[OOC: Due to the size of the chapter, I've decided to split it into two parts. The end-point of this chapter might be a little abrupt, but mostly because there's a lot left to explore during this period of time.]

"You wretches detestable on land and sea: You who seek equality with lords are unworthy to live. Give this message to your colleagues: Rustics you were, and rustics you are still. You will remain in bondage, not as before, but incomparably harsher. For as long as we live we will strive to suppress you, and your misery will be an example in the eyes of posterity."

― King Richard II of England, speech to the peasants at Waltham, Essex (22 June 1381)

Interlude - Lord of Shadow (I)

Before the Dragon

Like all ships, the Charnel Ship had a soul. For years beyond counting, it had soaked up untold torrents of blood, felt the trod of countless feet; Every mortal that had ever walked the decks or slumbered within its hull had left a tiny, almost infinitesimal piece of themselves behind, drawn together into a single greater whole.

Through the catalyst of the foulest sorcery, it had gained a strange sentience of its own. Un-life stirred within its timbers, a distant echo of the phantasms that coiled around the sails like fog. It hungered, like the parched ghouls that manned its galleys. And, like the ferocious, flesh-spare figure of its damned captain, it was bound to serve.

In the misty, glowing redness that hung around the Charnel Ship like a shroud, you could breathe its dreams.

Eyes blank and sunken, the crew went about their tasks in silence. They were deathless things, one and all: Clad in rotting clothes, their skin taut and dry, they lurched rather than walked, hauling at the rigging with remorseless strength. Their bones gleamed in the ruddy glow, sticking out from their thirsting flesh - As if they'd been mummified while still alive, and had forgotten to lay down and die.

From the moment she'd first laid eyes on the desiccated creatures, Evileye had hated them. With their stiff, mechanical actions, they could almost - but not quite - be mistaken for automata, clockwork puppets done up as rag-and-bone scarecrows.

But it was their faces that told the full story. There was something oddly rueful about their aspect: their flesh had withered, desiccated, enough to pull back the corners of the mouth in a pinned-back smile. Like there was nothing left to do but put a brave face on things, wearing that rictus grin of inevitability through each and every moment of their eternal punishment.

A reminder, perhaps, that there were worse things than death.

They'd left the hollow house behind, hours ago. An unnatural wind had risen, the Charnel Ship's sails bellying full: With a deep, damned groan, the galleon had heaved itself skyward, leaving the dead - stacked like logs, frozen solid in the positions they would occupy for the rest of eternity - behind.

She'd watched the Voytz estate shrink into the distance, receding until it seemed like nothing more than a child's dollhouse, then merely a dot inked onto a map. The fog had come up, and the Charnel Ship glided serenely into the curling mist, the way it had over countless carnage-ripened battlefields and scenes of atrocity.

Even now, it hung around them like a shroud. Beyond the ship's rail, there was only a roiling darkness. The bloody light did nothing at all to banish the gloom, only to make it dirty: It was like being trapped inside a stormcloud, a churning sea of lightning-streaked shadow.

But the crew had long since learned to navigate with senses beyond sight.

Rigrit stood at the helm, a step behind and to the left of the ship's captain. Her lined features had set in a serene mask of concentration, still-nimble fingers tracing over the carved bone charms that hung around her neck, like pendants. Her ring gleamed in the light when she gestured, silver claws grasping a single perfect emerald.

At rest, Tia and Tina looked like mirror images. They'd settled themselves in seiza, knees folded against the deck, seemingly at ease. Whatever communication hummed between them was silent.

To Evileye, that was a bad sign: It took a lot to keep Tina quiet, and it usually meant that disaster was never far behind. The twins had a sense for this kind of thing, which had steered the Blue Roses out of (and into) trouble more than a few times.

For this felt like trouble. Trouble of the worst kind - Like when she'd been Landfall, and Rigrit had been…

She glanced over at the hooded figure. In the welling crimson light, Rigrit's cloak was the color of old, dried blood.

-Rigrit had always been Rigrit. Just more so, back then.

And then there was Wolfgunblood.

Ever since their awakening, he'd seemed distracted, ill at ease. Brooding and unsettled, he roamed the ship's bowels and passageways, the way a predator prowls the confines of its cage. It was as if, roused from his nightmares, he simply could not abide being still.

Distressingly, the Charnel Ship's crew gave him a wide berth. Bound or not, they shared the spiteful, gnawing hatred of the dead for the living: As soon as the Blue Roses had come on board, Rigrit had cautioned Evileye and the others to stay on the main deck, to avoid any 'incidents'.

"An understanding only goes so far," she'd said, cryptically, stuffing her pipe with shreds of tobacco. "Best not to tempt fate, as they say." She'd kept her voice light, but the gimlet gleam to her eyes had been a hard one - When Rigrit had breathed out, the scented smoke had gathered around her like a veil, vague half-formed faces and limbs showing in the swirling cloud.

But the dead feared Wolfgunblood. They shied away from the pitiless glow of his crimson eye, whenever it turned in their direction. He walked wherever he wished, stalking off into the shadows for long intervals, returning without a word.

He wanted to act, to fight. Anger and frustration churned within him, like a thunderhead, and it only fueled his impatience.

"Are we there yet?" he asked, after an interminable interlude. Walking right up to where Rigrit stood, heedless of the suffocating aura of despair that hung in the air like a miasma. Tall, proud and terrible, the captain's unfleshed skull swung towards Wolfgunblood, fixing the adventurer with a bleakly hateful glare-

Wolfgunblood met that lightless gaze. Held it, unblinking.

A dreadful moment passed. And then the Captain looked away, the baleful fires in those empty sockets dimming to low embers. The ancient lich raised its staff of office in a silent signal, the warped, curving arc of the great scythe glimmering bone-yellow: the groan of the ship took on a new timbre as it heaved onwards, creaking with momentary acceleration.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Wolfgunblood said, with a snort of contempt. "How much longer?"

Rigrit's eyebrows rose. "Soon," she said. "Steady yourself: We're heading right into the thick of it. We'll be needing you most of a-"

But he was already stalking away, with a sweep of his black coat. It was strangely disquieting to see that pale, noble face - like a storybook prince or a carved-marble worthy - contorted with wrath, teeth bared in a snarl.

"It'd better be soon," Wolfgunblood spat out, over his shoulder. "I'm going to flay that motherfucker, leave him for the crows-"

The rest of his words were lost in the whipping winds, as he strode towards the aft. Rigrit watched him go, her brow ever-so-slightly furrowed - But then she shook her head, a soft chuckle teased from her throat.

"Endless Crimson Rain himself, in the flesh," she said, with a small smile. "Oh, if we all had the strength of the young." She glanced over at Evileye, cocking her head to the side.

"-Remind you of anyone?"

He did. Not that she liked to think about it - Even after two hundred years, some wounds were still raw.

"That was a long time ago," Evileye said. Her voice sounded cold and leaden, even through her mask: For a moment, she was tempted to lift it free, to feel the air against her face-

Thirsty.

The fragile voices came from everywhere and nowhere at once, like whispers borne on the breeze.

So thirsty, for so long-

Despite herself, she shivered. Decided to let the mask stay where it was. Not from fear, but from the pitiful, mindless need in those orphaned words.

Rigrit didn't seem to notice. Her braid coiled against her shoulder, she smiled - A smile that never touched her gray eyes.

"The past is all around us," she said. "Digging it up, though...That's the question."

For a moment, Rigrit's gaze went distant, lost in thought - Then sharpened, drawn back into focus. "-What do you make of all this?"

She'd been half-expecting this, ever since she'd laid eyes on the old necromancer. They said age dulled one's wits, but Rigrit's had only sharpened with time: Now, as then, Evileye could see that familiar calculating look. Sense the gears turning, as options were contemplated, possibilities weighed and cast aside.

"Eighth-tier," she said, at last. "Far, far beyond Zurrernorn's leftovers. They couldn't have done that, not in a hundred years."

Rigrit said nothing. Waiting for her to follow through.

"They were terrified," Evileye said, quietly. "This Vanisher - They were working for him, not with him." A slow breath, one she didn't need. "Serve or die. That's the choice he gave them."

The crone dipped her head, in silent acknowledgement. The gesture said: Go on.

A man from nowhere.

A power that defied the limits of the world.

A cold, inhuman intelligence.

