1

Displaying no trace of healthy dread or wariness, the mercenary teams went from house to house, rummaging through the closets and cupboards in their search for the remaining vault keys. The success rate of their raiding had been exceedingly poor so far, the detectives being unaccustomed to such work, whilst pressured by impatience and easily distracted. Therefore, they were all quite happy to receive feminine reinforcements, even though Izumi failed to share the sentiment.

Waramoti kept the woman company, seeing as he had no archaeological expertise or language skills to offer to Acquiescas either, and he didn’t feel like challenging the gloomy temple all by himself—temple was what he had decided it to be, in the lack of a better word.

What was the true purpose of the place then? Surrounded by mysteries from every direction, Izumi would have dearly like to have a proper discussion with outside opinions to deal with it all, but she had to mind her words in the linkstones’ proximity. She could only focus quietly on the search, even though keeping all her anxieties shut inside her own head made her feel like exploding.

The machine drill was already installed at the vault door below and the locks were in the process of being broken, slowly but surely. Finding additional keys would merely hasten the inevitable, and her side quest was ultimately inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. After the vault would be opened and emptied, Gronan would next turn his attention to the lower level. These few brief hours were the only chance the heroes had to prevent the worst from coming to pass, and the time going fast to waste in unrelated activities.

So there’s no other choice but to fight, after all…?

Not even bothering to search properly, Izumi nevertheless came across one of the vault keys later in the afternoon. It was in the desk drawer of a certain study, in a building a stone’s throw from the original banker’s mansion. The drawer had a fake bottom, indicated by the unnatural thickness of it, and she broke the frail wood board half by accident. It appeared that the precious keys had been distributed to different employees of the treasury once, and would only be joined when their owners came to work. Which would happen never again in this age.

Where did the other workers live then? Was there any way to tell? Likely not, without first locating a list of them, complete with their home addresses. And such documentary had, with high probability, been reduced to dust ages ago.

Izumi shoved the key into her pocket without ceremonies.

Suppose the best I can do now is buy some time.

Her hands were tied, but the same didn’t apply to Faalan. She could only trust that the professor would grant the hero the opportunity to investigate the pyramid closer, and fulfill their objective before it was too late.

But if Lady Luck was not on Izumi’s side today, neither was Time.

Less than six hours had passed since they’d begun their search, when Gronan’s voice suddenly interrupted them, carrying through the linkstones in startling clarity.

“Ms Adventurer. Have you had any luck with the keys yet?”

“Well, we did find one,” Izumi confessed, holding up the curiously shaped platinum item.

“By Rhudik’s beard, am I glad you didn’t find more and not tell me! One is all we need now. Come back to the vault as soon as you can make it.”

“Uh, sure.”

It seemed their time was up.

Concluding the quest unfinished, Izumi and the bard departed down the central stairway to the pillar hall. In the eastern end, the crew of barbarous bankrobbers were impatiently waiting for them. The drill had gone quiet. Four of the six locks were broken, one unlocked with a key. So hard was the metal that it took several hours, numerous breaks, barrels of cooling water, and changing of drill heads to pierce them through. The news of the discovery of another key was therefore received with joy and relief—though cautiously so. The keys might have been all different and could only work on specific locks, likely making this one useless.

Fortunately for them, that was not the case.

The second key was identical to the first and fit in the sole remaining lock with ease. The mercenaries cheered and congratulated themselves. There was nothing stopping them now.

“Pull the drill back!” Gronan commanded.

As soon as the heavy, steaming machine drill on its bipod stand was dragged out of the way, the men began to unwind the valves, and turn the handles. Loud, deep clicks rang out through the masses of titanium and stone, indicating that the last lingering sealing mechanisms were becoming successfully undone.

Still, the door was a formidable obstacle on its own, due to its sheer mass.

The team bound ropes to the valves and other suitable surface elements, others grabbed crowbars, and together they began to wrench open the unlocked entrance, exerting all their available might. But though the Dharves’ strength was nothing to scoff at, the task wasn’t so easy. Over the long centuries, moisture had seeped down into the most microscopic cracks and lines, and frozen, like countless small wedges, adding difficulty to the operation. Moreover, the metal frame itself had contracted, making it a tight fit for the door.

But the explorers had Hrugnaw the Crulean with them.

