Chapter 10, Part 1

The previous day…

Locke sat upon a sizable stone at the center of his camp-given into his care, some hours ago, by Roak-, and scanned his surroundings with time-worn vigilance. While most about him lay in the open, guarded from the elements by nothing aside from the crater in which their camp was situated, Locke was warmed by a heavy cloak-another benefit of his friendship with the Wolf. Beneath his cloak was sheathed a third gift from Roak, of which he was constantly aware. This was a dagger of sorts, its blade small, and its design unremarkable, but of exceptional craft and sharpness. It was his only weapon.

This is not to suggest that he was otherwise defenseless, however. Roak had appointed, to keep the peace in his stead, several individuals from within the refugees' ranks who he felt trustworthy. Due to his being decidedly unpopular among the members of his host (largely as a consequence of his conscripting them to a cause for which they cared little, and which promised death as the logical culmination of their efforts), the number of his loyalists was few, and fewer still were suited for the task at hand. Roak, having little choice otherwise, armed them all the same.

Thus, there was left to rule in the Wolf's absence a regime composed almost entirely of two sorts of individuals: the spineless children, who knew themselves to be as much, and who wouldn't dare fire their weapons even in the direst of circumstances; and the reckless youths, who, having for the first time the authority to end a life, sought to do so at the slightest provocation. Outside of these, Roak had empowered only two.

The first was, of course, Locke, who-despite being the others' appointed superior-hadn't the physical means to do much at all concerning combat (being, as he was, one-handed).

The second was a boy several years Locke's elder, by the name of Mason, who sat at his right. Though Roak had made an effort to learn most of the refugees' names, he associated these names not with individuals-each having their own unique personalities, experiences, and such-but with faces. The face of Mason, it should be noted, recalled to the Wolf's memory the night of his first encountering the refugees, now some days past. It was the face of he who-when the Scavengers came, and all others shrank into the shadows-had stood his ground in order to save the life of a then-unconscious Locke, and in doing so had nearly lost his own. For this reason, it was to Mason that Roak had truly confided the camp and its inhabitants, though neither was made explicitly aware of this, either in word or in thought.

This new order, Roak had known, could not resist the pull of chaos for long-nor did he expect it to. Upon taking his leave, at the birth of a dawn that had since passed, the Warlord had been fully intent upon returning within the span of a few hours. And so he had left, on what was to become the routine task of scouting ahead of his force (in order to ensure their safe travels), and had given a final instruction to his successors, which was offered largely in jest. It was thus: "Try not to kill each other until I get back."

To the spineless children among his ranks, the mere suggestion of the possibility of their killing each other served only as further cause for fright.

To their more optimistic counterparts, the Warlord's presenting his final comment as a suggestion rather than an order was, for all intents and purposes, a green light for their killing as they pleased.

No members of the third faction present within the camp, who have hitherto gone unmentioned, heard the Wolf's parting advice. They were well away from the place of his departure, at the opposite edge of the encampment-and besides, they would not have heeded his advice regardless of its tone, or of the sentiments expressed therein. You see, they were those with whom Roak was decidedly unpopular…and while the Wolf and his successors were undergoing the transfer of power, they were plotting.

It was of these that Locke was most wary, and it was for their plotting that he held his watch.

In the first hour of his vigil, the boy was most attentive. This was, as it would happen, the time when his guard was least necessary, for most others still slept. Most…but not all.

In the second hour, he began to grow bored, and his mind wandered. Upon realizing his mistake, he returned to his task with a renewed focus.

In the third hour, a howling wind began upon the plain, dulling Locke's senses and stirring many from their slumber.

In the fourth hour, chaos broke.

As the last of the morning's chill was melted by the dull rays of a midday sun, a figure strode across the refugee camp with an air of confidence, a rifle in his hand and several others in the arms of those at his back. His gait was quickened by the drive of purpose, and he cut from the crater's edge to its center without any delay whatever, fully expecting that those who lay in his path should move rather than force upon him the inconvenience of a detour.

He was on a mission.

He had, in fact, been on a mission for the last four hours. Now, it was time that his efforts bear fruit.

As the figure reached the heart of the encampment, he halted, and glared at another who was seated before him. He swung the barrel of his gun to face in the other's direction, but left it angled toward the ground.

