Shards of the Eight

by iridium248

Five hundred years ago, the Eight Greed Kings walked the New World. Through their strength of arms and magics, they sought to bend all to their will - But, in their avarice, fell to strife and slaughter. The end for one world is the beginning for the next: This time, as a new wave of Players descends upon the land, can anyone survive? Will anything?

45. Interlude - Lord of Shadow (III)

Interlude - Lord of Shadow (III)

The Wielder of Death

The second dragon tore into the sky a mere minute after the first. It burst from the abandoned brewery that had been its lair, ripping through the roof in a hail of falling timbers and pounding beams.

The collapsing walls spewed outwards in a great sideways torrent of stonework and plaster, a dust cloud boiling forth from the abrupt ruin - the undead dragon's scarred, blistered bulk writhing free, spiked tail lashing as it unfurled the great, ragged sails of its wings.

It surged upwards, like an arrow leaving the bowstring. As fast as a stormfront, gaining height with each sweep of its wings.

Tiny figures, scores of them, flailing as they fled the rushing tide of rubble…

It was smaller than the first, if such things mattered. Smaller, sleeker, but still a horrific new addition to Re-Estize's skyline, soaring upwards through cloud and whirring smoke. Something that big had no business being in the air; It flew with force, but without grace, as if inertia alone kept it in the air.

Twin roars, distorted by stone and distance, shivered the sky.

Most mortals lived out their entire lives without seeing a single dragon. To see two at once was a shattering experience: It made you want to cower, to grovel, to be anywhere but here, beneath the vast serpentine shapes churning through the sky.

In her long, long life, Rigrit had seen worse things. Far worse.

But, she had to admit - This was hardly promising.

"Not an auspicious sign," she murmured, puffing away at her pipe. It was an affectation, really, but she'd always nursed a fondness for black shag tobacco - Which, if one was generous, smelled a little like cloves and cinnamon, but mostly like old goat.

The Charnel Ship's bridge was, at the moment, the safest place in all of Re-Estize. For, like most of the living, the dead gave little thought to the dead. Concealed in a bank of roiling fog, bloody lanterns dimmed to a sullen glow, there was just enough light to see the darkness by; For the rest, Re-Estize itself sufficed, a flame-lit tableau that grew louder by the moment.

Rigrit looked down at the silver compass in her hands, the ivory gleam of the needle pointing unerringly towards the city. Fashioned in the form of a not-quite-human skull, the compass was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, small enough to fit into her palm. The pointer was a sliver of human bone, turning fluidly about its own axis. If not for its provenance, one could easily assume that it indicated true north, instead of a darker direction entirely.

It was one of his gifts, like the rod of spell-eating iron and yellow jade that had ridden at Rigrit's hip. The rod was in the hands of another, now, and good riddance to it - The slick, oily sensation of the latent power within had made phantom nausea roil in her guts, made her teeth ache and her gums bleed.

Better off gone.

The compass came from Eryuentiu. It pointed not to certainties, but to absences: Things hidden, concealed and made blank through the most dire and potent magics. Such wards left a trail, of sorts, if you knew how to look…And, with the right artifact, one could learn where one couldn't see.

Like charting a course not by the stars, but by the darkness in-between.

Once, a long time ago, the Greed Kings had used such artifacts to hunt down first their foes, and - in the end - each other.

Somehow, that didn't reassure her in the slightest. For Rigrit had her suspicions, though she'd kept them to herself - That, one day, the relic would be set to its original purpose once more.

Here and now, however, the needle simply refused to stay still. It dipped and hovered, swaying back and forth like the head of a confounded hound; With the nerves of an ice-and-velvet card player, the old necromancer waited, frowning as her brow furrowed in concentration.

Across the churning water, the first dragon wheeled, bellowed and dove. Like a rogue meteor, descending to earth: The impact of its landing made the ground shudder and heave, buildings swaying like saplings in a stiff breeze.

Ill-fortune for someone, then, Rigrit thought, with a sniff. She didn't consider herself a callous soul, but there was little she could do - By herself, at least. While she'd walked in the company of giants, she didn't delude herself into thinking that the efforts of a single old woman would make too much of a difference.

Not at the moment, at any rate.

From her experience, many preferred a heroic style - Bluster, gritted teeth and brandished swords - to actual content. Over the years, however, Rigrit had grown to believe in the value of results.

And so she waited, heedless of distant fires, the dust-clouds flung up to the wintery, ash-choked skies. Even as the clouds overhead deepened towards an inky vortex, even as the second dragon swept above the streets like a stooping hawk, exhaling a long plume of freezing flame. Where it struck, great sprays of ice spewed forth; An abrupt, jagged barrier of steel-hard crystals, razor-edged where they sprouted from the very earth.

The dragon banked, hard. It spiraled high, wings beating - Coiling upon itself, only to plunge down again, with a speed that ripped rotting scales free. It vanished from sight, but the deep boom of the slamming impact reverberated through the air in a great peal of distant thunder, the ground heaving as it was struck.

To any unfortunate denizen of the capital, the appearance of the dragons - Huge decaying horrors, lit from within by hellish ghostlight flame - must have been a shattering experience. To see something like that, to know it struck at will…All that remained was to flee, or hide, or to fall to one's knees and beg the gods for salvation.

To Rigrit's shrewd gaze, it looked deliberate. Calculated, almost.

Undead loathed the living. Loathed them, with a bleak, empty hatred that knew no restraint: Even the humblest skeleton, the mostly freshly-raised zombie, would - if left to its own devices - fall on anything that lived and rip it to shreds.

But, in spite of all that, the dragon revenants seemed content to take their time. They circled overhead, like great ragged vultures waiting for their prey to expire - Descending once, then again, maws igniting in roiling gusts of icy flame. It reminded Rigrit of ferocious predators kept on a short leash, hauled back each time they seemed on the verge of running amok.

What are they waiting for? she thought, her lips pressing together in a thin line.

All the while, the gleaming marble edifice of Ro Lente castle waited, curiously untouched by the chaos, at the capital's very heart. The walls had to be thronging with men and war-machines, now; Every last scrap of defense that could be summoned, mustered in this time of crisis.

Whether it would be enough, though-

Rigrit shook her head, her gray braid swaying. The compass's needle had ceased its oscillations: Now, it simply swiveled back-and-forth - Hesitating, trembling - before it began its slow rotation once more.

Three, she thought. Three points of exclusion.

One fast-moving, and known. Two almost-stationery, and unaccounted for.

With a low sigh, Rigrit made the compass vanish into the folds of her crimson cloak. He would want to know, of course…Though at this juncture, she doubted that his interference would be to anyone's good. For he had always held himself apart, with no guide other than his own higher purpose…

But there were others, of course. She'd prepared for this eventuality: If all went well, it'd be sufficient to avert disaster.

"Just like him to be late," Rigrit murmured to herself - These days, she'd found that she was her own best counsel. For who else could one trust, in the end?

"-I do hope that boy knows what he's doing…"

Well, it was out of her hands, now. All that remained was to preserve what she could. She'd tarried long enough, here; While her role in this was a minor one, she still had to play it to completion.

A momentary breeze stirred the fog around her, as Rigrit cast her gaze around. The Charnel Ship's crew went about their business, the way they always did - Perhaps with a trifle more alacrity than usual. Had they been stirred by the presence of so much death? Did their dead hearts beat again, their spirits quickening, at the thought of the hell that had descended upon the capital?

Morbid thoughts, those. Past a certain age, that was all that seemed to remain: Dark thoughts, and regrets.

She drew a breath, and touched two fingers to the bone clasp of her cloak. A ruby glittered bewitchingly in the setting, but the true magic lay in the tiny runes that lined the circumference - They glowed, shimmering with the faint glitter of distant stars, as their lightless radiance swirled around her in a swarm of glittering motes.

"-Teleport."

The world went away.

---

At the best of times, a military camp had all the carefully-ordered chaos of a kicked anthill. In the full darkness of the freezing night, lit only by the flickering illumination of guttering torches and the great blaze rising from the capital, it was rapidly becoming something significantly worse.

With the Crown Prince's departure - as well as almost the entire mounted contingent, along with the nobles and their associated retinues - it was no longer clear who, exactly, was in charge. Marshal Guis, by dint of being the most senior officer who'd chosen to remain, was in nominal command: However, with more than fifty thousand soldiers awaiting orders, his ability to enforce his authority was necessarily a fragile thing.

To add to the confusion, the first wave of evacuees had somehow bypassed the military picket, and were limping into the camp. They brought with them dire stories of what was happening in Re-Estize, tales of riots and rampaging undead and raging fires. Morale, never particularly high, took another hit as half-formed rumors made the rounds, growing wilder and more nightmarish with each retelling.

It was an attack, some said. The Empire's infiltrators had set light to the city, and the Crown Prince had ridden off to put them to the sword.

Others said that it was all tied to that business in E-Rantel, where an army of the undead had nearly turned the city into a necropolis. Even now, they said, the Crown Prince was fighting for the very soul of the capital, against wave after wave of walking corpses.

But still others said that it was the people who had risen up in revolt, and the Crown Prince was putting them to the sword - A rumor that struck close to home, leading to dark looks and hushed mutters as it gradually gained steam.

At first, a desultory effort had been made to redirect the tide of humanity, but there were simply too many for the confused sentries to deal with. As a compromise, they'd been herded into an ever-expanding corner of the camp, like cattle being corralled - Some attempt had been made to feed and water them, but most were simply left to fend for themselves, huddling around the feeble warmth of campfires and nursing their various wounds.

In light of the growing disorder, the Marshal and his command staff had relocated to a nearby farmhouse, the tallest standing structure within reasonable distance. The family - pale-faced and utterly bewildered - had been marched off, away from all the rapidly-devolving martial chaos.

Two junior aides had dragged a table into the middle of the room, now covered in a mass of log books, patents of muster and orders of battle. With each passing moment, damp communiques and scrawled reports joined the pile, junior men rooting through them with the fixed expressions of the condemned.

Marshal Guis stood at the head of the table, hands clasped behind his back, his face like a thundercloud. His officers crowded around him, gabbling away with the unique desperation that comes with the inevitable approach of disaster.

The Marshal had only spoken once, thus far.

"-Is this the best map we have?" he'd said, sharply - Jabbing at the woefully inadequate parchment with his baton of rank. Heads had turned, the babble of overlapping voices momentarily slowing, until a luckless captain had admitted that yes, it was the best map of Re-Estize they had on hand.

"The Crown Prince took all the others," the wretched man had muttered, his eyes widening as he realized what he'd just said. He'd frozen, when the Marshal had fixed him with an unblinking stare - Until recognition had dawned, and he'd saluted with a trembling hand.

"We'll find another immediately, Lord-Marshal!" he'd squeaked, and made a hasty escape.

Snatches of hurried conversation:

"Do we know where the Crown Prince's forces are?"

"-is this map accurate?"

"Lost all contact with them, it's like they've been swallowed them up-"

"...do with all these bloody refugees?"

"-word from the palace yet?"

"...say that a dragon is attacking…"

For Lieutenant Aaren, it should have been a time of terror. For his superiors, it certainly was: A miasma of panicked guesswork hung in the air, the windows misty with fear-driven speculation. All could feel that things were slipping away, moment by moment, while thousands of freezing men awaited orders from dozens who knew no better.

The cold didn't help - While a roaring fire had been banked up in the open grate, the open door meant that freezing gusts kept invading the room like a polar gale. Huddled around the table, the officers bore the pinched, gritted-teeth look of men whose careers depended on not stating the obvious…And they'd be damned if they would be the first ones to crack.

Yet, all he felt was a kind of distant numbness.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that this was far, far beyond him, now. The absence of the Crown Prince and the nobles had thrown the chain of command into absolute chaos: With his superiors scrambling to pick up the pieces, no-one had time to spare for the Lieutenant - Somehow, he'd been put in charge of security, which he'd done commendably well.

For the past hour or so, he'd been kept manfully occupied with the minutiae of war. A poulterer, disoriented by the thick clouds of smoking rising over the capital, had rolled his wagon right into the camp. Apparently, the soldiers had assumed fresh supplies had arrived, and promptly looted his entire stock of eggs. Now, irate but unharmed, the man was demanding compensation.

There are a thousand stories in the naked city, the Lieutenant found himself thinking, as he stared down at the mud and yolk-smeared report in his hands.

So why do I keep getting these ones?

A nervous cough interrupted his reverie. He turned, looking right into the blotchy pink face of Sergeant Sykes, and felt an instant lurch of premonition. The short, balding man had the worried look of a faithful dog expecting a kick, gripping the handle of his mace (for only officers rated a sword) like a talisman.

"Yes, Sergeant?" Lieutenant Aaren said. Briskly, in a way meant to communicate that he was very busy indeed. Unfortunately, the Sergeant was oblivious.

"There's, uh - An old woman outside, sir," Sykes said, looking deeply uncomfortable. The Lieutenant raised an eyebrow, in the style of his superiors: "A civilian?" he said, wondering exactly why this was being brought to his attention. "Put her with the others, then. If she's looking to make a complaint, have it taken down and-"

"That's the thing, sir," Sergeant Sykes said, his eyes darting back and forth. "She says…She says she needs to talk to the Marshal." Lower, just above a whisper - "Says she has a message from the King. One that could change everything."

"That's-"

A message. From the King. In the hands of some mad old hag? The very idea was preposterous. Aaren frowned up, opened his mouth to say exactly that-

He hesitated. Caught himself, just in time.

For a long, damned moment, Aaren weighed the potential annoyance of hearing out some toothless old woman, versus the risks of turning the King's messenger away.

For on a day like this, you never knew.

He straightened, with a grunt. Felt the ache in his back, from the hunch the cold had made him adopt.

"What was her name?" Aaren asked, even as he hitched his sword-belt in place.

"What?"

"Her name, Sergeant."

