ã€ŠCourts [A Progression Power Fantasy]ã€‹


 0 Why Did They Come?

    Peter examined his new ring with scholarly interest. Why was it given to him? Why were they handed out to everyone? A gift? Well, yes, but why? The ring was unlike anything he had ever seen. It wasn¡¯t made out of metal like rings usually were. It seemed to be made out of some sort of black glass. It didn¡¯t feel brittle like glass. It felt heavy and solid. The ring¡¯s craftsmanship was extraordinary. Lines and grooves ran along the ring in unfamiliar patterns. They made him think it was made to come apart, but try as he might, he could not make it budge. He would have to take a hammer to it when he got home after the ceremony.

    With a sigh, Peter tucked the ring into the breast pocket of his long black coat. He smiled as he pulled the coat tight around him. The black wool garment was a recent gift for his birthday. His mother had been secretly saving for it for quite some time to surprise him. It was actually stylish, even if it was a little too big. It was especially smart when paired with its matching black shoulder cardinal. Few kids could afford them, and honestly, he couldn''t either. That just added to the majesty of the garment.

    Not only was the coat stylish, but it was warm. Boslic was a cold place, especially considering Chur and Dinn frequently blocked out the sunlight. Peter looked up at the two worlds. They hung like massive green, blue, and earthy platters in the air. The atmostorm continued to crackle on as it always did. Right where the atmospheres of the three worlds collided. Pink and orange fiery clouds rolled in the sky. Fierce stabs of sharp pink lightning flickered within the storm but never found the will to lash down at any of the worlds, above or below. It was beautiful and terrible, although Peter truthfully hadn¡¯t spent too much time appreciating it until the courts came.

    ¡°Hey, Kroon!¡± Jaap called as he approached Peter. As usual, he was flanked by at least three other boys. ¡°Nice coat! I think you left your plume at your mansion.¡±

    Peter fidgeted in surprise, which always happened when he was deep in thought. It was like he forgot he existed until something made him jump.

    Jaap¡¯s crew laughed at his comment and turned to Peter expectantly. It wasn¡¯t cruel laughter; it had an expectant and eager tone. Once, Peter¡¯s mother had overheard such banter and called Jaap out for bullying, but Peter had cut in to explain. Jaap wasn¡¯t a bully or even a rival, not really. Jaap was a friend. Their relationship was dynamic and constantly evolving. The truth was that the boys admired each other, but neither would ever admit it. They were both so different.

    Jaap was a large, well-off young man with many friends, but he was also kind. Sometimes, Peter felt that Jaap¡¯s strange challenges and contests were out of sympathy because Peter was less social. Still, the twinkle in Jaap¡¯s eye and the continued teasing felt real enough.

    Peter pulled off his tight, peaked beldar cap, and sure enough, he had forgotten his plume, but not in some imaginary mansion. He must have left it at his shack of an apartment. How could Peter have forgotten it? He had a reasonably nice, small, fluffy ostrich feather-dyed blue. Absorbed in his thoughts, he must have left it at home.

    It was ironic, he realized ¡ª such a nice coat and cardinal, and he didn¡¯t even have a plume for his hat. Most of Jaap¡¯s friends wore plumes in their beldar caps. It was Peter¡¯s mistake, but it was minor.

    ¡°This is outrageous!¡± He played along. ¡°I¡¯ll sack the butler!¡±

    That made the other boys chuckle. They all knew he was as poor as any of them, except maybe Jaap. Peter quickly noticed they all wore their new rings, the ones the court had given them as a gift.

    Jaap seemed to notice Peter looking at his ring.

    ¡°Didn¡¯t you get a ring?¡± Jaap asked, patting his pockets and protruding a new one.

    Peter refused it with a dismissive hand. ¡°I got mine last week, same as you,¡± he said apologetically. Peter fished a black glass ring out of his pocket and showed the boys.

    ¡°Oh?¡± Jaap said as he pocketed his extra ring. ¡°Why don¡¯t you wear it?¡±

    ¡°Maybe because he¡¯s smarter than anyone else!¡± Iris said as she limped up to the group of boys. Her blond hair was crammed hurriedly in her beldar cap, allowing several stray locks to poke out randomly. No doubt she had waited until the last minute to get ready.

    As always, a ball of guilt, heavy and unyielding, welled in Peter¡¯s stomach at the sight of her stiff left leg. The disability was his fault, a burden he carried with him every day.

    The boys snickered as she ran up. Peter blushed. Of course, they were a package deal. The two were inseparable since the accident.

    ¡°Are you saying we¡¯re stupid?¡± Jaap challenged Iris with good humor in his eyes.

    As usual, she misread it.

    ¡°If you doubt Peter¡¯s judgment, you say it yourself!¡±

    Peter felt his face flush an even deeper red. Iris was a good best friend, but she admired him so ¡­ zealously. It was good to have someone who listened intently to his thoughts, but telling her anything was the same as painting them in massive letters on Dinn or Chur above for everyone to see.

    ¡°What? You don¡¯t trust the court?¡± Jaap asked playfully.

    ¡°You do?¡± Iris countered. ¡°A man falls from the sky and gives everyone rings. Doesn¡¯t that seem suspicious to you? What if they were weapons? Why does everyone assume he¡¯s a friend?¡±

    Jaap turned to Peter, his smile melting a little. He knew that Iris¡¯ rant would have originated from listening to one of Peter¡¯s hypotheses.

    ¡°That¡¯s a little harsh and probably rude, don¡¯t you think? He¡¯s our guest and was kind enough to give all of us gifts. He went with the king to the cemetery this morning to bless our ancestors. Do you think these are the actions of an evil invader?¡±

    Peter threw his hands up defensively and glared at Iris, resenting her emphatic commitment to his ideas. ¡°I don¡¯t think there is foul play! It¡¯s just that things have changed, and I think we should be careful. That is, until we better understand Court Rahashel and his reason for visiting.¡±

    Jaap shook his head. He didn¡¯t like that. ¡°He¡¯s come to gift us with knowledge and advancements. I think you¡¯re being a bit ungrateful.¡±

    Iris stiffened. ¡°And you¡¯re stupid if you think ¡ª¡±

    ¡°Iris!¡± Peter begged as she rushed to his defense. ¡°It¡¯s okay. I just want to watch for a little while before I decide.¡±

    Jaap shrugged. ¡°I guess you can do what you want. We¡¯re going to the welcoming ceremony. You guys coming?¡±

    Peter looked at Iris before answering. ¡°We¡¯ll be right behind you.¡±

    Jaap nodded and trotted ahead with his group.

    ¡°That boy is such a hiss pipe!¡± Iris said as she shook her head in disgust.

    ¡°Iris!¡± Peter pleaded. ¡°He might not be wrong.¡±

    Iris punched Peter in the shoulder, causing him to yelp. ¡°When have you ever been wrong, Peter?¡±

    ¡°Um ¡­ literally all the time!¡± Peter protested as he rubbed his arm.

    ¡°Wrong!¡± Iris corrected. ¡°In all these years we¡¯ve been friends you have never been wrong, and Jaap¡¯s an idiot for doubting you.¡±

    He had been wrong when he opened the gate all those years ago. In his mind he heard the memory of dog snarl as it leaped at him. Why did he let her goad him into doing something so stupid?

    ¡°You know, part of learning is more listening and less talking!¡± Peter growled as they hiked along.

    Iris fell silent with a hurt look in her eye.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t mean it like that,¡± Peter said, instantly feeling like an idiot.

    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± she muttered. ¡°I just get so carried away, especially when they doubt you.¡±

    ¡°You know I can take care of myself,¡± Peter muttered.

    ¡°I know,¡± Iris lamented, ¡°I just wish they really knew you. They would be more respectful.¡±

    The pair continued along the cobblestone road and into Stalpia. The capital of Nosmiria was densely populated, even more so after the arrival of Court Rahashel. Everyone was coming to see, for themselves, the man who fell from the sky. It was rumored he could do impossible things¡ªmiracles to rival the Nyamarian High Steward, Bram Gerrets. The House of Nyamar was already quickly losing popularity, and the fact that a stranger could rival their master¡¯s power would only continue to drive people away.

    Peter was doing it again, lost in thought and unaware of his surroundings. He looked up as they made their way to the main town square. The buildings were dull in the overcast of the planets above. Built with cobblestone, steeply peaked roofs, dark wood, and shingles, there wasn¡¯t a whole lot of color in Nosmiria. Peter wasn¡¯t well-traveled, so he had little to compare it to. He had always dreamed of traveling, but he never had the chance. Maybe he would when he got older? At least for now, school seemed like the most useful choice.

    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    The further along they went, the more crowded the streets became. People mostly dressed in dark colors. Cloaks, coats, and hats with plumes of all kinds occupied the road. The two youths squeezed and pushed their way past many adults. Peter hated crowds, but when they were kids Iris could surf them like a pickpocket. Now, she lagged behind like a lead anchor with her still leg.

    ¡°Wait up!¡± Iris cried after him as she tried desperately to follow.

    Peter doubled back and waited for her to catch up.

    She grabbed him by the hand shuffled ahead, towing Peter on. "Come on, ya snail!" she teased.

    ¡°Iris!¡± he cried in protest again, his face heating. People could clearly see her holding his hand. What if someone they knew saw him? Clearly, she didn¡¯t care.

    With her direction, they cut through and made it into the massive square, which was already packed. They hopped up and down on their tiptoes to try and peek over everyone¡¯s shoulders.

    ¡°Aww!¡± Iris whined, ¡°It¡¯ll be impossible to see it from here!¡±

    Peter looked around before making his way to one of the many black iron lamp posts that lined the square. The gas light protruded from a cobblestone base. He hopped onto the small platform and grabbed the post for balance.

    Iris hopped off her right leg and dragged herself up next to him, her teeth clenched in exertion. She scrunched her brow to see what was happening across the audience of thousands.

    On the steps of the cabinet hall, several figures stood speaking in loud tones lost in the distance to the back of the crowd. The massive clock on the front of the hall showed that they were only fifteen minutes late.

    ¡°Can you see?¡± Iris asked. ¡°I can¡¯t hear anything.¡±

    Peter reached into his inside coat pocket and grabbed his mini spyglass. Pulling it out, he used it to watch.

    On the steps, King Adrichem wore a traditional dark coat and a plumed slouch hat with one side pinned up. A gold medallion with a thick scarlet ribbon hung from his neck as an emblem of his station. The king''s high, sharp cheekbones and pouty, upturned lips made him appear naturally insolent, but Peter knew King Adrichem to be a caring and respectable monarch. Across from him was Court Rahashel.

    Peter watched the court intently. The man who fell from the sky was big, deep-chested, and had bronze skin. Somehow, he endured the cold bare-chested, wearing only a black girdle and skirt that hung from his waist down to his ankles. An impressive gold belt rested around it loosely. He had a goatee and a headdress covering any hair he might have had. His eyes were so sharp and defined, like ¡­ he was wearing dark eyeliner?

    ¡°Makeup?¡± Peter muttered in surprise.

    ¡°What?¡± Iris yelped. ¡°Let me see!¡±

    Peter shook her off. ¡°You¡¯ll get your turn!¡±

    He looked again. King Adrichem and Court Rahashel were talking to each other, but Peter wanted to see Court Rahashel¡¯s cabinet. On the king''s side were mayors and guards from the surrounding cities. Peter didn¡¯t spare them a second glance. Panning over with the spyglass, Peter saw them behind Court Rahashel on the steps.

    He couldn¡¯t believe his eyes. Built much like Court Rahashel himself, the members of Rahashel¡¯s cabinet had animal heads. A man with a falcon head, a man with the head of a jackal, one like a crocodile ¡­ How was that possible? Were they an alien race? Were they wearing masks with frightening amounts of detail? Men with animal heads ¡ªnow he had seen it all.

    The two leaders finished talking, and Court Rahashel turned to the assembly.

    ¡°Thank you all for your kind welcome to your humble state of Nosmiria!¡± His voice boomed across the way as though amplified.

    ¡°How does he do that?¡± Iris asked in awe.

    ¡°I expected hostility and coldness from this world as I have found in other worlds! But for your kindness to me and my people, I have yet another gift for you! I will share all I know with you. You will be blessed with wealth, prosperity, and power!¡±

    Peter sighted on Court Rahashel to get a better look. The court stood confident and imposing. Now that he had turned, Peter saw a metal armband on his upper arm. It seemed to glow with violet light.

    ¡°And to you, great king!¡± Court Rahashel turned to King Adrichem, who smiled proudly at the praise. ¡°You can be the first to move these worlds to the next age.¡°

    So casually that Peter almost missed it, Court Rahashel put his hand on King Adrichem¡¯s face, and a bright purple light flared to life.

    King Adrichem cried and fell back, but the luminescent vapor flowed from his face and into Court Rahashel¡¯s hand. Then the king screamed.

    Peter watched in horror as the king aged into a withered old man in seconds. The light flowed from him like the years were siphoned right into Court Rahashel¡¯s open palm.

    The king dropped to the ground as not much more than skin and bones, and Court Rahashel turned to face the people. Everyone watched in stunned silence, most still trying to register what had just happened.

    ¡°Hail to your new king and God!¡± Court Rahashel said before the first screams found air.

    The guards found themselves and leaped into action, pulling the mayors and magistrates off the stage. Several leveled rifles at Court Rahashel.

    The shriek of gas gunfire split the air as they shot the court at point-blank range. Court Rahashel looked at them in amusement, completely unaffected, but his followers screamed in rage.

    The man with the jackal''s head leaped at them with two short swords, and with a flourish of spins and hacks, he felled eight men in less than three seconds.

    Peter forced his trembling legs to clamber down the lamppost base as people screamed and ran. He jerked at Iris, his hands clammy.

    ¡°What happened?¡± Iris demanded.

    ¡°He killed the king!¡± Peter shouted.

    ¡°What?¡± Iris cried. ¡°Where¡¯s Tess?¡±

    ¡°Ma¡¯s back home!¡± Peter hollered over the chaos of the surging crowd. ¡°Let¡¯s get out of here!¡±

    They turned and joined the now free-flowing current out of the city. Screams followed them from all around. Peter saw a woman stop and frantically claw at her hand. It didn¡¯t take more than a heartbeat for Peter to realize she was trying to pull off a black glass ring.

    ¡°Peter!¡± Iris cried, limping from behind. She pulled her ring from her pocket and threw it into the gutter.

    Peter fumbled his ring from his coat pocket, and it returned hot. Sparing only a glance, he noticed that it had changed. From all around the inside, pointed needles stuck inward and would have bit into his finger if he had it on.

    Shuddering, Peter threw the ring to the ground. He noticed that almost everyone around was crying and struggling to get them off. Those few less trusting of the newcomer continued to flee outward, undeterred by the rings.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go, Peter!¡± Iris cried. ¡°We need to get Tess!¡±

    They ran past the people with the rings on. The screaming started to die down as those with the rings stood up with glazed-over eyes as if in a trance. Peter whimpered as he ran past the people he grew up with. Their eyes, devoid of intelligent light, made Peter whimper.

    Peter scanned those they passed, praying that his mother hadn¡¯t put the ring back on, after he explained to her why he wasn¡¯t wearing his. He abruptly grabbed Iris by the wrist, stopping her from shambling ahead.

    ¡°What?¡± she demanded wide-eyed, a renegade lock of golden hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.

    With a shaky hand, he pointed ahead.

    Those fleeing had stopped and started to back up as if corralled. Dozens of skulls, with eyes that burned with purple fire, faced them.

    Peter blinked several times.

    His eyes didn¡¯t deceive him: these were animated skeletons that clicked and rattled with each motion, marching the fleeing people back up the city streets. A few men tried to fight back, throwing anything they could find off of the street. The bone men continued to march, lashing out with bony fingers at anyone who tried to resist.

    ¡°Peter!¡±

    Peter felt relief flood through him as he heard his mother¡¯s voice. She ran to them from a side shop, forgetting her coat inside. She held a paring knife as she motioned them over to her.

    They ran to her as more people ran down the road, but they were stopped by a growing crowd of people who had run into the living dead.

    ¡°This way!¡± his mother turned to lead them down a side passage, but the rattle of bones announced several more marching their way from up the alley. They were surrounded.

    ¡°Stop!¡± a powerful voice boomed, and the bone men halted.

    The non-ring wearers who weren¡¯t entranced turned to greet their savior, but to their dismay, they saw the man with a jackal''s head. His exposed chest rippled with muscular power. He walked up to those who tried to flee, and the glassy-eyed people who wore rings stepped out of his way.

    ¡°You all are essential to your new God. Comply with Court Rahashel¡¯s plan or you will die.¡±

    No one dared raise their voice. Some searched for a way out. Skeletons poised for action behind, and the jackal man was in front; there was no escape. Some people slipped into buildings, hoping to go unnoticed. Peter didn¡¯t feel that their evasion would last.

    ¡°I am Anubis ¡ª the elder lich for your new god!¡± the jackal-headed man said. ¡°You will each be given a new ring, and you will wear them.¡±

    ¡°Please!¡± Peter¡¯s mother stepped forward. ¡°You can do whatever you want to me. I¡¯ll cooperate. Just let the children go!¡±

    Anubis turned to her, his eyes now burning with purple light. He stepped toward Peter and Iris, and Tess interposed herself between them, holding the knife low.

    ¡°Your children are the most valuable crop,¡± Anubis said through jackals¡¯ teeth. ¡°Of course we won¡¯t let them go.¡±

    With a flick of his hand, a purple light lanced out of Peter¡¯s mother and siphoned into his palm. The light emitted a sound like a chorus of a thousand gasping souls, making Peter¡¯s skin writhe.

    Peter instantly went numb ¡ª the way he might when really deep in thought or thinking of nothing at all. His mother lay before him with dead eyes. She looked older than his grandmother.

    A scream erupted from next to him, jolting him into awareness. Iris snarled as she scooped up the paring knife Peter¡¯s mother had dropped and lunged clumsily at Anubis.

    A pair of bony hands grabbed her and jerked her back as a bone warrior rushed to restrain her with surprising speed.

    ¡°Get your gas blasted hands off of me, you retchgasket!¡±

    Peter looked down at his mother again, feeling so numb he barely noticed the bone arms that wrapped around him and pulled him away.

    ¡°Our first volunteer,¡± Anubis said as he held out his hand. With a small flash of purple fire, a new glassy ring materialized in his palm. He took a step towards Iris.

    Not again! Peter watched the canine-esque beast approach Iris.

    Eleven-year-old Peter sobbed as the dog lunged at the gate. Its foaming snout snapped, flashing long fangs.

    The animated corpses that held Iris forced her hand up and splayed her fingers.

    The dog tore at his blue coat, and Peter screamed.

    The man with a Jackal¡¯s head pinched the glass ring between thumb and forefinger and grabbed Iris¡¯ hand.

    The dog yelped as a rock struck it. It abandoned its trapped quarry and spun on Iris. Iris stared wide-eyed and stepped back. Why did he open the gate?

    Seeing the thing touch his best friend, Peter finally seemed to find himself. He wouldn¡¯t watch this time like he did before. ¡°No!¡± he cried. ¡°Me first! Let her be!¡±

    Anubis looked at him and shrugged. ¡°A willing volunteer?¡±

    What was he doing? Was he trying to be heroic? It didn¡¯t matter who went first; they would all be forced to put them on.

    ¡°No! Peter!¡± Iris screamed.

    Even if it didn¡¯t make a difference, Peter owed her a debt he could never pay. Peter held his hand out for Anubis and turned to smile at Iris. It was a shallow smile that didn¡¯t reach his empty eyes. Anubis slipped the ring over Peter¡¯s finger, and it clamped down tight, shifting to fit.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Iris ¡ª¡±

    Spikes spat out and bit into his finger with surprisingly real pain, and he whimpered, trying his best not to cry.

    ¡°Peter!¡± Iris screamed, ¡°Pe-ter!¡± The last portion of his name sounded like it was coming from underwater as his mind drifted to a less cognitive place. Without a chance to fight, resist, or even mourn, Peter was among Court Rahashel¡¯s first crops.

 1 In the Sewer

    Everything changed after Court Rahashel showed his colors. As far as Peter knew, Stalpia and the rest of Nosmeria had undergone a metamorphosis.

    The already dark tone favored by the people seemed to grow even more devoid of color ¡ª an almost constant overcast depressed the landscape. The dark wood and shingles seemed utterly black. The cobblestones turned old and worn. Even buildings and trees seemed to rot ¡ª but that was only to be expected after so long.

    The glass crop ring on Peter¡¯s finger fogged his mind, making cognitive thought difficult and distorting his perception of time.

    The haze in Peter¡¯s mind made him live in what he would have called ¡®near-total indifference¡¯ ¡ª if he had the will to care. The Nosmerian defectors, commonly called overseers, referred to him as a crop, and he never could bring himself to wonder why.

    Peter wandered and ate when the enforcers rang the bell. When he got tired, he slept in abandoned buildings, though he always felt like he was asleep. Peter shuffled aimlessly with the herd of his fellow Nosmerians. He heeded the simple commands of the overseers when they gave them but was otherwise left alone.

    Peter stepped past one of the few windows to remain intact. His wrinkled and bearded face stared back. After all these mindless years, it made sense that he should look so haggard. That coat, which once was his pride, hung around him in taters, but he never took it off. His formerly curly and dark hair had grown long, thin, and grey.

    Peter continued drifting down the street, directed by nothing more than the wind.

    There was one element of his former life that kept his interest. That was his friend.

    Crops didn¡¯t make friends, but he was fond of one old woman. They might have been friends when they were fully living. Her name was Iris. Peter smiled. He never forgot that, even though he forgot just about everything else. His old brain didn¡¯t hold memories as well as it used to.

    People gathered ahead. What was it, an execution?

    Peter drifted with his fellow crops; they were usually herd animals.

    He sauntered to the square, one of the few parts of the city that Rahashel had altered and not left to rot.

    The Cabinet Hall had been demolished and replaced with a spacious white sandstone palace. The cobblestone square was also replaced with sandstone, shallow, crystal-clear pools, and exotic plants. Four obelisks stood positioned in each corner of the courtyard. Between the obelisks was the only place outside the palace that seemed to get any sunlight. Peter would have found the oasis beautiful before becoming a crop. Its beauty was also well protected.

    Dozens of sentinels lined either side of the square. They stood with girdles and skirts. Their flesh was wrapped and tarred. They stood still as statues, day and night, unless some unlucky free mind tried to do something stupid.

    Peter wandered into the square to find that he was correct; there was an execution. Espen Hummel, the former mayor of Horvath, headed the ceremony. Mayor Hummel had surrendered his city to Court Rahashel for promises of life and power. Now, he was little more than a glorified executioner. Many of his men became the overseers who managed Rahashel''s human herds as part of the same deal.

    A bound man on an elevated platform glared at his captors through a puffy, swollen, and bloody face.

    ¡°This man is charged and found guilty of removing his crop ring and joining the Nine Fingers!¡± Mayor Hummel declared to a figure sitting in one of many sandstone thrones carved into the front of the palace. The others were empty. Only one elder lich needed to be present for executions. This one was Sobek. With a powerful body, he had the head of a crocodile.

    Sobek looked at Mayor Hummel through reptilian eyes, and the sellout motioned for two of his personal, ghoulish sentinels. The mummified soldiers grabbed the prisoner and held his bound hands so the elder lich could see where he was missing a ring finger. The nub was aged and scarred.

    Sobek nodded. ¡°Leech him,¡± He croaked in an impossibly low and rumbled voice.

    Mayor Hummel nodded and pulled a ceremonial gauntlet onto his hand. The sentinels held the prisoner firmly. The treacherous mayor smiled as he grabbed the man''s face, he seemed to enjoy his job the more that he did it.

    The gauntlet flared with purple light, and violet luminescent vapor wisped from the rebel into Hummel¡¯s. The man didn¡¯t scream, but he didn¡¯t last long. He was already old.

    The sentinels dragged the aged corpse away, and the executioner-mayor turned back to Sobek.

    The crocodile-headed lich croaked oddly and waved a dismissive hand, ending the brief ceremony.

    Peter looked away. He wasn¡¯t here for the execution. He scanned the crowd for Iris but unfortunately didn¡¯t see her. That was too bad. He didn¡¯t feel like moving.

    He moved anyway, away from the sunlit square and back into the dark streets of the city. He passed many other crops and even a few free-mind humans. Men who defected to Court Rahashel out of fear became his enforcers, and the powerful who sought the promise of eternal youth served as his overseers and enforcers.

    Peter didn¡¯t see Iris in any of her usual wandering places, so he decided to check out the sewage outlet, where they often escaped when predators prowled the streets.

    The sentinels and overseers didn¡¯t bother to guard the crops well. Crops didn¡¯t run.

    The laughter of three approaching figures caused Peter to feel a hint of the first feeling he had in a long time ¡ª anxiety. They were dressed in dark but well-made clothes and looked perfect in every way. The figures were familiar to him: Vincent, Jasper, and Dirk ¡ª human-draining vampires, three newcomers to Stalpia.

    Predators.

    Without warning, Jasper snatched a passing crop in an iron grip and latched two needle-like fangs into him.

    The crop squealed and bucked for a moment but then went limp.

    Dirk laughed, but Jasper whined in protest before dropping the body.

    ¡°These crops are so old. Barely a sip of Tijd left in them.¡±

    Vincent scowled at Jasper. ¡°We are guests here. We can¡¯t just drain Court Rahashel¡¯s crop like that.¡±

    Jasper shrugged. ¡°Court Rahashel will be just fine, and besides, It¡¯s not like that crop had much more to contribute.¡±

    ¡°Stop it.¡±

    Jasper sobered and nodded once. They continued, and crops shuffled out of their way, Peter included. He had no intention of passing away a day sooner than he needed to. Suddenly, he felt a spike of fear as he considered that Iris might have fallen victim to these new vampiric hunters. It was unlikely. These three were the primary reason he and Iris had begun to spend so much time in the sewers in the first place. The sewers were an excellent place to hide. Peter had been working on a school report about Stalpia¡¯s drain systems before the invasion. The Stalpia sewers were mostly intact Ataggin ruins. After the House of Nyamar stripped them of Waarheid technology, Nosmerian engineers reoutfitted them to function through clever application of gravity and shutoff valves. Peter¡¯s fogged mind seemed to latch onto the location, probably because that research was some of his last before he put on the ring.

    Peter continued down the distorted streets and past the warped buildings. Everything was contorted, like a picture frame askew and off-center on a wall, some teetering dangerously, threatening to collapse. Peter didn¡¯t remember it being like that; it was almost as if Court Rahashel¡¯s presence had corroded the very earth.

    Peter made his way down through the lower streets at what would have been an agonizing pace if he had any real comprehension of time. He crossed the bridge that spanned over the storm drain outlet. Litter and garbage cluttered the channel. There were even complete sets of bones and other human remains that were abandoned to the rats. A reminder that just because Court Rahashel could manipulate the dead didn¡¯t mean that he always did.

    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    Peter climbed down the channel very carefully. His balance wasn¡¯t up to par with that of a fully alive person. He slid into ankle-deep runoff water and garbage. His crop ring made the icy water register mildly chill in his muted mind.

    A trickle of water and waste poured over the storm drain¡¯s

    lip. It wasn¡¯t as bad as it would have been before Rahashel¡¯s arrival. The court must have shut the sewer drainage down. The living population was a small fraction of what it used to be. Almost all of the crops had died off by now.

    Peter stepped into the dark drain outlet, his torn shoes sloshing in the sewage runoff. The dark, silent passage extended into a complex labyrinth of drainage pipes that would be treacherous if not for the regular steel grates and locking man-gates, specifically designed to keep people from going too deep.

    ¡°Iris?¡± Peter forced himself to say. Verbalizing anything was like sprinting into a hurricane.

    No reply. He sighed as he ventured further in. He had to walk with a slouch, which his aged back protested with every step. His already deteriorating eyesight struggled to adjust to the gloom, but deeper in was a patch of light where another storm drain intersected with his drainage pipe.

    ¡°Iris?¡± Peter had to stop to catch his breath. It mainly was from speaking, not from the walk. It was exhausting to talk out loud. Light from the cross storm drain shined on the wall.

    Something shifted in the dark further down.

    Peter stood up, staring into the dark. He always came down here. He had never encountered anything bigger than a rat.

    ¡°Iris,¡± he whispered. His imagination took hold, and in his mind, he could see Jasper hiding in the sewers, waiting for a stupid crop to wander down there by himself. Of course, that was a foolish idea. Jasper could feed on any crop he wished up above. Peter struggled to string reasonable thoughts together.

    That something moved again, most definitely larger than a rat.

    ¡°Wh¡ªwho?¡± Peter muttered.

    It groaned just outside of the light.

    Peter stepped back in what slight panic he could force to the surface. Panic was an easier emotion to muster as a crop. Peter felt a sense of self-preservation, but not in any rebellious shade, like anger. Only fear, alarm, or the more submissive flavors of survival instincts remained.

    Run. Hide.

    ¡°Help,¡± a voice groaned from the other side.

    Peter looked at the water flowing his way and realized it had the dirty orange taint of blood. Peter backed up, and a figure grunted as he stepped out of the shadows.

    It was a man. He was old, though probably not as old as Peter. He fiercely clutched a bleeding wound on his abdomen.

    ¡°Wh-who, a-are?¡± Peter whispered, trying to string more than one word together. Then he noticed the man¡¯s weapon.

    The man held a broad-bladed falchion in his right hand, stained with the black blood of the undead. He also had several crossbow bolts strapped to his forearm, though there was no sign of the crossbow. Weapons and undead blood that would mean ¡­

    Peter looked at the man¡¯s left hand, and sure enough, he was missing his ring finger. This man was a crop-gone rebel.

    Nine ¡ª Nine Fingers, Peter realized in horror, his muted brain just barely only making the connection. This man was a terrorist, and Peter knew what happened to members of the Nine Fingers.

    ¡°You¡¯re a crop?¡± the man spat the words through clenched teeth. He was hurt badly. He chuckled through his agony. ¡°Rot, you¡¯re my best option.¡±

    Peter stepped back, looking desperately for the nearest exit. His body tensed in vulnerable apprehension.

    ¡°Don¡¯t do it¡± the man growled. He steadied himself with a bloodied hand against the tunnel.

    Peter looked back the way he came, seeing his path away from the threat. He ignored the threat and tried bolting for the opening. He ended up just shuffling slightly faster and much more awkwardly than usual.

    ¡°Really?¡± The man snorted from behind, and Peter heard the man¡¯s falchion clatter to the ground.

    Rough hands seized Peter from behind and forced him down. The man grunted as he went down with Peter into the shallow, dirty water. The man cursed again and grabbed at his wound again. He growled in pain, perspiration dripping from his forehead.

    ¡°Listen, man!¡± he snapped. ¡°I don¡¯t have a whole lot of time. They¡¯re right behind me!¡±

    ¡°Help,¡± Peter wheezed.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know who you think I am, but I do know they are doing all kinds of things to your mind, so I¡¯m going to ask you to forgive me for this.¡±

    The man produced a knife from his boot and grabbed Peter''s hand. Peter found the strength to squeal in protest and curled his fingers into a fist as he tried to pull away.

    ¡°Knock that off! I know it doesn¡¯t look like it, but I¡¯m trying to help you!¡± the man snapped in frustration. He probably would have handled Peter more easily, but blood flowed from his wound freely with every degree of exertion he forced on Peter. ¡°Stop resisting!¡± he snapped.

    Peter pulled and struggled to get away, but he couldn¡¯t fight. Crops didn¡¯t fight. That was programmed out of them.

    The man grabbed Peter¡¯s wrist and pried his fingers open with his fingers that also clutched the knife.

    ¡°No!¡± Finally, Peter mustered some volume, but it exhausted him, and his hand opened quickly to his prying enemy.

    The man slapped Peter¡¯s opened hand against the stone wall of the sewage tunnel.

    ¡°No!¡± Peter gasped as he tried to pull his hand away, but he couldn¡¯t dislodge the man¡¯s grip.

    ¡°I recommend you don¡¯t move,¡± the man coughed flecks of blood. ¡°And yes, this will hurt.¡±

    The man grunted as he hacked at Peter¡¯s finger. He cut awkwardly with the pointed knife, the blade also biting into Peter¡¯s middle finger and pinky. But the man sawed relentlessly and cut Peter¡¯s ring finger off in seconds.

    Peter screamed. It all returned to him, his memories, speech, and mind, free from the cursed ring.

    The man grabbed Peter tight and clapped a bloodied hand over his mouth.

    ¡°Yes, I know it¡¯s all so confusing, painful, and shocking in every way, but I need you to be very, very quiet, okay?¡±

    Peter bit his lip and nodded as he grabbed his slippery hand, trying to stop the blood flow.

    Sitting in the dirty water, the man slumped back against the opposite wall. The sewer held drainage pipes mounted to the ceiling carrying sewage from the city. The tunnel they sat in was designed to pipe out irrigation to the lowlands in greater quantity. Despite the separation in piping, the scent of human waste lingered in the air.

    ¡°You¡¯re old and frail. I hope the shock doesn¡¯t kill you, but you probably didn¡¯t have much longer left anyway.¡± He laughed cynically. ¡°I guess you have more than I do.¡±

    Peter looked at the man. He could see him with much better clarity. His wounds were grievous, and he lost a lot of blood in his struggle with Peter.

    ¡°I¡¯m free,¡± Peter whispered to himself.

    ¡°That¡¯s what you think. You¡¯re just entering hell, friend. I¡¯m the one who will be free.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re with Nine Fingers?¡± Peter asked, clutching his bloody stump of a finger. ¡°A revolutionary, a free mind?¡±

    The man saluted with a bloody hand. ¡°The name is Van Gutter.¡±

    ¡°Peter,¡± Peter responded.

    ¡°You Nosmerian?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    The man shook his head sympathetically. ¡°You were here at Court Rahashel¡¯s first attack?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Poor kid. Now, your body is old, but your mind is still young. Lacking both experience and strength. You¡¯ll have to do.¡±

    ¡°For what?¡± Peter asked.

    Van Gutter groaned and clutched his wound. ¡°I don¡¯t have much time. I¡¯m transporting something that we stole en route for Court Rahashel.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Peter asked, feeling overwhelmed by the surreal change of events.

    Van Gutter reached into a pouch and pulled out what looked to be a metal armband with strange scrawlings engraved into it.

    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°A weapon. I¡¯m not making it out of here, kid. I need you to get it to Nine Fingers.¡±

    ¡°Me?¡± Peter cried. ¡°I don¡¯t even know where to find them!¡±

    ¡°Get west of Rahashelian territory, and they¡¯ll find you.¡±

    ¡°How much Territory does Court Rahashel have?¡± Peter asked, feeling the overwhelming weight burdening him. ¡°We¡¯re in the heart of Nosmeria!¡±

    ¡°Right, you wouldn¡¯t know. Court Rahashel only has Beglos, Cobec, Stalpia, Horvath, and the surrounding territories. Over half of Nosmeria is still free of his rule. Most of his forces have been fighting in Calacray.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Peter asked, bewildered. After all of these years, an undead overlord couldn¡¯t take Nosmeria? It was a small and weak enough state.

    It felt good to recall geography again, but all of this information at once hurt his head.

    ¡°What does it do? The weapon, I mean?¡±

    The man shook his head. ¡°That¡¯s confidential. But the lives of everyone depend on its safe delivery to Nine Fingers. Don¡¯t let it get back into their hands, or the lives of a lot of good men will have been in vain.¡± Vangutter cursed and spat blood. ¡°Mine, too.¡±

    Peter examined the man. His words grew labored and slurred.

    ¡°Don¡¯t ... let them get it ¡­ Don¡¯t ¡­ put it on.¡±

    Van Gutter closed his eyes and opened his hand around the armband.

    Peter accepted it with his good hand. His own hand was so strange and alien. It was old, hairy, wrinkled, and had many blemishes on the skin. How many years had he been mindlessly wandering?

    Peter studied the armband.

    It proved to be what looked like a simple armband with unknown writings on it, covering the inside and the outside. How could it possibly be a weapon? The strange letters or glyphs emitted a gentle purple luminescence in the dark tunnel.

    Get it to Nine Fingers? Escape Nosmeria with stolen property from Court Rahashel? What had he gotten himself into?

    Ma.

    The thought hit him so unexpectedly that he flinched. As far as his fully conscious mind was concerned, this was the day after the lich, Anubis, made him put the ring on. It all happened so fast that he never had time to process any of it. Tess Kroon, his perfect and sweet mother, lay dead in the street, stricken with age. Now, her body could be one of the undead laborers or guards crawling over Stalpia.

    She died a lifetime ago, but Peter felt it now. Time didn¡¯t heal wounds when you weren¡¯t awake for any of it.

    A lump the size of Chur welled in his throat. She was perfect, but now she was dead, slaughtered where she stood, pleading for her son and Iris.

    Iris! She was old now, like him. They probably had less than ten years left to live. Rahashel had stolen their lives.

    Court Rahashel had taken everything ¡ª his home, his life, his mother, Iris ¡ª but now Peter held a weapon that could hurt him: a god. He would get it to Nine Fingers, but first, he had to save Iris.

    Peter checked Van Gutter, but the man had silently bled out sometime when Peter was processing everything.

    ¡°Iris,¡± Peter said, clearly but so low that only he and the corpse could hear, ¡°I¡¯m coming for you.¡±

    He looked at the band again. He had seen something like it before. When Rahashel betrayed Nosmeria, he had seen Rahashel wear an armband just like it. If it was a weapon, it was one Rahashel himself had. Peter had always been quick to analyze, and slow to reach conclusions, but that was yesterday when he had a life to look forward to ¡ª back when his greatest problems were school reports and helping his mother balance her ledgers. Now he had nothing, so, torn between rage and grief, he ignored Van Gutter¡¯s command and put the armband on.

 2 Nine Fingers

    Nothing happened.

    Peter braced himself, though he didn¡¯t know what to expect. He blinked foolishly, despite the silence, and waited. Still, nothing. The seconds counted on.

    What did he expect? Some Court weapon to change him, endow him with some strange power, or give him a jackal head?

    He shivered at the thought and looked back down at Van Gutter. The old man looked peaceful now that he passed on. That was good; he had soldiered through those last moments of agony and given Peter a second chance. Peter felt horrible about leaving him down in the sewer, but there wasn¡¯t exactly anything he could do about it. He wanted to honor Van Gutter somehow, not abandon him.

    Peter, suddenly feeling naked without his hat, took the tattered Hardee hat from Van Gutter¡¯s head. It had a single long pheasant feather, which was ruffled and cut in half.

    Really? Honor the man by stealing from him?

    If this man were with Nine Fingers, he would have friends among them. Peter would need proof that he had seen him. Besides, Peter needed a hat.

    Peter¡¯s bloody hand pulsed with agony. When the cool air passed his severed nerves, he felt like screaming, and it was getting worse with every second.

    Peter couldn¡¯t just stay in the sewer. Iris was somewhere in Stalpia, mindless and vulnerable. Peter needed to find some way to get her crop ring off, preferably without a knife. But he couldn¡¯t exactly walk around with Nine Fingers. He would be taken and executed in a second. He had to stop and clean the blood and somehow hide the fact that he was missing a finger.

    Peter looked skeptically at the sewer water. He remembered studying germs and bacteria in school just last month ¡ª well, a lifetime ago ¡ª but he couldn¡¯t stay here forever.

    He looked at his clothes and grimaced in disgust. Time had rotted and shredded his once-new coat. Peter couldn¡¯t comprehend how he didn¡¯t retch at the mere smell of it, even as a crop with dulled senses.

    He had to prioritize. Getting Iris out of Stalpia had to come first. Their escape could be daunting as she couldn¡¯t run. Apparently, half of Nosmeria was free of Rahashel¡¯s rule. The Nine Fingers and Van Gutter¡¯s final mission would come later.

    In the distance, Peter heard the splash of many footsteps from deep within the dark sewer coming his way. The footsteps weren¡¯t random and casual, the way men walked, but heavy and rhythmic, the way sentinels marched.

    Peter looked down at Van Gutter¡¯s body. His wounds could easily have come from one of Rahashel¡¯s sentinels. Peter recalled that Van Gutter had said someone was pursuing him, and a tingle of panic momentarily made him forget the pain in his hand. Quickly, Peter tore a ribbon off of his filthy coat and hastily bound his bloody hand where his ring finger was gone. His hand made him want to scream in pain, and it brought tears to his failing eyes.

    Behind him, he heard someone struggling with the lock of a man-gate. It was probably an enforcer, as sentinels had limited dexterity.

    ¡°Search down that way! He can¡¯t have gone far!¡± a man called, confirming Peter¡¯s theory. The clicking acknowledgment of the undead followed the order.

    In a twisted way, with a patrol in pursuit, Van Gutter was lucky to be already dead.

    Peter started for the opening but stopped, hissing at himself. What was he doing? He wasn¡¯t a nine-finger operative. If enforcers caught him running, there would be no telling what they might do to him. Maybe he could give the armband up willingly? Perhaps he would be rewarded? They might let him and Iris go. Rahashel tended to reward those who proved useful, as was demonstrated by the Nosmerian human enforces who worked for the court.

    ¡°That¡¯s the wrong key!¡± a voice challenged from behind.

    Peter saw his mother''s aged body fall to the street in his mind¡¯s eye, and he ground his teeth. Peter snatched Van Gutter¡¯s knife and donned the man¡¯s hat. ¡°Goodbye, Van Gutter,¡± he whispered before turning and stumbling out of the spillway.

    Despite the pain in his hand, knees, and back, it felt good to move again. He was still a malnourished, bleeding old man, but without the mind fog of the crop ring, it didn¡¯t take tremendous amounts of effort to force himself on. After all these years of mindless drifting, he felt he could fly.

    Peter clambered up and out of the garbage gulf and back onto the road. He staggered and tripped once as he tried to regain control of his legs. Several glaze-eyed crops moved in a haze, not sparing him a second glance.

    Realizing how out of place he must look, running around like a free mind, he tried to adopt the indifferent manner in which the crops moved, but returning to his old way of movement felt impossible. It was as if he had lost the use of his legs for his whole life, only to be suddenly struck by a miraculous return to full mobility. Settling back into his customary shuffling gait was nearly unbearable.

    The city had plenty of Nosmerian free minds, mainly consisting of enforcers and overseers ¡ª he could just act like them ¡ª but the clothes he hadn¡¯t changed in ages would make him stand out. Plus, he would have to make sure nobody noticed his missing finger, now bound in a filthy rag.

    Peter¡¯s breaths suddenly became heavy, and he tried to get off the center of the road. Peter searched from the road to a bridge to the windows in the buildings around him. His movements were uncharacteristically jerky as he searched for sentinels and enforcers. He didn¡¯t see any at that moment, but he suddenly became aware of the acute bite of the cold.

    A little bit of light filtered through the clouds, meaning there was probably total sun exposure, unblocked by Din or Churr. The overcast skies must have been blocking what heat the landscape desperately needed. Peter blamed Rahashel for the clouds. He struggled to comprehend time as a crop but had never seen sunlight anywhere in Stalpia besides the oasis.

    Peter slapped himself and forced himself to take deep breaths. The blood that had soaked through his hand-wrapping didn¡¯t help him retain heat. He felt prickles of sweat form on his neck despite his shivers.

    ¡°Pull yourself together,¡± he hissed out loud. ¡°You can¡¯t stay here.¡±

    His heart pounded in his ears, but he forced himself on, trying to wander like a crop. He crossed the bridge and headed up to higher Stalpia. Iris wasn¡¯t at the sewer, so where was she?

    Peter forced himself not to make eye contact as he passed a pair of men stalking past with their heads down. Traditional dark long coats hung from the men, and their heads were adorned with top hats. These Nosmerians moved freely in Stalpia without crop rings, meaning they were probably overseers or Court Rahashel¡¯s agents. Peter actually had no clue who they were, and that made them dangerous. They didn¡¯t acknowledge him.

    Where was Iris? She couldn¡¯t move fast.

    Peter hurried much quicker this time to check her usual spots. He tried to act inconspicuous when passing the mummified sentinels that dotted the city. Luckily, the reanimated corpses weren¡¯t very coherent unless one blatantly broke the law or an overseer gave them a direct order. The living Nosmerian enforcers were a different matter. More than one turncoat agent or overseer glared at him as he fumbled on unpracticed legs. No doubt his scent, though excusable as a crop, was unforgivable as a cognitive human.

    He kept his head down and moved quickly, casting hasty glances across the way, hoping to catch sight of Iris. At times, they had returned to the academy schoolhouse drawn by their subconscious routine, but Peter found the old grounds abandoned and neglected. Looking for her was much easier as a free mind. It was a wonder they ever encountered each other as crops.

    He stopped by his small apartment near the rail station but froze. Like the rest of the city, it had been warped into a sinister, twisted copy of what it used to be. The small apartment looked twisted, dark, and rotted. He had grown up on the top right unit. He could see the kitchen ceiling through a wide, broken window. Enforcers and agents had looted most of the buildings in the city. He had never gone in as a crop but passed it frequently. Why hadn¡¯t he come home as a crop? He was more familiar with it than the sewer. Was there a part of his mind that steered him away from it?

    Peter felt a lump form in his throat as he looked at his disquieted home. Could Iris have come this way? It was almost as much her home as his.

    He wanted to run to the door and claim the apartment ¡ª his apartment ¡ª but he knew if he set foot inside those familiar walls, it would be as if a stranger had been living in it for decades. His mother worked hard to provide the modest home, and they made it theirs. The hollow shell stood devoid of the memories and honest work that made it his home, like a reanimated corpse in mockery of its living predecessor. Peter shook his head and turned around.

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    He saw Iris walking over an old bridge spanning the second story of two twisted buildings across the road. Her youthful enthusiasm had been stolen, and a mindless slate had taken its place. Her once golden hair hung white and filthy, courtesy of decades of neglect. Her formerly vibrant face, unmistakably Iris, was now etched with the lines of time, an echoed memory of the girl she once was. The only constant was her lopsided shamble, demonstrating she favored her right leg.

    Peter choked back a groan when he saw her.

    Iris, passionate and wild Iris, had been replaced by a husk little more self-aware than a cow.

    ¡°You! Come here!¡±

    Peter stiffened and cursed inwardly at himself for the motion. Crops moved lethargically, and generally wouldn¡¯t warrant such a response. He must¡¯ve been walking too fast. He didn¡¯t know who was speaking, but it was probably an enforcer or an overseer. Should he run? Could he try to bluff his way through a conversation? Both options carried substantial risk, considering the metal band on his arm was inevitable contraband, and his missing finger branded him a criminal.

    With nerves hissing like a gas leak, Peter elected to ignore the command and pretended not to hear.

    A line of eight work slaves walked past him on the opposite side of the street. They carried long clay jugs of water on their heads, holding on with both hands for stability. The startled workers turned and looked at the speaker.

    ¡°Not you! You, in the filthy coat!¡±

    Peter ducked his head, turned, and walked briskly up a rotted staircase on the exterior of a building that led to the bridge Iris was crossing.

    ¡°Hey!¡±

    Peter jogged up the steps. Whoever was speaking followed, struggling to catch up. What was he doing? He wasn¡¯t a resistance fighter. He hadn¡¯t been trained to blend in.

    Peter reached for Van Gutter¡¯s knife in his pocket, which was still sticky with his blood. Peter had never been in a fight in his life. He hadn¡¯t even come close in the schoolyard, probably because Iris¡¯ shouted insults usually worked as a pretty effective deterrent. Could he even bring himself to hurt or even kill a man? Probably. It was logical: fight or die. That was an overgenerous thought; his odds of success were practically nonexistent.

    ¡°Hey!¡± The man¡¯s footsteps pounded up the staircase behind him.

    Isolate, Peter thought, tightening his grip on his knife. If he had to fight, he had better choose somewhere private. Peter ducked into a room that, thankfully, was empty.

    The man grabbed Peter roughly and spun him around. Peter tried to whip his knife out as he was brought to face an enforcement agent, but it snagged in the folds of his pocket.

    The enforcer fell back, his face twisted in horror as he grabbed Peter. A strange hissing filled the air, like a thousand people gasping for air. A fierce flare of purple light drifted from the agent to Peter.

    The enforcer fell back, and the light dispersed. To his surprise, Peter saw that the agent looked several years older.

    ¡°Forgive me!¡± he cried. ¡°I didn¡¯t know you were a lich! Please don¡¯t leech me!¡±

    Peter stood dumbfounded for a moment. ¡°Er, um. You¡¯re forgiven?¡± He muttered in his gruff voice.

    The man bowed apologetically and gratefully, but he kept his distance.

    Peter stood awkwardly momentarily as the agent made no move to leave.

    ¡°You can go,¡± Peter said, waving a hand of dismissal, but froze as he realized he used his left hand, keeping his right tight around the concealed knife. His left hand only had four fingers and was wrapped in a blood-soaked ribbon.

    The agent saw it.

    Peter quickly hid the hand in the folds of his shredded coat, though he knew he was too late.

    ¡°Well?¡± Peter demanded.

    The man nodded, ducked out of the building, and jogged down the stairs.

    Peter watched the enforcer as he jogged back to the road and shot troubled glances down either side of the street.

    Looking at the bridge, Peter hurried across before the man could change his mind.

    What just happened? The guy tried to grab him, but he somehow grew older. Peter tried to connect the dots as plainly as he could. The armband. Had he leeched the man? What did that even mean? The circlet of metal lay concealed by his coat sleeve.

    In any case, the agent was convinced that Peter was a lich. Whatever that was, it merited some kind of authority. Maybe getting out would be easier than he thought.

    Peter opened the top door of the building opposite the one he just left and found Iris staring idly out the window. He took a pained breath when he saw her up close.

    She was there. Mindless, glazed over, and old. Rahashel had stolen her life by forcing her to live for years in a near-comatose state.

    ¡°Iris,¡± he breathed painfully. Formerly so young and full of life, she was now empty and bent.

    As tangibly as a burglar breaking in and stealing the family silverware, Rahashel had robbed Iris. Never again would his friend give him sarcastic excuses when he rebuked her for turning in complacent homework. She wouldn¡¯t listen, enthralled as he explained the theories he justified in his school reports.

    Iris smiled innocently when she saw him, recognition sparking in her eyes.

    He stepped forward and reached out for her ¡ª

    A faint wisp of purple light siphoned from her and into his fingertip. The high-pitched noise of a thousand people groaning sounded faintly.

    Peter gasped and leaped away from her. She smiled, ignorant of anything that happened, and shuffled toward him. Once Iris got within six feet of him, the purple leech mist returned, growing stronger with each step she took closer to him. She grew frailer and bent with age every second she was near him.

    ¡°Get away!¡± he cried as he ran for the door. He wasn¡¯t going to unintentionally kill his best friend the way Anubis murdered his mother.

    Iris looked at him, confused. He fumbled to pull the armband off, but a noise behind him caused him to turn around.

    An undead sentinel stood in the doorway, looking at him through lifeless black eyes that reflected a faint purple glint. It was dressed in a skirt and wrapped in yellow bandages, Peter saw the tar covering the dried skin around its eyes and mouth.

    The sentinel didn¡¯t make any noise; it unflinchingly drew a short sword and ran it through Peter¡¯s chest.

    Captain Tobias Visser walked up the cobblestone streets of Stalpia, struggling to balance the blasted bucket properly on his head. Seven of his men were in line with him. Gaining access to the city was easy enough; the trick was remaining undetected as you got deeper in.

    The bucket teetered to either side, and each step caused the water to throw itself from side to side, making it even harder to balance. How did real workers do it?

    A slosh of water jumped out of the bucket to splash on the road below.

    Some agents were shouting something, but Tobias kept his cell on their objective: to find and exfiltrate Captain Van Gutter and any other Nine Fingers agents. Van Gutter was last seen in this area before disappearing.

    ¡°You! Come here!¡± the agent snapped, definitely in their direction.

    Tobias froze for half a heartbeat but turned, feigning ignorance. Their mission''s security could depend on maintaining their cover.

    ¡°Not you!¡± the man snapped at him. ¡°You, in the filthy coat!¡± Tobias turned to see an old man frozen on the stoop of a dilapidated hovel. The old man ducked away in a visible panic and headed for nearby stairs.

    Tobias allowed a sigh of relief. It was not that guy¡¯s lucky day.

    Tobias started. The old man was most definitely wearing Captain Van Gutter¡¯s hat.

    ¡°Take a break,¡± he grunted to his men, who nodded gratefully for the chance to put the long water jugs down.

    The captain nodded in approval as Private Van Dijk carefully concealed his left hand inside the top of the jug, as he only had four fingers on it, a dead giveaway to their true identities.

    Tobias watched as the Rahashelian enforcer followed the old man into a room at the top of the outdoor staircase, only to come back trembling less than a minute later. Something had happened up there.

    Tobias kept his fierce, dark eyes on the agent as he looked around uncomfortably. Rahashel only had a modest lich staff and a sizable ghoul army. He used native Nosmarians as enforcers and overseers, bridging the gap between the two. Every Nosmerian who served Rahashel was a traitor to their country.

    The old man crossed the bridge to the top of the three-story building opposite the ally in jerky, unpracticed steps.

    The clacking of hoofs announced the presence of several overseers. Leading them was traitor and executioner, disgraced Mayor Espen Hummel himself, astride a black horse. A posse of mounted enforcers accompanied him, marching stag-sus ghouls and human agents.

    Tobias bit back his hatred as he turned away. With their history, Espen could very well recognize him. The agent who had approached the old man ran frantically for Espen, calling for his attention.

    ¡°Captain, what¡¯s going on?¡± Private Isabella Vandersteen hissed. She had her golden hair done up tightly like a worker woman. Though inexperienced, soldiers¡¯ zeal burned in her eyes.

    ¡°We may have found what we are looking for,¡± Tobias responded in a low voice.

    He glanced up at the broken window to the room the man entered and saw a flicker of purple light.

    Tobias made a signal with his hand casually by his side, curling his ring finger and keeping the others straight. Vandersteen nodded and passed it on to the others. A mirror flash from the rooftop down the road signaled that Owen was in position.

    Tobias¡¯ heart hammered in his chest. He itched to avenge the thousands of innocent people whom Espen Hummel had treacherously sold to Rahashel as crops.

    Espen gave a muttered order to a sentinel and it jogged past the resting work party and up the stairs. Tobias noticed beads of sweat gathering on Private Van Dijk¡¯s forehead. Not just Van Dijk ¡ª everyone was rigid with apprehension.

    The mounted entourage continued down the road and stopped in front of Tobias¡¯ cell, where they watched the ghoul push the door open. Tobias knew he had to confirm, but his hand itched. Hummel stood just in front of him, with two overseers, three enforcers, and five more ghouls. That many undead was a suicide mission if they stood to fight. But they just had to get the weapon Van Gutter couriered, and possibly assassinate the executioner.

    The ghoul on the bridge drew its blade and stabbed the old man through the doorway. The man stumbled back, but a thick stream of purple light siphoned out of the ghoul was the confirmation Tobias needed.

    He plunged his hand into his long water jug and pulled out the short sword, which lay point down in the water. He lunged for the nearest ghoul.

    On this unspoken cue, and with seven following splashes, the rest of his unit drew their hidden weapons and charged the Rahashelians.

    Tobias¡¯ blade was short and stout to accommodate its concealment method. It was not long and thin enough to stab properly like his officer¡¯s sword and not broad enough to chop off limbs like his falchion. Basically, it was a horrible mix of two perfect weapons that fell far from both trees. He overcompensated as he thrust it through the back of the ghoul and into its heart.

    The ghoul hissed as it went down. A whiff of dark acrid purple smoke puffed from its back.

    Another ghoul dropped by Vandersteen¡¯s blade, but Van Dijk completely missed his ghoul''s heart. The mummified corpse whirled on Van Dijk, unaffected by the broad blade protruding from its chest.

    Tobias was too far to reach Van Dijk, so he continued his momentum and leaped at Espen, who had only just realized what was happening. Surprised behind them, Tobias lunged at the former mayor with a scream, striking his blade down with both hands and sheared through Espen¡¯s gauntlet. Tobias cleaved through Espen¡¯s wrist, and his blade cut across the traitor¡¯s face.

    A rifle shrieked in the distance, and the one-handed executioner fell to the ground on the opposite side of the horse. To his dismay, Tobias noticed Espen scuttle back, holding his bloody stump to his chest and his teeth bared in pain.

    Overseers, enforcer agents, and ghouls, now all with drawn weapons, turned to meet the ambush.

 3 Rescued? Captured? Saved? Doomed?

    Peter gasped as he stumbled back. The mummified sentinel pulled its blade out of his chest. The pain shot through his body, and he swayed, ready to collapse, but then ¡ª he was fine. The pain had vanished.

    He grabbed at the gash in his clothes, which were slick with blood, but he felt no wound. The sentinel cocked its head in confusion, and slashed Peter across the chest.

    He cried and fell back a step, but in a few moments, the pain disappeared again.

    It wasn¡¯t until then that he realized the sentinel was bleeding fierce purple light, which somehow flowed into Peter.

    The sentinel dropped to its knees, and Peter jumped back as it fell on its face before him. It didn¡¯t stir.

    ¡°Pete ¡ª¡± Iris said from behind as she continued closer. The vaporous light, bearly a ripple in the air, started flowing from her again. She took another step, and the flair doubled in intensity, groaning like someone trying to draw breath through a punctured lung.

    ¡°Stay back!¡± he cried as he threw himself over the sentinel¡¯s body and away from her. From what Peter had observed, the closer one got, the more light he took from them. The more light he absorbed, the older they became. Iris couldn¡¯t spare a day.

    He backed out of the doorway and onto the bridge. The sound of struggle below caught his attention. He saw the workers on the street from before locked in combat with a party of Rahashelian enforcers and sentinels. Many motionless figures lay prone on the ground from either side.

    A purple light flashed, drawing Peter¡¯s eyes to a figure struggling to one knee. He held a bloodied handless nub of an arm to his chest and had a vicious gash across his face. It was Espen Hummel, the executioner. He glared up at Peter. In his good hand, purple fire danced on his palm.

    ¡°Corrode!¡± he shouted, pointing at Peter on the bridge above. The fire wrapped around the back of his hand and darted past his finger.

    Peter jumped back to catch a glance of Iris idly staring at the fallen sentinel. She looked up, and her eyes met him momentarily before the tiny flame hit the bridge. Purple light flashed through the whole length of the bridge. It cracked with a sharp splintering noise. The pungent odor of rotted wood and rust filled the air as the bridge snapped, twisted, and rotted from underneath him.

    ¡°Iris!¡± Peter cried as the bridge collapsed, taking him with it.

    He hit the road, and several pieces of wood from the shattered bridge landed on him. Bones broke, and he gasped in a moment of pure agony. His bones seemed to jump back into alignment in a few seconds, and the pain disappeared. He shoved heavy, jagged debris off himself and tried to sit up. A searing pain in his chest and lungs caused him to gasp, but he choked. Was he drowning?

    Peter spat out a mouthful of blood and looked down, then grew faint at the sight of the jagged metal bar that protruded from his chest. Grabbing it with weak and shaky hands, he tried to pull it out, but it wouldn¡¯t budge.

    One of the younger workers jumped through the wreckage and saw him.

    ¡°Where¡¯s the weapon?¡± he barked. ¡°You¡¯ve seen Van Gutter?¡±

    ¡°Help,¡± Peter choked.

    The man ran at him and grabbed the bar. A fierce purple light flared from him and siphoned into Peter in payment for such abrupt proximity.

    The man cried and jumped back, enraged. ¡°You leeched me!¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t stop it.¡±

    ¡°Give it to me!¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t ¡­ I¡¯ll probably die.¡± Peter''s logic was simple. The band was the common denominator to his survival of two lethal wounds so far.

    ¡°Captain! More ghouls!¡± another worker called as he pulled a pistol from the hands of a motionless enforcer.

    The worker, apparently a captain, growled at Peter. ¡°We need to go now!¡±

    Peter grabbed the bar and tugged it, making it move an inch at the cost of a fresh, hot pain.

    ¡°Just give it to me! My men are going to die!¡±

    ¡°Save ¡­ Iris.¡± Peter choked and spat out more blood.

    ¡°What?¡±

    Peter pointed with a shaky hand.

    The captain spun to look up at the doorway, which had a portion of the rotted bridge jutting out. Iris stood in the doorway, looking down at them with wide eyes.

    ¡°You¡¯ve got to be kidding me. We don¡¯t have time to save extra crops! Especially one as old as her!¡±

    Peter jerked the bar again with one excruciating tear, and it slid out smoothly the rest of the way. In seconds, he climbed to his feet, feeling old but fine.

    The captain cried in surprise. A volley of rifle fire hissed from down the street, and two of the workers dropped.

    ¡°Take cover!¡± the captain barked. He grabbed one of his fallen comrades and dragged him away from the center of the road.

    ¡°Don¡¯t get too close to me,¡± Peter warned. ¡°Something happens.¡±

    ¡°Leeching,¡± the captain checked for a pulse on his soldier, but he shook his head mournfully. ¡°Stealing time from people.¡±

    Peter nodded, rubbing the band in reverence. ¡°Also, I don¡¯t think I can die.¡±

    ¡°Can we maybe have this conversation later?¡± the captain barked as he lunged to his feet.

    ¡°Give me the band, and let¡¯s go.¡±

    Peter glanced at the captain, then back to the armband, weighing his options. Down the street, a small line of enforcers was preparing another volley from their gas-arms.

    Peter looked at the oncoming enemies. Then he looked up at Iris.

    ¡°I want Iris. Then I¡¯ll give you the band.¡±

    The captain looked like he would have stabbed Peter if he wouldn¡¯t lose twenty years doing it.

    ¡°We can¡¯t get your friend!¡±

    Peter saw four more sentinels charging down the road. It wasn¡¯t impossible; they could technically get to her, maybe from the inside staircase. This wasn¡¯t a random crop; this was Iris. He couldn¡¯t leave her behind. He turned from the captain and charged the oncoming sentinels.

    ¡°Idiot!¡± the captain bellowed. ¡°Can you fight?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think I have to!¡± Peter called back. ¡°I just have to get close. Save Iris!¡±

    Peter ran at the thick, mummified corpses and held his breath. This was the part he hated.

    Four blades went into Peter, causing a very sharp and very tangible pain. He screamed and grabbed the nearest two by the face. One bit his hand, but they both dropped to the ground in mere moments. The other two were close but not touching him. They dropped seconds later.

    Peter groaned and blinked tears away as he slid the blades out of his body. As expected, the pain passed in moments, and he was fine. He wasn¡¯t able to pinpoint the exact moment they healed ¡ª they were just suddenly fine. He also noticed that his missing finger wasn¡¯t bleeding any more. Instead, it was scarred, as if Van Gutter had cut off his finger decades ago.

    Peter heard the drum of footsteps, and his mind raced in fear as he anticipated his next opponent. Getting stabbed through the chest was horrible. You¡¯d think the fact that it would be fine in a few moments would make it better, but somehow he felt it made it worse. Enduring wounds that should kill you was deeply unsettling.

    Twenty sentinels and eight enforcement agents with gas rifles rounded the corner.

    Peter swallowed and stepped back.

    The sentinels charged, and the men leveled their rifles.

    Peter screamed over the hiss of gun gas.

    Private Isabella Vandersteen supported Private Niels Van Dijk, preventing him from falling over. He looked ready to pass out. She thought he was gone for sure when he missed the heart of the ghoul he was targeting. But a well-placed shot from Owen¡¯s rifle had taken it in the heart. Niels had hit his head as he went down. Lucky for him too, he was prone for the worst of the skirmish.

    ¡°Captain!¡± she cried as she counted reflective mirror flashes from a distant rooftop. Owen had found a closer roof from which to signal them.

    Captain Tobias Visser cursed at the old man who ran into oncoming ghouls.

    ¡°Captain!¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Captain Visser snapped.

    ¡°Owen is signaling us: Sus-stag ghouls inbound.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t think I know that?¡± he snapped harshly, as he always did under stress. ¡°Who¡¯s left?¡±

    Isabella looked at her fallen comrades. She paused. ¡°It¡¯s just us, sir. No survivors, and it looks like the executioner slipped away.¡±

    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

    Tobias looked away from the old man. Bright purple lights flashed from the ghouls and siphoned into him, and ghouls dropped around him.

    ¡°No more fatalities, you two. Do you understand?¡± the captain demanded. He looked from Isabella to Van Dijk.

    ¡°Yes, sir!¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s an order!¡±

    Premernox rifle gas hissed, and the old man staggered before continuing his suicide run.

    ¡°What do we do?¡± Van Dijk cried.

    ¡°Full retreat! Get out alive!¡±

    ¡°What about the mission?¡± Isabella demanded.

    ¡°Leave that to me!¡± Captain Visser growled as he spun and ran towards a shop that looked as if it had been looted a long time ago.

    ¡°Where are you going?¡± Isabella asked her superior.

    ¡°To find a rope. Now go!¡±

    Isabella half-dragged Niels Van Dijk back towards Owen. If they wanted any chance of survival, it was with him.

    ¡°Leave me!¡± Niels lamented in a heavy tone of melodrama. ¡°I¡¯m missing a finger; I¡¯ll stick out. You can blend in.¡±

    ¡°Shut up, Niels!¡± she snapped, calling the private by his first name and failing to stay calm. Van Dijk flinched. Van Dijk loved to overdramatize things, and here ¡ª in Stalpia, the den of Court Rahashel ¡ª was the last place she needed it.

    ¡°Can you walk?¡± she asked.

    Niels nodded faintly, staring fixated on his fallen cellmates intermixed with dead enforcers.

    ¡°Can you run?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he said weakly, and she rolled her eyes.

    ¡°You were bumped on the head, not shot in the leg.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t say it like that!¡± he complained. ¡°I just survived an encounter wi-¡±

    A gas rifle shell spat wood chips from the shop next to them, and Niels proved that he not only could run, but was very fast.

    Isabella tried to keep up with the sprinting man, brandishing the blade in her hand as she had no sheath. To her dismay, she noticed that Niels had dropped his.

    ¡°Rookie,¡± she growled as she continued. In truth, they were both recruited at the same time, but that frequently surprised most people.

    Two mirror glints flashed from a nearby rooftop.

    ¡°Left!¡± she shouted, and Niels turned right.

    ¡°Van Dijk!¡± she screamed, and he looked over his shoulder. ¡°Hiss pipe, your other left!¡±

    He nodded and corrected himself, quickly passing Isabella. At least he was fast.

    They wove through mindless crops. Watching human beings who moved like cattle made her stomach churn. Isabella desperately wanted to save them, to cut the wretched rings off that turned them into livestock, but she was a soldier. She had to stick to the task.

    Van Dijk cried out, and Isabella almost ran into him. A ghoul faced them head on. His directionless black eyes seemed to reflect a purple fire. The mummified corpse blocked their exit on the road.

    ¡°Get a weapon, Van Dijk!¡± Isabella cried as she stood in front of him with her blade ready. Her heart pounded. She had shot ghouls in the distance with long-range weapons, and she had even taken one by surprise today, but she had never faced one who was waiting for her. Where was Owen? Now would be a perfect time for him to show up.

    She frantically recalled her training.

    If you encounter a ghoul face to face, run away.

    She snorted. One couldn¡¯t train to kill a ghoul up close. You could disable it. She glanced at her blade. Cutting off limbs or its head would be extremely difficult with the relatively small blade. Stab it in the heart? Almost impossible in a real combative encounter. If she had eight guys, they could hold it down for her to kill. If only she were so lucky.

    The ghoul stepped forward, eyes lifeless as stone. She steadied her trembling hand as the monster drew near.

    Something dark and mangled flew past her with a horrific shriek. Isabella let out an involuntary scream, and the black mass hit the ghoul square in the chest. The newcomer screeched and flapped its wings as it hit the ground and bolted away, squawking angrily. It was, or at least it appeared to be, a sickly chicken.

    Isabella looked back to find Niels, who looked more traumatized than the hen.

    ¡°You said get a weapon,¡± he stammered.

    ¡°I will kill you!¡± she hissed, through clenched teeth.

    Niels gasped and turned back to his task. The ghoul marched forward, unconcerned, totally without fear.

    Isabella bobbed her blade in her hand and advanced, light on her toes. Bent on getting the first strike, she attacked. The ghoul didn¡¯t even try to block but struck simultaneously.

    Her blade cut along the ghoul¡¯s wrist. Its blade cut along hers. She cried out and fell back. A hot pain flashed across her forearm.

    The ghoul pressed on unfatigued, apparently unconcerned for its well-being. It struck clumsily but with force. She lost her footing as she feinted a false counter attack and fell at its feet.

    Van Dijk came up from behind the ghoul and swung what looked like the remains of an old broom, shattering it across the ghoul¡¯s head.

    The mummified sentinel barely flinched, and it turned on Van Dijk.

    Van Dijk screamed as he fell flat, and threw the broken remains of the broom at it. He shut his eyes tight just as a hiss filled the air, and a crossbow bolt took the ghoul in the back. The purple-black puff of foul smoke wafting from the ghoul¡¯s shoulder signified that the bolt had taken it through the heart.

    The ghoul collapsed, and Van Dijk opened a single eye.

    ¡°Ha!¡± he cried triumphantly. ¡°I can¡¯t believe that worked! I killed it!¡±

    ¡°Van Dijk,¡± Isabella sighed hopelessly.

    Her fellow private looked at her, and she pointed to Lieutenant Owen Hartman, Cell Six¡¯s operations officer with her good hand. The small man held a massive double-stack crossbow in his hands and a long premernox rifle over his shoulder. With an ever-present toothpick in his teeth, his face displayed a perfect calm.

    ¡°Oh, hey, Owen,¡± Niels muttered in disappointment.

    ¡°Van Dijk,¡± Owen nodded. ¡°You still alive?¡±

    ¡°Why do you say that like you¡¯re disappointed?¡±

    Owen shrugged, but Isabella called to him.

    ¡°Thank goodness you¡¯re here!¡± she said as she scrambled to her feet and ran to the team¡¯s Operation Officer.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry I¡¯m late. I had to prep our exit,¡± Owen said as he handed her the crossbow and shouldered his rifle.

    The crossbow was heavy and large. Isabella considered herself to be a fairly average sized woman, but even so, she couldn¡¯t help but feel horribly off balance. Isabella promptly started cranking the massive bottom bow on the crossbow and pulled off a bolt strapped to Owen¡¯s forearm.

    Van Dijk chuckled as he approached Owen. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you have one of those for me, do you?¡±

    Owen pulled his toothpick out from his teeth and handed it to Van Dijk, then promptly turned and trotted up some building¡¯s exterior side stairs. Isabella followed, close on his heels.

    ¡°You¡¯re kidding me, right?¡± Niels asked, but Owen didn¡¯t respond. ¡°I guess we¡¯ll all be okay if we run into some vampire mice!¡± He snapped bitterly, jabbing the air with the toothpick.

    The three of them climbed to the steep roof of the building. Owen had stashed his bulging support bag between the steep roof and a protruding chimney. A metal line was anchored to a rafter through the shingles and ran over the roofs of many shorter buildings.

    ¡°Here!¡± he said, fishing out three of nine pulley harnesses. Most of the intended operators wouldn¡¯t be using them.

    ¡°What about the captain?¡± Isabella asked.

    ¡°I cleared a path for him through Shy Street!¡± Owen said. ¡°He¡¯s got a fair chance at getting out of here alive, which is more than I can say for us if we don¡¯t get a move on it.¡±

    Isabella apologized before latching her pulley to the line and strapping her wrist. Her other arm still smarted painfully, but the cut wasn¡¯t deep.

    Stalpia was built on a hill range, so the zip line ran over several city blocks.

    ¡°Hey, um, I¡¯ll go last.¡± Niels offered with a nervous chuckle.

