Chapter 33 - Asura (Part IV)

Interlude

The house, and everything in it, burned.

The terrible alchemy of fire had transmuted it to a blackened ruin, tongues of flame licking hungrily through the windows, dancing along gaps in the roof. Thick, choking grey smog billowed from the tiled lengths of beam, the air hazy with the eye-watering stench of burning Dust-

And beneath it, the reeking aroma of roasting meat and cooking bone.

Ash and splinters flew, as the flames flickered and danced. Smoke poured upwards in a writhing cloud: Sometimes brown, but mostly black, shot through with leaping fire. Now and again, the crackle gave way to brittle, shuddering detonations, showers of sparks fizzing and popping against the conflagration.

"-So much for that, then."

Peshurian's voice was low, coarsely amused, as the hell-light of the inferno played across his gleaming black armor - Red, orange, yellow, never touching his eyes, sunk deep in the shadowy recesses of his helm. His weapon quivered in his mailed fist, the forks and serrated edges flowing between shapes, solidifying and dissolving.

There was something sickening, almost nauseous, about the way it squirmed in his grasp, like snakes in black oil. Patient tics of grey lightning writhed and jumped across his knuckles, grounding themselves with a faint, static-heavy crackle: If he noticed, if he cared, he didn't show it, as solidly unwavering as if he'd been carved from stone.

As if in answer, Edström snorted. There was an infinite depth of contempt in that sound, her bangles chiming faintly as she turned her head. She'd been silent, for the past few hours - Unusually so, even, but Malmvist hadn't cared.

After all, he'd had more than enough to worry about.

It'd been a nightmare, getting here. The rain of fire had merely been the beginning: People had been running, screaming, from the flames that had come from everywhere and nowhere at once - Bodies sprawled on the pavement, ignored except for the sickening crunch the iron wheels of wagons had made when they rolled over them.

He'd seen things, out of the corner of his eyes. Dark shapes, hunched and lurching, carried by the ebb and flow of the crowd. Sometimes shambling at a broken-limbed gait, sometimes bounding along.

Never anything specific, never anything certain…

They'd looked like men, or had - roughly - the shape of men, at least. Yet they'd been stained somehow, marked by the falling ash and the gore.

Or called forth by it, perhaps.

Even now, Malmvist wasn't certain if they were real, or just the product of his imagination. The smoke, after all, was treacherous: the mind played tricks. The tangled streets of the Poor Quarter were slipping into pandemonium, the flames from other buildings around casting weird, twitching shadows, like some surreal play.

The City Guard, of all things, had been out in force. Sweaty-faced, desperate, they'd moved with real urgency for the first time in forever: All of a sudden, the old, familiar rules no longer applied, washed away in the tide of braying insanity, of pure, unhinged panic sweeping across the city.

But most of all, there had been that sound. An extraordinary low moaning, a swelling, surging susurration: the sound that only mindless fear could draw forth, a world turned on its head. He'd never heard it before, and he was certain - absolutely certain - that he never wanted to hear it again.

It'd shaken Malmvist, though he didn't care to admit it. He'd made a life for himself in the shadows and alleys, plying his trade amid the capital's rotting splendor: While others might have scoffed at the sophistry, he - more than anyone else - had an ear to the city's pulse, it's rhythms.

Re-Estize had always been a jungle, but only in a metaphoric sense. Something was bringing forth the jungle, in truth: Like some ancient horror, invested with insect malice, released to desecrate and befoul and kill.

And it was eating this city alive.

In the face of that, the strangest thoughts - uninvited, unwelcome - were beginning to swim to the forefront of Malmvist's mind.

How some deals, no matter how profitable, might not be worth taking.

How a killing thrust, perfectly executed, meant nothing if your dying opponent put his blade between your ribs with his last breath.

He'd prided himself on his professionalism. It was - if he said so himself - his prevailing virtue. Malmvist had made a study of his role in tonight's work, or at least of the parts that concerned the Six Arms directly.

It'd seemed so precise, on paper. So perfectly reasonable. Masterful, even, ripe with the prospect of profit. But now, in the great, hollow part of him, deep in his soul, Malmvist had the sinking sensation that something was very, very wrong.

"I see them," Edström husked, her eyes narrowing to slits above her veil. There was a taut, vicious anticipation to her words, one that showed in every line of her form: The long-awaited moment was coming at last, and she couldn't wait for the axe - such as it was - to fall.

That made one of them, at least.

Now, Malmvist could see them, too. Black silhouettes against the blaze - Resolving, slowly but surely, into two figures.

Just two, he thought, and that tension in him unwound ever-so-slightly. Good.

Peshurian wasn't much of a talker. Edström, even less so. Which meant it fell to him to stride forward, his voice pitched to carry across the distance, over the crackle of the flames-

"Lady Lakyus!" Formal, of course, for the courtesies had to be observed. Casual, with the poise, the dash that was so rarely appreciated these days. "Radiant as ever, I see - Your presence does us much honour. But this is private property…"

He felt his lip curl, in the beginning of a smirk.

"-And I'm afraid I must ask you to come with us."

Backlit by the flames, Lakyus turned to face him. Her golden tresses fluttered in the rising wind, restrained by a simple silver circlet - the great blade Kilineiram clasped in her mailed fists, a sliver of darkness against the twitching firelight. She'd seen heavy fighting, that was for certain: New dents had been bashed into her gleaming plate, the exquisite finish marred by dried gore and ash.

"You must be Malmvist," she said, without preamble. Her voice was feminine, well-educated, with the air of effortless aristocracy that so many aspired to, but could never quite manage: When her gaze swept across them, he could feel the quiet scorn in her hawklike gaze.

"Three of you. Three. Zero's wits must be failing."

Her green eyes narrowed, ever-so-slightly.

"-Especially if he put you in charge."

In spite of everything, Malmvist felt himself bridle. Hatred, he could understand - Fear, he expected. But being condescended to, like this: It sent a surge of gut-twisting anger through him, hot and familiar.

"I-" he began, but a sudden, booming laugh caught him off. The dark weight of Fel Iron cast a long shadow, as Gagaran lumbered forward - Her weapon resting casually on one shoulder, her crimson cuirass cratered and scarred from repeated impact.

