The Land of What-Might-Have-Been

by Straightjacketed

After spending so many years wishing that things had been different, what happens when, halfway through their final meeting, Elphaba and Glinda find themselves unexpectedly plunged into the worst of all possible worlds? AU.

20. The First Of Many Battles

A/N: Whew, here we are with another chapter at long last. It's been absolutely manic over the last month or so, but I'm just glad I managed to scrape together this chapter for March; I can only hope that it's up to standards - feel free to correct spelling errors, typos and continuity problems that slipped past my insomniac editing processes. As always, I can only beg your indulgence for the infrequency of my updates.

WickedlyTragic, I'm glad you've found the last chapters wonderful; hopefully this one will be just as praiseworthy, though it probably won't be quite as funny.

Ichibayashi, your review is amazing as always; I love detailed reviews. Without saying too much, Dorothy is indeed going to be a changed girl by the end of this long story, and Fiyero's investigation of his own limitations is just beginning; this is going to be another action-packed chapter, and I hope you'll like it.

Nami Swannn: Elphaba's role in this story is likely going to get even bigger... and hopefully I can keep the Hellion's menace intact; as always, you'll have to be the judge.

Sleuth guest: Thank you so much! Your theories are always fascinating and some more accurate than you might think. I loved amping up the badass factor for Elphaba, I have to say, and giving Dr Kiln a bit of dark humour to work with was fun too; I'm also happy you like the signs of Glinda's maturation, and the Hellion diary - I'm a big fan of the Apocalyptic Log, as they call it over at tvtropes. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter and look forwards to more enthralling speculations!

So, without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Wicked not mine, Oz not mine. Trust me on this.

(3/3/2014: Corrected error in second paragraph. Thank you for finding that, Ichibayashi. 25/8/15: corrected more errors - continuity can be a problem at 3:00 AM)

---

From one end of the wall to the other, the northern end of Loamlark resounded with the bellowing of four different commanders ordering their troops into position.

After the ambassador's impromptu departure from the city, the already confused situation had quickly spiralled into utter chaos: first, once they'd finished subduing Hayfelt's bodyguards and hauling them into the nearest prison, the militia had followed Elphaba's advice and made a beeline for the northern wall; then, having received permission to enter the city, the two transports had landed and allowed the two platoons aboard to finally disembark. Unfortunately, this immediately resulted in a panic among the watching civilians, drawing the attention of militiamen on the way to the wall, ratcheting up the tension even further and wasting precious time. Even more time-consuming was the attempt by Marl to rendezvous with Elphaba, which was swiftly held up by the Mayor's attempt to meet up with Marl in order to apologise for the misunderstanding. And as if things couldn't get any more confused, when the Irredeemables actually arrived at the wall and took up positions along the gate, the militiamen who were meant to be sharing that end immediately attempted a hasty reshuffle along the walkway – until Marchfly noticed the fact that almost a hundred people had plans on being elsewhere, and immediately demanded to know what the hell was happening.

Then, with Elphaba, Harker and Marl hurrying through the disorderly streets towards their positions with the Mayor reluctantly accompanying them, one of the militia's radio operators dashed up with a frantic message from the south: apparently, Hayfelt's interrupted broadcast had stirred something in the listening citizenry, because a riot had sprung up in the marketplace. Much to the relief of all present, there were still enough police stationed away from the wall to keep the mob under control – at least for the time being; less welcome was the mercenaries' response to this latest disaster: because the Strangling Coils were quartered in the southern districts, the mayor informed them via radio that they might have to pitch in and help suppress the rioters if they valued their lives as much as their fees… only for Gloss to cheerfully add "riot-suppression duties" to the long list of services that he expected the townsfolk to pay for.

"Bastards," Marl grumbled, as the radio operator scurried back down the stairs. "Typical mercenaries: milking the cow until its udders dry up and fall off."

"I take it you've had some experience with them?" Elphaba asked, raising her voice over the din of shouted orders and complicated equipment being readied. "I mean, you recognized the flag as a mercenary emblem and all, so-"

"Well, with the war the way it is, you don't spend eight years in the Irredeemables' military branch without bumping into a few guns-for-hire and recognizing their habits. I think just about everyone in the platoon's had a few run-ins with mercenaries over the years." Marl offered a sheepish grin, revealing an impressive set of metallic dentures. "Of course, one of those mercenary run-ins was how I ended up becoming a citizen of Unbridled Radiance and joining the Irredeemables in the first place, so I can't really complain."

Over the mayor's incredulous spluttering, Elphaba half-laughed half-asked, "You used to be a mercenary?"

"For five long years, yeah; most of the time, I was working in places just like this, milking the cow in pretty much the same way as the Strangling Coils are right now. Not as many contracts and technicalities, mind you, my old company was much simpler."

"If it was really that profitable, then why did you leave?"

"Because no matter how much they want it to be otherwise, there's no honour among thieves. Matter of fact, that was how I got most of these," he added, absently scratching at the craters and canyons of scar tissue along his jawline. "And how I lost my left leg, too. At the time I didn't think I'd voluntarily remove the other three once I joined the Irredeemables, but there you go."

He chuckled. "Nowadays, official dealings with mercenaries are a lot simpler. Either they're employed by the enemy, standard procedure for which is shoot to kill and hope there aren't any survivors to chain up… or it's an emergency and they're working for us, in which case, keep 'em on a tight leash and have a rolled-up newspaper ready: don't let them wander around allied settlements looking for trouble; if they want something – hooch or whores – have it sent to them and not the other way around; make sure their fees are all payed in advance; in battle, keep one eye on them at all times, don't be surprised if they run, and there's the slightest whiff of a counteroffer heading their way, be ready for the bloodbath."

"Are you implying that we should be prepared for the Strangling Coils to switch sides?" the Mayor asked sceptically, ducking to avoid a crate of equipment gently levitating up the stairs. "I'm sorry, but I really doubt that the Empress would show such clemency towards the mercenaries after they sided with confirmed traitors."

"Of course not, Mr Mayor. All the same, she wouldn't be adverse to waving money under their noses if it meant luring them into a trap – or convincing them to turn on us. And that's the thing you've got to remember about mercenaries: no matter how sophisticated they are, no matter how high their standards are, I've yet to meet a single one who hasn't succumbed to the call of a bigger paycheck in the middle of a job at least once in their career, even if it meant backstabbing their friends and comrades. I've seen whole companies eaten from the inside out when the urge hits the hungrier members: first they kill the honourable ones for speaking out against betraying a client; then they kill the smarter mercenaries when they try and explain how much they're risking; then they kill the ones who get cold feet; then they get paranoid and start killing each other regardless of what was said or done; eventually, if there's any left alive, they finally get around to accepting the Empress's offer… by which time they're exhausted enough for Unbridled Radiance to massacre in just under eight minutes flat, which is usually what the bastards wanted in the first place. Me, I got lucky: I was one of the cold-feet brigade, and I only ended up losing a leg and being left for dead… up until I got rescued by the Irredeemables, of course. Ah, here we are…"

A moment later, the last flight of stairs flattened into a stone walkway bordered on the left with sturdy iron railings and on the right with the upper five feet of solid wall. Staggering onto the crowded battlements, Elphaba found herself staring out across the milling, barely-organized mess of defences that they'd managed to prepare at short notice: from east to west, the wall was swarming with heavily-armed figures, either scrambling into position, operating the gun turrets, assembling equipment, arguing with each other, being shouted at by Marchfly and his deputies, or just holding their rifles in readiness. Each section of the wall was dominated by a different section of their ragtag army: the repurposed city police had lined up on the eastern wall, ready to defend it with well-instilled discipline and as much police-issue equipment that could be spared; the other four hundred civilian militiamen were stationed to the west, with Marchfly and a few of his sergeants around to keep order, their museum-piece weaponry augmented with several heavy repeaters that Marl and Wolton had donated; finally, the Irredeemable elite and the crack shots of the Deviant Nations' military held the gate. The specialist forces, from the borrowed artillery to Elphaba's squad of magicians, were consigned to the towers; thankfully, it appeared that most of them were already fully prepared by now – or as prepared as they could be under the circumstances – for the magician's assigned towers were already beginning to glow with burgeoning magical power, and the huge barrels of the cannons were already taking careful aim at the distant horizon.

