Chapter Seven // Lunacy

From high above, that narrow canyon was but fissure mark upon the surface of the Earth; a winding little fracture that spiderwebbed across barren rock as though it had been etched in sand by a child's finger. Like so much of the Seven Wastes, it was a memento of something long passed - an ancient river that had flowed in times when the human race were but specks of protozoan flotsam.

Lazy and unhurried, the sun was just cresting the horizon, and the grey ash of the Wastes was now all but iridescent with seasick, burnished orange. Black-bodied carrion birds with curved beaks and a great many eyes were taking flight, knowing full well that daylight would bring with it far mightier predators. And, indeed, those very same predators had already arrived.

At the eastern edge of the canyon there stood two-hundred men and women, shoulder-to-shoulder and in rigid formation. Every one of them was clad in flowing white robes beneath plates of solid bronze armor; every one of their faces was obscured by identical bronze masks depicting a calm, stoic visage. A dozen red-and-white banners were fluttering idly in that swelling morning air, denoting those beneath as members of the Twenty-First Conclave, known colloquially as The Earth-Eaters - soldiers, all of them, of the mighty Skade Empire.

And opposite the Skade, to the west, there marched sixty-odd Winnowers of the Third Host. While every Skade soldier formed an identical part of a collective whole, the Winnowers by contrast were a jagged and starkly individual mess; some armor bore simple lines of paint while others sported wild, violent, wholly abstract streaks and splotches that spoke quite clearly to wearer's current state of mind. And their weapons, too, were a near-random hodgepodge of death and destruction - swords, axes, clubs, hammers, whips, claws, spears, knives, and bare, bone-armored fists.

And while the Skade stood in perfect formation, presenting to the Winnowers a solid wall of brass punctuated by dozens of spear-tips, the Winnowers were a loose and unruly mob, many of them still chewing the Wa'tek even as they advanced. Nearly all of them were experiencing a surge of raw power - and an insatiable hunger to hurt or kill something right fucking now - coursing through their veins. At the head of this ragged formation there strode a tall man in green-painted armor that marked him as Third Shadow, with a jagged shortsword in his one hand and a gruesomely-spiked mace in the other.

"They should've sent twice this many!" Illoc shouted. The Winnowers jeered and hollered and snickered in reply, and the air between the Servants of the Worm was all but electric in anticipation of the violence soon to come.

From the side of the Skade, three blasts of a brass instrument sounded in quick succession.

"At the ready!" a red-cloaked Marshall bellowed. His mask was weeping golden tears, even as its mouth twisted up in a sardonic grin. At that, Skade let out a sharp, wordless shout, stamping their feet as one.

The Winnowers were stalking closer. Illoc snarled and spat. Again, there were three blasts.

"Brace!" the Marshall shouted. The shields of the Skade locked even tighter together, and now there were only the tiniest of gaps from which their spears could protrude.

"For our children!" the Marshall cried, unsheathing a bronze short-sword and thrusting it towards the sky. "For our future! For the Empire!"

"For the Empire!" the soldiers of the Skade together.

Still the Winnowers were drawing closer. Now it was Illoc who spread his arms wide, his weapons horizontal in either direction like a bastardized cross.

"I am his teeth!" the Third Shadow screamed, his dry-throated words echoing out across that narrow canyon.

"I am his tongue!" the Winnowers thundered in reply. The electricity was building.

"I am his heart!"

"I am his lungs!"

The potential energy was all but a visible thing now, rippling in the air between the two opposing armies. The Winnowers were but one great slavering beast, desperate to slip free the leash and cut its teeth on whatever meat it might find.

"I am his hunger!" Illoc howled, his fist pounding against his chestplate in a moment of overwhelming rapture.

"I am his hate!"

"And I am his thirst-" Illoc roared - and then he and the warriors both finished, in unison, "-that never slakes!" Without further ado, Illoc slammed his weapons together, eliciting a shower of glowing sparks, and gave but one simple, snarled command: "Kill 'em all!"

The Winnowers came like an avalanche, shrieking and howling and screaming and gibbering and the trumpet was sounding again and again and the Marshall was commanding his forces to hold, hold and then the Winnowers were upon them, breaking against the shields like a foaming wave and the Skade frontline were slaughtered in an instant but already there were more to take their place, another line of shields and spears stepping up and holding firm against the tide even as the frothing berserkers all but tore them to pieces.