"Now, now, Lakyus - Maybe they're short-handed," she rumbled, smoothing her blood-soaked hair out of her eyes. Dark, clotted fluids clung to the wickedly curving spike of her massive war-pick: Absently, Gagaran wiped a smear of dried gore from her cheek, her teeth showing perfect and white in her grin. She canted her head to one side, fixing Malmvist with a hard stare-

"...You just can't get good help these days, eh?"

And now Peshurian, of all people, laughed. Not much - just a low, dirty chuckle - but it was enough to make Malmvist feel an unaccountable stab of betrayal. He resisted the urge to give him a swift, sharp glance (not that Peshurian would have noticed or cared, clod that he was) and, instead, drew his rapier.

The cinnabar blade hissed, as it came free of the scabbard - Gleaming, as if newly oiled. He'd heard it thousands of times before, but never tired of the sound: Clear, strident, a statement of intent.

"-I'm afraid I must insist," Malmvist said, drawing himself to his full height. "My employers would prefer to take you alive…" Lower, now. Just above a serpent's hiss. "But they'll settle for your corpses."

"About time," Edström said, the bloodlust glittering hard and bright in her eyes. Her blades hurled themselves into the air - Turning, spinning, their edges glittering as they spread apart in the darkness, drifting sideways. They began to circle her in a whirling circle, gaining speed, faster and faster until they became a blur of deadly metal.

Lakyus didn't even spare her a glance. Her floating swords unfurled from her back, hovering up on either side of her face. They pointed forward, bracketing her with razor-sharp steel as she raised Kilineiram in her unwavering hands.

"We refuse," she replied. "Whatever you feel you might gain from this, in terms of money or favour…I can assure you: It wasn't enough." There was a hard edge to her voice now, as she set her feet - A faint, pearlescent shimmer dancing around Lakyus' gauntlets, limning her form with flickering radiance.

"-You won't be taking us to your employers."

At her side, Gagaran squared her shoulders. Fel Iron made a dark whirr as she gave it a practice swing, loosening her arms.

"Honestly, I'm surprised they asked," she said, with an explosive snort. "I'll take the fop and Peshurian: If we're lucky, there just might be a full man between them-"

Now, Malmvist thought, is as good a time as any.

He'd been holding the small steel coin in his other hand, the entire time. The whirl of eyes, claws and glyphs cut into the lustreless metal were invisible in the half-light, but he knew they were there. The latent power in the token made him feel sick, fever-heat prickling beneath his skin, the taste of copper and acid in his mouth.

He'd never met the Ninth Finger. Not in person, of course. But he'd always been generous with his gifts. Therein lay the trouble, of course: More than once, Malmvist had asked himself - What kind of man gave away something like this so casually?

"That," he said, "-won't be necessary."

He tossed the coin into the air. It tumbled, turning end-over-end as it fell.

A thunderclap split the night. Overpressure made the flames writhe and dance, guttering out in places beneath a rippling wake.

Reality shattered, the way a mirror shatters beneath the hammer. Light blossomed, swelling and shimmering, fusing into a solid, concrete form. A new, terrible weight slammed down from above: It made a sound like a dropped anvil when it collided with the frozen earth, the ground shuddering as it cracked.

The towering beast - fully five meters tall - was pitch-black, vapor trailing from the joints of its hulking plate. Double sets of upper limbs ended in great three-fingered fists, each the size of a man's torso. Set between slab-like shoulders, the head had the aspect of an auroch, great steel horns sweeping upwards and outwards from a bluntly brutal skull.

"The Nine Fingers will come to you," Malmvist said.

With tectonic slowness, the juggernaut swiveled to face the pair. Awesome limbs ratcheted forward, great fists opening and closing in reverse blooms. The wedge-shaped slits of the darksteel colossus' eyes flared to bloody life, the color of stars seen through the smoke of burning cities.

"Well," Gagaran muttered. "-Well, that's different."

The colour drained from Lakyus' elegant features. She knew this. She'd seen this before.

"Get back!" she yelled. "It's going to-"

With a roar, it came for them.

Ripping, tearing wind. Thundering hooves.

The world, a passing rush.

My teeth rattled in my head, my eyes full of wind as Apollyon surged onwards at a bone-cracking gallop. Hunched low over the destrier's crest, earth and snow flickering and flying, it was all I could do to dig in my heels, to cling on for dear life. Everything bounced and shuddered as I fought to keep my white-knuckled grip, jaw clenched so tight I feared it would snap.

The ground sped past beneath me, as if I was flying. Everything ached: My legs burned from the effort of staying in the saddle, fingers cramped from gripping the reins. My pulse hammered in my ears, chest heaving as each rasping breath fogged my helm-

My throat was raw from the smoke, the view through the visor barely making any sense. As Apollyon's velocity increased exponentially, everything was becoming a single tawny-colored smear, this close to nonsensical, blurred insanity.

The air howled in my ears, a giant's hand crushing my chest in an iron vise. The wind snatched at my cloak, tattered streamers of blue-white fabric fluttering in my wake like a ragged banner. I could feel the blood pounding behind my eyes, a dizzy strength stinging in my limbs-

Like I'd crossed a threshold, the point of endless momentum.

Like I could outrun light itself, as long as I didn't pass out first.

At full gallop, there was something fundamentally unstoppable about Apollyon. The armored destrier had covered an immense distance in a matter of minutes, speeding down the long straight stretches of street. It didn't weave around obstacles - It rammed through them without slowing, roaring through anything in the way.

We must have blasted through a wall at some point. More than one, maybe. I had a vague, speed-blurred impression of smashing through the side of a house, to the thunderclap snaps of cracking ancient weather-worn boards. Bursting out the other side in a whirling cloud of splinters, outrunning our own sonic boom.

Somehow, I managed to stay in the saddle. I no longer knew where I was, let alone east or west - But it hardly mattered now. All I knew was real motion, the relentless exhilaration of speed.

As I fought for focus, fought for control, I had the vaguest, half-cohered idea of my surroundings:

A red sky overhead, filled with the flames I'd been racing toward. Hanging smoke, drawing a veil across the ramshackle buildings. Broken masonry, shattered by unknown impacts.

A cart tipped on its side, still burning.

A ruined fountain leaning at angle, spilling water-

A mass of people, up ahead. Running, screaming. Faint, over the rumble of hooves.

