It took just shy of two hours for the Rat-kin to gather once more, finding their Priestess in the middle of brushing the fine dust of spent HDMs from her all-black armour, looking regal atop her obsidian Afaa al-Halak.

"… You're all injured—" Gwen's face twitched as her mind drank in her mischief's vitality. "And your numbers are reduced. What happened? Strun? Stian? Ix?"

It took a great deal of will to stop her face from showing her fatigue. She hadn't even managed to find a solution to the "living" arse of the Sand Wyrm yet, and already the rats that she had risked her life for were diminished? Were it not for the image of an almighty, undaunted Priestess— she would have transformed into Yue there and then.

"We made it to Shalkar," Strun spoke in place of his grandfather, who wore his arm in a sling and was bandaged all over with filthy rags. "The Centaurs in the fortified encampment refused to let us enter. Then, when we tried to find shelter in the shrubbery outside the oasis, we were beset by the Qasqir Clan."

Gwen refrained from biting her lips. That her Rats travelled directly to Shalkar had been her directive. By her count, they were only sixty kilometres from their goal, and if Strun knew the landscape well enough to lead his people through goat-trails and parts of the shallow-Murk, a single Death March was more than sufficient.

"They refused to let your people enter?" Gwen asked as she searched her memory for mentions of this Qasqir Clan. Finding only vague memories, she motioned for Stian to come forward. "Before you answer, what are the Qasqır Clan?"

"Wolf-kin." Stian nursed his cracked lips.

Gwen raised both brows as the name clicked, recalling the conversation with Bekker. Wolf-kin were not Lycanthropes, who lived closer to where the Vampires made their home as racial foes. Instead, these were Beast-men like the Rat-kin, a variant of the dog-headed Kobolds. "Don't they range to the east and the north? Where Gora Boboiob rises and the deserts end?"

"We do not know." The pair of rats shook their heads. "Much has changed since we last returned to the steps. From Karagandy to Almaty to Semey, all the flatlands were once the domain of our people. Many parts remained contested until we lost our numbers and had to flee west. By then, our options were to perish by the hand of the Elementals or seek the protection of the Horse Lords."

Gwen grimaced. She could imagine the despair of a two-thousand kilometre Exodus ending at Nukus, only to realise that there was no Jerusalem nor salvation, only thirty years of slavery.

"Tell me about what happened at Shalkar," she implored her band of rats, then slapped her Familiar on its shiny hinny.

Surrounded by swirling motes of Void and with her eyes glowing vividly viridescent, the Devourer of Shenyang once more bestowed the boon of Death March. Now that the "Priestess" had recovered her wits, she once more possessed the mental fortitude to fine-tune the flow of Vitality from Cali to herself and the Rats. It was a necessary act, for Caliban's stowed vitality felt like a dam threatening to spill. Thankfully, the mechanisms for the floodgates provided by Life-Link, combined with the mass of bodies offered by Death March, were enough to exercise the desired effect.

On cue, Strun, Stian and her Centurions blazed with eerie emerald light, eventually passing the effect onto those with descending Essence-ties.

Gwen cocked her head.
Why did her mischief look so bleeding _fiendish_?
Understandably, the effect should possess the aural and optic verisimilitude of Al's genesis aura, considering the source of Gwen's Essence was a primordial bringer of life in a land of death. However, with the Shamanistic sorcery and Necromantic Sigils working into the process, she felt like the Overlord of a Void-worshipping vermin tide.

"Blessed Priestess!"
"Hail the Priestess of the Afaa al-Halak!"

Excess vitality did not equate to quick-healing, but it was enough to lift mood and add stamina, elevating the morale of her mischief to a reasonable standard.

"So, Shalkar?" Gwen dispelled a prophetic vision of ten million rats swarming over the Steppes, hoisting glowing green banners and screeching for SPAM. Still, squaring her shoulders, she assumed an imperial air, then persisted in her query. "Tell me everything."

With the new vitality burning in their bodies, her Centurions spoke at once.

"Strun! "Gwen hand-waved the others into silence. Lacking the omniscience of a real God, she couldn't understand the collective voice of her whiskery worshippers. "You first."

"Beloved Pale Priestess." Strun fell to one knee. "Allow this one to speak of the injustices visited upon your flock..."

Gwen listened wholeheartedly to the story while keeping half a mind on the "living" body of the Sand Wyrm that remained thus far dormant.

According to the Centurion and his peers, her Rat-kins had taken a trail Strun used to traverse the desert safely in his occupation as a Shadow Runner, taking advantage of their endless stamina to cover the distance in just under three hours to reach Shalkar.

There, with the oasis in sight, the rats had emerged into the light of the watchtowers, hailing the guards with peaceful intentions.

What met them was a flurry of arrows that would have harvested a least a dozen rats if it not for their improved vitality.

Choosing to give the guards another chance, Strun, Stian, Ix, and a few others lit the Day Light Globes from Gwen's survival kits, then presented themselves once more, shouting that they have come at the order of the Khan.

A second volley of arrows came from the dark, this time with far more intent, near-taking their lives were it not for Strun's knack for danger.

After that, the Rat-kin retreated a distance to discuss how they would proceed.

The meeting never took place, for the three thousand rats huddled in the valley between two jutting plateaus, hungry, exhausted and tired, were ripe for raiding by the incoming Qasqiri wolf pack.

"The Qasqir numbered about three-hundred," Stian spoke with a pained solemnity. "We fought them the best we could, but the Wolves are born warriors, more so than we. Us Centurions could match one or two alone, but their pack tactics were beyond our ability to defend against."

"The Wolves slaughtered indiscriminately," Strun cut in with an expression of pain. "They will come back for the carcasses, but in a hunt, their prerogative is to kill as many as they're able until the pack grows exhausted and has to retreat."

Around them, the Rat-kin grew silent.

"We realised there was no hope within the confined space of the valley, so we lured them into the open desert, where the Afaa al-Halak nests lay..."

Strun then spoke of how the mischief retraced its steps, leaving behind a trail of bodies. It wasn't until a pack of twenty-odd Qasqiri warriors misstepped into the larval trap of a Sand Wyrm and perished that the wolf pack relented, leaving the rest of the rats to escape, hiding in yet another badlands canyon until they saw Golos flying overhead.

Gwen's jaws grew grim. "How many did we lose?"

"Two Centurions, Domi and Wex," Stian spoke before his grandson could. "And eight hundred and forty-two kin. The other mischiefs were luckier. Though harassed by surviving Harpy Vultures, their losses were within reason— about four hundred among the three packs."

Gwen's self-congratulatory euphoria from besting the elder Sand Wyrm evaporated.
Twelve hundred rats!
Mother of Christ! Her bunched fists struck Caliban so hard a blurt of grey goo squirted onto the sand. After all that! After everything she did, she lost over one-tenth of her flock?

And eight hundred of them! EIGHT HUNDRED!
Lost for no good reason other than— than what?
She had no idea.
Her rats had no idea.
Albeit she had a good idea which Horse-headed bastard would pay the price.

"I see." She dipped her chin at her rats. "Rest up. We will deal with matters here, and then I shall accompany you to Shalkar to air your grievances. There will be justice, mark my words; no horse shall go unpunished."

