"… Here is Gwen, Great Khan." Meister Bekker stood aside for Gwen, who shuffled forward with her eyes down, then made a curtsey.

"Meekness ill-suits a razer of cities," the booming voice from above answered. "Gaze upon your Khan, Devourer of Shenyang, Most Valued Champion of the International Games!"

Gwen briefly glanced at Bekker and Taylor. Simultaneously, her eyes passed over the Şöpter with the Mithril-tipped horns, ensuring that there wasn't some hidden undercurrent waylaying freshly arrived tourists at the Steppes. After a second of hesitation and receiving no overt orders from her instructors, she elected to be herself.

Raising her eyes to face the Khan, Gwen willed Almudj's Essence to circulate, giving her the imperious air for which she was famed in Fudan and then in Cambridge. Instantly, her demeanour assumed an arrogant regality, one buoyed by Essence older than the Centaur's Totems.

"Tis no meekness, O Great Khan." Gwen gazed up at the Horse Lord. "But discretion born out of diplomacy. This Devourer is full-ready to send our enemies into the abyssal Void, no less than Meister Bekker had earlier promised. If indeed we need call upon Yog, the all-in-one and one-in-all, my Void Fiend stands ready to consume our foes."

Temir Khan's golden eyes measured her prideful figure.
With their Essences squaring off like two stallions jousting for mares, she now better understood the Khan's prowess. In terms of Essence "volume", Temir Tengri was far her superior. Compared to her lonesome self, he was the sum of nine pavilions, totalling a hundred thousand Centaurs from the Sawahi Desert to the Northern Steppes. Of the quality of their Essences, Gwen felt that the sacred purity of her serpent juice was far superior.

Still, she was impressed by the Khan of Khans, though more so for his political and physical stature than his state of being.

The Khan appeared pleased by her poise. "No need to be so guarded. We Horse Lords are a simple and crude lot compared to you Humans. Tell this Khan, is it true you art the Apprentice of Henry Kilroy?"

"That I am," Gwen affirmed the title without batting an eyelid, squaring her shoulder for effect. "Did you know of my Master, Great Khan?"

The Khan appeared to consider her answer, after which his reply set not only Gwen's brows to twitch but that of her colleagues as well.

"My father did. As for myself— know you of his wife, Elizabeth Sobel?"

Gwen once more glanced at her mentors: not to appear fazed, both wore masks of stoic neutrality.

"We've spoken precisely once," Gwen parried the unexpected question expertly. "She defenestrated me out of Sydney Tower to be consumed by her minion. I lived. Her pet died. My Master lost his life."

Her two mentors visibly relaxed.

"Your tale, though short, is pleasing to us." The Khan affirmed with solemnity. "My condolences, Magus Song. Your Master's death is a loss for us all— As for his spouse, the woman has been a thorn in our side."

"Sobel was here?" Gwen gulped, her brows furrowing in surprise.

It took her another glance at Bekker and Taylor's rapidly blinking eyes to recall that indeed, Gunther had mentioned a year ago that Sobel's "Cabal" or perhaps the woman herself had survived Sydney and was troubling the world once more. "The South of Kazahstan," her Brother-in-craft had noted with disdain, though at the time, the "Steppes" was nothing but a vague landscape in Gwen's uneducated mind.

"Milord Khan, has Sobel made her presence known?" Gwen asked carefully. If so, she might need to call Gun-Gun to bring the big guns.

"Not the Arch-Witch herself." Temir Khan's massive head shook. The Horse Lord lifted a heavy horn of velvety Airag, drank, then continued to speak. "Her Cabal— 'Spectre' is one of the reasons why the Horde has fallen into a precarious position. My scouts report that her Necromancers are working with the Efreet of the Fire Sea— the same Humans sabotaging our Clan grounds this early Spring, mercenaries serving under Zodiam, the Prince of Sulphur."

"If these Mages remain in your back garden." The timbre of Gwen's voice grew low. She wasn't confident of her present etiquette, though her immediate impulses required no discernment. "I shall hunt them down with extreme prejudice."

"Hahaha—" The Khan laughed, his mighty shoulders shaking as snorts burst from his great nostrils like thunderclaps. Around Temir Tengri, his fellow Horse Lords echoed the mirth. Behind them, Gwen caught a secretive smile tracing the lips of the Şöpter Faun.

"The Horde accepts your pledge." The Khan of Khan raised his horn of Airag.

A Şöpter presented Gwen with a mug bubbling with a considerable mass of fermented milk.

"Sip it slowly, and don't you dare throw the Khan's toast back up." Taylor's Silent Message bloomed beside her. "Also, don't promise anything. The Centaurs take great care in pledges. Any horse who reneges on a promise may as well be a dishonourable Tasmüyiz."

The Şöpter servant beside her, a doe-eyed Faun with the spiked horns of a goat, gingerly allowed the drink to rest in Gwen's hand. The stein was heavier than she thought, though considering that the volume was fit for a Clysdale, the weight came as no surprise.

"Besseha! To the Shard's War Mage, to our friends from London—" With an expression that hinted at an expectation of her fouling the drink, the Khan lifted his enormous mug, then drank heartily until the entire contents of the horn drained into his vast torso.

"Cheers," Gwen returned without worry. "To your health, Great Khan."

She took a deep breath, circulated both Essence and Void to fortify herself, then lifted the horn to her mouth. The Airag was a yogurty admixture with the kick of a mule. Luckily for her concerned companions, she wasn't about to be defeated by something that couldn't even knock out an Ironborn Golem pilot.

Thirty seconds later, when she lowered the horn, the pavilion grew a little quiet. Gwen tossed the horn to the wide-eyed doe beside her and gave a little burp.

Taylor nervously approached, ready to catch her should she fall. Meister Bekker as well, as staring at her as though she had just discovered a hitherto undiscovered property of Void sorcery. From memory, Gwen recalled that Jean-Paul was a beer boy.

"I am fine." Gwen grinned, buzzed and happy.

"You have brought the pavilion a jewel, Meister Bekker." The Horse Lord turned to their superior. "What an interesting Human she is."

"She's special, Temir Khan." Bekker shot Gwen a look of wariness. "But now that our introductions are out of the way, I would like to report on something we had uncovered en route from Astrakhan."

"Indeed?" The Khan's interest strayed from Gwen, who took the opportunity to return to their assigned seating.

"Are you alright?" Jean-Paul's eyes fell upon her pancake-flat abdomen. "Are you… not full? That was a lot of milk."

"I could eat." Gwen gazed over at the far side of the pavilion, where their future lunch heaped upon enormous plates. Their breakfast had been light, and the rations were hardly filling.

Her companion shivered.

Not far from them, Bekker began to regale the tale of Gwen's defeat of the Djinns at Bautino.

"… We discovered diseased Rat-kin, Great Khan. Most of whom were too sick to escape, though I have no doubt those healthy enough are already among the Plain Folks."

"Is that true, Magus Song?" The Khan called out in her direction.

"Our Meister speaks true," Gwen assured the Khan. "The plague pit was beyond pale."

The Khan's good mood, which Gwen had earlier inspired, faded at once. "This must be the work of Sobel's Plaguemancers! The foul fiends cannot defeat our Golden Horde head-on, and so they resort to these dishonourable, underhanded ploys!"

"Great Khan, what ill might this bode?" Bekker's tone remained collected. "Our joint-operational push of the Elementals won't be affected, I hope. There's a long and hard campaign in front of us yet."

The Khan's men murmured.
The Meister upheld her demanding gaze.

"Saran?" The Khan spoke, but not to his free riders.

"Yes, Great Khan?" The voice that answered came from the petite body of a Faun in white. "How may this meek one be of service?"

"Consult your Shamans, examine our troops for the Sickness. If there is an outbreak, snap its back."

"I shall do as you command, Great Temir." The Faun dipped her chin. "Worry not, Meister Bekker of London, the Horde's promised push shall not be stopped, just as the spread of the Sawahi waits for no—"

CLANG— KWANNNG!

The solemn ears of the listening Centaurs twitched from the unexpected aural assault.

Gwen followed the noise, expecting some dire commotion. Instead, she found only the figure of a Rat-kin female, a Tasmüyiz slave, hunched over a dropped metal plate of vegetables readied for lunch. Already, the woman was a blunder of loose fur splayed on the floor, her body a quivering puddle of fear.

The Khan grunted in the manner of chortling horses. "Guards…"

Two Horse Lords, each armed to the hoof with implements of death, split from the Honour Guards lining the pavilion's flanks.

"My Khan—" the Faun called Saran interjected. "We are in the presence of esteemed guests."

"Cleanse the filth." The Khan's wrath wasn't as explosive as Gwen had anticipated, certainly not for a stallion who had sucker-punched a titan worm in the liver. Without further drama, another team of servants quickly removed the offending Rat. "— Make ready for lunch! Come, Meister Bekker, let us discuss your plans for our retaking of the Southern Steppes over a bountiful feast of wyrm flesh!"

Lunch involved Mongolian stir-fry, feat Afaa Al-Halak.

Where Gwen had wondered if the Centaurs were vegetarian or omnivorous, that query was now set aside by the mountains of Sand Wyrm meat sizzling on metal plates heated by Fire Stones repurposed from shattered Efreet cores.

The smell, Gwen's belly pronounced, was divine.

The Human Mages' party was seated to the right of the Great Khan, while the middle of the pavilion was repurposed to hold these giant disks of smouldering iron. Outside, carts laden with vegetables and still-quivering crystalline flesh arrived in rows into the backrooms, where teams of Tasmüyiz servants sliced and diced both onto enormous plates for the Şöpter chefs. These, Gwen marvelled as she watched, were a team of six Minotaurs armed with spatulas the size of shovels, tossing and turning handfuls of spice into the sizzling bed of meat and vegetables.

