Arms folded before him, cape whipping in the wind, Athur Tarmour stood upon the head of the lead Umbral Gloom.

  The gigantic entity ferried the hundred who clung to its back behind him.

  Brother Keigael had mastered the secret rites to birth these artificial behemoths—a method gifted through the Weeping Wyrm by their distant ally, the Father of Night, who dwelled in perpetual darkness on the island of Noxregni.

  Thanks to that boon, they could now move their legions in vast numbers and travel above the ocean’s waves, which they loathed and feared almost as much as their twisted God.

  The moans of the sycophants pleased him, as did the harsh admonishments the Knights offered in turn—occasionally kicking one off to keep the others in line.

  Witnessing the pathetic demise of their fellows as they struck the rolling waves far below tended to have the desired disciplinary effect.

  Cruelty was the way of things among the Blanched. Hating themselves as much as they hated others, they gave no second thought to violence against their own when called for. Asserting superiority over their kind was a salient method for establishing order and conformity among the castes.

  Sir Tarmour had been declared the Anointed One, the Chosen, His King of Tears.

  He had become their God’s avatar on Earth.

  His words were divine.

  His decrees sacrosanct.

  To his left and right groveled a dozen priests—the same on the other giant flying creatures bearing his army aloft.

  The unholy ranks drew on mystical forces, needed them to open gateways, shortcuts through the veil.

  But that ability was limited by lack of sight—accuracy poor, reach sorely short.

  This had been remedied, however, thanks to his recent changes.

  He could guide them with his mind, breaking their limitations with visions of places abroad—locations the Wyrm dreamed of.

  As much as he hated them, they were a necessity if the Crusade was to spread across the globe.

  Useful tools he would suffer for the cause.

  With them, he would move their host to every corner of the Earth.

  When they were done, they would baptize the whole world in the Weeper’s endless tears. Changing it forever.

  Up until this point, only the Knights had possessed a reliable means to reach other islands, other lands.

  The masses of sycophants and priests had remained constrained to the shores of the Blanched Land.

  Now, with their powers expanded, that was no longer the case.

  The globe lay open before them.

  His mind reached out among the mire of shattered souls that were his kind, freely sifting through them.

  Since his transformation, they had become open books for him to peruse at leisure.

  Somewhere far away in the distant east, he found the first mind he sought—that of the High Adjudicator of Excruciations, Brother Balcarmos.

  He had completed his task.

  Ossuran, the Spined Sovereign of the Seas, had agreed to the master’s terms. The Sunken Marms would lend their aid against the warring sailors. In return, rule of the oceans would be relinquished to those miserable aquatic creatures once the Havenites were culled in the Conversion Halls of the Shimmering City.

  Then, to the distant south, he found the second mind—the Chief Astronomagus of the Twelve Empyrean Observatories, Brother Dynoinstein.

  He too had succeeded.

  Behind him advanced the fearsome Children of the Moon—primitive giants who worshipped at the Lunar Temple of a brutal God. A false and dead god, for certain. But one whose devoted followers offered considerable might.

  And might they needed.

  They had been agreeable to the Wyrm’s proposal—for in helping the Blanched win their war, they too were helped in freeing themselves from isolation upon the far-off island of Thuodrime, where they had been long confined.

  The Arch Minister of Sufferance crawled on hands and knees to cower beside him.

  Tarmour placed a hand upon his head and stroked him with feigned affection.

  “Soon, Keigael. The Crusade will swell. This Earth will drown in the tears of our beloved Wyrm. And when that happens, the world shall weep. And all will praise his name.”

  It was not long before the portals opened.

  Their hordes descended on the elusive city of the mariner people—which now stood boldly revealed before them.

  Havenlocke Harbour awaited. Ripe for their administrations. Teeming with potential, with bodies that would bolster their ranks, or feed their fetid God.

  Tarmour gazed down.

  The portals flared. The attack began.

  A symphony of screaming cries arose, a welcoming call of the mayhem to come.

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  The Blanched King smiled.

  ? ? ?

  Mereque watched the reactions around him with careful precision.

  Alarm and anxiety rippled through the crowd, driving some toward outright panic.

