The stuff they fed Dimia dulled both mind and muscle. She welcomed the numbness, an escape from the litany of atrocities that had been the black sum of her budding life—but a deeper part of her resented being subdued and tied down. That inner dragon fought everything and everyone and that was to include herself. She was strapped to a bed by her captors in Stowerling's infirmary.

"You are to remain here for a while, lambling," said her custodian, a graying woman named Erstule. She put her wrinkled hand on Dimia's brow. "If only I could take you back with me to Greydalk." The woman's palm was soft from lotions and her wrist smelled of fragrant herbs. Dimia breathed in the bouquet of aromas. Nothing ever smelled more like home... other than the butchered pork that sweltered on the spits of the soldiers in the yard. Dimia felt guilt at the pleasure she took in that smoky smell. Erstule ran her hand through Dimia's hair and a calmness overtook them both. An ancient chord struck between child and caretaker. Dust motes drifted between them. The muted sounds of men outside shouting and readying to make for the front lines sounded a world away. "You'll be safe," Erstule said. "We'll find a home for you. The Nation takes care of its children."

"What of my friend?" asked Dimia. "Bramble. The..." She didn't know quite what to call it.

"I am told little," said the nurse. "I believe the thing has been sent to Camshire. For study."

"So he's still alive?"

"If that's the word for it." Erstule looked puzzled. "So you mean to say you were not the monster's hostage?"

"He isn't a monster." Dimia looked off at the other patients and caretakers. Many had been brought here after being wounded in battle with wounds most grievous. Some had died in these beds.

A medic across the room saw that Dimia was active and came to her side. He was young but his eyes were not. "I'm told you're the one who survived Marrow. We thought..." He stepped closer. Splashes of blood on his apron. "What's your name, little one?"

"Dimia," she said.

"Yes, Dimia," said the medic. "I remember Halo mentioning your name. You should know he fought hard to get back to save you... but there just wasn't enough time."

Dimia was reassured by this news. "I understand. Where is he now? And who are you?"

"Erstule," said the kind man, "please go ahead and make the rounds. I'll stay with Dimia for a while." Erstule patted Dimia's hand and left them alone.

"My handle's Shroomer," the medic said to the orphan. "Not my favorite choice but I guess it stuck. I'll tell you why some other time. I was on Halo's Reaper team. Knew him very well."

"Is he dead?" Dimia asked. "You keep saying 'was.'"

A flash of emotion on Shroomer's face. The question caught him off guard. "No. He, ah... had to go on an important mission. National secret. But I'm sure we'll see him again soon. Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?"

Dimia considered. "What's going to happen to me now?"

"I suspect they'll send you to Camshire," said Shroomer. "Far from this war zone. Find a new home for you. There are many places there for lost boys and girls like you."

"Where did they take Skelen?" Dimia asked.

"Forget him," said Shroomer. "He'll spend the rest of his days in chains, if he isn't dead already. You're young, a whole life ahead of you. Don't let the past consume you. It will eat you alive."

— • —

Shroomer made sure the girl was comfortable and left her to return to his duties. He had been ready after the Battle of Fort Nothing to strike back out with his brothers in Team 3 but those plans were changed when Stowerling began to overflow with the wounded and the brass decided he was needed more here in this hour of need, where casualties flowed in from multiple fronts. The Reaper's hands were kept full and bloody with the endless influx of injured and dying men from the lines of battle. He saw familiar faces in the deluge of broken men that were processed through Stowerling's understaffed infirmary. Among these had been Captain Alphonsis and some of his men. Team 3 had met this company of Nation soldiers on their journey between Marrow and Fort Nothing. Spent some time with them. Smoked dogweed and traded tales. The regiment had been on their way to hold Itchmoor and now Itchmoor had been lost to the wasters. The wounded soldiers spoke of the terrible hobgoblin forces that leaked from the broken pass at Fort Holdt like daemons from some hellish portal. The barbarians of the wastes beat upon giant runed gongs that instilled sorcerous fear in the hearts of those enemies who heard their clang and instilled berserk fervor in the gob warriors themselves. The steeds of the Erumanir were enchanted to rise from the dead once killed to continue carrying their runesworn riders into battle.

