“Are you sure you don’t want a go at her?” the man asked, clamping his hand over the woman’s mouth as she thrashed around in the bed, trying to escape his grasp. Naked beneath him, she was as white as a ghost against the silk, maroon sheets, her eyes filled with the kind of terror that only those who knew they were going to die could muster.

Glancing at the woman with stormy eyes, Randel betrayed nothing of what he thought. He regarded her in silence. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She screamed against the hand over her mouth. “No,” Randel said, looking out the door again. “Finish your business. We didn’t come here for you to collect souvenirs, and I won’t be caught dead inside this estate. I’ll be outside.”

The pockmarked man atop the woman released her mouth, and when her scream pierced the quiet room, he backhanded her with such force that it no doubt loosened some of her teeth. Disoriented moans replaced her fight. Brasshin reached for his blade. “Have it your way.”

Slipping into the hallway, Randel closed the door behind him to block out as much of what he knew was to come, and ducked into the shadows created by the alcove opposite the room. He crouched, listening for footsteps, the telltale sign that they had been found out. There were none; no one had yet discovered their bit of business. 

Aggressive grunts and crying came from the room across from him. He ignored it, turning his attentions elsewhere. There was a certain code he followed, and rape was not part of it, but there was little he could say to stop a man like Brasshin. At this point, he refused to try. Still, it was that code that made him one of the most feared men of his profession: his cold, calculating gaze and expressionless countenance were enough to drive even the most stalwart of men to blanch. He did his job, and he did it well, without any distractions. Those distractions, no matter how pleasant, were liabilities he could  not afford to take, and if Brasshin didn’t finish his business soon, then Randel would leave him.

If it weren’t for the ease with which they had infiltrated the noble’s estate, and subsequently assassinated him, there wouldn’t have been any time for momentary pleasures. But, as was Randel’s way, the job was clean, fast, and quiet. As far as Brasshin saw it, that afforded them play time. The noble’s daughter saw it as anything but.

Moving out of the alcove to a nearby window, Randel surveyed the streets, the bone beads at the end of his long, silky black hair clinking together with his movement. It was a quiet night, lonely except for the occasional beggar or enforcer. They did not glance up at the windows of the noble’s walled in estate, nor did they pay attention to the dead men slumped behind the gates; the estate guards that were no match for practiced hands. Everything seemed perfect for their escape.

Of course, their route through the aqueducts beneath the estate had been a painless entry, but there was something about being thorough that Randel enjoyed. It was for that reason that, should they need to escape outside, they had made certain to take care of any odds and ends beyond their intended means of exit. That included the men lying dead outside.

Behind the door, there came a scream. Randel closed his eyes as that scream ended abruptly. There were sounds of struggle, then it was silent. The door behind him opened, and he looked over his shoulder to see Brasshin closing the lid of a box. Inside, he could see the edge of a blood soaked silk cloth pulsating weakly. He then wiped his hands clean of blood. Randel shook his head.

“Finished? You have her soul now?” Randel asked, betraying no hint of his annoyance.

Brasshin pat the box and smiled, but Randel did not return it in kind.

They were quiet, peeking around corners, and moving with practiced grace from dark hallway to dark hallway. No one crossed their paths; all those who had were already dead, stuffed in side rooms, or closets that were artfully jammed. If anyone wanted to follow their trail, they would have a time of it.

Eventually, they came to the stone stairs descending into the bowels of the building where the servants lived. Randel held up his dark hand, his bone beads clicking together. Listening, he let the thrill of the hunt pound through him. Knowing the measure of a man’s life, and holding it in his own hands, stimulated him. Death was real, and he controlled it. When his heart settled enough for him to concentrate, he listened. No one followed them. The pair started down.

It was quiet. Brick gave way to great chunks of drab stone, wooden doors recessed every twenty or thirty steps. Placards with the names of different servant families were mounted outside each. As they passed the third door on the right, it opened. A head peered out.

“It’s done,” Randel said, undoing the pouch at his waist. He reached in, taking care not to jingle the crown inside, and grabbed two silver.

Smiling, the man staring at them from the room held out his hand. His eyes grew when both silver crown were deposited in his palm. “He was where I said, then?” he asked, all black teeth and foul breath. Randel stepped back a step.

“Yes.”

“His daughter, too,” Brasshin commented. He opened the box to show the dying heart he had cut from her chest. The servant frowned, but said nothing.

“That’s payment for the information,” Randel said. “Don’t contact me again.”

Smiling, the servant nodded. He bit into the coins, then waved them at Randel and ducked back into his quarters. The two mercenary looked at each other, and started away.

Everything seemed to have gone too well. The ducts beneath the estate, unguarded just as the servant had said, led directly beneath the kitchens, and could be entered from the basement. The guards had not been ready for an assault from two trained mercenary sent to assassinate the noble. A simple job. The kind Randel liked.

Ducking into the recessed archway leading to the basement, the two men took the stairs two at a time. Further down, rats dodged their footfalls, water stains painting the stones. More than once, Randel stopped their descent, holding his hand up to listen. Nothing floated from the depths.

When they reached the bottom, Randel waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, then made his way between the stacked crates to the sewer grate in the middle of the circular room. He felt along the pillars holding the ceiling aloft until his toe bumped into the edge of what he sought. Bending down, he gripped it. “Help me with this,” he whispered to Brasshin.

“Gladly,” came a voice.

Flames flickered into existence, and the two mercenary pulled their blades. In a semi-circle before them stood a small group of men wearing cloaks the color of night, their faces obscured by hoods and bandanas. Each gripped the hilt of a short sword, the light from a singular torch reflecting off the blades. Only one stood weaponless: a man in the center, dressed in attire too fancy for the muted realities of servant life, but not regal enough for the role of a noble. He smiled. 

“Well, well, well. What do we have here? Two mercenary out of their element? I didn’t think Noble Cristof kept such company, but, then again, I don’t think it was company you two men came to keep, was it?” the man asked, his blue eyes trained on Randel. They shifted to Brasshin. “Brasshin,” he said with a laugh, “I knew without certainty that you would accept this job, but” -his gaze shifted back to Randel- “Mister Gaylin... I didn’t think you would reduce yourself to such pittance.”

Randel looked at the men. They were poised, ready to pounce, but something about the way the man in the center carried himself meant that it was at his command that they stayed. Randel would have to remember that. “Who are you?” Randel asked, his attention back on the man in the center.

“The name is Randolph.” He sighed. “Mister Gaylin, why is it you always seem to find yourself in hot water whenever the opportunity presents itself? What’s this been? Your seventh, possibly eighth time at the point of a blade?” He shook his head. “You don’t learn, do you?”

“Who are you?” Randel asked again, stressing the words.

“I told you my name,” Randolph said, smiling.

“Names mean nothing to me. I go by many.”

Tapping his lip, Randolph nodded in agreement. “You do, but Randel Gaylin is your given. Wasn’t your father once a-”

“Don’t you dare mention my father,” Randel said, taking a step forward. The blades came up towards his chest.

Randolph lifted an eyebrow. “Bit of a touchy subject, then? Fine. We won’t speak of it.” He twisted the edges of his thick, black mustache. “My given name doesn’t matter; you will call me Randolph. What I want from the both of you is obedience. I knew I would find you here, in the Cristof Manor, and I knew that I would find you tonight, on his estate. Randel, your knack for timeliness betrays you.” Randolph laughed. “That is your undoing. You see, when a man knows he has enemies, he takes... proper precautions. You wouldn’t have come tonight had you known that, and you wouldn’t have attempted to murder Noble Cristof. But because you did... well, let’s just say, the man who lies dead in a silk covered bed several stories above us is not the noble you came for.”

The two mercenary shared a look, but neither betrayed what they were thinking. Randel had thought something seemed too perfect. Not even the best jobs went as smoothly. Now he knew why.

Randolph continued. “Oh, but you didn’t know that when you slit his throat in his sleep, did you?” He inhaled sharply. “What is this? Randel Gaylin didn’t know he slayed the wrong man? He didn’t see the face? He didn’t know that it was an associate, someone he knew from years ago, who was to be executed in the coming weeks and just so happened to have a certain likeness to a noble that lives in this... very... estate?”

Randel looked at Brasshin again.

“You, of course, handled the job brilliantly. Bravo.” Randolph clapped. The echo reverberated off the walls all alone in the circular room. It abruptly stopped. “There are bounties on your heads; a ransom of crown worth more than the capital’s penal budget, even. You two gentlemen have been hard to locate. And, if I recall, it’s dead or alive.” Randolph shook his head. “You have been a thorn in my side for sometime, and here we are, at the end of our journeys. It seems... fitting.”

Without anyone noticing, Randel slowly fingered his dagger, feeling for the blade. He hid the hilt with his wrist, gripping the blade’s tip and letting the weight of the hilt tilt the weapon so that he was fingering only the blade itself. He had to wait for his opening. Looking quickly over the men to his left, he counted how many steps apart from each other they stood, and with which foot they carried their weight. That was knowledge that could not be bought.