  Admiral Lassovo seemed utterly lost, stammering incoherently into his wrist communicator.

  Rensa slapped the old man sharply.

  After a stunned moment—hand pressed to his reddening cheek—he thanked her, drew a deep breath, and regained his composure.

  Admiral Seclock, by contrast, barely blinked.

  Least perturbed of all, he clasped his hands behind his back and marched briskly toward their airship, half-cape snapping in the wind.

  The other two followed shortly, soon shielded by a tight formation of guardsmen who ushered them aboard.

  The craft lifted seconds after the last man boarded.

  Mereque felt a moment of relief.

  These people were about to throw him in chain.

  Then he looked for his friend.

  Jenker was barking orders to the deck crew and into his communicator.

  Commander Esark’s voice echoed loudly throughout the Gull, assigning stations with urgent clarity.

  For the moment—save for the captain—the Havenites seemed to have forgotten Mereque entirely.

  Detonations rolled in steadily—at first distant, then closer by the moment.

  The Harbour’s pillars had been struck, damaged enough to prevent immediate submersion.

  Repair teams scrambled as naval forces deployed soldiers to secure strategic points, though the full extent of the breach remained unclear.

  Ventrullis’s enhanced vision caught the cause soon after.

  A fleet of massive flying beasts descended through the clouds—strange, nightmarish creatures spitting balls of white-hot iron at the towers.

  From their flanks, bodies rained down haphazardly.

  Many struck the surrounding waters, disintegrating slowly as they drowned.

  But just as many landed on outer walls, inner ships, and the intricate web of structures that formed the city proper.

  Mereque tensed.

  A cold knot tightened in Mereque’s chest.

  These people—paranoid, hostile—were still human.

  Fighting to survive in a world that wanted them gone.

  Just like him.

  HUD Overlay (subtle amber flash):

  THREAT LEVEL: CRITICAL

  CIVILIAN CASUALTIES PROJECTED: HIGH

  EMOTIONAL SUPPRESSION: 78% EFFECTIVE

  REMINDER: PRIMARY OBJECTIVE – SURVIVE. PROTECT IF VIABLE.

  The Harbour reeled. Chaos spread.

  The Havenites would soon suffer grievous losses. They had realized too late that the assault was airborne and ballistic in nature. The personnel sent to secure key areas lost half their numbers before retreating—a critical tactical mistake.

  They had never been attacked in this way during these people’s lifetimes. Not for generations, perhaps. Maybe not ever.

  Many were caught unprepared.

  The aggressors seized on this, giving them an immediate, devastating advantage.

  The Umbral Glooms beat four vast wings along their distended bodies.

  Shifting between light and dark, they sometimes faded from view. But it was metaphysical illusion only. Physically, they remained—solid, unstoppable horrors.

  Like all things born of the Shimmering City, they were twisted abominations. Unique.

  Luminous and shadowed at once.

  Their bodies pulsed and rippled unnaturally as they carved through the skies.

  Eyeless heads perched atop long stalk-like necks. Toothless mouths brimmed with dripping yellow goop. Chewed into hard, iron-like projectiles, they spit them forth in searing volleys.

  Behind the necks stretched broad, manta-like bodies, many times larger than any ocean ray. Legless. Instead, three long prehensile tails trailed from their bloated forms, tapering to flat, keen stabbing edges.

  They were built perfectly for bearing the hordes that clung to them.

  The mewling wails of countless sycophants atop were awful enough. But the Glooms amplified the nightmare with deep, bone-rattling screeches. A cacophony that clawed at sanity.

  Then came the Havenite response. Automatic gunfire cracked in the distance. Salvos of rockets streaked skyward from multiple points.

  Many detonated midair, striking unseen barriers conjured by the unholy priests.

  The assault pressed on. Glooms circled above lobbing their grotesque ballistae in turn, rocking the harbor with that bombardment.

  While the Havenites weapons would be more than capable of dealing with the grotesque sycophants, Mereque knew from bitter experience that the Knights were another matter entirely—resilient, nearly immune to conventional firearms.

  A wet thud on the port deck snapped every head around.

  A broken sycophant twitched disturbingly, dragging itself forward with two shattered limbs—surprising speed, surprising malice—toward the nearest crewman.

