Engines of Chaos

by R.S. Ford

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Dragons & Mythical Creatures; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

"Perfect for fans of Brent Weeks, George R. R. Martin, or David Gemmell . . . . The best traditional epic fantasy I have read in years." — Grimdark Magazine on Engines of Empire

“An excellent start to a new series: fast-paced and engaging, with a properly epic setting and a cast of characters I look forward to seeing more of.” – James Islington, author of The Shadow of What Was Lost on Engines of Empire

From an unmissable voice in epic fantasy comes the second novel in a trilogy where guilds clash, magic fuels machines, and an empire begins a revolution.

Torwyn burns as Sanctan Egelrath tightens his grip on power. The Draconate Ministry has gathered its forces, determined to eradicate the Guilds, but Rosomon Hawkspur still stands in their way. 

Her only hope could lay with Lancelin Jagdor, sent to gather allies in their struggle against the usurper. Can even the greatest warrior in Torwyn hope to succeed with so many adversaries determined to stop him?

Tyreta returns home with newfound strength and mysterious sorcerous abilities, only to discover it is not the land she left behind. She will have to call upon her untested powers to survive when she embarks on a mission that could turn the tide of war. 

Conall, trapped in a dangerous land, has his own enemies to defeat before he can hope to escape and join the conflict that threatens his family. Even if he succeeds, he must overcome the demons that threaten from within or face damnation. 

Though Rosomon is vastly outnumbered, and her family lost, she is determined to strike back against her enemies. But saving her homeland might prove an impossible task.

“Epic fantasy fans listen up: This is the good stuff. Highly recommended.” —Kirkus (starred review) on Engines of Empire

For more from R. S. Ford, check out:

Age of Uprising:
Engines of Empire
Engines of Chaos

Release date: April 4, 2023

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 608

Sample

An ashen sky hung ominously over the choppy waves of the Dargulf Sea. A storm had been threatening for the past two days, the wind whipping the cliffs to the east with intermittent fury, but so far no rain. One mercy at least.

Rosomon gripped her cloak tight about her shoulders as they made their way north. It was drab brown, with no embroidery or markings. Nothing to identify her as Guildmaster of the Hawkspurs nor show she was anything but a traveller on the coast road.

For two days they had skirted the towns and villages that dotted the coastline, desperate not to be seen. They were hiding like rats from a lantern, and she was haunted by that shame, but it was the only way they might get to Wyke without incident. If the Ministry knew where she was, they would send an army to stop her, and so she walked an unfamiliar path in unfamiliar garb, surrounded by allies she barely knew.

The Titanguard had already proven themselves loyal, but they were her brother’s bodyguard, not hers. Could she really trust them to serve her in the coming war? So far she had seen little reason to doubt them.

A dozen warriors shadowed her at all times, walking in tight ranks, each one a doleful giant. They wore no armour and carried scavenged weapons, but still managed to look imperious as they strode through the bleak elements. Rosomon could sense their loss—they had been tasked with protecting an emperor, trained to the peak of martial prowess, and bestowed with the mightiest trappings he could offer. In return they had failed him. Allowed him to die at the hands of a usurper. Rosomon knew all too well how they felt. She could have saved her brother if only she had uncovered Sanctan’s betrayal sooner. Now all she had left was grief and hate, and a bitter thirst to avenge her slain brother.

It was a unique agony. An ache from what she had lost, mixed with a sense of foreboding at what she would have to do. Could she really order these men to sacrifice themselves and strike back at the heart of the Ministry? Could she lead them in war?

She was a skilled administrator, used to organising scouts and functionaries, but she was no general. Rosomon needed someone with her who could guide her through this. Someone who had fought a dozen battles and risen victorious from every one. She needed Lancelin.

But Lancelin was not here.

She had sent him away once again, just when she needed him the most. Were he by her side, surely this task would be bearable. But no one was here. There would be no guidance, no help. This was a task for Rosomon alone, and she would rise to it or perish. All she could do was remind herself that she was the daughter of Treon Archwind, the man who had raised Torwyn out of the dirt and forged it into an empire. Her only hope was to seize his legacy and believe he was with her, at least in spirit.

Too much had already been lost. Her sleep was plagued by visions of Fulren, of his final moments on the Bridge of Saints, sacrificing himself so the rest of them could escape. Rosomon had tried her best to rid herself of the memories, but it was an impossible feat. More than once she had hidden her face within the hood of her drab cloak and wept. Mercifully, if any of her guardians had noticed her misery, none had mentioned it.

