[game-notes version here]

XII.

Duskmarch 16, Thornsday, Year 731.

Oakton had five main city gates, and Lake Gate was the southernmost of them, positioned on the broad road running parallel to the Bay of Mists’ northern shore. It was a somewhat puzzling name since Lake Miran lay centrally within Oakton’s walls, at the very base of the mighty Argenoak. Still, Lake Gate was the primary point of passage for fisherfolk, water traders, and travelers, with access to a dozen small bayward settlements to the south. Twin towers squatted on either side of the arched gatehouse, with an aged stone wall thick with moss from the bay winds and constants mists. A carved lintel above the gate bore the relief of a swan in flight over water, one of the symbols of the Mere-Lady, goddess of fresh water, lakes, and rivers, and patron of Lake Miran.

They left just after dawn. The winter rains had broken a day earlier, and the morning air around Lake Gate carried the fresh, briny tang of the coast, mingling with the scent of fish and smoke from nearby drying racks. Gulls and reedbirds circled overhead, with the ever-present branches of the Argenoak concealing the brightening sky farther above.

Vessa thought that perhaps there were more travelers at the city walls looking to enter than she would have expected for midwinter, and all looking grim and haunted. She would have casually asked an Iron Thorn guard about it had she not had a warrant on her head, and instead pulled the hood of her travel cloak tight as she passed through the crowds, as if unused to the morning chill.

She’d forgotten how slow they needed to move thanks to Alric’s lamed foot. The man would stubbornly walk as long and far as instructed, but he would never do so quickly. As a result, they set a strolling pace south of Oakton, Alric’s runed staff jabbing the wide road amidst their footfalls.

“This bloody plan still feels half-baked,” Maelen complained. “I’d rather have faced that twice-cursed Nightwight again to get whatever’s buried in his camp, then moved south. Hadren said he’s south of where we’d gotten the book. Why not start at the Hold?”

They’d had this conversation round in circles for two days. Alric sighed, and when he spoke his voice held the lack of emotion of someone making the same points half a dozen times. He ticked off points on his ink-stained fingers. “First, because I don’t believe what’s buried near Sarin is treasure. Second, we might not survive another encounter with him. Third, the idea of Sarin gaining access to the Tome is terrifying. Fourth, Hadren also said that ‘anyone in the dark’ would know how to find this Starless Rift, and there are towns south of Oakton, not west of it.” He waggled his fingers. “Did I miss anything?”

Maelen hocked and spat into the dirt, scowling.

“You said you were going to research the Starless Rift before we left,” Vessa chimed in, trying to change the subject. “Any luck?”

Now it was the scribe’s turn to scowl. “None, I’m afraid. I could find no mention of it in the Lodge’s histories, not even in the restricted texts I’m not supposed to have access to. It’s… well, I have no idea what it is, much less where.”

“So the bloody plan is just to walk south and ask directions?” Maelen asked sourly.

“Pretty much,” Alric smiled. Vessa thought his face utterly transformed when he smiled. It was a shame he did so rarely. “I have enough coin for us to sleep in beds long enough to at least try. If we find nothing, well… I suppose then we can brave Sarin’s camp.”

“Shit plan,” Maelen grumped, and kicked a rock skittering into the long grass by the roadside. Then she blew out a breath noisily, seemed to gather herself, and added, “Well. At least we’re out of the city for a bit. Lets the heat die down a bit on Vessa’s warrant.”

“I’m still unclear why Vessa has a warrant,” Alric admitted. “What–”

“It’s stupid,” she interrupted. “Maelen picked a fight and I was blamed for it. One of the morons we… well, I stabbed, was somebody important’s son.”

“Who’s son?” Alric blinked.

Vessa shrugged and rubbed at her nose. She answered impatiently. “Don’t remember. It’ll die down. I’ve had warrants on my head before, same as Maelen.”

“Whatever for?”

“By the all the twisted knots, man! Leave it!” Vessa snapped, a sudden exasperation filling her. His constant questions about… well, everything, never ceased. Alric stopped his shuffling walk to stare at her, and she stomped past him, walking briskly ahead. “Come on! We’re making bad time and you’re too slow!” She barked over her shoulder. Alric asked something she couldn’t hear, and Maelen’s bellowed laughing filled the air.

