Author: Rurik

They may be called the Palace Guard, the City Guard, or the Patrol. Whatever the name, their purpose in any work of heroic fantasy is identical: it is, round about Chapter Three (or ten minutes into the film) to rush into the room, attack the hero one at a time, and be slaughtered. No one ever asks them if they want to.

This book is dedicated to those fine men.

― Terry Pratchett, Guards! Guards!

Field diary of Erik Gywntine, Aide-de-Camp to Lieutenant Marjorie Syndenstar.

3rd Quen’Pilar – 10^th hour

We are being sent to the sewers.

It has been five days since the hot water failed. Three days ago the Plumbers Guild reported two of their members missing and formally requested the Watch to send down a search party. Naturally the Watch houses are pushing back and disputing which of them has jurisdiction to intervene – none of the house captains want to send their boys wading through shit. This could have gone on indefinitely while the city froze, but today one of the ambassadors from the Clovis Concord made a formal complaint to the thrones that their embassy staff have to fill the bath with a kettle. So this is suddenly political and the 5th has been called in. The Lieutenant has asked me to document the whole affair – if we find two drunk plumbers skiving off there’ll be hell to pay.

For this mission 5^th Platoon consists of: 

LT M. Syndenstar.
ADC E. Gywntine
Squad 1	Squad 2	Squad 3
SGT. E. Finwe	SGT. C. Tamina	SGT. O. Gryffid
S. Assikor	P. Belmek	S. Lesedelle
U. Bevon	E. Enkom	I. Brylos
B. Myrva	A. Gallas	C. Dimniss
Y. Oddo	O. Kalen	A.Edhelriel
B. Rheon	P. Medwin	T. Galmin
D. Urmnur	C. Nasryn	P. Hadwyn
N. Wiegold	G. Terfel	T. Rotmur

Supplies and equipment: Standard patrol kit plus plumber’s guild standard mask, noseplugs and glow pebbles. 

4th Quen’Pilar 8^th hour. 

Entered the sewers via the Queen’s gate barracks access tunnel following the maps supplied by the guild. Limited visibility from the glow pebbles but not as cramped as I had imagined. The smell is atrocious but the noseplugs and masks block out the worst of it. Making steady progress so far. 

4th Quen’Pilar 12^th hour. 

Spoke too soon. Trooper Gallas severely injured.  

The platoon was descending a staircase with Gallas on point when the screaming started. A corrosive ooze was lurking on the roof and dropped onto his helmet. When he felt it land the poor lad made the mistake of looking up. Damn thing flowed onto his face. We scraped it off in time to save his life, but not his eyes. 

Bandaged him up as best we could before sending him back to the surface with Troopers Nasryn and Terfel. The Lieutenant reassured him that the priests will be able to cure his sight but the entire platoon is shaken. Jumping at every puddle. We are switching from glow pebbles to standard torches – swamp gas is a risk, but the flames should keep away any more of the creatures hiding overhead. I fear we know what happened to our missing plumbers. Bad business.

4th Quen’Pilar 18th hour.

Ambushed.

After sending our wounded back to the surface we pushed on towards the water supply network. Progress was slowed by the need to check every crack and shadow but no further oozes spotted. At times the torch smoke threatened to fill the narrow tunnels but we all felt better with real flames illuminating the dripping arches.

Until we found the bodies floating in the sewage. Sergeant Tamina was the first to recognise them. Gallas, Nasryn and Terfel.

Tamina ran to their side, straight into the trap. A fountain of corruption burst from each of the defiled bodies, contorting into demonic forms with voiceless mouths agape and hungry for flesh. They latched onto Tamina like leeches and dragged him beneath the filthy waters.

Our countercharge sent the corpse oozes into a thrashing frenzy. Trooper Oddo went down in front of me with one clinging to her face, fresh red blood pulsing through the horrible translucent slug body. I slashed at it while the others tried to prise it off, but my blade went straight through the foul thing with no effect. We had to burn it off before she sufficated. Oddo will live. Sergeant Tamina and Trooper Medwin not so lucky.

We have five dead, three of whom were sent back to the surface not twelve hours ago. We have improvised litters for the fallen and the entire platoon is going to retrace our steps to determine what enemy lurks in the darkness behind us. They will pay for this.

4th Quen’Pilar 22nd hour.

Route to the surface closed.

Grim mood as we overnight in the sewer complex. We made good time on the return, quickly passing the point where Trooper Gallas was attacked. Not far beyond that the tunnel closes into a dead end. Were it not for the fresh tracks that lead into and out of a cracked and slime encrusted wall we could believe that we had taken a wrong turn. Some witchcraft has sealed our escape route.

I shall not lie, I was close to panic at this point. I do not know if the others felt the same but the Lieutenant did not give us time to despair. The troopers were established into a defensive perimeter while the Sergeants consulted the maps to identify a fortifiable position for tonight. We are billeted in an immense vaulted cavern that must have once been used to store the stonework used to build the sewers. The remaining offcuts now serve as temporary cairns for our fallen. No more scouting parties to be sent out. We will move as one. If the enemy wishes to fight then they will face us all.

The biggest problem for tonight is how to stomach food and water laced with the sickly-sweet stench of this place.

5th Quen’Pilar 6th hour.

A grim night, but no sign of hostile activity. Moving out to see how much the sewer maps have been altered versus our maps.

5th Quen’Pilar 12th hour.

No further changes to the layout, but no obvious routes back to the surface. We will strike towards our original target in the heating centre as this offers the most potential exit routes.

Morale holding up well under the circumstances, but the stench and tension are draining. Sergeants keeping a close eye on the troopers. Calm before the storm.

5th Quen’Pilar 16th hour.

Trooper Dimniss missing.

We were passing through a short section of pipework that forced us to proceed in single file. Tense initial entry made by Trooper Myrva without incident. Once we had the pipe secure crossing was quick, Troopers Rotmur and Dimniss last to cross. Rotmur was in front, reports that Dimniss was following behind in constant communication. At the halfway point when Rotmur looked around he was alone.

As if he vanished into thin air. Worse than a direct attack. Entire platoon spent several hours searching but no sign of a struggle or a body. Can’t stay in this spot forever looking at the same empty pipe.

5th Quen’Pilar 23rd hour.

Still no sign of Trooper Dimniss. Snatching moments of fragmented sleep, knowing whatever took him is out there.

6th Quen’Pilar 2nd hour.

Woken by screams – friendly fire injury. Trooper Rotmur discharged crossbow at Trooper Assikor while both were on guard duty. Assikor struck in upper right arm, walking wounded. Trooper Rotmur reprimanded and relieved of crossbow.

Morale of the platoon as black as this shithole.

6th Quen’Pilar. Overnight – time unknown.

Major attack. Multiple casualties.

Forward troopers spotted movement ahead. Undead, armed and moving in combat formation. We formed into battlelines to meet them, only to be outflanked by gargantuan ooze coming through the wall on our right. Burned straight through the stones and ate our weapons and flesh as easily.

If the monster had any mind it would have wiped us all out. Luckily it stopped to consume the bodies of the first few unfortunates who fell underneath the torrent of acid. Gave us enough time to dispatch the undead and use their corpses to slow the corrosive advance of their erstwhile ally. Had to use all the remaining oil flasks to finish the thing off.

Trooper Assikor was killed in the attack. Several members of squad 1 surrounded Trooper Rotmur, shouting Assikor would be alive if Rotmur hadn’t shot him. Sergeants had to intervene to restore order.

I don’t know how much longer we can last like this.

7th Quen’Pilar?

Trooper Rotmur unaccounted for after second shift change.

8th Quen’Pilar?

No attacks since last entry.

More routes shown on our maps are sealed off or missing entirely. Forced to detour and double back through pipes for hours. Fresh water running low.

My father’s watch was damaged in the attack, time unknown. It is a small thing set against the deaths of so many but unable to measure the hours it adds to the sense of isolation.

11th Quen’Pilar?

I don’t want to die without seeing the sky again.

Undated

Our captor has proved me with a few minutes to finish this account.

Battered and bruised, hemmed in on every side by horrors we took the only available path and pushed on. In the filthy depths of the next chamber we learned what we were being herded towards. A monstrous troll squatted as lord of its own squalid little island, bloated on corruption and filth. We drew up in battle formation and the Lieutenant demanded it stand aside or be destroyed. The beast gibbered and tittered some doggerel about not turning but made no move to attack us. It claimed to know who had brought us down here but would not be drawn on the subject, devolving into vainglorious boasts and outlandish promises of a golden future. Realising that it was attempting to befuddle our minds with some foul sorcery we attacked it with blade and flame. To my shame it batted me aside like I was nothing in the first few seconds of the fight. When I regained consciousness I was in shackles.

Our captor has said much of his motivations, but this account will be destroyed if I record them here. He claims that he will write the history of his cause and my account is merely to serve as a curiosity from the final days of the old regime. I have completed this diary as per my orders from the late Lieutenant Marjorie Syndenstar and now I shall endeavour to meet my fate in a manner befitting a Glassblade.

