NONE SO VILE

14: Beyond the Barricades

Albedo, Rennaire, 1802.

“It's a killing floor, nothing more." Marshal Laurent scoffed at the map, making a point to glare across the table at Director Joachim, who was busy absently sipping his brandy. Laurent was old-fashioned, and Leon knew the man felt strongly that alcohol and military matters should never mix. If Joachim noticed the sharp looks, he avoided them, staring disinterestedly down at the paper scroll pinned before them.

“The southern end is completely sealed up," added Marshal Deuxmoise. He pointed to the map with a thin wooden rod. “Prince J… Jules and his loyalists are wedged in deep, and if you look here and here, you see these alleys are just as impassable, too tight. Even without enemy attacks, it would take several days to clear these damn barricades. I'm loath to strike at them with the palace at our backs, last thing we need is for a contingent to scamper by and close off our retreat… but they've built themselves a corner, and there's no way around it."

Leon rubbed at his jaw, studying the map as the seconds ticked by in his mind. Each one felt like it was being wasted. Overnight, Jules and the loyalists had moved themselves forward once again, closing yet another step towards retaking the palace. The former prince wasn't stupid, he knew the power that symbols held, he knew as well as Leon that the palace was everything – take that, and you've already taken most of Albedo. Take Albedo, and you've taken Rennaire.

Almost spitefully, Leon had ordered the guillotines moved to be in full view of the loyalist barricades, to make certain that anyone with a spyglass would get ample view of the long lines of nobility still being slowly but surely beheaded.

Smell the blood, the rot, know what awaits traitors.

“This part looks open," he said, pointing out a side-street. “What kind of defences stand here?"

“Ah," Deuxmoise cautioned. “Two more buildings have been erected there since this map was commissioned, Director. I believe that passage has been closed off completely."

“Is this city a fucking thornbush?"

“When will more men arrive?" Joachim asked, studying his brandy intently. “I was under the impression we were due for reinforcements from Suné, no? They only have so many soldiers, eventually dear Jules will simply run out."

“Not if he's able to get word out, and who knows if he's done so yet? It's been weeks now," Deuxmoise replied. “If Kiberland or Danegard, or hell, even Thorn get wind of this, they'll send their own armies down to bolster them. Then we'll have fighting both inside the city and without. Every nation is looking at us right now, Director, a single moment of weakness and they will strike."

“Besides," Laurent growled at the crane. “Much as we share your eagerness, Director Joachim, this is not a problem we can simply throw men at. Look at the choke points, the required force to take each of these is several orders of magnitude larger than the force required to defend them. Each of Jules's men in that shooting range is worth ten of ours. They have supplies, the defence, and apparently no care for the non-combatant citizens standing in their way. All that, not to mention Toussaint."

Leon inhaled deeply. Lazare Toussaint. The Angel. The fucking Angel at Jules's back. He was the real issue. On a battlefield they were bad enough. Worth scores of men, able to rip through entire battalions with ease… but here, in the tight urban warrens of the overbuilt market district? Fish in a barrel had better chances.

Unable to take the constant headache, Leon left the men to argue, moving to stare out of the palace windows. Rain pelted the glass; winter was coming in harder every day now. Soon there'd be snow, and Jules had to be dealt with before then. When the ice came, things would move slower, men would tire faster, and supplies would be leaner. If the loyalists lasted until first frost, they could bide their time in the cold, slowly bleeding Leon's forces until Danegard or the others could join them come spring.

Lightning flashed in the dusky horizon, and Leon felt himself flinch with each bolt that struck. Natural storm, or Lazare Tosusaint killing more of his people?

How much longer until the people decide your revolution just isn't panning out? The problem kept him awake, constantly riddling his thoughts, but without Alabaster's sorcery there was no way forward. A tight alley with no room to flank or manoeuvre, Lazare could summon lightning at any point, seemingly without end – an unsolvable problem. By conventional methods.

“Director?" Leon glanced back at Deuxmoise as he stepped up, voice low and hushed. “I did what you asked of me."

“All twelve of them?"

“Aye, good lads, boys that know how to keep their stew down."

Yourself, and a dozen men tomorrow at dawn. Strong stomachs. That's what Alabaster demanded. The very thought made Leon shudder. What kind of task made even Alabaster queasy?

“I just…" Deuxmoise shook his head. “Why the old Cathedral of One, Director? My men took the rest without issue, but that they questioned."

The jaguar shrugged. “Call it Alabaster's sense of humour, General."

“He's a sick man."

“You want to keep throwing men at Lazare, Deuxmoise? Hope we can build our own barricade out of bodies?"

The jackal bristled, squaring his shoulders. “No, no of course not, Director. I apologise. I forgot myself."

Leon looked back towards the map. “Let them go at it. I'm going to retire for the night. In the morning you shall attack, a half-hour into dawn. Keep at range and shred that barricade, draw all their focus, and be ready, understood?"

“Understood, Director." Deuxmoise knew better than to question Leon's tactics.

“Don't be afraid to advance, winter is nigh and the time for temerity comes. One push, Deuxmoise, a single wager thrown down before Jules. Let us see if he can answer it, and let us see how much conviction his men have when I take away their Angel."

Deuxmoise's eyes widened. All you've seen, my friend, and you still doubt me? “Director…"

“I have seen the view as it wakes, Deuxmoise. I swear I will do whatever it takes on this road to ruin, with gauze in my wounds and fire in my blood. The dream of Rennaire is close. We've one voice to speak, and everything to say."

“No, I…" Deuxmoise cleared his throat. “Leon. I have watched you act since that day on the fields of Zolfreun. Your actions won my respect then, and I have never wavered. Please heed me now, when I say the entirety of this nation rests on your shoulders. If you should fall tomorrow, Director, then Rennaire will follow swiftly."