An infinite capacity for cruelty-

And, like a lightning bolt, the answer came. For she knew this: She had seen it, fought it, in a time that was receding into the mists of myth and legend.

"No," she said, "-No."

She felt her throat clench, tasting copper in her mouth.

"We killed the Evil Deities," she said, as if words alone could make it true. "The last of them died two hundred years ago-"

"Did we?" Rigrit's voice was low, carefully level. "After all, we knew so little about them. He might have known, but…" she caught herself. Shook her head, just once. "Paths not taken, I suppose. They had servants, remember. Followers. Maybe even offspring."

Offspring. That one word sent a chill through Evileye, a sick dizziness that trailed down her spine and through her limbs. She clutched the rail, staring out into storm-gloaming.

When she could speak again:

"Then," she said, carefully. Like she was suspended above a great precipice, each word a step. "You're saying that the Vanisher is…"

"Who knows?"

Evileye blinked. Rigrit's voice was low, thoughtful, her pointed chin clasped in gloved fingers.

"-I don't have the answers, Princess. Oh, something's not right, certainly. But until we see it for ourselves…" Her shoulders lifted in a little shrug, beneath her cloak. In the red light that came from everywhere and nowhere at once, Rigrit's features were thrown into sharp relief; Her skin almost parchment-thin, stretched across her bones.

"Well, who can say for sure?"

Even for one of the Thirteen Heroes, two centuries was such a very, very long time.

Somewhere ahead, a faint light - like the sun emerging from behind a cloud - glimmered through the fog. A flickering orange radiance, like a jumping flame: Rigrit's head came up, her eyes narrowing as the ship's wheel spun, a deep judder racing through the deck as the Charnel Ship turned towards the distant glow.

"Hmmmm. Faster than I thought," she murmured, her brow creasing. "I wonder if-"

"Evileye!" Tina's shout came from the prow of the ship. She turned to look back, her red ribbon fluttering in the breeze; Disquiet gleamed in her coral eyes, as the fog grew thinner, the eerie orange radiance swelling to fill the world…

"-You had better see this."

But she didn't need to see it. Even from here, she could smell the smoke, hear the crackle of flame.

For beneath them, Re-Estize burned.

The fires had spread. The southern district of the capital was hacked with black wounds, deep and rending gouges in the city's sprawling facade. Smoke poured up from them, great columns lit with flickering flame near their bases.

The winds dragged at the conflagration, pulling the rising towers of smoke into an oily shroud - Carrying the fires westward, like rippling orange and black curtains cast across the pale face of the distant moon.

They stared, one and all. The scale of the calamity defied words.

Evileye looked on, her hands bunching into fists. For a moment, through the haze of memory, she saw a long-ago city. The shadow of the dragon-that-was rearing up, eclipsing the sun. The wails of lamentation, the tiny figures scrambling to escape the tide of ruin - Ants in a kicked nest.

Rigrit's jaw worked, her teeth locked around the ivory stem of her pipe. Her eyes had narrowed against the orange glare, her expression almost solemn. As though she was watching a pyre reducing flesh and bone to ash, leaving only coiling smoke and fading memory.

Her shrewd gaze darted across the conflagration, picking out points in the flaming tableau - Flashes of motion, halfway-glimpsed in the smoke, the forms plunging blindly through the seething darkness. The only light on the streets of Re-Estize was a frenzy of nightmare orange, cast by the flames of burning buildings.

"Not good," Tina muttered, low. "If our evil boss is down there - If Lakyus is down there…"

That thought turned Evileye's blood to ice, her nails slicing into her palms. It was clear that something had gone horribly, catastrophically wrong: This was the capital, of all places. The last place you'd expect to see in flames, reducing to the churning, volcanic chaos of pure unhinged panic.

"That's the army," Rigrit said. She'd pulled back her red hood, as if to sniff the air - The words coming out clenched, taut, her lined features even more drawn than before. She looked not to the city, but to the sea of campfires beyond the walls: "What's going on out there? What, in the name of the Four, are those fools doing?"

From up here, the question was impossible to answer. The Charnel Ship's crew had ceased in their tasks, too - Dead eyes turning towards the flames, like flowers towards the sun. It was as if the scale of the disaster had transfixed even them, stirring some shred of ancient, half-forgotten emotion…

-Or hunger.

Bent-backed, cloaked in shreds of their own skin, they resembled nothing less than carrion-eaters, half-feral and starving.

Vultures, gathering to feed.

"-This is my stop."

Wolfgunblood's boots thumped against the railing, as he drew himself up. Silhouetted against the twitching glow of the firelight, he cut a heroic figure: Tall, dark, and poised, silver wolfshead emblems snarling silently from his shoulders. He'd canted his head back, as if drinking in the devastation - Teeth flashing white in his smile, gloved hands resting casually on the ivory grips of his guns.

The sullen impatience, the smoldering rage, the black mood…Gone, now, as if they'd never been. The veil had lifted, and calm confidence shone in his mismatched eyes. The streak of red in his quicksilver hair seemed to glow, like the illuminable radiance at the heart of every flame.

For he was Endless Crimson Rain, and his time had come at last.

Somehow, he'd tilted his neck, to show his face at its most shockingly handsome angle. Despite herself, Evileye's breath caught: Wolfgunblood's smile only widened as he saw it take effect, a soft chuckle teased from his throat.

Even the way he laughed - the rich, effortless peal of it - was stirring, enough that Tia gave him a swiftly appraising look, for Tina to spare a glance from the smoldering city below.

Only Rigrit seemed resolutely unimpressed.

"I assume you have a plan?" she said, an arch note to her voice, and Wolfgunblood shrugged with regal diffidence.

"Do as you like," he said, dashingly careless. "-It's worked for me, so far."

His gaze tracked away from Rigrit - Dismissing her from his notice - and met Evileye's, that ruby eye closing in a wink. "I'll give your regards to Lakyus," Wolfgunblood said, and leapt.

"Wai-"

At this point, she'd have been happy to see him dash himself all over the cobbles below. But some instinct took Evileye to the railing, a single startled step too slow. For his boots had already left the deck, as he let himself fall-

"That idiot-!"

In spite of everything, part of her half-expected him to pull out of his plummet. To soar back up to them, a night-bird riding the thermals. But instead-

"Shadow Jump."

Coils of shadow swept close, pulling themselves after him. For an instant, Wolfgunblood was a shard of darkness cut from the greater whole, ink-black against the smoke-reeking air. There was something that could best be described as the absence of a flash, a drawing-together, a condensing…

And a dark something flowed through the city's night, a rippling distortion swept along by the force of its own acceleration. It twisted between the buildings, carried inexorably towards some unknown destination. There was a suggestion of rushing motion, a blackness cut by a cold alien glow - Then nothing, like the void left after one's last breath.

For the first time in forever, Tia looked impressed.

"I've got to figure out how he does that," she murmured, almost to herself.

"-Oh, I'm sure he'll be happy to show you," Tina said, which earned her a sharp look. "What now?" As if stirred by her words, cinders swirled up from the flames below. Tinny, distant cries carried on the winds, lamentations as faint as they were urgent. This high up, it seemed impossible that each half-glimpsed shape below was a person, running, screaming, begging for help-

Rigrit's gray braid swayed, as she turned her head. She nodded, just once, at the steersman: Skeletal fingers turned the ship's wheel, as the Charnel Ship came in with the wind - Trailing lines and tattered sails flapping, swinging towards the city's distant walls.

"Get down there," she said. "The Vanisher's not done, not by a long shot. Whatever this is, it's something we have to stop. Find him, but be careful: If he's what I think he is…Well, he may be trouble."

"For Re-Estize?"

"-I meant the world." Rigrit grimaced, lips pressing together in a thin line: "I'll see what I can do about the army. The way things are looking, we're going to need them…"

"And Lakyus?"

"She'll be fine. Trust her, Tia - If she was here, she'd say the same thing."

Tia didn't like it. It showed in the faint crease of her brow, the slight narrowing of her eyes…But she nodded, all the same. She understood, too.

A shadow passed across Rigrit's face, a flicker of some unknowable emotion.

"And stay out of Wolfgunblood's way," she added, like an afterthought. "That one's more than he seems, believe me."

Tell me something I don't know, Evileye thought. A surge of will summoned a Floating Board, the translucent platform humming serenely as it hovered in place. Tia - Moving with swift, proficient grace - was the first to ease herself onto it, offering her twin a hand up.

