webcrawl/APGTE/Book-2/tex/Ch-057.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-44-victory}{%
\section{Chapter 44: Victory}\label{chapter-44-victory}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Does not show traditional heroic talent for forging strong
friendships but considered a leader by her peers. Responds aggressively
to threats. Displays continued recklessness and an aptitude for thinking
on her feet. This agent recommends disposal before she can turn into a
legitimate threat to the peace of the realm.''}

-- Report `for the eyes of Lord Black only', concerning the Imperial
ward Catherine Foundling
\end{quote}

``GALLOWBORNE, TIGHTEN RANKS!''

My personal guard dragged the wounded behind their shield wall and began
retreating in good order under the bellowed instructions of Captain
Farrier. They'd held up surprisingly well against the assault of the
devils, I saw. Less than a line of casualties. Some of that could be
attributed to the fact that they'd fought defensively and not been the
focus of the hellspawn to start with, but there was more to it than
that. They'd held the line against devils before, at Marchford. They'd
been through the crucible already, and all the soldiers who would have
flinched in front of the howling horde were already dead. To borrow one
of the more brutal sayings of the Queen of Blades, war had separated the
wheat from the chaff. I fell back behind the protection of the shield
wall, Adjutant swatting down anything that came even remotely close to
us. Masego, I saw, had already done the same. My Callowan soldiers gave
him as wide a berth as they could: Apprentice had shown enough of what
he could do that my rank and file stepped lightly around him.

Getting back to my personal guard had been a matter of running more than
fighting. The Gallowborne were now at the back end of the avenue where
most of the fight had taken place, backs against a stone guildhouse to
limit how many angles they'd have to defend. I took a look back to where
I'd done most of my fighting today and grimaced: it was packed with
devils, milling around and beginning to mass for an offensive against my
men. No sign of William, though there was no doubt the bastard was still
alive. It would take more than devils to do in the Lone Swordsman, even
if he didn't have his creepy sword. I bit my lip and considered my
options. Heiress had either run off on a horse northwards or tried to
fake me out again by continuing on foot to the east. I was inclined to
believe she'd been on the horse: she wouldn't be as sanguine disposing
of her Praesi minions as her hired ones, and Fadila had followed her on
the ride. \emph{Could be how she's selling this, though.} I resisted the
urge to spit and set the matter aside. Wasting time to speculate on her
tricks was playing right into her hand.

North or west? North of us there was the ritual site the Lone Swordsman
was using to bring the angel into Creation, which my gut told me was her
target. Whatever she was intending to do to that ritual, it couldn't be
allowed to come to pass. She was dangerous enough without having stolen
an angel's power or worse, corrupted it. There were precedents for that,
though they were legend and not recorded history. Not that the existing
Praesi records were all that reliable, considering Tyrants were the ones
who decided what got written. Even worse, with Callowan histories
largely put to the torch or confiscated after the Conquest there were no
other record to cross-examine them with. North, I decided. It would have
to be north. Trying to force our way through the devils was a recipe for
a rout, even with three Named on our side, so we'd have to swing around.
What was it Heiress had said, when she'd fucked us over? Two hundred
paces. How much ground would that actually cover? Was it centred around
her? It made most sense as a circle, but even if that was the case that
didn't tell me whether those two hundred paces were the radius or the
diameter\emph{. That's why we bring specialists, Catherine}.

``Masego,'' I said, jolting the mage out of his thoughts. ``What Heiress
did, with the devils. How does it work?''

The dark-skinned mage pushed up his glasses.

``I layman's terms, she put down a metaphysical banner where she stood
that formed a ward. Inside that ward, the eight binding for devils she's
summoned is lifted.''

In the distance a crossbow bolt caught a jackalhead in the chest. The
devil yelped and retreated, but they were beginning to test our
defences. We couldn't linger here much longer.

``What's the shape of the ward?''

``Circle,'' he immediately replied. ``Cast this hastily, it can only be
that.''

``And the two hundred paces\ldots{}''

``Diameter,'' he frowned. ``I'm assuming, considering the amount of
sorcery she used to create it.''

Good news. Five streets to the right should be enough, maybe seven if
they were too narrow. We'd lose time going around but that couldn't be
helped. I closed my eyes, visualizing what Heiress had done. Wait,
Masego had said a \emph{ward}. A fixed point, then, that she wouldn't be
able to control after she'd made it unless she was on hand.

