Mercenary Mage Quest: Asur Dogs of War in Warhammer Fantasy

[Mystic Pentagram]

Flying Free​

A slender shadow flies over the gloomy forests of the Middle Mountains, muscular hawk wings beating rapidly to keep its trajectory stable while its rapacious eyes scan the horizon in search of its prey. On the Griffin's back, Aramil Amakiir, exiled prince of Ulthuan, sits holding the magical glaive Anvaril in his right hand, his Ithilmar armor gleaming in the midday sun.

Two days earlier, a patrol of State Troops had disappeared, devoured by the woods without leaving a trace. A group of Ostland Huntsmen had been sent to investigate the disappearance, but they had not returned to the camp the night before to report. So, instead of risking bleeding dry his army little by little by continuing to send search parties, the Elector-Count dispatched Aramil and Stormclaw to find out what had really happened.

Some would think that the Chracian noble would consider such a mission as beneath him, but they are wrong.

For Aramil, every wound, large or small, inflicted on the Forces of Darkness is a triumph. And he couldn't think of a person more suited for such a quest than himself.

Closing his eyes, he could easily imagine that he was in another place and in another time. In a different mountain range, far beyond the sea, riding alongside his brothers and hunting some horrid beast that threatened the commoners of their lands. Joking, laughing and making bets on who would draw the first blood from the creature. Returning at the end of the day to the nearest village dragging the carcass of the monster behind them, the villagers exulting as they passed, a great banquet in their honor held at sunset where everyone was happy and joyful while the beer flowed like a river.

But those times were long gone, and a screech from Stormclaw brought Aramil back to the present.

Below them, in a clearing, were the remains of a skirmish. Several bodies wearing the uniform of the Ostland hunters lay in the grass, it was possible to see that they had been mangled and mutilated with great ferocity and brutality even from that distance.

Stormclaw landed lightly in the clearing, and in the blink of an eye Aramil had already dismounted and was examining the remains and the ground for clues. It didn't take long to notice the many footprints that crossed the clearing, footprints with which Aramil was very familiar.

Greenskin, a very large group of Greenskins judging by the number of footprints.

The hunter shook his head sadly, the Ostlanders must have been outnumbered five to one, they had not stood a chance.

Examining the scene, Aramil noticed a series of more recent tracks heading northeast, deeper into the wilds. Aramil assumed that to be the direction the Greenskins had moved after winning the skirmish. But there were not only tracks of Orcs and Goblins in the undergrowth, among them it was possible to see the traces of sturdy boots worn by human feet.

Aramil hesitated, undecided. The Elector-Count had not explicitly forbidden him to engage enemies if he found them, but he had made it clear that the priority of the mission was to report the nature of the threat present in that part of the mountains. And judging by the footprints, the Greenskins' numbers were large, probably too great to be defeated even by him.

However, Aramil could not in good conscience leave the poor humans in the clutches of the Orcs, where it awaited them slavery or a grisly death for the entertainment of the green brutes. If he returned to the camp to get reinforcements, it might be too late to save them.

And that was if the Elector-Count believed that the operation was important enough to send an armed force, what were after all a handful of lost men to someone who commanded armies of thousands?

No, Aramil was not just a servant of the Elector-Count or a common blade for hire.

He fought the enemies of all civilized peoples because it was the right thing to do, not because it was his duty or because he was ordered to. Since he had left Ulthuan, he had sworn that he would not allow others to choose his path.

Full of grim determination, the hunter mounted his griffin and sent a short prayer to Kurnous. Hoping the Lord of the Hunt would bless his dangerous quest.

It did not take long to find the Greenskins' camp, a filthy column of smoke rose from a large bonfire in the center of the camp making it easy to find from the air, the camp itself was made of tents roughly sewn from animal skins.

The camp was a buzzing hive of activity, with hundreds of Greenskins running araound or brawling in the mud.

There had to be at least three hundred Goblins, half that number of Orcs, and too many Snotlings and Squigs to count. A quartet of Trolls were feasting on meat of unknown origin near the great bonfire, near them were half a dozen crude empty wooden cages.

Aramil grimaced, it was not hard to guess the fate of the captured Huntsmen.

But not all hope seemed to be lost, for there was still an occupied cage.

