At last we’ve found a decent place, Meten thought, while his men set up camp in a jungle clearing, very close to the northern border of Anen. Contrary to what he had expected, the last few weeks had been a nightmare.

  He tried to calm himself. Many of his men were turning up dead in the middle of the night—especially the sorcerers and the officers of his army’s squadrons—scattered across hundreds of leagues around him. The strangest thing was that the lower-ranking men, such as common riders and archers, were barely being attacked.

  “The troops are frightened, my lord,” Dede had told him two nights before. He was an old shaman who had ridden with him since childhood, one of his most trusted men, known among the warriors for being relentless but effective with his war prophecies. But at that moment, he looked as fearful as a fawn surrounded by wolves. “According to the spies, five leaders have already turned up dead. I’m starting to think that in this cursed land there are demons attacking us from the shadows.”

  “Nonsense, old man,” Meten had replied, irritated by the unbearable heat he had felt since crossing the border. Although he had been in many hot lands, including vast deserts, this was another level. The trees grew more abundant, and the paths narrower and muddier as his men pushed south. “They must be locals—vermin sneaking into the camp. It’s just a matter of increasing the patrols; it’s obvious the men have grown far too relaxed.”

  Some villagers they had tortured and interrogated in one of the sacked Aneite settlements spoke of enemy troops known as the soft-steppers, assassins trained to infiltrate enemy lines and slit the guards’ throats from behind. No doubt they were falling victim to those cowards… the strange thing was that the deaths had begun long before crossing the border. It was likely that those killers had ventured north to sabotage the advance early on, although his numerous riders should have spotted them at some point.

  “I will not retreat, shaman,” Meten said after hearing the same argument once more. According to the sorcerer, fear was spreading from the leaders of each squadron down to the soldiers, although the latter were hardly being attacked. Whoever the killers were, the steppe general refused to believe they were demons, though everything pointed to it. Demons or enemies, they were far too clever. They bothered only with killing the most seasoned warriors, riders hardened from devastating many countries alongside him. Despite the nuisance, his army kept advancing. They had already crossed into the most powerful country of the known world without facing any defenders, and they were about to enter its heartland and savour it like a peach. They would never have a better chance, and time was running out for Meten. “Although we’ve suffered cowardly attacks, we’ve barely felt them. Prepare more prophecy rituals, and for your own sake… make sure what the spirits of nature decree is favourable to our advance.”

  The old man sighed. He knew Chak Meten’s cruelty toward those who did not obey his commands. He knew that the long years he had served him would not prevent him from being hanged like the other unfortunates who failed, one way or another, to fall in line with his plans.

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  After the old man walked away with his wooden staff toward his tent, Meten allowed himself a moment of peace. His legs throbbed from the effort of the last two nights’ ride. They had advanced only a few leagues while waiting for further reports from the forces that had entered Anen first. But beyond that, he and his men needed rest. Travelling those narrow paths was exhausting for riders and mounts alike.

  Ever since they crossed the Chiba River—the natural border between Ilar and the imperial land—the heat and the fear of waking with their throats slit had become unbearable for his troops. Although Meten knew he still had enough men, many were deserting en masse, returning to Klurtz to join other hordes, afraid of being the next to wake up dead at the hands of the Night Demons.

  The general of the Accursed Horde sighed. They had come too far to turn back. He knew his men were exhausted, as he was, but pushing forward was their only option. Despite the grim news, a strange peace washed over him as he watched his men raise tents and wooden palisades in case an Aneite squadron attempted to surprise them. Though that was unlikely. Many scouts patrolled the surroundings and would raise the alarm at the slightest sign of enemy presence… and in any case, not a single enemy army had shown itself so far.

  Though it’s likely that in the heart of the country the Aneites are already gathering their forces, he thought, gloomily.

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  “There’s no need to worry. Our strategy is already yielding results,” said a familiar voice—familiar, yet far from pleasant to Meten. Though only he could hear it, he knew very well where it came from. Instinctively, he touched the iron sword hanging at his waist.

  “You again, you hunk of scrap.”

  “You wound me, my lord. You should show a bit of respect for the military genius whose plans are making your campaign of destruction work. Remember, you’re facing the most powerful empire in the world, striking through an unexpected route while their armies are hundreds of leagues away.”