“There are two outcomes to this scenario,” Randolph said, “you can come quietly or you can come after a painful, but brief, struggle. What will it be, gentlemen?”

Before anyone could blink, Randel pulled his arm back and, with a practiced wrist, flung the blade at Randolph. It hit home. The man grunted and stumbled backwards. He looked down at the blade stuck in his chest, between two ribs, right in his heart, and collapsed to his knees. Blue eyes came up to Randel, and the man fell face first onto the cold, stone floor.

Everything became a blur. Just as Randel predicted, the man furtherest to his left came first, swinging from right to left with the weight of his swing in his leg. Randel moved into him, pressing his left side against the man’s arm and taking the brunt of his maneuver. That gave him momentum as he jammed his forearm into the man’s adam’s apple and pulled him around directly into a swing from another blade. Randel managed to rip the blade from the man’s hand. He retreated, letting the man fall to the cold stone, and disappeared among the boxes and crates stacked to the rafters.

Losing sight of Brasshin, Randel moved, catching men as they came after him. Another one fell before he knew what had hit him. Shadowy figures danced along the wall from the fallen torch. Randel dodged a swing just in time, but wasn’t lucky enough to dodge another. It cut deep into his shoulder. Reeling from the wound, Randel brought his sword arm up and parried another wild swing from the man.

There had been six, not including Randolph. Randel searched for Brasshin as he retreated, but didn’t see him among the fallen in the center of the cellar. Blood pooled and dripped down the drain which had been their intended means of escape.

The man before Randel came at him when he ambled back into the clearing, swinging madly. Randel parried, ducked one of the man’s wild swings, and charged into him with his shoulder. He dropped his short sword and grabbed for the dagger still at his waist. The hilt of the man’s weapon came down on his back, and he grunted with the impact. Before he could manage another blow, Randel twisted his dagger into the man’s gut, and pulled. He could feel the metal slicing through the man’s abdomen, warm blood spilling from the wound. The man lost weight to his movements, and Randel turned the blade up. Viscera slopped onto his hand. He rose, pulling his blade from the man’s midsection, and glared as he slid to the floor and cupped his hands over his belly.

Pleading eyes came up, but Randel would not see them. His code of honor did not allow any prisoners. These vultures wouldn’t have taken any. Without remorse, he plunged the dagger into the man’s head. Vacant eyes stared back. Randel put a boot on the man’s chest, and pulled his blade out.

Peeking between the boxes and crates, Randel listened for Brasshin. If the mercenary had been killed, then his assailant would still be there, stalking Randel. Peering around corners, he slipped between the rows, listening, his dagger at the ready. He would not be surprised a second time.

Randel came to a halt when he turned another corner on the outside edge of the cellar. Hunched in the darkness was Brasshin, his little box open beside him. Two disgusting little items were partially hidden by its open lid. Brasshin reached over and closed it, then fastened the clasp, and dropped it into a pouch tied tightly to his side. He rose, and turned to Randel. On the other side of him lay a man, gutted, his lifeless eyes staring out at nothing.

“Are you finished?” Randel asked.

“Yes,” was all the big man had to say. Blood dripped from his fingers.

Randel bit his tongue, and moved back to the center of the cellar. Randolph lay in his own blood, partially covering the opening to the drain.

“We have a problem.” Randel looked back to see if Brasshin was paying attention. His eyes were fastened on Randolph. “They knew where we came in. The guards we murdered... might have been mercs paid to protect the noble.”

Brasshin grunted. Lustful eyes stared at Randolph.

“Up here, Brasshin,” Randel said with a snap. He directed two fingers to his eyes and pointed them at Brasshin’s. “We don’t have time for this. Soul or no soul, they know we’re here. There are two outcomes to what they have planned: Randolph manages to subdue us, or kill us, and drags our bodies out the front door, or we kill Randolph and figure out a means of escape. If they were smart, then they know we won’t use the aqueducts. If they were smarter, than they know that Randolph won’t stop us.”

“Right,” was all Brasshin had to offer.

Randel didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he listened for footfalls, a sign that others were coming to offer Randolph help. There were none. “At best,” he said, “we have a few minutes before the estate is swarming with guards.”

Brasshin grunted again. “Who is he, anyway?” he asked, gesturing with his chin to Randolph.

Annoyed, but interested all the same, Randel bent and rolled Randolph’s body over. He fingered for anything identifiable, and came away with a small gold medallion around the man’s neck. Groaning, he held it up to Brasshin. 

“I say we have less than a few minutes,” Brasshin said once he’d seen the symbol.

Randel peered at the symbol again: a fist clenching a gavel with a bolt of lightning behind it. He dropped it down the drain. “If the Justicar are the ones who planned this, we need to move. Now.”

That was all Brasshin needed to hear. The two made their way back up the stairs, listening every dozen steps. Servant doors flashed passed as they ran the length of the hall. None opened in their wake, but Randel felt the urge to open one and see what rats dwelled behind it. He knew that they had been given up by the servant, persuaded, perhaps, by the Justicar. They didn’t have time to met out the justice he deserved.

The stairs seemed to stretch into forever. At the top, Randel held out a hand, and listened. Somewhere on the northeast side of the building, he could hear running. Leather against stone. It was coming closer. Waving Brasshin forward, he slipped down the hallway in the opposite direction. They had a few seconds at most. If they could...

A glance out a courtyard window told him how much time they had: none. The Justicar had come. Men swathed in dark robes, and darker cloaks, moved between the rose bushes in the garden, blades glinting in the night. The dead bodies of guards the two mercenary had killed lay undisturbed where they had been dragged and hidden. Randel moved away from the window, deeper into the complex.

Two left turns later, he jiggled the handle of a door, then used the blade of his dagger to force it open. A windowless closet with a large grate in its center stared back. Motioning to Brasshin with his head, the two ducked inside and closed the door.

“What’s the plan?” Brasshin asked, glancing around the room. It was drab and unimportant, shelves with mundane items lining two of the walls. Randel studied the drain.

“I saw a dozen Justicar in the courtyard. No doubt there’s another dozen or two already inside.” Bending down, Randel poked at the bolts holding the grate in the floor. Two of the four were loose enough to pull out. The other two were tight. “I didn’t see any city enforcers. This is the Justicars’ jurisdiction. Laws don’t apply.”

“So we’re dead?”

Disappointed with the grate, Randel rose and went to the door. He put his ear against it and listened. “Hardly.”

“You know something about the Justicar that I don’t?” Brasshin whispered. “Every mercenary they have gone after and found has ended up dead. What happened in the basement was luck. That won’t happen again.”

“The Justicar aren’t infallible. They have numbers-” Randel suddenly whipped the door open and lunged at something in the hall. Plunging his dagger into the chest of a man, he dragged him back into the closet and deposited him on the floor, then closed the door. “-And they’re good. That’s all.”

Wide eyed, Brasshin stared down at the dead Justicar. He bore the same dark clothing and dark hoods as the men in the basement. A quick search uncovered the medallion around his neck.

Randel went about the work of unclothing the man. Finished, he held it up to Brasshin. “He’s your size. Put it on.”

The big man donned it. “Now what?”

“Now we leave.”

“I-”

Leaning in, Randel lowered his voice. “Now, we leave.”

Comprehension lit Brasshin shadowy face. “I like the way you think, Randel.”

“You can like it when we’re outside on the streets.”

Randel opened the door and gestured for Brasshin to follow. They dashed down one hallway and then another, checking around corners for more of the Justicar. Seeing none, Randel angled them towards the gardens. If his summations were correct, there would be less to worry about in the night than in the brightly lit estates. The Justicar believed them to be trapped. Randel would remedy that.

Peeking around a corner, Randel saw the Justicar before the man could see him. He ducked back around the wall, Brasshin crouching close beside.

“One guard is at the far door,” Randel whispered. “Play the part.”

Brasshin nodded and rose. Feigning defeat, Randel clasped his hands around a dagger behind his back and marched around the corner. Brasshin pushed him for added  effect. The mercenary glared over his shoulder.

The Justicar turned and watched them. Betraying nothing, he glided towards them, pulling his short sword from its sheath. His dark eyes flicked around the pair, seeing if any others accompanied them.

“Justice Randolph?” the man asked, coming within a few feet of Randel. It was all the mercenary needed. Without hesitation, he crossed the distance before the man could pull back his arm to swing, and plunged his dagger into his ribs. He covered the man’s mouth, silencing his scream, then gripped his throat to choke the life from him as he gurgled his last breaths. Finished with his work, he quickly disrobed the man, and donned his attire over his own. It was a touch too small, but it would have to do. Brasshin stood beside the door looking out.

“Is anyone coming?” Randel asked, wiping his dagger on the man’s pants that he now wore.

“No.”

“Good.” Randel joined him. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Beneath the light of a wall lantern, the two opened the door and peered out. In the darkness beyond the circle of light, Randel couldn’t see if any Justicar were lying in wait, but he knew they would be. Not all of them would have searched the estate. From what he knew, the few times that he had ever been aware of Justicar presence, there would be half a dozen stationed at key points around the perimeter, watching to see if their prey managed to escape. Wearing the Justicar symbols, the two mercenary would have to blend in.

