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Shouts and screams echoed behind them. Humans were hurrying out of their houses, investigating the fire, wondering aloud how it had started. Aya and Villid scrambled with difficulty over the kissing gate, thorns catching on their tunics. They heard a woman scream – the Tyrans had shown themselves.
“Let’s go,” Villid muttered.
The voices grew fainter as they struggled through thick bushes, the stench of smoke and burnt fabric still strong. Aya was reminded irresistibly of running from her own
village, and fought back tears. Crying wouldn’t help them. After several moments of backing against the cold stone wall and pushing through a thick bush, they came to a familiar spot.
“It’s the entrance to town,” said Aya, and she was correct – the gate was now abandoned, no guard stood over it; and Acotas the grey stallion lay in the field, its black eyes closed,
heavy breath rumbling in its stomach. “It must have been an old path that the mage knew about,” Aya whispered.
Smoke was rising from Millnock against the inky black sky; not wisps of grey from chimneys, but dark, belching smoke of the inn fire, rising menacingly into the air like a glaring dragon.
“Let’s go,” muttered Villid once more, and went to wake Acotas. Aya hugged herself tightly, fear pounding through her. The horse grunted angrily when it woke, but stood obediently as Villid quickly strapped the bags to him and climbed up. He pulled Aya behind him.
“We left some of the bags in the room,” he breathed. “We don’t have as much food as before. Show me the map,” he added, and examined it in the moonlight. It was identical to the map they had acquired previously , but instead was
covered in annotations, crosses, and lined pathways. The red inked path that Maajin had pointed to was blotchy, yet deliberate, and led west into a mountain range. At the end of the line, in the centre of the mountains, was a bright red cross. Several rough drawings of buildings, arrows and
other symbols were scattered across the map, though none understandable.
“West is that way,” Villid muttered to himself. “How did he know where we were going? Can we trust him?”
“We’
ll have to,” Aya sighed. “He saved our
lives. What other choice do we-”
The huge gate behind them suddenly crashed open and loud shouts echoed through the field around them. “Go!” Aya urged, and Villid slapped Acotas’ behind; the horse whinnied loudly and took off at a gallop. The Tyrans shouted something after them; they rode quickly into the night, nothing but the
pounding of the grey stallion’s hooves thundering on the pathway.

The rough grating of heavy stools being dragged along the stone floor and the clinking of glasses filled generously with blood-red ale echoed through the inn alongside sharp laughter and roaring voices. The large alehouse held the everlasting reek of sweat, booze and old blood. The mechanics of the large dusty room acted as a ventilator against the blazing summer heat outside. Tyran soldiers drank to victory, chattering loudly, revelling in their base won in the east. Only one Tyran stayed silent, slumped back in his wooden chair, his fist at his temple, frowning at the wall opposite him. He was almost oblivious to the two pretty women that fawned over him, one massaging his shoulders, the other clutching his bicep with her long fingers, laughing quietly as they spoke in hushed tones, subtly battling for the Tyran man’s attention.
“A refill, Shade?” grunted the nearest soldier, slamming down a pitcher of brew without waiting for a reply. Shade shrugged the women from him and took a long drink, extinguishing two thirds of the ale before pounding the
pitcher onto the wooden table and slumping back to his original position.
Shade had been renowned for his capture of the E
lven village in the eastern forest. The Tyrans and
Elves had been enemies for centuries, long before the Red Wars began, and even before the mage lords had arrived in
Theldiniya. Shade’s plunder of the
Elf land in just one short night had become legend throughout Xentar. Songs had been written about him, and Tyrans still found it an excuse to celebrate between their usual rigorous training sessions. And yet Shade felt a dull worry ache at his chest, an emotion that he wasn’t familiar with, and disliked intensely.
Plundering his thoughts by day and haunting his dreams at night was none other than solider number six thousand, one hundred and twenty-seven, or Villid, as he was better known. The name made him want to spit, as if just thinking it caused bile to erupt in his throat. The only Tyran from his tribe who knew the truth – an ugly truth that would drag Shade down from a gloriously celebrated tribe leader to a despised criminal.
Killing the Seer had not been planned, although the old priest had been testing Shade’s patience for a long time. He hadn’t managed to shake him off during the gruelling journey to the
E
lven forest, nor had he succeeded in leaving him behind during the battle. Wherever he had gone, the Seer had followed, as if sensing Shade’s hatred for the
Elves, not only as a Tyran soldier, but on a personal level as well.