They spoke little the rest of the day, Vessa brushing away any attempts at conversation. On their walks, she said that she would scout ahead, but it was only an excuse to be in her own head. She found herself surprisingly embarrassed by her morning outburst and simultaneously infuriated whenever Maelen’s grin caught her eye. Vessa knew that her friend thought she and Alric would be rolling in the barn sooner than later, even when the two of them genuinely had nothing in common. Handsome enough, but soft. Maelen wouldn’t bed him, so why did she think Vessa would? Teasing, like they were twelve. Ridiculous.

In the roil of her thoughts, Vessa did her best to appreciate the unseasonably beautiful weather and scenery. Through low-lying grasslands, the Long Road snaked ever southward. To the west were the forested hills of the Greenwood Rise. Every now and again, they could see the Bay of Mists to the east, the wide body of water separating Oakton from Bayren and its peninsula. Vessa had never been across the Bay, but the wide waters made her nervous. She’d heard tales of the ocean beyond Bayren, a vast never-ending expanse of undrinkable water, and the very idea of it made her queasy.

Several travelers and wagons passed them, all heading to Oakton, their breath puffing in the chill air. They told stories of monsters ravaging livestock and kidnapping children, forcing them towards the refuge behind city walls. None of the accounts matched another, though–Some swore of black dogs. Others, writhing worms. Still others, invisible things that screamed in the dark. Maelen pronounced it all “unreliable village nonsense.” No one, it seemed, had heard of the Starless Rift.

At dusk, they reached Leandra’s Rest, a small fishing hamlet nestled between reed marshes and the shore road. It consisted of little more than a few docks, its scattering of wooden houses built upon low stilts. There were shrines to the Mere-Lady and Harbormaster but no central place of worship. Indeed, the only common space in the community was its sole tavern, the Brine Spoon. Fishing nets draped the outside railings. A hand-painted, chipped sign above the door showed a wooden spoon stirring a curling wave. Vessa wondered how communities like this one survived the wilds of the Redwood Marches. Hardy folk, these villagers, and more than a little crazy.

Inside, the Brine Spoon at dinnertime was filled with the scent of fish stew and hearth smoke. The beams were hung with dried herbs, clamshell chimes, and driftwood. The floor was packed sand and oiled planks. The three of them received nods from the handful of patrons and made their way to the bar, which seemed to be carved from a single, huge bone, possibly from some sea creature that had wandered into the bay—just another reason to avoid the water, from Vessa’s perspective. Behind the bar, cloudy bottles lined crooked shelves, along with a pot of bubbling stew. A tarnished plaque with the stag sigil of Calvenor, faded but proudly displayed, had been pinned to a far wall.

Alric’s hope, since Hadren had proclaimed that “anyone in the dark” would know the Starless Rift’s whereabouts, was that they should ask villagers after the sun had set. So, the three of them ordered their stew and hunks of bread, sipped ale from clay mugs, and waited until deep into the evening.

The mood amongst the party remained tense during the meal, and Vessa was surprised when Alric asked, “So. You two are free of debt. What do you do now?”

“What?” she and Maelen answered in unison, pausing in sopping up the stew with bread.

“It’s only…” he said, his rich voice cautious. “You agreed to travel to Thornmere Hold because of your debts to the Latchkey Circle, yes? Those debts are paid. Why travel with me now?”

Maelen went back to eating her stew while Vessa waited for her to answer. After swallowing a mouthful, the broad-shouldered warrior grinned, “It’s not that complicated. I want money. Hadren said he’d give you treasure for the book. You seem inclined to give it to him, and are willing to share the treasure besides, so it’s an easy path to coin. We get you safely to Hadren. We get paid.”

“And where Maelen goes, I go,” Vessa added with casual conviction. Maelen blinked at that, a look of mild surprise. “Plus, money’s nice,” she added.

“Yes, but… then what?” Alric prompted, dipping a spoon into his bowl. He was the only one of them using a spoon. “Don’t you have goals? What do you want to do with the coin you earn? What’s it all for?”

Maelen scoffed. “You’re overthinking it, lad. Life is better with a heavy purse. Now that our debts are paid, what we make is ours to keep. We’re mercenaries, Vessa and me. This is what we do.”

“There’s got to be more to your life than that,” Alric pushed. “Don’t you have any dreams? Goals for your life?”

