To the clamour of crashing armour, torchlight flickering across the polished steel, our fight commenced. Leading the charge were the nameless minions, keen to prove themselves to Barclay—or more likely his father. They rushed up the hill. Being a cultivator might make such feats of athleticism easier, but it was not without its challenges. The earth was soft, and even if they were not as exhausted as me, their bodies were sluggish from the long run.

  The others held back. They came closer—that much was certain—but at a slower pace, obviously waiting to see what tricks were waiting for the front line. Just as the advance group neared the rise, I struck. Using the cliff face as my shield from those below, I let loose a trio of arrows into the leader of the charge, a lanky man almost as tall as Bors. In full armour, the attacks were far from lethal, but the impacts were heavy, and it took a conviction few possessed to ignore the zip and zing of arrows.

  The lanky leader stumbled, nearly losing his footing and tangling up his allies as he flailed about trying to keep his balance. That was when Lance struck. She emerged from behind the rock she’d been using for shelter. Her sword hummed—a barely visible line in the moonlight. I could feel the glamour of a half-formed technique before it was abruptly cut short.

  It felt like the entire forest held its breath. Then came the sound of his body tumbling down the hill, following the head that rolled right towards Barclay's group. The night was filled with cries of shock and confusion.

  Lance didn’t stop at the leader. She sliced into the two who’d got caught behind him, both of whom fell, tumbling back rather than facing her sword. The last of the front line, another of the nameless goons, desperately brought up a whip of water, pushing her back. She dodged it easily and now stood at the peak of the hill, staring down at the chaos below.

  “What are you doing, Lancelot? You’ll pay for this! To kill Francis over some bard! You are but a shadow of a real Fos,” Barclay called, trying to rally his troops. The brothers stepped up to cover him, and the water-whip fellow, realising he was alone, retreated. I encouraged this behaviour with an extra arrow, which he slapped out of the air with the swirling whip of water.

  The last of them, Blue-hair, had seemingly retreated from the fight, leaving them down to just six warriors.

  The group spoke for a moment, not something I wanted to encourage. I threw a couple of smoke sticks before me, and as the smoke built, I used the cover to start hammering them with arrows. I heard a few tings of metal on metal and at least one strike that sounded meaty before a blast of wind shredded the smoke, and a column of light blinded me.

  My screen of smoke might have been no more, but there was enough around me that even blinded, I had some awareness of my surroundings. What was especially obvious was the pair of Squires who crashed into the ground at the top of the cliff, no doubt flung up by their comrades. I could hear swearing from Lance, quickly drowned out by yells as the goon squad charged up the hill to challenge her.

  I was blind and on my own. From the sense of the glamour, I could feel that one of them was one of the brothers, the light they held still flickering. The other I didn’t know, but judging by his face—and the fact he didn’t clear out the smoke around us with wind—I assumed it wasn’t Barclay. A spike of ice crashed through where I’d just been, exploding against a tree, chunks bouncing off my armour.

  “I’ll gut you, coward! How dare you kill Charles and insult the Order of the Crystal Mountain!” I didn’t thank the man for talking—his voice helped me get my bearings as I ignited another smoke stick and swirled it about myself, trying to block out the blinding light.

  The extra smoke helped me sense another ice spike that hummed towards my chest. A burst of Levity launched me sideways, but with no plan, I tumbled, my legs and body still weakened after the run, making me clumsy in the gloom. The torchbearer launched himself at my prone form, sword first, and only flipping backwards saved me. My stomach screamed in protest as I threw myself away.

  “Ragh! Stop dodging and fight like a man, you freak!” The ice glamour user proved that not all who cultivated it were the stoic, frozen-hearted type. He tore through the forest to get to me, his eyes wild and foam gathering at his lips.

  I found my feet, hiding away my bow and drawing my blade. Looking at the square-headed Squire, his strange glamour torch fluttering in a non-existent wind, fear started to grip me. If I were fresh and in a one-on-one battle, I’d give myself good odds against him, but the only fighting I knew was duelling. I wasn’t prepared for a two-on-one fight, nor a battle where my limbs were already protesting.

  The next minute was a frantic dance through the forest. I fought Square-head and Frothy, as I’d labelled them. I managed to take a couple of chunks out of Frothy, which only made him yell more. Square-head was being cautious, letting Frothy, who was lost in some sort of berserker rage, take the lead. Their lack of coordination was my salvation—if they’d charged me together, I’d have been done for. Still, they ran me ragged. I had to push Levity nearly constantly to survive, and my reserves were running on fumes.

  I could smell my blood. I’d been injured twice, both by attacks from Square-head as I handled a mad charge from his comrade. Two rounds of water blades had rendered my left hand limp and weak. Using my smoke form—which was far less impressive than it had been against Lance, with only an extra pair of arms forming—I confused Frothy enough to drive a blade up into his armpit.

  It was a mortal wound, one that would leave his lifeblood coursing freely, but not enough to kill him instantly, lost in his fury as he was. I had to step back, dodging another water blade from the backline, as the dying Squire thrashed about. He could live if he sought help or sealed his wound, but I could feel glamour in each enraged swing, some kind of gift powering him that I knew only through notes and whispers.

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  It appeared to be the Berserker’s Gift, a gift that cultivated a combination of emotions, mostly anchored in hate and fury. I only knew of two groups who frequently manifested it—those of the Storm Sea Raiders and Divine Cultivators. The Harkleys had steered well clear of that ray of the Guiding Star, a rare good decision if Frothy was accurately playing his role.

  That pushed me to the edge of the cliff, and while the fall wouldn’t kill me, retreating down there would leave these two a direct path to Lance. I’d sensed at least one more death over that way, meaning it was at worst a three-on-one fight.

