A thunder of footsteps marked the coming of the high elves of Lumium. Across the wide open plains swept a vast, seemingly unstoppable tide of tall figures with golden skin and fiery hair.

In their path stood…Saskia. Just Saskia. She gave the oncoming legion a cheery wave.

A shout rang out to hold fire, but it was too late. At least a dozen archers had already brought their longbows to bear and loosed a volley at her.

Arrows, thought Saskia. It always has to be arrows.

Crouching behind her ward-strengthened duanum shield—larger than an average-sized door—she listened to the clatter of arrows, like hail against a rooftop. Then she lowered her shield, and stood, and looked disdainfully at the feathered shafts littering the ground around her.

In truth, the shield was probably unnecessary. Her armour was made of the same stuff, and if an arrow somehow made it through that, her skin was hard enough to deflect any normal arrow. It wouldn’t be wise to assume things would be normal, though.

Quicker than she could say, “Is that all you’ve got?” the high elves had her completely surrounded. Eyeing the vast array of pikes and longswords and bows held directed at her, she grimaced. She may be about to find out just how much of a pummelling her armour and flesh could take.

High elves were more heavyset than the average forest elf—closer to the physique of a human. They could outrun any other elf or dwarf she’d met on this world. Some, she suspected, might be able to outpace a troll. They darted forward in bursts, without seeming to cross the intervening distance. It wasn’t teleportation, she knew, but supernatural speed.

One of them sliced at the air so fast she could only see the blade when he paused between strokes. She had to resist the urge to giggle. If only she had a gun, so she could go all Indiana Jones on him.

The glow of arlium shining from wrist and ankle bracers gave the game away. Those who wore them were quickdraws, recipients of the magic of the seed of swiftness. Their foci were split into four shards—one worn on each limb. The seed of swiftness gave them exceptional speed, agility and skill with weapons. Watching them train had been an eye-opening experience. They’d have given Thiachrin the Blademaster a run for his money in his pre-Chosen days.

In fact, she couldn’t help wondering if Thiachrin might have secretly been a quickdraw. He had no foci, but he’d moved like these guys. Then again, these days, so did Garrain.

Though she’d only set foot on Lumium yesterday, it wasn’t unknown to her. The frostlings had allowed her to explore this land by proxy, and learn some things about its people. She could speak their languages, and through eavesdropped conversations she’d picked up some rudimentary knowledge of their culture. For example, she’d discovered that unlike Ciendil’s forest elves, the high elves were united under a single Imperator, Jecham the Absolute, who was almost as revered as Abellion, their god.

The name they gave themselves—actually high alvari, not high elves, but whatever—spoke volumes about these people. They knew about their forest-dwelling cousins on Ciendil, and considered themselves above them. Well okay, technically they were normally above them, because Lumium was almost directly above Ciendil, but their choice of name had nothing to do with geography.

Her spying had barely scratched the surface, of course, and these high eleves would no doubt have some nasty surprises in store for her today. Still, she probably knew more about them than they knew about her. And she and her friends had plenty of surprises of their own.

Saskia addressed the high elves in their own tongue. “I wish to parley.” She looked at one of the quickdraws: a woman who wore the insignia of a legion commander, or legate. “You! You can speak for the rest, can’t you?”

The legate’s eyes widened slightly. Her expression returned to a fierce scowl, and she guided her mount through the assembled ranks. “We will not negotiate with invaders,” she growled. “Where are your people hiding? We will fertilise the soil with your innards!”

“Charming,” said Saskia. “But we didn’t come to invade your lands. We didn’t choose to be here at all. We just need time to finish our repairs, then we will be on our way.”

“You do not fool us, demon,” said the legate. “We have seen your little spies skulking about our fields and cities. We know who you are. There will be no negotiating with the Arborcaede’s heir.” She spun about, addressing the rest of the legion. “No mercy! Death to the invaders! Death! Death! Death!” The other high elves took up her chant, and the air trembled with the sound of their war cries.

Saskia sighed inwardly. The people of Lumium may not be among Abellion’s most devout followers, but through his local stooge, Jecham, he’d been preparing them for her possible arrival. There was nothing she could do to sway them right now. Until she had the upper hand, she was wasting her time with talk.

The legate brought her arm down in a chopping motion, and instantly the chanting ceased. “Archers, ready!” she bellowed.