While she ate, other Horse Lords approached to offer toasts.
Undaunted, the Devourer of Shenyang demonstrated her namesake, delighting their hosts with her gluttony. Most of the colts were fresh-faced kids of the Tumen Captains and Mingat Generals, and all were fascinated by her booze-swilling arcanistry.

Between the Airag and the scent of Almudj's Essence she was giving off, the Demi-humans appeared awed. Comparatively, Jean-Paul fell to the wayside, both intimidated by the strapping horse-lads and feeling ill-at-ease in the company of eight-foot stallions.

After an hour, when she grew full, Gwen's sensitive hearing grew conscious of the fact that a great commotion was taking place outside the pavilion. The clamour indicated a sports game of sorts, something akin to polo.

"What's that I hear?" she asked a helpful Khan-er-dai.

"Oh? That—?" A stallion lounged by her side rose to his hoofs. "That, Miss Gwen, is the Great Game of our people, Buzkashi! Would you like to see?"

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"What's Buzkashi?" Gwen rose with the herd.

"It's the greatest sport in the Steppes!" Another son of someone important answered her. "It's unfortunate that Besutei's interest is more so in impressing the fillies."

"Kepek!" The princeling grew red at the revelation from his friend. "Embarrass me again, and I'll see you on the jousting field!"

"Is that a threat or a jest?" Kepek snorted back, huffing so hard that Gwen's hair went flying. "See what I mean, sorceress? That's Besutei, always chasing tails, never practising Buzkashi."

The fraternity-like atmosphere of the colts felt strangely familiar and endearing to Gwen, who laughed off Besutei's awkwardness and put the young stallion at ease. "Alright, alright, let's see this game of yours, shall we? Can we leave the pavilion?"

"To watch Buzkashi?" Besutei chortled. "Of course! If it weren't for your Meister, even Father would not miss a game. It's how we elect our warriors— and prove ourselves without bloodshed!"

The sport of Khitani Buzkashi wasn't very different to another fictive game played in the Wizarding world.

There were seven riders on either side of an enormous field twice the size of an international duelling field, vying to drop the "Snitch" into a goal consisting of a leather basket, one on either side. During the game, the teams would form into individual roles, with "Beaters" on the flanks preventing the "Chasers" from scoring. The fastest Horsemen on the field, the "Seeker", would seek out an opportunity to break through the opponent's formation— while his foe was the "Keeper", a brute of a stallion whose job was to body-barge any attempts at scoring.

Unfortunately for Gwen, two minutes into the blood-boiling clamour of the thundering game, multiple horns of Airag were about ready to abandon her sweet body.

The reason for her nausea wasn't overindulgence of diary, but rather the "Great Game" of Buzkashi. Or more precisely, it was the "Golden Snitch" the Centaurs employed.

With each new roar, Gwen held down her meal with both hands over her lips, her unlearned eyes wide with disbelief.

Down on the field, the Seeker Centaur galloped at full pace down the left lane, chased by a Beater with a cracking whip. Caught between the Centaur's arm and torso was a squirming "Ball" crying out for dear life.

It was the Rat-kin female— the very one who had dropped the plate of food and disrupted the Khan's conversation with her.

At first, she had not noticed because the Tasmüyiz wore what looked to be a layer of lambskin painted yellow with flecks of gold. Even so, Gwen couldn't imagine that the token-type armour offered much protection.

"ONOO—OO—ONOO!" The colts beside her were a frenzy of galloping noise and raging pheromones screaming "Goal—Goal!". Opposite, the whinnying of the fillies watching from the stands seemed to send the players into a tizzy.

An enormous stallion approached from the goal line, first at a trot, then into a canter. As the colossal brute broke into a full gallop, the "Beater" from his team zeroed in on the opposing team's "Seeker", forcing the stallion to run a line between the boundary and himself.

The crowd rose, as did their voices.

"Nonono—" Gwen couldn't breathe. If the point of the game was to snatch the "Snitch" From the opposing team, what forces were next involved in regaining possession of the Rat-kin female?

"ONOO—OO—ONOO!!!" The chants around her grew deafening.

In the next split second, the three Centaurs met.
The "Keeper" barged toward the Seeker, while the "Beater" and his merciless implement lashed the courser.

"AZIZI! AZIZI! AZIZI!" Besides her, Besutei and Kepek had forgotten all about her presence and were shouting their lungs out. "ONOOOO—"

Impossibly, the "Seeker" called Azizi leapt into the air, forming an arch almost four meters at the apex as his body grew compact as a missile. Swinging the "Snitch" on the one hand, the wondrous rider even altered his trajectory, using his "Ball" to ward away a particular nasty whip-strike as his body contorted, narrowly missing the barging body of the "Keeper".

The crowd exploded, filling every space with the sound of cheers, hoots and howls. In between the cries, the whinnying of fillies made a distinct and unmistakable trill, pulling at the heartstrings of the colts and stallions.

With a thunderous THUNK, Azizi landed on his forelegs, buckling a little from the momentum; swinging the Rat-kin like a sack, the rider once again crushed the whimpering Tasmüyiz between his arm and torso, making a bee-line for the net basket.

"ONOO—OO—ONOO!!!" All Gwen could hear was the screams of the men around her as the "Seeker" scored with bone-crunching violence, tossing the ragdoll body of the Rat-kin into the interior of the basket with the adrenaline-fuelled force of Yaoming slam-dunking a game-changer.

"GLORY TO THE THUNDERBLOOD CLAN—" the "Seeker" bellowed. Noticing her standing among the Khan's favourite colts, Azizi even turned to salute her, driving the young stallions into renewed bouts of hooting.

Half the court erupted, while the other half groaned in dejection. It wasn't a scene unfamiliar to Gwen; only she couldn't take her eyes off the mangled basket, where the Golden Snitch was no longer struggling.

While her companions left to celebrate the victory of Azizi the Seeker, Gwen found herself moving toward the goal, her breath growing heavier with every step. It took some effort to divert and push past the rush of horse-bodies blocking her way.

She looked into the basket.

There were six used "Snitches" inside. The first to six wins the match.

As Taylor had feared, Gwen lost her lunch.

With the match over, the Centaurs returned to whatever business was under hoof. As for Gwen, she had repositioned herself near a running trough of water to clean her everything.

"Here…" A horn of floral-smelling water appeared beside Gwen. "I had figured the Devourer of Shenyang would possess a stronger stomach."

Gwen drank some, then washed out her mouth, then released the horn belonging to Saran, the woman now identified as the Khan's Chief Shaman, the Clan's "Dini", and a Şöpter elder.

"Mistress Saran," she apologised for her state. "If I may be so rude, what is this game? And why?"

"A cultural relic." Saran's presence was motherly as she gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder. "These days, the Tasmüyiz are attached as a matter of survival, but in the days past, they were the object of raids. The Clan with the strongest warriors are able to bring back the largest number of Tasmüyiz to tend the fields and serve as menial labour. Is the violence strange to you?"

"Should it not be?" Gwen raised her head to regard the Şöpter Shaman. "Forgive my forwardness, Mistress Saran, but this is horrid."

"More horrid than your Districts? How you treat your powerless and the poor? The NoMs?" The Şöpter tilted her head. "We have heard many tales from your cities, Magus Song. The number of your kind that perishes from violent deaths every single day is numberless, and according to Magister Taylor, their deaths are often without purpose."

"The woman dropped a plate, for God's sake." Gwen huffed. Her eyes darted to the goal basket once more. "Whip her, beat her, exile her from the camp— but an execution via sport?"

"A skilled Rat-kin could have survived, though that's beside the point." Saran did not appear moved by her anger. "Just as we Şöpter have our place, so do the Tasmüyiz. The Rat-Clans chose this, you know— there is always an alternative. Their tribes could remain on the plains south-east of the Sawahi Desert to contend with the Afaa Al-Halak instead. Here, the bulk of their people will survive or at least persist. No one is taking that choice away from them. We're not keeping them here by through force of arms."

Gwen's lunch delivered another one-two to her gut.
To survive in the pan or the fire— what a fucked-up freedom.

The Shaman regarded her with an unreadable expression. "If Magus Song would satisfy my curiosity, tell me, if you feel so strongly about these Tasmüyiz, why did you inform the Khan of their spreading the Blood Sickness?"

Gwen's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Now it was the Şöpter Shaman who appeared puzzled. "This isn't the first time we had Blood Sickness afflict the Horde. Do you know of it?"

Gwen shook her head. It would not surprise her if Draconian quarantines were the Centaur's next step. Assuming there are no field hospitals in Centaur city, the ancient epidemiological strategy was common sense.

Saran grimaced, then sighed.

Before Gwen could chase the Dini up on what she meant, a procession of junior Shamans converged upon the two. Most of the casters were bipedal Horned-folk like Saran, while a few were Centaurs. All the Shamans, Gwen noted, were female.

A gender-split magic system? Gwen's mind wandered back to the pavilion, where every warrior was a strapping stallion. Did this mean that in Khitani society, the mares were the child-bearing caretakers of home while the men hunted and fought? Likewise, was the management of the totems a uniquely feminine affair?

It was an interesting arrangement that sharply juxtaposed the gender ambiguity of the Hvítálfar and the Dwarves' genderless Protestant work ethic.

In front of Saran, her huddle of Shamans collectively wore embroidered white cotton, signifying their status and position within the Horse Lord's hierarchy. Most possessed the youth of younger women, though Gwen could see from their eyes and mannerisms that there were many a matron.

