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The Games that Gods Play	By : Ristul Category: DC Verse Comics > Wonder Woman Views: 16896 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Wonder Woman,nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 42
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I am drunk in the tornado,
Blindly pushing on ahead,
Chasing a hopeless dream.
I am drunk in the tornado,
Stranded in a spiral of death
I do not ever want to leave.
-Death poem
They came silently in the night, overwhelming the few sentries he had placed. For why should Ofursti place so many sentries? He was, after all, a respected noble with few enemies.
Except that his biggest enemy finally had the proof she wanted and the means to get it.
“What is the meaning of this?” Ofursti demanded as he raised his sword threateningly at Clea, who waved aside her alarmed guards with a gesture of disdain.
“Oh, my dear Baron, please don’t act stupid. You and I both know that you’ve been trying to amass enough support from the nobility to overthrow me. Well, that just isn’t going to happen.”
“You have any proof?”
“I don’t need any, not after you’re indicted of assassination.”
Veronica Cale was thrown at Clea’s feet. “Ahh, so this is the Black Lion’s woman, eh?” Clea tipped one hand under Cale’s chin, forcing her to look up. “Doesn’t look like much.”
Veronica spat at Clea, but the goddess simply deflected it back onto the businesswoman’s face. “Tsk, tsk. Such rudeness.” She looked back at Ofursti. “I know everything, or at least I soon will. How you conspired with Phillip Delacroix to murder me.”
Ofursti lowered his sword, knowing that it was hopeless. “You were a threat to everybody, Clea, with your mad ambition. I had no choice.”
“No choice?” Clea screamed, and stepped forward, one hand lashing out. “You could have stood behind me and fought like the loyal dog you are!”
Her long fingernails dragged four deep furrows across the Baron’s cheek, who took it without flinching. He stared at her, blood trailing from the wounds on his face. “What do you want?”
Clea smiled. “Your son Garan is in my hands. You will do as I say, or I will kill him.”
Ofursti closed his eyes. She had him well and truly trapped. He took a little consolation in the fact that she didn’t know about what Nugas the priest had planned with Phillip’s insurgents.

“Try it again!” Phillip barked at Ageban, who was trying to pull off a moderately difficult sequence with his sword. “Keep your back leg straightened, and remember to bounce a bit! Relax, don’t be so stiff.”
“Hard to be stiff when you’re shouting at us.” Lyxek said, while being pummeled by swinging sandbags. He was standing in the midst of them, all swinging to and fro, and trying unsuccessfully to avoid them. Phillip used that in an attempt to train situational awareness.
Rohat, meanwhile, was sparring with the final member of their band, Henad, who was slightly build and had the look of a scholar. He cringed whenever he got hit by the stick in Rohat’s hands.
“Damn it, try again!” The old man shouted, exasperated at his trainee’s lack of determination.
Phillip shook his head. Turning willing men into soldiers was hard enough. Turning unwilling spoiled brats into half-functional soldiers was a feat beyond the best of men. And they still believed that their families could somehow buy off Clea.
He suddenly straightened himself, and looked in the direction of the gates leading to the practice courtyard. He could feel the thundering of hooves on the ground, meaning riders at a full gallop approaching.
Since there was no obvious reason for that, he immediately assumed the worst.
“Rohat, stay here to train them. I’m leaving.” He kept his face as nonchalant as possible, not giving any hint that anything was wrong. He picked up his battered coat and his swords, and departed through a side gate.
As he left the side gate, he noticed men rushing to stop him. Looks like the game’s up.
He thought about fighting, then decided there was no point in killing men who were simply following orders. He started sprinting down one side of the street, and then used his camouflage abilities to blend into the crowd, leaving behind his confused pursuers.
There goes plan A. He thought sourly. Still, there’s always plan B. He smiled, and it was not a nice smile. Once Ramon and Lance destroyed the crystals that gave Clea her power, he’d be free to sneak into the palace and attack her. As it was, she was too powerful to take, even with his enchanted swords.
He loitered the streets for the rest of the day, content to wait it out. He had more than enough money in his pockets for a month, and if he spent it carefully, augmented by some judicious gambling, he could conceivably stay on it for a very long time.
And then all thoughts of staying away disappeared as soon as he saw the first of many notices being tacked onto the walls.
They read, “EXECUTION OF ENEMIES OF THE STATE: DIANA AND VERONICA CALE!” The words below outlined their crimes, as well as the time for their execution.
This isn’t right. Phillip did not believe it, but he had to see for himself. He ran to one of the city’s walls, overlooking Ofursti’s estates at Quayle. He climbed up the stairs three steps at a time. And stopped.
Ofursti’s estates, and even his stately manor, were burning. Phillip imagined he could feel the heat from the burning orchards, such was the intensity of the inferno. The crackling of the wood as the manor slowly collapsed reached even to the walls of the city.
Phllip clenched his fists. He had enough. If Clea wanted a fight, then she’ll get one, even if it meant his doom. It would not be the first time he had walked into a hopeless situation anyway.

“I don’t like it, sir.” Staff Sergeant Frang complained to Mayse as they sat drinking over a small table in the dingy barracks that served as Mayse’ headquarters. Mayse had been desperately reorganizing the decimated Nepherian army in preparation to engage the invading ‘Free Armies’ when they received the news of the executions, as well as the true identity of Eigen. “Even if we killed this one man, what good will it do?”
“You never know.” Mayse took the beer bottle from Frang and took a long pull from it. “Phillip was the brains behind the defeat of three of our armies, and he’s dangerous as hell. Killing him might buy us more time.”
“Yeah, then if that’s true, why aren’t the free armies backing off?” Frang noted. “The goddess is placing too much importance on just one man!”
Mayse swiveled his head to look Frang in the eye. “Just one man, Sergeant? Let me tell you, one man can be the difference between defeat and victory. And when that man is the Black Lion…”
“Sir?”
“I suppose there’s no harm in telling you this.” Mayse pulled out a piece of parchment from a pocket, and handed it to Frang, who took it with a frown. “Tomorrow morning, I am to detail a regiment with myself in the lead to lay a trap for Delacroix. In addition, I am to line the sides of the stadium with more than five hundred of our best archers and crossbowmen. He will enter the coliseum alive and only leave it as a dead man.”
Frang cursed. “Maybe we could convince him to surrender…”
Mayse laughed bitterly, feeling more than a bit tipsy. “Come on, you were with me on the campaigns. You saw him up close, talked with him even.” He leaned over and stared at Frang. Frang was just a bit older than him, having served two years longer. Solid soldier, square jawed, and eagle eyed. “You think he’s the type to surrender?”
“He’ll bite his own tongue off first. Damn it.” Frang replied. “Pardon my language, sir.”
“Yes, damn it.” Mayse emptied the bottle into his mouth.
“And those two women… they did nothing wrong sir. And raping those other women… Amazons… that’s plain wrong too.”
“Tell it to the goddess, sergeant. Maybe she’ll be picking bits of you from between her teeth after she blasts you into pieces.”
Frang was offended. “Hey, we fought for her, bled for her. I thought we were doing the other nations a favor. Making them into civilized people.”
“So we thought. But no longer. We’re locusts, Frang, stripping bare all the lands we conquer. And the goddess… she’s from some other world, and apparently she was opposed by those Amazons. Considering what Clea had done to us, I reckon that’s not a bad thing to do.”
“You’re talking rebellion sir.” Frang warned him.
“So? Everybody knows that now. I wish Phillip Delacroix won’t turn up tomorrow, but he will.”
“You were friends with the Black Lion?” Frang said it more as a statement, not a question.
“You know, in that last fight, he could have killed all of us.” Mayse stared into the bottle. “We would all be dead if he had kept up the pursuit. Ain’t no chance of surviving if you turn your back on an enemy, and that’s what we’d been if he decided to blow my rearguard. But he didn’t. He held back his forces and saluted me. Soldier to soldier. He told me I had done my best, nothing to be ashamed of. Men like him don’t come around too often. Shame.”
Frang kept silent. He had been there too, and he had seen the two exchange respectful salutes. He liked the Black Lion too, from the way he treated his men to the way he treated his enemies when they were his prisoners. There were even times when he found himself wishing he was fighting on the other side. What must it be like to fight under the command of such a man? For a worthy cause?
The sergeant looked at Mayse, and realized that for all his youth, Mayse had the makings of such a man too, even if he did not recognize it in himself. He was conscientious, cautious when he needed to, and recklessly brave when the situation called for it. If one counted a man by the enemies he had, then Mayse must be something if the Black Lion counted him as a worthy opponent.
Mayse tossed the bottle behind his shoulder, where it shattered against the wall, and reached below the table for another, easily pulling off the stopper with his teeth, before continuing to speak. “Yeah, he was my friend. As much as friends could be when we’re trying to kill each other, I guess. Tomorrow I’m going to try my damndest to kill him, and this time there’s no way I’m gonna fail.”
“No guarantee he’s turning up. He might decide to run away and leave the two women to their fates.”
“Hah!” Mayse barked. “Think back. You think he’d be the type to walk away?”
“But he has to know it’s a trap!” Frang protested. “Why the hell would he walk to his death willingly?”
Mayse rolled the beer around in his mouth, savoring its taste, before gliding it down his throat. “Because he’s a hero, Frang. And walking into a trap to save the ones they care about is what heroes do. The right thing to do, whatever the cost.”
Frang furrowed his brow. “Wait a minute. If he’s the hero, doesn’t that make us the villains?”
Mayse replied, his mouth curled up in a sad smile. “Yes, it does, Sergeant. We’re the villains tomorrow, and may we burn in hell for it. Tonight’s beer is so bitter.” He looked at the bottle in his hands. “But I can’t stop drinking it.”