The man inside, wearing a tattered red, white, and black tunic, Ostland's colors, glared with fiery fury at all the Greenskins who passed by him, his gaze so hateful that some of the more cowardly Goblins ran away when they saw him. Aramil could not help but admire the courage of the human in the face of what could be his certain death. His refusal to bow down to the barbarity of the Greenskins and let fear rule his heart.

The griffin knight was busy trying to formulate a plan of action to save the prisoner, when one of the Trolls stood up and strode with heavy steps towards the cage, revealing its horrid yellowed teeth and licking its lips in anticipation of the meal.

With no more time to think, Aramil spurred Stormclaw forward, and the Griffin swooped down towards the center of the camp. The wind howled in his ears, his long brown hair whipped behind him, and silent prayers formed on his lips to Kurnous, Eldrazor, and even Kaela Mensha Khaine. Knowing that the battle ahead of him would be a desperate one, but refusing to back down no matter what.

The Troll staggered backwards when Stormclaw's talons sank deep into its chest, and before it could regain its balance, Anvaril's flame wreathered blade separated its grotesque head from its horrible shoulders.

All around, cries of alarm and roars rang out around the camp.

A second Troll charged Aramil and Stormclaw, but the nimble Ulthuani predator easily dodged the clumsy swings of the monster's club. Aramil twirled his glaive with superhuman speed and dexterity, and the thin blade cut off the Troll's armed arm at the elbow and then continued its trajectory and decapitated a couple of Goblins armed with spears who were trying to attack Stormclaw from the left flank.

A second slash silenced the Troll's cries of pain, but at that point the mass of enemies descended on them.

Dozens of Goblins, Orcs, and Squigs trampled the corpses of the Trolls in their haste to reach the fray.

Aramil and Stormclaw fought with perfect coordination, the result of countless decades spent fighting side by side on battlefields in every corner of the known world.

Stormclaw disemboweled Orcs with his claws and dismembered Goblins with sharp blows from his mighty beak, while Aramil impaled Squigs that leapt at him with quick lunges and reaped half a dozen Greenskins with each sweeping slash of Anvaril.

But no matter how formidable the duo seemed, for every foe they cut down, two more took its place.

Gritting his teeth, Aramil let out a furious cry to the mob of green savages around him "Come on, witless brutes! Is there no one among you filthy beasts capable of facing me one on one?" he glanced araound, and he was surprised when the creatures around him began to retreat.

The Greenskins formed a circle around him, and a mighty Orc emerged from the crowd.

He towered over his fellows with his stature, with the tallest Orcs in the crowd reaching up to his chest. He was covered in a crude armor of metal plates and chainmail, wielding a spiked club in his right hand and an axe in his left.

The Orc Boss growled and waved his weapons, advancing towards Aramil with a determined step "who do you think you are pointy ears?! To come to my camp and kill my lads, ONLY I CAN DO THAT! I am Togbard Teefsmasha! And i am going to KRUMP YOU INTO THE DIRT!".

Gracefully and lightly, Aramil dismounted and stepped forward to confront his opponent "We'll see who's going to lie in the dust in the end, beast!" growled the Chracian.

As he had done every time before the countless other duels he had fought in his life, Aramil sent a silent prayer to Eldrazor, trying to invoke the favor of the Lord of Blades for this coming fight.

The Greenskin's crowd cheered enthusiastically when the two warriors clashed.

The Orc's strength was overwhelming, but Aramil danced around his blows and countered with lunges and slashes as quick as lightning, using the longer shaft of his weapon to stay out of his enemy's reach. Soon Togbard received numerous wounds to his arms and legs, but these only seemed to serve to enrage him even more.

The Orc Boss threw his axe aside and grabbed Anvaril's shaft in a sudden move, tugging toward him and dragging a surprised Aramil forward.

Before the elf lord had time to react, Togbard hit him with a powerful headbutt stunning him, then hit him square in the chest with a blow of his club and sent him flying backwards.

Aramil landed on his stomach in the dust, losing his grip on Anvaril who flew in the opposite direction.

Togbard descended on him, raising his club above his head and bellowing triumphantly, ready to finish him off. But Aramil rolled to the side, dodging the blow at the last second and with a quick flick of his wrist he summoned the Whitefire Glaive to his hand.

The elven prince sprang to his feet and with a lightning-fast slash cut the Orc in half from the left hip to the right shoulder. Togbard's two halves hit the ground with a thud, and for a few seconds the camp was silent.

