Hubris - 31. Fort Erikson

The stab of a sharp needle plunging into his flesh snapped Crowe around. Blinded by something covering his eyes, he jerked his arms away only to feel sharp steel bite into his wrists. A deep “that’s enough out of you!” was all the warning he had before a fist slammed into his face, almost knocking him back into unconsciousness.

After that he remained completely still. Someone had poked a hole in the black bag over his head wide enough for him to breathe through, but no more. He closed his eyes, ignoring the frightened voice that jibbered in his mind. The only way out is through.

He thought back to the last thing he remembered. The room he’d paid so much for Barghat and he to stay in. The knock at the door in the middle of the night. Barghast’s reaction when he’d smelled the man who’d coerced Crowe into pleasuring him. The revenants chasing him through Boar Head’s empty streets only to run headfirst into a group of rowdy torchcoats. Judging from the way the surface beneath him jolted and the wooden clatter of turning wheels, he was in one of the Theocracy’s prisoner caravans. This meant the windows and door would be barred shut. But this didn’t mean he was completely helpless.

Forcing himself to take a deep, calming breath, he drew on his fear and the desperation for this unceasing waking nightmare to come to an end. Through the fire that burns within me, these chains cannot keep me bound…

Nothing happened. The flame inside him fluttered briefly, then went out.

No, no, no - this can’t be happening!

Raw panic threatened to smother him again. Already he could feel his breath quickening, his skin buzzing. If Barghast were here he would have stopped to give the practitioner a full body examination whether he wanted it or not; a shepherd constantly checking over his herd. Before he could fully succumb to the black waves of despair that threatened to crash over his head, Crowe pushed all thoughts of the lycan away. Right now I’m completely and utterly on my own.

Without the use of mana he was helpless. The rumors that the Theocracy had developed a serum that kept practitioners from using their Monad given gifts was no longer just a rumor…

Without my mana, what am I?

Long before Petras taught him to use a staff, he’d taught him how to wield a blade. How to use his environment to his advantage. How to remain calm until the moment to strike presented itself. Right now, I have time to plan…time to rest…

“Get on your feet, practitioner scum!”

Rough hands dragged him to his feet. A strong bootheel to the rump sent him staggering forward. Another pair of hands…or maybe it was the same pair…pulled at his chains, herding him along. At last, someone pulled the bag off his head. He blinked against the sudden onset of light. Everywhere he looked, a hard uncaring face looked back. He stood in the square of a large war fort that had been commandeered by the Theocracy. A silver flag bearing the torch of Elysia flapped in a gale that showed no signs of slowing down.

East of his position, Crowe took notice of a wood platform. Three corpses hung from nooses, bare feet swaying over growing puddles of blood. The silver glint of Monad’s Lion-Headed Serpent around one of the condemned’s neck reminded the practitioner of how naked he felt without his own.

A barrel-shaped man with greasy hair pulled back into a ponytail mounted the platform. The uneven steps creaked beneath the heels of his sodden boots. He held up a long steel handle with twin steel clamps at the end.

“Watch!” A hand shoved at Crowe. Before he could straighten, gauntleted fingers grabbed him by the back of his hair, wrenching his head back. “Death is nigh, filthy heretic!”

Cold and shivering, the sorcerer had no choice but to watch the man lower one of the bodies from the platform. The man grunted and strained. Pale flabs of his great belly spilled over the side of his grease-stained breeches. Sentries armed with muskets marched along the walls of the fort, seemingly impervious to the apocalypse even as it fell on their shoulders and caught in their hair. More guards stood at each entrance into the building. The fort was heavily guarded which made escaping without divine intervention impossible.

All that left him was prayer.

A crash of thunder lit up the sky with white fire, stirring the faintest of hopes within Crowe. For the first time he prayed for the necromancers to reach him before his throat met the noose.