There was a pause. Sykes furrowed his brow, looking away - just for a moment - into the space over Aaren's shoulder, with a faintly put-upon air.

"Couldn't say for sure, sir. I think it was something like-"

---

"Lady Rigrit Bers Caurau, on His Majesty's service!"

In truth, Rigrit had never been one for theatrics. Subtlety, she'd found, was often the best way to go about things. Often, the heavy-handed, awe-inspiring approach closed as many doors as it smashed open.

But here and now, she had to admit - It could be effective.

Silence descended, spreading like ripples across a lake. Heads turned, as a shocked mutter ran around the room: The many flavors of surprise, disbelief, shock - And, beneath it all, a subdued but definite undercurrent of relief.

For this was political, now. Political went higher-up.

Inwardly, Rigrit sighed. She'd done her best, but - even after two centuries - the servility, the deference to authority…It never quite went away. Sometimes, it seemed like the same lessons had to be learned over and over again.

A cold draught swept in, as Rigrit brushed snow from her cloak. She could have appeared right in the middle of the camp, but things had seemed confused enough already - the great mass of soldiers left to flounder, from the twin blows of the Crown Prince's departure and the grand upheaval in the capital. The last thing she needed was a crossbow bolt from some trigger-happy sentry.

Still, trekking through the slush and the biting wind hadn't done much for her mood. She'd wondered, bleakly, how men could stand to live like this: Then again, Rigrit already had her answer.

They obeyed, because it was all they knew.

Marshal Guis looked up, from the inadequate map before him. His gaze settled on Rigrit, and - for a moment - the corners of his mouth twitched.

"You are dismissed, gentlemen," he said, with the curt care of a man weighing every word. "We reconvene in half an hour." He raised a hand, to forestall the sudden babble of voices that greeted his order.

"-Out. All of you."

It was frankly astonishing how quickly the room cleared out. The frozen officers rushed to obey, with an alacrity that did credit to their military discipline - In a matter of moments, the thudding footfalls of boots had faded to nothing, the silence swelling to fill the space where nearly three dozen men had been.

Stray scraps of paper fluttered in their wake, drinks left to cool where they had been abandoned: As the door juddered close, Marshal Guis weighed his baton in one hand, sighed, and tossed it down to the table.

"Lady Rigrit," he said, a grim smile creasing his worn face. "-I've been expecting you."

---

"How long has it been? Twenty years?"

"Thirty."

Wine gurgled, as Guis poured himself a glass of wine. The decanter steamed, faintly, as he offered it to Rigrit - But she shook her head, gray braid swaying in time to the slight motion.

"None for me, thanks. I still have a ways to go, yet," she said. "Thirty years, you say? My, but time does fly, Lord-Marshal."

They'd been long years, too, and unkind ones: While Guis had borne it better than others, his face had - increasingly - taken on the worn cast of a man fighting in a long, drawn-out and painful defeat. Still vigorous, he'd grown gaunt over the years, his hair mostly white with the occasional dark streak.

He snorted.

"The way I remember it, that's thirty more years than I had to look forward to."

For a moment, Guis' gaze went distant, as if staring at something only he could see. "-What was it you said, back then? Absolute loyalty, in return for a long life of purpose? Something like that…It tends to stick in the mind."

Rigrit allowed herself the slightest smile. It wasn't quite what she'd said, not really: What she'd offered was the opportunity for him to have a life, instead of being tumbled into a mass grave with all the other anonymous corpses.

Gods, she'd been ruthless then. More so than usual, at any rate.

"Well, you certainly didn't disappoint," she said. "Not all investments are worthwhile, you know. Few have risen as high as you have, Lord-Marshal."

He laughed - a short, sharp bark of laughter - as he swilled his drink.

"-I had a good teacher," Guis said. He sipped his drink, grimaced, and set his glass down. "Forgive my candor, Lady Rigrit, but I believe you have a message for me?"

"Indeed," Rigrit said, adjusting her battered old coat. She glanced at her reflection, in the gleaming surface of a dented goblet, brushed stray strands of gray hair back from her brow. For however old she felt these days, she had to look the part. Still sharp, still together.

She drew the scroll-case from a hidden pocket of her cloak, its home for many years. With care, Rigrit thumbed the worn catch, removing the roll of parchment from its dust-dry innards: A minor magic kept it from going the way of all flesh, but she'd been carrying it for longer than Guis had been alive - That warranted a little care.

Like so much else, these days.

The Marshal scanned the flowing script, and frowned. He read it again, more carefully, then set the letter down. It was a short message, but all the more significant for its brevity:

The bearer of this letter, Rigrit Bers Caurau, acts in service of the Crown.

Obey her orders as you would Our own.

"-This says nothing about orders," Marshal Guis said, at last. He lowered the letter to his lap, handling it with measured care. "Given the wording, it would seem to endow you with-"

The faintest hint of a frown tugged at his thin lips.

"...Absolute authority."

He glanced up, a skeptical glint to his weary eyes. "Pardon my caution, but - Did this truly come from the King?"

Rigrit shrugged.

"It's from his pen, all right." Just not recently. "As for Kings? Here's the seal of Ramposa the First, the Second and the Third." She paused, to let it sink in. "Take your pick."

Even as she spoke, Rigrit felt a faint weariness course through her. The weight of years, she supposed: They said that the first hundred years were the worst, but she'd been at this for a very, very long time.

Long enough to see it all - Not once, but over and over again.

"This is irregular."

"Right now, at this very moment, the capital is under siege," Rigrit said. Not sharp, but very firm. "-We live in irregular times, Marshal. Or are you defying a royal order?"

Guis - almost, but not quite - sighed. He rubbed at his short, well-trimmed beard, gazing abstractedly into the flickering light of the lamp. A moment ago, he'd been in total command: With a few strokes of the king's pen, it had all been taken away.

It had been thirty years since he had first met Rigrit. Since then, the possibility that he would again had grown smaller and smaller in his mind. But now the moment had come, just as - all this time - he'd half-suspected it would.

"-If I obey, it means defying the Crown Prince," Guis said. "It means subverting the intent, if not the letter, of his orders. Effectively, I would be handing over control of the army - To you."

He looked her in the eye: "Tell me, Lady Rigrit - Do you have any idea what you're asking of me?"

For a moment, Rigrit almost felt sorry for him. Despite the stifling, stultified nature of the Kingdom's army, Marshal Guis was neither incompetent nor a lapdog. Indeed, he was possessed of a fine strategic mind: Over the years, he'd done his best to prevent the long, slow defeat from turning into catastrophe. Not for personal power or adulation, but merely because he was the right man for the job.

Like the Brandt lad, Guis was a patriot. He believed in loyalty.

But which loyalty?

"-I'm asking you to save Re-Estize," Rigrit said, quietly. Low, intent - Imparting a truth meant for one man alone. "To put an end to this disaster, before it becomes catastrophe. You may not understand, Marshal - But there's a complex agenda at work, here. It's not too late to turn things around, but only if you trust me."

The Crown Prince had made a spectacular mess of this, haring off with the army's leadership and the cream of its cavalry. Then again, perhaps it was for the best - In the Marshal's place, he'd have blustered and threatened and dug his feet in, then spent every moment trying to thwart her out of sheer spite.

Which was why Rigrit had waited, of course. It was so much easier to bring a Marshal to heel than a Prince.

Even if it meant dozens - hundreds - more deaths in the process.

Guis' shoulders seemed to slump. He drained his glass, sat down heavily - His chair creaking as his weight sank into it. He looked tired now; Weary beyond his years, as his voice dropped.

"-What are your orders, Lady Rigrit?"

Rigrit did not smile. It was a victory, a small one, but the hardest part lay ahead.

"-The army is to come to full fighting status. Everything and everyone prepared within the hour, the companies and the local regiments. The roads are to be cleared, with the swiftest units to move in support of the royal guard."

The words came out crisp, proficient. She'd been pondering this for a long time, after all, and as the saying went…

Well begun is half done.

"With all haste you can muster, please. I want a brigade inside the city as soon as possible - The King is relying on us, and I don't intend to let him down. At the greatest speed, mind; The fate of the capital may depend on it."

Guis didn't like it. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. He rose - Half-turning, as if he meant to stride right out of the room. But something, some deeply-buried impulse, held him for a moment more: As if he knew he had to speak now, or forever hold his peace.

"Lady Rigrit, with the greatest respect - Have you considered, perhaps…"

She waited. Patiently, like she had all the time in the world. Her features, set like a carved idol's, gave away nothing.

"Perhaps change is inevitable. Perhaps…another hand at the tiller might make for a truer course. A steadier one, at least. Better than-"

He fell silent. He'd said too much, and he knew it.

"Often," Rigrit said, softly. She wasn't blind, after all - She knew the direction the Kingdom was taking, knew that it led nowhere except down. "But now is hardly the time. Until then, we must struggle on the best we can."

The Marshal lowered his gaze. Was he in agreement, or merely resigned? She couldn't tell. But there was the ghost of a smile - a grim, faded smile, but a smile all the same - on his face as he saluted, then made his way out. The door swung, once, on its hinges before the wind banged it shut.

The old necromancer - slowly, because she was no longer as spry as she'd once been - padded over to the table, looking down at the map. A gloved finger settled on the parchment, as she traced the path between the capital's heart and the army's current position.

Faintly, Rigrit could hear Guis calling for his staff to assemble. Too late, she thought, not without a faint pang of dread: Even if they got started immediately, which was unlikely, it'd be dawn before they arrived. By then, one way or another, the last acts of the drama would have played themselves out.

The alternative, of course, was to leave upward of fifty thousand men without direction or orders, alone with their fears. Waiting for the right leader, the right word, or even the right rumor to scatter into the night, or turn on each other.

Another trap disarmed, she thought. But how many more lie in wait?

Rigrit shook her head. Here and now, it was impossible to say. Her shadow stretched long and dark over the scattered papers, the detritus of war, as she ran her thumb over the silver-and-emerald ring she wore.

She'd intended it as a gift, but after that business in the Great Forest she'd decided to keep it to herself. The thing that slumbered beneath the earth, fecund with hideous potential, had been a long-term problem, the kind that spanned centuries…But something - or someone - had killed it. Killed it utterly and in totality, the way a cataclysm can shatter even the heart of the oldest tree.

The dryads had been no help. A kind of terror lingered over the place, a bone-deep fear that had driven them even further into the lightless depths of the wood. It would take them years to return, if they ever did: Until then, no answers would come from that quarter.

The fight must have been a terrible one, all the same. The very ground had been rent and torn, great trees ripped free and hurled like blades or javelins, flung heavenward as if to murder the very sky. Fangs of stone had torn through the earth as it heaved in torment, jagged spikes of obsidian that rose in strange monoliths.

After hours of fruitless searching, picking her way through the ruin, Rigrit had found but a single token of the attacker: A single blackened handprint, etched deep into the twisted bark of the fallen colossi. A web of necrosis radiated outward from it for a hundred meters in every direction, as if some canker had burst and spread its blighting poison.

Whatever killed the great Evil Tree of Tob had done so with a touch.

She remembered standing there, seeing that. Contemplating the scale of the destruction.

Thinking-

She shook her head. With a few quick strokes of her knife, Rigrit finished what she'd started with her carvings. She cupped the wooden bird (along with a handful of feathers and a few other baubles from her pouch) in her hands, blew on it, then flung it up.

Something fluttered away into the night, beating stiff wings. She watched it go, lacing her bare fingers together, until even the ghost of its presence had diminished to nothing.

In the distance, thunder rumbled - Once, then again. Unnatural light flashed, to distant shouts and cries of alarm. Shaken from her reverie, Rigrit pulled herself back to the present, her grip flexing around the hilt of her trusty sword.

"Well, then," she said, her lips peeling back from yellowed teeth.

"-It's about time."

---

The Man Who Would Be King

"...rince! Rally to the Prince!"

The world span. Wretched, eye-watering dust billowed all around, choking and blinding.

It was all a blur to Farvald, as he fought to get his steed under control. Twenty years old, trained and drilled in the capital's own school, this was his first taste of war: Real war, after years of monotonous practice, years spent waiting and hoping and dreading-

He'd always longed to be a knight, like his illustrious great-granduncle. To serve with the King's Own, at the very point of the spear. That ambition, and a gift for horsemanship, had taken him as far as a posting in the cavalry lancers. In a year or two, once he'd served his probation in the company, greater things beckoned - A knighthood, perhaps, or a position in some Count's household guard: Farvald had the blood for it, after all.

The blood, and the connections.

His father had cautioned him, in endless letters, to take every precaution - The accolades would come in time. Like any dutiful son, he knew enough to protect his family's investment in him: That, and a healthy sense of self-preservation.

The charge had been exhilarating, all the same. Like flying, watching the ground whip past his horse's hooves, the wind whistling in his ears from the acceleration-

Then impact. The sick thrill of his war-lance's point biting into flesh, the giddy horror of trampling men beneath milling hooves. He barely knew who the enemy was, and barely cared: Only that the rabble was fleeing, cut down mid-flight, mown down like wheat before the scythe.

And then the dragon-

The dragon's roar was so loud, it bruised the world. Horses had gone mad with fear, bolting - blind - into the billowing dust-cloud, all control lost. Others had thrown their riders, or simply toppled without a sound, ruptured by the hideous noise. A great wave of wreckage had spewed from the collapsing buildings, tons of shredded wood and splintered stone hurled in every direction at once.

It had hit the gate first. He remembered that, at least.

The great, ragged shadow had erupted from behind the clouds, as if birthed from it. It'd come down, colossal wings splayed across the skies like tattered banners, great maw wrenching open-

Cold fire blasted down. A torrent of it, a flood, gouting across the ancient stone of Victor's Gate. Blue flame, leaping and darting - Then the roar of collapsing stone, the sound giving way to the whirling maelstrom of a bitter arctic blast. In the span of a second, Victor's Gate had become a mountain of twisted wreckage, jagged blades of ice jutting from the gaps and crevices of the frozen whole.