To my dear sister and nephews I send all my love. Until we meet again.

I would like end by stating for the record that 5^th Platoon did their duty to the last with courage and honour. 

An extract from Urgon Wenth’s unfinished memoirs, collected and edited by Elro Aldataur. Working title for future publication ‘An Explorer’s Guide to Wildemount’.


… After evading these horrors for several days, it is always a relief to finally clear the treeline and see the Flotket Alps rising in the distance. However, a cautious traveller should remember that the Savalirwood does not give up prey so easily. The bones of those who let their guard down at this point litter the borders of the forest. Regardless of the time of day or weather conditions I have a firm rule to never strike camp within four hours march of the woods.

Other accounts the reader may have read will skip ahead at this point to the peaks of the Flotket Alps, the Rime Plains or the Crystalsands Tundra. This is because most accounts are written by chinless scholars tucked up safe indoors with a map and a bottle of wine. From this cozy position the area between the Savalirwood and the mountains is an empty space between more interesting destinations. I do not consider myself a soft man, but after battling through the Savalirwood or trekking across the vast tundra I rarely feel the urge to race straight up the mountain paths. I would encourage a sensible campaigner to consider the benefits of recuperating for a few days in less challenging terrain.

Northeast of the Savalirwood the mountain streams and meltwater form a small inland lake known locally as the Wash. The Wash spills west past the ruins of Molaesmyr into the Frigid Depths and east past the ruins of Uraliss into the Emerald Gulch. Neither route is particularly safe or advisable (you will note I write “ruins”, not “happy and thriving town”) but a fast river boat or two is a fair means to approach either location if you plan to pick through the rubble.

Between the Wash and the mountains lie a few small farming communities, mostly composed of those unwilling to live in the dwarven cities to the north. To be perfectly frank none of these is worth much ink and most consistent of just three or four extended farmsteads. In the summer months the farmers move their flocke north to graze on the mountain pastures, in the winter they shelter from the storms on the lowlands. This also means that they are furthest from the Savalirwood at the height of midsummer and only draw near again when winter lulls the wood into slumber.

Technically these farmers are part of Uthodorn but they have a saying which just about sums that up: “Dust from the west, orcs from the east, trouble from the south, tax collectors from the north”. I am told that by law criminals are to be held and turned over to the Glassblades when they make their scheduled patrols. In practice the punishment for outsiders who cause trouble is a shovel to the back of the head and an unmarked grave in a turnip field.

Barter is the main form of trade here, with copper and silver a distant second. You’ll be hard pressed to break a gold piece and most people will assume you came by it looting one of the old elven tombs. (Before you get your hopes up I will say again that the elves do not bury their dead with gold. Grave robbing is rarely a profitable enterprise). If you want food or clothing then your best best is to trade goods. Decent tools, ironmongery, salt, spices, tobacco, alcohol, medicine or herbs will usually buy a warm meal and a night in the hayloft. A good song or a fresh story won’t hurt either.

Unfortunately for those who like their comforts there isn’t an inn between Shadycreek and Uthodorn. If you’re looking for a bed then your best option is the temple of Ilmater which lies on the main trail to Uthodorn. The preachers will give a bed and a meal to anyone who needs it, although they expect those who can to earn it with work or donations. Again, goods are preferred over coin, especially medicinal herbs not available locally.

The temple hosts a small market every five days and a larger fair on the first of every month. The monthly fair draws richer merchants and officials from Uthodorn, so its the spot to head for if you want to buy a mule or join a wagon train headed north. A journey in any other direction is best organised from Uthodorn.

“What do I know of cultured ways, the gilt, the craft and the lie?
I, who was born in a naked land and bred in the open sky.
The subtle tongue, the sophist guile, they fail when the broadswords sing;
Rush in and die, dogs—I was a man before I was a king.” 

Apprentice God-Butcher Ruhollah methodically removed the thin blood from the edge of his Estoc. It shamed him the noble instrument was sullied with such filth. The cleaning was necessary in two ways, it removed the stain of the unworthy from his blade and it put him in the correct frame of mind for the Ritual of Loss.

When the sword was restored to pristine glory he reverentially placed it upon his small shrine. Reluctantly he unclasped his helmet and cradled it in the crook of his arm. Scowling, he sniffed at the thin air. In this place it smelled of absolutely nothing. While he wore his helmet he could pretend to himself that a faint smell of the sacred blood still lingered. Without that scent the world was sterile and flat. Another loss.

Dropping to one knee he let his thoughts wind back to his youth in the Tailstones. Relentless heat and the heavy small of blood. Childish games of bravado, feigning indifference to the roars of the God. Underneath the shadow of the sacred enclosure they would dare each other to creep closer, shrieking and fleeing before they ever touched the outer wall. Knowing the other children were lying, still half believing when they said they had touched the wall, crept through the gates, seen the God up close. He remembered the faces of his friends. He remembered the heart stopping terror the day the wall fell and the God punished the city for hubris. The sounds off the buildings falling around him, trapping him in darkness. The indefinite period without light or water or hope. Only the constant bellows of the God had let him know he was still alive.

There was never any sound in this place.

He had cried out over and over again for the God to spare him, for anyone to rescue him. Panic had given way to a numb fatigue. Eventually the numbness was replaced by a cold fury. He had roared back at this cruel God who couldn’t even be bothered to kill him quickly. He battered against the fallen masonry ignoring the dust that spiralled downward and threatened to choke him. The blood and pain from his torn fingertips spurred him on, screamed at him that he was still alive. Until the sudden rush of light had seared his eyes and sent him staggering backwards. An irresistible force dragged him out of the rubble ignoring his struggles and curses. When his vision cleared the titanic figure of the God-Butcher was already wading back into the ruins to search for other survivors.

Until that day he had never considered what the God-Butchers really did. The God was not some distant unknowable force. It was a cataclysm at the heart of city, barely held in check by mere men and women. The assembled rescue teams were the dregs of the city, drunks, thieves, beggars. Though battered and bruised they stood in the shattered remnants of their homes and responded as one to the God-Butcher’s shouted commands. For the first time he understood the pride and heroism of his people, the nobility of their never-ending struggle against their terrible foe. Ignoring the pain in his hands he limped forward to assist the rescue party.

It was days later when he learned who had pulled him from the rubble. Immediately after securing the God, the legendary Macid Rex had marched his weary and battered butchers though the ruins of the outer wall into the devastation of the Tailstones. While the other High Lords of the city had fled or cowered in their palaces Macid Rex and his elite had been digging through the dust and corpses with the mourners and rescue crews. No bardsong, no parade to the glory of Salt in Wounds had even resonated with Ruhollah more than that simple image. He gave up his childish fancies of glory in battle and vowed that he would join the God-Butchers to serve the people. It was this concept of duty that sustained him through the long years of labour and study. The God-Butchers had no use for fools or idlers. Months of wading through shit and piss drove away those too vain or delicate for the order to use.  

He learned the proper degree of respect for the great beast, leaned when to stand his ground and when to retreat. He buried those who were clumsy or slow to learn. He learned to rely on the other aspirants, when to follow and when to lead. The day when he received his Estoc and earned the rank of apprentice God-Butcher had been the proudest day of his life. Without wasting time on vanity ceremonies, the senior God-Butchers had sent the new initiates straight to work carving flesh for the ever-hungry city. As Macid Rex had always said, service was their duty and reward.

As ever his thoughts came back to the great captain. Within the order Macid Rex was a living legend, the Eidolon they all strove to emulate. When a sudden bout of reflux had scalded a team working in the oesophagus it was Macid Rex who had borne them to safety one by one through cuts and hidden channels even another master would struggle to walk. When the High Council tried to raise water taxes or cut funding to the rebuilding efforts, it was Macid Rex who faced them down. When an unanticipated movement of a hindleg trapped a team of fleshminers, who else could direct the weeklong campaign to reposition the limb and allow them to escape? When Namburg had sent the vipers of Sub-Optima to strike at the God, who else could lead the interception team directly from the flank to the heart? On that dreadful day when the God had shuddered and fallen still, it was Macid Rex who had stepped forward to save the city. He had reminded the terrified people who they were, given them fresh pride and purpose.

“Our enemies have struck a terrible blow at our heart. They think we are destroyed, that we are too weak and fearful to strike back at them. But we are Salt in Wounds. We are more than our God! There is plenty of meat for the taking. We shall feast on their flesh and raise their city to the ground. Shed no tears. Shed the blood of Sub-Optima!”

Every God-Butcher in the city had wanted to join the march north but they had duties remaining in the city. Ruhollah had remained behind to start work on the silent harvest. It was like entering another world. There was no sense of the reverence he once felt as the living landscape reacted to his every movement. The divine spark had fled, his purpose now was the grim task of carefully sorting the good meat from the spoiled. Managing and charting the corruption as best they could. He had vented his anger against the river demons who swarmed the city, promising the masses fish and water in exchange for slavery.