Of Tyreta and Conall there was still no word. Every morning she had risen hoping a Hawkspur scout would return with her daughter. When they were finally united, at least a portion of her loss would be gone. As yet, there was nothing.

As for Conall—brave, handsome Conall—there had likewise been no news. Was he even now a prisoner? Had Sanctan’s agents captured him? Were they torturing him as punishment for her defiance?

Rosomon gritted her teeth, clenching her fists, willing the tears away.

“My lady.”

She started at the voice, forcing back her emotions, desperately trying to stay in control of them as she turned to see the brawny frame of Ianto Fray. He stood like a statue against the grey skies, his square features regarding her solemnly. The hair was growing unruly on his head and chin, but the young Titanguard still looked every inch the disciplined soldier. Despite the elements, he wore no cloak, his bare arms bulging from the beaten-leather vest he wore over his torso. It was scant armour compared to what he was used to, a garment more suited to the training yard, the cog of Archwind embossed on the chest. Where previously he would have been bedecked in the stoutest battle armour the artificers of Archwind could craft, now he stood half-naked against the wind. More evidence of how far they had all fallen.

“Yes, Ianto,” Rosomon replied, relieved that her voice did not reflect her fragile state.

“The hour grows late, Lady Rosomon. It would be wise for us to pitch camp close to those woods.”

He gestured inland at a thick copse of trees. It would provide shelter from the sea wind and shield them from view of anyone travelling the road.

“Of course,” she replied.

Before she could give the order, Ianto turned to his men, signalling them toward the trees. They helped the few artificers travelling with them, steering their wagon from the road, pulled by the sullen mule they had borrowed from a farm in the marches.

Ianto stood by her side and they watched their tiny army move toward the woods. It was some relief to have the young Titanguard beside her. He was barely Tyreta’s age, yet here he was, commanding men. It reminded Rosomon how she had to adapt if she was to lead this resistance. They had no idea what awaited them in Wyke and she had no army to fight with, other than a score of disgraced warriors. It seemed a lost cause, but she could not give in yet.

“You keep these men in good order, Ianto,” Rosomon said as they watched the ramshackle army disappear into the wood. “Command much respect, despite your youth.”

“I was trained in logistics and battlefield tactics from a young age, my lady. The Imperator Dominus was about to recommend me for advancement. Before…”

Ianto stopped. Rosomon already knew what he was about to say. Mallum Kairns, Imperator Dominus of the Titanguard, was dead. Sacrificed just as Fulren was. With his master, Emperor Sullivar, also slain, the notion of progressing through the ranks was meaningless.

“We will rise again, Ianto,” she said. “And you will have your chance to avenge those you have lost.”

She may as well have been talking to herself. Persuading herself it was true. Perhaps by saying the words to Ianto it would somehow make them all the more prophetic.

“This is all I deserve,” Ianto said, still staring at the wood, now their column had disappeared into it. “We failed him. I failed him.”

Rosomon glanced up at this warrior, this boy with such a weight on his shoulders. It made her feel suddenly guilty for her own indulgence. She was a Guildmaster, born to her responsibility, trained to take on the mantle of leadership. Here was a boy, carrying the burden of the Titanguard, and yet he did not shirk it.

“We have not failed him yet,” Rosomon said, making her way from the road, toward the trees. “This is a long way from over.”

Ianto followed close behind. Having the young Titanguard nearby made her suddenly feel less alone. Less vulnerable. When she saw their camp being so efficiently erected, for the first time she began to believe that maybe they did have a chance. Their number was small, but surely help was coming. Marshal Rawlin might yet bring more Armiger Battalions loyal to the Guilds. Lancelin could persuade Wymar Ironfall and his Blackshields to join them. Emony might even bring her father and the Marrlock Guild. She was right to say this was far from over. Rosomon had to cling to the hope that it had barely begun.

She made her way through the camp, and each Titanguard she passed stood at attention, offering a nod before going back to their work. Likewise the artificers offered her a deep bow of respect. Rosomon felt undeserving of it. She had yet to prove she was a leader worth following.

Just as she began to think there would be nothing for her to do but collapse beneath a tree and try to sleep, she heard harsh, whispered voices from across the camp. Two artificers stood at the rear of their wagon, arguing in an animated fashion. Perhaps she should have let them play out their quarrel, but she could already see they were drawing gazes from the rest of the men. Such disharmony couldn’t be allowed to continue.