The Skade were hardy, well-trained soldiers - but the Winnowers were death incarnate and they chewed through the bronze-armored warriors with ease, many of their minds all but lost in that moment to the rapture and power of the Worm's own brain-flesh. Yet, even as the death toll continued to mount, slowly but surely the Winnowers were being pushed back because despite it all somehow the Skade were still holding their ground, fighting not as individuals but as one tight and cohesive unit and while one soldier alone was no match for a Winnower three together could kill him with ease and thus the Sons of the Worm were losing steam against a wall of bronze that suddenly seemed all but impregnable.

Illoc rammed his sword through a soldier's stomach, turned, smashed another's knee with his mace, then brought the implement crashing down upon the unfortunate victim's skull. A third came at him with a thrust intended for the shoulder-joint in his armor but Illoc twisted, let the bone-plate deflect the blow, flipped his sword to a back-handed grip and all but severed the Skade's head clean from his body.

"Forward, you limp-handed fucking weaklings!" Illoc screamed, eyes wide and bloodshot as he shattered the spine of a fourth soldier and disemboweled a fifth. Yet the Third Shadow's blistering aggression could do little to alleviate the fact that his men were now well and truly on the back foot. There was nothing more important to a Winnower victory than momentum - and that momentum had surely been lost.

And so the Skade pressed further, and further, and further, and the Winnowers had not the discipline to hold their ground and so they were forced back, back, back, and then without warning there came not three but five blasts of the horn, these retorts swift and stilted and urgent.

"Haha!" Illoc barked out a laugh, pausing momentarily to wipe away at the gore in his eyes. "It's about damn time!"

They were descending the cliffs behind the Skade in silence - two groups of twenty grim-faced, red-armored Winnowers who now formed a solid line behind the Skade, advancing upon them as one. And at their helm marched a man in simple, unassuming plate-armor, his left hand covered by a black glove and his armor painted only with two long streaks of red.

"Ambush!" the cry came up, and already the rearguard of the Skade formation were whirling around, shields interlocking and spears at the ready to confront this new threat. "Tighten formation! Prepare to repel!"

In contrast to the Third Host, the men of the First let slip not a word, their faces cold and hard and expressionless - and mirroring their Eltok perfectly as Tekarn reached down and unsheathed a long, flat-bladed, unremarkable sword. In unison, every man of the First did exactly the same.

"Brace!" the Marshall shouted again, his words accented by a long and defiant blast. "For our children! For the Empire!"

Tekarn didn't give even a word of command - the men of the First just stepped forward and started killing.

The Skade made a game try of it, to their credit, working without hesitation or fear to mount a defense against this unexpected onslaught. But it was an incontrovertible fact that they were simply outmatched. The First Host were masters of their craft who fought with uniquely measured, methodical ferocity, breaking through line after line of Skade with mechanical efficiency as, on the other side, the Third Host now mounted a revitalized offensive.

And then, of course, there was Tekarn. The First Eltok's expression was nothing short of utter dispassion - even borderline disinterest - as he swept through the ranks of the Skade like a phantom, untouchable and unstoppable as he slaughtered dozens of their number with not even a moment's pause. He was a one-man army all his own, singlehandedly carving a path through the Skade line through which his grim armada could follow, and when all was said and done he stood amidst a great heap of the dead and dying with not a single scratch upon him.

The epithet Arha had been given by her enemies and victims - The Terror of the Dunes - was in fact but a continuation of the much older moniker by which her mentor had been called. Nobody save for the Winnowers knew of Tekarn, the First Eltok - but everyone knew of The Demon of the Wastes. There were whispered stories that The Demon had transcended humanity, that he was a Colossus in human skin. The people claimed to one another that he was immortal, that he never slept and never ate and that he would never, ever die. They believed, to various degrees, that The Demon could kill with but a stare, that his blood was a boiling black substance and that his sword devoured the souls of his victims like some fat, gluttonous beast.

And 'The Demon' was watching now as two warriors dragged the red-cloaked Marshall forward and forced him down with a boot-heel to the back of the knee. All around, Winnowers were letting loose cries of exultation and triumph, many pounding weapons or fists against their breastplates like the beat of some maddened, senseless drum. And the Skade were but dead and dying, and even now the Winnowers were picking through the carnage and executing the survivors with casual efficacy.

