According to Tessin Lin, a Great Council of the Tribes was to be held atop Mount Kayan in three days, some forty miles west along the Quartz Road. That distance was measured peak to peak, however, and didn’t account for the meandering path the road took. Ever since entering the high mountains, the caravan’s pace had ranged between twenty-five and thirty miles. Given the indirect travel, Gorb estimated the caravan couldn’t reach the council for six or seven days.

  The journey wasn’t possible.

  Gorb surprised everyone by suggesting they stow the carriage in the woods and cover it up with deadfall. Marek’s Haikini guest improved this plan by volunteering to grow a briar patch over the carriage instead. An hour after sunup, the group was heading west, all on horseback but for Gorb. Marek worried the golemite might slow them down, but the horses proved the limiting factor. Gorb trudged ahead at an incredible pace, tossing gravel and dust in all directions.

  Thankfully, Niamh provided a blessing to increase the stamina of the horses. Under these improved conditions, their journey became a race worthy of story or song. Yuze, riding behind Mags, added to the mythology of their feat by drugging his disciple with strong herbs. Mags’ legs were bound to the saddle, and Yuze held her tightly. A day and a half later, the old man announced the good news: Marigold Strongtower had purified her First Ring, preparing for the next tier of her ascension.

  Marek knew little about the ways of Cultivation. He’d come across a few passages that discussed those warriors who lived on the eastern side of the Rift. Not in a thousand years had they been spotted in the Coherent Realm, however, so most information was next to useless. Still, he’d heard of these so-called rings. Cultivators didn’t level like a Classed individual; instead, they enhanced their power by forging their core one layer at a time.

  Seeing Mags recover from a state of near-death alleviated Marek’s concerns. He still didn’t trust Yuze completely, but for some reason, Mags did. And that would have to be good enough.

  The group arrived at their destination two hours after nightfall on the second day of travel. They were nearly attacked on sight, but Gorb and Niamh’s presence stayed the hands of the Haikini sentries. All were made to wait outside the perimeter until someone of authority could verify their story. A war chief, his honor guard, and a High Priestess met with them soon after.

  Before any negotiation occurred, Tessin Lin once more proved invaluable. The little priestess rushed out from where she’d been hiding beside Marek and embraced the elegant Haikini woman. “Aunt Nabin! It’s me!”

  The High Priestess fell to her knees and embraced Tessin Lin. “You survived, my Tessin, but how?”

  The Briarmancer turned and pointed at Marek, who sat upon Ember Shade’s back. “He saved me. He’s dark and scary but good in his heart.”

  After the exchange, the Haikini allowed everyone inside. Their horses were led away to be groomed, tended by healers, and fed.

  Walking through the large encampment was disheartening. The number of allied warriors wasn’t nearly as great as it should have been. A large tent had been erected near the center, within which could be heard the groans of the injured and dying. Worse yet was the graveyard freshly dug. Dozens of mounds littered the ground, packed tightly together. The beast kin had suffered greatly, Haikini most of all, but the Druskin were the ones bearing the brunt of the Graysoul infestation.

  Marek didn’t want to consider how many on their side were dead and controlled by demons. He bowed to the recently fallen as the party passed before entering a tent where they could all eat and finally rest.

  The next morning, all awoke to attend the Great Council. Marek’s nerves were shot by the time the meeting began, his anxiety wearing on him even through the haze of indifference that cloaked him. Eight War Lords with accompanying High Priestesses attended, each pair representing the eight surviving tribes of the Haikini. Three Druskin War Lords had come as well. Only these had defected from the Graysoul-infected army. Most of their kin had fallen to temptation.

  A burly Haikini named Rifga was first to speak once all in attendance had been seated around a vast fire pit. “For those who just arrived, know that most of us have planned and plotted with each other for many days. Grashmor of the Flame Pelts and the other Druskin were with us as well. Our plan is a desperate one, and there will be much danger for us all. Not even the wisest whiskers among us could sense a better way. We meet as one now to ensure every paw among us is put forth.”

  The War Lord beckoned to a slender Haikini standing nearby and said, “Alif, the Visionary, will show us the strategy. Only when his work is done will questions or objections be heard. Save your screeching and barks until then!”

  Marek found the Haikini’s manner of speech interesting. All was easily understood, and compared to Wick Wick in Misthearth, it was clear the leaders were more educated if not outright more intelligent.

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  Alif sat before the fire pit and opened a pouch at his hip. Tossing a handful of powder into the flames, he held his hands wide. A brilliant glow enveloped the creature, and then an image rose from the fire for all to see. Marek’s interest was piqued as he made out a valley surrounded by tall trees with a lake along one side. Several adjacent mountains appeared as well, some featuring dramatic cliffs, others abutting deep canyons or cave systems. As Rifga spoke, the image depicted each action of the strategy.

  “We keep to the southern portion of the valley. The enemy’s army has five times the number of warriors as our own, and the Graysouls too walk among them. If our army holds ground where the valley is narrow and uses the lake and the dense woods to confine the enemy, our odds will improve!”