“So, no pressure," Leon replied, trying to force a grin. He knew Deuxmoise was right, but had been avoiding the thought.

“Don't go," the General said, bracing his paw on Leon's shoulder. “Send myself, or Laurent, or Germaine. You wish to lead from the front I know and that is why the people follow you, but this is too much. We cannot risk the heart of this nation."

Leon's false mirth faltered, and he brushed the General's paw from his shoulder. “Deuxmoise. It is as you say, I lead from the front. The people of Rennaire will follow me so long as they believe in me, that is our contract. I am not a King. I am not divinely ordained to rule, and if I cannot do it then I don't deserve it."

“Damn it. You've proven yourself, Leon, don't be foolish for the sake of pride!"

“Now you are forgetting yourself, Deuxmoise," Leon warned, staring the jackal down. “You have your orders. I remember the last time we had a conversation like this, did you forget the war ended the next day?"

Deuxmoise's expression betrayed his doubt, but he knew better than to talk back.

Bidding the others goodnight, Leon left for his quarters. He'd had a modest room made up in the palace for himself, and when he returned to it he found Jacques had run him a bath and left a small plate of cold meats and cheeses.

He's like a ghost now, Leon thought, undoing the buttons on his shirt. His presence is all around me, but ephemeral, constantly out of touch. The loneliness crept up on him, but Leon pushed it back, slipping into the bath.

He soaked in the heat, ate the food, and sighed deeply. All these small comforts, but there was one he missed most keenly. How nice it would have been to lie with Jacques one more night in his bed, to embrace the slender hips, stroke his legs and stomach, kiss his lips…

Leon stared down at his erection swaying in the cooling water. He had no heart to do anything about it. Of course if he requested it, Jacques would probably serve his body up without complaint. But to him it would be a task, and nothing more. Fucking the man was pleasurable, but Leon craved more than an obedient concubine. He wanted someone with teeth, someone that would fight back with him, standing at his own level. Someone with scales, perhaps?

The affair with Jacques had been a thing of convenience and stress relief, but Leon had thought after all that time laying together, that maybe the rat was someone he could truly confide in…

“Apparently not," he said to himself, standing to dry his fur. There was nobody else like him, nobody who understood him. That's what Deuxmoise couldn't grasp, what none of them could. Leon knew the jackal was right, leading the charge on Lazare himself was foolhardy, ridiculous even, for a head of state. The Emperor of Danegard would never.

Yet I have no choice in the matter.

Somebody else would fuck it up.

Leon tried to sleep as the rain continued its assault on his windows, tossing and turning as he imagined a hundred different scenarios for the next day. Whether he truly slept or not he couldn't say, but eventually the roosters started crowing, and he realised dawn was nigh.

Dressing in plain trousers and a simple greatcoat, Leon affixed his pistol, sword, and slung a grooved-barrel rifle over his back. He did his best to slip out of the palace unnoticed – few knew of Alabaster's dark work, and the last thing he needed were rumours spreading.

The streets of Albedo were quiet and empty in the pre-dawn light. It felt wrong seeing gutters and shopfronts without any people in them, even if he knew they would soon be filled.

Deuxmoise's warning rang in his head. If he was killed, could Alabaster revive him? Would he even be the same man if that happened? The dragon was a necromancer, although whenever Leon had tried to interrogate him about the true extent of his powers, he'd always been coy. There was an impression that Alabaster could extract information from the dead, even commune with them but… what form this took exactly, Leon couldn't say.

The whole ordeal felt like he was sprinting as the streets collapsed beneath his feet. The world was falling away but as long as Leon kept moving forward, he'd be okay.

Part of him couldn't believe the revolution, it had burned slow, but then all happened so fast. It felt unbelievable that he now led this country. Another part of him was certain it was all moments away from collapse, like a tower of cards just waiting for a light breeze.

No. I won't allow it. By sheer force of will Leon would make Rennaire stick together. There would be no failure, not after he had come so far and sacrificed so much.

The Cathedral doorway was barred with wooden planks, but after unlocking the door with his key Leon was able to duck beneath the planks and slip inside. The main hall was empty, the pews had been pushed back to the walls, and a trail of low flickering candles led forward.

“What witchcraft are you brewing in here, Alabaster?" Leon muttered, following the dimly lit trail. The echoic silence was heavy, like a budding pressure building overhead. The closer Leon drew to the altar, the stronger the smells of ginger, cumin, rust, and sweat became. They all mixed together, both pleasant and unpleasant all at once.

As his eyes adjusted, Leon realised that the floor and the walls were covered with symbols. Letters he did not recognise, patterns and spirals slathered out in what he hoped was paint. There was a dreamlike quality to the air, a quickened pulse of unreality that thrummed through him. He glanced back at the front door, and realised it felt as if he'd been walking for hours.

How long is this room? His eyes watered, and Leon realised they were stinging. He rubbed at them, scowling.

“A reaction to the incense." He jumped, realising Alabaster had snuck up on him. The ivory dragon was draped in a flowing dark robe, a hood pulled up over his head. Distant candlelight was all that lit his features, the orange haze flickering up along his jaw and curling around his sunken red eyes.

“Alabaster?" Leon asked, his mouth felt slow, full of cotton. “What's going on?"

“The ritual, to make you into Ishim."

“Into what?"

“Men made Angels, at least… for a short while." Alabaster shrugged. “Come." He turned, dissolving back off into the shadows. Leon shook his head to try and clear it, then followed close as they passed around the side of the altar, making for the reliquary at the back.

Leon nearly tripped as he was stopped outside the door, the mystic turning back to face him.

“Remove your clothes."

“Alabaster," Leon growled, a blush rising to his cheeks. “You cannot be serious. We did this before and–"

“Quiet," Alabaster snapped, raising a claw to silence him. “This is different. This is sorcery, a ritual act of binding. You must go into it open and pure if there is any hope of it working. Hurry. The others are waiting."

