Chapter 22 - The Strength of the Wolf

To my utter lack of surprise, Hilma was already ahead of me. Way ahead.

When she'd intuited the true purpose of my visit, I wasn't quite sure. It must have been before my lapse - of that much I was certain. Perhaps she'd had some inkling from the very beginning, and had simply been waiting - with infinite patience - for the truth to reveal itself at last.

"I'll admit - I'm ever-so-slightly disappointed, Grandmaster," she said, all dignified composure as she poured herself a drink from the decanter. Somehow, she'd effortlessly arrayed herself into the most comfortable position she could find, her violet eyes level as she sipped.

"My association with Viscount Fondoll has been a mutually beneficial one. Oh, he's hardly a sparkling conversationalist, but he's a generous patron...Within reason, of course." Hilma gave me a sidelong look, as if expecting me to contradict her. "From the neck up, he's lacking - But a woman in my position could hardly expect more, could she?"

She lowered her voice, almost to a whisper. "And, Grandmaster-" No more Sir Samuel, then. I supposed I deserved it. "You must be aware: I'm a professional. I am known from one edge of this land to the other. My reputation for discretion is a watchword with my clientele. And-"

A negligent wave. "...You ask me to risk everything I have, for-?"

She raised her chin, and I saw the faint flicker of something that might have been hurt in her eyes.

And I got it. Really, I did.

I'd given her the impression that I'd been genuinely intrigued by her. Like we'd had something in common, a connection - A visit that wasn't so much a transaction as it would have been a date, or a step or two on the road to actual intimacy.

No wonder she was offended. Anyone would have been.

"I'm sorry," I said. "-I really am, more than words can express."

There was no reaction. Not a flicker. I forged on, regardless.

"I should've told you, right from the beginning - I thought you wouldn't understand, that's all. But I'm not here to take advantage of your good nature."

A slim eyebrow rose. She motioned for me to continue - that was my opening, and I seized it.

"I came here to warn you, La...Hilma." Now she was starting to look faintly intrigued, which was a lot better than before. "You said it: I'm an outsider here. My concern is for the Holy Kingdom, not Re-Estize."

"And?"

I gave her a steady look, and comprehension dawned in her eyes. "You're here on the Crown's behalf?" Hilma murmured, looking suitably shaken - she took a sip of her drink, working it around her mouth, and swallowed, hard. "Surely...It can't be that dire, can it?"

I said nothing. Let her turn it over in her mind.

The demons we imagine are so much worse than what anyone else can conjure.

Those full lips pressed together in a thin line, as Hilma stared out of the window, at the grey city beyond. Then, finally, she looked at me, and something like fear shone in her eyes.

"What-" she began, in a small voice. "...The Viscount - What's he involved in…?"

I could have told her that I didn't know. That we weren't sure - that all we had were our suspicions, half-certain as they were. But that wouldn't have accomplished the desired result. Instead, I did my best to smile: "Don't worry," I said. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"To me?" Hilma said, and her eyes hardened. "Am I under suspicion?"

"It depends," I said, and I heard her sharp intake of breath. "We're judged by the company we keep, after all. At a time like this...It's important to avoid, ah, inappropriate associations."

She went pale beneath her makeup, and I felt a guilty twist in my gut. One more push, I thought, hating myself for it.

"It's the Viscount we're interested in, not you." I kept my voice level, my expression calm. I could feel my palms sweating, as I rested my hands in my lap. "You'll be in the clear, as soon as we're sure you're not involved-"

Hilma looked away. Her violet eyes narrowed to slits, a spasm of something like pain flitting across her rouged features. "So I risk everything, and in return I get what I already have?" Her lip curled, souring now. "In my place, what would you say to that one?"

I sat forward. I had to be in earnest now, no matter how much I hated every word. There was no point trying to trick her; I had the sense she was far, far smarter than I was.

"I would say - this is your chance." Careful, I thought. "You've been on the outside the whole time, arranging things for people like…" I cast around, and a name came to mind. "-the Montserrats," I went on. She winced, and I knew I'd scored a point. "You'll never have their respect or their appreciation. You know that. I know that."

I met her gaze with my own. Did my best to inject every iota of sincerity I could muster into my words.

"The Crown rewards the loyal. This could be the making of you, Hilma."

If Prince Zanac (or Marquis Raeven, I supposed) was remotely as cunning as he appeared to be, he'd find a way to reward her. And if he didn't - in the bitter calculus of things - that was a problem for later.

Someone else's, in fact.

Hilma sat back, all emotion wiped from her features. Her slim fingers curled around the stem of her pipe, tapping it lightly against the table with a faint click. As pale vapor oozed into the air, I tried to read her expression - But for the first time, I had absolutely no idea what she was thinking.

As that mask of careful calculation turned towards me, I felt another sharp stab of guilt. I'd been hoping it wouldn't go like this, but perhaps I'd deluded myself; perhaps it could only have come down to a hard-driven bargain. One that bore the distinctive reek of blackmail.

"Tell me," she said. "What do you need from me, exactly?"

I eyed her, aware of the awkward silence that had descended. "Names," I said, at last. "We know Viscount Fondoll's corrupt - We want to know who he's been talking with, who his sponsors are. Whoever brought him in...They're part of this, too."