Shade shook his head, his frown deepening. The Seer could not have possibly known about his past with the
E
lves. The Seer surely knew nothing of the shameful memories that still haunted his nightmares, ever since he
was a young boy, since the great journey that all Tyran adolescents must take. Shade cast his mind back to the painful memory. The Festival of Talgi – the same festival that took place the night of his tribe’s attack – was in full swing when Shade had stumbled upon the
Elven village by accident whilst hunting a young buffalo.
Shade clenched his fists. How he had let himself be fooled by the pretty
Elf woman, who had drawn him into her home, and healed him with forbidden magic. How Shade had let his young heart be tormented by her. Hair black as burnt coal, eyes blue as the rivers, she had smiled her wicked smile, all to learn his secrets. After all these years, her face to him was clear as day, and burned in his mind like wildfire.
“Sir?”
Shade was dragged from his daydream. “Hm?”
Soldier six thousand one hundred and twenty-six stood before him. Shade felt the hatred bubble in his gut again. Villid’s brother, Swift, stood to attention. Physically, Swift was the opposite of his twin, with long, blond hair and a comparably slim figure. Nevertheless, the way he always subconsciously clutched at his belt, and the slight frown he wore on his face when waiting for something, was identical to him. Shade disliked Swift immensely purely based on the fact that he was related to Villid. If he wasn’t such an indisputably good soldier, Shade would revel in piercing him with his sword for just being related to the Tyran he now both despised and feared.
“This had better be important, six-one-twenty-six,” Shade growled, causing the woman massaging his shoulders to flinch for a moment, before continuing her rhythmic rubbing.
Swift looked down at his tribe leader, keeping his face as emotionless as he could muster. “The Wallkeepers have summoned you, sir,” he said. “Darkma trouble, I think.”
Behind them, there was a sudden crash, a strangled yell from a Tyran woman, and an almost immediate shout of laughter from several men, who banged their fists on the tables, watching and cheering in glee as two women started to fight. One tall, dark-haired woman snatched up a chair and sent it hurling towards a shorter blonde; the latter retaliated by throwing her steel-gloved fist into her foe’s cheek. The Tyran men roared in approval as the women struggled; the blonde pulled the brunette into a headlock, and pained screams joined the uproar.
Shade shrugged off the women massaging him and joined Swift to exit the bar. Outside, the blazing sun hit their skin, and Tyrans who worked around them shielded their eyes from the brightness.
The Wallkeepers patrolled Xentar’s high stone walls day and night for signs of outsiders, Darkma in particular. The Red Wars had not ceased since the Darkma had declared war on the Tyrans two hundred years ago, and still raged on. The Wallkeepers’ watch would rarely cause alarm, for outside the main gates of Xentar were six outer tribe bases
– Shade was the leader of the southern base, where a tribe of five hundred trained. Swift had been under Shade’s command for fourteen years, and he had never warmed to him. Colder still he felt towards his tribe leader after the attack on the village. Shade was not only a commanding and brutal leader, he was…
evil
.
“Did they send a message, soldier?” Shade grunted.
“No, sir. They just said they needed you immediately,” Swift replied. “South-west wing,” he added as Shade looked at him questioningly. Shade looked Swift up and down, an irritating habit that gave Swift the impression that his armour was untidy, or his appearance unkempt in some way. Swift saluted Shade stiffly, and marched away before his tribe leader could ask any more questions.
Leaving the tribe leader behind, he headed north, towards the training grounds where young Tyrans worked hard to learn the skills essential to Tyran soldiers, before their great journey into adulthood. Swift had been assigned three of the seven training areas, away from the wars which raged in the south-west. The dirt path felt hot in the heat, which he could
feel even through his heavy boots. The grey stone towers raised either side of him like giants watching his every movement, the sun beating down on him in the midday sky. Swift shouldered past the Tyrans filtering around, carrying weapons or cooking implements. As Swift wandered towards the training grounds, his thoughts fell onto his brother, Villid.
Swift had long kept to himself the Seer and Villid’s closeness – favouritism wasn’t taken lightly by Tyrans, and nobody who had seen them together could argue that the Seer had had a certain fondness for Villid ever since he and Swift had lost their mother. The Seer had given Villid private training classes, allowing him to excel in things he was good at, and catch up in things he was behind in. There was no reason at all that Villid should have wanted the Seer dead, especially when he had so much to lose – so much he
had
lost.