"Can't say I'll miss this," Tina said, adjusting her belt as she took one last look around. There was a contemplative edge to her words, a thoughtful gleam to her eyes: "If he's going to be a problem-"

"Let me deal with that," Rigrit said, with a light shake of her head. She tipped her chin towards the swelling blaze below, skins of smoke and flame slicing the view in all directions. "Besides, this is no time to be making enemies."

Her voice was mild, but Evileye had heard the tone before: the warning hiss of a viper, before it struck. She'd always wondered whether the old woman had remembered, or if the memories had faded over time - But from the look in her eyes, Rigrit had never forgotten.

The day Riku killed the Black Knight, and the long, long mourning after.

That was how they left her: A straight-backed silhouette, shrunken but unbowed by age, the only living thing on the death-ship. As they descended, as the fuming oily mist of burning buildings rose to meet them, she could only think-

The past is never dead.

It's not even past.

The Golden Ogre

General Edoardo, in a long and mostly level-headed career, had learned early on that war is a constant series of surprises. No matter how wise the counsel, no matter how cunning the strategy, no plan ever survives contact with the enemy. The victorious commander learns how to roll with the punches, to improvise, to adapt and to overcome.

And yet, when it came to storming one's own city, only one maxim came to mind: Don't.

Marshal Guis, with the distinctive cunning that had earned him Marquis Raeven's patronage, had placed the responsibility for the assault - such as it was - squarely on his shoulders. The Marshal had declined to ride forth with the Crown Prince's contingent, electing to stay with the rest of the army.

"The Crown Prince's orders are paramount," he'd said, fixing Edoardo with a hard stare. "Above all, we must ensure that His Royal Highness' safety is assured."

The Marshal wasn't a fool. He had known, from the start, that this would be a real shit-show: With the nobles haring off in a fit of mutually-reinforcing indignation, someone had to retain control of the army - For there were over fifty thousand men out in the cold, and the Four alone knew what would happen if they were left to their devices.

That was the charitable view, of course. Privately, the General thought that Guis was quietly washing his hands of the entire mess. Putting some distance between himself and what was to come, for this had the look of a disaster in the making.

In truth, Edoardo didn't blame him. After all - In his place, he'd have done the exact same thing.

"Make way!" someone was bellowing, hooves clattering on cobbles as mounted men milled around. "Make way for the Prince!"

They couldn't.

The South Gate was the nearest entrance into the city, and the cavalry contingent had naturally gravitated towards it. The plan, such as it was, had been simple - Enter the capital. Secure the gates, the docks, the bridges, the squares and crossroads, holding down the city for its own safety. The well-armed, well-trained cavalry would advance, converging upon the rioters, and put them to the sword before they even knew what was coming.

To the General's mind, butchering the desperate citizens of Re-Estize - likely driven past the brink by hunger, fear and the raging spread of fire - was a task that few would relish. It would be a stain on the already-checkered reputation of the Royal Army, a stake through the already-shaky morale of the conscripts. Given a free hand, his first priority would have been quelling the blaze, before even more of the city went up in flames-

But clearly, the Prince thought differently. Perhaps he had weighed the necessity of harsh action against the consequences of inaction: Faced with a threat to the very foundations of one's rule, a King (Or a King-in-waiting, even) had to act decisively, even ruthlessly.

More than a century ago, King Ramposa - the first of his line - had certainly thought so. When famine had struck and the smallfolk had risen in revolt, the King had personally led his knights to victory against a peasant army numbering more than fifty-thousand strong. By all accounts, King Ramposa I had been a compassionate monarch, but he hadn't hesitated to bring the iron fist of the Royal Army down upon a challenge to his rule.

The carnage had been terrible, but history had borne him out. After the slaughter at Re-Lobell, the King had implemented a series of sweeping reforms. The now-cowed populace had responded with the alacrity of a whipped dog, and - in time - the Kingdom had flourished once more. King Ramposa I lived over a century, passing away peacefully in the bed of one of his many mistresses, after an orderly transfer of power.

Certainly, Prince Barbro might have considered his ancestor's illustrious history, before setting his seal to this course of action. After all, as the members of the Nobility Faction had repeatedly assured him, a conscience is a luxury that a monarch can ill-afford. A King's morality necessarily differs from those lacking the blood of royalty, in the same way that the simple, brutish mind of a peasant could never hope to understand a noble's enlightened concerns.

Or maybe he just didn't care.

Whatever the Crown Prince's reasons, the advance had run into grief right away. No-one, from Prince Barbro's inner circle downwards, had ever considered how many hundreds of tons of goods entered the city in a single day. How traffic continued from dawn to dusk, come hell or high water - And what the chaos of the riots, the fires, meant to the untold thousands penned up within the city's walls and looking for a way out.

For a start, there were a lot of them.

The row of lurching carts - Bound for the slaughterhouse district, and the butter market, and the cheese market, and the candlemakers, and the fruit and vegetable warehouses, and the great grain and flour stores, among others - stretched almost a mile back along the trail. Axles creaked, lashings on the verge of coming loose as drivers swore and shouted and cursed, keeping one eye on their cargo and the other on the distant archway.

The entire time, a tide of people flooded through the gates, headed the opposite way as the slow-hauling wagons. Most had the wide-eyed, soot-smeared look that told of a narrow escape from the flames: Others were walking wounded, clutching at dirty bandages and makeshift slings, hobbling along on crutches.

All stared, with blank incomprehension, at the glittering household knights on their towering steeds. At the laurel garlands decorating the gold symbols of the Crown Prince's royal guard, at the full suits of silver-white plate, at the thoroughbred destriers festooned with complete bardings of articulated mythril. To them, the riders may as well have hailed not just from a higher order of existence, but a different world entirely.

Yet, for all their magnificence, there was nothing the cavalry could do. The unending press of the stumbling, shuffling crowd headed one way, the immovable weight of wagons rolling - slowly, tortuously slowly - the other meant that not even the Crown Prince's authority could summon a path through.

A military picket had been established, for the sake of appearances if nothing else. Cuirassiers and lancers galloping back and forth along the line, heads turning to gawp at them, as if wondering what they were doing here.

The Crown Prince, General Edoardo knew, was displeased. Furious, in fact: When Prince Barbro had heard the news, the royal visage had gone the red of a slapped face. Without a word, he'd ridden off, trailed by those closest to him and his ever-faithful bodyguard. In short order, the Prince's tent had been hauled forward and hurriedly repitched, for the King-in-waiting to shelter within until something could be done.

And something had to be done, soon.

All things considered, Edoardo was surprised that no-one had died yet. It'd been a near thing, too.

"It's the rebels!" Baron Cheneko had squeaked out, at his first glimpse of the scorched, tattered refugees. He'd gone so far as to draw his bejeweled saber, brandishing it inexpertly as his white charger - raked unmercifully by his spurs - pranced. "Ready your blades! Knights, to me!"

Fortunately, cooler heads had prevailed. Count Polderman had fixed him with a look of barely-restrained disgust, waving the hesitantly-raised lances and swords down with his gloved hand.

"I doubt they mean us harm," he said, dryly. "Sir Sasen, Sir Jerid - Take some men, and see what you can learn from them." He looked up at the columns of smoke twisting through the air above the city, a frown fixed on his somber features. "Surely someone must know something?"

That had been almost a full hour ago. In that interim, with the cavalry milling around - as if that was accomplishing anything - and with the air tasting of smoke and ash, General Edoardo had heard about a dozen tales of calamity.

No-one, it seemed, really knew how the fire had started. There had been some kind of explosion, in the Poor Quarter: A massive one, one that had lit up the skies for a brief, blinding moment. That had to be the start of it, for the rain of fire that had followed had ignited countless smaller blazes in the vicinity.

After that, though…Things had gotten confused.

There was word of a massacre at Lord's Bridge, a tremendous unleashing of violence. The City Guard had charged those fleeing across the span, said one. No, said another - They had been attacked first, and fought in desperate self-defense. Yet another said it had been an ambush of some kind, that paid agitators from the Empire had stirred up the mob. Others had claimed it was the natural consequence of too many desperate, frightened people seeking escape.

And that was hardly the strangest of the tales. One man had sworn he'd seen a pale rider on a flaming steed, careening through the streets like a burning phantom. An alewife, her teeth chattering, stammered out an account of how she'd found the remnants of a shattered wagon full of soldiers, bodies strewn like confetti across a blood-soaked street.

