----------------------------

  Garen

  ----------------------------

  Garen stood at the door of the Academy– his Academy– with his arms folded behind his back. His voluminous robes drooped over his hands and shoulders, pooling across the stones. He made a point to keep his back rigid and his shoulders level, his chin jutting forward, the utmost image of an imperious headmaster.

  Behind him were the gaggle of his students, sheltering within the eaves of the great gate to the Tulian Academy. Though they one and all wore the robes which were the hallmark of mages, they could barely be considered such. Not a one of them had the skill required to enchant their garments in the manner which true mages preferred, and had they been in any other Academy, they would likely have been expelled the very moment they had pyed at such a charade. Garen had not bothered with such trivialities, though it irked him privately. Rather than a btant falsehood, he tried to think of the children's robes as a symbol of their aspirations.

  It was somewhat difficult to maintain that rose-tinted view at the moment, seeing how the children cowered before the Knights, hiding within his proverbial shadow. As if the eaves of the Academy would be any protection, that there was any safety in the tight crowd they had condensed themselves to. They now numbered several dozen. Almost fifty, if he recalled correctly, and all crammed into rather narrow confines.

  Odd, that. That he could recall their names and faces with such exacting precision, but was left guessing at the specific number of faces and names he knew so well. An oddity of the human mind, he supposed.

  Approaching the Academy was a near equal number of steel-cd Knights, accompanied by a pair of brown-robed mages. If the Governess's reports were to be believed, that meant the Knights collecting at the bottom of his stairs were slightly less than half of the entire contingent which had been sent to assault the city. Of all Tulian's targets, he supposed he, too, would have been most concerned with Archmage-trained magelings.

  And it seemed these had been hand-picked for this specific task, if he had to guess. While they were all obviously covered in the tawdry armor that was the signature of their Css, the specific enchantments which reverberated about their skin were familiar to him. Almost all were the same tired old enchantments Garen had once struggled against, designed as they were to thwart spellcraft above all else.

  Frankly, he was shocked that so many of the specialized suits of armor survived. He would have expected every Knight who had so sacrificed physical protection in favor of spell countermeasures to have been obliterated by the firearms in the earliest days of the war. He suspected this particur cadre must not have been heavily involved in the fighting.

  They approached the University of Tulian in lockstep, their polearms lowered towards Garen's fledgling cadre of mages. At the center of their little formation was a Knight wearing a particurly vibrant set of armor, one which tickled against some fickle memory in Garen's mind.

  The Knights stopped just before the staircase's first steps, heeding the call of that particurly well-dressed individual. They put a single foot on the very first set of the staircase, as if making some decration, and took their helmet off.

  "Archmage Garen," she greeted, bowing her head deeply. "It is both an honor and pleasure to make your acquaintance after so long. Your counsel has been sorely missed by the Royal Cadre."

  Ah, that was why he recognized her armor.

  "Duchess Sentan," he replied, without inclining his head. "It has indeed been many years since I have graced the Royal Cadre with my presence. I trust your fortunes have progressed well in the interim? With Lady Eliah so dramatically fallen from grace, I would expect your star to have risen quite high amongst your fellow Dukes."

  Though it came to him easily enough, the perfunctory greeting was a stark reminder of just how much Garen despised the politicking of the Royal Cadre. Still, the memories came to him easily. While few members of the nobility properly involved themselves in the matters of mages and Archmages, Duchess Sentan was a memorable exception. Her House was far and away the most militant of the Upper Houses of Sporatos, and for their unyielding focus on military excellence, their economic and political fortunes had suffered. Watching Lady Eliah shrewdly chip away at her rival House's financial base had been like watching a cat nibble the legs off a mouse, a grim torture which Garen had been forced into a front row seat to view. Unlike near all the other members of the nobility, Sentan had championed a call for a standing army, and not just that, but a standing complement of battle mages. As part of this ploy, near every week had she pleaded her case before some member of the Royal Cadre, and as the youngest amongst the wisened Archmages, she had focused on Garen most of all.

  She must be delighted to finally have this fight, Garen idly thought. Though she must not have been present until recently, or else I would have heard of her actions upon the field. Garen looked over the gathered Knights. In fact, it seems many of these Knight's armors are of finer stock, are they not? From Fort Lament, if I recall correctly. She must have exchanged quite the few favors for an Archmage to Transport so many of for this final battle.

  "The King has indeed come to recognize the validity of my forewarnings," Duchess Sentan replied. The pause she had taken to choose her words had been noticeable, as always, which was all the more shame that she took to Garen's offered bragging opportunity like a blind dog pping from his palm. "Had we been better prepared for this war, and had we committed more forces from the beginning, as I urged the King, perhaps the circumstances of our meeting would have been more appropriate to ones of our stature. A pity that our reunion must be in the midst of such a regrettable affair."

  Regrettable, Sentan? The only thing you regret is that you haven't yet had opportunity to wet the crops with blood.

  Garen sighed inwardly, then took a breath.

  "Of course, Duchess. I would ask that we set aside this tension to engage as Nobility ought, if not for the fact that I fear the chaos of battle would find its way to my charges in the interim. Perhaps if we–"

  Garen paused in the middle of his sentence. He'd felt his gorge rising, as if he was near to vomiting.

