SILVER FALLS—DECEMBER 13th, 1992 | AFTERNOON

  ?

  “An exemplary job, Marshal Whitfield, exterminating the remnants of the garou horde,” said the Chaptermaster, who, seated behind her large and wooden desk, nodded up towards him.

  “I cannot claim credit, Chaptermaster. It was a joint effort, and I would not dare express ownership over the combined labor of each warden who fought alongside me.”

  In that single brown eye of hers was control embedded in gravitas. Seated before him was a woman who he could not say no to, not now, and certainly not in the future. Eisenhower had, in his years, seen many monsters and felled innumerable fiends, each with their own twisted countenances which inspired fear in lesser men. Such things never inspired fear in Eisenhower, but before the Chaptermaster, he felt himself to be a lesser man, subject to the same knotted anxieties and lingering apprehension as those he believed himself to be better than.

  And better than most he was, by sheer luck of birth.

  Even if she decided to stand up, Eisenhower would tower over her, eclipsing most men and a fair amount of the very fiends he hunted at a daunting six-foot-five with shoulders as wide as a bull’s. His helmet—an antiquated visor-helm that covered both face and skull—was yet another source he credited to inspiring uncertainty among those who stood before him, and more alien, perhaps, was his right arm, artificed in an industrial display of pistons and gauges and expertly crafted runework.

  But the Chaptermaster would always cast a larger shadow than him. It was a matter of merit, and hers were indeed mountain sized.

  “Maybe so,” she said. “But your efforts are noted and appreciated nonetheless. So much so that I am willing to overlook that request you made to Vatican City.”

  “Respectfully, Chaptermaster, to do so was well within my right as this chapter’s marshal,” Eisenhower retorted as gracefully as possible.

  “And I did not say otherwise, though, a simple head’s up would’ve sufficed. I would have preferred, Marshal Whitfield, to have learned about it from you rather than from our counterparts in Vatican City. Am I unreasonable in asking for this?”

  Eisenhower remained silent.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I am not. Gideon Draves, the Cruciform you hailed, was of a certain disposition. Agreeable, by the standards of a blasphemer, and it is my understanding that the Cruciform Division would have been better off with his prolonged contributions to this endless and holy war which we wage.”

  “I apologize, Chaptermaster,” Eisenhower said. “But as your second, I must graciously call attention to your—”

  “My what, Marshal Whitfield?” the Chaptermaster asked, leaning back in her seat.

  She stared at him with one brown eye, one which Eisenhower both respected and feared, but not enough to sacrifice the dignity in which he endowed himself with; a dignity which he believed was as sturdy as the frame God had blessed him with. His anxieties were indeed ever present before her authority, but he would not do himself—or her—the disservice of lying or feigning ignorance. He did not believe that their order was not built around such things. And so he looked past the gravitas which she wore plainly on her face, a stern and rigid and calculated face, beset with an eyepatch bolted into her very face by way of metal bolts, plagued by three lines of scar tissue beneath.

  “Your hypocrisy, Chaptermaster Allen,” Eisenhower stated without any directness to spare.

  The Chaptermaster raised a brow.

  “I have read the papers, Chaptermaster,” Eisenhower began, folding his large arms across his barrel of a chest. “They speak plainly of a lycan at the center of the conspiracy regarding Bluestein Philterworks. I understand now that the one known as Tania Ackerman was indeed the cause of this garou horde. Is this correct?”

  “It is a possibility,” the Chaptermaster stated.

  “And I would also wager to say that her migration to the Commonwealth preceded her involvement in all of that. Disbanded as they may be, at the time of such an incident, our standing arrangement with the Argent Group would and should have seen her, a fiend, delivered to us for execution. And yet she was not, and rather needlessly, her living resulted in the creation of the horde which you now praise me for slaying.”

  “Quite the anomaly, that situation is,” she said, her single-eyed gaze unblinking, her face uncompromising, and her tone utterly austere. “Perhaps the Argent Group, through whatever arrangement that had with Bluestein Philterworks, merely delivered her to their facility on their own accord without consulting us. A shame.”

  “Yes,” Eisenhower said, silently folding his left arm behind his back. He clenched his fingers tight beneath the black leather glove he wore. “A shame indeed.”

  “Was there more, Marshal?” the Chaptermaster asked.

  Eisenhower shook his head. “No, Chaptermaster.”

  The Chaptermaster stood up, her singular and long black braid settling along the one-of-one denim jacket she adorned, which had dark stripes of the Order’s coloring along the sleeves. The Red Cross of the Wardens, which she shared with both Eisenhower and all other members of their order, sat along the skin of her neck. Behind her desk was a topographical map of the Pines that took up nearly the entire back wall, which she positioned herself in front of. Her words ceased for the moment, and Eisenhower, suspecting she was awaiting him, joined her.

  “My reason for calling you here today, Marshal Whitfield, is this,” she said, pointing to a section along the northern reaches of the map, where a sticky note had been placed over it.

  “A shattering incident,” Eisenhower muttered.

  “What remained of the clean-up retinue following the horde extermination happened upon evidence of such a thing. We have reason to believe that a demon is in the Pines, but have yet to confirm its whereabouts following its initial crossing.”

