Pour Vaille is burning.

  You watch it burn from the tall peak of a steep-roofed home in the Moun neighborhood. The Valleri used to say of Moun that its residents had rough hands and drank inferior wine; but there is little difference now between the squalor of the rich and of the poor. Those who could flee across the Gulf of Carelon are long gone, and there are no more ships. Those who remain have achieved, in their shared misery, a sort of grim égalité.

  A dense, choking haze of smoke lurks low over Pour Vaille, obscuring your view of the stars this night. The Curse has little cause to enhance your vision, though, as the streets and houses below you are well-lit by the ugly orange glow of the fires around the edge of the city. Above the flames, the hulking, winged shapes of Primals glide slowly, making deliberate circuits around the perimeter walls. You count at least eight of them. From their mouths spew forth long, conical gouts of flame, directed downwards to the neighborhoods on the outskirts of Pour Vaille. But they have not yet moved toward the city center, or the harbor. They are, rather, pushing the population inward, herding the citizens and their few defenders into a smaller and smaller area.

  You slide down the steeply-pitched roof, your feet hopping over the edge of each smooth clay tile. At the eaves, you catch one hand on the lip of the roof and swing inwards, guiding your momentum to propel yourself into an open window. Your landing on the table inside the window, rather less graceful, concludes with one foot in an inkwell up to the knee, and the other in a particularly runny piece of cheese.

  “I’ve a volunteer for either my next writing quill or my next dining fork,” remarks an elderly human sitting at the table. A quill—the incumbent—is dipped carefully into the inkwell around your leg, then withdrawn to scratch letters with slow precision on the surface of a somewhat bedraggled sheet of paper. The man’s form is hunched and wizened, and the light of several candles reflects from the panes of a dirty pair of spectacles, obscuring his eyes. His white hair is long and ragged, and his tattered clothing is pungent. The hand shakes badly as it writes, but its owner moves slowly, patiently through his laborious inscription.

  The room is mostly bare. A narrow cot and blanket for sleeping occupy one wall, and this writing table another. A large satchel is tucked in one corner, and the battered hilt of a broadsword protrudes from beneath it.

  You step out of the inkwell and the cheese, settling down on the edge of a book on the table’s surface. The old man coughs weakly, moving his hand away from the paper to avoid a blemish.

  “Thar comin’ tonight,” you tell him. “Won’t wait ‘til marnin’. Folk ‘er pushin’ in toward the docks, but ain’t no way ou’.”

  The old man nods, recovering his breath laboriously.

  “Just as well. They’ve left Pour Vaille for last, but at least they’ll save me the trouble of dying slowly.”

  He scratches again at the paper, and you wait patiently. The streets outside the shabby house are strangely quiet. Most people in Moun have already fled for the docks.

  Satisfied at last, the old man carefully folds the paper in half and then in half again, slips a thin metal rod into the folds, rolls it tightly, and seals the bundle with wax and a ribbon.

  “My old friend,” he announces, “I have a last favor to ask, if you are willing.” His voice quavers, and he coughs again. “Vicod came to visit me this morning. He’s found a boat. Little more than a skiff, he says, but it has oars. He hid it away under one of the waterfront docks at the far east end. He asked if I would come, but I can’t. Can barely walk down the stairs to take out the chamber pot and get a little drink of water.”

  The man shakes his head weakly. You’d be surprised if he could stand up from the chair, much less navigate the stairs. You’ve brought him stale bread scavenged from other houses for the last month, but his teeth have grown too weak to gnaw it.

  “I want you to take this to him,” continues the man, pushing the slim roll of paper toward you. “He’s off to the Isle of Hen. Heard there were a few ships still there from the Last Flotilla. Young Miller is down there, somewhere, across the sea in Broob. He used to write to me. Vicod’s boy, too. Tell Vicod to give this to Miller if by some half-assed miracle he should make it across the Gulf.”

  He pushes the roll of paper toward you again, and you nod slowly, rising to your feet. It moves oddly, as if there were something inside it that resisted kinetic energy, but had itself no weight.

  “But he won’t make it,” continues the old man. “Sixty miles of open ocean to the Isle of Hen, and who knows if there’s still a ship there. We all choose the manner of our death, now. He won’t make it. But writing to the ghost of young Miller has given me something to do while I wait.”

