(This chapter is as long as two average chapters! Consider breaking it up for multiple readings! A good point is: “Frieke began driving, grinning.” —pirateaba)

The Prophet was raving, possibly mad. Marrieh and the closest of his acolytes kept all away from him after the assassination attempts, but the poison still coursed through his body despite their laying of hands. From six attempts on his life. Poison in his drink, daggers, arrow—he was mutilated by the damned assassins, lying and screaming for God’s mercy. Martyred just as his people. Praying.

Pain, fury for the dead, all drained him of grace and forgiveness. There was only the altar. The sacrament.

“Higher! It must be twenty-four feet high and filled with the faith of…of…”

So they toiled. Thousands of hands heaping the riches of Khelt upon this altar. Not for themselves, but as an offering to God. That he might hear and smite the King of Khelt for his transgressions against the faithful.

And lo, now, the people of Khelt who had slept ignorant did lament and tear their clothing and wail as they knew the true fury of the Prophet of God. It had been a month delayed, almost like some curse of ignorance, but now they screamed and fled and prayed to their [King], who had no power to stop this divine vengeance.

The eyes of foreign nations fell upon Khelt as it faltered, struck by this holy tumor from within, and paradise trembled.

All this was so. And yet, as Harvey lay writhing from the contact poison the Quarass of Germina had inflicted upon him, which refused to stop burning him no matter how much he scraped at his skin, still remembering the daggers which had pierced his flesh, his very heart, until the Lord had saved him to complete his great work, his eyes opened.

Blind, sweat pouring into them, he turned, and the praying people adding their faith to the [Light of Faith] which hovered like a golden sun above their sacrament, nearly finished. Marrieh rose from her prayer, and Jilthread ceased in making a brick for the sacrament, bedazzled in jewels torn from Kheltian ornaments.

They followed his eyes, the most faithful, and the Prophet stared north.

“Who…what…what is that? Is that you, G—?”

He hesitated. For it was like no thing he had ever felt. Something foreign to the faith within him, which waned and waxed like any mortal man who doubted.

Something he would have called truly divine, proof beyond doubt, even more than Miracles, and yet…it was not of him. It was not the Word, the Bible, the Truth, or the Way.

It was strange.

Like…a vision. A building upon a grassy hill, windows glowing. A merry fire. A plate of spaghetti and a blue smoothie?

“What?”

Harvey’s fingers stopped scratching his reddened skin as he stared, and then the vision showed him a sky glowing with more beauty than he remembered. As if a child had seen it for the first time. It drew closer, step by step, hour by hour, and then he realized it was coming here. A procession, another faith.

Rumors and the People of God soon confirmed this truth. Enemies summoned by the King of Khelt. Dread Antinium of Izril, no less, bug-people. One last trial before the foe was defeated, yes, this Harvey knew.

And yet…he looked at it again and again, and a treacherous part of him could not help but think, ‘oh. But oh. It is such a gentle, kindly thing’.

Surely, the Snake of Eden had seemed thus.

——

The Painted Antinium of the Free Hive were ready for hostility. Violence. Even being spat upon, which Ksmvr had assured them was a regrettably common experience, especially around camels.

They knew what they were: Antinium. The scourge of Izril, the Black Tide. They struck fear into all people, even their own city. That they came was for two reasons.

Firstly, they owed Khelt and Fetohep a debt beyond words. He had spent and spent again in service of the inn, of their allies and friends and loved ones. If eighty of them had to spend blood and lives and comfort in honor of that debt, they would. They had so few friends. They would not easily lose another.

Second, they really, really wanted to see what Khelt looked like.

That was enough for Antinium to take a voyage at sea all the way from their continent. Oh, and if you wanted a third reason, it was because it wasn’t really that fun back at the inn anymore. They were a subsect of the Free Antinium and not as welcome in the inn as before thanks to Lyonette the Breakup Princess, and that business with the [Palace of Fates], which none of them had been part of, yet made it awkward.

They had free time. So they came to Chandrar’s shores, prepared to be hurt or even killed in the name of doing what was right.

This was holy. What the Painted Antinium had not realized was how they came to the nations of the north, then Khelt.

They did not land in Medain; the Four Winds of Teral, the Courier ship, had been alerted that Medain had just closed its borders to any Kheltian-aligned travellers or caravans, and their forces at New Jecrass’ border had tripled overnight.

They were forced to divert slightly westwards towards the Claiven Earth.

“Riskier than I want. My charter is to bring you safely to Chandrar’s soils, sirs.”

The [Captain] was a Garuda-Human hybrid, resembling a woman with feathers that covered parts of her face, framing her features, and clinging to her arms. She would never fly, and nor was she some swashbuckling warrior-captain despite her beautiful coat and plumage. What she was, most of all, was solid, trusted.

The Four Winds was owned by the crew, you see, and they voted on the [Captains]. The woman took her job seriously, and Pawn smiled at her. The port beyond was filled with graceful half-Elven ships docked at the stone pier.

Stone—because of course, half-Elves valued wood too much to make wooden docks. There was a crowd gathered, and Yellow Splatters was advising the others to not react when spit upon. Pawn nodded to the woman.

“You have brought us to Chandrar indeed, Captain. We have another ship coming for us; we shall make our way to that or go on foot. What more can we ask of you? You have brought us through the storms and across this terrible…water…without incident.”

Captain Bressa eyed Pawn.

“You mean the rain shower?”

“Yes, the horrible storm.”

There were chuckles from listening members of the crew, though they were quiet and mostly kept their distance from the Antinium.

It wasn’t actually that much fear, so much as politics. The Four Winds was well aware of what it might be doing, and so the crew had been told to keep back from the Antinium as they disembarked. They were doing their job as a Courier ship; they took almost all cargo, and so long as people remembered that, all would be well.

With that said, their guests had been amusing. Terrifying at first, but…despite the short voyage, the crew had warmed to the Antinium far more than the Black Tide’s reputation might lead one to believe.

Part of that was the sight of Antinium on television and figures like Ksmvr of Chandrar or Garry the Baker. But the larger part was, um…water.

The Painted Antinium were brave, knowing that Heaven awaited if they drowned at sea, but the terror of the oceans still applied to them. Many had freaked out even getting on the ship, and their solution to their fear was to never get near a railing and pretend the water was just differently-colored land.

They stayed below-decks, but the squall had caused…issues. So half the crew had found themselves with a new duty: holding one of the Painted Antinium’s hands when the ship rocked or escorting them to the bathrooms or around the deck if they wanted to walk around. Holding a shaking Antinium’s hand and patting them on the shoulders took a lot of fear out of the equation, and Pawn was only sad he could not reward the Four Wind’s crew more. But he had cured quite a number of minor ailments and scars, so he felt good about that.

Captain Bressa certainly seemed to have some goodwill towards Pawn as well, because she laughed as she swept a feathered arm out, indicating the swiftly-approaching shoreline.

“Hah. If that was a storm to you, then I’m lucky we didn’t hit a real squall. But I’ll see you onto the docks and speak with the [Harbormaster] and maybe even one of the Tree Guides—their version of a magistrate. Passage through the Claiven Earth might be tricky.”

“Especially for Antinium, we understand. We are prepared to run.”

“Oh, no. We can find carriages for your company. It’s just—let me go first, sir.”

They seemed to be speaking crossways at each other, but this was something Pawn was quite used to. He stepped to the boarding ramp as the woman strode down.

“Quite a large crowd, Yellow Splatters.”

“If they attack, run ahead of us, Pawn.”

“If they attack, they will shoot us dead with their bows. Or is that racism? The Elves in the movies are very good with bows. They could all be mages like Ceria. I will use my capstone, and we will flee towards…well, Medain is dangerous. So we go west. That way, I think.”

All the Antinium glanced at Pawn’s finger pointing vaguely opposite of the rising sun. They nodded. A few of them were praying, and the [Captain] was speaking urgently with an important-looking half-Elf with a staff. There were even children on the docks, but mostly, adults staring at the Antinium. Pawn squared his shoulders.

“Remember, we are going to render what aid we can to King Fetohep. If ten of us make it…be wary of camels. There are children in the crowd, so do not fight back.”

He stepped onto the gangplank and began to walk down, despite Yellow Splatters trying to go first. Pawn was waiting for the first thrown cabbage, stone, or spell. He hoped it wasn’t arrows. He hated being shot.

The half-Elves of the Claiven Earth didn’t attack him. They did draw back in a wave and point as he came striding down, and Pawn walked to the [Captain], who might have been waving him back. But they had to go; time was running out for Khelt.

Pawn saw wide eyes, some glowing with magic. Pointed ears waggling. A child with tanned skin blinking at him, mouth open. Teeth with a bit of lettuce stuck in them in lips curving upwards, and he smiled.

They had made it twenty paces onto the docks when one of their number, Purple Smile, glanced around and hand-signed.

“[I don’t think we’re being attacked. What’s wrong with them?]”

Pawn glanced around and scratched at his chest. Then he waved an urgent hand.

“Argh. Rabbitears, Starfold, you fools! You didn’t deactivate your miracles! We’re going to be killed—stop it!”

The two Painted Antinium jumped, and Pawn realized they’d completely forgotten to de-activate their personal Miracles. Sure enough, the two members who were among the oldest of the Painted Antinium had their personal sigils hovering around them, or trailing after Starfold.

In Rabbitears’ case, it was just two bright white ‘ears’ that hovered just above his head, twitching and moving in-sync with his antenna. They were very cute, though he thought they were distinguished.

As for Starfold, he had far more paint on his carapace than Rabbitears’ simple, painted white antennae. He had favored himself with stars of bright silver and more recently other colors, most in that classic five-pointed star pattern. Where he walked, the beautiful painted stars seemed to flake off his armored carapace.

They hovered behind him, a constellation of glowing lights wherever he walked. Very pretty, sort of annoying if you were right behind him and kept having them bounce off your head, but obviously utterly inappropriate now.

And, Pawn realized, some of the other Painted Antinium had other objects of their faith he’d forgotten to get them to stow. He didn’t know them all, these days; he’d gathered up everyone who was available and run with Salamani to get to a coast. But the ones who were with him?

There was Cappy, who had a beanie made by Honored Deskie herself, the most comfortable Antinium-hat in the entire world. He carried their flag, adorned with the painted sigils of all eighty Antinium resolved to come to Khelt’s defense. It blew in a wind that another of them was conjuring.

Windchild, a Painted Worker, was responsible for that and a stream of bubbles they were blowing from a little wooden hoop with their Skill, [Create Bubble Liquid]. They should not be playing with that, but it was free, and ahead of them, Yellow Splatters was walking, his scarred carapace and the splashes of yellow on his very carapace, looking tough and even slightly sinister with the weight of his sins. Pawn still felt that was unfair, but Purple Smile was next to him, his painted body provoking smiles from the crowd.

[Paint Sigil: Smile of Friendship]. The paint on his body seemed to shift, until you saw smiles on his very form, unseen faces welcoming you. Another worthless Skill for pure military anything. Plus, Drakes hated it, especially ones from Pallass. Pawn was hissing at them to knock it off when Yellow Splatters hand-signed back.

“[Your censer, Pawn!]”

Pawn looked down and groaned.

“Ah, poos.”

His censer was the same one he had made when the Painted Antinium had first been formed. Only, then it had been two colanders stuck together. Now, it was reforged by Pelt, and the master-smith had claimed the metals had transmuted.

The result was a vivid, brassy metal and a delicate bell-like censer hanging from a chain of the same stuff, which shone as it caught the light. An item of faith; it was lit and drifting pale brown smoke out of the openings.

Pawn barely paid attention to that. The censer was almost always lit; he just had to insert a coal and it would burn all day. The smoke waved over his company, and it smelled, of course, like cinnamon.

That was how the Claiven Earth met their first Antinium. A group of eighty-some Workers and Soldiers striding off the gangplank of their ship, wreathed in colors, the scent of cinnamon, and the smoke blowing off their bodies.

They might have seemed naked, but for the loincloths they wore, Pawn’s robes, or the cloak that Superguy had on, which was blowing in the faint breeze that swept after them. And then one of them, an Antinium that Pawn didn’t know, clasped their hands in prayer.

“[Beautiful Stroll: The Parade of Seasons].”

“No, no, stop alarming them! Argh!”

Too late. Pawn saw the half-Elves recoil, and then the first leaves began falling down. He sighed.

He’d seen this Skill before. It was a Painted Antinium special; even if this one was more advanced, he glanced up, and autumnal leaves showered down, as if blown from the trees on high, which were the tallest he had ever seen, way higher than Liscor’s biggest buildings.

Massive trees that were as large as redwoods of Earth, but not always in that style. Some with golden leaves which now showered down; not the actual leaves, but copies. Even blossoms of cherry trees and flower petals, pollen floating around the Antinium who halted, for a moment.

Loving this snapshot of the world. For that was what the Painted Antinium craved. More than strength at arms. More than magic.

Just wonders. They had never forgotten that. Their steps trailed slower as they caught leaves, and Bookleaf caught one and pressed it in his book—Pawn sighed. He turned to the staring half-Elves, glumly, and muttered to Yellow Splatters.

“Great. Not only have we alarmed them, but we’ve conjured leaves from their trees. That’s probably a capital crime. I suggest we pray for salvation and run like heck as soon as they attack. For salvation is in Heaven and also a fast pair of legs. Amen.”

“Amen.”

Some of the Antinium chorused while others used their personal aphorisms.

“So mote it be.”

“Yes.”

“I’m hungry.”

Resigned, Pawn saw the half-Elves listening to him, ears still twitching, and then one of the children laughed. And he realized—the smiles on some of the children’s faces had spread to a few of the adults. They were not, in fact, reaching for weapons. Even the [Warriors] appeared bemused rather than angry. One took a hand off a shortsword’s hilt as she stared at Bookleaf.

The Painted Antinium slowed, and Pawn nearly ran into the Tree Guide, who turned to him.

“This is shocking, Captain. Antinium in Chandrar? Passing through our lands to Khelt? And who is this? I am Tree Guide Raliavordures of Port Linven.”

Pawn bowed.

“I am Pawn of the Free Antinium, Lady Guide. I apologize for our trespass, and we shall be out of the Claiven Earth as soon as we are able.”

“Yes, but…without even visiting the capital? The Speaker of Trees wishes to at least meet with the Antinium!”

“Huh?”

The woman was standing on her tip-toes and glancing around at the half-Elves, who, Pawn finally realized, were excited, not afraid. He didn’t get why until she whispered to him.

“Antinium in Chandrar is, of course, politically fraught, I would imagine. But someone else can sort that out. Is Santa Garry here? Or Ksmvr of Chandrar? I have an autograph card…”

Oh. Garry. Pawn’s mandibles opened, and he looked at Yellow Splatters, who stopped tensing for an arrow, and turned to Purple Smile.

The Soldier was already smiling, and he hand-signed back.

“It appears the half-Elves of the Claiven Earth are much like Captain Ceria Springwalker after all.”

Pawn’s mandibles opened. He turned back to the Tree Guide and bowed.

“Oh. That…makes sense. I apologize, Guide Raliavo—Raliadurvo—Guide Ralia. I had anticipated strife or fear. But your welcome is most gracious, and we will of course meet with the Speaker of Trees if he requests it. Thank you. Your hospitality and good nature reminds me much of a half-Elf I know, Ceria Springwalker. The Ice Squirrel of the Horns of Hammerad, I believe?”

Raliavordures’ mouth opened. She gasped, then slapped Pawn and instantly apologized, but in hindsight, he felt like he had deserved that one.

Thus, they came to Chandrar.

——

People actually liked them. Or if not liked, they found the Antinium exotic where Drakes, Gnolls, and Humans of Izril saw them as threats.

It was surreal and stunning to the Painted Antinium, but part of their attraction was their unique Skills and faith-based Miracles.

It wasn’t like they were exactly, uh, shy about it. Pawn wondered if he should be, but when he handed the Speaker of Trees twenty Scrolls of Healing, the half-Elf nearly jumped off the railing of the tree-city.

Actually, it was making Pawn slightly queasy to be so high up. The Speaker of Trees’ mouth opened and closed as the Herald of Forests peered at the objects he held.

“These scrolls heal, Priest Pawn? Truly?”

“Yes. They are being sold from Liscor, but I do not know how widely. I believed knowledge of them was spreading, but perhaps not? I was told some of the ‘clients’ who bought from Free Antinium were among the Five Families of the north, and the Walled Cities, of course, tried to steal them.”

…But perhaps no one had actually focused on the scrolls, or at least, regular citizens didn’t know what the wealthy and powerful did. Pawn wasn’t advertising them.

“Oh, wasn’t that the entertaining chase on the scrying orb? With that Watch Captain! And the Drake, Moass?”

One of the half-Elves had seen the broadcast, and the Speaker of Trees had seen it too.

“This is what was stolen? I believed it was toys and other objects. The Watch Captain was screaming at the Drake for a doll. Quite entertaining. Do you…know her? You come from the same city as she does, don’t you? Liscor, so far away.”

They really were far from home. Everyone was staring at a map which didn’t even have Liscor on it, and Pawn was nodding.

“Yes, these scrolls were among what were stolen. They heal most wounds, but serious ones require multiple scrolls or I could heal them. In fact, if you had any injuries, I would be happy to use my Skill. We must be moving, but I have [Cure Mundane Wounds].”

This time, he thought the Herald of the Forest developed a crick in her neck from how fast it snapped around.

“Cure…how all-encompassing is that Skill?”

“It is not perfect, of course, but most wounds not magically created are healable.”

The Herald nodded, relaxing after a second; she’d been checking out Yellow Splatters like a warrior, sizing up his lack of weapons, and eying Pawn’s club. The [Priest] went on.

“I was most distressed about its inability to heal longstanding wounds and, of course, more advanced damage. I prayed on the issue, and though I did not gain the ability to heal more serious injuries, I did obtain [Miracle: Purify Wounds] after the Winter Solstice. It could not have saved some of my friends and companions. However, it did assist in the recovery of many. Even Perorn Fleethoof benefited from it, though she still appears to limp. I think she is feigning that, though.”

This time, all the half-Elves gathered around the Painted Antinium had to take a moment to process this. Only the Mage of Rivers, Joreldyn, wore an expression of utmost concentration as he noted this down. He didn’t do the ‘is this a joke’ bit. He just seized a scroll from the Speaker of Trees, tucked it into his bag of holding, and spoke.

“We shall reach out to Liscor as soon as we verify the effects of these scrolls, Priest. May we offer some of your people our hospitality indefinitely? You claim quite a number of powers, and I, personally, would be honored to witness them. Here, a token of our own appreciation for this meeting.”

He handed Pawn a scroll, which turned out to be a Scroll of Tidal Waves, and then added a Scroll of Water Wall, a Scroll of Cleansing, and a Scroll of Rainfall, which Pawn had the distinct impression was all that Joreldyn had on him.

But the [Priest] was smiling. When he agreed and asked for a volunteer, Ierwyn herself thrust out an arm. He noted deep scars on her arm and sensed more when he whispered a prayer.

“[Purify Wounds]. Ah. I’m sorry.”

The Speaker of Trees had been reaching out to halt this, but Pawn and Ierwyn were too fast. The half-Elf appeared vaguely disappointed.

“Oh, it failed? Perhaps it only works on Antinium or there’s not enough magic around…?”

Pawn shook his head as Ierwyn flexed her arm, the most curious expression on her face.

“No, it worked, but her injuries were too deep. Your arm, stomach, and left leg? I think it might take as many as three more uses of the Skill to remove the damage. It cannot regrow amputated digits either.”

He addressed Ierwyn, and she nodded slowly.

“I fought a Tundra Draugr that cut my arm open. It never healed perfectly, even with healing potions. My right arm was always weaker after that. But this…”

She flexed her right hand, then cast around. Ierwyn wandered over to a safety railing, put her hands on it, and seemed to test her strength. The woman, who wore her sword on her left side, Pawn noted, ripped a piece of the enchanted guardrails out with her right hand. She stared at the wood as the half-Elves cried out.

“Herald, the railings!”

“What strength—”

“The woodwork! How many trees do you want to kill to repair that, Herald? For shame!”

Pawn beamed in pleasure as Ierwyn dropped the piece, then turned to the Speaker wordlessly. He indicated the stairs.

“I would be delighted to use the Skill again if our return trip takes us this way, but we must be going. We are bound for Khelt, and I believe a ship is waiting to pick us up. Thank you!”

He was hurrying down the stairs when they almost jumped on him. So, Pawn realized, his problem wasn’t in being attacked…

It was all these people trying to stop him or get him to stick around! What a quandary! He’d almost have preferred the arrows. He had no idea why the Painted Antinium were that compelling. Sure, they had nice paint and a few good Skills, but these other people lived in such magnificent kingdoms.

——

Pawn’s group took losses on the way to Khelt. It was inevitable, and he stressed the wastage of time too; it had taken far, far too long to cross Izril and get to a harbor, and then the voyage at sea to get to Khelt. He sacrificed Painted Antinium to get to Khelt faster. Even with the curious undead ship Sand at Sea, it had to be done.

The undead were actually quite cordial and colorful, but clearly wary of the Painted Antinium. Apparently, it was because they resembled this ‘Prophet’ and his people so much.

“No offense to your crew, Priest, but we’d rather not be ashed by your lot on accident.”

“Ashed? Ah, our powers of faith. It is a universal gift, then, if the People of God have similar abilities to ours.”

The undead Revenant grunted.

“I’m not keen to find out if there’s nuance between your powers, but aye, the intruders have weapons that cut like they’re all enchanted by [Bane] against undead. Stay wary of them. They’re less-effective against the living, but they fought off two regular forces. Not the finest sellswords I’ve seen, but they can fight, and there’s thousands of ‘em. How’re you gonna handle them?”

“I shall pray on it, Captain. But what else is going on in Khelt we might help with?”

Captain Cikroleth had caught Pawn up to current events. He claimed Fetohep wasn’t responding to speaking stones, which sounded bad…but a ‘Vizir’ had come to Khelt’s aid, and that the Heir, Pewerthe, was taking command. Pawn didn’t know what to do about Khelt’s issues, but he listened.

“Lots of nations are making unfriendly moves at Khelt. Sending out groups to test the borders, like. Most’re too far away, and the skeletons will rise, and they’ll do for your average fools. The rest? The Vizir’s scorched three groups, and we’ve run off more, but it’s like sharks circling a carcass. The main threat is the panic in the cities. Kheltians are in uproar over the skeletons—and the lack of manpower. If you could deal with the Prophet, that’d be one less issue.”

“Why is manpower an issue? Panic I can understand.”

The [Captain] snorted.

“Those skeletons did everything for Khelt, Priest. You’ve never seen the paradise in person, have you?”

“A few television broadcasts showed Khelt…but I didn’t watch them, no.”

The man nodded as he rubbed at some sand which had gotten into an eye socket.

“Then could you take out some trash from a bin and toss it?”

“…Yes? That is a common job for Antinium.”

“Clean sewers? Pah, that’s too much. Can you sweep a floor? Build a chair? Cook a meal for someone?”

“All but the last. Ah, I think I understand…”

Captain Cikroleth made a spitting sound over the edge of his ship as the sands billowed away from them.

“Some Kheltians can do a bit of that, fancy cooking, or building art in furniture, but most? Trash is piling up in the cities. Which leads to more bugs. Pewerthe kept a lid on it, literally. Hah, there’s a Heir of Khelt who did her job. But now…”

They can’t even throw out the trash? Yellow Splatters shrugged, but all the Painted Workers looked astounded. The Painted Soldiers…didn’t do that kind of work. Which led to some verbal and non-verbal arguments between Workers and Soldiers. Then poking.

The undead were watching the mild confrontation amongst the Painted Antinium when there was a shout.

“Hoi! Someone’s coming at us from the side! Fast too! It’s that Drathian!”

“Damnit. Hard to port. No one catches us!”

Cikroleth roared, but Pawn saw the streak of movement coming at them insanely fast given their speed and sighed.

“Another casualty of our travel. I need a volunteer.”

Heads turned, then a brave Soldier stepped forwards and clasped a fist to his chest. Pawn nodded to him, and they lost another of their number.

——

“Ship, halt!”

Orthenon, the King of Destruction’s Steward, was riding at the ship at full-gallop, and when it did not halt, he accelerated. He spoke, standing in the saddle to roar at the deck.

“His Majesty, King Flos of Reim, requests the company of one of the Antinium of Izril! He wishes to meet with—”

The [Steward] was prepared for trouble, especially since Flos had told him to get the Antinium no matter what. He was surprised that the notoriously prideful Kheltian warship actually slowed and a gangplank lowered. Orthenon was riding towards it when someone, an Antinium, shouted from the side.

“Excuse us, we are very busy and heading towards Khelt! Please accept our apologies! Go, Salted Pork!”

A single Antinium Soldier came skidding down the ramp on his back-shell. He nearly took out one of the [Riders] behind Orthenon as they swerved around the Antinium. Salted Pork spun around on his back before getting up as Sand at Sea accelerated, and Orthenon stared down at the Antinium Soldier.

“Hello. I am Salted Pork. Have you heard the good word?”

The Steward actually leaned over his saddle, genuinely flummoxed for a moment. And Pawn’s company moved on.

——

Another Antinium down. Pawn prayed for them, because it was a hard thing to be alone in a foreign land. Possibly not dangerous given how friendly everyone was…but the undead had promised to pick them up.

The Claiven Earth hadn’t let go of Pawn’s company until he’d tasked six Antinium, including one of his [Priests], to stay and explain what they were. The same for other nations; a rather terrifying giant of a man, big as Moore, had come running after them and only stopped when they’d given him two Antinium. That had been Mighty Jaganismet, apparently.

An Antinium in Hellios for the Gnolls, because they’d been begging to know of home, another five to the Quarass…at least the [Steward] had only taken a single Soldier.

What was surreal to the Painted Antinium was that this was not how they got treated in Izril. They were ignored in Izril! No one cared about their powers!

Here? You had half-Elves lining up to be healed when plenty of Liscorians, young and old, hadn’t even wanted to hear about Pawn’s Skills, so he’d given up asking. It was rather gratifying, really. Pawn went back to the other Painted Antinium, who were sitting around as Rad Rema cooked for the first time since her death.

“Right, I reckon this is a half-decent fruit gumbo. Damn half-Elves. If it’s not, can’t be worse than the slop you lot eat!”

The Antinium were eating greedily; they’d been given tons of gifts from each nation. Pawn was about to try some gumbo, but he kept glancing to the side.

“It truly is a giant desert. Huh. I sort of like it.”

The heat sucked, of course. The Antinium would bake in the sun or freeze at night, but if you had a sand-cloak like the ones Jaganismet had gifted them, you were shaded and warm enough. And there was no damn rain, no water everywhere.

And no Drakes. It really was something not to have someone stare at you as if you were going to attack them, or as if they were plotting your imminent demise. Pawn touched his heart.

“Perhaps this is where we should have gone, not Izril. I suppose the Antinium who were sailing across the world didn’t know where to go. If not Izril…Terandria’s nice, or so I hear. Baleros? Lots of tasty bugs. Maybe we went to the worst continent.”

Then again, he’d heard Chandrar had tons of problems of their own, and Fetohep’s woes were certainly big ones. It was Captain Cikroleth who called out.

“We’re soon passing into Kheltian lands! I don’t know where His Majesty wants you, so we’ll take you to the capital, got it?”

Pawn’s head turned. All he saw was desert. Just a terribly flat vista, not even broken up by cacti or anything. Germina, Khelt, many nations bordered the Great Desert of Zeikhal in the center of the continent.

“How could anyone live here?”

“I’d dig. Plenty of shade and water, and if you can grow fungi…”

Yellow Splatters opined, and Pawn shook his head.

“No water underground, Yellow Splatters.”

The Soldier paused.

“What? None? But home…”

“No water. No dungeons either. Just sand and dirt, I suspect.”

“…This is better than Liscor.”

Pawn nudged him. They were the oldest of friends. As much as he was with Belgrade, Garry, or Bird. More, in a sense; Yellow Splatters was always around, whereas Pawn had grown further away from the other Antinium.

They’d gone through trials together, and yes, they’d had their ups and downs, like when Yellow Splatters had first disagreed with Pawn’s ways. Then when it had come out he’d lied about Heaven, or at least, having been there.

Friendship was friendship. If Heaven existed and there was a life eternal after death, then time was still too short to hate someone you loved. Pawn was glad Yellow Splatters had come, even if he was worried he’d left too few senior Painted Antinium back home.

“We’ll be back soon enough, I hope, Yellow Splatters. I truly don’t know what to do about this Prophet. King Fetohep suggested we might combat him, but if there really are thousands…we are not without combat Skills, but they might outlevel us. The power of his faith is vast. Do you sense that?”

They were very close to whatever the People of God were building. It was like a magnet pulling at Pawn’s own heart. Yellow Splatters agreed.

“They are powerful, but they have been…storing it. I did not know you could do that.”

“Neither did I. We are learning a lot. Starfold!”

Pawn turned and shouted over his shoulder, and Starfold glanced up.

“Yes?”

“Go and store some faith.”

“…How?”

“I don’t know. Find a box or something. Or copy these People of God. Yellow Splatters, I do not want to let Fetohep down. But if it is not open warfare, we should be careful not to throw the first punch. Only the last one. Still, I would like you to see how good they are at fighting.”

Yellow Splatters nodded again.

“I wish The Crimson Soldier were here.”

“Me too. Or the [Templars]. They are better at pure combat than we, but we must have faith.”

“Or some magical Relics.”

“That too. I hope my club works.”

Pawn touched the club, which was, like his censer, reforged by Pelt. It still looked club-like, but the [Smith] had claimed he’d dented his anvil trying to work it. It felt…heavy when Pawn lifted it, but he could swing it fast. He hadn’t hit anything but Yellow Splatters in some practice sessions with it, but they’d stopped when Yellow Splatters had nearly exploded.

Come to think of it…Pawn glanced at Yellow Splatters, then swatted at something red and black crawling up his arm.

“Yellow Splatters, your sins are crawling on me again.”

“Oops. Sorry.”

The Painted Soldier stepped back. Captain Cikroleth glanced at them from the ship’s deck. He hadn’t commented on Yellow Splatters’ unique appearance, but that might have been politeness or assuming Antinium were like that. Pawn peered at Yellow Splatters as the Soldier sucked the sin back, and his carapace reinforced itself again.

“Do you think you’ll be able to get rid of the class, Yellow Splatters? I’ve been praying for it, but…”

“I think it’s stuck. It’s not bad, mostly.”

Pawn tsked unhappily.

“I simply feel it’s unfair. And Lyonette’s fault; possibly Mrsha’s as well.”

“We should not blame her. She died.”

“Ye-es, but not for our sins. I can’t help but feel like it was her rumors about future-me and you that did all this. Have you levelled?”

“Mhm. I am still the [First Heretic-Captain of the Faith].”

“Damn.”

It really wasn’t Yellow Splatters’ fault. It was all that damn [Palace of Fates] thing. True, he’d lied about Heaven, but they’d settled that! It was just that the Painted Antinium grew in number, and some had gotten this crazy rumor in their heads about a future Yellow Splatters being condemned to hell. And future-Pawn.

Pawn rather resented having to answer for his future crimes. Everyone in the inn walked warily around him, and he hadn’t done anything! That wretched bastard, holding down a stable relationship with Lyonette for ten years…and yes, he’d caused some trouble, but he had also attacked Roshal and the Blighted Kingdom, and Pawn really thought he should get credit for that if he also got the consequences.

Anyways, Yellow Splatters was mostly okay with his class. Occasionally, he did produce weird crawling bug-sins, but his carapace was even tougher. Shame about some of his Skills being so horrifying, but he was a warrior and had said anything that helped him save other Antinium was welcome.

“Hmm. Maybe I could bring Lyonette something very alluring back from Khelt. Do they sell love potions, do you think?”

Yellow Splatters stopped trying to squish a little sin that looked like a fat roly-polly. His sin of gluttony, one supposed. It wasn’t very big, and it made a low squeaking sound every time he poked it.

“I think you should stop going after Lyonette, Pawn. She clearly isn’t interested in you.”

Okay, now he sounded like a real Judas. Pawn glowered at his friend.

“She hasn’t even tried to give us another chance! She’s just seeing future-me, and that’s not my fault. I’m…I’m not fixating on it.”

He’d gone back and forth over Lyonette for months now, and he knew Yellow Splatters was going to argue with him about it, but the Painted Soldier was just as disinclined to rehash the issue. He rumbled.

“There are plenty of fish in the sea.”

“Where am I going to find someone as perfect as her?”

“…I think you’re not seeing her flaws.”

“What flaws? I am getting a bit upset, Yellow Splatters. Name one.”

“I would say dumping you, but I am beginning to think that was not a flaw.”

Pawn was going over to poke Yellow Splatters in the side, and the Soldier had four poking-fingers ready to fight back. Then Pawn stopped.

“Look, I’m trying to get over it. But she was the only person I ever—you know—loved. The only non-Antinium who’s ever been that close with me.”

“I don’t need details, Pawn.”

The Priest punched Yellow Splatters’ shoulder.

“Not just intimately! I just mean…how am I supposed to go back? After knowing someone cares about me that much, how do I live a life without?”

He leaned on the railings of the ship. Like seeing the inn or the sky, once he knew it…Yellow Splatters sighed.

“This ‘love’ business seems like as much a problem as a blessing. I’m glad I haven’t fallen in love like Chesacre and Thaina.”

Pawn shook his head miserably.

“You don’t know what you’re missing, Yellow Splatters. That’s why I came here. I can’t keep just doing the same thing in the Hive. Everyone else is changing, but in a way, I stopped. Bird literally changed genders. Anand…he went after Erin, and Belgrade’s an officer now. But I’ve been tending to my flock.”

“Nothing wrong with caring for the Painted Antinium.”

Pawn sighed.

“No. But it meant I wasn’t levelling or trying new things. This? These are new experiences. See how we were welcomed in the Claiven Earth? We have to keep moving, Yellow Splatters. Heaven grows with each place we see, with each idea we find. We can have it if we never leave Liscor, but it will be more beautiful the more we do. And we must keep those who matter to us, no matter how far they are.”

That was why they were here, and Yellow Splatters rested a hand on Pawn’s shoulders.

“Now you sound like the Antinium I chose to follow. Enough about Lyonette and love. You should be rooting for both of you to move forwards.”

Pawn stared down at the ground passing by them, miserably nodding.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“That’s the spirit. You’ll find some lovely young Antinium lady. Or a rock. And Lyonette can, uh, date Yelroan.”

“…No.”

“How about Peggy? Everyone likes Peggy.”

“She’s an employee, Yellow Splatters. Stop talking about Lyonette’s love life!”

Yellow Splatters grinned.

“Why not? It’d stop you from agonizing over her once and for all. How about…Sir Relz?”

“Sir Relz?”

“They’re both sort of haughty.”

“Yellow Splatters, hold still. I’m going to throw you off the ship real quick.”

Pawn and Yellow Splatters began to shove at each other and poke. The Painted Antinium were ignoring the two arguing; this was their faithful leader’s one known flaw. Then they heard a shout.

“Krakens wake! Those bastards moved their camp! We’re right on top of the damn light! Hard to starboard, hard t—”

Then there was light. The ship jolted as a ray of light struck the hull, and Pawn’s arms were flailing. He reached for Yellow Splatters, and the Soldier shouted.

“Pawn!”

He leapt for Pawn, but the Worker skidded across the deck on his back-shell, hit the railing, flipped…he tried to grab it, but the ship was tilting, and then he was flying.

“Ah. [Holy Barrier]—”

He hit the ground as the air flashed again. Like a buggy meteor, raising a huge plume of dirt and sand. Pawn lay on his back and then got up.

“Praise be to faith. Amen. Now, where’s my ride—”

He turned, and the ship was already racing off into the distance, two huge holes in its hull. Pawn raised his hands.

“Um. Wait. You forgot me. Wait—”

Then he looked around and saw, in the distance, a glowing orb of light like a second sun rising ominously from the edge of some unwalled city. Pawn stopped.

“Ah.”

He’d found the Prophet’s people sooner than he’d thought.

——

As it so happened, no less than five other Antinium had also gone overboard when Sand at Sea had performed its evasive maneuvers. The first of them was Starfold, who’d broken an arm in the fall. Pawn reached down.

“[Cure Mundane Wounds]. Oof. Up you come, Starfold.”

“Thank you, Pawn. Do not tire yourself too much, please.”

The Soldier wiped at green blood that had been oozing from an arm as other Antinium dusted themselves off. One had broken an antenna, and Pawn recognized several.

“Rabbitears, Pie, and even you, Purple Smile? I lost my balance, but how did you fall off?”

The Soldier was far sturdier and better on his feet. He hand-signed.

“[I saw you go over and jumped.]”

“Oh. Well…thank you. Pie, let me fix your antennae.”

Pie, or rather, π, if you wanted to know his real name, was the last person to be healed. Then the Antinium stood around.

“We appear to have lost our ship. And we appear to be near the Prophet’s base. It must have moved; Captain C…Captain Cik…our [Captain] was not aware it had moved. Chandrarian names suck.”

They all nodded at this. Pawn cast around, scratching his head.

“Well, the ship went that way. And the Prophet’s clearly in that city.”

Both city and ship were vaguely south of them as Pawn pointed.

“Let’s go see these People of God.”

He started stumping out across the desert, and Purple Smile lost his smile.

“[What if they attack us, Pawn?]”

“Well, we run. But they already hit us with a light-beam, so I’d say we have every right to go over there and begin our objections to their presence in Khelt. Speaking of which…did anyone get hit by the beam itself? It didn’t hurt us. Only the undead.”

He hoped the crew was okay. The Antinium hadn’t been hurt by the light, nor had they seen any other Painted Antinium injured, so they began to march after Pawn.

Fun fact about the desert: everything was a lot further away than it appeared. And there were mirages.

——

Two hours into their march towards the city and Pawn was already in crisis. Namely—he adjusted the sand-cloak over his head and rasped.

“I would really appreciate the ability to conjure water.”

The Painted Antinium were rapidly suffering from the same problem Ksmvr had first endured in Chandrar: overheating. It wasn’t bad on the ship with the wind blowing and shade, but here? Pawn stumbled forwards, feeling leaden and slow.

Were they going to die in Khelt, paradise itself? Only, along the borders, the land was so barren. He could see vague patches of green further inland, and he was told the cities flowed with water, but they were oases between inhospitable land. Only where Kheltians lived was there any moisture.

“Pawn, it’s hot.”

“I know, Starfold. Shut up.”

“Use the scrolls that the Mage of Rivers gave you.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

All the Painted Antinium turned to Pawn as he trudged onwards, wondering if tossing his censer would lighten his load. No, no, it was a sacred artifact. But it was so damn heavy.

“I, uh, didn’t want to hold that much contained water magic. Just in case they went off. I gave them to Yellow Splatters.”

They all stared at him so accusingly Pawn shouted.

“I didn’t think I’d be stranded in a desert. Are we going to die? I could use my Skill. [I Walked Under Heaven’s Sky]?”

That was his most useful capstone at the moment. The other Painted Antinium groaned.

“Unless Heaven’s sky is wet, it won’t help. What about summoning Workers? Is Heaven wet, Pawn?”

“I doubt they could carry more than one of us. As for Heaven…”

Pawn considered the theology and shook his head.

“No. Hell is wet. I distinctly recall my sermon on that when I was cursing Hectval. Though I am beginning to think that Hell could also be sandy.”

His legs wobbled, and he nearly fell over, but Purple Smile grabbed him and offered a shoulder. The combat-ready Painted Antinium were doing better than the others, and Pawn rasped as they hobbled into a natural channel of some kind, a long-dried riverbed.

“Okay, we might actually die before Sand at Sea or anyone finds us. Quick stop. Strategize. Does anyone have useful Skills?”

He regarded the others, who were, including Pawn:

Starfold, Rabbitears, Pie, Purple Smile, and an unknown Painted Antinium with a priest’s robes. Pawn pointed.

“Who are you? I apologize, you must be new.”

“I am Priest Ecclisi, P-Pawn!”

The Painted Worker bowed. He seemed nervous, so Pawn waved a weary hand.

“Don’t be so worried. We’re all Antinium here. Okay, Skills. Anyone?”

He looked around, and the Antinium thought.

“I could shoot a glowing star for help.”

“[I can hop like a rabbit, but I’d leave you behind.]”

“I can conjure a pie. Anyone want some?”

“[I would like a pie. I can kill monsters, but no water.]”

“T-this unworthy [Priest] could bring down the ruination of Heaven upon our enemies!”

Everyone turned to eye Ecclisi, and the Worker faltered.

“—But not upon the enemy of dehydration.”

Pawn rasped as he felt sick and warm all over.

“Verily is it said, he who forgets his water flask shall suffer damnation of being super thirsty. Amen. Drat. Are we actually in trouble? No, no, we can get out of this.”

He was strategizing, and he turned to the others.

“Okay. What would you all say if…just for our survival, I made some quick theological changes to Heaven? Heaven is a raincloud. Heaven is a lot of rain. Then I activate my Skill and hopefully we’re cooled off.”

The other Antinium glanced at each other, and Purple Smile shrugged.

“[Worth a shot.]”

Ecclisi seemed horrified.

“Change Heaven? But surely if we pray, we shall be saved. We would not meddle with Heaven, surely, Great Pawn?”

Pawn waved a hand.

“Just for a moment so we can cool off, Ecclisi. I’m sure everyone will understand. What do the rest of you think?”

Starfold raised a hand.

“What if…you didn’t make it rain, but made it snow? That’s even cooler.”

Pawn pointed at him.

“Ah! Ah, that’s the kind of thinking we need.”

Pie offered a pie around, and Pawn nibbled on some of the berry juices; Rabbitears was just pasting it on his body in an attempt to cool off. Pie waved his antennae. He was one of the Soldiers who’d decided to be given a voice by the Free Queen. Not everyone had wanted it, but his voice was a pleasing tenor, higher than you thought when he spoke.

“What if you made it so that Heaven had snow that was lemon-flavored?”

All the Antinium considered this, and Pawn scratched at his chin.

“You know what? That’s actually a pretty appealing version of Heaven. I can get behind that. Part of Heaven might have snow in it. Flavored snow.”

Ecclisi dropped his piece of pie.

“Proph—Priest Pawn! How can this be? I have never heard of lemon snow in Heaven! H-how can you change your vision so easily?”

Pawn frowned at Ecclisi, annoyed by this attempt to stop them from getting lemon-snow, if it even worked. The kid was new, so he sighed and tried to explain.

“Listen, Ecclisi. Heaven is an idea I had, a belief of something we are striving to make. It is not…set in stone. I was not granted a great vision from God, you understand?”

“Yes, but…”

“Heaven can change. It can have new things added to it, especially if they are good ideas, like lemon snow. Though, now I consider it, we might mistake lemon snow for the other yellow snow, which would be Hell indeed. But we must strive and improve. You understand? If we believe we have the truth, we are fools. Ryoka told me that, once, and I agree. Uncertainty and being able to adapt is part of faith to me.”

The young [Priest] was staring up at Pawn. His mandibles opened and closed, and he had a lot of scars for an Antinium. He must have served on the front lines of the Free Hive, poor fellow.

“I…I see. I didn’t know you had such beliefs early on, Pawn. Then perhaps—yes, I see it now. This is righteous! It can be made even better!”

He spread all four arms as he raised them, hands palm up to the sky. Pawn glanced at Purple Smile, who was studying Ecclisi. But then the Worker turned and clasped his hands together.

“I shall pray for our salvation, Pawn. I have [Greater Prayer], which may be of some use.”

“That’s nice, Ecclisi. But just in case—everyone up! Let’s make the most of that pie. If we don’t get snow from my Skill, we have to get to the city or we’ll die. Either that or we dig a hole…okay, not lemon snow! Raspberry? But then it could get mixed up with blood…blueberry. Heaven has blueberry, no, Amentus Fruit snow.”

He had it. Genius! Pawn staggered up over one side of the channel and nearly slammed into the old man peering over the edge of the pit. The man with a straw hat on his head shouted and recoiled. He nearly fell onto the back of the huge, gigantic cat who yowled in alarm and tried to hide behind him!

Pawn stared at the fallen Stitch-man and the ‘cat’, who yowled again and then roared with a far deeper voice, and then at the six other gigantic cats who slunk around the Antinium. Then at the farm not a hundred paces ahead of them.

Ecclisi threw up his hands.

“Our faith has been answered!”

Pawn held a hand out to the pale-faced man, who hesitated, then took it.

“You’re Antinium? In Eternal Khelt? How? Are you guests of His Majesty? What are you doing so close to the borders? There’s violent intruders and no water for miles!”

He croaked, and Pawn rasped.

“We fell off a ship. You…you wouldn’t happen to have any water, would you?”

Silently, the man pointed towards his home, and Pawn nodded. Then the Antinium had to ask about the cat.

“Um. Excuse me. What kind of cat is that?”

The angry cat with a huge brown mane was growling at him, and so were all the others. The Kheltian man patted its head.

“Lions.”

“Huh.”

——

His name was Malam, and he was a [Hermit]. A Kheltian hermit of all things. He was rather overwhelmed by the Antinium’s presence, but after he fetched a bucket from the well, which automatically raised one for him, the Antinium were grateful and able to think again.

“I live here. Have done for…thirty years? Can’t stand cities. Can’t stand villages either. His Majesty built this spot for me, far from anyone. Asked if I was lonely, so he had lions sent to me. Used to have a skeleton there, right there. Always watching in case they tried to bite. Took ten years before he let it go back to work.”

The man explained his entire life story and then stood there, looking like he was unused to so much socializing. Pawn cleared his throat.

“I see. I am Pawn. I’ve come here at His Majesty’s request. Thank you for the water. We were heading towards that city with the glowing light. It struck Sand At Sea.”

“Don’t go there. It’s filled with foreigners. Violent ones. They took things from a family on the roads. Just took them.”

Malam was horrified by the People of God, but they hadn’t found his lonely farmstead. He was a rather self-sufficient Kheltian in that he could do dishes and even had a small farm. And a fishing pond in the shade of his house; he pulled up a fish from the covered pool and tossed it to the lions. The single male began to chomp on it as the female lions yowled for their own share.

“[This is incredible.]”

Pawn didn’t know if Rabbitears meant the lions, who were the biggest cats the Antinium had ever seen, or the house. Yes, it was a lonely house, but it was beautiful. And—Pawn had to just mention this—probably as big around as The Wandering Inn’s main floor by itself.

Alone he might be, but Malam did not want for luxury. He had cooling spells that extended to his entire property; you could walk around in the farm and be cool as a cucumber.

The well auto-filled and lifted buckets. The man had a fridge full of preserved food, where he put the pie that Pie gave to him, and he had lions as pets.

He seemed rather pleased by the Antinium’s awe. Purple Smile was trying to pet a lioness, who bared her teeth and bit his arm. He kept petting as she realized he was not as biteable as she thought.

Rather cowed, the other lions let Pawn and the Painted Antinium scratch them behind the ears. Pawn turned to Malam.

“I fear we must at least pass by the city, but we are very grateful for your help, and we will be careful. We do not have much of value on us, anyways. Is all…well in Khelt?”

The man gave him a look as if he were crazy.

“All well? No. Not at all. First the foreigners are fighting here for—must be over a month—and that was after I saw arrows shooting down from the sky. Next, the skeleton that brings me food doesn’t come for two weeks in a row. An official had to do it. Is something wrong in Khelt?”

“…Possibly. But you appear well.”

“I’m not. Without food or other supplies, I can’t live out here.”

“Oh dear. What are you lacking? I could bring word to a city.”

Malam began to count off on his fingers.

