anger, before giving up and letting it burn in her gut.

Arabella Stoke shook her head. “Such rage. You will return to the Echo, Wikkan Deacon. Gather information about our enemies and better understand the Faelen factions.”

“You can start by telling us why a hundred Cetic monks were at the battle. What do they want?” Kerne asked.

Deacon fought to regain her composure. “The Cetic want the Echo gateways closed and the Echo sealed once again. Several of their septs also want every Leybound to be summarily butchered. That is likely why they joined the conflict.”

“They hate the Leybound so much?” Stoke asked.

“The Leybound are abhorrent to them. Though their septs are scattered throughout the Echo, most of them agree on this one point.”

“You find common ground with them on this issue?” Kerne asked.

“I do not hide my contempt for the mutilations of the Arcanists. It goes against what it means to be Wikkan.”

“I decide what it means to be Wikkan,” Stoke said. For a moment the ancient Wikkan Seat didn’t seem so old, indeed the shadows darkened in the darker corners of the room. “Go child. Use your solitude to reflect on your future in the assembly, while we decide if you still have one.”

Told In Stone Chapter 8: Under a Hag's Moon

Archives of the High Wikkan- Report from High Ornestvale.

Year of Thrall - 188 years before the present day.

Mistress,

Runala, Silvia and I arrived in High Ornestvale as instructed, yet thus far we have been unable to gather information regarding the supposed Wikkan who terrorises this land.

We will continue our search, but it is made difficult as the western wilds are rife with fear and hostility against Wikkan, and thus we are forced to travel under the guise of devotees of the Mother.

I write to you, mistress, to inform you of another rumour we have encountered in our travels. Though the stories vary from teller to teller and town to town, a single thread binds them. Men folk, old and young are going missing and have been for many years.

The local magistrate, Ulfirth, knows our true identity and has told us that in this region alone at least ten men of varying ages had gone missing in the last twenty-five years. Each during the full phase of the moon that they call a Hag’s Moon. Ulfirth then confided in us that a local man called Lot had been incarcerated and invited to talk us to see him.

Lot was a local woodsman who had been missing for sixteen years before he was found in the woods, filthy, and quite mad. Runala attempted to question him and around his ramblings he spoke of his many children, particularly a daughter, though the topic caused him some considerable distress.

We questioned him further and he mentioned a Yega, some foul, demonic apparition known to this land. Lot became quite distressed and refused to speak more, so Runala and I interrogated him. I fear that we pressed him too hard as he bit off his own tongue and subsequently suffocated before we could render aid.

A search of his body revealed traces of torture, many by strange workings we could not identify.

We are unsure if this is related to our hunt for the Wikkan that terrorised this region, but perhaps the report will have more meaning for one more learned as yourself.

Yours in service,

Wikkan Esmeralda Marr.

Kickstarter update - 9 days to go

I’m beyond excited to announce that the Kickstarter has officially reached the first stretch goal! Thanks to incredible support, all copies of the paperback and hardcover will now feature beautifully printed end pages. This was a goal I didn’t think we’d achieve when I first launched the Kickstarter, and I’m so grateful to everyone who’s pledged.

If anyone from Patreon has supported the Kickstarter, please let me know in the chat so that I can thank you properly.

With just nine days left, our second stretch goal is within reach! If you know anyone who loves fantasy, please help me spread the word by sharing the Kickstarter. Let’s make this campaign even more amazing!

Told in Stone Chapter 7: End of the rope

Somewhere to Riot’s left, Loic cursed and stumbled in the dark. “Are you sure you told him where to meet you?” The young northman hissed.

“He knows where to be,” Riot replied, stopping on the tree line and scanning the darker shadows.

The grass clearing behind the crumbling Priory building was deserted, only dimly lit by a sliver of a creeping moon.

“Could be an ambush, could be that he got scared, asked around about you,” Loic suggested.

“He knows damn well who I am, that’s why he’s got a stick up his ass.”

“Chopping the head off of a king,” Loic made a slicing sound and chuckled. “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, did it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Riot snapped.

“You don’t exactly get on well with any of the nobles do you?”

The clatter of horses hooves sounded on the distant road before stopping abruptly, moments later three shadowed figures emerged from the tree line on the opposite side of the clearing.

Three Erudoran fools had challenged him over the last year. The first had forfeited, giving up his commission in shame and returning to Erudor. The second had chosen swords to first blood and it had taken only a handful of minutes before Riot bloodied him. The third had been cancelled by Roveran after he had banned duelling in the combined regiments.

The three figures had made their way to the middle of the clearing and were looking about anxiously. He felt a stirring of nerves himself, his guts knotted up like old rope. He’d fought duels before, but not when he had something to lose. He was an officer, something he would have thought impossible a year ago. And then there was Natalia Quinn, the woman who loved him in the winter and left him in the Spring. Was she his to lose though? She came back into his life when he least expected it, staying a night or two before disappearing. Would she mourn his death?

Riot turned to Loic. “I die, will you try to get word to Natalia?”

“I’ll try, what shall I say you left the poor woman, a handful of pocket fluff and a pair of stolen boots? What about the sword? you said I could have it.”

The sword was a gift from Walden Moran, an old Faelen blade forged in the Echo. It was over a yard long of heavy, dense steel. Apart from Riot, Loic was the only one in the regiment who might be able to swing it.  

“You can have the sword, but it won’t be today, come on.”

Leguard waited with a tall Erudoran officer and a skinny figure in a black frock coat and round cloth cap. “Riot,” Legaurd said without any warmth. “This is Captain Rosedale, and Doctor Beamish.”

The thin doctor tipped his hat, swayed slightly. He smelled like stale sweat and raw spirits.

“Let’s be glad he won’t be stiching you up,” Loic murmured.

Captain Rosedale cleared his throat. “Captain Leguard has challenged your honor, therefore the choice is yours, Lieutenant Riot, heads or flowers?” He said, holding up a coin.

Riot felt Loic shift next to him. Rosedale’s coin was a Faelen guilder, but most called them white guilder, pure gold and worth ten times the value of the black, corroded guilders of the Arcanum. Twenty of those would buy Riot a captaincy in any regiment he wanted. “Heads,” he said, his mouth dry.

The coin flashed and made a ringing sound as it spun in the gloom, before Rosedale snatched it out of the air. “Flowers,” he proclaimed.

“I choose Arcane arts,” Leguard said without hesitation.

A grim prospect. It took Riot all of ten seconds to form the Leybound’s only weapon, and even then hitting a target at forty paces would be blind luck.

“You shall take twenty paces, turn and release your workings. The death of your opponent will result in a victory but be considered poor taste,” Rosedale explained.

“Good luck,” Loic murmured, his voice betraying his concern.

Riot’s instincts pricked at him as he set out across the clearing and when he was half way they practically screamed at him and begged him to go back. His mind raced. Arcanists power was weaker than the Leybound. They drew latent arcane power from their surroundings, but Riot was bound to a leyline that felt so alive that Riot thought it wanted him dead most of the time. But the town of gravetree was slap bang under the path of the leylines that twisted around the continent, did that even things up?

Riot realised with gut twisting horror that he had walked half the distance already and in a panic forced the leypower in his core to leak out from the long scars in his forearms, cupping his hands and holding the dirty grey light. He crushed it as he turned on his heel, not willing to look up at Leguard who was likely already casting.

The spell crafted runes that had been scored into the backs of his hands flared, containing the power and Riot glanced up to see Leguard one hand outstretched, the other held behind him as if he were drawing on some great longbow.

The leypower hummed in Riots ears as he willed the leypower to form a sphere, but another sound reached him. Galloping horses and voices shouting out from the direction of the Priory.

Three black horses with black hooded riders burst out of the gloom into the clearing. Riot released his unformed charge and drew his sword, but Leguard turned his working to aim at the lead rider and a yard long bold of silver light exploded from his hands. The spear flew at the rider and when it struck, nothing happened. The rider just seemed to absorb it.

The lead rider jumped from the horse and pulled of their hood to reveal Ritta Kerne, her eyes blacker than the shadows under the trees around them. “What in the name of the gods do you think you’re doing?” She thundered.

“Wikkan Kerne, I–” Leguard stammered, hurrying forward.

“Seize him,” Kerne snapped at two Wikkan girls with pale skin and long black hair took who hurried to stand either side of the Arcanist. “Take him into the city and wait for me.” Kerne turned her attention to Rosedale and the doctor. “You two get out of here, now.”

The doctor sprinted away but Rosedale stood his ground, for which Riot gave him some credit. “The rule is not over, the matter of honour is not settled.”

“There was no duel you hear me? No matter of honour, you were never here and if I hear you say you were I’ll have you commanding a prison hulk in the west for the rest of the war. Is that clear?”

Rosedale looked as though he’d chewed on a rotten lemon. “It’s clear.”

“Then get out of my sight.”

Kerne waited until the cleaning was empty before turning and advancing on Riot. He still held his sword, but knew it would be of little use. He’d rarely seen the short woman this angry, her habitual farmers wife demeanour burned away.

“Evening Wikkan Kerne,” Loic said, touching his forelock.

“If you can’t keep it shut, Fitchen, I’ll shut it for you,” Kerne snapped.

The Northman raised his hands in mock surrender and retreated several steps.

“What are you doing here?” Riot asked.

“You were told to stop accepting their duels, you were ordered by myself and Roveran. He won’t protect you this time. Colonel Worthy knows all about this, he wanted me to throw you in a stockade and tear you back down to the ranks.”

“Leguard set me up?”

“No-one set you up.” Kerne snapped. “The whole damn officers mess heard Leguard call you out and you didn’t fool anyone with your little refusal. Vincent Leguard is almost a big a buffoon as you, but I’ll deal with him, after I’ve dealt with you.”

Riot was already in the baggage train, what more could they do to him? For all their threats, they couldn’t throw him back in the rank and file, no officer would be able to lead men effectively while Riot was among them. He told Kerne as much and for the first time, she smiled.

“You won’t be fighting anyone my boy. In fact, you won’t see a battle this side of the new year. You’re to go to the town and join the royal household of Prince Gwilhelm. He’s very excited to have you.”

Behind him, Loic turned a laugh into a hasty cough.

“A bloody Royal Guard? You must be joking,” Riot spat.

A tense silence fell in the clearing, and Loic took another step backward.

Kerne moved closer and the shadows seemed to trail in her wake. “Do you see me laughing? You’ll go there and you’ll salute, and you’ll stand guard, and you’ll fetch and carry his frilly knickers if he asks you.”

“I’m a soldier, not a bloody valet,” Riot said.

“This is soldiering! If we want to win we need support, allies, patrons, money, influence. You need those things too, don’t you see? Roveran won’t help you any more, and Moran isn’t here. I’m handing you an opportunity and you are too bloody minded to see it. Gain the Princes favour, gods knows he has a whole army at his disposal.”

“And if I don’t?” Riot asked, already knowing the answer.

“You’ll be court-martialled, and this time there won’t be anyone to save you. You’re almost out of rope my boy and at the end of it, is a noose.”

Stretch goal in sight

Kickstarter update!

Still 15 days to go to get your signed copy of The Last Man. The book isn't print on demand, its a high quality book - get it while you can and help support me to keep writing the Leybound series.

We are so close to the first stretch goal of having the inside covers of the book printed.

Shipping to the US is only around $6.50

Head to Kickstarter to check out the paperback and hardback options.

Kickstarter update

The Kickstarter for The Last Man kicked off with a bang – we hit our target in just eight hours and are already on track for our first stretch goal!

A huge THANK YOU to everyone who’s backed the campaign so far! Thanks to your support, I’m ready to place the print order for the books I’ll take to Eastercon in Belfast. 

The Kickstarter is still live for another 19 days. If you know anyone who loves gritty, military fantasy, please share the link with them!

Happy reading,
Peter

🚨 Exciting Kickstarter News! 🚨

This Saturday, March 8th, the Kickstarter campaign for physical copies of The Last Man goes LIVE! 🥳

🎉 Why is this so important? 🎉
This isn’t just any launch – it’s the first time ever you’ll be able to hold The Last Man in your hands! And, it’s all happening ahead of my Eastercon Fantasy Convention debut in Belfast this April! I’ve got a table booked and I'm counting on YOU to help me make it happen!

👉 How can you help?
Head over to the launch page, check out the rewards, and get ready to back the project as soon as it goes live. Your support will directly help me fund the books! Plus, there are limited edition extras available only through this Kickstarter – trust me, you don’t want to miss them!

⏰ Mark your calendars – the campaign starts this Saturday, March 8th, and I’ll need your help to make sure it’s a success! Make sure to check the launch page for the exact start time in your timezone. Every backer counts, and together we can make this dream a reality!

Let’s make The Last Man the book to have at Eastercon! 🌟

Told in Stone Chapter 6: Blackjack

The officers mess was a tavern in the town square that had been taken over by the well heeled commanders of the regiments. The innkeeper wore a wider smile than any of the patrons as he watched the the guilders of the monied class flowing into his coffers.

