Jarel Craith felt a burning in his veins.

  It was a cold, alien fire, and with it he felt his vision sharpen to a painful level of clarity. He felt the air against his face keenly, the clash of weapons and the roaring of beastmen, and beneath the soles of his boots he felt the tremors of the battle playing out all around him. Part of him wanted to clamp his hands over his ears, squeeze his eyes tightly shut and curl into a ball to shut off the assault to his senses.

  But he was less in control of himself now.

  Redmane stood before him, his crimson form radiating poise and power, his three eyes glowing with a mix of curiosity and disdain.

  “You have chosen your path, Jarel Craith,” said Redmane. “But do you comprehend what you have chosen.”

  Craith did not answer. He couldn’t. Even now he felt his muscles locked in place, his jaw clenched. Still resisting Lifedrinker and Soulstealer’s natural inclination to consume everything in their path. They would consume him in moments if he didn’t act.

  And a part of him, the part which had resisted this turn of events, thought that may just have been the more honorable outcome now.

  Lifedrinker and Soulstealer, on the other hand, could not contain their exultation.

  At last, a feast most worthy…

  His power doth burn as a star, and we shall drink it dry.

  Feel it, Praetor. Feel the strength we bestow. Together, we shall rend him asunder.

  Strike now, whilst his blood runs hot. Let us taste his essence.

  This is the purpose for which we were forged. This is the purpose for which thou wert made. Hold nothing back.

  Jarel Craith tried not to remember how good it felt to wield this power.

  He clenched his jaw, willed his eyes to open and fix on Redmane.

  “You’re a blight. A disruption to the natural order. Your existence is an affront to the stability of the cosmos."

  "Stability? Is that what you call it? Draining worlds until they’re hollow husks, leaving nothing but death? Your order is a lie, Praetor. A mask for your empire’s hunger."

  "We bring civilization to the uncivilized. We create peace where there was chaos."

  "Peace for whom. Not for the worlds you consume, unless you count the silence of their tombs. Your peace is a dagger wrapped in silk."

  Fury swelled in Jarel Craith’s chest, and he struck.

  The air itself seemed to scream in protest as Jarel Craith shot forth, a whirlwind of black steel and crimson fury. Lifedrinker and Soulstealer sang in his hands, their blades carving through Redmane’s forms like scythes through wheat. Each strike was a masterpiece of destruction, severing limbs, shearing through scales, and spilling rivers of black blood that hissed and steamed on the ground. Redmane’s bodies fell one after another, their monstrous forms crumpling under the relentless assault.

  Craith was a storm, a force of nature, his movements too fast for the mortal eye to follow. The ground trembled beneath his feet, and the air sizzled with the energy of the swords as they feasted on the power of their fallen foes. For a moment, it seemed as though nothing could stand against him. Certainly not Redmane, not with all the bodies at his disposal.

  Lifedrinker sheared through the neck of a Redmane, the creature’s head tumbling to the ground as black blood fountained from the stump. Soulstealer followed in a sweeping arc, cleaving another Redmane from shoulder to hip. The Praetor spun and drove both swords into the chest of a third, the blades meeting in the center of its torso. He wrenched them free, the creature collapsing in a heap.

  But as he turned to face the next, he saw it—a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. A Redmane he had cut down moments ago was rising, its wounds knitting together with unnatural speed. Another, its arm severed, sprouted a new limb in seconds, the flesh bubbling and reforming. Craith’s eyes narrowed.

  He lunged forward, aiming to finish them before they could recover, but a fourth Redmane intercepted him, its claws slashing toward his throat. Craith parried, but the force of the blow rattled his teeth and drove him back a step.

  And then they were everywhere. Redmanes he had cut apart moments ago were rising, whole and unharmed, their crimson forms closing in from all sides. Craith’s blades flashed, cutting through flesh and bone, but for every one he felled, two more seemed to take its place.

  The tide was turning already.

  Craith ducked and weaved through an impossible string of attacks, backpedaling away from a trio of Redmanes.

  "You’re a beast. I know your history, he who was called Kraal. You kill and devour without purpose."

  "And your empire devours with purpose?” said the Redmane on his right.

  “Destroys with reason?” said the Redmane on his left.

  The Redmane directly in front of him, in the midst of harassing his guard with a flurry of claws, finished the thought. “Tell me, Praetor, does that make it better to know your indiscriminate consumption follows a plan drawn by your masters? Or does it simply make it easier for you to sleep at night."

  Craith seized a miniscule opportunity to escape, and vaulted to momentary safety atop the roof of an adjacent building.

  "We are the architects of order,” he said. “Without us there would be no peace, no safety, no stability. Without us the universe would descend into chaos."

  The steady gaze of Redmane’s three eyes tracked his flight, settled on him when he landed.

