10.39 YN

(The plushies are now on sale for everyone! EU-readers, it should be good to buy! Go ahead and grab a Goblin or an [Innkeeper]! If they stab you, maybe put them down.)

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The visions began after a month and a half of what he could only describe as bliss. Truly, incredibly, and stereotypically, Nailren Fletchsing thought the New Lands were a Gnoll’s dream.

All he did was hunt. He loped across the ground, or rode if his feet got tired, and everything he saw was fair game. There were no damn Drakes asking if he had a Charter B-class Hunting Permit and checking his passport nor other tribes counting how many pelts he brought in.

It was just…open. Nailren stood in a plain filled with strange, clacking clams and spread his arms and turned in a circle, seeing no cities nor other inhabitants. He howled and, in the distance, heard the faintest howl from some of the former members of the Pride of Kelia, the team who’d come with him.

That was all. The Gnoll gazed around and realized that this—this was what Gnolls had lost.

Isolation. A place big enough to run about without encountering someone else. He could just imagine leading a herd of sheep across the landscape for grazing. Well, here was pretty rocky and—he blinked.

“Ow.”

One of the clams had enterprisingly tongued itself over the ground and bit his foot with a surprisingly strong grip. Nailren yanked it off his foot after using a dagger to pry its mouth open. The clam clacked at him. He grinned at it.

“Lunch.”

 

——

 

It was a stereotype, mind you. Some of the other Gnolls who’d journeyed into the New Lands of Izril found Nailren at their meeting spot, experimentally prying open clams and flicking their meat into a pot.

“Hoi, Nailren. Got a good haul. Bagged another Corusdeer. I swear, every herd in Izril came this way.”

“They can sense open space, same as us. Why’d you have to go and shoot it, though? Now we’ve got to eat Corusdeer meat tonight.”

Nailren was in a good humor as he stirred the pot. One of the two Gnolls, a former ‘Silver-ranker’ named Bekr, just growled.

“Beats all this seafood. Come off it—what’re you cooking now?”

“Clams. I found tens of thousands lying in this prairie over that way. If they’re edible, it’s food for years—assuming no idiot overharvests them.”

“Clams? They look gross. They’re like a hollow rock, no?”

Bekr was instantly upset by the notion of the seafood, which made Nailren snort and toss some of the empty shells at him.

“You cub. It’s food. Do you think your ancestors took a look at a snake and said, ‘I can’t eat that’?”

Bekr bristled and growled as some of the other Gnolls hauling the Corusdeer over laughed.

“You don’t even know if it’s edible!”

“I will in half a minute. Are we moving our camp or same place?”

“Hrr. Same place? Stripping it down to move seems so pointless. We’ve explored the north, but there’s so much more to see—”

Nailren nodded, and the other Gnolls squatted down. Half of them seemed like they were getting a bit homesick, like Bekr clearly was, while the other half had Nailren’s excitement.

Here was the stereotype: every Gnoll, especially City Gnolls that Nailren had met, had the image of ‘living free’ for two or three months. Going out, hunting for your food, living off the land, and so on. Even Gnolls in the tribes got the itch; they were usually the ones in big tribes where you didn’t have the same need for everyone to share jobs.

The thing was…it wasn’t for everyone. There was a reason some Gnolls had lived the life of wandering nomads, raising herd animals, and then taken a look at a Drake city and gone ‘yep, I’m sold’ and never gone back.

Part of it was how you had to live as a Gnoll in Drake lands of the south. With only half a continent, you ran into other tribes and Drake cities far too often, and it got…political. It got nasty, whether it be two Gnoll groups quarreling over grazing and hunting, Drakes banning you from ‘their’ land, or even fighting with [Farmers] or villages accusing the Gnolls of stealing—rightly or wrongly.

It was a mess, and if you were on the side of Gnolls, like Nailren, you learned two things:

Firstly, Drakes were petty bastards who’d use every reason to make your life miserable. If you ran afoul of a powerful group like a Walled City, they’d go as far as to sabotage you with their special operatives, or just hit you with the laws and march their armies out. Drakes were the worst.

Secondly—a lot of the time, the local Gnollish tribe had done something wrong. Not what they were accused of, but enough to make the Drakes mad. It took two to dance like Terandrians, and some Gnolls were only too happy to band together under a shared community and brush their own misdeeds under the shared protectiveness they had to develop.

That’s why you had to have people like Nailren. When you had a tribe threatening to go to war with Drakes, mysterious deaths, or anything else—you might beg a big tribe like Hawkarrow or Plain’s Eye or Weatherfur for help. And they might send their own mediators, or, if those big tribes were too far and they needed help fast and discreetly, they put in a request with The Pride of Kelia.

Captain Nailren, Silver-rank-team. He showed up, he drank ale, he even hunted some monsters. And he fixed problems.

Technically, Nailren claimed to be from the Fletchsing tribe, as did his entire team of Silver-rank Gnolls. If you researched the Fletchsing tribe, you’d find tons of Gnolls who’d heard of it or knew a friend who probably had a relative from there or something. It sounded Gnollish.

Fletchsing didn’t exist. It was related to the Hawkarrow tribe, who had formed and sponsored it, but it, like The Pride of Kelia, was purely a convenient disguise. The truth was that Nailren was a kind of roving [Chieftain]—he even had the class. His ‘tribe’ was The Pride of Kelia, and he recruited Gnolls to work with him as the need arose—sometimes as adventurers, sometimes as problem-solvers.

It’s what the Drakes liked to call special operatives, or [Saboteurs], [Infiltrators], [Agents]—Nailren just looked at it like work. Drakes did it, and they got so precious when they realized Gnolls could do it too.

That life was over, now. He had quit. He hadn’t made it a big thing, just de-listed The Pride as an adventuring team and gone to the New Lands. Why? Well, because this was more fun than stabbing Drakes in the middle of a cornfield at night and hiding the body.

This was the dream, and Nailren hadn’t gotten bored of it. He had been one of the first people to reach the New Lands, since he and his team had raced here on horseback, beating even the first settlers with their wagons. They’d driven fairly deep into the lower eastern section of the New Lands—at least, Nailren thought so; there weren’t any maps nor [Scrying] spells, so it was all measuring by eye and geography—and they’d been thriving.

“Okay, anyone got some more herbs or are we still relying on supplies? I’d love to find some salt.”

“Hmph. I’ve got a bunch of those weird squishy wet onions, but I’m not putting them in the pot until you make sure this isn’t poison.”

“No salt from me, but I’ve got a bunch of bone stock from last night. And fat. I was going to use it on the Corusdeer…”

“Tribes, I never thought I’d get sick of eating fresh meat. Please tell me you found something vegetable-based.”

Good-naturedly, the group of six Gnolls began working on meals. Two were gutting the Corusdeer, telling Nailren about their journey north.

“Cuska’s group is striking further north. She says she’s sick of those Landsharks and is scouting out a new spot, yes?”

Nailren nodded amiably. Now they were here, he wasn’t in charge, and The Pride’s members were doing their own thing. However, they were still hanging together, and they’d been doing well—a stark contrast to the vague rumors he’d heard floating about. He checked the pot.

“Food’s almost done. Kelthe, get over here, would you? What’s that Drake city with all the floating puffballs we passed?”

“Uh…no clue.”

“Weren’t they talking about a few groups coming back starving?”

Kelthe came over and squatted down, sniffing the pot. She was a Gnoll with tawny dark brown fur and usually the thinnest Gnoll around. She’d put on some weight, another sign they were living well.

“I remember that. One wonders how, yes? Drakes, I bet.”

Everyone grinned or snorted. Nailren rolled his eyes with good cheer, but the part of him that was more introspective understood. They made it seem easy, but in truth, once a problem-solver, always a problem-solver. There was a methodology The Pride was using that Nailren had drilled into all of them. Which was: never take anything for granted.

Always have a plan or a solution for problems. Never assume you’d just wing it, because maybe you could, but if you couldn’t, what then? So, for instance, Kelthe sniffed the pot as Nailren blew on a spoonful of what he was hoping was a clam chowder’s base.

“Well?”

The female Gnoll took a whiff, then a ginger taste of the soup.

“Smells decent. [Poisontaster’s Tongue] says…needs more salt. Tastes a bit like rocks. Sweet rocks, actually. Are they supposed to taste like that?”

Nailren tried a spoonful himself.

“Hm. It’s pretty close. Maybe a bit more of that stone-taste. You know what’d go well with this?”

“Salt?”

“No, that Drathian stuff. Shoyu or whatever. I suppose otherwise it’s clam chowder. So that’s venison, potatoes, and cream. Unless anyone wants that venison cooked differently?”

The Gnolls glanced at each other. Bekr folded his arms, preemptively sulking because he could tell he was going to be outvoted.

“Sounds good to me—let’s get it made up. Though we’re going to run low on our non-meat ingredients soon, Nailren.”

Another Gnoll warned him, and Nailren grinned.

“We’ll have to resupply at that poofball city sometime. Either that or we go far enough to run into the Drowned Folk or half-Elves on the other side. Bekr, milk?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m doing it.”

The Gnoll got up and trudged over to an animal grazing on some of the tall, pale yellow grass that seemed to be delicious to them. Bekr fished out a pail and began to milk a cow. Though cow wasn’t the right word; this wasn’t one of the docile creatures that lived all their lives in pens in Drake lands. This was a Longstalker’s Fang heifer, a smaller and more compact cow with orangey fur and horns known as Plainsfollower Cattle. Shebites was her name—well, nickname. Ordinary, mundane in the Great Plains—

She had a saddle on her back, and Bekr rode her around. She wasn’t as fast as the horses, but it was free milk thanks to one of his Skills.

Shebites continued grazing and let Bekr get away with a fresh pail of milk, which he jogged over to Nailren.

“Milk and clams?”

“Shut up, you’ll like it.”

Nailren was busy preparing a sample of what he wanted it to taste like in a bowl. Milk, clams, some venison, and…hm. All they needed now were seasonings. Oh, and more clams.

 

——

 

Everyone liked the clam chowder, including Bekr, who had four bowls. He lay on the ground, refusing to get up, even when Kelthe nudged him with a toe.

“Bekr.”

“I’m full.”

“Bekr, [Shamans] help me, get up and help or I’ll have Shebites sit on you.”

He grumbled like a cub, but then rolled over and began kicking dirt on the fire’s embers with his legs. Kelthe gave up and began collecting entrails from the deer carcass as Nailren rubbed salt into the rest of it.

“I wish we had our damn bags of holding, Nailren. We could skip the salt.”

One of the other Gnolls with a dedicated [Hunter] class, Poinr, growled. Nailren agreed, but added.

“We’re all getting soft. It’s basics for all of us, which means whomever does the supply run had better bring back as much salt as they’ve got.”

“True. I’m glad you told us to stock up from House Ulta first, yes? Or imagine how much the damn stuff would cost. I imagine prices will rise, regardless.”

Briskly, another of the Gnolls was cleaning the skin of the Corusdeer. They didn’t have the time or desire to tan it, but it was worth a bit of coin—it went onto a bundle on one of the horses’ backs, and the female Gnoll grumbled.

“We’ve got seven hides all told. Though I can’t imagine it’ll be worth anything more than a few silvers.”

“Goods are goods. It’s not like we’re aiming to make a profit.”

“True…I’ve gotten more selling some of the things I’ve killed to local [Alchemists] or [Traders] than the meat. Everyone’s convinced every bird, fish, or whatever’s the next Sage’s Grass. Okay, time to wash up. Who will help me clean the dishes? Bekr? Bekr.”

The Pride was disposing of all the scraps of meat far away from their cooking spot, which, incidentally, was not their camp. Because that would lead to predators sniffing around their camp, which was not a fun experience with Landsharks about. Indeed, the Gnolls had been keeping an eye out throughout their meal, and as they began to ride, one of their ears perked up.

“Hm. I think I hear them again. Landshark pack.”

Nailren’s ears weren’t that good, so he went silent—then they all heard that faint cough-roar of the Landsharks. Calmly, but swiftly, they changed tacks.

“Must’ve smelled the Corusdeer. Cover up the rest with that de-scenting cloth, Bekr. Who’s got a cut we didn’t salt?”

“Here. No—wait—this is a good one…here!”

Someone pulled out a fresh piece of bloody venison, and Nailren searched around for a good spot. Rocks were best…he didn’t see any tall ones, so he shrugged.

“Stick it is. I’ve got a few pieces of firewood—someone pass me a few more?”

Kelthe had a longer cut of wood for just this purpose, taken from the thin puffball trees. Far too green to burn, but when Nailren tied it to another piece with a piece of string in a secure knot, it made a seven-foot pole which he planted into the dirt hole someone had dug. They covered it, made sure it wasn’t going to fall over, and then Nailren threw a lasso with a bit of string up.

The piece of bloody meat hung from the top of the pole as the Gnolls checked themselves. Nailren washed his paws, applied a bit of de-scenting lotion that Gnolls used to hide smells—a tool also beloved by criminals—and they moved out.

By now, the Landshark pack was pretty close, and Nailren actually saw them as he and his group rode away, making swiftly through the earth for the pole. He watched as they rippled out of the ground, then circled the pole, snapping at the piece of meat but not quite working out they had to push the pole over to get at it. By the time one of them knocked it over, the Gnolls were over a mile distant, and they watched the group fighting over the meat.

“Shame they’re so damn big or we could take them down for their hides. Their teeth would make good arrowheads too.”

Poinr shook his head.

“Too risky. I’d want a team of twenty or more given how many are in a pack. You’d have to lure the rest away, isolate one…and I’m not convinced their hides would sell well outside of novelty. Their skin’s so rough…”

“I bet you Shedrkh could do something with it.”

“Honored Shedrkh can do anything. But only he can do it. So what’s the point? It’d be a fun hunt, though. If we find more Gnolls, are you down for it, Nailren?”

The [Chieftain] eyed the Landsharks and shrugged as they tore north again, after more prey.

“Not the most interesting, yes? But I’d be down to try it once. We’ve got some time. Anyone want to stop by the clam plains and see them? It might make good travel rations.”

Everyone agreed, and Bekr stroked at his chin hair.

“Sounds good. Do they dry well with salt? I like clams now.”

 

——

 

Exploring was Nailren’s biggest obsession with the New Lands. No one knew what was out here, so the joy he got from hunting and living like his forebears was nothing to documenting the place. He was marking down notes on his map as he stood on top of a huge, rocky hill that he suspected had come from the bottom of the ocean floor.

Or maybe it had been created when Archmage Kishkeria lifted this place? It was hard to say what magics had created the New Lands’ unique and varied geography. He’d talked to Drowned Folk who claimed the true bottom of the ocean floor could be just…sand. Flat sand and pitch-blackness. This, on the other hand, was a surprise each time you crested a hill, and he felt like if the Archmage of Eternal Grasses had done any of this intentionally, she’d made this place interesting on purpose.

“More damn ruins. Not even the same architectural style as last time. There’s no way so many were so close together. Unless…hm.”

He was staring into the distance with a glass telescope at a new style of ruins, which he was trying to copy down with brief sketches in his journal using charcoal. They had a vaguely…well, he wanted to say Drake design, but that was only because of how blocky they were. Strong geometry, but also these exposed columns that held up the building—most broken, but he could see where they should be.

Drakes didn’t go for that in his experience. He’d seen evidence of their forts: blocky walls with no open space save for arrowslits. But these? They were set in a valley of sorts, with pinkish foliage on the ground and reaching upwards, but not trees. Giant, living…well, he had no word for them. Some kind of organism that built on itself without the ordinary need for leaves, trunk, and roots he was used to.

He’d love to go that way, but it was Landshark territory, and he’d want backup if he were doing an adventurer thing. It went into his notepad for now; he was scouting, and then he’d have a pick of things to do.

Assuming, of course, someone didn’t beat him to the punch.

“Nailren! Contact with other explorers!”

—And there it was. The Gnoll turned, having already seen Kelthe riding at him fairly hard. He had a shortbow that was his primary weapon of choice; Nailren could use a lot of weapons, but it and some standard steel arrows took care of most threats if you hit them in the head. Liscor’s dungeon had been fairly nasty for his team at the time, but here…

“Trouble?”

“No, we just saw them off, but I was thinking we tail them just in case they were lying. They’re heading east fast—a bit north of us. Can you see them?”

He could not, but then, the ground rose, and he could imagine they’d passed into the highlands where a bunch of those annoying sucker-feeders lived. Nailren slid down the rocks, and Kelthe gave him the breakdown.

“They said they’d been out here twelve days before us.”

“Fast. Drakes?”

“Yup. Eight of them, adventurers—well, they say adventurers, but they looked more like former Watch to me.”

“Hostile?”

“Nope. Practically fell over themselves begging for directions and food when they saw us. I was worried they would jump us for our food, but we had the salted venison, and they scarfed it down. Poor bastards—we shared our water with them too and pointed them at the watering hole. Was that too much?”

Nailren shrugged.

“If they can even find it again, it’s just a watering hole. More starvers?”

Kelthe pulled at her ears, seeming mildly flabbergasted.

“I don’t get it. They must not know how to hunt…”

“They don’t have our ears or noses, Kelthe. Think about it. They’re lost, they run out of supplies, and then they start panicking. Corusdeer bolt the moment someone sneezes at them—which was it?”

Kelthe pointed northwards.

“They got lost. They were heading straight for the nearest ruins with enough food, they thought—but their bags of holding died, and then they lost most of it to pests. Moths, they said.”

“Face-Eaters?”

“Nope. Just regular nasty ones. Got all into their grain, and I got the impression they dumped it rather than winnow and salvage. They thought they’d hunt, and they got some kills, but they were so busy searching for the ruins they thought they’d spotted they lost their orientation. By the time they realized they’d run out of food even if they got to the ruins—well, they had the good sense to turn back when they did. They were looking pretty thin. But they had their horses. Half their horses.”

Nailren shuddered as he imagined the sight, which wasn’t hard. He’d run into three groups himself, and only one of them had seemed prepared for this kind of situation.

“What a disaster. I bet they’ve dumped their gear too. How rich did they appear?”

“Not very. Not worth scavenging in my opinion. On the plus side—they gave us some coins for the meat. It’ll be clams again though, unless we find something worth eating.”

“Bekr will be so upset…”

The two laughed about that, and then Nailren scratched at his chin. He hadn’t decided how charitable he wanted to be with people he might meet in the New Lands. Or how greedy. They were playing it by ear with each group, and so far, the Gnolls had just pointed them back towards the city of Goisedall or shared some supplies or information. But intelligence—both literal and figurative—was vital here. He was having fun, but it occurred to Nailren that there’d be people aplenty soon. He growled at Kelthe.

“We might want to find a good place to stake out. This one’s not too far from these new ruins I was looking at, but it’s in Landshark hunting territory, so I don’t like it.”

“Agreed. Let’s see if Cuska found a better spot up north.”

 

——

 

Cuska had returned by the second day, and she brought news, though only she had come back.

“We found a watering hole up north as well; nice, lovely lake filled with something nasty, I just bet. But, uh, everyone else is still up there. Jorr, the idiot, did the thing he’s not supposed to do. Take a guess, Nailren?”

“He drank the water?”

“He drank the water. He’s been spraying for hours. I think I can still smell it.”

Bekr looked up from the clam chowder they were remaking.

“Cuska. I don’t need to imagine that!”

“Tough! I could smell how far he got! We’re checking to see if we need to do more with the water than just boil it; I’d love it if we didn’t have to waste alchemical ingredients on it.”

There was a pricey little tonic you could buy that would let you drink even fairly stagnant water without risk; it was an adventurer’s fallback, and Gnollish tribes kept it around. But Nailren agreed it wasn’t what you wanted.

“Is it better than here, Cuska? I saw another set of ruins, so that’s two in range…”

She gave him a toothy grin. She had a City Gnoll’s accent, like him, and didn’t end her sentences with ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

“This spot’s good, Nailren, hey? There’s a huge plains area west of there—just the kind of spot any tribe who wants grazing land desires. More importantly, it’s out of the Landsharks’ hunting range. There’s also what looks like some kind of broken tower not a stone’s throw away from the lake. Interested?”

He was, very. Nailren agreed to pack up and move to the lake, though everyone agreed they’d better stock up on water in case it wasn’t going to work out. They were telling Cuska about what they’d seen and the Drake group when she sombered.

“Ah—we ran into some dead people.”

“What? Starvation?”

“Nope. Small camp. Four tents—some gear trashed about, but scavengers had gotten to it first. They were badly decomposing, so I can’t say how long, but it was a fight. One of them was knifed in their sleep. Two more got arrows, and the last—I think it was sword cuts, but I didn’t check that close.”

The first murders in the New Lands they’d heard of. Nailren put down his bowl, frowning.

“For food or…? What species?”

“Human, and I don’t know. Don’t worry, everyone’s mounted a double watch, and Jorr’s not with the main group. He’s camped away, so if they’re only paying attention to him—thought you’d be interested, Nailren.”

He rubbed at his chin. He didn’t like that.

“Sounds like a [Rogue]. Few people have the guts or ability to stalk someone and knife them in their sleep. Lower-level though, or they’d have just killed all four? Four? One per tent?”

At her nod, he hmmed.

“We could use the tents if they’re good material. I know it’s grisly, but I’ll take a look and see if I can get more. Oh, and let’s put out some of that fishing line at night for tripwire. A permanent spot sounds best.”

That was his call, and everyone else agreed, so they went to sleep that night with a few more perimeter traps. Nailren slept easily, aware that if he heard the wrong noises at night, he’d wake up instantly.

He was a [Clandestine Chieftain of the Arrow], after all. This wasn’t his first experience camping or fighting in the wilds or against hidden foes.

This was Nailren’s life two months after the Winter Solstice. Enjoyable, but not carefree; an explorer in the New Lands of Izril.

The visions started after he deconstructed those damn tents.

 

——

 

It was a simple job; the camp was a forty minute ride from the lake, which was ideal. It had good high ground, a concealable basin they might use if they didn’t want the attention, the water seemed good—though obviously don’t drink it, Jorr—and it was indeed out of Landshark territory.

Save for the dead travellers, there was no immediate threat, so Nailren had gone out to investigate and salvage the tents because they were good material.

They were still up and stained a bit with blood, but Cuska had removed the bodies from the tents—scavengers had already gotten to them. Nailren grimaced at the foul odor and glanced at the corpses.

Oddly shriveled. He bent down and saw familiar circular sucker marks on the corpses.

Those damn sucker-things. Must have bled them dry, and then I doubt they’re as tasty to anything else. He saw yellow flies buzzing around and bent to do the grisly inspection work.

There wasn’t much to see other than a few interesting things Cuska had missed. The wound was atrophied on the back, but it was rough, and there were two stabs—Nailren guessed the victim had screamed, which suggested inexperience on the stabber’s side and the lack of an enchanted blade.

Secondly, the arrows were Human as well. He knew that because he checked the fletching and the construction didn’t read to him as Drake or Gnollish. Fun fact: Drake [Fletchers] often hid a tiny number along the fletching for the Watch to use in identifying the arrows if they were made by a bigger producer in a Drake city. Gnolls also preferred a different, more slender type of arrow, and this was a cruder, thick-shafted arrow.

Maybe it’s some city or tribe I don’t know, but it doesn’t feel like it. No clues from the one who got stabbed. Sword, probably. Tents…yeah, we can use these.

He worked in silence, electing to just cut the tents apart and bundle the fabric up. It was some kind of cotton that he suspected had been enchanted; it might mildew quickly, but it was good for a lot of things. Bandages, shelter, toilet paper…

He took it down to the lake, gave it a good wash with some boiled water, even added some soap from a ball he’d brought, and that was that. Nailren was hanging them up to dry on a little clothesline made of a few sticks and twine when he saw someone out of the corner of his eyes, watching him.

A gray Human woman.

He spun and had an arrow nocked to his bow in a single moment, dropping the sheets. But when he pointed at her—there was no one there.

In situations like these, Nailren didn’t say ‘hello’ or ‘is anyone there?’. He cupped one paw to the side of his mouth, howled, then held his ground.

Jorr and three other Gnolls were there within minutes, and they advanced with Nailren, sweeping the area and sniffing the air. But there was no scent of anyone being there. Nor did they find tracks where the woman had been standing.

“Grey, about five-foot-five—Human. If you see anything, call it out.”

Nailren wasn’t shaken. He suspected he was being watched, and he didn’t pretend he was lowering his guard, not for a second. Rather, he instantly had every member of The Pride alerted, and no one moved around in a group under three.

The sheets went into one of Nailren’s packs. He put them away, then joined the others scouting for food—fishing in the lake. He was more on alert this time, so when the next vision occurred, he spotted it instantly—and realized what it was.

Nailren was casting a line into the waters, trying to nab some of the fish that were definitely in there, and peering into the semi-brown liquid when he saw a face gazing up at him.

Male. Young, mid-twenties at most. Face grey, standing at the bottom of the lake.

“Tribes!”

He leapt back, and everyone whirled. Jorr raised a hunting spear, and Nailren pointed.

“There! In the water—”

Gone the moment he looked again. Of course the man was. Who could stand at the bottom of a lake? That was stupid…stupid. And Nailren, panting, realized he knew that face.

“The dead travellers.”

Well—great. Just great. The other members of The Pride of Kelia turned to Nailren, and he rubbed at his face.

 

——

 

He saw a third dead traveller as he was having dinner. Nailren turned from eating some of the fried fish and saw a man sitting at the fire, next to Kelthe. This time, he very calmly and very slowly called out.

“Kelthe, to your right. Anyone see that?”

Everyone’s head turned, and Nailren saw the figure vanish before anyone turned his way. He saw them glance at him and reached for his fried fish.

“Great. Either I’m under some kind of super magical effect—or I’m snapping.”

It hadn’t occurred to him, but he had a bad feeling he knew what this was. Nailren shook his head as Kelthe regarded him worriedly.

“You mean from the tents? We could burn the fabric—”

“What? No. It’s just fabric, and it ran out of magic. What’re the odds they had…cursed tent fabric? And if there was a Relic-class item, it’d have gotten you, Kelthe. I’m, uh—I’m probably having Warsights.”

No one but Cuska knew the term, and Nailren scratched at his chin, embarrassed. It was normal, and he’d seen plenty of people with it, but even so, he’d just never thought he’d get it.

“It’s when you live through an event, usually violent. You start jumping at shadows, remembering what happened vividly. Flashing back. Warsights, see? Drakes get it a lot. I’m told Doombringers—excuse me, Doombearers, too. I never had them until now, but it makes sense.”

“But you’re just seeing the dead travellers, Nailren? Normally it’s people you kill, right?”

“Yes…but maybe I’m not reacting to this new lifestyle well. I leave civilization, live without doing the job, and I start cracking up.”

It made Nailren kind of gloomy to think that was what was going on. He’d have to see a [Shaman] or [Thought Healer] about this. The other Gnolls looked at him sympathetically, and Bekr, who’d only joined Nailren’s team a few times, raised a piece of fish to his mouth.

“I’ve killed a few people, Nailren. We had a fight with the local Drake city one time. It got bad—idiots taking shots at us at night and us doing the same until they sent the army. How many do you have to kill to get, uh, Warsights? Or do you have to go through a war?”

Cuska glanced at Nailren.

“Could just be one, could be lots. War—that’s harrowing. I bet anyone who met the Goblin King has a Warsight about him. As for Nailren…”

“I’ve done both.”

Nailren was normally quiet about his past, but he was retired, and they were friends. He smiled ruefully, and Bekr hesitated.

“War and killing? Er, how much?”

“Wars. I couldn’t tell you how many people. That’s the job. I should have known it’d catch up to me. Strange, though. Sorry for causing an alarm.”

“It could be magic. We’ll keep an eye out.”

Kelthe insisted, but Nailren just sighed. He put his fish down; he wasn’t much hungry.

“Why strange?”

Bekr wanted to know, and Nailren shrugged, again embarrassed.

“I—I never thought it haunted me like that. Never regretted it or had much trauma, except for maybe the close calls or injuries. But I mean…if I see them again, that’s proof, eh?”

He grinned, and they agreed, slightly worriedly. They kept a watch that night, and Nailren was told not to bother with his. He thought it best and laid down to sleep.