  Guns flashed in unison.

  A hail of fire dropped it in a twitching heap.

  But on the ship moored ahead, dozens more rained down every second, threatening to overwhelm the defenders.

  Mereque drew his trusty Pelter.

  He sprinted toward the aft section of the Urchin Gull, moving far faster than any man they had seen, leaving the Havenites gaping as he vaulted the hundred-meter gap between decks in a single, impossible leap.

  Wind roared past his ears.

  He hit the next ship running.

  His HUD flashed (bright amber):

  THREAT PRIORITIZATION: SYCOPHANTS 87% – KNIGHTS INBOUND

  Landing with a shockwave that felt like he’d struck a giant bell. A living locomotive.

  Barreling through enemies with one hand, blasting with the other. Tossing those that closed too near overboard with casual, terrifying strength.

  One fiend clawed an exposed patch of his left leg.

  An awful crawling sensation followed—as if something burrowed beneath the skin, pushing toward bone.

  A HUD alert flashed into view (pulsing red):

  FOREIGN AGENT DETECTED

  LIMB COMPROMISED: NUMBNESS SPREADING

  COUNTERMEASURES ACTIVE

  NEUTRALIZING 42%

  Mereque seized the creature by the neck and hurled the screaming thing into the sea.

  Then, with a now-numb limb, turned and fired.

  Four more dropped—holes blown clean through chests, necks, heads.

  The crewmen stared, stunned. They had never witnessed anything like it. Gratitude flickered in their eyes.

  Mereque managed to sprint (with a partial limp) the length of the vessel.

  Shooting. Striking. Smashing the deck clear.

  Cheers rose from some of those watching (mostly younger). Raw and grudging.

  Cold stares came from others (mostly older).

  He didn’t care.

  He would save them all, even if they wished him dead.

  That changed when the first Blanched Knight swept over them on its bizarre vestigial geometric wings.

  Unleashing a hailstorm of pencil-thin flechettes.

  Men scrambled for cover. Two of them went down. Vitals hit. Heartbeats stilled. His promise already broken.

  Dammit.

  The returning fire proved useless. Frustratingly impotent against the mystical protection of the Knight’s shifting, unnatural armor.

  “Use your guns on the deformed ones! Blades, pipes, or fists for the Knights!”

  Mereque bellowed. Throwing himself in front of a cluster of crewmen. Making his body a shield for them.

  Flechettes punched through his right shoulder. Penetrating his collarbone.

  His HUD flashed (angry red):

  INJURY DETECTED: RIGHT SHOULDER/COLLARBONE PENETRATION

  NANITE DEPLOYMENT: 62% CONTAINMENT

  PAIN SUPPRESSION: 85% EFFECTIVE

  COMBAT EFFICIENCY: 94%

  A grunt escaped him. The pain was sharp, but he did not slow.

  The Havenites adapted swiftly. Unsheathed wicked serrated knives (and whatever else they could get their hands on). Some crackling with electrical charge—designed to stun or burn. Smart, he thought.

  Others provided covering fire. Unloading on the sycophants still crashing onto the deck from above.

  Mereque seized the initiative.

  The airborne Knight had passed him and for a moment remained within leaping distance, its back turned. Unaware.

  He launched himself and landed against it with crushing force. In an instant, the warrior lost its wings, broken by his powerful hands.

  The Knight spun out of control and crashed hard some fifty meters away.

  Rising, it faced the giant warrior and the nautical crewmen who had followed. Overwhelmed by half a dozen blades and Mereque’s strength, it still impaled two fatally with its own weapon before succumbing and being thrown into the dark waters below.

  Mereque had been lucky. Catching it by surprise. Bringing it to ground. Otherwise, they might have been pinned by the unnatural projectiles it could summon at will.

  He watched with growing alarm as a score of Knights—having noted their comrade’s fall—converged. Wings beating, heading straight for them.

  His HUD pulsed (solid red):

  INBOUND HOSTILES: 20+ BLANCHED KNIGHTS

  MYSTICAL SHIELDING CONFIRMED – BALLISTIC INEFFECTIVE

  RECOMMENDATION: CLOSE COMBAT REQUIRED