Interlude - Lord of Shadow (II)

Blue Roses (I)

Over the years, Gagaran had consumed all kinds of magical curatives, enough to consider herself something of a connoisseur. She'd downed everything from bitter herbal remedies to the ubiquitous blue elixirs favored by Guild-chartered alchemists - Even a truly noxious concoction brewed from troll blood, leaves and bark still floating in the sludgy brew.

But she had to admit: Wolfgunblood's brew had a real kick to it.

Lakyus had seated herself on a toppled tree, wincing lightly as she explored the wound in her thigh. The bleeding had stopped, but the newly-healed flesh was raw; Sometimes, wounds closed with fragments of armor or shreds of cloth inside, if you weren't careful, and getting them out was a torturous process.

Wolfgunblood had looked on - Just for a moment - and simply shaken his head.

"Here," he'd said, proffering a stoppered crystal vial. "Try this instead."

She'd looked up from her self-examination, and smiled. A quick, yet oddly soft smile.

"Thank you," Lakyus had said, even as the firelight struck highlights from her golden hair, gleaming where it kissed her armor. Their fingers had brushed, in that fleeting moment of contact - And then, with the unselfconscious selflessness that had endeared her to so many, she'd handed it over to Gagaran.

The faintest flicker of emotion - A flash of annoyance, swiftly hidden - had crossed Wolfgunblood's handsome features. But he'd merely nodded, reaching for another potion, as if he'd meant to do that all along.

Well now, Gagaran had thought, her gaze going back and forth between them. I suppose it had to happen sometime…

One way or another, she'd never turned down a drink before, especially not from a man this pretty. Up close, Wolfgunblood was even more impressive, if such a thing was possible: Crimson-and-amber eyes framed by windswept silver hair, with the kind of sculpted form usually only seen in heroic sagas.

All that black leather didn't hurt, either.

Sure, appearances could be deceiving…But he'd done for both the golem and the Six Arms in the span of a few breaths, so she figured he knew what he was on about.

The odd crimson liquid had tasted like the scrapings from a cask of fruit brandy, but it'd set to work right away. A moment's rest, and Gagaran had felt hale again. Disturbingly so, almost. From long experience, she knew that potions tended to set you back as much as they put you right…But this was different.

It hadn't just fixed the wound in her side and her game leg, but a variety of other conditions she'd barely even noticed. The ache in her hip - the old one, where a gargoyle's claws had caught her - was gone, like it'd never been: A series of particularly persistent blisters, where the lining of her boot had kept rubbing the skin, had turned back to soft and tender flesh.

Even her right knee, slightly out of joint ever since a summoned angel had got in a lucky hit with a mace, had realigned itself.

Everything had a cost, though. That was the problem with healing potions - They left you feeling wrung-out, ravenously hungry. Like they'd taken something out of you, to do their work. As soon as her leg could take her weight once again, Gagaran could've done with a gallon of ale and at least one roast chicken: Instead, she contented herself with a handful of jerky and dried fruit, munching away as Wolfgunblood laid out the score.

It was Rigrit's idea, she knew at once. The old crone (a term she used with the greatest affection) had a nose for this kind of thing. She wasn't even surprised that Rigrit had gotten wind of this - She had a habit of being in the right place at the right time, when you least expected her.

As for the rest, though…Well, it made one's blood run cold.

Lakyus' expression said it all. She bit her lip, slim fingers tightened around Kilineiram's grip like it was the one certainty she could still cling to.

"If that's true - If it's even close to the truth…" Consternation flitted through her green eyes, her lips pressing together in a thin line. Lakyus' head came up, as she forced herself upright. A faint hiss issued from between gritted teeth, steadying herself with an effort of will.

"We have to warn the King," she said. "We have to get to the Palace-"

"...In this?" Gagaran said, dubiously. One glance at the rising columns of smoke, the lurid flames that flickered against the sky, told the whole story: Forget reaching the Palace, just crossing the city in one piece would be a tall order.

The beginnings of a plan rattled through her mind, all the same. If they could reach the rooftops, they could avoid the worst of the chaos - Still, it was a long way on foot, and who knew what else was up there?

Getting past the Palace's gates, now…That was a problem. If they had any sense, the Royal Guard and the household knights had the place locked down as tight as a miser's purse. Noble or not, no-one was getting in until this was over, one way or another.

Wolfgunblood smiled, then. The faintest lift of his lips, as if he'd been expecting the question all along. He swept his coat back, tame shadows fluttering in his wake like a great mantle of crow feathers: Then, like it was a trifle, nothing more, he said-

"-I have an idea."

He'd torn a hole in the air.

How he'd done it, Gagaran was never quite sure. Only that Wolfgunblood had drawn his oriachlcum-edged dagger, narrowing his eyes - He'd muttered something, under his breath, then made a swift, effortless cut.

The blade sliced down, a single die-straight line, and darkness welled forth from empty air like blood from a wound.

Reality parted, like a curtain: What lay beyond, as the edges of the rift pulled apart, was the serene darkness of a starless night - A void so profound it stood out against the fire-lit gloom of the world around them, like a single drop of arterial blood on black silk.

And, faintly, a sound breathed out at them from out of the black space. Something that was almost the lap of waves against the surf, almost the murmuring susurration of distant voices…

The rift cast faint, unpredictable shadows around it, as if its point of origin was at once invisible and in constant, random motion. It'd shivered, once, as Wolfgunblood stepped away and to the side: He gestured to it, a showman's flourish, as what awaited on the other end became clear.

"This can take you there," he said. "Go on, now - Before it closes again."

"How-"

For a moment, Gagaran thought she was the one who'd said that. But it was Lakyus, her green eyes gone so very, very wide, who'd uttered the words.

A single, burning question was writ large in her gaze: How are you doing this?

It was something Gagaran would've liked to know, too. Instead, Lakyus rallied, magnificently. She brushed soot and grit from Virgin Snow's platinum-and-gold breastplate, and said-

"Ser Wolfgunblood…"

There was a soft, almost wondering lilt to her voice-

"-What will you do?"

The question hung in the air, as the wind rose.

Wolfgunblood's smile became a smirk: He turned his head away from the roiling portal, stray strands of silver hair fluttering in the sudden breeze.

"Awaken, [Shadowbringer]!"

The air heaved.

A splitting thunderclap resounded, spontaneous frost blistering the earth. The spontaneous concussion cut a shallow crater in the ground, a shape taking form in the lingering mist: Half-glimpsed, it had a predator's low, prowling silhouette - Impossibly balanced on two great wheels, brushed-gold highlights over polished black metal.

It growled. Something within the chassis hummed in sympathy with Wolfgunblood's motions, purring louder as he strode close.

"That's new," Gagaran said. She stared at that sleek, lethal craft - Something about it defied description, made all the more alien by its familiarity. It was some kind of one-man carriage, or a land-bound cutter with a great armored prow: Even at rest, it emanated a stink of lubricant oil and heat, alive with silent potential - the imminence of motion - like a beast readying itself to pounce.

Wolfgunblood mounted it, kicking the starter to life. Power pulsed through the craft's frame: It belched oily smoke as he gunned the motor, slouching back in the saddle like a knight astride his steed.

"What else?" he said. His eyes - One false and one true - gleamed, like he was savoring every word.

"-I'm going to save Re-Estize."

He twisted the throttle, and Shadowbringer leapt forward like a living thing. It shot past them, so fast that the shock-wake pealed like triumphant thunder, so fast that man and machine became a blur. Coiling wisps of smoke and shreds of shadow swirled in its wake, like the great clouds of dust that heralded an army's passage.

An army of one, perhaps.

Then Wolfgunblood was gone, ranging away down the road. Faster than a speeding arrow, outrunning the sonic boom of his own acceleration.

It was, Gagaran had to admit, an impressive exit.

I've got to get one of those, she thought, even as she heaved herself to her feet. The residual pulse of healing still seethed in her limbs: Panging stomach aside, she felt more like her old self - Her heart racing in her chest, a kind of nervous energy in her limbs. Even the world around her seemed sharper, more in-focus, the flame-lit darkness less absolute than before.

"Full of tricks, that one," Gagaran muttered. "-Right. Lakyus, let's…"

Lakyus had turned to watch him go, following Shadowbringer's racing form until it receded to a dot on the horizon. The expression on her face made Gagaran sigh, inwardly - She'd only seen it once or twice before. It was the dreamy, faintly beatific look Lakyus got when the bards sang the old lays about the Thirteen Heroes, the ones that made Shorty sniff and roll her eyes.

Wrongs righted.

Fair maidens saved.

True loves long lost, and still hoped for.

"Lakyus!"

She started. For a moment, high points of color burned in her cheeks - But then Lakyus drew a deep breath, touching a gloved hand to her holy symbol.

Behind them, the gate of shadow bristled and whispered.

Waiting.

For now, but not forever.

