Critical Hit Creations

In the Common Lands, a brief autumn was surrendering to the cold grip of winter - a winter that promised to be long and cruel. As a short day gave way to evening, lights flickered into being in the windows of Lodan, columns of hearth-smoke rising undisturbed in the still air over the small town. Frost was settling on the empty market square, turning the rutted mud to rock, and coating the fallow fields, left bare following the frenetic activity of harvest. Across the river and atop its rocky plateau, the old fortress looked almost peaceful as the wane sunlight set on its walls.

It had seen its share of action in the turning of the seasons. The spring rains had brought with them a band of itinerant adventurers who had ousted the resident bandits, freeing the townsfolk of Lodan from their tyranny. By summer, the burgeoning enterprise had begun to return the fort to a semblance of its former glory - clearing rubble and rebuilding walls, with the aid of the thankful townspeople. Now, at autumn’s end, several liveable spaces had been made fast, and Lodan’s residents had begun to know prosperity once more, under the watchful gaze of the fortress upon the hill. Far older than Lodan, the fort had seen it all before - such was life in the Common Lands. But now was the season where all of that slowed to a halt.

Nestled in the crook of the south-turning road, the Lodestone Inn stood apart from the rest of Lodan. It was old, perhaps as old as the stone bridge that spanned the river, or even the fortress itself; it sat squat, heavy stone to the wood and mortar structures that made up most of the town. A blast of frigid air disturbed the few hunters and woodsmen drinking quietly, the door slammed quickly shut against the biting chill. Ando Bellweather, the owner, was leaning idly against the bar. He nodded at the newcomers - a handful of the fort’s residents, who had braved the cold to share drinks by the hearth - and had a tray of steaming hot glasses in front of them in a moment. Exotic citrus and spice aromas rose from the vessels, the gathering offering thanks as Bellweather waved them towards the fire in the back room.

Down a handful of steps, the room was lit only by the glow of a roaring hearth, empty save for a single figure. At a table by the fire sat an aging bear of a man, the likeness furthered by the heavy fur cloak draped over his chair. His grey hair and beard hung long, braided and woven with iron rings. As the group approached, he turned and greeted them with a deep, accented voice.

"It is a night for a roaring blaze and a bellyful of ale, don't you think? Come, share the fire with me."

As the seats around the table were filled, he reached down and moved aside a worn travel pack, the hafts of two axes sticking out from a holster lashed to it.

"I am Kjeld the Unburdened, an old wanderer, a seeker of stories. For aren't stories what we become, if we are so lucky?"

The fire warmed the body, the drink warmed the spirit and the party talked as friends, discussing the coming winter, news from the road, the sorry state of the wide world. Kjeld told of his homeland, Vikungr, far to the north and west, and how his hopes of one day returning were lessening with the progression of war between the nations of Man. As another round of drinks arrived, the group’s youngest called for a story from the trader of tales.

Kjeld thought for a moment as he took a swig from his mug.

"A night like this reminds me of the old tale of the Goethebaest. The vile creature of ice and corruption, that kills man, woman and child; spreading ever-winter wherever it treads, blighting the soil to never again bear crop nor flower."

The fortress's smith was descended from Vikungr, and recalled stories his grandfather had told him as a child – of Hjalla, the land of Vikungr's gods, of the creatures that roamed the fantastical landscape, of great quests and epics undertaken. He had always thought goethebaests and their ilk were myths employed to frighten children into obedience.

Kjeld shook his head. "There is a reason it's myth is such an enduring one. Sometimes the veil between worlds is thin, and something unintended crosses through. The actions of such a creature can change the lands of Man forever.”

“And Man must act when the gods will not. The eld of Vikungr are not like your gods of the South - Man's salvation is not their purpose. But mighty deeds and acts of glory can draw their attention. Most are content to honour the gods in simple ways – a small offering, a prayer, a marking of runes – in the hope that they are listening. But there are some who seek to truly capture the gods’ notice, to gain their patronage – those who pursue dangerous quests and acts of heroism…”

The old Vikungr took another drink and cleared his throat. He closed his eyes and his speaking assumed a measured cadence. "This tale starts many years ago, far to the north. In Vikungr, my homeland. On a night much like tonight - thankless moon overhead, the ground frozen solid underfoot, the air a probing deathly cold."

He paused for a moment and stared into the middle distance.

"Five there were; five kinkaillach. Each one a champion in search of glory for his chosen god. Dearest Freyda was the leader; Kjeld, her second; Thassa, a young tracker, whose betrothed had been killed early in the hunt by the baest itself; Svard, who would be a talented warrior, given time; and Vyali, the youngest. Little more than a boy, his first time in the wilds." "Three times Svard called for Kjorik's Fire with no success. On the fourth attempt, the rune sparked a small flame that brought some meagre heat and light to fight the raging cold."

* * *
  

In a taiga forest, five hunters huddled around a weak fire. The air clouded with every breath. A young Kjeld, fair of hair, divided out the last of the group's rations.

"Soon, the Maiden of the Flame herself won't be able to breathe warmth into our frozen bodies. And that growl in your stomach will be a more dangerous creature than anything in the wilds."

Svard accepted his parcel of food with a shrug. "If that is the price of catching the beast, then so be it."

They ate the hunks of dried meat in silence, Svard trying to coax some life into the waning flame. Kjeld split his meal and wordlessly handed a portion to the sullen Vyali with an encouraging nod. Thassa glared at the burning logs as if in challenge, willing the heat to do battle with the chill that encloaked the small band.

Finally, Kjeld broke his stare from the flame's dancing light and turned to Freyda. "Tell me again, a kelera, what we will do when we have caught the baest?"

Freyda shook her head, her golden braids swaying from side-to-side. "The cold has made your wits dim, Kjeld, or you are making some joke of me, for have I not told you half a hundred times already?"

"Aye, but the telling brings more nourishment than this measly offering."

Freyda sighed, but smiled affectionately at Kjeld. "When we have slain the baest, I will rip out its heart, and from its centre take the single crystal of purest ice. With this, we will return to the lands tainted by the beast and undo its corruption, and the people will give us thanks and glory. The gods will hear the story of our epic hunt, and be heartily impressed. We will be able to buy a boat - the finest boat in the North - and we will sail every fjord and lake of Vikungr, making our name. The band of kinkaillach that slayed the goethebaest. In time, we will set to sea, and voyage from dusk 'til dawn - every nation of Man - becoming legend to man and gods. How does that sound?"

* * *
  

The hunters rose before the dawn, the last few stars winking out as day spread west. Aching bones gave complaint after another inadequate night's rest, but stoically shouldering their packs, they departed. The goethebaest had first appeared in the holdings of one of the border clans, blighting swathes of forest and farmland, ransacking several villages and a small town before the kinkaillach had clashed with it; since then, it had tracked an erratic trail north and west. Into the wilds.

Its fatigue and fury had made it easy to pursue for the past handful of days, though the price had been steep. None spoke of Thaen's death, and Thassa kept to herself mostly, intent on tracking the beast. Broken trees and discarded animal carcasses marked its passage, easily recognisable even without her hunter's skill. The hard soil and endless landscape of solemn trees rolled past in a blur as the band of kinkaillach passed through it. Kjeld led alongside Thassa, content to share the burden of her silence. He listened to the breeze in the hope of some direction from Vella, The Sky-Mother.

Freyda drove them ever onwards, eager not to waste any moment that might mean the beast's escape. They stopped rarely, taking a few scant hours sleep each night, when the land was too dark to safely traverse. But as the days wore on, the tell-tale signs of the beast's passing grew more and more infrequent, and they sensed that their target was slipping away from them. They spent a day criss-crossing the undulating forest floor only to backtrack for several hours with no clear idea of how to proceed. With the sun past its zenith and their spirits faltering, Freyda called a short rest to formulate a plan.

Svard broke a branch off the nearest tree and began hacking chunks off it with his knife. “We’re lost. The baest has broken our reach-”

“You must learn patience, buach. The hunt is long, and there is time. The wind will change and the Sky-Mother set us right.”

