Ramon and I trail behind the noise of the receding footsteps, the corridor steadily broadening as we go along. More torches line the walls now, their purple flames illuminating everything in an eerie, lambent glow. I grip the arquebus tightly while Ramon draws a pair of pistols from his gun belts. It would be impossible for Ramon and I to hide if anyone stumbled upon us now, so it paid to be ready for trouble. Morgan had been cagey about who 'they' were, but his wounds amply proved that 'they' were very nasty pieces of work.

That and the frenzied screaming echoing from the distance.

"Someone's getting busy." I wryly comment as the throb of my backache surges again. Damn, I wasn't injured during my fall, so why does it feel like someone stabbed me right in the spine?

"Up ahead." Ramon whispers, pointing with one of his pistols.

Squinting, I spot a pair of men in House Guard uniforms, each bearing one of those odd torches, disappearing down the corridor. One of the men has a set of shackles coiled around his shoulder, jangling away as he wanders off. But the pair of them have left something behind in their wake.

"Another captive." I nod toward the cocooned figure fastened to the wall nearby. The putty sealing this captive up is pure white and literally smells fresh. My nose feels numb just from the scent. Shackles adorn the prisoner's limbs, forcing the paralyzed man into an upright position.

"Guess we worked out who's in charge here," Ramon mutters, "The Izzaks. Not that it explains anything."

"I thought Morton was your typical lone maniac," I curse, "Kind of like the Farmer. But if he has accomplices, things are going to get even uglier for us."

"Let's get to cutting this guy down." Ramon suggests as he moves toward the pungent cocoon but I pull him back with a tug to the sleeve.

"We can always double back later." I shake my head, "He's not going anywhere and we've got more pressing stuff to do."

Ramon's face shifts to a reluctant expression but he nevertheless follows my lead. We doggedly follow the trail of our quarry, occasionally passing more men trapped in putty cocoons, mounted along both sides of the metal corridor.

"There's so many of them." I comment in wonder, "How did Morton nab all these guys?"

"Maybe the same way we got trapped?" Ramon suggests, "But there're still not nearly enough prisoners. The Montfort House is far larger."

Another agonized shriek interrupts Ramon, drowning out his voice. Wherever the House Guard we are trailing are leading us, its toward the source of the screaming. The corridor grows steadily brighter, hotter as well. And there's a new addition to our surroundings. Large pipes emerge from the walls and snake alongside the length of the corridor, emitting low gurgling sounds. Placing my palm upon one of the pipes, I sense a tiny tremor of movement coming from within, as well as a sick, feverish heat.

Now the racket of screaming is joined by an industrial cacophony, similar to the noises you would hear at Deshawn City's railyard. The corridor begins to dip again, and from what I can make out from here, opens up into some kind of central chamber. The pipes however turn upward, forming an ad hoc ceiling for the chamber itself.

"You think we can squeeze into that crawl space?" I ask Ramon, "Not keen on walking through the proverbial main entrance."

"Maybe. If we crawl flat on our bellies." Ramon purses his lips as he performs some estimates, "The backpack with the dynamite won't fit though. We would have to leave most of it behind."

Quickly getting to it, Ramon opens up the backpack and each of us grab a handful of dynamite, securing it in our respective bandoliers. A short jump allows us to grab the edge of the crawl space and we pull ourselves up.

"Really tight fit." I complain, feeling the cold metal of the ceiling rub against my back as I squirm along the pipes.

"Lose some weight Mac." Ramon sniggers as he glides on ahead, his slim body moving with the agility of a fish.

"Very funny." I shoot back, the warmth coming from the pipes feeling surprisingly pleasant against my belly. I could have taken a nap here, if the situation wasn't so dire.

Now that we are in the crawl space, I realize that there are more pipes emerging from other directions as well, not just from the corridor Ramon and I followed. And each pipe seems to have the same ultimate destination. The bulls eye of the central chamber, where the pipes descend sharply at a right angle. The screams assaulting my ears reaches a new apex, no surprise since we should be right above it now. Peeking from between the pipes, my breath is immediately taken away.

In the corner of the room is a huge statue of someone I know all too well. The likeliness of Morton stands tyrannously, overlooking the entire chamber with arms akimbo. Chained to the statue is an old man, his torso covered in snake scales. He groans weakly as a pair of House Guard stand disinterestedly over him, their broad brimmed caps pulled low, wielding bloody batons. One of the old man's legs is already bent the wrong way and one of his guards prods at it with a boot.

Scattered around the chamber are iron stakes mounted to the floor with people bound to them. House Guard bustle busily about, their caps making each of them appear completely faceless. But their intent is clear. Tools of torture are wielded in merciless hands. Knives, branding irons. Even large metal files.