"We bring dire winds, Dini," a deer-horned woman announced. "The Human Mages were correct. The Plaguemancers' creations are among us. There's two dozens sick from the Ironhoof Clan, as well as scattered cases in the outer pavilions. I've distilled their festered blood through the iron gourde and confirmed the affliction to be Blood Sickness, albeit a kind we haven't seen before."

"How did they contract the disease?"

"From the Tasmüyiz—" The Faun's voice grew low. "Rat-kin grain collectors. Lord Yesunege says he was out hunting when a crazed Tasmüyiz bit him out of the blue. He executed the insolent slave where it stood, then returned to camp thinking nothing of it. Now his entire Arbanu is ill."

"How long ago was this?" The "Dini" Saran's expression grew dark.

"About five days. I've soothed Yesunege's fever, but his blood will burn for some time yet."

"An incubation period of five days…" Saran said aloud. "Well-timed. That's right in the middle of Temir Khan's southern campaign and beyond."

"You can't use Cure Disease?" Gwen raised a hand, showing her rings. "I brought potions if you need it."

"I've tried both the Rite of Sanguine Cleansing and the Human's potion injectors," the same Shaman replied. "The disease can be weakened but not entirely removed. A Plaguemancer's phage is not easily thwarted..."

"If Magus Song's recollection holds, the Elementals must have plotted this for some time..."

"I've called for Master Litvak," the Shaman informed their leader. "Whatever happens, we will need his wisdom."

While they waited, Saran turned to Gwen once more. "Forgive me for being dismissive, Magus Song. If you have Potions of Resist or Cure Disease, we are happy to receive your aid or trade for HDMs or Cores. That said, this is a dire matter— if indeed the Blood Sickness has come again— magically this time— there will be thousands, if not tens of thousands of ill Nokud in a matter of weeks. How many potions did you prepare for your expedition?"

"Forty?" Gwen reserved eight just in case.

"An impressive and generous number." Saran nodded. "But what good would a hundred potions do? A thousand? A sorcerous phage tailored for the Khitani will infect and infect again. Given ten-thousand doses, we can prevent deaths, but as for the southward expedition your Masters have urged..."

"So isolate the sick—" Gwen said as a matter of fact. "Quarantine them and use the potions. Is there a way to detect the disease—?"

"There is— and here he comes."

Before Gwen could finish, her eyes fell upon the visage of an ash-blonde man wearing the robes of a monk, strolling toward them with the casual ease of a bloke in his backyard. From his stave— an implement forged from melded bones, she recognised the mana signature at once.

A Necromancer!

Her breath caught in her chest. THE GALL OF THE BASTARD!

The man looked up, noting her burning eyes. As with all of his kind, the man's face was gaunt and his figure stick-like and wiry. His eyes may have at one point been blue, but now they were milky and cloudy.

"Dini Saran." The Necromancer bowed. "I've heard— and my arts are at your service."

"Thank you, Master Lazarus." The Shaman bowed in turn. "I fear the matter might be already out of control. The Shard is unrelenting in its demand, meaning we must take immediate countermeasures."

"Of course, Dini— may I ask who this is?"

From their expressions, both Saran and "Lazarus" clearly felt the murderous mana screaming inside the body of the lithe-figured sorceress in black.

"This must be our august guest from the Shard," the Necromancer said, unfazed by her hostility. "Lazarus Litvak, Free Soul, at your service."

Gwen stared at the outstretched hand, wondering if she should void the appendage. Or that if she took it, someone from the Shard would void her hand that touched the man's appendage.

A Necromancer? Here? In broad daylight? A thousand enigmas clouded her brain. Was he a guest of the Khan like she was? Did that mean they now fought shoulder to shoulder with Necromancers? Is that why no one batted an eye at Henry's dabbles into Necromancy? Was "the only Necro is a voided Necro" a Chinese thing?

The two Human Mages stood frozen in time until Gwen recalled from her earlier conversations with her instructors that "indeed" there may be Necromancers in the Khan's employ— along with human slaves— along with any number of things she was known to despise.

Her business, they had implied— was to be "Jean-Paul".

But would Jean-Paul void Lazarus Livtak with one look?

"Magus Song," Saran's voice rang beside her. "Is anything the matter?"

Gwen forced a smile to her face. "Not at all. I was merely surprised. G'day, Master Litvak."

She shook the hand the Necromancer presented. The man's fingers were bony, and to her genuine surprise, warm.

"I recall who you are now, Magus Song. How could any man forget a face like yours?" Lazarus' smile was full of caution. "You're the Devourer of Shenyang."

"I am." Gwen straightened her body. "Though the moniker's a bit too much. What is it that you do, Master Livtak?"

"Myself? I am but a humble Enchanter." The Necromancer laughed with forced humour. "I ensure the deaths here don't go to waste. I produce fodder troops to soften the Khan's foes. By extension, I ensure that the Necromancers on the Elementals' side don't take advantage of the materials the Golden Pavilion leaves behind. It is very risky, as you know, to leave source matter littering a battlefield. Imagine if some rogue Necromancer raised a family member or a friend and held their soul hostage? Terrible stuff."

Gwen understood only a few words of what the Necromancer said. "There are Necromancers on the side of the Elementals?"

"Sure— Spectres, or so I am told." Litvak shrugged. "You know how it is. Necromancers are natural mercenaries. Your talking heads at London know of my presence here, by the way. Better the Necromancer the Shard knows and all that. My servile state shouldn't come as a surprise, I'd hope. You Tower Mages are the reason we scurry like Rat-kin, after all."

While Gwen contemplated the Necromancer's words, Livtak walked beside the Buzkashi goal net and peeked inside. "Six—"

"Three on the other side," Saran reminded him.

"Not nearly enough, even for low-level Shards." Litvak shook his head. "I'll wait. Senchen said you needed me to run diagnostics on the slaves?"

Saran nodded.

"The Khan's will be done."

Before Gwen could ask the man to clarify his intentions, a burst of horn blow and fanfare from the Golden Pavilion signalled the emergence of her fellow Tower Mages standing shoulder to rump besides the Khan. Beginning from the pavilion and spreading down hills like a cascade, Orkoks barked at Tumens, who then barked orders at the lower ranks, injecting order into the equestrian chaos.

In no time at all, the colts and stallions formed into neat rows fit for a military parade. Adjacent and on either side of the golden tent, teams of prancing fillies returned to their private pavilions under the watchful count of their mare mothers.

Gwen's superiors noticed her beside the Necromancer and the Shaman at once. Seeing that she had yet to commit an atrocity, the group exhaled sighs of relief. Jean-Paul gave her a wave— she waved back, indicating that she did her best.

"Speaking of the Tasmüyiz—" Saran redirected Gwen's gaze from the Buzkashi ball pit toward the row-upon-rows of Rat-kin and other Plain Folk now gathering far from the row of Centaurs. Unlike the horses, these columns lacked both discipline and haste.

Gwen's eyes swept over the neurotic estuaries of Tasmüyiz, each streaming from the camp to form square lakes of muttering flesh, their meek and mousy bodies smouldering with the dank fetor of grilled Wyrm meat, onions, goat cheese and boiled cabbage.

"At least they had a full meal," Saran remarked beside her.

Gwen turned to look at the Great Khan's Dini.

"Magus Song, for the 'meekness' to come," the Shaman said seriously. "Out of discretion and diplomacy… the Devourer may wish to... turn a blind eye."


Gwen observed the Centaurs' expressions grow from dark to dangerous.

Despite their impending doom, the Tasmüyiz took their time, though she was of the opinion their delay were blameless. To her knowledge, the Khanate did not possess a public education system. Whatever its men and women knew, they learned by observing their elders, peers, or Clansmen or by surviving punishment. Knowing that these Tasmüyiz were free-range slaves— why should their owners expect a raggedy band of menials to marshal with the efficiency of militants trained from birth?

Thirty minutes later, with the Tasmüyiz boxed in like agitated bees, the Khan spoke.

"Cousins of the Plains! Your Khan is today the bearer of woe," Temir Tengri's voice projected across his city without effort. "The Plague of winter past is upon the pavilion once more. Free Riders have fallen ill, their blood burning away their life force even as the Horde musters for war."

A wilting hush overcame the squares of Tasmüyiz; then, great groans erupted as the rats fell to their knees. From Gwen's vantage, it looked like wheat being scythed.

From the golden tent to the southern gate, there sat twenty legions of the pavilion's slave hordes. These must be the regional Clans, Gwen figured from the slight variation in fur and colouring. Across a single square, she counted over a hundred individuals, with the same number stretching down the open corridor. Interestingly, there weren't just Rat-kin, but also dog-headed Kobolds, droopy-eared Rabbit-kin and scattered mobs of low-tier Greenskins.

"Dini Saran will now speak." Temir Khan was not one to waste breaths on slaves. "Cherbi— ready the men."

A billowing cry erupted from the enormous roan's thick lips, imparting tinnitus in the Human Mages until they fought off the effect by circulating mana. In one breath, the Centaur troops lining either side drew from their saddle scabbards pilums, swords, clubs and all manner of personal weaponry.

"You can't be serious—" Gwen turned to the closest source of viable information. "Magus... Lazarus, regarding what Dini Saran insinuated, they're not going ahead with it, are they?"

"Not yet. The Horse Lords are giving the Tasmüyiz a choice," the Necromancer responded to her anxiety with perplexed curiosity.

"Gwen looked on with confusion. "To do what?"

Her answer came in the form of Saran taking her place in front of the blocks of Tasmüyiz. "Clan Chiefs, come forward!"

From each block, tittering old rats stumbled forward. Most dressed no better than their fellows. One or two, Gwen noted with distaste, were fat with luxury. These, she figured, must be the Chiefs with Clans directly serving the Golden Pavilion.

