Mattias ran alongside his fellow guards, heart pounding. He'd passed three corpses already, either decapitated or close to it. The shot fired a minute ago was the first gunshot any of the guards had heard; whoever they were about to face, he was either very fast, very stealthy, or both. Mattias had never seen actual combat before, let alone corpses. The Tyrans had never revolted, never found any of the secret exits into Ermoor. They didn't even know they were slaves. Guarding Tyra was every Ermoori soldier's dream job; they were essentially paid to walk up and down empty corridors.
But now, he was terrified. Bright red blood had spilled and pooled along the entire corridor from each corpse they passed, reflecting a sickening pink light through the walkways. He couldn't avoid stepping in it as they rushed toward the sound of the gunshot; it made the same splashing sound shallow puddles of water made when running in the rain. He'd looked back after the first corpse. That had been a mistake; his footsteps followed him, a trail of blood chasing him towards whatever killed its owner. His stomach churned, was still churning, but still he ran next to his fellow soldiers.
They reached the corner as a group. Mattias stepped around to see the body of the soldier who'd fired his gun; a clean slice opened his face just next to his nose, and thick black smoke curled up from the wound. The wall to his right was pockmarked and blackened from the gunshot; he hadn't managed to hit his attacker. Further down the hall, another headless corpse lay in a pool of blood. There were no enemies to be seen, but somehow that scared him more.
"Where is he?" one of the others said.
"Split into groups and search the corridors, now!" Captain Barclay shouted.
Mattias went with the group to the right, into the corridor with the two dead soldiers. There was nowhere for the enemy to hide, and more soldiers turned the corner ahead of him into the corridor. It seemed impossible; the gunshot and alarm had only gone off a moment ago and they'd sprinted here as fast as they possibly could.
The enemy simply had to be here somewhere. Mattias and the others slowed down as soon as their fellow soldiers appeared at the opposite end of the corridor. He stared at every inch of the empty hallway, feeling sweat run down the back of his neck. The corridors were kept fairly warm, but this was the first time he'd ever sweated, even in full armour. A horrible thought snuck into his head as he walked slowly; what if it's the Spectre? What if he's returned? The Spectre was known for killing those he deemed unjust, and Mattias had a feeling Tyra wouldn't exactly impress him.
The alarm was still raging; a yellow alarm. Each soldier had a hand-held pad with different coloured buttons on it which sent signals back to the command rooms. Yellow was a local alarm, just for Tyra; it told all soldiers on duty to get to one spot quickly. It was used usually only if the Tyrans found a way out or stopped turning the wheels. Red went to the barracks, and was for more serious situations, ordering reinforcements. The red alarm was silent in the barracks, simply setting off flashing red lights so as not to alarm the citizens. The black button was a city-wide alarm, and had never been used.
Through the sound of the wailing in his ears, he almost didn't hear a low scuffling sound behind him. When he glanced around, a blurred shadow streaked into the small group of soldiers, and a spray of blood swept along the wall. Gunshots thundered, overwhelming the alarm. One soldier aimed at the shadow and fired, only to hit the soldier behind it. Mattias tripped backwards trying to get away from the thing attacking them. Four soldiers had died in the few seconds since he'd turned around.
Across the corridor, the second group were shouting, their footsteps thumping the ground as they rushed to join the fight. Panicking, and with no idea what else to do, Mattias fumbled the alarm pad out of its holster on his belt, and mashed his thumb into the red button again and again. The yellow flashes turned to red and a different alarm started wailing through the corridors. It could take reinforcements as much as twenty minutes to arrive, but at least they were on their way.
Gunshots boomed almost constantly, coming from the few survivors in front of him as well as the group rushing to join behind. Mattias saw another soldier get hit by Ermoori rounds. The shadow was in constant motion, blurred and untouchable. He scrambled backwards, still on the ground, waiting for it to notice him and attack. As he scooted backwards on his hands and ankles, the second group of soldiers sprinted past him.