Sleep was hard coming, possibly because he had that unsettling feeling, like when you had a nightmare and you didn’t want to open your eyes. And sure enough, when he opened his eyes in his tent and peered up—

A young woman was staring down at him, knife wounds in her chest. Skin grey, eyes a pale white. 

Nailren sat up and stuck his paw through her chest. It passed clean through, and he felt a bit cold as his fur shivered, but the apparition vanished. He sighed.

“Great.”

Warsights it was.

 

——

 

The next few days became a routine that took all the fun out of his time in the New Lands. Nailren grew used to seeing the four dead travellers around him. They’d pop up while he was preoccupied with something, hunting—a figure out of the corner of his eyes, or they’d be amidst an ordinary scene while he was glancing around. A dead, grey person staring at him.

It got on his nerves, actually. For one thing, he didn’t like people appearing and had a good awareness of his surroundings, so he jumped or had that spike of adrenaline when he saw them. But they were just apparitions.

No one else saw them—they often appeared when he was alone or vanished when someone’s head turned, and he didn’t point them out after that first few times. Nailren had to be honest about seeing them though: it was too hard to hide.

“I’ll go back with the supply run and talk to a [Healer], alright?”

He snapped at Kelthe when she asked about it, then grew annoyed about snapping. Here he was, supposed to be exploring this tower, and he’d called the trip off because he didn’t trust his instincts with the Warsights around.

“Are you sure it’s not something else?”

“What, magic? Kelthe, Mrsha told me how the Silver Swords ran out of magic—and they’re a Gold-rank team. That was some poor group that got jumped in the middle of nowhere.”

“I know, I know…but it’s just not like I’ve seen. I knew a few Gnolls like that in my tribe. They were great some days, then they’d hear or see something and it’d set them off. It wasn’t regular like this.”

“Well…I bet it’s individual. I’ll get over it or get used to it.”

 

——

 

He did not get over it or used to it. If anything, after another day, the visions seemed to grow more frequent. The dead quartet would appear closer to him, and he grew used to swiping at them and ignoring the chill running up his fur.

He started talking to them too.

“You again. Get lost.”

The oldest was the short woman who had been killed by the sword. She swayed as he kicked out of the latrines, and he saw Cuska giving him a concerned look.

“You sure you don’t want to go back to Goisedall now? It’s not that many days’ ride, Nailren.”

“No! I—argh, yes. I think I should.”

He scrubbed at his face with a paw, frustrated, seeing the young man staring at him from behind a boulder, and realizing he couldn’t get away from this. He sighed.

“Tomorrow morning. I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure thing. We can ask about the Silver Swords too. You were worried about them. Trade some information, buy salt…sell those hides.”

She was cajoling, and everyone was being kind to him at lunch, and Nailren felt like a lump. He breathed out through his nose and took a moody bite of fish. Then he saw a flicker out of the corner of his eye and punched with one paw.

“I just wish they’d leave me the hell alone! Right there—I knew it was bad, but I should have been kinder to people suffering from it.”

Kelthe looked up, and a glowing figure recoiled. Then spoke in a nervous voice.

“U-um! I can come back later, Captain Nailren, if this is a bad—”

Nailren nearly leapt into the fire as the image of Nanette Weishart stood there timidly. The witch girl was standing there, flickering—and he realized the [World’s Eye Theatre] had sent her to him again.

“Ancestors! I nearly died of—who is this?”

Cuska clutched at her chest, and Nailren turned. He knew Nanette, but not well, and smiled.

“Nanette! This is a good time. Perfect, actually. I apologize, I thought you were something else—where’s Mrsha? How are the Silver Swords?”

She tipped a baseball hat at him, and he blinked at her. She was wearing a yellow poncho and weird fishies on her stockings…and the baseball hat.

No accounting for style, but she seemed pleased with herself.

“Hello, Captain Nailren! Captain Ylawes is fine, I think—we’re having trouble keeping up with him, but I’m checking in instead of Mrsha today. She’s a bit sick. The rainy season just started in Liscor. I’m glad I found you! You weren’t showing up the last few days.”

“Ah, understood. I know there’s distortion in the New Lands. How can I help?”

She screwed up her face, fumbling for a notepad, which he respected.

“Well, Captain Nailren, have you seen or observed anything valuable? I realize information is money, but we could compensate you for it—anything that might help our friends in the New Lands is valuable. I’m taking notes in case we do contact Captain Ylawes.”

He stroked at his chin, amused.

“May I ask what the finder’s fee is for valuable information? I am willing to share, of course, but if you’re asking…”

Nanette blinked, and her eyes slid sideways, so he supposed that had just been an offhand comment. Then, to his surprise, she brightened up.

“I don’t have a number, but I’ll ask! Miss Lyonette—!”

She ran off, and Nailren stood there until someone else sidled into frame. There were sounds in the background, but a Cave Goblin, Asgra, appeared, furtively ducking into the picture. Cuska nearly leapt into a tent, but Asgra peered around.

“Whoa. This New Lands? It nice?”

“Hello, Asgra. It’s very nice.”

Nailren bared his teeth at her, and Asgra gave him a thumbs up.

“Is good you not starve. You like Goblins. Very smart. Species that start with ‘G’ are best! Oops. Nanette coming back.”

She picked up a broom and innocently began sweeping as Nanette hurried back.

“Captain Nailren! I just spoke with Miss Lyonette! We could offer…five gold for basic information and fifty gold for anything valuable? Or even higher if it’s substantive!”

Nailren whistled, and a few of the Gnolls watching perked up. That wasn’t bad money at all—he wondered how the inn could afford that. Then he smiled.

“Well, I would have shared the information anyways. Let me think.”

He ran down a few of the discoveries like the travellers—omitting the visions—the Landsharks and how they were using bait, and even his observations on multiple ruin types to see if that qualified. Rather to his shock, Nanette happily wrote all this down and accorded him a twenty-five gold coin bounty.

“This is wonderful, Captain Nailren! We can, uh, get the gold to you in the Merchant’s Guild. They have one in Goisedall, and I’ll ask Ishkr to bring the money to them and credit you right away!”

Either she had open access to the inn’s purse strings and she wasn’t nearly as pragmatic as he’d given her credit for, or the inn had a lot of gold to spare. Nailren wasn’t going to complain; he’d learned to expect weirdness with Erin. He grinned and nodded.

“Well, I have one last tidbit for however much it’s worth. You know your issue with growing plants?”

She grew sharper instantly.

“Yes? Have you found a way to grow plants in the soil? Or cleanse it? Because I imagine everyone would want that!”

“Neither. Instead, it’s the solution of a Gnoll, an explorer. There may not be much soil not filled with salt, nor an easy way to purify it, but that doesn’t mean there’s no arable land, Miss Nanette.”

“You’ve found some? Tell me, please!”

He grinned and indicated Cuska, who waved.

“This is Cuska, one of my teammates. I’m not sure if you’ve met—”

“Hello! I’m Nanette Weishart, a witch and member of Erin’s inn! She’s not here—I think Captain Nailren knows the entire story. If you have messages for family, I could take them! We try to check on you daily, Mrsha and I.”

“I, uh, I shall think of any messages to pass on. I’m deeply grateful, Miss Nanette.”

Cuska replied, sounding a bit unnerved, but delighted by this powerful effect. Nailren gestured to her.

“Her group found a natural basin while exploring in the New Lands, Nanette. Dry—but filled with plants, including what we’re calling ‘water onions’. It had breeds of plants we recognized, but altered for this environment, if that makes sense. Overflowing—and then nothing. It filled the circle and nowhere else. Do you know what I suspect?”

Her eyes shone with interest, and she put her head in her hands.

“It sounds like a riddle for a [Druid]. Let me think…if it’s all salty…then there’s where it evaporated? Or, no—was there something there? I don’t know what it could be!”

He grinned.

“I have a theory, but you may wish to ask a Drowned Person or [Sailor]. Ask them…if there are places underwater where freshwater or some other kind of water or substance accumulates. For it seemed to me as though the soil there was good to plant. We buried a few Yellats, but they’d take more time to sprout—we’ll check on them. But if something were there when the New Lands rose…”

“…The salt water wouldn’t drain into it, maybe! Or perhaps it’s just better soil! Basins of growing soil, Captain Nailren, that’s a wonderful insight! I’ll tell Captain Ylawes right away, and, um, Miss Lyonette will figure out who else to tell.”

Ah, so they would use the information. Nailren was a bit happy about that and coughed as Nanette wrote furiously.

“Obviously, this information is valuable, Miss Nanette, though I am sure in time many people will notice this.”

“Not if they’re Drakes. Hah!”

A few laughs, but Nanette nodded earnestly.

“I can pay you, Captain Nailren—”

“You could pay me by telling anyone you come across who figured out this information, assuming it is good.”

Nailren interjected and was pleased by the slight widening of her eyes then her eager smile.

“Credit’s worth more than gold, Captain Nailren?”

“To me, it is. Please mention my team, actually.”

It was some small bit of fame, and he liked the idea that even a big group like Nombernaught might hear it was him—and The Pride of Kelia, of course. Nanette beamed.

“Well, in that case, I think I need to send Ishkr with five thousand and twenty-five gold pieces to the Merchant’s Guild!”

Even Nailren’s excellent card-face couldn’t help but betray a blink, and Cuska spat out her boiled water. Okay. Either the inn was engaged in some kind of illicit activity like selling drugs or…he wasn’t going to turn down that fee, though, and he bared his teeth.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Nanette. That’s no small amount for a Silver-rank team.”

Or even my finances. It’s not like I could get paid more than what a Silver-ranker earns. I could use that. For the [Thought Healer] if nothing else.

And like that, his moment of fun and triumph turned sour—and seemed to almost summon two specters this time. Pale, grey Humans staring at him from the entrance to his tent.

Dead gods, they’re so creepy. Do they have to be creepy? I thought it’d be someone I murdered, like that damn Drake who thought I was sniffing around Manus. I feel bad about that, but it’s just them.

His smile wavered, but Nailren was determined to make this a victory, so he opened his mouth.

“So, where is Captain Ylawes and his team? I’m heading to Goisedall, Miss Nanette, and it’s possible I could head north and scout for him if there’s a need. Mrsha said he had help, including from Erin…? But if I could make a difference, I am willing.”

Nanette peered at him, then stared past Nailren, mouth open slightly. She hesitated, then focused on Nailren.

“They do have a bit of help, but keep that secret, Captain Nailren, about, um, Erin, please. If you’re willing to help, I can certainly try and pinpoint where you are, but without maps—”

“Ah, yes. Such an issue, hm? But I am good at tracking too.”

She nodded eagerly, then hesitated.

“Captain Nailren? Um, Miss Cuska—are—am I the only one seeing those grey people in your tent? They’re not undead, but I swore I didn’t see them a second ago, and I—”

Nailren had that sensation of his stomach dropping as Nanette spoke. Annoyance becoming horror—he turned slowly, and Cuska whirled. He saw her eyes grow round, and then her paws reach for her bow—

Then she screamed. Nailren saw the two figures staring at him—then vanish. When they did? He glanced at Nanette, and she looked disturbed. Then Nailren realized those weren’t Warsights and he’d been actually seeing visions of—

He felt like screaming too.

 

——

 

Day 38 of the Silver Swords’ Journey into the New Lands. Unemployed. Starving.

 

Ylawes Byres woke up and saw the desolate image of the [Merchants] screaming at him as he sat up. His chin rasped with stubble, and each day he woke up…he began to realize how many things he’d taken for granted.

The first thing to go was his body’s condition. It had been slipping from the moment everyone had to reduce rations, even with the adventurers being fed more than the rest, but the privation that had set in near the end of his time with the Consortium of Enterprise had been hard.

It was the days after when they marched away from that doomed camp, and had to live off the tubeworms that Rasktooth and Infinitypear had found, that he truly felt the effects set in, though. Because starvation was one thing—this was decay.

He woke up and had less energy to go around. Normally, Ylawes could roll out of bed and go for a five mile jog before even worrying about breakfast. He was 28 years old and often got told by older adventurers that his [Warrior] class would keep him from slowing down physically even in his thirties and forties.

Normally, Ylawes just…had energy. He could do anything he wanted. If he was tired, he always assumed it was because the task was so strenuous anyone would be exhausted by this point because he was in peak physical shape.

He’d never had to struggle just to march on foot or gotten grumpy after a day of walking, but he realized part of his foul temper wasn’t just due to the stress of being lost in the New Lands without a food source—it was physical.

That…annoyed him more than he wanted to let on, and he caught himself being snappish more than once with his teammates. As ever, it was his team who seemed to be ahead of him in terms of maturity. In this case, a three-year-old.

They were walking along the multi-colored river with purple sediment that wound along the yellow grasses omnipresent to the New Lands, heading northwest towards the place Erin claimed they’d find help. Terlands, apparently.

Ylawes only had his vision to go off of, and because Erin had appeared to him in that strange…place, he knew the team was taking his word on trust. Let alone the other settlers, who were well aware how much food they had left.

Everyone marched along the grass, following the wagons loaded with the gritty, ash-flavored tubeworms. By now, they were a constant companion; every meal was tubeworms. They’d roast them over a fire, then snack on them throughout the day. Water, tubeworms.

When someone caught fish or another animal, everyone would sandwich the bites between the tubeworms for some flavor, any flavor besides the ashy meat taste. But they weren’t starving, so that was something.

March and watch the hills they had been camped near recede—and the huge canyon to the west, a crack in the ground, keep pace with them. Sometimes, they’d pass through weird, disc-shaped meadows filled with flowers and plants that broke up the yellow grasslands, and Ylawes could see patches of discolored terrain eastwards, inviting and fascinating, like the weird pink structures—but they dared not stop to investigate, even though the [Farmers] wanted to check out the plants.

They had a limited supply of food, and they were uncertain of their destination. Each step they dallied might mean the Terlands had moved from their last known spot—and Erin hadn’t checked back in. Nor had they seen Mrsha.

The grass was annoying. It wasn’t that high yet, but was growing with each week, and the effort of shuffling through it in the front left Ylawes annoyed. In his silversteel armor—it was taxing to walk, and he had grumpily refused Larr’s and Dasha’s offers to walk ahead.

It was Rasktooth and Infinitypear’s conversation that stuck out to him. By now, the Cave Goblin was operating as a scout like Insill. His survival knowledge had saved them once, and Ylawes had him in front to spot any food sources—or dangers. Rasktooth, paralyzed from the waist down, rode on Infinitypear’s back in a little harness. He was chatting as he carved up pieces of tubeworm and fed them to Infinitypear.

“Hey, brother, you tired?”

“No, brother. I am very good.”

Infinitypear sounded upbeat, and Ylawes tried not to scowl and get annoyed at their childish banter. Rasktooth stopped carving tubeworm.

“You don’t have to lie, brother. Walking is suck, like eating maggot guts. I know.”

Infinitypear hesitated, and the Worker, who was carrying both his pack and using his Adamantium-tipped spear as a walking stick, glanced at Ylawes. The [Knight] said nothing; his pack felt heavy today, and his shoulders hurt. He brushed at his metal gauntlets irritably; he saw the bright metal was discoloring.

Then it started raining again, and everyone groaned as a squall broke over them. Droplets became a storm, and whatever vision they had was suddenly just dimly-moving shapes amidst raindrops, turning the world into a picture of rain.

“Everyone move closer together! Check to make sure no one’s out of place!”

Ylawes shouted, and the group slowed and bunched up, swearing. They didn’t stop; they knew this shower would stop soon, and another would hit within an hour. Springtime in the New Lands. Infinitypear hunched his shoulders as Rasktooth patiently fished something out of their packs.

An umbrella. He held it over the Worker, shielding them from the rain, but it still made the footing even more treacherous. Infinitypear slipped and nearly went into the river as they moved—Ylawes spun, caught him, and then adjusted their path to keep further from the edge. The riverbanks were already overflowing, and Infinitypear spoke.

“I hate walking. I hate rain. But I am not sad I have to carry you, brother.”

Rasktooth patted him on the head.

“I know. But walking is the suck.”

“Yes. Very suck. Captain Ylawes, is being an adventurer this much walking?”

Ylawes blinked and looked at them. He was about to say that it wasn’t usually this bad or something encouraging when he saw Rasktooth’s knowing stare and Infinitypear’s innocent one. So he replied without the pretense.

“Normally, we ride. Sometimes it’s a slog, but this…is exceptionally unpleasant. I quite dislike it.”

The Goblin and Antinium exchanged a glance, then nodded at each other and high-fived, as if hearing that this was indeed unpleasant made things better. That motivated Ylawes to complain a bit more. He glanced at the horses being ridden in shifts by the others.

“This entire expedition is a disaster. If I’d have known about any of the issues—any—I would have insisted on more mounts. Spare horses, far more mobility, farm animals—”

“Would that not be more mouths to feed, Captain Ylawes? We have eaten many horses already. Which is very sad.”

Infinitypear seemed confused, as did Rasktooth, but Ylawes indicated the horses.

“They’re the only things thriving here, Infinitypear. They eat grass.”

That was the Consortium’s big mistake, he’d realized. They hadn’t wanted to deal with herding at all, but it was the one thing that would have kept them from starving. Ylawes groused as the rain let up again. He stared into the sky and counted.

“One, two, three…”

Four rainbows hung in the air, one a complete circle in the distance. Another stretched across the horizon, but several were just…wonky. One of them was wobbly, like a ribbon, and Ylawes wondered why there were so many.

It was just another thing about the New Lands. Infinitypear and Rasktooth loved the rainbows, but Ylawes was in no mood to appreciate them.

“And the damn rain. I’m running out of oil, and I had to abandon most of my supplies because my bag of holding exploded. My armor’s rusting.”

“What’s rust, Captain Ylawes?”

Infinitypear held up a hand, and Ylawes gave him an incredulous look, then showed him a stain on his gauntlet, creeping around the edges.

“This! The metal’s wearing away. It shouldn’t even be rusting!”

“Why that?”

Rasktooth blinked, and Ylawes’ plaintive note grew louder.

“It’s an alloy! Silver and steel—it tarnishes if it’s made right, but never rusts. I had this made by a [Blacksmith] in House Byres, but look at my plate.”

His cuirass wasn’t rusting, despite multiple showers, but it did have a rather cloudy look to it and had darkened from the pristine silver to a bronze-y look. Tarnishing made it appear grimy. However, his gauntlets and patches on his armor where he’d had them repaired were beginning to rust.

Ordinary steel or improper alloy instead of the real House Byres specialty. If he ever got back home, Ylawes would walk into that smithy and punch—

He controlled his breathing. He’d write a very strongly worded letter to the [Blacksmith]. He couldn’t even be public or he might ruin the man’s reputation—

Even if he sold me the wrong damn alloy?

His dark mood lasted as he had to explain to Infinitypear the dangers of rust, and Rasktooth happily talked about the benefits.

“It good for stabbing though. You stab someone with rusty blade, they die bad. What that you always say, Captain? Every cloud have a silver lining?”

“Too much steel in this one.”

Ylawes scrubbed at his gauntlets again and grumbled. He glanced over his shoulders guiltily, hoping no one had heard him ranting, but when he saw Farmer Petia trudging after him, the woman just gave him a weary, blank-eyed look. He supposed it was hard to feel worse than now. He just felt—

 

——

 

Day 39 of the Silver Swords’ Journey into the New Lands. Rusting. Low-energy.

 

Decayed. His armor was tarnishing, his muscles and body were getting soft. They found trees on this particular day. Actual trees, not the cotton tufts. They saw them in the distance, and despite being a day out from the Terlands’ last known location, Ylawes had to investigate. For the possibility of food if nothing else.

Only, when they got closer, the trees looked all wrong. They had holes in them and were multi-colored, with greenish-red tops and grey-brown trunks, but it was all one substance. Not leaves—Dawil enterprisingly cut a piece out with his ruined axeblade and eyed the inside.

“No sap. The hell’s this, Petia?”

“No clue. Let’s see if it burns.”

The [Farmer] started a grassfire as the team spread out amongst the trees, or began to until Ylawes called them back.

“Hold it, everyone stay back. Adventurers only. Falene, stay with Anith, Dawil, Dasha, and Larr. Pekona, you’re with me, Rasktooth, and Infinitypear. We need to scout this out first.”

By rights, he should have marched them back while the adventurers checked it out, but everyone was footsore, and the fire was already going. So Ylawes marched into the trees and quickly found that this might be a strange forest, but it had life.

…Mostly these worm-like things that slithered in and out of the holes in the trunks. Rasktooth spotted the first ones, and Ylawes groaned.

“I’m sick of damn worms. Surely there’s something else here? What lives on the worms? Birds, maybe! Or—”

“Bats, Captain?”

That came from Pekona. She pointed up, and Ylawes saw, in the shadows of the tree canopies, familiar hanging shapes which trembled as he drew close. His groan intensified.

Bats. Not even interesting bats like Dropbats, just…bats. Because of how the trees were made up, they provided excellent shade and cover, and the bats would roost underneath their branches.

Bats and worms. Oh, and mushrooms growing along the bark. Rasktooth scraped a few off, but he was wary of trying them.

“Eh, my skin tingly a bit when I put it on there. Probably not eat, Captain. Worms is okay. But hard to catch. Bats…could be good meat, but need a net. Your face all scrunchy. You not like bats either?”

“Bats aren’t appealing to us Humans, Rasktooth.”

The Cave Goblin gave Ylawes a look as if asking what kind of food the man did like, and he shrugged.

“Is not as big as Dropbats anyways. Less meat.”

Pekona seemed hugely relieved as she turned cautiously in the forest. Ylawes directed his attention to her to avoid watching Rasktooth and Infinitypear catching a few bats to sample them. He ignored the high-pitched squeaking and the crunch.

“Pekona, how are you holding up?”

He hadn’t talked to the other members of the expanded Silver Swords much, despite their time trekking. No one was in a mood to talk, but keeping morale up mattered. Well, keeping morale anywhere above rock bottom was a challenge.

“Good, Captain. I can fight.”

She was concealing her curved blade from him for some reason, hiding it behind her back like a child. Ylawes peered at her.

“Everything alright…?”

She appeared as good as he was and shifted from foot to foot.

“I—yes, Captain.”

The most silent member of Vuliel Drae was, as Ylawes had observed, a mystery even to her teammates. Pekona, the Drathian [Sword Dancer], spoke little, but practiced intensively with her sword, even after a day of marching.

“Well…let me know if you have any issues. My condition isn’t what I want it to be, and you’re a solid anchor in the team.”

“I am?”

That seemed to surprise her, and Ylawes watched as Rasktooth bit the head off of—he turned back around.

“Yes. Of course. You’re the third-best combatant in the team with Falene out of magic. Dawil needs to stay behind if we split up like this, so you’re the one I’ll need to watch my back. Infinitypear and Rasktooth are promising, but they’re still rookies.”

He meant it, too. Insill was a [Rogue] and not good in direct scraps. Anith was a [Mage]; out of mana. That left Larr, who was a [Ranger], Dasha, a [Warrior] who didn’t yet have the levels to be outstanding, or Pekona.

One arm or not, she’d participated in the Trial of Blades, and he’d seen her slice up the Landshark. She might not be as sturdy as Dawil, but he wanted her guarding his back.

The compliment made Pekona flush, and she fidgeted from foot to foot before showing him her blade.

“I’m…not that trustworthy, Captain Ylawes. Look.”

Her blade, a shorter version of the long, curved katana that Erin-Zeladona had used, had rust on it. Just a few specks, but Ylawes saw her guilty expression, and her hand was red and scraped.

“Out of oil?”

“Yes, Captain. I lost it when my bag of holding exploded. I’ve been trying, but…even the cooking oil is gone.”

“I’ve got a tiny bit left. I can give you some—it’s understandable.”

Pekona’s face grew more embarrassed, and she bit her tongue. She had features vaguely like Ryoka’s—black hair and a similar profile, but her gaze was even more intense than Ryoka’s had used to be.

“It’s embarrassing, Captain. My sword—I’m—”

She struggled for words, and he remembered she wasn’t a native speaker to the common tongue everyone else had. Pekona muttered a few words.

“This is what I trained. I have been a disgrace at the Village of the Dead. Then the Trial of Blades. I swore to improve. If I can’t even take care of my sword, what am I?”

Her voice shook, and he realized this one thing was haunting her. Much like his own armor. Ylawes hesitated.

What do I say here? He sometimes had Falene’s or Dawil’s complaints to address, but a junior member of the team—his first instinct was to say what was ‘right’, like ‘you’re a valued member of the team, Pekona Lastname, and I’m honored to have you here, rusted blade or not’.

…He felt like that was trite, even if true. And he couldn’t say it with a straight face, so Ylawes sighed and shrugged.

“Pekona, I’ve lost all my magic gear. My armor’s rusting, I can feel my body languishing, and we’re starving and lost. The Graveblade has some magic, but that’s one artifact compared to—well, everything I had. Right now, the most valuable members of the team are the Poke Duo, especially since Infinitypear’s spear still has some magic, and Mrsha, because she can scout the area. If your blade’s rusted, well, I need you to swing it as hard as you can for me. That’s all I can ask.”

His statement didn’t exactly perk Pekona up, but it refocused her. She ducked her head and nodded.

“Yes, Captain. I can do that. I just wish I were more…useful. Like others, from home.”

“Useful how? You’re the best fighter—”

“Some can do more than fight. If I were a 修心者…”

He had no idea what the word meant, but there was no time to ask. A cry from the side made him whirl, and Pekona’s sword rose.

“Bad thing! Bad thing!”

The forest had a predator after all. Infinitypear and Rasktooth backed up, shouting, and Ylawes ran at—a pack of three-foot tall racoons, snarling and biting. They had thick, bristly fur, and there were eight of them.

One leapt at Poke Duo and got impaled on Infinitypear’s spear. Rasktooth shot his crossbows into another, which flinched—Ylawes’ sword pinned it, and he yanked the blade clear. He was slow; a racoon leapt on his back, biting and snarling, and Pekona cut it in half, halting her blade before it touched his armor.

He still had half a racoon clinging to his back, and then the blood rushed down into his armor. Ylawes closed his eyes and wished for rain.

Then he regretted it because the damn rain was freezing.

 

——

 

Roasted racoon tasted good with hot tubeworms. That was a blessing.

The second blessing was that the weird trees, which Falene dubbed ‘Coral Trees’, did burn. It took some doing, but they’d turn into brighter embers, and Ylawes perked up a bit as he devoured pieces of the racoon meat off the bone.

He’d been all for hunting down more to augment their stores, but the big racoons had fled when three of their number had gone down, and Rasktooth had only managed to take out a fourth with Pekona’s help.

“Nice little system they’ve got here. Bats eat bugs and the worm-things, racoons must eat them. I wonder if they migrated here or magic just made ‘em poof into being.”

Dawil was commenting as Anith gnawed on a bone. The Jackal Beastkin’s voice was quiet.

“I recall them from Baleros. It could be they were on the New Lands as they rose? Or they’re natives to Izril.”

“Fast inhabitation of the New Lands is all I can say. I wonder if we’ll get more over time. I heard Corusdeer were migrating this way. Could be there’ll be a lot more animals in time, but most have yet to arrive.”

Hence why they were having trouble finding food. Ylawes grimaced. He got up to check on the tubeworms they had left.

Miner Homle was doing the same thing. He and Farmer Petia were leaders of their groups of settlers, and he gave Ylawes a strained smile as he lowered the tarp over the wagon.

“Two-thirds gone. I hope that Rasktooth fellow can find us more.”

“I’m sure there will be.”

Ylawes lied. Rasktooth had said that the ‘hot soil’ patches that Poke Duo had found were only around the foothills. Perhaps they should make some nets and catch the bats now swooping around in the darkness. He suggested it, and Homle shrugged awkwardly.

“I could see what we have lying about. Maybe Petia’s got someone with the right Skills? We’re out of our element, Captain Ylawes. A few of us have got [Survivor] classes, uh, since we started getting hungry, but not many Skills. Just ones to stop hunger or walk further while hungry, mostly.”