“What are we going to do about it?” Ramon asked Lance worriedly. They were seated around the table along with Nagas, who stared glumly into his own mug of ale. The news had taken them by surprise, and Nagas was reluctant to continue on with the plan.
“You’re not going to do anything except what I tell you to.” Phillip ignored their surprise as he slid into the remaining empty seat at their table.
“What the…” Lance began before he was cut off with a swift hand gesture.
Phillip’s voice was low and serious. “Listen to me carefully, because I’ll make this quick. Carry on with your plan.”
Ramon was flabbergasted, “What about…”
“My problem, my fight. Stay out of it. Nobody else needs to die, and if you do what you’re supposed to, it’ll turn out right.”
Lance said, “It’s a trap. You’ll die.”
“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.” Phillip shrugged. “I accepted this fate long ago. It’s the path I chose, so I should bloody well know what lies at the end of it.”
“But what about Wonder Woman and Miss Cale? If you die there, who’ll get them out?” Ramon tried.
“I’ll get them out, don’t worry. Worry about finding the crystals, getting to them, and destroying them.” Phillip stood up and left, as swiftly and silently as he had arrived as he melded into the crowd.
“What did he mean?” Ramon asked.
Nagas replied, “He means he’ll save them, but he’ll probably be dead. Pity. Ofursti spoke highly of him.”

“I’m sorry for getting you into this.” Diana said to Veronica as they hung in the dungeons, bound by chains to hooks embedded in the walls. “And I’m really sorry for not being able to get you out.” She strained futilely against the chains, but they held fast, made strong by Clea’s powers.
Veronica shook her head. “Not your fault.” Then she laughed. “Imagine that. For the first time in my life when something goes wrong with you around, and I don’t think it’s your fault!”
Diana chuckled as well, but the moment passed quickly. She said, “I never really expected this. It hurts to be so helpless.”
“Well, you now understand what we ordinary mortals go through everyday.” Veronica tried to squirm free of the chains for the umpteenth time, without any success. “To be weak and frail, while watching you fly above us saving us from all sorts of disasters. Not that I’m ungrateful, but expecting us to follow your example?”
“I only wanted what’s best for the world…”
“Who doesn’t? But wanting and getting are two entirely different things.”
They remained in silence for a long while.
Cale broke it first, “Do you think somebody will rescue us?”
“You mean Phillip?”
“You knew.” Veronica tried not to make it sound like an accusation, but she could not help it.
Wonder Woman sighed. “He was there at the fights in the arena. How could I miss him?”
“Did you talk to him?”
“We didn’t get the chance. But he gave me something else.”
“Oh?” Veronica asked curiously. “What is it?”
“Hope.”
Despite being in chain, Veronica managed to twist her head round to look at the Amazon. “I find that hard to believe. I thought you never lose hope.”
“You don’t understand how powerful Clea is, or how deranged she is.” Diana shivered in her chains. “She has almost broken my will, as well as my sisters. My mother has already fallen, and I would a few days ago, if he had not given me the strength to continue fighting.”
“How is that possible?”
Diana said, “I’m not sure myself. But he looked at me, and… I can’t describe it.” She paused, then continued softly, “It’s as though he…” horror dawned on Diana’s face, “had been through worse torment…”
“He’ll die, Diana…” Veronica whispered. “He’ll die if he tries to save us tomorrow.”
Diana tried to fight back her tears. “Yes, he will.”

Phillip squatted down in the dark alley, pulling out a smoking pipe from his coat. He dumped a bit of weed into the pipe, and lighted it, taking deep puffs. A half-empty bottle of beer laid on the ground beside him. He alternated between the pipe and the bottle, looking up aimlessly into the night sky, admiring the stars above.
He didn’t know if he would live or die the next day. He had been through the worst that anybody could suffer. He did not fear death any more.
They peeled his skin off with red hot tweezers, then stuck electrodes onto the muscle beneath…
He felt the hot liquid burning his ears, a searing pain through his ear canals, and then he could hear nothing at all…
They severed his tongue ever so slowly, chopping off another portion every hour, and then cauterizing the bleeding tip with a branding iron…
He could not see. He could not hear. His nostrils were clogged with his own blood. Even the slightest breeze was hell-hot agony on his skinless flesh. His tongue was gone, chopped away, and each breath he took through his mouth ignited the raw nerves in what remained of it. He could feel cold metal studs piercing through one of his hands. He began to wriggle that hand. Perhaps he could get it free by ripping his own flesh free of the studs holding it in place…
Death in comparison was a trifle. The most important thing to him was to get the women out safely. Nothing else mattered. If necessary he would kill all the people in the stadium, even if he knew it was impossible.
He would have tried to stage a jailbreak, but Clea was staying very close by her precious captives, and he knew it wasn’t time to confront her yet. So he would bide his time until the next morning, where chances of a successful rescue would be higher. Of course, odds are that he’ll be killed. But dying against impossible odds… and if his death could also sway a few of the viewing spectators into the sheer wrongness of what they’re doing, well, it would be worth it too.
He had always wondered how it would feel to be a martyr. The King of Pain closed his eyes, savoring the cool air of the night breeze.

Morning came, and there was a chilling coldness in the air that bit into the skin of the crowds as they flocked to the coliseum for the spectacle the Goddess had promised them.
Inside the VIP suite, Clea was almost giddy with anticipation. Her greatest foes were about to be executed or eliminated, and soon nothing would stand in her way of total domination over the world. True, there were the invading armies of the free lands intent on deposing of her, but she held no fear towards them. After all, what could they do to a goddess?
Two guards escorted Baron Ofursti into the room.
“Ahhh, my dear Baron,” purred Clea, “welcome.”
Ofursti was not amused. “What do you want, Clea?”
Clea held up one hand, studied her fingernails carefully. “The Black Lion will undoubtedly try to enter the coliseum using the underground passages. I want you to kill him before he enters the stadium.”
Ofursti shook his head. “You’re mad.”
Clea stretched out her hand, letting the long nails brush past the welts on his face where she had struck the day before. “Your son is in my hands, Baron. Refuse me, and I will kill him. He has accepted my power, and therefore is a hostage to it.” Her eyes glittered with anticipation. “I can slay him at any time, any place.” She started to raise a hand.
“Stop!” Ofursti shouted. “I will do as you say. But why? He is doomed the moment he sets foot in the arena. You have legions of archers and soldiers lying in wait for him, plus all your remaining champions. No matter how good he is, he is still only one man.”
Clea smiled, then answered condescendingly. “Very well then. I will explain. You see, Baron, there has been some… displeasure to my rule, and the last thing I need is a heroic martyr dying against impossible odds, which seems to be exactly what he wants to be. No, you will kill him, he will not appear, the two women will die, and my rule is assured. You will be granted your freedom, and your son will retain a place of honor by my side.”
Ofursti glared at her. “I have one request.”
“Speak.”
“Let me meet with my son.”
Clea nodded. What could he do? She left the room, leaving Ofursti alone.
Young Garan burst in through the doors. “Father! What is going on? The estate is destroyed! I only just received the news!”
“Calm down.” The man looked at his son. So many mistakes, so many words he wished he could take back. Too little, too late now. “I am fine, and so are our servants.”
“But father…”
Ofursti smiled, glad that Garan still cared. “Garan, I am going to do something for the goddess. Well, you have often complained about my resistance to her. I guess this is my chance to prove you wrong.”
Garan was not stupid. He could sense something, and anxiety clouded his face. “Father, I don’t understand what you are saying.”
Ofursti knew that if he told his son, Garan would confront the goddess. No, he had to let events play out. He could only draw Garan into a tight hug and say, “I love you very much, son, and no matter what I have said to you in the past, know that I will always be proud of you.”
He parted from Garan, and left the room quickly before his son could see his tears.