"-Let's go," Lakyus said, briskly. Like she'd just made a snap decision - Her head held high, back ramrod-straight as she squared her shoulders. Without hesitation, Lakyus stepped into the twisting, swirling darkness, and was gone.

And before Gagaran could change her mind, so did she.

Gagaran hated teleportation.

Oh, it had its advantages, she had to admit. For one, it beat spending long, interminable weeks to months simply trekking from one place to another.

In her illustrious career as an adventurer, Gagaran had seen all kinds of majestic vistas: Great ice-capped peaks, ruined cities, ancient tombs and the savage lands of the beastmen - Yes, she'd come a long, long way since she'd started out…And there were times when she felt every mile.

With teleportation, wherever you went, there you were. If, for example, you'd seen off a nest of Gazer Devils and liberated their treasure - but not before they killed all the mules - you didn't have to choose between the equally unhappy prospects of going home empty-handed, or finding a way to drag a gem-encrusted throne over miles of swampland, then forest, then swampland again.

A single spell, and you could be putting your feet up at the Heroes' Hearth with a mug of ale, celebrating another successful venture. The men of the hard-bitten Lindwyrm Tribe might have scoffed at such city-dwelling weakness, but - Given how their nightly entertainment generally involved knife-fights and huddling around dung-fires - they could have it, for all she cared.

It was mostly safe, too. Mostly being the important qualifier: Shorty had explained, more than once, how the chances of a mishap (When the proper precautions were taken, it had to be said) were infinitesimally small.

Yes, things could go wrong. But you could also be struck by lightning on a clear day, and to live boldly was to incur risk.

But it didn't matter how fast it was. How safe it was.

Gagaran just hated how it made her feel.

Like being pushed through a sieve, was how she'd describe it. Like a giant had his hands on you, and he wouldn't stop squeezing until you'd been strained through cheesecloth.

Flying, now…That was the way to travel. Sure, it froze your eyelashes and gave you windburn like nothing on earth, but there was something liberating about seeing the world stretched out beneath you like the Four's own game-board.

She didn't miss the time she'd spent with the Lindwyrm Tribe - Far from it. Life amid the thousand caves was brutish, short and smelled mostly like incontinent lizard, but flying was something she missed.

Yes, Lakyus and Shorty both knew the right spells. Tia and Tina had taken to it with their usual unflappability, but - to Gagaran, at least - it always felt like you were simply falling upwards, an alarming prospect at the best of times.

Even the orniest, most evil-minded wyvern had a vested interest in staying in the air. If a Fly spell failed, though, there was nothing between you and a very sudden, very final stop.

Still, she'd have taken that over teleportation any day.

But then again - Necessity carved holes in everyone's principles.

The shadows coiled around them, and swept them away.

A heartbeat-

A dream of falling, a sense of being carried forward at impossible speeds.

Blink.

Vast emptiness, massive and ever-lasting.

The beginnings of a great, terrible noise - So total, so all-consuming, it fractured the world.

Blink.

Oh, Gods.

This felt remarkably like a mistake.

There was a moment of complete and utter oblivion, and then the ground reared up and smashed Gagaran in the face.

She opened her eyes. Dust fogged her vision, and there was an awful, coppery taste in her mouth.

She was face-down.

Coughing, gagging, she hauled herself up. Her ears rang, so hard her teeth ached - Her vision swimming in and out of focus, spots of blood dotting the flagstones underfoot. Dimly, Gagaran realized her nose was bleeding, her great gauntlets blistered by garlands of frost.

Isn't that always the way? she thought, wryly. A wave of nausea cramped her guts: Gagaran gritted her teeth, her fumbling grasp finding Fel Iron's haft - It fit her hand like an old friend, and she leaned on it as she levered herself to her feet…

"-your weapons!" Someone was shouting. "In the name of the King, lay down your weapons and submit!"

"...us Alvein Dale Aindra!" Lakyus was shouting right back. She stood over Gagaran, Kilineiram gleaming with a cold light in her fists. A ring of Floating Swords hovered before her, arrayed in a bristling fence of suspended steel - Frustration edged her voice, face set in a carefully-calculated mask of frozen dignity.

She risked a glance away, as Gagaran rose; Surprise, then relief, flitting across her features, as she gave a quick nod.

"Welcome back," she said, under her breath. "You missed a lot."

"-So I see."

She'd always appreciated Lakyus' talent for understatement.

As Gagaran blinked the dust from her eyes, a gleaming forest of points resolved into view - At least a score of spears, pointed in their direction. She glimpsed open helmets with rich plumes, hard-set faces with big mustaches, polished breastplates marked with the royal crest-

Gods above, she thought. He really did it.

The royal garden at the center of Valencia Palace was a world away from the chaos of the greater city. The air was balmy, scented with jasmine: Water trickled, leaves rustled, bees floating lazily from one flower to another. A breeze stirred the trees, sending white blossoms fluttering down to dust the well-shaven lawns.

It would've been an island of tranquility, if not for all the guards. Gagaran would've been oddly gratified by the turn-out, but she knew it wasn't just for them. All the going-ons in Re-Estize had clearly made them nervous - Two uninvited guests dropping out of the sky hadn't helped, either.

Her gaze fixed on the officer at the front, his clean-shaven jaw set hard. He looked, unfortunately, like the kind of man who took his duties seriously. Most of the time, that would've been a good thing, but - here and now - it looked like he was going to be unreasonable about this.

"How do we know," the officer was saying, a steady hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "-How do we know you are who you say you are?"

This could be a problem, Gagaran thought. Getting into a scuffle with the palace guard would be bad, but this was wasting time.

Lakyus clearly thought so, too. She'd narrowed her green eyes, grinding her teeth the way she always did when she got annoyed.

"The Princess will vouch for us," she said, keeping her voice remarkably level. "We bear an urgent message for-"

"Lower your weapons!"

Somewhere at the back, there was a commotion. Heads turned, at the distinctive ring of command - the serried ranks of spears tilting downwards, in the presence of true royalty.

Prince Zanac, as was widely known, struck a rather less impressive figure than the Crown Prince. Portly, running almost to fat, he resembled the son of an especially prosperous merchant - A shorter, pudgier affair than his well-favored brother.

But he moved with purpose, all the same: Striding forward, as if the opulent finery of his clothing was armor in itself. Like a faithful shadow, Gazef Stronoff followed in his wake - The Warrior-Captain's expression set in a distinct frown, the burnished red-gold of the Guardian Armor adding weight to his already-imposing presence.

Wait, Gagaran thought, with a jolt. He isn't supposed to be here-

"Your Royal Highness-" Lakyus began, but Zanac waved it away with a beringed hand. There was a grim little smile on his face, like a man who'd been expecting the worst, only to see it all play out in front of his eyes.

"No need for ceremony," he said, gravely. "Lady Aindra, Miss Gagaran - It's a pleasure to meet you both at last. I only wish it were under better circumstances."

Now, that made Gagaran's eyebrows rise. He hadn't even done a double-take when he'd said it. Quietly, she revised her personal opinion of him upward a few points.

She supposed this was the time to tug her forelock and bend the knee, but she'd always been allergic to having steel pointed at her. Instead, Gagaran grounded Fel Iron's sledgehammer head, settling for a grateful nod as Lakyus murmured a diplomatic "-Likewise."

"Shoulder arms," the Warrior-Captain said. Not loudly, but firmly - Gazef wasn't the kind of man who needed to raise his voice to be instantly obeyed. With a clatter of armor, the guards stood to, their officer relaxing ever-so-slightly from his stiff-backed stance as momentary relief flickered across his features.

When Prince Zanac gestured for Lakyus and Gagaran to follow, their impromptu honor-guard came with them. Gagaran found herself shoulder-to-shoulder with Gazef Stronoff, the Warrior-Captain carrying himself with a sure-footed certainty that one couldn't help but find reassuring.

"My sister told me to expect you," the Prince was saying, with admirable poise. As if half the city wasn't on fire, beyond the walls of the castle. "Believe me, I'm glad that you're here. Any longer, and…" He shook his head, grimacing slightly. "Well, best not to consider the alternative."

"She knew…?" Lakyus said, her brow furrowing beneath her silver circlet. "-But how?"

"Oh, she has her ways," Zanac said. There was an edge to his voice, now, like something didn't sit well with him. "And, as I understand it - You both have an acquaintance in common."

With a deft gesture, he slipped something free from his lapel, holding it out to Lakyus like a peace offering. The light gleamed on the burnished petals of the golden rose, a twin to the one she'd been holding mere minutes ago: Understanding blossomed in Lakyus' eyes, and she nodded, tautly.

As they fell to discussion in low, urgent murmurs, Gagaran glanced over at Gazef.

"Any word from Climb? And…Sir Samuel?"

In truth, she didn't quite know what to make of the Grandmaster. He'd seem courteous enough, but he hardly radiated reliability. There was something oddly uncertain about that one, somehow - Like he couldn't quite believe where he was, and every moment came as a kind of surprise.