Skills. Ylawes felt so limited himself as a [Knight]. He couldn’t hunt well, scout—the Silver Swords really weren’t the team for this kind of trip. Falene was the exception, and she was out of magic…

He went back to his team, and when he asked if anyone knew how to make nets, predictably…

“Got no clue, Chieftain-Captain.”

Rasktooth beamed at Ylawes, and the Captain groaned.

“No nets? I thought you’d know how, Rasktooth.”

“Nothing really in the big dungeon wells. Not really need nets with Raskghar. They just run and hit things.”

“Larr?”

“I could make a rabbit trap, maybe…but I’m not good at nets either.”

“I can try, Captain! I’m good with stuff like that.”

Insill waved a claw excitedly and jumped up to get some twine. At least there was that. Ylawes brought up the topic as he sat back down.

“Falene, pass the racoon. Does anyone else have more…utility Skills we can use in this situation? I should have asked, but I assumed everyone was volunteering their best. Any talents, tricks? Not even Skills.”

He gazed from face to face, and Falene chewed on her bite of a hindleg. She looked as bad as he did; her usual immaculate appearance was frayed, and she was giving him some Ceria-esque vibes. The [Battlemage] grumbled.

“We’re out of racoon. All my knowledge is academic. Dawil’s only good trait is hitting things and throwing objects while drunk. Vuliel Drae?”

Poke Duo had a number of talents, so that left the Silver-ranked team. They argued and debated, and predictably, Insill and Larr had the most utility talents, being [Rogue] and [Ranger] respectively.

“I can pick locks and, uh, break into places, Captain Ylawes.”

Ylawes remembered Insill raiding the Consortium’s wagons and nodded. Larr had experience as a Plains Gnoll, but Dasha and Anith were unhappy to report they had few applicable talents as well.

“I, uh—I worked as a [Guard] for the Merchant’s Guild before becoming a Bronze-ranker, Captain. That’s all I’ve got.”

The bearded half-Dwarf muttered, and Anith threw up his paws.

“And I—came from Baleros! I could tell you about all kinds of species and customs there, but I wasn’t like a Lizardfolk who lived in the jungles! I moved away from the Beastfolk villages because I was sick of living in the wilds and their rules. I hated having to train as a warrior and worrying about our tithes to the clan.”

That made everyone glance at him, and Ylawes blinked stupidly.

“I don’t know much about Beastkin, Anith. I thought they lived in tribes like Gnolls.”

That got him a glower from Larr, but Anith just breathed out. He sat cross legged, very different from Larr’s sprawl by the fire. His posture was excellent, and the Jackal Beastkin’s voice was steady, if demoralized.

“Beastkin who come from our society in Baleros are very rare, Captain Ylawes. Most are born in other lands, like Hawk the Hare. Which is not to say they miss much. Back home…each ‘clan’ of species lives together. Jackal, Dog, Cat, Squirrel—we are all allied together and supposedly a unified group, but it is precarious living next to Maelstrom’s Howling’s lands.”

“Centaurs. How many Beastkin tribes are there?”

Anith’s face grew guarded.

“Hard to say. Less than a hundred. Many clans have gone extinct. Everyone contributes to our survival, be that as fighters or gatherers, and supporting one’s clan is an utmost priority. I…left. It happens, and I sent back gold the first few years I was working as an adventurer, but I imagine I’m one of the disgraced few pointed out to the children. Few Beastkin have good relations with their home if they’ve left. Three-Color Stalker being an exception.”

“Foliana of the Forgotten Wing company?”

It took Ylawes a moment to remember her, and Anith nodded.

“Her Squirrel Beastkin clan is very strong. I think she gives them money, because many of them emulate her. [Rogues] who work for the Forgotten Wing company, I think. All this to say that I grew up learning how to fight, but not to hunt—and certainly not in these lands. My best skillset would be…I don’t know, analysis of foreign or ancient magics? I was fascinated by that and read any number of books, but that’s not useful here.”

Fascinating as this was, it meant he was an academic source of knowledge and deeply embarrassed by the lack of mana. And then they came to Pekona.

She fidgeted, usually unwilling to talk, but after a few glances at Ylawes, she muttered.

“I am a [Sword Dancer]. Not a chosen…how do you say it? Mediator of Drath. All I know is the sword, so I left. If I were a mediator, I would be home and respected. So I have nothing.”

She clammed up as Ylawes tilted his head.

“Mediator? I don’t understand, Pekona.”

The woman turned redder.

“I’m not one! So I am third-rate, I know, Captain Ylawes!”

She rose, but Dasha patted her foot.

“Pekona, c’mon, Captain Ylawes doesn’t even know what you mean. He’s not gonna be mad you can’t do that sitting stuff. Sit back down. Have a bone.”

Pekona sat back down again, and Ylawes tried to adopt an understanding demeanor. He didn’t get what any of this was.

“I’m sorry if this is unpleasant, Pekona. I don’t know Drathian culture at all. What’s a mediator?”

She relaxed slightly, but grew embarrassed again as she gestured with her hand.

“They’re the finest warriors of Drath. Those who can walk on water or split lightning with their fists. Their energy inside them refines until it’s as powerful as the heart of an [Archmage], and their bodies refine with medicine and time. They live hundreds of years if they are powerful. Few are chosen because it is so difficult to give them what they need. If you are not them—I chose to study the sword and leave. I could have been a [Slayer], but I didn’t want that.”

Very confusing. Ylawes frowned.

“So there’s some kind of special class in Drath. What does a [Slayer] do?”

“They slay the things that come over the edge of the world. Drath’s sacred duty.”

Anith murmured.

“Oh. Seamwalkers.”

Everyone shivered, and Pekona tried to clarify this strange class she meant.

“There is an energy in many things. If you sit and…mediate, you draw it in and refine yours. Like a smith making metal. Until it becomes a power all your own. Like magic, but not. Orthenon—he’s the traitor who stole countless treasures and fled. He’s one of them. A [Cultivator].”

The King of Destruction’s [Steward]? Ylawes blinked, and then Falene clicked her fingers.

“Oh, meditation. That’s the word. Ylawes, she means meditation. I’ve heard of this. One time, Wistram had a bunch of pills and tonics from Drath they swore would improve [Mages]’ conditions. Archmage Viltach sponsored it, but all it did was give every [High Mage] the runs.”

Pekona nodded gratefully, then snorted.

“Probably low-grade pills. Making them is very, very costly. Like alchemy—but different. Even if you drank it, it wouldn’t do any good if you didn’t know how to refine the energies.”

“And this is some kind of ability you wish you had?”

She gave Ylawes a narrow-eyed look as if he were mocking her, then shrugged.

“I…prefer mastering the sword. It would make me more useful, though, if I could sit and draw in energy. I would not need to eat and have more wisdom or insights. Probably.”

She grumpily plucked some grass off the ground and tossed it into the fire. Rather to her surprise, everyone was curious about what this strange class was, and after she realized they weren’t mocking her for being excluded from the ranks of these privileged warriors, Pekona opened up about what she knew.

“Even the meanest villager knows something—my grandfather had a jar he aged all his life and sold so I could buy my swords. There are masters in many villages, but it’s expensive to buy enough to break through to the next rank. Which is how it works. You advance and cultivate and…break through.”

“Break through what? Is it like Gold-rankers rising in status?”

“No, Captain Ylawes. In your…head. In your body. All internal. You break barriers internally each time you change.”

Weird. Then again, Ylawes supposed it was no stranger than how [Mages] worried about their mana reserves and whatnot. Falene insisted it wasn’t the same, though.

“It’s all mystic spiritualism in Drath, Ylawes. Magic is a purely intellectual pursuit. The mastery of the mind and memorization and application of concepts.”

Dawil snorted.

“Hah. Tell that to a [Sorcerer] or a [Shaman], Pointy Ears. I reckon it’s interesting. So you just have to sit and focus, Pekona?”

“There’s more to that, Dawil. But yes. You absorb strong energies—in pills or tonics or just the air—and focus. Like this.”

She actually showed them, sitting cross-legged and giving them all a brief lecture of how to focus their minds and meditate. Ylawes gave it a shot, but his stomach gurgling and his grimy armor kept him from doing more than making his mind wander. He was too worried about finding this group Erin had mentioned and if she was well and what would happen to everyone…

After a few minutes of silence and breathing, Larr passed wind loud enough for Dawil to burst out laughing, and everyone gave up. They rolled into bed, pulling blankets over their heads because the damn bats kept trying to land in everyone’s hair or even take bites out of them. And that was that.

 

——

 

Day 40 of the Silver Swords’ Journey into the New Lands. Unemployed. Starving.

 

Two things happened on the third day of trekking northwestwards after they left the bat coral-forest with several annoying bat bites and marginally better spirits than before.

The first was that they found the Terlands.

The second was that Rasktooth gained a new class.

The two things happened almost simultaneously just after the morning. Ylawes was grumpy again, having woken from a dream of a monster howling at him. He’d been having it the last few days, and he attributed it to stress.

He was walking along with Infinitypear next to him and not really thinking, but he hadn’t noticed Rasktooth’s normally vigilant stance growing languid. The Cave Goblin sitting on his brother’s back cast around, head panning left and right, but the motion took on a rhythmic pattern, and his eyelids drooped slightly. His face went blank, and his breathing slowed—until his eyes snapped open.

“Ah! That weird!”

Ylawes jumped, and Rasktooth twisted around on Infinitypear’s back. He hollered at Pekona.

“Hey, Pekona! I got [Putrid Spirit Realm Initiate]! What that?”

Her head snapped up as Ylawes turned, and he heard an inarticulate shout coming from Pekona. She raced over, demanding to know what he’d done, as Rasktooth grinned.

“It sound sort of yuck. But I thought—hey, maybe I have this energy thing after all. It feel all squirmy-nasty though. Like I got little bad-bad things like wormy poo. Eh, but then I made nice ball, and I levelled.”

“How—but you don’t have any energy!”

“Psh. I got tons. You don’t know. Maybe I eat tons of pill-stuff in dungeon. They eat maggots in Drath?”

Pekona was demanding to know exactly what Rasktooth had done, and Ylawes noticed a uniquely fed-up set to Infinitypear’s mandibles. He suspected Rasktooth having time to meditate might be wearing thin on the Antinium after days of walking. He was about to suggest Rasktooth ride on the wagons so Infinitypear could relax his shoulder…shell when someone whistled.

“Captain! I see something!”

Larr was riding a horse with his bow drawn in case he saw game, and Ylawes’ head snapped up. Rasktooth and Pekona whirled, and Ylawes saw a huge shape on the horizon to the east. It was moving slowly and steadily, and he narrowed his eyes as his heart leapt in his chest.

“Dawil, get on a mount. Larr, tell me what that is.”

The two adventurers rode forwards fast, and Ylawes had the entire group halt. He peered towards the rising ground to the west. That was where that huge ravine was—he couldn’t tell if it had ended, but the ground there was less grassy. He thought he saw a colorful turquoise streak to the ground and wondered what the heck was going on over th—

“Lad! Lad! Larr says it’s a damn Golem! It’s the Terlands! Come on!”

The moment he heard that, all notions of safety left his head. Ylawes began running, Rasktooth whooped, and everyone was racing forwards. Erin had told the truth!

The rush across the ground towards the Golem slowed within minutes of starting; no one had the energy to run, but they yelled and hollered as the Golem—and a small group—turned and saw them coming. Handlers for the Golem, no doubt. Ylawes expected them to come their way, but to his surprise, the moment they noticed them and Dawil and Larr riding at them, the Golem turned—and began stomping away with the four Humans.

Rather fast. Ylawes slowed, dismayed.

“They’re leaving? Dawil, talk to them!”

The Dwarf was trying. He urged his horse faster, shouting at the Golem, and Ylawes, speed-walking now, saw the encounter go down. The Golem swung around as Dawil approached, and then the Dwarf brought his horse around fast. Larr shouted and raised his bow—then lowered it and ducked. Both rode back quickly, and now Ylawes saw the Golem turning away faster.

“Lad, they took a shot at us! I think they believe we’re bandits! They’re headed straight to their camp.”

“Silver and steel—tell them we’re adventurers!”

“I did! Hold on, I’m getting my helmet on—”

Dawil was set to head back at the Terlands, and Ylawes shouted at Larr.

“Give me your horse!”

He put his own helmet on, and Falene shouted at the two of them.

“Ylawes, Dawil! Don’t alarm them! If they see two [Riders] coming at them in armor, what do you think they’ll do? Let me send a spell of some kind to reassure them!”

That drew Ylawes up. He realized that if the Terlands were this jumpy, there was no telling what their main camp might do. And that Golem—he turned.

“Dawil, hold back. Everyone slow down—we’re following the Terlands, but at a safe pace. Details, what did you see? What’s their condition?”

Larr reported, having had the best eyes on them.

“They look—decent, Captain Ylawes. There were four of them, yes? That big Golem is all stone. It looked like they were scouting, maybe. But the instant they saw us, they turned and fled.”

“With an eight-foot Golem? Awfully jumpy of them.”

Insill was incredulous, and Larr sniffed the air.

“They smelled afraid.”

“…And there are quite a lot of us. If they thought we were dangerous or desperate—but Erin told me they were here! I think she even warned…damn, I don’t quite remember. I wish she’d contacted me again!”

“Lad, what exactly did she say?”

Everyone regarded Ylawes, and he put his head in his hands, forcing his addled mind to focus.

“She said to come this way and there would be help…I think she talked to someone, but she looked—bad. I don’t think she was well herself. If they’re that worried—I have an idea. Let’s move. Insill, do we have any white sheets?”

 

——

 

It was a forty minute trek after the Terlands. Everyone kept up a brisk pace so as not to lose them. The Silver Swords and the settlers crossed over the strange dirt, which had colors mixed into the soil that gave it an eerie, beautiful look.

Hardly hospitable ground, though; not even the yellow grass bloomed here. Ylawes wondered if Miner Homle thought it was good ground, but the man just spat.

“Not what I’d go after first, Captain. I bet if you were someone sifting sand for traces of gold or minerals, you’d get more, but all the [Prospectors] stayed with the Consortium. I bet you those Terlands have someone who knows their stuff, though. Their Golems do everything from mining to farming, don’t they?”

“Famously so. They’re one of the Five Families. I’ve visited their lands a few times, and they were always hospitable.”

Ylawes was a member of House Byres, a small family, but he was hoping that it was at least recognizable. He was conscious of his tarnished and rusty armor suddenly and was polishing it with a cloth as Insill finished stitching something with Petia’s crew.

A white flag. It seemed like the, ah, thing to do, and Ylawes felt like a fool for raising it, but it turned out that might have been a very prescient move. For when they saw the Terlands’ base, a huge ring of dirt earthenworks filled with over a dozen Golems, it was clear they were on high-alert.

“Damn, lad, they’ve got nearly a dozen wagons!”

“Not many people, though. We outnumber them.”

Surprisingly, this group of Terlands was low on numbers; there was a Golem for every dozen people and, unless Ylawes mistook them, several more that looked like they were crouched down or slumbering. Dawil stroked his beard as they drew closer.

“A dozen Golems would be a bad fight, lad. They’re not fast, but that one was stomping pretty quick. If they go for us, they could run us down.”

“What? Dawil, they’re Terlands. It’s not going to come to a fight.”

The Dwarf gave Ylawes an uncharacteristically dark look.

“Lad, after how the Consortium business went down, I wouldn’t bet on anything here. Maybe we have the settlers hang back, eh? And, uh, keep Rasktooth and Infinitypear away?”

The Silver Swords’ Captain hesitated—then gave swift orders. So he found himself riding forwards with Falene, Dawil, Larr, Pekona, and Anith, leaving the rest of the adventurers and settlers behind. He tried to sit tall and look, well, not like a [Beggar] pleading for aid. Especially because that was what he was.

Ylawes saw a line of six Golems standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the front of the Terlands’ camp. No one on the walls, but six massive stone Golems in the shape of humanoids made Anith audibly swallow.

“We’ve fought bigger Golems before, eh, lad?”

Dawil’s voice was casual, and Falene nodded as Pekona and Anith shot Ylawes a look. The Captain nodded.

“Of course.”

Only, they weren’t artificial Golems but natural stone ones, and they were slow and uncoordinated. He’d heard Golems made by House Terland were superior in every respect. As they drew closer, Ylawes’ heart pounded a bit faster in his chest. Two of them had huge maces and shields.

“How are they keeping them active? With the mana drain—I’d say they were generating their own mana, but they’re not nearly high-grade enough for that!”

Falene was astounded, but Ylawes was searching for the leader of the Terlands. He didn’t see them. He didn’t see…anyone. They were all out of sight, and that struck him as ominous.

“You there! Halt! Identify yourselves in the name of House Terland! We have your likenesses and a [Mage]!”

A loud voice shouted from behind one of the Golems as Ylawes reached a few hundred feet distant. He raised a hand and halted. Strange—but his neck hairs were prickling. He coughed, cleared his voice, and shouted back.

“L-Lord Restraud Terland? Am I addressing Lord Restraud Terland?”

That was the name Erin had given him. He thought he detected motion behind the Golems, then the voice bellowed back.

“Identify yourself!”

“Of course! We have a white flag—I am Captain Ylawes Byres of the Silver Swords! With me are, ah, settlers and my adventuring team! I was directed here to speak to Lord Restraud about employment?”

He was lightheaded from lack of food and, he realized, unprepared. There was silence—then the voice grew notably suspicious.

“Ylawes of House Byres?”

“The very same!”

Silence. Falene cast a spell under her breath and whispered.

“I’m enhancing my hearing. I think I hear—”

“Tell that [Mage] to stop casting magic!”

She jumped, and Ylawes groaned. He shouted.

“At once! Falene—”

She lifted her staff, abashed, and made a show of tossing it down. The voice came back, rough, and Ylawes realized that something was off. Well, beyond the obvious. He’d assumed Lord Restraud would instantly identify himself and give one of the pithy addresses Ylawes was used to. How did it go again…? The speaker sounded uncertain.

“If you are Captain Ylawes, then you would know when Lord Restraud entertained this offer—and of course when last House Byres signed a trade agreement with House Terland!”

Every head turned towards Ylawes, but his chin rose.

“It would be three days ago that Lord Restraud spoke to a young woman. As for House Byres’ trade agreement with House Terland, if it has occurred within the last month or two, I have no notion of it, but our silver shipments do reach House Terland every five years! Stone walks and kneels before House Terland, friends! By silver and steel, House Byres has always counted the Lords of Stone in the north as allies! Surely we may converse in a more amicable setting?”

Dead silence as he sat high on his horse, who chose this moment to try and eat a stray tuft of yellow grass. Everyone waited until the center Golem took one slow step to the side. Then he saw a dozen or so people warily waving at him.

“Captain Ylawes may enter with a single guest!”

“Good job, lad. I never thought all that fancy protocol would come in handy—who’s going in, Pointy or me?”

Dawil slapped Ylawes’ shoulder, and the Captain smiled, but worriedly. Falene breathed.

“Ylawes, something’s very wrong.”

“I know. Falene, how’s your knowledge of etiquette and Golems?”

“I, uh—I took Golemancy 101 in Wistram, but that was only because I knew the instructor.”

She turned bright red, and Dawil and Ylawes eyed her. The [Knight] shrugged.

“Good enough. No casting magic, and Dawil, don’t do anything, ah, alarming.”

“On it, lad.”

The party broke up, and Ylawes and Falene rode forwards and made a show of dismounting before the gates. But that was really because the horses got spooked by the impervious Golems. Falene ran a whispered commentary as Ylawes sized up the fortification.

It really was a ring of dirt pushed up in a circle, though on the inside he saw a number of tents and what seemed like the beginnings of actual foundations: stones hammered into the ground to reinforce the dirt ring. Still, there were no ramparts, and his first thought upon entering the Terlands’ base was that something was very wrong.

There were less than sixty of them present—an incredibly small number given they had a dozen active Golems, and of the Golems, half were stone, half were wood, and one was a metal Golem like the kind he’d seen at Magnolia Reinhart’s mansion. That one was standing still and immobile in one corner of the base, next to a tent.

The group that met him was comprised of nobles, but what rank, he couldn’t tell. Their speaker was a man in his mid-thirties, and the moment Ylawes laid eyes on him and the three other nobles, one male, two female, he knew none of them were Lord Restraud.

It was the way they stared at him so uncertainly and that tingle on the back of his head. Falene whispered to him as Ylawes searched around for somewhere to put his horse—no one was running up to take it.

“Ylawes. There’s ten dead Golems over there. They’ve been drained of magic. They’re dead.”

“I see them.”

Kneeling figures with their chest cavities opened. Ylawes had heard each one cost upwards of a thousand gold pieces. A fortune lost—but the Terlands were putting on a good show.

“Ah, Captain Byres. You do match the image of you. And this must be Magus Falene Skystrall. Am I to take it the Dwarf who alarmed our party was Dawil Ironbreaker?”

“That’s correct, Lord…?”

“Comigen. And with me is [Golemancer] Sir Martz, Lady of Stone Safta, and Lady Leerne of House Amaz.”

“Lord Ylawes, Adventurer Falene.”

They murmured greetings, and Ylawes tried to decipher all that. Not many titles—but Lady Leerne would probably be someone who married into the family since she wasn’t a ‘Lady of Stone’. They prized [Golemancers] like nobility, so he gave them all a nod in turn.

“I’m honored to meet so many of House Terland. May I ask where Lord Restraud is? I wished to tender him my personal thanks for his offer.”

Comigen had sandy hair similar to Kevin, but it was speckled with black like someone had dumped pepper all over him, and he wore rather expensive nobleman’s shoes and one of those lacy outfits with a ruff like a tea cosy. It appeared hot and mildewed, and the shoes were badly scuffed. He smiled.

“Lord Restraud is resting at this moment. I, ah, wished to confirm your identity first, so you will excuse our wariness. Your group was larger than expected. You said the Silver Swords—a group of three. Whom are the rest? Settlers?”

That moment of foreboding grew, and Ylawes hesitated, so Falene leapt in.

“Settlers from the Consortium of Enterprise, an exploratory group we were contracted to escort to the New Lands, Lord Comigen! Our contract with them ran out, so we parted ways, and some of them elected to join us. When we heard there was employment to be had, we moved to your location.”

“I see. I don’t know this Consortium of Enterprise. An, ah, a group of [Merchants]?”

“Yes, Lord Comigen. Newly formed.”

The young [Lord] was older than Ylawes, but they felt roughly the same age. Comigen tugged at his collar and glanced at Lady Leerne. She spoke smoothly.

“Of course, we could use some additional hands; isn’t that so, Lord Comigen? Lord Restraud was principally interested in the Silver Swords, of course.”

“We’ve expanded our team to a total of ten members, Lady Leerne.”

“Oh, ten!”

Some of the Terlands brightened, and the [Golemancer] exhaled, his eyes flicking to Lady Safta. He looked…well, like a craftsman more than a [Mage], and very, very uneasy. He kept eying the group behind Ylawes. Comigen tugged at his ruff again.

“For guard duty and escort? Unless Lord Restraud had hired you to explore the ruins?”

“The ruins?”

Falene and Ylawes chorused, and Comigen’s mouth snapped shut, then he gestured.

“Yes, in the Gorgelands…ah, the area past that rift. He didn’t discuss it with you, then?”

A note of suspicion, and Ylawes bowed, feeling that prickling down his spine again. He glanced at the tent where the metal Golem was standing.

“The contact was made by a third party. A young woman? Due to the magical drain—”

“Ah, you have it too!”

Martz interrupted, and everyone glared at him. Ylawes nodded.

“—yes, due to that, our ability to communicate was severely hampered, but her Skill reached both me and Lord Restraud. I was told to seek him out and given approximate directions.”

“That is what he said, Comigen.”

Safta whispered, and the [Lord] pulled out a handkerchief and mopped at his brow. He exhaled.

“The Silver Swords are a reputable team. Very reputable. Lord Restraud did mention you by name—but not this other group.”

At this point, Ylawes felt like it was time for some honesty. He coughed into one hand.

“My team…did not have faith in the Consortium’s long-term prospects, Lord Comigen. We offered to escort anyone willing back to Goisedall, due to certain issues with the supply of—supplies. Hence their presence here. I can vouch for their integrity, and we have one of the [Merchants] who was with the Consortium. Merchant Anlam. I can bring him if you wish?”

Comigen hesitated, and it was Lady Leerne who exhaled, leaned over, and broke the awkward dance they were doing.

“They ran out of food, Comigen. Like the others. Have Martz cast [Detect Truth], and let’s hire them. I think that’s the best option.”

Everyone turned, and Safta glared at her, but Comigen exhaled, then nodded.

“Very well. Martz? A bit of magic, if you please, and Captain Ylawes, I should be delighted to hire you and your team—and these settlers—to work for us for a short-term duration. I, ah, I don’t have any magical contracts, but I suppose we could tell the Adventurer’s Guild of our arrangement, and they’ll have a record of that.”

Ylawes Byres exhaled in relief and then nodded hurriedly.

“Absolutely, Lord Comigen. Er—we do have a lot of mouths to feed, and we have some supplies, but as Lady Leerne observes, it was an issue.”

“We have food aplenty. A good amount in a Chest of Holding.”

They had a working Chest of Holding? Ylawes blinked and then smiled in clear relief.

“Then I believe we could come to an arrangement, Lord Comigen—”

“For a respectable fee. At a discount.”

Falene put in hurriedly. Ylawes saw Comigen nod, and more of the tension bled off. The [Lord] turned and waved airily.

“Welcome to Camp Terland! Our people will help divvy out food—to attention! Golems, stand down and hibernate!”

The Golems relaxed, and the glow in their eyes faded as they stepped back, forming a double line at the entrance. Ylawes strode after Comigen as more people came out of their tents, and now he saw Leerne rubbing at a shoulder. Golemancer Martz was checking a clear, glowing piece of stone as Falene spoke to him, and Ylawes felt it pertinent to ask.

“So when may I speak to Lord Restraud?”

He had a feeling he knew the answer already, but Comigen answered with that pale smile that Ylawes had learned to fear.

“He’s dead, Captain Byres.”

His Golem stood in front of the late Lord Restraud’s tent, unmoving, as Ylawes Byres exhaled hard. Out of one fire and into another.

At least the Terlands had food. And magic.

 

——

 

“We noticed the drain after two days of marching. We assumed we were in a deadzone and continued on. By the time we realized how pervasive it was…Lord Restraud sent back every artifact and Golem of value. He insisted we forge ahead. We have been, ah, draining mana to keep the most valuable artifacts alive, and our [Golemancers] have been fueling those that remain. We keep them ‘hibernated’ to save mana.”

The Terlands’ situation wasn’t as bad as Ylawes would have thought. For a group that relied on Golems and mana so much, he would have assumed they’d all fall to bits, but each Golem was apparently better designed than that. Martz tapped one of the Stone Golems’ chests.

“Each one is mana-neutral or slightly positive at Comezat-grade, you see. They produce enough mana, just enough, to power other artifacts. But we’ve had to remove the Golem Hearts from far too many to keep this base running.”

“Disgraceful.”

Lady Safta sounded as though they’d committed some great sin, but having a working Chest of Holding, let alone enough mana to power several other spells, was a miracle to Ylawes, and he said so.

“All our bags of holding exploded during our journey, and we lost our food to lack of preservation runes, Lord Comigen.”

“Dead gods. You appear rather thin, Captain—eat up, I say. We were already working with more food than we needed since we thinned our ranks. Nor do we intend to stay in this cursed land. Once we finish what Lord Restraud set out to do, I intend to leave forthwith. If someone else wants to set up an outpost, I welcome them to it, but we were unprepared for several factors.”

Comigen was the replacement leader the Terlands had selected, and he watched as Ylawes practically devoured another piece of roast corn. They had beef, bread, grain, even luxuries like spices and wine! Some of it was slightly stale, but Ylawes was trying not to wolf down everything in sight.

“And you ate those…tube-worms the entire way here?”

Lady Safta shuddered in horror, and someone piped up.

“Is pretty good.”

She stared at the Cave Goblin and nearly leapt into Martz’s arms—the two were apparently married—but even the sight of Infinitypear and Rasktooth seemed to be dulled on the Terlands. There was something they weren’t telling the Silver Swords, but their hospitality was enough.