“I need chocolate éclairs, the latest editions of Adventure and Woe, about…thirty-nine books, divided by genres, prime rib steaks for the lions, Waisrabbits—”

“Excuse me, I have questions.”

Pawn had to interrupt. He raised a hand, and Malam seemed affronted.

“I wasn’t done. Are Antinium all that rude? The Baker was polite.”

“Sadly, I am very rude. What was this about chocolate…éclairs? I know a woman who makes chocolate. It is very expensive.”

Malam shrugged blankly.

“I don’t know if it costs things. Someone makes them in the city nearest us, so I asked for them. They always send me new foods to try. I’d like sixteen. Twelve will do if the deliveries are slow.”

“And the books? You get book deliveries?”

“Yes. I read one a day.”

“And…steaks for your lions? Waisrabbits? You eat Waisrabbits?”

Another blank look, and Malam began to get annoyed. Pawn saw why he was a hermit.

“No, living Waisrabbits. For the lions to hunt. Sometimes they miss them, but they enjoy them. And I need a canister of purified water.”

“To drink.”

“What else would I do with it?”

Pawn glanced around, and Starfold’s mandibles were hanging open. The [Priest] remarked lightly.

“Oh, I did not wish to assume. I wondered if you watered your crops with it or something.”

Malam grunted.

“That’s not a bad idea. Two canisters, then. And…”

Pawn was spared from having to write a list of Malam’s needs out by the arrival of more visitors. There was a jangle from a magical bell on Malam’s doorway, and his head swung around.

“More guests? I—oh no. It’s them.”

He took one look at the hooded and veiled group coming from the direction of the city and dove behind a couch. Pawn rose instantly.

“They must have been tracking us. Malam—”

“They shouldn’t be able to find me! I have [Perfect Concealment: Home]! Don’t let them hurt me!”

“We won’t. Painted Antinium, to me. There are only…twelve of them. So, one for each of us, and seven for Purple Smile.”

The Antinium filed out of Malam’s house as his lions, rather than snarl and defend their home, joined Malam behind the couch. It seemed Khelt made mice out of even lions. Pawn reached for his club, but held up a hand.

“Hold on. They can’t see us.”

The Prophet’s people passed right by Pawn and Malam’s home without a second glance! Not close enough to jump, but they were heading for the dried-up riverbed where Pawn and the others had been. Pawn motioned to the Antinium, and they stealthed after the Prophet’s people.

One might wonder how six giant bugs approached anyone over the flat ground. The answer was simple: they crouched down and pulled the sand-cloaks over their bodies. Like that, they were actually fairly similar to the ground at a distance.

Pawn shuffled closer as he heard a voice calling in the distance.

“—In the name of the Lord our God, answer!”

They were calling out, searching for the Antinium. Pawn peeked his head up. Twelve, all on horseback. The horses were not happy. Looted from Kheltian cities? The People of God didn’t seem that rich; they wore somewhat worn white robes for the most part. Some were armed, but they had veils—for the sand that came whipping up. It couldn’t sting Pawn’s eyes, but they coughed, then another shouted.

“If you are lost, come unto the Lord, who is our Shepherd, and he shall guide you to Salvation!”

Huh. Even Pawn didn’t speak like that. He recognized the wording, of course. This must be Christianity, the kind that Erin and Ryoka had mentioned.

Ryoka with fewer salutary qualities. Pawn wondered which version it was. He was about to motion to the other Antinium to sneak closer when a third voice added.

“We have water! If you cannot speak, make a sound or we cannot find you! You’ll die of thirst otherwise!”

They shook a waterflask overhead, and Pawn’s head popped up. He saw the others spreading out, sliding into the riverbed, and each had a canteen.

“Hmm.”

After a second, Pawn signalled to the others to hold ground. Ecclisi would have risen, but Pawn threw off his sand-cloak and called out.

“Here I am. I am lost and thirsty. Can you help me?”

The People of God turned and recoiled the moment they saw him. One reached for a blade.

“What is that? A monster?”

“No, idiot. It’s one of the bug-people of Izril! An…an…”

“Antinium, hello. I am Pawn. I got lost. Did you see me or my friends?”

The People of God rode over, staring, and then one fumbled for a water flask. He tossed it, warily, at Pawn, and the Antinium caught it. He uncorked the flask and drank more water, splashing some over his face.

“Thank you.”

One of the men on horseback replied, making a cross with his hands on his chest.

“It is God’s will. We could not leave someone to die in the desert, even a Kheltian. But you…how did you come here? And, uh, what are those?”

He pointed at the five lumps on the ground and jumped as five more Antinium rose. Pawn sighed.

“We are Antinium. We came to Khelt on…a mission of mercy, I suppose. Who are you?”

He already knew the answer, but he was curious. The People of God eyed each other. Their leader spoke after a moment.

“I am Silad Hemp. We are the People of God, following the Prophet, delivering the Truth to these godless people of Khelt. We thought you were part of the cursed ship that sails across this land. If you were Kheltians, we were to keep you from dying. If you were the hateful undead, return you to rest. You—you were on the ship, yes?”

Pawn smiled at him.

“Yes, we were. We are guests of Khelt.”

The People of God glanced at each other again, this time with clear chagrin.

“We only attacked because we feared it as an assault! We meant to only strike back at the Kheltians, who have slaughtered us and rained terror from above. Please, come with us in peace to our cities. Do you swear that, we will give you escort.”

Pawn tilted his head. This was not the group he had imagined when Fetohep contacted him.

Into the lion’s den. He saw Purple Smile watching him, but then again, they had just been in a literal lion’s den. Pawn spoke slowly.

“In the name of Jesus Christ, God, and the Holy Spirit, I do come in peace so long as peace is offered to me and those around me, People of God. Will that serve?”

He used his own rudimentary knowledge of their religion and saw the man’s eyes go round. He bowed over his saddlehorn and stuttered.

“You know the words? Yes, of course! This is a miracle! Come, friends!”

He beamed, and laughed, and Pawn nodded to himself. He accepted the offer of a horseback ride since he was sick of walking, and swung himself up onto the saddle with the help of the other Antinium.

“I’m glad. I hope to meet your leader.”

“He is injured. Poisoned by an assassin.”

“Hm, if not him, then one of your higher-ups. And I am glad you come in peace and that I had your measure. You are people of the Christian faith, yes?”

Silad nodded, smiling at another person he thought to be a true believer.

“Yes, and you knew the words! The Prophet said more would be found who were true believers of the faith. An entire world of them.”

Pawn nodded slowly.

“Yes…I know the words. I am glad, as well, that I said the right ones. I wondered if you were perhaps Muslim. Or Jewish. Or Mormon.”

The man shot him a puzzled look.

“What are these names? I do not know them, Pawn of the Antinium.”

The [Priest] paused again, and glanced at Malam’s house, which had vanished. He was sure the old [Hermit] was watching them from there. Then he looked at the People of God.

“Hmm. I’m sure I shall try to explain. That’s strike one for both sides.”

“Strike? What is this strike for?”

“Oh, that’s just baseball. Nothing to do with religion. Lead on, Silad.”

That was how Pawn first met the People of God.

——

Yellow Splatters was exceptionally unhappy when they reached Koirezune. Pawn was missing, and everything the [First Heretic] believed in said that they should be going back to save him.

But here he was, abandoning Pawn, the center of their faith. That was so…underhanded.

“Do you think it’s my class? Do you think I’m levelling as a [Heretic]? Does this count?”

He was pestering some of the other Antinium, including Stellar Word. He was a [Priest] like Holytext and one of the more religiously…religious Painted Antinium. His severe voice and lectures about faith sometimes grated on the nerves, but they were actually welcome now.

“I would hope that not even a heretic blasphemer of our faith would be that evil, Yellow Splatters. We must have faith in Priest Pawn. It may be he is captured, but he is not dead. We would know. And therefore your logic and that of Captain Cikroleth is correct.”

Yellow Splatters relaxed slightly. Yes, it wasn’t just him. The Painted Antinium were not happy, but good tactics meant that Sand at Sea had to continue fleeing. They had two holes in their hull that had gone straight through the enchantments.

They could have stopped and disembarked the Painted Antinium when they were out of range, but that would have risked the entire remainder of their tiny force. They’d be squashed like, well, Shield Spiders if they went up against even a few hundred of the People of God.

Outnumbered, possibly outmatched, going to the capital was the only correct move. Pawn might be captured, but the People of God were not actually that murderous. And he was powerful on his own.

Therefore, the capital. Yellow Splatters’ first impression of Khelt was unsettling. Foreign powers in the borders was not the paradise he knew. And then…

There was the panic.

“Behold. Our glorious capital, jewel of Chandrar. Too many folk on the street to even get through, and they won’t hear us. Too panicked. Irg, get to the palace! The rest of you, patch that hull and get ready to sail.”

Captain Cikroleth didn’t even have time to walk the Painted Antinium to the palace. He just lowered the boarding plank, and they moved.

Oh, now this was familiar. Yellow Splatters inhaled something sweet and beautiful in the air, he heard the chiming of bells, and his eyes registered a profusion of colors that made him halt, but the fear made his legs move again.

There was a precarious sense to the air. Panic, a grave silence between raised voices. People on the streets, some standing still, statues of uncertainty, and he looked at the other Antinium and gave voice to the feeling.

“Their sky is falling. Advance.”

That was the sound running through Khelt, he realized. Empty restaurants, people hiding in their homes or standing in the streets, talking. A breakdown of the social order. He had seen it in Liscor before, and this was their first time. Tears, panic attacks. And—he saw a man shovelling pieces of bread into a sack of holding.

People preparing to flee. Yellow Splatters wasn’t even noticed at first—until someone saw him and cried out.

“Insect! They’re getting bigg—”

He braced, but like other nations in Chandrar, the Kheltians weren’t hostile to him, aside from the bug thing. They gazed upon him, then flocked forwards.

“Antinium? Are you here to help His Majesty? This way—this way!”

“Yes, we are. Do not be alarmed.”

They had no fear of the Antinium? The Painted Antinium were confused until one of the Kheltians spoke.

“You come from Liscor, and Khelt has helped Liscor! Of course! No one but Dovive has sent reinforcements. How many of you are there? Armies?”

The woman’s face reflected hope, and she stood on her tip-toes as if wishing to see the Black Tide marching. When Yellow Splatters told her they were only sixty in number, her face fell.

“Oh. It is so far. But surely…are you high-level? Is your class powerful?”

The Level 38 [First Heretic-Captain of the Faith] considered the question. Yellow Splatters rumbled.

“To some, perhaps. I am one of the highest-level Antinium in my Hive. Only my leader is higher-level among my…group. We have levelled via war and strife.”

He felt like they should outlevel another faith-based group, even if the other one had seen battles of their own. But after seeing that ball of light…

Stored faith. Yellow Splatters smiled at the woman, who smiled back.

“Excuse me, do not be afraid. I am smiling. Could you direct us to the palace? I assume it is that huge structure, but I do not wish to assume. Um, I am Yellow Splatters. What is your name?”

“Koirda. And I know you’re smiling. I watched Baker Garry’s broadcast. This way—clear the way!”

She wanted to tug him to the palace, but the Kheltians had seen the Antinium and were flooding forwards with questions. They were, as Yellow Splatters noted, panicking.

“Is it help? Those are Antinium right, not super-roaches? I never noticed they looked like bugs until now!”

“So few! T-they won’t be able to do anything in the north. There’s a hundred thousand of the People of God, and we’re going to be butchered! Without the skeletons—”

“—all doomed, we have to flee! Who’s with me? We’ll join Reim, Nerrhavia’s Fallen, or…”

That last man was the one with the rucksack of bread. He was hefting it and trying to convince other Kheltians on the street, but as terrified as they were, few people were even engaging him. One man, a horrified chef selling Rock Crabs of all things, was stuttering.

“L-leave Khelt? Are you mad?”

“There’s no safety here anymore. With Roshal and the Prophet, you see that, don’t you?”

“Yes, but other nations? What will we do? They require coins there, don’t they?”

The bread-carrying man hesitated.

“Yes, but…we’ll throw ourselves on the grace of the King of Destruction! He lets everyone join his people. We need protection. And surely the King of Destruction can provide that! Who’s with me? We could leave tonight! You should all pack your things!”

He turned, seeking consensus, and a few voices announced they’d packed, but they weren’t ready to go yet. At this point, a rather fascinated Antinium tapped the man on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir. Do not be alarmed.”

“I’m not. Are you Antinium of Liscor or the Hivelands? I’d love to sculpt your faces, but I’m fleeing for my life right now, excuse me.”

The bread-man turned, and the Worker clacked his mandibles.

“Er, yes. About that. Are you planning on going to Reim on foot?”

“On foot? Don’t be ridiculous, I’ll take a carriage with horses. I can drive it.”

“Oh, good. This is much more reasonable than I had thought. And I assume you have ample provisions.”

The man held up the bread sack and pulled out three loaves with a flourish.

“This should last well into Reim, shouldn’t it?”

All the Antinium peered at the loaves of bread, and even a few Kheltians like Koirda seemed to understand that it was not exactly a pack of provisions. The Worker scratched at his antennae.

“I think that would last you a day and a half of full bread meals. Which does not include the meals for horses. Reim…I do not think you would enter Reim and reach a city before experiencing significant hunger.”

The bread-man hesitated, affronted.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s only a day’s ride away, surely. Or less!”

“From here to the capital of Reim? If you were on a magical flying warship, you could make that journey in less time. On horseback? Do you know how far it is from here to Reim?”

The bread-man blustered.

“It can’t be that far. I’ve been to Kheltian cities in hours! Reim is our neighbor! Here, let me get a map and show you.”

Someone actually had a map, perhaps considering the very same issue, and the man pointed at the tiny distance between Khelt’s capital and Reim’s.

“It’s only 186 miles.”

“…Yes. Um, do you know how far that is? Have you ever travelled that far, sir?”

“Well, I don’t travel. I’ve never had to leave Khelt, but His Majesty reached the north coast in no time at all!”

It dawned on the Painted Antinium that Kheltians might understand how to read a map, but they had no sense of how far a mile actually was. Nor how to survive given that breadman, whose name was Alfense, had no coins nor experience with working.

Though he was a Level 22 [Sculptor]. He pointed a vague hand at his workshop.

“I make art, but between the bugs and the Slavers of Roshal, I fear for my life. It only makes sense. Everyone else is crazy. When the People of God are eating us, there won’t be time to run. Don’t you see?”

Yellow Splatters did see. There was a kind of pragmatism this man had that other Kheltians might lack. How many Liscorian citizens with these instincts had avoided catastrophes? And yet, the Painted Soldier peered around Koirezune, and he spoke to all and sundry as officials from the palace ran down to meet him, including a young woman holding a pot under one arm.

“It is true that sometimes, death comes for cities, even nations. This Prophet of God is dangerous, and we may not be able to stop them. However, home is home, however it looks. For your people, for an inn, I have seen people fight and die despite terrible odds. For this city?”

He had stood in it bare minutes. Yet—Yellow Splatters passed a hand over his eyes.

“I would fight for this city. I will fight for this city. If only because it is the first and only place in the entire world that has made art for my kind of people.”

His head rose, and the walls of the city glittered with beautiful colors, he would not deny. Any [Painter] in Izril would admire the murals of Queen Khelta lifting a finger and undead rising embellished across three streets such that if you stood in the right place, the art appeared across the façades of each building, creating the completed piece.

Or the street with little fishies swimming in glass-covered rivers. This was art. But…the Painted Antinium turned, and Yellow Splatters stared at a wall. Koirda, Alfense, and the other Kheltians turned, and the Human woman frowned.

“What art do you mean? Oh—the umbral wall? But that’s just black paint, no offence…”

It was a beautiful black, and if you stared closely enough, you could see the different shades which created an effect that could unsettle the stomach. There were contests to see who could stare at it longest without puking.

Yellow Splatters shook his head wordlessly, and it was Alfense who disagreed.

“It’s not just black. It’s just that we can’t see the colors. You’re supposed to wear certain enchanted glasses that let you see colors beyond the naked eye. Some artist drew the painting to impress his pet lizard.”

“You mean Lizardfolk? Did he own [Slaves]?”

“No, pet lizard. It wasn’t impressed by his art. He talked to it. The piece of art won little acclaim in his lifetime, but it was known for making different species stop and admire it. A few Nagas of Baleros, [Mages], a deer one time—so it was declared a Century Work. It’s slated for destruction in six years if it doesn’t win an extension. Oh, so they must see—”

The words washed over Yellow Splatters. He heard them, digested them, and understood by this that a non-Antinium had once made art they could not even see to impress a lizard. And that the beauty and scope of the art was worthy, recognized. But it might only last a century, then be torn down because this was the majesty of Khelt.

“Beautiful.”

He spun on one heel, and he picked up the pretty scents again. They hung in the air, blown from charms, not a hint of the sewers or even the earthy, common flavors of the Hive. The streets were so perfectly flat, and everyone dressed like the Players of Celum.

It was a beautiful city. Alfense and Koirda agreed, but both sighed.

“If only you had come at any other time, honored guests. Koirezune is not fit to be shown today! It’s so—filthy and run-down. You can barely smell the scent of the city, our own specialty. And there’s no music for everyone’s in a fever.”

“You have music? A concert?”

“No. Just music. There’s always music; surely that’s common everywhere?”

Alfense turned, and the Antinium peered at a fountain jetting purified water into the air. One of the Workers stared at a burger.

He knew burgers. He’d been served burgers before and thought it the bee’s knees at The Wandering Inn. He’d even had a double-decker pork buddy deluxe burger with goat’s cheese, straight from Erin’s menu—one ham ‘burger’, one beef, goat’s cheese, dried Yellats, spinach, all in fresh-baked bread.

The Worker saw an eleven-stack burger being boxed to-go for a stressed man. Avocado, pickled spicy Yellats, a thin fish-substitute tofu burger, tomato-bread, Noelictan Midnight Cheddar, handmade mayonnaise made with Fortuna Chicken eggs…

At this point, the Worker lost count of how many pieces of the 11-stack burger that was and had to begin again. Food, sights, and—the Painted Antinium kept turning as Pewerthe skidded to a stop. Then they knew what the word meant, for the first time in their lives. Just like they could know the word ‘sky’ or ‘happiness’ but never truly encompass the meaning until they found it.

Paradise.

——

In some ways, the Antinium were a foolish wish of Fetohep; a gesture that looked good on paper but would solve nothing. Pewerthe knew that, but she still ran to greet them as Fetohep lay slumbering, because she needed hope.

They all did. She was Khelt’s ruler in this moment. Vizir Hecrelunn was giving out orders as he saw fit, but it was a mark of the urgency of the situation that he let her govern from Koirezune. Their mission was simple.

“Deal with the citizens and the Prophet. I will curtail these invaders from reaching our lands, girl.”

He had armies to deal with. She a religious group and the panic that had set in when her pots broke. She judged the Prophet to be the greater threat, and she was grimly readying herself for the worst.

He had to be bested by non-undead means. Not Hecrelunn, not Sand at Sea. So that meant Alked Fellbow, Frieke the Falcon, Konska, Death Commander Lanodest and the few soldiers they had available to Khelt’s army, the Gnolls and Centaurs if they could be convinced to fight, and…Pewerthe.

The fact that she was including herself as a war-asset was a really bad sign. It also meant that the Painted Antinium were a considerable fighting force, but she could not count on them alone.

Hence the pot. Frieke was easily keeping pace with Pewerthe as she ran from the palace. She didn’t seem unsettled—Named-ranks seldom did, even when people began dying. Rather, she was pessimistically cheerful and actually taking notes in a journal as she ran. Pewerthe was gasping for air as Konska lazily flapped after the two.

“So let me get this straight: you were lying to me and His Majesty about your powers. You hid all of Khelt’s woes in pots.”

“Yes.”

“I caught the lie about your family. Did the [Bandits] kill them? The ones you escaped?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Did you, uh, lie about anything else?”

Pewerthe was shoving something inside the big pot she was carrying in one arm. She’d been filling it up since she’d heard Sand at Sea had been attacked. She’d put some stones she’d picked up inside along with broken pieces of glass or stone from the riots. Then added some olive oil from the palace kitchens. Two whole amphoras, which Frieke couldn’t help but notice were a lot more than the head-sized pot should have held.

It was a lovely pot; it had a banded side with etchings of Gnolls getting off ships, not like the crude pots Pewerthe had been making to hide secrets. Real artistry even other Kheltians would appreciate. Pewerthe panted.

“I’m not Level 32 or whatever I claimed.”

“Oh. Anything else?”

“Frieke, is now the time for this?”

“I’m just curious. What’s that?”

Pewerthe slowed to gasp for air, and she shoved what seemed like a bag of smelly dirt into the pot. She glared at Frieke.

“Compost. Fertilizer. Let’s see. Coal. Or charcoal.”

Konska flew off and found a bag—Pewerthe kept jogging down the crowded streets after a moment.

“I lied about how the [Bandits] died.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Some killed each other, but you don’t think all of them murdered each other down to the last one, do you? That truly would have been a story. Even with all the deception Skills in the world, they caught onto the fact they were killing each other. Then again, they butchered one another well enough.”

That implied at least a few had been alive before Khelt had gotten there, though. Frieke’s eyes slid to the jar. She saw Pewerthe grab a sack of nails and toss them in.

“I see. Any other lies?”

Pewerthe hefted the pot that Frieke now calculated held a number of very sharp or very flammable things. It was no fancy alchemical Potion of Blast, but Frieke wondered who had more power, a Level 30 [Alchemist] or Pewerthe. That wasn’t necessarily impressive to Frieke, though. She was Named-rank. Just a good use of class and Skill which anyone could do.

No, the impressive thing was when Pewerthe grabbed a lit torch from the side of a restaurant who liked the ‘authenticity’ of fire and tossed it in the pot. The flaming tip of the torch vanished, and Konska instantly flew away. Frieke stopped and put herself next to a thick wall.

“Er, Pewerthe.”

“Come on, I know what I’m doing!”

The pot…did not explode. Nor did Frieke see smoke coming from it. It could be the flames had extinguished, but she didn’t feel like that was the case. Frieke jogged forwards, then jumped back as Pewerthe bit the cork off of an actual Potion of Blast, then tossed it in the pot.

“Oh, come on.”

Pewerthe shut the lid on the pot, shook it around, then opened it and began to put more objects in, grabbing whatever she saw as she ran.

“It’s a special pot. Also, fertilizer explodes. Colovt told me that. Other lies…well, His Majesty knows a number of them, but what I tell most people is different, of course. For instance, do you think I’m actually Kheltian? What are the odds I survived all that if I were born or even raised by Kheltians?”

Frieke’s mouth actually fell open at this point, and Konska exchanged a look with her.

“Are you serious?”

“Maybe I’m not, maybe I am. That’s the point. Secrets level me. Okay, excuse me, coming through!”

Then they met the Antinium, and the ultra-dangerous pot managed to swallow half a burger, two plates, a kitchen knife, and two lanterns while Pewerthe spoke with Yellow Splatters and his company.

The burger was probably an accident.

——

“I give you the run of any city you need and anything you require—armor, weapons, supplies, just name it and we’ll give it to you. But I warn you: the Prophet’s people best magic. Everything except for Relic-class items are ineffective. We have avoided doing battle with them because of the cost to Kheltian lives, but…the moment is coming. They are building something, and that light that struck Sand at Sea is hovering over the monument they’ve constructed. They call it a ‘sacrament’, and when it activates, I fear it will be battle. I’d prefer to engage them before that.”

Pewerthe the Potter was a strange ruler compared to Fetohep, but he was apparently unconscious or something. A fact that the citizens had not been aware of. They began screaming as Pewerthe held a conference with Yellow Splatters.

“What? What did she say?”

“His Majesty is—! Why didn’t anyone tell us? The Day Servants?”

“Pewerthe? That’s Pewerthe the Potter! Why is she talking like she’s an official?”

The young woman reminded Yellow Splatters of Watch Captain Zevara. Or maybe Saliss, but that could have been all the things she kept putting into that pot she was holding. Not Erin; she was too focused, and she seemed like she knew what was going on. Erin was chaos. She could be a mastermind, but she often surprised herself.

He nodded after a moment.

“In that case, Potter, I would like to allow my people a chance to rest; we have been travelling nonstop. We shall move towards the Prophet of God’s people to locate Pawn and attempt to engage them in civil discourse and identify their powers. They have considerable strengths, and we must learn how they fight and how well they fight.”

Scout, analyze, recover. Pewerthe nodded and took a breath.

“And if you find yourself outmatched or they are hostile?”

“Then we shall engage them with fists to the face.”

Yellow Splatters punched a fist into the palm of his hand with all four arms. Pewerthe blinked, and the Kheltians recoiled. But the woman standing next to Pewerthe, Frieke the Falcon, grinned.

The Antinium were what Khelt needed in some senses. Yellow Splatters wanted to be intelligent, diplomatic, and so on, but he did have a specialty, and it was hitting problems. He turned to Frieke.

“Your help in this regard would be useful if it comes to fighting, Adventurer Frieke.”

She nodded casually, touching the shortsword at her side, and a giant grey hawk landed on one bracered arm.

“I can join in fighting whenever it starts. But Alked’s the real fighter between us. I’m more of a hybrid scout-fighter. I’m decent at swordplay, and I have lots of combination-abilities with Konska.”

“May I ask what that entails, Adventurer Frieke?”

Normally, these were secrets, but sixty versus what Pewerthe guessed to be anywhere from four to eight thousand who had survived the Arrows of Razzimir…they’d have to work well. Frieke hesitated, but then nodded.

“Surely. My best Skill is my Level 40 Skill, [Falconer’s Bond: Share Skill]. It doesn’t do anything on its own, but it means that Konska or I can use a Skill and share its effects.”

Oh. That sounded good. However, Frieke seemed a bit embarrassed by it. She scratched Konska’s neck.

“It’s pretty average for most [Beast Masters], honestly. I know three with the same kind of Skill. My specialty with Konska is how he helps me reposition. Where he goes, I can follow with [Partner’s Bond: Limited Teleport]. Then I’m set up for a [Falcon Drop]—that’s a dive attack—and so on and so forth. I need to be mobile, and he needs to be able to coordinate with me.”

A wide-ranging attacker with amazing mobility. She’d be useless in the Hives, but Chandrar, with its open terrain, suited her. Frieke sighed.

“…But Alked’s the one who hunts giant monsters. As Named-ranks go, he’s more established than I am in experience and levels. I’m low-rank, he’s mid or high-rank. And he’s got Heavens’ Arc, a Relic-class item. Konska’s got a mini bag of holding and a charm made by some high-level [Witch] as well as two rings, but we don’t have that kind of gear. You want someone who can drop even the faithful? Check with him. Even my armor’s just okay.”

She was a Dullahan, but she seemed so much like a Human that he hadn’t noticed her armor was just metal and cloth to resemble a woman wearing armor and clothing. Fascinating—Yellow Splatters had never seen a Dullahan look like that. Normally, Dullahans liked the all-armor aesthetic, but Frieke seemed to want to blend in with other Chandrarians.

Pewerthe had listened to Frieke’s entire spiel and eyed her, as if seeing the Named-ranker’s self-effacing words and becoming guiltier with each second. An extraordinary woman taken for granted in Khelt, which, Yellow Splatters realized, was going to be a motif. Wordlessly, Pewerthe fumbled at her belt.

“You are not second to Alked, Frieke. You are one of Khelt’s few champions and my friend. As acting Ruler of Khelt—”

“What did she say? I must have heard that wrong.”

“—I am giving this to you. Wield it in Khelt’s defense. I bequeath to you, the…the…Serept’s Blue Sword.”

Pewerthe pulled the blue diamond longsword she’d taken from Serept’s treasures from her waist and handed it to Frieke. The Named-ranker’s eyes went round, and she nearly dropped the Relic. Even the Kheltians gasped.

“Pewerthe!? You can’t!”

“I can, and it is overdue. Fetohep guards the Relics like they matter. Right now, Khelt matters. Take it, Frieke.”

“I can’t!”

“You will or I will put it in this pot, and even I don’t know if the pot can hold that!”

Faced with the threat of potting a Relic-class item, Frieke took the sword and examined it. Yellow Splatters wondered, since Relic-class items were being handed out, if he could get in on that.

No, first things first. First, he intended to go to Pawn; they were taking enough time here. He motioned.

“Stellar Word, you will remain in the city with Pewerthe and defend her and explain our capabilities. The scrolls, our powers. The rest of you, with me. We will go back to the border and investigate in squads. Do not engage. Try to figure out what powers the People of God have and if we can copy them.”

Frieke and Pewerthe glanced at him.

“So their powers are beyond even you, Captain Yellow Splatters?”

Pewerthe’s smile was desperate, and the Painted Soldier saw her exhaustion and worry. He held up his hands hurriedly.

“What? No. They are unique, but not incomprehensible. Their faith resembles one that Pawn knows, which is why we must find him, and they use their powers differently. We could sense this sacrament, but none of us have ever used the like. We are learning. Actually…did Starfold ever figure out how to store faith?”

He turned and realized that Starfold was one of the missing Painted Antinium, but another Soldier raised a hand.

“I have it. Excuse me. Excuse me, I am Seventh Voice.”

He strode over, and the Kheltians admired the images of speech, stylized lips and mouths, on his armor. Pewerthe frowned.

“Why the name, may I ask?”

“Because he was the seventh Soldier to be granted the ability to speak by the Free Queen. And now he won’t shut up about it.”

One of the Painted Workers muttered. Seventh Voice elbowed Radiant Turquoise and bowed. He held something in his arms. It was…a glowing orb of light?

Pewerthe and Frieke recoiled instinctively, but it was not the same as the holy golden light that the People of God had. This was more like a shimmering ball of contained mist, a vortex of light, like stellar nebulae contained within.

It looks like Pawn’s capstone Skill, [I Walked Under Heaven’s Sky]. Yellow Splatters glanced at Seventh Voice, and the Soldier nodded.

“It took a bit of effort to contain. We can gather the faith, but it requires a vessel to anchor it. Perhaps you could make it float, but that is an experiment for later. Then it was small; we sacrificed six scrolls, but I deemed it prudent not to waste more in the mere prototyping phase, Captain, Your Majesty, Adventurer Frieke. Also, do note the dimensions of the orb. Perhaps they are naturally spherical or it is the object we sacrificed that established the dimensionality.”

Seventh Voice spoke like Pisces and Mrsha combined. Yellow Splatters cut him off before he could waste more time.

“What vessel did you sacrifice to hold this?”

“Our favorite football. It was pretty holy; we’ve been using it since the sport was invented.”

Pewerthe’s face went slack, but as Painted Antinium reckoned such things, that was a pretty holy object. They’d have to get a new one. Yellow Splatters inspected the bundle of faith.

“Hmm. This is useful. I can almost sense the power in it. We could fuel a miracle with it, or something bigger. Holytext’s creations have more of a use if they can be converted to raw…faith? More use than attracting Fissivolian secret agents to steal it from us and having Antinium sell it on the streets.”

“Hey. That is very hurtful.”

“May I see it, Yellow Splatters?”

The [Potter] was very curious and shivered when she touched the orb, but then frowned.

“It’s…pleasant. Like a vision of the sky. The [Light of Faith] is harsh and blinding.”

“We believe in different things, then. Their beliefs seem better for fighting with. But this might hurt if you threw it at someone. We’ll try that.”

By which Yellow Splatters meant literally just hitting someone with the soccer-ball sized orb of faith and seeing what it did. Again, he was not Pawn. The Painted Antinium had their miracles, and they’d use them as needed.

Pewerthe peered at the orb, then hesitantly turned to Yellow Splatters.

“If you intend to just…use it, Captain? May I try something with it? It might use it up, but I am curious. This has never existed in Khelt before, not in all our records.”

“Of course.”

He handed it to her; they could always make more since they’d brought at least four soccer balls, though they’d lost one at sea. Pewerthe eyed the orb and then…put it in her pot.

There was a flash, and the pot vibrated dangerously. Everyone backed up rapidly, and Pewerthe herself held the pot like an explosive.

“I don’t know if it’s going to hold. Frieke—”

She handed the pot to Frieke and backed up fast, ducking behind a low wall. Frieke apprehensively held the pot as it kept trembling, then slowly, slowly settled down. Then it began to glow, each color of the pot lighting up, and Pewerthe eyed it.

“I think it’s full.”

“What does the pot, um, do?”

Yellow Splatters reflected that even in Khelt, he could be surprised by some of the people. Pewerthe pointed at the pot.

“The pot? It holds things. That’s all. It holds a lot of things. It’s a [Pot of Combination]. The question is…what happens when the combined thing comes out? That happens when the pot breaks. Normally, it’s mostly just an explosion. Now? I have no idea what will happen. You should take it with you.”

The Painted Antinium glanced at each other. Yellow Splatters nodded to Seventh Voice, and the Soldier quite audibly grumbled as he went to take it.

“I wish we’d gotten Fetohep. This sucks.”

They took an hour to rest. Then they were marching north for war. Religious war. But Pawn…Pawn had already met the Prophet’s people. What he saw was illuminating.

——

“It’s too goddamn bright.”

It slipped out of Pie’s mouth after forty minutes of being in the ‘holy’ city that the People of God had taken from the Kheltians. Pie was in a bad mood; he’d been seasick on Sand at Sea, despite being on dry land, then been knocked off, then been dehydrated, and now his eyes hurt.

Every member of the faithful gasped and turned to him. Starfold slapped the back of Pie’s head, and Pawn lifted a hand. He was seated cross-legged with one of the [Priests] who’d captured them. They didn’t call it that, but a lot of warriors were surrounding the six Antinium.

They knew Antinium, but vaguely, and were highly alarmed by their presence. Pawn’s voice, though, was soothing.

“Forgive my companion, Pie, Priest Silad Hemp. He only means that the city taxes our eyes; we live in the darkness of the underground, and your city is blinding.”

They sat in the [Light of Faith], which hovered right over the city. A glorious symbol of faith, but consider what that meant.

Every place the light touched was almost blinding; white or glass became near-impossible to see, and what shadows weren’t banished stretched out, elongated by the light.

Sort of ironic; the more light, the more shadow. Priest Silad probably understood Pawn’s comment about the light, but he had dropped the piece of manna he was offering them. His face clouded with anger.

“Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain! So it is written in the Ten Commandments set down by the Prophet. If you are a people who understand the word of God and the Bible, you would know this, ‘Priest Pawn’.”

He was suspicious of Pawn more than when they’d met. Hearing Pawn was a [Priest] had put the man’s guard up. Pawn was trying to explain, and he kept his voice pleasant. Level.

“As I have said, I am not a member of your faith, though I respect it, Priest Silad.”

“There is only one true faith and one true God. All others are pretenders. Thou shalt not worship false idols!”

Silad’s head bowed, as if coming to an unfortunate conclusion. Pawn lifted a finger.

“Firstly, I do not wish to come to violence within moments of meeting, Silad. This appears to be a quick judgement.”

“There is nothing in the New Bible or Bible about the quickness of thought or judgement, Priest Pawn.”

“No, there is not. I would hope that falls under common sense. Allow me to continue.”

The other [Priest] recoiled slightly, and the crowd of people, Stitch-folk mainly, and mostly Hemp, though Pawn saw a very attractive Silk Stitch-woman watching him, laughing. Then they covered their mouths, but this was a good sign. It meant they were people. Pawn went on, smiling.

“Second to my points, my people do not worship false idols. We do not worship other Gods.”

“But you are not people of Christ.”

“Yes, and our faith revolves around belief in Heaven, not a God. Thirdly, I wish to emphasize that discourteous as Pie’s comment was, it does not violate your commandment.”

“He swore in our holy city!”

“Yes, but he did not take the Lord’s name in vain. He said ‘goddamnit’, not the name of God. One may argue that he disrespected the authority of God, but as Pie would assure you, he only meant to reflexively curse the light itself. Not the light that derives from faith, but just the fact that it is…very bright. I am sure a man of God such as yourself can understand the nuance, especially in light of our foreign backgrounds.”

The Painted Antinium listened as Silad blinked, and the Faithful murmured. They had forgotten, but Pawn truly was eloquent at times. He had the most practice of all the Antinium, and for however much someone like Seventh Voice could try to copy him, Pawn had actual meaning behind his words, not just a fancy lexicon.

The [Priest] nodded cautiously as he hesitated, glancing over his shoulder into the crowd.

“You—you speak with authority, Priest…Pawn. And you are foreign believers. Tell me, how do you know the Truth and the Way? It was prophesied that one day, other Humans would come who knew the Good Word, an entire planet of them, but not Antinium.”

Pawn’s antennae waved.

“Fascinating. It would appear to me that this Prophet is from the same location as some other people I have met. I suspect we both have met people of Christianity. I was taught by two women I know and cherish dearly. I have never met this planet of Humans, but is it so surprising an Antinium or any species might know of Christianity? If it is the Truth and the Way, then all peoples are surely entitled to it. Or so I hope.”

Silad was nodding, a beatific smile on his face. He leapt up.

“This is so! More proof for the Prophet! We have sent word to the other Disciples who are coming—then have you come to cast down Khelt as well? Does the surety of his mission call other faithful across the world here?”

Pawn hesitated.

“If it does, God has a mighty odd sense of humor. But I am told that is to be expected. Say rather, Priest Silad, I hope to bring an end to the hostilities.”

The murmur became quiet, and an expression of such anger crossed Silad’s face that Rabbitears tensed.

“There can be no peace with the King of Khelt, who is an abomination under God. Nor for what he has done to us. He has murdered us by the thousands, and now we only hold back from spilling blood in Christ’s name by the Prophet’s will and the need to finish the sacrament.”

Pawn paused as all the Painted Antinium glanced at him. He took a piece of manna, nibbled at it, and then spoke.

“Interesting. What happened to ‘Thou shalt not kill’?”

“—That only applies to those who do not bear arms against us!”

“Hm. I see. That is odd because I had thought it a universal rule.”

Now, Silad was angry again, and he jabbed a finger at Pawn.

“Who are you to argue against the Prophet’s words? He is the one who has spoken and hears God’s voice!”

“Do we not all hear God’s voice, Silad? Can a [Priest] not argue with a [Prophet]?”

“Wh—of course not! The Prophet stands above us in rank!”

Pawn spread his hands as the Stitch-folk reached for weapons at their side. He was so calm, and he seemed to speak to the people behind Silad, not the warriors tensing.

“I see, but that is curious. Forgive me if I err, but as I believe the Bible states, are all not equal in the eyes of God? We are mortals, not the divine, Silad. Is the [Prophet] infallible? Would he claim he could never make a mistake?”

Silad hesitated, and Pawn went on.

“No, of course not. Foolish of me to even ask, because even a Pope of Earth is not infallible. No mortal man or woman is. Indeed, faith is often challenged from within as without. Just as Martin Luther once challenged the Catholic faith by nailing his famous ninety-five theses on the door of the church, so are we allowed to challenge ideas. I do not do so as greatly as Martin Luther, of course, but I merely ask this as a fellow believer who has come in peace to your camps. I have no fear that my questions should lead to harm, for they are questions, and we are all people of faith. I shalt not be killed nor, I think, harmed here. For that is in the Ten Commandments, is it not?”

The [Priest] had gone from hot, zealous anger to uncertainty to a great shivering of his shoulders. The warriors, ashamed, backed up as Pawn spoke and Silad sat there, trying to formulate a response. He could not, so a woman sat with a basket of dates in front of them. She placed them in a bowl for the Painted Antinium and smiled.

“If I may, Priest Silad, I would like to speak to Priest Pawn. I am Yirene, a Disciple of this city. It is indeed a bright one, which is why the Prophet himself and the other Disciples occupy other cities. May I?”

Silad leapt to his feet, bowing, and the other Painted Antinium understood. Ah. She was the one in charge all along. Ecclisi nudged Pie and hand-signed at them.

“[She is the true leader and danger.]”

Rabbitears signed back.

“[Duh. We could all tell she was the most faithful one here. Pass the dates.]”

Yirene was apologizing to Pawn, and he nodded his head to her.

“Your forbearance is most welcome, and I take no offense, Disciple Yirene, if that is how I may address you. Thank you for the fine fare. This manna truly is bread from the heavens; I am not allergic to it.”

She smiled.

“It is a wondrous food, but other meals do tempt the stomach. These are from vineyards we took from the Kheltians. No more grow upon the vine, but we have wine aplenty—too much of it. Would you drink it with me? It is not the sacrament, though we might offer wine and bread in Christ’s name. I have many questions, however.”

“I would be delighted to answer them and pray with you, Yirene. I hope we will come to a mutual understanding.”

So they knelt, and she spoke as bread and wine was passed out, and only after that did they return to sitting. Yirene glanced at Pawn.

“Something you said earlier intrigues me, Priest Pawn. You know much of our faith?”

“As I said, I met two who were faithful at one point in their lives. Perhaps neither one was active, but both knew much and taught me.”

“They strayed away from—”

Yirene held up a hand, and Silad fell silent. She nodded, eyes alight.

“The Prophet would very much like to meet more of his people, Priest Pawn. He has long yearned to meet others of his world.”

“I am sure they would be…intrigued to meet him. Sadly, both are on other continents.”

“Would you tell me their names? Scrying spells might be arranged.”

Pawn hesitated.

“Sadly, Disciple Yirene, both are in danger from considerable powers. I would not wish to endanger them more, even if the Prophet is doubtless able to extend his protections to them. If we reach a satisfactory understanding here, I would be delighted to tell you the names.”

“I see. Of course, this would be the preferable outcome.”

Unlike Silad, who was straightforwards, this put Pawn on edge; if he could have, he’d have been sweating harder, now. Whomever Yirene was, she was capable of pushing and pulling and having nuance. However…he sipped more wine.

“Candidly, I hope to negotiate a ceasefire where the People of God withdraw from Khelt. Do you think that this can be effected with the Prophet when I meet with him?”

She hesitated and glanced at the people listening, some of whom had drawn back to speak with Pie and the other Painted Antinium. Rabbitears was waggling his ears at some children, who stared open-mouthed at them. Her eyes darkened, and she bowed her head.

“Most of the People of God wish for vengeance, the Prophet most of all, Priest Pawn. I, myself, am in horror at the King of Khelt. He has attacked and slaughtered us, and as the Prophet points out, his existence is against God. How would you argue against that?”

Another group had come to the little corner canopy where they sat in a building that might have been a Kheltian café until they were driven from it. Everything was so beautiful here despite the light…no one had fought or broken any windows that Pawn could see. The Kheltians had just fled.

And the Prophet’s people had stolen this. Pawn was glad his face could not reveal his feelings as openly as other species, for he turned his ire on the newcomers who had come at the head of a flock of followers. Leading them were two Hemp Women, a Cotton Stitch-man, and—supported by the trio—a Human man who limped forwards, covered in sweat.

He was gaunt, had a half-shadow of a beard on his face, and looked as if he’d been recently sick. But his eyes burned with the same fervor as the other People of God, and he sat gratefully in a chair as food and drink was rushed to everyone. Not just bread and wine, but many, many delicacies cooked from the Kheltian stores.

When the Human man had first seen the Antinium, his eyes had bugged out, and he had recoiled, but he said nothing. The newcomers listened as Pawn spoke, voice soft. And now he was thinking hard. Very hard.

“…I would argue to the Prophet, were I to meet him, that perhaps his anger at King Fetohep of Khelt is justified, especially if he has been attacked. I cannot gainsay that as I was not here and have not seen nor been told the truth of this conflict. However, I can argue from a position of faith that this war does not follow God’s will. God’s will is difficult for any to know, and it is my belief that there is no justification for this war in the Bible.”

Yirene’s eyes flicked to the others who sat, silently, and more faithful appeared, waves of them sitting and listening, and the Painted Antinium turned. Ecclisi pointed, and Pawn nearly threw a date at his head. He hand-signed back.

“[Yes, do you think I’m blind? Shut up and search for a way out in case we have to run.]”

Then Yirene was speaking after whispering with one of the women who introduced herself as Marrieh. Yirene hesitated and glanced at the Human man.

“You said something odd earlier, Pawn, when Silad claimed you had blasphemed. You said he could not have taken the Lord’s name in vain, for that was not the name of the Lord our God. Yet he has no name.”

Pawn’s mandibles opened. And clicked closed. And opened again. His cunning theological argument fell apart for a second.

“Er…what? Yes, he does.”

Yirene blinked. Marrieh’s head turned, and then she caught herself, leaned forwards.

“He does not, surely. Unless you refer to some other God?”

“No—the same one, I think. You’re referring to the God of Christianity, the God of the Quran, the God worshiped by Hebrews, and the one who spoke to Joseph Smith Jr., among many other subsects of the faith?”

Pawn cast around, and the Human man spoke, voice strained and harsh.

“There is only one God. And it is Christianity that is the way. The other faiths are…correct but misguided.”

Pawn nodded to him, respectful, and saw every eye focus on the man who had to be the Prophet. He certainly glowed with faith. But many of his company had as much strength. He was the center of it though, the locus.

They are of my level or maybe higher. Great. Pawn spoke, carefully.

“I would not argue with that, sir. But if it is this God who is present in so many faiths, then he has a name.”

“It is not written in the Bible.”

The man instinctively shot back, and Pawn’s head tilted.

“No…perhaps not.”

“Aha! Then—”

“It would be written in the Torah, and the Jewish faith would know it. I am not an expert on that text, but I do know it. It came to me from a woman who was familiar with many faiths, having read numerous holy texts in search of the truth.”

Thank goodness for Ryoka Griffin. The Prophet of God stared at Pawn, uncertain, then sat back as Pawn waited.

“If it is his holy name, then it would deafen the ear and blind all those who heard it, as it was in the Arc of the Covenant. You could not know or encompass it.”

“Perhaps, then, it is a lesser name, incorrect, or merely a name fit to write on paper. Perhaps, if I spoke it to you—forgive me, I do not know your name, sir—you might tell me if you recognized it?”

Pawn spoke, and another Disciple interjected.

“I am Lazimeh, and this is the P—”

“Harvey. I am merely…Harvey, as all are men before God. This is my name, Pawn of the Antinium.”

Murmurs and gasps, but the man sat forwards, and Pawn whispered to him as Yirene and Marrieh moved back, but he had the distinct impression a few heard his whisper, silent as it was.

“Yahweh. Or perhaps Jehova?”

Those were the names he knew, and the Prophet’s eyes flickered. With recognition for both. He sat back.

“That first name…yes. Yes, I recall…but it is their word, the Jewish one. The second. Jehova’s Witnesses. His witnesses?”

His brows crossed, as if figuring out why that particular faith called itself that. Pawn nodded.

“That would make sense, yes.”

The man exhaled, momentarily startled, then he schooled his features to impartiality.

“Neither is the word that is the true name of God, but I grant that you know much of the faith, it seems, Priest Pawn. Though I did not recognize your faith. Who is this woman who knows so much? Did she have a copy of the Good Word on her person? On a device, perhaps? Or even a physical one?”

His eyes were suddenly hungry, and everyone held their breaths but sighed as Pawn shook his head.

“Sadly, not. She was merely well-read, having read many holy texts back-to-front.”

Mostly so she could ‘annoy the shit out of her priests’, in Ryoka’s own words, but they didn’t have to know that.

A young woman started serving tea around, and Pawn noticed she was a former slave. She was glancing at him, and he bowed to her.

“Hello, Miss. What is your name? If time permits, I would like to use my Miracle to remove your scars. It is one of the things given to me by my faith. And I do not like slaves. Did you free her, Disciple Yirene?”

The Prophet blinked. Yirene answered.

“She came to us as many freed [Slaves] do. We do not give them back to Roshal, Priest Pawn, but we do not actively court war with them.”