Then again, he was a Paladin. And he was from the Holy Kingdom. She'd never been there, personally: Still, Gagaran supposed that the invasion would've had anyone on edge.

Climb had taken to him, though. While she couldn't say that the boy was the best judge of character, his instincts were generally good.

Generally.

"None," Gazef said. Beneath that calm facade, Gagaran could detect the first notes of concern in his voice.

"-Ah," she said, lifting her broad shoulders in a shrug. "Well, as they say in the East: Sometimes, no news is good news."

The Warrior-Captain spared her a measured glance, one that spoke volumes.

Mostly: Not this time, I'm afraid.

Foresight

How the wounded wagon had held together, Hekkeran had no idea. Somehow, against all odds, it was still in one piece - Rattling down the street on four warped wheels, the horses white-eyed and trembling from their mad dash, it'd been through hell and back…But it was still moving, and that was something.

The skyline was heavy with smoke, the distant edge of the horizon fuzzy and indistinct. Just at the edge of hearing, masked by the breeze, there was a faint scratching sound. Like insects or static, a white noise that came from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Hekkeran didn't care to think about where it might've come from. He'd had his hands full keeping the rickety wagon moving, while Roberdyck tended to the others. Never mind that Rober had taken the worst of the punishment: As soon as he'd made sure that his skull was still in one piece - Never a sure thing, when it came to head wounds - he'd done what he could for Imina and Arche, though neither would be up for a fight anytime soon.

The wound in Imina's flank had stubbornly resisted the priest's best efforts. They'd doused it in healing potion, then bandaged it the best they could. She hadn't uttered a word of complaint, other than a ragged hiss when she'd seen the damage the barbed hooks had done: Even now, blood speckled the brown linen, a slow-spreading stain that seemed a little wider each time Hekkeran glanced back.

"-I'm fine," she'd said, but he'd known her long enough to tell when she was lying. She still clung to Firedrake like a talisman, all the same - Then again, given the trouble they'd been through, Imina had her reasons.

Like a wounded animal, Arche had curled up around her staff. Too exhausted to put up a brave front, she'd sunk into the exhausted slumber of the soul-sick or the gravely wounded: Her chest still rose and fell at irregular intervals, but Hekkeran had a bad feeling that wasn't going to last.

Quietly, Hekkeran cursed the Grandmaster for putting them up to this. For good measure, he cursed himself for taking the paladin's gold. He should've known the man was untrustworthy, from the start - Not out of malice, but in the well-meaning, oblivious way that some novice lieutenants had.

Right before they led their men into their first and final ambush.

Distantly, he wondered where Sir Samuel was, now. There'd been the slow rumble of an explosion, a while back. Like a landslip, or an avalanche, far in the distance. It was hardly the night's first, and he had a bad feeling it wasn't going to be the last-

"Turn right," Climb said, almost in his ear. Hekkeran nearly started, fumbling with the reins: His mind had been elsewhere, and that was a bad sign.

Re-Estize was a bewildering maze, at the best of times - Not like Arwinter, where the roads were (within reason) well-lit and well-paved, with signs pointing out exactly where you needed to go. Here, it was a tangled rat's-nest of streets and alleys, overlapping again and again. If not for Climb's unerring sense of direction, they'd have been lost, and no two ways about that.

"You're looking better," Hekkeran said, and he meant it. Before, there'd been a dreadful, sickly pallor to Climb's skin - Oh, the boy had borne it well enough, but he'd been so wasted and ill from revival sickness that every moment must've been agony.

Some of the color was back in Climb's face, now. A feverish, sweaty heat, but color all the same. Given what he'd been through, it was nothing short of a miracle.

Climb shrugged. Like he was saying it didn't matter, not when they had a task at hand.

At second glance, Hekkeran wasn't surprised he was a paladin too: Right from the beginning of this ill-starred, he'd had the look of taut, drawn determination that some men got, a pitiless focus that denied the very possibility of failure.

As to what that task might be, though…

The horses were close to foundering, but they'd last long enough. They obeyed the reins the way a beaten dog obeyed the leash: Too terrified, too exhausted, to resist. According to Imina's critical eye, they had a few miles (at most) left in them - But if they stopped, they'd drop where they stood.

Just long enough to get them to the Adventurer's Guild.

Climb hadn't been forthcoming about what he'd intended to do there. Not evasive - He simply hadn't said anything at all. Hekkeran could guess, though; At a time like this, with undead rampaging through the streets, he supposed the Crown needed all the help it could get.

How Climb intended to get them on his side, though…Now that was the question. If he was hoping to appeal to their sense of patriotism, that definitely wasn't about to go over well.

There was always the promise of gold, but Hekkeran had the sense that the King's word didn't count for much, not right now. But that was fine with him - The Guild was probably one of the safest places in the city right now, and if they were going to get out of this alive…

And then he saw the great shape looming ahead, and fought down a groan.

Of course.

The barricade was a crude but impressive thing, all the more impressive for how hastily it'd been thrown up. Market stalls had gone into it, and plenty of furniture - But there was an impressive number of tangled timbers wedged into the wall, and at least two cartloads of weighty barrels, stacked thirteen feet high.

It looked businesslike, the work of people who took such things seriously. Some enterprising soul had added a crude walkway, one lined with the half-glimpsed silhouettes of armed men: While it wasn't a solid wall of wood and rubble, the gaps and holes just meant that anyone trying to climb it would be speared full of holes.

"That looks like trouble," Roberdyck said, wincing as each word tugged at his new scar. He'd tucked his gauntlets into his belt, his hands flecked with blood from all the healing he'd been doing.

"Perhaps if we went around…"

His voice trailed off, without hope. One glance at Climb, and it was clear they were both thinking the same thing: The side-streets would've been walled-off, too.

No, the only way forward was through. They all knew it.

"Right, then," Hekkeran said, tightening his grip on the reins.

"-Let's hope they're in a friendly mood."

The wheels rumbled over the cobbles, through the night with its tendrils of flame-lit fog and crawling shadows. The barricade seemed to swell, its long shadow looming over them as the cart trundled closer-

"Halt and be known! State thy business, or begone from this place!"

Thy business?

Hekkeran frowned. There was something oddly familiar about that voice. Not the words, but the way they were said - Like they were clumsy in the speaker's mouth.

But then he heard the discreet clicks of crossbows being primed, and Hekkeran felt the back-of-the-neck prickle of imminent death. He raised his hands, keeping them well away from his swords, hoping that Climb had the sense to do the same.

"We've got wounded!" he called, straining to see through the gloom. "We don't want any trouble - Just trying to get them to the Guild, that's all!"

There was a weighted pause, the low murmurs of a whispered conference.

Then-

"Thou shalt find no succor here," the speaker said, regretful but resolute. Torches flickered atop the barricade: By Hekkeran's count, there were about a dozen men up there. Well-armed too, from the looks of it - Poor odds, for anyone trying to force the issue.

"We pity thy distress, but ask that you turn aside. Thy troubles are thine own, and no-one else's!"

Climb tensed. His hand settled on the hilt of his magnificent sword, like it'd be any good against a dozen crossbows. His blue eyes narrowed, the scar on his throat livid against his skin.

For a lad who'd already died once tonight, Hekkeran thought, he seemed awfully ready to rush back into the welcoming arms of the Four.

Still, there was that sense of familiarity again…

"Yet be not dismayed. The army gathers beyond yon walls, and all may be yet made ri-"

Something clicked.

"Gringham? That you, Gringham?"

There was a long, awkward pause.

"Hekkeran?"

A helmed head poked up over the barricade, a single horn protruding from the brow. Short, stocky and bearded, Gringham hoisted himself up, his heavy armor shining dull in the flickering torchlight. He'd ditched his axe - A big, ugly cleaver of a weapon, furious but not particularly fast - in favor of a crossbow, clutched in one meaty fist.

He drew a deep breath in, like he couldn't quite believe it. "Small world, ain't it. Can you believe this shit?"

Hekkeran felt something in his chest unclench, as he grinned up at the distant figure. "-Story of our lives. No rest for the wicked, eh? How's things on your end?"

A chuckle echoed down from above. "Can't complain. Better in here than out there, and all that. You got the others with you?"

"Oh, the whole crew's here. I don't suppose you could…?"

There was a faint scritch, as Gringham scratched at his neatly-trimmed beard.

"Well," he began, a trifle reluctantly. "The thing is - I know we go way back. But how do I know you're you? I mean, they say the rebels could be using anyone…The last group we let through, one of them tried to stick me, and I take that kind of thing personally."

Rober blinked, once. "Rebels?" he mouthed, glancing over at Climb - From the boy's puzzled expression, he hadn't heard of that, either.

Hekkeran shook his head. "Not the time," he warned. "You know me, Gringham. I've got wounded down here, and…"

"That's exactly what you'd say-"

"Gringham, you shit!" Imina's voice cut the air like a whip, so loud that Rober flinched. "Let us through! If I bleed out, I swear I'm coming back to haunt you-"

A brief ripple of laughter, from behind the walls.

