Adarin rushed into the inner sanctum, forcing his way through a crowd shivering with terror and muttering prayers, until he reached the statues of the Seven Holies. The hall was illuminated by the bright purple light of a necromantic bonfire. Liora stood naked, her hair flying as if in a gale, surrounded by incandescent fury. As she screamed, the purple flames threw the statues into stark relief.

  Adarin saw the corpses decorating the statue of the Mother rot and wither away. One of the two that had been pulled over the Mother’s hands like grotesque gloves was already nothing but ash; the third had been cut to pieces that were impaled on the beams of the statue’s sun crown—like some grotesque parody of a kebab. The final one had been flayed and bound around the Mother’s hips like a loincloth. Coming apart under the effect of Liora’s spell, it fell and crashed violently to the ground.

  Adarin barely registered a broken heart painted in blood on the Mother’s chest before Liora’s fire burned away the remnants entirely. She screeched louder and the growing crowd of onlookers scrambled back, only Adarin standing firm, a granite pillar against the ocean’s onslaught. The purple fire engulfed all the Seven Holies, and he noted that the necromantic fire lingered much longer and more intensely around Yarael, the Avatar of Death.

  Then Liora gulped audibly and collapsed. Darkness swallowed the hall in an instant, leaving sudden silence.

  Adarin stepped forward and raised his voice. I need to use this moment. This might make or break the crowd. “The desecration has been purged in holy fire,” he thundered, volume set to his highest he dared use. Dead silence met him. Eyes flicked between the naked young woman and the statues now wreathed in darkness. Keep them on the back foot before anyone else starts speaking.

  “The vampires desecrated this holiest of your places. But see—” He pointed to a few tongues of purple flame still dancing around the Avatar of Death. “The gods themselves have granted their fury to one of their priestesses to cleanse and restore this sanctum. You are safe here. You will not be hurt. Trust the guidance of the gods. Trust that the Order’s wards will keep you safe once they are established. Only a few more hours, and our enemy will not intrude into our sanctum any more.”

  He reached out over the link to nearby officers. ‘Start cheering—now.’ At once men and women, some eager, others hesitant, raised their fists and started cries of agreement and jubilation. The crowd picked it up; soon chants of “The gods are with us!” and “Righteousness shall purge the infidels!” resounded around the camp.

  Adarin allowed himself a grim smile as he walked to Liora’s collapsed, naked body. Some good old propaganda and ideology. The two of us work together like pyre and populace. He poked her gently. “Liora?” All he got in response was a groan. He turned and pointed to a sergeant. “Hand me your coat and help me bring her to the hospital.”

  “Yes, sir,” came the response, and together they wrapped the priestess-mage in the sergeant’s overcoat and carried her to the infirmary.

  The rest of the day passed, and Adarin walked the camp, observing with growing worry the proliferation of religious iconography. At least three people had actively taken to preaching, and Adarin kept himself busy assigning them to work detachments far from others. Yet the whispers intensified, and the glittering fervor of fear and faith grew stronger.

  He was just finishing a patrol in the hospital, checking on Liora—who was slowly recovering from burning all her mana—when Francesco reached out in a panic. ‘Sir—Sir Adarin. At the cafeteria. They are—oh my—by the Demiurges—what are they doing to her?’

  Adarin hissed and rushed out. Running down the center of the encampment, he found a mob at the food line—screams, fists, tools and weapons raised. He sprinted for the pagoda instead and reached the units on guard. ‘Get the skeletons ready. Into the square. I need as many undead as possible. There’s a riot developing.’ He reached out to Duchess Viola, but she was inspecting supplies and only responded with shell-shocked garble as she began running. ‘No. Lock yourself in the supply cellars. Don’t come out until I tell you to.’

  He ran past iconography that now seemed hideously menacing. This is going to get ugly. He climbed onto the first level of the pagoda and took in the crowd. Two women, one man. The women were no longer moving, yet the crowd was still enthusiastically venting their anger on their bodies. The man was feebly struggling against an onslaught of tools and fists—until a pickaxe came down hard on his head, digging nearly a handspan into his brain.

  Fuck. I’m too late.

  Adarin coordinated the units but kept the skeletons back in the colonnades. Careful timing is all I need now. Any second—there. A hawk-nosed man vaulted onto the serving table, brandishing a bloody shovel overhead. “We have killed the infidels! The heresy has brought doom upon us, my good fellows, settlers—” He turned, gesturing to soldiers who had still retained discipline, and Adarin noticed a painful number of uniforms in the mob. “Join us! Let us find any heretic, anyone who is not following the proper ways of the Faith, and cleanse this expedition of their evil influence!”

  Adarin scrambled to the balcony and coldly judged distances, noting a squad of musketeers on the far side of the roof just above the man. The table was ten meters back from the colonnade—enough. He reached out to the unit, connected to a sergeant. “Sergeant—special mission.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Yes, sir,” came the young woman’s shaken but steady voice.

  “Ready your guns. I want your entire unit to shoot out the knees of this fucker on my order. Understood?”

  “But, sir—”

  He cut sharply through her hesitant question. “Understood?”

  She swallowed audibly. Through his Thousand Eyes skill’s spyglass he watched her motion the soldiers toward the edge of the roof, keeping low, out of sight.