    ¡°You¡¯re going next, Van Dijk,¡± Owen said.

    ¡°But why?¡± he whined.

    ¡°Because if you went last, who would push you?¡±

    Isabella didn¡¯t hear Niel¡¯s protest. She kicked off of the roof and glided over buildings, houses, and twisted trees. The further down the line she flew, the more she felt the tight anxiety of a messy mission slipping away. She had survived.

    Peter screamed as he grabbed another sentinel''s face. Light flared, and the sentinel dropped to the ground. He had at least twenty at his feet, as well as a few enforcers, dead as though they passed away with age. The sickly sweet smell of premernox gas mingled with the metallic smell of blood in the air.

    Peter gagged as he tore a short sword from his neck. The excruciating pain was affecting him. That only felt natural. The more he got hurt, the more panicked and angry he got, and the more logic grew fuzzy.

    He was sure none of these things were going to kill him.

    At the command of an overseer, the ghouls had stopped trying to kill him and were now trying to amputate limbs and decapitate him.

    The blade he just pulled out had been a blatant attempt to cut his head off, but it seemed that in a horrible violation of physics, his body mass got impossibly dense the deeper an object cleaved into him. Nothing seemed to be able to cut through his bones.

    Attacks that relied on penetration seemed to tear through him as easily as they would any man, but nothing was going to slash through him anytime soon.

    Eight human Rahashelian agents leveled another volley at him, and he screamed as lead slugs ripped through him.The Rahashelians backed up as he neared them, faces twisted and terrified. They were right to do so. Anyone who got much closer than six feet got leeched. The closer they got, the faster it happened. Someone he touched couldn¡¯t last much longer than a few seconds, depending on their initial age. On the other hand, the sentinels didn¡¯t age or change physically; they just collapsed after enough exposure.

    ¡°Now, how did you get this deep into Rahashelian territory, little lichling?¡± A voice announced the presence of a newcomer. Peter spun on the speaker but gasped when he recognized him: Vincent Harmsen, the vampire vassal of Court Rahashel. He grinned at Peter, nonchalantly standing just beyond his leech radius. Never alone, Jasper Demir and Dirk Buis smirked behind him. They watched Peter with idle amusement. Jasper nodded in approval at the stack of corpses at his feet.

    Peter leaped back at the sight of them. Over his years as a crop, he had watched them prey on several unfortunate Nosmerians. Inwardly, Peter heard their squeals and watched them thrash in their death throes. On top of that, sentinels and humans were one thing, but he had no idea how the armlet would affect the more intelligent undead.

    ¡°Jasper,¡± Vincent signaled, flicking his fingers twice.

    Jasper suddenly appeared in front of Peter in a blur and sank his fangs into Peter¡¯s neck.

    Peter screamed. His neck, shoulder, and arm, down to his wrist, felt like they were melting off his body. With a bright flash, Jasper hissed as he threw himself away from Peter.

    ¡°The man has a leech field! And a dead strong one at that!¡± Jasper snarled. Rather than aging, his flesh had changed from youthful and vibrant to charred and rotted.

    ¡°But don¡¯t worry, I got him. It''s only a matter of time!¡±

    Peter grabbed his neck, but the pain vanished by the time his hand found his wet but unharmed skin.

    ¡°We just need to slow him down until one of Rahashel¡¯s liches comes,¡± Dirk said. ¡°Anubis is near.¡±

    Vincent started violently when he saw the armband on Peter¡¯s forearm exposed by a new slash in the sleeve.

    ¡°He¡¯s not a lich or a wight! He¡¯s a court!¡± Vincent gasped.

    ¡°Do you think he has synchronized with the Bedorven yet?¡±

    ¡°No, now¡¯s our chance. Get the Bedorven now! And Dirk, do something about the witnesses!¡±

    In a flash, Dirk sped past the eight enforcers who stood back watching, dropping them one by one with a dagger.

    Vincent grabbed a premernox gas rifle with an affixed bayonet. He threw it with the force of a javelin from a ballista. It punctured right through Peter¡¯s foot, pinning it to the cobblestone road.

    Peter screamed and fell back, his foot straining against its anchor.

    Vincent snatched up several of the fallen short swords of the fallen sentinels in a fraction of a second and flung them at Peter, filling him with broad blades like a pincushion.

    Peter wailed, and blood, his blood, splattered on the cobblestones around him.

    Careful to stay out of Peter¡¯s reach, Vincent intently and ferociously flung anything sharp he could find. Each missile earned a scream from Peter. A muted rumble pulsed in his mind.

    Peter¡¯s mind flared, drunk on pain. His head was pounding so fiercely that he barely noticed the canister with wires that flew past him and onto the ground at Vincent¡¯s feet.

    The canister exploded into a yellow cloud that smelled strongly of garlic, and Vincent shrieked as he fell back.

    Peter realized the pounding he heard was, in fact, horse hoofs. A noose fell around his neck, pulled tight, and he was ripped away from the bayonet that had been pinning his foot to the road.

    Peter¡¯s body tried to let out involuntary and undignified noises as he was dragged along the ground, plumb full of implements. As he was dragged, he grabbed and ripped at the blades. Peter knew he was dangerously testing the limits of the strange weapon ¡ª the Bedorven.

    One by one, Peter ripped the short swords out of his flesh, groaning as he was dragged across the cobblestone at a gallop. The rope around his neck caused his lungs to burn as it stayed taut. There was no numbness, no real shock, just the pain of wounds that seemed to disappear, only to immediately carve anew as the road tore through his clothing.

    Pulling out the last blade, his lungs still burned. He didn¡¯t black out. It was as though his lungs found the point where he was in the most pain and panic but just stayed there.

    He kicked, twisted, and at one point rolled onto his belly to see his rescuer charge down the street. Peter vaguely recognized the captain on a black horse, wearing his workman disguise. He was towing Peter behind him by a rope. The Nine Fingers operative didn¡¯t spare Peter a second glance; he just rode furiously.

    Peter was being rescued, technically, but surely rescue had never been so horrible.

 4 Captain Tobias Visser

    Peter was dragged for what felt like days. Wounds disappeared and tore anew in a tormenting cycle. The captain rode for dear life, heedless of Peter¡¯s choked cries, out of Stalpia and into Rahashel¡¯s rural territory. Peter finally had to resign himself to the pain. His efforts to distract himself while being dragged by a horse like a sled were impossible.

    Still, though, despite the incessant burn of being dragged over the rough ground, Peter couldn¡¯t shake the memory of Iris¡¯ old eyes, glazed over and innocent, looking down at him as he fell. She was still in Stalpia. He had failed. He couldn¡¯t get to her. He couldn¡¯t even reach out to her with the band on. He hated Court Rahashel. He hated the captain, who had done the right thing to save him but also doomed Iris for now. Most of all, though, he hated himself. He should have been smarter. He could have found a way to get to her discreetly. He should have tried harder to convince the captain to help.

    The captain charged the horse, and it looked ready to collapse from fatigue. Peter would have felt bad for it ¡ª if he wasn¡¯t being dragged behind it. The one good thing was that he had somehow managed to keep his hat on.

    The captain finally pulled the horse to a halt and dismounted.

    Peter rolled over a few times and would have groaned if the rope around his neck hadn¡¯t cut off his airflow.

    ¡°Take the rope off,¡± the captain commanded.

    Peter compiled and wrestled with the rope around his neck. By the time he was on his feet, the last traces of his drag wounds had disappeared.

    Finally getting the knot to budge, he sucked in his first breath, far longer than should have been possible.

    ¡°Move,¡± the captain commanded. ¡°Drop the rope.¡±

    Peter obeyed, gasping, coughing, and trying his best not to retch.

    The captain grabbed a rotted log, dragged it to the rope, and slipped it into the loop.

    Peter was careful to not get too close; he didn¡¯t want to leech the man. He was tempted to take the band off for a moment, but seeing the captain¡¯s violent and angry eyes, he thought it might be better if he kept it on for now.

    The captain slapped the horse on its rump, and it galloped off, dragging the rotted log with it.

    ¡°Follow me, but not too close,¡± the captain said as he started off away from the road. Peter followed the captain, who marched at a brisk pace. Peter quickly grew winded, and the captain noticed, but took no sympathy or showed any intention of slowing.

    Peter¡¯s old and weary lungs felt as though they were on fire.

    ¡°Can we slow down?¡± he gasped.

    The captain ignored him and marched on.

    Peter huffed as he jogged to close the distance. The sharp pain in his side was bad, but nothing compared to being dragged by the neck by a horse in a gallop.

    ¡°Where are we going?¡± Peter asked, but the captain maintained his silence, his eyebrows drawn together in a dangerous scowl. Peter didn¡¯t press him.

    The chill intensified, and Peter¡¯s clothes were hopelessly shredded, wet, and uncomfortably revealing. His tongue went dry, and he shivered as they hiked at least a mile north.

    The captain seemed to know what to look for, because he stopped at a bushy tree. He pulled the branches back to reveal a wooden door mounted into a shallow hill. He knocked once, with a pause, then eight more times.

    He stepped back as the door opened outward, thrown by a thin arm, and stepped through the doorway, motioning for Peter to follow.

    Peter walked into a dimly lit and surprisingly spacious subterranean cabin. It was either built into the hill or buried and expertly camouflaged.

    Three more people sat at a table in the dim light, and Peter blinked his eyes, trying to get them to adjust.

    A tall man and an earnest woman leaped to their feet when they saw the captain; the third, a short man with a toothpick between his teeth, simply nodded in acknowledgment.

    ¡°Captain! You¡¯re not undead!¡± The tall man cried. He was broadly shouldered but not deep-chested, perhaps in his mid-forties. He clumsily bumped the corner of the table as he stepped forward. He wore a long black coat and had a black goose egg bruise ringed in yellow bulging on his forehead.

    ¡°Van Dijk, neither are you,¡± the captain grumbled, almost sounding disappointed.

    The three at the table looked past the captain at Peter in his shredded and bloodied clothes. Peter blushed when he realized a large portion of his backside was exposed through a tear in his pants.

    ¡°Let¡¯s get you some new clothes,¡± the man who opened the door said as he stepped up to Peter. He was small and comfortably dressed in loose lounge attire and slippers, in contrast to the workers¡¯ garb the others wore. Thin of the frame and lethargic in his movements, he didn¡¯t strike Peter as a soldier.

    ¡°Marko! Get away from him!¡± the captain hollered, and Marko yelped as he scampered away.

    ¡°Why? What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯ll leech you!¡±

    Marko paled. ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s a lich or something, I¡¯m not sure.¡±

    ¡°If I can just say¡ª¡± Peter started.

    ¡°Roal, Johan, Daniel, Sem, and Dani!¡± the captain snapped. ¡°I lost five men to get you out of there, so no, you can''t! I¡¯m the one who will talk, and you¡¯re the one who will do as I say!¡±

    Peter swallowed and bowed his head.

    ¡°Now give me the weapon,¡± the captain articulated, through teeth that were clenched in grief.

    Peter nodded and reached for the metal circlet around his arm but paused. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry about your friends,¡± he said sincerely. ¡°I never wanted to hurt anyone. I never have.¡± Peter¡¯s youthful sincerity sounded strange to him, particularly in his elderly voice. ¡°But I need this to save Iris.¡±

    The captain swore and clenched his fist. ¡°I can make you give it to me!¡±

    ¡°captain,¡± Peter said apologetically. He hated opposing adults ¡ª though he was technically much older. ¡°I was just chopped to pieces and shot to ribbons.¡± He said, raising his arms to expose the remains of his clothes as proof. ¡°You dragged me behind a horse for miles. I don¡¯t want you to try, but the truth is you can¡¯t take it from me.¡± It wasn¡¯t a threat, it wasn¡¯t boastful; it was just pure factual logic.

    The captain growled. ¡°If we get your friend, you¡¯ll give it to us?¡±

    ¡°Yes, without question!¡± Peter said. ¡°Please, I hate to twist your arm like this, but I have no choice!¡± He meant every word.

    ¡°It¡¯s not my call,¡± Captain Visser said with furrowed dark brows. ¡°We¡¯ll take you back to headquarters and see what the commandant says.¡±

    ¡°Thank you!¡± Peter cried.

    ¡°Don¡¯t get ahead of yourself, gramps!¡± the captain warned. ¡°The Commandant may decide to rip you to pieces.¡±

    Peter swallowed and nodded once. ¡°I am sorry,¡± he said again.

    ¡°Don¡¯t do anything stupid, and stay here? We¡¯ll need to wait for Rahashel¡¯s search parties to blow over.¡±

    The captain suddenly looked exhausted. ¡°I need to write a report.¡±

    He turned and left the lodge room, and Peter looked at the others apologetically.

    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°Well then,¡± the man Marcko called glanced at him carefully. ¡°You won¡¯t leech me if I get you some new clothes, will you?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll try not to,¡± Peter said. ¡°It¡¯s not something I can control. It just sort of happens if you get too close.¡±

    The man shifted back nervously.

    ¡°Not that far. Maybe two or three arms distance?¡±

    Marko looked at Peter inquisitively. ¡°You¡¯re kind of polite for a lich, old man!¡± he said.

    ¡°He¡¯s no lich,¡± The shorted man with a toothpick said from his seat at the table. He had thin, short sandy hair that was challenging to discern in the dark, a boxy face, and a round nose. He leaned back on his chair, tipping it back on its rear legs, and laced his fingers behind his head as he took a measure of Peter. ¡°Take a look at his hand. He¡¯s a newly born Nine Finger who stumbled onto something he shouldn¡¯t have.¡±

    Marko nodded and motioned Peter across the lodge and into a massive bedroom lit by glass lamps. He gestured towards a walk-in closet.

    Peter wandered around the room slowly, awestruck. He was probably doing it too much justice, but he had grown up in little more than a shack of an apartment, so it seemed unrealistically big. The rooms were dark-stained wood. The pieces of furniture were delicately carved, luxurious, and finely crafted. The whole design was at odds with the fact that it was underground. Why did such a cabin exist?

    The man gestured to the closet. ¡°Feel free to take anything that fits.¡±

    Peter nodded and entered the closet to find rows of dark clothing suited for the cold. Armored or formal shirts, vests, and trousers of every style and size were available. On the opposite side, coats, cardinals, dusters, suits, and cloaks hung on hooks and hangers. The incredible thing was the wall on the far side of the closet. Top hats, bicornes, tricornes, and every variant of hat that Peter knew hung on a hook. His heart skipped at least three full beats. Peter wasn¡¯t a youth anymore. He wasn¡¯t restricted by an expectation to a peaked beldar cap. So many possibilities.

    ¡°What is this place?¡± He marveled

    ¡°This is a Nine Fingers safe house. As far as I know, one of the only ones in Rahashelian territory.¡±

    ¡°It''s so ¡­¡±

    ¡°Old fashioned?¡±

    ¡°Big!¡± Peter said.

    Marko looked around. ¡°I guess it is, isn¡¯t it? I¡¯m just a house sitter, so I¡¯m used to it. I don¡¯t go out on operations like Captain Visser¡¯s men.¡±

    ¡°Are you sure it¡¯s okay for me to borrow some of this?¡± Peter asked, unable to believe his luck.

    Marko laughed. ¡°Please, keep anything you can wear. Aside from being chased and eaten by the undead, Nine Fingers has perks.¡±

    ¡°What exactly do the Nine Fingers do?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°Hunt, spy, harass ¡­ We¡¯re the only ones who have gone on the offensive in Nosmeria. All the magistrates around spend their efforts fortifying their cities. It¡¯s futile, though, as no one has resisted an attack from Court Rahashel.¡±

    ¡°Seriously?¡± Peter asked. ¡°But I heard that almost half of the country is still free ¡­ does that mean he¡¯s never attacked any city that¡¯s still free?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I guess so,¡± Marko said.

    ¡°What¡¯s he waiting for?¡± Peter asked.

    Marko shrugged. ¡°I mostly just keep this place clean. I don¡¯t analyze enemy movements.¡±

    ¡°Hey, Marko,¡± Peter said, suddenly growing embarrassed.

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°If it¡¯s not too much to ask, is there a place I can take a bath? I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve had one since I was seventeen.¡±

    After Peter had bathed and dressed in fresh clothes, he felt like a new man. He even found a coat comparable to the one his mother had given him for his seventeenth birthday. The only difference was that it seemed heavier, thicker, and sturdier. It also had a series of buckles and straps sewn into the inside.

    He returned to the main room to find the three soldiers who had been sitting there before. Like him, they had changed clothes and now wore dark button-up shirts, untucked and sleeves rolled up.

    The short, toothpick-chewing man was cleaning a long gas rifle. On the table, he had an impressive array of solutions and brushes.

    The taller one looked desperate to get the young woman to play him in a game of cards.

    ¡°Hey, lich-man!¡± the tall man called. ¡°We need one more!¡±

    The woman snapped at him. ¡°Are you kidding? Do you want to die?¡± The woman had blond hair pulled into a tight military bun and fierce, deep-set hazel eyes narrowed at Peter suspiciously. Unlike the other two, who wore conventional lodge slippers, she wore boots laced and ready. Peter noticed a freshly dressed bandage on her arm.

    ¡°No, it will totally work. We just need him to sit over there, and he can show us his cards from across the room,¡± Tall guy insisted.

    She rolled her eyes. ¡°You¡¯re not going to give up, are you?¡±

    ¡°Are you kidding? We¡¯re here for at least a day, and the captain¡¯s asleep, so we need the lich-man if it¡¯s going to be any fun!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll play,¡± Peter said hopefully. Not even a full day had passed in his normal mind, and he had been robbed of a lifetime of experience. He wasn¡¯t going to spend it skulking in the corner, though part of him knew that¡¯s exactly what he would have done if the tall man hadn¡¯t offered.

    ¡°Shreds, Spear Line, or Double?¡±

    ¡°I only know how to play Shreds,¡± Peter said. ¡°I¡¯m no good at it.¡±

    ¡°You in, Owen?¡±

    Toothpick chewer didn''t respond, only stowing his dismantled rifle aside to make room for the cards.

    ¡°Marko! Cards?¡±

    ¡°Nah,¡± Marko responded from another room.

    ¡°Come on, Ella ¡­¡± Tall Guy taunted the woman with a flourish of the deck.

    ¡°Don¡¯t ever call me that again. We¡¯re soldiers, not friends.¡± She growled but finally accepted the challenge.

    ¡°What¡¯s your name, gramps?¡± He asked.

    ¡°Peter.¡±

    ¡°Not anymore!¡± he corrected as his eyes drifted to Peter¡¯s missing finger. ¡°Nine Fingers means rebirth, which means a new name. Who cut off your finger?¡±

    ¡°He said his name was Van Gutter.¡±

    ¡°Good soldier, Captain Van Gutter,¡± Owen said. ¡°He was saved by the commandant himself. That means you¡¯re the commandant''s grandson.¡±

    ¡°Huh?¡± Peter asked, furrowing his brow.

    ¡°It¡¯s just a thing we do,¡± the tall man with the cards said. ¡°I used to be called Niels, but after I was rescued they started calling me Van Dijk. The man who rescued me became my new father, and if I cut off someone¡¯s crop ring, they would become my son.¡±

    ¡°Or daughter,¡± the woman he called Ella pitched in.

    ¡°Right, or daughter.¡± Van Dijk agreed. ¡°You and I are the only true Nine Fingers here. None of the others have ever had a crop ring on.¡±

    ¡°Captain Van Gutter is a good man,¡± Owen said. ¡°You should be proud of your lineage ¡­ He didn¡¯t happen to survive, did he?¡±

    Peter shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. He was hurt pretty bad when I found him in the sewer.¡±

    ¡°Is that where he cut your finger off?¡± Van Dijk asked.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Peter confessed.

    ¡°Well then ¡­ Van Seur,¡± Van Dijk said with a laugh.

    ¡°He¡¯s not your son, Niels; you can¡¯t name him,¡± the woman said.

    ¡°His father is dead, Isabella. If I don¡¯t then, then who will?¡±

    Isabella shook her head, not ready to commit to a debate with Van Dijk.

    ¡°Go sit over there, Van Suer. I¡¯ll shuffle and leave your cards on the table.¡±

    It took Peter a moment to realize that Van Dijk was speaking to him, so he jumped belatedly and ran for the chair once he made the connection.

    Van Dijk began to deal the cards and was surprisingly proficient. He took his role very seriously and added dramatic gusto to every move. That seemed to be expected of him. Isabella tried to look annoyed, but Peter saw faint signs of a suppressed smile from across the room.

    Owen just watched Van Dijk¡¯s hands intently.

    Peter watched and felt himself settle at ease. They seemed nice enough, not exactly the terrorists he envisioned based off of the public executions in the square. It was a great change from the captain, who seemed ready to dismember Peter if it meant getting the armband.

    ¡°HA!¡± Owen cried, slapping the table. Isabella and Van Dijk both jumped. ¡°There!¡±

    ¡°There what?¡± Van Dijk stammered, shaken by the smaller man¡¯s outburst.

    ¡°You¡¯re dealing your own hand from the bottom!¡± Owen accused.

    ¡°What, no!¡±

    Owen flipped Van Dijk¡¯s hand and based off of Isabella¡¯s reaction, Peter knew he probably had a hand of high, or trump cards.

    ¡°Very crafty,¡± Owen said with a smile, ¡°I almost missed it.¡±

    ¡°What a coincidence ¡­¡± Van Dijk bluffed, with too much drama to be natural.

    ¡°Reshuffle, start again.¡±

    Van Dijk growled as he started to shuffle expertly. This time, Peter wished he was closer so he could keep an eye on the dealer¡¯s hands.

    This time, Isabella called him out. ¡°You saved the top card for yourself!¡±

    ¡°What? You¡¯re paranoid!¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve pulled the second card out from under it for our piles, and you gave yourself the top card!¡±

    Peter quickly realized the game they were playing wasn¡¯t shreds at all. They were playing catch Van Dijk cheating. Van Dijk grinned and shuffled one more time. Owen and Isabella watched helplessly as they failed to see what he did. Once the hands had been dealt, Isabella slapped her hand on his deck and claimed them for herself.

    ¡°Van Dijk! You actually shuffled honestly!¡± she cried in surprise as she looked at her stolen hand.

    ¡°Please!¡± he said with a grin as he took her cards. ¡°I haven¡¯t played an honest game in seven years!¡±

    She looked at him appalled. ¡°You dealt me the good hand?¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t prove it!¡± he said with a smirk. Owen took Peter¡¯s cards and left them on the dining table. Peter had to go get them after Oven had sat back down.

    Van Dijk won in two rounds, and both Owen and Isabella decided they were done.

    ¡°Hey!¡± Van Dijk cried in protest. ¡°That was just luck!¡±

    Peter put his cards aside and silently regretted the armlet. It was surprisingly lonely to be sitting on the opposite side of a room full of people. He was tempted to take it off, but he had no guarantee that one of the others wouldn¡¯t make a lunge for it.

    They seemed more friendly than the captain, but they were still soldiers under his command.

    ¡°Who is your friend?¡± Isabella asked, turning towards Peter. ¡°The one you want to save?¡±

    ¡°Iris,¡± Peter said.

    ¡°Is she your wife, or your daughter?¡±

    ¡°What? No!¡± Peter exclaimed, growing embarrassed. ¡°She¡¯s a friend.¡±

    ¡°Oh?¡± Isabella asked, ¡°Your girlfriend?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not like that!¡± Peter cried. ¡°She¡¯s more like an annoying little sister!¡±

    A sister that I crippled, he left unsaid.

    Van Dijk perked up at Peter¡¯s tone. ¡°You¡¯re not actually old!¡± he accused. ¡°How old are you really? You know ¡­ inside?¡±

    Peter blushed fiercely. ¡°Seventeen.¡±

    Van Dijk whistled. ¡°You poor kid. I only had my crop ring on for three months before my father saved me. I¡¯m twenty five.¡± Van Dijk looked almost twice that age.

    ¡°You look ¡­¡± Isabella started in awe.

    ¡°Like my grandfather''s great-grandfather?¡± Peter lamented.

    ¡°I was going to say adorable.¡± Isabella laughed. ¡°I used to think childlike innocence and elderly innocence were similar, but they¡¯re really not the same at all.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°I mean ¡­ you act more like a kid than an old man. And now that I know that you are a kid, I can¡¯t unsee it.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not a child!¡± Peter protested. ¡°I¡¯m old enough to be your parent¡¯s parent.¡±

    She laughed at that with twinkling eyes, and Peter felt himself blushing furiously. Now that she wasn''t glaring at him, he could not deny that she was very attractive.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± she assured him. ¡°If anyone can help your friend, it¡¯s Captain Visser.¡±

    ¡°You think so?¡± Peter asked eagerly.

    Her face sobered. ¡°Yes. I hope for your sake tomorrow goes well.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s tomorrow?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°Tomorrow,¡± Owen said with no humor on his face. ¡°You meet the commandant.¡±

 5 The Commandant of the Nine Fingers

    They left at first light the following day. Freshly changed, Peter wore his new coat and cardinal. He retained Van Gutter¡¯s hat but replaced the old shredded pheasant plume with a crisp new one.

    Peter tried to shave his ragged beard, but he had never used a razor. As he brought the blade near his neck, he had locked up. His mind flashed to the previous day when sentinels, enforcers, and vampires shot, stabbed, and hacked at him. He put the razor down with a shaky hand and left the beard.

    The captain wore a compact tricorne and a black duster, with an officer''s straight sword at his side and falchion strapped to his back. The falchion¡¯s handle protruded ever so slightly from a clever slit in the back of the duster for easy access.

    Peter finally understood the straps and buckles that he noticed in the coats. They were designed to conceal weapons. The captain¡¯s coat held an impressive array of bolts, knives, and even a brace of gas pistols strapped inside. Owen wore a simple hooded cloak and carried a heavy crossbow and long rifle. He also had a staggeringly sizable full duffle bag with straps thrown over his shoulders. Peter couldn¡¯t see any visible knives or melee weapons on his person.

    Van Dijk carried a lance with a narrow blade and a sharpened wooden point on the other side. He had hooked sharp tools to his more armored, shorter jacket. With his wide-brimmed hat, he looked like a watchman. Isabella wore a thick leather breastplate that hid her figure and a heavy cardinal over her dark cloak. She had a Falchion at her side and a pair of comically large Premernox pistols holstered on her belt.

    With the party impressively armored and equipped, Peter felt naked, armed only with a piece of jewelry. He had to remind himself that with the armlet, he was basically indestructible. They took their leave from Marko, who gladly stayed behind to watch the hidden safe house. The small company marched off. To Peter¡¯s dismay, they moved at the same sprint-march pace the captain used before.

    ¡°You know!¡± Van Dijk said loudly after watching Peter¡¯s struggle. ¡°If not vampire speed or superhuman strength, you¡¯d think a secret Court weapon would give you walking powers at least.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Peter gasped. ¡°I¡¯m ¡­ old.¡±

    ¡°Keep marching,¡± the captain ordered. We have far to go. Rahashelian scouts have already combed over us, but they could come around for another pass.¡±

    Peter grew slick with sweat as they hiked west. The further they went, the more the landscape changed. Lone abandoned and unmaintained farms periodically dotted the landscape, and the road was in horrible disrepair. The sky was dark and foggy. No one else was in sight.

    ¡°Aren¡¯t we headed into Shay?¡± Peter asked nervously.

    ¡°Yes,¡± Owen responded tersely.

    ¡°What happened?¡± Peter asked as he watched the sad, miserable landscape.

    ¡°You know how Court Rahashel ¡®blessed the ancestors¡¯ when he first arrived?¡± Van Dijk offered.

    ¡°Yeah. I mean, I wasn¡¯t there. I made it to the ceremony when Rahashel turned on us, though.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡± Isabella asked in surprise, ¡°So you saw everything?¡±

    ¡°I saw King Adrichem get murdered,¡± Peter said. ¡°It was horrible. Rahashel leeched him in front of everybody.¡±

    Isabella shuddered, but Van Dijk jumped back in. ¡°So Rahashel actually cursed the tombs and graves. That was the night the dead started to walk.¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Peter said. ¡°I saw them.¡±

    ¡°Right, so, Shay is where most of the dead started to rise. No one comes here anymore, and there are no bodies buried here because they all walked to Stalpia when Rahashel turned.¡±

    ¡°But we¡¯re still in Rahashelian Territory?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°Not really. No one is willing to live here, so no ghouls need to come here. It¡¯s a no-man¡¯s land. Well, technically, it¡¯s our land. It¡¯s also the last place Court Rahashel would consider looking for us because it¡¯s close to his capital. We¡¯re hiding in plain sight.¡±

    ¡°Are you finished giving away our secrets, Private?¡± Captain Visser asked.

    ¡°Did you see his hand?¡± Van Dijk protested. ¡°He¡¯s one of us! What would Captain Van Gutter say if he heard you speak poorly of his son?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯d probably regret giving the weapon to him. Van Gutter died getting that armband, and now we still don¡¯t have it,¡± the captain said sharply.

    Peter flinched. He didn¡¯t mean to provoke the captain, but without the weapon, he would have no leverage at all, let alone a possible path back to Iris. They passed a ravaged fence, skirting around massive shallow holes that erupted out of the firm-packed earth. The soil was pocked and rutted, making their path tricky.

    ¡°Welcome to ground zero,¡± Van Dijk said with an exaggerated wave, like a narrator in a play. ¡°Wherein all first ended, so then all again began: the somber and silent Shay graveyard!¡±

    Peter raised a speculative eyebrow. ¡°Are you quoting something? That sounds familiar.¡±

    ¡°The first part is Johannes Bakker," Van Dijk said. ¡°The second bit was me.¡±

    ¡°J. Bakker is deeply advanced literature,¡± Peter said in surprise. ¡°Did you go to a university?¡±

    Van Dijk snorted. ¡°I didn¡¯t finish primary school. But hey, a man¡¯s got to have hobbies, right?¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s move!¡± Captain Visser cut in, his dark eyebrows pinched to a V. ¡°Maybe you can get a scholarship after we save the world.¡±

    Peter swallowed and followed at a distance, careful not to accidentally leech the others.

    They marched across the uneven ground, stepping over collapsed gravestones and statues. Sculptures of angels that once looked beautiful were now frightening, with broken wings and cracked bodies. The fog certainly didn¡¯t help.

    Great mounds loomed suddenly ahead, rising out of the mist.

    ¡°The Royal Tombs. The Sacred Burrows,¡± Peter marveled. He had visited once on a school history trip. Then, the Royal Tombs were a half circle of mounds built into a giant cemetery. Everyone who could afford it tried to be buried in Shay, near their kings. It was a beautiful burial ground, almost sacred by tradition. Now, it was nearly unrecognizable in its current depressed state.

    ¡°Welcome to headquarters.¡± This time, it was the captain who spoke up.

    ¡°You¡¯re kidding me! Your base is in the Sacred Burrows?¡±

    Even at a distance, Peter caught the captain suppressing a smile. He was proud of their operation; even if he hated Peter, he loved his people.

    The captain let out a peculiar bird whistle, and after a few seconds, an eerie response floated out of the fog. ¡°Let¡¯s go!¡± Captain Visser grunted, leading the way. As they approached the fog-feathered mounds, Peter saw figures in the mist ¡ªsilhouettes with long-barreled gas rifles.

    There were six hill-sized burial mounds, and the captain led them to the furthest mound. Large stone doorways at the mouth of each mound had thick wooden doors mounted to them. Those doors were new. The last time Peter was here, the doorways were covered by great stone slabs that now lay cracked on the ground. Peter wondered why the broken slabs hadn''t been moved after so long. This base might have only recently been developed, and they hadn''t gotten around to it yet, or maybe the slabs served a symbolic purpose and were left as a reminder of Rahashel''s deeds.

    None of the sentries stopped them as they entered the front tomb. Captain Visser called out loud, ¡°I need everyone to back away! I''m putting a thirty-foot perimeter around my cell now!¡±

    Peter followed several paces behind Captain Visser and got his first look at the headquarters. There were around thirty people in the tomb, illuminated by white gaslight lanterns. They were primarily men, but several women and children were also present. They all dressed in similar styles: cloaks, coats, and hats.

    They jumped and scattered promptly at Captain Visser¡¯s command. The tomb itself was a large, spacious cavern built from great stone slabs. It had been buried at its construction, and grass has since grown over the artificial hill.

    ¡°Stay here!¡± Captain Visser instructed Peter before walking deeper in and going through a door in the side. It would have been the actual burial chamber, back when the dead stayed dead. The cavernous entry used to be a mausoleum, where people left tributes and offerings for their kings at their burial. Peter couldn¡¯t recall which king¡¯s tomb he was in.

    His thoughts were undercut with a flush of embarrassment as everyone fell silent. He could feel every pair of eyes examining him. Peter caught motion at the tomb''s entrance and saw several armed men looking in, crowded in the doorway.

    A man and a woman stood out from the rest in the tomb. He wore a black and white armored valet suit, apron, and black cotton gloves, and she wore similar garb, replacing the trousers with a black skirt ¡ª the uniform of the House of Nyamar. Peter gawked in surprise. Why had the House of Nyamar sent domestics to Nine Fingers? Had the House joined the fight against Rahashel? If anyone could fight back, it would be the House.

    The captain entered the tomb from the side chamber, escorting another man in a dress shirt and armored vest.

    The newcomer was an aged man with slicked-back white hair and a trim, short beard. Sharp eyes peered out of his angular face, assessing the room before flicking back to Peter.

    Peter flinched when the man looked his way, suddenly feeling very small. The man''s gaze felt almost tangible. His features and posture exuded intelligence, experience, and a hint of violence.

    The captain and the newcomer cut through the crowd. Those around made way and nodded, not at the captain, but at the older man.

    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    The Commandant, Peter assumed.

    Peter also noted that the commandant was missing his ring finger.

    ¡°I think you''d better come with me,¡± the commandant said and motioned as he turned to return to his office.

    Peter nodded and followed after him.

    Some unfortunate bystanders got too close to Peter, and a faint purple light whiffed off of them.

    ¡°lich!¡± The cry cut through the silence, though Peter was unsure who spoke.

    With the sound of many mechanical clicks, Peter found about thirty pistols or crossbows aimed at him.

    ¡°Umm,¡± Peter stammered, finding himself on the wrong side of every weapon in the room.

    ¡°Stand down,¡± the old man said, waving a hand. ¡°This one¡¯s on our side.¡±

    His declaration drew a series of whispers and chatter as pistols decocked. Peter noticed that not all of the Nine Fingers operators returned their weapons to their concealment.

    Peter¡¯s heart raced in his chest as he followed. This was their commandant. There was absolutely nothing about him that didn¡¯t say he was in perfect control of the situation. Considering Peter¡¯s ability to automatically steal the life force of anyone who got too close, the commandant electing to isolate himself with Peter spoke volumes.

    The Commandant opened a door to a room with a long bier in the center. At one point, the platform must have held a sarcophagus but now acted as a desk. It was an office.

    The Commandant pushed one chair to the far side of the room before sliding his own chair to the opposite wall. Taking a seat, he motioned for Peter to enter. Peter obeyed, creeping along the wall, keeping as much distance from the commandant as possible. Once they were both seated, the commandant rubbed his knuckles thoughtfully.

    ¡°What¡¯s your name, son?¡±

    ¡°Pe ¡ª Van Seur,¡± Peter corrected himself.

    The Commandant''s eyebrows arched in amusement. ¡°So you¡¯re using one of our names?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s only fair,¡± Peter said, showing him his missing finger. ¡°I think that I¡¯m your grandson.¡±

    A ghost of a smile reflected on the commandant''s face.

    ¡°So Van Gutter saved you? I take it, by his absence, that he didn¡¯t make it?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Peter said. ¡°He was bleeding out when he woke me up.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, too,¡± the commandant said. ¡°He was one of our best.¡±

    Peter nodded but said nothing further. He hadn¡¯t really known Van Gutter, even if the man had saved him.

    ¡°My name is Sebastian Van Graif,¡± the commandant introduced himself. ¡°I can see by that band on your arm that Van Gutter didn¡¯t die in vain.¡±

    Peter instinctively touched the metal circlet. Standing against the angry captain was one thing. Withholding it against Commandant Van Graif was almost unbearable. Everything in him whispered that it would be better to hand it over ¡ª everything, that is, except for the part that remembered Iris.

    ¡°Quite honestly, I¡¯m impressed you can wear it without going mad or losing yourself. Do you know what that is?¡±

    Peter paused and thought back to what the Vampire Vincent had called it. ¡°A Bedorven?¡± Peter said. ¡°I think I know what it does.¡±

    ¡°Do you, now?¡± Sebastian asked with a chuckle. ¡°And what exactly does the Bedorven do, Mister Van Seur?¡±

    ¡°It leeches people who get too close, and I can¡¯t die if I have it on. I¡¯m quite sure of that.¡±

    The commandant let out a deep laugh. ¡°What else?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s more?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°Why, yes. Do you know what you are with that thing?¡±

    Peter shrugged. ¡°The guys keep calling me a lich.¡±

    ¡°Very far from the truth. So long as you wear that band, you¡¯re a court.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t say I even know what a court is,¡± Peter admitted.

    ¡°A court is a death god,¡± Commandant Van Graif said steadily. He leaned forward and watched Peter intently.

    Peter¡¯s jaw dropped and hung open. ¡°You mean ¡­¡±

    ¡°You have the power to rival Court Rahashel,¡± Van Graif said, leaning back, tapping the bier with his four-fingered hand. ¡°The ability to raise corpses and turn them into ghouls. Power to leech time, power to give time. It means you¡¯re a death god, Van Seur.¡±

    Peter looked at the armlet, this time in disgust. The power of a death god. A court. He suddenly felt nauseous. That wasn¡¯t a power he wanted.

    ¡°You¡¯re going to make me give it to you,¡± Peter said slowly, as he realized the significance of the armlet.

    ¡°Not necessarily,¡± Van Graif said. ¡°Like I said, it should have driven you mad with power. I have people who have been training for a long time to be able to wield it, but how can we train to do something we have no notion of? You don¡¯t seem to have any problems using it. There¡¯s a degree of stability in that.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure avoiding death a hundred times in one day is something I want to do again,¡± Peter confessed. Then he caught himself. The commandant¡¯s self-assurance and logical approach made Peter naturally inclined to cooperate. What about Iris? If anything could save Iris, this could.

    The Commandant, reading Peter¡¯s face, cut in. ¡°I¡¯ll make you a deal. If you can take that off, I¡¯ll let you keep it for now ¡ª with some house rules, of course.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡± Peter started to slip it off but stopped. ¡°Is this a trick? Are you going to shoot me once it¡¯s off or something?¡±

    Van Graif held his hands up to show they were empty.

    Peter glanced around the room. A hidden compartment could house a sharpshooter, or the commandant himself could probably cross the room in time to stop Peter from putting it back on.

    Peter let out a long, low breath, keeping his eye on the commandant, and slowly slid the metal band off.

    It was the commandant¡¯''s turn to look bewildered.

    ¡°What were those rules you were talking about?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°Right, umm,¡± the commandant momentarily lost his imposing presence. His eyes flickered to Peter¡¯s face, then away quickly. He seemed perplexed. ¡°No leeching anybody; stay far away from everyone.¡±

    ¡°Right.¡± Peter agreed. ¡°I would never do that intentionally.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t tell anyone what you are. We can only do so much to keep you a secret, but you must never intentionally reveal the nature of that band. Some people in our ranks would betray us to Court Rahashel if they understood the nature of the Bedorven. People seem to have decided you were a lich. We¡¯ll support this theory. We¡¯ll tell everyone that you¡¯re a lich turncoat. I assure you, it¡¯s in your best interest to convince them of this story.¡±

    ¡°Okay.¡±

    ¡°Also, from here on out, you¡¯re with the Nine Fingers. You will obey the proper chain of command and help us as expected.¡±

    Peter thought about Captain Visser¡¯s dislike of him and grimaced. He was already doing a great job at following orders ¡ª he¡¯d come here, hadn¡¯t he? He tried to speak calmly, without betraying his frustration.

    ¡°Okay, but ¡­¡±

    ¡°I mean it. You must follow every order,¡± the commandant said sternly.¡°This is a military operation. Without orders and commands, we are nothing but desperate groups of incompetent rabble more prone to fall apart than accomplish anything. A true fighting force needs to be unified and disciplined. You will be a soldier and nothing more. You¡¯re not a god but an asset. You will not deviate from command. As far as I''m concerned, you will not be a person; you¡¯re the property of Nine Fingers. Unless, of course, you don¡¯t think you can handle it?¡±

    The Commandant turned his eyes sharply toward Peter. There was a warning in those eyes. It was clear that he was ready to step in and destroy Peter in every way if he failed to obey.

    Peter swallowed, suddenly unsure if he wanted to keep the Bedorven. ¡°I will.¡±

    Commandant Van Graif nodded. ¡°The last rule is that you must always wear the Bedorven, but conceal it. It is imperative that you agree never to remove it unless I command it.¡±

    That one caught Peter by surprise. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°We have no way of keeping it safe. If we stick it in a vault somewhere, the enemy will stop at nothing to get it back. If you have it on, no one can take it from you unless you surrender it willingly.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s true,¡± Peter agreed.

    ¡°I mean it. No taking it off, ever, unless I tell you otherwise.¡±

    Peter grimaced at the thought. He couldn¡¯t be physically near anybody, and he couldn¡¯t explain why. A faint bead of sweat slid down his forehead.

    ¡°Okay.¡± he agreed, ¡°But I need one thing from you.¡±

    ¡°Oh?¡± the commandant asked.

    ¡°I have a friend in Stalpia. She¡¯s a crop. I need your help getting her back.¡±

    Peter suddenly became aware of the warm, damp patches growing under his armpits as the commandant watched him, his expression neutral, his face unemotional. This was a man who could probably force the Bedorven away from him if he wanted to. Who was Peter to be making demands? Vincent and his vampire friends certainly could have made Peter surrender the court band if the captain hadn¡¯t shown up. Who was he kidding? He wasn¡¯t all-powerful in any way.

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid you couldn¡¯t have requested that at a worse time,¡± the commandant said. ¡°We can¡¯t do it ... right now.¡±

    ¡°Well, when can you?¡± Peter asked frantically. She was so old, and after he accidentally leeched her, she grew older still. Peter knew inside that she didn¡¯t have much time left, but if she were going to die, he would make sure she did it as a free woman.

    ¡°As we speak, Court Rahashel is preparing an attack on Julleck. It will be the first Nosmerian city he¡¯s moved to in a long while. If that city and the surrounding areas fall, he will claim the lives of hundreds of thousands. Do you want us to sacrifice all of their lives to save your friend?¡±

    Peter shook his head. Obviously not. ¡°So you¡¯re going to stop him?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°We¡¯re going to stop him,¡± the commandant corrected. ¡°By breaking into his vault and stealing the tiles he uses to power his ghouls.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about,¡± Peter said. ¡°What are tiles?¡±

    ¡°We need to get you trained,¡± the commandant muttered, mostly to himself. He cleared his throat. ¡°Let¡¯s see. A ghoul is little more than a vehicle programmed to obey its overseers. The tiles work as fuel for them ¡ª like a premernox gas canister, but instead of gas, they use time. So, if there¡¯s no fuel ¡­¡±

    ¡°No ghoul,¡± Peter nodded. Then he winced. He didn¡¯t intend to rhyme.

    ¡°You get the idea,¡± Van Graif continued. His mustache twitched ever so slightly. ¡°Ahem. Unfortunately, we are short on hands and manpower. Stealing that court band proved costly. We lost a lot of men.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll help,¡± Peter said eagerly, then blushed slightly. Anything that could put them in a position to get Iris back. ¡°That is, if you''ll have me?¡±

    ¡°Are you kidding me?¡± The Commandant said. ¡°You can¡¯t die, man. You¡¯re immortal. You are the front line.¡±

    Peter¡¯s stomach twisted uncomfortably.

    ¡°You will receive special instructions and expedited training. Just because you can¡¯t die doesn¡¯t mean you can¡¯t be stopped,¡± Van Graif warned. ¡°Let me promise you, there are things much worse than death.¡±

    Peter swallowed. He was just a kid. He had a weak body and no knowledge or skill in fighting the monsters that stole his life and threatened humanity. But now that he had nothing left, it gave him plenty of room to focus on the war at hand.

    ¡°I¡¯ll do it,¡± he said finally. ¡°Help me make Rahashel pay.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s exactly the fighting spirit we need!¡± Sebastian said with twinkling eyes. That little affirmation gave Peter great relief.

    ¡°But after we rob Court Rahashel dry,¡± Peter said, ¡°You¡¯ll help me get Iris back?¡±

    ¡°If Court Rahashel is without ghouls, getting your friend back should be easier done than said.¡±

    Peter smiled. He would steal Court Rahashel¡¯s power and then save Iris. The mission was noble enough. Peter had never had anything so compelling or driving in his life. Then again, he was seventeen.

    ¡°Van Seur,¡± Van Graif continued. ¡°To my knowledge, we are the only humans to get our hands on a Bedorven. You carry a huge responsibility.¡±

    Peter nodded. ¡°How many are there?¡±

    ¡°Courts?¡±

    ¡°Yes. I thought it was only Rahashel.¡±

    ¡°So far we¡¯ve counted five on Boslic and at least that many on Chur and Dinn.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re a Tri-Worlder?¡± Peter asked, ¡°You believe Chur and Dinn are inhabited?¡±

    ¡°Son, the courts fell from the sky. We¡¯d be stupid to dismiss the fact that the other worlds are inhabited.¡±

    Peter agreed. Records indicated that nine generations had passed since they could commute to the other worlds, but many didn''t believe those accounts. Something else was picking at his mind.

    ¡°How did we get this Court band?¡± Peter asked, tapping the band in his hands.

    ¡°Do you know why we haven¡¯t been wiped out?¡± The commandant asked.

    ¡°Because of you?¡± Peter asked. ¡°The resistance?¡±

    The commandant gave a short bark of laughter. ¡°We¡¯re not at war with Court Rahashel. He doesn¡¯t even see us as a threat. We¡¯re just a resource to him. The only things the courts consider to be threats are each other. Rahashel hasn¡¯t taken all of Nosmeria because most of his forces were fighting Court Rasminfrey across the Vet Channel. Only recently, Court Rahashel managed to kill Court Rasminfrey, though the war destroyed Calacray. We stole the Bedorven while it was being transported back to Rahashel¡¯s palace in Stalpia.¡±

    ¡°Calacray was destroyed?¡± Peter asked in disbelief. The country east of Vet River was small, but it was a country!

    ¡°Yes,¡± the commandant said. ¡°But now we¡¯ve made ourselves a target. Rahashel wants that court band.¡±

    ¡°And now that Court Rahashel has Calacray ¡­¡± Peter thought out loud.

    ¡°He marches onto the rest of Nosmeria. Van Seur, we mustn¡¯t fail in this mission. It is critical that we don¡¯t let your band fall into enemy hands. We know that Rahashel has the means to kill a court, and if Rahashel has another Court under him, there¡¯s no telling what he could do.¡±

    Peter felt like shrinking and jumping at the same time. The fire that burned within him to see Rahashel fall was also linked to the impending weight of the responsibility that came with the court band. He was almost tempted to throw the arm ring away or to plead with Commandant Van Graif to give it to someone else. But he knew he was nothing without it.

    Clutching the band, Peter nodded. ¡°I won¡¯t let you down,¡± he promised the commandant. Even though she couldn¡¯t hear him, Peter was also promising Iris and just about everyone else in Nosmeria. He couldn¡¯t fail them again.

    ¡°Well then, my grandson. It¡¯s time to train while you can. We don¡¯t have much time.¡±

 6 The Lore Of Slaying

    The training hall was one of the six burrows. It was identical to the office of Commandment Van Graif, but with a few key differences. First, the training hall was relatively empty, lacking the furniture of the command burrow. Several low benches encircled the yawning main room. The walls were plastered with wooden racks that held any kind of weapon Peter had ever seen and many he couldn¡¯t identify.

    Peter turned to greet his trainer at the sound of firm footsteps on the stone floor. He blinked in stupefaction. He had anticipated a drill sergeant or perhaps a herculean coach. He had to drop his chin a few inches to look her in the eyes. For a moment, he mistakenly thought he was looking at a child, but her posture was rigid and poised, which spoke of maturity. He blinked. The very short woman had a prosthetic hand with a fixed thumb and three articulating claws that she somehow curled in and out as she studied him through small, close-set eyes. Firm shoulders exposed through her training vest indicated that she spent much of her time in the gymnasium.

    Peter instinctively stood a bit straighter. Even at the edge of his leech radius, she had to crane her neck to look up at him appraisingly.

    ¡°I¡¯m Norah Braam,¡± she said in a loud and high voice. ¡°I was briefed for your specific training regiment, Mr. Van Seur. That means I have the clearance to know what you really are. I am privy to your status as, shall we say, a man of unusual abilities. Therefore, no secrets.¡±

    Peter nodded intently and tried to ignore the fact that she had called him Mister.

    ¡°Well, it looks like you already know my name,¡± Peter said.

    ¡°How much field experience do you have?¡± she asked professionally.

    ¡°Umm ¡­ not much. Let¡¯s just say zero,¡± Peter confessed nervously.

    Norah scratched her head with one of the steel claws and sighed. ¡°Well, I¡¯ve been instructed to cram you with as much training and knowledge as possible.¡±

    ¡°So ¡­ I¡¯m going to learn to fight?¡± Peter asked eagerly, glancing over at an impressive rack of nasty-looking sharp things and hand cannons.

    ¡°We don¡¯t have time for that,¡± Norah said. ¡°And from what I hear, you don¡¯t need it anyway.¡±

    ¡°Oh,¡± Peter said, disappointed.

    ¡°What you need to learn is when to fight.¡±

    ¡°Okay!¡± Peter nodded, once again enthused.

    ¡°Are you familiar with the Aart¡¯s undead classification method?¡± Norah asked as she pulled out a small pamphlet and tossed it towards him, careful not to step into his leech radius.

    Peter fumbled with the catch. The pamphlet fell to the floor. He picked it up, reddening. ¡°No,¡± Peter confessed.

    ¡°It was written by our head of research, Doctor Fabian Aarts. He has traveled and studied undead since they first appeared upon the arrival of the courts.¡±

    ¡°Okay.¡± Peter flipped through the pages. The pamphlet was full of illustrations and bullet points. It appeared to have been illustrated and written by hand, but looking closer, Peter realized it was printed. That surprised him, as printing illustrations required expensive plates and dyes.

    ¡°Before you ever fight or engage an undead in any way, you must know what it is. There are countless varieties of the undead, and from what we can tell, new ones are popping up everywhere. We use the Aarts Undead Classification Method to determine what each one might be.¡±

    ¡°That makes sense,¡± Peter said, eagerly, drinking it in. This approach to training surprised him. He had expected to run laps or fitness circuits immediately. At seventeen, he hadn¡¯t been particularly athletic, and obviously he was in horrible shape now, so he had been dreading the training. This, on the other hand, felt like research. He loved research, and courts were an entirely new field of study.

    ¡°The first thing to determine is their state. We can group any undead into one of three states: feral, cognitive, or stagnant.¡±

    ¡°So, an undead can be animalistic, or smart, or ¡­ What¡¯s stagnant?

    She nodded. ¡°Right. Stagnant means they¡¯re more like tools than problem solvers or animals. They don¡¯t act until commanded.¡±

    ¡°Like the sentinels in Stalpia, ¡± Peter said. ¡°They just stand around until called to action.¡±

    ¡°Exactly,¡± Norah said. However, I¡¯ve never heard anyone call them sentinels. We call any animated corpses ghouls, which seems to be what courts and their retainers call them.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s just what I¡¯ve been calling them,¡± Peter said. ¡°Ghouls, huh? What about crops? They¡¯re stagnant.¡±

    Norah shook her head. "Van Seur, crops are people, not ghouls. You should know that. ghouls are dead, crops live if not in a repressive state. The only reason crops exist is to fuel Rahashel''s ghoul armies."

    Peter blushed. "It''s just I''ve heard enforcers call us half-lives. Does the program account for us?"

    Norah pinched the bridge of her nose with her prosthetic. "It might just be a colloquialism or something we don''t understand yet. Crops are people and, therefore, can be saved. ghouls are as alive as a train. Capable of performing motor functions, but without fuel; just an object."

    Peter''s mind flashed back to the ghouls, black-eyed and emotionless, hacking at him with swords, bent on dismembering him. His chest tightened as he ripped himself from the memory.

    ¡°That¡¯s not all,¡± Norah continued. ¡°The longer your encounter with an undead run, the lower your chance of survival becomes. So, you must use your time to gather information on the undead you¡¯re facing. The first thing is to determine its state.¡±

    ¡°Feral, cognitive, and stagnant,¡± Peter repeated.

    ¡°Precisely,¡± Norah said. Her eyes twinkled with reflective glass light, and she smiled, cocking her head to the side as if redeciding what she should expect of him.

    Great, had she expected an idiot? Peter grimaced.

    ¡°After you find its state, you must decide its class. That¡¯s how you gauge how the ghoul is built.¡±

    ¡°What are the classes?¡±

    ¡°The first class is corroded, meaning the undead has rotted and is falling apart. Whoever controls it isn¡¯t maintaining it. If left unattended, it will decompose and become nonfunctional.¡±

    ¡°When Rahashel first attacked, the undead who surrounded the city were mostly bones,¡± Peter said.

    ¡°That¡¯s right!¡± Norah said. ¡°Corroded usually come right out of the grave.¡±

    Peter grew excited, which was a first for him. Since being freed, he¡¯d felt deeply unsettled by the thought of fighting the undead. These monsters were the enemy, but understanding them made them seem more tangible and less nightmarish.

    ¡°What¡¯s next?¡±

    ¡°After that, we have fresh undead. These are usually your fallen friends after a lich raises them again.¡±

    ¡°Great,¡± Peter muttered. He didn¡¯t think there was anything great about it.

    ¡°Next, there are sustained undead. Sustained undead have been dressed or otherwise preserved.¡±

    ¡°Like the sentinels?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°Yeah; sentinels, as you call them, are Sus-Stag ghouls.¡±

    ¡°So you just mush the words stagnant and sustained together?¡± Peter asked, flipping through the pamphlet and skimming through the given examples.

    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    ¡°Basically. Everyone has all the variations memorized. Eventually, you''re expected to do the same, but it will take time. Don''t worry too much for now. When in doubt, kill it.¡±

    ¡°Three states, three classes. That shouldn¡¯t be too hard.¡±

    Norah snorted.

    ¡°There are also enforced, gargoyle, and ogre class undead.¡±

    Peter paled.

    ¡°Enforced ghouls are inhumanly strong and fast. They might be shielded or have reserve hearts. Gargoyles are ghouls with stone or metal skin. Ogre-class ghouls are big and nasty.¡±

    ¡°Great,¡± Peter muttered. ¡°No problems at all. Bloated, supercharged, stone, undead monsters. Do we have a chance?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not going to be easy.¡± Norah agreed.

    ¡°State, then class. I think I have it.¡±

    ¡°One more,¡± Norah said. ¡°You¡¯ll need to decide their type, and that¡¯s important.¡±

    ¡°They have types as well?¡± Peter asked, growing overwhelmed. ¡°Okay, It might take a while to memorize all this.¡±

    ¡°You deserve to be taught the correct definitions,¡± Norah said a bit more gently, ¡°but keep in mind that this is an ever-changing system. Very few people actually know the minutiae of undead classification. Usually, the best way to pick up correct usage is through combat and experience. We all started like you.¡±

    ¡°What are the types?¡±

    ¡°As far as we can tell, there are two types of undead: ghouls and liches.¡±

    ¡°Everyone has been calling me a lich,¡± Peter said, except for the ones who know I¡¯m court. He didn''t say that part out loud. By Commandant Van Graif''s orders, his identity as a court was to remain secret.

    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± Norah said. ¡°We think that a lich is a living person who has been altered to have an undead body or abilities. Sometimes, they look more undead than living. Those animal-headed freaks that came with Court Rahashel are liches. We¡¯ve also discovered that many of his human overseers are gifted with power, so they would be liches, too.¡±

    ¡°I can think of a few who probably are,¡± Peter said, recalling the strange purple fire Mayor Espen Hummel had thrown at the bridge.

    ¡°liches are less common. Your most frequent enemy will be ghouls, programs designed to inhabit a corpse. They don¡¯t have souls. They just respond the way they were designed.¡±

    ¡°Like the sentinels ¡ª uh, that is, the ghouls that the enforcers control,¡± Peter said.

    ¡°Exactly,¡± Norah said with an approving nod. ¡°You catch on quick.¡±

    "There are theories that there might need to be a Type where a living body and undead element vie for control of a host. We''re not sure how to classify vampires, and crops might qualify," Norah waved a dismissive hand, "but don''t worry about that."

    Peter breathed a sigh of relief.

    ¡°That¡¯s it. Are you ready to see how fast you can classify?¡±

    ¡°Um ¡ª ¡±

    Before Peter could ask for clarification, Norah shot off, ¡°The sentinels that guard Rahashalian territory, what are they and why? Go!¡±

    ¡°Okay, you just said this,¡± Peter said as he tried to navigate the flow chart he had drawn in his head. ¡°Their state is stagnant because they just stand there until called to action.¡±

    ¡°Yes. And?

    ¡°They''re not corroded or fresh, so they¡¯re Sustained?¡±

    ¡°What about their Type?¡±

    ¡°Um ¡­ ghouls? That¡¯s it. They¡¯re stagnant, sustained ghouls, or sus-stag ghouls.¡±

    ¡°Very good,¡± a newcomer''s voice said. ¡±Only, it''s way too slow. Your team is dead.¡±

    ¡°Doctor Aarts!¡± Norah said.

    A portly, heavily mustached man in a white coat hanging open over a suit and vest with a gold pocket watch chain approached, careful to stop far enough away from Peter. The doctor wore a bowler cap, and his forehead folded into a glare as he scrutinized Peter.

    ¡°Van Seur. This is Doctor Fabian Aarts, the very creator of the classification system,¡± Norah said formally.

    ¡°Yes, yes, Van Seur is it?¡± Doctor Aarts said sharply. ¡°Please smile and wait for the flash.¡±

    Without further warning, the doctor drew a pistol from his lab coat and shot Peter in the head.

    The effect was so jarring that Peter couldn¡¯t cry out before he hit the ground. Once he oriented himself, he was sitting on the floor, propped up by his palms behind him.

    ¡°What?¡± he said, the shock reverberating through his body, but otherwise unharmed.

    ¡°Interesting.¡± Doctor Aarts had a pencil and a paper pad and wrote observations down.

    ¡°My floor!¡± Norah shrieked. ¡°Doctor Aarts, this tomb is my training ground. Do you not have enough room for research in your tomb?¡±

    ¡°My apologies, Norah,¡± the doctor said, not bothering to look up. ¡°I just don¡¯t think this little worm would be very compliant if I didn¡¯t catch him by surprise.¡±

    Little worm? What?

    The doctor flipped out the canister casing in his pistol and loaded in another.

    He shot Peter in the leg this time, and Peter cried out as the shell tore through his calf. Less than three seconds later, the pain was gone, and Peter jumped to his feet. ¡±What was that for?¡± he demanded.

    ¡°Research,¡± the doctor said casually before filling out more notes.

    ¡°You called me a little worm! Do I know you?¡± Peter demanded, resentfully.

    ¡°No, but I know you. You¡¯re the kind of worm who will get in the way of progress for a little power,¡± Fabian snapped. ¡°Captain Tobias told me you refused to give him the armband. If you know what is good for you ¡ª no, for humanity ¡ª you would give it to more capable hands!¡± the doctor loaded in another thick slug.

    ¡°Doctor!¡± Norah cried. ¡°Don¡¯t ¡ª¡±

    ¡°Yeah, your floor. I¡¯ll have an assistant clean it up.¡±

    ¡°Not my floor, you retchgasket,¡± she hissed, her tiny frame quivering with rage. ¡°Them! Over there! Who let them in?¡±

    the doctor turned to see where the coach was pointing. Three men in dark clothes and plumed hats lounged at the entrance of the training tomb.

    ¡°Rot,¡± the doctor cursed. ¡°How much did they see?¡±

    ¡°I don''t know,¡± Norah spat, glowering at the three figures. ¡°But maybe you should exercise your experiment in a more controlled environment.¡±

    ¡°Who are they?¡± Peter asked, frowning at the fresh tears in his new trousers.

    ¡°They were the King¡¯s Cell,¡± Norah said. ¡°Now they¡¯re mercenaries contracted to Nine Fingers. We are seriously lacking manpower, and they¡¯re extraordinarily competent.¡±

    ¡°Thieves and bandits,¡± the doctor injected, bitterly.

    It was clear that neither the trainer nor the doctor liked the three men who observed them from the doorway.

    Being discovered was suboptimal, sure, but on the whole Peter was significantly more bothered about being shot repeatedly, point blank. It was clear that Doctor Aarts thought of Peter in much the same light the captain did. Peter tried to push down his growing resentment.

    ¡°Doctor,¡± Peter said, finally, ¡°I will cooperate with whatever testing you need me to do. I¡¯ll even let you shoot me if that¡¯s what it takes.¡± He shivered as he said those words out loud, remembering the sensation of his own splintering bone, but forced himself to continue. ¡°However, your timing and entry are openly disrespectful to my coach.¡± Peter winced. ¡°No offense.¡±

    Doctor Aarts looked at Peter sharply, with fresh curiosity. His lips curled ever so slightly in approval. Norah looked quickly down at her hands, but Peter saw the faintest hint of triumph in her posture. ¡°Well, err ¡­ He¡¯s right, Norah. Maybe my entry was a little uncalled for,¡± the doctor looked at her apologetically. ¡°I¡¯ll wait my turn and have an assistant clean the blood off your floor.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t bother,¡± Peter said. ¡°I¡¯ll take care of it.¡±

    The doctor¡¯s expression softened a little bit, as if he felt that he owed Peter a reevaluation.

    Peter smiled apologetically and shrugged. His mother taught him to always be polite and kind, and as a kid, Peter did well. It had largely made up for his scarce list of close friends, but adults usually liked him. A well-behaved boy was a good boy in their eyes. He carried that distant fondness from his elders into his youth, and now he hoped it would help him in his old age.

    ¡°You will cooperate?¡± the doctor asked. ¡°What if I need to skin you?¡±

    Peter shivered. ¡°Do you?¡±

    ¡°There is an easier way. Give me the band. Then skinning may not be necessary.¡±

    Peter stepped back defensively. ¡°Commandant Van Graif gave me orders never to take it off,¡± he apologized. ¡°If you can get him to approve, then I¡¯ll do it.¡±

    Doctor Aarts growled. ¡°Van Graif is wrong.¡±

    Norah frowned.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I can¡¯t do that unless I get orders to do so.¡±

    A vein overshadowed by the doctor''s bowler had bulged dangerously.

    ¡°Doctor, I don¡¯t want any ill feelings between us. I respect men of study, and I think what you do is fascinating. But I received an order.¡±

    ¡°Where was this fierce obedience when Tobias asked you to hand it in?¡± Doctor A¡¯arts asked, folding his arms. ¡°It seems you only obey when it suits you.¡±

    ¡°That was different.¡± Peter tried. ¡°I had to ¡ª¡±

    ¡°Save your friend? Like I said, only obedient when it suits you,¡± the doctor turned and stomped off, and Peter instantly began to dread his upcoming research session.

    ¡°It was supposed to be him,¡± Norah said. Her voice was flat and cold.

    Peter looked at her. She said it so chillingly.

    ¡°He was going to get the court weapon. He has been preparing for it. No doubt he sees you as a thief.¡±

    Peter nodded. That made a lot more sense. He couldn¡¯t exactly say he blamed the doctor. He was sure he would have acted the same if he had planned and prepared for something this big, only to have a stranger step in and take it in his place.

    ¡°Hey! Peep show is over!¡± Norah barked at the three men standing by the entrance. Her hooks gleamed in the gaslight of the lanterns on the wall. ¡°Get out of my burrow.¡±

    The men stood for a second, then, one by one, turned to leave deliberately. The message was clear. They acted on their own time and only went because they wanted to.

    ¡°Norah,¡± Peter asked. ¡°How do you kill a ghoul?¡±

    ¡°Easy. You just get close to them and touch them. With your Bedorven, it should be easy. It¡¯s the rest of us who have to strategize.¡±

    ¡°But how do you kill them?¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± Norah asked. ¡°You are a weapon.¡±

    ¡°I just want to understand how they work. What they really are.¡±

    ¡°Okay ¡­¡± Norah began, ticking off on her fingers. ¡°The best way to kill a ghoul is with a cannon.¡±

    Peter didn¡¯t expect that. ¡°Seriously?¡±

    ¡°Well, yeah. Bombs work, too. You want to kill them from as far away as possible and destroy the body if you can. They don¡¯t die. Unless you hit their heart.¡±

    ¡°Their heart?¡± Peter asked. ¡°But why?¡±

    Norah shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Even if you cut off their head or damage any other organs, they keep coming.¡±

    ¡°Why don¡¯t they die?¡± Peter asked. ¡°If your body is damaged badly enough, it should die. How do they survive?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Norah said. ¡°I have no idea. I don¡¯t think anybody does, but you might want to ask the doctor when you meet him. He¡¯ll have theories.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think he¡¯ll be in a sharing mood,¡± Peter said, wryly.

    ¡°Yeah ¡­¡± Norah agreed. ¡°Probably not.¡±

    Peter started thinking, as he always did. ¡°Is there somewhere I could find out more about them? Another manual, perhaps?¡±

    ¡°If only there was. The courts haven''t been around for long enough for us to know much of anything about them.¡±

    ¡°Seriously?¡± Peter grew doubtful. ¡°How is it that we don¡¯t know anything about them after all these years?¡±

    ¡°All these years?¡± Norah looked confused. ¡°Van Seur, how long do you think the courts have been here?¡±

    Peter shrugged. ¡°I feel like I¡¯m two hundred, so I don¡¯t know, fifty or so years at least.¡±

    Norah tried a friendly smile, but it slid toward pity. ¡°Van Seur, the courts came six months ago.¡±

 7 Expedited Training

    Peter stepped back, buffeted by the wind of an unexpected reality. Gravity¡¯s weight seemed to double. His brow knit in confusion, and he examined the back of his liver-spotted hand. Norah was wrong. Only six months? That didn¡¯t make any sense.

    ¡°What?¡± Peter asked in disbelief. ¡°No, that¡¯s ¡­ that¡¯s not possible. I¡¯ve spent my entire life in Stalpia. I¡¯ve grown old there.¡±

    Norah''s eyes softened, and she tilted her head. "Van Seur, how much can you remember as a crop? Do you recall any details? Can you describe the time you were there?"

    Peter shook his head. This was unfeasible; how could Court Rahashel¡¯s arrival have been so recent? "Not much. Everything was a blur."

    "So, can you honestly say you were there for decades?" Norah asked, her dark eyes serious, her voice low. It was as if she¡¯d had this conversation many times before.

    "I ¡­" Peter couldn''t recall the amount of time that passed. "But all the rot; my age. I''m ancient!"

    "I don''t fully understand it, but the rings the crops wear are slow-leech rings. They''ve been draining you of your youth. They made you age decades in months. By our reports, they also distort the wearer''s perception of time."

    "My youth? But why?" Peter asked.

    "What do you think are in the tiles we plan to steal?" Norah asked. "The tiles are like gas canisters but store time, or potential time. Your time. The time they sucked out of the crop. The dead are fueled with the time of the living."

    The air suddenly thickened. Peter reached back, grabbed tight handfuls of white hair, and slowly began to sway back and forth. She was right. His hair just barely reached his shoulders. It should have been much longer if he hadn''t cut it in decades.

    Norah looked at him sympathetically, but her sympathy couldn''t recall or remedy the truth. Peter''s hands trembled as he filled in the empty spaces.

    If Court Rahashel managed to conquer Calacray and kill another court in less than a year, he would be much more capable than Peter was first led to believe. That meant that stopping him now carried much more weight. If he turned on the rest of Nosmeria, it would be a matter of effort, not time.

    Peter''s hands balled into fists. Peter didn''t consider himself especially attached to tangible objects, but his time? Peter ground his teeth. He had been violated. Rahashel had stolen his life. Then, an unsettled chill fell on him. If Peter had aged over fifty years in six months, Iris didn''t have years or even months left. After Peter''s accidental leeching, she was looking at days to live.

    "This is bad," Peter muttered. "So very bad!" Was the tomb shrinking? How could he feel so confined in such an open area?

    "Not many have hope," Norah agreed. ¡°Nine Fingers is small. Few are willing to fight; many even surrender themselves to be leeched willingly, hoping to end the nightmare.¡±

    "We need to hit the vault now," Peter said, his mind filled with thoughts of Iris. He couldn''t bear to see her hurt, not again. In their childhood, fear had held him back, paralyzing him and preventing him from acting. Now, it was bureaucracy and administration. Why was he always so helpless?

    "The plan has been in the works for a long time, Van Suer," Norah assured him. "An operation requires planning, timing, set up, and extraction, and many other logistic elements. You don''t have long to train. We need you in the field now. We could have used you six months ago."

    "Norah, if time can be leeched, can it be taken back?" Peter asked. Rahashel had stolen his time. The loss was palpable, like a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. He felt sick. This was significantly worse than losing the coat his mother had given him for his birthday.

    "Doctor Aarts thinks so, but ¡­"

    "You don''t know?" Peter guessed.

    "We don''t know."

    "You''re gambling a lot. You can''t wage a war on such little data!" Peter said pointedly.

    "There''s no need to be aggressive with me," Norah looked up at him sternly. "We try our best."

    "Do you?" Peter asked. "All this ¡­" he motioned his hands to the weapons on the wall. "Shoot them with a cannon? Run? Hide? How do you even know what you know?"

    "Well, Doctor Aarts ¡ª"

    "Yes. Doctor Aarts. I met him once, you know," Peter said, shuddering at the memory of being shot only minutes before. "One man who has spent the last six months studying them. Is that all you have?"

    "Yes," Norah said.

    "We''re doomed," Peter said quietly, as realization sank in fully. "An undead god crushes one nation and cripples another in months, and a scattered undermanned group of renegades thinks they can bring him down on the strength of little to no data."

    "At least we try!" Norah snapped. ¡°Julleck, Macbare, Astria, Vorsabia ¡­ All the city magistrates do is hide behind walls and pretend the end isn''t coming. We fight because no one else will. So don''t belittle us for our hope. It''s all that keeps us going."

    "Oh," Peter said, feeling horrible for accidentally giving offense. "That came out wrong. I''m sorry. What I meant was we need to be much more confrontational and smart."

    "Peter, we have lost almost all of our operatives. We have been confrontational."

    "But now we have this," Peter said, tapping the armlet through his coat sleeve. The fabric of both his shirt and coat completely blocked the violet luminescent glyphs. "We need to keep it in use where it counts most."

    "Right. We have picked off several high-profile liches and saved hundreds of crops," Norah said. ¡°Do you really think you have a chance against Court Rahashel now, totally unprepared?"

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    "Goodness, no," Peter said. ¡°Your hit on the time vault is brilliant. But why on earth haven''t you raided the library?"

    "The ¡­ library?" Norah asked.

    "Every time Court Rahashel appoints a new overseer, they study and are trained in the library. They have books there, Court books. I have no idea what might be on them, but I have heard overseers mention records."

    "How is it you didn''t even notice that only a short time had passed, but you remember these other details?"

    Peter shrugged. "General things are fuzzy, but some details slipped through the haze."

    "That''s convenient," Norah said doubtfully.

    "It¡ªIt is," Peter agreed, suddenly puzzled. In his damaged memories, he could see the library clearly.

    "Van Seur?"

