Prologue

  Clouds filled the sky, extinguishing the last rays of light. Rain began to fall, tapping lightly on Abel’s head before running down his face, dripping from his beard. It ran down his gloved hands, dripping from his fingertips, splashing to the dirt at his feet. He still had the spear gripped tightly. He squinted and winced as a bolt of lightning suddenly split the darkening sky. The crash of thunder momentarily deafened him to the fighting all around.

  Kaine looked down at the shaft extending from his chest, blood flowing down his black leather armor.

  Abel stood motionless, jaw slack, hands frozen to the spear. Shock lit his face and he blinked in disbelief.

  The weight of Kaine’s body pulled the spearhead towards the ground until he slid off the end of it, landing sprawled on his back in the trampled, churned soil.

  Abel breathed. The din of war continued around him. He slumped over his fallen brother, eyes flicking from Kaine’s face to the gaping wound in his chest. He threw the spear to the side where it stuck upright in the battlefield.

  Kaine looked up at him, body limp as his life slipped from him, his blood turning the soil beneath him to mud. He reached up with his last strength and took Abel’s hand. “It’s not your fault.”

  Chapter 1: Bonded by Blood

  Two years prior.

  Abel had been brought into a dimly lit room and seated in an old fashioned, high-backed chair. He sat and ran his fingers across the threadbare fabric covering the arms, tracing the brocade designs that had been flattened by decades of use. He swept his other hand over his forehead, pushing his curly brown hair away from his face. He looked over at his brother seated two chairs to his right. Kaine’s shorter, dark, straight hair and much more pallid complexion sometimes made Abel muse that they weren’t really brothers. Flippantly, of course. Abel absently scratched at the scruffy beard on his chin while staring at Kaine’s well-kempt goatee. Definitely brothers. Definitely.

  His mentor sat between them in silence, his face stern leather. His customary black wool coat over a black shirt and black pants matched his dour expression.

  Abel shifted, pushing his long leather duster to the sides, but not enough to expose the pistol underneath that was pushing lightly into his rib. His hand came to rest on the perfectly smooth veneer of the table in front of them. Underneath the lacquer lay years of weathering. If he looked too hard, he could see the table was barely a table. More like splinters held together with varnish.

  Abel looked to his left at the woman in thick, black armor. In his experience, it was made of a textile weave that made it at least partly bullet resistant though it looked like leather. Her face demanded respect which Abel gladly gave her. Captain Barlow. Her armor was emblazoned with the seal of the Unified Neutral States in the center of the chest. On her right shoulder, a crest that indicated her station as captain of the guard. Her fingers traced the dents and marks in the bowl-shaped helmet that sat on the table before her.

  Abel raised his eyes to the hooded figure sitting across from them. The hood was attached to a priestly white robe that had yellowed with age. Abel thought it odd that they didn’t take better care of the man's appearance. He was clearly the leader as he was flanked by two heavily armed and armored men. Judging by their refusal to look anywhere but straight ahead, he thought they must be the personal guard of the robed figure. Each of the guards wore a white tabard with a red cross on the chest. Each arm of the cross came to a point. Behind the cross was a circle. In their hands, they carried a rifle. Strapped to their side, a sword. The robed figure looked out from under the edge of his hood, eyes gleaming a ghostly yellow. For some reason, the glow made Abel’s stomach turn. The figure motioned with a gaunt, palid hand to a mousey looking assistant who proceeded to drop a small stack of papers on the table between the three parties with a rustle.

  “The Holy One asks that you sign first, High-Mortician,” the assistant said, licking his lips slightly, his voice barely more than a squeak. His overly large, dingy white robe sat limply across his narrow shoulders. His long, thin fingers pushed the papers gingerly towards the man in black.

  “If that’s what it takes to get this done, then fine,” the man in black said. He took a long drag on his cigarette before putting it out on the table in front of him. The heavy varnish bubbled slightly as the heat seared it. He reached out with a weathered hand and took hold of the quill pen sitting atop the papers. “Ink?”

  The attendant slid a small dagger towards the High-Mortician.

  The man in black glared through squinted eyes. “Another one of your stipulations, then? ‘Holy One’?” he spat the last words more than said them. “Fine. In blood.” He took the dagger and sliced into his thumb before dipping the quill into the crimson fluid slowly welling up. He scribbled once, twice, three times, turning page by page.

  Abel cringed slightly as his brother followed suit. When it came to his turn, rather than his thumb, Abel cut the tip of his middle finger dramatically as he curled up his other fingers, all the while staring at the Holy One. The man in black sighed in annoyance. Captain Barlow snickered.

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  “Your turn,” the man in black said, taking the papers from Abel and pushing the small stack towards the Holy One.

  The Holy One grinned and revealed a putrid looking, gray hand from beneath his robes. Abel stirred in his chair and grimaced as the smell of rotting flesh invaded his nostrils. The man in black raised his hand slightly and shook his head. Abel bit his lip and remained seated. The Holy One plunged the quill into the thumb of the putrid hand and signed quickly. The signature was more of a brown than a blood red. He pushed the documents to the short end of the table where Captain Barlow sat.

  “So...this...this guarantees no more bloodshed for my people?” Captain Barlow said, her voice stressed but even.

  “Of course. As long as all parties keep to their parts of the bargain, we shall have peace for as long as we all shall...live,” the small, squeaky man said, pausing very awkwardly before his last word and looking at the man in black. The man in black stared him down, making the attendant squirm noticeably.