Impatiently telling the others to move aside, she went and grabbed a wide hold across the door with her large hands, and employed the irresistible might of her immense limbs, which were like rock themselves. And she pulled.

“HNNNGGGGRRRRRHhhh!” the beastly mercenary groaned aloud, and the spectators shuddered at that inhuman show of might.

The door resisted the best it could, but not for long. It let out an abrupt, shrill creak, akin to a maiden’s surprised scream, and jolted quickly outward. Then, offering no further noise or defiance, like on buttered hinges, the titanium cylinder started to turn outward with disturbing ease compared to earlier, allowing them to wrestle it wide open.

The onlookers found themselves staring into a circular cavity in place of the door, like a vertical manhole opening, a dark eye into unknown.

“Bring light!” Gronan requested, picking up his discarded ore lantern.

Gubal and Marcus dragged a larger floodlight they had salvaged from the industrial district, and set it up at the entrance, to point into the space extending beyond. As soon as they were done, Gronan leapt nimbly over the threshold and passed into the vault, the others following shortly after him. Half bracing herself for a major disappointment, half for some malicious trap, Izumi shifted in along with the rest.

Disappointed she was not.

The explorers thought nothing would surprise them anymore. Not after everything they had seen in this wondrous capital of the ancients. Yet here, in the range of their lights was painted one more astonishing, mesmerizing miracle by the Eylians of yore.

There was a long room, or a hall, roughly ninety yards long and twenty wide. It was indeed a treasury, as everyone had hoped and believed, and nothing anti-climactic or silly. Not by any means. Neither was it already robbed, or emptied by the migrants, or otherwise spoiled, but completely pristine, precisely the way it had been a thousand years back.

Inside the vault was not some haphazard pile of pots, cups, and trinkets, a carelessly discarded fortune, where priceless jewels would lay amid scattered coins, gemstones, and ownerless accessories. It was no random dragon’s hoard, or a bandit cave.

The stone floor spanning the length of the hall was completely clean and clear. Instead, there were great, glass-covered shelves of fine wood lined along the walls, as well as in tidy lines in the middle, and all the valuables were stored in those shelves, sorted with the strictest order and hierarchy, guarded against outside air, dust, and greasy fingers.

By the left side wall was money. Stacked in arrow-straight columns in velvety recesses were gold coins, hundreds upon hundreds of them. They occupied several shelves along the hall, and were followed by identical displays of silver coins, though even more numerous. A grand collection of copper coins there was as well.

Closer examination revealed that the money was all of immaculate quality, without a single scratch, fingerprint, or a blemish, as though they had never once been released to circulation.

“They weren’t just collecting the stuff,” Marcus breathed in amazement, looking at the shelves closer. “They were making it.”

Most of the human lands used the same type of currency, but nowhere close to all of them today had the means to produce new money. Ancient coins were still perfectly valid in modern trade, so long as the metal in them was genuine and correctly measured, and the exact origins of each piece were oftentimes a mystery. There could be no question now that once upon a time, Eylia had been one of the major printers of money on the continent.

Not all the metal around was in coins. On the shelves further in were also ingots. There were hundreds, thousands of ounces in gold, silver, and bronze, but ahead were also others, some of the elements unknown to the less educated and people from other worlds.

“See this? Pure dimeritium,” Aft said to Izumi, taking out a dark gray ingot from the shelf and weighed it on his palm. “It’s so heavy for its size, you wouldn’t believe it!”

“And what’s this?” Izumi asked, holding up a block of pale, mirror-clear metal with a slightly creamy hue, hard but lighter than steel.

“Let me see,” Aft requested and took the ingot from Izumi. Picking up a short knife from his belt, he drew a line on the side of the ingot. Or tried to. Not a scratch showed on it after he wiped the side with his thumb, but the tip of his knife was dulled. “By granny’s mulberry pie—yep, it’s orichalcum.”

They looked at the wall of ingots in front of them.

“My old man would tell me there was only about this much of it in the whole of this planet, and most of it still unearthed,” Aft said and laughed aloud. “Seems we’re going to have to tweak our estimates a little!”

“It’s valuable then?” Izumi asked.

“Calling it ‘valuable’ would be an understatement. This pile alone should be worth more than all the gold in the room. And boy, is there some of that.”