However, beyond the walls, there was no sign of any army to speak of: in fact, all Elphaba could see was the north equivalent of the mountain pass that Loamlark was built in, leading through the Jagged Hills and down the sharp incline of a steep hill, out onto the plains beyond. She could clearly see this road had seen a lot of fighting in the last few days, judging by the many craters and potholes left in its surface, and beyond it she could just make out the beginnings of a very dense forest, but other than that, there didn't seem to be much in sight. With Loamlark's elevated position, any enemy approaching along the road should have been impossible to miss, and the medic had mentioned that there'd been an army virtually at the door a few short minutes ago. In fact, it wasn't until Elphaba peered at the craggy foothills at the end of the road that she saw the murky shapes moving into position.

"Why haven't they attacked yet?" she asked.

Marl chuckled. "I'd imagine it's because they've been oohing and aahing over the mess you made of their ambassador; Unbridled Radiance makes a very big deal when a Purified dies or suffers serious injury. You see that bloodstain at the crest of the hill? That's where he hit the ground; from there, he probably rolled all the way down the embankment until he was in reach of the stretcher-bearers. One way or the other, you've bought us some time, so let's not waste any more." He hiked his rifle over his shoulder, and made for the gate at a brisk jog. "I'll be in contact with you by headset," he called over his shoulder. "Good luck with your first mission as squad-leader!"

Elphaba sighed gloomily and marched off in the opposite direction, towards the magicians' staging ground. I really hope we're ready for this, she thought. More to the point, I really hope I'm ready for it. Here's hoping that those eight up on the towers don't need that much direction just to do their jobs…

"Are you still following me, Mr Mayor?" she asked absently.

"Only because I don't have any idea what the hell I'm going to do next."

"That makes two of us."

"Well, if it's any comfort, at least you don't have to explain the situation to the enemy once you're finished battering them into submission. Or go on living with them, for that matter."

"You don't think things will be any better once the rioters have come to their senses?"

"Of course not. For one thing, I've actually got to explain to these people that the Deviant Nations didn't really abandon them to their deaths and that the platoon of Irredeemables defending the city isn't part of an occupying army; then I've got to break the news that our great triumphant declaration of independence was worth absolutely nothing and has been scrapped without their knowledge or consent; then, I've got to also quell the terrifyingly outspoken minority of my constituents who seem to think that becoming citizens of Unbridled Radiance all over again will magically make everything better." He smiled wryly. "After that, my chances of re-election will be pretty much dead in the water, so I might as well smear myself with garlic paste and spend the rest of the afternoon dancing naked on rooftops."

"Please don't." Feeling the urge to contribute something vaguely positive to the barrage of pessimism she'd just witnessed, she added, "Oh, well, at least you're on our side. That's got to count for something in the long run."

Mayor Wilder offered a mad, helpless grin. "Oh no, hadn't you heard?" he said cheerfully. "I'm only the mayor: what little power I wield isn't worth a damn if nobody in this town actually agrees with me, so unless you manage to convince Marchfly and his men that you're on our side over the next few hours, there's a good chance that I'll end up getting lynched and replaced – either by Marchfly himself, or by someone who mightn't object to re-establishing this town as a colony of Unbridled Radiance."

"Ah."

"So, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to contemplate my future in the most relaxed way possible: I wish you the best of luck on your first artillery mission, and if you don't survive, I can honestly say that it's been a pleasure knowing you. Now, where is that goddamned garlic paste?"

---

General August Stellham regarded the still-breathing carcass on the stretcher with morbid interest, and something almost akin to uneasiness. It had only been three minutes since the body of Lord Hayfelt had been hauled back from the impact crater he'd left in the road, and already the troops and officers alike were getting agitated: someone in that repulsive blot on the mountain range ahead of them had dared to attack one of the Empress's chosen, and done so while he'd been under a flag of truce. The fact that the ambassador was still alive (only just) barely mitigated the undercurrent of loathing: Loamlark had officially refused the last offer of surrender, and compounded the act by committing blasphemy in openly assaulting a sacred representative of the Empress, taking his bodyguards as hostages, and leaving one of Unbridled Radiance's most celebrated diplomats horribly mutilated.

As Hayfelt was slowly carried into the back of the ambulance and driven back towards the camp, Stellham felt a surge of anger as well, but only vaguely. Purification had withered his capacity for negative emotions, preventing him from experiencing or expressing anything but distant echoes. But what little anger he felt was quickly submerged by curiosity: from most of the files he'd read on Loamlark, it was clear that the city had no magicians or facilities for training them; prior surveillance had shown that most of the inhabitants considered magic too dangerous or too important for them to delve into. The refugees who'd first established this crude haven had not entirely cast aside the traditions of Unbridled Radiance in spite of their desertion, and given that the majority of them had been either lowly workers or middling professionals, they'd regarded magic as a sign of achievement far beyond their limited means; the latest arrivals hadn't made any perceivable efforts to break the mould. So, with none of the city's current inhabitants possessed of the ability, the training, the experience or the stomach to perform such a feat, who could have assaulted Lord Hayfelt? The mercenaries aiding them didn't seem to be fielding any magicians, and recent surveillance suggested that the Strangling Coils had left the front lines and were refusing to fight until further payment. That left only one possibility: the Deviant Nations were in the process of reclaiming the city – which would explain the ships that had been seen in the skies above Loamlark in the last hour.

Blasphemy, attempted murder, a cowardly return to the Mentor's service… and on top of everything else, the city might just be able to repel this next wave – perhaps even the entire invasion, if Deviant reinforcements arrived. Stellham would have to move quickly if this forward base was to be secured; as of yet, there was no sign of the Hellion, and artillery division's mortars would need to be loaded with Clarity shells in order to deal with the Irredeemables… but there were still plenty of other options for securing the wall before he needed to resort to brute force.

He cast his eyes across the army now assembled at the foothills of the mountain range: well past the reach of the gun turrets that the mercenaries had installed, this strike force was a versatile selection of almost everything the Empress had granted him, including infantry, combat engineers, armoured vehicles, mortars, cannons, gas weaponry, battle magicians, and a small array of specially-made Vigilant Eyes – built specifically for this newest province of Unbridled Radiance. But it was the cages that were to be utilized first: this latest shipment of convict soldiers had only arrived at the front a few short hours ago, and judging by the screaming and the thumping from within, the drugs had taken hold and the inhabitants were ready to charge; leaving them contained would only waste precious minutes of mindless violence that would be better spent on the city's walls. Furthermore, in the event that the Hellion did choose to attack Loamlark at this point, these ultimately expendable troops would not need to be withdrawn.

Pausing only to run a brief calculation of speed and distance, Stellham cleared his throat, magically amplified his voice, and announced, "Ready the cages. Clear the road, please." There was a pause, as the cages were hauled into position, and the few thousand yards of intervening road between Loamlark and the convict army were hastily emptied of people – the experienced sappers moving the quickest; nobody who'd ever seen Penitents in action wanted to end up caught between them and their targets.

Then, at last, Stellham boomed, "Release the Tumult."

One by one, the huge cages thundered open, the interior restraints noisily disengaging as they did so. For perhaps five seconds, the occupants sat on their haunches, blinking at the sunlight and breathing hoarsely. Then, they charged forwards, bounding down the road at an impressive pace, whooping incomprehensible war cries at the top of their ragged voices.

As the heavily-drugged convict army surged up the embankment towards the distant city, Stellham found himself pondering one other aspect of the unfortunate ambassador's maiming that he'd failed to account for: why had Hayfelt not used his powers of enthralment? As a diplomat, he'd been blessed with the power to do so since his Purification. Furthermore, the augmentation that allowed him this gift was a more potent version of the implant that lesser spokesmen of Unbridled Radiance were provided with, and the Empress had specifically ordered him to make use of it if necessary. So, why had he not charmed his attackers long enough for the bodyguards to come to his rescue? Either his attacker had struck too quickly to be effected, which didn't match up with the time he'd spent behind the enemy's walls, or Hayfelt had been unable to concentrate on using his powers - perhaps out of shock.

And that raised another question: what could have possibly shocked Hayfelt? What could the newly-arrived Irredeemables have done to shatter the ironclad composure of a Purified?

---

Elphaba scanned the tower rooftop around her in consternation, looking from the increasingly-troubling horizon to the magicians that shared the tower with her.

