[Author's Note: A bit of a change in order. I've decided to post this chapter - From Nine, One - instead of Lord of Shadow, first. Things should make more sense, narratively, that way.]

Chapter 35 - From Nine, One

Interlude

Every man a King.

That was what the crates said, Sergeant Geptan had been told. A joke that meant something to someone, surely, but it'd stuck in his head.

Because, well - What sense did it make, really? There was one King, King Ramposa III, Four bless his soul, and that was more than enough for anyone. After all, it was the King who'd brought Geptan and his boys here, all the way from their frontier village. A place so small and so insignificant, it didn't even have a name.

Even from the very beginning, he'd known it would be a shitshow. Wars always were, but their village had been spared up to this point: When the riders had come along on their fine horses, rounding up all the able-bodied men, Geptan knew that was a bad sign. Because it meant that the army was digging deep, and you never wanted to be around when the dregs were drained.

The march to Re-Estize had been bad, but at least it'd been warm. The boys had been all smiles and nerves at first - Excited that they were going to war, just like in the stories, nervous that they wouldn't be coming back - but he'd done what he could to settle them in. To keep them together, for as long as he could.

The training, surprisingly, had been easy. Endless rounds of marching and stabbing sandbags with spears. Cheap spears, too: They turned in your hand, and the shafts cracked easily. But then, some of the older lads knew how it went - It never came down to fighting in the end, just two armies staring each other down across the barren expanse of the Katze Plains.

Sometimes the knights would ride out to fight. Sometimes, if you were really unlucky, there'd be a few arrows flying back and forth. But, by and large, eventually they'd lose the spirit of it and everyone would go home.

Until next year, when they'd do it all over again.

That sounded just fine to Geptan. Against all odds, they'd made him a sergeant - Tasked with the responsibility of shouting "Follow me, lads! For the King!" to other equally terrified men. But he took his responsibilities seriously, and he'd sworn that he would get all the lads home in one piece.

Except the food had been bad, dry mealies when they could get it. The meat had been worse, smelling like it'd been pickled in lye. Geptan had done what he could, to help the boys get on…But then Milho had ended up damnably sick, green and puking. Henrik had gotten himself flogged, and then there had been that trouble with Tobias-

And then the cold had come. It looked to be a wretched winter, one of the worst ones he'd known, and it looked like Milho and Tobias weren't going home after all.

Not unless Geptun did something about it.

In the army, you learnt to scrounge, fast. You did what you could to get by, and that meant making friends in low places. Especially if you needed the coin to get home, or at least enough for a good priest.

The job had been a simple one. Get to this warehouse, find the marked crates, get them ready for shipping. Someone would show up to take the cargo off their hands, coin would change hands, and that would be the end of it. Geptun didn't know what was inside the crates, and he didn't particularly care - It wasn't his business, after all.

His business was getting everyone home, in one piece. Nothing more than that.

But now the city was going up. And what had been a sure thing no longer looked so sure at all. He'd brought a good dozen of the lads with him, just to be sure - Henrik had the fever now, so they could only hope he'd last until they got back. The watchmen had given them the nod, and then it'd only been a matter of lifting and carrying…

And then Tarik had dropped one of the crates. Not his fault, really: The lad had always been clumsy, and the poor food hadn't helped. Worse, he was fretting about his brother, and that was a terrible thing to weigh on anyone's mind. Whatever the reason, there'd been a resounding crash as wood splintered, then an "Awww, Sarge-"

Geptun had sworn. Out loud. He'd had the sleeves of his threadbare uniform rolled up, busy wrangling another crate: It took two of the boys to handle one, so he'd figured he'd pitch in and show them how it was done. Besides, the sooner they were finished, the better - By his count, Re-Estize would soon be no place to be.

But then he'd come around to where the boys had been piling the crates up - All organized, you know - and saw…

"What is this?"

The crate had been filled with bones. Too long, too big, to be human - Shreds of leathery flesh, of scales, still clinging to them. Tarik was standing off to one side, looking shamefaced, but no-one had the heart to chew him out, not really: They were all gathered around what had come spilling out, scratching their heads and trying to make sense of what they were seeing.

"I reckon they're lizard bones, Sarge," Jerro was saying, peering owlishly at a femur. Big bones, too - Long as a house's beams, and solid all the way through. As Geptun shouldered his way forward, he could make out the tiny scrawls on the ivory surface…

"Leave those alone," he snapped. Harsher than he'd meant to, but that writing made him feel oddly sick. Nauseous, almost, like the words were swimming before his eyes. "Get 'em back in the crate, and put it with the others-"

But then there was a strangled yelp, a crack of wood splitting. Geptun whirled round, the muscles in his arms bunching: He liked to think he was a soft touch, but this was serious. Might be that this was their only way home.

"I told you not to-" He began, only to realize that the crates were wrenching themselves open. One at a time, breaking apart from within. And there were more bones in each one, bones that were beginning to rattle, to shiver, slowly but surely rising from the concrete floor…

Assembling themselves. Rearing up, a great dark shape on four massive legs. The femur whipped away to join it, snapping in place as a vast bony tail - like links of rattling chain - swept back and forth, with the screech of stone scraping stone-

"Run," Geptun breathed. "Run, lads-"

To their credit, they'd already got the same idea. Norsten was scrambling away, his forage cap pulled down around his ears, his gangling limbs carrying him at a fair lope - But then his voice rose, all screwed up with terror.

"Sarge - Sarge, there's someone here…!"

Geptun didn't have a sword. Only officers rated a sword. But he had a no-nonsense mace at his belt, the kind with blunt iron spikes and a solid heft to it. He had it in his hands now, as a figure stepped out into the light, like it'd been there all along…

It was dressed in a ragged cloak which hung from its shoulders down to the ground, black trimmed with silver. In one hand, it held a tall staff of brass, leaning on it like a crutch - But that was nothing, compared to the awful horror of its head.

There was no hair, just grey, bloodless skin. A ragged hole where the nose should be, cataracted eyes gleaming in the shadows of that sunken skull. Desiccated lips shaped a rictus, something that may have been a smile.

"Thank you, my friends," the Elder Lich said, in its dry, deathly rasp.

"-You have saved me a great deal of trouble."

Zero came on like an avalanche. Like a bull ape, pounding on his hands and feet, steel-shod legs and arms driving his body mass forward in a gallop. His spiked gauntlets tore great gouges in the ground, ripping up the cobblestones from the sheer speed of his passage - Churning his way forward, with the dreadful unstoppability of a disaster.

The fury of the lion, the lethal speed of the panther, the relentless force of the charging rhino…They were in him, his tattoos writhing against his skin. I heard the animal snarl rising in his throat, the hazy shimmer of power around him going from red to black-

He leapt. Not the way a man leaps - Like a predator, pouncing to bring down prey. It was a soaring leap, propelling him skyward in a single surging bound: Pavers cracked underfoot, his form silhouetted against the distant dome of the night sky.

