ARC 7: CHAPTER 38: DAMNUS

“That’s impossible,” Oraise said immediately. “Vicar has his own guards all over these grounds, not to mention the gargoyles and knight-exorcists we have at every entrance.”

He glanced at me. “The one you came through was only unguarded because we had the Penitents there, and the garden. Intrusions from other directions would have been stopped.”

“We got in,” Maryanne pointed out.

“Into a trap, yes.” The Presider was too composed to roll his eyes, but his soft observation was almost more indicting. Maryanne stuck her tongue out at him.

“These aren’t just stray fiends,” I told the Presider. “The one they saw is one of the Traitor Magi’s coven from even before the last war. They were able to infiltrate Seydis. This place can’t have been any harder.”

“It’s a fortress,” Oraise protested. “Vicar assured me…”

He stopped abruptly. “I am wasting time. We must hurry.”

He was right, but I paused as I regarded the corpses we’d left strewn across the hallway.

“One of the demons Delphine and I encountered at Tol was able to puppet corpses,” I said. “Don’t trust any still body.”

Even the vampires looked disturbed at that. We moved on without further debate.

“Your weasel is wyrmblighted,” I said to Delphine. The creature in question bared its teeth at me, and the doctor held it closer.

“It’s not contagious,” she insisted. “I got Ormur during my time in Bantes. It’s a whole story, but he’s my mark of journeyman status as an alchemist. He isn’t a homunculus. He was born ordinary.”

I grunted, dismissing the subject. We turned a hall. Oraise kept up an impressive speed, not quite a jog but close, the rest of us following the sweep of his long coat.

“What did Idiobi say to you?” I asked the doctor.

“Not much. He said—”

Oraise let out a hiss and came to a stop, holding up a fist to call for silence. Delphine paused, and for some reason she looked almost relieved at the interruption. Before I could question it, Maryanne shivered.

“Something ahead,” the hemophage muttered. “Something bad.”

“Ahead is a path to the Cardinal’s chapel,” Oraise told us. At the end of the hall lay an innocuous entryway, doorless, though the stonework looked older and drabber than much of the rest of the basilica. “The catacombs beneath this cathedral are both old and expansive. Stay close, if you don’t want to get lost.”

“What kind of guards?” I asked.

“Mostly King Kale’s own security,” the Presider said. “There will be Credo as well, and whatever foulness they’ve managed to call forth already. The ceremony involves a long succession of clericons and preosters from various orders signing the contract, ending with the king himself and then finally the Cardinal.”

“How did they manage to convince so many?” Delphine asked.

Oraise shrugged. “Bribery, intimidation, promises, lies. The Inquisition is quite good at such things.”

“You helped them do it, you bastard.” Flora looked ready to tear into the man again. Eilidh placed a hand on her shoulder, and the blond vampiress took a shuddering breath.

“There is ritual sacrifice involved too,” Oraise continued without missing a beat. “I imagine the doors have already been sealed, so those who were gathered for the signing cannot leave… many of them will try, once they realize what’s actually to be done with them.” He glanced at me. “Do you still have an aptitude for breaking down doors?”

I considered. “I imagine it’ll be easier than what I did to Rose Malin, but there’s a good chance if I do that again it’ll bring this whole place down on our heads.”

I wasn’t even certain I could use High Art anymore. The Alder’s fire burned hot in my chest, but I’d essentially stolen that share and given much of the rest to the dead. Urddha did warn me it wasn’t the same as it had been.

“We can slip through,” Eilidh said. “Unless the door is sealed with Art or the room is airtight.”

“It’s not a treasure vault,” Oraise noted. “They want to keep their sacrifices and dupes from escaping, that is all.”

“Then we can get in.” Eilidh gave Flora’s shoulder a squeeze. “As mist, just like you showed me.”

Flora hugged herself and nodded. “Yes, we can do it.”

“I don’t recall signing up to scrap with devils,” Maryanne said sourly. “We were just supposed to get the doctor inside. Aren’t we done, girls?”

“You can be,” Eilidh told the other woman. A touch of frost had entered her voice. “But I have kin in this town.”