“I...think I may have to sit down for a minute,” she exhaled, feeling lightheaded.

Across the room, by the right side wall, Waramoti was looking at something else.

“Is that what I think it is?” he asked Till, who was busy examining the diamonds in the shelf near the bard. Embedded into the crimson velvet surface of the wall, on the level of the minstrel’s eyes, was a deep red, oval-shaped stone with darker lines running across it, like veins.

Till briefly raised his face, the jeweler’s loupe glued to his left eye, and answered,

“In case you thought it was a ruby the size of a griffin’s egg, then yes. Yes, it is.”

“Bleeding Hel,” the youth mouthed. “You don’t suppose I could get that as my share of the treasure? I wouldn’t need anything else.”

Instead of getting upset, Till only laughed at the bard.

“Lad, it’s just one ruby,” he said. “You’d be selling your share too cheap.”

For a time, they were all lost quietly wandering between the shelves, spellbound, marveling at the fantastic riches. It was no longer a matter of paying for one expedition; what they had found was likely enough to buy an entire kingdom, or two.

Going deeper in, the selection was beginning to seem downright insulting, as if the ghosts of the past were flaunting their wealth in the visitors’ faces. There was a natural hunk of rock, about the size of a cradle, split in half, revealing inside a cluster of enormous emeralds, pure green as summer pasture. There were opals like bowling balls, shining deep blue as a Pacific lagoon, with cores pastel pink like roses.

On the displays near the middle of the room, Izumi saw various crafted accessories, necklaces, tiaras, wristbands, neck guards. Wreaths made of paper-thin, silvery leaves, indistinguishable in shape from their natural models. Decorative masks shaped of ivory-like bone and white gold; ebony and red gold. Gauntlets of dark silver, beautifully engraved with astounding detail. Brooches with great gemstones attached, fit to adorn immortal queens. And much, much more.

Among these things, her gaze was drawn to a dazzling ring, bearing a flowery decoration of diamonds cut in the shape of petals, bound together by fine threads of platinum. It was a blossom acutely capturing the eternal winter of the arctic, a peerless work of craftmanship and art. Hit by the faintest ray of light made it brightly sparkle in white.

It was the ideal wedding ring, in every respect.

Izumi took the ring from the case and fit it on her left hand finger, thinking no one was looking, and held it up against light. How it glittered and shone! Being given such a thing would have made her the happiest girl in the world—perhaps, once upon a time.

Now, she couldn’t even fantasize having such a bliss for herself. Her tough, wrinkled, bony fingers were an ill match for such a delicate treasure.

A little tight for me...But might be just about right for her, I think.

Unwittingly thinking so, the heartache Izumi had nearly forgotten over the past days returned to her in slashing clarity. Biting her lip, she hurried to take the ring off.

What am I imagining? I’m no one’s Prince Charming. Not even passable for a villainess. No one in the world would be happy to receive such a thing from me…

Izumi started to put the ring back in its case. But there she was interrupted.

——“Take it.”

“Eh—!?” A low voice coming from her right made Izumi jump out of surprise. She turned her head and saw Gronan staring back at her with his dark eyes. When had he appeared there? She hadn’t noticed at all, being so occupied by her fantasy.

Izumi looked back at the man, confused.

Against what she had expected, there was no accusation in his expression or voice, no anger over her fiddling with the grand treasure that they had come to claim for the good of Dharva. Looking closer, the expression in his eyes was slightly less wrathful than usual. Almost gentle, even.

“Put it in your pocket,” Gronan told Izumi, as he passed her. “It’s yours, if anyone asks.”

He was neither jesting, nor trying to flatter her. His face made it clear he saw no special value in the ring, and giving it away could not even be called a gift in his opinion. If anything, he felt simple pity for one, who could show such a face of joy and longing over a mere trinket, and knew no better.

“Thank you,” Izumi whispered to his back regardless, overcome with earnest gratitude.

In this brief moment, that ring had already turned into something more for her than mere metal and stone. Frivolous as it sounded, even in her own ears, the accessory had come to embody her hope for the future, a chance for something better, and deep within Izumi’s heart was yet a maiden who needed such things to live.