Saskia winced at the sound of hundreds of bowstrings being pulled taut. “So that’s your final answer? Very well. I’m sorry for what’s about to happen. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this…” She gave a little wave.

“Fire!” shouted the legate.

The ground fell away beneath Saskia. Somehow, she managed to hold onto her shield, and keep from inhaling the churning earth, until at last she landed in a wide tunnel. Kveld regarded her with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah, that went about as well as I expected,” said Saskia. Through her oracle voice link, she spoke her command. “Execute operation ‘shloop.’”

Kveld sighed. “Do we really have to call it that?”

“Yup,” said Saskia.

She watched through her vassals’ eyes as the high elves above ground wheeled about in confusion.

“Stay alert!” shouted the legate. “They could be—”

Before the legate could finish her sentence, a column of earth rose up to engulf her. It yanked her underground, where Saskia and Kveld waited.

Saskia stepped up to the wide-eyed high elf, lying in the tunnel before her, limbs held fast by loops of stone.

“Get away from me, demon!” cried the legate.

Wordlessly, Saskia pulled off her gauntlet, and reached for the bracers at the elf’s wrists and ankles. Within moments, she’d absorbed the arlium shards embedded in each of them. She quickly disabled her new vassal’s magic, and motioned for Kveld to unbind her.

“Your magic is mine now,” said Saskia. “You can have it back after this is all over, if you swear to—”

Eyes full of hatred and despair, the legate drew her sword, and sliced open her own throat.

“Frock,” said Saskia, watching the woman bleed out on the tunnel floor. She might be able to use her own blood to heal her, but she wouldn’t. The legate had chosen death over surrender. Saskia wouldn’t deny her that choice. Suppressing a shudder, she stepped toward her next victim.

At the same moment the legate had been pulled underground, seven other quickdraws had met the same fate, courtesy of the stoneshapers stationed throughout these tunnels. More and more of the high elves were being unceremoniously plucked from the surface and bound by stone, unable to leverage their supernatural speed and agility. A surprising number of them managed to leap aside when the earth rose up to entrap them, or opened up beneath them. But no matter how fast they were, they had to touch ground eventually. When they did, the stoneshapers were ready. The quickdraws now lay confined, helpless to resist their imminent vassalhood.

These tunnels were not the stoneshapers’ creation. The natural rock formation had been here all along. They’d chosen this battleground carefully, luring their enemy to a spot where they could pull off this tricky extraction—deprive them of their best warriors. Saskia could have simply avoided this confrontation; hidden here until the high elves went away. But the airships were still vulnerable up on the surface. They couldn’t let them fall into enemy hands.

While she and the stoneshapers dealt with the quickdraws, Ruhildi and Zarie and the frostling tempests were up in the air, circling the high elf legion, keeping them contained with walls of ice, barriers of air, and a sizeable army of the dead.

On the north side, the bulk of her small army had emerged from the tunnels to block the high elves’ advance. Though their numbers were few, they were tough. Fighting alongside forty enormous arlithite-infused trolls—several of whom were immensely strong lifters—were beastmaster brothers, Vannach and Cargard; druids Yasmithe and Sionne; Renia the tempest and her small band of mer warriors; around thirty elven archers and pikemen; and nearly a hundred battle-hardened dwarves. The high elves were boxed in, unable to take advantage of their vast numbers. They’d lost both their command structure and their most capable fighters before the battle even begun. Now they were being torn apart.

By the time Saskia was done with the quickdraws, six out of every ten had surrendered, and now stood imprisoned behind impassable walls. They may not have access to their magic, but they were still dangerous fighters, so she couldn’t allow them to go free—or even think about trying to recruit them—until this was over. The rest of her new vassals had either attacked her, forcing her to put them down, or, like the legate, had died by their own hands.

Kveld and the other stoneshapers were now slowly working their way through the rest of the legion, pulling them underground one-by-one into walled-off ‘dungeons.’ Making peace with them later may be difficult after such treatment, but for now, she had to focus on winning.

Stepping out onto the surface, she surveyed the carnage with a growing sense of nausea. Actually, she’d already seen it through her vassals’ eyes, but it always felt more visceral to experience something her own senses. And…oh yeah, there were viscera, alright. Splattered over the bloody grass, and leaking from risen corpses.

