The wolf pack ran.

  Young men of wealth and means.

  Not their own of course.

  The wealth and privilege of generations had allowed them to run roughshod over the less fortunate in the most destitute tunnels and great halls of Silver Streams Hold.

  Great in the sense that the halls were massive rather than any other definition of the word.

  They had to be to contain the unwashed masses lest they pollute the better air where the young men of the wolf pack lived.

  They ran, not after prey, but like prey.

  Young men of privilege taking what they wanted from the poor, the weak, whether that was flesh or hopes and dreams depended on how they felt at the time.

  Sometimes one simply had to take a girl’s maidenhood, while other times one simply had to take a tinker’s good ideas.

  They couldn’t allow the filth to rise beyond their God-granted station in life, after all.

  They ran through one of these great halls.

  The unwashed were allotted a sparing number of slots in one of the fortified caverns.

  Children mostly.

  The older folk had no value and were easily replaced, but children?

  They were fresh, easily molded into something useful.

  Thus, the rest of the poor had to make do with their poor homes hacked out of stone or built out of mud to hide in vain from the undead horde that had breached the mountainhold’s defenses.

  The wolves ran, howling with fear, but no one answered.

  The terrified poor in their hovels?

  Why would they, even if they had the means?

  Let the predators be the prey and hope that the true predators ate their fill and left.

  Privileged young men died one by one, picked off by a laughing dead man that walked.

  Lugin licked his claws.

  The revenant manhunter wasn’t a vampire, nor a vampire.

  He simply liked the metallic taste.

  The scent of fear permeated the massive cavern.

  Lots more to taste in their easily cracked homes.

  Like opening an egg for the rich yolk.

  Lugin remembered the Lord Cross’ commands and darted off to hunt down more privileged young men and women that needed to feel what it was like to be hunted.

  It was only fair.

  That was the one law of existence.

  To hunt is to be hunted.

  …

  Bone piles and flesh mounds.

  Garvrun had made many in the tunnel.

  The smoke made it hard to tell how much, but it mattered not as he continued to move toward the outside with each swing and step.

  The new club did all the work, humming with power as he exploded an undead with each wild swing.

  Smoke cleared, blown away by a gust of freezing wind.

  No more undead.

  Just him underneath the starlit night.

  It was only then did he realize that his wonderful new club was made out of bone.

  “Well fought, but it ends here.”

  He turned, blindly swinging his bone club.

  Garvrun blinked.

  The tiny woman had a face covered with green-ish scales and what appeared to be a tail sticking out the back of her plain trousers. And she had caught the knobby end of his undead smashing club.

  He learned another thing in the next moment.

  What it was like to fly… briefly.

  …

  Falliana, Dawn’s Light, watched Bannegurd slap the ground with Arsenalian like a wet towel.

  She, reluctantly, decided that it was time to put a stop to the fun.

  “Bannegurd!” she called out as she leapt from the nearby rooftop to land in front of the small man.

  Small for one of the blue-skinned, but roughly her height with a larger frame.

  “They call you ‘Peacebringer’. The final peace any mortal can hope to receive.”

  Unless there was an ultra powerful lich around.

  Bannegurd suddenly threw Arsenalian, she ducked and let her fellow revenant crash through several buildings.

  Her sense of scale had been thrown off by the sizing.

  The architecture of the city tended to single levels aside from structures like the tall towers used for defenses. Except, they were scaled to the blue-skinned, which meant everything looked to be about one and half times as large as what she was used to.

  “Surrender.”

  She hit Bannegurd with her aura.

  It was one of command and authority, though much weakened from what it was in life. A consequence of not having an emperor or an empire to serve.

  The Empress of the Frozen Eternities had been a slavemaster, not one that she could follow in alignment with her inner morality.

  Lord Cross could be one, but it was too early to be certain. Even if her aura had been steadily strengthening in just a handful of days.

  The Peacebringer needed peace in his heart and mind to maintain his smaller, exponentially stronger form.

  Her aura, weakened as it was, forced him into inner turmoil.

  To force him to bend the knee could only ever provoke an instinctive response.

  Bannegurd began to swell as the cold, frozen mask on his face slipped, becoming hot, angry.

  The blue-skinned man that reached Falliana was the largest she had ever seen, but size didn’t always equal strength.

  She reached up as quick as a viper, grasping his throat and squeezing.

  “Lord Cross. I have subdued the target.”