“It has to be kept covered,” one of the artificers hissed as she drew closer. He was tiny, with wispy grey hairs poking from beneath a cloth skullcap. “Or the steel will rust.”

The second artificer raised his hands in consternation, his portly figure quivering in his frustration. “The pyrestone needs to breathe,” he spat beneath gritted teeth. “Leave the cover off.”

“What is going on here?” Rosomon asked.

Both men turned, their expressions changing from annoyance to shame when they saw who had interrupted their dispute. The one with the skullcap wrenched it from his head and both men bowed.

“Just a minor disagreement on the storage of equipment, my lady,” said the portlier artificer. “Our short supply of pyrestone has to be left uncovered in these conditions. Otherwise the damp confinement will cause it to degrade.”

It wasn’t any theory Rosomon had heard before. As far as she knew pyrestone was a robust power source, and she had organised its supply and transportation across the whole of Torwyn. Still, it wouldn’t do to promote disunity within her ranks.

“Very well,” she said. “Then I suggest you remove it from the cart and cover the rest of the equipment.”

It appeared neither man had considered that as an option.

As one artificer went about struggling with a small crate of stones, the other placed his skullcap back on his head.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

The artificer looked surprised at her sudden interest in him. “Er… Kerrick, my lady. Philbert Kerrick.”

“Do you have a breakdown of supplies, Philbert? What resources do we have left?”

Philbert looked forlornly at the back of the wagon. There was an array of metal devices of varying shapes and sizes. “This is all the ordnance we have left. Several charges, a few splintbows and perhaps enough equipment to jury-rig a cannon or two.” He looked embarrassed at the paltry display. “I am sorry, my lady.”

“Don’t be,” Rosomon replied, though her heart sank a little at the news. “It isn’t your fault.”

“But I am sure once we get to Wyke you will be able to provide all the equipment we need to arm the Titanguard,” he added.

Rosomon wasn’t so sure. “We should have plenty of stores. But even so, all the artifice in Torwyn won’t help us against the Hallowhill Guild. I watched four of them bring down an entire squad of Titanguard with little effort.”

She was thinking out loud, spreading her own doubts among her followers. Treon Archwind would never have shared his fears with subordinates. Some general she was turning out to be.

Philbert’s face twisted into a pained expression, his brow furrowing. “With the webwainers united against us, it does pose a significant problem. We can construct all the weapons we want, armour the Titanguard and make them battle-ready, but yes, the Hallowhills will render our artifice useless. Perhaps even use it against us.”

“I hope there’s a but coming, Philbert.”

“Indeed,” the artificer said, nodding his skullcapped head. “The Merigots, my lady.”

“The what?”

“Lysander and Nicosse. The most infamous artificers in all Torwyn. I’m surprised you’ve not heard of them.” He waited for a response. When Rosomon provided none, he continued. “The brothers Merigot were widely known to have developed a range of experimental artifice resistant to webwainer influence. Unfortunately their results were… unstable at best. Lethal at worst. I believe it was your father who deemed their studies too dangerous to continue, but there is a chance they can still help.”

“And where are these Merigot brothers now?”

Philbert bit his lip, then shrugged. “I am sorry, my lady. They have not been heard from in years. After their experiments were effectively prohibited, both of them left the service of the Archwind Guild.”

Rosomon did her best to supress a sigh. “I appreciate the history lesson, Philbert. But it doesn’t help our current situation.”

Philbert lowered his eyes. “My apologies.”

“No. You have my thanks,” Rosomon said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You all do.”

She turned, seeing Ianto waiting faithfully behind her. A man she would need. A man they would all need.

“Come,” she ordered, and made her way across the camp.

Ianto followed her toward the rest of the Titanguard. They had erected their camp and built a small fire. Each one sat in brooding silence, sharpening weapons, polishing shields or dressing the wounds they had suffered at the Anvil with clean bandages.

When Rosomon appeared from the dark of the wood, the men stood to attention. They had been her brother’s loyal bodyguard. Now she had to know if they could be hers.

“We have suffered a great loss,” she announced. “Yet still you have all fought bravely. None of you should feel any shame. The emperor would be proud of each and every one of you. I know it is a lot to ask, but I now hope that you will follow me in Sullivar’s stead. I—”

Before she could continue, every one of them dropped to one knee, bowing their heads before her. These were the best-trained warriors in all Torwyn, and now they offered their fealty to her. It was a start. It was hope.

“Ianto Fray,” she said. “Rise.”

The young Titanguard stood obediently. “Yes, my lady.”