I remembered Lady Aindra's words. We had to catch him in the act, or not at all - Anything less wouldn't be sufficient. The longer we waited, the more likely things were to go wrong; when the hammer fell, it had to be swift and terrible, sparing no-one.

"You're asking a lot," Hilma said, her lips curving downwards in a frown. "Don't pretend you're not - I need to think about it." She glimpsed my expression, and went on. "I'm no fool, Grandmaster. I wouldn't dream of setting myself against the Crown, but you must admit you've put me in a difficult position."

She had a talent for understatement, I could tell. If a breath of this reached the Nine Fingers-

I had no doubt their retaliation would be utterly without mercy.

Hilma favored me with that sidelong look, again. "I'll need assurances, of course," she said, perfectly calm. All business, now. "If I'm to commit myself to this...I'd prefer to be absolutely certain."

I could see why Hilma was hoping - in vain, I think - for something like that. I'd upended her world; One way or another, she stood to lose everything. The trappings of wealth, the life she'd made for herself - all of it could be swept away, in a matter of days. Weeks, at most, given how fast things were moving.

"You'll get them," I said, firmly. "You have my word."

At last, Hilma smiled. "Perhaps," she murmured, her slim fingers caressing the black-and-silver brooch. "It's an ennobling notion, isn't it? That I could take your word for granted; that strength of character alone would be enough to seal an agreement."

She looked back at me. Wry humor flickered in her violet eyes, lent an edge to her voice.

"But you'll forgive me for asking for payment in advance."

After that, there was little left to discuss.

"Where might I find you?" Hilma had asked, and I'd hesitated. The Palace was filled with spies, and I had no intention of letting her know that the Blue Roses were part of this.

"The Heroes' Hearth," I'd said, at last. "It's an inn close to the city gates-"

"I'm familiar with it. I'll send you a messenger, in a day or two - Sooner rather than later, I think. I trust that will be sufficient, Grandmaster?"

She'd taken a long draw from her pipe, eyeing me over the rim. I'd racked my mind for anything I might've missed, but nothing had surged to the forefront; I merely nodded, as if I knew what I was doing.

"Very well. You know the way out."

I rose. I'd made it halfway to the door, when Hilma called me back.

"It was a pleasure to see you, Sir Samuel," she said, her voice ever-so-slightly warmer, now. "I do wish the circumstances were different, of course."

"I could say the same," I answered, aware that Succy waited - like a unquiet specter - at the door. The maid was eager to see the last of me, I could tell. Given what I'd been discussing with her employer, I didn't blame her.

"I'll treasure this," Hilma said, the adamantite brooch gleaming as she tilted it to catch the light. "In the spirit it was given, of course. Be safe, Grandmaster." She smiled, not like before, but ever-so-slightly more honest for it. "-Perhaps we'll meet again, once all this is over again."

That was the last I saw of her, as I was ushered out; A pale hand, waving to me as I made my way to the waiting carriage.

Outside, it was snowing lightly, though nothing had settled. The fat snowflakes looked yellow, as they milled down into the amber glow of the streetlamps. The air was full of a raw, metal cold that I could taste in the back of my lungs.

The footman held the door for me, as I eased myself up and into the rattling interior of the carriage. "Where to, my Lord?" the driver asked, taking up the reins - It was freezing, but the handful of gold I'd paid him had kept him in high spirits.

"Around the district, then to Heroes' Hearth," I said. The wheels clattered, as the entire contraption lurched into motion. I wasn't expecting to be followed, not really, but I could still feel a distinct thrill of unease.

As the world swayed in time to the jolting of the carriage, I stared out the window. Watching, caught on the cusp of a premonition. For what, I didn't know.

Only, I had the strangest sense that something was looking back.

Have made contact with Hilma Cyganeus. Willing to aid us, but will require assurances. Expecting a reply in a day or two.

The golden ornament - a hummingbird in flight - chimed softly, depending at the end of its silver chain. A faint tinkling of bells lingered in the air, as it briefly glowed sea-green; those wings beat once and then went still, the magic exhausted.

Twenty-five words, once a day, Lady Aindra had said as she'd placed the charm in my palm. No more, no less.

It'd seemed arbitrary, and I'd said so. She'd merely shrugged - "We work with the tools we're given, Sir Samuel," Lakyus had said, and I'd taken it for the gentle chiding it was. It was hardly the most reliable device, but it wasn't like this world had phones or communicators.

Perhaps it was better for that.

I sat back, slipping the talisman back into my pouch. Night had fallen early; It'd been darker than I'd expected, by the time I reached the inn. Gustav and Kashan had yet to return - Privately, I wished them all the best in their endeavors.

Another day gone, I thought, looking out the window, at the snow sifting down onto the ramshackle streets and spires of the capital.

How much longer will this take?

I wasn't the only one counting the days, I knew - so far, other than bringing Wolfgunblood into the fold, we'd experienced a stunning lack of success. Everything was still up in the air, the hoped-for aid yet to materialize.

Out there, in the grey city, events were moving at a pace entirely their own. Somewhere out there, Prince Zanac's and Marquis Raeven's men were being shuffled into position like pawns across a board, awaiting the order to move out.

I was in a sour mood. Tired and unrefreshed, and I knew all too well why. The meeting with Hilma sat poorly with me, and I couldn't help but come back to it over and over again. I'd have preferred things to go better, but - in truth - I couldn't imagine how else it might have played out.

I wondered what Kelart would think. What she'd say, about how I'd handled it.