“Yet you stand in opposition to them.”

Yirene glanced around, uneasy, as a murmur of approval rose from many of the faithful who also bore the same mark. They were watching.

“We do not fight with the Slavers of Roshal, Priest Pawn.”

He met the Prophet’s gaze.

“It does not matter. So long as you harbor a single [Slave], they consider you an enemy, and in time, they will make you theirs. A people of faith who are like those that rose against the Egyptians for freedom would never consort with [Slavers], surely.”

He baited a hook, and the bark from the Prophet was a reward in of itself.

“Of course not! Neither for the word of God or just morality! Slavery is wrong. No free nation would have them!”

Yirene closed her eyes, and there was a cheer from many voices. Pawn smiled genuinely. Of such moments did he think great things were done, and the woman, Marrieh, seemed to sense it too, because she spoke next.

“Explain your reasoning that the King of Khelt is not an enemy by God’s will, Priest Pawn. Please. He has killed us by the thousand.”

“He has, and that is his sin. But that is not a religious reason to kill him, surely?”

“He is undead. His people worship him like a God! Only one being can revive the dead, as he did in my namesake’s case! Lazarus returned from death, and Christ rose three days after passing. The undead are unholy. How else would our faith unmake them?”

Lazimeh put in hotly, eyes flashing. And while he was as vehement as Silad, he was harder to counter. Pawn had no religious citation to disprove undead were unholy, so he thought.

“Let me ask a question, Disciple Lazimeh. Is the light of your faith a weapon that applies to many things?”

“It has defeated numerous foes, from Nerrhavia’s Fallen to Medain, yes. Why?”

“I ask only to confirm that the anti-undead effect it has is proof that undead are truly unholy. Has it destroyed other beings or creatures the same way? Because if that is so, perhaps it is merely a weapon given to you by your faith, not clear proof the undead are the one and only true enemy of Christianity.”

Lazimeh frowned and turned to Harvey, and the Prophet spoke hotly.

“How could you gaze upon the undead and see them as anything but a menace to the living? Their will to destroy is known!”

“True…but faith is many things, Disciple Harvey. Surely, it might just be that faith counters undeath like it does magic. Allow me to state that we may be incorrect, even you Disciples, about the nature of faith. I have been wrong many times, as my Painted Antinium can attest.”

Pawn turned to them for help, and they spoke.

“Absolutely.”

“Pawn often errs. Salt in the tea instead of sugar.”

“He’s always wrong.”

“Priest Pawn is the closest being to the divine! He may struggle to find the path, but his words will bring us all to salvation!”

This time, the date hit Ecclisi in the head, and he shut up. Purple Smile hand-signed.

“[He was wrong about Lyonette.]”

“What did the last one say?”

Pawn’s antennae waved desperately, but he had to translate that, and Harvey gave him a blank look.

“She is an, uh, a woman I was in a relationship with. We broke up. Amicably.”

Harvey’s look of instantaneous jealousy and triumph made him spring to his feet. Then he clutched at his side, but he pointed a shaking finger at Pawn.

“Aha! A man of the cloth does not engage in carnal relationships!”

Pawn was mad now, and he waved a hand.

“Oh, shut up. Yes, they can. You’re thinking of Catholic priests! And I’m pretty sure you’re of a Protestant faith, or you’ve been doing your entire communion wrong this entire time!”

He shouted back. The faithful gasped, and Harvey hesitated.

“Explain yourself.”

Pawn rose to his feet and cast a finger down at the manna and wine cups before him. He stood in the center of the listening People of God as he faced off against the Prophet, and his own robes swished around him.

“When Yirene introduced me, she led me through communion.”

“As was her right. Women may serve as priests.”

Harvey interjected, and Pawn nodded. He noticed the Disciples watching with less overwhelming confidence than the rest of the People of God, but that freed [Slave] was regarding him with what felt like a knowing look. Pawn cleared his throat with a crackling sound and nodded.

“Indeed, something it has on the Catholic faith, I believe. However, she offered me manna and wine.”

“And?”

“Antinium are allergic to bread. It is not a known thing, but we cannot ingest wheat or other such products without an immediate allergic reaction. I would have noticed, but manna is not the same substance. Of course, it is literal manna from the heavens. But I posit this question to you: is manna bread? No, perhaps. It is a divine gift, yet under communion, we break bread in symbol of the body of Jesus Christ, as we drink wine as his blood. It is not transubstantiation as the Catholics believe, literally the true blood and body of Christ, but even under Protestant faith, manna might not qualify.”

Pawn was sort of enjoying this. No one cared about faith back home. He heard gasps, and Yirene covered her mouth with her hands, perhaps wondering if she had failed to properly offer true bread and wine. And Harvey?

He paled for a second, and his eyes flickered. He began to pace, but then he swung around and spoke haltingly. Perhaps with less certainty based on text than Pawn, but like a man feeling forwards. Searching.

“What you say…may be true. It may. Manna is not used in the act of communion, but as you say, we are not the Catholic faith. The bread is a symbol of belief, as is wine. Would a church lacking even wine or bread be a failure in the eyes of God for celebrating and worshipping him, even if they had but water and prayers? No. In the same way, Yirene embodies the spirit of our faith. Second—the churches of Earth do not use manna because they have none. This is divine, proof of our faith. If we are not perfect, we strive to be, and that is faith. Also—it is not communion, Priest Pawn. That is for children. This is the eucharist.”

There was a murmur, and people clasped their hands together. Pawn rocked back slightly as Harvey smiled, triumphant. Pawn hadn’t realized there was another word for the sharing of bread and wine.

I’m blaming that one on you, Ryoka. But he had to admit…well, darn.

He’s the real thing after all. Pawn had been wondering if the Prophet were an act. Certainly, he had appeared to have elements Ryoka had described as being like that of a ‘mega-pastor’, whatever that was. A charlatan using the word of God for his enrichment, but he had come back at Pawn with faith.

Now, they traded glances, and the Prophet sat again. He pushed the bowl of dates forwards after a moment.

“Your faith. Tell me about it, before we speak on undead and our righteous cause. I heard you did not claim to worship another God?”

“No. We are not Christians, but Painted Antinium. Our faith…has no one title. How should I describe—”

“Some might call it the Way of Heaven and Sky or the Faithful of Solstice.”

Ecclisi spoke loudly from the side. Pawn glanced at him and coughed.

“—Or that. It does have a ring to it.”

The Prophet frowned.

“So you believe in Heaven?”

“We do. But perhaps not the one you refer to, Disciple Harvey. We believe in Antinium heaven. That is to say, we wish for a Heaven for Antinium. We work towards a Heaven that all Antinium and those we love might enter when we die. But not in the Christian God. We believe your God exists, and we are open to any other faith.”

Harvey blinked in astonishment.

“Why? God loves all beings. He has a Heaven!”

Pawn hesitated and took a breath. Oh boy, here we go. He glanced at Marrieh, at Lazimeh, then spoke.

“Yes…he does…but is that Heaven, and is the Christian God for everyone? Or just Humans?”

The silence that fell over all present was sudden and absolute. Pawn went on as Harvey blinked at him.

“I studied the Christian faith, among others, and it seemed to me that all of them from Earth are for peoples of Earth. Humans. There was no Antinium written in the Bible. Adam and Eve were given custodianship of Earth. Earth, not this world. I did not see myself in Heaven, so I chose my own faith. And so without rancor—”

He got no further, because at that moment, Lazimeh threw himself at Pawn.

“Lies! Lies and blasphemy!”

He howled and tackled Pawn before Rabbitears tore him away. He tried to grab Pawn again, but the Worker leapt up. Pawn tried to shout, but a piercing wail filled the air, and he saw someone, Jilthread, falling to her knees. Wailing with sudden horror.

Faith shaken. Others were trying to get to him with a violent fervor, and the Prophet was shouting.

“Order! Listen to me! I have prayed on this and—order! In the name of God—”

This might be where they ran. The Painted Antinium closed ranks, and Ecclisi pressed his hands together as Purple Smile clotheslined several people.

“Pawn? What do we do?”

“Use your Skills if you have to! And pray for a miracle!”

Harvey was pressing forward, and his voice was growing in volume. Pawn saw him turn his eyes on the Antinium, and they were filled with wrath and a moment of doubt. Pawn held his gaze.

Am I wrong, Prophet? What are you doing?

Pawn’s hand stole to his club, and someone put herself between them. Marrieh. And her weapon was a club until she raised it, and then he saw white flames running down the length and forming a flaming sword.

“[Damn, that looks better than our Miracles.]”

Rabbitears checked his ordinary shortsword and glared at Pawn accusingly. The Priest muttered.

“Now I could really use some damn salvation!”

Ecclisi unclasped his hands.

“In Erin’s name we pray. Amen.”

Pawn whirled and then heard a pop—

——

They landed on the ground, and the city blazing with light and sound was six feet from them, the opening gates filled with pilgrims trying to see what was going on. They whirled as the Antinium stood, and Pawn turned.

“Alright, run.”

They didn’t ask questions, just ran for it. The People of God gave chase, but half-heartedly. Antinium might not be the fastest, but they had endurance, and soon, they were running through the desert roughly towards where Sand at Sea had gone.

“Well…that…sucked.”

Pie panted as they finally slowed twenty minutes later. Pawn glanced over his shoulders, but he saw no riders. The Prophet had either let them go or was too busy with that bit of internal schism.

“Perhaps I’ve ruined their faith for them and they’ll devolve into a hundred warring subsects and we’ll be done.”

He was hopeful, but he didn’t really think that would happen. The others gazed at him, and Ecclisi spoke, voice rapt.

“You were incredible, Pawn. Your ability to denounce and counter other faiths is inspiring to see with my own eyes!”

Pawn turned to him. Then he nodded at Purple Smile.

“Right, thank you, Ecclisi. I was going to save it until we were safe, but Purple Smile?”

Purple Smile smacked the back of Ecclisi’s head. Pawn smiled.

“Thank you.”

Then he seized Ecclisi’s antennae like it was an ear.

“You’re one of the future-Antinium, aren’t you?”

“N-no.”

“Don’t lie! What was that craziness about Erin? Your levels, your Skills, everything is different. Answer me!”

Ecclisi was trembling, not with fear so much as fervor of his own. Pawn groaned when he saw it.

Oh no, I thought the Prophet was the only one with crazy people, now look at this. We’re too similar after all. Ecclisi whispered.

“I was there when Apostle Pawn, the true Prophet, held the door to reality open to save countless worlds. He bade us go and make our own path, and so I journeyed here, that I might bring salvation to this world. I only wished to help bring you onto the true path you will find, Pawn!”

Rabbitears, Starfold, and Pie were giving each other very weirded-out looks. Pie tapped the side of his head as Pawn tilted his head.

“The true path being…?”

“Worshipping Erin Solstice, of course. Our Goddess. You are so close, Pawn! Heaven exists, and it shall be built. The sky is beautiful, but it is through Erin, not their foolish God, that all will be saved. Perhaps their God exists, but is he a loving God? Does he make pancakes? Will he be there with flag in hand when the sky falls?”

Pawn stared at Ecclisi, mandibles open. He let go of the antennae, backed away, and began striding off. Ecclisi followed.

“Pawn! Pawn, do not doubt yourself! You know it is the truth! Prophet Pawn saw it when she died and did not wake. You have been deceived by Erin Solstice.”

“[Deceived by Erin Solstice? What are you, stupid? Stop bothering Pawn—]”

Rabbitears tried to put Ecclisi in a headlock, but the Worker began running and started dragging Rabbitears behind him. He was so damn strong—Ecclisi shouted.

“It is a sign of her miracles! In our world, she did not wake, but in this one, she is fleeing her apotheosis! Is there anything she cannot do, Pawn?”

“Remember to put butter in spaghetti.”

Pawn muttered. Ecclisi ran up beside him.

“You may mock, but in your heart, you believe. I know it, Pawn. Let me tell you what I witnessed and what your faith could be!”

“No. I won’t get rid of you, but I’m not doing this. Not right now. We have a crazy Prophet to deal with—two Prophets, and I already got in trouble with Lyonette without even doing anything! Your Prophet is my enemy, got it?”

Pawn shook his fist in Ecclisi’s face, and the Worker halted.

“But Pawn. In my time, Prophet Pawn and Councilwoman Lyonette were in a loving relationship. They were commonwealth married. Whose is the true way if not his?”

Oh, like the Serpent of Eden, the words crept in under Pawn’s guard. Purple Smile grabbed Ecclisi, but Pawn hesitated. Just for a moment. He opened his mandibles, then coughed.

“Er…assassin.”

The Antinium peered at him, then whirled. Rabbitears drew his sword, and someone shouted.

“No, nonono, please!”

Gladys the freed [Slave] appeared, holding her hands up, and Pawn relaxed. He’d noticed someone sneaking up on them but hadn’t been able to see them. Just a tiny bit of faith.

“You’re Gladys, the [Slave]. The one from Earth. Are you running from the Prophet?”

Everyone turned to stare at him, and Gladys jumped.

“How’d you—”

“Earthers always act the same when someone talks about home. You get so good at noticing it becomes second nature. I take it you don’t want to be a part of the People of God?”

Gladys hesitated.

“You know other people from…? I didn’t know there were more. I’ve been a [Slave] since—since I—I came here because they said it was safe.”

Pawn held out a hand. He remembered Erin being captive and wondered…for a second, he felt those dark Skills calling for him, but his voice was gentle.

“It is safe in our company as well. Come with us and we will bring you anywhere you wish, Gladys. This Prophet of God is not the only one with faith.”

She hesitated, then took his hand.

“He’s…I don’t think he knows it all properly. But his people worship him. They’re building something; he calls it a sacrament. To summon an angel. They’re almost done.”

“Uh oh. That’s not good.”

Pawn tried to recall what he knew about angels, but all he had from Ryoka was a hazy explanation about Heaven and the one who guarded Eden. With a flaming sword. He eyed Gladys.

“I don’t know all about Christianity, just what I was told. What is an angel to you?”

They were moving, and Gladys shrugged.

“I don’t know. Do you mean an angel like in the books? Or in pop culture?”

“…The second one. It seems to me faith is based on belief. So what does the Prophet believe? What is an angel?”

She bit her lip.

“I’d call it a winged, Human-looking person. Male or female. A holy being, good, kind, and divine, from heaven. That’s one kind of angel. The other would be…the avenging kind. The one who has a flaming sword.”

“Good at fighting?”

“Yes.”

“Scale of one to ten?”

“…Ten? It’s an angel.”

Pawn glanced at the other Antinium. Without a word, he began to run faster and motioned.

“Gladys, we can carry you if you can’t run, and I’ll heal your scars. But we need to get to Khelt now. Ecclisi! You wouldn’t happen to have any knowledge of how to beat angels, would you? Or any super-Miracles from the future?”

Ecclisi hesitated.

“I was not the first of the Faithful to join Pawn’s call, um, Present-Pawn. Merely one of the many who served, and humble. The greatest amongst us could summon the aspects of the Centenium, call burning flames from the sky, and walk as tall as half-Giants. I was not there when you burnt nations to ash.”

Everyone turned to peer at Pawn, and he raised his hands.

“It’s not me! I mean, it’s one version of—so no super-miracles.”

Ecclisi shook his head.

“I’m only Level 37. A few of us went to the other group that needed us most. The 7th Hive. But as for angels, I know you can triumph! For ours is the superior faith! Your [Summoned Workers] surely already have the power to fly, don’t they?”

He held his thumbs up, and Pawn stared at him. Damn alternate-reality Prophets raising the bar! He ran faster and, by chance, came across Yellow Splatters coming back this way. Then began, well, an altercation between the two faiths and a lot of surprises.

For you see, faith begat faith. Just in ways neither Pawn nor the Prophet expected.

——

Harvey saw the schism begin as Pawn, who might well be a Devil in disguise, fled. His people were in chaos, denying, screaming, begging him to tell them it was a lie. Here was the problem: it was not.

That was why it burned them. It burned him like the fading poison in his veins, too, in guilt. It was the conclusion Jilthread had already come to as she wept. It was the omission Harvey himself had planted in their minds, a seed of weakness.

There were not Stitch-folk in the Bible. Nor…Heaven. He knew it too.

Perhaps Christianity, his Protestant faith of Earth, was only for Humans. What would his pastor say if he saw a Stitch-woman? Would he turn away from Marrieh? Perhaps—but then the outrage rose in the Prophet, and he spoke.

“ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ! ʜᴇᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ, ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ɢᴏᴅ! ʜᴇᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ, ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇᴍᴘ, ᴄᴏᴛᴛᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱɪʟᴋ! ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏꜰ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴇꜱ! ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴇɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴀᴠᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴꜱ! ɪ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴀᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴ ᴛᴜʀɴ ꜱᴀᴠᴇᴅ ʙʏ ꜱᴛɪᴛᴄʜꜰᴏʟᴋ. ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ ɪɴ ɪᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪʙʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴀʀᴛʜ, ᴛʜᴇɴ ꜱᴏ ʙᴇ ɪᴛ. ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ʜᴏʟʏ ᴛᴇxᴛ. ɢᴏᴅ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ, ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴏɴᴇ.”

He ripped something from his new bag of holding and held it aloft, and they beheld it. It was unfinished, bound loosely with twine, written with smudged ink, but he held it with that sense of trepidation, triumph, and regret.

Ah, Martin Luther. He hadn’t actually remembered the name of that man until Pawn had spoken it. But here, once again, was the moment.

They beheld his New Bible, and the People of God did indeed break before Pawn’s admonition, but not into a hundred shards of faithless glass, but into a new people. Just like others before him, real or imposters they might be, Harvey had found his own revelation from God.

“We will be his people. And the Antinium is wrong, for all he spoke with conviction and wisdom. Khelt is ruled by debauchery and sin, and if we must defeat the Antinium as well as the King of Khelt, we shall.”

The Prophet spoke to his Disciples in the aftermath. Lazimeh was glowing with relief, literally, and Yirene was smiling. Jilthread hugged the first copy of the New Bible to her chest, but Marrieh was troubled.

“He came without violence. He seemed like a good man, Harvey. More than any others we have met on our long journey.”

“Marrieh, you are speaking to the Prophet! He is no longer in disguise! Remember that!”

Lazimeh scolded her, but she held her ground.

“I know. Perhaps it is a reminder we can be wrong and we are equals before God.”

The Prophet was thinking on Pawn. He hadn’t hated the [Priest] entirely either, but the Antinium had irked him as well. He was sanctimonious as well as cunning. But…

Only Catholic [Priests] can’t have relationships? Harvey glanced at Yirene, then Marrieh, then realized they were a new faith anyways. Rules to be written. He cleared his throat, avoiding their gazes, and stared at the light.

“We shall meet them with faith, as equals, but hold true to our convictions if we come to conflict. For now, let the word be spread and the sacrament finished. We have poured wealth into it; now let us build it the remaining height at all speed.”

Khelt had clearly sent for the Antinium. They needed to summon the angels. If Manoset’s summoned spirit had been powerful enough to threaten a Named-rank adventurer, this would grant them salvation. Someone had seen a flying undead watching them from afar. And there were rumors entire armies were marching on Khelt, sensing the King of Khelt’s weakness.

He seemed pretty damn strong to the Prophet, but it would be done. The man sighed and closed his eyes.

“Prepare yourselves for Khelt to threaten us, my people. But so far they have broken their mercenaries and hired soldiers upon us. There were barely more than a few dozen Antinium spotted, and their ship was nearly destroyed by our faith. If the Antinium come against us, they shall be found wanting.”

Who could stop them now? Of course, Harvey didn’t say that because it sounded presumptuous, but who in this world actually cared for this selfish, reclusive nation?

——

They came riding into Khelt unopposed. Mostly because Fetohep was slumbering, but also because they, of all people, had a right to be here.

The Vizir Hecrelunn and Sand at Sea didn’t stop them. The Vizir was busy firing spells at armies who looked up in horror at him, or they saw a ship racing across the desert and turning to unleash a broadside.

One shot warnings. The other aimed for the center of mass.

However, even the patrolling Centaurs and Gnolls didn’t stop the newcomers. They asked questions, then let them pass.

The strangers to Khelt had never been here before, most of them. They stopped to gawk at the Kheltians, admire the wondrous cities that were ‘ruined’, and then set off for the northern border.

Accompanying them were [Scrying] spells, which were aimed at the People of God. Nations tuning into the fall of Khelt’s greatness, but the newcomers rode.

They found the Painted Antinium forming a thin line of less than fifty bodies against the People of God. But like the Gnolls, they held.

“Halt.”

Yellow Splatters put out a hand, and the People of God halted. There was something about a huge Antinium Soldier speaking that made you think twice, even those with the power of God on their side.

“We do not want conflict with you…Antinium. By the will of the Prophet and God almighty, stand aside!”

“You will halt. Khelt is not yours to plunder. Do not advance.”

“Or what?”

There were thirty of the People of God moving in a group towards a smaller Kheltian town named Serept’s Smithy—they loved blacksmithing. They had made some new armor custom-fit for Yellow Splatters. Even a helmet for his head.

For such things, he planted his feet in the ground, and five Antinium faced the People of God. Yellow Splatters called out as Kheltians watched from their town, faces pale with fear, poised to run or just surrender.

“You will halt. Or I will punch you. Repeatedly. By the will of Pawn, the Priest of Heaven and Sky, you will go no further. If you disagree with this, bring your Prophet.”

Pawn wasn’t here. He was leading another group of Antinium on interception duty. The People of God hesitated.

They didn’t halt. They never did. Instead, a few of them edged left and right, as if to break past Yellow Splatters’ group. If they rushed, the six Antinium wouldn’t be able to catch them all, right?

Yellow Splatters held his ground until he saw a daring young man with an angry face make a darting movement. He ran left, ignoring the shouts of the lead [Cleric] to stay back, and the [Cleric] let the young [Faithful] run. Probably to test the Antinium.

What was his plan, run into the town and scatter the Kheltians all by himself?

…Actually, wait, that might work. Only here in Khelt would one man armed with a rusty dagger be able to scatter a town of thousands to the wind. The town had [Smiths] with arms bigger than Yellow Splatters’. But they were all so gentle.

Children. Yellow Splatters had never met people who looked adult but who were children, outside of other Antinium. So he let the man run forwards until he was dashing past the Antinium.

Then he pointed. And an Antinium Soldier standing behind him, Brightglow, burst into motion. He charged from his standing position straight at the [Faithful] young man, who shouted in horror and turned to flee. Too late.

The Antinium Soldier didn’t have the same sprinting power as the Stitch-boy. But he was still fast, and he came at a sprint which did not slacken. Unlike the young man, he had been made to fight and keep fighting. The [Faithful] was breathless after two hundred paces. He still ran fast, but if he was not sprinting…

The Soldier caught him like a linebacker from Earth.

“Help! Hubwag—”

That last part was more the sound someone made as an Antinium Soldier tackled you from behind and all the air left your lungs and you hit the ground with the Antinium on top of you. Perhaps the young man thought to fight back, because he had twisted before he fell, raising the dagger.

Brightglow ignored the dagger as it glanced off his armored cheek. He punched the young man in the face. Tore the dagger free with one hand. Punched the throat with his other hand, the young man’s nose. Then his four arms all kept punching as he sat on the young Stitch-man’s chest.

“God have mercy! Stop! Stop!”

The People of God were stunned, then they rushed forwards to halt the attack. They backed up as Brightglow stood barely a second later. The young man was crying out, groaning, but he wasn’t dead or even badly hurt.

The Soldier had gone for eight punches, then stood. Yellow Splatters spoke as the People of God hesitated.

“Your comrade isn’t hurt badly. If Brightglow wanted to hurt him, he would have holes in his face. I say again: halt.”

“You attack the People of God without provocation?”

The [Cleric] was roused to fury, and Yellow Splatters snapped back.

“I told you to halt. You ignored me. You have been robbing and attacking Kheltians on the road. We have been called to protect Khelt. Do not advance and there will be no conflict. You have taken their cities. Turn back. Or do you need to steal more?”

“We are not stealing, we are liberating this damned nation!”

“It sounds like stealing. Even Drakes don’t lie this blatantly. Step back and get your Prophet or your leaders.”

The [Cleric] stepped forwards, and Yellow Splatters felt the man’s faith grinding against his own. It was a hot, angry thing filled with wrath and condemnation. It felt like spikes driven into flesh, and Yellow Splatters could see a cross burned into his mind.

An image of what they were. What did they see when they beheld him? The People of God moved restlessly, and their leader advanced a step, glancing at their numbers.

“We outnumber you by far, Antinium. If you call the People of God to battle, you will be found wanting.”

The threat was echoed by his people’s voices, but the brown Antinium never moved. They stood, foreign insects on Chandrar’s soil, faces unreadable. Yet they, too, were a people of faith, and they unnerved the People of God because of that. The [Cleric] stared at the Antinium, who were like…like…

Darkness, then a burst of color splitting the despairing night, emerging, rising upwards. A miasma of colors. A promised land waiting high above. A beautiful sky. And standing under it, Yellow Splatters, hand raised up. Warning.

“You do outnumber us, man of someone else’s God. And I do not wish to be hurt or die so far from home. I ask you one last time. Turn back. I would hate to kill you.”

There was no fear in his voice, like the Kheltians had. No hesitation. The [First Heretic] and the [Cleric] locked eyes, and the Prophet’s man whispered.

“[Blind Foe].”

A Miracle. He threw it at Yellow Splatters, and the Antinium recoiled. For a second, he was blind. Then he spoke.

“[False Marvel].”

The Miracle—broke. The [Cleric] recoiled, eyes wide with horror.

“What? What work of the Devil is—”

Yellow Splatters shook his head. It turned out that the power of the Painted Antinium’s first sinner was worth something after all. He strode forwards.

“A pity. You were warned.”

“Retreat! Retreat, they have heathen powers—we are leaving! Stand back! [Smite Enemy]! Do not come forwards, do not—”

The [Cleric] shouted, and his cudgel began to glow with a pale white light. Which looked like it might hurt. Yellow Splatters pointed.

“[Unleash Sins: Gluttony].”

A tiny little grub flew from his hand and landed on the cleric’s face. The man screamed and flailed at it. He had just torn it off and was stomping on it when Yellow Splatters hit him in the face. The Soldier punched the [Cleric] three times, lined up a fourth punch, and the Stitch-man was already on the ground. Yellow Splatters kicked him slightly, then turned.

“Take him and—oh, they’re already running.”

The other Antinium halted their advance. Yellow Splatters watched as his tiny sin of gluttony crawled over and began nibbling at the man’s leg. He stomped on his sin and then shrugged.

“Okay, let’s roll him over there, and they’ll probably run back when they wake up.”

The Antinium nodded and continued their patrol. Yellow Splatters waved at the Kheltians, who regarded him in horror. And he knew Pawn was going to be upset, but sometimes…

“Sometimes, one must punch idiots in the face. Book of Erin, Chapter 7.”

Brightglow turned and hand-signed to Yellow Splatters.

“[Is that in the Book of Erin? I’ve never read it.]”

Yellow Splatters replied.

“Not yet. Pawn’s only up to Chapter 6. But he’d better write it in.”

He wasn’t nearly as charitable to these People of God as Pawn was. Yellow Splatters stomped across the desert, continuing his patrol. They’d put in twelve hours on the first day, with breaks, then trade off with other Antinium stationed across cities closest to the Prophet. Here they stopped. Yellow Splatters was worried about open conflict, but someone had to draw a line somewhere. And fortunately…they seemed to be gaining reinforcements.

——

Pawn didn’t hit anyone, but neither did he censure Yellow Splatters’ approach to halting the People of God. When he met the first groups sent by the Prophet, he did not draw his club, but he did draw that line in the sand.

“People of the Prophet, please go back to Harvey and tell him I wish to speak again. Until we are able to settle this with words, you are not welcome past this point.”

“We have been sent to preach the will of God to these heathen Kheltians! Your lies will not shake us, false witness! A New Bible has been written, as revealed to the Prophet! We are in it!”

A Stitch-woman shouted at Pawn, and he nodded at her.

“I am glad for you, truly. But as I said, stand back. We are the Painted Antinium of Liscor, and we are protecting Khelt.”

“You would pit your faith against ours?”

“Yes. Yes, I think I would.”

His tone was very mild, and some of this group hesitated, but the [Priestess]…they wanted to test their powers against his. He couldn’t blame Yellow Splatters for having to fight. She thrust a hand out as she clutched a New Bible to her chest.

“Sinner, I rebuke you! [Lance of Light]!”

So saying, a glowing lance appeared over her head and shot at Pawn. He tilted his head.

Looks a lot more painful than a [Light Arrow]. Mildly, and quite annoyed, Pawn lifted a finger. Only the one, because it looked better and to spite her.

“[Holy Barrier].”

The lance of light shattered on the prismatic wall that appeared in front of him. The [Priestess] hesitated, and Pawn lowered the finger. Raised the middle one.

“My turn. [Holy Hammer].”

The mallet that appeared and fell from the sky was a lot larger than the lance. And it fell with enough force to dent the very earth and send the nearest People of God stumbling backwards, crying out. It would have turned the woman to pulp…if it had hit her.

She stood there, staring at the crater in the earth as she picked herself up, and Pawn made shooing motions.

“That’s right. I’m more religious than you. Get lost. Bring Marrieh or someone with the ability to think next time.”

She fled, and in his way, Pawn supposed he was meaner than Yellow Splatters. But you had to admit, some of the People of God were annoying.

Not all. Marrieh, Yirene, some had seemed good and thoughtful. But others had been given power and wanted to use it.

Sixty Antinium, a line in the sand. Unlike the Gnolls or Centaurs, the Antinium met the People of God, and the other side turned back or found out what escalation meant. Pawn was telling each group he wanted to meet with Harvey, but the Prophet was nowhere to be seen. He feared that when fighting really began, his sixty Antinium would be forced to withdraw due to wounds fast. However—

The reinforcements were arriving.

“Pawn. Pawn, we have visitors.”

Starfold found Pawn, and the Antinium turned.

“Kheltians? I have not met this Heir of Khelt or gotten to see Koirezune.”

Somewhat to his disappointment, he got a shake of the head, then Starfold pointed, and…Pawn’s mandibles opened.

“Little Birds, is that you? What are you doing here? Did something happen in the Claiven Earth?”

The Antinium Soldier, who was one of Bird’s arch-enemies due to Bird’s entire ‘killing birds’ thing, waved a hand. And Pawn realized all six of the Antinium he’d left at the Claiven Earth were here…and fourteen half-Elves?

What on earth? Little Birds replied.

“The half-Elves rode us all the way here. Well, we rode magical Wistram carriages, but the Herald of the Forests escorted us. These are our new Painted, um, half-Elves, Pawn.”

“Say what now?”

Pawn stared at the fourteen half-Elves, who ranged from a kid that looked like she was barely twelve or something to a man with white hair. And to his horror, he realized all of them had some familiar paint on their features. He grabbed Little Birds’ arm.

“Ha. Haha. Hahaha. Let me just drag you aside, and what the hell are you doing, Little Birds?”

The Painted Soldier replied cheerfully.

“We showed the half-Elves our powers and healed some, Pawn. They liked our scrolls and ordered more, but we knew we had to catch up. A few of them wanted to join us, so I gave them our paint and—”

“Wait. Waitwaitwait, you let them join us?”

“Yes? What is the matter, Pawn?”

“What’s the matter? Where are they going to sleep? Where are they going to go? Do you think they’re going to follow us back home? To the Hive? Liscor? If the Free Queen sees them in the Hive, what do you think she’ll say? How do you think they’ll react to living there and eating Antinium paste?”

Little Birds closed his mandibles and gave Pawn a severe gaze.

“I would not give my worst enemy our food, Pawn. We could give them apartments in Liscor.”

“True, but—we’re Antinium.”

“And? We believe in Heaven, which you told us is open for everyone, including little birds, puppies, cats, and our friends who are kind to us. If it is for all these people, how is it not for half-Elves? Are you being racist, Pawn?”

Much like Harvey, Pawn was confronted with deep theological questions he wasn’t prepared for. He hesitated.

“No, I’m not. And it’s speciesist, Little Birds. Get it right. Let me try this another way. Excuse me! Hello, I am so pleased to meet you. I’m Pawn. Er, do you know what you’re doing?”

The half-Elves were staring around Khelt, looking a bit saddle-sore, confused, and worried like they didn’t know what to do. Entirely understandable for people who’d left their nation to journey in the company of probably-insane Antinium. Pawn thought he was insane right now, but the oldest half-Elf bowed.

“It is an honor to meet you, Priest Pawn. Forgive us, but we asked to be inducted into your order. If there is some test or oath, we would all swear it. But let us learn your ways. We have the permission of the Speaker of Trees and all the Tree Guides of our cities.”

“…But why join us? We’re Antinium. The Black Tide. Horrors of Rhir. Insect-people. Bugs!”

The other Antinium shifted, and Rabbitears hand-signed to Pie and Starfold.

“[That’s pretty rude.]”

The half-Elf just nodded at Pawn.

“We’re aware of the risks, but I, personally, deem it worth any stigma, and I believe everyone who asked to join understands the danger, Priest Pawn. I would like to learn your powers, your beliefs. I am Bliesfri. This is Sheena, Culstroi, Alamadri, and…”

He introduced the half-Elves, starting with the youngest of them, and Pawn studied them. Only a few had the faint glow of faith. Sheena, the youngest, with the most strength. Bliesfri had actually none at all, but he seemed passionate on another level.

“I do not understand. You do not seem drawn to our faith, Bliesfri. Can you clarify your desires?”

The half-Elf shifted and brushed at his hair.

“Ah. I didn’t realize faith was such an integral part of it. I hope to study your faith, and yes, if I am able, practice your…beliefs? Forgive me, I don’t know the nature of it, but my interest is both scholarly and practical. If I may be candid?”

“Why stop?”

The half-Elf grinned, and Pawn wished that didn’t make him seem so much younger and more friendly.

“I was amazed by your power to heal, Priest Pawn. In this age where Eir Gel is gone and healing is now a scarcity…when I saw your people had so much of it, I thought that someone had to learn your ways. If I manage to gain enough levels to heal reliably, I would return back to my people and share this knowledge. Respectfully.”

Oh, it was the most honest and pragmatic reason Pawn could think of. He doubted it’d work without at least some faith, but someone wanted to study the Painted Antinium? Someone thought they were worth emulating? That was more than any Drake or Human in Izril.

“Well…drat. I cannot argue with that. You are welcome to join us, Bliesfri, though I warn you, true belief is a requirement to faith classes, I believe. Yet you may find it in your way. But I object to children! We are in a potential warzone!”

He pointed at the twelve-year old girl, Sheena, and she cried out.

“Hey! I’m sixteen!”

Pawn jumped, then remembered. Half-Elves. Damn it. He glared at her.

“That’s still a child in half-Elven years! Why are you here? Your family can’t have thought it wise for someone so young.”

She stared up at him earnestly, brimming with the makings of true faith. Even more than some new Painted Antinium had.

“My da objected. But my ma didn’t. She would be dead if your people hadn’t healed her. That’s why I came. You saved her life.”

Pawn turned to Little Birds, who whispered.

“Disease. Very bad.”

“Oh. Well, um. That’s a pretty good reason. However, I’m sure I’ll think of a good counterargument in time! Until then, I am going to back away from this conversation. Someone welcome these half-Elves and find them a place to sleep.”

Pawn ended up watching the fourteen half-Elves mingling with the Painted Antinium, asking what to do, and being told it was mostly praying, following Pawn, listening to sermons, and trying not to die when the next disaster happened.

He resolved to tell his people there was more to their faith than that, but then Pawn was informed another group was coming his way. This time from Reim! Salted Pork and thirty recruits. The King of Destruction had told Salted Pork to bring Pawn and let him leave, and the Soldier had ended up with a bunch of followers.

“Oh dead gods.”

——

For one shining moment, it felt like the Painted Antinium had found their place in the world. They strode across Khelt’s dry lands, and the people cheered them. They ate glorious food in the most beautiful cities in the world, and they were beloved and their faith pushed the People of God back.

Seventy-two versus six thousand. If not all at once, the People of God did halt.

Even Marrieh. The People of God came in waves, testing the Antinium’s faith, but they were not found wanting.

Pawn himself spoke to the Stitch-woman, who halted across from him with nearly four hundred followers.

“Marrieh, this is not your land to despoil.”

“That is not our intent, Priest Pawn. But neither will we leave it when so much harm has been done to us.”

“You were first to invade, Marrieh. Tell Harvey that I am willing to meet him, but we will not allow you any further. Please, turn back. I would not wish to hurt you.”

Pawn had barely a dozen people with him, but Marrieh was the one who hesitated and stepped back. When her followers protested, she snapped at them.

“We will not make war against the Antinium without reason! They have offered us no violence.”

“What about Silked, who was beaten by the Soldier?”

She rolled her eyes and glanced back at Pawn. He calmly waved his censer over the ground as some of the Faithful studied him, as if gauging whether they could take his group.

“We will not throw the first blow, People of God. You must come as the aggressors. And unless I mistake my faith, that is not excusable by any words of God. Let they who are without sin step forwards and be punched in the face. Amen.”

Whether it was his own faith, which exceeded all but the Disciples, the foreign nature of the Antinium, their calm defense—or the fact that they could and would hit you until you fell down—the People of God halted for a time.

And Khelt celebrated them. Therein lay a problem, you see. Yellow Splatters found Pawn two days after they had come to Khelt.

——

“Pawn, I think I hate it here.”

Pawn was staring at a mirror in one of the luxurious homes they’d been granted. It had a mirror, amenities, and full plumbing. It was so rich, in fact, that he didn’t know what to do with anything and kept poking around inside.

He’d found some hair-growth tonic and had been wondering if he should grow a beard. That seemed very distinguished. Pawn looked away from the mirror.

“Hate it here, Yellow Splatters? Why?”

Khelt was beautiful. Just the other day, they’d made special bread like Garry’s for Pawn and had him eating prosciutto while lounging on some chairs and talking about Izril. Music, art, everything was so beautiful in Khelt, but Yellow Splatters?

He stood there, patently miserable.

“It’s too rich, Pawn. Why are we here, defending Khelt, when we could be in Liscor? They don’t deserve all of this wealth. They’re…spoiled.”

Pawn lowered the hair-growth tonic, and his antennae waved at Yellow Splatters. Not in disagreement, but sudden, gentle understanding.

“Oh. Yes. They are.”

He didn’t hold it against the Kheltians in the same way, probably because he was used to Lyonette, who had opinions and was a [Princess]. But when Yellow Splatters told him that a lot of the Painted Antinium felt the same way, Pawn realized there was a growing crisis developing in his ranks.

A crisis of, well, faith. Faith in Khelt.

Too rich. It wasn’t like Antinium had much class consciousness; everyone was richer than they were. But Yellow Splatters and Pawn came from the Hive, where a normal Worker or Soldier could go on 16+ hour shifts and, if they weren’t dead, get 7 hours of sleep and be expected to do it again the next day. When Pawn checked out the Kheltians’ schedules…yeah.

Most of them got ten hours of sleep.

Ten. Not ‘they got ten hours on weekends to catch up’, no. They slept ten on average and became grumpy if they didn’t get more. That sensation you had when you woke up and wanted to curl up in bed and not have to get up for anything?

Kheltians loved that feeling. They indulged in it. In fact, a vocal group of protesters were angry because skeletons didn’t carry food to them in their beds, forcing them to wake from hunger.

What Yellow Splatters hated was the food. He showed Pawn what he meant; it was a waste bin in Khelt, which was normally emptied out by just incinerating the contents or skeletons would bury it in farms.

With their lack, lids had been fashioned, and an official had to empty it out, much to their horror, but it contained, well, food. Kheltians tossed anything they didn’t want to eat inside.

Like an entire cake. With orange frosting. It was a carrot cake, and Pawn stared at it for a long time as it sat on top of a bunch of slightly overripe Prelons.

“…What’s wrong with the cake?”

“I don’t know. It appeared this morning.”

They peered at the cake. It was an entire cake. Two feet wide with a middle layer of some kind of sponge cake, which was blue, and it wasn’t even touched.

“Perhaps it’s been made wrong. Or underbaked.”

“Who could tell without taking a bite?”

“Ah, there are Skills for this kind of thing, Yellow Splatters. That’s surely what it is.”

They were saved from having to guess by a [Baker] opening the back doors to ask if they wanted something to eat. He owned the shop nearest this disposal bin, and when they asked, the [Baker] glanced at the cake, very surprised, and waved a hand.

“Oh, that? I made it. I had to toss it, you see.”

“Aha! Because you substituted sugar for salt or something else hilariously simple?”

Pawn was relieved, but the [Airy Baker], who specialized in, well, voluminous projects that didn’t fill your stomach as much as dense foods, waved a languid hand.

“No, no. I just hated the color. You see that blue middle with the orange top? Ugh. I don’t know what I was thinking. Horrendous; I’m making a new one for sale. Would you like to try it? Then I can say I served the Antinium!”

He was excited, but Pawn and Yellow Splatters stared at the perfectly good cake in the bin. Both thought to themselves…

We know how much a cake half that size would cost in the inn. Even Lyonette can’t serve it normally.

What a waste. Yellow Splatters would have secured the cake, despite the [Baker]’s horror at eating soiled food, but as it so happened, someone else beat him to it.

“[Oh, look! A cake! We’re eating good tonight, lads.]”

Rabbitears and six Antinium hurried over and emptied the food bin. The Soldier took the cake as most of the other food, from the Prelons to even half-eaten dishes, was emptied into a bag of holding. The horrified [Baker] watched along with the two Antinium leaders until Pawn spoke.

“Rabbitears, what are you doing?”

“[Getting food.]”

The Antinium Soldier innocently took a handful of cake. Pawn pointed at the [Baker].

“But we have Kheltians who can cook for us.”

Rabbitears visibly hesitated.

“[Yes…but they have so much good food, very tasty, in their trash bins! It is a waste if no one eats it. Plus, it is free.]”

It transpired that over half the Painted Antinium were just eating out of the trash bins. It beat the nutritional paste, and like Yellow Splatters, they objected to the food waste. But that wasn’t all.

For their…reputations, Pawn didn’t like the idea of the Antinium eating out of the trash bins. The Kheltians were welcoming, and the Painted Antinium were risking their lives. They deserved to be spoiled a bit. But then they got onto the topic of the trash bins themselves, and it turned out Rabbitears and company were emptying all the ones in the city.

And sweeping. And clearing out insect nests. And—when Pawn went storming into the city streets, he found Starfold and Pie emerging from the sewers, covered in filth.

“Hello, Pawn. We are cleaning.”

“Why? We’ve been halting the People of God all day!”

The two Antinium glanced at each other and shuffled their feet. Pawn saw a number of Kheltians ducking out of sight and realized the Antinium had been clearing a clogged drain that had been bothering the neighborhood for the last two weeks. Pie answered for Pawn.

“Well…it is not very hard, Pawn. Someone should do it, and we know how since we work. We were thinking, Starfold and I. Maybe we’ll live in Khelt instead of going back home. It is not very difficult if we work.”

Pawn stared at them, and Starfold nodded repeatedly.

“The [Mayor] offered us permanent homes if we act as cleaners and bug-disposal experts. It is a very good job, Pawn. We could send more Antinium here. Thousands.”

“Thousands. To clean and sweep for the Kheltians.”

Pawn’s antennae were shaking a bit, and the two Painted Antinium nodded.

“It is a very good deal, Pawn.”

“It is…if we are lesser than the Kheltians. Just like Liscor. This is—”

Pawn turned, and he saw Yellow Splatters was triumphant and vindicated and unhappy. Pawn whispered.

“This is just like Liscor, isn’t it?”

Only worse because they liked the Antinium. Even if they treated them the same way. And when he saw that, Pawn hated Khelt. And there was the crisis.

——

It was not that the Antinium resented work. It was not that Pawn thought that some moving to Khelt as workers was the worst. It was just that simple feeling of jealousy.

Kheltians were born with everything. They had spoons of literal silver and gold from birth; they wanted for nothing. Then here came the Painted Antinium who had fought and suffered and struggled for everything they had. They came to paradise on Earth, a practical Heaven in mortal lands, and they were jealous.

Who could not be? It did not help that the Kheltians were all too eager to ask the Antinium to do all the jobs that they didn’t want to do. Pawn flatly spat a refusal at the [Mayor] and several officials sent from the capital.

“We are not hired help. We came at King Fetohep’s request to aid Khelt, not clean for it. The Painted Antinium will not be performing any more labor. You will have defenders of your kingdom or menial servants. Choose.”

Faced with that stark option, the Kheltians backed down fast enough, but Pawn had to instill discipline in the ranks. He ended up arguing with no less than Purple Smile, who disagreed with his decisions.

“It is not our job to clean up for the Kheltians, Purple Smile!”

“[They do not know how to do these things. They offer us everything, so what does it hurt?]”

The Painted Soldier signed back. Pawn snapped as the Painted Antinium watched the two arguing, nervous.

“It is demeaning to us! They treat us like we are lesser than them!”

“[That is what you feel. I do not feel demeaned. Maybe some Kheltians are arrogant, and if so, we do not have to work for them. But most are innocent, not evil.]”

Pawn jabbed a finger into the table he was standing across from Purple Smile at, where a slightly-dingy carrot cake had been in the middle of being divided until he told them they should eat a new one or not at all.

“The Painted Antinium did not create Heaven and leave their Hive to go back to working like common laborers, Purple Smile.”

The Painted Soldier was, uncharacteristically, not smiling. He signed back emphatically.

“[Are we above that, then? Is there no one in Heaven who can empty a trash can, Pawn? Because that is a very ineffective Heaven.]”

—The Antinium didn’t know what to respond with. So he just growled as he grabbed the cake and hurled it out the window.

“As far as I’m concerned, Khelt is rapidly becoming less of a heaven than a nursery for a bunch of spoiled children! If you want to play nanny to a bunch of immature, lazy, empty-headed Mrshas, be my guest!”

He was striding towards the doors when Purple Smile shot back.

“[If Mrsha never did a thing in her life, she would have deserved all the spoiling. It is not their fault they were born happier than we were, Pawn.]”

Of course, Pawn didn’t see that since his back was turned. He stormed out of the mansion-house, fuming.

——

The resentment of Painted Antinium wasn’t universal. Plenty regarded all of this as a fun holiday or held Purple Smile’s beliefs. But Pawn’s motivation was lowering when it had to be high.

He was almost glad he wasn’t the only Antinium who saw things that way, either. Not every Painted Soldier had Purple Smile’s attitude.

Seventh Voice was predictably vocal as well about his discontent.

“I do not like Khelt’s ways. They are very greedy, and the People of God? Not that violent. Not all of us are having to fight like Yellow Splatters. If you talk to them, they embody a lot of the beliefs we do. They gave me free bread.”

He was arguing hotly with Pie and Rabbitears, who were far less charitable to the Prophet’s people after their experiences. Rabbitears signed hotly.

“[They shot us off the ship!]”

“Yes, but no one died, Rabbitears. They thought they were under attack. They were the ones bombarded by Fetohep, you know.”

Pie poked Seventh Voice in the chest hard.

“After invading his lands! You’re getting on my nerves, Seventh Voice. Don’t make me shove this pie somewhere you’ll regret.”

Seventh Voice bristled, and some of his friends poked Pie and Rabbitears back.

“Don’t get mad at me for saying what’s true. What do the Kheltians give us? More work. The People of God have free, edible bread. And unlimited wine! The Kheltians can’t even sweep a broom, whereas the Stitch-folk are all Hemp. Narratively, who’re the good guys here? The rich Kheltians or the Hemp who had to fight for their freedom?”

Pie threw up all four of his hands.

