I gotta say, fighting alongside proper professionals is like a breath of fresh air.

  Most folks get in a fight and tunnel vision on what’s right in front of them. I’ve done it myself, and I seen plenty of soldiers do the same, because when things get rough and rowdy, it’s hard to pay attention to anything besides staying alive. The fact that Noora’s up on the wall with a rope in hand ready and waiting to throw it out for me is already more than I could ask for, but she’s too focused on getting me inside the walls to realize I’m doing fine and dandy right where I am.

  The Pathfinders though? They’re veterans who’ve been at this for almost two decades now, and they see the forest through the trees. They know I’m where I want to be, and they also know I could use a bit of support to ease the load on my back, while I do my best to do the same for them. Sounds counter-intuitive I know, as how can we both be taking pressure off the other, but it ain’t an all or nothing sort of thing. My daddy used to say, ‘A wulf that chases two rabbits returns home with none’, and that’s the idea behind what we’re doing here today.

  Massive as this Zombie horde might be, there’s a finite number who can bash on the gates or climb the walls at once. As such, this means the defenders inside can take things one at a time more or less, fighting off them Zombies as they poke their heads up. Now if they was Automatons with an endless supply of Ammo and Aetheric Energy, then the Zombies would stand no chance, as they’d get popped every time they poked their heads up without fail. People though? People need breathers, whether it be to rest their arms, reload their guns, take a swig of water, or just literally breathe, and that’s where I come in.

  As the distraction. In Ranger terms, that makes me a Disrupter, a role I’ve fallen into when fighting alongside other folks. In a nutshell, the role is like an offensive Supporter, but instead of bolstering your allies, you hinder your enemies. It’s a broad role, with a whole lot of different ways to fulfill it and a lot of overlap with a Controller. They both got the same goal, but go about it in different ways. A Controller sets things up so that when the enemy responds, they’re following a track laid out by the Controller who makes order out of chaos. On the other hand, a Disrupter likes to add to the fog of war and turn things up to eleven, meaning they’re less about making plans and more about breaking them.

  Take Aunty Ray for example. She uses Illusions to throw the Enemy into disarray, whether it be distracting them with Hypnotic Pattern, scaring them off with Fear and Psychic Scream, or just showing them an Illusion of something that ain’t there or hiding something that is. She can also use Enchantments to put her enemies to sleep, turn them against one another, Slow their movements to a crawl, or draw their ire so they focus on her at the expense of everything else, like moths to a flame who burn up and die.

  Then there’s Tim, who’s a lot more direct about it. He snipes enemy leaders to leave them without commanders and Spellslingers, on top of laying traps to scare and confuse his foes, like he done in the mining tunnels by Pleasant Dunes. Even Elodie is a bit of a Disrupter, as she uses the natural Abjuration capabilities of her diamondclaw form to Counterspell her foes like she done against them Legionnaires, unravelling their Spells before they could take form in the material world and causing them to fizzle out. That’s some powerful stuff, meaning a good Disrupter is worth their weight in gold, while I’m more of a middling Disrupter at best.

  Mostly because I ain’t ever been trained for the role, and only do what comes natural. Namely play the part of the wild card, an agent of chaos who can’t be ignored, but also one who can’t be caught because I’m too damn slippery. Course, the terrain do be doing the bulk of my work, as even Zombies can’t ignore the physics of water and mud, while my Floating Disc dips into the former and skims over the latter with little to no resistance at all. Not to say there ain’t any at all, as I’m noticeably slower than I would be zipping over smooth sand or icy snow, to say nothing of having to zig and zag through the trees and brush to avoid getting caught up and run down. Still manage to stay a step ahead of the horde however, and in doing so, I keep the bulk of the attention on me while leaving only a portion to assail the gates and clamber up the walls.

  Which is why I love working with professionals, because they don’t just take the lessened pressure for granted. Noora’s new crew mostly just sits at the top of the wall and handles whatever may come, but the Pathfinders got the presence of mind to look beyond the tip of their nose and see the good work that I’m doing. Better yet, they realize that without me, they might well be overrun, so they go the extra mile to help secure safe routes for me to run while also thinning the horde behind me.

  A Flame Cloud dropped right in the middle of the group and set to slowly follow along as they run. A Spike Growth with a channel for me to zip right through before it closes up behind me to catch a whole truckload of Zombies in its stabby embrace. A Cloud of Daggers hovering at the perfect height for me to duck under, while the Zombies behind me run straight into the blender to get ground into minced meat that no Mimic could put back together. A big Volley of Radiant Arrows that rains down from overhead, with wave after wave crashing into Soulless flesh to cleanse and purify the dark magics animating their putrid flesh.