I suppose that to her, necessity was the greatest of virtues.

In truth, I wasn't used to having this much time on my hands. The world I knew, the world I'd left behind, had been a constant hand-to-mouth scrabble. Over the course of the seventy-odd hours I spent each week entering data into the Ministry of Labor's main core, I usually made just enough to keep the power going, to buy private food three or four times a week, and even cycle the dust-filters on a monthly basis.

Not much, by anyone's standards. But there were many with far, far less.

I'd loathed my job. Hated it, even as I clung to it, the way a man on a precipice clutches at a cliff's edge. But it had been, in the brutally limited way only an utterly disposable worker would really understand, a living.

Strange to think that I was a world away from that, now. From now until the end of my days, there would be no going back - Not even if I wanted to. I'd left it all behind, and I honestly couldn't say that there was anything I'd have wanted to take with me…

-Samuel, I thought. If only he was here, it would have all been perfect.

I shook my head, let out the sigh I'd been holding. Strange, the thoughts that came when I was at my most vulnerable. When the walls were down, and all that remained was regret.

The legs of my chair scraped back against the floor, as I made to stand. No point in thinking about that, not now - I had to focus on the things I could change.

Didn't I?

Before it'd found a better class of clientele, the Heroes' Hearth had catered primarily to adventurers. Even now, there was still some overlap; Most relevantly, the training circle marked in the courtyard, the flagstones polished smooth by generations of shoes.

Up to this point, I'd been negligent. Coasting on my - this body's - abilities, the skill imparted by subliminal programming and auto-assist programs. The legacy of Yggdrasil, impossibly translated into actual skill with a sword.

Instinct and hard-coded reflexes had carried me this far. The cold, terrible clarity I'd felt when I'd watch Orlando bleed out, seen Pavel's blasted corpse; it seemed a million miles away, impossible to grasp. I couldn't imagine doing that, being that kind of person-

And yet I had.

I'd been practicing for almost an hour, until the lean, muscular form I'd inherited was flushed with perspiration. I held Gnosis in a two-handed grip, executing turns, sweeps, blocks and reprises, circling and crossing, each motion exact and severe-

As it moved, the polished blade made a hard, whistling sound like a whip.

Gnosis was the key. It was the weapon Samuel had carried with him, all the way through the Platinum Spire. He'd hacked and slashed his way to the Interfector with this sword in hand, the one he'd chosen over all others - Why, I didn't know.

It wasn't like he'd lacked for choice. My Item Box was filled with flaming swords, spears that spat lightning, axes that pulsed with lethal intent. Just sorting through them was a dizzying experience, a humbling look at the sheer multitude of metal objects designed to cause harm.

Yet he'd chosen Gnosis, and brought it with him all the way to the end.

I'd asked Wolfgunblood about it, in passing. He'd spared the adamantite blade a look, and shrugged; "Maxed out on Data Crystals," he'd said. "Kind of low on mods, but about standard for Divine-class gear-"

"'About standard?'" I'd echoed, peering doubtfully along the blade's fuller. "It doesn't look like anything special," I'd said, like an idiot. "Isn't it supposed to...glow or catch fire or something?"

He'd scoffed. "Nah, that's for suckers," he'd said, punctuating his words with a wave of a half-gloved hand. "Everyone's loaded down with resistances, once you hit the endgame. 'less you're debuff-heavy, elemental damage is basically worthless."

Wolfgunblood had narrowed his crimson eye, staring fixedly at Gnosis for a long, long moment. "Huh," he'd said at last. "Looks like it's got proficiency mods. Never thought a solo player would still be relying on those - ought to have figured those out by then…"

At my look of incomprehension, he'd sighed. "They're like training wheels, you know?" Wolfgunblood had clarified, a superior note to his voice. "For those who can't figure out how to use their skills. Just say the word, and the system takes over; Not bad when you're still trying to sort things out, but at level hundred, it's…" He rolled his eyes. "-Just a waste of attunement slots."

"Then, why would anyone…?"

"Dunno. Guess you're stuck with it, though."

He'd smirked like he'd scored a point, and the conversation had moved on to other things. At the time, it'd simply been one of a dozen things I'd been struggling to grasp, another revelation I'd been fighting to comprehend.

But I'd wondered. Turned the idea over and over again in my head, sensing the shape of it.

Now, at last, I think I knew why.

Samuel's progressive neural degeneration had been a slow, painful one. It'd eaten away at his synapses, essentially causing random short-circuiting throughout his central nervous system. As his brain had - with agonizing slowness - devoured itself, he'd withdrawn into himself more and more.

The regular injections of nanomachines he'd received, in order to interact with the Neural Nano-Interface - they'd circumvented the damage, for a time. But as his cerebral cortex had corroded away, more complex actions must have been beyond him. His raddled mind could no longer muster the thought-impulses necessary to draw upon what lay within.

Except he'd found a way around his limitations. To keep the looming twilight at bay for a few - months, weeks, days - more.

"Parhelion!" I said, and Gnosis lurched in my hands. There was nothing natural about the way it moved, so fast the sword blurred. The adamantite blade flared - a dull throb at the base of my spine, surging through my arms and down the hilt - as it struck, twice then again, three lightning-quick slashes that converged like the gnashing teeth of some industrial grinder.