Go through them, some vicious reptilian urge whispered, and I hauled on the reins until they sliced into my hands. The giant warhorse swerved, shod hooves scattering up sparks from the cobblestones. It wrenched away from the commotion, heeling over so hard I could've reached out to touch the pavement. Somehow, somehow, it righted itself, rushing down a narrow lane parallel to the blundering, shoving crowd-

Dimly, I wondered what they were fleeing from.

Somewhere close by, a window shattered. Sparks showered, throwing a garish light across the tumult. I could see others turning to run, scattering, scurrying between the buildings - Like glimpses of wildlife in long-ago Asiatic forests, all desert now.

Perhaps they fled the flames, or whatever chaos had seized the city. Or maybe they fled the cobblestone-clapping monster bearing down on them, eyes like twin supernovas, searing tongues of blue fire spitting from a brushed-steel maw.

I'd made it almost all the way to Lord's Bridge, now. Hekkeran had warned me that it'd be packed, and - even from here - I could see it streaming with bodies, a tangle of shouts rising from the press.

What was happening? I strained, but I couldn't make it out, eyes stinging fiercely from the mere effort of keeping them open.

Maybe I didn't want to see. All I knew was-

I wasn't getting across. Not that way.

Railings of pitted stone lined the sides of the riverbanks, the only concessions to safety from the yawning abyss below. Across the dark waters, the distant lights of the city's Northern district gleamed, as clear and tranquil as stars. Mocking the endlessly spiraling chaos on all sides.

Apollyon didn't stop. It didn't even slow.

I dug my boots into the destrier's sides, as hard as I could. So hard my spurs drew sparks from the charger's brass flanks, so hard they scored the metal. Plumes of blue flame swirled from the gaps in the polished barding, a furnace kindled to blazing intensity-

Stone shattered, beneath churning hooves.

The ground fell away.

Adrenaline is an odd chemical. When it floods the system in great quantities your perception of time skews strangely. Every detail is crisp and clear, absorbed and processed.

Time slows. You observe.

I could see every detail of the world around me, now. Feel each moment as it slid into the next.

Apollyon's singular momentum carried us across the last of the road. Through the shattered stone of the guardrail.

Into the empty space beyond.

For one terrible moment, there was a singular, jarring lurch as we left solid ground behind, the thunder of the destrier's hooves abruptly stilled at last.

Then there was only empty air, and the mournful shriek of the wind. I could feel it ripping at me, trying to wrench me free: My arms burned from fingers to shoulder, every muscle a crooked mass of pain, knowing only that I had to hold on, no matter what-

I'd told myself not to look down. Willed myself not to.

I looked, anyway. Down.

Down, at the infinite dark expanse of the water below. The wide, ungainly shapes of the rare few barges carried by the river, dimly lit by the wan glow of storm-lamps. The ramshackle hovels and slanting tents of those who scratched out their meagre living in the shadows of the bridge, half-obscured in the murk-

An awful flash of clarity, like lightning striking: Wrong, a mistake, I didn't mean to do this-

But it was already too late, loosened from the bridge,

Gravity sank its hooks into me.

The bottom dropped out of the world.

We fell. Fast.

I've heard that falling into water from a sufficient height is like falling onto concrete. I honestly don't know if that's true. In that frozen moment, it was all I could think about: The vast, swelling emptiness of nothing below me, in front of me.

The water, rising to meet me, solid and unyielding as a wall of night…

Falling-

…the sickening lurch of the descent…

-falling-

…the blue flames of Apollyon's mane, rippling with the speed of its passage…

My cloak billowed and flapped against my numb limbs. The freezing wind ripped at my hair, tore at my ears, drowned out the hammer of my terrified pulse. As Apollyon began to tumble, tilting forward into a headlong plummet, my arms locked around the destrier's neck. I felt the beginnings of a scream tear at my throat, my lungs burning-

But even as that jagged, mindless panic tore at my mind, I yelled the only thing I could.

"Fly!" I snarled, as the rushing wind tore the breath from my mouth. "Fly, damn you-"

Something heard. Something answered.

There was a sharp ringing sound, like a brace of swords being unsheathed. Twin flashes, as mechanisms slashed forth from their housings in great, curved sweeps.

Wings.

Great wings of brushed steel, rising up from Apollyon's shoulders into the air above. Full and huge, lustrous and opalescent, brass bones shining with a radiance of their own. With a snap-hiss, they ignited: I felt the thrum of energies being harnessed as they beat like living things, opening wide to loft us clear and away.

Too late, I thought, my entire body tensing for the shattering impact. We're not going to-

But we were no longer falling. We were diving, swooping down from above, the world levelling out as my field of vision tilted back, back and up.

We tilted back. Soared.

There was nothing natural about this. Apollyon flew in defiance of all physics, all reason: Each wingbeat imparted an impossible speed, an impossible momentum, a sub-orbital fighter burning towards the stars. Stone flashed past beneath us as we climbed into the sky, spiraling ever-upward, rising toward the distant banks of churning black cloud-

The stars. I could see the stars, twinkling - faintly - like impossible strands of luminescent pearls, like jewels against black velvet.

My mind reeled. Already, I could feel the difference, the giddy exhilaration of flight.

Like I was leaving behind whatever I had been - whoever I had been - below.

Like the acceleration was freeing me from that other person, the weary, beaten-down drone wandering through the reeking streets of the arcology and into the ever-sinking buildings of the Bishop Park habitat.

I wish-

I wish you could've seen this, too-

But then we dipped. Back down towards Re-Estize, towards the winding streets and distant fires. Chasing our own winged shadow, racing before us like a mirage. Down towards the confusion of buildings, some burning and some whole, roads and alleys framed by the orange blossoms of streetlamps and lanterns, smoke swirling upwards like forgotten prayers.

Towards the great, high-walled villa where all paths inexorably converged.

Towards the end of all things.

You have to understand: For more than thirty years, my life had a series of certainties. Not all of them were welcome, and many had brought me plenty of grief, but they had been clear, inexorable. The rules of the world.

But now-

Everything had been overturned.

I had seen beast-headed horrors eating the flesh of the innocent. Carved my way through the nightmare of Loyts, and out the other side.

Wounds could be closed with a touch. Limbs made whole.