``Apprentice,'' I said slowly. ``That ward, can you affect it?''

He blinked. ``Given enough time I could break it, if that's what you're
asking. Would there be a point to that? They can't misbehave outside its
boundaries, and what she did to lift the binding seems to be attracting
them.''

Yes, I'd noticed that last part. I almost smiled, showing my teeth.
Hakram let out a bark of laughter and Masgeo looked confused.

``Apprentice, when she lifted a binding she made a hole right?''

``You want me to lay a binding of my own,'' the mage immediately
understood.

It was always a pleasure to work with clever people.

``Right now every devil in Liesse is drawn to this ward like it's a
beacon,'' I said. ``Let them. When they get here, though? Make them
\emph{fight}.''

---

Modifying the ward was much faster than dismantling it, though not
without problems. Heiress had laid traps into its structure, because of
course she had. Masego took the precaution of creating a small
levitating orb of light that sucked in the torrent of black flames that
spewed out the moment he accessed the ward structure. He also had to
take apart a set of fake runes he assured me would have rotted my eyes
in their sockets if I'd looked at them. Still, before the devils mounted
a proper attack he finished the job. What I saw afterwards was a sight I
would take to my grave. I'd witnessed great and terrible things, since
leaving Laure. Walked the grounds of the Tower and passed through the
Hall of Screams. I'd watched a battlefield turn into a hellish wasteland
of green flames at Three Hills, fought a fully incarnated demon in the
ruins of Marchford. None of those held a candle to seeing a thousand
devils rip each other apart gleefully in a massive melee, rending each
other's bodies apart with tooth and claw. I felt a shudder go through
the Gallowborne as they watched, awed by the sight of the monsters
turning on each other mercilessly. We didn't stick around to see the
fight play out, turning west to swing around the ward.

There was no banter, not after the mess we'd just left behind. My
soldiers were in a subdued mood, and as I rode Zombie I kept an eye out
on our surroundings. Twice I glimpsed goblins on rooftops, nodding back
to their salutes before they scampered into the shadows. Robber's cohort
had been given a very specific task and it was pleasing to see they were
on top of things. This particularly plan I'd hatched with Aisha's help,
and though events had conspired to complicate its completion I'd also
been handed a golden pretext to use it. By the time we'd begun marching
north again we'd gotten deep enough inside the city I was surprised we
weren't running into rebel soldiers. They must have retreated past the
second ring of defences, though who had actually given that order was
anyone's guess. William must have been in overall command by sheer
virtue of being a hero, but he wasn't a battlefield commander. My money
was on the Baroness Dormer, which wasn't a bad thing for the Fifteenth.
As far as I knew she hadn't fought in the Conquest and had no real
military experience. She was the kind of opponent Juniper would eat for
breakfast.

The narrowness of the street we were in had forced the Gallowborne into
a column instead of a stronger formation, which made me uncomfortable.
These would not be good fighting grounds if we ran into the enemy. I was
considering moving us to a broader avenue when I saw a single silhouette
ahead of us, walking calmly towards my men. \emph{Trouble}, I thought,
calling a halt.

``There has to be another way,'' Adjutant said quietly.

``We've discussed this before,'' Apprentice replied flatly.

We had, and it was too late to back out now. I'd try talking first, but
my history with talking sense into people was a littlecheckered. Still,
who knew? There were a lot of ways for the third encounter between a
hero and a villain to go. Few of those to my advantage, but sometimes
you had to roll the dice even if the game was rigged. William paused
four city blocks away from my forces, casually sweeping his sword along
the ground. The brute strength and speed of the sweep created swirls of
wind in front of him, scattering dust. The message was clear: the
Gallowborne were not to advance any further. I dismounted Zombie, idly
checking my weapons. My throwing knives were safely secured, and the
satchel on the back of my belt held tight. Passing the shield wall, I
strode forward to meet the Lone Swordsman on the field. His scrap with
the devils had cost him no wounds, I saw. His long coat was torn in
several places, but somehow that just made him look rugged. The chain
mail under was still pristine and his dark hair stylishly tousled.

I was drenched in sweat under my plate, my bad leg ached and my hair had
knotted against the edge of my open-faced helmet in a way that itched.
\emph{Fucking heroes.} He probably smelled liked flowers, I thought
bitterly, while I smelled like horse and blood and being in over my head
for at least the tenth time this year.

``And so we meet again,'' William said, green eyes cold.

``That's usually what happens when you go looking for people,'' I spoke
drily.