“You’ll forget them in a century or two!” Maryanne let out a piteous whine, very much like a young girl who’d been refused a new toy. “Come on, I want to go! I don’t like this. I want to see Sans and Lucienne.”

“No one’s forcing anyone to be here.” I stepped forward and peeked through the entry. Beyond it lay a spiral stair descending down beneath the earth, and from that darkness I felt something. Like a wash of heat against my face, unpleasant and reeking of tar and iron. The phantom sensation passed in a moment, but I knew we were getting close.

“Go if you want,” I continued. “But if you do, I’d suggest getting as far away from this place as possible.”

I glanced at Eilidh, and saw the same thought in her eyes. Is Maryanne the traitor? Was this sudden apprehension an act?

But when we all moved forward, I heard Maryanne curse and follow.

The stairway went down a long time, and it was cramped. Dark too, so that the other two humans had to rely on me to lead and the Backroaders to keep them from tripping on the steps. My own breathing, along with that of the Presider and Delphine, was overloud in its confines. The vampires did not breathe. Their presence felt eerily absent to my physical senses if not my magical ones. Having them so close in such tight confines made my skin itch, an instinctive unease I couldn’t quite suppress.

You didn’t mind it with Cat, I reminded myself.

You trusted Cat. One of these might have sold all of us out.

After what felt like far too many dozens of feet, the spiral stair finally ended and fed into another long, narrow hallway. I could make out light at the far end.

“There’s a large chamber ahead,” Oraise told me in a hushed voice. “It acts as a hub for the catacombs. On the far end is the burial vault where Saint Perseus was interred, and where he now holds court.”

“And how many priorguard and Penitents are waiting to put us in fetters in there?” Flora asked caustically.

Oraise did not answer. I felt something ahead, a growing sense of dread. In my magical senses, it felt like pricks of heat on my skin, like there were invisible embers in the air landing on me.

“There’s something there,” I said. “They’ll have a guard. I want the rest of you to let me deal with it. The only thing that matters is getting Delphine close to the Zoscian. The rest of you protect her, get her into that chapel. Whatever is standing in our way, I’ll handle it.”

I hefted my sword onto one shoulder.

“And I?” The Presider asked.

I studied him. “What about you?”

In answer, he produced a long blade from his coat. A stiletto, beautifully made and forged of solid silver. The vampires hissed at it.

“I had this made in preparation for a falling out with the Credo,” he told me. “It will hurt devils and undead.”

“Then go with the others, and keep whatever’s in there away from the doctor’s throat.” Sword at the ready, I stepped towards the light ahead. The rest followed close, but gave me some space.

I stepped into a large chamber, just as Oraise had promised. It wasn’t quite so massive as the basilica nave I felt certain lay directly above us, but it was still an impressive space. A high ceiling supported by rows of stone columns expanded outward to a width of perhaps fifty feet, a bit more in length. There were arches here and there, and the remnants of gargoyles. I sensed no life in those. There were iron sconces flickering with torch flames scattered across the room, leaving plenty of it in shadow.

I took all of this in as I stepped into the room, but my attention fixed on the lone figure waiting at the center of the chamber. Taking a long breath, I strode forward until perhaps twenty paces separated us, then I stopped.

“I had a feeling it would be you standing there,” I told him.

Vicar stood where the light of several torches mingled, casting the armor he wore in cinderous shades. He’d taken the shape of Knight-Exorcist Renuart Kross, clad in full plate of white steel with a gray cape tumbling behind him and a war sword in his left hand. The only new addition to this form, the same that I’d originally met him in, was that a down-facing trident decorated his breastplate. The Mark of Orkael.

I pointed at it with my sword. “Not hiding your allegiances anymore, I see.”

He looked cleaned up from when he’d appeared at the Backroad as a desperate fugitive those long weeks before. His graying hair was cut close to his scalp, revealing his widow’s peak, and he seemed taller. The image of the warrior, strong and steady, an ashen knight.

“This is as far as you go, Alken.” He flicked his sword out to the side, letting the torches catch on it so it shone with a bloody light.