"All right, all right." Gringham's grin flashed beneath his mustache. "-Just testing you, is all. Boys, make yourselves useful: We've got some friends coming up, eh?"

There was a round of hurried conversation behind the barricade, then a sudden burst of activity. As Hekkeran eased himself down from the rickety wagon - Glad to have his feet on solid ground once again - he could see the shadows resolve into the rather more reassuring shapes of Heavy Masher, clambering down to meet them.

"She's really…" Climb murmured, with a slow shake of his head. Half-admiring, half-stunned.

Despite himself, Hekkeran couldn't help but smile.

"I'm lucky to have her," he said. "Come on, then - Before Gringham changes his mind."

The Adventurer's Guild had the air of desperate, almost grim gaiety to it, like a gambling-den in a city under siege. Through the windows, one could see Re-Estize sloping away beneath them, dotted here and there with guttering torchlight, gleaming windows, and several rampant fires.

It looked like the fires would burn until dawn, some had remarked. Others had wondered whether they'd burn a lot longer than that.

Still, it all seemed improbably distant, held safely at bay by the barricades that had gone up - Manned by an irregular, rotating crew of adventurers and Workers alike, all of whom had found common cause in survival.

The Guild's guards - in their armor and red tabards - made a decent show of looking alert. Their gear was in good condition, but Hekkeran could see the fatigue in their eyes, crossed with the slow-gnawing dread of rats in a trap. It wasn't limited to them, of course: There was a sense of chaos that was being just barely held in check, like the veneer of civilization was all that kept the knives from coming out.

Stuffed as the place was, it felt like it should've been warm and damp from nervous breath. Instead, despite the great fire roaring in the hearth, it was cold - A cold that smelled faintly of sweat and ink and metal.

And fear.

Fear, most of all.

Music was playing, too loud, to an audience of assorted mercenaries, soldiers-of-fortune, rogues, and restless thugs. It should've been lulling, but all it did was set nerves on edge: At least a dozen impromptu gambling games had started, coins changing hands to the accompaniment of clinking glass, forced laughter and too-loud chatter.

The Four alone knew what was going on in the private booths, the vaulted archways full of half-glimpsed figures. The great crystal chandeliers suspended overhead seemed to sway, the ceiling vibrating ever-so-slightly from tromping feet - But few spared them a second glance, stilted conversations carrying on in tight knots, as if hoping to drown out the distant clamor through sheer effort.

Against all odds, the counters were still being manned. In their red uniforms and white wimples, the clerks had the air of skaters on thin ice: Their thin smiles stretched tight over barely-concealed terror, some starting at every noise that came from outside. Some of the girls looked like they half-expected the doors to be battered down, any moment now, and for the tumult outside to come flooding in.

They were doing a brisk business, all the same. To Hekkeran's surprise, there was a queue - Several, in fact, stretching in winding lines all the way to the doors. It was like the entire adventurer population of the capital had gathered in a single place…

A thought struck him, and he glanced around.

"Looking for someone?" Gringham asked, lumbering along beside him. He kept pace surprisingly well, for a man in full armor…But then again, he hadn't been on the run all night. Being on the barricades might've been nerve-wracking, but - given the choice - Hekkeran knew what he'd have chosen.

"Wolfgunblood's not here?" Hekkeran said, furrowing his brow. Worker or not, he'd heard the tales: Everyone had. "Heard he was wintering in Re-Estize, like the Blue Roses-"

Gringham grunted. "You and everyone else," he said. "He left weeks ago, they say. Some kind of private request, all secret-like." A low, unhappy sigh heaved from his chest. "Just our luck, eh? If he was around, this would already be over."

"Truer words," Hekkeran muttered, almost to himself. So much for that, then. "You wouldn't happen to know a good healer, would you? Rober's done his best, but it's been a rough night."

He glanced over his shoulder, towards the non-denominational chapel set aside for visiting priests. It'd become a makeshift infirmary, by default: Even now, faint chanting issued from within, a pungent undertone of incense spicing the air. He'd left the others there, to catch their breath…But there were plenty of wounded, and few priests to go around.

"Maybe," Gringham said, sounding uncertain. "-It'd cost, though."

What doesn't? Hekkeran thought. Adventurers first, paying customers second, Workers last of all…Same as it always was. The Guild's twenty percent cut went a long way, and they never let you forget it.

Silently, for old habits die hard, he reached for his money-belt. He'd had the coins bound in parchment-wrapped stacks, so they didn't jingle: He tossed one to Gringham, and the other man caught it deftly.

The weight made Gringham's eyebrows rise, as he jugged the coins in one hand.

"You have been keeping busy," he said, sounding impressed. "This will do - Hells, it'd do twice over."

"Keep the rest," Hekkeran said. "If not for you, we'd still be out there."

Gringham shrugged. An old campaigner himself, he knew better than to turn down what was offered. With a brief nod to Hekkeran, he made the coins vanish into his cuirass - "I'll see what I can do," Gringham said, raising a hand to flag down a runner.

Funny, that. A week ago, Hekkeran had been contemplating the glum prospect of a cold, frugal winter. Now, he'd just handed over several months wages for a fair-sized family, like it was nothing.

But then again, you couldn't take it with you.

"-Say, isn't that your boy over there?"

In all the commotion, Hekkeran had nearly forgotten about Climb. He'd left him with the walking wounded - Someone in his condition should've been supine, not up and about - but apparently a little thing like utter exhaustion wasn't enough to keep him down.

In truth, he didn't quite know what to make of the lad. Not quite a knight, certainly: A squire, perhaps? A servant? Some kind of life-ward, oathed to the moment and sworn to task? Something about him said 'soldier', but soldiers didn't get mythril plate or a sword that magnificent.

And then there was the Grandmaster to consider. When he'd thought the boy dead, he'd torn at the wreckage like a wild man, flinging aside great chunks of collapsed stone, gouging at the rubble with his bare hands: There had been a kind of sick, wounded desperation in Sir Samuel's eyes, one that went beyond the death of a comrade.

Regret, perhaps. Like he'd been somewhere else, some far-off battlefield, seized by some remembered horror, some long-ago trauma that had yet to recede.

The boy - Still encased in his armor, his face waxy with sweat - had limped into the guild's main hall. His head turned, first one way and then the other, eyes narrowed as he scanned the packed counters. Looking for someone in particular, though Hekkeran didn't have the faintest idea who.

At last, Climb's gaze settled on one of the receptionists. A pretty one, too: Fair-haired, green-eyed, pale and wan from the effort of sustaining her brittle smile. Half-obscured by the wending line of adventurers before her, she looked exhausted, hands trembling as she brought a stamp down on the stained sheaf of papers thrust before her.

With an effort, Climb straightened. It cost him, but then he was forging forward, pushing his way through the crowd, heedless of the curses and muttered imprecations that rippled in his wake.

Moving with purpose, he shoved his way past the threesome at the front of the queue, and said something to the clerk. Whatever it was, it made her eyes widen, her hands flying to her mouth as if he'd slapped her.

The group he'd interrupted didn't like that. Their leader - A tall, rangy-looking sort, bow slung over one shoulder - narrowed his dark eyes, beneath a shock of darker hair. He gave Climb an extraordinarily filthy look, shaking off his bucket-helmed companion's restraining hand…

"Hells," Hekkeran muttered. He was already on his feet, hurrying to catch up - For the mood was turning ugly. Uglier, even.

He could feel it in his bones: This place was like a powder keg, just waiting for the spark.

For a man armored like a giant beetle, Gringham could move silently when he needed to. He'd already melted back into the crowd, as Hekkeran lengthened his stride. As it happened, he caught up just in time to hear the tail-end of the conversation-

"...request on his behalf."

"-muel?" the receptionist was saying, her face going pale. "Is he with you?"

"Miss Ronble-"

"Is he hurt? Did he say anything about-"

Riveting stuff, no doubt. The ranger didn't seem to care for it. He'd shifted his weight, taking a long, slow step forward, right before Hekkeran's hand settled on his shoulder.

"Best not, friend," Hekkeran said, with firm good cheer in his voice. "Give them a moment, eh? Urgent business, you know how it is."

The adventurer turned. He was of a height with Hekkeran, slightly more muscular, with an expression that told of a man worn down to his last nerve. Bad enough - But then the light caught the blue-silver gleam of the mythril plaque at his throat, and things took a turn for the worse.

Slowly, without any particular haste, the mythril-ranked adventurer looked Hekkeran up and down. His gaze lingered at his throat, right at the place where Hekkeran's ranking plate should've been.

Should have.

An infinitesimal pause, a moment of calculation-

The man's lip curled, drawing back from his teeth.

"Worker scum," he said, and spat on Hekkeran's boots. The staff-clutching caster with him audibly winced, but formed up behind his leader all the same: For you stood by your crew, come hell or high water.

