Peter gasped as he stumbled back. The mummified sentinel pulled its blade out of his chest. The pain shot through his body, and he swayed, ready to collapse, but then — he was fine. The pain had vanished.

He grabbed at the gash in his clothes, which were slick with blood, but he felt no wound. The sentinel cocked its head in confusion, and slashed Peter across the chest.

He cried and fell back a step, but in a few moments, the pain disappeared again.

It wasn’t until then that he realized the sentinel was bleeding fierce purple light, which somehow flowed into Peter.

The sentinel dropped to its knees, and Peter jumped back as it fell on its face before him. It didn’t stir.

“Pete —” Iris said from behind as she continued closer. The vaporous light, bearly a ripple in the air, started flowing from her again. She took another step, and the flair doubled in intensity, groaning like someone trying to draw breath through a punctured lung.

“Stay back!” he cried as he threw himself over the sentinel’s body and away from her. From what Peter had observed, the closer one got, the more light he took from them. The more light he absorbed, the older they became. Iris couldn’t spare a day.

He backed out of the doorway and onto the bridge. The sound of struggle below caught his attention. He saw the workers on the street from before locked in combat with a party of Rahashelian enforcers and sentinels. Many motionless figures lay prone on the ground from either side.

A purple light flashed, drawing Peter’s eyes to a figure struggling to one knee. He held a bloodied handless nub of an arm to his chest and had a vicious gash across his face. It was Espen Hummel, the executioner. He glared up at Peter. In his good hand, purple fire danced on his palm.

“Corrode!” he shouted, pointing at Peter on the bridge above. The fire wrapped around the back of his hand and darted past his finger.

Peter jumped back to catch a glance of Iris idly staring at the fallen sentinel. She looked up, and her eyes met him momentarily before the tiny flame hit the bridge. Purple light flashed through the whole length of the bridge. It cracked with a sharp splintering noise. The pungent odor of rotted wood and rust filled the air as the bridge snapped, twisted, and rotted from underneath him.

“Iris!” Peter cried as the bridge collapsed, taking him with it.

He hit the road, and several pieces of wood from the shattered bridge landed on him. Bones broke, and he gasped in a moment of pure agony. His bones seemed to jump back into alignment in a few seconds, and the pain disappeared. He shoved heavy, jagged debris off himself and tried to sit up. A searing pain in his chest and lungs caused him to gasp, but he choked. Was he drowning?

Peter spat out a mouthful of blood and looked down, then grew faint at the sight of the jagged metal bar that protruded from his chest. Grabbing it with weak and shaky hands, he tried to pull it out, but it wouldn’t budge.

One of the younger workers jumped through the wreckage and saw him.

“Where’s the weapon?” he barked. “You’ve seen Van Gutter?”

“Help,” Peter choked.

The man ran at him and grabbed the bar. A fierce purple light flared from him and siphoned into Peter in payment for such abrupt proximity.

The man cried and jumped back, enraged. “You leeched me!”

“I can’t stop it.”

“Give it to me!”

“Can’t … I’ll probably die.” Peter's logic was simple. The band was the common denominator to his survival of two lethal wounds so far.

“Captain! More ghouls!” another worker called as he pulled a pistol from the hands of a motionless enforcer.

The worker, apparently a captain, growled at Peter. “We need to go now!”

Peter grabbed the bar and tugged it, making it move an inch at the cost of a fresh, hot pain.

“Just give it to me! My men are going to die!”

“Save … Iris.” Peter choked and spat out more blood.

“What?”

Peter pointed with a shaky hand.

The captain spun to look up at the doorway, which had a portion of the rotted bridge jutting out. Iris stood in the doorway, looking down at them with wide eyes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. We don’t have time to save extra crops! Especially one as old as her!”

Peter jerked the bar again with one excruciating tear, and it slid out smoothly the rest of the way. In seconds, he climbed to his feet, feeling old but fine.

The captain cried in surprise. A volley of rifle fire hissed from down the street, and two of the workers dropped.