Those same black-bodied birds were now circling high overhead. There was soon to be a generous feast indeed.

At Tekarn's silent command, a warrior reached down and ripped the Marshall's mask away, revealing a red-cheeked face and a bushy brown beard. Even now, beaten and bruised - and surrounded by the corpses of his own men - the Skade commander glared up at Tekarn with open and unwavering defiance.

Tekarn stared back with only an expression of faint disinterest.

"Your name?" he asked.

"Grand Marshall Xtacal of the Twenty-First Conclave," the man spat without a moment's hesitation. His voice betrayed not even an ounce of fear. "Proud servant of the Almighty and Everlasting Skade Empire."

"I am Tekarn, Eltok of the First Host. You are your Twenty-First Conclave are defeated by my hand."

"So it would seem," Xtacal said ruefully, casting a momentary glance at the wreckage of his forces. "And ignoble end, to be sure - but one that you, too, will face in time. Praetor Xzevet will make certain of it."

"You put up a decent fight," Tekarn observed flatly, ignoring the Marshall's words, to which Illoc - who stood beside him, still shaky with adrenaline - gave a derisive snort.

"Decent," the Third Shadow agreed, his bloodied lips parting into a crooked sneer. "But we fight with the blessing of the Great Worm; he whose hunger can never be sated. This outcome-" he gestured around, "-was decided before we even drew our swords."

"Hah!" the Skade commander burst out, and he let loose a harsh, barking laugh that turned Illoc's sneer to a snarl and had his hand closing tight around the hilt of his sword.

"Ridiculous," Xtacal chuckled cruelly, shaking his head. "The 'Great Worm' - surely you don't mean the rotting corpse you savages live inside of? You're telling me that you people worship it like a god?! By the void, that's...that's pathetic!"

"Hold your tongue or I will remove it," Illoc growled, taking a portentous step forward, though Tekarn's expression remained stoic and unchanging.

"You think yourselves a real civilization, don't you?" Xtacal cackled, heedless of his captors' swelling bloodlust. "You're no soldiers - you're animals! Mindless, idiotic, blood-crazed pathetic little animals, good for one thing and one thing only!"

"Are you finished?" Tekarn asked, eerily calm in the face of the Skade's baleful mockery.

"We're going to wipe you out," Xtacal declared, rising to one knee. His words dripping with visceral contempt. "We'll eradicate every trace of you savages. The only evidence of your pained, confused, miserable existence will be the scars you etched upon your own people. We-" he pounded a fist against his chest "-are an empire. And you people are but a motley, overgrown little tribe."

Nobody said anything, for a moment, though quite literally everyone was watching with bated breath. And then, finally:

"Perhaps you will, in time," Tekarn mused to himself. Then, his expression hardened. "But not today." He gestured to one of his warriors, and wordlessly the woman tossed a shortsword at the Marshall's feet. Xtacal's eyes flicked from the weapon to Tekarn's face, then back again, and understanding dawned upon him at once.

"Today," Tekarn declared, "is mine. Now, pick it up and fight."

Again, Xtacal's eyes flicked to the sword. A rueful smile spread across his face - and without further ado he hunched forward and spat upon the proffered blade.

"Not a chance," he sneered, glaring up at Tekarn once more. "I won't give you the satisfaction."

"You would die a coward, then?" Tekarn asked, arching an eyebrow. And at that, finally, the commander's eyes went wide with indignation.

"I am no coward," the Marshall growled, through clenched teeth. "I fight and die for my-"

Without further ado, Tekarn buried his sword in the Marshall's neck - felt it catch on spine - and yanked, pulling the blade clean through and severing Xtacal's head from his body amidst a spray of gore and other such fluids. Before either half of the Marshall's corpse had hit the ground Tekarn was already turning sharply on his heel, wiping his blade clean in the crook of his arm. Behind him, Xtacal's hands were clenching and unclenching, and his eyes were blinking rapidly. It took both body and brain but a moment longer to realize that he was well and truly dead.

"Illoc," Tekarn said, without even a moment's pause. "Your warband fought well."

"I-thank you, Bloodied One," Illoc said, momentarily caught off-guard but quickly adopting the requisite salute. This was sincere praise from nothing less than a living legend among the Winnowers, after all. "It was an honor to fight by your side."