It was noon and there were only a handful of figures at the tables and the low murmur of conversation died down as Riot and Clarkson entered. Riot exchanged small nods with those that he had fought with, and matched the glares of those he had not. There were grey Erudoran uniforms among the bright colours of the Arcanum regiments and heads bowed together as they murmured and shot him dark glances.

Clarkson led Riot to a corner table and ordered small glasses of amber liquor. “Tarian brandy,” he said, proffering his glass. “My uncle says that we’ll be marching east before winter, so better get a taste for it now.” He took a delicate sip and shuddered. “Though truth told I’m not terribly used to strong spirits.”

Riot been deep into his cups before. There had been trouble with women, more dead friends than he cared to remember, and now the crushing disappointment of his failed ambition. The trick was to commit from the first glass. Riot drained the sweet liquid and smashed the glass back down and snatched at the bottle before the innkeeper could take it away.

When the four bells of half noon were struck, golden sun shone onto the empty bottle and Riot felt the heavy haze in the back of his head that told him he was heading in the right direction, that that direction was down. Clarkson had tried to keep up and now lay sprawled on the table, every breath from his snotty nose a wet sucking noise.

A shadow fell across the table accompanied by a drawling voice. “Unsurprising to see you have the vices of a common soldier.”

Leguard’s thin lips were drawn into their customary sneer and he was backed by two Erudoran officers.

“Captain Leguard?” Clarkson slurred the words, lifting his head and closing each eye in turn to focus on the Erudoran who stood less than two feet from him.

“Your regiment is a disgrace,” one of the officers behind Leguard said loudly, drawing the attention of the handful of officers on nearby tables.

“You’ll get no argument from me,” Riot said, to a ripple of laughter in the room.

Riot kept his eyes on the glass in his hand he spoke, while his free hand carefully rested on the handle of the short blackjack tucked into his belt. In a real tavern he knew the rules. The fight starts when the first punch was thrown and you all piled in, anything was a weapon. But what were the rules here in the officers' mess? “Do I have to fight you all at once, or one at a time?” he asked.

An officer wearing the deep green of Arcanum command gave a bark of laughter.

“I will have satisfaction, for all of the noble lineages ruined by your family's treachery,” Leguard hissed, throwing a glove down on the table.

Mutterings and hissed conversations could be heard now. Would they jump in? Riot couldn’t help but chuckle, imagining a group of officers brawling in a tavern.

Clarkson picked up the glove giving it a bleary eyed stare, before dropping it on the table as if he was handling a live snake. “Gods, Riot, I think he’s challenging you to a duel!”

The slurred exclamation from the young lieutenant caused another ripple of laughter.

“Not allowed to duel, General Roverans orders,” Riot said loudly. He drained his cup.

Leguards’ face flushed red and he placed both hands on the table, looming over Riot. “Unless you are a coward, you will meet me at the Gravetree Priory tomorrow at the first witches bell,” he said, his words for Riot only.

Another duel that he would lose no matter the outcome. Nothing stayed a secret in the regiments and when Roveran found out he would throw him in the stocks and there would be nothing he could do.

“I refuse to duel you, Captain.” The words felt like a betrayal, and Leguard was in his face, and he was drunk. So who could blame a man, really?

With a swift movement, Riot knocked Leguards hands apart. There was a moment of uncertainly before the Captains body realised that it was in fact, unsupported and his head bounced off of the table before he slumped to the floor.

Shocked gasps and exclamations arose around them and the two Erudoran officers bent down to tend to their captain and the tavern owner ran out from behind the bar, waving a dishcloth like a flag of surrender. “No fighting in here, out, out!” He cried.

 Riot stood and swayed slightly on the spot as the room revolved around him then he grabbed Clarkson by the scruff of the neck and hauled the younger man out onto the street. He made for the officers billet in the north end of the town. It was a large manor house commandeered by the army and for a half gilder a week you could secure room and board, but a lieutenant's salary didn’t stretch to such luxuries and so Riot stayed in the regimental camp with the men.

“We had a bar fight, a real bar fight,” Clarkson slurred as Riot set him down on the stone steps of the house.

Riot remained silent. He weighed up the consequences of his run in with Leguard and realised that he really didn’t care. Leguard could report him for assault, but he couldn’t be demoted any more.

“You know, Riot, I’m quite envious of you. I think my uncle is as well. You’re a hero, a real hero.” The young officer produced a large handkerchief and blew his nose noisily, staring at the floor, drunk and miserable. “How will I get the men to respect me?”

You earn it by fighting alongside them, was what he wanted to say. But instead he said, “They’re good lads. I’ll speak to them for you.”

“Would you? Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Riot took his leave and made his way through the silent streets to the main gate of the town. Tomorrow he would report for duty at the baggage train. Counting barrels of salt beef, and arguing with the drovers that herded the bullock and sheep. Then there was the tribe of army wives and their dirty children that would now be his responsibility. Many of them bigger thieves than their husbands and twice as ruthless.

A shadow detached itself from the mouth of an alleyway in front of him, and Riot knew that if he cared to look around, there would be another behind him. It had been a while since someone had tried to kill him, and the lingering haze of alcohol quickly burned away.

“You lost, friend?” Riot said, tripping over a lose cobblestone and slipping the weighted blackjack from his belt as he staggered forward.

“You Riot?” The figure said. He had a gravelly voice with an Erudoran accent. Rank and file, wanting to earn some coin.

“No, but I heard of him. They say he’s a nasty bastard,” Riot replied, still moving forward.

“Is it him?” The man behind called, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

Riot surged forward and saw a flash of a blade in the darkness. He grabbed wildly for the man's wrist and seized his sleeve, pulling the knife wide so that it skittered across his ribs instead of plunging into his gut.

The upswing of the blackjack was as sweet as Riot could have hoped for and caught the man on the chin, breaking his jaw. The followup blow cracked him on the side of the head, dropping him like a sack of grain at Riot’s feet.

Pain flared from his sliced chest and the footsteps behind him were too close. Riot felt panic rise as he turned to face the second attacker, and saw him flop to the ground, a knife skittering from his hands as behind him rose a monstrous shadow.

“How in the name of the gods did you know I was here?” Riot said.

Loic Fitchen stepped out of the shadows, massaging his fist. “Well, I was deep in my cups, like any honest fighting man, and who do you think should walk into the ale house, but Captain Leguard.” Loic knelt down and started patting the pockets of the cutthroat. “Now, Loic, I say to myself. What's a fancy officer doing in a place like this? So Leguard, he speaks to a couple of gentlemen of the stone-eyed Erudoran persuasion and gives them some coin and they slink off into the night. Didn’t even finish their drinks. Loic, says I. There’s two men, out late at night with a fresh pouch of coin, I should keep an eye out, anything could happen to them.”

“How noble of you,” Riot said. He checked his ribs, the cut wasn’t deep, but this was his only shirt.

Loic retrieved the coin pouch and chuckled as he weighed it in his hand. “Lucky for you I am.”

Riot leaned down and seized the cutthroat's hair, pulling his head up. “You tell Leguard I’ll see him at the Priory, groan if you understand.” He waited until the man gave a moan of understanding and let his head bounce off of the cobbles.

“You’ll have to be my second,” Riot said as they walked away.

“When you're dead I get to kill Leguard?”

“Something like that.”

Told In Stone Chapter 5: Baggage

Lieutenant Clarkson ducked out of the command tent. “I am sure you can go in at any moment, Riot,” he said, extracting another handkerchief and dabbing at his large nose. “Hay-fever,” he said by way of explanation.  

Riot already waited almost an hour under the beating sun, glaring at the other officers that walked past without troubling to hide their satisfaction at seeing him kept waiting. A black stallion nearby tossed its head. Its saddle was expensive, stitched with silver thread with the emblem of Erudor stamped into the leather.

Clarkson continued his near constant chatter, his hands closed behind his back. “Can you believe it was a real warcaster? You know it’s been decades since one of them revealed themselves, and we got to see it first hand!”

There was good reason Warcasters weren’t seen. The Wikkan hadn’t always been allies of the Arcanum, or each other for that matter. There were few corners of western Parthanea that didn’t have some story of nightmares called from the abyss. Whole villages massacred by fell beasts, and that wasn’t the least of it.  

“You know we were discussing it in the officers mess just yesterday evening. In fact I wondered if you–”

“Who’s horse is that, Clarkson?” Riot interrupted.

“Ah.” Clarkson looked uneasy, retrieving his handkerchief and fussing with it. “Well I believe it belongs to an Erudoran Captain.”

“Vincent Legaurd,” Riot said, recalling the name of the young Arcanist who had stormed into the infantry square as Doyle lay dead. “He’s inside?” Riot asked, nodding to the tent.

“Well, yes. I had thought to warn you, but my Uncle expressly–”

“Send him in!” Came Colonel Worthy’s shout from inside the tent.

“For what it’s worth, I think you did a damn fine job out there.” Clarkson’s hushed tone made Riot felt like he was being ushered in for his own funeral. “For what it’s worth,” the young lieutenant added lamely.

Inside the command tent, Colonel Worthy sat sweating behind an expansive desk. Beside him, Leguard sat in a comfortable armchair. The Erudoran had known Riot’s family name and now his face was twisted in distaste, his hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly.

Riot took a step closer to him before snapping to attention. All soldiers knew that an Arcanist within arms reach was a just a man, and one more used to holding a book than a sword. Their workings were complicated and took time to form. Drawing a sword was as easy as drawing breath.

“Sir,” Riot said, giving a curt salute.

“Where is your regimental uniform, Riot? You look like a damn peddler in that rag.”

“With the army wives sir, had to press the lice out of the seams,” Riot replied automatically.

Worthy peered over his steepled his fingers in a way that looked like he was studying ten fat sausages. “Bad business at the battle, lieutenant. Doyle dead. Thirty leybound killed, and two taken prisoner. If it weren’t for the actions of the Warcaster, the Prince would have been captured.”

“Not to mention our flank was left exposed. Were it not for the fortitude of my own regiment, the battle might have been lost,” Leguard added.

Worthy nodded sombrely as the other man spoke. “Captain Leguard is right, Riot. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Sir?” Riot asked.

“Major Doyle died and you ordered a retreat, man! When I expressly gave you orders to remain where you were, ready to march to the aid of our allies. We were protecting the flank, and you let them all run away!” Worthy cried.

Riot was momentarily lost for words. Worthy was blaming this on him? “There were a hundred cavalry coming for us, we would have been slaughtered.”

“Captain Leguard, you were present in my infantry square, did you feel that the threat from this rabble of horsemen was enough to call a retreat?” Worthy asked.

“No, Colonel, in fact I ordered Lieutenant Riot to march to the aid of my regiment and he outright refused. An act of cowardice I have noted in my report, but one that I am unsurprised at, given the dishonour of his family name,” Leguard said, his lip curling into a sneer.

Riot felt blood pumping in his ears and the control he held over the ley power slipped for a moment, seeping out into the long scars on his forearms. He wrenched back control and drew the power back to his core, crushing it down. “You gave no such order,” he said through gritted teeth.

Leguard stood. “Are you calling me a liar, Riotus?” He said, his voice radiating calm but his eyes flashing with anger.

“You don’t want to call me out. Your sword’s made for a display stand, mines made for killing,” Riot said.

Leguard glanced at the sword and paled slightly. The sheath still had blood on it from where Riot had finished a downed rider in the battle and not had time to clean it off.

Worthy stood abruptly and slammed his fat and on his desk. “Riot! I will not have you threaten another officer. And Captain Leguard, you know well enough that there is to be no duelling in this army.”

Leguard gave Worthy a small bow. “My apologies, Colonel, a point of honour. As a gentleman, I am sure you understand.”

“Of course, quite right. But all the same, can’t have duelling, General Roveran’s orders, you know,” Worthy said.

“I would never dream of disrupting the alliance between our regiments, Colonel. I expect my testimony has proven useful. I shall take my leave.”

The Arcanist collected his fine cloak and spared Riot a smirk of satisfaction as he left.

“A gallant officer that one. We could do with more like him,” Worthy said, leaning back into his chair.

“Sir,” Riot replied tonelessly, keeping his gaze fixed just above the Colonels left ear.

The silence extended for a few uncomfortable moments before Worthy spoke.“What do I do with you, Riot?”

“Sir?”

“Doyle is dead, and the other senior officers won’t have you serve under them. You contradict them! You contradict me! They give orders and the Leybound look to you to confirm them. It’s just not tolerable, this regiment is built on a chain of command.”

 “You could always promote me to captain, sir. Then I could just give the right orders.”

Worthy’s eyebrows furrowed. “This is what I’m talking about. Your attitude is lacking, man. Severely lacking in the humility and respect one finds in an officer of good breeding. I can only put so much down to the misfortune of your birth.”