  Such a familiar face, speaking in such a familiar way, had prompted him to return to the ways of war he had once known so well. The facsimile of honorable battle, in which the great commanders met and negotiated across a table stuffed with glittering finery. In Sporatos, it had always been important to maintain one's image, even in the dying hours of battle. The end of one war was when one began to pn for the beginning of the next, after all. With careful words and hidden promises, an enemy today may become tomorrow's ally.

  But he was not in Sporatos anymore, was he? Not even a subject of the King. He was a citizen of Tulian. And Tulian was headed by a woman very, very different from King Sporatos.

  "Do you pn to kill children, Sentan?" Garen asked instead.

  Sentan's smile froze into something brittle. He could see her begin to think of a response. He didn't bother allowing the brute to save face.

  "Because I believe you are here to kill children, Sentan," Garen continued. "Children I have taught for months. Children I have developed a deep fondness for, despite their occasional transgressions. Not that any sort of killing children is acceptable, of course, but these particur children do hold something of a special pce in my mind."

  "We–" she stuttered, still halfway through gathering her thoughts. "We have orders to repatriate and interview those involved in the manufacture–"

  "Has anyone you've met today believed that lie, Sen? I doubt it. One needs only to listen to the screams of the city to know what you pn for them."

  "There is no need–"

  "A moment," Garen interrupted, taking his arms out from behind his back. His fingers twitched, a glowing wall of elegant script filling the air before him. Revealed in its written form, his Oath was perhaps fifteen feet by ten feet tall. He stepped forward, squinting at the minuscule text.

  "There is no need for such unchivalrous behavior, Archmage Garen," the Duchess continued, after recovering from his interruption. "Though the Royal Cadre may have spurned you, there is still room in Sporatos for anyone of such talent–"

  "Ah, here it is," Garen hummed. "Provisions for Violence, Subsection I, Article I. If the Helpless have only my Self to look to for the Defense of their Lives, and both the Helpless and my Self are in possession of a Soundly Reasoned Belief that it would be Just for Violence to be committed in Pursuit of the Defense of their Lives, and that it would be Unjust for Violence to not be committed in Defense of their Lives, my Self shall be allowed to invoke whichever Spells are Strictly Necessary to see their Defense through."

  Sentan's sword flew from her sheath in the same breath that energy began to crackle from her unit's attached mages.

  Garen continued speaking, unperturbed.

  "If, however, these Helpless include Children, and so long as my Self acts only in Pursuit of their Defense, my Self shall have no limits upon the Spells my Self chooses to employ."

  Sentan's eyes widened.

  "No–"

  Garen flicked his wrist, spshing the Knights across the stones.

  Garen heard one of his students whimper a trembling "Oh, Gods," as they colpsed to all fours, overcome with nausea.

  Hunes, by the sound of it. Poor girl. I did warn her that she likely cked ck the constitution for battle.

  Knowing well that the blood would never truly wash from the stones of the street and its homes, Garen lifted the street and tossed it beyond the city's walls. He then leveled the resulting trench with a wave, so that the University was still accessible on foot. That done, he turned around to address his students.

  Many flinched as he faced them. That was alright. They would recover in time.

  "It is alright," he assured Hunes, walking up to give her a few firm pats on the back. She was not the only student who had began to vomit, but she was the worst-off. She looked miserable. "In truth, I may be speaking too soon. This is a natural reaction to death, and a common one, as you can tell from the others. Should you overcome such reactions, your natural proficiencies with Lightning spellcraft– pardon, Electricity, as the Champion's lessons more accurately name it– will guide you to a highly successful career."

  Hunes' watering eyes rolled up to look at him. She tried to say something. Before she could, her vision fell on the empty trench where the street had been. She doubled back over, overcome by a second wave of retching.

  As Garen made the rounds to check on the students who were worst affected, one of his students, Chona, stepped up to his side, speaking in a low tone.

  "Did you need to so visibly summon your Oath, sir?" The young Vanara asked. "It's written into you, isn't it? To potentially show others something that Binds you like that, it seems awfully risky. Even if we couldn't read it from where we stood."

  Garen blinked, considering her words.

  "No. No, I suppose I did not. Hm." After a moment, he shrugged. "It seems the Champion's fre for the dramatic has influenced me even more than I thought. Don't worry yourself over it, Chona. None had opportunity to read anything of consequence. Also, Tinvel is still vomiting. You should go to his aid."

  "Why me?" She asked, tail curling defensively. "He can take care of himself."

  Teenagers, Garen mented inwardly. Outwardly, he only shooed her away.

  "You could use further practice with medical spells. See if you can concoct something for nausea."

  "Fine," the Vanara huffed, as if offended to be lowering herself. Garen did notice that her steps were twice as quick heading toward the boy as they had been heading away.

  Teenagers.

  ----------------------------

  Ignite

  ----------------------------

  Ignite tore up into the powder-choked air, spurred on by pilrs of bckened energy which pierced gaping holes through the steps he had just ascended. Splinters flew in great arcs as the cultist’s spells sought him out, spires of malevolent energy which almost seemed to twist after him like the limbs of some gargantuan beast.