The two split, Brasshin heading one way, and Randel the other. Randel slinked along outside the estate, periodically peering to study the windows above. Trained eyes would believe he was seeing if the quarry had been flushed from its hole. But he glanced outward as much as he did in, searching for one or two of the Justicar near the perimeter wall. Before he got far, he saw one, crouched beside a portcullis leading to a side street where the top of a stable and storage shed tried to hide behind the high wall. Using the tall, ornately trimmed foliage, Randel crept between the leaves, keeping low. He knew that man had seen him, but he didn’t know if the man’s vantage point was completely blind to Randel’s prowling.

“Why hide, brother?” a voice asked from the other side of the tall bushes.

Randel froze. Rising so that his hood could be seen, Randel glanced sideways at the man. “Because you never know who might be creeping in the night, brother.”

The man laughed. “You speak true.” His mirth disappeared. “You’ve come to report?”

“Yes.”

“Have they been found?”

“No, they have not been found.”

The man was silent for a long moment. Randel glanced out of the corner of his eye to see the man studying him. “What of Justice Randolph?” he asked, finally.

“Dead.”

“It’s a shame,” the man said slowly. “Justice Randolph had potential. But this was not unforeseen by the other Justices. They knew it was a mistake sending Justice Randolph in for the priority alone. He did not know what this... mercenary is capable of.”

“He did not.”

“I will let you in on a secret,” the man said, lowering his voice. “The other Justices despised him. This will put them at ease. Now they can focus on more important matters.”

There was deception. The Justicars were not as tightly knit as once thought. Randel would have to remember that if he ever met them again.

The door to the estate banged open, and someone came out waving their arms.

“What is this?” the man asked. Before he could take a step, Randel swung his dagger over the leafy barrier and plunged it into the man’s neck. He stumbled and went down, taking Randel’s dagger with him.

Cursing, Randel ran for the portcullis as the man at the doorway shouted back into the estate. He scaled the wall and dropped down on the other side, rolling. Diving into open alleyways, he lost the cloak and jumped fences, falling into backyards, and ruining flowerbeds. When he was far enough away, he stopped and ducked down behind a fence to catch his breath and listen. He could hear yelling several blocks away. 

“Rand.”

Randel tensed, looking around, grabbing for daggers that weren’t there. His gaze went to the cracks between the fence. “Brasshin?”

“Glad to see you managed to get out.” He went silent. “Stirred up the hornets nest, huh?”

“I suppose,” he said, reclining against the fence. Another minute or two, and they would have to move. “How did you get out?”

“Front gates.”

Frowning, Randel looked at the fence. “No one was guarding it?”

“There were two Justicar, but I’m not as fancy as you. Earned myself a nice gash for my troubles.”

“No one was manning the front door?”

“Not that I could see.”

Randel rose and wiped his pants off. He scaled the fence and dropped down on the other side beside Brasshin, who sat in the dirt holding his arm. The cut was deep.

“You need to get that looked at,” Randel said, offering his hand. Brasshin took it and rose.

“You know someone good?”

Nodding, Randel moved. The pair entered the streets away from the estate, and kept moving, running and keeping to the alleyways as best they could. Randel angled them to the west.

“What do we do about this, Rand?” Brasshin asked when they stopped to catch their breath and listen. “Botched job and Justicar aren’t exactly tick marks I want next to my name.”

“The job wasn’t botched, because there wasn’t a job,” Randel said, peering out the alleyway. “It was from the Justicar, and the Justicar only. We were paid money that they didn’t mind losing.”

“That doesn’t solve the problem with them. You want them looking for you day and night?”

The corner of Randel’s dark mouth turned up in a smile. “You forget where we stay? You think a Justicar would be caught dead in the Covent district? You think anyone in Covent would give us up? Long as we keep to our own until things cool down, we’ll be fine. After that, who knows. It’s an open world out there.”

Blood dripped from Brasshin’s arm. “I guess you’re right. A Justicar would have to have a mean pair to come looking for us.”

“Exactly.” Randel pulled back from the opening and eyeballed Brasshin’s injury. “Now, let’s get that taken care of so you can add another scar to your collection.”

Brasshin laughed. “I like the way you think, Randel.”

“Reverend, your words have changed me,” a man said, shaking his hand and bowing.

“You realize the error of the old ways, and embrace the new ideas that make our kingdom great.”

“Reverend, you are an inspiration!”

“No,” he said, letting the word hang above the heads of the gathered, “you are an inspiration. Your struggle drives me forward to other cities to fight this fight.”

They drank his words, parting before him and following in his wake, awed by his very presence. He was ushered to a side room, and turned to address the crowds one final time. Vacuous stares greeted him; minds that could be molded.

“In the coming days, we will fight, and we will win. We will not let the north have their way with us. They will know devastation of a kind never before seen. And we will stand in the ashes of the old lies, with our heads held towards the new dawn. This, my friends, is what the future holds!”

Applause, cheers, all meant for him. He smiled and slipped through the door as it was opened behind him. Once closed, the voices beyond were muffled. Candles came to life in the stone corridor, and the men with him said nothing as they escorted him down the hallway, up flights of stairs, and around the innards of the tower. It was a good day for a revolution.

The procession came to a door, and one of the men knocked. A voice answered, and the door was opened to allow Reverend Miscalf inside. He entered without thanking the troupe, and closed the door behind him.

“Have a seat, Reverend,” a man said. He gestured to a chair across from himself at an enormous fireplace that filled one of the room’s walls. The others were lined with shelves.

Reverend Miscalf sat, and crossed his legs. He wore the smile of a man who knew his worth, but knew better the worth of others he could use. The man before him was one such individual. “It is done,” the Reverend said.

The man rose from his seat and walked to a table. He poured something bitter from a glass and took a swallow, then poured another and handed it to the Reverend. The Reverend took the glass. 

“You have done well in driving these people to madness. They believe what you say, Reverend. Even I am beginning to believe the words you weave.” The man cast the Reverend a dark glance. “There is something to be said for your words. You spin them eloquently enough, a skill that others could only hope to possess.”

Stroking his chin, the Reverend pulled his gaze away from the fire crackling in the hearth and looked at the man in the chair beside him. His smile was thin, without teeth.

“There is a fear in the north, you know,” the man continued. “They know that you are the wolf, the one who has driven these people to the brink. Some have sought to have you displaced.”

“But you would not let that happen,” the Reverend said.

The man shook his head. “My blade for you, Reverend. It has always been that way.”  Pulling at his black goatee, the man stared into the flames. “That is not why I say these things, Reverend. I say them, because we are changing the lay of the lands. We are creating a new people, a new world, a new ideal. That is what we are doing. When all has been finished, and we are no longer the people who live in the south, but the people who have all of the lands from sea to sea, we will be your people.”

“I have no ruling ambitions,” the Reverend said.

“You misunderstand me, Reverend. I do not mean that you will rule these lands. You will, however, rule the souls of these people. They will turn to you for spiritual guidance. That is far more powerful than any gavel or sword.”

Smiling, the Reverend took a drink of the liquor in his cup. It was sour enough to twist his tongue. “These people will be their own people. They will live their own lives, and they will-”

“I know, Reverend, what you have done.”

The Reverend looked at the man confused.

“You are the wolf.” The man rose from his place, his eyes locked onto the fire in the hearth before him. “You are powerful beyond all reason.” He reached down and grabbed for the sheathed blade beside his chair.

“What is it?” the Reverend asked, rising. “What are you doing? 

The man looked into the Reverend’s bewildered eyes. “I have seen how you warp men. My blade has been in the service of you, Reverend, for all these years, and I know the truth of what you seek. You didn’t think I would forget so easily, did you? What you told me all those years ago? Your ambitions?”

“Guards!”

The man looked at the door, but no one entered. Pulling the blade from the sheath, the man stalked towards the Reverend, who backed away.

“Nothing will come of this,” Reverend Miscalf said. He lifted his hands before him as the man was upon him. “You can not stop what has begun.”

“I don’t seek to stop it. I seek to mold it.” The man pulled his weapon back and ran it through the Reverend’s middle. “We are wolves, Reverend, you and I. You have moved these people with a singular mind. Now, I will move them with a singular blade.” Blood soaked the man’s hand as the Reverend slipped from the sword.

The longer it went on, the harder he was finding it harder to reason against this one specific outcome. For all the obvious reasons, the south deserved it. Serious transgressions had come from the south, sanctions and snubs that were unwarranted. Those could not go unpunished. Yet, he still didn’t understand why it brought war.

Going over his notes, he read about broken treaties -- treaties that dealt mostly with stolen cattle, and faith-based indoctrination. Not anything that affected an entire kingdom. It was trouble caused by a few bad apples, and not an empire.

Empire. The word tasted sour. If he labeled an entire people with such an ugly word, then he was only doing the very things that others were doing around him -- accusing without ever really knowing the truth.

