Chapter 27 - Incursion

Waiting, as they said, was the hardest part.

Before, the days had been packed - There'd been little opportunity for reflection, for anything except pure reaction. Events had taken a life of their own, and I'd been swept up in their wake. But now, less than a day before the raid, I found myself at a loose end.

After the meeting with Roberdyck, I'd stayed for the noonbell service. While I understood little of it, there was something oddly soothing about the ritual; the cleric intoning, the unison answers echoing back from the congregation as I sat in the embracing shadows.

Down the front, the gilded altar of the Four - the marble polished to a mirror sheen by years of devotion - was caught in a slanting beam of sunlight from the overhead windows, haloed with radiance, almost glorious.

I'd received a few looks, but Father Lanzerel hadn't singled me out, like before. I supposed Roberdyck must've had a quiet word with him, or the novelty of my appearance had worn off; Either way, I was grateful for his discretion.

When the congregation had bowed their heads in prayer, I followed suit.

Don't misunderstand; I knew, perhaps better than anyone, that my power came from within. It was nothing like Remedios', or Kelart's, or Brother Jozan's. Yet, there was a kind of comfort in it, all the same.

And, in truth, I needed all the luck I could get.

There was no upswelling of surety, of divine presence. No thunderous voice speaking in my mind. But then again, I hadn't expected there to be.

Still, by the time the collection plate had been passed around - the acolyte in his cassock and mantle giving me a startled look, when I paid in gold - I felt better.

Just a little.

I wondered if that meant I was beginning to believe.

"There's been no word from Lady Evileye or Ser Wolfgunblood, Sir Samuel. I wish I had better tidings, but-"

"We'll just have to make do," I said, with a confidence I didn't feel. Outside the palace, the sun was setting, the winter day yielding gracefully to an early evening. Hour by slow hour, the day had crawled by - Fighting the urge to pace, I'd tried to make the most of it, turning my attention to first the heavy tome of the Encyclopedia and then to the city map I'd been provided.

Justicar - Enforcers of divine Order, Justicars battle agents of evil and chaos wherever they might lurk. In battle, their Axiomatic Aura steels their resolve and punishes the unworthy, with their oaths as a paragon of Law binding a mighty Inevitable to their will.

The plan, such as it was, was simple. There were eight locations, not counting the brothel; The seven teams we had would move from their first targets to the next, like the hands of an apocalyptic clock. Our role in this was far simpler - Once we had taken Coco Doll and Viscount Fondoll into custody, we would move to support the others.

Myrmidon - Forged in the fires of battle, tempered on the anvil of war, Myrmidons shun magic in favor of pure resilience. Through rigorous training, these gladiator-soldiers gain the ability to shrug off physical damage and magical attacks alike. Often considered indispensable in battle, few can hope to match a Myrmidon's endurance.

Or at least, that had been the idea. With Wolfgunblood and half of the Blue Roses out of touch, we were down to five teams. More than anyone, I was aware that Wolfgunblood was worth all the rest put together: I'd tried to reach him, with Lakyus' hummingbird artifact, but only silence had answered.

Reading hadn't helped. More than a thousand pages long, the player's guide remained as stubbornly impenetrable as ever. Going through the entries in alphabetical order was an exercise in frustration: At one point, I found myself staring, abstractedly, as the entry for the Night Lich - (One of the) mightiest of the undead, the animate corpses of mortals too proactive to die. Being a fifth-tier spell caster with genius intelligence was merely the price of entry. You'd need a soul repository, a dream quest to the Negative Material Plane, the sacrifice of a true innocent, and the iron will to die bodily but to spit in Death's face.

Whenever you saw an Night Lich walking around, you saw the remains of somebody who didn't mind having a skull for a head, if that was what it took to live forever.

All well and good. The problem was, I didn't know what was flavor text - the remnants of YGGDRASIL's own radiant mythology - and what was of practical utility. How did the Occluded Knight's 'knowledge of Malfean lore' and 'mastery of the Sinistrum's esoteric fighting arts' translate into something I could use?

When Climb had knocked on the door - his face drawn with worry - I'd been grateful for the interruption. It was, perversely, a relief to see that I wasn't the only one who felt the gnawing pangs of doubt.

"Forgive me for interrupting," he'd said, with a glance at the segments of armor I'd been polishing. "You're busy."

"Don't worry about it," I'd said, waving him in. "The wait's wearing on me, too."

He'd seated himself on one of the chairs - carved darkwood, heavy and lacquered - looking on as I tended to my equipment. The close air smelled of oils and lapping powder, all three swords laid out on the table; The Interfector, Gnosis and Daegal, each one gleaming faintly in the light.

I rested the Interfector on my lap, working the blade with a whetstone. As before, each pass shaved flecks of stone, not metal - Still, there was a meditative quality to the smooth scrape of steel.

"Will you use that?" Climb asked, canting his head towards the Holy Sword. With its fires momentarily quenched, the Interfector had a frosty silver gleam, like a glass sculpture or a stainless surgical tool.

I paused, mid-stroke. "Not unless I have to," I said, at last. Even now, I could vividly remember how the Interfector had come to vengeful, purring life in Loyts; the thought of turning the hungry blade on someone made me shudder. I'd seen what the Interfector did to flesh.

It'd been different, with the beastmen. Back then, I hadn't known what I was doing, not really. Force was all I'd had. Now, I had a choice-

Or did I?

I put the sword down, and picked up Gnosis. The oiled whetstone whispered as it kissed the adamantite edge, the brisk hiss echoing from the walls: the silver query stark against the lightless metal, almost seeming to move.

This was the one Samuel had wielded, all the way to the end. It was as much his weapon as the Interfector, perhaps more so - Either way, it felt reassuringly familiar in my hands, as I held it up to the light.

This one, I thought. I'll use this one.

But - Perhaps the time for holding back, for anything other than absolute force, was over. Maybe even considering the alternative was sophistry on my part. Maybe Gazef was wrong; We had to succeed, no matter what the cost.

At any cost.

It was a troubling thought, and I shook my head to banish it. I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.

"How are you holding up?" I asked, and Climb rocked back on his heels.

"I-" he began, clearly wrong-footed. "I won't let you down, Sir Samuel. I've trained for this-"

He set his jaw, which only made him look younger - Almost desperately so. It didn't take a genius to see that he was every bit as nervous as I was; More so, in fact. For him, everything was on the line.

I coughed, to cover my lapse. Looking away, I reached for Daegal, magnificent and gleaming in its sheath. Climb had been stealing glances at it, with a faintly puzzled air; By my guess, he'd been wondering why anyone would need three swords.

Maybe he was wondering how many hands I had.

"Here," I said. "-You'll need this."

He blinked, but put his hands up when I passed Daegal to him. It was clearly heavier than Climb expected, and his eyes widened when he took hold; When the first few inches of star silver scraped free from the scabbard, the perfectly-balanced blade shone like a mirror, bright enough to cast the rest of the room into shadow.

"I-" he began, even as he grasped the hilt. Climb held it delicately, away from him, as if afraid he would break it. Like I'd handed him some relic that was both impossibly fragile and impossibly valuable, all at once.

Climb swallowed, hard, his Adam's apple bobbing: For a long, long moment, his gaze lingered on the glyph-marked edge, unalloyed wonder flickering in his eyes. His breath caught, as he sighted down the gold-trimmed blade.