His heart plummeted. It didn't look like that was going to happen. The man finished lowering the bodies into an empty cart that was then rolled away by a dour-faced boy around the practitioner's age. Crowe was ushered up the stairs of the platform. He searched the sky as he prayed under his breath for the lights of Monad's city, but he saw nothing on the uncaring horizon.

This isn't how things are supposed to end, he thought. He remembered the vision the Seraphim had shown him all those months ago; he remembered the weight of the task that had been set on his shoulders. How could he have failed so spectacularly? He thought of Barghast. Where was he? Was he safe? Did he know what had happened to Crowe? He couldn't think of which hurt worse: the thought of him not caring due to the practitioner's mistake with the barkeeper, or the thought of him coming to and searching for the sorcerer…only for the search to never end.

Both thoughts made his heart split open, springing forth fresh tears. Prayers died on his lips as the noose closed around his throat. He was too exhausted to fight. He’d been up for days and it had been even longer since he’d eaten a decent meal. He hated himself. He’d hate himself for as long as he could remember. Perhaps the Theocracy was right to want his people enslaved and eventually exterminated. His only hope was in his resurrection in the next Iteration? Who would he be? Would he be a more capable warrior or would he perish in a similar manner?

The torchcoats stood in the rain, laughing and taunting him. In one flash of lightning they looked human, no less made of flesh and bone and he. In the next they turned into monstrous horned things with reptilian skin and forked tongues; the curse of the necromancers still at work. He was grateful he couldn't hear their insults over the storm’s rage.

If this is the way it is to be, then let it end.

The man who had lowered the bodies from the platform stood at the front of the crowd, chanting an Elysian prayer in a baritone voice. The words were lost on Crowe. He couldn't hear anything but the helpless scream inside his own head. I have been abandoned in my greatest hour of need.

“May Elysia have mercy on your tainted soul,” the man intoned. He made the sign of the torch over his chest. The onlookers mimicked him. To the practitioner, the gesture might as well be another punch to the face.

He straightened to his full height, glaring at the torchcoats, hating them. I will not spend my final moments cowering in terror. I will not leave this Iteration feeling doubt in my heart, but absolution, for Monad’s flame will always burn bright within me. “No!” he screamed in defiance of the storm, in defiance of their hypocrisy, their genocide in the name of faith. “Do not waste your breath praying to me, for my soul belongs to another!”

No matter how he wished the ground would swallow him while, the sorcerer watched his executioner mount the steps once more.

Crowe had enough time to filter a final deep breath before the man pulled the lever mounted into the floor. The practitioner thought, Maybe I'll meet Barghast in the next life and we'll be able to understand each other, and then the floor gave way beneath his feet. For the terrible fraction of a second he plummeted. The noose snapped taut around his throat, slicing into his flesh, cutting off the flow of air to his lungs.

His body shook. His legs kicked. His eyes rolled back in his head. His body still reacting in its final moments, fighting until the very end. Once his heart stopped, his body would purge itself of waste. Maybe the torchcoats would have a good laugh. Maybe this is for the best, he thought. At least I’ll be able to sleep. I’m so tired.

Already darkness spread across his vision. He was but seconds away from death. Sweet, merciful death.

The rope snapped.

He landed on his back. In the mud. In the blood.

Had something happened? Had Monad intervened?

He sucked in a sweet breath, starved for air. Someone pulled the noose from around his neck, muttering to themselves. He couldn't understand a word they were saying and he didn't care. A new presence lingered on the edge of his periphery, as if having materialized out of thin air. He sensed this new presence was not entirely human, was both somehow familiar and wholly alien at the same time.

“I have waited a long time for this herald,” said a deep voice, soothing and male. Cool fingers touched him, clearing the blood rain and tears out of his eyes. This isn't so bad, he thought. It's better than being punched or kicked. Or hanging from a noose. If he had the words he would have thanked the newcomer. But he was tired, so tired, and it hurt just to swallow.

