Arcos grunted as he dragged Alaintiqam across the last Bodyhunter’s throat with a sickening rip. The blood gushed in a waterfall over his hands. He staggered, panting. The fight against the Bodyhunters was taking its toll on him. And it was irritating.

  Markus had decided not to engage with the fight, but instead ran out of the dining room, closely followed by Hildur. The remaining Bodyhunters stayed to kill Arcos.

  But Arcos was faster, better, and stronger. The Bodyhunters did score many wounds on him. But none were fatal or hampering. They did bleed badly though. His blood splattered the floorboards of the room.

  The Bodyhunters lay crumpled in parts of the dining room.

  Heads sliced in two, like blooming flowers. Throats, cut open and showing the gaping throats that pumped blood. Bowels sliced out and guts on the floor. A butchery. A wondrous butchery. The fire had reached some of the bodies, making an acrid stench that stung Arcos's nostrils. The smoke choked him. He coughed and spluttered as he pushed himself away from the dining table and lurched in the direction of Markus and his final lackey.

  The heat was unbearable. His skin seared and his hair singed. His eyes stung with the smoke as he barrelled out of the connecting door into a library. The books were all destroyed. The fire spared not one page nor document. The writing desks and reading sofas all suffered the same fate. Arcos winced as all the knowledge was taken away. He imagined how heartbroken Sibling Archibald would have been had he seen this. The thought of Archibald brought thoughts of Tilda, Valari, and others of the Guild. A pang of guilt struck him. But he killed it. That did not matter anymore. They did not matter anymore. Only Markus and his spilled blood on Alaintiqam mattered.

  Noting the open door as the only exit available, Arcos limped outwards towards the door.

  Lumbering through, he recognised the corridor he stood in. It was the same one they ran down, and sure enough, with a stairway at the end which led back to the main entrance hall.

  But that was all he could recall when a fist came from the side he was not focusing on and slammed him in the side of his face.

  Crying out, Arcos crashed into the floor, rolling in the charred wood and flaming carpet. Instantly, he rolled to his feet and saw Markus before him. The Baron had his cane sword out and his eyes were ablaze. He gestured to the fire around them.

  “This place took me five years to build.” He said enraged. “Five! Years!”

  He darted at Arcos, swiping his blade with a speed that belied his armour.

  Arcos barely had time to block the attack before parrying it and thrusting back.

  But Markus was ready, using his vambrace to swat the sword aside, allowing Arcos to fall past him with the momentum and clock the back of his head with his armoured elbow.

  Arcos stumbled, grabbing the back of his head and feeling a drop of blood come away.

  Markus, one hand behind his back in a classic rapier form, raised his sword in a guard form.

  “I had spent extreme amounts of money, time, bodies, patience, will and hope into this.” He snarled. “My life’s work. Gone! All because you and your little friends could not know your place.”

  Markus sneered. “You would think the hangings be enough to deter you from further action, but no. You’re just too stupid to reason with!”

  Arcos hissed and attacked. He swung, smashing Alaintiqam into Markus. But Markus was not fighting like a common soldier, not one where you’d beat them by hacking and hammering.

  He was fighting like water.

  He deflected and parried, but never blocked. Arcos's strength was being used against him, and he was tiring. Markus was sweating from the fire. But Arcos was expending far more energy and blood and was losing his focus. His rage was what fed him at this point. All the tactics Torrance drilled into him, all the training Tilda gave him, he had thrown all that away and was only focused on attack. Attack. Attack. Attack.

  Markus lunged once more.

  But this time, Arcos saw it coming. Arcos lunged with his sword. And of course, Markus parried it. Arcos followed through with another attack. He leapt up and head-butted Markus across the face.

  Arcos felt the crunch of a nose against his forehead and heard Markus screech.

  Markus staggered back, hand clutching the smashed nose that pumped blood so badly.

  “How’s that, you fuck?!” Arcos ranted. He gritted his teeth and rushed for Markus, sword raised.

  But a latent part of his mind itched. A threat he had ignored.

  A crossbow twanged out.

  Arcos had forgotten the last Bodyhunter, Hildur. Stupid. Stupid fucking idiot.