    For a moment, another clear image of a tome with a title of glowing purple glyphs sitting on a pedestal inside the library danced in his mind. The library''s interior was unrecognizable from when Peter had gone as a student. The shelves and interior had been changed and reorganized. Curious, Peter had never entered the library as a crop. He had no point of origin for the memory. He could have sworn the Bedorven vibrated almost imperceptibly on his arm for a moment.

    "I think we need something in the library," Peter said.

    "What?" Norah asked.

    Peter felt the icy chill of certainty snake down his spine. "I''m not sure, but it''s important."

    Norah studied him suspiciously for a moment. "Van Seur, if that band is exerting any undue influence over your will, you must tell me."

    "What?" Peter said in surprise, not having considered the possibility. If a leech ring could affect his mind, why not a court Bedorven? But this felt different. "No, I don''t think ¡ª ¡±

    "Good," Norah cut in. "Because your plans and ideas are irrelevant. You belong to Nine Fingers. You will execute directives and comply with orders. You will not decide for yourself what''s important."

    "Yes, okay," Peter raised his hands defensively.

    "If that thing steers you into an enemy position and falls into enemy hands, everyone would be at risk. We would have to face two courts instead of one."

    "Yes, ma''am," Peter said, taking a step back. Norah had stepped dangerously close to the edge of his six-foot leech radius, and the air between them was beginning to ripple ever so slightly, like a wave off the dirt on a hot day. She wasn''t close enough to see purple light, but Peter knew he was siphoning fumes of her time.

    "We''ve wasted time we don''t have. My mission is to get you as trained as I can."

    Peter stepped back again.The air cleared. The shimmer disappeared. "You''re right, of course," Peter said. I promise I''ll focus on my training."

    Norah relaxed. "Very good."

    "So what will it be? My training, I mean?"

    "You''re going to run," Norah said. "Laps around the tomb."

    "Seriously?" Peter asked, as all his expectations were instantly crushed.

    "Yes. According to Captain Visser, you don''t seem to have any physical enhancements ¡ª aside from the fact that you can''t be killed. So we need to work on your conditioning. Getting up to your targets is necessary, and being able to retreat when called out is especially important for you."

    "But ¡­" Peter started.

    "Run!"

    The tiny trainer stood firm.

    Peter didn''t hesitate. He ran.

    Peter never liked running. Ever. It made his lungs feel like acid and fire, left him winded, and only reminded him of how unathletic he was. He had even tried several times to work past that stage. Everyone told him that if he did it enough, the burning lungs and the aching side wouldn''t come, but he never got past that point.

    Ten steps in, he felt an ache gnawing at his side. He quickly grew irritated. He really hated running.

    "Faster!" Norah barked; unlike her body, her high voice was big but somehow also small as it didn''t carry far.

    Peter growled in annoyance. He made his first lap, gasping for air. He couldn''t keep this up for long.

    "More effort!" Norah cried, and Peter growled as he settled into a casual jog. Through ragged breaths, he gasped.

    "Come on! Feral ghouls will have you in seconds."

    Peter stopped and doubled over, hands on his knees. ¡°I ¡­ can¡¯t ¡­ just ¡­ will ¡­ myself ¡­ on ¡­¡± He gasped.

    Norah frowned, disappointed. "Maybe we can motivate you."

    "With what?" Peter panted. "A drink? Do you have water?"

    Norah crossed the wall and drew a pistol from a rack. "You wanted the carrot? I was thinking more along the lines of the stick.¡± Her pinprick eyes gleamed in the gaslight. She cursed softly. ¡°Oh, my poor floor."

    Peter ran despite his ragged breath. As bad as burning lunges and an aching side were. Bullets felt much worse. He confirmed that when Norah shot him in the shoulder for falling behind pace. Peter screamed and fell down, but his shoulder wound was gone in moments. He felt the ice-cold slug lodged in his flesh. The foreign entity sealed in his body made him feel woozy.

    "I didn''t say you could stop!" Norah barked.

    Peter got up and threw up.

    "My floor!" she lamented as she reloaded the weapon. "You''re cleaning it all up, you little lich!"

    Peter ran, wishing that, with every step, he hadn''t been born.

    With a shriek of rapidly decompressed gas, she shot him in the hand. Peter cried out and waited the agonizing moments until it returned to normal. Peter felt phlegm build up in his throat and sucked air into his lungs like a clogged snorkel. He hacked up mucus, then spat it on the ground and was shot for it. He didn''t even slow down that time!

    "My floor! Van Seur, I swear ¡­"

    Peter ran his old body threatening to give out, he just couldn''t keep pace anymore. What was worse, the bullet lodged in his shoulder grated uncomfortably against bone.

    He slowed down, and Norah shot him in the back. He went down and choked for a second and then died.

    He sat up.

    "I didn''t say stop!"

    Peter got up and sprinted. His lungs didn''t burn, and the bullet was gone from his shoulder. It had burned away the moment he died. He sped around the tomb one full time before his lungs started to burn. He got around five more times without getting shot despite the burn in his lungs when an idea dawned on him. He stopped and pulled another pistol from the wall.

    "Van Seur! What do you think you''re doing?" Norah asked. Her hands tensed on her pistol. This time, her voice was filled with fear, as though she thought he might turn on her for some payback.

    Peter didn''t know how to operate the weapon, but he guessed from the weight it was loaded.

    "Van Seur? Van Seur!"

    Peter bit his lip painfully, then said a word his mother would have been disappointed to hear. He pushed the pistol against his temple and fired.

    His death was relatively painless as it was instant. He managed to catch himself before hitting the ground, then ran. As he had suspected, his lungs no longer burned! It was as though he were starting fresh. The instant kill shot had healed everything, including his exhausted lungs and aching legs.

    He cackled with deranged satisfaction as he made it around the long tomb twice before getting winded. His old body ached and groaned less, and his energy dropped a little slower.

    He stopped a safe distance from Norah and glared at her through triumphant eyes.

    "What are you doing?" she demanded.

    Peter felt sick as he hoisted the pistol. "This is my recovery!" He explained. He then realized he gripped the weapon in an iron grip and had to force himself to relax. He may have been immortal, but his mind and body were not okay with what he had just done.

    "What?" Norah asked, shaking her head in bewilderment.

    Peter ground his teeth and took a deep breath before explaining. "If I''m seriously harmed, my wounds instantly recover, but fatigue stays."

    "Unfortunately, we don''t have much time to rest," Norah said.

    "We won''t need it," Peter continued. "If I die, everything heals, even bullets seem to burn out of me. My energy seems to restore itself."

    "That violates so many scientific laws," Norah said as she subtly shied away from Peter.

    "How long does it take to build a fighting physique?" Peter asked.

    "It depends on your body. It takes years for some." Norah said, "Longer still if you''re older."

    "Not anymore," Peter said, though his hand trembled as he contemplated the implication. "I recover instantly if I die. I need you to show me how to load this."

    Norah glanced at the pistol and then winced as she caught on. "My poor floor ¡­"

 8 The Domestics

    After the full day¡¯s work in the new training routine, Peter felt numb. He¡¯d spent the better part of an hour scrubbing blood off the training ground floor¡ª his blood. Based on the amount of blood on the floor, he shouldn''t have physically had enough to keep his organs functioning, yet somehow he did. Peter couldn''t begin to start on a theory on where the blood that now ran through his veins came from.

    Peters scrubbed, his arms halfway up to his elbows were covered in orange foam of blood-soaked bubbles. He sat up and stretched his back but noticed his hands trembling. He took a deep breath to steady them, but the metallic scent of blood, mixed with the fruity smell of premernox gas, triggered something in him.

    Peter lurched, grabbed a bucket, and tried to throw up, but he had already done so several times, so nothing came out. He hacked, gagged, and spat before regaining composure. Physically, Peter knew he was perfectly healthy. He felt the best he had since he had lost his leech ring, so why did he feel so sick?

    Train, reset, train, reset. Peter clenched his hands into tight fists to stop the trembling.

    Norah judged the most efficient points of the workout before making him reset by shooting him fatally. He felt like he had jammed six months of training and recovery into one day, which ¡­ he had. Peter could feel the effect of the training. People had told him they felt stronger after a few weeks of exercise, but he never stuck with it long enough to agree with them. If only they could feel the difference of six months of training in one day. That felt amazing, but also ¡ª

    Peter twitched. Again. Every time he thought about dying or the violence it ¡ª twitch, there it was again.

    Peter shuddered.

    The tomb door opened behind him, and he quickly resumed scrubbing. He didn''t want Norah to see him taking a break. What time was it? The tomb had no windows, but it was probably late at night. Peter looked over his shoulder and was surprised to see not Norah but a man with dark hair and round, firm features. The man had a muscular physique, which showed through his grey button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his thick hairy forearms.

    The newcomer walked in and examined a weapon rack. Peter turned back to scrubbing the floor. It was late, but he wasn''t physically tired. Peter had died an hour ago, and now it felt like he had just woken up. His mind was exhausted; he wanted to sit in the corner and stare at the wall.

    Peter couldn''t help but feel a grim sense of satisfaction. He had discovered that Court Rahashel had more power than he thought and that Nine Fingers and Iris had less time than he had believed. So, Peter upped his timetable as well. Sure, he felt like he had cheated to get here, but in war, cheating was good, right?

    The man plunged a brush into the bucket, settled next to Peter, and started scrubbing. Peter flinched. The man offered no explanation and only eyed the floor with sorrowful eyes.

    "Can I help you?" Peter asked.

    The man scrubbed blood off of the floor without answering.

    Peter shrugged and returned to his task before yelping and scampering away. "Stay back! I''ll leech you!"

    The man had been right next to Peter and didn''t look any older. There was also no light or noise suggesting that he had been leeched.

    "What? How ¡ª¡± Peter gawked. He managed to get close without leeching him! The whole ''shun Peter'' thing was eating at him. How did the leech work? Was it because Peter wasn''t thinking about the man when it happened?

    "Your body," the man said, "is a gift." He looked sadly at the bloodstained floor. "Treat it well." His vibrant green eyes glistened.

    Peter didn''t know this man but knew what green eyes meant. "You''re a domestic?" he said, noting that the man didn''t wear a domestic uniform.

    The man nodded. "I''m Julian Gerrets, High Steward of the House of Nyamar."

    Peter''s jaw dropped. "Son of the High Steward Bram Gerrets ¡ª " Peter stopped. The House of Nyamar had only one high steward. "Your father?"

    "Court Rasminfrey killed him," Julian¡¯s eyes hardened.

    "I''m sorry," Peter said. Julian was probably the youngest man to ever be steward of the House.

    "One of Rahashel''s liches killed my mother," Peter said in an awkward effort to sympathize with the high steward. Then, he considered the implications. "If a court killed your father, does that mean the House is fighting against the courts?"

    "No," Julian said. "Rasminfrey was testing our stewardship''s limits when he killed my father."

    "But you have to fight!" Peter exclaimed. "If anyone can fight the courts, it''s the House! You have the power."

    "There are many who agree with you," Julian said. "Myself included."

    "So help us!" Peter said. "Don''t you lead the House?"

    "Nyamar leads the House. He has appointed us to oppose Atagginite boon practitioners, not the courts."

    Peter regarded Julian dumbfounded. "The Ataggin threat is nearly nonexistent. Courts slaughter and harvest human life every day. Surely, there is some point where your stewardship overlaps."

    "I look for that point every day," Julian said.

    Peter''s mother would have blindly trusted the Steward Words. She was a devout scullery, a rank of ordinary followers not endowed with domestic abilities. Peter was technically a junior footman in the House records, but he had given Nyamar little thought before and even less after getting the court band.

    "I see your doubt," Julian said. "Unfortunately, very few trust in Nyamar''s protection anymore. Not since the courts came."

    "Is it unreasonable to trust his protection if he doesn''t allow his house to protect us?"

    "Fair point," Julian said, ruefully.

    "What does Nyamar say about the courts?" Peter asked, a note of challenge in his voice. He was suspicious of an emperor no one had seen, especially considering his intolerance of those who would use his power. The power of boons was a secret the House guarded jealously. If anyone outside the House utilized this power hunter, domestics were dispatched to end them. "Did he send them?"

    Julian bit back a response, and his eyes hardened for a moment. "I don''t know."

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    "You don''t know?" Peter asked incredulously. "Doesn''t the high steward commune with Nyamar?"

    "I''m not very good at it?" Julian said, tentatively. He scrubbed harder at a stubborn blood stain on the floor.

    "The high steward isn''t good at communicating with the House''s master?"

    "Tell you what, how about you don''t condemn me for being a bad steward, and I won''t condemn you for being a bad court."

    Peter staggered back, looking at the domestic in surprise. There was no way he had the clearance to know that Peter was a court and Peter was charged with keeping that secret.

    "I''m a lich," he tried, his voice sounding unconvincing even to his own ears.

    Julian''s eyes took on a semi-luminescent sheen, and Peter stepped back. He knew a domestic''s eyes could indicate when they used their boons.

    "I''m a bad steward," Julian agreed, his voice taking a new edge. "I never wanted my father''s mantel. I''m a high steward but also a man who is imperfect and flawed. The only reason I act as steward is that, for some terribly ironic reason, Nyamar has seen fit to appoint me, and when the master calls, I follow."

    "I wasn''t trying to be rude," Peter muttered.

    "I''m a terrible steward, but I am a good domestic. I see the band, Peter."

    Peter instinctively covered the metal armband, still covered by his sleeve, but he knew the gesture did nothing to hide it from the steward''s sight. Peter knew little about seers, but definitive studies proved they could perceive depths and possibilities.

    Peter considered that for a second. Having the high steward in front of him was a rare opportunity.

    "Could you, uh ¡ª" Peter couldn''t bring himself to ask.

    "You want me to search you?" Julian asked, his eyes glinting in the low tomb light.

    Peter nodded. He knew people had spiritual defenses, or Iolas, to protect them against domestic or Atagginite boons. Julian could search Peter with his permission, or if Peter tried to harm the high steward, he would make himself vulnerable to his boons. "Do it," he agreed.

    Peter was aware that as soon as he said those words, Julian''s eyes stopped looking at him and started looking into him. Peter gasped, the hairs on his neck standing. He would have been less exposed if he was naked. Julian looked into the fledgling court.

    Julian''s eyes flicked back and forth as he studied something imperceptible within Peter.

    "What do you see?" Peter asked.

    "I''m sorry for what you''ve lost; I understand what you hope to gain and fear what price you''ll have to pay."

    "Will I save Iris?" Peter asked eagerly.

    "I don''t see the future. I''m reading your anima sequence." Julian''s eyes locked onto something in Peter, and his brow furrowed.

    "What is it?" Peter asked breathlessly.

    "You are probably the least capable person alive to wield that court band."

    Peter''s confidence shattered.

    "That or the best," Julian said, unsure of himself. "You can''t access the band''s power, can you?"

    "I can leech," Peter said to correct the domestic. "I''m immortal."

    "A few preliminary programs, and a tiny fraction of what you should be able to do," Julian said dismissively.

    "How did you know?" Peter asked. "Why doesn''t it work for me?"

    Julian''s eyes returned to a standard vibrant green without luminesce. "I''m not sure."

    "What do you think?" Peter demanded, hoping for better than vague hints.

    "I think," Julian contemplated. "That Nine Fingers will fail if you''re their trump card."

    Peter deflated. "So what, there''s no hope?"

    "Hope is dangerous," Julian said. "It''s dangerous to you, Nine Fingers, and the courts. It''s your best weapon, and it''s far better than that band."

    "So why don''t you sound like you have hope?" Peter demanded. "If the House fought with us, we could have hope. What hope do the rest of us have if you hide behind your stewardships and do nothing?"

    "The House of Nyamar without stewardships is just Ataggin," Julian said. Ataggin was an ancient fallen empire. Attaganite was a more contemporary term for non-House boon wielders.

    "What if Atagginites offered to protect us?" Peter asked. "How would you feel knowing Ataggin protected us better than the House?"

    "Be careful," Julian warned. ¡°I fear a resurgence of the Ataggin Empire more than the courts.¡±

    Peter laughed incredulously. "That''s ridiculous!"

    "You only think that because you can''t begin to comprehend the true ramifications of yielding the master''s power without his authority," Julian said.

    "Is this Nyamar''s power?" Peter asked, pulling his sleeve back to reveal the band.

    Julian didn''t answer.

    "I didn''t think so, and even if I am the worst and weakest court, I''m not going to abandon Nosmeria to them. I don''t know how to fight, but I will fight. I don''t know how to resist, but I¡¯ll try. If the House can''t be a source of hope, then under Nyamar, I will."

    Julian raised an eyebrow.

    "Or maybe I won''t. But I will die before I stand back and watch."

    "You''re an idiot, kid," Julian said with a smile. "But you''re brave; you give me hope."

    "So fight with me," Peter pleaded.

    The door to the tomb opened, and a group of domestics entered, including the man and woman Peter had seen in the command tomb. They wore domestic uniforms, complete with white aprons.

    "High Steward?" the woman called, eyeing the remaining blood to be cleaned off the floor in confusion. Her dark hair was pulled back tight and hidden by a white mobcap. Both she and the man beside her shared long faces with pointed chins and wide-set brown eyes. They were likely related.

    "Stay back," Julian warned. Apparently, he wasn''t confident his protection from Peter''s reach would extend to them.

    "Peter, this is my staff. That''s Hunter Maid Esmee, a pulsist, and her brother, Hunter Valet Albert, a mover."

    Siblings, then. Peter nodded. His hunch was correct. "I saw them earlier in the command tomb," Peter said with a wave.

    "You''re a lich?" Esmee said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "That''s what they called you."

    "Yes," Peter chuckled nervously.

    "You can harness Court power?" she demanded.

    "I can," Peter said. "But it''s nothing as cool as Nyamarian boons!" he put in quickly.

    One of the valets, a man Peter didn''t know, had an athletic figure and brown curly hair that spilled into his eyes. He stepped out of the doorway. "Don''t mind Esmee," he said with a good-humored smile. ¡°We all have good reason to be suspicious of your kind."

    "This is Hunter Valet Hendrik, my slammist."

    Peter''s eyes widened. Despite Hendrick''s athletic build, he would be able to do physical feats far beyond what the laws of physics dictated possible. Of all the disciplines, most kids played as slammists in the schoolyard.

    The last two stepped into the light. One man was lithe, with sullen eyes. He kept his black-gloved hands buried in his pockets. The other was a tall woman who walked with excellent posture. Ringlets of honey-brown hair hung down from her white bonnet.

    "This is Valet Gerard, a surfer, and Maid Ava, a clampist."

    Peter gawked. All five hunter disciplines were present, each with subtly unnaturally green eyes.

    Suddenly, Peter''s stomach dropped, intruding like a snake slithering down the back of his shirt. He was isolated with a complete set of hunter domestics and the High Steward himself. He didn''t know what they were doing there. What if he was their mission? The House jealously guarded their power; who knew if they weren''t expanding their reach by taking a Bedorven from a court that didn''t know how to harness its abilities.

    "Peter," Julian said cautiously, pulling Peter from his thoughts." Peter turned to him, but his eyes flickered to the weapons on the wall.

    Julian held up a placating hand. His eyes looked into Peter.

    It wasn''t intuition; Julian had continued searching Peter and could likely see his thoughts or at least read his panic.

    "Peter," Julian said again, his voice even. "We''re not here to hurt you."

    Peter''s lungs seemed strained, and his eyes flickered about the room, seeking a non-barred escape. He twitched. They were going to rush him. They were going to attack with their boons, and they were going to make him give them the Bedorven.

    Hendrik flicked his head, throwing curls from his eyes. "We don''t have a stewardship to hunt liches," he said lightheartedly, clearly not recognizing Peter¡¯s panic without the context of Julian''s seeing abilities.

    "Peter," Julian said again, ignoring the slammist. "It''s okay."

    Peter looked at Julian for several loud heartbeats, memories of ghouls and vampires flashing as they tore into him. Something beyond logic soothed Peter''s worries as the air grew clear again. Julian gave Peter a reassuring look and held it momentarily before turning to his staff. "What brought you here?"

    Hunter Maid Esmee spoke up. "High Butler Anton is here."

    Peter''s jaw dropped for a second time. High Butler Anton Dekker was a legendary master pulsist who had developed innovative pulsing techniques. The two most important, and arguably most powerful, domestics were both at the Nine Fingers tomb.

    Julian looked at Peter apologetically. "If you''ll excuse me. This meeting has been coming for a long time."

    "What''s happening?" Peter asked, wondering for the first time about the extent of the House''s affiliation with Nine Fingers. If it wasn¡¯t for him, what was it?

    "We''re going to discuss whether the House will accompany Nine Fingers on their next assignment."

    "What about your stewardship?" Peter asked, his voice much more excited than he had intended.

    "Peter, it''s been a pleasure to meet you," Julian said. "You already know I''m a poor steward, but what you don''t know about me is that I am the master of finding loopholes."

 9 Research

    Peter finished scrubbing the training borrow floor as fast as he could, though the task lasted well into the night. He was curious to know what the domestics decided, but refused to abandon his task. Finally throwing the blood-tainted soap water outside, he stretched out his back.

    Where were the domestics gathering? He hadn¡¯t been given instructions or a bed. Not that he¡¯d be able to sleep. How could he? Every time he reset, he felt rested and renewed. A bullet to the skull was as good as a long night¡¯s rest. From that twisted perspective, he wouldn¡¯t need to sleep until well into tomorrow.

    In the dark, the gentle purple glow of the writing in the court band penetrated the fabric of his sleeve faintly. He ran his finger along the engraving through his coat, felt the impressions, and sighed. He had also promised to let Doctor Aarts run some tests on him. The doctor said he would skin Peter, so that wasn¡¯t an appointment he was anxious to honor. He would check in on the domestics first.

    Looking around, Peter saw a pair of sentries chatting in the dark. They lowered their voices, staring at him in apprehension.

    Peter pushed aside the awkward silence and approached them, making sure to stay at a safe distance.

    ¡°Excuse me,¡± he said. ¡°I heard the House of Nyamar is having a conference. Do you know where they are?¡±

    The men only stared at him.

    ¡°You¡¯re a lich?¡± the older one asked, after a lengthy pause, completely ignoring Peter¡¯s question.

    ¡°Yes,¡± Peter said.

    ¡°Why are you fighting with us?¡±

    ¡°Because I am one of you.¡± Peter held up his left hand, showing the missing finger.

    The guards looked at each other. The speaker held up his left hand, showing a nub on his shortened ring finger. ¡°The name¡¯s Van Zon.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m Van Seur.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m Beerens,¡± the other guard said. Beerens was a short man with a rural drawl and a chin that rounded upward. He stepped forward and offered his hand.

    Peter stepped away. ¡°Don¡¯t get close to me. I¡¯ll leech you. It¡¯s not a threat or anything; I just can¡¯t control it.¡±

    Beerens stopped, studying Peter intently. ¡°Are you sure you¡¯re one of us?¡±

    Peter nodded.

    ¡°I can¡¯t say I trust you. But I hope it¡¯s true.¡±

    Peter knew it was only fair. Whatever he was, it would be something these men had never encountered before. Their hesitance was to be expected.

    ¡°How old are you, Van Zon?¡± Peter asked the one with nine fingers. He looked to be in his early fifties.

    ¡°Thirty two. I was lucky. My father freed me soon after I became a crop. I was cropped in Horvath.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen Espen Hummel,¡± Peter said. ¡°He¡¯s in Stalpia, working as an executioner. He was your magistrate, right?¡±

    Van Zon nodded darkly. ¡°He¡¯ll get what¡¯s coming to him. Many good people were cropped when he turned Horvath over to Rahashel.¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± Peter agreed. ¡°When we turn things around, he and all the other defectors will regret throwing their lot in with Rahashel. I almost feel bad. They¡¯re probably just like you or me. They¡¯re only with Rahashel because they¡¯re scared.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re scared to,¡± Beerens said, ¡°only we didn¡¯t betray our people. Those who run to Rahashel leave their families behind.¡±

    ¡°You here at Nine Fingers are good men,¡± Peter said. ¡°You haven''t lost hope like the others.¡±

    ¡°Hope?¡± Beerens snorted. ¡°There¡¯s no way we¡¯ll win. No, I just couldn¡¯t forgive myself if I died hiding. I have a family here, you know. I must stand between them and Court Rahashel.¡±

    A sudden memory of his mother, pleading for his life, caught him off guard. Peter closed his eyes briefly and tried to breathe naturally. At least he still had someone to fight for. Iris was still on the other side of the line and didn¡¯t have much time.

    ¡°We¡¯re going to win,¡± Peter said resolutely, though inwardly, he acknowledged the arrogance of his confidence. ¡°We have to.¡±

    ¡°Hope is fleeting at this point,¡± Van Zon said. ¡°But if there is even the slightest chance we can win. I¡¯ll be here to the end.¡±

    Peter nodded, surprised by the depth of his admiration for these men. They might be simple guards, but they had a sure reason for standing out in the cold at night. Peter also had a reason, and that made him one of them.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be here too,¡± he promised.

    It was late, perhaps after midnight. Beerens and Van Zon looked bored, but they stood straight and held their weapons steady as they watched the fog creep across the frozen dirt.

    ¡°Do you know where the House of Nyamar is meeting?¡± Peter asked again.

    ¡°In one of the supply tombs. They have guards posted. I heard it¡¯s an in-house-only meeting. No visitors.¡±

    Peter¡¯s face fell slightly, and he resigned himself to make good on his agreement with the doctor. ¡°Do you guys know where Doctor Aarts would be if he is still up?¡±

    ¡°Second to last burrow,¡± Van Zon said, pointing. ¡°It¡¯s the research lab.¡±

    Peter nodded his thanks and started toward the burrow. He hoped that Doctor Aarts was asleep. Something about how the doctor had shot him, point blank, on no more than a theory, made Peter¡¯s skin itch. He¡¯d become accustomed to being shot rather quickly, but the knowledge that he was deeply disposable made him wary of additional experimentation.

    Peter approached the tomb with a white gaslight shining from the crack at the bottom of the thick door. Hesitating only momentarily, Peter rapped on the door several times and stepped away several paces.

    Moments later, the door swung outward, and Doctor Aarts glared out into the night at Peter.

    ¡°You¡¯re up,¡± Peter noted objectively.

    ¡°No shit.¡±

    Peter winced at the doctor¡¯s vulgarity.

    ¡°Well?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m here to let you do your research,¡± Peter said. ¡°As promised.¡±

    Doctor Aarts started to sigh but was interrupted by a yawn as he motioned for Peter to follow. The stout man¡¯s eyes were red and puffy, and his posture was hunched and lazy.

    Peter entered the research tomb and was instantly assailed by a wave of nausea. Peter had seen hospitals and labs before, sometimes because he was sick, others for school trips. They had been kept clean and professional. Doctor Aarts'' tomb smelt horribly of flesh decay and acrid chemicals. He quickly found the source of the smell.

    Body parts were sealed in numerous jars, floating in clear liquid. Flayed, leathery skin of various shades and tones were stretched across the walls. Horrible implements lay across tables in disorganized clutter. Human bones were arranged on several tables. As Peter looked at them, he noticed that they were wrong. Some had extra joints in the legs; others had fangs. One looked like a horrible hybrid of a man and a giant rat.

    ¡°Doctor,¡± Peter swallowed, ¡°What exactly are you going to do to me?¡±

    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    Doctor Aarts sighed and grabbed a large meat cleaver from the table.

    Peter stepped back, wide-eyed.

    Doctor Aarts snorted at the reaction, the faintest traces of mockery dancing around the corners of his mouth. He set the cleaver to the side, and picked up the pad of paper beneath it.

    ¡°I¡¯m going to ask you some questions.¡±

    ¡°Oh,¡± Peter said. ¡°Well, okay then.¡±

    ¡°How do you feel? Any different from how you did before?¡±

    ¡°Actually, no,¡± Peter said.

    ¡°Unexpected,¡± Doctor Aarts said as he jotted down notes. ¡°How far does your leech field extend? Can you change it? What does it feel like to die? Is it possible to kill you? Can you make ghouls? I need to know everything.¡±

    Peter noted that the more questions Doctor Aarts asked, the less irritated he looked and the more excited he became. The doctor¡¯s apparent fatigue also seemed to melt away.

    Peter tried his best to answer the doctor¡¯s intricate and detailed questions and Doctor Aarts frantically scribbled his answers.

    As the interview progressed, Peter found himself relaxing. Despite the grotesque nature of the lab, the doctor became engrossed in his questions.

    Finally, the doctor tore off a page of paper and a colored wax stick.

    ¡°I need you to take off the band so we can take a rubbing of the writings on it.¡±

    Peter shook his head as he recalled the commandant¡¯s definite orders to keep it on. ¡°I can¡¯t do that ¡ª commandant¡¯s orders. I can take the rubbing myself. It might be hard with one hand, but I¡¯ll do my best.¡±

    Doctor Aarts darkened slightly but nodded. ¡°The commandant is wise. Forget what I said about him being wrong earlier. I was angry.¡±

    Peter nodded in relief. He wasn¡¯t ready to confront the doctor again.

    ¡°Are there markings on the inside?¡±

    Peter rolled up his sleeve and examined the band. The gentle radiance emitting from the engravings wasn¡¯t enough to offer any real light but was enough to mark it as powerful.

    ¡°Yes. There seems to be some kind of writing covering the entire thing. Inside and out.

    ¡°Try to copy whatever you can.¡±

    The doctor left the paper and pencil on the table and stepped away, allowing Peter to retrieve them safely.

    Like a paper sleeve, Peter wrapped the sheet around his arm and rubbed the stick over the court band. It was awkward work to do with one hand, but after several tries, he managed to produce a semi-clear impression.

    He left the paper for Doctor Aarts and stepped away. Keeping a safe distance was growing increasingly annoying.

    Doctor Aarts took the paper and hurried to the back of the tomb. Peter¡¯s curiosity pushed him to follow. The far wall was covered in posters and paper with glyphs in the language on the band.

    ¡°Where did you get these writings? What does it mean?¡±

    Doctor Aarts flashed a smile at Peter, not a friendly smile, but a proud one. ¡°Come look at this.¡±

    He led Peter to a table full of glass Jars. Floating inside each one was a misshapen human heart. Some of them were small and dense. Two were elongated and purple. Another one looked like it had blossomed like a carnal flower.

    ¡°Look closely.¡± Doctor Aarts said.

    Peter leaned in and examined the hearts closely. It took him a moment, but he recognized the same kind of glyphs burned into hearts.

    ¡°These are ghoul hearts?¡± Peter guessed.

    Doctor Aarts nodded. ¡°These are undamaged hearts; we had to dig them out of restrained ghouls.

    Peter looked at them again. ¡°The ones that look alike have the same writing.¡±

    ¡°Good eye, Van Seur.¡± Doctor Aarts said. ¡°I¡¯ve dissected many of them. They have writing inside of them as well.¡± He tapped the smaller, dense ones. ¡°These are Rahashel¡¯s Sus-stag ghouls. They all have the same writing on the inside.¡±

    Stagnant, sustained ¡ª like the sentinels, Peter interpreted in his mind.¡°What does it mean?¡±

    ¡°The heart is the only vital organ in a ghoul. You can cut their heads off, and they¡¯ll keep coming. I think these glyphs are some kind of programming.¡± Doctor Aarts said. ¡°It¡¯s their life source and their brain. It links them to the hive.¡±

    ¡°Remarkable,¡± Peter said in awe, his excitement growing to match that of the doctors. ¡°Why are these hearts different?¡±

    ¡°They came from different kinds of ghouls. I¡¯ve seen some pretty fascinating things here. For example, these two came from a court known as Lady Libshee. Her ghouls have extra arms. This one ¡­¡± He tapped the first eggplant like a specimen. I extracted it from the belly of the ghoul it came from, but this

    [ Image: Ch 9.png ]

    one ¡­¡± He tapped the second one. ¡°I pulled it from an identical ghoul¡¯s head.¡±

    ¡°Why weren¡¯t they in their chests?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°Think about it. What do we do whenever one of Rahashel¡¯s ghouls attacks us?¡± Doctor Aarts asked.

    ¡°Shoot it in the ¡ª Oh. We shoot the heart,¡± Peter said as he caught on.

    ¡°So imagine now that each of Court Rahashel¡¯s ghouls had a heart in random, unpredictable locations.¡±

    ¡°They would be much more dangerous,¡± Peter said. ¡°You would have to guess where the heart is.¡±

    ¡°Exactly!¡± Doctor Aarts cried.

    ¡°But why doesn¡¯t Court Rahashel do that?¡± Peter asked. ¡°If it¡¯s so effective, why don¡¯t all courts make ghouls the same way?¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t say for certain.¡± Doctor Aarts said, ¡°Each court seems to have their individual style when creating their ghouls. I think the real reason is the cost of changing them.¡±

    ¡°Tiles?¡± Peter guessed.

    ¡°Exactly. It takes stolen time to create time, even more so to alter their physical form. Making them sprout extra arms or moving their hearts randomly. It would take much more leeched time to make and fuel a more complicated ghoul. No doubt Court Rahashel¡¯s ghouls are more economical.¡±

    ¡°So they need to decide whether to give their ghouls more power or to have more ghouls.¡±

    ¡°So it would seem.¡± Doctor Aarts said.

    ¡°Doctor,¡± Peter started, ¡°They store time in tiles. Norah said you think we might be able to take time back out of the tiles.¡±

    ¡°I do think it might be possible. I would need to get my hands on some gas blasted tiles if I wanted to test the theory.¡±

    ¡°Well then, let¡¯s ensure our plan succeeds.¡±

    Doctor Aarts looked at Peter for a long moment. ¡°There is one more thing I would like to test.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Peter asked.

    Doctor Aarts led Peter to a side chamber. He opened the thick door, and a wave of cold air hit Peter.

    ¡°A cooler?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°Yes.¡± Doctor Aarts said. He walked in and wheeled out a low table with something long under a sheet.

    Peter had a sinking guess as to what it was before the doctor pulled the sheet down to reveal the pale face of a dead man. The man had a dark bruise around his neck. He didn¡¯t appear to be wearing any clothes aside from the sheet.

    ¡°Bring him back.¡± Doctor Aarts said, coolly.

    Peter stepped back. ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°The court band makes you a court ¡ª a god of death. Courts can create ghouls. Now do it.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Peter said again, even though he clearly heard the doctor the first time. ¡°I ¡­ This feels wrong. Who is he?¡±

    ¡°He was a murderer, thief, rapist, the list goes on. He was justly executed, and now that he¡¯s dead, he¡¯ll be able to give back to humanity. Bring him back.¡±

    Peter looked at the dead man¡¯s face, and his stomach heaved. ¡°This can¡¯t be right.¡±, He looked up frantically. ¡°If we bring back the dead, we¡¯re just like them.¡±

    ¡°You are one of them, Van Seur,¡± the doctor¡¯s face hardened. His eyes were cold.. ¡°That simple piece of metal on your arm dictates that.¡±

    ¡°But ¡ª¡°

    ¡°The courts are murdering thousands every day. You are the first Court that we ¡ª humanity ¡ª has ever had to fight back. If you don¡¯t make ghouls, then what chance do we have? The death of all those fighting will be on your hands.¡±

    Peter swallowed and looked at the dead man.

    ¡°Of course, if you won¡¯t, there are others who will.¡±

    ¡°You?¡± Peter guessed.

    ¡°I know more about these ghouls than anyone on Boslic. Furthermore, I¡¯m ready to do what needs to be done for humanity. So either bring this man back or stand aside and let someone who will do it.

    Peter looked from the doctor to the dead man and thought about Iris. ¡°I¡¯ll do it.¡± He said, pushing the internal weight from his stomach. He had no clue what he was doing, but he circled to the dead man¡¯s head. No purple leech light came from the body. He was dead, and whatever potential time he held died with him.

    Peter put his hands on the sides of the corpse''s face. His skin was damp and chill.

    Doctor Aarts watched wide-eyed in anticipation.

    Peter focused on the dead man. He willed the man to twitch, to sit and rise. He held his breath and concentrated.

    Nothing.

    ¡°The band,¡± Doctor Aarts said. ¡°Concentrate on the Bedorven. It¡¯s where the power comes from.

    Peter nodded and looked at the band. He imagined the purple leech light flowing from the band into the body. Where did all the time he stole go? It had to be somewhere in him, right? How did he get it back into the body, to raise it as a ghoul?

    ¡°Come on!¡± Doctor Aarts cried, impatiently. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead.

    ¡°Get up!¡± Peter said. ¡°I command you as a court! Rise!¡±

    Nothing happened.

    Peter shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s no use. I don¡¯t know how.¡±

    ¡°Did you try everything? Try harder!¡± the doctor was frantic.

    Peter nodded and tried again. He focused in every way. He begged and pleaded with the corpse; he shouted and demanded the corpse to obey, but it didn¡¯t listen.

    Doctor Aarts stepped forward anxiously, and a wisp of time jerked from him into Peter.

    They took a break and tried again. At length, Peter decided that no matter how hard he tried or how foolish he looked, reanimating the dead man was beyond his abilities.

    Peter and the doctor both sat on high chairs, pondering what the missing step could be.

    ¡°Rahashel knows how to do it,¡± Peter said at last, his head in his hands.

    ¡°No shit,¡± the doctor said dryly.

    Peter didn¡¯t like that. As a youth, he was raised to avoid vulgarities. ¡°In the old Stalpia Library, his overseers are trained to command ghouls. If we could get in there, maybe we could learn to make ghouls.¡± Peter saw the strange book on the podium in his mind and forced away the intrusive alien thought. I¡¯m in control.

    ¡°That¡¯s actually not a bad idea,¡± Doctor Aarts agreed.

    ¡°Do you think the commandant would let us?¡±

    Doctor Aarts shook his head. ¡°We¡¯ve been planning an attack on the time Vault for too long. Court Rahashel will massacre Julleck soon. We need those tiles. Besides, maybe tiles are an integral ingredient in making ghouls.¡±

    Peter nodded. ¡°I need to get my friend out of Stalpia. When this has settled down a bit, we''ll go to the library.¡±

    The doctor nodded; his fatigue had returned with a vengeance. He took off his glasses and rubbed his puffy eyes.

    Even Peter was starting to feel tired again.

    The door to the tomb opened, and a young doctor entered. He started when he saw Peter with the doctor.

    Doctor Aarts greeted him. ¡°Doctor Zandbergen. You¡¯re not supposed to be here until morning.¡±

    The man looked startled. ¡°Doctor Aarts. It is morning.¡±

    Doctor Aarts swore. ¡°We¡¯ve been here all rotted night.¡±

    Doctor Zandbergen looked at Peter. ¡°Coach Norah is looking for you.¡±

    Peter twitched involuntarily. ¡°I wonder what she has planned for me today.¡±

 10 Guns, Ranks and Rivalries

    Peter was pleased to find that the itinerary for the day didn¡¯t involve running laps and shooting himself in the head. He was led away from the circle of burrows into a nearby field of tombstones, pit-marked with large holes. The masonry looked as if it had been blasted to pieces by a thousand hand cannons. It had once been part of the large graveyard ¡ª back in the days when the dead stayed dead.

    As Peter followed Norah at a safe distance, he heard the increasingly loud hiss of gun gas. ¡°A shooting range?¡± he guessed. ¡°I thought you said I wouldn¡¯t be trained in weapons.¡±

    Norah smiled. ¡°You made faster progress than expected yesterday. I told the commandant, and he decided I could run over the basics with you.¡±

    Peter tried to hide the stupid grin that crept across his face. He was excited to be on the safe end of a weapon for once.

    They made their way through the pit-stricken field, and Peter smelled fruity Premernox gas before he saw a cluster of Nine Fingers Soldiers lined up, taking shots at distant pottery. The smell made Peter think of bruised apricots that had recently turned and were infested with fruit flies. The scent would have almost been pleasant without the hint of methane. The odor triggered something in his mind, so he now sensed ghost traces of blood whenever it was in the air. His heart beat faster. Peter plastered a smile on his face, and turned to face Norah expectantly.

    ¡°I¡¯m mostly the physical training coach,¡± she said, ¡°And this isn¡¯t really in my wheelhouse. So today, I¡¯ve asked for help.¡±

    Peter saw a figure waving to them, and his smile melted. It was Captain Tobias Visser.

    ¡°Captain Visser? Are you sure he doesn¡¯t just want to shoot me?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°You may not like him,¡± Norah said, ¡°But he¡¯s good. Really good.¡±

    They approached Captain Visser, and the captain cupped his hands around his mouth. ¡°Range, cease fire! All eyes on me!¡±

    The hiss and crack of shells died as all of the Nine Fingers fighters looked at Captain Visser in surprise.

    Captain Visser glared at Peter momentarily before turning his attention to the participants at the range. ¡°This man is a lich. I need you all to stay far away. Consider this your warning: If you get close, you will find yourself automatically being leeched.¡±

    All eyes turned to Peter as the soldiers grunted their assent and cleared an area for Peter and his instructors.

    ¡°If he approaches you and leeches you,¡± the captain continued, ¡°Tell me, and I¡¯ll cut off his head myself.¡±

    Peter swallowed. He knew the threat was likely impossible to carry out, but he knew Captain Visser would try his best.

    His trainers led him to several wooden tables arranged in line. One had been prepared for Peter. Several gas arms and filtered respirators were neatly arranged on the flat surface.

    Peter instinctively started reaching for one.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t tell you to touch that, soldier!¡± Captain Visser snapped.

    Peter recoiled. ¡°Oh, er, sorry.¡±

    ¡°Obviously, we need to review customs and courtesy and the chain of command so you can learn something about authority. I¡¯m a captain; you will refer to me as either Captain or Sir. Do you understand?¡±

    ¡°Uh, yeah.¡±

    The captain glared. His dark brown eyes narrowed.

    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± Peter quickly corrected himself.

    ¡°The commandant told me you have been instructed to follow every order you received. You may think that you¡¯re special. But you¡¯re a private. You¡¯re as low as Van Dijk ¡ª lower, even.¡± He chuckled to himself. ¡°I didn¡¯t know that was possible.¡±

    ¡°Hey!¡± someone protested.

    Peter looked and recognized Van Dijk standing a little ways off. The goose egg on his forehead had dropped, giving him a black eye. He stood to the side with Isabella and the other soldiers, but Peter couldn¡¯t see Owen anywhere.

    Captain Visser ignored Van Dijk. ¡°There aren''t even a hundred of us in the field, so the Nine Fingers military system is straightforward. The commandant is our leader, and his ruling is absolute.¡±

    Peter nodded and stood a little more firmly. Though harsh, Captain Visser''s words made more sense now. He was talking to Peter as a soldier, not a liability.

    ¡°The Commandant works with his three Directors, two of whom are here. That¡¯s Chief Director Stegeman ¡ª¡± Captain Visser pointed to a bushy-browed man who watched the exchange intently with his arms folded in front of his chest. ¡°And that¡¯s Director Van Den Hoak ¡ª¡± He gestured to a younger man, who wasn¡¯t paying attention to them, but was speaking with a woman in the distance in a hushed tone. Van Den Hoak held one of her hands in his. Despite the cold, the young director didn¡¯t wear a hat but covered his ears with a headband.

    ¡°Director Habets is with the commandant right now; I¡¯ll be sure to point him out to you later.¡±

    Peter was surprised. He never would have been able to tell which men held rank. He realized that they didn¡¯t wear uniforms. The organization was run like a military, and the members acted like soldiers, but they didn¡¯t look like an army.

    ¡°What do the Directors do?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°We plan,¡± Director Stegeman said. His posture was stiff. ¡°We issue the assignments and work directly with the commandant.

    Peter nodded, noticing how Director Stegeman puffed himself and looked down at Peter over his nose.

    Captain Visser continued, ¡°Then we have cells, which are our basic combative unit. A captain like myself heads each cell. Every cell has an operations officer, like Owen and basic soldiers to fill in the space. Each cell works as a team to execute the director''s assignments.¡±

    ¡°How many cells are there?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°We lost about two thirds of our cells in Calacray, so there are currently eleven overt cells,¡± Captain Visser said.

    ¡°Am I going to be in your cell?¡± Peter asked, dreading the answer.

    Director Stegeman snorted. ¡°We¡¯re putting together a special team for you. You¡¯re our front line, remember.¡±

    Peter breathed a sigh of relief, but felt kind of bad. He liked Van Dijk, Isabella, and Even Owen. But Captain Tobias ¡ªPeter looked into the captain''s eyes. He could see the distrust and hatred in those eyes. The captain spoke to him professionally, but it was just a mask that couldn¡¯t hide how he felt.

    Peter nodded.

    A new voice from the other side cut in. ¡°Are you going to be at this all day? Or can we get back to shooting?¡±

    Captain Visser clenched his teeth, and Peter turned to see the three men who had interrupted his physical training session the day before. They stood in a group with seven others.

    Hired guns,Peter thought, as he recalled Norah¡¯s words from the previous day.

    Peter guessed that the seven others with them were also mercenaries. When the captain called for space, the hired men and Nine Fingers operatives had naturally segregated into separate groups on either side.

    Peter could see a noticeable difference quickly enough. Though the hired guns dressed the same way as the Nine Fingers soldiers, they carried themselves differently. The mercenaries held themselves confidently, with a certain careless grace, while the Nine Fingers soldiers were more tense and disciplined.

    Peter recalled that they were not just mercenaries. They were in the former king''s cell. Those men were the best of the best, at the height of Nosmeria¡¯s power.

    ¡°You can keep shooting, Morris,¡± Captain Visser said to the speaker. ¡°Enjoy the free ammunition while it lasts.¡±

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    The men on both sides turned their attention back to the range, stuffing in earplugs, putting on filtered gas masks, and loading their weapons.

    Norah stuffed in a pair of her own earplugs, but Peter declined when she offered him some.

    The soldiers began firing down the range with painfully high shrieks and hisses, but Peter dismissed them. What was the point? He couldn¡¯t hurt his ears.

    ¡°Pick up your weapon, Van Seur.¡± Captain Visser instructed as he pulled a filtered mask onto his face.

    ¡°What¡¯s the mask for?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°Premernox gas can be toxic,¡± Captain Visser explained. ¡°Usually, I wouldn¡¯t need a mask in an outdoor environment, but enough people are shooting here that it would be unnecessarily foolish to go without.¡±

    Peter looked around surreptitiously. Not all the soldiers training wore masks, but many did. He opted to ignore the masks on the table. It was a redundant measure for him.

    Peter eagerly picked up one of the smaller pistols. It was well-built, with a long barrel, and decorated with elegant silver trim.

    ¡°Not that wall piece,¡± Captain Visser corrected him. ¡°The biggest one.¡±

    Peter scanned the table. There were at least twelve different pistols to choose from. He grabbed one with a thicker wooden stock and a wider barrel. It wasn¡¯t anything pretty, but it looked like it could pack quite a punch.

    ¡°Van Seur,¡± the captain cut in again. ¡°That one.¡±

    Peter looked where the captain was pointing. He had overlooked the incredibly thick, short, and stubby mass of metal, because it hardly looked like a pistol.

    ¡°That?¡± Peter asked. ¡°That¡¯s not a gun, that¡¯s a cannon!¡±

    ¡°A Slagter Prime Hand Cannon, more precisely.¡± Captain Visser continued. ¡°Light arms bullets won''t stop a ghoul. You¡¯ll need a well-placed slug to send them back to the grave.¡±

    Peter looked down the line as the soldiers continued firing. Most of them were armed with Slagter Primes. He felt both anxious and disappointed. The weapon was downright ugly. It wasn¡¯t at all what he was expecting, and it was more than a little intimidating.

    ¡°How do I load it?¡± Peter asked as he pulled the seal breacher back. The pistol he had used the day before had a chamber in front of the seal breacher to slide the bullet into, but there wasn¡¯t a chamber here.

    ¡°It¡¯s already loaded,¡± the captain said. ¡°Pick a target and shoot, and if you flag anybody, I swear I¡¯ll throw a rock at your head.¡±

    Peter nodded and scanned the range. Dozens of clay dishes were set up on mounds and gravestones. The ground and stones were riddled with large blast marks, and broken clay lay scattered all across the field.

    Peter focused on a jar that was placed on a mound and focused. He looked down the sights, then focused his eyes on the jar.

    The blasting on either side continued, and he tried to drown out the noise. He exhaled and started to squeeze the trigger. Iris had told him that was the way to do it. She was in the junior shooting club at their academy.

    Peter held his breath and waited for the bang.

    Click ¡ª

    Peter blinked. Had it been a dud? He looked at the captain, who muttered something to Norah. Whatever he said, Norah nodded in agreement.

    ¡°You anticipated the shot. You jerked your gun down ever so slightly to compensate. It would have gone way off.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s something wrong with this bullet ¡ª¡± Peter said but stopped as he caught on. ¡°It¡¯s not loaded. You made me shoot it empty on purpose.¡±

    Norah nodded. ¡°We needed to watch your hands without interference. Don¡¯t compensate for the recoil. Most people who start shooting are scared of the buck and throw the shot off. Practice shooting it empty. Holding it still is the most important thing you could learn right now.¡±

    Peter nodded and pulled the seal breacher back again. This time, he knew it was empty. He steadied the Slagter and pulled the trigger.

    Click.

    ¡°Much better,¡± the captain said. Norah nodded in agreement. ¡°Again.¡±

    Peter did it repeatedly, practicing on holding his aim steady. As he got used to the subtle click, he was convinced he would have hit his target.

    ¡°Hold fire on the range!¡± Director Stegeman barked, and the others stopped shooting.

    ¡°Re-supply!¡± Range tenants grabbed several additional clay targets and carried them onto the field, placing them at different intervals.

    Peter was about to help, but Captain Visser told him to stay.

    The captain ushered Peter to a box under the table. Peter looked and saw hundreds of massive bullets¡ªmany times bigger than the pistol he had used the day before. They consisted of a Premernox compressed casing and a projectile with lines spiraling down the side, ending in several sharp prongs at the tip. He looked at Captain Visser with a grimace.

    ¡°Those open up and blossom on impact. They won¡¯t just puncture through the ghoul¡¯s heart; they¡¯ll shred it.¡±

    Peter pulled out several wicked-looking slugs and readied them on the table.

    ¡°The lever on the side opens the chamber,¡± Captain Visser said. ¡°It¡¯s break action.¡±

    Peter pulled the lever, and the gun split in half, the barrel dropping on a small hinge.

    ¡°Drop a slug into it.¡±

    He did as he was told as the men returned from the newly filled range.

    ¡°Lock it up.¡±

    Peter snapped the barrel back shut. The pistol was considerably heavier this time. He nodded. It was definitely loaded now.

    ¡°Range open!¡± Director Stegeman barked, and the others began to fire off new rounds, setting off miniature explosions of pottery.

    ¡°Shoot it, but do it like you did before. Let the hiss surprise you. Don¡¯t be scared of the recoil.¡±

    Peter nodded and closed his eyes for a second. The gun is empty, he told himself. I¡¯m going to pull the trigger, and nothing will happen. He opened his eyes and sighted the target. Breathe and squeeze gently. Let the shot surprise yo-

    The Slagter Prime almost leaped from his hands with a hiss, and the pot exploded.

    ¡°Woah!¡± Peter cried. His hand was definitely bruised, but like all injuries, it was suddenly fine after three or so seconds. The familiar scent of bruised fruit and sewage permeated the air around him as the released gasses escaped, and cold vapors drifted off the barrel''s end.

    ¡°Not bad,¡± the captain said, ¡°but way too slow. Again.¡±

    Peter hit the brake lever. The barrel dropped, and he grabbed the casing. It burned his hand, and he hissed as he pulled it out and threw it aside. It was like an instant frostbite; it was so cold, it burnt. He was perfectly fine in a few heartbeats. It wasn¡¯t until then that he noticed all the other shooters were wearing gloves to cope with the cold. Peter twitched but didn¡¯t ask for a pair of his own. He didn¡¯t need them, and he would do better getting used to the pain.

    He loaded another one and aimed. He sighted on a bowl quite a bit further away.

    Easy, Peter thought to himself. Relax and ¡­ No. He tensed at the last second. He lost his focus. Peter shook his head, refocused, and squeezed the trigger.

    Tsshhhssss.

    A plume of earth sprayed up into the air just beside the bowl.

    Peter cursed ¡ª a nasty habit he would have judged himself for half a year ago, but something about the profanity acted like a pressure release valve.

    ¡°Don¡¯t shoot unless you¡¯re going to hit.¡± It was Morris.

    Peter looked at the hired gun in surprise. Morris had stopped shooting and was watching Peter. Morris¡¯ expression was difficult to read through his surprisingly soft features. He didn¡¯t look grizzled, or hard, but relaxed and dignified.

    ¡°Also, focus on your front sight, and don¡¯t look to see if you¡¯ve hit until you¡¯ve loaded in a new shell. You should always be ready to shoot.¡±

    Peter nodded and flung the shell casing from the Slagter Prime with a wince of pain. He loaded another shell and noticed Captain Visser failing to hold in a scowl toward Morris.

    Interesting, Peter thought. He¡¯s annoyed.

    Peter sighted on another distant jar.

    Don¡¯t shoot if you won¡¯t hit. Peter switched to a closer one, focused on his front sight, and fired.

    Without checking to see if he hit, he flipped out a cartridge and loaded a new shell. He chose another nearby target and fired.

    Moving as smoothly as he could, he loaded and fired at three more nearby targets randomly. He never stopped to look but moved on to his next shot. He loaded in another slug and looked up.

    ¡°Pretty smooth,¡± Norah said, ¡°But you¡¯re slapping the trigger again. Don¡¯t anticipate. I know it can be hard to keep track of the fundamentals simultaneously.¡±

    ¡°Did I hit any?¡± Peter asked as he scanned the range for his targets. Between shooting quickly and the field of broken clay, he wasn¡¯t sure which were his.

    ¡°No,¡± Norah said simply.

    Peter¡¯s confidence shattered.

    ¡°Good job getting one in the chamber before you check,¡± Morris said with a nod. ¡°If your enemy closes the distance you could shove the barrel of your weapon through their teeth and force feed them some lead.¡±

    Captain Visser knitted his brows towards Morris. ¡°Could you maybe get back to burning through our ammunition, and let me train my soldier?¡±

    ¡°Maybe that¡¯s the problem, Captain,¡± the youngest of Morris¡¯ companions shot back. ¡°You would do well to accept Morris¡¯ feedback.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be rude, Skye,¡± Morris cut in. ¡°I¡¯m sure they have a good reason to ignore us.¡± Morris nodded humorously before turning away.

    Captain Visser turned back to Peter sour-faced. ¡°Your shooting sucks. Try taking a shot at something that¡¯s further than point blank.¡±

    ¡°Time to burn through some slugs!¡± Morris said loudly, deliberately directed at Captain Visser.

    Peter looked over at him.

    Morris dropped into a low stance and fired at a distant pot.

    Peter blinked and looked back as Morris squeezed off a second shot.

    Peter¡¯s jaw dropped as Morris loaded and fired in rapid succession. His hands moved in a blur, smoothly flipping out old shells, loading in new ones, and firing. He squeezed off a shot every second. He blasted away at pots, plates, and bowls. He effectively cleared a chunk of targets out of the range.

    Morris shot his tenth round, destroying a distant jar before jamming his Slagter into a thick holster. He turned and looked back at the captain. ¡°But what do we know about shooting? We don¡¯t have a rank, so there''s no way we can offer anything of value to your recruits.¡±

    Morris turned and walked away without further debate. Skye, the youngest of the hired guns, shook his head with a grin at his older companion. The third man looked indifferent as the three of them turned to leave.

    ¡°Wow,¡± Peter said. ¡°He¡¯s good.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s alright.¡± Captain Visser sniffed.

    ¡°Can you shoot like that?¡± Peter asked, growing excited.

    Captain Visser flinched, his hand on his gun. ¡°Not everything in war is about how well you can shoot.¡±

    ¡°Morris Dewolf is something of a legend with gun play,¡± Norah said, her tone laced with honest admiration. ¡°So are the other two, Benedict Smulders and Skye Brink. We¡¯re lucky we could afford them.¡±

    Peter found himself looking after the departing men wide-eyed. They were incredible. Controlled, skilled, and dangerous. ¡°What exactly did the King¡¯s Cell do?¡±

    Private Van Dijk crept closer to the captain, drawn from his shooting by Morris¡¯ display. ¡°They worked as a personal task force for King Adrichem before the world went crazy.¡± Van Dijk looked after them the way a child looks when they meet their hero for the first time.

    ¡°Enough,¡± Captain Visser snapped in disgust. ¡°We don¡¯t need our soldiers lauding after mercenaries. If they were really patriots, they would have died when Stalpia fell. They are hired guns who only care about the coin in their pocket. They aren¡¯t real soldiers. They¡¯ll be your friend until your money runs out. They¡¯re fake and arrogant. Aren¡¯t you supposed to be training, Van Dijk?¡±

    Van Dijk Jumped. ¡°Sorry, Captain.¡± He returned to his spot on the range, but not before glancing over his shoulder again at Morris.

    Captain Visser turned back to Peter. ¡°Now, let¡¯s try that again.¡±

    ¡°Director!¡± a messenger cried as he ran up to Director Stegeman. ¡°The House of Nyamar just broke council. They¡¯ve made a decision!¡±

 11 Spearhead Team

    The whole range emptied, any thought of training gone as the anxious Nine Fingers operatives hurried to hear the verdict.

    Peter saw Captain Visser hesitate. He looked torn, most likely wanting to stay and continue training, but in the end, what the House had to say seemed more critical.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± the captain prompted, and they joined the herd, Peter trailing behind.

    Van Dijk jogged astride Peter several paces away. ¡°Your shooting looked clean,¡± the private assured Peter. ¡°Horrible accuracy, but you were smooth."

    ¡°Thanks,¡± Petter muttered, then he turned to face Van Dijk. ¡°Do you think the House will join us?¡±

    Van Dijk sobered. ¡°They will. They have to. If anyone has a chance against a court, it¡¯s the House.¡±

    ¡°I heard they have no stewardship obligation or even authority to resist the courts,¡± Peter said dejectedly, choosing to omit that he heard it from the mouth of the high steward himself.

    Van Dijk clenched his jaw in determination. ¡°The Master won¡¯t let his servants ignore us.¡±

    Isabella strayed close to Van Dijk, having overheard his declaration. ¡°The House doesn¡¯t care about us,¡± she said darkly. ¡°It¡¯s just a group of people who have monopolized boons and hunt anyone who uses ¡®their¡¯ power. They¡¯re hypocrites and liars who warden the greatest weapons that could help us win this war!¡±

    Peter felt a flush creeping up his cheeks. He should¡¯ve remembered that the House of Nyamar was deeply controversial. He hadn¡¯t intended to start an argument with the team.

    ¡°The House has a stewardship to resist Ataggin,¡± Van Dijk said sharply. ¡°The Ataggin Empire would resurface if ¡ª¡±

    ¡°How would the courts have fared against the Empire?¡± Isabella demanded.

    ¡°The Empire massacred billions before it fell!¡± Van Dijk cried. ¡°They tethered three planets together, causing darkness, cold, and famine!¡±

    ¡°Shut it!¡± Captain Visser snapped over his shoulder. ¡°If they¡¯re going to fight with us, they are allies. You will leave politics out of it.¡±

    The privates lapsed into a sullen silence, internalizing their arguments.

    ¡°The House executed my brother,¡± Isabella said, her voice low, her words fierce.

    The captain didn¡¯t reprimand her. He gave no indication he heard.

    ¡°He was sixteen,¡± she continued, her voice pained. ¡°Do you know what his crime was?¡± She looked over at Niels.

    Van Dijk didn¡¯t respond but had gone white as a sheet.

    ¡°He studied Waarheid manuscripts and tried to anoint himself. He wasn¡¯t part of a militant cult. He wasn¡¯t an empirical extremist. He just wanted to help people, and the House rejected him. When he took it into his own hands, they named him Atagginite and murdered him.¡±

    Peter saw her eyes glisten, and he looked away, torn. The situation was complicated and multi-faceted. Controversy was born of complex situations; the more one simplified it, the bigger the divide.

    The mob approached the tombs, and Peter saw two scores of domestics moving with a purpose. Black-suited, white-gloved butlers, white-aproned maids and valets were setting up a contraption and moving bags. Peter recognized the fine wood stand, despite having never seen one. A breach jig.

    Peter gawked. The breach jig was a thin doorway with round sides and a peaked top and bottom. Usually housed in Nyamarian estates, this jig seemed to be a portable version. It was artistically crafted with symbols carved along the body¡ªnot court glyphs, but Nyamarian Waarheid runes.

    Peter saw Julian direct a small team of domestic stack supplies and a chief butler, leading the others to set up the thin doorway breach jig. Peter knew the butler when he saw him: High Butler Anton Dekker. The dark-haired hawk-faced man looked upset as the Nine Fingers crowd gathered around.

    ¡°What¡¯s the word?¡± a private shouted from the back of the gathering crowd. ¡°Will you fight with us?¡±

    High Butler Anton shot Julian an irritated look. The look communicated something to the High Steward that Peter couldn¡¯t read.

    Julian stood to address the crowd. ¡°Nine Fingers,¡± he said, his voice rising clearly against the muttering, ¡°The House of Nyamar commends your efforts against Court Rahashel, and we bring you food and supplies in support.¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t need supplies,¡± came an angry voice to Peter¡¯s left. ¡°We need Domestics!¡±

    Several people in the crowd hollered in assent, and Julian held up a placating hand.

    ¡°Shut up!¡± Chief Director Stegeman roared, and his soldiers quieted down.

    Peter saw the commandant and a few staff members exited a tomb and parted the crowd to get close to the domestics.

    Julian looked at the commandant squarely, but apologetically. ¡°The purpose of The House of Nyamar is to fulfill The Master''s stewardships,¡± Julian said. Then he hesitated. ¡°Unfortunately, fighting the courts doesn¡¯t fall within the framework of our stewardship.¡±

    Under the steely gazes of the directors and commandant, the Nine Fingers soldiers didn¡¯t cry out but merely hissed and muttered their disapproval. Peter did note a few arguing in defense of the Domestics.

    Julian continued, as if there had been no interruption. ¡°Please accept these supplies as a token of our support.¡±

    The commandant¡¯s temples bulged, but he kept his voice steady. ¡°We appreciate your token and pray that your master will give you a new stewardship soon.¡±

    Julian looked at High Butler Anton, who nodded in approval. This time, Peter caught the meaning.

    Clearly, the High Butler was the chief proponent against helping Nine Fingers. He glared down his nose at the Nine Fingers assembly in pious indignation. In contrast, Julian''s brow was drawn in frustration, an unspoken protest against the High Butler''s Position.

    He wants to help, Peter recognized.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go!¡± High Butler Anton called to the Domestics. Then he nodded to a butler who stood next to the breach jig.

    The butler nodded and drew a glass oblong rod from a lacquered wooden case. It seemed to be a cross between a long letter opener and a wand.

    Peter stared, mesmerized as the butler inserted the wand into the open doorway and parted the air. The opening shimmered and rippled as the butler breached the fabric of reality. The rip crackled and buzzed violently, protesting the violation of natural law. The shimmer extended until it reached the sides of the ellipsoidal breach jig. Peter could see a different scene on the other side ¡ª blurred, but recognizable as the inside of an entirely new building. A breach could lead to any Nyamarian estate on Boslic; hypothetically, it could connect to a point on Din or Chur. Did the House have contact with the other worlds of the Tri-Terra?

    Butlers, maids, and valets stepped through the doorway one by one. At a certain point, Julian nodded subtly to the breach master, and the butler focused his attention on the doorway. The breach closed with a disorienting snap, leaving Julian with the five members of his original staff that Peter had met the night before and the breach master on the Nine Fingers'' side.

    Hendrik the Slammist combed his fingers through his hair, wiping the curls out of his eyes as they ignited with green light. He took a deliberately clumsy step toward the wooden frame and swung his fist. The inert breach jig shattered in a spray of splinters, causing several Nine Fingers soldiers to jump back with a cry of surprise.

    The Slammist turned to Julian. ¡°Oh, no,¡± he said wryly, a faint grin on his face. ¡°I tripped, High Steward. It looks like we¡¯re trapped on this side.¡±

    Julian smiled and nodded. ¡°And it looks like Anton can¡¯t send someone back to get us.¡±

    They did it on purpose! Peter realized. Julian''s team isolated themselves from those who didn¡¯t want to help.

    Julian turned to Nine Fingers.

    ¡°As you may imagine, our practices, policy, and doctrine don¡¯t account for the courts,¡± he said firmly. ¡°I¡¯ll be the first to confess that the courts scare me. They scare all of us. Some of my brothers and sisters fear that if we deviate from our current stewardships, we¡¯ll become like the Ataggin Empire, which is the one thing we¡¯ve been charged to resist. Their concerns are valid and reasonable.¡±

    Julian looked down at his hands and took a deep, uncertain breath.

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    ¡°They¡¯re right, but I can¡¯t stand by and watch.¡±

    Julian turned to the commandment. ¡°Being High Steward, I have given myself, and a few trusted attendants here, a local stewardship. We¡¯re the new caretakers of the Nyamarian Estate in Stalpia.¡±

    The commandant nodded slowly, understanding. ¡°The Estate under Rahashelian control?¡±

    ¡°The same Estate that Rahashel has converted into his tile vault,¡± Julian confirmed. ¡°While I admit it¡¯s very unorthodox for the High Steward to take a local stewardship, it¡¯s not technically against the rules, and as the new estate steward, it¡¯s my duty to go back and remove any foreign elements or entities from the estate.¡±

    ¡°Is there any chance your timeline will line up with ours?¡± The commandant asked. His tone was steady, but his eyes were eager

    ¡°We might as well,¡± Julian shrugged. ¡°We could use the company on our way to our stewardship.¡±

    The commandant nodded in approval. ¡°Thank you.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about,¡± Julian said, laughing. ¡°I¡¯m just a domestic fulfilling his stewardship.¡±

    They left the rest unsaid.

    Peter wanted to run up to Julian to thank him, but with the crowd¡¯s density, he couldn¡¯t get close without leeching at least a dozen people. So he stood, as always, apart from everyone else. The isolation already grated at him. He knew it was a matter of necessity, but still, having a shun order was more than a little annoying. It was as if everyone who saw you looked at your chin instead of your eyes. It was unnerving and even a bit humiliating.

    Despite trying to endure his isolation with a good attitude, Peter ended up folding his arms and glaring at the mingling crowd dejectedly.

    The commandant turned to address the Nine Fingers. ¡°House cooperation comes at a desperately needed time,¡± the commandant said. ¡°As you know, Court Rahashel plans to march on the city Julleck, and probably through the rest of Nosmeria. We need to clean out his time vault, which is housed in the Nyamarian estate. Without time, Rahashel¡¯s forces run dry, and we have a chance to form a real resistance.¡±

    The Nine Fingers operatives watched their commandant intently.

    ¡°However, we just received news that Rahashel is pulling all his ghouls from Calacray back into Nosmeria. Calacray is gone.¡±

    ¡°What does he mean, Calicray is gone?¡± Norah hissed toward Captain Visser, who stood at the back of the crowd. Around them, others held similar muttered sidebars.

    Commandant Van Graif silenced them with a wave of his hand. ¡°Rahashel killed Court Rasminfrey and has finished harvesting the surviving populace. As we speak, Rahashel is launching barges into Calacray to recover his forces and get back into Nosmeria. At its current rate, The ghoul population of Nosmeria will triple before the end of the week.¡±

    A heavy silence bore down in the room.

    ¡°This means that Rahashel has sent many of his overseers away, making now the time that Stalpia is most vulnerable. We have decided to move up our timetable. We leave for the time vault today.¡±

    ¡°Today?¡± One of the mercenaries associated with the old King¡¯s Cell shouted in disdain.

    ¡°Cut and run if you don¡¯t have the balls!¡± Isabella snapped back, sparking a divisive outcry between the hired guns and the regular soldiers.

    Peter saw Owen shaking his head in disapproval. He barely heard the words the operations officer was muttering to Captain Visser.

    ¡°It won¡¯t work. The logistics and planning alone ¡ª¡±

    ¡°This is our best chance before we get swept away like Calacray,¡± Commandant Van Graif insisted. ¡°Our intelligence has given us a clear image of what happened across the river. The rot and stink of death there are overbearing. It is now an empty rat-infested wasteland, unfit for human life. If we don¡¯t act now, that¡¯s what¡¯s in store for Nosmeria.¡±

    The crowd had been silenced, but Peter could still see the doubt in their eyes.

    ¡°This is a combative operation, so it will get messy. It is up to us to move quickly to minimize the damage. So listen carefully so we don¡¯t have any mishaps.¡±

    ¡°We won¡¯t be working as individual cells like you¡¯re used to. We will be split into three larger teams: operations, support, and Spearhead. Director Habets will lead Operations, and will be responsible for barricading all the side streets, moving the tiles, extracting them, and providing backup defense. ¡°Support: you take to the roofs, drop anything that¡¯s dead, and walk. You will report to and meet with Director Van Den Hoek.

    ¡°Spearhead, well, that¡¯s you,¡± Commandant Van Graif looked directly at Peter, ¡°¡­ And you.¡± He turned to Julian Gerrets. ¡±You two and Chief Director Stegeman will meet with me. Everyone else is dismissed for your briefings.¡±

    The audience didn¡¯t move for a full ten seconds before eventually shuffled away as everyone met with their designated director. Captain Tobias, Isabella, Van Dijk, the trainer Norah, and even Doctor Arts were sent to operations. Owen was the only one Peter knew who was sent to support, leaving Peter, Chief Director Stegeman, and Julian to meet with the commandant.

    ¡°You two come here,¡± Chief Director Stegeman said, motioning them to the command burrow. The elderly court, the young steward, and the heavily mustached director went with the commandant to his office, where he had a map of Stalpia rolled out on a table. The city was both the capital for the enemy and Peter¡¯s old home.

    Peter had to stay back and stand on his toes to see the map; he didn¡¯t want to leech them, though Julian had somehow gotten past his radius before. He wasn¡¯t sure if the steward would be safe from him again.

    ¡°Your first objective is to clear the way to the time vault,¡± Stegeman said, running his finger down Hill View to where it intersected with Elm Way. ¡°We are all of the manpower we have, so stealth will only get us so far.¡± He jabbed a finger at Peter. ¡°You must take care of as much of that as possible. And you can offer support where you see appropriate, Gerrets.¡±

    Julian nodded.

    Peter tried to think. Hill View and Elm Way would be the Nyamarian steward¡¯s estate in Stalpia. A Nyamarian estate served as a training house for domestics and was considered sacrosanct. Peter suspected they researched old Ataggin technology and practices there, but the House could be heavily confidential about their estates.

    ¡°The operations team will set up burning blockades and try to funnel all the ghouls that flood the streets down southbound Hill View. Van Suer, we need you to ¡­ soak up what you can.¡±

    Peter twitched.

    ¡°Again, Gerrets, try to conserve yourself at this stage.¡±

    Peter frowned. ¡°What exact-¡±

    ¡°Save questions for after the briefing,¡± Director Stegeman spoke quickly. It was clear they weren¡¯t kidding; the directors wanted to run the operation that day.

    ¡°The third stage is the fail-safe stage. Van Seur, if an elder lich should come, that¡¯s where you hand the point mantle to Gerrets, and you run. We can¡¯t afford to lose you.¡± Or the Bedorven, he left unsaid.

    ¡±After that, we¡¯re in the extraction phase. Get out using Hill View. There will be landmines that we¡¯ll prime as soon as you cross over Third and Oak. Hopefully, that will cover our escape.¡±

    ¡°Hopefully?¡± Julian asked, shooting the director a skeptical look.

