Red Rising — Chapter 38: The Fall of Apollo

38

The Fall of Apollo

The bear is huge—bigger than a horse, big as a wagon. White as a

bloodless corpse. Eyes red and yellow. Razor black teeth long as my

forearm. Nothing like the bears I’ve seen on the HC. A strip of red

runs along its spine. Its paws are like ngers, eight on a hand. It’s

unnatural. Made by the Carvers for sport. It’s been brought to these

woods to kill, to kill me in particular. Sevro and I heard them

roaring months back as we went to make peace with Diana. Now I

feel its spittle.

I stand there stupid for a second. Then the bear roars again and

lunges.

I roll, run. I sprint faster than I ever have in my life. I y. But the

bear is faster, if less agile; the woods shudder as it crashes through

brush and trees.

I run beside a massive godTree and dive through bramble. There

the ground creaks beneath my feet and I realize, as leaves and snow

crumble under my feet, where I stand. I put the place between

myself and the bear and wait for the bear to tear through the

underbrush. It bursts clear and lunges for me. I jump back. Then it is

gone, shrieking as it plummets through the trap oor onto a bed of

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wooden spikes. My joy would have been longer lived if I didn’t

dance back and step into a second trap.

The earth ips. Well, I do. My leg snaps upward and I y into the

air on the end of a rope. I dangle for hours, too frightened to call to

my army for fear of Proctor Apollo. My face tingles and itches from

the blood rushing to my head. Then a familiar voice cuts the night.

“Well, well, well,” it sneers from below. “Looks like we’ve two

pelts to skin.”

Sevro smirks when I tell him I’ve allied with Mustang. At camp,

where Mustang was preparing search parties to send out for me, his

reputation precedes him amongst the northerners. The Minervans

fear him. Tactus and the other DeadHorses, on the other hand, are

delighted.

“Why, if it isn’t my belly buddy!” Tactus drawls. “Why the limp,

my friend?”

“Your mother rode me ragged,” Sevro grunts.

“Bah, you’d have to stand on your tiptoes to even kiss her chin.”

“Wasn’t her chin I was trying to kiss.”

Tactus claps his hands together in laughter and draws Sevro in for

an obnoxious hug. They are two very peculiar people. But I suppose

snuggling in horse corpses gives a bond—makes twins of a morbid

sort.

“Where were you?” Mustang asks me quietly to the side.

“In a second,” I say.

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Sevro has only one eye now. So he is the one-eyed demon the

Apollonian emissary warned me about.

“I always wondered what sort of mad little fellows you Howlers

were,” Mustang says.

“Little?” Sevro asks.

“I—didn’t mean to oend.”

He grins. “I am little.”

“Well, we of Minerva thought you were ghosts.” She pats his

shoulder. “You’re not. And I’m not a real mustang, if you were

wondering. No tail, you see? And no,” she interrupts Tactus. “I’ve

never worn a saddle, since you were going to ask.”

He was.

“She’ll do,” Sevro mutters sideways to me.

“I like them,” Mustang says of the Howlers a few moments later.

“Make me feel tall.”

“Perrrfect!” Tactus picks up the bloodback pelt with a grunt.

“Looky look. They found something in Pax’s size.”

Before we join the group at the large re that Pax stokes, Sevro

pulls me aside and produces a blanket. Inside is my slingBlade.

“Kept it safe for you after nding it in the mud,” he says. “And I

made it sharper; time for using a dull blade is over.”

“You’re a friend. I hope you know that.” I clap him on the

shoulder. “Not a game friend. A real friend now, when we’re out of

here, et cetera. You know that, yes?”

“I’m not an idiot.” He blushes all the same.

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I learn from him around the campre that he and the Howlers,

Thistle, Screwface, Clown, Weed, and Pebble—the dregs of my old

House—stayed no longer than a day after I disappeared.

“Cassius said the Jackal took you,” Sevro says through a mouthful

of weevily bread. “Delicious nuts.” He eats like he hasn’t seen food

in weeks.

We sit reside in the Greatwoods, bathed in the light of crackling

logs. Mustang, Milia, Tactus, and Pax join us in leaning on a fallen

tree in the snow. We’re all bundled like animals. I sit close with

Mustang. Her leg is entwined with mine beneath the furs. The

bloodback fur stinks and crackles over the re. Fat drips into the

ames. Pax will wear it when it dries.