Once again, to prevent putting all the eggs in one easily-targeted basket, her apparent subordinates had been divided into groups and consigned to three separate towers along the eastern wall, along with a few volunteer snipers from the local police force – the majority of whom were still arrayed ten feet below them on the battlements . On top of commanding the two magicians she was sharing tower #1 with, Elphaba was to also to provide necessary orders to the others via radio. And while she was relieved to know that the rest of her squad didn't require too much hand-holding to do their job, the fact that the squad's most vital communications depended entirely on the cumbersome metal headset she now wore under her hat just made the situation feel all the more haphazard.

Fortunately, her comrades-in-arms seemed ready enough: Drendetter and Hedge had set up their equipment and were already preparing their opening salvoes for the incoming battle, the former keeping two of his five brass eyes fixed on the pocket spellbook mounted on his shoulder (lucky bastard!), the latter anxiously tossing a smouldering ball of clay from one hand to the next. For good measure, the lucky medic that had followed her down to Loamlark was also here, sharpening the bones of his arms into knife-like blades – either for surgery or for close-quarters combat.

Seeing them waiting in readiness, Elphaba found herself absently wishing that she could have gotten to know them before now: Drendetter had sat near her on the transport, she'd heard him chatting with another magician about "the merits apparent in the clockwork methodology of enchantment," and he'd been heard asking how long it had taken to complete "Squad Leader Thropp's" alteration, but that was it; all she knew about Hedge was that she fancied herself a mountaineering expert and was interested in magically-induced seismic disruptions, which didn't sound terribly safe under the current circumstances. As for the medic, he was a blank slate; nobody knew him, nobody had spoken to him, and other than his skill as a mage-surgeon, there didn't seem to be much to identify him.

At least she knew Harker – well, as much as she could, given his deliberate attempts to cultivate an air of mystery. He'd just finished assembling his weapon of choice: a long-barrelled rifle clustered with scopes, harnesses, switches and all manner of additional gadgetry, its slender frame resting easily in the old soldier's gnarled hands. As he set the barrel against the edge of the wall, he turned to face Elphaba at long last, offering a rather bemused-looking smile as he did so. "Y'know, this is one thing I never thought I'd be goin' back to," he remarked. "Last time I took on a proper sniping mission, the aftereffects were so bad I swore I'd never look through a scope again. Funny how things change, huh?"

"Speaking of which," Elphaba asked tentatively, "How can you actually see through that scope without eyes?"

Without saying a word, Harker turned his head to the left, revealing a scalp as bare and knotted as the trunk of an ancient tree in wintertime. Then, a patch of gnarled skin retracted, and from a tiny compartment hidden beneath it, a long sinuous tendril snaked out into the light: attached to the end was a human eye, complete with eyelids, eyelashes and a single murky grey iris.

Then, swivelling back to the wall, Harker shouldered his rifle and allowed his eyestalk to fasten itself to the scope. "Here we go," he muttered. "Hope I didn't shock you too badly, squad leader, 'cause we've got our first wave incoming."

Sure enough, a quick glance over the wall revealed that the miniscule shapes that had been massing on the horizon had now begun to advance: already they were halfway along the road and moving at a very impressive pace by the looks of things; Elphaba's first thought was that they were most likely motorized vehicles, judging by the speed and the clouds of dust they left in their wake.

But peeking through her binoculars at the advancing army, she saw that they weren't vehicles at all: they were people on foot – or at least, she had to assume there was something vaguely human-shaped under those formless white jumpsuits and face-concealing helmets. And from this vantage point, it was clear that there were hundreds, perhaps even thousands of them sprinting down the road at a speed that would have made wild horses jealous, none of them showing any signs of slowing – or even tiring for that matter.

And as they drew closer, she could hear them screaming beneath their visors, howling and hollering at the tops of their harsh voices, every single word an incomprehensible roar of blood-curdling animalistic rage…

"What are your orders, squad leader?" Hedge asked, snapping Elphaba out of her reverie. Some of the magicians on Towers 2 and 3 also chimed in with similar queries.

Recovering from the shock as quickly as she could, Elphaba managed to shakily reply, "Hold your fire." It seemed the logical thing to do: from what she could see, the horde wasn't in range of the defenders, and even if they were, nobody had opened fire just yet. Hastily leaning towards the medic, she whispered, "What the hell are those things out there?"

"It's a Tumult of Penitents by the looks of things; I think it's pretty safe to say that these are the convict armies that our militia chief was ranting about."

"Oh."

Several thousand yards away, a charging Penitent lashed out with a bloodstained fist and sent the Penitent closest to him tumbling across the road and into another crowd of sprinters; landing in a heap, the toppled convict lurched to his feet with impressive speed and started running again, bounding and sprinting to catch up with the advancing horde with the other fallen Penitents hot on his heels.

"They've been running uphill non-stop for about five minutes," Elphaba observed. "Why aren't any of them tired?"

"They're quite heavily drugged – specifically with the kind of pharmaceutical mixtures you wouldn't give to any skilled, healthy warrior if you wanted to keep him that way. They've been doped to the gills from the moment they accepted the Empress's offer of forgiveness, all for the sake of crafting a disposable berserker with no sense of fear, pain, exhaustion, or basic human awareness. Nasty, but dirt-cheap and very effective provided you've got the numbers to make a proper Tumult."

"I see." Elphaba considered this, and then remarked, "In other words, this is just to wear down our defences until the real soldiers arrive?"

"Or bomb us. Penitents aren't too averse to having explosives sewn to their chests."

"Fair enough." She thought carefully for a moment, took a deep breath, and announced, "All towers, commence bombardment at my signal: target as many of them as possible, with as much stopping power as you can manage."

Hedge and Drendetter murmured their understanding, and the radio response from the other two groups crackled, "Affirmative, squad leader."

Taking an even deeper breath, Elphaba stepped up to the edge of the wall, quickly but cautiously surveying her mental library of spells for the most appropriate note to begin on. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as her thoughts raced and her gaze flickered wildly about the battlefield: her eyes swept toward the enemy lines, across dozens upon dozens of Penitents tirelessly charging up the hill toward them, bloodthirsty warcries echoing in the air. She looked back at Loamlark's defenders, at the militiamen standing in readiness, clutching antique weaponry with sweat-moistened hands and praying for a miracle; at Marshfly and the repurposed police below, desperately trying to do a job that none of them had ever trained for with a modicum of discipline; at the Deviant Nations regulars, stoic and professional as ever beneath their helmets, taking aim with top-of-the-line rifles; at the Irredeemables beside them, clutching more arcane weaponry in grafted hands, claws and tentacles, their myriad augmentations aquiver in excitement; at the men and women she now commanded, at Drendetter, at Hedge, at the medic, at Harker…

And finally, time returned to normal.

Chanting a few well-chosen words, she drew back her right hand just long enough for the energy to gather in her palm; then she flung it outwards, sending a fist-sized sphere of dazzling energies and incandescent gasses shooting out across the road. It stopped in mid-air perhaps thirty feet above the closest enemy ranks, before exploding in a whoosh of volatile chemicals, sending out a shockwave that toppled the Penitents like ninepins and a burst of heat that reduced them to greasy silhouettes on the ground.

Then, Drendetter stepped up and bellowed a spell of his own, conjuring a razor-sharp wire that spun across the battlefield at waist-height and eviscerated several dozen Penitents before dissolving; Hedge held out the clay ball she'd been playing with and almost nonchalantly dropped it over the edge of the wall – and as it rolled away down the hill, it began to swiftly expand, growing bigger and bigger until a lump of clay the size of a house collided with the enemy's front rank, neatly pancaking at least forty before rumbling on down the hill. Two more followed, along with a hail of exploding caltrops from Drendetter and a searing maelstrom of blazing emerald flames from Elphaba. And as the three of them readied their next spells, Harker opened fire, picking off the nearest Penitents one by one; the other two towers were already launching spells of their own, pelting the enemy with flesh-dissolving rainstorms and whirlwinds of scything blades.

On the opposite end of the wall, the three heavy gun turrets and their repeater counterparts began a barrage of their own: because they were being operated by civilian militia, neither of them were particularly accurate, but with the horde packed so tightly together it barely mattered: wherever the gunners aimed, wherever the shell landed, it was guaranteed to hit at least five Penitents. And then, as if the situation couldn't get any more confused, the enemy finally arrived within range of the infantry, and with a chorus of "FIRE AT WILL!" the militia, the police, the regulars and the Irredeemables all opened fire.