  "No. Without you, the universe would breathe freely. You’re not architects, Craith. You’re parasites."

  Lifedrinker and Soulstealer seethed.

  Do not falter, Praetor.

  Every wound you inflict feeds us.

  Every drop of his blood spilt brings us closer to victory.

  Victory is inevitable. You need only endure.

  They were right.

  He’d never felt better. It wasn’t like the first time, against Mecia. Redmane’s strength was nourishment enough to keep Lifedrinker and Soulstealer’s ravenous hunger well away from his body and soul. Indeed, he felt flush with excess power.

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  Seven Redmanes leapt at him from all around, and he found himself able to follow them all with his eyes, come up with a plan of attack for each and every one.

  They fell upon him and he leapt to the attack again.

  But Redmane was no ordinary foe. For every body that fell, two more seemed to rise from the chaos, their crimson forms surging forward with undiminished ferocity. Craith fought on, his blades a blur of hunger, but the tide was still turning. Redmane’s bodies moved with a terrible synchronicity, their attacks coming from all sides, their claws and tails lashing out with deadly precision.

  The swords drank deep with each blow, feeding Craith’s strength with the dark power of his vanquished enemies, a terrible energy that pulsed with each swing, but it was still not enough to win. The sheer weight of numbers began to tell, and Craith found himself driven back, his once-fluid movements growing slower, more labored. The air was thick with the stench of blood and burning flesh, and the ground was littered with the broken remains of Redmane’s forms.

  Yet still they came, an endless tide of crimson.

  Craith parried a claw from one Redmane, only to duck beneath the tail-stinger of another. Lifedrinker lashed out, severing the tail, but the creature barely seemed to notice. It lunged at him, its fangs bared, and Craith drove Soulstealer into its chest. The blade bit deep, but before he could wrench it free, a third Redmane slammed into him from the side, its claws raking across his ribs.

  He staggered, the pain a white-hot flare in his side, but he forced himself to move. He spun, his blades cutting through the air in a desperate arc, and severed the arm of the Redmane that had struck him. But the creature didn’t falter. It struck again, its remaining claw slashing toward his face. Craith ducked, but not fast enough—the claws grazed his chest, drawing blood.

  He leapt back to create distance between himself and the advancing horde, but there was no respite. A gout of crimson fire erupted from one Redmane’s maw, forcing him to dive to the side. The flames seared the air where he had stood, and Craith rolled to his feet, his blades raised in guard.

  But the Redmanes were already closing in, their movements synchronized, their eyes burning with predatory glee.

  And Lifedrinker and Soulstealer spent lavishly of their reserves.

  Power flooded Craith’s arms as he swept them inward in a double cross-cut. Two searing waves of red and blue energy erupted from the blades and spread, a deafening crack accompanying the vibrant light, as they tore through six Redmanes, leaving behind a bloody, dismembered mess in their wake.

  “You are a mistake, Redmane,” said Craith, his breath coming in gasps. “A flaw in the System, and I am the correction.”

  One of the Redmanes left standing smiled thinly.

  “No. I am a consequence,” he said. “If it were not for your people and their meddling, I would not be free in the first place.”

  Craith’s gaze hardened. “Then you’re nothing but a rabid animal snapping at the hand that fed you.”

  “You have fed my world naught but chains and ashes, and I shall now return the favor in kind.”

  Evidently he meant that literally, as a moment later Craith had to leap away from several blasts of crimson-violet flames.

  Redmane’s attacks were relentless, a barrage of claws, fangs, and fire that left no room for rest. Every time Craith thought he had found an opening, another Redmane would appear, striking from an unexpected angle, driving him further back. The swords in his hands still sang, their hunger insatiable, but even they could not keep pace with the sheer volume of enemies. Craith’s movements grew desperate, his once-perfect technique faltering under the strain.

  “I serve the greater good—“ Craith slashed a Redmane two, and another flew straight at him between the bisected pieces. “—I protect the innocent!”

  The Praetor evaded a blade of bone through the neck, but only barely. “You protect nothing but your own conscience,” said the Redmane before him.

  Blood streamed from a dozen wounds, and his vision blurred as the venom from Redmane’s strikes coursed through his veins. He was a cornered animal now, and despite the constant flood of inhuman vitality rushing through his system from Lifedrinker and Soulstealer, he realized even still that he was fighting not for victory, but for survival.

  Do not waver now, Praetor. If you fail, we will drain you dry. Your body will wither, your soul will shatter.

  You cannot stop. You cannot yield. If you do, we will take everything from you. Everything.

  Fight, or be consumed. There is no other choice.

  You are ours, Praetor. And we will not let you go.

  The Praetor’s blood ran cold.