  All Spells that will last for at least a minute at base, so I make the most of them and lead the horde on a merry chase in and around the obstacles. Don’t know how many go down to the Spells, or how many pick themselves back up after the fact, but the Pathfinder Spells are a whole lot more effective than one of my Fireballs. At least 70% of the downed Zombies picked themselves back up the last time I used it, Mended by the Magics of the Mimic overhead. That’s not what you want to see after using a quarter of your daily Aether tank, so I been holding off this time around and trying to be more efficient with my Grainage. As for all them Spells the Pathfinders are using? While I’m not sure about the cascading rain of arrows which I ain’t ever seen or heard of before, all them other Spells are Second Order, with a few First Order Elemental Orbs getting thrown out to leave puddles of Frost and Acid for the Zombies to run into and slow them down some as their legs shatter or melt out from underneath them.

  Course, none of their Spells would be half as effective if I wasn’t out here doing my thing. That’s why I ain’t in no rush to head into the compound, which ain’t as safe as you might think. The Mimic in question is spending most of its efforts herding its Zombies, Ghouls, and Wights to attack the walls with everything they got, but Undead Abby ain’t really known for their smarts. Zombies go without saying, while Ghouls are savage humans or copies of them who done lost their sanity, making them little better and mostly worse than Feral Abby. As for Wights? They got some intelligence to them, but only enough to remember a few Spells and skills they had in life, unless a Mimic puppets it directly, or takes the time to properly pick at their rotten brain and figure out how everything worked so they could put it all back in good order to create a proper Wight Lord.

  Meaning most of the ravenous horde be like excitable marty kits, always keen to chase after the closest or loudest moving target. Which in this case is me and my new looted rifle, a sleek, slender, semi-automatic rifle of French make. MAB be the manufacturer, and I ain’t talking about the Fairy Queen of Air and Darkness. In this instance, MAB stands for Manufacture d’Armes de Bordeaux, the French capital of wine and Aetherarms. Not the best things to pair together, but the French do know their grapes. As for their guns, the MAB 49 I got in my hands, or informally the Mabber, is pretty well built for military grade weaponry.

  Most folks hear ‘military grade’ and think it means the best of the best, but in reality, it means it was built to be cheap, somewhat reliable, and mostly idiot proof. That’s why even though the Mabber done took a spill in the mud when its former owner took a Bolt to the chest, it still sings like a dream while spitting Silenced death at the Soulless. The gun is direct impingement gas-operated with a tilting bolt, which is a fancy way of saying the gun uses the gas from the propelled projectile to work the slide assembly that ejects the spent cartridge and makes way for a fresh one. More to the point, it means there’s essentially only one moving part to the gun, making it reliable as all heck. Fairly accurate too considering the decent adjustable iron sights overtop a sturdy and stable steel receiver, one that pairs well with the robust wood frame that’s been polished and darkened to a dull matte finish.

  Feels real good in the hands it does, with a nice, sharp bark that don’t flash much at all thanks to the conical flash hider screwed into the end, one that also disperses gas to help compensate for the already minimal recoil. The bad news is that the gun only got ten rounds in the magazine, something I’m sure you could work around with a bit of fiddling. Them rounds also be in the French 7.5mm caliber, which no one else uses, so even getting the gear to handload them yourself is tricksy, to say nothing of buying ammo outright. Add in the fact that the gun do be fairly heavy at just over four and a half kilos with a long, unwieldy barrel that ain’t ideal for close quarter fighting, and I probably won’t be keeping this Mabber or the backup I got slung over my shoulder unless it’s as a display piece.

  At least the weapon do be quick to reload, especially when I don’t care to keep the empty magazines. A press of the button, a flick of the wrist, and a Mage Hand slams a fresh mag home just as I finish swinging my Conjured bendy axe that do need a better name. Gotta be real careful using it too, because if the chain gets caught up or grabbed, then I could well get yanked right off of my Floating Disc. Would be a real bad way to go, crowd surfing atop a mob of ravenous Zombies, so I keep my attacks high and measured to avoid getting got like that.

  On the back swing, one enterprising Zombie sees an opening to lunge forward with arms outstretched, but the Mabber is locked and loaded so I give the trigger a few squeezes. Hate to waste the ammo, but I ain’t about to risk life and limb on a one-handed hip-fired shot with a rifle I ain’t ever held before today. It’s also longer and heavier than the Ranger Repeater, making it more difficult to aim with only one hand. So while ammo conservation is king, you gotta stay breathing to keep shooting, so I work that trigger like it owes me money and blast the charging Zombie good. The first shot doesn’t even make it flinch, but the second hits it square in the shoulder and spins it just a bit, slowing it enough for me to line up my third shot and pop it clean in the head.

