Boom. Boom. Boom.

The foreboding beat of drums heralded the coming of their warband. Like rhythmic thunder, the sound raced ahead of marching feet and clinking metal, piercing brick, wood and soul.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Fear us, the drums said. Fear us, and despair. Vengeance is on the march.

Every house they passed was silent, like a mausoleum. Doors and shutters shut tight against the cruel world outside, surely hoping the reaper would collect someone else tonight. Not a single citizen of Kesh ventured from the safety of their little kingdoms to witness what was to come. None dared.

Around two hundred Ferhati and Kashari warriors crowded the road ahead of Oak. They were a mismatched collection of men, wearing gambesons and brigandines of differing quality and make. Most had left their spears at home and armed themselves with swords and axes.

I wonder if the few fools carrying a spear know we are going to storm a manor, not fight in an open field. Oak shook his head. Not my men, not my problem. At least they all have a helmet. Can't say the same about me.

Oak had made inquiries about securing some armor for himself, but no one had anything available on short notice that would fit him.

It is not easy being such a special snowflake.

Geezer brushed his leg. He was past the half-way point of Oak's thigh at the withers now. By the scale of regular people, the hellhound stood at waist height on four legs. The lovable coward had continued to grow since their escape from Ma'aseh Merkavah and he had given no sign of slowing down.

Oak was glad. He dreamed of the day he could ride Geezer into battle. Is it too early to buy a lance?

Sadia and Ur-Namma walked by his side at the back of the column. Oak had told the girl that she should get some sleep while she could, but Sadia had refused.

"I can't sleep while there is a battle going on. What if you die? What am I going to do then?" she had asked. By her halting gait, he suspected the girl regretted her decision to come along.

Ur-Namma snorted. He watched one of Baskim Kashari's men fiddling with his sword belt. It looked like the buckle had broken. The elvish general kept his derision off his face, but Oak had known Ur-Namma long enough now to know he wasn't impressed.

"Farmers, boathands, and fishermen," Ur-Namma muttered in the northern tongue, lest he offend their allies of circumstance. "Soldiery is their second profession, not their true calling. And you can see that from a mile away."

It was true. Of their warband, only Halit Dushaj's fifteen men-at-arms were soldiers by trade.

"People gotta eat, Ur-Namma," Oak replied.

"At least you are big and ferocious, northerner. Most of this lot barely know which end of the blade they are supposed to stick into their enemy." Ur-Namma spat. "I have half a mind to give them all some lessons in swordsmanship just to make sure they don't stab you by accident."

"Oh? Feeling protective all the sudden?"

"Stop embarrassing yourself, savage." Ur-Namma fingered the hilt of his longsword and frowned. "I need you alive. Not close to my heart."

"Cold, Ur-Namma. Cold."

"I don't know what the two of you are saying, but I can tell you are arguing again." Sadia yawned. "I need entertainment. Use a proper language so I can laugh at you."

"Excuse me?" Oak asked, astonished at the girl's gall. "What did you just say about my people's tongue?"

"Maybe there is hope for you yet, girl." Ur-Namma cackled. "Proper language. I have to remember that one."

"You are both insufferable," Oak said.

***

A pleasantly cool gust of wind from the lake ruffled Oak's hair. It smelled of mud, algae and fish.

Sunrise is only a couple of hours away. What will be left of this place by then, I wonder?

The home of clan Carcani was really more of a compound or an estate than just a manor, at least if you compared it to the manors close to the center of town. Four flat-roofed dwellings made of brick arranged in a loose semi-circle, the largest of which rivaled the size of Halit's manor, and a collection of barns and sheds filled the patch of lakeshore the Carcanis called home. There was a stone fence around the property, but it was more of a decoration than a defensive measure.

Located on the outskirts of the docks and surrounded by the mudbrick houses of the less fortunate, the Carcanis were the big fish of this sparsely populated neighbourhood filled with empty stretches of land.

Such disparity with your neighbours breeds arrogance. It was easy to imagine Endrit Carcani sitting on his porch, looking down on the surrounding hovels and thinking himself a cunning man.

"Does every member of the clan live here?" Oak asked.