Arms raised. Great fists wrenched back, ready to smash me into red ruin.

But I was ready for him. The Interfector's arc-welder flame seared forward, scything through the darkness in a single-handed stroke. Aiming for where he would be, not where he was, already anticipating the awful impact of steel biting into flesh, the flash of flame-

Or so I thought.

From his mid-air leap, the descending man kicked out. His boots drove back, his broad upper body tensing - And for a fraction of a second, I saw the translucent shimmer of crimson light underfoot, the rubies set in his greaves glowing with a lurid bloodstone radiance.

Like a half-real platform. Like a ramp, there and then gone.

A surge of his legs changed the trajectory of his leap. A burst of power launched him like a human missile, clawing his way through the twilight: My eyes widened as the speed of Zero's flight suddenly doubled, his roar of triumph rendered brassy, dissonant, by the clutching fingers of his carnifex mask-

Desperate, I swung Forge-breaker. The great maul split the air with a plosive whooof, a comet-tail of red flame dragging behind the hammer's arc.

-Too late.

Zero punched me in the face.

There was a crunch. Fireworks went off in my skull, the tremendous impact wrenching my head to the side. Black blood spray fanned into the air, the knuckle-spikes tearing flesh - White fire blasting into my field of vision, bells ringing in my ears as copper and battery acid filled my mouth.

An ordinary man would have died, then. That, I don't doubt.

Zero's already-hideous strength had been amplified to truly monstrous levels by the Harken Gauntlets. Even without their brutal, mauling weight - Pitch-black darksteel, so heavy they distorted local space, humming with the enchantments that gave them their hellish speed - he could've crushed a man's skull with a flick of his wrist.

But as I was learning - Slowly, painfully, the way all true wisdom comes - I was not an ordinary man.

In time, I would learn: I was not any sort of man at all.

I staggered back. Spitting blood, sword and maul going wide. Cheers rang in my ears, shouts of gleeful fury. As my head rocked back, I glimpsed blurred figures waving, pointing, thrilled by the sight of first blood.

Like vultures, circling. Like hyenas, laughing as they waited for something to die.

Forge-breaker nearly flipped out of my slackening grip, but somehow, I kept hold: Reeling, I shook my head, trying to readdress, wrenching the Interfector up to hack at Zero's blurred form-

But he was inside the arc of the swing, and his fist crunched into my ribs. My feet skidded against the ground, every breath I had ever taken exploding from my lungs as I felt my feet turn to cloth beneath me-

I made a sound like "Hnnnnnkkkk-"

Mythril gave, caving inwards. The half-healed wound Brain had left broke open, rupturing beneath the concussive impact. I felt the extraordinary force reverberate through me, a sick nausea twisting in my gut - My body fighting to fold over, to crumple beneath the mangling force…

But I did not fall. Even as Zero's next punch flashed out, I wrenched myself back. I threw myself away from him, boots hitting the tiled ground of the path in a clumsy and painful stumble. The sharp pain jarred up my spine, the Interfector's blue flame rippling before me as I wrenched it up to guard.

For Zero had already closed the distance. Without warning, a lightning lunge. His fists drove forward, like twin battering rams-

Except I wasn't there any longer. A lurching sidestep took me to the outside of his lunge, the effort sending dark spots shooting through my already-blurred vision. I swung Forge-breaker backhand, aiming for the base of his skull as he drove past. The maul whistled through the air in a short, lethal blow: If it connected, it'd have ripped his head from the stump of his neck. Sent his brains spraying.

He felt it coming. Without hesitation, Zero pitched forward, rolling beneath the hammer's burning arc. He landed in perfect balance, and spun to face me on one knee. Even as I raised the Interfector, even as I took that first surging step towards him, he punched the air-

There was an odd, hard bang. A quick concussive vibration of air, a blurred distortion that rippled across the intervening space. Instinct alone made me block, the Interfector's blade crossing Forge-breaker's haft as I wrenched both weapons up: It smashed into my guard, a merciless, mutilating force.

There was a point-blank thunderclap, a brutal jolt that nearly ripped my weapons from my hands. I set my feet against it, gritting my teeth as the second blast slammed into me - To my left, a tree exploded in a shower of rotating splinters, branches snapping in half beneath the invisible impact.

The crowd was whooping. Stamping. So loud that it cut through the ringing in my ears, so hard that it felt like the air was shaking. Aroused by the violence, by the immediacy of death: In that moment, I hated them more than I could possibly imagine.

As the last echoes of the blast faded into nothing, there was a momentary lull. Zero's gauntlets smoked as he lowered them, circuit-patterns spidering across the dark metal, shedding a lava glow. I saw his brow furrow above his mask, his pitiless eyes narrowing. Not respect, nothing resembling that: Surprise.

He wasn't sure how I'd blocked that. Wasn't sure how I was still standing.

"Not so handsome now," he rumbled, metallic echoes warring with the dark amusement in his voice. Sweat gleamed on his chest - He was breathing hard, like a bellows. Harder than he should have, I could tell: A dark trickle wept from one nostril, and Zero snorted like a bull, shaking his head as if it pained him.

So there was a cost. His gifts came with a price, after all. But he didn't seem to care: All the while, his gaze followed me, eyes gleaming with the quiet satisfaction of a job well done.

There was an immense amount of blood, and I couldn't tell where it'd come from. Gore had drizzled my arms, the front of my armor, obliterating the gleam of the bright metal. I spat, clearing the awful taste from my mouth, uncrossing my weapons. Let them hang under their own weight as I loosened my shoulders, working my fingers around haft and hilt.

My breath smoked: My blood burned in my veins.

Funny. I'd thought wrath would be hot.

"That's all you get," I said. My voice sounded dead, flat - As if the gnawing pain in my skull, the spreading ache in my side, had stripped it of all effect. "You hear me? That's all you get."

"Ha! I'm starting to like you, Grandmaster," Zero said. He was smiling, I could tell: Grinning beneath the mask, the fleshless rictus of a hunting panther. His stare never wavered, watching for that flicker of weakness, that moment of distraction…

I could feel the blood running down the side of my face. From the ragged cut above my right eye, where his fists had torn the skin open. Any moment now, it would blind me, and he would spring.

I charged, instead. Covered the narrow distance in a single bound, the Interfector carving out in a burning arc. I willed myself to be fast, fast like before, to muster the same terrible speed that had defied Orochi's screaming edge-

But Zero had been accelerated, too. I'd sensed it, dimly, from the very beginning: How superhumanly fast his reflexes were, how inhumanly instinctive. The swiftness of the wolf and the pin-sharp senses of the raptor, mated to the tireless energy of the auroch - All of it further amplified by the Vanisher's gifts, to levels unseen since the time of the Thirteen Heroes.