The Nation took every measure it could to combat the relentless crush. They learned that the elephantine hofru that carried the enemy cavalry were frightened of flame and, absurdly, pigs. And so the humans released droves of living swine and unicorns lit with fire squealing into the enemy ranks. It worked for a while, sending their mounted fighters into chaos. If only Marrow still had its barns full of pigs to be devoted to the cause. Perhaps it would not have mattered. The tactic did not last long. The Erumanir slaughtered their own steeds and made them undead to strip away their fears of the hogs and the burning. Some of the warriors had even runed their own bodies to rise again after death, bereft of mind or soul. It was difficult to war with those who twice could die. But men like Alphonsis and his soldiers fought valiantly. The Nation gearsmiths had provided them with all forms of modern weaponry and vehicles never before seen. In this war for survival all the greatest minds of the realm conspired to invent more efficient ways to slaughter. No longer reserved just for galleons in naval battles and the ramparts of their greater forts, massive cannons were hauled in pieces across the countryside by horses and oxen and woebeasts to be reassembled and turned inward against the invading hordes. Even Fort Nothing's walls and towers had been dismantled and the wood and stone repurposed into war machinery. The carvings of Rooster's old desk had been embedded in the hull of Stowerling's flagship cannon. They named the great gun 'Admiral Rooster's Revenge' after the gray commander himself.

As one wounded man told it: "We hauled The Admiral—or 'Old Red,' as he was painted boldly in that color—through miles of mud to rain murder on Fort Holdt at the pass. Those same walls we once had defended, we now sought to shatter. Them ramparts had been infested with the piss-drinkers, anyway. We'd never scrub the stink out. Better to bring it all down and the wasters along with it. We plugged our ears with clay and stuffed rags into our mouths to keep the cannon's mighty shock from shattering our teeth together. The cannoneers fired and I damn near felt my feet lift off the ground in the wake of it. Bells rang. Was like my soul knocked loose from my body and then snapped back to me again. That first blast fell too short of its mark. Tore a great channel into the earth instead of hitting the fort proper. The seigesmiths cranked Old Red's aim higher and fired again. And again we all rattled. Closer, but still not enough. They did it again. And again. I felt my brain get stupider with each blast. Could only imagine the horror of the wasters in that fort, if they even felt such a thing, and the human civilians we were almost certain they still held... hearin' each shot gettin' closer like the footsteps of a vengeful giant. Pure doom. Finally we hit, and the wall came down. It was like a dam burst. A river of gobs flowed. And then a river of blood. And then one had its toothy face in mine. His mace hit my skull and it all went dark."

Every tool at the army's disposal was put to use in this desperate hour. The troops were now being supplied with 'god biscuits,' Shroomer learned. This was an about-face on the brass' position regarding the use of these dangerous drugs by their men. It was true that the potent rations gave the troops an edge they needed over the zealot hordes. Those little wafers were fine-tuned by the Nation's alchemists, dried and compressed and concentrated, to allow the soldiers to fight for hours without sleep—so long as they kept on taking it. This was no croakweed or dogsnuff, which simply served to calm the nerves and excite the mind. Nor was it anything like the psychedelic fungi that Shroomer himself had been named after. There were of course many types of such natural psychotropics in the wild but certain ones had overwhelmingly positive applications in the right time and setting. He had made his own breakthroughs with the help of such aids through crises of conscience that came with his bloodstained career as a Reaper. Though they did dull a man's thirst for war, something the Diluvians surely did not prefer. Unlike those innocuous drugs that could enrich and enlighten, these manufactured 'god biscuits' seemed dangerous to the medic. They gave a man the speed and strength of a demigod for a short while but in the long stretch it left only a twitching and drooling mess. Its long-term ill effects on the body approached that of sorcery itself. Perhaps the Nation decision-makers simply didn't care. The soldiers were dying by the scores already. If this alchemical boon gave them the edge they needed to stay alive and even win the war, they surely reckoned, it must be worth the sacrifice. But when the war was over and these troops were left with nothing but these wounds and scars and addictions... would the Nation take care of them then?

