Adarin did not rush forward into what was obviously a setup. He noticed he was shivering; the anger was roiling, and part of him just wanted to run around kicking men and trees, punching something till his fists broke. He ground out the words to control himself. That will not help me. Then he went through a mental processing routine. It took him long minutes, but he managed to get his fury under control, compartmentalized the anger, and began thinking through the groans.

  Slowly the psychically suppressed soldiers got back up, up off the ground, and Adarin heard stirring noises from the three ships that the vampire hadn’t targeted for slaughter. Crewmen were getting up, apparently unharmed.

  “Liora, get over here now. Cover off two companies. I want you in ten minutes. Ashfield, where is my damned scrying report?”

  Liora acknowledged before the commodore could respond. Through what was obviously magical interference, the commodore’s voice came in broken pieces. “Scrying mages… unconscious… no—”

  Adarin cut the connection, growling with impotent fury. What the fuck is going wrong with my communication plans now of all times?

  Medics from the other ships rallied and came to the aid of their crippled comrades just as the two companies and Liora’s healer cadre arrived. Her eyes went wide and she and the other healers rushed to stabilize the injured. Whispers, murmurs, and wide eyes dominated the companies that had fallen into a defensive cordon around the port—skeletons on the outside, musketeers in firing positions on the inside. The moaning of the men on the deck was a constant background noise of agony, and Adarin pulled sharply at the root whip that still bound Gavin’s hands.

  “Come.”

  He turned to Lieutenant Krislov and readied a detachment of marines at the bottom of the gangplank, diamondoid dagger at the ready. He took steps up the creaking piece of wood, followed closely by Krislov, whose hands were burning with a green mutagenic fire, and Gavin, whose hands he had released and who was now reluctantly holding a grenade and a pistol at the ready.

  Marines checked the men whose stomachs had been impaled on the splintered railing on both sides, hanging over the rail like grotesque gargoyles of failure. The deck was slick with blood, and Adarin only gave the dozens of injured a careful once-over. They were arranged in two lines like a path leading into the ship’s hold.

  Gavin began stammering, “I—you have to understand, it was an opportunity. I had to do it—”

  Adarin ignored the goblin and moved forward, step by step. He tapped Krislov on the shoulder, pointed at a group of marines, and gestured—ordering him to check the rear castle and the captain’s cabin. He himself, alongside a dozen other marines, advanced.

  A female marine went down, wanting to check on one particularly nasty injury, a cut in the side of the throat, but Adarin made a sharp gesture. “Later. We need to know what they left for us.” The woman stared defiantly at Adarin, then let out a long breath and got up.

  Step by step, corpse by corpse, they descended into the darkness of the hold. The naval mage still with them whispered a spell, and a dozen sparks of light erupted from his fingers—bright as burning magnesium fragments—and spilled into the hold like a swarm of fireflies driven away by the storm. The pathway of corpses continued as, creaking step by creaking step, they went down, clearly leading toward the blocked-off bow hold of the ship.

  Gavin’s shifting became more intense. “Adarin, I was making progress. You can’t stop this. You do not understand what kind of opportunity this was—”

  “Shut up,” hissed Adarin sharply, already knowing what he was about to find.

  As he reached the door, he tapped it lightly, expecting it to creak open, but it was locked. Adarin turned to the goblin. “Open it,” he said in a soft tone.

  Gavin stepped forward, shivering, and extended a hand into one of the pockets of his alchemist’s robes. He shoved a key in the lock, turned, and pushed. Nothing happened. He turned again, pushed, and again the door did not budge. He began rattling the door and cursing frantically. “Open up. Open up. I need to see—”

  Adarin pulled him back. “Enough. It’s blocked.” He studied the wood, then got out the diamondoid dagger. Grabbing it like an ice pick, he started hacking at the lock until it was extricated from the wood and fell to the ground. The door still didn’t budge. Adarin could make out several crates against the door on the inside.

  “Hilarious,” he growled. He could imagine what had happened. The asshole shapeshifter had left them some slaughter and then blocked the door—the kind of thing only someone who could shapeshift could effectively do.

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  He gestured to the marines. “Break the door down and remove the fucking crates—in total silence.”

  Apart from the hacking of boarding axes, the splintering of wood, and the heavy breathing of working men, the door and the storage crates were removed. The crates, of course, contained bones for skeletons that were yet to be assembled, because what else would he be using to block the door?

