One by one, Adarin took down the corpses and laid them onto the blood-stained floor while he considered his next moves. Anger, frustration and a small dose of terror, which he crushed the moment he became conscious of it, warred in his mind. Who can I really trust in here? If the ward schema is up to standard and they got all the thralls, that must mean there is a traitor. And only someone among the mages working on the wards could have let the vampire in to do… Adarin reached out to Mage Captain Krislov and Commodore Ashfield. ‘Ashfield, I need two companies of marines. Send me your most reliable men. They cannot be allowed to hesitate to follow orders.’

  The commodore responded within three seconds. ‘Yes, sir. They’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’ No more questions. No hesitation. The commodore rose even further in Adarin’s already high estimation as he began descending the pagoda.

  As he reached the next level, he turned to the soldiers on guard. “Nobody enters or leaves this level. If I see any indication that any of you went up, you will wish you were involved in the whippings yesterday. If anyone gets up—no matter whom—knock them out. Is that understood?”

  The sorry figure of the young sergeant in his ale-stained uniform glanced from side to side, confusion filling his face. The corporal next to him elbowed him hard. The man snapped out of whatever fugue state he had fallen into. “Yes—yes, sir,” he replied, then snapped a smart salute. It was only somewhat stained by ale dripping off his elbow.

  Adarin had already forgotten about the detachment of soldiers when his thoughts circled back. But how… if we got all the thralls… He ground his teeth and nearly slapped himself when he reached the lowest level. Enthralling someone with magic isn’t the only way to get a traitor. They could also have done it the classical way.

  Adarin walked down calmly and ordered all the mages to assemble for an important announcement in one of the temple’s larger halls. One by one they trickled in, and soon one of the Order scribes arrived. Adarin stepped close to the woman and whispered his instructions to her. ‘I want you to note who’s here and who isn’t. I ordered all the mages to assemble at speed. Use this channel. If you think someone is absent—if you think anything is suspicious about one of the mages—tell me.’

  The young woman’s eyes widened and she swallowed hard. ‘Yes. Yes, Sir Special Envoy.’

  ‘Sir Adarin will do,’ he replied, and patted her on the shoulder.

  Next he walked over to Mage Captain Krislov and the detachment of druids. “Do your men have the special supplies I ordered you to bring?” He looked around, his eyes falling onto the pockets of the other druids, who were standing in their own isolated group, not yet reintegrated with their once-fellow mages. Which is good. I will use that today. And Adarin allowed himself one thought of longer-term goals. Deepen the divide between druid and mage.

  “Yes,” Krislov said, “but I’m not quite sure why we’d need the entire supply of them. After all, the enemy hasn’t shown any mages yet.”

  Adarin chuckled darkly over the noospheric link. You will soon understand, Krislov. Just throw them. And then all of you cast the countermagic ritual. Adarin marched back to the front of the hall.

  Fumbling about with some papers as if about to give a speech, he waited. Soon the marine captain reached out to him. ‘Sir, we’re at the temple entrance. We have brought the rope just as you asked for.’

  ‘Good.’ He gave the officer directions to the hall. He studied the setup: the druids in the very back, the mages in eagerly discussing huddles all over the room. He saw Liora, then Francesco, who was arguing animatedly with Devon. He felt the marine captain getting closer and set himself onto a mental countdown.

  Thirty seconds before all hell would break loose, he knocked his manipulator three times onto the stone floor. The chatter in the hall died slowly. The atmosphere was relaxed. “Honored magi of the Order,” he began, “I have an important announcement to make. But first there is something I need you to do. Everyone, raise your hands. Stretch them as far as you can to the ceiling.”

  Confused glances were exchanged, but under shrugs and murmurs, one by one the hands went up. Adarin reached out to Krislov and the common circle of the druids. Get ready with the grenades.

  One by one, all the Order mages—including a very confused Francesco—put up their hands. Adarin checked with the scribe.