The second figure stood and, attempting to disguise the fear in his eyes and in his tone by means of volume, spoke a single word: "No."

"We've waited for your friend long enough, thief," the boy with the gun stated in response, lending extra weight to the last of these words.

"Hardy…" the other pleaded, his voice weak. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Hardy returned, taking a step forward. A third boy, who sat on the ground beside the second, made as if to rise, and his hand grasped for a rifle that lay nearby. He abandoned this course of action, however, when Hardy raised his own rifle to point at his chest.

"We aren't supposed to fight," the second said hopelessly.

"Why would we?" his challenger questioned, keeping his rifle's aim on the greater of the two threats as he advanced. "I've already won," he added, "I just thought you should know."

Looking for the first time to those behind his foe, the appointed authority saw that this claim was not a hollow one. He recognized, along with those of Hardy's usual lackeys, the faces of many who had been chosen as his peacekeepers some hours ago. These were not the frightened children (those had surrendered their arms rather than take them up for either side in the impending conflict) but were instead their bloodthirsty fellows, who cared more for the indulgence of their desires than for the weight of their word. This left him, then, with only himself and his companion to command.

After allowing his adversaries a moment to reflect upon their plight, Hardy again advanced, and-ordering his fellows to train their rifles upon the two in place of his own-removed the gun from his less talkative foe's reach.

This left the coup's resistance with but one weapon in its possession, which was quickly put to use.

While Hardy was still stooped from the act of confiscating his companion's rifle, the seemingly unarmed figure, who was elevated some distance above both his fellow and his foe due to a stone on which he sat, tossed back the cloak about him and sprang forth with a knife in hand. As he was to some extent unfamiliar with reliance upon his left hand, and hadn't the use of his right, the attack was a clumsy one. This allowed Hardy to escape much of the blade, catching nothing more than a shallow cut down his right side and shoulder. He then responded by driving himself into his assailant, toppling him from his perch and sending both tumbling to the ground.

Once landed, Hardy easily wrested the dagger from his attacker-who was of decidedly lesser size and substance-and tossed the weapon away. This was no act of mercy, however-in fact, it was quite the opposite. Knives, Hardy had decided, would end things far too quickly.

Placing himself atop his smaller opponent, Hardy set into him with a series of blows that, while lacking in grace of form, were by no means lacking in force or ferocity. Within moments, he had drawn blood, and the struggle (if such a label could even be placed upon it, as there was truthfully little struggle at all) quickly became a spectacle. Hardy's gathered supporters circled about the two prone figures, disregarding all else. Many began to cheer. A considerable number of neutral parties arrived to spectate as well, though most of these were silent. Among the onlookers, those of Locke's peacekeepers who had thirsted for violence were most captured of all by the scene. Knowing that little resistance would be made on the part of their former leader, these simply watched, unblinking, and listened for the crack of bone.

It came-and as it did, Locke's last remaining ally, who had watched as he was beaten for some time now, took the opening presented by his enemies' distraction, and acted. Rather than spring for the forgotten rifle to his side, Mason made directly for the fray. Grasping Hardy 's wrist as he readied to deal a fresh blow, Mason pulled upward, and succeeded in separating the younger boy from his battered friend. He then threw himself to the earth, taking with him his confused opponent.

Though there had been a change in roster, the dynamic of the fight remained much the same: one participant, being of greater size and years, had a distinct advantage over his opponent. This disparity, however, was no longer in Hardy's favor.

Mason did not use his edge, as had his adversary, for the staging of a show of savagery. With each blow-of which there were few-, he targeted not Hardy's face (though this was indeed where his fist happened to land most often), but his pride. Once any charade of confidence had been wiped from his foe's countenance, and the tears were left to flow as freely upon it as the blood, Mason stopped, stood, and dusted himself off. His bested opponent lay on the earth and groped blindly about himself in what seemed a vain attempt to rise.

Mason turned to leave, pausing to aid Locke in regaining his feet, and the crowd-which had since gone silent-parted before them in unconscious recognition of a victory that was, in truth, wholly symbolic. Had they acted otherwise, he could not have hoped to stand against their will. Lead, after all, is rarely hindered in its course by such immaterial protections as a sense of honor.