  A bolt whistled through the air. Arcos felt the pain and force of the bolt striking his right arm, making him spin from the impact.

  He paused in shock. He stared at the bolt embedded in his forearm. His sword was still in his right hand, gripped and steady. But the feeling was ebbing away from his arm.

  “What-?” He uttered.

  He spun back to face Markus and saw her. Hildur stepping out from another room and loading another bolt into the small crossbow that was strapped to her right hand. She smirked with malice. Aimed. And fired.

  “Shit.” He stated before-

  The bolt came and struck him in the stomach.

  Like a punch to the gut, Arcos felt the air escape him. He keeled forward, looked up at Markus who regarded the moment with a sneer, before falling onto his back with a thud.

  Arcos groaned. The pain was overwhelming. The pain throbbed.

  He looked down at the bolts. He recognised them.

  They were the same ones that he dug out from Courageous’ mother. The same ones that Reeva shot Malachi with. The same one that killed Marvis. The poisoned bolts. Oh Gods… Arcos started to wheeze.

  The pain was bad, nearly as bad as Elder Divana’s power. It was killing him… His vision was hazing. The misty-milky view his eyes had - Had that always been there or did it just happen? - was giving way to a darkness. He fought to stay awake. To stay alert. And he was failing.

  Markus sighed in pain. He reached up and cracked his nose back into place.

  “Gah!” He looked at Hildur. “Thank you, my dear.”

  Hildur nodded with appreciation.

  Markus turned his ire upon Arcos who was splayed on the floor. “Well… you’ve done it now. Not many people can rattle me so badly. But you, slave… you have taken the platinum medal for Irritation of the Year.”

  Arcos tried to move. His legs were working. They twitched and he shifted. But his sword arm felt useless. It had a bolt sticking out from it. He couldn’t move it as it lay across his chest.

  Markus stood over him. His combed-back hair was now a matted mess, blood and sweat mixed in. The hair only highlighted the madness the Baron had finally exhumed.

  He snarled, raised his blade up and slashed it across Arcos's thighs.

  Arcos screamed as the blade sliced into the meat of his thighs, cutting open the muscles and spurting blood.

  “Still alive. Good.” Markus hissed. “I want this to hurt. I want you to know that I am doing this to you.”

  Hildur chuckled at the sight.

  Arcos coughed out bile and spit and gurgled. “The fire… You’ll… burn… with me.”

  Markus threw back his head and cackled crazily. “Hahahahaha! You think I care?? My world is burning to the ground! My men and women are dead! My own Barons have abandoned me! You think I give a damn anymore? No. All that I care about is this. You and me.”

  Markus raised his cane and struck it down into Arcos's left shoulder. It skewered through the flesh and into the floor underneath. Arcos groaned through his teeth as Markus twisted the blade and leant on it like the cane it pretended to be.

  “Gah! Fuuuck…!” Arcos hissed.

  Markus’s corpse-like eyes glared down at Arcos. “The only solace that I have in this fucking world is knowing that you, your friends and that whore are dead. I may die. But I know that you all will.”

  Markus gripped the cane and tore it out from Arcos. Arcos lurched and spasmed from the pain. The poison pulsed through.

  Markus raised his boot and brought it down onto Arcos’s left wrist. There was a snap of bone.

  Arcos shrieked.

  Markus then aimed his blade at Arcos's face. “Give my regards to your bastard child in the World Beyond…” He gloated. “Don’t worry. Your whore will follow you next, so you won’t be alone.”

  Arcos felt his heart thud. The beat of his heart grew louder and louder and stronger and stronger. It thudded against his chest. And his eyes glazed over utterly.

  Not in darkness. But in a pure white, like the moon. He no longer felt the pain. It was just another feeling. Like feeling cold, hot or excited. It was only just a feeling.

  And a voice shouted in his mind. It echoed through his soul and stirred his heart.

  Fight, my wielder! Fight!

  Nerisity’s face, laughing as they shared their nights together, flashed in his mind.

  Arcos felt his sword arm move at his will. Its feeling returned with a surge of desperation. His vision cleared.