Her creatures gave thanks. She walked through the camp, comforting her flock and offering manna in the form of rations and pallets of SPAM, then called Golos to her side. Now that she was recovered and her rats were convened, it was time to inspect the spoils.

After "lunch", it took the healthiest of her rats another half-hour to excavate enough of the buried Sand Wyrm to reveal the portion that had escaped Caliban's ravaging hunger. Its frontal facade had already scabbed over with pink flesh, though from what Gwen could see, there was no telling if the thing was capable of regrowing itself entirely like sliced Flat Worms she once saw on Youtube.

Of course, the Afaa al-Halak was no minute flatworm; even the tail-end of the monster she had fought was forty-plus meters or just under the length of half a football field. Its circumference was likewise imposing, measuring some six to seven meters wide. Considering that this was where the Wyrm's "waist" tapered off into a narrowing tip, Gwen could only imagine how the creature would have looked if laid head to tail in plain view.

After a thorough inspection, Stian, the oldest of the Elders, stated that records existed which spoke of this particular strategy used by the Afaa al-Halak. In the days of yore, when "Big Birds" still ruled the skies and the Rat-kin and other predators were plentiful, a distressed Wyrm would break off segments of its lower body as a "tribute", allowing its head and torso to escape into the depth. It was a strategy that worked well, though this was the first time Stian had ever heard of a behemoth-sized Sand Wyrm performing such a feat, leaving behind at least two hundred years of segmental growth.

"Stand aside, slaves!" Golos commanded the rats.

The meek rodents obeyed without delay.

"YARRR!" With Gwen and her Familiars watching, the Wyvern swung its tail-club, striking the shell with the sound of a hammer hitting a petrol tanker. The surface cracked, as did the layers beneath.

The arse-end did not retaliate.

However, undulating movements from the mutton-jade flesh beneath the shell visibly contorted, growing a new under-layer.

"There's no Wyrm inside." Her Wyvern sniffed the giant section that was almost as tall he was, then tapped the shell. "Here's an idea, Calamity. Why don't you claim it."

"Can't fit living things in the Rings." Gwen shook her head. "And it's too big. I guess we'll have to get the rats to dice it for Wyrm steak."

"FOOL!" Her Wyvern huffed in her general direction, forcing her to dodge the globs of sparking spittle.

"I said you must CLAIM its flesh, silly Calamity!" the Wyvern gave her the most disappointed look. "Have you not been usurping the bodies of others by polluting their Essence since your invasion of our mountain?"

"You mean—" Gwen put two and two together very quickly. "You want me to feed this thing Al's Essence?"

Golos' feathers bristled. "If your Fiend is insufficient, then use your Soul-claiming sorcery while this segment's Astral presence remains fragmented!"

"Oh— Soul Tap?" Gwen looked to her next victim.
Though horny, a broken Gogo was right twice a day.
If she wanted her ultra-rare loot to be anything other than meat, then the best course of action was to make use of it somehow. Earlier, it hadn't occurred to her to claim the still-living arse because the butt, if revived, could be more dangerous than a livid Gogo.

But what if she Soul Tapped it?
The thing was alive, so it isn't Necromancy.
It also possessed no free will. Hence there was no ethical dilemma.

Gwen wetted her lips.
And if Soul Tap worked, then Hallelujah.
If it didn't, or if the body died outright from shock, then she still had a mountain of meat.
The situation was win-win, and she was a girl who liked winning only a little less than she hated losing.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"You don't want to… have a go?" Gwen eyed her Wyvern in case Golos was looking to use the tail for evolutionary purposes. "Is there a Core inside?"

"I do not desire a minion that crawls," Golos declared with complete confidence. "And no, though it should generate one if you revive it. Else it will remain dormant until a new one forms."

Gwen snorted. If Gogo got lonely enough, she wouldn't put it past the Wyvern to start to take an interest in the perfectly cylindrical Sand Wyrm. "Alright, step back."

Gwen drifted closer to the pink, puckering flesh, then placed a hand against the pulsing tumour.

She spoke the invocations in a low, nefarious tone suitable for the dark purpose, flooding her eyes with obsidian mana so that her aura grew ghastly and her appearance gothic. Different to her usurpation of Snut, she shifted a significant portion of vitality from her bloated Caliban, maximising the potential of her spell's penetrative invasion into the Sand Wyrm's Astral Body.

"SOUL TAP!"

The final Svartálfar syllable of the Dark Elves' unique sorcery left her tongue as a coil of shadow. The air around her formed a hollow depression, warping the space around her figure, drawing out that which was immaterial and quintessential.

Gwen sensed something akin to a tendril of heat leech from the Sand Wyrm's incorporeal existence into herself, flowing down into the well of her soul to mingle with her Astral Body. The Essence was muddy and possessed a wilful touch of the Draconic, though the moment its rebellious body sensed Almudj's Essence, it grew pliant and placid.

Was this the natural supplication of a lower Draconic Essence to a higher one?
It was an interesting thought that belied the assumption of free will in Magical Creatures— if so, was this a manifestation of existential "Chain of Being" unique to Elemental creatures? Or was anarchy distinct to Humanity?

In the time it took for her to masticate her thoughts, the incomplete "Soul" ripped from the remaining half settled, becoming one of the many layers of sediments in the stratum of her Astral Body.

"Okay." Gwen withdrew her hand. "Now what? It's still a blob of meat."

"Are you not the Calamity?" Golos directed her eyes to the taller of her rats, her dear Ascended. "The Kirin says you usurped a rainbow-hued feathered fiend while you were living in the Western Empire?"

"Ah, Dede, yes." After so long, Brown had ceased questioning the fact, and Dede had settled down as a staple feature of Emmanuel's College. From what she had gleaned, fighting the duck to gain access to the Old Court was now a part of the first year's initiation ceremony. They had even given the practice the name "Slaying the Drake", though arguably, a more accurate title would be "How many first-years could Dede fleece if First Years did have fleece?"

Grinning, the Thunder Wyvern patted the Sand Wyrm's "butt" with a clawed wing.

Observed by a ring of Centurions and their followers, Gwen gingerly laid a hand against the pink, puckered flesh wound there, where the Wyrm's gut would have closed up in its bid to escape the Hydras and the lampreys.

She closed her eyes, then worked what little Essence she had collected through her conduits before forcing the viridescent energy to gather on the palm of her hand.

The flesh beneath her palm pulsed until it grew soft like a marshmallow, then enveloped her hand.

Fighting the instinct to withdraw her limb, Gwen sent a warning to Ariel and Caliban to assist if necessary, then continued to release her Essence into the rotund segment of flesh.

Slowly, her arm sunk to her elbows.

Inside, she could feel the susurration of the Sand Wyrm's flesh absorbing her Essence, kneading her fingers, gnashing her dainty digits. Perhaps Golos should have tamed this creature; an obscene thought came to mind as she gazed at her Wyvern, who was staring back with dumbfounded anticipation. When she refocused, her arm was down to her shoulder inside the Sand Wyrm; any more was undesirable. Any more, and she would have to feed it a Void Bolt.

One because it had sucked her Essence drier than the Sawahi.
Two because she was the "usurper", not the other way around.

Abruptly, the nudging of her finger ceased.

Could the thing read her thoughts? Gwen wondered. To test her hypothesis, she commanded it to eject her hand.