The front rank of the oncoming army fell, hundreds cut down in an instant by a hailstorm of bullets, artillery shells, shrapnel and dozens upon dozens of esoteric spells. Oblivious, the next rank charged over them, trampling the bodies into the dirt and stamping the life out of any survivors too slow to rise again; as the defenders hurried to reload and the magicians bombarded the flanks, the Penitents only drew closer – leaping and lunging towards the undefended foundations of the wall.

"… why the hell isn't this road equipped with a semi-decent minefield?" Wolton screamed into his headset.

"It was!" Marchfly roared back over the second volley. "Up until the second wave of those drooling bastards ran over it four days ago!"

"More borrowed ordinance?" chimed in another voice. "Good gravy, no wonder you people are in debt."

"Not appreciating the editorials, Captain Marl!"

"Look, will you people shut up and take this job seriously? These walls were meant to repel bandit gangs, not siege-breakers!"

"GET OFF THE LINE, MR MAYOR!"

"And let the garlic paste be," one of the sergeants quipped. "There's not enough of it in the world for your purposes."

"SHUT UP AND FIGHT!"

For the next minute or so, the battle was nothing but a din of explosions, gunfire and shouted incantations as the infantry, the artillery and the magicians of the defenders whittled away at the enemy. Nobody among the defenders had died yet, but that didn't stop the situation from feeling all the more desperate, for the attackers didn't seem even vaguely diminished for all the losses they'd sustained. Elphaba didn't know how much of the Tumult was left alive or how close they were to the wall at this point; for every ten Penitents that fell, another hundred swarmed in from the north to replace them.

But it didn't matter: then and there, all she could focus on was the next spell she was going to cast and where it was going to go. Every single thought process in her head had been overhauled in favour of calculating what spell would work the best, and what would truly debilitate the army below: here, a spell from the Grimmerie to turn the roots of dead trees into creepers to crush dozens of enemies at once; there, an incantation that transmogrified the oncoming row of Penitents into immobile glass statues that shattered when the next row ran straight through them – lacerating their muscles and organs with shards of glass; a complicated gesture that sent boulders from the mountain road flying into the approaching army, flattening several; a wave of boiling mud that swamped them, dragging scores into the suffocating depths of the earth; a conjuration of stalagmite-like spikes from the middle of the road and a telekinetic push to impale the Penitents upon them.

At the end of those first few crowded minutes, her arms ached from gestures, her eyes were stung by countless harsh lights and dazzling explosions, acrid smoke pouring across the battlefield burned her throat and clogged her lungs, and her heart refused to slow despite her best efforts to calm its racing pulse. But she didn't feel tired: if anything, she felt exhilarated, so wide-eyed with energy that her eyes felt as though they'd pop out of her skull.

Once upon a time, so much spellcasting in such a short space of time might have overwhelmed her, even exhausted her – the sheer amount of information within the mystic language of the Grimmerie was sometimes enough to bring on a migraine if she read or cast too much. But now her reserves of energy seemed utterly inexhaustible and her output seemingly infinite: she felt invincible, untouchable by anything the enemy or her own metabolism could through at her, capable of anything she put her mind to… and, for the first time without the euphoria of flight to aid her, truly unlimited.

Laughing giddily, she called over her shoulder, "Medic, how long did reinforcements say they were going to take?"

"Six hours, Elphaba."

"And what about these Penitents? How many more do you think there are?" For some reason, she found herself hoping there were more.

"Your guess is as good as mine, I'm afraid. Unbridled Radiance keeps "unproductive" criminals in reserve for these programs, so they have a big supply of Penitents when war finally breaks out. With so much territory in Unbridled Radiance, so many prisons, so many offences you can commit… it all adds up in the end."

"Fat lot of good it did this lot," someone over the radio commented. "At this rate, they aren't even going to get close to the walls before we finished them all off! It's like Unbridled Radiance isn't even trying…"

Somewhere in the distance, there was a muffled boom. A moment later, the familiar shape of a mortar shell in flight split the air not too far above them, soaring out of the distant foothills towards Loamlark; the defenders had just enough time to follow its path across the sky before the logical conclusions finally occurred to them. Over the yells of militiamen struggling to get out of the way, Marchfly was heard to roar, "You son of a bitch, you had to open your mouth, didn't you?!"

And then, just a few hundred feet above them, the shell exploded – propelling a vast cloud of shrapnel towards the undefended soldiers of the western end of the wall. Several militiamen died instantly, shredded to lifeless mince by flying debris; scores more were wounded, left clutching vainly at chunks of shrapnel that had easily pierced their crude armour and embedded themselves in their flesh. A second later, more mortar blasts flickered in the distance, and eight more shells hurtled towards Loamlark; this time, the defenders understood the strategy, so instead of running aimlessly about like headless chickens on a treadmill, they instead just dived for cover. Dozens were still killed or wounded, but the majority of the defenders on that side of the wall survived unscathed for the most part.

While medics hurried to treat the still-living victims of the bombardment (though for some reason, the one at her side seemed reluctant to leave), the uninjured personnel hastily went about hauling improvised defences from of the supply caches: hardwood doors, armour plating, cauldrons, bookshelves, anything that might shield them from the next barrage of shrapnel. Elphaba wondered how much protection these primitive bulwarks could offer against something more explosive; then the logic of the attack finally reached her befuddled brain: Unbridled Radiance hadn't used anything that might run the risk of seriously damaging the wall so far, with all their attacks focussed on the defenders rather than the foundations and no sign of anything vaguely explosive strapped to the approaching Penitents – most of whom had been little more than bullet sponges and distractions.

Over the distant thunder of mortar fire on the horizon, there was a crunch from below. Elphaba peered over the edge and saw that the Tumult had taken advantage of the brief ceasefire to finally reach the base of the wall, several hundred still remaining despite the best efforts of the militia; the sound she'd heard was the noise of the closest Penitents punching the wall itself, slamming their fists through solid concrete and forming sizeable handholds in the fortifications. And as they did so, they awkwardly forced their way upwards, driving bloodied hands and broken bones into the façade again and again, higher and higher. Several dozen fell, the mangled remains of their arms unable to make the next handhold, but hundreds more scrambled to replace them, clambering up the handholds until they'd reached the spot where their predecessors had fallen… and behind them, the rest of the army followed.

Suddenly, the sound of gunfire resounded across the wall again, this time aimed at the Penitents who'd made onto the battlements; not too far below Elphaba, the police officers took the brunt of the attackers, the front ranks desperately hammering at the drug-addled berserkers with clubs and rifle-butts while the remainder swapped their rifles for shotguns and opened fire on the next wave. From where she stood, she could just about make out the sight of the Irredeemables making an enthusiastic charge against the invaders, clawed limbs and dagger-tipped tentacles ripping them to shreds and mace-like fists hammering any survivors into submission; Marl stood out from all of them, ducking and weaving under the swinging arms of his assailants and dispatching them with nothing more than his prosthetic limbs – crushing skulls with quick, rapid swings of his metal fists and launching opponents from the walls with piston-powered kicks. But no matter how many of the enemy fell, there were always more to replace them, and with so many people on the battlements, Elphaba knew for a fact there way she or the other magicians could help without accidentally hitting their own allies.

A yowl of rage from the left snapped Elphaba out of her reverie, and she turned just in time to see one of the Penitents leap onto the edge of the tower, snarling rabidly behind its helmet. She hurriedly took in its features, its muddied white jumpsuit, its cracked visor, the bloodied lumps of meat and pulverized bone that had once been its hands… and, concealed beneath the sleeves, the needle-sharp hooks strapped to its elbows. She could see features beneath the ruptured helmet - bitten-off lips, bloodied teeth, wide eyes with twitching pinprick pupils; there was nothing sane to be found in those features, just rabid animalistic madness. Then the moment passed and the Penitent lunged; on reflex, Elphaba lashed out with a blast of dazzling green light that sent the screaming berserker flying off into empty air, taking a huge chunk of the wall with it.

Two more leapt into view, vaulting over the rim of the wall and catapulting themselves into the air – poised to pounce upon the surprised the magicians. But before anyone could ready another spell, two gunshots split the air in rapid succession, and a second later, the headless corpses of the Penitents crashed to the ground. Elphaba had just enough time to realize who'd fired before another attacker sprung at them, only to be immediately felled by another double-tap from Harker; pausing only to issue a salute, he kicked aside the spent casings and reloaded.