``As Heiress is no within my reach at the moment, I must call our truce
at an end,'' the Lone Swordsman said.

``Who would have seen \emph{that} coming,'' I spoke in a monotone.
``Alas, you've taken me by surprise. Curse your unexpected betrayal.''

Apparently the hero hadn't foreseen quite this much mockery when he'd
prepared for this conversation in his head, because he did a piss poor
job of hiding how irritated he was. Honestly, that was on him. I'd never
shown him any respect before, why would I start now?

``Die,'' he said. ``And not nicely.''

``Villains have limited retirement options, William,'' I said gently.
``This isn't exactly a revelation to me. What I'm curious about, though,
is what happens \emph{after}. Say you manage to kill me. What then?''

``Then your legion loses its leader,'' he said. ``I rally the army of
Callow and we drive your butchers out of Liesse.''

``I'm not giving out any orders at the moment,'' I pointed out. ``My
legate is. And as for you driving the Fifteenth out of this city\ldots{}
Well, the last time it fought a battle against a proper army, it spanked
a force twice its size of professional soldiers. Half of which was
mounted. You think levies and a bit of southern retinue is going to
stand up to veterans like them? William, my soldiers brutalized devils
when they were just a bare skeleton of a legion. They're led by a woman
so clever she sometimes scares \emph{me}, and we're on the same fucking
side.''

``Are you quite done boasting?'' the Lone Swordsman asked with disdain.

I ground my teeth, pushing down my flaring temper. Gods, it was like
talking to a stone wall that was just sentient enough to be an obstinate
jackass.

``What I'm telling is that this battle is over,'' I said. ``We're in the
city. There's no walls to hide behind and your barricades are just going
give my sappers a good laugh. There's no winning this for you anymore,
William. My death makes no real difference. If anything it just makes it
easier for Apprentice or Adjutant to kill you afterwards -- no more Rule
of Three keeping you alive.''

``All those pretty sentences covering for one word: surrender,'' he
mocked. ``That's always been your answer, hasn't it Catherine? Licking
the Tower's boot and hoping your foreign paymasters take pity on us.''

``For once in your life,'' I growled, ``try to think beyond your pride.
What are you accomplishing here? The rebellion is over, William. The
Duke of Liesse is dead. Black dispersed the Countess' army without even
giving battle. Procer has its own troubles in the south and it can't
afford to open up another front. There are no reinforcements coming for
you. \emph{You are alone.}''

``Yes,'' he smiled strangely. ``Alone. It was, I think, always supposed
to end like this. It is\ldots{} fitting.''

``This isn't a story, William,'' I said tiredly. ``Thousands of people
are going to die. It won't be glorious, it won't be heroic. It'll just
be piles of corpses littering the streets getting picked at by the
crows. All those lives snuffed out for no good reason.''

``You know, I once told Almorava the very same thing,'' the hero said.
``About it not being a story. I was wrong. This is a story, Catherine.
It always was. Even this conversation is part of it: my last temptation
before the end. I made a choice, Squire, and I stand by it. Some things
are worth dying for.''

``And the people of Liesse, are you choosing for them too? Because when
Contrition comes calling, it won't ask them nicely to enrol. You're
robbing them of free will so you can play the leading role in your
little tragedy.''

``You know little of the Hashmallim,'' he said. ``All they do is show
you the truth of what you are. Of what Creation is. They don't force
anyone's hand, Catherine. They don't \emph{have} to, once you
understand. There is only one path forward.''

``All you're doing is letting some creature from another realm into the
heads of hundreds of thousands to tinker with their will,'' I snarled.
``Gods save us all from \emph{principled} men. You're really the same as
he is, when it comes down to it. You have a point to make and you don't
care what it costs to everyone else. Because you want to be right, even
if half the continent burns for it. At least villains own what they
are.''

William laughed.

``And what do \emph{you} stand for, Catherine Foundling?'' he
challenged. ``Over a year we've fought, you and I, and I've yet to see
you take a stance. You claim your way is the one that works, but what
have you actually accomplished? You don't have morals, Squire. You don't
have beliefs. Like a reed, you bend however the wind blows.''

``I want peace,'' I said. ``I want order. I want good crops and fair
taxes. I want Callow to prosper, and I don't care who rules it as long
as it does. If I have to strike deals with monsters to see that done, I
will. Kingdoms, empires, they're just lies we all agree on so our lives
have a frame. What matters is the people, not the deceit. The Kingdom of
Callow is no longer a lie that serves its people, \emph{and so it needs
to die}.''

