Mhaieiyu

  Arc 3, Chapter 10

  Immovable Objects

  The last whisper of that proud, unconscientious evil burnt through the last of the fuse that would ignite the bomb guarding the scraps left of Corvus’ moral and goodwill. A roar unlike a being of grace—more in tune to the almighty feline Gorgehouser—smashed past and out Corvus’ vocal cords, a deafening cacophony of anger, as the Celestial slung his semi-broken wings uncaringly to leap toward his target, standing less than a dozen yards from his position.

  Vermillion’s laughter subsided as he watched the violent force come forth. Had he been anyone else, at least a glint of concern would’ve manifested, as the furious angel would have even the greats of this world question the extent of their abilities for a moment. The kind of face Ir-Thildan made when an apprentice of his magic showed overwhelming will.

  But Vermillion was untroubled. His amusement had withered, but only in anticipation of what was to come next. Corvus’ sword sliced through the air in such a way that it made a faint squeal, and in less than a second, impaled Vermillion’s defences. The tip of the sword shone yellow, then white. It disfigured, and kept pushing. The tip then ebbed, crystalised and webbed into a great many cracks that grew through the whole of the blade. Its structure, pushed well past the limits of its durability, succumbed to its damage and smashed like glass, spreading dangerous shrapnel in every direction. It cut Corvus’ brow. The enraged angel was briefly stunned as his body, with no leverage to pull from, lost balance and smashed against Lust’s invisible guard, ricocheting him off of it. Corvus caught himself, managing to still stand, but was doubtlessly shaken.

  Vermillion, on the other hand, just stood there. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, mirth once more returning to him.

  Corvus breathed heavily, his adrenaline keeping his mind off the sweltering pain he had just subjected himself to, and he looked at his ruined sword. All of half an inch of sharp steel remained past the guard, which also looked fragile at this point. His outburst did nothing. No wonder the likes of Erica had no chance against this man. The thought of her struggling pointlessly to find an exploit in this Devil’s armour left him weak. His eyes shot back toward his opponent when he saw movement.

  Vermillion tittered exactly once, lifting an arm up to eye-level, before snapping his thumb and middle finger. Corvus’ sight sharpened, and in time with the Disciple’s thrust of fingers, the angel’s wings flapped painfully once more. The brief climb to midair, an instinctual action only, curled Lust’s lips down. A new expression adorned his handsome face: disappointment. And disappointing it must’ve been, as a distinct lack of anything followed. Corvus landed, and nobody was hurt, except his damaged wings perhaps. It mustn’t have been a fluke. Vermillion had manifested his offence, to no effect. That Great Power, one that he must have relied on the whole of his life, failed to gratify him with violence. The frustration he exuded was searing to listen to.

  “Cunt,” Vermillion simply spat, “your body should be broken. Don’t fucking do that. Don’t delay my fucking intentions.”

  The childish contempt of one who had everything spoonfed to him, only to have a mouthful of food dropped before it could reach his lips. A great insolence in his world view; to deprive him of a want. Of an urge. Of a whim.

  Corvus drew a tired breath, but even in his anger, he managed to process what just happened. Somehow, he had stopped what struck and led to the death of Erica. His bloodthirsty eyes honed in on Vermillion’s every feature, skinning him for a chink in that armour. Perhaps he could only stop what could be seen coming?

  Invigoration coursed through as vengeance became feasible. An ignorant assumption, but a believable one. The cold in his blood gained life in favour of a lukewarm wish. A sinful wish. His wings—the pain of which he ignored yet again—bat with renewed vigour. Vermillion watched as the crippled bird managed to leverage its imbalanced flight to travel unpredictably. An opening would be hard to find, but find it the Celestial must. Or, so he was convinced. The truth was, he was only ruining his future flying by acting so recklessly. Vermillion, disgruntled and put off, could only watch the angel zoom around him with his hands on his waist.