“Your, ah, your new teammates are rather interesting, Captain Byres.”

“Rasktooth is a valued member of the team, Captain Comigen. So is Infinitypear, the Worker. They’re from Liscor, and they were a team called Poke Duo before we admitted them to the Silver Swords.”

“Poke Duo.”

Comigen covered a smile, then shook his head.

“I heard there was an inn…well, under normal circumstances, I cannot imagine what Lady Ulva would say. But, ah, normal circumstances don’t apply here. Good fighters, are they?”

Ylawes didn’t know how to answer that, but Dawil looked up from scarfing down a stew and wiped at his beard.

“Rasktooth uses two crossbows, and Infinitypear has an Adamantium spear.”

“Adamantium?”

The nobles exclaimed, clearly impressed, and again the reaction was different. Comigen’s brow cleared, and he wiped at his forehead again.

“This damn heat. All our enchanted clothing was first to go. And cooling spells. Martz can barely keep up a charm against all the dratted bugs…crossbows, eh? Well, that will do. That will do. So, Captain Ylawes, defense of House Terland and assistance in exploring the ruins in what we’re calling the ‘Gorgelands’ is all I require before we leave. In exchange, we can pay your team five hundred and sixteen gold pieces upon delivery of our party to Goisedall. Is that fair?”

“Very fair, Lord Comigen. Shall we get it in writing?”

Ylawes rose to shake the man’s hand, but Comigen waved it off.

“You are a man of honor and a fellow [Lord], so I shall trust that and lodge the notice with the Adventurer’s Guild. I wish to be done with these New Lands.”

It occurred to Ylawes after he got a meaningful glance from Falene that this might be another trap in the making. He cleared his throat.

“Of course we’re able to assist in both tasks, Lord Comigen. We’ve fought off Landsharks and other local threats. What kind of dangers might be in these Gorgelands? I’ve seen the canyon myself. But there was no route to the other side…”

“There’s a pass just beyond here that you can traverse where the land joins. There are rocky ruins up there—some kind of settlement, though what kind I can’t say. We’ve been exploring it and the local area for the last week, but we’re not adventurer-focused. Between that and realizing there’s no arable soil…”

Comigen seemed like he wanted to spit, and Ylawes winced. Farmer Petia wore a terrible smile of sympathy.

“Tried it, did you, milord?”

“Ten acres of land ploughed and seeded. Not a sprout, and we received word from House Terland there won’t be any.”

“Ten acres?”

The [Farmers] were astounded, and Comigen shrugged almost self-deprecatingly.

“The Golems did it. We were set to have them do everything. Transport, farming, quarrying—Lord Restraud fancied he could create a full township within the year. Now, though…”

Martz broke in urgently.

“It’s not impossible! If we brought enough Golem Hearts, we could sustain any number of Golems. There are means, it just requires a significant undertaking and restructuring of our equipment. Knowing we cannot farm means we either bring enough food, hunt for it, or raise animals.”

He had a good grasp of the problem, but Comigen just muttered.

“Assuming there’s aught of value here. Argh. I might as well tell you, Captain Ylawes. We’ve had some unscrupulous groups coming after our food. A…pack of men and women. Thirty strong. Adventurers, I think. Armed with bows. They’ve been trading with us for our food stocks. We’ve acceded to that. But their demands grow more frequent, and I’m rather grateful your team showed up.”

That worried Ylawes. Thirty armed men and women? His team was outnumbered three-to-one…but then he eyed the dozen Golems.

“I can’t imagine that would intimidate House Terland. Surely with so many Golems you’d chase them off, Lord Comigen.”

A slightly pleased expression appeared on the man’s face, but then the [Lord] sighed. He picked up a blue piece of corn and began to munch on it.

“You think so? I’d have said the exact same thing except for the fact that Lord Restraud sent our most valuable Golems back. All the ones with spell effects, speed—they don’t dare get close, but they shoot arrows at us. And we don’t have any magic…Lord Restraud was hit by an arrow. A trifling wound, but our healing potions were all bad save for the most expensive one. And when he realized it was infected—”

Everyone looked down, and Ylawes stopped eating. Dead gods. An infection had killed a high-ranking [Lord] of House Terland? But they had no [Healers], and with healing potions so rare—

Disaster. No wonder they’d caved to the threats after that. They didn’t have a great number of [Guards]. Because they’d trusted to the Golems. Another issue; the Terlands had done better than the Consortium, but they hadn’t been prepared for bandits with bows.

“Ah. My condolences. I’m sure we can handle that kind of threat if it appears.”

The Silver Swords had two people who used bows, but he bit his tongue on saying that. Cross that bridge when they came to it. Comigen was very relieved, though Lady Leerne…he met her eyes and wondered if she thought they’d have attacked if the Terlands hadn’t hired them.

“Well, the sheer number of settlers present might deter that group, Lord Comigen. My team is Gold-rank. What about these ruins?”

Comigen nodded, greatly relieved and smiled.

“Ah, yes, that! Not to worry, Captain Ylawes. There are a high number of, mm, undead in the Gorgelands. I daresay I see up to a thousand daily.”

“A thousand—”

All the adventurers sat up, and Insill dropped his piece of corn in horror. Comigen smiled brightly at Ylawes’ expression.

“Yes, it’s quite entertaining. The most fun I’ve had in this place, aside from the rainbows and those gigantic snails. They mostly rise at nightfall. Would you like to see?”

 

——

 

The Gorgelands were indeed a huge plateau encircled as far as the eye could see by that giant ravine that Ylawes had inspected. It was thousands of feet deep and filled with things that no one could reach without a lot of rope—or wings—but the Terlands had found a land bridge across.

You had to hike upwards, whereupon you entered more rocky terrain filled with broken structures of stone. It looked like a terrible place to farm, and Homle opined there wasn’t much to mine for anyways, but Ylawes could see this being a very defensible place.

The reason the Terlands had camped away from it, though, was the undead. There were indeed thousands of them. Skeletons—long dead and encrusted with salt or pieces of plant matter rising upwards. But there was a reason the Terlands viewed the undead as a comical sight, far less threatening than a group of thirty people with bows.

Why? Well, think about the New Lands’ unique features. The salty land, the mana drain, the…well, the fact it was new. Then think about undead and ruins.

Undead were creatures of mana. For all they were reanimated corpses, the factor that made undead rise was death magic, which they produced or which generated around them in some way.

The New Lands drained magic. So what Ylawes saw was a skeleton rising upwards, glowing yellow eyes flickering in its skull as it rose, bones floating to form a skeleton that…had a tail? He squinted at it and saw the head wasn’t that of a Human. But before it could take more than a step, the yellow flames flickered out, and the bones collapsed.

“Vastly entertaining, isn’t it? I watch it for hours. They rise more in the night, and when the moons are full, even faster. Sometimes, they make it as much as a few dozen paces before they collapse.”

“Incredible.”

Falene murmured. More skeletons were getting up, collapsing—it was actually sort of sad to see. The undead were trapped in a perpetual loop of reanimation and decay. Even so, what Ylawes observed was…

“So many. Do you know what this was, Lord Comigen?”

“Some kind of battlefield or graveyard. My money’s on the former—we found weapons, long rusted away. Nothing valuable. It’s the ruins we want. There’re several promising entrances scattered around here, and we’ve had Golems digging them out day by day. Exploring them is a rather harrowing idea, though, so your arrival was just in time. What do you think?”

The Silver Swords gazed at each other, and Insill grew excited, though Dawil was stroking his beard.

“We’re not exactly flush with readiness, Lord Comigen. Without our magic gear, it’s a mite trickier…but we are adventurers. Lend us a few Golems and I reckon we could give it a crack, eh, lad?”

It was their job, and Ylawes felt the first stirrings of actual interest and familiarity as he saw the mound of newly-displaced rubble that Lord Comigen pointed out. He nodded hesitantly.

“You understand, Lord Comigen, there’s no telling what could be in there? If we find monsters or traps, we may deem it too dangerous.”

“Of course. Of course. But Lord Restraud was determined to establish some…crumb of value from this expedition. If we could at least establish that…”

Comigen’s hands opened and closed with real emotion, and Ylawes believed he had actually respected the man who had offered to hire the Silver Swords, sight unseen. However, Ylawes had an image of the other [Merchants] shouting at him that they had lost too much to turn back.

He nodded judiciously.

“We can only see what lies in there. Though I warn you, most dungeons are devoid of actual treasure.”

“Well, if you give me a look inside, I can order our departure posthaste, Captain Byres. I was thinking of exploring it tomorrow morning. To let you regain some strength. Is that appropriate, or does your team need more time?”

Ylawes turned to the other adventurers, and they ranged from apprehensive like Dawil and Anith, to excited like Insill, Dasha, and Poke Duo. Pekona shrugged; she was polishing her now-rustless sword with the oil that the Terlands had given her.

“We’ll do it, Lord Comigen. Early morning. Send some Golems and perhaps some observers to coordinate them—but I’ll want preparations.”

His mind, denuded of food for so long, began to churn over as Falene and Dawil drew closer. It was time, once more, for an adventure.

Ylawes had a thought though. The Silver Swords hadn’t done that well in Liscor’s dungeon. They weren’t actually dungeon-experts. As for Vuliel Drae and dungeons…he turned to Infinitypear and Rasktooth.

“Er. Let me consult with my experts as well.”

 

——

 

Preparations for the Gorgeland Ruins expedition were simple. They took horses, ready to ride at a moment’s notice. Four Golems, each one made of stone—they left the two with weapons behind at the Terlands’ insistence and because they’d be no good in close-quarters anyways.

Rasktooth had opinions about dungeon-diving. Mostly about not going in first and letting a Golem or Insill walk into the traps he was convinced were there.

The original Silver Swords were veterans of many ‘dungeons’ not as bad as Liscor’s own and were of the opinion that trapped rooms weren’t that common. They were mostly concerned with monsters, and to that end, Ylawes had Miner Homle and Farmer Petia construct some ramshackle barricades to seal off entrances.

“Anything else we can do for you, Captain Ylawes?”

The settlers looked relieved to be fed, but nervous at having no role to play. Ylawes almost shook his head, then changed his tune.

“If we do find anything to haul or excavate, Master Homle, we’ll call on you. I imagine cave-ins have collapsed that structure. Once we ascertain how many monsters are in there, we’ll send for you.”

Lady Safta interjected.

“In the meantime, you can help us perform duties around camp, like disassembling the Golems. We’re low on hands since all our serving Golems were sent away.”

From [Farmers] to servants didn’t exactly please the others, but they were willing enough to help with full bellies, and Ylawes’ last job was a gear check.

“Falene, how many spells can we count on you for?”

“One Tier 3 spell and a few Tier 2s. Maybe a Tier 4. Anith can pull a few Tier 2 spells. Beyond that, it’s up to you, Ylawes.”

“Who’s got an enchanted…anything? I have the Gravesword from Liscor’s Dungeon. Infinitypear has his magical spear. And…”

Dawil hefted the bag which held the broken throwing axe that could cut through anything, even in pieces.

“I’ve got my axe fragments, and that’s it, lad. We’re down to Skills. Armor’s out of enchantments.”

“Wonderful. Then I want myself in front with you and Pekona—Infinitypear and Rasktooth in the center. We’ll move Golems forward and—go for it.”

He had no better plan than this, and he realized he was concerning some of the listeners like Lady Leerne. She struck him as someone more worldly than the Terlands and might have actually met other adventuring teams. But that was the Silver Swords for you. They weren’t as tactical as Griffon Hunt or…they weren’t tactical.

 

——

 

The entrance to these ruins didn’t look like Liscor’s Dungeon. Ylawes had seen the massive double doors and the way they loomed out of the hill, or the crack in the dungeon from the Floodplains. Both were rather grandiose in their way, ominous.

The entrance to the Gorgeland ruins was…a staircase. A bit of broken stone covered in moss sat around it, but the stairs were narrow, cramped—and that was it.

“Strange. So you just found this, Master Martz?”

The [Golemancer] was present to coordinate the Golems, and he shrugged in that helpless way of a man presented with a question outside his field of knowledge.

“Yes, Captain. There’re stone blocks all over. Well, in a big circle from here…to here.”

He paced across the ground, and dirt covered a lot of it, but Ylawes saw a big circle around where the staircase was. He turned to Dawil.

“Thoughts?”

“Lad, I may have lived in Dwarfhome, but I’m not an expert on stone any more than I’m a smith. I can’t tap my hammer and tell you this is fifty fathoms deep or whatever. Looks like this is a big chunk of masonry. At the bottom of the sea floor or wherever it came from. I can tell you who owned it, though.”

“Who?”

“Drakes. You see them skeletons? All Drake. Either that or Lizardfolk’re bulkier than I think. Makes sense given where we are.”

Ylawes had seen the tails on each skeleton, and while he didn’t exactly make a habit of wondering what each species looked like without their flesh, Drakes fit. He whistled.

“A Drake building. Perhaps…hmm…”

He stared at one place where the circular ruin of stones ended as one of the Golems tried to descend the staircase. It was going to be a pretty tight fit, but they could still swing their arms inside. Ylawes saw a few blocks of stone and walked around them. Then his eyes strayed towards another stone around the circle.

“Thoughts, Captain?”

Anith clearly had an idea of what this might be, and Ylawes murmured.

“I think we’re standing on…if you think about it, who’s to say how high each piece of the New Lands rose? It could be, Master Martz, that we’re standing on a—a tower. If these are the battlements…”

Didn’t it make sense? At his words, Martz had the Golems dig around the edge of the blocks of stone that would have made decent cover. They unearthed more walls of stone going down, and Ylawes wondered how tall this tower was. Falene murmured at him.

“Could be hundreds of feet high. But if it’s a traditional keep, it’ll only be a few dozen. City watchpost? We could be standing on the ruins of one, like in Liscor.”

“Or just a watchtower. A lighthouse like Pheislant has. If there was a battle here, it might have been a keep. Okay, let’s go in order. Two at a time, two Golems in front, two behind. Master Martz, stay with Falene and do everything she says.”

They entered the ruins, and Ylawes found the steps took them into solid blackness. Martz gulped the moment he saw the pitch blackness, but Rasktooth’s eyes glowed as the Cave Goblin smiled, and Infinitypear hummed. In their element.

“[Light].”

Anith cast the spell, and the flare of light blinded Poke Duo. Rasktooth swore at the Jackal, who shrugged apologetically. Ylawes saw the two Stone Golems stomping forwards.

“Keep them close to us, Master Martz. Are you sure we couldn’t have gotten the Steel Golem?”

That thing would have made him feel a lot better, even if he wasn’t going to sneeze at four Golems of stone, but Martz sighed.

“It’s Lord Restraud’s personal Golem. It won’t harm members of House Terland, but it refuses to follow orders.”

“A shame. Well…let’s go.”

 

——

 

It was rather like old castles that Ylawes had toured as a child, but far vaster, far more run down, and far darker. The lack of sunlight meant that each room was pitch-black until the twin [Light] spells that Falene and Anith had conjured cast shadows around the place.

Spooky, in short—and the amount of debris on the ground didn’t help either. Ylawes kicked aside all kinds of objects, from dried seaweed or plant matter to fish bones to…well, whatever the occupants inside had owned.

The first time the hallway showed him a door, he saw the actual remains of a doorframe, but the wood was so old it crumbled away as he brushed a hand against it. Inside, the room was a swirled mess, and he kicked through a sea of debris.

“Everyone search for clues. Objects. Falene, Anith, if you see magic, call it out. Otherwise, Insill checks each place first, then Golems stomp in, then you touch stuff. Got it?”

“Got it, boss. Hey, I found someth—”

Dasha reached down, and her first find was a giant…hermit crab. The scuttling creature with its hard shell tried to jab her in the beard, and she screamed, tossed it at a wall, and nearly murdered Sir Martz with a heart attack.

“Dasha. Please.”

Anith shot Ylawes an embarrassed look, and the [Knight] kept his voice cool.

“Insects and scavengers are a common occurrence in dungeons, Master Martz. Watch your step, everyone.”

 

——

 

The benefit to having Insill, Rasktooth, and Infinitypear in the team was that they weren’t shy about touching anything, even trash. Nor did bugs really phase them. Insill chattered as he sorted through trash.

“Reminds me of digging through garbage back home. Or doing dead drops when I worked in a gang. Lots of times you dig up graves, but every now and then you dig up a corpse. Or you have to jump in an outhouse. No one wants to look there.”

What they found was a lot of metal and a lot of very, very old wood fragments. Ylawes eyed the pieces of metal, and here his expertise as a [Knight] and member of House Byres came in.

“Spear. Spear. Spear. Probably a halberd. These are definitely arrowheads. This is probably a guardroom, assuming our theory about the tower checks out.”

“All these damn spears. This is definitely a Drake fort.”

Larr flicked a spear-tip at a wall, and it made a surprisingly high-pitched ringing sound. Ylawes scrubbed at the spear-tip, but it was covered in barnacles and junk—and, he suspected, animal feces. The wood had long-since rotted away, and he wondered if there were any good metal to salvage in this collection.

Pekona was studying another lump of long metal that could have been a sword—again broken to pieces. Probably just the sword blade itself if the guard and hilt had been made of a weaker material.

She scraped at it with a pocket knife as Ylawes turned. Dawil had gone ahead with the Golems, and Ylawes followed after. They were leapfrogging from room to room, and at first, it was just spooky. Silent.

“Lots of trash. Dead gods, we’re wading through it in places.”

Sir Martz had the least gear on, not even boots, and he looked like he was sick of getting it in his shoes. Ylawes shrugged.

“Decades, perhaps even millennia of accumulation, Sir Martz. We’re lucky we don’t have to dig through it.”

He spoke too soon, of course. Some rooms had windows that had admitted dirt enough to close them off. This first floor had two rooms the Stone Golems had to excavate, but all the Silver Swords found in them was debris too badly damaged to be called anything.

—Except for one moment when Anith noticed a gleam on the ground and came up with a piece of metal. He showed it to Ylawes, and the man saw it was half of some kind of emblem.

“A badge, Captain Ylawes? What metal is this?”

“Looks like…bronze?”

Ylawes squinted at the ruined metal and turned to Dawil, then realized the Dwarf would just shout at him about being as bad as Erin. But he saw the definite edge of embossed metal there.

When he and Anith cleaned it off with some water and their fingers, they saw a rather complex symbol that Ylawes had never seen before.

“It looks like…an arm?”

“Can’t be if it’s Drake. No claws.”

“No, those are definitely fingers. See? It’s reaching down and holding something here. But it’s sheared through—ow! It’s sharp!”

Anith cut one paw on the metal’s edge, which surprised Ylawes greatly. He yanked his hand back, and Ylawes frowned.

“Keep it. This is valuable and might be a clue to where we are. Hey, Dawil! Found something! Anything here?”

“Fifty more hermit crabs! Bah! And the stairs! Let’s link up!”

On the way out of their room, Ylawes saw Pekona drifting after them. The [Sword Dancer] was mostly on guard-duty because one arm meant she couldn’t rummage and be ready with her weapon, but she had that piece of metal she’d found, and it was indeed a blade.

“Captain, look.”

It was a bronze-y blade that, while dull, had a faint gleam in Anith’s [Light] spell. Ylawes frowned at it.

“Bronze? Some alloy? If we were closer to a village and had a bag of holding, I might scoop it up for the local [Smith] to recycle.”

“Maybe, Captain. But it’s in very good condition for sitting here so long that it has moss.”

Pekona held the blade up, and Ylawes smiled at her, then heard Dawil shouting.

“Well, swords up. Looks like Dawil found the stairs.”

Dawil had indeed found the stairs, and what was more—Ylawes’ skin prickled the moment he saw the stairwell, or rather, didn’t see the stairwell. Because there was a door.

And the door was not only intact, but enchanted.

 

——

 

“Solid, lad. Look at this. Metal, even if it looks like shit. Definitely underwater—see them barnacles?”

Dawil tapped a knuckle on the door encrusted with dead barnacles and more dirt plastered on. Ylawes stopped him as the Dwarf dug a knife into the debris, trying to unearth the door.

“Whoa, Dawil. Remember the Horns’ run-in. What if it’s trapped?”

“Don’t worry, Captain! I checked it, and besides, if there was a spell, it’d have triggered from all this stuff! If it’s active, it’ll only go off once we uncover it!”

That…stopped Dawil and Ylawes from prying more crud off, and they backed up and called for Sir Martz. He was only too happy to have a Golem scrape at the door with one crude hand. As they worked, Falene studied the door.

“It’s magical, Ylawes. Fairly magical. I…I can’t tell how sturdy it is, but look at that!”

One of the Golems scraped something off, and everyone gasped. There was a door there, metallic, but to the sides, Ylawes saw a faint piece of smeared…air? A stairwell beyond, filled with stones that were amazingly pristine, and then he realized what he was seeing.

“Glass.”

The rounded corridor that met the stairway going down the tower had a solid door in the center and enchanted glass to the left and right, locking the door in place. Dawil muttered.

“Now that’s either the most impractical damn door I’ve ever seen—or that glass is harder than Pointy’s head. Hey, Sir Martz, why don’t you have one of your Golems try to punch through that?”

“While we stand around the corner.”

Falene hurried everyone back, and Sir Martz gave the order. Ylawes, peeking, saw the Golem pull back a fist, then punch the door as hard as it could.

The sound it made was a dull whumph, and when Ylawes glanced again, he saw pieces of the encrusting debris falling downwards. A flash of magic—

“Back, back!”

Everyone dove back, and Ylawes listened for a sound—anything—then heard another thud. He chanced a look again and saw the glow of magic…

Words?

The door was framed by glass blocks set like bricks around the clearly metal doorframe. But what caught the eye were glowing words that were scrawled over the entrance. Parts of it were chipped away, but the rest said…

…Ylawes had no idea what it said. It wasn’t in the common script. He squinted at the door and turned.

“That’s Drakeish. Insill?”

The [Rogue] squinted at the words, and his voice grew confused.

“It’s not Drakeish like they use back home, Captain. The words look sort of familiar, but it’s all messy. What’s it say? Anyone?”

No one had a clue, and Falene, who could at least read Drakeish script passably well, just scratched her head.

“There’s a spell that translates this kind of thing. I might have a copy of it in my spellbook—if my spellbook were still working.”

She groaned, but Anith’s ears had perked up when he saw the writing. He approached the Golem still punching the door energetically—to no effect—and read over its shoulder.

“Captain Ylawes, I might be able to translate a bit of it. I’m not an expert like Miss Falene or a native speaker like Insill, but I did study this when I was reading books on adventuring. Would you give me a few minutes? And some space. I need a quill, ink…Insill, would you help me?”

Ylawes nodded, and Martz commanded the Golem to stop punching the door as Falene approached to try and see what kind of enchantment was on it. More of the same bronze metal—there was no handle, and Ylawes suspected breaking into the door by force was out of the question.

 

——

 

Anith had a translation of the text after ten minutes, and Ylawes had an idea for how to open the door at roughly the same time. Infinitypear and Rasktooth were energetically stabbing the stones around the edges of the door frame as Anith came back.

“Captain Ylawes, most languages based off of ours have to conform to our alphabets. Drathian is an exception, as are a few others, but there’s a kind of calculation you can do with each word to decode them.”

Ylawes peered at the letters on the wall.

“…I don’t follow.”

“Consider any word, Captain Ylawes. Say…‘Anith’. Each letter wouldn’t tell you much, but one of the most common letters in our language is ‘a’. You can guess that vowels, like ‘a’, ‘i’, ‘e’, and so on, will be repeated. Then, assign letters to their corresponding ones, and if they match up, you likely have the cipher!”

Ylawes stared blankly at Anith. He still didn’t get it. Anith sighed and showed him his work.

“I think it says—and this is with Insill recognizing some of the letters—well…”

The message scrawled over the door read, in glowing white letters:

 

By order of General Straheld:

They’re willing to die down there, so let them sink. Seal the exits. We hope it’s dark down there with our dead brothers and sisters.

 

“…Well, that’s dark.”

Larr read over Ylawes’ shoulder, and the [Knight] agreed. He turned to Anith.

“Why would someone write that on the door?”

Dawil was chipping at the brickwork with his axe as well, being very careful.

“To warn stragglers? Sounds like a hell of a fight might have happened up above. A bunch of dead Drakes. Can’t say if they were defenders or attackers. ‘Straheld’…doesn’t sound Drakeish. Either way, some poor bastards hole up in here, and whomever’s here decides to shut the doors. Bad way to die.”

“Down there…sinking. Strange. This must have been at sea. Maybe they sank this place?”

If you hit the base, that was probably possible. Ylawes shuddered as he imagined sinking in a tower with oxygen running low. Then he turned back to the door. The [Golemancer] was doing a nervous dance as he stood there behind two of his Golems.

“This is all very fascinating and slightly terrifying, Captain Ylawes. Is, ah, is this a good time to report back to Lord Comigen?”

“Hm? Oh, no, we’ve not found anything yet, Master Martz. Neither threats nor any treasure. If we can get this door open, we’ll see what we can find, but this is fine.”

Ylawes smiled at the man and didn’t get the panicked expression Martz shot around—a civilian amongst adventurers. He protested.

“But the, um, door is highly magical. I’m no expert, but I doubt even Magus Falene could easily deconstruct it.”

“True! So we’re going to dig around it.”

“Around…?”

Adventurers and doors. Part of good adventuring was never giving in to a door, even if one didn’t have locks. Which Insill was pretty sad about because he was a [Rogue]. However, Insill liked Ylawes’ plan, which was a classic.

“If the door’s spelled, do the doorframe! I bet these rocks were enchanted, but the New Lands absorbed the magic.”

“Actually…they’re still enchanted.”

Dawil grunted as Infinitypear stabbed again and dug up a tiny bit of stone. Insill did a double-take.

“What?”

Dawil had his axe blade in his fingers and was sawing ever-so-gently at the mortar around the bricks, but he backed up enough to show them what he meant.

“My broken axe cuts anything non-magic in the world. Even a lot of magic. No, Pekona, you can’t touch it. Several people have lost fingers to it…here, look at this.”

He pressed the tip of the blade into the stone a few dozen feet up the corridor, and it sank in like butter. Dawil had to actually break the rock apart to retrieve the bit of metal. Martz goggled at the sharpness of the blade like everyone who saw it for the first time. Then Dawil stumped over to the door.

“Now look at this.”

His blade didn’t so much sink in as dislodge a tiny bit of mortar. Dawil chipped delicately at it again, and Ylawes saw Infinitypear’s spear doing good work too.

“Enchantments are weakening, but we must be far enough down or the keep’s stone is shielding it from losing all the magic. Maybe the door’s doing it, but on the bright side, we’ve got blades sharp enough to cleave through whatever enchantment this is. So with a bit of work…aha!”

Dawil stepped back, and the block of stone they’d been working on shifted ever-so-slightly as he tried to lever it up. Insill began to help, but broke a claw trying to wedge it in the crack.

“We need something sticky to get this stone up. Lad, your sword’s magic. Use it as a lever.”

“I’ll snap it!”

Ylawes gave it a try anyways, but he couldn’t lift the stone with the tip of his sword. Exasperated, Falene cut in.

“Oh—Beardy, let me.”

“Beardy? What kind of a name is that, Pointy?”

She ignored him and stuck her hand down. Falene spoke.

“[Sticky Grip]! It’s not much mana. Aha—eep!”

She pulled, got the stone up a tiny bit, and then realized she had absolutely no physical strength to pull the huge block up. Ylawes and Dawil glanced at each other and snorted. Then they grabbed her hand.

“Wait! Wait, I’ll recast the—my hand! Ow, ow, ow—”

Falene’s hand came up—and the block of stone—and she released the magic and massaged her wrist. The chunk of masonry was still so hard that when Dasha gave it a few whacks with her axe, it chipped her steel edge.

“Aw! It’s still enchanted!”

Dawil nodded.

“Mortar’s gone before the stone. But you know what that means.”

All they had to do was chip out a few more blocks and they had a clear bypass of the door. Ylawes grinned and then got to work flaking away at the stones.

Between his sword and Infinitypear’s spear, they managed to get five more blocks out before actually breaching the other side. The first thing that hit Ylawes’ nose made him recoil.