To her fascinated horror, the mindless lump of meat did precisely that, pushing her hand outward until she could extricate her limb out of its limy, oozy orifice.

For a few seconds, she stared at the calcifying goo, wondering how she should next proceed.

Then, as the Sand Wyrm began to quiver, something in her Astral Body informed her of the transmutation at hand.

"Out!" She commanded her rats. "Everyone! Get clear of the trench!"

The Rat-kin were experts at traversing the sand with their lightweight bodies, successfully clearing the dig site as the Wyrm began to turn its body.

Gwen, Golos, and her Familiars held their breaths as a plethora of gurgling, shifting flesh and re-organising organs resounded from inside the enormous sushi roll.

Two minutes.
Ten minutes.
When close to twenty minutes passed and the flesh continued to churn, Gwen resolved to sit once more on Caliban and meditate. Meanwhile, her rats returned to their units, leaving only four of her favourite Centurions to attend to her questions and needs. Whatever the future held for the regenerating Wyrm, it would take time for nature to traverse its new course.

In the interval, Gwen questioned Stian and Strun once more regarding matters at Shalkar, concluding that she would attend to the garrison in person. From their collective tale, she did not doubt that the Centaurs there were responsible for the loss of some eight hundred lives for no good reason. Despite the implied diplomatic alliance, she wasn't opposed to teaching these arrogant colts that actions have consequences and that every slight against the Devourer of Shenyang would elicit an equal or greater reaction.

It took eight hours for the Wyrm flesh to settle into its new form.

At its conclusion, the peace of the impromptu Rat-kin encampment evaporated as the earth-shaking body of their Priestess' new super heavy-duty earth-moving equipment came to life.

Golos and Gwen, joined by Ariel and Caliban, watched their Wyrm take in its bearings, stretching its new form. Compared to the original Sand Wyrm, the creature's nouveau appearance was very distinct.

"… It has… two arse-ends?" Her Wyvern was impressed, mistaking that Gwen had remained displeased with the Sand Wyrm and so decided to create a creature that was an Ouroboros of butts. "Calamity, your cruelty knows no limits."

"Thanks, Gogo." Gwen studied her new minion, recalling seeing such a creature in Australia when she had studied at Sydney Tower. In a continent inundated with deserts and badlands, the Down Under likewise possessed a facsimile of the Mongolian Death Worm. At any rate, considering that her Essence was arguably thrifted from Almudj, an Aussie Land God, it made sense that the "usurped" flesh with the mutated Essence would manifest as fauna from down under.

Therefore, the double-arse ended Sand Wyrm wasn't a practical joke taken too far, but rather a local species named the Shingleback Shale Wyrm. It was a creature that possessed the surreal means to traverse forward and backwards, with both ends capable of "tunnelling" with equal ease. Of course, it had only one head, and its butt-end still dispensed Elemental Ooze when required, but its unique physiology could indeed fool the casual observer.

"Hello there!" Gwen raised a hand in greeting.

"GUAARRRP!" The enormous tri-petal maw opened, made a sound like blowing raspberries, then shut seamlessly. Unlike the variant in Australia, her creature remained a Sand Wyrm, possessing no eyes.

Was that a "Hi?" Gwen simultaneously spoke and thought aloud. "Can you understand me?"

"GARP!" More splutters darkened globs of sand. In this regard, the Wyrm resembled an early Cali.

Gwen floated closer.

The overlapping scales of its mouth parted, distending a thigh-thick tentacle in pink, covered with thorny white growths that resembled the teeth-daggers she had seen in the mature parent of her "young" adult Sand Wyrm.

As its Soul-linked Master, Gwen implicitly understood the Wyrm's desire. Extending a white hand, she produced what little Essence she had managed in the last few hours, then allowed the tongue to wrap around her hand and fingers. Though her Wyrm remained immobile, its taste organ was fully mobile and wholly prehensile.

"That looks like a—" Golos' voice possessed a tone she recognised.

"—Gogo, shut it," Gwen warned her Wyvern, then turned back to the happy Wyrm. "What do you want, Wyrm?"

"Garp!" The wriggling Wyrm barked.

"It says it wants to follow you," Golos translated, affirming her imperfect, empathic understanding. "Well done, Calamity, you've tamed a Wyrm of the Sawahi."

Then, for whatever reason, Golos' last words were spoken so that her followers could also understand. Instantly, eruptions of "Priestess!" and "Wrangler of the Afaa al-Halak!" "Whisperer of the Black Worm" resounded from the crowd.

The resulting tremor from thousands of rats was enough to send the Shingleback swinging for the dunes, where the Rat-kin fled before its cresting head, breaching the lip of the dune like a frigate.

"Hey-hey— Oi!" Gwen floated just out of range in case the sudden movement of the giant Shingleback swatted her like a gnat. "Wyrm! Obey me! Stop! Rats are friends."

"GARP!" The eyeless Shingleback Wyrm barked with what she hoped was an affirmation. Below its belly, its scales bristled, sending its freight train body effortlessly up the trench to coil atop the sandhill.

"Strun, Stian, get the mischief to stay at a safe distance," she shouted at her Centurions. Once the Shingleback settled, she drifted closer, feeling its amicable feelings transmuted through their soul bond. Calling the creature "You" "Oi", "Wyrm" was a hassle, Gwen decided, thereby offering to give the Wyrm a name.

"How about—" Golos said a rude word that inferred "brown log" in Draconic.

Gwen glared at her Wyvern until he ceased his stupid "Hur-hur-hur—"

"How about Sandy?" she said to the Sand Wyrm. "Ariel. Gogo. Cali. Dede. Sandy."

Gwen felt pleased with Sandy. She was, after all, terrific at naming things.

Golos grimaced. "At least use Draconic, Calamity. I think it would prefer 'Turd' at this rate."

The Shingleback shook its head, steadfastly refusing both "Sandy" and "Turd".

"GARP!"

"How about Garp?" Golos informed her. "It's low-Draconic for… stone."

"Garp— According to Garp," Gwen cited a rather famous novel she was partial to from her old world. Garp the Sandworm was no John Irving, but if it wanted to name itself after a titular protagonist with a staunch feminist as a mother, who was she to fight fate? For a monster that looked the part of priapism personified, the name was apt. Indeed, if anything, Garp was a genius for choosing the name, even it didn't know it. "Very well, your name is Garp."

"GARP!" With her holding onto a literal portion of the creature's soul, her Shingleback could only agree wholeheartedly.

"Good, good." Gwen nodded, seriously pondering the PR potential of Gwen, Gogo and Garp, marauding across the sand, the "three Gees" of the Sawahi, legends sung by the bard Peaches.

"Garp!"
"EE-ee!"
"Shaa— Shaa—!"
"Another slave for the Calamity!"

Her minions greeted the newest addition to her menagerie.

After relaying the Shingleback to her Rat-kin, the Prefects managed to worshipfully beckon the Wyrm to dig a defensive trench around their encampment four meters across and three meters deep.

The mischief prayed as the Afaa al-Halak passed. A few of the Elders wept bitter tears for a vision their progenitors could have seen.

Gwen's glee lasted until the following daybreak when she fully recovered her mana pool and some Essence. In the golden hour, watching the dull glow of a thousand Maxwell's Camp Heaters suffuse the Rat-kin's open camp, her mind once more shifted toward the betrayal at Shalkar.