In a semi-circle around their Dini, the Clan leaders performed kowtows.

"My friends, we've had this conversation before." Saran's motherly presence gave her sermon a paternal air. "This time, I hope your ilk will abide by what's right and not disappoint Temir Khan."

Before Saran had even finished, a few of the Elders flattened their bodies against the grass.

"What you ask is impossible, Dini!"
"Please, Dini!"
"With all my soul, Dini, I would urge the kin to confess, but—"

The protests, Gwen could see, made the Centaurs' miens meaner still. As for the Khan, if she squinted, Gwen could see the Essence steaming from his unhappy body.

"What are they asking the Tasmüyiz to do?" she once more asked the Necromancer.

Against her expectation of a rebuke, Lazarus happily answered her question. "The last time this happened, Saran asked the Elders to give up the sick and the infected. The Elders agreed, though not all of the sick volunteered. After several weeks of rooting out an even bigger disease cluster, the contagion spread to the Southern tribes far from the Golden Pavilion. Thousands of Nokud lost their lives. In his displeasure, the Khan issued an Ustgakh— an order of extermination."

Gwen glanced at the Horse Lords gripping their armaments.

"They're asking people in a deadly pandemic to out themselves?" she protested a little too audibly for courtly decorum. The more she thought about the Tasmüyizs' grisly future, the more her chest constricted with repression. "Or what?"

"Gwen, stay put." Magister Taylor's Silent Message bloomed beside her. "Let the Centaurs deal with their internal troubles."

"Let—" The kindling of guilt from her earlier encounter with the "Golden Snitch" was now a torch burning inside her belly. She felt suddenly claustrophobic among the crowded, noisy herd of stallions. Overpowering the horse-musk, the stink from the Tasmüyiz was to Gwen a miasmic admixture of fear and terror. Moreso than pleasing her peers, she wanted to call out "Bullshit!" at Saran's gaslighting of the Rat-kin.

Not too far from her embittered gall, the Dini's interrogation continued.

"Your... inability is no concern of mine, nor the Khan's. The Horde's fighting potential is paramount for our survival and your Clans' survival by extension. For the sake of generosity, Temir Khan will gift you one more opportunity. If you should fail, we are in no worse circumstance than what the Khan initially intended."

Visibly, the twenty or so Clan Chiefs fell into greater despair.

"TUMENS! MINGATS!" Feeling that the Chiefs were insufficiently motivated, Khudu, the Cherbi of the Khan, bellowed orders. "READY ARMS."

"For TEMIR KHAN!" the amassed herds of horses huffed.

The sound of promised violence was enough to put steel back into the Elders' liquid spines. Like bipedal maracas, the thoroughly shaken leaders of the various tribes returned to their respective quadrants to plead with their kin. Gwen closely observed the block closest to them. Like an undulating wave, throngs of Tasmüyiz raggedly rose to meet their Elder. With solemnity, words exchanged, heads hung, and ears drooped.

Unable to watch any longer, Gwen sent a Message to Meister Bekker, expressing that she wanted to intervene.

"I figured you might," Bekker said. "But why?"

"Stability and status quo," Gwen hastily presented her case, forcing her voice to remain distant. The real reason was primal and instinctual. "Longevity for the Horse Lords, guaranteed supply of foodstuffs. There are almost a hundred and fifty thousand of the poor sods out there. To me, that's a skilled labour force too precious to waste. Surely, Meister, we can achieve mutual gain by extending a hand of mercy?"

Meister Bekker's reply bore a tone of amusement. "And help them thrive? Did you forget that the Centaurs are a temporary ally? We know this. They know this. Nither of our kind wants the balance disrupted."

"Say you save them." Taylor, whom the party used as a conduit, butted in with his enquiry. "Where's our benefit? You can't expect us to consent just because you feel sorry for the rats."

Gwen had an answer ready before the Diviner had finished complaining.

"To subvert a cabal of militant autocrats," she spoke quickly but firmly, striking while the horseshoe's hot. "One must first usurp their base. There is little hope that we'll never get the Centaurs to recognise the old Protectorate, but what about the Tasmüyiz? I don't mean to have these Rat-kin rebel against the Horse Lords, but as you know, their kind is wholly responsible for hay, harvests and other menial labour. If so, what part of the Steppes could the Tasmüyiz not reach? What news on the Steppes would escape them? Meek, they might be, but they are many! If we show them the Mageocracy's magnanimity, what worshipful might take root in their little hearts? Under my thumb, these survivors and their descendants will be our eyes and ears."

"What you said has been attempted before…" Taylor sounded unconvinced.

"But NOT by yours truly!" Gwen quickly followed with a huff of indignation. "Jean-Paul— Meister Bekker, tell Magister Taylor of what I've done to the Isle of Dogs! Is it not prime real estate? Am I not worshipped by its workers? Loved by the Dwarves? Held in the highest regard by Lord Ravenport, my old chum? I'll muster the Tasmüyiz, sick or otherwise, and we'll soon have eyes and ears everywhere!"

"You paint a splendid picture. But I shall withhold my opinion." Taylor appeared to give her words some thought. "Meister?"

"Gwen's here to learn, but she's an independent agent. Besides, the Lady of Ely is her backer, not me." Meister Bekker's tone remained likewise ambivalent. "Gwen, if you think this is an opportunity—"

"I do, and I'll build a Magistership out of it!" Her heart was near bursting from her chest. Over yonder, the Tasmüyiz looked ready to present themselves to the Khan and his Şöpter Shaman corps. "After this, they'll be updating the Magister-work-experience handbook with a new case study."

"I like Gwen's confidence, but we don't have the resources to entertain her bluster," Taylor reminded his co-superior.

"No need. I am self-sufficient," Gwen interrupted. "I won't need a single field ration or HDM from your rings. I won't even need any of your Mages. If you would recall, I've been promised field support from the Order of the Bath."

"Neither our stock nor our personnel?" Taylor's bottom line was unambiguous. "Then I have no objections. Do whatever you will, so long as you don't bog down the campaign to come."

"If Magister Taylor isn't objecting, then neither shall I," Bekker replied cautiously. "To confirm, you'll be handling this alone until we can spare the men. That's my condition. Major Kotts?"

"I'll reserve judgement. It is a test, after all."

"Of course." Gwen exhaled, circling Essence through her conduits so her fingers would stop shaking. The good thing about having a sterling reputation was that one's superiors were at least happy to contemplating giving her a fair go, especially when the venture was low-risk and cost-free.

Downfield, the Tasmüyizs' fate flatlined with the Cherbi's patience.

In front of her eyes, hundreds of Clan slaves, large and small, old and young, filed from among the ranks with grim expressions into a clique of the condemned. Some, Gwen could see, were visibly ill, with a few having to be carried by their fellow sufferers. Like hags, these poor sods were— backs bent, knees buckling from the agony to come, coughing uncontrollably from despair.

"Esteemed Litvak—" The silver bells on the Şöpter woman's horns chimed as she swung her head toward the Human Mages. "If we may borrow your talents?"

"Of course, your Grace." The Necromancer's casual use of the Empire's titles made the Shard Mages wrinkle their brows. Lazarus returned their disdain with a wane smile, then stepped out from their ranks towards the huddle of mangy Rat-kin.

"Life Siphon." The Necromancer's casting was textbook as he vocalised the invocations necessary for conjuring his distinct brand of Necromancy.

To Gwen, seeing actual Necromancy up-close and undisguised was a nouveau experience, like someone rolling a fat joint in plain sight. The spell was simple— she understood the Sigils, the Invocations, and the phrasing— though she lacked the distilled Negative Energy and the will to inhale the knowledge.

"You." Lazarus indicated to a sickly old rat barely holding on to life. "Remain where you are. Upon your body, I sense a Plaguemancer's touch."

The Rat-kin must have made his peace, for the old rat remained seated while his kin parted like the Red Sea.

"Venerable one, how long have you been sick?" Lazarus sounded to Gwen like a hospice physician.

"Almost ten days, milord."

"Blood Fever?"

"I don't know," the Rat-kin wheezed. "My bones feel like they are on fire."

The Necromancer nodded. "That's a known symptom. I'll make this painless. Are you ready to break free from the karmic cycle and become a Free Soul?"

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

"I don't know," the Rat-kin's reply inferred he preferred living.

Under Gwen's watchful eyes, the rat chosen by Lazarus sagged like an emptied bag of root vegetables. After a second, the Necromancer raised his hand and regarded the green-yellow mass of mana in his palm while below, the Rat-kin withered into a desiccated corpse-husk.

"This is the source-phage." The Necromancer indicted to his audience. "I have obtained a sequence of the original mana signature. Now, we may proceed with discerning the extent of the pandemic."

Lazarus began a second invocation, one wrought from the School of Divination.

"He can employ multiple Schools of Magic?" Gwen turned to Jean-Paul.

"Modern Necromancers borrow from the IMS, but older followers of the Art studied it before the Imperial System buried that knowledge," Jean-Paul replied helpfully. "I suppose this Lazarus must be a witness of what the Vatican calls the Old Ways. Master says it's a very versatile, if difficult, stream of traditional arcanistry."

"The Old Ways…" Gwen kept her eyes peeled. "He's using our Sigils and Invocations, though."

"And you're using the IMS to cast Greenskin Shamanism, Necromancy and even Svartálfar Soul Sorcery." Jean-Paul reminded her. "It isn't as though we invented Sigils, that's borrowed from Álfar Aranistry, just as Glyphs were originally Dwarven Runescripts."

"So he's an Old School Necromancer... just standing around casting spells." She glanced at her Magisters and Maguses from the Shard, who stood unmoved and unimpressed.