“Vella might do for wanderers, Kjeld, but I think it is to be Laerd who will give us guidance on this day.” Freyda nodded over Kjeld’s shoulder. He scowled at the jest to his chosen god, but followed his partner’s gaze.

Thassa had moved aside from the group, and whistling once, she held her arm aloft. Presently, there came a rush of air overhead, the beating of heavy wings slowing the grey mottled form of a large owl as it landed on Thassa’s forearm. She greeted it with a familiarity if not visible affection. Hessa was a work bird, raised from a chick, and Thassa was a strict but fair master. Sitting cross legged, she placed her charge on the hard ground before her, where it stood obediently, regarding its master with head tilted. Hands splayed outwards, Thassa closed her eyes. Yellow-glowing runes began to form in a semi-circle around her, each one part of a beseechment to Laerd, Lord of the Chase. The air around Thassa shimmered and distorted as one-by-one the symbols took shape.

Svard watched on in wonder – Thassa commanded a power so different from his own. It was fluid, organic; there was a nuance to the spell’s construction, a refined flourish belying an undercurrent of primal energy, which he could not grasp. Perhaps there were subtler aspects to Kjorik also, but when Svard cast runes for the Maiden of the Flame, he called for destruction. Whether she took notice or not, the spells still had the desired effect.

The last rune ignited into place and Thassa threw her eyes open, unseeing pupils enveloped in a yellow-white glow. The ethereal light spread to the hunting owl’s eyes a moment later, and it unfolded its wings, took airborne with a single powerful beat, and disappeared into the evening sky.

Time passed; Thassa yet sat unmoving. Freyda glanced at her and then shot a look at Kjeld; Kjeld shrugged and shook his head. She sighed and began to pace.

Unwilling to devote more time to pondering the effects of his spells on capturing the attentions of the Maiden, Svard began to chide Vyali for having no chosen god. The boy’s father was a southerner, from Atharan. He was a parishioner of its Church, and forbade discussion of false deities within his house. What little Vyali knew of the Epics of Hjalla and Vikungr’s gods was pieced together from his mother’s offhand comments and whispered tales told through his childhood. Tough he hid this ignorance while amongst his own people.

Kjeld admired Vyali’s silent stoicism, but in short time grew weary of Svard’s adolescent crowing. “Enough, Svard. Don’t discourage the lad – there are few enough of our kind as it is. He is here, facing this trial with us. That is enough for now; the rest will come in time.”

With Kjeld’s welcome diversion, Vyali spoke up. “Surely when we have completed this great deed, a god will choose me, and my path will be set true?”

Kjeld encouraged the lad, and told the story of how he came to be a follower of Vella. The conversation lulled; a few idle exchanges to fill the still air.4

As Thassa sat sightless, Freyda continued to pace, looking expectantly to the young huntress with every turn, her head of flaxen locks framed by the hafts of the twin axes that rose over each shoulder. A secret smile danced across Kjeld’s face at the sight of his dearheart’s determined set. He sat and busied himself with checking his gear – testing his shield’s binding’s, examining his war-hammer’s familiar grip, taking stock of packs he already knew to be empty.

"There is a village."

The group turned as Thassa stirred, the glow fading from her eyes.

"North of here. Four day’s journey." Thassa stood and shook some life back into her limbs. “It’s the best I can find; there isn’t much else out here.”

Kjeld raised an eyebrow at Freyda, who hesitated for a moment before nodding. “We need supplies, and maybe the locals will be able to give us guidance. Skord grant that their home hasn’t drawn the baest’s attention…” The last was uttered in a half-whisper. The little band gathered themselves and set out, following Thassa’s direction. They walked wordlessly, guided by the silver moon’s ascent. A fresh layer of frost settled on the ground, low-hanging branches snapped with the cold whenever one caught in the hunters’ fur cloaks. As the moon fell into the dark, the group huddled at the base of a tree; weary, hungry, hoping that tomorrow would bring something more promising.

After two days, their pace began to wane. It had started snowing the previous afternoon, getting heavier the further north they travelled. The steady fall deadened what little sound the forest expended. Hoods drawn, each hunter watched the world beyond from within their solitary hollow. The occasional disturbance pierced the veil – the settling of a snowbank or crack of a laden branch. Most went unnoticed; the kinkaillach moved themselves forward with sullen senses and a singular focus, the promise of a village fixed in their minds. There to find some short reprieve, and then on to their ultimate goal.

Kjeld's voice broke the group's ruminations, pointing to an upright shard of rock they were passing. "The edge of Vikungr's Claim. We are truly in the wilds now. Out here, the goethebaest isn't the only thing to be wary of. Volsung stalk these lands".

Svard tensed at the mention of the barbarians. The memories of his burning village were not so quickly faded, the echoed screams almost deafening in this silent place. He rubbed his thumb against the ring on his index finger, the rune of Kjorik clear to his touch. The fresh blanket of falling snow masked the hint of tremor in his voice. "Then we will increase our glory. Every Volsung on the path to the goethebaest will fall as an offering to the gods. And their kind won't dare to wander so close to Vikungr soil e'er again."

After that, Vyali's head twitched at every sound, black-rimmed eyes darting from tree-to-tree, shadow-to-snowdrift. The rest fell back into their measured trudge, each footfall sinking deeper into the ever-rising bed of snow.

So it continued into the next day, the hunters stumbling over half-covered outcrops as their weakening limbs gave protest. By now, they could feel the ceaseless cold seeping in to their extremities - soon their furs and wraps would be useless, and even their hardy continence would do little to save them from succumbing. It was just a matter of which affliction would befall them.

The wind rounded on the band, the needles of the evergreens offering no aid against the dashing sheets of icy flakes. For hours, they persisted against the onslaught, leaning into the gale with each hard-fought step, any thought of progress forgotten in the face of simple survival. As the sky grew dim, the roar died to a keening whistle through the trees, beams of moonlight piercing through the abating storm clouds.

The following day dawned clear and crisp, the air hanging still as the hunters roused their wearied forms. The quiet cold sharpened the senses, awakening every ache, stoking the physical pain in the empty pits of their stomachs. They had lost pace in the storm; the simple sanctuary of some huddled huts was countless leagues away, and the goethebaest further still. Freyda placed a hand on Vyali's shoulder when he began to lag behind. He pulled away in protest, but her grip was firm as she propelled him onwards.

Sometime in the afternoon, a shrill cry broke the silence of the frozen forest. Vyali stumbled at the sudden sound, groping for his sword as he attempted to regain his footing. Thassa shook her head as she held out an appeasing hand, gesturing to a nearby clearing. The group approached cautiously, halting at the edge of the treeline. At the centre of the glade, lit by the pale sun, lay a young stag, wailing plaintively. Its foreleg was twisted at an unnatural angle, blood matting around the wound where a sharp tree limb pierced its side.

Crouching low, Thassa circled wide around the creature, holding for a moment as she prepared to gingerly approach it. She recalled the first hunt she had been on with Thaen, before they had been betrothed, before they had become kinkaillach. It had been summer then. Half a hand of years had brought them here; brought her here, without him. Wide white eyes stared at her as the stag thrashed its head, its antlers cleaving through the air. The motion brought forth a fresh flow of blood from its flank; it was weakening. Close now, Thassa acted with assurance. She held the deer's lolling head soothingly, a tear growing in the corner of her eye, though not truly for the wounded creature. The droplet rolled down her cheek, followed by another, and another. She shivered, and drew her hunter's blade swiftly.

Svard started a small fire, and the smell of searing venison filled the clearing. Thassa was quiet, and sat a little apart from the group, but didn’t decline the helping offered to her. The others talked softly, thankful of the respite, the meal returning a semblance of life to their ragged bodies. After a time, Freyda joined her, and the pair sat wordlessly, staring into nothingness. "We'll make it count, Thassa. I promise you, we'll make it count."