The dead could be brought back to life.

It was easier for the others, I suppose. They'd seen - done - all of this before. Perhaps, on some level, they still thought they were in a game: Where all consequences were ephemeral, and all that mattered was doing what they felt was right. Or, when you reached the core of things, whatever they wished.

But I didn't have the Vanisher's icy surety, or Wolfgunblood's blithe acceptance of the impossible. All I had were ten-year-old memories of a long-ago virtual world, and a book I wasn't sure I could trust.

It's one thing to read about how Zeal increases your strength while sapping your vitality. How a Rotating Cut is best followed by Parhelion rather than Calamity, to better complement Axiomatic Aura's evening of the odds. That Sevenfold requires Critical Status, a myriad of conditions, and an Evil opponent (ideally half-dead, but a quarter of the way would do in a pinch) for optimum scaling.

It's quite another to see it for yourself.

It'd been there, an almost-offhand line of text in blocky placeholder script: A Lawgiver's steed can fly. I'd read it, but - in spite of everything else - I hadn't quite believed it.

Until now.

I could have plunged Apollyon down into the stronghold - magnificent, phoenix-like - for a shredding, shattering blast like nothing Re-Estize had ever seen. Or rather, had seen only once before.

But Hekkeran's words had set their hooks in me:

"Well, you've already burned down one building tonight. What's a dozen more?"

I had to be sure. I had to be absolutely certain.

I couldn't risk-

…I couldn't risk not knowing.

I couldn't risk being wrong. Not again.

And maybe - just maybe - on some level, I wanted it to be this way. I wanted them to know I was coming, to let them know what was about to descend upon them. To put them in the right frame of mind to be annihilated.

Strange how it creeps up on you, isn't it?

There was a descending whirl of windows and walls, the leaden drag of gravity easing at last as Apollyon's hooves met the cobblestones once again.

No pause, no hesitation. As smoothly as a machine changing gears: Flight, then full gallop, steel-fletched wings furling with a snap. The jolt nearly flung me from the saddle, but my deathgrip on the destrier's neck kept me in place - A real horse would've been throttled by now, but the unyielding metal resisted my best efforts.

Showers of angry sparks flew up, then sprays of snow and black earth as we swerved through a frozen park. We raced beneath a great marble arch, down a long path canopied by the winter skeletons of ancient trees. The wind gusted through the bare branches, setting up a brittle surrusation, just on the very edge of perception.

It sounded like whispers. Like the thoughts chasing themselves through my mind, over and over again.

And then I saw it.

The villa was built like a redoubt, a place of some scale. It lacked ornamentation, with no banners on the black cinderblock walls or nameplate on the wrought-iron gate. It had been built with an eye towards both privacy and defense, at significant expense: In truth, I think Griffin's Gate would have been easier to crack.

And yet - There was something stately about it. A kind of elegant simplicity, one that told of a care and eye for detail that most simply wouldn't have bothered with. The walls were topped with spikes, too high to make up more than the vaguest details of the grounds beyond: No matter how much I tilted my head back, how much I strained to see, I could barely make out the distant face of the main building.

Firelight flickered, through the slits in the walls. Like an echo of the greater fires I'd seen, the ones eating away at Re-Estize. Even as Apollyon's gallop slowed to a canter, down the tree-lined path, I could already feel eyes on me.

Watching. Waiting, with predatory wariness.

A feather-touch on the reins slowed the destrier to a trot, pebbles crunching as they shifted beneath Apollyon's hooves. Another brought it to a standstill, at long last. After all that dizzying speed, the totality of the stillness was almost disorientating: Inside my helmet, I could hear the short, smoky hiss of my breath, feel the cold sweat that clung to my brow.

I was out of bowshot. Or at least, I hoped so: It wasn't an exact science. But - as my heart stuttered in my chest - I sensed that this was as close to the perimeter wall as I was going to get.

Just getting here had consumed the entirety of my attention. Now that I'd reached my destination, I felt strangely hollow, almost at a loss. For one terrifying moment - A single timeless instant - I stared up at the walls, my mind curiously blank. As if I'd never planned to get this far, never considered what would follow.

No. That wasn't entirely true.

I knew what came next. I just wasn't sure if I could see it through.

They could see me, of course. A gleaming knight, armored from head-to-toe, anonymous in my high-crested helmet. Mounted on a brass-and-silver steed, like some monstrous mechanism, blue flame rippling where a horse's mane would be.

I could hear the thunder of blood in my ears, as I drew a slow breath. Held it, swallowing dry against the tension that ratcheted every muscle in my body like a wound spring.

And I said-

"Open, in the name of the King!"

It came out steadier than I'd expected. Stronger, too. Loud enough to carry over the wind, the rasping shudder of the winter trees.

A beat. Another.

No answer. No motion at the parapet, no silhouettes framed against the night sky.

I tried again, louder this time.

"I said: Open, in the name of the King!"

Metal clanked. Viewports slid open, one after another. Now - now - I could see movement, the light glinting on the killing points of bolts as they were thrust through, levelled in silent threat. I tried to count them: Six. Twelve. Fifteen, at least. More, maybe.

I wondered how many men there were, behind the walls. Taking aim, with insect patience. Did they know what was happening, as the disaster unfurled itself within the capital? They must've had some idea, at least: Some notion of the upheaval that was - even now - playing itself out.

Then, an answering shout:

"Which King?"

There was a ripple of coarse laughter, one that ended almost as quickly as it began. We who are about to die find everything funny.

Another voice cut across the laughter. Harder, without humor:

"No further! Another step, and we fire!"

Somehow, that ultimatum made it easier. The knot in my chest unclenched, just a little, as I breathed out. Exhaled all doubt, all uncertainty. Clearing my mind, for all that lay ahead.

I kicked my spurs into Apollyon's sides, and the destrier surged forward.

Everything began to happen very, very fast.

From above, shouts. Suddenly, the air was filled with whistling death: Crossbow bolts hissed down from the tops of the walls, quarrels punching into the road around me, whistling past my head.

One struck my helmet. Hunched low over Apollyon's neck, I barely even feel it - It spanged away in a gleaming ricochet, another glancing off my shoulder plating. The flat thwack of each shot echoed in my ears, each bolt clattering away behind-

There was a flash. Lightning seared towards me, forking and twisting: I gritted my teeth, anticipating the jarring, burning jolt, but it winked out a heartbeat before impact. It left a searing afterimage, but I was still accelerating, heedless of all else but the great barred gates, looming before me like a cliff-face.

