Chapter 32 - Asura (Part III)

The infirmary was a spartan hall of marble tiles and wooden screens. The smell of incense lingered, like a benediction; Lamps flickered beneath their glass hoods, dim against the cold blue light slanting through the windows.

There were few wounded here, for now. The turmoil in the city at large had yet to fully touch this place - Most of the parishioners were at prayer, apart from the occasional form slumped on a cot.

In the wan light, the novice clerics and acolytes moved between the beds. Not all of the priesthood were invested with healing powers, I knew: For most, it was simply a living like any other, which left them with little to do but to roll bandages, fill flasks with water, give assurances that all was well…

-And to wait for the other shoe to drop.

Because disaster was coming. Anyone could feel it - There was something in the air, a tension, like a storm about to break.

Unless I did something about it.

They'd put Climb in a private room, the kind reserved for the convalescence of the wealthy or the terminally-ill. Outside the chamber, an old watchman stood silent vigil; He was standing stiffly, in a well-worn breastplate he clearly hadn't donned for some time, a formidable scowl on his aged features.

When I approached, he came to attention, clashing a mailed fist against his rust-speckled cuirass. In his other hand, he held a spear straight from the temple's tiny armory, the blade worn smooth by years of polishing.

"Lord Paladin," he said, listing slightly to one side as he shifted his weight. He'd been standing guard for some time, clearly, and he favored one leg over the other. "What can I do for you?"

This time, I kept myself from wincing. Instead, I glanced past him, trying to see into the darkened room.

"May I see him?"

The grizzled watchman nodded, and waved me past.

The chamber beyond had a single cot, necessarily twice the size of the ones outside. An acolyte drowsed in the room's sole chair, a softly-glowing light-orb resting on the table. When I cleared my throat, she started, rubbing at her eyes as her lips formed a little 'O' of surprise-

"Can you give us a moment?" I said. She ducked her head - a quick, nervous nod - and hurried out, with an urgent flutter of robes.

I'll admit: I paused at the threshold. For one, terrible instant, all this felt familiar. Achingly so, like an old nightmare dragged back to life.

After the accident, Samuel had been blind and deaf, for a time. The gas had burned his skin where it'd touched him, and his flesh had blistered and swollen grotesquely beneath the caustic touch of the agent. Incisions had been made in the bullae that clustered at his mouth and nostrils, so he could breathe; Swathed in bandages, he'd barely looked like a person at all.

Like a witness to a terrible accident, I had stood by his plastic-sheeted cot, listening to the suck and drool of his ventilator. Helpless, utterly impotent, gauging time by the gurgle of the fluid drains and the patient beeps of the machines that kept him alive.

I steeled myself to look, and the moment passed.

Climb lay in the deep, sick sleep of absolute exhaustion. They'd done all they could to make him comfortable, the blankets piled high around him, an overstuffed pillow beneath his head. For all their well-meaning efforts, he looked hollowed-out, gaunt. As if the life had been sucked out of him, leaving him a shell of his former self.

Death tended to do that to a person.

He'd been so vital, before. So alive. Seeing him like this, so reduced-

I'd thought I'd braced myself for it. But the sick shock of guilt still caught me by surprise.

His armor was piled next to the bed, his sword leaning against the wall. Some well-meaning acolyte, for want of anything better to do, had scrubbed the dust and grime from Daegal's lacquered sheath.

Is he…? I thought, as a terrible suspicion struck. They'd have told me if was-

I couldn't look away, not at first. Not until the slow rise and fall of Climb's chest confirmed the evidence of my eyes.

He was alive.

The chair creaked as I sank down into it, weak with relief. On some level, I'd been dreading this moment, this reckoning - Been afraid that it was all some figment of my imagination, that I'd somehow hallucinated that I'd brought him back to life. But now, impossible as it might be...There was no doubting the evidence of my senses.

I'd brought him back from the dead.

Even now, turning it over and over again in my head, I still couldn't quite wrap my mind around it. Moreover, I couldn't understand why those around me hadn't responded the same way. Given Hekkeran's line of work, I wasn't surprised he'd taken it in stride - But even Arche hadn't been surprised. As if this was something that was a possibility - that could happen, that had happened - instead of…

-a miracle-

...Instead of what it was.

The realization - and the guilt - hit a moment later. All this time, it'd been circling the battered recesses of my mind, waiting for the chance to take hold:

Pavel. I could have brought Pavel back. Pavel, Orlando, and all the others-

Why hadn't I tried it before? If I'd known, back then-

But I hadn't known. And so I hadn't tried.