Then an Orc roared furiously "he killed the Boss! Let's get him la..." he was interrupted by another Orc that caved his head in with a crude wooden club "You ain't my Boss! Now lads, let's..." the second Orc found also impossible to finish the sentence, as a Goblin sliced his throat open from behind.

In a few moments, the camp descended into total chaos. As the Greenskins started fighting each other to decide who was the new Boss.

Only a handful of Orcs seemed to remember the dangerous enemy still in their midst, but as they made to lunge at Aramil, three of them were quickly shot down by well-aimed arrows that pierced their necks while two others were savagely torn to pieces by Stormclaw.

Turning around, Aramil saw that the Huntsman had managed to escape from his cage into the confusion, probably thanks to the crude knife that now hung from his belt, and was holding a short bow that he must have retrieved from a fallen Goblin.

Now that he saw him up close, the man appeared to be in his mid-fifties. With a salt-and-pepper beard and streaks of gray in his mane of black hair. He looked like a grizzled veteran, but he had a fire in his gaze more suited to a man half his age.

"Thank you for the rescue Lord Elf!" He said smirking, while nocking another arrow and hitting a leaping Squig in the eye "I thought I was food for Trolls for a moment!"

Aramil nodded and stabbed a Goblin in the chest "What's your name, Huntsman?"

He smiled, lowering his head just in time to dodge a Snotling that was hurtling through the air screaming in terror, before answering "Henrick of Dassel! At your service!".

Aramil leaped over a pile of bodies and fended off a snarling Giant Wolf with the shaft of Anvaril "Aramil Amakiir, at yours!" he then kicked the Wolf, sending it reeling and then finished it with a quick slash to the throat "i think we should go, before the Greenskins solve their disagreements".

Henrick nodded and started running towards were Stormclaw was chasing away a group of Goblins, Aramil followed him, covering his retreat.

Behind them, the two remaining Trolls were fighting each other, stomping on panicking Snotlings while they exchanged blows. The two monsters ended up falling into the bonefire while they grabbed and clawed each other faces, scattering burning embers everywere and setting nearby tents on fire.

The two mounted the Griffon, who immediately took flight, leaving behind the now burning camp and turning southwest towards the relatively safe territories patrolled by the Ostland State Troops.

On the return flight, Aramil and Henrick chatted amicably, and the griffon knight found himself appreciating the veteran Huntsman's company and wit.

By the time they reached the Elector-Count's camp, the two had already agreed to exchange beers around a campfire later that evening, so that Aramil could share stories of his adventures with Henrick and the other troops.

Aramil knew he would be scolded by the Count for his rash actions, but he also knew he was too important as an asset to be seriously punished or fired. But watching Henrick reunite with his comrades-in-arms, two of whom appeared to be younger versions of him and whom Aramil would later find out were his younger brother and son, he knew in his heart that he had made the right choice.

 

[torroar]

Unsophistication​

The White Tower of Hoeth was too grand an edifice to ever be encapsulated by a single word, but magnificent did come close. Even those without the gifted sight to perceive the Winds of Magic themselves, the sheer fact of the matter was that it was one of the most awe-inspiring creations of the Asur. All across Ulthuan, and elsewhere perhaps in darker places, the elves built their Tors, places of power, places of control, nobility, command. By the reckoning of the elves it was, in fact, the tallest building in the entire world, though some had pointlessly tried to match it in the past. Tried, and failed. All across the kingdom of Saphery where what other kingdoms might consider wondrous the Sapherans considered mundanity, there were buildings of incredible creation. Floating castles, flying stables, ships that sailed the Winds of Magic as much as the air itself, and more, where the landscape itself could shift and weave with the desires of its masters and their Gods. The White Tower humbled them all, in the sheer power possessed in the stones and mortar and magic that had built it up. A thousand years to construct, upon the holiest place of the God of Wisdom and a font of considerable power besides, to look upon the White Tower with true sight was to behold the pinnacle of magic itself, commanded and controlled by the Asur.

The center of learning for the entire continent of Ulthuan, and not simply in matters of magic, though in that they humbled all other nations and all other peoples of course.

Fanriel knew it well, and even after all this time simply standing near or within the tower itself could bring a smile to her lips.