Rosomon took a breath before she continued, hoping this was her right, not knowing if it was even her place to command these men.

“The Imperator Dominus gave his life so that we might carry on the fight. Mallum Kairns was a hero of the Titanguard. Were he here, I have no doubt he would have raised you to the rank of imperator and that responsibility now falls to me. Do you accept the honour?”

Ianto bowed his head. “I do, Lady Rosomon.”

A wave of relief washed over her. Twenty loyal men did not seem like much, but it was all she had. The reprieve did not last, as one of the artificers rushed through the darkening wood.

The Titanguard rose to their feet as the man drew closer, gathering his breath.

“The road…” he breathed. “You need to see.”

Rosomon made her way across the camp, the Titanguard following at her shoulder as she neared the edge of the tree line and squinted across the open ground. The sky was dimming beyond the cliff edge, but in the waning light she could see a trail of figures making their way south along the coast road. Many carried belongings in sacks, or crates strapped to their backs. Others carried their children, or pulled them wearily alongside. Rosomon didn’t recognise any faces, but instinctively she knew where they had travelled from… Wyke. Her city.

She struck out from the copse. One of the Titanguard whispered for her to be cautious, but she ignored him, crossing the open ground to the road. Face after face regarded her with a woeful expression, but none of them knew her. Perhaps that was a mercy. Would they have blamed her for this? Spat in her face and cursed the Guilds to the Lairs? Had they been driven from their homes at swordpoint? Had there been violence? Slaughter?

As Rosomon stood, not knowing what to do, a woman broke from the crowd. She wore a plain travelling cloak, but beneath she was dressed in the tan leather uniform of a Talon scout, the Hawkspur symbol adorning her chest.

“Lady Rosomon,” she said, kneeling down and bowing her head.

Rosomon grasped the scout’s arm and pulled her to her feet. All this kneeling was growing tiresome. Perhaps later she’d instruct everyone to show their respect in a less formal manner.

“What word from Wyke?” Rosomon asked.

“The city is taken, my lady. The Ursus Battalion marched upon us two days ago. A huge force. We could not hope to resist. They have imprisoned many of the Talon, but allowed anyone else who wished it to leave. Wyke belongs to the Ministry now.”

Rosomon felt stinging bile rise in her throat. The hope that she might be able to take Wyke swiftly and establish a base from which to strike back at Sanctan was now dashed.

“I am sorry, my lady.” The scout looked close to tears. “There was nothing—”

“What is your name?” Rosomon asked.

“Lieutenant Faiza, my lady.” The woman swallowed down her emotions, her jaw tightening.

“Thank you for your report, Lieutenant.” Rosomon gestured toward the wooded glade. “Go to my camp. Get some rest. I will need your help soon enough.”

The scout nodded and made her way toward the trees.

“What now?” asked Ianto. Her new imperator. His voice was without emotion and he offered no suggestions. Despite the training he had been given in tactics, it was clear he had no solution to this problem. It left Rosomon with no doubt as to who was in charge.

“Now?” she replied, trying to quell her fear. Letting her anger take over. Perhaps that was the wrong thing, but she was sure her father would have approved. “Now we rest.” Her eyes fell on the trail of refugees, making their way south to nowhere safe. “Tomorrow we continue to Wyke.”

The mirror was cracked, adding myriad facets to her face, but as Tyreta stared it wasn’t the shattered image that made her appear strange. She looked closer, shifting her balance instinctively as the cabin lurched on yet another turbulent wave. In the mirror, her eye stared back. Someone else’s eye. Something else.

Tyreta reached up, pulling down her lower lid. Her iris was no longer deep brown but pale green, with a dark ring about its edge. The pupil had grown elliptical, a sharp vertical slash of black staring back at her like an animal. As the sun flashed in through the window it suddenly dilated, returning to a tiny black circle.

She took a step back, trying not to contemplate what might be happening. Was this another side effect of the Lokai ritual? Was her body undergoing more change than just the scars and tattoos that marked her flesh?

As she turned from the mirror, Cat stirred in the corner of the room. When they’d first debarked from the Sundered Isles, the panther had mewled in panic, the journey across the Redwind Straits making her crouch and shiver in fear. In time, Tyreta had managed to soothe her new companion, and now she lounged in the corner of the cabin, licking her fur like any house pet. Before Tyreta could approach and make a fuss of her, there was a shout from on deck. They were nearing land.