Vorpal wrenched me from my feet, the blade singing in my grasp as it hurled me forward in a lunge. A brittle crack of flagstones splintering underfoot, outrunning my own sonic boom-

Sinistral split the air with an odd, hard bang - painful to feel and hear - a powerful linear distortion surging outwards, as if the sharpness of Gnosis had cast its own shadow. It was a quick, concussive vibration of air that scoured deep lines into the stone underfoot; as my vision cleared, I saw that the far wall had actually deformed into a rippled crater, like heated wax that had flowed and then set again.

I stared. Disbelieving, trying to make sense of what I had done. Every motion was fluid, effortless, as if I'd spent years ensuring it was just so - But it bore none of my will behind it. Every stroke was motion-captured perfection transposed into reality, pure digitally recorded magic, every time.

Like I was a puppet, guided by a master's unwavering hand.

At Calamity, Gnosis became a blur. A hurricane of strikes - Long-armed, flowing, sweeping strokes, a field of severing. The sword spun over and over again in my hand, my open palm and the pommel circling each other like the discs of a gyroscope. It was a spinning vortex, a whirlwind of blades, slicing so fast the air shrieked as it was cut-

My heart thudded in my chest, now. Faster, faster.

Surge-

I raised Gnosis, clenching the hilt in a double-handed grip. Sense-memory flared.

-plunging the Interfector's blade down, a volcano of fire and exploded earth erupting from the stone of Loyts-

I had to remember. To synchronize the hammer of my pulse to every stroke, so I would never forget; exerting every last part of my will, to detect and perceive the thought-impulses that would call each strike forth.

Quicksilver-

The world slowed. Everything became more immediate, more intense, all at once - My heart beating deep and slow, like distant thunder. It was a staccato accompaniment to the dreamy game of this reality, to the flash-flicker of Samuel's sword slashing in every direction at once, the clean sweep of the blade trailing spectral afterimages beneath the hard glare of the moon.

One more. One more, and we're done.

"Seven-"

"Sir Samuel - Gods!"

With Gnosis in my hands - ready, swinging - it was difficult to stop it pulling and slicing where it pleased. I had to restrain the steel from lunging at the distant figure, merely a blur on my field of vision; the sword quivered in my grasp, as if still searching futilely for a target.

There was a ragged hiss of breath.

Climb's face was pale, sheened with sweat. He looked like he'd run all the way here, from the Palace - His chest heaving, as if winded. He must have sensed that he'd interrupted something, because he hesitated, wary; wondering whether it was truly safe to approach, as I forced Gnosis down.

As I turned to meet him, I felt a cold chill of foreboding - a premonition of disaster - course through me.

"-Tell me," I said, bracing myself for the worst.

He eyed me, still wary. I think, even then, Climb sensed that something was wrong - He might not have been able to put a name to his doubts, but the momentary concern was writ large across his features. He only relaxed when I grounded the blade's point, boots scuffing against the flagstones as he drew closer - cautiously, as if he'd much rather not.

"Ser Wolfgunblood's gone," Climb said, and I felt my gut twist itself into knots.

"Gone?" I said, echoing the word stupidly, pointlessly. "Gone where?"

Wordlessly, he thrust a scrap of parchment at me. I scanned the text, written in Wolfgunblood's jaunty hand:

Off to help. Back in a few.

Shit. I should have known - I knew he'd been getting bored. That he couldn't be relied upon, the moment his attention wavered. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, only dimly aware that I was crumpling the letter in my hand.

"Who else knows?" I asked, fighting to keep my voice level.

"A maid brought this to Lady Kelart's attention," Climb began, uncertainly. His worried gaze met mine. "You don't think he-"

I didn't answer, not right away. Instead, I looked up - Up, at the cold, uncaring orb of the moon.

"Damn him," I said, softly.

Interlude

The night was cold, kissed by frost and lit by the light of the moon. Axe in his fist, Dace clung to the railing, frowning out into the dark as the coaches rattled onward.

Five covered wagons, with a fast coach at the front and back of the convoy. A retinue of two dozen men, hard bastards all, armed to the teeth and shod in breastplates and helms - Good Re-Estize steel, straight from the Kingdom's forges.

Emhyr riding on the roof, the glint of moonlight in the corners of his sunken eyes and on the edges of his loaded crossbow. The brute Zoltan with his wicked mace and flesh-tearing spikes, receding into his own personal haze of violence as he stared at nothing in particular.

The faint sound of hoofs, rattling harness, grind of wagon wheels…

All familiar. All expected. Everything as it should be.

Old mercenaries were a rarity, in this line of work. It didn't matter how good you were - You got slow or careless, and then you got dead. Dace was old enough to know he'd pushed his luck about as far as it could go, but he'd owed that fat miser Christopher Olson, and they'd been paying twice his usual rate. Not uncommon, given how well the Nine Fingers were doing; they paid well, in gold, and more importantly on time.

That was the thing about the Nine. They paid enough - Enough that there were plenty of has-beens and ambitious young fools willing to sign on, never mind the risk of a short drop and a sudden stop. With the Annual War on the horizon, times were hard all round; and a choice between letting your family go hungry or getting your hands dirty is no choice at all.

This wasn't the first time Dace had been on this run. Laira grew fast, like a weed, but he'd be damned if he knew how they'd manage to muster up one more harvest right before winter hit. It wasn't his business, but a man had to wonder - What did it take?