When the burning sword sliced down, his gauntlets flicked up to meet it. A heartbeat ahead of the racing line of fire, the burnished black cesti flashing in the actinic blue glare. I didn't care: There was a tremendous force behind the slash, enough to carve through the lightless steel, through both of his arms and down into his chest-

Except the Harken Gauntlets did not cut, and they did not give way.

Something like a blue supernova flared, at the point of impact. Rippling flame skittered across the metal in swirling circlets of azure fire, clawing for - failing to find - purchase. A weird, keening shriek hummed down the blade, a haptic buzz that shivered through my bones and set my teeth on edge-

Zero kicked out. His massive boot cannoned forward, and smashed into my right kneecap. There was an enormous force behind the blow, driven by his greaves: Metal buckled, the joint smashed out of shape as bone grated on bone.

Pain shot up my leg, like a lance from knee to skull. Like someone had lit a fire in the marrow. Somehow, somehow, it didn't shatter - But I staggered all the same, twisted off-balance. Agony clawing at the inside of my throat.

It hurt too much to scream.

In that moment of white-hot agony, Zero moved. Suddenly, he was behind me: An arm like a great twisting steel serpent lashed out, snaking around the back of my neck. The other levered across my face, wrenching me into a vicious hold. He twisted, trying to snap my neck, but had to jerk back as the Interfector's burning point sizzled past his face-

He didn't let go. I heard his distorted snarl, saw his face contort in effort as his grip clenched down around my skull. By the time I realized what he was doing, the Interefector's flaming blade was twisted up and away, Forge-breaker out of position to strike-

Fuck, I thought. This is a stupid way to die.

There were gasps, from above. Cheers. A light smattering of applause, even. All from the people who wanted to watch me die by inches, my skull crushed to powder.

I could smell the bitter, chemical reek of the elixirs coursing through Zero's blood, see the black veins standing out against his skin. Whatever the Vanisher had given him, he was already paying the price - But until it ran out, it made him mighty.

A forearm's worth of darksteel was jammed in my mouth, the superheated metal blistering my flesh. The tooth-grating drone sent a migraine pulse through my temples as red streaked my vision…

And I saw her.

Hilma.

She was standing slightly apart from the others. Alone in the crowd, and kept that way through some unspoken mutual consensus. Like that night at Prince Barbro's ball, the zone of exclusion moved with her - A faint, almost palpable reluctance to draw closer, even amid the press.

She wore the white dress I'd seen before: A little more formal, a little less revealing, a fur stole draped over her slim shoulders. Dressing up, rather than down.

Her face was serious, now. No games.

Looking on, as Zero locked my head in the vising hold. As the merciless pressure tightened, heedless of my attempts to break free. I strained, heaved, fighting to wrench free, but he had the leverage. Feet shuffling for advantage, I kicked back - My boot rang dully against his greaves, drawing a grunt but no respite.

She was silent, amid the wild noise of the crowd. Unmoving, amongst their shaken fists and twisted faces. Pale hands gripping the railing, not quite leaning on it for support, knuckles white against the brass.

I wonder if she thought she owed it to me. For she'd set me on the path that had led me here, after all: In the end, the least she could do was to watch me die.

Or perhaps she considered me a loose end. Something to be tied up, to be brought to a close. She had to watch, because she had to be sure - For she must have had some idea why I'd come, and what I could do.

My eyes - Vision blurred, darkness billowing in - met hers. In the brief moment before her face turned to stone, I saw a flicker of some unknowable emotion.

Fear, or relief? I couldn't say, not really.

But I held her gaze, as Forge-breaker spun in my hand. It flicked over, and the haft thudded into my palm, the grip reversed. A haptic buzz shot up my spine, surging down my arm…

-Heard Zero's muffled curse, a shudder of premonition wrenching through his great limbs-

As I drove the flame-wreathed maul down, with all the force I could muster.

The ground exploded.

The earth heaved, tolling like a bell.

A shockwave of ferocious white flame ripped through the garden, and smashed us apart. A solid wall of heat slammed into me like the palm of God, ripping over me, through me. It hurled me away from the crater I'd made, knocked me flat: As dirt and ash rained down, I struggled up from the detonation, ears ringing as the echoes of the blast died away.

Around us, the grass was burned and scorched where it hadn't been ripped away entirely. One of the trees had toppled, at least two blazing merrily away as burning petals swirled through the air.

From above, there was a creaking, a tearing - The sound of something giving way. Shouts and cries, as the crowd shied back they were getting a closer look at the fight than they'd expected. The thought sent a dark, spiteful shiver of satisfaction coursing through me, as I dragged myself to my feet-

Somehow, I'd managed to keep hold of both sword and hammer.

My cloak had been flayed, but I was remarkably whole. Just a few grazes along my back, the runes on my armor glowing a sullen red as they kept the worst of the flames from me.

The same, however, couldn't be said for Zero.

He'd evaded, of course. His bestial reflexes had saved him, and he'd hurled himself aside at the last moment-

But not quite fast enough.

He was staggering to his feet, beating out the flames that swirled along his clothes. Zero's flesh was pink and raw where he'd been scorched, like sunburn. Blood wept from the shallow gashes and cuts he'd taken, lacerations from the hail of flying shrapnel - Weeping burn blisters showing on his arms, running with clear fluid.

He must have been concussed, or at least dazed, because he was shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. Not so confident, now: Blood ran from his split cheek and dripped from his jaw, his face bruised where the blast had hit him.

"Mad," he growled, voice made hoarse by smoke. "You're mad-"

There was a kind of disbelief in his glare. As if he couldn't understand how - or even why - I'd done that. How I was still - improbably - in one piece, despite being at ground zero of the blast.

Something about that.

Something about the way he said it - incredulous, as if I wasn't playing fair - sent a wave of warmth racing through my chest. Untangled a knot I hadn't even known was there.

I laughed. Chuckled, really - Soft and low. Rough, a little weary, but all the richer for that.

His glare sharpened, as Zero patted out the line of smolder climbing the lining of his hard-wearing vest. Eyeing me warily, as his eyes darted to Forge-breaker. I hadn't landed a single blow with the hammer, not yet - But from the swift calculation in that glance, he knew a direct impact would pulverize him.

"I just realized," I said. Over the crackle of flame, over the gust of the ash-laden winds.

"-I don't need you alive. Not any more."

A ragged murmur, from the crowd. They'd heard, too.

I saw Zero's expression change. Saw the insult, his face going black as thunder. Watched his jaw clench, like he was chewing rocks. He spitted me on a flickering glance of pure cold hatred, as a stillness descended, a terrible silence-

And then, a winter whisper: "I'm going to bleed you, boy."