  Meten sighed. The men around him kept working, oblivious to the strange mutterings that were becoming more frequent in their general. Although the riders of his private guard, who were patrolling nearby, did not dare look at him when he suddenly began talking to himself, he was already aware of the rumours.

  To avoid making them think he had lost his mind, he stepped into his tent. He’d be calmer there, though true calm was impossible with the sound of wood being chopped and men shouting as they raised the palisades. Less still with that ancient voice disturbing his every thought.

  “I was going to do that anyway, dead wizard. Though I can’t deny your strategy is paying off. Splitting my forces into mobile squadrons has let me scout the Aneite borders far more quickly than if I’d moved as a single army. But your plan has also turned out to be a double-edged sword. Strange demons are harassing my dispersed forces, killing the leaders and letting many of my men desert. Should I thank you for that as well, Lord Iron?”

  “I cannot deny that it’s become somewhat inconvenient. But it cannot be such a serious matter. Soon you’ll be able to order your forces to regroup when they near the major cities, and then strike like an iron fist. Time is on your side, which is what matters most. Isn’t that what you need above all, my lord—time?”

  Meten fell silent, trying to control his anger. That damned soul trapped in his weapon always managed to out-argue him. What unsettled him most was not knowing whether it truly stood by his side, or whether it used its ancient intelligence to lead him straight into the wolf’s jaws.

  To clear his mind, he stepped outside again to look over the camp. The defenses had advanced: the first defensive line was a belt of wagons stolen in Ilar, chained wheel to wheel. Between every two wagons was just enough room for an archer to peek out and shoot. Behind that improvised wall were the palisades, driven deep into the ground and almost finished. Behind the wall, the lower-ranking riders were finishing the shallow trenches meant to hinder any hypothetical enemy charge. After those defenses—erected in less than two days thanks to his warriors’ practiced ease—came the horde’s most valuable resource besides gold: the horses, the keystone of any steppe tribe. Each mount was saddled and fed, ready for a forced march at any moment.

  Last were the tents, arranged in concentric rings: those of higher rank in the inner circle, and of course Meten’s own in the very center, like a sun surrounded by stars. On the highest points stood the improvised towers: simple wooden tripods with permanent sentinels to warn of any disturbance on the horizon. There they would remain for the next five nights, until messages came from the other squadrons confirming that the paths ahead were safe.

  It was strange to see the relative calm of the camp beyond his tent, with the sun shining on the rain-soaked trees surrounding the elevated clearing where they had settled, while not far away his relentless hordes razed the Aneite villages and settlements left at their mercy—annihilating the local guards and villagers with cruelty, leaving nothing behind that might cause trouble when the time came to besiege the empire’s great cities.

  Meten walked toward the map he had taken from one of the devastated border villages. Although he did not understand the natives’ language, he could already identify on the old parchment the main cities pointed out by the tortured peasants.

  He had two options at that moment: direct his scattered forces eastward, toward the coastal cities, or westward, toward the rich inland granaries that awaited with their endless plunder. Although the latter path seemed shorter, it was actually much harder to traverse due to the dense forests and the risk of ambush.

  We’ll take the coastal road, he thought, studying the brown line that marked it on the parchment. It was a long road to travel. Distance won’t be a problem, though my men and shamans hate the Endless Blue Steppe—the accursed water the horses cannot drink, he thought, but it’s better to advance with some distrust than let what remains of Anen’s forces trap us in their cursed forests.

  His men were superstitious, but he had to lead them slowly toward pragmatism and military logic. His gaze fixed on the next major city along his chosen path: Panxian, a stronghold built atop a gigantic rock, said by the locals to be overflowing with treasures. It was ruled by a council of sorcerers, who would soon have their elegant robes filled with Klurtzite arrows.

  Beyond that, in the very center of the country, stood the final prize: Dalux, the gigantic metropolis built upon a lake and composed of hundreds of villages—settlements that over time had been devoured by the great city. Once destroyed and sacked by his ruthless warriors, not only Anen but all the nations under its yoke would fall. The empire would then change hands, and he would become the most powerful man in the world. An immortal emperor. Yes, I will escape the shadows of death.