And I thought-

Now.

From the non-space of my inventory, I had retrieved three things. No more, no less.

The first hailed from the Soul Forges of the Platinum Spire's lower levels. Xu Zyglax, the Stone of Despair, had long labored to bring his most terrible imagings into reality. In the soft bloody light of the eternal fires, the demon had forged blade after blade, growing ever-closer to perfecting his craft.

But he found no weapon worthy of his hands. None that captured the fundamental principle of ruin that he sought to embody, a weapon too awful to be taken up by any but himself.

Gnosis had ended his wicked work. But his hammer, the very same that had worked so much woe, remained.

He named it Forge-breaker.

As soon as my gauntlets closed on the haft, the hammer came alive. Nearly four feet long, worked from pure scarletite, Forge-breaker cast a fiery, flickering sheen across the iron of the gates, a radiance that soon turned the sick red glow of a dying sun.

It was heavy. A solid, significant weight - Laden with meaning, with an imminent potential for violence. The haft fit in my grip, as if made for my hands: I could feel it writhe in my grasp, eager to be put to use, as if some invisible arc of energy linked the striking maul and its target.

I heard cries of alarm, now, as I plunged out of the gloom. They'd seen what I held. Some, I think, half-suspected what was coming.

Apollyon's hooves shook the earth, Forge-breaker whirling in my grasp. As I reared back in the saddle, a flurry of shafts - bright and lethal - rained down. A crossbow bolt hit me right in the breastplate, a dull impact that jolted through me, that scraped across the finish of my armor-

I swung. Teeth gritted, both hands on the haft - Putting the full strength of my shoulders and arms into the swing. Throwing myself, body and soul, into the first strike.

-a haptic buzz, shooting up my spine and into my limbs-

Forge-breaker split the air. Like a meteor, a falling star, pulling a tail of flame in its wake.

When the impact came, it was neither fast nor well-aimed. Just unstoppable.

The blunt face of the hammer struck the wrought-iron gates head-on, and everything exploded.

The earth heaved. The ground shook, as if struck by a giant's fist.

The gates ceased to exist.

One moment, they'd been there, solid and impenetrable. The next, they burst open around the bar that secured them. Steel folded into whirring debris, great shards spinning up high in arching trails. The awful shriek of sundering metal split the air, as the entire frame tore free: Propelled by a singular, unstoppable force, twisted metal wreckage and iron rivets erupted inwards, an expanding spray of shrapnel that sheared through everything in the way.

And then, with a terrible slowness - with ponderous inevitability - the walls buckled, dragged after the shattered gate. They folded up, crumpling inwards, bursting and sliding down as they lost all shape, dissolving into ruin under their own weight.

A great pall of rubble-dust boiled forth, scraping at my lungs, making them burn. Gravel rained down from the sky, like pelting hail. A huge landslide of shattered brick and broken stone rolled, bounced and crashed down into the grounds beyond, great chunks of the perimeter wall succumbing to gravity.

Over the roar of collapsing masonry, I could hear screams. Shouts of confusion and terror.

Through the choking gloom, I could make out the staggering, dazed shapes of the survivors. There had been men laying in wait, safe behind the walls: Most had been on the battlements, manning their posts or firing crossbows. Others had been hurrying forward, drawn by the commotion.

They'd been at ground zero, when the world had come crashing down. Those closest to the gates had been torn apart by the flaying blast of shrapnel, broken nails and razor-sharp shards spinning through the air like a whirlwind of knives. The hail of falling masonry had accounted for more, fist-sized chunks of stone hurled outwards with bulleting force - then the avalanche of slabs and tumbling brick, burying anyone left standing.

Many survived.

Many died.

But through the pitiless clarity of my helmet's visor, I could see the breach I'd torn in the wall. The ragged gap, like missing teeth in a shattered jaw, left in the wake of devastation.

Even as dust billowed off the heap of rubble, rising like incense over broken and bloody, dented and battered forms, I spurred Apollyon forward.

Distantly, in the back of my mind: What have I done?

I was through the gate, now. The destrier, sure-footed and unwavering, scaling the rubble like a mere slope. No pause, no chance to catch my breath, to let the enormity of what I'd just done sink in.

Only effort.

Shapes stumbled their way through the haze of wretched, eye-watering smoke. In the cold, clear light of raptor-sight, they all looked the same to me: Caked in dust, wounded and reeling, trying to make sense of the cataclysm that had just descended upon them.

What have I-

One of them was on his knees. Trying to get up, clutching at his shattered shoulder. His eyes widened, one arm flung out in futile defense as Apollyon's weight crashed down on him. He squealed, just once, as he vanished beneath the destrier's steel-shod hooves - a brittle crunch of bone, a spray of red - his body tumbling away as I raced on.

Forward. Into the courtyard beyond.

What-

A flash of steel, on my left. Someone was running towards me, sword in fist. Screeching something, my ears ringing too hard to make sense of his words. I don't think he was trying to attack me, really. I don't think he saw me, even, as anything other than a looming shape through the churning dust.

Forge-breaker whirled in a brief, lethal arc, and came down. The dull shock of impact coursed through the haft, and up my arm - A jolt of sensation, distant and sickeningly intimate all at once.

I felt things break within him. He cannoned back and vanished into the whirling dust, with the sudden and total disarticulation that could not have been possible on a living being.

It felt strange, like a dream. A surreal descent into nightmare.

I'd killed beastmen before. Killing a man-

With a slow, sickening clarity, I realized: It didn't feel any different.

Apollyon galloped on, heedless. I had one hand on the reins, Forge-breaker dragging in the dust as I fought to stay in the saddle, fought to keep control. In the uproar, in the smoke, I had no idea where I was - I knew only that the haze was lightening, that the destrier was turning despite my best efforts to keep it on a straight-line course.