  Reacting to this, several of the Tulian Marines wasted their precious single pistol shot firing into the pilrs, alternately crying out either “Serpent!” or “Leviathan!” The panic in their voices drew the attention of the rest of the Magecraft’s scattered combatants, who briefly disentangled themselves, preparing to face the supposed beast as one. That would have been all well and good in the face of a true Leviathan, the appearance of which would have rendered bonds of nation and creed irrelevant, but it was not such a creature.

  “A line!” Ignite yelled as he sprinted across the deck, his usual Sergeant’s roar cracking into a scratchy yell. “Form a musket line-”

  The cultist exploded out of the hull with a crash of thunder and snapping wood, their robes fluttering as their hands twitched in jerky, almost epileptic movements. The spires of energy began to twist in earnest, darting forward like the jaws of an eel. They pierced dozens in a series of blurred jabs, indiscriminate in their targets. Sporaton and Tulian Marines alike were impaled by foot-thick spears, then were lifted up and thrown them overboard like a child’s toy.

  “FIRE AT THE MAGE!” Ignite bellowed, raising Kate.

  This was no time for conserving ammunition. Ignite barely aimed at the cultist before he began pulling the trigger, firing as fast as he was able, unloading all six shots in a brief few seconds. The bullets struck a solid wall of air, pattering uselessly to the deck.

  Other musket balls joined Ignite’s as the few Marines who still had a loaded shot fired them off. The fusilde was followed shortly thereafter by a surprising sight: arrows. The Sporaton Marines sporting bows were adding their own shots to the volley. Clearly the cultist had not been the most popur member of the crew.

  Unfortunately, the rain of lead and iron seemed to do no more to the cultist’s shield than the droplets of sea spray that nded beside them. A featureless wooden mask swept across the deck as the cultist guided their spells, killing whoever happened to be nearest one of the malevolent pilrs.

  Ignite spun around, searching for something, anything to counter the spells. The cultist was moving higher into the air with each passing moment, as if they were gracefully ascending an invisible staircase. There was no time to reload Kate, not with how rapidly the Magecraft was being swept clear of any living creature. He doubted his revolver would be of any worth, regardless, seeing how little was being achieved by the muskets some quick-thinking sailors had fired from the Waverake.

  Cannons. We need cannons for this.

  Ignite had to drop to his stomach as a bck tendril whipped past. Someone to his right was not so quick to react. Their blood sprayed across Ignite, painting his armor red.

  Ignite scrambled to his feet, moving back to the towering hull of the Waverake. He leapt over the Magecraft's railing and snagged a rope, hauling himself up to the level of the gun ports. He lifted one of the wooden panels and shoved his head in, yelling blindly into the darkness.

  "Balon! Balon, you must fire the cannons at that cultist!"

  The man hollered back from somewhere deeper within the ship.

  "Are you mad?! We'd kill a dozen of our own with every shot!"

  "And if that cultist gets his way, there won't be anyone left to save! I will order our Marines to fall back, but do not wait until they are clear to fire!"

  Balon cursed furiously, but began ordering the cannons to be run out. Ignite pulled his head out of the gunport and climbed the rest of the way up onto the Waverake's deck, throwing himself over the gunwale.

  Only to be startled by the sight of Admiral Nora standing right where he'd happened to come up, hands csped behind her back as she watched the cultist mage. She had a serene expression on her face, bck hair bouncing lightly in the sea breeze, complimenting her gentle smile.

  "Admiral," he greeted, because he hadn't any other clue what to say. He knelt down behind the gunwale and began the borious process of loading the few shots he'd fired, wishing she'd at least have the common sense to stay out of the mage's sight.

  "First Sergeant," she replied happily, chipper as a spring morning. "I take it that cultist took poorly to you discovering Vanilflower's little secret?"

  How did she know– oh, damn it all. Ignite forced himself past the question. Trying to understand how the Admiral knew all she did was a losing prospect.

  "I can't speak to why they have begun trying to kill us all, only that they have."

  "Mm," she hummed. Ignite silently crushed another lead ball down into its cylinder, rotating to the next slot. "Do you think the cannons will be enough to kill them?" She eventually asked. "They seem rather proficient with their spells."

  "I can only hope that they will fall," Ignite replied tersely. "Seeing as the alternative is the death of us all, I even pray for it."

  "To whom, Ignite?" Nora asked.

  "What?"

  "To which God have you prayed?"

  Ignite had to pause his reloading to parse the bizarre question. Why in all the hells did it matter?

  "Daygon, I suppose," he eventually said between breaths. "It is to him I most often pray while upon the waves."

  "And why is that?" Nora asked, baffling him yet again. "The Lord of Beasts is often assumed to be the master of the seas, seeing as his greatest creations reside therein. But isn't it odd that we think he cares for us, who barely creep across the thinnest yers of his domain?"