Steel, as it would happen, is of a similar mindset.

As Mason and Locke began their slow departure-for the camp's edge, or for the wilderness beyond: for rest; for peace-, the figure who lay at their backs began again to stir, and, slowly, to stand. He turned, the dust upon his face streaked by tears and by trails of crimson, and struck forward with frightening speed.

His hand was not formed to a fist.

He held in his grasp some small object, and his knuckles were white with the gripping of it.

The shape in his fingers met the cloth at Mason's lower back; did not stop there; plunged onward.

The sound of metal rending flesh filled the silence.

Hardy retracted his hand, which was pursued in its retreat by a spurt of crimson. He stared in horror at the knife raised before him, his eyes wide and unblinking. After some effort, he managed to drop it. His fingers, awash with the proof of his crime, felt numb…felt frozen. Hardy looked at his bloody hand as a villain at a follower who, having crossed a line that even he dared not approach, is ignorantly proud, not knowing such a line to have ever existed. He wished to be rid of it.

Then, he lowered his gaze to the body before him.

A body it was, and nothing more. Mason was dead.

Driven by rage, and by the vengeful spirit of his broken pride, Hardy had attacked with an incredible swiftness, given his condition, and had thrust his hand as far beyond the mouth of the wound as the blade that had opened it. Such a blow would not settle, as reward, for the creation of a mere scar in its memory. It demanded blood. Death. Sacrifice. It was denied none of these.

Hardy watched a moment as blood pooled about the corpse and about Locke beside it, who had finally succumbed to his wounds and to his shock at the moment of his striking the ground, and had fallen unconscious. The killer, still in a daze, stumbled forward on the previous course of his ill-fated foe. The others, who had again crowded to look at the spectacle, parted once more-this time in horror. He was given a much wider berth than had been offered to his predecessor. As he passed through the crowd, many eyes stared at him in disbelief. Others-these belonging to his previous supporters-were cast to the earth. He was treated as a leper.

Hardy shambled unthinkingly to the camp's edge. There, he sat, and wept.

Following the murder, the refugees drifted outward to the crater's furthest reaches, as if upon a wave. Each was carried, it seemed, by the pull of a common instinct, and driven in turn from the camp's center. Once at the basin's fringe, it was there that they would remain, as surely as if they were stranded. In a way, they were.

About them was a sea, of sorts. This sea was not a violent one, however-was not plagued by any discernible tempest. It was, indeed, quite calm. No more waves broke its surface, and nothing could be seen within its waters. Truthfully, nothing could be sensed of the sea at all…for it was a sea of fear, characterized by silence, and by still. It was a sea upon which none, standing now upon the serene shores of their scattered islands, dared for another moment venture, knowing that a terrible fate soon awaited any who should be caught within its bounds. Yet still, one lingered.

This lone mariner, rather than sail for safe harbor as his fellows, had, in fact, set his anchor. Though he wished no more than any other to remain at sea, he refused to break from his moorings, electing instead to circle about his anchor, occasionally attempting to drag it along with him. This may seem a foolish course, but, you see, his anchor-however lifeless-was once his closest friend.

Noticing Locke's strain, which-despite his refusing to look even in the corpse's general direction-was indeed quite audible, Hardy mustered the will to stand, and sullenly approached the scene of his crime. He would, the boy resolved, aid in the burial of his slain foe, though he assured himself that his purpose for doing so was simply to be rid of the body.

Yet, had his motives been so void of virtue as he supposed, Hardy would not have reacted as he did (or, rather, would have reacted-as he did not) to the welcome that he received upon his arrival. Spotting his approach, Locke had set upon him with a number of blows, each thrown amid a barrage of curses and tears. Hardy, for his part, simply stood, his eyes downcast, and took the beating. It was not until the smaller boy threw himself into his adversary, delivering both to the rock-strewn ground, that the latter so much as spoke.

"I'm here to help…" Hardy mumbled, more in practice of honesty than in his own defense, as he fully expected to suffer further abuse. For a while longer, his predictions proved valid-but, driven more so by the onset of fatigue than by any sense of mercy, the torrent of hate grew slow; slower; stopped altogether. At this time, rather than offer his own motives, which were plainly apparent, Locke collapsed at his enemy's side.

