Prologue: Bound

The sun rose over the horizon and set its unerring gaze upon the remains of Camp Calderhal. After six hours of conflict and fire, the walled town was a shadow of its former self; her walls were breached in a dozen places. Shops, homes, no end of the tents of the poor, and even several of the stone structures that held the governing Degorouth and their Ministrian allies, now lay in smoldering ruin. Only the stone tower—which currently held the greatest of the waokie chiefs and their “top men”—or as it were.

The condition of the Invader’s Fort was not quite so dire. She was also breached in several places, including the tunnel—which was quickly improved by the bugbear—but was mostly held by the Ministrians; of which there were perhaps a thousand; and their slaves, of which there were perhaps twice as many.

The bugbear were feeling the weight of their pillage and bloodlust. With the rising sun, they abandoned their press and retreated from the Invader’s Fort to the comfort of Camp Calderhal, which was theirs except for a few holdouts, squirreled away... Those that retreated to the Invader’s Fort felt safe for the time—likely until nightfall, when the war of waokie would return and bare down on them once more.

Bloody and haggard from a long night of fighting their enemies, Petaerus and Dolif took council as they stood in the corner of a convenient tower, and gazed over the survivors below. There was disorder among many of the remaining guards and such a fear among a quarter of the civilians that bordered on panic for a few. The shock of the night was still very much upon them—though it was generally calming as the day wore on.

“So what do you think?” Petaerus asked.

“Hundred, eighty four,” Dolif shrugged.

“Hundred eighty four?” Petaerus snorted. “That’s precise.”

Dolif eyed his friend. “I finished up with our own, so I got an exact number.”

“Don’t that beat all?” Petaerus smiled.

“And what’s your guess?” Dolif replied.

“Mmm… two hundred—but it ain’t a healthy two hundred,” he said as he looked out over the roiling mass of survivors, and picked out the soldiers—many of them limp and bloody.

“Well then, two hundred,” Dolif shrugged.

“No, I like a hundred and eighty four,” Petaerus insisted. “Well then, a hundred eighty four men to drive a wedge through the waokie, to the south, where they’re weak. We break their line, and make a run for Rynth Falls...”

“We could stay here,” Dolif noted.

“And what?” Petaerus sneered. “Wait for rescue?! Even if a caravan came through, it’d be five hundred soldiers tops. Two days ago, we had nearly three thousand soldiers in this fort alone!”

“We could hole up,” Dolif shrugged.

“Sounds like a good way to get cornered and gored to me!” Petaerus snorted “I’d rather die fighting!”

“I don’t want to die at all,” Dolif noted.

“Stay here and I guarantee it!” Petaerus chortled. “The only reason we aren’t dead already is because those woakie were tripping over themselves trying to get at us!” He shook his head. “Our only hope is to punch a hole through their siege and make a run for it, or these bastards are gonna eat our lunch.”

“I feel like we’re damned no matter what we do,” Dolif noted. “They’ll chase us all the way to Rynth Falls, and likely they’ll make a mess of that town too.”

“That’s because you’ve never been to Rynth Falls,” Petaerus stated. “Beautiful town. High walls...”

“Still needs men,” Dolif shrugged.

Petaerus grinned at his friend, “The Degorouth are in Rynth Falls, and the disaffected Bouge...”

Dolif snorted, “Better have twice as many.”

“There’s also two legions of shock troops,” Petaerus confided.

Skeptical, Dolif turned to his friend, “There’re two legions in Rynth Falls?”

Petaerus nodded.

“I’d take two legions,” Dolif continued. “Why are there so many?”

Petaerus ignored the question because he didn’t have the answer. He knew the men were there—but not why. Instead, he asked a question of his own. “Who in your estimation is in charge around here?”

“Grandus Sophenauper is the highest rank I’ve seen,” Dolif answered.

Petaerus snorted. “He’s an out and out coward, and his men are mostly sycophants and lickspittles. You can forget about him.”

“After him, there’s Copals Wilkus, Dreanna, Drastorig, and...”

“Drastarig?” Petaerus interrupted. “Drastarig the Gorpulent?!”

“Don’t know any other,” Dolif nodded. “Ran into him yesterday, says he’s on his way to Rynth Falls, of all places…” Dolif turned to Petaerus with a frown. “You know, the more I think about it, the more I think something big is about to go down to the south of us—what with half a legion and Drastarig’s company of raving acolytes in the area…”

“Do you know him?” Petaerus asked.