"Strun! Stian! Ix! Skaz! Prefects!" Once the camp broke fast, she motioned for the rats to ready themselves. "Pack the supplies! We make for Shalkar!"

The Rat-kin hailed her with a mix of salutes, bows and kowtows, quickly reforming into ranks.

"GARP!" In the distance, an armoured Tunneling Engine raised its eyeless head.

"Garp! To the east!" she commanded her newest minion, growing pleased when it began to fluidly traverse the compacted sand with the ease of a carrack slicing through open water. Commanding Cali to follow and Ariel and Golos to scout, she cautiously landed on the Shingleback's head.

The Wyrm's velocity couldn't match her flight speed, but neither were her rats any faster. Besides, she had no reason to rush, for the Centaurs weren't going anywhere.

"Clamber up the sides," she permitted a few of her favourite Centurions to join her, naming those having exhibited the highest ardour for public service to mount her tamed worm. "Learn to work with Garp, for it shall be your guardian in the future; in my absence, it will protect our people from the Wildlands."

And if things go well, Gwen surmised in silence, Garp held infinitely more untapped potentials.

Her Prefects obeyed with misty eyes green with worship.

Gwen turned her Essence-infused eyes to the fore, enjoying the iconic moment of a popular science-fiction made real by her sorcerous efforts, savouring the rare, meta-textual moment.

Several hundred meters later, Golos circled back to intercept her sand-surfing Wyrm.

"Calamity..." The Wyvern said without expression. "Shalkar is to your right."

Shalkar.
The Sawahi Desert.

The oasis at Shalkar wasn't large, but it had been a staple waystation for travellers through the Sawahi basin for aeons, possessing a deep and near-endless aquifer sheltered by a tiny opening no larger than a block of flats. Around the oasis, a dense wall of palms, olives, apricot and fig trees had been cultivated by Rat-kins from generations past, though all had been left to ruin by the Centaurs who used the oasis only as a walled watering hole.

Around Shalkar, thanks to its uncharacteristic inundation of Elemental Water, shrubbery and scattered trees dotted the oasis's surrounding for kilometres, providing shelter against the Afaa al-Halak, whose young shied away from such Elemental compositions, preferring the deep dunes of the inner desert.

But Gwen did not have eyes for Shalkar's rare beauty. Along the way, her resolve grew strengthened by the carcasses of her Rat-kin, scattered like rag dolls, strewn about the sand and the badlands like plastic cups in the aftermath of a frat party. The fallen she had ordered her Rat-kin to collect, consigning their remains to the Void, playing her part as their make-belief Priestess.

Closer to Shalkar, Gwen sent out a dozen of her Centurions to find the Qasqir Clan's dens, then floated atop the tallest of dunes overlooking the oasis to gain vantage over the low-lying "Billabong".

Seeing the Centaurs milling about within their private paradise in their sheltered barriers, eating melons and drinking what passed for wine, her anger simmered like the summer heat on golden sand, distorting all thoughts with her undisguised bloodthirst.

"Bastards..."

Undoubtedly, she would get her Rat-kin the justice they deserved, but first, she would show the Khan one last respect, considering the Horse Lords and the Mageocracy's alliance. Either way, those responsible would pay— but as a collective, the unaware may yet survive.

Making no show of hiding the rats now lined up as a sea of refugees westward of the oasis' "fort", she took her time walking down the dune, Stain and Strun on either side, slowly approaching the twin watchtowers with their slanted platforms for the horsemen's easy entry.

At a distance from the entrance, she channelled mana into a Clarion Call to declare without ambiguity that she was the "Emissary from the Khan," in charge of these "Tasmüyiz", victims of the Elementals' devious, diseased designs. As the nominated Mingat of the Khan, she demanded immediate command of the outpost and that the Centaurs "vacate" lest they become vectors for the Blood Fever's spread.

_PING! PAK—!_

Arrows clattered against her invisible shield, turning the barriers milk-white.

Gwen closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. In the next few moments, more arrows and even a pilum of "fifty people" made their purposes known, turning her complexion paler than the fat under Garp's armour.

"Mistress..."
"Priestess..." Strun held a recording device in one hand. The Lumen Recorder Richard had argued she should keep in her Storage Ring always blinked as it took in the scene with its crystalline eyes.

"Pack it away," Gwen commanded her Prefect.

The footage was no longer of use, for she no longer anticipated witnesses. Simply put, there were insufficient Centaurs to match the losses suffered by her whiskered paw-pals.

"Gogo," she commanded her Wyvern, who was already salivating over the prospect of horseflesh. "Go knock."

_TINK! Pak—PING!_

With every other arrow bouncing off her shield, her resolve amplified. Her Babulya once said that she would walk the Path of Violent Reckoning. Unlucky for these Horse Lords, Klavdiya Song was a very, very foresightful woman.


Strun of Jildam hung by the tail in the shadow beneath the evergreen palms, camouflaged by the innate craft gifted by his grandfather's training.

A bowshot away, the Horse Lord's fort burned blue with thundering spellfire.

Lord Golos, a disciple to the Pale Priestess of the Dark Wyrm, was thoroughly enjoying himself at the expense of the Rat-kin's former Masters.

Uphill of the oasis, Strun's kin watched the spectacle below. Half of the Centurions had offered to join the fray, but it was self-evident that there was no need— for the difference in power was simply too great.

How strange, Strun realised as he licked his cracked nose. For so long, he had thought the Horse Lords some higher, nobler existence— insurmountable in their power and grand in their majesty. Ever since he was a pup, he had looked up to these magnificent specimens of Demi-human dominion, whose legacy stemmed from the Golden Khanate of yore.

"FOR TEMIR KHA—"

Not far from Strun, a desperate cry for honour ended with a resounding splatter of meat and bones on apathetic sand.

The Shaman Sigils protecting the gold-clad Jagun shattered from a single blow from Lord Golos' tail, dissipating like a puddle of blood-tinged water. In the next moment, the Wyvern's implement passed without impediment, as though the Centaur's powerful body was air, sending up a cloud of pink mist, leaving only the horse-half.

"HA!" With a swish, Lord Golos swiped his supper aside;
poignantly, Strun recalled that the Wyvern had been grumbling for horse flesh since the Badlands.

Pilums from the Jagun's guards struck, leaving no more than white marks against the Wyvern's brutal, lightning-charged armour that melted the iron spearheads.

In retaliation, the Wyvern accelerated. The horses scattered too slowly, and with little to no effort, the top half of an unlucky Centaur lifted into the air, where Golos shook him like a doll, then toss the inert body at his despairing companions.

Seeing that their efforts against the Wyvern were fruitless, the survivors refocused on the Pale Priestess, thinking that perhaps killing the Mage would banish her creature.

Strun had to circulate vital energies to his abdomen to avoid bursting into laughter and falling off the palm frond.

Drawing their curved blades, the Horse Lords charged the Priestess, who even now leisurely strolled with his grandfather with the air of an Elder inspecting a campsite. More pilums were lunched in flights of fanciful futility, clattering off her shield, then just as the Centaurs thought they were within reach—

Lord Caliban burst from the sand and transformed itself into a seven-headed Wyrm, the likes of which Strun had never before seen. In a flash, its bloated form snatched up the closest Centaurs, invading their screaming bodies with rope-thick tongues that penetrated the Shaman's protective blood haze as effortlessly as poking through wet paper with a sharp claw.