  “And what is it exactly that we are dealing with, Chaptermaster?”

  “A named demon, an inferni nominati,” she said.

  Eisenhower glanced down and towards the Chaptermaster.

  Chaptermaster Morgan pressed her finger along the sticky note. “Of the retinue I had just mentioned to you, seven wardens are now its tethers. Only one among them, Warden Hawke, eluded such a tethering and managed to escape in order to inform us of what had occurred.”

  Seven tethers. In recent years, no shattering incident within the territorial reaches of the Pines, or perhaps even the Commonwealth at-large, had yielded a named demon that demanded such a number. Though cases were indeed varied, Eisenhower had most commonly encountered two-to-three tether named demons, and had only once skirmished with a demon with five tethers.

  “You and Warden Yeager are to find it and capture it alive,” she instructed.”

  Eisenhower forgot himself, and his voice boomed in contention. “Alive?!”

  “Alive,” the Chaptermaster said. “You are this chapter’s sword, Eisenhower. If I did not believe you capable of such a thing I would not have confirmed you as a Marshal of the Order. You’re to depart within the hour. You have been pre-cleared to withdraw what you might need from the armory, take with you what you must.”

  Eisenhower nodded. “Yes, Chaptermaster. It will be done.”

  The Chaptermaster returned to her desk. “Another thing, before you depart.”

  Eisenhower had made it all the way to the door, and turned towards her expectantly.

  “Warden Hawke will be joining you.”

  Eisenhower nodded. He opened the door and exited.

  ?

  “You’re sure you don’t need a tune-up, Eis?”

  Along the far right side of the Silver Falls Chapter’s—a church, repurposed into a paramilitaristic headquarters befitting of their sect—open floor was the armory.

  Charged with its maintenance and its ledger was one Warden Dorian Frighter, who had enjoyed the secondary title of Chapter Armsmaster-Artificer. He was a small man with wide shoulders that defied his stature, with graying hair cut close to his head and a small fringe that set just over his forehead. A well-groomed streak of facial hair hid his cleft chin, and circular pinch-nose glasses hung from his face. Very rarely did Warden Frighter not wear a smile on his face, his teeth crooked and endearingly so.

  “No, Warden Frighter,” Eisenhower said, shaking his head. “I merely need to withdraw a few things.”

  Warden Frighter waved a disapproving finger towards him. “The Halllowed Hand of Elijah is some of my best work, and don’t you forget it, yeah? And, look, that alloy is durable as hell, sure, but with the wear and tear it's suffered? I'll need to replace it sooner or later. And sooner is better, 'cause the hoops and ladders I had to jump through to get the golem hide to mix with the tungsten to make said alloy.. let me tell you, Eis."

  Eisenhower smiled beneath his visor-helm. "Yes, Warden Frighter. I wait to be told."

  "Grade-A fuckin' logistical nightmare! You know how hard it is to ship something like that overseas?" Warden Frighter exclaimed, exhaling. "I’ll be rightly pissed if you let it go to shit because you’re too embarrassed to have a damn stub for an arm for a few hours.”

  “Hours I do not have to spare, unfortunately,” Eisenhower said. “Once I return, perhaps.”

  "At the very least, the inner workings will need some greasing," Warden Frighter noted. “Anyways. Whatcha’ need?”

  “A spear,” he said. “One with a silver blade.”

  “Should be one or two of those laying around somewhere,” Warden Frighter said. “What else?”

  “Rosariums,” Eisenhower stated.

  “How many?” Warden Frighter asked.

  “Three, at the very least, should you have any to spare,” Eisenhower said.

  Warden Frighter shook his head from side to side. “Ah, I’ll need to check, Eis, but you might have to make due with two.”

  “Very well.”

  Warden Frighter eyed him up and down. “Let me restock those holy water grenades for you, Eis. And you’ll need to replace that wooden stake too—blood on it is still fresh, and it looks like that thing is about to splinter in half. And the sawed-off hanging from your hip. You need more buckshots?”

  “Yes,” Eisenhower said. “That would be appreciated. Thank you, Warden Frighter.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” Warden Frighter said. “Should have it all ready within the next ah, let’s call it ten, maybe twenty minutes?”

  Eisenhower nodded. “Excellent. If I may—have you seen Warden Yeager?”

  “Poor sod’s been outside behind the church shooting away with that damned bow of his,” Warden Frighter noted, shaking his head.

  “Yes,” Eisenhower said. “Yes I figured he might be. And Warden Hawke? Have you seen her?”

  “In the barracks somewhere, I think. Look, don’t you worry about it. I’ll find er’, get your gear, and bring both of them to you and the Yeager boy out behind the church. Bing, bam, wham. Easy, done. Get moving, maybe stretch or somethin’, and I’ll you in ten, Eis.”

  “Or twenty,” Eisenhower countered, nodding in thanks.

  “Hah! Or twenty.”

  ?

  “No amount of practice will erase that feeling, Arthur Yeager,” Eisenhower said.

  He’d been the only one at the practice range just behind the church; a large patch of open dirt and gravel, now beset by winter snow, which housed all manner of mounted targets and bullseyes and training dummies. The space was only loosely defined by a half-circle of tall and imposing pine trees, ones which Eisenhower had been told never truly stopped ground—if local legend could be believed, of course, and many such believers claimed it was ‘only by a fraction of a centimeter each year’.