``A kingdom is more than the sum of its people,'' William said. ``It has
a higher meaning, a higher purpose. I am a citizen of the Kingdom of
Callow, and so I am free. And I will fight so that one day all other
Callowans can claim the same.''

``I should have killed you, that first night,'' I said. ``I didn't
understand what I was unleashing. I thought I did, Gods forgive me, but
I could not have been more wrong.''

``Too late,'' the Lone Swordsman said, sword rising. ``Let us end this,
Squire. This time, there is no Warlock to save you.''

I unsheathed my sword calmly.

``If I'm going to beat a truth into you today, William, it's this one:
I'm the person people need saving \emph{from}.''

He moved like lightning. The longsword carved through the space where my
head had been a heartbeat earlier, but I'd ducked under the swing and
rammed my fist into his stomach. It didn't do much -- I doubted he'd
even bruise -- but I wove my Name into a trick and a quick burst of
shadowy energy pushed him back. I pressed the advantage, feinting for
his arm but turning it into a lunge that would take him through the
throat. His blade came up to slap mine away as he twirled gracefully and
I smiled. With his old sword, he might have managed to cut through my
blade with his own. Now, though? Now we both fought with steel. The
fight was a little more even. I moved sideways, circling him slowly, and
he moved to match me. I'd meant to continue doing that until the
afternoon sun was in his eyes -- unlike me he had no helmet to shield
his sight -- but the bastard knew his way around a sword fight. Right
before he would have stepped where I wanted him to, he ran a finger
along the length of his sword. There was a flash of blinding light but I
was prepared for it: he'd pulled a similar trick in our last duel and
I'd been thinking of counters even since.

Sharpening my senses with my Name was one of the first tricks I'd
learned, but it had taken me a while to realize I could also do the
opposite. For less than a heartbeat, I blinded myself. When my sight
came back I caught his wrist as he brought his sword down to cave my
head in, my own sword swiping at his lower leg. I drew blood through the
thick leather boots and spun away from him, hastily giving grounds. Gods
Below, pushing back his swing even for a moment had nearly broken my
arm. He was stronger than the last time we'd fought, and I didn't mean
that in an abstract sense: he was \emph{physically} stronger. And faster
too, I was pretty sure. How he'd managed that without putting on muscles
mass I couldn't know, but it felt like Name shenanigans at work. I spat
to the side in dismay. My own Name had never been gracious enough to
give me anything physical but better reflexes, which apparently all
Named got anyway. \emph{Fucking heroes.} I'd deal with it anyway. If I'd
learned anything from our last duel it was that I wasn't going to beat
him with a sword. Brute force had never been my thing, when it came down
to it: trickery and cheating had been my bread and butter since the
first time I'd stepped into the Pit.

``You've gotten better,'' the Swordsman noted.

``Your Name is bullshit and so are you,'' I said.

I probed his defences with the tip of my sword but he was not so easily
baited. I feigned a strike to his side but had to hastily retreat when
his blade came within an inch of my throat. He turned the strike into a
blow at my shoulder, pushing forward, but I spun around him. For a
heartbeat we were back to back and I slipped my free hand inside the
satchel at my belt, snatching a sharper. As we pivoted again to face
each other I pushed a trickle of power into my hand, energy crackling
around my fingers. Savouring the look of surprise on his face, I punched
him in the stomach with the clay ball. It detonated loudly, tossing him
like a rag doll. It also broke three of my fingers, but that was just
the price of doing business. Focusing for a heartbeat, I wove threads of
necromancy and snapped the bones back in place as I rushed after him. He
tried to get up but my armoured boot slammed into his chest, knocking
him back down. I had to step back to avoid a strike that would have
slipped in the weak point of my greaves but I took out a throwing knife
and flicked it at his sword hand, relying on my Name's reflexes to guide
the throw. It nailed him right in the wrist and he hissed in pain.