She watched as a line of towering trolls stomped down upon their enemies with great clawed feet, leaving a trail of gore in their wake. A team of dwarf ninjas led by Myrna the Matron cut a bloody swathe through any elves that made it past that meat-grinder. Renia the tempest and her fellow mer covered the east side, sheltering behind a barrier of air while she brought lighting bolts down on the heads of any who ventured too close. To the west, another column of dwarves beat back a charge with shields and spears. Elven archers and dwarven crossbowmen fired over their heads, raining arrows and bolts down on the enemy, who were forced to stop and hunker behind their own shields with each volley.

Not all arrows could be blocked, though. The beastmasters, Vannach and Cargard, fired arrow after explosive arrow into the midst of the close-packed formations, ripping through shields and armour and flesh with equal ease. The pair sent swarms of large spiders and spiky lizard-things scurrying behind enemy lines, where they swarmed over the lightly-armoured archers, gouging out eyes and tearing into throats.

Yasmithe and Sionne stood close to the pair, sending bolts of scorching sap splashing down onto their foes’ heads, while swarms of fire beetles crawled beneath armour and burrowed into flesh. Saskia shuddered at the sight, remembering all too well what it was like to be facing the wrong end of a druid’s staff.

“You seem to have matters well in hand,” she said to Baldreg, who was firing a triple-volley of his own explosive bolts at the enemy.

“Aye,” said Baldreg. “Stay alert, though. Someone has been striking at our back line. We lost some of our archers to an unseen assassin.”

Indeed, several of the elves and dwarves lay dead on the grass, while armoured dwarves prowled about, eyes darting from side to side, trying to protect their kin from further attacks.

“Oh god, not again,” said Saskia. Another Chosen?

Move.

A tingle of premonition was all the warning she got. She threw herself backward just as a slender figure leapt out from behind a rock, gripping a dark, translucent blade. For an instant, her eyes locked on the black cloak he wore, with lines of shining amber running down its length. At the last moment, already airborne, the high elf assassin changed course, slamming into her side with surprising force for someone a fraction of her weight.

Saskia looked down, and saw the shadowy blade already embedded up to the hilt in her side. It had passed through her duanum armour and rock-hard flesh as if they weren't even there. He jerked the blade up, toward her heart.

Snarling, she closed her hand around his throat, and squeezed. Hot liquid ran down her arm, and she tossed the corpse aside. His blade dissipated, and blood sprayed from the ragged tear it had opened up in her side.

She sagged, struggling to draw breath through a punctured lung. Already, the wound was beginning to heal over. Before she joined the battle, she’d taken a generous dose of arlium. She’d be okay. Still, if she'd been an instant slower, the shadow blade would have sliced through her heart. Not even a troll could survive that.

Prior to her arrival here, she hadn’t seen anyone like this guy. She’d heard rumours of an order of assassins and spies, known as shadowmasters. Could he be one of them?

“You mean that assassin?” she said, pointing at the body.

Scowling, Baldreg nodded. “Check the area!” he called out to the others gathered nearby. “Make sure he was the only one.”

Saskia strode to the front line, flicking Jarnbjorn at a high elf who stood over Renia with sword raised, ready to drive home the killing blow. The young mer tempest knelt in the dirt, staring up at Saskia with wide eyes. A mer spearman lay dead at her side. She probably regretted having declined to accompany Zarie inside Iscaragraithe today.

“Enough!” bellowed Saskia.

All around her, the fighting slowly ground to a halt as friend and foe alike turned to her.

She glared at the beleaguered high elves. “Are you done? Can’t you see how pointless this all is? Throw down your weapons, and you will—ah crap.”

Before she even finished speaking, the fighting had resumed, even fiercer than before. Futile though it was, their enemy seemed determined to fight to the last elf.

“Kveld, get your guys up here,” she said through her oracle link. “It’s time to pull out the big guns.”

“You mean…?”

“Yeah. I was hoping we wouldn’t need to do this, but these elves just won’t give up, and you can’t imprison them fast enough to clear the field before three quarters of them are already dead—or we are.”

Kveld and the other stoneshapers emerged from the tunnels. Her friend’s flesh had assumed the glossy black finish of obsidian.

Saskia swept her arm across the enemy lines. “There.”

Across a wide swathe of the gathered legion, the ground began to shudder. The elves swayed and fell, and pawed at the ground in a feeble attempt to regain their footing. Checking that none of her own people were in the affected area, she called to her other nearby vassals to halt their spells.

The high elves at the front line wheeled about, staring at the chaos erupting behind them. Then, seeming to sense something big was about to happen, they turned to her.