His boots thumped against the broken ground, that corded form settling in a fighting crouch. One great arm drew back, the other rising before him, palm out. Shod in steel, every motion was exaggerated: His hand formed a vast stiff-fingered claw before him, one that seemed to hang there for an age, before it curled - slowly, so slowly - into a fist.

There was a static-heavy rasp of white noise, as Zero breathed in. Cising arcs of corposant flickered across the grasping skeletal fingers of his mask, a vile vermilion light igniting behind his eyes.

I could feel the power that coiled within him, so much his form smoked with it. Black veins, like cracks, spidered across his skin: His tattoos seemed to glow from within, as if newly-branded into his flesh.

I didn't move. Just stood, waiting.

Waiting, as that terrible significance, like a haze of nightmare, swarmed around his clenched fist. As crystals embedded in his gauntlets shone cold, sterile white.

There was a rush of air that felt like breath. Zero surged forward, long blurring strides that carried him across the narrow distance as if on the crest of a wave. He uttered the loudest roar of all, the sound blasting out of him so hard that the air shook, so loud it rattled my skull and made my teeth ache-

We moved as one.

In his time, Zero had dismantled dozens - hundreds, perhaps - of swordsmen. His ferocious skills looked brutal, primal - a relentless straight-ahead assault - but he'd made an art of it, one vastly more subtle than most would ever grasp.

It was about prediction. About seeing an opening, three or four steps ahead, then seizing the moment when it came.

The problem was the Interfector: Raw flame in the shape of a blade, fast and long. For his gauntlets gave him many things, but reach was not amongst them. He had to get close, past the sword's lethal thrust or cleaving arc.

So close I couldn't swing Forge-breaker. The great hammer's weight was its strength, but it also meant it was far slower, far less versatile, than the killing edge of a sword - It was a ponderous weapon, potent but clumsy, and it shifted one's balance in ways that had nothing to do with strength.

In the blank, frozen instant before he'd charged, he'd already found his path to victory.

I obliged him. When Zero hurled himself forward - a great, dauntless rush - I stabbed. The Interfector's blade rammed at him, flame rippling in the wake of that single, fluid thrust. So fast it became a blur of silver and blue, spearing right for his heart…

His leading gauntlet batted my lunge aside, armored forearm forcing it out wide. A sheet of silver sparks sprayed from the shrieking contact, so close his head jerked to the side. The motion was lightning-quick, with a panther's feral speed: the evasion whisker-close, the flames scorching his jaw.

He was on me like a wolf at a kill. Face twisted with triumph, pulverizing fist driving forward to smash me apart-

And in that moment, I thrust with a weapon never made to be thrust.

There was a look of almost unbearable surprise on Zero's face as Forge-breaker smashed into his chest. Not swung, but stabbed - The blunt brick of the scarletite head crunching into bone. The impact flung his limbs out wide, like he'd slammed into a wall of solid brick.

A brick wall studded with tasers.

I felt his sternum shatter, felt things break within him. There was the brittle sound of snapping bones, as every breath he had ever taken exploded from his chest, aspirated in a spray of blood. Flame scorched his flesh but - compared to the way he folded around the weapon, like the earth around a driven pile - it was almost an afterthought.

He made a sound. Gagging, choking on his own blood. No pain, just utter astonishment: Blank surprise scrawled across Zero's features, the rictus of rage abruptly banished. His gaze swung down, to the haft protruding from his chest - For Forge-breaker had punched past his guard and kept going, bursting his heart, rupturing his lungs from the blinding force of the impact.

I've heard it said, somewhere, that blunt weapons don't draw blood. That priests take up mauls and hammers in defense of their faith, in deference to the proscription of bloodshed.

I'm sorry, but: That isn't true.

I heaved. Blood gushed down the shaft, and splashed - sizzling, smoking - on my gauntlets. As I'd promised myself, I held his gaze as the furious light in his eyes dimmed, becoming unfocused as death crept in.

And yet, horridly - for a few seconds more - Zero lived. He spasmed, trying to make his limbs work, to fight back. Against all odds, he nearly made it: Great fist wrenching back, blood drooling from his mouth as he braced for a final blow…

But then the last breath rattled from his ruptured lungs. His arm went limp at last, his great armored fist falling to his side. His head, held shiveringly rigid to the end like a sleepwalker fighting unconsciousness, was the last to drop. Zero's chin fell to his chest, his body sinking to the ground at last as all animation fled his form.

Forge-breaker came free only reluctantly. It'd sunk into him, devastation rippling out like a stone hitting the surface of still water. Shreds of charring meat, of gore, clung to the maul in dark tatters for long moments, burning away with brief flashes of darker flame, the sick smell of roasting flesh hanging in the air like incense.

It made my gorge rise. Made nausea claw at the inside of my throat, even as the acid burn of adrenaline faded. As the hammer of my pulse slowed, I staggered back a step - Fighting down the urge to dry-heave, to retch, the abrupt stench of death cloying close.

He would have killed me, in a heartbeat. Without the faintest twitch of guilt, with nothing but the savage satisfaction of another victory, another step along the warrior's path. The world, or at least part of it, would breathe easier now that he was gone.

But I felt no triumph. For - while he'd had his part to play in this, just like everyone else - Zero had never really been my enemy. It was the Vanisher who'd placed him in my way, another tool, another gear in the winding machinery of his plan.

The crowd had gone silent. People were watching from the balconies above, waves of slow-dawning realization spreading like ripples across a lake. Processing what had just happened, knowing what it meant.

Without looking up, still staring down as Zero's ruined corpse, I said:

"Come forth, [Apollyon]."

It was easier, now that I'd done it before. I didn't need the Interfector for this, not really - Just the will.

Even turned away, I saw the flash at the corner of my vision, the splitting crack of the thunderclap ringing in my ears. Steel-shod hooves thudded down, the reek of burning metal making itself achingly clear - For the destrier had forced itself into reality, dragged from the cold stone of the courtyard to this world of wine and revelry and understated elegance.

A woman screamed, briefly. High and piercing, the last sound in the sudden silence spreading over the well-laden tables. To those used to viewing violence at a remove, finding it looming this close must have been a terrible shock. An impossible breach of trust, almost. Things like that simply didn't happen to them, not at all…

-Until now.

"No one leaves," I said, into the terrible quiet. "-No one leaves."

A winding set of steps led up from the now-scorched gardens, as cratered and charred as the surface of the moon. Years of careful tending, exotic foreign trees imported at great cost - All reduced to stripped-bare skeletons and cinders, in the span of mere minutes.

I could have covered the distance in a single leap. Could have hurled myself across the gulf, hauled my battered body over the railing.