Hessa landed in the clearing then, and Thassa was glad of the distraction. Freyda rose and motioned for the men to start making camp. Thassa lingered, watching her feathered companion picking over the remains of the carcass, its pale quills soaking through with crimson. When the bird had eaten its fill, Thassa snapped a handful of bones from the ribcage, wiping them clean in the snowdrift. She made some careful marks along the length of each one, then cast them into the darkening forest in Laerd's name. Not that the killing of a wounded stag would draw the god's attention, but it was important for tradition to be upheld.

* * *
  

It was the following afternoon when Hessa's hooting drew the band's attention, the owl circling in the middle-distance. Their recent meal had given them a measure of renewed energy and they followed swiftly after the bird's calls, eager for some brief shelter, and news to give direction to their hunt. The rutted track which led to the village, marked by the passing of hunters and gatherers, was made faint by a covering of snow. The stillness of the air set them on edge – one would expect to hear the chatter of village life, the rhythm of chores, the ruckus of children and animals. As they cleared the forest's boughs and sighted the gathering of thatched wooden huts, they saw that such sounds would never echo forth in this place again.

The ground was seeded with lumps of translucent blue ice that seemed to pulse faintly, frigid roots twisting outward. The surrounding snow had taken on the unnatural hue, and it was seeping into any exposed soil. Nearby vegetation was shrivelled and decayed; a blast of ice had engulfed one side of the nearest hovel. The group approached with weapons drawn, skirting around the corruption. Kjeld tapped one of the icy shards with his war-hammer; it rang sonorously in the empty air; the group relaxed slightly on hearing the tone.

Kjeld lowered his weapon and stowed his shield. "So too was the baest drawn here. If we had been quicker, but - no rest for us now. It can't be more than a day away."

Thassa began inspecting the creature's markings, focussed now that they had a tangible trail. Svard and Vyali explored the village, picking their way over splintered wooden walls and the rubble of destroyed lives. The byways between the houses were littered with the dead; some frozen upright in morbid mockery of statues, others gored by vicious talon or antler. Freyda knelt and examined a body; this one had put up a fight. A broken bow was still clenched in one hand, useless.

Moving on to another, apart from the rest, she tensed and immediately rose to action. Axes were drawn and she was shouting Svard's name before Kjeld knew what was happening. He spotted the crude iron-wrought blade sticking out of the corpse's chest and knew what it meant. He matched pace with her as she sought out the younger kinkaillach, but it was too late. A guttural shout drew them to the centre of the village, followed by another, and another. Volsung.

Finding three of the barbarians desecrating the dead, Svard had charged them without thought nor hesitation. Black iron weapons rained down as he struggled to hold his ground, sparks flashing in the chill air whenever contact was made with his broadsword, alight with flaming runes. The wildmen were over a head taller than the young warrior, and broader than any man. Their pallid skin had a grey-blue tint, charred in places where Kjorik’s Flame had found exposed flesh. Despite his efforts, the Volsung were gaining the upper hand, and he was faltering.

Kjeld and Freyda struck in unison, bolts of lightning arcing wherever her axes landed a blow, powerful blasts of wind following each swing of his war-hammer. The three kinkaillach circled in a deadly runic dance - shock blue, ember red and white light emblazoned in the air, interweaving beseechments to each hunter’s patron god. Their foes weakened under the magical onslaught, but refused to break, striking back with an unnatural fury.

As the melee raged in the village’s centre, Vyali had clung to the shadow of a longhouse, trying to remain inconspicuous. Sword drawn, he watched the to and fro, waiting for his moment. Twice, three times, he took a step towards the action, but never quite worked up the momentum to enter the fray. An exploding pain spread from his left shoulder, the cruel club of a fourth Volsung bearing him to the ground.

The cold shock of snow as his face sunk into a drift kept him conscious, barely, and he rolled awkwardly onto his back. He struggled for his sword; dazedly, he tried to recall some runes, some god that would see off his looming fate. His head was spinning, the discord of battle seemed to surround him, and an immense shadow was obscuring the sky. An arm was raised above him, the ugly lump of metal pausing at its zenith, hanging for a moment with evil intent. Vyali sighted blearily along it, unable to focus on the circling shape in the air above the weapon. It let out a shrill shriek. The Volsung club swung; Vyali fumbled ineffectually, shooting pain spreading as he tensed for the inevitable.

In a streak of yellow-white light, the shadow was gone, the barbarian borne into the side of a nearby hut with a great splintering of timber. The ethereal form of a panther emanated from Thassa, surrounding her. It battered at the enemy wherever her staff hit, Hessa swooping down from above to claw at the Volsung’s face. The berserker pulled itself out of the rubble, weathering blows and fighting back as best it could. But Thassa was in a frenzy, striking with uncanny speed and ferocity. More and more runes of Laerd coursed around her figure and the ghostly panther grew in radiance.

* * *
  

When it was done, four Volsung lay dead amidst the remains of a ruined village. The kinkaillach were spent, bent double as they recovered from the ordeal. They didn’t tarry. Vyali was tended to on the move; his left arm was mostly useless, but the best they could do for now was to tie it to his chest. Thassa had expended much in defence of her younger comrade, and what little energy she had left was committed to keeping the hunters on the baest’s trail; Hessa glided slightly ahead, but never strayed too far. Svard trailed sullenly behind, reeling from Freyda’s beratement of his recklessness, sworn foes or not. Kjeld and Freyda kept mostly to themselves, exchanging the occasional hushed word, or shared glance at their charges.

As they travelled, the snow got deeper underfoot, dragging footfalls and steps that sank into the drift. Though this at least offered some boon: the beast’s wake was carved across the surface of the frozen wilds. The world was silent; what creatures were desperate enough to roam these lands had long since fled. The kinkaillach fell into a routine; one led, one guarded the rear, while the other three huddled close in a kind of walking sleep. A frigid sleet descended, but even it had little energy here. They passed a waterfall, frozen solid in a curtain of crude pillars, like a cathedral built to a pagan god. Vyali slipped on the ice, and would have gone over if Kjeld hadn’t caught him. He was shivering more than the others, his breath catching when an awkward movement sent a fresh dart of pain across his chest – though he did his best to hide it from his comrades. What awareness they had was directed outwards, wary of Volsung, and scanning the horizon for their quarry.

From the river, the kinkaillach tracked across a snow-covered plain for the better part of a day; by evening, it had given way to forest and a rise into mountains. In the grey hour before true night, they weaved clumsily between the tree trunks, tripping on unseen roots, or snagging on grasping branches. Freyda halted at the edge of a clearing and surveyed the scene as she waited for her band to regroup. Svard tensed as he drew level, moving forward with renewed fury, but his leader's firm grip on his shoulder bade him stop.

Freyda spoke calmly, but did not remove her hand. “Think a minute Svard; look. What do you see?”

The dim light revealed a disordered gathering of tents, oiled hides and black furs. Unmistakably Volsung. He tried to shrug free, but Freyda’s hand remained; open, but insistent.

“Calm yourself and use your brain instead of your sword. Listen.”

Svard took a deep breath. His eyes were adjusting to the dark and details were beginning to fill in. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly. A camp full of Volsung, and not a sound? No torches lit, nor fire burning against the cold. This place is abandoned.” Svard would not be deterred. “A trap then.”

“And you would charge right into it?” Freyda chuckled mirthlessly. “No Svard, the Volsung are not so cunning. They have fled – in fear. Our hunt is nearing its end.”

She beckoned her kinkaillach forward. “Stay together; move cautiously. Take what supplies you can gather, but do not linger. ” Kjeld took position alongside his partner. “Any sign of the wildmen and we run; we’ll need our full strength when we face the baest.”