    ¡°This plan is rushed, and there must be some improvisation. The primary objective is to remove the tiles from Court Rahashel¡¯s hands. Our survival is secondary.¡±

    Julian frowned. ¡°There are assets in the estate that I¡¯m obligated to recover as its new steward.¡±

    Chief Director Stegeman sighed. ¡°I¡¯ll have our men help you if we have time, but our ability to recover them will depend on your ability to cover our escape. You can do that, can''t you?¡±

    Julian furrowed a brow and folded his thick forearms over his chest. ¡°I can do it, but will your funnel plan work? Because I can only be in one place at once, and my team is small. What if Rahashel¡¯s elder liches all come at us at once? I don¡¯t imagine Anubis is still fighting for him in Calacray. What if we get hit by Khnum, Horus, Bastet, Montu, and Sobek all at once? Do you have a plan for that? What if Court Rahashel himself decides to show up?¡±

    Peter shook his head and blinked. He¡¯d stopped tracking the conversation as soon as Julian said ¡®Anubis.¡¯ His ears rang and he tried to swallow.

    Stegeman frowned. ¡°Get in and out quickly. That¡¯s our plan.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t like it. It¡¯s too big. We need a small team to slip in and out.¡±

    Peter¡¯s heart thumped in his head, louder than the conversation, as he saw the jackal-headed lich standing over his mother¡¯s withered corpse.

    ¡°We can¡¯t afford to mess this up. We need to use all of our resources.¡±

    ¡°Are you going to take my warning so lightly, director?¡± the Nyamarian steward asked.

    ¡°As a soldier, I take value in your words, Gerrets. Anyone who did otherwise would be a fool.¡±

    ¡°And as the mouth of Nyamar?¡± Julian asked.

    ¡°Nyamar can rot,¡± Stegeman snapped, and Julian tensed clenched his jaw, bridling.

    ¡°I¡¯m going to kill him,¡± Peter growled, causing the other two men to look at him abruptly. ¡°Anubis,¡± Peter clarified.

    The commandant stared sharply at Peter.

    ¡°I saw him that day. I saw what he did.¡±

    ¡°Anubis is one of Rahashel¡¯s highest commanders,¡± Julian explained. ¡°He¡¯s a very competent warrior and a brilliant strategist. I doubt I could defeat him.¡±

    Peter realized his intensity made the others uneasy. They wanted to control him, and his personal feelings were beyond their control. ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± he said at length. ¡°I won¡¯t do anything that jeopardizes the mission but I hope Anubis shows himself.¡±

    ¡°No, you don¡¯t,¡± Commandant Van Graif corrected simply.

    Peter met the commandant¡¯s sharp eyes ¡ª his inward rage towards Anubis and his terror of the commandant mixing strangely in his head.

    Peter took a deep, grounding breath in an attempt to regain composure. His hands flexed, and he touched each finger to his thumbs. Of course, he was desperate and had every reason to be distressed. Still, Peter knew he needed a level head, especially in high-stress situations.

    Peter considered briefly recommending a subterranean approach, but he knew the sewers well enough to know it was unrealistic. Even with a map, Rahashel had installed many storm grates, and maneuvering a force through the perpetual labyrinth would lead them into several bottlenecks and choke points. Peter acknowledged to himself that the only reason he was considering it was to avoid doing his job.

    Peter stayed silent. He twitched as he thought of the blades and bullets that awaited him when he just walked down the street.

    ¡°Any other questions?¡±

    Both members of the Spearhead team shook their heads.

    ¡°Good. Remember, the whole operation is banking on your performance.¡±

    Chief director Stegeman dismissed himself and left to check on the other teams with more complex plans.

    Peter turned to Julian. He was surprised to see a faint, purple, misty lech light flow towards him from the steward.

    Julian spun towards Peter and jumped back, surprised. ¡°Careful!¡± Julian warned, the surprise lingering on his face. ¡°If you catch me off guard, I¡¯ll leech just as good as anyone else.¡±

    ¡°Sorry,¡± Peter stammered.

    Julian sighed and walked up to Peter; luckily, this time, nothing happened. ¡°Your defense is passive. Mine is active.¡±

    Peter made a note of that.

    Julian sighed. ¡°You ready?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Peter said truthfully.

    ¡°But you¡¯ll fight all the same?¡±

    Peter nodded.

    ¡°That¡¯s how it always is,¡± Julian assured him.

    ¡°Thanks, Julian,¡± Peter said, and the steward cocked an eyebrow at him in question.

    ¡°I know you¡¯re a good steward.¡±

    ¡°No doubt I have a grumpy chief butler who wouldn¡¯t agree with you.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t see him fighting with us.¡±

    ¡°He is fighting,¡± Julian assured Peter. ¡°High Butler Anton is focusing on keeping an old empire dead so I can focus on stopping a new one.¡±

    In a way, the courts were similar to the Ataggin. They quickly rose to power and were now moving to crush and corrupt humanity. They were doing it at a frightening pace with a power very few understood. The only active resistance in all of Nosmeria stood in the Shay cemetery. The Magistrates hiding in their cities were probably preparing to betray their people once ghouls showed up, as Espen Hummel did. Peter was disgusted with the thought. If it were that easy for Court Rahashel to march on Nosmeria, then millions of people would be subjected to the crop rings as he and Iris had been.

    Iris.

    Peter twitched. Was Iris okay? As scared as he was to move against Rahashel today, part of him was glad. She had little time; he was free and preparing to fight, but she was still out there alone.

    This mission had to succeed. Then the commandant would help him get Iris out, and they would save Julleck city in the process.

    Peter nodded. Simple, right? An easy plan: rob a death god, stop an invasion, rescue Iris, and live happily ever after. There was nothing to it.

    ¡°Julian,¡± Peter started. ¡°Will this plan work?¡±

    Julian looked at the map somberly. ¡°I guess we¡¯ll see.¡±

 12 Back to Stalpia

    Peter ducked as a pair of Rahashelian human enforcers walked past his hiding place. He was positioned with the Spearhead team: Julian Gerrets, his two hunter maids, and three hunter valets, Director Stegeman, and himself. Getting back into Stalpia was surprisingly easy. After all, who would want to go into Rahashel¡¯s den?

    The population grew more dense the deeper they got. The landscape¡¯s aggressive corrosion was especially foreboding, given the new context that it had all happened in just under a year. Something about Court Rahashel¡¯s presence was toxic to the very earth.

    There wasn¡¯t a civil populace in Stalpia. Anyone without a specific purpose was a crop, and they were dying off quickly. Peter assumed their bodies were taken to be dressed and converted into ghouls who stood as sentinels over the city. At least Rahashel didn¡¯t waste resources.

    The enforcers passed, and Julian motioned Peter over. Peter jogged across the street and entered the empty doorway with broken hinges. Up ahead, Director Stegeman signaled them.

    ¡°Two ghouls,¡± Julian interpreted the gesture. ¡°You¡¯re up.¡±

    Behind Peter and Julian, dark figures from the Operations crew jumped on the enforcers. The struggle was brief and soundless. The soldiers dragged the now motionless enforcers out of the streets. Peter didn¡¯t watch the operations crew swarm behind them. It was one thing to kill a ghoul. They were already dead. But Peter was still disturbed about killing living men, even if they betrayed humanity.

    Peter strode out into the street, jamming a hand into his pockets to hide his nine fingers. He passed Stegeman at a safe distance and turned the corner.

    The empty street had two sentinels standing across from each other. The mummified bodies had wrappings across their entire bodies, and their black eyes shimmered as if they were reflecting purple light. Armed with long spears and short swords, they stood silently watching Peter. They made no move against him as they observed. They had no idea he wasn¡¯t just another enforcer; how could they?

    Peter stopped and turned to one. This was tricky. If only they had been standing together. Now that he faced one, he had the other at his back.

    Peter stepped up to the ghoul, and the leech siphon lit up. Peter jumped at the ghoul and grabbed it by the face. It tried to bite his hand, but Peter was well practiced with avoiding teeth at this point. The ghoul dropped its spear and seized Peter in a bear hug but dropped lifelessly a moment later.

    Where was the other one?

    Peter spun to see a spearhead being thrust at his eyes. He knew he couldn¡¯t die, but immortal or not, taking an implement to the face was no one¡¯s idea of a good time. Peter dodged and grabbed the spear shaft, and the ghoul pulled back, jerking Peter closer simultaneously. The street lit up with purple flashes and conducted the chorus of gasping souls that sounded with every leech. The Bedorven was an interesting choice for a front-line weapon in a stealth operation, considering the sound and the light show it presented every time Peter used it.

    At close range, the ghoul reached for his short sword, but Peter grabbed its wrist, trying to hold it back. The ghoul was surprisingly strong, and Peter was old, but he had much more control over his new body; plus, his compact training session made a dramatic difference.

    He didn¡¯t have to stop the ghoul from drawing its weapon; he just had to hold it off long enough to ¡ª

    The ghoul dropped to his feet.

    Peter smiled to himself. He¡¯d done it, and he hadn¡¯t even died once!

    He turned and signaled Director Stegeman, who would relay the message to the rest of the operations team. Peter jammed his hands into his coat pockets and strode down the middle of the road; Julian jogged up to him and kept pace.

    Two enforcers rounded the corner and stopped when they saw the two intruders. Their eyes flickered from Peter and Julian to the prone ghouls behind them. They started to reach for their guns.

    ¡°You!¡± Julian snapped, his face twisting into a snarl. ¡°Would you care to explain what happened to these ghouls?¡±

    They stopped.

    ¡°Who is the overseer of this street?¡± Julian demanded as he stalked up to them, carrying himself with authority.

    ¡°Um, it¡¯s ¡ª ¡±

    The other grabbed the speaker¡¯s arm. ¡°Who are you?¡± He demanded, then his eyes sought movement behind them.

    Peter froze as he saw dozens of men from the operations team pour into the street.

    The overseer drew his weapon. ¡°Intrud ¡ª¡±

    Several dark shapes hissed from one side, and both men dropped, bristling with crossbow bolts.

    Julian gave a salute of gratitude to the roofline. That would be the support team.

    Stepping over the bodies, they continued to the next street, and Stegeman caught up to them, staying a safe distance from Peter.

    ¡°We need to go faster,¡± he hissed. ¡°Julian, your people and I need to take out any overseers or agents who come our way. Van Suer, you need to prioritize the ghouls.¡±

    ¡°Understood,¡± Peter said as they continued walking down his home''s streets. The sharply peaked thatched roofs of the buildings on either side of the street were frighteningly alien.

    Court Rahashel¡¯s enforcers didn¡¯t wear uniforms. In fact, in many ways, they looked just like the Nine Fingers operatives. Sneaking three men into this city was easy ¡ª but a hundred hidden fighters would be harder to conceal.

    Dark figures darted and hurried down the street behind them, and a caravan of horse-drawn wagons also entered the scene.

    The Spearhead team turned down another stretch of road. This one had two ghouls ahead and a pair behind. An overseer and two of his agents were arguing, which was good for purposes of distraction, but they had another problem. Peter¡¯s stomach dropped when he realized that there were at least ten crops on the street. The aged, ragged, and putrid figures wandered without aim with glazed-over eyes.

    ¡°Ready?¡± Stegeman said.

    ¡°Wait,¡± Peter hissed. ¡°I can¡¯t get to the two behind us without leeching those eight crops. The street¡¯s too narrow.¡±

    Stegeman cursed. ¡°Do it anyway. They don¡¯t have much time left. They¡¯re basically dead already.¡±

    Peter recoiled. ¡°You¡¯re right. They don¡¯t have much time left. I¡¯m not going to kill eight innocents to get to those ghouls.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll get those two,¡± Julian said, his voice strained in urgency.

    ¡°I need you for the overseer and his agents.¡±

    ¡°Call in support,¡± Julian said. ¡°I can do this.¡±

    ¡°There are two of them,¡± Stegeman growled. ¡°Let me remind you that you can die.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve got them,¡± Julian said. ¡°Now go.¡±

    Peter turned and headed up the street, passing the overseers without sparing them a second glance. He tried to dodge a pair of crops, but one of them stepped into the danger zone, and Peter leeched a whiff of time off of him. It was faint, but luckily, the overseer didn''t seem to notice.

    ¡°What do you want?¡±

    Peter saw that Director Stegeman had confronted the overseer and his two agents. Julian hadn¡¯t reached his two ghouls yet.

    Peter looked back at his task. The two ghouls were moving for him, their polearms lowered and topped with elaborate blades.

    Peter panicked and braced for impact, but they moved past him, going for Stegeman. Peter could almost see the surprise in their lifeless eyes as light siphoned from them into him. Peter grabbed them by the shoulders, and the light flared like a gas canister opened in a fire. The enforcer''s faces twisted in horror at the flickering court light drawing into Peter.

    This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Moments later, the ghouls dropped, and the overseer and his agents were on the ground as well, with black crossbow quarrels lodged in their bodies.

    Julian also stood over his own motionless ghouls. He held an old-fashioned sword with a cross-guard and thicker blade, now speckled with black blood.

    ¡°Clear,¡± Stegeman said. He held a knife, but he didn¡¯t move to clean it; it hadn¡¯t been used at all. Support had reached the overseers first.

    They listened for any sign of alarm, but nothing had happened except for the crop, which herded away from the violence at a casual shuffle.

    ¡°Okay. Now, onto Hill View. We¡¯ve gotten as far as we could with stealth. It¡¯s time for the up-front approach. Can you do it, Van Seur?¡±

    Peter scooped up the weapon one of his ghouls had dropped. He supposed it would be called a spear, but he was aware polearms with elaborate blades often had specific names. This weapon was like a spear but with a short sword mounted to the shaft instead of a conventionally small spearhead.

    ¡°Of course I can,¡± he said quickly, but even Peter didn¡¯t believe himself.

    Peter turned down Hill View. The long road had at least twenty sentinels lining the street ¡ª workers and overseers dotted the street. Down the stretch where Elm Way crossed, the Nyamarian Estate peaked over the surrounding buildings as it stood several stories higher than its neighbors. It was time to empty the street.

    Peter ran up to the first ghoul and got a hand on it before it reacted. He held on and leeched it until it dropped, and all eyes turned to him.

    Workers fled. Crops shuffled away. Overseers cried out. The ghouls charged.

    Peter held the spear like a staff and tried deflecting an oncoming thrust from another spear, but the ghoul was strong.

    Peter gasped and staggered back as the spear punctured his chest. The ghoul ran him several steps back. Being held by the length of the shaft, it took six long seconds for it to drop.

    Peter didn¡¯t register the pain until he pulled the spear from his chest. He gagged and nearly collapsed but righted himself as his wounds vanished.

    Two more ghouls were nearly on him. He jumped back, battering away a pair of spears as hard as he could this time. He misjudged his timing, and both spears ran him through.

    Peter screamed; he felt these ones. Another spear appeared and deflected off his cheekbone, opening a long line along his face. Peter didn¡¯t see that spear¡¯s owner. He did see a spray of his blood. Peter slumped to his knees, his vision tunneling to a pin-prick. His mind grew heavy as the leech chorus died away. What was he doing again?

    Peter leaped to his feet, staggering in a disoriented shuffle as he pushed ghouls off of him. The two spears that had impaled him clattered to the ground in four pieces as they burned out of him.

    Five ghouls lay on the street at his feet. Peter¡¯s adrenaline pumped, dead ghouls at his feet, facing fifteen oncoming sentinels on his own, and he had only been brutally murdered once.

    He had killed nine ghouls ¡ª well, the Bedorven had ¡ª but he was the one paying the price. Despite his track record for blocking attacks, he grabbed a fallen spear and faced the upcoming line charging ghouls.

    ¡°Wait!¡± An overseer cried, and the line of ghouls skid to a halt, blocking off the road with a semicircle of leveled spears. The overseers¡¯ faces were twisted in horror and disgust. Peter was no fighter, but they had witnessed something grossly unnatural.

    ¡°It¡¯s you, isn¡¯t it?¡± the overseer asked from behind his line of ghouls. ¡°The lich who stole from Court Rahashel?¡±

    Without an answer, Peter leveled his spear in a way that felt natural.

    More ghouls filtered in from behind, and several enforcers shouldered rifles. Perfect. The more dense they were, the better he would be able to take them down.

    ¡°Court Rahashel wishes an audience with you. He wishes you to join him, to grant you great power by his side.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I don¡¯t think so,¡± Peter said. Peter was a court, and this man was visibly terrified of him. It was as terrible as it was awesome.

    Thirty ghouls and men had arrived with leveled weapons. Not that they could stop Peter; he had received his orders and promised he would obey. Peter started forward.

    ¡°What, are you crazy?¡± the overseer demanded.

    Peter twitched. This was going to hurt.

    He screamed, threw the spear blindly, and charged the tightly packed enemies. Premernox gas hissed as bullets, slugs, and blades tore through him. The street flared with bonfire purple brightness as twelve different leech flares of the closest ghouls and men were sucked into his body.

    Not awesome, definitely not awesome! Peter corrected himself as he fought back hysteric sobs. Despite what he had been through, it seemed to come as a fresh discovery that pain was still a horrible thing.

    Ghouls dropped, and Peter screamed again as he stepped into the line of spears. Peter tore at the spears that had fallen from dead fingers but were still buried in deep. He pulled one out and dropped it on the corpses underfoot.

    New ghouls stepped into the place of the fallen ones, and the men fell back several paces. The ghouls acted without fear; the men did not. Falling back and frantically reloading rifles, they made a second line behind their necrotic dolls.

    More ghouls dropped, but Peter screamed as his agonized body grew heavy from the weight of the implements.

    The ghouls pushed him back several steps, and five more dropped, quickly being replaced.

    The stupid band; the stupid, rotted, gas blasted Bedorven. Peter hated it. Why did he volunteer for this?

    More ghouls dropped, and a volley of rifle fire ripped through him, killing him instantly.

    All the metal in his body vanished as if burned away. Spear tips disappeared, bullets vanished, and those weapons that no longer had hands holding them clattered to the cobblestones and corpses.

    Ghouls pulled back their spears, looking at the flat tips in confusion. Purple light vapors continued to rage into Peter.

    Peter laughed deliriously and charged with a renewed strength from the reset.

    He grabbed ghouls, and they dropped. They dropped the fastest if he could touch them. Others drew short swords.

    One ran him through the back, and he died. The blade tip stuck through his coat and dropped to the ground, and the ghoul was left with just the pommel. Peter snarled as he grabbed the ghoul, and it fell. More ghouls attacked, and enforcers fired another volley. Peter reached out blindly as bodies pressed into him. His nervous system, body, and mind fell out of sync, and his vision went fuzzy.

    Ghouls slumped around him, leaving him half-buried in their motionless bodies. The Overseer and his men watched Peter in horror as he stood up and pulled a sword out of his abdomen.

    Peter¡¯s clothes were tattered and shredded. His skin was bloodied, but there were no wounds. Peter panted as he looked at the men. Every fiber of his being felt ready to be done; he didn¡¯t want to get shot again. He hated getting shot.

    The estate loomed behind the human Rahashelians. Its grey stone, spires, gargoyle rain gutters and flying buttresses always had drawn several long looks from Peter. It was grand and majestic. Today, Peter hated it.

    ¡°Guys!¡± Peter pleaded through his fatigue. ¡°I could use a breather!¡± Peter wasn¡¯t physically tired, as he had recently reset, but he was exhausted in ways he hadn¡¯t previously been able to comprehend. The ability to face certain death had a price he couldn¡¯t define. Whatever this unknown currency was, he was in debt.

    A volley of gun gas shrieked, and Peter flinched, but nothing hit him. Instead, the overseers cried out as many of them dropped. Plumes of Premernox spat from all around him: the windows, the ally, the roofs. With a scream, a swarm of dark-clad fighters rushed the streets. The Nine Fingers had entered the fight.

    He sank to the rough cobblestone road and stared at his bloodstained hands. At least there were no more crops on the street. They had enough sense to shuffle away from a battlefield.

    Julian ran up to Peter from behind. ¡°Nice work, Peter, but we¡¯ll probably need you to help clear the estate.¡±

    The estate doors swung open as he spoke, and ghouls poured out. They quickly cut down three men who had gotten too close to the estate¡¯s entrance. Peter moaned in protest. Facing them was the last thing he wanted to do. But the Nine Fingers men who had just died couldn¡¯t get back up. He could.

    He forced himself up and ran for the estate doors, preparing himself for the inevitable suffering.

    Peter accidentally leeched a sip of time from a couple of men as he ran, but it was diluted by distance. He threw himself on the ghouls, no longer focused on any preservation strategy. Just to let them do what they do and hold his breath until they ran out of juice.

    Peter was cut, hacked, slashed, speared, and killed over and over again. He cried out and screamed, flailing blindly as the estate guard tore into him. Peter closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight of himself being slaughtered. He heard ghouls drop to the ground, but that wasn¡¯t his doing. Just the stupid piece of jewelry Peter insisted on keeping. He cried out and screamed for what felt like a full minute before finding himself on his knees on the estate steps.

    He gazed absently at the face of a lifeless ghoul beside him. Its dried-out features were undeniably human but hidden behind the mask of tar and wrappings. Who had it been? He couldn¡¯t look away from the monster. Was he supposed to create those? How could he? He felt fine physically, but he couldn¡¯t stop shaking violently. Even if his body could endure it all, his mind could only take so much.

    ¡°Peter?¡±

    Peter snapped up with a growl but relaxed as he saw Julian looking down at him. How long had he been sitting here? Nine Fingers agents darted back and forth. Several converted the carriages they pulled into the city into barricades, several of which were already burning in hopes of keeping out the undead.

    Others carted full sacks of something heavy to another empty carriage ¡ª the tiles.

    ¡°How long have we been here?¡±

    Julian frowned in concern. ¡°Peter, are you okay?¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Peter said, but his vision was splotchy at the edges. Why was it so cold? Peter¡¯s teeth rattled his skull as he hugged himself tight with numb hands. Noise that should have been clear immediately around him was distant and vague. He shivered violently, unable to look at the high steward.

    ¡°All right, you¡¯re done,¡± Julian decided. ¡°You¡¯ve done well; just rest and leave the rest to us.¡±

    Peter nodded gratefully but couldn¡¯t relax. He just felt numb.

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t relax just yet if I were you, Van Seur.¡± Director Stegeman said grimly as he looked up the road. Peter and Julian stood to see something approaching in the distance.

    Peter had heard the marching before he saw them.

    Peter slumped back to his knees in despair. Side by side in ranks that spanned the wide street, hundreds of ghouls marched in heavy armor. Peter wasn¡¯t ready for that.

    ¡°Damn, did they cross the channel already?¡± Stegeman cursed.

    ¡°No, this was too easy,¡± Julian muttered. ¡°They were ready for us.¡±

    Peter disagreed emphatically. Nothing about that skirmish was easy

    ¡°All right, let¡¯s hustle! The after-party is about to start!¡± Stegeman barked.

    The Nine Fingers ran frantically, dropping sack after sack of tiles into the back of the carriage.

    The thunderous synchronized steps grew devastatingly loud. The army marched down Hill View. Julian put a hand on Peter''s shoulder. The simple touch made Peter choke back a sob. ¡°I spoke too soon. I¡¯m going to need your help with this.¡±

 13 Estate Steps

    The ghouls marched at almost a uniform jog, with hundreds of feet lifting and slamming into the ground in perfect rhythm. They approached with terrifying speed as the operations team carted out more tiles. A few men in dark coats and cloaks dropped their last sacks of tiles and drew weapons ¡ª as if they had any hope of stalling the oncoming force.

    At least they¡¯re not running, Peter thought in a fleeting moment of admiration. That was choked out quickly by a sinking stab of despair. He would be hacked to pieces for days. He wasn¡¯t ready for this!

    He twitched.

    ¡°Van Suer,¡± Director Stegeman hissed. ¡°Get up front.¡±

    Peter looked to Julian pleadingly, looking for some way out of his gruesome task, but the steward shook his head apologetically.

    The beat of marching feet grew louder as the ghouls drew near.

    ¡°Peter,¡± Julian started. ¡°I know it looks bad, but you can stop the line. Only so many can attack at a time, and you only need to stall them. They¡¯re all coming down one street.¡±

    Julian¡¯s words did little to dispel Peter''s sinking confidence in his motivation to perform his duty.

    The ghoul force was only four streets away.

    Director Stegeman turned on the men with weapons drawn. He barked orders at them to go back and clear the vault.

    They hesitated to holster their weapons before returning to their job. The futile sense of protection their weapons offered probably did more to instill confidence in them than the court Band did for Peter.

    ¡°Maybe we should run with what we have?¡± Peter tried.

    ¡°That won¡¯t work,¡± Director Stegeman repeated, his tone insistent. ¡°Our plan required us to drain Rahashel dry. Only then will he be grounded without an army.¡±

    ¡°Speaking of an army, it¡¯s almost here!¡±

    The ghouls thundered as they marched up to Elm Way. Peter forced himself to stand still. The Director and Julian allowed him to take the lead.

    Peter twitched twice.

    The power of a court? It''s more like the power of a meat shield.

    Peter could see the black eyes of the front line clearly as they lowered a line of glistening spears.

    Please, anything but this. Peter panicked.

    The ghouls stopped.

    The silence of their wordless halt was almost more defining than Peter¡¯s pounding heart.

    ¡°Uh, what?¡± Director Stegeman said.

    The ghouls didn¡¯t advance; they just watched. Peter counted ten wide and ten deep¡ªat least three blocks of one hundred.

    Behind the spearhead team, the wagon was almost full of dark bags. Fire spread from the flaming barricades onto the buildings along the narrow road. Peter felt the fire¡¯s warmth on his face. Each second of silence felt like an angelic hand that stayed his torture.

    ¡°Something¡¯s wrong,¡± Julian growled. ¡°I don¡¯t know an overseer who can command so many ghouls.¡±

    The ghouls turned to face either side and broke ranks as they ran down intersecting streets. They charged away, compelled by some unheard command. Hill View was empty in moments; if not for the sound of dry feet hitting the ground, there would have been no way of telling the street had ever been occupied.

    Those who watched gripped their weapons tighter.

    ¡°Am I the only one who finds the empty street more unsettling?¡± Julian asked, bemused.

    ¡°I don¡¯t,¡± Peter said, greatly relieved as the expectations placed on him ran away.

    ¡°If they fought us, that would make sense,¡± Julian said. ¡°This doesn¡¯t make sense. They¡¯re probably cutting off our escape. We¡¯re not in control here. We need to go now!¡±

    ¡°Well, it¡¯s much too late for that now, don¡¯t you think?¡± A high, raspy voice cracked from the roof of the estate.

    They looked up to find a man with a falcon head looking down on them. He stood on the roof holding a peaked steeple for support. His bare chest was exposed to the damp air. He wore only a long skirt-like loincloth around his waist.

    He shifted, and the steeple Peter thought he held turned out to be a spear. He stepped off the roof and dropped the full five or six stories, landing before them with a wet crack as his weight shattered several cobblestones and threw several more out of place. The falcon-headed elder lich stood up as casually as one would after getting out of a chair.

    ¡°These crop runaways and native defiers are getting gutsy, don¡¯t you think?¡± a scholarly voice said.

    A man with a ram¡¯s head stood on the roof of the building across the street from the estate. He held a smoking clay pipe in his hand and wore a robe that covered most of his body.

    A woman with a cat head stepped beside the ram-headed man on the roof, her hips swaying with each step. Her white gown, more a suggestion of fabric than a garment, hung dangerously from her figure, exposing a wealth of bare skin to the cold. Her gaze considered the scurrying mice on the road beneath her in a way more feline than human.

    ¡°Hmm,¡± she agreed with a sultry voice. ¡°They are.¡±

    ¡°Bastet, will you help Horus dispose of these thieves?¡± The ram-headed man asked the cat lady. His tone was polite. He could have been inviting them to tea. In response, the cat-headed woman leaped from the roof and landed gracefully in the center of the road beside the falcon-headed man.

    A man with a bull''s head walked out from a side street. Each of his heavy feet made a distinct thud on the cobbles. The brawny, bull-headed man fell into step in front of Peter and stood beside the falcon-headed man.

    Julian cursed.

    ¡°What?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°General Montu. He¡¯s back from Calacray.¡±

    Finally, Sobek stepped in. The crocodile-headed elder lich stood beside the three on the ground, carrying a club that looked like a gold ball the size of Peter¡¯s head, mounted on a stick.

    Peter looked frantically for the jackal head, but Anubis ¡ª the one that killed his mother ¡ª wasn¡¯t there.

    Peter took a step back. Four elder liches blocked the road, and one was on the roof above. Somehow, they were more frightening than the horde of ghouls that fled the street.

    ¡°I think I¡¯ll take over for this one, Peter,¡± Julian said.

    Peter gratefully stepped aside, relinquishing point over to the steward.

    ¡°Let me see if I got this right,¡± Julian started. ¡°Horus,¡± he said, pointing to the falcon-headed man and their apparent leader. ¡°General Montu.¡± He pointed to the bull-headed man. ¡°Sobek.¡± He pointed to Crocodile Head. ¡°The harlot, Bastet.¡± He didn¡¯t look directly at the scantily clad cat-woman. ¡°And you ¡­¡± He turned to the ram-headed elder lich still on the roof. ¡°Must be Khnum.¡±

    Khnum nodded in affirmation with a salute-like flourish of his pipe.

    ¡°Aren''t you going to join us?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ll have to decline,¡± Khnum said. ¡°This will be messy, and I¡¯ve already bathed today.¡±

    The words were funny coming from a ram¡¯s lips, but Peter was in no mood to laugh.

    ¡°So this one knows us?¡± Bastet purred as she took a step forward; she had an alluring and feminine grace to her step. Her dress went to her ankles, but a slit up the silky fabric exposed an obscene amount of hip. As distracting as that would have been, Peter¡¯s eyes were drawn to the gleaming sharp hand sickles belted over her skirt.

    ¡°I think I like him. Can I keep him, Horus?¡± she asked Falcon Head. She sounded like a child begging her father for candy. ¡°Please?¡±

    Horus laughed with a surprisingly high and raspy voice. ¡°We¡¯ll have to see,¡± he said. We¡¯re not here for him; we''re here for the crop who stole Rasminfrey¡¯s Court band.¡± He pointed at Peter, and Peter just about wet himself.

    ¡°You¡¯re not here to recover your tiles?¡± Peter asked desperately, trying to take the attention off of himself.

    ¡°The ghouls will handle the natives,¡± Horus said. ¡°I¡¯ll handle you, courtling. Besides, what makes you think that any of you are getting out of here alive?¡±

    ¡°You should worry a lot less about the kid and worry a lot more about me,¡± Julian said, drawing himself to full height.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± Horus asked in a mocking tone. ¡°Their greatest warrior?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Julian said. I¡¯m the steward and Emissary of Nyamar, the true master of these worlds.¡±

    All of the elder liches smiled at each other as if sharing an inside joke. They looked amused more than anything.

    Montu, the thick bull-headed man, drew a strange sword straight on the bottom half and curved out on the top half. ¡°Court Rahashel is the all-powerful, new god of these worlds, priest!¡± He snorted in a deep voice. ¡°Kneel and renounce the imposter you worship; align your zeal with Court Rahashel, and we¡¯ll let you serve him.¡±

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    ¡°I didn¡¯t finish!¡± Julian snapped back. ¡°I¡¯m also the new steward of this estate ¡ª¡± Julian thrust an open hand to the side, and a spear that lay by a spent ghoul leaped from the ground and flew into his hand almost faster than Peter could follow, ¡°¡ª and you¡¯ve unlawfully occupied the master¡¯s house.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Horus hissed as he leveled his spear threateningly, alarmed even. ¡°That¡¯s not Tijd interfacing! How did you do it?¡±

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you try and take me apart to find out?¡± Julian taunted. ¡°Domestics! To me!¡±

    Julian¡¯s three valets and two maids strode from the group of Nine Fingers and got on line with their steward. They wore black clothes, white aprons, and black gloves.

    ¡°I want the priest and the court alive!¡± Horus snapped suddenly. ¡°Kill the rest!¡±

    The four grounded elder liches rushed Julian in one coordinated strike. With inhuman speed and grace, their weapons danced forward ¡ª but the next moment, Julian was out of their range in a blur beside Peter. His eyes burned with fierce green light.

    ¡°Honor your stewardship!¡± he cried.

    The elder liches looked at him in stunned silence.

    Long-faced and suspicious, Hunter Maid Esmee was first to aid Julian. The pulsist clasped her black-gloved hands together, cupping them. Esmee grimaced with exertion as if she contained a growing pressure in her hands. She glared at Horus and opened one of her hands, making an opening in her seal. A bolt of clear green light darted from her clasped hands and struck Horus in the neck.

    Horus was thrown back, and his blood sprayed the other liches. The bird-man tumbled across the cobblestone before coming to a stop.

    ¡°How do they do it?¡± Bastet shrieked.

    ¡°Run!¡± Julian cried to Nine Fingers, and in a lower voice, he added. ¡°We don¡¯t have much left.¡±

    Horus¡¯ head snapped back into place, purple smoke billowed from the wound, but his skin looked fine as the smoke whiffed off. He pulled himself to his feet, looking stunned but unhurt.

    ¡°Get the priests!¡± He cried again. ¡°Khnum, the natives!¡±

    A volley of rifle gas hissed from the support team, and bullets smacked into the elder liches.

    They flinched and shook under the volley but righted themselves as purple smoke seemed to cleanse their wounds.

    Peter ran back as Director Stegeman fired a shot at the liches.

    ¡°Wagon¡¯s loaded; let''s go!¡± he barked, and soldiers scrambled away from the liches, spurring the cart to action.

    ¡°Well, isn¡¯t this disappointing?¡± the ram-headed lich chided from above. ¡°Why haven''t you restored your age, young Court? Or come with your ghouls or even take control of the remainder of Court Rasminfrey¡¯s armies?¡±

    Peter realized the elder lich was talking to him.

    ¡°At the very least, I would have expected you to kill, if not turn, the ghouls that you drain. Could it be that you haven¡¯t synched with the Bedorven?¡±

    ¡°What are you talking about?¡± Peter demanded. This lich was much less frightening than the ones who engaged Julian. ¡°They are dead ¡ª¡± Peter gasped as a terrible realization struck.

    ¡°Stab them in the heart!¡± he screamed at the Nine Fingers men, who were busy running. He saw a familiar face.

    ¡°Captain Visser!¡± he shouted, and the captain turned to him.

    ¡°They¡¯re not dead!¡± Peter cried, pointing to the ghouls on the ground. ¡°They¡¯re sleeping!¡±

    Tobias'' eyes widened, and he cursed. He shot the nearest of the motionless ghouls in the chest with a pistol.

    ¡°It¡¯s not exactly that they¡¯re sleeping,¡± Khnum said in a calm and measured tone that Peter would have expected to hear from one of his school teachers. ¡°It¡¯s more like they¡¯re empty. How did you not know that? You wear the Bedorven, right? This should be instinct.¡±

    Peter grabbed a ghoul¡¯s short sword and stabbed an empty ghoul in the chest several times.

    ¡°Leave it!¡± the captain cried. ¡°Just run!¡±

    ¡°What about the domestics?¡±

    Tobias looked. ¡°I think they can take care of themselves.¡±

    Peter looked towards Julian¡¯s party. Julian and the slammist Hendrik fought in front, their eyes burning with green fire. They fought with strength on par with the liches, utilizing martial techniques unique to and guarded by the House. That must have meant Julian was a slammist as well. A slammist could very well rip through a human body with their hands, but the liches appeared comparably mighty.

    Sobek landed a blow on Hendrik''s head with his golden club. The club made contact and deflected off the domestic, but the glow drastically dimmed in his eyes.

    Esmee''s brother, the mover Albert, slipped up behind Hendricks and seemingly manipulated some impermeable force in his hands like an invisible slippery serpent. He built up whatever charge he was amassing and slammed both hands into Hendrik''s back.

    The slammist''s eyes ignited with intensity, and Hendricks laughed in casual, good humor as he lunged at General Montu, spearing him through the shoulder with an open knife hand. The bull-headed lich bellowed and reacted, but Peter noticed Albert slink back pale-faced and shaken from whatever price he paid to supercharge the slammist.

    Esmee continued to shoot thin beams of clear, rippling light from behind them, but each one came out noticeably weaker than the last.

    Horus pointed, and a fiery bolt of purple lightning struck Julian. Julian staggered, then looked back at Horus. He seemed largely unaffected, but the light in his eyes had dimmed.

    The surfer Gerard was locked in a deadly dance with Bastet. She swung her sickles, and the sullen domestic expertly skirted the attack without an opening to retaliate. Gerard''s unnatural movement made Peter think of trying to get a piece of shell out of an egg yolk. The harder the cat-lich tried to shred him, the more easily he avoided her.

    Basted overlooked Maid Ava, the clampist. Ava executed an aerial spin beside the lich. Four handless blades whipped around the clampist''s body as if swung on spring-loaded tethers, and each one ripped through the lich like teeth on a spinning saw blade.

    Elder liches shook off their wounds with puffs of smoke, and ghastly purple leech hands reached for Julian in return, only to be stopped by ripples of luminescent green glyphs flickering in the air.

    Green and purple lights lit up the estate as Peter looked away. To his untrained eyes, it was a stalemate. Until Montu bucked Hendrik with his horns, and the slammist flew across the plaza and struck the estate steps. The hunter valet stumbled to his feet dazed, his arm hanging at a nauseating angle. With his eyes no longer radiant, Hendrik''s smile was gone.

    Peter expected the valet to run, but his eyes hardened, and he sprinted back to the fight, no more than a broken mortal man.

    Peter nodded in respect and did the opposite by running behind the retreating group of men. He told himself it was because he was ordered to, but his relief at the command assured him he was nothing like the domestics.

    ¡°Not so fast.¡± Khnum pulled a small round clay jar from his belt. The lich lobbed it down at the fleeing party, and purple glyphs on the side lit up. The jar flew on its own accord in front of the wagon and shattered on the road. A line of purple fire snaked across and blocked off South Hill''s view.

    The men cried out as they were blocked off.

    ¡°Get to Horse Lane!¡± Director Stegeman barked at the captains. ¡°Contingency plan. And somebody, shoot him down!¡± He pointed up at Khnum.

    Khnum pulled another jar from his belt and dropped it onto the road below. It shattered, and bright purple light hissed and moaned as it siphoned back into prostrate ghouls that Peter had leeched. They started to twitch and rise.

    ¡°Get to their hearts!¡± Peter cried as he managed to stab one in the heart through the back as it tried to climb to its feet. It slumped, and dark purple smoke bellowed off of it.

    Captain Tobias quickly responded, dropping a pair of ghouls with pistols before they could reorient themselves. Everyone else jumped away and shot at them blindly with guns and crossbows.

    ¡°Protect the tiles!¡± Director Stegeman hollered as he jumped on the wagon and shot at a ghoul.

    The ghouls were all up. At least forty of them. They outnumbered the Nine Fingers operations team by a few.

    ¡°Hold them off!¡±

    The heavily armored ghouls from before came pouring over the burning barricades that blocked the roads on all sides. The fire of the carts ignited their wrappings, but they continued, on fire and undeterred.

    Great. Whose genius idea was it to set the barricades on fire? Now Peter was going to get stabbed and burned.

    Five men went down in a skirmish where the ghouls clashed with Nine Fingers. Five men, because Peter was too slow.

    Peter screamed and charged the front. ¡°Make way or be leeched!¡± he cried, trying to ignore the dead men at his feet. He swung at a ghoul with the short sword he had taken from a fallen ghoul, and their blades clashed. He was close enough that his leech radius connected with at least three ghouls.

    He blocked frantically as they all struck at him. He blocked some and missed most, but they dropped. Peter¡¯s adrenaline masked several wounds that just ended up disappearing anyway.

    More ghouls filed into their place. ¡°I already killed you!¡± Peter snapped as he slashed one across the throat. Bandages split open as his blade cut into the tar. It didn¡¯t do anything, of course, but it felt good. It was almost worth the cut across all four of his fingers as he tried to block its return strike.

    Two more dropped, and he grabbed another short sword. Men fought and fell in line but at a distance from him.

    Peter parried a short sword, but successfully this time. He learned his lesson about blocking too low. He slashed and cut, but his edge alignment was off, scoring only superficial scratches.

    A ghoul dropped, depleted.

    Peter took a moment to flip a blade, catch it point down, and stab the fallen one through the chest. He leaped and ran another one through but missed the heart.

    It spun on him without hesitation and cut deep into Peter¡¯s shoulder.

    Peter took his opening and killed it before the leech did the job for him. Dark smoke whiffed off of the ghoul.

    Peter laughed painfully despite himself. These ghouls fought like he did, with no sense of self-preservation.

    Men screamed, weapons clashed, guns hissed, and the sound of the time vapors wailed a song of ethereal cries like damned souls pleading for recourse as they siphoned into Peter.

    Two ghouls dropped under Nine Fingers gun gas, but the slayers were dropping quickly.

    ¡°Van Seur!¡± Stegeman hollered over the din of war. ¡°Get out! Don¡¯t let them get the band! Everyone cut your way through!¡±

    The line caved. Peter slashed a ghoul across the forearm, then spun to join them. A spear pierced his back, but the ghoul holding it drained and fell.

    Peter ran in retreat but accidentally started to leech some injured men as he caught up to Nine Fingers. Sticking with them would do more harm than good.

    Peter veered off into a building that was once an apartment complex, and many ghouls followed.

    Peter ran up splintered stairs and passed apartments, then slammed a door at the top of the stairs behind him. Moments later, something heavy slammed into it, to Peter¡¯s dismay. The leech lights didn¡¯t flare. He had hoped to leech his pursuers from behind cover.

    He slid the bolt and ran for the window on the far side of a hallway. Sprinting at full speed, he screamed and threw himself through it. He plummeted headfirst out onto a side street. He must have broken his back when he hit the ground because he couldn¡¯t move for a few moments.

    Above, ghouls climbed out of the window. Peter grabbed his blade and ran.

    Ghouls hit the ground with crunches and thuds and started right after him.

    Peter felt pain, but the ghouls didn¡¯t mend.

    Many ran on broken legs, but they sprinted relentlessly. Peter tried to lose them, but five who seemed to land well kept up. Peter weaved through alleys and ducked between buildings, but the final five were relentless.

    Distancing the horde, Peter turned to face them.

    One hurled a spear, which impacted between his eyes, but the metal burned, and the spear dropped. Peter¡¯s fatigue disappeared as he reset.

    He charged the remaining five with his short sword. He dodged an attack and pinned the ghoul''s sword arm to its body. Abandoning the sword stuck in the ghoul, he wretched its blade from its hands as it collapsed. He screamed in fury as he turned on the next one, and they stabbed each other through the heart at the same time.

    The blade inside him burned away as he died. He wrenched his short sword out and spun on the remaining three. One of them dropped as the leech shield drained it.

    No, he didn¡¯t want to leech them. He wanted to kill the things as they stood, not when they were empty on the ground.

    Peter screamed and forced his blade into a ghoul¡¯s chest and danced away. He missed its heart. He jumped in to try again, but his leech finished it.

    No! He wanted to do it himself! He screamed and plowed into the last one, knocking it on its back. He bellowed as he drove the blade into its heart. Purple smoke whiffed off the lifeless ghoul as its remaining internal time burned off.

    Gasping, Peter stood. He ran the ghouls he leeched through the chest several times. He wasn¡¯t precisely sure where the heart was, and he wanted to make sure these ones never came back. After regarding his handiwork with a surprisingly lucid sense of grim satisfaction, he stripped a belt off of one of the ghouls and buckled a pair of short swords onto his hip. Finally claiming an undamaged spear, he felt much less naked than being armed only with a bracelet.

    Peter spat on a ghoul¡¯s face, then crushed its dry head under his boot.

    That was my countryman. Peter froze and considered the violence of his actions. What was he becoming? He was a seventeen-year-old school kid, not a homicidal old man who desecrated corpses. He shuddered, his hands cold and sticky from blood.

    Peter turned down the hauntingly empty streets of his old home, spear in hand, and walked to the nearest maintenance hole. After prying it open, he slipped into his old sanctuary and the darkness of the sewer. Peter slipped away, but it was somehow different. He wasn¡¯t a crop anymore, drifting in the privacy of the sewers.

    Like Van Gutter before him, he entered the sewer as a Nine Fingers agent on the run.

 14 Desperate

    Slipping back into the damp, rank sewers felt like coming home. The only light source came from a coin-sized hole that served as a leverage point in the manhole cover above. Peter oriented himself according to his last sense of direction before going underground as he allowed his eyes to adjust. The sewers were complex, and he would undoubtedly get lost, but he could check again when he saw another manhole.

    As his eyes finished adjusting, his vision stopped flashing with white patches. The slight purple glow emanating from the strange hieroglyphic runes on the side of the Bedorven was easy to see, in the semi-darkness of the tunnels.

    Using the butt of his spear, he felt his way down the dark tunnel. He managed to calm his racing heart as he continued deeper into the sanitation system. He knew a manhole could open any moment, and ghouls could flood the sewers and trap him. At least he¡¯d know how to fight back this time. As minutes ticked by, he grew more convinced that he was out of the worst of it.

    As he felt his way away from the fighting and toward freedom, he had a budding hope that he might find Iris, down here in the sewers, in the place they had always used for escape.

    He continued, not bringing himself to depend on that hope but not banishing it altogether.

    Niels Van Dijk shot a ghoul in the face, blowing off chunks of dry flesh and bone. The ghoul fell back a step but turned to face him again, not caring that half of its face was missing. A horde of ghouls pressed them from all sides and helplessly outnumbered the Nine Fingers. He should have done what the old-man-kid did and escaped through the buildings, but he¡¯d never been any good at hide-and-seek. He certainly would have been cornered.

    Van Dijk flipped out the old shell and fed in a new one. Slagter Primes had a lot of kick; they were more like hand cannons than pistols, but were only accurate at a short range.

    He flipped the barrel up, locked it into place, and aimed. His back hit the wagon, and he started in surprise. He had been unknowingly backing away from the front.

    ¡°Van Dijk!¡± Captain Tobias Visser barked as he blocked a short sword with his officer''s sword. He sheared the attacking arm off with the falchion in his offhand. ¡°Get in here!¡±

    Van Dijk jumped at the order, and he grabbed his spear. With a long, slender blade, it would hopefully keep him far enough away to kill a ghoul or two without putting himself in too much danger.

    The remaining Nine Fingers had made a defensive circle around the wagon and fought desperately, losing inch after precious inch. ghouls pressed them relentlessly with dead, uncaring eyes.

    Van Dijk tried to step forward and join the ranks of the ever-shrinking defensive circle, but his hands shook. He couldn¡¯t will his feet onwards.

    Morris, Benedict, and Skye, the king¡¯s cell mercenaries, jumped onto the wagon and started taking shots with Slagters. Of course, they weren¡¯t willing to fight out front. Typical.

    The members of the king¡¯s cell expertly fired and reloaded quickly. The three of them dropped eight ghouls in what felt like seconds¡ªwhiffs of black-purple smoke filtered off the fallen ghoul¡¯s shoulders.

    Van Dijk grew angry with himself. He condemned mercenaries for their cowardice, but he shrunk back to the wagon, unable to move.

    He screamed as he tried to push himself into the front line, but those fighting were tightly packed at the shoulders. That came as a guilty relief to Van Dijk as he stuck his pistol over the shoulder of a fighting soldier who was trying to keep ghouls at bay with a bayonet affixed to the end of his rifle.

    Van Dijk shot the ghoul in the chest, and it dropped.

    Yes! He had done it ¡ª he had killed his first ghoul. There was no purple smoke, which struck him as odd, but he wasn¡¯t complaining. The ghoul Van Dijk had shot picked itself up and killed the soldier in front, opening a spot for Van Dijk. He holstered his pistol and held his spear forward with trembling hands. He meant to step into the empty place; he really did, but something sickening inside him lurched, and he fell back.

    Ghouls poured into the opening, and Van Dijk ran back to the wagon.

    The three bandits on the wagon shot the ghouls, who slipped in proficiently, one after the other. But they got in too fast.

    In the distance, the flashing green light stopped. Van Dijk saw the small figure of Julian Gerrets dodging and fighting frantically for his life, seemingly without his strange enhancements. Two valets and a maid lay dead in the street, and the liches fought with renewed confidence, now outnumbering the domestics.

    Van Dijk stabbed an oncoming ghoul in the shoulder, but it didn¡¯t even go in very deep.

    The ghoul pushed it aside easily. Three black-shafted crossbow bolts were already sticking in its chest, none of which found their mark.

    A Slagter shrieked from the hired guns behind him, and the mummified corpse''s chest caved in, dropping at Van Dijk¡¯s feet.

    ¡°Live fire!¡± Chief Director Stegeman cried as he hurled two firebomb canisters with lit flare fuses over the heads of the clashing lines in the hope of clearing a path for the wagon.

    Each explosive shook the ground, throwing ghouls away from the blast and engulfing several in flames.

    A ghoul tumbled past Van Dijk and fell. Van Dijk quickly pounced, stabbing in the back several times before he noticed the slug wound that had already killed it.

    ¡°Make way! We¡¯re going to run them down!¡± Director Stegeman barked as he grabbed the horses'' reins and urged them into a sprint.

    The horses plowed through a few ghouls and galloped down the cobblestone road.

    Van Dijk gripped the wooden shaft of his spear tightly. He felt the friction burn his hands.

    ¡°Captain, an opening!¡± he cried, relieved to see Captain Visser still fending for himself.

    Isabella ran past Van Dijk and grabbed him by the wrist. ¡°Run, Niels!¡±

    Van Dijk took a step after the wagon but stopped. He couldn¡¯t leave without the others. He would hate himself forever.

    The ram-headed lich tossed down another clay pot, which shattered on the ground. Purple light snaked away from the broken pieces of clay, seeking out motionless Nine Fingers corpses and forcing its way into their dead bodies.

    Van Dijk watched in disturbed horror as his fallen comrades began to twitch, writhe, and stand.

    They snarled and threw themselves forward, trying to worm through the tightly packed ghouls in front.

    ¡°Fe-fre ghouls!¡± Isabella categorized.

    Feral fresh ghouls, Van Dijk deciphered.

    Captain Visser cursed. ¡°Everyone scatter!¡±

    The front line dissolved as the few remaining survivors disengaged and sprinted away. Anyone who was hurt was cut down quickly.

    Seeing the others run, Van Dijk allowed himself to bolt after the wagon.

    Van Dijk tried to drown the exhausted screams of his slower companions as they were run through by the sentinel ghouls or eaten by their former friends.

    Ahead, a pair of ghouls threw spears at the horses drawing the wagon, and the animals went down with a horrible scream. Wood splintered and snapped, throwing thousands of small purple glowing rectangular chips all across the street.

    Director Stegeman limped out of the wreckage but was severely hurt. Two ghouls ran to him with short swords drawn.

    Stegeman lit a fuse on one last bomb before they cut him down. The bomb dropped to their feet and exploded and set off the other firebombs on the wagon. Thousands of glowing tiles exploded like shrapnel into the buildings and sky.

    The flaming wagon blocked the street and caught the buildings on either side on fire.

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    Van Dijk turned down a different street and ran for his life. He didn¡¯t see the street name, nor was he familiar with Stalpia; he just ran, leaving his directions to chance.

    The other trailing survivors followed Van Dijk as if he knew where he was going. Still, he took aimless twists and turns until he ran into a small open square. It looked rather like it had been some sort of outdoor cafe court. Old and decayed dining centers surrounded it.

    ¡°Van Dijk! Find a way out?¡± Isabella screamed as she turned and leveled an impressive crossbow towards their pursuers.

    Captain Visser followed closely behind, with Morris and his crew. The hired guns must have wisely abandoned the wagon before its destruction.

    A few others filed in before a man shot into the area with rabid eyes and foam in the mouth. Van Dijk knew him; his name was Private Verhaeghe. He had played cards with Verhaeghe once. Most people only played Van Dijk once; after they lost horribly, they caught on that something was fishy.

    Now, Private Verhaeghe clawed at Isabella, snapping his teeth in a feral rage. A fatal slash on his neck marked his means of death.

    Isabella screamed and raised her weapon, but a pistol shot from Skye dropped the feral corpse.

    The youngest hired gun winked at her before flipping a new shell into his Slagter.

    Van Dijk frantically peered through the broken shop windows, looking for the fastest way through. A symphony of gun gas behind announced the arrival of the pursuing undead, but Van Dijk couldn¡¯t afford to look.

    He found it ¡ª a wooden gate that closed an alley between shops. He stepped down one of the stone steps and threw himself into the splintered door. It shattered as it opened, and he found himself face-to-face with a mummified ghoul.

    He cried out and leaped back as it snatched the air, trying to grab him. Van Dijk missed his footing on the step and fell backward, roughly scraping his hand and elbow on the stone.

    The ghoul stepped forward, occupied the doorway, and drew its weapon. Great. He had let them in from behind, so now everyone''s deaths would be on his hands.

    The ghoul hesitated as it looked down at him, or maybe it was time slowing as he endured his final moments.

    Van Dijk blinked tears as he fumbled for his fallen spear. He wouldn¡¯t go out without a fight.

    The tip of a cutlass stabbed through the ghoul¡¯s chest, and it collapsed soundlessly.

    Commandant Sebastian Van Graif stood in the doorway. His sword was stained with dark specks of undead blood.

    ¡°Commandant!¡± Van Dijk cried, his tears of sorrow turning to tears of joy.

    The Commandant leaped over the fallen private and raised his sword. ¡°Let¡¯s give our boys a breather!¡± the grizzled old war leader cried.

    A battle cry sounded as twenty men poured through the door with gas arms and crossbows, Director Van Den Hoek leading them. The support team had arrived.

    Perhaps most reassuring to Van Dijk was Owen, who followed the support team out. He pulled Van Dijk to his feet and thrust his fallen spear into his hands.

    ¡°The others?¡± Owen asked.

    Van Dijk motioned to Captain Visser and Isabella, who were gasping for air, drenched in sweat, and splattered with a mix of red and black blood. The exhausted pair fell back as Support showed up to spell them out of the combat.

    ¡°Go!¡± Owen said as he shouldered his rifle. With practiced grace, he felled the now hollow-eyed Director Habets, who was trying to eat his former comrades.

    Van Dijk turned to leave but stopped to notice Commandant Van Graif. In a flurry of aggressive grace, he dropped ghoul after ghoul as they flooded the cafe court. He was gaining ground. Two would rush him, and he would cut down and disable three. He avoided strikes and kept his blade in constant motion. Even Morris, Benedict, and Skye stopped a moment to gawk.

    Van Graif threw off his coat and continued his attack, roaring at the undead as he severed limbs and pierced hearts. Already, there were almost half a dozen at his feet.

    Captain Visser grabbed Van Dijk by the collar with rage-filled eyes. The captain stood tired, sweating, and bloodied. Van Dijk had scraped hands and dust on his coat. They were an illustrative comparison of the front and the back of the battle.

    ¡°We will have words if we get out of this,¡± the captain snarled before pulling the private after him.

    The captain¡¯s tone and words stung Van Dijk like a stray bullet. Gone were the anxious feelings of despair. Instead, Van Dijk found his emotions in his throat as his captain dragged him away. He had failed his team. He tried to stand but found himself devoid of courage. He wanted to stand with humanity, but instead, he left it behind as he ran like a coward.

    ¡°Captain, I''m sorry!¡± he cried.

    ¡°Shut up, private,¡± the captain snapped, still dragging the faltering man.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± He said mostly to himself, trusting the captain''s guidance as his blurry eyes ran

    Peter stopped. He should have reached a storm drain by now. He shifted uncomfortably, worried he could be stuck in the city''s drainage system. There were a lot of rats there. That was to be expected; it was a sewer. Peter saw them all the time. But here in the dark, he grimaced. There were too many of them.

    He stopped under a utility maintenance hole distinguished by the small hole designed to fit a pry bar with faint light shining from the streets above. Peter started up the ladder built into the side and listened momentarily before pushing the maintenance hole cover up and sliding it over. Peter peeked into the streets of southern Stalpia and into the dull faces of a few curious crops.

    ¡°Get away!¡± Peter hissed at them, and they nonchalantly compiled, shuffling away disinterestedly.

    Peter grunted in exertion as he slid the heavy plate out of its socket and hoisted himself up, pulling his spear up after him.

    After sliding the cover in place, he looked around to get his bearings. He read a few road signs and realized he was in southern Stalpia. If he continued, he would have ended up in Stalpia¡¯s sister suburb, Horvath. He had mistaken one of his turns and drifted south, instead of west, towards Shay.

    He stepped out into the more open streets and saw occasional sentinel ghouls, now staring ahead as if in a coma until something caught their interest. He seemed far enough away from the fighting that they didn¡¯t consider him an enemy.

    Peter started to head east but out on the open streets. He tried to avoid suspicion, but his bloodied and shredded coat made him stand out, so he ducked from street to street, avoiding overseers wherever he could. Peter constantly scanned the roads searching for Rahashelian agents but, more honestly, in search of Iris. He had to be careful around that area. If he recalled correctly, Vincent and his vampiric brood occupied an old mansion in this part of town. They had already seen his face; it wouldn¡¯t bode well for him to run into them again.

    Peter passed the old library and stopped. This was Rahashel¡¯s current record vault. All overseers spent time there for training when they were new.

    Khnum¡¯s words came to mind. How did you not know that? You wear the Bedorven, right? This should be instinct.

    Peter also recalled Doctor Aarts¡¯ rebuke.

    The courts are murdering thousands every day. You are the first Court that we ¡ª humanity ¡ª has ever had to fight back. If you don¡¯t make ghouls, then what chance do we have? The death of all those fighting will be on your hands.

    Peter looked at the library again. It was where overseers trained to command ghouls. Maybe Peter could grab some of their source material on his way out. Perhaps it could give them an edge in understanding the enemy. Possibly reveal a weakness or even have insight into how to use the court armlet fully.

    Peter felt so confident about going into the library that it seemed unnatural. He saw a book in his mind and heard a faint clicking voice interlaced with breathy whispers.

    Peter shook his head. If something influenced him to go to the library, that should be his last place. He had been ordered to escape and get back. The Bedorven was at stake.

    From here on out, you¡¯re with the Nine Fingers. You will obey the proper chain of command and help us as expected. The commandant¡¯s stern voice reminded him.

    Part of Peter urged him into retreat, but he understood their mission was teetering on the edge of failure.

    I mean it. You must follow every order.

    Peter¡¯s Bedorven clicked. He looked down at it in surprise; it had never made any noise. It tugged on his arm. It was gently pulling him towards the library.

    He watched it in surprise, but it had grown still.

    He looked back at the stained glass of the library. He couldn¡¯t allow the soldiers who died to do so in vain. The Nine Fingers were fighting with almost no data on the enemy. He held a special trust in bearing the armlet, and it was time for him to deliver on that dependence.

    Peter turned and made his way into the library.

    No one moved to stop him, but a few agents eyed him, his shredded clothes, and the sentinel spear he carried. He wouldn¡¯t be the strangest thing they saw, but certainly uncommon.

    Peter ventured into the large reading area of the library and stopped short. Rows of dozens of small skeletal ghouls with white headdresses sat with open books at the desk. Peter gasped. The mummified workers were small enough to be children¡ªthey probably were at one point.

    Their eyes burned with purple light. They ran a bony finger along the words line after line as they read. Yes! They were reading!

    On the other half of the room, the same kind of ghoul with blue headdresses scribbled furiously onto new books as their empty eye sockets also burned with purple light.

    What is this?

    Small stoves warmed the expansive room as smoke shoots led to the outside of the building. Those were new. A reading ghoul snapped his book shut, shuffled over to the stove, and tossed it into the fire.

    Peter¡¯s inner scholar recoiled in disgust at the destruction of the material, but it simultaneously sought to understand their strange behavior.

    The ghoul who burned the book returned to its desk at the same time a writing one did. Peter realized the writing one had left to put the finished book back on a shelf. They started up again, reading and writing in synchronized pairs.

    They¡¯re translating! He realized. It made sense that an invading overlord would burn the local educational material and seek to know the native understanding of politics, science, engineering warfare, and anything else they might know.

    Beyond the translation assembly, a figure stood in an open, elevated office space. It had a male human body and the head of an ibis. The ibis-headed lich bent over his book, his scarlet feathers puffing around the neck of his robe and his long, straw-like beak almost touching the pages.

    The elder lich carried a thick tome under his arm, and Peter heard a whisper. It was a masculine voice that spoke with strange clicks and breathy gasps. Peter recognized the volume cradled in the lich''s arms as the book he had seen in his false memories.

    The hair on Peter¡¯s neck stood on edge as he looked at the band on his arm. It pulsed with purple light, which started to shine brighter than a candle, as it urged him on, pushing him to the book that the lich had under his arm. It didn¡¯t compel him by any means, but the Bedorven was focused on the book. Peter could feel it.

    ¡°Hey,¡± an administrator called out as he approached Peter.

    Peter didn¡¯t look at the man; he focused on the book. It, too, began to whisper in a strange language of clicks and groans.

    ¡°Overseer training isn¡¯t until tomorrow,¡± the administrator said, but he got too close to Peter, and a leech lashed out and sucked a few years off of him.

    The administrator fell back with a cry. ¡°Forgive me! I didn''t realize you were a lich!¡±

    The scarlet ibis-headed elder lich looked at the book, confused, as if he could hear the whispering coming from within, which penetrated Peter¡¯s mind from across the assembly of undead translators.

    The ibis-headed man looked from the book to Peter and met his eye.

    Peter pulled Van Gutter¡¯s hat down over his eyes and stepped forward.

 15 The Library

    Peter entered the library study hall and strode through the mass of translating ghouls.

    Instantly, the air shattered into streams of purple light, as his armband leeched twenty ghouls at once. When they clustered together so tightly, Peter found himself unable to avoid their small, tightly packed groups.

    Those he passed flopped over, depleted of their time almost instantly. The rest scattered, clacking angrily as husky limbs scraped across the ground. The pygmy ghouls must have had smaller time reserves with how quickly they drained. They showed no intention of resisting. They weren¡¯t fighters.

    As ghouls dropped and new ones passed, fresh tendrils of purple wispy light snaked away from new prey, every time they got too close. Dozens of the hunched, short figures poured out of the former study hall and swarmed past human enforcers who ran to see the disturbance. Peter walked between long tables, leaving scores of translating ghouls drained and motionless on the ground.

    The vibrant bird-headed elder lich clutched the book to his chest and cried out in panic with clicks and breathy gasps. Peter furrowed his brow in confusion; he didn¡¯t understand the necrotic language.

    Six sentinel ghouls poured out from behind the open platform office and ran in front of the elder lich, making a protective formation.

    Peter clenched his teeth and ran at them, clutching his spear tight. The ground thumped underfoot. He knew what he had to do, and the sooner it was over, the better.

    Peter almost got to the defensive line before he realized these ghouls looked different from ordinary sentinels. They had brass breastplates on their chests and wooden headdresses plastered to their heads. Moreover, they were all heavily armed ¡ª significantly more than the usual ghouls.

    Conventional ghouls had been armed with a spear and a short sword. These sentries also leveled the traditional spear, but Peter also glimpsed those strange blades that he¡¯d first seen lich General Montu carried an exotic hybrid of sword and axe, with half straight near the hilt and the second half sweeping outward. The sentries also had hand sickles, and axes secured to their belts.

    Peter charged and thrust towards an armored chest with his spear. The ghoul knocked his spear off course, with a sharp clack of wood on wood, and sent him flying with a powerful, well-placed kick to the chest. Peter hit and slid down one of the long wooden tables, violently knocking against chairs, books, and ink until he slid to a stop.

    Peter groaned as he looked at his opposition in surprise. Broken ribs mended, and he scrambled up to one knee.

    The elder lich clicked twice from the back of his throat, and the ghouls broke formation, bounding after him. They snarled through barred, pointed, and serrated teeth. These six ghoulish guardians weren¡¯t sentinels at all. A couple dropped on all fours and loped after him like apes.

    Peter thought frantically about the classification system Norah had taught him. Bestial and inhumanly strong, they must be feral and enforced ghouls. Peter scrambled to his feet and snarled back at them as he charged them head-on. It didn¡¯t matter if they could deliver a better beating or bite harder. A ghoul was a ghoul; he would drain them, then stab them in the heart.

    They were fast. One parried Peter¡¯s strike, spear-on-spear, and ran Peter through the chest.

    Peter didn¡¯t stop. He used his momentum to continue past the spearhead, allowing the shaft of the spear to slide through him. Peter pulled out a short sword and rammed the ghoul through the ghoul¡¯s chest.

    The ghoul didn¡¯t drop. It did take a bite out of Peter¡¯s neck.

    Peter cried out as blood sprayed from some torn artery.

    Of all the times Peter had died so far, this was probably the messiest and easily the most painful. The spear shaft burned and clattered, and Peter pulled out his second short sword. He stabbed the lead ghoul through the chest again. Maybe he missed the heart the first time.

    The ghoul didn¡¯t die. It grabbed him around the waist, hoisted him in the air, and slammed him down onto the table next to it.

    Peter crashed down. The table broke with a splintering crack.

    Peter didn¡¯t have time to cry out; another ghoul was on him in an instant and pinned him on the ground with a spear.

    Peter¡¯s leech light stripped them of their time, but none had dropped yet. Peter choked, a sudden flare of panic burning in his chest as he considered his mistake.

    The elder lich clicked and hissed at his guards, and they clicked in return, almost conversationally. So they could speak? The ghouls withdrew, leaving Peter pinned to the ground. Peter had to crane his neck to see the elder lich sending a wisp of purple limelight into the ghouls, refueling what Peter had stolen.

    Peter¡¯s memory flashed to him being pinned to the road on his first day on the road, and he realized he was very close to being captured.

    ¡°I won¡¯t let you take me!¡± Peter screamed, blood-flecked saliva spraying from his lips. He grabbed the spear shaft and, hand-over-hand, started climbing, pulling himself through the pole. His wounds vanished, making the hole in his abdomen tight. Peter hissed with exertion as he threw his weight and jerked on the spear, opening the wound again.

    The elder lich stumbled back.

    Tears flowed down Peter¡¯s face as he inched his way up the spear that pinned him to the ground. Then, being high enough, Peter jerked his weight and used his leverage to pull the blade of the spear from the ground.

    Peter led the spear back out of him, wrenching the spear to open the hole when his wound sealed the hole. It was slick with his blood.

    ¡°Hey!¡± he barked, turning to the ghouls and raising the bloodied spear. ¡°I¡¯m not done.¡±

    The lich clicked instructions, and the ghouls turned on him again.

    Peter cried as he charged. Two ghouls launched spears at him, and he stopped to swat one out of the air, but the other one slit his arm as it trailed past.

    Three ghouls now had swords, and three still had spears. His armband clicked in the strange language and that frustrated him.

    ¡°Maybe a little help I could understand?¡±

    The thick book in the bird-lich''s hands also began clicking, in that same strange rhythm, and the lich hissed at it reprovingly, a little panic in his tone. A talking bracelet, a talking book? He had just shown up for information, but maybe this was bigger. He seriously doubted that the ever-so-militant-minded Nine Fingers had ever tried anything like this.

    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    The ghouls surged forward in their second charge, snapping and screeching with animalistic fury as they came. Two dropped their weapons altogether and launched themselves at Peter. One went high; the other low. They reached for him with their terrible fingers.

    Peter dropped and slammed his spear shaft through the neck of the ghoul at his knees, pinning it to the ground. The ghoul that lunged for his chest sailed overhead, missing its target.

    Peter bent over the ghoul at his feet. He grasped the two short swords protruding from its chest and ripped the blades out, then jerked suddenly as he took two sword wounds to the back. He straightened, spun, and struck another in the heart. He was sure he hit it ¡ª until it tried to bite his hand. Peter had used his hands to hold off ghouls who had tried to bite him in times past, but they hadn¡¯t been able to unhinge their jaws, like this. The ghoul¡¯s mouth widened in a grin, exposing jagged fangs, which bordered on tusks. Peter stabbed it through the open mouth instead, trying to give himself a handle to push it back.

    A ghoul grabbed him from behind in a bear hug and bit his shoulder, while another drew two knives and stabbed him in a rapid-flowing movement while he was restrained.

    They¡¯ll drain! They¡¯ll drain! He screamed to himself, shaking in dread despite their seemingly endless supply of time.

    Peter screamed, and the one who held him dropped, finally depleted. It had gotten too close for too long.

    The others scrambled back to their leader for a refill, and Peter grabbed a spear and stabbed the one on the ground in the chest repeatedly until he was sure he couldn¡¯t have possibly missed its heart.

    [ Image: Ch 15.png ]

    The chattery whisperings of the book and band grew louder and angrier.

    The lich sent the ghouls out for another round, and Peter took a strange sword from the dead one and advanced, swinging it widely. The elder lich fidgeted in troubled frustration, and even his strange bird face wore the expression somehow.

    Peter was gaining on him, one agonizing step at a time. The fight was surely costly on his ghoul fuel reserves.

    The lich held out a hand, and released another purple whiff of light back into the dead ghoul on the ground.

    Peter watched, panic-stricken, as the ghoul began to rise again.

    Peter cursed Doctor Aarts and Norah for telling him all he had to do was destroy the heart. There was no way that ghoul still had a functioning heart.

    Imagine now that each of Court Rahashel¡¯s ghouls had a heart in random, unpredictable locations. Peter recalled Doctor Aarts¡¯ words. These ghouls weren¡¯t run-of-the-mill sentinels. They were an advanced guard. It would make sense to give them an altered anatomy.

    Peter attacked and was easily deflected as a ghoul ripped into him with a pair of hand sickles, which tore horribly rather than slashing.

    Peter managed to sever one at the forearm, but he was killed shortly after. He was unsure which ghoul killed him as attacks came from all sides. As always, in death, his fatigue washed away, and he pushed one back, claiming a step towards the elder lich, who clutched the book.

    Three of the ghouls dropped as they pressed him, giving him the room to swing his sword in hopes of doing any damage. Peter held his ground, and the remaining three rushed back for a refill. Once full, they turned and waited for Peter to advance.

    Peter panted, having burned through any reset from his last rest in a matter of seconds. The elder lich stood but didn¡¯t order his ghouls on again.

    ¡°Surrender, Court Child!¡± the lich hissed, but Peter could see the desperation in his eyes.

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you join the party?¡± Peter half laughed-half growled as the last of his wounds vanished. ¡°Is it maybe that you¡¯re not a fighter?¡± he asked.

    The lich betrayed the truth as he fidgeted.

    ¡°I met some of your friends at the time vault earlier,¡± Peter said. ¡°The ram face Khnum didn¡¯t fight either, which makes me think you¡¯re not all combatants. Which is why you hide behind those dolls, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°Thieving crop!¡± the lich hissed through his thin beak. ¡°I could destroy you here and now if I wanted to.¡±

    ¡°Then why offer the chance of surrender?¡± Peter asked. ¡°You¡¯re almost out of power, aren¡¯t you? You can run out, right? And that¡¯s why you¡¯re worried.¡±

    ¡°You won¡¯t be so smug when Anubis gets here!¡± the bird-man said, attempting authority, but the fear betrayed his voice.

    ¡°So you¡¯re stalling?¡± Peter said. ¡°Then why don¡¯t we make this quick? Hand over the book, or I¡¯ll take it from your dead fingers.¡±

    The three ghouls in front growled as they leveled weapons, daring Peter to try.

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you refill these guys here?¡± Peter asked, nudging one of the three at his feet.

    The elder lich glared at him in a stony rage.

    ¡°I have a theory. If you were to try to fuel them with me so close, I would leech your refill like a magnet to metal sand. So, you wait for me to advance, and refill them once I¡¯m safely away?¡±

    The lich didn¡¯t answer, which was in and of itself an answer.