In truth, I wasn't sure I would have dared, in spite of everything. Bringing Climb back...It'd cost me, I sensed. Shaken me on some fundamental level, one that sent a chill coursing through me when I tried to remember.

Like dying.

It had felt like dying.

There was a faint rustle of blankets, an imperceptible hint of motion. I looked up, as Climb stirred-

"...Grandmaster?"

His voice was a low rasp, just above a whisper. Dusty with misuse, almost. There was a watery paleness to his blue eyes, as they fastened on me - As I leaned towards him, straining to make out his words.

This close, I could see the scar Succulent's blade had left on his throat. It'd faded to almost nothing, little more than a reminder, but it jolted me, all the same.

"Yeah," I said, my mouth dry. Then - "Yes."

I drew a shaky breath. I'd intended to say something, anything...But here and now, I couldn't remember a word of it. "Climb-" I began, but I could feel my throat squeeze shut.

What do you say, in the face of that.

"...I'm sorry," I said, the words sticking in my throat. "I'm sorry that I-"

Got you killed, I couldn't finish. Because - when you got down to it - that was what I'd done. I'd got him killed...Almost got myself killed. All because I'd been too stupid to smell a rat. To sense even the most obvious deception.

But he was shaking his head. His hands gripped the blankets, shaking as if with palsy. Trembling uncontrollably, as if the slightest action was an effort.

"Not - Not your fault," he began, voice huskier as if it would fail at any second. Climb swallowed hard, began again: "Couldn't have known..."

"I-"

"Help...me up," he said, through gritted teeth. A hint of strain crept into his words, his arms tensing - I was at his side, propping him up, his back to the wall. Cold sweat gleamed on his limbs, but he didn't let the effort show.

"What...happened?"

I hesitated.

Rather than answer right away, I reached for the potion I'd set aside. The one I'd given Roberdyck had been a slender vial the length of my finger: This was larger, a round glass bulb about the size of my palm. The fluid within sloshed as I twisted the cork off, breaking the seal with a hiss of escaping vapor.

"First-" I said. Playing for time, even if I was hardly about to admit it to myself. "...Drink this."

Climb's hands were still trembling, so I had to hold the bottle for him. The oily, chemical taste had made me grimace, but he showed no sign of emotion as he swallowed the elixir. The effect was electric, all the same - He made a gagging, half-strangled sound, as his limbs twitched and shuddered and spasmed themselves back to life.

"Gahhhhhhhhh-"

Cords bulged in Climb's throat, as a faint iridescence danced across his form. Color flooded back into his skin, his eyes growing clearer by the moment; He drew a shuddering breath, then another, racked by a sudden spasm of vitality.

It took him long moments to recover, clenching his jaw against the pins-and-needles sensation of ebbing weakness. By the end of it, he was panting like he'd run a marathon, wiping at his face with one shaky forearm.

"What-" Groggy, Climb's gaze fixed on the mostly-empty vial, grimacing at the aftertaste. "...What is this stuff?"

I had to laugh at that.

"Old family recipe," I said. "Need another?"

Climb shook his head. Made a fist - This time, he held it, though the effort made his face go waxy with sweat. The pallor hadn't quite gone away, I couldn't help but notice: His wounds may have been healed, but every move pained him.

He must've seen something in my face, because his expression hardened.

"You…" A fit of coughing seized him. Instinctively, I started towards him, but Climb waved me away - His hand clutching at his throat, massaging it like it still pained him.

"...You did - the right thing," he began again. Weak, but gaining strength.

"I want-" A wince, but Climb kept going. "I want to - devote myself - to the Princess. Until...Until there's nothing left." His eyes bored into mine, like drills. As if he was willing me to understand, to believe every word he was saying. "That's why...Even this is-"

"All right," I said, trying to calm him. "All right, Climb. I get it, okay?"

That seemed to settle him. A silence descended, broken only by Climb's faint wheezing - Like he couldn't quite draw enough air into his lungs, no matter how hard he tried.

And then-

"How - How did we...get here?"

Ah. I closed my eyes, just for a moment.

This was, as they said, the tricky part. It took me a moment to fight down the bitter pulse of shame, the fury that coiled just beneath the surface-

"-It was a trap," I said, at last. "They knew we were coming. Lockmeier...They got to him. Switched him with this...Succulent, of the Six Arms. This woman, Hilma, she…"

I swallowed, hard. He said nothing, just looked.

Waiting for me to go on.

"She's one of them, Climb. One of the Nine Fingers. This entire time…" I shook my head. Even now, part of me couldn't quite believe how thoroughly I'd fucked up. "This whole time, everything we were acting on - It came straight from them."