  Ignite stopped bothering to answer. He doubted he was a relevant participant in this conversation. Instead he popped up and over the gunwale, firing all six shots into the cultist as rapidly as he was able. They achieved nothing, and with a curse he ducked back into cover, beginning the loading process anew.

  "I've oft wondered what it means to be the Champion of something Chained, Cande Sussorro."

  Ignite started at the use of his name, his true, Carrion name, a thing he hadn't heard spoken aloud since he had defected from the Carrion Navy, and then cursed yet again as his surprise lead to him dumping lead balls and powder across the deck.

  "Names are a thing which represent something greater than themselves, are they not?" Nora asked, nudging the balls back over to Ignite with a foot before they could roll away. "They're a simple sound, one meant to call to mind something greater. Makes me wonder what's implied by being the Chosen of something wrapped in Chains."

  A sinking feeling began to seep into Ignite's gut, and not just because the entire Waverake lurched. The ship heeled hard to starboard as the cannons roared, spitting smoke and sparks and fme in such great quantities that half the Magecraft's deck was suddenly lit afire. The cultist swatted the shots aside with contemptuous ease, the bck tentacles intercepting the 24-pounder's shots the moment they left a cannons barrel. Then, seeing as not a single living soul was left on the Sporaton fgship, their spells turned towards the Waverake itself. An entire beam, two feet thick and a hundred feet long, was torn free from the ship's hull and tossed skyward, spinning end over end as it disappeared towards the horizon.

  "That's my Css, in case ye were wondering, First Sergeant," Nora said, continuing as if nothing were happening at all. "Champion of the Chained One. Wondered what it meant for a long time. Assumed I'd gotten myself tangled in some rotten fae affair, to be honest with ye. But that word. Champion. Means something, don't it? Especially these days."

  "What in the name of the gods are you about to do, Nora?" Ignite snapped, his desperation and irritation finally getting the better of him.

  "A test, o'sorts," she hummed, and before Ignite could stop her, she hopped up onto the gunwale, bancing on the tip of her boot.

  "MAGE!" She roared, her voice booming across the waves. "CAN YOU KILL ME?"

  By the FUCKING gods, Nora!

  Ignite leapt up, trying to drag her back down into safety, only to find himself suddenly stopped cold, something wrapped around his waist. He looked down to find that the deck of the Waverake had come alive, boards splitting and twisting like writhing snakes to restrain him.

  "MAGE!" Nora roared again. "I ask one thing only!"

  The unduting tendrils which had pierced the Magecraft in so many pces rushed together, forming a pulsating bck mass beneath the cultist's floating feet.

  "CULTIST!" She cried. "Worshipper of the hidden god! Architect of war, and of suffering, and of senseless violence! I ask you this!"

  The bck mass bubbled, and grew, and with every passing moment and every word spoken, it seemed less and less like a spell, more and more like some hideous, tortured creature, tugging at the force which held it back.

  "CAN! YOU! KILL! ME!"

  The mountain of energy shot forward in the blink of an eye, its face erupting into untold spears, a wall of darkness sweeping down onto Ignite and Nora, sure to consume them both, to take the entire ship with it–

  And then it split. The faces broke aside, the fringes dissolved in a hiss that sounded like wailing screams, and mere inches before Nora's joyous, gleeful face, it all came to a halt, arrested.

  "HA!"

  Her ughter struck Ignite like a bomb. His body was sent bouncing off the deck, unconsciousness threatening to overwhelm him. The water beneath the hull caved inward, as if a dozen kegs of powder had detonated in Nora's lungs, and both ships were sucked into the resulting depression, swirling and crashing against one another.

  "CHAINED ONE!" She cried, this time with a new voice. One filled with rapturous, breathless ecstasy. "I have given my leg to the fae! My sight to daemons! I have offered my flesh and blood to the formless things where the night fades to nothing!"

  In the distance, Ignite saw something. Beyond the fleet. A ripple in the waves. A wake, one born of no ship, rising from below.

  The cultist's bck spells faded, repced by something Ignite could not fully see. Energies twisting through the sky, searching for connections he could not fathom.

  "CHAINED ONE!" Nora bellowed, sensuous in her joy. "I have given much, to many! But I have not given all!"

  The wake was rippling through the water, bearing down on them far faster than anything else. Ignite knew what this was. He knew what was coming.

  "Leviathan!" He screamed, pointing, trying to warn the crew. But almost all were unresponsive, knocked senseless by the force of Nora's speech.

  "CHAINED ONE!" She thundered. "You have named me Champion! And now I name you!"

  Nora's hands rose above her head, palms ft and open, facing the sky. She threw her head back, the corded muscles of her throat jumping as her face reddened, tears of worship filling her eyes.

  "DAYLAGON! SHAPER OF BEASTS!"

  The entire world seemed to stagger. Ignite sucked in air, blew out sea water. His body was crushed, emulsified, strained and eaten and chewed and spit out again and again and again.

  "DAYLAGON! GUARDIAN OF CHANCE, DESPOILER OF FATE!"

  The wake rose, its edges spewing white water as something beneath, something greater, began its rise to the surface. Ignite tried to crawl away, but he didn't have hands. Only scales and bones and fins and flippers and–

  "DAYLAGON! CHAINED ONE! HE WHO WAITS TO BE FREE! GIVE ME YOUR SEA, AND I WILL GIVE YOU ME!"