“Eugh! Stale as a [Librarian]’s farts!”

Insill coughed as the sheer torrent of air assailed them. Ylawes eyed the opening in the stones, then nodded.

“Let’s make an opening large enough to get a Golem through. Or if we’re lucky, we can pull the damn wall down. Come on.”

 

——

 

It took probably two whole hours of trading off in shifts to pull enough stones to let Insill slip through the wall, and he was thinnest of all of them. Everyone participated, including Sir Martz, and Ylawes actually sent Larr and Dasha back to get some of Homle’s [Miners], who were only too happy to help with this interesting project.

“Nice stone. I think it’s some kinda limestone. Beautiful cuts, even with corrosion. What d’you reckon’s down there?”

“With any luck, a lot of dead bodies and all the loot they had. See how there’s no water damage or debris? That says ‘preserved treasure’ to me, and I like it.”

Lord Comigen had come himself to see what all the fuss was about, and he appeared happier than Ylawes had seen him, inspecting the broken crest and the words.

“How fascinating. We could look this up once we get back to civilization! Are you going to enter the ruins right after this, Captain Ylawes?”

“Absolutely. We’re rested, and Falene’s only used two low-Tier spells. Although…I’m going to have all the [Miners] move back to the entrance, and you yourself, Lord Comigen.”

Ylawes was beginning to feel like an adventurer again. He sat, watching as Homle stabbed with Ylawes’ sword, adjusting his armor and wishing they had more than three working healing potions. Three was better than none, but dead gods, he’d have had eighteen amongst the team and thought that was ‘normal’ last year. He had to remember they couldn’t take big risks…Comigen frowned.

“I’m actually rather keen on exploring this myself, Captain Ylawes. First into a dungeon? It would be something to honor Lord Restraud with. Besides, from the sounds of it, you haven’t run into anything worse than a few crabs, and all the defenders are dead.”

“Yes.”

Ylawes’ casual tone made Dawil glance up and Falene break off meditating. Rasktooth was copying her, much to Pekona’s annoyance, and the [Sword Dancer] had vanished. The [Knight] glanced at the door.

“I have a theory, but I’d like you to ratify it, Falene, Anith. This door and tower are clearly magical. Which means the mana-drain effect doesn’t reach down this far.”

“Oh! I see! If the Golems and Terlands moved down here, they could mitigate the mana loss! This might be a perfect base to operate from! Captain Ylawes, you’re a genius!”

Anith leapt to his feet, eyes shining, and Ylawes opened his mouth.

“…I didn’t consider that.”

Comigen and Martz seemed astounded at the idea and grew even more excited, but Falene’s eyes had focused. Ylawes nodded to her.

“If magic is still active down there…this is a fort or some kind of stronghold, and there was a battle above. Which makes me think that there are going to be undead and active traps down there. The real adventure is going to begin the moment we head down. So, Lord Comigen, I will respectfully ask you to stand back.”

The [Lord] glanced nervously at the entrance to the big stairwell, and Martz swallowed hard. Suddenly, the stairs descending in a spiral pattern down, down into the tower made Ylawes wonder how big this place was. And how many people had been down there when they died. Attackers?

Our brothers and sisters…

How nasty did undead that had been trapped down in a place like this get? He remembered the image of the Village of the Dead raid, and Larr swore as he began to restring his bow.

“If we run into more regenerating undead…”

Dasha swallowed hard, and Dawil put a hand on her shoulder.

“Just stay behind us and don’t touch anything, got it, rookie? We can handle a few monsters, and we’ve got Golems.”

“Of course.”

Dasha looked reassured by this, then grew concerned as she stared around.

“Where’s Pekona? If we run into undead, she might freak out a bit. That Drake that cut off her arm—”

—Had been a Revenant. Ylawes realized this was a real case of potential trauma for Pekona and got up.

“I’ll find her. She might be using the privy.”

“All the way back at camp? That’s a long way for a young woman to go unescorted, even an adventurer.”

Every adventurer turned to stare at Lord Comigen, as well as Homle and all the [Miners]. Ylawes himself blinked.

Dawil coughed into one hand.

“Er, Lord Comigen, I rather imagine Pekona will—nevermind. No, you know what? I hate to ask, but have you always used a latrine or whatnot to relieve yourself?”

The [Lord] gave him a blankly horrified look.

“What? Are you implying that I’d relieve myself on some random rocks like a [Barbarian]?”

Larr whistled.

“Dead gods.”

For once, Ylawes had no way to really defend that. He went to find Pekona.

 

——

 

Pekona was back in the first armory room they’d found, chipping away at some of the metal pieces on the ground. She was so focused on her work that a hermit crab had crawled on top of her head. Ylawes picked it off her, and she spun.

“Captain, I—”

“Watch yourself in a dungeon, Pekona. We’re about to breach the door. You okay? There might, ah, might be undead down there.”

Her cheeks turned red as he squatted down and saw she’d unearthed more of that bronze hue from the spear-tips and so on. They were all remarkably good under all the…crab poo. Pekona was rather filthy, and she brushed at her leather armor.

“Undead? How many?”

“I don’t know. Worst case scenario is they’ve upgraded, and it could be hundreds. Can you handle it?”

“Hm? Sure. As long as I have room to move about. Why?”

Well, there went the theory of her arm-trauma. Ylawes nodded at it awkwardly.

“Dasha thought, with your arm and the Revenant—”

She blinked, and then her face fell. He felt like a true fool for bringing it up, but Pekona shook her head.

“That was a [Blademaster], not an undead. I was weak. He was like an old master from the legends of my home, like Zeladona.”

Her eyes shone as she recalled the frankly horrifying woman Ylawes had seen. Pekona drew her sword and stared at her reflection in the newly-polished blade.

“Those I practiced with would have given up an arm to duel her just once.”

“Really?”

Pekona hesitated.

“…No. Maybe not. But they’d say it. I survived two legends. I won’t be afraid of undead. Even Draugr.”

Ylawes smiled ruefully and resolved himself to put Pekona in the mid-row, in case her determination got her hurt. He offered her a hand.

“Well, we’re about to make the hole big enough for the Golems. Ready?”

She hesitated and glanced down at the pile of weapons at her feet. Then Pekona peered at the doorway and lowered her voice.

“Captain, may I speak to you of something private? Here, here.”

She drew him into one corner of the room, so no one could see them if they were coming up the hallway. She whispered to Ylawes, who lowered his voice with a frown.

“What’s wrong?”

“Captain…I am not a great adventurer like you and not a Dwarf like Dawil. So I am not sure, but I think there is something you did not notice.”

She gave him a nervous look, as if she was expecting him to get angry, but Ylawes rubbed at his hair. A hermit crab fell off it, and he stared at it.

“Pekona, I miss a lot of things. Like that hermit crab. If you saw anything, call it out, please! What is it?”

She cast a nervous glance at the doorway.

“I did not say because I did not know, but Captain…I know blades. I studied them and even took care of some special blades in Drath. I am not Dawil—”

“He doesn’t know metals, Pekona. We just joke he does because of something Erin once said. Why?”

She offered him the sword she’d found, and he saw she’d scraped it clean of all its filth. It was a very bronze sword, but one that gleamed in the faint light coming down the corridor. He whistled.

“That’s held up amazingly well over time. It’s still in one piece. It must be an alloy, like my silversteel.”

It…barely looked damaged, actually. It had lost its edge, but anything probably banged about for ages in a place like this would. Pekona licked her lips.

“Yes, Captain Ylawes. It has survived a very long time. But I think…how heavy is it?”

Ylawes was getting a read on her tone, and now he lifted the sword up and down. With all the crud on it, it had been about the weight he expected. Now…even without a handle, it felt light. Way too light.

“It’s bronze, right? Some alloy?”

Bronze didn’t rust, and he’d assume that it would make sense if it was some kind of alloy, but bronze was also weak. And Pekona’s voice…she lowered it further.

“Captain Ylawes. Metal…what did you say your armor did?”

“Rusts? Tarnishes?”

“Tarnishes, yes. It does that with age. One of the blades I cared for was a masterpiece forged for Drath. It looked like this. Like how silver grows dirty. Only—the blade wasn’t silver. It was mithril.”

Ylawes almost dropped the sword he was holding. He caught it, then stared at the long blade with the gleaming metal and then at Pekona.

“Mith—”

She slapped a hand over his mouth, which was filthy, and he caught himself. Suddenly, his attention was all on the blade, and she showed him something he’d missed.

On one side of the blade was an etching down the central flat of the blade. It was elegant writing he assumed was Drakish, and it hadn’t even faded that much over the years. Protected by the coating, no doubt, but—Ylawes bent down.

The spear-tips and even arrowheads he’d dismissed were all still in their original shapes. Everything else in this room was trash, but an object that held its shape after this long…

“This is insane. It can’t all be mithril. This is a guard-post. No one would just issue mithril blades to the rank and file.”

“In Drath, they said that each of the [Emperor]’s soldiers once bore blades of Adamantium or better, Captain Ylawes. They still have armories of magic weapons—when the hour is dark, the [Emperor] will open another and another until the Last Tower of Vigilance is finally empty. Then Drath will die.”

He shivered when she said that, but he had to…Ylawes drew a belt knife, made of good House Byres steel, and he put it against a spear-tip. With all his strength, he sawed at the spear-tip, unearthing the silvery-bronze metal beneath. He put his strength into the knife, resting his thumb on the edge—

The knife snapped and pinged off Pekona’s sheath as she raised it. She and Ylawes stared down at the spear-tip.

The faintest scratch was on the metal, and when he rubbed a finger at it, there was a silver gleam below the bronze. But brighter even than House Byres’ silver, luminescent in the darkness.

Mithril.

Ylawes’ heart began thundering in his chest, and he dropped the spear-tip. It made that pure, ringing sound when it struck the flagstones, and Pekona snatched it up.

“I gathered every piece I could, Captain. There are a lot of blades—only one sword, but spears, arrowheads—what should we do?”

He answered instantly, without thinking.

“We have to tell the Terlands. This is their bounty, after all, and ours.”

Her face fell, and Ylawes saw her expression of disappointment. He gestured at the trove.

“We’d split it. Even half is a windfall—it’s the right thing to do.”

“Yes…”

Clearly reluctant, she swung her eyes over the haul of weapons, but Ylawes felt right about that. They’d give Lord Comigen something to bring back. Proof this place was valuable, and then—

He felt the same pang that Pekona felt, though, deep down. Ylawes liked to pretend he wasn’t greedy, but he always did have that moment of hesitation. It usually paid off for the Silver Swords, but there was a reason they weren’t rich despite their careers as adventurers.

The Terlands are rich. We’ve lost all our magic gear, and this haul would be enough for everyone and then some. Dead gods, we could give some of the money to Petia and Homle’s groups—they won’t even be paid! But otherwise we’re splitting it and—

He shook himself. Lord Comigen had given them food and shelter instantly when they were in distress. What kind of [Knight] was he to think like this? He was about to take the sword and march over to Lord Comigen when he heard a voice.

“Gotta piss, gotta piss, [Miner]’s gotta piss or his swing he’ll miss—”

A briskly humming Miner Homle stepped into the room, fumbling with his pants, clearly intent on proving to Lord Comigen that a man could and should pee wherever he had space. Ylawes and Pekona moved without thinking. He shoved the blade behind him, and they leapt towards a corner in the wall.

“Wha! Oh—dead gods, Captain Ylawes and—uh—oh.”

Homle screamed when he saw the two of them, and he leapt back, then pressed a hand against his heart. Then he stared at the two of them standing in a corner.

“Er, Captain Ylawes! Excuse me for interrupting!”

He was staring at them, and Ylawes realized that he and Pekona were clustered together in very close proximity. He leapt away.

“I was just—”

“Absolutely, Captain, no worries. Lips sealed.”

Miner Homle lifted his hands and stepped back, grinning. Ylawes felt like Homle had gotten the wrong idea, but he wasn’t sure what. Perhaps Homle thought he’d been consoling Pekona? Her cheeks were red as Homle hurried away, and Ylawes looked down.

Why had he done that? He’d moved to hide the mithril sword when he shouldn’t have. He felt guilty as he turned to Pekona.

“I think Master Homle thought I was consoling you. I—don’t know why I hid the blade.”

She gave him a long look.

“That—I don’t think I know your language. Consoling?”

“Comforting.”

“Oh, yes. He probably thought that.”

Ylawes nodded. He hefted the blade, embarrassed, as Pekona gave him another strange look. Then he turned to her.

“Let’s show this to Dawil and Falene first. I think you’re right, but before we start shouting we’ve found mithril…”

He was determined to do the right thing here, but what was done was done. Pekona nodded, and rather cleverly, she suggested he sheathe the blade in his sheath, and they hid the rest under a pile of debris. Ylawes told himself it wasn’t dishonesty. He hadn’t been dishonest yet. He was just—being practical. No sense making a fool out of himself in front of the Terlands.

He just…

He wondered how much money his father needed for House Byres’ reconstruction. And how much money the Consortium would charge his team for dereliction of duty, assuming they’d told the Merchant’s Guild.

 

——

 

Ylawes had a stomach ache when they finally passed the enchanted door and began to descend into the ruins. He told himself it was nerves, but he was conscious of the slight weight at his side.

“You okay, lad?”

Dawil gave him a concerned look as Ylawes took a few deep breaths, readying his unenchanted shield. At least he had his Skills. Ylawes nodded.

“Ready. Golems go first with Insill right behind them. Insill, you get back the moment you see trouble and sing out so Master Martz can stop the Golems. Everyone else, speak up if you think something’s amiss, got it?”

Dawil waved a hand in front of his nose.

“Okay, lad. But you’re passing a lot of gas. Lotta friendly fire going down to the middle ranks. Glad I’m up front.”

Ylawes’ cheeks flamed, and he hissed at Dawil.

“Dawil!”

Dasha and Insill giggled, and the group lost the tension it was holding. Just like that—sometimes, Ylawes was amazed Dawil wasn’t the leader of the team. Falene rolled her eyes.

“Just keep us shielded, Beardy.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll keep your precious rear safe so you can cast that one spell when it really matters, Pointy. Alright. Let’s get these stompers moving.”

The spiral staircase was wide enough for the two Stone Golems to go down it easily, and without slipping and falling, which Ylawes had been informed was a real issue given their lack of dexterity. He could imagine fighting up and down this staircase, and the light illuminated section by section as they spiralled down.

The second floor they came to instantly gave Ylawes bad vibes. For one thing, it was a lot further down than he thought. He’d assumed each floor would be relatively the same size as the one they’d been on, imagining a tower-like structure. But after passing twice the length vertically as before…they came to a hallway, and Ylawes saw the tops of the eight-foot tall Golems’ heads were nowhere near the ceiling. Also—the hallway was far wider than before.

“Uh. Lad? You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yep. This is no tower. We’re in a fortress. A keep.”

Ylawes’ understanding of where they were instantly shifted. Instead of being at the top of a vertical tower, they had reached the top ramparts in a larger structure. Which meant they’d barely penetrated the top layer of a larger fortress.

Just like the dungeon of Liscor…

He felt a slight chill on his skin as the Golems spread out along hallways of what he bet were dormitories. Broken pieces of wood hung at each entrance, next to empty torch sconces—most of which were perfectly intact.

Rusted, a bit, but clearly intended to let someone put a torch there, and the wood wasn’t nearly as rotten and destroyed as above. Ylawes saw some faintly blue paint on one of the shattered doorframes. The hallway stretched onwards, before splitting right. The light spilling from the two [Mages]’ spells illuminated quite a ways as Ylawes glanced down the stairs. Then Insill made a sound.

“Hst. Captain—there’s light down there.”

He pointed straight ahead, and Ylawes saw it. A faint glow…he spoke fast.

“Dasha, Larr, get those barricades and put them along the stairs. Wedge them in. Master Martz, I want two Golems on guard-mode on the stairs in case something crawls up behind. Insill, traps on those rooms, then we check them.”

The adventurers burst into a panic of motion, and Dasha and Larr wrestled the makeshift wooden barricades down the stairs, swearing. Insill swept around the doorframes as Falene did the same on the other side. He leapt back, and Ylawes and Dawil swung into the door and saw—

Mold. Destroyed wood, a noxious odor that made Ylawes cough and back up, covering his mouth—an empty frame on the walls. And—his eyes cast over the frame of wood where the slats had fallen inwards, but enough remained.

“Beds.”

It was a dormitory. Which made sense; you would have your [Soldiers] nearest to the battlements, wouldn’t you? On the other side, Pekona had spotted the same thing, and the Silver Swords formed up as Ylawes saw the stairs heading deeper were walled off with Golems guarding them.

“Good. Looks like this is a keep after all. Keep away from the fungi. It might be poisonous. Master Martz? We’re advancing. Nice and slow. Golems forwards, then Insill…room by room.”

They checked room after room, finding more of the same dormitory-style stuff. The bedding had mildewed into rot, and Ylawes didn’t want to inhale some nasty green mold he saw drifting in the dead air, so he pushed them on.

“Mold, though. Makes me think there was some air down here, or I doubt even that’d grow.”

Dawil whispered, and Ylawes nodded. His team wasn’t the best on professional silence, so he murmured.

“No bodies. Doors were smashed in, which suggests they were fighting there—but no bodies.”

“Maybe they cleaned up after the fighting was gone. Or…whatever was in there got up and walked off.”

Undead. An adventurer’s most common foe. Ylawes kept his shield up as Larr aimed his bow around, clearly spooked.

“Anyone smell a threat?”

“No.”

That came from Larr, but Rasktooth piped up.

“My [Hound’s Nose] say—there something here edible, Captain.”

“Er—really, Rasktooth?”

“Yep. It not lie.”

“Well, thank you. Any clue where?”

“Down. Behind us.”

“Hm. We’ll keep moving along this floor, Rasktooth. Ideally, we seal this off, floor by floor, and make it so nothing can get behind us.”

“You the boss, Captain. Big place, though. Very easy to sneak up behind.”

They came to the intersection just as Rasktooth said that, and everyone swung their weapons right. Ylawes half-lowered his shield, and Dawil’s hammer dropped slightly.

“Grandfathers. Lad—what the hell is this place?”

A massive corridor stretched ahead of them, wide enough to be a match for Pallass’ 9th floor, and dirt had caved in several sections—but Ylawes still saw the gaps in the masonry and the collapsed pieces of wood and metal. He was no expert, again, but one look at the first pile of debris on a dais gave him a flashback to a mud-filled plain.

Goblins, an army of them, a young woman with a white flag, and in the distance, an army led by a man he had respected, Lord Tyrion Veltras, and his father. And the objects that rained stones at Liscor—

“Siege weapons. Oh my. This is a Drake fortress.”

Falene breathed as the pile of what might have been a ballista or some other weapon of war lay in a heap. Half the corridor was buried by a cave-in—Ylawes saw the lights flickering eerily, and his voice echoed faintly for a while as he glanced back to the smaller corridor ahead of them.

“I—how many barricades do we have, Dasha?”

“Not enough to cover that, boss.”

There was no way to wall this corridor, and Ylawes cursed. But to his surprise…Falene lifted her staff.

“Ylawes, I could cast [Stone Wall].”

“Falene, if you’ve only got one spell, I’d prefer to save it for actual trouble.”

The [Battlemage] was frowning, and he saw a glint in her green eyes.

“No, Ylawes—I’m in a mana-dense zone again. My mana’s replenishing.”

His eyes widened; Anith blinked, and then his [Light] spell brightened.

“So’s mine.”

“Do it.”

She cast the spell, and a wall of stone rose, sealing off the corridor. Falene grinned, and her staff lit up with a glow as the dead crystal began to pulse with light. Dawil crowed.

“We’ve got magic again! Damn, my hammer’s still dead. But wait—Pointy, your staff!”

She was making it pulse, and the [Battlemage] wore a smile of delight.

“It’s reactivated! Archmage Nailihuaile made it for me—some enchantments do that! Even if they’re out of mana, the bindings don’t break! Check your gear!”

Everyone did, but Ylawes’ armor wasn’t back, nor his bag of holding, which had exploded. He sighed, but the Gravesword he held felt colder—and he swore that Infinitypear’s own spear was glittering more.

“Alright, spells free. We’re headed towards that light source. Silver Swords, let’s move!”

Encouraged, they moved down the hallway, passing by a second stairwell that Falene instantly walled off, and found themselves…passing by more dormitories.

“Dead gods, this place is big. Assuming it’s box-like or we’re in one corner, this could have held thousands of [Soldiers]!”

Dawil whispered, but Ylawes was more concerned about the light. It was just out of view at first, a rosy yellow glow…and then he drew closer and murmured.

“No. It can’t be.”

There were two glows. One orange yellow, a dancing color that made the shadows shift on the wall eerily, and the other—a bright blue? And bright as—as—

Day…

The Silver Swords halted in front of the object on the wall and then stared into the room with a kind of awe. Even Falene, who knew magic, was stunned.

“It’s just a—an ordinary—well, it’s not inexpensive. But to see it still active after so long—”

They gazed at the single object burning on the wall like it was a Relic of legends. Infinitypear reached out, and Rasktooth stopped him, but after a look at Falene, Ylawes nodded. The Worker stretched out his hand and gingerly, oh so gingerly, lifted the flaming torch out of the wall socket.

“An Everburning Torch. Golems speak.”

Golemancer Martz was as awed as the rest of them. The bright, smokeless flame that burned from the wooden torch was still aflame. Still aflame after—Ylawes couldn’t imagine it.

Then he gazed into the room, and he did feel his heart skip a beat. Dawil stared in after him and whispered.

“Lad. I think we just hit the jackpot of treasures. And we’ve got a lotta questions about who this fortress belonged to. Because I don’t think this was some low-level fortress. Not if they’ve got…magic windows.”

It was a frame of wood on the wall, fake, in fact. Because there was no real…thing to show behind the wooden frame, just stone. Ylawes had seen the other ones hanging there and thought they were picture frames. But now, he realized they were just out of magic.

What they were showing—what they should have showed was presumably a vision of the outside, or whatever the designers of this place had wanted to project to the claustrophobic, enclosed rooms within. So when Ylawes Byres stared at the bright, blue sea and the white clouds floating above a vision of the ocean…

“A sea fortress. This must have been on the western edge of Izril. Drake or…the magic’s still active.”

He reached out for the frame of wood, and his fingers made the magical image ripple as he touched it. Ylawes brushed a finger against the frame, and then the image morphed.

He jumped as the image changed from one of idyllic sun and sky to a raging thunderstorm. Then there was sound.

Kra-kooom! A classic crack of thunder echoed through the hallways like, well, a lightning bolt. Ylawes grabbed the frame.

“Lad—lad—”

“Falene, silence it! Turn it—”

Pekona slashed the frame in half, and the roaring thunderstorm instantly vanished. Ylawes held the severed frame, and the [Sword Dancer] glanced around as everyone stared at her accusingly.

“What? It was noisy.”

“But it was magic—”

She hunched her shoulders, face going blank, and Ylawes had a memory of Ryoka Griffin. He patted Pekona on the shoulder.

“It’s fine. Good reflexes, Pekona. Let’s—let’s keep going.”

He hoped nothing had heard that sound, but as he stepped back into the corridor, Rasktooth, who’d been glancing around with a lot less interest and wonder than everyone else, spoke.

“Chieftain-Captain Ylawes?”

“Yes, Rasktooth?”

“[Dangersense] just went off.”

The Cave Goblin grinned as everyone stiffened. Ylawes tightened his grip on his sword.

“Got it.”

 

——

 

Something was here.

Rasktooth knew it. He knew it in the way a Cave Goblin knew danger, from the dungeon. Like Facestealer, it was creeping up on him, and he whispered to Infinitypear to stay ready. But the Antinium had lived in the Hive, used to other people thinking and being around him.

Even Captain Ylawes, even Insill, didn’t have the right instincts. But Rasktooth knew.

They were being watched.

He couldn’t tell where, but his guess was they were ahead, given that the adventurers had barricaded everything behind them. He was in the rear with Infinitypear, and he kept his eyes trained ahead of him. They were running into doors now, real doors, and preserved…furniture stuff.

The kind that Rasktooth sometimes found in the dungeon. Nothing valuable like weapons, but Captain Ylawes liked it, and they were arguing about what it meant. Apparently, there were silly things that made it Drake.

Like a hole for their tails where they sat. But the hallway spread out, and there were little intersections and rooms ahead of him. Too many. The Cave Goblin’s eyes narrowed.

Far away, past the shadows the [Light] spells were casting, did he see…?

Anith walked in front of him with a [Light] spell, and Rasktooth swore. He squinted—and saw nothing.

“Captain, there something out there.”

Ylawes believed him, but Rasktooth couldn’t say what. He only felt like it was like Facestealer. A peeking…when he pointed, there was nothing, and Larr’s good eyes and Falene’s magic showed him nothing.

“It watching us. Whenever I blink.”

He insisted it was true, so Ylawes had Larr on overwatch. Rasktooth sat on Infinitypear’s shoulders, staring, staring…

He blinked his eyes deliberately, and Larr glanced sideways at an exclamation from another room. Infinitypear made a sound.

“Something moved.”

The Antinium had no eyelids to blink. Rasktooth whispered.

“Where?”

“Long way down the corridor. It put its head up and down. Brother. It was fast. I’m…not scared. I cannot be, but I do not like it.”

Rasktooth patted Infinitypear’s head.

“We got Captain Ylawes. Larr…”

“I heard. I didn’t see it, and I don’t smell it. I didn’t see anything.”

Rasktooth glared at the Gnoll, and the [Ranger] put up one paw.

“Okay, fine. I believe you.”

This time, Ylawes stood and thought for a long moment. He turned to Falene.

“Can you check?”

“[Detect Life] gets me nothing, Ylawes. [Detect Death]…ah.”

She made a faint sound and squinted. Rasktooth felt all the hairs on his neck rising. He lifted his crossbows, and Falene breathed.

“There are six of them. Four where Rasktooth pointed, two in that room four doors down. Humanoid. I don’t…humanoid.”

Everyone tensed. Ylawes’ breath was calm, though, calm in a way Rasktooth liked.

“Okay then. I want a wall spell blocking their exit. Anith? [Repulsion Barrier] on that doorway. Master Martz?”

“Oh, Terlands—y-yes?”

“Golems will run there. Whatever’s in there they block or kill. Three of them, three of us. Me, Dawil, and Dasha engage. Pekona, don’t let them get to the second row. You and Infinitypear support us—Insill and Larr, I want shots of opportunity. We rush in.”

“If we had a Tripvine Bag, I’d get them, lad. Just one thing I can throw—”

Dawil growled as the [Mages] tensed. Rasktooth swore he saw a head rise…Infinitypear clacked his mandibles together repeatedly. Ylawes Byres smiled like a Raskghar.

“Falene, on my mark, [Stone Wall]. Then throw a [Fireball]. Three. Two. One—”

The moment the [Stone Wall] rose, the watchers knew they’d been made. One leapt and almost got over it before it snapped upwards and trapped them. The other two came out fast. Fast. They were underneath the [Fireball] and charging as the other two leapt out of the hallway before Anith’s spell could block them.

Rasktooth had never seen this kind of undead before. He knew Ghouls in the dungeon, even Bone Crawlers who hid on ceilings. Never…

A mask of flesh and two glowing blue eyes blurred as it crouched, then leapt from wall to wall. He tracked it—fired with his crossbows, one, then two.

Missed. It bounded at him, then saw Anith’s light arrows streaking at it and—dodged. It moved behind a doorframe for cover, then burst out again. Undead, grinning at him. A Drake’s skull and long, slashing claws—

Pekona saved them. The [Sword Dancer] whirled into the undead, and it tried to dodge, then the two were locked together as she pursued it back and forth. The other four were fighting, trying to get around Ylawes and Dawil, but the [Knight] shouted.

“[Shield of Valor]! [Challenge of the Knight]!”

They leapt past him, but his shield grew and caught one of them, which he rammed into a wall. It fell, dazed, and Dawil was on top of it, hammering down on the figure. The other spun to attack Ylawes—leaving two for Falene and the midranks.