I had to look away. Felt my throat contract: the sudden, overpowering humiliation was as potent as ever. I felt an absurd urge to act. To kick the chair into splinters, to shout obscenities are the top of my voice. Anything but to keep going, to have the rest of it dragged out of me word-by-word.

"-I see."

There was no judgement in Climb's voice. No sympathy, either, and I was grateful for that.

"Then...The Viscount, Coco Doll…?"

"They were never there. What we saw...I don't know what to call them. Demons, maybe." I knew I was probably wrong, but I didn't care. "It was the Vanisher," I said. "He's the one behind this. He's the one who set up the whole thing."

He stared. Incredulous, at first, then - As if he couldn't quite believe it: "-The Vanisher's real?"

More than you could imagine, I thought. Aloud, I said: "Oh, he's real, all right. Whatever the Nine Fingers were, before...They're his, now."

Of course they were. It must have been effortless, for him - While I'd been struggling to find my footing, while Wolfgunblood had been living out the life he'd always wanted, the Vanisher had already been plotting. Planning the impossible, from the very beginning.

Wolfgunblood. The thought made my teeth grind. If he'd been here...If he could've been reliable for just a few days more…

I shoved the thought away. No point brooding over it, now: Wherever Wolfgunblood was, he wasn't going to make it back in time. Assuming he hadn't been distracted by some whim, some trinket that had caught his eye.

"He spoke to me, through his puppets. He wanted-"

My voice trailed off. I glanced back: Climb was frowning, blue eyes narrowed in thought. Go on, his expression urged.

I couldn't lie to him. Not to his face.

"...He's got a plan for Re-Estize," I said. "I don't know all of it, but…"

I'd been thinking about this the entire time. Trying to unravel the Vanisher's plan. I'd racked my tired brain, and I'd come to the only conclusion I could think of.

"-I think he's trying to start a revolution," I said, softly. "Overthrow the King. Bring down the monarchy, even. More, unless someone stops him."

That got a reaction. Climb made a low, startled sound, as if I'd punched him in the stomach.

"You mean - He's with the nobility faction?" A sharp hiss of indrawn breath. "The Princess...We've got to get to the palace-"

"No," I said. "I think...I think he hates the nobles more than anything else. He might be using them, but he despises them, too." There was a coppery taste in my mouth, now; Bitter, like the memory. "What he wants...He wants the people to rule themselves, I guess. To put power in their hands."

"It sounds...hideous," Climb said, an incredulous note to his voice. He shivered, shaking his head. "I don't know what's worse. That this might exist, or someone might want it to." Comprehension stole across his pale features, and he glanced up at me.

"That's why it was a trap," he said, with a dawning realization. "He's afraid of you. He knew you'd stand in his way - That's why he had to kill you."

I met his utterly determined, utterly certain gaze, and fought down the urge to heave a sigh.

"I suppose you're right," I said, carefully keeping my voice level. "After-"

-after you died-

"...After he tried - tried and failed - Foresight got us out of there. We got Succulent, too: He's in one of the deathwatch cells."

I saw Climb's expression change, subtly. Watched him wince, as he scratched at the fading scar on his throat.

It's a hard thing, to contemplate one's killer. To know that he's still out there, a living reminder of all that was done to you. Not for the first time, I could feel the question coiling at the back of my mind-

What was it like?

How did it feel to be dead?

"-I don't remember."

Startled, I looked up. I hadn't said anything: For a fleeting moment, I wondered if I'd been that transparent. If it'd been written all over my face.

But Climb was staring down at his hands, his voice low. There was a distant look in his eyes, almost haunted - It may have been my imagination, but the lights seemed to gutter as he spoke.

"I thought it'd mean more. That it should mean more...But I didn't even see him. I didn't even know when it happened-" His voice hardened, some unknowable emotion flitting across his face as he drew a deep breath.

"...Tell me the rest."

"I-" I shook my head, trying to gather my thoughts. "...Succulent told me everything. We know where they are, Climb." I met his gaze, at last. "I know where they're hiding."

His face set in a grim cast. Grimmer than I'd ever seen.

"-Then let's go," he said, pushing the blankets back. Heedless of the weakness that pulled at his limbs, Climb tried to haul himself up and out of the bed-

He almost made it. Weak from blood loss and revival sickness, and he still almost wrenched himself halfway to his feet, through sheer willpower alone.

And then Climb lurched forward, as if all his strength had suddenly left him, and only my desperate grab caught him before he toppled. He fought through it, gritting his teeth - This close, I could see the tiny splotches of red against the grey linen of the tunic he wore beneath his armor, the dreadful, sweaty pallor to his skin more pronounced than ever.