“I spent a month with him and his men in Borzia, They’re very dangerous—and not all there,” Dolif confided. “Drastarig has a tendency to eat whatever he kills, especially people.”

“Hence, the Gorpulent,” Petaerus frowned. “Is he any sort of a politician? Can he pull this rabble together and lead us out of here?”

“He’ll be smoothing the chinks from his knives before he considers anything else,” Dolif stated. “And his men won’t be much interested n politicking either. But we can use him to rally the others, so long as your plan includes him killing things.”

“Well, Dreana is incompetent, and Wilkus is a witless boob,” Petaerus said as his frown increased. He named off a half dozen others as peered for the highest ranks, and shook his head.

“Might as well call them Stupid, Frightened, Weak, and Worthless,” Dolif said as he agreed with his friend’s estimation. “Figures that most of the useless weight is at the top. At least we have Drastarig around.”

After a long second, Petaerus smiled and named a few lower ranking captains and lieutenants that remained. “Now there’s some fire and iron in that lot,” he said of the men. “We’ll make a good coalition yet! Come! Let’s go see who among the others still has any common sense! The more that go south, the more likely a few of us might make it all the way to Rynth Falls!”

Through reasoning, negotiation, and a couple well timed threats from Drastarig and his entourage of maniacs, Petaerus managed to impose his plan upon the remaining shock troops. His plan was simple: tend the injured, gather supplies, and rest up. Then, as the sun approached its zenith, the remaining guards, aided by whatever civilians wished to fight, would press through the south gate and drive a wedge through the waokie line behind Drastarig and his raving acolytes. Drastarig and the other guard would clear and hold a path while the rest of the civilians and slaves pressed south with all possible haste. Then, the guards would fight a delaying action until they reached the relative safety of Rynth Falls—or until they were overcome trying—preferably the former.

“There’s a mess of civilians that want to stay,” Dolif noted.

“Any soldiers among them?” Petaerus asked. “If so, remind them of their oath. We can’t have the men considering their own ideas.”

“And if they refuse?”

Petaerus snorted. “Maybe we’ll hang us a couple cowards before we go.”

“Looks like it’s all civilians,” Dolif shrugged.

“To them, I say good luck,” Petaerus tipped his helmet with Meu’s two feathers still in it. “Who knows, maybe a handful will live—to be haunted by the screams of those that don’t hide so well,” he shrugged and spit in the dirt. “While we’re considering the lost, let us check on the slaves...”

No fighting occurred anywhere near the slave pens, so Petaerus was surprised to find two dead guards and a massive hole in the fence. "Who are these?!" Petaerus raged as he noted the guards were missing their weapons. He examined their wounds, and rolled the dead men on their backs, that he might see them.

Dolif shrugged and wiped soot and blood from his face. He barely glanced at the bodies. "Whoever it is, they deserve to be forgotten," he spit. "So far from the real fight, it is best they died. We need no cowards among the living."

Petaerus stared at the pale face of Derris and ran his fingers along the twin feathers the dead guard found for him. He shook his head. "I cannot fault these men for following orders," he said as he leaned over the corpse and addressed it directly. "Derris, you fool. Who killed you?"

Petaerus almost felt bad. After all, he gave Derris and Jethersen the order to remain at the prison, that they might be humiliated. Instead of joining the battle, the two guards must watch from afar, robbed of any chance for glory... How hard was it to watch over mere prisoners, demoralized and cowed for so very long? But nothing had gone as Petaerus expected. Not only had he underestimated the waokie, he'd underestimated at least a few among the slaves. There was still some heart among that sorry lot, some few opportunistic rats willing to take a chance—and capable of killing two trained and dangerous soldiers to boot.

Petaerus looked through the hole in the fence. On the other side, prisoners milled about. Just the sight of them filled the senior guard with rage. He jumped through the hole and gave chase among the slaves.

The prisoners sprang away and ran in all directions. Petaerus overcame an old man and pounced on him. He wrestled the weak old man to the ground, sat on him, then pulled his knife.

"Who has done this?!" he pointed through the ruined fence. "Who has escaped and killed my men?!"

"I dunno!" the old man confessed, wide eyed, and pleading.

Petaerus struck the old man.

"Please! Please believe me! I was just shown the hole!" the old man begged as he shielded himself with his arms.

"By your mother, you better tell me true!" Petaerus snapped.

"True! By Jeiju, I swear it!"

Petaerus struck the old man again. "I spit at your beggar god!"

"By Naharan..." The prisoner began.