And I-

There was a shout. A roar. I glanced sideways, too late, as a poleaxe swept at me. The iron blade made a whooping sound as it sheared through the air: I glimpsed a tall, brass-helmed figure with brawny arms and wide, desperate eyes, swinging two-handed with all the strength he could muster-

Metal clanged. Unbalanced, I hit the ground - the impact driving the breath from my lungs - and rolled and rolled, as Apollyon thundered onward. The barbarian, or whatever he was, reared back. The brutal spike of his axe speared towards me, lunging for my chest…

I caught it. One-handed, without thinking, just beneath the blade. I heard his ragged breathing, his snarl as he tried to drive it home. It didn't budge, as I locked my grip: All thoughts swept away in the immediacy of the moment, tasting copper in my mouth as I wrenched.

Wood shattered. A shaft of solid hardwood, and I broke it with a twist of my wrist. The crescent moon of the blade spun off into the murk, dull metal flashing, and the splintered length drove past me, skittering against the earth.

"Fuck-!" It was a coarse rasp, spittle flying as he staggered back, empty-handed. I had all of a moment to realize that he was terrified - terrified of me - as he clawed for the chopping sword at his waist.

"He's here!" he spat out. "He's over he-"

My hand closed on the Interfector's hilt. Drew it underhand, rotating the freed blade in a semi-circle, catching it full grip as it roared to life. Blue flame scorched through the dust-choked air, as I swept it across in a single unfurling slash. He let out a high, almost girlish shriek as the sword cleaved him, right through the abdomen, ripping through metal, then flesh, then metal again-

"-aaaaaaaaaaaaaa-"

Bisected, he toppled. His screams became inhuman, as the fires turned him into a writhing torch. The smell was hideous, fat bubbling and boiling, my senses reeling as I stared, thinking:

I did that, me-

A burst of motion, out of the corner of my eye-

They came at me together, with spear and mace as one. The screams had unnerved them, but they had a speed born of terror, knowing that it was me or them. The Interfector's azure glow must have been like a beacon, letting them know exactly where I was. They may have been brothers, I think: I had a fleeting impression of weathered faces, one sullen, the other heavy-jowled and running to fat.

The spear stabbed low. The mace swung high. To dodge the spear meant taking the mace to the skull, and dodging the mace meant getting the spear in the gut.

And yet they were slow. Painfully slow, somehow - As if they were telegraphing the blows. Like they were trying to be sporting, to give me a chance.

I pivoted. The blade of the spear flickered past me, close enough that I could hear the hiss. The Interfector hacked clean through his neck and shoulder, casting out a dark shower of blood, flash-boiled to pink steam. The backswing ripped low, shearing through his legs as he toppled, mouth working in blank, dysfunctioning shock.

The mace whistled towards my head. It was a hefty blow, propelled by desperate strength: With my sword out of position, I couldn't hope to parry…

-But I still had Forge-breaker.

You had to be strong - hideously strong - or mad, to wield a bastard sword in one hand, and a great maul in the other. In that moment, swept up in the frenzy, I was both.

The burning hammer became a blur. It took him in the ribs with a wet-sounding thud, folded him sideways over the cannoning sledge. His feet left the ground, his eyes gone so wide I could see the red meat of the sockets, flecks of shattered chain-mail pinging from my armor. Even as he dropped, his mace clattered from his hand, bouncing harmlessly from my pauldron.

The sound he made. A noise beyond pain, wordless and singular as his body crumpled like an empty sock. Somehow, somehow, he was still alive, riling like a half-crushed insect, paddling his broken limbs like he didn't know what to do with them. Like he was grasping for something, anything that could save him, his gaze hunting mind in a moment of agonizing clarity.

That this was the end.

That Hell came next.

I put mercy into the stroke.

It was like Loyts again, or the camps. Fighting the beastmen - the subhumans - had felt like struggling through a tide, like hacking your way through a jungle: Every swing of the Interfector had been an exorcism, scorching away the warped nightmares that snarled and snapped and clawed at your throat.

Or at least, that was how I remembered it.

The men of the Death-Spreading Brigade, of the Nine Fingers' mercenary armies, were just that. Men. Human, like me.

It didn't make them any less dangerous, but there was something wretched about this. Something utterly unlike the clean war, the good war that I'd been fighting up to this point. Or so I'd told myself, at any rate.

It felt like-

It felt like murder.

But I was committed, as I stalked my way through the settling dust, towards the rambling hulk of the main building. I couldn't stop, not now. Not with Re-Estize on the brink, with the Vanisher out there, with whatever horrors he'd been planning about to be unleashed.

I suppose I could have told myself that they knew what they'd signed up for. That they'd taken the devil's wages, and were now paying the price. Except that wasn't true, not really - For they'd never expected, not in their worst nightmares, that it would come to this.

That they would meet me.

More hired swords came running, shouting themselves into order, trying to make sense of the catastrophe that had just happened: In the confusion of the first bloody moments, of the roar of the collapsing walls, all they knew was that they were under attack.

Some ran towards the commotion. Some ran towards me. Some just ran, period.

I killed them anyway.

You have to understand, the fairness of it meant nothing to me. A paladin, perhaps - a real paladin - might have hesitated. Might have held his wrath in check, saved his blade for those deserving of his steel, slain no more than those who absolutely had to die.

But perhaps not. After all, Remedios knew the hard truth of necessity: That an enemy you spared today was one you might have to kill tomorrow.

And so I came forward, cutting and killing. A spearman stumbled past, leaning on his weapon for support, clutching at the ruin of his face. My sword hacked into his back, chopping a huge gash through his spine and - already half-dead - he collapsed without a sound.

Still in his stained, tattered uniform, a former conscript lurched towards me, out of the gloom. The beginnings of a beard patched his face like a rash, his blue eyes wide, frantic. When he saw me, his jaw dropped: He raised his shortsword, realized his mistake, mouth forming a disbelieving half-smile as he managed a-

"No, plea-"

I took a single, careful step back, and Forge-breaker smashed his head in. He was still smiling, like this was all some terrible mistake, as his skull crumpled with a terrible crack. Blood sprayed, speckling my armor, burning away to nothing in the dull glow of fire that danced across the scarletite maul.

Someone - burly, the gleam of his half-armor dulled by dust - came at me with a war-pick, furious but not particularly fast. He had a bolt buried in his shoulder, his face lacerated by stone shards. He must have been half-blind, but he came on anyway, swinging wildly like he couldn't quite see where I was.