For some time, both lay in silence: Locke overcome by a myriad of emotions, and Hardy-though to some degree captured by his own thoughts-simply waiting for the other to rise, knowing that he should be the later to do so.

Once Locke forced himself to his feet, intent upon returning to his hopeless toil, Hardy arose at his side and, silently, took up the corpse by its arms. Locke, having only one hand, did his best to further lighten the load, and said nothing. The two made for the crater's edge.

Reaching the slope that surrounded them, and-eventually-scaling it, the bearers of the corpse forged onward, stumbling some ways across the plain beyond before halting and loosing themselves from their burden. Now, they looked about at their surroundings. There was little vegetation at all. Shrubs were few, and trees fewer. There was little, then, with which to mark a grave-save a scattering of unremarkable gray stones. Of course, there was no need at all to mark a grave that they hadn't the means to dig. It was only now that the boys recalled, almost simultaneously, as they stared dully at the body before them, that they were without a shovel. In fact, there wasn't a single shovel to be had in the entirety of their camp, nor any other instrument of sufficient resemblance.

So, the two set to gathering stones. This, too, was done in silence. Once they felt their store adequate, they began to pile the stones about the corpse. It gazed up at them in eternal indifference, Locke having to this point neglected to close its eyelids. Before the stones were set that should cover it, he reached down and did this. Prior to rising, Locke reached into his pocket, his fingers numb for a variety of reasons (of which cold was the least), and produced an all-too familiar object: the knife. He held it with as few fingers as were necessary, and at arm's length. What had, some short hours ago, once been among his most prized possessions, was now a thing of filth. It was coated from end to end with the smear of blood. He let it slip to the grave without hesitation.

Shortly thereafter, and still before the final stones had been placed, Locke slipped off his cloak-as marked as the dagger-and deposited it with all else that was to be left there. Hardy, though by no means spared the touch of blood, hadn't any clothes but those which he wore, and so remained as he was: the image of a killer. For the Hardy that had been that dawn, it was a fitting look. For the Hardy that now was, it seemed decidedly out of place.

Then the grave was sealed, and its architects glanced shortly at one another upon the placing of its capstone, with a shared look of somber satisfaction. Locke nodded. At this, they turned their eyes again to the west, and made their way, together, back to camp. Still, they did not speak.

Chapter 10, Part 2

Upon returning to the basin of his troops' encampment, Roak noted two things which seemed to him unusual.

First among these observations was the fact that, despite his making no efforts to conceal his arrival, none seemed to notice it. The frontiersman thought it especially strange that, once he had entered the camp, not an eye rested upon him, nor was a single face cast in his direction. Most, it seemed, were preoccupied with the examination of the ground at their feet.

His second observation was that none in the camp appeared willing to divulge whatever secrets they had uncovered in their particular patch of the earth, or even to share the object of their search. The whole of the place was, Roak found, filled by that sort of silence which is so complete as to be achievable only in places equally as desolate as the dead plain about him. In an effort to discover the cause of these peculiarities, the frontiersman scanned the lot of faces before him for that belonging to Locke: his only personal connection among them. Spotting the boy, Roak drifted toward him.

Though the gust of his passing succeeded in stirring the clothes and the hair of those nearest it, it still seemed to Roak that his presence was felt more so than seen or heard. For a brief moment, he thought himself a ghost. The Risen's fears were given further substance upon his reaching the person of his interest, as the boy made no sign of sensing his approach, but shivered once his shadow fell upon him.

Roak noted absently that Locke was without his cloak.

Hoping (though-due to his growing fear of his own intangibility-not necessarily expecting) to receive a response, if only for the sake of dispelling his unease, Roak offered in greeting the first word that came to mind: "Hey."

Locke did not respond.

The frontiersman circled about, pondering his predicament, and turned to face his silent companion. Kneeling, he gazed quizzically at the boy's downturned face; waved his hand before it; found no response; stopped. Less confident than ever in his corporeality, Roak thrust his finger forward in an experimental jab. As one should expect, it failed to bypass the figure before him. Roak, having expected quite the opposite, was markedly relieved at this. His worry quickly returned as he noted that, despite physical prompting, the boy still had not acknowledged his presence.