  “Good job, Falliana. Keep him restrained and off-balance emotionally. He can reach inner peace in the middle of a snow storm. At least enough to be a threat to most revenants.”

  “Your will be done.”

  …

  “Rejoice, for the Calamity begins anew! The Eternal Empress awakens to cleanse the plague of the living with the finality of death and ice!”

  King Kymely tried to look at the revenant, but it was difficult.

  It wasn’t so much being bound and on her knees, but from sheer terror.

  They had breached so deeply, so quickly that no one had been able to do anything.

  One moment she had been hearing reports about the other mountainholds.

  She supposed a selfish woman would’ve taken solace in the fact that the others had already fallen or were in the process of falling.

  She did not.

  A single hold remaining free meant her people still had hope.

  She glanced at Tikla.

  The Supreme Shaman had lost a magical duel with a revenant in resplendent robes that shifted through every color in the spectrum and some the king couldn’t name.

  Tikla lay sprawled out with her crying apprentices laying what meager healing magic they could.

  It was a losing battle with how much death mana the four revenants were exuding into the war room.

  War Leader Hayvarthrun was dead. Killed by a hulking revenant wearing nothing but a snow bear for armor and weapons.

  She tried not to look at the wet smear and twisted prosthetics lest she vomit once again.

  At least the old warrior had acquitted himself well in death, securing a place for himself in the eternal battlefield of the afterlife.

  If only the revenants weren’t already healing themselves.

  She glanced at the projections on the wall.

  Snow Bear Hold fell quickly across its vast, sprawling undermountain expanse.

  The undead ran rampant, tearing through the wealthy sections, undoubtedly saving the rest for later to quench their depraved wants and desires.

  “Spare my people!” she blurted.

  One didn’t bargain from one’s knees, but she had no other hope.

  If she could at least gain her children’s relative safety then it would be worth it.

  She’d serve the empress in life or undeath.

  “Hmm?” the revenant peered down at her. “And what can a Level 15 king do for the empress?”

  Before she could answer, he snapped.

  “Nothing! You wish to bargain for your people? Very well, you shall, but know this, you will all serve and obey. For to do anything less is to embrace a fate worse than any you can imagine. In life, death and after.”

  …

  Seven kings and queens sat around a table in a nondescript room made completely out of ice.

  A skeleton sat in the center of the table.

  Humanoid.

  “I have no name,” the skeleton’s jaw clattered. “I don’t need one. I am a simple voice of a greater power. One that you shall obey. The Calamity of your age has begun.”

  Suiteonem Prime, World Tree, Fou’s Fallen Folly, Suiteonem IX, 20136

  The empyreal guardswoman was short and slight as such things were judged.

  A head shorter than Eighty and about as slim as Fifteen, not counting the chest.

  Not much was hidden by the guardswoman’s clothing and armor.

  Skintight with a few thin, flexible looking plates of painted metal over the more vital areas.

  Black and silver.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  No visible weapons, though she had a slim pack on her back and several small pouches and bags belted around her waist.

  The most striking thing about the woman was her coloration.

  Dark gray skin almost like charcoal topped by short hair the color of flame rising from the top of her head like a shark fin.

  Sixty-eight judged it a stylistic choice based on the stubble on the rest of the woman’s scalp.

  All in all, the guardswoman didn’t seem that impressive for being one of the elite that served her God above all others.

  She didn’t give off any sort of magic or aura or hidden power.

  Granted Sixty-eight would admit that her ability to sense such things wasn’t strong or skilled, yet.

  “Demigods. Sons and daughters of my God. It is my honor. You may call me ‘Scourge’. As in the scourge of the criminals in this city. It’s my sacred duty to cleanse the filth when they become to powerful or numerous. I understand that you will be assisting me today.”

  “Yes, mighty guardswoman,” Seven said before Fifteen could. “We are ready to follow and learn from your experience.”

  “Without weapons and armor?” the guardswoman said. “A difficult test.”

  It was obvious even to Sixty-eight that Scourge wanted to say more.

  “Our teachers prefer to let us learn things for ourselves,” Seven said. “May we borrow? Weapons and armor, that is.”

  “I want a magic staff,” Fifteen chimed. “A magic wand if you don’t have one.”

  Sixty-eight caught on quickly.

  “Rifle.”

  Commander Kichatrix jumped in, perhaps too eagerly, like the needy puppies back in Sixty-eight’s house trying to lick her face.

