At the end of the hall stood a sealed chapel. On either side of the hallway, the stonework had given way to an even older brick, the masonry dyed dark brown by oxidized blood. One of the walls had collapsed, and from the other side of the wall, the flickering light of a fire cast light on the man standing before the chapel, watching Martin.

  Rafe.

  He wore the same shabby clothing he had worn last time Martin had seen him. His beard was just as unkempt, and his hand again thrust into his right jacket pocket. The one eye that could focus was fixed intently on Martin.

  “Well, Martin. Shall we have our duel?”

  “Duels are for officers.”

  Martin wasted no time. He raised his revolver and fired. His aim was true, and the bullet went flying towards Rafe’s head. However, the expected spray of blood was nowhere to be found. The bullet passed through Rafe as if passing through smoke, and a second later, Rafe dissipated entirely. Martin lowered his revolver slightly to get a better look at the corridor when he saw a sudden movement to his side.

  A dagger flashed out of the darkness, biting into his right arm. Martin cried out in pain and staggered backwards, losing his grip on the revolver. Rafe stepped out of the shadows and pressed his attack, lunging forward with the dagger. Martin twisted to avoid the stab and swung with the lantern in his left arm. Rafe ducked under it and—rather than pressing his attack—took a step backwards.

  Martin took half a second to eye the wound on his arm. It was thankfully not too deep, and he could still control his fingers. He wanted to look around the floor for his revolver, but Rafe took a step to the left and Martin fixed on him, readjusting his stance so he could more easily swing the lantern. However, when he shifted his foot, he suddenly felt the room spin and nearly fell over.

  “Traitor!” a voice screamed in his head.

  “Mommy, mommy. Help me!”

  “How dare thou turn thy back on thy creator? You are not fit to tread in these halls of fallen heroes.”

  Voices like this exploded in his head. Some seemed like those he knew, judging him for past failings. Others seemed like poor souls who had simply been trapped here for centuries, longing for anyone to hear their cry and offer them some solace. And some seemed to be more recent. Rafe’s victims. Their souls trapped in the dagger and now damned to scream their dying moments to all of Rafe’s future victims.

  “Oh, you don’t look so good. That’s a nasty cut you got there.” Rafe was speaking again. He spoke softly, but somehow still managed to cut through the flood of voices screaming in Martin’s head. “Can you hear them? I’ve been hearing them for years. Hearing their stories. Hearing their truths. Knowing that I’m the only one who can give them vengeance.”

  “You’re doing this for them, are you?”

  Martin could feel his head swim. Rafe continued to pace back and forth between the two walls of the hallway. The hallway was not very wide, but somehow Rafe’s journey between the two walls seemed to take ages. As he struggled to keep Rafe in focus, he reached down with his right hand and fumbled open the shutter on his lantern, flooding the hallway with light.

  Rafe’s eye twitched slightly, but he kept fixated on Martin.

  “I’m doing this for me. For me and Robin. After we escaped that island and you escaped yourself in drink, I spent years trying to get back. Trying to find where he might still be alive. Imprisoned, tortured, or Creator knows what. All of those years of suffering for nothing. But I did find something.”

  Rafe raised his right arm and gestured with the dagger. It looked like a piece of flint. Sharp and flowing, with rough-hewn edges guaranteed to leave a nasty wound. Martin could feel the cosmic energy flowing from it. That same cosmic curse flowed through his veins. He could feel the power of the Faceless God welling inside him, trying to fight off the invading influence, but the power was slow, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to wait for the voices to clear before Rafe charged again. He moved his lantern slightly so that it hung in front of his right arm, as if he were protecting his weakness. His right arm moved slowly into his pocket, hidden by the lantern.

  “With this, I found the truth I needed. Robin was dead. Slain on that island, but not on that night. You know when he died? A week later. They had a feast, those savages, a feast for that cruel Cosmic they worship. And my poor Robin was the main course. Roasted alive. Can you imagine the screaming? Maybe I’ll find your wife and we can stage a recreation.”

  With that, Rafe charged again. Martin staggered backwards and caught the first blow on the lantern. The sound of metal tearing split the cacophony of voices. Martin yanked the lantern and threw it against the wall. Rafe barely kept a grip of his knife as it tore out of the now useless lantern, but his arm was pulled along with it, way out of position.

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  Suddenly, in front of his one good eye, he saw a light. It was beautiful. It reminded him of his childhood. Of going for a night swim and seeing the lantern hanging on his mother’s house guiding him home.

  “Rafe,” a voice said gently.

  He suddenly remembered his mother was long dead and that the lantern had long been extinguished. Rafe blinked once and began to bring his dagger down on his enemy. He was too slow.

  While Rafe was talking, Martin had secretly pulled the lighter from his jacket pocket. As soon as he was able to knock Rafe off balance with the lantern, he ignited it in front of his face. Rafe wasn’t a fool. Martin knew the lighter would hold him for merely seconds, so he acted decisively. As soon as the lantern was clear of his hand, he summoned the faceless dagger. With all the speed he could muster, he slashed forward, biting through Rafe’s neck and splashing blood all over him.