It was then - right then - that Farvald had known that there was no escape. That there would be no escape.

He'd never actually seen the dragon land. There was simply too much dust, too much debris whirring through the air: Through the ringing in his ears, Farvald had heard the screams of tortured horses and dying men, blood and strewn limbs going up in sprays and spatters-

His steed reared, the bit in its teeth. He'd clung to the saddle-horn, trying to ride out the frenzy of thrashing panic, praying that all this death would not take him too. Something vast whipped past him, moving with dreadful speed: The wind of its passage nearly buffeted Farvald from his horse, and the stink of fear filled his nostrils, sharp and animal-

A second blast of frozen fire, searing through the dust-choked air. A great sideways column of it, roaring across the plaza. Where it struck, frost blistered the earth, the heat sucked from the world - It swept through the half-glimpsed silhouettes of reeling horses and frantic men like a freezing whirlwind, a sound like a thunderclap in reverse.

They froze. They shattered, great shards of bloodied ice swept up by the hungry gale. Farvald felt himself swaying in his seat, tears gushing from his eyes, the pain of a thousand needle-punctures stabbing at his face.

He could see it, now. That great, fanged maw, frozen flame drooling between hooked teeth as long as swords. The impossible size of that hideous sapphire form, scales shining iridescent diamond over rotting flesh. Horns and spines and spikes, enough to repel a legion. Vast wings, spread like some unholy pavilion-

The rider was worse, still. Dressed in the tatters of its own flesh, smoke-cloak fluttering like a shroud in the poison wind, the Elder Lich looked like something spat forth from the grave. Tendrils of sickly light oozed from the staff it held, clasped in bloodless fingers - Twin fires burning above the ragged hole of the nose, rotted teeth grinning in a lipless smile.

It saw him. Looked at him, through the brief cloud of ice-splinters and shattered meat that had - a moment ago - been a score of good men.

And in that moment, Farvald knew: He didn't want to die.

Pride, honor - None of it mattered. Only life did.

His horse fought the bridle, keening like the damned. It reared up, bucking, kicking: Desperate to throw him, desperate to flee. He clung on, as mayhem whirled past on all sides, knowing it was too late, knowing he was about to feel the frozen bite of flame-

"Charge him!" a voice bellowed. A dozen royal knights plunged majestically out of the gloom, lances gleaming in their gauntleted fists. They thundered towards the dragon, shouting defiance - Their leader swinging a great axe that glowed like the sun, ribbons of light trailing from the humming edge.

For a moment, they seemed unstoppable. Like something out of myth, as they burst from the seething smoke. Bound for legend, bound for-

The Elder Lich turned. The hellfire of its eyes glowed, like coals beneath the bellows, as it spoke a single word.

"Fireball."

There was a flash of searing radiance. Screams. Men combusting, burning like autumn leaves, oily ribbons of black smoke rising from their flailing forms. Stone cracked, exploded - Orange and gold flame leaping in hungry, crackling arcs, a conflagration that swept outward in a roiling wave of fire.

The world skewed, as Farvald's gelding hurled him to the ground. He felt a terrible lurch of fear as he came away from the saddle-

The impact was stunning, blinding. He crunched down, trying to suck in dust-choked breaths, coughing and struggling. There was dust in his eyes, a burnt-copper taste in his mouth - Farvald could smell the sick stench of burning hair, crying out hoarsely as he writhed on the cobbles, rolling up to his knees.

Blood. He was covered in blood.

For one blank moment of utter terror, he thought he'd taken a wound - Only to realize that it wasn't his. This close to the blast, the ground was caked in half-charred gore, and offal clung to him like a reeking shroud.

Farvald's boots scraped at the rubble as he tried to crawl away, whimpering as his flesh sizzled against the cinder-hot stones underfoot. It felt like his entire body was a bruise, snot and tears tracking down his blood-splashed face.

He had to get away. Had to get away, before-

A long shadow fell across him.

He looked up. He knew he shouldn't, but he looked anyway.

The dragon was upon him. The huge arrow-head skull looming like a ship's prow, serpentine neck coiled back, ready to strike. He could see the gleaming vertebrae showing through the ragged flesh of the undead horror, see every one of the countless needle-teeth that lined its rotted gums as the rank stench of ammonia gusted across him.

Farvald didn't scream. Not even in the face of utter and unmanning terror, for all the good it did. His arms came up, like a child cowering from a nightmare, an absurd part of him whispering - a prayer, an incantation - that if he couldn't see it, it couldn't see him-

Hooves, crashing against the broken ground…

The second wave of knights came through the churning vapor, riding hard, riding fast. Backlit by the flickering flames of the Elder Lich's fireball, they were magnificent, awe-inspiring. The charge line was die-straight, held with disciplined skill, shouts of defiance rising over the screams of the dying and awful clamor of the melee on all sides.

It seemed impossible that - mere breaths ago - a dozen of their brethren had been incinerated, the reek of charred flesh and cooked blood still hanging in the air. Their long spears were held straight and true, the great black and silver banner fluttering bravely in the slipstream of their rush.

But it was the sight of the lead rider that made Farvald's breath catch in his throat, his heart hammering against the cage of his bruised ribs.

For Prince Barbro rode at the very head of the charge.

The Crown Prince's golden armor - Carved lions rearing from his pauldrons, blue-and-red heraldry impossibly vivid in the sickly light - gleamed like burnished bronze, untouched by claw or flame or blade. His midnight-black destrier galloped full-out, hurtling right into the dragon's great, ragged shadow-

The undead horror turned to meet him, skeletal jaws yawning wide. Bony claws raked, scything down to shear the Prince apart.

But Barbro didn't slow. His steed plunged on, sparks sheeting from its hooves, legs a churning blur. For one heart-stopping moment the talons scraped past him, caught him a glancing blow that sent his helm spinning away, nearly dragging him from his steed-

For the span of a moment, Farvald glimpsed that noble visage. Those well-favored features, set in a mask of cold concentration, curiously unafraid.

Gritted teeth.

Furrowed brow.

Piercing blue eyes.

Absolute focus. Absolute conviction.

The Prince's sword moved like lightning. Barbro cut down, hacking through rotting flesh. Vile ichor spurted from the gouting wound, taking two talons off at the knuckle - His backswing hacking a great gash through the tattered skin of one wing, shearing into the spars of bone beneath.

Undead or not, the dragon howled, recoiling with an awful monotone shriek. It clutched its maimed hand to its skeletal ribs, vast head snapping back like a cracked whip. The sudden spasm nearly hurled the Elder Lich free, clinging desperately to its perch as it scrabbled for purchase-

The ball of fire it'd been conjuring flickered and went out.

It was that sight, more than any other, that drove the knights forward. A wordless roar of approval came up, as the first lance spiked into the dragon revenant's decayed flank - Others plunged into its chest, punching through ribbons of atrophied muscle, splintering through raw bone. Impaled, it convulsed, that throat-tearing roar of agony and insult blitzing through the filthy air, thrashing as it writhed and squealed and howled.

The stench became immeasurably worse. Great clots of flesh tumbled away from bone, pus-yellow fluid weeping from shriveled organs.

Farvald was on his feet. To charge or to flee, he didn't know. Only, his sword was in his hand, and-

The dragon's barbed tail sliced around, and struck like a thunderclap.

Men were flung, screaming, into the air. Blood and body parts were strewn, steaming, in its scourging wake - Wild, roping arcs of gore spraying, scribbling across the frozen ground, as the dragon struck again. Great fangs snatched a fleeing horse into the air, shearing it in half with the snap of scissors closing: Both halves of the still-kicking, still-thrashing corpse tumbled across the square, the poor beast's howls even louder than the dragon's roar.

The ground rose up, hard, and smacked Farvald in the face. He rolled over, gasping, as the pain punched the breath from his lungs. Somehow, somehow, he'd been spared the worst of the impact - The next man hadn't been as lucky, his ruptured corpse sliding slowly, slickly, down the shattered facade of what had once been a stall.

He tried to move, past the pain in his limbs, past the grey fog in his mind.

He couldn't.

Couldn't.

---

The dragon slithered forward, heedless of the spears jutting from its squirming flesh. Inky smoke coiled from its bloodless wounds, sinews pulling taut as it dragged itself forward on its belly. Stone cracked, wickedly-curved talons finding purchase as that vast, emaciated form seemed to shudder, seemed to tense…

It was drawing breath. Breath it didn't truly need, solely to unleash those hideous freezing flames once more.

The Elder Lich sat tall in its saddle, like a leech against the dragon's throat. It grinned the idiot grin of the dead, its cowl flung back to reveal that fleshless skull. Bony fingers gripped reins of flayed skin, arcs of lightning crackling across its form as it summoned power from within-

Men scrambled for their lives. They couldn't fight that - Nothing could. Banners fell, forgotten, riders disengaging and galloping away in all-out flight. Unhorsed hussars and dragoons limped after them, grabbing at the reins of riderless horses, calling out desperately for aid.

But there was nowhere to flee to, not really. The dragon's descent had brought down the surrounding buildings, felling them like dead trees in a storm: The wreckage of a shattered watchtower, all splintered wood and broken stone, slanted across the causeway, its great, tumbling ruin cutting off retreat from the plaza.

Clouds of black grit churned, above the smoking ruin. On the other side, a pitched battle was already being fought, between the lurching, staggering hordes of the unleashed dead and those who'd held back from the charge. There would be no help from that quarter, not now and not ever.

All momentum lost, riders spread out. Milling, rearing, clattering into one another like sheep in a pen, waiting for the butcher. The only thing that could save them, that could stop the retreat from turning into a slaughter, was-

"A spear!" The Crown Prince's voice rose above the tumult. Less than half of his personal guard remained, but - miraculously - Prince Barbro had ridden free, untouched.

"Bring me a spear!"

Against all odds, it was Farvald who heard. He saw one sticking up above a heap of the dead, and pulled it free from the lifeless hand that clutched it. The haft was matted with charred gore, and - battered, bruised, leaning on it like a crutch - he staggered forward towards the knot of knights, managing two lurching steps, then a third.

"Your Highness-"

Horses jostled around him, stinking of dirt, of ash, of lather, eyes wide and rolling with panic. They seemed huge to him, the men who rode them looming over him like giants. Part of him half-expected to be trampled underfoot, to be swept aside, but-

"Your Highness-!"

All the proper forms of address had fled him. He knew only that if he sank to his knees now, he'd never rise again. Somewhere in the back of his mind, his skin crawled, anticipating the freezing bite of flame, knowing it had to come soon, had to come any moment now…

"Your Royal Highness, we must fall back!"

Another voice, from one of the remaining knights. Plaintive, almost despairing.

A hand closed around the spear, and pulled. So hard, Farvald was almost yanked from his feet. For one moment, he looked up into the grim set of the Crown Prince's regal features - Only then did he remember to let go, as Prince Barbro graced him with a single brief nod.

"Your Highness, you cannot put yourself in-"

The Prince gave his steed the spurs, and left them all in the dust. His mount must have been exhausted, foundering, but it still had one last surge left in it - Shouts of alarm chasing him all the way, as he charged.

Charging a dragon.

Alone.

Quite apart from the sheer futility of it, it was the bravest thing Farvald had ever seen. It was, in fact, the last thing he'd ever expected from the man known as the Golden Ogre.

It was also, almost certainly, probably the last thing Prince Barbro would ever do, too.

Cold fire built, between the dragon revenant's vast jaws. There was something calculated about it, something almost lazy - A seething swell of frozen flame, the beginnings of the blast that would scour them all from the earth.

There was no way the Crown Prince could reach it in time.

Fortunately, he'd never intended to.

As Prince Barbro rode, he let go of the reins. His right arm drew back, the left extended before him, till the spear hung horizontal in an unwavering hand.

In the span between one breath and the next, he let fly.

He can't mean to-

The fractured thought chased itself through Farvald's mind.

-Impossible-

The spear flew straight and true, like an arrow. It struck, slicing through the futile barrier of the Elder Lich's hands, driving deep into its bony torso, erupting from the small of its back.

The Lich screamed. Impaled, it convulsed, tattered robes flapping around that fleshless form. It rocked back, that wordless wail of distress, of suffering, issuing from a bony throat. It clawed at itself, seizing the shaft with trembling hands, as if trying to wrench it free.

Madly, Farvald wondered how the dead could still feel pain.

The dragon revenant froze. The blaze dimmed within that hideous maw-

And then, all of a sudden, the tattered wings were opening. They beat the air - Once, twice, again - cutting eddies through the churning smoke. With a convulsive spasm of motion, it lurched into the air, wrenched up and away like a puppet on strings.

Up, into the heavens. Screeching like a carrion-crow, that vast emaciated form soaring away without looking back. The skeletal rider it bore became a mere shadow against its rotting hide, shrinking away to a blot, then nothing-

Gone.

For one blank moment, the absence of the great, winged revenant was as oppressive as its presence. A stunned silence lingered, to be broken by the first shouts, the hoarse, ragged cries of men who had been so abruptly delivered from death.

It took them a moment to process this. A moment more to realize what it meant.

And then, one by one, they began to cheer.

---

It was never really over, of course. Across the corpse-strewn ruin of Triumph Plaza, the survivors were gathering - Horses milling, men staring, blinking in surprise, as if they'd emerged into the harsh glare of sunlight after a long time in the dark.

Between the tower's collapse, the frantic savagery of the brief, lethal ambush, and the all-consuming terror of the dragon's descent, the cavalry contingent had lost more than half their number.

Slightly less than three hundred men remained, not accounting for the Crown Prince's personal escort (around a dozen royal knights, down from two score) and the assorted staff and wide-eyed pages who'd somehow managed to survive the chaos.