The rest attempted to flee, then was caught by an abruptly materialising wall of swirling, inky blades that reduced the riders to mince.

At the horses' renewed despair, Strun's body flushed with spine-tingling thrills. As he swept the battlefield, he noted that another squadron sought to flee by abandoning their kin. If discovered by the Khan, it was an act that would warrant a slow and very public execution.

"Lucky fools," Strun mouthed to himself.
Not because the fleeing Centaurs could escape, but because it was infinitely better to die by Lord Garp than by Caliban.

The Rat-kin held his breath, counting to ten. The fleeing riders made it just to the outskirt of the oasis when the ground turned to quicksand, miring their hooves before Garp's enormous head burst from under the herd, taking the trapped patrol in a single swing. In its wake, a natural trench some seven meters across and half as deep ensured no other survivors could pass where the Sand Wyrm marked its territory.

"SCREECH—" Strun raised his head, perceiving in his Essence-fuelled vision that an Eagle-kin, the messengers of the Khanate, had chosen this precise moment where Lord Golos was distracted to flee.

Strun did not cry foul, for the Priestess could not hear him amid the fulminating chaos of Lord Golos' passing.

"EE—EE!" A piercing screech from the invisible Lord Ariel sounded, its watchful eyes keeping the foes below captive.

No less than eight orbs of foe-seeking Lightning from the divine Kirin's horns instantly surrounded the Golden Eagle-kin, reducing the scout to a cloud of flaming feathers burning the same blue flame as the fort below.

Just as Strun fought down another urge to howl in triumph, something within him tingled, igniting the Essence within his wiry frame.

The time had come.

His Pale Priestess now called upon the great tide of her whiskery worshippers, turned the hills emerald with bubbling Essence, buoyed by sympathetic bloodlust.

It was now the Rat-kins' turn to vent.

Such was the generosity of their Priestess.

Such was the Rat-kins' retribution.

Gwen hovered above the oasis, watching her Rat-kins form into overlapping circles of raggedy fur, the mischief's loci centred on the southern shore of the brightly burning billabong.

The fort's sole survivors sat in the inner ring, consisting of a stallion, a mare Shaman, and her entourage of three Şöpter slaves. The stallion was the oasis' administrator, a Centaur who had hid with the women instead of fighting. Now, the horseman knelt with the trembling women, his pale complexion and glossy fur oozing sweat, as though already in the late stages of the Blood Fever.

Not far from the docile prisoners, Golos picked his way through a pile of horse carcasses, an act that turned Gwen's stomach for reasons she self-censored. She had forbidden Ariel from taking part, offering her creature a generous pile of HDMs in place of the meaty spoils. As for Caliban, her serpent sat as a worshipped idol among the Rat-kin, enjoying their undisguised adoration.

Immediately outside the ring of rats, Garp slumbered, digesting its meal of Centaurs as a dozen volunteer Rat-kin crawled over its body with trowels and picks, working the old and loose scales, harvesting materials for protective equipment while "massaging" her Wyrm. Between the water and the undulating Shingleback, the rest of the mischief busied themselves digging semi-permanent residences, knowing that in life or death, Shalkar was now their home.

Flying here and there, Gwen set her Warding Glyphs, Alarm Barriers and Faithful Hounds at the edge of the oasis, then looked to the horizon, hoping to see a few familiar silhouettes.

By her count, it was their eighth night since leaving Nukus.

Assuming her Magisters did relay her Message, Elvia should have gotten her request for immediate aid. If she imagined that her Evee took a day or two to finish her Clerical duties, then another few days to prepare, she should be expecting her very soon. Likewise, as she and Golos had erased most of the aerial threats between Nukus and Shalkar, Elvia and her entourage should have met with no impediments.

If so, where was her Evee?

Gwen glanced at her gathered Prefects and the ring of Centurions sharpening their claws at the Centaurs and their Şöpter slaves.

She felt a little less sad that Evee was late.

Though she missed Elvia, it was best that a Knight Companion of the Ordo Bath was not partner or witness to what she had next planned.

Soundlessly, Gwen landed in the circle's centre.
As she descended, eight thousand pair of eyes converged on their black-clad deliverer.

How had she wound up here? Gwen wondered as she activated her Desolation Aura's lowest-tier domain. What happened to buying a beach house in Sydney and getting two cats? Ever since Hengsha Island and Tonglv, she had intermittently wondered about her endless tangent from her initial goal.

Since when had a business consultant become so comfortable in donning the mantle of judge, jury and executioner?

The Gwen of old felt a little horrified.

But the true horror was that in her present world, her mentors and family had patted her back, applauded her decisiveness, and given her titles and accolades for the fact, a stark opposition to say, throwing her in an asylum for possessing megalomaniacal delusions of grandeur.

Yet the script was sound, the costume fit, so the Gwen of now happily played her part.

"You." The Pale Priestess of the Rat-kin stood on air, looking down upon the Horse Lords and the Şöpter slaves, addressing the stallion draped in an embroidered administrator's tunic. "What is your name?"

“Kokochu of the Kindum Clan, son of—”

"Why did you prevent our entry?" Gwen cut the horse's sophistry with a wave. She had no interest in lineage, only answers.

"These Tasmüyiz are diseased." The Horse Lord faced her with admirable courage and stoicism. "My men are healthy and untainted."

"Irrelevant." Gwen shook her head. "You knew that before we got here."

"You've brought too many of the Tasmüyiz." The Centaur's eyes scanned the horizon full of furry bodies. "We'll never be able to feed them."

"I left Nukus with more than this." Gwen's voice grew grim. "There would have been eight hundred more were it not for your foolishness."

"The lives of my Nokud riders take precedence," the Centaur replied. Perhaps Kokochu could not read human expressions, or mayhap that's how the Centaur thought; whatever the case, the candid words of the Horse Lord was enough to make Gwen grit her teeth until her jaws hurt. "Lord Mage— Allow this one a chance to plea. Desiring the safety of my men is not a violation of our Khanate's laws, nor is leaving the Tasmüyiz to their fate."

"Nor is their casual slaughter, so what?" Gwen took a deep breath before she could speak again, becoming reminded of Strun's mother. When she found out that the Rat-kin's mother was the one who had triggered her sympathy, she had felt overwhelmed by unfathomable repression. "These are eight hundred Tasmüyiz, Kokochu, not eight hundred bales of hay."

"Hay would be more precious. Even if we left, sorceress, how can we return when we might be infected? The filth would have left their diseased corpses at every watering hole and shelter between here and Nukus." The Centaur grew in confidence.

"The Khan gave me the oasis, gave these Rat-kin the oasis." Gwen kept her voice level. "I was there when he gave the word. So you dare to contest Temir's command?"

"Never. That is why the Tasmüyiz may rest around the oasis." Kokochu smiled cautiously. "But they may not approach the water, for they may contaminate it with their fever."

"They are not safe around the oasis," Gwen retorted. "There are Wolf-kin hereabouts and other predators like Harpies in the skies. Besides, they need water."