Sevro sought the Jackal after Cassius fed him the lie. My small

friend doesn’t get into details. He hates details. He just taps his

empty eye socket and says, “The Jackal owes me.”

“You saw him then?” I ask.

“It was dark. I saw his knife. Didn’t even hear his voice. I had to

jump o the mountain. It was a long fall back to the rest of the

pack.” He says it so plainly. Yet I did notice his limp. “We couldn’t

stay in the mountains. His men … everywhere.”

“But we took some of the mountains with us,” Thistle says. She

pats the scalps on her waist with a motherly smile. Mustang

shudders.

It’s been chaos in the South. Apollo, Venus, Mercury, and Pluto

are all that’s left, but I hear Mercury has been reduced to a force of

roving vagabonds. A pity. I was fond of their proctor. He almost

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chose me in the Draft, would have if he could have. Wonder how

things would have gone then.

“Sevro, with that leg, how fast can you run, say, two kilometers?”

I ask.

The others are puzzled by the question, but Sevro just shrugs.

“Doesn’t slow me. Minute and a half in this lowGrav.”

I make a note to tell him my idea later.

“We have more important things to discuss, Reaper,” Tactus

smiles. “Now, I heard you were dangling upside down in the woods

from this one here’s trap.” He pats little Thistle on her thigh; she

smiles as he lets his hand linger. It’s the scalp collection that draws

his aection. “You didn’t think you’d sneak out of telling the tale,

did you?”

It’s not so funny a thing as he might suspect.

I nger my ring. Telling them would be signing their death

warrants. Apollo and Jupiter listen to me now. I look at Mustang

and feel hollow. I’ll risk losing her just to win their rigged game. If I

were a good person, I would keep the ring on. I would hold my

tongue. But there are plans to make, gods to undo. I take my ring o

and set it on the snow. “Let us for one moment pretend we are not

from dierent Houses,” I say. “Let’s all of us talk as friends.”

Without horses, without mobility, I have no advantage over my

enemy in the surrounding lands. Another lesson to be learned. I

make an advantage for myself, a new strategy. I make them fear me.

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My tactics are ones of fragmentation. I split my army into six

pieces of ten under myself, Pax, Mustang, Tactus, Milia, and, due to

a surprising recommendation from Milia, Nyla. I would have given

Sevro his own unit, but he and his Howlers will not leave my side

again. They blame themselves for the scar on my belly.

My army sets into Apollo’s holdings like starving wolves. We do

not assail their castle, but we raid their forts. We bring re to their

supply stores. We shoot arrows into their horses. We foul their water

supplies and tell prisoners false news and let them escape. We

murder their goats and pigs. We hack their riverboats with axes. We

steal weapons. I do not allow prisoners to be taken except if they are

students from Venus, Juno, or Bacchus enslaved by Apollo. All

others we let escape. The fear and legend must spread. This my

army understands better than anything else. They are dogmatic.

They tell each other tales of me around the campres. Pax is their

ringleader; he thinks I am myth made man. Many of my soldiers

begin carving my slingBlade into trees and walls. Tactus and Thistle

carve slingblades into esh. And the more industrious members of

my army make standards of stained wolfpelts that we take into

battle on the end of spears.

I split the slaves of House Ceres and the other captured slaves

from one another to integrate them into the various units. I know

their allegiances are shifting. Bit by bit. They begin to refer to

themselves not as Ceres or Minerva or Diana, but by their unit

name. I place four Ceres soldiers, the smallest, with Sevro in the

Howlers. I do not know if the bakers will make for elite warriors as

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Mars’s dregs did, but if anyone can carve o their baby fat, it’s

Sevro.

Fear gnaws at Apollo for a week. Our ranks swell. Theirs

diminish. Freed slaves tell us of the terror in the castle, the worry

that I will appear from the shadows with my bloody wolfcloaks to

burn and maim.

I do not fear House Apollo; they are lumbering fools who cannot

adjust to my tactics. What I fear is the Proctors, and the Jackal. To

me, they are one and the same. After Apollo’s failed attempt on my

life, I fear they will be more direct. When will I wake with a razor in

my spine? This is their game. At any time, I could die. I must

destroy House Apollo now, get Proctor Apollo out of the game

before it is too late.