Phillip woke in the early morning, his muscles stiff from sleeping on the hard cobbled street. He rose to his feet, stretching himself carefully, watching for the early pedestrians traveling to work in the morning, as well as the people of the night-shift staggering tiredly to their warm beds.
With the assuring weight of Glory and Infamy on his waist, he started walking briskly, taking out from his pockets a piece of bread that was his breakfast. He did not worry about being recognized; there was a clear blond fuzz on his head, and he had shaved off the colored beard.
There were several ways into the arena, but the usual ones were out of the question, since they were heavily guarded and full of innocent civilians. The only other way into the stadium was through the sewers, which ran under the city and was connected to a series of underground passages adjoining the locker areas where fighters would rest and wait for their chance to dance with death. The passages had been sealed off long ago, and were unlikely to be guarded. That would be his way in.
He stretched himself more seriously as he walked, drawing curious stares which he ignored. He headed for the coliseum, where the crowds were forming, all eager for a chance to watch a rare spectacle. His exploits as Eigen, as well as his victories as the Black Lion, have made him a feared and hated figure amongst the Nepherians. Most of them were there to watch him die, and could not care less about Wonder Woman and Veronica Cale. They were simply bait.
He snuck into the sewers via an open grating in a deserted alley, descending warily into the murky darkness. Nexopar’s sewers were well-designed and well-maintained, and he was able to navigate easily on the small work-paths beside the sewer drain. It stank horribly, of course, and he had to keep one hand free to pinch his nose shut.
Thankfully, he did not need to travel the sewers for long. After just three minutes, he came to a section with several side doors, barred with metal locks. He swung once, twice, with Infamy, and the locks broke. He pushed past the doors into the underground passagesway that would lead him to the arena’s waiting rooms.
Baron Ofursti was waiting for him at the end of the first corridor.
His face was drawn, while the tip of his broadsword rested on the stone floor. Phillip felt a chill through what passed for his soul. The man was here to fight, not talk.
The Baron said, “You cannot pass, Black Lion.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Phillip Delacroix, I’m here to stop you.”
The pieces fell into place in Phillip’s mind. “It’s your son, isn’t it?” He asked.
Ofursti did not reply. “That means yes. Clea holds your son hostage, forces us to kill each other. Clever little bitch.” He drew his own swords, knowing that the narrow confines of the corridor placed him at a severe disadvantage against Ofursti’s greater reach, strength, and power.
His opponent whispered, “I’m sorry, my brother. Clea doesn’t want you to even reach the arena.”
“I understand.” And he actually did.
They faced each other along the passageway, stone walls on both sides, the space between barely more than the width of a man’s shoulder’s. Yet they were going to try to kill each other here.
Phillip had to get to the arena before the two women were executed, so he sprang forward first, one blade trailing the other in an attempt to capitalize on Ofursti’s one sword.
The other man parried, his sword sweeping out to redirect the trailing blade away. Then he kept the broadsword swinging. Phillip flattened himself against one wall, then brought up Infamy to block. Glory trailed sparks along the opposite wall , scratching at Ofursti, who leapt up and braced himself against the wall, his legs pushing against the other, somehow staying up and moving over the blade.
Phillip did the same, his feet bracing against the walls on both sides, pursuing Ofursti up. The corridor ceiling was high, about fifteen feet up. The men turned the fight three dimensional, exchanging blows as they twisted their bodies around to maneuver in the tight confines. The corridor echoed with the jarring screeches of clashing steel.
Phillip tried to break Ofursti’s blade, but the broadsword was enchanted as well, and made from the finest quality alloy, with the tell-tale signs of smooth barely perceptible patterns along its length speaking of millions of layers of alternating metal types, of which iron and steel were not the only ones. Phillip guessed that trace amounts of other elements improved the quality of the blade. His own swords, analyzed by Ares Macrotech scientists, contained unknown alloy compositions that had them jumping in excitement. Even if nobody had figured out how to replicate it.
Ofursti managed to back away, and promptly unleashed a distance strike. Phillip replied with one of his own, and the two opposing arcs clashed with a sharp snap in the air. Ofursti’s strike was harder and stronger, and it won out. Phillip raised his other sword to block desperately, while focusing his energy on drawing the tail ends of the attacking arc onto his own blade. He almost lost his balance from the force of the impact, and scrabbled quickly to regain his footing on the walls.
The Baron saw his opportunity, and followed up with one distance strike after another, knowing that he held a decisive edge in power over the younger man. Phillip relied more on speed and technique, but they were much negated in the narrow corridor. He had to block every single slash, forced back with each blow. Both men were breathing heavily. Duels involving sword energy were short but all the more intense for their brevity.
Ofursti took a moment longer than usual as he pulled his sword back yet again for another strike, and Phillip made a gamble. He pushed off his feet into a spiraling lunge through the air. Ofursti launched the strike, which whipped past the twisting swordsman and opened up a long and bloody gash on his left side from the shoulder down. But it did not stop Philip.
He only wanted to get closer. He fully expected Ofursti to block his desperate lunge. He had more than enough time to bring his sword into position to parry.
Infamy struck home, piercing the Baron through his chest. Phillip was horrified.
Ofursti fell to the ground in a heap. Phillip landed lightly on his feet. Ignoring his wounds, he rushed to the fallen man’s side, dropping his swords. His hands pressed down on Ofursti’s wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He was too tired to try to heal Ofursti… and he realized the man wanted to die.
“Why?” Phillip asked. “Why?”
Ofursti managed to open his eyes. “I took a strength enhancing poison before fighting you. It would kill me quickly, but it enabled me to wound you slightly, at least. In Clea’s eyes, I would have tried and failed. She would not kill Garan for that.”
“Ofursti…”
“I am a…” Ofursti winced. His words were slowing down, slurred by pain and impending death. “…dead man. I could… not kill you. But I could not allow… allow Garan to die.” He coughed, and blood spurted from his lips. “I am sorry.”
“Damn it!” Phillip tried to focus his energy on his hands to seal up the wound, even if he knew it was futile. His strike was too clean, too deep. And the poison in Ofursti did not help. “Live! Damn it! Don’t you fucking die on me!”
“I am… already… dead.” Ofursti coughed up more blood. “Promise… promise me… one thing.”
Phillip gave up, slumping on his knees. All he was doing was prolong the agony. “Anything.”
“In… the… arena… do not… kill… anybody… do not… use… swords…” Ofursti gasped out.
“I promise you.”
“One… last…” His voice had shrunk to a whisper. Phillip leaned down to listen. “There… is… a… twenty… second… stroke…” His voice trailed off, and he finally laid still, his eyes staring blankly up at the stone ceiling.
Phillip drew his bloody hands over the man’s eyes, closing them forever. He sat for a moment in the darkness, fighting back tears that he would not allow to fall. Another good man, died for nothing…
He would only have died for nothing if you allowed it. Jake’s words came back to him, the day when he gave Francis Gravesend a merciful death. He clenched his fists. He still had a job to do, and a promise to keep. Even if it meant his death.
The walls began to shake, and that was when he noticed a small glowing bracelet on Ofursti’s wrist. It smacked of magic, and he knew that Clea was monitoring Ofursti’s state of being. She probably knew he was dead, and collapsing the underground passageway was her backup plan.
Phillip quickly called his swords to his hands, sheathing them quickly, and then picked up his friend, along with the heavy broadsword. He slung Ofursti across his back. His sworn brother deserved a proper burial.
He started to run forward with his heavy load as the stone corridor caved in.

