Chasing Ghosts
Countess
Mannheim was dead. Her quest to locate the ancient source of magical power and
perform experiments on it had been stopped; her theories left unproven, and the
location of the supposed well of magic now known to only a very few. But she
had already played her part. In her obsession to control magic, she had helped
Nocturne start a war. All the effort, and Omen was no closer to stopping the
Order of Nocturne or taking down its leader. He didn't know what Lucius'
ultimate goal was, but he was clearly looking beyond this war, simply using it
as a catalyst to advance his plan. Having the world's greatest nations at each
other’s throats gave Nocturne plenty of room to manoeuvre and play their
sinister game of chess with society. And there was nothing Omen could do to
stop it. Not yet.
Mannheim
had given him little enough information before the end. Though Nocturne had a
nebulous, labyrinthine hierarchy, it seemed that Lucius had assembled an inner
council to manipulate the nations into conflict. The Countess had ensured
Steklund’s involvement, while three others had been responsible for guiding the
other great countries of Man along the path to war. She was reticent in giving
up any information on her co-conspirators. It was possible that she truly knew
nothing about them; such was Nocturne’s way. But Omen had learned this much:
one was a Northerner, another a military type, and the third called himself the
Veissmahr. Persuading anything further out of her had proven fruitless. Countess
Mannheim’s personal plans had been quashed, but the consequences of her actions
were playing out daily on a global stage.
***
Veissmahr.
Not much to go on, but a start at least, and more concrete than anything else
he’d learned from the Countess. It sounded Sarmatian, but he could not
determine the meaning. With few other solid leads, Omen travelled to Sarmatia,
hoping to find some direction in Hesmott, its capital. Over time, he visited most
of the linguists in the city, and was able to confirm that the term was indeed
of Sarmatian origin, though anything more specific remained elusive. He broke
bones and shook down Hesmott’s criminal elements to see if the name held any
meaning for them. When this failed to yield anything more substantial, he
turned to historians, geographers, any scholar he could find that he thought
might aid in his search. But Sarmatia was a scattered society, the horse-lords spread
across the vast expanse of the continent, and local knowledge
did not travel far. Every promising lead he pursued ultimately turned up
nothing, the trail evaporating before it led him anywhere. Like chasing ghosts.
Months
passed with no progress. Omen turned his attention to other matters across the
world, but he would periodically use his powers to open a portal and transport
himself back to Sarmatia to check in with his contacts. Though he acted on
every bit of useful information they had for him, the identity of the Veissmahr
remained as obscure as the first day he set foot in Hesmott, and he was beginning
to think that he’d hit a dead end. On one such visit, a geographer pointed him
in the direction of Velshish Mach, a small hill town far to the west. The town
itself was scarcely noteworthy, a freehold of the king that did not ally itself
with any Sarmatian house, but his contact felt its name warranted
investigation. With no better opportunity presenting itself, Omen found himself
standing on the dirt track that led to the wooden palisades of Velshish
Mach.
The
locals were wary of outsiders, particularly one such as Omen, and it took some
persuading before they’d even let him within the town’s walls. Few were willing
to talk to him or answer his questions, and after four days of closed doors and
stone-faced refusals, he was on the point of giving up and leaving. He decided
to follow one final line of inquiry before departing, taking a winding trail
out of town to the hut of an old hunter, whose knowledge of the region’s history
was supposedly second to none. The greybeard sat stoically by the fire as Omen
entered, but after some slight coaxing launched into tale upon tale about the
area’s past. After hours of patient listening, Omen finally had what he’d been
searching for. The town had once been called Veissmach, a vestige of its
capture by a warlord of House Metzen in the distant past. The name was too
similar to that of his quarry to be coincidence, so after sparing the old man a
few gold coins for his trouble, Omen set out to trace it to its point of origin
– Harkinfell, the seat of House Metzen.
***
The
fortress was in a state of high alert when Omen arrived, extra guards on every
gate and tower, and patrols of lancers circling the base of the mount on which
it was built. Countless columns of dark smoke rose from armourers’ forges,
while a sea of campaign tents spread across the plains below. To the north, a
mounted column made for waiting transport ships. Clearly, Harkinfell had become
a staging ground for troops heading to the warfront. Omen waited until
nightfall to make his move. If his intuition was correct and the Veissmahr was
truly connected to House Metzen, he needed to act carefully and not let his
presence be known. Slipping past the guards and over the rooftops, Omen made
for the great hall that stood atop the terrace at the centre of the fortress.