Another five convicts were already scurrying up, but to Elphaba's surprise, it was the medic who moved on them: before the quintet could move within arm's reach, he flicked a hand in their direction, sending a cloud of dart-like bone shards into their throats and stomachs. With their nerves deadened by drugs, none of them payed much attention to the puncture wounds… but then the medic waved a slender hand, and the shards expanded dramatically outwards, impaling the Penitents from within and sending fresh spines of bone erupting from their eyes. Even as they fell, Elphaba heard the screams of hundreds more fighting their way up the length of the tower.

A mad idea seized her: lunging into the air, she leapt onto the very edge of the wall – her feet moving so swiftly that she might have been levitating had the broomstick been out of her hand at the time. Looking down, the surface of tower was swarming with Penitents, crawling along the pitted façade like warped insects; taking a deep breath, Elphaba focussed all her power into one great blast of energy and sent it rippling through her hands, gouting out of her hands as blazing emerald flame. The fire surged downwards along the length of the tower and into the bulk of the oncoming climbers, instantly transmuting flesh and blood into charcoal; barbecued on the spot, they fell in droves. But Elphaba didn't stop: she paused just long enough to shout through her headset, "KEEP THEM OFF YOUR TOWERS! BLAST THEM OFF BEFORE THEY REACH YOU!" and then gave full vent to all her accumulated frustrations. She let her power rage down at the horde, searing and charring and disintegrating anyone who dared enter her line of fire – anyone who dared climb the tower wall or even approach it.

And she laughed. She laughed and whooped and cackled, even as the horribly tantalizing smell of cooked meat filled the air, even as the next few mortar shells blasted their deadly cargo upon the defenders, even as the screams of the dying echoed across the wall. The feeling of unquenchable triumph had blossomed even further, the sensation that she normally only felt while in flight now threatening to tear her open: somewhere inside her head, a chorus of millions was proclaiming her unlimited. And why not? Her body was ablaze with power, an aura of brilliant green light shrouding her body in its dazzling illumination, her movements so light and graceful that she swore that her feet no longer touched the ground.

Eventually, the stream of figures trying to climb the wall dwindled away to nothing, so she stopped, and allowed her euphoria to gently subside – enough to get a sense of what was happening elsewhere.

Far below them, closer-quarters fighting had finally rendered the main body of Penitents down to less than a handful of screeching lunatics: the other magicians were diligently scraping the last of the attackers from their towers, whilst the members of the Tumult who'd been fighting their way onto the wall itself had been almost finished off. But even from here, it was still a grim sight: quite apart from the sight of the remaining enemies being either shot or restrained, the battlements were strewn with the bodies of the dead and wounded; it was impossible to tell whether they'd been friend or enemy, for the bodies were crowded almost too heavily to tell. And from one end of the bloodstreaked wall to the other, the screams of pain and desperation still resounded.

Thankfully, Elphaba could clearly see Marl making his way along the walls towards her tower, enthusiastically pummelling any of the Penitents who dared to bar his way; a minute later, he arrived at the top of the stairs: he was panting, bloodied, bruised, and sporting three fresh lacerations across the already-scarred expanse of his bald dome, but otherwise unharmed.

"Are you okay?" he puffed. "My headset broke in that last fight, so I didn't know what was going on up here?"

"We're fine," said Elphaba; she eyed the other four occupants of the tower, hurriedly taking stock of any injuries: for the most part, they were almost entirely unharmed except for Drendetter, who was now sporting a colossal bruise on his cheek from one of the more surreptitious Penitents. Tapping her headset, she called, "Towers #2 and #3, report in: what is your status?"

"All clear," came the reply. "Gasket and Hob got hit by shrapnel, ma'am," Tower #3 chimed in. "They're badly injured. One of the medics is already seeing to them, but we don't know how it'll turn out yet.

"Alright. Keep me informed." She turned back to Marl. "What about you?"

He sighed deeply, his jovial irreverence visibly fading. "Eight Irredeemables dead; fifteen regulars dead; almost the entirety of both platoons injured, either from shrapnel or from wall-climbers. And as for the militia, I think they'll be very lucky if they scrape through this with less than two hundred casualties: most of the shells were aimed at them. Marchfly's alive, though… and I don't think he's very happy. Apparently, the losses weren't anywhere near this bad before we got here; it looks to me like Unbridled Radiance was treating them with kid's gloves just in case they agreed to their terms."

"Speaking of U.R., what are they doing now?"

"They're withdrawing."

"What?"

"Hard to believe, I know, but I saw it for myself. They started packing up just a few minutes ago, likely before they could get off any shots at your tower; they've already dismantled their mortars and they're now marching back behind cover; in fact, they might just be in full retreat. Just as well, really: we've put a serious dent in our supplies of ammunition, and I really doubt that the mercenaries are in a sharing mood anymore."

"But why would they start retreating now? They've only just started fighting!"

"Who knows?" Marl grinned cheekily. "Maybe that award-winning performance of yours frightened them off."

Someone screamed.

All of sudden, every single frequency on Elphaba's headset was buzzing with panicked voices – reports flooding in from the other magicians, from the turrets, from Wolton, from Marchfly, from everyone among the defenders who still had a radio connection. One voice spoke louder than all the others, terror amplifying a simple report to a deafening scream: "Behind us!" it howled. "They're behind us!"

Heart pounding in alarm, she spun around and peered over the opposite side of the tower: sure enough, there They were, perhaps forty vaguely-human shapes leaping across the rooftops and somersaulting towards the northern wall.

At first, Elphaba thought that another Tumult had somehow managed to invade the city from the south, but a look through the binoculars quickly proved her wrong: for one thing, the uniforms these figures wore weren't stark white convict jumpsuits, but crimson silk costumes– ragged and tawdry, but still undoubtedly silk; and instead of helmets, they wore porcelain masks daubed with clownlike makeup. More to the point, none of the Penitents had moved with the unearthly grace of these creatures: they didn't lunge heedlessly across the rooftops or punch their way up walls; they leapt with the precision of an acrobat, landing perfectly on both feet and cartwheeling onwards. And there were hundreds more of them diving in from the slopes of the nearby mountains, landing unharmed after drops that would have easily crippled even the Penitents, and joining the rest of their brethren in the charge towards the defenders.

Thankfully, the defenders recovered from the shock very quickly: taking careful aim, everyone from the militia to the Irredeemables opened fire, peppering the roofs of their own houses with bullets this time. But instead of staying their course and running on in a straight line, these new invaders dodged nimbly from left to right, bouncing off chimneys and spinning out of range; and when a few lucky shots did land, none of the victims seemed to notice or care, much to the audible terror of the militiamen.

"They're indestructible!" some of them screamed over the radio. "Even headshots can't stop them!"

"Stay calm!" Marl shouted desperately. "Aim for their legs, slow them down, just keep firing and- WHOA!"

Another cluster of masked invaders had vaulted onto the wall, and, with almost no weapon on the wall capable of stopping them or even slowing them down, they were now fighting their way through the disorganized ranks of the militia: from what Elphaba could see, none of the assailants were armed, nor did they seem to need weapons at all; their hands alone seemed as hard and sharp as any blade, easily parrying the bayonets of their opponents and disembowelling them with a single sweep of the fingers – a sight that was all the more disarming considering how short those doll-like figures were. In a matter of seconds, the defenders were in full retreat across the wall with the invaders in hot pursuit.

"Shit," Marl hissed, all but paralysed with shock. "What the hell are these things? Where did they come from?"

"The Dolls are mine and ALWays have been," said a familiar voice.

Elphaba didn't even see the blast of magic or its impact with her stomach; one minute she was glancing wildly around and the next minute she was tumbling helplessly across the floor, landing in a crumpled ball at the opposite end of the tower. The medic ran to help her, only to be dragged backwards by another jolt of energy and tossed into the chaos of the battlements below. Harker raised his sniper rifle and actually managed to land a direct hit (judging by the grunt of pain from above) before the magical riposte swept him off his feet and down the stairs. Drendetter and Hedge barely had time to open their mouths to announce spells before being hammered into unconsciousness against the floor, whilst Marl was simply flung into the air and hurled off the edge of the tower.