Diana strained uselessly against the bonds holding her tight against the pole. She felt terribly vulnerable, even though she was clad in her usual garb, that of the Champion of the Amazons. The chains had been enchanted, and even her gods-given strength was not enough to break her free. Thousands of people leered down at her from their seats, eager for hot blood to be spilled.
Veronica Cale was tied identically to her, and she strained just as uselessly against her chains. The poles were set firmly in the ground, also enchanted so that she could not use her flying power to uproot the poles and escape. Clea had thought of every contingency.
Several squads of bowmen waited in a shaded area nearby, waiting for Clea’s command. The goddess herself was seated in her usual balcony, flanked not by her usual retinue of bodyguards, but rather her newest champions, none of which had fought in the arena yet. The older, bloodied champions stood near the bowmen, along with their broken Amazon slaves. Several large groups of soldiers stood to attention elsewhere in the arena.
No matter how good the King of Pain was, he was as good as dead the moment he entered the arena.
The time for their execution drew near, and Diana prayed to her gods for courage to face her end with honor. She did not want Phillip to walk to his own death, and neither did Cale, no matter what other disagreements they had. The two women looked at each other, drawing strength in their shared predicament.
The entire Amazon nation was in the stadium, either in huge strong cages or in chains as slaves. Her own mother laid at Clea’s feet, licking the goddess’s toes in utter subservience, before being sent to sit near the other Amazon slaves. The remaining Amazons had cried openly at this treatment of their ruler, and many were vowing vengeance against Clea, even though they knew it was hopeless.
Or maybe not, as a roar erupted from the crowd.
Diana felt her heart leap into her throat as a figure walked through the doors from the waiting areas into the arena proper, at the point in the large combat circle furthest from where she and Cale were.
Phillip Delacroix was bloodied but unbowed, a limp body on his shoulders, which he rested carefully and gently on the ground, along with a huge broadsword.
“Father!” A young man, one of Clea’s champions, shouted. “Father!”
Phillip ignored the shouts, moving the broadsword in between the man’s hands, so that they clasped it while it rested on his unmoving body. Then he stood up, and Diana saw sorrow and determination on his face. “He’s dead. I killed him.” Blood dripped from the long gash along his left onto the ground.
The crowd roared with rage. Clea rested one hand on the arm of the young man who was the dead man’s son, said, “Baron Ofursti was a soldier of our land, one of our heroes. You have committed a grave crime today, Black Lion!”
Phillip laughed, a low guttural sound that was devoid of mirth. “Yes, I killed him. But who placed him in such a position in the first place?”
Clea did not rise to the bait. “He knew his duty.”
Phillip straightened. “I knew him better than you did. He opposed you and everything you stood for. We have fought back to back in battle, and he was one of the most honorable men I had ever met. He would not have died if he had not been forced to fight me.”
“Lies!” Clea cried. “You sought not only to kill our men, but also to sully their memory!” She waved a hand, and Diana saw two of her champions start forward. “Kill him!” The man’s son strained against Clea’s grasp, wanting to take vengeance.
Phillip drew both his swords smoothly. Then to everybody’s shock, he reversed his grip on the swords and threw them down, the swords stabbing deep into the ground. Then he reached for his scabbards, and pulled them out from his belt, holding them out like swords.
“I can show you how much I admired him. He made me promise him not to kill anybody here today. And I will do so in his honor and his memory.”
A frisson ran through the crowd at his words, which were starting to confuse them. He was just a barbarian, a murderer, a deceiver. Why would he promise a man he had killed such a thing, in a time and place when he needed every advantage he had? Diana could hear them thinking, feeling, the sincerity in his words, and his actions.
The Lion moved forward to meet Clea’s champions, both of which wielded their weapons murderously. He ducked under one wild swing, and one scabbard came up, punching the champion in his throat. Clea’s champions may possess a high level of invulnerability, but they were not immune to a hard strike in a vital organ. The champion went down clutching his throat, down but not dead.
The crowd roared.
The other champion stepped back, but Phillip went at him doggedly. His blunt weapons flashed, a spiraling whirl that ended with the champion striking blindly at the empty air in front of him when Phillip had already spun to his rear. Diana watched one of the scabbards strike the champion on the head. Such a blow should not have hurt the man, but Phillip had apparently done so. The brute fell unconscious.
All of her remaining veteran champions, five of them, moved forward now, all enslavers of Amazons, all looking forward to tearing apart the impudent swordsman who dared to oppose them on their home ground. They barked pout harsh challenges and threats, claiming they would feast on his entrails and make him beg for mercy as they tore him limb to limb.
Phillip simply went into a guard stance, and whispered, “Been there. Done that.” And then he swung one of the scabbards at the empty air, quickly following with the other. Then he charged forward with incredible speed, blood from his wound marking his trail.
Diana had only caught glimpses of the rumored ‘distance strike’ sword technique at Asgard, and heard rumors from her sister regarding the deadly move before, and this was her first real look at it. And she was stunned.
The first arc slammed into the row of charging champions, stopping them cold before the second wave bowled them over. But the distance strikes were made with scabbards, reducing their effectiveness. No skin was broken, only the pride of Clea’s chosen.
Then he was upon them, one man against five, five enemies with the ability to shatter entire armies. Everybody watching barely breathed, stunned at the sheer audacity of Delacroix.
He moved gracefully yet quickly, with that strange technique of his that nobody else in the world, other than Gawain Sharpe and his somewhat disciple Ramon used. The scabbards slammed into the men, taking them down.
It was over in less than a minute. Clea’s champions laid on the ground, some moaning, others completely knocked out. Diana felt her heart flutter with fear as she saw that Phillip had not emerged unscathed; he sported deep cuts on his face and arms, and his clothes were torn and ripped in places.
Clea was incandescent with rage. “General Mayse!”

Mayse walked forward as if in a dream. He had drank himself into a stupor in the morning, the better to try to drown his guilt. It didn’t help. Ofursti was dead. And in a few moments, either he or Phillip, or both of them, would join Ofursti in whatever place the gods had reserved for fools playing at heroes. He had a splitting hangover.
His men followed him as he marched them between Phillip and the two women, Frang right behind him. His sword felt heavy, really very heavy, on his belt. Every step seemed as though he was walking in quicksand. He really did not want to go forward. But the eyes of the crowd were upon him. He was a ‘Hero of Nepheria’. Fat lot of good it was.
Phillip watched the approach of his men without moving, his weapons crossed in front of him, while the bodies around him stopped moving, the champions finally succumbing to sleep.
Mayse raised a hand, signaling for his men to stop, while he continued walking forward, even though it was more of a shambling stumble, until he was a meter away.
“Mayse.” Phillip smiled sadly. “A general now. Moving up in the world, eh? Who would’ve thought?”
He felt uncomfortable talking with a man he was supposed to kill. “Yeah. I didn’t ask for it.”
“But you got it anyway.”
“Seems that way.” Mayse stared at Phillip for a while, before he looked down at his waist for his sword, and suddenly he realized he had been so addled that morning that he had brought along two wineskins instead of one, and both were filled with some of the best and strongest brew in the land.
He did not think about what he was doing as he took up the two wineskins, and tossed one to Phillip, who caught it with surprise.
Mayse found his throat suddenly very thick. He didn’t know it was from fear. “Drink, my friend. One last drink, before we go to hell. One last drink, to commemorate our friendship, come what may.” He held up the wineskin in a toast, a gesture which Phillip returned. “And one last toast for Baron Ofursti.”
“To Baron Ofursti.” Phillip’s eyes were sad, knowledgeable. He didn’t ask if there was poison in the drink. He knew that Mayse would not resort to that.
They tipped the skins over their mouths, the wine flowing into their mouths faster than they could drink, the excess flow seeping from the sides of their mouths to their clothes. They stayed like that for half a minute, draining the wineskins in one swallow. It was strong wine, almost fifty percent alcohol.
The crowd began to murmur quietly but distinctly. What was General Mayse doing? He was supposed to be killing the bastard! Even if the bastard Lion had not killed any of his foes in the arena yet. Even if he had adhered to his promise to Ofursti. And now he was drinking with a Hero of the Realm. They were completely confused.
And the wineskins were finally drained. They lowered the leather at the same time, laughing as they looked at each other. There was no fear, no recrimination. Only the calm understanding between fellow soldiers who knew the importance of duty and honor. They would fight, and one of them would die, and the loser would feel no sense of betrayal while the victor would feel no sense of guilt. It was what the fates had written for them.
Or was it?
Phillip nodded, as though giving permission. Mayse drew his sword, as though to command his troops forward to fight, and in one swift and shocking gesture, tossed it away, even as he stepped forward, pivoted, and drew his own scabbard at the same time to stand beside the Black Lion as an ally.
The crowd exclaimed in astonishment. Stunned at this latest turn of events.
Phillip hissed, “What are you doing?”
Mayse did not know why, but he never felt better, or more alive, or doing the right thing, more than he did at that moment. “Standing beside you, obviously. Doing The Right Thing.”
“You’ll get killed.”
“And you won’t?” He scoffed. “I was supposed to be dead ever since that first ambush, and you know it.” A smile. “This feels right. Doesn’t matter if I die. Not anymore.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
Mayse deflected it back at Phillip again. “And you’re not? And dying beside you, well, it’s always been the dream of young boys to earn a heroic death somewhere. I’m glad to have fulfilled my dream.”
Phillip groaned.
If Clea was incandescent with rage before, now she was absolutely livid. She screamed to Mayse’s regiment. “Kill them! Kill the bastard and the traitor!”
The regiment of men, all soldiers who had fought with Mayse against Phillip, looked at one another for a moment…
And refused to budge. Mayse could swear he saw Sergeant Frang wink at him.
Clea must have realized that she was going to lose control of the situation soon. “Kill the women! Do it now!”
The arena exploded into action as all hell broke loose. Hundreds of archers suddenly popped up from where they had been hiding behind the parapets, all sighting on the fast moving target that was Phillip Delacroix as he raced towards the poles where the two women were. The executing platoons of archers were likewise sighting down on Wonder Woman and Clea, while the Amazons screamed in impotent rage, their arms reaching out from their cages in futile desperation.
Mayse stayed behind Phillip as Clea’s remaining champions, with the notable exception of Garan, swooped down. He caught sight of his friend, who stared at Phillip with a mixture of hatred, admiration, and confusion. He had to be feeling the conflict of having the two people closest to him, his father and his best friend, opposing the woman beside him.
Then Phillip somehow zipped past the charging champions towards the poles, and Mayse yelled out a challenge while swinging his scabbard at the nearest warrior. His life expectancy was measured in seconds against such opponents, no matter how inexperienced, but he would buy Phillip the time he needed to free the women and get the women to safety.
The stands erupted as Phillip’s small band of gladiators moved into action against the archers ringing the arena, finally unwilling to let their leader die. The rest of the Nepherians did not stop them, a sign of conflicted loyalties when they saw one of their heroes willingly side with somebody they had been told was scum.
Mayse fought instinctively, dodging and swinging desperately as he sought to hold his own against the four champions. They were younger than him, all chosen to warm Clea’s bed with their eager vitality, and to fight for her, but they were not veterans, unlike Mayse who had fought more than enough battles for his age.
He feigned a hit, drooping downwards, drawing one opponent near, before recovering swiftly to smack the champion in the face. For a brief moment, he though he might have a chance of getting out of it alive.
That hope was dashed when he was punched hard on the shoulder, sending his weapon spinning out of his hands as he slammed to the ground, his limbs splayed outwards. Before he could get up, there were sharp pains on his arms and legs as they stabbed his limbs, pinning him to the ground. Mayse screamed in agony.
Strangely enough, they did not finish him off. His position also afforded him a vantage view of Phillip.

