War? Me? Corva searches the rat’s face for any explanation, any answer that makes sense. But this rat, Caffiel, offers no hints in his expression. Of course, he’s a rat. Why would she expect him to have any of the human mannerisms she could understand? Then again, why wouldn’t she? She’s having a telepathic conversation with a rodent. Expectations of normalcy should’ve gone out the window ages ago.

Caffiel raises himself from his bow, the whole time keeping his beady gaze fixed on her. He tilts his head as if perplexed.

Oh my, you don’t know any of this. What has our dear Ezekiel been teaching you? Stubborn old man. Here you have the second sigil, the oldest of who’s left of my kind, and he’s done nothing to prepare you.

He casts a glance behind him at the three inert bodies lying on the barroom floor—the boy, the monkey, and Death.

Dear Thegn has always managed to kill you well before you’ve had any idea of who you are or what you can really do. Misplaced guilt, in my opinion. Also, frightfully boring. This could have been really interesting! Granted, this time around has been more interesting than any of the others—it’s so dreadfully dull when he finds you early. And he keeps doing it. There’s no excitement in killing infants and toddlers in their sleep. This time, though, we couldn’t find you for nearly two decades. I’ve had such high hopes. However, it looks like Ezekiel has managed to squander any chance of real entertainment.

Corva shifts her eyes over to Zeke’s unconscious body, still lying at the base of the bar near Jack. Zeke?

Not to worry, child. He’s still alive. I’m sure he’ll remain that way for a good long while. Certainly longer than you. But time is our true enemy. The Umbrati have already crested the lip of the canyon. They are so hungry for our young friend here that they’ve sent their steel-faced demons to claw straight down the cliff wall. He lets out a small rat version of something like a sigh. Whatever happened to simply taking a proper path? Their way has style, sure, but it’s lost in their lack of finesse. This little alcove will be overrun within minutes. Less than ten would be my guess.

The rat drops back to all fours and ambles toward Thegn, tracing along the pile of ash that was the scythe. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just collect my fallen horseman here. The Karui have invested quite a bit in our little hunts. I doubt that the Umbrati will strike an equally favorable deal. I mean, it’s been a century and a half, but I certainly—

The large rat stands at Thegn’s head, his face tightening. Is it concern? Confusion? It’s difficult for Corva to tell; rats don’t exactly have faces that lend themselves to showing a lot of expression.

What have you done?

Corva moves her gaze between the rat and the fallen Reaper, baffled. Is he talking about the subsonics, or did Jack really do it? Is the Old Beard reall—

No, he’s not dead. Don’t try to think too highly of yourself, child. In fact don’t try to think at all. It’s noisy in there. Ezekiel should have taught you to speak. I can hardly make sense of your thoughts. You have, however, managed to present us with a pretty unexpected situation. What did you hit him with?

For a moment, Corva is pleased at the notion that she knows something this know-it-all rat doesn’t. For a moment.

What was I thinking? I just got done saying that you can’t think clearly enough to speak and then I go off and ask you a direct question. My apologies for assuming that you knew how to do anything.

Asshole.

That, I heard. The last hundred and fifty years have done nothing to improve your manners. Still, whatever it is that you’ve done, it’s severed dear Thegn’s telepathic connection with the Karui. I’m sure some part of him would thank you for this, but it definitely complicates our deal. No matter, though. We’ll get it properly sorted. But first things first.

He tilts his head at her.

Although it’s put you in quite the hilarious pose, this little sound trap certainly makes movement difficult for the big guy here. Could you kindly indicate where the control module is for it? No need to try to think of it, noisy-minded girl. Simply indicate the location with your eyes.

Corva hesitates, staring at Caffiel. Sure, she’d love to be free to move again, but the Old Beard would have his mobility back too. And trusting a rat? Especially one that has a clear alliance with Death? Yeah, the whole thing feels like a bad idea in general.

Come, child. You’re causing an unnecessary delay. None of us wants to be here when the horde arrives. Certainly not like this.

Crap. He’s right. Time is short. Besides, at least she’s still conscious. Perhaps there’s something she can do once she’s able to move again. With a glance at Jack’s utterly confused face, she points her eyes at the bar.

Thank you. With that, the albino rodent shuffles to the bar and claws his way over to the back of it. Ah, here we go. Just need to pull these right here.

The pulsing whir of the subsonics cut off and Corva immediately feels the tension leave her muscles. With effort, she pulls herself up to one knee. It feels like waking with her whole body numb. She looks over at Jack, who is already scrambling over to Zeke with large, awkward, almost drunken movements.

She turns toward Thegn, still inert on the floor. She needs a weapon. She reaches to a thigh pocket on her pants. She has one of those long carpenter nails from Cliff City in there. It’s at least as long as her hand, plenty long enough to kill him when she shoves it through the temple of his wrinkled old head.

Pulling the nail, she ignores the numb tingling in her body and stands. She starts walking to Thegn, clumsily at first, but there’s more control and assurance in her movements with each step she takes.

For once, her mind and her body agree on what she needs to do, and how she needs to do it. In her mind, she’s already stabbed that dirty nail into his face six times. Her imagination is crisp, almost ultra-real. The nail is in her right hand, thumb resting on the nail head.

Another step. She’s at a full sprint now.

She visualizes herself pouncing on the Old Beard’s chest, her knees crunching on his shoulders, trapping him against the ground. Her left hand slams into the right side of his jaw, wrenching his head to the side, exposing her target. The nail plunges into the soft recess between his eye and his ear. There’s a little resistance at first, but the nail does break through.

