"My lord, we have already located the capital of the Aneites, the one the locals call Dalux."

  The messenger had dismounted from his horse and was still panting, yet he looked satisfied to have finally delivered the message.

  Meten, who at that moment was mounted on his black stallion—his favorite—had told him to stand up and suggested they take a ride around the outskirts of the camp. At last, he would be rich. At last, he would gain access to the treasure that would make him an immortal being. Now all that remained was to advance.

  "Are the troops already gathering?"

  Now that the emissary had caught his breath a little, he spoke with more confidence.

  "Yes, my lord. They are coming here in great haste, though many men will be delayed. The locals have placed false markers all across the country, and many of our men have been misled and ridden off toward remote areas. Still, it is only a matter of time before they find us."

  Meten nodded, satisfied.

  In the distance, tall groves gleamed beneath the afternoon sun, while the wide road along which the steppe leader advanced raised clouds of dust beneath the hooves of the mounts. Around him, several bodyguards protected their leader, keeping a prudent distance so as not to overhear his conversation.

  Although the heat remained an annoyance, the rains had subsided, and the roads were finally passable. Fortune was turning in his favor. Despite the fact that many of his squadrons were still isolated in different parts of Anen, it was only a matter of time before they retraced their steps and reunited in the center of the country, where its rich capital awaited them. Moreover, there had been no recent reports of nighttime deaths among his ranks. The ghosts that had haunted his men from the shadows had finally vanished, allowing the Klurzites to continue their campaign of destruction.

  The nomads, while they respected the dense jungles that grew more numerous as they advanced southward, had continued the typical devastation they inflicted upon every sedentary land they sought to invade: the extermination of villagers and the widespread burning of crop fields, the destruction of mills, granaries, and infrastructure in general, as well as the poisoning of wells and the theft or slaughter of livestock, depending on what each troop leader deemed convenient at the moment of assault.

  Agriculture is your downfall, my lords, Meten thought. While the Klurzites had to contend with the constant movement of their people according to the whims of the steppe’s climate, they were not anchored to a fixed place, which spared them from the sad fate of their enemies: being a large, easy target. Furthermore, their ranks were not composed of clumsy peasants or the effeminate men of the cities, but of warriors in potential—men who knew how to ride immense distances, shoot a bow at full gallop, and fight hand to hand when necessary. They were real men. A new country that learns pure masculinity through destruction, he thought. Sooner or later, they will rise as a true people.

  Meten felt like one of those shamans or priests who traveled from village to village bearing messages of conversion. They used words for the necessary transformation of their potential followers. His vehicle, by contrast, was arrows and swords. Only that way do they truly learn.

  "You have done a good job, soldier. You may go and rest now. We depart at dawn tomorrow. Tell your companions."

  "Yes, sir."

  The messenger rode off at a gallop toward the camp. His mount, despite having traversed the impassable paths of that semi-jungle valley at full speed, seemed unscathed. We have the best cavalry in the world, without a shadow of a doubt. I am the strongest rider and warrior among my people. When I become immortal, I will be unstoppable.

  "Then stop dreaming and get to work."

  There it was again—the irritating voice in his head.

  "This time, not even you will be able to sour my mood, old man. Real men endure bad times with temperance and prepare for good ones with open arms."

  "I am not saying otherwise, but instead of indulging in your daydreams, you should be analyzing your final assault. After all, Dalux is no small thing."

  Though the voice of the soul that dwelled within Meten’s sword—and within his mind—tried to sound neutral, emotion clearly vibrated within it. He is as bloodthirsty as I am, Meten thought, hungry for blood and destruction. I wonder how he would act if he could inhabit the body of one of my strong men. Sooner or later we would end up killing each other. No—I would kill him. My power is greater than anyone’s.

  Despite his confidence, Meten pulled on the reins of his stallion and headed toward the camp. Once inside his main tent, he unfolded the map of the imperial capital upon the wooden table.

  Dalux was a colossal city built upon a great lake, its various districts connected by bridges of stone and obsidian, according to reports from the locals. At its center rose a massive pyramid, surrounded by a fortified citadel that could withstand months—if not years—of siege even after the rest of the city had fallen into the hands of invaders.

  Meten felt a hollow in his chest as he understood that the place was entirely against him. Though his riders fought like none other in open fields—and even in forests and jungles like those infesting that country—sieging cities was not their strength. Add water at its edges, and matters grew even more complicated. His shamans distrusted that element as the most deceitful of demons.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  But great conquerors were those who overcame obstacles they had never faced before.

  "That’s right," said the voice in his head. "It seems that spending so much time with me is finally making you clever. The intelligence of thinking beings such as humans or elves is the tool that allows one to overcome new problems and prosper."

  "Problems like being trapped in a piece of tin?"

  The jab seemed to land, for the mage dwelling within his sword fell silent. Meten had discovered that his weakness lay in being a prisoner—utterly dependent.

  Yet outwitting the ingenuity of the dead mage who spoke to him whenever his sword was near did not change the fact that an open siege of Dalux was an extraordinarily complex stratagem, one that could annihilate a large portion of his troops.

  Still, the steppe leader studied the cultivated fields surrounding the capital, which would suffer the same fate as the northern settlements in the coming days. If he could not breach their walls, then he would starve them out—even if it took years.