“Are they…?" Alabaster did not reply, and Leon groaned, unbuttoning his coat and slowly stripping. “What are you going to do to us?"

“Rebirth you," Alabaster replied absently. “The sorcery of Angels is not like my own. They do not play with the world's primordial entropy as I do… they are… something else."

Leon's shirt hit the floor, and he undid his belt, dropping his trousers and kicking off his boots. “Can you still… do whatever it is you need to do?"

“Would we be here if not? I cannot affect the Angel's magic directly, Leon, but I believe my art can bind it to you. That power is in their very flesh, it is an organic part of their body… Using Hashan I will build Angelic regalia upon you."

“Am I going to… wear a corpse?"

“Not quite so literally," Alabaster replied. He paused, eyes darting down. “Breeches too, as I said, pure."

“Bastard." Leon stripped completely, the chill nipping at his balls.

Alabaster gave him a soft smile, then opened the reliquary door.

Leon drifted past, and found the room had been cleared of all furniture. Candles lined the edges of the small space, and the same runes he'd seen in the main hall crowded the walls. It felt like insanity slathered over a canvas. Red smoke and mist hung in the air, choking and sticking in his throat, further adding to the swimming in his head.

He stumbled, and realised that he'd nearly tripped over one of the riflemen. As Alabaster said, they too were all naked, knelt down in a small circle. Twelve of them, thirteen including Leon.

“Are you there?" Leon asked, taking one by the shoulder. The man was a fox, and he glanced up with a distant expression. It was as if he stared right through Leon, through the ceiling and into the stars.

“Take your place," said Alabaster, brushing past Leon. The jaguar swayed woozily, but found himself kneeling, his naked body pressed between two of his men.

“Breathe, Ishim," Alabaster called over his shoulder, working at his materials at the front of the room. “Never before has something so profane existed. Here we commit to heresy of the highest order." He cast something into the fire, and sparks flew as more thick red smoke filled the air. “Breathe in the dust of Angel blood, weep as they do, and feel their somatic corporeality bound to your own, intertwined."

Leon inhaled deeply, felt the stinging nettles swimming in his lungs. His nerves were on fire, and he squirmed as Alabaster moved between the men, who swayed before him like barley in the wind.

Part of him wanted to run. The longer he knelt, the more the pain increased, seeping into his knees and crawling up his naked thighs. It singed within him, twisting and clutching, pinching at his nerves and joints. It felt like bugs were crawling over his hide, burrowing into him.

Leon blinked, and saw Alabaster writing runes on each of his men, calligraphic lettering artfully drawn with blood. He realised then that what they were breathing, and what was being painted on them, were the remains of Hashan. Pieces of the Angel dismantled for use.

What did you expect?

Alabaster spoke to them all, rhythmically, slowly, in a language Leon could not recognise. The words hurt his ears, piercing into his skull like nails. Things slipped away. He found himself crawling, screaming, writhing on the ground with the others.

“Feel as the Angels feel…" Alabaster said. “Breathe their madness, if only for a short while."

“It hurtssss…" Someone whined, and Leon realised it was him. He was wedged into a crush of bodies, beneath, above, paws and feet squirming in the dark. Wetness passed between them, slick like oil, something alive, like a nest of eels. His spine contorted, arching painfully, organs seizing. The writhing power crushed his windpipe, coiled up his legs, tail, forced its way down his throat.

“Together you form a vile coterie," Alabaster explained, his voice whispering in Leon's ear, in all their ears. “Each of you thirteen is linked, pillars upholding this profane power. When one of you falls, the rest shall share the burden. Do not let it get away from you."

The others howled, their nails digging into their hides. Leon held onto them for dear life, just wishing it would end.

“Stop!" Leon begged, crawling forwards, muscles spasming. “Stop, Alabaster, please!"

“See you do not fall."

“Alabaster!" Leon lost himself to the cries of anguish, darkness closing in, the unknowable language from Alabaster's tongue sending him deeper into the dark.

Spasming, panicking, Leon let it take him.

There should be wind up here. Leon inhaled, staring down over the building ledge. The edge plummeted nearly four stories before reaching the street below, the void almost beckoning. His mind knew they were underground, but his body refused to believe it, and he kept bracing for the breeze. But there was no wind in the Undercity, only the gloom, the bats. Leon had never visited it before today, and he was shocked at the realisation of just how large it truly was. How many people lived down here, away from the light? Too many. They needed better food, better options, a proper bridge up to the streets at the very least. His city had an entire half to it that most people never even considered.

Another problem to fix, when this is done.

“How do you feel?" Alabaster asked him.

Leon sighed. “I feel… not myself."

“Weak?"

“No, no, the opposite. Like you could run a sword right through my heart, and yet I'd keep going."

The mystic tutted. “Well, I should not need to tell you that it isn't so. You killed Hashan yourself, and you are not an Angel. Mortality is inescapable, Leon, we all die."

The jaguar grinned. “Not me. Not today."

Whatever Alabaster had done to them, he was certain it had worked. He could feel his soul buzzing with the newfound power, the primordial elements of sangoma and Angel bound together in unholy union. There were no words to describe it, the new sensations he felt. It was more than better eyesight or fluid movement, it was an innate potential, a deep-rooted connection to the others in his coterie, as well as to the stones, wood, and steel that surrounded him. He felt the presence of the world, and even as he breathed, it breathed with him.

“You shouldn't be here, Alabaster. It's going to be dangerous."

The necromancer scoffed. “And allow my greatest triumph to come undone? No, I think not, Leon. It is best I am nearby, to… maintain the threads. Don't think my sorcery ended just because we completed the ritual."

“And what happens then," Leon began, throwing a paw up. “If it does? What happens if your 'threads' come undone, as you say?"