  Arthur’s back had been turned to Eisenhower.

  “Maybe not, but here I am,” Arthur retorted.

  Along the pines and to varying levels, flames scuttered and danced. Burning flesh trailed into Eisenhower’s nostrils, even with the hulking mass of metal which covered his face. The fingers of his apprentice were just as mangled and disconcerting as Eisenhower remembered; the usual darkness of his complexion lightened by burned and pinkened scar tissue that would never go away.

  Canis was held within his opposite hand, brilliant and antiquated as always. Eisenhower briefly studied the twin dog heads along either end of the longbow before treading towards Arthur, placing a firm, artificed hand on his shoulder. Pistons whirred and clanked as his digits adjusted along the tactical gray sweater which his apprentice was never seen without, and Arthur’s red and tattered scarf fluttered in the cold wind which passed around their bodies.

  “Your mind, Arthur Yeager, is in the right place. The proper place. Your intent to improve is a virtuous one, and of this I am certain,” Eisenhower began, nodding towards Arthur.

  Arthur briefly glanced up at Eisenhower, his dreadlocks swaying ever so slightly. Within his apprentice’s chocolate eyes was an eagerness framed in regret—a desire for improvement which he wore on his young face like a proclamation.

  “A warm up,” he said.

  “Pardon?” Eisenhower asked.

  “This. What I’m doing. I don’t need target practice. I’m the best shot in Commonwealth, bar none, but I figure the more I use Canis, the more likely I’ll be able to get this thing squared away,” Arthur explained. “And I need to get better. Be better.”

  Without so much as a warning, Arthur took a step forward and assumed a stance which Eisenhower knew all too well. An archer’s stance, one of practice and poise and an assuredness unique to Arthur himself. Canis demanded no arrows, nor did it require a quiver, and when the fleshy mass of his scarred fingers clasped over the drawstring, it erupted in a dim orange glow.

  Eisenhower grabbed hold of Arthur’s wrist with metal digits. Arthur glanced up towards him, not bothering to hide his indignation. “What the hell?”

  “What you need is to understand that mistakes, Arthur Yeager, are not some fault of fate, but divine intention imparted to us by God,” Eisenhower stated. “Your failure within the city and your inability to save that man, haunt you as it may, was not meant to propel you into such a manic stupor.”

  Arthur set his jaw. “You’re scolding me for training? For wanting to get better?”

  Eisenhower shook his head. “No. I am merely explaining to you that repetition, absent any breaks and absent any room for inner reflection, will only get you nowhere fast. I did not need to hear about your being here from Warden Frighter to know that this training yard has become your second home over the last several weeks. I urge you to pace yourself, else you will only take two steps back for every step you take forward.”

  Arthur lowered Canis. “And how does that help anyone?”

  “It does not,” Eisenhower said. “But it helps you help yourself.”

  Arthur opened and closed his mouth.

  Eisenhower, still looming over him, pivoted and turned to face his apprentice, now placing both hands on either shoulder. “I too, have made mistakes. I too, have tormented myself after the fact in a misguided effort to change the past. What you intend to accomplish is itself an honorable thing. A just thing. You wish to be better for the sake of those who we are charged with protecting—and for this, Arthur Yeager, I am proud of you. And yet things such as these take time, and experience is itself a better teacher than repetition.”

  If Eisenhower got through to him, it was only a partial victory. Such was evident in Arthur’s expression, who only briefly considered accepting his praise and his wisdom. But youth was a more powerful force: poignant and liable to fuel one’s own notions of what ought to be done before the learned words from anyone else. Eisenhower could not blame him for such a thing, for he too had once been young.

  “At any rate,” Eisenhower continued, “Chaptermaster Allen has set us the task of locating an inferni nominati.”

  That, it seemed, prompted a more animated response from Arthur. Some mixture of fear and excitement showered his features, but the light in his eyes, if there was indeed any at all, was dulled by an apprehension that deepened the slight and barely noticeable laugh lines along his face.

  “A named demon,” Arthur said quietly. “Here? In the Pines?”

  “It’s not as uncommon as you’d think,” said a voice—a woman’s, raspy and distinct.

  Warden Hawke emerged alongside the stout Warden Frighter, who carried with him a large metal briefcase in one hand, and in the other, leaned a long, silver-bladed spear along his shoulder.

  Warden Hawke had about three inches on Warden Frighter’s slight height of five-foot-four, and had dirty blonde hair cut short along her head, light brown eyes, and a small upturned nose. Over her black parka jacket was a piece of banded metal armor, casing her front torso and back in steel. The Red Cross of the Wardens was on full display on the front of her neck.

  She carried along her shoulder a rifle, which Warden Frighter beamed upon proudly.