  Bellum couldn’t care less for the battle underway. ‘Battle’ was a poor descriptor regardless. She had come to know modern day Lust’s overwhelming abilities; to do battle with him was heroic martyrdom, nothing more. She didn’t care about that, though. With Vermillion’s eyes elsewhere, she brought herself down to meet Myldew’s disintegrated self. Her breaths had been reduced to pathetic wheezes, her neck no longer strong enough to hold up her head. The violent impact had flattened the bones in what remained of her wings, as well as broken numerous ribs from the rear. If she were human, her lungs would have been trampled, no doubt. Her lifeblood dropped and sizzled into thin air from numerous cracks in her skin. The colourlessness of her eyes foretold her approximating fate. The Demoness held up her head for her, a shaking hand resting on the angel’s cheek. Such antitheses they must’ve seemed to an outsider, yet so tragic their union came to be. What could be deemed a miracle of history was being wasted by tradition and common justice. Common as it were, both parties had become numb to it, accepting it as the order of things. But this denial defied their true feelings for one another. Bellum was too hard of mind to pursue further. This protection she was offered, the shelter she received away from the cult that long ordained her, was a means to an end of her own benefit, surely. So why, why was she crying so? Shaking and shivering became spasms and sobs. Her whole body shook, down to her entrails. An overwhelming, overpowering sense of injustice pervaded her. Bellum lowered her head sorrowfully in front of that angel, whose vision only blurred worse with each passing second. The light was beginning to fade from her whole, and if she could, she would give that warmth all to the woman in front of her.

  The Demoness’ goat horns grew out her skull, spiralling into a perfect ring of hard bone. Two appendages prodded the back of her robes. She grasped at her hair, sobbing inconsolably. Her head hung low and lifted, before dropping and lifting again. Delirium, or something else was brewing dangerously inside her — the fastest catalysts a brain could cook up. From her back, two coal-feathered wings split forth and loosened off her hoodie, and then two more littler ones were revealed under the bigger pair, which were smaller than a Hawk’s but larger than a Swan’s.

  Seeing no urgency to defend himself, Vermillion kept his eyes on the ground. The occasional drop of Corvus’ feet on the stone floors promised an opening eventually, he just had to piece together a pattern. Several times he repeated his action, snapping his fingers and pointing them to a spot he hoped the Celestial would fall to next, only for the attack not to carry out when the prediction failed. The more he did so, the more his diminutive patience thinned. The Crimson squeezed his teeth together tighter by the second. It was then, when he’d turned his body to the side, that a new set of sparks flew off of his form. The blur that had attacked him existed only briefly before retreating to the shadows. The deed made Vermillion jump a bit, but the sight of Eclipse’s bold attack disturbed Corvus the most.

  The Celestial had hoped that in finding a blindspot, Vermillion’s power could be circumvented. A naive thought it turned out to be. Instead, the force of her claws swam around him and dispersed near his left ankle, lifting a bit of dust by his feet. This made Corvus stop. His fractured mind couldn’t conceive the sheer uselessness of his efforts.

  And then, the crucial mistake was made. A horrible scream overwhelmed the angel as Eclipse watched him land for too long. Vermillion had already snapped his fingers, a relieved smile settling on his face as his terrifying power finally manifested. Corvus, still of mind and trying to keep pace, was overtaken by a fierce eruption. A brutal force collided in his front, and for a brief instant, he wished to all mercy that his friend had been there by him.

  That friend, which he disgraced on their first meeting. That friend, whose family was forced to stand and watch as he brutalised him. That friend, the Guardian, who he admonished up until the day they fated to meet. But he had made up for it, in the years that followed. He did.

  Maybe the Guardian wouldn’t have noticed in time. Maybe he wouldn’t have shielded him fast enough. Maybe his protection would have been wasted, insufficient to stop this monster’s bombardment. But the effort would’ve been nice. It would’ve been.

  Corvus’ whole self disappeared from where he stood. His body was hurled at untold speed toward the ceiling, punching a hole into hard rock and propelling him into the very skies he lived to venture; those icy skies, that froze wings and ebbed life. Beyond still, past the clouds that stole away the sunlight, and into that same sunlight. Here, so high above the Badlands, he felt the rays of the heavens. That pleasant warmth. That oh-so needed shine, which radiated off his wings to enhance their splendour. His broken body flailed at first, but it slowed and steadied in those heavens. That glorious heaven. That timid yet ever-present warmth. Like lit coals at the foot of the bed. Like a softly boiling bath. Like a motherly embrace. Like Aquila’s motherly embrace.

  And then his body fell. Back into the seal of clouds of Orios’ tempest. Back into Mortos’ playground. Back into the land of Victus' mistakes. And it was freezing.