  No time to sigh in relief however, as the Cloud of Daggers is coming up, so I pop a squat and give Cowie’s head a quick kiss while shooting one-handed as best I can. The hiss of blades whirling overhead is much too close for comfort, doubly so because there’s a pile of mangled Zombie bodies underneath it which my Floating Disc has to go over, and I make a note to maybe go around it on my next pass instead. Hearing the visceral squelch and thunk of blades carving through flesh as I zip away is well worth the risk however, as them Zombies walk headlong into the very obvious hazard hanging round about head height, but I got no time to take in my good work. Gotta skirt around the oncoming Spike Growth, because leaving a path and closing it up is already more than you can ask for from even the best Spellslingers around, so I make a sharp turn and take an even sharper angle around the barbed, verdant green vines that look so very out of place amidst the darker browns and fetid greens of the Deadlands.

  Not as many Zombies go stumbling into the Spiked Growth as I’d like, but it gets more than enough as I whoop, holler, and propel myself towards the next obstacle to run through. This here is my third time around, and I been keeping tabs on things as I move, so much so that I’m confident enough to go full speed ahead towards the rain of Radiant Arrows. Don’t know how long the Spell lasts, but it’s still going strong, and I time things perfectly so that one wave crashes down on the ground right in front of my nose, allowing me to barrel on through before the next wave falls behind me just in time for the Zombies to fully saturate its area of effect.

  God I hope someone is recording this. I would love a copy to show the family in say ten, fifteen years, when they’re less worried about what I do and want to see what I been up to.

  Assuming I make it that long of course, and I won’t make it past today if I don’t focus up, so I quit my whooping and hollering to take stock of the situation. The chasing Zombies are too dumb to do anything besides run headlong into the same hazards time and time again, but them Ghouls done already wised up. Savage and feral though they might be, that ain’t the same as stupid, so I keep my eyes open and my axe ready for any hulking, humanoid cannibals who might come popping out of the crowd.

  Thing is, I should’ve been watching for Wights instead, but I saw a whole bunch hammering at the gates and figured that was all of them. I was wrong, as evidenced by the dark form that comes shooting out from the shadows as I take in my handiwork with the rain of Radiant arrows. Fast don’t even begin to cover it as it appears out of nowhere with its wizened, half rotten features, brandishing a giant honking wavy greatsword that’s longer than I am tall in one gaunt, skeletal hand. A flamberge if you wanna get technical, which apparently I do as I spend my precious moments thinking of the proper name while watching the Wight whip its flamberge up and around in a massive arc meant to smash me off the Floating Disc.

  All I can do is duck down, but even as I do, I know it ain’t gonna work, as the Wight shifts its arc to follow me. Part of my lacking response is due to distraction, but most of it is because I can’t rightly come up with anything I could do. This Wight got me dead to rights. It tracked me through the crowd, saw me fall into a pattern, then attacked at the most opportune moment when I got no more obstacles to weave through or hide behind. Go no time to dodge, and can’t exactly come to a stop with so many Zombies chasing after me. I could try to block the strike, but seeing it wield that oversized hunk of sharpened steel like it ain’t no think tells me I’d be on the losing end of that trade. Credit where credit is due, Wights might be smarter than I figured them for, as this one done picked its moment well, and if it was just me on this Floating Disc here, then this might well be checkmate.

  I ain’t alone though, as I got my partner here with me, who don’t get distracted like I do and seen the Wight coming. That’s why Cowie’s hooves are all dug in to the surface of the Floating Disc, one that got texture and tension enough to keep whatever you pile onto it from easily slipping off. Gives him plenty of purchase to plant his hooves as he raises his baby calf head and sprouts a pair of big honking horns, ones thicker than my forearm and about as long. That’s how it be with the Second Order Alter Self Spell though, as it allows you to change your appearance in a limited manner so long as you don’t go too far beyond what’s normal. Course, Cowie stretches it a bit as he’s currently smaller than he ought to be, but all that mass ain’t gone, just placed in the Immaterium, and he reaches into that extradimensional pocket to pull out some additional padding to bulk up the new horns atop his head.

  Which is a wild bit of expertise that I could never match, as Cowie’s working with mass that ain’t present and manipulating it with another Spell that’s dependent on it, but not all that great at moving it around. Even more wild is how he perfectly times the flick of his little head to parry the oncoming flamberge, with all the strength and durability of a full-grown bull packed into a tiny, calf-sized body. The Minify Spell that makes him all cute and tiny do make him weaker, but nowhere as weak as he appears, as he’s still strong enough to haul my wagon in this form, even when it’s fully loaded.