“Narratively. Listen to this idiot. Khelt’s on our side.”

“Well, they’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

“That’s it, Rabbitears, hold him down, I’m gonna put this rhubarb pie—”

Seventh Voice was raising his fists as the two groups bristled when Pawn pushed between them.

“Enough! No fighting!”

They desisted, but Seventh Voice grumbled.

“I’m just saying—”

“Seventh Voice, I hear your complaints and agree, but Fetohep of Khelt has done more for The Wandering Inn and the world than we can count. I am displeased about our being asked to work as well. Pie, Rabbitears, do not quarrel.”

All the Antinium backed up, but Seventh Voice had to have the last word.

“Fetohep does a lot for the inn, but what about us? We came here for other people’s debts, Pawn.”

“Seventh Voice, take a walk.”

The Antinium hesitated as Pawn glowered at him, but then he stomped off with his buddies. Rabbitears apologized, but Pawn just shooed them away.

“Go eat a pie or something.”

They’d all calm down, but it underscored the Antinium’s tensions. Pawn felt even more annoyed than before because Seventh Voice wasn’t wrong—just annoying about it.

As if she was aware of this fact, perhaps from experience, it was then that Pewerthe, the Heir of Khelt, came to call with Alked Fellbow in tow.

She was not what Pawn expected. In his mood, he would have probably given Fetohep of Khelt the rough side of his mandibles, but the undead ruler was still slumbering. By contrast, the [Potter] was a working woman, or as much as you got in Khelt.

“Priest Pawn, I understand your people have been working for Kheltians as well as defending us. I have instructed all Kheltians to halt this embarrassing display at once, and I offer you my sincerest apologies. Khelt is…a difficult land to love for those not born to it. We are rich to excess, and it sickens. May I offer you some sincere tokens of our appreciation? This is Named-rank adventurer Alked Fellbow.”

The Stitch-man looked like a harsh, imposing figure, but when he bowed and offered Pawn a hand to shake, Pawn realized he seemed scarier than he was. And Pewerthe had brought actually thoughtful gifts. Namely…he blinked.

“Wait, are these censers?”

They were! Replicas of his own censer, armor for the Antinium, and even, to his great astonishment, clothing.

It wasn’t full-body. Some were loincloths just in better cuts of cloth, but others were suits, experimental pieces adapted to the Antinium form. Pewerthe explained.

“We know that full, heavy clothing makes Antinium feel unwell, so the [Tailors] of sixteen settlements have worked on these as gifts to you. As for the tools—we thought to copy what you carried. The Painted Antinium of Izril might have use for them, even if there are too many for you.”

It was an actually thoughtful gift. Pawn touched a beautiful jacket made for an Antinium body, then turned to Pewerthe. His anger over the way the Kheltians had been interacting with them subsided, and Alked Fellbow nodded to him.

“Khelt is my kingdom as well, Priest Pawn. It is hard to love at times. But it can be rich. I have asked for the Gnoll tribes to join us, and Herdmistress Geraeri’s herds likewise. Khelt has much music and art to share.”

“I regret that the Painted Antinium have very little of either, Adventurer Fellbow, but we would be delighted to view all Khelt has.”

Pawn ducked his head and was surprised by the man’s smile.

“I believed this was the case. So, then. The Gnolls, Centaurs, and Kheltians are among the best [Poets], [Musicians], and [Composers] in the entire continent. Anything you lack can be made.”

“And surely, the Antinium deserve the finest.”

The [Potter] smiled, and Pawn’s mandibles opened. Then—he heard the first songs composed for Antinium about Antinium. Songs meant to speak of Heaven, of things only Antinium knew. Invented by shy Painted Antinium and multiple species sitting together and riffing, and he thought…

Oh. I must bear these songs back home. I should have taken Singy. He’d love it here.

——

All his anger became grudging wonder when he heard Kheltians sing. It was Pewerthe’s doing. She strode into the cities and reminded the Kheltians that the Antinium were not just guests who could do them favors.

“These are His Majesty’s guests! Khelt’s honored guests! The first group of Antinium to ever set foot in Chandrar—they have come to see Khelt’s wonders. As belabored as our kingdom is, shall we send them back home without masterpieces of our art?”

She chivvied sulking [Writers] out of their homes where they were terrorized by ants, had [Chefs] throwing open their restaurants to cook food in Antinium styles, not just what they knew, and then…Pawn smiled.

He smiled for the first time he heard an Antinium’s clicking being turned into the centerpiece of a new song that Zamecthe Kheltian from the Gnollish cities was working on. Something new the Painted Antinium were incorporating into their faith, their culture.

Not just the music; the half-Elves, and other new Painted Folk were all part of this change. Coming to Khelt had done so much for his people. Pawn began to relax, and what did sell him was Gladys.

The Earther who had left the Prophet’s camps was a nervous, reclusive figure even when she’d reached the Kheltian cities. She’d creep out of her house at late hours, hiding her scars, and steal food. Lots of it. Then she’d vanish. Pawn had met with her several times to heal her scars, but he could not heal her heart so easily. He thought she trusted him a bit, but Pewerthe…

She called upon Gladys at the same time as Pawn with a simple request.

“I would like to remove your [Slave] class, if I am able, Gladys. I thought to file paperwork and pay off your debts, but I think it is better to keep you hidden.”

The [Slave] stared at Pewerthe, stunned.

“Y-you can do that?”

Pawn recalled Lyonette telling him about the power of royal classes to remove classes, and he felt stupid for not thinking of it! For answer, Pewerthe stepped into Gladys’ house, and a figure floated down and into the building.

“She cannot, as she is merely the Heir of Khelt, without class. But this Vizir Hecrelunn is the likes of royalty capable of all things. As is his superiority in magic, though he is wasted in such menial tasks. I see a tracking spell. I erase a tracking spell. Now the class.”

Hecrelunn’s crimson gaze swept over Pawn as Gladys squeaked. Pawn warily nodded to the Revenant.

“Hello. You must be the terrifying and rude Revenant, Vizir Hecrelunn.”

“You must be Antinium. Is it your species’ condition to state the obvious?”

“Only when speaking to simpletons, yes.”

The Vizir paused in reaching for Gladys’ head, and his eye sockets flared. Pawn saw Pewerthe smile, then thrust a hand out.

“You are to behave yourself, Vizir!”

“Do not order me around, you pathetic chit of a girl.”

He snapped at her, and she folded her arms.

“I am Heir of Khelt. The mortal embodiment of Khelta’s will! You will be polite to our allies.”

“I should rip out a fingernail for each offense and remind you what power means. You waste my time defending Khelt for a mere [Slave]? You think a ‘Named-rank adventurer’ can stop me, even two?”

His eyes flashed wrath at her, and Pewerthe stared up at him.

“I do not even have time to guess at whether Frieke and Alked could, Hecrelunn. Torture me if you must. I am Khelta’s will. Her living, mortal will just as she once strode Khelt’s sands. If you wish to trample on this last memory of her, be my guest.”

His mouth opened in outrage. He lifted a finger—stared at Pewerthe—then turned and grabbed Gladys by the head.

“Stop squirming, mortal. I shall remove this class. Roshal’s power is simple to undo if you have the spirit for it.”

Pawn made sure Gladys wasn’t uncomfortable before giving Pewerthe an admiring look. She winked at him sidelong. Hecrelunn just flew out the window minutes later, and Gladys sank to her knees, tears in her eyes.

“I think we should give Gladys a moment, if she is well, and send someone empathetic and caring to stay with her.”

Pawn agreed. He called for Purple Smile, and Pewerthe summoned a [Thought Healer]. Then they walked through the city celebrating the Antinium and spoke.

“I hope you do not hold how we act against us, Pawn. I lived outside of Khelt growing up, so I know how it feels. We are rich and spoiled. But most of us are not…wrong. Does that make sense?”

“I think so. Much of what I objected to came from a place of my own anger, but your people were not malicious. I know maliciousness.”

Liscorians had stoned or attacked Workers on the streets. Even now, they could be unpleasant. The Kheltians were not like that, and Pewerthe smiled, faintly proud.

“It is the act of our last three Kheltian rulers, including Fetohep. Most think it is how Khelt has always been, but sometimes we were truly a horrible lot. Fetohep’s people are not overly arrogant, lazy, or even that wasteful. It is a difficult thing for a Kheltian ruler to accomplish and, I think, his greatest act. Even Xierca was not so talented, according to my books.”

“Really? I thought of him as fairly infallible. A king of limitless culture and power and…”

She shook her head as they listened to Antinium click-songs being broadcast from a central square.

“In truth, Fetohep has the wrong class. Xierca was a true queen of the arts. She was a [Minister of Culture]; many great structures and creations were raised in her time. Fetohep…he has many flaws. Every ruler of Khelt does. I think I would have hated most of them. But he cares for his people. Not all of them did.”

“Really? Again, I find this hard to believe.”

Her lips quirked. She was such a plain person, with her potter’s apron and a once-broken nose, compared to some of the Kheltians. Her hair was black and tied back, whereas many Kheltians dyed their hair and wore insane alchimagical creations of hair. Floating tresses of hair that trailed behind one and clothing of every fashion…

He realized that Pewerthe was deliberately dressing simply. Because that set one apart in Khelt. The quality she had that other Kheltians did not was that smile. It was mysterious, suggesting she knew more than she was letting on.

“Look at King Dolenm’s time, Pawn. Sand at Sea is his legacy, and to hear the crew tell it, Dolenm loved being a [Pirate] more than ruling. Some of Khelt’s rulers were selfish. I…don’t know what ruler I shall be. I don’t wish to think on it. Fetohep will wake, and I am merely filling in for him. If he were awake, I think he might offend you, but you would be far better served.”

Impulsively, Pawn shook his head and took one of her hands.

“Fetohep commanded my attention even half a world away, but that was because of his deeds. I did not know him, and I thought him fairly arrogant, Pewerthe. But you have shown me Khelt should be liked for Khelt. Not just its riches.”

She smiled, eyes lighting up at him.

“Well, I’m a mere [Potter] with a few secrets. I have no power like yours. This faith…can anyone learn it? I never had talent in magic, combat, nor even etiquette or speech. Fetohep has tried to have me tutored in all these things, but I cannot do any of them well. He claims he was only good at fighting, but he had centuries to learn the rest. But faith…I think I can believe.”

There was frank envy in her eyes, and Pawn found himself pulling his censer out so she could marvel at the metal that seemed beyond even Khelt’s artifice.

“It all looks beautiful now, but this used to be two simple colanders stuck together. Faith is a small thing, Pewerthe, but it grows. I, um, I would love to tell you about it. Over dinner, perhaps?”

She paused, tilting her head as Yellow Splatters stumped down the street to find Pawn. The Soldier halted as Pewerthe glanced around.

“I must be back to the capital soon. But what if…we could go there, and I could send you back later? I know all the restaurants there, and they can’t turn me away right now.”

Pawn hesitated, but then nodded. Pewerthe grinned as she led the way back towards an enchanted carriage and horses that Frieke was leaning against. The two were chatting animatedly as Frieke yawned and hopped in the driver’s seat. She paused as Yellow Splatters approached.

“Oh, hello. Are you coming with us, Captain Splatters?”

The [Captain] glanced at Pawn and Pewerthe and noticed Pawn giving him a few hand-signs to go away. But he lingered and murmured up to Frieke. Something had occurred to him just now.

“I am not going with them. I just have a question, if I may?”

“Sure. I mean, I don’t know much about Khelt, but go ahead.”

Frieke blinked at him, and Yellow Splatters glanced at Pawn and Pewerthe again. Then he coughed.

“Pewerthe is the Heir Apparent of Khelt, correct? Then, is this position analogous to that of a…[Princess]?”

The Dullahan woman thought about it.

“It’s not quite the same, but I suppose, yes, you could say it like that to Terandrians. Why?”

Yellow Splatters nodded a few times, then eyed Pawn inside the carriage. He saw the Antinium raising his mandibles and sighed loudly.

“Just asking. I suppose every great leader has a few terrible, embarrassing foibles.”

The Named-rank adventuress grinned at Yellow Splatters.

“Oh, sure. You should meet King Perric of Medain. Compared to him, Fetohep of Khelt and Pewerthe are wonderful. Actually, most people are wonderful compared to him. He once tried to induct me into his harem.”

“If I knew what that was, I’m sure I would be very upset.”

Frieke explained, and Yellow Splatters frowned.

“Oh. As most Antinium aside from that one in there are not sexual, I still lack context, but it sounds unpleasant. How did you avoid that?”

“I told him Konska comes with me. Even in the bedroom. And what he doesn’t see, he pecks.”

The Seahawk opened his curved, big, sharp beak and winked at Yellow Splatters. The Antinium smiled, and Frieke heard a pointed knock from the inside.

“Anytime you’re ready, Frieke?”

“Yes, ma’am. Anything else?”

She turned to Yellow Splatters, and he sighed again.

“Only that I now understand why every good religion should have a good antagonist. It is for the benefit of all.”

So saying, he yanked the door to the carriage open, and Pawn and Pewerthe jumped. Pawn glowered, but Yellow Splatters just pointed the finger of hellfire and damnation.

“Pawn is a sexable [Rogue], Heir Pewerthe. Do not listen to his honeyed words. He is very clingy in relationships. And he sulks when he is rejected.”

He closed the door to the carriage and stepped back—Frieke whistled, then saw a blast of something blow the carriage door off. It missed Yellow Splatters, who jogged off as Pawn shouted insults from within. He was going to tell all the Painted Antinium about this. Frieke began driving, grinning.

——

It couldn’t last. Regardless of what some Antinium got up to in their private time, for all the marvels of paradise, it was a short break.

Faced with the Antinium presence, the People of God grew restless. They called upon the one person who could lead them, and so he left his city and went south, and his presence called the Antinium’s leader northwards. Like magnetic ore drawn to each other, they were to meet. Two sources of energy meeting. The resulting conflagration would pave the way forwards. If they survived.

Each side growing. Only a handful of Kheltians had joined the People of God, but some had begun to join this group that seemed more powerful than the King of Khelt. And the same for the Painted Antinium.

Faith begat faith, you see. Harvey did not flinch at the news that the Painted Antinium had grown to a hundred strong.

“I shall meet again with this Priest of Heaven and Sky, and we shall see whose faith is truer. Our conversation is not finished. He has Kheltians on his side, including Fellbow and this Frieke the Falcon?”

Two Named-Ranks might even the odds, and the skeletons were still a marginal threat, but they had vast numbers. Harvey was confident that with either a hundred or two hundred, Pawn’s group would be literal ants before the flood until Jilthread whispered.

“His numbers have grown more than merely a hundred from other nations, Prophet. At least two dozen may be…be from our camps.”

Harvey turned, and his astonishment became wrath in a heartbeat.

“Traitors to the faith?”

“They were shaken by the revelations Pawn spoke, Prophet. They seek the faith the Antinium spoke of. A heaven for everyone.”

“God’s heaven is for everyone! Have I not written it in the New Bible?”

Harvey grabbed the copy and shook it at them, but Jilthread just drew a veil to her face.

“I believe, Prophet, and so do all those here. But—Heaven is a place for those who love God and who follow his commandments, is it not?”

“Of course.”

She nodded, hesitant.

“Then, there are those who felt they had already violated some precept or—the Antinium Heaven does not seem to have the same requirements. They doubt, so they waver.”

Harvey gaped at her, then cursed and declared he would give a sermon now and that the [Priests] of each camp should preach to their people lest they be led astray.

Perhaps this Antinium was the tempter. Harvey would meet him in the open, without fear, and they would see whose faith prevailed. This was holy and righteous.

A true holy war as had occurred when the Crusades happened. If only they had armor and weapons to match. Soon. The Prophet glanced out the window at the beacon of light.

“How close is the sacrament to finishing?”

“The last level is underway, Prophet. And the faith is collected…what need be done after that?”

He didn’t know, not entirely. His Miracle had not come with explanations, but Harvey was resolute.

“Then we shall pray, Marrieh. Those who gather around it shall pray day and night until it opens.”

He had built a kind of pyramid-type structure in the desert, a tiered base encrusted with the riches of Khelt, but not a full pyramid. It opened in the center, forming an arch which rose twelve stories tall. In stone, it towered high, and the [Light of Faith] hung in the opening. It was…

A gateway. And the Prophet felt that it was almost ‘full’. Soon, it would be openable. He bared his teeth.

“We meet the Priest. Be ready for battle!”

He strode for his tent to find his best robes, but when they did meet, the Priest and Prophet, for a second time, Harvey did waver and recoil when he saw the other reinforcements come to Khelt. For they scared him far more than the ant-man and his foreign faith.

It was said of Jesus of Nazareth that he performed miracles where he walked. In the desert, he strove with the Devil’s temptations, and he preached to all those who would hear him and worked God’s wonders. Yet when he came back to his hometown, he performed little acts of wonders and spoke softly.

It was hard to be judged by home. And there, standing with the Antinium, seeing it all, were—

The Earthers.

——

There were four of them. Four out of a larger group that they claimed were watching, but were scattered.

“Some are in Reim, Hellios, or all over. The King of Destruction lets us roam. I think he’s hoping some of us join up, but we’re split. Truth is, none of us really want to turn into Teres or Trey.”

“Hey.”

“No offense, bud. But you’re kind of a crazy dude. And the rest of us saw what happened to George.”

Trey turned to Lloyd, who stood with Maximillian and Alanna. Four Earthers, each one unknown to Pawn. Each one from a different country and so—different from the Earthers he knew. Lloyd was Canadian. Maximillian was Dutch, and Alanna was from Hawaii, which was technically American but not, for reasons he deemed too complicated to ask on first meeting.

And Trey…was Flos Reimarch’s servant, the [Chaos Schemer] and [Sand Mage]. He was accompanied by bright red sand-Golems armed with iron swords and shields.

He had come for battle. The other Earthers had come to observe. Maximillian nodded at Trey.

“We wanted to meet you because you’re Antinium, and we heard Erin Solstice’s words. This all seems to be tied to Gods. But we’re not going to fight like Trey. We’re not with him.”

Trey wore a pained expression as the three Earthers stood apart from him, but he nodded to Pawn.

“I’ve come to support Fetohep and Khelt. Flos hasn’t sent me. He knows I’m here, but I’m acting of my own free will. I’m willing to fight to defend Khelt. They just want to meet the Prophet.”

He jerked a thumb at the Earthers and grimaced. Pawn opened and closed his mandibles.

“So you’re all from Earth.”

“Yep.”

They chorused, and Pawn hesitated.

“And you share this information freely?”

Alanna smiled sweetly at him.

“Hard to hide it, at least for us. Everyone can tell, and His Majesty informs everyone. What, do they hide it on Izril? Everyone in Wistram knows; we assumed it was common knowledge by now. The [Mages] gossip a lot.”

None of the Earthers around Liscor talked about Earth openly. It was a known secret among anyone connected strongly to The Wandering Inn, and probably a lot of regulars had some inkling, but this lot was so brazen about it it felt wrong. Pawn surveyed them.

“How many of you are there?”

“Only a dozen or so. Fewer since George got killed. Poor guy. And Elena hopped ship in Hraace to join the Horns, but everyone knew she was going to leave sooner or later. She was just so worried about us that she hung around. But she’s crazy. A different kind of crazy than Trey, a’course…”

They really didn’t like Trey Atwood. Pawn didn’t understand why until someone referenced the Wistram breakout, and he realized Trey was the one who had let Archmage Amerys loose. It actually endeared him a bit to Pawn; the Antinium knew what it was like to be the ostracized one of late.

“Well, I am glad for any support you can render. What are your classes?”

The three Earthers glanced at each other as Trey smirked. Lloyd shrugged, embarrassed.

“I’m a [Mage]—we all got lessons in Wistram—and a [Foodie]. What can I say? They have good eats.”

“The name’s Max, not Maximillian. I was a barista back home, and I’m a [Coffee Maker] here. Too low-level for [Barista], and it’s mostly making coffee.”

“I’m a [Surfer]. But there’s no coastal nation who likes Reim except Hraace, and we had to leave.”

They were all exceptionally low-level compared to Trey, who was a dual-class expert with powerful Skills. Powerful enough to have Lifesand Golem bodyguards carrying that blood-red armor made out of something called ‘Lifeglass’. He twirled his staff idly.

“I use sand magic, and I can disrupt plans. I can conjure four Lifesand Golems, not including Minizi, of this size. They’re not fast, but they can fight. Use them as expendable fodder. I wish I had a Lifeglass Golem, but it takes too much blood, and Flos got the last one smashed. You can count on me for support, not the others. I’m the most familiar with this world, Pawn. I know Khelt and how to act. I’ve got training and some artifacts.”

“Just no friends. Even your sister left the continent to get away from you.”

Max shouted at Trey, and the [Sand Mage] glared back. Max cupped his hands for increased volume.

“You were a nice guy. I even felt bad for ‘Worm Guy Trey’ until it turned out you were just the King of Destruction’s little hench-toad. Now you’re acting like you’re the hero. ‘Look at me, I’m Trey, I’m the better twin because I shout at the King of Destruction. I’m the good British imperialist’.”

“Ooh, nice burn. Hit him with another, Max.”

Rather deliberately, Trey paced away from the other Earthers, and Pawn resolved not to get on Max’s bad side. The [Coffee Maker] seemed to have an insult Skill, or that was just natural talent.

“Would there be any chance of the King of Destruction and actual armies coming?”

Trey shook his head, seeming pained as a shorter Sand Golem that looked like a miniature Gazi strolled over, hefting a claymore on one shoulder.

“It’s a Kheltian matter. You don’t want Flos coming here. I…look, putting aside my differences with the other Earthers, we all think the Prophet’s strange. I want to see what he’s like.”

On that, they could all agree. Alanna raised her hand as they came back over.

“I’m really curious about him, honestly. I was raised Protestant, evangelical, and he sounds like some kind of dogmatic nutjob. I didn’t want to get near him, but now he’s invading Khelt, and it’s a nice place.”

“Rich.”

Lloyd commented neutrally, and Max kicked some sand.

“Weird too. The King of Khelt—I met him, but he’s as creepy as the Quarass. They’re all old-fashioned rulers. We have a warlord, a billionaire-monarch, and a creepy child with a thousand-year soul. And all of the Kheltians like Trey, so they’re compromised.”

“Max, I could hit you.”

Trey suggested with a smile, and Lloyd not-smiled back at him.

“I bet you’d do that too. You do that to anyone who doesn’t agree with you, pal? Hit me as well. Sounds like the King of Destruction to me, for all you claim you’re different.”

Okay, Pawn felt like it was time to play the peacemaker here, as entertaining as this was. He held out a hand.

“I would be delighted if some of you joined me, and perhaps Trey could join Yellow Splatters? We have much ground to cover, and the Prophet is coming. He’s up to some kind of sacrament-ritual. Summoning a being of great power. Alanna, would you happen to know about that?”

She hesitated as Trey nodded, face tight.

“Um. Summoning actual beings of Christianity?”

“Yes. They don’t do that on Earth, do they?”

“…No. What kind of beings? Like, the four horsemen of the apocalypse?”

Lloyd whistled.

“Wait, are those from Christianity? I thought they were from something else.”

“Revelations, Lloyd. It’s why it’s such a famous image.”

They began walking with Pawn, and the bemused Painted Antinium made the acquaintance of the Earthers as Trey strode off. Pawn tilted his head, noticing how they eyed him. They were playing it cool, but he clearly unsettled them more than other species.

“Excuse me, what are these four horsemen?”

Were they just four people on horseback? That wasn’t dangerous. Alanna smiled ruefully, brushing at some dyed blue hair.

“Er, the harbingers of the end-times. Death, Pestilence, War, and Famine. The literal aspects of each. No, wait, I think one of them was changed? Conquest instead of Pestilence…hold on. I have it in the app somewhere.”

She flicked out a smartphone, and it lit up as she hit a few buttons. Lloyd glanced at her as he continued the explanation.

“They’re supposed to ride when the end of Earth happens. Biblical armageddon. I didn’t know you had an app with, what, the Bible on it? There’s a Bible app, Alanna?”

“Of course there is, Lloyd. My father made me install it when I got my first phone…”

Pawn really didn’t like the sound of that. He started walking faster and pulled a speaking stone up.

“Pawn to Yellow Splatters. I am sending Trey Atwood to you. He has sand-Golems and can fight. He’s an Earther and will help us defend Khelt. I have three Earthers with us.”

“Excellent, Pawn. I have the new Painted…People in teams. Not to fight, but with each squad. Shall we push forwards?”

“Yes, about that. There’s a tiny possibility that the Prophet might be able to summon the four horsemen of the end of the world. So…let’s push.”

“Ah. This sounds like a plan.”

They marched forwards, and the Prophet met them in the sand. Faith vs. faith with only God as their witness.

And all the people tuning in on television.

——

Pewerthe watched the Priest of the Painted Antinium and the Prophet meet on live television. She couldn’t stop it.

She tried. At first, when the scrying spells started appearing, she told the [Mages] to block them, and they did. Kheltian magic was strong. But Wistram was casting with advanced scrying spells, and there were just so…many.

Grand Magus Recime told Pewerthe it wasn’t a question of even ability, they literally could not block that many scrying spells. So she’d asked how Khelt kept such spells away.

“If this were a city, or the palace, we’d have permanent ward spells that can block any number of spells, but those require us to set up the enchantments, Heir. If we had to stop them without? Ordinarily? His Majesty would just—inform each nation to stop. Lest they suffer Khelt’s wrath. But now…”

Stop scrying or I’ll send an army of skeletons at you. Pewerthe had called for other methods. Artifacts.

There was a lead bell you could ring that shattered magic in Khelt. They had Scrolls of Magical Dispersal, Scrolls of Anti-Scrying, amulets, a Black Jade Orb of Nullification, the treasures of Khelt.

Sixteen artifacts had activated. She’d burnt twenty scrolls, one of the artifacts had shattered due to the magical backlash, and still, the [Scrying] spells kept coming. Pewerthe had ordered Recime to stop.

“We need the magic more. Halt. Enough.”

Khelt let the world watch, and that was a blow in and of itself, but Pewerthe had no magic to waste. Not today. So she watched as she called Sand at Sea to come to Koirezune, just in case.

The Prophet of God was not as imposing a man as she’d thought. He strode forwards in his regal white robes, gold and white silk fluttering around him as thousands of People of God advanced over the sand.

Pawn was a lone figure holding a simple wooden club in one hand and that curious censer in the other. He was Antinium, an insect, but he had a quiet confidence the Prophet lacked.

They met on the sand, and the three Earthers drew closer. Walking across Eternal Khelt, which looked oh so much like the unforgiving desert, all flatness and barren earth. Yet even here, it was only dead land to those who had never seen deserts.

Distant cities dotted this flat ground, and there were gentle channels dug in the earth such that there was shade, and thus vegetation, however sparse. And roads; just out of view were Khelt’s main roads, which were flat, smooth stone that a child could follow to each city. In the distance, within walking distance for any Kheltian, were the settlements where life thrived.

Even if you came here lost, naked and afraid, you could not walk within Khelt without finding a welcoming city blooming with water, life, and art. Oases without end in paradise. Yet where the People of God walked, by the same token, they could strike at any point within Khelt. An open fruit of a land, which had never known true attack or war.

This was where they stood, then. Amidst the illusion of barren land between respites. They greeted each other warily, but with that longing across every face to know they were not alone. The children of Earth for each other, and the [Prophet] and [Priest] for the divine.

Pewerthe realized, for the first time, Earthers were speaking, not caring or even aware they were on camera. The world watched.

——

Lyonette spat her lunch onto the table and coughed.

“Wh—how is—Pawn!? How is he—”

She leapt up, still choking on her food, and Mrsha ran for the [World’s Eye Theatre] as the inn exploded into chaos. Bird threw up her hands.

“He went to Chandrar and he didn’t bring me?”

The Wandering Inn, totally off-guard.

——

“Khelt is weak. Look, that’s the Prophet of God in Khelt. They can’t even stop him. Full march! Get me to Khelt on the double!”

King Perric roared as the final doubts lifted from his mind. Yet he stared at the Humans, frowning.

“Those three. I’ve seen them. Our [Spies] had them in the company of the King of Destruction and Hraace. What the hell is going on with them? And who is this Prophet?”

He searched for answers, a monarch slow on the uptake.

——

Everyone in Manus’ High Command war council had gone still. Dragonspeaker Luciva drummed her claws on the table. The war room had been abuzz about the Antinium being allowed in Chandrar, speculations as to the Painted Antinium’s capabilities. Half the war council regarded this as a disaster—the other half saw it as an opportunity to assess the military value of the Painted Antinium, who were still an unknown despite the Hectval war.

But the Earthers—Luciva didn’t like this at all, nor their proximity to the Antinium. She barked at her people.

“Could those be Earthers? All of them?”

“Impossible, we’ve only found a handful—”

“Do you think the King of Destruction knows? Surely of anyone, he has to.”

Manus was a Walled City, and it had gotten the intelligence about Earthers via Fissival and Pallass. They were aware a few other nations knew, and Wistram had been handing out the information to select clients and allies, but this…Luciva muttered.

“They’re too far for a retrieval team, surely. Do we have any assets in the region…?”

Getting them across the sea was ludicrously hard, but she had to imagine every other big player aware of the Earther connection was gearing up for a grab. Not everyone knew. Who’d know in Chandrar? The Empire of Sands—maybe. Nerrhavia’s Fallen? It didn’t seem so, for all their size. Reim, yes, Khelt, yes, apparently, Roshal, yes. But so few nations. Terandria and Izril had the most players.

——

From Kaaz to King Nuvityn’s company of Erribathe to the Walled Cities and Meeting of Tribes, they recognized the Earthers and were on high alert. The rest of the audience had no notion of who the Earthers were, but some might have recognized a pattern. A lot of oddly-dressed and mannered Humans of late. What did this connection have to do with Khelt’s woes? The Prophet?

Then—Lloyd spoke.

“Hey there, er, hi, friend. You’re that Prophet of God, right? The name’s Lloyd. I’m from Canada. This is Max and Alanna. You’re from home, right? Earth?”

He held out a hand, and the Prophet, eyes locked on Pawn and burning with a fervor—stumbled. The People of God slowed, and some gasped at this divine meeting of providence.

Dozens of powerful people swallowed their tongues as Lloyd smiled warily live, on television. Archmage Eldavin calculated whether or not he could tank Wistram News Network and every other news broadcast worldwide and if it was worth the costs.

Many, many people reached for a map, or dictionary, and tried to look up a nation they’d never heard of, a secondary definition for…

Earth? Do they mean the Claiven Earth? But they’re Human. What do they…

The Prophet of God’s face was colorful. And the commentators trying to introduce who he was and why this mattered to Khelt…they didn’t know his class. They didn’t know what faith was, much less his.

He looked like a cult leader, you had to admit. Fancy robes, people who dressed alike speaking gibberish, and mostly…it was the fact that he was a man.

A Human man. Not overly tall or handsome or intense, someone who could lead an army or crush a boulder with their bare hands. Many gazed upon him and thought, ‘is this it?’

The dialogue between him and the Earthers and Pawn didn’t help; it was a fascinating puzzle for so many. Harvey blustered, reddening.

“Who art thou, and—I am the Prophet of God. I once was a mortal man, like you. From home, yes. But I have found my calling, and I lead the People of God. Have you come to join us? We are laying waste to this wretched kingdom of undead and hedonism.”

Lloyd blinked. Harvey spoke like a man who considered his words important, as if each word was capitalized and underlined. Lloyd? He shoved his hands into his pockets as Maximilian and Alanna stepped forwards.

“Nah. I don’t think we’re doing all that. But hey, I’m glad you survived, Prophet. What’s your name?”

There it came, the reddening of the face. The eyes flashing with self-importance until the Prophet caught himself. Then he nodded, which surprised Lloyd.

“I am…Harvey. I was Harvey. So many call me the Prophet. It’s who I am now.”

“Like your class?”

Harvey hesitated as Marrieh watched the Painted Antinium. Pawn’s head was tilted as he let the Earthers go first, but the People of God were restless. Hanging on these words as they came from their cities. Hundreds.

Lots of them. And—Pawn glanced over his shoulder. There were Kheltians observing in the distance. Barely more than a few hundred undead led by Death Commander Lanodest. Gnolls, Centaurs, and somewhere, he was sure, Frieke and Pewerthe.

This was it, but…he touched the club as Harvey bowed his head.

“Levels, class. Each time I level, I think I draw closer to God. It is no false claim, that. I was never a spiritual man on Earth. Here? I feel my faith. I speak and the earth shakes. I lay my hands on the wounded and they are healed. That is faith. But I do not just embody the acts of God. I see it. I see you, Lloyd. A man without much faith.”

He passed a hand over his eyes, then glanced at Maximillian.

“And you—just as weak. If not a hatred of it. But you—”

Alanna. He pointed at her, and she withdrew slightly, but Harvey was staring at something inside of her.

“You have the faith. Even if it is not nurtured. I see it. The waning hearts of men and women and…”

He glanced at Pawn, and the two locked gazes. Harvey whispered.

“Here comes one with faith beyond measure. This is my crucible and test, as Jesus returned home to Nazareth. You have come to stop me from my holy work.”

“About that. Your class sounds like a real bummer, Harvey. I knew there was something weird about them I didn’t like. Maybe I should have not taken them at all, but…look, we’re not with Khelt. We heard it was doing bad from Trey, and we came to stop this from getting out of hand. We get you made this organization alone. Huge work, really. Most of us were just captives of Wistram until now.”

Lloyd’s voice was soothing, calming, but he was doing that thing where he was a bit too reasonable. He sounded like he was talking down to Harvey, rather like someone talked to a child. The Prophet eyed him.

“Captive at Wistram? I recall some [Mages] interfering with my people—truly?”

“Oh yeah, nearly a hundred of us. They were collecting us like Pokemon. You, uh, know Pokemon?”

“…Yes. Who wouldn’t?”

“Just checking. Some of us are from as early as 2017, others years later. You sound like you come from, like, 1917.”

Lloyd’s bright smile produced a flash of anger in Harvey, so Max hurried to take over.

“Listen, Prophet. Can we talk in private or something? Just tell that lot to step back. Otherwise, it’ll be a fight. You can’t just…topple a nation.”

“This nation is led by a murdering undead king!”

“Yeah…but it’s a fantasy world. Actually, I don’t know about the murdering part, but King Fetohep was pretty nice to us. Whereas your people seem to be robbing everyone on the roads and acting like religious zealots. C’mon, we’ll get a coffee and talk this out.”

Lloyd and Maximillian advanced, trying to take Harvey’s shoulders, but his eyes snapped to Pawn, then he snarled and knocked their hands away.

“Begone! I am not—negotiating. The King of Khelt has killed my people by the thousands. He is working with the great enemy, and I will see him destroyed. The people of Khelt will not be harmed, I swear it. But I will not fall for this blatant trickery.”

Lloyd frowned.

“Okay, come on, dude. We’re trying to be reasonable.”

He was reaching for the Prophet again when Marrieh stepped forwards, but Harvey motioned her back. He knocked down Lloyd’s arm again. This time, Lloyd went for a grab.

They were not the most athletic duo, so it was a struggle as Harvey snarled, curled, and the two wrestled. Lloyd tried to put an arm around Harvey’s neck and put him into a headlock.

Two young Humans wrestling in the sandy ground. Right up until the Prophet’s head was being levered down, and he spat, red-faced.

“Enough! [Rebuke the Ignorant]!”

There was a flash—Max recoiled as he went to help Lloyd, and the light tossed Lloyd through the air. He flipped around, slammed down onto his back so hard the wind went out of him, and stared at the sky.

“Heb.”

He didn’t have the air for anything more concrete. Max seemed ready to try the Prophet, but the man had had enough. He lifted the staff he carried and drew it across the ground, and a line of flames arose. White, hot, and sending everyone but Pawn recoiling. Harvey spoke as they illuminated his face.

“You may be from our shared home, but we are not the same. I am the Prophet of God, not Harvey. I lead my people to vengeance. To the end of Khelt. Stand in my way and I will treat you like another sinner against God. Look upon the powers He has granted me!”

He lifted his staff high and spoke.

“[Miracle of God: True Light—]”

The audience actually didn’t hear the rest. Because a bolt of lightning, a real bolt of lightning, hit the ground and blew everyone off their feet.

Lightning. Not [Lightning Bolt], which you could dodge, or even [Grand Lightning], which was close to the real thing.

A lightning bolt coming down at 270,000 miles per hour. Every [Mage], adventurer, and warrior who’d seen real magic in battle knew the difference in a second. It made the watchers on Khelt’s side shrink back, and the People of God began to chant.

“God is Almighty! God, glory to god, Hosanna in the highest!”

The Prophet stood, staff raised overhead, glowing with power and a kind of ecstasy at witnessing his own miracles. Pawn began to step forwards, but then the last Earther approached him. She held a smartphone in her hand, and unlike the two skeptics, non-believers, she bowed to him.

“Father. Prophet? I’m Alanna, from Hawaii. I’m a believer of the Lutheran church. May I speak with you?”

He hesitated, and her faith was illuminated by no divine light. Just the electronic light of a smartphone.

“Alanna. I…yes. Hawaii? I’m from America. Kentucky. How did you come here?”

An expression of such immense pain crossed Alanna’s face for a second before she smiled.

“Then we’re both from the same country. I was in Chandrar before Wistram found me. Far, far west of here along the coast. Funny, I came back to the same place after all was said and done. I’m…I believe in God. I’m not a strong believer. It was through my family, but I’ve been to church every Sunday, and I’m curious. May I speak with you?”

“Of course. I can see your faith. Not strong? It is stronger than many of my flock.”

He lowered his staff, hesitating, abashed. And Alanna brushed at her dyed hair.

“Yeah, well. I guess it got stronger after I came to this world. When you’re alone and you don’t know what’s going on, you pray. Even if no one ever answers you.”

Harvey planted his staff in the ground. Pawn helped Lloyd to his feet as Maximillian rubbed at his ears, and they listened.

“I know that feeling well. I was the same. I was lost in the Great Desert. Zeikhal. I didn’t know where I was nor what to do. I prayed, and water came to me as I was dying of thirst. God spoke to me. He…didn’t to you?”

“Maybe I didn’t pray loud enough. I wasn’t in danger, mostly. Just homeless for a bit. I was in a city first, Zwaic, then a village. The village was safer. And I stopped praying once Wistram found me. I guess…I never heard him. But you called down lightning. I guess I’m curious whether or not it’s God that’s doing all this.”

Affront, confusion, anger—and worry crossed Harvey’s face. But he did not smite Alanna like Lloyd. He just held one arm out.

“What else could it be? Alanna, I welcome you to join the People of God. If not at this moment—then seek us out and learn. We have the power to heal, to call down fire on our enemies. Even to summon…”

He hesitated and glanced over his shoulder.

“What could it be if not the work of God?”

She tilted her head.

“I don’t know. It looks amazing. And it doesn’t seem like magic. I’ve hung out at Wistram long enough. But Prophet…you went to church back in our world, didn’t you?”

“…I was not as devout as you.”

He murmured, and the People of God saw his face turn to guilt. But he had admitted this to them before. Alanna, though. Her eyes fixed on the distant [Light of Faith], his raiments, and she nodded.

“It’s not supposed to be a contest. I just mean…no matter how much my family and I prayed, nothing ever came true for us. Nothing like this. I believe in miracles. I believe in Jesus Christ who died for our sins. But no pastor of mine ever called down lightning. Do you think…it feels to me like either this isn’t the faith we know or there is a God. But he’s only in this world. Do you see?”

Her hands clasped together, and they were trembling. When Harvey heard her, he recoiled. For she cut with a knife far more dangerous than the one Lloyd had come with.

“I…understand your fears, Alanna. Truly, I do. These are not the miracles accessible to men and women of Earth. Perhaps we are blessed in this world, or perhaps…there is a different force that gives faith power here. For these are the powers of the Old Testament. I know. But believe me when I say that I do not think they are fake. I believe, and that belief fuels everything I do. Perhaps the rules are different on Earth, and if so, I do not know why. Perhaps God had different standards for our world, and this is where they are needed. Or perhaps it is some other power, acting as God.”

Another stir in the listeners, and this time, Pawn was as uneasy as the rest. But Harvey’s voice was surprisingly gentle.

“All I know is that I act in God’s will. I hear his voice in my heart, and I pray to make righteousness manifest. Does that answer your questions?”

She gazed at him, and Alanna clasped her hands together over her heart.

“Yeah. Thank you, father. That was a better sermon than many I’ve heard. I think…I can believe in that. I want to believe in that. I think you helped me find my faith.”

She smiled, and he reddened faintly as she bowed to him.

“It’s nothing. If there is anything you need, my people or I will help you. We come from the same world. All of us. Truly, despite our differences…I will help you. And if we find a way home, I…I want to tell my family I’m alive. I should like to bring us all there.”

In that moment, he became another man again. From the devout cult leader to a wrathful being of strange powers to someone…Human. The Earthers regarded him, and all of them nodded. Alanna took a breath.

“I’d like that too, Prophet. There’s just one thing before that. Lloyd’s right. Thank you for speaking to me about faith. But I do not believe ending Khelt is God’s will. That is the one thing I disagree with, Prophet of God. I have studied the Bible, again and again, and there is no passage in it about the undead. Nor do I think Khelt deserves ending.”

She lifted the glowing smartphone in her hands, and the Prophet stared at it, and his lips moved. Then his eyes came alight, and he stumbled back.

“You have it. The Bible?”

“Well, the app.”

“Hallelujah. God be praised. I must study it. I had only my memory. Please…”

He was reaching for it when he hesitated.

“—What do you mean there is no word against the undead? There are demons. Legion, the devils that haunt the world, six hundred and sixty-six of them, the sins he embodies. Greed!”

Alanna calmly held up the phone.

“There are no devils named in the bible, Prophet. No undead. The Bible does speak about greed, but it does not tell us to make war on kingdoms. Does it not say ‘love thy neighbor as thyself’? Matthew 22:36-40? That is the second greatest commandment, Prophet. You have come into this nation with the holy word and the sword, and I do not think that is righteous.”

“It is righteous like the Crusaders, who went into the desert to liberate the holy land!”

He snapped at her, and she frowned. Maximillian spoke up.

“Um, you mean the Crusades? That’s your comparison? They slaughtered a lot of innocent people, Prophet. That was about wealth and power as much as a holy war, I’m pretty sure. And weren’t the people the Crusaders fought Muslim?”

“Yes. And?”

Maximillian scratched at his chin.

“Both groups believed Jerusalem was the holy land, didn’t they? I’m no expert, but it seems to me that’s a really bad example. People have been killing each other in the name of religion for thousands of years, and you want to do it again? The Kheltians were nice to us all. They have no crime here. They never harm anyone except to hurt your feelings about how you dress. And you came in here, beat them up, stole their possessions, and you want to tell us you’re the good guy?”

“Amen to that.”

The Prophet glowered at Pawn as he shot back at Maximillian.

“They’re being led by a murderous king! Khelt is the richest nation of Chandrar! They embody the sin of greed! Alanna, this, at least, is obvious.”

She was flicking through her smartphone and spoke.

“It says in Timothy 6:9: ‘the love of money is the root of all evil’. Desire to be rich is a temptation that leads to lusts, destruction, perdition.”

“Exactly! Thus—”

She glanced up from her smartphone.

“Kheltians don’t love money, Prophet. They barely use it. True, they’re rich, but I have met Fetohep of Khelt. He doesn’t care about money. Wistram cares about money. Most people do, but I think the King of Khelt would get rid of his riches in a heartbeat to better his people. If there were any man who cares nothing for wealth, it’s him.”

“But his land is rich…”

“Richness is not something we should covet, Prophet. I’ve been visiting Kheltian cities. They live in fear of your people. None of them want violence. I was told it was your people who initially came to Khelt, led by an exile. It does not sound like they struck your people first, whatever King Fetohep has done.”

Marrieh flinched at that, and then someone, Yirene, came forwards to whisper in her ears. She was shielding her face from above, in a terror.

“Marrieh, Marrieh! They’re scrying us! An ally to my house in the Court of Silks contacted me—”

“You’re still in communication with Nerrhavia’s Fallen? Tell them to cancel the spells. No, wait—how many nations?”

This would surely put a target on the People of God and Prophet, but it was not that dire for them. Marrieh was trying to think when Yirene held up a tiny scrying orb.

“Everyone, Marrieh.”

And the Prophet was under siege. From three sides, now, as Lloyd and Maximilian returned to the argument. He was remonstrating with Alanna.

“God paved the way for our entry into Khelt, Alanna, child.”

He and she both seemed to think that calling her ‘child’ was wrong, and he grimaced and stopped doing that.

“—The light of our faith destroyed the undead. As I said, it is not mere greed that has led us here. We have kept almost none of the treasures, sacrificing them to God and using them to buy what is needful. The King of Khelt worships the archenemy!”

“Which enemy, Prophet? As I said, there are none listed in the good book. Everything after that, Lucifer, Satan, Legion—these names are extrapolated from the texts or written by other figures. They are not part of the original bible. Perhaps they’re all just…delusions.”

“They worship that king like a God, Alanna. There is only one, and him we glorify in the highest and tear down other false idols!”

She lifted the smartphone in her hand, and now she did appear annoyed.

“But the Old Testament makes references to other Gods! Other faiths! It never told us to make war or that there weren’t even other religions or deities! Only that ours was above all. This…this sounds like an excuse, Prophet. That is what my faith tells me. I don’t have your class, but this is wrong. That’s why I came here. I’ll pray with you, but I cannot in good conscience let you keep doing this. That is what God tells me.”

There was a hiss of voices from the side, and Alanna flinched as she turned and saw how many of the People of God were watching her with outrage. Some with uncertainty. Harvey’s eyes were flickering, and he was drawing breath to speak when Lloyd jumped in.

“Listen, Harvey. I’m going to be a bit aggressive here—”

“Why stop now?”

Harvey glowered at him, and the Canadian raised an admonitory finger.

“You think I’m being unpleasant, man? Let me tell you—this? This isn’t cool. No one’s saying it because you’re speaking like some evangelical nutjob, but that’s the thing. Tons of us Earthers heard about you, and none of us came by to say hi and shoot the shit. You know why? You have to know why. Unless you’re living under a rock in America, this sounds like every mega-pastor, scam-artist, cult nutjob operation back home. People of God? Coming in and attacking innocent people and trying to start, what, a holy war? Do you have any idea of the history of Christianity doing this? You’re not actually as crazy as I thought, so you have to get how this looks.”

“Lloyd, shut up a moment.”

Max interrupted Lloyd as Harvey turned redder and redder, and the young man from the Netherlands took a breath. He flashed Harvey the smile of an overworked barista behind the counter.

“Listen, Lloyd’s mad. But he’s not entirely wrong. He’s just saying it wrong. Prophet, you’re making religions look bad. I’m not Christian myself, but I know people who are. They’re not waving flaming swords around, they donate, do fundraisers, volunteer. This?”

He turned to the People of God and shook his head.

“…How did you even get to this place?”

Alanna was hesitating. She wanted to keep this to an argument about theology. But the other two Earthers were arguing on different levels. Harvey glanced between the faces and stepped back. But not to run.

“Lloyd, Maximillian, Alanna. I see now you have come with good intentions, at least two of you. But I say to you again: you do not understand. You come here, judging me with your pre-conceived notions. You assign ill intent to me, and perhaps I am to be judged, but not here. Not now. How did the People of God come to be? They heard me preaching the way of God, and they followed. There was nothing nefarious about it. I healed the hurt and gave aid where I could. It was not perfect. But in every way, it is how we are meant to glorify God. Look.”