I spoke to the people behind me without taking my eyes off the crowfriar. “Follow the plan. Get into the chapel. Stop the Cardinal.”

They started to fan out to either side of me, their movements cautious. Oraise went to my right with Eilidh, and the other two vampires went left with Delphine, keeping protectively close to her. Ormur snarled, and his hackles seemed particularly long and sharp when they stood up.

No telling whether there were more threats waiting amid the columns between us and the double door Vicar stood in front of, but I couldn’t afford to be distracted against this enemy. He did not take his attention off me, either.

“It doesn’t matter if they get past me,” he said in a calm voice. “I know your scheme, and it will not work. The rest of the Credo Ferrum is behind these doors. The Cardinal is protected by Beren In Irons. Delphine will not get close.”

The Scorchknight, I realized. I’d wondered when it would turn up again, even believed it might be the one waiting for me in this room. Glad my helm masked my unease, I took a step forward and twisted my sword through the air, levering it back behind my hip and resting the fingers of my left hand on the pommel.

“Then I’ll just have to finish with you quickly.”

The others were halfway to the doors. So far, Vicar had not taken his focus off me and no other threats had appeared. Wondering what his game was, I kept talking as I began to pace to the right. “Not going to try and stop them?”

“As I said, entering that room is suicide. There’s no need.” He began to walk too, mirroring my motion with steady steps to the left. “I am only here to stop you.”

He carried a longsword, a simple blade with a bar hilt and an extended grip that could accommodate both hands. It had a very similar design to my own weapon, though its blade was thinner and enjoyed a stabbing point. He was a master swordsman, I knew from experience.

“Shame.” I let a mocking edge creep into my words. “All the work you’ve done to get this far, and they put you outside to guard the door.”

“I understand my role,” Vicar said without apparent consternation. “That was always your trouble, Alken; you wear your dissatisfaction on your sleeve, but your choices put that axe in your hand, no one else’s. Indulge in your martyr complex if you want, but don’t project it onto me.”

That struck a nerve, and I was glad he couldn’t see my face. “I beat you once,” I said as we circled. “And you had your own guardian angel back then.”

The others were almost to the doors.

“We’ve both had angels hovering over our shoulders for a long time now, Alken.” Vicar’s tone was almost philosophical. He adjusted his guard as he walked. “I think it’s time we settle this once and for all, blade to blade, no audience to interfere.”

He stepped behind a pillar, the stone column blocking him from view, and—

Only a whistle of air and a snap impression from my powers gave me enough warning to twist and block the blade as it stabbed towards my throat. Vicar, more than twenty feet away a moment before, had stepped into the shadows behind one column and out from another, appearing within striking distance. His sword moved with the speed and precision of a scorpion’s tail, aiming for the gap between my gorget and the bottom of my helm.

My sword snapped up, blocking the strike, and Vicar’s blade slid across mine in a shower of sparks that threatened to blind me. Steel shrieked and the razor edge of the blade passed the eye slit of my helm by the width of fingers.

Vicar danced back out of my reach before I could retaliate. He flourished his blade, and the sparks from my parry remained in the air, darting around his sword like fireflies and following its trajectory.

No more showmanship, no more grandstanding and playing layered roles like last time. He just meant to kill me.

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“That’s right! You only glimpsed my Art last time we fought.” Vicar smirked as he took a longswordsman’s stance, holding his blade parallel to his hip with both hands. The sparks twisting around his blade brightened, thickened, becoming swarms of angry orange cinders. The reek of sulfur despoiled the air, and I felt power gathering around the crowfriar.

I shaped my own magic quickly as I could, preparing the best counterspell I knew. Vicar stepped forward, whipped his blade up, struck even though he was well out of reach—

A corkscrew of yellow hellfire erupted outward from Vicar’s slash. It moved like a tornado, twisting into an angry funnel that tore a jagged furrow across the chamber’s floor. It came at me fast, growing with every blurring rotation.

I thrust my left hand out and used Repulsion. It had backfired on me when I’d tried to cast it beneath Tol, and I desperately hoped this time would be different.