It was like something out of a nightmare. There had been a dozen soldiers in his group and there were another dozen in the group that just rushed in. Now, excluding himself, there was only one soldier from his group left. Finally, he pushed himself onto his feet, and ran down the corridor, away from the massacre. Gunshots continued to echo after him, and screams drowned out the alarm. He reached the decapitated soldier, his blood mixing with the flashing red light to create a corridor straight out of the depths of Hell itself. As he reached the corner, he glanced back to see three soldiers left, trying desperately to kill the shadow and failing. It couldn't be human.
Flashing red lights, deep red blood, soldier's screams, the piercing and wailing sound of the alarm; it was just too much. As another soldier fell with his head cut off, Mattias vomited. The last two soldiers were still fighting, but he couldn't watch any more, and he ran as fast as he could.
Riffolk
The Twelve Crowns had many secrets. Most, if not all of them, were known to Riffolk. He'd managed to move most of the safe-room contents into one of the Twelve's secret chambers under the city straight after the confrontation with Mathys. It had only been so easy because the safe-room contained very little in the first place.
Ermoor contained two separate tunnel networks underneath the surface; one was for the slaves and the soldiers guarding them, and the other was for the Twelve. Within the Twelve's network of tunnels, there were a dozen secret chambers with personalised lock systems; one for each Crown.
Riffolk moved into one of these chambers. He'd designed the custom locking mechanisms himself, though at the time the Twelve hadn't told him what they were for.
The chamber he moved into was large, and though it was dark and a little damp, it was luxurious. Riffolk ignored the decorations and the rich furniture, and set to work building another lab.
The creature wasn't going to be found again; he accepted that. But he could still use its power, and it had entered his mind several times. Riffolk hated the sensation of another being seeing into his mind. It took some concentration, but he was able to block it from completely connecting with him. He couldn't shut it out totally, but it was better than nothing.
With the power at his disposal, he was able to charge dozens of orbs a day, and use them to power his lab. He installed them into the machines he was building, used them as fuel for weapons, and had spares in a storeroom, adding to them each day. He used the Twelve's influence to reopen the factories, and put Arthor in charge of overseeing production. Of course, he couldn't use the energy he created without revealing himself as alive, and it was too early for that.
So, for now, he had to accept the longer time frame Arthor gave for the invasion. It was definitely going ahead; Riffolk wanted it perhaps more than the Crowns themselves had. He could afford to wait. Other than Mathys coming after him, no one suspected a thing, and even Mathys wouldn't be able to find the secret chambers he lived in now.
Arthor was slowly coming around. Riffolk kept in touch through written instructions as the Twelve did with most of their underlings. The Lord Commander played his part very well, and there was still enough instability in his actions that Riffolk knew he wasn't feigning loyalty.
Riffolk watched him a lot; most days. He always spoke to himself when alone; had been for quite a while based on the Twelve's observations. But lately he'd been reacting oddly during conversations, and in the presence of others. He needed to know more before he could properly exploit Arthor's insanity, but it was definitely a weakness open for exploitation.
Avoiding meetings was difficult, but necessary until he was ready to reveal himself to Symond. Before that happened, he h
ad to be certain Arthor wouldn't attack him on sight. It took careful manipulation and time, so Riffolk used the written instructions for as long as he could.
He gave instructions to Mathys to send Mara home, with the smallest possible guard detail. Mathys fought to either give her greater protection, or keep her in the facility where she'd been held. He rejected all of it, and Mathys finally gave in.
When he saw Mara leave the military compound for home, he prepared to act. Soon, she would be granted his fortune, and when that happened he had to be sure she would be too terrified to spend it or give it away.
He sat in the chamber where he'd set up his new lab, fuming; so furious that sparks of lightning were crackling around him, throwing the dark room into harsh clarity. How is she so strong? His command and knowledge of Power Magic should have easily won out over sheer power; but the girl had some edge he couldn't quite grasp.
