I stood in the doorway of the abandoned house and looked out at the thirteen men gathered in a semicircle before me. They wore robes and grave expressions, multiple of them clutching at something within the folds of their clothing—likely bludgeons, by the look of it. One stood a pace before the others and held his shaved head high. Their leader, naturally. His eyes were bright blue and shone with a fervent certainty only found in the madly religious and desperate partisans. The wind came in off the western mountain range, high and looming, a brilliant white streaked with the grey of stone not too dissimilar from my own skin. Their robes flapped, carried by the breeze. My skin felt cold, frozen to the touch, dry as the brown dirt beneath my feet.

  The leader spoke in a foreign tongue, and I could only stare at him. He tried again, then squinted a scrutinizing look and tried in broken Vasian, “What are you?”

  I crossed my arms and wore an empty smile. “Why are you here? I have no quarrels with your god.”

  “His name is Deus, nonbeliever.”

  “I’ve no quarrel with Deus, then.”

  “You could not. He would never waste time upon quarreling with mortals,” he said, taking a small step forward. “So I ask again, what are you? I can see you are no mundane man. Has your body and Soul been Corrupted by Sorcery?”

  More than you know. “I know little of my affliction. It is why I hide out beyond the city, for others see me as a monster.”

  “You say you know nothing of what you are?” he asked, brow raising. “I find this hard to believe, considering the graverobbing that has been occurring. Fingers point toward this abandoned abode, towards a tall, strange man hiding there.”

  I paused, head cocked. Slowly, I went to grin at the pathetic creature before me. “If I were something of a Sorcerer, do you believe threatening me would be a wise course of action?”

  His face darkened. “The followers of Deus are not intimidated by the abomination of necromancy.”

  “You should be. I hear it is especially dangerous to the ignorant.”

  “If you force us, we will subdue you for questioning. Your compliance is for your own good. Deus’s light reveals all secrets. Especially those of dark magics.”

  Why must they always force my hand? Demetria, forgive me, but there is no other way. I glared down at him, and with the flood of Sorcery in my blood, my eyes turned a deep, angry red. “Subdue me then, Inquisitor. See what your provocation earns you.”

  To the zealot’s credit, he moved quick. Far quicker than I expected, but still, few things are faster than a loosed bowstring. Whether it was to strike me down or pull me from the doorway, he floundered back suddenly, an arrow sinking into his chest with a wet thunk, loosed from behind me. He opened his mouth to scream, but the noise he produced was but a strained gurgle. And there is your grand threat. My gaze flicked over to the others, a few paces back, all in varying states of shock. The first one to recover from his surprise ran forward with a shout in some foreign tongue. I retreated, letting the door fall shut, though he barged through it a moment later, short bludgeon raised.

  And then his warrior’s expression melted, all sense of zeal and dedication disintegrating as if touched by Soul Fire. For to his right flank, the looming figure of my Soulborne was ready. Protis grabbed the weapon arm with one hand and clutched the inquisitor’s neck in the other, then ripped into his face with a jaw filled with teeth made to cruch bone. This, of course, was visible to the score of other zealots preparing to rush inside. Similarly, their feeble fervor waned as they wavered, staring with open mouths and wide eyes.

  Behind me, Feia cackled, coming forward to stand beside me. “Now then, Daecinus Aspartes?”

  “Indeed.” I let her begin the Spell while I focused on the ring of blood left to soak in the ground in a semicircle outside. It lit in my awareness like a beacon fire to a lookout, burning with potential, the lingering energy of a faded Soul from the scavenged corpse providing just enough fuel for us to cast an otherwise risky spell. Risky for this faded, pathetic world, I thought with a half sneer.

  The inquisitors, however, deemed this their moment to strike, running forward with a desperation found only in final charges. Protis stood in the doorway, defending our casting as instructed, absorbing the blows of their clubs with a casual ease, battering aside any flimsy human bodies in his way with massive, powerful fists. Avoiding killing but using sufficient force to cripple.

  To the crash of cracking bones and despairing screams, I said, “Call on it now, as we discussed. Slowly.”

