Worse, a figure in black armor had left the tent they were leaning against. He swung a war hammer with a head the size of a man’s head, bringing it down on the log and smashing it to pieces.

  War, Tarana thought. If only he knew how close we were right now. She hopped to her feet with an alacrity she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of. Her priest joined her in a sprint away from the camp, running at an angle so as to keep War out of view.

  She heard a horn blowing across the river. It sounded two times, then a short pause, and then once more in the signal for an attack.

  True to his nature, Prelate Gratianos took full advantage of the chaos Tarana had sown. Despite the fact that he’d been against her idea, his men crossed the Ofen soon after the fires started. By the time Tarana had coaxed the fires up to the tree line and her priests set to the work of spreading it further, the Tevulun army had joined battle with the Ma’isans.

  War didn’t stick around long. His men fell back in an organized retreat, lashing out at any Tevulun squads that got too close. Where the two armies met, the Tevulun army lost three for every two, but that didn’t tell the whole story.

  Tarana lingered in the center of what remained of their enemy’s camp. All but a few tents had been burned to cinders; ashes painted the landscape, graying the air around them as a mid-afternoon wind played across the plain.

  The sound of heavy footsteps announced a man approaching. There was no doubt in her mind who it was; her priests were all recovering from their efforts, and the soldiers always gave her a wide berth after seeing her power in action. Only one man would bother to confront his fear to approach her.

  “I’ve been debating with myself for the better part of the day,” Prelate Gratianos said. “Trying to figure out whether this move of yours was inspired by madness or bravery.”

  Tarana looked over her shoulder at him. “A bit of both, I think.”

  “You risked too much. You didn’t even take your armor.”

  “It would have made me too easy to see,” Tarana said.

  “Or your personal guard.”

  “All loyal to you. They would have told you what I planned.”

  Prelate Gratianos scowled. “You didn’t even think to send someone to tell us what you were doing. It would have been too late to stop you once you crossed the river. As it was, I had to take quite a risk myself in assuming you’d gone ahead with this plan of yours.”

  “And yet you did. We won the battle, and now we get to see what War is going to do next. I think one thing’s for sure, though: Faris and Pestilence aren’t here.” She turned to face Prelate Gratianos fully, noting the deep creases marring his forehead.

  “How do you know that?” he asked.

  “Because they would have been in the forest if they were here. Their men would have seen the priests I sent, and they would have slaughtered them to prevent us from trapping their main army.”

  “You sent your priests into that forest knowing they would likely die?”

  Tarana’s expression hardened. “You include me in your planning sessions out of fear I would view it as an insult if you left me out, but did it ever occur to you that I may have paid attention to them? Prelate, I have been a student of War since I was ten years old. And one of the first lessons I learned is that the most dangerous thing a leader can be is sentimental. So yes, I sent them into the forest knowing it was very possible they might die.”

  The prelate regarded her with an expression that almost seemed respectful, but his drawn brows revealed an undercurrent of frustration. “Clearly you feel proud of what you’ve done. It’s true, we routed War’s troops. We lost one man for every two of theirs, taking out roughly a quarter of their force.

  “But even if you have studied war from the moment you took on the mantle of Calamity, you’re still decades behind my captains and me. When I said there was a way to use this situation to finish the war, I meant it. In fact, I had already sent messengers to your uncle to coordinate an attack of our two armies. As War was pushed back into the Ma’isan lands, your uncle would have closed in to prevent his men from escaping. We would have pressed the Ma’isans against the Cliffs of Barbieri, capturing the aspect and what remained of his army.”

  Tarana felt heat rushing to her cheeks. “I don’t understand how this victory changes the situation. Why would it affect your plan?”

  “When you burned the forests, you cut off War’s escape to the west. He and his men are heading north now, where they will spot your uncle’s army well before we can bring it to bear. You’ve won this battle, Calamity, and cost us our opportunity to win the war.”