She nodded, and they moved into the camp as one, passing between the lopsided hovels, stepping over the discarded belongings of the hated barbarians. They weren’t so proud as to scorn the available provisions - half a hanging deer leg, still mostly fresh; a pile of kindling, frost-coated but useable. By the time they reached the centre of the camp, their packs weren’t quite as empty as they had been for some time. Not the restock they had hoped to make back at the village, but they would make do until their task was complete. They relaxed somewhat, and even exchanged a few words while they re-set their bundles.

The moon was on the rise, and as it cleared the treetops, its pale light spilled languidly across the clearing - until it reached the edge, where it was swallowed by the gloom of the forest. The silver light played off something in the treeline; a pair of cold reflections. Vyali spotted it first, but his mind stalled momentarily as he tried to warn the others. A massive talon emerged from the shadows, then another, as the baest loped forward. Thrice the size of a bear and more, a mass of muscle and malevolence covered in mottled fur and feathers. It moved surprisingly silently, its rear legs tensing to charge before Vyali found his voice.

The kinkiallach were at attention in an instant; weapons raised and runic spells igniting in the still air around them. The goethebaest lowered its head and let out an unworldly bellow that spat a cloud of razor ice from its maw. Antlers ripped through the sides of tents with no resistance, claws splintered wood, leaving a growing wake of debris as it charged. They weathered its first assault, and the second, driving it back with spell and steel, but soon broke under its unrelenting onslaught. Disarrayed, the hunters spread through the camp, using what shelter it still offered to recover and prepare for the next attack.

At the centre of the clearing, the beast paced back and forth, its antlers cleaving through the air as it whipped its head around in search of its prey. Its eyes began glowing an unearthly blue, and each step left pulsing tendrils of corruption in its wake. Freyda made a call; an arrow from Thassa’s bow answered from one direction; Svard’s fireball from another. Freyda herself leapt at the creature, twin axes flaring with Skord’s Lightning as she brought them down on its haunch. It lashed out in a frenzy, shredding through the tents and spitting chunks of unnatural ice in every direction. Freyda dove for cover; aftershocks sparked erratically across the beast’s fur.

Belatedly, Vyali’s thrown dagger found its mark, but did little more than draw the beast’s attention. It rounded on him, head lowered, roaring. Vyali fled. The ground shook behind as he dodged through the ruins of the encampment. He could hear shouting, the spark and burst of magic, but the baest was getting closer and he couldn’t look back. His blood drummed against the inside of his skull and his useless arm was in agony.

Vyali was near the treeline when a jagged spear of ice tore through his leg, pinning him in place. He fought against the shock as he struggled to break free, but the baest’s frozen blight spread and he was held fast. He managed to pivot enough to face his onrushing aggressor; as his sight clouded, indistinct shapes dashed behind it, the blurring bloom of lightning and fire lighting the edges of his vision. Flame ignited on the beast’s fur; an arrow pierced its flesh. But nothing would stop the charge.

His mind raced, but could not focus. A million unheard thoughts, all flooding away. Until at the last, one rose to the forefront; a simple call to Vinta, She Who Marks the Harvest. In that final moment, green runes spiralled around Vyali’s upraised forearm. He poured his all into it, the runes fragmenting and multiplying as the spell grew out of control. It caught the oncoming creature, winding itself around its flanks and taking hold. Time slowed for the goethebaset, the moment stretched.

But it was too late. Its path was fixed. Vyali watched in horror as muscle tensed and rippled glacially across the creature’s side with each protracted bound. Its head lowered with slow certainty, bringing its great antlers to bear. A handful of heartbeats later, it was upon him. He had his sword raised, and managed to land a heavy blow to the side of its neck before a spike of horn drove deliberately through his gut. The spell broke; the baest jolted forward in a rush of returned time, crashing through the treeline. Vyali’s body was thrown clean and landed heavily several strides away.

A wave of anguish washed across Kjeld’s face. He was the closest; close enough to know that Vyali would not be rising. He tried to reach the body, but the goethebaest had already regained its feet. It was blooded now, and let out a roar that called a chill squall from the sky, driving back its foes.

* * *
  

They were running, the goethebaest and the remaining kinkaillach, locked in a brutal back and forth. It tore through the forest, snapping trunks like kindling, swinging wildly with its antlers. They weaved between the trees, doing their best to keep pace and avoid its destruction. It bellowed forth waves of ice and rime laced with arcane energy. The hunters answered with steel and spell, the air crackling with runes that called fire and thunderbolt, bolstered by strands of subtler magics that sought to confuse and lead the beast astray. They were focussed on their task, on staying alive; all other thoughts and considerations were set aside, for now. There would be time for reflection, for mourning, later.

The night grew deeper; they climbed with the mountain’s rise and left the broken treeline behind. Each breath clung to the frozen air; the ferocity of the skirmish waning. The snow was past knee-height and the pace slowed – the beast’s lumbering strides sunk it heavily into the drift. It was suffering, perhaps marginally more than the kinkaillach. Its coat was matted with dried blood where Vyali had struck, and it moved its head more tentatively as the chase wore on. There was a hint of a whine to its bellows. The kinkaillach were beyond exhaustion, and the beast’s attacks had taken a toll. It was all they could do to simply stay with their quarry, landing the occasional strike, and hoping it would go down before they did.

Five rutted trails dragged out across the miles of mountainside. It started snowing steadily, the deepening snowbank reaching for their thighs. Freyda’s foot caught on a rock, and Kjeld slowed to steady her. Sensing an opportunity, the goethebaest expended a burst of speed and drew ahead of the kinkaillach, mounting a rise just beyond bowshot. Rounding on the band, it marshalled its power, eyes aglow with frigid malevolence. The baest’s shrieking howl entwined its mystic energy with that of the snowfall, drawing in and compressing it until it could hold no longer. The blast of energy lanced outwards, hitting the slope high above them with devastating force.

With a final flurry of flakes drifting to the ground, the sky was clear. All was silent for an instant; a deep bass moan rose up through the earth. A wave of churning snow descended out of the night, gaining speed and fury as it rolled down the mountainside. Kjeld threw himself before the band, runes of the Sky-Mother weaving a tapestry of solid air. The magic shield deflected the worst of the avalanche’s ferocity, but Kjeld could only sustain it for so long.

By the time the kinkaillach had dug themselves out and regrouped, the goethebaest was long fled into the night. Their path ahead was made perilous by the avalanche’s aftermath, and they were forced to loop out wide to avoid the worst of it. They stumbled through the dark for several hours, but had no success regaining the gothebaest’s trail. They were slipping and stumbling often now, fighting to keep eyes open and continue. Kjeld placed a hand on Freyda’s shoulder and she nodded in assent. She called a halt until morning; scant hours’ rest before returning to the hunt.

They collapsed where they stood, lying motionless a some time before conjuring the energy to unfasten bedrolls and make a meagre camp. Too exhausted to sleep right away, they sat, huddled together, and let the pain wash over body and soul. Kjeld said a few words on Vyali’s behalf; there were tears in Svard’s eyes. Freyda volunteered to take first watch while Thassa called Hessa to send the bird out searching the night.

Freyda sat on a fallen tree trunk a little away from her small band of kinkaillach. The others exchanged a few words amongst themselves as they prepared for sleep, despite knowing what tomorrow would bring. Kjeld joined her, offering some Volsung black bread, mostly stale but still edible. Only then did the vast emptiness in her take hold, and she ate greedily. Afterwards, she sat silently for some time, upright with shoulders tensed as she stared into the night. Kjeld was content to sit by her side; there was much to meditate on.

“I have killed us, Kjeld.” It was a simple statement of fact, but her shoulders sagged and a sigh caught on her breath.

“I was… obsessed. I was so sure that this would be the making of us.”

Kjeld held her lightly under the chin and looked into her steely gaze. “We all were, a kelera. We all wanted this to be the start of our great story.”

She pulled away and shook her head. “But it is my command. I should have called off the hunt after Thaen. He at least had some idea what his chances were. Vyali was just a child. And the others…”

Across from them, Svard and Thassa were settling into their blankets. They were young: all of them – Kjeld and Freyda weren’t so far from childhood themselves.