"Locke" the Risen spoke again, and, again, was met with silence. He placed his hand beneath the boy's chin and forced it upward, remaining all the while wary of his own strength.

Having no choice, Locke turned his gaze, looking for a moment into the black of Roak's visor before hastily averting his eyes once more. Roak saw now that the boy's face was awash with blood, and bore the usual coloration of one that has suffered a considerable beating. Through the window of an instant, he saw in Locke's eyes a shiver of fear, made all the more violent by the aching of a pain which he had tried-and failed-to mask. This brief glimpse told Roak all that he needed to know. He saw, in the carefully-erected façade of stoicism upon the boy's face, the beginnings of a great many cracks-small at present, but growing larger. Sooner or later, this front would be shaken to pieces. His task, then, was simply to expedite its impending collapse.

"Locke," Roak repeated, holding his grip. "What is going on?"

Still, nothing.

"What happened?" the Risen pressed, driven by a mixture of curiosity, compassion, and concern.

Silence, and a single tear.

Roak released the youth from his grasp, sighed, and stood. Locke had time only for a moment of false relief before he, too, had risen to his feet, though this was done by neither his own will nor any express measure of consent. In little time at all, the two were scaling the crater's side: Roak steaming ahead with purpose; Locke dragging absently behind, barely managing to keep pace, and ignorant to his own steps.

The others watched on, drawing their eyes from the ground for the first time in hours. That is, save one, who sat as he had sat, and wept as he had wept. He was, from all others in the basin, notably set apart-by the measure of distance, and by the mark of blood.

After some time, the Wolf and his reluctant companion made their return. The two stopped atop the basin's crest, and the prior spoke, his words hushed by distance. His fellow did not loose a word, but his eyes, as before, darted about of their own accord, landing-in answer to the Wolf's unheard inquiry-upon the lonely figure of Hardy. In response, the Warlord left the boy at the ridge, and descended.

Hardy sensed none of this. He simply waited, as he had for innumerable minutes prior, for a sound which he hoped would never come: the sound of footsteps. It came, and it came in company with the Wolf. Hardy tensed as the sound-and its source-drew nearer. A shadow drifted past. He did not look up, but knew that Roak stood before him. After a moment of pause, the Warlord dropped a small object into the boy's lap.

Hardy stared at the item before him, his eyes wide.

It was a knife.

It was the knife.

After allowing the boy a moment to process this, Roak spoke, his cold voice belying a fury which threatened-with the utterance of a syllable more-to burst forth, and to burn all that it touched.

"Get up."

Hardy, in keeping with the day's precedent, offered no response, save silence and sorrow. He made no move to stand.

Roak turned from the boy with effort. In lighter circumstances, the Warlord might have seen the youth, broken as he was, and offered him pity. Yet today's burden had not been a light one. Roak searched himself, as he paced away from the killer of his friend (though that title had never been pronounced between them), and found that he had only hatred to offer the wretch. Hatred-and a vengeful blade.

Whatever the manner in which Hardy sought to receive the latter of these gifts-whether with the pride of a man or with the shame of a kicked dog-, Roak resolved that he would not forgo its delivery. Hardy learned of this conviction soon thereafter, as the soundless shape of a second knife rent the air beside his head. He felt the cold touch of blood as it trickled down the length of his neck.

Realizing that surrender would do him no favors, the boy frantically snatched up the knife at his lap, and scrambled to his feet. He now looked to where the Wolf stood, some distance away, his own blade in hand. His figure was drawn into a fighting stance, and he was circling.

No, Hardy corrected his thoughts. He was prowling.

The boy's hands began to tremble as he looked into the face of his soon-to-be-executioner. He imagined the red of his blood splashed upon the white of the Warlord's armor; now, upon the white of a wolf's fur. He imagined his flesh broken by a sweep of the Warlord's dagger; now, by the sinking of a wolf's fangs. He did not imagine, but heard, the cry that now tore from the Warlord's throat as he lunged. It was a cry of anger; of hunger; of longing for the dead. It sounded, to Hardy's ear, like the cry of a wolf.

When next he thought, Hardy found himself fallen to the earth, a knife in his gut. The Wolf was atop him, bloody as he had imagined, with one hand at the grip of his weapon and another clasped behind the boy's back, holding him in the embrace of death.