Then his expression firmed, and - with infinite care - Climb sheathed the blade.

"I can't take this," he said, achingly serious now. "I'm not worthy of-"

I cut him off, with a raised hand. "My brother made it for me," I said, and fought down the sharp, stabbing pang of grief. Strange, how it was still raw. "I've never used it. It's only right if-"

-Come the darkness, I still believe.

I lowered my voice, doing my best not to think of those simple, devastating words.

"...We'll be fighting side-by-side. It's only right that you wield it."

He hesitated. "I...didn't know you had a brother," Climb said, at last. The question hung in the air, unspoken.

I winced. I'd said too much, and I knew it.

"That's - It's a story for another time," I said. He looked like he was about to say more, so I forged on. "It's not a gift. The truth is, I want your word on the matter."

"My word?"

"-Yes." I met his gaze. "An oath, on your honor: That you'll return it to me, in person."

At last, Climb smiled. Faintly, but a smile all the same. He laid his hand on the hilt, pale but solemn; "I swear it," he said. "I...promise to come back alive, Sir Samuel."

"I believe," I said, firmly but gently, "-that you should get used to calling me 'Samuel'."

Sleep came fitfully that night. After tossing and turning for hours, on sheets so expensive they could only have been silk, I managed a half-hearted, fitful drowse. The silence, which had once been so soothing, now felt oppressive, like the brooding clouds that threatened a storm.

And then, without warning, I was wide awake. A faint hum, almost subliminal, echoed in my ears; As I opened my eyes to the darkness, pellucid blue light flickered at the corner of my vision.

Even in its scabbard, the Interfector glowed with a cold actinic flame. It keened, a weird song only wights or the neverborn could sing - It made my hair stand on end, quieting only when my hand closed on the hilt.

A chill coursed through me, as I padded across the carpet to the door. Some instinct guided me out of the room, and into the hall beyond. At this time of the night, so late it was nearly early, most of the bedrooms were dark; A warm breeze gusted through the corridor, a murmuring wind that whispered along the spotless tiles.

Nothing. Nothing, and no-one.

And yet-

Call it a premonition, if you like. As if someone had walked over my grave.

Acting on some indefinable impulse, I drew. Fire crackled and hissed through the Interfector's fierce edge, a billowing gout that lit the world around me with blue flame. It cast guttering shadows across every surface, wavering in the flickering light.

Other than the crackle and spit of flame, all was silent.

I lowered the Interfector, and the fire guttered out. The blade rasped as it slid back into the knotwork scabbard, dimming to a sullen glow.

For the longest time, I sat in the dark, with the sword across my lap. Surrounded by the effortless opulence of the Palace, I was - acutely, achingly - alone. Alone, and badly out of my depth.

I'd never seen the Interfector react like that before. There were subtleties to the sword Samuel had quested for and never claimed; things unknown and not-yet-known, secrets that revealed themselves only through the World Item's humming song, the fire that burned all the way down to the hilt.

It could mean anything. Or nothing at all.

I thought of the Lunatic Orb, the way the bloodstone sphere had glowed with inner light. Faintly, like a distant echo, Wolfgunblood's words taunted me:

Wouldn't you like to know-

It'd been days, now, and there was still no sign of him: Lady Aindra hadn't seemed the faintest bit perturbed by his continued absence, or the absence of half of the Blue Roses...But then again, she didn't know him the way I did.

He was all right. He had to be all right - Didn't he? Wolfgunblood had been here longer than I was, flush with the peculiar invincibility of youth. For more than half a year, he'd survived everything this world could throw at him. Not just survived: He'd thrived.

And yet, all I felt were the first gnawing pangs of an inexplicable unease.

I reached for Lakyus' talisman, the golden hummingbird chiming as it hung at the end of its silver chain. Emerald corposant shimmered around the delicate ornament, intricate wings rising and falling for the span of a second-

We need you back in Re-Estize. Get here as soon as you can.

I paused. Hurry, I added. There's no time left. We hit the Nine Fingers tomorrow.

The sea-green light faded, and I was left in the dark again.

Damn him, I thought, and my nails sliced into my palms so hard they drew blood.

Interlude

The blessed pool exploded. White marble cracked, as the waters flashed to blue flame - Fire splashed across the tiled floor in long, drizzled sprays as the enchantment shattered with the brittle crack of splintering glass.

The cold, frosty light that filled the chamber flashed and vanished, with a sudden lurch that blew out the candles and cast the old woman painfully onto her back.

The walls were sweating. She slumped forward, breathing hard, her head aching with a sudden piercing pain. It had been a long time since she'd done something like this, and it'd never been easy - Not even back then, when she'd been young and headstrong, and full of her own energy and will.

Dark spots danced in her field of vision, as she levered herself to her feet. Everything ached, her hands leaving bloody imprints on the cold stone of the scrying chamber. Shards of flying stone had caught her, her hands and arms dripping with blood, and that wasn't something she could just shrug off.

Not now, at any rate.

It's a wonder I ever survived, she thought, wryly.

The world blurred at the edges, as she reached for the potion; It tasted of copper and bitter almonds, and she grimaced as she swallowed. It never got any easier, but - here and now - it suited her mood.

This was the last time she did someone else's work for them - which was what she'd told herself that time, too. She was supposed to be retired, after all: this was work for a young woman, someone who still had a lifetime of mistakes ahead of her.

Things were beginning to come back into focus, now; the lacerations fading, to the white streaks of old scars. She wiped her hands on the tan leather of her cloak, her eyes half-closing until the triphammer of her pulse returned to something approaching normal.

Better.

A hundred years was a long time. Long enough for the past to fade into myth, then into the furthest recesses of distant memory.

But some things, you never forgot. Some things echoed into forever.

He would want to know, of course. He never changed, and - in an ever-shifting world - perhaps that was admirable. Something to believe in, when the years swept away all other certainties.

Not that it mattered, of course. In the end, the only council he trusted was his own.

"Good grief," she said, heaving a slow sigh. With exacting care, she drew her knees to her chest, like a much younger woman; Staring, reflectively, as the shattered remains of the font, the white cloud of steam swirling above and around her.

"-what have you got yourself into, Miss Crybaby?"

It had been a sullen, grey dawn. Unable to sleep, I'd sat and watched the sunrise, the weak rays of dawn breaking through the winter clouds.

The Palace had been oddly silent, today: As the days crept past, the glittering nobility of the kingdom had begun to bestir itself at last. As the rumor went, the Crown Prince - suffused with a newly martial spirit - had arranged for a surprise inspection of the troops, which meant a general scramble as the great and good competed to look the most worthy.

Prince Zanac had been doing much the same, with his significantly smaller but better-drilled troops. He'd been obliged to yield the field to the heir-apparent, even as he quietly ordered his own forces. That, of course, suited our purposes - In the general confusion, few (if any) would notice the detachment that had been tasked with another, more immediate purpose.

Marquis Raeven had contributed twenty men of his household guard to the cause. Joined by his personal team of troubleshooters, they made up almost half of the small force gathered here; the rest came from the Warrior Troop, veterans all.

The two groups couldn't have been more different: the Marquis' men in their dark leather armor, the Warrior Troop in their breastplates and silver helmets. Quiet professionalism versus back-slapping rambunctiousness, shortswords and crossbows versus the more traditional longsword, shield and spear.

