Duke Cilirus struggled to master his eyes. They snapped shut against his will again. His efforts never made any difference, but he still felt compelled to try. Though his impotent rebellion had no physical effect, it reassured him that he had enough mental control to attempt to fight; that was all the hope he could cling to now. He would not give up on it. A gentle voice penetrated the Duke's mind. This was a common occurrence; Lyr, the Riftling that had possessed his body, communicated frequently with another Riftling who was still trapped within the rift. He was the leader of the last great civilisation, during the previous cycle; Lyr referred to him as Azarr. While Cilirus had never learned Crontan, or had any interest in the civilisation, he could somehow understand Crontan words when they were spoken inside his mind. Perhaps that was the influence of Lyr. Cilirus focused on the foreign words shooting through his mind.

"...a few hundred should suffice. We've drained the northern villages now, and I doubt many more will come from Narcys or Bellais." Cilirus knew the deep, rough voice to be Azarr's.

"What can we do then?" Lyr spoke softly and hesitantly. It was the type of voice that would suit a caring physick.

"Prepare for war. The Outer Cities have many untapped citizens. Send some shifters and thralls to possess the Spice Giants in the Northern Peaks. Bring them back here, then we can prepare our force."

"Will that be enough?"

"Don't question me. You forget I used to be Grand General before I was Emperor."

"Apologies, Azarr. I will do this for you."

Raw panic sank its claws into Cilirus. He couldn't breathe, couldn't pace, couldn't calm himself. He was nothing more than disembodied thought. Calkus had never been a nation of warriors; its foundations had been built on trade and knowledge. The citizens of the Outer Cities, on the other hand, were bred in harsh climates and raised to be brutal warriors from birth. War would mean certain death for most of Calkus' soldiers and a great deal of its citizens.

Cilirus hoped that Bryn had noticed the disturbances in the country and fled to safety; otherwise he would certainly be drafted back into service. He would probably be killed. It would be the Duke's own body that would inadvertently cause that death. Cilirus vowed to stay vigilant. He would find a weakness, wait for a moment of distraction, then reclaim his body from this impostor. He had to save his country. More importantly, he had to save Bryn. Before being trapped inside his own body, Cilirus would have been more concerned about Bryn falling into the hands of his political enemies. The old manservant knew enough about the Duke's habits to have him publicly executed. His time as a being of disembodied thought had changed him. He had been given the time he needed to realise that the thing he truly needed to save Bryn for was his love. Nobody else would love and accept him like Byrn did, and who would blame them? A heathen sodomist who profited while the common folk toiled. He entered a meditative yet watchful state. No point in berating himself for past mistakes. He had to conserve his mental strength. He waited.

Lyr, in the Duke's body, was one of the thralls that accompanied the shifters towards the Northern Peaks. They moved at a ridiculous pace and only stopped for rest when their human vessels were close to pulling a muscle or damaging their lungs. Pain did not register the same way for Riftlings - while they occupied the human vessel's brain, pain signals did not transfer into the Riftling's mind. This was a disturbing realisation for Cilirus. That will be why they won't need so many soldiers to fight the Outer Cities, he thought. A soldier who had nothing to lose and could not feel pain was a frightening thing indeed. A small pack of shifters, eight in total, drifted overhead. They were tethered to the movements of the thralls. By sharing Lyr's thoughts, Cilirus knew that the shifters were a special form of Riftling that could move around the physical world without a body. In their previous life, they were Crontan monks, from a monastery which focused on achieving out-of-body experiences. The shifters straddled the invisible barrier between Calkus and the Rift; they had to remain near thralls to avoid being pulled back into the Rift.

Cilirus broke from his musings. They had arrived at the foothills of the Northern peaks. An impossibly quick journey. The small company of Riftlings marched on. As they ascended the slopes, the small, grassy foothills gave way to rocky crags. The Riftlings ignored the gently sloping path which wound up into the mountains. Cilirus watched in amazement as his fat fingers deftly moved from rock to rock, dragging him up the sheer cliff face. Lyr must have been an expert climber, as Cilirus not participated in any physical exercise for years.

In a matter of minutes, they reached the rocky shelf at the top of the crags. The Riftlings had deep cuts on their hands, however they did not seem to notice.

"Stop the blood," Lyr said, speaking through Cilirus' lips.

The Riftlings wrapped their wounds with bandages. So, bleeding out is still possible for Riftlings, Cilirus thought. Useful to know. He shared Lyr's view as she peered into several dark caves along the cliff face. She stopped to sniff at each one. At the third cave, she paused. Cilirus was disgusted by the rank, spicy smell that drifted from within. Lyr nodded to the shifters, who shot into the cave like ghostly arrows. After a few moments of silence, Cilirus heard heavy footsteps, powerful enough to shake grit from the walls of the cave. Lyr twisted his lips into a smile. A deep fear gripped Cilirus'. A one-eyed monstrosity, thick with hair, peered out of the cave opening. It lumbered towards Cilirus, flanked by two other gangling freaks.

They stood obediently in front of him. His panicked mind told his legs to flee, but his stolen body wouldn't respond. Spice Giants were nightmare material; the perfect story to tell disobedient children to get them to sleep. They ranged from between seven to nine feet tall, with slender, muscled limbs that reached almost to the ground. Their midriffs were emaciated, the pointed bones of their ribcage almost piercing the skin. Most of their faces were covered in a thick fur, which was obscured by long, greasy hair. One of the giants was bald; it would have looked almost like a regular human, if it wasn't for the eyes. They were open so wide that the eyelids were imperceptible smudges against the sallow skin of the cheek and brow. Its eyeballs had been dyed a dull red from the use of fighting spice, which grew exclusively on the foothills of the mountains and was prized by arena fighters and mercenaries in all corners of the world. It dulled pain receptors and released an extended burst of adrenaline, granting the user enhanced physical strength and speed. Besides this, all the giants shared another trait in common; the flaky red smudges of dried blood around their gaping maws.

Beside each of the giants stood a mountain dweller. They appeared to be regular tribal humans, with no advantage in size or fighting ability. Tribal scholars claimed that the fighting spice was reserved for the giants. The smaller tribals soothed the giants when the spice made them too aggressive. Cilirus noted that the bald Spice Giant had three handlers instead of one. He assumed this meant it was either the most powerful, or had the worst temperament. The tribal handlers, now controlled by Riftlings, began to herd the Giants down the crags. The Riftling thralls, including Cilirus, followed close behind. Cilirus realised that the people of Calkus were doomed. Spice Giants would cause panic. They would certainly cause the people to mount a resistance against the cult, however the people were unused to battle and would fall quickly to the experienced Riftling thralls and the frenzied Giants. He hoped that the Outer Cities would fare better. He didn't know what would happen if this cult gained control of the continent, but he was sure it wouldn't be cause for celebration. He had to find an opening. One way or another, he needed to find a way to end his role as an impotent passenger.