“Living is enough,” Maelen said with a shrug, Alric grunted but for once thought better of pursuing the conversation, and the three returned to their silent meal. The scribe likely didn’t catch it, but Vessa had known the gruff warrior well these past few years. His words had struck a nerve and set her thinking. Her eyes glazed over as she ate, less aware of her surroundings, her movements just a blink slower. In fact, Maelen’s surprising reaction caused Vessa to roll the question more seriously around in her skull. It was as her friend had said: Money was for spending, work was for money, and that was it. Or was it? She realized that her first answer had been more accurate… Vessa was here for Maelen, coin or no. But why? She scowled, irritated all over again. Alric and his blasted brain caused more problems than they solved.

Eventually, they wiped their bowls clean, licked their fingers, and finished their ale. They agreed to split up, moving individually throughout the tavern to ask patrons about the Starless Rift’s whereabouts.

The conversations proved fruitless. They heard more rumors of monsters, were bombarded by village gossip and requests for news from the city. Vessa was propositioned for sex twice, once by a tattooed, Tideborn fisherman, and another by the one-eared bartender. Her answer both times had almost started a fight, and, in the end, Alric agreed to pay twice their room rate to retain their rooms that night. The three of them went to bed early, frustrated and bickering about what to do the next day.

Duskmarch 17, Goldday, Year 731.

Over breakfast, Alric urged them to continue south to the next village. Maelen called him a fool, but said it was his coin to burn. Lacking conviction, they took longer than usual to pack their travel packs and left the Brine Spoon well after sunrise.

Clouds had gathered overhead, and morning fog still snaked its way through much of the village. As they passed through the short patch of rocky soil the locals called a village square, a voice called out in the mists.

“My, my! What do you call a mouse, rabid dog, and kicked puppy walking in darkness towards a cliff?” The voice was dry and thin with age, but clear as a bell. The three of them stopped. Vessa’s senses were sharper than the others and pointed.

“There,” she said simply. They followed her lead, and as they neared the square’s edge, the fog momentarily parted.

Sitting on an overturned fish crate near a lantern post was an old Dunfolk woman, her skin dark and leathery, her tightly coiled hair bound up in a patched, sea-green shawl. Leaning next to her was a wiry cane made of driftwood, carved with words Vessa couldn’t make out.

“Ah!” Alric’s face brightened. “The village crier, yes? What news, ma’am?”

“Ma’am?” the woman cackled. “So proper! People around here call me Wink,” she winked dramatically, still chuckling. Then she cleared her throat theatrically and said, “The shore speaks tide. The blind speak time!”

Vessa hadn’t noticed, but the old woman was indeed blind, her eyes clouded white. Yet she looked at each of their faces intently with her milky gaze, smiling with amusement. But if she couldn’t see, how did she know where they stood? It was unnerving.

“What do you want to know, son? News from passing barges? Perhaps the sex of the new Vintel child two houses yonder? Or perhaps,” she paused dramatically. “You have a more specific question? Such as…” Another pause, and she rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m always so in the dark, you see.” She waved a hand in front of her sightless face, then winked at him.

“What are you–? Oh!” Alric started, and the woman laughed again, wheezing with joy.

“What in the Rootmother’s name is going on?” Maelen leaned over and whispered to Vessa. She looked back and shrugged.

“Go on,” the woman fought to catch her breath and waved at Alric. “Tell your canine friends the joke.”

“People in the dark will know!” he said to them triumphantly. “Of course! It’s the blind. The blind know the way to the Starless Rift!” Wink whooped with joy at the proclamation, sharing in Alric’s triumph.

“I’ll be damned,” Maelen said in surprise. “So where is it then?”

“You’ll be damned?” the woman scolded. “No, no, no. You’ll be dead, dear, snapping at the hands trying to pet you, never accepting their love. The boy here is the damned one, struggling as one of the dark gods plucks him by his naked tail.”

“What did you say?” Maelen’s face glowered and her muscles tensed.

“You know of Orthuun, then?” Alric said, and at the name Wink made a warding sign over her chest and forehead. “Of his Tome?”

“Bad business, my boy, bad business,” Wink shook her head sadly. “That little book of yours is one of five, and each darker than the next. Get rid of it, if you can, for the Blind Sovereign’s shadow is falling across us all, and I fear no light will remain.”

“What do you mean I’ll be dead?” Maelen challenged, and Vessa put a hand on her muscled arm, pulling her back.