“It is your command, Freyda, and we all stand behind it. We’re in this together, to the very end.”

Freyda took Kjeld’s hand in hers then, and they sat in silence as the night deepened around them.

Exhaustion had claimed the other two by the time Kjeld rose. He turned to Freyda and spoke softly, “The new day will bring new challenges, but also new possibilities. The Sky-Mother will guide our path.”

Lost to the night, on a ravine high in nameless mountains deep in the wilds, the little group of hunters slept.

* * *
  

The kinkaillach were awoken by Svard’s call sometime in the foggy hours before dawn. They arose groggily, with little rest gained from too few hours of uneven slumber. The bellow echoing off the mountainsides drew them to attention quickly enough, though their limbs were leaden and brains sluggish. They grabbed their weapons, and at Freyda’s command formed a defensive circle. The goethebaest was a mass of shadow in the scant light provided by a scattering of stars, stalking to and fro in a rough half circle as it drew in on the band. Thassa loosed her last clutch of arrows, Svard his remaining throwing axe. Each found their mark, but the beast continued its steady advance.

They backed away, weapons raised. Its step became a lope, and it made a few passes at them, testing their defences. It was limping slightly, though it seemed the night had fared it slightly better than the hunters. They landed a few strikes on it whenever it drew near, each time the beast retreating before resuming its pacing. This back and forth continued for some time.

The goethebaest made another lunge at them, more aggressive this time, and they lost some ground as they deflected its charge. Half a dozen retreating steps later, the kinkaillach were brought to a halt by the cliff’s edge. In the darkness, they could just make out the ground on either side giving away to emptiness and the valley far below. It had driven them out onto a jut of cliffside, and was now crouched eerily still, waiting for them to make a move. On Freyda’s order, Svard hurled a probing fireball, which the baest answered by spitting a shard of ice, the two colliding mid-air in a burst of steam.

There wasn’t enough room to manoeuvre, and at any attempt to move to either side, the beast rounded on them. It was toying with them. The kinkaillach tried an all-out assault, but weapons found only the unyielding grasp of its terrible antlers; a fusillade of magic gained them mere feet for the effort. The baest was growing weary of its prey, so it drew back and launched itself at them. The night lit up with blues and reds and yellows atop the little ridge high above the valley, as the hunters summoned their runic spells to fend off one charge, then another. They were waning; it withdrew, tensing to pounce.

Thassa was so tired. She had seen Thaen in her sleep, alive and smiling at her - that pain still ached through her. She was closest to the edge, and had nearly lost her footing once or twice. It had been folly to think they could contend with a creature of the eld; that they could forge their own legend and write their names into story. They would be lost in the empty wastes and forgotten.

No – not all of them. Thassa steeled herself and stepped forwards. Freyda moved to stop her, but their eyes met and the band’s leader simply nodded and stepped aside.

Thassa’s eyes were afire with yellow energy; she could feel it burning through her veins. The precipice was bathed in arcane light as rune-upon-rune burst into life around her, enveloping her – a beacon to the Lord of the Chase. She drew more and more power, willing everything she had into the spell. The goethebaest, angered by this new challenge, charged. It jolted to a stop as its antlers were caught by the paws of a massive ethereal bear that had formed around Thassa. It followed her movements, grappling against the baest’s raw power as the two lashed at each other. Yellow runes danced across its ghostly figure, coalescing wherever the baest made contact.

Finally, it broke free and disengaged. It launched a flurry of ice shards at its new foe, but these simply passed through the bear’s immaterial form. Thassa was surging with magical power, threatening to overwhelm her. She had control, for now. She let out a guttural roar, echoed and amplified by the bear. The goethebaest answered her challenge, and Thassa rushed forward as it lowered its antlers and sprang. Bear and baest collided; the force drove them several strides sideways. They snapped and clawed at each other, locked in an immovable struggle, neither side giving an inch. The raw power she was channelling seared her to her soul; it didn’t matter now. She just had to hold on a little longer.

Suddenly, something gave way and all the pent up force was unleashed. The snow at the cliff’s edge fell away under the goethebaest, and it was driven into empty space, Thassa and her runic familiar still entangled. The topaz light of Laerd’s runes plummeted into the abyss and faded into darkness.

* * *
  

A new dawn’s sun was cracking the horizon when they found Thassa’s broken body, amidst a froth of churned up snow. Despite it all, she looked peaceful now. Her staff was shattered in pieces nearby. They planted the largest remnant upright by her head. Hessa landed on it and hooted in lament. Freyda knelt at her side for some time, silent, head down. Finally she rose, and made to speak, but the words caught in her throat. She managed a call to Laerd in Thassa’s name, asking the Lord of the Chase to remember her. They lingered as the sun climbed, as though their presence might awaken their fallen companion.

Of the goethebaest, there was no immediate sign, though a swathe of ploughed up snow led erratically down the valley. With the sun already well placed in the sky, they set out to follow the trail of destruction, Hessa flapping a farewell from her steadfast perch.

By late morning, the valley had opened out and the kinkaillach had reached the shore of a frozen lake. The goethebaest’s path led out onto the ice, deep ruts carved into its surface. Svard placed a tentative foot onto the lake and tested its purchase. He took a few steps forward, slipping slightly, but corrected his gait, gaining some confidence with a few back and forth paces.

Kjeld and Freyda stood at the shoreline, studying the horizon. A dense bank of fog was gathering in the far distance, towards the lake’s centre. Svard followed his leader’s gaze, watching as roiling clouds materialised and were drawn inwards, though the sun held firm above.

“We’re going out into that?”

Freyda nodded, her eyes set.

Kjeld turned his attention to the young warrior. “Aye, lad. We’ve come too far; we have to finish this.”

Svard shrugged, “I know”. His footfall was solid on the ice, and he was a dozen strides ahead before the other pair caught up to him.

The day wore on, and the cloudbank grew to fill the horizon as solid land fell away behind them. The sun was on the turn when last they saw it, the pall of mist settling over them, and they drew close to not lose sight of one another. The air was unnaturally still, heavy with floating frost crystals, and it grew yet colder. Svard lit a rune of Kjorik to fend off the looming white-blindness, the orange flicker of the flame blooming in the hoar-dense air, catching and reflecting in the odd surfaces of the lake ice.

They pushed onwards for a time unknown, the single light the only marker in this empty world.

“What’s it doing?” Svard tried to sound merely curious, though he was clearly unnerved.

“It’s trying to conceal itself; this means its suffering. Trying to recover. We have a chance. But we must be careful - a beast like this is most ferocious when it is desperate.” Kjeld’s voice hung echoless.

In time, the stillness was disturbed by a whispering, moaning breeze, a lament that began just beyond earshot. Svard’s grip tightened around his sword, and he shifted closer to his companions. The cry of the wind was joined by a resonant howl, seemingly coming at once from all directions.

Freyda’s words were as cold as the breath they clung to. “Strike as one; hit it with everything you can marshal. Get me close enough and I will tear its heart out.”

The goethebaest careened out of the fog, vortices of frozen cloud spilling off its antlers. There was madness in the creature’s glowing eyes; eerie turquoise energy leeched from its numerous wounds. It dove in and out of the murk in a frenzy, lashing with claw and maw and icy magics. The kinkaillach answered back in unison, setting the crystal mist ablaze with lighted spells. As before, they fought a running melee, across the shrouded expanse of icebound lake.

Hunters and beast clashed again and again, both sides driven by sheer tenacity, pain and exhaustion set aside. With each engagement, they did their damage to one another, and as the goethebaest’s wounds mounted, the fog began to dissipate. The kinkaillach could see the beast a dozen strides away by now, and had more time to react to its charges; but they too were suffering. A shaft of jagged ice had torn through Freyda’s furs and leathers, drawing blood; Kjeld had nearly been knocked senseless by a glancing blow. They were waning, and as they did, their rank and posture deteriorated.