The half-dozen priests who'd accompanied the cavalry were tending to the wounded. Dismounted, they muttered hasty orisons, pale light flaring as they did what they could for the fallen - men and horses alike. They seemed like tiny motes of radiance in all that darkness, but there was a comfort to their chanted prayers, imploring voices calling to them as they hurried from one man to the next.

Smoke still fouled from the air, from the burning stalls. Here and there, eerie blue flames burned, the aftermath of the dragon's abrupt flight.

"Make room! Make room for the Crown Prince!" Knight-Captain Margur roared. Fearsome in his dented plate, mustache stiff with gore, he raised his notched sword as if ready to lay about him with the flat. Like magic, the small crowd cleared out of the way, a valley forming through the rattling of spears and sabres and armor.

But not too far. All had seen what Prince Barbro had done, and awed whispers circled the press.

An awakening, came the murmur. A rank of strength that transcended the realm of mortal ability, that could only be reached by the likes of the strongest.

What else could it be?

Here, now, it seemed nothing short of a miracle, and - In this dire time - one had to take what they could get. The mere thought of it kept the survivors in the Crown Prince's orbit, reluctant to venture too far from the royal presence.

Margur frowned up towards the sky. He wasn't the only one: More than a few riders turned their nervous glances upward, as if expecting the dragon to return at any moment.

"My lord, we should move on. We are exposed, here: We do not know what else may be waiting f-"

A gesture from the royal person silenced him. Prince Barbro swung down from the saddle, his spurs clinking against the cracked and charred cobbles underfoot. Sticky soot marred the polished finish of his boots, but the Crown Prince's attention was elsewhere: His gaze taking in the devastation, the bodies strewn about the plaza, slack in the release of death.

A fifteen-year veteran, Margur knew better than to interrupt his liege's train of thought, but - If his honest opinion had been requested - he'd have much preferred the Prince to pick a better moment. They were cut off from both withdrawal and reinforcement, and (loathe as he was to admit it) they were grossly unprepared to fight another battle like this one.

Just as he was contemplating how to - delicately - suggest relocation, a rider came clattering up to them. Count Polderman, a bloody cut across his forehead, his well-trimmed beard somehow incongruous amid all the destruction.

"My liege," he said. The Count was known for his cool head, one of the few who'd never been afraid to speak his mind. It'd made unpopular, in some circles, but the Knight-Captain had always felt a certain respect for him. Not like that upstart, Gazef Stronoff, and his ideas above his station.

The Prince's blue eyes flicked to his wound. "-Are you all right?" he asked, and the Count's eyes widened in poorly-concealed surprise.

That was the last thing he'd expected to hear from the Crown Prince, and it showed in the brief flash of his expression.

Belatedly, Polderman reached up, wincing lightly as his fingers came close to the wound.

"Just a scratch, your Royal Highness. I…thank you for your concern."

"As you say. Report, then."

Another first. Enough that that lancer with them, the one who'd somehow survived all this - Farvald, was it? - sucked in a breath, glancing to either side as if he'd misheard.

"There's - There's been no word from Baron Cheneko. It seems the undead have him well-surrounded: As far as we can tell, his cavalry made it to Sanctum Lane, but…"

A momentary hesitation.

"-It appears the undead have raised a…veil of darkness, my liege. Some of his knights have regrouped, but it seems most of his men are all caught in the streets on the side of the ruin. The riders we've sent have not returned, and there's been no response from his wizard. It seems that-"

The Count caught himself. Perhaps he knew he'd already said too much.

Sir Margur waited for the royal visage to darken, for the royal nostrils to flare in that imperious expression that heralded an outburst of the royal temper. It was, generally, unwise to present ill-tidings to Prince Barbro in person. Entire careers had ended, simply by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The Crown Prince was the kind of man who had a tendency to associate the message with the medium, as the saying went, and today had been an especially trying time.

So he drew himself up. Sat a little taller in the saddle, his face fixed in its sternest expression as he readied himself for the eruption to come.

It never did.

Instead, the Crown Prince…Merely closed his eyes. Just for a moment, exhaling slowly, his broad shoulders steady as he tugged at his gorget. The gilt of it seemed to discomfit him, like it was rubbing him raw.

"You've performed the most extraordinary feat, Count Polderman," Prince Barbro said, unexpectedly. "-Your courage is to be commended."

For a moment, the Count froze, caught off-guard by the frankness of the comment. The sincerity in the royal voice - Like an oft-mistreated and long-suffering dog, receiving a pat instead of a kick. He blinked, a startled half-smile wavering across his ash-streaked features.

"I - It was a mere fraction of your deeds, my liege," he said, suddenly awkward. "You led the charge. You drove the dragon ba-"

The Prince shook his head. "All I did," he said, levelly, "-was what any man would do. You and your men were the ones who mattered. Heroes, all."

Momentarily at a loss for words, the Count nodded. He looked faintly dazed, like he couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard. From the looks of those around him, he wasn't the only one - But the surprises had only just begun.

"Sir Margur?"

The knight tensed in reflexive readiness. He hadn't thought that the Crown Prince actually knew his name - He certainly hadn't bothered, for the last one.

"Your Highness?"

"Your advice is sound, Knight-Captain. Have General Edoardo gather the men: We need to keep pushing north and east, towards the heart of this."

"Not - Not Ro-Lente, my lord?" Sir Margur knew it was a mistake, as soon as he said it - But he'd thought that the Crown Prince would want to be as far from the source of things as possible, not the opposite. It went against every instinct he ever had: The thought of exposing the royal person to further danger made his heart lurch, tied a knot in his gut.

Fortunately, the Prince didn't seem to notice his lapse.

"Just so," Barbro said. "-There can be no doubt that the undead are a real and present threat. The capital is in peril."

He lifted his head, his gaze settling on those around him, those blue eyes unwavering, steady.

"Make no mistake: At this moment, we are the force best-placed to bring an end to this. All else must be considered secondary to ensuring the safety of our people…And Re-Estize," he added, as an afterthought. "Send out the scouts, and have them find a way through. We must move with all haste - I fear time is running short."

As if on cue, thunder rumbled overhead. The air smelled of copper and rot, a smell that rose like a miasma over the smoke and choking ash of a city afire.

"And…the rebels, your Highness?"

One Colonel Fenig's officers - His face covered in a long smear of ash - dared the question, looking like he'd rather have been somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

"They say - They say that the rebels have seized control of…"

"Just so," the Crown Prince said, sharply. "Their grievances will be addressed at a later date. For now, we must all hang together, against the common threat…"

He paused, for effect.

"-Or we shall most certainly hang separately."

At his expectant look, heads nodded and agreements were murmured, ones that grew louder when he was looking in their direction. For a moment, a shadow of some emotion darkened Barbro's expression - But then he mounted his destrier, with a clatter of gilded plate.

"Now," Prince Barbro said. "Take me to my people."

---

Barons Cheneko, Suric and all the rest had decided - as always - that discretion was the better part of valor, that running down rebels was no place for men of their stature. Now, trapped between the frozen wreckage of Victor's Gate and the splintered bulk of the fallen tower, they faced their reckoning.

Quagoa zombies, caught in an eternal broken-back stagger, loping alongside the anonymous dead of the Katze Plains.

Ghouls so decayed that all signs of humanity had been flayed away, the flensing edges of their jagged swords pitted with rust.

The ancient wraiths of Feo Berkana, hovering overhead like corpse-lanterns as they waited for the slaughter to begin.

It was a shambling, seething tide of horror, made more so by a single, terrible realization: For the first time in their lives, there was no hope for retreat, no chance for surrender. All that remained was to stand one's ground, to face the hateful swell of twisted and reanimated flesh that boiled towards them, all ravening hunger and life-hating spite.

It was then that Baron Cheneko surprised even himself. With desperate courage, he'd drawn his bejeweled saber - the one he'd never wielded in anger before - and stood in the stirrups of his white charger.

"Charge!" he'd called. Not with the sycophant simper that he'd been known for, or the obsequious whisper that had been so unfavorably compared to a rat's - He roared the order with the voice of a much larger man, then kicked his heels in and set his horse bounding forward.

His retinue followed. Every one, retainers and household knights alike - For what choice did they have, really?

Even then, Baron Cheneko, fourth of his name, knew that there was no way to navigate the tangled remains of the gutted building, no way past the broken-toothed rubble: The only way out was through.

This was the end - But perhaps, in that last fey moment before impact, he felt a dim pulse of fulfillment. Like a lifelong dream, long-forgotten, was finally coming true.

For some time after, far longer than those who disparaged him could ever have expected, screams, crashes and the ring on steel-on-steel issued from the noisome dark, rolling through the howling night.

---

Blue Roses (II)

The slaughterhouse was a huge, derelict ruin - A looming stone structure with wood-boarded walls, stained rust-brown from decades of hard use. It smelled like old blood, like iron, with a sour sick-sweet stench beneath it all.

Like offal. Like braying fear.

Like death.

They moved between the racks and pulleys, beneath the corroded chains that dangled from the distant ceiling. Even the roof-support pillars were stained and scarred, like old wounds marked in flesh - Nothing moved, except when the hot breeze from the distant fires stirred the chains, making their scythelike hooks clatter and chime in rustling motion.

Once, this had been a place of horror. Brawny men with dead eyes, in thick gloves and leather aprons gone stiff with gore, hacking and cutting, gutting and carving. Loops of bowel on the killing floor, their contents spilled into shipments that went out by nightfall - For the schedule didn't allow time for breaks, and the workers were paid their miserly salaries by the carcass.

Livestock, penned shoulder-to-shoulder outside, had lowed in distress at the fetid reek of the slaughter. They'd known, instinctively, that their fate was close at hand: Yet the safety of the press was all they could hope for, and they clung to it for as long as they could.

And so on it went.

At night, filth and slurry from the day's slaughtering would be dumped into the river - A slick, morbid discharge. A vile miasma would hang above the water, never quite clearing, attracting crows and flies in their thousands.

Entire families had made their homes in the shadow of the place. Shacks and lean-tos still clustered around the slaughterhouse like pustules around a boil - Not out of choice, for no-one would choose to live near the tainted water - but out of sheer necessity.

For the rents in the capital, just like everything else, were as high as the landlords could make them, and it was a wretched hovel in the shantytown or death by cold.

The place had changed hands over the years. An unhappy succession of inheritors, doing their best to wring what profit they could from the killing floor. According to the scriptures of the Four, animals lacked the capacity for suffering, for misery: Few gave thought as to the fate of cattle, butchered en masse to feed a nation.

Yet something had lingered, all the same. All of that bloodshed, all of that terror, concentrated into a single place over decades of clumsy slaughter…It hung around the great shambles like a shroud, an accumulated fog of misery and cloying dread. It was hard not to shy away from the grim, broken-backed shape, to hear strange noises - not always imagined - on the night wind.

In the end, the last (and most recent) owner had simply left the abattoir unmanned, like poor ground left to fallow. For those who worked there, it meant ruin and destitution: For others, too far away to appreciate the necessity, the news could perhaps have meant a kind of relief.

In light of all that transpired, learning that the Nine Fingers now owned the place would have brought them no comfort.

---

The paint-scabbed doors swung open, with a dire groan of rusted hinges. The grim smell of dank stone lingered, even here: Carved steps lead down from the killing floor to a cavernous cellar, a larder kept cold by the magic worked into the walls.

The marshy smell of the river had oozed in a long time ago, pushing up through the foundations - Even the vent-holes that dotted the walls did little more than to spread the clammy stench, like something that had died a long time ago and had been left to decay.

Inside, it was even worse. There was a deep, nasty groan of bad air, a reeking stench that gusted forth in coils of freezing vapor. A forest of rotting meat hung from the rows of hooks that ran the length of the room, all of it long-since spoiled and foul: When the abattoir had changed hands for the final time, it'd been stacked full and left to fester, until even magic hadn't been able to stop the slow, inexorable progress of rot.

"Ugh-"

Behind her mask, Tia made a low, disgusted sound. Subtle enchantments worked into the sturdy fabric kept her from gagging, but it did nothing for the smell - Her coral eyes narrowing in distaste, a soft hiss teased from her silky throat.

"-Is this the place?" Tina said, her voice half-muffled. She glanced back at Evileye, over one slim shoulder: Her eyebrows ever-so-slightly lifted, as if to say-

Adventuring. Such a glorious profession.

Tia prowled forward, between the slabs of hanging meat. Some had fallen from their hooks, left lying in a trampled, maggoty layer on the floor. The stench of death hung in the air - Not clean or swift, like the fall of a blade, but a noxious, putrefying end.

There was something dismaying about the sight of so many headless, limbless carcasses, left to decay from simple neglect: It stole all meaning from the slaughter, made a mockery of all the effort expended.

She circled, looking for drains, sluices. For grates, inspection plates, run-off channels to follow. Something, beyond the hanging layers of meat.

Nothing. Just rot and decay and-

There was a faint clank, steel-on-stone, from the far side of the room.

Tina had found something.

---

The back wall of the cellar was a false one. Boards, tight-set, formed a heavy barrier around the rear of the chamber - But Tina had spotted the scrape marks, the worn edges where the boards had been pulled away and replaced a number of times.

Working together, Tia and Tina lifted the false wall out of the way. On the other side was a rusted hatch, flush with the wall: A word from Evileye, and it swung upwards and outwards without a sound.

Tina's eyes narrowed. Beneath the patina of rust, the hatch had seen recent use.

Beyond, there was a brief passage of rough-cut stone, one that led into a deeper darkness. A slow susurration, like a breeze, breathed through the space beyond. The stench of death was, abruptly, replaced with the stink of rotten eggs, fish-guts and salt-water.

"Sewers," Tia said, by way of explanation. All part of the smuggler's trade - For the right price, whole sides of beef could be lifted from the meat-locker, spirited away through the sewers to emerge on the black market or in some enterprising butcher's store.

But that had been months ago.