  Feia grunted and pressed forward in the Spell. She was to call upon the power of lost Spirits to imbue the ring with a curse I’d taught her. It was not meant for Sorcerous combat, but against the mundane and foolish, it would work just fine. As she went through her odd, but evidently necessary, gestures and tribal-like callings, I focused on Feia’s channeling, turning a broad weapon into a precise instrument. It meant linking with her stream of Soul power and parsing the energy into numerous lines to feed the circle. Typically, such a casting would be a casual, mindless task, but with the surging, sporadic pulsing of power and my own lack of raw capacity for which I’d once been known in Pethya, it took nearly all of my concentration. I could pay Protis no mind, relying on my creation to follow my instructions perfectly. Of course, if one did get through, Nifont was there behind us with his bow, ready to kill any intruders. Not that the possibility seemed likely, at this rate.

  Two tried to run, but they were caught by the mercenaries I had hiding behind the house, with thrown spears and axes quickly ending their doomed escape. The remainders saw this and doubled their efforts in fighting inside. Swinging and pushing and striking with snarls and shouted damnations.

  “Aha!” Feia screamed, raising splayed fingers to the sky, her whole body shaking slightly. “Feel my will! Obey me, servants of Hazek, hunted of Rotaal, the once-lived!”

  In a different time, you would be something else entirely, I thought, eyes flicking to her triumphant, glorious expression, her taught arms flexed and exposed from fallen sleeves. There were scarred cuts along her forearms, scattered, many, white and angry and vengeful. Circular, muddled pink scars wrapped around each wrist. From manacles, perhaps? She met my eyes and something flickered in her irises. Something of color. But I had no time to study them, for the Spell was to be cast.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  All at once, I felt the eight remaining Souls desperately trying to push their forms past Protis begin to scream. And unlike Feia’s emotional celebration of power, I held the Spell in silence, eyes narrowed and focused on the men who had come to take me away. And the spiteful, ignorant, vicious creatures who saw me as wrong. I watched their bodies as they twisted and bunched in on themselves, bent inwards like dying spiders, muscles pulling bones in every direction, dislocating, breaking. A sick, disturbing sight to some. But to me? A justice that only fed a fire in my heart. And as they died in agony, their Souls flooded me with raw potential.

  I gasped and about toppled over when Feia caught me, her wide, ivory-white grin in the corner of my dimmed vision. “Too much,” I hissed out, the power nowhere near what it ought to be. “Need to release. Now!”

  “Nifont!” she screamed. “The Shamblers! Get them arranged!”

  I turned my shaky stare up and found Protis at the doorway, facing out, shoulders hunched forward like a creature of the jungle, like a predator of the night. It turned to me, eyes black as the darkest cave.

  “No,” I whispered. “This was useless before. But increased entropy has changed things. I have use of it now. Of you.”

  Protis marched forward, boards squeaking under the weight and power.

  “What are you doing?” Feia asked, trying to get me to look at her.

  But I was staring at my creation. At the beginning. Finally, I released the built-up flux of energy and pushed the power of the Souls into Protis, filling out its mind into something vaguely… human.

  …

  Nobody told Oskar that after a life of fighting and leading and drinking, he’d one day struggle with maintaining a steady jog for more than fifteen minutes. By the time the last hill rise was underfoot, Oskar had to bend over and put his hands on his knees, a raspy wheeze squeaking out his throat like something was dying inside. One bloody horse. That’s all I ask for. He righted himself, trying to push off his legs to help move forward, feeling mighty light in the head. Even an old mule would work.

  “Keep moving!” Emalia shouted from the front, a good few dozen strides ahead.

  He waved her on, not quite as embarrassed to be beaten in a foot race by a priestess of all people as he was just plain tired. Different muscles for a fight, was all. Just a different kind of fitness. It wasn’t because he was starting to get on in years. No, surely not. He cracked a grin and wheezed out a strangled chuckle. Didn’t help that when he ran, his sword slapped against his leg and jostled the leather belt into his gut. Plus he was still a little drunk. Right, it was the drink making him dehydrated and foggy in the head. And, after all, what was the point of arriving at a fight tired and worn out? It was the smart thing to take it slower and keep your breath. He’d seen enough young, eager warriors get themselves killed charging up a hill just to be exhausted by the time they reached an enemy’s shield wall.

