When a third person was thrown off the idiotic, railing-less platform, Leira decided she’d had enough. She grabbed Cort, and they hurried across the bridge. Leira trailed red spores in her wake, which she used to whisk everyone else off the platform. Then she deadened the spores and left them to their own devices—in this case mindless panic.

  This area was cordoned off, so they were alone on the balcony save a few scattering Malikauans. There was also a railing. She and Cort leaned over it, looking down at the shitshow.

  Leira looked for Gwil but couldn’t find him through the mess of stacked architecture. General mobbish savagery engulfed the balconies and at the bottom of the atrium, where all the Malikauan warriors were gathered, a full-on battle had broken out.

  It looked like they’d even split themselves based on their convictions, for it was not an indiscriminate melee, but two distinct forces clashing against each other along a line of division.

  “Remember I called these people xenophobes?” Leira said, yelling over the thunder and the chaos.

  “No,” Cort said.

  “Well, I did. And now I know that they’re also zealots, which is just as annoying.”

  “Is it their fault, though?” Cort said. “Aren’t they brainwashed?”

  “I’m not a fucking philosopher, Cort.”

  “But you’re the one who- whatever. What’s up with her?”

  He pointed at Challe, who still floated in midair. It looked like she was wearing a gown made of storm clouds and emblazoned with green lightning. Quite entrancing, really. Leira couldn’t tell what the woman was doing, but it didn’t matter. She’d clearly failed to present her evidence in a way that the populace found palatable.

  “She probably blames herself for destroying her home and making her people kill each other. It’s not her fault, of course, but it probably feels like it is. She must be really going through it. That’s an interesting way of coping, though.”

  Cort grunted.

  “You know Gwil is gonna get her to come with us, right?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “She saved your life, too,” Leira said.

  “I know! I didn’t say anything bad. I was just asking. Why do you think she’s got four arms though?”

  Leira moved away from the balcony and had taken a dozen steps when she realized Cort was still ten paces behind her. What remained of his clothing hung in tattered strips, many of which were melded to his skin.

  She put her hand on her hip. Step, gasp, wince. Step, gasp, wince. That was his pattern. All the backpacks and gear probably weren’t helping.

  “Gimme more of that pink stuff,” Cort said.

  “No,” Leira snapped. “I won’t have you developing a narcotic addiction on my conscience. And I especially don’t want you waking me up in the middle of the night asking for a fix.” She yawned. “Fucking hell, I’m exhausted.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m missing a chunk from my back the size of a whole ham. The only relief is the pain from the rest of my burns.”

  “Fine. Just a little bit.” Leira puffed out a small dose of pink spores, which Cort sucked up like a vacuum cleaner. Tsk, tsk.

  “Where are we going?” Cort asked, moving along much more quickly—and quietly—now.

  “Well, I’m thinking we’re about done here, yeah? The Leviathan troops are dealt with, so we’re clear there. We have the Erithist Spike—that’s a major jackpot. Once Gwil kills that cat guy, I say we let these people clean up their own mess. They’ll be better off that way, and maybe we can get out before Yuma shows up.”

  “Uh, Leira, the king will be coming for the Spike. He’s gonna kill all these people when he doesn’t find it.”

  “Aw, fuck! I didn’t think of that. Well, let’s just see what happens. Gwil might forget—he’s not that smart.”

  They turned down a small, torch-lit hallway, which had a staircase leading down. Quez was sitting in the corner of the landing, huddled with the poor sap who’d gotten his ear sliced off.

  Leira gave Quez an encouraging pat on the head as she passed, then scurried down the steps.

  “Wait! Flower witch! Help him. Please.”

  Leira turned around. “Since you asked so nicely.” She climbed back up the steps and leaned over the petrified, bleeding man. He clutched a crimson-soaked rag to his wound. When Leira reached out to move his arm away, the man seized up, stiff as a statue.

