The Zombie Knight

“...Why would you appear before me in this manner?” said Dozer. “You, of all people, should know how I would perceive it.”

Gohvis made no response.

Dozer clenched his jaw. What was this, now?

The Scourge was admittedly not among those he’d been expecting to see, but it did make an unfortunate degree of sense.

For over two centuries, he and Gohvis had not been on the best of terms. The Scourge was a far cry from the little lost creature that Dozer had once rescued and decided to raise as his own child. Too much had happened. Those memories were of a different life entirely. Or maybe they’d grown distorted by time and nostalgia.

“...If you’ve come to kill me,” said Dozer, “then why do you hesitate? I and many others taught you better than that, no?”

“I am still undecided,” said Gohvis.

Dozer exhaled half a laugh through his nose. “At this late stage? It seems to me that you should have sorted through your feeling before showing yourself.” But then, that had always been the lad’s weakness, hadn’t it? Ruled by emotion, no matter how hard he tried to protest otherwise.

Saying as much aloud would not have been productive, however.

“No,” said Gohvis, rather unsurprisingly. “I am thinking that we may yet be able to find common ground again. Before it is too late.”

Too late for whom, exactly? The lad had a knack for making veiled threats that were not so veiled. Pointing that out, too, would not have been productive. Dozer had to control himself.

If only he’d been able to convince Domingo to design military uniforms for him. What a colossal disappointment that meeting had been.

Ah well.

Even if the man hated him with a burning passion, Dozer did not intend to stop wearing his clothes. If anything, it made him want to keep buying them out of spite.

Next came the white button-down. He rolled up the sleeves and picked out a silky black tie. He forewent the jacket. Jaskadan was too warm for that.

Next should have been socks and dress shoes, but he wasn’t in the mood. Oddly enough, he rather preferred the idea of sandals, at the moment. They weren’t battle attire, either, but honestly, nothing really was. He’d most likely end up barefoot by the end of the fight, either way.

Then he was done. Fully dressed. But still no attack arrived. He eyed himself in the mirror, not really looking and instead just thinking. Waiting.

Curious. Did these assassins have cold feet? Or were they perhaps hoping for some sort of backup to arrive first?

Or was this all just in his head? Had he finally gone senile and lost his mind to paranoia, as so many were already proclaiming?

That might’ve been amusing, were it true. Made things simpler, perhaps.

Well.

He couldn’t yet tell where they were, whether they were near or far, inside the room with him or out. He only knew that the threat was imminent. That a clash of souls was soon to occur.

But if they wanted to keep giving him time like this, then he supposed he would just have to force their hand. Unless they stopped him, he was going to go back outside and start giving new orders to his men. The attackers wouldn’t want that, surely.

He made for the door.

Then he felt it. The presence. They were in the room with him now. Had they been there all along? He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be sure. His eyes still couldn’t see them, but he had a rough idea where they were. On the other side of the room, behind him.

He stopped and waited, still undecided about how he wanted to handle this.

Clearly, these assassins were not the usual sort. They’d waited for him. And even now, they still weren’t attacking despite having every reason to. Perhaps they wanted to talk, first. If so, he intended to hear them out.

Engomat’s reaper senses weren’t telling him anything. Of course they weren’t. Even before the existence of aberration-spawned Invisibility, there had been various means by which assassins could avoid detection. It certainly hadn’t helped, though. Dozer could’ve done without that little technological development from Morgunov’s side.

Hell, despite all the breakthroughs they’d made, it seemed like half or more ended up being too much responsibility for them to handle. Of what use was some great new technology if it just ended up in the Vanguard’s hands, anyway? He’d often pondered that question. If the Vanguard didn’t have their own threatening inventors, Dozer would have ceased bothering with this hassle eons ago.

Maybe he would’ve even killed them all himself. Sometimes, he thought that maybe Engomat was right about the advancement of technology, that their mission would be better off without the extra “help.”

If not for his dream, Dozer probably would’ve been convinced by the reaper a long time ago.

He proceeded back into the bedroom and began getting dressed. Despite his apparent age, he had quite the physique. In fact, that was in large part the reason why he’d wanted Engomat to let him age so much.

When he was younger, he’d cared not a whit for his own musculature, but by the time he’d hit a point when a servant might normally stop the aging process, he’d developed a new fascination with bodybuilding. And unfortunately, one could not build muscle while aging was halted by a reaper.

These days, he’d never felt healthier or stronger. Nonetheless, people still took to calling him “the Old Man,” like he was somehow past his prime.