“Wait, Mae,” she whispered urgently. “Let them talk.”

“You– you’re not with Hadren? And Orthuun?” Alric asked insistently.

“I’ve lost my sight, son, not my ability to see,” she made the same warding gesture. “Free advice from an old woman? Drop that book down a deep well and run as far as you can away from here.”

“Here meaning this village?” he asked.

Wink didn’t answer right away. She looked up into the cloudy sky with those white eyes, considering. Then she shrugged with a grin. “Never mind. He’s got the whole Redwood Marches in his blackened palm. You would have to run far, or fight him back. But even if you fight and win, you must release the book. Which,” she sighed dramatically, “you probably won’t do.”

“I don’t understand,” Alric said helplessly, looking like a young boy to Vessa’s eyes. He licked his lips.

“No,” she smiled. “I don’t suspect you do. Travel well, little mouse! Two days west and the same south. There’s your Starless Rift. There’s no missing it,” she said sourly.

“Is there anything else?” Alric urged. “Anything else we need to know? Who’s Hadren? What is the Starless Rift?”

“Anything else? Hm. Let’s see…” Wink rubbed at her chin again thoughtfully. “When you get to the cliff’s edge, little mouse: Don’t jump.”

“Come on,” Maelen growled, pulling at Alric’s arm in the same way Vessa had done to hers. “We have our directions. Let’s leave this blind old bat to babble her nonsense to someone else.”

Wink shrieked after them: “Release the book! Don’t jump! The dark falls forever!”

“Why am I a kicked puppy?” Vessa grumbled to Maelen, but her friend was too busy dragging Alric along to answer.

As they left Leandra’s Rest, shoulders hunched to the morning chill, they could still hear Wink’s breathless calls in the fog.

“Run or fight, but don’t jump into the darkness!”

Next: Vastren Hollow [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

XII.

Duskmarch 16, Thornsday, Year 731.

Oakton had five main city gates, and Lake Gate was the southernmost of them, positioned on the broad road running parallel to the Bay of Mists’ northern shore. It was a somewhat puzzling name since Lake Miran lay centrally within Oakton’s walls, at the very base of the mighty Argenoak. Still, Lake Gate was the primary point of passage for fisherfolk, water traders, and travelers, with access to a dozen small bayward settlements to the south. Twin towers squatted on either side of the arched gatehouse, with an aged stone wall thick with moss from the bay winds and constants mists. A carved lintel above the gate bore the relief of a swan in flight over water, one of the symbols of the Mere-Lady, goddess of fresh water, lakes, and rivers, and patron of Lake Miran.

They left just after dawn. The winter rains had broken a day earlier, and the morning air around Lake Gate carried the fresh, briny tang of the coast, mingling with the scent of fish and smoke from nearby drying racks. Gulls and reedbirds circled overhead, with the ever-present branches of the Argenoak concealing the brightening sky farther above.

Vessa thought that perhaps there were more travelers at the city walls looking to enter than she would have expected for midwinter, and all looking grim and haunted. She would have casually asked an Iron Thorn guard about it had she not had a warrant on her head, and instead pulled the hood of her travel cloak tight as she passed through the crowds, as if unused to the morning chill.

She’d forgotten how slow they needed to move thanks to Alric’s lamed foot. The man would stubbornly walk as long and far as instructed, but he would never do so quickly. As a result, they set a strolling pace south of Oakton, Alric’s runed staff jabbing the wide road amidst their footfalls.

“This bloody plan still feels half-baked,” Maelen complained. “I’d rather have faced that twice-cursed Nightwight again to get whatever’s buried in his camp, then moved south. Hadren said he’s south of where we’d gotten the book. Why not start at the Hold?”

They’d had this conversation round in circles for two days. Alric sighed, and when he spoke his voice held the lack of emotion of someone making the same points half a dozen times. He ticked off points on his ink-stained fingers. “First, because I don’t believe what’s buried near Sarin is treasure. Second, we might not survive another encounter with him. Third, the idea of Sarin gaining access to the Tome is terrifying. Fourth, Hadren also said that ‘anyone in the dark’ would know how to find this Starless Rift, and there are towns south of Oakton, not west of it.” He waggled his fingers. “Did I miss anything?”

Maelen hocked and spat into the dirt, scowling.

“You said you were going to research the Starless Rift before we left,” Vessa chimed in, trying to change the subject. “Any luck?”