"What of it?" Jean-Paul said. "Don't you use Bone Shield? That's similar."

Gwen twisted her lips. Similar, sure, but her Master was Henry Kilroy. This guy— who was his backer?

"Identify Disease!"

Lazarus Litvak interrupted her thoughts.

Immediately, the group of sick and ill Tasmüyiz lit up in hues of yellow and green. While the rats trembled and shook, the Necromancer walked among them, inspecting the findings. Lazarus singled out a few of the particular "well-lit" specimens for Life Siphon, then re-cast Identify to fine-tune his Divination.

"You— you— and you—" To Gwen's surprise, Lazarus pointed to dozens of individuals "regularly sick" and told them to leave the group and return to their irrespective Clans.

Compassion from a Corpse Conjurer?! Gwen suddenly saw Lazarus Litvak in a new light, shocked by the sympathy shown by the big-bad Death-for-hire.

Once he collected enough "phage", Lazarus turned to the rest of the Tasmüyiz in the original phalanxes. The unfortunate results furthermore affirmed her conviction.

Lazarus' spell did not stretch very far, barely fifty meters into the rag-tag cohort. Still, even covering a fraction of the gathered Rat-kin, he had gathered irrefutable evidence that even under the threat of death and the begging tones of their Elders, Rat-kin deserved eradication. There weren't just yellow and green spots in the yet unsegregated crowd but whole swarths in the hundreds, mostly in clumps of a dozen or more.

A great groan signalled the deflation of all hope.

Gwen sighed for the invariability of "Human" nature.

Saran's gaslighting was a good strategy, she conceded. But that was also why she was inspired to save the Tasmüyiz. She did not blame the poor sods who only now acknowledged that their elders were absolutely not joking when he asked them to out themselves even if they remotely suspected themselves of illness. That they didn't was the accursed hope that one might live— that one might escape persecution by remaining silent. After all, they were Tasmüyiz. "Still and silent" was a part of their existential being. The cruelty here, Gwen concluded, belonged to the Khan and his lauded stratagem to separate the wheat from the chaff.

Saran shrugged. The outcome was a forgone conclusion.

Audibly, Saran asked Lazarus to venture among each of the blocks of Tasmüyiz so that there was no doubt of their guilt.

Gwen observed the Faun's role-playing until her final verdict confirmed their worst suspicions— that no camp of Rat-kin, Kobold, Gob or Rabbit-kin could supersede their worst natures.

"Great Khan—" Saran returned to the dais with Lazarus trailing behind her. "Your humble servant has failed. Please punish this one so your boundless anger may rest."

The Horse Lord rose from his golden chaise, crushing the will of the shaking Tasmüyiz with his presence alone.

Gwen took a deep breath, then relaxed her over-tense muscles.

The opportunity had ripened.

Once the Great Khan delivered his decree, getting the Horse Lord to rescind his command would be an exercise in futility.

"O MERCY— GREAT KHAN—"

All eyes fell upon her.
The masquerade was on.

"I wish to be of service! Allow this meek one to take your sick and wounded so that all the Steppe will know of your boundless pity and compassion!"

"War Mage!" The Khan's mighty Cherbi stepped forward, one hand resting on the pommel of a short-handled glaive. "You overstep your boundary, even as a guest—"

"Forgive me, Honoured Cherbi—" Gwen bowed from the waist until her hair traced the floor. "Lord Khan, I was MOVED by the majesty of your futile attempt at quenching treachery with compassion. Though these Tasmüyiz who art but earth have soiled your trust with treason, their bodies yet possess the means to labour for your gain. The Great Horde would require supplies, Great Khan, one that will suffer if you were to visit the Clans with your rightful vengeance. Allow them to pay, O Lord, not through dusty death— but with their life!"

Khudu's body imposed itself between her and the Khan. "You jest, Human."

Gwen raised her head.

Their gazes met: his dark and brutal, hers full of defiance.

Essence Aura or Desolation? She wondered. What would impress the Khan while displacing his barbarian?

"Temir Khan." It was Saran who broke the growing silence. "Though I am ignorant of her motives, I do not believe Magus Song speaks in jest. And Lord Cherbi, need I remind you that this young woman is the Devourer of Shenyang?"

The unexpected assistance from the Shaman was enough to inspire a response from Temir Tengri. "You wish to claim these slaves, Magus Song?"

"I wish to aid our cause, Great Khan, the Shard's and the Horde's." Gwen straightened her spine. "Leave their diseased bodies to me. I shall supply your citizens while keeping the illness from spreading, and in the process, spare the campaign from the grief of losing valuable labour."

The Khan's great head turned toward Gwen's fellow Mages.

"Gwen speaks true," Meister Bekker delivered as promised. "To my knowledge, she does possess the means to turn your dilemma into a boon."

"Magus Song likewise has my support, though I know not how she will achieve her purpose," Magister Taylor gave his less optimistic opinion. "But know that even should she fail, so long as Magister Hill prepares our Translocation Mandalas and keep them safe, I can guarantee the campaign will have no shortage of feed and supply."

Gwen made herself appear taller yet again as the Khan's gaze swept over her body.

"My Khan…" Khudu the Cherbi did not move from his spot. "I do not trust this one's... ability."

"Then trust this!" Gwen waved a hand.

THUNK!
THUNK!
THUNK!

A crate of HDMs displaced the dust, followed by a ton of rations and an ever-impressive pallet of SPAM.

"Believe me, Great Khan, when I say that alone and without the need to tax provisions brought by Meister Bekker and Magister Taylor, I'll be fine. The Cherbi may not trust me, but he cannot deny my inventory, my connections, and that I AM the Shoggoth's Summoner."

"Such generosity." Saran's lips parted to reveal rows of ivory teeth. "Great Khan, if Magus Song wishes for this honour— what reason do we have to deny her? The pavilion has yet to give a decree, meaning it now has an opportunity to shed itself of an undesired saddle. Why tax your coffers when Magus Song has bent her back to shoulder the burden?"

Strangely, the Shaman's support made her less confident.
What did the Şöpter see? Gwen wondered uneasily. What did Saran want? Undoubtedly, the Shaman's purpose wasn't to preserve food, fodder and rats.

Gwen observed the makeshift court of the Khan's advisors. To Temir's left stood his disapproving Cherbi. To his right stood the smiling Saran. Curiously, the Khan's disposition subconsciously shifted toward the Şöpter Shaman standing on two hooves instead of his four-legged cousin.

"Then we shall entertain Magus Song with the spared lives of these treasonous slaves." Temir Khan appeared to have reached a decision. "Esteemed Master Litvak. I ask that you separate the sick from the hale and persist in your labour until Magus Song's generosity is satisfied."

"I shall do as you command." The Necromancer bowed.

"Magus Song," the Khan continued. "Certain conditions must be met if you wish our mercy entertained. Would you like to hear them?"

"I am all ears, Khan of Khans." Gwen curtsied. To the left of the Khan's court, her fellow Mages visibly relaxed.

Like a dissipating thunder cloud, the murderous tension in the air had faded, leaving only the stink of soiled pants, moist loincloths and mangy fur, making thick the anxious air.

"First—" Temir Khan gestured to her new slaves. "The diseased cannot remain here; all who bear the phage seeds will part from Nukus for the Eastern Reaches. There is an oasis there, in a place called Shalkar. That will be your encampment."

"As you command." Gwen had no idea where this place called Shalkar could be, but for now, the bluster must play on. To her dismay, Magister Taylor shook his head, after which the Ambassador engaged in a round of Silent Message with their Meister, who appeared amused.

"Secondly—" the Khan continued. "To show our generosity, we shall not task you with the survival of our slaves, only in keeping them away. Magus Song, you shall be the keeper of the ill ejected into the Eastern Reach for the duration of the Southern Campaign. We grant you the status of a Tumen and the privilege that comes with maintaining the Tasmüyiz under your command. When we return victorious, you may return the survivors in exchange for rewards." The Khan's eyes rested on her with interest. "Until then, or until the campaign ends, the Golden Pavilion will provide nothing. You alone shall shoulder the burden of restricting these Tasmüyiz. If you should fail—"

"— Magus Song will personally perform the duty your men had chosen to withhold today," Meister Bekker finished for their host. "Of that, Great Khan, you can be sure. Is that acceptable, Gwen?"

"Wholly acceptable," Gwen affirmed her conviction. Now that she was over the hump of possibilities and into the realm of responsibility, she relaxed. Compared to the moral agony of doing nothing and watching a hundred thousand bodies piling into mass graves dug by orphans, the stress of getting down on her knees to do the dirty work was positively pleasant.

In her mind, Gwen could already imagine Elvia's cringing face.
Help the Centaurs! Bring stability to the South! That's what she had promised her Evee.
Now?
Now they had to trek through the Eastern Steppes to get to an oasis so she could set up a makeshift quarantine camp.

It was just as well Elvia would support her two hundred per cent in this endeavour. If her friend even had an ounce of sentimentality left in her after all that Faith Magic training, she would chomp at the bits to save the blameless Tasmüyiz, themselves victims of unsanctioned Necromancy from Spectre.

"Then our paths align—" the Khan's booming voice rolled over the encampment. "In the interest of safety, Master Lazarus, make haste!"

Gwen's quest was in motion the moment Temir Tengri returned to the pavilion, meaning she had at best until nightfall to move the segregated rats. Griping that she had increased his work a hundred-fold, the Necromancer Lazarus Lavtik bemoaned his duty of separating the infected "phage bearers" from those merely ill or malnourished.

After speaking with the Necromancer, her first stop was back to her companions, who now regarded her with expressions ranging from impressed to disgruntled. Whatever the case, all complaints died after Meister Bekker informed the crew that both their commanders supported Gwen's self-elected actions and that as a Magister-in-waiting with her potential, her "Maverick" actions were within expectation.