    ¡°You won¡¯t mind if I do this, will you?¡± Peter reared back his half-straight half half-curved blade and started to sever limbs one at a time. Heads, arms, and legs. They might have hidden hearts, but Peter wasn¡¯t taking any chances.

    The lich looked around in desperate search of rescue. He didn¡¯t risk sending his remaining ghouls into Peter¡¯s leech radius.

    ¡°Wow, you are what passes for an elder lich?¡± Peter said mockingly, trying to goad the lich into sending the remaining ghouls away from their fuel source.

    The lich stepped backward, up towards the head office. ¡°The tables will turn!¡± He glanced around. ¡°Soon, you¡¯ll scream!¡±

    Peter frowned. The lich wasn¡¯t as narcissistic as he hoped. Time for a new approach. ¡°How did you get on that fool Rahashel¡¯s staff? Rahashel must be some kind of a two-bit retchgasket, if you¡¯re one of his retainers.¡±

    The scarlet ibis-face squealed in fury. Peter¡¯s hunch was correct: when facing a zealot, insult their god.

    ¡°You miserable little insect! How dare you blaspheme the name of the great God, all controlling! Kill him!¡±

    The ghouls charged, and Peter grinned. The fight was his, painful as it would be; this lich had exposed his last line of defense.

    Peter managed to cut a head off in a single stroke, leaving one of the ghouls to thrash around blindly.

    One grabbed him and slammed him on the ground, then pounced on him to rip him to pieces with his teeth, but Peter couldn¡¯t stop himself from laughing hysterically through the pain. His head twitched twice.

    ¡°Is that all you got? Rahashel won¡¯t last the turn of the year if this is all his followers can muster!¡±

    The lich screamed and sent a light siphon into two of his three ghouls as they mauled Peter. He continually poured time back into the ghouls in a hopeless effort to keep them from draining.

    One drained, and the other two relentlessly continued tearing and digging into Peter.

    Light poured into Peter quicker than it went onto the ghouls, and after a few agonizing moments, they fell silent.

    Peter groaned loudly but then laughed as he pulled himself to his feet, pushing the slumped ghouls aside. ¡°That¡¯s more like it!¡± he grinned victoriously.

    The whole front of his shirt had been ripped off, leaving the front of his torso exposed and bloody from wounds past.

    ¡°You¡¯re in trouble,¡± Peter sneered.

    ¡°What are you?¡± The lich clutched the book to his chest. ¡°You¡¯re not powerful enough to be a court, but you wear the band.¡±

    ¡°What am I?¡° Peter asked as he picked up a spear. ¡°I¡¯m the one who¡¯s still laughing.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re mad!¡±

    ¡°Mad?¡± Peter pondered as he fingered the sharpened point of the spear. ¡°Funny, that word has two meanings, and the longer I¡¯m here, the more they both seem to apply.¡±

    The lich screamed as he tried to run past Peter, clutching the book to his chest.

    With a well-placed throw, Peter hurled the spear through his ankle.

    The lich shrieked like a bird as he went down, and Peter picked up a sword.

    ¡°No!¡± the lich cried. ¡°Get away from me, you monster!¡±

    ¡°If pain and immortality were the equation for monstrosity, then you would be right.¡± Peter hefted the strange blade, testing its weight. It was a sword, but it also felt like an ax. ¡°But they¡¯re not. Cruelty, lust, and apathy make monsters. I¡¯m not like you. I don¡¯t laugh as I leech mothers in front of their children. I didn¡¯t travel the stars to your world to steal your land, and your years.¡±

    Peter reared back with the sword.

    ¡°This is our world.¡±

    Peter exited the library with a short sword on his hip, a book in a pack on his back, and a spear in his hand. The human enforcers who watched him backed away, shrinking like snow before the sun.

    ¡°I¡¯m Van Seur,¡± Peter told them. ¡°Your race doesn''t matter. If you side with them, then we¡¯ll count you as one of them. We will kill you if they don¡¯t get to you first. They are not your ally. Come back to us, and we will end Rahashel together.¡±

    Peter pulled a flag out of a pole anchor and dropped it with a clatter to the ground. The flag depicted an obelisk topped by a sun ¡ª Court Rahashel¡¯s banner. Peter stuck his spear into the cast in its place.

    He walked away unmolested by the overseers, leaving the abnormally large bird head mounted on the spear behind him.

    Time to get out.

    He hesitated. He was Van Seur, but he was also Peter. Iris would be leeched to death any day now. If he did nothing, she would die.

    He turned.

    Time to get Iris.

 16 Nyamaréˆ¥æªš steward, Rahasheléˆ¥æªš staff

    Julian Gerrets, Chief Steward and Domestic of Nyamar, ran as fast as he could. Four of the elder liches were hot on his tail. Julian knew he couldn¡¯t beat them, and the Nine Fingers soldiers had no chance of escaping if the elder liches stayed. He ran south, leading the elder liches away from the estate.

    He glanced over his shoulder as he ran. To his surprise, the elder liches were no longer in sight.

    They¡¯re still there, a feminine voice said in Julian¡¯s head.

    I know, Julian thought back.

    Splice with me, Julian; I¡¯ll show you where they hide.

    I only have one veralumite stone left, Julian responded inwardly.

    Julian, enforcers ahead!

    Julian furrowed his brow. Ahead, three enforcers pushed a younger female crop around and laughed as she stumbled, trying to stay on her feet. A crop that young was uncommon here.

    Maybe she had been shipped in from Calacray? Julian shook his head. Wherever she came from, she wasn¡¯t just a crop. She didn¡¯t belong to Rahashel. None of them did.

    ¡°Hey!¡± Julian barked at the men as he approached. He was exhausted. He had burned away too much Waarheid on his run.

    The enforcers looked at him, startled. The lead enforcer wore a top hat, no doubt to accommodate his short stature. The second had long, greasy hair and a sharp chin. The Final enforcer had an athletic build and a droopy handlebar mustache.

    ¡°I¡¯m with Nine Fingers. I¡¯m here to destroy Court Rahashel,¡± he announced as he held his hands to his side, in a display of submission. ¡°You don¡¯t have my permission to hurt or touch me.¡±

    So many rules, he thought as the enforcers turned their attention to him, the young crop suddenly forgotten.

    One of them reached for a set of manacles dangling from his belt.

    Julian couldn¡¯t initiate combat with them. They were human and had a degree of the master¡¯s divinity within them. Each living person had an Iola, a spiritual shield that protected all people against harmful Waarheid manipulation. If they acted against him with any ill will, their Iola would drop to him.

    Julian glanced over his shoulder in worry. The elder liches should have been here.

    ¡°No permission to touch you? We¡¯ll see about that,¡± the lead enforcer with a top hat said as he grabbed Julian¡¯s wrist.

    Perfect, Julian thought. He could see the enforcer¡¯s Iola drop. It was like a faint yellow radiance in his eyes suddenly going dull.

    Julian pulled himself out of the enforcer¡¯s grasp. He got a hand on the man¡¯s chest, and he drew in as much Waarheid as he could in one breath.

    The enforcer cried out; his face grew pale. The enforcer wouldn¡¯t know what was happening to him. It would feel like he had suddenly grown exhausted or sick.

    Julian had made the connection. He leaped away, waving his arms in a flowing, beckoning motion. Yellow vaporous light whiffed off of the man as it flowed into Julian. Only Julian could see it. Julian¡¯s exhaustion melted away, and his tired muscles reknit with renewed vigor as he melded with the man¡¯s Waarheid.

    ¡°Hey!¡± the greasy haired enforcer cried as he drew a pistol. His Iola was still up, and Julian couldn¡¯t touch his Waarheid. As the man leveled his pistol at Julian, a faint surfing ripple emanated from the weapon.

    A surfing ripple worked like a radar. If anything out of place happened, it sent a wave that Julian could feel and move with. Violence set off the strongest surfing waves like a stone thrown into water. The harder you throw it, the bigger the splash.

    Julian felt the ripple more than he saw it, but when it hit him, he went with it, and the ripple pushed him to the side ever so slightly.

    The man pulled the trigger, and the wave intensified, rolling Julian just out of the way as the bullet shot past him.

    That enforcer¡¯s Iola drooped.

    Julian used some of his newly taken Waarheid and leaped in with angelic grace. He got his hand on the second man and drew a fresh breath of Waarheid.

    The second man fell to his knees and threw up.

    Julian danced away, keeping his hands moving as he pulled a few additional wisps of Waarheid from the man.

    ¡°Ahhh!¡± the final enforcer bellowed as he swung a metal baton at Julian. His arm sent the same ripple of surfing energy. It extended from his weapon and arm and out towards Julian.

    Julian didn¡¯t block the strike. He let the surfing wave roll him, stepped aside, and got a hand on the baton.

    Because the enforcer had tried to brain Julian, his Iola had dropped in the process. Julian swung in, lifted the man on his hip, and threw the enforcer over his shoulder, drawing in a large breath of Waarheid as he did so.

    The heavily mustached man flew almost to the other side of the road before tumbling head over heels. He slid to a stop, unconscious.

    With a cry of alarm, top hat and greasy hair turned and ran on shaky legs.

    Julian smiled. He felt fresh and ready. The Waarheid he had taken from the three enforcers was enough to refuel his run. He might even have enough to find the liches.

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    Ready to splice? Julian asked.

    I¡¯m ready, Julian.

    Julian slammed his hand into the cobblestone and poured Waarheid into the ground. A wave rippled out from his hand in a ring that extended in all directions. He became one with the ground, the buildings, and everything else that touched them within a few city blocks.

    He fused with fifteen crops, seeing through their eyes and feeling their feelings. He merged with the two enforcers as they fled. A few streets away, he became a pair of ghouls silently watching. He spliced with the buildings; they felt decayed and rotted.

    Julian smiled when he found them. He could see and feel them. He knew where they were, but they wouldn¡¯t know he knew.

    He fused with the cat-headed Bastet, who was looking down at him from behind the chimney. He could see his back through her eyes. Sobek, with his crocodile head and golden club, lay in wait for him around the next building. Horus, their falcon-headed leader, peered at him from behind a deserted wagon back the way he came. And Montu, the bull-headed general with his mighty khopesh, reared up behind the door just to Julian¡¯s left.

    Julian gasped as he opened his eyes and threw himself back. The door exploded under Montu¡¯s horns. The early warning ripple of surfing energy almost seemed to push him out of the way, but not fast enough.

    Montu plowed into Julian, not taking him head-on, but one of his horns gorged Julian painfully in the side. Julian cried out in pain and fumbled to draw his sword despite the horn. He slammed more of his fleeting Waarheid to quickly turn on the horn and strike down.

    Julian cleaved the horn in two with a two-handed strike. He bit into his tongue as the horn plunged deeper with the motion.

    Montu bellowed, and Julian flew away from him, the bull lich¡¯s horn still in his side.

    Bastet leaped from the roof with feline grace. Her eyes gleamed victoriously as she arched towards him, both hand sickles drawn.

    Julian had known where she was and twisted in the air to face her with a painful smile on his lips.

    Her wide cat eyes twisted into surprise.

    Julian let go of his sword as he sailed through the air and clapped his hands together, pressurizing Waarheid between them. Julian added a little bit of his own Waarheid into it as he expended all of the light he had taken from the enforcers.

    A pulse could be sent like a wave, throwing everything away in a wide area, or it could be condensed to affect a smaller area with more force.

    Julian opened a gap in his clasped hands, and a green luminescent pulse to the size of a brick flashed from his hand and hit her between the breasts.

    Bastet screamed as the Waarheid shot through her, blowing her lungs from her chest, and they both hit the ground at the same time.

    Julian spat a mouth full of blood before climbing to his feet. He scooped up his sword and used it as a crutch, point down on the road.

    The high steward saw stars, his legs trembled, and his face felt tight. He was going into shock. He had put a dangerous amount of Waarheid into that pulse. If he used up all of his Waarheid, he would die.

    Julian! The female voice cried in his head. You¡¯re hurt!

    Julian wiped his forehead, leaving behind a streak of blood. He turned to see Montu bellowing at the sky, hands clapping on the stub where his horn used to be. Smoke poured out of the horn''s stump, which seemed to be growing back inch by inch.

    Julian grabbed the horn in his side and grunted in pain as he pulled it out. Blood poured freely from his wound, and he staggered to his knees.

    Bastet croaked on the ground, and smoke poured from her chest and back with every breath, like a factory smokestack.

    Julian, use your veralumite!

    Using his final veralumite stone was the second to last thing Julian wanted to do. The last thing he wanted to do was die.

    He reached into a pocket and produced a green glowing shard of crystal almost the size of his fist.

    Montu stamped his heel into the ground and pumped himself on the chest with a fist. His horn had regrown.

    Horus and Sobek approached from their hiding places.

    Bastet gasped as the last of the smoke left her. Her already revealing gown had a new hole torn in the chest, with blood soaking most of the remaining white fabric up top.

    ¡°You knew I was there!¡± she panted as she picked herself up. ¡°How?¡±

    ¡°Go to Desh,¡± Julian grunted.

    Bastet¡¯s eyes flickered to the glowing, translucent stone in his hand. ¡°I¡¯ve seen minerals like that before,¡± she said. ¡°In the basement of your temple. What does it do?¡±

    Julian looked around, quickly searching for a means of escape. He was surrounded.

    Use your last stone! a familiar maternal voice cried. Get out of here! You have more back at camp; what are you waiting for?

    Julian squeezed the stone, and it started to melt. Liquid green light ran down his arm and worked its way into his skin. He felt the buzz of Waarheid vibrating within him¡ªnot the tiny sips he got from the enforcers, but a flow of light many hundred times what they each held. He didn¡¯t let it heal the bleeding hole on his side yet.

    ¡°You¡¯ve defiled Nyamar¡¯s house and murdered his children. You¡¯ll face his wrath!¡± Julian warned.

    Horus laughed his high, raspy laugh. ¡°Let¡¯s take you back to Rahashel. He¡¯d like to take you apart.¡±

    The stone shrunk until Julian¡¯s hand could close around it.

    Can you find me a way out of here? Julian thought.

    Yes. It will take much of your remaining Waarheid.

    He squared his shoulders. Do it.

    ¡°I¡¯m going to go now,¡± Julian said out loud. He didn¡¯t hold the Waarheid from the bleeding hole in his side. It briefly flashed with a green light, and Julian felt the power vibration replace the pain. The green light died to reveal flawless new skin in place of the wound.

    ¡°What¡¯s he doing?¡± Horus asked; he must have noticed the liquid, like light green tinted luminescent water melding off of the veralumite running down his arm. ¡°Stop him!¡± the elder liches charged him.

    Julian slammed his hand into the ground. A wave rippled out as he spliced with everyone and everything. This time, the domestic poured in much more Waarheid. He spliced with everything for several miles, searching for the best way out. Waarheid roared from him into the earth. He became one with every stone, tree building, every beast that touched the ground, and every person. Hundreds of crops, dozens of enforcers, and thousands of ghouls. He saw them all at once and comprehended them all.

    He gasped as he became Peter Kroon, moving from street to street looking for something. He also became Anubis, the Jackal-headed lich stalking Peter from a distance.

    ¡°Peter!¡± he cried as he returned to his mind. He had left himself vulnerable for only a fraction of a second. The liches closed in on him. Montu leveled his head in a bull charge.

    Julian stood; he still had a fair portion of his veralumite¡¯s Waarheid. I¡¯m going to try something dangerous. Will you help me?

    Of course, Julian.

    Julian poured Waarheid into his sword. Runes and symbols of green light etched themselves on the metal.

    Julian slashed the blade through the air in front of him, and the air rippled from a cut in space itself. A matching tear appeared in the air twenty feet above him.

    Montu bellowed from behind the shimmering air as he lunged towards Julian.

    Julian stepped into the breach in the air and disappeared.

    He was suddenly not on the ground but falling from the tear in the air twenty feet above the elder liches.

    Montu stumbled as his prey disappeared. Julian controlled the direction of his fall, aiming for the lich, bringing his blade down with both hands. This time, he didn¡¯t have a horn in his side. This time, he sheared through the bull¡¯s neck.

    Montu ran several more steps before toppling over.

    ¡°Montu!¡± Horus cried.

    Now run!

    Julian looked further south. What are you doing this far south, Peter? You were supposed to run away! You¡¯re no match for Anubis.

    Julian! The female voice sounded frantic.

    He shot down the road, bounding in Waarheid-enforced strides. I have one more thing to do.

 17 The Jackal

    Peter pulled the trigger. The buck of the Slagter was becoming familiar in his hands.

    The enforcers yelled and moved for better cover. It was easy enough to find; this block of Stalpia had burned down months ago, leaving charred remains of the old buildings. From his best guess, they were old estates. Peter hadn¡¯t come this way often before.

    Peter ducked behind a thick pillar and flipped a new shell into the Slagter that he took from an unfortunate enforcer who had tried to apprehend him. He didn¡¯t know why the enforcers also preferred the heavy hand cannon. Maybe it made them more comfortable working with ghouls.

    Peter peered into the street, and the two remaining enforcers darted further away.

    Fighting humans was more aggravating than fighting ghouls. Not only did Peter hate having to fight his own kind, but their annoying sense of self-preservation made it difficult. On top of that, they could strategize and coordinate with each other in ways the undead never could. Firing, covering each other, and running made for a prolonged game of cat and mouse. The ghouls would just press on until they died. Peter preferred things that way.

    Peter stayed low as he picked his way through a burned building. He found the bodies of two enforcers. One he had leeched. The enforcer stared at the sky with youthful eyes that didn¡¯t match his aged features. Peter killed the man the same way Anubis had killed his mother. What was he becoming? He should have been horrified about it, but there was something unsettlingly satisfying about turning court weapons on the Nosmerians, who betrayed their people because they feared court power.

    The other enforcer, he had shot. After dying, the bodies couldn¡¯t be leeched, so the enforcer lay back with the blooming crimson stain of a bullet wound spreading across his white dress shirt.

    Peter pulled another pistol from the limp hand of one of the fallen enforcers. Checking to see if it was loaded, he smiled.

    He was getting better at this. Men of war trained their whole lives for what usually turned out only to be a few moments of time. Peter had received less than a day of training but was improving through the deadly teacher of combative experience. Experience was a great instructor seldom granted to those who professed war, but Peter was quite literally coming upon many lives worth of practice, refining the craft and shaping his abilities every time he died.

    Peter stuffed the pistol in his belt, grabbed the other fallen man¡¯s weapon, and ejected the shell, leaving it empty. Satisfied, Peter moved and stalked around, trying to get behind his enemy''s cover.

    Peter was getting better at remaining calm under fire, and that proved critical to moving with any degree of stealthy grace. He crept forward, keeping his breath steady. Two enforcers left.

    He peeked over a crumbled portion of a blackened brick wall. There they were. They were crouching behind what looked like it was once an organ in a handsome estate. The pipes survived the fire, but the keys and body of the instrument were charred.

    Peter slowly stood, but neither caught the motion. They would be challenging targets crouching the way they did. He needed to get them on their feet.

    He pulled the trigger on the empty pistol, and it let out an empty metallic click.

    The men stood up and spun on him.

    Peter dropped the empty weapon, drawing his second gun off of his belt and leveling his two loaded pistols at the men. They rapidly pulled their own weapons.

    All four pistols hissed, spitting droplets of condensation and lubricant, filling the air with sickly sweet premernox.

    Peter took both shots to the chest, but both of his shots hit. All three of them staggered and fell to the ground. Peter pulled himself back to his feet after he could reorient himself; the enforcers did not.

    Gunshot wounds were interesting; they didn''t always feel the same. Sometimes, gunshot wounds buzzed or stung; sometimes, they were numb; other times, they were agonizing. What was pretty consistent was the impact and the cold. Each shot from a slug was so jarring it felt like being hit with a club or a hammer. They also burned with ice worse than he would have thought. His wounds healed, but that only sealed in the icy shards.

    Peter clenched his teeth as he waited for the slugs inside to heat up. He rolled his shoulders and shook his legs, feeling for abnormal lumps, and sure enough, he had no less than three bullets still lodged in his body.

    He sighed as he loaded another round. The feeling of metal under healed flesh was more unsettling than actually getting shot.

    Peter grimaced as he put his pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger.

    Peter didn¡¯t catch himself before he hit the ground. Resetting was like getting your bearings after waking up deep in a dream. It was disorienting, and he couldn¡¯t always stay on his feet.

    Peter lay on the ground and shivered. Peter hated the fact that he had to get rid of slugs by shooting himself, but even if someone could get close enough to surgically remove them without being leeched to death, they would have to act exceedingly fast before the wounds closed again. It was simply the most efficient option for his current situation.

    Something primal roared in the distance. Peter checked over his shoulder, but the sound was no closer than before he ran into the patrol.

    His head twitched as he pulled himself to his feet, crossed over to the grounded men, and stripped them of their ammunition. With two cross belts loaded with shells strung across his bare chest and long open coat, he reloaded his gear. He left to pick up the short sword, spear, and backpack with the book where he had left them.

    Peter had meant to sneak around and try to find Iris, but the attack on the library roused a dramatic degree of alarm, so he cut and blasted his way into west Stalpia, going through one patrol of enforcers or ghouls at a time. His progress was slow and grueling. It seemed as if every degree of resistance moved to stop him.

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    Peter was thoroughly grateful he didn¡¯t run into Vincent, Jasper, or Dirk as he traveled. His memory of their last encounter still made him queasy.

    In the sky, Chur was slipping from the horizon, and Dinn was nowhere to be found. On top of that, the sun was also getting low. Peter had to find Iris now or give up and return to base.

    He was startled by a loud, bestial roar. It sounded as if something was in pain. The roars started as he got further west. Peter didn¡¯t want to run into whatever it was, so he cut south, across BakerBoulevard, and shimmied between an old law firm and a provisions store to come onto Black Tile junction.

    And there she was.

    Standing in a small herd of five crops, she shuffled with the rest, albeit with her signature jerky gait.

    Peter¡¯s heart leaped. It was definitely Iris. Her skin wrinkled and her hair white it broke his heart to see her that way. She was still young, but her youth had been stripped away by the cursed ring. Peter felt a pang of sorrow.

    ¡°Iris!¡± he cried after her.

    She looked at him, but so did the two sentinels he had missed on the street. These sentinels didn¡¯t stand idle. After the alarm had been sounded, they seemed to be able to recognize him as an enemy. They attacked him on sight.

    Peter took a careful shot, smacking the first one in the chest, and dropped it. He finished the second one with his spear, avoiding its blade entirely.

    He ripped his spear out of the mummy, then fed a new slug into his Slagter and turned back to her. ¡°Iris!¡± he said again. The other four crops shuffled on, but the small part of her that recognized her name kept Iris behind.

    Peter approached but was careful not to get too close. ¡°Iris, you need to come with me!¡±

    Iris looked at him, but the spark of recognition didn¡¯t return to her eyes. She looked at him as though she would any other enforcer.

    Peter¡¯s heart plunged into his gut. She didn¡¯t even seem to know or care about him. Had she forgotten him?

    ¡°Iris! It¡¯s me ¡­ Peter.¡±

    ¡°Pe-ter,¡± she whispered, and then she smiled as a memory of her childhood friend blossomed onto her face.

    ¡°So this is what you were looking for?¡± A familiar voice sounded from behind Peter.

    Peter pulled back the seal breacher on his pistol and turned to find himself staring at his mother¡¯s killer. The head of a jackal, the smile of a murderer. Anubis, elder lich to Court Rahashel.

    Peter¡¯s grip tightened on the weapon.

    ¡°I was at the beast pit thinking about how I¡¯m missing out on all the fun at the Tijd vault. Then, I was notified that a human priest warrior had slipped past my fellow servants and was in my area. I¡¯m sure you can imagine my surprise when I find you, a court-child attacking the record vault. I¡¯ve been watching you wander and carve through Stalpia for hours now.¡± Anubis stepped forward, smoothly, his muscles rippling. ¡°Court Rahashel will be pleased when I return the Bedorven to him.¡±

    ¡°Stop,¡± Peter said flatly as he tried to suppress the inward rage. After he had the jackal¡¯s head on his spear, he could manage the roar of rage in his head. Not now.

    ¡°I know you,¡± Anubis said as he curved around, circling Peter. ¡°Both of you.¡±

    Peter ignored Anubis¡¯ confidence. ¡°If you know me, then you know I won¡¯t let you go.¡± Peter cursed himself for letting his emotions slip into his words, but they ran on, headless of composure.

    ¡°Now let me think ¡­¡± Anubis pondered. ¡°You¡¯re the one who didn¡¯t fight. The one who volunteered to be cropped. Doesn¡¯t sound at all like the kind of person who won¡¯t let me go.¡± He stood squarely with hands casually at his side¡ªa sign of confidence and readiness.

    ¡°That boy who volunteered,¡± Peter spat, ¡°Is dead. That damn ring leeched him away. The man you now face is Van Seur.¡± Peter trembled and felt a bout of nausea. Rage and fear didn¡¯t mix well. He had to fight with his head. Not his wrath. But that was proving difficult, especially because Iris was standing weak and feeble behind him.

    Anubis laughed loudly, his jackal¡¯s face glinting in the light. ¡°You¡¯re still a boy.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a court now!¡±

    ¡°Not for long.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve killed your kind before.¡±

    Anubis shrugged mockingly. ¡°Poor Thoth. You killed our bookkeeper; our clerk, if you will. Administration will be a nightmare for a while because of you.¡±

    ¡°Enough talk!¡± Peter cried, and he shot Anubis in the chest.

    Anubis didn¡¯t flinch as the slug tore through his chest. Smoke flowed from the bloody hole for a moment like a pressurized plume from a factory smokestack.

    The smoke stopped as suddenly as it started. Anubis¡¯ deep chest, though wet with blood, was fine.

    ¡°You know,¡± Anubis said as he stepped forward. ¡°You don¡¯t know how to use that court band, do you? The things you are doing with the court band are easy for me to recreate. Take your physical reformation, for example. That¡¯s child¡¯s play.¡±

    The elder lich stepped into Peter¡¯s leech field, and as Peter¡¯s tendril of purple light sucked into him, another one of equal light started to come out of Peter and into Anubis. Peter felt himself age and grow weak. It was a violating feeling.

    ¡°A passive leech field would be impressive for a novice lich. But for a court, I¡¯m disappointed. I can easily make one of my own.¡±

    Peter panicked at the two leech flairs, one from Anubis and one from Peter. As the light flowed and flickered, they seemed to cancel each other, and nothing happened to Anubis. Peter died of old age and caught himself. He had reset his age when he initially put the court band on.

    ¡°Where are your undead armies, great court? Where¡¯s your true leech? Rip all of my Tijd from my body! Or you can¡¯t; something¡¯s wrong with you, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve never been trained,¡± Peter muttered.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you know what the band does, boy? You need no training with that band. It manifests your will. It transforms your very thoughts and intentions into programming. The defenses it gives you are rudimentary. I could give that court band to any of these crops, and they would become a god with a hundred times your strength! You¡¯re unworthy, and it¡¯s not working right for you at all. You¡¯re broken, or maybe you don¡¯t have any thoughts, no intentions for it to follow. I can¡¯t conceive of anyone worse to have such power.

    Give it to me, and your death will be quick. I¡¯ll return it to the new God, and with your passing, you may be pardoned for your sin of playing equal with Rahashel.¡±

    Lights flickered and flared as Peter aged and reset.

    ¡°You¡¯re giving me a choice,¡± Peter said as he began to sweat. There was nothing about Anubis¡¯ behavior that was like Thoth. Maybe he had been rash in thinking he could face him.

    ¡°You don¡¯t have a chance.¡± Anubis corrected him. ¡°Are you going to complain about the mercy I offer?¡±

    ¡°Where was your mercy when you murdered my mother?¡± Peter demanded as he choked on a sob.

    Anubis frowned. ¡°Are you crying? How very unoriginal. I killed your mother because she was weak, annoying, low. I can see now that you¡¯re no different.¡±

    ¡°She was infinitely better than I could hope to be!¡± Peter said. ¡°She was strong and caring. She ¡ª¡±

    Anubis waved a hand. ¡°I don¡¯t care. I don¡¯t want to hear it.¡±

    ¡°Well, you should!¡± Peter challenged. ¡°You should be aware of what you destroy!¡±

    ¡°You say after murdering humans as fast as you destroy ghouls.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t turn this on me!¡± Peter snapped. ¡°I¡¯m not the one invading your world.¡±

    Anubis frowned. ¡°Court Rahashel is perfecting your world. What right do you have to be ungrateful?¡±

    ¡°Every right, from the moment he murdered half the people and put crop rings on the rest!¡± Peter shouted.

    ¡°He was only doing what he has every right to do.¡±

    ¡°How is that his right?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s God!¡±

    Peter stepped back aghast, the light flairs running between the two fading slightly. Peter could see it now. If these liches had ever been people before, there was something drastically wrong with them now. They had no notion of logic or reason. No morals or ethical code. Only an unquestioning loyalty to their master, which guided their every thought and action.

    ¡°This crop you came to find is special to you,¡± Anubis said slowly, realization dawning on his jackal¡¯s face. ¡°She tried to avenge your mother. She¡¯s family.¡±

    Fear subverted Peter¡¯s wrath as Anubis made the connection. The lich advanced, and the leech flared, aging and resetting Peter faster and growing brighter with each step he took.

    Peter looked at Iris, watching the bright lights with wide eyes. He had to get Anubis away from her.

    Peter loaded another shell and fired.

 18 The Druk

    Peter darted in a wide circle, trying to get around the jackal.

    Anubis countered with a blur of speed and kicked Peter in the side of the head.

    Peter¡¯s world spun as his feet left the ground, and he crashed through the wide bay window of a former art shop. Peter slammed into a display of canvas, stands, and paint, decayed with artificially-quickened age. His head reeled from crushing force paired with whiplash.

    Peter gasped as he got back up. The tome in his rucksack dug painfully into his back.

    The jackal laughed mockingly. ¡°No physical enhancements whatsoever? You¡¯re nothing more than a human who won¡¯t die.¡±

    Peter lost hold of his spear and a pistol in his flight, so he drew his short sword and his second pistol. His surroundings seemed to spin, and he stumbled as he sprinted for the door, nearing Anubis again. The jackal lich had drawn a pair of vicious-looking hand sickles from his belt.

    Peter aimed his pistol and fired. It was an easy shot; Anubis was near, and a big target.

    The slug caught Anubis in his upper shoulder, causing him to flinch. The stopping force had purchase on the large lich, but if he felt any pain at all, he showed no sign of it. Another thick, purple smoke whiff drifted off Anubis as his flesh became whole.

    Peter ran across the street and loaded as fast as he could, but the blade in his hand made it difficult.

    He managed to feed in a fresh shell in place and snapping the barrel up. A flash of two purple streams announced Anubis coming in fast.

    Before Peter could register, Anubis slammed into him. He lost hold of his second gun and was thrown again in a disorienting whirlwind of motion. Before Peter got out of reach, Anubis hooked into him with one of his sickles and ripped a jagged hole across his abdomen.

    Peter hit the ground and rolled to a stop. He gasped in pain as Anubis showed up in another flash and cut him deeply across the chest. Peter¡¯s crossed gun belts fell from his chest, torn by Anubis¡¯ sickles. He tried to worm away, but Anubis stomped onto the back of his head.

    Peter screamed and sank his thick ghoul short sword into Anubis¡¯ calf.

    The blade burned away, leaving Peter with only an inch or two of the blade. Was it possible that Anubis could burn metals from his body without dying? Peter rammed the remaining metal into Anubis¡¯ foot. Anubis uttered a low, almost inaudible growl. So he did feel pain.

    Peter rolled onto his shoulders and kicked up between Anubis¡¯ legs with both feet.

    Anubis doubled over as he groaned; at least that much was human.

    Peter scampered away and snatched one of his severed slug belts and the pistol he dropped from the ground.

    Peter loaded as he ran for cover.

    Anubis let out a strange, high-pitched howl.

    Peter got to a printing shop, turned, and shot Anubis in the eye. It was a lucky shot. Anubis¡¯ head snapped back.

    Peter caught sight of purple smoke bleeding from the eye, and the wound vanished.

    Peter darted up some stairs with the jackal on his tail. Anubis¡¯ immense stature was a disadvantage in these close quarters. Peter threw his shoulder into a splintered, black door and shoved it open.

    He made his way into what looked like a spacious printing loft. The whole far wall was a window that looked out onto the street. The gloomy and open room had a high, vaulted roof. The loft was stacked with heavy presses, rolls of yellow and cracked paper, and other strange and cast iron machines ¡ª the vital organs of the printing industry.

    Peter dove and hid behind a large sheet feeder with several huge rolls of aged paper mounted on the sides. Moments later, he heard Anubis charge into the room.

    Think, Peter, think. Peter frantically pulled the last four slug shells from the severed belt and held them in his hand. He needed more data.

    ¡°Hiding?¡± Anubis growled. ¡°Really?

    Anubis was fast, dangerously so, but his speed seemed to be limited to a committed charge or singular motion. A room full of cast iron obstacles could help Peter mitigate Anubis¡¯ speed. Peter quietly opened his pistol and slowly drew out the old shell casing.

    ¡°I¡¯ll go out and kill the girl if you don¡¯t come out.¡±

    Peter tossed the casing back towards the door, and Anubis spun on the noise. Peter used the moment to feed another shell and snap the barrel up.

    Anubis whirled on him and jumped over three presses, using the loft¡¯s high roof to clear the obstacles. As he dropped, the two leech lights cackled back into existence.

    Peter turned, but the book in his pack banged into a corner and threw him off. Two sickles found Peter and flipped him around as they tore through him. His head slammed against a black iron leg, and he blinked tears as he saw stars.

    Peter tried to scramble away, but a hook-like sickle arched down and pinned his ankle to the loft floor.

    Peter wailed as he aimed down and fired. The slug shattered the sickle and Anubis¡¯ hand. The jackal cursed and shook his hand, but it was fine a moment later.

    He resets faster than me, Peter realized dismally.

    Peter clambered around a printing press. The shard of the blade was still in his ankle, and it flashed like fire with each step.

    ¡°That was my favorite knife!¡± Anubis howled as he lunged into the press, trying to pin Peter between two machines.

    Anubis must have underestimated the weight of the cast iron, because even with his inhuman strength, he was only able to shove it half a foot towards Peter. His shoulder folded, and his head cracked dully against the metal.

    Anubis shook his head, and Peter loaded.

    Anubis looked disoriented. How did this physical reformation thing work? Peter still got hungry and thirsty and still had to use the latrine, but if he were to die of hunger, he would probably just reset and feel sustained. Even as Anubis apparently blinked stars away, Peter concluded that his organs worked as they were meant to until they healed. He could use that.

    Anubis held out his now empty hand, and with a flash of purple fire, a short sword appeared. Slightly longer and thinner than the issues short swords ghouls carried, it was still, by Peter¡¯s reckoning, a nasty knife.

    Peter saw several jars of what looked like ink. He lunged for them.

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    The leech lights continued to wail like tormented souls in an eternally macabre song, flashing brighter when they were closer and growing more faded with distance.

    Anubis leaped again, soaring over printing gear, and Peter tried to crawl under a press. The bulge in Peter¡¯s back snagged, and Peter cried as he slipped the bag off and rolled under himself, pulling it after him just as sickle and blade bit deep into the wood floor behind.

    Peter threw his pack on his shoulders, and once on the other side of the press, he grabbed a jar of printer ink from a wooden table.

    Anubis lunged after him, and his weapons disappeared in a flash of purple fire. He grabbed Peter with his hands.

    Peter spun and splashed about a gallon of black ink into Anubis¡¯ fiery eyes.

    Anubis snarled and let go of Peter, rubbing his ink-stained eyes. Peter considered the lich¡¯s hybrid biology, pointed his pistol less than an inch beside the Jackal¡¯s large pointed hear, and shot the wall behind him.

    Anubis hissed as he pushed Peter away and covered his sensitive ears. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. If the ink damaged his eyes, they would heal, but healing didn¡¯t get rid of the ink.

    Peter turned and ran for the window that made up the wall on the other side; the shard of blade lodged in his ankle caused a buzz of agony to wash up his leg with each step. He jumped, throwing his weight through the glass. The window was made of many smaller panels in a thin wood frame. Breaking through it was easy. Dealing with the pain, however, was not.

    Glass sliced Peter everywhere on his way out. He slammed into the ground, breaking both knees and the glass that showered him, cutting him in many places. The glass wounds healed, but the glass still embedded in his skin hurt with every movement.

    Peter loaded the second to last shell, put it to his head, and reset. All foreign entities vanished from his body, and he sat up, physically renewed.

    Iris was staring at him from far down the road in what looked to be unusually glassy eyes. Was she crying? She held Van Gutter¡¯s hat clutched in her aged hands. It must have come off when Anubis kicked him.

    A scream from above and a stream of light flashed prelude to a jump from Peter¡¯s adversary.

    Peter clambered to his feet and spun as the lich landed on the cobbles. The evening was growing dark and cold, but the two fighters ignored it as they glared at each other. Peter, without a shirt and a bloodied, tattered, paint-splattered coat, glowered at the ruffled Jackal-headed lich, who had a black ink stain all down his head, neck, and shoulders.

    The ground rumbled, and something exploded several streets over, causing a slight tremor through the street.

    Anubis scowled at it and drew what looked like a rectangular black glass tile from his pocket. It seemed to be made from the same thing the leech rings were made of and had small glyphs that glowed with purple light.

    ¡°What was that?¡± Anubis growled into the tile.

    ¡°He¡¯s here!¡± a voice shouted as if from far away. It was coming from the tile. Peter recognized the raspy voice. It was Horus, the falcon-headed lich. The tile must have been some sort of communication medium.

    ¡°The priest?¡± Anubis asked.

    ¡°In the den. Do you have the Bedorven yet?¡±

    ¡°Soon,¡± Anubis assured the voice speaking from the tile.

    ¡°Use a Druk,¡± Horus suggested.

    Anubis smiled wickedly.

    ¡°Anubis, this priest here killed General Montu. Let¡¯s finish the job before he does any more damage.¡±

    Another explosion rocked the streets nearby, and Horus¡¯ voice cursed from the tile.

    Anubis pocketed the tile and turned his attention back to Peter.

    ¡°Well, you heard him. No more games?¡±

    Peter frantically searched for a strategy to give him an edge, but his mind didn¡¯t work. Although he had recently reset, the mental strain from the day still left him exhausted.

    Anubis¡¯ weapons disappeared with a flash of fire, and he lunged at Peter at inhuman speed. Tight hands grabbed Peter by the collar, and Anubis threw Peter across the street as though he were made of straw.

    Peter broke through several corroded walls and flew into Baker Boulevard. He slammed into two by-standing crops. He didn¡¯t know if the impact or his leech killed them. But they lay, shriveled and filthy, beneath him.

    Peter cried in despair. These were his trapped countrymen.

    Peter stood, and his shoulder stung with ice. Peter realized he had been shot. He looked to see several enforcers running at him with drawn guns.

    The building behind splintered and cracked as Anubis came charging through ¡ª not through the door or the recently made (Peter-shaped) hole, but charging through the walls as if they were made of paper.

    When the enforcers saw the elder lich, they turned and fled, not wanting to be near the hunter or his prey.

    Anubis leaped on Peter, but Peter hit the Jackal head¡¯s chin in an uppercut. He tore the ink-spattered headdress away from Anubis¡¯ head as he clawed for hair.

    A purple fire flashed in Anubis¡¯ hand and materialized into a spear that had a barbed, spiked, bladed cylinder as a point. Anubis tore into him again with his new weapon, and Peter fell and screamed. Anubis rammed the spiked metal deep into Peter¡¯s gut and with a twist, the head detached, staying in as Peter¡¯s flesh healed over.

    The spearhead began to spin inside him, with different portions of the cylinder spinning in opposite directions, dragging spikes and barbs with it and thoroughly blending his insides.

    Peter writhed and thrashed. Anubis laughed.

    ¡°A god-killer blade. The Druk. The Incentiviser! How does it feel, child?¡±

    Peter screamed and cried as he clawed for his abdomen, trying anything to get it out. It started to heat up, searing as it blended.

    ¡°This is how we kill courts! Death won''t expel the Druk. I offered to let you die quickly; you chose justice!¡±

    Anubis stomped on Peter¡¯s head, forcing his face into the stone road.

    Peter sobbed as the thing burrowed on the inside. He should have died. It should have burned away, but it seemed he wasn¡¯t healing.

    ¡°Please!¡± Peter begged through tears.

    ¡°There is one way through this, native,¡± Anubis laughed with malicious glee. ¡°Take your armband off! There¡¯s no shame in yielding to a Druk. All mortals wish for immortality, but they¡¯re never prepared for its consequences!¡±

    Peter gasped only to spit out blood. With a tight hand, he fumbled for the armband.

    ¡°Die like you were born to!¡±

    Peter slipped the band down his forearm, but a peculiar mixture of shock and rage stayed in his hand. With the heavy sandaled foot of his enemy holding his head down, he looked into the eyes of one of the crops he killed when Anubis threw him through the wall. Peter knew the face.

    Jaap?

    His old friend¡¯s body had crumbled under the impact of his flight. Peter had killed Jaap. Once optimistic and good-mannered, Peter¡¯s friend¡¯s face now stared glass-eyed, lifeless, and stricken with age. Like the rest of Nosmeria, Jaap had been defiled by Court Rahashel.

    An undignified groan of despair escaped Peter and let go of the Bedorven, which shrunk to fit tight around his wrist. It was as if it knew he wasn¡¯t taking it off and didn¡¯t want to fall off by accident. Indeed, it was hissing and clicking in encouragement.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Anubis demanded.

    Peter pushed into the ground, exposing new organs to the blades of the Druk.

    ¡°Hey!¡±

    Peter slumped down. Anubis was too heavy.

    Something close bellowed, something big, something angry. Both Peter and Anubis looked up as the ground began to tremble.

    ¡°Take off the band!¡± Anubis hissed, leaning down so his dog-like lips were inches from Peter¡¯s ear. Anubis clawed at Peter¡¯s shredded coat.

    Peter tried to say no but just spat out blood instead. His body, mind, everything screamed at him to take it off. But Jaap¡¯s dead eyes compelled him to endure.

    The ground started to shake violently, and Anubis cursed in a tongue that Peter didn¡¯t understand. Peter screamed and threw up blood as he started to stand on shaking limbs.

    ¡°How ¡ª¡± Anubis started. ¡°Court Rasminfrey didn¡¯t resist this long. How can you? You¡¯re just a child!¡±

    Something big rounded the corner¡ªmany things. They looked like massive chimeric ¡ª hybrid of crocodiles, cats, and hippos. At least ten of the giant beasts were stampeding the street towards them. On the back of the beast in the lead was the domestic, Julian.

    Peter would have laughed and rejoiced at the sight if he could. But instead, he sobbed and threw up more blood.

    ¡°No, no, no, no, no ¡­¡± Anubis panicked, waving his hands desperately as if the gesture would ward off the charge, but it didn¡¯t. A flash of light and a cackling bolt of sparking and flickering light appeared in Anubis¡¯ hand like a javelin of purple lightning.

    ¡°Die, priest!¡± he cried as he threw the bolt at the oncoming charge, and it hissed forward like a bolt of lightning, random offshoots of energy cracking off and burning holes into buildings on either side.

    Julian threw a palm forward, and the light slammed into an unseeable barrier, causing a ripple of green runes to pulse in an invisible wall before him.

    ¡°No!¡± Anubis stepped away from Peter, and Peter held up a shaking hand.

    Julian guided the beast to pass Peter by some unseen means, and skillfully avoided crushing him. Julian leaned down to the side as far as he could and whisked Peter away by hand, pulling him onto the beast behind him.

    If there was any pain or whiplash from the move, Peter didn¡¯t feel it. He was too busy worrying about the demon that was devouring him from the inside.

    Anubis leaped out of the way and onto the roof. He ran alongside them, jumping from roof to roof, but quickly fell behind. The stampede charged down the street, and Peter didn¡¯t look to see how many enforcers or crops fell prey to the landslide of the beast. He just whimpered as he moved to slide the ring off. Peter did his job; he kept it out of enemy hands. Now, he could die.

    Peter felt a strong hand grab his wrist.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Julian cried as he held it on Peter¡¯s wrist.

    Peter spat blood. There were no more lungs to breathe.

    ¡°Nyamar,¡± Julian cursed, and he put his hand on Peter¡¯s exposed belly. His eyes widened, and he grabbed Peter. ¡°Hold on, Peter!¡± he cried. ¡°Just hold on!¡±

 19 Back to the Burrows

    Once they reached the city''s outskirts, the stampede of alien beasts fanned out, scattering into the rural countryside.

    Peter would never feel bitter at Captain Visser for dragging him out of Stalpia behind a horse again. The Druk twisting and shredding Peter¡¯s insides made his memory of getting dragged behind a horse feel as peaceful as a casual roll in the grass.

    Peter clawed at the armband, trying to tear it off, but Julian restrained him with a steel-firm grip. Peter¡¯s begging words dissolved into an incomprehensible babble of bloody drool as he stopped breathing. Healing didn¡¯t work. A death reset never happened. Peter was strung between the thin fine line of paradox and reality: trapped in flesh that shouldn¡¯t be alive and immortality that wouldn¡¯t let him die.

    Peter¡¯s mind teetered on the brink of collapse.

    At some point, Julian slipped off the freed beast and caught Peter before he hit the ground.

    ¡°Nyamar above, hold on, Peter!¡±

    Peter¡¯s nails tore into his wrist, and as he tried to pull the court band off, it slipped down to his knuckles. Julian cursed as he caught it and forced it back up.

    Peter¡¯s eyes rolled into his head, and bloody froth spewed from his mouth. His body violently convulsed. He didn¡¯t have the power to take the band off if he wanted to anymore.

    Julian pulled out a boot knife and pleaded for forgiveness before starting the surgery.

    Julian¡¯s knife was easily distinguishable from the Druk. The knife wounds healed.

    Julian fought a battle, struggling between healing flesh and a device that dug deeper if provoked. Peter caught a glimpse of Julian recoiling, his knife notched, and his crimson-soaked hand gashed as the Druk intelligently resisted.

    Julian threw his knife aside with an oath and reared back his arm, knife hand poised. The domestic¡¯s eyes ignited with green light, and he plunged his hand through Peter¡¯s sternum with the sickening crunch of bone.

    What was left of Peter¡¯s ribs snapped as Julian ripped what now looked like a mass of many bladed spider legs.

    The Druk required a target and lashed onto Julian''s hand and tried to burrow. The darting blades deflected off the domestic¡¯s skin, but each strike dimmed the light in his eyes.

    Julian tore the animated, metallic Druk off his hand, and like a sticker from a weed patch, it latched onto his other hand. Julian flicked his wrist with a yelp, flinging the incentiviser from his hand.

    The cursed, bloodied device retracted all its spikes and blades and became a smooth dagger without a cross-guard as it clattered to the dirt.

    Julian cautiously approached it, but it remained inanimate. The incentivizer didn¡¯t react as Julian waved his hand near it, and the domestic slowly picked it up.

    Scrutinizing the court-killing weapon for a moment, Julian gasped in surprise.

    Fluid gargled in Peter¡¯s throat as he tried to call out. The breach in his chest cavity had healed, but the internal damage remained.

    Julian placed the blade carefully on a rock and knelt by Peter. ¡°Come on, kid,¡± Julian panicked as he felt for Peter¡¯s heartbeat.

    Peter knew Julian couldn¡¯t feel anything. The Druk had shredded most of his central organs, leaving his torso carved into an unnatural shape. Somehow, he was still lucid.

    ¡°Come on, kid!¡± Julian cried again.

    Julian¡¯s warm hands found the sides of Peter¡¯s face, and his thumbs covered Peter¡¯s eyes.

    ¡°I¡¯m spent,¡± Julian said to someone unseen. ¡°I could use a little help.

    The words hit Peter like a distant echo.

    Nothing happened. Peter tried to move to remove the court ring, but Julian held his hand down. The tormenting device was gone, but the damage it had done wasn¡¯t healing.

    Julian cried out in despair and then took a deep breath.

    The hand that prevented Peter from removing the band disappeared and returned to his face. A green light flashed in front of Peter¡¯s eyes. He felt a static buzz rush into his face and course through his body. Organs moved and started to reknit. The restoration was almost as painful as the damage, but his heart began to beat after a few lingering moments.

    Peter¡¯s eyes fluttered open, and he found Julian on his hands and knees, throwing up on the ground.

    Julian fell back onto his back, breathing shallowly.

    Peter¡¯s lungs found air, and he gasped. The movement caused everything else to cramp and seethe.

    Julian groaned sickly with his eyes closed.

    Peter bit his tongue and tried to relax as he placed his head against a stone wall.

    They were either on the outskirts of Stalpia or in the dead remains of Shay; Peter wasn¡¯t sure which. Shallow Ataggin ruins broke the dirt around them, denoting an ancient wall. The wall was vast and thick, but long since crumbled to the pounding of ancient artillery and the withering of time.

    Peter had wondered how the Ataggin Empire would have endured the court¡¯s invasion. It was said that the Ataggin Empire of old made the House look like a book club. The whole Tri-Terra had been the Ataggin domain. The empire moved freely between Dinn, Chur, and Boslic. The fallout shattered society, allegedly in all three worlds. The empire collapsed to infighting, billions died, and most technology and the ability to contact the other world were lost.

    Peter lay broken, much like the ruins. He was watching society break yet again. If Ataggin and courts each took their turn destroying the worlds, how much longer until the next nightmare arrived? Did anything he did matter?

    ¡°Do you have any food?¡± Julian asked weakly through pale, clammy lips with his eyes still shut.

    ¡°N-¡± Peter coughed sharply. He shook his head, opting to avoid using words for now.

    ¡°We need to get back to the tombs,¡± Julian said. ¡°But I don¡¯t think I can travel.¡±

    It took Peter three tries to articulate his words. ¡°What did you do to me?¡±

    ¡°A Nyamarian boon of healing,¡± Julian said. ¡°I didn¡¯t have enough waarheid to do it, so I had to use some of my own. I¡¯m depleted.¡±

    ¡°You should have let me die,¡± Peter said, and he meant it. ¡°You could travel quickly on your own, and it would be easier to move the band.¡±

    Peter shivered. All of his skin was dark and sticky with blood and dirt.

    ¡°Leave you to die?¡± Julian echoed. ¡°Peter, the world will never be so dark that I would abandon a fallen soldier.¡± Julian reconsidered. ¡°At least one I thought I could save.¡±

    The uncontrollable fit of sobs slammed Peter so abruptly that he couldn¡¯t brace for it.

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    The pain, the killing, that thing inside of him. It all crashed onto him like an unexpected wagon dropped from Dinn while directly overhead.

    Peter tried to shift away so Julian wouldn¡¯t see him cry. Shaking in his tears felt good, like a release of everything he shouldn¡¯t have been able to endure ¡ª and Iris? Anubis had probably killed Iris. Peter¡¯s old life was officially gone; he had no idea if the mission was a success or a failure.

    Julian slid over and put his arm around Peter as he settled in the dimming darkness.

    Peter flinched but then relaxed. After a few days with the band on, the human touch was alien but much welcome.

    Julian pulled Peter in firmly, his grip assuring him that there was nothing to be ashamed of. Julian still looked sickly, and he watched Peter with an expression of paternal concern. The steward''s face also betrayed an emptiness and numbness. Julian may have been better equipped and prepared for the brutalities they found in Stalpia, but that doesn''t mean he still didn''t have to pay the price.

    Peter tried to maintain stoic composure, but finally gave into the deep sobs that wracked his body. His soul and body were raw. He cried for a while. A few times, he was able to contain himself, but Anubis¡¯ jackal head or Iris¡¯ face would permeate his mind and set him off again.

    Julian sat in silence as he held Peter, not mentioning that they probably had ghouls in pursuit or that they needed to return. He let the boy cry until he had no tears left.

    ¡°You know, my father would know what to say to you,¡± Julian said at length after several minutes of silence.

    Peter looked at him.

    ¡°He was always good at comforting people.¡±

    Peter nodded. Bram Gerrets, the former steward of the House of Nyamar, was known for his generosity and humanitarian instincts.

    ¡°The fact is,¡± Julian confessed sadly, ¡°I¡¯m no good at this at all. I¡¯m no steward. I was always a soldier, and when this calling came, I ¡ª I accepted.¡±

    Julian shivered, his breath casting a vaporous plume. Twilight was slipping away.

    ¡°It¡¯s no coincidence that the House started to topple as I finally accepted that mantle.¡±

    Peter listened to the grief in the man¡¯s voice.

    ¡°And after all that, I don¡¯t know about my faith.¡±

    That startled Peter.

    ¡°It¡¯s not that I don¡¯t have faith in Nyamar himself. Were he to come here himself, I have no doubt he could overthrow the courts. I¡¯m just not confident he made the right choice in appointing me. My father was perfect. So caring and wise. I always wanted to be like him but never could. I¡¯ve tried, and I still do¡ªevery day. I just fail every time, and it¡¯s my fault too.

    It¡¯s the black spot of bitterness. I carry that, and it gets in the way of my light. I¡¯m bitter about everything I can be. Ataggin, the courts, and everyone who is slightly wrong or bad, people who hate The House.¡± He laughed ruefully. ¡°I¡¯m a hypocrite steward. I curse, I hate, I failed today. I bent the rules too far and got my friends killed. High Butler Anton was right; I should have stuck to my primary stewardship.¡±

    ¡°Julian,¡± Peter stopped him.

    ¡°Huh?¡±

    Peter looked at the solidly built man, hugging his knees to his chest like a child. He could tell Julian was telling the truth, but he was dwelling in only one half of himself.

    ¡°Do you really think that High Butler Anton could have done what you did?¡±

    Julian let out a bark of laughter. ¡°He¡¯s the biggest proponent against getting involved with the courts.¡±

    Peter glared as he considered how the chief butler turned his back on them. Julian noticed.

    ¡°I want to be clear; the High Butler sustains my authority completely. If I could be sure it was the Nyamar¡¯s will, I could issue new stewardships, and Anton would be the first to lead the charge. He¡¯s one of the most faith-driven men I know. He doesn¡¯t like me, but trusts the will of Nyamar so much that he¡¯ll follow me despite our differences.¡±

    ¡°Why isn¡¯t Nyamar talking to you?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Julian whispered.

    ¡°Maybe he is,¡± Peter said. ¡°Maybe you¡¯re not listening.¡±

    Julian looked at Peter and opened his mouth to protest, but Peter cut in first.

    ¡°Maybe your doubt in his will is your problem. Maybe he chose you because he knew you would fight.¡±

    Julian took a drawn-out breath. ¡°What if you¡¯re wrong.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not,¡± Peter said. The flair of pain in his organs had gradually cooled. ¡°You fought, Julian. You saved me. I don¡¯t know if I believe Nyamar is benevolent, but I have faith in you. If I had a house, you¡¯re the one I would want to be its steward.¡±

    That took Julian by surprise, then he shook his head. ¡°So young. You shouldn¡¯t have had to endure what you did, Peter.¡±

    ¡°How old are you?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°What? ... Why?¡±

    ¡°Humor me.¡±

    ¡°Twenty-six.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s pretty young too, don¡¯t you think?¡±

    Julian shook his head. ¡°There have been stewards younger than I.¡±

    ¡°But they were prepared for their duty. Maybe there¡¯s a reason you¡¯re the steward here and now, when the court threat is upon us.¡±

    Julian let out a bark of laughter.

    ¡°Don¡¯t laugh at that,¡± Peter chided. ¡°You fought on equal terms with four elder liches. Surely that counts for something.¡±

    Julian shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s not as glorious or wonderful as you make it sound. I wouldn''t have lasted a second if I weren''t a domestic.¡±

    ¡°And if I didn¡¯t have the court band, I would have died even faster than that, but that¡¯s not the point. The point is that we went. We didn¡¯t want to or have to go. We chose to do it.¡±

    ¡°And what came of that?¡± Julian asked. My friends are dead, and Rahashel still defiles the estate. The tiles were scattered, and the Nine Fingers lost most of their men.¡±

    ¡°I lost Iris,¡± Peter said with a hollow voice. ¡°She¡¯s the reason I went, and I lost her.¡±

    ¡°So, in the end, it was all for nothing.¡±

    Peter groaned as he felt his insides shift. He was still healing, just much slower than before. He hated seeing the steward so sullen and downcast.

    ¡°Maybe Nyamar didn¡¯t want us to reclaim the estate or the tiles,¡± Peter said. ¡°Maybe he wanted us to accomplish something else.¡±

    ¡°Like what?¡± Julian asked dryly.

    ¡°What did you do while in Stalpia?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°I ran around and blew stuff up,¡± Julian said.

    ¡°You saved me and stopped the court band from getting into enemy hands.¡± Peter pointed out.

    ¡°I guess so. I also kind of killed General Montu ¡ª I think. I can never be sure if the lich would stay down.¡±

    ¡°According to a report that I overheard, Montu is dead,¡± Peter offered.

    That brought a slight smile to Julian¡¯s lips.

    ¡°And ¡­ that thing that you pulled out of me.¡±

    Julian started and reached to pick it up as if afraid it would walk away.

    ¡°They called it a Druk, or an incentiviser. I think it¡¯s how they killed Court Rasminfrey.¡±

    ¡°If it killed Rasminfrey, that means it might be able to ¡­¡±

    ¡°Kill Court Rahashel,¡± Peter theorized.

    Julian nodded.

    ¡°You know what it is?¡± Peter asked.

    Julian nodded again.

    ¡°What is it?¡±

    Julian bit his lip thoughtfully as if trying to distinguish how much to tell Peter. ¡°It¡¯s athanium.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s athanium?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°It¡¯s a pure metal. Refined to perfection.¡± Julian explained. ¡°It¡¯s programmable.¡±

    ¡°Programmable?¡±

    Julian held up a hand. ¡°I can¡¯t tell you too much. Nyamarian waarheid programming is sensitive information. But let¡¯s say it¡¯s like a ghoul in a perfect metal body.¡±

    ¡°You mean that thing is undead?¡± Peter asked.

    Julian shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s programmed in some language even I have never studied. Like your band.¡±

    Julian touched Peter¡¯s Bedorven, now around his wrist and the writing pulsed with purple light.

    ¡°Is it demonic?¡± Peter asked. ¡°Are these courts from Perdesh?¡±

    Julian shook his head. ¡°I thought so when they first came, but I could recognize Perdesh script, and these are alien to me.¡±

    ¡°What are courts?¡± Peter asked, aware he had already asked the question before.

    Julian frowned. ¡°I¡¯ve had historian maids and valets pouring over our records, but our libraries don¡¯t hold the answers.¡±

    ¡°Oh boy,¡± Peter said as his eyes grew wide.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°No way ¡­ could it be?¡±

    ¡°Could what be, Peter?¡±

    ¡°I had forgotten I¡¯d had it on this whole time!¡±

    Julian stopped asking and watched expectantly.

    Peter pulled off his backpack, which had become very uncomfortable, as a large book pushed into his back. He hadn¡¯t even noticed, given the punishment dealt by the living blade.

    With excited hands, Peter removed the volume and looked at it. Once he became aware of it again, it seemed to chatter and hiss. On the front, the same writing style marked his armband; only it was shimmered fiercely.

    Julian gasped and grabbed the book but stopped and looked at Peter apologetically. ¡°May I?¡±

    The book passed hands as Peter pushed it over.

    Julian stopped. ¡°This could be a better prize than the tiles. Records are priceless, especially if they¡¯re your enemies¡¯.¡±

    ¡°Rahashel agrees with you,¡± Peter said. ¡°In the library, they¡¯re translating and burning our books.¡±

    Julian flipped the hefty codex open, and metallic pages glittered in the light of lightly luminescent court writing.

    Julian let out another yelp of surprise. Yes, the writing shone with the court purple light in the strange scrawling language that marked Peter¡¯s band.

    ¡°What is it?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°The whole book is athanium,¡± Julian said in disbelief, his eyes eager.

    ¡°The pages are metal?¡± Peter asked in disbelief. ¡°No. It would be much heavier.¡±

    ¡°No doubt the weight was programmed away,¡± Julian muttered affirmingly.

    Peter had no clue what that meant, but based on the steward¡¯s reaction, he considered it a good thing.

    ¡°Too bad you can¡¯t read it?¡± Peter lamented.

    ¡°Kid, a whole house branch is dedicated to translation.¡±

    ¡°You can translate it?¡± Peter asked in surprise.

    ¡°Not now,¡± Julian said. ¡°I need Veralumite. Let¡¯s get back.¡±

    Peter grunted his assent as he tried to stand but fell as his insides cried in protest.

    Julian smiled. ¡°You are a good kid, Peter.¡±

    Peter smiled back. ¡°Watch it. I¡¯m your Elder.¡±

    ¡°In body only,¡± Julian said.

    ¡°Julian. You¡¯re the greatest proof that Nyamar stands with us.¡±

    Julian looked ready to protest, but he held his tongue. He nodded once.

    Peter, for a moment, forgot his pain. He had never had an older brother, not until today.

    Julian stood up and offered Peter a hand. Peter accepted, and they started limping back toward the tombs. What an odd pair they were: a death god and steward ¡ªthe two strangest, most tired, and most wanted people in all of Nosmeria. At least they were on the same side.

 20 The Old Kings Come Home

    The night was mature when Peter and Julian returned to the tomb. Only a single sentry stood guard, an anthem to the day''s failure. Sobs and wailing cast a dour ambiance on the tombs ¡ª the sounds of mourning from loved ones of those never to return, who were apparently unable to sleep.

    Peter hadn¡¯t realized how many civilians there were on the base. He had been there for only two days but hadn¡¯t seen them as he heard them now. It only made sense that the soldiers wanted to keep their families close, but now Peter couldn¡¯t bring himself to look any of them in the eyes.

    A cry of surprise broke the night, and a shadow limped over to the arriving pair.

    ¡°Albert?¡± Julian acknowledged the mover. The first of the domestics Peter had seen when he came, there was no sign of his sister.

    ¡°You¡¯re okay!¡±

    Julian¡¯s dry laugh in response said otherwise.

    Albert¡¯s face dropped. ¡°Did any others make it back? Esmee?¡±

    Julian winced sympathetically. ¡°I saw Esmee go down.¡±

    Albert¡¯s face became a mask of forced control. ¡°She honored her stewardship.¡±

    Julian moved to comfort Albert, but the valet jerked away, his expression contorted with an unpleasant thought. ¡°Did we make a difference today, High Steward?¡±

    Julian looked back at him steadily with pain-filled eyes.

    The moment was shattered by a loud shout. ¡°Peter!¡±

    Norah rushed swiftly towards the three men. She looked around. ¡°Has the commandant seen you?¡±

    ¡°We just got here,¡± Peter explained.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡± She promptly began leading them toward the command tomb.

    Peter inhaled sharply and dragged his feet as he tried to shamble after her.

    ¡°Are you injured?¡± Norah looked back at him, her pinprick eyes dark in the night.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Peter grunted. ¡°I don¡¯t think I have my stomach back yet.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t know that was possible,¡± Norah noted. ¡°I thought you couldn¡¯t get hurt.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, well, so did I,¡± Peter answered.

    ¡°Van Seur,¡± called a familiar voice. The commandant left his office accompanied by Director Van Den Hoek and Captain Tobias Visser. Apparently, word had reached them that they had returned.

    ¡°We would take your report in my office,¡± the commandant explained, ¡°But considering how full that room is, I think it would be best if you two gave your field report here. I¡¯m sure no one wants to get leeched to death. You¡¯ll excuse us, Norah, valet.¡±

    ¡°Of course, sir,¡± Norah clicked her heels together with a brisk salute before trotting away. Albert waited for Julian''s nod of assent before he turned and left.

    ¡°Van Seur; Julian. What happened?¡±

    ¡°I engaged the elder liches and tried to retreat when we were overrun,¡± Julian explained. ¡°I was pursued and escaped when I was able. I managed to kill General Montu and scatter some of their stables on my way out.¡±

    Commandant Van Graif nodded curtly and stroked his light beard. ¡°That is good news. Any chance you were followed?¡±

    ¡°None, sir.¡±

    ¡°I offer my most sincere condolences for your fallen comrades,¡± Van Graif said, his face stoic, his tone professional.

    ¡°I appreciate that, commandant,¡± Julian said. ¡°They fulfilled their stewardships. Much like your fallen.¡±

    Some unspoken understanding passed between the leaders, and Peter didn¡¯t envy either of their positions.

    ¡°Now, Van Seur.¡± The commandant turned to Peter. ¡°How about your report?¡±

    ¡°Oh, um,¡± Peter started, unsure how to give a military report. ¡°I tried my best to hold off the ghouls but was overwhelmed. When given the order to retreat, I obeyed.¡±

    ¡°As you should have,¡± the commandant agreed.

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t get too close to the others, or else I would have leeched them. So, when I got separated from Director Stegeman, I took to the sewers.¡±

    Peter looked around. ¡°Where is the Director?¡±

    ¡°He didn¡¯t make it,¡± Captain Visser growled, biting back the bitterness in his voice.

    ¡°Oh,¡± Peter said in surprise. He knew people would die, but Peter¡¯s aching insides twisted uncomfortably at the realization that he could never see his direct supervisor again.

    ¡°Anyways, I got lost in the sewer, so I came up to get my bearings. I saw that I was near the Library, so I ¡ª¡± Peter stopped.

    ¡°You what?¡± Van Graif asked.

    ¡°I attacked.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Captain Visser cried. ¡°You were given deliberate orders to retreat, and so you attacked a random facility?¡±

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t random!¡± Peter insisted. ¡°We are fighting a war on little to no data, so I took a calculated risk.¡±

    ¡°A risk that wasn¡¯t your call to make!¡±

    ¡°Captain, please allow Van Seur to finish his report,¡± the commandant said.

    The captain stood down, but Peter could feel the heat coming from him.

    ¡°Make no mistake, Van Seur, I agree with the captain,¡± Van Graif warned. ¡°You should have stuck to your orders as you agreed.¡± The Commandant''s brow knitted into a fierce arch.

    ¡°I ¡ª uh.¡± Words had become difficult. ¡°I killed a lich there. Anubis said his name was Thoth.¡±

    ¡°Anubis?¡±

    ¡°Oh, right, I saw him when I went after ¡ª¡± Peter stopped as he anticipated the soldiers¡¯ response.

    ¡°You went after what?¡±

    Peter¡¯s mother had always told him to be truthful, even when it might get him in trouble. So Peter bit his tongue before responding.

    ¡°When I went after Iris.¡±

    Van Graif¡¯s eyes flashed with venom momentarily before being masked by a deliberate calm.

    ¡°Van Seur. What was our agreement?¡±

    Peter bowed his head. He had thought about their agreement as he broke it.

    ¡°You agreed to help me get her back if I helped you get the tiles,¡± Peter said.

    ¡°And ¡­?¡±

    ¡°And I agreed to follow orders, and never to take the band off.¡±

    ¡°Van Seur, you directly disobeyed your orders when you made an unauthorized attack on the library; you went too far when you went after your friend. You will be punished.¡±

    ¡°Woah, wait.¡± Julian stepped in. ¡°Captain, he was just trying to ¡ª¡±

    ¡°Let me remind you, steward, that he is my conscript, and it is my right to discipline my men.¡±

    Julian raised a defensive hand. ¡°The things the boy went through today ¡ª¡±

    ¡°He agreed to do them when he refused to hand over our greatest weapon,¡± Van Graif insisted.

    Peter hung his head like a disobedient child caught in the act. ¡°Commandant. I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°Sorry won¡¯t save my men when you disobey orders in the future,¡± Van Graif said pointedly. ¡°The court band, please.¡± The Commandant held out his hand.

    ¡°Commandant,¡± Peter¡¯s eyes blurred, ¡°Please, I am now starting to learn how to use it. I Promise I won¡¯t get distracted by Iris again because she¡¯s ¡ª¡± Peter gasped as he forced himself to say it.

    ¡°She¡¯s undoubtedly dead.¡±

    Van Graif stopped. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said, ¡°for the loss of your friend, but Rahashel marches on Julleck tomorrow, and we must put everything we have into their only lines of defense: the band.¡±

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    ¡°Commandant,¡± Peter pleaded, ¡°I can fight with you, but I need it; without it, I¡¯m ¡­¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re what?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m just a nine-fingered seventeen year old kid in a ninety-year-old body.¡±

    Captain Visser growled. ¡°That¡¯s what you always were! That band would serve best in the commandant¡¯s hands!¡±

    Peter nodded. The captain was right. If Peter could save dozens of people, the commandant could save hundreds.

    ¡°I got hurt bad in Stalpia. The band is the only thing keeping me alive right now,¡± Peter said. ¡°If I take it off now, I might die.¡±

    Captain Visser snorted. ¡°What a pile of ¡ª¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s true.¡± Julian cut in. ¡°Anubis used some Court killing weapon on him.¡±

    The Commandant glanced at Peter inquisitively. ¡°Is this true?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m healing,¡± Peter said. ¡°Just ¡­ slowly. Can I give it to you in a few hours? Taking it off now could very well be a death sentence.¡±

    ¡°Commandant,¡± Tobias protested. ¡°You¡¯re not going to tell me you buy into this-¡±

    ¡°Thank you, Captain, that will be all,¡± Van Graif dismissed him. ¡°You can keep an eye on him until then if you like, but I¡¯m not here to murder a boy who just lost his best friend.¡±

    Julian stepped in. ¡°I think you¡¯ll find Private Van Seur¡¯s actions have yielded more gain than error,¡± he said as he hefted a backpack. ¡°He ¡­¡±

    Peter wasn¡¯t listening; he knew the commandant was right. He had disobeyed, and now he deserved to be stripped of the power he held. He jammed his hands into the remains of his tattered pockets and his knuckles clucked against something hard.

    Peter pulled out a small tile of dark glass with the glowing scrawl of the court script. He frowned at the glass chip.

    Julian stopped talking, and Peter realized they were all staring at him.

    A gun hiss and a scream from the outskirts of base spun the group.

    Shapes started to leave the tombs and shelters to investigate. Peter could tell they were mostly women, accompanied with children, by their shape. Nine Fingers had few soldiers left.

    The graveyard¡¯s usual, murky fog was thick today and seemed to extend only a few yards in front of the area where the mouths of the tombs met.

    Shadows stirred in the fog, and the man Peter recognized as the sentry flew into the clearing thrown like a rag doll. The mangled figure hit the ground and rolled to a stop, his limbs askew in strange angles. He didn¡¯t move.

    Hysterical laughter followed from the mouths of unseen adversaries masked by the fog. Peter instinctively reached for a weapon, but his holster was empty. Several dark shapes stepped out of the mist and into the dim gaslight that illuminated the remnants of Nine Fingers. There couldn¡¯t have been more than fifty people in total. Children cowered away from the figures, but their mothers and the remaining few soldiers held pistols and crossbows at the ready.

    Seven pale and ghastly men came to a stop before the defensive line. Wearing black coats and hats tailored in older fashions, and thin-bladed straight swords that military officers in Nosmeria used as a sign of authority, they giggled like hyenas. They weren¡¯t mummified as was common for Rahashel¡¯s ghouls, nor did they have the animal heads that his liches commonly had. They simply looked like pale and gaunt men.

    The men chatted and tittered excitedly, with the edge of hysteria in their words.

    ¡°Well, this isn¡¯t exactly the reunion I was expecting,¡± one of them snickered.

    ¡°Who would have thought these peasants had desecrated our homes?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s clever enough, I never would have guessed.¡±

    ¡°I guess we owe it to the young Court that we were able to find you.¡±

    A few startled people gasped and glared at Peter.

    ¡°What?¡± Peter cried.

    One of the ghastly ghouls stepped forward and held up a tile identical to the one in Peter¡¯s hand.