Misfortune was right. An immigrant in the slums of Fallow-Neck, the daily ache in his belly driving him to rob and steal and worse to stay alive. It had taught him how to fight though, and those lessons had kept him alive long after he left the gutters and pulled on a uniform.

Worthy continued, not meeting Riots gaze. “In any case, the vacant captains commission has already been filled.”

“By who?” Riot said, already knowing the answer.

“The newly gazetted Captain Clarkson.”

“You want me to serve under Clarkson?” Riot failed to keep the disbelief from his voice.

“Have you not been listening to me? I can’t have you under Clarkson, you’d undermine his authority. The men would never listen to him. You made a grave error in the last engagement, and for your punishment, you’re to be assigned to the baggage train.”

“You’re putting me on guard duty? I’ve got men taken prisoner, I have to get them back.”

Worthy slapped his hand down on his desk again, his face flushed. “You should be grateful you still get to keep that lieutenants pennant at all! Major Doyle gave you far too long of a leash, but I won’t make the same mistake. The next time I see you I want you wearing light blue like the rest of us. Dismissed!”

Riot saluted automatically and stormed out of the tent, straight into the newly anointed Captain Clarkson, sending the man sprawling to the ground. The sight of the young man on his backside, puffy eyed with his nose dipping quelled the anger that surged in Riot.

“I should have told you about the captains commission before, I’m sorry. I said it should have gone to you,” Clarkson said as Riot helped him to his feet.

“It’s not your fault, sir,” Riot replied, the title leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

This is what his glorious career as an officer had come to? Stopping petty thieves from stealing from the supply wagons, while wet blankets like Clarkson led better men to their deaths.

“No, I was a coward. To replay you, you’ll come to the officers mess with me,” Clarkson said.

“I don’t think–” Riot began.

“That’s an order lieutenant.” Clarkson nervous laughter and bright smile withered under Riot’s gaze. He coughed awkwardly. “They have a very well stocked bar.”

He couldn’t fight, he couldn’t lead. What else was there but to follow the oldest of army traditions and drown his sorrows in liquor? “Lead the way,” he sighed.

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Hope you can support me and pick up a limited edition copy of The Last Man.

Told In Stone Chapter 4: Failure

Antoinietta picked up the tattered remains of the boys uniform, running a finger over the name stitched in black thread. “Edward Vaughn,” she murmered.

The young man strapped to the apparatus stirred, straining weakly against his bonds, his skinny back exposed and drooling around the gag that muffled his groans. She took his hand, turning it slowly so that the light of the forge caught the silvery scars that marked him as Leybound.

“Be strong for me, Edward, and you will power you could only dream of,” she said.

Hemler shuffled around nearby, setting his instruments in neat rows, polishing others, placing another lump of dark coal into the furnace with the painstaking care of the elderly. The the top of his bald head was mottled with liver spots and flaking skin and age had curved his spine so severely that each time she saw him she instinctively drew back her shoulders and stood straighter as if being a humpback was contagious.

“What are you doing now?” Antoinetta snapped.

“Final checks, my lady,” he assured her.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. Checks, always more checks, more calculations and measurements and guesswork and theorising. The dull red of the walls was bleeding into her senses, she must escape this place, this red hellscape. “You’ve had long enough, Hemler, you will begin.”

“But my lady.”

“Bind him, now!”

The old Faelen muttered something in his own tongue and took up a silver instrument with short handles joined at a pivot point that allowed curved blades to slice together. The gag muffled the boys moans, and then his screams, as the metal flashed and scored out a neat circle of flesh the width of an apple at the base of the boys neck between his shoulder blades. White, living bone flashed for an instant before blood pooled.

Let this be the one, Antonietta prayed. Let this be the one so that I might leave this accursed land.

Hemler returned from the forge clutching a pair of long metal tongs which held a stone crucible that spat molten flecks. The material was rare, but rarer still were the Leybound. After this boy they had one more, for now. But Antonietta did not allow herself to think on the price of failure. This would work, the boy had a strong leyline, she had shielded him herself and the thought pleased her, the Arcanists would shit if they knew a woman use the arcane and was versed in their closely guarded secrets.

The crucible rotated and the chamber filled with the stench of burning flesh and bone and molten rock. The boy screamed for a few torturous seconds, the veins on his head and neck bulging, before he lost consciousness.

Antonietta leaned forward, ignoring the sharp tang of burned flesh.

Hemler lay his hand on the already cooling disk and dark red leypower poured from his palm. The boy woke now to some fresh hell and his body stiffened and shook as the old Faelen swayed on the spot and then staggered, steadying himself on a table.

The dull red disk clinked as it cooled, the runes on its surface flickering with the burning red of the Faelen leylines.

“Well, did it work?” Antonietta demanded.

Hemler cautiously reached over and lay a long finger on the neck of the boy. “He is still alive,” he announced.

Antonietta felt a hot flush of elation. She would go to him immediately. The thought made her tremble, imagining him laying a hand on her shoulder, his deep voice telling her she had done well, she had pleased him. A tear rolled down her cheek.

Hemlers gave a thoughtful hum as he prodded at the cooling disk fused to the boys back and Antonietta’s eyes snapped open.

“What is it?” She demanded.

“Ahh, my lady, he is alive, which is progress in and of itself, but the binding has not been successful.”

Antonietta gripped the edge of the workbench so hard one of her fingernails snapped off, embedded in the wood. “Then bring in the next one.”

“My lady, I should make some adjustments, the next subject is the last Leybound we have–”

“Send for him,” she snapped, moving away to a raised viewing area and sucking her bleeding finger.

The last Leybound prisoner was dragged in by two Cetics, placed on a second curved apparatus and secured. The monks looked around curiously, glancing at the prone boy and then to Antonietta before Hemler dismissed them.

Antoinetta held her breath as the silver instrument sliced, the crucible poured the hissing rock into the cavity on the mans back, and the Faelen leyline pulsed.

All was still and there was a pause, before. “He is dead, my lady,” the old Faelen reported.

Antonietta screamed. The arcane power was weak here, but her anger drew in every last mote from her surroundings. She formed a working working of blade and air and sent it with all her rage toward the still bound corpse. The ley power eviscerated the body, sending pieces of it flying in all directions. “I want results!” She screamed, and stalked from the chamber.

Antonietta stepped out from the catacombs and took a deep breath. The air up here was just as stale as down there, but she had to get the stench of burned flesh out of her nose.

Across the main courtyard, horses stamped in the stables. So Foral-nar had returned. Horses, a few of their monks shuffling around, but no Leybound in sight. The spectre of failure rose up in her like bile.

The monastery doors were barred, and so she made her way back into the catacombs, following the twisting pathways until she placed her ear carefully to a small wooden door.

From inside she heard the rhythmic sound and knew it to be the sharp sting of leather striking flesh.

So he was punishing himself again? She had to hope that it was for some other sin than the shame of failure. Let it be that he had impure thoughts, anything but failure to bring her more Leybound.

Antoinietta flicked open the top two buttons of her shirt and raked her fingers through her hair. She bit her lips savagely and felt them plump up as blood rushed to them. She panted, and pushed open the door.

Foral-nar knelt on the hard stone floor. He was naked, his skinny body illuminated by the light that flooded through the coloured glass window high above him. His back was a ruin of scars and fresh cuts, covered by clotted blood. His hand fell to the side and a wooden handled whip fell from it, the leather thongs vivid red with blood.

“Might I help to dress your wounds, my lord?” Antonietta spoke in the tone of a maid she had once had. A petty, vapid creature with an empty brain.

Foral-nar stiffened slightly at the sound of her voice, grasping at the clothes around him to cover his modesty. “You should not be in her, Lady Anne. This is a sacred place for those sworn to the Cetic order.”

“Forgive me, I was anxious to know that you were unharmed. Was the battle terrible?” Antonietta fetched clean strips of linen and filled a wooden bowl from a large stone font.

Foral-nars voice broke slightly. “It was like nothing I have seen before. Death everywhere, Faelen fighting Faelen. The Leybound abominations, and Wikkan. There was a Warcaster.”

Behind Foral-nar’s back, Antoinetta rose an eyebrow, now that was news. “How do you know it was a Warcaster?”

“She opened a portal to the accursed lands and evil creatures emerged. Thirty of the bothers were killed. We barely escaped with our lives.”

A Warcaster operating in the open was unprecedented. There would be uproar, chaos in the ranks of the Wikkan and the Arcanum, chaos she could exploit, but instead she was stuck in this red hell with these monks.

Antoinetta began to gently mop the blood from his back. He was so skinny that the lashes had cut through the skin almost to the bone and the water was soon a deep red.

“The Leybound?” she prompted.

“They were where you said they would be. Alone and unprotected. We took six of them before the Warcaster arrived, but after her attack we had only two.”

Antonietta pressed the rough linen hard against one of the deeper wounds making Foral-nar gasp and flinch. “I’m just thankful that you have returned so that we can continue our work.”

Foral-nar reached for a thin robe and pulled it around him and stood facing her. Antoinetta remained kneeling before him, her face turned up wearing what she knew was a look that radiated a pious innocence.

“These two might be the last, Lady Anne. We lost many horses, and I will not take any more of the Cetic into that place.” Foral-nar turned to gaze up at the stained glass window. “I find my faith wavering. So much so that I have considered contacting the other septs to seek guidance.”

Antonietta controlled the spasm of anger that marred her face, adopting the soft, stupid features once more. Approaching Foral-nar she stood before him, gently pulling his face down to meet her gaze. “I have faith in you, Foral-nar. Or I would not have travelled here to seek your help. The abominations must be eradicated and the leylines cleansed. I am close to discovering how to reverse the mutilation and the two Leybound you brought will be the final piece of the puzzle.”

She saw the pain in his eyes, that was good. She also saw the longing, that was better. His gaze flickered to her chest briefly and she knew he would likely need to give himself another few lashings just for that.

“Did you deliver my message?” She asked.

Foral-nar reached into his robe and pulled out a tightly wrapped message, sealed with wax. “This is from your order?” He asked.

“Yes, I told you that there are others that believe that leylines have been infected by the Leybound. This message might hold the information I need to remove the binding from them. Where are the Leybound now?”

“They have been taken into the cells catacombs,” he said. “Perhaps if you are willing. You might dine with me this evening?”

Another dull evening of forcing conversation while Foral-nar tried obstinately to suppress his attraction to her.

“I should continue my work, we are close to the end now,” she replied.

Once the door was closed behind her, Antoinetta leaned against it and scrabbled at the wax seal, pulling open the message and reading it under the weak light of an oil lamp.

The words sent a shiver through her. Anticipation, mixed with fear so tangible she could almost taste it. She had been summoned. She tore the note to shreds as she stalked through the catacombs anxious to make sure she had something to report.

Deeper in the catacombs, Hemler slouched close to the heavy metal bars of a cell, wearing a thoughtful expression.

“Well?” She demanded.

“One of them is very old. Too old to waste the binding rock. The other one perhaps too young,” Hemler explained.

The two ragged prisoners wore tattered blue uniforms. One of them looked like a wizened monkey with blue ink tattoos scrawled over his wrinkled skin. The other was no more than a boy, hugging his knees, his cheeks wet with tears.

“We’re prisoners, we want food and water. Who’s the commander officer here?” The old one demanded.

“You there, boy. Have you mastered your leyline?” Hemler asked, ignoring the older man.

“Name and number that’s all you’ll tell them boy,” the old man cautioned.

The arcane leypower was even weaker here in the deeper tunnels but her working was a simple one of air and she found the small amount of power she needed.

The older prisoner watched her hands move, his eyes wide. “But, you’re a woman?” He gibbered.

The working wrapped around the heads of the two Leybound and they clutched at their necks and dropped to their knees, their faces turning purple as they suffocated and fell unconscious. “Try the boy first, then the old one. The Arcanum hold the gateway and I’m leaving tonight, when I return I want results.”

Told In Stone Chapter 3: Warcaster

The two hundred Leybound broke, fleeing swiftly up the hillside. Fifty feet from them, the driver of the prince's carriage cracked the reins and the white horses snorted and hauled as Worthy and the other officers mounted and fled toward the safety of the tree line on the top of the hill.

Riot ran, focussing on finding firm footing. A misstep here would be the last thing he ever did. Ahead of him the golden wagon bounced wildly. It wasn’t making good progress and there was a chorus of shrieks coming from inside. The carriage hit a rock that was half concealed by dry grass and the front axel snapped, sending one of the wheels careening away down the hill.

“It’s going to go over!” Loic warned.

The corner of the carriage carved into the earth sending up a spray of dirt and with a groan the carriage slowly tipped over and crashed onto its side.

The fleeing regiment swarmed over, around it and under it. The two white horses pulled free of their harnesses and bolted, their white manes flowing in the breeze.

“Leybound to me!” Riot bellowed and pumped his legs harder.

The screams of terror from inside were ear splitting and Riot pulled himself up onto the side of the carriage and wrenched the door open to find the Prince of the Faelen cowering inside, hiding behind a scantily clad woman who wielded a letter opener like a dagger. “Get out, now,” Riot shouted.