"I can still-" he wheezed, clutching at my armor. "I can…"

"No," I said, more forcefully than I'd intended. "Not a chance."

Sick and weak as he was, there was no way I was taking him with me. But even if he had been able to stand, to move under his own power-

He'd already died once tonight. I wouldn't have a second death on my conscience.

Something of my thoughts must have shown on my face, for Climb grabbed my arm before I could pull away. His hand clenched down on my pauldron, the tendons standing out starkly against the skin as he glared up at me, willing me to understand.

"Grandmaster - Samuel - I have...I need to be of use to the Princess…!"

Wasted and ill as he was, I don't think I could have broken his grasp, not without breaking his fingers. There would be no reasoning with him, not like this - Not unless I wanted to drag him out of the room with me.

Fortunately, I didn't have to.

"You will," I said, and Climb's brow furrowed with confusion and desperate hope. His death grip slackened, ever-so-slightly - as if expecting a trick - as the black leather case appeared in my free hand.

Back then, in the brothel, I hadn't dared to take my eyes off the Vanisher, not for a second. Some instinct had made me pull the coffer into the airless void of my Item Box: In all the blood and thunder that had followed, I'd almost forgotten about it entirely.

Almost.

But not quite.

The bitter stench of burning clung to the case, like a miasma. Powdered ash sifted from the dark leather: for a moment, the air smelled of cinders, and I shivered as if someone had just stepped over my grave.

Wordlessly, I opened it. Climb made a low sound, deep in the back of his healing throat, as the gems gleamed in the lamplight. Their clean, hard-edged shine caught the eye, rubies and sapphires clicking together like counters in a children's game as they spilled from the coffer.

"-There's something I need you to do for me."

At his core, Climb was a thoughtful soul. I saw comprehension spread across his face, as realization dawned. He didn't like it, not in the slightest: That much, I could tell, as his expression turned inward, his mouth becoming a thin line.

And yet, he saw the necessity.

For a long moment, he was silent. I knew Climb had a half-dozen questions swarming through his mind, but all he said was - Quietly, carefully:

"And you? What are you going to do, Samuel?"

"I-" The words stuck in my throat, as I stared down at my hands. I knew, all too well, what was coming: I just couldn't make myself lie to Climb, not to his face.

At last, I said:

"-Nothing that I want you to see."

Hekkeran was waiting, when I emerged from the infirmary. He hadn't been idle, I could tell: There was a restless energy to him, one that had grown rather than diminished when I'd been gone. His hands hovered near the blades sheathed at his hips, never far from the grips - I could sense the impatience that coiled within him, an awareness that time was ticking away to nothing.

"You took your time," he remarked, turning that expectant gaze on me. "-It's settled, then?"

I nodded, and he sighed. "Just as well, I suppose. At least the lad's out of it, eh? And here I thought he'd be harder to talk down."

"You don't approve?"

"Perish the thought," Hekkeran said, and this time he grinned. "-I remember being his age. Best to save him for the next one of these, you know?"

"You're not that old," I said, and Hekkeran chuckled, softly. I fell into step next to him, as we headed down the hall - the light through the windows was changing, a fitful, flickering orange, and I knew that couldn't bode well.

"It's the job," he said, frankly. "You'll be surprised how fast it ages you, Grandmaster. If you don't mind me saying so...We can't all be Red Drop, you know." He rubbed at his chin, his expression going thoughtful. "Ser Wolfgunblood, though: Now that's someone-"

"-How's Succulent?" I said, before he could go on.

"Rober's dosed him, just like you asked. With any luck, he'll still be sleeping come morning…" Hekkeran's grin slipped, just a little - "That is, if all goes well. Are you sure about this, your Lordship?"

It'd been Roberdyck's idea to mix a healing potion with a sleeping draught. The church had about a dozen on hand, to bring sleep to the restless and peace to the dying. Every step of the process - tending the herbal gardens, the laborious harvesting and crushing and distilling, between prayers to the God of Earth - had long since taken on the character of a ritual. That, among a host of other reasons, was why the priests of the Four Gods had found the Dust trade so uniquely offensive, almost blasphemous.

Or maybe they simply didn't want anyone cutting into their sideline.

Like anyone suffering hideous, rending injuries, Succulent was willing to take any relief he could get. Not that I blamed him for that, mind you: In his place, I'd have done exactly the same thing. Besides, it'd saved us the trouble of forcing the bitter concoction down his throat.

I'd have preferred to have left someone to watch him, but an old axiom came to mind-

"'Never split the party'," I said, softly. "-It'll have to do."