All was
in darkness as Omen entered, the fires unlit, the ashes cold. Room after room
stood empty, a light covering of dust over every surface. It was clear that no
one had been here in some time. He searched the private quarters of the noble
family, going through every chest, drawer and document methodically in the hope
that he’d uncover some pertinent information. When this failed to turn up
anything, he moved on to the family’s private library, looking for the next
link in the chain that had led him here. He pored over family trees, journals
and personal biographies, first seeking any modern reference to the Veissmahr,
then trying to verify the tales of the old hunter from Velshish Mach. House
Metzen had indeed once held dominion over the town, though records from the
time were scant, and many seemed to be missing.
Lord
Metzen and his men had answered the call to arms, and left the family home
virtually deserted, save for a handful of guards on the perimeter, allowing
Omen to come and go as he pleased. On the third night of his investigation of
the archives, Omen was disturbed from his study by an unexpected noise from
somewhere in the manor. Slipping into the shadows, he tracked the sounds
through the empty corridors, up stairways and into the staff wing. Here, light spilled out from a doorway as torches were lit and a
figure moved around the room beyond. In his previous visits to the castle, Omen had taken
time to explore every hall and room, so he was relatively certain that this was
the residence of one of the senior staff. Servant or not, he wasn’t taking any
chances.
Omen burst through the door and swept across
the room in a single movement, his cloak chasing behind him like an enraged
shadow. He grabbed the figure by both shoulders and had raised him a foot into
the air before the other man had a chance to react. The balding, middle-aged
man stared down at Omen’s hooded, masked visage in abject terror. “Who are you?
What are you doing here?” Omen queried in a low growl. “P-p-please, don’t hurt
m-me. I j-just work here. I h-have nothing of value,” stammered his captive. Seeing
that he was no immediate threat, Omen slowly lowered the man to the floor, but
kept a grip on his shoulders. In a slightly less confrontational voice he
demanded: “Talk.”
As it happened, the man was the steward of
House Metzen, and had been left in charge of governing the family’s holdings
while his masters were away. After war had erupted between Atharan and Steklund,
the King of Sarmatia had called a council of all the Houses. The lords of House
Metzen were on the front lines when Sarmatia rode against Steklund. Upon
mention of the Veissmahr, the steward became agitated and started shifting
around uneasily. When no persuasion would get the man to talk, Omen threw open the
window and hauled the man out onto the ledge. He held the steward out further
and further, oblivious to the man’s pleading. When his feet lost their grip on
the ledge and with nothing between him and the cobblestone street several
storeys below, the steward finally relented. Omen pulled him back through the
window and waited for the answers he’d been searching for.
The Veissmahr was the family’s secret shame,
and the steward was too loyal to his masters to go into detail on the subject.
Still shaking with terror, he told Omen what few facts he was willing to share.
Many centuries ago, during a time of strife for House Metzen, the reigning Lord
had had an illegitimate son. The child grew up, and was disowned by the family.
Assembling a force of mercenaries, and riding under the banner of House Metzen,
the son took the name Veissmahr and became a terrible warlord, attempting to
conquer House Metzen’s domain for himself. The incident had nearly destroyed
the noble House, and it had taken a long time for it to recover. The family
wished to forget this terrible part of their history, so it was known to only a
handful of those closest to the lords of House Metzen. Omen doubted that this
was the full story, but the steward was not forthcoming with any further
information. He pressed the steward for any modern connections to the Veissmahr,
anyone else who knew the name or would wish to use it. The man was genuinely
perplexed by this line of questioning, and was unable to provide Omen with any useful
leads. Omen had gotten so far and come so close, but all he’d found was another
ghost.
***
Omen knew that his next step was to track
down the riders of House Metzen, find Lord Metzen and his kin. Perhaps the Lord
himself was the Veissmahr – he was the type of person that would have a
position of power in Nocturne, and at this point the possible candidates were
limited. Matters elsewhere drew his attention, and it was some time before he
could return to his search for the Veissmahr. By the time he resumed his hunt,
Sarmatian forces had pushed on from their foothold on the Belkruit Peninsula
and had scattered along the eastern Steklund border. The horse-lords moved
quickly, and the riders of House Metzen could be anywhere across countless
hundreds of miles of war front. Omen spent weeks visiting each of the Sarmatian
camps, picking over battlefields and interrogating messengers. Finally, he acquired
Metzen’s latest deployment orders, and made for their war camp.
