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  Just behind him, Matek slunk through. He was walking normally, but there was a natural element of stealth to his movements. While all the other Scourge had claws that clicked against the stone tiles of the floor and scales that rasped against each other, Matek’s actions were silent. The sound of nails against marble and scales brushing against one another were just some of the many background noises that had become commonplace in a palace full of lizardmen and women. Slate strained his ears in an attempt to pinpoint the same sounds from Matek but, he was surprised to discover that, even with the added focus, the man was utterly silent.

  Further, his scales were the kind of gray that would blend effortlessly into the shadows. There was a quality about their matte finish, in direct contrast to the rest of the Scourge, that made him seem almost insignificant. Slate knew that was the last impression someone should get from the First Lurker. His kind continued to prove their usefulness as they rooted out more of the Cult of the Leech in the city and slew them quietly. Now that the agents of the Circle were transitioning to members of the Scourge, their capabilities and lethality had increased by several factors. Slate noted that Matek was wearing a dark gray gambeson without ornamentation. Slate wondered if that was going to become the new uniform for the Lurkers. Unfortunately, the armor would impede their ability to use their camouflage—another reason Slate elected not to wear the armor himself. He wanted the freedom to disappear if necessary.

  Lynia was next, and Slate noticed she looked different than when he saw her last. It wasn’t anything physical. She was wearing a robe similar to his, although hers was less ostentatious. It was dark blue with the symbol of Lucidus picked out in silver thread. She was once again carrying herself with something of her past confidence. It was something that Slate couldn’t remember seeing since Merus’ death. Since then, she had been a shell of her former self. She had been a complete foil for the wild and outgoing woman from Merus’ memories.

  As she sat down, she looked him in the eye and nodded confidently. He smiled in return. Most people refused to meet his gaze these days. The fact that Lynia was now willing to look him in the eye was a significant and welcome change of pace. He knew that Lynia had been active in recruiting new members to the Starlight Arcanum. There was no shortage of people willing to give magic a try. Like most things that were outlawed, an underground demand for the product had arisen during the Vallyrian rule. Lynia had quickly capitalized on the market and started to provide services for everyday citizens. From what Slate understood, they were simple cantrips designed to kill vermin, preserve food, prevent spoilage and disease, and cleanse wounds. Lucidus’ magic was designed around this type of magic. It was surprisingly useful—especially in a city that didn’t have the conveniences of Earth’s modern technology.

  The last person to walk through the door was his queen, Shale. She was wearing white quilted armor almost identical to Serena’s. Her armor laced up the sides, which Slate figured allowed for her wings to get through. When she walked across the room, she tucked her wings to her back, and not around her like a cloak. She was clearly showing off for those assembled. Her tail swung at her ankles with cat-like twitches. The energy of a wild predator emanated from every facet of her being. Slate couldn’t help but admire the primal grace that she exuded. Everyone in the room looked up and tracked her presence as she walked toward her seat next to Slate. Before she sat down, she looked behind Slate and shared a smile with Serena, then kissed Slate on his forehead. The two women had grown closer than ever over the last week. Slate wasn’t sure of the details, but he felt as if he were being managed by the two women, rather than the other way around.

  As he looked around the room, he realized that his inner circle—with Fidem as a noticeable exception—were unique and powerful in their own ways. Sumnu was the heroic warrior that inspired the love and confidence of his troops. Matek was the cunning, secretive rogue who was equally adept at sneaking into a treasure room as he was a lover’s undergarments. Lynia was the fierce and passionate mage, similarly as in love with the secrets of the universe as she was with the people she cared for. Finally, Shale was his queen. She was elegant, powerful, and a touch frightening.

  As for Fidem…

  Fuck Fidem… Slate thought as he steepled his fingers on the table before him. The others in the room had patiently waited for him to speak. Wait. Where’s Bastion?