It was, but not in the way I expected. Instead of a stylized kite shield of amber glass, clean and beautiful, the power took no particular visible shape. It was raw resentment, a blast of bitter denial that manifested as a hollow shout of wind chased by surly whispers. The corkscrew of hellfire struck against that will and broke apart into smaller twisters, which all began to grind away in different directions. The heat and noise were enormous for a moment, deafening and nearly blinding me.

The back-blast of aureflame, a much angrier shade of molten gold than normal, struck Vicar and sent him spinning back into a pillar. He struck it hard, let out a shout of pain and fell in a burning heap to the ground.

But some of his own power had gotten through. The gauntlet over my left hand let out a small groan as its material barely held against a physical pressure. I felt it in my fingers, a moment of pain that passed quickly but left the black metal smoking. I’d been forced back in a slide for several feet, and the shadows around me seemed to writhe.

No, it wasn’t that his magic had gotten through my defense. This was something else.

Vicar dragged himself to his feet. The aureflame crackling along his limbs faded after a moment, and he ripped his gray cape off and tossed the ruined garment aside. When he saw me, his eyes narrowed. “What have you done?”

“What I had to.” My voice sounded different. Wrong.

“But you would have had to…” Vicar’s gaunt features hardened with a cold wrath. “After everything, after all your years of denial and restraint, you hurl yourself into the dark to beat me? You would have done better to accept my offer. You’re bound for Hell either way, now.”

I said nothing, partly because I was having trouble getting my breathing under control. It wasn’t because the magic I’d used had drained me. No, quite the opposite. I felt an energy rising inside.

Not just energy. Emotion. The things whispering in the shadows stoked it, but it wasn’t all theirs. I’d been feeling this for a long time. I’d buried it, suppressed it, channeled it when I needed to. I’d treated it like my enemy, even though I’d often let it pull at my reins.

Anger. Resentment. Sorrow too, a deep and abiding sense of loss that I’d pushed down and ignored, because I’d been afraid of what might happen if I let it swallow me. I’d wanted to believe there was hope, a light at the end of the tunnel, and so I’d never stopped chasing that chance at redemption.

Perhaps there still was one. Only, it wasn’t for me. I could cut it open at the end of a blade, but my soul was too soaked in blood to step through. I’d convinced myself it didn’t bother me, that it was alright as long as I could do some good, keep the promises I hadn’t fucked up too badly.

But it did bother me. I was angry. When I’d first touched the Alder Table, its power had been hammered around the shape of my oaths, but when I’d taken what was left of the dying Alder before coming to this place, I’d had no elven smiths to mix the alloy. It needed a core to shape itself around, and it must have been drawn to this sensation. I’d felt it then too, felt it strongly.

Rage.

No, that was too soft a word.

Hate. I hated this. Hated these devils, hated the demons, and the humans who cooperated with them, hated the greedy, prideful, bloodthirsty bastards who’d turned my homeland into a waking nightmare. Reynard, Hasur, Falstaff, Vicar and his masters, Ager Roth.

Part of me even hated the ones I was supposed to be fighting for. Markham, who’d condoned and helped stoke the hate and fear that all these devils and demons were taking advantage of.

The Choir, for being just as bad in their own way as all the rest.

Rosanna, who I still let manipulate me. Why? For nostalgia?

Cat, for leaving.

Myself most of all, for being too much of a coward to leave it all behind and go with her.

Hate. Hate them.

Vicar’s glowing eyes widened. He inhaled sharply and spoke in a hushed voice.

“Knight Damnus.”

He said the words with a mix of apprehension and pity. “Oh, my dear enemy, what have you done to yourself?”

The power in me didn’t feel warm anymore. A growing coldness was rising inside. When I exhaled, frosted breath emerged from the holes in my helmet.

“I’ll make it quick,” Vicar promised. Then he flicked his sword, and I felt a flash of heat against my side.

The twisters of yellow flame were still in the room. They were dancing around the columns, and as Vicar pointed they surged back in to attack me from both sides. I leapt back, dodging the first just before it engulfed my whole body. I felt my armor heating up, and instinctively knew the hellfire would melt the steel against my flesh if I let it get too close.