He had not been on the fields of Hellhest when his comrades tore through Sub-Optima’s emaciated dwarven slaves. While those assassins had cowered in the castle and sent wave after wave of sacrificial orc and horseman and dogfolk against the furious alchemical battalions. Where the righteous anger of Salt in Wounds had destroyed this dross Sub-Optima had revealed their true selves. Undead abominations, fire demons and river devils, eldritch flying horrors had rained down on Macid Rex and he had sent them all screaming back to their pits. In the end Sub-Optima had unleashed their final gambit – the moon demons and meteor weapons they had been testing on the empire for months. As an endless tide of horrors enveloped the battlefield and the demon moon itself cracked and fell upon the world even Macid Rex could not achieve victory. He had returned home to warn his people what was to come.

The empire was breaking apart. Meteor weapons were destroying supply routes and the fear of famine was taking root even though supplies were still plentiful. Looting and rioting was everywhere. The council and the noble houses were split between fleeing, profiteering and surrendering. Once again it fell to Macid Rex to take command. He had quelled the riots with brutal action and fresh meat. He rallied the defenders and smashed the profiteers. He let the cowards and useless eaters leave with whatever loot they could carry. He sorted and graded the prime cuts from the offal. All the while making his contingency plans. 

Ruhollah spat. They should not have expected honourable combat. The Swarm Witch had come like a disease, twisting the minds of noble men and women and turning them against their kin. Tempting the remaining houses with promises of elevation in her new empire of lies. Destroying the faithful with Dunamancy she had learned from their own treacherous mages. They had slain her avatars many times but their blades were coated only with tainted water. The only flesh that they could cleave was that of her brainwashed slaves.

Some of them remained loyal and willing to until fight the bitter end. But Macid Rex had refused to dance to the witch’s tune. He would not see his people slaughter each other until Mesmerelda could harvest the secrets of the holy city unopposed. He had rallied the few Binder-Lords who remained loyal and persuaded them to release the sacred harpoons to keep them from enemy hands. He had gathered the remaining Archmages and master alchemists for his grand purpose. And finally, he had led his remaining butchers deep into the Godcorpse to reveal the great secret…

Ruhollah opened his eyes and rose to his feet. After replacing his helmet, he took a moment to centre himself, to hear his harsh breath echoing in his ears. Hefting his Estoc he gave thanks for the labour and craftmanship of the ancestors who had torn this bone from the God and fashioned it into such an exquisite weapon. He raised the blade into a fighting stance and began to flow through the practice forms. Silent contemplation was proper for the ritual of loss, but he preferred to move when he contemplated the rites of revenge.

The mages had talked much and said little about this place Macid Rex had selected to house the precious artefacts. Dunamancy, astral, timestream. The words meant little. Only the duty mattered.

The mages would guard the portals to ensure they could not be followed. They would study the magics that Mesmerelda had used to cripple their city. The witch would learn that a sword could cut both ways.

The alchemists would study the Godbane that had ruined their civilisation. They had the notes of the archtraitor Nespib. They had samples of the damaged flesh. In time an antidote could be devised.

There were creatures in this strange place. Their flesh was weak stuff to those who had tasted the divine meat but the God-Butchers would harvest it to feed the faithful. They would protect the sacred harpoons until they were needed again. They would guard the last of the trueflesh.

Macid Rex had given them their tasks, but had declined to join them. He would not abandon his people and the holy city. He had remained behind to lead those who kept the faith. He would live and die in the sacred city he had done so much to build and serve.

Ruhollah redoubled his efforts, the Estoc becoming a blur of bone in his hands.

Already there were those who whispered Macid Rex has been more than mortal. That he had been sent by the God to show them the true path, to preserve their way of life. Ruhollah paid no heed to this idle nonsense. It diminished the memory of the man. He had been flesh and blood, driven by implacable will and an unquenchable sense of duty to his people. He was mortal and his success was the greater because of it.

Then there were those who whispered that Macid Rex had been driven mad at the end. Ruhollah glared at the bloodstained rags he had used to clean his Estoc. They would not say such things again. Macid Rex had never sought or given false hope. If he said he had heard signs of life within the egg, then it was so.

Panting hard Ruhollah came to a halt and shouldered his weapon. Their path was clear. They would harvest and study and guard. Someday the sacred harpoons would be sink once again in the blood-soaked soil of his homeland. To the sound of divine fury he would draw his Estoc and cut the flesh of the young God with the bones of the old. They would tend and harvest the flesh to feed his people. He would walk the crimson pathways that few were ever privileged to see and hear the heartbeat of the divine.

They were flesh and blood. They were Salt in Wounds. They would have their revenge. 

“I really don’t think you appreciate how fucking pissed I am Ernie.”

The booming voice shook the leaves on the blueberry bushes. Insects twitched and dropped dead at the infernal sound. Ernodal gave one of the remaining berries an experimental squeeze and sighed. Rising to his feet he carefully wiped the juice from his fingers before replying.

“I thought you’d be happy. When Mario destroyed him he should have been blasted straight back to the Abyss to face the music.”

“So where the fuck is he? Why am I not strumming a jaunty tune on his intestines to accompany this conversation?”

“Because Mario unmade him.”

“NO. I would know if he were dead.”

“But he didn’t die. We were both there when the Navigator killed the Usurper. You saw him die, watched him dissolve into ash and fade into nothingness. This was different. Mario erased the Navigator. He reached into him – into us – and unpicked him. Like he was never there.”

“Hmph. You survived.”

“I did what you taught me. I found a chump to stand in front and take the hits.”

The air was still for a moment. Then the earth began to buckle and crack to the sound of titanic laughter.

“Oh, that’s a good one. I like that… Just like old times eh Ernie?

Seriously thought, are you sure about this? He was wily.”

“It didn’t do him any good. All his escape routes and paths fell away in the end. He was out of options and he knew it.”

“Very well. In this matter I will defer to your specialist knowledge of that sneaky fuck and whatever that nutjob Mario did. I hope it hurt.

So that leaves me and you. I note that my favourite warlock is drawing power directly from my throne these days. Or at least he would be if he wasn’t baking muffins on a camping trip.”

Ernodal looked around the remains of his old village. Nature was already reclaiming the elegant dwellings but it would be a long time before anything grew on the scorched earth. He had thought of placing a memorial of some kind but standing here it didn’t seem necessary. Whatever was left of his campfire would mark the place for a short while until nature took it back.

“I was passing by. It seemed a shame to leave all the berries for the birds”.

“So you just go back to the food industry? Couldn’t you, I don’t know, build a temple to me or something?”

“I think that’s Clerics.”

“There’s a lot of up and coming warlocks these days smartass! I’m getting a lot of attention from Salt in Wounds. And Namburg too. There’s a big gap in the worship market.”

“You’re welcome. A fella on a street corner was shouting about you last week. How the terrible Demogorgan destroyed the victory moon and slew Kossus. 

“That’s what I’m talking about! What did you say? Did you big me up?”

“I bought him a meal. He was hungry.”

“My will be done I guess”.

**************

Jhakri Hiranjan braced himself at the entrance to his cave. The tremble in his hands was not caused by the biting wind that stirred the last of the fresh snow. His quivering fingers caressed the bright prayer flags around the cavemouth and he felt his courage return. The moment he had been steeling himself for was had come and he was going to do his duty. As it drew near he closed his eyes and stepped out into the path, bellowing in the secret tongue:

“Avaunt, demon!”

He was not expecting a reply in the language of the flatland traders.

“Who, me?”

The Jhakri opened his eyes. A thin figure stepped out of the air before him.

“Demon I abjure and command you to begone! This is a holy place!”

“I think there’s been a mistake. I’m a cartographer. I draw maps.”

Hiranjan paused. The apparition was offering him a map. This wasn’t in the holy texts. Although… Recoiling he blessed himself and drew himself up to his full height.

“Foolish fiend! Do you think me so gullible? Try as you might your sort can never pass for flesh and blood! You stand in fresh snow wearing the lightest robes without shivering. You appear from thin air. I address you in the language of demons and you hear my words clearly. And finally, that “map” you claim to draw is naught but a crude sketch of triangles! Begone from my sight!

To his amazement and delight the spirit began to drift away back down the mountainside. Inside his cave the prayer bells began to slow their frenzied dance as the demonic power which had disturbed them receded.

The enemy was crafty indeed. But at the last minute he had recalled the blessed Jhakri Aanga who had rejected a cloak of snow and branches from a similar traveler. The demonic mind was crafty but could not create art as men did. The could only make crude imitations.

In an uncharacteristic bad mood Ernodal took extra time adding “crazy man cave” to his map. Squinting at the peak overhead he carefully added another triangle of the right size.

Euan was right. The art was hard and everyone was a critic. 

**************

Ali Goran glared at the other three members of the Ventral regions research society.

“All right, who was it this time?”