Diana saw the archers raise their bows, ready to kill her and Veronica, and she whispered a silent prayer to her gods for forgiveness. She stared forward bravely, determined to meet her end as a true Amazon warrior, unflinching even in death.
Then Phillip crashed into them, disrupting them just as they shot. The arrows flew everywhere but in her direction, while the archers scattered in fear. He rolled to his feet, and ran over.
“What are you doing here?” Cale screamed. “Trying to get killed?!”
“No can do, Ronnie.” His scabbards clashed against the chains, and somehow he managed to break them. “I’m here to rescue you, and I’m not leaving till that’s done.”
“You magnificent fool.” Diana said as she rubbed her wrists, rubbed raw by weeks of imprisonment.
“You think I’d allow them to kill you?” He smiled, though she could see the fatigue in his eyes from the constant combat. “Well then, let’s go, shall we?” He waved a hand to the stands.
“Is that the best idea you have?” Diana asked.
“Uhm... I didn’t expect to get this far.” He admitted.
Just then, Diana saw a group of archers on the stands, their bows drawn. They shot at the small group.
“Watch out!” She did not have her bracelets, and she could not deflect the arrows in time.
Before she knew it, she and Veronica were pulled together, and Phillip stood between them and the arrows, his tall frame shielding them while his arms clasped tight around both women. His face was calm, serene. She could hear the arrows hit home, the dull ‘thud’, ‘thud’ as they punched through flesh and bone. He jerked lightly, and Diana felt a sudden wave of fear.
The archers wound up for another volley, but they were disrupted by a group of men appearing from nowhere, brandishing clubs and maces. Diana thought the attacking men looked familiar.
“Come on, let’s go.” Diana tried to free herself from his grip, but he was holding her and Cale with growing desperation in his embrace. She managed to drag herself free, but held him from toppling over. She looked at his back, and saw more than five arrows in him, unmistakably fatal wounds. A chilly hand squeezed her soul. “No…”
“Let him down, quickly!” She shouted to Veronica, and the two women laid him on his front, unheeding of the chaos around them. She saw that he was slipping away, shouted, “Stay with us!”
She looked frantically at the arrows, trying to think of something to save his life.
“Go…” He whispered to them.
“No. I will not leave you.” Cale said, tears streaking down her cheeks.

Garan saw the drama playing out. He saw Mayse, pinned to the ground like an abused puppet. His father’s body, lying serenely where Delacroix had placed him.
He turned, and he saw Clea laughing gleefully at the fallen form of the Black Lion. She did not care for the fallen warriors in the arena. Nor for his father. She had sent him to die. Or rather, Ofursti had chosen to die than to kill Delacroix. Why?
His father was not wrong. His father had been right all along. And he must have somehow believed in Delacroix to bring an end to Clea’s tyranny.
Garan saw the shining crystals around Clea, the emblems of her power. As one of her champions, he could feel his power being drawn from those crystals. If his guess was right, she did the same.
He was smart enough to realize that Clea likely had more crystals stashed somewhere, and what he was going to do was an exercise in futility.
But he did not care anymore.
He drew his sword, and before the goddess could do anything about it, he started swinging at the nearest crystal with all his strength. It shattered like glass, the shards falling onto the ground.
“What are you doing?” Clea screamed, pointing one finger at him.
He replied, “Ending this madness.” Another crystal shattered.
“Then die.” A bolt of power burst from her hand. Garan raised his sword, and inadvertently deflected the bolt, shattering another crystal.
He grinned.
Clea fired again, and he managed to deflect it, just barely. He knew he could not deflect a third bolt. The bolt slammed into the ground, near the pillar. Instead of a crater of stone, the blast revealed a series of brightly colored wires.
Garan did not have time to ponder what it was as the balcony exploded, shattering all the crystals in there.

Nagas ran into the stadium, a nervous Ramon close beside him. The Rangers had managed to cook up enough explosive, along with a timer clock, to form a bomb, placed inside the vault that held Clea’s crystals of power. Another bomb had been placed in the balcony. Both were timed to explode at the same time.
It was Phillip’s plan. The rest of it, his entry into the arena, the fights, were all just the diversion.
Nagas was once the head of the council of mages, he had explained to Ramon and Lance. When Clea came to power, she carried out a bloody purge that killed nearly his entire order. Nagas survived due to Baron Ofursti’s clandestine aid, and the two plotted to bring down Clea when the time was right.
The time was certainly right now!
They emerged out into the stands in time to see Phillip collapse to the ground after freeing Wonder Woman and Veronica Cale. Then the balcony exploded.
A male figure was flung from the balcony. Nagas held out one hand and cast a spell, causing the figure to land softly on the ground. Clea was nowhere to be seen.
The men of the island who had accompanied him and some of the Rangers to the capital had stopped engaging the Nepherian soldiers, who were shocked into inaction when the balcony exploded.
All the action in the stadium had suddenly ceased, as they all looked to the balcony.
Then Clea burst out from the flaming remnants of the balcony in a nimbus of energy, flying towards Wonder Woman.

Diana took up one of Phillip’s scabbards, feeling the weight of the cheap device. She said to Cale, “Take care of him.”
Clea screamed, “I shall destroy you, Amazon!” And began firing off bolts of energy.
“Never again!” Diana shouted back, her reflexes enabling her to deflect every bolt with the scabbard back at Clea, who batted the bolts aside while firing off more. And Wonder Woman could feel the power behind the bolts decreasing, ever so slightly. If they had been at full strength, they have broken the scabbard.
The insane goddess landed in front of the Amazing Amazon, then a glowing blade of energy appeared in her hands. She charged forward at Diana.
Their weapons slammed into one another, but Diana was vastly more skilled, and she angled the weapons away while one foot lashed out, tripping Clea to the ground.
“Damn you, bitch!” Clea fired off a bolt at point-blank range, which Diana deflected just in time. The goddess screamed as the bolt slammed back into her, tearing past the nimbus of protective energy.
“You’re defeated! Give it up!” Diana used her fists now, each powerful blow slamming into Clea’s shields, and the goddess grimaced with each blow. It was clear now to everybody that somehow she had lost, was losing her divine power.
“Never!” Clea screamed, pushing Wonder Woman back, and then stumbling away. “I hate you!”
“Then you leave me with no choice.” Diana advanced, and as Clea fired off another blast of energy, Diana dodged the telegraphed shot, sliding behind Clea and whipping the scabbard up to bash her unconscious.
Clea fell to the ground, and did not move. But she was still alive.
Diana looked down sadly at the former goddess. If only Clea had been willing to work for the side of good…
She turned back to see a sobbing Cale cradling the motionless form of Phillip, and she ached to do the same. But she did not do so. She was his enemy. She was supposed to be his enemy.
And now he was dead. She let the scabbard drop onto the ground, feeling very weak all of the sudden.
A man in robes walked into the arena, and he shouted to the people in the stadium. “People of Nepheria, listen to me! It’s over! The goddess Clea and her mad dreams have held sway long enough! It’s time to lower our weapons and heal our wounds!”
They listened to him, and shame could be seen on many of their faces. The Nepherians stood silently as the man picked up a crystal shard and walked over to the crying Cale.
The conflict was over.
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Interlude 13

Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.
-Tommy, Rudyard Kipling
“This is where we make our stand.” Tom Serra said to his small pathetic squad. It had been a long hard campaign, and their grip on the city had shrunk to a tenuous perimeter held more by sheer willpower than firepower.
His stomach growled fiercely, reminding him of his deep hunger. None of them had eaten well in weeks, all of them lean and starving, their bodies having long ago cannibalized their muscles for energy. Rats and cockroaches provided their main source of protein and carbohydrates, often cooked in collected rainwater to string out every bit of nutrition from them. Somehow, most of them managed to survive on such meager fare.
Rubble was everywhere, providing plenty of cover and ambush points. Artillery continued to batter pointlessly at the city, no matter that it was already a ruined wreck. At this point in time, all it was worth for was a symbol of resistance.
They had been pushed back to the second last line, Tranquility. They had been holding it for the past two weeks, but the enemy forces were getting closer to shoving them out completely. And then they would be at the final line.
“Here they come!” Somebody shouted, and a machine gun opened up from a prepared position. Enemy troops streamed in, pushing ahead regardless of their casualties, each monster at the front absorbing valuable ammunition while enabling the ones behind to get ever closer.
“Second one!” Tom shouted, and a second machine gun opened up enfilade to the advance. The enemy ranks slowed, shaken by the losses they were taking.
“Go! Go!” A man started their counterattack, firing his rifle sparingly from the hip. Tom and the others followed, snapping off rounds quickly and accurately. More enemy soldiers dropped. They were going to win this skirmish.
Then there was a change in the air, a lurking menace that all of them felt, chilling them to their bones.
Tom stopped firing, looked up, and saw visages from his worst nightmare.
Black clad Drakkar in armor moving towards them.
He shouted at one of his men, “Hans! Call for support! Drakkar on the line!”
“Wilco, Tommy!”
The enemy had never mounted a push with their Drakkar before. For them to do it now…
He shoved that thought aside. Leave the thinking to the higher-ups. His job was to fight and survive. He slung his rifle and drew his swords. Bullets were quite useless against the heavily armored Drakkar with their alloy plate armor. Blades were better for slipping in between the joints of their armor.
He managed to cut down the first few Drakkar he faced easily. He had been refighting his battle with Golgoth in his mind ever since that first disastrous fight, and he had tailored his technique towards what he perceived as weaknesses in the Drakkar fighting style.
“I see you are still alive.”
He froze, and turned to see Golgoth standing nonchalantly two meters away. He could not see the Drakkar’s face, but the spiked armor and gauntlets were unmistakable.
“Little sport in slaughtering poor fools.” Golgoth said, his huge sword held easily in one hand. “You, on the other hand…”
Tom sprang forward. Despite the loss in muscle, he was faster than he had ever been before. Golgoth brought his sword almost languidly to block.
“Better, but not by much!” The Drakkar pushed back, and Tom nearly lost his balance from the force of the push. He rolled up barely in time to block Golgoth, who had wasted no time in going onto the attack.
Meanwhile, all around him, his men were dying.
Tom could feel desperation creeping in as they fought, once it became clear Golgoth was toying with him. He had become better, but not enough. The gulf in strength, speed, and skill was simply too wide.
Then he was the only man left, struggling to stay alive. He took a deep gash on one leg, and the weakness in the leg made him roll to the ground. He raised his sword to defend himself.
Golgoth swung, and he parried the blow, but his sword shattered. Golgoth was almost upon him with the deathblow when several men suddenly appeared, converging on the Drakkar on all sides. Golgoth’s blade was intercepted in mid-thrust by an old man.
Francis Gravesend!
Tom watched in awe as the elderly cleric somehow managed to hold his own against the much bigger Drakkar. He was slower and almost certainly weaker than Tom, but Golgoth was having more trouble, and even had to parry desperately to avoid getting hit. But it was also clear the old man was still outmatched.
The other men took the Drakkar, every two men to one of the deadly elite. They wielded spears, and stabbed ferociously, forcing the Drakkar back. One man ran over to help him up and support him by the shoulder.
“Tom! Get out of here!” Francis yelled.
“What?”
“We can’t hold this line! Fall back! I’ll buy you time!” The other men were beginning to retreat, while the Drakkar did not pursue, but formed a circle around the dueling swordsmen.
“No!” Tom shouted, but he found himself being dragged back into the rubble, his last view of Francis being stabbed through an arm by Golgoth and somehow holding the huge sword in the limb as he drew blood from the Drakkar’s right knee joint. Finally, somebody had managed to hurt the monster.
Then they were around a corner of one of the few remaining buildings, and Tom saw no more.

There was no time for apologies or recriminations. Jake Kabrinski took the news stoically, his face lined with fatigue and worry. They had lost the entire fifth line of defense, and like the soothsayer had long ago predicted, there was nothing else left to do but fight at the line of Death.
There was scantly anything left in Greenfeld worth defending. While some of the smaller factories were still producing ammunition for the defenders, most of the other equipment had either been destroyed in the fighting, transported elsewhere, or captured by the enemy. And yet the enemy came on, intent on crushing the life out of the remaining forces in vindictive vengeance for the losses they had suffered.
Tom knew those were only estimates, but more than fifteen thousand defenders had died, taking with them almost one and a half million enemies. It had been a grim slaughter unlike any other. It also left them with barely five thousand effectives, all squeezed in the small area of the city that served as their final line. And the enemy still had not mobilized their elite troops. When they did, it was all over.
The night was spent hastily reorganizing their defenses. He was glad to see Gawain still alive. The soothsayer was also around, but somehow his pronouncements of doom did not lower their spirits. Maybe it was because they all knew they were dead already.
The ground between the fifth and final lines was still mostly clear, and this enabled the defenders to have a clear view of the enemy’s approach as the sun broke over the horizon. They hunkered over their guns, waiting for the final onslaught.
A line of Drakkar appeared in the distance, coalescing from the rubble to form a solid phalanx of heavily armed troops. They did not attack, instead standing in a single immobile line.
Golgoth appeared, a small cart behind him. A dark cloth was draped over the wooden cart, concealing what was inside it. The thin line of defenders tittered with anxiety. Officers and sergeants barked at their men to keep their eyes open, their guns prepped.
Golgoth stood in front of his line, arrogant, and secure in that his arrogance was well-deserved. Nobody present was his equal, and everybody knew it.
He shouted, “Wretched defenders of Greenfeld, you have fought long and hard. Well enough to be remembered for your courage! But you cannot win…”
And his voice slid to a slithering hiss, “…and you cannot surrender. Any of you caught alive will look like this!” He pulled the cloth off the cart with a flourish, and the defenders felt rage rush through them.
Francis Gravesend sat inside the cart, his limbs all chopped off at the joints. Flies clustered around the cysts that were once his eyes, while thin wires punctured his naked body in a dozen places.
Golgoth took hold of the end of one wire, and pulled. Francis jerked, and his mouth opened in a soundless scream that was abruptly cut off by the sound of a single rifle. A bloody hole appeared in the priest’s forehead. The chaplain collapsed.
They all turned to see Tom Serra holding a smoking sniper rifle. His eyes were wet with tears, but his hands remained steady as he lowered the rifle. It had been a shot of mercy, sparing his friend further pain.
Golgoth did not seem dismayed. He applauded sarcastically. “Interesting!” He waved one hand. “But how would you deal with this?”
If the fate of their chaplain, a man they all respected greatly and admired, had badly shaken them, this was infinitely worse. Much, much worse. No soldier, no warrior, would ever imagine a horror such as this.
Golgoth’s soldiers herded a whole bunch of people, easily a few thousand, to near the front. There were women, children, old people. All helpless in the face of overpowering brutality. There were even women holding babies, screaming for mercy, their infants wailing for sustenance that was not coming.
The soldiers held onto their weapons, their knuckles white with anger. Tom looked around, all the defenders seemed willing to leave their lines and charge against overwhelming odds to save the civilians. Protect the women and children. It was an instinct genetically bred into men and even in women, of whom there were more than a few in the remaining defenders. And Golgoth knew that. He was counting on it.
“No.” Tom forced himself to say to the men closest to him. “Don’t do it.”
Golgoth rolled his head in mock sympathy. “Awww… poor babes.” He reached out, pulled a baby from a screaming woman, and twisted the head of the child like a rag. The sick crack of the spine snapped through the air like a signal.
The Drakkar started shooting. Screams and cries of terror filled the air. The men edged forward. They were almost out of the lines, and Tom knew that once they were completely out, they would charge right into Golgoth’s guns.
He turned to face the men in his section, deliberately turning his back on the slaughter going on behind him. He could see the fear, the shame, and the determination etched on the faces of tired men. Men who had fought long and hard, and would do anything for Jake Kabrinski and the cause.
Anything but stand by and watch innocents get slaughtered.
He drew a pistol, and shot the nearest advancing man in the foot. “The next man who takes a step forward dies!”
He found himself immediately at the business end of more than twenty rifles. The men pointing their weapons at him, their hands were shaking, while despair and desperation gleamed in the sweat of their faces. One soldier cried out, “They’re killing them! We can’t do nothing!”
Tom forced his voice to remain even. “Yes, you can. They’re already dead. No point joining them in death.”
“We’re dead men already!”
“You’re not dead yet!” Oh my god, I’m losing them.
“Fuck you!” Another jammed his gun right into Tom’s temple. “Who’re you to stand here and tell us to stand back, huh?”
“Don’t you see? That’s what Golgoth wants you to do. You go out there, you get killed, you don’t make a single fucking difference. You stay here, and you can make them pay a bloody price for every meter they take. You’ve gotten this far, don’t throw it away.”
Meanwhile, the Drakkar must have run out of victims to slaughter, because the screams had subsided. And he could see that he had held them back long enough, because none of their body language told of charging forward anymore.
Tom closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry.” And there was the wave of self-loathing, stronger than ever.
Behind him, Golgoth laughed. “Today, mourn your dead. There will be no more attacks till the next morning. Tomorrow, prepare to die. No more holding back. I will see you crushed.” The Drakkar melted back into the rubble.