This place, with its many hidden paths, those through the trees and plains and those through mystifying mazes of hazy memory and thought and artfully painted light, was as much a home to her as Yvresse was. Indeed, given how long she had spent here learning, first as a mere student, later to become a true Loremaster, and the demanding curriculum, she had perhaps spent more time here than even the place of her birth. Though partly that could put pushed onto the fact that as befitting her importance, she had been departing more and more from Ulthuan itself to participate on missions set down by the High Loremaster himself. Matters of great need and importance for the world, though she doubted that many of the other races that inhabited it would ever realize just how important. Or accept it, in the case of certain particularly stunted ones.

That was why she was here, in fact.

Not to learn, though it was one of the first truths laid down by their instructors and by Hoeth Himself that no Asur was ever above learning something new, that new knowledge was always to come.

Not to teach, though Fanriel was certainly more than qualified as a Loremaster to instruct some of the lower classes who were just beginning to master grasping at more than one Wind at a time.

No, Fanriel of House Drangliec was here, once more, to gather those she could trust to her side. She was mighty, powerful, skilled, and intelligent, but she was no fool. Besides which, the High Loremaster had given her permission to draw upon those she trusted most to gather up and follow her. The risk, as it always had been, would be high. The dangers, extreme and many. It would be entirely within her right to head back to her home in Yvresse and request some good compliment of her Houses militia in spearmen and archers, but for a mission such as this? No, she would take a smaller force, move more swiftly like a stiletto directly into the heart of the enemy, and leave just as swiftly with their objective complete and the tome in hand. Part of her wondered if she should not simply perform the ritual to contain the thing then and there, but her superiors had been quite clear, the protections layered about it would require a greater working than what she alone would manage in the field, and so she was to return it to them so that they could fully remove the damned text from the world without its Aethyric essence escaping to be reformed yet again by the machinations of Tzeentch. She could do it on her own, she was quite sure, but it wasn't the time to truly test that belief. Not right now, at least.

As such, she required Swordmasters, and not simply those already apportioned to her by rote logistics. Those who were amongst the greatest warriors in all the world, not just the elves besides. It was they who guarded the White Tower itself, and its incalculably valuable contents, whether artifacts and tomes of magic or those who learned from them. Swordmasters that were granted great leave to practice in the streams and groves of the forest through which one of the routes to the tower lay. A route she was traveling through on this day. There were some, a small cadre admittedly, that Fanriel had found herself calling upon time and time again. The more familiarity between them, the better they obeyed, and as they were sent out into the world repeatedly the more she came to trust them to act on their own on the battlefield as needed. To listen to her, and to be unafraid to speak to her in turn. As a child of House Drangleic, she knew that trust was one of the most valuable things in the world. Trust, real trust, was incredibly difficult to gain, and disastrous to lose. Dorial had already been found, and she had his word that he was soon to find Liandra and Orlaith. Dolwen and Elena had responded to her messengers, and it was to Fanriel's good fortune that Vaelon, Beren, and Cothaerion had been training together in one of the groves closer to the tower. Eöl and Tinuthal had been dueling each other in another grove on the way with another group of Swordmasters doing the same, and it was they who had informed her where she could find the last of those she had set out to find.

It was not particularly difficult to know why he was training alone with the rest of the cadre occupied.

The Elithian was…distinct.

And not always in the best of ways. The White Tower was the greatest center of learning in Ulthuan, and the world, but it would be fair to say that very, very few of those from the distant easternmost colonies had ever actually stepped foot deep within its confines. Elves they still were, and Asur they remained, but it wasn't hard to miss that there were certain…deficiencies on those isles that were not present on Ulthuan. A lack of resources, of power. For better or for worse, the isles had associated with the human nations of the Far East far more closely than Ulthuan would have preferred, but they did not have the Vaul's Anvil, the White Tower, the Flame of Asuryan, the Gaean Vale, or any of the holiest places of the Cadai. So they made do as best they could. And given how well they had served, under her command no less, Fanriel would never be so foolish as to dismiss the Elithians as lesser.

Unlike, unfortunately, other Asur that she could name.

Still, there were some things that she did have to admit she found somewhat questionable.

"Why are you making love to a dummy?" She asked archly as she came into the clearing, the sun shining down warmly over sweat-sheening skin and sackcloth both.

A half-naked Tethildur looked up at her, blinking, a faint blushing color coming to his face as he sprung up from the dummy he'd been grappling into the grass.

"Princess – I mean, Loremaster Fanriel!" He barked out, saluting her sharply.

"Swordmaster Tethildur," she inclined her head before tilting it, one eyebrow raising up. "My question remains."