  The sound of fighting and dying begins to filter up from the streets below, intruding on the silence of the hospice chamber.

  “Thar comin’,” you repeat. “Ain’t no puttin’ it off now.”

  The old man rises slowly, painfully, to his feet. He hobbles over to the satchel in the corner. From within he withdraws with some difficulty a battered old breastplate. The straps give him trouble, but you hop up on his back and help cinch them tight.

  “Won’t do ye much good,” you observe. “Ye move ‘bout as fast as a dead badger.”

  The man makes a disparaging noise and waves his hand at you. He withdraws from the satchel a battered, torn pocket of fabric, and places it on his head. It might once have been a broad-brimmed hat.

  “They won’t take me in my bedroom,” he announces firmly. The quaver in his voice seems to have settled down, and some of the shaking has left his hands. He picks up the broadsword from beneath the satchel, leaning on the tip as he hobbles toward the stairs.

  You shrug. We all choose the manner of our death, he said. You retrieve the small, rolled piece of paper and follow after him.

  The descent of the stairs is laborious. The old man leans on his broadsword with each downward step. During his slow progress the sounds of struggle and screaming draw closer. There are some few left in Moun after all. By the sound of it, the Faceless are going from house to house.

  The common room on the ground floor is long abandoned. The chairs are neatly stacked on tables, and the mugs and glasses behind the bar have been stowed. The landlord, whenever he left, meant to return. Your companion walks slowly toward the front door, his back straightening slightly as he moves. But there is no lessening to the ragged wheeze from his lungs. You follow at his side.

  He opens the door, and dense smoke wafts in from the fires at the city’s edge. In the distance, down the street, a pair of figures run madly toward the docks. But your companion does not follow them. Instead, he turns toward the city walls to the north. From that direction comes the ugly glow of the fire.

  “Thar,” you observe, “are th’ Faceless.”

  A group of them is advancing down the narrow street; perhaps ten. They move with ugly, fluid precision, and in complete silence. The distant firelight glints off the rounded metal sheets where their faces used to be. They are a mix of races, sexes, and ages. The remains of their clothing suggest this group were once refugees from northern Carelon. They perceive you both immediately, and perhaps half of them flow forward to meet you.

  The old man straightens his back and looks down at you. You return his gaze for a moment.

  “Get on now,” he says. “Please find Vicod at the docks, if you can. Give him my letter. Escape with him, if you like; or die here, in whatever way you wish.” He pauses for a moment, watching his own death approach. He looks down at you again.

  “Thank you,” he adds. “You’ve been more kind to me than I deserved.”

  We must go, prompts the Curse. The window at the docks is narrow.

  “Be seein’ ye,” you mumble awkwardly. The wrinkled old face looks down at you, and gives you a smile. Then he raises the hilt of the sword to his face in a salute, and turns away to face the Faceless. You back slowly toward the docks, unwilling yet to turn away yourself.

  He speaks four words, clear and distinct as if he were in a school classroom. But they are in a language you do not understand, and the Curse is not forthcoming with a translation. Then he shuffles forward to meet the Faceless. You back away further, still unwilling to turn. He breaks into an awkward trot, one foot tenderly advancing and then the other; and then a run, his gait becoming swifter and more fluid as if the years and illness were falling away from him. The Faceless lope down the street toward him, coming to meet his charge. The old man lifts the sword above his head as he runs, and the tattered old hat flies off his head, settling back down into the street behind him.

  Run, now, prompts the Curse. Its command is irresistible. You turn, and run, and do not see him again.

  What was his name?

  Yes you do. This is real, now. Reach back into the past that is real.

  You don’t want to remember, but you must.

  Your journey through the streets of Pour Vaille is at first uneventful. The few stragglers from Moun are too preoccupied with the last minutes of their lives to pay you any heed. You lope along the worn, cobbled streets of the old city, wondering if it will really be this easy.

  And then, turning a corner you know well, you catch sight of a figure that brings you up short. It is your size, just six inches tall, bent over the face of a fallen human. You cry out hoarsely, stopping your progress and walking toward it.

  No! commands the Curse. You must not!

  “Fech ye,” you reply. “‘At’s one o’ mine. Ye said they was all dead, ye lyin’ piece o’ filth.”

  You stride toward the diminutive humanoid carefully. Its back is to you, and its hands are busy at the face of the dead human.