He hauled the girl out first and pushed her roughly off of the carriage to Loic who caught her, then he reached in and pulled out the Prince. The boy hardly weighed a thing.

“Lieutenant Riot, my saviour!” The Prince crowed, gripping onto him tightly.

“Soon have you out of here your highness,” Riot said, pushing the prince unceremoniously off of the carriage where he landed sprawled out on the grass.

A Faelen dart thunked into the side of the carriage and Riot looked up to see the long line of one hundred and fifty charging horses only sixty yards away at full gallop, clumps of dirt flicked up by their thundering hooves.

Around twenty Leybound had come to Riots call, half of them wore the dark blue uniforms like his own, and the other half wore the light blue of the Arcanum regiments. They were too few, but it was too late to reach the woods now.

They were going to die. The Prince might survive, Riot might even make it if they noticed the cheap Lieutenants pendant, but he knew he looked worse than the lowliest rank and file and they would likely kill him. If Colonel Worthy were a better commander he could rally the survivors in the woods and lead charge out to save them, but he wasn’t and he wouldn’t.

“Take cover behind the carriage, they’ll have to split to go around, take as many out as you can as they pass,” Riot ordered.

The riders split around the carriage and leybound charges battered into them. Half a dozen were unhorsed, crashing to the ground, unmoving. Loic stepped out and swung his axe, smashing one rider clean out of the saddle.

“Get around the other side,” Riot yelled, scrambling back over the golden carriage.

The cavalry charge had carried the enemy into the fifty yards of grassland in-between the fallen carriage and the safety of the forest. In this dead ground the horsemen hunted the fleeing Leybound, slicing down with their curved sabres. But while the Mazral cavalry careened about, the riders who wore the rust colored robes and wide brimmed hats milled about as if unsure what to do now that the charge was over.

“They don’t look like much do they?” Loic said.

Riot watched as the leader of the riders in the rust coloured robes met a Colonel of the Mazral cavalry. They appeared to be arguing, the Colonel gesturing wildly over at the carriage, and then at the flank of the army that was moving further away to cut off their escape. The two separated, the Mazral in their fine red uniforms galloping for the gateway, while those in rust coloured robes formed up once again facing the Prince's carriage.

“They’re coming for us!” Riot said, striding back to the carriage. There was still no movement from the forest. Billygoat was sitting on his hands while they got killed.

A horn sounded and the line of horsemen moved into a fast trot.

“Sir, look!” Loic called, pointing to the distance where the gateway to the Echo loomed.

A rider on a black horse thundered toward them.

At first Riot thought it was an Erudoran officer, but as they came closer, he saw it was a young Wikkan with short cropped blond hair and a severe face that looked to be carved in stone.

One Wikkan against over a hundred cavalry. She was certainly brave, but wikkan bolts formed no faster than the Leybound charges and though they carried their own poison, it wouldn’t be enough.

Then the Wikkan raised her hand and the sky above her turned black as pitch. Screams came from the darkness and Loic clutched the symbol of the Prior that hung from his neck while other Leybound dropped to the floor, covering their ears.

“It’s a Warcaster!” The Prince yelled, clapping his hands and jumping up and down with glee. “Go, my protector!” He cried as she thundered toward their attackers.

Dead creatures dropped from the darkness, hitting the ground with sickening thumps, some of them had broken wings, the feathers covered in blood. A hundred screams rent the air and a flock of monstrous birds flooded from the darkness. They had the faces of men, women, and children with ravaged and cracked skin and sharp blood crusted teeth.

The Warcaster reined in her horse and swept her hand down giving a piercing scream in a tongue that made the hairs on Riot’s neck stand up, and the bird like creatures fell onto the Faelen cavalry.

Riders were plucked from their horses by razor sharp talons and hauled into the air to be dropped screaming to the floor. Those who tried to turn and flee were pursued and brought down, their bodies swarmed by the creatures who ripped and tore at them, quickly silencing their screams.

Beside Riot, Rimmer vomited noisily while a younger boy clutched his knees and rocked back and forth with his eyes closed.

But Riot’s eyes were locked on the Wikkan. She screeched another curse and the creatures all looked up at once, flapping their foul wings and returning to the black hole in the sky many of them clutching their prizes in their talons.

Then the hole was closed, and the blue sky was unblemished, and the dead whimpered and groaned. What ragged remains were left of the rust robed Faelen thundered toward the gateway.

Nearly, a riderless horse bent its head to graze and Riot grasped the Prince by the arm. “All of you, get to the woods,” he shouted.

The leybound scattered and Riot hurried to the horse and pushed the Prince into the saddle, but before he could haul himself up, a flicker of movement caught his eye at the bottom of the hill.

“Gods, Fletcher. Stay down you mad bastard,” Riot whispered.  

Instead of running, the old boatman must have preferred to take his chances laying still among the dead at the foot of the hill. But now he stood, trying to help a wounded boy to his feet, neither of them aware that three rust robed riders now swung their mounts around.

“Go,” Riot shouted, slapping the horses backside and sending it galloping away taking the Prince to safety.

Riot formed a charge in his hands as he ran, the leypower was pitiful, the last of what his body held and the last of what his body could handle for at least a day. As the charge flared between his hands he released it with a crack and it soared over the heads of the riders.

 He knew he would never hit anything at this distance, but it got the attention of  Fletcher, who dropped the wounded boy and drew his sword.

It also got the attention of one of the riders, who peeled away and bore down on Riot.

The rider held a curved sabre raised high, ready to slash down, and Riot waited until he could see the foaming spittle on the horses muzzle before he ducked sideways across the face of the charging animal. It was a soldiers instinct and forced the rider to strike across his own body. The swing went wild and Riots hand seized the tassled rope that tied the sabre to the riders wrist and pulled with all his strength, sending them both tumbling to the ground.

Riot blinked black spot from his vision, seeing a hundred or so yards away, Fletcher and the young boy were limp forms slung over the back of the two horses, already riding hard for the looming gateway.

Riot stood, unsteadily and drew his sword. “Where are they taking them?” Riot growled.

The Faelen riders face was twisted in agony, the bright white shard of bone stabbing out from his thigh had ripped through robes that Riot could see now were actually off-white, but coated in a thick layer of red dust.

The Faelen hissed something in his own language and drew a long bladed knife and turned the point to his own chest. With a flick of his wrist, Riot easily knocked out the blade of his hand before he could take his own life.

“Where are they going?’ Riot asked again.

The mysterious rider wasn’t long for this world and they both knew it. The Faelen spat, hissing whatever he felt he needed to say in death, and Riot sent him to whatever afterlife awaited him.

Told In Stone Chapter 2: Poor Odds

Riot thundered down the hill and as he jumped off of the horse it tossed its head around and tried to bite at him. He cursed at the animal and hurried forward to find Major Doyle in the centre of the large square.

“Orders?” Doyle shouted over the sound of cracking Leybound charges.

“We move back to the foot of the hill,” Riot replied.

Doyle hesitated, then gave a tight lipped nod. He was a stout, sensible officer and he hadn’t gotten to where he was by questioning orders.

“We can’t follow that order Major, the Erudoran’s are completely exposed,” Riot exclaimed.

Doyle lowered his voice. “It’s not the right order, I know it and you know it, but we follow a chain of command. The Erudoran’s are a good regiment with their own Leybound, they’ll manage without us. At least if we have to get the men out of here, we will be closer to the woods. Call the order to get us moving.”

Riot hesitated for a moment, then dove in, his words coming in a rush. “Sir, I wanted to know if you’d had any word about the vacant captaincy in the regiment?”

Doyle glanced up at the officers grouped on the hill behind them before laying a hand on Riot’s shoulder and giving him a grim smile. “I didn’t know yesterday, or the day before, or every other day you’ve asked me. If you keep fighting well, I’ll put in a word for you with Colonel Worthy. But you have to be realistic, son. Clarkson’s his nephew, and he has the money for the commission.”

Riot opened his mouth to reply, but Doyle stopped him. “You deserve the captaincy, Riot, the gods know the men will follow you into the Echo if you led them. But this is Worthy’s regiment. It might help if you were a little more polite to him.”

“I am polite,” Riot argued.

Doyle wore a rueful smile. “The men call him Billygoat. You wouldn’t happen to know who coined the phrase would you?”

Riot’s eyebrows furrowed. “No, sir. I can find out for you though, if you like.”

Doyle shook his head slowly. “What I wouldn’t give to be ten years younger and have your sword arm, but for all the gold in the Echo I wouldn’t take your bloody mindedness. Fight well, Riot, and I’ll put in a word for you.”

Riot called the order and the lumbering square completed its backward manoeuvre, moving them further from the battle and within fifty yards of Colonel Worthy and the Princes gilded golden carriage. Then he made his way to a small group of Leybound in dark blue uniforms who held the centre of the line facing the enemy cavalry. These twelve were the last of those who had survived the journey over the frozen Castemere hills last winter and fought to break the Covenant blockade at Morbian.

“Having fun, lads?” Riot asked as he pushed through to them.

“Nothing like a morning spent scratching our asses. When are we off to join the fun?” Loic asked.

The young northman had tried to kill Riot, twice, but for the best part of a year they had fought side by side, and there was no-one he would rather have next to him against any enemy. Loic was a few inches taller than Riot’s six feet, with solid muscle stacked on his broad frame, added to that, Riot had seen him launch a charge of ley power that could batter down side of a barn.

“We’re not going anywhere, Billygoat’s holding us back again.”

“Plenty of work right here, sir,” Fletcher called, “We all want that ha’guilder for bringing down a score of long-ears.” The wrinkled old smuggler, drew the dirty grey leypower into his cupped hands and crushed it with practiced movements. The runes cut into the backs of his hands flared as they formed the light into a tight sphere and with a rapid glance up at a rider that had strayed too close, he let the charge fly with a sharp crack and the Faelen was slammed back in the saddle, bumping on the back of the horse until the animal stopped and he fell to the ground, unmoving.

The Leybound cheered and slapped Fletcher on the back and the older man looked as surprised as any of them.

“Fletchers in the lead?” Riot murmured, his eyebrows raised.

“It’s the damndest thing. Normally he couldn’t hit the side of a barn if he was standing inside, but that’s nine he’s hit now by my count, next closest is Rimmer with four,” Loic replied.

“Send them both to fill canteens.”

“Feeling a bit short? I told you the officers life was too rich for you.”

A half guilder was worth ten silver dukes and as a Lieutenant in an infantry regiment, Riot was paid four silver dukes and eight copper Splits per day. Half of that went to the officers mess, a place he’d never been, while the rest was spent on stables and feed for a sour tempered horse he hated.

“Just keep them moving about, alright?” Riot scanned the area before them. To the east, the sky was torn open and the red light of the Faelen echo bled through into the mortal world. He would hardly have believed it had he not been here to see it. The Faelen queen herself had led over a hundred of her long-eared followers and together their working had created the gateway that the enemy were now marching through. If they could push them back from here, then the Echo could be secured, and the route through to the sprawling city of Fallow-Neck would be open.

In front of the gateway, the battle raged with the whistles of Faelen darts, and the cracks of Leybound spells from the Erudoran ranks. Arrows thrummed over heads and the great workings of the Arcanists and the Faelen shook the earth. And they were here, hiding on the edge of the battlefield.

“So, did you ask him?’ Loic said in an undertone.

“Doyle said Clarkson would get the commission. Did you know he was Worthy’s nephew?” Riot asked, seeing immediately from the Northman’s expression that he did.

“Sorry, I thought you knew. They’re two cheeks from the same ass, that’s for sure.”

Riot shook his head. “I couldn’t have afforded it anyway.”

“How much did they want?”

“Twelve hundred gilders.”

Loic whistled through his teeth. “A pretty sum.”

It was an impossible sum. For Riot it was twenty-five years pay, but it still wouldn’t be enough. Captains needed a dress uniform for formal occasions and a curved ceremonial sabre. They were supposed to have a valet, which meant paying for another damned horse. Riot thought that the rank and file had it bad being forced to by their own boot polish and chip in to keep the communal cook pots filled, but being an officer was a grift on a whole other level.

“Moran will be back soon, he’ll put you right,” Loic said.

Loic had been saying the same thing for a month, but the Arcanist who had supported Riot’s lieutenants post was long gone. Off in the wilds on some mission for the Arcanum. Riot had no patron and no money. His career was dead.

“Rider! It’s a stone-eye,” someone shouted.  

The Erudoran officer whipped his horse furiously, forcing the beast to thunder toward them. The reason for his haste was clear enough. Behind him were at least fifty Faelen cavalry.

Major Doyle pushed his way to the front of the line close to Riot and stared wide eyed at the advancing cavalry. “Make a hole, make a hole, let him in!” He shouted.

The Leybound made a small opening in the side of the square and their shouts rang out, urging the Erudoran on.

