Judgment stepped out of the tear between worlds and stood exposed on open stone. He came to deliver final judgment on the false god who now ruled EDEN. But he had arrived with no foothold, no cover, no ally. He gripped his warhammer and turned in place. Marble terraces climbed above him. Water ran down carved channels toward gardens bright with sacred trees. Purple and gold armor caught the light. It made him a target. Horns sounded from the upper walls. He heard boots on stone. The false god's patrols had spotted the fifth Horseman in the open. Judgment counted the exits and found them all uphill. He could fight, but a soldier does not win a war by standing in a killing field. A whistle cut the air. Judgment turned toward it. In the shadow of a broken archway crouched a small figure in a torn gray robe. One eye burned blue in a bare skull. A skeletal hand waved him close, fast and silent. Judgment knew the herald. This was Moros Silentium, servant to his eldest brother, Death. Death had ridden through EDEN before him and left the herald behind. Moros never spoke. It only pointed. "You," Judgment said. "Where." Moros pressed a bone finger to its teeth. Then it pointed at a low gap beneath the terrace, half hidden by hanging vines. Judgment heard the patrol reach the stair above. Shields scraped. Arrows nocked. He did not question the herald. He moved. Judgment dropped his shoulder and ran for the gap. An arrow struck the stone where he had stood. He crashed through the vines and rolled into the dark. Moros slipped in behind him and dragged a slab across the opening. The patrol thundered past above. Their boots faded up the terrace. Judgment lay in a narrow tunnel, breathing hard, out of sight at last. Moros held up its skeletal hand. In the blue glow, Judgment saw the problem written on the herald's face. Death had passed this way, yes. But the herald was empty-handed. Death's scythe was gone. Moros pointed down, into the deeper dark of the tunnel, and its single blue eye flared. Judgment understood. His brother's weapon had been taken below, dragged into Hell by those who served the false god. If Death himself could be stripped of his scythe, the ruler of EDEN was stronger than Judgment had reckoned. He rose in the cramped tunnel and set his hand on the herald's thin shoulder. "Then we take it back first," he said. "Lead." Moros turned and started down into the dark. Judgment followed, off the killing field and hidden at last. But the path to the false god now ran straight through Hell.