This was the last one, at any rate. One last trip, and we're square, Christopher had wheedled, wiping his brow. There's gold, as much as you want; Think of your family, eh? Think of how long and cold it'd get, before-

Dace had let himself be convinced, but Olson didn't need to try very hard. He'd taken the merchant's money, told himself that he'd done this a dozen times before, told himself that this was the very last time…

-And ignored the pang of trepidation he'd felt.

Seller's remorse, he'd told himself. One last trip, and we're done.

So Dace worked his hand around the grip of his axe, and let himself believe that everything was going to be all right. Never mind that Zach had smelled a rat, and called it quits - that sniffling bastard would say anything, as long as he got to tie one on. Better without him, anyway.

And yet-

There was something that stank about this job. It started with the wagons, each one a big, black, weighty shape pulled by a team of four - More like armored carriages, really, slit-windowed and covered in iron plates.

The men had been told never to get close to them, never to tamper with them, and he wouldn't have done it for all the gold in the world. Dace knew his business, after all.

But did you really need all that ironwork to haul Dust?

That sense of unease sharpened, and the fear underneath it, creeping up his throat as lamplight glimmered on the rotten tree stumps. Gleamed on the frozen puddles in the road. Caught the sharpened logs of some long-ago collapsed fence, the ground churned to slush beneath wheels and hooves.

He hated riding in the lead, but every man had a job to do - And if you didn't do it yourself, you had no one to blame when things went wrong. Dace was about as good a leader as his crew could get, and he'd always done them right.

It was a real thief's curse of a night, too. The moon was out, and the pale silver light did nothing except make the darkness dirty. The mind played tricks, conjuring monsters from the shadows, pallid faces from the gloom between the trees.

"Wait up!" came floating from the road, and the column clattered to an awkward halt. One of the outriders at the front held up his lantern, the beam flashing through the trees. Logs had been scattered across the track, the front coach grinding to a stop as the driver hauled on the reins. The horsemen milled around the tangle, surveying the tangle; One of them made to dismount, the men grumbling as they eased themselves down, preparing to lift and carry-

And then there was a flash of something not quite fire, not quite lightning. For one terrible moment, the forest lit brighter than day, the frozen stumps of the winter trees casting strange shadows. Men and horses cast stark silhouettes against the spurt of fire, before the crashing explosion sent them tumbling. Trees shattered, lethal sprays of splinters scything through the air like flechettes.

Someone screamed. All of a sudden, it was pandemonium - Rearing horses, a swelling cloud of smoke. One of the wagons had been dragged from the road, the horses thrashing in their traces as it leaned against a stump, two wheels uselessly spinning.

"Ambush!" someone screeched. "Ambush!"

Everything was a blur. Writhing shadows. Smears of light.

Crossbows fired, their flat thwack splitting the air. Dace hit the ground, already running. Towards the plunging horses, towards the lamplight - All he knew was that there was safety in numbers, and they were dead unless some order was imposed on the chaos. Zoltan had been flung clear from the coach, his body twisted into a position impossible for a living man; Someone was screaming, rolling past, wreathed in fire.

A horse thundered past, hooves flailing, and Dace drew up short. Nearly fell, nearly gashed himself with his axe. "What happened?" someone shouted, stumbling from the smoke. "Can't see-"

"Above…!"

Caught on the cusp of a premonition, Dace looked up. Realized - right then - that he should have run. Just run.

Forever.

Like a dread specter, like some figure of ill-omen, a shape - blankly anonymous behind a mask, swathed in a twisting cloak of red - hovered above the lurching men and screaming horses. It was a sight so thoroughly unnatural, it made his skin crawl, his hands clammy with fear-sweat: What use was an axe against that? What could a man do against something like that?

"Have this, whoreson!" Emhyr levelled his crossbow, and the bolt rattled off something that might have been a shield of boiling air. It ricocheted away into the dark, spinning end-over-end, a tiny splinter of steel in the twitching light. The archer swore, set back to cranking the string again before Dace could tell the damn fool to run-

It saw them. The red-cloaked figure gestured, and a mist of whirring, scouring particles rose in an obscuring cloud. Dace opened his mouth to shout, coughed, then coughed again. Try as he might, he just couldn't seem to get breath into his lungs. All of a sudden, his legs turned to cloth beneath him, the world tilting sideways as everything slid askew.

Suddenly, all the shouting and running and fear didn't seem to matter so much, not any more.

Dimly, he wondered why it was all going dark.

By anyone's standards, this was dismal work. Men staggered, lurched, fell within the whirling clouds of sand; some stood their ground and tried to fight them off, but the silver particles swept them to the ground. Others struggled and fought, trying to protect their faces and ears, like men being attacked by a damnation swarm of insects-

But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

Cries were stifled and stilled, bodies slumping with leaden thuds. Weapons clattered to the ground, forms curled in fetal positions as the storm swept around them, scythed through them - the keening shrieks of terrified horses were somehow the worse, hooves flashing as panicked animals reared in their traces, fighting to break free.

At least one did, whinnying in panic as it thundered blindly into the dark forest; others uttered piteous cries as they crumpled where they'd been harnessed, unable to do anything except await a slow, leeching death.

Move in, Tia signed, fingers flashing in the hand-code. They'd been waiting in absolute silence, shadows within shadow; Not a grunt of effort, not a gasp of labor, not a clink or chime from an uncased weapon or an unlagged armor piece. Hair was tied back and lacquered or braided, gloves and boot-treads dusted with ground scales for grip. Behind tight leather masks, mouths were shut.