Now it was the scribe’s turn to scowl. “None, I’m afraid. I could find no mention of it in the Lodge’s histories, not even in the restricted texts I’m not supposed to have access to. It’s… well, I have no idea what it is, much less where.”

“So the bloody plan is just to walk south and ask directions?” Maelen asked sourly.

“Pretty much,” Alric smiled. Vessa thought his face utterly transformed when he smiled. It was a shame he did so rarely. “I have enough coin for us to sleep in beds long enough to at least try. If we find nothing, well… I suppose then we can brave Sarin’s camp.”

“Shit plan,” Maelen grumped, and kicked a rock skittering into the long grass by the roadside. Then she blew out a breath noisily, seemed to gather herself, and added, “Well. At least we’re out of the city for a bit. Lets the heat die down a bit on Vessa’s warrant.”

“I’m still unclear why Vessa has a warrant,” Alric admitted. “What–”

“It’s stupid,” she interrupted. “Maelen picked a fight and I was blamed for it. One of the morons we… well, I stabbed, was somebody important’s son.”

“Who’s son?” Alric blinked.

Vessa shrugged and rubbed at her nose. She answered impatiently. “Don’t remember. It’ll die down. I’ve had warrants on my head before, same as Maelen.”

“Whatever for?”

“By the all the twisted knots, man! Leave it!” Vessa snapped, a sudden exasperation filling her. His constant questions about… well, everything, never ceased. Alric stopped his shuffling walk to stare at her, and she stomped past him, walking briskly ahead. “Come on! We’re making bad time and you’re too slow!” She barked over her shoulder. Alric asked something she couldn’t hear, and Maelen’s bellowed laughing filled the air.

They spoke little the rest of the day, Vessa brushing away any attempts at conversation. On their walks, she said that she would scout ahead, but it was only an excuse to be in her own head. She found herself surprisingly embarrassed by her morning outburst and simultaneously infuriated whenever Maelen’s grin caught her eye. Vessa knew that her friend thought she and Alric would be rolling in the barn sooner than later, even when the two of them genuinely had nothing in common. Handsome enough, but soft. Maelen wouldn’t bed him, so why did she think Vessa would? Teasing, like they were twelve. Ridiculous.

In the roil of her thoughts, Vessa did her best to appreciate the unseasonably beautiful weather and scenery. Through low-lying grasslands, the Long Road snaked ever southward. To the west were the forested hills of the Greenwood Rise. Every now and again, they could see the Bay of Mists to the east, the wide body of water separating Oakton from Bayren and its peninsula. Vessa had never been across the Bay, but the wide waters made her nervous. She’d heard tales of the ocean beyond Bayren, a vast never-ending expanse of undrinkable water, and the very idea of it made her queasy.

Several travelers and wagons passed them, all heading to Oakton, their breath puffing in the chill air. They told stories of monsters ravaging livestock and kidnapping children, forcing them towards the refuge behind city walls. None of the accounts matched another, though–Some swore of black dogs. Others, writhing worms. Still others, invisible things that screamed in the dark. Maelen pronounced it all “unreliable village nonsense.” No one, it seemed, had heard of the Starless Rift.

At dusk, they reached Leandra’s Rest, a small fishing hamlet nestled between reed marshes and the shore road. It consisted of little more than a few docks, its scattering of wooden houses built upon low stilts. There were shrines to the Mere-Lady and Harbormaster but no central place of worship. Indeed, the only common space in the community was its sole tavern, the Brine Spoon. Fishing nets draped the outside railings. A hand-painted, chipped sign above the door showed a wooden spoon stirring a curling wave. Vessa wondered how communities like this one survived the wilds of the Redwood Marches. Hardy folk, these villagers, and more than a little crazy.

Inside, the Brine Spoon at dinnertime was filled with the scent of fish stew and hearth smoke. The beams were hung with dried herbs, clamshell chimes, and driftwood. The floor was packed sand and oiled planks. The three of them received nods from the handful of patrons and made their way to the bar, which seemed to be carved from a single, huge bone, possibly from some sea creature that had wandered into the bay—just another reason to avoid the water, from Vessa’s perspective. Behind the bar, cloudy bottles lined crooked shelves, along with a pot of bubbling stew. A tarnished plaque with the stag sigil of Calvenor, faded but proudly displayed, had been pinned to a far wall.