Evileye hesitated. Just for a moment, the dank, stinking darkness reminded her of-

Of-

How many years, down in the dark? Down in the dark - No rest, no sleep, with only the moans of the mindless dead to mark the passage of days…

"Evileye?"

She blinked. The twins were looking at her, concern in their eyes. They could sense something was wrong, even if they didn't know what.

She steadied her thoughts. Curled her small hands into fists.

"We go on," she said, softly.

"If you're sure-"

"We go on."

The darkness folded over them, and swallowed them whole.

---

The Bringer of Shadow

They'd built a barricade in Scrimshaw Lane, between the smoldering ruin of an almshouse and the cinder-block solidity of a parchment-maker's. Or at least, someone had: Perhaps it was a symbol of rebellion, or simple self-defense from the looters and rioters that had seemingly been summoned by the flames.

Either way, for Lieutenant Maltane of the City Guard, the difference was academic. All he knew was that it'd been abandoned by the time they'd got there, the previous occupants long gone. For the two-score men under his command, however, it was their very best hope of stemming the tide.

Since the panic at Lord's Bridge, it'd been every man for himself. The last he'd heard, almost a dozen constables had been mobbed to death - Torn between fighting the flames and fighting the mob, the City Guard had proven woefully unable to handle either.

Then the roar, that terrible roar, that hideous shape rearing up against the sky…

In a way, that had been the beginning of the end. All organization had crumbled, in the paroxysm of sheer unhinged panic that had followed. Men had broken and run, screaming: Others simply melted away, swallowed up by the chaos.

Captain Ingre had been the first one to flee. He hadn't even bothered with an excuse: As soon as the opportunity had arisen, he'd simply vanished, like he'd never been. Good riddance, Ferbron had thought, but then he'd looked around and realized - with a sinking heart - exactly what that meant.

"What do we do, Sir?" Constable Ferbron had quavered, asking the obvious question. "What do we do?"

He didn't have the answer. And, increasingly, Maltane was afraid no-one did.

Worse - Maybe there wasn't one.

In the end, all he could do was to act like he did. Like he knew what he was doing, and to never - ever - show fear or a moment's doubt.

Unlike the others, Maltane was a city boy, born and bred. He'd grown up in Re-Estize; In truth, he'd never left the city in his entire life. If he'd learned anything, it was that when tensions ran high, you relied on your mates and your family. You defended your doorstep, and tried to make sure that, whatever went down, it didn't go down on your street.

And so they'd fallen back, street by street, picking up stragglers along the way. It'd been right hellish, then: Fire was everywhere, flames crackling, smoke roiling skywards into the night. Buildings reduced to blackened shells, the struggling figures of the lost and the damned cut out black against the flames, like puppets in an atrocity play.

And far, far above it all, the great beating of wings-

Maybe it was hopeless. Maybe it'd always been hopeless.

But sometimes, you had to fight. If only because there was nowhere left to flee to, and running only meant that you'd die tired.

Finding the barricade had been a stroke of fortune. It wasn't much, but it was defensible - And for his weary, ragged irregulars, the detritus of a half-dozen squads thrown together by the vagaries of fortune and necessity, it was as good a place as any to make a stand.

Lieutenant Maltane had done everything he could think of. He'd sent runners up the lane to find reinforcements or orders, got his men to block off the side-street with all the benches and tables and carts they could find.

The almshouse had been turned into a makeshift hospital, with the sole priest he'd found - A whey-faced acolyte, his once-white robes as frayed and filthy as a beggar's rags - tending to them, mumbling prayer after desperate prayer as he tried to get them back on their feet.

Because he knew what was coming. They all did.

For want of any better ideas, Maltane was walking the lines, now. Chest raw from breathing smoke, uniform stained with ash and dirt and blood, his face ached from the effort of smiling, his hands shaking as he thumped backs and shoulders and mouthed platitudes most were too dazed or deaf to hear.

"The King's counting on us, boys!"

Where was the King in all this? Where was the King?

"We can't fail, lads! We can't fail!"

When what he really wanted to do was to be somewhere, anywhere else. Someplace far from here, far from the flames and the screams and the ruin.

Against all odds, it seemed to be working. By his count, no-one had run, not yet.

Or perhaps everyone who might have fled had already done so.

---

"They're coming!"

It began with black shapes, moving against the flames. Like a trick of the light, like something out of a nightmare.

All shapes and sizes, slack and mindless faces the color of rot, eyes gleaming like marbles in the firelight. Sickly gray flesh, hanging loose on yellow bones, tatters of fabric clinging to gangling limbs. Pale hands outstretched, groping plaintively at the air, as if reaching out for the only thing that could bring relief to the endless hunger-

The moaning, hungry wails of the restless dead preceded them, as the first wave of undead staggered towards the barricade. Too many to count, too many wailing, lurching cadavers coming out of the flames and down the street. No orders, no ranks, just a stumbling, headlong race.

Some of them gnawed on severed human limbs. Others carried body parts at their sides, the organs still raw and dripping. All moved side-by-side with a hideous, singular purpose, drawn inexorably toward the barricade.

The stink - the wretched, fecal reek of them - turned Maltane's stomach and threatened to buckle his knees. He'd have retched, if there was anything left in his stomach; Instead, he fought down the nausea pulsing in his gut, the sting of acid at the back of his throat, and shouted-

"Loose!"

Crossbows rattled and clicked. Quarrels thunked into flesh, the heavy bolts chopping through meat and bone. Each one hit like a sledgehammer, hard enough to punch a man from his feet - Pallid figures toppled mid-stride, scythed down by the hurried volley. Those behind them went down too, tripping over the fallen; For a moment, the entire line was fouled, their ranks were neatly halved…

But then they got back up. A horrific slush of fingers and tangled limbs, grasping and clawing to the surface. No grace, no conscious thought, like the riling of a worm-nest or the squirming of maggots.

"Steady, men! Stand firm - Stand firm!"

The crossbowmen were already cranking away furiously, but they'd never make it in time. Not in the face of this horror. It was like a wave of primal hunger and reeking flesh, blowflies buzzing over the twisted faces of things that were once men and women. For one terrible moment, Maltane thought he'd glimpsed - out of the corner of his eye - a face he knew…

"Spears!" he roared, shouting over the horror that cramped his guts. "Spears, now!"

It was all he could manage, without retching. He braced his shoulders, gripped the shaft of his spear in both hands, and-

---

Later, Maltane would remember only glimpses.

Driving cold steel through cartilage and bone and brain, blood misting up in slick haze as he wrenched his spear back to stab again-

A constable screaming, long and ragged and full of terror, lashing out with his sword at the blood-encrusted hands clutching his boot. Bloody smears of saliva drooling from the abraded mouth of the pallid hag clawing at the leather, yellowed teeth chattering as they snapped mindlessly together…

Windmilling his sword down on a fat man's skull, black bile and pink matter geysering in the night air as he hacked and hacked away-

Ferbron's burbling shriek as he staggered away, clutching at his torn face with both hands. White flash of bone, showing where lashing claws had ripped half his cheek away.

Swinging the spring-steel lathe of a crossbow like a pickaxe, point chopping down into the feral blankness of a bloated, deformed face - all identity gone - with the furious strength that only sheer desperation can summon…

Frantic, grunting effort. Oaths and curses and shrieks. Bodies thumping to the ground like cordwood. That stench, the hideous reek of the dead, mingling with the coppery stink of fresh blood and sweat and fear.

The gasping cries of frantic hunger, louder by the moment, as the dead came on.

And came on.

And on.

The spears stopped them, for a time. The lead shamblers were impaled, through eye-sockets and throats and spines - Bodies writhing like speared fish, until the sharp points could be wrenched free.

But the crude mass of corpses pulled the shafts down, and hafts splintered under the weight: The broken sections of their weapons jabbed and flayed at the pressing tide, but there were just-

"Too many!" Someone was shouting, voice cracked and raw. "There's too many!"

No. No, it couldn't be.

Maltane stumbled back from the ghoul he'd just killed. It lay in a spreading pool of black bile, misshapen skull split like an overripe fruit. He'd lost his spear somewhere, and he'd discarded his sword after it'd bent at a right angle, but he had his hardwood baton in one hand and a hatchet in the other, both caked with gore.

Everything ached. He was soaked in cold, clammy sweat, his mouth desperately dry - His arms scabbed with cuts and grazes, leather breastplate flapping loose. His neck and stomach hurt, he'd jammed his left wrist, and, and…

And it was all a distraction, his mind trying to focus - futilely - on everything except what was happening. They'd killed so many undead that the thicket of bodies had formed a crude ramp, a ghastly ridge, enough for the seemingly-endless tide of the walking dead to scramble their way up and over the barricade.

"Back, Sir!" A guardsman grabbed him by the shoulder, weathered face stained with gore. "We have to get back-!"

Maltane knew he was right. In a few moments, all semblance of order would vanish once the dead came pouring in. They had to fall back.

They had to fall back, now, or be overrun.

But even as Maltane opened his mouth, he knew it was too late. For the dead didn't tire, but men did: If they fled, how many would be pulled down while running away? And the wounded in the almshouse, who couldn't possibly move under their own power-

"Retre-" he began, wondering - dimly - if he could ever forgive himself for this. He gagged on dust, choked on putrid air, tried again.

"Fall ba…"

There was a sound. Like a robust, throaty growl, building towards a roar - Only that it didn't stop, rising in volume and intensity, until it drowned out the moans of the hungry dead, the frantic shouts of men fighting for their lives.

The bitter smell of burning rubber-

Wha-

An immense force slammed into the serried ranks of shamblers, moving far too fast to be seen. Bodies went flying, flung skyward like giant errant birds; A lurid tide of gore spraying up, sifting through the air in great looping arcs. It sheared into them - Sheared through them - in an eruption of blurred motion, carving a bloody wedge right through the teeming mob.

It was speed and metal and death, and the bow-wave of its passage turned the dead into puffs of red mist. Rotting innards, teeth, curled fingers and raggedly severed limbs rained down like the fruit of some necromancer's orchard, dead face after dead face vanishing beneath that unstoppable force-

But the blur was slowing, now. Resolving first into a pitch-black thunderbolt, then overlapping shadows, and - like a veil falling away - into…

"It's Wolfgunblood! It's fucking Wolfgunblood!"

Wheels slick with gore, Shadowbringer spun a full three-sixty, windmilling through the last few stray cadavers. A lesser rider would've fought his steed, tried to straighten it out. Braced for the inevitable impact, as the vehicle spun towards a row of storefronts.

Instead, Wolfgunblood opened fire.

A single crimson eye, lighting on the living and the dead-

"Collateral Shot: Full Burst!"

A storm of burning rounds tore through the air, as Bardiel and Vassago howled as one. White flame rippled through the moving sea of the dead, turning each one into a flailing torch that ignited those around them in their flailing misery. They burst and burned, erupting in sprays of ash, the remorseless thunder of Wolfgunblood's guns punctuated by the staccato flashes of light dancing around blue-silver barrels.

Men yelped half-cohered warnings, threw their arms up in desperate defense, flung themselves flat with inarticulate cries. It seemed impossible, inconceivable, that the hail of shrieking, buzzing death would not claim them, too.

But Wolfgunblood never missed.

Each shot struck exactly what the adventurer aimed at, and nothing else. Heavy rounds whined past startled guardsmen - sometimes so close they felt the wind of their passage - to detonate within pallid gray ghouls and lurching half-dead horrors, deflecting from walls and ricocheting from the cobblestones to impact at mad, impossible angles.

A thick brume of blood-mist boiled off the destruction, ash and sparks whirling like fireflies in a tempest. As Shadowbringer completed its spin, skidding sideways to a screeching stop, the tyres left a crimson track of blood and liquefied flesh, smoking silently as offal boiled away from the deep grooves of the treads.

In the stunned aftermath - For one perfect moment - silence loomed.

Lieutenant Maltane dragged himself to his feet. In the torch-lit gloom, he could see the faces of the men around him: Sweaty, stone-still with terror, eyes glinting with the aftershock of adrenaline and disbelief. It was too much to process, too much to take in at once - For was this salvation?

Or just doom of a different kind?

The dark rider hadn't spared them a glance. He was just a silhouette in the misty air, his back to them, busy with some task. Maltane peered forward: What was he doing? Praying? Mourning?

He heard-

White teeth flashed, in a perfect smile.

Shadowbringer's growl ripped through the air, engines gunning as it surged back to life. Wheels spun, the cycle's chassis thrumming with building power-

Alarmed, Maltane staggered back - almost fell - as Shadowbringer tore away, flashing over the splintered cobbles. Wolfgunblood's metal steed roared like a living thing, writhing shadow-smoke tumbling in the back-wash as the thrusters flamed.

The adventurer pulled left, sharply, heeling over so hard he could've touched the ground with one gloved hand…

Then, as abruptly as he'd arrived, he was gone. Already accelerating into a blur.

Towards the Square of Scales, and all that waited for him there.

As the resounding beat of engines and the stench of exhaust-smog faded to nothing, Lieutenant Maltane shook his head, trying to make sense of what he'd heard.

"What did he mean?" he mumbled, his ears still ringing.

What did he mean by-

'It's a start?'

---

The Dead

Where the Shrine of Commerce had once stood, the dead had raised a monument of their own. Built of bones, it stood twenty feet tall, crowned with a ring of skulls - Some old and cracked, others still flecked with scraps of hair and skin, brown stains thin upon their yellowed-ivory surfaces.

So many hollow sockets, staring forever outward - Blind, but eternally vigilant.

Metal gleamed beneath the lattice of bone, the frame lashed in place by ropes of hair and sinew. Intricate charms of obsidian and silver dangled from its many branches, chiming softly in the charnel breeze.

The Elder Lich, the oldest of its brethren, leaned on its staff. Fleshless fingers traced the surface of its mask, lingering on the hooks that held its face in place. It was an affectation, as its kind measured things: A way to distinguish itself from the others.