Acknowledged, came the silent reply. One man - Gagging, retching, looking in all the wrong directions as he clutched his sword like a talisman - jerked, his hand going to his throat as he sank to his knees. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled with the profound stillness of a child falling asleep, his expression more puzzled than pained.

And then the twins were amongst them. The first audible traces of their presence was the soft, almost silken hiss of steel; the sounds overlapping, almost simultaneous, over and over again. It was an economical and precise execution, thirsting blades drinking their fill in swift, abrupt stabs.

Prisoner?

No.

It was over in moments. The spell had done most of the work, rather than their blades, but the results were the same; Dead men. Dead horses. Mud and blood, black in the light of crackling fires from shattered lamps. The acrid stench of death and charred meat, hanging over the tableau like a shroud.

Crimson fabric fluttered, as Evileye's heels kissed the torn ground at last. Slight, barely a teenager, almost frail in the swathe of her cloak, her mask was impassive as she regarded the aftermath. The twitching firelight cast flickering highlights on blonde hair, something like a half-muffled sigh issued from beneath the mask.

Tina reached up. Slim fingers hooked in the line of her mask, drew it down so she could breathe free. Her breath steamed, the red ribbon in her hair fluttering in the chill breeze - It was cold and getting colder, a wind that could slice to the bone. A flick of her wrist reversed the Vampire Blade's grip, crimson veins spidering across the blade as if the weapon was licking itself clean.

"The outriders?" she murmured, her fine-boned features impassive. The air stank of smoke, of death, but she bore it no mind.

"They won't be coming back." Tia knelt, her expression pensive - Violet eyes swept the scene, snow crunching faintly underfoot. "Dark work, this. Glad to be done with it."

Tina cocked her head to the side, contemplative. It had been a wearying season; weeks on the move, striking and vanishing, leaving burning fields in their wake. Like the bad old days come again, all at once.

No wonder Lakyus and Gagaran had been sickened by it. Anyone would have, given time.

She padded forward, light as snowfall. The armored wagons had survived the attack, left untouched by both flame and the free flow of unhinged panic. The dull gleam of iron plates told of the exacting care taken in their construction, each one built as solidly as a strongbox.

"Keys?"

"Maybe their leader…" Tia began, but it was a faint hope and she knew it. The hired guards wouldn't have been trusted that far, not with a fortune in uncut Dust. From what she'd heard, you'd have to be mad or desperate to cross the Nine, but the promise of riches did strange things to the minds of men.

They'd have to break in, then set light to the contents. Another wrinkle; she had to admit, the Nine were playing this smarter than she'd expected. But then, there was only so much one could prepare for.

Tina glanced at Evileye, sidelong. "I don't suppose you could-"

There was a squeaking of iron bolts being drawn, and the first carriage's iron door clattered open. Tina nodded, starting forward, ready to be done with it-

"Wait." A single word, a raised hand.

"-that wasn't me."

This is a trap. Those four words were the next that Tia was going to utter. She never got the chance.

Light flared. Power slammed out in all directions, a roiling wave that swept outwards like a storm-front of invisible force. It passed through them without slowing, a rippling emerald torrent that left green motes dancing in its wake.

"Tsk." Evileye's hood fluttered, in the sudden breeze. "Dimensional Anchor - Not good." Her head whipped round, her form born aloft; "Get ready-"

There was a shriek. Straight out of hell, there was a shriek. Part scream, part wail, part bellow; a drawn-out ululation of huge volume, so loud it bruised the soul.

Vast, knurled talons - like claws cut from the flesh of a rotting titan - punched through the carriage's roof, shredding it like paper. Huge jaws snapped together, leathery wings unfolding magnificently in a halo of tattered flesh and bone; powerful legs shoved the reptilian bulk of the thing free, tail lashing as it reared up.

The stench of death, of rot, became infinitely worse. Cackling laughter split the air, a wizened figure clinging to the undead dragon's neck like a blood-engorged tick. Tattered robes fluttered, ice-blue eyes set in a sneering, flesh-spare face; One hand clutched a violet orb, sickly amethyst light seeping out from between bony fingers.

It felt like Tia's ears were bleeding, as she struggled to her feet. She could hear bells ringing, dark spots dancing in her field of vision as she shook her head to clear it.

"That's-"

"I see it." Tina's voice was low, taut, fighting a wince - An Elder Lich. Here.

The Six Arms hadn't been idle, after all.

"Despair, humans." Bent-backed, loathsome, the lich hunched forward - those ice-chip eyes smoldering with hellish light, teeth set in a fleshless grin. "Davernoch, the Undead King, will deliver your souls to the next world!"

The dragon surged upwards. Muscle chords strained beneath the dry sandpaper rasp of its tattered flesh, drawing breath into withered lungs-

"Down-"

A moment's warning was enough. Tia threw herself into the longest impromptu dive of her life, as black flame spewed forth from the dragon's maw. There was no time to prep for a decent landing, as a holocaust of unclean fire tore across the frozen earth - It ripped up the ground in a single pelting blast, fist-sized chunks of stone raining down like hail.