He swept an arm back, and the People of God were thousands strong now. The Painted Antinium, sixty in number, stood like a line in the sand as the Kheltians watched. More of the People were coming, flooding from their cities. An army. Harvey’s voice rose.

“These are the people of Chandrar who embraced faith! Humans, Garuda, other species, but Stitch-folk most of all. They come from Nerrhavia’s Fallen, the Hemp who are mistreated and cast down by the other cloths. Treated like slaves, second-class citizens. I have walked that land and seen them beaten or whipped for getting in the way of a Silk noble. I called that unjust. Some are [Slaves] who escaped to join us. I did not turn them over to the [Slavers] of Roshal even when they sent their thugs and assassins in the night. They are people who have starved in cities as no one lent them a hand. You may judge me and my character. But do not judge them.”

His brown eyes flashed, and then there was something the three Earthers could not so easily argue against. Max’s mouth closed, and he stared at the Stitch-folk as Alanna half-nodded, clasping her hands before her chest. Lloyd just glanced at the People of God.

“So you took desperate people, sold them a line about salvation, and sent them against Khelt? That doesn’t excuse a thing, man.”

Harvey swung around, and Lloyd backed up. The Prophet pointed his staff at the Earther, and it glowed. The mere wood illuminated from within, unlike an enchantment, as if it were glass, and something filled it.

“Prophet, don’t—”

Alanna was blocking the way, and Max was fumbling for a buckler. They fell back before his wrath, but another figure decided now was the moment and stepped forwards.

They had all but forgotten him for a moment. The Antinium Worker was short, unimposing compared to the Painted Soldiers in their armor, and his robes were plain white cotton. He carried only a club in one hand, and it did not glow.

Gently, Pawn knocked the staff down, and the air cracked.

—as if the very air were glass and reality were snapping—

The Prophet recoiled as those around the two covered their ears. Pawn held out a hand.

“I think that is enough. You three, get back. Prophet of God, I think it is time the two of us met properly. I am Pawn of the Free Antinium of Liscor. Priest of the Painted Antinium. Believers in Heaven and Sky. I have come from distant Izril to speak with you. Will you treat with me?”

Harvey drew himself up slowly and planted the glowing staff in the ground. He squared his shoulders, breathing in and out.

“Yes. I see it now. You are the true test set before me, Priest Pawn. I am the Prophet, and now I come to meet you as one man of faith to another. Was it your doing, sending my own people to confront me?”

Pawn lowered the club and shook his head.

“No, they just showed up. In my experience, Earthers do that. They strut onto any stage as if they have seen it all before, all-knowing, and they love to lecture.”

“Hey, what the hell—”

The three Earthers protested, but Harvey’s lips twitched. He was trying to hide a smile. They both felt their faiths pressing at each other, like they were locked in a shoving match with their entire beings, but still…

“I have met only these three, but I believe you after speaking for but ten minutes. So we are…across this world? I saw the [Innkeeper]’s broadcast and so many faces. I have been alone for over a year. In the company of good and varied people, but I have dreamed of home. You…do you know anything of what has happened? Are they all in one place, Wistram, or spread out?”

Pawn’s head turned, and no one had told him about the scrying spells. Possibly, he didn’t care. He nodded once.

“Scattered. They appear in random places, I think. Some of them draw together. Earthers find Earthers. Nations are hunting for them. The Walled Cities, Wistram. Roshal, the Blighted Kingdom. I do not know how they came here, nor do they. But my people are on their side. Wherever the Painted Antinium go, if an Earther calls out, we will help them.”

The Prophet of God regarded Pawn, and his faith was a harsh one. Uncompromising. He blazed like that [Light of Faith] in the distance, a burning passion, sometimes doubting, sometimes wavering, but standing tall.

Like a cross standing in the desert, a marker that refused to vanish. A pledge upon the earth of faith.

Closer to Erin Solstice than Pawn’s own light. Yet the Antinium was soft and wondrous colors. A vision of the unknowable. Uncertainty was part of his nature. He did not fear it.

Two ideas pressed so close together now that those standing there could see it. Alanna was wiping at her eyes.

“It’s beautiful.”

“What is?”

Max and Lloyd saw her staring at something beyond the two. Alanna didn’t respond. The half-Elves, the new Painted Folk, the People of God—this was for their eyes alone. Marrieh had a hand on her own club. She did not want this, but she felt an impending battle.

For a moment, though, the Prophet regarded Pawn with admiration and felt it in his chest. An approval he had not granted anyone or anything since he had come to this world. He lifted the staff out of the ground and spoke.

“Let it be known to all the People of God that in this, our faiths agree. Wherever one from Earth comes, they shall know sanctuary and respite among us. Until thy Kingdom Come, we shall watch over God’s lost children in any world. But his people are manifold, Pawn. Thousands live in Khelt’s lands, and countless more await our coming. Who are you to stand between the King of Khelt and judgement?”

Pawn nodded at him and lifted a hand. In his own grip was his book. His mandibles lifted.

“Just an Antinium who had no name, once. I am no Queen. I was never made to do great things. I was not even chosen, not truly. I was only granted a chance. I have no right to Khelt. Yet I see what you and your people are doing, and I refuse to let you continue, Harvey. My Painted Folk are few, but we will not allow yours to continue assailing Khelt.”

“You are outnumbered thousands to a mere hundred.”

The Prophet of God drew himself up, and the wind blew at his back, sand whipping up across the ground. That was no spell. Nor was it an accident.

If Pawn had flesh, he would have had goosebumps. He felt like he stood before a raging sea of faith. He shook his head and planted his feet more firmly.

“That does not matter. If I were alone, I would do the same thing. That is faith and knowing what matters, Harvey. If you step forwards, I will hit you. That is my pledge. I believe your faith is strong. I believe in your God, even if I do not believe he is mine, but you are doing the wrong thing. Listen to your heart, Prophet of God, and may it be louder than the delusions of grandeur you hold.”

The Prophet’s eyes flashed.

“Perhaps it is you who are the wrong one, Pawn of the Painted Antinium. You, all of you who come before me, naysayers, doubters. Do you ever think that you are shielding a monster?”

“Of course I doubt. I have walked your camp and Khelt’s cities and found fault with both. But Khelt did not begin this conflict. Your people did, Harvey.”

“I will not be lectured by a foreigner to Chandrar who has been here less than a month. Move aside.”

Harvey went to sweep Pawn aside with one hand, and the air drew down, glowing and coalescing into a physical thing. A hand like that of a half-Giant rose, as tall as Pawn, and moved to knock him aside. He pivoted.

“[Holy Barrier]—”

The hand struck him, and sand billowed forth in an explosion. Those behind the Prophet flung up their arms, shielding their faces, and when Harvey took a step forwards, a club barred his way. Pawn hadn’t moved. Harvey recoiled slightly.

Pawn had less than a hundred followers! Yet…the Prophet stared at him.

“You would risk your life for this uncaring paradise? For an undead king?”

The Antinium’s multi-faceted eyes had no irises nor pupils, yet the light seemed to collect strangely across his eyes. The light flashed, and Ecclisi, watching from the side, praying, remembered a different Pawn whose eyes glowed purely with a faith internal. Pawn stepped forwards.

“I would risk it for a bee, a kitten on the road, or a stranger. Don’t test me, Harvey. I am a humble Antinium from Liscor. A common laborer. I was a [Carpenter] before I became a [Priest]. If you would like to settle this between us, I will take that challenge any moment. I have been told I am very good at fighting.”

The People of God susurrated. It was just a class. Just a class…but they believed in signs. So did Harvey, and he stepped back for a second. Then they began to argue in earnest.

——

The rest of the Painted Antinium marched into position behind Pawn, a wall of Soldiers and Workers united in purpose and faith. Yellow Splatters, who motioned Trey and his Golems back, standing with Pawn.

He wished that they were not so outnumbered. Because if the Painted Folk had come to support their [Priest]…the People of God had come for their Prophet. They were a wave of flesh and cloth that moved forwards. Nevertheless, the Painted Antinium had a unity greater than theirs.

Yellow Splatters stood next to Pawn, advancing, retreating, a single unit who became part of a whole, a gestalt of minds.

It was like being in the Hives, being Antinium in a Unitasis Network, but different. They were linked not by the Antinium’s telepathy, but by faith.

It was a combined strength, and they became one Antinium, even if they were comprised of non-Antinium, a united faith. A rock of stubbornness against, well, an ocean.

“[They keep coming.]”

Rabbitears murmured, and they all saw it. More People of God. They were streaming forwards, forming a huge semi-circle, kneeling and praying in massed chants, but the Prophet and his core group of followers, including his disciples, were all armed. They spoke, shouting as Pawn and Harvey strode at each other.

Where they met, the winds clashed as if two gusts were meeting, forming whirlwinds of sand. When they engaged even more fiercely, the air cracked, and almost-invisible lines appeared in reality.

They were arguing, screaming at each other, on multiple levels. Pawn and the Prophet were the loudest voices, of course, drawing the eye of so many watching from afar and above.

“You are protecting a selfish, murdering [King]! This Revenant has slaughtered innocents far more than you or I could dream of! Did he not strike a harbor of innocents, the Blighted Kingdom? He has killed my people with his arrows from above!”

The Prophet shoved Pawn, and the Worker went stumbling backwards with all sixty Painted Antinium. They caught themselves as a sandstorm rose up and came at the Kheltians, who panicked and wailed.

“Out of the way!”

Herdmistress Geraeri and her Centaurs were stampeding left, snatching up people and tossing them onto their backs—a sandstorm could choke you to death, and this was a simple byproduct of the Prophet’s wrath! But a single figure raised a glowing staff and spoke.

“[Karaz Duststorm].”

Trey Atwood hurled a magical sandstorm at the one coming towards them, and the two slammed into each other. Sand whirled around, forming a huge whirlpool as it settled, and Trey panted. The Herdmistress slowed and glanced at him. Her eyes were alight with tension, and she pointed.

“Frivek, spread out.”

The Centaurs of the People of Zair trotted wide in smaller groups as Frivek yelled orders. For all Geraeri’s eyes were unclouded, her vigor returned, she was tense.

This is no low-level [Cult Leader]. His power was far, far greater than anyone had led them to believe. His very wrath could create sandstorms, but the Painted Antinium held, and Pawn strode at the Prophet.

“You were the people who invaded Khelt! The Blighted Kingdom and Roshal were warned. Neither is innocent. If Fetohep has killed, been selfish, I have always known him as an ally who gave and gave! He is no monster. Why do you call him such? Do you fear necromancy that much, Prophet of God? It is not against your religion! I have known only one [Necromancer], and his worst sin is sniffing too much. You do not understand undead. You have come to loot Khelt, and the riches your people have taken are proof of that. If this was a holy, just war, why does it profit you so?”

They were going for each other’s weak points. Pawn’s returning ‘blow’ was not as simple as the Prophet’s, but Harvey still stumbled. Yet there was no billowing sandstorm. The Painted Antinium’s faith was just not as strong.

They were all learning, moment by moment, how their faiths worked. Yellow Splatters realized that they should have taken every Painted Antinium they could find. It was like Mrsha trying to wrestle Zamea. The combined faith of each of the Painted Antinium was strong, perhaps stronger than the People of God on average, but the sheer numbers…

Yet he added his voice to the chorus of rebukes, condemnations. Starfold shouted at Jilthread.

“You were told not to kill, and you have! How is that righteous?”

The [Battle Cleric] flinched, and her feet skidded on the sand as a puff of dust rose. But Lazimeh caught her along with the people around Jilthread, and she steadied. She went to shove back as the two sides met, physically now, and their voices were raised in condemnation.

“Thou shalt not worship false idols! Your faith is false!”

A pathetic blow; it bounced off Yellow Splatters’ chest, and he didn’t even slow as an idiot [Warrior of Faith] went to shove him. The Soldier, who outweighed the man, checked him flat onto the ground. The arguments had to matter. Unfortunately—Yellow Splatters ran into a press of bodies and was forced back. They struggled, and Pie spoke.

“Your Bible does not have you in it. Your God does not know your people.”

Marrieh flinched, and a gash opened up on her cheek. As if struck by such a sharp blow—Yirene healed her and fired back.

“We are written into the New Bible. You are the ones who have left your continent to interfere in this foreign nation’s matters. You are not Kheltian. When this is done, they will expel you. Khelt loves no one but their own.”

A blow in return; Pie’s head jerked. He drew back a hand and threw something. A pie hit Yirene in the face, and she blinked.

Normal Skills did work. But the shoving and outrage of the People of God physically pushed the Painted Antinium back. Yellow Splatters panted.

“Don’t give them any justification, Pie. Use your words, not your fists. Close ranks!”

They had to win an edge here. Yes, that was how it worked. The Painted Antinium drew closer together, and they were a rock before a raging torrent. A single stubborn anthill amidst a literal sea of the Prophet’s people, who formed an ever-shifting ring around the Antinium.

However—the Antinium broke that sea every time lower-level [Faithful] came at them. Workers and Soldiers knocking down the People of God like a hammer smashing through all but the Prophet’s best warriors. Those were the groups that fought in the open ground, pockets of [Holy Warriors] who slammed into the Antinium, broke away, reformed, trying to pierce the stubborn knot of insects.

The Painted Antinium kept moving, forcing the People of God away, using the mass of bodies against the Prophet’s warriors who had to give chase. And unless they came together, the Antinium enveloped groups equal to their size or smaller. Left beaten-down, wounded, and ran onwards.

Clashing—faltering as Antinium fell, one by one, to be dragged away by the People of God. Enduring. Two faiths meeting like sparks on the ground.

The Prophet’s strength was vast, but undirected. He snarled at Pawn as he led another attack at them personally.

“I have witnessed the enemy that Erin Solstice spoke of! They are Fetohep of Khelt’s allies. That is why I have come here, to deliver those six rotting corpses to their graves as well as this foul king!”

“You—what—?”

For a moment, Pawn slackened, and the Prophet swung his staff, and Pawn blocked. The blow tossed the Worker across the ground.

“Pawn!”

The Painted Antinium cried out, and the Worker hit the ground, tumbling—he rose as they ran to him, and the People of God advanced, a wave. They had the momentum. Even a single opening—they were shoving the Painted Antinium back, now, and Yellow Splatters was yelling.

“Hold! Hold! H—what are you doing? Seventh Voice?”

He was shoving the People of God back, one by one, until a figure as tall and strong as he was met him. Four arms grabbed Yellow Splatters, and the Painted Soldier stumbled. Was thrown down and gazed up.

Seventh Voice, wearing his paint, stood with the People of God, and he peered down. The Painted Antinium faltered as one. They had not realized they were missing one of their own. The Soldier spoke with only a trace of guilt.

“I’m just…seeing what there is to see. Don’t look at me like that. Are we allowed to believe in what we want, or is Pawn’s way the only way? Is his way the right way to get to Heaven? You don’t even know. You lied.”

Waver. Painted Antinium were hurled back by the People of God. Smaller though they were—Jilthread, that Hemp woman shoved Rabbitears with a push that sent him flying like Pawn. Losing. Yellow Splatters rose, shaky.

I am the flaw. He flinched as Seventh Voice came at him, poised to grapple like the Antinium did best, when a hand reached out.

Purple Smile blocked Seventh Voice. He was smiling, but Seventh Voice wavered. He came at the other Painted Soldier, but Purple Smile just grabbed him with two hands, and the other two hand-signed.

“[Are you going to kill the Kheltians, Seventh Voice? Is that faith better than ours?]”

“No, I—”

This time, it was Seventh Voice who wavered, and Purple Smile drew his head back and headbutted the Painted Soldier. The blow dropped Seventh Voice to the ground, and Marrieh had to help him up. She spoke.

“This is a pointless battle! We are both people of faith!”

“Yeah. But yours sucks. You have a lot of nice-sounding things, but somehow, it just turns into reasons why you can hurt people. We believe in Heaven, nothing more. If your God is so great, why does he keep having you attack everything?”

Pie spat back at her. Marrieh fell back, and it was Lazimeh who flew into a rage. He pointed.

“Blasphemer! Enough! [Miracle: True Lightning]!”

There was only a second to react. Yellow Splatters was throwing up a hand as he saw Lazimeh’s finger rise, and he spoke.

“[Unleash Sins: Envy]!”

It was not a crawling, bloated caterpillar, but a substantially larger bird with huge green wings that burst upwards. His envy of Khelt’s riches, his dissatisfaction—it flew upwards and screamed with a Human’s voice.

Then exploded as the bolt of lightning hit it. The air rocked, and everyone flinched.

“Lazimeh! Stop!”

Marrieh shouted, but the sacrificial sin had taken the blow. Lazimeh stared at Yellow Splatters, who lowered his finger.

“Heresy. He has the Skills of sin!”

The Stitch-man recoiled, but the sight of one of his miracles failing had shaken the faith of the People of God around him. The Antinium closed ranks again, and Yellow Splatters felt his own surge of confidence.

They don’t know how to fight. Tossing a sacrificial object or Skill in the way of an attack was basic. And—Yellow Splatters shouted.

“Is that the might of your one true God? If so, he’s only as powerful as a [Grand Magus]! Is that how you argue, smiting anyone who speaks back to you? Weak.”

They shoved back, a wedge driving into the People of God, capitalizing on their moment of weakness. Yellow Splatters strode shoulder-to-shoulder with the other Soldiers, using their coordination to move, slam into the Stitch-folk and Humans as a single unit, rushing through their sheer numbers. But their momentum would run out soon. Yellow Splatters’ head was turning. Pawn. We can’t do this without you. Pawn—!

Yellow Splatters ran into the Prophet, and Harvey halted him, though he was half the Antinium’s size. The Painted Soldier strained to grab him, and he put all four arms on Harvey, but he was like a rock. So strong—

And his hand was burning like a red-hot brand. The Prophet hissed.

“Do you want to see the true wrath of the divine, Soldier? Then witness it: our miracles born of Khelt’s wrath. [Plagues of Egypt: Swarms of Pestilence].”

He knocked Yellow Splatters back, and then there was a buzzing sound. Yellow Splatters felt Pie and Purple Smile catch him and peered up. He heard screams behind him, then. Shouts, and his head rose.

“Uh oh.”

They came across the ground in such profusion they darkened the skies. A buzzing like nothing Yellow Splatters had heard since the Face-Eater Moths, and there were so many. Locusts.

…Just locusts, in a sense. Starfold caught one as it passed by him, and it was an oversized, yellow grasshopper with wings. He crunched it in his mandibles and spoke as hundreds bounced off his armor.

“Hey, these taste pretty good. They’re almost as good as Acid Flies.”

Wait, they did? The Painted Antinium began grabbing locusts and eating them, and they found the bugs were tasty. Crunchy, fresh—Harvey’s eyes bugged as he saw them completely unfazed by the biblical curse.

If he wanted to unsettle Antinium, he should have sent water. However, Yellow Splatters realized something as he crushed a locust in his hands and saw it turn to a mush of insect blood and parts.

“…This isn’t a fake summoned being.”

Anything summoned vanished when you damaged it enough. But Starfold had eaten the insect, and magical food was fake and didn’t nourish you in most cases. Yellow Splatters’ head rose. Then turned.

The Kheltians were screaming as the locusts swept towards them and their cities. They cowed, shrieking as the locusts clung to their hair and clothing, even landed in open mouths—

Khelt was struck by a living nightmare, and it reeled. Gnolls yelling, Centaurs stomping in a panic, too afraid to run and break something as it became nigh-impossible to see. Bugs sweeping over the cities in such numbers that they would never be quelled, not until they had devoured everything, reproducing…

The Prophet had a Skill that could ruin entire nations. He was no longer a mere troublemaker. He could despoil harvests, starve a people. Biblical wrath.

“How cruel. You truly are a man of faith, Harvey. Old faith. The old testament and new are in conflict. Are you a man who loves, or a man who kills and spites? I see both in you, and one is so very, very small. Enough.”

Pawn raised his censer high and swung it as the swarms of locust buzzed past him. He spoke, and the Painted Antinium felt their hearts lift.

“[I Walked Under Heaven’s Sky].”

—And the air split. The furious locusts tried to swerve, but they flew into that vision that had led the Painted Antinium this far. A sky of their own, which shielded them, a raging river of colors that the swarm passed through.

The locusts died. As they entered the colors, they fell. Not vanishing, but falling, bodies curling, their numbers thinning as Pawn stood there, his Skill rippling overhead. Harvey’s mouth opened as he saw the plague failing.

“You—[Hammer of God]!”

He croaked, and a Giant’s hammer fell from the skies. It swung down at Pawn and vanished. Turning into motes of light. Pawn caught one, and the other People called out Skills.

Arrows of divine flame, orbs of light, even another bolt of lightning—vanished. The Painted Antinium stood in their vision of Heaven, and they were immune from harm from above.

They had won this Skill long ago. They had fought on the Floodplains of Liscor against the Goblin Lord, and for all the People of God’s strength…Pawn gazed at Harvey.

“You are not the only one who can work miracles, Harvey. Yellow Splatters is right. That’s not a convincing argument. If annihilation meant truth and righteousness, then we would not need words. Painted Antinium, with me. That is my Level 30 capstone Skill, Prophet. Don’t make me use my Level 40 one.”

They advanced, crunching locusts underfoot, and the People of God flooded backwards until the Prophet was in front. He did not flee, but Pawn slowed and inspected him.

“You say you met the six that Erin Solstice spoke of? The true foes?”

“Yes. They came to me in a vision on the Solstices. Just as she proclaimed. Tempters, rotten, wretched things.”

“And that is why you swore to kill the King of Khelt?”

The Prophet’s head rose.

“Yes. One of them, the clever man, claimed him as a servant. That is why I do battle. If you support that [Innkeeper], then in this, we are aligned!”

His eyes flashed with triumph, fear, and determination. Pawn nodded and regarded Harvey.

“I see. It’s all so clear now. I wish you had told me this from the start. Harvey. You’re an idiot.”

The Prophet of God blinked. The People of God gasped in outrage. Pawn glanced back at the Kheltians.

“Fetohep is the last being who would ever ally with those six.”

Harvey’s eyes narrowed.

“You are a false witness, and you are the fool! I have seen them with my own eyes! I heard that one claim the King of Khelt as he fled!”

“Uh huh. And I have fought the Goddess of Death on the Winter Solstice in Liscor, you idiot! I have seen her in the flesh and battled the hundred thousand Draugr she sent to kill Erin! Do you know who helped us? Not you, Harvey. Fetohep of Khelt. He has fought them, and it was Khelt who held the six off in the lands of the dead. You—are—a—fool!”

Pawn jabbed with his finger, and Harvey recoiled with each jab, losing a bit of confidence.

“That is purely trickery of the enemy. You—”

“You heard one of them say Khelt was their servant and you believed them? Do you believe the tooth fairy is real? Look at me, idiot, I’m the King of Medain. Don’t pay attention to that High King, believe me because I said so. You didn’t even use a truth spell, did you? And they can fake truth spells. You fucking idiot!”

The light of Harvey’s faith winked out, and Marrieh’s head turned like a zombie’s, slow, eyes wide with mounting horror. Pawn was blazing, and Harvey was whispering.

“No, I saw his corruption. A rotting corpse like the rest of them. I—”

He tried to hold fast, but the seed of doubt was planted, and it was growing. Upon it, all things rested.

It was not God’s voice in that rotting corpse that claimed Fetohep. I thought it was God who led me here, but was I listening to a lie? Pawn was in a fury as he raised his club.

“The dead, Harvey! All this suffering! Khelt is crumbling because of you, and it is the one nation that I called an ally! You fool.”

He readied his club to strike Harvey, to deliver unto him a fraction of the pain he’d brought. The Prophet flinched and tried to dodge. Too slow. Pawn swung down, and Marrieh shoved Harvey aside. Their clubs met, and the world cracked.

Both staggered, and Pawn recoiled as the Prophet’s first and greatest follower panted. She gazed down at her hand, and blood ran onto the ground.

Hers. The blow had split the flesh of her right arm. Cracked it like the very air, and a spiderweb of flesh was letting her ichor flow to the ground like rain.

“Marrieh!”

Harvey reached for her, and she raised her right arm, shaking. The wounds—didn’t heal. Jilthread tore at her robes, removing strips, and Marrieh panted.

“Just remove my arm—”

They ripped it off her, undoing the threads, but even when it was removed…the arm continued to bleed. It should have turned to cloth, but the blow had struck Marrieh’s soul. Trembling, Jilthread bound it and the flow of blood slowed. Marrieh reattached her arm as Pawn stood there. He raised the club again, and she flinched, but Harvey’s staff rose.

“Don’t touch her.”

His doubts were gone. There was a deep, haunting guilt in his eyes, but not as he blocked Marrieh from the Antinium. Pawn whispered to him.

“Now we come to it, Harvey. You were wrong. You believed in lies.”

“I do not know if it was the tongue of the Devil or not. But you shall not harm her. This has gone too far, Pawn. I will not let my people die again. Withdraw or this time we shall crush you.”

The two advanced, and Pawn tilted his head.

“I have just told you that your entire reason for entering Khelt was wrong, Prophet. What more do you need? Prophet, say we are on the same side. We are both against Roshal. Both wish to protect Earthers. Could it be we are aligned?”

“It may be. You do not believe in a false God, and even if you did—there is room for many religions in the world, surely. So long as they do not worship evil.”

The Prophet was breathing hard, turning to Alanna. Pawn nodded.

“Then listen to me. Walk away. On this one matter, trust that you were wrong. Then we can make what amends are possible. I have been here before, Harvey. Listen to me. There is always a chance before there is war and death. Do what lesser people like Tyrion Veltras, the Goddess of Death, and so many others could not. Leave.”

He waited, the faith of the two humming around them, as the People of God gazed upon their leader and beheld his sin. If he was wrong…the Prophet of God closed his eyes. Then he opened them and turned to Pawn, and the Priest read his answer before Harvey spoke.

“Do you know, Pawn? I have feared being wrong so many times. I am an imperfect vessel for God. I am selfish, greedy. I lust, I envy. I do not think of my people when I should. I have feared failure. If you had come to me a month ago, I think I would have forsworn my oaths. Thrown myself on the King of Khelt’s mercy and abdicated my role as Prophet. Perhaps I must. But when we came to Khelt, we made war, yes. We fought, and in this, the King of Khelt’s wrath was justified. But…”

He pointed upwards, at the sky. And his eyes rose and glistened.

“—Whatever wrath we incurred, I still see the Arrows of Razzimir falling in my nightmares. And I think to myself: no just God nor [King] should allow that. We killed a single subject of his, Pawn. And for that he killed thousands. He bombarded us without end. Innocents and children. He turned it all to glass and dust. For that, and that alone, I will kill him. What could you say in that monster’s defense?”

There it was. There it always was. Pawn had no eyes to close, so he just fixed it on the tears running from Harvey’s eyes. He spoke with a painful calm.

“You must stop, Harvey. Or there will be worse bloodshed yet. I will not deny that Fetohep did these things. He is not a perfect king. Or, I think, even a good king. To his people, perhaps. But to everyone else, he can be that monster. Like everyone who wears a crown.”

“Yet you defend him.”

The Prophet wept as he leaned on his staff, and the People of God were silent. They drew closer, now, a building wave, and the dead…Pawn rasped.

“When my beloved [Innkeeper] was dead, armies of Drakes came to the Meeting of Tribes, intent on slaughtering the Gnolls for no other reason than that the Gnolls had found the truth of what had been done to them. No one came to their defense. Not even I. Only one person rode across Chandrar and moved heaven and earth to defend them. Because it was right. Every time a disaster has threatened those I loved, Fetohep of Khelt has been there. He is no perfect king. I daresay he is monstrous, foolish, arrogant beyond belief. But you trespassed first, Prophet. Further conflict will not heal anything.”

The Prophet of God nodded and nodded again. Then he lifted his staff.

“No. But he has slaughtered my people, and for that, he will die. One being in all of Khelt. Stand aside, Pawn, and let me take that one life. One, and we shall depart. This, I swear.”

Then it was Pawn’s turn to hesitate. He bowed his head and lifted the club.

“He is Khelt. No.”

“Then we fight, Pawn. Spare them if you can, my people. The Kheltians, but do not let yourselves be harmed. Kill the King of Khelt. Priest Pawn, you stand before the coming flood. I would hate to see you die in this wretched king’s name. Please, flee.”

The Prophet of God planted his staff in the ground. Pawn stepped back, and the Painted Antinium clicked as his censer drifted smoke over their ranks. He spoke, voice laced with bitterness.

“You’re not wrong, Harvey, but not even God can make you entirely right.”

He swung his club as Harvey’s staff fell.

This time, the earth split.

——

The earthquake woke him up. Like a dreamer who had been having a nightmare…Fetohep of Khelt stepped out of that dream where the desperate Goddess had been pleading with him and back into reality.

The throne room of the palace was empty. The lights were off. A faint golden glow from his eyes illuminated the dark room, but there was nothing else.

No lights. No scrying orbs. And no servants.

“Hello? Servants?”

He rose from his throne, feeling oddly—stiff. How long had he been asleep? Where was Pewerthe? Fetohep took a few steps forward, mind racing as undeath returned to him, not the dream of the deadlands.

I know what must be done. Hope. I have come back with hope. And Razzimir’s teachings about panic attacks.

Three generations. All they had to do was hold out for…hope warred with desperation. If he’d been asleep for a day again, then…

A tremble in the ground. What was that? An earthquake? It was too quick, like drumbeats, but irregular. Something was very wrong.

He strode towards the palace doors, calling out now.

“Day-servants! Night-servants, to me! Where is everyone?”

He felt at his sides, but his speaking stone was gone, and so were the scrying orbs. Someone had taken them. Where…

He was running now, through the palace, and no one was present. No one. No servants, only a few undead standing to attention. Fetohep felt something to the north. Something ominous.

A few hundred undead. What is…

Then he came across a soul at last, and the little boy flinched and cried out. Fetohep nearly ran over—

“Anleth?”

The boy had been dicing by himself in the banquet room. A single scrying orb was on the table. He stuttered.

“Your Majesty? You woke up!”

“You know? Where is…where is everyone? Your parents? Pewerthe? The servants?”

Fetohep cast around, and now there was a terrible sensation in his bones. Anleth pointed at the scrying orb, and he saw a broadcast with Sir Relz’s grave face on it. And beyond…an Antinium and Human man striking at each other. Fetohep recognized Pawn and the Prophet and stopped. Anleth whispered.

“They left. So did Heir Pewerthe and…and everyone. They’ve all gone to see the Prophet of God. T-to fight. Citizens of Koirezune, the servants, the soldiers, everyone. They told me to stay with the other children.”

“Them? Fight? That…that’s on the scrying orb. It’s on live television. How long have they been watching us?”

“An hour?”

Fetohep of Khelt stood over the scrying orb, and his head rose.

“They know. The Prophet…they’re all there. The Centaurs, the Gnolls. I must go. My halberd.”

He was searching around. His halberd, his chariot—no, the undead horses might not even function with the precision he needed. He was walking slowly, towards his personal chambers, seldom used for he had no need of sleep, when Anleth cried out.

“Your Majesty! It’s dangerous. Th-the People of God are erasing the undead. And there’s a terrible light from the north. The Prophet is calling down lightning, and Priest Pawn is fighting him.”

Fetohep turned, and his purple robes swished across the ground.

“I know, Anleth. This is all my fault. My weakness. My arrogance and conceit. Pewerthe has held this nation together better than I. I must go. It is me the Prophet wants. Stay here and watch, son of Khelt. I charge you with this duty which the hopes of Khelt rest upon. When Pewerthe returns, tell her that in three generations, Khelt’s dead shall remember their duties. She must survive three generations. Do you understand?”

“Your Majesty—”

He heard a sob as he turned, and then he was running. Running, light as a feather, each step shaking like his kingdom, with a mountain’s weight. Long had he relied on others, trusted to Khelt’s dead, the loyal who gave more than they were expected, even the Antinium.

Enough, enough.

A [King] should not let others fight his battles for him. Fetohep grinned once at the foolishness of that statement.

“I was always a poor [King]. Great Khelta, Queen Xierca, Khelt—”

His hand closed over a halberd as he turned.

“Judge me.”

Then he ran as the Prophet of God raged.

——

Pawn and the Painted Antinium fought, a single group of Antinium surrounded by a sea of the People of God. That they were not swarmed from every angle was just because the Prophet had told his followers to stay back. He led the faithful who could fight at Pawn, so it was a fairer fight.

Just sixty versus a thousand or something. But neither side had to meet. It was just—

Skills.

“[Massed Prayer: Pillar of Light]!”

“[Hymn of God: Benediction of Strength]!”

“[Javelin of Sunfire]!”

So many damn Skills. The Painted Antinium charged over the broken ground as spells landed around them, and Pawn saw it.

Massed prayers. Even a hundred Level 10 [Faithful] could call down the equivalent of a Tier 5 spell with enough faith. He needed more prayers. He needed—

The pillar of light shone down as a javelin thrown from a high-level [Battle Priest] exploded—harmlessly caught by his Skill.

[I Walked Under Heaven’s Sky]. The Antinium were still being shielded by the blessing. It was the only reason they weren’t dead. The People of God rained down literal hellfire on them, but it all vanished, caught by the light of Heaven.

—Unfortunately, for every second the Painted Antinium were adapting, learning, the same was true of the People of God. Harvey saw yet another Skill vanish and instead of trying to break Pawn’s Skill, his eyes narrowed.

“[Hammer of God]!”

He swung his staff around horizontally, and Pawn swore.

“Shit. [Holy Hammer]!”

The two Skills collided in midair, and both recoiled from the thunderous impact. Harvey snapped.

“Aim below that Skill! Bring them down!”

His faithful charged, and Yellow Splatters shouted.

“Painted Antinium! [Stoneshield Line]!”

The faithful slammed into the Antinium, who grabbed their foes, then began to punch them into the ground. Yellow Splatters knelt on one of the faithful until he’d hit the woman into tomorrow and stood.

Martial might still mattered. The Painted Antinium had the edge there—he saw Rabbitears using a shield to block a glowing spear. A [Weapon of Faith]—which met his [Holy Shield]. He stabbed back at Jilthread, and she gasped as the blow struck her robes, but they were blessed.

Arrows were flying between both sides, but neither group had strong archers. One struck Yellow Splatters’ new helmet, and he grunted as it rang. He saw Salted Pork firing a custom-made crossbow back and kneecapped Lazimeh. The man cried out—then he was up in moments, healed.

Someone had hit Pie so hard his shoulder had cracked open and was oozing green blood. Stellar Word unrolled a scroll, and the Painted Antinium’s wounds closed.

They were healing. It was like no battle that the other watchers had seen. Even with potions, the faithful had endurance, the ability to call down powerful weapons—

Little adaptability. 

That was what Pawn realized as he searched for a Skill or Miracle in his arsenal to use to turn the tides. Unlike magic, he couldn’t vary how his miracles worked. Just change where he hit or aimed. Valeterisa, Pisces, any experienced [Mage] could alter their spells on the fly, but miracles?

Either we pray or we use a miracle. Nor was there a way for him to counter Harvey’s overwhelming edge in faith. The Prophet spoke.

“God, hear me! Blow away these Antinium that we might destroy the King of Khelt! [Miracle: Breath of Giants]!”

“Aw, h—”

The Antinium were tossed by a vast windstorm, and Pawn shouted.

“[Prayer: A Leaf in the Storm]!”

They didn’t slam into the ground hard enough to turn into paste. Instead, they lightened and were blown in a confusing, tumbling frenzy until they landed—relatively softly—on the ground. Pawn got up, feeling one arm click.

“Ow. [Mass Heal Minor Wounds]. We have to take him out. [Bane of Luck]. [Summon Aberration]. Yellow Splatters, thoughts? Ecclisi, anyone?”

His two ‘evil’ Skills activated, but only one worked. The [Bane of Luck] curse hit the Prophet and…failed to work. Was his faith that overwhelming? However, the furious Aberrations that came tearing upwards—four of them—threw themselves at the People of God and slowed their advance.

Yellow Splatters spat sand from his mouth.

“We’re losing badly. We need more faith.”

“Well, believe in Heaven harder, because we’re about to go there!”

Pawn snapped back. He lifted his censer. He had his new capstone Skill, but there just wasn’t enough faith to power either up to match Harvey! It was Ecclisi who spoke.

“T-they have so much faith. But we are the People of Erin!”

“Oh dead gods, shut up or tell me how to use a super-miracle from the future!”

Pawn shouted at him. Ecclisi turned to him.

“I don’t understand. We should be able to match them. There are the [Crusaders], the 7th Hive, the Painted Antinium of Liscor. Even if there are not as many, we should be able to hold our own.”

“Ecclisi, they’re a continent away!”

Pawn roared as the Painted Antinium reformed—the Prophet was coming at them. Fortunately, the idiot wasn’t that fit, so he wasn’t sprinting. But Ecclisi just stared at Pawn.

“Distance doesn’t matter to faith, Pawn.”

The Worker’s mandibles opened. And then something clicked in his head.

Much like the Prophet of God—Pawn turned. Then he saw it.

“Yellow Splatters? Hit me hard enough to knock me out. Then wake me up. Don’t argue, just—”

Yellow Splatters punched Pawn in the head.

“[Knockout Punch].”

He shook out a fist as Ecclisi stared at him in horror.

“What? He knew I had that Skill.”

—Like the Prophet, Pawn heard that voice waiting for him. As they both understood more of what faith was.

[Faith (Heaven and Sky) – The Painted Folk Created!]

[Priest of Heaven’s Way rank Created!]

Faith. Ranks? Organization. Pawn was reaching for the faith of the other Antinium, in Izril.

We need your help. The [Crusaders], of course. There were so many, and the [Templars], the 7th Hive…but he couldn’t draw on them.

Because they weren’t really Painted Antinium, were they? They had different ways, even if they had a similar class. Many didn’t believe.

I have to give them a place. The voice, the system of levels was waiting for him. So Pawn spoke to it and said—

——

The 7th Hive was camping to watch the battle in Khelt. Xrn and most of the Antinium were watching, but some were napping and hadn’t been woken up. One such was [Templar] 1-33, nicknamed ‘the Voice’. Because when he had gained his class, he had been given a voice.

His only wish in this world. He hadn’t thought of the Painted Antinium in a while. He believed in Heaven, but the 7th Hive was his home now. Squad 3 and Company 1 were his home. If he was dreaming, it was uneasily, as if some battle were happening elsewhere, but he had been too far to join in. Until a voice spoke to him in his sleep and said:

[The Painted Folk religion Inducted!]

[Class Change: Templar of Speech → Templar of the Sky Class!]

[Templar of the Sky rank Assigned!]

[Miracle – Amass the Faithful’s Will Obtained!]

[Miracle – Explosion of Faith (Orb) Obtained!]

The Voice shot up, tangled in his hammock he’d strung between two rocks, and crashed to the ground. He rose, shouting.

“Company! Company, assemble!”

They jerked to attention, leaping up, and he shouted as other Antinium woke, bawling orders.

“Get every single [Crusader] up and form a circle. Link hands or something!”

“What? What’s going on?”

Some of the other Antinium were confused, but the Voice shouted at them.

“Shut up! Pawn needs our help! Pray like you have an Adult Creler on your ass! And tell Crusader 57 to get lost!”

He probably had negative faith. The [Templar] grabbed hands with a Worker and concentrated. He was not Painted Antinium, but so what?

If there is a Heaven, let it be for us all. You need my faith, Pawn?

Take it.

——

Pawn woke up with a stiff neck and the light of faith burning in his chest. He saw the Prophet of God point at him.

“[Summon: Sword of Light].”

A giant damn sword swung across the ground at the Painted Antinium, who braced. Pawn sat up.

“You can use your followers’ Skills? That sucks. Hiyah.”

He lurched up and swung his club at the gigantic sword as Yellow Splatters ran, trying to shield Pawn. The glowing blade of ornate light hit Pawn’s club and shattered.

The Prophet recoiled, and Pawn shook out his club hand.

“Now let’s do this properly, Harvey.”

He felt it pouring into him from Izril’s shores. Faith. It came from his Hive, where Painted Antinium were kneeling in prayer, from the Hivelands in small pockets, from [Crusaders] in Liscor’s army or the 7th Hive.

Even a little trickle from a little Gnoll girl and a [Princess] in an inn. Pawn smiled as he drew it together, then paused.

“…Why is there faith coming from out at sea? Must be Seborn. But why an entire ship? Oh well. My turn.”

His censer rose, and now, it was glowing with the accumulated faith. Pawn shook it, and brown smoke drifted over the Painted Antinium. It smelled like cinnamon. He grinned at Harvey’s expression.

“What is that?”

“A Relic of faith. Want to see what it does?”

The brown smoke drifted over the Antinium, who had smelled it and walked with Pawn’s Painted Antinium from the day they had begun to defend the Hive. They marched forwards, and then it was unconscious: their mandibles snapped together.

Click.

Pawn’s Skill had finally run out of power. He thought he might be able to reactivate [I Walked Under Heaven’s Sky] with all the faith running through him, but he didn’t need to. Lazimeh had thrown a spear of light at them, but the Painted Antinium clicked—

—and the Miracle fizzled out of existence. They marched forwards.

Click.

The [Benediction of Strength] glowing over the People of God faded away, leaving their limbs leaden and weak. Unnerved, they cried out, and Pawn heard the Antinium click again.

Skill cancelling. Niers is going to kill us for stealing his trick at half his level.

He lifted his club. The Walled Cities were going to have him assassinated, probably.

“Well, if you’re going to fear me—c’mon, Harvey. Let’s dance. [Miracle: Flood of Life’s Colors]. For Erin, the inn, and Khelt—get them.”

The Skill born of the Winter Solstice came to his mandibles, power he wished he had obtained just one battle prior. The strength to do—anything. The Antinium ran with him, and the wave of red ‘water’ broke over their heads. Red like her blood. Blue like her grieving flames. Green and white and—

——

It covered the Antinium. Harvey stared. Pawn’s Skill had hit his own people! It washed over them, and the Prophet expected to see flailing Antinium churning in the surreal waters. Then he realized the wave was coming at them and shouted.

“[Holy Barrier]! Defend yourselves! Defend—”

The waters smashed into his barrier, but it held as the People of God amassed their strength. They held, and Harvey laughed wildly. Even the faith of all the Painted Antinium couldn’t—

The Antinium burst out of the raging torrent of waters and attacked. A wave of brown water coalesced, and they were amidst the People of God. They weren’t being borne by the waters, they were the—

Pawn’s club struck Lazimeh across the kneecaps as the Disciple raised a sword, then he struck the man over the head. Marrieh turned, crying out. She leapt at him—and the Antinium vanished.

Water. Colors streaming past her as she swung at nothing at all. The flood flowed past the Prophet, a moving river, and he spun.

“They’re coming out of the water! Brace! Br—”

This time, the waters swept over the People of God, knocking them down, and the Antinium reappeared. Yellow Splatters punched down two bodyguards around the Prophet, reached for him—Harvey kicked him backwards, and the Antinium vanished into the golden droplets swirling.

So many beautiful colors—the Antinium were pouring out of the raging river, attacking like some kind of snake that could dissolve, reform—mobility.

A Skill for the insect-folk who were too stiff, too vulnerable. Harvey was shouting.

“Do not falter! We are the chosen of God! With me!”

But then—he heard screams from the side and turned. He saw a huge Sand Golem—rust-red, holding a glittering blade made out of glass—attacking his people! And he heard voices.

“The undead! The undead are—”

He’d forgotten. This was Khelt, and it seemed like the King of Khelt had brought his wrath at last. Death Commander Lanodest was leading a charge as thousands of undead poured at the People of God surrounding the Painted Antinium. Trey Atwood fired a fast [Light Lance] spell and cursed; the Prophet blocked it with his staff, panting.

Khelt was joining the Painted Antinium! He snarled.

“Wretched rats. People of God, defend yourselves! To arms! Activate the Sacrament!”

He whirled and blocked a swing from Pawn again. The ground shook as they met, and Pawn was shouting.

“Take the Prophet out! We have the undead and Centaurs on our side!”

The—Harvey turned, and then he heard the thunk of arrows falling. The Centaurs were charging. Now, his people were beset on all sides, and his lips moved.

Centaurs, undead, Antinium. Even regular citizens of Khelt, emboldened, were coming forwards to hurl trash. He whispered.

“You think this is enough? You think we survived Nerrhavia’s Fallen, assassins of Roshal, Germina, Medain’s Golden Ranks to fall here? We are the People of God. Lazimeh, take the undead. Jilthread, Yirene, stop the Centaurs. Marrieh, with me!”

They broke apart, the disciples. And the Prophet saw Lazimeh raise his sword overhead and lead a hundred of his [Warrior Priests] at the thousands of undead rising. His blade burst into white flames, and the Prophet saw him smiling. Lazimeh’s sword descended, and the first skeleton charging at him with the armor of ancient gold, rustless, looked up.

The blade cleaved through the skeleton’s armor and body, and Lazimeh swung through the next and next. The faithful behind him swung through the undead as if they were made of nothing but air, and then there was light.

——

Herdmistress Geraeri was racing left, counterclockwise around the People of God, intending to strike their backs, when she went blind. She stumbled and heard Centaurs screaming as a brilliant light covered them.

“Back! Back!”

She was shouting at them, trying to shield her eyes and restore some sight. She had just managed to see through the blinding spots in her vision when she saw more pilgrims of God or whatever they were advancing on them. Geraeri saw Frivek stumbling forwards. He was wearing Fetohep’s gift to them: the Adamantium armor made for Centaurs.

He was blinded, but swung at Jilthread as she advanced, singing—singing praises to her strange master. Frivek had height, if not reach on her—he was a [Warrior] and rained down cuts from his axes on her cloth body, but she was Hemp, and her robes seemed to shrug off blows. Nevertheless, she was bleeding, stumbling, as she swung her spear at him, more like a club than anything, trying to strike him.

More Centaurs were advancing as the People of God attacked, moving behind mobile walls of light. Geraeri spotted Yirene, then drew an arrow back and loosed it. An enchanted Arrow of Acid—

It halted, quivering in the air, and Yirene stared back at Geraeri as the herdmistress recoiled, then saw Frivek’s assault open him up. Jilthread managed to strike his midsection at last, a blow he ignored as it landed on the banded Adamantium—

“[Rebuke the Foe: Mightiest Blow].”

She heard Jilthread speaking her Level 40 capstone Skill, but Geraeri wasn’t looking at the [Battle Cleric] any longer. Her head was craning up, up—she turned. Fumbling for an arrow. The right one, the right…

“[Select Arrow]. [Unit: Pinpoint Shot].”

She loosed, using one of her Skills, and the falling Centaur—falling despite the heavy Adamantium on him—was eight feet from the ground when her Arrow of Stasis hit him. Frivek froze, and Geraeri was galloping. They had to stop his fall before the spell wore off—

“Get me a [Featherfall] scroll! Retreat! Don’t engage them in melee! Retreat—”

She glanced over her shoulder and saw Jilthread coming at them. Level 40. She had to be. Then Geraeri was falling back as Yirene raised a hand.

“[Miracle: Return Vengeance to Thee].”

The arrows hovering in the air reversed—and then Geraeri realized they had made a terrible mistake. The People of God had survived multiple nations, but she’d thought they had gone like beggars and thieves, fleeing every attack.

But Roshal? Nerrhavia’s Fallen towards rebellious Hemp? Medain? These were not nations known for kindness and clemency. The People of God had fought their way out of every trap and battle. And the undead—

The [Light of Faith] swung towards Khelt’s charging undead, and Geraeri sighed.

“So much for paradise.”