Apparently I'd hit a nerve -- or an artery -- because there was a
flicker of power before a burst of light emanated from his frame. I
deftly stepped out of range, but William took the occasion to get back
to his feet. The light had pushed the knife out of his wrist, I saw, and
the wound was already closing. \emph{Well, that's new.} Taking him apart
piece by piece wasn't an option, then. His wrist was still bloodied, I
noticed, so I supposed bleeding him out was still possible. There was a
\emph{lot} of blood in a human being, though. Odds were I'd run out of
throwing knives before he ran out of red to bleed. More than that, I
couldn't count on him running out of power anytime soon. He'd flatly
outclassed me in that regard even before Masego had carved out a third
of my Name. You might say I was out of my depth. Engaged in an uphill
battle. It was, most definitely, a \emph{Struggle}. Something dark rose
in the back of my mind at the thought, howling in rage at the Heavens as
my Name finally woke up. My veins warmed with power and I grinned.

``Let's try that again,'' I said.

I dashed forward, the pain in my leg gone as the pavement stone gave
under the pressure of my charge. I lowered my head under the Swordsman's
swing and unsheathed my knife, ripping through his sleeve as I passed
him. The chain mail under held, but I felt the rings get carved. Goblin
steel had few equals on the continent. He pivoted to hack at my shoulder
but I parried the blow with my knife, forcing him to step around the arc
of a sword strike that would have cleaved through his neck. Clasping my
wrist with his free hand he forced it down, the sheer strength of his
grip denting plate armour, but I rammed my knee his stomach. He
staggered back, releasing my wrist, and I slammed the pommel of my sword
on the crown of his head. He let out a curse and backed away, bleeding
where I'd struck. I wasn't about to let him recover: in a matter of
moments I was on him again, swinging as my Name laughed in delight.
Evidently he didn't use his head much, because the hit hadn't slowed him
down: with a deft twirl of his sword he ripped my knife out of my hand,
allowing the chain mail on his arm to catch my sword at an angle that
made the blow impotent. I stepped back, abandoning the knife, and he
tried to make distance so he could take back the flow of the engagement
from me. \emph{Screw that}, I thought, and reached for my satchel again.
I tossed a brightstick at him and he looked insultingly sceptical until
I aimed my hand at it and shot a small burst of shadow and caught the
spinning munitions in the air.

The brightstick exploded inches away from his faces with a burst of
light and deafening sound. I'd closed my eyes even as I moved forward.
It was too much to hope that he'd be permanently blinded and have his
eardrums burst the way a normal man would, but a moment was all I
needed. Somehow, even blinded, he managed to catch my first strike with
his sword. I let him pass, spinning my wrist to turn the attack into an
arcing blow that caught his shoulder. I'd reached into my Name as I
struck, drawing on its strength, and I felt the mail give. My blade came
away red. Once again I felt his power rise but I grit my teeth and
reached for my own, striking at his chest with the heaviest spear of
shadows I could muster. The rest of his duster was torn blown through,
his power scattered and the mail \emph{smoked}. I was winning. Gods, I
was actually winning. He'd fallen to his knees, but his eyes were
working now. Snarling, he hacked at my flank. I let the armour take it,
half-stepping to blunt the impact. My hand reached for my satchel a
third time, taking out a sharper.

His eyes widened and I could see the thought process going through his
mind, clear as day. I'd finish moving before he could reposition his
sword to stop me. His mouth opened, to say what I did not know. His
power flickered a third time but with a snarl of triumph I shoved the
sharper into his open mouth. Before the light could fully manifest I'd
shot a burst of shadow at the sharper and it \emph{blew}.

The Lone Swordsman's body skidded across the stones, his precious light
doing nothing to help him. When the momentum stopped carrying him he did
not manage get up, limbs twitching weakly. I could already feel the
power I'd gotten from my aspect leaving me more with every heartbeat --
I'd been liberal with its use, which had made it end even faster than
usual. I knew the moment it was gone I'd be exhausted and my leg would
be a very real problem, so I had to end this quickly. \emph{Trap}, I
thought as I moved forward. \emph{This feels like a godsdamned trap.} A
downed hero who just got the beating of his life, unable to move? This
was the part where I made my monologue and he begun his comeback. I
couldn't just leave him there, though. He'd already shown he could heal
himself to an extent and if he came back from this I was in deep, deep
trouble. I'd give it better than half odds I'd be flat out of juice the
moment my aspect tapped out. \emph{And if it comes to a contest of skill
between us, I'm going to die a very ugly death.} Well, I did have one
last surprise in my satchel. Very carefully, I took out my last clay
ball. I had to sheathe my sword to strike a pinewood match and light the
fuse on the goblinfire. Heart beating fast, I tossed the projectile at
the hero.

I knew, before the ball was even halfway there, that I'd made a mistake.
The Lone Swordsman's arm rose weakly, brandishing his sword. He rasped
out one word.