Then again, overtures had been made. Many, in fact, had been scribed by his very hand. Just last week he had made a plea that fell on deaf ears, and sent a letter by courier to one of his southern counterparts. Their reply was terse, and filled with the kind of venom that made lesser men blanch. Theodore only crumpled it. Maybe they deserved this.

Setting his notes on the table, he went to the window and stared out into the dark night. Tomorrow. He could see the distant camps on the horizon, where the edges of the two kingdoms met. With a word, he could call them back, tell them to forsake the stupidity of what they were attempting, and return to their families. But how would that look, now that the people sleeping in the cities below his tall tower were red with murder? How would it look if their king could not see his war through?

“Your majesty?” a faint voice called from the doorway behind him. He turned to see a woman, skin the color of brown sugar, jet black hair spilling over her shoulders. She watched him with eyes like melted chocolate. She was beautiful in ways he could not begin to describe. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said.

Crossing the room, Theodore took her into his arms. “How could you ever disturb me, my love? You are my wife.” Her smile stole his breath away. Leaning down, he whispered, “And call me Theo when we are alone.”

Their lips met and parted. “I will, my maj- Theo.”

He brought her to the window, so that she could look out at the kingdom below them. Their kingdom. His by birth, and hers by marriage. “Do you see it?” he asked. “Tomorrow, it comes to an end, Carmelia.”

“Don’t say such things,” Carmelia said.

“I don’t mean the kingdom, though there may be truth in that, since we have had a tenuous relationship with the south for many years, and we have no way of knowing what awaits us. No, I don’t mean the kingdom itself. I mean the peace.” He leaned out the window. “Do you hear it? That quiet is the peace that my father, and his father before him, managed to carve from the bowels of the beast that once warped these lands.”

“Do not blame yourself,” she whispered, leaning against him.

Putting his hand on the small of her back, he looked into her eyes. “I can’t help but feel that there was something I could have done. Anything.”

“Did you not try?” she asked. “Have you not made overtures to them?”

Theodore nodded. “A great many,” he said, returning to the notes on the table across the room. He had just recently made yet another, and it had been ignored. Ignored like all the rest. Searching through his text, he came to what he sought. His council had suggested a trade route on the eastern end of the kingdoms, a place so far flung for both realms that, if things did go awry, it would not affect the politics of the day. At least that was his hope. But, no, his messenger had come back in a box. His limbs had been pulled from his body, and his head removed. Just another in a long of line of infractions that had brought them to the brink.

“This is for a great cause, Theo,” Carmelia said, wrapping her arms around him. He turned slowly, and smiled down at her. Their lips met, and the taste of her stirred longing. “Now,” she whispered, “let me help you forget about war.”

It was the for the best. She pulled him towards the far door, where the bed chambers lay. Walking passed the window, he stared out one last time. Tomorrow, thousands of his citizens would fight for a cause they did not understand. They would fight their brothers, who had gone over the border for work, or lived there, their ancestry hailing from the south. Just like his sweet Carmelia. He couldn’t help, but feel a pang of regret, even as he was pulled into the bed, and enjoyed Carmelia’s sweet embrace. Because he knew that no matter the outcome, he would be held responsible.

Carmelia rose. Theodore slept. She dressed quietly, cinching her belt around her waist, and tip-toed from the room. Stupid fool, she thought. If you had only known. But she had played every card correctly. She had won the game. And when Lord Brethin knew what the north had raised, that they were not to be trifled with, then he would pay. The south would pay. She had warned him that he would feel her scorn one day. That day had come. Now, an entire people would pay. And she would watch the blood spill.

The congregation cheered.

“It is for this reason that we will rise up and take what is ours. We will push back the northern heathens, and reclaim our rightful place among the stars. Among the world and the gods. We will not be denied!”

The room erupted in applause, and Corte stood to join them. He cheered, chanting in unison with the others. It was their time. They would no longer be made to pay for the crimes of years passed; they would be respected for who they were, and what they had accomplished.

“When the call comes -- and believe me, it will come -- you must answer it! Stand up and be counted. Stand up to the oppression that threatens our way of life. Stand up for yourselves!”

Glory. That was the only way Corte could describe their mission. It was for the glory of their people that they would march. He chanted with the others to Reverend Miscalf’s words. The man was a genius. He understood the ways of the world, the oppressive nature of their northern neighbors.

The chanting continued, even as Reverend Miscalf left the podium, shaking hands with people and moving among the crowd. Corte made his way to the front, grasping the reverend’s hand and shaking it vigorously. Then he was gone, moving on to others, answering questions and giving words of encouragement.

Corte made his way out into the night, the press of people thick as they swarmed from the cathedral. Some talked in low whispers, others sang of the glory that was to come. Corte stood alone, hands in his pockets. He walked a little ways down the street, and turned into an alleyway. Midway down the alleyway, he knocked on a recessed door. It opened a crack, then wider once the person inside saw who stood beyond.

“I’ll be damned. Corte, I didn’t think you would be coming by tonight,” the woman said,” what with the reverend in town and all.” She was painted up with thick red lips and dark blue semi-circles above her eyes.

Corte came inside, and walked passed her. “It’s the glory,” was all he said.

She shrugged, then closed and locked the door. “What ever you say. I just figured you weren’t making a stop. You usually don’t when something like this comes up.”

Unbuttoning his jacket, he tossed it across a chair, then kicked off his boots. “The glory inspires one.”

She made a face and shook her head. “Well, you have an hour.”

He shrugged, and the two disappeared into the bedroom. When he was finished having his way with her, inspired by the glory of which the reverend spoke, he put his clothes back on and slipped his feet into his boots.

“Do you really believe what he says?” the woman asked, exposed for all the world to see. “About the north being evil.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve met some people from the north. They weren’t all that bad. They just had funny accents.”

Corte looked at her. She was too ignorant to understand, using her body instead of her mind to make her way in the world. What did she know about people? If they had money, then she liked them.

“They’ve been talking about war, you know,” she said, laying back to look at the ceiling. Corte eyed her breasts. “Do you really think there will be one?”

“I hope.” He stood and looked down at her. “I won’t be back.” Then he was gone, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair, and leaving.

The reverend was never wrong, and just as he had said, war came. There was a call to arms. Corte joined, feeling the glory rush over him. It was time to break free from the clutches of those that wished deliberate death upon them. They would crush the armies facing them, and reclaim what was rightfully theirs.

There was a great deal of training. When they weren’t training, they were listening to the reverend’s disciples, spread throughout the military to bolster the men’s confidence and morale. There was no need for them, because there was no second thoughts about what they were doing.

When the day came, Corte marched with the others. They crossed the hills and rivers. They passed farmers and sheep herders. And they came to the border of their lands. Beyond, the repressive north lay, staring down at them with harsh eyes. There was a time, when Corte was younger, that he believed men could do no wrong. He laughed at his ignorance. How could he have been so naive?

The enemy, just as Corte knew they would, crossed the border, violating the agreements from decades passed. They came to make war, and the southern armies moved to stop them. Men clashed against one another. It became a mess of bodies and blood, bowels and innards. Corte pushed into it all, swinging with the great glory that as inspired by the reverend.

He killed his first man, relishing it, knowing that the demon would no longer be able to spread his evil. He slashed again and again, until he came upon something that filled him with revulsion: a northerner clutching the body of a southerner. The northern fiend cried, grasping the southerner. Corte briefly remembered that southerner from some of his training. He was an educated man, if he recalled correctly.

Without a second thought, Corte came upon the northerner and slay him. Still holding the southerner’s body, the northern demon gurgled his final breath and slumped over. Corte spit on him. This was the glory of the south. This was for the glory that was rightfully theirs.

But Daniel was no longer a boy with wonderment in his eyes. He was a man, and there were chores to be done, harvests to be reaped, livestock to be sold or slaughtered, and children to feed. His children. The lands to the south held no mighty significance now. He had more important things to consider.

It had been like that until his brother, Brintol, the eldest of the two, had gone to study in the southern academies. When he returned, he told Daniel things that made him reconsider his early thoughts: the people to the south were no different than they. They worked the same lands, herded the same sheep, and loved the same stories. Their women were no more beautiful nor plain, their music no more rich, and their life no better.

That was why Daniel remained at home. His brother returned to the south, where he had met a woman, and the two corresponded regularly through mail. As the two families grew, they traveled back and forth, and Daniel was given the chance to see the south with his own eyes. They were, indeed, just as he.

That did not stop the bickering. There were politics, which Daniel paid little attention to. Accusations about stolen land and outright governmental snubs. Even the people Daniel had once known as level headed said some of the same disturbing vitriol that he read in the city gazettes. Routinely, when visiting Brintol, his brother told him that he had heard some of the same from people in the south. Those ideas were dangerous. Those ideas made men say strange things.

That was why Daniel wasn’t surprised to read that war would visit them; war that was spearheaded by vengeful men out to satisfy their lust. He folded the paper, rose, dusted off the back of his pants, and went back into the house. The northern men who made war would come seeking his participation soon. He wanted to make sure that his family was prepared, in case he did not return.

