by Andrew Day
“This master,” said Roth. “The boy said it called itself Narak.”
“Yes. And what a perfect stroke of luck for you that it has made its appearance. Narak has given you perfect reason to remain here, General. You are now hunting down the last of the Ferine, and their monstrous Master. And you must do this, because you have no way of knowing what it knows. It is the only remaining loose thread, and you must destroy it before it destroys us.”
“Oh, I will,” said Dillaini. “I am going to mount its head on my wall.”
“But we have no idea what it is,” said Roth. “No idea what it wants.”
“Stallin tried to take something from the fortress,” said Dhulrael. “Do you know what it was?”
“He had all sorts of books and scrolls he had taken from the vaults. We don’t really know what was in them.”
“Damn him,” Dhulrael muttered. “The vaults? Those were sealed under orders of the king. I do not even know exactly what was in there. I have been trying to find a way in ever since I became Patrician. Those vaults are one of the reasons I agreed to help you in the first place.”
“You were going to raid them during the occupation of the city,” Roth said in amusement.
“I had ample excuse to do so. But I didn’t tell Stallin about them. Someone else did. This Narak, maybe.”
“What would be so important about some old books and scrolls?”
“As you should know, General, knowledge is power. The information stored in those vaults would have dated back centuries. Imagine the secrets locked away in there. And now lost, thanks to you.”
“Well, when we find the creature, we can asked it what it found in there,” said Dillaini scathingly. “Just before I tear its head off.”
“You would best do it quickly,” said Dhulrael. “Before it lets others know that you orchestrated an invasion of the Faelands. Do not forget, for even a moment, that all of our heads are on the chopping block, Jadia.”
“You don’t have to keep reminding us, Patrician. We’ve done our part, now you do yours.”
Dhulrael nodded stiffly, and went to the door. He lingered there a moment, then turned back to them.
“A thought does occur,” he said slowly.
“What?”
“This is only a theory, you understand,” he said in his typical way. “But from the description Hawthorne gave me, this creature is similar to those wolf mutants that chased me halfway across Elsbareth. We can assume that they are linked. If so, then I believe that who ever has involved themselves in your little scheme may hail from the Darklands.”
“The Darklands?” repeated Roth. “Nothing has gone into or out of the Darklands for nearly a century. It’s completely walled off.”
“Walls are a poor barrier to a creature that can fly, Roth. I am merely stating the fact that the shape of these creatures, the techniques that would be used to create them, such things all originated from the Darklands. And if I am right, then things have become even more complicated than you could ever imagine.” He smiled at them. “Good day, Generals.”
He made a point of slamming the door behind him.
“We should kill him,” said Dillaini.
“We still need him to be Patrician of Vollumir,” replied Roth. “Besides, first we need to ascertain if he has any fail-safes in place. Plans in case we did turn on him. We eliminate those, and then we can kill him.”
“Good. What about the two mages?”
“What about them?”
“One of them has already started to talk. What if they blab to the wrong people?”
“We can’t just kill off two of our own, especially not the two we’re about to decorate. It would be bad for morale, and if anyone found what we were up to, I think you’ll agree, that would be rather catastrophic for everyone. No, Jadia, I would like you to try a new tact with these two. I want you to try being patient. We keep them contained, somewhere we can keep an eye on them. And when the time comes, we’ll see if they are loyal Imperials or... not. Meanwhile, do the job you said you would do.”
Dillaini sniffed impatiently.
“Jadia,” Roth said, rolling his eyes. “You are a hair’s breadth away from controlling the entire Faelands. Just... try to enjoy the moment for once.”
Annabella admired her work, and gave a nod of satisfaction.
“That’ll do it,” she said. “Just give it a day or so to heal. A little magic wouldn’t hurt either. Just to speed things along.”