The second corkscrew of hellfire came at me head on, ramming into the first and consuming it so it became large as the original again. It roared like a living thing, almost moved like a living thing.

No time to deflect it again. I needed to stand still for that technique to work, and all it would do was create more. It had to fade eventually, no Art was inexhaustible.

That wasn’t true. Phantasms could last perpetually in nature, but a technique cast by a single soul rarely had any longevity. What was powering this?

I dashed behind a column, using it as a barrier against the fiery twister. But the raging flames just rotated around the pillar, turning with even more blinding speed with every passing second. All I’d done was buy myself a few breaths.

Breaths that were numbered. Though there was a draft in the room, we were still in a contained space and I could feel the fire starting to suck the oxygen out of the air.

Think. What’s the trick? Vicar isn’t onsolain or zosite, he doesn’t have enough power to make this last forever.

Jon Orley had done something similar. He’d wielded far too much sorcerous might for one man, even blessed with infernal strength.

But it wasn’t all his. He’d borrowed it.

I rolled behind another column, barely keeping ahead of the elemental thing chasing me, and my eyes went to the iron sconces placed around the room. Not all of them were lit, only every three or four. They were mostly condensed around the center of the room, forming narrow corridors of light. I’d assumed that was to give Vicar an easy way to slip in and out of the shadows, a common technique for undead and fiendish beings.

But that wasn’t all of it. They formed a pattern — a rune.

I dashed towards the nearest lit sconce. A subtle movement in the shadows made me whip my sword out, catching Vicar’s strike as he slipped from the darkness. He wasn’t going to rely on his technique to beat me, after all.

“Figured it out, did you!?” His teeth were bared in a rictus snarl. They were made of iron.

Of course, he’d prepared the room. He didn’t have his seraph anymore, and he wasn’t prideful enough to rely just on sword skill to beat me. He’d wanted an edge.

I felt the Art at my back. Vicar was in front, blocking my way forward. We traded several blows. I had more physical strength, but his skill and speed made the difference. I forced him back, but too slowly. Vicar deflected every strike, and though I could see him tiring he did not let me get close to the torches.

With a twirling motion he created another spiral of hellfire around his sword, giving it a grinding edge with far more power behind every blow than it would have had otherwise. He nearly ripped my sword from my hand on his first swing, taking me off guard.

That technique is more versatile than it seems, I thought even as my body moved through the rhythm of parry and riposte.

He struck, I parried, and two shades of yellow fire detonated around our weapons. Streaks of heat went flying in every direction, some scoring both of us, but neither of us paid them any mind. The twister almost got me, but I cursed and dashed behind a pillar, trying to move around it and use it to block Vicar from interfering. But he just slipped through the shadows and came at me again, even as his Art changed its path and began to make a long orbit around the columns to strike me again.

It was a planetary body, a burning comet. Its path was set, but that didn’t make it any easier to avoid. Its speed kept increasing by the moment.

I couldn’t wait this out. It was getting harder to breathe, the room growing steadily hotter with every passing second. Sweat beaded against my skin, soaking the inside of my armor. I’d expire from heat exhaustion and lack of air, then the crowfriar’s magic would swallow me and turn me to slag and melted flesh.

Arts are often unique to every person for a reason. It isn’t math. More like knowing the rhythm and lyrics to a song only you can hear. You can teach others your song, but they’ll always interpret the beat differently, sing it at a different pitch and make the subtlest of adjustments. The song has to speak to you, has to stick in your head — or your soul — so completely that all it takes is the smallest reminder to sing it anew.

Not everyone has their own song. I don’t, as I’m a tone deaf bastard who needed faeries to beat a repertoire into me. Arts can be passed on, altered, evolve, but they are shaped around a soul and its form needs to be steady, the image clear.

I could feel mine inside, but their rhythms were all off, distorted by whatever I’d done back at the Table, the mental sheets telling me what to do torn and frayed, the ink smudged.

My soul wasn’t steady. I couldn’t grasp its shape.