Melcul let out a loud snort. Ali tried to catch his eye but obese orc stared down at the table and his pint of Red Setter, clearly struggling to keep a straight face.

“What do mean Ali?”

That was from Roan. He switched his attention to the halfling but the little shit was cool as a breeze. No wonder he always won when they rounded out the evening with a game of cards.

“Have you perhaps received some fresh correspond… corres… Oh twins I can’t….”

Wilhelmina’s voice cracked as she tried to keep her tone level. The witch’s giggles set Melcul off completely. The rest of the bar turned to stare as the booming laugh of the enormous orc drowned out all other conversation. Wilhelmina nearly fell off her chair. Roan drained his wineglass and watched his friends a twinkle in his eye.  Ali reddened.

“I should never have told any of you irresponsible amateurs anything. I can’t think what possessed me to…”

That set them off again.

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. As the days stretched into weeks and Ernodal failed to return Ali had been forced to conclude that the unfortunate young man was dead. Wracked with guilt, Ali resolved to continue his research in memory of the poor fellow. So he had decided to swallow his pride and reach out to others in his profession, seeking to pool their knowledge and ensure such a tragedy never reoccurred. He had hoped for insight, sympathy, maybe a little admiration. He hadn’t counted on disbelief and scorn.

In hindsight it was a little hard to believe. Ernodal shouldn’t have been able to last a day without dissolving into a puddle of spoiled meat. Centuries of research had shown that a greater fiend couldn’t be housed in a mortal body without uncontrollable and fatal mutations. His new study partners had made numerous well cited objections and concluded that Ali had been mistaken or deceived.

Which was why he was so happy to receive the letter from Ernodal. His relief had turned to horror when he read that Ernodal had sprouted wings and a tail. The horror had turned to mortification when he reached the end of the letter and read the overwrought pleas for Ali to recommend a new tailor.

Oh, they’d roared with laughter that evening. Since then he had been getting a fake letter weekly before they met in the pub.

Ernodal had grown two extra heads and needed a loan of his spare turbans. (Derivative!)

Ernodal had eaten too much and now he and his friends were haunted by a demonic pile of faeces (Infantile!)

Ernodal and his friends had been granted a Barony and he was welcome to visit (Unlikely!)

And now this week, two letters!

“You need to coordinate your pranks better. I have received two pieces of drivel at once.

In the first, Ernodal reassures me that he is doing well and has made peace with his demons! This is neither funny nor clever, and it brings dishonour to the author.

In the second…”

Ali paused for a moment, unable to keep a straight face.

“Okay, this one is actually pretty good. Ernodal writes that his demon was really three imps in a trenchcoat”.

**************

The Pramukha stared at the corpse for a long time. When he spoke his voice was calm and flat but it carried easily over the assembled crowd.

“Tell us again how it happened.”

The young woman kneeling in the snow to his right clasped her hands together. She kept her eyes fixed on the clear sky and spoke slowly as if each word was precious.

“The flock were uneasy all day. A great storm was brewing over the peaks to the east. When we had gathered half in together the rest grew wild and refused to come closer. I cursed them, but they were trying to warn us.

It had been burrowing underneath the village. It surfaced between the sheep pens, a pillar of ice, scale and teeth. It was so quick! Nothing that size should be so terribly fast.
It took the herd in the pens first. That bought us a few seconds. I screamed for the others to scatter that it might not take us all. But the children ran towards me…”

She broke her gaze from the sky and scooped closest child into her arms, partly to hold him and partly to block his ears.

“The tales don’t do it justice. To see it coming towards you, an avalanche of teeth and malice… truly the ice worm comes to feed on flesh and soul alike. The shadow fell across us. I felt the fiery breath, reeking of fresh blood from the sheep. But it was hurled away from us! See the tracks it tore in the ground!

A figure hung in the sky. In form it was like a person, but it shone like the noonday sun. A dancing aura wreathed his head and light flowed from his outstretched hands.

We have all seen the paintings of enlightened souls. I knew what he was.

The ice worm was maddened by blood. It surged towards us again but light stream forth from the ascended one. With a gesture he threw the monster back like it was made of paper.

When the ice worm was still the figure descended to the earth. We fell to our knees but he bade us to stand. He blessed the children, conjured music from the air to make them laugh. We did not have the learning to understand his speech. The only word we could share were the name of the Irlandi monks. He made the sign of the monastery grew delighted when we prayed towards it.

We bade him to stay but he seemed to have a great and urgent business with those holy ones. He ascended once again on a pillar of wind and we lost sight of him as he flew over the ridges. We sent word to the nearby villages that all may hear and see the proof before you.”

Several villagers sank to their knees and gave thanks to the Irlandi and the sky spirits. The Pramukha remained standing. He was still trying to calculate the vast fortune they could harvest from the body of fully grown Remorhaz.

Untroubled by religious fervour or dreams of wealth the children finished their blueberry muffins.

**************

The room was tiny, barely wide enough for the narrow bunk. A small slab of chipped granite was balanced on a battered crate to serve as a desk. With the floor taken up by the meagre furniture all the books, scrolls and scraps of occult paraphernalia had to be crammed into gaps between the rough stones or suspended from a network of strings and ropes. Silver bells, feathered frames and half-filled jars swayed gently in the breeze that streamed through the open door. Small trinkets from across Vaul and far beyond hung on delicate threads – nothing larger than would fit comfortably in a pocket. Swords and knives of various sizes were hung around the walls in well-oiled scabbards. There was no bare steel on display, no sign that these were there for a visitor to admire or the resident of the room to reminisce over. These were the working tools of someone who made a point of always having several weapons to hand.

The grey-haired woman at the crude desk was making notes on a battered map. Ink stains on her sleeves suggested that this was a common position, but she was dressed as if she was about to set out on a hike down the icy mountains. A battered rucksack at the foot of the bunk. Perhaps she was used to leaving with little notice.

A whisper from the darkness above caused her quill to stop scratching. One hand darted reflexively to the nearest hilt while she scanned the room. Her eyes fixed on a blue glass jar containing a cricket from the plains half a continent to the east. She frowned as the cricket twitched again. To her left the silver bells began to stir. The dreamcatcher spun in a breeze that left the other papers untouched. A jar of otherwise unremarkable sand started to glow yellow.

Without a sound the woman rose, flowed into a fighting stance. With a slight smile she slipped out of the room, prowling down the corridor to see what had triggered her alarms. A familiar figure silhouetted against an open door made her pause. Her voice was a hoarse whisper from lack of use.

“Fionnleth?”

The figure spun around, startled. As he turned she saw she was mistaken. He was slightly broader than Fionnleth, the hair was darker… and his expression was that of a frightened child.

“Ernodal?”

“H… hi Mam”.

Dropping her swords she raced towards him, nearly knocking him off his feet as her arms crushed around him. Gods, he was taller than her now. How long had it been since she saw either of them? As the years had slipped by she’d forced herself to stop counting. It just made the pain worse. When she felt she could speak again she drew back slightly to look at his face. So much like his father.

“If you are here alone then Fionnleth is…”

He nodded and pressed his forehead against hers, tears streaming from his eyes.

“Dad is gone. But it’s over Mam. Tarnik and the Navigator, Etricht and Mario and the moons… It’s all over”.

“Etricht? MOONS? What…?”

Ernodal just stared at her for a moment, trying to decide where to begin. Then his nervous smile widened into a tearstained grin.

“Well, I made some great friends…”

**************

Dreamseer Aumpata tossed another handful of Charroot onto the fire. The bitter smoke from the herb mingled with the earthy notes of the dried horse and centaur dung, swirling smoke filling her darkened tent. Closing her eyes she focused on her breathing, ignoring the aches that plagued her old joints and the usual din of the Khan’s encampment outside. As the smoke filled her lungs she began to drift into the seeing trance.

The great powers were in disorder. Namthar had died in fire, Kossus in a final bout of bloodletting. Scenes of disbelief and mourning filled her mind as the followers of the two struggled with their loss. Aumpata was unmoved by their narrow-minded wailing.  She would pay her respects to the fallen powers and remember them in her songs, but there were many powers to pay homage to. Some rose, some fell. It was the way of things.

Other images filled her mind. A bloodknight called for vengeance for the great loss of his people. Grolantour gloried in the series of wars that swept the land. The goblin ancestors cried out as their people faded, disappeared forever, grew reinvigorated and stronger than ever. He stonefolk died in their thousands and their tombkeeper waxed powerful with their death song. Or did he die with them? Visions were treacherous.

She knew these contradictions meant she was straying far into undecided futures, indulging in idle fancies. Dangerous to linger too long in this part of the dreamland.

She drew her gaze backwards towards what she knew be true. Namthar and Kossus, dead in fire and blood. Fire and blood, fire in the blood. Spiderweb, branching path, family line. A warrior proudly embraced her son, grown to manhood. A constellation of nineteen iron stars orbiting a crimson moon. One by one they tumbled from the sky. The falling stars raced over the camp of the Khan, one of them shifting to become a great winged figure armed with spear and whip. He chanted as he fell to earth amidst the tents. “Khorin.” Twenty in the old tongue.