  This will not end the way you want it to.

  You draw near to the creature.

  “Ye’s a long wee from ‘ome, frien’,” you greet it.

  The figure turns to you, rising to its feet. The harsh glint of metal shines from where its face should be.

  “No!” You hear the horror and disgust in your own voice. This should not be.

  Yes. Now run.

  The miniature Faceless advances toward you with a grim, unhurried saunter. More tiny figures boil out of the alley, emerging from drainpipes, from sewer grates, sliding down from the rooves. They flow outward in a steely tide—silent, tiny, and unforgiving. You back away, turning to run. Tears flow from your eyes, defying your own will and self-discipline. You obey the Curse, fleeing from the horde of degenerates that were once your own people.

  Say it. Say what they are.

  And that makes you…?

  You do remember. To know yourself can be frightening, but it is the only way back. Do you want to come back?

  Then what were you?

  You had a friend. You left him in Moun. What was his name?

  The old man pauses for a moment, watching his death approach. He looks down at you again, and a wry, wistful grin plays at his lips.

  “Thank you,” he adds. “You’ve been more kind to me than I deserved.”

  What is his name?

  Cyrus Stoat pauses for a moment, watching his death approach. He looks down at you again, and a wry, wistful grin plays at his lips.

  “Thank you, Devi” he adds. “You’ve been more kind to me than I deserved.”

  Who is Devi?

  Let’s find out.

  You run, and they run. The Curse strengthens your legs and feet and lungs, but even so, the Faceless snarfs are fast and relentless. The street behind you flows with their number, and they draw closer with every passing second. They flow over and around the bodies in the street, over barrels and carts, through fire and water.

  You trip on the jagged edge of a cobblestone, and they are on you in an instant. Dozens of hands hold you down, even as you struggle. One hand is placed on your temple, and you feel something cold and liquid flowing out from the hand, into your skin. It engulfs your face, flowing into your eyes, and from there into your brain.

  How do you know?

  We’re making progress. That was one of the other Devis. She borrowed that one so that you would not trip.

  You leap over a broken cobblestone and dash onward.

  The frantic chase through the streets of Pour Vaille brings you to the docks, and your lungs burn with the exertion of the long sprint. The humans there have built barricades, and armed men and women stand behind them. But few are soldiers; most are badly frightened amateurs. Their faces show that they understand their plight. There is no escape, and no defense will hold. There is only a brief delay, a few more moments to go on living, and the pride of dying with a weapon in hand.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  You dash between the gaps in the makeshift barricade, and through the legs of the people beyond. The tide of Faceless snarfs behind you simply flows up and over, engulfing the human defenders. Behind them, a similar tide of larger Faceless flows as well, following their miniature vanguard for the final assault.

  You dodge and weave between the tightly-pressed feet of the refugees at the dock. It is hazardous work, but you have years of experience dodging the clumsy feet of big-folk.

  You do.

  They are packed tightly into the docks, and there is nowhere left to run. Those at the waterfront, crowded out onto the wharfs, begin jumping into the harbor; but there is nowhere to swim to. The vast, winged bulk of a primal glides with terrible grace over the waters, casually plucking swimmers out or blasting the surface of the harbor with fire.

  You make your way among the pounding, shuffling feet, working your way to the east. Here, a long row of rickety docks protrude out into the dark waters of the harbor. Fishing vessels once put in at these docks, unloading their abundant catch in the quiet light of dawn. Now the only abundance is of terrified humans.

  Beneath one dock is a small, dark shape. It is gliding along the length of the structure, making for the open water.

  The Curse sharpens your vision and draws your alternate selves into this moment, stealing their speed and agility to give you what you need to survive. Countless dozens of you are trampled to death, their strength dulled and their vision dimmed. But you—this you, here—survives the gauntlet of feet and falling bodies. You reach the end of the dock and dive out into the open space, landing with a thud at the booted feet of a human. He looks down from where he works the oars, but does not stop pulling. He has dark skin, like many of the Broobian expatriates in Pour Vaille. White eyes flash at you beneath the peculiar broad-brimmed hat of the Applied Historian.

  “You’re late,” he says laconically. “But not too late. Where is my friend Cyrus Stoat?”

  You pick yourself up off the planks of the small rowboat’s hull. You look up at Vicod Rayth, too winded to speak. Instead, you simply shake your head.