Yet Shade had been edgy and unusually quiet ever since that night on the tower. He had roared to the Tyran tribes of Villid’s treachery the morning after the battle was over, saying that Villid had killed the Seer in an attempt to defend an
E
lf girl. Swift had indeed seen Villid escape the tower with an
Elf girl at his heels, and it was true that he’d seen them together the next day, too. Swift couldn’t make head or tail of it, but he knew in his gut that he trusted his brother – and the late Seer, too – far more than his bloodthirsty tribe leader. But he would never speak his feelings. To do so would mean a death match in the arena – or worse.
The arena lay at the far north of Xentar, where it had been built into the mountains, deep into the stone. Underground were three areas; two for opposing teams or lone challengers, and one where beasts from all over Theldiniya were kept, in preparation for challenges from
soldiers. A death match only took place when a Tyran had been sentenced for an unforgivable crime. In a death match, a Tyran would be armed only with a small dagger, and have beasts released into the arena with him again and again until he was killed. If the Tyran managed to survive this, he would be sent to the wastes with nothing but the clothes on his back, and left to die.
The arena was rarely used for this, however, and was used recreationally far more often. Adults would frequently train against beasts, as long as they hunted for replacement animals afterwards. Every four years, the Choosing was held between the most celebrated leaders of the time, including the current leaders of the outer tribes. The three leading in the competition would become the three Elders, who ruled over the entire city and the tribe bases that followed them. Tyrans would fight one-to-one, until one soldier yielded or was killed. Depending on the Tyran’s style, he would allow his rival to surrender, or fight him to the death. His decision would show what kind of leader he would be, and form his followers’ opinions of him before he was even knighted. Therefore, the competitors would have to choose wisely, and know the difference between merciful permission to surrender, and falling for a feint that would ultimately flip the competition, and lead them to losing after a glimpse of victory.
Currently, the three Elders were Alistair “Silverbeard”, soldier seven hundred and twenty, who had won with his famous stone hammer, which was larger than a Tyran woman; Leon “Strongheel”, soldier nine hundred and one, who had come second with his swift speed and short jabs with his daggers, rumoured to be dipped with poison; and James “Firestone”, soldier four thousand and sixty-seven, who was much younger than the average Elder. He had surprised all by winning third place in the Choosing by pure luck; despite his fondness for ale and women over training, he had snatched victory from right under his foe’s nose. Many Tyrans had doubted Firestone’s ability as an Elder, but after winning three battles against Darkma forces in the south under his command, the Tyrans’ rumours had turned to words of praise.
In the north-east of the city was the road to the great Outer Wastes, where all Tyran youth were sent either when they turned fifteen years old, or they had completed their adolescent training – whichever came first. Swift had completed his training six months before his fifteenth year, and so had begun his journey before his brother. During the gruelling challenges that led them to adulthood and ultimately back to Xentar, Tyran adolescents must hunt for creatures in the arena, find desert flowers only local to the wastes, and travel Theldiniya, bringing back information that Xentar could use and add to the archives. “Greater knowledge of the world around us yields greater strength,” Silverbeard had said, quoting an age-old proverb. Swift had gathered the bones of a Fireteller creature from the Dravak
mountains in the north-east of Theldiniya, which had been ultimately used as material for sword hilts.
‘Including mine,’ Swift mused, tracing a fingertip on the three daggers that sat as his waist.
As Swift approached the training grounds, soldier
six thousand, two hundred and nine hailed him. She was Rouge, a curvaceous Tyran
who had a way with even the most stoic of Tyran men. She gave Swift a sly smile as he trudged to the gates of the training grounds. A movement made him glance down at her hand. She was caressing her stomach, which bulged over the belt of her tunic.
“Pray my son or daughter gets to train under your command, Swift,” she said, and gave a light laugh, throwing her hair over her shoulder with her right hand, and patting her pregnant stomach with her left.
“If I’m still alive by then,” he allowed himself to smile, a rare pleasure that he only let himself indulge in when Shade wasn’t around.
“Oh, you will be,” she winked. Swift looked as if he was about to ask a question, and then thought the better of it.
“The father?” she asked, as if reading his mind. “Oh, Swift, you know I can’t tell you. What would our tribe leader say if he knew I was about to rear the child of a traitor?”