  ‘Sir, all of them are present. No one is missing apart from…’ She gave him the expected list of eight names. He nodded grimly.

  ‘Should I do something, sir?’

  ‘No. Those eight are excused. Everything will be clear in a moment,’ he responded. “Very good. If you would now stretch even further—get on your tiptoes. It is really important that you do it properly.”

  Some older mage’s faces twisted into indignation. Then, with all his victims as thoroughly outside a combat-ready stance as he could make them without arousing suspicion, he called out to the druids over the noospheric link: ‘Stun grenades—now.’

  The projectiles arced through the air; cries of shock and surprise went up. A few mages attempted to ready magic, but the bright flashes and thunder of the concussive grenades went off, and in the next moment a wave of countermagic washed over the hall from the ritual circle the druids had prepared behind the cover of their own crowd.

  Screams erupted as mages clutched at blinded eyes. Almost everyone went down, and what had been seconds ago a crowd of dignified robe-wearers put in a ridiculous pose turned into a field of seal pups ready for clubbing.

  Adarin signaled the captain, and the marines burst into the room, muskets at the ready. Mages reached out, whispered spells—but nothing happened. The countermagic ritual is still held.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  ‘Krislov—how long?’

  ‘Ninety seconds, sir,’ the young captain said through clenched teeth.

  Adarin grinned viciously. “Plenty of time.” He switched to the maximum safe volume of his speakers. “Magi of the Order—there is a traitor among us. Do not resist detainment. Anyone who resists will be beaten until unconscious. If you use magic, the marines will shoot your knees out.”

  He repeated the announcement as the soldiers advanced, boarding axes and muskets at the ready. They grabbed the writhing mages one by one and bound them in the instructed manner: binding them into an O-shape, connecting feet and hands by bending them, crossing the hands over the back—an extremely uncomfortable position, so uncomfortable it should interfere with any spellcasting. A few mages protested, but the blunt side of a boarding axe or the butt of a musket soon convinced them of the errors of their ways.

  Adarin stood on the podium, observing the organized chaos. Within three minutes it was over and mages lay on the ground, held under gun and axe point by marines. The druids walked to the front and Adarin clapped his manipulator three times to the ground, a mockery of how he had initiated his speech. He noted that nearly a third of the mages had had part of their robes stuffed in their mouths before they were bound. Too much backtalk. Adarin nearly smirked as he noted Francesco among the gagged. The young mage was sporting a nasty black eye, the impression in his face indicating a recent intimate acquaintance with a musket butt.

  Adarin spoke up loudly. “As I said, there is a traitor among us.”

  The marines brought in bundles of blood-stained cloth he had ordered them to fetch from the top level of the pagoda. They left eerie bloody footprints along the floor. A heavy air of anticipation settled over the hall.

  “Unveil them. Put them against the wall,” Adarin ordered—and to gasps of horror and shock, by mage and marine alike, the atrocity was revealed.

  “Now. I do not know who exactly was involved in creating the warding schema, but I was assured that the wards would prevent any further intrusions—and that our screenings have weeded out all thralls. Under those assumptions, it must be concluded that either or both of those operations were sabotaged. And now we will be finding out who did it.” Adarin couldn’t keep a note of pride and viciousness out of his final sentence.

  The mages, many of whom had been defiant or outraged a moment ago, had grown deathly pale. A terrible silence settled over the hall. Adarin let them stew in it. Ten seconds passed without anyone speaking up. Well, that’s a good sign to begin with. Then one older female mage began whispering; Adarin gestured to the marine close to her, who, without hesitation, clubbed her in the side of the hip. She groaned and curled up as best she could in her compromised position.

  The silence stretched—thirty seconds. A minute. Then Adarin cleared his throat. “There is a way to make this much easier.”

  A further ten seconds passed as a faint smell of urine and distant sniffles spread through the crowd.