  Just as the thought entered his head, a pop of displaced air just behind Lynia announced his arrival. The sound made Lynia jump in her seat, and the others looked over curiously. As usual, Bastion looked as if he didn’t perceive the jarring effect of his sudden appearance. Great, wracking coughs overtook his fragile-looking frame. It was all a show; the avatar wasn’t a physical being. Slate took the peculiarity as a type of humor from the city.

  After all, what could be funnier to an eternal city than the frailty of the residents within? Slate mused. It was a dark sense of humor, but it wasn’t unusual in his new world. Somnium wasn’t like his old home. In this world, dying was an inevitability. Whether it was death from exposure, dysentery, or violence, death was a common occurrence. The never-ending war had become something of a cruel game to the residents just as much as it was to the gods that moved them like pieces on a chessboard. The most that the ordinary person could hope for was that they acquitted themselves well in battle and won some sort of glory and riches for themselves.

  “I’m glad that you all responded to my summons,” Bastion croaked. He wiped mucus from his nose onto his sleeve as he made his way around the room to Slate. He took the long way around the table and paused behind Fidem, the antipode of Slate’s position. The Enticer looked annoyed at Bastion’s presence as he followed his approach with a glare.

  Oblivious to Fidem’s glare, Bastion continued, “It has been a week since we were last in the chamber and, my Lord Scion,” he paused and gestured to Slate, “should be updated on the progress of your various pursuits.” He glanced owlishly at Fidem while drawing uncomfortably close to the man. His rasping voice carried although it sounded as if he were trying to whisper and failing spectacularly. “First Enticer,” he scolded, “your scales are looking particularly grimy.” Bastion moved to use his long, white beard to polish the scales on Fidem’s head.

  “Get away from me, ghost of a real man!” Fidem snarled as he swatted at Bastion. Unfortunately for him, Bastion was merely an avatar without a physical body. His swat did nothing to Bastion and the old avatar merely continued to pantomime polishing. The Enticer’s anger only grew as the rest of the table tried to keep their humor from becoming too apparent on their faces. None could hide the amusement in their eyes. Anything to bring Fidem down a peg was fun-worth-having in their opinion. Matek was taking silent notes on Bastion’s antics. He would have to attempt something similar in the future the next time he wanted to shut Fidem down.

  Slate let Bastion have his fun for a few moments before interrupting like the imperious ruler that he was. “That’s enough, Bastion. The First Enticer will make sure that his scales are properly cleaned after leaving this meeting.” Fidem shot Slate a glare and the Scion smiled, showing jagged teeth in a not-so-subtle threat. “After all,” Slate continued. “The First Enticer wouldn’t want to dishonor the Lord of Light with his lack of cleanliness.”

  Fidem’s furious look and the spluttering that erupted afterward, let Slate know that his barb had landed precisely where he wanted it. He was satisfied that he had managed to disrupt Fidem’s serenity for once. Bastion made it even better as he looked up at Slate in evident confusion.

  “But, my Lord Scion, the First Enticer has disgraced the Lord of Light by bringing himself to this chamber in a state of disarray. I would never presume to counter your authority, my Lord, but it’s an unsightly occurrence when one of your advisors is slovenly in the slightest.”

  “That will be all, Bastion,” Slate said, command heavy in his voice. Bastion nodded once and then backed away from Fidem while the Enticer glared between the avatar and the S
cion.

  “As you wish, my Lord,” Bastion said respectfully. “I shall continue, then.” He paused to cough once more. This time, he was close enough that, had he been alive, the mucus would have projected onto Fidem. The man shuddered in disgust but otherwise didn’t respond to Bastion’s provocations.

  “First, I think it’s only responsible that we turn the conversation over to the Lady Paramour. By my estimations, she has been the most productive member of the Scourge by almost any conceivable metric.”

  Slate chuckled. “High praise, indeed,” he wryly said as he looked over at Shale. She rolled her eyes and then addressed the assembled advisors.