Saskia raised her arms, claws splayed. This wasn’t necessary, but she knew a thing or two about theatrics. She drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. And with the exhalation of air, she released a tide of raw essence.

The first couple of times she’d done this, it had set her vassals’ spells on fire. Mixed with stoneshaper spells, it produced lava. Back then, she’d called it wild magic. In the months since, she’d learned that wild magic was indeed an apt name, because in subsequent experiments she’d conducted with her friends, they’d gotten all sorts of varied effect beyond just fire and lava. They’d turned a tree to stone, transmuted stone into gold, and from that gold, sprouted a new tree. That same tree had then turned purple and sparkly, for some inexplicable reason. A zone of air had been leached of all sound for several minutes. They’d even made it rain actual cats and dogs—or the local equivalent. That had been traumatic for all concerned, but fortunately the splattered carcasses had evaporated the moment she’d ceased the flow of essence.

Unlike wild magic in games, the effects weren’t completely random. They seemed to be tied to her mental state—her desires, expectations, and imagination. It was prone to unexpected results, however. One stray thought, and things would start ’sploding.

Today, she wanted to avoid the ’sploding. Nor did she want anything so devastating as a lake of molten lava or wall of fire. On the other hand, it couldn’t be completely harmless, either. Turning them purple and sparkly would be good for a laugh, but it wouldn’t convince them to throw down their weapons and surrender. She needed a display of force; something that inspired fear and awe.

She knew just the thing.

In the wake of her expanding cloud of essence, great stone shapes rose up from the wide patch of shuddering earth, sending high elves tumbling aside. Vaguely humanoid in appearance, they stood on legs as wide as ancient tree trunks, and almost as tall. Their eyeless faces looked down at the panic-stricken elves, and grinned; disproportionately large mouths opening wide to reveal rows of long teeth, formed out of polished quartz. There were eight of the gigantic monsters—one for each of her stoneshaper vassals. And they were nightmare fuel.

A shout sounded at Saskia’s back. She whirled around just in time to see Halgog fall with a shadowy blade protruding from his throat. Halgog had been one of the first stoneshapers to become her vassal, after Ruhildi and Kveld, and his loss struck her like a hammer blow.

The assassin fell dead an instant later with two arrows in his back, shot by Vannach and Cargard.

She turned back to the enemy, lips curled back as she let loose a snarl of pure rage. One of the giant golems—Halgog’s golem—fell apart, raining boulders down upon them. The others, seemingly spurred by her emotion, stomped down on the elves, and pounded them into the dirt with their fists.

The screams. Oh god, the screams. She gagged at the sight of spraying blood and terrified elves, crushing each other in their haste to get away.

Crap crap crap! Abort! With an effort of will, she tried to quell her anger. Cuddly bunnies. Hugs and puppies. Rainbows and unicorns. Wait, not unicorns. Their horns will frock you up.

The golems halted their carnage. Well, almost. One of them lifted up a screaming elf and hugged him tight. Too tight. Dark blood squirted across its chest.

Uh…it’s the thought that counts, I guess? But no more hugs! Just stand still, unless I specifically tell you otherwise.

That seemed to do the trick. The golems froze in place, standing like statues amidst a pile of flattened corpses. Some of the corpses rose up, but there wasn’t much left for Ruhildi to work with.

“There are still many thousands of them out there,” said Baldreg. “We should just put the poor bastards out of their misery. We can’t afford to take prisoners, and if we let them go, they’ll return thirsting for vengeance.”

“I’ve had my fill of mass murder for today, thank you, Baldreg,” said Saskia. “I’m going to try to negotiate with them again. Come on, Kveld.”

Back to the tunnels they went. A few minutes later, Saskia rose up to the surface, and found herself looking down upon rows and rows of dead-eyed, beaten-down faces.

“We wish to parley,” she said.

The elves boggled at her. “Why do you toy with us so?” said one. “Just feed us to your nightmare creatures and be done with it!”

“I assure you, this is no game,” said Saskia. “We didn’t pick this fight. You did. There’s no need for any of this. All we ask is that you leave us be. Or you can stay here and die. Your choice.”

“What you ask is impossible, demon,” the elf insisted. “If we don’t deliver your head to the Imperator, he will have us all killed. Better we die by your hand, with honour.”