  Leira rolled her eyes as Quez pleaded with the man and tugged at his wrist.

  When he finally relented, Leira examined the wound. “It’s a nice, clean cut.” She sprinkled the gaping hole with white spores. “The scar won’t be too bad.” She dusted off her hands. “C’mon, Cort.”

  “Wait,” Quez said, scrambling down the stairs after them. “Please, I need your help. My people are killing each other. I’ve sworn an oath to protect them.”

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  “Do it, then,” Cort said.

  Quez took off his eagle headdress and clutched it to his chest. “I’m too weak. But that doesn’t mean- they don’t deserve to die because of my failings. Please, you two are incredible.” He knelt in front of them, in the middle of the stairs. “I need your help.”

  “That depends,” Leira said. “Do you think we’re demons?”

  “Don’t beg,” Cort grunted. “Also, our friend is gonna kill your leader, so.”

  Quez jumped to his feet and proceeded down the stairs ahead of them. “I don’t think you’re demons. Even if you are, I wouldn’t care. You fought for my warriors. But this is all above me.” He stopped and replaced his headdress. “I am sworn to Challe’Jade above all else. My loyalty is hers. I believe what she believes. But… brothers and sisters are killing brothers and sisters. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t do everything I can to stop it.”

  “Fine, fine,” Leira said. “We’ll try to stop this idiotic holy war.”

  They headed for the atrium’s ground floor.

  ***

  Both upside-down, Gwil and the Warden plummeted. Even as Tezca slashed Gwil’s back to ribbons—with the claws scraping against his spine—Gwil kept his hands clamped around the man’s head.

  They crashed through a slatted wood ceiling then hit a pavestone floor headfirst—Tezca’s head. There was a crack and a splatter. The Warden’s cat skull helm broke into bits and the top of his head caved inward, crumpled like a rotten apple.

  Gwil saw the man’s eyes roll back, and he started foaming at the mouth.

  Easy. I can end this right now, Gwil thought, before discovering that his body was paralyzed except for the fingers in his right hand. They fluttered, brushing against the hem of the Warden’s robe.

  The two of them both lay there, covered in broken pieces of wood, flopping like fish out of water while waiting for their Nirva to heal the worst of their injuries.

  They’d landed in a small courtyard, somewhere on the atrium’s second level. The rectangular space was enclosed by vine-covered lattice, and a fountain stood in the middle.

  Gwil rose first, a bit twitchy but mostly in control. The Warden lay still, the crown of his skull and his face both bloody and misshapen.

  Dragging one leg, Gwil approached. Easy. I can end this right now. He sent Nirva into his bad leg—it came alive with fiery sensation—and then raised his boot.

  Quick as a cat, the Warden sprang to life and sliced off Gwil’s other foot.

  Gwil fell back onto his ass and aimed the hose of spewing blood at Tezca’s face. “You possum piece of shit!”

  “Animals indentured combat,” the Warden said, rolling away from the stream of blood. He was still on the floor, clumsy and scrambling, his limbs out of whack.

  Gwil flipped back onto his foot with a back handspring and then folded his leg against his knee to achieve balance.

  That felt familiar; he smiled, remembering. About a year before she died, Caris had smashed Gwil’s foot and three of his toes with a hammer because he’d hidden an anaconda in her pillowcase. But Gwil had only done that because she locked him in the shed with a jaguar.

  Arms held out at his sides, he hopped furiously toward the Warden.

  Tezca drew himself into a crawling sort of prowl. He swept outward in an arc toward Gwil’s weaker side.

  Gwil saw him do this same move earlier. The Warden was feinting low, and then he was going to jump up and strike high.

  Pumping his arms, Gwil launched himself off his one foot and then pop, pop. He shrank—his small body hurtling with the momentum of his jump—then unshrank to stomp on the top of the Warden’s head just as he made to rise.

  Tezca kept himself from faceplanting by stabbing his claws into the pavestones.