"Oh, that," he cleared his throat, and put his hands on his hips, "That's…just practice."

"Some would say so."

"Not that kind," he grumbled, rubbing the back of his head before shaking it. "I just…it's wrestling. Pehlwani."

Fanriel wrinkled her nose.

"Another Indan Ylvathoi art?" She asked, her features scrunching slightly as she looked down at him, and not just physically as was constant given the Elithian's somewhat squatter nature for most elves.

Though there were shorter elves she knew.

"Yes, Loremaster," he pursed his lips and bowed his head, "My apologies that you had to see something so disgraceful."

"I can't pretend to share with your…interest in such things," Fanriel sighed. "The Yoga is one thing, I can see the benefits in it in your movements when fighting, you're more like a bending whip than a blade sometimes. But…this?" She gestured to the dummy, or more pointedly, to his conspicuously empty hands.

His darkly tanned face flushed more.

"It's…sometimes, your weapon isn't…,"

Fanriel held up a hand, and he immediately went silent.

"Tethildur," she sighed, paused, and then started again. "You know that such brutish things are generally meant to be beneath us, yes? There is a point to the elegance of our abilities, to the dance of swords and the clashing of steel. And beyond that, while we are indeed stronger than our enemies would think," she raised one arm up in front of her and flexed, hard, for emphasis. "Mass is something else to be considered as well."

"I understand, Loremaster," he nodded, though she could tell he was hiding a grimace behind his placid expression and the ink on his face and neck. "But…well…I've noticed that…," he trailed off.

"Speak, my friend," she pushed lightly, and he acquiesced with a grunt, rubbing at his jaw for a moment.

"We don't have the healers you do, back home," he admitted finally, glancing away in shame.

She paused, the grounding of the discussion suddenly becoming ever so slightly treacherous.

"Elven reflexes are one thing, but the sheer abundance of healing magic that, well, you know," he flopped a hand up to the White Tower which dominated the sky behind her, "Others have. After I first got here, I watched Asur get whole limbs lopped off, and that one time-,"

"I remember the decapitation incident," Fanriel noted, grimacing herself.

That duel had not been properly done, and it was only the passing presence of the High Loremaster themselves that had ensured that it hadn't ended in a death. Or the subsequent intensive conflict between two noble houses after one's respective scion had killed another over a third. In the end, the woman had disdained both of them, and quite plainly informed both young men that neither of them was worthy of her and killing one another wasn't going to change that. Firstly, neither of them were proper Caledorians, and secondly, neither of them were worthy of a Caledorian Princess such as her. At which point, if Fanriel remembered correctly, she had gotten onto her dragon which had managed to flounce in the air as it flew southwards.

"Right. The point is, Loremaster, is that it was a bit of a surprise to see a bunch of Asur maiming each other so grievously daily."

"Yet you stand here, before me, a Swordmaster yourself now," she pointed out, and he sighed again and nodded. "With maimings aplenty in both directions."

"Yes, but before that," he shrugged, "I learned other ways. Before I had…access…to such things."

"And that's why you're out here, alone, without anyone to help you practice," she nodded.

She literally couldn't think of Asur who would lower themselves so readily as he did to such martial 'arts' on more than two hands with fingers left over.

"About right, Loremaster. But, surely, a learned woman such as yourself," he gestured helplessly, "You know that fighting unarmed isn't necessarily something to just…think will never happen, right? I don't mean just supplementing with a punch or a kick."

Fanriel exhaled sharply through her nose in a refined fashion, nothing approaching a snort.

"It's one thing to supplement, yes, but…," she couldn't help the honest grimace that came across her face. "Tethildur, I'll be honest, I know how to fight if I am ever somehow," she paused, raising one finger high, "Somehow," she repeated with absolute certainty in the opposite, "Caught without a weapon. But it is not a skill…," she paused before she said it was something to not take pride in, for she knew that would be an insult to Tethildur that she did not need to levy at this moment. "That I have ever needed to specialize in. And the same is true for most all elves of Ulthuan."

Begrudging at most, and generally just an afterthought.

Because, in the end, that's what it was, when she had learned.

She was a Loremaster, and so she had learned, but it was the same as color theory, or basic mathematics. Something she would of course learn, but nothing to take actual prominence in her ever-growing arsenal of capabilities.