    ¡°How clever of Anubis to tag him with a tracking tile,¡± one of them goaded from behind.

    ¡°Yes, and how nice it is to see he¡¯s still alive. Taking the Bedorven from a corpse would have been a shame.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m just delighted that so many living things are in our tombs. Isn¡¯t it ironic? The living hiding underground and the dead walking under the sun?¡±

    Our homes? Our tombs? Seven of them and six tomb mounds behind. Peter gasped as he recognized the leader. His petulant, pouty lips now seemed unnaturally dark, and his sadistic laugh now matched his insolent face. Peter had seen him six months ago when he was first leeched to death by Court Rahashel himself: King Adrichem, the last living monarch of Nosmeria.

    ¡°They¡¯re the kings!¡± Peter cried. ¡°The ones who were buried here!¡±

    Several people turned their weapons on Peter, accusingly staring at the tile in his hand.

    ¡°No, I¡¯m not with them!¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s a lich!¡±

    ¡°You idiots!¡± Norah barked at them. Small as she was, no one ignored her. ¡°Turn your weapons on the ghouls; they¡¯re Co-en!¡±

    Cognitive-enforced ghouls.

    ¡°We¡¯ve come for the court child and the Priest!¡± A ghoul that wore the body of an older king from generations past announced. ¡°We also came for blood.¡±

    The seven ghouls drew their swords, and the blades sang the song of metal scraping on metal as they danced out into the gaslight.

    ¡°Get the civilians out!¡± Commandant Van Graif bellowed before drawing his blade. His sword was of the same style the kings carried, only much less ornate.

    The kings hissed and rushed forward, their blades gleaming in the gaslight, and the remaining people of Nine Fingers let loose a volley of gun and crossbow quarrels.

    The kings staggered from the shock of the attack but picked themselves up and charged forward like vipers.

    Peter rushed to meet them empty-handed.

    ¡°Van Seur!¡± Commandant Van Graif barked. ¡°Get out of here!¡±

    Not in the mood to disobey another direct order, Peter reoriented and ran.

    He sprinted for the tombs; he would have to climb a little, like the rest of them, where the long mounds met together, forming a half star ¡ª but everything about running, and especially passing some mothers and children ¡ª bit at Peter.

    ¡°Van Seur!¡± A screamed warning from Norah turned him just in time to take a sword to the chest. The leech flair lit up, but the ghoul that wore King Adrichem¡¯s body ignored it. It was unsettling to Peter to see his king''s face grinning at him victoriously.

    Peter choked as King Adrichem¡¯s ghoul lifted him off his feet, skewered down to the hilt of his sword. These were undoubtedly very enforced ghouls.

    Peter looked and, to his horror, saw several women and children that Adrichem had cut down to get to him. The laughing ghoul-king swung his sword in a circle and flicked Peter off, sending him crashing into the training tomb.

    Peter gasped as he tumbled across the floor. The familiar tomb was adorned with the usual racks of weapons. Peter jumped to his feet and ran for the wall.

    King Adrichem laughed as he followed. He flicked his sword experimentally, the whoosh of the blade cutting through the din of war from outside.

    Peter pulled a spear off the wall; unlike the sentinel spears, this one had a long and slender blade.

    King Adrichem rushed Peter and, with a few parries, got inside his reach. Peter¡¯s leech flair lit up, leeching a lot of time from the king. This ghoul had dramatically more time stores built in than the run-of-the-mill sentinel.

    With several wicked-fast cuts, King Adrichem dropped Peter to the ground and danced away until the leech vapor faded.

    Peter coughed and bled onto the floor. What was this ghoul¡¯s plan? Peter only had to leech him until he ran out of time, then the fight would be Peter¡¯s. Unless the reanimated king had an Druk, he couldn¡¯t win.

    ¡°Get off my floor!¡± A small figure bellowed from the doorway.

    King Adrichem spun on the trainer, Norah. ¡°Your floor?¡± he asked, mockingly. ¡°This floor belongs to my great grandfather.¡±

    He lunged at her and she ran for the wall, discarding an empty pistol. She was fast, but he was a ghoul.

    He slashed at her, and she caught the blade in her prosthetic claw hand. The sword and clawed finger gritted and scraped against each other.

    The trainer reached back with her free hand and pulled a strange gun off the wall that looked like someone mounted a funnel on half of a thick rifle. The weapon was so big, Peter worried that it would knock her flat if she tried to use it. She stuck it in his face.

    The gun hissed thunderously and threw King Adrichem onto his back.

    ¡°Van Seur! Get out!¡± Norah screamed.

    Peter scrambled to his feet and started for the door again.

    Norah pulled a sword from the wall, a replica of the one the commandant had, only appropriately smaller, and she let out a shriek as she ran it through the supine ruler¡¯s heart.

    ¡°With all due respect, Your Majesty, I think you would have wanted to stay dead.¡±

    King Adrichem¡¯s eye snapped open, and he laughed as he ran his sword through Norah¡¯s midsection.

    ¡°No!¡± Peter screamed as he changed his direction, running for the ghoul.

    King Adrichem was on his feet in a moment, and he stabbed Peter¡¯s one-time trainer several times and dropped her to the floor before Peter got to them. No leech flared from Norah¡¯s crumpled body.

    Peter saw the dead expression in her small eyes, and watched as her wounds soaked blood into her clothing.

    Peter slammed into King Adrichem and grabbed his face, lighting up the room with court light. ¡°You can¡¯t kill me, and you¡¯ll drain just as easily as the next ghoul!¡± Peter snarled as King Adrichem¡¯s face started to rot in his hands. ¡°Your plan failed!¡±

    King Adrichem laughed and easily kicked Peter off. He looked not at all disturbed by his leeching.

    ¡°We¡¯re not here to beat you,¡± he scoffed. ¡°We bring a message!¡±

    ¡°What message?¡± Peter demanded as he readied himself for another charge.

    King Adrichem held out another tile, and glowing writing on it burned away as a small vaporous purple light shone above it; in the light was a semi translucent image of Iris.

    Peter gasped and staggered. Tiny as the image was, she wasn¡¯t old and bent. She was young again, the seventeen-year-old school friend he remembered her as, and she had Peter¡¯s Van Gutter hat in her hands.

    ¡°Peter!¡± she cried in the voice he had grown up hearing.

    ¡°Iris!¡±

    King Adrichem curled his bony fingers closed and stanched the light, ending the strange projection.

    ¡°You want her? Go to Stalpia and give the Bedorven to Anubis.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a trick,¡± Peter cried, his voice thick and husky. He wiped tears from his eyes.

    ¡°It¡¯s your only option.¡±

    ¡°Anubis sent you?¡± Peter demanded.

    King Adrichem smiled. ¡°Meet him at the printing shop. He¡¯s waiting for you.¡±

    ¡°And, what, he¡¯ll let us live?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°I doubt that.¡±

    ¡°Then she dies slowly. You have until tomorrow.¡± King Adrichem turned, flaring the tail of his coat, and marched away.

    Peter wrenched himself to his feet and ran up to Norah; the petite woman¡¯s blood had begun to seep across the floor. There was nothing he could do.

    The sound of struggle died outside, and Peter prayed that his companions didn¡¯t do so as poorly. It was over as fast as it started.

    He pulled himself up and exited.

    Commandant Van Graif, Director Van Den Hoek, Captain Visser, Van Dijk, Isabella, Owen, and Doctor Aarts were the only Nine Fingers combatants Peter knew who were left standing.

    A spattering of noncombatants wailed in the night, and a disturbing number of civilians lay slaughtered.

    Julian squatted next to Albert. The valet stared, glassy eyed, at the misty sky. His shirt was soaked with blood in the midsection. One of the seven kings jerked and twitched decapitated next to the domestics like a broken piece of machinery.

    The mercenaries, Morris, Benedict, and Skye, were breathing hard, but unhurt. Many bodies littered the ground.

    ¡°They ¡­¡± Director Van Den Hoek gasped as he cradled a woman¡¯s head. Peter recognized her as the woman he spoke to at the gun range. ¡°They focused their attack on the civilians ¡­ but ¡­ why?¡±

    The Commandant placed a hand on his recently promoted second-in-command¡¯s shoulder. ¡°To send a message. To tell us we belong to Court Rahashel now and to foreshadow the reckoning that will fall on Julleck.¡±

    A message ¡ª to me, Peter realized. They couldn¡¯t force me to return with them, so they wanted me to know what they could do, what they will do to Iris.

    Van Den Hoek choked and then let out a wail so raw, Peter clenched his teeth and looked away. The young Director cradled the woman¡¯s head as he sobbed.

    Peter looked down and saw Van Zon, the sentry from the night he visited Dr. Aarts. He had a sword wound through his chest. Peter recalled the respect he felt for the man standing out in the cold, ever vigilant. Now, the cold wouldn¡¯t bother him again.

    The others turned to Peter. ¡°What happened in there?¡±

    Peter turned pale. ¡°He killed Norah ¡­ and left.¡±

    Why did this have to happen? Why did Rahashel taunt them by dragging them around and taking everything they held dear? Why did Court Rahashel need Stalpia? Why did he conquer Calacray? How many more courts were there, and why did they s0w such pain?

    Peter didn¡¯t have the answer to most of his questions, but he did know some things for sure, with an icy certainty, deep in his bones. He knew Iris was still alive, and he knew that if he gave the court band to the commandant, she would die.

 21 Pyres and Empty Tombs

    The heat of the pyre made Peter¡¯s skin pull taught. The roaring flame had initially stunk of burnt hair, but now the scented perfumes they had used masked the scent.

    A few of the scant remains of Nine Fingers stood with eyes locked on the mound. Others Ignored it as they gathered equipment.

    Cremation was the most proper send-off they could afford. Previously, burial was the standard Nosmerian ritual for the dead; now, they had to do their best to prevent Rahashel from repurposing bodies.

    Director Van Den Hoek wept openly, clutching a ring on a chain. Everyone gave him the proper space to mourn.

    Even Benedict Smulders, whose face usually held an absolute indifference, and the rude Skye Brink seemed almost reverent before the roaring flames.

    A small boy, who managed to hide during the attack, cried in Isabella¡¯s arms as they bid farewell to his mother and sister. His father had already died earlier that day in Stalpia.

    Peter pulled away from the funeral pyre and moved into Norah¡¯s training tomb. There was still blood on the floor where she had been killed.

    After staring at the stain momentarily, Peter left to find some water and a rag. Norah would have been furious if he had left her floor dirty.

    Peter found a brush and a water pail in the storage tomb. He wandered around those who frantically packed gear. He couldn¡¯t even help without getting in the way. Going to a water barrel, he filled the bucket and returned to his trainer¡¯s tomb.

    The young court knelt on the cold stone floor of the tomb and cleaned the blood in the hot pyre light blazing from the doorway. The puddle and smear were illuminated by the light from the door, so he didn¡¯t bother with sparking the gaslights installed in the walls.

    It was his fault. Peter tightened his hands as he scrubbed the thick, syrupy remains of Norah¡¯s wounds. He led the kings back to the base.

    You were tricked, Peter told himself. You didn¡¯t know the tracking tile was there. You didn¡¯t even know that tracking tiles existed.

    Peter shook his head. He knew he couldn¡¯t deny it. The pyre of burning remains wouldn¡¯t have happened had Peter followed orders like he was told to. His first step to find Iris had killed them all. Anubis wouldn¡¯t have her, Norah and everyone else would still be alive.

    Peter scrubbed furiously and tore his fore-knuckles on the stone. He didn¡¯t care; the sting of wet, raw skin felt good. It had a grounding effect and cut through the numbness. It was funny how different pain was after experiencing so much of it.

    What was Peter supposed to do? Leave Iris? She was family; he had a duty to her before anyone else.

    What about Director Van Den Hoek¡¯s family? His wife is dead outside because you dictated whose family was more important; a dark corner hissed in the back of his mind.

    Of course, Peter didn¡¯t decide whose family was more important. He didn¡¯t choose any of this, and the accusation that he killed those who burned outside would simply be unfair.

    Peter wrung out his rag, and the sting in his knuckles vanished.

    What was he to do now? He couldn¡¯t leave Iris, but he also couldn¡¯t leave the people of Julleck to fend for themselves. He needed the court band, and so did the commandant. Peter finished mopping up the thick blood and scrubbing the more crusty edges.

    He didn¡¯t have time; the invasion was supposed to happen tomorrow.

    A shadow cast from the doorway caused Peter to look and see the hired gun, Morris Dewolf, looking after him with worry in his eyes.

    ¡°Yeah?¡± Peter asked politely, his voice husky.

    ¡°Are you okay?¡± Morris asked.

    Peter nodded, but Morris held his gaze.

    ¡°Are you sure? Because you look ¡­¡±

    ¡°Old?¡±

    ¡°Broken.¡±

    That surprised Peter. The way the other soldiers had spoken of the hired guns made them out to be legendary and expensive fighters whose only interest extended as far as their pocket.

    ¡°Are you staying to fight at Julleck tomorrow?¡± Peter asked.

    Morris shook his head, ¡°I¡¯m leaving now, but I wanted to check and see how you were doing.¡±

    Peter took that as another surprise. Morris had been kind to him and seemed friendly. No doubt they would have been friends if they had the time to get acquainted.

    ¡°May I?¡± Morris asked, gesturing to the floor near the door.

    Peter nodded. ¡°Don¡¯t get too close.¡±

    Morris sank to the ground, squatting on his haunches and putting his back against the wall. ¡°Today was ¡­ Not how it was supposed to turn out.¡± Morris groaned with fatigue.

    Peter couldn¡¯t help but laugh dryly at the statement.

    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    ¡°I thought I was signing onto a simple robbery. Well, maybe not simple ¡ª robbing a court, a death god ¡ª but, you know.¡±

    Peter nodded again as he turned to face Morris.

    ¡°And now, the Nine Fingers are all but gone. Who would have guessed.¡±

    Peter flinched. ¡°It¡¯s my fault,¡± he said.

    ¡°That¡¯s ridiculous,¡± Morris countered.

    ¡°It is! I made a choice, and the kings found us because of it.¡±

    Morris nodded slowly as he listened, his face partially obscured in shadow.

    ¡°I stayed in Stalpia to save someone, and the kings followed me here.¡±

    ¡°You carried a large burden,¡± Morris said, nodding to Peter¡¯s Court band.

    Does he know what it is? Peter wondered in surprise. ¡°That was also my choice,¡± Peter said. ¡°I¡¯m starting to realize it may have been wrong.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    ¡°I insisted on being the one to use this. It could have been anyone. But I insisted it should be me. How selfish of me. Why not Doctor Aarts or Captain Visser? The Commandant probably could have succeeded if he were in my place today. What right did I have to insist that I keep it? Julian said I was perhaps the worst person to use it. He¡¯s right.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid, Van Seur,¡± Morris countered.

    ¡°I¡¯m not,¡± Peter interrupted. ¡° It¡¯s just logic, Morris. I kept it and refused to give it up because I wanted to save someone. What about the others? They all had people they wanted to save. They¡¯re dead now because of me.¡±

    The weathered mercenary nodded slowly. He looked towards the bloodied rags on the floor. ¡°Van Seur. I may not be the best man to tell you what to fight for. I fight for money. You fight to take care of your own; I can¡¯t think of anything more noble to defend.¡±

    That gave Peter pause. ¡°That may be true, but I tried to do it alone; maybe I should have given this to more capable hands.¡±

    ¡°But how could you?¡± Morris asked. ¡°You¡¯re a fighter.¡±

    Peter scoffed. ¡°I¡¯m a seventeen-year-old student. I am not a warrior.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen commissioned soldiers flee from the things you walk towards.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t die!¡±

    Peter stopped short. That was not something he was supposed to tell anyone. He was revealing far too much about the band''s capabilities.

    Morris waved a dismissive hand at Peter¡¯s recoil. ¡°I saw you. I know you can¡¯t die. I watched as you took the brunt of Rahashel¡¯s defense. It looked painful.¡±

    ¡°It was,¡± Peter whispered. ¡°Very much so.¡±

    ¡°So what kept you moving forward?¡± Morris asked. ¡°Why do you shoulder what so many men would shirk?¡±

    Peter thought for a moment. ¡°Iris, he said, his voice low, barely above a whisper.

    "A girlfriend?" Morris asked.

    "Just a friend," Peter said. "Well, something other than just a friend. I don''t know the right word. When I was young, I did something stupid, and she got hurt because of it." Peter waved dismissively, realizing Morris probably didn''t care, but the gunman listened intently. On that cue, he continued.

    "We were eleven. We went to the same academy. I lived at home with my Ma, but Iris boarded at the dorm. She used to live with her grandmother in Macbare, so she didn''t have anybody when she was in Stalpia. She always seemed to have something to prove, so she always teased me."

    "You know what that means among children, right?" Morris asked with a chuckle. ¡°She likes you, kid.¡±

    Peter felt his face warm up. ¡°I would get so worked up. That''s why she did it. Anyway, there was this townhome with a wild dog. She bet I wouldn''t cross the yard and jump over the fence. No one was even watching. I had no reason to say yes. I could have walked away.¡±

    "But it was important to you she didn''t see you as a coward?" Morris reasoned.

    Peter had never realized it, but he found himself nodding. "I opened the gate." Peter''s throat felt heavy. "The dog came for me, but I hid behind the door."

    "Smart," Morris affirmed. "I''m not betting on an eleven-year-old kid in that fight."

    "Iris threw a rock," Peter whispered, his voice husky. "She tried to save me."

    Morris nodded knowingly.

    "It tore her ankle. I just watched from behind the door." Peter''s throat pinched uncomfortably as her screams mixed with the dog''s snarl in his head. "It took two bystanders to separate them. After the surgery, and to this day, she walks with a limp. Not only that, the procedure put her grandmother into horrible debt. Ma and I did what we could to help, but we didn''t have much." Peter jerked his sleeve across his eyes and let out a pained laugh. "Ma practically adopted Iris after that. You know what''s really strange about all of this?"

    Morris didn''t speak but listened intently.

    "Iris doesn''t blame me," Peter sniffed. "After that, she became my best friend, and you know what? When others were around, I had the audacity to be ashamed that my best friend was a cripple."

    Peter smiled bitterly, blinking back tears. "So you see, I have to save Iris," Peter said. ¡°I tried before. When we received our crop rings, I put mine on first¡ªas if that would protect her. But I didn''t protect her. I surrendered and let it happen."

    ¡°And now you are trying to atone for your failure?¡± Morris asked.

    Peter nodded. ¡°But it doesn¡¯t matter now.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s dead?¡± Morris asked cautiously.

    Peter shook his head. ¡°Anubis has her.¡±

    Morris¡¯ eyes grew wide. ¡°What are you going to do?¡± He leaned in and mirrored Peter¡¯s posture.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Save her, leave her to die? I just don¡¯t know.¡±

    ¡°Anubis is using her as leverage?¡±

    Peter nodded.

    ¡°You¡¯re not going to give it to him?¡±

    ¡°Of course not. That last time I faced Anubis, things didn¡¯t turn out well for me. Maybe I¡¯ll ask the others to help.¡±

    Morris shook his head. ¡°There¡¯s no way they will. With Rahashel¡¯s ghouls on the move, they¡¯ll be on the front lines of Julleck tomorrow. Nine Fingers is an honorable organization. They will put the needs of Nosmeria before yours.¡±

    Peter slumped. He knew that was true but didn¡¯t see any other way to get her back.

    ¡°Did Anubis already schedule a meeting?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± Peter said. ¡°That¡¯s what the attack here was all about.¡±

    ¡°Then she¡¯ll be in the dungeons,¡± Morris said.

    ¡°No, she¡¯s at a printer shop in eastern Stalpia.¡±

    Morris sat up. ¡°Frin¡¯s press?¡±

    Peter scrunched his brow. ¡°I don¡¯t know the shop''s name; it¡¯s on Black Tile Junction.¡±

    ¡°I know that shop!¡± Morris cried. ¡°Frin¡¯s press; I used to go there all the time!¡±

    Peter squinted at the man. Despite himself, he grinned. ¡°Really? The one with the wide bay window?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the one.¡±

    ¡°Window¡¯s gone now,¡± Peter said with a smirk. ¡°I kinda jumped through it.¡±

    ¡°I used to run supplies for a sheet metal plant as a boy, and we printed manuals for our products through Frin¡¯s press.¡±

    ¡°Small world, huh?¡± Peter asked.

    Morris smiled. ¡°Indeed. Well, Van Seur, what next? I imagine you¡¯ll be joining the front lines tomorrow? Or will you go for Iris?¡±

    Peter frowned. ¡°I just don¡¯t know.¡±

    Morris stood with a sigh. ¡°Take heart. I don¡¯t think Anubis will kill Iris so long as you have the armlet.¡± He headed for the door. ¡°If he learns you¡¯ve given it to someone else, what reason would he have to keep her alive?¡±

    Peter twitched.

    ¡°So long, Van Seur. I hope to meet you again.¡±

    Morris left Peter in the dark tomb with his thoughts. Peter liked Morris a lot. He seemed like a good man with his world pulled out from under him like all the others. Peter appreciated Morris'' confidence, but it sent his head spinning with more questions. Maybe he could fight at Julleck with the band himself. Perhaps he would be competent enough that the commandant wouldn¡¯t need to wield it?

    Peter growled, more frustrated with himself now than before. That was a lot of maybes.

    Captain Tobias Visser knocked on the door.

    Peter looked up. The captain spoke sharply. ¡°This place is compromised. Help pack up; we¡¯re leaving for Julleck.¡±

    ¡°Now?¡± Peter asked in surprise.

    ¡°Now.¡±

 22 The Cowards and The Conquered

    Peter itched to help the others load the horse-drawn wagon but couldn''t get close without accidentally leeching someone. He tried to find some other way to be useful, but there was none. His jaw clenched tight as he watched uselessly on the sidelines.

    The horses had been concealed in a shallow burrow stable, hidden under a tomb.

    Morris, Benedict, and Skye left just as the packing started. On Vangraif''s command, Nine Fingers'' remaining members hiked north towards Julleck.

    Commandant Van Graif, Director Van Den Hoek, and Captain Tobias Visser rode horses.

    Isabella and Doctor Aarts sat on the front of the wagon, Julian and Van Dijk in the back, and the rest of them marched to the side. The commandant had sent what few soldiers Peter didn''t know to escort the survivors West to Macbare. Captain Visser''s cell was the most intact, so the commandant elected to use them as his escort.

    Peter couldn''t be near horses without leeching them, either, so he sulked behind the column by himself. Dr. Aarts and Captain Visser regularly looked back at him, and Peter wished he could say they were making sure he was okay, but the courtling knew they were making sure he didn''t run. His temple bulged as Peter kept pace. The long grass by the side of the road kept withering as he got too close. Interesting, that had never happened before.

    Though their pace was slow, Peter''s mind and heart were not. He twitched and fidgeted as he walked behind the group. He couldn''t just do nothing; he had to do something.

    "Can we take a rest?" Peter called at length as he saw stone Ataggin ruins peeking from the grass.

    "What''s wrong?" Commandant Van Graif called from atop his horse.

    "I just need some time to heal," Peter lied. "I think that walking is obstructing the process."

    Van Graif nodded, and they pulled off the road and into the ruins for concealment. As Peter walked, the grass around him pulled away and decayed. It wasn''t the same as a leech flair that affected sentient beings. If anything, it reminded Peter of the curse that had occupied Rahashelian territory; the grass had the same tinge of decay as the rotted effect that infected the buildings and landscape. That hadn¡¯t happened to plants around Peter before.

    It''s growing more potent, Peter realized. The curse of this band.

    Peter didn''t feel more in control of the court abilities. In fact, if anything, he felt less in control. More raw and unfocused.

    As Peter approached, he studied the ruins, a habit he carried from his past life. The ruins looked like they may have been for some building that Peter could only imagine was immense while it still stood. They didn''t often have grandiose buildings in Nosmeria and never tall ones, aside from the Nyamarian estates. These ruins very well could have been a cluster of towers.

    Peter sank into the dirt away from the others and hugged his knees to his chest. He had lied; his wounds from the Incentiviser had finally healed. But he couldn''t resist the spike of anxiety that ran through his bones and stirred his stomach when he considered removing the Bedorven.

    He rocked back and forth, cradled into a ball on his heels. Iris, Julleck: What did he do?

    Over the wall, he heard the others chatting. He didn''t want to let them down, but ... Iris!

    Peter groaned; his mind ran in circles, which wouldn''t get them anywhere.

    Peter leaned his head against the stone and closed his eyes. His head felt naked without a hat. Iris had it.

    The stone wall was thick. In its prime, the building of the Ataggin Empire would have made even Court Rahashel''s palace look childish. Peter smiled at that. What would have happened if the courts had come during the Empire? They had the power of Nyamar, stolen unlawfully, but functioning as efficiently as ever. The Ataggin Empire would have quickly crushed Rahashel and assimilated his power. Peter nodded to himself. What a chilling surprise that would have been for the courts. Instead, Rahashel came to a peaceful era of rebuilding, not conquest like the days of old.

    Peter slipped out of his thoughts but smiled. Despite the chaos of their journey, and the heavy weight of regret, he could still lose himself in ponderous meditation. It came as a comfort that he could still fade into his own mind. The minutes brought a slight relief to his anxiety.

    Isabella laughed with the others, and Peter got up with a sigh. Why did Nyamar have a house and not an empire? The open-walled ruins constricted around him. Peter stalked away from the voices behind the wall and back towards the road.

    Again, the grass seemed to shy away from him. Just like people did. Everything and everyone treated him like he was toxic. He looked at the band on his forearm. Though immortal, he was toxic so long as he had the band. They were wise to avoid him.

    The sound of a sword ringing from a steel scabbard stopped Peter mid-thought.

    Captain Tobias Visser arose from his concealment in the long grass in front of him with the naked officer''s sword in hand. "Not another step," he growled. "I thought you might run off."

    Peter''s face heated up. "You expected me to run?" He asked. "You were waiting?"

    "Of course, running is what a selfish child like you might try to do."

    Peter bared his teeth. "I''ve tried, I''ve really tried to get along with you. I''ve been kind, and I strive to give you space. But everywhere I turn, I find you in my way." Peter growled. "Pointing, accusing, and assuming. I just went for some fresh air, Captain. Is that too much to ask?" Once he started, words rolled out independently, and his voice took on a new edge.

    "You say you need a break to heal, and now you say you need to walk," the captain retorted, his words acerbic and biting. "I don''t buy it."

    Peter gasped in indignation. "And if I was walking away? If I was going to get Iris? What were you going to do about it? Stab me with your sword? Do you really think you could stop me? You might be a captain, but I''m a god!"

    "We were going to stop you."

    Peter turned to see Doctor Aarts behind him, holding a funnel cannon pointed at him.

    "You brought toys to stop a god?" Peter asked, his lips curled mockingly. "I thought you two were supposed to be the smart ones!" It was the fire talking at this point. There wasn''t a single part of Peter that was worried about these two.

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    "If I was running, and I mean if," Peter growled, "I would do it, and there would be nothing you could do to stop me."

    The grass around him lost its color, curled up, and died. It started at his feet and slowly extended out in a ring away from him, slowly widening.

    "No? But I can."

    Peter''s wrath dropped to his gut, replaced by icy glass as he heard Julian''s voice. He looked to see the domestic looking at him in all earnest. He held the smooth Druk dagger in his hand. Where had he come from?

    "Julian ¡­" Peter pleaded. "I wasn''t going to, I didn''t mean ¡ª"

    "You called yourself a god, Peter. You''ve changed; that thing has changed you," Julian said. "I like you, but I don''t like this." He gestured, as if to the new Peter.

    A horrible thought filled his mind. "You mean ¡ª the armband is controlling me?" he gasped. "Influencing my mind?"

    "I don''t think so," Julian said, holding up a placating hand. But you have been through a lot in a short time; you''ve been grossly traumatized, and it''s left its mark. I could only expect you to change, but remember, the power of a court doesn''t belong to you; it belongs to a piece of metal."

    The three men''s shadows seemed to stretch and reach for Peter. They had him surrounded and stood poised to hurt him.

    "Just ¡ª I ¡ª All of you stay back!" he shouted.

    They were supposed to be on his side, but they stood, weapons in hand, ready to end him.

    "Give me some space!"

    The growing ring of dead grass exploded and rushed out. All three men cried out as the grass under their feet withered and turned black.

    Peter panted, and the large circle of dead grass stopped. He looked at the three men who were supposed to be his friends, then turned and marched back towards the ruins.

    Peter forced Doctor Aarts to jump out of the way, as he intentionally passed just a little too close. He made his way to a different wall and clawed handfuls of his white hair as he tried to slow his breathing and extinguish the fumes of his rage. The three men didn''t openly follow.

    Were they even his friends? Why did he owe them any loyalty? Peter was his own man and had his own to care for. The court band belonged to him. Van Gutter died. The Last Nine Fingers operative who had it failed, and Peter was the one who picked it up. It was his, and he was indebted to no one. He had the power of a court, and no one could take it; if they wanted to try and stop him, they were more than welcome to try ¡ª

    Peter sat up, suddenly alert. Was that ¡­ crying? Peter stood.

    Yes, coming from behind a crumbled wall, someone was crying. Peter stepped around the wall, and to his surprise, he saw Niels Van Dijk sitting and crying by himself.

    Van Dijk sniffed as he looked up at Peter through tear-streaked eyes.

    "Oh, sorry," Peter said awkwardly, his problems fleeing from his mind momentarily. He turned to leave.

    "Van Seur!" Van Dijk cried in embarrassment, quickly wiping his face.

    "Sorry, I''ll just go."

    "Wait!"

    Peter stopped.

    "How do you do it?" the private asked

    "It?" Peter turned back to Van Dijk.

    "You face ghouls so calmly; you run at them, kill them, and ¡­ you''re just awesome."

    Peter was suddenly taken aback. Was Van Dijk being serious? He certainly didn''t appear to be joking.

    "Van Dijk, I can''t die," Peter said. "That is, with the band on, I can''t die," he quickly amended. "Makes it a little easier."

    Van Dijk shook his head. "I wish I could be like you."

    Peter laughed. "Why? So you could be confused, conflicted, and helpless?"

    Van Dijk looked down. "Aren''t we all?"

    Peter shut up. How selfish could he be? He hadn''t even considered how any of the others felt for a second. In light of the horrors he practically slept through, they were just trying to survive.

    "I can''t face them; when they come, I run. Captain Visser ¡­" Van Dijk blinked away tears. ¡°The captain told me how worthless I am."

    Peter''s face contorted in rage. "Me too. Good at that, isn''t he?"

    "He''s right," Van Dijk said, contrary to Peter''s opinion. "I respect Captain Visser more than I respected my father; he has always been my hero, and I continuously let him down. He''s right. I''m a coward."

    Van Dijk cradled his head in grief, and Peter watched the man in silence. Seconds passed, and Peter looked from the man to the ruins against which he sat.

    "It''s not your fault, you know," Peter said, and Van Dijk looked at Peter hopefully. "Not all the way, at least. What were you before the courts came?"

    "A stable hand,¡± Van Dijk admitted, a rueful grin on his face.

    That surprised Peter, considering Van Dijk''s literary preferences. "In your day-to-day life, did you ever fear you would be killed?"

    "No."

    "We weren''t ready for this,¡± said Peter, realizing anew just how much Rahashel had taken when he fell from the sky ¡°How could we be? You were a stable hand, and I wasn''t even out of school. We could have been prepared for this, but we weren''t. How were we to know the courts would come? In our optimism and our budding prosperity, we became susceptible. We became dull, like the crop who wear leech rings. We need the will to fight back. We need to be as strong as Ataggin was."

    Van Dijk recoiled. "Peter, Ataggin was evil. They were brutal and barbaric."

    "Life is brutal and barbaric," Peter gestured to the ruins around them.

    Van Dijk raised a hand, shrugged his shoulder, and cocked his head in a gesture that indicated, ''fair point.''

    "I''m not saying we need to do things like they did," Peter clarified. "I only said we need to be as strong as they are. The House is very small compared to the Empire, so it takes people like you and organizations like Nine Fingers to heed the call. We must move into an era beyond brutality; we must master war to the point of power to become true competitors to the courts. We need to become threats, but I think that starts by acknowledging that our upbringing was wrong."

    "You''re one of those Ataggin fanatics, aren''t you?"

    Peter shook his head. "No, but I believe we can win, and we can do it as men. Do you remember what getting your crop ring cut off was like?"

    Van Dijk shuddered. "Shocking, everything coming back all at once."

    "Being a crop was like life before the courts. Slow, mundane, out of touch. Getting the ring cut off is like when they came."

    "So what''s next?"

    "The part where we become who we need to be and do what we need to do for victory."

    Peter froze, caught in his own hypocrisy. "You''re not a stable boy, and I''m not a student." He looked at Van Dijk for a moment. "I''m also not a court. We''re both Nine Fingers soldiers."

    Peter contemplated the band on his arm. ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯re a coward Van Dijk. I¡¯m not going to be one either.¡±

    Peter tugged his Bedorven off. The metal warmed by his skin seemed to sense his intent and widen, making it more accessible. His fingers brushed the familiar glowing engravings, and as the ring passed, his fingers and the hair on his neck stood on edge. He half expected Captain Visser to pop out from behind a wall and shoot him. He was exposed and mortal. A primal instinct screamed at him to put it back on. Not some paranormal compulsion, but a natural drive to survive. He held the band as vulnerable as Van Gutter when he found Peter in the sewer. He recalled Hendrik rushing back into the fight at the estate after burning through all of whatever fuel domestics used to power their boons. Peter envisioned Norah rushing to protect an immortal man from a dangerous ghoul. These people were strong and ready to lay it all down, making Peter believe they could meet the courts as mortals. The tenacious soul of man and their ability to see things beyond themselves.

    Peter could do that, too, right? The band slipped from his fingers and landed with a mundane thud on the dirt. He forced himself to step away from it, knowing he might find himself putting it back on if he didn''t give himself some space.

    He looked away from the band, his hands balled into fists. He knew he might not put it down again if he picked it back up.

    The motion of Van Dijk standing pulled Peter from his internal toil.

    The private looked at Peter and then down at the Bedorven, free for the taking. Peter recognized the desire written across Van Dijk''s face as he stepped up to it, stooped, and picked it up.

    Peter probably should have rushed and knocked the cursed court object from the private''s hands, but he knew with a certainty that Van Dijk would make a better court than him.

    The court glyphs'' reflection shimmered in Van Dijk''s eyes, but then he looked up and crossed back over to Peter.

    "Van Seur," Van Dijk proffered the Bedorven back to Peter and put a hand on his shoulder. Peter had somehow forgotten how a human''s touch felt in the few days he was a court. "Give it back to the commandant."

    Peter didn''t trust himself enough to take it back, but Van Dijk pressed it into his hands. "I''ll go with you."

    Peter relented and accepted the Bedorven, and the two soldiers went toward the rest of the group.

    "I''m sorry, Iris," Peter whispered, his voice quivering and his eyes blurred.

 23 The Final Cell

    A single gas torch cast yellow-white light on the faces of the remaining Nine Fingers operatives and cast shadows off the ruins, extending them away from the center of the room. The fractured resistance sat around the gas torch like a fire.

    The Commandant, Owen, Isabella, and Van Den Hoek rested silently. Peter didn''t see Captain Visser, Doctor Aarts, or Julian but could feel them watching him. Still irritated at their distrust, Peter thought he could understand their perspective as he carried the glowing metal band rather than wearing it. Van Dijk escorted him in tandem.

    He saw Iris in the tile projection, her youth restored to her. What horrible death might be in store for her? Peter refused to acknowledge the relief he felt in a dark corner of his mind. Now that he¡¯d stopped wearing the band, he didn''t have to find a way to double back on Nine Fingers, he didn''t need to fight Anubis, and he didn''t need to carry the court band''s oppressive weight. Anubis didn¡¯t have the band: the Nine Fingers had a slim hope. And all this for the small price of Iris'' life! Peter was going to be sick. He was getting good at abandoning her.

    "Commandant Van Graif," Peter called, drawing the commander''s attention. "A word?"

    The commandant excused himself from the circle and approached Peter, who stepped into a different, roofless, crumbled room. Without a word, he offered the court band to the commandant.

    Van Graaf''s eyebrow shot up in disbelief.

    "You know, I was worried you wouldn''t be able to take it off again,¡± he said.

    "So was I," Peter confessed. "The longer I wore it, the more I came to depend on it, and the more I felt entitled to it."

    Sebastian Van Graif nodded and reached for the band. Peter held it tightly for a moment as the commandant started to pull but resigned to his choice and surrendered it.

    I''m so sorry, Iris.

    The Commandant held the Bedorven and examined it. The writing on the side burned with purple court light, much brighter than when Peter had it. The light reflected off of Van Graif''s eyes.

    "You did the right thing," Van Graif said, a faint note of surprise in his voice. "Why did you do it? You know we couldn''t have taken it."

    Peter let out a strangely mixed sigh of relief and anguish. "I''m a Nine Fingers Soldier, and need to do everything I can to stop Rahashel."

    Van Graif''s dark eyes twinkled in genuine curiosity, and then he put a firm and warm hand on Peter''s shoulder.

    Peter winced at the welcome pressure.

    "Surrendering easy power, when you don''t have to, is a mark of true mastery," Van Graif said. "I''m proud to call you my grandson, Van Seur."

    Peter nodded but was still somehow empty. As much as he valued the commandant¡¯s praise, Peter didn''t feel in control. If anything, he was scared and vulnerable. If he died now, he would stay dead.

    Peter shrugged off his sack and produced the athanium book he took from the library. "This seems to be part of a set with the Bedorven," Peter explained. "I don''t know anything else about it."

    The commandant took the book carefully and opened the cover to examine luminescent glyphs. His lips twitched up in a ghost of a smile as he considered the alien script. "No doubt we''ll be able to extract answers from this later."

    "Well then, suppose we move on with our plan?" Van Graif suggested. "Let''s go, Van Seur. I¡¯ll call the others."

    Doctor Aarts, Captain Visser, Private Van Dijk, and the domestic Julian gathered around the gas light, and everyone gaped at the court band in Van Graif''s hands.

    "We are ready to move on to Julleck. Van Seur has done well in obeying my orders. I told him to never take this off until he received my word. I don''t want any of you to harbor a grudge because of his stubbornness." Sebastian Van Graif shot a knowing glance at Doctor Aarts and Captain Visser. The doctor shrugged it off, but the captain nodded, although he pointedly avoided Peter¡¯s eyes.

    Peter nodded to the commandant in gratitude. Van Graif had covered Peter''s stubbornness and saved his face in front of the others even though Peter had deliberately avoided giving him the armlet.

    "I''ll need all hands we have at Julleck by first light."

    "With all due respect, Commandant," Peter said, "I won''t be very useful to you at Julleck."

    "Lose your special weapon and lose the taste for war?" Doctor Aarts asked. If he had any better feelings towards Peter now, Peter couldn''t tell.

    "It''s not that," Peter said over his annoyance. "I just think I''d be better utilized elsewhere."

    "Peter, going after Iris without the court band would be suicide," Isabella jumped in, shaking her head in disapproval.

    "Will you guys let me finish?" Peter pleaded.

    Everyone looked at him, giving him their full attention.

    "If we fight at Julleck, what will come of victory?" Peter asked. "If we manage to stand through the day, Court Rahashel will just come again tomorrow. The fight would be hopeless. We all know what his ghouls and liches are capable of. We need to stop him for good."

    Peter fell silent, allowing the severity of the situation to sink in.

    "You''re kind of a pessimist, aren''t you?" Van Den Hoek asked. Peter had never spoken to the man before. He still looked horrible, all things considered, but he didn''t bear the same malice towards him that the doctor and the captain did.

    "I''m being realistic," Peter said. "You all know I''m right."

    "What do you propose?" Van Graif asked.

    "Let''s hit the time vault again," Peter said. ¡°Let''s shut his army down. Let''s ground him in Stalpia. Let''s actually save some lives and claim some ground for ourselves for once. We must start seeing ourselves as equals to Rahashel and stop being victims."

    "We really aren''t his equals, though,¡± Van Den Hoek said pointedly.

    "Why not?" Peter asked. "We have a court, too, and more than half of Nosmeria. As far as I see it, this war is one step away from turning."

    "I correct myself,¡± Van Den Hoek said. "You''re far too optimistic."

    "He''s not wrong," Commandant Van Graif said.

    Everyone who seemed annoyed by Peter''s assumptions and theories suddenly shifted awkwardly. The commandant¡¯s opinion still held twice as much weight as the opinion of any other man in the circle.

    "One thing, though," the commandant pointed out. "We failed last time. The time vault was heavily guarded, and we had almost no resources. If we all went and Julleck fell, Rahashel would have a fresh batch of crop, and it wouldn''t matter if we stole his time; he''d just harvest the Julleck survivors, and then, of course, he wouldn''t hesitate to move onto the rest of Nosmeria."

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    "You have a good point," Peter said. "But I think you and Julian will be the best help we can send them. The rest of us combined won''t amount to a fraction of a domestic and a court."

    Peter stopped. "No offense to the rest of you."

    The others grinned wryly. None pretended to be on par with the court or Nyamarian abilities.

    "It won''t be just one domestic," Julian inserted, and everyone looked at him.

    "I''ve been waiting for a sign that Nyamar wants to appoint new stewardships. I''ve been so petrified about making the wrong choice that I''ve overlooked the most important thing."

    "What?" the commandant asked.

    Julian hesitated, and then his features hardened in resolution. "Nyamar chose me. There has to be a reason." He glanced at Peter with a reflective smile. "That may be the sign I''ve overlooked. I am the high steward of the House, and as such, Nyamar trusts me to make choices on his behalf.¡±

    Van Dijk whooped victoriously. "I knew the House wouldn''t abandon us!"

    Isabella frowned, masking an inner battle that Peter couldn''t read.

    Doctor Aarts sighed in annoyance.

    "This does change things," Van Graif acknowledged, stroking his neat grey-white beard.

    "But I''m not sending you all to die without a solid plan. Why would an estate raid go any differently this time?"

    "There were five liches and hundreds of ghouls waiting for us. They expected and prepared for us. Now that they''ve thoroughly destroyed Nine Fingers, their guard may be down."

    "Regardless," Van Graif said, "What makes you think that a handful of you can storm the estate?"

    "We can¡¯t," Peter said, "That was a desperate and reckless plan in the first place."

    "So, what do you suggest?"

    Peter smiled desperately, trying to project the confidence he didn''t have.

    "What do you know about the Nosmeria and Calacray Border?"

    "What does this have to do with anything?" Captain Tobias asked impatiently.

    "Actually, everything," Peter said.

    "The border is Vet River," Van Dijk said.

    Peter nodded. "Vet River is the border, but the river itself was created by the Ataggin Empire."

    "It''s artificial." Doctor Aarts said. "It''s a well-known fact the channel was dug to separate the regions. What''s your point?"

    "Without Vet River, small streams and rivers would flood Stalpia," Peter said. ¡°Vet River is a high point in Stalpia. If we enter the estate from beneath, we could flood the sewers and get away swiftly, carried by the current. It would be faster than horses, and we¡¯d be underground, where there are no ghouls for the most part. Once we¡¯re in the sewers, the rest would be easy."

    "What about grates, walls, explosions? How much gear will we need?" Owen asked. As Captain Tobias'' operations officer, he saw the world through logistics. "A blast to get into the estate, a blast to flood the sewer."

    "I don''t know much," Peter admitted, "But I did write a report on it once. Vet River has spillway doors that flush out the sewer. The spillways have been nearly all been closed since Rahashel arrived. They had almost never flooded while I was a Crop. If we could open them and block the other sewage channels, building all that pressure into a single channel, we would have a straight shot out of Stalpia."

    ¡°There¡¯s an egress vault in the estate basement, too,¡± Julian said. ¡°You¡¯d have to blow it open, though; it¡¯s fortified and designed not to let people in. It¡¯s one reason why they use the estate as a vault. You can''t miss it; it will tell you where to set your charges.¡±

    "You really think we can do it with one charge?" Owen asked.

    "Two," Peter said, "One to get into the basement, one to collapse the stairs. I''d rather not have the estate guard pouring onto us. Can you do it, Owen?"

    Owen nodded to himself in thought. "I''d have to see it to be sure. We might just end up widening the stairs and let more men in, so we¡¯d need a precise blast. I''ll bring plenty of extra pyrotechnics. I like to be prepared for some ¡­ improvisation."

    Peter smiled. "I mean, if we had a month to plan it with blueprints of the estate, sewers, and supplies, we could certainly do this with the small handful of people we have."

    "Looks like you''ll have to wing it," the commandant said.

    "Van Graif!" Doctor Aarts cried. "You aren''t actually considering going along with this child?"

    "Considered and accepted. Unless you have a better plan, doctor."

    "Better plan? How about, don''t commit suicide by listening to a kid who thinks far too highly of himself?"

    "Owen. Can you make it happen?" Van Graif asked, ignoring the doctor''s outburst.

    "Maybe, maybe not ¡­ I''d give us a ninety-five percent chance ¡ª"

    "That''s great! Van Dijk cried.

    ¡°¡ªof dying." Owen finished, scowling at the private.

    "Do it." Van Graif said.

    "We''d need some form of a raft, a metal saw, some explosions, and our unit armed to the teeth."

    "Find what you need and get moving," Commandant Van Graif said.

    "I''m not going into that estate with them." Doctor Aarts huffed.

    "Then you get ready to fish us out once we come out of the city," Owen said.

    Peter looked to Julian, who was still troubled. "Julian," Peter said. "I understand your estate is your stewardship, but we''ll have to flood it."

    "It''s not my estate." He said. "It''s Nyamar''s."

    Great. Peter swallowed.

    "I''m sure he''ll be okay with it in this case," Julian said as he picked up on Peter''s unrest.

    "At least send us with the band." Doctor Aarts said bitterly.

    Julian shook his head. "The domestics and I can''t defeat an army of ghouls alone. If the commandant uses the band and fights with me, we might have a chance."

    Doctor Aarts sneered at Julian. "If this stupid plan is going to work, both parts must succeed."

    "Nyamar guide you," Julian said, deliberately infuriating the plump man.

    "Nyamar, my ass ¡ª"

    "Doctor," Director Van Den Hoek cut in. "We can''t afford to take the band. They''ll need it at Julleck."

    Commandant Van Graif waved a dismissive hand, calling for silence. The aged man''s slicked-backed white hair and trimmed beard showed signs of neglect, and fatigue was clear in his eyes.

    "I''ll be sending my best," he said. ¡°You are our last line of offense. Julian and I will be on defense.¡± He turned. "Captain Tobias Visser?"

    "Yes, sir." The young captain stood at attention.

    "What''s your cell number?"

    "Six, sir."

    "I''m dissolving Cell Six."

    Captain Visser stiffened.

    "In its place, I''m creating Cell One. Director Van Den Hoek, you will be the commander."

    "If I may, Commandant. I''ll fight with you. I''m in no condition to lead," the director said, looking disheveled with eyes still swollen from the pyre.

    The commandant considered for a moment and then nodded. "Very well. Captain Visser, I know this is unconventional, as Director Van Den Hoek outranks you, but you''re in charge. Van Den Hoek, I still need you to stay with them and give them any support they need. Owen Hartman, naturally, you''re head of operations. Vandersteen, Van Dijk, Van Seur, and Doctor Aarts, you''re all we have left to put into this fight."

    "I''m not a soldier!" Doctor Aarts protested loudly.

    "We''re all soldiers now." Director Van Graif insisted. "You''re now Cell One." The Commandant looked down thoughtfully. "Cell One. The Final Cell."

    Captain Visser stomped a foot down to accompany a crisp solute. The others did the same. Peter tried his best to follow, but his attempt was feeble.

    "Very well, Cell One. You''re dismissed."

    They broke and ran to make ready. Peter went to the wagon and pulled out three belts loaded with shells and two Slagter that would fire them. He also got a short officer''s sword that had a ring instead of a back cross guard near the handle. Peter examined the loop curiously and Director Van Den Hoek noticed.

    "It''s a bayonet," Director Van Den Hoek explained in a soft voice.

    Peter blushed, realizing he was going to misapply the weapon. He moved to put it back.

    "Use it if you like it," Van Den Hoek said. "It''ll double as a dagger, that''s what the handle''s for."

    Peter looked at the blade and decided he liked the weight in his hand. Much more wieldy and balanced than the short swords Rahashel''s ghouls carried. He buckled it to his belt.

    The weapons had more substance without his band. These were now his tools for victory. He felt a rush of dread as he remembered he was now as mortal as a fly. He took some small assurance that he wasn''t going alone.

    Peter had finished and saw that the others were still rushing to get ready, so he found a razor and a small mirror in the wagon and shaved for the first time in his life.

    He nicked his neck and behind the jaw several times, and it almost came as a surprise when the sting didn''t vanish after a few moments. He would own the nicks as proudly as any battle scar.

    Peter washed his face and pulled his long white hair back into a ponytail. The grizzled old face that started back from the pocket mirror almost looked a little bit younger ¡­ No, just a little less crazy.

    Peter threw out the dirty water and turned to find the commandant.

    Sebastian Van Graif wasn''t carrying the court band in his hands, so Peter assumed that he had it on his arm; Peter made sure to give him some distance.

    ¡°Commandant Van Graif,¡± he said, drawing the older man''s attention.

    "You have a new face," Van Graif noted. "I think you missed a spot."

    Peter blushed. "Where?" he asked.

    "It''s nothing." Van Graif said dismissively. "What can I do for you?"

    "After we get the tiles, I want to go after Iris."

    The Commandant''s eyes darkened slightly. "What if I say no?"

    Peter choked on his words, took a breath, and tried again. "Then I won''t go," Peter said. "Please let me."

    "I can''t afford to send you with any more men," Van Graif said.

    "I''ll go alone."

    "You won''t make it."

    "I have to try."

    Van Graif Nodded. "Then you have my blessing ¡ªafter you secure the tiles."

    Peter nodded gratefully at the commandant. "We will."

    "Good luck, Van Seur."

 24 The Spillway

    The teeth of the saw caught and sprayed metal flakes back and forth as Peter drew and pushed the worn handle. Having left right away, he was exhausted. They moved through the night and grabbed the supplies they needed from the deserted tomb-headquarters.

    Director Van Den Hoek didn¡¯t help with the loading. The funeral pyre was still smoldering, and he had already said his goodbye to his wife, so the captain had him wait out of sight. Luckily, the storage tomb was still stocked full of supplies. After grabbing timber, saws, charges, anchors, and all the other things Owen thought they would need, they headed to a storm drain outlet that let out of the city.They now found themselves hacking, cutting, and sawing through the metal grates that blocked the way deeper into the sewer.

    Owen studied a map he had marked and measured the distance to guess how far they had gotten. Peter sighed in annoyance at the blisters building on his hands. Owen always carried leather gloves, which provided some extra protection that Peter now greatly coveted.

    Peter found it funny that he learned to brave the pain of fatal wounds, but he found the stinging soreness of a blister infuriating.

    Captain Visser used their only plasma torch and made much faster progress with only a fraction of the effort. Peter finished with his bar, as did Captain Visser, and the grid of flattened bars came free from the wall.

    ¡°Good work,¡± Owen said, marking the map. ¡°We¡¯re almost there.¡±

    ¡°I hope so,¡± Peter said. ¡°Julleck might already be a smoldering heap.¡±

    No one responded to that, but Peter saw the men exchange troubled glances.

    ¡°Bring that here,¡± Owen said, pointing to the flat grid of bars they had just removed.

    Peter and Captain Visser looked at the operations officer in confusion. Though Captain Visser outranked Owen, he did what he was told during engineering operations.

    ¡°What are you going to do with that?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°We must ensure the path is clear for the escape raft,¡± Owen said. ¡°So we need to clear this stuff out of the way. If we snagged on one of these, our exit would end quickly.¡±

    Peter nodded as he understood. Surprisingly, the operations officer also deemed a broom important enough to bring; he had been sweeping sewage waste and garbage out of the tunnel and into the surrounding chambers.

    Peter and Captain Visser carried the flat grate bars to Owen, and he told them to hold the ends to a wall.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°Sealing of this entry. This is one of the more likely entry points for the enemy in the event of a compromised mission.¡±

    The captain smiled. ¡°You always were prepared for everything, weren¡¯t you, Owen.¡±

    Owen smiled dryly. ¡°You¡¯re alive today, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°How are you going to seal it?¡± Peter asked. ¡°We don¡¯t have a forge, and the grate will be too small now that we¡¯ve gutted it.¡±

    Owen went to the raft that carried their supplies and pulled out a bulky pistol with a spike sticking out of the barrel. ¡°We¡¯ll attach a few anchors,¡± Owen said. He stuck the spike on the metal and used a cloth to muffle the anchor gun as best he could. The anchor setter hissed like a slagter, the reverb of the confined space and the muffler cloth contended to control the noise.

    Peter was worried someone might hear the noise from above, but he couldn¡¯t suppress an excited grin as he saw the massive anchor spike punched through the metal and into the wall¡¯s stone.

    Owen shot several more anchors into the side and top of the grate of bars and mounted it into an intersecting tunnel. The bars were smaller than the opening, so it hung off the floor and the far wall by a few inches, but not enough for someone to squeeze through.

    ¡°You¡¯re opening our path and blocking theirs,¡± Peter marveled.

    ¡°Most of war is decided by what happens before the fighting starts.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll remember that,¡± Peter promised.

    ¡°Van Den Hoek, go back and anchor the other railing to these bigger tunnels on the right,¡± Owen said, handing off the anchor gun.

    ¡°You think that¡¯s where they would come from if they stormed us down here?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°In part,¡± Owen said. ¡°I¡¯m more worried that the current will be tempted to sweep us that way. I¡¯d hate to be taken off course and caught on a grate we didn¡¯t prepare for.¡±

    Van Den Hoek headed back, and the rest picked up the thick wooden sled that would double as a raft. They had to lift it over the jagged outline of where the bars were anchored initially, but once the water flowed, it should float clear of them.

    ¡®Should,¡¯Peter twitched. So many ifs and maybes.

    As they continued, their feet splashed in the slow-running two inches of water and sewage.They should be directly under Hill View, the estate should be directly over ¡­ There it was.

    The sewer widened into a much larger cavern, and a metal drain mounted directly into the stone ceiling glittered with reinforced steel. The egress vault looked like it belonged in a bank.

    Owen let out a low whistle. ¡°This changes things.¡±

    ¡°You can get in, can¡¯t you?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°The steward wasn¡¯t kidding when he said it was fortified.¡±

    ¡°But you can do it, right?¡±

    ¡°If I had five times the charges, maybe,¡± Owen said. ¡°Or we can see if we can dig any of it out before we set the charges. The metal is solid, but the stone is old. Either way, this will take longer than we thought.¡±

    ¡°We had better get started,¡± Peter said.

    ¡°We need to get some water flowing,¡± Owen said. ¡°I need to make sure the water will go how we want it to, and a bit of water will give our little escape craft some lift.¡±

    Feet sloshed in the water down the tunnel they came from, and Peter jumped and drew his Slagter. Several dark tunnels around them gapped threateningly, any of them potentially concealing ghouls. Peter held his weapon at the low, ready as Van Den Hoek¡¯s shape materialized out of the darkness.

    The young director cocked an eyebrow at Peter and turned to Owen. ¡°More anchors?¡±

    The operations officer shrugged his large duffle bag off his shoulder and handed it to the young director.

    ¡°I appreciate your vigilance, but please don¡¯t shoot any of your teammates,¡± Owen said to Peter. ¡°Let¡¯s see what we can do about these spillway doors,¡± Owen suggested, and Peter nodded.

    Making it to the spillway doors was much quicker for them as they could skip the grates using maintenance hatches they could walk through. It wouldn¡¯t have been big enough to allow the raft, but they quickly made it there. That was comparative. The walk to arrive was still several minutes, and the longer it went, the less force they would have to carry them along once the water started flowing.

    The big metal door had a massive twenty-nine painted on it in faded yellow.

    ¡°This should be directly under this fishing dock,¡± Owen said, tapping the map.

    Another ¡®should,¡¯ Peter realized with discomfort. Every ¡®should¡¯ presented a severe risk to the mission.

    ¡°Let¡¯s open her up and see how she flows.¡±

    The spillway opened using a giant rusted wheel affixed next to it.

    Peter and Van Dijk strained against the heavy valve wheel. With a horrible screech of rusted, underused metal, the spillway opened up ever so slightly. Peter expected to hear the roar of relieved pressure, but to his dismay, only a mild rush followed by a trickle met his ears.

    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°Oh no,¡± Owen said, and Peter¡¯s heart sank as he perceived the plan collapsing.

    They stopped, but the word from Owen to keep going sent them spinning until it locked into place.

    Peter dropped next to Owen to get a better view. The spillway door was opened all the way, but several yards down, there was another spillway door; several small jets of water spilled through the crack as a promise of what lay on the other side. Peter searched for the release wheel, but he couldn¡¯t find it.

    ¡°It won¡¯t work,¡± he realized to his dismay. ¡°I didn¡¯t know there would be another door.¡±

    Owen looked at Peter with an amused light in his eyes. ¡°If you always wait for things to go your way, you¡¯ll never get to the fight.¡±

    ¡°But how can we get through it?¡± Peter asked. ¡°You need all the charges for the drain, right?¡±

    Owen frowned. ¡°Not necessarily, but maybe.¡±

    ¡°Then we¡¯ll have to see what it takes to blow the drain before we try here.¡±

    Owen chuckled. ¡°Peter, It¡¯s my job to identify the problems in the plan and then find a way around them. That¡¯s what it means to be an operations officer.¡±

    Peter caught the hint and shut up.

    ¡°The release valve will be on the other side.¡±

    Van Dijk turned pale. ¡°So that means it will be underwater ¡­ in the river!¡±

    Owen grinned ruefully. ¡°Van Dijk, remember the other day when you bragged to everyone about how good you were at swimming?

    Van Dijk¡¯s pale face shifted green, and he shook his head, but Owen nodded with a smile.

    Van Dijk and Isabella hurried across the streets of Stalpia. The sun was rising, but it was starting to slip behind Din, so it was a relatively dark morning. Stalpia had some pinkish flickering light borrowed from atmostorm, which cackled impossibly far away where the clouds didn¡¯t reach, and the atmospheres of the three planets collided. The atmostorm that lashed the planets together was almost directly overhead today.

    The streets were noticeably empty, but then again, it was early.

    The two privates passed several ghouls, but with his hand jammed into his pocket, Van Dijk looked like any other enforcer.

    They hurried east, having come to the streets through a manhole already near Vet River; they heard the rushing water nearby.

    Isabella and Van Dijk left their coats and cloaks underneath in the sewers. They would only get in the way when swimming, and dry clothes would help them mitigate hypothermia when they surfaced.

    The pair passed another pair of dormant ghouls. Van Dijk wondered why statuesque mummies spent so much time inactive. The ability to move freely made Can Dijk feel like he was walking into a trap.

    The docks appeared around the corner. Vet River moved swiftly but was known for being unnaturally clean and impossibly warm. It was at least a mile wide, the shores on the other side being the Calacray coast. Hundreds of barges were docked in port. While Court Rahashel was waging war with Court Rasminfrey in Calacray, the harbor had been in constant motion, shipping out ghouls by the boatload day and night. Now that Rasminfrey was dead and Calacray was thoroughly raised, there was no longer a need to ship ghouls across the river.

    Isabella turned north, but Van Dijk hurried to catch up with her. ¡°What are you doing?¡± Van Dijk hissed. ¡°Owen said that the spillway would be directly under pier twenty-nine and that the docks and the spillways line up.¡±

    ¡°You ensured everyone understood that you¡¯re an excellent swimmer, Van Dijk,¡± Isabella said. ¡°But unless you¡¯re ready to fight the current, I recommend we go upstream. Owen said it was deep.¡±

    They continued past dock thirty and stopped at thirty-one.

    Isabella grabbed a rope and a small anchor that a fishing ship would use to bolt to the beach when grounding itself. It wasn¡¯t horribly big, but it was satisfyingly heavy. Isabella wasn¡¯t very large herself.

    Van Dijk caught on and looped his rope through two of the same anchors discarded in a cluttered stack. They were heavy. When he noticed Isabella was looking at him, he added a third one, hiding the obvious strain on his face poorly.

    Isabella shook her head with a smile before starting down the dock.

    The sound of dry feet caused Van Dijk to turn around and let out an involuntary yelp. He clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his outburst.

    Two sentinels charged the privates with short swords drawn. Van Dijk looked down at his hands, which he still used to cover his face. It was his hand with four fingers, but he wore a glove with a stuffed ring finger. Either the ghouls saw through the farce, or an overseer must have mobilized them.

    ¡°Dive!¡± Isabella cried. She took several bounding steps down the wooden dock and threw herself in the water, hugging the anchor to her chest.

    The ghouls rushed at Van Dijk, who tried to follow in Isabella¡¯s footsteps, but his weights on the rope slowed him down. Van Dijk calculated quickly, realized he wouldn¡¯t make it, and screamed as he dropped the weights. Free of his burden, he ran.

    As he ran, he heard them gaining on him. The realization that if he got any further, he would pass more ghouls, which would only leave him trapped in the end, struck him.

    He gasped as he saw the captain¡¯s face in his mind¡¯s eye, reprimanding him after the failed first tile extraction.

    ¡°What were you doing, Van Dijk? Is this how you act as a soldier? Men died today, men that you could have saved!¡±

    Neils clenched his jaw tight, and his breath palpitated in his chest. Salty tears stung the corners of his eyes as he considered how much he loathed himself. Twisted ghoul faces snarled on the other side of his mind.

    Just the previous night, he held a court band. What if he had put it on? What if he was unkillable? Why did he give it back to Van Seur?

    Literal nightmares programmed to destroy hunted him like a rabbit. His blood ran hot and cold as rage and fear intermixed in his veins. So what if he could die? ghouls could be destroyed. He¡¯d be damned before he proved to the captain right.

    Something primal cracked inside Van Dijk, and he rebounded on the ghouls behind him. The private pulled out a long, thin bayonet dagger and screamed as he charged the ghouls. If he could slow them down, Isabella could finish the mission, and he wouldn¡¯t be a coward.

    The first ghoul struck forcefully, and he parried as he was trained; that conditioning moved him on, and he plunged his blade into its heart. Those horrible black eyes flashed with purple reflected light before they went blank, and the creature collapsed, with a puff of dark smoke rising off its head and shoulders.

    Van Dijk was so startled by what he had done that he almost failed to bring his mind back to the fight before deflecting the second one. By some stupid luck, his blade landed on the ghoul¡¯s fingers, and four of its fingers dropped to the ground along with its short sword. Van Dijk laughed triumphantly as he threw his shoulder into the corpse¡¯s chest and lifted it off the ground. It was lighter than he expected.

    The mummified ghouls clawed and thrashed at him, but he grinned victoriously as he threw it over a rail and into the water. The ghoul went under with a splash. It clawed at the water but slowly started to sink. It was a dry creature but didn¡¯t hold air in its lungs, so as the water set in, it washed downriver under the surface.

    Van Dijk Looked at his hands in shock. Had he really done that? He pumped a triumphant fist.

    ¡°Yes!¡± he cried, euphoric.

    A cobblestone near him cracked as chips shot in the air. The sound of the gunshot followed a fraction of a second later. Van Dijk cried and threw himself into the water as several enforcers who had caught sight of him opened fire.

    Van Dijk hit the water in a smooth dive. Fortunately, he hadn¡¯t lied when he had boasted about his ability to swim. Unfortunately, the warmth of the Vet River was comparable to that of the other rivers. It was not warm by any sane man¡¯s standards at this time of year. Van Dijk failed to ignore the initial shock of the icy water and stroke, after powerful stroke, he made his way to the bottom, weaving in and out of submerged dock timbers.

    Van Dijk¡¯s eyes struggled to perceive through the clear water in the low light. He swam toward the retention wall the docs were built on and saw the spillways constructed at the bottom. He passed spillway thirty as his lungs tightened.

    He saw Isabella¡¯s small figure struggling with a thick wheel mounted next to the door with a large twenty-nine painted onto it. He kicked and darted down to her. He grabbed the wheel, and she turned to him in surprise.

    When Isabella saw him, a flicker of relief crossed her eyes, but Van Dijk also recognized the spark of panic that lingered. She was out of oxygen.

    Van Dijk noticed that she had managed to open the spillway about six inches. He could already feel the water¡¯s vacuum pull, tugging at them as the river¡¯s pressure pushed water into the sewers.

    Isabella looked up at the surface with alarm; she needed air.

    Van Dijk grabbed her roughly by the arm, stealing her attention. He pointed to her and then to the gap under the spillway.

    She nodded, understanding their silent conversation. Van Dijk hauled at the wheel, turning it and raising it inches at a time. He planted his heels against the wall and pushed against it to mimic his weight underwater.

    Isabella swam to the opening and disappeared as she was sucked in. Van Dijk felt his own mind panic as, turn after turn, he hoisted the door further up and opened it. He realized that air would be the least of his problems if he couldn¡¯t open it enough and Owen sent him back out to finish the job.

    The river¡¯s current fought against the suck of the spillway, opposing forces pulling Van Dijk in a disorienting contest. The private grunted in exertion and anciently inhaled a tiny spike of water behind the bubbles that escaped his lips. His throat constricted, and his nose burned. So he fought the current, which pulled him into the widening opening. He started to cling to the wheel, not just to open it but to fight the suck of the spillway as well. He looked up at the feathered light at the surface, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

    A little more.

    The circular spillway door had opened three feet. Van Dijk strained as he fought the submerged wheel, getting as much out of each turn as possible. Three and a half ¡­ four feet.

    His feet were pulled away and down towards the spillway opening. He gripped the wheel, flapping like a flag in the wind. The water¡¯s draw was too strong now. He let go of the wheel and was sucked into the sewer. He spun, and then he broke the water and gagged for breath.

    A wrinkled elderly hand grabbed his flailing arm and pulled him to the side of the maintenance ramp and out of the roaring surge of water that flooded the sewer.

    Van Seur grinned down at him. Now that he had shaved his face and pulled back his hair, Van Dijk could better see the former court¡¯s hidden youth.

    Van Seur had an unstable wildness to his eye, which paired oddly with his enthusiastic innocence. The nine-fingered man seemed to have shed an unseen weight and was eager to be part of a team. Van Seur was old and lean. With no shirt and his coat shredded, Van Dijk could see Van Seur¡¯s very defined body in contrast to his twiggy proportions when they found him.

    Van Dijk coughed and gasped for air but found his lungs and lay on the maintenance ramp as he caught his breath.

    Isabella shivered as she sat with Owen¡¯s cloak wrapped tightly around her.

    ¡°You did it!¡± Van Seur said, his face split by a boyish grin. ¡°You actually did it.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t sound too surprised,¡± Van Dijk warned.

    Owen stepped into Van Dijk¡¯s view but looked upside-down in Van Dijk¡¯s perspective.

    ¡°Oh, hey, Owen.¡±

    Owen chewed on a new toothpick.

    ¡°Van Dijk,¡± Owen nodded. ¡°You still alive?¡±

    Why did he have to say it like he was disappointed?

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Van Dijk muttered.

    Owen smiled. ¡°Nice.¡±

 25 Julleck

    Julian sighed in relief as a tall figure approached them. "The Commandant will see you now," the soldier said, as he ushered Van Graif and Julian into the makeshift office just behind the wall. Calling it a wall was generous; the barrier was little more than a wide ditch with a barricade. Julian had sent a summons to gather all of the martially adjacent Nyamarian domestics, but now they had to coordinate with the city garrison commandant.

    "Julian Gerrets, high steward of The House of Nyamar, and Commandant Van Graif of Nine Fingers."

    The local garrison commandant greeted them as he waved them in. He was short, stout, and had an exceptionally bushy mustache. He wore an officer''s saber buckled on his side.

    "Commandant De Zwart," Van Graif said as he offered a crisp salute. Julian followed suit, and De Zwart responded in kind. None of the three men represented the same military faction, but they were all soldiers to their core and recognized each other as such.

    "I couldn''t be happier to see you, Van Graif," De Zwart chuckled nervously. "I''m sure you''re aware of our situation? Our scouts say Court Rahashel''s ghouls are just over the ridge. They''ll be upon us in hours." Then his eyes flickered to Julian. "I didn''t know that the House was sponsoring Nine Fingers."

    Julian set his jaw. He could see this man''s intent swirling inside him; his Iola swirled lazily behind his eyes in his golden anima sequence. This man was no friend to the House.

    Sebastian Van Graif saw Julian stiffen and stepped in. "I wish Magistrate Rovers agreed to help Nine Fingers when we first went on the offensive. The House has paid its due for our survival. Where were you?"

    It was Julian''s turn to notice Sebastian''s dark tone.

    He nodded inwardly with approval. Though not technically part of the same organization, the high steward and the commandant shared a stance on opposing the courts.

    De Zwart chuckled nervously again. "Yes, well, you know how magistrates are," he said dismissively. "Always afraid to give up power ¡ª"

    "And all too ready to accept it when it comes," Sebastian agreed tersely.

    "But if it were up to me, we would have joined you when the courts came. You know that, don''t you, Sebastian? But it wasn''t my choice; I serve Magistrate Rovers."

    Julian noticed De Zwart used the commandant''s first name to pass himself as the commandant''s friend.

    "You serve," the commandant emphasized. "What exactly have you done?"

    De Zwart opened his mouth to defend himself, but Van Graif waved the conversation aside.

    "We don''t have time for this; what''s your situation?"

    "Right," De Zwart nodded, clearly relieved to get down to business. "We''re currently trying a mass evacuation to Macbare, but it''s a mess."

    "Why didn''t you evacuate last week when I warned you an attack was coming?"

    De Zwart chuckled nervously. "Magistrate Rovers ordered ¡ª¡±

    "Where is Rovers?" Sebastian demanded.

    De Zwart turned pale. "He fled."

    "Then he¡¯s a traitor," Sebastian growled. "How many soldiers do you have?"

    De Zwart paused, beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. "One hundred fifty," he said.

    "What?" Sebastian roared.

    Julian saw Van Graif itch to do something drastic, like flip a table, but the older man doused his rage, settling to simply tower over the shorter commandant. Van Graif glowered down at De Zwart, and Julian almost stepped away from Van Graif himself. He wondered if the commandant''s court band hidden under his sleeve bolstered his presence. The commandant didn''t seem to have problems passively leeching those around him.

    "Most of our garrison deserted when the evacuation call came," De Zwart whimpered. "But now that you''re here, we have a chance, right?"

    Sebastian glared at De Zwart darkly.

    "You ¡­ you came to help, right?"

    "Yes."

    "Well, great!" De Zwart chuckled nervously. "Tell your men to join mine on the wall and ¡ª"

    "It''s just us," Julian broke in, aware that he bore the bad news this time.

    "Just you?" De Zwart moaned. "Then we must retreat, abandon the city!"

    Sebastian Van Graif reached across the table, grabbed the smaller commandant by the lapel of his uniform, and hauled him across the table, bringing the despairing man''s eyes inches from his.

    The single guard in the room cried out and drew his pistol, but Julian drew from his Waarheid and felt it burn in his bones as he grabbed the barrel of the weapon, holding it low. The guard cried out again as he struggled against Julian''s casual, inhuman strength. The steward''s arm might as well have been made of granite.

    ¡°Listen to me, De Zwart! You are Nosmeria''s first and last defense. If we fall, they will drive us until no one is left. If you surrender now, everything else will also fall!"

    The pudgy man trembled and cried out in protest. Van Graif gave him a casual shove, sending De Zwart back into his chair. The chair rocked back and teetered on its back legs before slamming back down.

    Julian let go of the guard''s weapon, and the guard raised the pistol on Julian. His eyes darted to his commandant inquiringly, waiting for his next orders.