The Faelen riders continued to charge toward them but Riot knew they would swerve away. It made no sense to attack here. The square was too strong, and the undefended flank of the Erudoran battalion was just two hundred meters away.

“It’s a feint, it must be,” Doyle said, reading Riot’s thoughts.

But Riot had seen more reckless charges than he would like to remember and he felt the thunder of their hooves in the soles of his stolen boots. “Get ready!” He bellowed.

Riot flooded the scars on his forearms with the ley power, feeling it drawn down into his cupped hands, the dirty light settling like liquid. Then he crushed the power in his hands, feeling the runes sting as they fought to control and condense it into a dense, solid mass. This would be almost his last leypower charge of the day. The channels in his body were stinging and he knew if he opened the barrier that connected him to the leylines and tried to take in more of the burning power it would melt his bones.

The Erudoran officer surged into the square and the Leybound quickly closed ranks.

At seventy yards out the riders raised their hands palm out, forming the three inch long darts that burned with an angry, deep red. With a sinister whistle, the darts flickered into the packed ranks and a man next to Riot collapsed to the ground clutching his thigh.

The Leybound responded. Many missing or winking out before they reached the enemy.

“Hold damn you!” Riot shouted.

Riot held his own charge in his trembling hands, keeping his eyes locked on the lead rider. At forty paces he released the ley power with a sharp crack but the charge flew wide, shooting into the blue sky where it disappeared and Riot cursed loudly, knowing he wouldn’t be fast enough for another charge and instead drew his sword. “Cast!” He shouted.

“That’s a score!” Fletcher shouted, the old man wearing a look of astonishment as his target was plucked from the saddle.

There were fifty Leybound on their side of the square and the sound of their charges going off pulsed Riot’s eardrums. Two more of the riders and horses were hit and the rest came onward, too many of them.

“Swords, swords!” Riot shouted as beside him Loic pulled a heavy axe from the loop on his belt. The weapon was unadorned and shaped more like a lumber axe than something made for battle, with a heavy wedge shaped head. It shouldn’t have been allowed on an infantry man but Riot allowed it after seeing Loic cut through the enemy like he was was felling saplings.

At the last moment, the riders parted neatly and thundered past the square. They would reform and charge again, slowly waring them down, hoping they would break.

“Lieutenant, sir?” Fletcher called.

“I heard you Fletch, you’ll get your half gilder,” Riot replied.

“No, sir, it’s Major Doyle.”

Major Bernard Doyle’s face was a pale death mask against the vivid blood spatters. The Faelen dart had caught him in the neck, burning through skin and bone. The man had taken Riot on when Moran had left, given him freedom most Lieutenants could only dream of. He’d followed orders he knew were bad and now he was dead, and Riot was left with snivelling soon-to-be Captain Doyle.

Riot could feel the square shifting around him, men milling like nervous sheep. Doyles death had taken the fight right out of them, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d loose them.

“Who is the officer in charge here?” Came an imperious voice.

The Erudoran officer who had sought refuge in their square glared down at Riot. His grey eyes were hard and his uniform was immaculate. His riding boots supple black leather and his silver captains pennant hung from a fine chain. A pin on his breast marked him as an Arcanist.

Riot passed a hand over Doyles eyes, drawing them closed. “I’m sorry, sir,” he muttered to the dead man.

The Erudoran continued to shout, glowering down from his horse. “Where is your officer damn you? My regiment are exposed, while you cower here in square. I demand that you form up and march to cover our flank.”

Riot stood and glared up at the man. “I’m in charge here.” Riot tapped the lieutenants pennant that hung from his neck. It was made of leather, and had cost him his last silver duke. “If you’ve got a problem, take it up with Colonel Worthy, he’s fifty yards up there on the hill next to a golden carriage.”

The Erudoran Arcanist drew himself up. “I am Captain Vincent Leguard. Your name, sir?”

“Riot, Lieutenant Riot.”

A strange look passed over the Leguard’s face. “Riotus?” he spat.

Riotus. The name Riot’s grandfather had used before he cut the head off of the king and fled the island empire of Erudor. Many noble Erudoran families had lost everything. But Riot was broke, so the only restitution they would find was at the point of his blade. Perhaps it would be best to just run him through now and say he died in the battle, Riot thought. The lads would likely look the other way. But he was an officer now, and there were rules, and one of them was that murder was considered extremely poor taste.

“That’s right,” Riot said evenly.

Leguard moved to draw his sword but Riot was faster, seizing the horse by the reins and hauled it around. With his free hand he grabbed a handful of Leguards uniform and pulled him sharply down so they were face to face.

“The only reason I don’t gut you right now, is that there’s a good man dead at my feet and I don’t want to get your blood all over him,” Riot snarled. “Now get out of my square.” Riot pushed the man roughly and shouted for a gap to open up at the rear of the square.

“You will be seeing me again,” Leguard spat, straightening his uniform.

Riot drew his sword, enjoying the look of panic that flashed on the Captains face, then he slapped the horses rump with the flat of the blade, causing it to rear up and bolt out of the square.  

“Who in the hells was that?” Loic asked.

“Who cares? Let him tear a piece out of Worthy.”

Leguard wasn’t the first Erudoran officer to come for him, and he would doubtless be the last.

“They’re coming back!” Came the shout from the front ranks.

Riot made his way back to the front of the line and felt his heart skip a beat. Where before there had been a platoon of fifty cavalry, there were now at least a hundred. The newcomers wore curious flat brimmed hats nondescript, rust colored robes. “What uniforms are those?”

“No idea, mercenaries?” Loin suggested. “They look like they’re spoiling for a fight.”

The young northman was right. The huge cavalry force were forming a line, the boots of each rider touching the one next to them.

“The others are back!” A voice shouted.

Riot saw them, the Mazral riders who had harried them all afternoon approached the newcomers and after some moments, the two groups joined together their numbers swelling to one hundred and fifty.

“If they commit,” Loic said, leaving the dangerous thought unfinished.

“Yes I bloody know,” Riot snapped. Cavalry were notorious cowards, rich nobles on both sides of the war who preferred to take shots to weaken squares, waiting until the odds were in their favour to break them. Well the odds were in their favour now.

But something wasn’t right. With those numbers they could have collapsed the Erudoran regiment to the left and won the battle for the gateway. So why were they here, charging at a square of Leybound?

Riot’s gaze swept around just as the golden rays of afternoon alighted on the golden carriage of the Prince of the Faelen.

“Back!” Riot bellowed. “Back up the hill!”

Told In Stone Chapter 1. Flanking

Despite the chill of the morning, Colonel Tobias Worthy pulled his new bicorne hat from his head and dabbed the beads of sweat from his forehead with an already sodden handkerchief. The arcanum army stood on the brink of annihilation, and he stood on the flank of that brink. He wasn’t currently flanking of course, but if he intended to flank, then by the gods he would not hesitate.

“It looks as though the enemy are forming up to move toward our position, Uncle.” Lieutenant Clarkson sniffed again. The boy sniveled incessantly, just like his father. Worthy had no mind to bring the boy onto his staff, but his sister had insisted, and the boy was family after all.

To Worthy’s left, the sound of giggling from inside the golden carriage ceased and the door flew open to reveal the powdered face of the young Faelen prince. “Is it time to attack, Colonel?”

Worthy rammed the hat onto his head and straightened his back, trying to pull in his great stomach that strained the buttons of his uniform jacket. “No, your highness, as I said we are unlikely to see any action today. We have a strong position and the enemy would be fools to test us.”

At the bottom of the gently sloping hillside, two hundred Leybound wearing the light blue of the arcanum regiments stood in a neat square, each of the four sides made up of fifty men in two ranks. Worthy loved the square. It was disciplined, safe, and best of all, static. It did mean that the only tactical support they could offer was to the lone bullock that stood in the empty paddock to their left. But that was fine with Worthy, their damn uniforms alone had cost him as much as his country estate, he would not let them be fodder for Faelen darts.

The young princeling pouted and pushed away the slender hand that tried to pull him back into the carriage. “Will we not give battle Colonel? I came to see your Leybound in action.”

“Uncle! Cavalry!” came the high pitched warning cry from his nephew.

“Excuse me, your highness, this requires my immediate attention,” Worthy said, with a gentle inclination of his head.

“Throw the Leybound into battle! Lead them, Colonel, lead them to victory!” The Prince exclaimed.

Worthy strode away from the carriage, snatching the viewing glass offered by Clarkson and cramming it against his pudgy eye.

A mile away, a great rent split the air. It was a hundred paces wide and half again as high, its edges tattered and rippling. Through this gateway, lay the blasted red landscape under a cursed red sky. Worthy tried not too look at it, but it drew his gaze and made his eyes water. The Mazral army streamed from the gateway in their thousands and arrayed in battle formation, their white sashes crisp against the red of their uniforms. Faelen for the most part, but there were men and women in there, opportunists from the scattered kingdoms from the east that had flocked to the banner of the self proclaimed Faelen Emperor, Mazral.

“Where’s this cavalry then?” Worthy snapped.

“Down there Uncle, to the right,” Clarkson replied, pointing to where a platoon of horsemen were indeed moving toward them, leaving their own flank exposed.

“What the devil are they doing coming after us?” Worthy complained.

“I’m not sure they are after us, but it seems that Major Doyle has sent an officer for orders, sir,” Clarkson supplied.

The officer in question was as poor a horseman as Worthy had ever seen, sawing at the reins and cursing at the animal as it bent its head down to graze. Finally he slipped awkwardly off of the horse and looked to curse the animal before continuing on foot.

The man was a bloody embarrassment, far too old to be a Lieutenant, and far too scruffy to be any kind of officer. Worthy's eyes narrowed. “Is he wearing Faelen boots?”

“Apparently he and the others take them off of the dead. They claim that they are better than the regiment issued footware, sir,” Clarkson supplied.

“It’s not right, saddling the regiment with an upstart from the ranks,” Worthy muttered.

“They say he has the ear of the general himself. After that business in Morbian last winter.”

That whole situation reeked of Wikkan interference. An Arcanist and a rag-tag group of Leybound prisoners somehow free a citadel from Faelen occupation and now this lieutenant swaggered around like some damn hero. At least when Walden Moran was here he kept them at arms length. But the Major had disappeared on some mission for the witches and Worthy was saddled with this man. “It’s bad for moral, Clarkson. The men need order, structure. They need to know that a better class of man will lead them.”

“Actually, he’s quite well liked sir. The men seem to think he’s lucky,” Clarkson continued. “Gosh, he’s rather frightful looking isn’t he?”

A shade over six foot tall with broad shoulders, the lieutenant had a pronounced brow that shaded his light grey eyes, a nasty scar on his face tugged at his skin and pulled his mouth into a sneer. His sword, like his boots, was Faelen made. A yard of dull grey steel that Worthy knew he would hardly be able lift, let alone swing.

“They’re damn rank and file, Clarkson, this isn’t a ruddy popularity contest,” Worthy spat.

The not-a-real-lieutenant gave a salute that while textbook, suggested an arrogance that was typical of the grey-eyed Erudorans. “Captain Doyle sends his regards, sir. There’s a company of cavalry heading our way and he wants to know when we’ll be moving over to shore up the Erudorans.”

There it was. The lieutenant never asked for orders, he told you what orders he thought should be given. “Where is your uniform, Lieutenant? We wear the light blue of the arcanum in this regiment,” Worthy said.

“At the menders, sir,” the Lieutenant replied absently, his gaze wandering over to the battle.

Clarkson coughed gently. “His highness is coming, sir.”

Prince Gwilhelm was a gangly Faelen youth of around twenty with a foppish grey wig encrusted with precious stones. His patterned frock coat was similarly bejewelled and delicate lace spilled out at the neck and cuffs making him look like a rather flamboyant scarecrow. In his hand he grasped a long emerald feather quill that he waved toward his frail, elderly footman. “Fetch my table Paulie, and my notes,” he trilled.

“Perhaps your highness would be more comfortable in your carriage,” Worthy began.

The Prince waved him off, his attention focussed on the shabby Lieutenant. “A Leybound,” he breathed, walking around the officer as if admiring a statue in a gallery. “Paulie, fetch my charcoals. No, no, my oils Paulie. I must capture him.”

The elderly footman hurried behind the prince and hastily began to assemble a neat table.

“The lieutenant was just leaving your highness, he has to relay important orders to the regiment,” Worthy said.

“I say, are you not a little old to be a Lieutenant?” the Prince mused, trailing the feathered quill under his chin, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Promoted for distinguished service, your highness,” the lieutenant replied.

“Isn’t that unusual, Colonel, to promote from among the rank and file?” The Prince asked, turning back to Worthy.

Worthy could feel a vein throbbing in his forehead. “It rarely happens, your highness, and is generally viewed as a mistake. They don’t sit right.”

The lieutenants attention had turned back to the field of battle. “Suggest moving the Prince’s carriage up the hill, sir.”