Alabaster remained quiet for a breath, then spoke softly. “I won't insult you by lying. I cannot say for certain. But you are dangerously close to primordial elements, my master gazed into the entropic realm of the other just for one moment, and he died an abomination. Gouged out his own eyes, complete and instantaneous madness. This is dangerous, Leon, it's untested and frankly foolish. Would you take a rifle you'd never fired to war?"

“I would," Leon replied. “If it was the only one I had."

“Sir!" Their bickering was interrupted as one of Leon's men came over, a husky with light grey markings rippled in his luscious fur. Eldritch script was written across his face in Angel blood, the letters mapped out in a neat grid like the page of a sacred text – the fine print of Alabaster's dark contract. The husky buzzed with his newfound power, his chest puffed out, the hackles on his neck standing to attention. Leon understood the feeling beyond simple empathy, he could feel the husky like the man was one of his limbs. They were connected, linked together by the profane rite.

It's been nearly an hour, and we climbed through a sewer to get here. Leon had to resist the urge to put a finger to his own face, as if he could feel the ancient text written on himself. Yet none of it has smudged even the tiniest amount.

“The preparations are ready!" The soldier explained, gesturing behind himself. “We await your orders!"

The Undercity rooftop they had commandeered was backed up against a thick stone pillar, swarming with creepers and teeming with bugs, but a key structural reinforcement for the Undercity's ceiling nonetheless. Over the last few nights, Deuxmoise's engineers had been hard at work erecting scaffolding around the pillar, bracing the ceiling above them. It wasn't the cleanest work, Leon could tell that much even from here, but hopefully it would be enough to stop the whole street above from coming down on them. All of the non-essential personnel had been sent away, but their supports, ladders, and rope lines remained ready for the Ishim to use.

“The others are in position?" Leon asked. He didn't need the husky to even nod, he could sense the rest of his squad bunched up on the opposite side of the roof, waiting anxiously. They were tethered now, all part of the vile coterie. “Get the barrels into place."

He and the husky moved to collect the two barrels packed full of black powder. As Leon tipped his over to roll it, Alabaster leaned down and whispered in his ear.

“Remember, Leon, you are not invincible."

You wouldn't say that if you felt the way I do, necromancer.

With the husky's help, they rolled the two barrels over to the base of the pillar, and Leon used the butt of his rifle to smash a hole in the bottom half of one barrel, the tiny black grains spilling out onto the rooftop.

“Get back now," Leon told the husky. “Keep your heads down, and be ready. No telling how this is gonna go, but when it happens we must move fast."

“Sir!" The husky saluted, spinning on his heel and jogging back to the others.

Leon glanced up towards the ceiling. Please don't crush me, you oversized bitch. A part of him saw this as his revenge on the market district. He wasn't destroying his own city, he was beginning step one of the reconstruction. Tell that excuse to Alabaster, and watch him choke on the laughter that comes back.

“Hard choices need to be made, for the good of us all," Leon whispered aloud, silencing his own doubts. Retrieving a small oilcan from his waist, he began to drop out a thin line of fluid leading from the small pile of gunpowder. The building they'd braced themselves on was wide, but eventually he made his way to the far edge, where he and Alabaster had taken cover.

“Putting a lot of faith in that wooden skeleton," the dragon muttered, as Leon knelt down, tipping out the last of his oil. “Scaffold looks weak."

“You should pray that it isn't as frail as it looks then," Leon replied.

“Did you consider the possibility of your plan beginning a chain reaction that brings the entire city down?"

Leon sighed. “Spare me, why would you ever think to say something like that? Do you just feed on the misery of others? Can you not simply let it be?"

The dragon shrugged, and Leon growled, pulling a short piece of flint from his breast pocket and leaning down towards the oil. “I choose preparation over hopes."

Before he could think better of it, Leon struck his flint across the stone rooftop. Sparks flashed and caught on the oil, blossoming into fire which quickly raced down his fuse-line.

The sound was a deafening crack that rang out through the entire Undercity, the explosion echoing again and again as it ricocheted through the underground cavern. Leon pushed his head down as wooden shrapnel blew outwards, pelting the opposite side of his cover. The core of the pillar cracked like the groan of a waking dragon, the whole support strut fracturing in the middle as it slipped down, crunching as stone ground against stone. Leon risked a glance around his cover, and saw an intricate lacework of cracks racing up the pillar, the engineers' scaffolding already beginning to creak as it started bearing the brunt of the load.

The pillar wobbled, weak in the middle, and Leon swallowed a gasp as he saw the underside of the streets above them sag and undulate as their foundations began to fall.

One of the scaffolds burst into pieces all at once, tumbling down in a pile of rough-hewn logs which bounced and rolled over the rooftop, spilling out over the edge and into the streets below. It's gonna crush us, Leon realised.

“BACK, NOW!" He grabbed Alabaster by the arm and dragged him further back, throwing them both into a nearby doorway.

The pillar gave out what little it had left a heartbeat later, the resounding crack ear-piercing as it crumbled bottom-first, dragging the roots of the street above down with it. The remaining scaffold structures howled in protest, and Leon glanced back in time to see their previous cover spot annihilated as the wash of stone and mud buried it like a landslide. He felt the building shudder beneath his feet, and felt awash with gratitude that the roof they'd chosen belonged to such a wide, squat building.

As the street above collapsed into the Undercity, royalist soldiers came with it. The pillar was situated directly under the market district, and if Leon's maps were accurate – dangerously close to Jules's barricades. He clung to the doorframe as the entire building shook beneath him, horses whinnying in abject terror, men screaming out for help as they were drowned in rock and sludge, the raw momentum of the disaster carrying them forwards and over the edge of the building. Some were simply bludgeoned to death in the melee, and Leon figured them lucky. The rest were washed forward helplessly towards the edge, battered in the slide before being spat out into the air, shrieking in terror as they plummeted towards the Undercity's streets below.