My lieutenants and I sit around our re in the woods to discuss

the tactics of the next day. We are less than two miles from House

Apollo’s castle, but they dare not attack us. We are in the deep

woods. They huddle in fear of us. We also don’t attack them. I know

Proctor Apollo would ruin even the cleverest of night assaults.

Before we can begin, Nyla asks about the Jackal. Sevro’s voice is

quiet as he tells what he learned in the mountains. It grows louder

as he realizes we are all listening.

“His castle is somewhere in the low mountains. Subterranean, not

in the high peaks. Just near Vulcan. Vulcan got o to a prime start.

Fastlike. They blitzed Pluto on the third day. Ecient turds. Pluto

wasn’t ready. So the Jackal took control, had them retreat into their

deep tunnels. Vulcan came howling in with advanced weapons from

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their forges. It was all going to be over. The Jackal would have been

a slave from the rst week on. So he collapsed the tunnel—no plan,

no way out—in order to preserve his chance to win the game. Killed

ten of his own House, tons of highDrafts. MedBots couldn’t save

anyone. Stranded forty of the rest in the dark caves. Plenty of water,

no food. They were there for nearly a month before they dug their

way out.” He smiles and I remember why Fitchner called him

Goblin. “Guess what they ate?”

If a Jackal is caught in a trap, it will chew o its own leg. Who

told me that?

The re crackles between us. I would have expected Mustang to

shift uncomfortably, but instead what I see from her is anger as the

details are relayed. Pure anger. Her jaw exes and her face loses a

shade. I grip her hand beneath the blanket, but it does not grip

back.

“How did you nd all that out?” Pax rumbles.

Sevro taps one of his curved knives with a ngernail, allowing a

soft ding into the night air. It echoes into the woods, bouncing o

trees and returning to our ears like a lost phrase. Then I can hear

nothing from the woods, nothing beyond the re. My heart leaps

into my throat and I catch Sevro’s eye. He’ll have to nd Tactus.

A jamField evelopes us.

“Hello, children,” a voice says from the darkness. “Such a bright

re is dangerous at night. And you’re like little puppies, all snuggled

together; no, don’t get up.” This voice is melodious. Frivolous. Eerie

to hear after so many months of hardship. No one’s voice sounds

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like that. He strolls in lightly and plops down beside Pax. Apollo.

This time he brought no bear, only a grand spear that drips purple

sparks along its business end.

“Proctor Apollo, welcome,” I say. Sentinels perch above us in the

trees, their arrows pointed at the Proctor. I wave the trap away and

ask the Proctor why he is here, as if we’ve never met. His presence

sends a very simple message: my friends are in danger.

“To tell you to return home, my dear nomads.” He opens up a

agon of wine and passes it around. No one drinks, except Sevro. He

holds on to the agon.

“Proctors aren’t supposed to interfere with things. It is in the

rules,” Pax says in confusion. “By what right do you come here?

This is dirty play.”

Mustang seconds his question.

The Aureate sighs, but before he can say anything, Sevro stands

and belches. He begins walking o.

“Where are you going?” Apollo snaps. “Don’t walk away from

me.”

“Going to piss. Drank all your wine. Rather I piss here?” He cocks

his head and touches his small stomach. “Maybe shit, too.”

Apollo wrinkles his nose and looks back to us, dismissing Sevro.

“Inuencing is hardly dirty play, my giant friend,” he explains. “I

merely care for your well-being. I am here, after all, to guide you in

your studies. It would be best for you all to return to the North, that

is all. Better strategy, let’s say. Finish your battle there, consolidate

your power, then expand out. It is the rules of war: Do not expose

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yourself when weak. Do not push your enemy to ght when you are

inferior. You have no cavalry. No shelter. Meager weapons. You are

not learning as you ought.”

His grin is welcoming. It slashes through his beautiful face like a

crescent moon as he twirls the rings on his nger, waiting for our

response.

“It is kind of you to consider our well-being,” Mustang replies in

mocking highLingo. “I do say, very kind! Warms my bones. Paying

special attention, no less, to the fact that you’re from another House.

But tell me, does my Proctor know you are here? Does Mars’s?” She

nods over to silent Milia. “Does Juno’s? Are you doing a

naughtynaughty, good sir? If you’re not, then why the jamField? Or

do others watch?”

Apollo’s eyes harden, though his smile remains.