Upon review, it seemed like the incident at the slums had been some kind of sign, a signal for the entire capital to be plunged into fire and madness. Someone, or something, was out that - An invisible hand, striking at will with deliberate and malevolent force.

Staring down at a woefully inadequate map, the General tried to make sense of it all. Never, in his wildest dreams, had he thought that - one day - he'd be the one put in charge of storming the capital, at the behest of the Crown Prince, no less. It was the kind of thing that simply didn't bear thinking about.

On the other side of the table, Colonel Fenig's expression was determinedly grim. They'd climbed the ranks together, but Fenig had come as far as he could reasonably expect to go - He was likely to die a Colonel, and they both knew it. That had cast a shadow over their friendship, but - for the first time in a long while - the Colonel looked faintly relieved.

"We're not getting in that way, that's for sure," Fenig said. With a guilty start, the General realized that only one of them had been considering the problem at hand: How to get eight hundred assorted knights, lancers, cuirassiers and cavaliers into a city, to engage an enemy they knew nothing about.

Assuming that there was an enemy in the first place. That he wasn't seeing patterns where there were none.

"Perhaps if we circled around to the west-" the General began, but Fenig was already shaking his head. "It's worse over there," he said, twisting his cap between his hands. "General Bendik sent a rider: He says the carters and the drovers already had the same idea. It's wagons as far as the eye can see - You couldn't get a rat through, let alone a horse."

He'd known that, of course. The reality of the situation was staring them right in the face. The truth was, they were probably better off out here: For even a child knew that the best place for cavalry was out in the open, with a clear line to the enemy and nothing else in the way.

Urban warfare, especially in a place as densely populated as the capital, was a nightmare for all involved. A city simply didn't stop, didn't have the courtesy to cease its rhythms for the mere fact of an imminent attack. It ground on, relentlessly, like some unstoppable mechanism, some great and infernal machine.

"If-" Colonel Fenig ventured, then fell silent. The General looked up, willing him to go on: At this point, he was ready to consider anything.

Fenig grimaced, and went on. "If we sent back for infantry," he said, tentatively. "We could have them clear the way, while we waited on word from Ro Lente-"

"Do not," said Edoardo, raising a finger to him. "Do not let the Crown Prince hear you utter those words. He means to do this, and he means to do this soon, one way or another."

In fact, the General was beginning to wonder if Prince Barbro had a point. Something was clearly, catastrophically wrong in Re-Estize. The emerging shape of the disaster had yet to reveal itself, but he had a grim premonition that it wouldn't be long in coming.

For the Crown Prince, as all knew, was hungry for glory. Like all Kings-to-be, his path to the throne would never be quite certain until it was in his grasp. While Prince Zanac didn't have the same heroic build, there was something to be said for careful, diligent competence - Barbro had the twin advantages of seniority and stature, but Zanac tended to get things done.

The Golden Ogre would never wait for word from the palace. He wanted an enemy to be smashed, to be seen to have been smashed: To march back to the capital in triumph, to face the adulation of the cheering crowds…

And, as it so often did, the dim candle of inspiration flickered to life.

"Victor's Gate," the General said. "We can use Victor's Gate."

Colonel Fenig's eyebrows rose, like especially hairy caterpillars. "Victor's Gate?" he echoed, sounding distinctly dubious. "That's for ceremonial occasions only-"

"Even so."

The gate had been commissioned in the time of King Ramposa II, in anticipation of triumphs yet to come. In the intervening years, it had been used all of three times: Ramposa II had fancied himself a great conqueror, but he'd taken the nation to the brink and back in a series of less-than-successful wars. The King had learnt, the hard way, that just calling something a triumph didn't necessarily make it so.

It's hard to ride home to a hero's welcome, when the results of a campaign speak for themselves. Even for a King.

In time, Victor's Gate had been quietly shut - Considered something of an old shame, perhaps. The Annual Wars with the Empire hadn't improved matters, for there had been little to celebrate since then.

And yet.

The Colonel leaned his chin on his fist, gold braid catching the steady radiance of the light-orb. He was mulling this over, contemplating not just whether it was possible, but where the pointing finger of blame would fall.

"We'll need a royal order-"

"We've got the Crown Prince. He'll appreciate the symbolism, I think."

He would, they both knew. Him, more than any other.

Fenig stood. Adjusted his cap, settled it on his head - Fighting down a sigh, as he straightened his uniform. "I'll go give him the good news, then. Get the men in order, and all that."

"Much appreciated," the General said, wiping his forehead. He'd found a solution, and was appalled that it didn't make him feel any better. "Make sure their lordships don't get ahead of the rest, we're supposed to be keeping them ali-"

Outside, there was a commotion. The General looked away - with a momentary relief - from the map, glimpsing a shape lurking beyond the flap of his rather less well-appointed tent.

"Enter," he said, without preamble. The lancer who straggled in was very much in the mold of every other: Tall, athletic, with a handsome face framed by dark curls. He looked exhausted and vaguely singed, his dented helmet tucked under his left arm as he came to attention. He walked with a limp, a damp bandage wrapped around his thigh.

"Undead, Sir!" he said, a wild look in his eyes. "Dozens of them, in the capital!" He drew a ragged breath, his hand twitching as if longing for the hilt of his sword - His scabbard was empty, but the patches of gore on his sleeves told that it wasn't from want of use.

Caught in the act of rising, Colonel Fenig's eyes widened. "Good Gods, man - Are you all right?"

"Just a scratch, Sir! But the others, they're-" He shuddered, and went on. "We came across them at Crown Street. We thought - We thought they were the rebels His Majesty was after…"

The General nodded. He couldn't look away from, of all things, the lancer's free hand. He'd lost his glove, and two of his nails; The skin of his knuckles had torn, telling of a narrow escape.

"Go on," he said, a familiar sinking feeling in his gut.

"They, ah-" The lancer's throat worked, his Adam's apple bobbing. "When we got close, we saw that they were dragging people away. Eating people - We had to do something, but there were a lot of them, and…"

He swallowed, hard. "They have knights too, Sir. Ghastly things, with rotting horses and axes and-" He shook his head, his hair matted with blood. "I fought clear, but three of us got dragged down, and I haven't seen the others-"

Colonel Fenig sank down into his chair. It was a wise choice, it was better to be sitting down for news like this.

"And Captain Coesil's company?" Grasping at straws.

"I…They've moved out, Sir. Prince Zanac's orders, we believe. It's, ah, not entirely clear-"

The lancer's gaze darted back and forth, the quick, twitchy look of a man who'd seen his friends die. Then he burst out - "I think…I think they're trying to achieve something. The ones I saw were heading for the Square of Scales with the prisoners - With their parts, I mean." He gnawed his lip, half-raising his wounded hand, lowering it again.

"They couldn't take all of them, you see? So they took what they could carry - Legs and arms and…"

The General was aware that he'd gone very, very pale. "The Square of Scales?" he echoed, glancing down instinctively. Wondering, faintly, where it was in the maze of criss-crossing lines and streets. "Why there, of all places?"

"I, uh, I can't be certain, but-" A deep breath. "...I think they were building something."

General Edoardo stared at Colonel Fenig. Colonel Fenig looked back. Between them, a mutual comprehension took shape.

"-Get the Prince," the General said, through clenched teeth. "Now."

The Dead

A great darkness had settled over Re-Estize.

Mere hours before, the Square of Scales had been a stately place. Wealth, as they say, has a gravity of its own, and so do those who handle it: The Guild of Merchants, the Guild of Spicers and the moneylenders of the Consortium had naturally gravitated to others of their kind, and it had pleased them to make their surroundings - if not beautiful - then at least elegant and well-ordered.

Almost two hundred years of statues adorned the mosaic-tiled piazza. It was tradition for the Kings to be immortalized as great effigies, with the statues of their loyal retainers - slightly smaller - forever in their shadow. But in the Square of Scales, the great and eloquent statesmen of the past, the wise councilors and treasurers, finally received their due.

Cast in humble stone rather than royal marble, some were so eroded by the passage of years that their features were impossible to make out. Yet, they still stood, still bearing the tools of their trade - the quill, the great books of ledger and accounts, the seals of sovereign purpose and the sheaves of grain on which every city ultimately ran.