Only, Hardy was not dead.

He was, in truth, quite alive, and his ears rang with the screams of his assailant.

"Fight me!" Roak cried in anger. "Fight back! Fight back, filthy bastard!"

Though Roak did now know it, Hardy was fighting back. Of course, his half-hearted efforts were quite ineffectual when pitted against the shields of the Warlord's armor-armor which would have been removed in interest of an even match, by any honorable opponent…by any Iron Lord.

Roak knew, by this time, that he was no Iron Lord; was not qualified to be one; never would be one.

Dwelling a moment upon these thoughts, and driven by the loss of that which never was, the Risen raised his knife to strike again-this time, to kill. Something latched onto his arm, and he halted. Turning his head, he saw the tear-streaked face of Locke, whose single hand was clasped at his wrist.

Seeing that he had gained the Wolf's attention (and knowing that he had no means of stopping him, should he lose it), the boy said, plainly and confidently: "No."

Having been pulled from the moment, and so caring little either way, Roak humored him. He lowered the hand of his knife; took Hardy's; sheathed both. Still, Locke looked at him expectantly. This puzzled the Risen, until he recalled the boy who lay dying beneath him. He stood, and looked back to his increasingly impatient companion. Then, tearing a strip from the hem of his cloak, he bandaged the sufferer's wound with the efficient almost-apathy of a field surgeon, stood, and dusted himself off. He glanced at the killer again, appraising his condition. What he saw in it, none else could tell, for he quickly turned and left without a word.

Chapter 10, Part 3

It was not until morning, Roak had announced, that their host should depart in pursuit of their quarry. Until then, Locke was left to tend to the wounds of the killer of his friend. He did so in silence, but not without care.

He thought, keeping watch over the form of his fellow, that Hardy looked (in contrast to his former self) entirely without malice, and was indeed quite pale. His eyes were closed. His breathing, shallow. He had, it seemed, given up, and was content to die. His fate-though given, in word, to Locke-lay upon the whim of the moment, to be decided by the slightest shift of circumstance. Roak saw this, too, it seemed, for in each of his passing appraisals (which now came often), the Warlord had to him a look of impatience. Though he did not speak, the sum of his manner suggested two words: Not yet.

The whole of the day went by in this way, as did-in its wake-the night, with Roak drifting between silent thought and silent observation; Locke keeping his watch; Hardy, tempting death.

By the show of dawn, Locke looked for the first time in hours upon the face of his withered charge, which he had guarded till then in the absence of sight. There was again some color in it, and some life. Life enough, Roak seemed to think, to bear the burden of travel, for it was immediately after assessing the boy's condition that the Warlord declared they should set out.

Whatever the Risen had expected, Hardy did not bear travel well at all. Locke had, with the aim of sparing his patient the inevitable exertion that would otherwise be demanded of him, attempted to carry the ailing boy. As a simple matter of muscle and weight ratios, he was destined to fail at this task. Fate pulled no favors, and he was soon upon the ground beside his living cargo. No others moved to help. None dared. Since his murdering Mason, the other refugees had avoided so much as acknowledging Hardy's existence, for fear of unknown and unknowable consequences. This left only Roak to aid the two in their endeavor. He did not.

So, Hardy had walked. Locke remained at his side throughout the journey, supporting him often, in place of a cane, and mindful to stop when he suspected need for rest. On each such occasion, the host was called to a halt by Roak's order. Still, the Warlord paid no heed to Hardy; he stopped only for Locke.

After hours of stumbling toil, the disorderly column of youths was again halted by word of the Wolf. Those within it obeyed gratefully. Many collapsed to the ground in exhaustion. Hardy and Locke were among them. Tired as they were, the depths of their fatigue did not stop the brightest of the refugees from sensing something odd in their circumstances. Hardy and Locke were among these, too.

The conscripts were, to the last, weary of their late wanderings, and saw little hope of a gentler road ahead. Their clothes were weathered and ragged; their shoes, worn through; the feet and the hands of a great many were bloody and frostbitten. Some were of such poor health that those about them doubted their surviving the effort at all, battle or none. Yet none of these things, the refugees knew, were cause for their stopping. That decision, as the rationale behind it, rested solely with the Wolf. This knowledge sparked, in those who possessed it, a great deal of unease.