"…true enough, Loremaster. But still, I am Elithian," he shrugged with a sad smile. "I cannot help my eccentricities, like any of the other Kingdoms might. Even if it means no one wants to help me practice jiujitsu or Pehlwani or any of that stuff. Still," he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck from side to side. "I suspect you didn't come out here to simply discuss such crude matters?"

"I did not," she nodded in confirmation. "I have been assigned a mission, and I would request the presence of one I know, who's character and abilities I respect."

Most of them, at least.

"You'll always have me at your service, Loremaster," he saluted again and made to follow her, briefly rushing over to a tree where he'd laid out the rest of his gear before bustling back over to her. "Just tell me where we're headed."

"To spit in the eye of Chaos once more," she said.

Tethildur bared his teeth in a grin.

 

[Blackout]

The stench of blood and offal stung Dorial's nose as he crouched amidst the scattered pieces of flesh and furniture. Some of them had been thrown with such force that they had been embedded into the walls and floor, crushed to near-unrecognizable pulp. But only nearly.

The creak of the rusted hinges drew his attention to the doorway, as Sister Imathanel entered, her steps light, her mail armour making no sound as she moved.

"Everything alright with Lady Athandril?" Dorial asked without turning to look at her.

"Yes," the Sister of Avelorn replied curtly. "I escorted her to the temple, and implored her in the strongest possible terms to remain there until the killer is found."

"Should you not be there with her?"

"The temple is guarded by elves greater than I, and warded with potent magic besides. There is no place in this land more safe. Besides, her holiness asked that I assist you in this."

Dorial said nothing, returning his gaze to the bodies.

"I assume you spoke with the City Watch?" she asked.

"They could make no sense of the crime scene," Dorial grunted dismissively. "They were all too happy to leave it to my… particular expertise."

"Mmhm. And what does your expertise say?"

"The attacker was strong."

Imathanel's gaze swept out over the carnage in front of them, the bodies ripped into small pieces, the walls caked with gore, before returning to Dorial with an arched eyebrow.

"Their bones have been shattered, and not in a way you could accomplish with a hammer," he elaborated. "Not with a whole crew of men could you do this. It took strength greater than any elf, man or dwarf."

"Or magic."

"Or magic, though I can feel no trace of the Aethyr here. Which is not proof of its absence, but still."

"What else?"

"It happened fast, and by surprise. None of the other rooms have been touched, and I found bits of bread and stew on the floor. I believe the Dovinkovs were eating when the attack happened."

Imathanel's lips pressed into a taut line, the Avelornian staying silent for a long moment. "Incredible strength and violence, and a sudden attack with no signs of a break-in. A vampire?"

"I don't think the Get of Nagash would waste so much blood. A skin wolf would leave behind, well, skin. Even a daemonic manifestation ought to leave some manner of spoor, unless it was a Tzeentchian covering its tracks exceptionally well."

"Tzeentchian cultists wouldn't usually resort to such violence, nor would Khornates be so restrained," Imathanel mused. "Not to mention the skulls have been shattered as well. And I can think of no connection to Nurgle or Slaanesh. The murder-cults of Khaine would use a blade, not raw force."

"Were we on Ulthuan I'd almost suspect the Cult of Anath Raema," Dorial said. "This reminds me of some of their work- an urban cult in Tor Yvresse, who took great pleasure in hunting those who thought themselves safe in their own homes, before brutally ripping them apart."

"I've never heard of humans worshipping the Goddess of the Savage Hunt," Imathanel replied slowly and tersely, crossing her arms.

"Nor have I. Besides, her devotees would have taken their choice picks from the spoils. The bodies have been ripped apart, but I could find no teethmarks, and nothing seems to be missing."

"You… tallied everything?" Imathanel asked dubiously.

"What did you think I was doing while you took Lady Athandril back to the temple? As best as I can tell, we have five intact bodies, three adults and two children."

Imathanel startled, and Dorial turned to look at her.

"The Dovinkovs had no adult children," she said slowly, a serious expression settling on her fair features. "You are certain?"

Dorial's brow furrowed. "Yes. I have found parts from five distinct bodies. Two children of less than ten summers, and three adults: A man and a woman in their fifth decades, judging by their teeth, and a man on his third. Lady Athandril said one of their children might be keeping the store open, I thought-"

"Their oldest was fifteen," Imathanel said, before continuing just as Dorial opened his mouth to ask. "Like her holiness said, she has been making the same trip once a month since their ancestors first opened this shop."