At least a dozen wits, over the decades, had suggested that perhaps moneybags stuffed with coin would have been truer to life. But the Square reflected a higher, loftier ideal: That those who frequented this place, in their halls of whitewashed brick, were an essential lubricant in the great machinery of commerce - Rather than, as some japed, those who grew fat and oily on the grease.

Their ultimate fate, at least, would have given many a pauper or failed merchant a kind of grim satisfaction.

The undead had swept into that vast space - the sides bounded by threefold colonnades - like an invading army. Not a thought had been spared for the vast wealth of glittering coin and gems (and most precious of all, paper) that had assuredly been stacked up in the safes and vaults. The dead, after all, cared not for avarice when a bounty of flesh awaited.

Half-fleshed hands had shattered windows and battered down doors. Lurching zombies had issued their soft, eternal moans of despair as they dragged screaming clerks and guild factors out by the hair. At least one fat usurer had clung to his desk the way a drowning man clings to driftwood, like it alone could save him-

A knightly horror had raised a rusty but still-sharp greatsword in both hands, then brought it down in a single sweep. What remained of the man had been dragged out by his legs, leaving a slick crimson trail behind.

Some had come quietly. They'd cried and thrashed and screamed as ghastly figures poured into modestly-appointed rooms that smelled of ink and parchment, just like all the others - But they'd kept their wits about them, when it became clear that the grinning dead merely wanted them to follow. Examples had been made, of those too terrified to move or too bold to yield without a fight: In the end, the survivors had let themselves be pulled from their workplace sanctuaries and guildhalls, marched out - blinking and terrified - into the fire-lit nightmare beyond.

There, at last, they saw the fate that awaited them.

Never let it be said that the undead are mindless. Some are indeed brainless, all mortal faculties having rotted away a long time ago - But enough remains, whatever the case, for hatred and hunger.

Mostly hunger, really. But hatred of the living, now and forever, is a close second.

The air was a soft blackness tinged with red. Vile improvements had been made to the statues of the secular worthies: Serene stone visages had been hacked off, to be replaced by gaping, silently-staring heads. Wretched offerings, bouquets of orphaned limbs and offal, rested in carved hands, dyeing their carved robes arterial-red.

The dead filled the square, as if some chamber of nightmares had been plundered and set loose. Headless dullahans patrolled, endlessly, on their funerary steeds - Lit by sickly corposant flares, ghasts prowled in hungry profusion, licking their chops as they sniffed the carrion air. Skeletal warriors and zombies, as horrific as they were ubiquitous, stood guard in the silent, eternal stupor of the damned.

The modest shrine to the God of Commerce had been desecrated, in a determinedly thorough way that left no doubt as to intent. The sole priest's body had been impaled on the forlorn deity's stony sword, held low as if eclipsed in importance by the scales that gave the Square its namesake.

It had taken significant effort. The sword was not sharp.

It was that sight, that last horrid detail, that stole all hope from the twoscore prisoners dragged into the square. Even before they laid eyes on the robed, hooded figure that spread bony arms in greeting - flanked by rotting, red-eyed knights, pitted black plate bristling with jagged barbs - they already knew one thing:

They would never leave this place alive.

Some fell to their knees and begged the Four for succor, repenting all earthly sins. Others cried out for someone, anyone, to save them, or huddled together in petrified silence. One or two even invoked the name of Wolfgunblood - For news of E-Rantel was still fresh in their minds, and there was always a chance, however distant, that the adventurer who saved a city before might yet do so again.

The Elder Lich watched them, with infinite, insect patience. It had a face like a mask of flayed skin, held in place by cunning hooks: When it spoke, the voice that issued forth was as dry as the dust of a tomb.

"The tall ones first," it ordered, and the undead knights shambled forth to do its bidding. The rank stench of the grave hung around them like a miasma, iron-shod hands reaching out to seize.

Yet, even in those last, terrible moments, not all were resigned to their fate. Eames, a humble factor of the Shipowners' Club, fought through the terror. Struggling in the grip of a helmed horror, he drew breath to shout:

"Why us? W, what - What do you want from us?"

That awful face swung to regard him, for a long, long moment. Considering, perhaps, if it should deign to reply.

And then-

"Long bones," the Elder Lich said, simply. Flames danced in its empty eye sockets, an awful burning glare.

"Bring them within."

Blue Roses

A long, long time ago - Long before she'd left the Lindwyrm Tribe - Gagaran had learned that combat had a rhythm of its own. The trick to staying alive was having quick hands, quick feet and a certain capacity to endure pain. The trick to winning, however, required rather more.

Faced with the various horrors of the countless caves, the wyvern-rider tribe favored great mauls and clubs over spears and swords. After all, plenty of monsters had iron-hard scales, or a carapace that would turn aside any blade…But the blunt impact of a great hammer, armor or not, would leave a mark.

Fighting with a weapon like Fel Iron was a surprisingly nuanced matter. It was so huge and heavy that if you committed to a blow, you were forced to follow through. If you swung it, you went with it, or you went over. If you blocked with it, you had to make sure you were well-braced, or the impact would fell you as surely as a blow.

Simply put, the great mass of a war-pick was in the right position to harm an opponent for a much smaller window of time than the killing edge of a sword or the point of a spear. That meant choosing one's moment, seeing that opening come, then putting all your strength into a blow that ended the fight. Misjudge that, and you'd never get a second chance.

In the end, it came down to one thing - Know your enemy.

Gagaran had fought automatons before, of course. Golems, like the eternal guardians of Kilineiram, Sword of Darkness: From her experience, they were ponderous but powerful things, utterly without imagination. Taking them down was a matter of learning the limits of their logic, and hitting them in their blind spots until something broke.

What Malmvist had unleashed, however, was another class of being entirely.

The iron beast came after them like a wyvern with a grudge, rampaging forward on tree-trunk legs. There was an extraordinary strength in those darksteel-shod limbs, each punch blurringly fast - Those fists descended like an avalanche, and each blow smashed great craters into the frozen ground, churning up great plumes of earth.

It didn't clank or clatter, like some lower-order construct. It roared, that terrible crimson light burning in its wedge-shaped eyes, hooved feet tearing up the ground as it came on. When they were out of reach, it ripped trees from the ground, tore chunks of rubble free, and flung them with distressing accuracy. At one point, when Lakyus had taken to the air, it'd exhaled a great cloud of boiling acid, one that had gusted against her blades and began to eat them away.

And now-

"Down-"

With a curse, Gagaran flung herself flat, as the colossus' fist sliced through the air. The blow mowed overhead with a whuff of denied impact, clenched iron knuckles swinging high. She rolled to the side, lurching to her feet as it stomped down. The great crushing foot shattered the ground like glass, the concussive impact setting her ears ringing-

But Gagaran was off the floor, now. Her muscles burning with fatigue, her armor grinding as she charged. She'd taken a bad hit in the opening moments of the fight: A glancing blow had smashed her from her feet, and something had just given in her left leg and hip. The Gauntlets of Kerykeion had stitched her back together, but not all the way…

But it was enough.

She swung, hard. Fel Iron crashed into the colossus' right leg behind the knee joint, with the deep tolling ring of steel-on-steel. The impact jolted up her arms, buzzing in her teeth as she reared back to swing again-

It didn't matter if you were fighting an orc or a wyvern or, say, some steel-sheathed horror from a mechanical hell. Everything had a shape - if not necessarily an anatomy - and a shape had to obey the simple laws of design. The joints which let limbs move and flex were also the points where they shattered.

She'd hit it hard enough to level a house. Hard enough that anything living or dead would have felt it, enough to crush metal into twisted wreckage. To turn the product of infernal genius into so much scrap.

That was the idea, at any rate.

For that pitch-black metal did not crumple or even buckle. Fel Iron had simply rebounded, at last encountering something harder than itself.

Oh, f-

Gagaran hurled herself back, for all the good it did. She wrenched Fel Iron up, the haft crossed across her cuirass - And before she had even registered movement, a great paw slipped from the churning air, and smashed her aside.

Her armor cracked.

She crossed the ground on her back.