  Beyond creating the Hallowed Hand of Elijah, the artificed prosthetic which now functioned as Eisenhower’s reliably and hardy right arm, he was also the great mind behind Warden Hawke’s Blackstitcher, a name more well-known than her own, a M1918 Browning Automatic Rifle. A silver rosary had been wrapped around the back of the gun’s barrel, and towards the front was a single hawk feather secured by a small band of leather. Embedded into the gun's stock were a row of four circular holes, and hanging from each of them were large chain links made of some kind of black stone that only slightly resembled obsidian. Runework had been carved into the entirety of the rifle itself. Similar large blackstone chain links were secured along her munition belt next to two bullet magazines, not far from the typical selections of equipment standard among wardens—a wooden stake, holy water grenades, a few vials of pasteurized demon blood.

  “Warden Hawke speaks the truth,” Eisenhower confirmed. “It is indeed rarer than the typical incursions of lesser demons which so often plague the Pines, but not a non-possibility.”

  “How many tethers?”Arthur asked, a tension lingering on his tongue.

  Warden Hawke inhaled. “Seven.”

  “Fuck,” Arthur said.

  “Language,” Eisenhower said sternly. “You are smarter than that, Arthur Yeager, and not without a vocabulary.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” Arthur said dismissively. “Seven? You’re sure?”

  “Saw it with my own eyes, Yeager,” Warden Hawke confirmed. “All of em’ wardens. They came across the shattering incident right as it happened, and, stupidly, assumed it was a batch of lessers.”

  “Stupid is putting it lightly,” said Warden Frighter, who crossed to Eisenhower and handed him the large silver spear. Eisenhower accepted it graciously and issued a nod in thanks to the artificer. “Must’ve been fresh wardens, not a few weeks out of being initiates. First thing they teach you fieldies is to keep a safe distance, or you’re liable to become a tether yourself. Pardon my uh, French, Eis, but the whole lot of them are dumb as hell. Undeserving of the title of warden, if you ask me.”

  “That is no way to speak of the dead, Warden Frighter,” Eisenhower said sharply. “Their intentions were indeed pure, but their actions misguided. A shame. We are at the very least lucky to have Warden Hawke still with us. Warden Hawke—what are you able to confirm at this time about the inferni nominati?”

  “Only that it’s big, somewhere at or around twice your size, Warden Whitfield,” she said.

  “So, twelve-foot-something,” Warden Frighter said. “Lord help you all.”

  Warden Frighter crouched down in front of Eisenhower and opened up the metal box he’d been carrying, and with a sharp click, the contents were revealed to be a freshly carved stake, additional holy water grenades, additional shotgun munitions, and what Eisenhower recognized to be two Rosariums; artificed rosaries.

  “Many thanks, Warden Frighter,” Eisenhower said, crouching down beside him to replace and restock the equipment along his utility belt.

  “Some p-blood, too, just in case, yeah?” Warden Frighter said, withdrawing two vials from his pockets.

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  Eisenhower nodded. "Thank you."

  Warden Fighter inhaled, stared at him, and scoffed out a sharp and brief laugh. “Sounded almost hesitant, Eis."

  “So, you don’t know what it looks like, right, great,” Arthur muttered. “But you did survive it, or, escaped it, I should say. Which means you know where the shattering incident occurs. You can take us there?”

  “That is why I’m here, Yeager,” Warden Hawke confirmed. “Look, it’ll be a bit of a hike. Thirty, forty minutes maybe, but it’s harder to say with the weather being as shit as it is.”

  Eisenhower gripped the length of the spear within his hands. “We will follow your lead, Warden Hawke.”

  “... Fingers crossed that lead isn’t a one-way ticket into our early deaths,” Arthur muttered.

  Eisenhower smacked him upside the head. Arthur nearly fell flat onto his face.

  Warden Frighter issued each of them a nod and scholastic smile. “G’luck.”

  ?

  An instinct pulsed along the skin of Eisenhower’s neck.

  While his mask and attire made it hard to discern, he, much like Arthur and Warden Hawke, bore the Red Cross of the Order. It burned a holy burn and a righteous burn along the taut dermis of his nape.

  “We are getting close, it would seem,” he noted aloud.

  Warden Hawke held Blackstitcher forward in both of her hands and scanned uphill of where they had been trekking through—a narrow crevice along the rocky crags just beyond Silver Falls, where water gushed into an icy river that persisted in spite of the unforgiving weather. Between them was Arthur, who carried Canis steadily, his eyes vigilant, his posture expressing an awareness just shy of anxious. Visibility was low even in spite of the gray daylight which dredged itself through the nooks and crannies of the beaten path they walked, and Eisenhower’s looming figure made navigation all the more difficult.

  “The site of the shattering incident isn’t far from here,” Hughette said, ascending up uneven ground. “So take what the Cross tells you with a grain of salt. There’s still remnant energies in the air, so.”

  “So, what? You’re saying it’s a false flag?” Arthur asked.

  “Yes, Yeager, that’s exactly what I’m saying,” Hughette snapped back.

  Laid before them at the tail end of the congested strait was a clearing sparsely populated by tall pine trees. The Red Cross warned him as he neared and Eisenhower put into question Warden Hawke’s instincts; a faulty warning would not impart him with such a pronounced sensation and evidence of their targets' presence assaulted him on two fronts. Of paramount importance was the collection of tracks—seven individual pairings of footsteps in the snow which trailed behind what looked to be hoof impressions. Second to this visual a faint noise further beyond where the trio of wardens had assembled, one which Eisenhower could not easily identify.