No matter what.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hekkeran could see Rober approaching - His amiable features set in a frown, big shoulders tensing as if he couldn't quite decide whether to reach for his mace. He gave the slightest shake of his head, keeping his best smile fixed on his face.

Spit never hurt anyone.

"There's no call for that," Hekkeran said, putting his hands up. Open, palms facing outward in the eternal gesture of peace. "It's been a rough night for all concerned. No need to make it worse, see? Not here."

Bucket-helm cleared his throat, the sound echoing oddly within the confines of his helmet.

"Igvarge, maybe we should-"

"No!" the ranger barked, his voice turning sharp. "-Shit on that. No Worker and his fucking catamite tells me what to do."

A vein throbbed in his forehead, with a raw edge to his words that boded trouble. His eyes burned with the reflected fires, muscles bunching in his arms - And Hekkeran honestly didn't know whether he could take him, one-on-one.

Let alone three-on-one.

In a way, it didn't matter. The moment a brawl broke out, it was going to be a free-for-all. Everyone's nerves were ratched that tight…Assuming the guards didn't simply open fire with their wicked crossbows. One way or another, this wasn't going to end well.

And I thought getting here was the hard part, Hekkeran thought, wryly. He stiffened his stance, setting his feet squarely beneath him: Getting slugged wouldn't be fun, but sometimes you had to take one for the team.

A murmur had come up, around them. There was a distinct sideways shift in the crowd, widening to a rough half-circle as the music played on. They could smell blood, and - at this time - they didn't particularly care where it came from.

Dimly, from somewhere ahead:

"-no part in internal struggles," Miss Ronble was saying, her eyes darting between Climb and the disturbance behind him. She was trembling, faintly - Her words overtly formal, sounding like the parrot-learned etiquette it was. "I, I've contacted the Guildmaster, but inter-human conflicts are expressly forbidden in the charter-"

All that, as Igvarge's hand balled into a fist. This close, Hekkeran could see the mad instinct that flickered across those sneering, sweat-beaded features, could almost hear the thoughts seething through the other man's skull:

This may be the end, so why hold back? May as well throw the first punch, get it over with.

Get it all over with.

Hekkeran could hear the rush of blood pounding in his ears, his focus narrowing, the world shrinking down to the span of the next crowded seconds. Things were about to happen very, very fast, and he'd be damned if he-

There was a rattle, a brittle clatter like a cupful of dice being upended, and there was a collective hush of indrawn breath. Someone exclaimed, out loud: A wordless sound of awe, like the Black Knight himself had just walked in the door.

Despite himself, Hekkeran looked - And the widening of his eyes, the pure and unalloyed surprise in them, made Igvarge turn too.

A blaze of gems, a small pile of them, lay glittering on the varnished wood of the hard brown counter-top. Like baubles, carelessly discarded: Even from here, they shone like brilliant sparks of fire, with a cold, hard radiance that scattered the lamplight in all the colors of the rainbow.

"Gods," someone breathed, almost a prayer. In spite of everything, Hekkeran couldn't look away from one perfect diamond, not quite the size of a hen's egg. Wide enough to fit - just barely - into a man's palm, it sparkled as it caught the light, like the flash of a distant star.

No-one moved. That was the thing Hekkeran remembered.

For a frozen moment, no-one moved.

Climb let the leather coffer, empty now, fall from his hands. He swayed, just once, as it thumped to the ground. Willpower alone kept him on his feet; His blue eyes fogged over, hazy, until - With an extraordinary effort - he forced them to clear. Fatigue radiated from his features, as if the last of his energy was utterly spent.

As if summoned by the call of wealth, one of the Guild's factors emerged from the archway behind the counters. Grey-haired, resplendent in a red waistcoat embroidered with gold leaf, he mopped at his sweating pate, whey-faced in the twitching light.

A bespectacled clerk hurried after him, a great ledger cradled in her arms. She stood by as he exchanged brief, murmured words with Isphen, her gaze fixed on Climb's half-slumped figure.

At last, the factor looked up. Then, in the ringing tones of an imperial herald:

"The Crown calls for aid! On behalf of Princess Renner Theiere Chardelon ryle Vaiself: Double pay for each adventurer who defends the capital from the undead!"

A momentary pause, then-

"All volunteers welcome!"

Uproar.

The floorboards shook, the music drowned out by the sudden surge of footfalls. The press redoubled, a babble of voices rising in a great swell. All of a sudden, the crowd of adventurers seemed like a single multi-armed beast; Hands waving above the press, snatching at the slips of parchment held forth by the Guild's staff.

Igvarge was already moving, already striding, shoving past lesser adventurers as he forged his own way towards the nearest counter.

He didn't even look back.

Left in his dust, Hekkeran could only shake his head, wonderingly. Could only chuckle, hacking out a laugh that scraped his throat raw, that made his ribs ache.

A moment ago, he'd wondered what could sway the Guild into picking sides. Well, he had his answer, now.

After all, what force could be more powerful than greed?

Keep this up, Grandmaster, he thought - And I might just start to like you.

The Betrayed

There was a savage and terrible joy in fire. Not the warming blaze that smoldered in the hearth, or the shackled flame chained in a forge - No, the true joy of fire was when it was set free.

For Cordin Renar, this had been a long time in coming. Too long.

He'd done his part, hadn't he? He'd fought for his country, damn it. For his King.

And it'd cost him everything.

Two years on, and the stump of his arm still hurt. The Dust helped, when he could get it - But a man on Dust was a man who wasn't working, and the trouble with Dust was that your problems remained once the euphoria was gone.

It was just dumb luck, he supposed. He'd known men who'd made it through the Annual War without a scratch, who'd hefted a spear and stood in line with all the rest of them and lived to tell tall tales about it after.

But his luck had always been bad. The Imperial Knights had an eye for weakness, and when they'd seen the opportunity, they'd seized it.

Hundreds of knights, all clad in steel. All in black, like night shadows, sweeping in with such force that the earth shook. Demolishing all in their path.

Only the Royal Guard had stopped the heavy cavalry from rolling up the entire flank - Not that it'd done any good for the two thousand men in the way. The world had dissolved into iron thunder, and all that remained was a mad scramble to safety, running and shoving and screaming…

Sometimes, he could still hear the thunder in his dreams.

Cordin had never even seen the blade. Just the flash of it, then the thump of his arm falling. The sickening sense of absence, like some fundamental part of his being had been hacked away…

He'd screamed, a scream of miserable and lingering pain. He'd kept screaming, even as the others had dragged him to safety, dragged him away from the rout.

The priests had kept him from bleeding out, but he'd been sick and weak afterward. He'd been discharged from the army, but the debts had followed him home. He'd owed, and the interest alone had been ruinous - But it was that or a debtor's prison.

Even then, he'd known that was the beginning of the end. Perhaps he should've counted himself fortunate that he'd lost an arm rather than a leg, but there was little use for a one-armed man. All he'd been good for was pushing a broom around, and he'd been lucky to get that.

And all the while, he'd hated.

Hated the death of his dreams, the ruination of all he'd been. Hated the half-pitying, half-mean eyes of all who looked upon him.

Hated the cheap, ill-made goods, the grey oat mush that was all he could afford. The stench of smoke and urine in the hovel where he spent his nights, the feeling that one man couldn't trust another-

Had he fought for this? Lost his arm for this? Lost everything for this?

He'd wanted to scream, but he didn't.

He didn't.

He'd never held a sword before. Only officers rated a sword.

But there was one in Cordin's hand, now - A long, straight, single-edged blade. It was a good one, too; So sharp it whistled when it cut the air, so well-balanced it felt weightless in his hand.

There was blood on the blade. He'd been using it.

Where it'd come from, he wasn't quite sure. Somehow, when the fighting had started, there had been plenty to go round. Just like the jugs of strong drink that had been passed from hand-to-hand, the torches and the flasks of liquid flame.

At the time, it'd felt like the most natural thing in the world. When the sky had fallen, as the streets dissolved into blood and chaos, it was like a dam had been broken - Like a key had been turned.

Fights had already broken out in several places along Orphan's Way alone; Too many people fleeing something they couldn't name, too many poor folk - hungry, cold and afraid - shoving and jostling. The City Guard should've been out, helping to maintain order, but most of them were occupied fighting the fires across the city, laboring beneath a pall of black smoke.

And then someone had taken a merchant's whip across the face for blocking the path of a horse, and the crowd had surged forward with a roar of outrage. The few constables on hand had waded in to break it up, but rocks had flown.

A knife had flashed, and then-

"Down with the King! Down with the King!"

At some point, the cry had gone up. Had been taken up like a banner.

How bitterly natural was that?

Triumph Plaza. They were in Triumph Plaza, now, far from the great bulk of Victor's Gate. More than a century ago, Ramposa II had commissioned the Plaza as the last stop for his victory procession. One final opportunity for the capital's population to offer their approbation, each competing to be louder than the last, at a lavish banquet attended mainly by the great and good, but also by the rich.