Opening her eyes the dreamseer nodded in satisfaction. Good omens for the future of the Khanate at an auspicious time. It had been many months since the great hunt. Soon the offspring of the celebrating heroes would be born.

Ernodal nodded softly to himself as he completed a final circuit of the room while counting the ring of spears. Satisfied that everything was ready he paused to lay his palm on the crude granite block at the head of the circle.

“Don’t go getting a big head. This isn’t all about you.

Oh I know what you’ll say. Poor Ernie, gone nuts without me. It’s been one week and he’s already talking to himself in a fucking playhouse.

But it’s like I told you when we walked to Vicetina. Family is important to mortals. So is memory. This should be marked properly.”

He grinned.

“Clink wouldn’t like me spending money on a bigger memorial. But this will do for now.”

Returning to the centre of the room he turned to address the granite block.

“Once upon a time there was a king who lost his kingdom. When the usurper had secured the throne his first action was to move against those who had placed him there. His former general fled across reality to Vaul, where he took refuge among the elves to lick his wounds and plot. An elf named Chirolan was chosen to be the instrument of his revenge. So Chirolan became the first elven Navigator.”

Ernodal moved to the spear closest to the crude throne.

“Chirolan was manipulated into the path of the fallen king, who unwittingly recruited him to help reclaim his throne. They failed.”

Ernodal slammed his open palm onto the speartip. Winching with pain he dragging his hand along the edge of the spear, tearing the wound wider until the flowing blood reached the haft. As the flesh warped and knitted back together he clumsily removed a candle from a satchel at his side. With a whispered word the candle flared to life.

“Chirolan fell in the Abyss. May his spirit find peace.”

Gently he set the candle onto the bloody spear head, warm light reflecting off dark blood and cold metal. He paused for a moment before moving onto the next point in the circle.

“Before he died Chirolan had a daughter named Gadiron. She became the second Navigator. She too fell on the path to the throne.”

Ernodal opened the edge of this hand on the second spear, lit a second candle.

“Gadrion fell in the Abyss. May her spirit find peace.”

Again he paused for a moment before moving along the circle. By the time he reached the eighteenth spear the room was bright with candles and heavy with the smell of blood.

“Fionnleth was the eighteenth Navigator, and my father. He fell in the Abyss. May his spirit find peace.”

Ernodal paused here for a long time, remembering his father’s slack face and empty eyes. Then he moved back to the centre of the circle of spears and lowered himself to the floor.

“And with my father dead, I became the nineteenth Navigator. I walked the path to the Throne. And there…

*****

Ernodal fell to his knees, blood hissing as it poured from his ruined chest onto the burning rock. The smell made him gag and he lifted his tearstained face to watch his death approach. The Sovereign barrelled forwards but suddenly Camelot was between them, duelling with the enormous demon while calmly explaining how swords were superior to claws. As if to illustrate his point he parried a slash from an enormous claw and flowed into a riposte which took a chunk out of the demon’s forearm. Ernodal screamed as the same cut opened on his forearm.

It was hopeless. He had hoped that his stolen power would be stronger close to the source but instead it was slipping away. Whenever he tried to draw on his magic his ears filled with a chorus that made it impossible to focus.

…Ernodal…

…Navigator…

                                                                                …Beware…

The Sovereign backhanded Camelot across the throne room and turned his dead gaze back to Ernodal. He tried to focus on a spell but the voices intensified into screams.

Ernodal, beware the Navigator!

The warning in Ernodal’s head were drowned out by an ear-splitting roar as Clink dropped out of the sky and crashed into the Sovereign like an angry comet. Ernodal’s ribs cracked as talons tore into the demon lord. The magic he was weaving whipped free and something awful formed inside his skull. The new presence spread like a flood of bile, crushing Ernodal’s psyche as it seized and remade his body. Organs and bones burst through his skin, flexing and thrashing as he was twisted to suit a new purpose. He tried to scream, but what burst from his throat was a roar of triumph…  

*****

Ernodal opened his eyes in the circle of spears. The flagstones beneath him glowed with a twisting lattice of light. His blood throbbed in his ears. Something was watching him from behind his eyes, preparing to tear him apart from the inside. He choked down the fear.

“I remember what we did. What you thought…”

*****

The Usurper sent a blast of disintegrating force towards him but he was already moving, whip coiling out to lash around his enemies’ neck. Reality flickered and he was behind his target. Bracing his feet he pulled the whip taut, snarling with savage joy as the line of lightening bit into the Usurper’s neck and dragged him down onto the spear. As the speartip burst through the false kings’ chest he yanked the whip backwards so he could speak directly into his ear.

𝔑𝔬𝔴 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔡𝔦𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔩 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢 𝔏𝔲𝔠𝔦𝔉𝔲𝔤𝔢 ℜ𝔬𝔣𝔬𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔢.

The death scream of the Sovereign shook the foundations of the Abyss. As his foe dissolved he reached out along the Winding Path, drinking in a rush of possibilities that even his fractal mind couldn’t fully comprehend. The throne stood empty before him and when he ascended nothing would be beyond his reach. His triumphant gaze swept the throne room, focusing on the pitiful thing that had once been Demogorgon. The maggot was dumbfounded, still trying to understand what had just happened. Had he honestly believed that all this was his doing?

The mortals mewled as he turned his gaze on each of them, dismissing them with a glance. They were of no consequence. This one was time looped, that one might someday craft a genocide… they were nothing he had not seen before and would not see again. One was already starting to rot… but a node of possibilities was forming around the corpse.

“Camelot isn’t moving”.

He paused at the whisper in his head, explored the node further to see the potential futures it promised. The mortal whose meat he wore was still aware. That was impossible.

Unless a mortal had been bred for generations to conceal and carry one of the Neverborn.

Unless the one who wore his flesh had been weakened by centuries of hiding away from the Abyss.

If the mortal had sufficient motivation to wrest back control…

“Why isn’t anyone helping him?”

Unable to believe what was happening, he spread his wings as the work of centuries started to slip out of his grasp. It was the Navigator who took to the air. It was Ernodal who landed and ran towards Camelot.

*****

Ernodal opened his eyes. The room had disappeared and the ring of spears floated in a field of darkness.

“Curiosity. Not rage. Not disappointment. You could have taken the throne but you stopped to explore a possibility just because it was something you’d never seen. You’d rather see one new sight than rule the Abyss.”

The darkness exploded into light and violence. The spaces between the spears became a kalioscope of portals, each opening onto a battlefield or torture chamber around the Abyss.

An army of Chort tore each other apart on a field of crystal.

Stone ships crashed together in a sea of acid.

Men screamed as they fell through an endless sky with skeletal crows tearing at their flesh.

Green flames enveloped a huddle of blue creatures with too many arms.

A wave of alien anger washed over Ernodal as he felt something probe his mind to find his fears.

“If I die you’ve got nowhere to hide. Tarnik isn’t in a forgiving mood.”

The scenes faded into darkness. Ernodal rose and paced the circle, trying to shake off the emotions that coursed through him from somewhere else.

“What’s done is done, so enough of the tantrums. The throne is beyond your reach. You betrayed Tarnik, Lucifuge betrayed you. I was dragged into the middle. Now he’s dead, my family is gone and we’re stuck with each other.

You know what’s coming to Vaul from the moon. I’m going to try and stop it. You keep me and my friends alive and I’ll do what whatever I can to plead your case to Tarnik. At least give you time to plan your next move.”

The darkness faded and Ernodal was back in the room. The spear had disappeared and the entire structure was buckled and twisted. He rapped the cracked walls with his knuckles and a portion of the masonry crumbled to dust.

“I’ll take that as a yes then. We’ll talk again soon. Though I may need a bigger room next time I try to talk to myself.”

He grinned. Clink would have to find the money somehow.

“You are permitted in time of great danger to walk with the devil until you have crossed the bridge.” 
― Balkan proverb

The lone traveller was making Gunther nervous.

They were far from any town or village worthy of a proper name and the local hunters were the only group who spent any time in these hills. Boredom and poverty meant most were happy to dabble in banditry when the opportunity arose, so outsiders usually curved south for several days to follow safer paths. On the rare occasion a group needed to travel in a direct line from Namburg to Vicetina they did so in large bands. In 40 years he’d never seen anyone walk this route alone.

At his side his eldest son already had an arrow notched but Gunther waved him down. This didn’t feel right. Travellers normally dressed in plain practical travelling gear but this one wore a red silk cloak which danced in the wind like a flag as he gestured and argued with the air. Worse still, as he drew closer it became apparent that the air was arguing back.

“… Clearly don’t give a shit about your promises. We could have hopped in your tower and been there and back in an hour. Any one of your fancy friends could have sent us there with a click of their fingers. But instead I get a front row ticket to watch weeks of Ernie’s-go-fuck-yourself-Tarnik walking tour, just to rub in how little this partnership means to you! At least now…”

“We’ve been over this Tarnik.”