  “The annoying bat, floundering pointlessly, has finally been dealt with.” This was the proclamation made to break the silence, alongside the very audible roar of wind that began to eat away the warmth of this place. Vermillion turned his head lightly toward his self-proclaimed ‘love’, not actually seeing whether she was safe and well. “See? I said I could do it. It only took a bit longer than usual. When it comes to protecting that which I hold dear, there is no might nor reason for me to fail. I am the perfect shield. The envy of even the Guardian; alas, they are but an imitation of the past, as all things are. And Sin came first, did it not? It did! It verily did.” He spread his arms far and wide, watching the furious snow rain sideways from beyond the hole he’d excavated with Corvus’ flesh and bone. “Sin should be celebrated as the rawest absolute of sentience. To be of your own will is to be willed to want. Without want, there is no will. Observe this great power in my hands: a carnal embodiment of absolute will. Of absolute want. And to that end, nothing, not man nor beast, can stand against my desire.”

  This ceaseless rant riveted none but himself. Eclipse, awestruck by her loss and the impossibility of escape dawning, bit her tongue and faced her unstoppable opponent. She couldn’t survive the cold without Corvus. This was the end of her journey. Her memories of Ezequiel, they too would die with her. Just that thought raged her to survive. To at least try.

  “Oh, come now.”

  With no end in sight, Vermillion’s amusement grew yet once more when Eclipse flew in from the shadows she hid in, swiping at his being from several different angles, sounding off the barbaric clangs of a delicate weapon that wore to the knuckle in seconds. Her cestus blades, sturdy enough to carry her across stone walls, reduced to nothing as they battered his invisible barrier. Her right ring knuckle lost its whole sword. A smatter of laughter left his lips before, to spite her, he punched Eclipse in the gob, briefly stunning her. The exile managed to retreat, her weapons now useless, into the darkness once more. She could only see where her feet landed by the innate senses afforded to her.

  “So far from home, Dweller. There are no trees to worship here,” Lust’s carrier scoffed, hands on his waist. “Just know that your decisions led you to come here. It’s easy to see me as some kind of villain for opposing you, but don’t forget whose land you intruded upon. And don’t blame me, either. I’m only defending myself and my beloved. You’ve killed yourself.”

  Unbeknownst to Eclipse, Vermillion had kept track of her approximate whereabouts. And, so far from his love, he had no need to be cautious. A fierce explosion should wipe her out — what need was there for precision when it came to a worthless woman like her? With a snap of his fingers, the simple smile he wore became sadistic. His finger would soon move, and her body would become a memory.

  “And to think we entrusted the Guardian’s delivery to your kind. Failure should’ve been expected——”

  The feeling of stillness in Eclipse’s blood, which forewarned her of the extreme danger to come, had only just settled in when a sudden anomaly would spare her the need to run. That relentless force that should have consumed her was overrun by something else entirely. As sudden as a lightbulb flickering to life, the Demoness stood off her knees and stepped up to Vermillion. And then, with her four wings in full display, she smashed her naked fist into his side. The sight of the woman’s feathers didn’t register quite as fast as the perilous strike she made, which Eclipse fully counted on failing.

  But no — something new happened. Contrary to anything prior knowledge dictated, the punch collided well and true, knocking Vermillion down to his knees. Eclipse’s breathing stopped then, her mind and senses confused to no end. The familiar sound of knuckles meeting skin didn’t come; instead, an otherworldly beaming took flight, and with it, Vermillion’s entire stance changed. When he dropped, he gagged and sputtered, all the air robbed from his lungs. A visceral shake of his torso followed, after which a non-trivial amount of blood dripped from his nose.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Ah——” he moaned, putting a stop to his own noises. An experience unknown to him for more than a decade, pain, smacked him with the novelty and unpleasantness it warranted. His hand covered his red-wet nose, quickly staining them the same. He looked back at the girl, whose action had left her squeezing out hateful shuddering breaths, a defiance that rusted when Vermillion’s lovingness reemerged. “My sweet…” His voice was afflicted, but he ignored his flaw and made an effort to stand. He was clearly shaken.

  The Demoness’ wings began to depress, falling by her sides. Several streams of her salty tears hit the rocks, and her body slumped forward, caught by Vermillion’s arms, which wrapped neatly around her. Unlike his power’s unwillingness to allow the world to touch him, this woman was permitted to. Whether that be by his own will, or by a power so unfathomable even the girl refused to give thought to.