  “I will speak for both Serena and I,” she said confidently. Slate didn’t look behind him to see Serena’s response, but he probed the Scourgemind and couldn’t feel any anger from Shale taking the lead. He wanted to make sure that whatever feelings she had wouldn’t upset the delicate balance that he was creating. People were messy by design. The people who had chosen to follow him were fucked up by any rational person’s standards.

  “Over the last week, we have produced a total of two-hundred-eighty eggs. They will be ready to start hatching in a week.” She looked around the room. Every member was looking at her thoughtfully. That was a significant increase in the Scourge’s numbers, and each member of the council wanted a piece of the pie for their purposes. Fidem, especially, was interested in increasing the overall number of Enticers in the Scourge.

  “Beyond that, I have taken the liberty of developing a system of martial arts for the Scourge. I have provisionally called it the Way and it incorporates the fighting style common to the Guardians while taking advantage of the natural weapons that we possess, such as our tails, claws, acid, and venom. It’s purely a physical martial art, however.” She shot an apologetic look at Lynia and said, “Slate and I have only been allowed one form of magic from the Lord of Light.”

  Lynia nodded. “The Mystics can develop something amongst ourselves. Right now, we’re a little less formal than I would like, but that’s to be expected with so many new members.” Slate appreciated the fact that she seemed to be taking her new position as the First Mystic seriously. It wasn’t that Slate doubted her capability, but grief did strange things to most people. He didn’t understand how it happened; he just knew that it did, and he tried to plan for it.

  Shale continued, interrupting his thoughts, “Besides that, I think its best if the various forces undergo some bushcraft. The prior wood elves know how to hunt, forage, and keep themselves alive in the wilderness, but most of the men and women we’ve recruited from the city lack those basic survival skills.” She shot a look toward Matek. “Especially the former merchants.”

  Matek looked surprised. “Don’t look at me,” he said defensively. “Everyone I’ve recruited from the Circle has had plenty of experience roughing it. You can’t make any real money in the Collective by staying inside a city. You have to go on caravans so that you can buy low and sell high. The second you slowdown is the second you go broke. If they’re shit at bushcraft, that means their shit at mercantilism. You’re probably just recruiting shit people,” he finished a touch blithely.

  Slate allowed that Matek was probably right. In his experience, if a person was good at one thing, they were good at many things. The old quote, “Jack of all trades; master of none,” was often misquoted. It was actually, “Jack of all trades, master of none, better than one.” As Matek implied, success required more than balancing a ledger. One had to be personable, they had to survive the road, and they had to be able to defend themselves. The mentality lent itself to many walks of life.

  Shale shrugged. “Either way, the forces need better training overall. As a byproduct of practicing the Way, the Scourge have grown more cohesive and adept at communicating within the Scourgemind. The repetitive exercises help them synchronize their fighting movements. The techniques don’t work for the Guardians, even the ones with Scourgling symbiotes, but the rest of the Scourge has seen significant improvement.”

  Sumnu crossed his arms. “I agree,” he said, addressing the table. He looked up at Shale, “Sorry to interrupt, my Lady…” He looked uncomfortable.

  “No, I was finished,” Shale gave him a small smile of encouragement.

  Sumnu nodded. “I think splitting our forces is even more important than before. The Mystics and the Lurkers need more training in bushcraft. Launching ambushes against the Vallyrian forces to the west will be a good way to develop that. As for the rest of our troops, they aren’t ready to take a city with any efficiency.” He looked thoughtful as he crossed three of his arms and used one to cradle his chin. It was a strange habit for a creature his size, but Slate figured it was a holdover from his elven body.

  “Many of them don’t seem to realize their power. They’re still acting like whatever species they were before converting. It’s a little bit better for the prior Guardians thanks to their enhanced speed and strength, but that’s still nothing compared to being an evolved part of the Scourge. It would be beneficial if they got to practice their skills against real enemies.” Slate nodded his approval and recalled the importance of realism in his training as a Marine. He also knew that nothing beat the real thing.