  The man riled the crowd. Other men began herding the military cooks to the front. Hands ran over their bodies, ripping open uniforms, searching for insignia. One of the kitchen women fought back and was beaten savagely. Adarin’s heartbeat thudded, but to his relief none of the kitchen staff carried “heretical” tokens. The men paused. The mob leader hesitated—thinking.

  “Shoot him. Kneecaps—now.”

  The man opened his mouth to recover momentum—“Let us search the—” Thunder from ten muskets cut him off. The mob screamed, and Adarin noted with grim satisfaction that at least four bullets ripped into the man’s legs. He stumbled and fell from the table, planting his face in the mud. The others cut into the crowd, causing more carnage. Not that there are any innocents in a lynch mob. Just legitimate targets. Adarin smirked viciously. Try leading a lynch mob without knees, motherfucker.

  “Forward.” Skeletons and musketeers with bayonets marched into the encampment. Many settlers had hidden in tents or in corners, scrambling into buildings. The mob was encircled. Whenever a new “leader” rose, Adarin had musketeers fire straight over heads—the hiss of bullets dissuading would-be heroes—while skeletal pikes pushed on, cutting the mob in half, then quarters, then smaller lots, until nearly two dozen little groups were under guard.

  Adarin stepped to the pagoda’s balcony. “I hereby declare that a state of rebellion against the Order of the Invisible Hand is in effect. Per the emergency powers granted to me by the constitutional amendments, I shall take on a provisional judiciary role. The judgment is…” Adarin paused, drawing out the moment for effect, cultivating as much dread as he could. “—rebels, kneel.”

  For a second nothing happened. Then bayonet and pike jabs brought the crowd to their knees. Whispers of awe, terror, and terrible anticipation rippled. He heard crying from those “just caught up” in the mob, but he shook his head. There are no innocents in a crowd. That is the nature of masses.

  “Soldiers—count off each group of prisoners until you reach the five. Every fifth person, stand up.”

  What followed moved with the inevitability of a well-oiled machine Adarin had once been a part of. Five at a time, the would-be rebels—settlers only, the soldiers having been separated—were led to the kitchen tables. Their trousers were stripped and they were forced to bend. Ten lashes from uniform belts—soon slick with blood. Screams of pain and pleas for mercy filled the temple grounds.

  Duchess Viola scrambled up to Adarin as the fifth round began. “Sir Adarin, what are you doing?” she said, hands to her mouth.

  “Imposing discipline,” he replied, ordering the next round.

  “You can’t do this. Those are citizens.”

  “I declared military emergency powers,” he said, voice calmer than it had been in ages. This is familiar. This is good.

  The duchess winced at a young woman’s particularly shrill screams. “Do you not understand? There were soldiers among them. If they join in, we have a rebellion.”

  He allowed himself a vicious smirk. “I separated the soldiers out. I am only punishing civilians.” He tilted his head, tone dripping with contempt. “I made it publicly very clear that I consider soldiers caught up in the affair innocent, whereas any civilian in the group is registered for their culpability.”

  She swallowed. “You… you can’t do that.”

  “Watch me,” he replied, turning away.

  Three more rounds of whippings finished the punishments, and soon—under the empty glares of skeletons and musketeers—the civilians returned to work. The mood in camp was heavy. As noon came, few words were exchanged. Wherever Adarin went, fearful glances met him from people who hadn’t realized he could see three hundred sixty degrees around himself. Whenever he turned toward them, eyes dropped to the ground.

  “Good,” he murmured to himself as he walked toward Mage Captain Krislov, who had reported a discovery. Better to be feared. You cannot be both loved and feared, after all. This just needs to remain stable until the wards are finished.

  He reached the druids, and the hulking wizard bowed. “Sir Adarin, we have found a way to connect trees so that we will know if any living creature passes between them. With your permission—”

  Adarin gave an appreciative hum and raised his voice. “I am proud of you, druids. You have done the Order a great service. Your circle will become a vital part of this town.”

  Low cheers erupted and smiling faces met him. Mage Captain Krislov reached out over the link. ‘Sir, there have been rumors—about how druids were treated in the past. If you could reassure the men—’

  Adarin nodded and addressed them. “You are soldiers of the Order, citizens of the Republic. But even more important than that, you are druids under me, your Archdruid. Should anyone dare harm you or speak ill of you, let me know. I shall bring my judgment down like a hammer.” He smiled viciously and made a wide gesture. “And I think everyone today has seen what my judgment means.”

  This time the cheering was grimmer. Again the druids thumped their chests as Krislov had done after their initiation, and Adarin allowed himself a smile as he walked off. Good. A deeply loyal cadre. Loyal to me, not to Rüdiger. Just what I need.

  He expected another catastrophe, but soon Francesco came with news: the wards were complete. The druids finished their detection web and tested it—nothing could move in the forest without their knowledge now. The wards also performed splendidly in testing, and cautious smiles spread from officers to soldiers to settlers.

  Even better: as evening fell, Devon approached Adarin and handed him the two items he had asked for. Adarin smiled and absorbed them into his body. That’s one more item off the list. Good. He went to rest for the night—and the night passed without incident.

  He allowed himself a smile. At last. We have won.