"The Tasmüyiz's weakness is not our concern." Kokochu's attitude grew dismissive. "We are sons of the Great Khan; they are the Tasmüyiz. Such is their lot in life, what they choose for themselves. As I have said, there is no law, nor lore, that prevents a Nokud from denying a Tasmüyiz. If you would let us live, I shall inform the Khan that this is a great misunderstanding. With your prowess, great sorceress, the Khan will be forgiving and may not even demand compensation. Neigh, you may even receive a reward."

Gwen pondered the Centaur's words in simmering silence, feeling a little deflated that the Horse Lord wasn't a raving, glaive wielding madman. In all honesty, she had not expected the dead horse she intended to flog to be an equestrian lawyer.

Was it a mistake to question the horse?

"WHAT A PILE OF HORSE DUNG—!" The timely interjection came from Strun, once more affirming why the piebald Rat-kin was her favourite. "Priestess! Allow me the opportunity to duel this foul-mouthed conniver! I will show him the conviction of my people!"

"You would dare?" the Horse Lord laughed. "A Tasmüyiz cannot challenge a Nokud."

"Refuse, and you shall die right here by our teeth and claws." Strun drew both his daggers. "A Horse Lord, murdered by the cowardly Tasmüyiz, never knowing the limitless plains where the Immortal Khan wars for eternity with his Golden Horde."

The Centaur ceased his mirth once. "And if I win?"

"If I die. You leave with your mares." Strun stared down the disapproving eyes of his fellow Centurions. "My Grandfather will guarantee it."

Both rat and horse turned to Gwen for confirmation.

"I accept Strun's proposal." Feeling the confidence radiating from Strun, she gave her consent, not because she didn't want to outright murder the wily Horse Lord— but because the theatre of the Rat-kin's victory far better served her purpose. Already, her Rat-kin had gained enough spine to stand up to the Centaurs. Now, Strun would show his people that they were no weaker than the Centaurs via the birth of a new legend.

"By Temir Khan's Blessing, I accept this trial by combat." The Horse Lord stood, suddenly standing from his kneeling height of just under two meters to three. "Enbi, gift me with the Khan's strength."

In one pull, the Horse Lord tore the cotton tunic from his chest, revealing the scarred skin and chiselled physiology of a seasoned warrior. Then, on cue and without care for the chittering swarm, his mare Shaman began to prepare the runic ley-lines along Kokochu's body, tracing the scars with her fingers.

The rats broke into a low, angry clamour.
"That's cheating!"
"Unfair!"
"Foul Horse-kin!" Protest erupted from her Centurions as well.

"I am fighting for my life and the lives of my Shaman, not to mention the honour of the Khan." Kokochu gazed up at Gwen. "Great Sorceress, if you deem fair competition excessive, extinguish us as we are— leave us not for the rats."

Gwen felt genuinely impressed, for the horses' wit was wasted on the Centaurs. The silver-tongued fucker would have fitted right in if they were in London.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

But she as well had a little something up her sleeve. "Strun, approach."

Gwen descended from the air until she stood chest to nose beside her rat.

"Strun." She touched a hand to the rat's flickering ears, her fingers playing about the soft tufts of fur. "Can you win?"

The Rat-kin nodded, then shook his head. "I can deliver a fatal blow, but I do not know what their Shaman may gift through her vital blessings. Fret not, I shall do my utmost, Priestess, even if it costs my life."

Gwen nodded, welcoming the Rat-kin's conviction.

"I, too, have a blessing to offer," she said to the rat. "One that will cost you dearly and may yet cause you to perish if you cannot endure it. The reward, however, is palpable, for it shall link your vital forces to Garp."

"I shall share a life with…" the Rat-kin gulped. "A Deity of the Sawahi?"

"Indeed." Gwen nodded. "Do you accept?"

Strun fell face-first into complete prostration. "My life is yours, now and until the Elementals transmute all the sand of the Sawahi to glass."

"I'll hold you to that." Gwen then turned to the thoughtful Centaur listening to their dialogue. "I hope that's acceptable. After all, Strun is fighting for his life and the lives of his kin, not to mention the honour of his Clan."

"— And my Priestess!" The Rat-kin added.

The Centaur spoke in solemn tones to his Shaman.
At the mare's behest, the three Şöpter women bared their bosoms, allowing her to draw a smidgen of their heart's blood with a Mithril implement. The Shaman likewise bled from a point below her breast into the concoction until Gwen could sense the vital energies pulsing within, then rapidly applying the burning paste. When she met the Centaur's eyes once more, the creature's gaze remained arrogant, for this was a being who saw the world from the lofty height of old Empire and history, possessing no remorse for their careless tyranny.

Gwen riposted the glare with a smile, then returned to her nominated Champion, her rare rat with the gonads and the aggression to stand up to the Horse Lords.

Circulating her Essence, she bid her rat partake in another dose of snake elixir to fortify their link, then rested her Essence-dripping palm atop her creature's head, allowing the priceless excretions to dribble between his ears and down his furry cheeks.

For the Rat-kin to find a new path, they needed a "Che".
A representative who was young.
And fearless.
And angry.
And possessed of boundless hope for the future.
How else could a revolution take place? Any movement of any significance required a leader willing to part the Red Sea of status quo. Else, once the heat of the moment passed, the yoke of slavery without the counterbalance of Noblesse Oblige would return. That was the thing that ticked her off most about the Khanate. To have power is a fine thing, but what the fuck was the deal with Strun's mother?

_The abuse of greatness was when it disjoins remorse from power._

How strange that her commitment to Henry's ideal world would manifest in the desolate sands of the Sawahi.

"Relax," she comforted her Champion. "Dream now of tomorrow. When next you open your eyes, a new day for the Rat-kin will dawn."

The aura of life and vitality around her grew dull as she switched Sigils to Svartálfar Soul Sorcery.

Beneath her hand, Strun trembled as though a newborn pup, happy for his hardwon baptism.

Strun realised as he toyed with his new Ring of Storage, just how much he and his people owed the Priestess.

His match— if a massacre could be termed so euphemistically, had lasted a minute.
Kokochu had hidden his prowess well, for Strun could see that the Centaur warrior's skill was on par with a Mingat, the leader of a thousand men. In hindsight, he should have suspected the "Administrator" who had remained, for there was no way for the Shaman mare to survive otherwise. In the Khanate, the loss of a small army was nothing compared to the death of a proficient Shaman.

Though wreathed in victory, Strun felt no triumph. When the battle had opened, he had been too slow in evading the suddenly appearing pilum tossed by the Centaur from a Ring of Storage, the kind of item that only Mingat Officers possessed. As a reflexive response to prevent the rogue pilum from striking his Priestess, he recalled channelling the vital energies of his newborn body, feeling the intensity of Garp's profound, limitless vitality oozing like molten magma into his Creature Core.

To his and Kokochu's shock, he had deflected the pilum without breaking his arm or wrist, going so far as to catch the spear by the weighted haft with a screeching scream of steel and sparks. The fur and skin of his dominant hand had sizzled like wildfire, then instantly cooled as though quenched by the life-giving waters of Shalkar's oasis.

Growling, his opponent then charged.
Once more utilising the secretive arts of the Shadow Runner, Strun had met his foe head-on, finding his foe moving in slow motion, with the instance of their encounter dilating like the slow-moving orb of the sun just beginning to set.