  Then the path was open, and the naval mage again cast his light spell, casting the scene in stark relief.

  A dozen tables. A dozen victims—no, not victims. Experimental subjects. Their bodies were in various states of being cut open, connected with tubes, and embedded with crystals glowing with magic. Adarin noted the small piles of pages that had been pinned to each operating table. Then he focused on the vampire’s real provocation. A large chest bound in crimson silk stood at the center of the room. Next to it lay three books and a scroll.

  “Everyone get out of the room,” Adarin whispered.

  He sent in one of his spider-robots and grabbed what was clearly a sealed message. Each step the small robot took into the room he expected a trap to go off. Halfway in, he froze. Should have ordered the marines to check the powder supplies—but no, that wasn’t the modus operandi of this foe. The spider advanced and retrieved the letter. The tense breathing of the men, Gavin’s wild panting, and the moaning of the subjects were the only sounds, taking in the air that was heavy with sweat, spices, and the sharp tang of alcohol.

  Adarin grabbed the scroll parchment—no need to guess from which animal this hide was taken. He unrolled it and read the message.

  Honored mages of the Order of the Invisible Hand,

  I witness and applaud that you have taken on the opportunity granted by obtaining the blood of a dungeon-boss tier draconoid. The gremlin’s research was inspired, enthusiastic, yet flawed. See my correction notes on methodology and process that I left with each of the subjects.

  Furthermore, in the spirit of scientific collaboration, I have visited the High Alchemist of the Order of the Dragon-Blooded Mercenary Guild. After a few hours of torture, he graciously agreed to lend the Order of the Invisible Hand the most secret documents of his organization alongside some vital and valuable ingredients that will surely aid your further scientific pursuits.

  Here: the three books are the collected experimental records and methodologies of nearly two centuries of the Dragon-Blooded creation process. Please keep in mind they are loans and are to be returned to the Guild of the Dragon-Blooded Mercenaries in a timely fashion. I trust you know how to properly handle books loaned from a library.

  Sincerely, in the spirit of scientific collaboration and progress.

  He scoffed at the illegible signature.

  Adarin’s eyes widened as he growled, crumpling up the parchment in his manipulator. “This fucking bastard,” he hissed. He studied the chest and the books.

  Gavin had rallied and advanced into the room while Adarin read, stepping up gingerly to the first patient. He had begun perusing the notes and was going frantic. “This is brilliant. I—how—oh. Oh!” He ran from subject to subject.

  Adarin noticed the manic energy overcoming the goblin. “Gavin,” he hissed just as the goblin was about to cut open the strings of the chest—then Adarin thought better of it. No, the real trap wasn’t a bomb in a box. It was something far, far worse. He studied the subjects, studied the research notes, and his lips twisted into a vicious smile. This is fucking brilliant. Brilliantly disgusting.

  Gavin ripped open the chest’s decorative bindings like a child on their first Winterfest. He opened the chest—the chest’s heavy lid—and began oohing and aahing over what it contained. Adarin took steps forward into the stench mixed into the air—rich with alcohol and blood. While the goblin examined the substances—which Adarin estimated to be the most valuable alchemical supplies of the Dragon-Blooded mercenaries—he took up the second scroll. It was merely a short notice.

  I have taken the liberty of injecting the subjects with certain enzymes. Do follow the process notes for each of them carefully, lest they die and all of this is in vain.

  Sincerely, your worst nightmare.

  Gavin turned to Adarin. “Adarin—Adarin. I know I shouldn’t have, but with this information we could make—we could make the same kind of soldiers.” He shook himself. “No—some of the annotations—we could make better soldiers than the Dragon-Blooded.” He was bouncing on his feet, his eyes glowing with the happiness only mad scientists could hold. “Rudiger will be so ecstatic—this—”

  Adarin slammed a manipulator to the ground and screamed, “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  Gavin yelped, scrambled back, and the lid of the chest slammed shut. The marines and other sailors who had come on board yelped in surprise as Adarin boiled in anger. Part of me just wants to throw the little gremlin overboard and burn this entire thing. But he is right. Adarin’s breath hissed sharply between his avatar’s teeth. If I do that, Rudiger will be furious.

  He reached out to his officers and ordered them to come to the ship. This needs to be a group decision. If I make it alone—fuck, fuck, fuck, he repeated, seeing all he had worked for falling apart just because the monster had found a keystone of his command structure. If I make the wrong call here, everything unravels.