THE FORSAKEN LAND OF GENèSE | LOST KINGDOM | PLAZA

  600

  Faster. Faster. And faster than ever before.

  Faster than Jonah.

  Faster than his thoughts.

  Faster than the comet shredding through an otherwise lightless expanse, growing warmer as it approached.

  A heat that slipped through the threads of his bloody robes and went right through his spine, settling in the cradle of his ribs, where his flame was slowly burning itself out. Burning him alive in response to a sickness that wanted just that. For the shepherd’s blood to boil inside his skin—a bowl of soup for it to swallow.

  Solvanel stirred the power in his flame, taking himself to the limit.

  He knew it was dangerous, but the distance between this barrier and the next was too great. Too great for the old self. But too small for that which he was meant to be.

  He planted his toes at the very edge of the roof.

  Golden strands within him obeyed the shepherd’s will, illuminating his stride. The crook hummed a warning. The crown hummed approval.

  He leapt across the gap, clearing it despite the effort.

  And there it was.

  The final barrier between himself and the next stele.

  In the middle of the plaza where wooden carts and fruit had long turned to dust, there was a watchtower surrounded by four walls of light.

  It was a squat stone base scarred by soot and old impacts, and above it a timber crown bolted on with black iron. Thick posts climbed the corners, cross-braced in a harsh lattice, their beams weathered to the colour of dead bark. Platforms jutted out on each face like blunt shoulders—overhangs meant for archers and stones, with waist-high rails and gaps where defenders could lean out and spit death.

  A ladder ran up one side in crooked stages, half rungs missing, leading to a ringed parapet at the top with a pitched cap.

  Twice the size of the nearest buildings, it lacked the decadence devoted to the structures the young man had imagined so far. And with that nasty flame pacing around at the top, it viewed less like a noble keep and more like something hammered together for war, out of place this side of the city.

  The silver bar called out to him at the base of the stele.

  Or rather, to the other bar of silver in his right pocket. The ingot shifted against his thigh like a compass point, having decided where it belonged.

  The mercenary flame collapsed, wracked by nervousness and greed that sank into the wood. Solvanel couldn’t see his tears, but he saw through the barrier, and the thin figure all the same.

  Silver’s call penetrated his, rousing the flames of desire while his sobs echoed inside the chamber of his own making.

  He wanted the prize.

  He feared the price.

  If this flame were to stand up and look across the plaza, would it remember the lie it told him all those years ago?

  That home.

  It was near enough to his grandmother’s convent that Solvanel could hurry back and pretend he never left, yet close enough to the swamp that the air turned cool, condensing around his wrists. The ground softened into moss and roots, and the canopy overhead let in a grey skylight that speared through the leaves without offering any warmth—thin, cold shafts that lit up puddles and rotting wood like dull, discarded glass.

  Sound was muffled here, as if the nearby mangroves had swallowed the noise, and even the familiar outline of the untamed fauna had grown, died, and grown again.

  That’s where the shepherd met him.

  [What am I doing here? Oh, I’m just paying my sister a surprise visit. I miss her so much. You understand that. Don’t you, sir?]

  [Hey, do you know where I can find some white flowers?]

  [Oh, I get it. You’re planning a surprise, too.] The gentleman’s flame flickered with clarity. [The Lightbringer would be angry if she found out you snuck out again, but I’ll tell you what. I’ll tell you where the flowers are in exchange for a blessing.]

  [But I don’t have any blessings…]

  These shameful, tiny words aimed at the ground.

  It was the same answer he always gave, admitting a lack he was yet to understand

  [P- please, sir!] The gentleman insisted. [I need this! If you don’t have a blessing for me, then there’s no such thing! All I ask is some guidance!]

  From his speech pattern, the boy couldn’t help but imagine he was speaking to a coward. Shivering down to his toes like a real scaredy puss.

  [Okay,] retracted the shepherd. That didn’t sound too hard. [I’ll try my best.]

  [Then. I- Is it wrong for a brother to want to be with his sister? Even if she tells him to leave?]

  Even with his grandmother’s warning ringing in his head—don’t go outside without me, don’t answer questions without me—Solvanel couldn’t help himself. This was the question that had the coward’s flame shaking like a darn leaf?

  This one was—too easy. So easy that the answer escaped his mouth before the thought had fully formed in his mind. [No! That’s what brothers are for!]