What I did have, however, was strength. I could feel that too, boiling up and ready to burst forth. I’d already used it. I’d hexed that soldier’s crossbow. I’d slapped Vicar’s Art away with sheer will. The power understood my intent, even if its form was unstable.

Vicar stepped back, once again adopting his defensive stance. He didn’t care about delivering a killing strike anymore, just stalling me and watching me burn.

I didn’t let him.

Stepping forward, I let out a thunderous roar and swept my sword up and around, whipping it out into a mighty swing. There was aura on the blade, and it wasn’t aimed at Vicar. I sliced through one of the columns, releasing a blast of power that detonated through the stone. It erupted in a torrent of hard splinters and dust. Vicar threw a hand up over his face and backpeddled, trying to keep himself from being blinded or buried.

I could have used it as a cover to press an attack, but that wouldn’t solve the problem coming from behind. And Vicar wasn’t the only one of us who had power over flame.

I lifted my left hand into the air, gathered my will and the ugly emotions churning inside my gut, and clenched the clawed fingers of my gauntlet into a fist.

Every torch in the room snuffed out at once, drowning the space in shadow. Vicar’s sorcery didn’t fade instantly, but its shape faltered and when I turned and swung out, the Art’s composition finally broke apart. Ribbons of sulfurous fire lashed out at my arms and shoulders, scorching the armor and my skin where it found even the thinnest gap, but then faded and left only blackness.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I focused my will into them next, and soon the gloom scattered and I could see again. My wounds were mild. The pillar I’d destroyed lay as a long line of rubble across the chamber floor, and dust was still settling. Flecks of the ceiling were falling down, but it seemed to be holding.

Vicar’s thoughtful voice seemed to come from all around. “You are learning to wield your powers in more creative ways, now that its shape is not defined for you. Light and dark are two sides of a coin, after all, one unable to exist without the other.”

I stepped cautiously over the destroyed column, scanning the rest for any sign of my opponent. “Are we debating philosophy, or fighting?”

He continued as though he hadn’t heard me. “You were a torch in the night, drawing lost spirits to you, and as you burned you made the world around you darker. Now, you are starting to learn how to make that night heed you. They did not anticipate this.”

I’d lost him when I’d focused on dismantling his technique. His voice seemed to come from everywhere, echoing through the columns. The others were gone. The doors at the far side of the chamber were cracked open.

I needed to get in there.

“The moment your will is no longer aligned with the dark that hews to you, the instant that hatred in you falters, it will devour you alive and snuff out your flame.” Vicar’s voice grew colder. “I respected you, you know? Even knowing we were at odds, I admired your resilience, your unwillingness to give in despite all the pressure you were facing, the despair you must feel. Now, all I see is a pitiful ember of what you might have been.”

Don’t listen to him. He’s just another devil on your shoulder.

No. That kind of thinking was just blunt stubbornness, and he wasn’t all wrong.

And both of us could play this game.

“Why did you save Delphine?” I asked the disembodied voice. “Why did you stop her from making a contract with the Priory?”

Silence.I continued my slow march, trying to get closer to the door while panning my gaze over the columns. He could be hiding behind any of them.

“You’re full of doubts too, Kross. You’ve seen a way free of your masters, who I think you resent. You’ve seen it in the Keeper, maybe even in me. You remember what you told me about Lias?”

Still, he said nothing. I paused just for a moment, so my next words would have the weight I intended.

“You told me that he can be convincing. You said that when you had a chance to stop him from escaping with the Zoscian, that you let him go. Why did you do that, Renuart? Did you want him to succeed?”

Devils can’t lie. When he’d told me those things, he’d meant them. He’d used them to manipulate me, but that didn’t make them untrue.

“You know nothing.” His voice was angrier now.

“I know that you’re as tired of all this shit as I am.” I took a deep breath. The chamber seemed almost liquid around me, and I could feel the presence in that darkness urging me to keep fighting, to find the fiend and smite him down. I ignored it.