“Take cover!” the captain barked. He grabbed one of his fallen comrades and dragged him away from the center of the road.

“Don’t get too close to me,” Peter warned. “Something happens.”

“Leeching,” the captain checked for a pulse on his soldier, but he shook his head mournfully. “Stealing time from people.”

Peter nodded, rubbing the band in reverence. “Also, I don’t think I can die.”

“Can we maybe have this conversation later?” the captain barked as he lunged to his feet.

“Give me the band, and let’s go.”

Peter glanced at the captain, then back to the armband, weighing his options. Down the street, a small line of enforcers was preparing another volley from their gas-arms.

Peter looked at the oncoming enemies. Then he looked up at Iris.

“I want Iris. Then I’ll give you the band.”

The captain looked like he would have stabbed Peter if he wouldn’t lose twenty years doing it.

“We can’t get your friend!”

Peter saw four more sentinels charging down the road. It wasn’t impossible; they could technically get to her, maybe from the inside staircase. This wasn’t a random crop; this was Iris. He couldn’t leave her behind. He turned from the captain and charged the oncoming sentinels.

“Idiot!” the captain bellowed. “Can you fight?”

“I don’t think I have to!” Peter called back. “I just have to get close. Save Iris!”

Peter ran at the thick, mummified corpses and held his breath. This was the part he hated.

Four blades went into Peter, causing a very sharp and very tangible pain. He screamed and grabbed the nearest two by the face. One bit his hand, but they both dropped to the ground in mere moments. The other two were close but not touching him. They dropped seconds later.

Peter groaned and blinked tears away as he slid the blades out of his body. As expected, the pain passed in moments, and he was fine. He wasn’t able to pinpoint the exact moment they healed — they were just suddenly fine. He also noticed that his missing finger wasn’t bleeding any more. Instead, it was scarred, as if Van Gutter had cut off his finger decades ago.

Peter heard the drum of footsteps, and his mind raced in fear as he anticipated his next opponent. Getting stabbed through the chest was horrible. You’d think the fact that it would be fine in a few moments would make it better, but somehow he felt it made it worse. Enduring wounds that should kill you was deeply unsettling.

Twenty sentinels and eight enforcement agents with gas rifles rounded the corner.

Peter swallowed and stepped back.

The sentinels charged, and the men leveled their rifles.

Peter screamed over the hiss of gun gas.

Private Isabella Vandersteen supported Private Niels Van Dijk, preventing him from falling over. He looked ready to pass out. She thought he was gone for sure when he missed the heart of the ghoul he was targeting. But a well-placed shot from Owen’s rifle had taken it in the heart. Niels had hit his head as he went down. Lucky for him too, he was prone for the worst of the skirmish.

“Captain!” she cried as she counted reflective mirror flashes from a distant rooftop. Owen had found a closer roof from which to signal them.

Captain Tobias Visser cursed at the old man who ran into oncoming ghouls.

“Captain!”

“What?” Captain Visser snapped.

“Owen is signaling us: Sus-stag ghouls inbound.”

“You don’t think I know that?” he snapped harshly, as he always did under stress. “Who’s left?”

Isabella looked at her fallen comrades. She paused. “It’s just us, sir. No survivors, and it looks like the executioner slipped away.”

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Tobias looked away from the old man. Bright purple lights flashed from the ghouls and siphoned into him, and ghouls dropped around him.

“No more fatalities, you two. Do you understand?” the captain demanded. He looked from Isabella to Van Dijk.

“Yes, sir!”

“That’s an order!”

Premernox rifle gas hissed, and the old man staggered before continuing his suicide run.

“What do we do?” Van Dijk cried.

“Full retreat! Get out alive!”

“What about the mission?” Isabella demanded.

“Leave that to me!” Captain Visser growled as he spun and ran towards a shop that looked as if it had been looted a long time ago.

“Where are you going?” Isabella asked her superior.

“To find a rope. Now go!”

Isabella half-dragged Niels Van Dijk back towards Owen. If they wanted any chance of survival, it was with him.