  She preferred the puppies.

  “Demigods, I and my entire garrison will be honored to share our best gear for, this, worthy task!”

  “Make it quick, commander,” Scourge said. “I’m not behind schedule yet, but I will be after I need to brief the honored demigods.”

  “Will that be necessary, mighty one?” Seven said. “My lochos has been trained to think quickly on our feet. A quick briefing on our way to these Scarlet Reapers’ base will be adequate.”

  “Adequate isn’t good enough, demigod. Adequate gets more people hurt and killed. Usually, ones that don’t deserve it. This gang is a violent one by all standards. They’ll seek to do as much collateral damage as they can just to throw one last insult at me.”

  …

  What were ‘slums’?

  Sixty-eight was unfamiliar with the word.

  She was unfamiliar with the tightly packed structures.

  There was less of the wood growing straight out of the World Tree in the construction of these ‘slums’.

  Instead she saw plain wood. Old, rotten in places. She saw unadorned, unpainted brick, crumbling in places. She saw thin, cheap, metal, rusted in places. She saw canvas, cloth and other textiles.

  She saw many people living in open lots amid the ramshackle structures like they were camping in a forest.

  She had done that often back home.

  Her parents had a small forest just for that purpose.

  A finger poked her in the side.

  Thirty-two.

  Reverie interrupted she returned her attention to the inside of the hovering craft.

  Scourge gestured at the three dimensional map of their target projected from a small disk in her hand.

  “The reapers bricked up a few walls, but that’s nothing to me and I’m guessing to you either.” She assessed Eighty with a glance. “You look strong enough to run through them. I don’t want that. A few walls and windows? Okay. Break some. Kids should be allowed to exercise without restraint at times. But, I want the structure standing, livable. As you’ve seen, people could use a roof over their heads because despite being inside a fucking giant tree there’s still rain.”

  Sixty-eight agreed with Scourge.

  Weather inside a tree, world-sized or not, didn’t make sense.

  She didn’t care if her lessons had explained the science and magic of it.

  “Mighty one—” Seven began.

  “I’m going to stop you there. It’s ‘Scourge’ or ‘sir’ while you’re under my command.”

  “Scourge, why alive?” Seven finished.

  “They’re evil. Just kill them,” Eighty said.

  “That’s what I’d do for most of them if it was up to me,” Scourge said. “But it’s not. There are laws. The Empyreals demand justice and punishment for the criminal. So, we’re arresting them… if possible. If it’s too dangerous to you then kill them.” She eyed the projection and gestured, creating a red line through the building. “This will be our path. Me, and you three.” She pointed at Seven, Fifteen and Eighty. “You other two are going to be here.” She placed a red dot on the rooftop of a different building across the narrow street. “It’s a simple beat ‘em up. We break legs and arms, leave them for the garrison to collect later.”

  Thirty-two raised a hand.

  “Speak up. You’re a demigod. Even we have to listen,” Scourge said.

  “What are our duties?” He glanced at Sixty-eight.

  “I’m guessing from how you’re holding that,” she regarded the rifle in his hands, “you have no idea how to use it.”

  He stiffened.

  “I have some training!”

  “Not enough.” She eyed Sixty-eight. “You on the other hand, know what you’re doing with it. It’s a simple job for you two. The little girl shoots any Scarlet Reaper that tries to run, while the brains watches her back.”

  Sixty-eight listened with one ear while she felt the rifle.

  It was crude, like the kind used on her world hundreds of years ago. Little more than an iron tube and a bit of wood so she wouldn’t burn her hand on the metal.

  She had been excited at first to learn that the garrison had rifles, but her disappointment had been immense and her life ruined the moment the armorer had shown her what passed as rifles for them.

  Single shot.

  She had to break it open to load a cartridge.

  Primitive combustion based propellant.

  She had some experience, of course, her household contained many weapons from across many eras.

  Her parents believed that it was important for her to know how to wield a large variety at least on a basic level.

  A poke in her side again.

  Scourge had changed the projection, adding pictures.

  Four faces.

  A grim bunch.

  Two men and two women.

  A map of their battles etched into their faces with scars and unnatural modifications.

  “These are the leaders. The Empyreals want them taken alive above all others. Don’t underestimate them. They’ve managed to escape a few fights with me when I was actually trying. They call themselves the Suits of Death after a deck of cards.”

  “Fate Cards?” Fifteen said.