The world tumbled end-over-end, as Gagaran went skidding. Somehow, she kept hold of Fel Iron - Somehow, she kept from braining herself with it, slamming the maul-head into the earth. It gouged a deep furrow as she came to a stop, tasting blood in her mouth, every bone in her body screaming in agony…

A flicker of movement, at the corner of her vision-

Swords. A dozen of them, bright and lethal and sharp, as they snapped down. She felt her eyes widen, felt the acid taste of adrenaline scorch the back of her throat, as she whirled Fel Iron in a warding arc-

Lakyus' Floating Swords shot in. They spun in defensive velocities, rotating arrays that hung overhead like great shields. Edström's blades rang dully from them, glancing away with the chiming clatter of iron hail - Denied, they wrenched themselves back into the air, swarming around the witch like a swarm of triggerfish.

Instinctively, Gagaran turned. She felt Lakyus' back slam against hers, as she landed: She could hear her breathing hard, feel the hammer of her pulse even through her armor-

"The golem?" Lakyus said, her blonde hair glimmering in the grit-choked air. She had Kilineiram in both hands, a seething miasma smoking from the Sword of Darkness' edge as it turned her grasp. She muttered a prayer under her breath, and the world seemed to grow a little darker as the smoke and fog gathered close. Shapes prowled the perimeter, her remaining blades circling her as she watched for the hellish red light that would herald another attack.

"Couldn't even scratch it. The Six Arms?"

Lakyus sighed, an abrupt hiss of breath, and the sigh told the whole story. On a good day, Malmvist, Peshurian and Edström would've been a complication, rather than an obstacle. It'd have taken some time, but - With a little luck - the outcome would've never been in doubt.

Except today was a bad day. The very worst. And-

"Lady Lakyus!" Malmvist was barely visible, just a silhouette amid the biting fog and dust that swirled in the air. "It's not too late to accept our offer!"

Neither deigned to reply. It was just words, after all - Something to fill the dead air, in the brief lull.

"Just listen to him," Gagaran muttered, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. "Someone's confident, isn't he? You know what they say about stupid people in large numbers-"

"It's more than that," Lakyus cut in. Her brow was furrowed, elegant features set with concern. "They've got new equipment, better than anything I've seen. And that golem of theirs…"

Gagaran grunted. She knew exactly what she thought about that.

"They don't quite trust it, do they? You'd think they'd be fighting alongside their new toy, instead of apart from it." The ache in her muscles ebbed, as healing warmth surged through her. About time, she thought, her fingers flexing in her great gauntlets: Honestly, she didn't know how much power they had left. Magic was tricky that way.

"Dissension in the ranks, maybe?" Lakyus said, her lips moving in her next spell. A dim blue glow lit the gloom, redolent of cleansing water, of the Water God's grace. Gagaran gritted her teeth as her side ached fiercely, the burning sensation that followed almost worse than the original injury.

"We would be so lucky. Look at them - I don't think they've had the time to get used to this. I think they've got other places to be, and they need to end this soon."

Lakyus considered this. Her green eyes narrowed beneath her circlet, the roses in her hair - Blue, a contrast to the single golden blossom pinned to her chest - still faintly sweet-smelling.

"The golem first," she said, at last. Gagaran risked a glance over her shoulder, saw the familiar set to Lakyus' jaw, the hard glitter to her eyes.

"If you're sure-"

"I'm not leaving it in their hands," Lakyus said. "Something like that - It doesn't belong in this world. We're ending this, here and now."

Gagaran considered this. Exhaled, slowly. "I agree, but…It took a direct hit from Fel Iron. Didn't even dent it. How do…" Her eyes widened, as realization dawned. "Oy, are you serious? If you lose control-"

"Let me worry about that." High color burned in Lakyus' cheeks, her hair whipping in the breeze. "Ready?"

Gagaran's great shoulders rose in a shrug. Her lower breastplate was cracked, and it felt like her ribs had cracked, too. Still, she had one good surge left in her.

"No, but what the Hells. On three?"

Lakyus smiled - A brief flash of perfect white teeth. "Always."

She murmured a word under her breath, and the obscuring mist whirled away. Fog whipped past them, like the shreds of a tattered veil. For one moment, Gagaran could see everything: the smoke rising from the burning house, the frozen expanse of earth and the shattered trees they'd been fighting across. Even the silhouettes of the Six Arms, withdrawn to a safe distance.

But all that really mattered was the lightless shape of the darksteel colossus, hunched low and to the ground. Whatever control Malmvist could exert - And it didn't seem to be a lot - he'd chosen to keep it close, to keep his own miserable hide whole. Prudent, but not what Gagaran would've chosen - If he'd been a little bolder, a little more willing to let the leash slip, this fight would already be over.

Lucky for us, then, she thought, as she strode forward.

"Come on, ugly!" she shouted, banging her fist against her chestplate. "I'm right here, you son-of-a-bitch!" Gagaran spread her arms, grinning in the face of death. "What are you waiting for?"

There was a growl, a sputtering, snorting sound, and the thing moved. It lurched up, as if rising to pounce. She could see its eyes, red and glowing, like the light from some hellish forge-

It charged. Pounding forward, across the flat ground. A tree detonated against its blistered-black bulk, great hands wrenching open into claws. Lakyus readied Kilineiram, her legs coiling beneath her…

Gagaran raised Fel Iron. She didn't have to move fast, but she needed to do this right. Anything less meant getting flattened by this rampaging monster, ground to paint beneath its iron tread. The darksteel beast's tremendous mass meant that - once in motion - it was effectively unstoppable, ploughing forward like something spat out from one of the many hells.

"Heavy Tremor!"

The great maul slammed down.

The earth heaved. It tolled, like a bell. Cracks skittered outwards, like flaws spiderwebbing through glass. The blistered-black bulk of the golem pounded forward another stride, then another-

The ground gave way beneath it. The colossus slammed forward, into the shallow fissure - One great foot slipping into the crack, plunging through as its own weight dragged it down. The edges of the fault closed around the dully-gleaming limb, like a vice: Held fast, an awful metal-on-metal shriek issued forth from its inner workings, the beast's crushing fists slamming down as it fought to right itself.

And in that moment, Lakyus bent her knees, and sprang high into the air. The great leap hurled her skyward, her floating swords gathered around her like great pinions. They shot forth, one after another, blades slicing towards the darksteel titan's glowering head. Each one pinged from the imperishable surface, riocheting aside - But they were only ever meant to be a distraction, nothing more.

She dove. A white-and-gold streak, above the spinning swords.

"Dark Blade Impact!"

The shout began, as the unholy power of Kilineiram unwound. The sword stabbed down, burning with a fire so black no eye could ever hope to hold it. It drove into the machine giant's faceplate, just beneath those red-glowing slits.

With a sickening snap of reality cracking apart, a ravening darkness spewed forth. A smooth orb of utter blackness rushed out from the epicenter of the detonation, rippling outward in a perfect sphere: A single seething blot of oblivion, sucking the light from the air.

Tendrils of dark lightning rippled across the colossus' form, gouging shallow scars. Spontaneous frost blistered the torso cowling as Lakyus forced the blade down, inch by slow inch, that terrible, blighting force pulsing forth-

Gagaran tasted copper in her mouth, as she squinted into that awful, scouring light. She could feel her skin burn, the bitter chill tearing at her very bones. Her own breath roared in her ears, as she tried to struggle forward, fighting - with all her renowned might - to stay on her feet…

Saw the giant turning. Not away from the vast outpouring of power, but into it. Something moved in the depths of those burning eyes, heedless of the arcs of lightning sparking from its rivet-covered shell.

With a sudden, awful speed, the colossus struck. Meter-long talons tore Lakyus from the air, swatting her like a fly. Kilineiram's unholy light guttered out, as a great hand slammed her to the ground. Pinned, she let out a choked cry, riling in that steel grasp as it began to crush the life from her.

"Lakyus-!" The shout tore something in her throat, came loose as a roar. Gagaran could feel her muscles bunch as she broke into a run-

But then Peshurian was stepping in, like the vulture he was. His weapon hissed as it whipped forward, flowing, changing - It flickered like a serpent's tongue, a forked, barbed scourge that crawled with charge. Her teeth gritted, Gagaran twisted to avoid it: The air stank of ozone, of lightning, as the quicksilver lash sizzled past her.

She disparaged his lineage, Fel Iron whirling in her fists. At any other time, she'd have been happy to try conclusions with the bastard: But she had to get to Lakyus, before-

"Edström." Peshurian's expression was unreadable, his eyes hard and glittering in the shadows of his full-face helmet. "-Time to finish up."