Hands hauled him up, dumping him in the back of a cart. This was fine. It felt good just to be lying down, not running or on the back of a saddle. Of course he would have preferred to have a certain lycan wrapped around him like a living blanket of muscle and fur.

The cart spun. A door opened. The cart was steered down a long corridor with dark brick walls. Voices spoke, but the words were lost on him. He knew he should care, that the words should be important to him, but he was simply overjoyed to be alive. Even if it was only for a moment longer. Anything it took to buy himself more time. Again he reached inside himself, searching for that flicker! It was there…he could feel it. He stoked it into life, feeding into kindling. It danced for a second and then went out. He tried to hide a sigh of disappointment. It had worked if only for a second longer than last time. I need more time.

The journey ended in a square room with a long steel gurney at its center. Here Crowe was lifted, chains banging against the steel rail of the table. There his shackles were secure so that he was chained to the table. He could move his arms a few inches but no more. His captors left without comment, without looking at him. What did he matter to them? He was just a practitioner who had been condemned for simply being what he was: one of Monad's people. Once the door shut, locking shut with the final thud of metal hinges, Crowe looked around the room.

There was nothing in the room he could see that could be used to an advantage. Apart from the wooden chair opposite him and the table which he lay on, the room was completely spartan. The windows had been barred. If his circumstances had improved it hadn't been by much. It's better than being dead. Don't waste time feeling sorry for yourself. Use this time to pray. Use this time to think. Monad has yet to abandon you. He will help you find a way.

“You pray to Monad even though he sleeps in the Void. Even though he doesn't care. To the Lion-Headed Serpent we are all but ants marching across the landscape of his dream,” said a cool voice from the shadows to the practitioner's right. Crowe snapped his head around to get a look at the speaker. Silver cat eyes with vertical slits for pupils watched him with great interest. Crowe recalled the touch of cool fingers against his skin. He forced his heart to slow, preparing him for what was to come next. Whoever this is, they are no friend to me. They're with the Theocracy. Whatever they want with me, it isn't to help me.

And yet the voice pulled at him, pulled at a secret locked deep inside him that had yet to see the light. Once more he could feel the cycle spinning around him, waiting for him to put the puzzle pieces in place. Another test.

“W-will y-you step into the light so I can see you? Please?” Crowe asked through chattering teeth. The temperature in the room had dropped. Or maybe now that he was no longer facing imminent death, his body had returned to its normal vulnerable state.

A predatory flash of amusement passed through those eyes that the sorcerer did not like one bit. “I’m usually not one to take requests from prisoners…especially those who are one breath away from hanging from the noose…but since you asked so politely I feel obligated to oblige you.” The figure stepped into the pool of light streaming in through the window.

Crowe's eyes widened. He’d encountered a Seraphim only once before. The memory forever burned in his mind, the experience had not been a pleasant one. This encounter would most likely be less pleasant. The alien features of the Seraphim were all there - skin so pale it was gray, slanted eyes, narrow features so sharp they were almost birdlike. Six arms stuck out of the sleeves of its uniform. The creature was tall. Not quite as tall as Barghast, but still taller than Crowe who stood two meters. These details clashed with the fact this Seraphim did not wear the plated armor shaped from the same material Monad had used to build the Eternal City, but wore a Theocracy uniform tailored to fix his extra arms and his long narrow frame.

Crowe couldn't look away even if he wanted to. Even while gripped by the terror of his situation, the angel was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. The angel took a step closer to the gurney, all six arms folded neatly behind his back. The way he carried himself, shoulders and back straight, the deep tenor of his voice suggested he was male. “Is this better?” the Seraphim asked politely. He spread his arms like a showman on stage, vying for compliments from the crowd.

“Where am I?” the practitioner asked warily.