And yet, they were hard-bitten veterans, all; Both sides went about their tasks with an ease that told of long experience, never stepping on each other's toes, as if they'd worked together for years.

I hadn't spoken to Sir Stronoff since the dinner. I wasn't trying to avoid him - not deliberately - our paths simply hadn't crossed since then.

That was what I told myself, at least.

I'd been assured that Prince Zanac's contingent would make up the second wave, but their absence was keenly felt. My guess was, the Prince intended to preserve the fiction of his non-involvement for as long as possible - Or he was simply waiting to see how events played out, and whether he should go all-in or cut his losses.

Politics, again. Everything in Re-Estize was touched by it, one way or another.

The past few hours had been oddly ordered chaos. Four small wagons had rolled into the designated courtyard, in the shadow of the castle's tall spires. Tents flapped in the breeze as soldiers rooted through the contents, crates screeching as the lids were ripped off to reveal stacks of crossbow ammunition, single-edged swords with freshly oiled blades, weighty axes for hacking down doors…

All brand-new. All straight from the royal armory.

I pitched in. Made myself useful, lifting and hauling with the others. Out of my armor, I got some odd looks - I think, mostly likely, more than a few knew who I was. But if they did, they said nothing, and for that I was grateful. Besides, it was that or watch the hours crawl by, with achingly slowness, as more supplies rolled in.

As the day crept - slowly, inevitably - towards the appointed time.

It wasn't just soldiers. Gustav, I noted with some satisfaction, had been at least moderately successful; the temples had, evidently, come down squarely on our side of things. A sizable contingent of white-cassocked priests and their acolytes wove their way through the milling crowd, incense-heavy smoke coiling up from swinging censers. They murmured blessings, passing their holy symbols over quivers of bolts and racks of swords, iridescence shimmering faintly in their wake.

Their sonorous prayers competed with the chanting of the robed, scholarly-looking greybeards who'd arrived in carriages of their own, joining the general clamor of activity. Arcane diagrams, mystical lettering, and symbols of sun, moon and stars, glittered in silver thread as weird light pulsed and shimmered, their invocations always this close to being comprehensible; But when I tried to linger on the vocalizations themselves, I felt the beginnings of a migraine pulse at my temples.

Casters from the Magician's Guild, I was informed. Marquis Raeven and Prince Zanac had called upon everyone who had a vested interest in bringing down the Nine Fingers, and - between the connections of one and the wealth of the other - they'd mustered a sizable contingent.

I expected to see Kelart amongst the priests, but she was nowhere to be found. Instead, my eyes were drawn to one of the castle's many windows, a half-glimpsed silhouette just barely visible behind the twitching curtains. The Third Princess, unseen but present, was watching too.

Somehow, that simple fact - That she was undoubtedly praying for our success, in her own innocently oblivious way - made me feel better about the whole thing.

As afternoon shaded to evening, it grew colder still. As the chill began to bite, the first campfires were lit, the flickering illumination casting twitching shadows.

The mood in the camp had sobered, now. All around, weapons were being cleaned and oiled, the air filled with the scents of woodsmoke, leather, steel and human sweat. Somewhere, a horse whinnied; Just out of sight came the rattle of crossbow test firings, the creak of windlasses being cranked.

"Grandmaster Samuel?"

I looked up. Halfway through fastening my armor, my mind had been a million miles away. My hands, however, had moved entirely on their own. Without hesitation, without thought, with a surety of purpose I didn't feel.

It took me a moment to place the weathered, unsmiling visage that met my startled gaze. Franzén, leader of Marquis Raeven's troubleshooters, was something of a local legend in Re-Estize. He'd worked his way up from copper to orichalcum over the course of a decade of adventuring, with an impressive record that told of a steady, unflinching competence in the face of danger. That had been enough to catch the Marquis' attention, and Franzén had been working for him ever since.

Even here, he had the alert, focused gaze of a natural-born killer, hands never far from the hilts of the four swords thrust into his belt. I could see the evil green glow of one, the adamantium inlay of another; Apparently, Franzén used all four at once, but for the life of me I couldn't imagine how.

He'd been cordial enough, introducing me to the surly-looking Boris Axelson (taciturn in his scarred leather armor) and Göran Dixgard (a head-and-a-half taller than the others, hefting his silver poleaxe as casually as a walking stick). Their caster, Lundqvist, had been deep in meditation; He'd glanced at me, grunted once, then pulled his cloak a little tighter around himself as he strove for tranquility.

I knew how he felt.

"-What's the word?" I said, trying to ignore the churning in my gut. I made a fist, clenched it to stop my hand from shaking. My own reflection looked up at me from the mirror surface of the gleaming mithril gauntlet. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, resolute - Like someone who knew of uncertainty and vulnerability by reputation, but had never met either of them face-to-face.

I only hoped I could live up to it.

"Lockmeier's in position. He'll meet you when you arrive."

Lockmeier. The fifth member of the team - I'd never met him, but he'd been with Franzén from the very beginning.

"Is the Viscount-" I began, achingly aware of the thudding of my pulse in my ears. If I was wrong-

Franzén nodded, just once, and I breathed again.

Thank God, I thought. The invisible vise around my chest unclenched; I hadn't been aware, not really, of how tense I'd been until that moment. Relief, stark and unalloyed, coursed through me - Intense enough to send a momentary dizziness coursing through me.

"Good," I said. "That's...It's good to know."

I looked away, buckling Gnosis' sheath in place. The reassuring weight of the sword rode high on my hip, the hilt faintly warm to the touch.

For a moment, Franzén looked like he was on the verge of saying something. Some question, perhaps, one I honestly wasn't sure I could answer. But instead, he canted his head to the side - those alert eyes narrowing at the clamor coming from beyond the canvas walls of the tent.

"-It's starting."

Above, the moon. Billowing white clouds, barely moving against the sea of night.

"Captains, gather round! We're going to go over the plan!"

In the firelight, Lady Aindra gleamed. Her ornate war-armor shone with a pure, unalloyed radiance, the gilded edges like gold or hammered bronze. The long honeyed fall of her hair was held back by a simple circlet crown, binding her long tresses back from pale, elegant features. Her armored wrists crossed on the pommel of Kilineiram, the point of the sword resting between her feet; A sliver of darkness in the gathering night, it was impossible to tell where Kilineiram's shadow ended and the midnight blade began.

"We are about to launch a simultaneous raid on eight buildings in the possession of the Nine Fingers, and take control of them!"

Her green eyes - intense, unblinking - regarded us all. Like chips of emerald, her jaw set with unwavering determination.

A soft murmur went up, like the surrusation of waves against the surf. "We only have five squads," someone besides me muttered, close to one of the braziers. "Isn't that-"

The wind gusted, snatching the words away and sending sparks billowing from the glowing coals.

"Once we seize our assigned buildings, those of us here will head for the next identified location!"

We'd gone over the plan in private, in some detail. The advantage of surprise wouldn't last forever; Spread thin as we were, we couldn't hope to hit them all at once. By consolidating our forces after the first wave, we would - in theory - have more than enough men to overcome whatever defenses were mustered, once word spread.

In theory, that was.

"-In other words, first come, first served, right?"

There was a dry chuckle in Gagaran's voice, as she leaned the sledgehammer weight of Fel Iron on one broad shoulder. Even from here, I could see the blunt ingot of the hammerhead, the wicked point of the business end; Between it and her impressively polished set of crimson plate - which could have been made for a short bear - she wore enough metal to outfit a small tank, but carried it like it weighed nothing at all.