Serrel looked at the freshly painted Scar of Redan she had just tattooed on his left palm. It was actually the second tattoo he had gotten that day. He’d caved in to peer pressure, and let the other Hounds push him into getting the words Vollumir 1251, tattooed across his arm. It was a Legion tradition to get the major battles you fought and won tattooed in remembrance. All the other Hounds had done the same. Victor and Mouse were going to as well, but Victor had changed his mind when Mouse casually dropped into the conversation the fact that Kaitlin didn’t like tattoos. Mouse herself had baulked when she had seen the size of the needle being used. Apparently she did still have her limits.
“So I just have to use the word Tael and I can weave with it?” he asked Annabella.
“Yep. That simple,” she replied, packing up her equipment.
“How long should it last?”
“Depending on use, I’d say about five years before you noticed a decline in your weaving. Enough time to get you through your term of service.”
“Maybe,” said Serrel.
Annabella looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Thinking of sticking around, are you?”
“I don’t know yet,” he replied, bandaging his hand, and then sliding a leather glove over the top.
“In any case, try not to burn or cut your hand. Any damage to the Scar could make it useless.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“And it goes without saying, I did not give that to you, and I have no idea where you got it from.”
“Got what from?”
“That’s the spirit. Here, there’s still a little left,” Annabella noted, holding up his flask of Vorkeph’s Elixir. She’d mixed it with the ink to make the Scar of Redan. “Here you go.”
“You can keep it,” said Serrel. He had never like the Elixir.
“You’re going to need it more than me,” said Annabella. She pushed it into his good hand.
Serrel slid the flask back into the pouch on his belt. “What are you going to do now?”
Annabella shrugged. “I think I might go see the blacksmiths. See they want any enchanting done. Maybe lend my services to keeping the fires burning. With Jurgen gone, there isn’t really any Nightblades anymore. And to be honest, I could use a break from all... All of this.”
He nodded. “Thank you, Annabella. For everything.”
“Don’t mention it, Serrel. You take care of yourself now.” She ruffled his hair playfully and left.
Serrel straightened his uniform, adjusted the short sword he had strapped to his back and exited the empty building they had been in. There were a fair few empty buildings in Vollumir these days, either abandoned by people lucky enough to escape when Vharaes and his Ferine invaded the city, or emptied because their owners were no longer in a state to lay claim. Most of the Legion had taken to squatting in any available space, much to the chagrin of the locals.
Mouse was waiting outside for him, leaning casually against the wall with her staff at her side.
“All good?” she asked.
“Done.”
She fell into step beside him. “Did you cry again?”
“I didn’t cry,” Serrel argued. “It made my eyes water a bit, that’s all. It did hurt.”
“I’m sure it did.”
“I mean, you can’t exactly make fun, seeing as how you completely chickened out. Coward.”
“Well, anything that could make you cry wasn’t something I was going to put myself through,” Mouse replied matter-of-factly.
The sky was
bright and clear as they walked through the city, undoubtedly for the last few times before the onset of autumn and the coming of winter. In the sunshine, Serrel thought Vollumir might have been a spectacular place, even without the visible signs of conflict that dotted the cityscape and the huge crater where the market square had been. There were still red stains marring the white cobbled streets, and when the wind blew in the right direction, you could smell the smoke from the pits where Ferine bodies were being unceremoniously burned.
The people of Vollumir were, for the most part, happy enough to be liberated from the Ferine. But now, two days on, and they were beginning to realise that they were still being occupied by an outside force. This one at least was more benign than the Ferine, but still, the Legion didn’t belong. Most of the locals walked the streets and refused to meet the eyes of the soldiers they met, though a few never missed an opportunity to shake the hand of one of the Legion and profess their thanks. Strangely enough, a couple had somehow sought Serrel out personally, to thank him for what he had done. The news of his involvement in the death of Vharaes had spread beyond the Legion.
Then there were the elves. Obviously there were a lot of them in Vollumir. And a large number of them didn’t appear too happy. They glared at the Legion with obvious disdain. And the looks a few shot at Serrel when they realised who he was were positively hate filled. It seemed possible that Vharaes had more followers than anyone suspected. Serrel thought about the elves they seen that night, willingly allowing themselves to be transformed into monsters. He wondered how many more would have gone through with that, and how many were still biding their time in the city.
