In the back of Kaedmon’s Grand Cathedral there was a massive circular chamber often used for meetings of the Council. A large dais dominated the center of the chamber, upon which was sat an oval table engraved with sermons and psalms ordained and etched by Krea herself.

  A giant stained-glass image of Kaedmon’s first Angel dominated the back wall, showing Her triumph over Karfangg the Black Wyrm. The rest of the walls displayed similar stylistic depictions of the Lightborns that came after her – each one depicting the moment they sunk their blade into the heart of their respective Archon.

  Into this room the great wagons of the Greycloaks were wheeled. High Cardinal Remiel sat himself at the head of the great table, just below the watchful eyes of Krea. Lord Commander of the Grey, Garviel, remained standing beside him, fingers twitching towards his blade as he nodded to his men to be ready for what might happen here.

  At the word from the High Cardinal, the tarpaulins were then thrown off both wagons, and the horror of what they contained was made known to all.

  In the first wagon a human warrior knelt, naked except for a ragged loincloth hanging from his nethers. His muscled body was covered from head to toe in tattoos depicting various primeval creatures of the forest – wolves, bears, eagles, and some that defied categorization itself. He had been the most silent of the captives. His sallow features gave him the appearance of a warrior that had seen entire worlds come and go – and indeed, perhaps he gad at that. If the legends were true.

  “Manus Raava,” Garviel said. “The King of Barbarians. Master shapeshifter and voice of the earth.”

  The naked human said nothing to acknowledge his address. His eyes, wiry and animalistic, instead lighted on the figure of High Cardinal Remiel as the priest gave a small, curt nod.

  “The last remnant of our ancestors,” he said, motioning towards the barbarian with respect.

  “He came willingly,” Garviel explained. “Though he was not an easy man to find.”

  “I’m quite sure. Does he understand our tongue?”

  To everyone in the room’s surprise, Manus spoke:

  “Your voice is choked by the air of your city,” he said – tone gravely and tinged with a brooding timbre. “But I know the words you speak.”

  “And you know why you’re here?”

  Manus looked around him at the depictions of Kaedmon and his angels all around, totally ignoring the Greycloaks who walked up to his wagon and unshackled his manacles. Remiel got the impression that if the barbarian had wanted to escape, he’d have already done so.

  “Your ‘Kaedmon’ means nothing to me,” Manus said with disdain, spitting on the hallowed ground of the church. The Greycloaks edged forwards, and Garviel glanced at the High Cardinal. But Remiel was cool. He shook his aged head.

  “And yet you walk within His house of prayer,” he said.

  “My feet tread upon this place because it must be so,” Manus grunted. “Because all humans must face what comes for us.”

  Remiel nodded and motioned for the savage to take his seat at the table. He was not surprised to find that this barbarian lord was the most agreeable to their cause. He was human, after all, even if he and his kind living in the Hinterlands rejected Kaedmon as their Lord and Master. When this war was one, the time would come for them to enter the fold or be corrected. But for now, they would have an alliance – one that might just clutch victory from the jaws of certain defeat.

  The second captive, however, was another story.

  In the second wagon the creature bound there stirred as the sedatory spells keeping him asleep finally began to wear off. His massive, hulking body, scarred beyond measure, grey as stone and twice as hardy, took up at least three fourths of the entire chamber space. His rippling muscles began to bulge as he regained consciousness, and his jagged teeth flared in his rock-like mouth.

  Finally, his four eyes opened. He looked down upon Remiel and the stern Greycloak that was standing beside him.

  And he remembered.

  “AAAAAAARGH!”

  Instantly the beast broke the chains that were binding him and flew into a rage, throwing two Greycloaks aside who moved to restrain him. Spittle flew from his mouth in great globules that formed puddles beneath his feet as he charged head-first at the High Cardinal, a bestial scream still ringing from his lips.

  And then he was suddenly brought to an abrupt halt as he heard the drawing of a blade and felt his flesh react – felt the nicks and scars that had been carved into his chest by that very sword.

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  He looked down to see the Greycloak – Garviel – standing before his High Cardinal with his glimmering sword drawn, the blade practically vibrating with power.

  “You would do well to remember the wounds this blade carved into you, creature. Or do you require another lesson?”

  The giant snarled down at the upstart human, mouth frothing, body heaving, shoulders still bared and ready to charge.

  “Greycloak,” the creature growled – the word dripping with as much bile and hatred as it could muster. “You think your puny blade frightens me?”

  “No,” Garviel replied coldly. “I frighten you.”

  The giant opened its mouth in what was about to be a bellow of pure rage before Remiel stepped in, lowering his Greycloak’s arm.

  “Now, now, Garviel,” he said. “You would do well to remember that this is a King who stands before us.”

  The giant looked at this new human and his face changed. Where once there had been only pure unbridled rage, now there was confusion. Confusion mixed with absolute disgust.