Maybe they’d stop calling him that if he took his shirt off in public more often.

Bah. Silliness. He had no use for it.

Whoever was about to attack him, he appreciated that they were at least allowing him to look dignified for the occasion. He’d already experienced too many fights in nothing but a towel--or even stark naked.

Perhaps these assailants had some sense of honor about them. That would be a nice change of pace, though he doubted it.

He went for the gray briefs and black Domingo slacks first. The latter had a fine silver trim down the sides, which was perhaps a bit opulent for battle attire, but he didn’t mind. Domingo was a master of his craft who knew how to blend function and form perfectly.

It would’ve also been of great help if he could get his hands on a new source of nuclear material, natural or otherwise. All the ones he’d been relying on over the last half-century were now either mostly depleted or dead.

Assassinated, in many cases, actually.

For all their moral posturing, Sermung and the Vanguard seemed to have no qualms about murdering Dozer’s materializing sources, no matter how innocent they might’ve been. He still remembered a time when they at least tried to spirit the sources away and hide them from him. Their persistent string of failures must’ve become too demoralizing.

Dozer had always wondered if it was Iceheart’s policy which had changed things, as many claimed, or if that was merely a smokescreen to help prevent Sermung’s all-important public image from becoming too tarnished.

Whatever the case, the Vanguard’s secret division of assassins was the real problem. Naturally, they’d made many attempts on Dozer’s life over the years, and they always tried to strike when he was at his most vulnerable.

Such as when he was in the comfort of his own chambers. Not unlike this very moment, when he was in the shower at his most defenseless, washing off the grime of a long day of battle.

Sometimes, the killing attempt came from intruders with admittedly impressive stealth. Other times, it came from traitors who’d been in his service for years.

It had been a while since the last attempt. He wonder which type it would be this time.

He stood directly under the showerhead, letting the searing hot water massage his face for a few minutes longer than he usually did. If his attackers were waiting for a window of opportunity, then perhaps they would think this was a good one. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first of its kind.

At length, though, he shut the water off and looked around the black-and-gold tiled room, almost disappointed. With how hot he liked the water, there was plenty of steam to make visibility low, as well.

Fine.

He grabbed a towel and began drying himself off.

He knew that something was off tonight. It wasn’t any kind of supernatural sense--or at least, he didn’t think it was. Rather, it was just centuries of experience. Not something he could articulate.

The air? No. The stillness? No, not that, either.

There’d been a time, long ago now, when he’d thought this feeling was simply paranoia. And back then, maybe it had been. Hell, maybe it still was, to some extent. But now, he knew a bit better.

The difference.

Between a gut feeling.

And a long-tempered instinct.

Kara’kuun? If these tremors were coming from the Dulvani capital city, then perhaps he should change tactics here. He’d told Itoya to send a few men to negotiate with the Dulvani directly, but now he was thinking that he should go investigate this other matter himself, anyway.

Interesting.

He didn’t like to act rashly, though. Increasing the number of scouts would be the more prudent thing to do.

Patience, then. As ever.

He’d heard that all his life, from reapers and mentors alike: that his patience was perhaps his greatest strength. How many enemies had he vanquished over the years simply by outlasting them? By waiting for them to make a mistake? By looking for an opening, no matter how long it took to find it?

Though, he’d heard the opposite, too: that he was too slow to act. Too scared of making a wrong step. Too cowardly for an emperor. Morgunov certainly liked to sing that tune. The man had an, at times, paradoxical obsession with the concept of cowardice. But then, that was just one more thing that made the Mad Demon live up to his moniker.

He instructed Natia and Akama to send more scouts to Kara’kuun, and then he retired to his chamber in the heart of the Obsidian Shell, the largest of the mobile fortresses in his entourage. Within its ridged walls slept enough non-nuclear firepower to raze an entire city in less than four hours--and without the need of a single superpowered individual.

There’d once been a time, not even that long ago by his estimation, when he’d thought that taking nuclear warheads along with him on these ventures was a good idea, but he’d since come to the conclusion that they were more trouble than they were worth. Containment and management alone made them logistical headaches, but on top of that, they were almost never needed--and even when they were, they attracted a prohibitively difficult amount of attention from the Vanguard.

Sermung did not often show himself, but the use of nuclear weapons was one thing that had almost always drawn him out. In some ways, that had been a useful tool, being able to both predict and manipulate the Titan’s movements in certain ways.

