Foosh. Squelch.

Foosh. Squelch.

Foosh. Squelch.

It was the sound of Hayate Amatsumaki’s shining stars slicing air and flesh alike. In a sudden flash, subdued by darkness, the private’s jugular was carved wide, like a fucking clam shell!

Prior to instant death, the victim’s raised voice had been enough to rouse the rabble; a modest portion of the dozen Castigars came slotting through their canvas tent doors and out into the fray. But, as quickly as they tasted the night’s moonlit troubles, they pounded the mud. It was the striking dark magic of Ioder and Petra, they had followed Hayate’s lead and mirrored his lethal impact.

“SNIPERS!!!”

Soldiers knew snipers. Soldiers dreaded snipers. Few pains were as profound as the jolt of a comrade’s blood splattering your face without warning.

“STAY IN THE TENTS OR TAKE COVER!”

And so, the remaining outriders sucked their lungs full of air and slammed the deck. Unlike their deceased counterparts, they kept breathing after hitting the earth. Rolling behind cover, they did everything they could to hide from the long range assault.

Unfortunately, Underbite was among the living. His big jaw, slack and ugly, wagged from behind a grain barrel—he was talking to Lil’ Yens, another surviving Castigar outrider. “What the fuck!!!” was all he could manage.

Lil’ Yens, however, was blessed with a more expansive mind. “We’re being ambushed by the Imperials most likely.” It was a fair guess. Gum do Mugu didn’t know it, but the Castigars were moving against Radasanth. “Or,” Yens continued, “they could be a rescue party for the foreign fucker.”

Underbite wanted to validate the latter of the two theories, so he snooped out from behind his cover to check on the haggard shaman.

“He’s gone.”

Silence.

“What do you mean he’s gone?!”

Silence.

“I mean, the foreign fucker is gone.”

Silence.

“How does an old shit like that break out of leg irons, wrist irons, and belly chains?”