When the walls of Golden Tower emerged through the gaps in the rainforest canopy, the old hunter came to an involuntary halt.
This was far from his first journey back from the wilderness.
Yet every time the city revealed itself from within the jungle, he found himself stopping to stare.
A month ago, when he had first entered New Tlaxtlan, it had been little more than a few unfinished stretches of stone wall and a newly roofed barracks.
Now, the city before him was something entirely different.
Every trace of the pale fungal growth had been scraped from Golden Tower’s walls.
The exposed grey stone gleamed beneath the sunlight, dry, solid, and enduring.
Above the gate, the great coiled serpent emblem had been carved even deeper into the stone.
Two white crystals had been set into its eyes.
As shadows from the trees shifted across them, they shimmered as though the serpent itself were alive.
Every twenty paces stood a watchtower.
Behind the narrow firing slits, Skink sentries paced quietly with javelins resting on their shoulders.
Their golden eyes glowed faintly within the darkness of the towers.
From a distance, they resembled rows of silent lanterns.
“That is…”
The old blacksmith’s voice caught in his throat.
One eye was blind.
The other was now wider than it had ever been.
“Golden Tower,” the old hunter answered.
“We’re home.”
A wave of quiet murmuring spread through the refugees.
It wasn’t panic.
It was the instinctive reaction that came when ordinary people suddenly found themselves standing before something enormous, disciplined, and completely unfamiliar.
Someone inhaled sharply.
Another held their child a little tighter.
Someone else unconsciously stepped backwards before forcing themselves to stop.
The little girl who had once asked, “Are you a dragon?” peeked out from her mother’s arms.
She stared at the serpent’s crystal eyes above the gate.
Her mouth slowly formed a perfect little circle.
The city gate opened.
There was no grinding winch.
Golden Tower’s new gates were built from Black Ironwood.
Their hinges had been coated with Cold One oil, allowing the massive doors to swing open almost silently.
Two companies of Saurus Spearmen marched out from either side.
Their bronze shields caught the sunlight, forming two moving walls of gleaming metal.
They advanced exactly ten paces beyond the gate.
Then stopped together.
Turning inward in perfect unison, they struck the butts of their spears against the ground.
Boom.
The single thunderous impact echoed across the clearing.
The refugees froze.
The old hunter looked back over his shoulder.
“This is an honour guard.”
“They’re not here to stop us.”
“Come.”
He stepped forward first.
The old blacksmith followed.
Then the blacksmith’s daughter-in-law.
His daughter.
The mother carrying her child.
The young men who had carried Ella’s stretcher.
They walked between the two lines of Saurus warriors.
Every one of them moved quickly.
Not because they weren’t frightened.
Because they wanted to be inside the city as quickly as possible.
The Saurus never moved.
Sunlight reflected from their bronze shields as the refugees passed, casting cold flashes of light across anxious faces.
Steady.
Unwavering.
The little girl continued staring at one of the shields.
Then she reached out with a tiny hand.
Tap.
Her fingers gently touched the polished bronze.
A soft metallic ring followed.
Her mother nearly turned pale.
She hurriedly pulled the girl back into her arms.
The Saurus warrior never even blinked.
The old hunter led everyone toward the housing district in the southern quarter of the city.
A month ago, when he and the other rescued humans had first arrived, only a few crude wooden shelters had stood there.
The walls had been woven from bark.
The roofs covered with palm leaves.
Now the settlement had transformed.
The humans who remained had expanded it considerably.
Three new cottages had been built.
The bark walls had been replaced with stone.
These walls had been assembled from discarded stones gathered from construction sites.
The gaps had been packed with mud mixed with dried moss.
Crude.
But more than enough to keep out wind and rain.
The roofs had been layered with trimmed Cold One hides.
Not a single drop of rain could seep through.
In front of the cottages lay a cleared courtyard covered with crushed stone.
At its centre stood a stone cooking hearth.
Above it rested a large iron cauldron.
The old blacksmith stood before the cauldron for a long time.
Finally, he turned toward the hunter.
“This pot…”
“It’s better than the one we had at the mill.”
“The Skink craftsmen made it,” the hunter explained.
“They forge cooking pots from leftover iron.”
“If there isn’t enough metal to make another javelin, they turn it into cookware.”
“They don’t boil food themselves.”
“They roast meat over open fires.”
“But they knew we’d need pots.”
“So they made them.”
He reached beneath the stone stove and pulled out a rough clay jar.
Removing the stopper, he poured several coarse grains of salt into his palm.
“They gave us this too.”
“There are salt mines in the rainforest.”
“The Skinks harvest them.”
The blacksmith accepted the jar.
He dipped a finger inside before placing a single grain upon his tongue.
The salt was coarse.
It carried the faint bitterness of natural minerals.
But it was still salt.
Pure salt.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had tasted something so wonderfully simple.
Quietly, he lowered the jar.
Then rubbed at the corner of his eye with a scarred, calloused hand.
The hunter pretended not to notice.
He simply returned the jar to its place.
Then led the blacksmith’s daughter and daughter-in-law to the cottage prepared for them.
Inside stood stone beds.
Fresh hay had been spread across them beneath carefully tanned Cold One hides.
The bedding was softer than anything they had slept on back in Harmstone.
The blacksmith’s daughter reached down and ran her fingers across one of the hides.