But that song and dance had lost its luster by now. Eventually, Sermung grew wise to the strategy, and in retaliation, the man had seemingly made it his life’s purpose to make Dozer regret it in a thousand other ways every time he deigned to use a nuke--until eventually, he’d all but bled Dozer dry. Now such weapons were preciously rare for him and certainly not worth risking on lengthy field operations like this one.

The encampment did not look as one might have expected. There were no tents or campfires to be seen, no gatherings of soldiers out in the open.

No, the encampments of the Living Void were different. He’d always preferred to travel in luxury. What was the point of being the most powerful conqueror the world had ever known if his entourage paled in comparison to those of the self-professed god-kings of the ancient world?

Here, they had mobile, multi-purpose buildings. Each one served as a miniature fortress unto itself, able to deploy men or vehicles on a moment’s notice, while also providing the comfort of a palace for Dozer and his chosen leaders. The rank-and-file were not entirely left out, though. They were able to enjoy the fully stocked kitchens and refectories, as well the various training facilities.

It was important not to coddle the men, but it was equally important to give them a view of what they might one day be able to achieve, should they prove themselves worthy.

There were also immobile facilities in this camp, as well. And they were no primitive structures, either, despite being made almost entirely by materializers. The artistry in some of these buildings could’ve rivaled any of the ancient kingdoms of Qhenghis.

Their pristine and prestigious nature was in large part due to Natia. She always obsessed over decorations, regardless of how temporary their stay. Once upon time, he’d found that obsession rather obnoxious, but over the decades, he’d developed a fondness for her attentive eye, even if it did end up going to waste more often than not.

She was the first one to greet him upon his return, though he could see a few of the men running about, no doubt having been ordered into positions.

“Master,” said Natia with a welcoming nod. As ever, her perfectly calm voice and demeanor betrayed nothing of her thoughts, and nary a speck of dust was to be found on her brown-and-green fatigues despite all the debris around.

Another apparent after shock arrived, prompting Dozer’s next question. “What’s the source of this rumbling?”

‘Uncertain,’ answered her reaper, Akama, who floated close behind her. To Dozer’s eyes, she was a dog-sized, black lump with no eyes or ears to speak of--only an oval-shaped proboscis that sported rows of bloodied, smoldering teeth. ‘But it seems to be originating from deeper into the forest, from the direction of Kara’kuun.’

He would’ve liked to have a bit more time to himself, but matters needed to be taken care of. After this latest battle, he wanted to check up on their supplies back at camp. While he trusted Jari to handle logistics most of the time, it was still prudent to look on things himself regularly. A ship ran best when its captain made his presence known, after all. And of course there was still the matter of the research team. Hopefully, they would have--

The ground quaked under his feet as he was standing up. It was violent enough to kick up splintered debris all around him, though it did not make him stumble in the slightest.

He was instantly reminded of someone he loathed. This feeling was all too familiar.

Was she here? Had she chased him all the way across the Luthic Ocean? Surely not. She had much more pressing concerns on Eloa, at the moment.

But then again, he’d been thinking she might pop up for a while now, because her name had been conspicuously absent from most of the reports he’d read of the war. She should have been making ample trouble for his men over there, so the fact that she’d been quiet suggested that she was up to something. He’d thought maybe she would make a play on his country during all the chaos, maybe try to launch a counter invasion and finally end the stalemate while he was away.

He’d been hoping for that, actually. Such a move would almost certainly overextend her forces and make his eventual counter stroke that much more potent when he returned home.

He did not sense her yet, however, which was curious. If there was one thing about the Gargoyle of Korgum that he appreciated, it was that she tended not to bother concealing herself. It was likely too difficult for her, once she started making the ground rumble.

He leapt. His dirtied coat flapped wildly behind him as he arched high over the landscape, and he got a clear view of the distant horizon in all directions, save where the giants of Jaskadan still managed to touch the clouds and impede his sight.

His landing was soft, barely disturbing the dirt as his boots touched Eleg again. In a single bound, he’d made it all the way back to the encampment. Not such a difficult feat for him, despite how far today’s battle had strayed from its origin point.

From there, the tale split into different tellings. Some were clearly meant to portray Skapa more sympathetically, and others very much not. Unfortunately, it was impossible to tell what the truth was, anymore, even with the benefit of reapers and their long memories.

The problem, Dozer thought, was that Skapa himself was simply too famous. At this point, he was more like a mythic hero than an actual person, because throughout the course of recorded history, he had been the center of many such tales, though admittedly the tale of Skapa and the Forest was likely the oldest.