It was nice while it lasted. On live television, the audiences watched as a thousand undead fell to pieces, burning under that terrible light. Then another thousand. And another—

——

The People of God were cutting a swathe through the undead. The Centaurs were regrouping, unwilling to stand and fight against what they didn’t know, and what few Kheltians could fight—

Alked Fellbow firing arrows at the summoned spirit that had been called back by Priest Manoset. Frieke and Konska knocking down the People of God trying to swarm Trey and his Sand Golems, Kheltians fleeing.

He was tired. Pawn and the Painted Antinium were tiring. The People of God fought back for everyone that fell, and they were outnumbered. But so what?

They appeared as the wash of colors finally ended, and Pawn panted.

“I’m going for the Prophet. Yellow Splatters, keep Marrieh off me. We have to end this.”

The two leaders locked gazes, and Pawn no longer thought Harvey would fall so easily. But they would finish this. For Khelt.

The Painted Antinium began to charge as the People of God followed the Prophet with a roar. From above, the scrying spells, it all seemed like a confusion of ants. So cute. So small.

The foremost [Battle Priest] running at Pie was Manoset, teeth bared as he raised a sword. His feet left the ground. He swung his sword, shouting wildly, and his head rose.

He met the Vizir Hecrelunn’s crimson eyes, and the skeletal face smiled at him. Then Hecrelunn ripped his body apart.

“[Claws of the Vampire Queen].”

Blood and limbs scattered over the People of God. They flinched and glanced up. The Painted Antinium slowed, and the Vizir’s eyes flashed.

“Hello, worms despoiling Khelt. I am the Vizir Hecrelunn. [Disintegration Ray].”

He pointed, and a thin line of pale brown stretched out towards the Prophet’s face. Harvey flinched; one of his bodyguards pushed him aside, gasped—

Vanished. Hecrelunn shrugged. Then he dove and seized up another struggling faithful. He bore the woman higher and spoke.

“[Flesh to Iron].”

“What is—”

Harvey saw the flailing slow, and then the Vizir was holding a statue, mouth open in horror, which he lifted overhead. And—the metal was glowing where his hands touched it. The statue began to turn red hot, then white, and it melted. He pointed down as he hurled the liquid metal.

“[Lava Rain].”

Molten metal struck upraised faces, burning through eye sockets and setting Stitch-folk aflame. Droplets hit a barrier as Harvey raised his hand. What was—who was—

The Vizir snapped his fingers and vanished. He reappeared behind Lazimeh’s charging faithful and spoke as undead were turned into ash and dust.

“Do you think this is all the undead are capable of? I have been busy destroying armies. But it seems I must devote a fraction of my talents to this pathetic rabble. Observe, Heir. This is how you put down roaches. [Flesh Magnesis].”

He held out a hand, and a [Warrior Priest] was pulled off his feet into the Vizir’s grip. The [Vizir] grabbed the arm before it could swing a mace at him. Then his other hand seized the neck of the [Warrior Priest].

Snap. He twisted the neck around, then twisted it back and tossed the body down. Hecrelunn pointed at it.

“[Animate Draugr].”

The body began to bulge as the still-warm flesh of the Stitch-man expanded, and corded muscle filled the limbs. A bright, pale red light came from the empty eyes, and Lazimeh turned, readying his sword, as the Draugr rose. Seven feet tall and still rising—Lazimeh swung the sword into the Draugr’s side, and it bit deep. But the Draugr just ripped the sword free and dealt Lazimeh a blow that skipped him over the ground like a stone. Then it was roaring, charging.

“Hmm. [Mass Animate Invisible Ghouls]. Where are those useless Centaurs? Ah, good. Hello, Stitch-folk. [Meteor Storm].”

Jilthread had barely turned when the Vizir loosed the first burning chunks of stone down on her people. She raised a hand, crying out, and he was laughing. Hecrelunn floated higher as everyone halted and just tried to keep up with the devastation he was causing.

“The Vizir Hecrelunn does not grant you the right to despoil Khelt. Did you think that this land was yours to claim? Die screaming.”

He swooped down again and landed amongst the densest pocket of the People of God. Spun as they recoiled.

“[Blood Scythes].”

Crimson blades spat from his fingers, cutting through everything at waist height. They only halted when one of the [Clerics] raised a cross and stopped one of the scythes coming at him—another just travelled a hundred feet before dissipating.

The sands were red. The Prophet croaked.

“Bring that thing down. Bring it—”

He raised a barrier just in time. The [Inferno Ray] turned everything around it into fire and caught Harvey’s robes aflame. Hecrelunn swept towards him again, and Marrieh shouted.

“Defend the Prophet! Defend the—”

Hecrelunn dodged a glowing javelin with contemptuous ease. He pointed down at the thrower and spoke.

“[Implode Head]. Now, ‘People of God’. I am Khelta’s greatest follower. Bring forth your God. Or I shall rouse him with your cries of agony.”

He swept down on them and began the slaughter.

——

Most of the television networks managed to censor the horrific bloodshed…after a few minutes. The smart ones had a delay, but the Vizir just killed and kept killing. It was not just death, it was slaughter, each spell more horrific than the last.

Which, you had to admit, took talent. Of course, there was the humanity of it, the screams of the dying as he laid waste to the People of God, but if you were in the mood for some actually useful commentary, it was a fascinating engagement.

“Hmm. I’d put him at Level…67, probably. Not quite Level 70. If he were, he’d have wasted the entire area already. He could be Level 50+, but I doubt it. [Vizir]’s a hybrid-caster, so he has to be higher-level to keep casting so many spells. See how he stopped using showy, mana-wasting spells like [Disintegration Ray] and [Meteor Storm] after the first volley? He’s trying to rout them. And probably figuring out their capabilities.”

If you wanted accurate insight into magic or just battle, there was only one person who could commentate and eat potato chips at the same time. Well, there were probably plenty of people who could do that, but Silvenia was probably Top 5 at least, even if you counted Dragonlords and old mysterious hermits.

The Death of Wings, Serinpotva, and Death of Chains, Czautha, were watching with a number of Demons, and they were not enjoying the slaughter. But they were watching because this class was new. The crunch crunch of Silvenia eating was at odds with the screams, and Serinpotva glared with one eye.

“Silvenia. Stop eating chips. What do you see?”

The Death of Magic ostentatiously vanished the chips and sat upright as she hung in the air. She enlarged the scrying spell and added multiple angles, phasing out the panicked television broadcasts. For all her tone was light, her eyes were fixed on Hecrelunn.

“In life, Khelta was guessed to be Level 70+. Not Level 80. She’s a fascinating character. She is not the greatest [Necromancer] of her age, did you know? Preceding her was Archmage Nekhret, who presided over a Breathless Age when undead ruled mortals and had actual nations. Very strange. I did research it—yes, yes, don’t peck me. This has a point.”

Czautha had to turn away from the Stitch-folk being slaughtered as Silvenia spoke.

“Khelta descended from great necromancers, but she never hit Nekhret’s sheer power or undead. She went against it; I think she saw too many high-grade undead and wanted her low-level skeletons, hence her nation’s current predicament. She was a good ruler. I think she had two high-classes, hence why Khelt is such a miracle. This Vizir? He fights like a battlemage from that era. Never touch the ground, always be flying, hit and run tactics. But he doesn’t know these faith-classes, and I think he’s very wary of being hit. See how he keeps at range?”

It was true. The Vizir was dive-bombing the People of God, flying down to throw spells before pulling up to hundreds of feet and moving at such speed only a talented [Archer] could keep up. You could read that as contempt, but Czautha murmured.

“Can they kill him, Silvenia?”

“Unclear. Fascinating how powerful their anti-undead abilities are, aren’t they! Faith. Here’s my analysis of these ‘Miracles’ so far. Watch him hit that group of higher-level Stitch-folk. I wish I could [Appraise] them…”

Silvenia pointed at a group of [Clerics] desperately holding together, and Hecrelunn fired a [Siege Fireball] before following it up with an [Acid Cloud] and then [Diamond Spray] spells. Silvenia nodded.

“They block the first spell. So their barriers are…damage-nullifiers. Modern mage-barriers don’t work like that. With [Arcane Barrier], it takes a certain amount of damage, and then it goes down. But the [Siege Fireball] takes down that barrier, and—it’s not airtight.”

Acid burning the [Clerics] who formed up another shield only for shards of diamond to strike them. Silvenia nodded to herself.

“Multiple attacks to break it down if it’s a damage-nullifier. They normally last only for one shot. Although—hold on—”

The Vizir went for another pass and fired the [Diamond Spray] spell at Yirene, who was covering fleeing People of God, and they lodged in the air. Silvenia amended her comment.

“Okay, some Miracles are damage-nullifiers, some seem like they’re overload-types. But either way, you can blast through them with enough magic. See, he’s doing it to establish how much magic he’d have to use.”

Hecrelunn was blasting Yirene with spells as her arms shook, until the air imploded, and she fell to her knees. He lazily pointed a finger at her as one of the faithful tried to shield Yirene. A child. Czautha looked away.

[Flaming Meteor]. The spell hit the two, and Hecrelunn laughed—then recoiled, and Silvenia sat up slowly.

A glowing dome was encompassing Yirene and the girl. Produced by the shaking hand of the girl—Hecrelunn rose higher, dodging miracles hurled at him, visibly snarling, and Silvenia ripped up the notes she’d been taking.

“Okay. Forget everything I said. Miracles can be variable, and they seem to scale not based on mana, but on ‘faith’. Desperation. They’re a reactive shield. The worst kind of thing to try to account for with your spellcasting.”

She scowled, floating closer.

“It’s too damn powerful.”

So said the Death of Magic, who could eradicate islands with a single spell. Serinpotva held a wing out, and Czautha squeezed it.

“This Revenant intends to wipe out all the People of God. Can he do it?”

“Hmm. Unless they’ve got more I haven’t seen, they just don’t have the ability to hit him while he’s up there. And his barriers—aha, he took that shot on purpose.”

The Vizir had been hit by a single flying arrow shot from below. The arrow, glowing with the Prophet’s fire, collapsed an orange shield, but he had multiple layers of defenses, and Silvenia watched his crimson eye-lights narrow slightly.

“Oh, he didn’t like that. It probably took down an entire shield spell. But he can layer them, and unless the Prophet hits him straight on, I think they’re dead. I imagine every other [Mage] with sense is appreciating this lesson. We should send him a gift basket.”

As if he could hear her, the Vizir glanced up at the scrying spells, pure annoyance on his face. Silvenia waved at him cheerily.

“Hello! Can you see me? I’d love to hire you—oh, no, he can’t.”

She watched him dive down and come up with a huge ball of sand, which began to melt. Silvenia winced.

“Oh, he’s decided magic isn’t as effective as physical matter. Good call. I’d bet he’s going to either shower them with molten glass or make a construct out of it and have it burn them all to death while he snipes the Prophet. Which is just so—”

She sighed.

“[Remote Teleportation]. Hello? That guy clearly doesn’t have anti-teleportation wards. Teleport him up and [Magnify Gravity] by a hundred times. What are we doing here?”

She began heckling the Prophet as Czautha shook her head. The Vizir was laughing, and she knew he was doing it to instill terror on Khelt’s enemies. He kept varying how he killed them. Flee, run in terror, and be a lesson to others. The Djinni knew the axioms of war, for she had practiced them on enemies she found worthy, like the Blighted Kingdom and Roshal.

But it was abhorrent. If Khelt lived but for him, small wonder they had so many enemies. He was the monster the Prophet had feared after all.

——

The Prophet was wide open. A man raising his staff, shouting as he tried to defend his people. And they were praying, but the laughing Vizir rose higher as blood rained down. He had ripped it straight out of a Garuda’s chest and created a blood rain. Now, the burning orb of glass was churning white-hot as he mocked them.

This was the moment to take Harvey out. He wasn’t even looking at Pawn. The Worker knew it, but his head was craned back. He was watching Hecrelunn.

The champion of Eternal Khelt was laughing as his magic and aura turned the sky above into a rain of blood. But it seemed performative to Pawn. The swooping [Vizir] was a bit too fast, moving in a zig-zag pattern, not flying carefree and superior like the birds that Bird like to point out to him.

He was also—cruel. Another of the faithful died as Hecrelunn snatched them up, and this time, his voice was frustrated.

“[Flay the Living]. Scream for me, mortals.”

Pawn looked away once—he saw a bundle of flesh falling, and then a writhing, red figure of veins and flesh was shrieking. Hecrelunn was amplifying the shrieks over the People of God.

Trying to break their faith. He understood something about the war that was being fought, and he was trying to rout them. Pawn’s ally had created the opening the Painted Antinium needed. The Worker prayed for a moment as Hecrelunn released his victim and pointed his fingers down.

“Now, People of ‘God’. Try to survive until I may vent a millionth of my fury upon you.”

Thunder was booming, and the skies had turned blood-red. Byproducts of his spells or just illusion magic? It fit him.

“Pawn.”

Yellow Splatters was tensing for a charge. The [First Heretic-Captain] drew a sword forged for Antinium Soldier hands, and Harvey never noticed, but Marrieh did.

She turned from where she was guarding the Prophet, and her face was grim as she waited. Setting herself against both Antinium. Pawn nodded once as he drew his club.

“Yellow Splatters, do you have my back? Painted Antinium?”

“Always.”

“Good.”

Above them, the Vizir raised his arms higher to throw down the molten hill of glass and stopped. He peered down at the Prophet and spoke, annoyed.

“Antinium-thing. Move. You’re in the way.”

Harvey spun. Pawn was two dozen paces away from him. He lifted his staff, snarling, but the [Priest] wasn’t gazing at him. He was holding his club to one side as he held his Book of Heaven and Sky, and he was reading from it.

“No. I think I’m in the right place, Vizir. Strange, I forgot to add this section in.”

“What? Move, fool.”

The Vizir swooped down, but Pawn delicately raised a quill and scribbled in the book. Then he peered up.

“No. I need to write a new section about right and wrong. Somehow, I never added it because I thought it was obvious. But you are the very definition of an ally I would rather never have. Enough, Vizir Hecrelunn. Fall back.”

“…What?”

The Revenant was so surprised he floated back in the air, but Pawn just glanced at the bloody ground and bodies. Lazimeh was standing over the dead Draugr, panting, as rippling air revealed invisible Ghouls. Slaughter. The [Priest] pointed up.

“We are both people of faith. I did not come here to annihilate the People of God. Let alone children. You are everything that the Prophet rightly hates Khelt for. Fly away, Vizir.”

“You—do not give orders—to me.”

The strain of keeping the molten orb of glass or the incredulity of being lectured by Pawn made Hecrelunn’s voice break. He roared down at Pawn.

“I am ending this damned affair and keeping your people from being destroyed! Move or I will annihilate you.”

He shrieked down, and the [Priest of Wrath and Sky]’s eyes flashed. Were those…pupils made of light staring up at Hecrelunn? Pawn spoke back, voice flat.

“That’s my line. I am only sparing you because I know you are loyal to Khelt. No more slaughter. Fly off, little skeleton, or I’ll unmake you.”

Hecrelunn’s eye-lights turned into pinpoints of rage. He hesitated, then threw the orb of glass down.

“Then die.”

Liquid glass splashed down around Pawn, and the watching Painted Folk cried out—then gasped. The light of Heaven bloomed and reflected around the glass running around Pawn’s capstone Skill.

[I Walked Under Heaven’s Sky]. He swept his club around and spoke.

“He can’t hit us from above. Painted Antinium, to me. Harvey?”

He turned, and the Prophet hesitated only a moment before they both lifted staff and club. Hecrelunn dove and attacked from the side, under Pawn’s shield.

“[Wave of Blood]! [Ichor Burst]!”

He conjured a wave which he exploded into needle-shards of blood. Harvey split the wave, and Pawn’s shield caught the magic. Hecrelunn flashed overhead as both leaders tried to strike him. He had an orb of something noxious in his hands. A bomb of pestilence he was aiming at point blank r—

A hand of bone slapped Hecrelunn out of the sky. The Vizir saw it coming at the last moment and threw his [Orb of Pestilence], but it just splashed over the Bone Giant’s face. A dead Drake grinning at him.

“What?”

The blow tossed Hecrelunn across the ground, and he rose, firing spells from both hands at—

Where had it gone? The undead that had struck him had vanished. The Vizir performed an aileron roll as more spears of light ate at his barrier spells. Who—how—?

The culprit was standing on the ground just under Hecrelunn. The Vizir saw a single Antinium without paint on his carapace raise a fist. Yellow Splatters, his shell permanently colored by his identity, spoke.

“We might be sinners, but you’re a monster, Vizir. [Vision of Despair: Bone Giant’s Swing].”

A Bone Giant appeared, and that hand rose. This time, Hecrelunn dodged it as the [First Heretic] of the Antinium conjured the nightmare of the Winter Solstice. He pointed down.

“Die, traitors!”

Yellow Splatters threw up a hand, and Marrieh’s club met the [Disintegration Ray]. The air screamed, and her club—vanished. She reached for another as the Vizir flew higher, shrieking insults, bombarding Pawn’s Skill. He whirled and threw out one arm, shouting.

“Undead of Khelt, by your eternal service, arise! Arise, legions of Khelt, and unmake them all!”

The skeletons broke the earth, and they were rising now. By the tens of thousands, and Pawn sighed. Then his head turned.

“—What is that?”

The Prophet of God turned as well, and his despairing eyes lit up with a mania, a fervor. He began to laugh.

“Judgement. Judgement on all us sinners—”

Hecrelunn dove at them, and Pawn kept staring northwards, towards the [Light of Faith]. He felt like something had reached a crescendo there. A critical mass of faith, like a building music or weight in the air. Until it was heavy, dense enough to…

Open something. A door.

A gate.

Something reached out from the other side and pulled the door open wider. Pawn spoke.

“Ah, hells.”

The first Angel set foot on Chandrar, and there was a stillness to the air as it drew a flaming sword. The worshipping People of God gazed up and beheld it.

Look, come and see. It had six wings and eight eyes. Flesh glowing like sunlight.

A blade of white flame that scorched the soul.

It came into this world naked, faceless, and the light it brought invigorated the soul and burnt filth away.

It spoke, without a mouth, like the tolling of bells. Every Agelum in the world cried out when they felt it descend, like a bright-hot brand touching their hearts, ecstatic and painful. Cousins kith and kin to them but purer. Different.

The Angel of God flew southwards as the Vizir turned, and the Prophet fell to his knees, weeping in joy and prostrating himself, and then his eyes caught the being as it flew at Pawn, blade raised. He saw it had stitching along its neck and joints.

An Angel of Stitch-folk. The first was lightest and swiftest, calling a toll for the changing of the world’s order and the ending to all the People of God’s foes.

The second sounded like breaking glass and carried a spear of glowing light. The third set off [Dangersenses] across the Kingdom of Khelt, and its light was visible in Germina and Reim, a glowing star falling to earth.

Then the King of Khelt paused and beheld the doom of Khelt.

——

They attacked so fast that Yellow Splatters barely saw them move. The first one dove at Pawn. Pawn, not Hecrelunn. The [First Heretic] threw himself forwards, and the sword slashed across his chest and hurt.

It hurt his soul. He screamed as he struck at it, but it danced around him like a swallow, sword slashing.

Like a [Blademaster]. He had seen Numbtongue fighting, but even the Hobgoblin looked slow and sloppy compared to—

Pawn swung his club, and the Angel darted back, skimming across the ground at the other Painted Antinium. Harvey whispered.

“Judgement upon us all. Repent. Rep—”

Pawn kicked him in the face as the [Priest] tried to heal Yellow Splatters, but these were no normal wounds. The [Heretic] whispered.

“Pawn, it’s coming—”

The first Angel was slashing at Pawn’s head when Hecrelunn’s [Deathbolts] made it twist. Instead of dodging, it cut through eight of the spells, and the Vizir halted, finger raised.

“Anti-magic blade. Hm.”

He flew upwards, then spotted the second Angel bearing down on him. Pawn dropped Yellow Splatters.

“Stellar Word, heal him!”

He backed up as the first Angel dove at him again, and Hecrelunn scrambled away from the second Angel. He was no longer confident.

“That light. What is—argh!”

His scream as he fell to earth was pained. Pain? For a second, Pawn peered up and didn’t see the skeleton dressed in rich, regal robes with bright crimson lights.

He saw a man, hooked nosed, sneeringly handsome, black hair, and crimson eyes wide with p—

The [Vizir] caught himself an inch off the ground and glanced up. The light flashed over him again as the third Angel flew, and it burned his very soul. He took one look at it and fled.

Two pursued him as thousands of skeletons advanced on the People of God, who had fallen to their knees in prayer. Hecrelunn was skimming over the undead’s heads, firing spells back at the two Angels who cut the spells out of the sky. They did not attack the skeletons below them.

They didn’t need to.

The light from the third one, who had four pairs of wings and was visibly larger than the other two, bathed the skeletons, and they peered up and…vanished.

A skeleton wearing Khelt’s armor gazed into the light of the Angel as it hefted a spear, and it turned to dust in a moment. There was a flicker. A vision.

—a [Craftsman] running a blade across soft leather, working it as he stood at a stall outside a city of blue sand—

The skeleton collapsed. Another was aiming an arrow as the light touched it.

—girl aiming a bow at a fair. Grinning at the bobbing targets painted to look like a Dragon—

Memories. All that remained in Khelt’s undead were brought to light, made, for a second, mortal, then erased.

The undead crumbled in seconds. Ten thousand vanished into bone dust and empty armor as the Kheltians cried out, and the Angels swept down from above. Pawn was backing up, trying to defend himself, but they fought like—

Slash. The smallest Angel came down, a two-handed cut which he moved to block. So it saw him and repositioned, swinging its wings out so it curved around into a sideways slash that raked his side. Then as he turned, swinging wildly, it spun around his back, slashing twice. Flying up—

The blows burned the Antinium’s carapace, but Pawn only felt the searing pain of heat. Faith. He was a being of faith. But it was so damn fast—

He threw himself forwards as the blade speared down. It would have burned a hole straight through his head from above and boiled him from the inside. He knew as he tumbled forwards, rising, that it would have him before he could r—

The Angel was angling for a deathblow when it swivelled in midair. The spear made out of lightning still blew it out of the air, and the People of God cried out. A voice from above yelled down to Pawn, the most beautiful thing he’d heard since his [Princess]…

“Pawn! Get up the ramp! Hurry—”

Pewerthe was shouting at him, hefting her masterpiece pot, but Captain Cikroleth spun the wheel as he snapped.

“No time! It’s coming around—to arms! Don’t let it touch the Heir or my ship!”

Sand at Sea took off, flashing a broadside at the first Angel, which dove and spun—and ate another shot as Rad Rema used a Skill to curve a ballista bolt.

“Hah! Eat that you damned apparitions! We—Kraken’s tits.”

One of the two Angels pursuing Hecrelunn heard the alarmed tolling of bells from the first Angel and turned. The spear-wielding Angel shot towards Sand at Sea and focused on Pewerthe, who hefted the pot desperately. The first Angel dove back down to Pawn, and he grimly raised his club.

“Alright. You want a fight? Come and get it. I didn’t get just one miracle from the Winter Solstice. I got two. [Miracle: Avatar of Faith].”

He began to glow, and this time, the flaming sword met his club as he intercepted it and knocked it down. Pawn slashed back as the Angel recoiled, and he pointed at Harvey.

“First this damn Angel, then you, Harvey.”

But he was glancing towards the Vizir and Pewerthe. He could fight the Angel with his faith, but she was on an undead ship. Then he heard Hecrelunn scream and cry out as the [Light of Faith] bathed him in a ray of light. He fled higher, mana shields burning, and Pawn was shouting for his Painted Antinium to help the others. He couldn’t do anything more. He was in a fight for his life.

——

Pewerthe saw the second Angel coming at them, and she had no idea what it was. Only that it was beautiful, terrible, and seemed to her to be made to slay undead. It was slicing through each spell from Sand at Sea with incredible grace. And…it was no mindless undead.

It was after her. It dove at the ship and slashed across the deck, and she flinched; it was Irg who parried the spear with a sword. He watched it crack as the spear of light bounced back, then grinned and tossed her free with his spare arm.

“Take care of Khelt for us, would you, Heir?”

He swung, barehanded, at the second Angel, who let him punch it in the chest. It had no visible genitalia that Pewerthe could see, and it floated there, naked, as it speared Irg through the chest.

He cried out, and for a moment, a Gnoll was stumbling across the deck, not a skeleton with bits of ancient fur stuck to it. His fur was grey and white, like a wolf’s, and his brown eyes locked with her as he clutched the spear in his chest—

Turned to dust. Fell as the crew of Sand at Sea cried out and stormed towards the Angel. It flew higher, avoiding Captain Cikroleth leaping towards it, and hurled the spear down. It missed Pewerthe as Rad Rema shoved her back.

The spear passed through the recently-repaired deck and through the hull without slowing. The Angel dove, snatching it up from the ground, and Captain Cikroleth shouted.

“More speed! Kick up a sandstorm and stand together! Keep the Heir safe!”

Irg vanished in a second. The crew saw the being that seemed to counter their very existence coming upwards, screaming like breaking glass. A prayer? A message from Heaven? Pewerthe thought it did have eyes and a mouth, if nothing else. The first Angel had only eyes.

Was it greater than the first? If so, the third…she locked eyes with it and threw her pot.

The object filled with dangerous items, the faith of the Antinium, and explosives flew true and straight. The second Angel twisted—it clipped a wing—and nearly dropped. Then the pot exploded behind it on the ground, and Pewerthe cursed.

“Damnit.”

One shot and wasted. She walked back across the deck as Captain Cikroleth strode forwards to meet the second Angel. Pewerthe moved past the Revenants on deck and towards the rolled-up boarding ramp, which became wooden slats until you released the magical cord. Then it turned into a sturdy ramp—

“Heir? What are you doing?”

Rad Rema saw Pewerthe undo the knot, and the ramp engaged. The ground was flashing past them as Sand at Sea circled the battlefield, but the ship listed slightly as the new drag on the ship made it tilt. Captain Cikroleth spun, but Pewerthe was speaking.

“I am Pewerthe, the Heir of Khelt and acting ruler. Sand at Sea will disengage. Do not fight that thing. Khelt needs you more than I. You will go and secure the next Heir of Khelt and defend our kingdom, evacuate it if need be.”

“Heir!”

Captain Cikroleth was striding at her, but she put one foot on the gangplank and turned back to him. Her smile flashed over her face as she saw the second Angel slow. So it could think. It could tell what she was doing; perhaps it was even listening. So she lowered her voice.

“As Heir of Khelt, I appoint Jecaina Leysars of Jecrass, the Arbiter Queen, as the next Heir of Khelt. Don’t argue with me, Captain Cikroleth. You of all people should know when to avoid a losing battle.”

He could have grabbed her, she knew, but he didn’t. So she put one foot over the railing, heaved herself up, and slid down the ramp. She tried to land on her feet, but then—

She hit the ground and rolled for at least a hundred paces and wondered if she’d broken every bone in her body. When she sat up, Sand at Sea was heading away from her. Pewerthe blew a kiss at it, then laid on her back as the sky brightened.

“Why me, I wonder? Because I’m judged? Because you can tell Khelt cannot endure without us?”

She stared up at the divine messenger with its glowing spear and heard it speaking, but shrugged.

“I can’t understand you. Is that how it’s supposed to work? You’re very inefficient for a being of whatever God is supposed to be. But I don’t particularly care for your God either, from how he’s acted in my lands.”

To her great amusement, she thought that pissed the Angel off. It raised its spear up, twirling the haft to throw, and Pewerthe put her head back down and stared up at the sky. She didn’t feel like facing death head on. It could meet her on the ground.

She gazed up at the beautiful sky, torn by miracles, and the coastal grey-blue bird flying high overhead, far too far inland.

Konska?

“[Falcon Diiiiiiiive]!”

Frieke the Falcon slashed through the Angel as it recoiled, and the Sword of Serept left a blue line through the being, who screamed and slashed—but she was already rolling away. She came up, sword swinging, deflected two spear-thrusts, and the third cut across her chest.

“Konska!”

The Seahawk had already been diving. The Angel was on top of Frieke, spearing down, when the bird flew into it and delivered a [Falcon Kick]. The blow spun the Angel around, and Frieke slashed again—the Angel didn’t seem harmed by Konska’s blow.

However, being shot through the forehead did upset it. Especially when the arrow blew apart. It emerged from the cloud of debris as Alked Fellbow yanked Pewerthe up.

“It won’t die from a single slash or shot. Watch that spear. It’s anti-magic.”

“The sword’s still working. Get Pewerthe out of here, Fellbow!”

Frieke checked the blade. Alked let go of Pewerthe, nocked an arrow, and fired point-blank as the Angel came at him.

“[Eightfold Volley]. Busy.”

The Angel backed up, deflecting each arrow he loosed as they detonated around it, but didn’t see Frieke sneaking up on it before she shoved the blade through where its liver would have been. She darted away, and Pewerthe stumbled back.

“Frieke? Alked? What do I…?”

“Run!”

They shouted at her, and she turned and ran. Both Named-rank adventurers saw the Angel glancing after Pewerthe, and Frieke grinned.

“This sucks. Let’s clip its wings first.”

Konska screamed agreement as Alked took aim. He was sweating. One Angel was battling Pawn and the Painted Antinium. The second was here, but the third and mightiest…

He saw the Vizir raining down spells on the People of God, screaming as the [Light of Faith] tracked him, a ray of purifying light. He was trying to kill the Prophet, but where was the third Angel?

Then, as Alked leapt back from the spear-thrust and pivoted, tracking the nimble Angel trying to get around him, he saw a man standing in the open sand in front of his people. Halberd planted by his side.

The King of Khelt watched the final Angel descending, and he thought it was a beautiful foe to bring ruin to his kingdom.

——

He was late. One glance at this battlefield told him how many people had bled and died for him. It was like no battlefield he had ever seen, save for perhaps the worst of magical duels that left residue in the air and ground. But this…?

He saw the Antinium’s vision of Heaven mixed with colored earth from their flood, white flames from the Prophet’s people, and dust.

So much dust. He had felt the undead of Khelt die, their bodies turned to nothing. Even beheld the scraps of memory that were all that was left.

Each scrap was all but useless now, but it might be the foundation of Khelt again. They just had to rebuild the memories. Soul by soul.

Three generations.

Khelt might not last three hours. Not with that divine Angel. Its light.

It hurt. The undead felt no pain, but the screaming Hecrelunn was burning in faith’s aegis, and Fetohep felt the aura of the final Angel of God. It reminded him of pain.

Like…the feeling of taking a too-deep breath and holding it. The straining towards oblivion as it tried to leave your chest. That was the pain. Not as intense as you might think, but with every second, he felt his very soul trying to escape.

It was true annihilation. But he did not run. As every eye turned towards him, the King of Khelt lifted his halberd that had once served him in life and spoke.

“I am Fetohep, nineteenth King of Khelt. In Khelta’s name, I order you gone, trespassers against her lands.”

The final Angel cried out with the sounds of a pipe organ, like notes of music. Unlike the first two, its features were more realized. He saw a nose, lips, and of course, staring eyes. On its face, shoulders, navel—what being was this?

It spoke in the voice of music, and the language struck his soul. The meaning filtered into his withered memory of a heart, which hurt and quailed before it.

The Angel said:

“Repent.”

Then the King of Khelt smiled, a weary smile as his people beheld him and cried out. For him to flee, for the dead to protect him. As if it were not his fault that they had come to this disaster. He lifted his hand and spoke.

“To all those who watch, my people, nations of this world, know that it was I, Fetohep, who failed Eternal Khelt in its hour of need. I and I alone. Let the sins of Khelt end with me.”

A fool’s hope, perhaps. A fool’s words to beg for it all to be wrapped up so neatly. But he could do no more. Fetohep saw the final Angel carried a greatsword made of some shining crystal. He swung his halberd as it closed like an arrow.

Let us dance one final time. He was a king, not a warrior, but warrior was all he had talent for. So.

[Spear Dance: The Sands of Zeikhal Twist Upwards]—

His halberd flicked and jabbed, arcing into longer slashes as he stepped counter-clockwise, drawing together in a spiral. He leapt forwards, engaging the Angel and—

Oh. It was divine. It met his spear-dance and copied it. Reversed the pattern and threw it back at him. Their weapons rang against each other, magic meeting faith in crackles of fading spellcraft. Fetohep swung down his halberd as the Angel swept its blade up.

“[Split the Earth].”

He slashed down, and his halberd’s worn metal blade, enchanted six hundred years hence, met the crystal greatsword. Fetohep felt a light impact and stumbled. He swept the halberd around into a guard-position, then glanced at the tip.

It was sundered, the other edge broken and lying in the sand. The Angel’s blade, which could end magic, lanced out. Fetohep spun the halberd, and it caught the blow, the ancient wood cleaved. The tip of the blade slashed across his chest, and he stumbled back.

His people saw the purple robes fall back and reveal a naked ribcage of mummified, brown flesh, empty ribs. The cut across Fetohep’s chest showed his empty abdomen, and he put a hand to his ribs as the Angel danced back, singing like a chorus of praises to the People of God.

“Oh.”

He inspected his hand, then lifted it.

For a second…he’d imagined he was bleeding. Weaponless, now, he faced the Angel and knew it.

“[Weapon Master].”

It had no Skills, but it was as good as any [Spearmaster] of his era. Such flawless attack and defense. He had never been a [Halberdmaster] himself. The King of Khelt exhaled.

“Alas. I was no great warrior to make the world sing of me.”

He set himself as it came at him, blade flicking out as it stayed just out of reach, cutting, whittling down his body of undead flesh until it came time for the final blow.

——

“It fights like us.”

That was all the Agelum said in the shocked silence of House Shoel. The beings who had been created to be divine guardians of a land that had never existed felt the Angel, even two continents away. Like burning flames that drew their weary bodies and eyes to it.

So close to what we are, but purer. The faith. The faith…they were hungry, they realized. Starved and dying, and they had not known for what until they saw the Antinium and Prophet. Now they knew, but Paxere turned.

“Better than you? Uziel? Uziel?”

Lord Uziel, who was one of the best of the Agelum in experience and mastery with weapons, watched carefully. He shook his head after a moment.

“Not…not in technique. But in speed, strength? We are old, tired. It can fly. It is like a Warform, but not in technique. It knows how to fight with that greatsword, but is not, I think, a master of it.”

The nuance of what that meant utterly escaped Paxere. She sat back.

“We must capture or obtain one. These People of God…I’ll arrange it. This King of Khelt is doomed, then.”

Uziel never glanced away, and he shrugged.

“He was not that much better with a halberd than it, from what I saw. He has lost his weapon, but he has skill and Skill enough. He is not dead yet.”

Fetohep was a barehanded undead fighting an anti-undead specialist with a magical blade. Paxere snorted, but politely, when one of the older Lucifen glanced at her.

“Unless he’s a bare-handed expert, one good slash and he’s dead.”

“True. But I remember the King of Khelt. I was just a boy, of course, and he already a Revenant, but my forebear told me stories of him. The Badger of Khelt. A name for a stubborn warrior.”

Uziel’s eyes locked on Fetohep. As far as Paxere was concerned, this new class and power was beyond even magic of the same level. What could this king of a crumbling nation do against it?

She watched as the Angel darted around Fetohep, slashing his arm, taking a nick out of his legs, shredding his purple robe as he lashed out with his fists, leaping and trying to catch it. Then it seemed to tire of the chase and lifted its sword overhead.

Fetohep struck the Angel in the chest, and it didn’t so much as rock as he put all his strength behind the blow. The sand billowed up in a vast cloud behind the Angel, but it stood, singing a praise to its God.

Then it ran him through the chest, and for a second, Paxere saw a man.

——

“Fetohep?”

Trey turned when he heard the cry. It came from the Kheltians. He saw the King of Khelt impaled on the blade the Angel held, and for a moment, he saw not the familiar, undead features of Fetohep, but—

A man? The blade and power of the Angels that revealed the mortal soul made Fetohep flicker a moment. He stood on the sands, and Trey’s eyes strained to see the distant figure—until he turned and realized the Kheltians were all staring away.

At the ground, the sky. Wiping tears from their eyes.

Not a single one looked upon the man who stood there for a second, gazing down at the blade in his chest. His face was a grimace of pain, but as the Angel tried to twist the blade, chiming triumph, it peeked up and froze.

Fetohep of Khelt had no features. Or rather, they had blown away. The image of the man was flaking, dissolving into bits of sand. As if the hundreds of years had turned even the memory of his features into that of a worn statue, the details lost to time.

It was the corpse’s face, yellowed teeth and gaunt flesh that revealed themselves as the Angel’s blade tried to move, then the golden flames in his eye sockets. Pain. Yes, true pain, a sword through the chest, made Fetohep’s voice ragged.

But his hand was on the greatsword, and he refused to let it twist. He spoke.

“Newborn warrior. A word of advice.”

The Angel tried to yank its sword free, but the King of Khelt’s hands were…aglow. And his voice rang with the same imperious tones. A [King]’s authority. His aura. Fetohep tightened his grip on the blade.

“A warrior does not gloat until the battle is done.”

The Angel let go of the greatsword and threw a punch. Fetohep caught the punch and swung. He struck the Angel as hard as he could and it didn’t—

Budge. The King of Khelt felt the blow run through it, but how?

[Greater Resistance: Physical]. The Prophet of God was laughing, praying as he saw the Skill hovering over the Angel’s head. A blessing from the ritual. A warrior made to slay the King of Khelt. The King of Khelt’s eye-flames dimmed a moment.

Unfair. The counterblow struck him before he could dodge. Everything—flickered. His connection to the world, his body. Fetohep seized the Angel’s hand as it tried to rip the greatsword up. He put a hand on the Angel’s chest and heaved—

The glowing figure flew sixty feet, hit the ground, and bounced before backflipping onto its feet. The People of God, who had been screaming praises, faltered. The Prophet’s eyes went wide.

“Ah. How…gratifying.”

So he could do that, at least. With a grimace, Fetohep pulled the blade from his chest and felt at the hole in his flesh. The memory of the pain was redoubled as he held the sword aloft, marvelling at its balance and sharpness.

It hurt just to hold. A weapon not meant for him. And the Angel was back on its feet. It seemed wrathful. Annoyed Fetohep had managed to knock it back. But Fetohep had its sword.

He lifted the sword up, and the Angel tensed, for it was now weaponless, but Fetohep hurled the sword back at its feet. It stared at the blade as the people of Khelt groaned, even Trey Atwood. The King of Khelt was stumbling. He felt like his lungs were burning for air, but he could not breathe.

As if he were dying again. He pointed at the blade as the Angel tilted its head, confused, and his voice filled the air.

“Child of God. Know this, if you remember anything of this day. A true warrior behaves in dignity to all worthy opponents. He does not waver. He does not fall back when the lives of the innocent are at stake. He is honorable.”

He gave the Angel back its blade. Did the King of Khelt’s arrogance know no end? The Angel hesitantly snatched the blade up, inspecting it as if searching for a trap. Then it lunged at Fetohep, shouting like a song.

Again, it ran him through, and this time, a cry arose from the people of Khelt who stood in a narrowing circle, hands reaching for the King of Khelt, and they heard a muffled voice. He tried to knock the Angel back, and it dodged his palm-strike. Headbutted him.

Flashes of light. It dodged three blows, four, then stepped back. The King of Khelt stumbled and gazed down at the sword in his guts. Then at the Angel, who waited.

Slowly, pulling the sword out inch by inch, Fetohep removed it from his stomach. He gasped, then lifted the blade.

“Fetohep, don’t—”

He threw the blade back, tossing the greatsword like a spear until it landed at the Angel’s feet. Every instinct in the King of Khelt told him to hold onto the blade, to break it, or to hurl it aside.

When the Angel drew the blade again, he flinched. But he stood before it and rasped.

“Warrior. One does not mock his lessers. We must die well. Those who stride the battlefield must be more than beasts.”

A third time that sword pierced towards him, and this time he twisted out of the way and it scored a line across his chest. The King of Khelt fell backwards, his purple robes tattered.

“I alone did this. Have mercy on my people. I beg you.”

He turned his head, and a familiar young woman’s face was gazing up at him. Hands over her mouth. A [Waitress] who liked to dress up in Koirezune’s restaurants.

“Your Majesty! Victory!”

Fetohep went to catch the greatsword with his hands along the flat of the blade. The Angel twisted it and slashed across his neck. He reeled, and someone cried out.

A man who had been a Day Servant sixty-eight times. The record-holder in Koirezune, who wore the little badges he was awarded like medals of honor. Standing next to his wife, who made little paper planes and flew them in the morning.

He knew all their names. 

“Back. Stand back.”

Fetohep warned them. The Angel’s sword whirled towards his neck again, and he ducked the blade.

Such a perfect foe. His fist touched its stomach, and it shifted backwards a step from the force of his blow, which cracked the earth under Fetohep’s feet. Then it was chopping down, and he rolled across the ground, besmirching his robes.

When his head rose, the Angel’s blade was set to strike him down, but it waited. When Fetohep rose to his feet, it swung, and he stepped back as the earth broke. He tried to advance into that gap, and again, it flicked the greatsword like it weighed nothing at all.

His arm was laid open, exposing long-rotten tendons, and Fetohep wished his limbs were as strong as he remembered. But he was smiling even as a moan arose from his people.

This is what I deserve. Let it be a fine end, warrior to warrior. He threw himself forwards, heedless of the blade. Pewerthe. Where was Pewerthe?

“Khelt, I pass my will to you. I have failed you, my people.”

Hands reaching for the Angel. If he could but grasp it, then maybe—

It circled him, slashing, refusing to let him get close. And now his hands were a blur. He had to block the sword—

The King of Khelt raised his fist and parried the greatsword. His fist touched the sharp edge and knocked it aside. Just once. One blow out of four. The Angel recoiled and saw a flicker of gold on the King of Khelt’s hands.

Aura.

Fetohep felt the contact and no pain. So that trick worked on even blades of faith. He smiled.

Forwards again.

It lunged at him, a perfect thrust, and he stepped forwards. Both of them had read the other perfectly, and the Angel’s slash cut along Fetohep’s back, scoring a line of—

He backhanded it, and it went sprawling. Now, Fetohep’s golden eye-flames were bright. He raised a hand and hesitated.

Waited for the Angel to get up. Voices were screaming at him again, calling him a fool, telling him to strike. But he could not.

His pride that had led him here would not allow him to. Not against this beautiful creature. So the Angel flew off the ground and hovered there. Inspecting him, then darting left, right.

He tilted his head, observing the Angel as it circled. It was moving even faster, and when it thrust again, they met and he dealt it a blow across its shoulder as it cut into one leg.

Both staggered. Fetohep saw the Angel fall to one knee and realized his fists were striking it.

Aura. But it rose and slashed across his face, the tip of the blade cutting through where his nose would have been.

Too fast for him. 

He saw the places he had struck on the glowing warrior were faded, like bruises, but they grew brighter, healing as the People of God prayed. His leg’s rotted flesh did not regrow where it had been severed.

This shall end only one way. But if he could just injure it, then maybe—once more, Fetohep threw himself forwards onto the blade that cut through his right shoulder.

[Hammer Blow].

The Angel hit the ground so hard it left an imprint in the sand. Fetohep’s eye-flames went out.

Static.

A world vanishing. For a moment, he stood on blue sands, and Khelta gazed down at him. The King of Khelt reached out to her.

—Felt the world return. Stumbled back as the Angel rose to one knee, shaking its head. The King of Khelt waited, limbs visibly shaking now. He saw the golden hair shifting as the Angel rose—

And then it juddered as a blow caught the Angel from behind. The divine warrior twisted, and another rock bounced off its shoulder as it cut six more from the sky.

“Your Majesty! Run! Run!”

Fetohep’s subjects were throwing stones, shouting. Trying to block him from the—

Fetohep saw the sword rise and moved.

“No! Get back! This is my battle—”

The Angel’s sword cleaved down, and a Kheltian man who’d hurled a piece of stone gazed down at the bloody stump of an arm. He opened his mouth and screamed, and the sword swung for his throat—

Fetohep caught the blade in glowing hands, and the Angel recoiled, then flitted back. It slashed, and Kheltians who had been surrounding the duel fled backwards.

“Warrior, halt. Your battle is with me—”

It wasn’t listening. The Angel was under attack as Kheltians threw rocks, fired spells. They barely touched it, but it whirled, and that terrible sword rose.

Fetohep saw the Kheltians fleeing, and a boy stumbled. He was holding a rock to throw, and Anleth, the little gambler, gazed up with eyes filled with fear as the Angel brought the sword down—

The King of Khelt caught the blade and locked eyes with the bright gaze.

“Warrior—”

The Angel kicked him across the ground, and he struck several of his people, but he was so light…he stumbled, and the sword was thrusting to run him through. And the woman who flew kites behind—

“Stop.”

The blade halted as he grabbed it again. The Angel slammed against its own weapon. It strained, but the King of Khelt refused to move.

“Warrior. Thou do not harm the innocent. Even if they raise a hand against—”

The spinning backhand from the Angel made his head snap back. Fetohep stumbled, and the Angel wrenched its weapon back and whirled it.

“Sinners all. Die.”

It brought its blade up, and the Kheltians behind Fetohep were frozen. No instincts to even flee. Fetohep saw a girl, the [Secret Broker] Mrar, shaking, a little stick in hand.

“There is a child here. Angel, desis—”

It swung that sword horizontally, to chop him, Mrar, and everyone else into pieces. Fetohep’s arm blocked the greatsword, and gold met gold. The blade jarred out of the Angel’s grip.

“Stop. Don’t you understand? Honor—”

It charged him, and he pivoted, letting it strike his chest as he whirled away from the Kheltians, who scattered. And Anleth was shouting.

“Your Majesty! Your—”

They were all yelling his name as the King of Khelt let the Angel batter his ribs, his very soul burning. He hurled it aside, and it snatched up the blade.

“Be thou returned to dust, King of Khelt.”

“Yes. But not my people. I beseech you. They have done nothing wrong.”

The Angel turned its head to the scattered stones, to the Prophet of God, and it raised the blade higher as it seemed to listen.

“No mercy.”

It swung that sword again, as if trying to cleave the nation in two, and Fetohep’s hand rose. His head turned, away from the Angel, and met Anleth’s eyes. The boy flinched, and the greatsword struck Fetohep’s palms and snapped.

The blade broke as Fetohep’s golden hands halted it in the air, and the Angel recoiled. Fetohep stumbled, but the other half of the greatsword landed at his feet. He was panting, chest rising and falling, but those golden eye-flames had grown again.

“That…I cannot allow. You may have me, but not one of my people, warrior of God.”

The outraged Angel gazed at the broken greatsword it held, then hurled the weapon down. It leapt at Fetohep and threw a punch. Fetohep blocked, went to counter, and received a blow across his jaw, a kick to his chest as the Angel backflipped and then came down in an axe-kick.

A martial artist as well as a swordsmaster. It lashed his body with blows, but the King of Khelt shielded his face and withstood the onslaught. The Revenant’s teeth were clenched, and his eyes…

His eyes were burning with outrage. He took one step forwards, then another, forcing the Angel backwards until they were clear of the Kheltians, and his hand lashed out once.

The Angel’s head spun, and it recoiled. It backed up, all but unharmed thanks to its Skill, but the blow had still disconcerted it. Fetohep was panting, but he was studying it now.

“I was wrong. I thought you were a warrior worth respecting. Newborn as thou art. But if you do not understand—then listen to me, beast. You are a peerless warrior, but you do not understand honor. Though you are faster than I, stronger, more skillful—you did not earn your might. You fight like my servant, Lanodest.”