Dorial said nothing for a moment, turning back to the scene of carnage on the floor.

"Which means we have one body too many, and at the same time, one too few."

 

[Blackout]

"-and you're certain it was him?"

The merchant flinched as Sister Imathanel loomed over the stall's counter, her hand resting not so idly on the hilt of her sword. "Tall boy, blond, broad shoulders, looked like he hadn't slept in days," the man stammered. "He came by not three hours ago, just stood looking around, constantly looking over his shoulder like he was afraid of being followed. Didn't buy anything. Didn't say a word."

"What direction?" Imathanel snapped.

He pointed, hesitant. "Downriver. Toward harbour, I think."

Dorial stepped forward, placing a calming hand on the edge of the stall. His tone was steady, almost gentle. "There's no punishment for honesty, friend. Just tell us what you saw. Did he seem injured? Bloodied?"

The baker shook his head. "No. But he wasn't right. He looked terrifed, he moved weird."

Imathanel's glare hardened, but she said nothing. Dorial thanked the man with a shallow nod and moved on. Together, they made their way through the market, stopping briefly at each stall where the boy had been spotted. Piece by piece, they followed his strange meandering path, through spice traders, fishmongers, a blacksmith who recalled the boy pausing to stare at the embers of the forge with glassy eyes.

The smith rubbed his beard. "Didn't say a word. But I've seen him before. He's Dovinkov's son, right? Quiet lad. Today, though…" He trailed off, shaking his head.

"What?" Imathanel pressed, stepping forward again.

"He moved like he was drunk. Or like he'd grown a foot overnight and hadn't figured out how to use his legs. And he was barefoot."

Dorial's voice cut in, low and thoughtful. "No blood, no wounds. But strange behavior. Did he look afraid?"

The smith hesitated, but when Imathanel's fingers started curling towards a fist, he hastened to eply.

"...Yes. Like a kid who'd done something wrong and was afraid his parents would find out."

Dorial raised a hand. "That will do. Thank you." He gave a faint nod and turned away, Imathanel stalking at his side.

They walked in silence for several moments, the clamor of the Grand Market fading as they slipped between the tight alleys behind the shops, weaving past crates and shuttered doors.

"He was seen after the time of death," Dorial murmured, rubbing his chin. "The food was still warm when they were killed."

"He's alive," Imathanel finished, nodding. "And left after the murders. Which narrows the field considerably."

"Indeed. Which means he is our prime suspect."

"A sudden discovery of magical talent? It tends to manifest in adolescence for humans, from what I have heard."

"Perhaps," Dorial conceded. But something didn't feel right.

-----

The creak of wood and the hiss of the sea wind filled the silence between the warehouse walls, where gulls no longer cried and even the lapping of the waves seemed to hold its breath. The pier at the far end of the harbor had long since been abandoned—crates sat rotting in corners, thick with moss and lichen, and rusted chains swung lazily from broken moorings.

"This way," Imathanel said curtly, stepping through a gap between warped planks, her bow already half-raised.

Dorial followed, silent. The sailors they'd questioned hadn't known much- only that a boy had been seen skulking near the old drydocks, alone and wide-eyed, vanishing into the skeletal remains of the collapsed pier.

There, in the shadow of a hulking warehouse long given over to decay, they found him.

The boy sat at the edge of the harbor, curled in on himself, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He was trembling, rocking back and forth. His clothes were torn and soaked with salt and old blood, crusted black across the chest and sleeves. His skin was pale as milk, and his lips moved soundlessly.

"Vladek Dovinkov," Dorial said, stepping forward a pace. "You are not in trouble. I only want to speak with you."

A lie, but a necessary one.

At the sound of their voices, the boy turned- and broke.

He burst into tears, his sobs raw and unrestrained, as if held back for hours until now. "I-I didn't mean to!" he choked out. "I didn't mean to do it! I didn't-"

Dorial and Imathanel exchanged glances.

He approached slowly, footsteps deliberate and open, the weight of his sword familiar at his back.

"You're safe now, Vladek. Whatever happened, we can help you. Just tell us what you remember."

Sympathy tended to get better answers than intimidation, from such subjects.

The boy didn't answer.

He stopped crying.

His body froze, tension rippling through him. Then his hands dropped from his face, and he looked up.

And smiled.

It was not a child's smile.