Traitors, he reminded himself. Traitors all of them, it's either this now, or the guillotine later.

Eventually the carnage slowed, the mixture of mud and bricks forming into a dramatic slope piled atop the roof. Leon didn't dare consider the damage done below him, making a mental note to send repair crews down here once everything was finished.

Despite the close-calls, the majority of Deuxmoise's scaffolding had held, buckling beneath the weight but standing proud. For all the volume of what had come, the hole ripped down was surprisingly small, less than six metres wide at any point by Leon's guess. The previously flat rooftop was now utterly soaked in sludge, rocks poking up, debris forming small boulders amongst the mud. Broken bodies stuck out of the crash, boots and paws twitching as the life bled from them.

“Stay down here," Leon growled at Alabaster. “It's not going to be safe up there."

“And if the sorcery falters? Then what?" The dragon snapped, spitting dirt from his mouth. “It isn't just yourself, Leon, who knows what may happen? If the ritual reverts you might become as much a powder keg as that barrel you just blew up! Think, man!"

“Then don't get shot, I don't have the time to babysit you."

Rifle loaded, Leon pushed up from cover, rejoining his men as they began the difficult climb up into the streets. The mud underfoot was slippery, trying to suck them in, the errant bricks doing what they could to roll ankles. Fortunately, Leon had never felt so alive. Every moment felt as if he had an eternity to react to it – he could see the way the mud was shifting and know exactly where to put his foot. His men acted the same, Alabaster struggling to keep up as they followed Leon up the newly-made mound.

What a horrifying sight we must make! Leon thought, as he breached through the newly-made hole in the street. Thirteen hardened riflemen, each with eldritch scripture written across their faces in blood, their eyes carrying the energy of burning powder and righteous fury.

They came up behind what was left of the royalist barricades. Dust filled the air, choking lungs and stinging eyes, the rhythmic puff-puff-boom of Deuxmoise's relentless artillery barrage only heightening the confusion.

The royalists were not ready for a charge coming from the sinkhole, and Leon caught his first kill in the back, pushing his bayonet into the rear of a collie's kidney, ripping the blade free with a snarl.

Leon whirled in place as another friendly volley smashed apart the barricades, sighting four men raising muskets. Their lips were moving but the sound was crushed by Deuxmoise's artillery. They can't even tell if I'm on their side, Leon thought, grinning. Before they could decide whether to shoot him or not, Leon's Ishim fired a volley up from their position inside the sinkhole, dropping the squad at his feet.

“Good work!" He half-shouted, half-mouthed, offering a paw to help his men up the last hurdle. It felt good to have solid ground underfoot again. The husky from earlier gave Alabaster the boost he needed, the dragon looking woefully uncoordinated next to the razor-sharp Ishim. “Men, we– find Lazare!" Leon cried, timing his words between volleys. “He is our FIRST priority!"

Dust stung his eyes, the cutting wind swirling it about, forcing it into his mouth and nostrils. The loyalists had no official uniform, no cohesion, and it seemed that few had realised what had actually transpired. Leon's guess was that they blamed the One God's wrath for the untimely collapse of their captured streets.

But it wasn't God. It was me.

He sniffed, spitting dirt from his teeth as he scanned the enemy ranks for any signs of Lazare. There was no lightning, no halos, no Angel. Where are you hiding, you bastard? His teeth itched for the fight, his mind full of the images from that massacre at La Tour de Sel. Innocent people, surrendered civilians, all decimated in cold blood like animals. Leon wanted to rip that monster's heart from his chest, and hold it before his very eyes as the bastard died then and there.

“Forward, forward move!" He declared, putting the barricade to his back and leading the men deeper into the market ward – Deuxmoise would make short work of what was left of Jules's defence. The Ishim were veterans, and they reloaded swiftly as they began to jog forward in rough formation, splitting into a loose half-chevron as they navigated their way along the street, keeping to the side as they tried to blend in with the royalists.

The weeks' worth of artillery had done its job, and Leon saw the buildings and roads here were riddled with potholes, chunks blown out of almost every structure that stood. They had pulverised the royalist base, and now it was finally weak enough to take.

Spying a larger group of soldiers headed for the front, Leon peeled off from the main road and slipped into an adjacent alleyway. The light abandoned them as they pressed through the narrow passage, wending through the over-built mazes as they tried to move closer towards the loyalist centre.

“Stick close, be ready," Leon said back at his men, keeping his rifle barrel aimed to the sky as he cautiously skipped forward. The sounds of war were muffled now, the bends in the alley smothering the worst of it.

They took a left, and then another, trampling around what seemed to be a small encampment for the royalist families. More fleeing nobles, Leon thought. More food for the guillotine.

He brought his men to a halt as they reached an exit to the maze of alleyways, peering out into the streets as he tried to get a handle on where they were. The market ward had been a messy place before the revolution, now it was bedlam. The streets were crammed full of tiny makeshift structures, tents and cookeries erected randomly wherever they fit. Leon saw signs of families in the distance, and soldiers ran through in every direction, some for the front barricades, some making for the back as they tried to desert.

In the distance, Deuxmoise's cannons had slowed their rhythm. He must be sending in the infantry. It was all paws on deck – everyone still loyal to the crown was running for the front, no doubt spurred by the knowledge of what Leon's Triumvirate would do once they caught the traitors.

“We've got a gap now," he said back to his squad of Ishim. “It has to be now, while the bulk of their forces are overrun. Things look bad for the enemy at this moment, but if their Angel gets loose on Deuxmoise's forces, Jules could easily turn this tide. If any of you fought in Zolfreun, you'll know how fast things can turn bad."

They replied with a round of solemn head nods. Zolfreun had looked like a complete disaster, before Leon's plan finally came together.