It shouldn't have happened the way it did. The attack was meant to terrify her, drain her of magic and injure her badly enough to make sure she'd never act against him. Instead, he'd been thrown out of his own house and his energy was drained, other than the sparks his fury generated. She'd pushed him too far. Scaring her obviously wasn't enough; he needed to kill her.
Her energy still pulled at him; he could feel her, the magic within her, and he knew she felt him too. He hoped she felt his rage. Fear was the last tool he had against her, and he knew she was afraid.
Arthor
He was on the Twelve's good side now. He followed orders, always in the form of written instructions now, and stayed out of public as much as possible to avoid reacting to the voice's increased activity. At night, he shut himself in his office and let the voice speak to him. Without Ellie to go home to, he stayed there most nights, sitting in the dark, sweating and clenching his hands into tight fists as the voice spoke.
Since the voice revealed that he'd been tricked, Arthor began obsessing over the thing that spoke to him from the ceiling of his bedroom. Now that he'd thought about it for a while, there was only one possibility, and once it occurred to him it seemed painfully obvious: The Spectre of Ermoor.
Mathys. Arthor was perhaps the only person in Ermoor who knew the identity of the Spectre. Of course, Mathys hadn't been active as the Spectre in over fifteen years; so why would he choose now, and why would he speak to Arthor when Arthor knew who he really was?
He never wanted the war in the first place, he thought, and he was always against the creature. Mathys' stern, judgemental face appeared in his mind, staring in silent accusation. Arthor couldn't bear it. He paced the dark office, stuck and helpless.
He is a powerful foe.
"Yes, but he is just one man. He can't stop the invasion."
Do not be so quick to disregard your enemies. I can only help you so much.
My enemy? The word echoed in his mind, feeling heavy. Mathys wasn't his enemy; they'd served together for decades. They were brothers.
Then why is he undermining you? Why is he trying to ruin your plans?
"He's always been strict in his morals... It's why he became the Spectre in the first place. It suited his need for justice. But an enemy... I can't see him that way."
And that might be exactly what he is counting on to beat you.
The voice knew everything. It always had an answer. Every time it spoke, Arthor felt less and less sure of the world around him. Could Mathys really be his enemy?
Are his the actions of a friend? No.
Another flash of rage, this time dull enough that the office stayed where it was. His heart thumped so hard it turned his breathing into a rhythm. Vaguely, he felt his hands throb in pain.
He will not stop. You know him. You know what he can do.
"Then I'll just kill him!"
You live in a world with rules. Outright murder will not help my cause; yet.
Mathys walked into Arthor's office just as the voice stopped talking. He paused, seeing the emotion on Arthor's face.
"Arthor, what's wrong?"
He didn't respond at first, trying to settle himself; his first reaction to seeing Mathys was to tense up for an attack, and he knew he couldn't win that fight.
"Nothing. Everything. I don't know."
Mathys moved towards him, and though he looked genuinely concerned, Arthor couldn't help feeling vulnerable. If Mathys really was his enemy, he didn't stand a chance alone in his office at night. But his Commander sat in one of the chairs to the side of the room, as he always did, and stared at the ground, looking as lost as Arthor felt.
"I know exactly what you mean, old friend."
A horrible gap stretched between them; Arthor felt it, and he was sure Mathys felt it too. It felt as though they were watching each other from opposite sides of a battlefield; a dangerous tension, unwanted by both but unavoidable. If Mathys was truly trying to stop his work, the Twelve would seek his death sooner or later. And if they didn't take him down, he would take Arthor down, and possibly even the Twelve themselves. He'd never once felt threatened by the man sitting across from him, in all their years of friendship; until tonight.
"Do you think we can be redeemed, Mathys?"
He raised his eyebrows, but didn't answer.
"What you were saying before, about our souls... If we're lost, can we be saved?"