  “I thought not,” says Rayth. His voice is calm, quiet, but you hear a faint catch that betrays what he feels. At the landward end of the dock, a turbulent mass of writhing bodies and elevated screams marks the arrival of the Faceless. Desperate citizens dive into the dark water; few show any evidence they know how to swim.

  The small boat glides away from the carnage at the docks, into the dark waters of the harbor. Rayth pulls hard, and the vessel begins to move swiftly. The primal is off at the western end of the harbor, blasting away at the unfortunate citizens.

  Neither of you speaks, as he labors at the oars and you collapse from exhaustion. Behind you, as the boat slips away into the open waters of the Gulf of Carelon, Pour Vaille is burning.

  ???

  You drift on a high thermal, idly watching the sunlight as it reflects off a broad, distant river. The land is flat and vibrant green as far as the eye can see—and a snarf’s eyes see very far indeed. The occasional low hill or stand of trees breaks the monotony of the farmland, and the crumbling ruin of an old human castle glowers over the river to the south, but little else about the geography suggests anything other than the relentless cultivation of edible grass seeds. Far, far to the east, the white-crowned teeth of the Haalsterne drift above the plain in lofty disdain for the petty disputes of men and monsters.

  Below you, the petty disputes of men and monsters are reaching a crescendo of blood, fire, and steel.

  The farmland seethes with the activity of violence. From a thousand feet up, the whole affair has an abstract quality of swirling motion, like a slowly simmering pot. The collective scream and din of battle is faint, and almost lost in the wind. At the edges of the melee are more discernable features: a flag here, a row of bristling cannon there. In places, coherent masses of similarly-clad soldiers make up oozing blobs in the stew of murder. But through most of the central battlefield, the impression from above is of a surprisingly homogeneous mass.

  You imagine for a moment what it would be like to turn and fly home to your valley. You look around at the flight of hawks and their riders nearby; tall, brave snarfs on their fierce mounts. They are fearless, and they are yours. They will dive when you dive, following you to their deaths. You wonder whether it is right that you should lead them to that place.

  Twitching the reins and nudging at Graw’s feathered flanks, you begin the dive. Your wing—just forty riders remaining from the hundreds that departed Devi Valley in March—follows you downward in a smooth, graceful formation. As you descend, your ears popping from the change in pressure, the violence of the battle begins to resolve into discernible theatres. A small battery of cannon, exploding with red fury from the south of the field, plow massive furrows through the north quarter, throwing the steel-clad limbs of their unfortunate Giant-man victims high into the air. But throughout the rest of the field, great wedges of the tall invaders cleave massive holes in hapless formations of smaller human infantry. A cavalry charge on the west side of the field is in the late stages of disintegrating into small clumps of doomed horses and men.

  You dive low over the raging melee, and the murky, swirling stew resolves itself further into an abundance of scenes, grimly individual in their details. Your passage is too swift for anything more than impressions and individual images, each moving with a peculiar slowness. The massive sweeping up-swing of a Giant-man’s two-handed sword, cleaving through the upper body of a horse. Flying clods of dirt and metal and fire from the impact of an exploding cannon shell, ripping apart all the matter around them. Fury and terror mixed together on the faces of armored spearmen, driving their points in futile unison at the impregnable bodies of a wall of Giant-men.

  You hurl one of your blindy-bombs at the face of a Giant-man passing beneath you, splashing the clinging black liquid and shards of glass into her eyes. The riders behind you take their cue from you, spreading out to deliver their payloads directly to the faces of the enemy. You withdraw another ball from the saddlebags on Graw’s back behind you, and another, hurling them with proud accuracy. Your victims claw, bellowing, at their eyes; Professor Porkwald from Applied Chemistry taught your people to cut the ink with strong hydrochloric acid. The humans on the ground behind you leap at the opening created by your riders, thrusting their glistening spear-tips at the faces and necks of the incapacitated giants.

  But your blindy-bombs are soon expended, and there is nowhere to resupply. And, after months of harassment, the Giant-men are not insensible to the danger you pose. Large nets sweep into the air as you pass over their ranks, swiping at the hawk riders. Those that are entangled are quickly dragged to the ground, and lost beneath the stamping of heavy giant feet.