Petaerus punched him in the mouth. "Don't sully her name, Trohl!"

Blood dripped from the prisoner's lips as he coughed and sputtered. A voice cut in from among the other prisoners. "It was the foreigners!" he said.

“Who!?” Petaerus raged.

“It was a Saot—a true Saot—and a man as black as night, and another!” the voice of the prisoner continued. “They were here for only a day or two. They left us as the bell tolled!" The crowd separated to reveal a dirty and defiant man as the speaker. “Please don’t hurt him,” he pointed to the old man. He is a friend of mine…”

"You know this?" Petaerus called back.

"I believe it,” the interrupter replied. “They left the hut almost as soon as the bell began. No one has seen them since."

"And despite protocols you came out?!" Petaerus reprimanded.

"There is a war going on!” the prisoner admonished. “We must escape this place or perish!”

Petaerus felt it was hard to fault these cattle for a certain amount of panic. He looked down at the old man he’d captured. "You are rats, but you are not stupid," he said as he shook the ragged prisoner.

"Don't hurt him! He's done nothing wrong!" The other prisoner called.

Petaerus glared at the distant man, "You give orders?!" he snapped.

"I beg only our due," the man said, his hands open and to his sides.

Petaerus sneered as a surge of violent indignation overcame him. He’d seen such a large number of his brothers die the night before, and his anger was quick to rise. "You don’t give orders! You’re cowards! So I’ll give you a coward's due!" he said as he said and stabbed the old man in the stomach.

The old man screamed and a collective gasp brought the slaves to sharp attention.

"Be comforted," Petaerus sneered at the old man as he stood. "Likely, the rest of us won’t be far behind you.”

“Sir...” Dolif tapped his shoulder. He wore a look of worry and trepidation as he stared at the other slaves. Several hundred prisoners murmured and pointed as they continued to gather. “We’ll need a sharp change of tactics if we hoped to lead any of these slaves into Rynth Falls,” Dolif whispered. “Indeed, we’ll need a sharp change if we hope not to be mobbed.”

There was a frantic energy about the slaves. They were scared, despondent, resentful—and likely to act in a rash manner. Petaerus glanced at his own twenty guards and frowned. He cleaned his knife and sheathed it. “I’ve been hasty,” he began with his hands out in apology. “I have overstepped, and for that, I am sorry,” he said in a contrite fashion.

“You stabbed him in cold blood!” The dirty man yelled.

“After two nights of fighting, my blood has never been hotter,” Petaerus disagreed. “Yet, I cannot return his health, and since freedom is little reward to a man that must die, I grant freedom to you, and any others that wish to stay with him. He has bought your freedom with his blood.”

Though a few remained hot, most cooled with the offer as a growing number agreed to take them up on it.

"Then, as we leave, you will do the same,” Dolif continued in a loud voice to those that gathered and showed that they’d be free. “As we leave, we will distract the waokie from you. And as you leave, you will distract the waokie from us," he added.

Petaerus smiled at his friend. It was a solid agreement with a good angle. "Those that stay must have courage!” he said. “If you are mad at what I have done, then stoke your rage and hatred, for these beasts are murderers, and will do anything to kill you!” he sneered. “If you will be free, you must use your fire to forge your own path forward—for it is a frightful jungle out there, full murder and mayhem!” He glanced among the slaves as the prisoners continued to question and council each other. “Some of you are not fighters,” he added. “You do not have it in you to carve a path through your enemies. I will not forsake you! You may stay with us if you want to! Indeed, any that wish to come with us are granted the full protection of the Empress herself! All they must do is comply with my orders!” he told them. “Come now! Gather 'round if you wish to go with us!" He called as he moved with his tight knot of guards further into the prison. "Come, and be saved! Your salvation is at hand!"

As Petaerus stepped away from the old man, the interrupter ran to his friend. "Wil!" he said as blood and bile poured from Wil's wound. "Curse that bastard!” the dirty interrupter spit. “Why has he done this?!" He whispered as he pressed his hand to the seeping wound.

Wil looked at his friend with shock and pain in his tearful eyes. "Oh, Brankellus, my time in this hell is finally at an end! I think you should envy me!"

Other prisoners emerged from the dark and slowly approached the two men. "What has happened here?" they asked.

"He is stabbed for my insolence," Brankellus said through his tears. "It is no fair!"

Lilyanah brushed the complaint aside. "Fairness is for children,” she said as she leaned close to examine the wound. "Is it deep?"

"To the hilt," Wil confessed.

Lilyanah attempted to lift his hands.