“Leave me!” Niels lamented in a heavy tone of melodrama. “I’m missing a finger; I’ll stick out. You can blend in.”

“Shut up, Niels!” she snapped, calling the private by his first name and failing to stay calm. Van Dijk flinched. Van Dijk loved to overdramatize things, and here — in Stalpia, the den of Court Rahashel — was the last place she needed it.

“Can you walk?” she asked.

Niels nodded faintly, staring fixated on his fallen cellmates intermixed with dead enforcers.

“Can you run?”

“I don’t know,” he said weakly, and she rolled her eyes.

“You were bumped on the head, not shot in the leg.”

“Don’t say it like that!” he complained. “I just survived an encounter wi-”

A gas rifle shell spat wood chips from the shop next to them, and Niels proved that he not only could run, but was very fast.

Isabella tried to keep up with the sprinting man, brandishing the blade in her hand as she had no sheath. To her dismay, she noticed that Niels had dropped his.

“Rookie,” she growled as she continued. In truth, they were both recruited at the same time, but that frequently surprised most people.

Two mirror glints flashed from a nearby rooftop.

“Left!” she shouted, and Niels turned right.

“Van Dijk!” she screamed, and he looked over his shoulder. “Hiss pipe, your other left!”

He nodded and corrected himself, quickly passing Isabella. At least he was fast.

They wove through mindless crops. Watching human beings who moved like cattle made her stomach churn. Isabella desperately wanted to save them, to cut the wretched rings off that turned them into livestock, but she was a soldier. She had to stick to the task.

Van Dijk cried out, and Isabella almost ran into him. A ghoul faced them head on. His directionless black eyes seemed to reflect a purple fire. The mummified corpse blocked their exit on the road.

“Get a weapon, Van Dijk!” Isabella cried as she stood in front of him with her blade ready. Her heart pounded. She had shot ghouls in the distance with long-range weapons, and she had even taken one by surprise today, but she had never faced one who was waiting for her. Where was Owen? Now would be a perfect time for him to show up.

She frantically recalled her training.

If you encounter a ghoul face to face, run away.

She snorted. One couldn’t train to kill a ghoul up close. You could disable it. She glanced at her blade. Cutting off limbs or its head would be extremely difficult with the relatively small blade. Stab it in the heart? Almost impossible in a real combative encounter. If she had eight guys, they could hold it down for her to kill. If only she were so lucky.

The ghoul stepped forward, eyes lifeless as stone. She steadied her trembling hand as the monster drew near.

Something dark and mangled flew past her with a horrific shriek. Isabella let out an involuntary scream, and the black mass hit the ghoul square in the chest. The newcomer screeched and flapped its wings as it hit the ground and bolted away, squawking angrily. It was, or at least it appeared to be, a sickly chicken.

Isabella looked back to find Niels, who looked more traumatized than the hen.

“You said get a weapon,” he stammered.

“I will kill you!” she hissed, through clenched teeth.

Niels gasped and turned back to his task. The ghoul marched forward, unconcerned, totally without fear.

Isabella bobbed her blade in her hand and advanced, light on her toes. Bent on getting the first strike, she attacked. The ghoul didn’t even try to block but struck simultaneously.

Her blade cut along the ghoul’s wrist. Its blade cut along hers. She cried out and fell back. A hot pain flashed across her forearm.

The ghoul pressed on unfatigued, apparently unconcerned for its well-being. It struck clumsily but with force. She lost her footing as she feinted a false counter attack and fell at its feet.

Van Dijk came up from behind the ghoul and swung what looked like the remains of an old broom, shattering it across the ghoul’s head.

The mummified sentinel barely flinched, and it turned on Van Dijk.

Van Dijk screamed as he fell flat, and threw the broken remains of the broom at it. He shut his eyes tight just as a hiss filled the air, and a crossbow bolt took the ghoul in the back. The purple-black puff of foul smoke wafting from the ghoul’s shoulder signified that the bolt had taken it through the heart.

The ghoul collapsed, and Van Dijk opened a single eye.