"How do you intend to move 'your people' to Shalkar?" Magister Taylor motioned for their Translocation Specialist to join their consultation circle, then conjured forth a map. "That's three hundred kilometres away across nothing but rolling badlands with deserts in-between."

"… slowly?" Gwen answered optimistically.

"Do you intend to move all of them?"

"Yes?"

"I don't think you understand, Magus Song." Eli Hill pointed to the map. "It might take you less than two hours to fly that distance, but on foot, a Transmuter can cover at most ten kilometres of moderate wilderness, assuming no Magical Creatures, per hour. Even with healthy Rat-kin, you're looking at thirty, forty or fifty hours of non-stop travel. As your logistical advisor, I can inform you that HEALTHY civilians can endure a forced march of four-plus-four hours if you desire minimal loss of numbers. Realistically, you will be travelling for anywhere between five days to a week to reach Shalkar, do you understand?"

Gwen's eyes grew glazed when the hard facts struck her like a moist slab of thawing fish. Instantly, the skin under her figure-hugging suit grew clammy.

"In addition, you'll be heading a column of the sick and dying," Hill continued to deliver his opinion. "I shall inform you of some parallel statistics on when I was responsible for transporting refugees from the Algerian coast fleeing the Mermen. Even with three Mage Flights and mechanised transportation, our attrition rate for refugees with minor injuries and rationed supplies was forty-seven per cent."

"F-forty seven per cent?!" Gwen felt her heart sink. She glanced at the groups now streaming out of the camp into the desert, where only a few hours ago, they had fought the Sand Wyrm. Now, the bloodstained sand served as their temporary holding cell, one from which any individual could seek to leave on pain of collective death. If half of the poor sods were going to die before they even reached Shalkar, Gwen shuddered, then her self-indulgent quest was merely an act of masochism. "That's bloody terrible! Were you attacked?"

"We were— but we handled it," Hill explained. "Far from monsters, it was hunger, thirst and fatigue that struck down the weak. The sun killed the rest. Without cover, you can hardly expect urban folk to survive in a desert. That said, your wards have fur— so who knows?"

Gwen felt suddenly at a loss. She brought food and water— arguably not enough food for what was shaping up to be something like almost ten thousand outcasts, but enough. Nonetheless, the journey to the oasis suddenly became far more complicated than going from A to B.

"Gwen… you anticipated the attrition, I hope. The Steppes isn't a wine tour." Major Kott said with caution.

Gwen smiled in such a way that made the Mages raise their brows.

"Oh Lord…" Major Kott, the only Mage genuinely possessing an understanding of her impulsiveness, touched three fingers to his temple. "At this rate, you won't even need to get to Shalkar. How about you pitch in something else to please the Khan, and Meister Bekker can try to convince him otherwise? Maybe set up a camp closer to Nukus?"

"No." Bekker shook her head. "The Khan's decree is final, as is my word. Gwen has to swallow her bitter pill. Besides, I thought her plan was perfectly sound."

Kott looked at Gwen.

At Meister Bekker's prompt, Gwen rummaged through her mental and physical inventory. She had cases of Maotai, but not enough to infuse ten thousand or more individuals. Concurrently, there was nothing magical about her SPAM or her military rations. And even diluting her Remove Disease potions with Healing Potions, she would have a few hundred doses at best.
The two Golem Suits? That's not going to help, for now.
Her Habitat? She could cram two hundred rats into the grey Astral Space, that's it.
Call for Golos? Unless Gogo spontaneously learned healing magic from Ruxin, he was at best a guard dog.
Evee? She would soon ask Taylor to contact the Ordo's chapel in Baku, but even if her friend were to leave London right away, she could only bring herself and Mathias and a few Storage Rings of supplies sourced from Walken.
Finally, she could improve the health of the Rat-kin with Essence, but she wasn't an endless fountain of youth.

In short, many items would help.
But she couldn't think of a single way to help ten thousand refugees survive an Exodus through the desert, at least not without the heavens providing manna bread.

Were sacrifices necessary then?

Unbidden, she glanced at the Centaurs forming a bulwark to fence off the infected refugees. Saran's Shamans were among the Horse Lords, applying mysterious blood-paste to the bodies of those singled out by Lazarus.

The stray solutions inside her head finally entwined like the hook and loop of a velcro band. Through clouds of befuddlement, erudition struck like an Empowered Lightning Bolt.

There WAS a simple way to keep the Tasmüyiz hale.
And orderly.
And obedient.

First in life.
And in death.


Uneasy is the head that wears the crown.

The oft-quoted line was one of Gwen's beloved aphorisms, one that she recited to her employees when the office convened to settle bonuses, conduct reviews, and execute firings.

Now, the lives of ten-thousand Rat-folk whose only crime was inadequate healthcare weighed down her slender neck with their hopes for another tomorrow. She wanted to say she felt a smidgen of regret for pushing herself into this particular Gu pit, but that much pragmatism would alienate the old-world sanity she wished to preserve. And though Gwen acknowledged that great power came with responsibilities— she wasn't a web-slinging waif; in the world of realpolitik, power was freedom.

First, there was the "freedom to", meaning the liberty to act on one's impulses for weal or woe, to act on behalf of the silent and the oppressed by exercising the promise of Noblesse Oblige.

Simultaneously, power enabled the "freedom from"— for privilege absolved laws, boundaries, limitation, all the mortal anxieties for food, shelter and comfort.

Both were freedoms, though scant were the individuals ever able to attain both. In either of her worlds, the freedoms of the rich and poor, powerless and powerful, seldom overlapped. The Tasmüyiz dream their whole lives of having enough to eat and not worrying about sudden death— the freedom "from". The Centaurs, on the other hand, dream of space and conquest, of more and more freedom "to".

In her old life, having acquired more wealth than her teenage self could imagine, she often stared at the rolling surf tossing swimmers like dolls and wondered if she would ever touch that stratum of possessing both the freedom to and freedom from.

Now she did.

She was free to save these slaves, Rat-faced and meek they might be.

She was free to bend their fate through sheer willpower, through HDMs or reputation, or the threat of a Wee-Wee-Wee-We'll consume you until there's nothing left unless you comply.

For this, Gwen reasoned, the despair of her labour should inspire joy.

Not wasting time, her first decree was for Elvia to join her as soon as possible, delivered via Magister Taylor, who immediately left to notify Baku with the latest updates from the Steppes.

After that, while she prepared for the handover, a tripartite of observers remained to stickybeak, wondering what the young sorceress would do.

From the Horse Lords, Khudu the Cherbi kept a troop of his Royal Guards on standby, ready to crush the Rat-kin into infectious mince should they seek to flee. So long as Gwen's charges remained in the region of Nukus, any such incidents could be traced to the Khan's guards, meaning the Cherbi wasn't taking any chances with a female he couldn't toss as far as a Rat-kin "Snitch".

Standing apart from the chortling stallions, Major Kotts provided helpful commentary when Gwen paused for too long to figure out the best arrangement for her charges.

Finally, she was joined by the unexpected presence of Lazarus Litvak, Necromancer of the Old Ways, grumbling that since she'd prevented him from harvesting Soul Shards, which were his bread and butter, he had little else to do other than waiting for her wards to die-off en mass so he could perform his natural duty.

Having received aid from the man, her impressions of the Necromancer had improved from loathing to ambivalence. Lazarus was proving to be an existence with greater depth than she cared to admit. More so than those power-mad Necromancers in Shenyang, he far too closely resembled a Tower Mage attached to some local power as an advisor. Even when casting life-draining spells that skirted the Geneva Convention on Magical Warefare established after the Great War, he possessed the attitude of someone watching paint dry, making the taboo merely pedestrian.

Ignoring the unhappy Necromancer and the hostile Cherbi, Gwen drew the Mandala for summoning her Planar Ally, then laid down the crates of HDMs necessary to bring the Wyvern across time and space.

Aloud, she spoke the invocations. Lightning flashed, Mithril sizzled, bursts of fulminating thunder rolled across the pavilion, drawing eyes from everywhere.

Golos, the scion of the Yinglong, unfurled azure wings tipped with vibrant feathers in his usual overdramatic manner.

"Is that horses I smell? I LOVE horses!"

Gwen didn't want to find out which way Golos "loved" horses and so directed his enormous head toward a platter of Sand Wyrm sashimi resting on four tables joined back-to-back. "This isn't horse, but it's better."

"Excellent." The Wyvern sniffed her hair, snorted in her face, then gave her forehead a bop with his snout. "By the by, brother gives his greetings."

"Is he well?"

"Bored. Ruxin is thinking of expanding northward. There's a Thunder Dragon in Bhutan that's bound to challenge him in a century or two."

"I see. I take it things are fine in Kachin and Nagaland, and that Mia and Marong reign without complication? How's Phalera?"

The Wyvern affirmed that her friends were doing dandy, then took a sizeable chunk out of the Khan's loot she had requisitioned with HDMs. She also wanted to ask about Lulu, but the Sword Mage was with Ryxi, and Golos confessed to being preoccupied with populating Ruxin's mountain with harpies.

"… Wyrm flesh?" Golos spoke with his mouthful. "A sizable one, too. A bit lite on the Essence, though."

"Try it with the cumin. It's a local delicacy, so I am told." She grinned at her Wyvern, then flashed winsome smiles at the consternated expressions of the Horse Lords, of the semi-frozen Lazarus, and of the smiling Major who was by now used to such displays.