I had a very clear idea of exactly how dangerous the assassin could be. He was a complication we didn't need, and I had to make sure that he ceased to complicate. There was an obvious solution, but…

-But I'd given Succulent my word. And in spite of everything, I meant to keep it.

It might surprise you. It definitely surprised me. My word, after all, was nothing more than what I was, and just as easily broken. Before, I'd left behind as many broken promises and petty lies as anyone else. More, even - I had no illusions on that front.

But here, now...It meant more, somehow.

If I started breaking my own rules - If I didn't even try to hold fast to some constraint, some principle - I knew where that road would lead.

Besides, I had something very specific in mind for him. I didn't want him to miss a moment of it. Assuming we made it through tonight, of course.

As if sensing my thoughts, Hekkeran grunted, a noncommittal sound. He wasn't entirely happy about that, I could tell: That made two of us. Before he could dwell on it, I went on.

"The wagon?"

"Still in one piece." I glanced over at him, and he shrugged. "-Should get us where we need to go, at least," he clarified.

Not the most sterling vote of confidence, but it would have to do.

"You remember what to do, right?" I pressed, trying to fight down the uncertainty that twisted in my gut. "When you get to the safehouse-"

"I know, your Lordship," Hekkeran said. "We're not idiots." He sighed again, raking his gloved fingers through his dust-streaked blonde hair. That single streak of red stood out - almost defiantly - defying his best attempts to smooth it down. "It might not be my place to say this, Grandmaster...But I wish you'd listen to my advice-"

"I have," I said, as calmly - as reasonably - as I could manage. "And I'm grateful for it, believe me."

I drew a slow, steeling breath. Let air fill my lungs, even as my mind shied away from the thought of all that had come before. Just thinking about it….It made my mouth go dry. Made my vision pulse with remembered anger, a distant surf of fury rumbling in my ears.

Not long now, I thought, and said: "But I go alone."

"You-" Hekkeran began, momentary exasperation flashing across his features. He closed his eyes, clearly fighting down an infuriated outburst. When he opened them again, I could see the honest incomprehension on his features: He thought I was walking headlong to my death, and he simply couldn't understand why I'd want to do something like that.

I could have told him. But I don't think he'd have believed me.

Instead, he said - "...You won't happen to have Gazef Stronoff in your pocket, do you? The Black Knight, maybe?"

"I know how it looks," I said, hoping that my voice wouldn't wobble. "Believe me, I know. I am angry, but it doesn't mean that I'm out of control. I-"

My hand settled on Gnosis' hilt. It was, to my immense relief, as steady as a rock. Not the faintest hint of a tremor.

"...I'm seeing things clearly, now. It's time to be a knight."

The knight everyone seemed to think that I was.

I just hoped I wouldn't let them all down.

For a moment, Hekkeran looked like he was about to argue. But then something like resignation crept across his face, and he merely shook his head. "That's how it'll have to be, then," he said, almost to himself. "Not the way I'd have done things, but...I suppose you know best, your Lordship."

That stung, but I didn't let it show.

"Just one more thing," Hekkeran said. He cocked his head to the side, a note of puzzlement to his voice.

"...How are you going to get there?"

Outside, an orange glow gathered on the city's skyline. Columns of smoke and ash boiled upwards from the Poor Quarter, straight towards the sky. The stars were fading, one-by-one, behind that thickening pall: It only highlighted the nightmare glow cast by the flames of burning buildings.

And the fires were spreading.

Jesus, I thought. I could smell the smoke, the stench of salt, sulfur, brimstone...and fear. Always fear.

Like Loyts, again. But Loyts had been a hollow shell of a city, the population in hiding from the beastmen - Re-Estize was a teeming metropolis, and thousands were waking up to a conflagration that the city guard couldn't seem to get under control.

"It's still spreading," I murmured, straining to see through the growing smog. I'd destroyed a single building...How could the fire possibly have got this far?

"Of course it is," Hekkeran said. Wry, to cover his unease. "Does that look like an accident to you?" He gestured, as flames flashed from the windows of a huge, squat building. It looked like some kind of warehouse, but - at this distance - I couldn't be sure.

"Someone's setting off those fires. At this rate, the whole city's going to go up-"

The Vanisher had been ready for this. He'd been planning on regime change, right from the very beginning: Re-Estize was always going to blow - It was just a matter of when.

For a moment, I wondered if I was the cause of all this...But no. I was just the spark in an old, dry forest. Full of deadfall and kindling, waiting to be set alight.

I took a deep breath. Turned away from the distant fires, back towards the task at hand.