Gagaran heard the witch's chuckle, the rattle of gathering swords. Disgust made her lip curl - She'd seen jackals with more courage. It didn't change the fact that, between the two of them, she'd never make it in time.

"Gaga - Ahhhhhhh!"

Somehow, somehow, Lakyus had driven Kilineiram into the join where metal met metal. It kept the colossus's claw from snapping shut, even as the relentless vise tightened - She would be crushed in seconds rather than moments, but she would be crushed all the same.

Something cold and terrible coursed through Gagaran, unwinding through her limbs. The knowledge that she might be watching the very last moments of Lakyus' life.

"Bastards," she growled, muscles bunching within her armor. She could feel the sick desperation twisting in her gut - Desperation, and the rising tide of fury. Peshurian first, she told herself, even as the red crept in at the corners of her vision: Him, she could actually reach. The slash-stab of Edström's swords was just something she'd have to deal with, until she got close enough to give her a kiss from Fel Iron.

"Come on, then," Gagaran breathed, the words smoking as they left her lips. She reckoned she might not live through this, but it didn't make much of a difference, not now-

She stopped.

It was the smallest thing, the strangest thing. A handful of tiny, bright objects swirling through the air: Flecks of gold leaf, borne on the breeze. Something about them - An instinct she couldn't put a name to - made her hesitate, even in the extremity of the moment…

They were petals. Golden petals, from the rose Lakyus had pinned to her chest.

That's…

Some premonition made her glance down, at the criss-crossing shadows that pooled at their feet. How they seemed to move, to dance, to swell, in a way that had nothing to do with the cold light of the full moon.

"What-" Edström began, a brittle hiss to her words.

The shadows erupted.

It was a tremendous outpouring of darkness. A great upheaval, surging forth from the shadows all around. All of a sudden, the looming shades had depth and waves and currents, roiling and churning in ways that defied the eye-

There was a flash. A single, gleaming line, a stripe across the film of reality.

Like lightning, out of the low, racing blackness. Stabbing forth from the dark, known only in its absence.

Peshurian flinched, the silver arc of his urumi coiling in the dust, a serpent slinking back from a predator. Even Edström seemed to falter, the whirling circle of her blades drawing close around her, a ring of defending steel.

But it was Malmvist, rapier hanging forgotten in one hand, who spoke.

"It's him-!" he spat out, eyes widening in belated recognition. "It's…"

Wolfgunblood's coat fluttered out behind him, like the shroud of night itself. In motion, he'd been a speed-distorted phantom: Now he merely stood, as tall and beautiful and tragic as a graven prince.

Time seemed to hesitate around him, as if fighting to catch up. Then, and only then, did Gagaran see-

When did he…?

He held Lakyus in his arms. Between the moment when the colossus' great fist had wrenched close and the moment her strength would've failed, he'd - Somehow, with a speed beyond belief - pulled her free.

"Wolf…?" Lakyus murmured, blood flecking her lips. Her glorious white-and-gold armor had bitten into her, her face bruised from the blow she'd taken. Yet her eyes widened, a gasp rasping from her throat as the dreadnought machine swung-

"Behind y-"

Smoothly, without haste, Wolfgunblood pivoted. His hand blurred, the sliver of a blade darting like a lambent flame.

The air rippled.

There was a stench of burning metal, a billow of steam.

The colossus' lower arms sheared apart. Severed at the elbows, the great masses of darksteel thumped to the freezing ground, with a weighty impact that made the earth shake. The edges of the sheared metal glowed brightly as they fell away, a flurry of sparks sheeting from the ruptured stumps.

"Gods-!"

He'd cut through it. One-handed, through armor plates and pistons and internal structure - Then out the other side. All that, with a blade that couldn't have been more than half a meter long.

Gagaran hadn't even seen him move.

It bellowed. The sound was terrible, deafening, a cry of machine-agony. It was hurt, enraged - Limb-stumps flailing, mangled metal screeching as the golem lurched back. That hideous, bloody light oozed from its furnace heart as the behemoth wheeled around, surging forward, ready to trample them both into the very earth.

Wolfgunblood spared Lakyus a glance. "Stay here," he said, and sprang to meet it.

The motion was fluid, beautiful. Utterly without hesitation, the black wings of his coat sweeping around him. He became a shadow within shadows, too fast to truly see, accelerating towards the maimed leviathan-

They struck, and flew apart. Wolfgunblood's boots kissed the snow, kicking up a skidding trail - Somehow unscathed by the machine-driven speed of the colossus, he flicked his wrist, black, tarry ichor scattering from the peerless edge of his dagger.

Behind him, the great machine shuddered forward a step. Another. It seemed to convulse, to judder. Things were going catastrophically wrong within that huge frame, inside that hulking metal shell - Pushed beyond all limits, all restraints, all control. Lurid flame rippled and flickered up from its collar, a mewling, sobbing sound rising up from within…

When it exploded, the fire rushed out of it in a great, annihilating cloud - Swirling upwards, an expanding blossom of red-yellow flame. The echo of the detonation split the night, a roll of thunder that shuddered through the burning skies.

Backlit by flame, Wolfgunblood looked back at them all.

"Who's first?" he said.

Impossible.

Malmvist had always loathed that word. A man in his profession prided himself on accounting for every outcome, on keeping an open mind. Impossible was merely an eventuality one had failed to account for - the sign of a stunted intellect.

And yet, what he'd seen. What that man, Wolfgunblood, had just done…

It couldn't be. It simply couldn't.

He'd heard the rumors, of course. Read the accounts from their spies in E-Rantel, set down in a chronicler's neat, tidy hand. He'd given the tales the consideration they were due, for they were always exaggerated: It was clear that something had befallen the city, that a disaster had been averted…But then again, magic had always been fickle, and necromancers were known for having a reach that far exceeded their grasp.

E-Rantel, after all, was a city of adventurers. The Guild's presence was strongest there, and it seemed reasonable that they'd wanted a hero. Some carefully-groomed figurehead, skilled enough to hold up to scrutiny, yet pliable enough to go along with whatever they wanted.

In truth, he'd never had a high opinion of their new favorite. Malmvist had - quietly - believed him to be little more than a rake, one who'd got lucky early. Some princeling playing adventurer, perhaps, or someone who'd been fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time, and who had coasted on his reputation ever since.

Here and now, he was forced to admit: The world was not quite what he had thought it was. That all his certainties were no more than guesses, and that the solid foundations he'd taken so much assurance in were in fact built on shifting and treacherous sands.

The explosion had snatched him off his feet, rattled his brain in his skull. Dark spots dancing in his field of vision, his exquisite waistcoat soiled with dirt and melted snow, Malmvist had staggered to his feet-

To see Wolfgunblood. Untouched by flame, by acid, by the thrashing steel limbs fully as long as a man was tall. Felt the chill of horror, as those mismatched eyes fixed on them - Fixed on him.

"Wait," Malmvist croaked, raising his rapier. "Wait-"

They had to take him together. That was their only chance. They were the Six Arms: Mightier together than alone. If they could just-

But the others were already moving. Already surging to the attack. Perhaps Wolfgunblood's casual challenge had been a spur - Or perhaps they were driven by the oldest principle: To get him before he got them.

Peshurian struck first, of course. He could never resist a cheap shot, not when one was offered.

"Spatial Slash!"

His outline and shape blurred with speed. His weapon hissed out, faster than Malmvist had ever seen - A killing stroke, swift and direct. It split the air with a crack, outrunning its own sonic boom: Wet ripples of lightning crawling down its length, writhing like snakes in black oil…

Wolfgunblood simply tipped his head to the side. The razor arc sizzled past him, so close he must have felt the breeze. His expression - a faint, aquiline smirk, a smile that was almost contemptuous - never wavered, even as he spun his gilded dagger, catching it full grip.

He threw.

"Gggkkkhhhhhhh-"

There was a wet thud. Peshurian stiffened, a gurgle bubbling from deep within. He staggered back, in an attitude of abrupt and painful surprise: His whip-sword fell from his hand, the hilt thumping to the ground. The self-declared knight sagged sideways, trembling gauntlets fumbling for the blade that impaled his throat-

Right through his gorget. Right through his coif of orichalcum chain, and the flesh below. The glittering point, dark with gore, had pierced clean through and out the other side.

Somehow, Peshurian lived a moment longer. Long enough for a choked, disbelieving "How-" as his legs folded beneath him, as he crumpled with a clatter of articulating plate. He twitched once, heels drumming the frozen ground, then went still.