Saskia felt like slamming her head into a wall, but there weren’t any walls handy. Her palm would have to do. “Why is everyone on this world in such a hurry to die? Can’t you see how stupid this all is?”

A soft, nasal voice sounded behind her: “I offer my surrender.”

Saskia spun to face the speaker, and blinked in surprise. He was quite possibly the fattest elf she’d ever met—although that wasn’t saying much. By human standards, he’d be considered overweight, but not quite obese. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the arlium-lined cloak draped around his shoulders. The assassin who had attacked her earlier had worn the same kind of cloak.

“Yes, yes, I’m a shadowmaster, but I assure you, I won’t be stabbing you in the back today,” said the high elf. “I saw what you did to my comrades, and I value my own neck, thank you very much.”

“At last, someone who isn’t an idiot,” said Saskia. So the assassins were indeed shadowmasters, then. Good to know.

“What are you doing, Velandir?” hissed another elf, coming up behind him.

“What does it sound like I’m doing?” said the chubby elf, whose name, apparently, was Velandir. “Saving my own life. I suggest you do the same.” He returned his gaze to Saskia. “I will not fight you. Nor will I offer myself up to the Imperator to be executed for failing to complete an impossible task. I will serve you, demon.”

“I accept your surrender, Velandir,” said Saskia. “But since you are a shadowmaster, I’m afraid I will have to ask something more of you. Come closer.”

Eyeing her warily, he approached. “If you’re going to kill me, please make it quick and painless,” he said. “And try not to muss up my hair too much, if you please.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “At worst, you’ll only wish you were dead.” She tugged off her gauntlet and brushed the back of her hand down his cloak.

“Ah…I’m flattered,” he said. “But I don’t think we’re…compatible—augh!” His voice turned shrill as the arlium in his cloak flowed into her skin, and she hastily disabled his magic.

“You can have your shady magic back just as soon as you’ve earned my trust,” said Saskia.

Velandir gave a nervous laugh. “I will do what I can to earn it.”

“Traitor!” shouted one of the elves, levelling his bow at the back of Velandir’s head.

Saskia stepped over her vassal, caught the arrow the moment the archer loosed it, stuck it through his leg, and tore the bow from his nerveless fingers. He sagged to the ground, clutching at his wounded leg.

“Velandir is under my protection!” she roared. “The same goes for anyone else who surrenders to us.” Through her oracle link, she muttered, “I could use an extraction for my new vassal, Kveld.”

Moments later, Velandir had disappeared underground, to safety.

She looked at the other elves. “Now, does anyone else want to surrender to me? Anyone who does will be treated well, I assure you. Either surrender to me, or go back to your Imperator in defeat, and hope he shows mercy. Or die here today. Those are your options. Choose.”

Ruhildi and the tempests opened up an escape route to the south for anyone who chose to flee back to their capital, Ambiellar, to face Imperator Jecham’s wrath. Iscaragraithe hovered overhead, making sure that anyone who left didn’t circle around for another go at them.

One by one, the elves fled south, or offered themselves up in surrender. Of those who surrendered, some wanted to join her, but most just wanted to stay out of any further conflict between her people and theirs. Others pretended they were switching sides, but secretly planned to cause trouble. A few demonstrations of her truth sensing ability put an end to that nonsense. Occasionally they tried to kill her, and earned a quick dirt nap, as was no doubt their intention. Suicide by troll.

Why me? she thought miserably, after yet another pointless bloodletting. At least the legate had the decency to do it herself.

Some of the elves came to her with challenges, usually in the form of: “I will surrender to you only if you can defeat me in single combat.” Her answer, in such cases, was to step on them.

“You are defeated,” she said absently to the fortieth challenger squirming beneath her feet. “Please make your way to the surrender queue for processing—oh god, please kill me now.”

“Would that I could!” gasped the elf, who was trying to saw through her duanum boot with his blade. It wasn’t even leaving a scratch.

“What are you still doing there?” said Saskia. “Surrender queue is that-a-way.” She pointed.

“Ah, Sashki, he won’t be going anywhere until you lift your foot,” said Ruhildi, stepping up behind her.

Iscaragraithe had just landed nearby. The last of those who were going to flee had already fled, so all that remained were the surrenderers. If that was even a word.

“What?” said Saskia, blinking wearily at her friend. She followed Ruhildi’s gaze back to the elf. “Oh right.” She lifted her foot. A dark stain spread from his unmoving body. “Dogramit.”

After that, there were no more challengers.