The Mendraga were issuing their own battle call. They were calling for retreat.

But Maka wasn’t finished with them. He waved his arm forward, commanding his brethren to surge ahead. “After them, brothers! We finish this!” he roared.

The Tarsi followed the retreating Mendraga past the city wall. All around them, what appeared to be an open market was in flames. Maka stumbled over a body that grappled at his feet. An ape-like woman clutched at him, her eyes wide with fear. Bodies of fallen Mendraga and hammerheads clogged the dirty thoroughfares.

The Tarsi pursued the Mendraga into the heart of the slums, crushing them into the backs of another platoon of beleaguered Mendraga overseers. The Mendraga soon found themselves surrounded on all sides—by blood-bathed Tarsi, human conscripts, and thick-browed revolutionaries—and were cut down in a hail of gunfire.

Cheers erupted from the crowd. One of the workers held a Mendraga’s severed head in an raised hand, barking in defiance. The workers and conscripts congratulated each other, exchanging handshakes and firm embraces. Women and children were emerging from unburned hovels. They rushed to greet their men, still standing or otherwise. More than one moan cut through the celebratory roar as women and children discovered fallen fathers, sisters, mothers.

It was then that Maka saw Bayorn, and his heart soared. He ran to his brother, and they embraced, both covered in ash and blood.

“Maka, you made it!” Bayorn shouted.

“As did you!” Maka replied.

Beside Bayorn was a hammerhead who did not look quite like the rest. He carried himself more upright, and his eyes glimmered with higher intelligence. He looked up at Maka.

“I am Adum,” he said, extending his hand.

Maka engulfed the hand in his own. “I am Maka, of the Centennial Fulcrum.”

“I have heard your name, great one. Bayorn has told me of you.”

Maka shrugged, smiling.

Bayorn then turned to address the gathered Eursans, Tarsi, and hammerheads.

“We must go to the palace. To end this. Together we will chase Abraxas and his scum off the face of this planet. For Letho!” Adum repeated these words in the simple language of the hammerheads, to ensure their understanding.

Another roar rose from the crowd. LETHO! BAYORN! MAKA! they shouted.

Then they gathered into loose ranks, and began their march.

****

Consciousness returned to Letho in small flashes of pain and light. He was aware of pressure under his armpits and the sensation of friction on his back. In the background someone was shouting.

“Letho, wake up!” someone said. It was Saul. He was dragging Letho’s limp body toward a ladder. Blessed light shown down from the opening above, illuminating the gory scene that Letho found himself in.

Letho clambered to his feet, clenching his teeth as pain washed over him. Bones were knitting back together, ruptures sealing. He took one last look at the overturned razorback and thought about Johnny—another senseless loss. He hadn’t known the man very well at all, but he seemed like a good fellow.

As Letho surveyed the wreckage, he saw something resting on the ground near the razorback. It was Johnny’s detonator. Letho walked over and picked it up, slipped it inside his boot.

“Hurry up, Letho!” Saul shouted. “They’ll be coming for us soon. We gotta get out of here!”

I’ll light it up for you, Johnny. Rest in peace.

Letho followed Saul up the ladder. It led to a small maintenance shed that enclosed the entrance to the drainage tunnels. Probably meant to keep kids from wandering down there and getting hurt—back when there were kids around who engaged in such mischief, Letho thought. Saul disengaged the deadbolt and slowly opened the door. As they emerged into the open air, the sound of intermittent gunfire filled the air. Letho said a silent prayer for his friends, then returned his focus to the task at hand.

Just as Saladin had promised, they were less than a block away from the palace. Saul and Letho jumped a fence and found an unlocked door at the back of the building.

“Unlocked,” Letho mused. “A little bit of luck today.”

“Yeah, luck,” Saul grunted. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Saul,” Letho said, “Johnny. I…”

“It’s alright,” Saul said, placing a hand on Letho’s shoulder. “There was nothing you could have done. Come on, we’ll make sure he didn’t die in vain.”

Inside the palace, they navigated a series of hallways, not entirely certain where they were going. Letho had expected to fight his way through the building, gunslinger style, but there was no one around. The dry pop of gunfire occasionally filled the air like firecrackers; perhaps Abraxas’s army had their hands full elsewhere.

As they hurried down the hallways, Letho noticed that all around them, implements of war were covered in thick layers of dust. In one room they passed, Letho saw small tank-like vehicles, too small for a person to ride inside. In another, rows and rows of assault rifles were stored neatly on racks.

Letho was soon lost in the labyrinth of hallways, but Saul seemed have some direction in mind, so Letho let him lead the way. After several more turns, they burst through a door into a massive room, easily as large as a hangar.

“Saul, I think we might’ve taken a wrong turn,” Letho said as he surveyed the massive space. The room was filled with nothing but egg-shaped pods—thousands of them. Each pod had what looked like a massive computing device attached to one end and a thick bundle of cords extending from the other. These cables were all connected to towering computing structures festooned with readout screens and interface pads.

Letho edged closer to one of the pods and peered inside. To his horror, the sight of an emaciated human form greeted him. It lay in repose, hands crossed over its chest, and what Letho could see of the face appeared to be mummified. The lower part of its face was covered with a mask, from which tubes extended.

“What is this place?” Letho asked.

“Saul, why don’t you tell them?”

The voice was familiar. Letho’s brain was immediately ensnared with improbabilities.

Alastor Wyrre leapt down from a catwalk above, his cloak billowing as he landed.

“It’s the sleepers’ den,” Saul said in a low voice.

Letho felt the cold press of a rifle barrel on the back of his cranium.

“Yes, that’s it. Easy now. Let’s not do anything rash,” Alastor cooed.

“What the hell is going on?” Letho asked.

“Letho, my friend, there will be plenty of time for explanation later. First, let’s divest you of your weapons,” Alastor said.

Several overseers emerged from the shadows. Their cold hands patted him down, drawing his prized .50 caliber from his holster and unclasping Saladin from his back.

Sir. Unauthorized user detected. Initiate anti-theft protocol? Saladin whispered inside his mind.

Letho thought it over. Saladin could disable the overseer who held the sword, but the others would shoot him in the head point blank, and he doubted his healing abilities could that sort of mess back together.

No. Not yet, he replied to Saladin.

The Mendraga brought the sword and handgun to Alastor. The remaining Mendraga kept their guns trained on Saul and Letho.

“I was wondering where this had gotten to,” Alastor said, his eyes tracing across the length of Saladin as he held it out before him with two hands. Saladin glimmered red as if in warning. “This was supposed to be a gift to my master. Shame on you for stealing it, Letho.”Alastor smiled.

“Screw you,” Letho spat.

Alastor ignored his outburst. “Saul, I believe this belongs to you now,” he continued, holding Letho’s gun in his hand. “Would you like to have it?”

Saul did not move, his eyes glued the floor.

Realization cramped Letho’s stomach, doubling him over.