“Well excuse me for bothering you with my petty grievances! If it is not too boring for your worship, can I just say that the only consolation I can see on the horizon (and it is a very small consolation, considering the magnitude of the distain which you are currently showing after I have done so much to help you) is the prospect of upcoming entertainment. There’s a band of losers lurking on that ridge about to jump out and attack us. So do you want to take a break from your relaxing stroll to boil their blood, or do you want me to start ripping off heads?”

Gunther and his sons were already sprinting away from this madman who walked with ghosts. Tarnik spat.

“See how I still have your back in spite of such rank ingratitude? Where would you be without me? Trying to fight them off with a frying pan as you try to wriggle out of your bondage gear.”

“Tarnik prodded the dimaterium chains draped over Ernodal’s shoulders for emphasis.”

“C’mon boss. Enough of the shackles and mud look. The only Navigator of his generation doesn’t need to crawl through this shithole like some brokeass farmboy.”

Ernodal sighed.

“Tarnik, my mind is made up. I am walking to Vicetina to talk to Conan and see what he knows about my parents and the Herald. I have not forgotten my promises to you. This is something I need to do.

I am walking because it is a normal thing for a mortal to do. I need remind myself that’s what I am. I need to feel tired at the end of a long day, feel hungry and foot sore. I need to feel like myself to face the night. I don’t sleep anymore, not really. I just drift through his thoughts. And that’s seeping in.”

“I know you hear his voice, but that’s only for a little while longer. Once he’s gone, no more voices.”

“It’s not his voice. It’s me, thinking like him. You know my first thought when Willem reported on the food shortages? Cull the weak, plenty of meat for the strong.”

“Hey it ain’t pretty but sometimes you gotta…”

“People don’t think like that! I shouldn’t be thinking like that! And it’s not just the thoughts. Do you know that I don’t bleed anymore? I ooze. I cut myself cooking and the blood slithered back in!”

“Oh geez Ernie. Look, these changes you’re going through, these urges you are having, it’s just something that happens to kids at your age. It’s perfectly natural. Well, more supernatural I guess. But perfectly harmless unnatural changes are a part of life.”

“I’m slipping Tarnik. Can’t concentrate. Can’t taste food. The chains stop the minor demons getting through and running riot. They can feel how distracted I am and they’re getting out of hand.”

“Okay, fine. We’ve been working hard, you need a break. But all the way to Vicetina?”

“Truenames are important to demons right? Family is important to mortals. The past is important. Conan might not have all the answers I want but he can tell me something of my parents. Trust me on this. I’ll speak to him and get my head straight. We’ll meet the others back in Namburg and then get back to work.”

“That’s the other bit I don’t like. Why couldn’t your friends come? What am I supposed to do if you have another one of your late night visitors?”

“That’s why you’re here, right? To watch my back.”

The falling rubble from the red moon had buried half of Namburg. Survivors crawled through the wreckage, heads bowed to avoid looking at the ruined palace floating overhead. Black blood flowed in a steady stream from the palace dungeons, polluting the ruined city further. Demons capered in the falling blood and drank from the pools of gore in the shattered streets. At the highest point of the palace a single figure lounged on a throne made from the skulls of gods.

Ernodal’s vision kept shifting. He was huddled in a shattered slum hiding from the demons. He was on the throne, sneering down on the vermin that fled from his gaze. He bled in the dungeons. He hunted through the streets. He writhed in pain, impaled on an iron spike in Wilheim’s throne room. He bowed low to the massive figure of Tarnik, the imp so bloated and swollen from a never-ending stream of sacrifices that he had to squeeze into the throne.

Ernodal snapped awake, disorientated in the darkness. The chains across his chest were red hot. Tarnik flapped around his face in a panic.

“Oh shit Ernie oh shit this is bad you gotta hold him off this is a big one Ernie just hang in there he can’t get through those chains yet WHAT ARE YOU DOING DON’T TAKE THEM OFF!”

Ernodal could barely hear the imp. His ears filled with the bellows of the manifesting demon as it battered against the exit of the Winding Path. It hadn’t expected to find dimaterium chains barring the final step. He could let it scrabble there on the edge of reality until the force that propelled it was spent. But this challenge was the other reason he had come alone to the middle of nowhere. He wanted to break this creature that dared attack him, make it beg under his boot. A few weeks ago he might have pretended to himself that this was vengeance for his village, or the voice of his patron tempting him to disaster. But he wanted this fight just to prove to himself and his rebellious demons where he stood in the infernal hierarchy. After a lifetime of knowing his birth made him inferior the demonic system was darkly appealing. The strong rose and the weak fell.

He unslung the chains, ignoring the searing heat blistering his hands. He hissed a challenge in Infernal words he could barely understand, harsh syllables of contempt and defiance. Something huge erupted from the earth in response, massive horns and slabs of muscle fused with chitinous claws and shell. Grass withered and died as the demon infected the air. Ernodal balled his fists, his lesser demons tense and ready behind him. Before he could move the bull demon spat a word and Ernodal’s vision went blurred. He couldn’t move.

The tip of a huge claw stabbed into Ernodal’s chest and heaved him off his feet. The serrated edge caught under his ribs. He tried to scream but it came out as a bloody cough. The demon’s breath burned his face.

Pathetic. All this trouble from one little mage? So insolent and fragile…

The pain was horrendous but the feeling of helplessness was worse. The demonic element growing inside him railed against the notion of defeat. He welcomed the surge of arrogance, felt it swell into a torrent of defiance. He could not die like this. The world snapped into focus and he spat a command to his choir of demons. A glittering spectral serpent yawned out of the night, swallowing Ernodal whole and dropping him on the ground clutching his ruined stomach.

He rolled to the side as an enormous hoof pounding into the ground by his head. Before the second blow descended he gasped another command, the serpent demon flickering him out of existence for another instant. His wounds were already closing. The Bull demon seared the earth with a burst of hellfire but Ernodal was already behind him, power flaring from his fingertips as a trio of golden demons wearing the faces of dead friends streaked towards the bull demon. Staggering from the impact the enormous demon spun around to face his foe but the half elf was a blur, winking in and out of existence in a widening circle. Snarling golden demons streaked in from all sides, repeated impacts cracking demonic shell and scorching flesh.

The serpent demon slipped away as the spell ended, depositing Ernodal on top of a nearby hill. The bull demon had been battered to the ground but it rose slowly, purple ichor dripping from terrible wounds. His eyes still burned with defiance.

“Run all you want little mage, you might as well try to flee from your shadow. I’ve tasted your blood and will pursue you across all existence if I have to. Mortal magic cannot harm me. Best me now and I will be reborn in my homeland to come for you again.”

Ernodal started to walk down the hill.

“I’m not running. And you will kneel in my presence unless I give you leave to stand.”

A swarm of feathered gargoyles appeared around the bull demon, swooping down to perch on his shoulders and tearing at his wounds with hooked claws. He swatted the first few aside before the flock dragged him to the ground and pinned him there with sheer numbers. Flat on his back he continued his stream of insults and threats as Ernodal approached, lighting arcing around the warlocks’ fingers.

“I don’t know anything about mortal magic. I draw this power straight from the one you serve. I hear his thoughts. Some of his memories too. I can remember him sending you. I can almost remember your true name… but I don’t think I need it to harm you.”

Ernodal reached down and pressed his finger to the struggling demons’ chest. Massive muscles sizzled and dissolved into oily smoke. The demon screamed in pain and confusion. Ernodal ignored him.

“Interesting… It seems I can destroy you here. Not just the shell you wear on this plane, but your trueself. Or I can diminish you. Demote you down through the ranks until you are a crawling maggot for the imps to hunt.”

Mercy great one! Anything but that!

There was genuine terror in the demon’s voice. Even Ernodal’s gargoyles were cowed. Demotion to the rank beneath them was a constant fear for all demons. For a creature like this, losing multiple ranks would reverse millennia of unending toil and scheming to get ahead. It would mean an eternity of torture as thousands of enemies and former servants sought revenge.

“Since you have learned humility so quickly I am inclined to be merciful. I shall give you a chance to consider the error of your ways. You may yet be of use to me.”

Ernodal reached inside his cloak and removed the Chalice of the Void. A dull moan echoed from the cloud of swirling liquid as the trapped spirits struggled in vain to escape. The Bull demon tried to protest but the words slurred as it melted into a greasy stream flowing upwards into the chalice. The moaning from the chalice grew slightly larger as another trapped joined the chorus.

The lesser demons were frozen in place around Ernodal.  As his gaze washed over each of them they bowed their heads or slunk to the ground baring their throats in obeisance. This was the moment a demon lived for, servants cowed and enemies destroyed. The sense of complete power was intoxicating. When he spoke his voice was thick and harsh.

“Tarnik.”