The grin stretched far too wide, like his face was being stretched thin.

Dorial stopped in his tracks.

Then, with a wet, cracking sound like bursting meat, the boy's head and upper torso ruptured outward. Flesh ripped apart like parchment. A mass of thick, ropey tentacles surged forth from within his body, slick with blood and viscera. The limbs wriggled and flailed with grotesque agility, flinging blood across the warped pier as they stretched outward, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

The boy's lower torso slumped to the ground as the mass of tentacles pulled themselves fully out of him- they were not very thick, but each tentacle was several meters long and whipped forward with lightning-fast speed. At their center, nestled in a writhing mass of knotted tissue, was a face. Vaguely human, twisted, with empty eye sockets and a permanent, yawning smile frozen across its too-wide jaw.

"Dorial!" Imathanel shouted, loosing a shaft from her bow.

The arrow struck true- one of the tentacles recoiled with a screech -but another slammed into Dorial's side before he could dodge. He flew back, slamming heavily onto the ground, his sword barely coming up in time to parry another strike.

His limbs burned. His lungs screamed for breath. His strength, never fully returned, was not enough.

He deflected a lashing tendril, staggered to his feet- and was struck again, this time across the thigh. He gritted his teeth, barely managing to stay upright.

Imathanel fired again and again, her arrows glowing faintly with the holy power of her Bow of Avelorn, but the spindly parasite was a small and quick target; only perhaps every third arrow hit, and none of them center mass.

"I didn't mean to…" came the boy's voice, soft and whispering from between the creature's tendrils. "I didn't mean to… I didn't mean to…"

But the face at the center of the tentacles only grinned.

The tentacles moved like serpents, impossibly fast. Dorial had just begun to raise his sword when one coiled around his midsection, yanking him from the ground with a violent snap of motion that knocked the wind from his lungs. Another wrapped around his sword arm, wrenching it back, and a third seized his leg, dragging him closer.

He grunted, straining against the constriction, but his muscles were not what they once were. His vision darkened at the edges as the pressure increased.

Then a sharp twang cut through the air, followed by a shriek of pain.

Imathanel's arrow punched through one of the tentacles, severing it cleanly, and the creature flinched. The remaining tendrils whipped backward, hurling Dorial bodily through the air. He crashed into the warehouse wall with a heavy crack, crumpling to the floor. Pain flared in his side, his ribs screaming in protest, but he forced himself upright, sword still in hand.

"Imathanel-!"

Too late.

Another tentacle struck her, not with a blow but with eerie precision- latching onto her jaw, prying it open with unnatural force. She struggled, limbs tense, face twisted in revulsion, but the thing surged forward, pouring itself down her throat in a writhing mass of sinew and slime.

She gagged, then screamed.

Then fell silent.

Her body spasmed once, then again- and then her arms dropped limply to her sides, bow slipping from her fingers.

For a terrible second, Dorial knew exactly what was about to happen.

Then she stood up.

Not like a woman regaining her footing, but like a marionette pulled upright by invisible strings. Her head tilted in a sharp, unnatural motion, and her arm bent to retrieve the Bow of Avelorn. She nocked an arrow with mechanical precision.

"Imathanel…" Dorial breathed, forcing himself to stand.

Her eyes met his- glassy, unfocused, like something was looking through her. Then her fingers loosed the string.

The arrow whistled toward him.

The Sword of Hoeth cut it in half mid-air with perfect precision two pieces clattering to the ground either side of him. But forcing his body to move so fast so soon had cost him: the force twisted his already-strained shoulder, and a bolt of pain tore through his side as the muscle pulled.

He staggered, sucking in a sharp breath.

Imathanel watched him for a long moment, the stolen grace in her limbs uncanny and smooth. Assessing him.

Then, the same smile he had seen on the boy's face came over her lips.

"For all of your vaunted ageless wisdom, you elves are such predictable creatures," she spoke, her cadence a perfect match for Imathanel. "When the boy spoiled my little game, I despaired. But the Great Changer helps those who help themselves. It was almost too easy to make sure every merchant and stallkeeper in the district saw a confused boy acting strangely, heading towards the docks. And you played you parts perfectly. For that, I must thank you."

Then, she turned on her heel, darting away with inhuman speed, back towards the city.

Technically, she could have been heading anywhere in Erengrad, but Dorial had a feeling he knew exactly where she was going.

The Temple of the Cadai.