  [Really?] After a bout of tears, the cowardly gentleman’s voice contained a hint of stability, steeled by the shepherd's blessing. [Thank you, Messolah. That’s all I needed to hear. If you’re looking for white flowers, then you’ll have to try someone else. Now that I have your blessing, I fear there won’t be white flowers around this home for some time.]

  [Okay, sir. Good luck!]

  Oedipus… was it?

  The memories of his seeing days were vivid.

  Somewhere in that gallery was a portrait of a woman, taken candid from the window where he watched the villagers go about their days in idyllic routine.

  She had long, black hair, braided down to the waist. And a basket in her right hand as she left the bakery, down the path to the physician’s building just before sunset. Sometimes, she’d stop and give the other children a treat.

  Solvanel used to imagine that she smelled like bread.

  He didn’t have the mind to question why she stopped bringing her husband dinner, but he remembered the day the physician started carrying the baskets. He didn’t hand out treats on the way to work.

  Jonah said they’d probably taste like medicine and sadness, anyway.

  While he was still lost in the past, three streams of buzzing veered toward the plaza. Two burned with hunger. One with wrath. They tore through the air above him, streaking past in violent spirals and leaving the tower untouched.

  The Azure Needle stung.

  It danced along broken ledges and angled stone, flashing like caught lightning as it chipped away at the chitin plating, drawing them to the edge of the kingdom, from whence the procession came.

  Solvanel’s first instinct was to watch. To let them do what they must.

  However, a hollowness panged in his chest.

  The same daily stir from before he left in the village—the ache that came when his voice failed them, when all he could offer was the same quiet, pitiful answer:

  [No, I cannot help you. I don’t have any blessings to give.]

  Listening to Oedipus blubber apologies to himself in the safety of his nest, the shepherd thought back to a promise and gritted his teeth. “Are you still watching?”

  The being did not respond.

  “Who am I kidding? You have been this entire time,” said Solvanel to nothing at all. “Forgive me for boring you, sir demon. From now on, I’ll show you exactly what you want to see.”

  Tiles shattered under his feet as he pushed off in that direction.

  In the watchtower, the mercenary’s flame reeled, and with it came a sudden chill licking up the nape of his neck. He craned over the edge of the tower, choking up, expecting to see the ghost of the old man, the other mercenaries, or even the shade that tore Cedrick apart.

  But no one was there.

  THE FORSAKEN LAND OF GENèSE | LOST KINGDOM | RESIDENTIAL DISTRICT

  600

  Sula stayed hidden, crouched in the shadow of a broken archway.

  High above the streets, cloaked in shadow atop a slanted rooftop, Saint lay beside Albus, watching the empty lanes in a prone position.

  “I don’t believe it for a second, by the way,” Albus muttered, squinting toward the street below.

  Saint didn’t glance his way. “You think now’s the best time to talk about this?”

  “What you said before,” Albus continued. “That was some tough talk. But if you’ve really got no skin in this world, then why’re you still helping the kid?”

  “I already told you, fatty. I have my own agenda.”

  “But you stopped to get him an antidote,” Albus pressed. “The quicksilver I heard about doesn’t let anything, or anyone, get in the way of a mission.”

  A humourless smirk hidden in the darkness. “Good for him. I’ll let him know you’re a fan.”

  Below, Sula clenched his remaining fist, his instrument ready to manifest.

  Phantom pains throbbed beyond the edge of his stump.

  A loss of such great tragedy to bring a grown man and his weapon to tears.

  A series of impacts drew close to his position.

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  Crashing in the distance.

  Stone shattering.

  Roof tile breaking.

  Wilhelm’s voice echoing across the district.

  Something slammed into the archway, quickly engulfed by a plume of ashen dust.

  “You bitch!” he called out, nostrils flared—king of broken bones upon his throne of rubble. “Is that all you’ve got? You’ll never stick your mitts in Priscillia. Not even Prim! Never! You hear me? Ne-”

  Sula stabbed him in the chest, fountaining hot, sticky blood.

  The Backbreaker and the cultist groaned in unison. “One more, Sully.”

  Another united noise.

  “One more?”

  Cedrick’s broken corpse dragged itself around the corner, an infested leg drawing a line from whence it came. Beauty sniffed the air twice, snapping the dead man’s neck with a sudden turn. “You!”