Alric’s hope, since Hadren had proclaimed that “anyone in the dark” would know the Starless Rift’s whereabouts, was that they should ask villagers after the sun had set. So, the three of them ordered their stew and hunks of bread, sipped ale from clay mugs, and waited until deep into the evening.

The mood amongst the party remained tense during the meal, and Vessa was surprised when Alric asked, “So. You two are free of debt. What do you do now?”

“What?” she and Maelen answered in unison, pausing in sopping up the stew with bread.

“It’s only…” he said, his rich voice cautious. “You agreed to travel to Thornmere Hold because of your debts to the Latchkey Circle, yes? Those debts are paid. Why travel with me now?”

Maelen went back to eating her stew while Vessa waited for her to answer. After swallowing a mouthful, the broad-shouldered warrior grinned, “It’s not that complicated. I want money. Hadren said he’d give you treasure for the book. You seem inclined to give it to him, and are willing to share the treasure besides, so it’s an easy path to coin. We get you safely to Hadren. We get paid.”

“And where Maelen goes, I go,” Vessa added with casual conviction. Maelen blinked at that, a look of mild surprise. “Plus, money’s nice,” she added.

“Yes, but… then what?” Alric prompted, dipping a spoon into his bowl. He was the only one of them using a spoon. “Don’t you have goals? What do you want to do with the coin you earn? What’s it all for?”

Maelen scoffed. “You’re overthinking it, lad. Life is better with a heavy purse. Now that our debts are paid, what we make is ours to keep. We’re mercenaries, Vessa and me. This is what we do.”

“There’s got to be more to your life than that,” Alric pushed. “Don’t you have any dreams? Goals for your life?”

“Living is enough,” Maelen said with a shrug, Alric grunted but for once thought better of pursuing the conversation, and the three returned to their silent meal. The scribe likely didn’t catch it, but Vessa had known the gruff warrior well these past few years. His words had struck a nerve and set her thinking. Her eyes glazed over as she ate, less aware of her surroundings, her movements just a blink slower. In fact, Maelen’s surprising reaction caused Vessa to roll the question more seriously around in her skull. It was as her friend had said: Money was for spending, work was for money, and that was it. Or was it? She realized that her first answer had been more accurate… Vessa was here for Maelen, coin or no. But why? She scowled, irritated all over again. Alric and his blasted brain caused more problems than they solved.

Eventually, they wiped their bowls clean, licked their fingers, and finished their ale. They agreed to split up, moving individually throughout the tavern to ask patrons about the Starless Rift’s whereabouts.

The conversations proved fruitless. They heard more rumors of monsters, were bombarded by village gossip and requests for news from the city. Vessa was propositioned for sex twice, once by a tattooed, Tideborn fisherman, and another by the one-eared bartender. Her answer both times had almost started a fight, and, in the end, Alric agreed to pay twice their room rate to retain their rooms that night. The three of them went to bed early, frustrated and bickering about what to do the next day.

Duskmarch 17, Goldday, Year 731.

Over breakfast, Alric urged them to continue south to the next village. Maelen called him a fool, but said it was his coin to burn. Lacking conviction, they took longer than usual to pack their travel packs and left the Brine Spoon well after sunrise.

Clouds had gathered overhead, and morning fog still snaked its way through much of the village. As they passed through the short patch of rocky soil the locals called a village square, a voice called out in the mists.

“My, my! What do you call a mouse, rabid dog, and kicked puppy walking in darkness towards a cliff?” The voice was dry and thin with age, but clear as a bell. The three of them stopped. Vessa’s senses were sharper than the others and pointed.

“There,” she said simply. They followed her lead, and as they neared the square’s edge, the fog momentarily parted.

Sitting on an overturned fish crate near a lantern post was an old Dunfolk woman, her skin dark and leathery, her tightly coiled hair bound up in a patched, sea-green shawl. Leaning next to her was a wiry cane made of driftwood, carved with words Vessa couldn’t make out.

“Ah!” Alric’s face brightened. “The village crier, yes? What news, ma’am?”

“Ma’am?” the woman cackled. “So proper! People around here call me Wink,” she winked dramatically, still chuckling. Then she cleared her throat theatrically and said, “The shore speaks tide. The blind speak time!”