The Angel didn’t understand that except, perhaps, that it was being insulted. But in the crowd, a single [Death Commander] started, and he saw the King of Khelt lower his fists. Take up a brawler’s stance. Fetohep turned his head. His eyes met Anleth’s. The boy remembered something. A question Fetohep had answered.

What level was I? Level 50. [Warrior].

I never used my capstone Skills—not once in six hundred years. Because they were not one mighty Skill. Because they were humble. But they were still his.

The King of Khelt drew back a fist as the Angel attacked, screaming like the hymnals of Heaven, and he spoke the first of his Level 50 Skills. He punched, and the Angel ducked the fist, a boxer with divine grace. Fetohep said—

“[He Struck].”

His left hand crossed the Angel’s jaw in a hook that sent the glowing being’s head snapping up. It fluttered back a step, recoiling, and Anleth waited. But Fetohep just set himself, fists raised, and the Angel tilted its head—then leapt at him in a flying kick.

That was it? That was—

The kick knocked Fetohep back a step, bones rattling, but he spoke.

“[He Attacked Back].”

His momentum reversed. He was propelling himself forwards and punched downwards, snapping the Angel’s body down for a second, but like Fetohep, it was resilient and just hopped backwards. Anleth stared at Fetohep as the King of Khelt adjusted his tattered robes.

Those were his great Skills? The boy didn’t know what to think until the Angel danced around it, and this time, Fetohep blocked one punch, ate a spinning elbow—

Headbutted the Angel so hard it stopped. Then followed it up with an uppercut that lifted the Angel’s feet off the ground, and it was flying back. Confused now.

“[He Attacked Back]. [He Struck]. Does thou see?”

He spoke to Anleth and the Angel, and neither one did for a moment. The Angel circled Fetohep. He had struck it four times, each time too fast for a counter. It dropped in an axe-kick, halted in midair, swept around into a roundhouse kick. Fetohep blocked it, letting the blow carry him sideways.

Reappeared in a flurry of dust, and the Angel barely blocked the punch that sent it stumbling backwards.

[He Attacked Back].

Then the Kheltians began to understand. The King of Khelt beckoned as the Angel hesitated. It hit him, and he hit it back so fast it didn’t have time to react. He threw a punch, a regular punch, and it dodged that. His second blow hit it in the liver. Fetohep threw a headbutt—and [He Struck], a kick to the kneecaps. He blocked a punch and countered, a dropping elbow.

The Angel became a flurry of punches and kicks, but as it sped up, so did the King of Khelt. He replied to each blow, even if he missed or it was blocked. Like a spinning top, refusing to let a single blow go unanswered.

Unkingly. Skills not fit for a monarch who could not be seen to brawl. Much less a Revenant whose fragile body could not recover from the damage it took. A warrior’s Skills.

The [Relentless, Unyielding, Stubborn Son of Khelt]. The Angel stopped its assault and came to a stumbling halt.

What was going on? It had been winning! Fetohep’s blows were being halved by the Angel’s Skill, but…he kept attacking. Without the greatsword, each punch and blow struck the King of Khelt’s very soul—but it refused to yield, like his stubborn body. He was coming at the Angel, now, as it backed up.

“So long as a single citizen of Khelt is in danger, I shall not falter. Khelta, give me the strength to continue, take my body when I fall, and lead me gently into the sands—”

His voice. He was chanting as he came at it, a warrior’s oath that had not been spoken for centuries. The Angel hesitated as the Badger of Khelt rushed forwards, ignoring the blows striking his body.

For…his words almost sounded like a prayer.

He advanced, and now the Angel was backing up. But the King of Khelt was on it, and he spoke.

“[He Struck]. [Hammer Blow]. [He Attacked, He Attacked, He Attacked, He Attacked]—”

His third Skill. Nothing but an onslaught of punches and elbows and blows that pounded the Angel’s body. Sixteen blows knocking the glowing figure around without giving it time to react. When it managed a single, glancing hit to his chin, Fetohep grabbed its head and slammed it into the ground. He reached down, and now it was calling out in alarm.

The glow to eradicate undead shone on Fetohep’s body, but the wrath of the King of Khelt’s aura shielded him. He ignored the Prophet of God shouting out condemnation, the People of God’s prayers.

They were locked together like lovers, striking each other and wrestling, the Angel trying to back up, and Fetohep’s hands finally found what he had been reaching for. The King of Khelt seized the Angel’s left wing with both hands.

Four Skills. He spoke the last one almost with regret.

“[He Ripped It Asunder].”

The King of Khelt ripped the wings off the Angel, and it screamed. Blue blood ran into the ground as he stood, gazing down at the Angel, and the Prophet cried out in horror. The King of Khelt’s flaming eyes regarded the wounded being that rose. Now, his voice was quiet. Even gentle.

“Warrior summoned for vengeance. I am many things. King. Tyrant of my little realm. Fool. And slaughterer of other nations’ children. I beg you, do not add to my sins. Yield. I came here to die, not to kill a child.”

Now he saw it fully. A warrior without equal. A messenger from God.

A—

Child. The Angel hesitated and glanced over its shoulder, once. Then it shrieked like a chorus of the damned and leapt at him, hands going for his throat, trying to twist his head off his body. The King of Khelt seized the Angel’s neck, and they wrestled, both trying to find purchase. He spoke, a breathless sigh.

“So be it.”

He ripped the Angel’s head off its body and watched the divine being swing as he stepped aside. Then fall, and he saw the glowing body fade and vanish, motes of light disappearing in the fading light.

He knelt there, head bowed, too weak and weary to rise. Ashamed to be the victor. But he did raise his head, for he was needed.

“I’m sorry. I shall make amends.”

When King Fetohep stood, he heard the Prophet of God weeping.

——

The second Angel was bleeding from five dozen wounds as the Named-rank adventurers circled it. Frieke’s right arm was hanging limp, and Alked had lost half a foot, but they closed in like sharks circling carrion. The Angel was stumbling when it heard the first die. Frieke leapt forwards, going for another blow, and it stabbed her through the belly.

Impaled her on the ground as Konska screamed and attacked it. Ignoring the bird, it leapt at Alked, and they were fighting as he tried to use his bow, the only other weapon present that could harm it.

Pewerthe was running for Frieke as the Dullahan woman shouted for her to get away. But Alked—the Named-rank Adventurer was gritting his teeth as the Angel yanked his bow down. It reached up and put a finger through one of his eyes, but he kept hold of the Arc of Heavens. The Angel reached for his other eye with bloody fingers as he gritted his teeth—

And a skeleton stabbed it in the side. Alked and the Angel jerked, and the Angel flapped one wing open, sending the skeleton stumbling backwards. It glowed, a brilliant light to reduce the undead to ash, like the greatest Angel had…and the skeleton stumbled, then stabbed the Angel in the back again.

Huh? The blade actually kissed Alked’s stomach, and the Angel let go of him, swung around with the breaking glass sound it made, and struck the skeleton in the face, barehanded.

The skeleton’s head snapped back—failed to go flying—and it headbutted the Angel. The Angel staggered, stared at the skeleton, and backed up slowly.

Possibly, it had never met a skeleton made out of metal before. Pewerthe, trying to yank the spear out of Frieke’s stomach, turned. She had never seen a skeleton made out of metal before. Oh, she had seen the guardians in the palace with metal-plated bones. But never a skeleton with…nails sticking out of its metal-coated body.

It was covered in nails. Blue blood was running from a hole in the Angel’s head as it felt at a hole gashed open by the skeleton’s headbutt. It began to fly back, warily, when a second skeleton leapt on its back. It turned, smashed the skeleton into pieces, and then stared.

The glass skeleton was reassembling itself in the air so fast it was already reaching for the Angel as it flitted back. And the third one—

Well, the third one just had a pot on its head. Pewerthe stared at the familiar, oversized pot.

Her pot. The same one she’d hurled at the Angel. It had missed, and it must have landed and exploded amongst…

The skeleton dust. Now, more were striding forwards. Skeletons unfazed by the Angel’s light. Eyes glowing with a strange flame that seemed to have an inner and outer ring.

Skeletons made out of Kheltian death magic, bones, the contents of her pot, and…faith.

The Angel backed away from the skeletons in horror. Injuries it could handle. The death of its kin was shocking. But this? A fourth skeleton with a smoldering flame contained inside its ribcage had snuck around the Angel’s back. One of the staring eyes on the Angel’s back saw it, and the Angel spun. Pewerthe ducked—

The Blast Skeleton exploded. Alked, blood running from one eye socket, saw the Angel flying upwards as more empowered skeletons surrounded Pewerthe and Frieke. He fired an arrow into the Angel’s back.

One last shot as it tried to get to the People of God, now screaming at it to return. The Angel flinched, but it had endured ten of his arrows. This last one detonated, and the Angel—

Froze?

The Arrow of Stasis slowed the Angel for just three seconds until it burst out of the magical effects. It recovered, glanced down at Alked and its spear, then shook its head. Took wing and ran straight into the waiting skeletal hand.

“Hello, intruder. The Vizir Hecrelunn would like to share Khelt’s spell of the day with you.”

A smoking, cracked skull lifted the Angel’s suddenly panicked head up as crimson eye-lights narrowed. Hecrelunn spoke.

“[Disintegration Ray].”

His fingers fired the spell into the Angel’s face, repeatedly, until something gave, and he dropped the remains of the head, glowing flesh dissolving as the body fell to earth. Then, Hecrelunn nodded down to Alked Fellbow. He turned, and the Prophet of God saw his final Angel kneeling.

——

Pawn had lost part of his mandibles and an antenna. He sure hoped they could regrow. He spoke as he saw the cracked Angel’s body raising a shaking sword.

“Ow.”

The Painted Antinium surrounded the downed Angel, many scarred by its flaming sword. It was trying to rise, but Rabbitears, Pie, Purple Smile were forming a ring around it. The Angel darted forwards at Pawn, sword raised—

Pie intercepted it. Took the charge head-on as the blade that could cut undead asunder with ease struck his chest. He grunted.

“Ow. [Divine Cross].”

An uppercut and hook, so fast the Angel couldn’t dodge either blow. It faltered as Pie punched, and it tried to swing through him—

Failed as the Painted Worker threw it back. Not with overwhelming faith nor Skills. Just—strength. Pawn rubbed at one shoulder.

“It’s not that strong.”

Fast, masterful, able to fly and use the powers of faith. But not as tough as Painted Antinium. Though this was the weakest of them. Pawn was advancing when he heard the third Angel die, and a scream of horror arose from the People of God. Then the second—and a silence fell. Pawn’s neck cracked as he turned his head.

“Did Fetohep just solo that super-Angel by himself?”

“[I think so.]”

Purple Smile signed back, and Pawn scratched at his head. A piece of his carapace came off. He flicked it to the ground, muzzily, and raised his voice.

“Then why the hell did he need us?”

The people of Khelt were cheering. Cheering nonstop for their [King], who, as it turned out, might have numerous failings as a ruler. But in arrogance, style, and the ability to throw hands?

The peerless King of Khelt. Pawn stared down at the Angel and heard a voice.

“Don’t. Please. Don’t—”

It sounded like a man’s faith breaking. Harvey gazed upon the last of the Angels he had summoned to bring divine retribution on Khelt, and Pawn wondered if he could summon them again. Surely…but would they be the same ones?

“This is no summoned being. They think. Even if this is the smallest one, you have created something new, Harvey. Or perhaps brought it from Heaven, if yours exists. You have brought Angels to this world, do you see? And you have gotten them killed.”

The Prophet of God was standing there, hands outstretched for the Angel, which looked to him. Pawn lifted the club, and Marrieh spoke.

“Please, have mercy. We will take it away with us. It is made in our image.”

Her eyes were wide, and Pie spat; he was dribbling blood from his mouth.

“Hey, Seventh Voice, are you over there, you traitor? Some religion! When they’re strong, there’s no mercy, and now they ask for it! Pawn, let’s kill this thing, then hit them all until their brains come out of their toes.”

Pawn regarded Harvey as an Antinium Soldier standing with the People of God raised his hands. He saw Fetohep of Khelt striding his way followed by a wave of people, and the Vizir was descending. Pawn exhaled.

“Harvey, you are the dumbest man of faith I have ever met. And I look in a mirror every day, so this is quite amazing to me. You could have done so much good. Instead, your people are dead, your Angels are dead, and you will be hunted across Chandrar.”

The man said nothing as he stood there. Pawn lifted his club.

“Run, Prophet. Run, and just—think upon what is right and wrong. Because I really don’t think God wanted this. Or if he did, he works in mysterious ways. Or his Angels just suck at fighting.”

He stepped backwards, and the Angel leapt back. The Painted Antinium turned to him, incredulous. Pie raised a throwing pie, but Purple Smile held out an arm.

“Let them go.”

“Pawn! They just tried to murder us—”

“Someone has to stop attacking back. We’ll never kill them all, and even if that was an option I liked…I want to believe we’re on the same side. Run, People of God!”

Pawn barked, and the Angel looked at the Prophet. The man stood there. His eyes gazed past Pawn. And then to the Worker.

“Thank you.”

The Worker made no reply. He just stood there as the Prophet called out, and Marrieh shouted and ran towards some of the People of God. She flickered out of existence, and then Harvey was running with the wailing People of God. Pawn just watched. What a damn waste.

He only spoke once as a shadow flitted past him, and a hand rose, the wrath of Khelt in Hecrelunn’s eyes.

“Vizir, do you think you have the mana to waste?”

Vizir Hecrelunn paused and then turned his head down.

“Do you think you will survive my unadulterated wrath, Antinium?”

The [Priest] just hooked his club to his belt and rasped.

“Me? No. The armies? I’m not keen on finding out.”

Hecrelunn hesitated, then swept his gaze right, left, and up. He muttered a curse.

“The rats sweep in in moments of weakness.”

“Yeah. This one was just the first. And misguided.”

Pawn sat down on the ground as Fetohep of Khelt approached him, and then all the people of Khelt stood with him. The Worker did not get up, so the King of Khelt sat beside him. Fetohep appeared worse for wear, body torn, robes ashambles.

He had triumphed over the divine, but the King of Khelt just sat there a moment as Pewerthe approached with Trey, and Pawn stared out across the horizon.

“King Fetohep of Khelt, I wished to say this to your face.”

He turned his head. Met the golden gaze.

“Thank you for all you did for Erin and the inn. We are in your debt.”

“I consider those debts paid to the Painted Antinium. Khelt is in yours.”

The King of Khelt’s voice shook with exhaustion. Guilt and fear. Pawn shook his head.

“The thing about being in Erin’s inn is that I have learned not to count debts so highly. One can never repay them, and they grow. Fetohep…I have protected Khelt as best I can with my little strength. I fear I shall not be able to best the next foe. Nor do I think I wish to try.”

“I understand. Thank you, Pawn of the Antinium. What comes next—is Khelt’s responsibility. I shall face it.”

The King of Khelt sat there, despite his words, as Pawn nodded and laid on his back shell like a downed beetle, staring up at the sky. After a while, Pewerthe spoke.

An undead [King] sat in tattered robes, knees hunched up to his chest, as he watched the sand blowing across his kingdom. Sand and dust, as if to erase the cities and people. The sun was setting. A girl sat with him, and they had an audience of a nation. Her voice was timid, small, and he wished he had great words for her. But there was only this.

“Your Majesty?”

“Yes, Pewerthe?”

“An army is nearly upon Khelt’s borders.”

“Hmm. Whom?”

He asked ‘whom’, not ‘who’, for even now, there was such a thing as good diction. She paused.

“The Empire of Sands. The Vizir has gone to forestall them.”

“I see. I shall speak to the Empress of Sands directly.”

“It’s the Emperor, Your Majesty.”

Fetohep paused.

“I see. Regardless.”

Then she took a breath, and her voice trembled.

“And…there’s another army coming from the north, Your Majesty. Medain’s.”

“Mm. Any others?”

“[Mercenaries], Your Majesty. Coming in different groups. At least twenty-six famous units. And…”

He nodded and rose. Then he turned to her and embraced her, one-armed. The King of Khelt walked forwards.

“I shall handle it, Pewerthe.”

The lie of all parents and rulers upon his tongue, he adjusted his robes and began to walk. The wind blew across his lands, and the King of Khelt watched the long myth of Eternal Khelt ending.

Gently, quietly, he dictated how it should be, and this was right.

He could not leave that to anyone else.

——

The first army to reach Khelt was the one that had been waiting here all along for the opportunity to advance.

They bore flags unfamiliar to the people of this part of Chandrar. Strings over waving lines to indicate sands, like a knotted ball of yarn unsettlingly woven together. Like the stripes of a vast desert in confusion. Meaningless and random. No heraldry of a nation like the Walled Cities, or the triumphant crown rising from decay that was the Blighted Kingdom.

The Empire of Sands had sent three armies against the King of Destruction, and each one had barely penetrated Reim’s borders. They had been forced to raid from the Great Desert, enduring thirst and privation—a fool’s move.

If Reim was their goal. But the Empress of Sands had another goal in mind, and when the army reached Reim, it was headed by General Khal, one of her most loyal subordinates, if not the highest-level or most strategically genius.

He did not have to be. General Khal had prepared his army in a completely insane pattern to any conventional foe. He had drawn his vanguard up in a single mass, then organized every other unit, from archers to riders, into squads of a hundred. At his orders, they would scatter to the winds and raid.

Any conventional force would wrap them up, but as he had been told and now believed…they just had to reach a city. They might be under attack from overwhelming, low-level undead, but the instant one group reached civilians, they would have hostages. However, he had also been told it would likely not come to that.

The King of Khelt spoke to the Emperor of Sands as the army reached his borders and halted, facing a legion of skeletons. And it was the [Emperor] who spoke. Not the cunning, pun-loving Empress he had expected.

“King of Khelt. My army stands upon your doorstep. It has bled to reach you.”

The Emperor of Sands was completely transformed from the reclining woman with charm and wit. He stood, shorter but far more compact, muscled and armored from head to toe, pacing, blunt of speech.

How could even a Stitch-person transform so? Fetohep was weary, but he almost appreciated the lack of honeyed words. This would be hard.

“It does, Emperor of Sands. Did you not swear Khelt would be left untouched?”

“One head did. I did not. By Skills, I am unaffected.”

“What of the weight of crowns and the word of one sovereign to another?”

“Hah!”

A bark of a laugh, then the Emperor of Sands put a hand on the hilt of his sword and spun as he tensed up. Fury. His eyes flashed.

“My men have bled to reach you. Your flying Revenant has assailed them with spells. But now they are poised to strike back at Khelt. I will have a blood-price for every fallen soldier. And their withdrawal. In return, my armies won’t ravage Khelt. I have contracts. They’ve been sent.”

He waved a hand offscreen at hooded and veiled servants, and the King of Khelt read from a flashing [Message] scroll. He lowered it.

“This sum is beyond extravagant.”

He would have raged and threatened annihilation last year. Today? The Emperor of Sands’ eyes flashed.

“I have a war to win. Khelt can afford it. Do you force me, I will take it, and you can ill-afford that. Pay my price, King of Khelt. The same [King] who has ignored my people and every people begging for an ounce of Khelt’s generosity is in no place to haggle now. You stand between empires. Reim’s and mine. Your word or my man storms Khelt.”

Fetohep sat on his throne, and he had just beaten the Prophet of God. Torn an Angel’s head from its body. Demonstrated the weight of the King of Khelt’s fists to the world.

In private, he bowed his head.

“Allow me a day to review the terms of your contract and ensure there is no…tricky language contained within, Emperor of Sands.”

The youth barked a laugh.

“A day? I will not have my army wait for the King of Destruction to pounce for a day.”

Fetohep’s eyes flashed.

“Then pull them back, and I shall sign the contract without a sword bared at my throat. I know that even should I cross you, the counterblow will be twice as heavy and without mercy. Take my word, Emperor of Sands. I assure you, it is good as our coin you covet.”

The Emperor of Sands seemed ready to push the issue as he half-unsheathed his sword, but then he paused. There was a whisper—from above? The sides? Fetohep did not know, but his skin wanted to crawl, dead as it was. Slowly, the Emperor of Sands glanced up, then nodded.

“A day. Transfer of the payment…the damn Merchant’s Guild only deals in coin, and I won’t have it raided. I’ll contact you with solutions.”

He paused, lifted a finger, and frowned as if recalling something.

“One more thing. This is the kinder option. It would be easy to crack Khelt open like a box and loot it, but you’re too far. Driving your people out to die in the sands is pointless; there are Stitch-folk within your lands as well as any other. My empire doesn’t need Kheltian blood, just our share of the spoils. The rest come for your throat. My nation may well treat with yours if it pays well enough. Remember that, King of Khelt, however indecorous this head is. It is the only one that leads in war.”

He grinned, then, a boy-king with the untrained, wild charisma of a born [General]. Rueful and endearing if you could but love him. Fetohep saw a frightening face, one born for war, and he knew another head was born for diplomacy.

The faces of the Emperor of Sands, whose diverse abilities could match any Ruler of Khelt that had lived. Then the Emperor of Sands grimaced and sat back on his throne.

“So, then, are we foes?”

“I do not exactly wish for more foes at this moment, Emperor of Sands. Your terms are agreed to.”

Fetohep replied quietly, unsure of why the Emperor asked. The young man fidgeted, then stood.

“Good. Communicate that to the obnoxious [Princess] harassing my diplomats. She’s threatening to call in debts and making a nuisance. She is not that important.”

His eyes flashed with a hint of admiration, annoyance, and then he spun, walking offscreen.

“I’m sure you’re busy. Until next we speak.”

He cut the connection, and the King of Khelt sat there. In a way, the Emperor of Sands was refreshing, for all he lacked any graces and his nature changed. There was little personal in Khelt beyond what it had.

He had no stake in Khelt’s fate.

——

Medain, on the other hand—was slower by hours, but the High King drove them through the night to be first to attack Khelt now that its defences were down. To him, it was entirely personal. He felt betrayed, insulted. He had been stepped upon, and now it was time for vengeance.

That was half of why Perric drove his army at such speed towards Khelt. The other reason was that he knew every other nation would be lining up to loot Khelt. Being first to take the capital was risky, but the lion’s share of the wealth would be carried away in the initial sackings, and Khelt was rich enough to make it worth any single army’s cost. Too, he wanted to be there before Raelt had a chance to strike him.

It was a risky maneuver, but he’d already been preparing a punitive strike on Khelt before seeing how weak they were. After that? Perric had thrown caution to the winds to organize this gambit. All the risk, all the reward.

True, it took some doing to put together an army that fast. Medain was a mighty nation of three kingdoms, but it had suffered in the last war…with Khelt. Jecrass’ damn raids had done more damage of late than they should. However, where there was a will, there was a way.

Perric had drawn his heavy cavalry and his Golden Ranks from his capital, then pulled a core of his heavy infantry and marched them south. For the bulk of his army?

He’d just…emptied a few border forts. True, it left only skeleton crews manning the essential fortifications guarding against Jecrass, but King Raelt wouldn’t know that. Perric had ordered illusions and dummies set up to trick the idiot. He’d be back before the King of Duels even realized the troops were missing, a fortune to end the war in hand.

“When we get into the capital, I want discipline. No looting of the palace. Any man or woman stealing from the King’s share will be put to death, even the Golden Ranks! The rest of the city is yours.”

He was giving orders from horseback as his [Generals] sweated and prepared battle plans. They were less happy about attacking Khelt. The trauma of the Jaws and knowledge that there were still a lot of skeletons, mindless or not, made them nervous. But Perric had not risen to his rank by being cautious.

“I want the King of Khelt’s head mounted on a plaque or something. Mind you, take this ‘Heir of Khelt’ alive. Do you hear that, you loot rats? March, and I’ll hand out Relic-class items to those who distinguish themselves in battle!”

She wasn’t that attractive, but there was a prestige in including her in his harem. The last Ruler of Khelt, and it might help if he took the entire kingdom. The Golden Ranks marching ahead of Perric shouted acknowledgement. They understood how much they stood to gain, the former Gold-rank adventurers.

They loved nothing more than fighting low-level enemies, and what was a horde of skeletons but fodder to a Level 30+ adventurer? Perric only wished he had his damn High Crown! He could have wasted any number of skeletons with its magic.

I’ll be wearing Khelt’s crown if I can get it restyled, and I like the effects, soon enough. And I’ll have the Diamond Swords of Serept and whatever else is in there. Dead gods, I might actually gift my current crown to Ceria. She’ll come crawling back when she sees Medain’s wealth.

With it, he could take the Claiven Earth, and then he’d be a nation that every other power in Chandrar would be forced to confront. They just had to get into Khelt and—

They were nearing the borders, and one of the [Generals] shouted.

“Your Majesty! Skeletons ahead!”

“Prepare to sweep them clean! Heavy cavalry, forwards! Golden Ranks—ready! Today, we destroy an ancient kingdom!”

Perric roared, and there was a cheer from his soldiers. They were thirsting for vengeance, but the cheer faltered when they saw the sea of undead. He gritted his teeth, remembering the half-Giants of Serept.

They’re not here. Remember that. Khelt has one super-spellcaster and that damn ship, and both are damaged.

He had an army. Even if it bled—he glanced at the heavy cavalry, then his vanguard. Throw them in first, then commit his Golden Ranks. He didn’t like to bleed his best troops, but he’d throw it all away to take the capital. Perric was about to call the charge when a single figure stepped out from the motionless sea of skeletons. He choked, the Battle Horn of Medain raised to his lips, and King Fetohep of Khelt walked forwards.

The Army of Medain backed up a step. Men, women, horses—King Perric’s bodyguards shuffled back as he felt his butthole clench in instinctive fear.

He’s weak. 

“What are you doing? Formation!”

He hissed at the [Generals], who restored order, but they had all seen the King of Khelt ripping the Angel’s head off hours ago. Perric saw the silent [King] raise his head, and golden eye-flames lit up the darkness.

“King Perric of Medain. I do not think you have come for pleasantries. It is well; I am in little mood for such talk. It seems to me that we should speak frankly, having never done so before. I must say, in honesty, I do not care for you. You are an unseemly king, and I have resented our close contact via [Message] spells and the like. I shall not have your army upon Khelt’s sands. Name your price and turn back.”

High King Perric bared his teeth as the [King] stood there. Pathetic. Half a year ago, he had been dancing on the Jaws of Zeikhal, sending the world to trembling, and now here he was. Perric called back.

“Now you call for candor, Fetohep? It seems to me I have my boot on your neck. When I place it there in actuality, you may grovel and beg. Long have you taken advantage of our weakness! Turnabout is fair play, wouldn’t you say?”

He would repay that embarrassment and humiliation tenfold. Actually, he definitely needed to keep Fetohep alive. A talking head mounted on the wall. Genius! No one had ever conceived of such horrific punishment. Perric was grinning as Fetohep exhaled purely for the sound of it.

“High King, you misunderstand me. And you continue to do so. Never once did I ask Medain to tribute so much wealth, nor the statues, parades, the endless abasement to Khelt. I would have respected backbone. I did not even seek to push, but found you flipping over backwards of your own accord. Let me state that I regret how Medain treated itself, but I did not press for it.”

Perric reddened in fury. He glared around as no one dared meet his eyes; if they did, they would have been next to be publicly hanged in the capital. But then he calmed himself. His bearded face smoothed, and he ran a hand through his beard and shook his head.

Pityingly at this undead king who knew so little of ruling. Perric called back.

“It’s you who doesn’t understand what it means to rule, Fetohep. You know what? I pity you. Did Medain grovel beneath Khelt when we were disadvantaged? Of course. Is there any shame in it? No. We did what we had to in order to survive.”

He thumped his chest, eyes glaring at that undead ruler. Perric jabbed a finger as he leaned over his restless warhorse’s saddle.

“That’s how the real world works. That’s how real politics works, not this illusion Khelt’s enjoyed because of all its treasures and undead. Some men have to work their way up from the bottom, even if it means showing one’s belly. Anything to live. I was born a mere [Prince], not the heir to paradise.”

He clenched his fist, shaking it at the King of Khelt, as his subjects gazed upon the self-made man who faced down the King of Khelt. Fetohep watched him, and Perric spat onto the sands.

“Every man acts the same when the boot is on his neck and the same when he is the one holding the sword. The fact that you pretend otherwise just shows how far from humanity you’ve come.”

At last, the silent Revenant bowed his head, breaking his gaze away from Perric’s face.

“I fear you may be right, Perric of Medain. So, then, by your logic, you will not be bought.”

“Why would I compromise for pittances when I could take it all?”

Perric spread his arms, laughing as his Golden Ranks chuckled. Fetohep tilted his head.

“A fair question. Perhaps you might settle for less if only because I will kill you before you take one step inside my palace, High King Perric. I swear that to you, ruler to ruler. My hand be at your throat, and it shall rip your spine from your flesh. No force in this world shall stop me. What say you to that?”

The oath made Perric ride back a pace instinctively, and his [Bodyguards] shivered. The Golden Ranks stopped chuckling, and every person between Perric and Fetohep suddenly began to question how much their life was worth.

A Level 50+ [Warrior] could not take on an army and live. He would die. But he was already dead, and that was not the question, anyways. The question was: when would he stop?

Perric lowered his voice as he triggered a [Silence] spell embedded into his glove.

“[Captain of Bows], do you have a shot? [High Magi]?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. We’re ready—”

“Fire.”

“Your Majesty—?”

“Destroy him with everything!”

Perric shouted, and there was a breath of uncertainty before the first arrow streaked across the ground and struck King Fetohep in the chest. He didn’t even dodge, but his golden eye-flames flared bright a second before a volley of homing arrows followed the first. Then [Fireballs] struck him and the undead behind him, comets and lightning and—

“Golden Ranks, loose!”

They were dropping to one knee, loosing enchanted arrows, and Perric was tensed, ready to ride behind his [Generals] and activate contingency spells. He waited for the Revenant to come tearing out of the firestorm, but even a Level 50+ [Warrior], even he—

When the smoke cleared, Perric felt his shoulders ease. Because there was nothing left where the King of Khelt stood. The skeletons behind him had been cleared for a thousand paces. There was a breath—then a wild cheering from his army. Perric raised his hand.

“The King of Khelt is dead! Now, adv—”

He choked on his tongue as a figure rose from the sands. King Fetohep of Khelt possessed another body whose eyes flickered and took on that golden glow. A corpse he could remotely use to fight with and fool his enemies. Just like how he had tricked Medain and the Knights of Terandria once before.

King Perric had forgotten he could do that. The King of Khelt brushed at the copy of his robes, then spoke.

“Weaker as this vessel is, it will fight you all the way to my capital. Thence, I shall step off my throne, and you shall see if your army’s might can stop me, Perric. Turn back or die. Khelt may perish if your army invades: this I understand. But so shall you. Or shall we do it in the oldest way of [Kings]?”

He pointed at Perric, and the man felt a shock run down his spine.

“I challenge you to single combat, High King of Medain. They say you are a great warrior yourself. Let us see who triumphs.”

He had to think Perric was mad. Fight a Revenant in single combat? Perric laughed. He threw back his head and guffawed, expecting others to join in, but no one did. His Golden Ranks, his [Generals], were all eying him as if they hoped…Perric snarled.

“I won’t fall for any tricks, Fetohep. Men, prepare to charge!”

He lifted a hand, and his army hesitated, but Perric was ready.

If he comes at me, I’ll just ensure I have an escape route planned. He can’t catch me if I teleport out. Perric had two more armies moving along Khelt’s borders. If he had two attack in multiple waves—

King Fetohep’s eyes were flickering.

“You would damn this entire army to death instead of taking wealth? Truly, Perric?”

“It seems you don’t know me at all, Fetohep. Perspective. It is the final lesson of kings you taught me.”

“I didn’t teach you—”

Fetohep stopped, then shook his head.

“Alas.”

A fitting note to end it all on. Perric was pointing, lifting his horn, when someone blew a horn in the distance. He lowered the Battle Horn of Medain, irritated.

If this is not my backup army, I’ll kill everything and everyone. He turned his head, then tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.

“General Miltif? Take half the cavalry and make ready to sweep our flanks. Archers, turn. I want a line of pikes there—”

He saw the furry figures loping across the ground, moving behind the skeletons, then heard the drumming of damn hooves. Incredulously, the High King watched as Gnolls and Centaurs joined the army behind Fetohep.

It was hard to say who was more upset, Perric or Fetohep. The King of Khelt spun.

“Herdmistress, this is not your war!”

She probably didn’t even hear him. The People of Zair were galloping across the earth, raising a dust storm behind them and whooping, Gnolls forming packs of bows and spears in clusters. Perric ground his teeth together.

He’d heard the Centaurs were hard to fight. As for the Gnolls, he was sure they’d crumble before a cavalry charge—it just looked bad to be seen slaughtering them.

Amnesty for the survivors. Give them some land in Khelt, and that’d solve it. He saw a spiral of Centaurs galloping around the Herdmistress and grunted.

“You have your work cut out for you if they’re half as decent at mounted combat as I’ve heard, Miltif.”

“Aye, Your Majesty. Perhaps we should wait for the second and third armies?”

Miltif was licking his lips as he forced a smile, but Perric could count. He flicked his fingers dismissively.

“We’ll bleed more to rout them, but we have the battle. Now…”

He saw there were Kheltians in the army facing him as well as the undead. A few hundred skeletons had popped up on his left flank. He produced an enchanted spyglass with two lenses instead of one—called ‘binoculars’ by Wistram—and frowned.

“Commander or something over there. Mark for sniping.”

The King of Khelt turned, and his eye-flames dimmed with sorrow, but then burned with pride. Perric shook his head pityingly. Such a pathetic king after all.

——

Death Commander Lanodest stood behind his personal skeletons. He was pale-faced, knowing how outmatched their army was, but like the Gnolls and Centaurs, he had come to the front. He had dissuaded Farmer Colovt and other Kheltians from joining what would be a slaughter.

With the Gnolls and Centaurs, we might hold them. If there are any Arrows of Razzimir and the skeletons can hold them back and keep them from overrunning the border…

…They’d still be overwhelmed and crushed by the Golden Ranks and Perric’s heavy infantry. But they had to fight.

The King of Khelt was gazing at Lanodest, and the Death Commander remembered how he had let Fetohep down. But all the Revenant did was raise his hand and clasp it to his chest in a warrior’s salute.

The High King of Medain was advancing. He didn’t fear the Gnolls howling or the thrumming of Centaurs stomping on the ground. When he saw the Painted Antinium, he just rolled his eyes.

“I’m going to poop myself in terror.”

Pie announced, and Pawn counted.

“We won’t fight to the death. Just…try to hit King Perric with a [Poison Pie] or something, would you?”

They were tired, and their faith was almost exhausted, but if they could use [I Walked Under Heaven’s Sky] once…Pie stared at his hands.

“I don’t have that Skill yet. I might get it when I level. Yellow Splatters, knock me out.”

The Painted Soldier didn’t turn around. He was glancing about. Alked Fellbow and Frieke were standing with the Painted Antinium. Alked had a replacement eye and foot on, and Frieke had a bandage on her stomach as Konska screamed. It was the Stitch-man Named-rank adventurer who stopped Perric again.

“Your Majesty of Medain! I will not fight you here.”

“Smart man! I have room in my kingdom for you, Fellbow!”

Perric roared back. Alked offered him a wolf’s grin.

“With respect, I will come calling, High King! Not today or any day you look for me. But if you take Khelt, then when you are napping, speaking at a banquet, dining in a closed room, my arrow will find you. Take Khelt and die. An archer’s word on it.”

That was a threat to chill the High King of Medain, but he only hesitated for a step, then called out.

“For that, Fellbow, you’ll be hunted like a dog. A shame. Frieke, my falcon! Turn your sword back to your homeland and I’ll forgive all slights, eh?”

She shouted back after a pause.

“It’s Frieke of Khelt, King Perric! If Alked doesn’t snipe you first, Konska will have your balls for lunch and any Golden Rank who thinks they’re a match for a Named-rank adventurer!”

Konska eyed Frieke and cawed to say, ‘don’t make me eat that’. The growl from Perric was enraged, now. So many damn pests!

“If anyone else would like to line up to be slaughtered in Khelt’s defense, make yourselves known! I don’t have all day!”

He roared, and that felt like as good a time as any. So, Trey Atwood spoke.

“Your Majesty. A word?”

——

A young man’s voice echoed from behind Perric, and he whirled, visions of assassins in his mind. His [Generals] leapt back. Where—?

His war table? Perric strode over to it and saw the neat lines of his battle plans laid out. Figurines marking his plans for attack and defense, maps, and his favorite new tool—

The little Sand Golems that Courier Seve-Alrelious had traded him. They were normally lined up until he wanted them to simulate a battle. But one had stepped out of place, and it was looking at him—

“Your battle might not go how you envision it. A word of advice?”

Trey Atwood in miniature smiled up at King Perric’s horrified face a moment before the High King punched the Sand Golem into paste. Then another Sand Golem spoke.

“You won’t take Khelt. The King of Jecrass is already aware of your army’s locations and numbers and where they’re not. You left your eastern borders undefended for this push. If you turn, you might head off the worst of the damage n—”

Perric loosed a [Fireball] point blank into the war table, and one of the [Generals] shouted as the splinters struck his face. The High King roared.

“Tell Admiral Nalteic to counter the King of Jecrass’ raid! I want the war plans remade!”

“Your Majesty, if Jecrass knows where we are, they could attack us as we advance into Khelt! I strongly suggest we fall back and—”

General Miltif’s head snapped back as Perric backhanded him. Internally, Perric’s blood was running cold. My forts. They’re all but empty. If that damn boy had told Raelt that—

Stay the course. They were committed now, and it was too late. The High King roared around at his officers.

“This battle will put Medain on the map as a world power! Retreat? I’ll sacrifice every army of Medain if I have to! Begin the charge!”

No matter how many little tricks Khelt had, it did not an army make! Perric knew war, and he knew he was right. It just so happened that someone else agreed with him. His [Generals] were begging the High King to reconsider when one of his [Bodyguards] tapped Perric on the shoulder.

“Your Majesty. The Quarass has a message for you.”

“Not now! You will charge or I will have you all put to d—”

Then the soft, too-calm tones from one of his dedicated [Bodyguards] sent an utter chill down Perric’s spine. He spun, and his sword left its sheath, but the [Bodyguard] was already leaping over the heads of the alarmed soldiers.

“Assassin! Assassins! Protect His Majesty!”

Perric saw the remaining bodyguards try to close ranks, but he swung his sword at them, forcing them away.

“Back! Back—where’s the damn message? Did he touch anything?”

Was it contact poison? In the air? Perric spun, and his eyes followed the leaping [Assassin]. The traitor was running away from Khelt’s borders. Towards a cresting dune that led towards one of the neighboring kingdoms. Reim and, northeast, Germina…

The sands at the top of the dune rippled as the fake [Bodyguard] sprinted across the ground, and Perric saw the ground stand up. A figure shed the sand and cloth hiding them in a small plume of dust, and then a hundred more stood with the tiny Quarass of Germina. Then a thousand. Then—

The Quarass of Germina and four thousand of her clothed warriors armed with poisoned blades, blowing darts, throwing daggers, and the like appeared in flanking position to Medain’s army. A fraction of King Perric’s fielded forces, but poised to hit him from an oblique angle.

The Quarass spoke as King Perric’s personal speaking stone keyed to his palace vibrated, and when he lifted the stone, her childish, cold voice was in his ear.

“High King, it would be wise of you to withdraw.”

He forced a smile as his spine prickled.

“Quarass! You seem to think you have the drop on me. Four thousand of your light infantry wouldn’t even leave a dent in my vanguard.”

He swept a hand, indicating his heavily armed infantry—who did not seem particularly brave or motivated to go up against the most poisonous nation in the entire world. The Quarass’ voice was light.

“Twice you have been marked for death should you invade. Thrice may suffice if it comes from my own mouth. Turn back.”

“You must be mad. Khelt has guarded its riches from Germina as well as every other nation! Listen to me, Quarass. Join with me and I’ll split the treasures of Khelt with you!”

Perric blustered, growing incensed now. Why was she defending Khelt? The Quarass paused, and her reply was pained.

“Khelt’s hour has come when its debts shall be paid, King Perric. Even the wisdom of Ger’s long years cannot halt that. But you mistake me. I am the Quarass of Germina. Even if Khelt is not so old as the Shield Kingdoms of Chandrar, I will not see it end tonight. Turn back. Or you will die, your children will die, and your loved ones will die in their safe houses.”

For a few seconds, High King Perric actually considered doing what she suggested. Then he shook himself.

“When Medain has its treasures, I will offer you a trade, Quarass. Amicable peace or war that will ruin Germina. Everyone bluffs at this game of cards, and I am tired of the bluffs. Withdraw or I’ll trample your forces.”

A longer pause, then her voice replied slowly.

“I am beginning to see how King Fetohep of Khelt had such troubles with you. And how rock may beat every other combination thrown at it through sheer obstinacy. General Miltif? You have a wife. I would stab myself were I you. I will take you off this field either way.”

Perric spun.

“Miltif, don’t you dare. Miltif? She’s bluffing. Put down the dagger, man. Put it down—”

The Quarass might have been bluffing, but she took one of his [Generals] off the field since the man might be compromised. High King Perric took over Miltif’s command himself, telling his [Commander of the Charge] to change targets. Hit the Quarass, loop around to engage the Gnolls, and he’d support the engagement against the Centaurs with archers.

The battle plan was far more complicated as Perric weighed every angle, but his army still had the numbers, still had the levels, and he saw the King of Khelt watching him.

My hand ripping out your—

Perric shivered. His head rose, and his entire army was half-turned, waiting for his words. He rasped as he licked his lips.

“Alright. Upon my signal, begin the attack. Would anyone else like to interrupt? Sand at Sea? The Vizir? I’m prepared for them.”

He made a show of casting about, and his Golden Ranks shuffled their feet, but then one of them raised their enchanted blades and began to drum on the golden shields he’d armed them with.

Rattattat. Rattatattattat! The others drummed on their shields too, and the High King’s spine straightened. He took a breath and drew the Battle of Horn of Medain. He waited a beat and then blew it.

A clarion call to arms. A note of war. The High King drew his sword.

“Now the wolf takes Khelt’s throat! Golden Ranks, forwards!”

He thought he heard the King of Khelt, Quarass of Germina, and Priest Pawn sigh as one. But then the cavalry was beginning to thunder forwards, and the terrified shouts of his soldiers became a roar as their feet thrummed over the ground. Perric’s heart was in his throat, but he rode forwards.

Nothing to stop him from his dreams. Not Germina, not Fetohep, not Antinium! He heard a desperate scream from the side.

“Your Majesty! The Arbiter Queen is riding down on us with three thousand horse from the rear!”

High King Perric didn’t even turn his head. His eyes were locked on Fetohep’s as the Revenant lifted a replacement halberd. The King of Medain was shouting now, as the broken green moon and blue moons shone down overhead. A glittering night sky filled with distant stars and the falling sword.

A figure plummeted to earth before the running Golden Ranks, and his sword touched the ground. High King Perric saw, just for a second, grey hair, pink, electric eyes, and a familiar face that had once etched itself on his memory.

The Hero of Zethe swung his sword down and cleaved the ground in half. A rift tore past the Golden Ranks, and they stumbled. The first rank of [Soldiers] cried out and tried to slow, and the second rank slammed into their backs. They pitched into the chasm he had cut, scrabbling at the edges as their friends halted.

Doubte of Zethe swung his sword, and the winds blew. He turned, straightening, and held his sword out. The army of Medain stopped.

One [Hero] stood between them and the astonished King of Khelt. In the sudden, complete silence, he spoke with a weary voice that cut through all sounds. As he had done a thousand times before.

“Medain. I am Doubte, the man you knew as the Hero of Zethe. This land is under my protection. Advance and die.”

They waited as he lowered his sword and rested, favoring his right foot. Doubte stood there, eyes fixed on High King Perric’s face. He said nothing more, and the High King rubbed at his eyes.

Lifted a hand and spoke, at last, plaintively.

“Oh…come now. Couldn’t you have had a private word before I moved my armies?”

——

The Hero of Zethe stood in front of the armies of Medain, and it was Medain who fell back. Not for Germina, the Antinium, or any other—only the hero who had held the King of Destruction himself at bay time and again.

Fetohep didn’t know what to think. He had prepared himself to die charging at the King of Medain if need be, but…

The Quarass, Jecrass, the Antinium, the Gnolls. Each people were ones whom Khelt had helped, however small. And Doubte?

Fetohep remembered the [Hero] riding silently aboard Sand at Sea as they travelled to the Meeting of Tribes. It was he who owed the [Hero] a favor, and yet because they had shared that moment, Doubte had come in Khelt’s hour of need.

He should have been overjoyed, but instead, Fetohep was just ashamed.

If only I had given out Khelt’s generosity before. How many allies might now stand with us than this handful if I had been charitable but a tenth of my long reign?

He bowed before Doubte as the [Hero] finished wiping his sword with a cloth.

“Your Majesty. I apologize for my delay.”

“You arrived exactly when needed, Doubte. To you, the Quarass, and so many others, I express my gratitude.”

Doubte shifted, and rather than acknowledge the thanks, he just grunted and jerked his head at the departing army.

“The King of Medain will be back. He’s not the sort to keep long. You need someone he respects. Not that I can or will fight. I prefer to be dead. But I have…children. Restless children, and if Hraace cannot teach them—my wife deserves more than our little home, you see. There’s a village.”

He stumbled over his words, grimacing, and Fetohep realized the man was leaping to a conclusion, making the offer as if he could not stand to dance around the topic even a second. Fetohep lifted a hand.

“I will grant you and any you desire citizenship if it lends you to lift a blade even once in Khelt’s name, Doubte. My word on it. But Khelt is not safe.”

Doubte shrugged.

“Is anywhere? I won’t swing my sword in Khelt’s name. Only defend the part of it that matters to me. If that suits…”

He trailed off, and Fetohep nodded.

“It does. You have earned that without even this, Doubte.”

The [Hero] half-glanced at Fetohep, frowning, before he relaxed. Then he shook his head, almost wonderingly.

“…You’re genuine. You should be more demanding. They’ll all take from Khelt. Including her.”

He backed up fast as someone came running over the ground as fast as her little legs would carry her. The Quarass puffed.

“Doubte of Zethe! A word!”

“Goodbye.”

He sketched a bow, then leapt away. She cursed as she halted, and Fetohep of Khelt stood there.

“Quarass, you have my—”

“Fetohep of Khelt, be silent. I am wroth with the High King, with you, and with Chandrar.”

Her eyes flashed, and Fetohep continued.

“—gratitude. I fear, however, that Medain is only the first of the jackals at my door. I have [Mercenaries] coming.”

“And another army.”

She murmured, and he glanced at her. The Quarass sighed. She brushed at her hair and turned to him.

“Germina has fallen before and been knelt in ages past. Nor is this the first time I have seen sworn companions crumble, Fetohep. It shall not be the last. I shall tell you how it is done, but you must accept it is breaking. I did not know if you could, until now. I feared it would be the [Potter] who stood here, not you.”

He bowed his head again, deeper.

“It took pure despair to bring me so low. Now, I am merely grateful.”

Jecaina rode into their conversation as the Quarass nodded tightly. She threw herself off her horse.

“Fetohep! I came as soon as I could! Father is attacking Medain, the idiot! What happened to the Prophet? Sand at Sea was coming this way, but they left to confront another force. And—why am I next in line to rule Khelt?”

The Quarass’ mouth fell open. Her eyes bugged at Fetohep as she spun.

“You made her the next Heir?”

“That was Pewerthe.”

“What about me?”

The outraged girl demanded, and Jecaina cast around.

“Was that the Hero of Zethe I saw? He split the earth! Should we guard against Medain coming? Or is another group attacking?”