Mathys sighed, his eyes remaining on the floor in front of his feet. It was a heavy sound, full of sadness and regret. Arthor knew in that moment that Mathys would kill him if he had to, despite their friendship. Under the heavy desk he sat behind, his hand moved to rest gently on the butt of his gun. He doubted he could draw and fire in time if Mathys truly wanted him dead, but the feel of it under his hand was reassuring nonetheless.
"I don't know how to answer that, Arthor. I hope so. But you know the scriptures as well as I do. God is not forgiving."
He nodded. It was the answer he'd expected. Mathys never budged when it came to morals or God. There was no way around it. Arthor took a deep breath, his exhale ragged; Mathys looked up at him.
"I saw something a little while ago," he said carefully, "something I hadn't seen for fifteen years."
"Oh?"
"At least I think I saw it. The Spectre."
"Surely not. Wasn't the Spectre confirmed as a myth by the Twelve Crowns?"
"Mathys..."
"You must have seen something else, Arthor. The Spectre has not been active for a long time."
"Can you promise that?"
"What's this about, Arthor? Really?"
He stopped, hand still on his gun, and really stared at Mathys for the first time that night. He looked tired. Exhausted. He'd been dealing with the girl, Arthor knew that. The Twelve knew too. They were keeping an eye on his activity, suspicious that he might be helping her in some way, hiding her involvement in the creature's escape.
"If the Spectre is active again, it won't be long before the Twelve hunt him down. I saw him. But it might—it might have been something else. Mathys, I'm not sure how to say it. I'm beginning to think there's something wrong with me."
The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. He was almost convinced Mathys was going to kill him, and yet he still turned to the Commander in his time of need. There was simply no one else he could tell. Mathys watched him, a spark deep in his eyes that Arthor could have sworn was predatory.
"What's happening, Arthor? What have you seen?"
"I've... I can't say. I've already said too much. If I know you as well as I think I do, Mathys, nothing I say will make a difference. But I need to say it anyway, for my own conscience; please, don't do whatever you're planning to do. The Twelve will get their way, they always do. Please don't stand against them."
"Even if they destroy Ermoor? Are you so eager to follow orders that you follow them straight to hell?"
Arthor felt his words hit harder than any punch Mathys could have thrown.
You see? He is an enemy. Turning you against the people you serve, against Ermoor itself.
"And what are you doing, Mathys? Saving the city by planning to slaughter its leaders? Waging a one man war against Ermoor?"
"What are you talking about?" Mathys' voice was low, quiet and utterly lethal. "I'm not the one killing the Crowns, Arthor."
A moment of unbearable tension stretched between the two men, and Arthor felt their friendship stretching with it.
"But you're planning it."
"I never planned that. Listen to what you're saying, Arthor. The Spectre is Ermoor's saviour. Do you really think he would be murdering the Twelve?"
He lies, and talks about the Spectre as though it is separate from him. It is an insult to your intelligence. The Spectre has become a danger to Ermoor.
The shadow on his roof had to be Mathys; there was no other possibility.
"The Spectre is not welcome in Ermoor any more. Mathys, I know you. I know the Spectre won't stop if he's decided to return. But don't make me choose between you and the Twelve."
Mathys stood so quickly that Arthor drew his gun. He stopped himself from pulling the trigger just in time, but the barrel pointed squarely at Mathys' chest.
"You've made your choice already, old friend."
Elana
Elana ran towards the slaves, hoping desperately for an easy way to get to them. One of the Ermoori had survived, running off to get more soldiers. She let him go; the alarm had been going a while now, there was nothing to be gained by wasting time chasing him down when more soldiers were most likely on their way already. She had to get the slaves out before they arrived.
Her breathing was ragged, her steps forced; one of the soldiers had hit her in the side and leg. A glancing blow, but their guns were powerful, and she was bleeding. She'd survive, but she didn't have the time or the magic to heal it now. Besides, her Kaizuun filled her with energy and strength; that would have to carry her through. Her older wounds, from the fight with Riffolk, still hadn't healed completely either.
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