“To be quite frank, your Proctors don’t know what you children

are playing at. You had your chance, Virginia. You lost. Don’t allow

yourself to be bitter. Darrow here beat you fair and sound. Or did

your winter together blind you to the fact that there can only be one

winning House, only one victorious Primus? Were all of you truly so

blinded? This … boy can give you nothing.”

He looks around at each of them.

“I shall repeat, since you are a rusty lot: Darrow’s win will not

mean you win. No one will oer you an apprenticeship, because

they see him being the key to your success. You merely follow—like

General Ney or Ajax Minor, and who remembers them? This Reaper

does not even have his own standard. He is using you. That is all.

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He is embarrassing you and ruining your chances for careers beyond

this First Year.”

“You’re quite annoying, all due respect, Proctor,” Nyla says

without her usual kindness.

“And you’re still a slave.” Apollo points to her mark. “Fit for all

sorts of abuse.”

“Only till I earn the right to wear one of those.” Nyla gestures to

Mustang’s wolfcloak.

“Your loyalty is touching, but—”

Pax interrupts. “Would you let me whip you bloody, Apollo?

Darrow did. Let me whip you, and I’ll obey like a Pink. Promise on

the graves of my ancestors, those of Telemanus and the—”

“You’re nothing more than a bureaucratic Pixie,” Milia hisses. “Do

us a favor and piss o.”

My lieutenants are loyal, though I shudder to think what Tactus

or Sevro would have said had they been around the re with us. I

lean forward to stare down Apollo. Still, I must provoke him.

“Do us solid, eh? Take your advice, shove it up your ass, and piss

o.”

Someone laughs in the air above us, a woman’s laugh. Other

Proctors watch from inside the jamField. I see silhouettes in the

smoke. How many watch? Jupiter? Venus, maybe, by the laugh?

That would be perfect.

The re ickers over Apollo’s face. He is angry.

“Here is the logic I know. The winter could get colder, children.

When it gets cold outside, things die. Like wolves. Like bears. Like

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mustangs.”

I have a reply and it is perfectly longwinded.

“I wonder, Apollo, what happens if the Drafters nd out that you

are arranging to have the ArchGovernor’s son win? If you were, say,

rigging the game like a bazaar crime lord.”

Apollo freezes. I continue.

“When you tried killing me in the woods with that stupid bear,

you failed. Now you come here like the desperate fool you are to

threaten my friends when they do not slaver at the idea of betraying

me. Will you really kill us all? I know you can edit what you like

from the footage the Drafters see. But however will you explain to

all our Drafters how we all died?”

My lieutenants feign their shock.

I go on.

“Say an Imperator of a eet, say a Legate, say any of the Drafters

of any of the other Houses, found out that the ArchGovernor was

paying the Proctors to cheat, to eliminate the competition so that

his son would win and their children would lose. Do you think there

would be consequences for the Proctors being bribed? For the

ArchGovernor? Do you think they might care that their children are

dying in a rigged game? Or that you’re getting paid to ruin the

meritocratic system? The best shall rise. Or is it the best

connected?”

Apollo’s jaw tightens.

He looks up to the other Proctors. They wisely stay invisible. He

must have drawn the short straw to come down here and be the face

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of their cheating. My lieutenants stay silent as he speaks.

“If they did nd out, children, then there would be consequences

for everyone,” Apollo threatens. “So feel free to guard your tongues

while you have them.”

“Or what?” Mustang asks violently. “What do you think you’re

going to do?”

“You of all people should know,” he says. I don’t understand his

point, but this charade has run its course. I’ve counted the seconds

since Sevro left. The Proctors have not. I turn to Mustang.

“How fast can Sevro run two kilometers?”

“A minute and a half, in this gravity, I do believe. Though he’s a

little liar, so likely faster.”

“And how far is Apollo’s castle?”

“Oh, I’d say three kilometers, maybe a little more.”

Apollo jumps to his feet, looking around for Sevro.

“Splendid,” I say. “Say, Mustang, do you know what I like most

about jamFields?”

“That no sound can get out?”

“No. That no sound can get in.”

Apollo disengages the jamField and we hear the howls. They

come from the distance, two miles away. From ramparts. From

Apollo’s castle. MedBots wail toward the cries, streaking across the

distant sky.

“Venus! Were you not watching them? You stupid …” Apollo

snarls at the empty air.