  “I believe you are wrong, Warden Hawke,” said Eisenhower, holding his silver-bladed spear in the fleshy grip opposite of the metal one along his right side. “And given the wideness of your eyes I would wager that these tracks were not here before.”

  “No,” she said slowly. “No, they weren’t. But I don’t understand what would compel it to return to the site of the shattering incident.”

  “Listen closely,” Eisenhower said.

  “The woods?” Arthur asked.

  Eisenhower nodded. The metal of his visor-helm creaked ever so slightly, brushing up against his skin uncomfortably. “Yes. Their pace sounds steady and not at all panicked. As it is not venturing south into Silver Falls, from our current position, its only path is north.”

  “God willing, it might just take a sharp right, you know, head east until it falls right off those big ass cliffsides and into the Brinehaven Bay,” Arthur said half-jokingly.

  Warden Hawke glared at him. “Warden Yeats, Warden Holloway, Warden Tsung, Warden Sproutsworth, Warden Kowalski, Warden Arriaga, Warden Soprano. Green, all of them were, but they were wardens all the same. And now they’re tethers, Yeager, which means we owe it to them to make sure they are given clean and dignified severance. You got that, or do you need Marshal Whitfield to spell it out again for you?”

  “Loud and clear,” he said. “I—... yeah. Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. Just nervous, I guess.”

  “Warden Yeager has only ever accompanied me to combat a four tether demon,” said Eisenhower, glancing towards Warden Hawke. “His nerves bleed through his words. But we now arrive at an impasse. Just beyond us is our target, and skilled as you both are and experienced as I may be, this particular caliber of demon demands tact, strategy, and cohesion. As most things are, this too, will not be a flawless endeavor. But we must agree on a preliminary course of action.”

  Warden Hawke shouldered Blackstitcher. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Warden Yeager will find a vantage point, and it will be his responsibility to eliminate the tethers before we approach,” said Eisenhower. “I will engage directly and ensure it does not target Warden Yeager himself while he is looking for said vantage point. You, Warden Hawke, will be my supporting fire from the mid-line. Is this acceptable to everyone?”

  Arthur nodded. “Yeah.”

  Warden Hawke’s grip tightened around her weapon.

  ?

  Eisenhower stood atop of a small boulder.

  It overlooked an expanse of snow-covered ground plagued by clusters of rock and stone and dead and soggy undergrowth. Pine trees added a perimeter to the outlands in which they found themselves. Dredges of fog swirled and coiled around such trees like a wool-spun blanket alive and as sentient as any creature of the forest. Warden Hawke, some five yards behind him, had readied herself for battle, and was no doubt waiting for Eisenhower to uphold his end of the plan—a plan which he formulated, and one that became less tenable the longer he stared before the foul and twisted creature which awaited him.

  They took note of one another at the same time.

  The Red Cross of the Order thumped along Eisenhower's neck: a brand with its very own pulse. It was both a warning and an omen and an invitation, pulling him in three directions and at the same time pushing him forward towards the very danger which revealed itself to him.

  Standing at nearly twelve-feet-tall was a slim and extremely lithe creature which carried itself with a slouch, its skin a slate gray peppered in scatterings of black patterns and unholy geometries. It was naked and sexless and wore only two tattered sashes along its torso, which secured a collection of large and severed arms, some large, some small, others human-sized in their proportions. No eyes looked back at Eisenhower, but a head turned to face him nonetheless, wearing a rusted metal visor that blinded it to the world. A singular misshapen horn jutted out from one side of its head, shaped like that of a buffalo’s.

  In one hand it held a massive greatsword with a hilt made from a severed forearm, and a blade that looked like some uncanny approximation of glassy steel; a material that looked not of the living world.

  Beneath his visor-helm Eisenhower stared with furrowed brows.

  Warden Yeats, Warden Holloway, Warden Tsung, Warden Sproutsworth, Warden Kowalski, Warden Arriaga, Warden Soprano.

  Each of them had been reduced to slouched and hunchbacked husks, shells of what used to be vibrant humans, with sunken eyes reduced to glossy and vegetated stares. Seven mouths lulled open and saliva dripped steadily from their slack jaws. Arms hung idle and necks cranked awkwardly. From the center of each of their chests were cords—dark and miasmic like burning cinders—which all lead towards the demon which had claimed ownership over their souls.

  Hesitation boiled in the pit of his stomach, but a stronger force compelled him forward: divine justice.

  Eisenhower unlatched the entire rig along his utility belt which contained his holy water grenades. He extended an arm and rotated it two times over before stepping towards the edge of the boulder, pivoting, and whipping it towards the demon at once. The air whined and hissed behind the force of his throw.

  The demon swiped its arm, greatsword tight in its clawed hand.

  Each holy water grenade detonated and sent the demon, in spite of its size, skidding back some twenty or thirty feet in the snow—but it did not fall nor flinch nor falter. Its marbled skin melted from bone, but not so much as a single utterance of bellow of pain let the creature. It knew that not even holy water would inhibit the power of its seven tethers, whose bound souls supplied a steady source of rejuvenation to the ghastly fiend.