  If I were to try to take this attack head on, I doubt I’d be able to shift the Wight’s weapon more than an inch, but Cowie’s got strength enough to knock the greatsword out of his foe’s cold, lifeless hands. As for me, I wasn’t expecting my partner to save my bacon, but I wasn’t about to go down without a fight. That’s why I drew the Shortsword, giving my Conjured chain-axe a little toss up and ahead to keep it more or less by my side as I zip forward and unload six 22-10 Bolts into the Wight centre mass. It don’t do much damage, as they ping off the Abby’s Ecto armour, or maybe a Conjured Armour to match my own. I don’t really know, but what I do know is that it got a red Templar Cross etched into the metalwork, meaning that this Wight was a Knight Templar in life, or modelled after someone who was. They don’t got no modus operandi on how they like to armour up, save to say they don’t typically carry mundane armour on account of all their vows of poverty and whatnot.

  So I got no earthly idea what sort of magical or biological armour is blocking the non-Penetrating Bolts of my Sturm and Kitiara Shortsword, but I didn’t pull my sidearm out to do damage. If I wanted to hurt the Wight, I would’ve been better off sticking to the Mabber, which is a proper rifle that I’m pretty sure shoots rounds that been half-overpacked, meaning 15 as opposed to the standard 10 Grainage, or 20 for overpacked rounds. Scaled appropriately to whatever Order of Spell Core is being used, though again, I’m pretty sure the one in my hands do be using Cantrips, as First and Second Order Bolts got a heftier snap to it.

  No, I pulled out my sidearm due to one particular Metamagic that most folks don’t put no respect on, as it do sometimes feel more like slapstick than anything else. I’m talking about the Toppling Metamagic, which my daddy’s Rattlesnake also had, a quirky little addition that tends to send whatever I shoot hurtling back through the air. The Wight is made of sterner stuff however, as it eats the first Bolt, then the second, third, and fourth without so much as a quiver, though it do still be reeling from Cowie’s expertly timed parry. The fifth shot does the trick however, one that lands about a full second after the first shot, as I do have me some fast hands to work the hammer on my double-action revolver. Mage Hands that is, which take turns slapping it down while I hold the trigger down and tussle with the recoil as we skate on by the reeling Wight.

  One that’s sent flying back into the mud making my sixth shot go wide, but not before I tag it with a Hunter’s Mark to better keep tabs of its existence before catching my axe in hand.

  Bit of an oopsie there, as I might well have put the thing down if I’d’ve thrown the Hunter’s Mark onto it first, but I ain’t gonna lie. I was a little worried there and wasn’t really thinking straight. Cowie done pulled my giblets out of the fire though, and is looking none too pleased about it as he shakes his head and sinks back against my shins for support as he’s no doubt been concussed by the impact. Still manages to maintain Concentration on Minify however, as I’d notice fairly quickly if he didn’t, seeing how he’d grow large enough to overwhelm my Floating Disc which got a strict weight limit of 225 kilos, or round about 500 pounds.

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  A number Cowie’s full weight is significantly north of, so it’s a good thing he stayed tiny. Then again, it might be he don’t actually need to Concentrate on Minify, as I done seen him sleep with the Spell on, and now that I think about it, Alter Self is a Spell that also requires Concentration which you typically only get one of. Shows just how talented a Spellslinger Cowie is, as even if he don’t got no Big Spells just yet, he a bonafide maestro at using the ones he got.

  Makes me almost want to reconsider my fervent desire to learn all the Spells I can. I might be better off focusing on a select few in a single School of Magic, or at the very least Spells that got some sort of synergy between them. Not just in how they’re used, but in how they’re cast, because what works for one could very well transfer over to the others. Like Mage Hands and Conjure Weapon. If I didn’t have all them hours of practice learning how to use two extra hands, I would never have picked up the trick to using a flexible Conjured Weapon so easily. One I catch and use while my Mage Hands be reloading my Shortsword, keeping it locked and loaded in case I gotta go tête-à-tête with the Wight again.

  The chain-axe comes alive in my hand, my left hand which ain’t ever been all that great at hacking and slashing. Anyone with two hands knows the feeling, how awkward it feels when your brain knows what to do but your body ain’t up to the task. Like writing, using chopsticks, or even something as simple as stacking chips with your non-dominant hand, you go to try it and it’s like that hand don’t belong to you no more. You can’t hold the pen right, move your fingers proper, or find the sweet spot to slide them chips all together with little more than a lift, and that’s how it was with me and my left hand for most things when I first lost the right. Had to re-learn how to do almost everything, but to this day, I still don’t got a proper grasp on how to use an axe with the left and am a shadow of my former self.

  Ain’t none of that with the chain-axe though, no awkward fumbling or unfamiliar sensations. The weapon is a part of me, no less than my Mage Hands are, and I can move it almost as easily as I move my fingers. That’s because it got all the same inner workings more or less, with muscles, tendons, connective tissues and nerves to power them, but not real muscles, tendons, tissue, or nerves. Artificial ones, or rather artificial Ectoplasm masquerading as an artificial framework for a weapon that was designed from the ground up to be a part of me, one no different from my hands and feet. If this was an Automaton I built out of metal and wires, I’d have to really practice to figure out how to get it to move how I want it to, an endeavour no less difficult than learning how to properly wield a flail, and in all likelihood several times harder.