  I could hear the barbs flying and Barclay raving some villainous litany about destiny. It was a heroic encounter, I was sure—it would make a fine tale if I could hold up my side of the fight and keep things from becoming a tragedy. I would not let Square-head get past me.

  Backed up to the cliff edge, I saw the first sign of real emotion on Square-head: a smile, as his fake torch started to glow brighter. I could see him form a sphere of water. Counting on the death throes of his ally to protect him, he was readying a killing blow, some technique that meant he didn’t have to come close to me.

  I’d already found that his blasted light pushed back my smoke more than it should, the glamour counteracting mine. Frothy was stamping around like a confused bull, and finding me at last, his eyes narrowed as he spun to face me, preparing one last desperate charge. I looked about, desperate for a solution. I couldn’t outfight them. I could run, but I would not abandon Lance.

  Behind me, there was no sign of salvation, just the corpses of the dead, being covered with slowly spreading smoke lit by the torch Blue-hair had abandoned. That was it!

  Frothy screamed a challenge, just as Square-head’s technique finished. Sensing the glamour build, I shut my eyes and dodged behind where I knew Frothy to be. Something hot sliced into my face, like someone had dragged a scalding needle past my eyes. Despite my closed eyes, in the second it took to get Frothy between me and Square-head, it felt like I’d spent an hour before the heat of a scorching summer’s day.

  As Frothy stumbled towards me, swinging his blade, I paid him no mind. I had to kill that technique. With my glamour near empty and my body exhausted, I still had one thing I could bring to bear: knowledge and control. Through the smoke, I pushed my will, my hearth spluttering as I drove it to the very edge.

  Reaching out through my smoke, I swamped the lone torch. I could feel some magic in it, something that kept the heat going, the flame burning. Fire, though, was nothing but burning air. Air I robbed it of, choking the light out with my smoke.

  I felt the darkness settle on us behind my closed eyes and scalded face. I dodged the now-blind Frothy, who charged through my smoke with ease, and gave him a kick, sending him out over the cliff edge. Then I closed on Square-head, who was swearing.

  Arrogant and confident in his attack, he’d ruined his night vision. So sure of his victory, he wasn’t prepared for my follow-up strike. I used the very last dregs of my glamour to push myself forward with Levity and brought the fae-wrought blade down on his neck. Something went crunch, and the Squire collapsed.

  My grip on the smoke around the real torch failed—I had nothing left but my battered body. Panicking, I struck again, terrified that a final blast of light would cut into me. This time, an explosion of death glamour marked my foe’s passing. I’d been feeling waves of it floating past my senses, but this one crashed down upon me like a dam being breached. My body was desperate to cultivate, and it was all I could do to force myself to whistle.

  The glamour rushed in, and I could hear the beat of the will I was absorbing. It wasn’t like taking in ash and smoke glamour—that was a constant song, with small changes brought about by what was being burnt, or the density and size of the flakes of ash and fragments of smoke. No, this glamour had a song, an entirely unique melody. I could feel a military drumbeat, the sounds of order and service, layered on top of passionate strings striving to break free.

  I got a sense of Square-head’s personality. He was a young man who followed orders and always did what he was told, even as something in his spirit yearned for the freedom to create. On some instinctual level, I knew he was the one who’d created the burning light technique. Unable to express himself elsewhere, he’d brought that sense of artistry to his combat. The soul didn’t impart memories, but I could feel the shape of him, the rhythm, and the high notes. I felt uncomfortable with how I’d disrespected him with a stupid name. He was a person, a person I knew I was going to kill, so I’d distanced myself, refusing to connect him to either of the names Lance had shared.

  If I let this into my hearth, I could sense it would change me, alter me. Instead, as I’d been taught, I pushed it around my hearth, curling it into a vortex that stirred the flame within, bringing fresh warmth. It felt wrong, like trying to start a campfire by gathering flames around the stones but never letting them in. I could hear the song of the glamour fade. First went the strings, silenced bit by bit. Then the drums slowed, the beat going from a hard march to a crawl. Finally, even they passed. The glamour stilled and evaporated, never entering my hearth. Despite this, my hearth grew. I could feel strength gathering within me, and the death glamour around me thinned so I was no longer drowning in it.

  “So that’s the other glamour you have. Can hardly blame you for wanting to be a bard with that hanging over your head, and it makes sense why you needed to learn our methods.” I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but Lance was sitting on a log, staring at me when I came out of my trance.

  “I didn’t mean to—it’s like a compulsion. None of it went into my hearth, I swear! It’s why I prefer the bow. I’m not some crazy cultivator!” My words felt garbled, and I flapped my arms about as I spoke for emphasis, realising that wasn’t helping my claims to sanity. This was the side I least wanted people to see. Even worse, it appeared like I’d been cultivating while I left her to her fate. Looking her over, she seemed battered but whole. Her face was unreadable in the weak light.

  I placed my head in my hands and tried to gather my senses, quelling the worries in my mind. It was like Bors all over again. I didn’t want to be looked at with loathing, or worse, see fake smiles and wonder what foul thoughts lay beneath them. It would be like being ‘Regus’ all over again. “I should’ve helped. I’m sorry. This gift is still very new for me. We’re safe, I take it?”

  “Yes, they’re all dead. Thanks for quenching their light—it gave me an opening. Plus, we had some assistance.” She nodded to my left, and I felt someone move. I jolted in place and turned to see Blue-hair watching me as well.

  “And for my help, I’d appreciate an explanation as to why you’re starting a civil war and working with a Death Knight?” He had a sword drawn and watched me with disdain. I groaned. Of course, this could get worse.