Fetohep almost smiled at the chaos. He saw Death Commander Lanodest, the Painted Antinium, Gnolls, and Centaurs were cheering and almost thought it was a party worthy of Erin Solstice. Almost…but he felt Doubte’s weariness in his bones. He saw the Quarass’ reserve, and a thought occurred to him.

“Hecrelunn isn’t here. I thought he might be attacking the [Mercenaries], but he would never let an ego larger than his go unchecked. And Sand at Sea should have easily beaten even Jecrass to arrive. Where are they?”

He turned, and the Quarass avoided his eyes as someone pushed through the milling people. Trey Atwood came to a halt as Fetohep glanced around, and the young [Sand Mage] spoke.

“King Fetohep of Khelt? May we retire to the capital for this? You have a guest awaiting you.”

Then Fetohep focused on his young friend, and he heard a horn call in the distance again. A distant sound, and he glanced at the Quarass, who would not meet his eyes. He exhaled, just once.

“Of course.”

——

The King of Destruction had brought a small army with him. Just Orthenon, Mars, and six thousand of Reim’s soldiers. Vizir Hecrelunn was floating across from them, aiming a finger down at Reim’s forces, and Sand at Sea had parked itself in front of Koirezune’s gates, but neither group wanted to fight. Orthenon was facing the undead ship, and Mars was blowing kisses at Hecrelunn. As for the soldiers, they were waiting in silence behind the King of Destruction. Calm. Far too calm.

A calculated amount of troops. Probably exactly what Flos needed to stomp High King Perric’s army into dust with Khelt’s forces if he had to. He was swearing as he leaned on the pommel of his saddle.

“The Hero of Zethe upstaged me? Damn the man! This was a perfect chance to take out Medain as well!”

He turned a rueful smile on Fetohep, and he didn’t make any pretense as to why he was here. The King of Destruction, the warlord of their era, just dismounted, and his face was sorrowful as he spread his arms.

“King Fetohep of Eternal Khelt, I greet thee, undying brother. I grieve, truly. Once, I dreamed of a war between Reim and Khelt. I did not desire the bloodshed, but in truth, I wondered even at the height of my kingdom how thunderous Khelt’s war might be. That dream will never become reality. But perhaps…I may offer some solace.”

“King of Reim, you come civilly for once. I take it you too desire Khelt’s donations?”

Flos recoiled and seemed actually hurt. He shook his mane of red-gold hair out as he turned.

“I would see this land protected, Fetohep. Trey told me what was going on. I offer you the same pact as before. Join my nation. If not as sovereign citizens, then true allies. Let there be enduring peace between us, and no nation shall strike yours.”

King Fetohep of Khelt eyed Orthenon and Mars, who stood civilly, even the Illusionist, somber and grieving for Khelt’s downfall. He believed they were genuine.

He could also envision Mars striding into his palace, cleaving apart all undead in her way. Flos’ face was open, genuine, and his soldiers were the finest in Chandrar.

A true conqueror had come to Khelt. Its [King] did not kneel or bow, because that would have upset the King of Destruction the most. As Fetohep had told Perric—dignity should be held by the defeated most of all.

So as not to upset the victor. Fetohep inclined his head a fraction of an inch.

“We shall drink to this, Flos Reimarch, and swear oaths upon our kingdoms as well as in deed. Khelt shall pay Reim its ransom that its people may live in peace. And perhaps—for [Cleaners].”

“Ah, the damn bugs. You live with them.”

Flos snapped his fingers, but he was finding it hard to jest. He stood there, almost awkwardly, until Fetohep gestured.

“Your forces shall, of course, leave my lands at once.”

Then he saw the King of Destruction’s shoulders relax. Flos whirled.

“Naturally. Of course. Mars, we have more damned Stitch-folk to defeat! Orthenon, stay here and effect whatever needs to be done. Politely. Your Majesty, I’ll pick up Trey later. I trust he was useful for once?”

He glanced at Trey, and the [Sand Mage] rolled his eyes.

“We could have used Orthenon when the Prophet was attacking us. You cut it close, Flos.”

The King of Destruction smirked just once.

“I wanted to see Fetohep fight. That man hadn’t a chance of taking Khelt if Fetohep stood alone against his entire mewling cult. King Fetohep. Er, Quarass. Arbiter Queen.”

He rode past them, streaming back the way he’d come. A legend leaving a kingdom of old myths. Fetohep watched him go as the Quarass rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue at his back. It was Trey who remarked softly.

“You know what? I think that was the guiltiest he’s ever felt.”

The Quarass spat onto the ground at Flos’ back.

“If he took Khelt by blood and battle, he’d feel less upset. He feels like a thief, defeating one who put up no fight. So…then.”

Fetohep nodded.

“I shall prepare adequate tributes to the Empire of Sand, Reim, Germina, and other nations who might be able to press their…grievances. Suitably rich ones at regular dates.”

Not too much, but not too little. It would have to be a delicate dance. He saw the Quarass avert her eyes and realized, then, that the people of Koirezune had come out to see the King of Destruction. They’d heard him speaking, and they stood there.

Khelt was no longer the invincible paradise. Fetohep could meet no one’s eyes, so he gazed down and, in the doing so, found Anleth and the other children. He bent as the boy stood there.

“Your Majesty? Is Khelt going to be attacked?”

“I don’t know, Anleth. I hope not.”

Fetohep knelt down as the boy approached, and his people listened as he sat there on the sands. Wearily, the King of Khelt patted the sand, and the boy sat next to him.

“Will there be bugs, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, in all likelihood, Anleth.”

“And…and we’ll give away our riches.”

“Many of them, yes.”

“Will we have to have jobs?”

Fetohep’s head bowed further.

“I fear so, Anleth. This is not what I wished for Khelt. For all of you. It is my failings that have led us here. I am sorry.”

He peered around at the shocked faces of the Kheltians. Betrayal, sorrow, numbness. Trying to take in their breaking paradise. Fetohep rose to his feet gently. He placed one hand on Anleth’s shoulders.

“Khelt, Eternal Khelt, is not dead. Perhaps it is not even dying. I do not know. I do know we will be poorer, less safe. The world I know has shaken, and all is chaos, my people. I have let you down. But tomorrow…I shall sit on my throne and answer each grievance you have as best I am able, day and night. I swear to you this. I shall no longer pretend Khelt has no woes. Tomorrow will be hard. The days after perhaps harder. We must only greet them as they come. If you would flee Khelt for better lands, I ask you to wait. Or if you must go, let me send you with all I have left.”

He stood there and heard no one break into tears. No cries of remorse or terror. Just a soft sigh, then nothing at all. In the silence, the King of Khelt bowed deeply once and caught his crown before it slipped from his head. Then he walked up the long steps to his palace.

For he had work to do.

——

[Priest of Wrath and Sky Level 44!]

[Skill – Blessing of the Painted Antinium’s Colors Obtained!]

[Miracle Ascended: Summon Workers (Holy) → Summon Heaven’s Guardians!]

[Title – Defender of the Helpless Granted!]

[Title Reward – Shield of the Lamb Assigned!]

[Class Change: Potter of Secrets → Potmaker of Buried Truths!]

[Potmaker of Buried Truths Level 47!]

[Skill – Create Pothead Skeletons Obtained!]

[Skill – Pots: Contain Faith Obtained!]

[Skill – Beloved by Insects Obtained!]

[Skill Change: Pot of Secrets → Pot of Conspiracies Obtained!]

[Class Change: First Disciple of the Prophet → Warrior-Priestess of God’s Cloth!]

[Warrior-Priestess of God’s Cloth Level 43!]

[Skill – Weave Blessed Fabrics Obtained!]

[Miracle – Mass Prayer of Magic’s Denial Obtained!]

[Skill – Like a Lion, She Leapt Obtained!]

Levels in the night. There were many who levelled, but three of those who woke, Pawn, Pewerthe, and Marrieh, did so with newfound Skills ringing in their ears. New powers, rediscovered abilities.

Things this world had never yet seen, but longed for. Each one had a different reaction to their powers.

——

Pawn sat up, heart leaping for the powers to give the new Painted Folk a piece of what made the Painted Antinium themselves. Soul sinking because Heaven was a place of rest.

“Must we call them back from Heaven itself for our selfish wars?”

He sat there until he heard his heart reply.

They’d want to help.

So he abided.

——

Pewerthe just sighed in faint contentment. It had been an age since she had last levelled. And now…each one was needed.

“I will hit Level 50 before I die after all.”

She rolled over in her bed. Already envisioning new pots and plans. Pothead Skeletons? They’d have to look beautiful, naturally. Sturdy pots. Doubtless the better the pot, the better the skeleton.

This was necromancy she could get behind.

——

And Marrieh woke to tears in the camps where the lamentations of the People of God still filled the air. Schism. Some had fled, and others followed the Prophet, if not for him, then for the single Angel.

But she wept. For the world had given her what she had longed for.

Cloth to call her own. She did not care about the Miracle to terrify all of Wistram into soiling their robes or the Skill that had once been called a mark of true bravery, that only the bravest were given—

Only sat and dreamed of a new people made in cloth to honor a being that loved them equally.

——

Levels. For Yellow Splatters, Pie, Harvey, and so many more. But not for one being.

He was dead, and as of yet, no one had given Fetohep of Khelt the ability to continue his long journey after death.

It mattered not. He alone stayed awake after the battles were won.

Working.

The night was a blur of things. The Quarass and her people, Pewerthe, and as many officials, day-servants, and people of talent as he could summon.

Farmer Colovt was one of the most important people in Khelt, suddenly. As was an [Accountant] who began to tally costs in sums she had never dreamed of, face dead white.

But they moved. In time, the mortals had to rest, even the Quarass. Trey Atwood retired to his quarters; Pewerthe fell asleep at her desk she’d installed in the throne room and was covered by a blanket. Fetohep listened to her snoring as he got up and went for a walk.

One final meeting at dawn. He took it a few miles north of the border to Khelt, and a man nearly tumbled out of his saddle. He’d ridden hell-for-leather and insisted on tending to his horse before he spoke.

For that, Fetohep respected Captain Galbram. The [Mercenary] walked, embarrassed, glancing around, passing by a ramshackle inn that the Quarass of Germina had once put up to gain a class.

“Every major [Mercenary] company not on the other side of the continent’s going to be here in a few days, Your Majesty. Many that’re too small to be counted, anywhere from a few thousand to a few dozen. And lots that aren’t [Mercenaries] at all, but just wear the name. [Bandits] and groups of sellswords, you understand.”

“I see. Naturally, yours was one of the first to arrive, Captain.”

The man flushed again, but he didn’t glance away from Fetohep.

“No. Once I put the pieces together, and Captain Nava told me how she’d been fighting the People of God, I put the call out. I know almost every other commander who’s a big name. I know which ones can be trusted and which ones have filth in their ranks.”

“I see. So what would you propose, Captain?”

The man chewed on his lip, but he had been thinking, and he came out with it.

“Well, you’d start by paying each major company the same sum as mine.”

“Even though I am hiring your company, Captain?”

“Yes. Because even if you hire us, the other companies will know Khelt’s right there, and they’ll fight us like Demons of Rhir. There’s no way to stop them unless the King of Destruction wants to come back and smash through them. That’ll lower the price, but there’s plenty who’d be willing to risk becoming raiders and banned for life. Just for a taste of Kheltian gold. Pay them and most companies will dissolve. Plenty of [Mercenaries] will ask to be paid out and retire or go drinking and carousing until the gold runs out. You’ll throw them into chaos.”

“Ah, the man who has everything he wants. And yourself?”

Galbram shrugged self-consciously.

“I figure I’ll lose a lot of my people, but I’ll pick from the other companies in the chaos. Strike a deal with the other good [Captains]. Then my people will be motivated to catch the other groups coming in. Some might need incentives to leave, but you’ll have security. Not perfect, but they can even do some sweeping and elimination of bugs…so long as they have the run of the cities. They’ll obey the laws, but you’ll need peacekeepers.”

“Death Commander Lanodest may be ideally suited for that role. You have brought before me an offer I am ill-able to refuse, Captain Galbram.”

Fetohep could prevail on the Quarass, Flos, or even repulse Galbram and the mercenaries himself. Perhaps. But he had no soldiers. And Galbram was honest. He faced Fetohep, embarrassed, but nodded.

“You’ll have our swords as long as the coin’s good, Your Majesty. Being able to visit a paradise, even one that’s in—straits—is worth as much as the coin to buy it all. Do we have a deal?”

He was nervous, as if thinking Fetohep might pull off his head there and then, but the Ruler of Khelt smiled wearily. Like a man winnowed out from the inside yet who still found himself standing.

He lifted a finger and shook his head.

“Almost, Captain Galbram. But before I review these sums of which I must pay, in advance, I tell you this: I must have you lower your prices.”

Galbram’s head snapped up. He opened his mouth, defensive, and Fetohep lifted a hand.

“I am not accusing you of greed beyond any other man or woman, Galbram. I am simply telling you: lower your prices. Take less. Do not slaughter the magical calf so long as it gives milk.”

The [Captain]’s anger faded. He regarded Fetohep, then ducked his head.

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

He peered up and saw Fetohep offer him that same, pained smile.

“Thank you, Captain Galbram. You are indeed the man I should have hired. Now, if you will excuse me, I must rest a moment. Panic attacks. Visit me in the palace when you have settled matters among the mercenaries. The servants shall admit you.”

——

The day thereafter in Khelt was the kind of tremulous silence after a disaster. Frieke had known them, when tidal waves had rolled into Medain or a monster had attacked. Days when everything fell apart and nothing seemed normal.

She, of course, was better able to deal with it than most, and Konska rode on her shoulder as she wrote to Satar.

“…paying off most nations, and a [Mercenary Captain] has been hired by His Majesty to guard Khelt. For now, no raids, but I will keep you informed, Satar. Signed…Frieke.”

She was writing to Satar Silverfang openly now that Khelt’s woes had been made public. The [Historian] wanted to know everything and had expressed her condolences and whatever support the Meeting of Tribes could muster. And she’d begged Frieke to search up anything Khelt had on the Antinium. Probably a fan of Pawn.

Lots of Kheltians were listening to his Painted Folk today, and he was giving a sermon in the square. About how to clean up and why leftovers were a virtue.

Frieke, though, just paused as someone familiar caught her eye in the streets of Koirezune. She’d been watching how Kheltians acted. Many were in shock or trying to live normally, but some…the smart ones, the bastards, were cleverer than the rest.

For instance, she’d seen one woman gathering up utensils, pieces of art, everything she could grab and stuff into her bag of holding all morning. Anything that wasn’t claimed, things that normal Kheltians had no value for. She took it and squirreled it away, because now, suddenly, everything had a price tag.

Getting ahead when things got bad. In a way, Frieke approved. That was smart. It kept you alive. It was a very King Perric thing to do. When the boot was on your neck, everyone did what they had to.

On the other hand…she waved at Mistreq and saw him walking around, as if someone had clubbed him with one of the giant [Hammers of Faith]. She’d been impaled, but she was healing. She wondered where the Prophet of God had gone. She hoped he’d tripped and broken his neck, but life was never that fair.

“Hey, Mistreq. Are you doing okay?”

He came over hesitantly.

“Frieke. Didn’t you get stabbed through the stomach?”

She showed him her bandaged wound.

“I did, but the Antinium healed me part way. What are you doing?”

Mistreq had a bundle of sticks in one hand, some cloth, and a net in the other hand. He gestured at his tools.

“Well…burning bugs out of their nests.”

“No.”

She smiled despite herself. Mistreq nodded; he even had a hat with a net for his face. He’d made it himself and showed it to her.

“Someone has to do it now that the skeletons are…broken. I’ve been showing people how to do it, but most can’t handle the bugs. I don’t like it at all, but I hate them more. I gained the [Bug Remover] class the other day. I nearly got rid of it, but—I think someone needs to do it. Don’t they? That’s a valuable class, isn’t it?”

She thought about it as he stood there, forlorn, staring at the palace and around at his city.

“There’s plenty of bug-killers and exterminators in Medain. There’s a need for them everywhere. It’s not glamorous work, but yes. It’s an important job.”

“Good. Then…I suppose I’d better get to it.”

He nodded awkwardly at someone waiting for him to help eliminate some horrible bug-infestation. Frieke halted Mistreq.

“Hey, Mistreq, let’s get a drink later. After work.”

“After work.”

He said the words like they were foreign, and she smiled at him. He nodded and began trudging away. She called after him.

“You know, even with bugs, this is still the most beautiful city I’ve ever been in. The most fabulous kingdom. That might not change.”

He turned back once and half-smiled at her, but his eyes lingered on the palace. Mistreq pointed back at her.

“Yes. Yes, it is true. But once, you and I knew paradise. After that—anything is harder. But Khelt remains.”

He brushed at his eyes and glanced around, mystified.

“It remains.”

Frieke stood there as Konska cawed, and she nodded.

“Yeah.”

Then she went to find Pewerthe.

——-

Pewerthe the Potter, Heir of Khelt, was suddenly one of the most important women in Khelt. Everyone wanted to speak to her, and she feared she wouldn’t have time to pot anymore.

“It’s important, Fetohep. For my class.”

“Yes. Of course. You levelled, I trust?”

“Mhm. And those new undead I made seem to obey me. Especially the Pot Skeleton. We can supplement our forces with them if I can replicate the stunt. Shame the Painted Antinium can’t stay, but they will want to return home, they said. A few have asked to stay, but we could have used a thousand more. Maybe we can recruit specific groups. Mm, we’ll look at the upsides and downsides.”

They were having a conference in one of the sitting rooms, the first of many. Fetohep had taken a break that morning. Not to rest so much as breathe. In and out. Pewerthe was drinking coffee as she spoke.

Like Named-rank adventurers, she kept moving when the sky fell. She had a list of things to do and ran through them.

“We need to go through Captain Galbram’s background, but I suspect the Quarass has already. She might just give me a list of problems if I ask nicely, but she’s meeting with you shortly after this. I think that’s what I’ll handle today with Frieke as my bodyguard.”

“Is she well?”

“Mhm. She’s mostly healed. Alked’s the one who’s really upset. He says one of his magical eyes got damaged.”

“I shall find him a new one—”

Fetohep began, then sat back.

“—Assuming we can spare it.”

Pewerthe pursed her lips.

“We won’t be beggared overnight, Fetohep. Even with tributes, we have plenty of time. We just have to…spend what we have before it runs out. We might have as much as a decade before we need to, um, have other incomes. Less if we use it, and I suggest we use what we have.”

“I shall consult with…economic experts. I do not know whom. The Quarass, Lyonette. Yes, she wished to speak. I should thank her.”

Pewerthe nodded.

“Good. You need time to yourself in case you slumber. And, um, about what Anleth told me. We can do it! We just need to focus. Keep it quiet. He’s the only one who knows, and Fellbow and Frieke. We should tell a few, but not count on it.”

Hope amidst ruins. Fetohep was nodding as Pewerthe ran a finger down the page.

“What else? Oh, yes. I don’t think I want to be the Heir of Khelt anymore.”

She glanced up, and Fetohep paused.

“Ah. Of course. I have asked too much of you, Pewerthe. I shall find another once…”

“Not that.”

She casually put the paper down and clasped her hands together. Pewerthe met Fetohep’s gaze, and he paused.

“What, then?”

The [Potter] shrugged uncomfortably.

“I just don’t like it. Waiting to be needed. I did a bad job of waiting, and I clashed with you.”

“This time, I shall heed—”

“I don’t like ruling, Fetohep. I’m good at leading, but not taking full charge of it all. I’d rather not be the Heir, but someone needed now. And I think your government, which you need, could use me. As [Spymistress]. Or Magistrate of Spies or something.”

She flashed a smile at Fetohep, and his eye-flames flickered.

“Spymistress. You? But nations know you were the one who tricked them.”

“They might. But secrets can always be re-potted. And it’s what I do well. I’ll help you find a new Heir of Khelt, but I’d like the job either way.”

So saying, Pewerthe twirled a tiny pot on her finger. Fetohep stared at her, and then he did smile ruefully.

“I would be a fool to quibble. I suppose you need a budget. And Frieke among others?”

Pewerthe grinned as she flicked the pot’s tiny lid up and spoke into it.

“I am the Spymistress of Khelt.”

She snapped the lid shut, tucked it into her bag of holding, and nodded.

“Yep. But I’ll present my requirements later. For the moment, I think we should keep Queen Jecaina as the next Heir of Khelt. For a few reasons. Firstly, it strengthens her claim in Jecrass against her father if it becomes known. Second, she has an army and the motivation to help Khelt—more security. We don’t have to keep her as Heir. Another candidate might be the Quarass. It’d motivate her to help even more, but I think it’d give her a permanent claim on Khelt, so probably not.”

He listened as her eyes danced and she spoke, and Fetohep nodded along. In her, he saw hope. Just like the Vizir who flew off towards his kingdom without a word to Fetohep. Nor a request for thanks.

——

But he didn’t fly back right away. Instead, the [Vizir] cast an illusion spell and landed in the city he had helped found. Koirezune.

Unrecognized by all, he walked the streets, and the dream he had helped build with Khelta…Hecrelunn stumbled, and for a moment, he was no undead Revenant, but a sharp-chinned man with imperious, cunning purple eyes, a bit shorter than you might think, wearing high-heeled boots, always, eternally wearing a dissatisfied quirk to his lips.

—Stumbling and leaning against a stall of goods for ‘sale’. The sign said that the owner appreciated trades or compliments and, if you took one, to please write a note of thanks.

Closed forever. The precious gemstones, magical papers, glues and scraps of wood from around the world that the [Crafter of Delights] used to make his wares would no longer flow into the city without thought for the cost. Hecrelunn’s sun-dusked face was pale as he gazed about.

At trash littering the streets. Kheltians weeping or learning to steal and hoard. His chest rose and fell, and someone spoke.

“Sir? Sir? Are you well?”

“Leave me.”

Unlike Fetohep of Khelt, Hecrelunn had not forgotten his mortal features, and there was no one in this world to remember what he had looked like. He did not consider his current body his true self.

He had always been Khelta’s honorguard in whatever shape. And now—he raised trembling fingers, and someone called out.

“Is there a [Healer] about? I think this man is unwell. Panic attack.”

More Kheltians turned, and Mistreq saw Hecrelunn swipe at him with a snarl. The newly-made [Bug Remover] flinched. Some of the Kheltians who’d been approaching backed away when they saw the swipe.

“Another one? The [Healers] are beyond busy—I’ll try to find someone.”

“Is he violent? The officials…oh.”

A pause. As all recalled that the officials were likewise occupied with grave matters. Chasing down some of the People of God who’d remained in the borders. Restoring order. Needing to intercept thieves, foreigners, bandits.

The [Crafter of Delights] who owned the stall had returned, but he flinched back as Hecrelunn snarled around at them. He was a man with white hair, who had tear-tracks on his dust-covered face.

“Is this the way of things now? Will we be in fear of others beating us and stealing our things? Will we have to lock our doors, and will strangers come into our city whenever they please? This is the end of Khelt. We’ll be devoured by insects, murdered in our sleep, our daughters carried off…”

It was not entirely incorrect. Mistreq flinched, and Hecrelunn gazed ahead, wordless. But before the lamentations of the old man could grow louder, there was a brisk clip-clop of hooves, and someone spoke.

“Who’s having a panic attack? I will deal with it. And I will have no fearmongering! Not from you, elder. In these moments, you and I should be the ones who speak reassurance, not woe!”

Who—the old [Crafter of Delights] turned, and Herdmistress Geraeri trotted down the street. She limped a bit, grimacing.

“Ach, my bones. You there. Are you unwell, sir? I can take you to my camps.”

“Leave me be.”

Hecrelunn snarled at her, and she halted and eyed him. But she didn’t force the issue, instead addressing the other Kheltians.

“I am Herdmistress Geraeri. I have been to Koirezune seldom, but my People of Zair, we do live on the borders of Khelt and in New Jecrass. You may see more of us of late.”

“Herdmistress, greetings! I’m, uh, [Bug Remover] Mistreq. Formerly [Wine Enthusiast] and [Tour Guide]. Are you hurt? You fought bravely for Khelt.”

Mistreq introduced himself, and Geraeri rubbed at one foreleg.

“No, just old. But it seems I am going to work until the day I lie down for good. It is not entirely displeasing compared to the alternative. Having tasted not being needed—well, it is a small comfort in this moment. I wish to reassure you of the future as well as give frank, honest advice.”

More Kheltians drifted over. A pair of Gnolls, Anleth, Farmer Colovt, who was walking towards the palace with some of the New Jecrassians. Even the old [Hermit] Malam and six of his lions. Each one was shaken in their own way, and they represented Khelt, funnily enough.

The [Crafter of Delights] wore a bitter expression, as if the People of God’s deeds had poisoned his belief in the goodness of humanity. He swiped a hand at the Gnolls.

“This all came of helping foreigners. We were safe! We were happy. And now we’re all in danger. Don’t lie and say we will not be! I have heard of Roshal’s raid. How many nations will we pay, and how many people will come through the borders, harming us, stealing our wealth now the skeletons are weak? We should have never let them in!”

He turned to Mistreq and the other Kheltians. The [Bug Remover] hesitated, and the Gnolls, all three of them, halted. The two adults, Lessha and Qirrel, glanced at the other Kheltians’ faces. A little Gnoll girl ducked behind a stall, hiding.

“Some of our newcomers fought for His Majesty. Did Named-adventurer Frieke not save Heir Pewerthe?”

Mistreq remonstrated with the man, and the [Crafter] glared.

“Those who help Khelt, but what of those who owe us so much? We did not need to go to Izril. If we hadn’t—”

If His Majesty had not let us down. He might have gone on, but a hand fell on his shoulder, and the [Crafter of Delights] flinched.

“See? They’re already using force to—”

He thought it was the Centaurs or Gnolls who took umbrage with him, but instead, he turned, and the largest beak in the world pecked him on the shoulder. Ever-so-gently, such that not even the Kheltian man could really cry out in pain.

“For shame, Codafrey! Was it not you I heard exclaim in sorrow over the Gnolls that Belchan attacked? Did you not cheer His Majesty along with the rest of us? We are all afraid of danger and the future. But you should not say it as if it were other species who didn’t deserve Khelt’s kindness.”

“Oh, Chivi, I only meant—”

He gazed up, and the biggest Garuda that anyone had ever seen flapped her wings unhappily. She was nine feet tall with black-and-white plumage like a seagull, and even Geraeri seemed startled to meet one of Koirezune’s more notable residents.

“Half-Giantess. I didn’t think but to realize there were half-Giants in Khelt.”

She lowered her left forehoof and swept it across the ground. Chivi smiled, but unhappily. She’d lost feathers out of stress, and she nibbled at a stray one on her arm.

“I’m the only Garuda. One of three…but I’m just another daughter of Khelt. Will we really be hurt, Herdmistress? Don’t mind Codafrey.”

“I’m…I didn’t mean you shouldn’t be citizens. Just that our undead—”

The old man was ashamed, but Geraeri just nodded.

“It is true that trouble will come to Khelt. There will always be those who manage to get past His Majesty’s undead and the new guards. The undead are not gone, remember. Just weakened. The greatest threat would be visitors more than some bandit stealing across the borders. They may be duplicitous or violent, yes. Locking your doors and windows is something you must learn.”

Mistreq’s stomach hurt as the Kheltians sighed. After seeing Fetohep nearly slain, it was a blow, but not one that left them weeping. They were numb, but Geraeri raised her voice as she glanced at Lessha and Qirrel.

“However! Safety will not come from a locked door! It will come from knowing your neighbors’ faces—and that is something I think Kheltians know! If you see someone acting odd, telling others, intercepting trouble together is how you truly stay safe.”

“But what if they have a knife or hurt someone?”

Mistreq’s voice trembled, and Geraeri smiled at him.

“Then you must be brave, but I think most men and women might threaten a Kheltian alone. Not so against thirty. This is how it works, is it not?”

Lessha came forwards, nodding and baring her teeth.

“It is so. We Gnolls also hope to show our faces in the bigger cities more. To spread out, in fact, and not live so much by ourselves. We had thought to, but if we are to be a people of Khelt, we must not be so afraid to claim it. If we are welcome?”

She turned to Mistreq, and he nodded.

“Of course.”

Now Codafrey was embarrassed, but the disguised Hecrelunn rasped.

“Khelt has always welcomed every species. Do not dare presume Khelta intended anything less. From the last Halflings to the first Selphids and Stitch-folk—this was a haven for all those who she chose to love.”

He glowered at Lessha, who sniffed, then gave him a deep bow.

“As you say, sir.”

“But how will we…pay for things? I am told that is how it is done, and we do not have any coins. Will we be beggared? We do not have jobs, most of us. How will His Majesty collect…taxes?”

Codafrey was worried about the other practicalities of life, and Geraeri stepped closer to his stall as Anleth clutched his parents’ hands in worry. The Herdmistress studied Codafrey’s works.

“This is your craft, sir? I can name only three Centaurs with finer talents in my camps, though perhaps it’s the quality of materials. This, for instance.”

She held up a little necklace made out of a cut triangle of glass and two more that were spaced together with cunning bits of wire such that when the light caught one, the prismatic reflection of sunlight struck the other two and created a hypnotizing illusion in the air.

“That? Oh, it’s just a bit of glass and wire. Do you want it? Take it. I shan’t make more…I’ll be working at the farms, if I can handle hoeing dirt, or whatever is needed.”

The old [Crafter of Delights] barely glanced at it, but Geraeri dug in her pockets. She placed three gold coins on the table, then added eight more.

“I’d pay you this for such a trinket, glass or not, sir. I might ask to make it less fragile since I fear the wire might bend…but here is where you would charge me double and we’d haggle.”

Everyone eyed the gold coins as Lessha grinned, and Codafrey nudged the coins.

“Is that…a lot? It’s just plain gold, not a colorful coin.”

Geraeri laughed, but she did have to hide a bit of her dismay.

“To non-Kheltians, a gold coin is worth quite more. Crafter Codafrey, I am telling you that your work is worth more than swinging a hoe around untrained. Or is this not Koirezune?”

She went trotting down the street, and the other stalls were all filled with baubles to the Kheltians, but the Herdmistress scooped up a handful.

“These would fascinate any visitor—if they could afford the price of them! Khelt surely lacks for those willing to do common tasks, and such people may find themselves the most valuable in a sense.”

She gave Mistreq an approving glance, then turned. And her eyes found Anleth.

“But you have such interesting classes. Young boy, what level are you?”

He jumped.

“M-me? Only Level 13.”

Level 13 at his age? Even the other Kheltians were impressed, but Geraeri nodded.

“You are on par with any good apprentice around the world, child. Though [Gambler]…well, this is how Khelt must change. Do not forget, either, that New Jecrass exists.”

“Too right! And even if we lack for the, eh, bounties of Khelt, it’s been cursed fine so far! Everyone we’ve come across tells us we’ve been living in privation, but not having to worry about food nor safety was good enough for us! Enchanted wells, sewers, dead gods!”

A swarthy [Rancher] from New Jecrass pumped a fist, then jumped as the lions and Malam came forwards. The old [Hermit] appeared very disturbed.

“Will everyone have to work and help? I came because I feared my cats wouldn’t be able to live as they used to.”

Or me. No more purified water shipments nor steaks. The lions were glancing at each other with equal worry.

We’re going to actually have to hunt for our food? They didn’t know if they could handle it.

Fear and uncertainty. For all that some Kheltians were rising…Vizir Hecrelunn muttered as a Gnoll girl peered at Codafrey’s works.

“It shouldn’t have been like this. But it was always like this.”

“How so, sir?”

Chivi addressed Hecrelunn as a few eyes turned his way, and Mistreq wondered if the strange man was older than he seemed. The [Vizir] rasped as he glanced around and saw a huge, barrel-chested man eight feet tall and bursting with muscles standing with arms folded.

Such a colorful people. He whispered.

“But it was always this, wasn’t it? Khelt was never one people. She collected them like her damn pets. Put them into half-finished cities, and at the beginning, it was dangerous. Wild undead, foreigners. That was how Khelt was. It was not safe for children to run about unattended. A Wight might fly down and snatch one. But compared to other lands…they came here, beseeching her for succor, because of the dream.”

“When was this? Queen Xierca’s reign? Are you a half-Elf, sir? I heard there was trouble in other rulers’ dynasties, but—”

The confused half-Giant Garuda turned to the other Kheltians, and Hecrelunn’s eyes flashed red a moment.

“Khelta herself, you worthless peons!”

He shouted, and she flinched, his feet—

Didn’t leave the ground. He almost flew upwards and shed his illusions, but instead, caught himself and ended up standing on his tip-toes to glare up at her. Chivi hid behind Codafrey, and the old man waved a finger at Hecrelunn.

“Now, listen here, youngster. We may have lost our safety, but we Kheltians shan’t act like that. Behave or I’ll call for an official…I’ll lecture you myself! Who taught you to call people peons?”

Hecrelunn flushed, about to roar an insult back, when someone held up a card.

I’d pay for these wares too, Mister Codafrey. I’m sure if you showed them to other nations, people would pay for Couriers for some stuff. Or visit. I hope Khelt does okay. I’m sorry. I wish I could have done more, but I was afraid we’d mess things up. I’m glad Pawn was here.

“Huh? What’s that—”

They turned, and Mrsha was standing in front of the stall, faintly glowing, looking shy and worried. And ashamed. Anleth gasped.

“Mrsha!”

The semi-famous Gnoll girl stood there, head bowed, and a passing Antinium munching on a new Skill-pie halted.

“Oh, Mrsha. You’re here too? Hello. Why didn’t you make the Prophet’s head explode? The Wandering Inn has let me down.”

Pie and Rabbitears inadvertently dogpiled Mrsha, and her head drooped. She wrote on a notecard.

We wanted to do more, but Khelt is so far…and we sometimes make things worse. I’m sorry.

If The Wandering Inn had only done something more—maybe they could have sent Ishkr, Normen, or Valeterisa and a thousand acid jars…no one quite knew what to say to the guilty Gnoll girl, who was a friend of King Fetohep.

However, it was Vizir Hecrelunn who stiffly nodded to her. And then, after a moment, got onto his knees. To get on her level? He still spoke archly to her.

“Listen to me, oh child born of inferior nations and doomed to eternal mediocrity.”

One of her ears perked up, and Mrsha gave him a dubious look as Geraeri took a step back and glanced at Qirrel, who waved his arms over his head and made an ‘argh!’ face—covertly. She focused on Hecrelunn and recognized the voice as the [Vizir] went on.

“Eternal Khelt does not need aid. It had the Vizir Hecrelunn, who is superior to any other being in this modern world, and the King of Khelt, who, despite his flaws, is beyond all other rulers in compassion, if nothing else. By these qualities Khelt has endured. If it needed an overfed albino hamster, then it was doomed. Know this, and know that it was Khelta whose magic held back the anarchy of lawlessness and the pursuit of time until now!”

He stood and whirled around. Hecrelunn began striding away.

“Nor is Khelt doomed. It is merely the first Khelt of all. Remember that and know, enemies, those who would betray Khelt, that in its dark hour, there shall be a light, the pale glow of undeath’s shield.”

His feet floated off the ground, and they gasped. Then the [Vizir]’s head turned, and crimson lights burned in his skull’s face.

“The shadows cast by Khelt’s munificent goodness are long. In those shadows, the Vizir shall be waiting for Khelt’s foes.”

Mistreq’s jaw dropped, and he recoiled. There was a cry—but the [Vizir] was flying away. He gazed down once at his city, then flew higher until he vanished into the horizon.

And Khelt…

Continued.

——

It had, after all, known war. Its borders had been breached before. That was something that Fetohep himself forgot. He had lived through safe times. But Khelt had known greater empires than the King of Destruction’s and been forced to use its weapons.

True, it had never been so weak, but…Mrsha stood in the street, introducing herself to the awesome half-Giantess, and asking what the Kheltians would do.

Learn. Prepare. Change.

Khelt was not without allies, after all. A pink-eyed man watched from further down the street. Doubte of Zethe wondered if his children would like it here. It was fascinating enough for them. Then he couldn’t help it.

He looked away from the place in the horizon the Vizir Hecrelunn had been flying away. Or rather, appeared to be flying.

He really was a cunning man. But Doubte could tell when someone was under [Greater Invisibility], especially if they thought as loudly as Hecrelunn did.

The Revenant was still around. In fact, he seemed to be following someone. The eight-foot tall man with a huge chest and muscles—like a Grimalkin, only Human—had gone strolling away from the discussion in the street. He stepped down an alleyway as the invisible [Vizir] followed, as did Doubte.

Khelt really was a sight to behold. It had alleyways, in the sense that it had places between buildings to walk, but most were not alleyways and more like reasons to put a beautiful work of art there or install a public foot-bath with little fish that ate your dead skin off your feet.

Finding an actual alleyway was really damn hard—except if you went to the one off of Archmage’s Bauble row and past the House of Lights. In the shadows cast by the building filled with light magic which was a public eyesore, there was the Alleyway of Alleyways.

Someone had made it, oh, millenia ago when they realized Koirezune didn’t have an actual part of the city that low-down [Rogues] and such could congregate. Thus, an [Architect] had taken it upon themselves to build one.

Dirty brick cladding, permanent shadow spells that stretched long, and a sense of something skittering out of the corner of your eye. A permanently knocked-over bin of trash…it was actually one of the cleaner parts of the city even now because the [Architect] had installed permanent [Cleanse] spells here.

Most Kheltians hated it here, because it was gross and unsettling, but the huge…Human?—Half-Giant?—was beaming around the alleyway.

“It’s still here. I wondered if it might be. The Alleyway’s endured longer than that damn eyesore of a beacon.”

Vizir Hecrelunn appeared behind the strange Kheltian, eyes glowing crimson. Doubte stood well back, not visible but listening. Hecrelunn’s voice was a bit raspy and quite, quite annoyed.

“What eyesore? Don’t think to stroll off, traitor. I marked you the moment I saw you, Skill or not. Before you tell me where the others of your cowardly get are, you may indulge some nostalgia. Then: pain.”

The Human man turned, and his browned face burst into a smile. An unafraid one, despite Hecrelunn staring up at him. The ten-foot man rolled his shoulders. Then, fourteen feet high, he fondly rubbed at a wall.

Eighteen feet—and then the tip of his head poked over the top of the alley’s roofs before he squatted down. And then the half-Giant of Serept dropped his illusions and let the withered flesh of his body appear, and his eyes glowed.

“[Walk Among the Small]. Was it so obvious?”

“High-levels are. Did you come to see if you had failed Khelt entirely, traitor? You are not the champion. Where are Thuermenon and the others?”

The half-Giant rumbled, amused if slightly wary.

“I am Shamt-grazredon, Vizir, and we have met before. To your question: I do not know. I know where we intend to meet and where many of us go. I was not in Khelt when this Prophet of God struck; I only came here after our task was done, to see what had occurred. If Khelt were under siege, one more of us might have come to do what we could, but there were only three.”

“Three? There are twenty of you unless you incompetent half-Giants got yourselves killed since the Meeting of Tribes. You could have saved me the trouble of flying out here!”

Shamt was cool as he sat against one wall, resting a hand on a knee.

“Against that strange power? Doubtful, if Sand at Sea struggled. Serept gave us his own orders, Vizir.”

“Orders that trump protecting Khelt?”

“Yes.”

The simple answer enraged Hecrelunn, but Shamt interrupted. He had no fear of the [Vizir], it seemed.

“I did not think to see you kneel in this or any other age to anyone, Vizir. Was the child so important? I do not understand.”

The Vizir stiffened.

“I merely sank to her level.”

“Of course. Now, truly, should I honor her the same?”

Hecrelunn was silent a long while before speaking.

“It was rendered unto this Vizir by the King of Khelt that some…hope for Khelt remains. And that the soul of great Khelta was restored in part thanks to the actions of that child.”

“What?”

The half-Giant’s smile winked out, and he leaned forwards, eyes suddenly intent. But the Vizir sneered.

“If you wish to know, go begging to Fetohep. Suffice it to say that this Vizir rendered unto the Brat of Fates, or whatever her title is, sufficient recompense.”

“…Could Serept be there?”

Hecrelunn paused, then answered softly.

“He was not.”

The simple answer made Shamt’s head bow, but then he clenched his fist.

“The knowledge still means there might be salvation despite this disaster. I shall take it to the others, with answers.”

“Where are they?”

Hecrelunn barked, and the half-Giant smiled.

“Why, finding our kin. Protecting them. That was Serept’s last order to us.”

“The…half-Giants?”

A shake from the huge Revenant’s head, and Shamt corrected Hecrelunn.

“The tall. They are all but gone. The girl, the Garuda—I approached her, but she was not interested. And so be it! But the offer shall be made to every single one who walks this world. A final gathering of those who hold the sky on their shoulders. Do not reproach us this, Vizir. Serept was King of Khelt, but he was also a half-Giant. We knew you were here, and Sand at Sea.”

The Vizir’s crimson eyes were flickering, like he was deep in thought, as Doubte held his breath. Both had the same thought.

“The Nomads of the Sky are one of the largest groups of such beings in existence, which you hailed from. You…did the three of you approach them?”

Shamt smiled, ivory teeth in his withered flesh.

“We may have made the offer to them. Children, the young, all those who do not wish to fight this King of Destruction’s wars. They had nowhere else to go.”

“You took his people?”

“He was busy fighting in Nerrhavia’s Fallen and marching on Khelt. Besides, he trusts the Nomads of the Sky to defend themselves. Some objected to our offer and the others leaving. A shame Zamea was not there or it would have been a proper fight.”

Was he implying that three of Serept’s half-Giants had taken a bunch of half-Giants from Reim and fought the living? Where were they going? And who else was ‘tall’ enough for this mission?

“Perhaps we shall return. But first, we embark on a long journey for this age that may be the last.”

Hecrelunn snorted at Shamt’s words.

“It’s always the last age. Khelt shall endure. I will see to it. I have enough pieces and a kingdom to work with. It shall be protected, even if you traitors turn your backs. Do you hear that, new servant of Khelt? You shall exert yourself or we shall take you to task.”

His head turned, and Shamt’s head leaned out of the alleyway. Doubte froze, and Shamt grinned at him.

“A [Hero] is always good to have. Though they need be reminded they are not the only ones who fight like myths.”

“Indeed. I tire of shredding them whenever calamities occur and they pop up like weeds. So then.”

Hecrelunn stood there as Shamt rose to his feet. He was shrinking again, and the two disguised themselves and walked past Doubte, into Khelt. As the citizens stood, trying to plot a course for the future, Hecrelunn found a bewildered official standing there, trying to figure out what to do.

“You. You are now in charge of cleaning this district. You shall see it done or suffer. You. A broom. You—you will learn [Mana Familiar] in the month or suffer.”

He pointed to another woman, a [Mage], and Shamt chuckled as he walked past Hecrelunn. He calmly picked up a huge sack of seeds that Colovt and two men were trying to wrestle into a wagon with a skeleton’s help.

“I have a day, fellow citizens. Show me where to plough and I shall lay seeds deep. Do they still plant crops that sit thirty feet under the sand? Ah, but let us work.”

He offered their awestruck faces a guilty, nostalgic smile. They got to work, Centaurs, Gnolls, citizens, a little Gnoll girl who’d run off to bring a blind [Emperor] with opinions on how to organize a city efficiently

And Khelt…continued.

——

Sand at Sea, Kheltians tentatively cleaning the streets and learning lessons on the basics of living without skeletons, listening to Pawn as he preached. And a nation crumbling. Changing.

Was the throne broken or had it already broken? Could they endure? Fetohep took calls that morning, acceding, requesting. Moderating his language and accepting an interview slot.

He could not be a bending king, but nor could he claim strength where everyone knew it was nonexistent. He sat, breathing in and out, when he took one final call, not checking who it was, busy as he needed to be.

“Ah. Lyonette. I wished to thank you…yes. No. No, your aid was…yes. Pawn is healthy. Healing, as I understand it. Yes, I am sure he is able to speak—in the company of Pewerthe, my H—my [Potter]. Thank you. No…and yes, I am well. Mrsha? Hello. Khelt endures, as you can see, you miserable sandrat. I trust…yes, you were watching. Thank you.”

He sat on his throne as day-servants swept the throne room, speaking to someone on speaking stone rather than a projection. Perhaps they were too shy, or he was. Or perhaps…after a few more minutes of talking, Fetohep paused.

“Another call? I have to speak with Jaganismet and the Speaker of Trees in…a few minutes, of course.”

He waited for a beat, then heard a new voice crackle onto the speaking stone. Fetohep went still, just for a second, as a familiar young man spoke. A voice he had come to know better than most, playful and somber, but trying to yuck it up.

“Hey, Fetohep. So, I was checking the news, and I saw you on it. Uh…how’s things?”

“Kevin?”

The King of Khelt sat there upon his throne, and his mouth hung open. The young man spoke, voice too bright and loud. Like someone holding back a sob.

“You really punched out an Angel, Your Majesty. I mean, dude, that was the most hardcore biblical smackdown I’ve ever seen, and I’ve watched evangelist pro-wrestling. Or maybe that was a movie I watched once. A dream? Um…funny story. You know the [Palace of Fates] thing?”

“I…yes. Yes.”

The golden flames in Fetohep’s eye sockets brightened. He sat back on his throne, and for a second, he relaxed. Then something occurred to Fetohep, and the flames dimmed. He sat up and cleared his throat, breaking into Kevin’s complicated story about future realities, magical syphilis, and Fightipilota.

“Kevin, one thing. I am overjoyed you are well. But while I have you, on the matter of Solar Cycles. I shall have to cancel all my outstanding orders. I’m…embarassed.”

He lowered his voice, glancing around the throne room, and sat there hunched over. Kevin paused for a long second, and then his voice was calm gentle.

“Hey, man, no worries. I’ll let Gergia know, and we’ll sort it out and get you that refund. Don’t be embarrassed, dude. It happens to everyone.”

Fetohep sat up slightly. He peered at the speaking stone.

“It does? Ah, so it does. Thank you, Kevin. Now, tell me about your experience of being dead. It has not been entirely unpleasant, until recently, but you may beg to differ.”

He sat back and listened for a while.

Author’s Note:

It was sixty-eight thousand words before edits. I thought that the Fetohep chapter would be, well, three parts at most.

I’m still releasing this chapter in one, huge batch, and I’ll put warnings at the top, but the reason is because in good conscience, I don’t think it feels good to split it up.

It is not the end of Khelt, of course. That’s the thing. This was never a chapter about Khelt dying in a despairing moment.

Most nations and things don’t die that fast, in this or any other world, I’ve found. Even when the borders are overrun, things fail over time.

And to be clear, this is a tragedy of sorts. For all the high moments, that final scene with Fetohep having to talk to Kevin and cancel the bike orders is representative of how things are. Is it melancholy? I’m not sure I have the words to precisely describe the feeling I’m trying to evoke. But I do know what comes next.

Fetohep and Khelt are one of the few plotlines that I know very, very well, even to the very end. I know a lot of things, of course, but this was a hard arc I kept putting off, because, well, it hurts.

I like Fetohep. For all his many flaws, and he is a monster in many ways, as all rulers are—I like him.

When he rode across Chandrar in Volume 8, it was the most glorious triumph I could write, and I think, it might be the most amazing, wondrous, heroic moment in pure scale the story has. Everything after that will be lesser. But much like Khelt, it is not worse. Just different.

I hope you liked this chapter. I may release a shorter one because…well, I’m tired. But I do hope you enjoyed this, and now…

I can write what comes next. Excited for it when we get to it. Until then, I’d love to visit Khelt, no matter when. (Except maybe under some of the previous rulers because they could be sort of jerks and it was less fun at times.)

—pirateaba

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