Only then, with all the tower's occupants felled, did the Hellion finally descend. Gently levitating from fifty feet above the tower to merely three, she turned to the mass of Dolls killing their way across the wall, she bellowed, "SEARCH EVERYWHERE, MY DOLLS! FIND HER BEforE THEY STEAL her AWAY AGAIN!" Then, she turned to Elphaba, a vicious scowl marring the skinless face. "And YOU," she snarled. "As for YOU…"

And it was at that moment that Marl came charging up the tower stairs and flung himself at the Hellion with a roar: for perhaps thirty seconds, he was untouchable, attacking the nightmarish creature with all the strength his mechanical limbs could provide him, punching, kicking, tearing, jabbing, chopping and gouging. He even managed to dodge the magical counterattack and duck under the first few swings of the Hellion's colossal arms; but as he lunged forward for the next strike, the Hellion lashed out with her second set of arms and caught his fist in mid-punch. Then she clamped down on his remaining arm as he tried to free himself, the third set of arms grabbing him by the feet and hoisting him into the air.

Then, having a firm grip on all four limbs, the Hellion shifted her grip to the very point where the mechanic limbs joined Marl's body, and began to pull.

Elphaba staggered to her feet, readying a spell to sear the monster out of existence; but without even glancing in her direction, the Hellion waved a hand with a magical gesture that swatted her back against the wall. And still the vice-like grip tightened, and the prosthetic limbs stretched ever outward, and Marl opened his mouth to scream…

And with a sickening wet rrrrrriiiip of flesh and bone tearing apart, a sound that could be heard even over the noise of combat below, Marl's right arm was torn away, along with the metal socket it had been plugged into, a huge chunk of ragged meat, and a sizeable piece of shattered bone.

"She loves me," the Hellion purred, dismissively tossing the mangled prosthetic aside.

The other arm was torn away, a foul mixture of engine oil and blood spraying the ground as it was disconnected – taking most of Marl's shoulder with it.

"… she loves me NOT."

The left leg was next, and this time the captain screamed even louder than before; Elphaba tried to rise, but whatever spell had knocked her aside now pinned her to the floor with a colossal force of gravity, unable to move or even speak to help.

"SHE loves me…"

Marl's right leg (and most of his inner thigh) hit the ground with a clang, leaving his limbless body to drop into the Hellion's frontmost arms.

"... she LOVES ME not," the Hellion finished. For a moment, she looked disappointed; then, she eyed the figure in her arms with newfound interest. By now, Marl was barely conscious, his eyes fluttering wildly and his pitted face ghastly white from blood loss; his lips moved vaguely, as if trying to say something.

It took a minute or two for Elphaba to realize that he was half-whispering, half-laughing the words, "Didn't think it would be over so soon..."

One skinless hand shot out and tore deep into the captain's ribcage, and with a stomach-churning wrench, she tore out his heart. "SHE LOVES ME!" the Hellion roared triumphantly, tossing the lifeless body of Marlford Marl to the ground.

Swiftly crushing the heart between her fingers, she rounded on Elphaba, dragging her upright with a twitch of magic and shaking her violently in mid-air. "Where is she?" she growled. "WHERE are you HIDING her?"

The gravity curse was beginning to fade, she realized; soon, she'd be able to move her arms again – and she'd have to. If she were to speak the words of an incantation, the Hellion would kill her before she could finish chanting; no, if she were to fight back, it would have to be through magical gesture. "Where am I hiding who?" she replied through gritted teeth, stalling for time.

"THE SWEET DOLL YOU STOLE FROM ME!" the Hellion bellowed. "WHERE HAVE YOU HIDDEN HER?"

"Oh, I have absolutely no idea. I take it those things down there are your Dolls?" She nodded at the eerie figures swarming across the rooftops in their hunt for Dorothy; most of the defenders had abandoned the wall, and the rest were trying vainly to stop the Dolls from getting any further into Loamlark; judging by the screams from the south - the horrified wailing of unsuspecting citizens as the invaders vaulted through their windows and into their houses – they weren't having much success.

"Her future BROTHERS and sisters," the Hellion explained. "THEY long to see her join us as SURELY AS I DO; the Dolls LOVE fresh company…"

Might explain what happened to all the kidnapped victims, Elphaba thought blearily. Out loud, she asked, "Why do you want Dorothy for this collection of yours?"

"WHAT THE HELLION WANTS, THE HELLION TAKES!"

Just a little longer, just a few more seconds… "But why collect at all? What do you want, exactly?"

"THE OTHERS collect Dolls too, and they have much bigger collECTIONS to keep them company!" the Hellion snarled. "The GREAT and Radiant Lady of Emeralds has her PRETTY porcelain gentlemen and gilded ladies, the Old MENTOR of Scars and Pain has her glorious army OF patchwork people, the Fat Squid of the Stranglers has his shiny clockwork toys and little tin soldiers, the Mistress of Mirrors has a treasure trove of REFLECTIONS on her side, and even the Shapeless FAMILY collect those who HATE THEIR own shapes and faces. YOU have a collection all your own: your long-lost ragdoll, your whimpering toy lion, and the patchwork monkey! I DESERVE the company of a collection of my own too, and I look after MINE better than any of the others! So, tell me, WHERE IS-"

As planned, she didn't see the gesture before Elphaba completed it, and the jet of flame caught the Hellion square in the face. Roaring in agony and inarticulate rage, the Hellion grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and flung her across the tower - in much the same way that a child might throw a toy during a temper tantrum, Elphaba reflected absently, as she cleared the battlements and went soaring out over Loamlark's northern district. For perhaps twelve seconds, she was once again flying without the aid of a broom; she was vaguely aware that the situation was dire and that she should be worrying at this point, if not actually panicking… but the sight of so many houses passing gracefully beneath her seemed almost implausibly calming to her disoriented eyes. She could only marvel at the sight of so many people rushing through the streets and over the rooftops, played out as if in slow-motion: militiamen trying to rescue terrified citizens, homeowners and innocent bystanders either fleeing or terrorized by the invaders, and of course, the Dolls; on almost every single rooftop and on every single street that she drifted over, they were there, searching for Dorothy and killing anyone that tried to stop them.

And then the Hellion soared into view beneath her, seizing Elphaba in another vice-like grip and arresting her descent with a bone-rattling jolt. "I GAVE YOU MORE THAN ENOUGH CHANCES TO RETURN MY DOLL," she howled. "I TOLD YOU THAT YOUR RUBY SLIPPERS WOULD BE RETURNED TO YOU IF YOU GAVE HER BACK, AND YOU DID NOTHING; ON THE AIRSHIP I TOLD YOU I HAD YOUR OWN DOLLS WITHIN REACH, AND YOU DID NOTHING; I SEIZED YOUR DOLLS AND TOOK THEM CAPTIVE, AND YOU DID NOTHING; NOW, BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T CARE ABOUT YOUR OWN COLLECTION, I HAVE TO TAKE HER BACK FROM YOU!"

The monstrous arm swung downwards, and Elphaba had just enough time to see the roof of a house looming towards her before the Hellion slammed her bodily against it.

"WHERE IS SHE?"

Another impact – and another, and another.

"WHERE IS SHE? WHERE IS SHE?!"

Bleary from the assault but still just conscious enough to fight back, Elphaba let her magic flare outwards, scything through the Hellion's grip. A moment later, Elphaba was on her feet again and casting almost every single spell she could think to use as a weapon, whether it was conjured through incantation, gesture, or the intrinsic magic she'd possessed since birth: bolts of lightning, clouds of gas, tendrils drawn from coiling shadows, gales whirling knives, fists composed of animated stone and plaster – if it was contained within her mental lexicon of techniques, she used it. The Hellion counterattacked with her own repertoire of spells; there was no art to her magic, no finesse or subtlety in any form, just raw, animalistic strength: blazing multi-coloured flames that melted stone like candlewax, bolts of energy that hammered vast chunks of masonry from the surrounding structures, and vivid purple tendrils of foul-smelling flesh that swept across the rooftop and threatened to engulf anyone in their path – every single spell terrifyingly potent and horribly alien even to Elphaba.

The duel lasted just under a minute, and it ended when a tentacle snaked in from the right and wrapped itself around the Hellion's throat, dragging her away from Elphaba just long enough for twelve bullets to slam into the monster's chest.

Standing on the neighbouring rooftop were Harker and the Medic – the former hurriedly reloading, the latter's already-tattered clothes torn open to allow the tentacles oozing from his misshapen body freedom of reach; beneath his sickly grey flesh, unpleasant shapes rippled and shifted as quills of bone tore through the skin of his arms, only adding to his arsenal of built-in weaponry.