Vessa hadn’t noticed, but the old woman was indeed blind, her eyes clouded white. Yet she looked at each of their faces intently with her milky gaze, smiling with amusement. But if she couldn’t see, how did she know where they stood? It was unnerving.

“What do you want to know, son? News from passing barges? Perhaps the sex of the new Vintel child two houses yonder? Or perhaps,” she paused dramatically. “You have a more specific question? Such as…” Another pause, and she rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m always so in the dark, you see.” She waved a hand in front of her sightless face, then winked at him.

“What are you–? Oh!” Alric started, and the woman laughed again, wheezing with joy.

“What in the Rootmother’s name is going on?” Maelen leaned over and whispered to Vessa. She looked back and shrugged.

“Go on,” the woman fought to catch her breath and waved at Alric. “Tell your canine friends the joke.”

“People in the dark will know!” he said to them triumphantly. “Of course! It’s the blind. The blind know the way to the Starless Rift!” Wink whooped with joy at the proclamation, sharing in Alric’s triumph.

“I’ll be damned,” Maelen said in surprise. “So where is it then?”

“You’ll be damned?” the woman scolded. “No, no, no. You’ll be dead, dear, snapping at the hands trying to pet you, never accepting their love. The boy here is the damned one, struggling as one of the dark gods plucks him by his naked tail.”

“What did you say?” Maelen’s face glowered and her muscles tensed.

“You know of Orthuun, then?” Alric said, and at the name Wink made a warding sign over her chest and forehead. “Of his Tome?”

“Bad business, my boy, bad business,” Wink shook her head sadly. “That little book of yours is one of five, and each darker than the next. Get rid of it, if you can, for the Blind Sovereign’s shadow is falling across us all, and I fear no light will remain.”

“What do you mean I’ll be dead?” Maelen challenged, and Vessa put a hand on her muscled arm, pulling her back.

“Wait, Mae,” she whispered urgently. “Let them talk.”

“You– you’re not with Hadren? And Orthuun?” Alric asked insistently.

“I’ve lost my sight, son, not my ability to see,” she made the same warding gesture. “Free advice from an old woman? Drop that book down a deep well and run as far as you can away from here.”

“Here meaning this village?” he asked.

Wink didn’t answer right away. She looked up into the cloudy sky with those white eyes, considering. Then she shrugged with a grin. “Never mind. He’s got the whole Redwood Marches in his blackened palm. You would have to run far, or fight him back. But even if you fight and win, you must release the book. Which,” she sighed dramatically, “you probably won’t do.”

“I don’t understand,” Alric said helplessly, looking like a young boy to Vessa’s eyes. He licked his lips.

“No,” she smiled. “I don’t suspect you do. Travel well, little mouse! Two days west and the same south. There’s your Starless Rift. There’s no missing it,” she said sourly.

“Is there anything else?” Alric urged. “Anything else we need to know? Who’s Hadren? What is the Starless Rift?”

“Anything else? Hm. Let’s see…” Wink rubbed at her chin again thoughtfully. “When you get to the cliff’s edge, little mouse: Don’t jump.”

“Come on,” Maelen growled, pulling at Alric’s arm in the same way Vessa had done to hers. “We have our directions. Let’s leave this blind old bat to babble her nonsense to someone else.”

Wink shrieked after them: “Release the book! Don’t jump! The dark falls forever!”

“Why am I a kicked puppy?” Vessa grumbled to Maelen, but her friend was too busy dragging Alric along to answer.

As they left Leandra’s Rest, shoulders hunched to the morning chill, they could still hear Wink’s breathless calls in the fog.

“Run or fight, but don’t jump into the darkness!”

Next: Vastren Hollow [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

XI.

Duskmarch 12, Stillday, Year 731.

The Heart & Dagger tavern crouched near the lakeshore, its weathered sign showing a bleeding heart pierced by a long, crooked dagger. The sign hung limply in the nighttime rain, lit by two guttering, smoky torches that did their best to survive the weather.

Inside, low lanterns lit oak beams black with soot, and the air stank of smoke, ale, and spiced fish. Dunfolk traders, off-duty Iron Thorn enforcers, and a half-dozen loud drunks all competed to be heard over the constant din. Candle stubs flickered merrily atop crowded tables, their wax pooling on warped old boards.