  All was visible: Markus. His blade. The fire.

  Hildur in the back, waiting.

  Markus was too close. Arcos was within his guard. Markus was exposed.

  Arcos roared and swung with his mind. The sword arm lashed out with the speed of a coiled cobra. From dormant and deadened to alive and striking, Alaintiqam was swiped up and cut through Markus's stomach.

  A shade of moonlight flashed from the movement of the sword. For only a moment. A blink. But it was there and then it was gone.

  Markus blinked. He wasn’t sure what had just happened. The blade was there beneath him, near-death. Brutalised, stabbed, and sliced. And then he wasn’t near-death. He had roared and his sword had lashed out. And Markus felt a flash of pain. He felt pain. He felt— he felt—

  He dropped the cane sword. It stuck into the ground beside Arcos's head.

  Markus stepped back in shock. In confusion. In pain. His hands reached down and clutched at the gash in his stomach where Arcos's sword had cut through the armour with frightening ease.

  Markus looked up to say something, but he saw Arcos rising up. The boy had a bloodthirsty glare.

  Markus wanted to say wait. He actually wanted to beg. He felt… fear. He was scared. He didn’t want to die. Not now. Not now!

  Arcos roared once more and slashed with all his might.

  Markus's throat gaped open. Blood spilled as the Baron clutched at both stomach and throat. He stumbled.

  “Markus!” Hildur screamed. “NO!!”

  Markus heard her rushing up to him as he fell backwards.

  Hildur skidded on her knees to catch him as he dropped into her arms.

  “No! No, no, no!” She begged. She pressed her hands on his throat to hold back the red river. But it was no use.

  Markus looked up at her. Her face was no longer smiling and smirking. No longer cold and callous and uncaring. He blinked in surprise. She looked sad. She looked scared. She looked so… pretty.

  The seconds of his life dripped away from him, lying in this deranged woman’s arms.

  As he lay dying, his mind surged into his memories…

  He recalled meeting her. She just showed up one day at the fortress and demanded to join the Bodyhunters. She was dirty, malnourished, and strange. Markus had rejected her, as he felt only men were suitable for the role at the time. Women did not have the stomach for the deeds they performed. But Hildur proved them wrong. She stated that if she could beat one of theirs in a fistfight, she’d stay. If not, she’d leave. They gave her that fight, and not only did she beat their man, she killed him. Dug out his eyes with her thumbs and bashed his skull in with a rock. She did so with a smile and a cackling laugh.

  Showing such bloodlust, the Bodyhunters were unsure of having her in their ranks, but Markus agreed she should stay. He was impressed by her. And she continued impressing him.

  His mind leapt from memory to memory.

  Hildur helping him train more recruits. She had an eye on good fighters, and the Bodyhunters swelled in the five years since her arrival.

  Hildur informing him of her suspicions about Darius’s loyalty. Two weeks ago, she had tailed Darius and found out about his dirty little secret. That was when the trap began to be planned.

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  And then there was their first night of sex.

  When Markus had once returned from the Council and was very angry about something Francisca had said. He took it out on a servant and nearly killed the man before Hildur intervened and instead guided Markus to his bedchamber. She explained it would be too expensive to replace and retrain a new servant.

  She took off her clothes and laid on his bed naked and told him to take it out on her. Markus did so, violently, passionately, hungrily, and viciously.

  It was a violation in the eyes of moral men and women. A rape in all accounts of what decent people would describe it as.

  But Hildur not only enjoyed it, she welcomed it. She relished the pain and abuse he inflicted on her and the pleasure that always followed. After expending himself within and all over her, Hildur thanked him and left to clean herself up.

  They did this every other night since then.

  It was a moment of peacefulness that she happily provided him. It wasn’t love. Both knew this. It was lust and anger and a desperate cry for relief and release. But it was something they craved from one another. Markus found himself surprised. He never thought he’d meet anyone who felt deeply for him… until she came along. It wasn’t love. He was convinced of that. He was.

  Hildur felt his hand reach up to tenderly stroke her face.