  Don’t need to though, as it all comes as easily as breathing, because I done drew this baby up and put the pieces together myself. I know how it works, designed it to function in a particular manner that makes sense to me, and because of this understanding, the magic has made it work as expected. That’s the beauty of magic after all, how magical it be, as I imagine that a prototype built based on my hastily scribbled notes would have plenty of kinks to work out, but magic helps soothes those growing pains and takes me from A to Z in a single bound.

  A flick of my wrist sends the axe head flying out over the crowd until it stretches three metres away from the haft. A sweep to the side brings it up, over, and around my head in a massive arc, all the while the inner workings hidden within the shaft work to apply more tension on the chain than my movements suggest. This propels the axe-head as it cleaves through rotten flesh and hardened bone with laughable ease, because centripetal force is difficult to beat when you working at the all the wrong angles. Can’t even count how many Zombies I brain in one swing of the axe, but I only allow myself the one pass before whipping my arm down and bringing the weapon around in a twirl, pushing them muscles and tendons to their utmost limits to retract the chain rapid quick until it snaps back to the top of the haft before my flourish is finished.

  All without so much as even an inkling that I might brain myself or Cowie with the weapon, a world of difference from flinging that cable and mace head around.

  This is only the second time I’ve used the chain-axe in battle, and I’ve already got all manner of different ideas on how to make it even better. Or Spells I could upgrade to, as a Spiritual Weapon with this sort of flexibility would be mighty useful, to say nothing of Spiritual Guardians which is the next logical link in the chain. One pointed out to me by Sergeant Begaye almost a year ago in Pleasant Dunes, which just goes to show how much farther you can see while standing on the shoulders of giants. A phrase that made its way to the modern era thanks to the letters of Sir Issac Newton himself, and I would say that wiser words ain’t ever been written.

  Despite my joy and jubilation, my celebration feels a little empty because I can’t share it with the man who pointed me in the right direction, as we ain’t exactly on speaking terms after what went down on his watch. Nor can I bring this to Uncle Teddy and see the faint praise in his slate grey eyes, or Marcus to hear him gas me up like no one else. Can’t believe it’s been less than a year since everything went to shit, and things have only gotten worse from there, but like Sir Elton John sang so beautifully, , so I got that going for me.

  Maybe not for much longer if I head back into the fray, because my Hunter’s Mark is telling me that Wight is mingling in the crowd and waiting for a second chance. One I ain’t all that keen on giving it, as Cowie’s real shook from the exchange and I’m worried the Wight is smart enough to treat him as the threat he really is. My furry white partner got a whole lot of muscle, bulk, and firepower, but expertly timed parries aside, not much in the way of defenses. Wouldn’t take much to bring him down, just one nick from the Wight’s unholy weapon or maybe a festering claw from a Ghoul or Zombie. The latter is normal enough, as you’d die by way of infection most likely, but with Wights’, it’s another thing all together. Their weapons are Imbued with Necrotic Energies, so even a little cut will start festering away before your eyes, and there ain’t much modern medicine can do about it. There are Spells to counter it of course, but I don’t know any, and I ain’t about to risk Cowie’s life on the hopes that someone inside the waystation does.

  A waystation besieged by a veritable army of the undead and under increasing pressure now that I’ve eased off the throttle for fear of the lurking Wight. I know exactly where it is, could clear it out with a Maximized Fireball, but I’m not sure that’s enough to take it down, much less keep it down. Fireball is great against massed fodder, but there are plenty of stronger Abby who can take a licking and keep on ticking, and considering how durable rank and file Zombies be, I get the feeling a Wight won’t be none too bothered by it.

  Part of me wants to say fuck it and zip off to the cargo sleds, where I can collect whatever it is I was supposed to collect and go find Gunnar and Frowny before moving on. Thing is, that ain’t me. I’ve never been one to run from a fight, and while I wouldn’t blink twice about leaving them Order lackies to the Soulless, I ain’t about to leave no Pathfinders in the lurch. Especially not with Elodie and Noora in the mix, though it seems like the latter has already moved on. Got herself a lovely little tomboy named Tammy wrapped around her finger, one who knows her stuff seeing how she’s throwing out Radiant energy like she was born in a nunnery. Would love to learn that Cantrip for myself, as she’s stripping magics away from whole bunches of Zombies and reducing them to slow shamblers as they make their way up the walls, but she can’t do it fast enough to turn the tides.