“When I want suggestions from a lieutenant, I’ll bloody ask for them,” Worthy snapped. Moving the carriage was a fine idea, but he was damned if he was going to do it now.

“Your orders, sir?” The Lieutenant asked giving him a level stare.

Worthy fussed with the tassle on the hilt of his sword. It was only one platoon of cavalry, against two hundred Leybound. But each of those men cost forty gilders to outfit, and two silver Dukes a day to feed. He glanced at the thick woodland fifty yards behind him, and surveyed the two hundred yards of open ground between him and the leybound square and suddenly felt very exposed.

As Worthy pitched his own significant bulk against the weight of command, the Prince fired questions at the bemused looking lieutenant.

“I see the bindings there on your hand, exceedingly elegant work, was it a painful process?” Gwilhelm enquired.

“It hurt like the blazes, my lord,” the lieutenant replied.

The Prince threw his head back and gave a shrill, tittering laugh. “Did you hear that Paulie? He said it hurt ‘like the blazes’. You were right Colonel Worthy, he is wonderfully provincial isn’t he? What is your name, Lieutenant?”

“Riot, your highness, Nathanial Riot.”

The Prince took a seat at the table and drew a fresh piece of parchment toward him. “Carry on Colonel. Remember, I am not even here,” he said, selecting a crayon from a neat little box.

“Shall I take the order to march to Captain Doyle, sir?” Riot asked.

“March, march where? What are you talking about man?” Worthy snapped.

“So that we might be able to support the Erudorans, sir,” Riot replied, though gritted teeth.

“Don’t be a fool, they’ll be ripped to shreds.”

“Are the Leybound not equal to the enemy Faelen ranks, Colonel?” The Prince asked, not looking up from his careful sketch.

“It is difficult to say, your highness, they are as yet, untested in larger engagements.” The cavalry were getting awfully close now, testing the furthermost corner of the infantry squares. Each time they charged and wheeled away, the sporadic cracks of Leybound charges could be heard. They would chip away, and every chip cost him a fistful of gilders.

The Prince continued. “What is the range of your casting abilities, Lieutenant Riot?”

Worthy cut in before Riot could answer. “Your highness, the Leybound are a novelty, unreliable for serious soldiering. Now, if you would be so kind as to–”

“Most can’t do much damage past twenty paces, a handful can kill at fifty,” Riot interrupted.

The Prince nodded thoughtfully and made a note on the parchment. “So you would have to be closer to the enemy to be effective.”

“Closer than we are now, that’s why we should form up, and march.”

Worthy followed the exchange with mounting anger. “Lieutenant Riot, you are to return to Captain Doyle, now! His orders are to bring the square back to the foot of this hill.”

Lieutenant Riot’s gaze flickered out as if looking for some kind of support but all they found was Lieutenant Clarkson, dabbing his nose with a stained handkerchief.

“You have your orders, now deliver them!” Worthy shouted.

Told In Stone Prologue: A Bards Tale

Gather round, friends, tip my hat with silver and hold close your babes to your bosom, for the Moon is full, and I would tell you of the Yega…

Our beloved full moon smiles on the western marshes, but while we rejoice the abyss weeps for its lightless sky, and the fell beasts hiss and shrink into the dark places. In the memory of what was lost, the Yega hunts, for the walls between worlds are as thin as a web of gossamer.

This night, through wood and glen and coast and beach and cliff maidens may freely walk the living lands, but you sleep little boy, for the Yega stalks.

Young men, old men, hale men frail men, stable boys, second sons, altar boys and urchin runts, the Yega steals them all into the dark places to seed their foul bellies. Then when ragged breath sounds, their cracked white mask will fall, and looking on the foulness of the Yega brings the welcome release of death.

The shrill cry of male babes are dashed on sharp rocks for it is daughters they seek, wikkan girls to set the Yega free once more into the living lands.

The moon is full, and men would be fool to wander this night. Stay by the fire, and stray not, because the Yega stalks.

Leybound Chapter Fifty-Three | Legacy

The gray-eyed soldiers of the Erudoran army outnumbered the guild forces by almost two to one. A hundred thousand of them. Riot drew curious glances as he strode through the camp. His long hair was tied behind his neck and held in a small leather bag in an outdated Erudoran style, and he wore the dark blue uniform of the regiment of the Duke of Fallow, which he wasn’t even sure still existed.

The command center was bustling with activity. Officers barged in and out, mingling with clerks who rushed around carrying armfuls of paper. 

Riot was conducted into the command center's main hall and directed to a chamber at the back. The ensign opened the door, and he was ushered into a large office where Lord Roveran Listor sat behind an expansive desk, surrounded by stacks of paper. 

“As ease, sergeant,” Roverean said, not glancing up.

The door closed, and Riot remained at attention. The silvery scars on Roveran's hands flexed as he signed the papers in front of him. The scars were intricate and completely covered his hands and wrists, and Riot knew that they would carry on up his forearms. 

Roveran finished and pushed the papers aside, leaning back and setting his light gray eyes on Riot. This was the man who had unexpectedly made Riot leybound—the same man who was now the general of the combined army of Erudor and the regiments of the Arcanum. 

“It seems that this army owes you a debt, sergeant. I have a report here from the Lord of Morbian, Arcanist Walden Moran, which details your leadership and courage in seizing and liberating the citadel from the Covenant. He says that you accomplished this with only twelve leybound.”

“And a younger lad from the ranks, sir. His name was Norton.” It felt important to say that. 

“His contribution will be noted. As for the others, as you know, Leybound are disliked in the guild, sergeant, though I daresay that your exploits have gone some way toward turning the tide of opinion in the rank and file. Do you know what this is?” Roveran asked, indicating the stacks of paper on his desk. 

“No, sir.”

“Requests from every battalion in the guild. They want leybound in their ranks—more than we have to give.”

Roveran had the ability to give people his whole, undivided attention, and Riot felt that scrutiny bore into him. 

“You have spellcraft?” Roveran’s Erudoran accent was clipped and refined and reminded Riot of his grandfather. 

“Yes, sir, from arcanist Moran.”

“Walden Moran has been vocal in his opposition to the leybound practice. You must have impressed him.”

Riot stayed silent; he found that was often best when confronted with superior officers. 

“You might be wondering why I helped you become leybound, sergeant?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Major Kerne informed me of your family name; I can understand why you don’t use it. There are some in Erudor who consider your grandfather a hero, a small number, and though I do not count myself among them, his actions led me to the path I chose. For this reason, I felt somwhat indebted to you. But you must listen closely, this gratitude is not infinite, do you understand?”

A numb feeling had come across Riot as Roveran had spoken, and the old fear returned. There were undoubtedly many members of the Erudoran nobility in the army who didn’t feel the same way. 

“I understand, sir. If I might ask, is this common knowledge?”

“It will be now. Most of the army is aware that an Erudoran sergeant somehow managed to steal a citadel out from under the nose of the covenant, kill a high Faelen, and destroy an arcane tower, which should have been indestructible. The Erudoran officers are as prone to gossip as any other regiment, and Riot is not so far from Riotus that they will not put the pieces together.”

Riot imagined the new enemies who awaited him now. Erudoran officers who would make his life a misery because of his family name, some who would have old scores to settle. 

Roveran stood and walked to the window, staring out, his back to Riot. “Tell me, what sort of man was your grandfather? They paint him as an anarchist, you know, a rebel who burned an empire.”

“He was a carpenter, sir. He followed the rules his whole life, and all he saw was injustice.”

“So he took up the axe, and he cut off the head of a king.”

“No one else wanted to do it, sir, and someone had to.”

“And now you inherit his legacy.” Roveran returned to his desk and pulled a thick piece of paper out of the pile. “This is an order to make you an officer, awarding you with the rank of Lieutenant for your part in securing the citadel of Morbian. This serves an immediate need I have for an experienced leybound officer, but I am not entirely convinced that this is a good thing for you. The Erudoran officers are much the same as those you have served all your life, and they do not take kindly to those who come up from the ranks. You would do well to exercise caution. Here are your orders; you will need to present them and yourself to your new battalion commander.” 

Roveran pushed a folded piece of parchment across the desk and returned to his work, studiously ignoring Riot.

“Sir, thank you, sir. But what about my men?”

Roveran looked up, a small frown twisting his thin lips. “Your men? They are not your men, Lieutenant. To command a leybound company, you would have to achieve the rank of captain. Perhaps you can cut off Bimil-pal’s head? Given your family history, this is not entirely outside the realm of possibility.”

If it was supposed to be a joke, then Roveran did not smile. 

“They fought well, sir. If they stay in irons under the command of some arcanist, then I’ll have to stay with them, sir.” 

Roveran sighed and laid down his quill. “The leybound have been reassigned to a new battalion, Lieutenant. They are not in chains, and I have faith that the officers that I have assigned to lead them will treat them as well as any other rank and file in the army. Now, you are dismissed.”

Riot snapped to attention and made a smart about turn, feeling for some reason that he was lucky to make it out of the room alive. 

“Congratulations, Lieutenant; they said that you were too old, but I think that the rank will suit you.” 

Major Kerne was waiting in the anteroom of Roveran's office. Her black clothing was as ruffled and unkept as usual and she bounced on the balls of her feet slightly as she appraised him, a smug expression on her face. “Where ever did you get that sword? It looks like it belongs to a butcher.”

“Natalia Quinn, where is she?” Riot asked. 

“Come now, Nathaniel; spring is here; don’t ruin a nice day with your sour mood. I have some business in the camp, so let me take you there.”

Kerne and Riot made their way through the bustling army camp, with Kerne leading her scruffy horse. 

“You could have told me you wanted the tower destroyed,” Riot stated. 

“How could I have done that? You were supposed to be back in the camp by bedtime. But from what I hear, it was just as well I sent you along, though your amorous pastimes did almost derail the whole mission.”

“So you have spoken to her.”

“Put her out of your mind, Nathaniel; she’s gone for now. They tell me you went into the tower and met Sumner Nixton. What did you make of him?”

The memory had been like a thorn in his mind for a week now, festering until he finally realized why. 

“The tower was like the chamber underneath Ivansrook. Were Sumner and Alric Rook working together on experiments to make leybound?” 

Kerne drew to a halt at the entrance to a regimental camp. The flag that hung proclaimed it as the ninth arcane regiment. “This is it, Nathanial, I’ll leave you here. A bit of advice about your new commander; he doesn’t have much experience, but he wants leybound, and he’s asked for you specifically.”

“Wait, answer me. Sumner Nixton and Alric Rook, was that really what they were doing?”

Riot saw from her expression that his suspicions were correct, and he felt mildly sick to know what had been done to make being leybound possible. 

“Put it from your mind, Lieutenant; we have work to do. The arrival of the Erudorans doesn’t mean the war is won; it just means that now we might just stand a chance,” Kerne said, clicking her tongue and leading her horse away.

Riot made his way into the regimental camp and presented himself at the command tent. 

Tobias Worthy was a large man with wisps of gray hair gently teased over his bald head. He made Riot stand to attention and informed him in no uncertain terms that he did not approve of his rank and that he expected him to leave his criminal past behind and follow the rules of the regiment. 

“Go present yourself to the new major; I forgot his name, but with so many bloody arcanists trying to join up, it looks like we might win this thing. And get a new uniform. I’ve already given orders to the others; no more damned Duke of Fallow blue. We wear the grey of the Arcane Regiments here, and we’re damn proud to do so!” 

Riot followed the directions he was given until he heard a familiar voice calling orders and, a moment later, heard a deafening barrage of whip-like cracks that sent birds flying up from the nearby trees.

His new major was sitting on a fine wicker chair under the shade of a tree, sipping on a cool drink while the leybound hurled charges of arcane power at targets. His uniform was deep blue velvet, decorated with gold braided ropes, and hung with a heavy major chain. 

“Lieutenant Riot, as I live and breathe,” Walden Moran exclaimed. 

“You joined as a major? I’ve seen your house; you could have just raised your own regiment,” Riot replied. 

“I wanted to make sure I would see some action, Nathaniel. I rather feel like I have the taste for it now. And look at our wonderful company of leybound, recently returned from the capture of an enemy-occupied citadel, no less, heroes to a man. They will need leadership, and I can think of no better officer.”

Riot bellowed the order for the leybound to fall in and walked along the line. They were all there, all wearing crisp, dark blue uniforms with the blasted rune he had taken from the Sun Tower sewn to the sleeve, each of them grinning from ear to ear.

Now see the last man, going to war.

Book 2 update

Hi everyone!

Well, that's it, book one is officially finished, what did you think? Best bits? Worst?? Any favorite characters or scenes?

There has been a lot of work going on behind the scenes over the last few months and I'm happy to say that the book has a new edition that will be updated here soon. The biggest change is the title of the book, which has changed to "The Last Man".

The other changes are quite minor, mostly additional setting and prose that have added about 15000 words to the total story.