  Movement close to the ground catches your eyes, and you recognize the loping, shuffling forms of badgers, swarming through the melee toward a patch of open ground nearby. You bank Graw toward their destination, and your surviving riders follow. You land Graw near the badgers; perhaps a dozen in all. Each bears a snarf knight in mouse leathers, armed with a long lance. At the top of each lance is secured a closed lantern, and behind each rider, on the back of the badger, is a large, tightly bound satchel with a string protruding from its top.

  “‘Ow goes yer ridin’, brother o’ mine?” you inquire. “Ye looks like a humie post-rider wi’ them bags behind ye. Got a letter fer me?”

  Daven shakes his head, smiling wearily despite the mud and sweat that cover both him and Anklebiter.

  “No mail,” he reports, shouting to be heard over the screams and clangs of the surrounding melee. “But a message, if ye’ll listen. One o’ them spotted a group o’ Giant-men ‘at they think’s the command.” He nods his head in the direction of three small hot-air balloons, bobbing cheerfully over the bloody carnage of the battlefield. A single diminutive humanoid can be seen strapped into the tiny basket beneath it.

  “An’ ye’re on yer way ta’ invite ‘em ta’ kiss yer arse and ‘ead back ta’ th’ North, ah take i’?” you suggest, allowing yourself a playful smirk.

  Daven nods seriously. “Aye, ‘cept we’re doin’ th’ invitin’ wi’ these ‘ere satchels. Quite persuasive, if’n th’ suggestion is ta’ be blown ta’ wee bits. Will ye do me a favor, sis’, and ‘elp clear a path fer us?”

  “We’s out o’ blindy-bombs,” you point out. “And the geese ne’er came. Dadtoad’s folk—they ain’t showed.”

  Daven spits in derision. “‘Ees a coward. Nothin’ more ta’ say fer that waste o’ snarf. But ye kin’ ‘ave our blindy-bombs. Won’t need ‘em on this trip.” He gestures at his companions, who quickly unload the small, black glass balls and pass them up to your hawk riders. The faces of both companies are grim, and there is none of the usual good-natured ribbing between the air and ground forces.

  You take Daven by the forearm with one hand, clapping him on the shoulder. His narrow face is even more drawn and pinched than usual, and there are deep furrows in his brow. Daven has aged noticeably in the last six months. You shudder to think what your own visage looks like.

  “Death ta’ big-folk,” you say, forcing a grin.

  “Death an’ glory,” he replies.

  “Ye been spendin’ too much time wi’ them humie knights,” you observe acidly. “Next ye’ll be quotin’ romantic po’try.”

  Daven remounts Anklebiter. The large badger glares at you fiercely. Your brother picks the lance out of its socket, holding it high so his companions can see.

  “Mates!” he shouts over the din of battle. “They may be big, but we’re bigger! Who wants payback fer Great Roof? Who wants revenge fer’ all them as didn’t make it ou’? Who wants ta’ make some Giant-men go ? Ah’m off ta’ blow up thar bosses! Who’s wi’ me?”

  They raise a ragged, angry cheer. Then Daven touches the spurs to Anklebiter, and the company leaps forward to follow him.

  Your riders lift off and fly above the company of badger knights. The ground riders thread expertly through the feet of the larger creatures on the battlefield. You keep an eye on them below, watching as the flow like a trickling stream around the bloody landscape, unseen by larger creatures. Re-armed with blindy-bombs, you watch out for Giant-men who might be inclined to look down, ensuring that their eyes will see nothing when they do. Ahead, Daven’s target is a great mass of steel-clad warriors toward the northwest edge of the field.

  The guns to the south have gone silent. No more explosions rock the back ranks of the Giant-men. As you penetrate deeper over the enemy host, the only humans and goblins you see now lie prone where they fell. The Giant-men, lacking the distraction of hapless miniature soldiers to squash, begin to see you. Hands, swords, and nets begin to reach up. Keeping your riders at head level to deliver blindy-bombs exposes them to these hazards, and the wing begins to disintegrate. But the Giant-men are looking up, not down, and the badgers continue their stealthy advance through the feet of the enemy.

  You run out of blindy-bombs. There is nothing left to do but act as a decoy. You dodge and weave Graw back and forth, evading nets, clubs, and swords. Around you, the last of the hawk riders is netted, or peels off in other directions. The Giant-men begin to notice the badgers at their feet. You see them raise their legs to stamp, and the motion of raising and lowering feet spreads in their number. They bellow at each other, alerting their comrades to the danger.