  She looked at his face. His face was pale, losing too much blood. His eyes, terrible, unique and wonderful, looked back at hers. He smiled weakly. Hildur sobbed.

  She leant down and kissed him amongst the fire and smoke and desolation of their world. Their home. Markus gripped the side of her head in that kiss. It was a wonderful feeling. A feeling he wanted to last, so he could do more and say more before his time would run out—

  Hildur felt his hand slip away and thud against the floor. His body sagged and then fell limp. Hildur pulled away to see his eyes open and glazed.

  Baron Markus, Slavemaster and member of the Oligarchy, was dead.

  Arcos watched this happened. He saw the kiss and marvelled that anyone would love a man so vile. Uncaring about the backstory between the two psychopaths, he turned and started to limp away. He had to get to his friends before he bled or burned to death.

  The poison had stopped its course and was fading from his body. A miracle. He pulled out the bolts from his arm and stomach with his left hand that was no longer broken. And he saw in shock that the poison seeped from his punctures in purple rivulets. Two more miracles.

  But they were miracles caused by the incredible sword hanging by his side.

  He coughed out a globular of purple and red. And then his head swam. His head spun. Arcos felt his balance tip and he fell against the wall with a thud. His blood loss may end him before the fire did.

  “You!” He headed Hildur screech.

  Oh gods… He turned his head.

  Hildur had snapped up her head and watched him limp away. Her face was a contortion of grief and rage. Tears flowed from bloodshot eyes.

  “You!” She screeched again. She held the body of Markus in her hands and howled. It was strangled and pained and filled with deep emotion that wrenched at a heart.

  “You!” She pointed at Arcos, finger trembling and bloodied.

  Arcos sobbed with renewed fear at the sight of this enraged woman, pushed off the wall and staggered towards the stairs. If he could get to the stairs, he could at least fall down them and get to the entrance hall. He was halfway down the corridor.

  Hildur leapt to her feet and stalked after him. “You!”

  Arcos felt his knees give out from under him. The adrenaline of the fights had gone. His strength was gone. All he could so was crawl on his hands and knees.

  “You!”

  He had to keep moving. Just move crawling step at a time.

  “You!”

  Creaking wood above him. Arcos glanced up at the wooden beams of the corridor’s ceiling. The fires had reached and the beams bent down against their own weight. And with one final creak and groan, a beam snapped. It dropped down. Right at Arcos.

  “You!”

  Arcos had only a second to see Hildur advancing for him, hunting dagger and Markus’s cane sword in hand, before the beam crashed over him and knocked him out.

  ???

  “Keep moving!” Tilda barked as they jumped over and ducked under spouts of fire. “He couldn’t have gone too far!”

  She and Torrance rushed down the corridors of the keep. They were forced away from the stairway at the end of the entrance hall by a plume of flames that destroyed the area and smogged it entirely in smoke. Cursing, they twisted and cut through the rooms and up a small stairwell which Torrance stated they had come from. It was then that they saw the first of the dead Bodyhunters, slumped on the steps.

  Torrance recognised him, as he did with the two in the entrance hall. These men were with Markus in his confrontation with them.

  And Arcos had killed them just as violently as this one.

  A sword slash up the torso, from balls to chin. Guts spilled out of this man and sizzled in the heat. That horrid smell of burnt flesh filled the air.

  The pair decided to follow the trail of death. More Bodyhunters were found, all of them dispatched with vicious brutality.

  “He did all of this?” Tilda asked breathlessly. “Such violence…”

  “Markus really fucked him up.” Torrance replied as he stepped over a woman who was sliced into five pieces. “He tortured those poor people… and he really hurt Nerisity, Arcos's girl.”

  Tilda looked at him. “How?”

  Torrance returned the look with a pained expression. “In a way no woman should ever suffer. She was with child. So Markus forced her to lose it.”

  Tilda’s face gave a shade of horror at what he just said. But she regained her composure.

  But there was time to talk and it was not now.

  They pushed on. They avoided a chasm that was burnt through, revealing a hellish maw of broken wood and flames. They screamed out for Arcos, but no answer came.

  They finally pushed through into what was once a dining room. But the table was overturned and burning and the bodies were all alight and cooking.