"No honor," Tekarn said simply, sparing a brief glance for the surrounding carnage. "Just work." And then, before Illoc could reply: "There are matters elsewhere that require my attention. I leave you with both your own warriors and twenty of my own - alongside Vakkat, a member of my honor guard. All are yours to command, Illoc, and the only order I give in return is to hold this canyon at all costs. Reinforcements shall arrive in short order."

"I..." Illoc trailed off, for in truth the young Winnower was awestruck to be given such a responsibility by the First Eltok himself. And for him to actually command veterans of the First Host...? "I shall see to it at once, Bloodied One. My stomach remains hungry and my fangs remain sharp." These were old, appropriate words for such a situation, wrought from the scriptures of the Celebrants and translated painstakingly to the New Tongue.

At that, Tekarn merely grunted and stepped away, leaving Illoc behind as an older man - tall, broad-shouldered, sporting long blonde hair and a trio of grisly facial scars - moved to join him. Though he carried no weapon, the fingers of his gauntlets were tipped with claws each a full inch in length. Even now these talons were dripping with fresh blood.

"Orders, my Lord?" Vakkat asked. His voice was gravelly and rough and weathered by years of loyal service.

"Watch him," came Tekarn's curt reply. The two of them strode past a heap of burning Skade corpses, and already the air was growing thick with smoke. "He's intelligent and vicious - but also far too hungry for his own good. Do what you can to steer him away from his own worst impulses and he could, perhaps, one day be of future service."

"Understood," Vakkat inclined his head. "And if he errs?"

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"Kill him," Tekarn said simply. "This is war, Vakkat. I shall suffer fools no further."

"By your will, Bloodied One," Vakkat intoned, and then Tekarn was off with two dozen First Host warriors in tow. They strode out the mouth of the canyon and into the endless expanse of gray ash that awaited as, behind them, a quartet of billowing black pillars rose up like fingers stretching to the heavens. And even from that distance, Tekarn could smell quite clearly the reek of charred, blackened flesh.

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Many miles away, in the heart of the Great Worm's blessed corpse, Draven and Kelsen were looking at maps.

When Kelsen had first come, desperate and afraid, to the aging Third Eltok's door, Draven's first reaction had not been one of surprise - not exactly. For many years, after all, Draven had devoted himself to guiding wayward young men just like Kelsen himself, and he had seen right away that the boy was wholly unprepared for the responsibility that had been bestowed upon him. It was only out of respect for his late father that one of his own men did not slay him and take his position on the spot, and thus Kelsen had immediately been put on a clock - to become a man worthy of the epithet Bloodied One before one of his warriors lost patience and decided to take it for themself. Alone, it was an impossible task. Kelsen's own men could not be trusted, Bartok was far from any sort of role model, and Tekarn barely regarded him at all - though when he did, he did so with thinly-veiled contempt. Thus, in the name of survival, Kelsen was forced to turn to Draven - a former ally of the very woman whose exile he had orchestrated.

Fortunately, Draven was a pragmatist first and foremost - and through an alliance with the Second Eltok he saw quite clearly a path by which he could stave off the destruction of his own Host. And so he had done just that, acting as mentor and confidant these past several months, guiding young Kelsen as he had done countless Third Host warriors in the past. And, truth be told, he did so with neither resentment nor hatred in his heart, though he knew full well that his honor guard would rip the young man to shreds were they ever given such a chance.

Now, in present day, Draven was just in the middle of explaining troops movements across the Rokkata Crags when a trio of short, sharp knocks rang out from the door.

"I'll get it," the young man said quickly - quickly enough that Draven's stare turned quizzical as Kelsen all but sprinted across the room, unlatching the door and allowing it to swing open by just a hair. Through that narrow vertical slit, Draven caught a glimpse of a man with tired eyes and twisted burn scars warping the left-hand side of his face - the Second Shadow, Loken, one of few Winnowers who was aware of these clandestine meetings.

And as they spoke, Draven was of course listening quite intently - because all knowledge was power, after all, in one form or another. Anything could be turned to advantage in time.

"He's back," Loken was saying, his voice barely audible. "And he says he was right."

"He's certain?" Kelsen demanded.

"He swears by it," the Second Shadow confirmed. "What is your will, Bloodied One?"

A split second of silent consideration passed.

"Gather every man on my list, as we discussed" Kelsen ordered, having apparently made some form of silent decision. "We depart at dusk."