  Ignite's body dissolved. The mage cultist began to scream, and something terrible began to force its way inward, trying to finish the spell they had started, but it was too te.

  It broke the surface of the water. It was colorless, and It was Great, and It was massive beyond all belief. Ignite looked upon it for as long as he had eyes, and in that time, he saw... Things. Properties. Mass and skin and teeth and eyes, but there was no body behind them, just that which Was, and they were opening, and they were rising, and the cultist was falling and the sky was bleeding and Ignite's sight was failing but he still felt it, felt it, felt it, felt it, felt the teeth closing around him and the throat convulsing and the final scream muffled by the great groan of satisfaction as millennia whirled and spun before the time that he had been before he had been him and the world above danced in its ignorance of the Things, the Things, the Things which lived below and the gentle beautiful thousand Hands which shaped them all

  And then It was gone in a spray of sea foam, a tower of spray which stretched towards the clouded heavens.

  Ignite convulsed, curling in on himself. He tucked his knees to his chest and buried his face between, breathing.

  Just breathing.

  He had lungs again, after all. Lungs that could suck in air, not something else. Not whatever had been there before.

  And he could hear. He could hear her beside him, breathing hard, breathing low, a groan of something impure rumbling up from just beneath her ribs.

  "Gods," he heard Nora mumble. Then he heard a rustle, and a spark. "I need a smoke."

  She drew in a deep breath, then blew it out. The scent of Nora's pipe joined the rotting sulfur, and somehow, someway, that contemptuous mixture was enough to bring Ignite to thoughtfulness, to bring his eyes up to look at her.

  "So," she said, sucking another lungful of pipe smoke. "I think their God's got mine on a leash. Not a tight one, but a leash. Got any idea what the hell I'm supposed to do about that?"

  ----------------------------

  Sara

  ----------------------------

  In the end, she did manage to fulfill her promise that she would stay with the army to recover. She really did. That Evie had emphasized staying with the army, rather than staying away from the city, was an unfortunate loophole inadvertently left by her feline partner.

  When night had fallen on the bloodied field of battle, Sara ordered that the wounded be transferred onto carts and stretchers, supported by the few who were still capable of supporting someone else. Of her army's original five thousand, there were less than five hundred capable of it.

  Unfortunately, five hundred were enough.

  They marched slow. They marched through the night, constantly vigint for attack. Each hour that passed had Sara more and more convinced that the Sporatons truly were on the retreat, but she didn't let an ounce of that conviction show. She kept every soldier on alert. If she didn't, and something happened, their deaths would be her fault.

  Sara only told Evie that they were returning when the army was less than two hour's march from the walls. The tirade that spewed through the crystal in return was anticipated, but certainly not enjoyed. Only Sara's reasoning that she would be safer within the walls, mercenary raiders still running amok or not, was enough to convince Evie not to follow through on the many eborate threats she'd concocted.

  The remnants of the Tulian Army trudged into the capital shortly before daybreak. Soldiers colpsed the moment they found a clear spot, slowly filling up the streets beside the gate with discarded armor and snoring bodies. The wounded and their healers made it little farther, forming a makeshift hospital right in the middle of one of Tulian's main thoroughfares. The medics continued to work, while the magical healers seemed to find the bare stone as inviting as any featherbed, every aspect of their selves spent.

  Sara wanted to join them. She desperately, desperately did. Excluding a brief and restless hour spent ying on the grass just before the march, Sara was coming up on forty hours since the st time she had well and truly slept. But she couldn't. Not quite yet.

  Not because of the Knights, of course. Sara had received the reports of that. Garen had done something to most of them. She didn't know exactly what, nor did seemingly anyone else. Only that they were gone. Evie had set herself upon the rest, turning the bands of marauding Knights into leaderless packs of petrified jackals. In an open battle, even two or three of the Knights would have been more than Evie's match. In the tight, twisting confines of a city, one whose citizens hated them more than anything else in all the world?

  What few had escaped that killing spree were reported to have fled north-northwest. Sara had already received reports of a a few lonely Knights riding at the head of a herd of priceless cavalry steeds.

  No, the Knights weren't a problem anymore. The problem was the mercenaries.

  In the end, the Sporaton Navy had managed to tick off a few boxes on their exhaustive agenda. By dividing their fleet into two, a battle fleet and a transport fleet, Nora had been forced into an engagement for just too long, allowing the ships packed full of foreign mercenaries to slip into the Tulian harbor.

  What happened after that grew hazier. Near every report agreed that nineteen or twenty ships had entered the harbor, slipping easily through the great gap which had once held a massive portcullis in Tulian's heyday. However, every report also agreed that only fifteen ships had then nded at the harborside. No one, not a single person, said anything of what happened to the missing ships. It was if they had simply vanished. There were no reports of accidents, or spells being cast, or even infighting among the fleet. Just that twenty had entered, and fifteen had nded.