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“The little one took o his ring,” an invisible woman cries. “They

all took o their rings! I can’t see anything without their rings on,

and not in a jamField!”

“But they’re all back on by now,” I say. “So pull up your datapad

and tell me what you see.”

“You little …” Apollo’s hands clench. I inch back. Mustang steps

between us, as does Pax.

“Uh-oh,” Pax booms, thumping his huge axe against his chest. The

armor beneath his wolfcloak thumps rhythmically. “Uh-oh!”

Snow ies as Apollo soars out of the woods, the other Proctors on

his heels. They will be too late. Edit all they like, interfere all they

like, the battle for House Apollo has begun, and Sevro and Tactus

have claimed the ramparts.

My lieutenants and I arrive at the battle in time to see Tactus

climbing the highest tower, a knife in his teeth. There, standing on

the edge of the hundred-meter parapet like some careless Greek

champion, he pulls down his pants and pisses on the banner of

House Apollo. He’s crawled through shit to earn that banner. The

slaves we captured throughout the week told us of the castle’s

weaknesses—large latrine holes—and so Tactus, Sevro, and the

Howlers exploited them in dreadfully ecient time. House Apollo’s

soldiers woke to demons covered in dung. Oh, how terribly my

conquering soldiers smell as they open the gates for me. Inside, it’s a

mass of chaos.

The castle is tall, white, ornate. Its plaza stands round and has six

grand doorways that lead to six grand, spiraling towers. Sheep and

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cows crowd makeshift pens on the far side of the plaza. Apollo

guards have retreated there. More of their allies stream from the

tower doorways behind them. My men are outnumbered three to

one. But mine are freemen, not slaves. They will ght better. Yet it

is not numbers that threatens to turn the tide against my invading

army. It’s the Apollo Primus, Novas. The Proctor gave him his own

pulseWeapon. A spear that glimmers with purple sparks. Its tip

touches one of the DeadHorses from Diana, and the girl ips ten feet

backwards, like a broken toy convulsing on the ground as its gears

fall o their tracks.

I gather my forces near the gatehouse, just inside the plaza. Many

are still in the towers like Tactus. I’ve got Pax, Milia, Nyla, Mustang,

and forty others at my back. The enemy Primus marshals his own

forces. His weapon alone could ruin us.

“Mustang, ready with that standard?” I ask. I feel her hand on the

small of my back, just beneath my breastplate. I wear no helm. My

hair is bound by leather. My face is dark with soot. My right hand

carries my slingBlade. The left, a shortened stunpike. Nyla carries

the standard of Ceres.

“Pax, we’re the scythe. Girls, you’re the pickers.”

My men in the towers howl as they sprint and jump down from

their perches to join the battle, streaming into the plaza from all

angles. Their stained wolfcloaks reek. The cobblestones between my

band and Apollo’s lie thick with ankle-high drifts of snow. Proctors

glint in the air above, waiting for the pulseSpear to make short work

of my army.

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“Take their Primus,” Mustang whispers in my ear. She points to the

tall, hard boy and smacks my butt. “Claim him.”

“Twenty meters and stop, Pax.” He nods at my command.

“The Primus is mine!” I roar to my army and to theirs. “Novas, you

gorywhore. You are mine. You pisseating snail. You foul piece of

shit.” As the tall, mad invader with the slingBlade screams at their

Primus, Apollo’s forces shirk instinctively away. “Enslave the rest!” I

howl.

Then Pax and I charge.

The rest stream after, trying to catch my heels. I let Pax overtake

me. He’s screaming with his war axe and charging at Novas and his

band of bodyguards—heavily armored boys and girls with crimson

handprints on their helmets. They lead the charge of the enemy

host, going straight at Pax, lowering their spears to stop his mad

charge. These are the tall sort, the dashing killers who have long

since grown too arrogant to understand they are in danger or to feel

fear as they make plans to meet Pax in arms.

Then Pax stops.

And without breaking stride, I jump forward so his hand catches

my foot; I push o and he launches me ten meters forward into the

air. I’m howling the entire way, like a thing torn from bloodydamn

nightmares, until I smash into the bodyguards. Three go down. A

random spear catches my stomach and scrapes along my ribs,

spinning me just as a trident pierces the air where my head had

been. I gain my feet, swing horizontally, sweeping legs. I spin away

from a thrust and hack down diagonally as I come from my spin,

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shattering someone tall at the collarbone. Another spear comes at

me; I slap it to the side and run along its length, jumping to bury my

knee into the face of an Apollo highDraft. He falls back, taking me

with, my knee stuck in his helmet’s visor. I slash madly as I go from

the high vantage, stunning three other highDrafts with looping

blows till I teeter down to the ground.