"By your will, Bloodied One," Loken nodded, and then the door slammed shut and Kelsen was giving Draven a truly alarming look of pure guilt. Then, as quickly as the expression had came, it vanished, smoothed over by a mask of calm indifference.

Draven decided to play this one close to the chest.

"Is everything alright?" the Third Eltok asked, keeping any hint of caution or curiosity from his voice. "That sounded quite dire to my ears."

"It's nothing," Kelsen said, offering a thin smile. "Just a project I've been working on for some time now. It's finally coming to fruition."

"Indeed?" Draven asked, encouragingly. "Please - I'd love to hear about it."

Again, there it was - that blink-and-you'd-miss-it flicker of guilt in the young man's eyes. Guilt directed at Draven specifically. A vague sense of dread was beginning to form like a knot in the old man's stomach, and years of well-honed survival instincts were telling him that something was...well, not quite dangerous but certainly very wrong.

"I'll...tell you all about it, later," Kelsen said, carefully, after some hesitation. Draven noticed that the young man was struggling to maintain eye contact. "I'm sorry, but I must be going." Before Draven could protest, the young man pressed his hands together and offered a deep, respectful bow.

"Thank you, as always, for sharing your wisdom with me," Kelsen said. The boy sounded, to Draven's ears, as though he really meant it. "One day I shall repay the favor in kind. But for now - I have to go."

"Just a minute," Draven said, climbing to his feet as the Second Eltok made for the door. "Kelsen! Is there something-"

The door swung open - Draven caught a glimpse of Loken's face, of the warning in his eyes - telling the Draven in no uncertain terms that he should leave the Second Eltok be - and then the door was shut, and Kelsen was gone.

For a long moment, all Draven did was think. He considered the pieces, the evidence, the information - all the possibilities, all the missing gaps. And, in the end, he could only come to two definitive conclusions.

The first: that he was completely in the dark, and there was nothing he could do about it.

And, the second: that once again, somehow, Kelsen was going to do something that would permanently alter each and every one of their positions. Of that, the old man was certain.

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His name was Amet. He was thirty-four years old and an Outrider, one of the Second Host's elite cadre of scouts and spies. And the only reason he was standing here in the middle of this wormforsaken alley was because two years ago he had made a very, very bad mistake.

"New orders from Lord Kelsen," the Outrider had been told, a few hours prior, by one of his longtime peers. "We're to gather by the south gate at once."

"What?" Amet had muttered, half-asleep, from his bunk. "What's he want now?"

The other man told him - and so, when every one of the Outriders had turned left, towards the gate, Amet alone had turned right, heading instead to a long-predetermined meeting spot.

And now, due in part to his own actions and in part to factors outside his control Amet was now waiting beneath the shadow of a rowdy tavern, his form and identity all but completely masked by a long black cloak. Concealed beneath that cloak was a curved worm-bone dagger that he held now in tight grip, ready to spring free at a moment's notice. It was imperative not to be seen, and doubly so not to be recognized. And if neither could be accomplished, well, Amet had a great deal of experience in disposing of witnesses. There were few things in this world that a well-honed knife couldn't fix.

Hours passed, and now pallid dusk was enveloping the city streets. The hot, dry desert air had turned so quickly to bitter and biting cold. Amet's impatience and discomfort were slowly but surely beginning to outweigh the fear of his obligations.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of waiting, Amet came to the conclusion that the other party simply had no intention of showing up. And so, he turned quite briskly on his heel to step away - only to find himself faced with a distant, shadowy figure at the far end of the alley.

Amet's breath caught in his throat. And as if encouraged by this silent fear response, the figure started forward, and as he came closer and closer the shadows peeled back to reveal Gekto's pleasantly-smiling face.

"Amet," the First Shadow said, spreading his hands. "It's been too long."

He came to stop a few feet away, and Amet was at once painfully aware that he was nearly a full head shorter than the other man. The Outrider tilted his head up and forced himself to meet those dark eyes.

"I don't have time for pleasantries," Amet snapped, quick and dismissive. That was how you dealt with Gekto, in his experience - keep the man at arm's length. Don't ever let him get comfortable. Don't ever let him start enjoying himself. "Do you want my information or not?"

Gekto's smile faded.

"I don't know," he said, quite seriously. "Do I?"

