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Chasing Ghosts

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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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