  Noora’s picked up a fair few tricks too, unleashing Arc Lightning from her perch on the walls and fighting them Zombies off with a short boar spear, and I see the solid foundations of a damn fine fighter in her movements. Nothing too outstanding, but no real flaws either, with the only thing holding her back being muscle and stamina. Those will come with time and training, but there are some people who just don’t got the spine for this sort of work, and Noora’s got gumption in spades. Ain’t enough to save her though, not with things as they stand, which means she and Elodie and everyone else inside the waystation is liable to go the way of the dodo if something doesn’t change in a big way.

  Something I can’t really do, because even if I give it all I got, that’s three Fireballs. Hardly enough to swing the battle in our favour what with the Mimic Mending all them downed corpses almost as fast as we can drop them. All I can really do is buy some time as I skirt around the edges of the mob and draw some Zombies away. Not as many as before when I was deep in the thick of things, but enough to keep the waystation from being instantly overrun. All the while, the Wight keeps moving towards me, watching, waiting, and ready to strike at the opportune moment.

  One that won’t come soon enough as the first, second, and third round of Spells are all used up, but the number of Soulless is still more or less unchanged. The issue is we can put them corpses down, but we can’t keep them there unless someone hits them with Radiant damage like them rain of Radiant arrows or Tammy’s Sacred Flame Cantrip. Me, I’m hoping Jocelyn’ s got something big up her sleeve to handle it, as I don’t think she can nab the Mimic like she did last time. There’s most certainly one in charge here, but I’m thinking it knows she’s here too, or at the very least knows there’s someone or something that can threaten it on account of how it’s buddy recently went M.I.A. Because of this, and the fact that it got minions enough to handle things, the Mimic refuses to poke its head out to say hi. Or at least that’s what I assume, as I can sense that dark, ethereal presence lingering about the battlefield, but not enough of it to really pinpoint where it be. Not even a general sense of location, just an overbearing sense of foreboding that don’t got nothing to do with the Zombies, Ghouls, and Wights arrayed before me.

  It's the Mimic, a shadow upon the world that don’t darken nothing besides our souls, and I don’t want nothing to do with it. This one is more stifling than the last, more oppressive and apparent despite the imprecise manner of its presence, and I cannot for the life of me fathom why.

  Maybe it’s because it’s paying more attention to the battle and singling me out as a nuisance to be handled by its Wight, or maybe it’s my own fear playing into this. The stark intelligence of the foe I’m up against has got my guts all twisted up inside. Orcs and Ferals are clever and cunning, but they ain’t nothing compared to the Soulless. The Mimic done set this ambush for us, knew something was up and got its puppets in place, then waited until we was distracted fighting amongst ourselves before launching an attack. Not only that, it put a sizable force in front of the waystation since it knew that’s where we’d run, and if it wasn’t for Elodie leading the charge, I dunno if they could’ve gotten in as easily as they did.

  Or gotten out with as few casualties either, as I’m guessing the Mimic saw the odds and figured it’d be a one-sided slaughter for the Legionnaires. Dunno if it knows Jocelyn is the big threat, though Edward implied that might be the case, so it could well be the Mimic tried to kill her with a borrowed knife. That’s some next level intelligence there, more than what most people can even manage in a convincing fashion, so seeing this sorta tactic used against us by Abby is unnerving to say the least. It’s boxed us in and got us trapped like rats, and even then it’s playing things safe and micromanaging the fight, with no sense of haste or impatience like the last one that popped out to speed things along with bigger Spells or whatever.

  So we’re all on our own out here, and we can only rely on ourselves to see us through this mess. Ain’t much I can do out on the outskirts, so I reach into my pouch and retrieve a grenade which I lob at the Wight as best I can. It don’t hit, as it’s got its guard up and gets out of dodge right quick, so it’s a good thing I tested the waters with an Entangle first. Doesn’t do much besides slow some Zombies down, but between that and the Wight’s retreat, it buys me time enough to zip away and attract more of the horde away from the walls before leading them on a merry chase.

  Why am I even doing this? Risking my neck for a whole gaggle of strangers that is. Elodie is the only one I care about, so I should go in, save her, and get the hell out. I could do it too, do it all too easily, which is why I’m still here despite knowing things look bad. As for everyone else? Fuck em. The Pathfinders ain’t as elite as the Rangers, but they’re still professional soldiers who’re a cut above the rest. If they can’t do nothing about this, then what do they expect from me? As for the Order? I wouldn’t cross the street to piss on them if they was set on fire, so I ain’t about to give up my life for them. Noora… I can’t save both her and Elodie, just one of the two, and if I’m being honest, why would I pick the woman who done left me over one who is clearly smitten and willing to do almost anything I ask of her?

  Especially if I save her life. I could bring Elodie away and take her for my own, or better yet, hand her over to the Soulless and be rewarded for it. She’s a prize to be sure, not just someone who can sense them Mimics, but a powerful Innate in her own right, one that could help them Proggies bridge the gap in knowledge of getting their Abby slinging Spells in the physical world as deftly as the Proggies themselves sling Spells back in the Immaterium. That’s how Edward said it, didn’t he? But he never told me how damned smart and dangerous these Soulless be, enough so that their victory is all but inevitable. Better to fight for the winning side, crack open the waystation and let them Soulless go flooding in, and then I will be rewarded as the ally I have become, just like Luisa and them Cultists working alongside the hateful Matías.