"You do," Amet replied emphatically, daring to take a step forward. He was keenly aware that what he was about to do was treason against his Eltok, punishable by death and dishonor both, just as he was also keenly aware that he had no choice in the matter. "But this time- this time, my information comes with a price. After this we are done, Gekto, do you understand me? I don't owe you anything further. My debt is paid in full. Promise me that, and I will inform you on a matter of grave importance. You have my word."

"Your word...?" A grin flashed across the Winnower's face, then vanished as quickly as it had came. No smile, then, but a baring of teeth. "That's a curious turn of phrase, Amet, because your words are the only thing keeping you alive right now. Have you forgotten that?"

"I've given you a great deal, over these past two years," Amet countered, suddenly unable to meet the First Shadow's eyes. All this had been rehearsed again and again and again. He just had to say the right words in the right order and everything would turn out fine. "Things you could never have discerned on your own. I've laid the inner workings of the Second Host bare to you and your master. Do you really think they aren't suspicious, Gekto? Do you really think that Loken and the boy, Kelsen, aren't wondering who keeps feeding you people information? Every day they get closer and closer to finding me, and every day-"

"Every day," Gekto growled, his voice dropping low, "I keep the knowledge of what you did locked up in here." He tapped the side of his skull and gave another quick, crooked little smile. "I haven't told a soul - not even Tekarn. You think that doesn't weigh on me, Amet? You think it doesn't burden me, to know that a monster like you could be allowed to walk freely amongst our ranks? My heart is heavy with-"

"You have no heart," Amet spat, his indignity briefly eclipsing his instinct for self-preservation, and a moment later he was all but clamping a hand over his mouth in horror at what he had just said.

This time, it was a real grin that spread across Gekto's face - slow and sly and savoring every drop of the Outrider's sudden panic.

"Maybe not," the First Shadow agreed, leaning closer, and now his eyes were but two sunken pools of shadow. "But neither do you. And if the others found out what you did to her, they'd string you up and carve your flesh for days without end. And so every day I am hard at work, sparing you that ghastly fate only by virtue of keeping my mouth shut. No, Amet, your debt is far from paid. You are mine until the day you die."

What happened next came entirely without conscious thought - just pure instinct translated to movement. Because there was nothing in this world that a well-honed knife couldn't fix, and the reptilian part of Amet's brain saw that he was truly in a box with no way out and thus decided that the best course of action was to use that well-honed knife and plunge it straight into that bastard Gekto's heart.

Amet's dagger was a blur of motion, shooting forward in the blink of an eye - and Gekto looked genuinely bored as he caught Amet's wrist with one hand, then snapped his forearm clean in two with the palm of the other. The Outrider's eyes went wide, and before he could even scream Gekto's knee drove hard into his stomach, knocking the very breath from his lungs, and then Amet was forced back against the wall. And then he did scream, as Gekto bent the broken arm back in an impossible direction and forced Amet's own knife against his throat.

They were both spies, assassins, thieves in the night - but Gekto was a Winnower, and Amet a mere Outrider. He never stood even a shadow of a chance.

Amet was shuddering with pain, now, biting down hard to keep his mouth shut because he dared not utter a word. And before him hovered Gekto's leering face, and the look in his eyes was such that Amet was quite literally frozen in place, unable to move.

"Let's talk," Gekto said, casually. He wasn't smiling. "Would you like to know how I'm feeling right now?"

Amet nodded as quickly as he could, mute with pain and feeling that well-honed knife digging deeper into his neck with every passing moment.

"I'm kind of annoyed," Gekto admitted. "See, Amet, I really don't like you. I hate your name, and I hate your face, and I hate the sound of your fucking voice. And hey, call me soft-hearted, but I hate what you did to Rhesas, too. So how am I feeling, right now?" He paused, let his words sink in. "I feel like bleeding you nice and slow, Amet. That's what I wanna do right now." Again, he paused. "You might wanna try and change my mind."

"I'll t-tell you," Amet stuttered, trembling from pain and terror both. What else could he possibly have said? "I'll tell you everything. I'm-I'm sorry Gekto, I'm s-so sorry..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Gekto interrupted, rolling his eyes. "Just get on with it."

And so, true to his word, Amet did just that. And as the crippled Outrider spoke, Gekto's eyes were wide and bright and his grip on Amet's arm was beginning to loosen and before the Outrider could even finish Gekto was shoving him aside, letting loose a string of baleful Old Tongue curses as he sprinted away and disappeared around the corner.