  Mercenaries had poured out of the ships, and when they'd seen what paltry resistance the Tulian Guard put up for them, they'd scattered like roaches. They'd set to stealing everything they could lift, burning what they couldn't carry, and spent every free moment abusing the citizenry in every horrific manner imaginable. The list didn't bear repeating; Sara knew exactly what happened. She could taste it in the air. The fear, the hate, the pitiful terror.

  The mercenary's reign of terror had sted perhaps an hour before the Waverake sailed through the gash in the walls.

  Sara knew that there had been fifteen mercenary ships that had nded, but she only knew that from reports. There was nothing left afloat. Not a single pnk or drifting sail.

  There was also, incidentally, nothing left of the entire Tulian shoreline. Just broken rubble and smoking wood. The mercenaries had tried to return to defend their ships. They'd been met by a Waverake that had shifted all her cannon to one side of the ship, producing a single colossal broadside that eclipsed the entire Tulian Army's firepower by a factor of five. After the second volley, they'd started to run back into the city, only to find their absence had given Evie just enough time to gather up volunteers, hand out muskets, and give a five minute lesson on how to use the weapons.

  Now, twelve hours ter, what remained of the mercenary army was still sheltered beneath piles of smoke and ash. Only the basements of the city's harborside homes and businesses had been safe from the Waverake's guns, and she had little doubt that many mercenaries had been buried alive as the homes above colpsed. The growing light revealed to Sara a scene closer to something out of Dante's Inferno than it did the shoreline Sara once knew.

  Sara limped up to the edge of the devastation, Evie on her left, Hurlish on her right. None of them were particurly happy that the others were present. Sara and Evie both thought the other should be resting while they dealt with matters alone, while Hurlish thought all involved should've left the mercenary army to rot in pce for the next week. Sara's argument was sound, she felt. For all Evie insisted she was in far better shape than Sara, she didn't look it. The woman's face had been literally, physically rearranged, her every feature sporting the tender pink skin of overtaxed healing magic. With how much was going on, Sara still hadn't gotten the full details on Evie's duel with Emeric. Only that she'd won, but he wasn't dead. Those were two facts that seemed highly incompatible with Sara's view of Evie as a person. Still, between injuries that would've required a new photo ID and her still-festering gut wound, Sara was convinced the feline was far worse off than she was. Sara was merely exhausted to the point of imminent colpse, her eyes fluttering as she desperately fought to close them, the world distorted and blurry. Evie seemed to think more of that than Sara did, and so the argument went.

  Ultimately, after listening to the two of them argue in circles for an hour, Hurlish had resolved the issue by informing them both that she was going to walk her pregnant ass straight up the mercenary army, and while the two women were welcome to join her, they were not welcome to stop her.

  Which was what lead to Sara standing in the shadow of the city's eastern walls as the sun rose, looking out at the still-smoking hellscape of hidden enemies with her girlfriends at her side, one heavily pregnant, the other's face barely attached to her skull.

  "Hey!" Sara yelled. "Big fuck in charge of these pricks! I know you're in there! Come out and talk!"

  No matter how wounded Sara truly was, one thing was certain. She could put on a show. Her voice bnketed the entire city, audible from wall to wall. If she'd replicated the same feat with speakers or something simir, everyone in a hundred feet of the source would have been deafened. In fact, that's how it would have worked out when she first got the ability. Now, however, everyone who heard her voice heard it as she intended: as if she were shouting in normal fashion, standing maybe fifty feet away.

  Which meant that she knew perfectly well that every single cowering mercenary heard her with exacting detail. It wouldn't even matter what nguage they spoke; Sara hadn't met anyone who couldn't understand her in months. So they had no excuse for the fact that no one emerged from the rubble, not even to wave the fg of parley or request a few minutes to deliberate.

  "Nora," Sara's voice boomed, its sheer volume at odds with her casual oration. "They've got two minutes until the next broadside."

  If the mercenaries in the rubble didn't know what a broadside was, they gained the necessary context clues as the gun ports on the Waverake popped open, the ominous creaking of the guns trundling out carrying well over the water.

  A white fg, or more properly someone's sweat-stained undershirt tied to a broken spear, popped up shortly thereafter. It bobbed around for a few moments, as if trying to communicate something, then retreated. A request for time, she could only assume, as they tried to hurriedly resolve whatever debate had stopped them from beginning negotiations far earlier.

  "Nora," Sara announced, "The broadside has been deyed to five minutes."

  This time, it was the crippling ck of noise that hung so terribly in the air. The Waverake's guns hung imperiously above the waves, casting long shadows as the sun began to peak over the city's eastern wall.

  By Sara's count, it had been four minutes when someone appeared out of the rubble.

  They were wearing a rather decorated set of armor, as if Ignite's roman-esque suit had been marred by years of ownership by someone with a particurly strong fetish for engraving floral patterns. Thorny roses twisted up their arms and legs, joining a field of petunias, orchids, and tulips that spread across their torso. The dispy of (admittedly well-crafted) flowers were hidden only by a truly gaudy number of ribboned medals festooning the steel. Sara immediately noticed that many had been pinned in pce haphazardly, likely within the past few minutes, as if the mercenary thought she'd be daunted by the sight.