It certainly didn’t help that many storytellers seemed to have shoehorned Skapa into their fairy tales, most probably in an appeal to popularity or perhaps an attempt to give their story a greater sense of legitimacy.

Where this forest was concerned, however, many had long since come to the conclusion that the wisps from the tale were, in fact, the very same beings as the Dulvani.

And the Dulvani, rather unsurprisingly, hated that. They claimed to have no relation whatsoever--or that the tale itself was entirely fictional.

Dozer was obviously not the first treasure hunter to have come to this place, and the Dulvani had a reputation for being quite inhospitable to those seeking wealth from their forest. In fact, they were known to be utterly brutal in their isolationism. Certainly not the soft, friendly, fairy-like creatures that they were too frequently portrayed as in stories about them. He’d heard they would execute hapless travelers who cut down even a single tree for a campfire during the winter.

And looking at the sea of felled wood all around him, there was no doubt in his mind that they would now be holding a grudge against him for a very long time to come.

So be it, though.

He was not here for their forest, but if it continued to get in his way, he would continue to annihilate it. And besides, he'd left the trees as stumps. He hadn’t uprooted or burned very many of them. He just needed clear sight.

That was the real nuisance of Jaskadan. The ardor that flowed through it, obfuscating everyone’s senses and disorienting them--or even, at times, projecting hallucinations. After losing three decent soldiers to the forest, he’d decided that enough was enough. He didn’t need the extra hassle when the Mendocava were already being plenty annoying on their own.

At first, he answered everything he could, as their curiosity was matched only by his own, and he wished to know more of them, as well. In time, however, their questions became so incessant that he resorted instead to trying to make them laugh.

Within the clutches of the forest, the sun was often not visible at all, because the canopy of leaves overhead was so thick. And in the company of the wisps, Skapa lost track of the days, but he began to notice that he never seemed to grow tired or need sleep.

He began to suspect that the ethereal, hypnotic lights of the forest were having an effect upon him. He worried that, perhaps, this place was not the beautiful haven that it first appeared to be.

But he was enjoying himself, nonetheless. The wisps harbored many secrets, and they seemed to care for him.

They shared with him their visions, images from their minds of beautiful places they hoped to one day visit or return to. They shared with him their dreams, feelings from their hearts of things they hoped to one day do or accomplish. And perhaps most importantly of all, they shared with him their Pool of Stillness, a secluded body of water and nectar that invigorated him as he immersed himself in it.

The longer he spent within the forest, the more enraptured he could feel himself becoming. Increasingly, his life outside the forest seemed a distant memory, a thing of so little value compared to what he had discovered here that it was hardly even worth remembering.

And he was torn. In the back of his mind, his concerns were growing, the stubborn vestiges of his past self. But another part of him wanted to let go, to simply be.

Eventually, the wisps grew to love him so much that they deigned to share with him their greatest secret, the thing they treasured most of all.

It was the fallen star. The very thing that had led him into the forest in the first place.

When he saw it there, shining even more radiantly than anything else he had seen within the forest, he was reminded of his deep curiosity, of his thirst to learn more about the unknown. In this way, the star embodied everything he missed of his past self and revealed to him a dissatisfaction with the comfortable life that he had come to find here.

So he stole it and fled.

He did have to acknowledge, however, that this forest was no normal place. He’d visited many times before, and during each venture, it felt quite different from the last.

This forest... it was more alive than most. He’d come to believe that perhaps it really did have a will of its own, as the Dulvani claimed. Perhaps Jaskadan was a slumbering giant, and tearing through it like he and the Mendocava had been doing was going to wake it up.

He hoped so. It would certainly clear a few things up. And maybe this giant could answer a few questions, if it harbored any sort of communicable intellect.

In any case, the fact that the Mendocava had retreated here was interesting. As far as was known before, they had no connection to this place. The Gettira Plains, sure. That was the site of a great battle, one that had decided the fate of four civilizations of the ancient world. The Arakonyc, or Great Apocalypse, was its historical name.

While the true origins of the Mendocava were still disputed, it was now his view that they were enthralled as a result of that conflict. Instead of dying, a puppet master had enslaved them--or what remained of them, at least.

But if they saw Jaskadan as a place of refuge, then perhaps their master was here. Or perhaps... hmm.

He recalled a tale of this forest, one he’d heard when he was just a simple lad with nothing more to his name than the ragged tunic on his back and the treasured buskins on his feet.

He remembered it because it was the tale of a fallen star.