  Eisenhower leapt off the edge of the boulder, and landed firmly into a squat, one hand still clinging to the shaft of the silver-bladed spear he holstered along his shoulder. When he stood, he settled both hands around it and held it forward towards the creature, and the demon smiled an ugly and twisted and yellow-toothed smile.

  Miasmic energy had already begun to rebuild the flesh which had been cleansed away by the holy water grenades, but their deployment had at the very least guaranteed a safe space for landing.

  Engaging it directly, Eisenhower knew, would be nothing short of suicide.

  He inhaled sharply.

  And suicide it might very well be, but it would be a valiant and glorious thing nonetheless.

  He charged towards the demon, body angled in tandem with the pointed spear. Before he could get close enough to pierce it, the demon raised its greatsword and swiped. Eisenhower planted a foot and angled the silver blade of the spear along the sword’s length, jerking its jagged edges up and out of the way.

  Eisenhower was strong, stronger than most men, but still a man nonetheless. The demon’s blade did not move more than a few inches upward, and the demon drew its blade down in a diagonal arc.

  Eisenhower lowered his spear. He ducked forward and stepped towards the demon, and with a single hand, stabbed the spear into its foot to anchor it in place. Marbled skin sizzled and black blood gushed from its foot.

  It went to move again, its blade primed.

  The Red Cross of the Wardens pounded along Eisenhower’s neck in warning and his body reacted in tandem. Leaping off his front foot, Eisenhower only barely avoided getting bisected from above. The blade, now lodged in the ground, gave Eisenhower only a brief window of time to follow up with a blow of his own.

  With as much deftness as he could muster, he stepped forward, withdrew the newly carved wooden stake from his utility belt and stabbed it into the demon's grasp. A scowl stretched across its ghastly face. Black blood sputtered out from its clasped fingers.

  The prior damage from the holy water grenades had already healed.

  But with the silver lodged into its foot, and now the wooden stake lodged into its sword-hand, the damage would persist for as long as both weapons were within its body.

  Eisenhower reached along his side, where his sawed-off shotgun hung to the right of his waist. He ripped it from its sling, and, already in proximity to the creature, placed the barrel point-blank against its fingers and pulled the trigger. All five of them were turned into minced meat, and a pudding of black blood and viscera. The greatsword fell into the ground.

  “Now!” Eisenhower shouted.

  A gunshot rang in the distance.

  Behind him and on the very same cliffside he’d leapt from was Warden Hawke, crouched along one knee with Blackstitcher pointed towards the demon before them. She grabbed hold of one of the strange black chain links—one of four which hung from the modified stock of her BAR rifle—and pulled the trigger.

  A trail of darkness whisked through the air and pierced the demon in the chest.

  From its own shadow grew a pulpy and dark chain that curled and coiled around its body like a series of interconnected snakes; all sized as a direct reflection of the demon’s silhouette. It constricted it in place.

  “Warden Yeager!” Eisenhower yelled, his voice booming like thunder.

  Orange and red and yellow parted through mist and snow. Flaming hounds rained down from above, running along the air with impetus, a total of four at once, and each of them reached their targets without failure. Four of the tethers—Warden Holloway, Warden Tsung, Warden Sproutsworth, and Warden Kowalski—were set ablaze. One after another they fell forward into the snow-covered ground.

  Only three cords of miasmic energy remained connected to the demon, whose mouth quivered and churned in displeasure.

  Eisenhower braved another step. He planted the sawed-off barrel against the demon’s chest. He fired.

  Buckshot blew a hole through the shadowy chains which held it in place and the marbled skin of its belly. Intestines fell forward and onto Eisenhower. Black blood covered his attire and spattered across his visor-helm.

  A window of opportunity presented itself.

  He primed the Hallowed Hand of Elijah. Orange and rustic runes erupted along the mastercrafted symbols along its length. Gears whirred. Inner-pistons clanked into place. He reeled his arm back, intent on plunging it straight into the demon’s core, body tense, muscles flexed. A roar born of a warrior’s instinct left him as a thunderous shout.

  And it was overshadowed by only one thing.

  A noise born from some hellish and unsightly place; a bellow of the belly of a beast that carried with it such a power that its mere utterance forced the fabric of reality to fold to bend a knee in allegiance.

  Z???????????????A????????????????U????????????????????????L????????S????????????????????T????????????????R???????????????????I??????????????E???????????????????????????????????D????????????A???????????????????

  Symbols and glyphs and characters left its mouth as scintillating red energy.

  A shockwave of occult power forced Eisenhower back and sent him hurling across the ground, his body enduring the snow and the stones in equal parts, bruising his ribs and legs and arms by way of scattered impacts. His vision was blurry, and while prone, he stared at the creature from where his body had slammed against the very boulder that he’d leapt from. The shadowy knots along its body, courtesy of Blackstitcher, had been purged from its body.

  The sash which secured Zaulstrieda’s collection of severed arms to its back dissipated and fizzled out of existence.

  Each severed arm, outlined in a distinct and unholy red, rose into the air around it. Eisenhower could not count the total amount, but it had to be more than a dozen of them, and from the nubs of the amputated limbs grew greatswords made of a glossy and jagged steel.

  Three tethers remained, and their duty remained unchanged.