It was three days later when the men came. Leaning against his hoe, he watched them cross his field in their city attire, and deliver a summons. He had a week to prepare his things. That night, he told the rest of the family. There was crying, and anger.

“Uncle Brintol is in the south, though, pa,” Jeremy said, leaning on his elbows. “Does that mean you’re soldiering against him?”

“If the south is soldiering the same way we are,” Daniel said. “But Brintol is a man of the mind. I don’t see why they would send him out.”

The family thought about that, but Jeremy, the youngest of his three sons, couldn’t sit still. He was still trying to wrap his mind around all of it. “I don’t get it, though, pa. We’ve been south. They ain’t no different than us. The people look the same, and they eat the same things we do. What’s all the disagreement about?”

Daniel sighed. He turned to Jeremy. “Ideas, Jeremy. In some men’s eyes, that’s all the difference you need. If a man has an idea that is not your own, you slay him, no matter what. This is what drives men... and it’s what destroys us.”

His son didn’t understand. He would one day. Then he would sigh like his father, and shake his head sadly. No good would come of this.

Leaving his family was the hardest thing Daniel had ever done. He crossed the fields along with other men, outfitted in the gear that the military gave to him. There were some who wanted nothing more than to show the south their wrongs. Others were like Daniel, with family in the south. Some were even southerners who had come north to make a life for themselves. They were now marching against the people they loved, and the lands of their birth.

Crossing a wide river, and countless hills, they finally came to the border separating the north and south. The southern armies waited on the other side, ready for battle. Men were organized, standing shoulder to shoulder. Daniel’s heart wouldn’t slow its pace. Would Brintol be in that mass of darkness facing them? Would he meet his brother on that field? He never had time to think on it.

There were trumpets, and a great deal of surging. Daniel nearly lost his footing as men poured forward, pushing him towards the enemy. And the enemy came with a great yell. Pulling the blade from the scabbard at his side, Daniel met them, clashing with them. He screamed obscenities, not because he was angry, but because he was bewildered by the sheer amount of rage leveled at both sides.

The battle raged, and Daniel fought. He clashed with men. Some he even knew; Brintol’s friends. He spared their lives, and backed away. But it wasn’t until he saw a face he wasn’t expecting that Daniel stopped. Brintol stared back at him, blade raised.

“Brother?” they said in unison.

Daniel reached out for him, but a blade erupted through Brintol’s chest. His brother’s dark eyes widened, then he fell forward into the grass. Screaming, Daniel clasped his brother, rolling him over, but Brintol was already gone. Daniel looked up to see who had slain him, but there were too many faces flashing passed. Tears coursing down his face, Daniel held his brother.

Ideas had slain Brintol. Ideas, and man’s ambitions. Ideas that made Daniel and his brother nothing but pawns in some sick game.

Such words should never uttered lightly. Such words from the man lying in Lacy’s arms would never been spoken unless they were true.

“What are you going to do?” Victoria asked, pushing her square framed glasses up the bridge of her nose. He glanced at her as she followed him across an ice bridge extended across a gaping chasm.

There wasn’t much else he could do, but hope to deactivate it. There was once a time when they faced something as deadly as a world ender. James had stood before it and defused it before the liquid matter in its center mixed and ripped the planet apart. That had been when the mantle of administrator had been hoisted upon Silas’ shoulders, and he had yet to make any meaningful mark.

It wasn’t Earth that had been threatened then. And something was also very different about this one. He couldn’t put his finger on what just yet, but he was determined to figure it out.

“I don’t know,” was all he could say.

This was not a threat from a warrior race that just happened to purchase a C Grade world ender on the black markets of Xiom Twelve, one of the worst planets in their galaxy. This was entirely different. It was sent by the one whose sole purpose was to eradicate everything that lived and breathed.

“Silas, James said that the world ender has been initiated,” Allison said through a private link to him. “Is that true?”

“It is.”

There was a long pause. “You’re not telling me something.”

“I will handle the world ender. Evacuate the others.”

He knew she didn’t like that, but he had no other choice. He needed them as far away from the world ender as they could get.

“You’re planning something,” Victoria said, hopping down the last flight of icy steps to the floor below. Her blue eyes stared up at him with that intelligent cast that quickened his pulse. The skin tight suit covering her didn’t hurt, either. “What is it?”

“I’m hoping that I can... control it,” was all he could offer. The plan had yet to formulate, so there wasn’t much else to it. He had begun to think that deactivating it would be a wish he could scarcely manage.

Before he could move away, she pressed against him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and resting her head on his chest. She listened to his heart beat beneath his black robes. “Don’t be stupid,” she said. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

Silas encircled her, and kissed the top of her head. To her, it had been only five years, but for him, his disappearance half a decade earlier had lasted nearly two hundred, due the fragmented nature of time. Two hundred long years without her. Their lips met, and he was lost to the softness of her kiss. He would give anything to stay in her arms, in that kiss for the rest of eternity. But he pulled away, pressing his forehead to hers, and closing his eyes. Without saying a word, he slipped away from her and started down the tunnel that wound back to the Jarjins’ ship.

It didn’t take long before he had contained the tunnel’s collapsing ice roof, and burrowed a hole through the rubble wide enough to get through. He found Debbie and Allison on the other side. Pointing back up the tunnel and instructing them on James and Lacy’s location, he pushed passed them into the room with the ship. Snow fell from the roof. Columns of ice lay where they had fallen. The ship was on its side, two compartment doors open: one where the patriarch and his young had been, and the other where the other adults had stumbled from. All that remained were the instruments and, somewhere inside the vessel, the world ender.

Silas approached the shuttle with great caution. An initiation could mean anything. There was nothing to tell him what would set the device off. He didn’t know if he could contain its rapid destruction if it ignited before he understood how it functioned. With that in mind, he lifted his hands and let the energy of the al-fa-rif flow from him. A translucent, cobalt bubble surrounded the ship; one that, he hoped, would contain the world ender if he could not deactivate it.

“Do you have any ideas?” Victoria asked. She stood behind him, to his left, out of his way, but close enough that he could reach out for her hand. He did just that.

“He sent them here with this. He created it from essences which I can not begin to understand. I must find a way to control it. If I can not, I must jettison it off this planet.”

Her grip tightened on his hand. “Can’t we wait for James? Shouldn’t he look at it first?”

“No. I want all of you out of here when I begin my work.” He released her hand and stepped beyond the bubble. The pulsing energy circling him lent a tint of sapphire to everything within it.

Victoria tried to move forward, but the bubble blocked her. She smacked it with her hand. “Silas, don’t do this. James can look at it first. He defused one before. He could do it with this one, as well.”

Silas reached out and pressed his hand against the bubble, where hers was. “Go with the others, Vic.”

Frantic, she hit the bubble again and again. “Silas! Don’t be stupid! Don’t try to be a goddamn hero. We need you. I... need you.”

And I need you, he thought.

Allison, along with Debbie, Lacy, and a limping James, walked out of the tunnel, just as Aerin and Shane made their way down a ramp on the other side of the room.

“What the hell is he...” Aerin started to say, but cut herself off. She grunted when she realized what was happening.

“Can someone talk some sense into him?” Victoria asked, pleading with the others. “James, you’ve worked with world enders before. Can’t you do something about this?”

Leaning against his wife, with another arm around the triage nurse, James took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t know how much I can do. This was not programmed by Jarjin hands.”

“It was created by the destroyer,” Debbie said. “Silas found that out after you went missing.”

“Then that would explain it. There was information coming in when I learned of it, but I did not fully understand what I was seeing.” James sighed. “My meddling would likely trigger it.”

Silas nodded from behind the shield. His eyes shifted to Aerin. “Aerin, you are in charge of the operation in my absence. Evacuate everyone. Return to our headquarters, and send warning to every prominent embassy. They need to activate their end of world plans.”

She gave him a nod. “You plan on getting yourself killed, then?” she asked.

“No,” he said. He knew she was disappointed by that.

“You heard the man. You’ve got five minutes to get to the ship. If you’re not on it, we’re leaving without you.” Aerin turned with Shane and left. Silas watched them go without malice. She would make a good administrator, and he would make an excellent, if unbearably tough, Security Director.

“Silas,” James said, “it’s an organic construction. The one we disarmed before was liquid. It’s a living device.”

That would spell a whole other manner of difficulty. Silas nodded, watching Allison help her husband out of the chamber, Lacy assisting. Debbie remained behind, off to the side and out of earshot. Victoria stood before the bubble, her hands pressed to the barrier.

“That means you,” Silas said softly, his dark eyes turning to her.

“Promise me something.” She wiped tears out of her eyes, smudging her glasses. “Promise me that you will come back. Don’t leave me like you did.”

“I promise that I will do everything I can to stop this device.”

She stared at him for a long moment as if she had more to say. Instead, she pulled away from the bubble, her fingers leaving the place over which his rested, and she walked away. She looked over her shoulder, and trudged through the snow towards Debbie. A moment later, the two disappeared up the ramp.