Behind me, gravel crunched beneath wooden wheels. The wagon clattered along the solitary path leading out of the church, the horses nervous and wide-eyed. Imina was driving, murmuring reassurances to the poor beasts - there hadn't been much time for them to rest, but at least they'd been fed and watered.

Beneath the stretched hide of the cover, I could just make out the glow of Arche's staff, Roberdyck's low, reassuring murmur.

And Climb.

He'd insisted on wearing his armor, for all the good it would do. Still dreadfully weak, there was no way he could move under his own power: It'd taken our combined efforts to get him into the wagon, and the exertion had left him drenched in sweat. The bright gleam of Climb's plate was swathed beneath a hooded cloak, rendering him anonymous in the gloom - It wasn't much, but I wanted to give him every chance I could.

He was, after all, the most important part of the entire plan.

There was so much I wanted to say to him. An apology for what I'd let happen, or some kind of encouragement...But I couldn't think of the words, not now. I merely nodded, squaring my shoulders as I shifted my attention to Imina.

"Don't stop for anything," I said, like I had before. "-No matter what happens. No matter who might be in the way."

"I know," she said, shortly. The look she gave me was tight-lipped, tense, almost resentful. Not that I blamed her, of course - I was the one who'd got them into this, after all. In her place, I'd probably have felt much the same way.

With a grunt, Hekkeran swung himself up and onto the wagon's running board. He took his place next to Imina, even as she twitched the reins. She was the better driver, but if it came to a fight, they'd trade off: If Arche's magic wasn't sufficient, Firedrake would blast them a path.

I hoped, fervently, that she wouldn't have to use it.

I also knew that hope was probably in vain.

One of the horses snorted and stamped in the traces. The other nickered, flicking its ears as I made sure to stand well and to the side. Even now, I found their smell and size to be intimidating: In the world I'd known, I'd only seen images of horses. Pictures in half-forgotten books, and virtual simulacrums in viewscreens.

As far as I knew, the last horse on Earth had died more than fifty years ago.

I won't lie - They made me nervous. More, the horses could sense my unease, and that made them nervous, too.

A murmur came up, from behind us. We'd kept our plans to ourselves, but the parishioners - and the others who'd been lucky enough to find shelter here - could tell that something was up.

I could make out pale, nervous faces peering from the windows, some of them very young: Women and children, mostly, and a few old men. Even if they survived the night, more than a few would be rendered homeless by the fires, assuming there was anything left but a smoking ruin after all this.

And yet no one called out.

That was what struck me, more than anything else. No-one asked where we were going, or why we were leaving them behind. Abandoning them, in truth: I'd resolved to send help as soon as possible, but - In the cold light of realization - I knew that I might not have the chance.

Or that by the time help arrived, it might be too late.

Hekkeran looked down at me, his gaze curiously sombre. Like he was looking at a man about to make the biggest mistake of his life. The last mistake of his life, in fact.

"Last chance, Grandmaster," he said. "-Are you with us?"

I shook my head, and he shrugged. Your funeral, his expression said. He raised his voice-

"Open the gates!"

The gatekeepers, a pair of acolytes gripping spears, looked dismayed. They hesitated - Looked from Hekkeran to each other, then to me.

"Wait," I said, and Hekkeran blinked, wrong-footed.

"You-" he began, frowning-

And I drew the Interfector.

Mirror-bright steel flashed. A wave of blue light rippled up the Interfector's length, igniting at the tip, and flames swallowed the blade. Different from before, somehow: the fiercely blue fire crackled, spitting like lightning, twining around me like a flaming vine.

And then the holy sword did something it had never done before.

It burned me.

It happened all at once, without warning. A heartbeat after I had drawn the sword, too late for anything to be done about it. Like I'd somehow grasped a bar of red-hot iron, and my mind was only now catching up to the fact.

The flame ran up the blade, yes. It also ran down the hilt, flowing over my grip in a pulsar of liquid flame-

And it didn't stop.

The flesh of my forearm sizzled, as blue fire licked down all the way to my elbow. It felt like my wrist had been packed with red-hot gravel, and my hand-

My hand was on fire.

The blaze lit me up in a burst of arc-welder flame. For one terrible moment, it felt like the palm of my hand, my grasping fingers, had been flash-burned to ash and cinders right through my gauntlet, so abruptly there was no time to do anything but burn.

Just a moment. Like an admonition, a shot across the bow.

Like the first bone-rattling jolt from a secman's neural stunner, to let you know that things can always get worse.