But then the Hellion flung her arms outward, ripping through the tentacle around her neck like rotting cloth and swatting the others aside with quick bursts of technicolour flame. "So," she sneered. "TWO more dolls – one from YOUR own colLECTion, one FROM The Mentor: the unforgiveable marksman who felled a nation with two shots, AND the shy doctor, still trying to serve two mistresses at once. You collect so many Dolls of your own, Green Girl, and still you need to steal others! WHERE IS MY DOLL!?"

"If you're so good at reading stray thoughts," Elphaba snapped, "then why don't you try looking in here?" She tapped the side of her head by way of explanation.

There was a pause, and then the Hellion's already-maddened features contorted in disbelief. "Not here?" she hissed. "NOT HERE?! You… you tried to trick ME? YOU THOUGHT TO BAIT ME INTO A TRAP?! YOU THOUGHT TO TAKE MORE OF MY DOLLS FROM ME?!"

"Not very good at it, I see," said Elphaba quietly, although nobody took much notice.

"DOLLS! TO ME! TO ME!" And as the echoes died away, the Hellion lurched into the air, making a beeline for the nearest of the mountains. "Take good care of your collection," she snarled as left. "I already have your beloved ragdoll; your golden-haired china doll might be collected soon…"

As she floated away, a scurrying tide of Dolls followed her in their hundreds, leaping and somersaulting over the rooftops and out of the city. What Elphaba didn't expect to see was a small army of black-uniformed figures charging after them, peppering the fleeing Dolls with gunfire… but all the same, she didn't release the breath she'd been holding until the Hellion and all her Dolls were well and truly out of the city and out of sight.

It took some time for the three of them to clamber down from the rooftops and back to street level, given that the house didn't have a ladder in reach and that the broomstick was back at the tower along with the rest of Elphaba's gear; eventually, the medic had to carry Harker and Elphaba in his tentacles as he awkwardly clattered down the side of the building and into the street… and by then, the black-uniformed figures had stopped to gawk at the amusing sight above them – Colonel Gloss in the lead and smiling wider than ever.

"I take it that the Mayor finally found some way of paying you?" Elphaba remarked dryly, as she finally set foot on the cobblestones.

Gloss's smile grew. "Actually, it so happens that I've been in contact with our paymaster over this recent state of affairs… and it seems that the Leviathan likes the cut of your jib, Miss Thropp. He has paid this town's remaining fees out of his own pocket, and charged us with defending Loamlark by any means available to us."

"Why would he do that?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps he expects something from you, in particular – after all, he did seem most interested in you. Of course, you needn't take my word for it; you can ask him when arrives." There was a pause, and Gloss adjusted his uniform ever-so-slightly. "In the meantime, you might want to make haste to the wall along with us: it seems as though the cowards among this town's blighted militia are returning to it at long last."

There was a pause, as Elphaba considered this. Then, remembering the dented headset she still wore (even in spite of the beating she'd just received from the Hellion), she hastily switched it back on just in time to hear a terrified voice scream, "- everyone back to the wall now! We've got a company of incoming Eyes! I say again, we have Vigilant Eyes being deployed-"

A burst of static cut through the end of the radio operator's announcement, leaving the channel silent for a moment or two. Then, a new voice echoed through Elphaba's headset – and the headsets of her magicians, of her fellow officers, and every single radio operator left alive at the wall.

"Remain calm," it intoned mechanically. "Your suffering is at an end."

"This is now a territory of Unbridled Radiance," whispered another. "We have come cleanse this city of Deviation and Wickedness, and make its citizens worthy of the Empress's favour."

"Now rejoice, defenders of Loamlark," said a third, "For we are the Empress's Mercy."

And then the screams began anew.

"Hmm-hmm-hrrmmm," Gloss hummed serenely. "I doubt this is a situation we can solve easily. I suggest we detonate the ammunition stored in the turrets and hope that you and your magicians can mop up any remaining Eyes once the smoke's cleared. If not, we can always retreat."

"That won't be necessary."

"Oh, it may very well be. I don't think even the combined forces of the Strangling Coils, the civilian militia and the local police can stop them at the wall, even if we do use the demolition charges we planted on our cannons earlier. In fact, I recommend doing so immediately and-"

"I said it won't be necessary," Elphaba snarled. "Just get me to the tower safely and I'll do the rest."

"You believe you can somehow defeat an entire company of Vigilant Eyes in single combat?"

"I certainly plan to."

"At the risk of bursting your bubble, Miss Thropp, in military terms a company numbers as many as a hundred-"

"SHUT UP AND MOVE! QUICKMARCH NOW!"

It took about three torturous minutes to hurry through the chaotic streets, past the shouting militiamen hurrying to defend the city once again, past the citizens rushing in the opposite direction and finally to the stairs; by the time Elphaba had finally arrived at the top, she was completely out of breath and almost incapable of movement… and as such, she had a front-row view of the carnage sweeping across the battlements.

The air above the wall swarmed with the polished metal bodies of the Vigilant Eyes, a cloud of tiny spherical bodies, all of them reassuring the crowd beneath them that all would be right with the world and wickedness would be cleansed from their town and its citizenry, all of them setting the defenders of Loamlark aflame and shrouding the sky with thick clouds of smoke that turned the day into night. The angry red glow of their weapons swept across the wall from left to right, setting anyone in its path alight and sending the survivors scurrying for cover; it was impossible to accurately estimate how many of the militia fell in a single attack, but it looked to be as many as twenty to fifty with every lash of the flame. And very few of them had any chance to launch any kind of counterattack: only the artillerymen and the magicians seemed to be having any kind of luck, with the former stymying the Eyes with bursts of anti-aircraft fire, and the latter doing their best to shield the battlements and disrupt the enemy with their magic. But even their luck couldn't last: as Elphaba struggled towards the tower staircase, she caught a glimpse of tower #3 in flames, accompanied by that familiar smell of roast dinners – and saw a robed figure stagger, ablaze from head to toe, onto the battlements and keel helplessly over the edge.

Elphaba steeled herself and hurried up the stairs, Harker, the medic and the mercenaries diligently clearing a path through the panicking militiamen as she climbed. It took far longer than necessary, but she finally made it out onto the top of the tower, where Drendetter and Hedge still lay unconscious.

Then, once again standing on the very edge of the tower battlements, she raised her arms and conjured the brightest light she could possibly muster, accompanied by a clarion-like screech of noise that none of the Vigilant Eyes could possibly overlook.

As one, the swarm of airborne attackers ceased firing, and turned in the direction of the tower, clearly drawn by the pulse of magic.

And then they saw her.

For thirty heartstopping seconds, they hovered in mid-air, their cyclopean lenses examining her with something almost akin to disbelief.

Then, just as they had back at the borders of Unbridled Radiance, they turned and fled, retreating across the sky at an impossible speed, towards the distant lines of the invasion force on the horizon. There was a pause, as the surviving militiamen and Irredeemables began to hastily put out the fires (of which there were mercifully few). Then, all eyes turned in the general direction of Elphaba, who was only just climbing down from her perch.

"Would you mind telling us how the hell you just managed that?" Marchfly asked hoarsely over the radio.

"Of course," said Elphaba. "I've just got to do something very important first."

"And what's that?"

"Collapse."

And with that, Elphaba's legs gave way and she toppled to the floor in an exhausted heap, half-asleep long before her head hit the tiles.

---

Something was wrong.

The Champion eyed the figure asleep next to him with open concern, augmented with programmed instincts: for the first time in all his many years of service, the Empress's sleep was troubled.

Generally, the Empress slept only once a month at the very most, her power and longevity allowing her to go for weeks on end without rest; none had ever been able to match her tirelessness – only the Purified could ever hope to approach her indefatigable stamina, and that was because she was their progenitor. Lesser mortals could only try to keep up with her at all hours, and fail miserably. Perhaps that had been one of the reasons why the Champion had been granted his unique blessings along with the salvation that Purification offered, if only so that he might be able to better serve her. But one important fact stood out from all the facts stored in the Champion's memory: the Empress's slumber was always tranquil and undisturbed, as befitted the goddess who had brought such Perfection to this world.

Then why was she in this state of distress? Why was she tossing and turning in her sleep? Had it been something he'd done, some mistake, some offence he'd committed without knowing? In all the years he'd known her and shared her bed, he'd never seen anything like this before or after he'd been allowed to experience her pleasure. And the thought that he might be the cause of this problem left his mind so disrupted he almost lost his grip on his thoughts altogether.

