Meios and Deios, the twin moons of Immur, cast a soft, eerie, silvery light onto the land as Delvar stepped from Pyrus’s palanquin. The drapes fluttered behind him as he hit the ground and passed the young Sikans still standing by each of the vortices that held the palanquin above the earth.

“Do not waver, commander Ironhand,” the boys said in unison. “Bring us the girl. The Lord of the Prophetic Voice would rather not have to ask a second time.”

“Come take your lord’s treasures” Delvar spat. “the girl isn’t for sale.”

“What is treasure?” One of the boys asked.

“When one can see the future of all things?” Another asked.

“The girl will return to the Citadel.” A third remarked.

“The Lord of the Prophetic Voice has seen it.” A fourth replied.

“Do not tarry, commander.” They all replied in unison.

A singular thought crossed Delvar’s mind. They were boys, islanders no less. No matter how eloquent they had been trained to speak, they were not warriors. Their bodies were not sharpened to withstand the ferocity and fury of his strikes. All it would take is a pull of his arm, release his blade from its leather wrapped shackles, turn his wrist and rest the blade against his arm and spin on his heel then watch as their life-blood spilled onto the earth. He would storm Pyrus’ palanquin and slip his blade into the bald bastard’s chest pushing his heart out the other end. As for the poor souls ensorcelled within…death would be a welcome relief. This, Delvar was certain of.

 “Nay boy! Me otha’ hammer! The good one!” Delvar heard Old Ervi shout and it snapped him to attention. No longer was he standing amidst the shadows of the palanquin of the Lord of the Prophetic Voice but instead he was well into Damarion’s camp.

Delvar spied a wisp of a boy as he trudged through the back of Ervi’s forge. The boy was scrawny with long, spindly arms and a dust covered face. As he ran he stumbled but quickly regained his footing. No doubt the weight of the large, ornate hammer that seemed to glow with a faint golden light threw the lad.  The boy was Corvegan, that much Delvar knew. Most likely the son of a lesser lord hoping to mold the boy into a master swordsmith. The Unification had certainly been the boys only chance at apprenticeship. Back in the Silver City, a master smith such as Ervi would have his pick of young boys or girls but this lad had been shipped off with the host. Too young to fight, too small to wield a blade. And so, the boy becomes a smith.

The clanging of Ervi’s hammer and the ruff tinge of his voice faded as Delvar rounded a sharp corner and made his way north into what was known as Artificers Row. It was here Delvar found the bulk of Damarion’s host. Hundreds of soldiers could be heard shouting at passing merchants and those that had attached themselves to Damarion’s train, for better arms and armor to replace that which was lost, stolen or broken. Grassland slaves were here as well picking up orders the Thirteen were too busy to do themselves. Some of his own men were there, Delvar noticed. He spotted several of them speaking with a young woman no older than her sixteenth year, an ornate dagger with a shimmering blade and a large opal in the hilt between them.

The girl appeared flustered with reddening cheeks and held her hand pressed firmly to her hip. “I told ye louts, ten sovereigns or nothin! Pay or get away from me’ cart.”

“Where do you think you are, back in the Silver?” A tall and lanky youth asked. Delvar knew the boy to be Omi, a footman under Callum Onath’s direct command. “Three sovereigns and be happy with that or…” Omi poked a stubby finger into the girl’s ribs, “go hungry again. Matters not to us.”

The girl dug her nails into her hip and bit her lip. “Four. No less.”

“Ten,” Delvar called out as he approached. At once the two young men fell to their knees, heads bowed, eyes to the ground. “Commander Ironhand— “

“Get up,” Delvar quickly demanded, cutting off any groveling or boot licking before it could begin.

The men rose, the girl and the dagger forgotten. “Commander,” the second boy with blonde hair and traces of chin fuzz said, “what brings you to the Row?”

A scream, deep and throaty cut through the air turning everyone’s attention towards the   other side of Artificers Row where a large crowd began to gather. “Pay the woman,” Delvar growled suddenly. “And do not sully my command again.”

Omi and his partner pounded their fists into their chests, counted out ten sovereigns then tossed the coins to the woman who in turn handed over the dagger. They then departed through the crowd, pushing and shouting as they went.

A man of unproportionate size stood behind a tribeswoman who, at one point in her life could have been…pretty. What beauty she might have once had however quickly faded under the ministrations of Taggert the Hound.

The woman cowered, bloody hands covering wisps of hair that fluttered in the warm night air. The rest however, was matted to her face and forehead, the color of her hair almost undistinguishable.

“Where ye’ goin luv? We’se still got…. words ta share, ye hear?” Taggert said through a mouthful of spittle and broken teeth.

Delvar pushed through the crowd to find Callum standing near the front of the wretched display.

“One hundred and sixteen?” Delvar asked as he came to Callum’s side.

Callum didn’t look at his commander but instead he kept his eyes focused on the young Grasslands girl as Taggert slashed his blade across her back sending a scream into the air as she writhed and shook from the blow. “One hundred and nineteen,” he said solemnly. “Where have you been?”

Another slash, this time across the girl’s legs.

“The Diviner, he sent for me.”

Callum crossed his arms and eyed Delvar. “Sounds like trouble brewing. What did he want?”

“Slaves most like. Children. He offered an Estermonian’s wealth for Irria. Seems Damarion knows about it as well.”

Callum spat on the ground and narrowed his eyes away from Delvar and settled them on Taggert. “Children….” He more seethed the words between his lips than spoke them. “Treasonous bastard. Is that why we’re here? To torture women and sell children to those who give their souls to the Void?”

“No, no longer. Come.”

Another scream erupted into the air as Taggert reached down and gripped the young woman’s hair and yanked her head back sharply then pressed the edge of his blade to her throat.

“The general is growing mighty displeased luv and I don’t think yer guna make ‘im any happier.”

The woman whined, cried, whimpered and begged for it all was she knew as Taggert the Hound, torturer, and executioner grinned while staring into her tear-soaked eyes.

Callum and Delvar turned into the crowd as the young woman’s body slumped, her life blood spilling to the earth as Taggert slid his blade across her throat in one deft motion then dropped her still bleeding corpse into a slick sounding thud.

Damarion’s hound was met with a round of thunderous applause as men and women of Damarion’s army and several Grassland slaves cheered and hollered at the grotesque display of brutality. When he rolled the corpse into the crowd the shouting only intensified and soon the woman was covered in a mass of spit, urine and excrement and when it was all said and done her corpse was left to rot in the filth.

Delvar and Callum rounded a series of craftsmen tents and stopped under the shadows where the noise of the crowd was still apparent and the chance of them being overheard was minimal.

“Do you truly think Damarion is party to this?”

“The Bashalian all but confirmed it. He had a palanquin filled with slaves barely old enough to have bled without force.”

“So, we storm it,” Callum said while gripping the hilt of his blade. “Drive our blades into the bastard and denounce the Citadel. It would put an end to this travesty.”

With a clasp of his shoulder, Delvar aimed to placate the aging soldier but he couldn’t help but feel the same. It was the Bashalian’s that announced the Unification of the country after the Fall. If the Council denounced the Citadel for the trade of child slaves, Damarion and all Corvega would have no reason to be north of Cardiph’s Gate. They would withdraw back to the Silver and the tribes of Nomurr would regain their sovereignty without Council control. “Too risky,” Delvar said after a moment. “But know I feel the same. Return to my tent and find the girls within. Keep them with you. Let no one, Corvegan or Bashalian near them until my return. I’ll convene the Thirteen and speak with Damarion.”

Callum released the blade at his hip and pounded his fist into his chest with his free hand. “On your word, commander.”