I swung, and cut him in half. He rotated as the sword caught him, twirling blood as the Interfector's burning edge tore through his outline: A great, extravagant quantity of blood spewed forth as he simply fell apart, both halves already losing all shape, all humanity, as the flames devoured them.

"Shoot him!" I heard, over the crackle of the flames. A big man, a leader, at the head of a quartet of mercenaries. They looked terrified: They could see the halos of red and blue flame that coiled from my weapons, the blood drying on my armor as I turned - Slowly, without any particular haste - towards them.

"Shoot, damn you!" he roared, swept up on the rising tide of his own leadership. His axe rang against his shield, with a brazen clang: It looked sturdy, expensive, the killing edge fuming with a frosty sheen, ice crystals gathering on the blade as he leveled it at me. The buckler was the same, intricate gold tracery framing a judging, staring eye.

"Kill hi-"

I was already moving. Already running, sword and maul at the ready. Crossbows clicked and rattled in a stuttering drumroll, bolts whipping across the narrow distance. At this range, armor meant nothing - I felt my body tense, anticipating the shock of impact, the bright, sharp pain of steel biting into my flesh…

But the Interfector's fire enfolded me, and held me in an embrace of flame. Quarrels spat and hissed, dissolving in leaping, twisting sprays of molten metal: One bounced from my breastplate, the other catching my left arm, but I came on anyway.

This time, I led with the sword. Limbs flew, as the Interfector chopped clean through a crossbow's stock, then the hand holding it. The backswing hacked through a screaming face, moving like a rippling wake of fire. I rammed the holy sword through a mailed chest, steam hissing from the gouting wound. The man vomited black bile over my armor, the stench as raw as a slap in the face. His desperate fingers clawed futilely at my helmet, scrabbling for purchase-

"Run!" someone screeched, reeling back. "It's Surshana hisself-"

Their leader charged, bellowing. His axe carved down in a whistling arc, swift and proficient, aiming for the join where my arm met my shoulder. He'd chosen his moment well, knowing I couldn't possibly get out of the way-

Instead, I heaved. Dragged my thrashing victim into the way of the cleaving blade. It chopped into the back of his neck, with a brutal crunch of splitting meat. His head lolled forward, suddenly, grotesquely slack. In the heartbeat it brought me, I swung Forge-breaker in a brutal, short-armed blow.

He saw it coming, of course. His instincts were good, honed by years of slaughter. The shield swung up to take the blow, to knock the descending maul aside. He still had the momentum, and the next swing would have split my skull, helmet or no.

But instead, there was a bang, like a short-fused grenade. Like a sonic boom.

A splattering thwop-

The hammer went through his shield. Through his arm. It buried itself in his left side, and the unleashed force hurled him forty feet. Fiery discharge, like writhing snakes, crackled across his form in the instant before he cracked off a wall, with a snap that told of breaking bones.

What remained of him heaved once, and never moved again.

The orphaned axe clanged to the ground, condensation fuming from the bright steel.

I don't remember all of it, of course. Not every moment.

It was the nature of who I was, I think. What I had become.

It's one thing to kill from a distance, with shot or spell. If I was a caster, I might have been able to go about it dispassionately, annihilating them from a distance, snuffing out lives with each apocalyptic blast.

But I had to do it up close. Close enough to smell the stink of their terror, their fury. Close enough to look them in the eye, as I brought the blade down. It made each fight a blur - impacts given, impacts received - a whirl of splitting flesh and broken bone.

People, reduced to meat. Horrible.

In a way, I was almost grateful for it. If killing ever became casual, ever became effortless-

We would become monsters.

Don't get me wrong. I don't claim to be moral, not especially so. I had my secret rages, my quiet hatreds, just like everyone else. But I never thought that I would have had the chance to act on them.

It must have been easier for the others, I think. Even in the face of it all, I don't think that Wolfgunblood believed the world was wholly real. That those around him weren't people so much as things. Obstacles, to be fought through rather than fought. Prizes to be coveted, to be won, and then to be safely forgotten.

And the Vanisher, of course, had his ideals.

Too much power, concentrated in too few souls.

How could that end in anything but disaster?

Men died.

They died as I tore into them, smashing left and right with maul and sword. They died screaming and reeling and flying, cut apart or smashed to pieces or burned. The Interfector went through shields, through armor, through meat and muscle and bone. It cut limbs from torsos, bodies from their shoulders, heads from their stumps.

I don't know how many perished, in total. More than the brothel, certainly, but far less than the four-score Hekkeran had mentioned. I'm sure some played dead, or thought they were.

By then, they were fleeing from me. Not the measured withdrawal of a defeated army, but the pelting, headlong flight that came with utter terror. Back towards the villa, or towards the slumped ruins of the walls - It didn't matter, as long as they were somewhere I wasn't.

Anywhere else.

I remember sinking to one knee, chest heaving like a bellows, trying to catch my breath. My arms, burning with strain. My ribs aching, the dull flare of bruises beneath my cuirass. I was clutching both weapons so tightly, I could barely imagine letting go of them, blood and brain matter crackling and spitting as they burned away.

I may have been weeping, I think.

The dust, most likely - It got everywhere.

One memory sticks in my mind. Like a tableau, amid all the horror.

At some point after I'd been unhorsed, Apollyon had simply…stopped. The destrier had come to a quiet halt, perfectly still in a way no beast of flesh-and-blood could ever hope to imitate. Just standing, a machine left to idle, vapor rising from gleaming joints.

They tried to kill it. Why, I don't know.

Maybe the bandits and killers of the Death-Spreading Brigade believed that depriving me of my steed was a victory in itself. Or maybe they saw just another monster in a night full of them, and decided it had to die. Perhaps they were merely trying to seize it, either to escape or simply because a warhorse is a fine thing to have, when death is at your heels.

All I know is, a small knot of men - three or four, at most - had surrounded it. Apollyon's stillness seemed to enrage them: They were shouting, jabbing with spears, one brandishing a spiked mace as the last crept up from behind. They seemed oblivious to me, utterly unaware of my presence, as others streamed through the shattered ruin of the gate.

They were trying to keep it distracted, of course. Draw the destrier's attention, until the chancer could grab the reins.