As Demi-humans go, Centaurs were less vulnerable to the presence of Draconic Essence than mundane Magical Creatures. Nonetheless, the respect Gogo commanded was promised in the rugged bone ridges adorning his scale-covered spine and ending in his car-wrecking mace-tail.

Should Golos and Khudu come head-to-head, Gwen wondered, who would win? Khudu could undoubtedly draw on a thousand Centaurs' worth of power to bring down her Dragon. Conversely, Golos could cut an arc of pure plasma across the herd multiple times if he put himself in range of their pilums.

Both would suffer in the encounter, though Gwen believed that the Yinglong's scion had a fairer chance of emerging wounded but wiser and more powerful for the effort, while the Centaurs would only know the Wyvern's love.

While Golos ate, Gwen explained the situation, the pair of them acting as a living exhibition for the Centaur patrols and the gawking Tasmüyiz. For their quest at hand, she explained, the Wyvern's job was to keep an eye on the Rat-kin. Her greatest fear was desertion, for the re-mingling of what Lazarus called the "phage seeds" with the general population would engender new outbreaks. If that happened, it would seal the deal for the next three generations of Tasmüyiz.

With Golos grunting affirmation between mouthfuls, Gwen then conjured forth her additional aides.

"Shaa-shaa!" One Big Bird.

"EE-EE!" One Kirin.

"Aroooooooowl!" Sixteen plus two Morden's Hounds.

In a row, her army of pets made an impressive and odd-balled battalion.

Taking swigs from a Maotai bottle, she glanced at the Cherbi and the Necromancer and took great pleasure in their hanging mouths and wary eyes. If Richard and Petra were here, Gwen wanted to tell them; there would be another ten to twelve dogs and an Undine to rival a mid-tier Marid.

Was her army enough to crowd-control ten-thousand desperate refugees? "Yes" would be overly optimistic. If she wanted the answer to be a resounding "YES!", she would have to exercise rarer talents.

Shaking her head, she refocused her mind on the task at hand.

Stepping into the air, she walked up an invisible set of stairs until she stood above and over the trembling mischief.

"Tasmüyiz!" her voice rang out across the empty horizon, to the east of which sat a thousand kilometres of badlands and to the west of which Khudu and his troops paced. "By the mercy of Khan Temir Tengri, your lives have been gifted to me. I shall be your Tumen until such time that I deem it safe to return you to your homes. Allow me to introduce myself, for many of you may not know who I am and may yet wonder— what can this Human sorceress do to secure my survival?"

Gwen took a deep breath.

"Let us make some things very clear— I AM YOUR SURVIVAL. You're sick. Within your frail veins burn the phage seeds that would infect the blood of the Khan's kin, and for this, through no fault of your own, you art condemned to die."

A great moan passed from the mouths of the chittering mischief, radiating from the loci of her oppressive figure in concentric waves of resonant misery.

"FRET NOT!" Gwen's voice rang out as a clarion call to hope. "ARE YOU NOT ALIVE RIGHT THIS INSTANT? In your bodies burn not the fever festooned upon you by nefarious foes, but the violent fire of LIFE ITSELF?! HEED ME! You want to LIVE! Do you do not? Can you not feel the unabashed blaze of rioting passion sparking from your souls, crying out for tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow?"

Gwen called the Essence to the fore of her Astral Body and allowed the life force to radiate from her black-clad figure, accentuating her point with vivid viridescence. "WHAT SAY YOU?"

"We want to live!" a good number of the rats shouted.

"ARE YOU ALL DEAD?" she blasted them with her fulminating rhetoric. "I said— DO YOU WANT TO LIVE?"

"LIVE!"

"We want to live!"

"Save us! Blessed Sorceress!"

The volume was low but to her satisfaction.

"TO THE EAST LIES OUR EDEN!" She threw her body in what she hoped was the right direction. "In Shalkar lies a paradise built by Gaia against the ravages of the sand! The Khan has gifted us this happy, happy land to be your abode, and there, you may heal and rest, but ONLY if you endure the march east."

She could see the Rat-kin's ambivalence in their uncertain bodies.

"I know— oh, I know that you fear the pathless journey ahead— but what other recourse do you have? To sojourn here is certain death! Look to the west! See the Cherbi and his men with their polished glaives and barbed arrows. Would you prefer THAT to the exodus east? Prefer EXTINCTION to retire to an oasis blessed with sweet water?"

Gwen did not know if the Rat-kin understood her fancy words, but her delivery did leave a visible impact.

More than anything, the Rat-kin feared and respected the strong while worshipping the powerful. For they who were on the verge of extinction, the hovering presence of a Lightning Wyvern as tall as the pavilions, the glowing form of a godly Kirin and the stark shape of an aberrant Big Bird swelled their tiny hearts with desirous worship.

Why did this goddess of death promise life to lowly, snivelling nothings mangy with phage? If anything, most of the Rat-kin found their new fortune a hard nut to crack.

Gwen felt the moment was ripe.

"But enough talk! The march grows nigh. For now, partake!" Her voice rippled out. "By my decree, share this manna among your kin so that you may have strength for your salvation."

The Rat-kin below her dived for cover as she approached.

_THUNK!_

Boxes of high-nutrition military rations broke free from the ribbon straps, spilling their precious cargo.

_THUNK!_

While a section of the mischief swarmed, she moved away from a distance, then dropped a load of cascading SPAM.

She continued until almost half of her supply was gone. Each pallet was two hundred cases of SPAM, with each case having twenty-four cans. The military ration was better flat-packed, with each pallet delivering almost six thousand meals.

Her Rat-kin were many— but their lean bodies were also famous for their ability to live on the most meagre of sustenances.

Gwen hovered, patrolling the perimeter of her whiskered citizenry, cowing the crowd when the mad dash for food grew frenzied with bursts of Desolation Aura. Her pets as well flocked here and there, with Cali using its vitality-sensing abilities to seek out the weak too frail to scramble for supplies.

It took over an hour for the rations to be distributed, a grating affair that foreshadowed the troubles to come. Despite their desperate bid for survival, a significant portion of the Tasmüyiz was too exhausted by the despairing landscape of their homestead to even entertain the common good.

Thankfully, morale improved as the group munched on protein admixtures. While Gwen watched her wards eat, she sorely wished for Gunther's Radiant Aura, for her Brother-in-Craft could likely stir the Tasmüyiz into a fervour with only the power of his presence.

For her next step, she would advocate a system of command for her rat-tag band. Now that she had inspected her wards, she could see that not all of them are old rats. Instead, most of the Demi-humans were just past adulthood, leaving no doubt about their usual life expectancy. One of the reasons the Elementals had picked the rats was their lack of access to hygiene facilities and their propensity for sleeping in tightly packed quarters. Equally lucky was her discovery from Lazarus that the phage called "Blood Fever" possessed a low morbidity rate among the Rat-kin compared to its ravagement of the Horse Lords. When she thought about it, the epidemiological design made sense. Carriers that remained mobile and active made far better spreaders than those actively diseased and dying.

With the demographic of her rats in mind, she would split her marching column into units of Contubernium in the manner of the post-reformation SPQR, meaning one NCO, seven adults, and two elderly or maimed individuals. It was knowledge she had gleaned from her Magisterial course at Cambridge, one she would now put into practice. This Contubernium would be responsible for peer-to-peer surveillance and upkeep. Should even one of them flee, she would threaten collective punishment.

Additionally, as she had roughly counted about ten thousand individuals during her flyover, give or take a few hundred, Gwen intended to form the Contubernium into Centuria lead by a nominated Elder.

A hundred Centuriae? It was a well-rounded number to arrange into cohorts of five Centuria to have twenty Prefects that answered to her.

Therefore, her command pyramid would involve herself— twenty Prefects— then a hundred Centurions to ten Contubernium. The number still frightened her, but she felt confident that the chain-of-command should serve.

Finally, there was another reason why she chose to organise her Rat-kin in such a regimented fashion.

Death March.

A spell thrifted from the Green Skin Shamans, long ago formulated by the Hag Covens to bolster their Warlord's hosts.

Death March was a primitive spell more akin to mystic voodoo than Human arcanistry. The principal reagent was the blood of the controller, while the hallucinogenic materials accompanying the potion concoction served the mystic purpose of pain-killing with the added effect of frenzy. The only caveat was that Gwen wasn't a Rat-kin and thereby lacked the intergenerational Essence taint the Hags administered on their subjects.

Instead, she possessed something far more potent— Almudj's all-encompassing elixir.

In theory, if she could convert the "progenitors" with her bodily-secreted snake juice, she could then empower said parents to empower their "children". What mattered most was lineage and blood— though, in practice, only time would tell.

For now, she'll feed her nominated Centurions Essence droplets and convert them in the same manner Dede was improved. At her current level of Essence Sympathy, she could manage a handful every few hours, meaning she should reign over a hundred healthy and helpful officers within twenty-four hours.

As for those immediately too ill to continue, she had Cure Disease, Healing Potions, and Maotai to tide them over until they reached the oasis at Shalkar.

Then if need be, and only in the direst of circumstances, would she activate her Master's modified IMS variant of Death March, allowing her to act as a conduit between Caliban, herself, and her Centurions.

As for rebellious individuals, there was always Soul Tap.

The Spell's viability was without doubt.

Likewise, she had no reason to doubt the slippery slope that came with its convenience.

Strun, Shadow Runner of Clan Jildam, arrived at Nukus with every ounce of strength drained from his lanky frame.

He was late.

Far too late.

Convincing the Elders of the Western Reaches had taken far longer than what should have been necessary. Persuading his kin to flee from the tyranny of the Horse Lords for the unavoidable danger of the Murk proved too much for his traumatised kindred, who preferred the repression of the present. During his final stop, in Clan Shuloam, his fellow Rat-kin had even drawn daggers and warned Strun that his betrayal would only incite violence and that they would tie him up and deliver him to the closest Nokud. After slaying three overzealous slaves, Strun fled.