“Good question.” The Seraphim snapped his fingers as if he’d only now thought of this question. “I suppose the men who arrested you didn’t take the time to explain things to you. They can be rather hasty to hang prisoners. Bloodthirsty mongrels they are.” He said this apologetically, settling all six hands on his hips as if this was an issue he couldn’t help. “You are at Fort Erikson. We are but a small force that has recently settled here in the Plaesil Mountains…I must say, no matter how many times I visit these Northern lands, I remain enchanted by the clean mountain air. It does much for the weary in spirit.” The angel slapped him lightly on the shoulder with a chuckle. “As I’m sure you know. Forgive me for being rude, I am Inquisitor Charoum. I serve the mother of the heavens, Elysia.”

He flapped his wings excitedly in anticipation of Crowe’s response. When the practitioner did not offer one, his smile faltered, downturning into a scowl of annoyance. The sorcerer merely watched him like one who has made a new and profound discovery. “If you are a Seraphim then why do you serve the Theocracy?” He felt like a small boy asking his tutor why the sky is blue.

“Many of us switched our allegiance after the Second Iteration.” Charoum watched him closely from the window. Outside the room, somewhere in the square perhaps, a voice shouted at an insubordinate. “You don’t know this already?”

“I’m afraid there’s not much I do know.” The sorcerer winched, shifting. His body had become a cushion for pins and needles. His breath came out in clouds of misty vapor. “I only started this job recently. You could kind of say it was thrust upon me.”

“I see.” The angel continued to study him inquisitively. His wings twitched every few seconds. The longer he stared the more Crowe wished he could turn away, his skin crawling. The cold stare of the Seraphim could not be more different than that of the amber-eyed Barghast. The lycan’s scrutiny always made him feel warm…safe. He yearned for it now more than ever. “I will say there is something very different about you. The last herald was much like the Prime. Weathered. He had quite a bit of proverbial gray around the temples. You could tell he’d been more than a few battles. You…”

With the membrane flicker of wings, Charoum seemed to disappear out of sight before materializing directly in front of Crowe. The practitioner yelped, trying to jerk back, only to feel the cold press of the gurney block his way. The angel leaned in close, the tip of his nose a hair’s length away from touching the sorcerer’s cheek. “...are young. Green around the ears to be sure. You’ve yet to see the world. You’ve yet to see just how cruel the world can be. But I daresay you’re finding out.”

Crowe forced himself to look the Seraphim in the eye. Despite his affiliation with the Theocracy, the angel’s demeanor was more akin to the necromancers who continued to pursue the practitioner relentlessly. Perhaps it was the way the Seraphim grinned constantly. A grin that spread from ear to ear, unnatural and stiff. A grin that failed to hide the core of sadism underneath. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” was all he could think of to say.

“I’m afraid I must agree.” Charoum took a single step back. “I almost pity you, herald. You were given an impossible task and you are being punished for the crimes of those who came before you.”

“Crimes?”

Something dark flashed in the angel’s eyes. “If you know what’s good for you, you will not interrupt me again.”

The practitioner glared at him, the angel’s threat falling on deaf ears. “I have committed no crime. It is your beloved Pope Drajen who executes…”

Still grinning, the angel held up a black briefcase with silver clasps. Crowe stopped. A cold chill dropped down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. The delightful glint of childlike wickedness in Inquisitor Charoum’s eyes was cold enough. Perhaps the noose was the preferable way to go, the practitioner thought.

Paralyzed by terror, he watched Charoum flicked the clasps open. Opening the case, the angel made a show of turning it around on the opposite chair so Crowe could see what the case contained.

“I doubt you would know this, but the revenants…the most common, basic of Hamon’s servants…use these instruments on their test subjects,” Charoum said in the same tone of voice he would have used to talk about the weather. “They make for the best interrogators. Do you know how they extract information from their victims?”

The practitioner shook his head with a whimper. In that moment he would rather be chased through the streets of Boar’s Head by the revenants than look into the eyes of this creature. However he might appear on the outside, there was nothing angelic about him on the inside. In those silver cat eyes he saw exactly what the Seraphim intended to do to him.