In the end, it mattered little - To the Ruler of Death, to the chosen of Divanack, they were interchangeable. All of them.

The Lich had no name. Ever since its reawakening in Feo Berkana, it had known only obedience: That, and the promise, burning in its soul like a dark sun.

Great Father, it thought. Lord of Pleasures!

You, who are our inspiration.

There were eight of them, in all. Two ranged the skies, two walked the cursed earth, and four toiled below.

Eight, the blessed number.

Let us be your hands, He-Who-Rules-the-Dark.

Let us be the bringers of despair.

While duty was its own reward, knowing its part to play in what was to come, knowing that it would be here at the heart of all things, made the Lich's withered heart swell with pride.

Oh, but you are a trickster, my Lord.

It strode forward, the hem of its gore-stained robe trailing through the filth underfoot.

We thought it was the end for us.

Past the denuded corpses of the fallen, harvested of their flesh.

Past the serried ranks of the worshipful dead, new and old, more with every moment now. Like acolytes, flocking around the luminaries they revered and wished - futilely - to one day become.

We couldn't understand why you had forsaken us - Why it was over.

Patiently, like the Lich had all the time in the world.

How could we have known that it was only just beginning?

All around, the others had made ready. Cunning things of metal and flame had been brought forth, the sure hands of the dead lifting and hauling and joining.

Slowly but surely, a great, dark shape was taking form. Even at rest, it was a glorious thing, trophies knocking and clattering against its flanks as ink-black smoke breathed from its furnace heart. Yellow eyes glowed like twin lanterns, garlands of barbed wire draped across its form in homage.

And with every moment, it grew.

How could we have known-

That you would send us Your only son?

But even that was nothing next to the foundation, lying beneath them in the dark. Unseen, but transcendent.

Beyond.

As above, so below.

---

Outside, omen weather gathered. Thunder grumbled in the winter sky, bruised black by the smoke and the raging fires.

The dead thronged around the altar, the gentle susurration of their voiceless whispers just at the edge of perception. Offerings had been laid out, fresh and raw, some still pulsing faintly in a mockery of life.

The prognostications had foretold ruin, great bloodletting, terrible slaughter…

In other words, ideal portents of success.

For he was coming, now. The one whose life the chosen craved, above all others.

As the Elder Lich drew close to the main dais, it could sense the unholy miasma that unfurled in the hollow above, churning with sickly light. It tilted its flayed face upward, drinking in the savor of the moment, anticipation pulsing through its bones.

The Headless One had yearned to be one of them. That wish had been granted, though it had brought him little joy: Still, his knowledge would serve a better purpose. Not the petty exaltation of self, but a cause far greater, far grander, that he could have ever imagined.

But then again, how could he have ever hoped to understand? After all, he was - had been - only human.

The Lich coven did not share the same weakness.

Already, the skeleton mages and wight-priests chanted their hymns, voices raised in hissing song. Fleshless hands moved with smooth precision, in time to their slow ritual tune - A solemn, stately masque that was invocation and prayer at once.

There were names in that chant, portents of the future they craved.

Arwintar.

Crescent Lake.

Hoburns.

Silksuntecks.

Karsanas.

One day, all would see the dawning of the black sun. The chosen of the Great Father had declared as such, and so it would be.

The Elder Lich reached into its robes, unfleshed fingers closing around the smooth black pearl that lay within. With exquisite care, the lich raised the lightless stone high above the dais…

-And let go.

The Orb of Death left its grasp, but never fell. It hung in the air, suspended - Beginning to pulse, to throb with an eerie violet radiance. The wind picked up, moaning as it wound through Re-Estize's spires - the first jags of crimson lightning searing the capital's towers, malaria-yellow corposant casting a foggy, shuddering glow.

Prepare, the Orb of Death whispered, in its dust-dry rasp. There was a glee in its sepulchral whisper, a leering, almost delirious delight.

The Mass for the Dead begins.

---

The Betrayed

For all its importance to the capital, Wheat Row had never been an especially highly-regarded place. It was where - as the name so adroitly described - the great silos for grain storage had first been laid down, centuries ago, and where they stood to this day.

During the reign of Ramposa II, the street often thronged with the poorest citizens, awaiting the distribution of the daily dole - First free bread, then free grain, then subsidized grain, as the kingdom's fortunes had slowly declined. To his credit, King Ramposa III had tried to sustain the program, but the Crown's finances had eventually forced his hand.

Ultimately, private enterprise (as it so often did) had taken over. The grain supply was grown, imported, stored and traded as a profitable commodity, funded by speculators and hoarders, who grew fat on the profits even as it sucked the life from the capital's most deprived.

The logistics of moving grain required the commission of thousands of privately-owned merchant ships and carts, and a system for collecting and distributing the grain at its destination. As such, while the dole was a distant memory, Wheat Row retained its original purpose, largely unchanged over the centuries.

Of course, unfortunates were more likely to be driven off by club-wielding guards, or a kick and a curse, but Wheat Row's importance to the city had remained.

That made the ease of its seizure all the more surprising.

---

"-What's happening out there?"

As Serold looked around the table, he saw only faces as ashen as his own. In truth, he'd never expected to get this far, not really.

A slaughterman by trade, he'd been a Butcher Street boy, like the rest of the lads. Born and raised in Re-Estize, like all the others. For as long as he could remember, he'd worked his trade with cleaver and hook, slogging his way through the long days and longer nights to put meat on someone else's table.

That was an old joke, the kind of black humor that made one laugh so they didn't cry. Every day, steer and lamb and the occasional unlucky horse took their last walk down Butcher Street, but he couldn't remember the last time they'd ever graced his plate.

It was a hard job, and a thankless one. Hacking and carving and disjointing, arms red to the elbow, the sick-sweet stench that clung to you no matter how much you tried to scrub it away. Still, it paid, not well but enough, and he'd never thought to question it…

Until, all of a sudden, they'd no longer been needed. The great slaughterhouse had been shut, and - just like that - everyone he'd ever known had been out of work.

One thing had led to another, and - Well - all he'd ever wanted was his due.

Even now, after the fact, he was startled by how simple it was. With the fires going up around the city, most of the merchants had already fled, the guards looking in every direction but the right one.

They'd prised the back gate open, and once the guards and clerks had seen the knives and clubs in the hands of the many, many angry men around them, they'd surrendered as meekly as lambs. Some had even come around, once things had been made clear.

After that, though-

Gradually, it'd dawned upon the revolutionaries (all fifty of them, or so) that events had rather passed them by. There'd been screams issuing from every direction, and people kept pounding on the gates, wild-eyed and seeking somewhere, anywhere, to hide.

Now, the granary played host to more than a hundred unfortunate citizens of Re-Estize - Some men, but mostly women, children, the old and the infirm - clutching the few belongings they'd managed to salvage, more than a few sporting bloody bandages or burns. They'd babbled horrific stories about the undead, about unspeakable horrors roaming the streets, rampaging marauders killing and burning at will.

And, all of a sudden, it felt like they'd chosen the worst possible time to stand up for themselves. To take what belonged to them.

"It's a trick," Lios was saying, hard-eyed and twitchy. He'd been all for slitting the throats of the guards, until the others had talked some sense into him. Still, he held his billhook like he was itching to use it, and he didn't care who was on the other end. His lank hair - Grey, ever since his daughter had died - made him look like some faintly moth-eaten prophet of doom, enough that few cared to stand too close.

"-It's a trick. Can't you see that? It's some kind of, of-" Words failed him, but not his passion. "They're trying to lure us out. They know we're here, and they want us gone-"

Berne, not for the last time, gave him a dubious look. He'd worked in a tannery, before all this: His hands and feet had been eaten away by years of work, and the rags he'd wrapped around them did little to hide the smell. Still, he was a solid, dependable sort, and you could generally rely on his intuition when it came to these things.

"I don't know about this, Lio," he said, glancing uncomfortably at the distant orange glow in the sky. "Something's not right. You all heard - You all saw. Whatever's out there…It's bigger than us. The lads are talking about packing it in: May be that this is our best chance to get out of the city."

"You'd give up now?" Lios jabbed a dirty-nailed finger at him, his mouth creasing at the edges. "After we've come so far? We can't let the bastards win, not after all this!"

At his side, Kord was nodding. That was a bad sign - The baker had never liked the other man, and the sentiment was shared. He raised his big hands in a soothing gesture, his bald pate gleaming in the light.

"Lios is right," he said, though he hardly sounded certain. "Scurry away, with our tails between our legs? That's just not good sense. Besides, the guards know who we are, now…You think they're in a forgiving mood? We ought to wait out the storm, and then we'll present our demands-"

"Listen to yourselves! Our demands? To who?" Berne said, shaking his head. "May be that no-one's listening. May be that it was a bad idea from the start-"

"Of course you'd say that-"

I don't know what to do, Serold thought, and it made his gut churn. I thought I did, but I don't. What were we thinking?

What have we done?

He looked around for someone, anyone, who might have an idea. Inevitably, his gaze settled on the somber figure of Bebei Autumn, standing apart from all this.

His hood drawn back, Bebei had taken up position near the window, peering out into the street beyond the barred iron gates: There was something immensely reassuring about the way his hand rested on his dagger, his battered leathers almost invisible in the shadows.

Absently, as if remembering some phantom pain, his free hand rubbed his shoulder.

In truth, Serold knew very little about the man - Only that, if not for him, things would've gone a lot worse. He'd been no-one, just one of many faces in the meetings…Right until it'd been time to actually make their move.

Bebei had been the first one over the wall, as easy as you like. It'd taken him less than a minute to deal with the guards on the other side, and - just like that - the gate was open and they were inside, propelled by momentum and the novelty of unexpected success.

And now…

"It's the undead," Bebei said. Casually, like they were discussing the weather. "-Lots of them."

"Wha-"

Before Serold could fully process that, even as his mouth opened in the idiot urge to ask "Are you sure?" the first screams of terror came from below.

All those people, packed in tight, with nowhere to go and nowhere to hide-

They'd seen them too.

---

The living dead came grinning, streaming down the street like blood from a wound. A shambling, shuffling mob of them, grey-skinned and twitching with idiot hunger - A hot glow behind their bloodshot eyes, like some hellish fire burned within them.

They had their pallid arms extended, like they were sleepwalking or feeling their way forward. Skinless hands, made monstrous by twisted talons and bony claws, groped at the air, as if seized by the mindless urge to rend and tear.

The granary had a cast-iron gate, but it seemed pitiful in the face of that roiling horde. It wouldn't be long before the sheer idiot weight of the dead scaled the walls, hoisting themselves atop piles of their own bodies, cresting the edge in a tide of suppurating flesh.

Given the opportunity, a proper defense - Perhaps thirty men, well-armed with spears and crossbows - could have held them off for some time. But for the small crowd, already on the verge of panic, it was like the very crack of doom.

"Four protect us-"

"Run! Run for your lives!"

"They're here! Damnation is here!"

Panic erupted. People screaming and shoving and trampling one another, scurrying away from the gate. Jostling, pushing, the tangle of bodies heaved in every direction but one, seized by mortal terror-

And yet, over the slaughterhouse squealing, over the moans of the hungry dead, there was a distant clamor. A drumming, loud enough to make the ground shiver, more urgent by the moment.

Hooves.

More than a hundred heavy horse, in full gallop. Surging forward, throwing up a great wake of dust, the firelight gleaming on sword and lance and armor. Banners streamed and snapped in the slipstream of their passage, an impossible manifestation of martial might.

They swept into the undead from behind, lances leveled. They went through them, over them, walking corpses trampled beneath their hooves. Blood drizzled from swords, knights cleaving about themselves in great, gore-streaked arcs, steeds crashing through their prey with the unstoppability of a steel-shod avalanche.

No hesitation. Blades flashed, rising and falling like threshers, spears impaling snarling maws and punching through half-rotten skulls.

The riders tore through the choking mass of the enemy without slowing. The undead feared nothing, but the sheer impact of the charge hammered right through them, the shambling host recoiling like a single entity - Bodies forced back into bodies, before they were pulverized by the unstoppable, relentless force that had been brought to bear.

Limbs went flying, spinning aside. Like confetti, flung up to frame the great lion banner, waving with regal grandeur above the glorious charge-

"The Crown Prince!"

The golden figure riding beneath the bravely-fluttering flag seemed to hear. His sword moved around him like lightning, like a hummingbird's wing, blows falling like hail.

"-It's the Crown Prince!"

---

"It's the Crown Prince."

There was a disbelieving note to Berne's voice, his jaw slack. "Prince Barbro, here-"

He sounded like a man half in a dream, and no wonder. The horror of the undead, the terror that came with knowing that there was no escape…Then, without warning, the shining knights that'd come to their rescue, under the very flag of the Crown itself.

Even from here, Serold could hear the cheering, the shrill, reedy shouts of adulation and praise. All of a sudden, it seemed like everyone was a patriot.

In truth, he couldn't blame them.

He'd never quite hated the royals as people - They were distant, remote, as untouchable as the stars. As the ones in charge, they were ultimately responsible for all that had transpired…That was what he'd loathed them for, the way a mule hates the taskmaster who sets the burden on his back.

But he'd never expected the Crown Prince to deliver them in their moment of need.

Personally.

"That's it, then," Bebei said. "-It's all over, now."

Kord snorted, a bitter sound. He looked tired, angry, his face all scrunched up in resignation as he shook his head.

"Just like that," he said, sounding defeated. "Listen to the bastards: They're cheering him. They can't wait to bend the knee again. What a fucking disaster."

Worse of all was the relief in his voice. The baker knew what they all did: That if not for that timely - miraculous - intervention, they'd have been slaughtered.

That, here and now, they owed the Crown their lives.