  The damage done to Zaulstrieda had been rendered null. Flesh and bone rebuilt itself in the places where Eisenhower had breached along its sickening body. The hole in its belly had been filled. The fingers which had been turned into a pile of tendon tissue and black blood reformed.

  Zaulstrieda smiled a twisted smile.

  It flicked its wrist, and the wooden stake which Eisenhower had plunged into it flew out from its skin. It grabbed hold of the silver spear which had been lodged into its foot, and rather than discarding it, it threw it towards Eisenhower. Not at him—towards.

  Zaulstrieda picked up its original greatsword and held it forward towards Eisenhower.

  As Eisenhower stood, he felt a sharp pain. One of his ribs must have been broken, perhaps more, and yet the adrenaline which coursed through his veins prompted him to stand on his own two feet. He grabbed hold of the silver spear.

  ?

  Flaming hounds bolted through the air from above and chased the remaining two tethers. Each one was subsequently sliced in two; each of them cut in half.

  Every attempt made on Arthur’s part, Eisenhower had noticed, was made futile by way of the floating greatswords which acted like a set of reactive totems, cleaving through any and all harm which neared Zaulstrieda. His efforts were in vain, and as were the efforts of Warden Hawke, who had since switched to the use of standard bullets in an attempt to eliminate the tethers herself. Blades fell down at the appropriate angle, levitating in place to deflect the bullets, ricocheting them into the snowy ground.

  Eisenhower himself had not made any meaningful headway.

  Offensive as he attempted to be, he was forced to defend himself against what felt like an endless onslaught of levitating greatswords. Most of them had to be avoided entirely, and without the Red Cross of the Order, he might have already been split in two. Moments where his silver spear had connected were not ones that resulted in any direct damage to Zaulstrieda; the only sustained contact was with greatsword after greatsword after greatsword, where Eisenhower parried and guarded and parried over and over again.

  Exhaustion had begun to eat away at his reflexiveness, and his lacking stamina meant the full force of his frame could not be mustered. In the face of nearly a dozen floating swords, Eisenhower was fortunate that half of them had been dedicated to defense—three to stave off Warden Hawke’s bullets and three to sever Arthur’s flaming hounds before they could reach the tethers. Eisenhower’s ongoing defense against the remaining six, not not including the one which Zaulstrieda had stabbed into the ground and leaned on, was imperfect.

  He’d been cut along his shoulder, his arm, his chest, and his back. Around him in the snow were dredges of the scarlet that had once been beneath his skin. A sustained melee encounter would not bode well for Eisenhower, and it might very well spell his death.

  And all the while, Zaulstrieda watched, chapped and wide and ugly lips churning out a perpetual and entertained grin.

  Eisenhower loathed this.

  It was toying with him—with them, and its arrogance was grating.

  No modicum of wanting would change the simple fact that they were getting nowhere, and if they were to make any headway, they would have to function as one.

  “Together, Warden Hawke, Warden Yeager!” Eisenhower yelled, slashing away a greatsword, rolling out of the way of another, and guarding against a third which barreled towards him. A fourth attempted to pierce him from the front. He grabbed it with the Hallowed Hand of Elijah.

  “Carve for me a path, dispose of the tethers,” Eisenhower said, his voice still raised. “And I will see to it that this unholy.. hnng.. and unwelcomed visitor is squarely vanquished! But you must do so now! It does not believe us capable!”

  Eisenhower continued forward, throwing aside the greatsword which he’d caught with his artificed hand.

  Red energies pulled them back up and forced them back down all at once. Six floating greatswords barreled down towards him. Eisenhower both feet, and with the silver spear in both hands, spun, deflecting each of them in a singular pivoting motion.

  “It.. ughrnh.. it thinks us weak! Fragile! Vulnerable!”

  Zaulstrieda’s smile lessened ever so slightly.

  “But.. augghr.. we are anything but! We are wardens!”

  Six greatswords rose from the snow where they’d fallen, and zipped in front of Eisenhower. They formed a complete circle, all of their blades pointed forward, and each of them jettied towards Eisenhower. Heat swelled in front of him. A pack of flaming hounds slammed into the collection of blades, one after the other, exploding into one another with such a fiery intensity that it mirrored an explosion. Greatswords sprawled outward in multiple directions.

  From his vantage point along the pine trees, Arthur shook his charred hand out. His skin sizzled.

  Eisenhower only barely heard it—the sound of Warden Hawke’s three remaining shadowstone chain links shattering at her hand—one for each of the three floating greatswords which stopped Arthur’s flame hounds from reaching the two remaining tethers.

  Not one, not two, but three trails of shadow zipped through the air.

  They did not hit Zaulstrieda, but the three floating greatswords themselves.

  Eisenhower watched as the sword’s own shadows gave birth to pulpy black chains which jutted out from the ground and pulled them down into the snow. They worbled and warbled and struggled, discontent in their anchoring.

  “Yeager!” Warden Hawke shouted. “Now!”

  From his vantage point, Arthur cried out in pain as his already charred fingers returned to the orange and glowing drawstring of Canis.

  Three flaming hounds zipped through the air, trekking through the cold air before slamming into the last of the three tethers: putting to rest the husks that were once Warden Arriaga, Warden Soprano, and Warden Yeats.

  Zaulstrieda gritted its teeth.