"Our enemy is a force of heavyweights who control an underground society! Be exceedingly cautious - There is no stratagem, no trap, they will not stoop to."

Grim nods, all around. They knew the score, better than anyone; With a lurch, I wondered how many of the men here would see the next sunrise.

"Stand by your comrades. Stay together. Trust in the plan. Together, we will triumph!"

No cheers. A taut tension hung in the air, like an arrow nocked and drawn. Lakyus' gaze swept the small crowd of men, her features seemingly carved out of marble.

"-To your squads."

There was a flurry of activity, as the line dissolved. Orders were shouted, soldiers hurrying in every direction at once. I caught sight of Gazef, his expression set in a thoughtful frown as he conferred with a member of the Warrior Troop; I took a step towards him, but lost sight of the Warrior-Captain as Climb came shouldering his way through the throng.

The gleam of Climb's armor had been dulled by magic dye, like my own. I remembered Pavel's advice, the flash of his teeth in his killer's grin, and felt a sharp pang of something like grief-

I clamped down on it. This time, I told myself. This time, it's different.

"What is it?" Climb asked. He looked nervous, something I'd never associated with him before: No, not nervous. Very young, perhaps - the way I must've looked, before Loyts and the long, long mourning that had followed.

I shook my head. "This will be quite a night, Climb. Are you ready for it?"

His hand dropped to Daegal's hilt. "Absolutely," he said, his voice impressively steady.

I envied his certainty. I had my doubts - I always did. But now, there was no time for them; No time for anything except effort.

All around, men were grabbing each other's hands and slapping each other's shoulders, that last moment of comradeship before the bloodshed began. With a general rattle of steel and pounding boots, the courtyard began to clear, the first squad - then the next - breaking away from the pack.

We weren't going with them. Our task lay in another direction entirely.

Gagaran was waiting by the wagon, Fel Iron grounded at her feet. The hard planes of her face were set, a thoughtful - almost reflective - glint to her eyes.

"Looks like it's time," she said, and held out her hand. "Good hunting, Grandmaster."

I shook it, that great steel brick of a gauntlet almost swallowing my own. When she took Climb's hand, she gave it a squeeze, leaning a little closer - "Climb. Don't get killed, all right?"

"I'll do my best, Miss Gagaran," he said, all formal now, but with a twitch to the corner of his mouth that might've been a smile. She grinned at that, and gave him a slap on the shoulder that made his armor ring like a bell; "Come find me when you get back, eh? I'll make a man of you, virgin - It's way past time for that!"

"Miss Gagaran, I-"

She held up a hand. "I know. Just my little joke." Her expression grew a little somber, some of the levity draining from it as she fixed me with her gaze: "-Take care of him, Sir Samuel."

"Always," I said, and put my hand to my chest to make it a heart-truth. She nodded, once, then strode away. I watched her go, until she vanished into the crowd - There was something indomitable about her, I think, a fundamental invincibility that reminded me of Remedios. It was hard not to feel comforted by that.

Climb swung himself up into the wagon's beckoning depths, and offered me a hand up. I clasped it, wrist to wrist, the wooden doors swinging shut behind us as the wheels trundled into motion.

Soon, I thought, swallowing past the dryness in my mouth.

Not much longer now.

Not long, at all.

By darkness, Re-Estize was a different world. This close to the poor quarter, the robust air of the richer districts was a distant memory - Here, more than any other, the city had fallen from grace. The bowed arcades were lit only sporadically, sporadic lamplight spilling from windows in the black residences and into the freezing night. There was a decay here, one that had taken root in the very marrow of the capital; An air of quiet desperation, of wretchedness, that reminded me - just for a moment - of Bishop Park.

Of home.

Between the crumbling tenements, wilted streets dipped into murky darkness, the roads more mud and slush than stone. Shadows scuttled away, as the wagon rolled onwards - The whores, Dust addicts and prowlers could sense there was something in the air tonight, like the black clouds that threatened a storm.

Using the wagons had been Marquis Raeven's stroke of genius, I didn't doubt. Every day, dozens - Hundreds - of carts and wagons converged on Ro Lente castle, loaded with farls of bread, cuts of meat, wheels of cheese, oysters, olives, the finest produce and countless other sundries. Every night, they left empty, to repeat the process the very next day.

Even a blind man would have seen our squads coming. Armed to the teeth, it was impossible to mistake them for anything other than a small army. An invasion, perhaps, into the city's darkest corners. Emptied of goods, there was enough space for a dozen men or so in each cart - Enough for a swift deployment, and then the sudden surge of attack.

Speed and surprise would count for everything, here. If all went according to plan, it would be a triumph of merciless efficiency, with superior training and skill winning out over the unknown. The real danger came from the Six Arms, a group Lakyus had cautioned me about - Still, the Blue Roses and the Warrior-Captain were more than a match for them.

Supposedly.

But then again, that was a concern for later. Here and now, the two of us had a single goal; the capture of Viscount Fondoll and Coco Doll. As the wagon rattled along, riding high on its springs, I risked a glance through the narrow window, as block after block slipped past. By my guess, we were more than half of the way there - At this rate, we'd be early.

Climb had been quiet the entire time. I'd have called it nerves, but one look at his face - His features drawn, almost pale, his back ramrod straight - told me it was something more than that. He kept his eyes on the sliver of the city visible through the window: the crumbling buildings that leaned over the broken pavement, the darkened basement bars on every corner, the rumpled mounds of tattered clothing that may have been people in the final stages of their long descent.

For once, I knew what he was thinking: It was a long way down.

"You grew up here, didn't you?" I asked, struck by a momentary flash of insight. Climb started, blue eyes widening: "How did you-"

"Intuition," I lied. "Want to talk about it?"

He hesitated. "I…" Climb began, his brow furrowing. He lowered his head, as if to examine the floorboards. "There's not much to tell," he said, at last. There was a catch to his voice, somehow raw, as if this was ground better left unearthed. "I was a child, then. There was just hunger - The hunger, and the cold."

His throat worked. As if every word had hooked in his throat, and he was fighting to get each one out.

I waited.

"Sometimes, in my dreams...I'm back there again." Some of the color had drained from his face, his features drawn, amid the play of light and shadow. "When I think about it - When I remember…"

There was a haunted look in his eyes, now, amid the play of light and shadow.

"Her Highness - She saved me. If not for her..."

Climb's voice trailed off, his lips pressing together in a thin line. In that moment, there was something achingly vulnerable in his expression, something that cut to his very heart.

"I swore - I swore that I would never, ever forget what she did for me. That I would repay her kindness, no matter what." The cords stood out on Climb's neck as his eyes fixed on the ground, staring at something only he could see. "That's why...I won't let her down. Ever."

A quiet descended, broken only by the creak of wood and the rattle of the wagon's wheels. In that heavy silence, I didn't have the words; None that would be worth hearing, not now.

Instead, I set my hand on Climb's shoulder and squeezed, firmly but gently.

His head came up, at my touch. For a moment, he looked startled, stirred from his reverie of the not-so-distant past. But then he nodded, just once, his expression firming, his features set once more in their determined cast.

"Come on, then." I said. "-Let's get this done."