Svard misjudged an attack and took the force of an outstretched antler to the gut, the creature quickly separating from the other kinkaillach. As the world stopped swimming and Svard regained his senses, he was surprised to find himself little the worse for wear – merely entangled in the baest’s great antlers. It roared and reared its head, shaking violently to dislodge its foe. Dazed, Svard managed to hold on and maintain a single focus through his muddled thoughts. This was it; this was his chance. He had the beast at a disadvantage, and all he had to do was strike the blow that would finish what they started. This would be the glorious climax of the tales that would be told.

Svard had been in awe of the power Thassa had managed to conjure upon the cliffside. He was certain he could wield as much, or more. Enough to slay the goethebaest, once and for all. His sword had fallen away as the beast had tried to shed him, but he wouldn’t need it. He just had to push past the fatigue and injury and let Kjorik’s power fill him. The red-seared runes began to take shape around him as he adjusted his positioning, the baest bounding across the lake, Kjeld and Freyda giving their all to keep pace.

A flame-enkindled shroud engulfed Svard, the sudden heat overwhelming. All his will and concentration poured into maintaining the tumult of magical energy, threatening to overpower him at any moment. The baest was howling in rage, veering wildly to flee the ball of scorching heat at the edge of its vision. Svard slipped, and in the moment of broken focus the power surged, the fiery cloak flaring with increased intensity. He contained it, barely; using his momentum to carry himself onto the creature’s back. The goethebaest’s shrieks split the air as feather, fur and flesh charred and sizzled. It bucked hard, cracking the ice where it landed, jolting Svard with each hit. He put his all into clinging on, in body and mind, but he couldn’t contend with the barrage of magic rushing through him. The fire ran rampant. It exploded outwards in a pillar of flame that both shattered and vaporised the already weakened ice. Beast and hunter disappeared in a rising vent of superheated steam.

In an instant, the cloud cover evaporated and the crisp evening sky was revealed. Kjeld and Freyda circled the broken surface of the lake, watching for any sign of movement. Minutes passed, the water becoming still as the fingers of cold returned to it. Too long had passed; they exchanged a look, but neither were willing to accept the outcome.

With a great bass moan and rumble underfoot, the surface of the ice erupted upward, chunks the size of tombstones crashing down. Sodden and steaming, the beast surfaced; Svard did not.

* * *
  

The dying sun lit the evening sky with fire, perhaps naming Svard as Kjorik’s favoured. The remaining pair of kinkaillach had chased the baest beyond the lake, into the clefts and crevasses of a glacier field. Incinerated, stabbed, wounded half to death, the mythical creature somehow managed to stagger onwards, wearing down its foes across the countless leagues of flight.

The moon was on the rise when the glacier closed in overhead, the striated fissure sloping unsteadily downwards. Shafts of weak moonlight split through the glacial sheet in places, bathing the cave in a silvery second-hand light. The white of the ice gave way to blue in these depths. The weight above them was a persistent groan; the beast’s rage echoed through the caverns.

Deep within the warren of tunnels and caves, the goethebaest found itself cornered. Freyda attacked. She struck with a fury unleashed; she fought in the memory of Svard, of Vyali, of Thassa, and Thaen also. The lost band of kinkaillach that met its end beyond the edge of the world. No; the brave band of kinkaillach that slayed the goethebaest and were recognized by the gods themselves. Every ounce of her being poured into making it so.

Her partner stood with her; they fought back-to-back, his hammer and shield answering each call of her twin axes. The baest was more meat than monster by now, but its rage only grew. Arcane light leaked from countless gashes across its body, rank ichorous blood pooling on the ice underfoot. Its eyes burned blue, and it careened around the cave, a mass of raw mythical malevolence. In the end, a wild sundering strike felled Freyda. It would have done for Kjeld also, but for the lucky turning of his shield. The wood disintegrated and he was flung across the cavern. Reeling, he rolled clumsily out of the path of the oncoming assault, his weapon lost. The ice trembled as the baest slammed its flank against the cave wall. All hung in silence as the dazed pair lay opposite each other.

Sluggishly, Kjeld made to regain his feet. His eyes caught on the slumped form of his dear Freyda; tears began to leak through the haze of adrenaline. The baest had turned, and was rallying its remaining power to bring to bear. In a low crouch, Kjeld held motionless and waited for it to make its move. Long moments stretched out in utter stillness.

It charged. Kjeld dove for Freyda’s body, and came upright wielding her axes. He managed to leap as the baest lowered its head, coming down heavily, the bladed beard of each axe burying deep into the monster’s eyes. Kjeld was thrown clear, landing hard. Blinded, the goethebaest dashed itself against the glacial walls, its screams reverberating through the caverns and passages.

By the time Kjeld came to, the baest was lying prone. There was a faint erratic rise and fall of the mound of flesh and fur. Arm-over-arm, Kjeld dragged himself to the creature’s side, stopping several times. He hauled himself upright by its head, and managed to get his legs under him, trying to breathe deeply and lessen the swaying. Eventually, he felt strong enough to lay a hand on the haft of an axe, still embedded in the baest’s skull. A spasm ran the length of its body as he pulled, but it had no more fight left in it. He moved to its neck, and began swinging methodically, as one would with a pile of lumber.

When it was done, Kjeld took a hunter’s knife and sliced through the thick hide of the goethebaest’s chest, plunging his hand deep inside. Covered in congealed blood and viscera, he withdrew the baest’s heart. With his final reserves of energy, he crushed the mass of black muscle in his fist. As the meat and gristle sloughed away, the reflected moonlight caught on the edge of the crystal buried within; clear, unsullied.

Kjeld, last of the band of kinkaillach that set out to slay the legendary goethebaest, stumbled over to the body of his beloved, and collapsed.

* * *
  

In the Lodestone Inn, the early hours were drawing in. Ando Bellweather had dimmed the lights, but left his few remaining patrons to their peace. Kjeld the Unburdened sat by the hearth, alone now. He reached for the leather cord tied around his neck, and withdrew the crystal shard that hung from it, nestling it delicately in his weathered hand. It danced with trapped light, refracted and reflected.

Outside, the first freeze of winter had set in, but by the fire, cold was just a memory. His eyes were wet and glistening as he watched the embers dance their way towards a new day.

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.

Her mother died in childbirth, in agony and exhaustion. Her father called her Alisha, the first of her name. The town wisdom blessed the baby, proclaimed a precious gift, a bringer of prosperity. She was a sickly infant, and her father worried that he would not be able to protect her, keep her healthy. They lived on a small holding, between the village and the forest. They had little, they ate what they could grow. An old goat provided milk, and a few hens pecking around the yard produced the occasional egg.

Alisha learned quickly to fend for herself, to look after her father. He was a quiet man, with a sadness that never fully left his eyes, and though he meant well and tried his best, life often got the better of him. Some days, he woke with vigour and enthusiasm, with plans of fencing off another field, or clearing an area of scrub and forest to extend their workable land; on others, he would not rise until late in the evening, emerging from their small two-room farmhouse with a lethargy and a far-away look in his eyes. On these days, the child Alisha knew better than to disturb him, instead getting on with her chores, looking after the animals, mending clothes and preparing supper. The two would sit quietly at the rough wooden table, eating their simple meal, and though he never put it into words, Alisha knew he was thankful.
  

When not helping her father around the farm, tending crops or gathering wood, she would play with the children from the village, climbing trees or catching frogs by the riverbank, chasing the village dogs down dirt tracks and through the forest. Alisha loved nothing more than to run bare-footed through the long grass of the fields, splashing through muddy puddles and streams, laughing and shouting with the other children as they went. Mischief had a tendency of happening around Alisha - a pot would break, a mule would kick over a cart, the cattle would get out of their pen and have to be rounded up. When something went wrong around the village, the adults looked for Alisha, ignoring her excuses; the children laughed at her misfortune, teasing her ill-luck. They called her orfling, a wicked trick played by the mischievous Children of the Forest.
  