Don't, I wanted to say, but I seemed to have lost the power of speech. Instead, I willed myself to stand, to take a single step forward-

There was a low, rising hum. An almost subliminal sound, a charged feeling to the air, like turbines spinning up to speed. The faint light that bled from Apollyon's steel-and-brass form grew brighter, ever-so-faintly, a flickering, fitful glow.

They made their move. The rearmost man sprang forward, dagger in one hand, snatching at the bridle with the other. He had his knife raised, either to strike or as a goad.

Then lightning struck.

It danced along Apollyon's flanks, across the barbed protrusions of its carapace-shell. Gathering in a single, brilliant point, blindingly bright - Only to lash out, uncoiling like a whip. The jagged, blinding discharge struck the first man, garlands of charge crackling across his form as he convulsed.

Before his limp form could collapse, a second blue-white bolt leapt from his corpse, jumping to the next victim. Then the next. And the next.

That, I think, was what did it. The last spur to turn retreat into utter rout.

Some of the Death-Spreading Brigade flung down their weapons, as they ran. Others tossed down shields, shedding their armor in order to run faster. None looked back, as if the merest hint of resistance invited terrible retribution.

I let them run. For a moment, I felt a sick relief that it was over, at last. That there was no-one left to fight.

But my part in this was just beginning.

I first saw him by his absence, the void he left in his wake. Even fleeing, men knew enough to open a path for him as he walked on, moving swiftly but without haste.

He didn't look to either side, as if he knew nothing and no-one would get in his way. Physically, there was nothing to distinguish him from the others: He was taller than most, I suppose, but I'd seen bigger men.

His chainmail shirt hung on a lean, almost rangy frame, but taut muscle showed in his arms that told of a trained endurance, a precision honed by untold hours of effort. Wavy blue hair framed piercing brown eyes, a strong jaw smeared with stubble - He would have been handsome, I supposed, if there had been the slightest trace of warmth in them.

What set him apart was the way he carried himself. He prowled, like a predator-beast set loose to stalk. He'd seen what he was walking into, the shattered and sawn-apart bodies strewn underfoot like dead leaves, and it hadn't checked him in the slightest.

There was something curiously dead-eyed about his expression. As if he'd heard of uncertainty and vulnerability by reputation, but he'd never known either personally. The absolute confidence of the unbeatable - But there was something else, too. A kind of weariness, as if he'd seen more than he could ever have imagined, and it'd let him down, somehow.

He stopped. About a hundred yards away, thumbs hooked in his belt. Relaxed and ready, utterly centered. Studying me, as I heaved myself to my feet.

"Grandmaster," he said. Casual, as if we were mutual acquaintances at a formal event. But even at rest, his hand never roamed far from the curiously curved sword at his waist, the overly-ornate hilt and baroque scrollwork on the scabbard catching the light.

A weapon from another world. All the way from YGGDRASIL, and everything that came with it.

One of the Vanisher's pawns, then. That made him immeasurably more dangerous. Because…

Because I knew this man. I'd never seen him before, but he could only be-

"Brain Unglaus," I said, finding my voice once again. "You're - Brain Unglaus."

He smiled, the slightest curve of his lips. A hint of crows-feet showed at the corners of his sharp, alert eyes, as he canted his head to one side.

"You've heard of me?"

Now that the first surge of adrenaline had passed, the weapons in my hands felt like they weighed a million tons apiece. "By reputation," I said, my shoulders lifting in a shrug. "They say - They say you're the second-greatest swordsman in the Kingdom…"

"Mmmm." His brow furrowed, ever-so-slightly, his gaze turning inwards, momentarily contemplative. "They do say that, I suppose. It's good to have something to aspire to, after all." He took a slow step forward, perfectly composed: The motion was subtle, graceful, flowing rather than the abrupt start-stop staccato of my unmeasured pace.

"Honestly? I didn't think we'd ever meet, Grandmaster. You weren't the one I was expecting, not really."

"Who," I began, tasting copper and ash in my mouth. I drew a breath of dust-choked air, tried again. "Who were you expect-"

His smile turned a little wry. "Wolfgunblood, at least. Personally, I was hoping for Sir Stronoff."

Brain glanced past me, those brown eyes shifting focus. "-He's out there, isn't he? Still running a thread?"

There was a wistful note to his voice. As if he was contemplating a long-awaited meeting, yet quietly concerned it would fail to live up to his expectations.

I nodded, slowly. "As far as I know," I said, and Brain seemed to stand a little taller, a little straighter, as if an invisible weight had fallen from his shoulders.

"Good," he said, low. There was a subtle edge to his words now, almost hungry: As if the facade of professional courtesy was falling away, now that the formalities were over and done with. "-Come on, then."

He shifted his stance, sliding one foot in front of the other, knees slightly bent - Gently, Brain swept his coat clear of his sword's hilt, and held it back out of the way.

He stood, waiting.

I felt my shoulders sag. Looked around, at the ruin I'd made of the courtyard.

"Hasn't there been enough killing?" I said, and Brain shrugged. Not unsympathetically: As if he did understand, but there was nothing to be done.

Like there was only one way this could end.

"There's room for one more," he said, and I sighed.

"I suppose you're right," I said. Moving slowly, slow enough that the motion conveyed no threat, I raised Forge-breaker. Held it out and to the side.

With a grunt, I heaved the scarletite hammer away.

The weapon turned, carried by its own mass as it spun through the air. It flew further than it should have, propelled by an unexpected strength. When it landed, it thudded down head-first, hard enough to make the ground shudder beneath the impact.

Tiny flecks of dust, stirred up by the tremor, danced in the flickering light of distant torches.

Brain's eyes narrowed, as I took up my sword in both hands. His feet settled, spreading to a wider, stronger stance - His shoulders dropping, broadening beneath his mail. I could sense the coiled readiness in him, limbs like taut springs. The cresting of lethal intent, as bleak and palpable as a leveled blade.

A breeze blew up, stirring the rubble-dust once more. My cloak flapped in the gust, the wings of Brain's coat fluttering as we faced each other. The blood began to pound in my head, the Interfector's ever-burning flame shedding a clean arc-welder's light.

"-To the death, Grandmaster."

I drew a deep, steeling breath. Like I was trying to forestall the inevitable, to steal a last instant from what was to come.

"To the death," I agreed.

The killing began.

Next: God Flash