“Yes boss!”

“I walk to Vicetina. Then my path leads back through the swamps and on to the Dreadfort. I will learn his truename and I will destroy him with it.”

“Yes boss!”

“Ernodal exhaled and his shoulders sagged. His voice returned to normal.

“But I am still myself. And you, all of you, are free to leave if you don’t want to be part of this. This is a partnership and you aren’t slaves.”

“Yes boss!”

“…At some point you are going to stop agreeing with me and snap back to complaining, right?”

“Yes boss!”

Ernodal shook his head and looked away to hide his grin. Power was still worryingly tempting, but the prospect of demons fawning over him like this made him want to run for the hills. He might be going mad but was nice to know he wasn’t cut out to be a tyrant.

Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —

Sparks lit the darkness as Valentia rammed her sword into the ancient stone walls to deface a symbol of Namthar. Her wings brushed the roof of the corridor sending stray icicles crashing to the ground. Gritgoz felt sure that she was doing this deliberately to force him to dodge the falling shards of ice. She also seemed to be taking a petty pleasure in keeping to an awkward pace just above his comfortable walking speed, forcing the goblin to pant out his questions and then race forward to hear the answers. 

“Weaknesses? None in particular that I know of. When the other two bound Kossus they used the harpoons that still pin him to the dirt. Have you seen them? There might be something in them which hurts your Gods. 

When the two fought Moros never left his moon. I don’t know if he was afraid of his brother or his followers. I don’t recall anything unusual about the weapons of their voidtouched armies… But toward the end of those wars Namthar was hurt badly.” 

“Sneak onto the Moons? Not that I know of. But the warmachines and the armies came down and then went back up. If you wanted to sneak in then perhaps you could cling to one of the behemoths. Assuming you could get close enough and live. 

Your heroes tried the direct approach, flying straight up carried by their Gemstone dragon allies. Have you ever seen one of those die? If was like watching hope itself fall from the sky… 

But only the first few died battering against that shield. Those dragons who were later in the assault came back with all kinds of theories and observations. For a time it seemed that every mage in Vaul was trying to find a way through that protection. Maybe one of them found a way? The Gemstones who survived certainly spent enough time whining about it for the following centuries. Even if your churches burned all those writings, the dragons will remember.” 

“Namthar… His moon still hangs in the sky? Certainly he still doles out his favour to those fools who beg hard enough. But after the Harvest ended I never saw him incarnate. Your best bet might be an Archbishop. If he kills your friends maybe you can ask the one below before he crushes your skull.” 

“As for Kossus, I can’t speak to his mind. But in my experience, a long period of captivity is made bearable by hate and thoughts of revenge. Speaking of which, can you hear them above? Wailing and puling for Namthar to save them? 

Let us go forth and share the truth little goblin. Let us tell them that you have killed their bishops and slain their warriors. They deserve to know that their Gods have returned to scour them from the face of the earth.” 

With a massive beat of her wings Valentia surged out of the temple doorway and into the night sky to preach the truth. 

There feeds he full on the flesh of the dead,
And the home of the gods he reddens with gore;
Dark grows the sun, and in summer soon
Come mighty storms: would you know yet more?
– The Völva, to Odin

What the group have learned to date:

1,000+ years ago:

• The previous Harvest begins and threatens to wipe out all life on Vaul.

• In a desperate attempt to survive the cataclysm some mortals seek assistance from fiends. The demons keep their word – after a fashion. Warped by unholy magic these mortals become the first Tieflings and Vampires.

• The Harvest does not go to plan as conflict breaks out between Moros, Namthar and Kossus (as the party learned in Ashenkirk.) The details and result of the infighting remain unclear to Sub Optima. Later generations will remember this conflict as the Century War between Namthar and Kossus.

• The truth is preserved in Ashenkirk and by the few ancient beings who survived. Possibly other records exist – Conan made some offhand remarks about “so called Gods” and the group have encountered other hints (for example in the Dream Eater’s lair).

Gap/discrepancy in Sub Optima’s knowledge regarding the details of the Harvest. Clink saw one huge creature destroy Bastion – this does not mesh well with any known account of the Century War.

1,000 – 400 years ago:

• Valentia gains control of a minor portal to Vaul and establishes herself as a demonic Oracle. Generations of mortals are lured by whispered promises of lost knowledge. Most are driven to madness and despair as they learn that their beloved Gods are fattening them up for slaughter.

400 years ago:

• A fragile and unofficial peace develops between Namburg and Salt in Wounds as decades of low level border conflicts wind down. Archbishop Piot leaves Namburg in disgust after his calls for an immediate resumption of hostilities are dismissed.

• The Archbishop’s travels lead him and his follows to a remote mountain where local legends speak of a secretive moon cult and a terrible creature who preaches blasphemy against Namthar.

• Valentia is bound to the Blood Moon sculpture her worshippers/slaves had placed in her shrine.

• The Temple of Namthar is founded in the mountains and the Order of Vigilance is established as the guardians of the temple.

1 year ago:

• Travelling through the area Akreaun is drawn to the aura of necromancy which hangs over the mountain. Attempting to gain access to the Temple by stealth he is discovered by the Knights of the Order. The Knights imprison Akreaun to prevent their secrets from being revealed.

• Rising tensions with Kossus lead to new interest in the life and works of Archbishop Piot. After becoming infatuated with these texts the Golem Master Jebidiah quits his work on the Dragon Wagon to visit the Temple. On arrival at the Temple he is dismayed to find that is apparently guarded by geriatric squires and peasants.

• Denied access to the Inner Temple Jebidiah is unable to determine the source of the necromantic energy, but he assumes that a great evil artefact is concealed within the mountain.

• Jebidiah’s suggestion to use golems rather than elderly men to defend the Temple is rebuffed. Insulted he sets up camp in the nearby area and decides to protect the Temple and the pilgrims indirectly without any input from the Deacons. His Risk Analysis suggests that the local Tunnelers are the greatest threat to pilgrims and he takes it upon himself to wipe them out.  

1 month ago:

• Seeing plots where none exist, the Road worry that Jebidiah has travelled to the Temple on official business from Namburg. Ishiburo and Anna are dispatched to determine what the Order of Vigilance are guarding.
• Jebidiah’s golems drive the Tunnelers away from the temple, pushing them closer to goblin lands.

50+ years from now?

• Clink witnesses the fall of Bastion.
• Clink and his companions seek to return to the past and undo the future that is Aku The Harvest.

“How could Celeste die better than facing fearful odds, for the turtles of the oceans, and the glory of her Gods?” – Thomas Babington Macaulay – that terrible Oblivion movie.

 

Ice blossomed from Ernodal’s hands as the Nihilith surged forwards. The sounds of battle were suddenly cut off as a frozen sphere closed around him. Immobilised, Ernodal could only wince as the lashing tentacles slammed into the ice. Initial panic gave way to relief as the magic held firm against the monster’s frantic attacks. Ernodal laughed as the iceberg floated slowly upwards, carrying him away from the trashing aberration. As the magic faded and ice began to melt in a familiar voice echoed inside his mind.

“I’m impressed Ernodal. I didn’t think you’d have the ruthlessness to let one of them die in your place.”

Spinning around clumsily while he tried to reorient himself in the flooded chamber, Ernodal saw Celeste press the attack on the Nihilith. Unable to swing her sword underwater she was darting forward like a fencer, divine power flashing from her eyes with every thrust. Wherever she struck sections of the Nihilith’s undead carapace seemed to crack and dissolve away into dust. The horror lashed out viscously but Celeste didn’t appear to feel the blows, seemingly immune to the corrosive slime. For a few moments the Nihilith reeled backwards before the relentless attack, but with a sudden twist of its muscular tail the monster lunged forward, jaws agape.

Celeste didn’t flinch. Her face impassive, she locked eyes with the oncoming abomination and lunged forward, driving her blade to the hilt even as her bones shattered. Ernodal screamed and tried to swim forward but the voice resonated in his skull again.

“Relax Ernodal. She’s dead and rotting where you left her corpse. Remember? Her Gods weren’t listening. But I was. None of you could save her.”

Ernodal flinched. He remembered the long silent trek back to the surface, none of them able to look the others in the eye.

“Such a shame. All that power you’ve stolen from me, all those little demons you command and none of it did you any good. I know how hard it is to be let down by incompetent subordinates. But that’s the risk of stealing without understanding. You’ll never have the right tools for the job.

Ernodal’s demons appeared, swimming around him in a circle.

“What else could you have done? You saw that these two couldn’t even touch the Nihilith. This one might have harmed it, but she would have killed half your friends as well. This one… well, he would have killed your friends and left the Nihilith unharmed. Hilarious.”

“Get out of my head!” The swimming demons vanished.

“Calm down Ernodal. I’m not here to mock your failure. I told you before I could help. You couldn’t save Celeste with any of your demons, but with my guidance you could have. If you’d only asked, I could have sent you someone… special.”