  "I am the–" the woman began.

  "Don't give a shit. Surrender."

  The crowd of Tulian citizenry, which had circled around the devastated shoreline just behind the Guard, ughed loudly. The mercenary's face flushed brightly in her open-faced helmet.

  "I have been chosen to speak for–"

  "Surrender for," Sara corrected.

  "–the mercenary companies represented herein," the woman managed, just barely stuttering her way through Sara's overwhelming voice. "These include the–"

  "Nora, blow her head off."

  The Waverake erupted before Sara's the st word left Sara's mouth, powder smoke forming a snow-capped mountain in the middle of the harbor. The hideous shriek that had become so sickly-sweet to Sara's ears sounded as cannonballs tore forward, long-since aimed for the lone figure.

  Golden light erupted from her form, forming the distinct polygonal mage-shield that had been developed in the Sporaton Army over the past few weeks. The cannonballs struck the shield and were deflected down into the stone with a series of crashes that sent the stones jumping beneath Sara's feet.

  "Oh, would you look at that," Sara droned as the thunder faded. "A major Sporaton-aligned faction is being puppeteered by a shadowy mage bent on my undoing. I'm shocked."

  Brown-robed and wooden-masked, the painfully familiar form of a cultist emerged from the golden light, their hands folded petuntly before their waist. This particur cultist was tall; taller than Hurlish, and nearly as bulky as her, too. That could mean it was an orc behind the featureless sb of wood. It could also mean it was the illusion they'd decided to cast on themselves, so Sara didn't bother paying it much mind.

  "Perhaps it was optimistic to try and fool the Champion of Amarat, but one can't bme a mage for trying, can they?" The mage's hands shifted within their robes, and a new, mostly transparent shield repced the golden prism. "Now, then, Champion. I believe it is the time for negotiation."

  "Here we fucking go," Sara grumbled.

  "We have followed you for a long time, Sara Brown," the cultist purred. "Since your very first days in this world have we watched you.We know you are an inquisitive woman. One who seeks the truth." The cultist nodded their head to Sara, as if acknowledging a point won in a game of chess. "We can respect this calling. Even amongst our enemies. You have many questions about us, and we have questions about you. Should we meet amicably, there is much to be learned."

  Sara rolled her eyes, not dignifying that with a response. The cultist held up a hand, gesturing to the harbor, where the Waverake was gradually emerging from its self-made cloud.

  "You have brought forth creations that no other Champion has dared to bring into existence. We have learned how, but we wish to know why. Why has your god has allowed you to do this? Why are you, unlike every Champion before you, willing to use such weapons? In fact, in the course of us asking one another our questions, I expect many will spark curiosity in us both, and only by such mutual assistance may we find the answers."

  "First of all," Sara said, leaning forward just a bit, "Kill yourself."

  The moment stretched. There was the sound of shifting feet, and the cry of distant seagulls.

  "Second of all," Sara said, "Since you're so interested in learning, I figured I'd learn my own people one. Ladies and gentlemen?" Sara gnced at the army. "You're not just looking at some half-bit cultist jerk-off who's too far up the ass of some demon or fae or whatever. They worship a god."

  The cultist took a step forward, raising a hand. "This exchange is not to be held on the open–"

  "Like, a genuine God," Sara crified. "Bonafide divinity, like Amarat. But not one of the nine you know, not even the shitty ones. A tenth one. A god that's been hiding from humanity since the dawn of time."

  A ripple passed throughout the crowd as the people reacted to this, whispering to one another.

  "Dunno what the god is about, but they worship some bad shit. Amarat doesn't like 'em. Apparently, I just learned a few hours ago, Daygon doesn't like 'em either. The main tenets of their religion seem to involve boot-licking and killing peasants, if that gives you an idea. And this cock-sucker here is one of their head honchos. I think. Dunno if you'd call them a priest or whatever, but really, who gives a shit? Point is, they're half the reason why this war got started. They're the reason why King Sporatos marched south."

  Sara's eyes rolled back over to the cultist, who, though their body was nearly indiscernible beneath all the yers, seemed to exude fury.

  "If you wish to learn what we know, you are doing a very, very poor job," the cultist hissed.

  "What, 'cause I tattled on your sorry asses?" Sara ughed deliriously. "Buddy, I already sent off letters with every detail I have on your god. Yesterday. To every Church of Amarat on the continent."

  The cultist froze. Barely constrained rage bubbled beneath their motionless exterior, practically dripping to the stone. Sara continued speaking, really working up a rhythm.

  "They've got instructions for them to deliver the message to the highest ranking officials they could reach on the same day they got the letter, for starters. Oh, and to copy the whole thing of course, as many times as they can. So they can spread them, and bury some in time capsules, and to post copies on as many street corners and markets they can. Oh yeah, and for them preach about it to their followers as soon as they got a chance, of course." Sara spat emphatically on the stone. "Cat's out of the bag, shithead."

  Now the cultist's air of calm began to properly dissolve, venom dripping from every word.

  "You think we have not dealt with this before? You think a secret like this, so magnificent in its importance, has not been fought before? Minds can be altered. Papers can be found and burned. The world is a malleable pce, Sara Brown. In time, your efforts will fail. They always have."