“Ha!” he cried triumphantly. “I can’t believe that worked! I killed it!”

“Van Dijk,” Isabella sighed hopelessly.

Her fellow private looked at her, and she pointed to Lieutenant Owen Hartman, Cell Six’s operations officer with her good hand. The small man held a massive double-stack crossbow in his hands and a long premernox rifle over his shoulder. With an ever-present toothpick in his teeth, his face displayed a perfect calm.

“Oh, hey, Owen,” Niels muttered in disappointment.

“Van Dijk,” Owen nodded. “You still alive?”

“Why do you say that like you’re disappointed?”

Owen shrugged, but Isabella called to him.

“Thank goodness you’re here!” she said as she scrambled to her feet and ran to the team’s Operation Officer.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I had to prep our exit,” Owen said as he handed her the crossbow and shouldered his rifle.

The crossbow was heavy and large. Isabella considered herself to be a fairly average sized woman, but even so, she couldn’t help but feel horribly off balance. Isabella promptly started cranking the massive bottom bow on the crossbow and pulled off a bolt strapped to Owen’s forearm.

Van Dijk chuckled as he approached Owen. “I don’t suppose you have one of those for me, do you?”

Owen pulled his toothpick out from his teeth and handed it to Van Dijk, then promptly turned and trotted up some building’s exterior side stairs. Isabella followed, close on his heels.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Niels asked, but Owen didn’t respond. “I guess we’ll all be okay if we run into some vampire mice!” He snapped bitterly, jabbing the air with the toothpick.

The three of them climbed to the steep roof of the building. Owen had stashed his bulging support bag between the steep roof and a protruding chimney. A metal line was anchored to a rafter through the shingles and ran over the roofs of many shorter buildings.

“Here!” he said, fishing out three of nine pulley harnesses. Most of the intended operators wouldn’t be using them.

“What about the captain?” Isabella asked.

“I cleared a path for him through Shy Street!” Owen said. “He’s got a fair chance at getting out of here alive, which is more than I can say for us if we don’t get a move on it.”

Isabella apologized before latching her pulley to the line and strapping her wrist. Her other arm still smarted painfully, but the cut wasn’t deep.

Stalpia was built on a hill range, so the zip line ran over several city blocks.

“Hey, um, I’ll go last.” Niels offered with a nervous chuckle.

“You’re going next, Van Dijk,” Owen said.

“But why?” he whined.

“Because if you went last, who would push you?”

Isabella didn’t hear Niel’s protest. She kicked off of the roof and glided over buildings, houses, and twisted trees. The further down the line she flew, the more she felt the tight anxiety of a messy mission slipping away. She had survived.

Peter screamed as he grabbed another sentinel's face. Light flared, and the sentinel dropped to the ground. He had at least twenty at his feet, as well as a few enforcers, dead as though they passed away with age. The sickly sweet smell of premernox gas mingled with the metallic smell of blood in the air.

Peter gagged as he tore a short sword from his neck. The excruciating pain was affecting him. That only felt natural. The more he got hurt, the more panicked and angry he got, and the more logic grew fuzzy.

He was sure none of these things were going to kill him.

At the command of an overseer, the ghouls had stopped trying to kill him and were now trying to amputate limbs and decapitate him.

The blade he just pulled out had been a blatant attempt to cut his head off, but it seemed that in a horrible violation of physics, his body mass got impossibly dense the deeper an object cleaved into him. Nothing seemed to be able to cut through his bones.

Attacks that relied on penetration seemed to tear through him as easily as they would any man, but nothing was going to slash through him anytime soon.

Eight human Rahashelian agents leveled another volley at him, and he screamed as lead slugs ripped through him.The Rahashelians backed up as he neared them, faces twisted and terrified. They were right to do so. Anyone who got much closer than six feet got leeched. The closer they got, the faster it happened. Someone he touched couldn’t last much longer than a few seconds, depending on their initial age. On the other hand, the sentinels didn’t age or change physically; they just collapsed after enough exposure.