"I thought-" Serold began, frowning. "...I thought we were doing the right thing. The necessary thing. And now…"

His words trailed off. He didn't know what to say: What he could say, in spite of everything. Because everything had been going well, right up to the point it'd all gone wrong.

Looking down, he could see the riders gathering, some distance from the gate. The undead lay where they'd fallen, a mound of half-dead corpses outside the wall. Some of them were still moving, so that the whole pile seemed to writhe - Making hollow, rattling sounds, whispery rasps, somehow more horrible than the screams of men.

And now the Prince himself was riding up to the gate, a stern-faced knight on one side and a bedraggled-looking noble on the other. His standard-bearer came up behind them, arms trembling with the effort of holding the heavy banner proud - His lancer's uniform tattered, except for the scarlet sash, like a splash of blood, he wore over one shoulder.

With solemn gravity, the great man lifted his helm free, raising a hand in benediction. While it was perhaps the world's worst-kept surprise, he got a rousing cheer all the same.

Not just from the folk who'd taken shelter within the granary, mind you. Even the men driven to desperation for want of bread, the ones who'd been waving their fists and chanting the slogans in the smoky depths of taverns and soap-smelling basements…

Well, they were cheering loudest of all. To make up for lost time, maybe.

Or just to show they weren't with the revolutionaries.

"Nothing's over!" Lios' eyes were wide, round and utterly mad. His gaze darted from face to face, searching for support. "We can still do this. The biggest bastard of all is right there!"

He had his hand on his billhook, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Berne shifted, uneasily. "Lio, don't be a fool-" he began, only to flinch when the other man whirled on him. Lios wasn't a large man, but his intensity - honed to a razor's edge - lent him a certain stature.

"Traitor," Lios spat, a dreadful venom to the word. "This is our chance! This is what it's all been for! We can take them! If we can just k-"

There was a sharp, sickly sound, the sound of steel through meat. Surprise flitted across the rictus of Lios' expression: He let out a little grunt, clutched at his throat like he was choking. The billhook fell from his hand with a dull clatter, as he stumbled forward a step, his legs suddenly unsteady.

Lios' eyes rolled up in his head, and he crumpled without a word. His head hit the table on the way down, bounced once, then joined the rest of his body in an untidy, boneless sprawl no living man could ever hope to imitate.

Bebei flicked the gore from his dagger. He frowned, flexing his wrist like it pained him, then stepped back from the pooling blood.

Serold stared, appalled. He realized he ought to say something, ought to do something, but all his words were broken and nothing came out.

Lighter taxes.

Honest wages for honest work.

Shares in the profit.

A loaf for every table, a chicken in every pot.

They'd seemed like such small things to ask for, then. Such eminently reasonable things, worth fighting for.

But now, as he looked into Kord's face, gone pale with horror - as Berne staggered back from the immediacy of death - he couldn't help but think: Perhaps they weren't worth dying for.

Perhaps nothing was.

"We open the gate," Bebei said, quietly. "We let the army in. We surrender."

He didn't flourish the blade. He simply let it rest in his hand, his point made.

"Any questions?"

One by one, they nodded. None dared speak, or even met his gaze.

Here, at least, the revolt was done.

---

The Second Successor

In Ro Lente's great courtyard, a military multitude had been drawn up. Three battalions of the King's Guard, reinforced by two regiments from the Re-Estize army, assembled in good order - Pennants fluttering, the gilded standard of the Crown snapping in the stiff breeze, several generations of battle honors proudly displayed.

Mounted officers waited to hear orders and give them, the feathered plumes of their helmets swaying. Palace knights rode with swords shouldered, faces solemn in the pools of light cast by braziers and torches.

Nobles of the Royalty faction, the ones unfortunate enough not to have removed their persons to Re-Estize, sat astride their barded and caparisoned steeds. Surrounded by their household knights, they had the faintly wan look of actors forced on-stage without warning, caught off-guard by the immediacy of the danger.

Zanac knew how they felt. Even now, a tiny part of him couldn't help but wonder:

Is this a nightmare?

It had all the essential qualities of one, certainly. The sense that time was both out of joint and rapidly slipping away, the crushing weight of responsibility, the quiet terror that - somehow, somehow - he'd forgotten something important. Even the leaden weight of his limbs, the winding tension that gripped his chest like a vise…

That may have been the corset, though. It was hard to tell.

Surrounded by the stalwarts of the Warrior Troop, Gazef Stronoff looked right at home: Steady as a rock, there was something immensely heartening about the Warrior-Captain's presence, made all the more imposing by Razor Edge's softly-glowing blade, the great sword's point grounded at his feet.

He looked unkillable, invincible, a bulwark against which thousands would break. Zanac couldn't help but think, with a pang of unease, that it wouldn't be long before that apparent invulnerability was put to the test.

Now there was a hero.

Next to him, Lady Lakyus shone like the sun. The incomparable brightness of Virgin Snow - Engraved front and back with unicorns, with wreaths and oak and laurel in the most exquisite craftsmanship - the platinum-and-gold breastplate gleamed mirror-bright, eclipsed only by the play of firelight on her golden hair.

Faint wisps of vapor rose from Kilineiram's jet-black blade, tiny motes of light - like lost stars - glinting within the jet-black blade. Lakyus's noble features could have been carved from pale marble, her eyes greener than jade.

The angel of the battlefield, men called her. Now there was a heroine.

And there was Gagaran, a friendly ogre in armor. Towering over most men, with muscles that would shame the greatest knight. Fel Iron, resting on her shoulder as casually as a shepherd's crook, looked like it could strike with all the force of a falling star.

Now there was a-

"-Your Highness."

The Warrior-Captain's voice was low, a verbal nudge. As if Zanac had forgotten his lines, and the whole production teetered on the verge of disaster.

Zanac blinked, momentarily wrong-footed. Remembered, with a lurch, what they were waiting for.

He'd never been one for speeches. Neither was his brother, as a matter of fact, but that was mostly because Barbro preferred to let others do the talking for him.

But if one didn't make an effort when charging valiantly to one's likely doom…Well, really, when was the right time? For a moment, Zanac considered drawing his sword, but perhaps there'd be time for that later.

A deep breath. A moment's concentration, summoning focus from deep within…

"Men of the Kingdom!"

That got their attention, all right. The spells laid upon him made his voice ring like thunder, echoing across the courtyard.

"Today, our nation faces its greatest threat!"

Not a turn of phrase he expected to use, but between the rampaging dragons, the raging fires, and the dark clouds of pure cohered malice gathering above the capital…It seemed like as good a time as any.

"Today, we march to save the very heart of our land. Today, we fight for hearth and home!"

In truth, Zanac couldn't think of a time where soldiers weren't fighting for hearth and home. Still, some things had to be said.

"Brave men of Re-Estize! Of E- Raevel! Of Re-Beauleuror! As your Prince, I am proud to lead you into battle. Prouder still, to fight alongside you!"

Not that he'd be doing much fighting, in truth. Though he had a nasty premonition that it might yet come to that.

It was time for a grand gesture, and Zanac decided to risk one. A touch of the spurs made his horse rear, his cloak fluttering behind him. With a sweep of his arm, he took in the black-and-silver banner of Re-Estize, belling full in the heated wind.

"Beneath this sign, we shall fight! Beneath this banner, we shall triumph!"

A tug of his reins brought his snorting steed under control - Just in time, too, for he had the sense it was getting annoyed at him.

"Onward, soldiers of the Kingdom! Onward…To victory!"

There was a brief pause, as the waiting ranks of men processed the last sentence. Once they were certain that more wouldn't be forthcoming, they lifted their arms at once, giving voice to a great cheer of martial fervor.

As the last echoes faded, the castle's great gates rose - The serried ranks of soldiers beginning their march, the ground shivering to the tromp of boots. A thicket of spears and pikes bobbed overhead like a moving, spiky forest, officers shouting hoarse orders over the commotion.

"A good speech, my liege," Gazef said. For all of a moment, Zanac felt a swell of regal confidence, a certain lifting of the spirits…

-Until it occurred to him that the Warrior-Captain was probably just being encouraging. Still, he'd take what he could get.

"As far as these things go," Gagaran said, enough that Lakyus gave her a swift, sidelong glance. Apparently oblivious, she went on - "What's the plan, your Highness?"

Ah. Now this, as they said, was the tricky part.

"We advance," Zanac said, keeping his voice determinedly level. Giving it a confidence he didn't quite feel. "The infantry will lead off - I expect the undead will be lying in wait, so they'll flush out resistance. The cavalry and knights will deal with the worst of the foe."

It sounded so simple, when he said it like this. In truth, they had very little idea what they were fighting: They did know where the enemy was, though - given what was happening overhead - it was impossible to miss.

"We've had word from the Adventure's Guild. A substantial contingent is moving to support us, so we'll rendezvous with them at the first opportunity."

Gagaran's weighty eyebrows lifted in brief surprise, before she nodded in realization.

"Climb," she said, and some of the tension in Lakyus's shoulders seemed to drain away. Lady Aindra raised a gauntleted hand to touch the talisman she wore, murmuring a brief prayer of thanks under her breath.

"So he's alive, then," Lakyus said, almost to herself. She smiled - A slight smile, but an honest one.

"And then?"

"-Then, our combined force will engage the enemy."

A beat, as Gagaran considered that. She exhaled, slowly, staring into the distance-

"...I see," she said, at last.

Then: "I mean - Are you sure about this?"

Gazef said nothing, not one to contradict the Prince in front of others. His silence spoke volumes, all the same.

"They'll be ready for us," the Warrior-Captain had said, before. "They've had hours to prepare, and they'll have all the time in the world to see us coming."

He'd frowned, like he could already see the arrows raining down on them, the ravening dead falling upon terrified men with cannibal gusto.

"If we commit to this course, I cannot guarantee your safety, your Highness. Not as long as the dragons are in play. But if you're certain-"

"Absolutely," Zanac said, doing his best to sound bluff, hearty, confident. His corset chafed like nothing on earth, and so he kept his hands on the reins to keep from fidgeting.

Not for the first time, he wondered how the ladies of the court managed. Awful things, really - Someday, he should issue a decree ordering them banned, for the public good.

He thought about the golden rose the monster had given him, thought about the assurances he'd received.

Thought about the silver-and-emerald ring the Warrior-Captain now wore.

"It's all about timing," Zanac said, and allowed himself - just for a moment - a careful smile.

"All we need to do is…choose our moment."

But will we have the chance?

---

The Man Who Would Be King

The granary's main office was a stark, hard place, less cheery than some plague camps Count Polderman had seen. It was a place for cold-eyed business, the bloodless process of squeezing every last drop of profit from the grain trade before the inevitable crash.

Even now, emptied of accountants and clerks alike, it stank of ink and parchment, of brisk industry and long hours, a certain flavor of quiet despair.

Charts were tacked to boards, rising and falling lines measuring the month's profit or lack thereof. Heavy ledgers lined the walls, each one anonymous except for the silver letters on the cracked leather bindings.

Astonishingly detailed maps, tacked with pins and lengths of thread, marked potential routes between the capital and the rest of the kingdom, the plaster-cast faces of former worthies gazing down smugly from their alcoves.

Distantly, the Count wondered who they'd been, and what they'd done. He supposed they meant something to someone.

The Crown Prince, against all odds, had made the place his lair. When the Count was ushered in - Past the royal knights standing guard, both affecting expressions of watchful vigilance - Prince Barbro had his gloved hands planted on a table spread with maps, a gaggle of anxious nobles and lesser officers clustered around him.

"-Free to move again, as soon as the barricades are cleared away," the royal personage was saying, punctuating his words with quick, decisive jabs of a pointer. "If any able-bodied citizens are willing to aid us, organize a work crew. Each man must do his part."

General Edorado nodded, turning to Colonel Fenig. Like a faithful shadow, the man saluted, hurrying away with military alacrity: In spite of everything, the Colonel looked almost relieved.

Relieved, that someone was - once again - giving clear orders.

"If it pleases your Royal Highness," Comte Ludovic Caulcaster Ginenas ventured, "...Should we not try to make contact with my fath - With Baron Suric, at least? If there's any chance, any chance at all, that he escaped…"

With a startling casualness, the Crown Prince let his hand settle on Ludovic's shoulder. The Comte was a young man, lanky and unfortunately pimpling, clearly wishing with all his heart that he'd chosen to stay at his uncle's manse…

But he knew enough to flinch, at this unexpected contact.

"We understand, Lord Ludovic," Prince Barbro said, and the emphasis on the royal We settled like a stone.

"Your father is one of our boon companions, and we mourn his loss. But the living need you. Your men need you, Baron Ginenas. Be strong."

His blue eyes met the newly-minted Baron's gaze, held it.

"-Can you do that?"

Ludovic's head bobbed, a bit like a rooster at the feeding trough.

"I - I won't let you down, your Highness," he stammered, and the Prince gave him a manly clap on the shoulder, one that made him stagger slightly.

"Very well, then. We have every confidence in you."

Dismissed, and likely considering himself fortunate for that, Ludovic stumbled away. The impromptu audience completed, the Crown Prince looked around, as if gathering his train of thought…

He saw the Count. Smiled, as if greeting an old friend.

The Prince brought his hands together, a light clap that rose over the soldierly babble of the room.

"You have your tasks," he said. "-See to them."

Barbro rose, without a grunt. Unbidden, a body-servant held out his fur-trimmed pelisse, and the Crown Prince shrugged it on with a nod of thanks.

"Count Polderman," the Prince said. "A word, if you please."

---

"You have recovered, I trust?"

"Very much so, my Lord." In truth, his head still ached, but that was a small price to pay. Count Polderman sipped his wine, tasting none of it: After all he'd seen and done today, he was stone-cold sober, and doubted anything would change that.

It was a pity, for the private suite - reserved for whatever magnate owned this place - had come well-stocked. It was at the very end of the building, far above all the rest, with a balcony outside from which the owner might look down upon his domain.

Like a king upon his subjects, almost.