Reversing his grip, Strun clutched his dagger with his restored digits, ducked under the sweeping glaive of the Centaur, then stabbed at the creature's abdomen and chest.

He struck, though both weapons felt as though he'd stabbed mud. Kokochu was protected by his Shaman's art and shared life with the healer.

As the Centaur passed, Strun had struck three more times, once on the neck, once on the Centaur's spine, and another around the horseman's elbow.

He drew blood, though the effect proved less than fatal, for Kokochu turned with a reverse strike, swinging the glaive to slice Strun in twain. But, just as with Strun, the Centaur's wounds had also healed.

Procuring more vitality from the limitless well that was Garp, Strun had parried the reverse blow, using the momentum to send his body into a wild spin, then landed with both daggers down, embedded into the Horse Lord's flank.

The Centaur screamed as the Afaa al-Halak's teeth cut skin and sliced the soft cartilage holding the horses' organs intact. Usually, magical barding would have protected the Mingat. However, in his bid to appear a scholarly administrator, the fool Centaur had forgone the heavy armour that made his kind near-impervious to most melee implements.

Next, Kokochu had attempted to kick Strun with hooves the size of war hammers. Strun dodged by a millimetre, stabbed at the horses' tendons with his blades, then whipped at the Centaur's eyes with a crushing lash from his brass-bound tail, an implement inspired by Lord Golos.

His sneak attack struck true. The horse howled, blinded by the Rat-kin's fifth limb.

Strun then slid under the horse, learning from his earlier lessons to strike where the flesh and sorcery were weakest. There, he tapped once more into the blessing, drawing such a boon of vitality that his veins felt on the verge of bursting. In contrast to the slow-moving body of the giant horse, his daggers diced at the Centaur's underbelly as a bone-white blur.

In horror, Kokochu fell into a mad stampede.

Strun remained unmoved, even when a hoof crushed his chest, snapped his femur like a twig. Another blow broke his ribs and mashed his organs, bursting a lung. Shielding only his head, the sheltering seat of his indomitable will, he attacked with dagger and claws at the awful stuff that now fell from the horse.

Two exchanges later, horse and rat parted.

Strun had remained standing, covered in blood, shit and bits of minced offal, his eyes viridescent with vitality and burning Essence, hobbing on a leg and a tail.

Kokochu stood as well, trailing guts and chopped intestines, his ruined underbelly and unmentionables scattered all over. The Horse Lord's upper body was entirely untouched, but that was beside the point. The Shaman and her Şöpter slaves were ashen white, their life force quickly draining with the depleting of Kokochu's fleeing vitality.

He won, but the Centaur was the better combatant. Their difference was in the league of their blessings. That was why Strun had felt ashamed.

"Do you yield?" Strun croaked, his body rapidly restoring itself thanks to the blessing of limitless vitality, racial talent and gifted Essence.

"Never." The Horse Lord's pride, unlike his body, remained unbroken. "No Tasmüyiz shall—"

The Horse Lord did not have another chance to speak, for Strun's Priestess now approached him. Even as Strun's heart palpitated with the undesired possibility of his mistress offering mercy, she placed a Void-tinged hand against the creature's chest, then enacted the same spell that she had used to elevate Strun.

"Soul Tap!"

Strun's body reflexively seized, recalling the exquisite agony he had earlier experienced.

Behind her, the Shaman and the three Şöpter slaves collapsed, holding their heads in silent moans, their eyes bulging with horror, their jaws gnashing so hard that specks of blood sprayed from cracked teeth.

Strun gulped. Wasn't this blessing how his Priestess had elevated the Afaa al-Halak? How she bound him to her person? Why was she trying to Ascend the horse-kin? Strun felt a sudden sense of shame. Was his mistress that generous?

"Speak the truth, Kokochu." His Priestess' voice was wintery ice on the Caspian shore. "Why did you deny my rats entry into Shalkar? The quicker you deliver, the quicker this agony ends."

To Strun's surprise and horror, the Horse Lord whose honour could not be touched, not even by disembowelment, could not resist her compulsion.

"T-the Khan did not expect that a Mageling would s-succeed!" The Horse Lord spoke as though screaming into the abyss. "You were supposed to emerge with no more than a thousand Rat-kin!"

"Why does the Khan think I would fail?" the Priestess demanded.

"Temir had sent his Eagle-kin Emissaries to the harpies!" Kokochu continued to scream. "The Qasqır as well serve the Great Khan. At any cost, we cannot allow the B-Blood Fever to spread!"

"What else?"

"H-he wants your meddling Mageocracy to lose honour. He tires of your arrogance! P-please, no more, Mistress— banish the sand s-scorpions in my Core! Release me!"

In Strun's eyes, his Priestess watched the Centaur's suffering as though a Rat-kin saving the last bite of nan for a desperate day.

"Void Bolt!"

The screaming neighs ceased.

Four more bolts erased the convulsing Shaman and her slaves from existence, leaving only tufts of mane and a few hooves.

There was a lesson here for his kin: live faithfully to her teachings, for the Pale Priestess giveth, and the Pale Priestess taketh.

Strun mulled over his epiphany as his Priestess stared about her contemplatively, her bloodless complexion aglow in the nimbus of the Day Light Globes, gazing into the middle distance, searching for something only she could see.

"Strun, Stian, I grow tired," she declared to no one and everyone. "Prefects, set sentries while I rest. First thing tomorrow, we shall plan for the rebuilding of the oasis and its fields."

This time, without confusion, the Rat-kins prostrated as one, circle upon circles of kneeling bodies, expanding outward in concentric loops, moving as one rat, making only the sound of a single footfall.

Sawahi.
The Western Badlands.

"Lord Chaplain, we really must be on our way." The sweet voice of Elvia Lindholm, Cleric and provisional Knight Companion, implored her armoured trio.

"Peace— for there is virtue in patience, Novitiate. Your War Mage companion, if her achievements hold weight, will not be bested so easily." Elvia's senior officer spoke with a tone that made her uneasy. Arguably, anyone would be nervous when conversing with Chaplain Kent Hawkford, one of the three Inquisitors assigned to the Order of Bath and formerly Alpha Company's Knight Commander, presently seeking information on Spectre's activities in the Steppes.

"You forget the sorceress' age, Commander. Powerful she may be, the girl is no older than our Sister." The friendlier voice came from a smiling Knight with a middle-aged face that was beginning to sag. "When I was their age, I was still hunting Goblins and copying scripture at the Seminary. Besides, she's a fair lass— and we all know how the Tower can be."

"Gwen is no 'lady', Sir Smallwater." Their third companion, a Knight Protector of Saint Michael and Elvia's sworn fellow, shook his head in refutation of his seniors. "We should not underestimate what Evee's companion may do or dare to do. She has ambitions beyond our Ordo's understanding. Like a Drake, Gwen traffics in Crystals and power, milords, in volumes no less than the crows who sit in parliament. Her Master, if you recall, was none other than the late Lord Kilroy, and her current sponsor is the Lady of Ely."

"Thank you, Mathias, we know that you know her well," Sir Smallwater chuckled. Both of the men's eyes laid on the Spellsword hanging from Mathias Rothwell's waist. "As I said, she's a pretty one, hmm?"