  "Hey, I doubt it," Sara said with a shrug. "But good luck. Personally, I think you're gonna learn to really hate the printing press." She finally straightened, drawing her sword and tossing it up to rest on a shoulder. "So, are we done here? You gonna fuck off?"

  "You think you are ready for what we are? For the influence we hold? You think that you can continue on in ignorance–"

  "Seeing as you're pissing yourself to figure out what I know, yeah, I do. If this stupid motherfucker says another word, everyone fire."

  The cultist ughed. "You wo–"

  They were cut off by an earth-shattering explosion, the sum total of twenty-four cannons and seven hundred muskets sparking in a single instant.

  "Keep firing," Sara instructed, stepping forward. She could see nothing through the powder, but she knew better than to think anyone who popped up in the middle of an enemy city all on their lonesome was a one-and-done. "Remember to keep your aim point the same. Same level, same angle, smooth motions on the reload. We'll stagger it, this time. You're all doing great."

  A ray of glowing golden light ripped out of the fog, sweeping blindly through the air. Sara felt it whir over her head, so hot her hair began to smoke, and she ignored it.

  "Alright, good. Everybody in the first row, fire."

  The rattling crack of musketry split the morning, and Sara felt musket balls whir past her. She wasn't worried about being hit. She was walking along the harbor wall, with all of the Guard positioned well to her right.

  "Cannons, you're good to fire whenever you think you're ready, but try and keep it accurate, okay? Don't want a ball going further into the city. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Second row, fire."

  The staccato drumbeat of gunfire took on a different tune as cannons joined the concert. Through the powder haze, Sara still saw the burning glow of the cultist's shield, though it was so pockmarked with caught lead that its light only shone through in a few select spots.

  "Third row, go for it."

  Sara kept walking, taking a little bit of a slow path as she did so, to keep out of the line of fire of the muskets.

  "Uhh, first rank again, I think, if you're ready–" the muskets cracked. "–which I guess you are. Good. Sorry, hard to see y'all from over here. Actually, y'know what, don't worry about volleys. Just fire whenever you're loaded. Have fun."

  Shouts of excitement repced the dull tones of her uninspired narration, which couldn't be made to sound inspiring, even as her Blessings cast her voice with the strength of a stadium's loudspeakers.

  "Hey cocksucker, you alive in there?" She called, this time without her blessings. She was maybe fifty feet away from the lead-covered shield, which seemed to be collecting her bullets like a magnet. Actually, she briefly wondered if that was possible. To attract shots like some giant magnet, so they'd swerve to hit a target. That'd be pretty handy. She'd have to ask Garen about it. Well, if she remembered to tell Evie to write the idea down. No chance she'd remember it on her own.

  Finally, in response to her repeated taunts, another beam of light roared out from the shield, warping the air as it shot for her eye. The spell was so unbelievably hot that the street beneath it fshed into smoke, vaporizing a trench twice as deep as Sara was tall, reigniting the dying fires of the destroyed homes.

  And then that beam split an inch before crashing into her face, like a fire hose hitting a steel wall.

  "Yeah, see," Sara said, stepping further into the beam, "that's what I thought. You didn't actually work for this, did you? You got it like I did. Your sugar daddy hooked you up with some bullshit-god-powers."

  The beam began to sputter and fail as she drew nearer to the source, and she heard cries of astonishment and awe from the city. They seemed to think she was literally tanking the beam head-on, bouncing it off her forehead.

  Ah shit, she thought. Don't want to feed this hero worship shit any worse than I already have.

  Sara turned her blessings back on, so the entire crowd could once again hear her.

  "But you're not a real Champion, are you?" She asked. "You're not from my world. Your god broke some kind of rule by making you. Whatever old deal they cooked up back in the day, to let Champions through, it didn't allow for things like you, right?"

  The beam sputtered out, the cultist clearly giving up. Their shield began to pulsate, and Sara finally stopped approaching. Any closer and she was liable to get caught up in some friendly fire, no matter how careful the Guard was with their shots.

  "So, yeah. Your god may be as strong as Amarat, but she's allowed to pump way more juice into me. You can't do shit to me. You can't do shit to my city, at least while I'm in it. And if it wasn't for a god shoving fistfuls of power up your ass, you wouldn't be able to do anything, period. So we done here?"

  The mage shield began to tremble. It fshed brighter, then faded, then brighter yet again. The gunfire continued to pour into it, sparks flying. The lead was so thick across the shield's face that there was nowhere else for new bullets to nd, and they'd begun to blow chunks from one another as a result.

  Then the shield faded, and it didn't come back. Shots continued to ring for a moment, until the wall of fused lead began to slowly tip backward, thumping against the empty ground.

  "Cease fire," Sara ordered, waving an impatient hand. "Congrats on winning the war, everyone. I'm gonna go pass out."

  Champion.

  Sara threw her head back, eyes closed as she groaned at the sky.

  "Really? Now? Can we do this in, like, ten hours?"

  Your journey has been hard-fought.

  "I guess not."