One quiet night, when there was no moon to be seen, a brilliant light fell from the heavens and landed in the heart of a budding forest. A man called Skapa saw it from afar. Being unable to resist its radiant allure, he ventured into the forest to find it.

As he trekked through the forest, however, he saw it growing and changing all around him. Where before it had seemed a small, quaint place, it became a dense, labyrinthine maze full of wondrous colors and sights that he could not describe.

Little creatures began to appear before him. Wisps or fairies, perhaps. And they began asking him questions, wanting to know all about him, who he was and why he had come.

Part of him wanted to summon those old feelings again. There was something both freeing and invigorating in them. And they were still there, too. He could feel them in the back of his mind, daring him to indulge.

Seeing Ariah again, now of all times--what if it wasn’t a coincidence? What if it really was a herald of the gods? Now could be another turning point, a time to take bold action. Certainly, this little war of the idiots had set a rather tempting foundation.

He had of course sent many men to join in the fighting, in part because he knew what an obnoxious fuss they would make if he tried to forbid them. They would’ve whined incessantly or simply snuck off to join, anyway.

But no. Those feelings were wrong. The gods were wrong. Even if Ariah really was a herald of their will, it didn’t matter.

Only the Void’s will mattered.

He’d known that back then, too--or thought he did, at least--but it had been so easy to stray. To get distracted. To become obsessed with other avenues of power.

Illusions, all.

Finally, after all these years, he felt more certain of his conviction than ever. No more wavering. No more humoring of morons.

This war would fade, like any other. He had no reason to involve himself or any more of his resources in it.

Unless, perhaps, Morgunov fell low enough to come begging him for help. That would be something to see.

Regardless, here on the other side of the world, he already had plenty of things to keep him busy.

The Mendocava were not in this place without cause. It was not an accident that his men had stumbled upon them in the Gettira Plains, nor was it a coincidence that the fighting had been carried all the way into the Jaskadan Forest.

This forest was as ancient as they came. Some academics even argued that this location might’ve been the true cradle of life for humanity, the place where they had evolved from mere apes into the much more deadly creatures that eventually went on to conquer most of the planet.

He didn’t know if he believed that. The region of the Aruna River in central Ardora was the more traditionally recognized location for that theory, and Dozer was not like Morgunov. He did not buy into new academic ideas easily.

Even after all these years, he could still look up and feel this same sense of awe. He didn’t like to let the men see him like this, but in these silent moments of solitude, when it was just him and perhaps Engomat, he was able to relax just a bit and allow himself to feel that ancient feeling. The thing he’d felt ever since he was a child.

How long would he have to live in order to see his dream fulfilled? Or to see it even approached, for that matter?

Countless times, he’d wrestled with doubt. With impossibility. But countless more times, he’d persevered. He wasn’t dead yet, much as the world might’ve wanted him to be.

And in more ways than one, perhaps.

Ah. He could see Adarius, already. That was unusual for this time of day on this side of the planet. Oh! Was that a comet?! What absurd luck!

Which one was it? He used Engomat to help rack in his brain, trying to recall the last time he’d read up on the subject. It was only a couple months ago.

Yes. He remembered reading that Ariah’s Comet was supposed to be passing by soon. Wow. How could that have slipped his mind?

Incredible.

How long had it been since the last time he’d seen Ariah like this? He wasn’t entirely sure, but it probably wasn’t more than two hundred years. Ariah was a short-period comet, after all.

His mouth hung open a little as he marveled at it. Yes, now he did remember his last viewing.

It had been just before the Breaking.

Back then, he’d been unable to think of it as anything other than a herald of the gods: a fortuitous omen sent to bless his imminent foray into death or glory.

With the benefit of hindsight and an extra hundred and fifty-or-so years under his belt, Dozer had to look back on his younger self with a bit of disdain and disappointment. He’d truly thought of himself as the center of the universe in those days, hadn’t he? A blessing from the cosmos? Laughable.

While the Breaking of Korgum had certainly left its mark on history and renewed fear of him throughout the world, in his mind it was nothing more than a pathetic failure. If only he’d been more patient. More methodical. Under him, Korgum would have become a far more beautiful nation in this modern age. Not like the cesspit it was now.

“I’m not in the mood for your philosophizing, Ito.”

“When are you ever, Master?”

A fair point, he supposed. He stood up and rolled his neck. “Any movement from the Dulvani?”

“Yes,” said Itoya. “They appear to be evacuating.”

“Smart. And a shame. It would have been interesting to fight them, too. With how secretive they are, I imagine they must have quite a few tricks up their sleeves.”