“I’ve got it! Insill, flank it! I’ve—”

The skeleton-mask slid under one of Dasha’s axe swings and slashed at her cheek with a claw. Only Insill’s stab of daggers made it back off. It twisted its head as Larr fired an arrow, and Infinitypear’s voice was uncertain.

“[T-Tidal Jab]!”

The simple spear stab drew the undead closer to the spear, but it yanked back and stumbled as Dasha hacked at its leg. Rasktooth fired again.

This time, the skeleton-Drake caught a glancing blow to the skull that skewed its mask up, revealing yellowed teeth in the grinning skull. It leapt forwards as Anith shouted.

“[Light Ray]!”

The beam of light caught the undead full-force and vaporized its bones—or should have. Instead, it saw the beam of light as it leapt in midair—split apart into two sections of bones—

The lower half charred as it hit the spell, and the upper half landed on the floor. It flung itself at Poke Duo as Rasktooth dropped his crossbows, drawing a dagger, and Infinitypear flinched backwards, stabbing—

“[Wind Orb], [Thunder Volt], [Thunder Volt], [Flamespray], [Force Orb], [Light Arrow Volley], [Ice Spike], [Ice Spike], [Ice Spike]—”

Falene blasted the undead out of the air and into a wall, then hammered it nonstop with spells as Rasktooth lowered his daggers and opened his mouth. He swivelled right and saw a pile of steaming bones where the last undead had been. She gave him a slightly superior look, and Rasktooth and Infinitypear regarded each other.

Miss Falene was now the coolest Silver Sword. Why did Dawil call her Pointy Ears when she could do that?

 

——

 

By the time Ylawes downed his undead, the battle was over. He whirled and shouted.

“Anyone hurt? Any more—?”

Falene had gotten two with the others’ help, and Dawil had finished his off. He kicked bones apart, cursing.

“Damn thing’s fast! It bit my leg! Ow! Didn’t get through the armor, but that hurts! What the hell was that?”

“Some kind of stalking undead. Faster than Ghouls.”

Maybe not as sturdy, but Ylawes hadn’t expected their speed—or their ability to dodge. Ghouls bounded at you fast, but they never backed up. He exhaled hard.

“Wait, there’s one trapped on the ceiling. Falene, keep it there.”

The last undead actually was pinned by the [Stone Wall] spell and wriggling like mad. Everyone gathered around, including Master Martz—he was very shaken, and his two Golems hadn’t been able to keep up with the undead at all.

“Wh-what kind of undead is it, Captain Ylawes?”

He had no idea. Pisces might have known, but all Ylawes got was ‘undead skeleton that wears a flesh mask’. Which…you know, that said too much.

“Some kind of stalker-undead. Nasty. I’d put it at a high-Silver threat. If there were packs of them, I’d say Gold-rank. We got them, though. Nice work, Rasktooth. Falene, keep up that [Detect Death] spell.”

He thought it was a fine encounter, but the rest of the adventurers appeared downtrodden. Pekona had actually killed her undead solo, but Anith was shamefaced, and Dasha, Insill, and Larr seemed embarrassed. It was Infinitypear who spoke up.

“Captain Ylawes, I am ashamed to report that I am a failure. I was uncertain in the face of danger and did not stab my foe. I must be punished.”

Ylawes turned to the Bronze-rank duo, astonished.

“Infinitypear, you’re not even Level 20. The fact that you held your ground and did what you wanted was enough. Falene got the monster.”

“Yeah, and it dodged all of us. Fat lot of good we are.”

Dasha rubbed at her cheek that the skeleton had slashed at. Dawil put his hammer on his shoulder.

“You’re all alive, lads and lasses, and you fought hard. New monsters always throw you for a loop. The lad and I were just lucky we had levels on them. The fact that they got past us is on us.”

He nudged Ylawes subtly, and the [Knight] agreed.

“Absolutely. It was our fault for misjudging them. Don’t agonize, and don’t lose focus. There could be more.”

That shaped them up. Ylawes gave Falene a covert nod, grateful her magic was back. If she hadn’t been there…

That little skirmish made Ylawes’ euphoria at exploring this fortress a lot more guarded. If that was the opening salvo from the local threats—well, it was no Skinner, but he was conscious of Master Martz and the people above.

Better report back before we take too long. But Falene was glancing ahead.

“Ylawes, I sense…something ahead. Can we check out that room?”

She pointed just past the place she’d walled off, and Ylawes bit his lip.

“Okay, but we’re heading back fast. [Stone Wall] every way but our retreat.”

They came across the first sign of what this place had been in a room that seemed to be the remnants of—no, Ylawes didn’t know what it had been. What it was now was a grave.

“Tribes.”

Larr turned pale as he backed away from the entrance, and Ylawes’ shield rose.

“Falene? [Fireball] this entire room if anything so much as twitches.”

“I will. But—they’re not undead, Ylawes. Look. Someone put them to rest.”

After all this time had passed, the bodies were more mummified than anything else, scales stretched taut over skin and bones or just…bones. But they were neatly arranged in a long row, hands folded over their chests, their reptilian heads staring upwards at the ceiling—severed from their bodies.

Bones. Bodies neatly beheaded and—Ylawes stared down—given funeral rites.

“Silver and steel.”

Grains of silver dust were sprinkled in each eye socket, and he saw long-dead flowers placed in the ribcages of each skeleton. If he had to guess, it was mourning lily—and earthen dirt and charcoal dust was also there.

“Lad, is this some kind of practice you’re familiar with? Must be hundreds of them. Poor bastards.”

Ylawes nodded.

“This is how you prepare the dead, Dawil. If you don’t want them to rise. I mean, we bury our dead with silver, and I know about the lilies, but this…”

A room full of corpses who’d never be undead. He wondered why the skeleton stalkers hadn’t disrupted them—but perhaps so much silver or the rituals involved repelled even undead. Then his eye caught something else. Anith breathed.

“…Oh my.”

Piled in front of each dead [Soldier] or inhabitants of the impromptu cemetery were objects. Most were a single item, but in places, there was a pile of them—or a scorch mark? The floor was warped in one section of the room, and the skeleton there was twisted around a divot in the ground. But in each case, Ylawes saw the glimmer of what was unmistakable to him. That sheen like a bubble’s glow to the object.

Magic artifacts.

He bent down, then stopped himself from scooping up a wand just lying on the floor. Dasha almost did likewise until Insill grabbed her.

“Whoa! It might be cursed!”

“I don’t—I don’t think they are, Insill.”

Falene’s voice was shaken, and she pointed.

“Elves! There are so many magical items here! This is—”

“A treasure trove!”

Dasha exploded with delight, and Falene and Martz spoke at the same time.

“A disaster! Everyone, back up now! Don’t touch anything! There’s so much magic in this room that it could all start a chain reaction of interference at once! That’s why parts of the room are destroyed!”

Suddenly, Ylawes put the charred spots on the ground together and remembered his basic training. Put too many objects together that clashed with magical interference and it’d all explode. Or worse.

He backed up fast, but then caught himself.

“There’s no way it’ll all activate at once, Falene. This must have been here for ages.”

“Well, don’t disturb it! Whomever did this—I applaud their dedication, but they were no [Mage]!”

Falene was shaken, and Golemancer Martz nodded.

“Highly irresponsible. But so…incredible. The last survivors must have laid their dead to rest. Perhaps they expired before they could do all the undead. However, this is why the fortress isn’t completely overrun with them.”

He rubbed at one eye and stood in solemnity at this testament to the long-gone. Ylawes nodded somberly and took a deep breath.

“We should be very careful, then. No one disturb the bones. And only take as much as Falene thinks you can get away with without magical interference. No one stand too close to each other.”

“Wait, what?”

The [Golemancer] gaped at Ylawes in abject horror. The [Knight] of House Byres gave him a blank look.

There were magical artifacts. They were adventurers.

Was he not supposed to take them?

 

——

 

The horror over graverobbing from Martz made Ylawes realize not many people understood that adventurers almost always took from the dead. It was just a difference of ‘long dead’ that made you an adventurer or a [Treasure Seeker], whereas ‘freshly dead’ made you a [Looter] or [Graverobber].

He insisted on loading everyone up with what they could carry safely, which wasn’t much, and Ylawes was already wondering how many people they could bring down to grab this and go. All the [Miners] had hands, and if they did two fast trips—

He never got a chance to execute on the idea, though. They were halfway back towards the stairs when they heard a crash—and then Rasktooth spoke.

“Captain. Bad [Dangersense]!”

“Golems! My Golems!”

Martz shouted, and Ylawes slung his pack onto his shoulders and drew his sword and shield. He heard a terrible crack of what sounded like stone on stone, a thud-thud-thud of heavy steps—but dead silence. No voices of pain, nothing but—

The first Golem’s head hit the wall, and he slowed down, and two Stone Golems thumped past him as Ylawes saw another Stone Golem of House Terland reeling backwards. A spear was sticking out of its chest, a big spear as large as a harpoon. It yanked free of the Golem, and it fell motionless as Ylawes saw the wielder whirl the spear up and open its mouth.

At first, Ylawes thought it was another undead, glowing red eyes, a Drake’s skeleton with a spear—until he realized that it had scales that were pale white, and its eyes were not burning flames but gemstones. Ruby eyes flashed as the Drake Golem opened its mouth and breathed fire over the two Terland Golems.

“Back! Back!”

The Terland Golems advanced into the flames, swinging their fists in big, heavy swings, and the Drake Golem’s mouth snapped shut. Its eyes flashed, then it spun backwards, down the stairs. It crouched, then leapt, spear stabbing.

It pierced a Golem through the heart and twisted back with a [Spearmaster]’s flair, much like Relc, yanking the spear out, and Ylawes’ blood chilled as it punched the cruder Stone Golem, knocking it back. It seemed to understand it was fighting Golems, because it punched twice at its chest, then raised its spear.

“Such beauty—”

Martz was the only one dumbfounded by the Drake Golem. The other adventurers saw it execute the fourth Golem with the same spear-thrust and backed up.

“Pointy! We need spells on it!”

“[Stoneflesh], [Mass Speed]—[Lightning Bolt]!”

Falene finished casting spells on herself and the group, and Ylawes felt the world slowing slightly as she pointed her staff. Anith cast [Muddy Ground] on the stairs, and the Golem reacted. It lifted a hand, and he saw a gemstone in its clawed hand flash. The [Lightning Bolt] vanished, and then it leapt the muddy ground. He was charging to meet it when he saw the foot come up.

His [Shield of Valor] Skill caught the kick, but Ylawes still felt like he’d been hit by a brick wall coming at him. He staggered, and Dawil’s shout was panicked.

“Get back, get back! Up the stairs! It’s just like that damn Wistram Golem!”

The Gazer Golem. Ylawes had the same bad premonitions, but it wasn’t as wholly deadly as that one. He regained his footing as it spun its spear and stabbed.

A quick jab behind the back, using its arms to stab in a way he didn’t predict. It skidded off his shield as he lashed out with his Gravesword. The blow chinked off the scales, and the Golem spun its torso slightly, mitigating the force of the blow, then swept its tail around.

“Gah!”

Dawil got hit by the tail hard and slid, but caught the Golem with a blow from his hammer as he spun back. It didn’t slow the Golem—it made a dull thunk, and Ylawes shouted.

“Don’t get close! It’s too—”

The mouth opened, and it breathed flames on top of him as it went for a slash to his leg. He blocked it as flames scorched over his face and helmet, shouting, and it would have hit him in the leg but for Pekona. She slashed at the spear, and the blow sent her twirling away, but it reduced the impact, and Ylawes’ knee just buckled. He saw Insill stab the Golem twice from behind, stare at his steel daggers, and leap away.

“Go!”

Anith ran past him, shooting [Light Arrows] as Larr’s and Rasktooth’s arrows glanced off its face. Martz—Dasha was carrying him past them, and Ylawes saw the Golem whip around as Falene unloaded a barrage of Tier 1 and Tier 2 spells on it. It held still—then lunged at her.

“Pointy! [Thunder Blow]!”

Dawil’s hammer knocked the Golem back a step just in time, and Falene stumbled backwards, face pale.

The Golem was jabbing the spear, advancing on Falene as she blocked one of the thrusts with her staff. Ylawes crouched on the ground. He pushed off, and his armored boots left the ground.

“The Silver Dragon!”

He leapt, and the Golem whirled as a trail of silver lunged across the hallway. The Drake’s ruby-red gaze focused on the trailing wings following the [Knight]. Then on the man’s bared teeth, a snarl on his contorted features. Desperation and rage, sword following his raised shield. A metal beast, roaring as the light shone off its armor, throwing itself out of cover to save its comrade.

A spark of insight flickered in the Golem’s memories. It had no true sentience, and this creature was far smaller than the ones in its targeting files—but it identified the foe. The Golem began to broadcast a warning signal.

Dragons had come again. The Golem took a step back, eyes glowing bright, waiting for the charge.

[The Knight Charged With Wings of Steel]. The [Knight-Seeker of the Silver Dragon] saw the Drake-Golem lower its stance, then the spear flickered in a flurry of stabs. He caught the impacts on his shield, and crashed into it, sword slashing across its chest. It tried to throw him, shoving an arm at the [Knight]—

The collision threw both of them into the wall, and the Golem staggered. Ylawes shouted, desperately, as he heaved at the incredibly heavy construct.

“Dawil! Help me!”

“[Force Orb]!”

Falene pointed her staff, and the controlled explosion knocked the Golem down. Then Ylawes and Dawil were on the struggling automaton, trying to take out a leg as it kicked, slashed with its spear, sprayed flames—but they could do this! Ylawes saw a spear thrust in and stab into the Golem’s chest. Infinitypear.

“Keep it down and—”

“Ylawes! Behind you!”

He turned around as the second Drake Golem came up the stairs, eyes glowing sapphire, and his heart sank.

“Run!”

Infinitypear ran as Ylawes charged the second one. It had a sword and shield, and they performed the same move simultaneously. A shield ramming forwards as Ylawes hurled himself at the foe, then a cut—

The Golem caught the smaller [Knight] effortlessly, heaved him back, and slashed across his chest. The blade sheared through his armor, and Ylawes blinked.

“Ow.”

“Ylawes!”

The Golem swung past him as Falene and Dawil ran for the stairs, then swivelled its head back to Ylawes. It slashed with a backhand slice, and he parried it. Ylawes backed up.

[Avert Mortal Blow]. He always got one. The sword-Golem advanced in tandem with the spear-Golem, and Ylawes stumbled up the stairs.

“Ylawes! Hurry!”

He couldn’t lower his shield. They were trying to flank him—they had a wary quality about them as they seemed to choose their moment to strike. He backed up, felt hands pulling him up—up—

The Golems kept advancing up the stairwell, pulling back as Larr and Rasktooth fired arrows at them. Each time Falene cast a spell, they’d either let it wash over them or raise a hand and ‘catch’ it. But they didn’t—strike.

They seemed to want to pin the adventurers into place, and every time they moved up the stairs, the Golems would pursue, then open their mouths or tense—and the frantic retreat of the adventurers was fast enough that the Golems kept moving.

Ylawes heard voices at the entrance to the tower as he stumbled back, blood running from his damaged chestplate. He was last to move back, against the opening in the wall, and the spear stabbed through after him, quick as a viper.

It punched him back into the arms of the others, and Ylawes lifted his sword, but the Golems stood there, eyes glowing, and then just…stopped. Their heads swung right and left, scanning the adventurers, and one put a hand against the door and pushed.

“They don’t know there’s a gap.”

Insill breathed incredulously.

“Don’t tell them, dumbass!”

Larr punched his shoulder, and the adventurers held their breath. But the Golems stopped pushing at the door and then backed up. One seemed to stare balefully at Ylawes, then it lifted its spear and slammed the butt down as it held it out, like a [Guard] posing. Then it spun on its heel and went down the stairs.

“Dead gods. The finest Autonomous-class Golems I have ever seen—those are pre-Zelkyr Golem guardians! With [Spearmaster] and [Swordsman] templates!”

Master Martz breathed. Ylawes put a hand on his chest and stared at the red blood that was now running from his wound. He saw Dawil fumbling for a healing potion, and Ylawes spoke faintly.

“Someone brick up the entrance. Then I could use a bandage, and we get out of here, right now.”

No one argued.

 

——

 

Lord Comigen was agog and horrified to see the Silver Swords emerge from the ruins with treasure and tales of the undead and Golems below. He almost wanted to see for himself, but one look at Ylawes’ cut chest and he agreed a speedy retreat was in order.

“We’ll—we’ll have to come back. With teams and experts in recalibrating Golem Hearts! And the magical artifacts—!”

“Good luck on subduing that lot. They nearly took us apart. And those undead would have gotten us but for Rasktooth. Lad, you need a sip of the potion.”

Dawil turned to Ylawes, but the [Knight] shook his head.

“I’m fine. It’s not deep. We have to save them.”

His chest hurt, but it wasn’t that deep a cut, truly. A sip now might mean they were missing it when it mattered…Anith put a hand on Ylawes’ shoulder.

“If that’s the case, we need to clean the wound and sew it up.”

Ylawes blanched.

“Won’t it just heal…?”

“He’s right, lad. I remember the inn talking about that. Or maybe we bandage it up. Who knows which it is?”

No one was certain enough, and Ylawes opined he just needed bandages; the idea of sewing his flesh closed was more nerve-wracking than fighting the skeletons again. He realized he was shaken. For all they were Gold-rankers, running into those high-powered Golems had been a close call.

Dawil was as shaken as Ylawes, and he glanced down at the artifacts they’d brought out. There were only nine of them, as much as Falene thought was safe, and Lord Comigen stared at them.

“Well, this is a haul worthy of Lord Restraud’s legacy. The implications alone will have Lady Ulva see the value of his—our efforts. Yes, indeed. And if we find out any of these artifacts have powerful enchantments…well done, Captain Ylawes! Well done indeed! We’ll, ah, we’ll have to do a preliminary appraisal of them, but not in Goisedall. It might take until Invrisil until we find a trustworthy [Enchanter], but we shall handsomely reward you for the value of each artifact!”

Ylawes was feeling a bit lightheaded as they rode back, but he didn’t miss that.

“Excuse me, Lord Comigen? I thought we’d split the artifacts. Half and half.”

“Split? Captain, these are treasures from who knows how long. From a keep with Golems in it. Were you—what would you do with them?”

“Use them. Assuming they hold a charge at all in these lands.”

Ylawes was suddenly reminded that in the open air, they’d run out of magic quickly. Comigen was appalled.

“Use—I suppose you are adventurers, but I insist we pay you for them! A handsome amount, full market value! But House Terland must inspect them all, Captain! Golems speak! They’ll run out of magic unless we get them back to Goisedall! Martz, make sure they’re all charged up. I want the camp packed up and us on the move by evening. If Captain Ylawes is too unfit to ride, a wagon or…”

Ylawes felt that sinking feeling in his stomach again. He opened his mouth to object to Lord Comigen, but the man was in a frenzy, and Ylawes could see why. Giving up half the artifacts from this disastrous expedition wouldn’t impress Lady Ulva Terland much—but they hadn’t gotten the damn things!

True, the Silver Swords had just appeared when it was time to check the ruins, but no one here but Martz had risked their lives! Then again…they’d sacrificed four Stone Golems to explore down there, and Ylawes wondered how that would add up if they were claiming costs.

Nor did he like the idea of getting paid ‘market price’ for the artifacts. It always sounded good, but somehow, magically, ‘full market price’ was always only a few thousand gold or tens of thousands of gold instead of the value artifacts were normally worth.

Magical artifacts that powerful might give us a boost. But in the New Lands, we can’t use them. He gritted his teeth, about to argue with the [Lord] about fair treatment regarding the artifacts, before he had a thought.

It was only nine artifacts from a literal keep of treasures. Also, they had no way of keeping them active. Ylawes exhaled and spoke.

“Very well, Lord Comigen. I can agree to that.”

“Ylawes—”

“Lord Comigen, a word—”

Falen and Dawil both reacted with outrage as the [Lord] turned, half-gratified by Ylawes’ statement.

“I might ask for that in writing, Captain, but that’s very good of you. I’ll get you a bonus for your graciousness, upon my word, and if we can get any healing for him, Martz…”

“Lad, are you crazy? I don’t care if they’re House Terland, those are the artifacts we need after losing—”

Dawil’s voice was furious, and Falene was vibrating with uncharacteristic wroth. But Ylawes just put a hand on the Dwarf’s arm and squeezed. The Dwarf hesitated, and Ylawes called out.

“If I might, Lord Comigen? We found some old weapons in the keep as well. Could we be allocated them in case we can use them? And anything else we found, like that crest.”

“Old…oh, those? Yes, fine. They weren’t magical, were they, Martz? Absolutely, Captain! We might need a copy of that seal, but splendid, yes!”

Comigen agreed breezily, and Ylawes saw Falene’s brows knit. Pekona’s head rose, and he gave her a sidelong look. She stepped back towards the keep, tugging on Insill and Dasha’s arms, and Ylawes sat there.

His stomach…didn’t hurt. His chest really did. But all the shame and guilt he thought he’d feel was gone. It was like the Consortium all over again.

I’m a terrible person. Here he was, lying to Lord Comigen…by omission, really. And all Ylawes could wonder was how much a bunch of mithril weapons might be worth versus magical artifacts. Especially in the New Lands.

They were riding back as Dasha, Insill, and Pekona loaded their horses up with the dirty weapons and gave Ylawes a thumbs up, and Falene and Dawil were sitting very calmly and discussing how dangerous those damn Golems were when Ylawes saw Master Homle sit up and grunt.

“Hey. There’s a group at the base. We don’t have that many horses, do we?”

Ylawes looked up, and his stomach did a backflip then. Lord Comigen went pale and whirled in his saddle. Ylawes exhaled hard. He would have slowed down, but they’d been spotted already, and the group of thirty was coming their way.

“Everyone, off your horses. Get to cover. Hide those artifacts—now.”

The Terlands’ problem had arrived at the worst moment. The plus side was—they recognized him. The downside was he recognized them.

 

——

 

They wore masks and helmets, but he could see hints of hair and features underneath their caps. Not enough to make anyone out, but they were Human, all of them with bows, and mounted. He heard one of them swearing loudly as he waited.

“Fuck my ma blindfolded—that’s the Silver Swords.”

“You sure?”

“I’d know him anywhere. That’s Ylawes. Gold-rankers. Let me do the talking—hey! Hey, Captain Ylawes!”

Something was familiar about his voice. Ylawes tried to cover his armor with one arm, but he knew they saw the damage to his plate mail instantly, and he counted.

Twenty, closer to thirty, against his team in the open. The Silver Swords had no real cover; they were using the horses, and only Larr, Insill, and Rasktooth had ranged weapons.

This was bad. However, the fact that they recognized him made him squint.

“Have we met?”

“Suuure. We met at Albez. We were one of the teams that, uh—y’know, ran off. Not saying which. Fancy meeting you here.”

One of the Silver-rank teams? Ylawes remembered Deniusth chasing after them and Erin’s involvement in their escape. Of course they’d come here—but he’d never have expected to run into them!

“You made it all this way?”

“Sure. No thanks to that damn [Violinist] and his team. I heard he sliced his way through a lot of teams. Bastard. We, uh—we’ve been exploring this place. Some ‘New Lands’, huh? You lot realize the ground’s shit and the magic’s dead?”

Ylawes was sizing up the adventurers behind their leader. They were whispering, pointing at his armor, but he had a feeling they were Silver-ranks. He didn’t get the menace of a Gold-ranking team, and they had been the ones who stole most of the loot.

“Our expedition wasn’t the best. We hired onto House Terland. Lord Comigen told us they’d been shaken down by some [Bandits].”

The leader had a bald head and a bad sunburn around his metal-plated helmet. He gave a forced laugh.

“Bandits? We’re not [Bandits]. We’ve been trading with House Terland. Selling them what we found. Hides, plants and bugs for food. It’s, uh, hard to come by. Real hard. So there’s no hard feelings, eh?”

“Lord Restraud would beg to differ, Captain.”

Comigen’s voice was icy from behind Falene, but he was eyeing Ylawes nervously. He could count, and he wasn’t an idiot. The Captain of the Silver Swords nodded.

“He’s dead.”

“Oh. Shit.”

Some of the swagger drained out of the group of adventurers, and they regarded each other, swallowing hard. The leader muttered a curse.

“That was an accident. We shot a few arrows—listen, Captain Ylawes, we’re just searching for some food to get us through the week. The Terlands have loads. They were all set to hire us until Lord Terland said he had someone better in mind.”

“Until you failed to pass a [Detect Truth] test!”

Comigen snapped. The leader of the adventurers ignored the comment. He was staring at Ylawes, sizing him up and down.

“You got into a fight with those weird undead up there? How about we come to a deal, Captain Ylawes?”

Ylawes wasn’t sure what to say. The adventurers wanted food, but the Terlands didn’t have an unlimited supply, and with nigh on eighty more mouths to feed…

But they were pinned here. Even if the Golems came out, it wasn’t a fight Ylawes wanted to risk. His voice was taut.

“How much food?”

“Enough for…two weeks? We saw you got a lot of people, and looked like you were pulling up the stakes. So—if you’re heading out—”

Two weeks’ of food for thirty people? Ylawes glanced over his shoulder, and Lord Comigen bit his lip. He was clearly wondering if they could support that. But Ylawes—he folded his arms.

“House Terland’s running low on food, Captain. I can’t turn it over when I’ve been hired to defend them.”

The leader of the adventurers was whispering with someone wearing a pointy hat and less armor who had come up to him. He glanced up sharply, then rode forwards a bit.

“C’mon, Captain Byres. Don’t fucking do this. There’s three of us to every one of you. Just, uh—just be reasonable. And also, what the hell did you find that’s got magic in it?”

Ylawes’ blood was icy, but his heart was thundering in his veins. Wonderful. He looked over his shoulder again and saw Lord Comigen’s face grow pale.

“Nothing that concerns you. I’m warning you, sir…”

He couldn’t ask them to fight. Not Infinitypear and Rasktooth. He expected to see the Antinium to be nervous again, but to his surprise, the Worker was raising a sling as Rasktooth loaded his crossbows. They seemed steady. People must not scare either one as much as undead.

The adventurers saw the duo, and their leader visibly recoiled.

“Is that a—a Goblin? What the hell? Has that damn [Innkeeper] made you as crazy as she is, Ylawes?”

Erin. Ylawes’ mind flickered to her, and then he looked at Martz and Falene, who was out of mana again. Maybe she had some saved up from the dungeon, but no one had mana for advanced spells. Martz could barely muster a [Detect Truth] spell…

Erin. Captain Ylawes Byres, whom everyone in Invrisil knew, Captain of the Silver Swords, that stupid band of Gold-rankers who did work for free. He knew his reputation even if he didn’t acknowledge the sneers. Ylawes had a thought.

“Have you been caught in the rainstorms, Captain?”

“Who, us? Yeah, the damn rain hits us all the time. Same as you. Why?”

The question caught the adventurer off-guard, and Ylawes nodded. He showed the man his gauntlet.

“Half our blades are rusted over. We’re almost out of healing potions, and I bet you are too. Rust in the blood means you’re paralyzed without a [Healer]. Ever heard of adventurers who get cut up by Metalbite slimes in the wild?”

Some of the adventurers on the other side saw where he was going with this. They shifted and muttered, but the Captain just narrowed his eyes as he adjusted his cap.

“Dying of that’s better than starving.”

“True. Poison’s worse. Rasktooth? You have my permission to poison your crossbow bolts. No quarter. I don’t want to do this, Captain, but I’ve sworn an oath. By silver and steel, you won’t steal from my employers.”

Captain Ylawes was trembling, and the adventurers blanched as Rasktooth sat up, then reached for a vial of something and poured it over his crossbow bolts.

“Fucking Crelers, Byres. Are you mad? Is this worth dying over?”

“I gave my word. Don’t make me do this, Captain. I don’t want to have to throw an acid jar at you, but I will.”

Ylawes put a hand on his belt, and then there was silence. He didn’t know if they’d heard about Erin’s unique adventuring tools, but ‘acid jar’ said it all. Out of the corner of his eye, Ylawes saw Falene tossing something up and down, and the adventurers blanched. Their leader was staring at Ylawes, and the [Knight] could just see the wheels turning.