He tried not to let it get to him. In fact, he was trying not to let the fact that everyone was calling him a hero go to his head. He was thankful for Pond Scum, always there to keep him grounded with playful insults. Greasy Tim had taken to slapping himself in the head in mock salute every time he saw Serrel or Victor, as their promotions had been finalised and they were both now Arch-Casters.
Arch-Caster Serrel Hawthorne. He didn’t want to be egotistical about it, but he felt that it sounded suitably imposing.
The rest of Pond Scum were waiting for them in the wide park that encircled the Unicorn’s Lover, the pub with the secret tunnel to the fortress. Somehow, it had survived much of the devastation that had hit the city, and now held the proud distinction of being the only pub currently open in all of Vollumir. Serrel didn’t know where all the alcohol was coming from, but unsurprisingly they were doing a fair trade, especially with the Legion.
Greasy Tim saw him coming, and shouted loudly, “Atten-shun!” before whacking himself in the brow.
“You’re going to hurt yourself doing that, Tim,” Serrel told him.
“Yes, suh. Pond Scum ready for inspection, suh.”
“Give it a rest, Tim,” said Justin wearily.
“So, what’s the news?” Serrel asked.
“My new placement,” said Victor with a smile, holding up a small roll of parchment. “I’m now a full member of the Hounds.”
“Me too,” said Mouse, holding up her own orders. “Woof.”
“That’s great,” said Serrel. “Though Caellix isn’t going to be happy.”
“And we’re moving out soon,” Victor went on. “Word is we’re going out after the Ferine that escaped during the battle.”
“Good. Let them run for a change.”
“I wish you could have joined support with us,” said Kaitlin to Victor.
“I don’t,” put in Justin. “If I had to listen to you two...” He made lip smacking sounds, “...all day long, I would go mad.”
“I’m renewing my offer to stab you in the face, Justin,” warned Kaitlin.
“’Ere, Serrel,” interrupted Greasy Tim. “You get yourself a new staff yet?”
“Not yet.” He decided not to tell them about the tattoo. It wasn’t really as a replacement, just as a backup. “I tried to talk to the quartermaster, but he said I needed to have a requisition signed by my commanding officer. I was going to see Snow about it.”
“Ah, well then,” said Greasy Tim smugly. “Today is your lucky day, squire. Bull.”
Bull pulled out a new staff from behind his back. It wasn’t Imperial issue, being more the length of a walking stick than an actual battlestaff. Its length was of twisted black wood, and one end curved like a talon into a single sharp point. Just below the curve of the wood, there was a single small red gem placed in the shaft.
“That’s nice,” said Serrel admiringly.
“Isn’t it?” said Greasy Tim. “Thought you’d like it.”
Bull held it out to him, but pulled it backwards as he reached for it.
“Five quid,” said Greasy Tim.
“Five quid?”
“Timmy,” Mouse said wearily.
“You are such a little crook,” said Kaitlin in amusement.
“Basic commerce this is,” replied Greasy Tim unabashed. “Services rendered. Finder’s Fee. That style o’ thing.”
Serrel searched his pockets. “I’ll give you three coppers.”
“Four.”
“Tim.”
“I ‘ave my reputation to think about, don’t I? Can’t go showing favouritism. I ‘ave to ‘aggle.”
“Three coppers. And I promise not to tell anyone where you got that bacon you’ve been selling.”
“Knew ‘bout that, did you?”
“Everyone knows about that, Tim,” said Kaitlin.
Greasy Tim did some quick maths. “Three coppers? Deal.”
They exchanged money, Bull got his cut, and Serrel got a new staff. He held it in his hand, and felt the energy flowing through it. It was a reassuring sensation, one he hadn’t realised he’d missed. The staff must not have been used very much, because it seemed to have no trouble adapting to him.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“Around,” said Greasy Tim cryptically. “No one was using it.”