  Grashmor addressed the group, his voice deep and coarse. “My wolves will stay hidden in the trees. We will flank with arrow and spear. I agree with Rifga—this is our best hope.”

  The image of the battlefield faded, and then chatter broke out on all sides. The War Lords and High Priestesses discussed things, and then suggestions were given: We can fell tall trees to crash on the wolves’ heads; if we build machines of war, we can slow their progress further; and hiding mages instead of archers would be best, so more will fall when the flanking maneuver is made.

  Marek listened to it all, his impatience building by the second. Finally, he stood and entered the ring of leaders. By the gasps that rose from those gathered, he assumed he’d broken etiquette by doing so. In the end, he didn’t care. Surviving this battle mattered more than manners. “Apologies—I know my voice is not wanted here—but I cannot sit by and allow this. The plan will fail!”

  “Just because you saved Tessin Lin doesn’t give you leave to speak here, human!” Rifga snapped. “Sit down and be silent!”

  “No,” Marek said firmly. “One of my Abilities allows me to predict outcomes. Intuit is its name, and it has rarely led me astray. Every outcome of your plan, including any of the suggestions, leads to ruin!”

  Grashmor and Rifga stalked toward Marek. The Druskin War Lord shouted, “Who are you to interfere! If you will not leave, your whiskers will be clipped, and you and those with you cast out!”

  There wasn’t time to convince the beast kin. He couldn’t use logic to reason with them. They were right to be offended. Marek had no authority to interrupt their war council. And yet he had no choice. With a thought, he summoned Allon. Shadow poured from Marek’s chest, and the War Lords approaching him recoiled.

  “Again, I apologize for dishonoring your tribes!” Marek boomed. An icy power filled his voice, and those gathered fell silent. “I cannot sit by and do nothing! You ask who I am? What other Class in the Coherent Realm grants the Ability to summon a daemon? I am not a common human, I promise you. I am the Remnant Mage!”

  More gasps and a few shouts rose until Rifga silenced the gathering by slamming a staff on the ground, sending a small bolt of lighting arcing through the air. “How is this true?” he asked. “Other than this wraith, what proof do you have?”

  Marek had them. After a brief pause, he said, “I command seven spirits that lurk in the forest where your sentries cannot see. If you agree not to kill them, I’ll order them to come and show themselves.” An anxious clamor erupted, and Marek raised his voice to be heard. “Tinrick is among them! Your war chief that fell during the battle where I saved Tessin Lin! Ask the Briarmancer, and she will vouch for my words!”

  Long minutes passed after word had been given to inform the sentries. Marek strained his mind and contacted his champion. The Haikini spirit came at once, and with him the six spirit soldiers. Not a single voice protested when the champion bowed before Marek and said, “What is your command, spirit mage?”

  Rifga’s frown remained deeply etched on his scarred face. His long rabbit ears twitching, the War Lord said, “Will the outcome not be more favorable should the Remnant Mage fight on our side? How can we lose?”

  “Even with my help, the battle will be horrendous,” Marek said. “The Graysouls are dangerous. I’ve fought some that are more powerful than others, ones that can command the Abilities of the souls they’ve stolen.”

  “We have seen this too,” Grashmor said. “They are stronger but die like the others do.”

  “And what of the compound Graysouls?” Marek challenged. “Have you seen the abominations they can create by combining the bodies of several creatures? Stronger, more intelligent, and with a variety of Abilities, these are even more deadly.”

  Both Rifga and Grashmor deflated.

  Alif, the Visionary, broke the tension by saying, “I have seen them in my dreams. The spirit mage does not lie.”

  High Priestess Nabin entered the clearing and bowed to Rifga and Grashmor before turning to Marek. “You’ve convinced us you belong. If you wish our army to act otherwise, show us how clever you are. What alternative do we have?”

  Marek sighed in relief. He’d fought and earned an opportunity. Now all he had to do was show them. “Alif, can you summon the battlefield again?” The Visionary did so. “Long ago in Ardea, a battle was fought against the rival kingdom Casteras,” he began. “Outnumbered and facing a large number of Knight Class warriors, the Ardean leader saw that his forces were doomed. Rather than retreat or lead his men to certain death, he chose his battlefield wisely, and in so doing, used the terrain itself as a weapon. He flooded a field of grass by diverting a river. This became a watery grave the charging Casterans didn’t notice until it was too late.”

  Marek waited a moment for the assembly to digest his words. Then he said, “Alif, can you shift your perspective on the map? Can you make this area here larger?”

  The Visionary made the alterations: The narrow end of the valley was no longer in sight. Instead, a saddle between two shorter mountains came into view. At one end was a long slope leading up from the valley with the lake. At the other was a cliff wrapping around a small, open plain. “Here is where you should stage the battle.”

  Rifga snorted and shook his ears. Grashmor growled in frustration and dug a furrow in the ground with his clawed hind feet. Again, High Priestess Nabin found her words before the others. “Why here? This is a death trap! Remnant Mage or no, our peoples do not wish to die penned in on all sides only to feed your army of spirits!”

  “Look closer, High Priestess,” Marek said calmly, “and listen to my plan.”