  Matek put his hands flat on the table and replied to Sumnu. “Well, that’s the plan, muscles.” He looked over at Slate, “I don’t see why we’re waiting anymore. We should get a move on. The longer we wait, the more time that the Collective has to entrench themselves. If we left now, Shale and Lucelynia might be able to catch the Vallyr on the road between Pineforge and Ithicus.”

  Fidem glanced serenely at Matek. “We’re still not ready. If we were doing things my way, we would be waiting even longer—perhaps over the winter—to fortify Bastion and building the strength of our forces.” His voice sounded dreamlike and removed, in contrast to the actual content of his words.

  Slate knew it was time for him to engage in the conversation. He had been quietly listening to the presented information, but Fidem was getting on his nerves. He didn’t let an ounce of his irritation show in his voice.

  “Well,” he began. “It’s a good thing we’re not doing things your way, Fidem.” He looked between Shale and Sumnu. “Both of you have brought up good points, and that’s exactly why we need to leave the city. We have to train the way we fight; otherwise, it makes no difference how many of us there are.” The last was meant for Fidem and Matek. “If we let ourselves stay unprepared, the Collective will roll right over us with their soul-forged monsters.”

  Both Matek and Fidem looked uncomfortable at the notion, but Slate had already made up his mind. They would do what he said, or he would find someone that did; Lucidus’ opinion be damned.

  “Ready the forces,” he commanded. “We leave at sunrise tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 08: THE ARMY MARCHES

  SLATE TOOK A deep breath of the crisp morning air and looked out upon the battlements of the Bastion. They weren’t quite the well-defended crenellations and fortifications of a typical medieval defense. Still, he had high hopes that Bastion–the city’s acerbic avatar – would be able to upgrade them while he and his fellow warriors were on the campaign. The sun was just rising over the snow-covered horizon. The red morning light made the ground look as if it were set on fire. The snow had fallen overnight, and it would be melted before much longer; it was still a physical sign that time was running out. His army needed to get moving–and soon.

  Luckily, that’s what I’m here for, he thought to himself. This moment will be remembered in the history of the Scourge as the beginning of the end of the Collective. I can’t be afraid to act now.

  Slate wasn’t afraid, and he wasn’t sure what fear was. He knew it had been described as the heightening of emotions as stress flooded the body with the chemicals necessary to fight or to flee. Slate had never considered fleeing unless it was tactically advantageous to do so. He wasn’t sure he had ever been afraid, but he didn’t like unmade decisions. They boiled just under
the surface of his conscious thoughts, interrupting their fluidity, and impacting their efficiency. Splitting his forces was one such decision. He had up until this very moment to change his mind. Once he gave this speech, he would be committed. It might be a mistake—history was full of fools who believed themselves generals—but once the decision was made, he would feel better. Even Alexander the Great had split his forces when necessary. He had used the technique to route the Persians in Persia by using his more mobile cavalry while pinning Persian forces with their slower-moving warriors. Most modern warfare was complicated versions of the same technique. Pin and flank; it was how Alexander fought, and it was how infantry units fought in the modern world. The weapons changed, but the tactics remained the same. The Scion couldn’t be sure how well-read in Clausewitz the Vallyr were, but he would show them the ways of his people.

  Behind him, his advisors waited patiently; Sumnu, Matek, Fidem, and Lynia all knew the gravity of the moment. On either side of him, Shale and Serena stood like stone-faced gargoyles. Their manner was severe and businesslike. Their eyes flitted around them as they realized that this would be the perfect opportunity for a Cult of the Leech ambush. They were both ready to do what was necessary to keep Slate from arriving at an early end. Arrayed in front of him were the forces that they intended to take on the march. Slate surveyed them like a general in front of his troops. His shoulders were thrown back, wings withdrawn, and his chest pushed out. His hands were clasped behind his back in a display of confidence.