“They don’t have ears with which to ear or brains with which to comprehend. You could say they are extremely limited beyond their capabilities to hunt and kill…”

“My Monad is with me,” Crowe whispered.

The angel struck him. The blow turned his head to the side. He flinched, preparing himself for another blow.

Icy fingers grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his head back against the table. “You will not speak such blasphemy in my presence!” the angel seethed, his teeth gritted in rage. The practitioner sensed if he wanted to, the Seraphim could very easily kill him. What damage could he do with a single blow if he were to use all his strength? Crowe didn’t want to think about it.

At last the angel drew back. He ran a hand through the curtain of his long silver hair, hair that had fallen down to hide his rage long enough for him to compose himself. Crowe could only glare at his back, his face red and stinging. If not for the fury mounting in him he would have sobbed in fear. You better hope you kill me before the drug wears off, for the moment I can draw on my mana…He didn’t finish the thought. It was enough to imagine the Seraphim burning.

“Is that all you got?” He spat blood on the floor. Perhaps it wasn’t best to antagonize the inquisitor but he didn’t care. Over the last few weeks I’ve been shot at, fell down a fifty foot waterfall, almost hung from a noose and now I’m being tortured.

“Not even close.” Charoum gave him a look that said he would like nothing more than to strike him again. “If I were to use my full strength, you’d look nothing like yourself. You’d no longer resemble a human being.”

“So this all because of some feud? Someone pissed you off during the last Iteration?” The practitioner scoffed. “Who knew you Seraphim could stoop to such lows? And here I thought you were supposed to be so much better than us humans. According to the stories my tutor used to tell me anyway.”

“You speak of Petras.” Charoum’s expression shifted from one of stewing anger to wide-eyed eagerness. Once more he leaned towards the practitioner until their faces were but an inch apart.

The practitioner looked up. “You knew Petras?”

“You tutor and your predecessor are one in the same, are they not?” the Seraphim shot back.

Crowe thought of the withered man he’d taken care of during those long winter months, after that night with Bennett, Delilah, and he in the cave and longer still after Bennett’s father had come to him for a cure to his son’s ailments. He closed his eyes to keep the tears of denial at bay. He’s only confirmed what you already knew. What you’ve known for weeks…months. From the moment the Seraphim touched your hand and showed you what would happen to your people - what has already begun to happen - if you did not act.

“Aye, I knew Petras,” the Inquisitor continued despite the stunned look on the sorcerer’s face. “He was a very off-putting man. Charismatic in a lot of ways. He certainly had a way with words, especially when it came to stirring things up before a great battle. But he also had a temper like you wouldn’t believe. An inflated ego. A sense of grand self-importance. He started out well-meaning enough. He wanted to change things.” Charoum shook his head thoughtfully, holding something in his mind that confounded him. “But then he lost his way as did his predecessor, the Prime.”

Charoum made less and less sense the longer he spoke. He’d returned to his vantage point by the window, looking out across the square. Crowe had the sense the Seraphim was no longer here in the Third Iteration, but somewhere in the lost waters of the Second. He had no records of the truth (what few records remained had been commandeered and locked away by the Theocracy), only what Charoum and others told him. Could the angel be believed? Whatever had driven the Seraphim to turn away from Monad and indenture himself to Elysia, it had more than just embittered him; it had driven him insane.

Once more his thoughts turned back to the old man. He felt his heart turn cold. You lying bastard. There is so much you didn’t tell me. So much you could have told me that would have helped things make sense. It wouldn’t have made the fact you didn’t love me hurt less, but at least I wouldn’t have wasted so much time asking myself “why”.

“It seems I am not the only one who has been dealt a cold hand by Petras.” Charoum watched him with a knowing twinkle in his cat-slitted eyes. “If the chicken raises the egg, you would think the egg would love the chicken, but that isn’t the case is it? Tell me, what is it like to be raised by one’s future?”