  “I don’t know what those are. Just regular cards. The kind you play games with.” Scourge shrugged as she highlighted the face of an ugly, bald man with glowing eyes and a metal lower jaw and teeth. “Jack of Death—”

  Eighty snickered.

  Scourge grinned at her. “Shit on him with his name. It’ll piss him off. You can use that, right? The anger? Makes you stronger?”

  “Yes… with… control issues,” Seven said.

  “As long as you aim yourselves at them and not me. I don’t want to have to explain to my God why I had to beat the shit out of his kids.” Scourge laughed again. “Back to old Jack of here. He’s stupid. Warrior-type. Expect the standard Skills. Only thing that’s halfway special about him are obviously the eyes and the mouth. He can chew through steel, but the eyes, I think, you lot have to watch out for them. Lasers. Burn through plate armor in a few seconds. Moving on. Queen of Death.” She highlighted a wide-eyed woman with neat vertical scars the length of a fingernail covering her cheeks. “She’s a cutter. Short blades. Throwing blades. Quick like a cat, but more psychotic. She likes to play. Use that against her. Let her get close, grab her and break her. She’s not that tough.” Another face. “This piece of shit is the King of Death. Charmer-type. His words gets into people’s heads. Makes them do what he wants. Don’t work on me though. I’m too strong. I’m guessing divine blood will protect you. Feel free to break this rapist’s face… and all his bones.” The last one looked like she had plunged her face into a fire or a bowl of acid. “Ace of Death. Leave that one to me.”

  “What are their levels?” Seven said.

  “Minimum of 30, possibly pushing, but not past 40. They got their hands on good quality anti-appraisal items. From where? I haven’t figured it out. This place isn’t exactly high quality as places in the tree go. The rest of the gang are in the 20’s. They poach from the lesser gangs like some kind of feudal system.”

  “Will those be a concern? As reinforcements?” Fifteen said.

  “The garrison will handle them if they decide to be stupid, but the little chicks know better to stick their heads out of their holes when I’m on the hunt.”

  Sixty-eight listened with one ear while Seven and Fifteen peppered Scourge with tactical questions.

  She had her duty set and that was enough for her.

  Instead, she wondered at the smoothness of the floating craft’s flight.

  It was way more advanced than anything else she had seen on the streets of Fou’s Fallen Folly.

  Scourge cleared her throat.

  “The garrison should have finished setting up a cordon for any that manage to get past us. I’m going to make that your test. You lose points for every reaper that they have to grab.”

  …

  “Should I shoot too?” Thirty-two’s tone clearly suggested that he should not shoot.

  Sixty-eight considered the question.

  They were on a rooftop.

  She was prone, sighting down her primitive rifle.

  Iron sights.

  Not even a scope.

  She missed the magic sights on the magnificent rifle her parents had gifted her.

  “You should practice.”

  Practice was how one got good at something.

  “Pick a space and shoot any reaper that runs through it.”

  Thirty-two made a distressed noise.

  “Or don’t. Just, um, watch the door.”

  The rooftop had only one stairway.

  It was roughly four and half levels, which meant there was less of a chance for jumpers or climbers to get to them.

  In any case, Scourge was certain that the Scarlet Reapers would have bigger, closer things to worry about.

  “So, I should shoot anyone that comes up?”

  Thirty-two sounded like a boy that hadn’t been in a real death battle with other thinking beings.

  To be fair, she hadn’t either, until that first night in the dormitory.

  She supposed he must’ve managed to get through that nightmare unscathed somehow.

  Lucky him.

  “Yes!” she snapped as her pot began to simmer energetically.

  “Okay, got it, watching the door.” Thirty-two hustled away leaving her to keep her sights on the reaper’s haphazard, but imposing building.

  Scourge walked openly toward the iron-barred gate.

  Seven, Fifteen and Eighty followed.

  Eighty carried a tower shield to cover the other two members of the lochos.

  The garrison typically used the door-sized shield for static defenses.

  Speaking of static defenses, the reapers didn’t have much beyond the iron gate and the short wall made out of random detritus. At least they had topped it with broken glass, metal spikes and sharp-edge wires.

  Scourge cared nothing for any of that.

  She was the true reaper down there.

  Her mask resembled a grinning skull, her hair resembled fire.

  Weapons adorned her sleek, skin-tight armor.

  Blades and guns mostly, thought the latter looked more advanced than what the garrison had in their armories.