“No, girl. I shall go no further,” Wil told her.

“It is low in the gut,” she told him. “It may take a day or two before you bleed out. Much can happen in a day or two. Will you not come with us?”

“Would you carry me as our enemies press upon you? As you say, it is low in the gut. Likely I am already septic,” Wil shook his head. “No. You must save yourselves. Get far from camp. Whatever defeats them does not mean to save us."

An older lady piped in. "If we remain with the Ministrians, we are sure to live," she noted.

"And what kind of a life is that?" called another. "I will be a slave no longer! I will stay and face the dangers of the wild, even if it means my death!"

Others whispered with uncertainty and trepidation as they took their time to decide. Many broke from the group. "We go!" they called and stepped through the hole in the fence to go with the Ministrians. "To live is to live, and we would remain on this earth!" A long train of women, children, and the infirm followed.

Nearly a third of the prisoners remained. Among them was a great lack of weapons. They gathered what they could find; dull knives meant to spread sauces, splinters of wood from the fence, heavy spoons and the pots they stirred. Several moved further afield to find more dangerous weapons…

At noon, a shrill call went out from the Ministrians, “FIFTEEN MINUTES TO MUSTER!”

Petaerus returned to the hole in the fence, and called to the remaining slaves. "It is time!" he roared. "For the glory of the Empire, move out!" He sneered at the remaining prisoners—though he refused to look at Wil or Brankellus—quite pleased that he should be free of so many trouble makers so easily.

The Ministrians stepped from sight as they pressed on the south gate. Those that remained among the slaves started for the east gate.

"Is that it?" Brankellus called to them. “We will do nothing for our brother?”

Lilyanah shrugged. "If I had grave mushrooms, I should give them to the man," she said. "But I have none of my herbs, just as I have no needle and thread to stitch him. There is nothing I can do. I do not even have a sharp blade to make his end quick."

"Non, Lilyanah. I do not want to die like an animal," Wil replied. "I will sit with my torment and die like a man."

“And a good man you are,” Lilyanah gave a nod. "Come with us," she begged Brankellus. "Wil is done for. There is nothing we can do for him—but you are strong. We could use another able body to help us through the wilds."

"Go with them," Wil said to Brankellus. "I am dead. Do not add your death to mine."

As tears ran from his eyes, Brankellus shook his head. "I have died a dozen deaths in this camp. I died the day they took my wife, then my baby to the west. I died when they cursed my father and set him out back of the fort, to drift away and die. For so long, death has been our best chance of escape, and now that it creeps close, I mean to take it."

"Do not throw your life away!" Wil begged him.

"I do not intend to,” Brankellus locked eyes with his dying friend. “As they march, I will pour all my rage and grief into the sky. I will attract our enemies and ‘distract them from you, as you distract them from us’,” he snorted. “Then, beyond the grave, I will stay in this world," he said as he dabbed a finger in Wil's blood and marked his cheek with the Tallian sigil for Scarad, god of war and vengeance. "In my death, I will find your murderer and I will haunt him the rest of his days, I swear it!"

"Do not be vengeful!” Wil admonished. “Let Jeiju take your soul! He shall escort you to paradise!"

“No,” Brankellus began. "I will yet make it to paradise—but first I mean to make a misery of that man!"

"You will not come with us?" Lilyanah asked. "There is nothing we can do to convince you otherwise?"

Brankellus did not look at the girl. "You think I am weak," he accused her.

"Weak? No. Weary? Defeated? Hopeless? Everything we ever had was taken from us. How can I expect you to be otherwise?" she knelt next to him and kissed his forehead. "Despite our grievances, I have a lust for life! I no longer see our wholesale destruction! I see a new beginning—born of fear and fire, yes—but it is ours, to make of it what we will! There is yet a place for us in this world!"

"There is nothing," Brankellus cried. "I will have only my revenge!"

"So be it," Lilyanah ran her hand through the man's hair.

"Will you seal me to my fate?" Brankellus asked. "I cannot do it alone. I do not think the gods favor me so—but you," Brankellus looked at the bright young woman. "They favor you. You have proved it many times."

"I shall not like it," she said with a tear in her eye. She knew that if she marked him, one day she may have to come looking for him, which might turn into a terrible burden. She smiled at her long-trusted neighbors. “I will do as you ask,” Lilyanah said with a sigh, then dipped a finger in Wil's blood, and with a grim demeanor, drew the glyph of the red moon on the other cheek of Brankellus. “Oblarra, grant him strength, that he may obliterate his enemy as you shattered the old Mother Moon," she intoned. "By Oblarra, I seal you to your intent! As the deceitful hunter cloaks herself in shadow, go unseen among the living!” she finished in dramatic fashion.