One of the men on the stakes screams as a House Guard begins applying the file vigorously against a patch of snake skin. There's a harsh rasping as most of the snake skin is rubbed away, along with flecks of blood. The torturer then switches to the knife and begins carving out a particularly stubborn patch of scale from his victim, eliciting another ear piercing shriek.

At this point, the victim falls into the blessed embrace of unconsciousness, the pain too much to bear. The torturer nods satisfied, unbinding the victim as blood and meat pools on the floor. A pair of House Guards grab the victim and apply their torches to the wounds, causing them to scab up immediately. The victim is then dragged out of the chamber by the armpits, moaning deliriously.

"Cleaning." I mutter grimly. Ramon merely swallows hard in silence.

Men in ragged clothing with their heads bowed low scuttle forward, scooping up the gristle from the floor and placing it into large cloth bags. With the bags filled close to bursting, the men, staggering under the weight, head toward a large double door located at the opposite side of the chamber. The House Guard standing by opens the door without comment, letting the janitors through.

"You see that?" I gasp in excitement, my eyes locked on to the open door.

"The real villa." Ramon notices as well, "That door connects this place to the villa back at Southmarsh."

So we've got our way out, but no good way of accessing it. Should we make our move now, before Morton comes back?

The janitors return to the chamber with the bags disposed off, but bringing up the rear is a line of Montfort soldiers, escorted by the new House Guard. The guard by the door lets the janitors enter without molestation, but immediately bars passage for the incoming Montforts. The escorts order their charges to strip and to my expectation, each of the Montforts display the same symptoms Morgan had suffered from. Snake skin coating their bodies in varying degrees.

The door guard passes down the line of Montforts, giving a curt nod in turn. Torturers then grab the fresh victims, lashing them to the stakes before setting to work. However, the door guard comes to a complete stop when he faces the final man in the row. There's nothing unusual about him, only that the snake scales have spread further then all the others.

"Cleaning?" one of the escorts asks.

"Cannot be cleaned." the gate guard responds, shaking his head.

There's a brief golden flash as the House Guard converse, coming from their mouths. But there's no time for me to focus on that detail.

"No! No!" the captive howls as the escorts force him to his knees. The gate guard unshoulders his musket, aiming the barrel squarely at the back of the captive's head. There's a gunshot. And its over just like that.

"Clean now." the gate guard grunts.

"Clean mess up." one of the escorts orders the janitors. The janitors scurry over and drag the body away before setting to work with cleavers and bone saws.

"Fuck this ..." I groan, turning my eyes away from the stomach churning sight of the janitors stuffing limbs into their bags. At least now I know why Morton went full genocide at the mine. A gagging sound comes from Ramon.

"I think ... I think ...." Ramon gurgles, "I recognize some of those guys, the ones carrying the bags of ... ugh ..."

"Try not to puke." I whisper, "Or at least try not to puke on yourself."

"I'm fine. I'm fine." Ramon says more to himself, "Those guys, they're House Guard. The original Montfort House Guard. And the old man by the statue ..."

"Montfort himself." I manage to swallow back my mounting bile, "I recognize him from your party."

The pipes beneath us vibrate fiercely, something big is coming through. All the House Guard pause their labors, turning their attention to a circular depression at the center of the chamber directly underneath the gaping mouths of the pipes. The depression churns with brackish, opaque liquid and several House Guard line themselves next to it expectantly.

"ACCESSING ARCHIVE." a familiar voice booms throughout the chamber, causing me to lose a few years of my lifespan. When did Morton get back here?

But the object of my fear thankfully doesn't show up. His voice continues regardless as mushy sludge pours out of the pipes into the depression on the floor.

"LOADING ENTITY." Morton's voice intones as the mixture begins to smoke and bubble, "ENTITY IDENTIFICATION: BARON 251278."

With a massive splash, a single arm surges up from the frothing liquid. The sludge swirls, hardening into flesh and bone before my eyes. The House Guard bend over, reaching into the steaming liquid as one. And they pull, putting their backs into it. The lone hand flails blindly, knocking off the cap from the head of one of the House Guard, revealing a square jawed man's wrinkled face.

"Grandpa?" Ramon moans disbelievingly.

The man grimaces and his lips part, showing off a line of gold teeth. The pride of the Thousand Copper Baron.

The waters part and in an obscene parody of the miracle of birth, the sound of joyous, defiant crying fills the chamber. New life had been brought into this world. But this was not the crying of a newborn infant. Pulled out from the dark water by his arms, the old man hollers his lungs out, golden teeth gleaming in the torchlight. A long keening moan comes from the newly born baron as his brothers gather around him, wiping the old baby off with hastily procured scraps of cloth.

The secret of the baron's immortality, we solved it. We actually solved it. Whenever he died, the baron was born again in this place. It was a miracle, far greater than the Sage's ability to summon objects.

Bringing new life into this world. The power of creation.

A privilege reserved for the gods.