  “Maybe later. When we’re alone.”

  Wilhelm righted himself, baring his yellow fangs and the blood between them.

  "How dare you?!"

  "Spiller Wilhelm. What lies did you feed this beast to make it follow you?"

  "None of your concern."

  "Me?! Wed you?!" it snarled. "Not in a thousand years! And I’ve already been alone for thousands.”

  “She’s lyin’. Get her!”

  Wilhelm broke left as Sula drifted right.

  No word was passed between them, nor a glance exchanged.

  Shared between these two mercenaries was a silent tongue, the language of prophesying their partner’s next moves by channeling their desire to inflict suffering.

  Together, the Backbreaker and The One-Man Army made up the vanguard of the Nine Wolves. When their enemies saw that bloody sword’s reflection on those silver gauntlets, they knew their time on this world had reached the worst ending of their natural lives.

  Because nothing was more natural than life into death.

  And there was no greater pairing than slaughter and brutality.

  Beauty lunged for the Backbreaker, Goodhall's stolen flesh surging forward. Wilhelm dropped beneath the strike, gauntlet catching sand as he slid. His momentum carried him past, and he threw a handful of sand into its eye sockets.

  A feint that drew the shade's attention exactly where Sula needed it.

  The Teardrop Cleaver sang its crimson hymn.

  But Beauty was already gone.

  Borrowed legs launched it above the arc.

  Sula's blade carved air, the blood wave dissipating harmlessly against abandoned stone.

  The shade landed between them.

  "Lovely coordination, boys," it admitted. "But it's no use. I can smell your intentions from a mile away.”

  Wilhelm came from its blind side, fist driving toward its spine with gauntleted fury. The creature swayed without turning, as if the air was seasoned with their approach.

  Sula's horizontal slash forced it into a forward roll, but it rose laughing—not a scratch upon Goodhall's ruined flesh.

  "Wilhelm. High."

  The Backbreaker launched himself at its chest, a living battering ram.

  Beauty sidestepped with dancer's grace, letting his weight carry him by. But Sula was there behind it—had always planned to—cleaver raised high before descending in an executioner's arc.

  The shade bent backwards, spine arching. Goodhall's head tilted until it nearly kissed the ground behind her.

  The blade screamed past its nose, close enough that it could count the pits in the rotted bone.

  "Aw, you remember me, don't you?" It mused, eyes fixed on the cyan gem.

  Beauty straightened slowly, savouring the near-miss.

  Wilhelm and Sula exchanged no words with the taunting shade.

  Both had witnessed what manner of beast had repurposed Goodhall's ruin.

  This was the mightiest foe they had ever faced, but such knowledge brought no discomfort.

  They were doing battle without half their number, but their flames, living for slaughter, had long forgotten the fear of disadvantage.

  The real concern was as unspoken as their silent lack.

  This was their first battle without their leader at the forefront. Without Jonah's voice and wind cutting through the chaos. Without his brutal, reckless certainty somehow anchoring them to the ground, his senseless commands to chase into death's maw.

  The mercenaries’ expressions were petrified—focused, not fear.

  In fact, for the entire course of this battle, this was the one time these two men exchanged a glance. Their numbers were going to dwindle again, and there was nothing they could do about it.

  "Again," Sula grunted.

  They split. The Backbreaker went low again, the cultist going high. The shade backpedalled, reading their angles.

  Wilhelm's gauntlet came up in a hook.

  Beauty twisted away.

  Sula's cleaver descended from above.

  It slipped away.

  They weren't aiming to hit, but they were circling her, backing it into—

  A wall!

  Cedrick’s glossy eye socket widened, home to a nest of maggots.

  Wilhelm drove his fist forward. The shade's palm shot out to meet it. His gauntlet caught its strike with a metallic snap that echoed through the street.

  The force rattled up his arm, shaking bone. His teeth clenched.

  Sula came from the side, cleaver horizontal. Beauty kicked off the wall, spinning toward him. Its foot snapped out mid-turn.

  The cultist brought his blade up flat instead. Its heel crashed against the bone with a sound like a hollow thud.

  Sula slid back three paces, boots carving sand. His arms trembled from the impact.

  "Strong," he muttered.