  “Should you want to confess, I promise your death will be swift. Should you have any hint—any suspicion—this is the time to share it. Because believe me—” he paused again, letting long seconds pass, “you will share any suspicion sooner or later,” he finished in a low, vicious growl.

  A few of the marines chuckled, and Adarin could have hugged them. Has Ashfield been drilling them on intimidation? Well.

  A clawed hand rose. Devon. The dour kobold had been silent the entire time. “Adarin, may I speak?” he said, his voice not even giving the slightest hint that a marine was pressing a musket to the back of his head.

  Adarin gestured. “Do feel free to share your observations.”

  “This makes no sense. All parts of the wards I inspected were functional.”

  Adarin was about to cut him off, but the kobold continued. “I’ve been brought up by Rüdiger ever since I slipped out of my egg. We kobolds are not like humans. Our loyalty to our egg-mothers is absolute.”

  Adarin frowned and reached out to Mage Captain Krislov.

  Krislov swallowed, then responded over the noospheric link. ‘The scale-skin speaks truth. Goblins are renowned for their fanatical loyalty to their tribe and clan. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a goblin betraying another member of their family.’

  “Very well.” Adarin made a gesture and pointed at Devon and the marine captain. “Take two dozen guards with you. Have the kobold inspect the ward schema again. If they can identify any flaws, all the better.”

  For now—priorities. He looked around the hall and reached out to Liora, whom he had excluded from this little misadventure, but whose cabal of healers had been involved in screenings. Liora was still blessedly ignorant in the pharmacy.

  ‘Liora, explain to me how exactly you did the screenings for potential thralls.’

  She seemed distracted for a second, but Adarin kept prodding until she described the procedure—one even his paranoid drill sergeants and the officers who had trained him in the art of mistrust would have considered admirable. Multiple checks. Random mix-ups of the groups doing the checks. Adarin quickly ran a numerical simulation in his mind. The chance that that procedure fails, even if a significant fraction of the people doing it had been corrupted, is less than a percent of a percent.

  ‘You’ve done very well. Thank you.’

  Silence in the hall had grown tense, and Adarin raised a manipulator. “I am sorry for how I had to do this, but I couldn’t exclude the possibility that there was a significant fraction of traitors among the mages. If I had not robbed you of your powers and immobilized you, it could have become a bloodbath—if the traitors had decided that was their only recourse to fulfill their master’s foul goals. For now—anyone who can have Mage Captain Krislov and four others vouch for them—that they were not involved in any way with the warding project—is to be freed.”

  The procedure began slowly, and mages were unbound—among them a fortuitous number of healers who started taking care of bruises and injuries. The room stank of stale sweat and urine, and more than one mage glared daggers at Adarin. He noticed growing whispers in the crowd of mages who had suffered the indignity of his treatment. While more were vouched for and freed, he brought down his manipulator in one sharp clack.

  “Magi of the Order—focus your resentment in the correct direction.” He gestured at the grotesque marionettes that had once been mages. “This is what happened to your brothers. That is the real threat—not some slight of mistrust or mistreatment I have delivered upon you in the name of your safety. Keep this in mind. The person or persons responsible for this happening to your brothers is among us. And make no mistake, for it could have been you.” He turned to one of the cut apart bodies. “Aurelia Augusta was a Magister on the verge of becoming an Archmagister. Any of you could have been cut apart and hung at the top roof of the pagoda.”

  The angry glares gave way to fearful whispers at the point where about half of the mages had been freed.

  Adarin was about to continue his speech, when the distant report of two explosions in sharp succession shook the air

  Oh fuck. Adarin reached out, dreading the answers he would get. ‘Commodore—what the hell just happened?’ For ten seconds there was silence. Then he heard the commodore audibly swallow over the noospheric link.

  ‘Adarin—sir. Two of my carracks just exploded.’

  Adarin was about to give orders when the sharp report of a third explosion—much, much closer to the temple—made the ground shudder.