Somebody had found a truck full of canned pet food buried in the rubble, and while the food was meant for dogs, it was also far better and more nutritious than anything they have had for the past month. Every man was given half a can, a bottle of water, and told to enjoy it while they could. Advice was for them to cook it with the water to avoid overstressing their sensitive stomachs with the rich meat. For once, they did not have to stand in line for the weak broth that had become their staple food.
Tom had his own suspicion about where the pet food actually came from, and he had learnt that Jake was not above crafty morale boosting schemes to gain an edge. The big man had praised him for his quick thinking earlier in the day, and the two of them had sat together for an hour quietly remembering Francis Gravesend.
The food was really meant for dogs, however, as amply shown by the label with a dog on it. But nobody cared. He set up a small fire, added water into a small pot along with the meat, and cooked it into a chunky soup that he hoped his stomach could accept.
It did. For once in a long time, he could sit under the stars with warmth in his belly. He took more of the soup then anything else, and only a few chunks of meat, but it was good enough. He would take more, but he would not be able to sleep that night, and he could take portions of it gradually.
He stood up, and drew his swords. His broken one had been easily replaced, but the quality was poor. It looked too brittle to stand up in a real fight, but at this point, beggars could not be choosers. At least it was well balanced.
He started to shadow-spar, his blades flashing and reflecting the fire with a deep amber glow. In his mind, he replayed his battles with Golgoth, as well as Francis’s moves. In front of him, he imagined the Drakkar commander, fighting him, taunting him. The sky above rolled with thunder. It was beginning to drizzle.
Feint, slash, upward cut. A quick draw to the right, roll to the ground to avoid the roundhouse slash. Up and again, cut at the knees. Miss, parry.
And then the phantom Golgoth stabbed him in the chest.
Tom fell to his knees. No, dammit. Again!
He got up, and the image of Golgoth appeared again before him.
He tried Francis’s method, a strange arrhythmic style that he could barely comprehend. It had seemed effective enough against Golgoth. He was much younger than Francis, and stronger. Maybe it would work for him, enough to kill Golgoth.
The phantom Golgoth didn’t just stab him in the chest this time. He cut open Tom’s throat.
Serra leaned over, his swords on the ground, his hands clutching at his neck in illusionary pain, while the rain beat down on his back. He panted heavily, his face full of despair. The fire sputtered, the glow of the embers dying as they were drenched with water.
I’m completely outclassed. He realized. I can’t win. I can never beat him. And tomorrow we will fight. There’s no way to avoid it.
The drizzle had turned into a real thunderstorm. The sky cracked with thunder.
Tom stood unmoving for long moments in the rain beside the fire, his fists clenched. His soup had been covered with a lid, so he did not worry about it. His mind was preoccupied with thoughts of his own death.
A streak of blazing electricity split the sky asunder.
Tom Serra ran towards the edge of the defensive line. Why should I remain here? The battle is lost. I stay, I’m just another number, another name on a list. List of the dead. Who cares? I have done all I could, now’s the time to bug out. Survive, yeah. Get out of the city, lay low. Maybe somebody else will come and push them off. Not my problem anymore. He ignored the pangs of guilt, forcing a smile to his lips.
He reached the end of the line. There weren’t any sentries about, since nobody was stupid enough to fight in such atrocious weather, not even Drakkar. He stopped, and took a look back at the line where he had thought he would die. Not anymore.
He turned his head back, and took his first step towards safety. And then a second. And then he stopped.
His father stood before him, a sinister smile on his handsome face. While the phantom Golgoth was the product of his mind, and could be called off, the image before him wouldn’t go away no matter how hard he tried.
“Running away, eh?”
No, I’m not running away. I’m… just making a tactical retreat. I’ll come back to fight, when the odds are better.
“Really? You’re still as pathetic as ever.”
You can’t be here. You’re just a figment of my imagination!
“You knew you could not win, you could not beat Golgoth, so you decided to run away. You would run like a coward because of your fear.” He raised one hand. A black tendril snaked out from somewhere on his hand, sharp and deadly, right next to Toms’ face.
This is not happening. This is just a dream. It has to be.
“You haven’t changed one bit. Still as pathetic as ever. You would run away from your problems, rather than confront them.”
I…
“You ran from me because you were scared. Now you run from the coming battle because you fear your death. You have not changed one bit! To think I once had such high hopes for you!” His father laughed mockingly.
I have improved. I’m better, more skilled now. I should be! But am I?
“What a joke!” The tendril swiped through him, and he felt a chill that went beyond the cold from the rain.
This is a dream… just a dream…
“Such arrogance… You’re obviously weak, yet you wish to pretend to be strong. You wish to defeat me, avenge your siblings? Forget it!”
I’m… strong enough! I’m slowly heading towards my goal! Are you afraid of me? Is that why you wish to stop me?
“Hahaha! Afraid of a whelp like you? Never!” His father grinned hideously. “But I would not allow you to disgrace me either!”
“Arggghhh!” Tom drew one sword and slashed blindly through the mirage. His father disappeared. He found himself shaking with fear, breathing hard.
He fell to his knees, leaning on his sword.
The next words he heard were cold and sure. “You will die soon enough.”
He turned around, but his father was gone, leaving him alone in the rain to suffer with his doubts, fears, and failures.
He got up slowly, and made his way back. No, he would not run. Not anymore. If he had to die, he would do it facing a formidable opponent worthy of respect, for the right cause.