If they had [Detect Truth] spells or even a truth stone, this wouldn’t work, but no one had the mana to waste on that. Anyways, someone else might lie. But he was Captain Ylawes of the Silver Swords. An honest man.

Dead gods. He really was going as crazy as Yvlon. The [Knight] met the Captain’s gaze, and he almost felt the urge to laugh. Insanity. His hand tightened on his sword, and he half-drew it.

If they start shooting, we have to be in the middle of them, and I’m wearing the most armor. Draw their fire and just—hope my armor holds.

“Silver Swords—”

His voice felt like thunder in his lungs, and he swore he heard that roaring sound from his dreams again. The adventurer recoiled a few steps, and then he shouted.

“Alright, alright! Stop! This isn’t worth dying over. You damn madman. Let’s ride!”

He kicked his horse around and whirled. Ylawes blinked as the entire adventuring team spun and took off, taking backwards looks at him or cursing as they fled. He stood there, amazed that had worked, until he heard cheering from the Terlands’ camp. Farmer Petia, the Terlands, were all cheering as they watched the adventurers go, and the Silver Swords flocked around Ylawes.

“Lad—lad—I never thought the day would come when we could play cards together, but that was the coldest bluff I’ve ever seen. And Pointy, did you color that water? I know that was ink—”

Dawil was scrubbing at his hair as Ylawes sat down hard, and the [Knight] saw Lord Comigen approaching with an expression of amazement on his face.

“My word, Captain, you are—well, the stories don’t do the Silver Swords justice! I should have known the team who took on Arcsinger’s Bows wouldn’t hesitate to fight even three times their number! Dead gods!”

“Purely artifice, Lord Comigen. I’m relieved it didn’t come to blows.”

The [Lord] just stood there, and Ylawes exhaled. Then he eyed the mithril weapons that were stashed on Pekona’s horse. She was giving him a wide-eyed stare, and he nodded at her.

The Terlands’ camp packed up and left that very day, Golems marching eastwards, and to Ylawes’ relief, Lord Comigen had a good idea how to navigate back to Goisedall. Ylawes stuffed himself with ravioli until he almost vomited, then lay down with his chest aching and his heart overweary.

A liar, a cheat of honest men—if they asked him on truth spell, he supposed he’d get away with it, but he’d done a lot of lying today. Yet he didn’t feel bad. His stomach just hurt because he’d eaten so much, and all was well.

All was well. Everyone gave him wide-eyed looks, and for some reason, Falene was glaring daggers at Pekona over dinner, but Ylawes was relieved. He tried to envision the road back to Goisedall and what came next, but he was so exhausted he just rolled into a bedroll and slept.

When he woke up, a Drake with empty eye sockets was standing over him with a spear. Ylawes slashed at the legs and rose with a shout—but the figure was gone. When his teammates came out of their tents, he told them what he’d seen, and Dasha paled.

“I thought it was a nightmare.”

The visions began with him, Pekona, Larr, Insill, and Dasha. Then they spread to the rest of the Silver Swords.

 

——

 

Day 42 of the Silver Swords’ Journey into the New Lands. Nailren’s good humor. Ghostly investigations.

 

Knowing he was haunted actually made Nailren quite cheerful, at least compared to him thinking he was suffering from Warsights. It wasn’t great, but he explained it to the rather shocked Mrsha (who’d come running as soon as she heard there was a haunting and cool ghosts from the movies and Erin’s story) and Nanette like this.

“It’s a monster, Mrsha, Nanette. I’m an adventurer. They might be troublesome, but this is what I can deal with. My mind fighting against me would be a worse foe.”

“Very practical, Captain Nailren! And we’ll help you with the, uh—uh—are we sure they’re ghosts, Mrsha?”

For some reason, the girls had insights into the supernatural, and Mrsha held up a card.

Do they glow and talk?

“Er…no. Just stare.”

Lame. Erin’s ghosts were different. There’s a deadlands or afterlife or something, and that’s where they’re supposed to be hanging out. She said there used to be ways to, uh, go back and forth as ghosts, but these don’t sound the same. They can’t vanish or do tricks.

Interesting. Mrsha’s suggestions about the life after death being existentially terrifying aside—Nailren had to agree.

“My image of a ghost from stories is different too. These pop up, and I think I feel cold when I touch them.”

“You touch them? Captain, as a witch, I have to warn you—not to do that!”

Nanette was alarmed, and he sniffed, amused.

“I didn’t realize they were real at the time. They’re not very dangerous.”

The rest of The Pride of Kelia disagreed; they were freaked out, and Nanette bit her lip.

“Yet, Captain Nailren. Give us some time to talk to, ah, experts? I think I know what kind of ghost we’re dealing with. You’re most certainly haunted, but by ghasts, I fear. People who bear you a grudge.”

“What did I do? Ah—”

Nailren’s mind flashed back to the tent canvas, and he covered his face with a long, long sigh.

He’d stolen their stuff. Although…he didn’t see why it was such a big deal.

It was only their tents. He hadn’t done the murdering.

 

——

 

That was actually a valid question when you got down to it and the excitement faded. Nanette took time out of her busy schedule harassing Lyonette about the magic wand to help Captain Nailren, and her first question was…

“Why wouldn’t the murderers be haunted? And why have ghasts, assuming that’s what they are, now?”

Mrsha nodded vigorously, and the person they were talking to was almost as excited.

“I have no idea, Nanette, but isn’t it amazing? Did he say what they looked like? Grey…so they’re rotting, then? Are they continuing to rot, or do they just look like how he found them?”

Satar Silverfang was, uh, not as concerned for Nailren’s well-being as she might have been. The [Historian]’s eyes were shining, and she was badgering the two for questions as she wrote all this down—until Theikha shoved her out of the way.

“This is no joke, Satar! Nanette Weishart, you must send word to Nailren, for we have no means to have a [Shaman] travel to him, far as he is. A few tribes may be there, but none have experience with spirits. I, myself, only have the stories to go off of, but they are dire, no.”

“How so, Shaman? And I am talking to magical experts, believe me. Archmage Valeterisa, and I’ll be asking the [Witches] of Riverfarm for their guidance later!”

Archmage Valeterisa thought it was fascinating too, but Theikha was worried.

“These are graverobbed spirits. There are stories of those who stole from our burial grounds in the past and were cursed by the vengeful ghosts. At first, like you describe, in visions which one could ignore, a chill. But the end of the story…ah, ‘he felt their cold claws digging into his flesh, day and night, until his royal court saw the marks each day, and the [Archmage] he had summoned stood by, unable to ward off the Great Chieftain’s spirits. Then came the day they took his eyes, and he begged for mercy but would not return the blade.’ A tale of the [King] who stole one of our treasured axes. Before, presumably, someone else stole it for good.”

Satar began to look worried as Theikha related a very concerning tale. Nanette swallowed.

“So they get stronger with time?”

“Presumably, no? Ask your [Witches], and I shall consult with our [Shamans]. It is a shame Nailren is not a [Shaman] himself. He has some knowledge of how to perform our magic, but only enough to activate certain spells. I shall await your call at dusk with all I have learned, yes?”

Thus began a game of, well, telephone. In which Mrsha and Nanette talked to every magical expert about the phenomenon and acted as Nailren’s fact-finding resource. As intermediaries went…well, they were energetic, but perhaps not the most reassuring group he’d have chosen. Nevertheless, the reactions they provoked were interesting.

 

——

 

Witch Agratha waved a finger admonishingly at Nanette as everyone drinking tea in Witch Eloise’s hut exclaimed.

“Ghasts? No, my dear, I see how you’d think that, but clearly it’s a specter of loss.”

The [Witches] were in uproar about the news, and half of them wanted to question Nailren at once, but then they began arguing what, exactly, he was being plagued by. Because none of them were quite sure.

Margrave Mavika herself landed with her crows, looking as excited and schoolgirlish as Nanette and Mrsha had ever seen her.

“It’s a Haunt.”

“A haunting, certainly.”

“No, Witch Agratha, a Haunt. These spirits of woe and ill numbered legion in days of old. To identify them, we first begin with those who make the air grow cold. This is a task for those who know the oldest ways.”

“Or those with a good bestiary.”

Agratha undercut Mavika with a cheerful thump of a Monster Manual used by adventurers, and the two glared daggers at each other. Nanette tried to get a word in edgewise.

“Identifying the ghost is very important, Witches, but Nailren would like a cure before anything else…”

“Identifying the ghosts is everything, Miss Nanette! You don’t cure a cold with a Feverchill Brew! And cure? Why would we—he should bring them back! Ghosts are an exceptionally useful tool for [Witches]!”

Mrsha’s mouth fell open as she tried to cram biscuits in there with her tea. The [Witches] were all nodding, even Eloise.

“How far away is he? I’ll take them off his hands myself. I just need to figure out how those binding circles went.”

“You want to take his ghosts?”

“My dear, we’re [Witches]. Ghosts, black cats, broomsticks, dancing naked around dodgy spell circles? There’s a reason people still tell stories about this kind of thing. We’ll find a cure if we must, but this—this is a reason to go to the New Lands, if they’ve got ghosts again. I always wanted to kiss one.”

Everyone turned to Witch Agratha. Even Mavika hesitated.

“I—do not recall that in my list of cures or magicks against them. What does that do?”

“Oh, no. I just meant in general.”

“Ah.”

 

——

 

The last magical expert they consulted was not so sanguine about all this. Mrsha and Nanette had considered Pisces, but they had a feeling he’d just give them a whole lot of hoopla, and he was busy in Chandrar anyways.

Rheirgest’s [Necromancers] were fascinated of course, but Elosaith readily admitted they were a bone-focused group. Besides, they all deferred to the real expert: an actual dead person.

Fetohep of Khelt’s eyes glowed golden as he took a moment from—well, Mrsha and Nanette saw the plans being hurried away, and he spun.

“Tombghasts? Your friend is in grave peril, Nanette Weishart, Mrsha du Marquin. He should return the objects at once, then perform rituals of abasement before their remains! It has been long since any such undead roamed this earth in profusion that I know of. I had heard of a disaster in Wistram where fools awoke the same kind.”

“He says they’re only cold and staring, Your Majesty.”

“For now. What do you know of the spectral undead, Nanette Weishart?”

Fetohep sat on his throne, and she had to admit—

“Not much. We talked to [Witches] who wanted to, um, use the ghosts, or trap them, and the Gnolls knew stories of their own dead who haunted people. They want warding totems made, and I’m talking to Nailren later. Do you have any solutions?”

“I shall have a list of appeasement rituals transcribed forthwith. It is less…magical than you would like, Nanette Weishart. I have read of the undead, given Khelt’s nature and my own. But I do warn you: these are not undead like the kind you know.”

Fetohep sat forwards on his throne and indicated his own mummified body.

“They have no flesh. And they grow based on their emotions and other esoteric means. The [Mages] of Wistram were decimated by the ones that sprang forth from a great [Necromancer]’s tomb, and they were the most equipped to deal with ghosts. Few blades not enchanted can harm them. Even magic fails against many breeds of them. [Fireballs] pass through, [Lightning Bolts] merely inconvenience—elemental spells are all but useless against the greater varieties.”

Nanette swallowed, and Mrsha scribbled fast.

That’s not good. How do you fight them then?

“Light magic. Silver blades. Truegold, if it were available, but it is a rare metal. And—[Witches] would know more than I—other rituals. A candle in the dark is worth more than a steel blade in hand. Salt, I believe. Mundane tools are better used against supernatural foes. I cannot linger and give the aid I would want, Mrsha du Marquin, but tell this Gnoll to appease the spirits if possible.”

Fetohep rose; people were demanding his attention. But he spun and pointed a finger at the girls.

“Ah! And do not perform any ill-fated actions.”

“Such as?”

“Tossing objects into a well. Looting the dead—more of the dead, that is. Stay indoors during the witching hour; beware full moons and nights when there is no moon, sites of ill-luck or death, black cats…”

 

——

 

The mix of opinions and takes on ghosts was pretty amusing to Nailren when all of it came back to him, though he got the warning, especially from King Fetohep. The ghosts hadn’t been doing more than the annoying popup trick, though more Gnolls had begun seeing them.

“I don’t have much silver, though I’ve got salt. Now I know the issue, we’re preparing to head back to Goisedall in a few days, Nanette, Mrsha.”

Just in case he needed magical backup. Because if this was a magical issue, then the New Lands were not the place to be. Which made his fur tingle a bit.

The one place where I need magic and there’s not a drop to be seen. Well, it sounds like I have time.

“We’ll get you concrete things to do when we can, Captain Nailren! And—well, um, silver might not be a perfect solution.”

Nanette was bouncing on her toes, seeming excited and worried, and Nailren’s ears perked up.

“Oh? Why?”

“We got in contact with the Silver Swords! They found food, and they explored a dungeon, but now they’re haunted too!”

Nailren grinned ruefully.

“Out of one issue and into another, eh? Where are they bound? Do they still need help?”

“They’re heading to Goisedall as well.”

“Interesting! Then I’ll definitely head back there to meet them. Keep me updated, Nanette.”

He was feeling really good about all this, actually. Spooky ‘ghosts’ or not, who cared? He wasn’t having hallucinations of trauma, and he had three groups of magical experts on the job. Nailren’s good mood continued until he rolled up into his tent, determined to get an actual good night’s sleep now he knew the flickers of movement were harmless.

The rest of the Gnolls were keeping an eye out, and he was spared lookout duty because of the haunting, so he was snuggling into his bed wrap for some quality sleep when the short, female ghost appeared next to his ear and shrieked.

The sound had every single Gnoll in camp racing out with weapons drawn and Nailren’s own shortsword cleaved through a pole in his tent. He sat up, panting, and then, when he realized what had happened, he bit his tongue.

“Stab my [Shamans]—”

He just had to say something stupid right before it got worse.

 

——

 

Day 43 of the Silver Swords’ Journey into the New Lands. Screaming. It gets worse.

 

It turned out these ghosts, ghasts, or angry spirits had voices. Either they’d gotten strong enough or figured out they could do it, because Nailren was suddenly assailed by screaming voices, moaning from gurgling lungs, snarls of rage, or—names.

“Estwhile. Estwhile.”

One of the two Human males followed him, appearing and whispering it in Nailren’s ear. The Gnoll swiped at the figure, red-eyed and snarling. He nearly hit one of the other Gnolls, but they just backed up, fur standing on end.

It was getting worse—fast. Maybe all that talking with Nanette was a bad idea, because Nailren wondered if the ghosts were aware he was trying to get rid of them. The Gnoll girl and witch’s reports didn’t paint a great picture on the other side, either.

“Captain Ylawes’ team is better off than you, Nailren. Apparently, only they can see the ghosts, not the Terlands they’re with. There’s a [Golemancer] they think should be haunted, but he’s doing fine. They see Drakes. Dead ones in armor, holding weapons and looking menacing, but they just got haunted. However, Captain Ylawes is wearing his silver armor, and it doesn’t help—maybe they haunt him a bit less, but it’s not pure enough.”

“I need a solution, Nanette. My ears are going first.”

And I think worse is coming. Nailren hand-signed that to Mrsha, and the Gnoll girl looked alarmed. She glanced over his shoulder and wrote.

They’re starting to not disappear, Captain Nailren.

One of them was standing behind Nailren and not vanishing, even when watched. The Gnoll sighed.

“I know.”

Each one of the four ghosts was…different. The youngest man would repeat his name, ‘Estwhile’, again and again, and persist for ages. The younger woman was the one who kept screaming, even though the short, older woman was the instigator. The man, who Nailren suspected had been a fiancé or partner to the younger woman, was the most silent.

But Nailren had the distinct impression that the most aggressive one was the five-foot-five woman who’d been stabbed to death. Her face seemed to snarl when it appeared, usually right in front of his, and he learned to snarl back whenever he saw her.

“Get lost, would you? I’m not easy prey.”

He was a pragmatic Gnoll, and he didn’t respect these damn mind games they were playing, or the screaming. His solution to them popping up and yelling at him?

Earplugs. He had some candles he melted into wax and stuffed them into his ears. Problem solved! Nailren was trying to fish in the pond, wondering if there were monsters down there or something hidden at the bottom, when he saw the older woman appear behind him.

Her mouth was open, exposing rotted teeth, and her eyes held that unearthly glow of the dead. Nailren’s face refused to change. He scrutinized her black hair and the rot that had eaten into her features.

Poor Humans. Murdered while trying to explore. Adventurers? He just didn’t know why they were taking it out on h—

The hand seized his head and pivoted as the cold numbed his fur. Nailren struck out with a howl, but his paw just felt frozen air and then—

His head was underwater, and he was flailing at the air. The Gnoll kicked and struck, but the force holding him down had no body he could hit. He was drowning—drowning—

“Nailren!”

One of the others had seen him go under and yanked him out of the water. The Gnoll spat water out, gasping, and crawled away from the lake. He whirled—and the female ghost was gone. But then the Gnoll felt his fur truly rising and saw Bekr was gazing in horror at him.

“Thanks. What? Am I bleeding?”

“Your fur.”

It was frozen along the back of his neck where she’d grabbed him. Then—Nailren needed answers right now.

 

——

 

The emergency strike team of ghost-specialists were three [Witches], Valeterisa, and Joseph. Everyone stared at Joseph, but he folded his arms.

“Someone’s got to be here from the Earth squad.”

Nailren raised his brows. He knew Joseph, but of the Earthers at the inn…he wasn’t Nailren’s first choice. The Gnoll thought for a moment and frowned.

“Why not Imani?”

“She, uh—she said that she’d rather fistfight a Rock Crab than get involved with ghosts. But I have some of her notes!”

People were taking this very seriously now that Nailren had been put in mortal jeopardy. And the Gnoll emphasized to the group in the [World’s Eye Theatre] how bad this was.

“Their touch is cold enough to create ice. I can feel…hands on my fur.”

He shuddered. It was like being grabbed by frozen flesh, externally and internally. A cold pressure on his heart—he snapped.

“I need help now.”

“You need magic. There are ways to dispel or combat these beings, Gnoll Captain. Short of that, you must fashion a warding and charms.”

Mavika leaned forward, eyes narrowed, and Nanette nodded urgently.

“Shaman Theikha’s prepared several totems for you to create. She says you know how?”

“I can carve them, but I have little magic or affiliation with a tribe, even if magic remained here. What else?”

“Salt circle. You put some candles down and draw a circle in salt. Not a hexagram or pentagram, though. That’s fucked. Don’t break the salt, and make them good candles that don’t blow out.”

The [Witches] gave Joseph a look, and he hunched his shoulders defensively.

“Listen, I’m going off movies, but we have these stereotypes for a reason! Also, if you spill salt, toss some over your shoulder. Maybe it blinds them or something.”

At this point, Nailren was willing to try anything. He snarled again as claws dug into his shoulders.

“We don’t have that much—argh! I’ll try. [Witches]?”

One of the [Witches], Agratha, had a helpful diagram.

“I have a charm for you to weave out of twigs and twine. Or, ideally, a fresh root in a single piece.”

“We don’t have trees aplenty. I’ll try that. Next?”

Nanette had a sheaf of scrolls she held up for Nailren to see.

“There’s a list of Fetohep’s appeasements—”

“I’ll appease these bastards with a blade. Weapons?”

Valeterisa lifted a hand.

“You have to isolate them first or force them to materialize. There are stones, but, mm. You can’t do that. I could try sending my [Shadow Familiars] to fight them, but I’m rather far. The only thing I have learned from my studies is that light-magic should have an effect. So…stay near the light?”

It turns dark for half of the day. Nailren had observed the ghosts appeared in the shade or shadows, though, so he nodded.

“Any weapons, Archmage?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely! Very effective ghost-slaying weapons that also repulse them and would last in the New Lands without the, um, mana-drain effects observed by so many.”

Everyone turned to Valeterisa, and Nailren’s heart leapt.

“Yes, absolutely, thank you! What is it?”

She beamed at him, delighted.

“Truegold, Captain Nailren.”

Truegold. As in…the rare, expensive metal that you could find in some artifacts and had no market presence worldwide? Nailren made a strangled sound.

“Who’d have Truegold just lying around?”

“We had quite a lot, actually. Um, I wanted some for my materials, but that rude Duke was very insistent about having it all back. You’d imagine they could spare a few dozen…at any rate, Ailendamus has some, and I imagine Noelictus would as well. They do have old undead-slaying weapons. I’ve taken the liberty of writing to them, and I actually did get a response from the, um, Hunter’s Guild? They said an undead-slaying specialist in their ranks knew how to kill ghosts and to, er…”

Valeterisa checked her notes and adjusted her spectacles.

“…Camouflage yourself by removing your lifesigns. Get behind the ghosts if they materialize, and stab them with the brightest thing you can. The expert did indicate this was unlikely to be feasible. Though their backup plan was very unhelpful.”

“What’s the backup plan?”

It felt like someone was trying to pluck the hairs out from his arms one by one. Nailren saw Valeterisa hesitate.

“Oh. Um. To die somewhere where no one will find you and keep from haunting the next person to see you. But no throwing yourself down a well. Or, if you do—put a big rock on top.”

The dark commentary from the Hunter’s Guild of Noelictus and this mysterious expert was what told Nailren he was in trouble. Serious, actual trouble, in fact. He’d never run into a monster he couldn’t kill, but he’d wondered how he’d do if he had to fight an Adult Creler without good weapons. Sometimes, a foe was just beyond you, and this—

This wasn’t good.

“How’s Captain Ylawes doing?”

Nailren tried a strained smile as Joseph waved a hand.

“I’ve got one! Ouija boards. You can communicate with the dead—”

Nanette shot him a withering look and then turned to Nailren.

“They’re passing through deadzones, so it’s harder to say, Captain Nailren. But I think…better? They have a [Battlemage], and Ylawes Byres says he stabbed one.”

“He what?”

 

——

 

Day 45 of the Silver Swords’ Journey into the New Lands. Escorting the Terlands back to Goisedall. Stabbing ghosts.

 

Ylawes Byres had gotten the impression the ghosts were avoiding him, despite the initial hauntings. Everyone else in the Silver Swords had been seeing them after the first couple days, but he only saw a few glimpses.

“Lucky you, lad. They’re scaring the beard off me and Dasha. In her case, it’s an improvement, but…we’re freaking out the Terlands.”

Lord Comigen was indeed staring at them over breakfast from a very healthy remove, and Dawil had bags under his eyes as he drank tea gratefully. They were still eating a lot after so much hunger, and Ylawes chewed on his breakfast with substantially more vigor than the others.

“I think it’s the silver. It’s not pure, but my breastplate’s good material. Did Mrsha get back to you with tips?”

“Sure. Anith’s carving a totem-thing, and Rasktooth was making those necklace-charms that the [Witches] suggested, but lad—Falene’s, uh, snapping a bit.”

The half-Elf was no coward, Ylawes knew. She’d fought undead without blinking and had taken on every challenge he’d come across by his side. But she really, really didn’t like Drake hands reaching up in the night and grabbing her.

She was sitting and staring with an expression so intense that no one was willing to sit in front of her. Her eye was twitching as she muttered spells.

“[Light Arrow]. [Lightbeam]. [Light]. [Illumination]. [Flash of—]”

Ylawes eyed her as he scrubbed at his hair.

“I don’t understand it, though. Master Martz, are you sure you’re not seeing any Drake ghosts?”

“Not at all, Captain! But I, uh, I’m rather grateful, if you don’t mind me saying so!”

The [Golemancer] was unnerved by the hauntings, some of which the Terlands had seen, proving the Silver Swords weren’t crazy. It made no sense, though. Ylawes was trying to think it out.

“Team meeting, anyone who doesn’t need rest. We have to get on the move. Why isn’t Martz seeing ghosts? Also, let me know if those charms work.”

As the more ‘sane’ members of the group, he had a discussion with Anith, Pekona, Rasktooth, and Insill as the others slept or just rode blearily. They were headed back to Goisedall, and it’d take at least a week or more to get there, but aside from Landsharks, Ylawes actually thought it’d be a good trip if they could deal with the ghosts.

“Pekona, what are you up to?”

Pekona’s eyes were bloodshot, and she was visibly freaked out. This was apparently very close to ghost stories in her homeland, and she had more to dread; she was writing on a piece of paper as she muttered.

“I’m making talismans from home, Captain Ylawes. Not…real ones, but ones written to ward them off. They had some on cursed swords.”

“Good idea. Anith? Insill? Rasktooth? You look better than the others.”

Insill grinned weakly.

“I guess I’m used to sleeping around danger from when I was on the streets, Captain. You’ve gotta sleep sometime.”

“And I think it’s all very fascinating. Concerning, but it’s not that scary.”

Everyone looked at Anith, and Pekona nearly dropped her piece of paper.

“I saw a Drake staring at me out of the latrine.”

“See? That’s pretty funny, when you think of it.”

Anith smiled, and Rasktooth grinned.

“Yep. Infinitypear, he very scared, but they just staring. When they start poking or biting, I get nervous.”

“Infinitypear…he’s faced down Facestealer without flinching, Rasktooth. I was going to ask about why the undead freak him out.”

Rasktooth shrugged and indicated Infinitypear, who was curled up next to Dasha in a wagon.

“He scared of things he can’t see. Big Landsharks not scary. You pop up and go ‘boo!’ and he scream.”

“That makes a kind of sense. I prefer foes I can fight. Okay, let’s think. Why are we haunted and Master Martz isn’t?”

Ylawes felt like this was a big clue that might be important. Rasktooth scratched his head.

“He take artifacts just like us from dead Drakes. Should be haunted. He really easy to spook.”

They all glanced at the [Golemancer], and Ylawes nodded.

“But he wasn’t. He definitely carried some items—Lord Comigen’s been inspecting them, and I think every Terland’s touched them.”

“Maybe it only affects the first people who steal the thing? Curses work like that.”

Insill suggested, and Anith shook his head.

“No, no. You, Larr, Pekona, and Captain Byres were the ones who saw the Drakes at first. It took a day for the rest of us to see them. If that were the case, it wouldn’t have spread.”

“Ah. So what changed?”

Pekona’s head slowly rose as she finished writing on the piece of paper with an inky brush and met Ylawes’ eyes. She slowly stuck a talisman on his armor, and his mind connected the dots.

“Oh. There’s one thing we took that Martz didn’t, nor did anyone else. And—was the second day when we showed you all the weapons we found?”

Anith’s mouth opened, and Insill softly groaned as Pekona blanched. Ylawes began to see it.

It wasn’t the artifacts from that grave-room. It was the mithril weapons.

But then—again—

Why?

 

——

 

Pekona had a theory. She had put a talisman on everyone’s armor and slipped several into their packs as they were bedding down for the night. The Silver Swords were sleeping away from everyone else, who didn’t want any part of this haunting, and she sought Ylawes out.

He was polishing his armor and sword, though the Graveblade didn’t really need it. It was sharp and magical, even now, the only object he had of true value now his breastplate was torn.

“Captain, if it’s like stories of my home, maybe I know why the ghosts only appeared for the blades. The owners of the weapons weren’t laid to rest. They were undead. But the ones with artifacts—were.”

He glanced up, eying Pekona with surprise.

“Could it be that simple? But the bodies, if there were any, of the weapon-users were in the magic-drain area. If there were ghosts, I’d expect them to be where magic is.”

“I don’t know about that, Captain. But it makes sense to me. If they’re appeased, the dead don’t haunt the living. Mostly.”

He scratched at his head, but he supposed that if you were properly buried, you wouldn’t hold a grudge.

“It’s a good theory, Pekona. Have you been haunted by the ghosts much? I haven’t, and I feel bad about it.”

She blinked and then felt at her body, and he saw she had six talismans pasted onto her armor and even her skin.

“No, Captain. I’ve barely seen any.”

“Oh? Maybe those charms of yours are working, then?”

She seemed gratified by the suggestion and ducked her head.

“Thank you for wearing mine, Captain. Magus Falene and some of the others don’t think they’re valuable.”

She seemed hurt by that, especially since it had taken her hours to do each one. Ylawes sighed.