  Gwil looked down at the tugging sensation in his ankle. His eyes widened upon seeing how much of his foot had grown back. “Oh, yeah!” Pop.

  He had forgotten how quickly he could heal when he was small. Fascinated, he watched the bone grow, the tendons twist and stitch, the skin unfurl. So fast, like a plant growing at superspeed.

  Then something filled the entirety of his vision. Gwil looked up at Tezca—who’d finally managed to stand and was spinning in place—and gasped. Gwil had become way tinier than he ever had before.

  The green-robed man stood as tall as a mountain; the latticed walls of this place as wide as the horizon. Gwil was way smaller than an ant, smaller than a gnat even. Too small to do anything useful. He considered trying to get inside the Warden’s ear, but he didn’t want to take his chances with those claws at this size.

  No need to get fancy, anyway. The Warden had Nirva, but he didn’t use it well—Sheriff Jackson was way more skilled. Tezca barely even strengthened his attacks. It was like he didn’t have enough.

  Pop. Gwil embiggened. The Warden whipped around at the sound.

  The man’s jaw dropped. “Y-your foot? How?”

  “Huh?” Gwil lifted his foot and wiggled his fresh pink toes.

  Tezca hastily covered his lumpy head with his hands and, in doing so, sliced open his cheek with his claws.

  “Bahaha! Clumsy idiot. You suck at healing.

  “I- I merely choose not to b-baste energy on kinesthetic healing.”

  But Gwil saw how one of his eyes had sunk lower than the other and he was slurring his words. He hadn’t even fixed his brain fully.

  The Warden clenched his fists at his side. His face turned red and a vein bulged in his forehead. Unsure of what the man was doing, Gwil narrowed his eyes. Then he saw a scab forming over the glistening slash on his cheek.

  “Bahaha! You need a scab for that little cut?”

  The Warden growled and crouched into his catlike stance. “You’re not with Yuma, are you?”

  “What? No. What?”

  “I am willing to proffer you a deal.”

  “Nope,” Gwil said.

  “Give me the Erithist Spike and I will let you and your compassions leave.”

  “How ‘bout this? We go downstairs, I take the Erithist Spike and nail you to one of the crucifixes. Then, you explain to all your people how you lied to them, and they throw tomatoes at you while you die.”

  “But why are you even here? You’ve already stolen the Spike. You can just leave, and then—”

  “Final offer,” Gwil cut in. “See, I already know I’m gonna beat you. You’re weak ‘cause you’ve been hiding here for five hundred years. I’m more interested in making sure you tell all the Malikauans the truth.” He grinned. “I’m gonna make you apologize.”

  “Apologize?” the Warden hissed. “I am a savior! Look at all the slaughter you’ve wrought. You’ve done more damage to Malikau than any mythical demon ever would’ve.”

  “That’s your fault.”

  “You don’t even have the Spike, do you?” the Warden asked. “One of your companions has already escaped with it. Anything else would be lunacy.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Gwil said. Then he charged him, making no effort to dodge as the Warden plunged both sets of claws into Gwil’s shoulders. He grabbed the Warden’s wrists, locking down the man’s arms.

  The Warden lost his footing as Gwil plowed into him and then kept going. They crashed through the lattice, emerging onto the balcony.

  There were a handful of mobbing Malikauans there, and they fled screaming as Gwil drove the Warden backwards, sprinting at full speed until the Warden’s back slammed into a sturdy stone column.

  Gwil laughed as he filled his forehead with Nirva and began bashing his head into Tezca’s face. Bones cracked and blood sprayed. The Warden writhed, causing Gwil to smash into his jaw. It flapped loose and Gwil’s subsequent attacks knocked several teeth out.

  A flabby arm closed around Gwil’s neck, locking him in a chokehold and wrenching him backward. A pair of metal objects clobbered Gwil in the face. As he fell back, he saw they were shoes, attached to two very long legs, and a man who was doing a handstand.