The day began well. Adarin watched the bustle of skeletons, settlers, and soldiers across the recovering town, whose trees shimmered with new life in the canopy of the old city. Skeletal labor far outnumbered human, but mages were teaching civilians how to manage a handful of skeletons each. Foundations for houses around the central squares were cleared. Beech trees were felled, cut into meter-long sections, split, and stacked into vast earthen-covered meilers. The colliers sang crude songs while working, optimistic to put the first piles alight by evening. Construction crews laid foundations of compacted clay and piled firewood on top to burn it. The town was rising quickly, its industrial bustle and the settlers’ subdued mood blending into an oddly pleasant atmosphere.

  Adarin coordinated with Mage Captain Krislov at regular intervals. Large beeches were left standing; druids poured magic into them, restoring the trees and carving runes into their bark—extending a detection web that would track each person in the city down to which square they stood in. Soldiers cleared firing arcs, and Francesco strolled up with his girlfriend on his arm. Adarin shot him a glare, then forced a long breath. Not what’s important right now.

  “Francesco, I’m glad you’ve recovered from the effort of laying down the wards.”

  The girl whispered in his ear and kissed him, which made Francesco chuckle. “Yes, it was an extraordinary effort, but we made it. Devon and the enchanters are now putting some final touches and functionalities onto the warding schema.”

  Adarin nodded silently, watching the five charcoal meilers, the two dozen houses, and the revitalizing trees. Francesco lingered in silence until Magus Cooper approached. The old man inclined his head. “Sir Adarin. Consul Martinez has graciously decided to give his support to a proposal of mine.”

  Great, what has he done now? Adarin motioned with a manipulator. “That proposal being?”

  With a glance toward a squad of druids inscribing runes into an old beech, Cooper said, “Local magic and production revolve around wood. My guild and I would prefer to remain here, at the industry’s heart.”

  —and take over another town, Adarin added silently, but instead he turned to Francesco. “Consul Martinez, what moved you to support such an idea?”

  Francesco looked sternly at the Magus, then back to Adarin. “Garrisoning our new military recruits in this town—in the glorious colony of New Dreyrivers.” He gestured at the trees. “During the work on the wards, we discovered synergies between wooden enchantment, inscription, and druidic magic. As I understand it, your druids must remain close to their locus, don’t they? Apparently, if a druid empowers a piece of wood, the enchantments and inscriptions on it gain massive strength. This could allow production of goods vital to the Order.”

  Magus Cooper stroked his beard and gestured eagerly. “Imagine wooden beams stronger than iron. Wands holding several blasts of magic, cheap enough to issue to common troopers. I’ve even produced prototypes of healing items that combine druidic, enchantment, and alchemical magic.”

  Adarin nodded. “Francesco, do you believe we couldn’t replicate this in Portgard?”

  The young mage tilted his head. “It might be possible, but—” he hesitated. Adarin reached out over the noospheric link, and Francesco continued aloud, “I’ve thought about it, Adarin. Leaving a large detachment of mages here will anchor our conquests along the Dray more firmly, and making this a vital center of industry will spur development, as all trade will flow along the river. Also, Rüdiger explicitly told me he doesn’t want to centralize the economy on Portguard.”

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  ‘I care little for economic affairs,’ Adarin sent. ‘What I fear is a repeat of Timber Landing—the Guild seizing control.’

  Francesco, to his great annoyance, frowned and simply shrugged—even in secret telepathy. Moron. Adarin prodded him sharply over the link, drawing a sheepish smile. ‘Yes. My bad.’

  Adarin nodded. “I guess now that the warding schema is done, you have nothing to do.” Francesco glanced at his woman; Adarin cleared his throat. “You shall set up, together with the Duchess, the political structure for the town. A standard council, like in Timberlanding, should suffice. Make sure all the major factions are represented.”

  Francesco bowed, and so did the Magus. They left Adarin to survey the bustle of industry from the temple’s colonnades.

  Afternoon turned to evening, and a crowd gathered around the charcoal meilers. Ceremonies, speeches, and ale rations Adarin had ordered accompanied the event. One by one the meilers were ignited. Five pillars of smoke rose over the settlement, and the rich scent of burning beechwood filled the ruins. Spirits high, settlers and soldiers went to bed or to guard posts. Part of Adarin expected something dreadful between the finishing of the wards and the screening for vampiric enthrallment. Yet morning came without incident, and work resumed. Fires burned foundations of clay, timbers were straightened under the chopping of axes, and the colliers set up another five meilers. The mood shifted from somber to productive.

  Adarin walked under the pagoda roof to study the warding schema. Intricate circuits of flowing, colorful light oscillated over the unified wood, eerily illuminating statues of the Avatar of Death. Then he spotted a small red puddle seeping down the pagoda’s side. Another droplet slid from the roof above.

  Spectroscopy returned water (H?O), hemoglobin, and sodium chloride—the unmistakable signature of blood.

  He froze. Heart hammering, he stepped back. Looking up, he saw droplets running down from each level of the pagoda until, on the highest tier, he saw them. Three bodies from this side, though his gut told him there were eight in all. Cut apart at the joints and beheaded, each was strung together with meter-long ropes, a grotesque parody of marionettes swaying in the wind.

  How long have they been fucking up there? Is the enemy still here? No—the blood ran in droplets. They must have been here since morning. Then he noticed the uniforms. Two were Order mages, the third a junior wood enchanter recruited at Timber Landing.

  Adarin pressed his avatar’s eyes shut and began climbing. Each level of the pagoda made his steps quicker. He passed under the stares of this world’s gods, dread mounting. On the second-highest tier he found the guards—half on watch, half playing cards. They scrambled, knocking over a keg of ale in their haste to hide it.

  Adarin studied them, ignoring the lax discipline. “Has anyone come up here? Has anything happened?”

  The young sergeant, uniform stained with ale, snapped to shaky attention. “No, sir. It’s just been us since morning.”

  “Why are you on the second level, not the highest?”

  Silence. Adarin imagined the worst. Do we have a traitor in the chain of command?

  “Why?”

  The sergeant stared at his boots. “’Cause, sir…” He gestured at the half-walls. “Up there’s no shelter. It’s warmer down here.”

  Adarin considered fury—but anyone who doesn’t make a post tolerable is a dumb soldier. And if they’d been on the top level, they’d likely be dead. “Stay here. Don’t follow me.”

  He climbed to the top tier. The corpses were worse up close. Rope lashed to wooden pegs rammed through throat and gut, forcing head and torso together in brutal parody. Limbs were tied at crooked angles, as if some grotesque craft project had been abandoned halfway. Blood slicked the floor in liters. Crafting supplies lay scattered: branches, rope, scissors, a saw, a butcher’s knife.

  Adarin tensed as a droplet fell from the ceiling. He scrambled, dagger and grenades ready. But instead he found words carved into the beams above, written in blood:

  You thought this was over?