Elvia stifled a giggle as Mathias' face grew stark red. Rather than a warning, the men likely thought Mattie was smitten with Gwennie. After all, Mathias was a benefactor of Gwen's connections. Unlike Hawkford's inherited blade or Smallwater's issued inventory, Sir Rothwell's blade was new— the first true Dwarf-blade in two decades to come out of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth. If Mattie didn't share a bond with the sorceress, why would she gift him so kindly?

"Thank you, Ser Rothwell." Their Chaplain's tone was indecipherable.

Mathias lowered his head.
Not even a full-fledged knight was immune to the judgemental glare from an Inquisitorial Knight of the Order.

"Novitiate Lindholm, if you would perform the honours?" The Chaplain commanded.

"Of course, your Grace." Even as she agreed with a sun-lit smile, Elvia felt the stinging agony of sinful impatience burning a hole in her chest.

Thus far, they had stopped several times in their "rush" to reinforce Gwennie. Yet, they had been relentlessly delayed by what Elvia suspected was newfangled Spellcraft acquired via Gwen's peculiar "abilities".

Under her Chaplain's watchful eye, Elvia found a good spot among the buried ash mounds where the Rat-kin must have camped, then produced her Faith Relic.

She slowly released the Mithril tri-crown icon into the air with a gentle toss, chanting the prayer words of truth-seeking. The sun-token began to glow at once, first with a gradual radiance, then warmth, filling the air around them with illuminated threads of fading gold. Slowly, other "lines" began to appear, indistinct in their hues of lilac and black, representing the passage of various Elemental mana, Schools of Sorcery, and other crafts that had intruded upon the Prime Material.

The trio of Knights gathered around the impromptu light show and studied the results of her augury.

Looking at the lingering mana pollution, Elvia felt a strange little knot forming in her belly.

Just what in the Nazarene's name was Gwen doing?

Four days ago, while still in the middle of her preparations and prayers to gather Faith into her Tri-Crowned Sun, a Message had arrived from a flustered Magister Walken, stating that Gwen had shouldered ten-thousand Demi-human lives onto herself and was now taking them across the desert in the manner an Old Testament pilgrimage— alone.

Walken's worry wasn't that Gwen might fail in her suit— but rather feared the degree to which she might succeed and bring about some calamitous subversion of London Tower's plans to push back both the Khitani Centaurs and the Elementals.

Sensing a terrible premonition, Elvia had pledged to leave immediately, appealing to Theodora St. Claire to bless her with passage through the Ordo's secret Teleportation Chapels to Baku.

As promised, her Rectrix allowed the privilege, though unexpectedly, her entourage had increased from one Knight Protector in the form of Mattie to the addition of a Knight Inquisitor and his Senior Protector.

But why?

Elvia could only guess at the Rectrix's purpose, for the Crown's Ordo all moved with a measure of autonomy someone at her tier of authority could not fathom. Even though her achievements from the Ireland Campaign had gifted her Faith on par with a Knight Lieutenant's, her limited seniority meant she laboured only for the surface layer of the Ordo's objectives.

"This domain stinks of old sorcery," Sir Smallwater said.

"You seeing this? What does this mean?" the Knight walked around the projection. "Six Schools of Magic? Meta-magic? Some form of indigenous sorcery? And this..."

Seeing her Knights remark at the dark threads of magic, Elvia adjusted the modest collar of her Clerical outfit.

"Heretical-Class Necromancy..." the Knight Chaplain whistled. "How very Wildlands."

"The Centaurs do have a pet Necromancer." Smallwater reminded them. "This looks more like the work of a party."

"But not Lazarus. I have his signature memorised." Hawkford walked around the projection. "His Soul Sorcery is rudimentary at best. Also, Mister Latvik is a Re-animator by trade."

Elvia touched a finger to her temple.
Should she offer the Inquisitor a short Chronicle of Gwen? How much of Gwen's ability was public, though? As a student in the Seminary, they rarely received news of the outside world, much less something with so much complexity.

Her saving grace was what Rectrix had intimated, that her superiors had bigger fish to fry, such as the hunt for the Plaguemancers working under Spectre.

"I see, but how do you explain this?" The Chaplain pointed into the admixture of mana threads, then pulled from the aether something resembling a golden spider thread, barely perceptible even to their Faith-trained eyes.

"Karmic tethers?" Smallwater's eyes widened. "Here?"

"A local land god?" Mathias volunteered. "The briefing did say the indigenous population worshipped the Sand Wyrms."

"This sort of concentration can't be superstition." The Chaplain shook his head. "Nor is this ancestral tradition nor fear. This is unadulterated devotion. "

"Mayhap the rats have found religion?" Smallwater laughed. "By our scriptures, we're in the right area for that sort of thing."

"What do you make of this, Lindholm?" Her Chaplain's Faith-laced, golden irises bore into her skull. "What does St. Claire's prodigy have to say?"

Elvia's hand came away from her neck, damp with cold sweat. Karmic threads? What did she know of it other than what's taught? That belief was a psychic manifestation and that when enough of it gathered, it gave birth to imperceptible and intangible Astral energies?

"I am unlearned, Lord Chaplain," Elvia told the truth. She did not think that any half-truths would escape the Ordo's Eyes of the Truth Seeker. Elvia could guess as to why there were Necromantic Soul Sorcery, Shaman Blood Magic and meta-magic in the wake of Gwen's rats, but why would there be Faith? She had no answers to that. Gwen can't eat her way into Faith magic.

"Sers, I don't know why there are Karmic Threads, but I know who might be responsible." Mathias, who had been inspecting their surroundings, blasted apart a pile of buried refused to reveal a mass grave of spent SPAM cans. "I know only one sorceress who uses Void and Lightning, and most importantly, carries SPAM with her at all times and dispenses it to anyone and any creature she meets, including the True Scion of a Mythic Asiatic Dragon."

"Mattie, by God's Grace.…" Elvia's words clammed in her throat. Mathias' hunger for approval from his superiors rivalled only his feelings of insecurity toward Gwen. Still, with evidence like that, it was hard to refute Gwen's involvement. Her only gladness was that Gwen's smiling face wasn't plastered over the cans as they had been after the IIUC.

"I see. In that case, Novitiate Lindholm." The Knight Chaplain brushed the motes of muted mana from his gauntlets. "Though Sir Smallwater and I are here for another matter entirely, you are still our little Sister. For your sake and in the Rectrix's interests, do you mind introducing us to this friend of yours?"

For any other Noviciate, the politically correct answer would be, "Of course, Sir. But please note that we weren't that close."

For Elvia, Gwen's booming visitations and her thunderous descents had made their dubious relationship famous across all of Battle, not to mention the reason she was the Ordo's precious "Vessel" was because of Gwen.

Whatever her personal opinions, bringing Hawkford to her long-awaited meeting was no longer avoidable.

With that understanding, Elvia lifted her face and delivered her most endearing, heart-piercing smile, appearing so vital and youthful that petal-pink blossoms and a butt-ugly ginseng root appeared.

"Kiki!"
"Sen!"

The men nodded with complete satisfaction, bathed in the warmth of her presence. Turning from them, Elvia collected her Faith relic, banishing the Light of Revelation.

"Whatever you've got planned, Gwennie..." Elvia prayed to high heaven. "Please, PLEASE don't be committing heresy when I arrive..."