  Eclipse knew better than to attack. If his passions were so true, an attempt now would mean a very deliberate and swift end. She had nothing worth cutting him with, either.

  Vermillion inhaled her scent, his fingers clutching the Demoness’ impoverished garbs. “You’re right. I’m losing sight of what matters.” Pulling away, he lowered his spine enough to be at eye-level with Bellum, who still was too timid to look back at him. “Let us leave this place at once, Princess.”

  The exile hadn’t even realised the loudness of her own breathing. Her sixth sense, which she had suppressed until now in favour of a suicide charge, came crashing down on her all at once. A gigantic weight split her mind open. Eclipse felt light in her own body, and the fade in her vision welcomed her to faint. Leaning against that wall, her marred back strained, she dropped on her haunches and passed out. And, as Vermillion carried the girl through a tunnel in the distance, this dank ravine illuminated only by distant jades was overcome with a great torch. The burning flame of want.

  ? ? ? ?

  The Hubbite defensive had gone about as awfully as a Crimson could ask for. The soldiers, egos inflated with certainty that manpower and control over the city had teetered in the Syndicate’s favour, were taken by storm with a sudden flood of Northbeasts. What should’ve been a clean-up operation turned into a miniature Galloping, the nature of which escaped comprehension. Hiding behind a midwall with a handful of trainees, Sven shouted into his communicator and at his lackeys in a stressful roulette. The soldiers, learners all, murmured and shrieked in terror of the situation. What was meant to be an easy display of real action had turned into a disorganised mess that left novices exposed to the deadly monsters. The ginger-haired cadet, like a leader in the making would, tried his best to inspire courage from his fellow cadets. After a rousing speech inspired at least a few, one of the youth approached Sven and sat by him, rifle at the ready. He ducked his head when a distant bang shuddered dust on his helmet.

  “ ‘amn it, where’re the easterners…” Sven cursed under a breath, facing the cadet next to him. “ ‘wenty-two, gather six and sling ‘round that alley.” He motioned toward a passage between buildings across the street. “ ‘ind higher ground and spray down. ‘he rest of us will cover you and relocate further south once the area’s clean. ‘ need you to spot me any signs of Yanskies coming through. ‘ou on the right frequency?”

  “Haven’t tweaked it. Are you sure about this?” the other cadet asked.

  Sven dared to peek over the midwall. The streets looked empty, but he didn’t trust his senses anymore. His sight had already shown more than a few anomalies by now. It became obvious to him that a few Ordained had become stationed near here, and their Obscure magic left even one’s eyes and ears not to be trusted.

  The cadet understood his silence as apprehension, but knew that they had to move eventually. He trusted Sven’s order, and left to rouse half a dozen others of their panic. Sven reached for his communicator again. The passing of each minute wracked him with more concern. The Harvirillian Initiative should have made their rounds by now. With little to no magic backing, who knows how badly the Yanksies would fare off in a similar situation as theirs?

  The cadet came back with no good news. None of the petrified men dared move from their station.

  “ ‘e are gonna die if we don’t move. ‘ick your asses up, pronto!”

  “They’re convinced we need an officer to guide us through.”

  “ ‘ou pisspots will scorn an officer back home, but whine like sissies for one now? ‘ngrates… ‘ell ‘em I’ll tag you to and fro,” Sven ordered, checking his gun for ammo. The cadet nodded and returned to the pile.

  With recruits this fragile, the future seemed fruitless. The new Head of Men hadn’t done much to inspire the new meat, it seems. Times like these made Sven wish he was born a little sooner. A group of five trainees returned to him a minute later. Less than he ordered, but he hadn’t the patience to bark for more. He checked his communicator one last time. The Harvie Company should have been here half an hour ago. Sven steadied his breaths and picked up his rifle. Hopping onto the seemingly deserted street with a frightening silence save for their shuffling boots was nerve wracking to say the least. Fifty long, arduous steps lay between either end of the street. The barebones staircase to higher ground lay before them. One of the cadets dropped a magazine, and he froze. Common sense told him to pick it up. Instinct told him to carry on. Sven nabbed the thing and pushed the idiot forward. Once they reached the stairs, Sven waited for his trustee to make it to a defensive position before beelining back to those left behind.