We hit the snow. The highDraft’s nose is broken and he’s

unconscious, but my knee is numb and bloody from the impact as I

jerk it out of his helmet. I roll away, expecting spears to llet me.

They don’t. I shattered the head of the Apollo army in one mad

charge; Pax and my army sweep in like an iron curtain till I’m left

with Novas in the center of the chaos. He’s tall and strong. A

sweeping arc from his spear shatters a Howler’s shield. He blasts

Milia backwards and catches Pax in the arm with the spear,

knocking him to the ground like a toy. I’m taller and stronger.

“Novas, you little girl!” I shout. “You sniveling Pink.”

His eyes ash when he sees me coming.

The battle takes a collective breath as he wheels toward me like

an elk turning on the leader of a wolfpack. We stalk toward one

another. He lunges rst. I dodge and spin along the length of the

spear till I’m behind him. Then with one massive swing, like I’m

hacking down a tree with my slingBlade, I break his leg and take his

spear.

He moans like a child. I sit on his chest, smug with the

satisfaction that I did not moan like this when my legs were broken

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and rewoven in Mickey’s carveshop. I make a show of yawning

despite the chaos swirling around me.

Mustang takes the reins of battle.

Only one member of House Apollo escapes. A girl. A fast girl, but

an unimportant member of their House. Somehow, she jumps from

the highest tower and simply oats down to the ground with her

House’s standard. Almost like magic. But I see the distortion around

her. Proctor Apollo preserves his position in the game. The girl nds

a horse and rides away from my horseless army. Pax hurls a spear at

her from a distance. His aim is true and would have pinned the

horse to the turf through the neck, but a freakish wind miraculously

knocks the spear wide. In the end, it’s Mustang who takes a horse

from the Apollo stables and chases the girl down with the Howlers

Thistle and Pebble. She brings her back bent over her own horse’s

neck, spanking her butt with the standard as they gallop back.

My army roars as Mustang trots into the conquered castle square.

We’ve already freed the House Ceres slaves; they’ve earned their

place in my army. I wave down at Mustang from my perch beside

Sevro and Tactus on the high ramparts; our feet dangle carelessly

over the edge. House Apollo has fallen in less than thirty minutes

despite Apollo’s interference with the pulseSpear.

Proctor Apollo confers with Jupiter and Venus in the sky. They

glitter in the dawn light as though nothing has happened. But I

know he will have to leave the game; the standard and castle are

taken. He cannot hurt me any longer.

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“You’re through!” I taunt at Apollo. “Your House has fallen!” My

army roars once more. I bask in the sound and the winter air as the

sun peaks over the western lip of the Valles Marineris Most of those

voices would be slaves. Instead, they follow willingly. Soon even

those of House Apollo will follow me.

I laugh wildly; the re of victory is hot in my veins. We have

beaten one Proctor. But Jupiter can still hurt us. His House is

unbent, unbroken far to the north. A quick rage overtakes me along

with another, darker passion—one of arrogance, furious, mad

arrogance. I grab the pulseSpear, cock my arm, and hurl the weapon

as hard as I can at the gathered Proctors. My army watches this act

of impudence. The three Proctors scatter after the pulseSpear goes

through their shielding. They turn to look at me. Fire glitters in

their eyes. But the passion in me was not quenched by a mere spear

throw. I hate these scheming fools. I will ruin them.

“Jupiter! You are next. You are next, you piece of dog shit!”

Then Pax bellows my name. And then Tactus’s voice echoes it,

then Nyla from a far tower. And soon a hundred voices chant it

throughout the conquered castle—from the courtyard to the high

parapets and towers. They beat their swords and spears and shields,

and then they throw them at the Proctors. A hundred missiles

thump harmlessly into pulseShields and many of my army must

scatter so that they are not impaled by the falling weapons, but it is

a sweet sight, a sweet sound of metal rain on cobbled stone. And

again they take up my name. They chant and chant the name of the

Reaper at the Proctors, because they know whom we now ght.

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