I didn't scream. That was the important thing: The shock, the sense of betrayal, was too much for that. It hurt, so much that my lips peeled back from my teeth, my hand cramping into a claw as steam rose from my flesh, a line of smolder climbing the cuff of the surplice I wore over my armor-

Through a haze of agony, I could hear sighs and coos. A murmur, rising from the onlookers - They didn't know what had just happened, but could tell it was something.

Because they had no idea.

Why? I thought, as the sweat sizzled on my brow. As my face locked in a rictus, a coppery taste in my mouth, my heart pounding against the cage of my ribs.

Why now?

What did I do?

"The Holy Sword-"

It was Roberdyck who spoke, his voice a low, resonant murmur. His wide, honest features were reverent, his gaze drawn to the azure blaze like a moth to flame. The swirling ribbon of fire shed twisting streamers of itself, twining around me as Arche's breath caught, illuminating the alien, angular feyness of Imina's features as she shielded her eyes from the light...

And dimly, like some forgotten revelation clawing its way out of my subconscious and towards the light, I remembered.

Uriel was disabled. Mass Flaming Weapons was locked out. A warning chime, from some far-off, forgotten bell: Some parameter, some karmic value in a distant submenu somewhere, had fallen enough that I was being punished for it.

All in ten-point script, at the very edge of my visual field. The same blank, placeholder text I saw - Text that had become scripture - when I stared into the non-space of my Item Box, through the medium of six-by-six windows.

Reality and fantasy, hopelessly blurred.

What had changed?

And then it hit me. Not a flash of inspiration, but rather a slow dawning: A cold, bleak realization that made nausea bloom beneath my ribs.

When I'd destroyed the brothel-

When I'd brought down the entire building, driven by the singular need for escape that makes an animal gnaw off its own leg-

Innocents had died. A dozen of them, maybe more: Servants and courtesans and hanger-ons, those I'd only glimpsed or barely thought about. Men and women whose only fault had been being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I'd killed them. Not the Vanisher - Me.

Because the evidence was right here, now. Right in front of my very eyes, rendered down and distilled into simple arithmetic. Black stones on one end of a scale, set against the white counters on the other.

On some level, I had always known. But only now, finally, was I truly seeing it.

He'd killed almost a hundred, in a single night. Was I now a tenth as bad as he was? I hadn't meant to do it: Did that matter, in the grand calculus of things?

Was someone keeping count?

"-Samuel?"

Climb's voice was barely above a rasp, but I heard him all the same. I looked up, and saw him watching me, hunched over in his battered armor, with his wan face full of...strangeness.

Somehow, somehow - That gave me all the strength I needed.

I raised the Interfector. The fiery snap and crackle of the edge hung in the air, as I slowed my breathing. Focused on the hammer of my pulse, the rush of blood through my veins. Until the hilt trembled with a high, humming song that only I could hear, a haptic buzz that coursed up my spine and into my limbs, stinging with strength.

I struck.

The Interfector seared down, a contrail of blue flame hanging in its wake. Impossibly, it hung there, bright and pellucid-blue and unfading - Shifting and twisting and shimmering, burning so bright that the eye couldn't hope to hold it. Sucking the light from the world.

I struck again, slashing across. Then twice more, turning the cross into a starburst that trembled with barely-contained power.

Light bent and bubbled. Images formed and faded, re-formed and decayed. The fire was a scorching blue stripe, like part of the screen of reality had burned out. I could smell ozone, felt the hairs of my neck raise, ropes of fizzling flame writhing like snakes along the folds in the air, tracing their way along the spiderweb flaws-

A jagged gash tore through the wound I'd carved in reality. It spread and split, faster and wider and longer. Opening into a bright, cold void, an alien radiance pouring forth. As the air came apart in flame, the fissure shone with an azoic radiance, like the heart of a collapsing star.

...oaths as a paragon of Law binding a mighty Inevitable to their will...

"Come forth, [Apollyon]!"

The shout tore from my throat, as loud as I could make it.

Nothing happened.

The echo rang in my ears, as a silence descended. A beat, then another - The wind whistling, hollowly.

Fuck, I thought, as I felt the beginnings of a flush burning beneath my skin.

I'd done something wrong. I'd misread it, or I'd misjudged the timing, or-

Something heard.

Something answered.

Distantly, I heard the thunder of hooves. Like the ring of hammer-on-anvil, over and over again: A constant percussion, unwavering and unceasing, the relentless velocity of a machine. There was a sudden sirocco of hot air, smelling of cordite and metal, jet fuel and steel-

It came through the hole in reality like a thunderbolt, like living kinetic violence defined into form. The overpressure cracked two of the church's windows, made men and women flinch away, clutching at their ears. The horses shied, and only Imina's hands on the reins kept them from rearing up, traces jingling as the wagon rocked.