  Chapter 4

  Itan

  Itan stalked through the clearing, his footsteps falling softly on the grass. A wan light shone in front of him, barely visible against the backdrop of the forest. Those who were not servants of Mirao would have seen nothing; souls of the dead were invisible to them. Even a priest such as himself would struggle to see them during the day.

  There were signs other than the light, of course. A general sense of unease, of anger. Souls were always uneasy before they could be brought back to the Aspect of Death. They longed to reside in the Everlands, the true paradise.

  Judging by the strong emotions Itan felt as he approached the light’s source, the soul had been waiting for one such as him for a while. He reached down to his belt, freeing his lone earthly possession: a vase as black as night, with red runes carved into the rim and base. With shaking fingers, he removed the top from the vase and offered it to the spirit.

  “I will give you peace,” he said. “My master is waiting for you in the east. He will guide you on the final leg of your journey. You need wait no more.”

  The light slowly faded, as did the feelings of unease within Itan. There was some debate about whether the words helped — whether the souls heard them or even recognize speech — but they were part of the ritual. And the ritual could not be altered.

  The light disappeared completely, leaving only a thin sliver of moonlight to see by. With a sigh, Itan secured the urn back on his belt. He straightened his broad hood, looking around to try and spot the nearest path.

  There was no path in sight, so he simply turned back the way he had come. This soul marked the tenth he had collected in the urn — the maximum amount it could safely hold. In Artesia and the lands of the Synod, he had heard priests of Mirao often came to the aspect with just two or three souls. But in the west, they couldn’t afford to make such frequent trips home.

  As he approached the path which had taken him into the forest, he heard others approaching. Out of instinct, Itan hid himself among the trees. He’d learned the hard way that priests of Mirao could not always trust in the kindness of others.

  “I saw him go this way,” a weaselly voice said. “He must have found the stone we used to mark Castor’s grave.”

  Itan sighed inwardly. As if he would need any physical clues to lead him to lost souls. They wanted to be found. To be saved. The dead man’s soul had cried out to him from miles away. All he’d had to do was listen to the signals.

  “What was the man wearing?” another voice asked. “Was he dressed like a necromancer?”

  “He wore red, my lord,” the weasel-voice man answered. “With a broad hood.” The voices were getting closer, but Itan didn’t dare to move from his hiding place among the trees. He shifted, sliding into a gap between two trunks of a large tree.

  “Hmm. So not a necromancer, then, but a soul stealer. Should have known one of them would come. They’re like carrion.”

  “Yes, my lord. Never met a soul stealer I liked. Too high and mighty, that lot.”

  Itan’s pulse quickened as the two men came into view, followed by two more. The four were all of varying sizes—the two in back that he hadn’t heard speak were large brutes, while the one with the weaselly voiced was of a more average build. The man he had referred to as ‘my lord’ was tall, but thin as a man could come. He carried a dueling sword in a black-and-gold scabbard.

  “Have you ever read the teachings of the Prophet Mirao, Pelle?” the thin man asked. “He claimed the Everlands are a paradise. He claimed this world is inherently evil—the worst possible version of life—and death is our salvation. The poor fool probably thinks he’s saving Castor from a life of wine and easy women.”

  The group chuckled as they continued forward. One of the trailing men carried a torch; Itan turned away from the light as it came closer, praying they wouldn’t spot him. His hands trembled as their footsteps brought them within feet of him.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” the tall man said. As close as they were, the sound of his voice made Itan wince. “We’re going to find the soul stealer and stop him from taking Castor. When Miss Crane gets here, she’ll need his soul and a body. I say we use the priest.”

  “What if he already has Castor?” the weaselly voiced man asked.

  “Then we’ll make him free Castor first.”

  One of the sets of footsteps stopped, followed by the rest. “Put the torch out, Ox. We don’t want to scare him off. Miss Crane will need her body.”

  Itan heard a grim chuckle. A moment later the torch went out, leaving them in relative darkness. He breathed a sigh of relief, shifting his foot to a more comfortable position.