Despite himself, then - despite his terror, his shame, and the arm that he knew had no chance of ever healing into proper shape - Amet couldn't help but let out a dry, wheezing laugh.

"The look on your face," he cackled, even as tears of pain streaked freely down the sides of his face. "Gekto, you bastard. You shoulda seen the look on your-" And then the footsteps were rapidly approaching once more and Gekto came back around the corner and Amet only had a moment to turn and try to crawl away before the First Shadow's bootheel pinned his broken arm to the gravel below.

"Waitwaitwait-" Amet screamed, but without pause Gekto bent down, jammed a knife into the Outrider's neck, and gouged his throat open with one short, sharp pull.

"Dumb fucking gve'ka," Gekto spat, wrinkling his nose in equal parts exasperation and disgust. And then, with that particular loose end finally tied up, the First Shadow took off running once more.

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"I am his teeth. I am his tongue. I am his heart. I am his lungs. I am his hunger. I am his hate. I am his thirst..."

Kelsen hesitated. His hands were trembling.

"...that never slakes."

The trembling stopped. Kelsen opened his eyes.

The Second Eltok was surrounded on all sides by dozens of men and women, all of them donning thick green cloaks or fastening curved daggers to their belts. Some muttered hymns or prayers. Some spoke quietly amongst themselves. All of them were professionals of the highest order, and all were wholly focused on the task soon to come.

Kelsen looked down - saw his own weapons, a pair of long knives - and with steady hands tucked both into their requisite sheathes. He turned, then, and fifty-odd eyes met his own as he began to speak.

"You're here, all of you, because you are the best at what you do," Kelsen declared, clasping his hands behind his back. His own cloak was draped behind him like a billowing shadow. "And you are here, all of you, because I know you can keep a secret. What we go to do is something that shall never be known beyond the fifty-three souls present in this very room. The words, the deeds, the memories - the blood. By tomorrow's dawn, these will all be things that no longer exist. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Lord Kelsen," the Outriders replied in unison.

"Good," Kelsen said simply, turning to face the door. He reached down - felt each of the daggers waiting at his belt, hungry and ready to go - and knew then with complete certainty that this was the right thing to do. "Let's get to it."

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Gekto caught Tekarn just as the First Eltok was passing through the main gate with a dozen bloodstreaked warriors in tow. As the Worm's teeth slammed shut and slaves scurried about, some relieving the warriors of their armor and weapons while others offered food and drink, Tekarn caught a glimpse of his First Shadow pushing furiously through the crowd, all but battering warriors and slaves alike to the ground as his eyes locked onto Tekarn's own.

A look of urgency in Gekto's eyes was a rare thing indeed, and so Tekarn moved to meet him without delay, snapping off a quick order for his men to rest and recuperate as he departed.

"Not here," Gekto said, low and surreptitious, when finally the two met. "Too many ears."

And so it was only in the heart of the First Barracks - in Tekarn's private chamber, behind a three-inch-thick locked door, that Gekto finally told him. And as the First Shadow spoke, he was watching the First Eltok's face carefully, because in truth Tekarn was perhaps the only human being that Gekto actually cared for and right now he was very, very worried as to how his friend would react.

Tekarn's expression remained emotionless, unchanging - but then, subtly, there was a tightening in his jaw.

"He's gone?" the First Eltok demanded.

"Hours ago," Gekto confirmed. "We'll never catch him in time."

Tekarn muttered something beneath his breath. "Does the Grand Lord know?"

"He's in the dark."

"Draven?"

"Unclear."

"The Second Host?"

"I doubt it."

"Your man, the informant - where is he now?"

"Dead as history," Gekto all but spat. "He won't be missed."

"Good," Tekarn said simply. Then, he took a step back. Closed his eyes. Drew in a long, deep breath. And upon exhalation his eyes opened once more and suddenly Gekto saw his leader for what he truly was - an avatar of limitless, blistering, barely-restrained rage. A creature of infinite and howling fury, rendered totally impotent by circumstances far beyond his own control.

Gekto just watched and waited - and worried, despite himself.