  "No thanks to this outfit," Beauty stressed. "But I think that I’m making good use of it. Don’t you?"

  Blood seeped from where his knuckles had split inside the gauntlet. "Good. I was gettin' bored."

  The mercenary charged straight at her.

  Behind him, Sula stepped back, severing his tongue with his teeth.

  Blood pooled in his mouth. He spat it into the cleaver's central eye.

  The weapon shuddered in his grip, the cyan gem beginning to weep.

  Tears streamed down the cultist's face as red energy gathered along the pitted blade.

  The Backbreaker raised his gauntlet.

  Beauty met his charge with a dancer's step, swaying left as his fist whistled past its head. It countered with a palm strike toward his ribs. He twisted, barely avoiding the touch.

  He threw a hook. It ducked beneath it.

  It reached for his throat.

  Clang!

  He batted it hand away.

  Back and forth they moved, one throwing strikes with desperate speed while the other flowed between them. Its movements were beyond careless—fatal, even. Pulling ligaments and breaking bones to avoid blows that it could very easily catch.

  Goodhall's borrowed body shouldn't have been able to move like this.

  How come he wasn’t that flexible when he was alive?

  Wilhelm's boot lashed out. Beauty caught his ankle and tried to pull him in. He wrenched free, stumbling back a step.

  It pressed forward. Its fingers grazed his shoulder—he jerked away just in time.

  He feinted left, then drove his gauntleted right toward its stomach.

  Beauty sidestepped—but his bare left hand was wrapped around its wrist, keeping Cedrick in place.

  Its eyes widened slightly. Then it smiled.

  "You must be stupid."

  Finding an exposure immediately, its fingers sank into a hole in the charred leather, caressing the raw skin beneath.

  They pressed into his bare forearm where the burns had left the flesh tender and vulnerable.

  The Black Hand poison surged beneath his skin.

  Black veins spread instantly, branching up his forearm like lightning frozen in flesh. The mercenary's jaw clenched. The poison ate through the muscle, turning healthy tan to mottled black and green. He could feel it—the decay spreading, the flesh liquefying beneath the surface.

  But his grip tightened.

  The shade leaned in close, Goodhall's ruined face inches from his own.

  Its free hand rose slowly, fingers extending toward his cheek.

  "What's wrong, baby?" it whispered, its voice dripping with false sympathy. "How're you going to fuck me on our wedding night if you expire at a single touch?"

  Exposed phalanges hovered near his face, so close he could feel the infestation.

  Closer.

  The poison climbed past his elbow now. His entire forearm had gone black, the skin beginning to split. Blood and rot seeped from the cracks.

  "Don't worry, bitch," he growled. "I'll let my boys have a turn when I'm done with you.”

  Wilhelm's teeth ground together hard enough to crack. Through the pain, through the decay eating him alive, he grinned. Yellow fangs slick with blood. “But you’ll have to watch out for ol’ Sully, there. ‘Cause he’s only interested in doing it once a month. You know what that means?”

  “Blood for the Blood God!”

  The One-Man army, Sula, swept the Teardrop Cleaver in a massive horizontal arc, tears still streaming down his face. The blood wave erupted from the blade—violent and enormous, a crimson crescent that tore through the air with devastating force.

  The Backbreaker, Wilhelm, held it there. His left arm was dead weight now, completely rotted, barely holding together.

  His left arm vanished in an explosion of red mist and splintered bone, severed clean at the shoulder. Blood sprayed from the stump.

  Beauty twisted free the instant the grip released, its borrowed body contorting as it sidestepped the rest of the blood wave. It landed several paces away, face coated in blood, Wilhelm's severed hand still gripping its wrist.

  "You’re right. That one is a freak," it observed, prying the dead fingers loose one by one. "But I’d rather you sit in the chair than hi-”

  Something whistled through the air from a nearby rooftop.

  A buckler struck it square in the chest.

  The shield exploded outward mid-flight—doubling in size, then tripling, then quadrupling. What had been a small disc became a massive barrier that slammed into Beauty with tremendous force.

  Goodhall's corpse crashed through the wall of an abandoned building. Stone and timber exploded outward. It tumbled through the interior, dust and debris following in its wake, before bursting through the opposite wall in a shower of broken masonry.

  It tumbled end over end, finally slamming into the cobblestones of the wide street that led into the plaza.