Meanwhile, Gronan kept walking to the back end of the hall, where the search had reached its conclusion. Marcus stood there by the wall, admiring a breathtaking crown set on a pedestal, under a glass cover, apart from the other items. The jewels embedded onto the white gold frame appeared to amplify the light cast upon them, making the crown give off curving, rainbow threads of dazzling iridescence.

“A crown fit for the King of Eylia,” Marcus told him. “Only one here may wear it. Will you claim that right? Will you bear the burden of it?”

Gronan stared at the crown with a sullen face, before answering,

“We should be looting the halls of Bhastifal, not the houses of our own ancestors. We can’t buy the Empire into oblivion. Without our freedom, I’d be no King, but only a clown with a stupid hat. And I’d sooner wear a pile of shite on my brow than become another poser on their lap.” Then, bringing his voice down, he added, “It’s not here, Marcus.”

“We’re running out of places to look,” Marcus replied with a grimace. “And not so much as a mention of it so far. Are you absolutely positive it even exists?”

“Of course, it does,” Gronan spat. “It’s the reason why we exist. It’s as true as I am, and there could be no one without the other.”

Marcus made his internal struggle obvious on his countenance. It was not often that he argued with his lifelong friend, and he didn’t want to do so this time either. But the more sensible side of him, cultivated through age, now insisted him.

“Gronan,” he said. “Please consider what we have now. We’ve found enough to bring prosperity to our people—under Tratovia or otherwise—far to the foreseeable future. No tyranny ever lasts. Sooner or later, the Empire will fall under its own bloatedness, and it’s we, who shall outlast them. If not you and me, it’ll be our children who will get to taste freedom again. And it should be our job to see to it that they endure as far, and learn from our mistakes. Is this not so?”

Gronan listened to him quietly.

“Your words are no doubt wisdom,” he then replied. “And I know I should listen to them, if I were sane and knew my own good.” Then, the glint of cold fury returned to his gaze and he continued. “But I’ve lost my wit. It was robbed from me in Sernanno, torn from my skull with such force that I could never hope for its return. The future and children of Dharva may depend on men like you. But that is the very reason why I’ve come here, so far from our people and homes. Here, in this ever-frozen Hel, I will find whatever madness it takes to lay low our enemies. I care not to what abyss it should take me, or what cost it will demand thereafter. And why are you here, if you ever disagreed?”

At this, Marcus could only bend his gaze down in resignation.

“I vowed to follow you, Gronan. To whatever end. That was the madness of my youth speaking. But though I am only an old man now, I shan’t go back on my word. Let us be off then, us madmen. To whatever doom your fury has seen fit to summon for us.”

2

Slightly earlier, at the beginning of the sixth period, the previous trio of Siphis, Weller, and Tuberkan were freed from their watch at the antechamber by a fresh crew of men. Tordith, Orik, and Vikland weren’t half sorry to interrupt the treasure hunt in the gloomy ruins. The day dragged on and their initial excitement over the luster of gold had long since been replaced by the fatigue for hauling it around. The three mercenaries welcomed the chance to rest their legs and settled at the cylinder chamber without further ado, putting down their backpacks and crossbows.

No one had prohibited the guards from making themselves comfortable and they had done just that. The previous watchmen had brought in stools to sit on, a barrel for a table, and pelts for warmth and cushion. There was a canister of drinking water, and they’d set up lanterns around the room to improve the lighting too. Orik dug out a pack of cards from his pocket, and the warriors ended up gambling the hours away, betting percentages of their treasure for added excitement.

By this point, nobody paid much attention to the statue.

The central platform was high enough so that one wouldn’t normally even see the grotesque apparition sitting down, unless he twisted his neck to an unnatural angle. Every once in a while, someone would glance up nonetheless—not for any rational reason, but simply out of an instinctive, inexplicable suspicion that somehow slipped through the layers of rational denial.

But the repulsive effigy continued to stand with unwavering diligence.

Of course, what else would it do? It was only a statue, after all.

Keeping watch here was a duty that failed to justify itself in every possible regard. Yet, even after the treasury was opened and the others began to empty it, no word came for the three guardsmen to come down. It was as if they had been entirely forgotten.

Not that they minded all so much.

A good game of cards was infinitely better than running up and down those stairs.

“Think it’s true?” Orik suddenly asked, nodding at the statue. “What the stories says about them?”

“What?” Tordith raised his face and replied with a blank look.

“That they can change shape. That they can look like anybody they want?”