One of the older children, a shepherd's boy, became like a brother to her. He knew about the Forest, about the Children, had heard the tales from the old women in the hills, and reassured her she wasn’t afflicted by a trick or a curse. Sometimes, he’d sneak a bag of grain for her from his father’s barn, for he had plenty and was considered well-to-do by the village folk. She would grind it into flour and bake it, giving him the first loaf in thanks. When her father learned where the grain was coming from, he was furious. He forbade her from associating with the boy, from taking produce that came from his father’s stores. There was bad blood between the two men, and though she was too young to understand her father’s rationale for refusing this man’s aid, she no longer accepted the gifts. This didn’t stop her from going on adventures with her friend though, following him when he herded the sheep to the summer pastures in the hills.
  

It was on one such expedition that they found themselves separated from the other herders, having taken a longer path through one of the eastern valleys to round up some lost sheep. This did not worry them; there were three other young herders with them, and they all knew the land well. As they walked, at ease under the early summer sun, they talked and laughed, picking up sticks and having mock swordfights, Alisha eager to prove herself just as fearsome as the older boys. Spotting a distressed ewe bleating plaintively from atop a rocky outcropping, Alisha left the group and clambered up to retrieve it, the chatter of the boys fading as she climbed around and up the rock face.
 

Descending with the animal across her scrawny shoulders, she found herself faced with a scene that drained the life from her, a cold terror grasping around her young soul. A band of mountain men from the north, fetid furs and rough beards, were making quick work of slaughtering the herd, tying them in pairs and slinging the still-warm carcasses over their backs. The herders stood in a despondent huddle, flanked by a pair of hulking barbarians, occasionally spitting and muttering something in their guttural tongue. While the tales told that the mountain men stole unruly children and ate them for supper, the truth was that these barbarians of the north were renowned for taking slaves, descending from their mountains and picking up unwary travellers, scavenging from remote farms and homesteads – though rarely this far south, or this early in the season. Paralyzed with fear, tears welling in her eyes, Alisha looked on helplessly. Her friend locked eyes with her and gestured frantically for her to run before the mountain men noticed her. The sheep on her shoulders bleated, and it was too late.
  

Big, scarred, filthy hands reached for her, lifting her off the ground with ease, the barbarian oblivious to her futile struggling. Her friend was running for her, calling her name, the other herders breaking for freedom in the confusion. Charging into her captor, he knocked him off-balance. Taking her hand and pushing her in front of him, the pair ran. With a nonchalant shrug the nearest barbarian loosed a throwing axe with deadly precision. Alisha felt her friend’s arm go limp behind her, and was pulled down by the dead weight. Crimson blossomed around the axe head that protruded from his back. He was still breathing, barely. Having felled the other herders as they ran, the mountain men ambled in her direction. One took her by the shoulders, holding her fast where she knelt. Another grasped the haft of the axe, yanking it violently from the boy’s back, his breath escaping in a ragged whimper. The barbarian raised the axe high, then in a swift movement brought it down and finished the job.
  

Something broke inside Alisha. Deep down, something raw, something elemental, exploded into life. The ground began to shake, rocks splitting as pale green sparks arced around her. The sky darkened as a maelstrom of raw energy roared into being around her, a vortex of green flame and lightning. She threw her head back and let out an unearthly scream, sustained, amplified and reverberated down the valley.
  

It was her father that eventually found her, unconscious and alone. He spoke not a word as he carried her down the valley, through the fields, golden in the evening light of early summer. He laid her down upon her bed, tears streaming down his face as he rested his hand on her forehead. Unable to understand, to cope with what he had seen, he packed his few meagre belongings and left her.
  

A gloom settled over the small cottage, a listlessness and anxiety that seeped outwards. Alisha woke, and ate, and slept, cried until no further tears would come, the hours fading meaninglessly. Every day, she watched the track in the hope that her father would return. That she could apologise, explain, make him understand – though she did not understand herself, and was terrified that it would happen again. She’d wake from nightmares, in a cold sweat and screaming, certain that something dangerous, threatening lurked just outside her perception.
  

***
  

It was a bad summer for the village. The sun was cold and weak, a roiling fog settling around the houses and fields for weeks without abatement. Crops rotted in the ground, animals yielded only sour milk, many dying of sickness. Rumour started to spread, whispers first, then taking hold like a virus. They came to talk openly of it at the village green, accusing her of the herders’ deaths, blaming her for all their misfortune. Some said she was indeed cursed, though by something far more malicious than the Children of the Forest; others claimed she communed with demons, had heard the unearthly voices emanating from the cottage. On the rare occasions Alisha ventured near the village, all conversation would fade and the villagers would edge warily away, mothers calling their children home and barring their doors. Some began to carry talismans or amulets, others gave offerings and prayers to whatever gods or spirits they felt would listen, but by-and-by they came to silent agreement of the only solution to their ill-fortune.
  

The days began to shorten and the cool of autumn took its hold upon the land. In the silence of the cottage, there came unexpectedly a knock upon the door. Hesitantly, uncertainly, Alisha edged towards it, having not seen or spoken to a soul in months. The woodsman had ever been kindly to her, teaching her about the flowers and the tress, sharing with her the tales of the forest as she had played beneath the canopy. He stood solemnly now in the doorway, towering over her, and she was uncertain what to say. He had word from her father, now living in a city far to the south. He wished to reunite with his daughter, but could not make the journey himself. The woodsman felt obliged to help her, though they would have to depart immediately to avoid the harsh winter that was growing steadily nearer. Uncertain of what else to do, and with the possibility of being with her father again, Alisha agreed and quickly packed her few treasured possessions. She tied the goat by the village well, and let the chickens loose upon the green – someone would find a home for them when she was gone. Alisha took one last look at the village that had been her entire world, the paths and secret places that only a child knew imprinted upon her mind. Silently, as the moon rose over the land, they departed.
  

Three weeks of travelling found them upon a desolate heath as winter began to set in. The first snows had settled upon the heather, and their breath clouded and rose before them in the cold. They had passed signs of civilisation on their journey, paths and sometimes even cart tracks, smoke rising from the occasional farmstead. Once or twice Alisha was sure she had seen the glow of a town or city on the horizon, though the woodsman had a desire to avoid people, and they had not come across any signs of human activity in some time. Night fell and Alisha was wrapped in her bedroll by the small fire. He had taken to mixing a sleeping draught into her broth, to quell her nightmares, and the raw, unnameable dread that permeated the air when she slept. The woodsman stood over the prone girl, little more than a child, axe in hand, tormented by his internal debate, as he did every night. But he could not bring himself to complete the job the villagers had charged him with. They were far enough away that she would never be a threat to the village again. Gathering his things, he strode north into the night.
  

She didn’t know how she survived that winter. A feral force kept her alive, drove her onwards through the frozen wastes, not allowing her give up even as she weakened from cold and starvation. She used all she knew of nature to find whatever she could to keep herself alive: mushrooms and lichens that still survived in damp places, winter berries growing under the occasional copse of trees. Once, she came across a pack of wolves, shortly after making a kill. Their muzzles were matted and soaked in fresh blood, but she was too weak and hungry to feel fear. She stumbled towards them, pushed her way through the feeding beasts, and fell to her knees by the half-eaten deer. The pack rounded on her, teeth bared with low, guttural growls. As they moved in on the girl, they sensed a danger, a rising threat that drove them back. Alisha pulled ravenously at the warm flesh and bones of the dead animal. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten so well.
    

As spring dawned upon the land, Alisha found herself in civilized countryside, farmsteads and the occasional village, and as the snows began to melt and give way to spring growth, she began to move from town to town, learning quickly how to survive within the stone walls and cobble streets. There was a coldness in the city-living folk, a callous self-preservation she had not encountered before. She soon adopted the ways of the street children, sleeping in hay lofts, stealing food from the markets, and avoiding the attention of the town guard. There was little place for friends or fun; she was constantly watching her back, and knowing when to hit first and when to run became second-nature to her.
  