Then at last, the Empress's eyes flickered open. Gliding gently out from under the bedsheets, she rose from the bed – naked, wide-awake and unimaginably beautiful. "A nightmare," she murmured to herself. "It's been so long since those days. I never dreamed I might have thought of myself like… that again." She shuddered in disgust.

She turned to the Champion, and the concern much have reached his face, for she immediately smiled and put a reassuring hand on his bare shoulder. "It wasn't your fault, my love; if anything, you give me sweeter dreams than usual. Tell me, do you still feel the anger that the false Glinda inspired?"

He shook his head.

"You see? I told you I knew a way to make you feel better. And taking comfort in one another's arms is only the beginning. Within a few short days, the imposter's brief legacy will be swept aside, as will the corruption of the Mentor… and we'll be free to remember the real Glinda." She kissed him on the forehead, slowly lowering herself onto his lap. "And then the stalemate will be broken, and one by one the Deviant Nations will fall; our greatest opponent will be gone and organized opposition towards the Perfection we grant will have died with it. Soon, we'll be able to see Unbridled Radiance spread to every corner of the civilized world, to see the vision we nurtured all these years flourish and blossom until-"

There was a ringing from the nearby intercom. Sighing, the Empress rose from the Champion's lap and drifted gracefully across the thick carpet towards the intercom's place on the wall. "Yes?" she murmured into it.

"Urgent message from General Stellham, Your Radiance."

Her delicate eyebrows rose. "I'll receive it in Paragon's central chamber, thank you."

She waved a hand, white robes immediately materializing over her naked body; another gesture, and the Champion found himself once again dressed in his uniform and mask. Then, with a whisper of an incantation, the room around them faded away as the teleportation spell whisked them into the depths of the Sepulchre, to be quickly replaced by the high walls and sharp emerald obelisk of Paragon's chamber. And standing right in front of that very obelisk was the spectral image of General Stellham.

"What is it, General?" the Empress asked.

"Unfortunate news, Your Radiance: Lord Hayfelt was badly injured during the negotiations and the latest attack began slightly ahead of schedule. Ultimately, our forces have been repelled for the time being; troops from the Deviant Nations have arrived to secure Loamlark, and they have been assisting the local militia in thwarting our attempts to claim the town."

"As you say, unfortunate. However, it's not entirely unresolvable if you are willing to launch a second wave: you still have sufficient infantry, along with your supplies of gas weapons and functional artillery, yes?"

"This is true, Your Radiance. The only troops we lost were the Penitents."

"And what about the Hellion? Did she make an appearance?"

"We have confirmed sightings of her attacking the city, resulting in a substantial death toll."

"Very well. And what of the Vigilant Eyes? Have any of them been destroyed?"

"None, Your Radiance. But… it's what the Vigilant Eyes encountered at Loamlark that forced me to withdraw our troops for the time being; you see, the men have seen the images that were transmitted back to my officers … and they've heard Lord Hayfelt's report of what happened. They're confused and extremely demoralized. It appears that…" His smile twitched.

"Are you alright, General?"

"… perhaps it would be better if you saw the images for yourself, Your Radiance." The spectral form gestured vaguely at something out of the transmitter's vision, and a new image appeared above him: a photograph of the walls of Loamlark, where a strange shape stood atop one of the eastern towers – blurry and indistinct but clearly human. "We believe that she is a witch in the service of the Deviant Nations, specifically one of the Irredeemables. Image magnification and enhancement reveals that… well…"

Slowly, the image grew from its original dimensions to perhaps ten feet in length and breadth, the hazy figure of the Deviant magician slowly beginning to sharpen as it did so, becoming more and more distinct, until…

The Empress's eyes widened in disbelief.

The Champion stared, trying to take in the impossible sight above him, his mind rebelling at the merest thought of it.

"As you can see, the skin tone is obviously a Irredeemable Deviancy but the features are modelled on-"

"I know," said the Empress quietly. "I know who this is. And…" Suddenly, her face contorted with something that the Champion couldn't recall seeing in all the years he'd known her: rage.

"It's not enough that she insults me," she hissed. "It's not enough that she insists that I died in my Purification, that she thought me some creature possessing her friend's corpse, that she refused to admit to any past association with me to her new allies, that I had to remind her imposter of the delusion that she herself abided by – now, now she compounds insult with blasphemy!" She took a deep breath. "The Mentor sinks to new lows it seems; most would find that impossible after falling from grace to the lowest depths of Deviancy, but she somehow achieves it every year. A decade ago, she wouldn't have even mentioned this aspect of Distortion to her public, let alone done something like this; she believed in preserving the memory of a woman she thought dead, in keeping as much of her pain hidden from her Deviant supporters as possible - and most importantly, in not bothering to appeal to the old imperfection. Now, though..."

She took a deep breath. "And why would she bother?" Her tone was still angry, but it was tempered with curiosity. "If it was an insult, it was one meant exclusively for me and no-one else; our soldiers might have been shocked and appalled by it, as would any good citizen, but they would not understand the true meaning. Why go to the trouble of altering a magician to such an extent for an insult that nobody else would truly appreciate or even understand? Why, when the witch could so easily be killed by a stray bullet before anyone could see her? And why would the Vigilant Eyes be fooled by it when they have the instruments to recognize even the most elaborate of genetic forgeries? Even the Amorphous League can't successfully convince them, so why did this one succeed?"

The Empress thought carefully for a moment. "No, this is something much deeper than mere alteration: I wonder if the Mentor has tried to do the impossible after all - and has succeeded in her attempts to raise those she believes to be dead. But then, even with something that can foil the senses of the Vigilant Eyes, you must also foil their coordinator…"

Her eyes narrowed. "Paragon. I should have guessed."

"Empress?"

"How long have you known of this imposter?"

"I… I have only just discovered it now, Your Radiance, I AAAAAAAARRGH!"

Magical energy suddenly crackled along the length of the obelisk, Paragon's mechanical voices howling in unified agony as the Empress activated its disciplinary circuits. "Do not lie to me Paragon," she said calmly. "You deliberately ensured that the Vigilant Eyes did not continue the attack when the imposter was sighted; you allowed the emergency override to activate without correcting it. You have been helping this Deviant; how long have you been helping her, and how long have you known about her, exactly?"

"… Since the day of the Irredeemables' attack on our border and the destruction of the northwestern base, Your Radiance. The Vigilant Eyes sighted her there as well, being retrieved by a platoon of the invaders."

"Meaning that you lied to me when you said there was nothing of note to report." She sighed. "Paragon, why do you betray my trust in you, even with the imperfection of that fraud plain to see? Is it because she reminds you of how I once was? Is it because three of the minds in your storage banks still labour under the delusion that I should be like her?"

"Elphaba, please… I didn't want to disobey you, but I didn't want to kill you – her – you –her –you her you her you her-"

There was a burst of static as the Thinking Engine's voice box stuttered and briefly overloaded.

"Understandable," said the Empress gently. "But most certainly not excusable. She is not me; she is not the girl from your delusions; she is not your student, your child, your ward, or even the mark of a prize-winning con. But as for what she is, I expect your prompt cooperation; if you want to enjoy the benefits of my trust again, I expect a full report on everything you know about this imposter, this… duplicate. Until then, you'll be strictly monitored. Is that understood?"

"Ye-yeeeee-yes-s-s-s-yes, Your Radiance," Paragon stuttered.

"Good. In the meantime, General, I think you should allow your men time to recover: they'll be no use to anyone until we have their opinion under control. Tell them this was nothing more than blasphemous ruse by the enemy, be sure that they understand that the Vigilant Eyes were the victim of sabotage, and give their anger an opportunity to build and simmer, ideally overnight. I will make the necessary counterattack upon Greenspectre for this insult, and the other invasion fronts will continue their efforts. Tomorrow, your next attack will be a gas bombardment, ideally paralytic vapour: I want the imposter captured alive for questioning and vivisection."

"It will be done, Your Radiance."

"There is one other thing, however…"

She turned to the Champion, and smiled coldly. "If she proves too resilient for the gas, I think you may have to introduce yourself to this heretic, my love."

Somewhere in the background, Paragon was still glitching wildly: "What is the point of a trickster who only tricks himself?" it queried. "What is the point of a trickster who only tricks himself? What is the point of a trickster who only tricks himself?"