  A twig snapped beneath his boot; Itan prayed they hadn’t heard it. The shuffling sounds and an ominous scrape that followed made him doubt it had gone unnoticed.

  Think! What can I do? Can I run? He trusted he would be able to outpace the two burly men, but he wasn’t sure about the lord or his other companion. There would likely be protection at the nearest inn if he could make it, though.

  Itan wetted his lips. In the end, he decided he had to make a break for it and trust whatever head start he could get would be enough. He pushed out of the tree, sprinting as fast as he dared.

  “There! Look! Look!”

  “What?”

  “Someone just jumped out from the tree! Can’t you hear them? Ox! Light a torch! Pelle, get after him!”

  The confusion bought Itan nearly three seconds. He kept running, leaves and grass crunching beneath each step as he headed toward the road. It was too far away to see, but that was as much a function of the darkness as anything else—he could barely see the branches three feet in front of him.

  He heard footfalls from behind. Pelle took two steps for each one of his, gaining ground on him with each passing moment. Itan put his head down, forcing himself to run faster.

  A low-hanging branch caught him on the chest, knocking him to the ground. He rolled onto his side, trying to force himself to get up. But it was too late; by the time he had made it to his knees, the weasel-voiced Pelle was closing the last few feet with a knife held at the ready.

  “I caught you, soul stealer.” Pelle held his knife tightly against Itan’s throat. His breath smelled of stale bread and vinegar, and his grim smile was missing several teeth. “I caught you. Don’t you dare try running again. Not with Castor.”

  “Castor is dead,” Itan said, trying to inject some solemnity into the words. For whatever his friends were, a dead man still deserved respect.

  “I know that! You think I didn’t know that? Of course I know! That’s why my lord sent for Miss Crane. A proper necromancer, she is. She can bring the dead back to life. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.”

  Over the man’s — Pelle’s — shoulder, Itan could see the other three approaching. He swallowed hard, praying he wouldn’t soon need the services of one of his friends.

  “Apologies for the unorthodox greeting, soul stealer,” the tall man said. “My name’s Goran, and I’m lord of these forests.”

  “I thought Elam Ma’isa was lord protector of these lands.”

  The self-proclaimed lord laughed, although his eyes betrayed no mirth. “Elam is a babe. His nannies scribble edicts for him and claim he is simply wise beyond his years—which even Ox could count on one hand.”

  “Nonetheless, he is lord of these lands. Is he not?”

  Goran glanced around pointedly. “Do you see Elam’ guards anywhere?” He made a show of searching for them. “I certainly don’t. On the other hand, I do see Pelle’s knife against your throat. So tell me again; who is lord here?”

  Itan sighed. “You are.”

  “Very good. Very good. Now, soul stealer, I see that urn at your waist. My necromancer told me it can only be opened by one such as yourself. I’m going to need you to open it for me.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  Goran took a step closer, raising a fist like he intended to strike Itan. “You were close enough to hear my words earlier. Weren’t you, soul stealer?”

  “I was.”

  “Good. So you know what we intend to do.”

  “Yes. And that’s why I can’t open the urn.”

  Goran’s nostrils flared. “I flatter myself to think one of my most useful skills as lord of the forests is my ability to surround myself with others who have… unique skillsets. Take Pelle, for example. Breath like a corpse, but no man is deadlier with a knife.”

  He gestured to one of the men behind him; the one holding a torch. “This is Ox. He can pick up a fully-grown man and throw him like a ten-pound stone. His brother, Plow, is nearly as strong. I’ve seen them play tug-of-war with a man who tried to cheat at dice; it was not a pretty sight.

  “Now, all of that is to say there are multiple ways this can go. I can have Pelle flay you alive, or you can try your luck in squaring up against Ox. Believe me, it won’t be long until you’re begging for it to be done with. Which will it be, soul stealer?”