"Here," Tekarn said, finally, through grit teeth, "is what we are going to do. I will speak with the Grand Lord at once, and take whatever control of this situation I possibly can. You will have people in the desert ready to alert me of Kelsen's return before he reaches the city. And you will have Draven watched very, very closely, and if you even suspect him of having known in advance you will challenge him to a duel and kill him where he stands."

"Consider it done," Gekto said, inclining his head. And then: "What about Kelsen?"

"What about him?" Tekarn demanded. His knuckles were bare white. He looked like a man on the verge of total apocalypse. "The Grand Lord has instructed me that the boy is not to be harmed. You know this."

"Kelsen is a problem, Tekarn," Gekto insisted dryly, folding his arms. "And there are many deaths that a man can suffer. His could be quiet, isolated - perhaps I could even make it a suicide." The First Shadow's voice was laden with low, dire intensity, and there was not even a hint of his usual sadistic mirth as he spoke. "Think about it. First, he loses his father. Then, he's forced to take up a position that he is in no way qualified for. The pressure is immense. The wolves are snapping at his heels. He has a legacy to uphold. And, in the end, it was all just too much for the poor kid, and one day he just decided to..." Gekto trailed off. "A tragedy, to be sure. But not unexpected."

"Shut your mouth!" Tekarn snarled, without warning, and for once in his life Gekto actually flinched at the sudden bile in the First Eltok's voice. "Do not dare speak of treason against the Grand Lord - not in my presence. Not in my barracks. Not ever. Do you understand me?"

For a few seconds, Gekto was genuinely speechless. And then, slowly, he bowed his head in contrition, because even Tekarn's only friend and ally could not possibly discern what went through his head to made him say and do such things. Even Gekto could not possibly understand why Tekarn had not gutted the fat old bastard decades ago, and why even now he served so fiercely as the Grand Lord's personal attack dog. And yet, even as he did not understand, there was resentment swelling up within him - not for Tekarn but for Bartok. Bartok, the man who had slaughtered Ekane, whom Gekto had long admired as a young neophyte. Bartok, the man who had exiled Arha, who in truth Gekto had come to see almost as a sort of surrogate niece. Bartok, who had taken and taken and taken from the Demon of the Wastes and somehow cowed him into nothing more than meek, servile acceptance.

"My mistake," Gekto said, cool and composed at once. He lifted his head, met the First Eltok's eyes. "I'll see to my tasks at once."

"Do so," Tekarn said quietly, turning away. There was to be no apology, then. No matter. Gekto was a man supremely comfortable in his own skin; he had no need of coddling or contrition. "Quickly and quietly. And, when Kelsen returns-"

Tekarn glanced over his shoulder - and Gekto caught a glimpse of a single dull eye.

"I will be first to know. Not Loken. Not Draven. Not Bartok. Me."

At that, Gekto's trademark half-smile finally returned.

"You got it," Gekto said - and then, satisfied that all was right with the world, the First Shadow set out and set to work.

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The door was shut, then locked, and then Tekarn was alone. Alone with his thoughts. Alone with the ocean roaring in his ears. Alone with memories of-

Tekarn hunched over and pummeled his fist against the desk again and again and again and all the while he was roaring and bellowing, all of it wordless and animalistic and primal and by the end the worm-bone had hardly even splintered but Tekarn's hand was a bloodied mess and so he slumped back into his chair, breathing heavily, and there he sat for hours upon end. He did not get up. He did not go to speak with the Grand Lord.

He just sat there, all but paralyzed, and waited for his daughter to die.

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The next morning, the door of the hut creaked open and Zekval poked his head out to see a sky of deep, roiling gray cloud. Above was no open expanse but a hard ceiling, as though all beneath were trapped inside some manner of gargantuan dome. And behind that dome there were faint shapes, dark and vast and unfathomably powerful.

"Well, shit," he muttered, partly to himself. "Hey, Illina - looks like rain today."

"Finally," came the muttered reply from a woman still mostly-asleep. "We need it."

"Might be more than we bargained for," Zekval mused, thumbs hooked through his belt-loops. "Feels like a storm to me."

Illina's only response was a loud and sustained snore - and so, with a bemused little smile on his face, Zekval suited up, kissed Illina on the forehead, and set out to find himself some breakfast. And all the while the sky was rumbling with deep, distant, subterranean thunder, and the air was charged with an energy that could neither be seen nor tasted nor even felt.

But oh, was it there.

And it was in everything.