Then it had been a disaster again, he thought. Until I killed their Angel. History repeats itself, so they say.

“We must find Lazare. Short of that, we must find Jules and place him under arrest. We do that, and Lazare will come out anyway."

“And if he decided to run back to his Church, abandon the royal charge?" Alabaster asked. Leon only growled a response to that, the damn curr was seemingly never capable of keeping his cynical what-ifs to himself.

“Look, Director," said one of his men, a grizzled wolf. Leon allowed the man to push forward, raising a monoscope to his eye. “There's a manor down the end of this street, with snipers nested on the rooftop."

Leon snatched the eyeglass from the wolf, looking for himself. It took a moment to see, but eventually he spied it. As the wolf said, it was a four-storey manor built out of rich, dark wood. The roof was peaked, but several small balconies jutted out from the sides, two snipers with their rifles trained on the streets below.

“Alright then," Leon said, taking a knee. “Who's the best shot here?"

The same husky from earlier braced up next to him, both sighting up their guns. At more than three-hundred yards it was a tight shot into the marksmen nest, but Leon could feel the wind the way he felt his own tail. He knew what the pull of gravity would do to his round, what would happen to each part of his weapon and body and even the snipers themselves – it all felt connected, swirling together as one sensation. If I ate a cake, I would probably taste it as flour, sugar, and eggs. He wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of that thought.

Without a word, he and the husky fired at the same time. Powder burst in their faces as their charges shot out, and a second later both of the snipers dropped with near perfect synchronisation.

The husky whistled, hurriedly loading his rifle in time with Leon. “Best shot I ever made, sir."

“Best shot yet." Leon stuffed his next round in, raising his rifle. “Men, we're going to charge down there, and take the manor. I want three squads, Alabaster keep your distance until the front is secure. No time for proper formations, I want this done, damn it."

The Ishim all moved as one. They left their cover, breaking up into smaller chunks as they marched steadily forward, rifles ready. The front steps of the manor were augmented with extra barricades and cover, and as they drew near someone inside realised what was happening, and bells began to ring.

Leon felt himself moving as all his men, they were an extension of his own awareness, each a pallbearer for the end of kings.

The front doors to the manor burst apart, and royalists came flooding out – Jules's honour-guard. Leon's left squad dropped into a quick double-rank, short and wide like an arrowhead, firing two staggered volleys, four shots. Three men died at the manor. Smoke filled the air as the enemy fired back, but with the other men dispersed enough they didn't create a strong enough target. Leon knew they'd be decimated by a cavalry charge, but here in the city that wouldn't be possible. The royalists cried out as their numbers were halved again by a volley from Leon's right. He'd never dreamed of riflemen this accurate, this lethal.

Oh, to have an entire army made up of men like this.

“Warn the King Regent! Make ready the–" The command died on the man's lips as Leon shot him in the back. He kept his eyes wide, ready for any flanking attack, but there was no help coming. Everyone else had run for the front, and the manor was sorely lacking in its defence.

Leon grinned as the royalists fled back inside the manor, slamming the door shut as if that could save them. His elation was short-lived however, as one of the manor's front bay windows exploded outwards. A howitzer had fired from inside the living room, the cannonball narrowly missing Leon's husky marksman.

“Scatter!" Leon cried, and his men broke apart. They and the honour-guard exchanged several volleys, minutes ticking by agonisingly slow as Leon continued the approach. Every time they made to move up the howitzer fired again, pushing them back.

Stalemate.

He frowned as he glanced outside of cover once more, and realised that – somehow — Alabaster had managed to creep around the side of the manor.

No. Leon's heart leapt into his throat as the necromancer raised himself up, suddenly certain that the honour-guard would see him and fire any moment. You'll get yourself killed you fucking idiot!

Leon wanted to cry out, but there was no way he could be heard over the racket. Besides, before he could think to act any further, he realised that Alabaster was midway through some kind of ritual. Even as Leon blinked, he saw three of the dead bodies they had dropped on the steps clamber to their feet. They were stiff and awkward, but as they crawled up into the ruined bay window the men inside panicked, their rifles all suddenly spent at once as each man tried to put down the horrible revenant version of their former brothers-in-arms.

“NOW! CHARGE!" Leon roared. His men roared with him, and they bolted out from cover, bayonets fixed. The world was a blur around him as they scaled the low gardens, leaping effortlessly up over the shredded corpses and into the manor's parlour.

The honour-guard cried out and tried to fall back, but as they turned Leon's men shot and stabbed them in the back, a sudden massacre. He felt the cord of their life snap with each kill, felt the very instant their soul was disconnected from their meat.

He cast a wary eye at Alabaster, who only nodded. Is this how you feel all the time, sorcerer?

“Lock this floor down!" Leon said, his men spreading throughout the manor's ground level like a fire, purging whatever remnants of Jules's guard they found.

“Where is he?" Leon growled at nobody in particular, raising his rifle and heading up the stairs. He knew the former prince was here somewhere.

And Lazare close by.

He realised with a start that Alabaster had followed him. He hadn't realised that killing Jules was so important to the necromancer, but now that they were here, he couldn't believe he'd been so blind.

We are the same, Leon thought, recognising the grim determination on Alabaster's face. We've led different lives, but we both know these people cannot be allowed to exist.

“For Rennaire," he whispered, pushing on.

The second floor was clear of soldiers, the only people occupying it the shivering remnants of Jules's personal servants. Leon had no reason to hurt them, and he told them to hunker down until the shooting stopped. He and his men then cleared through the third floor, discovering an armoury, a map room, and several offices filled with loose chests of francs. Leon himself found evidence of many drafts to foreign monarchs, begging them for aid, promising future alliances and deals.

“He's practically sold half the fucking country," he scowled, tossing one aside.

“Can't sell what isn't his," Alabaster replied.