  Itan’s jaw tightened. The one thought that came to mind was of the ten souls hanging at his hip. They deserved salvation. Any pain which he might endure would be nothing compared to theirs if he failed in his duty.

  His teeth set into a snarl. “I’ll take the big man.”

  “Very well. Pelle?”

  “You’ve got it, lord,” Pelle said. The pressure of his knife disappeared from Itan’s throat as he stepped past.

  Itan cried out as the knife sliced through his calf. “No more running,” Pelle said, giving Itan a shove on the back before taking a step back.

  Ox handed the torch to his brother. He cracked his knuckles with a wicked smile. Itan noticed he was missing both pinky and ring finger on his left hand. It was a clean slice at the knuckle — most likely punishment for some crime long ago.

  Itan tried to place weight on the leg Pelle had cut; it held, but barely. He raised his fists, readying himself for the inevitable attack. Ox took a step forward, then another. He lowered his shoulder to charge. Itan tried to duck to the right, but his injured leg slowed him down.

  A downward blow from Ox’s right hand smashed into Itan’s cheek, sending shooting pains through his mind. It felt like the bones had been shattered, but he didn’t have time to take stock. Already, Ox’s other hand was sweeping toward him. Itan raised his arms, grimacing as they took the brunt of the blow.

  Itan’s one advantage should have been mobility. He hadn’t been much of a fighter in his youth, but he’d been in enough scraps to know that much. But Pelle had robbed him of any advantage there; he would be lucky to take even a step or two without passing out from the pain.

  He kept his guard up against a hook. Both of his arms shook with the force of it, but it didn’t feel like anything had been broken. Ox landed another strike against his ribs, forcing the breath from him.

  Time to think. That’s all I need. Just a moment or two to think. To plan. But the larger man didn’t allow him any time. All he could do was react to each strike as it came, ignoring the pains that came with it.

  A powerful blow struck him in the stomach, forcing him back. His injured leg didn’t hold, and the next thing he knew he was on the ground.

  “Had enough, soul stealer?” Goran asked. He nodded to Pelle, who was twirling his knife with a sadistic smirk.

  “You don’t understand what you ask,” Itan said, seizing his chance to start a conversation. Or attempt to. “The only way to release your friend would be to release all the souls contained within the urn. They would wreak havoc on this forest, blackening the land for miles. They would be nothing more than poltergeists, praying on the weak and innocent—”

  “Good thing we’re not weak. Or innocent.” Goran gestured for Ox to continue the fight.

  Itan raised his fists again, aiming a jab at the man as he came close. Ox laughed the weak attack off, replying with a blow from his elbow that connected solidly with Itan’s nose.

  The pain made it hard to think. Time. I need time. “You don’t understand what you ask,” Itan whispered as Ox struck him again. He fell to the ground, his will to fight fleeting.

  For a moment, he was on the ground alone. Ox looked to Goran as if unsure whether to continue. They think I need to be the one to open the urn, Itan thought. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage. Ox straddled him, raising a fist.

  “Wait! Wait!” Itan held up his arms. He looked at Goran pleadingly. “Your necromancer was wrong. Or rather, she was only partly right. The urn I carry can only be opened by one such as myself. But it could still be smashed to release the souls within.”

  “How would we do that?”

  “Gee, I don’t know.” Itan leaned to the side to spit out blood. “Find a rock.”

  “Very well. It’s worth a shot.”

  Ox grabbed at Itan’s belt, ripping the urn free. Itan closed his eyes as the man walked over to a large stone, raising the urn high above his head.

  He brought it down with a grunt. A resonant wave shook Itan’s bones as the urn shattered to pieces. He kept his eyes closed as the screams started.

  “My eyes!” Pelle shouted. “Immortals, save me!” His weaselly voice rose to a shrill pitch. It fell silent a moment later.

  Itan heard them running. They wouldn’t make it. They had violated the most sacred oath of man — the only sacred oath which remained.