“You keep saying how badly the Choir is doing its job, how fucked everything is, how your Tribunal will bring order where there’s chaos. But you say it like it’s some sad inevitability. I think you want us to fight, because you’re in too deep to do it yourself. Behind all that spite and irony, I think you’re rooting for us.”

Still he said nothing, but even that silence had a weight to it. “There is still hope, Renuart. Maybe not for you and me, maybe we are just two damned souls, but for all the rest? We can still save them.”

Maybe they didn’t all deserve it. The anger I felt towards even those I wanted to protect was real, but I could bear that burden. It wasn’t too heavy, and there was something beyond it. I’d made vows to my apprentice, to my godchild, to a future that could be better than this.

Those promises mattered more than any oath I’d ever sworn to magic tables or angels, anyway.

A long silence followed my words. And then…

“That is not my name.”

A sullen light flared in the dark. Angry red at first, it brightened to orange and then to blazing yellow as it expanded. I leapt back just in time to avoid taking it full on, but it came close enough to kiss my helmet and make my gauntlets uncomfortably hot. I skidded back, cinders clinging to the edges of my red cloak.

When I came to a stop, my vambraces and sword were glowing with heat. That was fading, but the blast of fire had been aimed at my head and I could feel my helmet quickly heating up. Moving on reflex, I tore my cowl back and ripped the helmet off, letting the smoking object clatter to the ground. My scalp felt like it was developing a nasty sunburn.

More sullen light flickered in the darkness, and I realized there was a spot my golden eyes weren’t penetrating. As more flame appeared in its jaws, I saw the shape of what stood before me.

The enormous black wolf — the hellhound — let out a ripping snarl and flared with heat. Vicar had taken on his most infernal shape.

“You will not pass me,” the creature rumbled.

I levered my sword back over my head, moving with smooth, deliberate motions. Instead of attacking, however, I spoke to the devil. “There are demons here, Vicar. The same ones we met at Tol.”

The hellhound’s ceaseless growl faltered just for a moment. I kept my sword ready, but kept speaking. Without my helmet and without the crackle of aura in my voice, my words came out breathless and very human. “You know what that means, right? Who else might be close?”

The beast stood in front of the doors to the inner vault, directly in my path. His voice was a deep growl, half bestial and half that of a furnace fire, hard to understand. “It doesn’t matter. Once the Tribunal comes through, not even the likes of Ager Roth will stand against them.”

“Are you sure about that? How many of the Zosite can slip through your hellmouth at once? And what makes you think he’s here just to fight them? You devils aren’t the only ones who can manipulate us mortals into doing your will, and there are a lot of people in that room.”

Even though his burning coal eyes weren’t human enough for me to read, I sensed a doubt fall over him.

What are you doing? A voice in the back of my head demanded. Just swing. End this. One quick-draw and one of you is dead and this duel is done, one way or another. You’re wasting time.

Yet, even as I thought it I kept speaking. “Ager Roth was at Tol for this.” A desperate edge entered my voice. “He’s plotting something. He wouldn’t have left Elfgrave just to expose himself for no reason.”

I saw Vicar hesitate, his glowing eyes flickering in what might have been a blink. “Then…”

His eyes widened. “No. We have all been deceived. I see it now.”

Before I could ask him what he meant, I felt a scream of warning from my senses. A deep shiver of revulsion seemed to travel from the earth beneath my feet and up through my flesh, like the very fabric of the world quivered in sudden disgust.

“Ah, that’s no good, no good. You were supposed to kill each other…”

Sharp claws rapidly clicked together in an agitated tic. The space to the left and between me and the crowfriar wasn’t empty anymore. A figure stood there, and it was so tall I could not see its full length without glancing upward. It stood on two legs like a human, but it wasn’t one. Its flesh was deepest red, like an infected bruise, its legs back-bent, its arms far too long. A sinuous tail long as a young tree swished behind it.

Even with my ability to see in the dark, I couldn’t quite make out the thing’s full shape, like even the light from my eyes shied from it. It looked emaciated, so much so its bones cut through skin in some places. Its guts were hanging loose from a cavity where its belly should have been, and they moved.

“Ah well,” the demon said. Then its barbed tail whipped out and it struck.