  But time is precisely what I do not have, he recalled with dread. I will have to negotiate, or pretend to, while my hosts continue advancing southward and uncover other weak points of the empire.

  This was where the intelligence and creativity his sword spoke of had to come into play. He would have to adapt to the current circumstances.

  "Problems do nothing but increase your intelligence, my lord. You should be grateful that not everything is so easy." The voice disturbed him once more. Meten was growing tired of it.

  "I hate that you keep interrupting my thoughts. In fact, I hate having someone who can read them. You are earning yourself a place buried in the mud, old scoundrel, sealing your fate."

  A laugh echoed inside his skull.

  "And yours," said the voice in his mind. "You know you depend entirely on me to achieve your goals. Our partnership is completely interdependent."

  The steppe general began pacing around the tent to reorganize his thoughts, and despite the surge of anger threatening to overwhelm him, he restrained himself and spoke in a low voice. Rumors in the camp that the chief was going mad were already spreading too much for his liking.

  "That is what you want me to believe, old madman. But I am beginning to think your strategy is to make me believe that and lead me into a trap."

  "If it were not for me, the prophecy of your death would have already been fulfilled—you know that better than anyone. My strategic counsel is what keeps you alive, and what is about to grant you access to eternal youth. You and I will be unstoppable… together. I only need you to survive, or else, as you say, I will remain confined to this sword for the rest of my days, and someone less… competent might claim it."

  The cursed old man is playing with me, Meten thought grimly. Now he seeks to inflate my ego so that I will not discard him.

  "Give me one good reason not to get rid of you. You know there are many swords just as effective at killing… and quieter."

  "True, but none of them will help you conquer Dalux. Understand this: I possess the knowledge of hundreds of years lived, and all of that knowledge will be lost if you choose to be rid of me."

  "That is what you boast, but I know little of your background. What makes you as great as you claim?"

  The voice in his mind sighed. Yet Meten sensed it was eager to tell its story.

  "For several centuries I ruled a small, ugly, swampy city that nonetheless became a global empire… until a curse my enemies treacherously and cowardly cast upon me relegated me to this weapon."

  "How does one control the world from a place like that?"

  "With the right strategies—the same ones that are now leading you to the heart of the most powerful empire of these times."

  "Of these times? How long ago did you live in the body of a man, according to the tales with which you try to deceive me?"

  Though Meten kept his gaze fixed upon the map of the region his men had entered, his mind was immersed in the story his sword—sheathed on the other side of the tent—was telling him.

  "Three thousand years. A little more."

  "Well… that is a long time to be trapped in a cold piece of metal."

  "It is, though ceaseless reflection can grant many benefits, such as supernatural intelligence."

  "Why did you end up like this?"

  "I have already told you… I was betrayed, and I must admit, I grew careless… but since then my knowledge has never stopped growing, and that knowledge will now be your power, if you choose to wield it wisely."

  Meten did not know what to believe. On the one hand, what the old mage had told him so far was true: his counsel had brought him to the brink of dismantling a powerful empire and, above all, had kept him alive despite the dire prophecy of his death. On the other hand, he was leading him into exceedingly dangerous terrain. The Aneites had subjugated many lands under their yoke, and they would not surrender easily—especially not to an army ill-suited for besieging their capital.

  "And what happened to your… city, and the supposed empire you built?"

  "In time it vanished, but it laid firm foundations for the world in which you now live. Though you and your men know little of the vast seas that surround the world—for you have always ridden upon your endless steppe and the valleys around it—the truth is that these seas have been the main link between the various peoples and races that inhabit the world."

  "And how did an old wizard in a swamp come to control them?"

  "Strategy, my lord. Your strategy, as you rightly thought earlier, is based on destruction and the rule of the sword… mine was commerce and just laws. We granted sailors the opportunity to build powerful enterprises in exchange for fair interest, and together we prospered… until the orcs arrived and razed everything. It was then that I managed to save my soul and bind it to this sword. Such knowledge simply could not be lost."

  "So much knowledge?"

  "Indeed, young lord. You cannot imagine the number of books and scrolls I absorbed in those times, in addition to the lived experience of effective rule across centuries."

  Meten could sense that what the voice told him was true, though he could not grasp how simple scrolls could bestow such great power—enough to transgress the principles of time itself. He barely knew how to read and had always ruled men through example and justice, as well as fear and force. Yet somehow the words drew him in like honey.

  "And what good did your books do you? Now you depend on a shepherd who rose above his station." The Klurzite chieftain took pride in his humble origins. Every good warrior of the steppe had, at some point, devoted himself to the simple breeding of horses and the humblest labors. They were men of integrity both in battle and beyond.

  "I am still alive. And I can use the knowledge I gained to elevate those around me. That is what makes a man great, my lord of the steppes."

  "How do I know you are not deceiving me? Your words make sense, but such power can be intimidating. I think it best to rid myself of you before anyone else can obtain something so great."

  "If you are wise enough, you will keep this power now that it lies in your hands. In doing so, you ensure that no one else will ever possess it."

  It is true, Meten sighed. We shall see, old man. For now I will keep you in my hands—but when the time comes, I will rid myself of you, as one does of an old, useless horse.