In that, he'd been disappointed.

For as long as anyone could remember, Triumph Plaza had been a great market - A place for spicers, for vintners and victualers, for sellers of exotic goods and the richer kind of grocer. It was like the paved plaza, with its raised garden beds, street lamps and buildings of good brick, attracted a better class of merchant, even as the rest of the capital fell into disrepair.

Not so, now.

The clouds above had taken on a ruddy glow, from the fires beneath. Far-off shouts carried on the wind, all meaning except anger stripped from them. Stalls had been set alight, burning like pyres - Stores had been broken into, windows smashed, shadows moving in the flickering light.

People ran back and forth. Some armed, many bleeding, some carrying boxes and barrels and jugs, some savagely attacking the thieves to steal their loot for themselves. Some lay broken and bleeding, rendered anonymous amid the mad whirl of the mob.

Somewhere, a woman screamed, high and desperate. Drew breath to scream again-

Dazed, Cordin stumbled onward. Coughed on smoke, lungs laboring for air.

Men were smashing open crates, whooping with glee as the contents spilled forth. It was like all order had dissolved, disgorging a wealth of plunder: Dried oysters and casks of pickles, sacks of rice, sides of bacon, slabs of salt beef, tins of loose tea, combs of honey, flasks of scent, sachets of spices, cans of preserved fruit…

And the liquor. Countless bottles of it: Rum and brandy, champagne and wine, cases of spirits packed in sawdust. All rapidly vanishing down thirsty throats, shards of glass flashing like gems from where they'd been flung down. A great cask of ale had been broached, a foaming river spewing forth across the stones - Around it, figures capered, torches and lamps bobbing.

"Fuck the Crown!" someone was shouting. Too loud, as if stunned by their own daring.

"Every man a King!" came the answer, like a countersign: It felt like blasphemy, somehow.

Jagged laughter. Jagged cheers.

Flames, licking up the outside of a building. Black figures against the fires.

The world spun. The point of Cordin's sword dragged against the flagstones underfoot. All of a sudden, his legs gave way - He slumped down next to the statue of some long-forgotten champion, the worthy's visage eroded away to a vaguely noble smear.

Despite the blaze, he felt cold. Sweat poured down his face and stung his eyes, all the same.

If there'd been any sense to the long and furious night, Cordin had lost all understanding of it. It seemed less like a coherent sequence of events, and more like a series of desperate, bloody, and accidental clashes that had flared, flourished, and died without meaning. Like he'd been in the throes of a nightmare, and was only just awakening to the havoc wreaked by another man.

In that moment, with a dim flicker of insight, Cordin saw why things always went wrong for him. Somewhere over the span of years, he'd lost the ability to imagine what would happen next.

To think beyond his next drink, his next hit of Dust.

To exist beyond the edge of oblivion.

What came first? Pushing through the haze in his mind, he remembered the meetings in the cellar of the brewhouse, the millworkers from Honor Street and the stonecutters from Gravel Row. The complaints about ale watered down with rotten water, the meat that was - too often - rat or dog, when they were lucky to get it. The flour bulked out with sawdust and chalk, the impossibility of earning an honest wage for an honest day's work…

At some point, the mutterings had become more than mere words: There had been swords and crossbows, and - yes - strong drink, which had brought in the numbers. In the end, they'd moved to the abandoned dyeing works, still stinking of rotten eggs and fish, and they'd gone from a uneven dozen of grumblers to almost a hundred.

The very idea of rebellion had been impossible, until it wasn't.

It was Lios who'd done most of the talking. He'd always been a strange one, more so since his daughter had died - Always pushing for the next step, always planning. Like he'd known all along what would happen, like he'd been waiting for…

The ground trembled.

There was a distant rumble. A vibration in the air and earth. A ghostly din of voices and drums.

Stirred from his reverie, Cordin looked up. Blinked. He'd lost time again - That much he knew, at least. His mouth was dry, his fingers cramping where they flexed against the grip of his sword. He could feel the soot and grime of the day clinging to his skin, as he lifted his heavy head…

An uneasy silence had descended. Others were looking up, murmurs of confusion filtering through the smog. Silhouetted against the distant flames, those around him looked like wood cutouts, like tragic marionettes left frozen without their puppeteer.

What was happening?

A moment of clarity: In the distance, he could see, dimly, that Victor's Gate was open. Open, flung wide, points of light flickering in the space beyond.

Something about that. Something about that was-

He was on his feet, now. He knew this.

He knew this.

"Look-"

There were mounted men in the distance. A wide line of them, the flamelight glittering on the points of lances and swords. Great steeds, none of them less than seventeen hands. Harness rattled, armor clanking as horses snorted and pawed at the ground.

Full suits of silver-white plate. Bardings of articulated steel. And, fluttering majestically above them-

The great banner of the Re-Estize kingdom, framed by rampant lions picked out in gold thread.

"It's-"

"It's the Crown Prince!" The disbelieving shout rose above the plaza, as a heated gust thinned the veil of smoke. "It's the fucking-"

The gleam of metal on the move-

The cavalry rode forward. They had formed a line, the points of their lances swinging down. Moving faster, faster, now. From a trot to a canter.

"Run! Run!"

A trumpet sounded. That was all it took: A shiver of fear convulsed the mob. No longer united in a single purpose, no longer exultant - Just a milling crowd of terrified individuals, knowing all-too-well what was coming.

Shouts and wails rang out. The ragged mass of looters and rebels, of revolutionaries and opportunists and all the shades in-between, recoiled. Some were backing away, others waving their useless swords, knowing only that should have already been running-

And then they were scattering. Flinging down weapons and torches as they ran. Knowing that they would never be fast enough.

It earned them no mercy.

When the charge came, it fell like an avalanche of steel. Riders crashed into the flanks of the fleeing mass - Lances, held rigid, drove home. Men and women fell screaming, trampled into the splintered cobbles, ridden over as the knights spurred after other fugitives. Behind them came the hussars and dragoons of the light cavalry, their sabers hacking down any who'd survived the lance.

Bodies were speared, hacked, broken apart under the iron-shod hooves of chargers and destriers. Torn and bloody corpses, ground to paste beneath the steeds of shining riders streaked with gore-

Cordin watched it all happen, curiously untouched. In the shadow of the great statue, he could only look on, strangely detached as the charge broke and flowed around and over him.

There was no fear, no now. For it was like a dream, like the past and present had become one.

He saw Brooker, split down his spine by the killing point of a lance. Heard Gleven squeal in unjust and throttling pain as a hammer crushed his skull. Saw Regon stabbing madly at the knight that bore down on him, a heartbeat before a spear took him through the throat.

Broken forms thrown up and back. Spinning, slack and disjointed, in the face of that unstoppable rush.

All around, men he'd known were falling and dying, obliterated by the bright wickedness of spears. Their blood watered the cobbles, ran in the gutters, making a mockery of their desperate scramble for life - For there was no escape, not from this, even as the hussars galloped past him to cut off retreat.

And with ice-cold clarity, Cordin realized: These were the last moments of his life.

From his right, he saw a rider spurring towards him. He could pick out the jewels in his cuirass, the golden feathers that adorned his helmet - His destrier's teeth bared yellow, the gleaming crescent of a great axe gripped in gauntleted fists.

There was no fear, but he could taste sour vomit in his throat, all the same. He gripped his sword rigid at the end of his arm, his only arm, as the knight bore down, bore down-

There was a roar, louder than all the worlds. A blast that transcended sound.

He saw it, then. A great shape, a great shadow, that blotted out the sky.

Saw the dragon.

It was vast, the downdraught of its wingbeats hammering down like a gale. Blue fire and black smoke boiled from its jaws, ragged wings like torn sails pulled across desiccated muscle. Vast spars of bone, stark beneath tattered flesh.

And it was descending. Descending, like the wrath of the forgotten and the betrayed, of the cast-aside and ruined. Sweeping down towards the plaza and the unalloyed splendor of the knights hewing their way through those they'd long marked for death.

There was a sharp crack, like thunder. With an awful slowness, one of the great buildings toppled - Tons of masonry crashing down, chunks of ornamental carving flung out like rogue meteors. A great cloud of choking dust spewed forth, figures writhing forth like maggots spilling from a rotten fruit.

Undead. Too many to count, storming across the ruin. Falling not on the riders surging into the plaza, but upon those sheltering behind them.

Fragments of shouts-

"The Prince! Rally to the-"

"Behind…!"

"Form up! Form-"

"Protect the Prince!"

Cordin saw all this. Heard all this, like he was floating above his own body. And he understood, really: That it was all over now, that there was a reason for the misery and turmoil that had been his life.

In that final, precious moment, he was a man at peace.

The axe cleaved his head in twain.