Instead, I walked. Slowly, taking the steps one at a time, following the curve of the ascending spiral. I'd returned the Interfector to its sheath, but none existed for Forge-breaker: I simply let the hammer swing freely in my hand, carried by its own weight. On occasion, it bounced against the steps, knocking shards free - Tiny cracks skittering through the marble, a testament to the maul's terrible weight.

It could be taken for a statement, I think. A declaration of intent, an object lesson in inevitability. In truth, I needed to catch my breath: The worst of my wounds were healing, but they itched and burned fiercely as they did. It felt like one eye was on the verge of swelling shut, and I could feel the leaden weight of fatigue dragging at me, like I'd taken two back-to-back shifts without rest.

For the night had been so terribly long, and - deep in my bones - I knew it wasn't over yet.

The door to the gallery was closed. Iron-bound hardwood, almost a piece of art in itself, worked with carved blossoms and twisting lines of ivy. Solid, enduring, locked fast.

A single kick shattered it to splinters, and I stepped over what remained.

I smelled the blood before I saw it.

Some hadn't listened, of course. After all, only Apollyon stood between them and escape - Enough that they fancied their chances. For they had their retinues and life-wards with them, and it was merely a matter of applying the right inducements.

By my count, about an even dozen of them had made the attempt. All had the weapons of their trade, infused with the best enchantments their masters could buy: They must have been ferociously proficient, in their own way. A few had fought together before, most likely, enough to better coordinate their rush.

Their bodies lay steaming where they had fallen, split and sectioned. Blood had glugged out of them: It pooled and pulled, a darker shade than spilled wine.

Apollyon stood over them, solemn as a judge's gavel. In the face of the threat, that gleaming bulk had unfurled itself. Mechanisms had whirred to life, the destrier's silhouette rearing up like a centaur of myth - Quad-armed and brass-armored, crackling blades of solid light extruding from wrist-sockets.

It had sliced them to pieces, the face-plate of its helm displaying nothing but serene indifference. Blood steamed on Apollyon's flanks, on the absorption coils of its weapons. Bits of bodies smeared across its unmoving limbs, like mementos.

Jesus, I thought. Even the horse is a weapon-

The gallery had fallen silent. The natural oscillation of the crowd had carried them as far away from Apollyon as possible: They were pressed up against the railings they'd previously shunned, after the explosion that leveled the garden. The long, laden tables had been abandoned, half-finished dinners and glasses scattered on the white linen, chairs overturned in the rush to flee.

But there was nowhere to go, not now. Not when faced with the immediacy of death.

A terrified hush descended, as I stepped through the doorway. Covered in blood, armor dented and cloaked in ash, I must have looked like a lurching horror, some specter of primordial violence.

I walked down the length of the room. Keeping that measured pace, Forge-breaker's thud a leaden counterpoint to each slow footfall. Pale faces stared back at me, made ghastly by the glow of the lanterns that illuminated the gallery - Some winced as I approached, but none of them dared move.

For a moment - One terrible, dark moment - I was tempted to wade in. To start hacking, sword and maul smashing away in great arcs of gore. For they were part of it, all of them: Part of the chain of corruption, of misery, that had brought things to this point.

That made this world so very much like my own.

And who could stop me, really? Who would care? Their families, I suppose: But given the lives they had ruined, personally or by proxy, it seemed petty to even consider that. With each blow, I would be making the world a better place. At the very least, I wouldn't be making it any worse - For the Vanisher had some purpose for them, and I'd be denying him their use.

I didn't even have to be the one who did it, if it came down to that. All I needed to say was-

"Apollyon, kill them all."

And the Inevitable would obey. It would obey, without question, until all life had been purged from the chamber. Until every last parasite, every last fat, bloated tick, was dead and gone. Not in months, not in years: Right here, and right now, at the point of a sword.

I could wipe them away like a stain.

It would be so easy.

Before, I wouldn't have known where to start. The megacorporations and zaibatsus were nebulous things, untouchable and formless. The great political dynasties of our morbid, moribund government were as far above me as the stars above the blasted earth. And the greedy, faceless, grasping masses-

No-one was responsible, not really. Even with the power, I'd have no idea where to even begin. Not that I had any, of course: No more than anyone else.

I couldn't even imagine what it would be like.

And that, in the end, was why I didn't do it. For the thing that seems right, that seems easy, rarely is. I had to slam my eyes shut, draw breath after breath until the pounding in my head faded, until the red smoke swarming through my vision cleared at last-

Until I saw them as people, again.

"Sir Samuel-" A portly man, resplendent in a waistcoat embroidered with silver flowers, staggered forward as if pushed. "I…Congratulations on, uh, your victory." His jowls quivered, his face waxy with sweat - "On behalf of the Merchant's Coalition, I ask that you-"

I looked past him. At a page in the blue-gray livery of the Nine Fingers. Just a boy, really, still holding a pitcher in trembling fingers.

"You can go," I said, without preamble. "You, and the other servants - You can all go."

He blinked. Staring at me, seemingly astonished at being directly addressed. He didn't drop the pitcher, but it was close - Instead, he clutched it to himself, giving me a swift, frightened glance…

And then he was running. Darting away, head held low, scrambling past Apollyon into the corridor beyond. Moving like he expected the fatal blow to come at any moment, as if this was all some cruel game. But then he was racing away, and - At last - I heard the crash of porcelain shattering.

That, I think, was the cue for a general flight. A girl, too-young face smeared with rouge, pulled away from a man old enough to be her grandfather. His beringed fingers reached for her, but she was already gone, so quickly she left a sandal behind - Wrenching her silken shawl from her shoulders, casting it to the floor like so much trash.

It was a momentary flurry of confusion. A not-significant number took to their heels: Servants, mostly, but paid companions and bodyguards, too. At least one sword clattered to the ground, flung aside as its wielder tottered away - One clung to his axe, thought better of it, then hurled it down hard enough to drive it into the floor, before he sprinted out of Apollyon's reach, too.

A matronly woman in a flowing gown and way too much jewelry tried the same, too. There was a distinct sideways sidle to her motions as she swallowed, hard; Tottering forward, her eyes darting to me, judging the distance-

Forge-breaker swung like the needle of a compass, and pointed directly at her.

"Not you," I said, and she gasped as if I'd slapped her.

She drew herself up, her expression indignant.

"If I may ask why-"

"You're right where you belong," I said, as calmly as I could. Trying to ignore Forge-breaker's urging, that invisible arc of potential energy that connected the maul and her fragile form.

"-Aren't you?"

She glared at me. Hatred, mingled with fear - But she backed away, all the same.

By the time the exodus was complete, around a score-and-a-half remained. Slightly less, most likely: In that moment, I wasn't keeping count.