  Black and shiny with proper magazines of ammunition.

  She pulled one fat-bellied gun from over her shoulder and promptly blew the iron gate open with an explosive blast.

  “What was that!” Thirty-two said.

  “Grenade shooter,” she grunted. “They’re starting the assault.”

  Scourge strode through the smoking ruins of the gate and pumped more grenades into the building, blowing huge holes in the walls.

  Then the ants came running out of their kicked open hill.

  Suiteonem Prime, Sonombera, Mapulondas, 213916

  Ragay watched Talima’s messages at least once a day, sometimes two.

  He didn’t want to miss anything.

  The first was to get and retain the content of what she said.

  The rest was to simply soak her in, but not in a creepy way that he would ever admit to anyone even with a spear at his throat.

  He could, probably, take a spear if it missed the vital arteries. The embarrassment, however, would kill him.

  As beautiful as always she spoke with a smile while she gave her customary greetings and re-telling of her deeds and happenings since the last message before getting to the heart of her message.

  “Ragay… I think you should not think that it is your fault. Miss Karagatan commanded you and she speaks with Sinaya’s voice. Therefore, Sinaya commanded you to do the things. You only obeyed as any good, faithful one would do. That isn’t to say that the guilt you feel is wrong or that you shouldn’t regret. I know you have a gentle heart and while saddening I am glad that you have not become dead to death like a typically warrior. I do not think I would like that for you. So, it is okay to feel bad about the deaths even if the drylanders earned it by their evil actions. But, it should not weigh on you forever. Perhaps it would soothe your conscience if you remember that two drylanders lived because of your mercy?”

  He wasn’t so sure that he had anything to do with the Merquani brother and sister survival.

  Talima crossed her arms beneath her chest and leaned forward.

  “I must speak my truths and I don’t know how you will hear them, which scares me.” She took a deep, heaving breath. “It is a great honor to be selected by Sinaya. Perhaps an even greater one to prove yourself worthy and capable of battling beside Miss Karagatan, herself. But, I do not see the happy and carefree light in your eyes anymore.” She wiped the water from hers. “Is there shame in leaving a place that fits like a landsuit two sizes too small or big? We are people of Sinaya’s Gift. We are supposed to find the currents that carry us to where we belong, not swim against them only to end up in a slowly shrinking pool in a desert. Think on my words, Ragay. No matter what you decide I shall stand beside you.” She cleared her throat and stood. “I don’t want to end on sadness, so I shall show you a new dance I learned.”

  He ended up watching said dance seven times before going to sleep, drained, but satisfied.

  …

  Aunty Bilaya’s expressions and voice lacked their usual warmth.

  It took him aback for brief, frightening moment until he found it in her eyes.

  “I’ve reached out to people I know and they’ve confirmed that Reef of Words received a letter from the Merquani. The contents of this letter are known only to the Keeper of Words. The sentiment they shared with me is that this is the end of the issue. They violated their agreement and were justly judged.” Her tone softened. “The life of a warrior is difficult. It is exponentially so for a warrior that battles other thinking beings. Slaying monsters is easy on the heart. One finds no regret in culling things that only take and never give anything back to Sinaya. To look into the eyes of a being in which one can see themselves is not so easy. Nor does it leave one quickly unless they are of a different mind to you, Ragay. I cannot take away the pain you feel, nor should I. It must be a lesson you carry with you the rest of your life if you wish to be that type of warrior. You must never become cold to the taking of thinking lives. You must understand and accept the weight it places on your shoulders. The lives of even our enemies deserves that respect.”

  He paused the recording.

  The child in him wished that she had just said it was okay and that it’d get easier.

  The growing adult in him thanked her for treating him like one.

  “I found it surprising that your message wasn’t censored. Nor has anyone spoken to me or Talima to warn us of keeping the contents to ourselves. I have only shared the portion you indicated to the rest of our house. The other carers and the young ones wouldn’t understand. I have reserved time for them to speak to you this month. I believe that they will help soothe your wounded heart. Talima is concerned and insistent. She pesters me for my ‘sources’, but I shall endure it graciously for your sake. You care for her and she cares for you and that is enough to accept mild annoyance. The currents you choose are yours to swim. You have our support in all things. Until we speak again, my Ragay, always remember that you are in our thoughts. May Sinaya guide you in this challenging time.”

  His aunty was right.

  The rest of the message from his house did help him feel better than he had all month.