  A giant foot comes down on the back half of Anklebiter, stopping him suddenly. Another descends on Daven, and you do not see him again.

  Back, instructs the Curse. You must get back to Cyrus Stoat and Merrily Hunter.

  Helplessly, knowing there is nothing more to be done here, you bank Graw sharply around, away from the Giant-men and the disaster of Daven’s charge. A part of you wails in fury and grief, demanding to go down and die with him. But the Curse does not allow it. You fly higher over the waning melee even as you rage, making your way back to the human command post.

  A net closes over you, and drags you to the ground.

  You tumble off Graw’s back, landing outside the rim of the net. You look up, just in time to see a steel-clad boot smash down over your pinned mount. You turn your face away, not wanting to see what is beneath it when it rises up. Ugly laughter comes from the owner of the boot.

  “Le’ me kill ‘im. Just that one. Ye mus’ let me. Then ah’ll go an’ die wi’ Cyrus Stoat.”

  No.

  You sprint along the ground, dodging the boots and hooves of the combatants. Your run takes what seems an hour; but in truth it must be about five minutes.

  “Can’t ye help ou ‘ere? Mek me stronger an’ faster an’ whatnot?”

  Very little. We must preserve the rest of your possibilities for later use. You have need of them in the future. If we expend them now, you do not reach the Shrine.

  “Obtuse piece of shite Curse. Ye ne’er make na’ sense.”

  You pass beneath the feet and shields of a company of the Kings’ Heavy Foot, drawn up to defend a low hill just below the old, ruined castle. Behind them, Snugg mercenaries are drawn up in three long ranks, aiming their long guns over the shoulders of the armored foot. You pass through their ranks, unnoticed.

  Behind them lies what is left of the Queen’s command.

  There are many still bodies here, of all races. A heavy contingent of Giant-men penetrated earlier in the day, and the results were catastrophic. You saw it from above. Now, Anne herself lies under a bloody white cloth; the red is particularly deep where her head would have been. Numerous other human figures are laid out nearby. Their arms and armor are various and unusual, but they all have the wide-brimmed felt hats of their order laid over their faces. The bodies of the Giant-men, too heavy to move, lie where they were cut down by the Queen’s bodyguard and the Applied Historians. General Howe of the King’s Heavy Horse has taken command, and stands nearby with his surviving officers, giving out orders in a kind of calm desperation.

  We are not here to watch Thomas Howe die, instructs the Curse. Cyrus Stoat must leave this place before it is overrun.

  You trot wearily over to where Stoat kneels over the prone body of another human. His hat lies on the ground beside him, and his battered old breastplate shows fresh rents and splashes of blood. His broadsword is stuck point-first into the ground nearby. He is holding one hand of the body on the ground with both his own.

  The body is in bad shape, but you see that it was Merrily. There is a terrible, ugly gash across her face, and her chest appears to have been completely staved in. An elegant rapier is still clutched in one hand, and a dagger in the other. Cyrus’s face and beard are wet with tears as he presses the limp hand to his forehead.

  “We gotta go, Stoat,” you say, gasping for breath.

  He ignores you.

  “Stoat! This place’ll be overrun in a few minutes. You an’ ah need ta’ not be ‘ere.”

  “Go away if you want. I have nowhere to go, and no reason to go there.”

  You walk to him and poke him vigorously in the rear with your lance. He swats at you ineffectually.

  “It ain’t o’er, Stoat.” You hear the urgency in your own voice. “It ain’t o’er, na’ by a long measure. Thar’s years o’ livin’ left ta’ do. Miss Merrily’s gone, but ye ain’t. Ye want to make ‘er death be a meanin’-less act o’ stupidity? Or do ye wan’ to do somethin’ that’s worth o’ who Merrily Hunter was?”

  “There’s nothing left to do but to die—right here, right now.” He turns his face away from you. His hand reaches for the hilt of his sword nearby.

  Tell him.

  “Tell ‘im what?”

  “What?”

  “Tell ‘im what?”

  “Tell who what? Who are you talking to?”

  “Shu’ up, ye git. What am I s’pposed ta’ tell ‘im?”

  “I see we’ve all reached the point of total, ludicrous insanity together. What happy company to keep at the end of the world.”