One more step.

She sees herself adjust her hand position, placing her palm on the flat top of the nail head, and shove it all the way through. She imagines a meaty sound and satisfactory crunch as the nail breaches the other side of his face and fastens his head to the wooden floor of the bar.

One last step. Striking distance. Her body tenses, ready to jump.

However, she never gets the chance to play out the scenario in her mind. The murk of reality interrupts her imagination. Caffiel is closer to Thegn, and faster than Corva expects. Before she’s near enough to bring substance to her mental rehearsal, the large white rodent is at Thegn’s shoulder. A gust of air blows through the bar, stopping Corva in her tracks. Instinctively, she raises her arm and buries her eyes into the back of her elbow, protecting them from the debris flying through the air.

As the dust settles, she peeks over her metal arm bracer and sees Death standing before her. His eyes are glazed over. Caffiel sits upon his shoulder, and an enormous pair of coal-black wings protrude from Death’s back.

Corva shifts her weight to her rear leg, readying herself for round two. However, Thegn just stands there, his newly formed wings folding behind him, with no indication that he’ll be forming his scythe again.

Don’t worry yourself, child. He’s not going to kill you right this moment. He’s still unconscious from whatever it was you did to him. This youngster is essentially on autopilot. Only responds to a few commands. But it’s a sight more than when he’s—

Before Caffiel’s thought finishes, Corva hurls the nail at Thegn. It’s perfectly aimed at his throat, but it never gets there. Thegn’s wings wrap around the front of his body, forming a dark, feathery shield. The nail is stopped, caught among the plumage. He swings his wings open again, dislodging the nail and hurling it away. It clangs into the wall, chipping a large dent in the stone surface.

I said he was unconscious, not vulnerable. But I admire your spirit. I think you actually will make this interesting. For me, at least. The youth has a tendency to be impatient, so he may get a bit testy when he discovers you’re not yet dead. You won’t be hard to find, though, especially since you now know who you are. Carnage will lie in your wake, wherever you go.

Corva’s mind races. There are so many thoughts, so many questions, so many things to do in this very moment. Can I really be War? That can’t be possible, can it? War was supposed to have died along with Pestilence and Famine when the fight between the Umbrati and Karui began. What else can I use as a weapon? I know who I am … really? How is Zeke? If he’s hurt, how do we fix him? Does a sigil need a vet? A doctor? A shaman? Also, what is a sigil? What’s Jack going to do when he finds out I’m War? Shit! Where did he learn the Touch? Who else still knows that technique? What am I going to do about that?

So noisy!

Caffiel’s abuse of her inner voice and the knowledge that her mind is an open book—albeit a disorganized one—acts as a sand wall to her flood of thoughts. Instantly, she’s refocused on the present. There’s only one thought. One objective. Kill Death.

The wrecked bar is a veritable treasure trove of makeshift debris-based weapons. Broken chair legs, splintered tables, handfuls of screws and nails. They’re all available and at the ready. They’re weak, though, and easily blocked or redirected. She does, however, have one weapon that can’t be blocked. The Touch.

Okay, so it’s not really her weapon. It’s Jack’s. Only, how does she signal him to use it? She certainly doesn’t have a telepathic link with him. She can’t even reach Zeke. Why do I keep finding myself in this position? Constantly out of reach of whomever I need to talk to. To explain what needs to be done. Even in Fareburne, I—

So that’s where you were hiding! That large collective of humans. They held out against the Karui and Umbrati so well. Of course, that whole colony got wiped out by your own kind. A cult of mages intent on killing off people before the hive or horde could take possession of them. Noble effort, that. Destined to fail, but noble nonetheless. To think that we somehow missed you when that cult sacked your township. What are the chances? It’s lucky, really.

The rat adjusts its position in the same awkward manner as a person who’s lost the knack of holding a proper conversation. Maybe he expects her to reply, but what is there to say, really? Wow, what a coincidence! If I’d known you were looking for me, I would’ve raised my hand so you could have tried to kill me sooner. Yeah. Not that.

Anyhow, thanks for that tidbit of information. It’s been fun seeing you go through such amusing mental gymnastics for the last few seconds—great focus by the way, very clear—but like I’ve been saying, we’re short on time.

Caffiel tightens his grip on Thegn’s shoulder and stares past Corva to the front of the bar. Thegn, eyes still glazed over, crouches with his wings spread open. Flapping the giant feathery things behind him, he makes a massive leap. As they launch toward Corva, she notices Thegn’s hands reach to his sides. The glint of small knives show just before he throws them, one at her and one at Zeke, who is still being tended by Jack.

Quickly, she ducks clear of the knife thrown in her direction and grabs the closest thing she can find: the upper half of a broken barstool. Not missing a beat, she hurls the barstool to block the other knife before it reaches Zeke. Unfortunately, there’s something else that’s also perfectly in line with the broken barstool. Jack’s head.

“Jack!”

“Wha—shit!”

Jack drops his head and body, narrowly ducking the largest part of the barstool as it deflects the knife from its path to Zeke. However, Jack can’t dodge everything. One of the partially broken legs, dangling from the rest of the flung mess, clunks across the side of his head as the rest of the stool flies over him and clatters into the bar.

He lets out a yelp and rolls to his side, covering his ear with his hands.

Corva turns to see Caffiel and Thegn flying out the front of the bar. She can see Caffiel looking back at her.

Ah, well. It was worth a shot. Can’t blame an old rat for trying. Be well, War-child. Do try to make our next meeting even more interesting.

And after that, Corva’s inner voice is her own again.