"Pretty much. The clan who lives together prospers together, or so the wisdom goes," Zef replied.

"Live together, die together."

"Yes." Zef sighed. "That too."

Halit, Nadire and Baskim had set up a cordon of men around the Carcani estate and divided the rest of their warriors into five groups. One for each dwelling and the fifth as a reserve, in case shit went sideways. A sensible precaution. Even the best plans could fail spectacularly, but there weren't many problems extra swords could not fix.

Oak had a job to do with the warband's spooks before things could kick off, but he had secured himself and Geezer a spot on the group that would assault the manor itself.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The more the merrier. Can't reap souls for my engine if there isn't anyone to kill.

Everyone made their final preparations for the fight to come. Men, Oak among them, checked their weapons and said their prayers. At a time like this, the smallest edge could mean the world entire. No matter the man or his arrogance, everyone wants some reassurance before a fight.

A middle-aged rat-faced woman with hair like a bird's nest waved at Zef, and the veteran waved back, taking Oak and Geezer to her. The spooks had set up right next to the warband's leadership, smack dab in the middle of the controlled chaos. Oak could hear Baskim arguing about something with Halit. Nadire just played with her stiletto and stared at the Carcani manor without blinking.

The Ferhati matriarch was in a league of her own when it came to creepiness.

"I am Ajla of clan Ferhati. The others dove into the Waking Dream already." The rat-faced woman stared at Oak with narrowed eyes. "You know what you are doing?"

"I do."

"Hmm. I hope so."

Halit employed two spooks, stick thin brothers called Sokol and Petrit, while the Ferhati had brought Ajla and the Kashari had brought an old timer named Shaban. Oak lay down next to the old man and Geezer sat by his side, eyes and ears peeled for trouble. He gave the hellhound a pat on the back and received a pleased woof in return. Diving left you so vulnerable that he wasn't sure how he had ever done it without Geezer to watch his back.

"See you on the other side," Oak said to Ajla and dove under the waves of the Unreal Sea.

Anger, anxiety and excitement peppered Oak's form. Scattered pieces of forgotten thoughts and lost memories floated along the currents, surfacing and vanishing between each passing moment. The icy waters of unreality welcomed him home and caressed the branches of his shadow with nourishing kisses.

He opened his eyes in the shallows of the Waking Dream and basked in the storm of emotion. It had been a long time since he had entered the Dream in the company of so many people. Heightened emotions bled from the gathered warriors, staining the Dream with their hues like different colors of paint mixing in swirling water.

Minds shielded with competently crafted, but basic wards, popped into his awareness. They hid under blades of grass, floated inside the foam at the apex of waves and hugged the shadows of shoddily made houses dripping with mud.

Only a few steps away stood three well-guarded minds brimming with ghosts. Foremost of them all was a consciousness shielded by intricate patterns of criss-crossing trauma. Halit. Has to be. For a single heartbeat, Oak saw more than a hundred minds bobbing in the currents. Such a thing could not last. One by one, minds vanished from his sight as people moved around in the real world.

Nothing stood still in the Dream, least of all the living, and piercing through the interference of swirling emotions took an inspired effort.

Four figures rose from the shallows around Oak. The brothers Sokol and Petrit were easy enough to tell apart from the other spooks. Two stick thin golems of wrought iron, cloaked in crackling trauma. The one on the left wore a helm with a faceplate resembling an eagle's beak, while metallic feathers covered the one on the right.

A black bird of prey, swift and dagger-clawed, eyed Oak with keen eyes. "You stand tall, Gallows Tree. A pleasant sight for my sore eyes." Ajla spread her wings and took flight.

That left Shaban. His dreamform was a giant badger.

"We move forward, as discussed. There are bound to be memory traps around the property and it falls to us to clear the way." Shaban shook himself. "Since Oak already killed Mirela Carcani, we face a single theurgist. Don't let our numerical advantage lull you into a false sense of security. Ramazan Carcani is not to be underestimated."

"Ay," brothers Sokol and Petrit said, speaking as one.

"Right," Oak replied. "Better get to it."