    "Put your weapon down," Sebastian growled at the youthful guard, and the guard paled before jamming it back into his holster.

    De Zwart rubbed his neck and scowled at Sebastian. "It looks like I''m not the one in command, am I?"

    "No," Van Graif agreed. ¡°We will try to hold Court Rahashel¡¯s forces off just past cannon range, blasting anything that gets past us; we just need to buy time."

    "What will that do in the end?" De Zwart demanded.

    Sebastian smiled. "Everything. My offensive team will do the rest."

    "So you do have more men?"

    "Yes, but they''re attacking Stalpia."

    De Zwart let out a low whistle. "You really are crazy, aren''t you, Van Graif?"

    Van Graif finally chuckled. "No, I just have a good team."

    A messenger burst into the room. "We''ve spotted ghouls from the watchtower! Hundreds of them!"

    "We''re going to need to borrow some horses," Sebastian said.

    ¡°What for?¡± De Zwart demanded.

    "We''re going to meet the enemy."

    Julian rode abreast with Commandant Van Graif until they crossed the ridge to see Court Rahashel''s army spread in their ranks. Julian''s breath caught in his throat as he counted over five hundred ghouls and at least ten liches, including a few familiar faces.

    Horus, the falcon-headed spear-wielding lich, was no doubt the general of the army. Bastet was there, as was Sobek. Surprisingly, Anubis wasn''t among them. Julian was led to believe Anubis was one of their most capable fighters.

    "Even as high steward and a court, we probably won''t survive," Julian announced resignedly. He searched Van Graif''s anima sequence for Court light but saw none. Van Graif''s Iola shielded his metaphysical genes from the seer''s eyes. Unless the commandant agreed to have Julian search him or he tried to deliberately harm Julian somehow, all the steward could see was the vague golden barrier, glinting off the commandant''s eyes.

    "Don''t sell the others short. Remember, we''re just stalling."

    "You think they can do it?" Julian asked.

    "Apparently, I have enough faith to bet my life on it," Van Graif pointed out.

    Julian noticed a series of purple flashes from among the enemy as liches walked up and down the still ranks. "What''s going on?" he asked.

    Van Graif drew a collapsible telescope from his bags and took a peak. "It looks like they''re topping them off with time." He offered the optic to Julian, who gladly accepted.

    It appeared as if they were leeching the ghouls, but rather than drawing the violet light from them, they were putting it into them. Julian found it curious that only domestics trained to perceive Waarheid manipulation could see it. In contrast, all people seemed to see when court fuel was being wielded.

    When a lich supposedly ran dry, they held out a hand, and with a flash of purple fire, several black, glassy tiles would appear in their hand. They would leech the tiles and siphon the charge back into their soldiers.

    "Why are they doing it manually? I thought the ghouls could pull their life force directly from the time vault?"

    "Maybe they need the liches to fuel them because they''re so far out of Stalpia?" Van Graif suggested.

    "It looks like the liches are also here to command them," Julian figured. "Rahashel is not omniscient and has limits, which means it¡¯s our job to kill the liches and knock out their command and fuel." He drew the Druk from his belt. The athanium blade was smooth and had a mirror-like sheen. It wasn''t sharp, but it was alive and would dig into anyone he stuck it into.

    "What''s that?" the commandant asked.

    Julian smiled humorlessly. "It''s a weapon, apparently designed to kill courts. I dug it out of Peter. Let''s see how well liches fare against it."

    Julian focused and placed a Waarheid clamp on the incentiviser.

    A clamp was immaterial. Van Graif probably couldn''t see the shimmer on the weapon as the clamp fuzed with the Incentiviser.

    Julian could throw Waarheid clamps to grab and pull objects. However, he wasn''t very good at juggling them. He only had two, and if he tried to juggle both of them, he would get confused and lose track of them. Hunter Maid Ava with her seven clamps could expertly juggle as many as five. Julian took a slow breath. He recalled her falling to Bastet''s sickle at the estate steps. One of the first casualties in a war they hadn''t declared yet.

    He understood how valuable this weapon would be to them in this fight, so he committed his first clamp. He needed to keep his second clamp for later in the fight. He turned to Van Graif; the commandant couldn''t see anyone''s Iola, Waarheid, or surfing energy because his inner eyes were closed.

    "It seems you have good control of the court band," Julian said. "You''re not leeching everything unintentionally as Peter did."

    If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    The commandant nodded. "As far as we can tell, a court needs to synchronize with the Bedorven to fully access its power," he said. "When this happens, they awaken a hunger for time within them. I obviously haven''t synched yet, but I imagine I will if I''m killed. Be careful around me when it happens."

    Julian couldn''t see the band because of Sebastian''s long coat, but he could imagine the power the commandant was feeling.

    I don''t want you to get hurt, Julian, a familiar maternal voice said in a worried tone. You don''t have very much veralumite left.

    Julian''s hand instinctively drifted to his final pouch. He had taken most of his larger veralumite stones on their first attack on the time vault. This bag held the last remains of what he had brought with him to Nine Fingers. They were primarily small pebbles and dust of glowing green crystal.

    Many meters off, a glass wand broke the air, cutting a ripple in the veil of reality. The swell and tear crackled and buzzed like ethereal hornets. Their horses whinnied in unease at the unnatural occurrence.

    "Yours?" Van Graif asked as he clutched the hilt of his saber.

    "Mine," Julian affirmed as domestics shimmied through the tear sideways. Passing through a breach without a jig on either side was very dangerous as one could easily amputate a part of their body by brushing the edge of the planar slit.

    A dozen and a half valets, maids, and a pair of butlers expertly and cautiously sidestepped through the breach, each dressed in uniforms according to their position. They formed a line with hands clasped before them, and heads bowed before Julian.

    "High steward," one of the butlers said.

    Julian stared at the Rahashelian force, his finger tapping his saddle. How could he know this was Nyamar''s will and not his own prejudice?

    Strength, Julian. If you''re wrong, we''ll be wrong together, she assured him.

    Julian''s tapping finger stopped, and then he swung off his horse. "Domestics of Julleck, come look at this." He beckoned them over at the ridge.

    Down below, Horus stood in the middle of his army and barked something to his troops in an unknown language. The ghouls stood still as statues.

    "Some people within the House are confused about our role in the court war. They speak of stewardships that don''t account for these outsiders; a Nyamarian''s duty is to his stewardship, and no stewardship mentions the courts."

    Julian studied his assembled staff and read uncertainty on several of their faces.

    "The House of Nyamar is more than the estates," Julian declared. The House and our stewardship include the entire Tri-Terra, especially Boslic."

    In the field below, Horus fished out a black glass orb with court script pulsing in the light. In a rare display, sunlight bathed the field below. The bird-headed lich held the orb aloft and hollered something like a ritualistic prayer.

    "Our stewardship is to stop the Ataggin¡¯s resurgence, but it''s also to the people who possess these worlds." Julian turned to his domestics and noticed the commandant, brow furrowed studiously watching him.

    "Regardless of your stewardship, whether you''re a footman, a gardener, or a kitchen maid," Julian pointed fiercely at the masses of ghouls, "What do we do when a burglar breaks into the Master''s House?

    "Drive them out!" a hunter-maid cried. The maid was in her late forties; her black skirt and white apron held elements of light armor. Tears of rage and joy building in her eyes told of personal loss on Court Rahashel''s account. Many of the domestics were waiting for these words.

    "Domestics!" Julian cried, holding up an open palm, "We have always had this stewardship. Perhaps our holy writ never explicitly mentioned the courts, but their very presence is a cancer in this world. Drive them out!"

    "Drive them out!" the maid and a butler both cried. The maid relaxed as she attuned herself too surfing waves, and a pair of valets took deep, meditative breaths, their waarheid building inside them. A few were pale with fear, but most of the staff stood ready to die, facing impossible odds.

    "Go," Julian dismissed. "Spread the word to every estate. We have a new directive."

    "Don''t send us away. Let us fight!" the hunter-maid begged.

    "Are you kidding me? Go get as many others as you can, then get back here and save my ass."

    "What about you?"

    "I''ll stall them. You better not let me die."

    One of the butlers drew a breach wand and cut a new tear in the air. The domestics bowed their heads and filed through it, some with relief, others in disappointment.

    Horus shrieked a command, and a conduit of purple light shot from the glass orb and into the sky.

    A wailing screech washed across the field and hit the two men like a gust of wind. The cry was a chorus of souls moaning for relief; the sound slithered under their skin. Both horses

    [ Image: Ch 25.png ]

    wined and shielded back several steps. Julian felt his flesh crawl and his hair stand straight.

    The pillar of light swirled and spiraled. At a distance, it looked like a solid shaft of light, but Julian knew that if he were closer, he would be able to see that it was, in fact, millions of tiny lights dancing through the air. He also had a sinking suspicion that the lights would be characters and glyphs from the strange Court language that marked the band.

    Impossible.

    Julian grimaced. Apparently not.

    What is it?

    I don''t know, he admitted.

    Looking closer, Julian saw Horus had put the orb down. The Falcon-headed lich seemed to rearrange the tiny lights and waved by pointing to and moving them with hand gestures. He directed thousands at a time like a conductor before an orchestra with hand gestures.

    "No way," Julian gasped over the wail of the exposed program.

    "What are they doing?" Van Graif asked.

    "I think they''re reprogramming the ghouls. The language is different. I''ve never seen anything on this scope."

    "What does that mean?"

    Julian looked at the commandant sympathetically. Of course, he didn''t understand Nyamarian terminology. "I think they''re changing the ghoul''s functions."

    The swirling lights flashed and exploded, rippling over the ranks of ghouls in a massive wave. The light and writing worked its way into the mummified corpses.

    The light dissipated, and an eerie silence took hold of the field.

    The men looked at each other. There was no noticeable change in the silent sentinels.

    Van Graif chuckled nervously. "What ¡ª"

    The ghouls roared and snapped with five hundred bestial voices.

    "They''ve gone feral!" Van Graif cried as the horses whined in unrest.

    Julian looked at them again through the telescope. Rather than standing still as statues, they snarled and twitched, itching to attack. It seemed they were held back only by the mental leashes of the will of each lich.

    ¡°I don¡¯t like our odds,¡± Van Graif panicked over the roar of the enemy army.

    "Leave the liches to me," Julian said. "Leech as many ghouls as you can."

    The commandant drew his officer''s sword with the metallic ring of metal-on-metal.

    Julian dismounted, slapped his horse on its rump, and sent it galloping back to the city. No need for the creature to die.

    They had made the mistake of allowing the liches to prepare their forces, but in doing so, they had time to prepare themselves.

    Julian pulled his pouch from his belt and opened it. A shallow green radiance emitted from the opening. He dumped his final handful of glowing pebbles and dust, which shone with a light green light, into his palm.

    Van Graif raised an eyebrow in question.

    "Veralumite, seer stone, truth atone, condensed light or light ice. It has many names," he said before the commandant could ask.

    "What does it do?"

    "It''ll fuel my body. I must be careful; this is the last of what I have."

    "Is it going to be enough?"

    "No," Julian replied grimly.

    The stones melted in his hands and became a liquid. The luminescent fluid ran down his forearms and worked its way into his skin. He instantly felt the vibrations in his bones; they were warm and carried a sense of substance he had never found anywhere else. His eyes lit up with faint green light as he assimilated the Waarheid.

    Horus cried something that was lost to distance, and the ghouls roared in agreement.

    "Nyamar, be with us," Julian muttered. "And may he be with the others."

    Van Graif nodded in agreement.

    The block of ghouls lurched as they were released by an unspoken command.

    The ranks dissolved, the formation devolving into a stampede. The liches also charged and pointed at the two of them eagerly.

    Julian''s gut tightened as the ground trembled and vibrated with the force of the oncoming horde. The ghouls broke the distance at an astonishing pace. Julian drew the broad and heavy falchion from its sheath at his belt. Though shorter than the commandant''s officer''s, the heavy blade was a great deal better at hacking and lacked any stabbing point.

    He had hidden his other sword behind. It was a Nyamarian artifact, and he was already risking too much as it was.

    Julian! Please run!

    Not yet. Julian set his jaw. I won''t let them get you, but I can''t abandon the others.

    You know what they''ll do to us! I won''t let them kill you, like they murdered your father.

    Julian nodded to himself and to her. He was beginning to understand what might happen.

    "We''re not going to be able to hold them off at all," Sebastian realized.

    "Not the ghouls." Julian realized, "Let''s try to distract the liches and leave the pawns without leadership."

    "I don''t think they need leadership," Sebastian said as the charging mass closed the distance and thundered up the hill. "In a feral state, they''ll rip anything apart with a heartbeat."

    Julian didn''t get a chance to respond; the line of snarling beasts crashed into them.

    Julian cried out as he clapped his hands together. When they made contact, they cracked like thunder, and a wave threw his hands apart. He didn''t try to pressurize the wave but let the unfocused thunderclap plow through ghouls to either side like a wedge.

    Ghouls didn''t have an Iola. They were simply nonliving matter, so they were instantly affected. That was fortunate for him. Unfortunately, he couldn''t pull additional Waarheid from the ghouls, as they had none. He had to get to the liches as fast as possible.

    He clapped his hands together and launched five quick pressurized pulses through a gap in his hands. The pulses shot out like thin green-tinted luminescent beams as thin as a wire.

    The first one cut a pair of ghouls in half. Others cut deep swaths into others, and the last punched through four ghouls lined up.

    The attack only destroyed two hearts. The two ghouls cut in half and crawled toward Julian hand over hand, teeth barred. What resilient monsters.

    Julian''s attack cost him dearly. He felt his Waarheid supplies drain in half.

    Julian drew his blade and ignited the Waarheid directly into his body. Waarheid-fueled chops cleaved the ghouls into pieces. As he lunged at them, he shot through them as a blur, hacking and cleaving them to pieces.

    Waarheid body enforcement was known as slamming and burning through Waarheid dangerously fast. Julian risked the expenditure and carved a chunk out of their ranks, sending almost two dozen flailing and falling. He hadn''t actually killed many of them but disabled them by cutting off anything that could be dangerous. Several mummified corpses twitched or writhed in the animalistic rage, but without limbs, they were mostly harmless.

    He turned to check on the commandant.

    Van Graif was struggling, red in the face. He contended with four ghouls, moving his blade in quick chopping strikes and cutting them down one by one.

    "Leech them!" Julian shouted.

    "I can''t!" the commandant returned through his exertion. "I''m not synching with the Bedorven."

    Then Julian saw blood dripping off of his hand. Not dark and dense undead blood, but red living, mortal blood.

    Julian threw his second clamp, which seized a spear, briefly shimmering as it fused with it. A Waarheid clamp actually fused with an object''s soul. However, when moving something''s soul, the physical body rushed to follow. He pulled the clamp, which pulled the spear''s metaphysical body, and its physical form jumped after it. He could see the translucent spear speeding at him, the actual wood flying inches behind it with a slight delay.

    Julian caught the spear and hurled it at one of the ghouls, fighting the commandant in time to spin and hack through another ghoul. With Julian''s help, the commandant cut down the other three, panting through his effort.

    "Your blood," Julian cried as he pointed. "Are you healing?"

    The commandant shook his head.

    Julian felt a stab of fear. The court band wasn''t working for the commandant, and if he fell, the enemy would get their hands on the weapon.

    "Get back to the city!" He cried, and the commandant nodded, stabbing a passing ghoul in the heart and killing it as he spun and joined the stampede. The commandant was a more than capable soldier but on a field of supernatural fighters, he was just a man.

    A spear rammed into Julian''s back, and the shaft shattered as it met the resistance of Waarheid''s hardened flesh. The tip didn''t puncture his skin, but plenty of his Waarheid drained as it deflected the blow.

    Julian spun and delivered a return slash right across Horus'' chest.

    The lich had charged him when he was distracted by the commandant.

    Horus cursed as he fell back with his broken weapon in hand. He threw the remains of his spear to the side, and with a flash of purple fire, a new one dropped into his hand in its place.

    Bastet gracefully stepped beside him, her cat eyes twinkling flirtatiously, and Sobek grunted as he brandished his gold-headed club.

    "Well, aren''t you so full of surprises, priest?" Horus demanded in his scratchy and youthful voice.

    Julian raised his guard, and other liches ran past him, but he had to deal with these three first. Behind him, the shriek of cannon fire told him that the ghouls had reached the city''s outskirts.

    "Sekhmet! Get your ghouls behind that artillery!" Horus cried, and in the distance, a Lion-headed woman who wore more practical war armor than Bastet nodded. She had a large vulture perched on her shoulder.

    The bird looked partially decayed and had purple writing on its wings.

    She pointed, and the rotting bird launched into the air toward Julleck.

    Horus turned back to Julian with what almost looked like a smile on his bird face. "Are you ready for round two?"

    "Actually, yes!" Julian struck at the bird-headed lich, who parried. Julian whipped the Incentiviser out of its concealment and quickly plunged it into Horus'' abdomen. Once the athanium blade found flesh, it animated and dug deeper.

    Horus screamed and dropped his spear as his flesh healed over. Purple smoke bellowed off the lich as he burned away his court light, healing the wounds. The lich dropped his spear and cupped his hands together; with another purple flash of fire, a dozen tiles appeared in his hands, and the lich leeched them, drawing the wispy light to refuel his stores.

    "You can pull your tiles directly from the vault?" Julian realized. "It doesn''t matter. You''ll drain the vault dry before you get that thing out and die!"

    "Damn you, priest!" Horus shrieked as he threw away the spent tiles and summoned some more. The smoke continued to bellow off of Horus as he burned through his court light to repair the damage.

    "I wondered how a lich could fare against a weapon designed for a court?" Julian sneered as he brought up his falchion. "I''ve seen the results of that cruel weapon. There is a way out. Stop healing, take the coward''s route, and die!"

    "Bastet, get it out!" Horus bellowed, and the cat woman knocked him over and cut into him with her sickle.

    Julian slammed into her and cut across her exposed arm.

    "You don''t think I''ll let you do that?" He demanded.

    Her arm smoked, and it was suddenly fine.

    Julian ducked out of the path of Sobek''s club and reposted, only to be blocked. The giant wielded the club like it was a twig.

    "You people applied the Druk on a child!" Julian roared. "I think it''s only fitting that it''s turned on the monsters who used it!"

    Horus dropped more spent tiles and summoned another handful. If the lich could still conjure tiles, it must mean the offensive team hadn''t stolen them yet.

    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bright purple fire explode, engulfing the lion-headed lich and fifty ghouls. They were gone as soon as the fire died, and not a single part of the ground was scourged.

    "What was that?" Julian cried out, shaken by the use of alien power.

    Bastet smiled. "Sekhmet jumped right into the city." Her feline face twisted in a mocking grin. "The natives will be overrun."

 26 Happy Print

    Morris De Wolf, a master interrogator, strategically positioned himself on the building adjacent to Happy Print. He had misled Van Seur into believing it was called Frin''s Press, a simple ploy to extract the location of the print shop. The best interrogations, he knew, didn''t happen under fear of retaliation or in a controlled environment. They occurred when the source was unaware intel was being collected from them.

    Finding the print shop was easy. Happy Print was an ironically cheery name for such a crooked and dark place, but that was true of all Stalpia now.

    He, Benedict, and Sky had discreetly circled the area beforehand, noting guards, marking exits, and stashing gear. They planned at least five contingency escape routes and dismissed twice as many unsuitable alternatives.

    Four sentinels surrounded the outside. Anubis himself waited in the printing loft along with the girl. She was young, maybe in her late teens. Morris was surprised by that. He had expected her to be an old crop. Apparently, her captors had removed the crop ring and made her youthful again. Morris didn''t know that was possible. The target now couldn''t be older than twenty. Even from the building next door, Morris heard her swearing at Anubis and making unholy promises about what she would do to his corpse. That made him crack a smile.

    Morris was surprised Anubis wasn''t joining the war party that had left the Stalpia for Julleck. But then again, the lich must have had great faith that Van Seur would come for his friend.

    Morris checked his watch. Two minutes. He was already in position. He made an uncomfortably tight fist, held it for several seconds, opened his hand wide, and took a deep breath. His little ritual helped him focus through the adrenaline, which still accompanied Morris in his operations. As an amateur, he had mistakenly thought he could train the adrenaline away. That was before he realized how addictive it could be.

    Morris was an intelligence agent and a member of the king''s cell before Rahashel toppled the Nosmerian government. When the courts killed the king and seized Stalpia, the King¡¯s Cell considered themselves effectively relieved of duty. Their oath was to the king, not to the country.

    Seeing the king reanimated validated Morris'' decision. When his ghoul raided the tomb, it showed no signs of recognizing the operative. Morris didn''t know if people were revived and corrupted when turned into ghouls or if something else wore their bodies like a coat. Doctor Aarts said they were rewritten and programmed to act, but even the best minds could only offer conjecture at best.

    The king''s cell was truly efficient because it acted with the king''s authority and little accountability. In a way, not much had changed. Now, they answered to monetary authority, arguably the most divine form of power. Money often succeeded where kings failed. Nosmerian cash was losing value, disturbing news to the trio. People were less willing to part with wares, and services were shutting down in light of Rahashel''s reign. So they had to change with the times. The splinter from the king''s cell had agreed to fight with Nine Fingers for a commission of tiles. Nobody really understood what tiles were, but they were of value to Court Rahashel, so they would one day be of value to those who still lived in Nosmeria.

    Morris rechecked his watch. Sixty seconds. They really only had one shot at this. But his colleagues were well trained and apt at adapting to plans gone wrong. He glanced over to Skye Brink, the youngest member of the king''s personal enforcement agency. Skye lay on the building across the street. Morris only noticed him because he knew where to look. Skye had his back to the wall in the top story of the building opposite them. Morris could only just see the edge of his shoulder. Anubis wouldn''t have even been able to see that much from his vantage in the loft.

    The minute''s last seconds ticked to zero, and Morris heard the sound of horse hooves thundering against the cobbles. Benedict Smulders charged down Black Tile Junction at a gallop. He whooped and cried like a maniac, hoping to lure Anubis to the window''s edge. It must have worked because he raised his harpoon gun. With a hiss of premernox, comparable to the noise of a blunderbuss, the dark barbed projectile shot into the loft, a black cable following behind. Morris couldn''t see Anubis. Anubis was in the building adjacent to him, but he heard the lich curse at the line pulled taut.

    Go.

    Morris caught his first glance of the jackal-headed lich as Anubis was ripped out of the loft through the broken bay window and dragged behind Benedict''s horse. He didn''t have time to watch.

    Morris hit the spark trigger, and twelve mini charges popped in a circle on the roof of the printing press next to him. He jumped from his roof to the printing shop, his feet landing square in the middle of the circle made by fist-sized holes, and the whole thing gave way under his weight. Morris dropped into the loft between two presses.

    Two ghouls he hadn''t counted on leaped from their hiding place.

    His hands moved on their own, and he shot one before he mentally registered that they were there. He flipped out the old cartridge, fed in a new shell, snapped it shut, cocked it, aimed, and shot the second in the heart before the first hit the ground.

    The girl with dirty blond hair whirled on him, kicked him square in the shin, and almost fell to the ground in the process.

    Morris yelped at the sudden attack. He had assumed, after being held hostage by liches and ghouls, she would have known he was an ally.

    The girl bolted for the back door, favoring her right leg. She hopped on it twice, intermixing a short bump step with her left foot between in a skip-hop gait. She clutched Van Seur''s hat as she fled.

    "Van Seur sent me," Morris said, then cursed as he remembered that was his new name. "I mean ¡ª "

    "Peter?" she finished for him as she skidded to a halt.

    "That''s right! Let''s go!"

    Morris grabbed her by the hand, pulling her around the heavy machinery and through a broken door.

    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    Outside, the hiss of Skye''s rifle sounded as he dropped the ghouls outside the front.

    When they got to the back, the ghouls guarding rear access must have run to investigate the front because they met no resistance. Morris pulled Iris across Baker Boulevard, where his horse stood waiting.

    "Hey!" an enforcer barked as he saw the stranger leading the hostage away. Neither he nor his companion got another word. Morris fired, reloaded, and fired again before either of them could touch their guns.

    "Can you ride?" Morris asked casually.

    Iris stared at the dead men, dumbfounded.

    "Can you ride?" Morris asked more firmly.

    "Are you kidding?" Iris asked, refocused, as he helped her onto the massive mount. "It''s a damn sight easier than walking."

    A whining howl split the street from the roof of Happy Print. Anubis glared down at them. His powerful chest was slick with blood, though there was no sign of the wound that caused them. He clutched the barbed half of a harpoon, snapped at the middle, and flung the bloodstained shaft to the road with an angry clatter.

    Morris spoke rapidly, his voice just above a whisper. "Ride east. My colleague, Benedict, will meet up with you and help you lose him."

    She nodded, her fear masked by a steely determination, as she flicked the reins.

    Morris gave an encouraging smile as he pulled two round fire bombs from his pocket and hit the corklike tops together, engaging the sparker.

    Iris kicked the horse into action and shot down the road.

    "I set a trap for a bird, but caught a fly!" Anubis snapped in anger as he prepared to jump after Iris.

    A round from Skye''s Rifle in the taller building behind him sent the lich flailing through the air. Anubis hit the ground with a sickening snap. Purple smoke lifted from his body as his wounds healed. He looked up just as Morris'' fire bombes rolled in front of him.

    "Who was the fly?" Morris asked.

    The fire bombs thundered in flame, engulfing the lich and setting fire to the printing shop. Anubis screamed as the blaze scorched his flesh, but after the initial blast, he picked himself up. Black-purple smoke bellowed, and his wounds seemed suddenly fine after an indiscernible moment. He pulled his headdress off his jackal¡¯s head, which was encircled by flickering flame, and patted a small fire away from his skirt.

    "You shouldn''t have done that. I was going to go after the girl," he sneered as he cupped his hands together. A fire flashed, and dozens of tiles filled his hands. He leeched them and dropped the empty shells to the ground. After being drained, the spent tiles no longer emanated court writing. "But now, I''ll get her after I kill you!"

    Morris rolled two more fire bombs at Anubis, which he had primed behind his back while Anubis was talking.

    Why do people always talk before they kill someone? he wondered. So amateur.

    The fire bombs went off, a prelude to another set of screams.

    Morris whipped out his pistol and sent slugs, round after round, into the lich. He flipped out old casings and fed in new shells as fast as he could, squeezing off a shot almost every second.

    Anubis leaped and snarled at Morris, and Morris took a desperate side lunge, blowing out Anubis'' knee as he did. Anubis snarled and whirled on the Nosmerian operator, but another firebomb rolled to his feet. Morris wasted no time, continuing to blast away at Anubis as the fire bomb exploded.

    The lich shrieked as he found no respite from Morris'' barrage of slugs pumped into him.

    Finally, in a blur, Anubis snatched Morris by the throat.

    Morris kipped up and hooked his legs around the lich''s outstretched arm, snagging a standing arm bar. With a gag of exertion, Morris bucked his hips into Anubis'' outstretched elbow.

    The elbow cracked, and the Jackal shrieked.

    Morris produced a knife and severed the tendons in Anubis'' wrist, causing the fingers to open and drop him. Morris spun away and fired three more slugs at his enemy. Only one hit as he hacked and blinked tears from Anubis'' brief grasp. Damn, he never missed.

    Anubis hissed as he turned on Morris. "Stupid native!" He summoned a single handful of tiles and threw the spent casings aside. "You''ll tire and wear down. You''ve doomed yourself!"

    "You ever think your rage and burn for vengeance would be your downfall?" Morris wheezed, crossing his blade and pistol at the ready.

    "What?" Anubis hissed.

    "Girl''s getting away." Morris pointed out. "Is payback more important to you than your hostage? The only hostage that can get Van Seur to give up his weapon?¡±

    Anubis cursed as he saw the truth in Morris'' words and spun to run after the horse, galloping in the distance.

    Morris smiled. Anubis would get to the horse and discover that there was not Iris but a dummy on its back. Benedict had already made the switch.

    Skye urged his horse around the corner and galloped towards Morris.

    Morris wasted no time mounting behind his younger companion. "That was way too close," he confessed, rubbing his throat. "He got a hold of me for a second there."

    Skye wasn''t listening. He turned north and spurred the horse away from the infuriated lich. They did it. The first part of their plan was a success.

    Commandant De Zwart stood behind his artillery line as the cannons shrieked their chorus of destruction. He wore his filtered mask as premernox artillery released dangerous amounts of fumes.

    Feral ghouls snapped and snarled in the clearing ahead as they banished Rahashelian weapons. Geyser plumes of dirt erupted into the sky as shells bombarded the ground and ghouls got blasted to pieces. The Rahashelians charged in a chaotic stampede. The horde would have been much easier to target and destroy if it had remained in its ranks and marched like ordinary soldiers.

    "Rifles!" De Zwart hollered, and a line of seventy or so riflemen lined up at the barricade.

    "Aim for the heart, boys! Fire!"

    A volley of rifles hissed, and to De Zwart''s disappointment, not a single ghoul dropped. Such a volley would have absolutely devastated a line of humans, but the ghouls simply jerked awkwardly at the impact of the bullets ripped through them before continuing on.

    The garrison commandant couldn''t blame his men for missing a small organ at this distance, but the indifference with which the ghouls took fire caused a cold realization to seize him. They were about to be slaughtered.

    De Zwart turned and saw a man watching them from behind. The stranger had olive-tan skin and straight black hair. He was a Dinnian. At least, some people thought his kind came from Dinn, but no one could be sure or prove that Dinn was even inhabited, since travel between the three worlds was impossible.

    "Get back!¡± De Zwart barked. "This isn''t a place for civilians!" Then he noticed the pair of short scimitars at his waist. The newcomer was prepared to fight.

    " ... Or you could join the line?" De Zwart amended.

    The Dinnian smiled and started forward but stopped as the gangly figure of a half-rotted vulture landed between them. Both men frowned at the exotic creature. The large bird spread its wind with a cry, and court writing was on its wings and body, glowing in vibrant purple. Commandant De Zwart didn''t know about the strange bird, but he recognized the court''s script and drew his pistol.

    "Kill it!" he cried as he squeezed off a shot that fell short by two feet.

    The Dinnian had the same thought and whipped out his blades to charge the vulture.

    The air around the vulture shimmered in purple light. It exploded, a wash of violet fire rippling out in a wave, throwing the Dinnian back.

    The light flashed, and the fire cleared, not scorching the earth, and in their place stood fifty ravenous mummified ghouls as if from thin air, armored and ready for battle, at their head. A Lioness-headed woman in armor.

    Somehow, they had jumped the whole distance of the city''s outskirts.

    "We''ve been flanked!" De Zwart hollered at his riflemen, and he drew his saber.

    The lioness lich let out a roar, and her ghouls charged them from behind.

    They were surrounded.

 27 Defiling Nyamaréˆ¥æªš House

    Peter watched eagerly from underneath the drain as Owen worked a large stone loose from the top rung of his ladder. With a splash, the fist-sized rock dropped into the water, prompting Peter to step back.

    After closing every side hatch and blocking alternate routes as best they could, the water surged past them at three feet high. The current was surprisingly strong, so they all held onto the ladder or the raft, hoping their combined weight and effort would keep them in place. The makeshift raft bobbed against the current as it was anchored to the walls with a rope.

    The raft worked for now, but Peter was concerned about how the weight of the tiles would affect the craft. Owen agreed and set a few small charges on the spillway door, which was only opened about one-third of the way. Peter worried they wouldn¡¯t have enough charges, but when he said as much to Owen, the operations officer just nodded and went back to work, as if the simple tilt of the chin was supposed to ease Peter¡¯s mind.

    Another large stone dropped and nearly hit Peter on the head.

    ¡°Hey!¡± he cried in surprise.

    ¡°Might not want to stand there,¡± Owen said, offering nothing more by way of apology. He had to work around an actual sewage duct in the ceiling that crossed near the reinforced drain, and he muttered a few choice words in frustration as he navigated the obstacle.

    Owen pried another stone out and stuck his arm up and into the hole up to his shoulder. He smiled. ¡°Just as I thought. The charges.¡±

    The rest of the team perked up at the exclamation. Watching the man work in gas torchlight had been cold and frankly boring. It didn¡¯t help that everyone was on high alert and jumped at every rat that turned the corner.

    Van Dijk and Isabella held the brown paper-wrapped charges above water to keep them from getting wet. The two privates handed them up with great relief.

    Owen set the charges around the inside of the drainpipe, working with speed and precision.

    ¡°Are we ready?¡± he asked, as he fed wires back out through the hole.

    Captain Tobias Visser called everyone to attention.

    ¡°We¡¯re going in blind, so we must move fast and clear out any enemies who might stand in our way. Owen will blow the stairs, and Van Dijk and Vandersteen will get the tiles out.¡±

    ¡°What about me?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°You¡¯re on point with Van Den Hoek and me,¡± Captain Tobias Visser said. ¡°Give Owen the cover he needs and hold them off until we¡¯ve cleared the room.¡±

    Peter nodded as his hands instinctively gripped the pistols at his side.

    ¡°Vandersteen, you¡¯re on top. Van Dijk, you¡¯re down here, got it?¡±

    Each grim-faced soldier nodded in turn.

    The captain grunted with a nod to Owen. ¡°Well then ¡­ Let¡¯s desecrate this estate.¡±

    The final cell moved the ladder away, and everyone gave the drain a proper blasting berth.

    ¡°Nyamar, forgive us,¡± Owen muttered as he hit the spark plug.

    The drain shot down into the sewer like snot discharged from a pent-up sneeze and slammed into the ground. The displaced icy water rushed out in a ring and slapped Peter. Peter gasped and staggered back but recovered first, having the most experience acclimating to unpleasant circumstances.

    A chunk of metal almost destroyed the ladder, and the drain nearly crushed the raft. Either outcome would have ended the Final Cell''s precariously impromptu mission. To Peter''s great relief, neither projectile made contact.

    Owen ran forward and set the ladder under the new hole in the ceiling. Peter, being the most proficient at adapting to uncomfortable situations, got to it and started climbing first.

    Spikes of fuzzy adrenalin shocked Peter¡¯s nerves as he climbed the rungs. This was the first time he was going into battle vulnerable. He still felt a degree of his reckless confidence. Going head first into enemy territory so readily was probably a result of his former immortality, but the captain was right. They had to move quickly.

    Peter stood on the top rung of the ladder and pulled himself up through scourged, hot stone to find himself in a dimly lit, expansive cave-like chamber. He gasped. Deposits of small glowing green crystal protruded from the ground and walls, illuminating the room.

    A stacked pile of black glass chips towered near a stone staircase, counter-illuminating the chamber with an alien contrast of purple light. The purple and green light didn¡¯t mix but contested to illuminate the room in an aberrant contest.

    Peter pushed on despite not having a clear view of the dimly lit room. He scanned the shadows for movement but didn¡¯t see anything.

    [ Image: Ch 27.png ]

    He approached the column of tiles and stopped when he saw it standing in the center of a black glass ring with interlacing tracks creating some arcane sigil. Glowing court script pulsed from the seal, and Peter hesitated to step past it. He couldn¡¯t hope to understand Court technology, and the ring could be a trap. Peter heard the others climbing up behind him, and he stepped past the seal¡¯s border, prepared for an abruptly violent death, but nothing happened.

    Peter glanced back and saw the captain pulling himself up behind him. Peter didn¡¯t offer a helping hand but moved ahead to clear the room of any threats. Peter blinked as his eyes adjusted, and he moved forward with quick, determined steps and a pistol gripped firmly in each hand. Captain Tobias and Van Den Hoek fell in step behind him as they scanned each side of the room.

    Small pockets of fire flashed on the tower of tiles, and a dozen or so of the tiles disappeared from the stack with each flare. ¡°What¡¯s happening to the tiles?¡± Peter asked. His eyes flickered to the top of the stairs, where a heavy metal gate didn¡¯t match its surroundings. It was probably a security addition that Rahashel commissioned in light of their last raid.

    ¡°Tiles are being pulled to the battlefield,¡± Captain Visser guessed.

    So the battle at Julleck had started?

    ¡°And this seal?¡± Peter asked about the black glass sigil inlaid into the ground.

    ¡°Do I look like a lich?¡± the captain asked. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±

    Something banged on the bars at the top of the stairs, and Peter saw several ghouls force the door open. It brought him great satisfaction that he could almost see their confusion as to how they had intruders behind their post.

    Five silent ghouls rushed into the vault, brandishing their weapons.

    ¡°Incoming!¡± the captain cried as he dove for cover. He squeezed off a shot which hit a ghoul in the eye.

    Van Den Hoek cursed as he also scrambled for cover.

    Peter faced the oncoming enemy with a pounding heart. His head twitched once, and then he walked forward. He didn¡¯t run or scream as he might have, but he kept a steady, consistent pace as he walked into the charge.

    ¡°The blight are you doing, Van Seur?¡± the captain barked as he fumbled to reload. ¡°Take cover!¡±

    The lead ghoul seemed to recognize Peter, and they all moved on him. At least, that¡¯s what he thought. Either he was the easiest target, or he had made his way up to Rahashel¡¯s most wanted. Either way, his face now seemed to act as a trigger to the stagnant sentinels.

    The ghoul in front threw his spear at Peter¡¯s face like a javelin.

    Everything seemed to line up in his mind¡¯s eye. The spear was going to hit him directly between the eyes. Peter frowned as he saw the missile speed at him and cocked his head to the side. He felt the air being split by the blade as the spear whistled past his neck, missing it by mere inches. The spear impacted the block of tiles behind him and sent a wave of the tiles cascading to the ground.

    Peter raised both pistols. He fired the one in his left hand and hit the front ghoul in the chest, but it didn¡¯t drop. Handling the weapon while down one finger was surprisingly challenging. Peter fired his right pistol, and smoke billowed from its shoulders as it died.

    Peter continued his unbroken pace as he dropped the right pistol and pulled the old casing out of the gun on the left. The icy shell burned his fingers. He was used to the flash burn of frozen brass, but it didn¡¯t go away suddenly as it used to. With burned fingers, he fed a fresh slug into the Slagter.

    Gunshots hissed from behind, but he didn¡¯t see who shot or if they hit. His only concern was the ghoul swinging at his neck with a short sword.

    Peter brought up his left pistol to block, and the blade skipped against the Slagter, flickering sparks from the barrel. Peter drew his bayonet and plunged the weapon into the ghoul¡¯s chest.

    The court light flashed from its eyes, and it dropped.

    Peter didn¡¯t miss a beat or slow for anything. He understood the importance of pace and calm in a fight. Mistakes now were irrevocable, but you had to counter a ghoul¡¯s momentum by cutting them down, not hiding. He advanced at a steady march. Not a blind charge like the ghouls, but a consistent, determined step, ready to prune anything that got too close.

    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    The third ghoul in line tried to challenge his advance and struck at Peter with one of the exotic swords, with a blade that was first straight and then curved. Owen had explained to Peter that it was called a khopesh, though the blade was not anything Peter had a frame of reference for before the courts had come.

    Peter stepped into the ghoul¡¯s attack and slashed at the monster¡¯s wrist.

    Ghouls were powerful, but they were also dry and brittle. The ghoul¡¯s momentum caused Peter¡¯s blade to shear through its wrist. The top curve of the ghoul¡¯s khopesh bit into Peter¡¯s coat and sampled his flesh.

    Peter filed the pain to a back recess of his mind. He would deal with the damage later. He slashed the ghoul across the eyes, without much by way of technique. With a snarl of his own, he dragged the monster to the ground in a bear hug. The ghoul fell and fumbled for a short sword with its offhand. Peter jumped on it and stabbed in the chest but missed the heart. Seeing it grab its short sword, he stabbed down, pinning its bicep to the ground. He smacked it across the face, backhand, and forehand, clobbering it with the bulky pistol.

    The ghouls showed no sign of feeling pain, but the jarring blows seemed to disorient it.

    Peter saw a hand sickle streak at him from the corner of his vision, and he gasped. He looked up as it rebounded off Captain Visser¡¯s Officer¡¯s blade. The other two had abandoned their cover and joined the melee.

    Peter put his pistol against the thrashing ghoul¡¯s chest and pulled the trigger, sinking the slug into the right place and killing the ghoul. He loaded his pistol and was on his feet by the time the captain and the Director had finished the other two.

    ¡°What kind of reckless fighting was that, Van Seur?¡± Captain Visser demanded. ¡°Might I remind you, you¡¯re not immortal anymore!¡±

    Captain Visser didn¡¯t need to remind him. His smarting shoulder did that on its own.

    Van Seur raised his gun and shot down an enforcer who was sprinting down the stairs, sending the man tumbling to the bottom. He surprised himself with the shot. He usually waited for a point-blank target to fire. But becoming more comfortable around guns, he could tell his aim was improving.

    ¡°I don¡¯t have a lot of self-preservation training,¡± he justified as he strode forward and reloaded his pistol, turning it upside down and shaking out the hot shell. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±

    The three men in point escorted Owen to the stairs. Owen frowned as he examined them.

    ¡°I can¡¯t blow the stairs,¡± he decided.

    ¡°Then we¡¯ll just have to hold them off,¡± the captain said as he readied his sword and pistol.

    Owen dug deep into his operations bag and produced a strange device. It looked like two rolls of coins encased in paper with several wires sticking out. Above the estate, an alarm bell rang, and they heard the running of many feet and the shout of enforcers.

    Owen slammed the metal barred gate shut, and it clicked as the lock fell into place; then, he twisted the wire of the strange package around the lock and tapped an ignition spark plug. The paper sputtered and spat, then flickered and flared with bright white light. The searing glare grew so bright that Peter had to look away.

    Unseen men shouted from the other side and shot blindly at the light and the men behind it. Owen let out a park of pain as a bullet found his forearm.

    ¡°Get back!¡± Captain Visser barked, and all the men ran back to the block of tiles.

    Owen looked pale as he twisted a windlass on a tourniquet. Several more enforcers fired blindly, bullets and slugs scattering glass chips and shattering green crystals on the wall.

    ¡°That heat charge should fuse the lock,¡± Owen said through clenched teeth.

    The sputtering light of the heat charge was blinding. Peter couldn¡¯t look at the gate and suddenly realized he was still breathing hard. The fight¡¯s exhaustion, combined with his all-nighter, had left him completely drained.

    His hand with a loaded gun twitched involuntarily. His stomach dropped nauseatingly as he inwardly and deliberately reminded himself that resetting himself was not an option.

    ¡°Van Seur. Help load up the tiles!¡±

    Peter nodded and holstered his pistol before retrieving his other dropped firearm and joining Isabella at the tile pile. She hastily raked tiles into sacks with her hand and handed them down the hole to Van Dijk.

    Peter looked at the stack, hit by the foreboding realization that it would take them hours to extricate them all. He snatched a bag and reached to shovel the tiles when the tiles he reached for coincidentally disappeared in a puff of heatless fire. He hesitated. Rahashel¡¯s forces could call the tiles directly from the vault. How?

    He looked down at the seal he stood on. The lighting in the class circle pulsed every so slightly every time a pocket of tiles disappeared. He felt like a monkey trying to understand a train engine. Court technology may have been too sophisticated for him to understand. Still, one didn¡¯t need to understand an engine to know that jamming a wrench in the gears would be disruptive.

    Peter drew his pistol and shot an element of the glass sigil at his feet. Spall and glass sprayed his boots painfully but didn¡¯t penetrate the leather. When the black glass shattered, the court script sputtered and died as the seal went down.

    ¡°What was that?¡± the captain asked as he remained at the ready, facing the firing heat charge.

    ¡°I think we just took their transportation means away,¡± Peter said, noting that no additional tiles vanished in a puff of fire. The only purple light came from the tiles themselves.

    The room was somehow more ominous without the eerie purple writing lighting up the glass ring under their feet, but Peter didn¡¯t have time to gawk. He holstered his pistol and began to shovel tiles into his bag.

    It was the first time he had seen a time tile up close aside from the tracking tile Anubis had planted on him. It looked just like Anubis¡¯ tile, except the glyph on it was decidedly more simple. As he filled his sack, Peter realized the fuel cell tiles writing was identical. They were made of the familiar semi-clear black glass with white specs illuminated by the glyphs¡¯ violet glow.

    They made progress faster with two people, but it wasn¡¯t going to be soon enough.

    ¡°Come on, guys!¡± Peter cried. ¡°Help us out!¡±

    Captain Visser and Director Van Den Hoek momentarily looked at him before abandoning their guard position.

    ¡°The sooner we can get out of here, the less likely we¡¯ll need to hold the position.¡±

    Owen agreed and tried his best to help with his one good arm.

    ¡°Get below, Owen,¡± the captain commanded.

    The operations officer nodded and headed for the hole.

    Bag after bag, Peter shoveled tiles away.

    On the iron gate, the flickering heat charge dimmed, and Peter saw the dark figures of enforcers and ghouls as they tried to contend with the gate. Several of them started to take blind shots through the bars.

    ¡°Vandersteen, get down below!¡± the captain cried, and Isabella took a shot at the gate before slipping into the hole. They hadn¡¯t taken even a quarter of the tiles.

    Their only cover was the slowly shrinking stack of tiles; as they got away with more tiles, their cover would shrink.

    Peter looked around at the inner seal on the floor and raised his pistol as he began to shoot and shatter random points of the nexus.

    ¡°Van Seur, shoot at the enemy, not the floor,¡± the captain barked.

    ¡°Captain, this ring is some form of displacement matrix,¡± Peter said. ¡°We don¡¯t need to get all of the tiles; if we keep it offline, it should give the people of Julleck a chance!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s already down,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s not glowing.¡±

    ¡°But if they get it up ¡ª¡±

    ¡°If you two are done talking,¡± Director Van Den Hoek bellowed as he pointed at the gate. ¡°Let¡¯s go!¡±

    The metal gate with the fused lock was engulfed in purple fire, and the bars rusted and rotted away in seconds as if exposed to a thousand years of neglect condensed within seconds. The heat charge died, and standing at the gate was a very angry-looking ram-headed man.

    Khnum was dressed in his regular scholarly robes and looked like a king who had been asked to empty a chamber pot. He grabbed a small round clay jar from his belt and hurled it at the three of them.

    Director Van Den Hoek, aware of the approaching lich, shot the pottery just as it left his hands. The clay jar exploded in purple flame, engulfing the lich.

    Khnum¡¯s usual bored, polite expression was shattered by his horrendous screaming as his clothing and flesh caught fire.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go!¡± The three remaining Nine Fingers Agents spun for the hole. They were not equipped or prepared to face a lich.

    They left many thousands of tiles behind but had managed to stuff away dozens of bags for themselves. Peter was the last to reach the drain hole. He slid for the pit, and took a final shot at Khnum. His shot went wide, setting free a wide spray of green chips from a mineral deposit.

    ¡°I know Anubis has your girl, Van Seur!¡± Khnum hissed. ¡°In coming here, you¡¯ve killed her!¡±

    The blood left Peter¡¯s face. He had been seen, and now he doomed Iris; he spared a look at the lich who was trying to beat flames from his thick robes. ¡°I¡¯m still coming for her!¡± he cried before dropping down.

    Peter missed proper footing on the way down and fell into the water. It hurt, but the water softened the blow.

    ¡°All here?¡± Owen asked. ¡°Hold on.¡±

    The operations officer hit a spark trigger with a wire running down the tunnel. Further down, they heard a roar and felt a tremble. Owen had blasted the spillway doors.

    Peter absently looked behind him, and a few moments later, a surging white wall of water came pounding down the sewer.

    Peter gasped and held onto the raft as Isabella and Van Dijk cut the ropes holding the craft.

    ¡°There they are!¡±

    Peter looked up at the hole and found himself staring into the barrels of at least five rifles. Peter held his breath. The water swell picked him up past his chest and lifted him off his feet.

    Water crashed, rifles fired, and people screamed; the sounds all mixed as the Final Cell was shot down the tunnel.

    Peter almost lost his grip as the raft was jerked down the sewers.

    Peter screamed an uncharacteristically shrill cry ¡ª or was that Van Dijk? Their shouts mixed together as they flew, surging this way and jerking that way. Everyone held on and used their legs to push away if they got too near a wall. The raft spun, and everyone with it.

    Peter¡¯s gut lurched and fell with every rise and fall of the rushing water. It had taken them hours to get under the estate; they got out much faster. After rushing down the sewer and swallowing so much water, which had unfortunately been cross-contaminated by ruptured sewage pipes, Peter began to seriously fear he¡¯d drown; Peter saw the pinprick opening of light ahead.

    The craft started to turn, and Peter saw the jagged metal remains where they had sawn off the first sewage grate. They didn¡¯t cut that one very close to the wall in haste, so the jagged barbs protruded dangerously.

    The craft began to spin pushing Peter towards the mangled metal.

    Peter cried as he kicked off the wall, hoping to send it the other way, but Captain Visser was faced with the same problem, so he kicked the opposite wall at the same time.

    Seeing the metal fly at him at an alarming rate, Peter let go of the raft and was thrown and plunged underwater, head under feet and back again. It wasn¡¯t enough; his upper thigh slammed against the metal, and Peter screamed, getting a mouth full of water as he was ejected out of the sewer behind all of the others.

    The outlet poured water into what was a more natural stream.

    The atmostorm was bright on the horizon, and the sun actually shone at its apex, but Peter saw them only briefly before he was rolled again. He coughed and gasped as he came up and clawed at the water without kicking. His right leg was getting cold quickly. It had snagged on the barb, and nerves buzzed numbly as it bled.

    Peter saw the net suspended between the banks of the river. Doctor Aarts waved them down, motioning for them to bring the craft ashore. Several bags of tiles had been lost in the escape, only to be caught in the net that spanned the river.

    The others coughed and gasped as they dragged the sled up to the shore, but Peter caught hold of a dead bush and cried out unintelligibly.

    He couldn¡¯t bring himself to pull his leg out of the numbingly cold water.

    ¡°Van Seur!¡± Isabella cried, being the first to sense something was wrong.

    Peter recognized that he was going into shock. It wasn¡¯t something he had experienced when his wounds seemed to disappear, but now that he was losing blood that wouldn¡¯t replenish itself, his body began to shut down non-vital functions.

    Peter allowed a look, but the four-inch, deep gash sent his stomach rolling.

    ¡°Owen!¡± he cried. ¡°I¡¯m hurt!¡±

    Doctor Aarts huffed. ¡°You know we have a real doctor among us, right?¡±

    The captain, Van Dijk, and Van Den Hoek ran to pull Peter out of the water. Gone was the frustration that had burned in the captain¡¯s eyes, replaced only by concern for the well-being of one of his men. Despite the chilling cold of the water and the air, inwardly, that warmed Peter.

    The men carried him to the wagon, and he bit his lip as his wound began to sting. Peter decided that initial and lingering wounds¡¯ pain were very different. He wasn¡¯t used to this.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Captain,¡± He muttered through shivering teeth.

    ¡°Don¡¯t talk like that,¡± the young captain chided. ¡°You did well, soldier.¡±

    Then the captain turned to the doctor. ¡°What do you think?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯ll be fine, but I¡¯ll need to act quickly,¡± he said academically. ¡°And I¡¯ll need to operate on the move. I can¡¯t imagine they¡¯ll let us escape with this without a chase.¡± Aarts shot a meaningful glance at Stalpia.

    ¡°No,¡± the captain agreed. ¡°I can¡¯t imagine they will.¡±

 28 Julleck pt. II

    Sebastian Van Graif gasped for air. With his blade planted point first into the ground, he was doubled over, seeking a moment¡¯s respite from the violence.

    Ghouls didn¡¯t tire. They didn¡¯t sweat or give way to fatigue. They were relentless, vicious, merciless, savage, and cold. Sebastian cursed himself; every second he didn¡¯t fight, more Nosmerian life died. He was ready to collapse; if he did that, he¡¯d fail everyone.

    A ghoul saw him, snarled, and charged.

    Sebastian stole the will to fight from reserves of desperation and adrenaline. He grabbed his blade and wrenched it from the ground. He moved at the black-eyed beast without reservation. It brandished a spear and had better reach; Sebastian had people, human lives, who depended on him. He parried the ghoul¡¯s strike and ran the ghoul through the chest. It kept coming, so he grunted and planted a well-placed kick to its chest.

    The ghoul almost looked surprised at its sudden change of momentum as it slammed against an outside wall in the alley. Sebastian fell back a few steps but readied himself to catch the ghoul¡¯s second charge. He thrust his blade through its chest again, but this time, he found its heart, and it dropped as its eyes flashed. He stumbled out of the ally, panting as he regained his surroundings.

    Commandant De Zwart had told him that everyone was trying to evacuate, but based on the screams and the civilians who fled before the monsters now, the city was still largely populated. ghouls ran among them and cut down everyone who resisted. After the lioness lich Sekhmet transported a unit of liches behind the artillery line, the human soldiers gave way quickly, surrendering their greatest weapons against the Rahashelians.

    Julleck was a large city and the capital of the region. Even with their sharp advantage in numbers and ferocity, the ghouls would take quite some time to overcome it.

    Sebastian also noticed them herding the noncombatants, probably to be turned into crops once they won the city. But they hadn¡¯t won the city¡ªnot yet. There were still people who drew breath and defied those without a pulse.

    Sebastian gripped the handle of his blade tighter. He could feel his blisters growing under his thick calluses, even through his sword gloves. His ears perked to rifle gas coming from the central market. Yes, there were other survivors there, other soldiers; he had to rendezvous with them.

    He ran, passing humans and that occasional soldier. He immediately barked at those in uniform, rallying them to himself. He gathered a handful of five who would listen and ran them back to the central market. They ran into a group of three ghouls who were herding civilians eastward. Sebastian utilized his momentum and the element of surprise to cut them all down before his other five men could get off a shot.

    The twenty or so surviving civilians regarded their savior in awe as he panted over the motionless ghouls.

    ¡°I¡¯m Commandant Sebastian Van Graif of the Nine Fingers!¡± he announced as he flicked some black blood off of his sword. ¡°Get everyone you can and evacuate south.¡±

    ¡°South?¡± someone cried. ¡°We¡¯re going west, to Macbare!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s too late for that,¡± Sebastian corrected them. ¡°This city is surrounded to the west; you¡¯d be running into a trap. Flee south to Shay.¡±

    ¡°Shay is too close to Stalpia!¡± one man cried. ¡°There¡¯s nothing there but ashes now!¡±

    Sebastian frowned when he saw the man; he moved well enough and looked strong.

    He leaped at the man, grabbed and threw him onto the cobbles below. After facing the militant undead, this human man fell with surprising ease and a cry of alarm. Behind him, a woman and two children cried out.

    ¡°What are you running for?¡± Sebastian said flatly, with absolutely no humor in his voice. ¡°You¡¯ll join me at the central market with the rest of my soldiers.¡±

    ¡°Let him go!¡± the woman cried.

    ¡°Is this your family?¡± Sebastian demanded. ¡°You think you¡¯ll escape Rahashel? Do you think he¡¯ll stop and show you mercy? You Idiot! There is no life for your family unless Rahashel is stopped, and if you won¡¯t stop him, no one will!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not possible,¡± the man choked, cowering in Sebastian¡¯s shadow. ¡°You can¡¯t stop him.¡±

    ¡°Not without you, I can¡¯t.¡± Sebastian hauled the man to his feet by the collar. ¡°All the men who can fight stay with me! Only the women and children can escape. This is war. You are now all soldiers, whether you like it or not.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll fight!¡± A lone boy in his early teens stepped forward, with the ice of loss and the fire of wrath in his eyes.

    The men turned to the youth in surprise, then, bowing their heads in shame, nearly all left their families to stand by Van Graif.

    ¡°You can flee to Shay or stay close. We¡¯re joining the conflict in the central market.¡±

    A ghoul shrieked as it leaped from the roof at Van Graif. The commandant gasped and spun; he thrust his blade up and found its heart. He stepped to the side and let the dead ghoul fall at his feet.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go!¡± he hollered, whipping his blade over his head in circles. ¡°Let¡¯s show them that the living of Nosmeria are not so easily beaten!¡±

    The men cried their assent and snatched any weapon they could find ¡ª Nosmerian, Rahashelian, or makeshift ¡ª and followed after the commandant.

    The charge, with Sebastian in the front, managed to cut down the few ghouls they encountered. They rescued several groups of civilians, and their numbers grew until they had twenty-five fighting men and soldiers and twice as many civilians. Van Graif amended his evaluation of the strength of his little army as he noticed most of the women marching by their husbands¡¯ and fathers¡¯ sides with weapons in hand.

    They found the central market in a mad skirmish. A mix of civilians and soldiers worked to build a barricade, but it was slow going. Sebastian¡¯s eyes scanned the fighting and saw Commandant De Zwart trying to load a blunderbuss. He was trying to do it one-handed, as he was missing his other hand; the nub was covered by a bloody tourniquet and bandage. Despite the crippling wound, the stocky, wizened Commandant of Julleck was still fighting. Maybe he merited more respect than Sebastian initially had in store for him.

    Sebastian turned on one of the first soldiers he had collected, and he had the lieutenant badge. ¡°I¡¯m going to forget the fact that I found you deserting. You¡¯re in command of these people now. Aim for the heart, or overwhelm and restrain them with numbers. They¡¯re much easier to kill if five others hold them down.¡±

    The lieutenant gasped, ¡°What about you, commandant?¡±

    Sebastian pointed to Sekhmet, the lioness in the distance, with his sword. ¡°I¡¯m going to disrupt their command structure.¡±

    His new lieutenant gave a crisp salute before relaying Sebastian¡¯s instructions to the others in a louder voice.

    Sebastian skipped into the melee and took down a handful of ghouls with deep stabs to the back as they engaged someone else. There was no honor lost in killing these corpse machines with their backs turned.

    As he approached Sekhmet, he realized he wasn¡¯t alone in his strategy. A Dinnian struck at her fiercely with dual compact scimitars. He kept them moving, deadly arches dancing around his body and raining down on the lich. She was bigger than the feline Bastet but also wore armor that actually covered her body.

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    The Dinnian broke past her defense on several occasions, but her wounds would smoke and disappear. As Van Graif approached, she summoned a few tiles to refuel herself.

    Sebastian drew near as she took a cut across the throat and plowed the Dinnian on his back with a vicious shove. She planted a powerful foot on his chest, making him gasp for air, and raised her weapon for the killing blow. Smoke billowed from her neck as it healed with supernatural speed.

    Sebastian rammed his officer¡¯s blade into her exposed armpit, through her heart, and out the other side. Her lion eyes grew wide as she fell back a step and choked. She looked at Sebastian in shock, then reset. Sebastian¡¯s sword burned away inside her, and he fell back with a useless handle.

    Sebastian leaped away and heaved the Dinnian back to his feet. With a growl, Sebastian threw his handle to the ground and looked around for a new weapon.

    The Dinnian pressed one of his scimitars into Sebastian¡¯s hand. ¡°I¡¯ll want that back.¡±

    ¡°Very nice!¡± Sebastian said as he gave it an experimental swipe, getting a feel for the weight. Sebastian was fond of all kinds of swords.

    The commandant and Dinnian took their battle stances, facing the lioness. She was equipped with a heavy and oversized Khopesh. The half-straight half, the curved sword, was oddly exotic to be here, but it was standard Rahashelian equipment, and Rahashel fell from the sky, so nothing could really surprise him anymore.

    ¡°She likes to fight two-handed, but will switch it when you don¡¯t expect it,¡± the Dinnian warned.

    Sebastian nodded in acknowledgment.

    She growled and attacked, and both men met her. Sebastian recognized that their mixed styles threw her off as she tried to get past their defenses.

    The Dinnian kept his sword in motion; a block would whip out with a moulinet into a counter strike, and Sebastian wouldn¡¯t strike unless he would hit, including to block; he blocked her strikes by pulling short and slashing at her hands.

    Confronted by the two men paired together, she quickly fell behind and had to resort to pure defense; whenever she committed to an attack, she was rewarded by several strikes to any exposed flesh from both fighters. She snarled a lion snarl and cried out in clicks and airy gasps. Sebastian recognized it as the language of the dead: she was calling for backup.

    ¡°Watch your left!¡± Sebastian called.

    A ghoul tried to flank the Dinnian with a battle ax, but the Dinnian spun on him in the last second to block.

    The lioness had a gleam in her eyes as she struck at the exposed man. Sebastian was already swinging at her open side, but he realized mid-strike that she was taking a calculated risk. She would only heal, and after killing one of them, the other would be much easier.

    Sebastian cried out as he shifted his strike in mid-motion, and their blades rang as he deflected her blade.

    ¡°Switch!¡± the Dinnian cried.

    Sebastian ducked and cut from right to left across Sekhmet¡¯s armored abdomen. The Dinnian¡¯s scimitar glided over Sebastian¡¯s head by inches as the Dinnian made a mirror strike to Sebastian¡¯s, cutting her upper torso from left to right.

    Sebastian came up from his maneuver and sank his blade into the axe wielding ghoul¡¯s heart. It was much harder to do with a scimitar than an officer¡¯s blade, but its curve was more subtle than a traditional scimitar, and it was shorter than its larger counterpart. It did its job even if it required a little extra force.

    Sekhmet looked at them wide-eyed as she leaped away. ¡°You two are the strongest mortal warriors I have fought in this world,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m sure Court Rahashel could find a use for you. Surrender, and you will be granted power beyond which you can imagine.¡±

    Sebastian and the Dinnian looked at each other for a brief moment.

    ¡°Yeah, I think we¡¯ll pass,¡± the Dinnian started, but the older man stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

    ¡°Surrender your ghouls, Sekhmet. Stop the attack and turn your forces on Stalpia. Then you can live,¡± Sebastian offered.

    ¡°You¡¯re discussing my surrender?¡± Sekhmet laughed. ¡°I salute you for your courage. I should have known that great warriors are seldom detached from their cause.¡± She held out a hand to summon more tiles, but nothing happened.

    She glanced down with a faint look of surprise on her feline face.

    ¡°Missing something?¡± Van Graif asked as he pointed his blade at her. ¡°Looks like my offensive team was successful. Now, where were we in our arrangements for your surrender?¡±

    ¡°Why reason with them?¡± Commandant De Zwart asked as he stepped next to them. He leveled his finally loaded blunderbuss, resting it over the forearm of his handless arm. ¡°They will never turn against their master. You just need to blast ¡¯em.¡±

    He shot her at point-blank range, and she shrieked as she went down. The wounds smoked and started to disappear but stopped mid-process, leaving partially healed injuries.

    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± Sebastian asked her with a vicious edge to his voice. ¡°Looks like you¡¯re out of juice. Now ¡­ Tell your ghouls to stand down.¡±

    Sekhmet turned and ran, hissing in the undead language as she did. The ghouls, warring in the market, all abandoned their current fight and ran to cover her retreat.

    The fighters lifted their weapons, ready for the charging ghouls. Sebastian clenched his jaw in frustration. His sword felt so heavy he could barely raise it to a proper guard, and at least half a dozen shallow wounds all smarted across his body. If only he could have instantly healed the way a court was supposed to. That would have made this a lot easier.

    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose now would be a good time to trouble someone for a drink of water?¡±

    The ghouls slammed into them.

    On the fields just outside the city, Julian bobbed and weaved. Bastet¡¯s sickles cut around him, but the blades couldn¡¯t find flesh. The surfing waves rushed out from the weapons to nudge him out of the way just before the strike found its mark. Surfing wasn¡¯t foolproof, as a few stinging lacerations on his arms and legs would testify. Still, their strikes were growing more desperate and aggressive. The more aggression his attacker used, the stronger the surfing ripple would be, so it was getting easier.

    ¡°How are you doing this?¡± she shrieked. ¡°You are a mortal!¡±

    His veralumite had dried up a long time ago. Of the five martial disciplines, surfing was an outlier. Where the four others relied distinctly on Waarheid manipulation, surfers excelled without it. Despite its metaphysical nature, Waarheid was heavy in an ethereal sense. Like rock breaking a wave, slamming and surfing simultaneously was impossible. Ironically, a common way to immobilize a surfer was for a mover to fill them with Waarheid as too much would increase a body¡¯s resistance to the surfing waves. A drained fighter and an aggressive enemy made the most ideal surfing conditions.

    Julian had never been to the outskirts of Julleck before, and this fact weakened his ability to perceive and act on surfing waves. Surfing worked best in familiar environments. The environment he was familiar with was the battlefield, and that¡¯s what kept him going.

    If he tried to counter-attack, his hand would send its own surfing wave, affecting the swells from his enemies and upset the flow, leaving him vulnerable, so he didn¡¯t try. He simply dodged and weaved as he tried to buy time.

    Horus continued to shriek on his knees and claw at his gut. The spent tiles at his feet had grown considerably; there were probably a thousand.

    Julian wished he could do more to defend himself. He could try to pull their waarheid from them, much the same way they attempted to leech him, but he was never very good at pulling. The high steward was a jack, meaning he diversified his boons at the expense of mastery of any of them. Julian specialized in slamming, pulsing, and clamping. He wasn¡¯t even very good at any of them, but the mantle of steward came with perks.

    Butler Kessels had perfected surfing and pulling. It was said he was untouchable and would leave his foes drained on the battlefield.

    Bastet¡¯s sickle grazed his neck, and he cursed. Alarm peeked through. Panic would break his focus and his calm. If he tightened, he would become heavier to the surfing pulses, and they wouldn¡¯t move him as effectively.

    ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± Horus cried, his voice frantic. ¡°The tiles! The tiles! They¡¯re not com ¡ª ¡± The falcon-headed lich coughed and spat blood before falling over motionless on his side.

    The other liches, including Bastet, Sobek, and four newcomers, each having a distinct animal head, stared at their fallen leader in shock.

    ¡°You ¡­ You killed him!¡± Bastet screamed before spinning on Julian, but Julian had been ready for this.

    As soon as Horus died, Julian felt for his clamp on the Incentiviser and was already pulling on it. The dagger ripped from Horus¡¯ body, still covered in his blood, and into Julian¡¯s hand.

    Julian stepped out of the surfing stream and stuck it into Bastet¡¯s gut. She gasped and shrieked as it worked its way into her.

    The other liches stepped back, glancing around in uncertainty. Julian took advantage of their stupor and danced back, waving his arms and seizing their Waarheid, then pulled it to himself. He managed to catch them all in his pull, but it was subtle. It would have been stronger if he could have gotten a hand on any of them, but skimming a little from so many was more than enough.

    The various Waarheid changed from yellow to green as it filtered into him.

    His eyes burned emerald. It wasn¡¯t much, but it vibrated in his bones as he slammed it.

    Bastet died at his feet, unable to pull tiles from the vault. Julian pulled the Incentiviser from her with his clamp. The Incentiviser shot from her body in a spray of blood like a fish jumping from the water. He caught it. The remaining liches stepped back.

    ¡°Call back half the ghouls!¡± a baboon-headed lich hissed. ¡°Julleck can wait. Drown the priest in their corpses.¡±

    Great.

    Witte spurred his horse, following the tile-laden wagon as it continued up the once-dry river bed, which now ran freely. His job was easy. Follow the immortal man. The old, undying man was lying down as the doctor worked on him for some reason. Witte thought that the old man would leech anyone who got close. He also figured the Nine Fingers lich had no need for a doctor. The straggling Nine Finger cell continued on course until Witte had a good idea of where they were going. The old man¡¯s team seemed to be headed to those old ruins where they had struck camp the previous night.

    Tailing them wasn¡¯t hard, but it was boring. The wagon stopped, and Witte pulled his horse to a halt. They were more likely to notice him while he was on the move. Witte was tired of following them. Morris should be done by now.

 29 Reunion

    The wagon stopped with a creak, and Peter grunted as Doctor Aarts tightened the dressing on his leg.

    ¡°That should hold for now,¡± the doctor mumbled.

    ¡°You sure?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°Yeah, you¡¯re not planning on running on it soon, are you?¡±

    Peter smiled as innocently as he could, but it only made him look guilty.

    ¡°You all know I need to go,¡± Peter started. ¡°I might as well get off here before I drift too far from Stalpia.¡±

    Isabella rose in protest. ¡°Peter, we¡¯re out of the city. We have been riding hard. Let me come with you.¡±

    ¡°And me,¡± Van Dijk volunteered.

    Peter shook his head, ¡°You all know the plan; you¡¯re our last line of defense. I¡¯m just an injured kid with not much more to contribute.¡±

    ¡°Exactly why you need our help,¡± Isabella interjected.

    Peter shook his head. ¡°This is all my fault. I can¡¯t risk anyone else. I¡¯m expendable, and I owe it to Iris to try.¡±

    ¡°This is suicide!¡± Isabella protested.

    ¡°That¡¯s fine with me.¡± Doctor Aarts grumbled. ¡°Get on with it; we can¡¯t stay here forever like beached fish.¡±

    Peter nodded and hopped out of the wagon, bouncing on his good leg as it took the brunt of the force.

    His gun belts were reloaded with thick slugs, and his sheathed bayonet-dagger.

    ¡°Peter,¡± Isabella pleaded, ¡°There has to be another way.¡±

    Peter shook his head. ¡°This is the best way.¡±

    ¡°Do you need anything, soldier?¡± Captain Visser asked loudly, shooting a knowing look into the patchy overgrowth.

    Peter shook his head.

    ¡°You remember where to find us?¡±

    Peter nodded.

    ¡°Remember ¡­ this time, make sure you¡¯re not followed,¡± the captain reminded Peter.

    Peter tried his best salute, but it wasn¡¯t as sharp as he would have liked.

    ¡°Thank you, Captain.¡±

    ¡°Good luck, soldier.¡±

    Peter waved his goodbye and started south, away from the cart. If he continued south, he could cut east and end up on Black Tile Road in Stalpia. His limping steps were slow and methodical. His leg ached continually, but he finally found the will to push the pain aside. In truth, the pain wasn¡¯t so bad. Initially, seeing the actual wound seemed to put him in shock, not the pain itself. The pressure of Doctor Aarts¡¯ tight bindings made the sting almost pleasant. The poetic coincidence that now he was like Iris wasn¡¯t lost on him. He was the one who the dog should have gotten all those years ago, and now he would gladly trade himself to get her out of Anubis¡¯ custody.

    Peter tried his best to find a solution to the problems he was facing. How was he going to deal with Anubis when he saw him? Last time, things didn¡¯t fare so well for him, and that was when he was unkillable and uninjured.

    He wanted to rush in blindly, guns blazing, but that desire came from somewhere in his chest, not his head. Peter forced himself to exercise restraint and move on with the plan. He had a plan ¡­ Right?

    He did, but it was half of a plan. Peter¡¯s eyes darted between the sparse juniper trees scattered around him. He hadn¡¯t taken a road, but getting lost with the Stalpia hill range to the east was impossible. He felt as if he were naked in a snowstorm, without the court band. He hoped the commandant was using it well, saving the people of Stalpia. They had done their part, and now it was on the commandant and Julian to do theirs.

    Peter heard the horse before he could see it. It was coming from behind him. His hand itched to draw a pistol, but instead, he carried on. It was a potentially fatal move, but he needed whoever was following them to think they were in control.

    ¡°Hey!¡± The rider called as he rode into eyeshot of Peter.

    There was no more pretense now. Peter drew his pistol and turned it on the man.

    ¡°Woah!¡± The man cried as he saw Peter¡¯s weapon. ¡°There¡¯ll be no need for that.¡±

    ¡°Do I know you?¡± Peter demanded.

    ¡°I work for Morris,¡± the man explained, placating hand raised.

    ¡°Why are you following me?¡± The use of the word ¡®me¡¯ was deliberate. Peter didn¡¯t want the rider to know that he had been spotted long before Peter left the group.