Signing and shedding his cloak and depositing it on the still-smouldering fire pit outside, Strun slinked into the Elder's tent.

"Chuach, where are grandfather and mother?" His voice was barely a whisper. "Has it… begun? Or is it finished?"

The dejected silhouette inside the tent opened her eyes. "Strun! By the Khan's Grace! You're alive!"

"Barely, aunty, only by the skin of my incisors." Strun used the last of his strength to reach a skin of water hanging from the wall. He took a long draught, then breathed out as a reborn rat. "I saw… what the Elementals had done to the captives. It's the Blood Fever, but far worse this time. I tried to get back as quickly as I could to warn the others, but none would listen."

"The Elder and your mother." The woman called Chuach nervously wrinkled her whiskers. "Have gone with the Devourer of Shenyang."

It took Strun a few seconds to process his aunty's words.

The flustered woman took several attempts before she successfully retold the story of the Human Sorceress who arrested the Khan's killing hand.

Strun near collapsed with relief. "Mother and Grandfather… they're alive?"

Chuach nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again. "I am not sure. They're making for Shalkar, on foot."

Strun's eyes widened. "Without a scout? To the Easter Reaches where the great Afaa Al-Halak makes their home?! That's a death march!"

"I know—" His aunt's lips pursed shut, then her eyes lit up with a strange wonder. "But the Sorceress leading them is the Mistress of monsters. The creatures under her command, Strun, they're Gods unto themselves! A Mongoose-Dragon that breathes lightning! A black, faceless eagle with human hands! A Wyvern lord greater than even our stoutest Orkok! And her legion of hounds, Strun, you should have seen it! Dogs of living lightning and darkness as large as donkeys."

Strun threw a handful of nuts and preserved berries into his mouth and chewed. "Did this Human also command the Afaa al-Halak?"

"I don't think so, but anything is possible. You should have seen how the Magus organised the sick, Strun. She split them like the Khan's men into groups of ten; then, she fed them precious rations from the lands without sand. She even elected Mingats, which she dubbed Centurions, and awarded them with new life. Your Grandfather was among that number."

"New life?" Strun swallowed. "But of course, those from our Clan would turn to Grandfather anyway. Did you see what happened to mother?"

"I was too far to see." Chuach paused, then changed the subject. "They left before the moon was nigh."

"Then I will find them." Strun stuffed his pouches with more berry pills. "I must go and find father. Few enough know how to navigate the badlands, and I doubt many of us would be among their number— Mmmgnn!"

He quickly covered his mouth with a rag, then coughed.

His aunty reared back. "Strun… are you sick?"

"I am… tired." Strun had no idea if he was infected but knew that his best bet now was to leave. "Go bath, aunty. Speak to no one of my visitation. Burn my clothes and these old rags."

His aunt nodded.

"Fair well, Chuach. You have my love, even if we never meet again."

"Shall I tell Chuchi?" his aunty's eyes lowered in shame. "She's in hiding. Your father thought it best..."

Strun thought of his sister's bright eyes and glossy fur. Chuchi was his surviving sister. When he was a mere pup, their mischief had been twelve strong. Now, there was only him and Chuchi, and mayhap from this day on, only Chuchi. But that was okay. Rat-kin females were strong. So long as Chuchi survived, she could rebuild the Clan from her many children.

"No." Strun gingerly took a new sand cloak from the hangers and wrapped himself, affixing his water skin and pill punches to its interior. "If I return with Grandfather and mother, then all may be well. If not, then Strun the Swift had already perished when the Djinns razed Clan Jildam."

Gwen fought down the throbbing in her temple.

She felt like someone who had swallowed too much sticky rice and was now choking on it.

Four hours into the march, they encountered Sand Wolves, which was itself unsurprising. Before Gwen had even left the Nukus, one of her Centurions from a local Clan called Jildam had warned her that after an Afaa al-Halak hunt, there would be scavengers camped out from the Centaur cities for weeks, hoping to get at the scraps.

Whatever their number, Sand Wolves were Golos bait, but Gwen had not anticipated that the Elder meant camouflaged wolves invisible in the blue dusk of the dunes exploding forth like sand geysers to raid her rats.

Not only that, these were cunning creatures with intelligence, meaning they would stay hidden, then suddenly emerge to snatch at the rats trailing furthermost from the group, or on either flank, then flee into the night.

The first time it happened, she had chased down the damned pack and voided the lot— only to find twice the number of victims upon her return to the main troop.

The same atrocity then repeated like a looped record. No matter Gwen's number of successful defences, at least one troop of Sand Wolves would have their way.

Frustration then clawed at her chest like little rats' feet on broken glass.

To stop and wait for Caliban's life-sensing radar to ferret out the wolves would delay their timetable immeasurably— while moving forward meant inevitable losses. With her column of rats extending some two kilometres long, the constant howls, screams, yelps, whines and cries for help were driving her to the brink.

In the end, she elected to empower more Centurions so that they could self-help their kin. Simultaneously, as a broad arrowhead, the column forayed ahead with Caliban and the Void Dogs leading, becoming the shape of a flatworm.

To Gwen's relief, the troops touched by Almudj's Essence underwent helpful changes in physiology. Perhaps the Rat-kin held untapped potential, Gwen mused, or maybe their body was that starved for SPAM, calorie rations and a single sip of her viridescent gift. Whatever the case, all of her recipients underwent a near-immediate metamorphosis.

To take the Elder from Clan Jildam as an example, after kneeling to lick the elixir from her hand, the Rat-kin fell to the dirt and began to convulse.

Just as Gwen despaired that her first attempt at catalysing Death March would result in their elected leader exploding into gobs of cancerous flesh, the rat tore his smock from his upper body, then stood with the energy of a newly matured pup.

"Milady Sorceress—" The rat's spine creaked as old bones healed and his muscles grew into taut steel cables. Incredibly, Gwen could see the creature visibly growing taller and his fur turning glossier. "This Stian is forever in your service."

Standing upright, Elder Stian was far taller than the nearest rat, even discounting their stooping gait. Her newly dubbed Centurion then introduced himself as a Shadow Runner, a Rat-kin warrior caste— though according to the Elder, his profession had been eradicated after the Rat-kin took on the title of Tasmüyiz.

Compared to the regular rats, who were little better than an adult Human at defending themselves, her Essence-derived Centurions possessed boundless energy. Likewise, they were far deadlier with their salvaged, make-shift weapons, capable of bringing down a wolf without aid.

After the fiasco with the Sawahi Sand Wolves, she straight-away exhausted herself with all of her cohort leaders, then slowed the march until her troops could get up to spec. But even that did not progress as expected. To her shock, the Essence she could spare was enough only to empower six Centurions every few hours, meaning she had considerable time and distance to go before a loyal force of aides could manage the command chain.

Later, before dawn, while her column of refugees rested, they had their second encounter with the local fauna.

This time, their foe was a Tigermaw Land Shark, the improved variant of that very monster that Gwen had fought in the Outback a lifetime ago.

After erupting amidst the unsuspecting column and taking no less than twenty lives, Golos lifted the accursed thing as it nipped and swatted at him with its muscular tail, then tossed the Land Shark at Caliban. Once caught in Caliban's feminine Big Bird talons, her creature squeezed out the early breakfast from the Land Shark, then consumed their foe with extreme prejudice.

Watching the shattered bodies rain down into her company of tired-looking rats, Gwen felt no less exhausted by it all— and to think they were only ten hours into a five-day journey.

Not wanting to attract more wolves, she consulted with Stian and his circle of growing Centurions, then sent the carcasses into the void, erasing all evidence of their existence.

Jadedly, she then urged the group to move once more.

Thirty minutes later, another commotion from the rear halted the column. Finally, the first Rat-kin to perish from the illness made himself known— heedless of Spam, Remove Disease or her most ardent well-wishes.

Strun caught the tail-end of the death march just as the columns entered the badlands.

Along the way, strange signs of battle kept his fur raised and his senses on high alert. Sand Wolf burrows used by the infamous predators to ambush tired travellers lay emptied all around, marked with trails that spoke of a titanic battle yet leaving no bodies to mark their passing.

Later, the hollowed-out shell of a Sand Shark the size of a war chariot furthermore made Strun's heart quicken with expectation.

Nearer the badlands, after Strun darted from shadowy plinths to wind-worn monoliths to dodge the Wyvern circling overhead, the Shadow Runner caught sight of dark bodies peeling from the group ahead, using the shadows as he did.

DESERTERS! The thought came to him at once.

There was a good reason these Rat-kin waited for the landscape to change before they made their move. The column was long, and though the sorceress' eyes were many, her attention was scattered, meaning even should they disappear, it would take until the next muster for her to discover that whole groups of deserters were gone.

Strun understood the ramifications of losing these rats in the context of the Sorceress' promise to the Khan. Even after the blood-boiling showing by Saran, there were those among the Clans whose only desire was sole survival. Now that they'd been given food and water, these vermins saw the Sorceress' inexplicable generosity as something to be exploited rather than respected.

Reaching into his sand cloak, Strun withdrew twin daggers forged from tempered Afaa al-Halak teeth.

Even with the Elementals burning their homes and caging their people, why was it that rats like these existed everywhere, in every Clan? Could they not understand that a small act of selfishness could mean the extinction of their siblings, Elders and children?

If not, then Strun would relieve them of the gift of wisdom the Old Ones had bestowed upon the Rat-folk.

And if they did comprehend and yet refuse to live as honourable rats.

Then Strun would teach them how to die as mice.