They approached the perimeter together. It was easy to guess which of the four buildings Endrit Carcani called home. Oak didn't know what the compound usually looked like in the Waking Dream, but tonight the Carcani manor towered over the other buildings in the compound and the neighbourhood like a cathedral to spite and arrogance.

All three floors of the rectangular building had stretched grotesquely towards the black sky above, like tumors grown fat with puss. Blood leaked from the foundation, watering the barren earth. The three smaller dwellings cowered in the deformed manor's shadow like battered children, waiting for the snap of the lash.

Under the overwhelming feeling of bitterness, Oak could smell the cloying scent of fear. The entire compound reeked of it. It wafted off the buildings like old paint peeling in the breeze, staining the shallow waters with flakes of piss colored yellow.

"Sokol and Petrit, take point," Shaban said. "Ajla, overwatch. Oak, shadow me."

No wards barred them from crossing the weather-beaten perimeter wall, so the four of them climbed, jumped and flew over it. Oak held his trauma weapon, Kaarina's Horror, at the ready in case trouble reared its ugly head. Nothing assailed them, but the back of his neck itched. He felt watched.

Somewhere in the shadows of the Carcani compound, a theurgist lay in wait, sharpening his will. Ramazan of clan Carcani needed to make his first strike count. The man would only get one go at it before multiple spooks fell upon him and purged his mind.

Battles in the Dream were like knife fights in the dark. Brutal, fast, and final.

Oak sent out his Scout and the raven dove through the illusion of barren earth like a long-tailed duck diving under the surface of a lake, vanishing from his sight. Most likely, the Scout would not find Ramazan, but there was always a fool's hope. Unlike his life or his sanity, he could afford to lose the raven.

Combing an area for memory traps required unwavering concentration, keen senses, and heaps of patience. Luckily, none of the spooks present was a greenhorn. Sokol and Petrit moved silently along the perimeter fence, mechanically examining every inch of the Dream ahead of them. Shaban followed and Oak shadowed him while Ajla lurked in the black sky above.

The plan was to peel the yard like an onion, securing it one layer at a time so the attack could proceed.

"I feel something. A boundary," Sokol said and glanced back at Shaban. The faceplate of his helm rippled like a liquid. "It is Dream-facing. This one was made to catch theurgists."

Now that Sokol had mentioned it, Oak could sense it, too. An almost imperceptible membrane floated in the air, marking the boundary of the trap. One careless step inside, and the memory would grab you with unyielding hooks, forcing you to relive it again and again until someone released you from its grasp.

"I can handle it. Just watch my back," Shaban said and dove through the ground. A set of very long needles extended from the claws of Shaban's dreamform and the badger got to work, unraveling the trap one sequence at a time.

The old man worked meticulously, poking and prodding the trap apart from the outside with the type of ease you could only acquire from a wealth of experience. Oak wanted desperately to watch someone better than him work their craft, but he had a job to do and an image to uphold. It would have been terribly embarrassing and unprofessional to let Ramazan get an attack off because he got distracted.

A tiny pop later, the trap was gone. Like a soap bubble in the wind.

Shaban is good. Really fucking good.

Not five steps later, they ran into another memory trap. This time, Petrit found it. The trap would snare those crossing its boundary in the real world, so unraveling it was a relatively straightforward affair. Petrit pulled a silver sickle from his chest and made careful cuts, snapping threads and pulling bundles of memory apart.

Something disturbed the dead turf. Yellow blades of dry grass swayed aside, making way for something moving just beneath the surface. Oak snapped Kaarina's Horror up, aiming the glistening black stinger towards the threat.

This makes no sense at all. Why would he move so recklessly when he could just sit and wait for us to come to him?

Ajla dived from the sky towards the disturbance, wings tucked and claws extended, ready to rip the enemy apart.

Oak spun around and dove at Shaban. A spotted hyena standing on two legs burst from the shadow of a pebble, holding a spear aimed at the badger's back. The disturbance under the ground had been a diversion.

Ramazan was a crafty bastard.

"Die, old fool." A mocking laugh spilled from the gnoll's open mouth and the tip of his spear snapped forth.

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