It wasn't as simple as it first appeared, of course. Some of the guilty - the cunning ones, or the lucky - must have fled alongside the innocent. Assuming such black-and-white terms could be used, in the first place.

For if there's anything I've learned, it's that there's no-one - no-one - who is truly innocent. Everyone had their part to play in keeping the gears turning, in ensuring that the machine ground on: All I could do was what I hoped was right.

The hall was a much emptier place, now. The broad space was littered with objects dropped in flight. Candles, buttons, charms, glittering baubles, cast-off clothing, weapons, even the odd shoe - All debris now, flung aside without a second thought.

I had a moment, at last, to consider those who remained. Mostly men, certainly, but a not-insignificant number of women. I supposed, distantly, that it took all kinds.

There was no commonality to them, not really. You had the rich bullies, the plump bastards in expensive clothes…But also the dilettantes in slashed hose and velvet, the clerkish-looking wheelers and dealers in people's fates. The hanger-ons and courtesans who hadn't realized that the party was over, who had clung to some form of misplaced loyalty in spite of it all. Even the errant sons and daughters of the cruder kind of nobility, looking for a thrill-

Any of them could have been one of the Nine Fingers.

They'd have denied it to the end, of course. Given infinite time, I suppose, I'd have got the answers I wanted eventually: Long past the point they would have done any good.

"-You can't keep us here!" A quivering finger jabbed at me, the speaker's blue eyes indignant above his toothbrush mustache. He was running to fat, straining the seams of his tailored coat; Even from here, I could see the sweat-stains at the armpits of his unfortunately white tunic, which did him no favors. "You have no right to detain us, whoever you may be!"

I turned. "And you are?" I asked, carefully, quietly.

A space opened up, as those around him drew back. Like he was a plague-bearer, in their midst.

"Ser Montserrat, please," his life-ward whimpered. Against all odds, his bodyguard - a burly-looking warrior, now gone milk-white - had stayed by his side, but loyalty only went so far. The man kept his eyes fixed on me, his hands kept (very obviously) away from the daggers thrust into his belt. "He's…"

With a curse, Ser Montserrat pulled away. He strode towards me, moving with purpose: "Philip L'Eyre," he said, stressing the second word. His blonde mustache bristled, with porcine outrage. "Son of Baron Montserrat, heir to-"

I slapped him. Hard.

Someone gasped, like an offended matron.

My gauntlet cracked his jaw, and his head twisted to the side. I saw his eyes cross, pure outrage showing on his features for one blank moment-

He sat down, abruptly. Blinking, clutching his bloody mouth. He didn't seem hurt, not really - Just startled, and utterly incredulous. Like he couldn't believe what had just happened, even as his paid guardian scrambled forward to drag him back by the arms. He kept staring at me, as if it was still sinking in, like what I'd just done was impossible.

A ripple of murmurs passed over the surface of the small crowd. As if the way things were now, the way they would be, had been made perfectly clear.

Like we were beginning to understand each other, at last.

I won't lie - I enjoyed that. It made me want to hit him harder, to put a boot in his ribs. To break his jaw. To put my hands around his fat throat and squeeze until his eyes bulged.

Until his heart burst in his chest.

Not because I knew him, not really. But because he was one of them, and - at long last - they were within my reach.

Such is the nature of power: Thought becomes will becomes deed. As soon as you imagine something, you begin to realize - You can do it.

That's how it starts. Not just for me, but for all of us.

The thing was, Lord L'Eyre was right. I was an interloper, here - Grandmaster or not, the only authority I had came from the tenuous shadow of violence. I couldn't keep them here, as much as I wanted to: Trying to control this many people, by myself, was an exercise in futility.

I risked a glance over my shoulder, at Apollyon. At that graven, gleaming horror, the tips of its blades scraping hissing furrows in the floor.

No insight would be coming from that quarter, I knew.

Fortunately, there was an easier way.

The question had been in the back of my mind, the entire time. Ever since I'd awakened, ever since the true scope of the ordeal had been made clear to me.

What would I do when I found Hilma?

Dimly, I was surprised that she hadn't fled, or even tried to flee. That she hadn't called out, or made herself known, in the brief, violent interlude after Zero's death. I could see her, now - At the back of the crowd, her expression unreadable, carefully composed. Even here, in spite of all that happened, she seemed every bit as striking, as sleek, as she'd been when I'd first seen her.

But paler, of course. Like all the others.

That would soon change.

I steadied myself. Calm, I thought, ignoring the cold twist in my gut. I made myself relax, let my voice go warm with concern-

And I said, each word carefully enunciated:

"-Madame Hilma."

Her head came up. Her eyes widened, the softness of my voice more worrying than the rictus of my rage. But I didn't give her time to think, as I stepped forward - The crowd shuffling away, parting before me, like the Red Sea.

"Are you well? Did they harm you in any way?"

The murmurs broke out, all over again. Tension hummed through the air, as heads turned. Contemplating, calculating.

I held out my hand to her, like I had before. Gently, even as I felt the spite curdle in my veins.

To her credit, she didn't glance to either side. Didn't let the confusion show, in more than the briefest flash of her eyes. But slowly, ever-so-slowly, her eyes swiveled downwards-

For, pinned to the front of her dress, the brooch I'd gifted her shimmered in the gloom.

She knew, right then, what would follow. Her skirts rustled around her smooth legs, as she glided forward - A stately grace that was often imitated, but rarely mastered.

Across the tilted floor.

Past the rows of guests, standing like a gaggle of geese, their white skin and tall necks rigid with fear. Somehow, somehow, she made herself smile, a slight curve of her lips: Color burned fever-hot in her cheeks, one that could almost have been mistaken for a blush.

Her hand settled in mine, heedless of the blood that stained the mythril. I could see the veins standing out against her skin, her gaze demurely lowered. Her lips worked, as if fighting to shape the words…

And then the answer came, just above a whisper.

"I am well, Sir Samuel."

"Good," I said. Probing, like I was working a knife under her skin. Then, for the benefit of the entire foyer - "The Crown thanks you for your service."

It was like a bomb had been dropped. No-one, not a single person, missed that. The whispers ran through the press, like lightning - And then came the uproar, indignant, betrayed.

"Bitch!" The shout came from a leonine-looking man, his chins wobbling as his face purpled. He took two lurching steps forward, before self-preservation stopped him in his tracks. "Traitor whore-!"

More shouts came. Not afraid, not now: Angry, almost murderous. A glass whistled past, carelessly flung. When it hit the ground, shards skittered in every direction at once with the splintering crack of a rifle shot.

I warded them back, with a wave of Forge-breaker. It didn't stop the hubbub, the furious murmur of condemnation-

For their hatred had found a target at last. One rather closer to home.