Crowe closed his eyes. I don’t want to have this conversation anymore. I wish he’d just kill me and be done with it.

“In the end it doesn’t matter.” Charoum reached out, caressing the sorcerer’s cheek. Crowe didn’t have the will or care to pull away. “I have dedicated the rest of my eternity to Elysia, the true savior. After lifetimes of serving a tyrant, repeating the same hellish cycle, I have found someone who’s truly capable of freeing us from this nightmare.” The angel held up a pointed blade for Crowe to admire.

“A whole race of people just have to die to make that happen,” the practitioner said acerbically.

The angel pressed the tip of the blade into the sorcerer’s flesh until he drew blood. He drew the blade up, making a three inch cut. Crowe screamed. He thrashed against his restraints, against the shock of pain, to no avail.

“Aye,” the angel said casually as if he hadn’t just cut a man, tortured a man. “I will spill the blood of every practitioner until it soaks the earth…much like this storm…if that’s what it takes to end this eternal nightmare. Luckily I don’t have to. I have the one who brings it all crashing down right here.”

“You lie!” the practitioner spat. Bloody seeped freely from the incision. The wound didn’t look deep but that didn’t mean the next one wouldn’t be.

“I don’t. I promise you. I saw it with the Prime, our creator and I saw it with your predecessor. You will start out with the best intentions. People will flock to you, thinking you are their savior, but with every bit of change you create, the true core - the dark core of who you are - will reach the surface…”

“You’re nothing but a shame-faced liar.” It was growing more difficult for Crowe to keep his thoughts straight. “You claim to want justice. You claim to want peace. You claim you want the Cycle to end, while enslaving hundreds of thousands of people and exterminating the rest who don’t serve your cause. That is why I do this. Your fears are no excuse for your genocide.” For the first time he saw something like fear enter the Seraphim’s eyes. Fear of what, he didn’t know, but it lit a spark of triumph in him. If these are to be my last moments, then why not have a little bit of fun before I go? ¨So why you´re at it, you might as well hang yourself by the noose next to me and Pope Drajen beside you. But you wouldn´t do that would you, you sadistic fuck!¨

The flame inside burst into life once more. The drug was starting to wear off. In his mind, he fanned the flames with his hands, willing it to burn higher, brighter, hotter. It burned for several seconds before blinking out. I just need to keep this angelic bastard distracted for a few more minutes…just long enough for the drug to wear off. Monad, only with your light can I get through this. Don´t abandon me when I need you the most…

The Seraphim grabbed a hold of his hand with icy fingers. He held of a metal clamp. The practitioner tried to pull his hand away to no availñ the angel´s strength was absolute. ¨I told you what would happen if you spoke such filth in my presence. Now you´ll pay for it…¨ Crowe felt the clamps close around his index finger, holding it in place.

When the Seraphim held up the scalpel, the practitioner began to scream. He no longer cared about trying to hold onto his pride. The terror he´d be holding onto since this whole nightmare had begun - a nightmare within a nightmare within a nightmare - could no longer be contained. It burst out of him in a shrill, animal scream. He bucked against his restraints. He looked up into the angel’s grinning face. The utter delight on Charoum’s face frightened him more than the threat of the blade ever could. Whatever half-truths the Seraphim had fed him in order to weaken the practitioner’s resolve paled in comparison to the transparent sadism being displayed before him.

The nerves in his hand screamed as the blade of the scalpel cut into his finger.

“Have no fear,” Charoum chortled as he worked the knife with the practiced fingers of a surgeon. “I can assure you I’ve had plenty of practice. Many of your compatriots have sat in this very chair.”