"By the will of the gods," Brankellus nodded.

Wil huffed to hear this. "My friend, what have you done?!" he asked.

"Only the necessary," Brankellus said as he took Lilyanah's hand. "Thank you."

Lilyanah shook her head as she patted his hand with her own. "You have set yourself upon a thankless path," she said, and kissed him once more. "There is nothing before you but misery and horror. I ask you to remember, when your task is finally done, look to love and go with your ancestors,” Lilyanah stared into his eyes. “You must remember, or you will stalk the world unseen and forgotten for as long as the gods demand it.”

“As for you, go before us and be with our brothers and sisters," she leaned over Wil that she might kiss and caress the dying man too. "Prepare us a place, and know that one day, we shall all join you."

With that, Lilyanah stood and joined the others that still hoped to escape. "Tonight, we will mourn you both," she said as tears rolled from her eyes. She turned and the others turned with her and walked through the gaping hole in the fence.

Wil and Brankellus commiserated and talked of their people, now trampled to dust or scattered to the winds, as they waited for the inevitable ring of conflict. As they commiserated, the sharp clang of swords and axes—of metal and stone, finally chimed through the air, punctuated with screams and curses, as the Ministrians engaged the waokie once more.

Despite the sun, a chill caught in both men. Screams and yells sounded from the east, as the battle was joined by the freed slaves. To distract from his friends, Brankellus howled and shrieked his own grief as he thought of his missing family. Wil called and cried with him.

The fighting intensified as people flooded from the east and south gates, then quickly drifted south, and to a smaller extent, east—all while Brankellus and Wil carried on with their frightful wailing and gnashing.

Between their cries and curses, Wil and Brankellus heard the low growl and snarl of something angry nearby. They turned to the hole in the fence. A shadow approached, shorter than a man, stocky and well muscled. An ocean of black figures shifted behind it; dark and menacing forms. Brankellus hissed as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The beasts were too short to be men, and too hairy. They gnashed their teeth and threw curses as they approached.

"Ah," Brankellus said as he finally realized what they faced. "A war of bugbear," he said, as he crouched and faced the approaching menace. They had spears, knives, mallets, axes, and swords, made of edged stone, or rusty and pitted metal. Slowly, Brankellus rose to his feet and prepared to fight. He summoned his courage as he meant to leave this life as a warrior. To do so was in the spirit of Scarad. To do so was in the spirit of Oblarra. He felt such action would help him haunt Wil's murderer.

The bugbear hissed and snarled as the tall man stood his ground.

"Oh Brankellus..." Wil whispered.

Brankellus roared as he charged at the gathered bugbear. The bugbear leveled their weapons as the wild man rushed forward. He tried to brush aside the nearest spear, but the weapon twisted and slashed his shoulder. He howled as pain bit through him.

Brankellus barreled onward. He took hold of the spear and yanked it from its owner. Pulled off balance, the bugbear fell forward. He kicked at the beast, and it yelped as his foot connected.

The other bugbear swarmed him. They cut him and smashed him with their various weapons from all angles. Brankellus howled and roared until he had nothing left to give and finally fell under their onslaught. His life rushed from him—and still the bugbear battered his corpse. They continued to punish him until he was nothing more than a heap of broken bone and bruised meat.

"Oh Brankellus!" Wil cried under his breath. Tears streamed from his eyes. He tried to sit up, but the pain in his stomach was too much. He almost blacked out from the effort and was forced to lie back in the dirt.

A number of bugbear approached Wil. Since the man was already down, they gathered about him in a slow circle.

"Kill me," Will whispered. "Release me, you devils," he snarled as they got closer.

They did not. Although they all had weapons, none of them attacked. Instead, the others parted, as one of the creatures sat next to the old man and grinned at him with its snaggled yellow teeth.

Ol’ SnaggleTeeth pried Wil’s hands from his wound as the other bugbear restrained the injured man. He poked at Wil's injury as the others nodded and encouraged his indelicate fingers.

Wil screamed as pain raged from the wound. He squirmed and tried to free himself—but there were too many hands to hold him down. "Kill me!" he yelled at the beasts. "Kill me! Kill me!" he demanded as he grabbed one of the beasts by its fur and yanked with all his might.

The beast yelped in pain, tried to twist away—then bit the man’s arm until Wil let go.