I felt Hilma flinch, felt her fingers twitch against mine. Her breath hissed from between her parted lips, her shoulders stiff with the effort of not trembling. If she had a weapon, right then, she would have driven it into my face.

Instead, I closed my gauntlet around her hand. Carefully, fighting the urge to crush it.

"Shall we go?" I said, and her gaze snapped to mine. There was pure venom in her eyes, made worse by the knowledge - stark and terrible - that I was the only thing keeping her alive.

"Yes, my Lord," she said, and made the last two words cold as ice. I merely nodded, as if it was only natural: Each slow step, like a procession, took us towards the far door.

Towards Apollyon, and the way out.

"Wait-" I turned, at the plaintive cry. Another unfortunate son of lesser nobility, it looked like, with curly hair and a surprisingly rakish cape of blue. "Lord Paladin, you can't leave us here! Not with that…horror!"

He shot Apollyon a nervous glance, short-stepping to the side. Then, grimacing, as if he already knew it wouldn't work but had to try, all the same-

"We can pay-"

With a tiny concussion, Forge-breaker vanished from my hands. The sound was loud enough to make him flinch back, his hands coming up in surrender, but I was merely reaching for my belt.

For the third item I'd drawn forth from my inventory.

It was a dagger. Straight-bladed and double-edged, razor-sharp on both sides. Hilt worked in the shape of a swan's wings, framing the lambent - almost luminous - blade. It flickered silver, like flame, as I raised it high-

And drove it, point-first, into the wood of the nearest table.

There was a chokkkk as the blade bit deep. The emerald beaten into the pommel gleamed with an oily, bewitching light, like a serpent's eye.

"You will," I said, bitten-back heat in my words. "-Believe me, you will."

His brow furrowed. He didn't understand, not yet - Not until I looked past him, to Apollyon. Raising my voice to carry, so that all would hear.

"Give them twenty minutes," I said. "Then kill anyone with more than eight fingers."

The baleful light in Apollyon's eyesockets pulsed, just once, in acknowledgement.

The rake's eyes went wide. His mouth hung open, but no words came forth: Only a sound, somewhere between a strangled gasp and a gagging cough.

"Insanity!" someone squawked, over the sudden gabble of voices. "You're mad! You're mad - You can't do this…monstrous…thing to us-"

I let my gaze sweep the room. Taking in all those pale, frightened faces. Mouths wide, eyes goggling as realization set in.

"You sided with the Nine Fingers," I said. This time, I let the contempt show. "-It's time you learned what that means."

I was aware of the sudden silence in the room, except for the whimper of the man I'd struck, and the faint drip-drip-drip of blood. Felt all eyes go to the razor edge of the dagger I'd left behind, far sharper than the eating knives and cutlery scattered across the tables.

Even as the doors swung shut behind us, I heard the first scuffles breaking out.

I'm not proud of what I did. Pain teaches nothing, as much as we would like it to.

For what did it mean, really? It didn't matter how many fingers they lost - They were what they were, and they would stay the same. Punishment serves no purpose other than sating one's own spite.

But it felt right. It felt just. At last, the bastards and whoremongers, the traders in vice and the traffickers in human misery, would know how it felt to suffer.

Even if it changed nothing at all. Because, after all the blood and pain, they'd keep doing what they'd always done: Living off other people.

I wanted, against all odds, to do what I knew was right. To give them what they well and truly deserved.

Isn't that how it always starts?

"You know he's going to kill you," Hilma said.

As with all things, it was easier to descend than to rise. Compared to the maze of passages that Grausam had guided me through, the path out of the villa was almost straightforward in its simplicity: It'd been made that way, I suppose, a boon for departing guests and defenders alike.

There was a balcony on the second floor, overlooking the courtyard below. It made the scale of the slaughter even more clear, as I looked out at the city beyond the walls - Saw the orange glow of burning buildings, brighter than before. For a moment, I thought I saw something pass against the pallid, distant orb of the moon…But in the blink of an eye, it was gone.

"He'll try," I said, releasing her hand at last. She pulled away, rubbing at her wrist, as if my touch had burned her: Yet she knew enough not to flee, her lips pressed together into a thin, colorless line.

"Try?" Hilma said, her amethyst eyes fever-bright. "He may be mad, but he's also brilliant. He always gets what he wants - And now he wants you dead."

I almost laughed at that. Almost.

Instead, I walked to the balustrade. After a moment - Elegant features furrowed, the corners of her mouth turned down - Hilma joined me. She stared into nothing, as an alternative to staring at me.

After a moment, I said: "You don't know what he is, do you? Not really."

She narrowed her eyes. All pretense gone, now: Hard eyes, in a hard face.

"-Does it matter?"

I shook my head, slowly. Perhaps she was right: Perhaps it didn't. Not to her, at any rate.

The wind was picking up. It made her pale blonde tresses flutter, stirred the ragged strips of the cloak - already regrowing, re-knitting - that clung to my back. I tilted my head back, to feel the cool breeze on my face, letting it sweep away the heat and the noise and the fury.

"I liked you, you know," I said. Watching her reflection, in the polished metal of the railing. "I liked you when you were just 'Hilma'."

She sneered at me, venom in her gaze. "Of course you did," she said. Almost spitting the words, like each one was a dagger. "All men do. You think that makes you special?"

I glanced at her, sidelong.

"Should it?"

For a moment, I thought she would answer. Instead, she merely stood - Not moving, just standing, as if puzzling out what to say. Or perhaps she was wondering how far she could goad me, and whether she could survive if she did.

"So this is what you're like," she said, at last. Pulling the fur stole a little closer around her bare shoulders, as if trying to shroud herself in the luxury of it. "The great Grandmaster Samuel. The Hero of Loyts, another blood-drunk thug. You can do anything you want, all because you can kill and destr-"

I raised a hand to cut her off. The motion made her flinch back, acutely aware of what I could do.

"It's not about power," I said. "It's about right and wrong. You made the wrong choice - Like the others back there, that's on you." My gaze met hers, level, unwavering. "Don't insult me by pretending otherwise."

She looked away, first. Slim fingers fumbling, reaching for the slender ivory length of her pipe. Violet smoke puffed in the air, as Hilma took a long draw, filling her lungs: When she exhaled, her clasping fingers still shook, but less so.

"-You've killed me," she said. Calmer, but no less bitter. "What you said…Do you know what the Nine Fingers do to traitors? What they'll do to me?" Her hand clutched the stem of her pipe, so tightly I thought it would snap. Her serpentine tattoo seemed to coil and twist against her smooth skin, mirroring her agitation.

"I suppose you'll have to throw yourself on the Crown's mercy, then," I said. "Tell us - tell me - everything you know. Otherwise…"

I let the words hang in the air. Let the future unfurl itself before her.