“Now, how did you get this deep into Rahashelian territory, little lichling?” A voice announced the presence of a newcomer. Peter spun on the speaker but gasped when he recognized him: Vincent Harmsen, the vampire vassal of Court Rahashel. He grinned at Peter, nonchalantly standing just beyond his leech radius. Never alone, Jasper Demir and Dirk Buis smirked behind him. They watched Peter with idle amusement. Jasper nodded in approval at the stack of corpses at his feet.

Peter leaped back at the sight of them. Over his years as a crop, he had watched them prey on several unfortunate Nosmerians. Inwardly, Peter heard their squeals and watched them thrash in their death throes. On top of that, sentinels and humans were one thing, but he had no idea how the armlet would affect the more intelligent undead.

“Jasper,” Vincent signaled, flicking his fingers twice.

Jasper suddenly appeared in front of Peter in a blur and sank his fangs into Peter’s neck.

Peter screamed. His neck, shoulder, and arm, down to his wrist, felt like they were melting off his body. With a bright flash, Jasper hissed as he threw himself away from Peter.

“The man has a leech field! And a dead strong one at that!” Jasper snarled. Rather than aging, his flesh had changed from youthful and vibrant to charred and rotted.

“But don’t worry, I got him. It's only a matter of time!”

Peter grabbed his neck, but the pain vanished by the time his hand found his wet but unharmed skin.

“We just need to slow him down until one of Rahashel’s liches comes,” Dirk said. “Anubis is near.”

Vincent started violently when he saw the armband on Peter’s forearm exposed by a new slash in the sleeve.

“He’s not a lich or a wight! He’s a court!” Vincent gasped.

“Do you think he has synchronized with the Bedorven yet?”

“No, now’s our chance. Get the Bedorven now! And Dirk, do something about the witnesses!”

In a flash, Dirk sped past the eight enforcers who stood back watching, dropping them one by one with a dagger.

Vincent grabbed a premernox gas rifle with an affixed bayonet. He threw it with the force of a javelin from a ballista. It punctured right through Peter’s foot, pinning it to the cobblestone road.

Peter screamed and fell back, his foot straining against its anchor.

Vincent snatched up several of the fallen short swords of the fallen sentinels in a fraction of a second and flung them at Peter, filling him with broad blades like a pincushion.

Peter wailed, and blood, his blood, splattered on the cobblestones around him.

Careful to stay out of Peter’s reach, Vincent intently and ferociously flung anything sharp he could find. Each missile earned a scream from Peter. A muted rumble pulsed in his mind.

Peter’s mind flared, drunk on pain. His head was pounding so fiercely that he barely noticed the canister with wires that flew past him and onto the ground at Vincent’s feet.

The canister exploded into a yellow cloud that smelled strongly of garlic, and Vincent shrieked as he fell back.

Peter realized the pounding he heard was, in fact, horse hoofs. A noose fell around his neck, pulled tight, and he was ripped away from the bayonet that had been pinning his foot to the road.

Peter’s body tried to let out involuntary and undignified noises as he was dragged along the ground, plumb full of implements. As he was dragged, he grabbed and ripped at the blades. Peter knew he was dangerously testing the limits of the strange weapon — the Bedorven.

One by one, Peter ripped the short swords out of his flesh, groaning as he was dragged across the cobblestone at a gallop. The rope around his neck caused his lungs to burn as it stayed taut. There was no numbness, no real shock, just the pain of wounds that seemed to disappear, only to immediately carve anew as the road tore through his clothing.

Pulling out the last blade, his lungs still burned. He didn’t black out. It was as though his lungs found the point where he was in the most pain and panic but just stayed there.

He kicked, twisted, and at one point rolled onto his belly to see his rescuer charge down the street. Peter vaguely recognized the captain on a black horse, wearing his workman disguise. He was towing Peter behind him by a rope. The Nine Fingers operative didn’t spare Peter a second glance; he just rode furiously.

Peter was being rescued, technically, but surely rescue had never been so horrible.