Will screamed, then, given the idea, he bit a beast as it parked a foot too close to his face.

Fed up with his antics, SnaggleTeeth raised his knife and bashed Wil in the face with the blunt end of the handle.

Wil blacked out.

SnaggleTeeth reached into his satchel and removed a small pouch. He opened the pouch and pulled a bit of black filth from it. The others smiled, nodded, and patted each other on the back as they encouraged what was about to happen. SnaggleTeeth smeared the filth in Wil's wound, and mashed it deep into the cut.

Wil woke and screamed from a surge of pain—only to black out again.

When Wil woke once more, his arms and legs were lashed to a post from the broken fence. The bugbear half carried and half dragged him from the Invader's Fort. The pain of being jostled about was too much. Wil was in and out of consciousness as they bumped and bruised him against seemingly every obstacle.

Fever overcame him.

The waking world looked increasingly like the nightmares Wil suffered on the other side.

Bugbear danced and cheered as the Camp and Fort burned for a third night. The majority of bugbear marched south, after the Ministrians, but a good thousand remained and tended the spoils they’d already won. For many, the war ended when the camp and fort fell.

There were dozens of prisoners injured, tied, and poisoned. Some were dead—their bones stripped of their meat and made into daggers. Most were still in the process of dying, much like Wil.

"Kill me," Will begged his captors. "Kill me," he pleaded whenever a beast ventured near.

They ignored him with contempt.

Along with the increasing pain in his stomach, there was pain in Wil’s hands and feet from the lashing. His neck hurt as his head hung at an awkward angle—indeed there was nothing that did not hurt—only some places that hurt more. There was only torment for the man as he continued to wash between the suffering of the real world and the nightmares of his tortured sleep.

A bugbear poked Wil to see if he were dead. As he woke, he snapped at the nearby beast with all the strength and rage he could muster. "Kill me!" He roared. "Kill me! Kill me! KILL ME!"

Several of the bugbear turned to him. They mocked and taunted him as he continued to scream and struggle in his weak manner. They poked at the spreading rot and danced and chortled to hear his pain. This continued for several minutes before Wil blacked out again.

Wil woke again and again. He screamed as he remembered his pain—and then he did not have the strength to scream anymore.

Instead, he whimpered and sobbed. Tears rolled from his eyes. He cried and cried until he had no water left to give.

A day passed in this painful manner, and a night with it. Another day began as Wil drifted in and out of consciousness. He could tell he was short for this world, and he begged the gods to take him. There was a dull throbbing pain that ran through his body, though it was now muted. More than anything, Wil was simply tired. He could not lift his head. He could barely open his eyes…

To his surprise, he could see the form of Brankellus, strong and imposing, as the spirit of his dead friend stood off to one side. With a grunt, Wil pried his dry lips apart. "I come to you," he smiled. "I join you in the realm of the dead!"

As his body gave up the ghost, Wil frowned at Brankellus. "Where are the others?" he asked. "Where is my Womma?"

Brankellus shrugged. He did not know.

Wil turned and searched among the clouds. “Ahh,” he sighed and smiled, “there you are...”

Wil survived the better part of two days as the rot spread and formed a rich marbling through his meat. After he expired, the buggers cut the rot-marbled corpse into thin strips, salted it, and hung it to dry in an orderly fashion—but as they divvied up the organs, a scuffle erupted. There were several cuts, bruises, bites, and a fair amount of hair pulled during the fracas, and Wil’s intestines were lost in the fight. Uncoiling in the dirt; they were trounced, ripped, and exploded as the squabble raged.

Brankellus witnessed his friend’s ignominious ending as a cold hatred fueled his heart. A deep hatred burned in his chest. He focused on Petaerus once more. A tug developed in his gut and pulled him to the south. An inner knowing told him this sense would lead him to his quarry.

“Brankellus, come with me,” The ghost of Wil said as he stretched his hand to his friend and drifted into the sky. “This is the path forward. All that remains for you here is to wander in the dark. Come with me.”

But a rage boiled in Brankellus and he could not let it go. He could not forget his other friends and family—so he stepped back into the cold night, allowing nothing but his sheer hatred of Petaerus to fuel him on his journey south.

Author’s Notes: Finished a polish of the prologue on 2020/01/15. I’m feeling really good about this chapter. I feel the Brankellus storyline is one of the most complete parts of the second book, and I’m quite happy with it. It’s shocking, draws the reader in, and I feel it doesn’t even require the reader knows the first book at all…