“Tom, you wanted to see me?” Jake asked.
“Yes.” He had made up his mind. He would not run. He would fight, even if it was a futile gesture. “I have an idea.”
Jake looked at the soothsayer, who was standing nearby. “Let’s hear it.”
“Golgoth’s the key. He holds the enemy forces together. Notice that they lose cohesion whenever we hit a commander or an officer?”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”
Tom took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Okay then. My idea is this. We kill Golgoth, they fall apart, we win.”
“An uncertain line of premises. And how do you suppose that could be done?”
Tom told him.
Jake looked hard at him. “I hope you’re right. If you’re wrong…”
“You’d lose only one man.” Tom’s voice was steady.
Jake nodded. “Fine. But there’s something I want to give you.”
“Huh?”
“Francis left you a package. Said you should open it after the battle’s over. Don’t know why he’s so confident you’ll live through it, now that you’re on this suicide mission. But he did tell me to give you this first.” Jake handed him a small chain with a battered wooden cross.
Tom took a good look at the cross. It was simple, cheap good made by some unskilled craftsman somewhere. Nothing of value. And yet, holding it in his hands, made him feel somewhat… peaceful.
“Said it brought him peace, brought him to salvation.” Jake grunted. “Francis never told me much, but I think before he became a priest, he was in special operations. Of the blackest kind. That would explain why he knew so much.” Jake walked off. “Good luck.”
Tom slid the chain over his head. The weight of the cross settled over his chest, under the armored vest. He was ready.
He sneaked into the pile of civilian corpses, ignoring the stench of rotting bodies and slick, wet skin that made his own skin crawl. He laid very still, together with his arsenal of two RPGs, and plenty of grenades. The corpses would provide sufficient concealment. They would also stop any stray bullets heading his way.
He heard the sounds of battle, and of screaming men fighting desperately. It went on for an hour, before the sounds began to fade, as the defenders fell back slowly. He kept an eye out for Golgoth, but the Drakkar was nowhere in sight. He was probably lurking just behind the lines with a command unit, ready to hit any point of resistance.
Tom was counting on it.
He did not see Gawain Sharpe fighting skillfully nearby, until an explosion knocked him unconscious. The other boy was missed by the enemy as they advanced forward, out cold but still alive.
The battle shifted away. And sure enough, Tom soon saw a small group of Drakkar march past the pile of corpses he was hiding in. Golgoth was amongst them. The Drakkar moved with a slight limp, evidence of his fight with Gravesend.
Moving as silently and slowly as he could, Tom pushed the rpgs through the dead bodies, moving so that they both centered on Golgoth. Somebody had tried to take out the Drakkar before, but that was in open battle. Sniping with rocket-propelled grenades might work instead.
Then something weird happened. The second he pressed the triggers, Golgoth suddenly broke into a sprint, while his subordinates were all caught flat-footed. The grenades flew into their midst, killing many of them instantly and incapacitating the rest. Only Golgoth was unscathed.
Tom could not believe it. He pushed his way up through the pile of bodies, then pulled out his swords. His feet were shaking inside his boots. He had hoped fervently it would not come down to this, a final duel. But apparently, it had.
Golgoth smiled, not caring about the deaths of his men. “Interesting idea, boy.”
Tom asked, trying to bring his fear under control. “How did you know?”
The Drakkar tilted his head. “I have my ways.” He walked forward, while Tom hopped out of the pile of bodies, until the two of them were three meters apart. “There are those of us who have dedicated ourselves to the cause of destruction, and our gods have granted us powers and abilities beyond the rest.”
Tom did not quite understand that, but he guessed that was why Golgoth was so much more difficult to kill than other Drakkar. “But you die just the same, right?” He snapped his swords into a fighting stance.
“Certainly, but not by your hand.” He whipped out that huge sword of his, and then the battle was joined.
Tom had an epiphany in the morning. He could not defeat Golgoth, but that was because he wanted to live. It was entirely possible to get a fatal draw. He would die, but so would Golgoth. All he needed was a bit of luck.
He stayed cautious, instead of aggressively attacking as he had always done. The two of them felt each other out with careful feints and thrusts.
“You’re… different this time.” Golgoth commented. “What did you do in a single day that changed you?”
Had he changed? Tom didn’t know the answer to that.
“Then let’s see if you’ve changed enough to survive.” Golgoth took the offensive, his deadly blade in a furious pattern that Tom could barely see. He parried on instinct while backing away. Nope, no openings he could see, not even for the mutual death blows that he wanted.
Golgoth came on fast, and Tom countercharged, both swords coming up against Golgoths as they locked their swords together. They pushed against each other for long moments, before Golgoth smiled evilly and gave Tom a hard shove. He was still very much stronger than the young swordsman.
The former assassin allowed the momentum of the push to carry him backward, one hand letting go of a sword so that he could somersault on it to distance himself from his opponent.
Golgoth looked down at the sword at his feet. One foot hooked under the blade, and he kicked it up, then slapped at it with his own sword towards his opponent. Tom caught it easily. Golgoth laughed. “Again.”
He’s still toying with me. Tom moved in low guard, both swords held below his chest. Golgoth kept one foot forward, his blade in a high guard position.
He stabbed upwards, Golgoth slapped the swords away. The Drakkar angled his body to one side, and then his left fist rocketed towards Tom. Tom dodged, but the spikes cut him over one eye. With his body held low, he managed to slam one hilt into Golgoth’s injured knee joint, and the Drakkar stumbled away.
He did not seem distressed though. “Very good, boy.”
Then Golgoth attacked again, and it was faster and more powerful than the previous sequence. Tom only felt a dull ache on his wrists as he tried to block the blows, and suddenly one of his swords, the more brittle one, snapped.
Golgoth was almost going to run him through when he suddenly stepped back. Gawain Sharpe’s desperate lunge from one side passed in front of him, and then the boy quickly dropped and rolled up next to Tom.
This was the break he was looking for. His left hand reached behind his back, hiding it from Golgoth’s view, while the fingers of that hand quickly took a clip lock from the back of his belt. One end of the clip was attached to a tough wire string to his wrist. He said to Gawain, “Whatever happens, just keep attacking.”
“Two on one, eh? But rats just die the same.” Golgoth thrust, and this time, Tom did not dodge. He kept his eyes fixed on a groove in Golgoth’s armor, that would allow the lock to snap shut around it.
The Drakkar’s sword plunged into his chest slightly over his left. At the same time, his left arm whipped up, and locked the clip onto the groove. In effect, he ensured that Golgoth could not pull his sword free.
Their gazes locked, and Tom whispered through the immense pain. “Gotcha.”
Golgoth’s face finally erupted in fury, but Gawain did as Tom told him, his blade whipping sideways at Golgoth’s neck. The Drakkar raised one arm, blocking the blow with the heavy armor. Gawain tried again, but Golgoth, even with Tom trapping his sword and pulling him down, managed to charge forward and slug Gawain across the face. The boy did not draw back, but stayed on his feet despite the blood pouring from his face.
Gawain’s sword came up, and chopped past the armor deep into Golgoth’s left shoulder. The Drakkar roared in pain, and his right hand let go of his sword. His left hand reached for the hilt, but Tom’s right hand came up with a heavy revolver, which he pointed straight at Golgoth’s helmet. He fired.
The blinding flash sent Golgoth stumbling back, his hand missing the hilt of his sword. Gawain’s sword remained stuck in the armor, and as he tried to pull it out, Golgoth’s heavy gauntlets smashed into him.
Tom let go of the revolver, and went for a dagger. His strength was waning fast, but he managed to draw the weapon and with the last of his strength, step forward and plunge it into the Drakkar’s throat. The armored grooves would normally have deflected such a blow, but Tom had placed his entire weight behind the thrust.
Golgoth’s hand snapped up and out, hitting him with so much force that his hand slipped free of the wire string looped around it, pulling with it a hefty chunk of skin and flesh. Tom collapsed to the ground, while Gawain managed to pull his blade free and swing it around for one final decapitating blow, blood all over his face and nearly obscuring his sight.
Even with the full force and momentum of Gawain’s swing, his sword only chopped halfway through Golgoth’s neck. The Drakkar commander was somehow still alive, a ragged roar emanating from his mouth as he flailed his arms, seeking his opponents. One hand came up with a dagger, and he tossed it at Gawain, where it hit his leg. He stumbled back into a nearby pile of rubble.
Golgoth stopped roaring, and a black mist began issuing out of his wounds, to Gawain’s horror. The Drakkar screamed inhumanly, the black mist somehow coalescing around the Drakkar’s body before the whole mess exploded without warning.
That was the last thing Gawain knew. Tom was already out of it.

Tom stood quietly below the tree where Francis Gravesend had hanged him. He bowed slowly and respectfully to the father’s grave under the tree’s broad branches, his movements still restricted by the bandages swathing his badly wounded body. The sweep of yellowed autumn leaves around him signaled a time of change.
With Golgoth’s death, his armies suddenly lost cohesion, enabling the local troops to finally drive them out. Major Wessel had been recruiting and training a massive force while Golgoth and the bulk of his armies were focused on Greenfeld, and his hastily force had relieved the beleaguered troops, applying a shattering assault that finished the campaign for Predlitz in humanity’s favor.
Tom and Gawain had been found, barely alive after their battle with Golgoth. Tom reached one hand under his shirt to touch Gravesend’s cross. While he had been recovering in the hospital, Jake Kabrinski had sent him some of the cleric’s things, including his diary. He understood much better now, sadder and wiser for knowing why Francis had taken such an interest in him.
The sound of an engine behind him made him look back. A soldier was driving up the hill in a jeep. Probably new orders for him. Since the end of the planetary campaign, Kabrinski and Wessel had been putting together a plan to find out exactly what was going on in the world beyond Predlitz, and if necessary, continue fighting. For his efforts in the defense of Greenfeld, Tom had found himself promoted to Lieutenant, and placed in charge of a special assault platoon. The soldier was probably telling him where to go to meet his new command.
There was going to be war in his life still, but for the first time in a long while, he had seen, had felt, something that gave him strength to go on.
Hope.
Tom turned back to the quiet grave, bowed again, and said with tears in his eyes, “Thank you. For my life.” He went down the hill.
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The Games that Gods Play