Disclaimer: I do not own the Dresden Files, or any characters, ideas, or intellectual property found within the works of Jim Butcher.

"What are you doing in Rwanda, Shiro?" Roarke was sitting on the ground, wrapping a bandage around a young boy's leg that had been shredded by shrapnel.

The old Japanese man smiled wanly and replied, "The Lord saw fit for me to be here. This genocide has led to hundreds of thousands of deaths, and even more have been wounded and maimed by it. Someone had to intervene." His bittersweet smile turned down into a thoughtful frown. "And it seems there is more at work here than the Church previously believed."

Roarke stood up, gently holding the little boy down to keep him from further injuring himself. He was silent for a moment, then said, "Those beasts outside. We've fought them before."

"Yes. We have."

"Them."

"Yes. They are here."

Roarke hissed through his teeth, idly fingering the holster his sidearm was kept in on his belt. His mind was racing, drawing conclusions and weaving the various threads together into a cohesive whole.

"They are at fault for the genocide, then?" There was a slight undertone of doubt to his voice, but Roarke knew better than to show it on his face. His parishioners were under enough stress to see their only pillar of fortitude falter.

Shiro nodded his head slowly, "Of that I am not wholly sure. There has always been intolerance and violence here, yes?" He waited for Roarke's confirmation, then continued, "I fear that they have instigated it into full-on warfare in the region."

"Then why were their thralls and beasts attacking the villagers, if those men were their pawns," questioned Roarke.

Shiro shrugged, "Perhaps there is disunion in their ranks. It has happened before. Such is their lot, to make that which is already a bad thing worse, I suppose."

The old Knight of the Cross turned on his heel and strode away from Roarke, walking amidst the prone or sitting figures inside the church. He spoke as he stepped, saying, "Just as it is our lot, Father, to take a stand when and where no others will – or can. We must be strong for those that are not. It is our lot to take that which is a bad thing and to make it better and good, or as close to as we can get."

He turned again, at the doorway now, to look at Roarke across the room and smiled with glittering eyes. "For that is our mission, and our task. We will succeed. There are others in the hunt, Father, and they will be joining us soon. I suggest that we leave your flock in their care while you and I follow those men from earlier to wherever their lair is." He paused for breath, coughing a little at the sudden outburst of emotion. "For where their lair is, so is their master. I suggest that we hurry."

Roarke crouched into the brush alongside the road, a rifle cradled in his hands. He'd taken it from one of the bodies back in front of the Church after Shiro's reinforcements showed up. It had a fairly sizeable clip to it, a telescopic scope, and elongated barrel. Roarke was not familiar with the make of the weapon, but its purpose was clear to him.

Shiro stood a few yards ahead of him in the undergrowth, his sword drawn. The blade was bright and cold as winter snow, though somehow it managed to blend into the heavy foliage around them.

A branch snapped about twenty feet from them. Shiro froze, his katana held in a textbook-perfect position, ready to either swing down, parry an enemy's weapon, or stab forward into them. Roarke had fallen to a knee and shouldered the rifle in one motion; he was now peering into the ferns, trying to listen as well as scope out the terrain. There was no further sound. Seconds dragged by.

Suddenly, a figure in black fatigues lunged from the vegetation being Shiro, a wicked-looking combat knife held in its fist. Roarke cursed in French under his breath, swinging the rifle around to bare on the ambusher. He needn't have worried – two more burst from the foliage to strike out at him, and Shiro had already spun on his attacker.

The elderly man nimbly dodged the short blade of his opponent, spinning around him to slash down at the man from above. His katana found purchase, but was stopped by a plate of ceramic armour underneath the fatigues. The man laughed inarticulately and slugged a fist at Shiro's face. Shiro leapt away from him, an attempt at gutting him proving as futile as the previous strike.

Roarke downed his first man with a double-tap to the head, but was surprised to find him only stunned rather than killed outright as the first round rebounded off of his helmet and the second following suite. The second man lifted a shotgun at him, the barrel sawed off for ease of use in the cramped quarters. Roarke slung the stock of his rifle around and into his throat, causing him to collapse to the ground. He executed both men by slitting their throats with his boot-knife.

Shiro finished off his hamstrung opponent by beheading him. Shaking his head sadly, the wizened Knight motioned for Roarke to join him.

The two holy warriors stared down at the face of one of the dead men, his mouth agape. There was no tongue in it, only a long-healed wound.

Roarke whispered, "Denarians."