Tyreta shouldered her bow, grabbing the quiver from where it lay on the bed and strapping it about her waist. A dozen arrows protruded from it, fletched in yellow, blue and red. Crenn had done her proud, crafting each arrowhead with a pyrestone from the ship’s stores. She already knew what could be achieved with the five blue and five yellow arrows. They would react to her command with devastating effect. Crenn had also crafted two arrows from red pyrestone, but Tyreta wasn’t quite so sure what she might do with those. Red pyrestone was used as a regulator in traditional artifice, able to store and distribute power in more complicated machinery. What Tyreta might be able to do with it was a mystery, but as they approached land she was sure there’d be an opportunity to find out.

“Come,” she said to Cat, grasping the spear Crenn had made for her. Its steel head was fixed with pyrestone of all three colours. So far she hadn’t dared test what power she could conjure at the head of that weapon.

When she climbed out onto the deck, the sky was clear, the sun brightening up a windy day as the ship cruised toward the port of Candlehope. It looked majestic in the distance, its spires built atop a huge cliff with buildings spreading down toward the seafront. Any other day, Tyreta would have been filled with joy at seeing it. At arriving home. Not this day.

The Ministry had risen up and stolen power from the Guilds. What that meant for her and her family, she could only guess. Either way, they had to approach with caution. The ship’s captain had already taken down the Hawkspur colours that flew proudly at the bow and replaced them with the flag of any other merchantman that sailed across the straits. There was no telling what might await them when they reached the dock, and right now anonymity would serve them better than Guild pennants.

Part of Tyreta hoped there would be someone waiting to arrest her and take her off to a Ministry gaol. At least then she would have a chance to vent her burgeoning frustration, to fight back, make a stand, but that would have been a stupid waste. She had to think. Had to discover how the land lay. Most pressing of all, she had to find her mother.

It would have stuck in her throat were she forced to admit it, but Tyreta knew they had to be reunited. Yes they’d had their differences, yes the great Lady Rosomon had always treated her like an obsolete part in some machine, but they were family. A family under threat. She could only hope her mother had managed to escape the coup and was even now fighting back against the Ministry.

“Are you sure about this?”

The voice was raised above the wind. Tyreta turned to see the ship’s captain standing next to her. His brow was furrowed as he glared across the water toward Candlehope. He had abandoned his Hawkspur uniform just as the ship had abandoned its colours.

In truth, Tyreta wasn’t sure about anything. “I think this is the safest way.”

“We can still turn north. Head straight to Wyke.”

Tyreta shook her head. “Wyke will be the first place the Ministry attacks if my mother has managed to raise any opposition to them. It’s safer for us to land here. I can make the rest of the journey north in secret.”

That seemed the most sensible option, but in truth, Tyreta didn’t even know whether her mother was already a captive of the Ministry. Locked away in a dungeon or being paraded by her captors as some kind of prize.

“Very well,” he replied. “We’ll approach with caution. But if there’s Drakes waiting for us at the dock, I doubt there’ll be much I can do to protect you.”

“Let me worry about Drakes,” Tyreta replied, half hoping they were waiting. At least then she’d find out if her new weapons were as powerful as she anticipated.

The captain nodded his agreement, and no sooner had he left than Crenn came to join her at the prow. Cat sniffed absently at the old artificer’s boots, but he made no sign that it worried him. He’d grown used to the panther’s attentions, and she was almost as much his pet as Tyreta’s.

“What do you think’s waiting?” Tyreta asked as Candlehope loomed over them, its spires casting a long shadow from up on the cliff.

“Well, it won’t be bunting and a parade,” Crenn replied.

That was true enough. As they cruised into the vast circular dock there didn’t seem to be much of anything at all awaiting them. Where normally there’d be dockworkers and fishermen going about their business, now there was nothing but empty vessels and abandoned machinery. Loading equipment sat unused and impotent. Every sail on every moored ship was furled.

In the distance Tyreta spied two signallers from the port authority waving their flags, guiding the ship to an empty jetty. They cruised ashore, the mariners making short work of throwing mooring ropes onto the harbourside and securing the vessel in position. As soon as the gangplank was lowered, the captain made his way from the ship to where the harbourmaster waited on the jetty.

“Let’s go,” Tyreta whispered to Crenn, as the captain began to talk in a heated manner about delays at sea and the recent storm.

They walked by as casually as they could manage, hearing mention of ships being impounded, of orders sent directly from the Anvil, of Armiger Battalions and Ministry decrees. Her heart sank as she made her way across the dock, Cat close to her knee, Crenn right behind her. At every step she expected to be stopped by an armed guard or Armiger trooper, but no one stood in her way. It seemed with the erosion of Guild power, the authorities of Candlehope had simply given up. The entire administrative structure of the port had just drifted away into the sea like so much flotsam.