The Second Successor

Prince Zanac had never been one for vanity. Oh, he had his pride, certainly - Every man did - but he liked to think that he didn't share his brother's penchant for narcissism. Other things were simply more important, or so he'd always believed: Attending to the kingdom's woes and intrigues was a full-time task, and it seemed like there were never enough hours in the day to get anything done.

But now, in this dire hour, he was forced to admit-

He'd let standards slip, somewhat.

The royal armory wasn't a place he often frequented. After all, a Prince should never have to touch his sword, let alone draw it: That was what he had countless other eager hands for. Besides, Zanac had learned, early on, that he had no talent for swordplay - He'd relinquished the training field to the Crown Prince, and he was happier for it.

"Your Highness, you must remain still," murmured one of the arming-servants, pulling on the strap of his breastplate. There were around five of them, each occupied with the abstruse task of getting Zanac into his armor. A task that would have been much easier, if not for the obvious.

Zanac drew a deep breath, and tried his best to suck his stomach in. What he saw in the mirror wasn't promising, and even the servile mutterings around him had taken on a vaguely discouraging air.

The fact was, he hadn't donned his armor for at least half a decade, now. It'd been commissioned by a younger man, as yet untouched by the ravages of time, a man who'd still nursed fantasies of martial glory.

A slimmer man, it had to be said.

If not for the tireless efforts of the armorers, it'd surely have been more cobwebs than armor now. If his mind had settled on it at all, Prince Zanac would probably have dismissed it as one more unnecessary expense in a ledger full of them, one more obstacle in the desperate, inglorious struggle to pull the Crown out of ever-spiraling debt and into the black.

The greaves and cuisses had gone on easily enough, at least. Some compromises had been necessary for the faulds and helmet, but they'd bowed to the royal personage in the end.

The cuirass, though - Against all odds, the cuirass was resisting their best efforts.

"Perhaps some form of corset-" one of the servants began, gaze politely lowered. His colleague stood by, expression carefully blank - the look of a man who knew his entire career turned on his ability to stay somber in the face of absurdity.

The Prince sighed. He tried letting his gut hang out instead: The result made him wince, and he shook his head.

"Well, do as you must," he said. "-But make haste."

"At once, your Highness!" Sweaty relief etched on his face, a tailor scrambled forward. He bent to his task, fingers trembling as he unspooled his measuring tape. Never had the task of spanning the royal personage's circumference been so urgent.

For want of distraction, Zanac cast his gaze around the room. Past the sword-racks with their many gilded blades, the stands with suits of polished armor bearing the crests of long-forgotten ancestors, the oil paintings depicting great acts of triumph - Which mostly involved a great deal of striking kingly poses while standing on the bodies of the slain.

At last, his gaze settled on a rather more reassuring sight: Gazef Stronoff in full armor, Razor Edge at his side. The Warrior-Captain stood in profile, harsh light across one side of his rugged features - He'd politely averted his gaze, but that was a courteous fiction. Every fiber of the man's being was taut with careful, coiled vigilance, dark eyes hunting endlessly for the slightest sign of any threat.

Now, there was a hero. Simply by looking at him, one knew - knew - that if an assault was launched on Ro Lente this very instant, if the walls came crashing down and the whole world came charging in, Sir Stronoff would hurl himself in death's way to discharge his duty.

It was, Zanac had to admit, an immense weight off his mind.

"Gazef," his father had said, with a curious formality. Like a man addressing an old and honored friend, rather than a King addressing a retainer.

The King's ermine cape hung loosely from his shoulders, these days - All of the trappings of wealth and royalty unable to conceal the ravages of age. Though it'd pained him to walk without a limp, he'd set his jeweled cane aside: Step by careful step, he'd crossed over to Zanac, and placed his beringed hands on his shoulders.

"-He is of my body," King Ramposa said, and - for a moment - his blue eyes glittered with silent emotion. How frail he'd seen, then, as he'd stood before his son.

"Guard him well, Warrior-Captain."

He'd felt the tremble in his father's hands, then. The way the King's weight had settled on him, as if Zanac was the only thing that held him up.

In that moment, the Prince had felt a pang of desperate sadness: For there was so little time left, and so much left unsaid - And what remained would never be enough.

All he could hope for was that, when the time came, they'd have made their peace.

The thread of some silent communication passed between King and Warrior-Captain, and Gazef nodded, gravely. He'd saluted, fist-to-chest, craggy features set with determination.

"As you command, my liege."

What his brother had against the Warrior-Captain, the Prince couldn't begin to imagine. He could guess, however: There'd always been something of the brute to Barbro, something that instinctively chafed at the presence of someone larger and stronger. The knowledge that he wasn't the biggest man in the room - that there was someone he couldn't intimidate or overawe - made the Golden Ogre sullen, irked him on some subliminal level.

And that, as Zanac had always thought, was no way to rule.

In truth, Gazef Stronoff wasn't supposed to be here. The original plan had called for him to be in the second wave, to join his Warrior Troop in the taking and holding of the Nine Fingers' assets. Some last-minute command had delayed him, though - When the first confused reports of riots and explosions had reached the palace, when it was clear that the situation was rapidly degenerating, it turned out that he was right where he needed to be.

A fool would have praised his good fortune. Zanac, however, knew better. It was a careful manipulation, the work of a careful hand moving a piece across a game board. Ensuring that what really mattered was preserved, positioned for the riposte to come.

The monster had told him as much.

The meeting with the monster had unsettled him, he freely admitted: But then again, everything she did terrified him, these days.

It was the vacancy. The incurious, heartless absence, shouted from that lovely face.

Not cruel. Just blank.

The transformation of her expression had been all the worse for its subtlety. Enough that someone standing across a room would have missed it, but a mere glimpse was sufficient to turn the blood to ice. Every facial nuance dead - Utterly dead, wiped clean like trackless sands.

And that voice, as cold as winter slate…

Only once. But once had been enough.

"What troubles you, dear brother?"

He'd come in full of purpose, bursting with determination. The disaster outside had, perversely, fueled his confidence: Like there was a grim satisfaction in knowing that there was something he could lay at her feet.

She'd been sitting at the window, backlit by the ghostly glow of the distant fires. Contemplating the arrangement of flowers before her, with careful reserve. The pair of silver scissors snickered in her hand, as - with delicate precision - she trimmed the blossoms, pruning the spent blooms.

"Quite the hornet's nest you've stirred, here," he'd said, marshaling all his dignity. "This…conflagration. This cataclysm. Tell me - Did you foresee this? Did you plan for this, too?"

That perfect bow of a mouth had lifted at the corners - For his benefit, he knew.

"Your anger is misplaced, dear brother. Do you truly believe this is my doing?"

The damnable thing was, he didn't. Not truly.

Oh, he'd known that she'd been scheming with that viperous woman from the Holy Kingdom…But their goals had been in accord, or so he'd thought. Now, Zanac wasn't so sure: For how could she have failed to see this?

And if she had - Why hadn't she told him?

He'd sank down on the couch, with an unhappy grunt.

"I suppose the Warrior-Captain's continued presence is a happy coincidence, then," he'd said. "If he'd set out like we'd planned…"

She'd met his pique with that unchanging, serene smile. "Merely prudence, dear brother. Without him, where would we be now?"

Somewhere worse, no doubt. The man had been a veritable inspiration, a font of calm: He'd gone about organizing the defense with a brisk competence that brooked no refusal. If not for Gazef…Well, the mood would be very different.

He'd made a show of looking around.

"And your…pet? Surely he hasn't slipped your leash-"

In truth, Zanac felt a kind of pity for Climb. He made a show of considering him beneath notice, but that was more self-preservation than anything else: He had no intention of making his sister think that he'd taken an interest.

Who knew what she'd do then?

Anything, he'd thought, with a quiet shudder. The darker parts of anything.

"He's in good hands. Worry not, dear brother - The Grandmaster is…quite formidable, in his own way. I have the utmost faith in them."

Zanac had never met the man, not in person, but on that point they could both agree. By all accounts, Sir Samuel was a surprisingly amiable religious fanatic, utterly without guile: In other words, a typical Paladin, albeit one with a stronger sword-arm than most.

So she'd enmeshed him in her webs, too.

Perhaps he should consider himself fortunate that they hadn't sent Grandmaster Remedios. Apparently she was truly bloody-minded, even by the standards of the Holy Kingdom.

Then again, he was forced to admit, an affinity for violence was exactly what they needed right now.

"I don't suppose you've heard from them?" he'd asked, and he'd been surprised to hear the hope in his voice. "Or Lady Kelart, perhaps?"

She'd shaken her head, and his heart had sank. At this point, Zanac had seen the writing on the wall: Whatever they faced, all possible force had to be mustered against it. He had a sinking feeling that, this time, the threat was an existential one.

It had to be faced, head-on. Crushed, if possible. Confidence in the Crown was already at an all-time low: If they couldn't bestir themselves to defend the capital, well, what chance did they have? What chance did any of them have?