  “I will end you no matter the cost,” he said, as Lifedrinker swept for Redmane’s throat.

  It struck his head off, but there was already another attacking in his place. “The cost to Numantia, or the cost to yourself,” he said.

  Jarel Craith could not answer with anything but a snarl of frustration as his cursed blades cleaved through flesh again. Blood and limbs flew. He felt a fresh swell of speed and strength.

  Yet he was no closer to victory.

  And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the tide of battle shifted unexpectedly.

  The countless Redmanes halted, and stepped back. Some of them formed a loose ring around him, while the rest seemed to meld into the shadows.

  And then one Redmane stepped forth from the ring.

  This one was taller, more powerfully built, his three eyes burning with a cold, predatory light. He moved with the grace of a lordly predator, a lion, his every step a challenge, his every gesture a promise of death.

  Steel shrieked as Craith’s blades met his foe’s claws, a dizzying flurry of motion, yet the superior adversary stood firm, his defense impenetrable against Craith’s desperate attack.

  Redmane was faster, stronger, his movements a blur of crimson and shadow. Each blow landed with bone-crushing force, driving Craith to his knees. They circled, clashed, leapt apart and circled again. The Praetor fought on, his spirit unbroken, but his body simply couldn’t keep up despite the glut of Corpus and Gnosis racing through his veins.

  “You think you’re fighting for something noble,” Redmane said as they fought, his voice rising now, filled with a fury. “But you’re just a tool, a weapon wielded by a system that cares nothing for you or the worlds it destroys. Hammered into a role and discarded at the end of your usefulness."

  Craith’s strikes grew more frantic, more desperate. Lifedrinker and Soulstealer whispered in his mind, urging him on, but he could feel their frustration. They were draining Redmane’s power, but it didn’t seem to matter. He had too much. It was like trying to empty an ocean with a teaspoon.

  And then, with a sudden, brutal strike, Redmane broke through Craith’s defenses. The first two knuckles of his closed fist struck Craith’s jaw, sending him flying. Craith hit the ground hard and he tumbled across the stone street before coming to a halt on his face, the impact having driven the breath from his lungs. He tried to rise, but his body refused to obey.

  Lifdedrinker and Soulstealer, however, remained firmly in his grasp. They were holding on to him as hard as he held onto them.

  The swords’ power was not fading. His body just wasn’t strong enough to contain it, to direct it usefully.

  Redmane stood over him, his crimson form towering and terrible.

  “Do you find yourself helpless in this moment,” he said, and now his tone was gentler, like a father after chastising an unruly child. “I spent a long time helpless. I found it instructive. It plainly separates the cruel and the kind. It teaches us what it means to be at the mercy of others. It shows us how we would like to be treated if we were in their place.”

  He extended a hand, his claws retracting, his expression unreadable.

  “You don’t have to die here, Praetor. You can choose a different path.”

  For a moment, Craith hesitated. He looked at Redmane’s hand, and for the first time, he felt a flicker of doubt.

  The presence of the Crossed Swords grew ominously silent.

  Maybe Redmane was right.

  Maybe the empire he served wasn’t as noble as he had believed.

  He’d held such thoughts before, certainly. Creatures like Lar Tathvaal and Mecia Porsena were becoming the rule more than the exception. Numantia suffered under the weight of their petty greed, their vanity, their venal, corrupt, self absorbed nature.

  The Praetor shook his head as if trying to shake off a spell.

  What was he thinking?

  That he’d face the consequences of his failure to eliminate this seditious god. And the friends of Mecia Porsena, here in the Venturian Domain and beyond, would gleefully seek the maximization of his punishment. He had to fight, he had no other choice. For more reasons than one, Redmane could be nothing but his enemy.

  Yet here stood the terrorist, offering his hand in mercy.

  “Mercy will separate us from the monsters,” said Redmane, as if he’d read the Praetor’s thoughts.

  Jarel Craith blinked.

  He looked at Redmane’s offered hand, and a memory surfaced unbidden.

  At the Lex Constituo, he had once seen a rendition of the hollowed-out husk of a colony world, its once-vibrant forests reduced to ash, its rivers running dry. It was part of a short demonstration of the phases of colonial Gnosis harvesting, presented clinically and in sterile language. He had stood there, years ago, as a young cadet, and told himself it was necessary. For order. For peace. For the everlasting vitality of the empire.

  But now, staring into Redmane’s three burning eyes, he wondered if he had been lying to himself all along.

  He wondered if they had all been lying to themselves.

  There was such comfort in numbers. Safety. Anything could feel like the truth if enough people believed it.

  Jarel Craith reached out to take Redmane’s hand, to stand up.

  And he made it to one knee before Lifedrinker and Soulstealer ripped him in half.