The haunting dreams and unnatural incidents continued to plague her, and she rarely remained in the same place for long. She’d move on, find a new town, eek out an existence. The nightmares would catch up with her, and she’d wake screaming, every torch and grate in town burning with an eerie green flame. In one town, the disturbances so concerned the inhabitants that they assembled before the mayor’s hall in the main square, demanding that something be done. Though the locals disapproved, he promised that a Warder would be summoned, for they dealt in the weird and arcane. Travelling mages and conjurors offered to investigate, use their magic and spells to track down the source and eliminate it. Alisha slipped away while the square was still filled with fearful citizens.
  

She kept moving after that, always fleeing, trying to outrun whatever curse afflicted her. But still it came: roiling tempests, filled with green lightning, would hang overhead whenever she felt threatened; cornered by thieves and vile men, she’d lash out to defend herself, and they would collapse in an explosion of accursed jade energy. After one such incident, she fled down a dark alley, a figure stepping out of the shadows and blocking her way.

“I’ve been trying to find you for some time, following the aftermath of your actions. I saw what you did just now. But I detected no channelling, no drawing of magic from the land. How is this so? Tell me! You are an anomaly, and I need to know the answer. You will prove an interesting subject of research I think.”

The mage stepped forward, and Alisha found herself with her back up against the uneven stone wall as he reached out to grasp her. In a burst of energy that left a trail in her wake, she threw herself at her aggressor, sending him sprawling, and she was fleeing once again, not resting for days on end, always watching her back, putting as much distance behind her as she could.
  

***
  

By-and-by, as the seasons changed and time rolled on, the imminent threat she felt subsided, and she found herself as a servant girl in the castle of an old lord. The man had grown fat and wealthy through conquering the lands around him, and though the work was hard and the people coarse, she was well fed and slept with a roof over her head. But her time here was not to last, and the arrival of a lord and lady from neighbouring lands spelled an end to her life of relative ease. They came with an entourage, an honour guard of their finest warriors, occupying an entire keep of the sprawling stronghold. Her master welcomed them with feasts and festivities, aiming to impress with his affluence and might, and Alisha was assigned to their quarters, to keep them clean and well-appointed, and provide whatever the visitors might ask for.
  

One evening, in the rush of chores to be completed, she had forgotten to place fresh flowers in the apartments. The lady was a cruel woman, calculating and ambitious, and Alisha knew she would have her hide tanned for forgetting to fulfil the request. So she snuck into the keep after dark, past the guards of the visiting lord, while the old lord was yet entertaining his guests. She had just filled the final vase with flowers freshly picked from the castle gardens when she heard footsteps approaching, hushed voices deep in discussion. Panicked, she hid in an ornate oaken cabinet, knowing that she would face swift and harsh punishment if she was caught. The door opened, and closed swiftly as the man and woman continued their muted argument. The woman talked of poison and of daggers, goading the man, questioning his masculinity and bravery. The man acknowledged the wealth and power of their host, the gain to be had by committing the act, but pleaded caution and consideration. Alisha was old enough to understand what they were discussing, and she dared not breathe for fear of being found. She crouched motionless, silently, pushed as far into the corner of the cabinet as she could. Her ear against the back panel, she could hear the woodworm chewing their way through the old oak.
  

These guest rooms were rarely used, and though the staff had done their best to prepare for the old lord’s visitors, there were some unseen places where years of dust yet lay. Alisha stifled the first sneeze, and the second, but her movement had kicked up a cloud of dust that hung in the air of the enclosed space, and with the incessant itching of her nose, she broke her silence. The conversation in the room beyond ceased instantly, and after a moment, a blinding sliver of candlelight expanded to fill her vision as the cabinet door was opened. The lady was in a rage, throwing vile obscenities at Alisha; the lord reached wordlessly for the blade on his belt. Once more, Alisha found herself running: through the doors of the guest quarters, down the cold stone stairs, across the keep’s entrance hall. She threw herself at the heavy oaken doors in a bolt of green light, exploding past the lord’s guards in a shower of splinters as she continued across the courtyard without a pause.
  

The lord and lady assembled their warriors quickly, and Alisha could hear the barking of bloodhounds and the calls of the men as they spread out from the stronghold in pursuit. She was still running at full pace when she hit a steep slope, tripping on an unseen root and tumbling awkwardly onto the dirt track beyond. Filled with pain, she felt the threat rising, and emerald sparks danced around her in the darkness. As she pulled herself to her knees, a hand reached out in assistance, from which she recoiled as she stood.

“No, stay away from me! I’m cursed by Grim, misfortune follows me wherever I go.”

The man before her was grizzled, his face a patchwork of old scars, his dark hair and beard flecked with grey.  On the back of his hand was emblazoned a silver mark that seemed to glow in the moonlight.

“Well then, my young Grimsdottir, I might just be able to help you.”
  

***
  

“In the old times, at the beginning of our age, when the land was yet emerging from the magical storm that reshaped it, there was on occasion born a child whose spirit was imbued with a Power. Not the magic of the Land that mages draw, you understand, but a Well, an elemental Source of energy that lived within the bearer. It is said that a number of orders, the Warders among them, were founded by the wisest and most foresighted of these gifted individuals, to guard and guide the peoples of the land, in an uncertain time, before kings or countries, before civilization. Of course, times changed and the land moved on – the gift was lost in the march of the centuries, and the orders faded into obscurity. We few are the only ones that yet carry the tale of those times.” 
         

“The Warder’s Mark is what allows a Warder to channel magic from the land, to weave our spells. For you, it would act as a focus, an anchor, through which you could draw from your well of power. With patience and training, you would be able to take control of your gift, wield it like the legends from the beginning of our age.”
  

He paused for a moment, looking solemnly at her.
  

“The process is not an easy one: the silver must be set into your skin and bound to your Power - you will face untold pain and agony. And if you agree and accept the mark, you must take on all that it entails – the teachings, the training, the trials of the Warders. No quick fix and send you on your way; you will become one of us – for better or for worse.”
  

He gave the girl some time to make her decision, stepping out into the cold winter air.

“You finished filling the girl’s head with fairy tales, brother? Neglect to mention that she’s destined to a life of bounty hunting and mercenary work like the rest of us in order to survive?”

“Leave it be Vessic. The child has enough to face for one day as it is. Come, we must prepare to set the Mark.”

“You certain she’ll agree? That she’ll survive?”

“Of course she will. She has an unbreakable spirit; a wild heart and noble blood.”
  

***
  

Alisha Grimsdottir sat on horseback, the hilt of her hand-and-a-half sword resting against her left shoulder. A leather band held her hair away from her face, rust brown with a streak of cream-white. There was a determined set to her fierce green eyes as she crested a rise and assessed the country before her. Her travelling companion talked incessantly - crass, brash chatter, always complaining, and she had put up with enough of it.
  

“Eehan, you saw what I did to those brigands that had you captive? The promise of a measly sum of coin is all that’s keeping me from reaching over there and doing the same to you, ok?”
  

He gave the young woman a look full of indignity and injured pride, but there was also fear – of her following through with her threat, and so he closed his mouth and rode ahead. He was a loathsome human being, a spoiled city-boy who spent his time wining and gambling, running scams and cheating people out of their hard-earned gold.  Loathsome, but well connected - and in truth she needed the coin. Her gear was wearing thin, her horse needed to be shod, and she’d give anything for a good meal and a cold pint of beer. She’d spent far too long in the wild of late, slaying beasts, hunting the vilest of psychopaths, dangerous wielders of arcane power, the criminal scum that found refuge and employment in these lands without king or country. Babysitting a crime lord’s son who’d ripped off the wrong people seemed like the easiest of her recent jobs – and yet, this man was by far the most tedious and annoying monster she’d encountered. Already, she was daydreaming of being rid of him, and as they rode onward, she imagined the welcoming copper bath, filled with scalding hot water, the soft bed and the days of respite awaiting her at her journey’s end.