They said there was no honor amongst thieves, but Peshurian had been a solid - if boring - man to have in a fight, distasteful personal habits aside. And now the life was rushing out of him, in a huge dark pool of arterial blood, steaming as it gushed from his cooling corpse.

But Wolfgunblood had left himself empty-handed. He was unarmed, as Edström's swords came rushing down. It was a whirring cloud of knives, rotating so fast they blurred into a single shimmering ring of steel - The blades moving in flawless formation, rippling in abstract orbits as they descended, slicing edges churning faster, faster…

"Die!"

In all the years Malmvist had known her, he'd never seen Edström express anything other than boredom or cruel amusement. He'd certainly never seen her look like this, her fingers curled into talons, eyes wide and wild above her veil: Walking on air, her hair shaken loose, there was a snarl of savage satisfaction to her voice, slender arms rippling as she brought them down.

The storm of blades rushed forward. That man-woman thing from the Blue Roses let out a yell of incoherent warning as she flung herself across Lady Aindra, great armored bulk turning to shield her. Something insipid, no doubt, her words lost in the wail of spinning swords-

He thought he saw Wolfgunblood punch at nothing, his arm an impossible blur. A heartbeat later, there was the terrible shriek as the blades converged, a barbed flower blooming in reverse. Chain-lightning teeth closed on him, a whirring metal blur ripping into that solitary dark figure from all sides.

But only for a moment.

There was the chiming ring of steel-on-steel. Over and over again, vastly amplified. The churning swords whirled out of alignment, crossing, colliding, smashing into each other. Blades spun out in all directions from the central focus, burying themselves like arrows into the earth: Others broke and shattered, smashed away by some immense force.

Edström's swords tumbled down, one and all. In whole or in part, carpeting the ground like dead leaves. And in their midst stood-

"No," Edström breathed. A single word, rich with disbelief. Her hands were open and empty by her sides, now, her eyes so very, very wide.

Wolfgunblood held a single curved blade in his hand, the one he'd snatched from the air in the instant before it struck. He tossed it to the ground, the edge gashed and chipped from countless impacts, where it smoked gently in the grass.

"Huh," he said, and clicked his tongue in annoyance. "-My turn."

Malmvist caught a glimpse of Wolfgunblood's smile, his different-colored eyes turned black in the twitching light. Everything seemed to darken, to dim, the shadows squirming as they drew around him like a cloak.

"Greater Missile Storm."

Reality flexed, splitting the air around him. Tendrils of yellow lightning danced around Wolfgunblood, like a stormcloud. Shapes spun and opened out around him, wickedly barbed and gleaming as they emerged from the great mass of darkness.

Edström drew a whooping breath. To cry out, or scream: Malmvist didn't know. Only that her arms were still raised in futile defense as the knife-edged shadows came hailing down-

She burst. The meat shredded from her bones, great bites opening up in her form as she came apart like an overripe fruit. What remained of her vanished in a billowing mist of blood, so abrupt that a great looping arc of gore splattered Malmvist. The taste of blood, hot and iron, filled his mouth as he stumbled back, half-blinded and retching.

"Gods!" Someone spat out, appalled. Lady Aindra, maybe, her green eyes wide with something like horror as she looked on. Even Gagaran looked taken aback, as Wolfgunblood took a single slow step forward-

Malmvist wanted to back away. Wanted to run, and keep running.

Something made him stand his ground, all the same. For - despite everything - he still had his pride. A man could lose everything else and keep that, at least.

That, and the magnificent cinnabar rapier in his hands, an exquisite length of needle-pointed steel. A scratch could kill Gazef Stronoff, he knew. He would have to be fast, faster than lightning, faster than thought - For there would only be time for a single, perfect lunge. The best one he would ever make…

"Go ahead," Wolfgunblood said, unsmiling. "-I'll give you one shot."

And the adventurer was looking him right in the eyes, and there was something terrible, something dark, that coiled within them-

His nerve broke. The rapier clattered down, flung aside like so much scrap, as Malmvist turned and ran. He could feel the scream boiling out of him, a howl of utter terror that clawed at his lungs - Knowing only that to give vent to it would mean the end, not just of him but of everything he was and might ever be.

He could feel the tears streaming down his face, his teeth chattering. Not from fear or shame, but from simple relief: He was going to live. He was going to-

And then the ground vanished from under him, and he plunged into the ink-black void that had opened up. There was a moment of blind, flailing panic - A desperate thrashing, like a swimmer going beneath the waves for the last time - and the cold realization that he hadn't escaped after all.

That there was no escape. Not now, not ever.

He fell forever.

Malmvist's screams lasted for an appallingly long time. It couldn't have been more than seconds before the shadows closed over his head - frantic hands clawing, reaching out to grab someone or something that could save him - for the last time.

A man, drowning on dry land. Sucked down into the darkness.

Gagaran had seen a lot. But she hadn't seen that before.

"Holy Hells," she muttered, as she helped Lakyus to her feet. She'd taken a bad hit, that much was clear, and Kilineiram hadn't made things better: Straw-colored blisters marked her skin, her face gone pale beneath the dust and grime that caked it.

"Not…quite," Lakyus said, her breathing labored. She had one hand clapped to her thigh, a wine-colored stain spreading along her leggings - It looked like it'd missed the bone, but her fingers were already gummy with blood. She clung to Kilineiram with her other hand, the sword's point dragging in the dirt. "He did - he did save us, after all…"

"Lakyus, you-" Gagaran began, but caught herself as Wolfgunblood stepped close. Gods, but even after she'd seen what he could do…The man simply didn't get any less handsome. And that expression of his - Proud but somehow noble, like something on an old coin.

A beautiful man. Beautiful, and dangerous.

"Evileye sent me to find you," he said. All business now, mismatched eyes thoughtful as he glanced towards the lurid, flickering flames that rose above the city. His voice was soft, concerned but not solicitous, as his gaze turned to Lakyus. "-Can you walk?"

Lakyus squeezed her eyes shut. Drew a deep breath, her lips moving in a prayer. For a moment, a faint iridescence danced around her fingers, a great sigh of relief shuddering from her as her shoulders slumped.

"It's just a scratch," she lied, carefully easing herself back from Gagaran. She leaned on Kilineiram, the great black sword humming faintly in her grasp, as if sulking. "I…We're indebted to you, Ser Wolfgunblood." A smile graced her lips, faint but honest. "I - didn't think the stories were entirely true…"

Lower, softer. "-But now I know."

That gleam to her eyes, the soft waver to her words…Well. She'd seen this before, but Lakyus? That defied belief. In truth, Gagaran wasn't sure quite how she'd felt about that.

"If you're here-" Gagaran began, but Wolfgunblood was already turning away. He'd canted his head to the side, as if listening to some signal only he could hear.

"There's somewhere I need to be," he said, calmly. "But I remain at your service…Lady Aindra."

And of course, it was only natural for Lakyus to nod back. Suddenly self-conscious, her fingers brushing the hollow where the golden rose had been.

"Lakyus," she said, her voice low, hushed. "-Call me Lakyus."

A swift, significant glance passed between them, the beginnings of a blush - almost invisible - spreading beneath her skin…

I suppose it had to happen eventually, Gagaran thought, even as she reached for a potion. Her gauntlets had done her a world of good, but she had the feeling they'd reached the end of their rope.

So this was how it felt to be a third wheel. She'd always wondered.

But something clicked, right then, and she glanced up at Wolfgunblood, brow furrowing.

"You're going alone?" she said, more sharply than she'd intended. "At least wait for th-"

He smiled, then. Wolflike, like his name.

"Alone?" Wolfgunblood said, his crimson eye catching the light. As the clouds passed across the face of the moon, the shadows stirred once again. The rising wind caught his long coat, making it flutter like a banner, like the black flag of himself: On all sides, figures were taking form. Vague, but gaining definition, gaining solidity with each passing moment.

Like some ink-black mirror image, a four-armed shade shook itself free from the burned-out ruin of the darksteel colossus. It loomed, wavering, spectral, but undeniably solid - The hard-edged gleam of the Lunatic Orb limning it in a flickering corona, like threads of heat around a cold, black heart.

"-Who said anything about alone?"

All around him, the dead cast off their empty shells, and rose.

Next: Lord of Shadow (II)