Through half closed eyes, the practitioner had no choice but to watch as the blade cut through flesh, bone and nerves. Blood sprayed from his fingers, splattering his face, splattering the angel’s face. The Seraphim did not blink once, the grin of pleasure fixed permanently on his face. “Yes,” he said. “I have waited over a millenia for this moment. The moment when I might make Monad’s beloved herald scream in pain for making me a part of this hellacious existence…”

The amputation only lasted a few seconds, but for Crowe it felt longer. His stomach twisted in agony. He gaped wide-eyed at the stump where his finger on his right hand - his good hand - had been. The angel had removed the finger completely past the final knuckle. Bile rose up his throat before he could stop its passage. It burst out of him, spilling down the front of his robes.

Inquisitor Charoum stepped back to examine his handiwork. “Yes, this is a most fitting image,” he said with a self-satisfied sniff. “I’d say it was worth waiting over a thousand years for. If I had one of those new cameras Tannhaus built, I would take a picture and hang it on the wall of my dormitory.” He held up the knife to Crowe’s face so he could watch his own blood drip down the blade to the handle. “Scream for me,” he growled. His voice no longer sounded serene; if anything it sounded more akin to the growl of a lycan.

“No,” Crowe managed to squeak through gritted teeth. His vision had squeezed down to a single focal point. The sharp burning pain from his stump kept him from slipping into unknowing.

“I want to hear you scream.” The Seraphim closed his eyes, pursing his lips in an expression of pure bliss as if he’d never wanted anything more in his immortal life.

“No…”

Charoum slapped him again. His face contorted into a wild look of rage that made him look anything but angelic. His eyes burned with an inner silver light. If looks could kill, the practitioner would have been in his grave. “Scream for me! I want to hear you scream!”

“Fuck you…”

This time when the angel started cutting into him, the herald didn’t scream; he simply didn’t have the voice to. He watched Charoum amputate his thumb with a numbed terror. Now the first two fingers of his right thumb were gone. Will I ever be able to use this hand again or will I be crippled? He watched his blood fall to the floor in a spreading puddle of red.

Outside the room the explosion of gunfire started.. The sound of men cursing, shouting orders, screaming in agony.

The angel swore under his breath. He went to the door, throwing it open long enough to poke his head out into the corridor. “What in Hamon’s name is going on?” he demanded of the guard outside.

“I don’t know!” shouted the guard. The sorcerer couldn’t see his face but he sounded young. “Something just breached the gates - must have climbed over the walls! Whatever it is, it’s moving too quick for the guards to get a bead on!”

The Seraphim stormed into the room without bothering to close the door. Crowe felt the chains binding his wrists to the gurney fall away. He couldn’t have tried to escape if he wanted to; like his lack of a voice he didn’t have the energy. He’d accepted his death two amputations ago.

Finger’s grabbing him by a fistful of hair, the Seraphim yanked him to his feet. Before the practitioner could gather his surroundings, the angel spun him around before shoving him forward. The practitioner’s belly slammed into the edge of the table, knocking the wind out of him. More bile shot from his mouth, splattering across the table. The Inquisitor yanked the hem of his robes up. Strong fingers yanked his filthy breeches down, exposing his bare flesh to the air.

He doesn’t mean to…Surely not…

The Inquisitor held up a metallic device with a pear-shaped end and a round handle. “Do you know what this is?” Charoum asked Crowe, raising a pale eyebrow.

The practitioner shook his head stupidly.

“In the days of Pope Vigilius - we’re talking the preliminary days of the Third Iteration, long before we had the technology we do now - we called this The Black Rose. I’ve used it on many a practitioner like yourself. I’ve been longing for the day when I can use it on you. With women we just put it in their honeypot…” The Seraphim turned the handle in demonstration. Screws turned. With each turn of the handle, the petals at the end of The Black Rose expanded, spreading open like a blooming flower. “I think you get the idea. Since you don’t have a honeypot, there’s only one place we can put it…”

A scream outside the room made the angel stop again. “What now?” he grumbled.

A dark shape loomed up, seeming to rise from the floor itself. It towered over the Seraphim, its dark gray fur dripping with the blood of torchcoat’s. It glared at the angel with bulging eyes the color of molten gold.

Barghast.