The wagon stopped in a darkened street of blackly rotting stone pilings, five hundred meters short of the brothel's looming silhouette. Around us, the neighborhood was a half-dead ruin, puddles of stagnant water frozen into sheets of ice.

We ducked into the shadow of an ancient low house, with a sagging, moss-colored roof. From here, I could see the suggestion of what may have been bright points of fire, flickering in the windows - A world away from the gloomy maze of streets on all sides.

Above, the sky was grey darkness. We kept to the shadows, staying away from the dirty yellow lights shining down from the dingy buildings, the wan radiance casting pools of uneven illumination. Climb led the way, easing himself through an alley; He beckoned, and I crossed the distance at a run, my pulse hammering in my ears as my back slammed against the far wall.

"Anything?" I asked, keeping my voice low. Climb shook his head, pointing towards the next tumbled set of premises. "Just a little further," he said, sotto voce. "That's where Franzén said he'd be-"

"All right," I said. "I'll go first."

Plate mail or not, I was better armored than Climb. Better armed, too. He didn't argue - Just nodded, once. Taking care not to step on the broken glass scattered from some shattered window overhead, I hurried across the street, my approach half-shielded by a stack of rotting crates.

The meeting place was some long-abandoned storehouse, the half-faded sign depicting a brown hen. I'd seen it on the map, but between the darkness and Re-Estize's alien streets, I'd have been lost without Climb's guidance. Five long strides took me to the old wooden door, paint peeling from the malaria-yellow surface, as I fumbled for the knob.

The door swung inwards without a sound, as if the hinges had been freshly oiled. One hand on the sword at my hip, I peered into the gloom: Dust swirled up in the sickly light that shafted in through the door and the holes in the shutters, as my gaze swept the room.

A worm-eaten table, two chairs, a pile of rotting sacks. Old broken crates and stacks of mossy lumber lay scattered across the floor, the smell of mildew and rot as palpable as a punch in the face.

Climb, out of sight behind me, eased the door shut. "Samuel?"

"There's no-one here," I said, my pulse slowing to something approaching normal. "-It's empty."

He frowned. Reached for his helmet, fumbled it into place. I heard the harsh rasp of a drawn breath, a hiss of realization-

"He's...!"

"I'm here, all right." The voice was low, grating, echoing from the walls. "Noise you idiots made, I'm surprised you got this far."

What the f-

A semi-visible, heat-haze suggestion of a silhouette shimmered into existence. It gained depth and solidity, an outline filling in with hard color. A space filled with nothing resolved into a weathered-looking man, slouched in the still-standing chair; the high collar of his leather jerkin almost - but not quite - hid his frowning face, something like contempt in his brown eyes as he fixed us with his gaze.

I'd taken an involuntary step back, clawing for my sword. Fortunately, Climb hadn't noticed - He merely stared, his eyes half-hidden within the vision slit of his helm. "...Mister Lockmeier?" he said, cautiously, sounding less than certain.

The man's mouth worked, grimacing as he squinted up at us. "-Who else?" he said, the chair's legs scraping back as he rose, scratching at a day's growth of stubble. He gave Climb's helmet an appraising look - "Nice piece of kit, that. Could've used it in my line of work, I tell you."

"You're Lockemeier?" I asked, keeping my hand on Gnosis' hilt. At a second glance, he did fit the description; Wiry, with light brown hair and eyes that were just a shade darker. If not for his near-constant scowl, he'd have been a genial-looking man - As he was, it gave his features something of a contemptuous edge.

He snorted, his gaze going to me, then back to Climb. "I'm glad you're the brains of the operation," he said, dryly. "Master of the obvious, that one."

Climb bristled, squaring his shoulders. "Grandmaster Samuel is-" he began, and Lockmeier put his gloved hands up in a calming gesture. "All right, all right. Just messing with you, your lordships. Now everyone's who they say are, shall we get on with it?"

I wondered how his team put up with him. Maybe he'd grown on them. Quashing the pang of instinctive dislike, I met Lockmeier's flat gaze with one of my own.

"-Where's the Viscount?" I asked, keeping my voice carefully level.

I won't lie; His sudden appearance had rattled me, more than I cared to admit. Even after all I'd seen, I wasn't used to the sight of a man unfurling himself from nothing - Never mind that Climb had taken it entirely in his stride.

Lockmeier smiled, a smile that bared teeth.

"Oh, he's in there, all right. With Coco Doll, no less - Looks like he prefers swords to sheaths, if you know what I mean." There was a sneer to his voice, as Climb blanched; A glimpse into the depths of meanness, a delight in another's discomfort.

"You've seen them?" It came out sharper than I expected, but time was short. I could feel the tension coursing through me, the urge to act gnawing at my nerves. I wanted so desperately to get this done, to do this right: Anything less meant abject failure.

He jerked his thumb towards the faceless stone of the distant building. "-Had a chance to look around, didn't I? Quite the place: They're on the top floor, in the royal suite. When I let myself out, the revels were just getting started. My guess is, they'll go all night."

Climb mulled over this, his voice hard. "How many inside?"

"About two dozen guests. Half that number of bodyguards. Couldn't get too close, mind you; Best not to push my luck, eh?" Lockmeier paused, his gaze turning contemplative. "-Most of them are busy fucking, mind you." At Climb's frown, he grinned again. "Come now...We're all men of the world, aren't we? Let's call it what it is."

I could feel acid churning in my gut. More than I'd expected - This could be bad.

"So - How do we get up there?"

"Three staircases: One at the front, two at the rear corners. They've got men on the roof - Those crossbows are no joke, let me tell you."

"And the only way in is through the front door," Climb said, bleakly. "It's made of solid steel-"

Lockmeier raised a finger, for silence. "Ah, now...I didn't say that. That's just what they want you to think." He nodded, significantly, towards the left side of the building. "-See that?"

"What, that old bathhouse?"

"There's a set of steps running down from street level to the door. Staff entrance, you see? They had girls coming in from there, all day, and no-one came out. My guess is, it leads backstairs: Can't have the riff-raff mingling with the guests, can we? Less guards, too, I reckon."

Try as I might, I couldn't make out anything at this distance. I glanced at Climb; Doubt showed on his face, his expression troubled. I knew what he was thinking - If Lockmeier was right, this was our way in. If he was wrong-

But time was ticking away, moment by moment. The longer we waited, the finer we'd be cutting things. All around the city, vast forces were moving into position. If we didn't act now, we'd miss our chance.

"All right," I said, at last. "-Show me."

As it turned out, Lockmeier was right. We made off down a side street, cutting towards the bathhouse at an oblique angle: As we wove our way through the maze of alleys and passages, Lockmeier led the way - He moved swiftly, with the clear purpose of a man who knew exactly where he was going.

"What do you make of him?" Climb murmured, low. Beneath his half-helm, I could make out his thoughtful frown. Unlike him, I'd gone bare-headed; I'd finally found my armor's helmet, a magnificent falcon-winged thing, but it messed with my vision in ways I hadn't quite adjusted to, yet. Besides, I told myself, I was armored up to my neck.

Then again, maybe that just invited a headshot.

"-He's taking us where we need to go, isn't he?" I said, my eyes darting across the shadows. Like the rest of the area, it was a dismal place - We were lucky that the area was (seemingly) long-abandoned, or we'd have far worse than the occasional rat to worry about. "That's what matters."