  Finally, it grabbed hold of the greatsword which it had been leaned upon and stepped forth to challenge Eisenhower head on.

  Nine greatswords levitated upwards, shrouded in a red light.

  The three that had once been dedicated to the defense against Warden Hawke’s standard bullets joined the six which had been assigned to assaulting Eisenhower himself; and now ten pointed tips threatened to cleave through Eisenhower.

  He inhaled.

  At his current state, even with the instinctual warnings of the Red Cross of the Order, he would surely run out of blood before he could so much as reach the demon.

  He raised his hand to his face and removed his visor-helm from his head, tossing it to the side. Beneath it was a disfigured face made up almost entirely of pink scar tissue. No nose was present, only a hole, and a pair of deep and black eyes. What used to be a squared chin was replaced completely with metal, and he had no ears—only two holes. No hair grew from his head, and all that covered his scalp were mismatched lines of permanent stitching.

  Along his utility belt were two vials of pasteurized demon blood, the last and final of Warden Frighter’s gifts. He shoved them into his mouth and bit down.

  He ran forward to meet Zaulstrieda, silver spear pointed forward.

  Glass spiked through his cheeks and tongue as his entire body healed itself in a violent and grotesque display. The double-dosing not only moved him forward with the utmost tenacity, but dulled and numbed the pain in his mouth and cheeks. The Red Cross of the Order steered him, correcting every micromovement and macromovement of his body, aligning him exactly where he ought to have been every step of the way.

  Sparks sprayed outward from the silver blade of his spear, grating against one demonic greatsword after another, where he carved brushstrokes of parries and deflections into the cold winter air en route to the entity before him.

  Of the ten swords which had threatened to halt him, nine of them had been discarded into the snow-covered ground.

  All that remained was one.

  Eisenhower inhaled.

  Along his utility belt were the two Rosariums, the last of Warden Frighter’s gifts. He withdrew them in one fell swoop, grabbing hold of both of the large, metal-beaded rosaries in tandem. He threw them towards Zaulstrieda with a sudden jerk, and they wrapped around the demon's sword-hand in tandem, like two throwing bolas. Upon contact with its skin, a distinct, pale-gold glow erupted along each bead. Zaulstrieda’s wrist burned in holy light, and its grip loosened.

  Zaulstrieda, snarling and bellowing and barely holding onto his greatsword, raised it by its severed-limb hilt with a newfound urgency, stepping forward with a heavy and hoofed foot to draw it down into Eisenhower.

  The Red Cross of the Order pulsed along his neck.

  In a singular motion, he stepped to one side and plunged his silver spear upward and through Zaulstrieda’s wrist, forcing it to drop the sword. Black blood spurted along Eisenhower’s disfigured head. Orange and rustic runes ignited along the length of his metal arm; the Hallowed Hand of Elijah had woken. Artificed pistons whirred along the inside of its mechanical insides. Gears whirred. Pressure gauges hissed.

  Eisenhower stepped forward and reeled his arm back.

  Metal knuckles slammed into Zaulstrieda’s lower stomach, and the demon’s body skidded back only a few small inches.

  Stones and rocks and pebbles of varied sizes all rose from the ground at once, levitating in the air in a coppery glow, covering the entire length of the clearing in a highly irritable earthen blanket.

  Eisenhower pivoted, turned his back to the demon, and ran as fast as his body could muster.

  The demon, faster and stronger and magnitudes more ferocious than any fiend native to the Pines, attempted to chase after him—only to stumble over itself, forgetting itself and the silver spear which had been lodged cleanly through its wrist.

  A storm of stone pelted Zaulstrieda.

  One after another, mismatched and jagged stone shook off the snow which had been resting atop of it homed in on the demon like an endless supply of small and medium-sized cannonballs, shattering through its marbled skin and breaking through bone over and over and over again, clustering over its silhouette and each of its foul extremities, entombing it in the very ground it had once walked upon.

  An obelisk of a coffin had formed around a body rendered into beaten pulp, granting form to a body so beaten that it would have melted into a pile of congealed black blood otherwise. And when Zaulstrieda drew its last breath, Eisenhower thought not of Chaptermaster Allen’s demands for it to be returned alive, but the names of his brothers-and-sisters-in-arms who had spent their last moments in the world of the living enduring a fate worse than death.

  Eisenhower fell to his knees and swayed back and forth.

  Cold bit at his exposed skin. Adrenaline declined. The skin which had reformed around the shattered glass on the inside of his cheeks and tongue pulsed painfully.

  In his fading peripheral vision, he saw blurred silhouettes of Arthur and Warden Hawke.

  By the time his eyes had veered on closing he felt their grips along either side of his body. They did not let him fall.

  Also... I am happy to introduce the Featured Characters section, which will now be appearing in every chapter moving forward ?? (I will also be going back retroactively to update every previous chapter with this feature, which.. may take some time, but I'm happy to do it).

  And finally, our Ritual Meter has an updated design (with some minor changes to how the Ritual meter works also).

  MARSHAL WHITFIELD

  WARDEN YEAGER

  CHAPTERMASTER ALLEN

  WARDEN FRIGHTER

  WARDEN HAWKE

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  RITUAL: ??????

  SUMMONING RITUAL (4)