  “Most of the fighting… happened here!” Tilda coughed, she had a rag over her mouth to stifle the smoke from killing her.

  “He’s not far then! Look!” Torrance darted forward and picked up a small knife. A bloodied swallowblade. “It’s one of ours.”

  After pocketing it, the pair hurried through and into a destroyed library. After navigating the burning tables and desks, they stepped into a corridor that was holding some structure. They saw three things in an instant.

  Firstly, they saw the body of Baron Markus. His stomach was slashed open and his guts peeked out. His throat was also cut open and seemed to be the cause of death.

  “Well done, kid.” Torrance growled with a savage smirk. “Good fucking riddance.”

  They then saw a woman, Hildur the Bodyhunter, standing over a figure trapped under a burning roof beam.

  And that figure was Arcos. He was out cold.

  Hildur had her boot raised and was poised to stomp his neck when Torrance screamed.

  “Stop!”

  Hildur froze. She whipped around and saw the pair standing in the corridor before her. The pair was momentarily shaken when they saw that woman’s face.

  Throughout their lives, Tilda and Torrance had seen the faces of all types of emotion. Joy, grief, sadness, rage, sorrow, fear, concern… They thought they were worldly enough to understand all manner of people. To read them was to know their thoughts. That was a large part of how they operated and survived within the Guild and outside of it.

  They thought they knew every emotion.

  But not this one.

  They had never seen insanity before.

  Hildur’s face was grinning. Her smile had practically stretched from ear to ear. Tears of grief flowed down her cheeks and her eyes were alight with rage and abandon. She was drenched in soot and smoke and her blond hair was a tangled mess. She horrified them.

  She screamed a shrill cry that had no word nor reason.

  Hildur whipped out her hand and they both heard the twang of the bolt fired.

  Torrance jumped to the side and Tilda, ready at all times, deflected it with ease and a swing of her black blade. Torrance did not wait for another bolt. He surged for Hildur, claws extended.

  Hildur lunged for Torrance with her hunting dagger and the cane sword.

  “Kill you!” She screeched. “Kill you! Kill you all!”

  The pair clashed. Blade against claw.

  Torrance was surprised by the strength behind the lithe form of the woman. Her blows were fast but heavy. She jabbed, swung, stabbed, and gutted. Torrance spun around, avoiding the death cuts that she wished to inflict.

  Torrance bashed his back into the wall, and Hildur lunged again. Torrance shifted his head to the side, in time for Hildur to embed her knife and sword where his head was. Twisting the blades, Hildur dragged the weapons at his head, slicing it across the wooden wall with a terrifying cracking slice.

  Torrance brought up his blades and felt the full force of the assault. Hildur gnashed her teeth and ranted incoherent words. The woman had truly lost her mind.

  Hildur heard a whistle, like a bird’s call. She turned to see a flash of steel coming for her.

  A swallowblade thrown by Tilda.

  Hildur lurched backwards. But it wasn’t fast enough as the edge of the swallowblade gouged out the bridge of her nose and sliced open her right eye.

  A howling shriek assaulted Torrance’s ears as Hildur reeled back.

  Torrance felt her lash out with a kick and was shunted back.

  Hildur turned, half-blind, and tried to run towards Tilda, hurling obscenities at her. But not before Torrance spun back, chased her down by her side, and swung one of his claws.

  He struck true.

  Hildur’s howling renewed as her right hand holding her dagger, which was also strapped with the small crossbow, dropped to the ground, severed at the forearm.

  Her stump pumped out blood. She stared at it with her last good eye and saw that she was surrounded by the pair. She screeched to the heavens. Logic was dead to her. The world was dead to her. Her love was dead to her. She only had one option left now.

  Escape. Escape into anything.

  There was an open doorway before her. There was a wall of fire within. Hildur hissed at Torrance and Tilda, and before they could say anything to stop her, the madwoman hurled herself through the doorway and disappeared into the flames, screaming into oblivion.

  Torrance and Tilda watched the madwoman destroy herself.

  “That… was a sight…” Torrance uttered, pale with residual fear.