If anything, his frown deepened. Climb kept his gaze fixed on Lockmeier's back for a long moment, before he glanced aside.

"You're right, Si - Samuel. I just thought...Someone who worked with Ser Franzén would be more-"

I knew what he meant. But this wasn't the time to second-guess myself.

"He is an adventurer. It takes all kinds, after all. As long as he gets us there-"

"As you say," Climb said - He'd been gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly, it was a wonder his hand hadn't cramped in place. Then again, so was I. "I suppose it doesn't…"

He stopped, so abruptly I almost body-checked him. Up ahead, Lockmeier had drawn up short, peering around the corner. "Found it," the thief muttered, without surprise. "Right there. See?"

I looked. We were right at the side of the building, now; As he'd said, a short flight of steps led down to a heavy door. In contrast to everything else we'd seen so far, this one looked new, or close to it - Formidably solid, bound in iron, my guess was that it could hold up to anything short of a breaching ram.

More importantly-

"No guards?" I said, glancing in both directions. Lockmeier gave me a look that was almost pitying; "-With a door like that?" His lips twisted in a smile, one that dragged the scar on his cheek taut. "They don't breed for smarts in the Holy Kingdom, do they?"

I heard Climb's teeth grinding. "Listen, you-" he began, but I stopped him with a shake of my head. "Just get to it," I told Lockmeier. Abrasive or not, he'd been right, so far; All we needed was for our luck to hold a little longer…

With a grunt, Lockmeier scuttled forward. I kept an eye on him, as Climb turned to watch the alley behind us - It was deathly quiet, except for the scurrying of rats or other vermin. I supposed they'd taken some effort to keep it clean, but the mold had crept in all the same.

Between the three of us, it was getting surprisingly crowded in here. Climb had already raised his shield, as if expecting a hail of arrows from the darkness; Lockmeier had taken a knee, busy with the door's abstruse mechanisms.

"Damn it," he hissed, and I stiffened at the first premonition of disaster. "What is it?"

"I've got the lock, but it's bolted shut. Careful bastards, they are." He cocked his head to the side, frowning. "I don't suppose one of you could…?"

Bolted. The thought hadn't even crossed my mind, not for a second - It's on the simplest things that everything depends. Climb turned, taking his eyes off the alley; He rooted in a pouch, gauntleted fingers clumsy, drawing forth - Of all things - a set of bells. Carefully, he sorted them, selecting a bronzed bell with spidery red glyphs, holding it like he was handling an unexploded bomb.

"La - Miss Gagaran gave me these," he said. "Let's see if…"

He rang it. There was a faint, silvery chime; For a long moment, we stood there, like idiots waiting for a punchline. And then-

As the noise faded into nothing, there was the distinct clack of the bolts drawing back. If not for Lockmeier, the door would have swung open; Bracing it shut with his shoulder, he nodded at Climb.

"I could've used something like that, too," he said, something like grudging respect in his voice. "Now, who's first?"

I looked at him. Just looked.

Lockmeier caught my eye, and shrugged. "I'm no warrior, your lordship. Leave the sharp end of things to people who know what they're doing, I always say-"

"All right," I said. I had no time - and even less inclination - to argue with him. "Climb, with me - Lockmeier, watch our back." I drew Gnosis, with the rasp of adamantium on leather; my hands slick with sweat inside my gauntlets, though they never wavered.

Loyts, I thought. I made it through Loyts-

...Then why this sense of foreboding?

Nerves, I told myself. Just nerves, that's all. I made myself swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. At my nod, Lockmeier let the door swing open-

The hall beyond was dimly-lit, low-ceilinged, cracked paint peeling from the flaking walls. The pungent odor of smoldering wicks hung heavily in the gloom, oil lamps glimmering overhead as I took my first steps inside. It was startlingly quiet, here - I'd expected to hear the sounds of revelry, but there was only the faintest suggestion of sound (like the muted murmur of a crowd) in the distance.

"Which way?" I asked, fighting to keep my voice low. Mutely, Lockmeier pointed straight ahead - I tightened my grip on Gnosis, and forced myself down the corridor, one long stride at a time. Faster, I thought, noting how the hall sloped upwards at the far end.

Climb kept pace with me, Daegal's quicksilver blade glimmering in the light. Lockmeier hung back - He hadn't even bothered to draw his shortsword. It shouldn't have irked me, but it did: If anyone got past the two of us, Lockmeier wouldn't have a chance.

The place was like a warren. Wide as the hallway was, the low ceiling and stony walls gave it a deeply claustrophobic air. The complete lack of windows didn't help. It was too much like being in the sewers beneath Loyts, with the twisting tunnels leading eternally into the darkness…

Focus, I told myself, wrenching my mind back to the here and now. The plan was simple; Once we'd seized Viscount Fondoll, we'd get him to the waiting safehouse. Coco Doll, too, if the opportunity presented itself - Then it would be the castle dungeons for both of them.

That was the plan, at any rate.

"No one around," Climb murmured, his eyes darting from side-to-side. "Wait...Did you hear that?"

I listened. A clatter, like metal-on-metal. The hiss of steam, coming from a door up ahead and on the right; muffled voices, the smell of frying grease.

Kitchens, I mouthed, and Lockmeier nodded. I held my breath, as we slipped past - Then again, I doubted anyone could have heard us over the clamor. "Next door," Lockmeier said, just above a whisper. "Dressing room."

"But there's…" Climb began, and the thief scowled at him. "The whores are busy," he said. "Go."

Inside, the room was long and low, flanked with grubby mirrors. Piles of dirty laundry heaped the baskets behind the door, gaudy dresses hanging on a rail. There was an overwhelming stink of cheap perfume, sweat and smoke - It reminded me, vividly, of the Shades in the arcology's lowest floors.

A world away now, and the smell of quiet desperation was the same.

Warped by the smeared mirrors, our distorted reflections followed us across the room. Lipstick left a winding scribble down one wall, an overturned mannequin sprawled on the ground like a limbless corpse - Climb kept a wary eye on it as we made our way to the far door, as if expecting it to lurch to life.

Beyond I could hear music; A band was playing, with great effort and little skill. There were voices, now, impossible to make out. If I strained, I could hear the rattle of dice, the clatter of a wheel…

"Gaming hall," I said, and Lockmeier bobbed his head. "Not that way, then," he said, indicating a smaller door to our right. "Almost there - Cut through here, and we're done."

Easy for you to say, I thought. Climb's face was white with tension - I could feel anxiety clawing at my nerves, twisting in my gut. "How far are the stairs?" I asked, barely keeping my voice above a rasp: Lockmeier frowned at that, his face wrinkling in thought.

"Just a bit further. Take a left turn at the next fork, and we're there."

Carefully, I eased the door open; There was a distinct change to the quality of the furnishings, now - More gaudy, less threadbare, as we made our way from backstairs to the places people actually expected to see.

"Clear," I said, half-turning to beckon them forward. "There's no-"

And then our luck ran out.

There were two of them. Two guards in red-and-black tunics, shortswords slung at their waists along with identical daggers, compact crossbows in their hands. They must have got bored, on their assigned circuit - That, or they'd simply decided to stretch their legs. Both had shucked their helmets, small iron skullcaps that vaguely reminded me of the Adventurer's Guild.

Either way, they turned the corner, less than a heartbeat after I'd stepped out into the open.