The fourth floor felt different. Quieter. Leon fanned out with his men, spreading through as they methodically checked each room.

“I'm not sure they're here, Director," one of his wolves called from a bedroom.

“They have to be!" Leon squeezed his teeth painfully tight. “Check for an attic, or crawl spaces, damn it, go back down and look for a cellar!" What if they'd escaped? What if somehow, in all the confusion, Jules and Lazare had managed to get away from everything? His legitimacy to the Rennairan throne would make dealing with the other nations all the more impossible.

And we'd have ruined that Angel's corpse for nothing.

Leon circled back towards the stairs, spying a small room that he'd missed the first time, half-hidden into the wall. Sniffing as he sidled up, the jaguar nudged the door open with his boot and saw Alabaster stood there dumbly, dagger hanging loose by the dragon's side.

“Alabaster, what the hell are you…" The words died in Leon's throat as he stepped up beside the dragon, and saw what was over his shoulder. “...doing."

There was a small, single bed shoved up into the corner of the room. By the foot of it, dressed in loose cotton clothing and wearing a bronze leper's mask, was a cowering teenage badger.

“Gabriel," Leon whispered, glancing at Alabaster. The necromancer stared down blankly at the child.

Nobody had spoken about what would happen to Gabriel. They had avoided the topic completely, shelving it away as something to deal with later.

“He's the rightful heir to the throne," Leon muttered, swallowing a dry lump. Gabriel glanced up at them, tears shining inside his mask. Young he might be, but the boy wasn't stupid.

Alabaster only grunted. Leon glanced at him.

You're supposed to be the cold one, aren't you?

“He's a noble. A royal," Leon added.

“Are you hurt, Gabriel?" Alabaster asked softly, pointedly ignoring him. His voice sounded hollow, even gentle. Leon could never have imagined Alabaster of all people being comforting.

“I'm alright, Alabaster," the boy replied. His tone was familiar, even… relieved. “I was worried about you. They didn't know what happened after…"

That's right, Leon recalled, watching the two as it finally dawned on him. You cured this boy of leprosy. In fact, the dragon had once off-handedly mentioned that saving Gabriel's life was 'the best thing he'd ever done'.

But sympathy? From you?

“What are you doing here?" The boy asked, looking down at his feet. Behind his mask there was no fur, Leon knew, only the scars of his illness. “I'm scared, Alabaster. I don't… know what to do." His voice cracked, a slight sob escaping as he sniffed.

The two men stood, breathing softly. It felt as if this room was the only place in the whole world.

“Alabaster, he's the heir to the throne," Leon said again, more firmly this time.

“He's fifteen," Alabaster snarled back. “He did nothing wrong."

“Neither did most of the aristocrats we sentenced to death, some not much older than him. I'm not saying that we should–"

“What are you saying, Leon?" The dragon turned on him, his glare unwavering. “Speak plainly. Have some backbone."

Leon forced his voice lower. “I am saying that he has a claim to the throne. He might be fifteen now, but–"

“What are you doing, Leon?" The jaguar froze. He glanced back to the door, and saw Jules standing there with a flintlock pistol raised in one paw, staring them both down. “That's my brother. The rightful heir to the throne."

“There is no throne anymore, Jules," Leon snapped back. Why was he being forced to argue this point? It made him angry with Alabaster, he was supposed to be cut-throat. The evil necromancer, the viciously pragmatic heretic.

Why does it have to be me?

But could you really do it?

Leon didn't know.

“Don't act like you'd do any different, Jules," Leon said. “You mean me to believe you'd spare his life when he's the only thing standing between you and the throne?"

The badger shook his head. “You're a regicide, Leon, how long do you think this petty revolution can last?"

“Forever."

“Surrender to me now, relinquish the throne of Rennaire, and I'll see that you face exile instead of death."

“Fuck you." Leon made to move forward but Jules shook his pistol, aiming it right for Leon's chest.

“Shoot me, and see what happens," Leon said. “The Rennaire dynasty is over. You need to surrender yourself, Jules."

“So you can decapitate me, as well?" The badger glanced at Alabaster, scowling. “And you. I always thought you and I were friends, Alabaster. Who else ever defended you to my father against Joachim and Vardé? Should have known better, I suppose."

“Phillipe was not good for this country, Jules. Time to move on." Alabaster's voice was cold. Leon glanced down, saw him making small patterns with his claws. “Time to let go."

A sudden flashing sound emanated from the badger's palm, like the searing of a steak. He cried out as steam billowed up from his gun, throwing it to the ground and clutching his burnt paw. Leon threw himself forward, there was no space in the cramped bedroom to use his rifle or draw his sword, and he crashed into Jules with his full weight, smashing the Prince's head into the door. The badger kicked back and they stumbled out into the hall.

“MEN! THE– PRINCE!" Leon cried, shoving Jules back. The soldiers came rushing out, weapons raised. Leon panted, wiping at the blood on his lips. “It's time to stop, Jules, Deuxmoise has taken the district, you've lost, you–"

Something crackled, and Leon exploded.

Lightning lanced between them all, energy exploding as they were thrown forward, smashing through the front wall of the manor and out into the clear air. Leon's head spun as he turned end-over-end, stomach dropping as they crashed into the wall on the opposite street, falling down the front and collapsing flat onto the street below.

Blinking through the haze, Leon shoved himself up, spitting blood and a tooth out before himself, glancing back up at the manor's top floor. No ordinary man would walk away from something like that. As he stood, gathering his bearings, he realised that Lazare was still up there. The xolo stood proudly at the edge of the destroyed wall, stripped to the waist as usual, halo shining bright in the shadowed opening.

Before Leon's eyes, he stepped out into the air, dropping down the front of the tall mansion and landing gracefully in the street. He rose up, inhaling deeply, grinning as he began to approach.