It wore the form of a destrier, massive and shod in articulated steel. Vapor streamed from it, as it came to a stop at last, resolving into view. Flames streamed from the charger's eyes and mane, swirling in strange, flickering patterns: A hard-edged light that stole color from the world, that bleached all else to nothing.

Almost as wide as it was tall, Apollyon towered over me, casting a long, stark shadow. Encased in an impossible arrangement of thrumming brass segments and jointed armor plates, the charger's eyes blazed with a cold blue light, an echo of the flame that had called it forth. Try as I might, I couldn't make out the slightest hint of flesh beneath that armored shell…

And with a start, I realized - It had none. The gleaming segments of rune-etched plate, articulating with servo-fed power, was Apollyon's flesh.

It was terrifying. A giant warhorse, shod hooves sending up sparks from the stones underfoot, so silver it was almost black. But it was beautiful, too, the way a lightning strike or a missile impact was beautiful: Like something from a dream or a half-remembered memory, something to be ridden headlong into a charge or into the endlessly setting sun.

It was a wonder that brought a tingling to my hands, a dryness to my mouth, that made my eyes sting with tears...

All I could think, for one distant moment, was: I wish Samuel was here to see this.

I shook my head. Took a first, tentative step towards it, my ears still ringing with the thunderclap of its summoning-

My summoning. What I'd called forth. The thought made me feel dizzy, less-than-real: As if I couldn't conceive all of this happening. Not here, not now.

When the steel-and-brass charger stopped, it stayed stopped: Not so much as a muscle twitched. It didn't breathe or shake its head as I drew closer - I looked into one glowing eye, and there was nothing there except the same fiery light.

Just a machine. Somehow, that struck me as both immensely sad, and an immense relief.

I reached up. Fingers questing, tentatively, for the reins-

Something not-quite-instinct took over. My foot found the stirrup, and my body swung itself up and over into the saddle. Smooth, fluid, as if I'd done it a thousand times before: Motion-captured animation transposed into reality.

As natural and as known to me as any other action my body might ever perform.

Sitting tall in the saddle, I looked up. Swallowed past the lump in my throat, kept my voice as firm and as unwavering as I could manage.

And I said - "Now open the gate."

It was the wagon that rolled out first. As soon as the gates clanged open, the acolytes hurrying to obey, the cart clattered from gravel to cobblestones, jolting along as the horses picked up the pace. I caught only fleeting impressions - Imina gripping the reins, Hekkeran raising a hand in what might have been a salute - before they were a receding point of motion, snow and dirt spraying from the back wheels.

Leaving me there, alone. Astride a fire-breathing steed that I wasn't sure I knew how to ride.

Everything was oddly silent, now. As if the world and all in it waited with bated breath. My feet hung loose in the stirrups, as I drew a deep breath. Gave my mount the spurs-

It surged forward, with an alarming speed. My head snapped back, and I almost lost my grip on the reins. Somehow, somehow, I hung on, riding out the first terrible, lurching jolt as Apollyon kicked into full speed. The acceleration was incredible, an almost instant switch from perfect stillness to a thunderous, booming gallop.

From zero to full speed, in less than an eyeblink.

Behind me, a cheer went up. A ragged one, a tremendous outpouring of emotion: Why, I couldn't begin to imagine.

I was too busy trying to stay alive.

There was no question of controlling it, not in the first few moments. The destrier tore forward, outrunning the slipstream of its own sonic boom. I could feel the furious energy radiating from the thing's core, beneath the segmented plates of brass and silver that seemed to shift and dance like fields of locusts in constant swarm. Hot, like a radiation leak from the charger's nuclear heart.

I felt myself tilting forward, locked in the classic racing position, the wind whipping past me as Apollyon went roaring through the gate, and onto the streets beyond.

It was all I could do to cling on, blood rushing to my head as the paving flew by beneath me, the buildings on both sides blurring past...

But then I gritted my teeth. Yanked the reins to slew my steed into a turn, dug my heels into those unfeeling metal flanks for a better hold. It seemed to know exactly where I intended to go, but that didn't matter: Control did.

It was a machine. It would do what I wanted it to do, and nothing more. I had to remember that, in the face of all that I had forgotten.

I gripped saddle and reins, felt my face lock in a rictus of effort, a wrenching effort that made my muscles burn beneath my armor-

And then I was gone. Riding hard, further into the burning city. Palls of dark smoke swirling out overhead, driven sideways like fog banks by the wind.

Northbound.

Next: Asura (Part IV)