There was no hope of brazening it out. In full armor, sword in hand, a blind idiot could've seen that I was an intruder.

"Fuck," the first one said, his eyes going wide; He didn't hesitate, cranking back the crowsfoot mechanism on his small, lethal crossbow, fumbling for a quarrel. The other one had a better sense of priority. He had his hand on his dagger, but instead drew breath to shout-

But I had Gnosis in hand, and in that blankly frozen moment, I said:

"Vorpal-"

-a haptic buzz, racing through my arms-

The force wrenched me off my feet. It catapulted me down the hall, in a blurring shoulder-rush. The slipstream plucked at me, momentum smearing the world into a speed-distorted blur. An instant's glimpse of gritted teeth and horrified eyes-

I hit them like a battering ram.

They were lucky. If they'd been any closer to the walls, the impact would have crushed the life from them. If I'd led with the sword…

-Well. I don't like to think about that.

As it was, my armored shoulder hit one man so hard, his feet actually left the ground - His flailing body lofting four feet into the air, demolishing an end-table on his way down. The other, swinging his crossbow in line with my chest, got it worse: He hit the far wall so hard I heard the sickening crack of breaking bone, his limp form sliding half-crushed down the stone as his finger spasmed on the trigger.

The quarrel ricocheted off stone, drawing a flurry of sparks. The sound was almost lost in the sound of wood shattering, as I lurched upright, panting as the world snapped back into focus-

Holy shit, I thought, my senses reeling. Holy shit-

"Sam-"

Ashen-faced, Climb was out of the room, too. He stared, disbelieving, at the ruin I'd wreaked. A feeble groan hung in the air, which meant that at least I hadn't killed one of them…

Somewhere, the band played on. As if they had all the time in the world.

But there were other voices, now. Sounds of confusion, the clatter of dice stilled at last. Chairs were being drawn back. "Shit," Lockmeier breathed, eyeing the wreckage - He met my gaze and, in a moment of crystal clarity, I knew exactly what he was thinking.

"Go," I said. "Run, now!"

We ran.

There was no time to make any sense of things. All that mattered was getting upstairs, getting to the Viscount, in time - the rest could go hang. I could feel the pure, unalloyed guilt of a genuine fuckup twisting in my chest, as I led the way; Somewhere, there were shouts of confusion. Boots pounding on the stone.

All of a sudden, people were emerging from everywhere and nowhere at once. A server carrying a tray was halfway through a side-door, shrinking back as we muscled past. The door banged shut, bruisingly hard, and Climb panted out a "We should-"

"No time," Lockmeier spat. "They know we're here now, we need to…"

There was another pair of guards at the foot of the staircase. The commotion must have alerted them, because they had their crossbows ready and levelled. No holding back, here; the light glittered off the dully gleaming bolts, my skin burning cold as I felt them draw a bead-

I made myself run faster still, and both crossbows fired with flat whacks.

Focus.

The breath hissed from my lips, as Gnosis lurched in my hands. It moved with lightning speed, as the first bolt blurred; the black blade darted through the air and-

-slice-

Split down the length, the quarrel tumbled away.

I heard a startled oath, right before something kicked me in the chest, hard. It punched the breath from my lungs, as I staggered back a step. It didn't hurt, not really, but it checked my charge; Just long enough for me to realize I'd been hit, head-on. The bolt had glanced off my armor, harmlessly - It hadn't even penetrated the mythril.

Too late, I looked up. The guards were already cranking their weapons for another shot…

-But then Climb was upon them.

He chopped the first man down, with a single cleaving blow from Daegal. No hesitation: The blade hacked straight into the man's chest, the wire armor in his jerkin slowing the sword not at all. Blood sprayed, and the guard went down with a gurgle, as surely as if he'd been poleaxed. The other turned to run, but Climb hurled his shield into the back of the man's head - It pegged him off his feet, and dropped him before he'd made it three strides.

Climb turned, wild-eyed. Blood, not his own, flecked his cheek.

"He," Climb began, his chest heaving as he panted from the exertion. "He shot-"

"I'm fine," I managed, still stunned. I felt the twinge of a bruise, but even that was quickly fading; How that was possible, I had no idea. I wasn't even winded.

Relief, so all-consuming and total it blotted out all else, showed on Climb's face. He looked down at his gore-dripping blade, and started - As if only now realizing it was his. But Climb was made of stern stuff; I could see his face going impassive, walling off what he'd just done.

Like me, I supposed. Like me.

Lockmeier had, wisely, stayed behind both of us the entire time. He looked round at me, at Climb. At the magnificent star-silver blade, now dyed red with blood.

"You don't mess around, do you?" he muttered. Dazed, the other guard was trying to crawl away; Climb's shield had hit him hard enough to crack his iron skullcap. Lockmeier's expression soured - the thief drew a dagger, taking a step towards the man as he held it low for the jab and twist…

I caught his wrist. "Don't," I warned, and he scowled. A spasm of some unknowable emotion flickered across his face, and he jerked his hand away - Faster than I'd expected, as if my touch had pained him.

Something about that. Something felt off, but I didn't have the time to place it.

"If we leave him-" Lockmeier began.

"Forget it," I said. Put steel in my voice. "Just get us there."

That wicked dagger vanished back into its sheath. "Aye," Lockmeier said, good-natured features still warped by his scowl. "Whatever you say, Grandmaster."

I'd never killed anyone before. Never killed a human, that is. In that, I was no different from the vast masses of teeming humanity, back in the world I'd known.

But here, now-

Wolfgunblood had, I knew. For good reason; He'd saved the city of E-Rantel from the necromantic horror that had been planned for it. That, I understood.

With the beastmen, it'd been different. I'd found them so repulsive, so utterly inhuman, that there was no question of morality involved - If I needed a reason, the hanging stench of cooking meat, the hollow gaze of bleached skulls, was more than enough.

This was a violent world. Pavel, Orlando, Remedios, even Climb...They knew it. They'd lived that way, all their lives. Gazef saw it differently, but he saw the necessity, all the same. Never held back.

-And yet.

I was proud of it, I suppose. Proud that I'd stopped Lockmeier from doing what was, to his mind, only good sense. Morality over practicality. But then, I had that luxury, didn't I? I could take crossbow bolts to the chest and walk away with mere bruises.

I've never considered myself an especially moral person. No better than anyone else, perhaps; Either way, it wasn't something I thought about often.

Where I'd come from, life was cheap, and getting cheaper by the year. That much, I knew for a fact. But it felt like…restraint, maybe. Being true to myself. Setting rules and boundaries, where there were none.

As Gazef had said: You had to understand the rules, if you were going to break them.

That would soon change.

We took the stairs three at a time, leaving the commotion behind. There were shouts, now - Footsteps thumping through the corridors, the banging of doors and shutters. The hornet's nest had been well and truly kicked; My guess was, they'd found the guards.

Or their bodies.

We'd almost made it to the third-floor landing, when we ran headlong into trouble. One of the bouncers must have heard us coming - He'd been laying in wait behind a pillar, and the first I saw of him was his iron-bound club, swinging right towards my face.