  Tell him about me.

  “No way. ‘Ee won’t believe it.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “Shu’ up’, ah said. Now listen, Cyrus Stoat. Take a moment from feelin’ sorry fer yerself an’ listen good. Ye remember when ye got yer leg back?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “An’ ye remember ‘ow everyone though’ ah was dead, an’ then ah wasn’t?”

  He nods, narrowing his eyes at you. The sound of fighting and bellowing and dying begins to grow louder to the north.

  “An ye remember tha’ ol’ fruitbat Basil who used ta’ wander aroun’ wi’ ‘is two frien’s, pretendin’ ta’ be all mystical an’ all-knowin’ and ‘ave seer-like powers o’ precognition?”

  “I remember Basil, and Boris, and Brutus. I am not so old that my mind has grown flabby, Devi Dingeholt.”

  “Right. Well, it was all true. Ah did die. An’ ah did come back. Basil an’ ‘is pals could see the future—or a kind of the future, a piece o’ it. Only there’s places where things kind o’ come together; where the things ‘at might be and ‘at are get squished, so’s there’s only one real thing and before it all branches back ou’ agin’. In one o’ those places, ‘ee found a version of me from another branch, an’ ‘ee called it back.”

  The Giant-men hit the lines of the King’s Heavy Foot fifty yards away from you, and the Snugg gunners behind them discharge their weapons in a long, tearing explosion.

  “What are you getting at?” asks Cyrus. You see the spark of curiosity light in his eyes.

  “Wha’ ah’m getting’ at, Cyrus Stoat, is tha’ things went wrong. We’s the wrongness, where what was s’posed ta’ be didn’t ‘appen.”

  “Makes sense, I suppose,” muses Cyrus, stroking at his beard thoughtfully. “Just about everything in this world is about as wrong as it can be.”

  “Nay—tha’s lookin’ at it too narrow-like. Look, we ain’t got time ta’ really get inta’ the bits an’ bobs ‘ere, Stoat, ‘cause if we don’t move right now, them Giant-men is gonna come in an’ make us all gooey. But thar’s a chance we kin git this sorted out. Git back on track, as ‘twer. Afore ‘ee died, Basil gave me somethin’. It’s a Curse. It lets me see a little bit o’ what ‘ee saw, ‘im and ‘is frien’s. It tells me things, an’ it ‘elps me sometimes. Sometimes it ain’t so helpful. But I kin see tha’ right now, the only thing tha’ kin get us back on track is ta’ get the almighty feck out o’ here. The Giant-men ha’ won. ‘T’ain’t long afore them an’ their Faceless an’ their Primal Dragons an’ all the res’ of it swarms o’er all the Neighbor Kingdoms. So we gotta make our ways south. Fight, don’t give up, be clever every step o’ th’ way. But git, and git now. Because ye and ah ‘ave a date with a ship in Pour Vaille, down in Brasse, and we cain’t miss it. Ye get me, Cyrus? Ye’re in the wrong branch now. Ye won’t never leave it. But if ye do the right things, then ye can make the right branch real. Do ye want ta' make things right? Fer her? Fer Veridia?”

  Cyrus Stoat looks down at what’s left of Merrily, and gently lays her hands on her chest. Then he picks up his hat and sword, and rises to his feet.

  “Yes,” he answers you. “Yes, I want to make it right. I can’t imagine why I’d believe such nonsense, but there’s nothing left to believe in the world. So I’ll believe in you. Let’s get the almighty feck out of here.”

  “Pick me up then,” you instruct. He bends down and lays out his hands, and you climb into them. He tucks you gently into his pack.

  You and Cyrus slip away from the command post, even as the ranks of the Heavy Foot begin to break behind you, and the Giant-men come spilling in. With a view to the rear, you see Howe cut down, and the remaining command staff with him.

  Cyrus unties a horse picketed behind the tents and swings up onto its back. Together you and he ride off to the south, away from the catastrophe of the Four Corners.

  “One question only, right now,” he says, as the horse canters toward a wooden bridge over a narrow spot in the river. As you ride across, soldiers are already setting it on fire.

  “Wha’s that?”

  “What exactly is this Curse? Is it catching? Am I going to get it?”

  “Nay,” you answer. “‘T’ain’t catchin’. ‘T’ain’t like a fire at all. ‘Tis like ash.”