There wasn’t much time. He didn’t know how long it was between initiation and activation, but he didn’t want to find out. Pulling the shuttle doors back further, Silas squeezed into the vessel, slipping between the uncomfortable seating arrangement. There was buried weaponry and other effects, some of which were personal belongings of the dead Jarjins. It was almost as if some of them didn’t know they were destined to die. That thought chilled Silas to the core.

Stuffed between the patriarch’s station and the foodstuffs area, where he found discarded rations, he found the device. It was an black cylinder with a strange wheel shaped protrusion at its top, and triangular feet attached to its sides. A row of flashing lights changed colors across its center. Seamless, it appeared as nothing more than a meter tall object that was as unassuming as furniture. But it had the capability of ending life.

Silas sat across from it, studying it. It was completely silent, and, except for the lights, gave no visible indication on whether it was functioning or not. The last one he had seen was larger, a contraption so big that it had taken a freighter to haul it. If anything, it had looked more humorous than its intended purpose belied. Without James telling him exactly what it was, he would have dismissed it as a comedy routine thought up by bitter creatures. But what he sat across from was an unpretentious machine. That worried him.

Bracing himself, Silas ran his hand along the surface of it, probing it. There were innards; breathing and a heartbeat. It was indeed organic. He grimaced at the thought of that. What poor thing had given itself over to be made into... this? There were other things there as well: the matter, located somewhere in the organs stuffed into the device, which was capable of the feat of ending worlds. How would he be able to stop this?

Electricity was an Earthly force. He didn’t think he would find anything Earth-based in the weapon’s design, but he probed for them anyway. He was disappointed. Then how had it been initiated, and what would ultimately trigger it? It was organic. It was...

It dawned on him. He stood in the tight quarters, staring at the device. They couldn’t deactivate it. He needed to move it. He needed to get it away from Earth. Now.

Gripping the wheel at the top, Silas pulled the bubble surrounding the ship in so tight that it contained only him and the weapon. He reached out, grasping every molecule he could feel. Then he channeled them with such intensity that they retreated into the past, and sped into the future, all while their present forms remained isolated and alone. Grunting with the effort, he kept his grip on the weapon as the darkness consumed him and the weapon. It was the last time he would see Earth.

It ripped at him, screamed for his flesh. He braced himself against it, encasing himself and the weapon in the aqueous film of his power. As quickly as it had come, it was over, and with a great moan, it released him. He floated, weightless, the weapon in his hand. He could feel the heart within it quicken with need and understanding. He had to hurry. He couldn’t let the blood it contained mix with the matter.

Looking around, he saw stars twinkling in the distance. He eventually found something of reference: Titan, the rocky, water ice moon of Saturn. He wasn’t far enough. He needed to get further. Gathering together every molecule he could find, he ripped into them again. The absolute darkness swept over him, and he was sucked into it.

It hammered him with such force that it nearly knocked him unconscious. Lengths of his robes were ripped away from him, the skin of his face slashed. It took everything in him to keep from falling into blackness. But the darkness deposited him again in the blackness of space. He spun, letting his trajectory carry him. Idly, he looked for reference points, even as he felt the heartbeat from the device quicken further. It was growing excited. It’s exactly what the destroyer wanted. Somehow, he began to understand. It wasn’t meant to be defused, and it wasn’t meant to destroy Earth. It was meant to destroy Silas. It was meant to play on his need to save them.

Andromeda. He was in the nearest galaxy to Earth’s, millions of light years away. But he still wasn’t far enough. There was life in Andromeda. He couldn’t allow the device to destroy it. The device wasn’t meant to destroy a world -- it was meant to destroy galaxies.

He reached for the molecules again and pulled. Darkness trapped him, tearing at his skin. Screaming, great chunks of him were ripped away, leaving him bloodied as he fell from the darkness again to scorching dirt. Heaving himself up and leaning against the world ender, Silas breathed the sulfuric atmosphere, looking around at the world he had landed on. He didn’t know it by name, nor had he ever visited it, but looking into the sky, he saw a sun that he recognized. He was still too close. There was a race of creatures, peaceful by nature, that resided on a planet near that sun.

Dragging the device along in the dirt, the burning winds kicking up great swathes of dust that rolled passed him, Silas threw his hand out and coalesced all of the matter he knew into one point, ripping it from its present place and slipping it into both the past and future. Midnight came over him again, and he was powerless before it.

If there were ever one thing he regretted, it was not telling her that he loved her more. She had to have known, but he never said it enough.

He was deposited into empty space again. There wasn’t much left of him. The device was excited, the blood mixing with destruction. He had nothing left in him. This was where he would stand. This was where the world ender would destroy him.

There was something strange about the stars as he looked around -- they weren’t there. He had seen them so often, he had become accustomed to them. Most were little more than landmarks to him now. But when he looked forward, there was nothing. There were a few in the sky behind him, but only a few. He couldn’t remember a place in the universe where the sky was empty. Not unless...

The sky before him breathed. Then it moved. From out of the midnight stretching clear across his vision came a white face. It was expressionless, with a thin mouth and slits for eyes. It gazed at him, and through him, as the two hovered in the air studying each other. Then it screamed.

Silas had seen him once before. That was the great absence that had nearly drove him insane. It was his duty to stop him, but not here, and not now. He was not ready to face the great destroyer, the one who ate worlds, consumed universes, and answered to none but himself. Yet, he stared into the eyes of Lotos faern Notta as it rushed towards him. Weak, defenseless before the beast, Silas drew upon the last dregs of his strength, gripped the device with one hand, and spun. Then he hurled the weapon at the creature that had created it.

It flew through the air, slowly, gracefully. There was no measurable time, nor distance. He drew upon every fiber of strength in his veins, and let the sapphire shield encase him. The device arced between the pair and ignited. It was soundless, flashing across the field, and pummeling Silas with the first blast. It blew him backwards, knocking the wind out of him. The second was searing light that scorched the skin from him. He screamed, but his shriek was soundless. Then the full brunt of the explosion hit him, and he was ripped apart. White filled what was left of him, and extinguished his last breath. Silas ceased to be.

There were not many patients they received this far from the capital city, and certainly not any that were foreign. But this man was an oddity. He was indeed an oddity.

Pin pricks of light swam under his eye lids. It hurt to open them, but he couldn’t keep them close any longer. He needed to know. Slowly, as if it were the first time he had ever used them, he opened his eyes, looked out at the world. A dirty ceiling stared back at him. Groaning, he rolled his head to one side. Empty beds lay along the wall, sunlight pouring in front a window two spaces down. To the other side, a little boy sat on a stool next to his bed, reading a book. When he saw that his ward was awake, he jumped off the stool, and ran out of the only door in the long room, calling for someone. Exhausted by his accomplishment, he closed his eyes again.

He was sleeping just as she had left him. But there was hope yet. Ngdiba had seen him open his eyes. He was slowly recovering. Soon enough, she would find out who he was, and how he had come to be in a field of cattle in nothing but what he was born with, so far from the capital.

For the second time, he opened his eyes, and found the boy sitting there. This time when the boy ran to call for someone, he remained awake. Strength was returning. The woman who came could have been the boy’s mother: dark skin, short, braided hair, caring eyes. Yet, he knew that she was a physician. There was something humble, yet greatly intelligent about her. He liked that quality. All of the best people he knew had been like that.

“How are we feeling today?” she asked, approaching his bed. There was an accent to her voice. Then that would explain the untraditional layout of the room.

With her help, he sat up. It took a moment before the word came to him. “Better.”

“That’s good.” She put the back of her hand to his forehead, checked his pulse, and shined a light in his eyes. “That’s strange.”

“What?”

She looked up at him. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” Sitting on the edge of his bed, she studied him for a long time. “Do you know where you are?”

“Your accent would place me somewhere in eastern Africa. Kenya, perhaps?”

She nodded. “Yes, you’re in Kenya. Do you remember anything of your trip here?”

His mind was slowly working again, but he couldn’t piece together how he ended up in a bed in the middle of a Kenyan village. He shook his head.

She squinted at him. “If I were to guess, I would say you were an American. I don’t remember any American tourists this far out.”

“I suppose you could say that I’m American.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Then you are not?”

He shook his head. “No, not quite, but it’s close enough.”

Standing, she studied him a moment longer. “Is there an embassy I should call? Someone will be looking for you.”

“Do you have a pen and piece of paper?”

She found something suitable for him. When he wrote it down, he handed it to her. “This is too long to be a phone number,” she said. “What is it?”

He waved off the question. “It will work from any phone.”

“And when someone picks up, who should I ask for?”

“Victoria.”

“What should I tell her?”

Silas smiled. “Tell her... tell her that I kept a promise I didn’t think I would be able to keep.”

Something grabbed her and yanked her backwards, out of harm’s way as an enormous block of ice landed right where she had been standing. She slid to a stop at Silas’ feet, the shattering ceiling halting its destructive progress. Panting, adrenaline coursing through her veins, Lacy looked up to see a thin, blue aqueous shield of energy holding back the roof. It bulged oddly in places, threatening to continue its maddening collapse, but was powerless against the screen keeping it in place. The same material slipped from around Lacy’s waist as she rose.

“Thank you,” she panted, brushing herself off.