"Look out-"

Climb's strangled shout was my only warning. I had a fleeting impression of tangled black hair and tattoos like smile lines, bad teeth gritted in a non-smile as he put all his weight behind the swing-

But I was faster. A flick of my wrist, and Gnosis sheared through the club's haft in a single clean stroke. Lockmeier ducked, swearing - the spike-studded head missed him by inches, clattering down the steps. The backswing sent the sword scything towards my opponent's skull, his mouth shaping a 'O' of blank dismay as he tried to wrench himself back-

At the last moment, I twisted my wrist, and it was the flat of the blade that slammed into the side of his head. The man's legs flew out from under him; His body dropped, still twitching, as if utterly disarticulated by that single impact. Only blind luck kept him from going over the railing, as he hit the ground with the profound surrender of a child going to sleep.

I had a moment to think: I almost-

But Climb had already pushed past me. "Come on!" he called back, his voice taut with barely-restrained energy. Lockmeier hadn't even slowed, sprinting up the steps with the stamina of a man half his age.

There was no time to sheath Gnosis. Sword in hand, I forced myself up the last few steps, the blood thundering in my ears. We were on the top floor now, a world away from the dank squalor of behind-stairs. Terracotta urns erupted in profusions of tropical flowers, fake marble columns rearing up like branchless trees, the wafting scent of burning jasmine and sandalwood-

I looked left, then right. Heavy faux-silk curtains swayed in the wind, weak light struggling through. Alcoves held brass statues depicting various positions and acts, framing the branching passageways.

"Which way?" I couldn't help myself - It came out as a snarl. There was that sense of wrongness, again: A sense that I was missing something, something I couldn't quite place.

Lockmeier didn't hesitate. He pointed, at a pair of doors down a painting-lined passageway. "There," he said. "The Royal Suite."

Climb started forward, but Lockmeier put out a hand to stop him. "Let the Grandmaster go first, lad," he said, offering me a nod. "Best hurry, your lordship," he added, with a significant glance down the stairs. In spite of everything, he was admirably calm; At that moment, I envied his nerve.

"If there's a trap-" Climb began, reaching for his belt.

"No time," I said. "Stand back."

I braced, and kicked the doors in. They splintered at the lock and slammed open, momentum carrying me through.

Another legacy from Yggdrasil, motion-captured perfection transposed into action.

The chamber beyond was grossly, tastelessly opulent, the air reeking with a confusion of perfume. All silver thread, crushed velvet and cloth-of-gold, it was almost a parody of Valencia palace's immaculate stylings, a triumph of wealth over good taste. For one moment, I was reminded of Wolfgunblood's room at the Adventurers' Guild...

But then my attention was caught - and held - by the men seated by the carved green-marble fireplace, a fire roaring away in the hearth.

One was rail-thin, almost scrawny, his slashed doublet and suede boots exquisitely tailored to fit his spare frame. Caught in the act of lifting a glass, his shaved head swivelled towards me, lips parting in an almost-theatrical gasp. The other, already rising from his seat, was younger, more muscular - I'd only seen that lank red hair and high cheekbones in portrait, but his features were burned into my mind.

I leveled Gnosis at him.

"Viscount Fondoll," I said, "Don't resi-"

He was smiling. Why was he smiling?

There was a flash. As if light had suddenly become solid, as if the air had suddenly become hard. I tasted ozone, as sparks danced and flickered - Sheets of shimmering blue energy shearing across the walls, two more sizzling into place to seal off the ceiling and floor.

I was boxed-in.

Trapped.

Caught on the cusp of a premonition, I wrenched round. Climb was on the other side of the field, his image distorted and blurred by energy. He was shouting something, but no sound came through.

"Behind y…!" I began, stupidly, uselessly.

Too late.

Lockmeier's dagger punched through a seam in Climb's armor, right where the plates met. Climb's eyes seemed to bulge in his skull, his body arching; His legs buckled beneath him as he sank to his knees, stark disbelief etched across his face. Somehow, somehow, he clawed desperately at the knife in his back, but he couldn't reach.

His mouth dropped open, his face contorted with shock. For a moment, he nearly made it to his feet - But then Lockmeier twisted the dagger in the wound, to make sure he stayed down. The thief wrenched Climb's head back by the hair, put his shortsword to his throat-

"No-"

I might have shouted it. Howled it. It made no difference.

Gnosis cleaved. When the blade hit the shimmering wall, an explosive burst of power flared sparks and streaks in all directions. The shock jagged up my arms, nearly knocking the weapon from my hands. I reeled back, my ears ringing; the sword had left no impression on the humming cage of force, as if I'd tried to hack through a wall of solid steel.

Something was happening to Lockmeier's form. His silhouette flickered, like a dying screen; I felt the hairs lift on my neck, as the illusion that had disguised him died away. Revealed, he was a gaunt, wiry vulture of a man, with the dead eyes of a professional killer. He looked sullen, world-weary, even as his shortsword nicked Climb's throat - Tensing, for the slow, surgical slice…

He stopped. Lockmeier - whoever he really was - kept pressure on the sword, as bloody saliva drooled from Climb's mouth. The dagger was still buried in him, tiny rivulets of blood trickling over his dull plate.

In that blank moment, I thought: Why did he st-

When I turned back, the men who should have been Viscount Fondoll and Coco Doll were changing. Limbs bulged; Bone snapped, contorting into new configurations. Their eyes shrank away to soulless pits, as the flesh broke and sprouted talons. It was the most hideous thing I'd ever seen, and I took an involuntary step back, my sword raised-

The solid light of the wall of force scraped against my armor, drawing tiny sparks. I felt nausea roil in my gut as the appalling transfiguration continued, their bodies wrenching into realignment - Growing taller, cadaverously lean, shredding out of their finery, grey skin drawn taut over fatless flesh.

They reeked. The stench of death was abruptly overwhelming. I felt my skin crawl, felt my gorge rise as I shrank back. I couldn't help myself; Everything I had ever known told me that this was unholy, a blank animal terror clawing at my mind.

No wonder the room stank of perfume; It was the only thing that held back the choking foulness of the abattoir.

Fuck, I thought. Oh, God.

Something was pouring out of them. Out of their mouths, out of the hollow sockets of their eyes - Like smoke, like ash. A black thundercloud, billowing, clotting, taking on form. As it grew, as it swelled, the flickering light from the fireplace seemed to drain into it: I could feel a pressure building in my skull, as the presence resolved into solidity.

Just a man. Of all the things I'd seen today, this was - curiously - the most terrible. Not here, not truly, but a shadow away. The twisting smoke and whirling fog conspired to render his features indistinct, but details emerged all the same.

He wore a traveler's garb - boots, breeches, a winter coat with a raised collar, half-shrouded beneath a cloak that hung long and heavy - gloved hands open and empty, raised in the eternal gesture of peace. I could tell he was slightly taller than me, but slighter; Good-looking, in an indistinct way.

Behind me, held upright by the killer's iron grip, Climb retched blood, his sword slipping from slack fingers. Before me, the hideous undead things - Just vessels for the will that passed through them, that held them in thrall - shuddered and twitched, from the effort of manifestation. Already, foul black oil wept from the cracks in their skin, as if their unholy life was being wrung out of them, drop by slow drop.

But in that moment, I saw none of those things. In that moment, the dim bulb of realization flickered to life.

"You-" I said, disbelieving. "You're the Ninth Finger."

He smiled. When he spoke, his voice was warm, almost friendly.

"Hello, 'Grandmaster'," the Ninth Finger said. Pinpoints of cold blue light flickered in the smoke, where his eyes should have been.

"-Let's talk."

Next: Wrath