A new demon appeared, wavering and indistinct. Whispers drifted through Ernodal’s mind.

Nexus.

Archetype.

Tutelary.

“Isn’t it magnificent? This one could have saved Celeste. It could save the rest of your friends next time. And all you have to do is ask nicely. Say please”.

Ernodal was silent.

“There’s no catch here Ernodal. We have mutual interests and I don’t want you to fail. But take your time. Think about it. Maybe you need to watch someone else you care about die before you ask for my help. I can wait.”

 

“If you should hold the devil, hold him well,
He hardly will be caught a second time”

 

Ernodal hummed tunelessly as he knelt in the soft earth in front of the blueberry bushes. His stained fingers lightly skimmed the remaining crop but they were several days away from being ripe. The small pile in his basket would be enough for now. Skipping lightly to his feet he turned around and almost walked straight into the two elves who had ghosted up behind him unheard. The closest elf hissed as he danced backwards to avoid being knocked over.

‘Watch where you blunder, half breed!’

‘My apologies Yannoth. I didn’t hear you approach.’ Ernodal grinned, partly to diffuse the tension but mostly because he knew how much his perpetual good humour confused the angry elf.

‘Of course you didn’t. Some of us can move with a degree of grace.’ Yannoth glowered as he smoothed down the navy and turquoise feathers which covered his leather jerkin. When he had preened himself to his satisfaction he turned to the elf beside him.

‘There is little of his father in him. His aspect is that of his human mother.’

Yannoth’s voice lost the harsh edge it always had when he spoke to Ernodal, but he still made the word ‘human’ sound like a curse.

The second elf was dressed in a simple white robe and his skin had the slightly translucent sheen that came with several centuries. He said nothing for a long time, seemingly content to just stare at Ernodal with blank eyes. Long moments passed as the trio stood there – Yannoth glaring, Ernodal increasingly uncomfortable and the old elf impassive. Ernodal started to say something to break the silence but the old elf interrupted him.

“Your father saved my life several decades before you were born. When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Over five years ago. He was here for a month or so’.

Ernodal didn’t add that this was the longest period he’d ever spent with his father.

Once again the old elf said nothing. Then his pale face flushed and he broke into a sprint away to the left. Nonplussed, Ernodal turned to Yannoth but the other elf was already racing in pursuit… towards a patch of rising smoke. In the distance the forest was burning.

 

 

Gasping for breath and nursing a stitch in his side after, Ernodal staggered out of the cover of the trees and into a nightmare. A huge pillar of crimson fire blazed in the centre of the clearing, spitting clouds of sulphurous yellow smoke which blotted out the sky. Misshapen hybrid creatures lurched out of the flames, screeching and hooting as they threw themselves at panic-stricken elves. Armed warriors were flooding into the clearing and charging at the monsters to give others time to flee. Yannoth was a blur of daggers and twirling feathers as he slashed at a hulking abomination with four hairy arms and the twisting body of a serpent. A volley of arrows ripped into a flock of small flying monsters, the rest of the flock scattering and swooping low to peck and scratch at unprotected faces. A bolt of incandescent lighting blew apart an enormous piglike creature as it loped towards a cluster of elves. The old elf soared over the devastation and sent another cracking bolt into the heart of the fire.

Crouching low to the ground Ernodal started to circle around the edge of the clearing. Gorge rose in his throat but he forced himself to keep moving on trembling legs. He could see other elves darting in to help the wounded to safety and he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t try to do the same. Through a twisting gap in the yellow smog he saw a tall elf staggering drunkenly using his spear as a crutch. Whimpering with terror Ernodal dashed forward. He managed to get one arm around the wounded fighter and tried to prop him up, but the elf gave a long shuddering gasp and slumped forward, showing the horrific wounds where his back had been flayed to the bone. Ernodal fell to his knees and emptied his stomach in long violent spasms. When the cramps stopped he was trembling and covered with cold sweat but he forced himself to reach down and take up the fallen spear.

Swirling winds twisted the pillar of fire as the ancient elf floating above the carnage chanted a new spell. The remaining demons faltered in and tried to cover whatever hodgepodge eyes and ears they had. Disoriented and confused they were suddenly easy prey for the vengeful elves. As the last demon was put down the roaring bonfire spluttered and snuffed out, leaving a circle of blacked earth. In the centre of the charred ground two figures were waltzing slowly inside a ring of mutilated bodies. One of the dancers was hidden in a black cloak and hood, the wind outlining stick thin limbs beneath the flapping fabric. The other dancer was wrong in a more fundamental way than the other demons. This one was painful to look at and its form seemed to alter as it moved. One moment it was a wisp of red smoke coiling around the figure in black, the next it was a towering brutish mass of bleeding sinew and exposed muscle. Neither paid the horrified onlookers any more attention than the seared earth or scorched corpses beneath their feet.

Yannoth was already sprinting towards the dancers, daggers flashing. With a roar the elven warriors charged to support him. Slightly slower than the rest Ernodal had only taken a few steps when Yannoth crossed the ring of corpses, so he was further back when the ground erupted in a spray of green mist. Yannoth toppled backward foaming at the mouth as the poisonous vapours rolled outward and swallowed the oncoming elves. Warriors dropped their weapons and clutched desperately at streaming eyes and swelling throats, battlecries becoming moans of horror. Ernodal staggered as the smog coiled around him, scalding his exposed skin. Fighting panic he stumbled blindly, eyes streaming with tears. His foot caught on a slumped body and he toppled out into a patch of breathable air at centre of the circle.

The demon and the hooded figure were writhing together in an obscene embrace, frantic grunting growing louder and faster as the moans of the dying elves started to fade. Weakened by fright and nausea Ernodal stabbed clumsily with the spear. It was a clumsy strike, driven more by disgust than a desire to kill, but the tip punched though the hooded figure as if there was nothing beneath the fabric. A piercing scream from the black robe was drowned out by a bellow of rage which sent Ernodal sprawling to the ground clutching at his bleeding ears. As the hooded figure convulsed a pair of furious yellow eyes fixed on Ernodal and pinned him to the spot. His last impression was of an enormous crimson figure advancing on him as the smog coiled round and he backed out.

 

Yannoth was staring at him with angry yellow eyes. Ernodal tried to grin but he felt his face crack and split in two. He tried to hold his broken skull together but fire poured out of the wounds and burned his hands.

 

‘The mongrel carries the taint of the Fiend. It would be a kindness to kill him before he wakes.’

‘The young half human saved us all. I’ll not see him slain for bravery.’

 

The dull pain in his head brought Ernodal slowly back to consciousness. He tried to raise a hand but he was tangled in soft cloth. Sunlight stung his eyes as he tried to prop himself up but a gentle hand pressed him down. The old elf in white was kneeling by his side.

‘We do not have much time. What you did back there was very gallant. You have saved many lives, but there is a cost to your actions. The others have left this place and you cannot follow them, nor can you remain among us. When you interrupt a ritual such as that the magic can be released in uncontrollable ways. Somehow you have absorbed a fragment of the demonic power. It may fade in time, but I fear that it will grow and consume you. Elves will see this. They will shun you or kill you on sight.

You may be able to break this curse. Amongst your mother’s people there are those who have been reckless enough to study these matters. Travel to the human lands, to Vicetina, speak with the scholar of demon lore. They may know of some cure other than death.

I am sorry Ernodal. I wish I could do more for you but this matter is more important than any of us. I must warn the other settlements what has happened here, what nearly happened here. Rest now. I will be gone when you wake…’

 

 

Ernodal knelt in the mud, eating the last of the blueberries from the bush. He’d liked baking because it gave him a chance to think, a chance to try things for himself. No one had ever said so, but baking was one of the things he was allowed to learn as a half human. No master would ever deign to teach him music or magic, field craft or swordsmanship. His human blood meant that he could never truly be accepted. He hadn’t been ashamed of this or held it against the others. He was what he was, they were being true to themselves in the way they acted. So he’d baked and cooked and thought about what he would do when the time came to leave. He’d been happy here and in no rush to leave this community of creative and passionate and snobbish elves.

Now those elves were dead or gone, chased out or torn apart by demons. And Ernodal was marked in a different way. He could feel the demon with the yellow eyes like he could feel the sun or the pull of gravity. It was faint and distant but there was a link between them, a red mote in his vision if he turned to look at it, a prickling in the back of his mind if he turned away. And presumably the demon could sense him too.

The old elf had advised him to look for a way to break this curse, but Ernodal felt in his bones that this wasn’t the right path. The demon would hunt him forever whether the bond was broken or not because Ernodal had taken – was still taking – something from that monster. Ernodal concentrated on the link and felt something into him, pressure building in his head and sparks flickering at his fingertips. He could take power from this. He could stop others from being hurt.

Ernodal finished the last berry, turned to face the link and gave it his biggest, most annoying grin. He’d taught himself to cook and bake, learning as he went. Elves always said the best hunters were self-taught. Time to see if you could teach yourself to hunt demons.