"Damn you," Hilma whispered. Her voice quivered, almost cracked. Her small hands clenched into fists. "You had no right - Everything I worked for…My whole life-"

"I gave you every chance," I said. "If you'd chosen-"

"Stop it!" her voice snapped like a whip. Those violet eyes were brimming, now - Red and angry, her throat working. "You have no fucking idea how I've suffered-!" If anything, her fury made her more beautiful, not less. "You think you're so noble - You were born to it! Everything you have, everything you are…It was handed to you!"

Her hand stabbed out, pointing the pipe like a dagger. Not at Re-Estize, but at the glittering edifice of Ro Lente castle. Tall, remote, as far above the flames as the King was above his subjects.

"That's where I belong. Up there, not down here. All this, all that before, was to get up there. And now, and now-" She was beginning to cry, her tirade echoing from the walls. Her powder smeared, makeup running in tracks down her cheeks.

"You knew," Hilma said. "You knew what I was, and you took advantage anyway. You're a bastard, Sir Samuel."

I sagged against the railing. All of a sudden, I was tired - So terribly, terribly tired. I could have told her, of course…But what difference would it have made? What would it have changed, after all this?

Instead, I said-

"-I don't think you're getting up there."

She stiffened, as if I'd struck her.

"He'll come back for me," Hilma whispered, like a prayer.

"He lied," I said. "He doesn't care about you. About any of you - You were a means to an end, that's all."

Her face twisted. "He said-"

"Hilma," I said, directly. "I'm giving you one more chance. You don't want to know what I did to Succulent, and he was less guilty than you are." A lie, but close enough to ring true. "No-one's done anything to you, not yet. I don't know what the Vanisher promised you, and I don't care: Your only hope is to comply, utterly and completely."

Beyond the walls of the villa, distant shapes were moving. A formation of soldiers, marching down the long path leading to the manor. Their moving spears were black stalks against the orange glow, the shapes of mounted cavalry bobbing black against the fires.

Kelart had received my message, after all.

"One chance. When they get here, it'll be too late."

"You-" Hilma's voice caught, snagged in her throat. "Who are they-?"

"Captain Coesil's company, I'd expect," I said. "On loan from Marquis Pespea's battalion. They say he's a devout man - One willing to do anything for the High Priestess of the Four Gods." I glanced at her, sidelong. "...Particularly when she has a royal dispensation."

She hesitated. "The others - Cocco Doll and Noah…"

"It's too late for them. But not for you, maybe." I gestured, at the burning city. "I need this to stop, and now. I need to know what the Vanisher's trying to do. And unless you tell me, I can't help you."

I saw the conflict play itself out across her face. Saw hope, fear, dread, chase each other across her pale features-

The company was halfway up the path, now. Drawing close to the shattered gates, the ruin of the outer walls. I could hear the first shouts, the clatter of hooves. See the firelight gleaming on armor.

"-Write your own sentence, Hilma. But do it quickly." I could see the words hit home, feel the sudden, sick thrill of spite that coiled within me. I suppose I should have felt something like satisfaction, after all this - But instead, all I felt was faintly ill.

As if I'd been stained, somehow, by what I'd had to do.

For such is the nature of things: No cruelty passes by without impact, and some things are forever unforgivable, even to ourselves.

Hilma seemed to cave in, all at once. Her shoulders slumped, her lip quivering as her head fell. Her arms wrapped around herself, like they were the only thing holding them up: She looked frail, paper-thin, as if the next gust would carry her away.

"What-" she said, faintly. "What do you want to know…?"

"Everything," I said. "What does the Vanisher want? What's he after?"

She began to shake. "I don't know," Hilma whispered. "I thought I did, but it makes no sense. Not like this."

"If you think he can protect you-"

"He wants the Crown Prince to win!" Her voice rang like a thunderclap. "That's what he told us. He wants the Nobility Faction on top - To put Prince Barbro on the throne!" Hilma began to laugh, a desperate sobbing laugh. "He said…He said it'd be good for business. A small attack, a small disturbance…That was all it'd take! Barbro would be a hero, and the nobles, the nobles would fall in line! We'd own the King...The whole Kingdom!"

She shook her head, her lank hair flying. "And the others believed him! They were terrified of him! They thought he could do anything! He had all the gold in the world - He said we'd all be rich! Richer than gods!"

Hilma was weeping freely now, tears streaming down her cheeks. "That's all it was. That's all it was. Greed, pure and simple! A chance to be on top! You think I wanted this? Look at it! It's a slaughter, a massacre! And he used us to do it!"

I stared at her. It didn't make sense, not to me - Not yet. The Vanisher hated the nobles…I'd felt it, sharp and bright and clear. There had to be something else, something more...

"Then, the Dust…" I began, but something felt wrong. I was missing something, and yet-

She sneered at me. "You think he needed us for that? He could bring it all in by himself! Thousands of doses, tens of thousands, and he let the City Watch find hundreds! He wanted them to know! Wanted them to think they were hurting us! And all the while, he was-"

Her voice sank. "...He was using the smugglers. Bringing in the dead. Seeding the whole city. Now - Now he's going to burn it all, and no-one can stop him…"

But I was barely listening to her, now.

For the Vanisher's voice was in my head, repeating:

"All Re-Estize needs is a just ruler. One willing to do the right thing-"

A piece clicked into place.

"It could be done, with the right King on the throne...Someone the nobles would obey, until they became obsolete."

Click.

"Someone to maintain stability."

Wolfgunblood, looking up at the moon.

"-this withered old fuck and a shitload of zombies. He wanted to blow up the city or something, I wasn't really listening."

Louder, more resonant:

"I never found the Crown of Wisdom, you know?"

From my own memory:

The men who should have been Viscount Fondoll and Coco Doll were changing. Limbs bulged; Bone snapped, contorting into new configurations. Their eyes shrank away to soulless pits, as the flesh broke and sprouted talons-

And I realized-

And then I knew.

I knew what the Vanisher was going to do.

"Oh fuck," I said, and turned to Hilma. But she was staring past me, into the burning sky - Caught on the cusp of a premonition, I followed her gaze.

Somewhere in the city below, the first Frost Dragon Revenant burst from the ruins of the warehouse that had been its prison. It hurled itself skyward, ascending on tattered wings: Jaws wrenching wide open, great head tilting back as it took flight.

A plume of frozen fire blasted heavenward, churning the smoke-filled air - Hellish blue light illuminating the ashen black clouds, leaving no doubt of the terror that had taken to the skies.

It roared, the sound so loud, so all-consuming, it blotted out the roar of the flames. So loud it made the world shake.

It was the roar of a predator, of a great beast that had just awoken, and realized it was hungry.

Next: Lord of Shadow