  “Indeed.” Tilda replied, equally shaken by the sight.

  “Terrible woman. Got what was coming to her. Think she’s dead?”

  “She’ll wish she was if she isn’t.” Tilda sheathed her sword and rushed to Arcos. “Help me.”

  Torrance followed, and the pair reached the burning log and burning boy. They worked together to lift the beam. Tilda then grabbed Arcos and dragged him out as Torrance held up the beam before dropping it back once the boy was clear. Torrance offered to carry him over his shoulder, whilst she pointed the way.

  Tilda noted the sword that was still gripped in Arcos's hand. It was the sword that she saw him take from Malachi’s estate. The sword he had on him during his fight with the spiders and the Revenants. The sword that Sibling Archibald was convinced was Alaintiqam. Tilda narrowed her eyes at the blade. There was an aura about it. Something old. Something dangerous. But again, a time and a place for such questions and answers.

  The fire was spreading badly. The stairway to the entryway was done. They could not go down. They had to go up. They sprinted up the steps of the last turret, feeling the heat of the fire outside on the walls of the keep. It was warm to the touch. Tilda kicked the top door to the roof open and they staggered out, coughing and spitting the soot from their lungs. Arcos was still out cold on Torrance’s shoulder.

  The rain had restarted with gusto, coating the tiled roof with water. But the inferno of the fortress was a strong elemental, waging a winning war against the deluge.

  Tilda looked to Torrance. “Damn, do you have any rope?”

  “No.” Torrance shrugged whilst adjusting the dead weight on his back.

  “What the hells do we do?” Tilda ran a hand through her sodden hair.

  And just as they were about to lose hope, they heard a mewing chirrup. They turned and saw a pair of black paws creeping over the side of the roof’s small battlements and Courageous’s armoured head poking up and meowing at them.

  “You have to be joking.” Tilda spoke with a baffled expression.

  “Well, thank the Black for divine interventions.” Torrance remarked with a relieved laugh. “You think he can carry three humans?”

  Tilda could only shrug.

  ???

  Arcos floated in the darkness.

  He felt no ground under his feet. No ropes suspending him. No wind pushing him up. He felt nothing but the cold, calmness of the black.

  It wasn’t unlike the induced death he experienced after drinking Ashgoth’s Brew. He opened his eyes to the darkness and moved his hands through the void. He could not see his hands. But he could feel them as he brought them together.

  Gravity came and Arcos dropped a foot till he landed on a solid floor. It made an echoing thud. He felt the ground. It was made of metal. A cold, tempted metal. Then a light appeared from above him, ahead of him. He looked up and peered at the circle of light. A cold, cool light like the metal. The light lessened its brightness, revealing it to be the moon. It was a full moon, resplendent in its silent beauty. The light also revealed what he was standing on. It was a giant metal platform, short in width but great in length. It curved at the edges and ended at a point at the very end. Arcos laughed a little. It was his sword. It was Alaintiqam itself. It was a surreal thing to see, let alone to stand upon…

  Arcos felt calm in place.

  Such a removed feeling from the rage and grief he felt in his fight. Was this his mind? Was this how it was when he was unconscious? It didn’t seem so bad. But he recalled Hildur. Her anger for killing Markus, the man who kissed her. She wanted to kill him. Arcos looked around, thinking of how to wake up. He pinched himself. Slapped himself. And he even jumped from the edge of the platform, and into the abyss. Only for him to return, landing on the sword, as quickly as he blinked.

  He thought for a moment and then walked onwards towards the end of the sword. Maybe there was something he missed.

  Then his foot slipped on a wetness. He looked and saw the red. The furthest part of the sword, to its very end, was coated in freshly spilled blood. He smelled the metal in the air, the acrid sweetness of the sanguine liquid. He paused. He looked around and saw that he was no longer alone.

  A pale human-like form of light drifted to the sword from the moon’s light. Their feet did not land on the surface, only hovering slightly from it. They were dressed in ethereal silks of light, floating off of them like cobwebs. Their two arms were open and empty-handed. They approached the silent Arcos with the speed of a gentle breeze.