  He threw himself over the midwall when the drumming sound of an echoed clang caught him off his guard. Sven felt a searing hot drop of sweat fall from his itching helmet. After a moment of stillness, he gingerly inspected his body for injuries, physically counting the presence of his limbs and digits. All looked in order. No odd warm patches and no blood on the floor. Wiping his brow, he inspected the area he felt the noise had come from. There was no point turning back just to catch another glance of his inexplicably mangled fellows.

  The street was still empty.

  Sven reached for his communicator again, but it sparked to life before him. A stern voice crackled, “Inbound Yanksie presence. Present location accordingly.”

  An agitating message to be certain. Those cryptic words came from his designated Strategics Commander, and they naively requested to ensure an adequate battlefield for mass mobilisation; to present a scene depicting the Syndicate as self-assured and independent from international input. The street looked clear at first, but Sven trusted his gut. The throaty, jittering chuckles of a great hyena sounded close to his ear. Sven exhaled. The Grinner loomed behind him, as did death.

  His first course of action was to throw himself back over the opposite side. That terrible clang resounded again, so harsh that it stormed his ear drums and aroused a faintness in him. Survival called him to his feet. He lessened the heft of his gear by discarding all but his vest and rifle, and whatever number of bullets lay loose in his pockets. Whipping around, he fired two bullets at nothing. The Grinner had moved. Sven felt his jaw lock his teeth together. His eyes scanned his perimeter as fast as he could, but the terrifying presence was simply absent. Had he hallucinated it?

  Of course not. Their blood had tainted his shoes, and the Northbeast’s black saliva formed a coagulation of visceral slime. The stickiness of his soles was disgusting. This was in their nature. Brawny as he looked, he made an effort to study his enemy before coming here.

  The Grinner was a terrific foe for the very reason it differed from its likeness — its independence. Unlike Crawlers and Bulkheads, Grinners were competent enough to drive themselves to action. A simple order would suffice, though they only took them from those of higher command of the Crimson order. The Syndicate designated this brass as Greater Ordained. That this Grinner was present at all meant that such a cultist was also near, likely commandeering a number of less significant Crimsoneers as well.

  Not good. Not good at all. The Syndicate had severely underestimated their opponents’ willingness in this fight. But what purpose did this incursion serve? Standing in the middle of the street, Sven’s panicking mind wondered these questions. He assured that his rifle remained cocked and at the ready. As he had explained to that young man with white hair, Blackpowder arms served little in slaying the Crawler family, as they lacked a central nervous system, but they could disintegrate limbs and render jaws useless for a magic user or swordsman’s peace of mind. Grinners in particular sported long, slender legs which could easily be blown apart. But their agility was difficult to match. Sven knew he would have to wait for the beast to come close enough for a reliable shot.

  He reached for his communicator and said, “ ‘ne on one with a smiler right now. ‘dvise.”

  His answer would come late. One of the men atop the stairs rushed to the edge of the platform and shouted, “We’ve spotted two cloaked figures entering different houses! Should I request a shelling from Command?”

  “ ‘hey won’t heed, trust me!” Sven shouted back, “ ‘f we had the option, they’d have carpet bombed this whole area by now.”

  “Maybe they’re protecting the industrial infrastructure! The cloaks entered irrelevant buildings!”

  “ ‘pply shrapnel devices then!”

  A reflection of something irregular caught Sven’s attention. He peeled his eyes back around him. Planting himself in the road, he opened himself to attack. Hiding would do no good. Grinners picked off men from cover all the easier.

  The Cadet nodded, though it took him a moment to act. They hadn’t been properly trained in the use of explosives, and with how finicky they were, the concept proved foreboding. A single gunshot drew him to his allies faster, leaving Sven alone again.

  That feeling.

  That unmistakable feeling of utter dread. Sven had felt it once before, when he was very young. Back during the last onslaught, shy of a decade earlier. That pervasive parasite that took his bravery and chewed it to bits. Sven had many times faced the possibility of death, and not once buckled. The idea of falling as a soldier, he had embraced it since he was a teen and became a mercenary. In a world as otherwise dull as this, he preferred the excitement. If it killed him, then it’d be a life well spent.

  But this? This exceeded his rationale. This betrayed his acceptance. This ominous vibe told him differently. It whispered in his ear, ‘But do you know what happens next?’

  The quality of being dead. The feeling of being dead. The experience of not experiencing. The nuance of not being at all. He never gave it much thought. To die, well, it could be painful. But what lies beyond? What was he before he was born? What will he be after he’s lived? Oh, Goddess, were Her Gates even real?