Turning to her sister-in-law, she whispered,
“This is softer than the blankets we had at home.”
Her voice carried genuine astonishment.
Not gratitude.
She still hadn’t learned how to thank a city built by Lizardmen.
Ella was placed inside the cottage nearest the cooking hearth.
Her makeshift stretcher was laid across a stone bed covered with two layers of Cold One hide.
The hunter soon returned with a Skink apprentice healer.
The young Skink served among the temple attendants, tending herb gardens and treating wounded Saurus warriors.
Kneeling beside Ella, it removed several dried Silverleaf herbs from a leather pouch.
The herbs were crushed inside a stone bowl.
A few drops of refined magical essence were added.
The mixture was gently spread across Ella’s forehead.
The cool fragrance of Silverleaf quickly filled the room.
The tight lines between her brows slowly relaxed.
She opened her eyes.
A reptilian face hovered over her.
Golden eyes calmly examined her pupils.
She didn’t scream.
She no longer possessed the strength.
Instead, she whispered softly,
“Thank you.”
Then drifted back into exhausted sleep.
On the command platform inside the city walls, Tekuna had already been waiting for some time.
The Skink Priest crouched beside a stone table covered with three sheets of bark parchment.
The first recorded Golden Tower’s reconstruction progress.
One Skink nesting complex had been completed.
The incubation chambers of the second had only recently become operational.
The foundations for both Saurus barracks were complete.
The first barracks should be finished within five more days.
The second parchment listed the city’s garrison.
Golden Tower currently possessed barely thirty percent of its intended defensive strength.
Fresh recruits continued arriving daily from New Tlaxtlan.
Even so, progress remained slower than expected.
The final parchment detailed magical energy income and expenditure. Read this novel at novelping.com for the best experience.
Recent gains had remained steady.
However, continuous troop recruitment and maintaining three cities simultaneously had repeatedly pushed their reserves dangerously close to the minimum safety threshold.
Tekuna stared at the figures.
Its golden eyes spun rapidly as calculations raced through its mind.
When Kroq-Gar climbed onto the platform, Tekuna prepared to begin its report.
Kroq-Gar raised a hand.
Not to interrupt.
Only to say,
“Wait.”
He crouched, resting one arm across his knee.
Then calmly recounted everything that had happened during the northern expedition.
Harmstone.
The refugees.
The condition of the border.
Tekuna listened without speaking.
When the report ended, it quietly slid the magical energy ledger aside.
Beneath it lay another rough sketch.
Several cycles earlier, Skink scouts had mapped the positions of nearby Elf forces.
“The Elves haven’t shown signs of advancing south yet,” Tekuna reported.
“But our scouts observed movement on the grasslands beyond the rainforest.”
“It wasn’t there during our previous surveys.”
“Several dozen individuals.”
“They weren’t heading toward Harmstone.”
“They were following the refugee trail.”
“Judging from their pace and resting points after crossing the abandoned quarry, they’ve been tracking the refugees for nearly an entire day.”
“They should now be less than half an hour from the rainforest boundary.”
Kroq-Gar lowered his eyes to the map.
A fresh symbol had been added just south of the Whitewater River along the forest’s edge.
Beside it, Skink script read:
Unknown Followers.
Human?
Elf?
His slit pupils narrowed slightly.
He remained silent.
Simply moving the map to one side.
“How many Cold One Riders are still in the city?” he asked calmly, never lifting his gaze from the map.
“Two companies,” Tekuna answered immediately.
“There are additional newly trained mounts in the Cold One pens, though not enough riders yet.”
“The two active companies have already completed two coordinated forest assault exercises.”
“Their teamwork is satisfactory.”
“One company is currently held in reserve and isn’t assigned to wall rotations.”
“The other returned from the south-west patrol line earlier today.”
“They’ve rested for half a day and are fully recovered.”
“The reserve company has already replaced their spearheads and prepared their saddles.”
Its eyes rotated once more before stopping.
“My Lord…
you intend to…”
“Send one company out through the north gate,” Kroq-Gar ordered.
“No horns.”
“No banners.”
“Circle around to the northern rainforest boundary.”
“Find those followers.”
“I don’t care who they are.”
“Bring every one of them back.”
“Alive.”
Tekuna lowered its head.
“As you command, my Lord.”
The Skink Priest immediately leapt from the platform.
Its slender legs flew down the stone steps.
As it ran, it released a rapid string of sharp hissing commands.
The sounds echoed throughout the city.
Almost instantly, answering hisses came from the Cold One pens.
The cavalry lieutenant acknowledging the order.
Moments later, the reserve cavalry assembled within the northern courtyard.
Forty-eight mounted riders.
Each Skink swung effortlessly into the saddle.
Long spears rested beside their mounts.
The Cold Ones released low, rumbling growls.
No war horns sounded.
No drums thundered.
Only white breath drifted from the reptiles’ nostrils into the cool morning mist.
Standing atop the city wall, Kroq-Gar watched the cavalry depart.
Without a sound, they passed through the north gate.
They crossed the clearing beyond the walls.
Then disappeared into the darkness beneath the rainforest canopy.
The scales of the Cold Ones matched the colour of the surrounding bark so perfectly that, once inside the forest, only the occasional flash of polished spearheads betrayed the riders’ passage.