Silas stared at her for a long moment, but said nothing. She cocked her head to the side. A frown creased his features. “Something here has cut us off from the network. You did not hear me, did you?” he asked.

She shook her head, and suddenly realized that she couldn’t feel any of the others. The network was strangely quiet.

“They are emitting a dampening signal of some sort. Our link can not reach Debbie.” Silas squinted at the collapsed stones blocking the hallway back towards the ship. “We are on our own here.”

Lacy nodded, and looked at Victoria. The raven haired woman frowned, and adjusted her weaponry. The administrator kept going, the two women following him. Lacy didn’t like the idea of being without the others, knowing how easy it was to find themselves injured. She rarely needed to worry about Silas, but Victoria was another matter entirely. She was more fragile. She came from the surface world, a world that Lacy shared a similar link with, but she was not as resilient as the others. She wasn’t hardened like Silas or Aerin or James or Allison. And she was hatched like Lacy and Debbie. Yet, she was an essential part of the team, the anchor to Silas’ explosive anger, and the fire to his cool, quiet demeanor. Without her, nothing would be as it were.

Still, that didn’t mean Lacy wasn’t frightened for Victoria. They had nearly lost her once before, and that loss had virtually crushed Silas. Stepping from the tight tunnel into a large, round room with tall pillars of ice, and step stones leading to icy, shadowed walkways higher up, Lacy couldn’t help but think of the kinds of dangers that would come. She scanned the columns, and the walkways, following E.N.T protocol by the book. Extermination was their goal. Extermination was rare, and she did not enjoy it, but it was warranted. James had been taken, though her first survey of the blood suggested that he had only been knocked unconscious, and the Jarjins had brought a world ender.

Silas held up a hand, and the two women stopped. Lacy could just barely make out heavy breathing. The cadence suggested that it wasn’t human; there were three lungs expelling air. Jarjins. Silas looked back at her, she held up three fingers and swiped them through the air, curling two with the end of the swipe. He nodded and started off into the center of the room.

It happened so fast, she didn’t even have time to react. Green light exploded, cracking the pillars of ice, and toppling them backwards into the walls. Lacy was knocked backwards, towards the wall, and hit with a hard thud. Struggling to retain consciousness, she saw Victoria laying on her side, groggy, but uninjured. Lacy checked the back of her head, and rose on wobbly legs. She placed her hand on Victoria, who was trying to get up, and reached into her. There was a bruise, which was minor, and a small fracture on one of her wrists. Gripping both injuries with her mind, Lacy pulled them into herself. She felt her wrist pop and fracture, and blood pool beneath her skin. Steeling her body against the pain, she pulled away from Victoria, and knitted her injuries with her mind. The fracture pieced itself together, and the bruise disappeared.

Lacy turned to see Silas in the center of the room, ice columns collapsed around him, two dead Jarjins slumped over blocks of ice. A blue aura surrounded him, pulsing with his breathing.

“By my count,” Lacy said, rejoining the administrator with Victoria at her side, “that leaves two more.”

“No, it leaves one. Aerin found one. It was the last thing that was sent down the network. The one she found was also keeping the infants. It leaves the patriarch.”

Silas nodded gravely. He pointed to a crumbling walkway above them, and they followed him. Extending his power over the gaps, they were able to cross without incident. It spiraled further and further, wrapping around the room until they were so high from the floor that one slip spelled doom. They entered another hallway and exited into a small, tight room.

Lacy gasped. James hung from tethers of green energy, suspended in midair by his arms. He was bloody, his brown hair matted against his head. The colorful E.N.T. suit covering him was torn in places. She didn’t think anything could possibly do that.

Silas started across the room, the blue glow wafting from him like an angry gale. He reached out to sever the tethers from James.

“I would not do that if I were you.”

Silas stopped. A Jarjin stepped from behind a column of ice. It waved a small device in its hand. “I have connected his life force to the, as you call it, world ender. I will end his life, and thus, end your world, if you so much as move.”

Lacy found it unnerving that the creature spoke fluently. Silas said nothing. He stood perfectly still, his eyes engaged with the Jarjin. Lacy and Victoria could barely breath.

“You know why we are here, don’t you?” the creature asked Silas.

“I know.”

“Then you know that he is very angry with you. He is angry that you have run. And he is angry that you seek fleshy vessels to do your bidding.” The Jarjin walked towards Silas. “Why is that? Why do you seek to exploit the weak for your own gain?”

It wasn’t to Silas, the man, that the creature spoke, but the thing that had given Silas the talents that he called his own. That thing had long since disappeared. Only Silas remained now. But the creature didn’t know that. The creature... didn’t know that.

Silas said nothing.

“You are as guilty as the one you charge, yet you act as if you are holier than he. He destroys to create. He devastates to enlighten. He is the all, and the everything. You are a parasite.”

The Jarjin faced away from Lacy. The creature didn’t know that the being that had once been part of Silas had disappeared years ago. Perhaps, the great destroyer didn’t know either. Perhaps the great destroyer didn’t know a lot of things; he didn’t know what Lacy was.

She retrieved a small blade from one of her pockets. It would work. She knew it would work, because it had worked before. Silas didn’t have an opening, but Lacy did. The Jarjin huffed in dramatic fashion, ignoring the two women at the mouth of the hallway.

Lacy took her blade, and stabbed herself in the chest, directly in her heart. The sudden, overwhelming pain nearly paralyzed her. She screamed, and the Jarjin whirled around to find her stumbling towards him. He watched her coming, the blood running down the front of her once perfect white suit, life bleeding from her. She collapsed to her knees before him, reaching out, and placing a hand on him. Her life force drained from her.

“The inevitable,” the Jarjin said with disgust. “Even your own people know that you are a lia-”

A paper thin slit flowed through the Jarjins veins, piercing its heart. The paper thin slit punctured the muscle, scraped the bone, and penetrated the skin. Blood seeped from the Jarjin as the pain coursed through him; as he was stabbed from the inside out. The pooling blood beneath Lacy stopped, her grip stronger on the Jarjin’s leg. The creature clutched at its chest, death seeping into it so quickly that it couldn’t comprehend what had happened. Silas reached out and grabbed the device in its hand as it collapsed to the floor, dead.

The taste of blood in her mouth, Lacy stood. The entire front of her suit was stained red from her own blood. It dripped from her.

“Did you know he wouldn’t know about your empathy?” Silas asked, looking the device over.

“Yes. He believed that the Arcinian was still with you.”

Silas measured her. “You are an amazing person, Lacy Angel. You may have just saved Earth.”

She smiled and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Not until we get rid of the world ender.”

“Silas?”

“Aerin? The block is down. The patriarch is dead.”

“The final pod has been eliminated. Have you located James?”

The administrator disassembled the device in his hands, and shut off the tethers holding James aloft. He lowered the man to the ground so that Lacy could place her hands on him. There was some minor injuries, and a probe that was connected directly to James’ spinal cord. She healed his injuries, and deactivated the probe. When they returned home, she would remove it.

“We have located and recovered James.”

The man slowly opened his eyes. He blinked with great difficulty, opening his mouth to lick his lips. Silas leaned forward to hear what the man was saying, his voice too hoarse to say it beyond a whisper. When James had said his peace, he closed his eyes to rest.

Silas stood and started towards the tunnel, leaving Lacy to care for James.

“What did he say?” she asked.

He stopped and looked at her. “The world ender has been initiated.” Then Silas disappeared, taking Victoria with him, and leaving Lacy to tend to their comrade.

How could she concentrate on the job knowing that James was out there somewhere? How could she concentrate without knowing his fate? He was her lifeblood, the very reason she rose in the morning. How long had it been? Nearly ten years now? Ten years together, and every day was better than the last. She looked up at Debbie, who stared off at nothing with a somber face. Allison wanted her to be wrong. But Debbie was never wrong; her accuracy was the reason she was brought out on missions like this.

Standing, the two women continued down the hall. They picked their way through the ice caverns slowly, knowing that one unfortunate slip would be fatal. There had been a time when teams weren’t as careful during their missions. That had led to a change in management within the organization. Silas had become administrator because of circumstances like that. Allison remembered meeting him for the first time, a young man with a serious slant. It wasn’t long after that she met James.

Her thoughts kept returning to her husband. And why not? Silas had warned him against coming, told him that his place was back at home, but James kept insisting. Why? What was it about the thrill of this that drove the man to completely disregard his life? Why did he want to act like he was still young? He wasn’t. He-

She was yelling at him. Wiping away a tear so that Debbie didn’t see it, Allison climbed over a collapsed ice column. They were in a circular chamber. A giant hole in the ceiling allowed snow in, and black pillars of ice had fallen around a ship lodged in the floor: the Jarjin’s ship. Debbie stepped around it. There was blood on the floor. Allison’s heart seized in her throat, but she kept moving. The tears were close to freshly falling. She needed to remain strong.

Motioning to a hidden entrance directly across from the ship, the two women entered. They picked their way through the tunnel, overgrown with ice crystals, and miniature stanchions of ice. A few were broken here and there. Silas had come this way.