  Abel’s anger flared. This whole thing was a sham. “As long as YOU and your godless bastards leave ours alone!” Abel yelled as he bolted out of his seat, pounding his fist against the table, his face contorted into a growl. He glared from between long sheets of curly brown hair at the Holy One, eyes daggers. How long had the free peoples been subject to the Crusades of the Holy Order? How many dead?

  The guards snapped to attention. One shouldered his rifle, the other reached his sword across the table, the tip resting on Abel’s throat. Abel’s eyes turned towards the guard, seething a fiery hate.

  “SIT and be SILENT, Abel!” the man in black shot out of his seat and yelled. Abel hadn’t seen him move that fast in a long time. “I don’t like this anymore than YOU do, son.” Even at his full height, he stood shorter than Abel, barely coming past his chin.

  Abel could feel his master's eyes boring into his skull. He turned his gaze away, sitting down with a thud and went silent. His patience was worn through, but he knew better than to let his anger control him further.

  “Guardsman August,” the attendant squeaked, waving slightly.

  The guard sheathed his sword and retook his post, never taking his eyes off Abel…who was paying him no mind.

  Barlow shifted uncomfortably in her armor. She stuck her own thumb with the pen, grimacing as she did, then signed the papers in crimson. “So that’s it, then.” She reached for her helmet, tucking it under her arm as she stood.

  “Good, gentlefolk. Thank you for your cooperation,” the rat-like attendant said in mock courtesy, waving towards the door.

  The man in black stood, shaking the hand of the captain, then turned his hand towards the Holy One who simply sat, looking darkly from the robe, not a sound came from him. Abel could see the Holy One’s eyes shifting towards the High Mortician like a snake tracking prey.

  “His Holiness does not shake hands. Especially not with...your kind, master Cash,” the attendant said with a smirk.

  Abel shifted in his chair uncomfortably, resisting the urge to pull the sword on his hip and leap over the table. Kaine sat staring into the hood, fixing the eyes of the Holy One on his own, face blank.

  Sensing the growing tension, the man in black, Cash, patted the shoulders of his compatriots. “I think it's time we left. Captain Barlow, it was a pleasure.” He began moving towards the exit, Abel following closely behind gritting his teeth. Kaine lingered for a moment, not breaking the gaze of the Holy One. Finally, he also rose and followed.

  The trio made their way out of the large tent and back towards their horses outside the camp. The dry ground and dead grass along the path crunched under their boots.

  “Cash, how can you trust that bastard?” Abel growled.

  Cash lit up another cigarette. “I don’t. But Captain Barlow is desperate to end the bloodshed in the UNS. We all signed. In blood. Whoever breaks that pact will face severe consequences.”

  “He was clearly using the hand of a corpse!” Abel yelled.

  Cash stopped and turned, gently resting a weathered hand on Abel’s shoulder. “You know that. I know that. Captain Barlow knows it too, even if she doesn’t accept it. But, if we put on a show of good faith, we win support. The good captain will spread the word that we are here to help and more of the UNS won’t be so neutral anymore. Gotta think of the long game here, son.” Cash took a long drag and held it before letting it drift out. “We win hearts and minds, we won’t be the only ones fighting this war.”

  “But how are we supposed to fight them if we can’t KILL them?! By signing that, an Undertaker cannot willingly kill another person. Kaine, don’t you have anything to say about this?” Abel felt bound. Trapped in an unwinnable war. Endless images of death and destruction swirled through his head.

  Kaine stood motionless, eyes fixed towards the dying sun. “Master Cash is right. We can’t win this war without assistance. Not enough folks understand what is really at stake. We must cede the battle to gain advantage in the war. If we can’t unite everyone…the Undertakers, the UNS settlements, unaligned villages…the Holy Empire’s crusade will eventually overrun all of us.”

  Abel growled, raising his hands in frustration. He sighed, calming himself. “Cash, I know you are right. I know we need help. But we are tying our own hands here! Kaine, how many of THEIR soldiers have YOU killed? You said it yourself. This is a war!”

  Cash cut him off. “No, son. Not anymore. Now it’s a stalemate. That gives us time to regroup. Gather the troops. We bring the war to them when we are good and ready. For now, we bide our time. Keeps them honest. If they attack us, the free states won’t take too kindly and wonder what happened to the treaty.”

  Abel squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling sharply from his nose. “Yes, sir. Master Cash.” He dropped his head, hazarding a quick glance at his brother. Kaine returned the gaze with a grimace. They both knew this was not over.

  Cash turned abruptly. Kaine and Abel stopped and turned to see Captain Barlow with her hand on his shoulder.

  “I wanted to thank you. I know you all have sacrificed more than most. And I know some folks don’t show any appreciation for that. Some would say you bring the Holy Empire down on us by being here. I know better. For what it's worth, thanks.” She smiled grimly, placing her helmet back on her head. She strode past the trio and to her attendant. The pair mounted up and set off towards their own camp.

  “Hearts and minds, boys,” Cash said, giving Abel a wink.

  The trio mounted up and made the short trip back to their camp in silence. Abel looked at his companions wondering what they were thinking. Each went to their separate tents without a word, closing themselves off from a day long done.

  Abel sat in his tent, alone, thinking. With the signing of the Treaty of Thorns, the Crusades of the Holy Order into UNS land would stop. In theory at least. But for how long? Would Captain Barlow convince the other UNS officers to begin trusting the Undertakers? They had always been viewed with suspicion due to their otherworldly abilities. Would they finally realize they were on the same side? He knew the other shoe would drop unless they did something. But planning ahead was never his strong suit. These thoughts did rounds in his head as he rested fitfully.