Leon had lost his rifle in the fall, and instead he drew his sabre, levelling it out towards Lazare.

“What have you done to yourself, Leon?" The xolo cried, both arms opened wide. “What poor mockery of the One God's great ability is this?" He waved a paw in front of his face, gesturing to the scripture inked on Leon's own fur.

“Whatever I have to!" He cried back, grunting as he moved forward. His men were still picking themselves up behind, scrambling for their lost weapons. “You can still surrender, Lazare."

The xolo smiled, almost pitifully. “I think we both know that's not true."

He raised an arm like an ancient soldier hurling a javelin, as he let his invisible missile fly, a great bolt of crackling lightning burst from the heavens. Leon was blinded as it slammed into him from above, the skittering agony shooting through his muscles, the bricks beneath his feet instantly cast into glass. He felt the power disseminated between himself and the other Ishim, pulled apart as each man buckled.

Leon roared, throwing his arms back as he threw the weight of the sorcery off himself, Lazare's bolt faltering along with xolo's confidence. Leon gasped for air, it was like coming up for a breath after being trapped in a lake for too long. It hurt. But he was alive. An Angel had thrown his best at him and he was fucking alive.

“I can do anything," he breathed, eyes widening at Lazare. “I can do anything. Nobody can stop me. Not you. Not any king, no nation, and no army." He walked forwards, towards the Angel – without fear he walked towards the most powerful being in the world. “I took Danegard's pride. Then I came home, and I took King Phillipe's head." He raised his sword towards Lazare, the blade shaking in his paw, but his will galvanised like steel. “Now I'm here, to take your life."

He slashed forwards at Lazare and the Angel darted back, his body fast but awkward, unaccustomed to fighting someone up this close.

“That power is a crutch for you!" Leon slashed again and Lazare ducked the swipe, shoving a paw into Leon's chest and letting a huge bolt of lightning explode through him. It felt like his heart skipped for a moment, but then it kicked back, the raw electricity bursting outwards, pain receding as the vile coterie took their share. “You… don't deserve it!"

“And you do?" Lazare threw his other arm out, and a second spark jack-knifed up from his paw, darting through the air as it blew apart the first-floor balcony of a nearby shop front. Leon screamed for his husky rifleman to move, but as fast as they were with the Ishim powers – lightning was still faster.

Debris smashed into him, sheering his skull in two and folding him in half. Leon immediately gasped as the agony ricocheted back like an echo, the severed link like a snapped psychic tendon.

“What is this?" He gasped. He was winded, the world was spinning as the other twelve suddenly buckled under the new weight.

I can take it. You can take it, don't falter now. He glanced up at Lazare, and the Angel took another step back. He was frightened. So close. The last step.

The sword had fallen from his grip, so Leon instead threw himself to the ground, trusting his men to act. They fired a volley as one, bullets eviscerating Lazare's torso, blood splattering out behind him in a great crimson arc.

“You… heretics…" Lazare snarled, shaking but still standing. Leon leapt up, slamming his shoulders into the Angel's midsection. He lifted the xolo off the ground, screaming his rage as he slammed them both into the bricks.

“Bastard!" Lazare grunted, as Leon raised up above him, pinning the xolo down. “There's no coming back from this Leon! What have you done to yourself?"

“I– told you," Leon growled back. He threw all of his weight into his arm, driving his elbow down onto the xolo's face. Something in the dog's snout crunched, and Leon pulled back up. “Whatever I had to!"

Crunch. Again he pulled back up.

“These people deserve to be free!"

Crunch. And up.

“You thought–"

Crunch.

“–you could just–"

And up.

“–murder them!?"

He cried out wordlessly, slamming his elbow down into the xolo's face once more with everything he had. Bone sunk inwards and Leon fell forwards into Lazare's head, pushing himself back as he panted, desperate to suck air into his tired lungs.

Lazare laid still, body twitching slightly beneath Leon's own. The jaguar grabbed him by the front of his fur, squeezing so hard his fingers throbbed.

“You massacred them! So many innocents! There has to be a price!" He choked up, and realised he was crying. Realised his whole body ached, that burns criss-crossed over his back. He had died with his man.

The world spun, and Leon crawled off the dead xolo, stomach turning as everything seemed to hit him at once.

“Director Valoisier? Can you hear me?" A gruff voice that Leon ignored. He vomited onto the cobblestones, feeling someone's rough paws flip him onto his back. General Deuxmoise stared down at him, the jackal's eyes wide as saucers.

“Is it… is he dead? Is he…" Leon tried to get a hold of his breathing, but his stomach was seizing constantly. The swarming was back, the twisting eel-like sensation of the Angel's power getting loose through his limbs. He felt the death of that husky like it was his own. The final silence, the terror of his quintessence ripped from his meat by the vacuous void of the world. The sorcery binding the Angel's power to himself was getting loose, frying his nervous system as it did.

Is this what you work with? Leon thought, thinking of Alabaster. Is that your art, necromancer?

“Lazare is gone, he's dead," Deuxmoise said, dropping to a knee. He scowled at the pitiful remains of the Angel's skull. “I'll be damned, Director, you got another one."

“And… and… and…?"

“My men have arrested Prince Jules as well," Deuxmoise added, sniffing. “The day is won, Leon. Just relax until the medics arrive.

“I need Alabaster…" Leon groaned, writhing. “Where… is he… alive?"

“My men are still mopping this rabble up," Deuxmoise said. “When I find Alabaster I will bring him, until then, you just breathe." His voice was distant, muted. Leon wasn't sure where he was, and where that husky had gone.

I didn't even get his name, he realised bleakly. How could I forget?

“It's over, Director," Deuxmoise said again, shaking Leon slightly. He tried to grin, but his whole body was numb. “Rennaire is yours."

“Yes…" Leon whispered, grinning. “Long live the Triumvirate."