Tina was also fast. She rolled hard, and then had to back-flip as the fire seared towards her. A swift sideways handspring kicked her into the air, her hand flashing once, then again-

Explosions blossomed across the rotting dragon's maw, distant thunder roiling from the overlapping blasts. The fire guttered out, a sibilant snarl hissing forth from the lurching nightmare. But through boiling frost clouds and shifting shadows, its eyes burned - And before Tina had even registered movement, a great paw slipped from the smog and swatted her like a fly.

She crossed the distance on her back, rolling and skidding. A tree broke her impact, and her form recoiled from it, dropped to her hands and knees in a stunned heap.

"Tina!"

Tia was already running, her legs snapping like shears. She hit her twin at an angle, a diving save; She made it a heartbeat before the dragon stormed after them, filthy claws raking across in a sweeping blow. Frozen wood shattered beneath the tremendous impact, shards scything out in a flaying rain-

"Maximize Magic: Shard Buckshot!"

From above, there came a flash like fire. The air whined, a lethal hail of crystal shards whistling across the distance in their first and final flight - But instead of the splitting thunk of impact, the only reply was more laughter.

She was learning to hate that laughter.

"Fool! Your petty magicks mean nothing to the revenant of the Frost Dragon Lord! I am beyond you all - I am greater than Archmage Fluder himself!"

Tia had Tina by the arms, dragging her insensate form behind the dubious shelter of a boulder. It was all she could do; the blasts of black flame were so intense, they slagged the ground to smoking slabs of glass for meters around.

"Twin Magic: Crystal Lance!"

Great spears of crystal hurtled across the distance, each one splintering apart as it slammed into the dragon's scales. Glittering shards cascaded down like diamond dust, as lightning lashed the air in answer.

The ringing peal of magic became a scorching, dizzying blast of heat, a fireball detonating in an orange spit of flame. Bodies split and burned, the stench of hanging meat clinging thickly to the back of Tia's throat as she found her footing-

"-Hmph." Evileye's voice was soft, almost casual. Compared to the dragon's blistered-black bulk, her slight form was tiny, yet somehow all the more indomitable. "A second-rate caster with delusions of grandeur. Why did you bother? All that power couldn't buy you any class."

"I'll swallow your soul-!"

Mad. All liches were mad in their own way, but this one seemed especially unhinged. The thing's skin was peeling away from yellowed bone, in transition from one state to the next. Too much, too fast, from the look of it; the corruption had settled in mind and flesh.

Evileye swooped round, gesturing with her hands as she drew up short. Blue sigils danced in the air like feycharmed runes, erupting into rectangular sheets of shimmering light - One after another, like playing cards or baffle curtains. They expanded as they came at Davernoch, going from transparent to translucent, heading for opaque.

"What-"

The lich met them head-on with a twisting chain of lightning. The blast rebounded, the air stinking of ozone as the bolt detonated against his crooked form. Weird, negative electricity crackled around his flesh-spare form, seizing in a violent spasm that nearly flung him from the saddle.

Davernoch's shriek was incandescent with rage. His mount lurched back, wings beating the air wildly in great sweeps. Bony fingers dug in, clinging to his perch, those ice-blue eyes glaring hatred-

And with a swift twist of her other hand, Evileye completed her spell.

"Extend Magic: Vitriolic Torrent!"

Acid poured down from above, a flesh-eating rain. It engulfed the lich, his form vanishing beneath the deluge; Half-visible, Davernoch flailed, wailing in his torment. His shrieks became oddly attenuated, magic flashing and blasting out of him as he tried to fight free. Beneath him, the dragon reared up, twisting and bucking like a hound tormented like nightmares - great jaws wrenched open, pouring black fire into the forest, great tail smashing craters into the ground underfoot.

"Never thought I'd say this, but…"

In Tia's arms, Tina stirred, muttering weakly. Dazed, bleeding freely from the scalp, she shook her head as she struggled upright, clutching at her side. Her fingers shook as she fumbled for a potion, face sallow and pale.

"I really wish Gagaran was here-"

"Can you run?" Evileye's cloak rustled, flapping in the freezing wind as she landed. Behind that impassive mask, her voice was grim. "It won't hold him forever - We're lucky he's an amateur."

Tia risked a glance around the boulder, as the ground shuddered underfoot. With the infinite cruelty of a petulant child, the dragon's clawed foot stomped down on one of the fallen men, flattening him in the most total and abrupt way. The violent force of compression sent a powerful, directional jet of blood spurting forth, a dark, glistening trail that steamed where it struck. Then more snow was filmed and churned over the arterial spray, as if it'd never been.

A whole life lived, ended just like that. As thoroughly and utterly as a box of smashed tomatoes.

"That bad?"

"Worse than you think." Glittering green motes swirled around Evileye's slight figure, like will o'wisps. "I don't know where the Six Arms got that, but it's immune to my magic." Her tsk hung in the air, as she shook her head. "With that fool in control, there's no stopping it-"

As if to punctuate her words, bolts shot back. Doors swung open, with the sepulchral shriek of rusted hinges. The form that lurched forth from the second wagon's depths was towering and skeletally taut, skin a mummified and flaking brown stretched taut and paper-thin around its bones. A crown of iron spikes. No lower jaw, just a yawning void.

Others were emerging. A grinning killer with a shock of bile-green hair and razor-tipped fingers, unutterable fluids drooling from beneath its mask. A mass of pure shadow, oozing forth in a foul, coiling mist that ran and dripped. Pallid things with too many eyes, rippling with necrotic might-

A cavalcade of horrors. Hell, vomiting forth its filth.