  Because your kind know one language and one language alone, Remiel thought as he met the giant’s stare with a smile. Power. And right now, you are realizing just how many Spirit Cores we share between us, aren’t you?

  When he spoke again, it was with as much feigned reverence as he could muster.

  “Be welcome in this place, Tangeon, King of the Gobrin giants.”

  Tangeon sniffed at the High Cardinal with disdain, though he did not attempt to dismember him as he wished. He seemed to suddenly take in the rest of his surroundings, noticing the naked human sitting at the table who watched him intently, like he was studying his very being.

  “Please, join us as we make ready for this most monumental of Conclaves.”

  Tangeon turned back to the Cardinal and flashed his razor teeth in his face.

  “Join you?” he grunted. “Is that why you are bringing me here, puny human? Is that why you are wasting fifty of your Angel-Eaters to put me in irons?”

  Remiel felt Garviel stiffen beside him.

  “We both know that there is enmity between our kind,” he said. “Of all the creatures that roam Argwyll still, only the Gobrin giants under King Tangeon have remained isolated from worldly affairs since the time of the first Archon. They have done so because none could truly stand against them.”

  “Do not speak to me of history, priest,” Tangeon spat. “I was there to see your Kaedmon try to wipe us out. And I was there to see him and your kind fail, every time.”

  “And you shall be here no longer if you do not add your strength to our cause.”

  The giant let out a long, low grunt that could have been its version of laughter.

  “Your cause died with your precious angel,” he scoffed. “Even we of the Gobrins felt his passing. Your world will die in ash and blight, human. But we will remain.”

  “Are you so sure?” Remiel asked. “Have you not seen the dreams yourself?”

  Tangeon regarded the human with new eyes, then. He narrowed his diamond-slit pupils, tracing every wrinkle of Remiel’s face to see if he was bluffing. Yet the King of the Giants himself was troubled – it was too much of an insult to think that a human had correctly identified the fear that had gripped his heart in recent months.

  The dreams of the Demon Hat. The one who took the minds of monsters and twisted them, leeching off their powers and leaving them behind as mindless slaves. Husks to be discarded when no longer needed.

  “The Archon will come for you,” Remiel said. “This demon – this Ethan – will take your mind just as he has taken the minds of your brethren in their Delves.”

  Tangeon growled down at the Cardinal, muscles tensing and face twitching as the thought took him. It was a thought that he’d tried his best to ignore – the notion that this most powerful of all Archons was sweeping across the land, leading an army of hybrids that sought to establish dominion over everything. That sought to usurp the God Kaedmon himself. There was even one among their ranks – a Hopla child – who it was said could dominate the minds of monsters directly, turning them into unwilling slaves for the Archon to consume.

  “If the time has come for me to die,” Tangeon said slowly. “Then let it come. I do not fear death.”

  “Can you say the same for your people, King Tangeon?” Remiel asked. “You have protected them valiantly for centuries, but even your strongest brothers’ defenses could not stop the passage of the Archon and his allies. Your desert will not save you when he comes.”

  “And your blasted Kaedmon will not save you!” the giant wailed, though the shout was half-hearted. Already he was turning away from the Cardinal and considering the massive seat at the western edge of the table.

  “I am asking you to hear what I have to say, nothing more,” Remiel said softly. “Should you still believe we are doomed after you have listened to my words, you shall be granted safe passage through the city back to your desert home. This I swear by the Allfather.”

  “Your promises mean nothing to me,” the giant snorted. “But go on, little human. Speak. Amuse Tangeon with your silly plans.”

  The giant finally lumbered over to his seat and made himself comfortable, causing the entire chamber to rumble as he did so. Garviel loosened up a little and nodded to his Cardinal before taking his own seat beside him at the table.

  However, something else disturbed Remiel.

  "I believe we were expecting a third..."

  Garviel grunted. "It seems our illustrious assassin was unable to find this 'Architect' you sent him for, sire," he said. "Either that, or he is still getting drunk by a wayard inn on the road to the Southern mountains."

  Remiel paused to consider this. He couldn't disguise his disappointment. Garm's acquisition of the Architect - potentially the oldest creature in all Argwylian legend - was to be a pivotal part of his strategy. However, there was little time to wait. If the inquisitor had failed, then they would have to proceed without him. And hope that they slew the Archon before he made contact with that aged beast...

  Remiel who cast his eyes over the three of them, taking in the sight of such an odd, disparate meeting of faithful and heretical minds. He wouldn’t have believed it was truly possible to bring these beings before him at this moment in time, when the world stood on the brink of total annihilation. The fact that they were now assembled here at all told him that the path the Lord had set him on was the righteous one.

  And with that thought as his guide, he began:

  “Welcome, Elders of Argwyll,” he said. “There is a cancer gnawing at the heart of our world. And it is time to see it ripped out.”