Futile messages had been sent to Prince Barbro, both magical and mundane. None had been answered, as a vast army of nearly fifty thousand men sat encamped beyond the walls of Re-Estize: They might as well have been on the other side of the moon, for all the good they were doing.

"No, I suppose it'd have been too much to ask," he'd muttered, wishing - not for the first time - for Marquis Raeven's presence. The Marquis was doing his part to keep things in check, but there was only one of him.

Absently, he'd straightened his cravat, wondering how many people he could really count on, if it came to it.

"In truth, I had misgivings from the start. Sending three men to arrest the Viscount? Assurances or not, that seems…overly optimistic, at best. Why not two dozen? Or perhaps Lady Aindra and her 'Blue Roses' - Aren't they eminently qualified for a task like this?"

Those limpid blue eyes had regarded him, silently, as the tiny silver blades flickered. Expectant, somehow, like a tutor with a slow but promising student.

"I'm sure Climb has many virtues, but he's hardly a subtle instrument. The Paladin, even less so. Why, it's almost as if-"

His eyes had widened. His breath catching, in his throat.

"It's a trap, isn't it? Some deception, some snare. You knew, and you sent them in anyway-"

Had she smiled, then - Or had it merely been a trick of the light?

"A trap can be evaded," she'd said, so calmly. Like she was discussing tea or matters of small importance, with her maids. "-It can also be sprung."

All of a sudden, he'd been glad that he was seated. The implications of it…They'd made his gut roil, a migraine-pressure at his temples.

"Then…The whole operation - The Nine Fingers know?"

"They've always known," the monster had said. "Did you think such a thing could be hidden from them?" Almost offhand - "Our dearest brother invited their agent to his latest soiree, after all. The Grandmaster was quite taken with her, by all accounts."

He'd nearly jolted to his feet, then. Nearly shouted at her, demanding an explanation, demanding a reason-

Instead, Zanac had - silently - counted backward from ten. At last, he'd said:

"You could have told me."

Those blue eyes had never wavered. "If I did, would you have agreed to this?"

He'd grunted, conceding the point. "Still," he'd said, keeping his voice from grating, "-It would have been good to know. A little trust, dear sister. Is that too much to ask for?"

She'd laid a finger against her cheek, then. Canting her head to the side - A coquettish gesture, but it'd chilled him. Her hand and body moved, but it wasn't the willow's grace so much as the puppeteer's.

The puppeteer's…

"A little trust, then," the monster had said. "Tell me, dear brother: Does this - all of this - seem terribly convenient to you?"

"How so?"

"Less than a year ago, the Nine Fingers were a simple fact of life. A parasite, really. Their recent actions have been…ambitious. Overly so, almost: Reckless, even. Not sustainable, in any sense - For how could we fail to notice?"

She'd paused. For contemplation, or perhaps for effect.

Zanac's brow had furrowed. He'd drummed his beringed fingers against the armrest, mulling it over. Never underestimate the greedy, he'd almost said. Avarice has no limits.

But that was too easy. Too obvious. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

"A year ago, they were the Eight Fingers," he'd said, stressing. "Perhaps a different hand at the tiller…?"

As if in answer, she'd tilted her chin towards the window. At the fires raging across the city, the pillars of smoke coiling through the skies. The question had been clear:

Who profits?

"Are you saying," he began, carefully. "-that this…chaos…was planned for? In pursuit of some greater goal? To what end?"

War was bad for business. The Annual Wars had been low in bloodshed, but they'd hit Re-Estize's treasuries far harder. The Eight - Nine, or whatever they were calling themselves, now - Fingers must have known that, too.

Who follows a path that leads off a cliff?

Her gaze fixed on an invisible point in the distance, those blue eyes glimmering. Like the glass eyes of a doll, they held no light of their own: Instead, they merely reflected what lay without.

"-What indeed?"

Zanac had waited, but no further answers had been forthcoming. At last, when the silence had become intolerable, he'd heaved a slow sigh.

"Well, sister. Absent your remarkable insight, I suppose all that remains is to return with my shield or upon it-" he'd began, heaving himself to his feet.

The sharp little scissors had clicked, one last time. The violet petals of an iris had fluttered down, to reveal the perfect, gleaming bloom of the golden rose at the bouquet's heart.

"Do not despair, dearest brother," the monster had said, softly.

"-There are other ways."

They'd got his armor on, at last. The corset had done wonders, but it was cut to fit the man he'd have liked to be, not the one he was.

"Excellent," Zanac said, trying vainly to wiggle into a comfortable position. His voice echoed tinnily within his helmet, like he was speaking from the inside of a giant metal can.

He lifted the visor, tried again: "-Commendable work. Couldn't ask for more."

"Thank you, my liege!" said one of the armorers, managing to sound relieved and sycophantic all at once. Given the way the man was sweating, there was no denying that he'd earned it: Set to the task of girding his Prince for war, he'd worked a miracle in a brief span of minutes, enough that Zanac could actually fit.

In spite of everything, Zanac had to admit: Things appeared to be looking up. Strategy - military strategy, at least - wasn't his forte, but he'd made a habit of surrounding himself with competent people. Between them and Lady Aindra, the Warrior-Captain and the rest of his sister's menagerie, he could almost believe that they had the matter well in hand-

When the roar came, it shook the world.

Even through the stone walls, Zanac could feel it - Less of a sound and more of a force, one that pulsed in his chest and made nausea churn in his gut. His ears rang: Dimly, he could hear shouts - faint cries - ringing out from elsewhere in the castle, the urgent tramp of running soldiers.

Dust trickled from the ceiling. It sifted across the polished floors, like a harbinger of doom.

"What was that?"

Too loud. The servants around him, already nervous, looked dismayed.

"Go find out," Zanac said, lowering his voice to a careful, measured calm. Men looked, instinctively, to their rulers for guidance: One had to master the appearance of surety, if nothing else.

Authority, like everything else, was as much illusion as truth. Belief came first. Only then did the rest follow.

"Find out, and…"

"-It's a dragon."

Gazef Stronoff was a man of few words, but he made them count. It was like a stone had been hurled into a pool, silence rippling forth in its wake.

One of the servants dropped a vambrace. It tolled like a bell as it struck the ground, the man swearing as he scrambled after it. Another exclaimed in dismay, the color draining from his features - He stole a quick, furtive glance at Zanac, then fumbled for a nearby tray of tools. Like he was pretending his lapse had never happened, though the sickly tint to his face told a different story.

Zanac swallowed, his heart hammering in his chest: He didn't like the sound of that. Not at all.

Dragon.

Of all things-

Had his sister seen this, too?

"Are you," he began, doing his best to project regal calm. Not an easy operation in full armor, that was for sure. "Are you certain-?"

It was a fool's question, and he knew it. The Warrior-Captain's gaze flicked up towards the roof, and his frown deepened. Stepping close, Gazef took a firm grip on Zanac's arm, lowering his voice.

"We must leave, your Highness. This place isn't safe. We don't know how long the walls will stand-"

With a swift, proficient ease, the Warrior-Captain ushered Zanac through the great gilt-edged doors, the Prince's retinue trailing in their wake. Footfalls echoed down the hallway outside - From above, Zanac could hear confused shouting, doors rattling in their frames.

About a half-dozen guards still stood vigil outside, their spears held in wavering hands. One glance from Gazef Stronoff - a brief, grim nod - and they came clattering after, with the taut air of men expecting the worst.

Zanac was already breathing hard, trying to keep pace with Sir Stronoff's long strides as they hurried through the sprawling bulk of the Royal Palace. Part of him couldn't help but wonder how the man could move so fast, in full armor - With an effort, the Prince pushed the thought aside, focusing all his effort on keeping up.

Despite the leaden weight of his armor, he drew himself up: Whatever this was, he'd face it with dignity.

Whatever that meant, now.

In the corridors, they passed servants and aides, rushing about their tasks or simply scurrying to get clear. There had to be hundreds of them, used to being seen and not heard: the inhabitants of a kicked anthill, thrown into utter turmoil. The faint amber glow filtering in from outside lent a hellish edge to the proceedings, as if all of this was some nightmare-sent vision…

Somehow, the smell of burning was getting stronger.

It occurred to Zanac that he really should be armed, and he twisted around to look for his sword: With a pang of relief, he saw that a page was hurrying along with his weapon, jeweled scabbard clutched close to his chest.

Ah, good, he thought. He was hopeless with one, but being unarmed was tantamount to being naked at a time like this-

A thought struck him, right then. He knew he should've saved his breath, but he had to know - Half-bundled, half-dragged along, he glanced at the Warrior-Captain…

"What aren't you telling me?"

For one blessed, breathless moment, Zanac thought that he'd been wrong after all. That the very worst had been thrown at them, and all that remained was to seize the moment.

But then the Warrior-Captain's brow furrowed a little more, the bellows of his chest heaving in a shallow exhalation-

And Gazef said, simply:

"-There's two of them."

Next: Lord of Shadow (III)