Chapter 54: The March to the Nexus

To "march" implies order. It suggests a steady, rhythmic, disciplined movement.

This is not a march.

This is a frantic, stumbling, agonizing scramble through hell, surrounded by nine-foot bodyguards.

I am Erima. I am the Arrow. My role is to be the eyes, the strategist. But here, in this alien city of red light and oppressive, tangible terror, I am a liability. I am unarmed. I am exhausted. And I am in command of a broken, ragtag group of fools who are now, apparently, the city's only hope.

Krell does not walk. He plows. He moves with a heavy, ground-eating, purposeful stride. His four-man Phalanx guard forms a perfect, mobile box around us. Two in front of Krell, two behind us. They are a wall of black, impenetrable obsidian, their glowing green Rekka-spears held at the ready. Their shields are locked. Their four black, alien eyes are constantly scanning- the rooftops, the black-hole shadows, the swaying rope bridges above.

They are a perfect, disciplined, alien military unit.

We are... not.

"Keep up, insects!" Krell's voice is a low, gravelly roar from the front. He does not look back. He does not need to. He knows we are struggling.

Kizawa is directly behind him. He is a ghost trying to pretend he is a soldier. His face is a mask of pale, waxy concentration. The Rekka-moss on his back has stopped the bleeding, but it has not healed the wound. It is a crude, brutal, cauterizing patch. Every step he takes is a fresh, agonizing jolt. He is holding his twin swords, sheathed, but his hands are locked on their hilts, his knuckles white. He is not using them to fight. He is using them as crutches for his Will.

"I... am... fine," he hisses, more to himself than to me, as he stumbles on a root-cable.

"You are a liar," I pant, my own legs feeling like lead.

"We... are all... fine," Hachiro gas"s from behind me. He is not fine. I have the Grak-ta medic's pouch of glowing Rekka-moss. I tried to apply it to his shattered arm, but his green chi-splint, though faint, is still active. The two living energies, the God's blood and his own Miasma-chi, warred with each other. It burned him.

He is carrying his arm in a crude sling I made from another strip of Yogawa's robe. His face is a sickly, pale green, slick with a cold sweat of agony and exertion. But he is walking.

The worst of us is Yogawa.

He is not walking.

He is awake now, but his mind is gone. He is in a state of profound, catatonic shock. His eyes are wide, unblinking, seeing nothing. He saw the Stalker catch his priceless, ancient grimoire. He saw Krell execute the monster. He heard the title 'Royal Assassin'. The scholar's mind has shattered.

He is being carried by one of the Phalanx rear-guards. The Grak-ta has him slung over one massive, obsidian-plated shoulder like a sack of grain. Yogawa is just... limp. A dead weight.

"This... Nexus..." I pant, forcing myself to match Krell's impossible pace. "What... is it?"

"It is Command," Krell growls. "It is the heart of Torchlight. It is where I rule."

"And... it is safe?" Hachiro gasps.

Krell actually laughs. A harsh, barking, horrible sound.

"Safe? Nothing... is safe, insect. The Hollow-God... panics. The Spire quakes. The Assassins are here. Safe... is a lie we tell children."

As if to punctuate his statement, a shriek tears through the air.

It... is not a Stalker.

It is... different. Higher. Wetter.

From one of the black-hole shadows between two fungal towers, a thing erupts.

It... is a Hunter. But this one... is a nightmare of glistening, gray flesh. It looks like a slug, the size of a carriage, but it moves with a horrifying, bounding speed. Its mouth is a gaping, vertical maw of spinning, chitinous teeth.

A Devourer.

It lands in the street twenty paces ahead of us.

It blocks the path.

I freeze. Hachiro cries out.

Krell does not even break stride.

"PHALANX!" he roars.

The response is instant. It... is the most beautiful, terrifying display of military discipline I have ever seen.

The two front guards slam their tower shields together. Clang.

Krell steps behind them.

The two rear guards move to our flanks.

In one second, we are enclosed in an *impenetrable, living box of obsidian.

The Devourer roars and charges.

"HOLD!" Krell bellows from behind the shield-wall.

The monster hits the two front shields like a tidal wave. SPLAT.

The impact is horrifying. The sound is a wet, thudding crunch.

The two Phalanx guards... do not budge. They are anchored by a thousand pounds of armor and an unbreakable Will.

"NOW!"

From the gaps between the shields, three glowing green spears lance out.

Krell's. And his two guards'.

Shlick. Shlick. Shlick.

They stab. Three times. In perfect unison.

They do not aim for the flesh. They aim for the mouth.

The Devourer recoils, a fountain of black ichor spraying from its ruined maw. It gurgles.

It... is not dead.

It slams into the shields again, a frenzied, dying assault.

"RE-SET!" Krell roars.

The shields hold. The spears stab.

One... two... three.

The Devourer collapses, a mountain of quivering, gray flesh that melts into the street.

The entire battle took five seconds.

The shield-wall breaks. The Phalanx re-forms its box around us.

"MOVE," Krell growls.

We... march around the dissolving corpse.

I am speechless.

Kizawa looks at the Phalanx. He looks at his own swords.

He is a duelist. A scalpel.

This... is a hammer.

"You... fight like that... every day?" Hachiro whispers, his voice filled with a *new, terrified respect.

"Every*... day," Krell grunts. "Every*... hour. The Hollow-God weeps. The Hunters answer. It... is the way it is. The eternal war."

"But... it is a lie," Hachiro says, his empathy making him bold. "The war... is not the answer! Freeing the God is!"

Krell stops.

He... turns his massive head. His four black eyes pin Hachiro to the spot.

"The... war... is all we have, insect," he snarls, his voice a *low, dangerous threat. "The Phalanx... is all we have. Hope... is a disease. Do not... spread your infection here."

He turns forward again.

"We... are here."

We have arrived.

The Nexus is not a building.

It... is a fortress.

It is the very heart of the stalagmite-city, a citadel of black obsidian that rises from the chaos of the fungal-wood shacks. It is a