  As he pushed on, eventually making himself jog again, there was a distinct lack of sounds of violence. Not even any of the noises of magic or Feia’s high-pitched cackling that usually came with such Sorcery. Pulling his hanging, heavy head up to squint at the ramshackle of a house Daecinus was squatting in, he found just about everyone gathered outside, standing about.

  “What’s all this?” he asked, approaching with a new energy to his step.

  No one responded for a moment, just staring at the ground, all quiet like. Eventually, Stanilo answered him. “You have to see it for yourself.”

  That made Oskar frown, then scowl in preparation. Had to be something real gruesome to get his people that dark and out of sorts. When he got to the semicircle of onlookers, he looked at the ground and felt something a little cold crawl up the back of his spine. A couple bodies lay further out, bleeding from weapon wounds—both inquisitors, by the look of it—but that’s not what had his people silent. Near the doorway, the rest of the Ekhenites, or whatever you called the Deus-fuckers, were arranged in crumpled poses of conflict, seemingly trying to get inside, but their skin was the color and texture of ash. Their robes hung from their thin bodies with little sign of damage.

  “The fuck?” he muttered, about to step forward.

  Emalia’s hand shot out, warding him back. Her eyes fell to the ground; he followed them, noticing the line of blood dribbled in the dry soil. “I’m not sure if it’s still active…”

  “It is not,” came a voice from the entrance, raspy and powerful, the sound and pronunciation of the words not quite right, kind of like when Daecinus was speaking through Sadoch’s body. “The Soul is gone. The spell is dead.”

  Oskar glanced up towards the doorway where the voice came from. But in the shadow of the house stood an undead thing that made Greyskins look small and weak. It was tall as the door and powerfully built with bulging, unnatural muscles straining against black-veined, corpse-pale skin. Its hands were curled into blood-covered fists that looked like they could dent shields. And its eyes, trained on them, were black marbles.

  “Shield wall,” Oskar hissed out, finding himself sliding his blade from its scabbard. “Shield wall right now!”

  His men reacted quickly—the Column women as well, to their credit—and though many currently lacked shields, they were formed and ready. His mouth was dry as the earth beneath his feet. The Dead monstrosity stepped out of the doorway and turned to the side.

  Oskar was about to give another order when a shrill laugh filtered out from the house. It was a full, joyful cackle that could only belong to one person. His shoulders fell in relief as Emalia asked the creature, “Are you a creation of Daecinus?”

  “His name is Protis,” Feia said, emerging from the interior’s shadow and grinning out at them. She patted the dead one’s chest, which just about gave Oskar a heart attack. It seemed to ignore her, despite all odds. “This blessing from Above and Below is something else, isn’t he?”

  “It,” corrected Daecinus, just behind her, one hand holding his head, another finding Feia’s shoulder for support. “Soulborne are not human. And though I gave this one a mind, it still lacks the identity you or I may claim for ourselves.”

  Oskar shook his head and fixed the two of them with a stare. “Are Nifont and the others with you.”

  Instead of answering, Daecinus just hobbled out a few more steps, opening the doorway for the mercenaries inside to exit. Oskar counted them and found no casualties. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  Nifont gave him a nod. “It was over fast. None escaped.”

  “Gods above,” he muttered, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Listen. Care as I might to stay here and learn about whatever the fuck all this is—” he gestured to the so-called Soulborne and the ashen inquisitors “—we gotta get our weapons and things leave this damn place.”

  “What?” Feia asked. “Why?”

  “Why? Because we just slaughtered a dozen men in robes right outside the walls. If any more of them are in that city, they’ll come with a whole legion of guards for our heads, I can tell you that. Or a mob of their believers. They have those here. So, what you’re gonna do is clean up this mess and all signs of necromancy. Emalia, you find the path you were looking for?”

  She frowned. “I was going to hire a guide to take us. But I have a map I’ve procured as well.”

  “Well, that’ll have to be enough. No chance of getting someone to lead us now, not with a Dead thing following us. Unless Daecinus doesn’t mind getting rid of it?”

  He stared back, icy and hard. “I mind a great deal.”

  “Then we’re roughing it. But when we’re done with Drazivaska, we’re having a talk about Dead followers, you hear?”

  “Understandable.”

  Oskar sighed and rubbed his aching temples. Why was everything so complicated? Correction, why is everything so fucking hard? “Alright, now let’s move!”