  Were Her Gates going to welcome him if they were?

  And what if they didn’t?

  Where would he——

  Sven swung his body around in an instant and fired thrice. The Grinner had sped across from one alley to the next. Whether it had taken damage had yet to be seen. The Cadet wiped his brow and chewed his cheek, seeking that iron taste. He had a habit of tasting his own blood at times like these. It kept him sharp.

  That fucking clang again. What was that shit?

  An answer came to his wrist. “We’ve already dispatched backup to the Harvirillian Initiative. Demonstrate your service to the Syndicate and kill it.”

  Distant from Sven’s predicament, a whole other set of problems were underway. Nestled in a square with four interconnecting roads, resting by an old obelisk indicative of the Hub’s many achievements as a collective, a number of soldiers of the East had gathered. Some were severely injured, with those in best shape doing their best to restore their condition. Standing as their guard, prudent as ever, was a knight that fell short of the contemporary era. His garbs were of studded leathers and an iron circlet, like an old king. His hair, a tangerine ginger, was relatively short and hadn’t been slicked in a day or so. He hadn’t a dot of facial hair on his face. Truth or not, he at least looked quite young. In his grip he carried a sword—about a hand-and-a-half of grip—built of a metal that bore a light that waned when it had stilled, returning to a dull bronze blue. The long double-sided edge was indeed traditional, and of superb craftsmanship, its handle waxed a nice deep rouge, and its pommel engraved with a precious fiery jewel.

  Scattered ahead and around this scene were a great number of Crawlers, and among them, half a dozen Bulkheads that irritated themselves not to charge headlong at the group. For each of the Bulkheads, a Lesser Ordained had stationed themselves in the building windows. Every now and then, they would reposition, confusing the gunmen. Whenever one of the soldiers tried to take aim, a number of the creatures would leap toward them, only to be pushed back by that impenetrable sword.

  “O Knight of the Eagle’s Emblem, o descendant servant of Her Morrowlynde, how far you have come to impede our footfall.” These were the words that tormented this hopeless lot. From the depths of these interlopers, one especially powerful womanly voice pleaded with the swordsman. Hers was one of mature age, but still luxurious with a fading youth. “Good is our luck, however, that our righteous step should be to you. Could you open your heart to our Lord, now that you have graced him and us with your greatness?”

  “Ah, that would be a betrayal of my intentions here, I’m afraid,” the knight said, courteous to a fault. His rosy cheeks were bright only with the stress this had taken on his body. Another Crawler leapt from its station, only to bounce beautifully off his sword. Unmaimed, it simply returned to its post, glaring viciously at the whimpering soldier most likely to die from a new injury.

  “We, Children of the Jewel-Eyed King, understand that you are grieved by burden. I have nothing but adoration for your flock’s prerogative. You, who stand often alone in deed, but righteously. You are so brave for your kin. It humbles us.”

  These words, honey laced with poison, came off all the sweeter from their issuer. A woman robed in velvet and red pushed through the masses. Six silver necklaces adorned her neck, each a different length and fitted with tiny pearlish amulets. Most were simple enhancers, but one in particular shone heavy; a headache-inducing glint threatened to burn a dot into the swordsman’s sight.

  “You have a way with words, don’t you?” the man urged a smile and lowered his head respectfully. “We should exchange names — it’s due course.”

  “But I don’t need yours, hero of the East.” The lady Crimson returned his gesture in kind. “Noble descendant of the impassable lineage, Amar Harvirillian.”

  The soldiers he was entrusted with cocked their weapons and aimed at the woman. The instant they did, upward of a dozen different Crawlers leapt in from different directions. The gunfire that sounded off was silenced by that sword which, reduced to an afterimage, pushed back all targets simultaneously, as though it existed on a separate layer of time, unfettered by the boundaries of common reality. The swordsman moved with it, but lagged behind in comparison; he was a mere vessel for the true might that was his living iron. The display was otherworldly, and although the Yanksies had whole faith in the Harvies, this show of power still left them speechless. Its wielder returned to the same position as before, looking just a bit more red-faced but without trouble.

  The woman’s adoring smile only grew, and once more, she bowed forward. “I was baptised Aurielle, devout and ordinated practitioner of God and his Judgement’s will. It will be an honour to die by your hand.”