The path from the dock led up through rising levels, a wide stone staircase carving its way through bare rock toward the city on the clifftop. Where there should have been gaggles of fishermen and traders, a route bustling with activity, there was nothing but empty cages for lobster and crab, and piles of abandoned netting. The arm of a huge crane hung limp over the edge of the upper level, the gate to the harbour standing open for anyone to wander through.

Once out on the streets of the port, Tyreta saw a little more activity. A group of drunken fishermen loitered on a street corner, engaged in an animated conversation about the damned Guilds and the damned Ministry. The voices of men arguing about permits and licenses of marque grew shriller the farther Tyreta walked into the city. Every eye fell on them as they made their way into the press of streets, and at any moment Tyreta expected someone to point and shout, There goes Tyreta Hawkspur.

“We need to get off the streets,” she said to Crenn. “I’m drawing too much attention.”

“You?” Crenn asked. “Or her?” He pointed at Cat as she stalked along beside them, head moving curiously from left to right.

“Yeah,” Tyreta admitted with a little relief it wasn’t just her. “Could be that.”

“Maybe if we put her on a leash, it might make folk feel more comfortable.”

The notion didn’t sit right with Tyreta. “If you want to try and put a leash on her, be my guest.”

Crenn clearly didn’t think it a good idea after all, and regarded Cat with a wary look before carrying on with a shrug.

The atmosphere on the streets of Candlehope grew ever more tense the farther they went. People were packing belongings and gathering their families in the streets. Carts were being loaded and horses yoked. When there was no horse to tether, anything with wheels would do to carry what possessions they could.

Tyreta glanced across the rooftops, searching for the Hawkspur passage depot. In the distance, beyond the tightly packed houses, she spied the tall aerie that overlooked the city. It did not quite reach up to the city’s highest spires, but it was a large enough building to roost half a dozen eagles.

She led Crenn and Cat across the city, quickening their pace but falling short of running. It wouldn’t do to bring attention to themselves, despite how distracted the city folk were acting. When they saw the entrance to the depot up ahead, Tyreta didn’t allow herself to relax. There was no telling what might be awaiting them inside.

The main gate was open; a nervous-looking sentry stood barring the way. His leggings were of Hawkspur blue but his jacket had been discarded in favour of a plain white shirt. Clearly he was reluctant to openly display where his loyalties lay.

“I need to get inside,” Tyreta said as she stopped outside the depot.

The sentry looked her up and down. He was barely older than she was, and his annoyance at her demand was clearly written on his pinched features.

“Depot is closed. Best you move along,” he replied, before noticing Cat lurking behind Tyreta’s knees. He took a step back in surprise but he still blocked the way.

Crenn leaned in. “Lady Tyreta. I think we should make our way out of the city with all haste.”

The sentry’s expression changed immediately. “L-Lady Tyreta? You’re Tyreta Hawkspur. Of course you can come in. My apologies, I didn’t recognise you looking like…”

He motioned to her civilian dress. Tyreta realised how wise it had been to change out of the animal skins given to her by the Lokai.

Beyond him, she could see there was little activity through the open gate. Normally a depot like this would have been a hive of activity.

“What’s happening?” Tyreta repeated. “Why does this place look abandoned?”

The sentry glanced in through the depot doors before turning with a shrug. “We are clearing out, my lady. An Armiger Battalion has been sighted on the road to the city. Under the circumstances, the lieutenant has ordered us to empty the depot and make our way north to Wyke.”

“This Armiger Battalion. Who are they loyal to?”

The sentry shrugged again. “We don’t know.”

“Might it have been a good idea to find out before you abandoned your posts?” she said, trying not to lose her temper with this lowly functionary. “We are a Guild of scouts, after all.”

Her frustration got the better of her before he could answer, and she pushed her way through the gate, closely followed by Cat and Crenn. The sentry gave a frightened murmur as he skittered from the panther’s path. Inside, the depot was all but deserted. There were less than a handful of horses still in the stable, and every administrator and scout looked to have already fled. Before she could think to shout for attention, she heard a voice echo from one of the offices.

“Don’t you know who he is, you fucking dimwit? He’s a bloody Marrlock heir.”

It was a woman, surly and loud. In reply there was another voice, this one somewhat quieter, and Tyreta struggled to make out his words.

She crossed the courtyard toward the office. As