Perhaps the hardest thing about death is that it tends not to happen on anyone’s schedule. You’re never really ready for it, sure, that’s true enough (even if Figo had been sick in his bed back home, his situation deteriorating one sunrise to the next, none of the mercenaries could ever claim to really be ready for his passing). More often than not, though, death comes out of the blue. To make matters worse, it comes when life carries its own demands, for Life and Death rarely communicate on these matters, and they certainly never stop to consider the myriad of demands on a mere mortal, whose very existence their perpetuation relies so heavily upon. As an example, Figo’s own father had passed, somewhat unexpectedly, whilst the young hunter had been selling pelts at the market, to make money for the family. This meant that they would have food, and this, in turn, meant life. As is so often the case, Life made demands that Death was either oblivious to, or unsympathetic of.

So it was, that, even as Figo’s body retained some of the warmth of Life, and all of the pain and sorrow of Death, the two gods conspired to test the mercenaries still more. The test they sent this time, came in the form of Tulcetar, and a host of guardians of The Order. It was for this reason that scholars still challenged the existence of the aether gods of Life and Death, for all other gods were powerless to do anything but doggedly maintain and uphold the delicate Balance of the universe. Only Life and Death ever seemed to laugh in the face of this balance. At least, that’s how it felt when you were a young man, cradling a dearly departed friend who had travelled with you much of your life, waiting for your demise to come thundering down the paved paths of Eifen Square, ready to return you to the aether.

“We have to go,” Lydia said, firmly, but not unkindly.

“We can’t go,” Gabriel answered immediately.

“If we don’t go, we’ll die.”

“We can’t leave him.”

“We have to.”

“He wouldn’t leave us.”

“I’d have convinced him to,” Lydia said with certainty, “Tulcetar is coming for blood. He won’t care how much has already been spilt.”

“I’m not afraid of Tulcetar,” Gabriel said defiantly.

“You should be. I am.”

“You’re not afraid of anything.”

“He’s a mage, Gabriel. I’d be stupid not to be afraid of a mage. Even if he wasn’t, there’s the best part of an army out there.”

“We can defend ourselves.”

“Stabbing one guy in the back doesn’t make you a warrior, Gabriel,” Lydia reminded him.

Gabriel scowled, but he didn’t deny it, “Go if you want to. I’m tired of running.”

“Are you tired of living?”

He almost answered that.

“Wait a sec, where’s Vish?” the captain asked, squinting into the darkness for their very own, red-robed maniac.

Vish hated death. Figo was gone, and that was shit. Staring at his lifeless corpse was not going to change that. He didn’t honour the man by looking at the flesh he had once inhabited, a mind-mapper knew that better than anyone. No, he would stick his finger up at Death, for sure (Vish could always be counted on for that), but he was going to do it in a different way. He was going to do it in his way, controlling what he could control.

The mind-mapper stooped over in a puddle of dark, almost pitch-black blood, “Heeey there, buddy. How are you feeling?” he cooed.

“Not… Not good,” Kyk sputtered out.

The magrain was blinking furiously, instinctively aware that the next time he closed his eyes, it would be the last time.

“Yeeah, not going to lie, you’ve looked better,” Vish informed him.

“Is it bad?”

“It’s pretty bad.”

Kyk turned his bulbous head to the side, offering him up a view of Bryce, whose body was locked in the grip of his end.

“I’m sorry, Vish.”

“You were pretty stupid.”

“I didn’t know what to do.”

“I know.”

“It was all confusing.”

“I know, buddy.”

“I’m sorry about your friend,” the magrain said, turning back to the mind-mapper.

“That wasn’t you.”

“But I was on the wrong side again, wasn’t I?” he sounded angry at himself.

“It’s never as simple as people say it is.”

Kyk nodded, “Just… Just tell them that Kyk was… Kyk was a good moron… a brave moron. Even if he was a stupid moron.”

“Magrain,” Vish corrected.

“Whatever.”

Vish snorted, “Yeah, whatever.”

“Is it time? Am I going to die now?” Kyk said, his voice strained.

“Maybe not,” Vish fished around inside his robe.

“What does that mean?”

“Well… how do you feel about crickets?”

Elsewhere, men of The Order were tearing through the park, ripping through bush and branch to find their quarry. They were single-minded, unquestioning, ravenous for their prey.