  A growl escapes my throat as I tear apart the magics enshrouding my mind and emerge on the other side with a vengeance. The Mabber sings its deadly song as it rat-tat-tat’s away, shooting Bolts as quickly as I can work the trigger until the receiver clicks empty again. In my distraction, the horde almost encircled me, but a second Entangling Grenade slows them down enough for me to squeak on by while Cowie bellows in full-grown defiance coming out of an itty-bitty baby body while I sweat over just how close of a brush that was.

  Charm – no, Beguile Person probably, a Third Order Enchantment that almost had me eating out of Abby’s palm. The Mimic got greedy though, wanted me to do too much, all of which was against my nature and allowed me to break free. That’s the thing about Enchantments, the dirty little secret that won’t no one afflicted admit to, the fact that them Spells can’t make you do anything you wouldn’t do to begin with. Driving a person to kill is easy, because we all killers in the end, and the only thing that’s stopping us most of the time is a lack of good reason. That’s how the Madness almost got me last year in May, by touching upon my misery and despair and compounding that with a complete and utter lack of hope. Under those circumstances, a murder-suicide wouldn’t be too far out my wheelhouse, assuming I done been pushed down far enough.

  I hadn’t been though, so I stopped myself before I drew my daddy’s gun and ended Noora and Josie’s lives. Noora on the other hand is a survivor, so while I don’t know what went on in her head during the Madness, I ain’t surprised she was ready to kill me then and there for trying to force her to do something she didn’t want. Only sweet Josie shook the Spell off entirely, which shows how she was made of sterner stuff than anyone gave her credit for, and that I’m nowhere near as strong as I like to think. Almost gave in to the Spell back then, and again just now, though I don’t think it was only the once. Pretty sure the Mimic first tried to get me to run, and then reversed course to convince me to go into the compound. To save Elodie as it were, or open the gates and get everyone killed, it would’ve been happy either way, or even if I just stayed distracted long enough to get overrun by Zombies and killed.

  Or captured.

  A cold chill runs down my spine as look back on my encounter with the Wight, one in which it could’ve chopped me in twain, but instead tried to hit me with the flat of its flamberge. Why? Because the Mimic wants me alive and well, and I don’t want to know what for. It’s got the kid gloves on, treating me like a prize to be won instead of a threat to be neutralized, and I ain’t about that. The rage bubbles up from deep inside my belly as I unleash my axe with a vengeance, grabbing hold of the flows maintaining the construct and rearranging them according to my will. The chain becomes a solid pole that turns the weapon into a proper poleaxe, one that stretches the full three metres and is still solid as can be. With my new weapon in hand, I bring it about in a practiced flourish, twirling it left and right in figure eights before lashing out and bringing it about in a swooping arc that scythes through the necks of any Zombies caught in its path.

  Then I release the weapon, and it continues to move overhead in a circular orbit, repeating that same, spinning, hacking motion in one continuous flow, an Echo of my movements that is only a little weaker and slower than the original. And will continue to grow weaker and slower as time goes on and the ‘momentum’ stored into the Spell plays out, but I reach out with my mind to find the neural pathways connected to the Conjured Weapon and give it a metaphysical slap to keep the momentum going. The weapon is a part of me, no different from my hands, and while my hands are no longer there to move it about, it still knows how that force needs to be applied and is wholly capable of doing it by itself. I just gotta make it do it, move it like I move any other part of me, albeit on a fixed and immutable path that it cannot divert from. That’s the trick to Echoing a strike from a Conjured Weapon, the same trick Sergeant Begaye used in Pleasant Dunes, and one I’ve finally picked up by almost complete accident.

  While it takes some physical, mental, and Magical effort to sustain this, it is far easier to keep it going than it would be to cast even a single Cantrip. This means that aside from the Spell’s ten-minute duration, I am only limited by my stamina and mental fortitude, two things I’ve always been proud of and intend to show off here today. Protected by a whirling ring of sharpened steel, I carve through the horde while going over my list of Prepared Spells, which I find sorely lacking. Aside from Conjure Weapon, Fireball is the only offensive Spell I got, with the rest being defense or utility. I don’t know how to make Fireball hit harder, as I don’t got the foundation for it. When it comes to Evocation, I’m an enthusiast at best. Divination is my bread and butter, while Conjuration is my next best School, but aside from Conjure Weapon, I didn’t prep any offensive Conjuration Spells to use.