It was just past dawn when he arrived. The
early-morning sun fell across the charred remains of the Sarmatian camp, some
tents and piles of supplies still smouldering. Omen watched from a height as the
column of Sarmatian cavalry wheeled around and made for another assault on the heavily
armoured company of Steklund’s Adamant Guard. The first rows buckled under the
force of the charge, but quickly closed ranks and stood their ground. The
Sarmatians pulled back, and as they reset their battle line, Omen spotted what
he had been searching for. Amongst the liveries of the Sarmatian cavalrymen was
a battalion wearing the green and yellow of House Metzen – and at its front, its
leader riding under the Lord’s Standard. The charge was called and the
Sarmatians spurred their horses to a gallop, lowering weapons and screaming
wordless battlecries. Omen dropped from his position and vanished.
Amidst the cries of horse and man, the
rending screech of steel on steel, a shadowy figure appeared in the chaos. Omen
moved through the carnage at a sprint, dodging swords and lances, teleporting
short distances where he could. When a handful of galloping horsemen came
careening towards him, he threw his hand out and used his powers to wrench the
ground before them upwards, sending a tangle of horses and riders over his
head. He spotted the column of House Metzen cavalry, but a mass of Adamant Guard
cut him off from his quarry. Those that changed their focus from the Sarmatians
to the dark figure in their midst found themselves on the receiving end of
punches that shattered shields and left dents in heavy steel armour. Omen kept
moving through the melee, deflecting whatever attacks came his way, but
concentrating on finding his target.
He caught sight of the House Metzen standard
leading it’s riders on a charge through the Adamant Guard’s ranks, and arrived
just in time to witness its bearer swept from horseback by the butt of a spear.
As the Metzen cavalry continued their charge, Omen closed the distance with
their leader, kneeling on his chest and pinning him to the ground before he had
a chance to regain his feet. Omen concentrated for a second and the air around
the pair wavered, creating a bubble of quiet isolated from the carnage around
them. Hands clamped around the helmed figure’s neck, he growled: “Nocturne!
Tell me everything you know and I’ll end it quickly.” The figure, still dazed
from being thrown from horseback, groaned incoherently through gasping breaths.
Omen was not in a patient mood, and he shook his captive violently as he
roared, “Talk!” This dislodged the helm from the Sarmatain’s head, revealing
the face of a woman glaring defiantly at Omen as she struggled to breathe.
Slightly taken aback, Omen relaxed his grip,
demanding, “Where is Lord Metzen? Who are you?” Through gulped breaths, she
responded scornfully, “Which…one? My father? He fell two weeks ago…at the Fords
of Tuellen. My brother? Three days ago…a volley of Steklund arrows saw to him.”
Omen was undeterred. “So that makes you Lady Metzen? Then either you’re using
the title Veissmahr for your criminal activities, or one of them was, in which
case my job is already done for me.” Her eyes narrowed at the mention of the
name, and her composure somewhat recovered, she struggled against his grip, but
Omen held firm. “Which is it, Lady Metzen?” She spat and gave a mirthless
snort. “You’ve come all this way and wasted your time, kreiza. The only one who would claim that title is my bastard
brother, and you’d never find him on the front lines fighting under the banner
of House Metzen.” Omen’s grip tightened around Lady Metzen’s throat once again
as he spoke through gritted teeth. “Give me his name!” Choking, she finally
responded, “Velkin… Velkin Manus.”
With that, Omen stood, and the air blurred for a moment as he disappeared.
***
Omen once more returned to Sarmatia, this
time with the true name of his target. The outcast son of Lord Metzen had
become his own man despite his father’s disownment. Though the man himself
maintained a low profile, the name of Velkin Manus was associated with several
major enterprises that had a reach throughout Sarmatia. Manus was a leading
entrepreneur in the country of the horse-lords, and was clearly a shrewd businessman,
by many accounts sitting at the head of a large corporate empire. As Omen dug
deeper, he discovered countless smaller holdings and less-than-legitimate
operations across Sarmatia that were tangentially associated with Manus, though
there was no solid proof that could tie him directly to anything illegal. This
certainly fit with Nocturne's modus
operandi. For all the businesses connected to him, Manus remained elusive.
Omen visited known addresses, interrogated
associates, investigated business dealings as he hunted Velkin Manus. In his
search, Omen discovered that Manus had been lobbying government for some time
concerning land grants. A recent treaty, passed since the start of the war, had
been signed by Sarmatia’s King and his Lords, granting a business syndicate access
to a large tract of land designated for unspecified industrial usage. This land
was in the Keldren Mountains, an isolated region in the western reaches of
Sarmatia. Whatever Velkin Manus and his syndicate were up to, this is where the Veissmahr would finally be found.
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