I'll be updating the latest version of book one here on Patreon in the next couple of weeks, so if anyone would like to do a re-read of a more polished version it will all be available at once.

So, onto book two!

The title of the book is "Told In Stone" and the first chapter will be released on the 22nd of January, but here is a sneak peek of the prologue.

A Bard's tale - Western Parthanea

Gather round, friends, tip my hat with silver and hold close your babes to your bosom, for the Moon is full, and I would tell you of the Yega…

Our beloved full moon smiles on the western marshes, but while we rejoice the abyss weeps for its lightless sky, and the fell beasts hiss and shrink into the dark places. In the memory of what was lost, the Yega hunts, for the walls between worlds are as thin as a web of gossamer.

This night, through wood and glen and coast and beach and cliff maidens may freely walk the living lands, but you sleep little boy, for the Yega stalks.

Young men, old men, hale men frail men, stable boys, second sons, altar boys and urchin runts, the Yega steals them all into the dark places to seed their foul bellies. Then when ragged breath sounds, their cracked white mask will fall, and looking on the foulness of the Yega brings the welcome release of death.

The shrill cry of male babes are dashed on sharp rocks for it is daughters they seek, wikkan girls to set the Yega free once more into the living lands.

The moon is full, and men would be fool to wander this night. Stay by the fire, and stray not, because the Yega stalks.

Leybound Chapter Fifty-Two | Spellcraft

Moran stood and gestured for Riot to approach. “Take off your jacket, please, and roll up your sleeves.”

Riot took off the blue uniform. It looked like a rag now, and he had refused to let the infirmary take it away; he wouldn’t even let them try to wash it as the dirt and dried blood were likely the only things holding the threadbare fabric together. 

“In a moment, I will ask you to remove the barrier between yourself and the ley line. I will then bind this spell to you.”

Riot felt his heart skip a beat; removing the barrier had only ever felt like a death sentence to him. 

“You’ve done this before?” Riot asked. 

Moran coughed. “No, not as such, but I understand the principle well enough. This spell will grow with your power and is almost unlimited in its ability to do so. The only thing that will limit it is your own ambition and any resistance you might offer during this process. Is this clear?”

“I can’t fight it,” Riot summarized.

“More than that, you will have to surrender, long past the point where you think you might be consumed. I realize that capitulation is not in your nature, but you will have to place your pride to one side.”

“What’s the spell?”

“There is only one spell; the arcane ley lines are a pure force; the spell allows you to condense, shape, and release that force in a desired direction. With diligence, the ability might be turned to some other use, however, sadly for most, it remains a blunt instrument akin to an ogre using a mandolin for a club.” Moran took off his own fine jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, leaning over to peer at the paper. “The process is somewhat uncomfortable, and it is best if you do not move. Resistance will result in poor quality binding and leave a nasty scar.” 

Riot recalled the ugly scarring on the hands of some of the leybound and then the smooth, almost invisible runes on the backs of Natalia’s and Price's hands. 

“We should begin; please start to deconstruct the barrier.”

Riot hesitated; the barrier was leaking, and he could feel the light flow filling his system, but removing the barrier would mean facing the full force of the ley line. 

“If you cannot do this, sergeant, then I will have to assist you, but it would be better if you were willing.”

“Yes, bloody surrender, I know,” Riot snapped. 

Riot faced the wall—the heavy slabs he had hurled into place when he was deep in the forest on the verge of death. His anger had held the ley line at bay at that time, and he summoned it now. It came easily enough; he was still angry at Norton's death and Natalia’s betrayal and frustrated that the leybound were being shipped back as prisoners. 

With an internal growl, he pulled down the wall, the blocks tumbling away and evaporating in the flood that flowed in. He resisted for a split second, then gave up, trusting Moran and letting himself be carried away on the surge, feeling the ley line tear through his body, seeking out every available space. The gray light flared, and he was blinded, and Moran's voice came from far away. 

“I will begin.”

The moment the words left the arcanists lips Riot's skin caught fire, and he howled in pain. It felt like someone had taken a smashed glass bottle and was scoring lines down his forearms and onto the backs of his hands. He felt dampness on his skin and heard the steady flow of drops of blood hitting his ruined shoes, pattering onto the floor. There was a roaring sound in his ears that felt like he was caught in a raging river, and the temperature plummeted so fast that he gasped. He forced himself into stillness, turning gasping breaths into deep breaths in and out. 

His skin burned, but it was nothing compared to the pain he had felt in the forest when the ley line had almost burned him from the inside out, and it wasn’t as bad as when he had been bound and the ley line had surged through his raw system, splitting his joints and muscles apart. 

“Well done, sergeant; very good,” Moran said.

Riot’s vision cleared slightly, and he looked down at his arms, almost losing control. The dirty gray light of the ley line had sliced through his skin, almost down to the bone. Blood dripped from the open wounds even as the light leaked from them, turning to mist in the air and leaving filthy streaks of blackened soot on his skin. Wounds opened on the backs of his hands and his palms, forming dozens, then hundreds, of intricate runes that each glowed with the gray light. 

The torrent of the ley line was unbridled through him now, flowing in a constant stream through his body and out of the open wounds. 

“Excellent work, sergeant,” Moran said, his tone sounding genuinely full of approval. “Now you need to replace the barrier. You should take the time to construct some form of gateway.”

The granite towers of Helgan’s rest had failed, as had the high walls of Fallow-Neck. He had asked each of the ley bound in turn, and though some were embarrassed, they all shared with him their own ways of living with the bond to a ley line. Each was different and personal. 

So Riot imagined a new barrier. Before, the ley line was unknown, and he had built high walls to defend himself, but now he knew its nature better. He was an enemy like any other, testing his defenses, and he knew how to fight an enemy. 

In his mind, he conjured a monstrous regiment, ranks and ranks of infantry a hundred thousand strong, each of them faceless, with arcane power in the palms of their hands. As one, they screamed a deafening, rage-filled wordless defiance, and the ley line retreated. 

He bellowed a silent command, and the ranks stepped aside, letting the ley line make its cautious way between them, tricking into him, the sweetness and the sickness. 

With another command, the ranks closed, and the ley line was forced to retreat.

The light faded, and the horrific wounds in his arms were now bleeding freely onto the floor, forming a puddle of blood. Moran took Riots forearms in his hands, and there was a flash of heat, and the skin knit together. Riot raised his arms, seeing that the wounds and the runes on the backs of his hands were now little more than neat scars. The new skin is slightly shiny. 

"Congratulations, sergeant; you are truly leybound. I understand that you want to hurry back to be imprisoned with the rest of your men, but I have one final gift for you.” 

The valet was called, and Riot was presented with a new uniform. It was the deep blue of the Duke of Fallow regiment, with black corded rope and the white sigil of a sergeant on the shoulder.

Leybound Chapter Fifty-One | A Butchers Blade

Riot kicked one of the stones from the pile that remained of the arcanist tower. It seemed like a regular stone, and he marveled at whatever art had made it impenetrable and able to stand for hundreds of years.

This was the last place that anyone had seen Natalia Quinn, and though he knew she wouldn’t be there, he had still returned each day to check. 

“You don’t have to go back, you know; my offer still stands,” Riot said. 

“You’re going?” Loic asked. 

“I figure I do better when I stand and fight.”

“Then I’ll go back, for a while anyway. You’ll be dead by summer without me. What did you get out of Moran?”

“Nothing yet. I’ve been granted an audience today.”

“Well, I guess that’s it. See you in Helgans Rest; I’ll make sure they save you a nice damp cell.”

The northman dropped the huge axe through the loop on his belt and saluted, walking away in the direction of the harbor, where the tall ship masts swayed gently over the tops of the buildings.

The winding road led Riot up to the larger houses in the west of the citadel until he reached the one that had the symbol of the sun cresting a tall tower. The guards greeted him warmly enough. They were two of the survivors from the hard trek over the hills. 

Walden Moran was on the large balcony that overlooked the city; the view seemed strange without the tower dominating the sky. The arcanist had never looked at home while trekking through the hills. He had tried to play the part of a soldier, but this was where he belonged, wearing a fine jacket and soft shoes. 

“Sergeant! You are looking well. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to see you, but I have been rather busy. I have no doubt you have questions.”

Riot sat and stretched his leg, sighing at the tug of the other wound Price had left him with.

“So they’ve buggered off then?” Riot said. 

“For now, yes. After they lost their commander, their appetite quite deserted them.” 

"You really killed him?” 

Moran nodded, his lips pressed against his steepled fingers. “I didn’t want to, but he pressed me. I did tell you I was a rather talented duelist.”

“I thought you meant with a sword,” Riot muttered. 

“Be serious, sergeant, I’m not some common thug. Which reminds me.” 

Moran called for a valet, who brought him a sword. It was the long, Faelen blade that Price had used against him. 

“This blade was made in the echo during the long incarceration of the Faelen. It’s not particularly valuable and frankly rather unwieldy, but for someone tall, it would serve for hacking away at things, and I immediately thought of you.” Walden passed the blade to Riot with a barely disguised smile. 

“Where is Price?” Riot replied, ignoring the sword. 

Moran smiled. “What if I told you that he died from his injuries? Would that satisfy you? It is probable after all, you gave him quite an injury.”

“I should have blown a hole in his chest.” 

Moran pouted. “Come now, sergeant; he was prepared to spare you.”

“He was going to cut my damn eye out! And how do you know he would have spared me?” 

Moran grimaced. “It seems I have let the cat out of the bag, doesn’t it? What I will say is that allies are found in strange places; wouldn’t you agree? After all, you and Loic seem to count each other as comrades now, and I would like to think that even you and I share some bond of fraternity.”

“So Price works for you now?” 

“You know the man well enough to know that he does not work for anyone. But there might come a day in the future that we would be glad to have him fighting with us rather than against us.” 

It wasn’t an answer, and now Riot wouldn’t be able to sleep without a sharp blade in his hand. 

“Sumner Nixton is your father.”

Another grimace. “Embarrassing as it is to admit, yes.” 

“Did he die in the tower?” 

“You’ve met the man; what do you think?”

“Rats don’t go down with sinking ships.” 

Moran laughed. “An apt comparison. Sumner Nixton likely fled to one of his other lairs, but he held up his terms of the guild treaty nonetheless, and so I am Lord of Morbian, the ancient seat of my mother's house.” 

A silence extended between them. 

“I sense we are nearing the subject you would most like to ask me about?” Moran asked. 

“Where is she?”

“Natalia Quinn was last seen entering the tower base; moments later, there was an explosion, and the tower fell. Her body was not discovered among the ruins, though I feel we both know she is too astute to be killed. Her motives are unclear; I was wondering if you might shed some light on the matter?”

Riot had thought of nothing else for the last week while he lay in the infirmary bed, his face causing him excruciating pain each time he blinked or tried to eat or drink. He had tried to recall each and every conversation with Natalia, anything she might have said during the long hours of training or the night spent together in the hills, but she had given nothing away.

“Roveran and the wikkan wanted the tower gone, thats all I can think. It was a risk.” Riot said. 

“I must say that I agree with you, and if so, my father was outsmarted; this lends me some satisfaction.” 

“Still, she betrayed us,” Riot said. 

“I would set the record straight on that point. How do you think I found you?”

Riot blinked; he hadn’t thought of that. Moran had been fighting a duel; it would have made sense for him to go straight to the tower.

“I ran into Natalia Quinn at the tower, and she told me where you were. I didn’t much question it at the time, but she might very well have saved your life.” 

The information toppled all of the carefully constructed scenarios in Riot's mind. He had resolved to hate her, and now he didn’t know what to think. He stood and carefully tied on the straps of the new sword belt that hung at his waist as if it had always been there. 

“Leaving, Nathaniel?” Moran asked. 

“I’ll go back with the others. If I hurry, I can still catch the ship.”

“I think you’ll want to stay a moment longer; I have a few final gifts for you.”

Moran produced a piece of parchment from his breast pocket; it was covered in thousands of intricate runes, delicately crafted, and they appeared to move across the page, sliding away as soon as they were looked at.

“This is leybound spellcraft, prepared for you by one of the preeminent arcanists on the continent.”

2024 In Review

Hi everyone,

It’s about six hours from the stroke of midnight where I live and I’m rounding out the year that's gone by—and what an incredible journey it’s been.

First of all, I want to thank everyone on Patreon for all of your incredible support throughout the year (and for multiple years for some people). Without you all, I wouldn't have been able to pay the book cover designer. Your support made it possible, and I cannot wait to share the new cover with you.

2024 in writing, and editing, then editing again.

In January, I started writing my second book, the first in a series of five (or maybe six—I haven’t decided yet). I learned a lot from my first attempt, Champion of Small Gods. The biggest lesson? The only parts of the plan that truly matter are the beginning, the end, and perhaps a few things in the middle. Characters, I’ve discovered, don’t always know who they are until you dig into the nitty-gritty details of the final stages of editing. Much of the time my characters didn’t seem to remember their own names. They certainly changed how they spelled them often—though I think that’s rather more my fault than theirs.