“It’s bullshit,” Vikland replied without doubt, slamming his exchange card onto the barreltop.

“Why?” Orik asked.

“Hel,” the warrior replied, “if I could look like anything I wanted, I sure as fuck wouldn’t look like that.”

“Fair enough,” Orik had to admit and they fell quiet.

For a moment, only the sound of cards could be heard. But now that they got started on it, the topic continued to haunt Tordith. He tried to recall what he had heard at school decades ago, the myths that he hadn’t put much stock into, even as a boy, but which had seemed morbidly curious anyhow. Wasn’t Eylia itself no less a legend but a few weeks back? Yet here they were, playing games in a city lost a thousand years ago. Everything Tordith had taken for granted in his life had begun to seem less certain lately.

“Did they really kill the elves?” he asked. “Chased them out of their lands?”

“How should I know?” Vikland remarked. “I ain’t read a book in my life.”

“Faalan seems to buy it,” Orik said.

“Whatever Faalan believes doesn’t mean it’s true,” the former retorted. “Not like he was there to see it either.”

“But the elves told him, didn’t they?” Tordith argued. “He lived as one of them.”

“Maybe they lied?” Vikland shrugged. “What do you care?”

“Sure, not like it’s got anything to do with us,” Orik concurred. “And, by the way, Tor…”

“What?” Tordith stirred.

Orik faced him with a wide grin, and spread his cards onto the barrel.

“Looks like you owe me another slice of the cake, brother.”

“Son of a bitch…!” Tordith stared at the cards, forced to admit his defeat. His fourth tonight. It didn’t look like mere bad luck anymore, and neither did he think him being such a bad player was the only explanation. He bounced up, throwing his cards down. “Should’ve known better than to gamble with a shark like you! How come you keep winning with your own deck!? You—you’ve marked the cards! Asshole!”

“Now, now! Don’t get upset! It’s just a game,” Orik calmed him, and not even his beard could hide the coy grin on his face. “I’ll let you off the hook this once! If you go and get us another bottle.”

The Dharves hadn’t counted on finding liquor in the ruins, but neither had they planned to go thirsty. They had brought a barrel of wine along, and the watchmen had already downed a bottleful by now, requiring a refill.

“How downright merciful, yer lordship…!” Tordith complained, but ultimately conceded. It was no short distance to the base camp, but maybe not long enough to give up more of his share of the treasure. Better work his legs than pay up, and he felt like he could use some fresh air.

Grabbing his crossbow, Tordith pulled his furred cloak tighter on and left the chamber. He climbed the stairs up to the puzzle gallery, and up into the Capitol building. He strode across the entrance hall, down the stairs to the southern avenue and to the base camp by the Shrine.

The clouds had cleared on the way to nightfall.

The sun was about to set and twilight had shrouded the surface city, save for the Shrine, through the many openings of which warm light continued to shine. Rawround’s appraisers were eagerly waiting to get started with listing the treasury’s contents.

Further behind, in the field kitchen, Joort and his assistants were preparing dinner. Tordith stepped casually to their storage by the building’s north wall, looked up the wine barrel, refilled his bottle, and started the trek back. He spent most of it trying to think up strategies to beat Orik in his game, and reclaim the share he’d lost. Maybe he could form an alliance with Vikland? The true challenge was to come up with a sign that the daft axeman would understand, but their foe wouldn’t. It was likely too much asked.

Descending the stairs again, passing through the puzzle chamber, then down some more stairs—careful, so as to not stumble in the dark—Tordith finally got back to the antechamber, and gave another reflexive glance to the daemon statue as he entered. Only briefly. It was much too unsettling for the eye to linger. The abomination stood alone on its pedestal, giving its unpleasant greeting to all visitors, soundless but daunting.

Tordith’s feet halted mid-step, and he looked again.

The statue was gone.

Long and hard he stared at the top of the stone platform, as if expecting his gaze to eventually, through sheer persistence, force through whatever sudden ailment hindered it, and show that his observation was a fantasy. To no avail. Lamp and candle flames danced on the walls and the slim pillars, leaving no room for such a staggering optical illusion. Where the mass of dust-coated stone had stood for all these days was now a lot of nothing, and nothing but. Emptiness of dizzying dimensions, which made the whole room seem much bigger than before.