“She’s grumpy. She’s searching for magical solutions to this—don’t mind her. I’m surprised Dasha was so inconsiderate, though.”

“She’s nice sometimes. Sometimes she’s stubborn if she thinks I’m being silly.”

Pekona huffed, and Ylawes nodded. He could relate. He was telling Pekona about the stubborn streak that ran in House Byres’ family when the two heard a scream—and Ylawes leapt up with sword in hand, then sighed.

“Falene. She must h—”

The flash of light and half a dozen low-level [Light] spells going off made Ylawes shield his face. Falene had just unloaded all the mana she had on one of the ghosts. He was about to shout at her that she was endangering the group when he felt a chill run down his spine.

He…saw a ghost for a second, in the direction of Falene’s tent, drifting away, a Drake in armor looking rather ragged, as if something had punched holes in its body and made it tattered like old cloth. Pekona gasped and drew her sword as Ylawes stared.

Falene had hurt the ghost? It drifted towards them, then turned, and Ylawes saw that dead Drake’s face become wrathful. It had a spear.

It stabbed at them.

“Pekona, look out!”

She leapt sideways, trying to parry a ghost’s weapon, but it was no use. It passed through her sword, stabbed into her chest, and Ylawes shouted—then saw the ghost recoil as steam rose from it. It threw up its hands, and he thought he saw a look of agony cross its face—

Half of the talisman’s on Pekona’s armor dropped off, suddenly, and the [Sword Dancer] leapt back, wide-eyed. Ylawes Byres gaped.

By the Silver Dragon, it does work. Then he saw another Drake ghost emerging with a sword in hand, raising it two-handed behind Pekona. She hadn’t seen—Ylawes Byres moved instinctively.

He stabbed the ghost through the back with the Graveblade before he realized it was utterly futile. But to his shock, the blade went cold—so cold his fingers numbed—and he felt the slightest tingle down the blade. The ghost froze, screamed with a mortal howl that echoed across the entire camp—

And vanished.

Ylawes Byres stumbled back, sword in hand, and Pekona whirled. The Silver Swords charged out of their tents, then stopped. They saw their Captain standing with the pale sword he’d been given from the Dungeon of Liscor.

Liscor’s dungeon, which Mrsha would later be told was the site of the former City of Graves.

The Gravesword was glowing, a faint blue light, and Ylawes saw indistinct writing tracing up the metal of the blade. He swore it felt colder, even as the light faded, and he glanced around.

“Uh…”

“Lad. With all this talk about charms and whatnot—if we could have just stabbed the buggers, why did no one tell us?”

Dawil joked weakly, and Ylawes Byres hefted his sword. He turned, and he swore he sensed eyes on him and Falene, who hefted her staff. The glowing light of a spell illuminated the two, and the Silver Swords stood there as Pekona, rather smugly, began to write on another talisman.

 

[Charm Maiden class obtained!]

[Charm Maiden Level 2!]

[Skill – Minor Warding Talisman obtained!]

[Skill – Minor Safety Talisman obtained!]

[Skill – Memorize Drawing Pattern obtained!]

 

A new class for a new skillset. The next day, everyone was wearing Pekona’s charms, but something rather curious happened. After the night when Ylawes Byres stabbed the ghost—

They didn’t see one again. He wondered if he’d scared them off. And if so…had they passed on?

Or gone back to their fortress? Either way, it was a huge victory, and he kept checking the slightly-colder Gravesword as their trip back to Goisedall improved, and they really did feel like celebrating. Only Mrsha’s reports that Captain Nailren was in trouble kept Ylawes from feeling fully victorious.

The Gnoll had no Graveblade or magic to use. And his ghosts…they were getting worse.

 

——

 

Day 46 of the Silver Swords’ Journey into the New Lands. Haunting intensifies. A surprising victory.

 

The charms worked. They did. That was the shocking thing to Nailren; the woven charm, the totem he’d carved, it all kept the ghosts at bay. He saw flickers, but the moment he put the totem outside his tent and hung the woven charm around his neck, the assaults subsided. For a day and a half, he felt relaxed, energetic again, and certainly relieved.

—Then, in the dead of night, he felt like a cold finger had stabbed him through the chest, and he sat up with a yell. His skin had a hole in it and was frosted. When he yanked at the charm, he found only wooden fragments spilling into his paws. Outside—

The carved symbols on the totem hadn’t shattered like the amulet, but they’d melted down the wood. The Gnoll stared at the two charms. He made four new ones of each—or tried to. The third amulet snapped mid-weave, and he realized that Fetohep had been entirely right.

They were getting a lot stronger, a lot faster.

 

——

 

“Captain, we have to get you to Goisedall. You’re in danger, and we can’t fight this.”

An unnerved Cuska came out with it the next day, and Nailren raised one hand as he felt at his arm. He was missing fur from it in patches. They were yanking the fur out.

“I know. But Ylawes’ team is moving at wagon speed or slower if they’re on foot. Even if I get there—I need his sword to fix this. From the sound of it, [Mages] can help with light magic, but I don’t trust riding.”

If he rode, he felt like they’d try to throw him off his horse or steer him astray. And they were truly going for him, now.

They’d learned how to throw things. He watched as a piece of dirt rose, and Cuska blocked it. She was pale under her fur.

“Why are they so powerful? They’re just four dead Humans, not [Chieftains]!”

“Maybe I really made them mad. Or it’s something else. Maybe this is how dangerous they are. Or maybe they were actually higher-level than we thought.”

It could be anything, but Nailren was getting desperate. It wasn’t the violence, the screaming—which had actually decreased in favor of actual harm—or the helplessness that was making him worried.

It was the malice. They weren’t able to ‘take his eyes’ or do significant harm, especially given his levels, but they were trying to make his life hell. For instance, on a hunch, he checked his boots this morning and carefully poured out the horseshoe nails that they’d planted—spikes up—in them.

“Come on, this is just petty. What are you, rival [Ladies] going to an academy?”

He’d heard [Ladies] did stuff like this, which was horrific if you considered children of fourteen doing this to each other. Nailren was more concerned when he was waiting for food and one of Bekr’s knifes slipped, nearly slashing open Nailren’s cheek.

“That’s it. I’m desperate for anything—I need to try what Fetohep said. Either that or…Cuska? How much salt do we have?”

The Gnolls eyed each other, but it was getting late, and Nailren needed to sleep. He drew a circle around himself with salt, praying it wouldn’t rain or blow hard, and then lit five candles and put them around him. He lay down, staring up at the sky, ready to dodge or block an attack at his face.

…Nothing happened. Nailren was so paranoid he lay there for a full forty-five minutes before he realized—

“Dead gods. Joseph was right?”

He knew the young man had been seriously trying to help, but—he would have taken Erin’s advice more seriously! Nailren sat up and saw the four figures.

He froze.

Four Humans were standing outside the salt circle, unable to get in. They stood, dead corpses of who they had been, and he saw a curious tableau taking place. It looked like they were—

Arguing?

He stared as it seemed to him the young man and the young woman were arguing with the two older ones. One was pointing at him, and the other two were shaking their heads.

Infighting? If they were speaking, he saw no lip-movements nor heard anything. Nailren kept still, eyes on the four. The short woman who hated him the most was vehemently stabbing a finger at him, whereas the young man was hesitating. And he saw something else odd.

The young man and young woman appeared rather like he remembered. Dead corpses, but true-to-flesh more or less of what he expected from someone a day or two dead. The man, who had been in the same condition as the others, was severely atrophied. His face was rotting, and his eyes seemed to glow a bit brighter than the others. Nailren saw his stomach had burst open, revealing rotting intestines—closer to how the Gnoll had actually found him.

But the short woman…

She had passed beyond ‘rot’ and into something else. She was a few inches taller, and her fingers had begun to elongate. Her flesh was more leathery, and Nailren’s fur stood on end. He saw her eyes swing to him, and the arguing stopped.

“Hello?”

He spoke to them, and they all stared, faces turning hostile. They pressed up against the salt circle, and he shouted.

“Leave me alone, would you? I didn’t kill you, but I’ll finish the job if I have to! Dead gods, I stole some canvas from your tents!”

None of them responded. They circled the salt barrier, and he eyed the line of salt, hoping he hadn’t left a break. The candles flickered despite the lack of wind, and Nailren watched the faces of the four dead Humans growing angrier as they impotently circled him, and he had a sudden thought.

I can’t hear them. They were clearly speaking, talking about something. How much to torment me? What if—

You had to think logically about this. He was an intermediary between tribes and Drakes, and sometimes, it was just a damn misunderstanding between two groups. Sometimes, you had to fight or redress wrongs, but sometimes, you could just—talk it out.

Logic. If he couldn’t hear them—

Could they hear him? Then another thought occurred to Nailren instantly.

Did they even know who he was? And lastly, most crucially—

How the hell were they haunting him? His eyes stole to his pack. Nailren slowly, slowly reached a paw out for his pack, which was outside the salt circle. Then he stopped, caught himself, and lay back down.

“Shave me bald, I’m not doing that.”

He was getting a good damn sleep, and he’d figure it out in the morning.

 

——

 

Day 47 of the Silver Swords’ Journey into the New Lands. The counterattack begins.

 

Nailren went around the Pride’s camp, asking for supplies and making ready for the day’s work. He did two things.

Firstly, he took a bunch of supplies to the camp where he’d found the four dead Humans along with the scraps of canvas. Charcoal, salt, shovels—and pieces of wood.

Secondly, he put the damn pieces of canvas back, piling them up where he’d taken them and placing a rock over the bundles.

“There. It’s back. Are we even?”

He spoke to the four corpses, who were by now very decayed and still atrophying on the ground. He saw little wrong with that, aside from the morbidity of it; corpses naturally went back into the soil. Some Gnolls practiced this method of burial, but he supposed other cultures found it ghoulish.

The answer to Nailren’s question was a stab in his shoulder. He glowered and exhaled.

“All right. You asked for it.”

He burned the canvas instead. Which might have been overly aggressive as acts went, but Nailren had been fed up with this situation, and he was approaching the problem of this haunting like, well, a problem-solver, not a victim.

Realizing the ghosts had been stymied by the salt circle and seeing them arguing had reframed their abilities in Nailren’s head. They’d gone from rather omniscient beings to ones with their own senses, albeit ones he didn’t understand.

He was gathering information for the tribes. And one of those information pieces was how you got haunted.

Stealing possessions of the dead was the guess the Silver Swords had come up with and Nailren obviously ratified based on the evidence given to him. However, he murmured as he took a seat.

“I wonder what happens when the thing I stole is gone? Is our…link gone?”

That was how [Scrying] spells and other location-based magics worked. Get rid of the source or obfuscate the name or other aspect and the magic failed. Nailren sat just outside the camp. He’d know very soon if this worked or if he’d just empowered them.

…Nothing happened for a good minute. Then two. Which was normal; they attacked in waves, as if they had to gather energy for a big strike. Nailren sat there, then had a second question.

How do I know if they’re around? He bet there was a charm or object he could use for that purpose; Joseph had described a lot of nonsensical tools that Nailren couldn’t build, but the Gnoll, in lieu of that, used his eyes, ears, and nose.

And his brain.

Wind was blowing along the yellow grass and camp, ruffling the water on the lake, and insects buzzed around the corpses lying there. They stank faintly, but not much. He heard a few buzzing wings and felt mildly warm in his fur on this spring day with the sun beating down.

Then a cold breeze passed by him, and he shivered. Nailren’s eyes snapped down as the grass began to move—away from the breeze.

There. And there. And—did he see puddles on the lake in the absence of the wind just there? Yes, moving…

They were around him. He thought he could actually trace their patterns on the ground, moving in curves, as if…searching.

Searching for me? Nailren held still, keeping his body frozen, emptying his mind and just—existing, like he had been taught to do.

As if he were waiting for a target. What had the Hunter of Noelictus said?

Remove your signs of life. Nailren wasn’t able to do that fully, but he could get as close to it as possible with these techniques. He felt another cold breeze pass him—then a clawed hand in his flesh.

“Aha. You found me. What if I—?”

He leapt away, nimbly, brushing at his shoulders, and then cast around. Hm.

Nailren began moving through the grass, using a Skill so it wouldn’t shift in his wake. Evidently he lost the ghost coming after him, and he saw the grass rustling towards where he’d been. He stepped back, evading another chill in the air, and grinned.

“Got you.”

They couldn’t see him. Nor could they leave this campsite, it seemed; when he moved back, it felt like they had a radius of fifty feet or more, judging by how he was tracking them. Nailren rubbed at his forehead wearily.

“Dead gods, it was this easy?”

It was his fault for asking all these magic-users for help. They all had solutions which worked, but someone should have just said to put the stuff back and get lost. He should have listened to Fetohep.

“Still, if I’m here, I might as well do more investigating.”

Nailren crouched down and grinned. Missing fur, cold sores on his body, and lack of sleep—they deserved a bit of being his experiment in return, right?

 

——

 

Test #1. If he could stealth around them, did that apply to…?

The moment he touched a foot of one of the corpses, they came for him, fast and malicious. Nailren leapt away, then shouted.

“I’m here, you idiots!”

He kept moving back, stealthy as could be, but began exhorting them verbally. He felt like maybe they heard him? They kept pursuing him, but it wasn’t clear.

“Weak hearing. Eyesight—they can see if I disturb the ground, but mostly it’s based on whether or not I’m disturbing their things. How about harm?”

He had to wait for nightfall for that. He’d observed they took forms more readily in the dark, and besides, they were vigilant, so Nailren crept back to his camp. When he told the Pride he’d shaken the ghosts, they were all for ditching this campsite and riding to Goisedall, but he insisted on going back.

“Captain, you’re insane.”

“I’m mad, Cuska. And if they’re going to be a threat, we need to know how to counter them. Besides…ever heard of a ghost in a jar? Those are old weapons or tools I’ve heard of, back in the day. Ghost-catching nets. If I get caught, I’ll suffer it, but I’m on the hunt now.”

He was sleep-addled but vengeful. They let him have a night to experiment, so Nailren snuck back to the camp and observed. What he saw was fascinating.

The ghosts didn’t have to have a corporeal shape. Three were missing when he approached and observed, his eyes adapted well to the low-light. But one was moving around.

The short woman.

“It’s you, shortie. You’re looking…rather monstrous.”

Those long claws, the change to her figure that made her more hunched—he saw the faint outlines of her, only seeing features the closer she got. She was circling the ground, as if to still find him. He grunted.

“Let’s see if you can die. First, let’s find the rest of you.”

He drew an arrow and loosed it, putting it in one of the corpses’ sides. Instantly, the other three appeared, quite agitated. Nailren grinned.

“Gotcha.”

Since they couldn’t get near to him, all he had to do was sit here and he was safe. So…Nailren watched as they spread out, then he pulled an arrow and spoke.

“[Elemental Arrow: Shock].”

Always nice to have a Skill rather than pay for magic. The hissing Arrow of Shock sped through the apparition, and the older man flinched, and whirled, but it didn’t do anything.

“Well, that’s pretty much what they said would happen. How about light?”

He lit a small fire, then an arrow, tip ablaze, streaked through the same ghost. It flinched—as if the mere light of the fire did as much damage as magic.

“Torch?”

Now he was getting bold. Nailren snuck up on the angry shortie ghost and waited. He tossed a rock at her corpse, and she whirled—then he swung the torch through her body.

It went out, but he swore he heard the faintest sound like a shriek, lower than even the sound of the breeze. She recoiled, and he stepped backwards.

“We can dance, then. [Light] spells or torches. A big fire—I bet you can recover, though. Better if I’d just used charms to ward you off and saved up for a permanent killing blow. Or a trap. Now, how would I do that?”

He sat, thinking, as the ghosts whirled about. Nailren was imagining a net or perhaps…a container? Yes, like a Djinni’s lantern. He’d heard the [Witches] asking if he could ‘bring the ghosts back’ for them, like the ghosts were valuable.

He imagined they were. If you could kill them, perhaps they left a residue, in which case, any [Alchemist] worth their salt would want some. Magical beings fueled magic, and these were weird.

If I managed to get an enchanted box, maybe I could trick them into it—I bet their size varies. Or—what about just an ordinary box with the right charms? The [Witches] said they weren’t confident which charm worked well, and I was making them out of scraps. Pekona had talismans according to Mrsha.

Yes, even a mundane object properly ‘set up’ might be able to trap these things. Then you had these ghosts where you wanted them. Weapons, resources, materials—heck, he bet they had no actual weight if they were literal spirits. Just like he’d said, you could put one in a jar.

The Gnoll…stopped as he sat there, mind occupied with vengeful fantasies. He rubbed at his shoulders, where they’d ripped fur out of his body. He didn’t like these damn bastard ghosts. But that last thought…

“Where did I hear that phrase? Ghost in a jar? I know [Shamans] have said that. In a jar. In a jar…oh. Not [Shamans]. Pisces’ story.”

The wind blew dark over the New Lands, and Nailren saw faint, amber lights in the pond as some kind of insect or fish surfaced. Bats flew overhead, and he heard their faint squeaks, but it felt dark suddenly.

Yes, he imagined you could trap these spirits in jars, like a Djinni. Frankly, they had given him more reasons to do something like that, but he refocused his thoughts, tried to see it another way.

“They’re dead. Four people murdered. They didn’t start that battle. They’re dead…and what happens? Mrsha said there’s a place for the dead, but maybe they didn’t make it there. You’re dead and you can’t see. You can’t hear. All you know is that someone killed you, painfully, and then—some idiot steals your stuff.”

Did they even know who he was? He wondered. If someone murdered him, he’d be quite upset. Nailren wasn’t above doing some haunting of his own, though he thought he’d be more clever about it. They had a right to their anger. Perhaps, though—perhaps they didn’t even know they had the wrong target.

The captain of The Pride of Kelia sat there, thinking, letting his anger fade as the night wore on. Here he was in the New Lands of Izril, and he could be petty and vengeful, and no one would ever know. Just like the people who had sullied this place by murdering the four travellers.

“…But I don’t have to do that, do I? I am the first explorer of this place, and like so many before me, I can come with blazing torch in one hand and steel in the other. Or speak, as the wisest Gnolls once did. I wonder.”

How did you speak to the dead? Communicate in ways as convenient as pure verbal speech? He didn’t know—but the Gnoll did understand they were upset, these murdered spirits. He rose and rubbed at his paws.

“If I’m wrong, the entire Pride will mock me. But I suppose I should try. Deeds speak louder than words, after all.”

He rose and fetched out his pack of supplies. Then he walked into the camp. He pulled a shovel out with a sigh and began to dig.

 

——

 

They found him, of course. Especially when he began to touch their bodies. The cold hands pulled at him, and the voices screamed—and that figure spoke his name.

“Estwhile.”

But for that clue, but for that plaintive tone, and Nailren might have given up. He dug, ignoring the shards of cold ice in his stomach, growling and swearing as he did his job.

Digging four graves was hard, even with the soil warm. Doing it under attack? Harder still. But the pain let up as Nailren approached the first body and began to prepare it.

At first, it was worse, a frenzy of outraged blows, weak, but cold—then Nailren removed the head, placed the body on some cloth he’d begged off his teammates, and wrapped it up after sprinkling charcoal dust and salt between head and body.

He had no silver nor appropriate flowers like mourning lily, so he’d found some wild ones, which smelled like sage and were bright green starbursts, which he put on the body, and he folded the arms up best he could with a grunt.

One of the stabbing fingers stopped clawing at his face. Another halted as well. The last, that shortie, bit with cold, phantom teeth deep, but he kept working as he laid the body into the hole and reached for the second.

By the time he wrapped the second up in a shroud, all but one had stopped attacking. Midway through the third, he glanced up and saw them again. Three figures—holding a fourth back. Watching him, now.

“My name is Nailren. I am an adventurer of The Pride of Kelia. I did not kill you. I did not mean to steal from you—well, I didn’t think you were here. I’m burying you since there’s a reason for it.”

He spoke it in as clear and carrying a tone he could, and then wrote it on the dirt in the open campsite. If they understood, they gave no reaction, but he wondered what they sensed.

Deed mattered more than word. They must have been able to tell what he was doing. Four bodies lay in the graves he had dug. Not beautiful burials, no caskets nor anything else, but he pulled out a piece of wood and wrote on it.

“Estwhile.”

He put it on the young man’s grave and swore he saw the ghost peering down, as if reading it. Nailren stood back, and now four pairs of eyes were on him, and it was silent.

“I know you’re dead. This is all I can do. Do you have…names? Is there anything else I can do before burying you?”

Silence. Nothing. They seemed to waver in place, then cast about uncertainly, and he realized—

They can’t see me. On a hunch, Nailren bent down and touched the young woman’s leg through her shroud. Instantly, he heard a breath in his ear. No scream, but a voice. Mournful and also relieved.

“Enla Estwhile.”

“Ah.”

Nailren shivered, but without the same cold of animosity. He picked up another piece of wood and wrote swiftly. He put it there and saw the ghost move back. Then the second—the young man spoke.

“Robel Estwhile.”

The third.

“Jordien Calmec. Fiancé.”

Oh, now Nailren saw it. Brother, sister, fiancé. The last corpse he touched must have belonged to their guide, or perhaps protector. Or family? He waited as he touched the leg and gazed up.

He saw three ghosts, two of them related, one the man, standing there, no longer grey, but pale-faced. Bloodless and dead. Nailren turned his head and saw the short woman sitting there. She wasn’t like them.

Her face was rotted, but no longer as monstrous as before. Her eyes blazed at him, and she said nothing.

“Your name?”

Silence. After a minute, Nailren let go, and the figure sat there, head bowed. He grabbed the shovel.

After he had buried the four, Nailren realized the sun was rising. This had taken him all night. The Gnoll yawned, then stood there and saw four…shades milling about. It was hard to see them as the sun rose, turning their images, their memories translucent. Perhaps they were forgetting what they’d looked like. Perhaps you changed, like the shortie over there.

“…Damn it. They’re not fading away.”

He’d hoped they would. All this work was supposed to lay their spirits to rest, but Nailren got it. If someone stabbed him in his sleep or murdered him in his bed, he wouldn’t just up and quit because he had been given a grave.

However, perhaps he’d gotten through to them. They might have realized he wasn’t the murderer based on how he had treated their corpses. At the very least, their rage might be abated by having a marker, though he thought the short woman was nursing a lot more rage than the rest.

Nailren wondered about all of this.

“Your camp was overturned. Someone did steal from you; food I suspect. But you didn’t haunt them. Why? Because you didn’t know how? Or is there a waiting period for this kind of thing? Or were you all [Mages] or…is this what the New Lands is going to be like?”

Burying the dead. Respecting their remains. Nailren grinned wearily.

“I can do that. It might make it harder to be a bastard, though. Fairer. Well, my job is done.”

He knew the Gnolls waiting to go with him to Goisedall were probably all saddled up and hoping he wasn’t haunted. Nailren turned, rubbing at his weary shoulders, but he felt relieved. As if he’d done, if not a good thing, then the right thing.

He was walking away from the camp and four graves when Nailren closed his eyes and rubbed at his face.

“…Theikha is going to pull my ear off. Argh!”

He turned, stormed back, and had the impression he scared the hell out of the four ghosts. Nailren stomped into the camp, cast around, then snatched up a few fragments of the canvas he’d burned. Nothing here was actually worth anything…he spotted a bent spoon on the ground and picked it up too.

Four cold presences appeared at his back, and Nailren spun.

“I get that you’re dead. It seems highly unpleasant. If this is what happens to people if they can’t become undead or they’re not buried properly, I’m going to make sure they bury me. But—you’re dead. I’m sorry, but if it’s between this or floating here forever, I can take you with me. Bring you somewhere where you can be put to rest. That’s the offer. If this is worse, scream at me. If not—be nice.”

He had no clue if he was making sense to them. Four ghosts stood around him, and Nailren took a step back. He warily began to walk away—and stopped.

A young man stood in the grass in front of him, hands in his pockets, downcast but relieved. Light played across faintly red hair, and he lifted a hand. Then—without a flicker, a moment—light shone off of a pair holding hands. A young woman and a man five years older, perhaps, who smiled at him, relieved. Nailren’s eyes opened wide, and the Gnoll stopped.

They gazed at him once, straight at him in a way he’d never forget, as if they saw him entirely for the first time and more that he would never know. Then the sunlight passed through all three, and they were gone.

Gone—and there was no chill in the air, no cold, no ghosts. Just three graves, names, and his surety they had been bound to this land in some way until they’d let go of it.

Then…he couldn’t tell you what came next. Nailren slowly breathed out until a cold wind blew across the back of his neck, and he turned.

A short woman was standing there, face miserable, eyes locked on that image, but her hands were clenched into fists, and she met his gaze. Just once. She vanished, but the chill passed over him as he held the bent spoon up.

“Alright then. I can’t promise I’ll find who killed you, but it beats boredom. If you stab me again, I’m tossing this in a river. Come along, then.”

Nailren tied the canvas scrap to the spoon, put it in his belt pouch, and set off. After a while, he began humming and couldn’t tell if that was insulting or fit the moment. His head rose, and he sighed as he muttered—

“I’d better figure out how to make that board Joseph was talking about. Because I’m not doing a guessing game again. Goisedall—argh, I never explored that tower!”

He had time. The Gnoll smiled as he set off along his long and strange roads. With a new companion.

 

[Ghostspeaker class obtained!]

[Ghostspeaker Level 7!]

[Skill – Supernatural Sense obtained!]

[Skill – Item: Locus of Connection obtained!]

[Skill – Minor Resistance: Spirits obtained!]

[Skill – Clear Statement (Spirits) obtained!]

[Skill – See Ectoplasm obtained!]

 

He grinned that next morning—until he realized the weird, glowing residue was all over him. And his tent. And—

It turned out ghosts were like snails.

 

 

 

Author’s Note:

Hallo, hello. I’m strangely tired. It’s been another week where I didn’t have the setup I wanted, and went for the chapter…and it worked because I had that month off.

But day-to-day, I’m lower on sleep and prep than I’d like. Real life stuff gets in the way. I’m actually pretty fortunate in that I haven’t been sick that many times or had any medical emergencies (aside from food poisoning) over the course of my writing.

Sometimes, you get a bad hand when you’re writing the chapter, and you just have to make do. I remember days when the chapter wasn’t working and I had less than 5 hours before I had to post and go to work. So I’d take a desperation nap, then get up and…finish it.

That’s in contrast to having tons of time to write a book. The pressure makes the chapter appear, for better or worse. Sometimes, I wish I had more time, but it’s a crutch, I feel. If I had 6 months to write a book, I’d probably start by taking at least 1-2 off and relaxing.

All that to say that I wasn’t unhappy with how the chapter turned out, it’s just that the circumstances weren’t ideal. Hopefully for our Toren chapter I get better draws of cards, but things generally turn out well. I didn’t lose power in a big storm a while ago, and that’s the worst thing. I don’t think I actually miss chapters, so if I ever fail to post, assume it’s my wifi going out.

Anyways, I want to get back to the New Lands more, and this is a good spot, but an even better one to continue. Let me know how you like it—and what you want to see. Thanks for reading, and wish me more rest next week!

 

 

Mrsha Doodles by jamcubi!

 

Gnolls and the Original Duck Meme remade by LeChatDemon!

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Stash with all the TWI related art: https://sta.sh/222s6jxhlt0

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NecroGnoll by Nanahou!

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Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/wanderer_nanahou/gallery

Toyhouse (Gallery): https://toyhou.se/Wanderer-Nanahou/art?page=1

 

Liska by XwriZ!

 

CookingRed by Miguel!

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Silver Swords as Dungeon Meshi by jawjee!

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Gnoll by MystikDruidess!

 

AdultMrsha, Bunny Ylawes, and Silversuits by Chalyon!

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Gnolls, Horns of Hammerad, and Selphid Ideas by ultrachinchillagod!

 

Ishkr and Mrsha and Hat Bar Fight by Brack!

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Bluesky: https://bsky.app/profile/brackgiraffe.bsky.social

 

Weri of the Bladegrass Tribe by Lanrae!

 

Queen Mrsha by Manuel!

 

Yelroan by katiemaeve!

 

Mrsha by StargazingSelphid!

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