  Stupid is what that is. Never thought it mattered before today, but now I know better, don’t I? My daddy said it long ago, but I just never listen. It ain’t about what Spells you got, but how you use them, and he wasn’t just talking about timing or placement. A Fireball from me ain’t worth much of anything at all, so what’s the point of even prepping it? It’s a waste of Grainage for me to use and a waste of a Spell Slot for me to prepare, so it’s high time I took a good, long look at myself and decide how I want to go about this kind of life.

  That dream of being the Firstborn? The Marshal’s Apprentice? That dream is dead and gone, and yet here I am still doing everything I can to keep it alive. A generalist Magus, that’s what he wanted me to be, someone who knows at least three Third Order Spells in each School of Magic, and that’s what I wanted too, but that ain’t feasible if he’s not Mentoring me no more, so it’s long past time I faced the facts and narrowed my scope of focus a whole bunch more.

  Something to figure out after all this is said and done, but inspiration strikes and I make a beeline for the Wight as soon as my preparations are readied. My Conjured Poleaxe is still spinning overhead, not just round about in loop-de-loops like blades on a windmill, but in proper defensive and offensive spins and strikes that follow a set pattern, one that them Zombies I pass are too stupid to figure out, but the Wight most certainly can. That’s why its flamberge is poised to perfectly block the poleaxe as it emerges from the crowd, eager to take me down and bring me home for Papa Proggie to study. Thanks to my Hunter’s Mark though, I seen it coming from a mile away and am ready and waiting to strike. While I got no axe in hand, I still got the armour on my body, Conjured Armour that differs from Conjured Weapon in little more than name. They’re both First Order Spells that Conjure something out of Ectoplasm, both last an hour at base, and were designed by the same Native American Spellslinger whose name has long since been forgotten, as oral histories are only as good as the people remembering them.

  Whoever they were, he or she was a god-damned genius, because Conjure Weapon and Conjure Armour are the same damn Spell, one tweaked ever so slightly to make it easier to do what you need it to do. It’s one thing to Conjure up an Axe that fits nicely in the palm of your hand, and another altogether to Conjure up a suit of armour which sits well on your frame. Similar in theory, but very different in execution, so they devised two different Spell Structures to handle those two different tasks. The foundations of the Structures are still the same though, so now that I got the hang of manipulating one, I can do the same to the other.

  The preparations have already been made, the effort and willpower spent, so all I need to do is stop holding it back. My Conjured Breastplate shifts and shimmers before breaking back down into pure Ecto, a clear, ephemeral fluid without mass or substance that flows up to my shoulder and down my right arm as I unleash a right straight at the charging Wight. One that would fall well short of striking before its sword hits me, but I follow through all the same as the Ecto shapes itself to my will and becomes a solid, three-foot spike of sharped steel, one that encases my entire limb like an armoured sleeve to provide durability and stability both. Enough so that it only strains my strength a bit when I impale the Wight on my spike, one that is longer than its sword and harder to boot, meaning it can’t even cut itself free.

  It most certainly tries, but it’s caught like a fish on a hook, so much so it forgets that my spinning axe is coming around again and gets its head lopped off for its troubles. The body is still kicking and flailing though, so I reach deep into my bag of tricks and pull out a Cantrip I’ve been playing with a little bit, but don’t care much for as it’s a little wasteful. Elemental Strike is the name of the game, one Ao Tian seems to like, but he favours Electric which is great for fighting people, but only so-so against the Soulless. Nah, against them, you want to use Acid. The problem is, that Acid eats up all that precious Aberrtin and can even destroy Spell Cores, but profit comes second here today. Can’t spend money if you’re dead after all, so I waste no time invoking the Cantrip with a thought, one aimed not at the Conjured spike, but the spinning axe still Echoing away overhead as I lift the helpless Wight into its path. The blade strikes its shoulder and carves a slice off the top, followed by a splash of lime-green fluid billowing up from the wound, one with a sharp, tart, chemical scent that fills the air as it eats away the Wight’s Conjured Armour and wizened flesh.

  Ain’t enough to put it down though, so I keep on skimming along and hold the Wight in place until I can cast the Cantrip again, aiming to hit it in the same place for maximum effect. It takes another four casts of the Cantrip before the body stops wiggling, and even then, I ain’t trusting it one bit, so I toss it into the area of effect of another Radiant rain of arrows before getting back to work distracting the horde. My lungs are burning, my arm sore, my head a little woozy and my throat tight, but I done good work here today, and so long as most of us make it out in one piece, then I’ll call that a big win.

  Honestly, I really only care about Elodie and Noora. Don’t need no Mimic egging me on to admit that, but seeing how so many folks want me to be a good man, I’ll also do what I can to save the rest, even the Neo-Nazi scumbags amongst them. What can I say? Thems the breaks of a moral compass, and why I have and always will prefer to work in shades of grey.