His breathing growing heavier, Tordith circled around the platform. Along the way, he came across another alarming discovery.

On the floor lay a dead person.

Dazed, Tordith crept quietly to that husk of a man, to see who it was, but identification proved harder than expected. Whoever it was, he was doubtless deceased, a corpse. A man murdered and mutilated, torn apart with brute strength and claw, leaving behind only mangled remains. In the limited light, the dead man appeared to have brown beard and short hair, similar to Orik. Then again, on his left ear were three silvery piercings, a bit similar to what Vikland had, though Vikland’s beard was darker. The clothes of the deceased were covered in thick splatters of glistening, fresh blood, and it was such a mess of tattered fabric, ruptured flesh, and entrails that it got hard on the eyes. The only fully intact part were the legs from the thighs down, clad in the expedition boots, and all of the men wore the same type.

Shaking like a malfunctioning robot, Tordith raised his face.

Up ahead, around the barrel, sat Vikland and Orik.

They had started another game and were picking cards off the deck, one by one. The two of them were both still alive and in good health by the looks of it. Then whose corpse was it there, on the floor? How could this maddening vision be explained?

Of course, there was only one plausible answer, and it soon emerged in Tordith’s befuddled awareness.

While he was away, either one of the two had stepped out after him, and during that brief window, the daemon had killed the remaining person and assumed his looks, just as described in the legends. Now, one man sat there gambling with a monster, while blissfully unaware of the truth, failing to notice the statue’s absence in the dark.

Which one of them was the killer then? Tordith stared hard at the two men, trying to spot a difference, any difference, that would help him identify the daemon and save the other.

“What’s this?” Orik said with a laugh, showing his cards. “You’re somehow even worse than you were before!”

“Shut your mouth,” Vikland grunted and folded.

Then, Tordith ran out of time to think. As he stood there, locked in this mind-bogging puzzle, the other two happened to notice his return—and then saw the corpse at his feet. They swiftly drew their own conclusions on the matter. Both men sprang up to their feet, aghast, clutching their arbalests and took swift aim at Tordith.

“Wait!” Tordith yelled and raised his hands up, recognizing his questionable position. “It wasn’t me! I didn’t do it!”

“Oh, not you, was it!?” Orik retorted. “Not how it looks to me, demon!”

“I only just got here from upstairs!” Tordith argued, raising the wine bottle in his right hand. “See? It’s got to be one of you two!”

The others weren’t so easily convinced.

“Did you pick that off his corpse?” Orik asked, brandishing his arbalest. “Like it proves anything!”

“Listen to me!” Tordith pleaded for his life. “I swear, it is not me. Did either one of you leave this room, while I was away?”

The two wouldn’t immediately answer him.

“Well, did you!?” Tordith repeated, confused by their vague reactions.

“…You did leave,” Vikland then said, his gaze shifting to Orik. “Right before he showed up.”

“Well, to take a leak, yes!” Orik admitted. “I was gone for barely a moment! And why the fuck are you telling him that!? He didn’t need to know it! Unless you’re the one and trying to screw me over! I see how it is! You’re not the real Vikland, are you!?”

Orik turned his crossbow at his companion, who swiftly mirrored his reaction.

“You son of a bitch, what are you playing at, pointing that thing at me!” Orik yelled at him.

“Why, I’m defending myself against liars and monsters, that’s what!” Vikland retorted and tightened his hold, looking increasingly ready to fire. He may not have had a way with words, but he was a man of action, as both of the others well knew. That is, if he even was a man anymore.

Since neither of them were presently aiming at him, Tordith seized the chance to drop the bottle and quickly equipped his own weapon.

“Stop it!” he exclaimed, approaching them. “Don’t you dare shoot him—either of you! Nobody shoots anybody! Whoever pulls the trigger on the other, I will end him, this I swear!”

“Took the words right outta my mouth!” Orik retorted. “Put the fucking stickshooter down, now! I’m faster than you are! Don’t you dare test me, whatever you are!”

“Listen to yourself!” Tordith shouted at him, aiming at Orik. “You’re playing right into its hand! There’s got to be a way we can make sure who’s who!”

“Aye, there is, and I’ve made sure!” Orik howled in return. “It’s fucking Vikland! He’s not even making it hard for us! I mean, look at him! Look at his face! He’s the one! We’ve got to get him before he gets us!”