In July, the book was finished, and I called it Leybound. It was released on Royal Road and Patreon—a healthy baby, weighing in at 75,000 words with a logical plot, colorful characters, and a magic system I obsessed over. Then in October, I handed the story to a developmental editor just to see what might happen, and quickly realized that the book wasn’t really finished. If I could take a guess, I would say it was about 85% done.

I give my eternal thanks to Chris Bellehewe for showing me how to push it to the 100% mark. After the final, final edit, the book is about 95,000 words—and infinitely better for it. Oh, and the title got changed along the way. Thus in April, I’ll be releasing The Last Man in paperback.

I also began writing the second book in the series in July. The book is called Told in Stone and currently exists as a solid fourth draft and tops out at 65,000 words. The plot is locked in, and everyone gets to where they need to be—though not all of them entirely know why they are going there (if that makes sense). Next year, I’ll send it off to my editor, Chris, and start the work of making it print-ready.

TV and Movies

It’s been a year of nostalgia as I set out on a journey to watch the whole Star Trek canon in chronological order. Enterprise, Voyager, and Lower Decks were the standout heroes for me. When that was all wrapped up, I started watching Castle, mostly because I love the show The Rookie and Nathan Fillion is a fantastic and engaging actor. It’s a classic good-guys-and-bad-guys procedural TV series, along the lines of some of my other favorite shows like Elementary and White Collar.

Other honorable 2024 mentions: Slow Horses, The Boys, and Silo.

Gaming

This year, I’ve spent countless hours playing games with my 12-year-old nephew, and as a result, my PS stats have hundreds of hours of Minecraft, Fortnite, CoD, and World of Tanks.

For myself, the standout game of 2024 was Ghost of Tsushima. I haven’t been so lost in a world since Skyrim or The Witcher 3. Where Skyrim had the rugged majesty of the mountains, and The Witcher was a grimdark immersion, Ghost is just. Damn. Beautiful. I haven’t spent so long just roaming around on my horse since Red Dead 2. The character work really stood out for me, and I found myself enjoying the interactions, instead of just spamming X to get through them.

Upcoming in 2025

- January 15th - Book two Told in Stone will be released to Patreon members!

- April 2025, Eastercon Belfast - I'm going to be releasing the paperback version of The Last Man at the con and was fortunate enough to be offered a table in the dealer room!

- October 2025, World Fantasy Convention Brighton - I'll be there to release book two in the Riot's War Series, Told In Stone.

There is so much to do before then, not limited to: designing maps for the books and the world, confirming the new covers with the artist, organizing printing of advanced review copies, and about a trillion other things that it takes to self-publish a book.

It's going to be a great, stressful, and exciting year, and I'm looking forward to sharing it with you all here.

Happy New Year!

Peter

Leybound Chapter Fifty | Little Shadow

The sky was beginning to lighten in the south. In her home, they called this the blue hour, but here it was more like the red hour, as the light of a new day illuminated the blood that ran in the gutters of the streets and the red embers of flames in burned-out homes.

Natalia Quinn filled the pathways in her body until gray light pricked her vision, and then she bid the ley line to retreat. It faded like a great wave going back out to the sea. She hadn’t relied on barriers for years, quickly understanding that the essence of the arcane ley lines wasn’t always a pounding forward force; it ebbed and flowed like the great tides of the world, and she just had to learn to swim.

She moved through the streets she knew so well, like a phantom, avoiding those gangs of drunks, looters, and bandits when she could and concealing herself when she could not, flooding her skin with ley power and bending the light around her to render herself almost invisible. 

The square fort at the base of the tower was deserted. There was nothing here to loot, and the dark reputation of the tower meant it was far from a place of refuge. That was partly her doing, though; isn’t that why she was here, to right that wrong? 

Her key turned in the lock with a sharp click, and she slipped inside, letting the ley power that she held leave her body, squeezing every last drop out until the empty channels itched and ached. That was the first part of how Riot had survived; he hadn’t had any ley power for the hedron to sieze. As for how he had directed it away from himself, Natalia had almost killed herself several times before she managed to give the blast direction; Riot had just been exceptionally lucky.

The tower had fallen into ruin, dust covered the exquisite carpets, and the rank smell of mold seeped out of the rotten furnishings. She made her way up the staircase, running her gloved hand over the smooth railing. The door to her room opened easily enough, but in the gloom she saw, it was piled high with junk, and the smell of dead rodents forced her to step back and cover her nose. 

Up higher, and her hand hovered over these door handles, but she would not open them. She was here so that they would never be opened again. 

The air on the top floor was almost suffocating, with an acrid, burned metal smell of arcane workings. 

Sumner Nixton shuffled about, thrusting papers into a satchel and muttering to himself. “Whatever you want, you will have to wait, my little magpie; the wikkan are coming, and I want to be far from here when they arrive.” 

He didn’t even turn around, and Natalia clicked her tongue in annoyance and pulled out the hedron. 

Sumner stiffened and sniffed the air. He turned around now, his expression dark, his wrinkled face twisted in displeasure as he glazed at the hedron. “Well, well, my shadow, what have you brought me? Didn’t I do what your precious Wikkan wanted? The fleet is gone, the war is won, Huray.”

“I’m here to turn this tower to rubble and bury you with it.”

Sumner's small, pointed tongue whipped across his thin lips. “A bluff, and a poor one. It will kill you too, little shade, and we both know you are not the type to make sacrifices.”

Natalia opened the hedron; just a hairline crack, and it flared in her hand. The hedron was a hunger that she had never felt, but she had rid her body of all ley power and Nixton was a prime conduit. He hissed like a tomcat, panting slightly.  “You have been training, I see. Very clever, but you always were. Give.”

The command tugged at her willpower, but she brushed it aside, far too used to the manipulations of the old fool.

Sumner looked grumpy, like a chastised child, and waved his hand irritably. “Destroy the tower; see if I care, its not mine any more, I traded it to my ungrateful son. It served its purpose, as you well know, but that is long in the past, and look how you benefited—the finest spellcraft, skills, and an education.”

“We did terrible things, and it happened elsewhere: Alric Rook and Isan Wane, Antonieta.”

Sumner gave an exasperated sigh. “Don’t lump me in with those fanatics. They wanted to create an army, but I had other aims, aims which I am close to realizing my little magpie. Take a look at the document over there.”

He was a fool and a cunning manipulator, but he had a brilliant mind. Brilliant enough to make the core discoveries that made leybound possible. If he was working on something new, then she had to at least see it. 

The text was written in Sumner's own hand, a beautiful, flowing script that no one could imagine coming from his dirty clawed fist. It only took a moment for her to comprehend. 

“Impossible,” she whispered, resting a finger on the image that took up one half of the page. “Who else knows about this?”

Sumner was beside her, his eyes tracing the text like a tender lover. “For now, just us two, but our enemies are many and powerful. Roveran, the Wikkan, and the Faelen upstart who calls himself emperor. It will not be a secret for long. Come with me, shadow; I could use you. Resourceful, ruthless, beautiful.” 

Natalia looked at the image on the page. It would change the world. “The tower will be rubble, and I won’t be a part of any more experimentation.”

Sumner looked scandalized. “I am a reformed man. You will be my conscience and my guide.” He made a crude salute and gave her a wicked smile that she could not help but return.

“And I want one more thing. I believe an Erudoran sergeant came to see you recently.”

Leybound Chapter Forty-Nine | One Eye

“Shh, lad, it's okay,” Riot said, gripping the young soldier's hand and feeling the strength leave it as he died.

“You should not have brought him here Riot, though he died well,” Price said. 

Riot waited for the rage but it didn’t come. Instead he felt a cold certainty, perhaps that was better. “You’ll die hard.”

“I hope so. I have a new blade, Riot; what do you think? A gift from Myam-tal. I thought that they might take everything from me, but now you see that I am made whole and you are broken. Natalia didn’t take much convincing to betray you either; she brought you right to me.” 

"No, Price, she brought me to you,” Riot hissed.

Their swords met, and Riot felt his own blade's weakness immediately. Price's sword was at least a yard long. In Price’s hands, it should have been devastating, but he laboured the blade, clearly more used to the lighter sabres carried by the officers. 

Riot pressed his advantage, feinting and trying to slip inside Price’s guard as the leybound grunted with the effort of moving the heavy blade. But no matter what Riot did, he couldn’t break through Price's defense. 

But the warning screamed in his head, and he remembered the body of the brute in the damp farmhouse basement, and how Price had driven a rusted sword halfway through his body. With a cry of triumph, Price flicked the blade up as if it were as light as a rapier and scored a deep slash down riots face that cut down to his cheekbone.

Riot staggered backward, the pain searing through his face. 

“I wanted to mutilate you, Riot, as you mutilated me. I thought to burn out your eyes all along the long road through the hills.” 

Price walked calmly forward. He looked at home in this mansion. Riot only had his cheap blade, and it wouldn’t take much more damage before it shattered. Riot retreated, taking careful steps backward while Price advanced, walking as calmly as if he were taking a stroll in the gardens. 

“Quinn told me all about you. The last man. I think she genuinely likes you, you know. But you can never be sure; the Wikkan traits rub off easily. Perhaps she bonded you to her on purpose so that she could manipulate you? You do have something of a faithful hound about you.” 

Riot's heel bumped up against the body of Norton, and he bent and felt around for the boy's dropped blade, all the while keeping his eyes on Price. 

“I’m really getting sick of hearing you talk, Price.” 

Riot closed the distance quickly and set to work with the two swords, twisting, blocking, and jabbing with them. He unleashed an overhand blow that shattered one of the swords on Price's blade. Half a foot of jagged metal remained attached to the hilt, and he raked it along Price's leg, blood welling out through the ripped fabric. Price didn’t even flinch, twisting his sword and hooking Riots out of his hand, sending it clattering to the floor. 

Price stepped back with a great bark of laughter. “I see how you survived when others could not. Is it true you killed Alric Rook?”

Riot faltered then. The laughter was gone from Price's face; there was only a cold determination. Much like Quinn when he pressed her about her past. Something that bordered on obsession. 

“What was he, your long-lost father or something?” 

Price let the leypower flood his forearms, the dirty light dripping from his fingers, leaving black streaks. “Alric Rook did this to me.” 

Price brought his hands together and crushed the leypower, and Riot ran out of the room, hurtling through the doorway as it was struck and splintered wood exploded behind him. He pounded down one of the long corridors, unhooked an ancient halberd from the wall, and continued running, bursting out onto a vast terrace with sweeping views of the city, the tower looming over everything. 

Riot readied himself as Price emerged from the mansion, his hands bursting with ley power. The charge flew through the air and buried itself in Riot's flank, and he roared and blocked out the pain, charging forward with the halberd. 

Price drew his sword and tried to block it, but Riot held three yards of halberd and he lunged forward, burying the blade into Price’s thigh.

Riot twisted the blade free of the flesh and hammered the long blade of the halberd down on Prices sword arm, slicing to the bone so that his sword fell from his grasp. 

Riot took a shaking step, and his strength failed him, and he fell to one knee. Hot blood dripped from the wound in his gut, hitting the floor in a pitter-patter of droplets. Blood pooled in his mouth, and his face felt like it was on fire. 

He heard the scrape as Price recovered his sword and the unsteady footsteps as he limped forward. “You killed Alric Rook for me, and you fought well, Riot, so I’m not going to kill you. We are alike, you and I, and I want you to see the world as I see it. Now stay still; if you move, I cannot promise I will only take one eye.” 

Riot could feel his vision swimming as the blood tricked down his face and through the fingers of the hand that he held clamped to his gut. He mumbled, the words bleeding together.

“What did you say?” Price asked, leaning in.

“I’m nothing like you,” Riot rasped, grabbing hold of the front of Price’s uniform.

The greasy barrier that Sumner Nixton had placed over the hedron scar on Riots hand resisted his will for a moment before it was wiped away. The ley power in Riot’s body surged out of the hedron scar and blasted Price backwards, and he fell with a sickening crunch onto the hard floor ten feet away. 

But for Riot, the pain continued as the ley power that had built up in his body poured out and his hand began to blacken and burn. 

Pounding footsteps echoed in his consciousness, and hands wrapped around his, and a new thin barrier slid into place. 

“I won’t let you die just yet, Sergeant Riot,” Moran said. 

“Moran, Quinn has the hedron. She’s going to destroy the tower.” Riot knew he said the words, but they sounded like they came from far away. 

“I know, sergeant. Any moment now, I should imagine.”

The tower had stood for millennia, made of arts mastered and lost long before living memory. It had stood as a symbol of power and strength, and then after the great deception of Sumner Nixton, as a place of fear and torment. 

The explosion blew out the tower base and the fortress like structure around it, flattening the nearby abandoned houses. The tower groaned, swaying to and fro, before with a great rending and grinding of stone, it collapsed, sending a shudder through the city.