  Stopping short of him, the being of light bowed its head towards him and spoke in his voice. Arcos blinked. It was his voice that the being spoke. His.

  Greetings. The being spoke softly.

  “Hello.” Arcos replied. “Who are you?”

  I am the form of that which you wield in your hand. Its truest form. I am Alaintiqam. The being known as Alaintiqam bowed again.

  Arcos stepped back in awe. “You are an Aged One then… Ethereal… a child of the Light.”

  They are my creator, yes. Alaintiqam whispered softly. They breathed life into me. Gave me a purpose. And I came to your world. Descended from the night upon a rock, from the void of space. From the garden of stars that populate your black sky. I landed and was hewed into a physical form which could serve humanity best. I could have been many forms… A bow. A hammer. A spear. No, they gave me the body of a sword. And what a sword they created.

  Alaintiqam curled into itself, its form shrinking into a small ball of silver moonlight, before stretching out into the shape of the sword. Then the sword shifted, returning Alaintiqam to its truest self.

  You have done very well, my wielder.

  “I have?”

  You have. So many evils dealt with in one night. Those Bodyhunters, who have taken the freedom of so many, killed with brutal efficiency. Baron Markus, the man who thought himself a god over men, dead and burning.

  Arcos felt a twinge of emotion in his soul. A twinge of doubt, of regret.

  “That was wrong of me. I was angry. So angry. I was not thinking. I acted without thought to my safety and endangered the mission for my own sake. What if some of those men and women… what if they could have changed? Maybe they could have done some good…”

  They would not. Alaintiqam swiped a hand across the air, as if they were killing the theory. Have you forgotten what they did to you? They tore you away from your life. From your freedom. Your father sold you away and they came to destroy your childhood. And then they continued to haunt you. They stole your lover away. And even if it were evil enough… they killed your child.

  Arcos hung his head. “Yes. You are right. They were monsters.”

  And monsters… what must happen to them?

  “They must be put down.”

  Like a rabid dog?

  “Like a rabid dog.”

  Arcos looked up and saw that Alaintiqam was inches from him. They hovered before him and with one hand, they pointed towards the darkness beyond the sword’s edge.

  Arcos turned and saw images in the dark. Tableaux or tapestries of events that he recognised.

  He saw images of a salt pit with slaves working to death. Bodies thrown into depths as punishment. Himself held down to be whipped by the guards. The women slaves raped and abused.

  He saw more images of hanging children in the street of Silverstreak, swinging in the wind. Derrick’s corpse as they buried him.

  Nerisity, broken and in tears, holding the dead child they could have raised and loved with all their hearts.

  And all of them with the face of Markus smiling down at them. Laughing.

  You have suffered. Like no one had ever suffered. Alaintiqam spoke into his ear as Arcos stared in pain at the conjured memories. How could they say what you did was wrong? Those people deserved death. They wasted their lives, their greatest gift from the Light, by bringing misery to those they deemed unworthy. You did what everyone should have done. You stood and said enough. Enough.

  Alaintiqam waved a hand and the tapestries shifted. It left only one image of one man.

  Arcos recognised him in an instant. Darius Snowhair. The last Bodyhunter.

  He is the last one left. Alaintiqam stated. He is the one who ripped you from your home. He is the one who nearly killed you in Silverstreak. He is the one who allowed Nerisity to be abused.

  Arcos nodded. “You’re right. He is the last one. When he dies… I will have peace.”

  Alaintiqam turned to face him. Reaching out with their hands, they took Arcos by the head and stared at him with a pair of stars for eyes.

  Then you must wake up. Wake up and complete your mission. Wake up and fulfil your promise!

  Alaintiqam flared with bright light. It blinded Arcos. He stumbled away from the light, covering his eyes.

  He could not see.

  He couldn’t see.

  His foot missed the edge of the sword and he fell back, plummeting down, down, down into the abyss until his back crashed onto cold, wet grass and moist mud.

  “He’s waking up!” He heard Reeva shout in his blindness.

  Then came Nerisity’s voice. “He’s so cold… Arcos! Arcos! Wake up, please.”

  And Arcos opened his eyes.