“Would you like me to pursue them?”

He had to take a moment to think about that. On the one hand, Itoya was among his very best men and would no doubt see the job done to perfection, so long as precise instructions were given. But on the other hand, losing the manpower against the Mendocava would be more than just a nuisance.

Were the Dulvani worth it? Possibly. They could hold some of the answers he was looking for, but he doubted it. And even if they did, they would never willingly share them with him.

Not with the wicked one called Dozer.

In that vein, perhaps a different strategy was in order.

“No,” said Dozer. “Send some of Germal’s men, instead. We have a few here, don’t we?”

“We do, Master. But I cannot recommend trusting them with such a task. They are often insubordinate or weak. Or both.”

Unsurprising. Itoya got along with Germal about as well as water got along with oil, so any of the Liar’s disciples were naturally going to incur a similar degree of ire.

But there was a reason why Dozer had allowed this so-called Freeman Fellowship to continue existing, despite all the hassle and infighting it provoked from many of the other sects. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Ito.”

“...Yes, Master.” And perhaps the man could sense that he had overstepped, because he bowed and walked away without saying another word.

The Freemen. In many ways, they were the embodiment of what Abolish was frequently lacking. A delicate touch. The ability to see and appreciate nuance. And while it was certainly true that they were often too soft or hesitant for their own good, the rest of Abolish obviously made up for such weaknesses in spades.

If any of his men were going to get through to the Dulvani, it might be them. And if not, oh well. That was a problem for another day.

He looked up at the open blue sky and drank in the view. It was late enough in the day that he could already see some of the stars, even though the sun had not yet set.

He’d hoped that engaging them in battle would allow him to learn more about them, but months had transpired now, and beyond the minutiae, the only thing he felt like he’d truly come to understand was how annoying these stubborn bastards were.

These Mendocava, as they were called.

Despite having little to no regeneration, they still had a tendency to keep getting back up, anyway. Even headless, their bodies would continue on without them, which was perhaps the biggest difference between them and normal undead. If they had a point of control at all, it was clearly not the brain.

Even now, after all these battles, he still wasn’t entirely sure what made some of them eventually stop rising again. Annihilating them entirely worked quite well, obviously, but aside from that, it was uncertain.

He’d had his men dissecting their corpses day and night since the fighting began, but once they’d stopped moving, they appeared to be nothing more than normal, decayed bodies. No trace of ardor or soul power left.

He wondered if they even had any sentience whatsoever. It seemed so, considering the fact that they were clearly trying to prevent him from going certain places, but maybe that was just an illusion of their puppeteer.

Whoever that was, he was going to take his sweet time when he finally found them. Even disregarding the necessity of an interrogation, a quick death would be far more than they deserved.

The sound of crunching footsteps drew his weathered gaze to the left, and he saw his man there.

“Are you alright, Master?” he asked in Valgan.

Ichiro Itoya was a man of visibly advanced years, though not as much as himself. The flecks of gray in Itoya’s sharp mustache matched well with his piercing silver gaze. He was not a man given to expressing concern trivially, either, so the question he’d asked must’ve been prompted by quite the vile sight.

“I’m fine,” he said in two voices, also in Valgan. “Despite appearances, they’ve yet to lay a finger on me.” And he motioned to the dried viscera all over him. “This is just splashback.”

“Of course, Master.” Itoya had a fair bit of grime and gruel on him, too, mussing his normally pristine longcoat. “But you do look rather weary, sitting there like that. Perhaps they are not trying to win the war of the body but the one of the mind, hmm?”

‘No,’ said Kalikos ‘‘Tis an aerial bombardment.’

Another tremor arrived, as if to accentuate the reaper’s words.

“How do you know that?” said Loren.

‘There is much being spoken of, if one has the patience to listen,’ said Kalikos.

Loren frowned. “That... doesn’t answer my question.”

“We have our own lines of communication,” said Caster. “I’m afraid telling you any more than that would not be a kindness on our part. Some knowledge comes with strings attached, you see.”

The chamber shook again, this time with much more violent force, making Loren stumble. Entire boulders broke free from the walls and plunged into the pool below, splashing water all the way up to Loren’s feet.

The trembling slowed but didn’t stop, and the continuous groaning of the cave was more than a little unsettling.

“It appears we’ve dawdled too long, already. Let’s get the hell out of here, shall we?” And without waiting, the small man bounded over the ledge and cannonballed into the water with Kalikos in pursuit.

Loren just followed.

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