"Back," Evileye spat. "Go!"

Davernoch had stopped screaming. The burning eyes of the Frost Dragon revenant fixed upon them, maw bristling with needle fangs as the lich glared balefully from his perch. "Running?" he shrieked, half-melted features contorted in a hateful rictus. "Run, then! Run! I'll start by severing your legs! One festering joint at a time-"

He fell silent, his face twitching. For the first time, he was looking past them, out beyond the flickering circle of firelight and into the darkness between the trees.

"Look," Tina murmured, her voice hushed. "Look."

Above, the moon had turned a bloody red. A single figure stood silhouetted against the eerie crimson light, tall and stark like an angel bringing solemn notice of death.

Silver flashed.

"Roar, Bardiel! Howl, Vassago!"

There was a sound like a hundred thunderbolts overlapping, as the figure's hands erupted in gouting flashes of white fire. It was a grinding thunder-roar, licks of lambent flame searing forth, there and then gone-

The faceless, crowned horror shivered, and then flew apart. That brutal spiked crown shattered, reduced to spinning nails, as the lurching undead to either side atomised in puffs of red mist. The armored wagon behind them began to shred, too - Fragments of metal flaking from the iron plates in puffs of abraded smoke, a heartbeat before the chassis exploded in a shatterburst of shredding wood.

It was like an invisible, mauling force. Like hands of annihilation, demolishing the still-emerging dead. A thick fog of blood-mist and shattered flesh boiled off the destruction into the icy wind, as the figure hurled itself forward in a single great bound, black coat flapping like great wings-

"No!" Davernoch's howl was desperate, disbelieving. A bony finger jabbed towards the descending form. "Kill him! Kill him no-"

The dragon revenant's throat and torso blew out in a shower of meat and blood, and the elder lich's words became a shriek. White flames erupted within the great, cratering wounds, and it crashed down - the huge wedge-shaped head gouged into the ground like a ploughshare, limbs kicking out in spasm as that great bulk impacted with earthshaking force.

The shadow landed, without a sound. It rose, shifting smoothly into a fighter's stance. Gold flashed, in half-gloved hands; the flash became straight, slender blades made of chased orichalcum, mirror-bright and burnished.

Chattering and moaning, the dead rushed in. Rusted swords swung, hands - necrosis dark, oozing green, bony - reaching out to rend and tear, lashing out with powerful, sloppy blows. Something with a face like an open wound raked out with pitch-black talons, lunging for the figure's blind side-

The blades became a blur.

Tia had never seen combat of such a pitch. It was too fast to follow, the shadowy figure moving with appalling speed. Each whirl of the darting golden blades sent limbs flying, like the roil and burst and crash of a storm. It was like a web of killing energy, a snake with a dozen flickering tongues - Undead sheared apart, split and steaming in the sleet, portions and pieces scattered by the relentless rate of assault.

The figure was visible now, barely. Some trick of the light made it fade in and out of existence, a blur half-swallowed by the swirling black haze of its own personal storm. Limbs flew, twice-dead blood scoring the frozen earth, the blades spinning and crackling as they cut a swathe through the legion of the dead.

"That's..." Tina's breath caught. Her eyes widened, in sudden realization.

The adventurer who saved E-Rantel-

But it was Evileye who gave voice to his name:

"-Wolfgunblood."

There was an odd note to her voice, her small shoulders squared as she looked on; Tia glanced up, but it was impossible to know what she was thinking.

A half-fleshed skeleton - organs coiling in the cage of its ribs, the black light of oblivion boiling from the hollow sockets of eyes and mouth - lurched towards Wolfgunblood. A huge, rusted broadsword swung at him, a terrible, scouring blow; Somehow, the adventurer weaved aside without looking, a single clean sweep ripping the chattering skull free from the Mortwight's spine.

Wolfgunblood was abruptly in a dozen places, his blades whispering as they scythed. Four dropped, then four more - He spun again, cut, thrust, sliced, never putting a foot wrong.

He didn't stop. He only accelerated.

In the span of a few breaths, it was over. Thick black smoke rose from the burning wagons, sparks dancing like fireflies in the rolling fog. The only sounds were the spitting of wood as it crackled, the whispering moans of the unquiet dead, and the drip of foul blood.

Before, Wolfgunblood had been a speed-distorted phantom. Now he merely stood, looking upon what he had wrought.

Davernoch was a shrunken, defeated figure, his shoulders slack, arms twitching as he clawed his way out from beneath the Frost Dragon cadaver's crushing bulk. He dragged his broken, half-crushed form behind him, stick-like limbs digging shallow furrows in the earth.

"Wait," the lich wheezed, raising his hands in supplication. "Wait, I can-"

Bardiel flashed and barked, just once, and the lich's head and shoulders vanished in an abrupt pink cloud. What remained of Davernoch came apart like an overripe fruit, withered entrails spilling across the cold ground.

Wolfgunblood turned, backlit by flame. He looked back at them all; In the eerie light, Tia couldn't see his face clearly - But even in the gloom, she could tell that it was pale and handsome and noble.

"Lady Evileye," he said, his voice low, soulful. Grave, yet compassionate all at once.

"-It is my utmost pleasure to meet you at last."

Next: Masquer