    ¡°Morris sent me,¡± the rider said. ¡°He had your friend.¡±

    Peter frowned. ¡°My ¡­ friend?¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡± The man said, his teeth rotted and his belly bloated from too much liquor. ¡°The girl ¡­¡±

    ¡°Iris?¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    Peter didn¡¯t expect that. ¡°What ¡­ how? When?¡±

    The man chuckled. ¡°Morris will want to talk to you, Van Seur. He sent me to fetch you.

    ¡°Morris had Iris ¡­¡± Peter breathed sharply as a great relief lifted from his shoulders, but it was instantly followed by a stab of fear. Why? ¡°Where is he?¡±

    ¡°Follow me,¡± the man said. ¡°I¡¯ll show you where he is.¡±

    The man pulled alongside Peter, but gave him the appropriate distance he would have needed if Peter¡¯s leech field were still intact.

    ¡°Ghoul-piss, man, put that blasting stick of yours away.¡±

    Peter regarded the man for a moment before holstering his firearm.

    ¡°Lead the way.¡±

    It didn¡¯t take long for Peter to realize they were headed for the burrow. As they drew near, his mind weighed possibilities against probabilities. Could it be true? What was really happening? Morris seemed like a nice enough guy. In fact, Peter really liked Morris; he had been kind and taught him how to shoot, but to go against Anubis ¡­ Unless this outrider was secretly an enforcer and worked for Anubis.

    Peter loosened his pistol in his holster when the man wasn¡¯t looking. He had to be ready for anything.

    The burrows drew into view, and Peter deliberately forced his breath to be calm and steady.

    As they drew near, he saw the funeral pyre, which was still smoking. The smell of burnt flesh lingered like sweet pork, and Peter suppressed a gag.

    His eyes darted ahead. With his hand on his gun, he searched for any sign of a trap, ambush, or ghouls or enforcers who might have been lying in wait. He didn¡¯t see anything.

    ¡°Okay, man,¡± Peter started, ¡°What is this?¡±

    The man pointed, and Morris stepped out with two of his compatriots, and he saw her. She was young again. Unsurprisingly, Rahashel could return what he took away. She didn''t wear the rags he had seen her in last, but a fresh new set of Nosmerian clothes.

    Peter cried with relief and rushed towards them.

    Morris made a dismissive gesture for him to stay back, and Peter stopped.

    ¡°Iris!¡± Peter cried, his voice cracking on a sob. She held Van Gutter¡¯s hat. The one that Peter had dropped when facing Anubis.

    Iris looked at him, completely nonplussed. It was as if not a day had passed since she had put on the crop ring.

    ¡°Peter?¡± she cried in disbelief. ¡°Is that you? What¡¯s happening?¡±

    ¡°Yes!¡± Peter exclaimed happily and stepped forward. ¡°I have so much to tell you ¡ª ¡± The other men put their hands on their guns. Peter stopped. Of course, they would be scared of him. They didn¡¯t know he had removed the band; his coat, though ripped up, covered his arm.

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    He moved to explain it, but the look in Morris¡¯ eye stopped him. Gone was his friendly confidence, and the calculating, hard look of the deserter and soldier of fortune was in its place.

    Peter realized what would happen in the split instant before it did. He felt his gut lurch as Morris quickly drew his pistol and put it to Iris¡¯ temple. Their conversation in the training replayed in Peter¡¯s mind, but now he saw through the undertones. Morris didn¡¯t care about Peter. He was just looking for his next score.

    ¡°The deal is the same, Van Seur,¡± Morris said. ¡°The band for the girl; the only change is who profits from it.¡±

    Peter choked for a moment as his blood roared in his ears. ¡°Morris ¡­ Why?¡±

    ¡°Because, Peter, I¡¯m not some honorable madman bent on killing a god. I told you this, remember? I¡¯m just looking out for myself in this mad world. The band. Now.¡±

    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t!¡± Peter cried. ¡°She¡¯s innocent. You may fight for money, but you wouldn¡¯t murder a young girl!¡±

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t?¡± Morris asked.

    Peter saw the answer in his eyes.

    He looked around frantically for a way out. There were four of them. Peter could shoot down his escort, he was relatively sure of that, but he had caught a glimpse of these other three men on the range and shooting in Stalpia. They were legendary. He didn¡¯t stand a chance, and neither did she.

    ¡°What do you want to do with the band, anyway?¡± Peter demanded.

    ¡°That¡¯s none of your concern, and frankly, it doesn¡¯t matter. Sell it back to Van Graif, to Rahashel, use it, or give it to the highest bidder; I don¡¯t care so long as I secure a reasonable foothold for myself and my men in this burning world. But you¡¯re just stalling, and I don¡¯t like that, so hand it over,¡± He thrust the barrel of his pistol into Iris¡¯ temple harshly, and she winced with fear in her eyes. ¡°Before I paint the dirt.¡±

    Peter stood in silence, thinking, analyzing, and panicking.

    I don¡¯t even have the Bedorven. Peter thought frantically. He saw that the men were tired. They had gone out of their way to risk their lives for a treasure he didn¡¯t even have.

    He stopped, and a delirious giggle escaped him. In the moment, he saw a flash of concern in Morris¡¯ eyes.

    Morris scanned Peter for the element of his plan he hadn¡¯t accounted for. Maybe he wondered if Peter didn¡¯t care for the hostage enough to budge; perhaps he thought Peter had lied to him when Morris tried to earn his confidence. Possibly, Morris thought Peter had finally lost it after dying so many times. Morris¡¯ face twisted into a snarl as he tried to find the missing piece.

    ¡°What¡¯s so funny?¡± he snapped.

    ¡°Yeah!¡± Iris cried wide-eyed. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±

    ¡°You are an idiot, and a fool, Morris!¡± Peter sneered. His admiration for the charming bandit twisted to distaste.

    ¡°Watch yourself, boy,¡± Morris warned, shoving Iris¡¯ head down with the pistol.

    ¡°I don¡¯t have it!¡± Peter said.

    All four of them stared at Peter blankly, the silence deafening.

    ¡°I gave it to the commandant.¡±

    ¡°Liar!¡± Morris insisted. ¡°You gave up immortality?¡±

    ¡°He needed it more than I did,¡± Peter explained.

    ¡°It¡¯s true,¡± the mounted man behind Peter realized. ¡°The doctor was bandaging him up, and he wasn¡¯t leeching the others.¡±

    This time, Skye staggered back with a look of defeat. ¡°We sign on with the commandant, lose most of our men, risk going up against an elder lich, and save the girl all for nothing?¡± He spat on the ground.

    ¡°I guess we don¡¯t need them anymore,¡± Morris agreed grimly. His hand tightened on the trigger.

    ¡°Wait!¡± Peter cried.

    ¡°You¡¯ve wasted enough time!¡± Morris snapped.

    ¡°We have the tiles!¡±

    Morris stopped, and Peter clapped his hand over his mouth, shamefaced.

    ¡°You ¡­ have the tiles?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s true,¡± Peter¡¯s escort said. ¡°They had a big wagon and a little raft. They had bags full of them.¡±

    ¡°What do we even pay you for?¡± Morris demanded, scowling at the man. ¡°You could have said any of these things before we got to this point.¡±

    The man shrugged apologetically.

    ¡°So, Van Graif leads us on a suicide run to analyze their defenses, then waits for them to put their guard down, and leads a small party to the real heist and cuts us all out of the deal,¡± Morris concluded, his voice bitter, but a trace of admiration in his eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t think so. We will get our cut ¡­ and a little something for the inconvenience.¡±

    ¡°Trickery?¡± Peter demanded. ¡°The second heist was my idea, and don¡¯t you dare suggest the commandant planned on this!¡± Peter cried, pointing at the pyre. ¡°You blame anyone else for your failures; many good men died trying to get those tiles out. Don¡¯t insult the commandant by saying this was his intention.¡±

    Morris nodded once. ¡°It was the commandant¡¯s plan, and his men died. He killed them; that¡¯s the harsh reality of leadership. As for those who died, what makes you think you have any right to advocate for them? You couldn¡¯t die. Don¡¯t insult them by speaking for them. We digress; you know where the tiles are?¡±

    Peter said nothing, and Morris read the answer on his face.

    ¡°Take us ¡­ Now!¡±

    Peter nodded slowly. ¡°You¡¯ll let us live?¡± he asked.

    ¡°You have my word,¡± Morris said.

    ¡°What exactly is that worth?¡± Peter asked. ¡°Let Iris go. You can use my life as leverage. I¡¯m not unkillable anymore.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think so,¡± Morris said. ¡°I know you; you¡¯ll try something reckless alone. The girl comes with us.¡±

    ¡°The girl?¡± Iris demanded as he took his pistol from her head. ¡°Well at least I¡¯m not a short-sided, gas-blasted, retchgasket, foul-smelling, shame-created, backstabbing, criminal, scruffy-faced hiss pipe like you,¡± she fired off.

    Peter almost smiled. Nothing had changed. It was truly Iris.

    Morris shrugged, as if to say, ¡®guilty on all counts¡¯. He pushed her forward. ¡°Take his weapons.¡±

    Peter was stripped of his guns and bayonet and had a gun placed against his head. He couldn¡¯t stop stealing glances at Iris. There she was, and she was young again! He didn¡¯t have to fight Anubis with impossible odds stacked against him, but at the same time, he hadn¡¯t been counting on having Iris here now. If Peter tried to make a move, he was confident the reaper would collect on his overdue balance.

    Now, with Iris here, he was constrained. Her blood would be on his hands, again.

    He was thrown on a horse with Benedict. The mercenary didn¡¯t say much, but no doubt he saw everything. The cold hard weight of Benedict¡¯s gun in the small of his back was constant reminder that he would tolerate no artifice.

    They made quick time on horseback. Peter¡¯s mind raced, searching for a plan, but it was as blank as a washed blackboard. There was no obvious solution. Iris was as trapped as she had been with Anubis. These men were professionals, and kept a close eye on their prisoners.

    Iris tried to ask him what was happening, but their captors hissed at them to shut up. So they rode in silence. Once, Peter caught her looking at him, and she mouthed quite clearly, ¡®You¡¯re old.¡¯ Her left ring finger was swollen and ringed with puncture scabs.

    Peter smiled at that but didn¡¯t risk a reply.

    Iris pointed up to the sky.

    Peter looked up and saw a large gangly bird circling above them.

    Is that a vulture? Peter thought to himself in surprise. He had never seen a vulture outside of a book before. They were supposed to live on the other side of the world.

    ¡°Eyes on the road,¡± Skye barked at Peter, with his pistol in Iris¡¯ back.

    They drew near the Ataggin ruins, where they had rested the night before. On the outskirts, the wide, perfect circle of black dead grass where he had been confronted stuck out like a drop of ink on paper.

    The wagon would be hidden in the ruins. Peter had to warn the others.

    ¡°The tiles are in those ruins!¡± he shouted, deliberately allowing his voice to carry. ¡°You wanted them, Morris, there they a¡ª¡± Benedict slapped his hand over Peter¡¯s mouth, and Skye hissed for him to shut up.

    ¡°Skye, Witte, stay out here with the girl,¡± Morris instructed, and the others nodded.

    ¡°You¡¯re with me,¡± He said to Benedict and Peter. ¡°The others will be there, in the ruins. If they put up a fight, kill them,¡± Morris said.

    ¡°Actually, it¡¯s not guarded,¡± Peter said. ¡°We decided that if anyone was following us, we had best stash the tiles and move on.¡±

    The bandit snorted at that, and they both held their guns at the ready.

    ¡°Not a single noise,¡± Benedict warned. It was the first time Peter heard his voice. It was a firm, masculine voice with an edge. Peter almost struggled to believe Benedict was a bandit, but that silent charm was probably one of Benedict¡¯s greatest tools.

    They stalked their way into the ruins, and Peter¡¯s heart raced. Iris waited outside in the grassy fields unrestrained but sitting in front of Skye on his horse. The King¡¯s Cell had the leverage Peter couldn''t calculate how to counter.

    They moved expertly, slowly, and cautiously until they found the open center of the ruins. Sitting isolated and alone in the middle was the tarp-covered wagon, unhinged of its horses.

    ¡°Watch him,¡± Morris warned as he went to investigate. He circled the wagon, checking over his shoulder all the while.

    Morris pulled the tarp back just a smidge, growled in frustration, and ripped the whole thing off.

    ¡°Empty?¡± He bellowed; he spun and pointed his gun at Peter. Instantly, five figures rose from the rubble and stepped out of their concealment.

    Van Dijk, Isabella, Captain Visser, Director Van Den Hoek, and Doctor Aarts all leveled firearms at the two bandits.

    Benedict kept his pistol on Peter¡¯s head. Morris shifted the barrel of his Slagter from one of the nine-finger operatives to another, his hands clenching the polished wood handle.

    ¡°It was a trap?¡± Morris realized.

    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± Captain Visser agreed. ¡°We sent Peter to distract your spy while we stashed the tiles and had him lure you here. Now drop your weapons.¡±

    ¡°So you weren¡¯t going after the girl?¡± Morris asked Peter.

    Peter shook his head, but he didn¡¯t feel proud of his role in the deception. Iris was still outside with Skye. He had expected Morris¡¯ man to force him to lead them here, but he didn¡¯t expect them to have a hostage. His panic extended beyond the gun at his own head. All of this just to lose her again?

    ¡°Captain,¡± he said, fighting to keep his voice steady, ¡°They have Iris, out there, in the field.¡±

    ¡°I saw,¡± Captain Visser said. ¡°Owen has his rifle trained on Skye. He¡¯s a good shot, but his damn arm is hurt.¡±

    ¡°We still have Van Seur!¡± Morris pointed out. ¡°You drop your guns, or we¡¯ll paint that wagon with his brain.¡±

    Peter laughed. ¡°You think they care about me?¡± He asked, ¡°Most of them have wanted to shoot me themselves since the day I joined them.¡±

    Morris cursed. It was clear that he agreed with Peter.

    ¡°Well then ¡­¡± he started, ¡°It looks like we¡¯re in a rotting situation indeed.¡±

    Bandits and soldiers glared at each other, shifting and tense, waiting for someone to move, trying to decide where to shoot first ¡­

    Skye pulled his pistol a few inches away from Iris. The girl sat in front of him in his saddle. Two people in one saddle one uncomfortable, but he¡¯d feel any micro-movements she made to escape.

    ¡°I wonder what¡¯s taking them so long?¡± Witte said.

    Skye pushed his annoyance aside. He hated Witte; the man was little more than a drunk they hired because he was expendable. Just because Witte was under their employ didn¡¯t mean he could carry himself like he was one of them.

    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± the girl asked as she pointed to the sky.

    Skye looked to see a massive bird, a vulture, gliding down at them.

    ¡°It¡¯s a bird, so what?¡±

    ¡°I swear it¡¯s been following us.¡±

    Sky didn¡¯t like that. He knew people who used trained birds for reconnaissance.

    The vulture dove.

    Skye took his pistol off the girl and aimed at the bird. Something was very wrong.

    It landed and was almost lost in the long grass. Skye tensed. Vultures weren¡¯t native to Nosmeria. He sat a little taller to get a better look.

    The vulture spread its wings, and violet court script flashed to life across them.

    Skye cursed, spun his horse, and galloped to the ruins, taking his hostage with him.

    ¡°What is it?¡± Witte asked as he moved closer to investigate.

    The vulture exploded into court flames. They flared out, but didn¡¯t devour the grass field. Skye looked over his shoulder to see the fire die down. In its place stood thirty ghouls, with Anubis grinning viciously at their head.

 30 A House at War

    A sizable wave of ghouls had abandoned the market, called back by some unheard command. With the Rahashelian numbers reduced, the crowd of angry Julleck citizens rioted against the remaining ghouls.

    Sebastian Van Graif noticed with interest that the ghouls were becoming increasingly slow and lethargic. That was no doubt a result of their reaching the end of their time reserves. Despite the ghouls'' torpor, the monsters still lashed out and struck down dozens of city defenders with frightening proficiency.

    Sebastian heaved labored breaths but couldn''t contribute. Soaked in sweat, the commandant could hardly lift his weapon. This was the limitation of being human. The fire continued to burn as he watched Nosmerians die, but his second wind had long since abandoned him. He pulled himself to his feet and forced himself on.

    "Tear them apart!" He croaked as a rope with a looped slip knot tightened around a ghoul''s forearm and pulled it into the mob. Isolated, the Jullecki people tore it to pieces with ferocity on par with the feral ghouls they fought.

    Sebastian tried to force his body into some semblance of competence. He grabbed a rifle and sought a vantage point to fire into the compact ghouls. He had to save Julleck. He was the only one who would. No one else had heeded the call ¡ª just the shattered remains of Nine Fingers and an unpopular steward. Part of him wondered if they wanted to be saved, but as he watched the people of Julleck rip ghouls apart, he had his answer. Of course they resisted death. The survival instinct could slumber through torture and capture, but certain doom did strange things to a man. Just at the end, suddenly, there it was: the clear bright flame of courage.

    Still, though, it would be nice if they¡¯d roused themselves sooner. What use was a final stand, with numbers like these? Where was the rest of Nosmeria? Why were there no allies or friends? Were they doomed to fight alone?

    In a world of immortal courts and boons, Mortal men were fascinatingly unpredictable. Most people could endure slavery indefinitely, unwilling to risk their lives for freedom. But introduce children and loved ones into the equation, and those same people who wouldn¡¯t fight for their own liberation would throw themselves on their captors¡¯ swords to secure a future for their descendants. How could this be, given humanity¡¯s selfish nature? It seemed that the primal impulses to survive and reproduce were not equal. The House would likely argue that parents had a divinely appointed duty to their children. Was there a greater hierarchy in metaphysical genetics that made humans more than just biological sacks of impulses?

    Another ghoul vanished into the mob, promptly torn to pieces in a display of uncanny savagery.

    And what about retribution? Someone who lost a child might pursue vengeance at the expense of their other base impulses. Was vengeance a natural duty as well? Human minds could shatter when their perceptions clash with reality. Man¡¯s cruelty could burn infinitely hotter than the empty programs of a ghoul.

    Sebastian pulled himself onto the roof of the weaver¡¯s stall and raised his rifle as he looked at the surrounded mass of Rahashelian killing machines. Okay. He took a deep breath. Even if they were the only ones who fought, he would continue. He lined his sights on a ghoul.

    A buzzing drone cut over the din and a wire-thin whip of clear green light lashed down and cut six ghouls in half.

    Sebastian jerked up in surprise. Three people in servant livery perched on a nearby rooftop clapped their hands together as they compressed Nyamarian light. Three more beams lashed down, shredding the mass of ghouls, and a new cry washed over the battle as dozens of valets, maids, and butlers leaped over the outer ring of the mob with luminescent green eyes in a feat that would have taken a regular man cranes and harnesses. They landed among the ghouls and tore into them with their hands.

    Several dozen domestics rushed to the scene, many kneeling and putting their hands on the wounded.

    Sebastian sighted a lower steward walking among the healers.

    "Hey!" the commandant shouted. He awkwardly lowered his aching body to the cobblestone streets.

    The lower steward looked up in acknowledgment.

    "High Steward Gerrets is isolated on the outskirts!" Sebastian cried.

    The steward nodded, then passed the message and instructions on to a footman. The steward dispatched the runner back in the direction Sebastian assumed the Julleck estate stood. The steward called two maids to them, and they jogged over to Sebastian.

    "Are you in command here?"

    "Yes," the commandant said. "A large portion of their force retreated. I suspect they''re doubling back on Julian!" Stars swam in his vision. He forced his legs to stop trembling.

    "High Butler Anton is going to the High Steward personally." The steward frowned as the commandant doubled over. "Are you okay?"

    "Damn tired," the commandant affirmed.

    The two maids stepped forward, black-gloved hands clasped before them. "May we administer to your wounds?"

    The Commandant eyed them cautiously, but slowly nodded.

    One maid put a hand on his face, covering his eyes with her forefinger and ring finger. The other one weaved her hands in the air, manipulating an unseen element in the air, and then put her palm on the commandant''s chest.

    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    Sebastian gritted his teeth as a warm wash of vitality hummed in his bones. Sore muscles partially mended, and a wave of energy returned to him. The commandant staggered back in surprise. His body still ached, and he felt exhausted, but he lifted his rifle without risking falling unconscious.

    "Amazing," he breathed.

    "I apologize; we can''t do more," one of the maids said. "We must save our talents for those who would die without them."

    The commandant nodded in agreement to that logic. He scanned the crowd for the Dinnian. "If you could make a few minor exceptions to the rule, I have a few key fighters who I need to get back into the fight."

    Julian ran, but the stampede of ghouls were faster. They encircled him in a brittle, pulsating mass. There had to be over a hundred of them.

    Julian had successfully stuck one of the liches with the Incentiviser, but now they were using ghouls to surround him. Being lifeless objects, ghouls emitted significantly weaker surfing waves than living beings. A bullet was also lifeless, but when wielded with hostile intent, it projected an aggressive surge. In contrast, a slug accidentally discharged did not. Where ghouls did act as a manifestation of another''s malice as literally as any weapon, they also calculated and solved problems independently, somehow diluting that connection.

    If the ghouls surrounded Julian, it wouldn''t matter if the ghouls sent out a full surfing stream.

    Keep going, Julian. She urged, the distress in her voice spurring him on.

    Julian watched the horde ahead of him, pincered in, and met, closing the loop. Some of the ghouls stumbled and fell, no doubt depleted of their fuel, but the majority would have plenty to tear him apart.

    Julian stopped and spun in a slow circle as the ring of ghouls tightened onto him. Had he been wrong? Did he doom the House? He took a trained stance and raised the Druk. He had lost his falchion earlier. About six liches watched their hounds close in on Julian from a safe distance. He felt oddly calm as his inevitable end closed in on him.

    Julian ... She sounded at a loss. Her grief tugged at him, and he could physically discern the emotion.

    "Don''t be scared," he said out loud. "Die proud, not afraid." The ghouls closed the distance and lunged.

    Julian said the words but with hypocrisy. Why did he cling so desperately to life? For most people, the root of dread in death was the unknown. Not in Julian''s case. He knew that if he was killed, his anima sequence would continue to exist, bound to his ethereal form. All things, even objects, had anima sequences and ethereal bodies housed in their flesh. When Julian clamped an object, he didn''t physically move it, but he pulled its ethereal form, its physical vessel not designed to be apart, simply rushed to reunite with it.

    Most of Nyamar''s servitors and attendants existed exclusively on the subreal plane. Domestics who specialized in seeing could perceive them. He would probably work with his father again when he died. So why did he feel sick?

    His eyes flicked from one patch of the ghoul''s circle to another, desperately searching for an escape.

    Death would hurt, but it would be fast, even if it were incredibly violent. Was this dread just a biological response, or did he still find the finality of death terrifying? He didn''t want to be done with this chapter. The others needed him.

    Was his fear somehow not self-interest? Did the idea of waking up from a nightmare those in his stewardship had to endure torture him?

    He suddenly felt calm in this idea and sensed her feeding off that peace. The unmerited tranquility multiplied until Julian took a startled step back. The ghouls seemed to slow, the sound of the stampede filter partially muted through an imperceptible screen.

    Julian, He watches.

    A gravitational shift forced Julian back another step, and he looked up, trembling in a much more justifiable terror. He didn''t see anything but felt Nyamar''s eye on him. Why did the Master of the House watch? To witness his death? To scrutinize a disobedient servant who took too many liberties within his stewardship?

    In the House, the standard teaching was that good servants did as they were told and completed their assigned tasks. Better servants fulfilled needs without being asked as they arose. The best servants actively sought ways to serve beyond what was expected. Nyamar praised attendants who exercised autonomy for the benefit of the House. More than anyone, Julian risked the most overstepping his assignment''s scope. Why wouldn''t Nyamar speak to him as plainly as he had to the previous steward? Didn''t Nyamar understand the paradox between obedience and agency? Where was the line between initiative and disobedience?

    "I''m trying!" Julian whispered. "Why would you choose me at a time like this?"

    The ghouls continued their charge, brandishing weapons and fangs.

    "I have to believe you knew something when you chose me," Julian cried at the sky. "I''ll pay the price for my folly, but don''t abandon the others!"

    The ghouls closed in around the steward.

    Julian screamed in defiance, but the ghouls slammed into the air around him, clear-green ripples buffeting them away. Julian looked at the pulse barrier dumbly before registering the buzz of the breach above him.

    High Butler Anton Dekker dropped from the slit and dropped ten feet next to the high steward, his face drawn in labored concentration.

    "Stay up there," the High Butler called up to his disciples as four more linear windows into the different Nyamarian estates opened above them.

    ¡°Anton,¡± Julian gasped dumbly. ¡°You came.¡±

    The High Butler produced a bulging pouch with a white-gloved hand and threw it to the High Steward. "Of course, I came," he growled irritably. "You may refuse to acknowledge our traditions and completely disregard our policy, but I''ll always be the first to head Nyamar''s call."

    Julian shook several large chunks of veralumite from the pouch, laughed as they melted, and worked their way into his skin. A fortune worth of veralumite but one well spent. Cuts mended, fatigue vanished, and his bones roared with light.

    Ghouls pounded against the barrier around them, distorted by the rippling wave between them. Beads of sweat dripped down Anton''s brow as he focused on the continuous counter push.

    "See the animal-headed liches on the berm?" Julian indicated with a nod.

    "I see them," Anton affirmed.

    "Fight your way to them. Let none escape."

    "Cut us a path to that ridge with the liches!" Anton relayed up to the breaches over their head. Julian saw a head poking out of one bob in acknowledgment.

    Julian tucked the Druk away and held his hand up.

    "Ready?" Anton grunted.

    "Go!"

    The barrier dropped, and the Butler held his hands flat. The air around them rippled. The two domestics charged. Wire lines of pulse energy whipped down from the breach windows and cut dozens of ghouls to pieces. A few wide, less concentrated shockwaves blew ghouls behind them to the ground.

    Julian crushed a ghoul''s head in his hand as he passed, and Anton cut through two of them with his pulse blades. He had invented the technique himself. It took a formerly unknown amount of training to control pulses enough to shape them around himself. A spear deflected off of a ripple behind Anton as it approached.

    "Go!" Anton cried. "I''ll catch up!"

    Julian nodded and shot ahead. While slamming, he was much faster than the High Butler.

    Domestics expertly shelled the ghouls with a barrage of pulses through breach windows from the safety of several different estates. The breaches acted like an invisible tower supported by nothing but air.

    The liches fled from the speeding Domestic as he flew across the plain, and Julian whipped out the Druk.

    The House of Nyamar had gone to war.

 31 The Jackal, the Bandits, and the Final Cell

    Peter almost lashed out more than once, but as his body considered tensing, he knew Morris could sense it. Morris held his gun to Peter¡¯s head, but Peter figured Morris would shoot him last if he didn¡¯t act because he was unarmed. Peter concluded that his best chance was to throw Morris¡¯ shot off course if and when he sought a more dangerous target.

    A roar of flames, in tandem with a thousand gasping voices, filled the air from outside, and everyone spun at the ready. That noise was the court sound, normally associated with leeching, but there wasn¡¯t anyone who could leech, right?

    ¡°They¡¯re here!¡± Skye cried as he pushed into the ruins, shoving Iris before him. Owen showed up momentarily, apparently deciding it wasn¡¯t in his best interest to shoot Skye. The operations officer¡¯s tourniquet was gone, replaced with a clean dressing.

    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Morris demanded.

    ¡°A lich ¡ª the jackal? ¡ª he followed us somehow! They¡¯re surrounding us!¡±

    The King¡¯s Cell faced the Final Cell, faces twisted in confusion as they processed the new events. Neither party seemed to think that shooting the other was in their best interest any longer.

    ¡°The band and the tiles are the least of our problems!¡± Captain Visser barked, ¡°Let the hostages go. We¡¯re going to have to blast our way out of here.¡±

    Morris cursed and pushed one of Peter¡¯s guns into his hands. He saw the sense in their crisis; he fought for money, but that money would be useless if he died.

    ¡°How many?¡± the captain asked in a forcefully calm voice.

    Everyone turned, forming an outfacing circle. The ruins had several layers and were deep.

    ¡°About thirty,¡± Skye said.

    ¡°They¡¯re heavily armored,¡± Owen added. ¡°Potentially enhanced.¡±

    ¡°All right, I want everyone to the edge of the ruins. Try to do as much damage with your gas arms as possible, and then we¡¯ll fight west. With any luck, we can escape to Macbare.¡±

    ¡°What about the tiles?¡± Doctor Aarts asked.

    ¡°Leave them. Anubis won¡¯t find them; we¡¯ll return for them later. Now move!¡±

    Peter still had no idea where the team had hidden the tiles, but that was the least of his worries. He felt no confidence in how another encounter with Anubis would play out.

    ¡°Morris,¡± Peter said, ¡°I had two guns.¡±

    Morris nodded to Benedict, who produced his second weapon and gun-belts.

    Taking the pistol, Peter turned just as Iris ran up to him.

    ¡°Peter, what¡¯s happening? Why are you so old? Where am I?¡±

    Peter held up a hand to stop her and handed her a pistol. ¡°If we survive, I promise I¡¯ll explain everything.¡±

    She looked at the weapon in her hand wide-eyed.

    ¡°You know how to use it, right?¡± She was in the junior shooting club at their academy, but there was no way they shot Slagters.

    In response, she hit the lever, cracked the barrel down to check the chamber, and then snapped it closed.

    Peter smiled and handed her one of his ammunition cross-belts.

    ¡°Aim for the heart.¡± He said, but he had no comfort to lace into his voice.

    Iris nodded without further question. That surprised Peter; in the past, she would ask questions and try to get every detail before doing anything. He saw the somber trust in her eyes and turned to the captain. He was giving the others some instructions in a low voice.

    ¡°Van Seur.¡± He said as he ran up to Peter. ¡°I need you on the east side with Isabella and Van Den Hoek.¡±

    Peter nodded.

    Captain Visser nodded at Iris as he put a hand on each of their shoulders.

    ¡°If you are wounded or even killed, stay down,¡± he said with a dark glimmer in his eye.

    ¡°I¡¯ll try not to run off if I die,¡± Peter agreed half sarcastically, but inside, he felt an unsettling chill.

    ¡°Fall back as needed and keep fighting to the end.¡±

    ¡°As we were meant to,¡± Peter promised.

    The captain spun and headed to the northern end of the ruins. Peter and Iris ran to the east, Peter slowing to accommodate Iris'' shuffle. They got to the outer wall with Isabella and Van Den Hoek, getting their first look at the enemy.

    Peter saw eight ghouls fanned out, blocking their escape from this vector. The others would have them surrounded. The ghouls wore metal helmets with tall shields covering most of their bodies. They all held spears, leveled forward.

    Peter instantly dismissed the ghouls as his eyes locked onto his enemy: Anubis, the lich who had taken his mother and used Iris against him, the one who stabbed him with the Druk and sent the old kings to murder the Nine Fingers.

    Peter felt the burn of hatred against that beast.

    Anubis saw him and laughed. ¡°Van Seur, the Bedorven, the girl, the native who stole her, and the tiles! This must be my lucky catch!¡±

    Peter felt grim satisfaction knowing Anubis wouldn¡¯t get the band or the tiles from killing him, but he also knew there was no way out of this.

    ¡°You seem to have had little luck lately, Anubis,¡± Peter shouted back. ¡°You failed to catch a crop, you failed to get the band, you failed to keep a hostage, and you failed to kill me. Don¡¯t pretend like Rahashel needs you.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s Court Rahashel,¡± Anubis growled.

    Behind them, they heard gun gas as those who had long-range weapons no doubt started their barrage.

    ¡°I¡¯ll call him whatever I want, lich,¡± Peter barked. ¡°And you¡¯ll receive no quarter from us.¡±

    Anubis laughed. ¡°I¡¯m going to kill your friends first, Van Seur, then I¡¯ll finish with you. There will be no priest to save you this time!¡±

    Anubis drew two hand sickles from his belt and clicked commands to his infantry; the ghouls rushed with a silent sprint.

    Peter and his allies leveled their weapons as the ghouls marched in, closing the gap. Peter didn¡¯t like the picture. The tall shields covered their hearts, almost as if they had been adapted to fight against Nine Fingers.

    Van Den Hoek fired and clipped the top of a shield, throwing sparks and blowing off a piece of a ghoul¡¯s head.

    ¡°Shoot their heads to impair their vision!¡± he barked as he started to reload.

    The others fired. Peter¡¯s slug slammed into the center of one¡¯s shield, bending it horribly and knocking it off its feet. It was up in moments and undeterred.

    Peter cursed as he fumbled with his reload. They were coming in fast.

    Iris hit one in the shield with a similar result to Peter¡¯s shot, and Isabella hit a metal shield with a bold from her crossbow.

    ¡°Fall back?¡± Peter asked as he snapped his barrel up and drew the seal breacher.

    Van Den Hoek shot one in the exposed leg, the slug almost ripping it off completely, but the ghoul hopped on one leg at an aggressively terrifying pace. ¡°Yeah!¡± He agreed.

    Peter squeezed off a shot but didn¡¯t see or hear a hit. He abandoned the rocky cover and pulled Iris after him. The ghouls¡¯ tall shields favored the open ground. Hopefully, deeper in the ruins, they would get in their way and turn them around.

    They ran through a broken doorway, and Isabella threw herself on the ground, back to the wall, while the others continued deeper. She readied a crossbow bolt from her hiding place. The ghouls sprang over the broken wall and ran after them through the doorway.

    Iris fired, but her hand tightened before the shot went off. The shot went low and to the left, catching a shield on the bottom corner.

    Isabella shot the last ghoul through the back as it passed her with her crossbow, and it dropped with a whiff of smoke drifting from its shoulders. The next ghoul in line turned on her. She dropped her crossbow and drew her falchion and a pistol. It stabbed at her, and she blocked and fired at point-blank range; it blew off a chunk of the ghoul¡¯s shoulder, but quick as a viper, it stabbed again, running her through.

    ¡°Isabella!¡± Peter screamed.

    She swung with her blade weakly, but the ghoul ignored it and ran her through again, dropping her to the ground.

    Van Den Hoek pushed them through a doorway and planted himself just behind it so they could only come one at a time. The grim director drew his officer¡¯s blade in preparation to make a stand.

    ¡°Feed me loaded guns!¡± he spat fiercely, the hatred on his face almost tangible.

    Iris caught on and took his spent pistol out of his hand, putting hers in its place.

    Two ghouls went shoulder to shoulder, pushing through the doorway. They were clumsy shoulder to shoulder in a confined space with such blocky shields.

    Van Den Hoek moved expertly, holding off their attacks with his blade and reserving his gun for the offense. He fired but missed. Peter replaced his outstretched weapon with his own and loaded the new one.

    Van Den Hoek put up a good fight. Blocking, firing, defending, firing. The two youths loaded and switched out Van Den Hoek¡¯s empty weapons several times before fatigue set in.

    He shot one in the heart, and it dropped; as it went down, a spear flew over its head and into Van Den Hoek¡¯s neck. He gagged and staggered a step back, and two more spears went into him. This time, it was Iris who screamed her lament.

    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    Van Den Hoek¡¯s body fell in a haze, and the spears dropped from him.

    ¡°Watch them die, Van Seur!¡± Anubis bellowed from behind the ghoul¡¯s shoving in the front.

    ¡°Run!¡± Peter cried as he and Iris fled deeper into the ruins.

    Undead pushed their way after them. They passed into a spacious chamber where the roof had caved in, illuminated by the pink light of the atmostorm climbing to its zenith.

    Benedict also staggered into the room by another door, pursued by several ghouls. He stopped abruptly when he saw Peter and Iris. He turned to face the ghouls head-on.

    Benedict fired off a pair of shots, reloading at a rapid speed. He dropped two of the ghouls chasing Peter and Iris, as their

    [ Image: Ch 30.png ]

    shields didn¡¯t cover their hearts from his angle. He spun and leaped through a hole in the wall into the courtyard with the dummy wagon outside.

    Peter pulled Iris after him as he followed. The drop was four feet, and when he landed, Peter cursed as he felt his leg wound open and a fresh spurt of warm blood soak through the bandage. He fell back as ghouls dropped down after them, spread in a semicircle. It was impossible to advance.

    Nearby, Doctor Aarts¡¯ body hit the cement as he was pushed off of a roof. Peter knew the doctor harbored no fondness for him, but it brought him no joy to see the doctor¡¯s mangled body.

    Behind them, Captain Visser and Van Dijk were pushed into the courtyard from the north.

    ¡°Van Seur!¡± the captain cried as he backed up until they were back to back with the wagon and surrounded.

    ¡°Where¡¯s Isabella and Van Den Hoek?¡±

    ¡°Dead!¡± Peter gasped as he fired at an oncoming ghoul, knocking the shield off its arm. Looking closer, Peter realized the entire arm had come off. Iris followed up with her own shot to the chest and dropped it with a whiff of purple smoke from its shoulders. At least fifteen ghouls flooded the courtyard from all sides and made a circle of spears around them.

    ¡°She¡¯s dead?¡± Van Dijk muttered, turning pale. He held his pike, which was splattered with black blood.

    ¡°Where are Morris and his gang?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°Gone,¡± the captain grunted. ¡°Once they saw an opening, they ran. Took the horses too.¡±

    The ghouls stopped, leaving the remaining survivors with little room to move.

    ¡°Van Seur!¡± Anubis said as he entered behind his undead soldiers. His jackal head grinned at his trapped prey. ¡°See your friends die. We can make it stop. Give me the Bedorven.¡±

    ¡°You are wasting your time,¡± Peter gasped as he fed another shell into his pistol. ¡°I don¡¯t have it. I would have leeched my friends to death by now if I did.¡±

    Anubis stopped his smile melting. ¡°What? That¡¯s impossible; what kind of fool would give up that power?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a Nine Fingers soldier, not a court,¡± Peter said. ¡°I followed my orders.¡±

    Beside him, Van Dijk trembled in fury, bloodshot eyes locked on the lich. ¡°You killed Isabella!¡± He screamed as he threw his spear at the Anubis.

    Anubis batted the spear to the side with a sickle, dismissed one of his weapons in purple flame, and summoned a lance of crackling purple. Van Dijk¡¯s eyes grew wide. Anubis threw it. The cackling bolt hummed and hissed as it streaked across the courtyard and took the private in the chest.

    He dropped without a sound, his wound sizzling and bleeding faint purple smoke. The pungent smell of burnt flesh reached Peter¡¯s nose, and he gagged.

    ¡°Where. Is. It?¡± Anubis demanded.

    ¡°On the front lines of Julleck,¡± Peter said, ¡°Being used against your army as they are trapped without tiles.¡±

    Anubis¡¯ eyes flickered over to the wagon.

    ¡°Oh, they¡¯re not there either,¡± Peter rubbed in. ¡°Face it, Anubis, yet again, you¡¯ve lost.¡±

    Anubis hissed at him but stopped. ¡°I guess that makes two of us. You¡¯re friends, your sister ¡­ your mother. You failed them all, and now you die. Neither of us is victorious.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re wrong,¡± Peter said. ¡°Even now, as we hold against you at Julleck, as we stole your tiles, Court Rahashel will be crippled, his army reduced. If I have to die to make this step happen for Nosmeria, for Boslic, I should consider my death a victory.¡±

    Anubis growled and stepped forward.

    Captain Visser stepped in front of Peter defensively. ¡°lich, if you truly wish to test yourself against a true soldier, dismiss your ghouls and face me.¡±

    ¡°Captain!¡± Peter protested. He had seen what Anubis was capable of, and as good a soldier as Tobias was, he was still a man.

    ¡°Don¡¯t interfere, Van Seur,¡± the captain warned. ¡°If I¡¯m going to die today, it¡¯s going to be with my men, and it¡¯s going to happen while I stick this hiss pipe.¡±

    ¡°Who are you?¡± Anubis asked dismissively. ¡°Never mind, I don¡¯t care, kill him.¡±

    Two ghouls stepped forward and attacked the captain.

    Visser was ready for them. He destroyed one of their arms by sending a slug down it from knuckles to elbow, shredding it completely.

    He engaged them with his officer¡¯s sword, dropping his pistol and drawing another. He cut off a large portion of one of their faces with the sharp blade. He ran another down the chest and shot at Anubis.

    The slug tore through the lich¡¯s knee, and he cried out in surprise. The captain pushed past the two crippled ghouls and charged Anubis with a war cry.

    ¡°Fine!¡± Anubis snapped to the challenge. He summoned his second sickle and, in a flash, tore through the captain in a half dozen places, dropping his lifeless body to the ground in a single fluid motion.

    ¡°Captain!¡± Peter screamed, but the captain stared absently at the wall with glazed-over eyes.

    Anubis turned to Peter and Iris, the final two humans. Peter felt Iris grab his arm tightly.

    ¡°Now,¡± Anubis sneered, ¡°Beg, surrender, snivel, shrink, and break as mortals do.¡±

    Peter looked at Iris, her defiant and terrified eyes. For a moment, he returned to that day as he watched, petrified, as a dog tore into her leg. Then, again: his mother lay dead at his feet, Iris helpless in the enemy¡¯s grasp, and he volunteered to put the crop ring on first, but he still hadn¡¯t fought. Now, they faced this dog-headed beast together, and Peter would be damned before he let Anubis touch her.

    ¡°Kneel, crop!¡± Anubis bellowed.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Iris,¡± Peter said, ignoring the lich, which infuriated the Jackal even more. ¡°I couldn¡¯t save you the first time, and I can¡¯t save you now.¡±

    ¡°Van Seur! Look at me!¡± Anubis bellowed, stepping forward and trembling in rage.

    ¡°But this time, I¡¯m going to fight,¡± Peter promised.

    Iris nodded and let him go. ¡°If you fight, Peter, then so do I.¡±

    Peter nodded and drew his bayonet dagger.

    Iris loaded her pistol.

    ¡°All right, Anubis,¡± Peter growled. ¡°Let¡¯s end this.¡±

    Iris trailed behind in a practiced hop-skip shuffle, only touching down with her bad foot briefly so she could lunge with her right leg. She trailed behind as her accommodated gait was no replacement for two working legs. The ghouls made no move to stop them. Anubis glowered at them and then hoisted his sickles.

    Iris shot him, and he didn¡¯t flinch. She tossed the pistol, flipping it around, and grabbed the premernox icy barrel with her hands like a club. She didn¡¯t grimace from the burn.

    Peter got to the lich and sank the blade into his gut.

    Anubis stared at him unflinchingly. ¡°Futile.¡± He muttered before rearing and sinking his sickle into Peter¡¯s shoulder.

    Peter screamed as he remembered exactly how real pain felt.

    Anubis drove his knee into Peter¡¯s gut and slammed him, gasping, to the ground. He yanked the sickle out of Peter¡¯s shoulder, tearing muscle and tendons. Iris screamed and smashed her pistol against Anubis¡¯ head. He hissed at her and shredded her neck with his sickle. She choked and sputtered blood from her neck and lips, and Anubis kicked her across the courtyard, and she tumbled and flew like a rag doll, slamming into the brick wall.

    ¡°Iris!¡± Peter screamed as he tried to pick himself up, and Anubis stepped away.

    ¡°I told you I would do it.¡± Anubis hissed victoriously. ¡°How does it feel? Losing everything a second time?¡±

    Peter picked himself up, his left arm dangling uselessly, and ran to Iris.

    ¡°Iris, I¡¯m ¡­ I¡¯m so sorry!¡± he gasped as he dropped next to her lifeless body.

    ¡°You lose, Van Seur. Now ¡­ you may ask me to kill you.¡±

    Peter noticed something. Faint purple smoke drifting from the wound on her neck.

    Peter started in confusion but began to think, and then he smiled.

    Iris¡¯ eyes snapped open, and she was about to bolt to her feet, but Peter held her down and then held a finger to his lips, signaling silence. He hoped Anubis didn¡¯t see the movement.

    Iris nodded lightly and closed her eyes.

    Peter rose and turned to face Anubis with confidence and a smug smile.

    ¡°Bravo,¡± he said. He would have clapped if he could move his arm. ¡°But is this the best you can do?¡±

    Anubis¡¯ smile dissolved as Peter made his way casually towards him.

    ¡°Honestly, It was quite dramatic, all of it, really. Seeing the vengeance in your eyes ¡­¡± Peter laughed. ¡°All worth it.¡±

    ¡°What are you talking about?¡± Anubis snapped. Peter should have been broken, helpless, desolate.

    Peter started to walk around Anubis, hoping to line himself up just right.

    ¡°I¡¯m talking about the fact that you lost,¡± Peter said. ¡°You revel in the agony of your enemies. I rejoice in the victory of my friends.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re mad,¡± Anubis hissed.

    ¡°Maybe ¡­¡± Peter shrugged as he stopped just past the captain¡¯s body.

    ¡°You can run now, Anubis, or you can kill me and die.¡±

    Anubis sighed, ¡°It¡¯s no fun tormenting a madman.¡± He shot at Peter in a blur and sank his sickles into him, killing him instantly.

    The captain¡¯s final, private instructions to his men ...

    ¡°If you are wounded or even killed, stay down,¡± the captain said with a dark glimmer in his eye ¡­

    Van Den Hoek¡¯s body went down in a haze, and the spears dropped from him as the heads burned away ¡­

    Van Dijk dropped without a sound, his wound sizzling and bleeding faint purple smoke ¡­

    Iris¡¯ eyes opened, and her urge to jump to her feet ¡­

    Peter reset, and his wounds vanished. ¡°Is that the best you can do?¡± He asked as he stared up at the lich.

    ¡°No!¡± Anubis gasped as he stepped back. ¡°That¡¯s impossible. You don¡¯t have the Bedorven!¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re right.¡± Peter said, ¡°But I may have been misinformed about where it actually was ¡­ any day now, captain.¡±

    Captain Visser¡¯s eyes opened as he lay just behind Anubis, and he synchronized with the Bedorven. Like a terrible shadow in a nightmare, the new court leaped onto the lich, catching the sides of Anubis¡¯ head in an iron vice grip.

    The lich screamed, and the captain leeched him ¡ª-Not the passive leech field that Peter was stuck with, but a deliberate attack, with all the fury of a court.

    Anubis shrieked and screamed as a bright purple light flashed, being pulled from the lich and into the captain. Anubis seemed to age and rot simultaneously as his time reserves were drained.

    The captain laughed triumphantly, his eyes flared with bright purple court light. Peter could see the writing of the court band under the captain¡¯s sleeve burn fiercely.

    ¡°Yes!¡± Captain Visser cried. ¡°Little lich, hurting my men. Thought it would be easier, didn¡¯t you?¡±

    Anubis wailed and pulled himself free of Court Tobias Visser. He heaved big breaths of panic as his eyes searched for an escape. ¡°Kill him!¡± he screeched at the ghouls.

    The ghouls charged Captain Visser.

    The court leaped among them, tearing them apart with his bare hands. Several of them managed to impale him with their spears, but the spearheads instantly burned away.

    He moved through them, destroying them faster than they could reach him. He grabbed the final two ghouls by the face, and glowing figures of court writing flowed from his hands, working their way into the ghouls, reprogramming them. The ghouls stopped struggling against the captain and, under some unspoken command, turned on the fleeing Anubis.

    ¡°No!¡± Anubis cried as his former ghouls rushed him. He lashed out at them, cutting them down but gasping weekly for breath as he fought. The captain charged towards Anubis again. He seized his Jackal head in another hold.

    ¡°No!¡± Anubis howled, and the captain grinned, his eyes flashing with court light. The captain took a wide step and jerked Anubis¡¯ head sharply.

    Peter winced at the sickening snap, and the captain dropped Anubis¡¯ rotted and aged corpse to the ground.

    Around, the other members of the Nine Fingers stepped into the courtyard to watch in awe as the captain stood over their scattered enemies.

    ¡°This feels ¡­¡± the captain looked at his hands hypnotically.

    Peter ran over to help Iris to her feet.

    Van Dijk got up, and the others Peter had watched die stepped in to join him.

    The captain turned to face them, and Peter paused. Something was wrong. There was no control, only hunger.

    ¡°Everyone get back!¡± Peter warned as he staggered away from the court. The captain appeared to be going through some processes that never affected Peter.

    ¡°More.¡± Captain Visser growled. The captain held his hand to Van Dijk. Twisted tendrils of vaporous court light pulled from Van Dijk and siphoned into the captain¡¯s palm.

    Van Dijk screamed, and the others gasped as they jumped away.

    ¡°Stop!¡± Isabella screamed at the captain and jumped in front of the leech.

    He started to leech her instead, and Van Dijk moaned as he dropped to the ground. He suddenly looked much older, probably close to Peter¡¯s age.

    ¡°Tobias!¡± Isabella screamed as she entered her mid-fifties.

    The captain stopped and blinked several times, glancing at the mortals before him, and then he saw Isabella.

    ¡°Captain, take off the band,¡± Isabella pleaded, her voice cracked with age.

    Captain Visser stared from one to the other, then gasped as recognition entered his eyes, and the glow died. He cursed, pulled the ring off, and let it clatter to the ground.

    He cried as he kicked it away, and Isabella snatched it up, careful not to touch it more than necessary. Her light blond hair had gone grey, and her posture bent slightly to reflect her new age.

    The captain collapsed onto his haunches and shivered.

    ¡°Would somebody care to explain what¡¯s going on?¡± Doctor Aarts demanded.

    ¡°The captain had the band the whole time,¡± Peter said. ¡°He must have shared some of his abilities with us.¡±

    The doctor nodded at the explanation. ¡°And is there any reason you didn¡¯t tell us?¡± The anger was apparent in his voice. ¡°I just died!¡±

    The captain was breathing slowly, and he looked at the ring longingly, so Isabella hid it from his sight.

    ¡°The commandant knew everyone would react poorly if they knew the band wasn¡¯t Julleck,¡± he explained. ¡°I was ordered not to tell anyone.¡±

    ¡°And why didn¡¯t you use it from the start?¡± Doctor Aarts demanded. ¡°Falling from the roof is fairly traumatic.¡±

    The captain shook his head. ¡°I had to minimize risks. With Morris¡¯ boys, things got complicated.¡±

    ¡°And now they¡¯re gone,¡± Peter grinned. ¡°And we¡¯re alive.¡±

    Most others shook their heads as they still struggled to accept it.

    ¡°We did it,¡± Peter muttered as he looked at Iris. ¡°We really won.¡±

 32 Knights of Nine Fingers

    The Final Cell marched into Julleck. They were first met by a discomforting silence and then human voices. Two plumes of smoke billowed from two massive pyres on the outskirts of town. Peter noticed one was for ghouls and the other for fallen people.

    Not seeing any familiar faces, they continued deeper into the city. No one moved to stop them or even gave them a second glance. There was an oddly dense presence of domestics, helping the wounded and setting up food lines. They found the commandant, several soldiers, a cluster of stewards and butlers, and hundreds of civilians resting on the steps to the magistrate¡¯s cabinet hall. The wounded were dressed, and organized runners fetched water for healer maids.

    The commandant waved them over to him with a grin on his face. They approached quickly, and Peter noticed the commandant¡¯s arm was in a sling; he wasn¡¯t the only one to see.

    ¡°Commandant, are you okay?¡± Isabella asked as they hurried over to him. Her clothes fit oddly to accommodate a body decades older than when she put them on.

    The commandant scowled as he looked at the arm. ¡°It was really stupid; it happened a half hour after the domestics came. We were rounding them up ¡ª just stragglers. I missed a step and broke my arm. The House offered to heal it once we¡¯ve got the wounded into a stable condition.¡±

    Peter couldn¡¯t hold back a chuckle, and the commandant glared at him.

    ¡°Hours of fighting, and it couldn¡¯t have come from something cool. Looks like you¡¯re getting old, Commandant,¡± Peter said with perhaps too much familiarity for a war leader.

    ¡°Hypocrite,¡± the commandant returned.

    ¡°Hopefully not for long,¡± Peter said.

    ¡°So your mission was a success?¡± the commandant inquired.

    ¡°The tiles are secured in a safe location,¡± the captain confirmed.

    ¡°Good,¡± The commandant said, keeping his voice low. ¡°And the band?¡±

    Isabella drew it from a bag looped around her shoulder but the commandant stopped her. ¡°Not here ¡ª too many eyes.¡±

    The commandant saw Iris and smiled. ¡°You must be Iris. I¡¯ve heard a lot about you.¡± He said with the grace of a gentleman. ¡°It seems that today is a victory for all of us.¡±

    Peter frowned. ¡°Where is Julian?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s hunting for liches that may have slipped past us,¡± the commandant said, ¡°He¡¯ll join us soon.¡±

    Peter breathed a sigh of relief. He noticed a pair of butlers giving orders to footmen, a rank reserved for Nyamarian servitors who lacked boons.

    ¡°A lot of domestics here,¡± he noted. ¡°Does that mean the House joined the war?¡±

    The commandant nodded. ¡°This power shift may be dangerous. We¡¯ll have to move forward with tact.¡±

    People stirred below as a unit of soldiers approached. Leading them up the stairs was a man in a suit, a long coat, and a top hat. He had a medallion on a wide scarlet ribbon, which marked him as the magistrate of Julleck. He was escorted by no less than fifty soldiers, soldiers that the commandant glared at with fiery eyes, soldiers that he no doubt could have used in the battle.

    ¡°Commandant Van Graif,¡± the Magistrate said sternly, as he ascended the stairs. ¡°You¡¯re here.¡± He said it as if he were surprised or disgusted.

    ¡°Yes,¡± the commandant smiled viciously. ¡°I am, and where, pray tell, were you Magistrate Rovers?¡±

    ¡°I am the Magistrate of this city, Sebastian,¡± Magistrate Rovers said, completely ignoring the commandant¡¯s question. ¡°By what right do you bring your men to my city?¡± The magistrate saw only the small remaining party, and his eyes twinkled confidently. Peter saw that the magistrate expected heavy resistance and a wrestle for power from Van Graif. Clearly, the magistrate felt satisfied with his heavy security detail.

    ¡°I received every right to be here,¡± The commandant retorted, ¡°When you abandoned your people, you leech-maggot.¡±

    ¡°I know you, Sebastian!¡± Magistrate Rovers now deliberately dropped the commandant¡¯s title. ¡°You just want Julleck; you¡¯ve come to take it!¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t know me!¡± The commandant grunted as he climbed to his feet. The magistrate¡¯s eyes flickered to the sheathed sword in the commandant¡¯s good hand.

    ¡°How could you know me? You¡¯ve refused every request for an audience I¡¯ve sent you.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not a real soldier,¡± the magistrate challenged. ¡°I¡¯m a real officer of the people, appointed by the crown of Nosmeria itself.¡±

    ¡°The crown that Rahashel now wears?¡±

    It was all figurative; neither King Adrichem nor his ancestors wore a crown.

    The magistrate abandoned all pretenses of diplomacy. ¡°You will not have Julleck, Sebastian!¡±

    The commandant scoffed as he started walking down towards the magistrate. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t take Julleck if you begged me to. You see, unlike you, I don¡¯t just hide and wait for death. I intend to destroy Rahashel, and so far, only my people have ever done any real damage. The last thing I need is a city to babysit while we fight.¡±

    That caused many of the surviving civilians and soldiers to murmur in surprise. The commandant got right in the magistrate¡¯s face, so they were eye to eye.

    ¡°I¡¯m going,¡± he announced, loud enough for everyone else to hear. ¡°Anyone who will fight for all you love, come with me ¡­ or do you want to put your faith in Magistrate Rovers hands?¡± He spat the name like a sour taste.

    Commandant Van Graif stalked past the magistrate, and Peter and the others followed him. Peter was surprised when most of the people on the stairs got up and followed him. Apparently, the magistrate was surprised, too.

    ¡°Stop!¡± He barked at them, but there were too many, several of them being his own men. ¡°Anyone who goes with that man is a criminal!¡±

    That didn¡¯t deter anyone. They flooded past the leader for whom they had lost all respect. The magistrate made no move to enforce his threat. In fact, several of his personal security detail looked after them with guilty looks on their faces.

    Peter smiled. The further through the city they got, the more people came until the mob had several thousand people following. Summoned by runners and family members, Nine Fingers was being reborn.

    Peter gasped as the years seemed to melt off of his aged face.

    He dropped the spent tiles onto the table. They didn¡¯t weigh any less now that the glyphs stopped glowing. Ten tiles, about one for each year, ten years younger.

    Iris gawked at him. ¡°That looks so weird,¡± she marveled.

    This was how she had gotten her age back; it seemed to work for everyone. You could hold tiles and siphon them dry. It took a little focus and mental strain, but Peter managed.

    Peter took another ten tiles and drained them, too. The reverse leech was cold, like he had ice on his skin when it was still dry and it hadn¡¯t started to melt yet.

    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    He grew younger again and smiled. He looked like he may have been in his forties.

    They had each been granted one hundred tiles as a reward for their victory. Peter naturally used his to get his age back.

    He wouldn¡¯t use all of them, of course; it wouldn¡¯t do to turn into a baby.

    He continued the process and stopped when he looked about twenty-five. ¡°Maybe I should stay like this.¡± He smiled as he saw himself. He was much more broad and tall than he was as a seventeen-year-old kid or an old man. ¡°This would put me in peak fighting condition.¡±

    Iris looked at him, startled, and quickly looked away.

    ¡°What?¡± Peter asked.

    ¡°Nothing,¡± Iris responded, then she bit her lip. ¡°I just wish I had thought of that.¡±

    Peter looked at her and sighed. She was back to her old self; her body looked about seventeen, just like the day before they were turned to crop.

    He grabbed a couple more tiles and returned to the age he assumed would have been seventeen or so, though in truth, he thought he looked more like he was nineteen, a little taller and broader. He had to account for the half-year as a crop, right?

    ¡°Are you ready?¡± Iris asked.

    Peter nodded.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±

    Peter scratched at his stiff new uniform. It was a dark charcoal grey, almost black: a Jullecki uniform with Nine Fingers badges sewn onto it. It wasn¡¯t as cool as the coats and cloaks they had worn before, but with more numbers came more structure, and with the new system came the uniforms. Not that it mattered; after today, Peter would only need the uniform for special official occasions.

    Peter nodded and pulled his stiff uniform Kepi hat onto his head. He would have preferred Van Gutter¡¯s hat, but, as he kept reminding himself, this was a ceremonial occasion. Iris pulled her own kepi onto her head and followed them. They both had private patches. Iris had enlisted with the majority of the Julleck populace. Peter¡¯s rank was about to change.

    Iris'' limp was hardly noticeable. Julian had pulled some strings at Peter''s request, and Iris had weekly sessions with a healer maid. The wound would have recovered easier if it was fresh, but it had been set improperly years ago. The maid assigned to the wound saw Iris'' case as an exciting challenge.

    Peter entered the assembly tomb. A simple stone memorial had been erected for those who perished to the laughing kings. Many commissioned and non-commissioned officers gathered in attendance. The rank and structure matched a more conventional army. Peter was afraid staying at the Shay burrows was too bold, but the commandant insisted they were driven out to make a statement, and their staying also made an assertion ¡ª that they weren¡¯t so easily moved.

    Peter joined Van Dijk, Isabella, Captain Visser, and Director Van Den Hoek, and Owen. Doctor Aarts was also invited to join them, but he declined, saying he was an academic, not a soldier. Like Peter, Van Dijk and Isabella used their tiles to return to their original ages. Isabella now looked familiar, but Van Dijk looked to be his true twenty-five for the first time.

    There was also a newcomer, a Dinnian named Kulafu Mendoza. Apparently, he had played an ample part in the defense at Julleck. They were all led to a reserved row of seats before the ceremony started.

    Peter¡¯s stomach fluttered as he looked at the crowd of newcomers. Not all were from Julleck, but many were from Macbare, Astria, and several companies officially sent from Vorsabia. He didn¡¯t know drills and ceremonies like these soldiers would have been trained. With two hundred men in uniform, they had the modest start-up of an army.

    Seated at the head, Commandant Van Graif, or more accurately, Lord Commandant as he had been appointed, sat beside Commandant De Zwart. Commandant De Zwart now had a claw hand affixed to the nub of his hand, which made Peter think painfully of his trainer, Norah.

    The Lord Commandant rose to address the audience, and the officers sat in attendance. Van Graif gave a simple but direct summary of the Final Cell¡¯s ¡°brave deeds¡± and the ¡°essential role¡± they played in the victory at Julleck. Honestly, Peter wasn¡¯t listening. He was just grateful to see his new brotherhood grow.

    ¡°If the Final Cell would now take their place before me.¡±

    Isabella nudged him, pulling him out of his stupor. The commandant was talking to them now. Both she and Van Dijk were a great deal younger after using some of their tiles to regain their youth. Van Dijk was younger still than he was when Peter first met him; he couldn¡¯t have been five years older than Peter himself.

    Peter joined the others and took a knee before the Lord Commandant. Lord Commandant Van Graif smiled at each one in turn before drawing his officer¡¯s sword.

    ¡°Attention to orders!¡±

    The assembly stood at attention, the grunt of chairs sliding back echoing off the halls.

    ¡°Neils Van Dijk, for honoring your post and defending Julleck, I knight you after the order of Nine Fingers.¡± Van Graif tapped each shoulder with his sword.

    He moved to Isabella. ¡°Isabella Vandersteen, for protecting your unit and fighting valiantly in saving Julleck, I knight you after the order of Nine Fingers.¡± He tapped each shoulder with his blade before moving to Peter.

    ¡°Peter Van Seur, for enduring the pain of a thousand deaths and for your loyalty in saving Julleck, I knight you after the order of Nine Fingers.¡±

    Peter felt his face heat up as it was plastered with a stupid grin. The blade lightly touched each shoulder. Lord Commandant Van Graif smiled at him and moved on.

    ¡°Captain Tobias Visser, for your leadership and leadership in saving Julleck, I knight you after the order of Nine Fingers.¡±

    Peter stole a look at Iris in her seat behind him. She grinned, and her eyes were wet.

    ¡°Brett Van Den Hoek, for fighting through the most gripping sorrow and for saving Julleck, I knight you after the order of Nine Fingers.¡±

    ¡°Owen Hartman, for keeping the Final Cell operating and for your necessity in saving Julleck, I knight you after the order of Nine Fingers.¡±

    ¡°Kulafu Mendoza, for heeding an unvoiced call and saving many in Julleck, I knight you after the order of Nine Fingers.¡±

    Sebastian Van Graif stepped away, and a new captain approached them with several metal badges hung from chains around his arm. They depicted the nine-finger seal, a stylized depiction of a four-finger hand. One by one, he hung the badges around their necks.

    Peter looked at the metal badge with the backdrop of dark leather and smiled.

    ¡°Please stand.¡± Van Graif instructed.

    "About face!" De Zwart called.

    Peter performed the maneuver the way Owen had taught him.

    ¡°At ease!¡±

    The assembly applauded, and Peter went beet red, especially when he saw Iris, whose cheers cut through the noise of the crowd.

    Van Graif leaned over behind them. ¡°I¡¯ll have a word with you in my office when the festivities have ended.¡±

    They all congregated with Julian and the doctor in the commandant¡¯s office.

    ¡°What¡¯s he doing here?¡± the doctor asked, pointing to the Nyamarian steward.

    ¡°First, I wish to congratulate you on your new position.¡± The commandant said, dismissing the doctor¡¯s concern. ¡°I am establishing the knights because I need an inner circle of agents and slayers I can trust. You can move independently, and our army will offer full cooperation. Your badge is an emblem of authority. Don¡¯t abuse it.¡±

    The new knights nodded and examined their new badges yet again.

    ¡°The reason Julian is here is the same reason you are here, Doctor,¡± Van Graif turned to Doctor Aarts. ¡°I value both of your input.¡±

    The doctor sobered at the response.

    ¡°We need to decide what to do with this.¡± He produced the court band and placed it on the table.

    Tobias twitched when he saw it, and Peter recognized the gleam of desire in his eyes.

    ¡°Tobias, would you accept the responsibility of bearing this weapon again?¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡± Captain Visser smiled and moved to grab it in a way that made Peter shudder. It was like the captain he knew was gone, replaced by a hungry animal.

    The commandant pulled it out of his reach and turned to Peter. ¡°And what of you, Van Seur? Would you accept this assignment?¡±

    Peter was taken aback, and the wild spark that Peter saw in Tobias¡¯ eye disappeared.

    Peter thought about it, the pain and the leeching.

    ¡°With all due respect, Lord Commandant,¡± Peter said. ¡°Tobias wielded it much more effectively than I did. Anubis seemed to imply that I was somehow handicapped in using it. So I respectfully decline.¡±

    The Command then slid the ring over to Peter, who looked up in surprise.

    ¡°Then it¡¯s an order, soldier.¡±

    ¡°It was a test?¡± Tobias realized.

    The commandant nodded, ¡°I don¡¯t doubt your integrity, captain, but Peter¡¯s, ah, handicap seems to keep him from some of the more dangerous aspects. When you started to leech your own men, it wasn¡¯t a fault on your part but the lack of preparation. Van Seur will carry it for now.¡±

    Peter twitched. ¡°Commandant, I ¡­¡± Life as an immortal meat shield. He¡¯d be alone again. He had Iris and friends; he¡¯d have to stay away from all of them. Live was lonely with the band. He bowed his head. ¡°Yes, sir.¡±

    ¡°You are the safest and most reliable place for the band to be. We¡¯ll work and study and see what it takes for you to control it, but in the meantime, I want it with you.¡±

    Peter reluctantly nodded. ¡°As you command, Lord Commandant.¡± He picked it up but didn¡¯t put it on just yet; the others were too close.

    Julian perked up. ¡°If I may ¡­ It might be possible for me to train Peter.¡± Everyone turned to him in surprise.

    ¡°The boy is a Nine Fingers soldier,¡± Doctor Aarts protested, ¡°Not a domestic. What makes you think you have any claim to train him?¡±

    ¡°Because I know what it is.¡± Julian looked at the doctor darkly and seemed to weigh his following words carefully. ¡°And I have one too.¡±

    A green fire erupted around the steward¡¯s forearm, leaving an armband glowing with green runes distinctly different from court script.

    Julian¡¯s eyes were a more natural hazel when the band was visible on his arm.

    Everyone gasped and jumped. The commandant simply nodded. ¡°I suspected as much. We need to discuss the terms of our continued partnership, High Steward. I understand the value of sovereignty in our organizations. Still, the domestics fought with us at Julleck, not the magistrates. In my book, that makes us brothers. I propose joint custody over our court.¡±

    ¡°A generous and wise idea,¡± Julian agreed. ¡°He can liaise between our brotherhoods."

    Peter¡¯s head spun. Things had changed so quickly, but as he looked around the room for answers. Everyone except Doctor Aarts smiled in encouragement. Even Captain Visser, who may have felt robbed of his task, dismissed a fleeting look of jealousy.

    Peter couldn¡¯t believe it. After losing everything, he saved Iris and had allies and friends. With them on his side, how hard could it be?

 Epilogue

    Sekhmet, the lion-headed lich, gasped for air as she pushed on toward Stalpia. The city rose in the distance, built into the hill range that held Vet Channel.

    She doubled over, breathing hard. She was out of tiles, out of Tijd. The natives had managed to cut the liches from their power supply. She and her comrades had been reckless and failed Court Rahashel. She wasn¡¯t worthy to show her face in Stalpia again. Yet duty required her to report their defeat.

    She looked behind her. The Priest was following her, hunting down the last of the combative elder liches. Somehow he had a Druk. She shook her head and willed herself on. Her energy waned and her body ached. What she would give for a single tile. Her armor was heavy, and her large Khopesh almost seemed to drag her down.

    She stopped suddenly, tilting her head to better hear an unexpected noise.

    Running water? she thought in confusion. There wasn¡¯t a stream here when they first moved on Julleck, yet now there was. She struggled on, a sense of curiosity joining her desperation. She saw the sparkle of water ahead.

    She ran to it, on legs heavy with fatigue. She took a few steps into the shallow stream and dropped into the cool water. Her large enhanced lich body felt like it was overheating and the water came as a refreshing change.

    What did it matter? The priest would catch up and she would be killed.

    She growled in frustration and fear. She was scared, there was only one thing to do.

    She bowed her head.

    ¡°Father, Rahashel.¡± She felt a stirring within. ¡°Please. I know I am an unworthy servant, but I need your help.¡± Her prayer was simple, but it made her smile. What happened next would be her God¡¯s will.

    She opened her eyes and gasped. Half buried in the sand at the bottom of the stream, purple light reflected back.

    She seized the tile that lay forgotten. How had it gotten there?

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    She grinned. There was only one way it would be there. Through Rahashel¡¯s providence. It wouldn¡¯t be enough for her to fight the human priest, but it would be enough to keep her running until she reached the city.

    ¡°It looks like they missed one.¡± A shallow voice made her jump.

    She looked up. A tall thin man watched her from the bank. He was shirtless, showing off a defined, slender, knotted body. He wore baggy black pants and had a mane of thick fiery red hair that dropped back to his waist.

    ¡°Mortal!¡± She growled and siphoned the single tile, feeling her strength flow back into her. It wouldn¡¯t be enough to fight the priest, but killing this peasant would be easy.

    She lunged at him, striking with her khopesh. The axe-sword hybrid cut deep and the man collapsed.

    She smiled. She loved killing; it was part of her altered programming.

    The man groaned and started to rise. Not climbing up like a human would, but drifting up as if pulled up on invisible marionette strings. Once on his feet, he smiled.

    Blood flowed freely from his chest, making his bare skin wet with blood. ¡°Not exactly,¡± He said, his voice soft and broken.

    Sekhmet fell back, the panic rising. ¡°lich,¡± she gasped.

    As blood poured from the newcomer''s chest, the red in his hair started to drain, replaced by jet back.

    He held his hand to his side and the blood on his body lifted off of his skin. It began to swim the air. Thorny tendrils of blood danced and whipped like a vicious living whip.

    ¡°Wraith,¡± she muttered, all hope gone from her voice.

    The man grinned. The last of the red in his hair had evaporated, leaving his thick mane pure black at exactly the same moment his wound stopped bleeding. The blood thrashed and writhed in strands dancing around his body like violent strikes of liquid lightning.

    ¡°Which Court do you belong to?¡± she asked.

    ¡°Seventy-three,¡± he said through his grin. His eyes were grey, like a stormy sky.

    ¡°Why?¡± she asked as she sunk to her knees.

    ¡°It would have been better for the priest to finish you.¡± He said. ¡°With that tile, you would have outrun him.¡±

    ¡°Why me?¡±

    The wraith shook his head. ¡°It¡¯s not about you. It¡¯s about Rahashel. His momentum must be lost completely. You¡¯re the last piece.¡±

    She looked up at her killer with the last ounce of pride she could muster.

    The wraith whipped the animated strands of blood at the lion-headed lichess. They grew taught and wrapped around her neck. She choked once. The wraith pulled. The thorny chain of blood circled around her neck, and her lion head dropped beside her human body.

    He breathed in deeply. His job was done. The tendrils of blood lost their harsh form and began to flow back into his wound. Blood from his victim animated and swirled through the air towards his wound as well.

    As blood flowed back into the wraith¡¯s chest the blood red color returned to his hair and his wound closed.

    He sniffed the air. The priest was near. It was time to disappear.

 Aarts Clasification Methood and update.

    Anubis,

    We recovered these from a Nine Fingers researcher who had infiltrated Stalpia''s lower levels. It seems they''re trying to study your kind. Interestingly, their records depicted ghouls from other courts, suggesting that this renegade slayer corps has cells beyond our borders.

    We attempted to hold him for interrogation, but he took cyanide, concealed within his ring.

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    Chief Director Stegeman,

    Court Rahashel and Court Rasminfrey continue to battle over Vet River. My analysis suggests Rahashel will capture Calicray by the end of the month.

    I have enclosed a report of the channels bridges report on which bridges¡ªthose destroyed, those still standing, and new ones either completed, or under construction.

    ¡ªCaptain Van Gutter

    Nine Fingers Simbol