  Rafe blinked a few more times. His lips moved, but Martin couldn’t make out what he was saying. Whatever he said was lost, lost like the voices of the dead he spoke to. In Martin’s head, the voices crescendoed, and then, there was silence. Alone in the halls of the damned, soaked and bloodied and illuminated solely by the fading light of a distant fire, Martin collapsed.

  When Martin awoke, all was dark. The voices of the damned had been reduced to whispers. If not for them, Martin would have been truly alone in the perfect dark of the Ossuary, miles below the surface of Alderbridge. He caught his breath and slowly brought himself back to a state of calm.

  Elisia. Elisia.

  I’m not going to die here.

  With barely controlled calm, he moved his arm forward in the dark, patting carefully for the lighter that had slipped from his fingers when he collapsed. His hand passed through dust and grime for several long minutes before his fingers closed on the lighter.

  He brought it close and, after a few helpless flicks of the stone, the fire caught and Martin could see again. A rat, already beginning to gnaw on Rafe’s corpse, startled at the light and quickly scurried away. Martin staggered slowly to his feet. His head ached, and he struggled to lift his right arm. He transferred the lighter to his left and took a good look at the wound from Rafe’s blade. It wasn’t too deep, but it was a nasty cut, made worse by his fall to the dirty stone floor. He would need to get it treated as soon as he escaped. Assuming he still could get out of here.

  Martin picked up his lantern, but Rafe’s blows and its collision with the wall had left it unusable. He let it fall back to the ground with a bang. He walked past Rafe for the moment, ignoring the corpse and the cursed blade that lay beside it. Rafe had been illuminated by a light from behind the wall. Martin moved toward there now, and stepping through a long crack in the wall, found himself in a large mortuary vault. This was one of the oldest parts of the Ossuary, before the plague and wars had turned it into the mass grave it became in the higher levels. This vault appeared to be one reserved for a family. However, their remains had been unceremoniously removed and turned by Rafe into a makeshift home.

  Inside, Martin found a ramshackled cot, an iron-banded trunk, and various clothes and weapons scattered about any free space. In the center of the room was a small iron stove. The fire inside had died down, but after a moment of fussing with it, Martin was able to relight it. He closed the lighter and absently rubbed his thumb. The line of ash, quite thick after extended use, slowly faded away. Martin searched through the room, starting with the chest. Inside, he found some everyday essentials, food, maps and papers, and a collection of bones. He picked out the cleanest-looking cloth he could find to tear into a makeshift bandage for his arm. Once bandaged, he sat for a moment to catch his breath and surveyed the room.

  What a hole to die in, he thought sadly to himself. After a moment, Martin stood again and returned to the hallway. The rat had returned, poised cautiously near Rafe’s body to see if Martin was a threat or just an annoyance. Martin weighed his options for some time before finally deciding he didn’t have the heart to leave him lying on the floor like that. Despite the monster he had become, Rafe was, in a way, a former comrade, twisted into insanity like so many others who have the misfortune to encounter the Cosmics.

  After a brief search, Martin located an empty space not too far from Rafe’s lair. What had happened to its original occupant, he tried not to dwell on. He was concerned at first about carrying Rafe the distance to his chosen final resting spot, but upon lifting him up, Martin was surprised at how light he was. Although Rafe should be around Martin’s age, he had been weathered like an old man. In a way, he was just a few brief layers of skin away from the hollow bones he lived beside. Martin placed Rafe inside gently, but he didn’t pause for a prayer or any words. The gesture was all the respect he had left for this enemy.

  He returned to the site of the battle and bent down to pick up Rafe’s dagger. As soon as Martin’s flesh made contact with the stone-like hilt, the voices exploded again.

  “Traitor!”

  “Save me, mommy!”

  “Why didn’t you come back for me?”

  Martin reeled back, clutching fruitlessly at his ears. Slowly, the voices receded and silence returned to the Ossuary. Even the rat had disappeared into the void. Martin had experienced numerous things since awakening as a Faceless Man, but he felt that was about as bad as anything he had experienced thus far. The idea of living with that as Rafe had somehow been doing seemed beyond reasoning. He turned back once to look at the spot where he had placed his body. It was just out of the light of the stove and lay in shadow, as it would until the end of time.

  “Poor bastard,” Martin muttered to himself. It felt like ages since he had heard his own voice, and it gave him a soft solace in the silence of the catacombs. He resisted the urge to shout, fearing it would lead him to the kind of chatter with the dead he had overheard from Rafe. He returned once more to Rafe’s lair, locating a bag that he filled with anything he thought looked valuable, pouches of coins, maps and papers, a few small daggers, and a pair of knuckledusters. Next, he grabbed a few shirts from the cot and, using them as insulation, he was able to carefully wrap the dagger without touching it. This too went into the bag, which was then slung over his shoulder. Finally, he found the lantern Rafe must use for his own trips to the surface. Leaving the stove to die out on its own, Martin left the lair for his own journey back to civilization. He didn’t look back, and he hoped never to have cause to look back at this place as long as he lived.