What business did a Director of Research and Science have coming out all this way? Of course, it made sense now, because they had found a world ender, but it didn’t make a lick of sense beforehand. This was originally a containment mission, and there was no science to be found in all of the preliminary data. She wondered what James had said to convince Silas that he was needed on this mission. It wasn’t often that-

“Dammit,” Debbie said. Allison stopped. It wasn’t like the woman to curse. “It’s collapsed.”

Before them, the tunnel was blocked by a barrier of thick ice. Allison frowned. “You didn’t know that?”

“Silas closed his mind. He must have done it, because he knew we would come. There’s something he must know.”

Allison shook her head. It wasn’t like Silas to keep his knowledge hidden from them. He was fairly open with his desires, and his reasons, so if he didn’t want them coming, he would have told them. From the start, she had felt comfortable talking with him. It was how their friendship had become so strong in all the years they knew each other.

“Silas?” Allison called across the link. There was no response. Strange. The two women exchanged looks.

“Silas, are you there?” Debbie asked this time. Still, there was no response. “Victoria? Lacy?” Neither of them said a word.

“Aerin?” Allison said, waiting for a response.

“Can it wait a minute? Shane and I found the other Jarjins.”

Allison waited. Something didn’t seem right. “Can you feel them at least?” she asked.

For a moment, Debbie didn’t say anything. Panic tightened her features a moment later. “No. No, I can’t feel anything at all. Not their life signatures, nor their-”

“What do you want, Allison? Do you know where the other Jarjins are?” Aerin asked. Her tone was respectful, unlike the one she used with Silas.

“Silas is incommunicado. So are Victoria and Lacy.”

“It’s like what happened with James. I can’t feel their life signatures. I can’t tell if they’re alive or not,” Debbie offered in explanation.

Allison swallowed her heart. If something had happened to Silas... She looked at the collapsed ice. Something as simple as that wasn’t capable of killing him. But if he weren’t dead, then it meant that something was blocking Debbie’s ability to feel him. Maybe, just maybe, that blocked them from James as well.

Aerin cursed over the link. “What’s your position? We’re coming to you.”

“Seventeen by six degrees A,” Allison said.

“Stay there. We’re on our way.”

“I don’t like this... I don’t like this one bit,” Debbie said. “James disappeared, but it wasn’t until I tried to contact him that I knew he was gone. Silas, Victoria, and now Lacy are gone.”

Allison didn’t like it either, but it gave her hope. It gave her hope that he was still alive. There hadn’t been a lot of blood, just as Victoria had said. If he were dead, Debbie would have known, but it was as if he had disappeared. Disappeared just like Silas, Victoria, and Lacy.

Debbie looked up with a gasp. “I can feel... they’re back. Allison, they’re back. They’re-”

“My... love?”

Allison cried out. It was the voice she was afraid she would never hear again. The voice that brought light to her world. The voice that told her she was not alone. She reached out to that voice, yearned to hold the man behind the voice. Wanted more than anything to be with him. Tears rolled down her face. “My love, you’re alive?” was all she could manage before the emotion overwhelmed her.

“My love,” James said, the tether to his thought very weak, “call the Rothians. We don’t have much time. The world ender... will initiate soon.”

There was a distant peel. Debbie and Allison looked at each other. They were out of time.

No, not gone. Gone was the wrong word. If he were gone, terminated, then she would have known. She would have been the first to know. But he hadn’t been terminated; he had been hidden. It was as if he didn’t exist. The life energy that connected his thoughts with hers was no longer there. He was a specter.

Rubbing Allison’s back, Debbie knelt beside her, looking down into the oval chamber through the hole in the floor. “Victoria was right, Allison,” she said. “James is not dead.”

Sniffling back tears, Allison stared down into the hole. She didn’t say anything. Debbie did not intrude on her thoughts, though she would have found them easy to read. Instead, she withdrew from Allison’s mind, leaving the woman in solitude. It would do no good to keep thinking about James. Silas would have to take care of that. They had bigger problems. They had a world ender.

Ten adults had been let loose, with a small group of infants. The infants weren’t too terribly bad, but the adults would be a problem. Debbie reached into her bag, pulled out sound mufflers, and plugged up her ears. She tapped Allison’s shoulder. The Director of Communications glanced back, and followed suit. Ten adults were a problem, and their paralyzing scream even worse.

“Silas said that there are ten adults,” Debbie said through the link to Allison. She divided the other conversations happening in the back of her mind, some relevant to her, such as Silas’ orders, and others not, such as Aerin and Shane demeaning Silas. “Three of them are dead. We need to find the others. I believe that there may be two down in that room.” Debbie pointed to the oval shaped room below them. Collapsed ice was scattered everywhere, and giant black pillars of ice held the roof aloft.

“Maybe,” was all Allison was willing to commit.

Hooking a metal apparatus to the walls and floor, Debbie attached the energy tether it emitted to the front of her belt, gripped it with her gloved hand, and slipped through the hole. She flipped a visor over one eye, reading the heat signatures in the room. There was nothing but black ice. Still, she kept her weapon ready, knowing that the Jarjins were ruthless and cunning. She never liked looking into their thoughts. The one time she had had given her nightmares for weeks.

Touching down on the floor, she glanced up at Allison, who stared through the hole with her weapon ready should anything suddenly leap out at Debbie, and gave a thumbs up. Detaching the tether, she pushed the voices from everyone else coursing through her mind aside, and sent out tendrils of thought in pulsing waves, collecting data as she did. She couldn’t feel any thought patterns from Jarjins, nor could she feel the innate instinctual impulses of the infants. The room was clear. Allison descended moments later.

“Silas, our quadrant is clear,” Debbie said across the link. There wasn’t a vocal response, only the warm appreciation that he sometimes sent across the link to thank her.

Debbie and Allison crossed the room, and secured a ramp leading up. Debbie waited while Allison went ahead to scout. When the all clear was given, she joined her friend.

“What do the Jarjins have against us?” Allison asked Debbie privately. “What did we ever do to them?”

The questions were more rhetorical than anything. Allison knew the Jarjins’ language, and was familiar with their culture. Earth was the last place in the universe that the Jarjins wanted to be. The organization made it difficult for them to survive. It was her anger, and the fact that James was missing, that brought Allison’s feelings to the surface. Without intending to, Debbie began soothing Allison.

“Stop that,” Allison said. She stopped in the hallway, and turned to Debbie. “I don’t need to be calmed.”

Debbie pursed her lips, and pulled back. “Sorry. It’s a force of habit.”

“I just-”

Through the ear plugs, Debbie heard a wail somewhere down the hallway. Green light reflected off the ice walls, speeding towards them. Grabbing Allison, she dropped backwards as the light flew over them and exploded into a wall behind them. More light followed, and the two scrambled for cover.

“Silas! The quadrant isn’t clear. We have live ones here,” Debbie screamed down the link. Allison leaned around the corner, firing off shots. She flashed three fingers. “We’ve got three of them. All adults! Wailers.”

“Can you hold them?” Silas asked.

Allison fired off more shots. She flashed two fingers.

“I think we can. There’s two left now.”

“Try to find out who has control of the world ender.”

Leaning around the corner to get a shot off, Debbie gritted her teeth. Ice sprayed everywhere from another explosion. “We’ll try.”

She reached into the hallway, pulsing with her mind. One of the creatures was dead, another badly injured from a well placed shot, and the third frantically searching for a way out of the situation. Debbie gripped its fear, and heightened it. It screamed, panic-stricken, and unable to move. It stood, sprinting towards them, looking for a way out. Just before it made it around the corner, Debbie stepped out from behind the wall, and shot it in the leg. Its piercing scream ricocheted off the wall, but the ear plugs prevented it from paralyzing her.

“I will translate for you,” Allison said. Debbie extended herself into Allison’s mind, drawing on the woman’s uncanny ability to decipher millions of terrestrial and extraterrestrial languages.

“We know why you are here, and we know what you are after. We want to know how to stop it,” Debbie said, speaking directly to the Jarjin. Her words were little more than a series of extended yelps and calls, senselessness to her, but language to the Jarjin.

“I would die first.”

“It can be arranged,” Allison said through the link to the Jarjin. She leveled her weapon at the creature. Debbie pulled her back.

“Let me handle it.”

Allison withdrew.

“I will give you one chance to help us, then I’m pulling what you know. It won’t be painless.” The Jarjin simply stared at her, then spit its acidic saliva in her direction. Debbie moved to the side, and nodded. She was going to have do this the hard way. “Have it your way.”

An explosion erupted in the creature’s brain, hundreds of images flipping before Debbie’s mind’s eye like a book. She cycled through them, picking out the most relevant, until she was finished. The creature wailed. When it was over, it collapsed, dead. Debbie picked the best of the images, and sent them along to Silas. Appreciation trickled down the link.

“You know who controls them?” Allison asked. She glared at the dead Jarjin in the hall before them.

“The patriarch. And I know where he is. Silas is on his way to take care of him.”

“What are we waiting for, then? Let’s go help.”

Debbie nodded.