“You stole it, didn’t you?” said Kaitlin.
“I never,” replied Greasy Tim with exaggerated hurt. “I just... Bull?”
Bull screwed up his face in concentration. “Borrowed it temp-or-air-ra-ly for an in-de-ter-me-nate period of time,” he quoted.
“Exactly.”
“Bull, don’t let this little criminal lead you astray,” said Kaitlin.
“I won’t,” Bull rumbled.
“I’m just doin’ my bit for the trade industry of the city,” said Greasy Tim. “Practically heroes, we are.”
“Just don’t get caught, Timmy,” said Mouse.
“Don’t worry. I’ve ‘aven’t been caught yet.”
“Uh, Tim,” said Edgar. “Aren’t you in the Legion because you got caught?”
“Yeah, but what are the chances of that ‘appenin’ again?”
Serrel rolled his eyes, and tucked the new staff into the straps of his pack.
“We should probably go,” he said.
Victor nodded, and turned to Kaitlin. “I’ll see you when I get back.”
“You better. Here,” she picked a large and near overflowing pack off the ground and handed it to him.
Victor held it like it was about to explode. “What did you do?” he asked suspiciously.
“I packed for you. You have a spare change of clothes, some extra socks, a sewing kit, because I know how much you love to sew, some sandwiches, a sack of those little cakes you like-”
“Please stop talking now.”
“...a new whetstone,” Kaitlin went on, and there was a gleam in her eye that was positively evil, “some biscuits, some oil, and a little token for you to remember me by.” She added sweetly. “Oh, you have something on your...” She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, and held it up to him. “Spit.”
Victor realised there were Legion all around the square, watching in amusement.
“Kaitlin...”
“I said, spit.”
Victor sighed, and did as he was ordered. Kaitlin wiped a sm
udge off his face.
“Kaitlin, you are embarrassing me in front of the other soldiers.”
“I know. Now,” she went on. “Do you have all your knives?”
“Kaitlin... oh, for gods... yes.”
“Your sword?”
Victor nodded at the handle of his sword, the one looted from Vharaes’ body, that stuck up over his shoulder.
“Stay with the group,” Kaitlin chided. “Don’t talk to any strange elves.”
“You are a crazy, crazy woman,” said Victor. He kissed her hand. “I’ll see you soon.”
“We’ll keep him safe,” said Mouse, giving Kaitlin a hug.
The three of them walked away, as the others erupted into laughter behind them, Kaitlin taking a bow.
“Shut up,” said Victor pre-emptively as they walked.
“I haven’t said anything yet,” said Serrel.
“I know. So shut up.”
“What token did she give you?” Mouse asked in interest.
“Oh, gods, I dread to think.”
Victor checked the pack. At the very top he found a knife, a short curved blade of elvish design.
“That’s... That’s actually quite nice,” Victor admitted. Then he looked closer, and saw that someone had engraved VB 4 KA on the handle.
In perfect unison, Mouse and Serrel both said, “Aw...”
“Shut up.”
They walked on in silence.
Then Serrel started, “So what kind of cakes do you-”
“Shut up.”
“Are you going to share?”
“Shut up!”
At the western gate, the Hounds were collecting together.
“About time, Hawthorne,” said Caellix.
“Sergeant, Captain,” said Victor, offering Snow his orders. “Arch-Caster Blackwood, reporting for duty.”
“Oh my,” said Snow, reading over Victor and Mouse’s orders. “And to think, a week ago we didn’t even have one mage. Now we have three. When it doesn’t rain, it pours. Isn’t this exciting, Sergeant?”
Caellix sniffed. “I only wanted the Mouse,” she replied. “Well, since you’re here, you can make yourself useful, Fresh Meat. My leg’s still a bit stiff. Be a gentleman and carry my pack.”
“She means you,” Serrel said helpfully, handing the pack to Victor, who rolled his eyes and pulled it onto his shoulder.