The rebels - revolutionaries, or whatever they were calling that defeated lot - had never quite gotten around to breaking the hefty triple-lock that secured the room, though they'd tried their very best. Axe-scars marred the wooden finish of the oaken doors, where a frenzy of effort had begun and ended.

Much like the rebellion itself, really. The Crown Prince's force had been treated like conquering heroes, roundly cheered as the gate swung open for them. While some had suggested arresting the ringleaders, Prince Barbro's orders had been explicit: They had more immediate matters to tend to.

Barbro frowned down at the snifter of brandy in his hand. He didn't drink, which was a first - Then again, given their circumstances, the Prince had good reasons for keeping his head clear.

He stared out through the window, at the sickly fireglow lighting the sky. At the black damnation-clouds that swirled overhead, their very substance twisting and writhing in faintly disturbing ways.

"-The city burns, Polderman. To think I waited this long."

The Count shifted uncomfortably in his seat. In truth, he didn't know why he was here: Before this, the Prince had barely spared him the time of day. What with the unexpected solicitousness from the royal person, and the Crown Prince's earlier heroics, he honestly didn't know what to expect.

It was like a different, more thoughtful man stood before him, now…A side of Barbro he'd never seen before.

Then again, given the losses they'd taken, the Prince's inner circle was sadly reduced. The Nobility Faction's instinct to cling close to the royal person had cost them much - Only Marquis Boullope, wintering in E-Rantel, was fortunate enough to have missed all this.

"If not for your swift action, I fear matters may have been worse," the Count said. It was a lie, but a diplomatic one. The cavalry action had been far, far more catastrophic than he could ever have imagined. To salvage even this much from the jaws of disaster…

Well, it was very nearly a miracle.

The Prince sighed. Soft, a musing note to his voice.

"It was a poor decision. A hasty one." he said. "You opposed it from the start, I know. I should have listened: It never pays to be too enamored of one's own voice. In truth, I'm not sure what I was thinking. If I was thinking at all."

Polderman managed a shallow kind of breath. He hadn't thought that the Prince was capable of self-reflection. The idea was almost frightening.

"My Lord," he said, slowly. "I am certain…You made the best choice you could have, given the circumstances. None could fault you for-"

Barbro's eyes glinted. He raised a finger, like he'd made a point.

"And that's the problem, isn't it? No accountability. No oversight. None dare contradict me, for fear of the consequences."

He grimaced, knocked back his drink with an absent swig. "I'm ill-served by sycophants, I think. I may be king-in-waiting, but even the Crown Prince can stand to learn a lesson or two."

"...Your Grace?"

Against all odds, there was a hint of a smile in Barbro's tone. "The fact is - Recent events have given me a new perspective on things. After this…Perhaps it's time for a change. To try a different way of ruling. The King should govern for the many, not the few: For the common good of the people, not for himself."

The Count stared. This was the closest thing to sedition he'd ever heard, made all the stranger by who was saying it. For one moment, he couldn't help but wonder if - somehow - that made the Crown Prince the subversive.

"Do you-" he began, choosing his words with care. But there was something beneath that, something he hadn't felt in a long, long time.

It felt, almost, like hope.

"...do you truly believe so, my liege? That you can change things for the better?"

Barbro swilled the remnants of his brandy in its snifter. "Well," he said, at last. "Not alone, certainly."

Realizing almost too late that he was expected to say something, Polderman lifted his gaze.

"Your Highness," he rasped, his throat suddenly dry. "-You honor me."

A smile broke across the Prince's leonine features, and he chuckled with rueful good humor.

"Hardly. The reward for excellence is more work, I fear. It'll be rough going, but if the Royalty Faction is willing to cooperate, we can-"

He stopped, mid-sentence. Barbro's face darkened, as if struck by an unwelcome thought.

"Your Highness?" the Count asked, a pang of trepidation coursing through him. "Is something the-"

The knock at the door made him start, but the Crown Prince never flinched.

"Enter," he said, and a red-faced adjutant hurried in. It was clear the man had run the entire way, his sabertache swinging loose as he saluted.

"Your Highness - Count Polderman! The General has requested your immediate presence. There's been a messenger from the palace!"

"A messenger?" Between the riots, the flames, the undead and a multitude of other horrors, there'd been no word from Ro Lente. The Prince had, categorically, refused to send riders, simply because it'd have been a suicide mission. "-How?"

"From above, my lord." The adjutant swallowed, hard, looking deeply uncomfortable. "They say…They say she arrived on an angel."

"-'She'?"

---

"Lady Kelart Custodio," the Crown Prince said, formal as a courtier at a ball. "It is good to see you again, High Priestess. I only wish the circumstances were better."

The priestess had arrived alone and unannounced, without warning: The archers on the roof had seen the brief flash of a brilliant light descending, the blurred impression of something vast and winged…And then Lady Kelart was striding out of a circle of charred earth, in an imperious straight-ahead march that suffered no delay.

Even now, in the darkest of hours, her presence was a novelty. Officers and junior men clustered on either side of the chamber, eager for any news or just to catch a glimpse of her.

If the slight figure in blue-and-white felt the weight of their expectant eyes, their curiosity, their trepidation, she showed no response.

With the same careful formality, Kelart dipped her head in a polite bow.

"Likewise, your royal Highness," she said. She'd clearly seen some fighting, however she'd got here - Soot streaked the hem of her robes, stained gray by smoke. "Princess Renner will be pleased to know you are unharmed. We feared the worst - Thank the Four it was not so."

"Indeed," Prince Barbro said. "You must be exhausted. I understand your journey was a harrowing one. Is there anything you require?" He glanced to the side, at one young page. "Bring the lady a chair-"

There was a sudden scrape of wood against the tiles, as a half-dozen officers vacated their seats. Kelart merely shook her head: "Thank you, your Highness - But I prefer to stand," she said.

Barbro nodded, as if content that the formalities had been done with.

"As you wish, then. Now…What news do you bring from the palace, Lady Kelart?"

Without prompting, Kelart stepped forward, up to the main table. The small knot of men parted before her like the seas before Wiseman - She scrutinized the great map for a long moment, before pointing to one side of the illuminated chart.

"The source of this…undead disturbance has been identified," she said. "They've occupied the Square of Scales, in great strength. Prince Zanac has taken command of the palace guard, along with whatever forces he can muster, and is moving to assault the enemy."

The mention of his brother made Barbro frown.

"He's advancing on the square? A troubling move, given the circumstances. Did he give a reason?"

"Our divinations have sensed a tremendous amassing of unholy energies, centered on the area. My lord, this is no random attack, but an organized and purposeful one. The undead are attempting to achieve something, here. Prince Zanac believes they must not be allowed to do so."

Outside, sickly lightning flickered. The skies strobed red now, behind the gathering masses of cloud - A fume of aurora lights marring the heavens.

Kelart glanced up, sharply. She waited, as if expecting another omen - But when none made itself known, she went on.

"There's more. According to the Mage's Guild, this configuration - this accumulation of miasma, this gathering of undead - has the characteristics of ritual. As I understand, there is a recent precedent for this phenomena."

"E-Rantel," Prince Barbro said, and Kelart nodded. There was a collective gasp, a brief round of dismayed murmuring that circled the room.

"Precisely, your Highness. The temples concur: This appears to be a second attempt at the Spiral of Death. If concluded, the capital itself may be engulfed."

An uneasy muttering swept the table. "Four protect us," a junior man whispered, sounding unashamedly terrified, a sentiment echoed by the increasingly pale faces around him.

Perhaps sensing the mood, the Crown Prince looked up. "I want our defenses shored-up. Place the men on high alert: We must be prepared to depart at a moment's notice."

He waited, a royal eyebrow rising. "-Go on, then."

There was an abrupt flurry of activity, as the office emptied out. Galvanized by the royal command, or perhaps the prospect of annihilation, the Prince's staff moved with rare alacrity. So swiftly, in fact, that some might almost have called it flight.

In a matter of moments, other than Sir Margur and his knights, less than a dozen remained - General Edorado. Count Polderman. Baron Ludovic. One of Lord Brodier's sons, who'd somehow come through everything in one piece. A handful of aides and liaisons, riveted to their posts through duty, fealty or sheer inertia.

"We must tread carefully, your Highness," the General said, frowning down at the map. Now that the moment of crisis had come, there was a quiet uncertainty to his worn features - the face of a gambler, knowing the next toss could decide everything.

"We need to prepare, and gather all the troops we can. If we can link up with a regiment of foot, or the city guard…It could make all the difference."

"There may not be time for that," Count Polderman said, sharply. "Lady Kelart - How long do we have?"

The priestess inclined her head in quiet contemplation, her lips pressed together in a thin line.

"I can't say," she said, at last. "The Four teach that the powers of darkness reach their peak just before dawn."

Polderman shook his head. "Mere hours, then," he said, heavily. "Three - Four, at most?"

Baron Ludovic swayed, alarmingly, like a ship listing in strong winds.

"That's all we have?" he squeaked, the lump in his throat bobbing. "Four hours, until…?"

"The best moment to strike would be soonest," Kelart agreed, as if he hadn't spoken. Her pale fingertips traced the straight lines of the map, like brushstrokes.

"I can confirm that Captain Coesil's company is engaged - No reinforcement can be expected from that quarter, I fear. Not in time."

Sir Margur cleared his throat. "Your Highness, it may be wise to…" He glanced, sidelong, at Kelart. "Perhaps Lady Kelart could convey you beyond the bounds of the city, where your safety would be ensured."

With the air of a man navigating a rickety bridge, he went on. "If you could rouse the troops, muster the army-"

"-I won't flee." The Prince's words cut him off, as surely as a knife. "Not now, with the capital at stake. Not while my people need me."

He turned to Kelart.

"What of Grandmaster Samuel, Lady Kelart? I realize I ask much, but if the Paladin Order would be willing to aid us, in our time of need…"

There was a growing intensity to Barbro's tone, something very much like hope. Even Ludovic could guess why: They'd all seen the man duel the Warrior-Captain. Though the general consensus was that Gazef had been losing his touch, or perhaps holding back, a swordsman almost as mighty as Sir Stronoff was exactly what they needed right now-

The Prince's voice trailed off as he looked up, expectant.

But Kelart didn't answer. Not immediately. Calculation lent a hard edge to her delicate features, her chin coming up.

"Your Royal Highness," she said. Carefully, as if composing herself for some distasteful task.

"As the high priestess of the Four, as the representative of the Holy Queen, I tell you now: This is the battle the Paladin Order was made to fight. In the spirit of our agreement, for the liberation of the Holy Kingdom, for the salvation of our people…

There was a pause that seemed impossibly long.

"-Yes. We stand with you, my Lord."

Ludovic's mouth fell gently open - He looked poleaxed, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Polderman inhaled, sharply. Even by proxy, he felt the sting of insult.

From the sound of it, the Crown Prince had made a commitment to the beleaguered Holy Kingdom, found common cause with their war against the beastmen. Astonishing, in itself, with the Annual War looming above them like an executioner's sword.

But the sheer gall it took, to remind the King-in-waiting of what he'd promised. At this hour, with the capital itself at stake-

Sir Margur's face had gone blotchy with the first flush of anger, his mustache bristling like an enraged walrus.

"You go too far, Lady Kelart," he rasped, voice trembling with pent-up emotion. "You dare…To insinuate that his Highness would go back on his word-"

"Peace, Knight-Captain." Barbro pursed his lips, his brows contracted. He looked long and hard at her…And then, slowly, his features softened.

"Indeed, arch-priestess. I gave my word - And I intend to keep it." He spread his hands, a gesture of openness. Of honesty.

He smiled, wry. "Know this: Your loyalty does the Holy Queen much credit. Whatever befalls, tonight…I will honor my promise. To do anything less would shame the Crown."

"We must be better," Barbro said. Low, so soft General Edorado had to strain to hear.

Then louder, for emphasis:

"We must be better, all of us. Not for ourselves, but for our people."

Barbro looked around the room, and it was hard not to feel a surge of patriotic pride beneath his clear-eyed gaze. Sensing the moment, some of the wan, tired faces were beginning to smile. Buoyed by the Prince's manly fervor, one or two even shook clenched fists.

Only Kelart stood as still as a statue, her eyes locked on the Prince's every motion. In the shifting lamplight, her face had gone as expressionless as a mask.

"We shall stand together. We shall weather this storm! Together, we shall-"

There was an abrupt bang of displacement, a thunderclap of concussion that rippled through the room. Smoke - Vile, choking - was suddenly everywhere, a thick, boiling pall of it.

"We're under attack!" someone screamed, in the sudden convulsion of chaos. A chair toppled with a crash of splintering wood, papers fluttering through the churning air. There was a bout of frantic cursing, knights jostling past blundering men as they shouted the alarm.

"Get the windows open!"

"To arms!" Sir Margur roared, his sword in hand. "Protect his Highness! Protect the-"

A shadow crossed in front of him. For a moment, the veteran knight thought it was Lady Kelart - But it was taller, larger. Moving with purpose.

A figure in mithril plate, gleaming like a silver phantom.

It had a black sword in one hand, a great hammer in the other.

A royal guard raised his mace, but the platinum knight swatted him aside. The casual strength of the blow lifted the man - in full armor - from his feet, and hurled him into the far wall.

Sir Margur lunged, shouting a battle-cry. His blade lashed out-

A boot cracked into his breastplate, and metal crumpled beneath the impact. The veteran knight cannoned back, the breath punched from his lungs, hands clawing vainly for purchase.

So fast. So terribly fast.

The Prince-

He saw it all.

Saw Baron Ludovic lurching back, fumbling for his sword.

Saw Count Polderman, half-glimpsed behind the flashing blades of the oncoming knights.

Saw Grandmaster Samuel bring Gnosis down, in a single unstoppable arc, and cut the Crown Prince in half.

Next: Thy Hollow Cell