For a span of some hours now, the Warlord had appeared quite on edge. He would, in their marching, easily outstrip his followers; rebound to the place of the furthest straggler; outstrip them again…all the while remaining silent as to his purpose. He made a practice of pacing about in this way, marching to and fro, stopping only to observe the murderer's condition or-more rarely-to listen. It was with the latter of these tasks that he was presently engaged.

Locke watched for some time, just as many others, as Roak paced. He appeared plagued by some manner of indecision: the final product of that day's mounting impatience. With time, his movements grew more mechanical, pulling more of his focus from his evidently unpleasant musings. After what felt hours, but may as easily have been minutes or days, the Risen snapped, and broke from the rut which he had so long tread. He made, with sudden purpose, for the place where Locke and his patient sat, resting. As was now ritual, he made note of the latter's state.

Apparently finding in it something previously lacked, Roak broke precedent, and seized Hardy by the arm. The boy, as shocked by this development as any other, hadn't any thought to resist. He was quickly brought to stand before a low stone, and was there held steady. The Warlord before him unsheathed a knife: the very same that had ended a life the day prior.

Locke, having at this time come near enough to the others' place to witness the drawing of the blade, began to protest.

Roak paid his loyalist no heed. He looked instead into the face of the one before him, focused-to the exclusion of all else-upon the cause of justice.

The Warlord had already conceded, of course, that the boy should be let live. He had conceded, too, that he should remain under his protection, rather than be sent away in exile. Roak thought both of these concessions to be considerable mercies. So far as he was concerned, he who engages in the act of murder should himself be killed in turn. For Locke's sake (though he knew not why the boy should advocate the case of the killer of his friend), he had altered his vengeful course from one of total recompense to one of a mere token return.

Hardy, then, would not be made to pay his debts in full. Still, he must be punished-if not an eye for an eye, then he should extract the toll of a tooth, or…

Roak thought, suddenly, of the appropriate rate of exchange. He pulled Hardy's arm to the stone before him, mimicking the boy's own act of some uncounted days before.

The Risen smiled darkly, and thought: As penance for the life of another: the hand that had taken it.

Again, metal fell to flesh and to bone, and the weaker were severed.

Hardy loosed a scream. Roak made no move to stop it.

The Ambrosians were yet leagues away.

They could not hear him.

As the bright of that day drew into the dim of dusk, Roak found himself standing upon a gray knoll, his host at his back, gazing across those last few miles of plain which separated him from the Ambrosians' encampment. Distant as he was, the Risen did not struggle to see the enemy force.

The refugees saw it, too, and were stricken by a sort of wonder which served to momentarily suspend their dread. The army before them was much greater in size, and grander, than they had dared to imagine. It resembled in form some manner of gargantuan crown, cast from the brow of a tyrant of incomprehensible size. The banners of golden thread-their symbols indistinguishable at this distance-which marked the camp's perimeter looked, to the youths, to be the ornament's bounds. The machines of war dotted about it shone as jewels with the light of the setting sun. Yet this crown was not all splendor. The inhabitants of the place, who writhed about constantly, as if a mass of wicked thorns or the worms of decay, added to the piece a sense of morbidity. The herds of beasts-horses, mainly-scattered at the camp's fringe were by many likened to drops of ancient blood, having dried from a forgotten crimson to the dull shades of their present coloration. There was, they knew, soon to be much more blood pooled about that crown. Fresh blood. Their blood.

With these latter observations, the boys' dread returned in full, and they began to flee from the hill, and from the sights that it offered: sights both of what was and what was to come; different sights, within the mind of each who saw them, but gruesome, all.

Roak had no quarrel with the refugees' retreat. He, in fact, found it rather convenient. Had they not left of their own will, they would soon have left of his, as he knew that his intended course would not reward the keeping of company.

The frontiersman descended from his modest perch and advanced upon the camp.

Weaving about so as to break up his movement, and wary to avoid too sudden an approach, he drew ever nearer to his destination. Though he was in the light of the sun, it was by this time so low as to cause little trouble, and he was not seen.

Roak had drawn near enough to Ikoris' force to gain the faculty of his hearing in addition to his sight, and was engaged in absorbing his ears' communications, when a figure suddenly struck into his field of view.