— • —

Tusk hung in his cell by lengths of barbed chain and thornvine. His wrists and ankles worn to the bloody whites, bone exposed. Ready for Aoh's powerful salves to restore the tissues for the renewed tortures of the coming day. Wretched Tecneli now stood before the Reaper, holding a squirming bundle of cloth in his emaciated arms. The painsmith stepped closer to Tusk, his own horrid face joining all the others upon his robes in the torchlight. Hobgoblin flame-bearers watched on with malice from the recesses. Tusk tried to keep his eyes from landing on the tattered face of his dead comrade Risper on Tecneli's robes. Instead he fixed his gaze on Aoh, who stood behind the painsmith. The bloodnurse said nothing but Tusk could sense a growing despair in her soul. Her eyes kept going to that writhing bundle. The Reaper had an unsettling guess as to what was hidden within.

Tecneli spoke to Tusk in the Nation tongue: "You know of Ixhalal, the Blind Prophet."

Tusk did, of course. This was the cleric, dubbed 'Orchid' by the Nation brass, whom he and his Reaper brothers had been searching for when Team 3 infiltrated the nomadic waster camp called Edsohonet. His teammate Scratch had died there in the hunt for that elusive zealot. Tusk bore shame for his own part in that dark day's happenings. He'd even managed to leave his dagger behind in that place, which the enemy used to deduce the Reapers' involvement in the slaughter—and eventually helped lead them right to Fort Nothing's doorstep. This same weapon now hung at Tecneli's belt, inches away, mocking the ranger along with Risper's skinned visage. Perhaps a shamed part of Tusk's mind wanted to leave that bladed clue in that camp's ashes as a means to serve penance for the crimes he and his brothers had committed there. And elsewhere, in their bloody careers.

"Yes," Tusk answered, "I know of the Prophet."

"Do you know of his fate?"

"No. Nothing."

"Do not lie," said Tecneli. He pulled aside the cloth in his arms to reveal a human infant, its tiny hands and feet waving in panic. So vulnerable and soft. Upon seeing its bearer's terrible countenance the child began to horribly wail. Those helpless cries pained Tusk more than any previous injury inflicted by his keepers. Tecneli took the Reaper dagger from his belt and held it to the poor infant's body. "Speak honestly, human."

"We looked for the Prophet at Edsohonet," said Tusk. "Never found him. That's all I know." Could it be that the Blind Prophet had finally been taken down? And, if so, did that mean that Fort Nothing had been victorious against the hobgoblin siege? Tusk felt a renewed desire to be free of this evil place and return to the side of his comrades. "Please... spare the child. It's so innocent, so weak. It needs care. Love." Raw emotion poured from him, distorting his words. He looked to Aoh, feeling something stir within her. "Tell them," the Reaper said to Aoh in her tongue. "I not lie. You know, you feel."

"Yes," Aoh said. "I can sense it in me. He knows nothing."

Tecneli scoffed and handed the child to one of his afterlings. "See this grub is returned to its cradle of nails. All of you, leave us."

Tusk was overcome with relief. The child was spared, if only for a moment. The hobgoblins turned and began to depart the room. Aoh cast a final glance back at Tusk and then she was gone as well.

But Tecneli lingered. Watched the others leave and turned back to face Tusk with an ominous glare. The robed waster drew close to Tusk and put the Reaper knife to the captive's neck. "Tell me, Reaper. Why does the Prophet go to such lengths to see you dead?"

"I don't understand," said Tusk, feeling the tip of the blade dig into his flesh. One flick of the painsmith's emaciated wrist and his life would be undone.

"No difference," said Tecneli. "All that matters is that he wishes it."

Tusk closed his eyes and braced himself for his coming death. The sweet release from this hell. Instead he heard a soft voice. A savior. "Tecneli."

It was Aoh, back in the doorway. Rubbing her own neck, feeling the same pinch of that blade. She carried her medicine bag in her other hand. "Set-Satemi wants the prisoner kept alive," she said to the painsmith. "I must see to him."

Tecneli sneered and pulled the blade away. His robe of faces made a horrid swishing as he strode out of the room, his plans temporarily thwarted. Aoh went to Tusk's side. Fed him crumbs and gave him water. The Reaper saw a single black tear break from the bloodnurse's eye and roll down her pale cheek. She wiped away the bead. Said not a word. Nor did he. The animalist could feel through his twinning runes that the illusions Aoh had built in her world-view over her dark career in these halls were splintering and now threatened to break, flooding her soul with unknown emotions. The bloodnurse was on the brink of a deep crucible within herself, a plunge off a cliff into an abyss unknown. Perhaps Tusk could help her along to its edge.

— • —