“Oh, think you’re going to shoot me, you fucking dog!” Vikland stepped closer in anger. “What is so wrong about my face!? I know what you’re after, you filthy trickster! Think you’ll have one less sucker to share the treasure if you ghost me! Well, not this sucker, you won’t!”

“Stop!” Tordith switched his aim to Vikland. “If you shoot Orik, I will fucking kill you, man. I mean it!”

“In your dreams, you will!” Vikland remarked. “I say, bring it on! I can take on both of you milkdrinkers! Put down the toys and we’ll duke it out, like real men!”

“Aw, you’d love that, wouldn’t you!” Orik retorted, his face red with anger. “Have us put down our weapons, so that you can butcher us like you did the real Vikland? Well, it’s not going to be that easy! You wanna make a mess of me? Make a mess of this first!”

Orik’s finger tightened on the crossbow trigger. Tordith saw it.

“Hold it!” He hollered at the top of his lungs, turning his aim at Orik’s face. “Don’t you do it, man!”

“Why are you still standing up for that freak!?” Orik yelled back at him. “You let him flay me like that shitbag on the floor, and you can bet you’re next, you fucking retard!”

“Shut up!” Tordith replied, turning his eyes to the other man. “Vikland, if you want to prove it’s not you, then put your damn shooter on the ground—do it now! This is your last chance!”

“I’m not taking orders from you!” Vikland replied with defiance. “I’ve got nothing to prove to you, coward!”

“What more proof do you need?” Orik howled. “Shoot that creep, Tor, right now!”

“Shut up! You’re shooting no one!” Vikland yelled. “I shoot you!”

“You stupid fucking idiots,” Tordith turned his bow around again. “Can’t you tell it’s trying to turn us against each other!”

“Of course, I know that!” Orik interjected. “I’m looking at the thing in action! You’re preaching to the monster, you dumbfuck! Now shoot him already, before I have a fucking arrow in my face, for fuck’s sake!”

“AAAAAAAH IT’S NOT ME!” Viklan hollered, pushed over the limit of his tolerance.

A nasty, sharp flap rang out, as one of the arbalests was fired. It was Vikland’s. His bolt hit Orik dead in the chest and pierced through his chainmail and torso with ease. Orik stumbled back, firing in retaliation, but he tripped over his stool and his aim was all over the place. The bolt hit only the wall, rebounding harmlessly over Tordith.

Witnessing an indisputable, unjust murder take place before his eyes, all Tordith could do was retaliate against the culprit, as per his word. He crouched, taking swift aim, and fired, hitting Vikland in the eye and dropping the large man where he stood.

In a heartbeat, it was all over.

Nobody moved. Tordith stood alone in the chamber, surrounded by corpses.

“—SHIT!” he screamed, trying to catch his breath.

He felt dazed and faint. His arms and legs trembled for the shock of mortal combat. He dropped his used arbalest and clutched his knees for support, trying hard to think. His own clansmen were both dead. How could he ever explain this to Gronan? And which one of the two had been the daemon? Was there even any way he could tell?

Tordith knew he should contact the others by the linkstone right away, but he hesitated, knowing his own precarious position. They might not believe his explanation about the statue, but assume he killed the two over a gambling argument. The law was clear. He who kills his clansmen, his brothers, will get the capital punishment. Was there any way he could prove his own innocence, that he was forced by the circumstances?

—?

Then, all such considerations vanished from Tordith’s mind.

He heard strange sounds coming from behind his back. Weird, dragging noises, like something heavy scraping against the floor. Alarmed, Tordith turned around and saw, to his boundless horror and revulsion, the unidentified corpse wrestle itself up from the floor. That mass of bloodied flesh and torn clothes lifted itself upright on its legs as if nothing was wrong, then to turn its shredded face at Tordith. It was quite close to his own height and build, and he suddenly realized that it might have been his own corpse he was staring at.

All reason and understanding left Tordith then.

As much as the vision horrified him, he was unable to tear his eyes away from it, even as it took a step forward and approached him. Forgetting all about himself and his fate, time or place, Tordith’s profound confusion finally overwhelmed even his fear, escaping his trembling lip in a frail voice, seeking in vain an explanation.

“What the fuck are you?”