The newcomer set across the plain at an impressive speed, considering his appearance and all that it implied. His gait, though quick, showed signs of fatigue. Indeed, it was more a stumble than a sprint, propelling him forward by the force of his own weight rather than by any degree of muscle or motive power, demanding of him only the spark that had set it in motion. He held, grasped tightly in his right hand, a trailing mass of heavy cloth, as weathered and worn as himself. It was of a rich purple hue.

As this stranger met his crowded mass of fellows, they parted, and he passed into the camp without slowing. Roak, lacking the degree of elevation necessary for his continued viewing of the unfolding events, lost sight of the figure. His position having proven inadequate, the Risen sought out another.

Finding that which he desired after a short and frenzied search, he looked again upon the courier, who bowed wearily before Ikoris, wavered, and fell. He rose again after some struggle, and-proffering the scrap of fabric to his superior-voiced his intelligence. The messenger's speech, slurred by his want for rest, was hardly audible to Roak, and nothing could be made of what little was heard. Neither Ikoris nor his gathered lessers shared in his difficulty, however, and Roak managed to glean from their reaction some semblance of the words' meaning.

Whatever had been said, the message struck the camp as a meteor: sending waves of shock outward from its point of impact; spreading its revelations throughout by way of word as a fire through a forest, leaving chaos in its wake. There was, though, at the thing's epicenter, a place ringed in ruin, but as yet untouched by any finger of flame. This was, you could say, the crater-for there was in it a void far greater than ever could be blasted into a bed of earth, made all the greater by the contrast between itself and its surroundings. It was not a physical void; could not be expressed in such terms as the absence of sand or silt. It was, instead, the absence of emotion, and it was seen in the eyes of the Lord of Ambros-those eyes which held an abyss so deep, and yet filled with so bright a flame, as to break and to blind all who dared search its depths.

Roak saw all of this, and-knowing his enemies to be as much, and thus thinking this disaster a thing to be taken hold of-drew nearer to the site of the sensation, anxious to learn of its nature. He heard-in tones more distinct than those prior, and more charged-a great deal of concern voiced by the crowd's most prominent figures. These leaders, Risen all, were quickly split into two camps. First of these groups, and (as sustainers of the status quo) most numerous, were the loyalists. Second-a new sight among the ranks of Ikoris' Chosen-were the insubordinates, who lingered in that gray of uncertainty which separates fear from willful defiance.

"They're dead," a member of the latter group announced, his voice flat and forlorn. "They're all dead."

His fellows had, of course, learned this as soon as he. Still-as if his stating the fact of reality were all that made it so-they were roused, by his words, from their dull stupor, and were set into a sudden frenzy. Some exclaimed, despairingly, that the cause was lost. For some, it was. The forces of Ambros having never before suffered any measure of defeat in battle, the loss of an entire host was akin to a deathblow: it was the first domino to fall in a sequence which surely spelled their collective doom.

With this in mind, a few-yearning to escape their seemingly imminent deposition at the hands of the Wolves-broke from the camp without pretense, denouncing their allegiance and setting into the night.

Ikoris, for reasons all his own, made no move to stop them. His loyalists, either blind to his purpose or too angry to care, did not hesitate in their pursuit of the deserters. The latter soon found their intended path of exodus cut off by a wall of bodies. Despite this, they altered their course none whatever. In response, the wall soon sprouted with the thorns of thirsty blades, and with the barrels of a great many guns. The deserters armed themselves in turn. Neither force endeavored to avoid their impending collision, and so battle soon broke.

The one true Lord of Ambros looked on as the flash of swords and the cries of rifles tore the calm of the night to shreds of chaos. He saw the first of the traitors felled by the first of his loyalists' blades; watched as the Ghost of the same was blasted to ruin; heard the thunder of guns fired by others' hands in the defense of his honor…and felt nothing.

His only reaction was to say, within the depths of his mind, that this was simply the inevitable will of fate.

Still, such inner-conflict was an ugly waste, and he did not care to see it.

Ikoris turned his eyes from his followers' infighting to the night beyond, where a follower of another sort sat, unseen, and watched in silent satisfaction as the blood of his Chosen spilled over the earth.

End of Chapter 10