``\emph{Swing}.''

His wrist flicked and a gale blew as if he'd cleaved the world in half.
The goblinfire exploded in the air, spreading in droplets that landed
everywhere. That was, I decided, bad. A heartbeat later the last of my
aspect-granted power winked out. I wasn't entirely out, but I wouldn't
be able to make a spear even if my life depended on it. Which it very
well might. That was, I decided, \emph{very} bad.

``\emph{Rise},'' the Lone Swordsman rasped.

Light spread around his body in thick cords, healing his wounds and
hoisting him up. He looked in bad shape, but he was definitely moving.

``Very, \emph{very} bad,'' I muttered.

Apparently we were past the banter stage because William was on me
before the chords of light were even gone. My arm moved sluggishly but I
parried the first blow, free hand reaching for another throwing knife.
Fingers closed around my wrist.

``No,'' the Lone Swordsman growled.

``Yes?'' I hazarded, the word drowned out by the plate covering my wrist
breaking apart completely under his grip.

I slugged him in the face with the pommel of my sword but he took it
unflinchingly, pushing me back.

``I'd settle for a maybe,'' I said.

My cutting sarcasm, unfortunately, failed to draw blood. Weeping
Heavens, I was pretty sure he'd sprained my wrist under the steel. That
limited my options pretty sharply. He advanced on me again, eyes ringed
with a sort of luminous clarity that gave me a headache just to look at.
I backpedalled blow after blow, giving ground. I was running out of
tricks to turn this around. Slapping away my blade, he hammered down on
my only good wrist left with his own pommel -- the impact forced me to
drop my sword. Well, I still had knives. The hero's blade sliced through
the belt keeping those up, though I managed to snatch one before they
fell to the ground. I'd \emph{had} knives, I corrected mentally. The
Lone Swordsman had unfortunately brought a longsword to a knife fight,
which admittedly gave him a bit of an advantage. I stepped around a hew
and got in close but he swept my legs. I hit the stone with a dull thud
and he stood above me with his sword raised.

``And now,'' he said solemnly, ``I \emph{Triumph}.''

``Do you know what the difference is, between a Squire and a
Swordsman?'' I croaked out.

He blinked in surprise.

``I have a horse,'' I announced.

A moment later Zombie hit his back. I closed my eyes and reached for the
heart of the necromantic construct, where Robber had cleverly reproduced
the same device he'd made for the brooch in Masego's hair. The bits of
bone scraped together as I used the very last dregs of my power,
producing a single spark. The demolition charges stashed inside my mount
blew up instantly and the world turned white, heat licking at my face.

A heartbeat later I opened my eyes, though I didn't remember closing
them. I tried to move but my everything was broken and I wasn't laying
down where I'd been. \emph{Shit, I blacked out.} My right arm looked
like I'd tried to make a knot out of it, which wasn't promising. My leg
was also apparently on fire. Goblinfire. Repressing a horrible scream of
pain, I managed to sit up and hastily unclasped the greave with green
flames on it, feebly tossing it away. My left hand blindly groped around
for support, the wrist pulsing in pain, but instead I found something
metallic. My knife, I realized. The one Black had given me what seemed
like years ago. My thoughts felt slow and disjointed. I found William
laying unconscious a few feet away from me and dragged myself along the
ground, knife still clasped in my fingers. The moment I got close
enough, I wildly stabbed into his exposed neck. Steel sunk into flesh
and I let out a hiss of triumph. The hero's eyes opened and he gurgled
out a word.

``\emph{Rise}.''

``Oh, \emph{come on},'' I croaked.

The already-closing wound was pushing out my knife. The chords of light
weren't as thick as last time, but there were still working. I got my
knife out and stabbed him again. Or would have, if he didn't catch my
wrist. His other hand came up and I glimpsed his sword, shining like a
lake under moonlight. It passed through my plate like it was parchment,
plunging straight into my heart. The hero pushed himself up to a crouch.

``And so it ends,'' he said.

I could feel my Name running through my veins, not to save me but for
some\ldots{} deeper purpose. It was true, then. \emph{We curse our
killer with our last breath}, Black had said.

``You will die before the day is done,'' I rasped.

``And yet,'' the Lone Swordsman smiled, ``I win.''

My vision was blackening. I could feel life leaving my body. Serenely, I
smiled.

\emph{Gotcha}, I thought, and died.