From their back table, Vessa scanned the entrance for the hundredth time, muttering something under her breath. Her once-shaved black hair had grown to a short, boyish cut, showcasing her sharp, freckled face. Her appearance was marred only by the bent nose and, currently, a purpling black eye.

Vessa caught Maelen looking at her and muttered something. Maelen, for her part, smiled and leaned back in her chair languidly, appreciating the full tavern. She enjoyed the vibrancy of the Heart & Dagger, its energy. She was able to appreciate the buzz of tavern life so much more since her long sleep.

“He’s late!” Vessa called over the din.

“Why wouldn’t show?” the warrior grinned, all teeth. “You say he’s been asking you to a meal for two months! Maybe the boy is smitten!”

“It’s not like that,” Vessa said, defensively crossing her arms. “He sent four letters. Maybe five.”

“Ha! He’ll come, lass,” she smiled wide, and with a meaty hand slapped Vessa across the shoulder. She rocked to one side by the good-natured blow.

A small brown mouse scampered across Maelen’s shoulder and curled into the crook of her elbow. The square-jawed woman’s face softened, like a doting mother. With a thick finger, she stroked the fur between Tatter’s head and shoulders. The little creature probably wouldn’t live another year, she thought ruefully, given the general lifespan of mice. Well, she’d enjoy their time together now. After all, who knew how much time any of them had waiting for them? Her last excursion proved that point well enough.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed before Vessa announced, “He’s here!” and stood. Then, almost immediately, she slid back to sitting in her chair. Maelen saw the shocked look on her face and peered through the smoky darkness of the common room to follow her gaze.

Alric was much transformed in the two months since she’d seen him. He was still tall, his dark hair long and falling on broad shoulders. His skin was now so pale that it seemed almost white, and he wore dark robes, glistening in torchlight with wetness from the rain. He crossed the room with the same uneven gait, leaning harder on his walking stick. One by one, drinkers eased aside—some instinct, Maelen thought, catching the quiet hint of menace beneath his kind face.

As he arrived at the table, Tatter scampered across Maelen’s arm and to her lap, disappearing into the pouch there she used to carry him. The boy leaned his stick against the edge of their table, and, in the flickering candlelight, Maelen could see arcane runes carved across the full length of the wood. In addition, she could now see a circlet of blackened metal, half crown and half thorn-briar, shadowed his brow.

The scribe lowered himself to a seat across from them and nodded a greeting. His handsome face looked timid and pleased when he greeted Vessa, and she shot back a quip about his tardiness. Maelen couldn’t help but chuckle at the awkwardness between these two. She’d been right about the lad being smitten, and Vessa didn’t know how to handle it, or even perhaps to recognize it.

When he turned his dark eyes to Maelen he said in a rich baritone, “It’s good to see you up. How are you feeling?”

She raised a mug and took a long draught. “It’s good to be up, lad! You’re looking…” she waved a hand. “Different.”

“Am I?” he said with genuine confusion, looking down to examine himself. “Oh, new robes, yes. And you! Any lingering effects from Sarin’s touch? Other than the hair, of course.”

Maelen brushed fingers through her hair reflexively at the comment. One of her locks had turned gray from the Nightwight’s touch, a permanent reminder of her failure in Thornmere Hold. The battle ate at her. Both young ones could be dead because of it, saved only by Vessa’s skill with a bow, the lad’s resolve, and luck. “Just the hair,” she said, maybe a touch too harshly.

“Well,” he smiled. “I’m glad. And you, Vessa? Did you take a fall?”

“Fight,” she scowled, shooting Maelen a look. Maelen hid a smile. She’d started the brawl, but Vessa had taken the bruises. Only later did they learn their foes included a noble’s son. Now the City Watch wanted Vessa for “disturbing the peace.” “It’s fine. Just a black eye.”

The scribe looked startled for a moment, concerned. “Oh, well. I’m glad to hear you’re okay.”

“What have you been up, lad?” Maelen pushed a tankard to him across the table. “Locked away, reading that book?”

“Yes, actually,” he smiled, and took a dainty sip from the mug. “It’s called The Tome of Unlit Paths, and it’s truly fascinating. I have a good chunk of it translated, but translating it is only the first step, of course. The very ideas therein are dense ones, requiring a good deal of research into the history of this city and wider region. It was written, it seems, by a blind prophet who preached that sight itself is a lie. Imagine! A blind man writing script in his own blood! He worshipped Orthuun–called him a ‘true god’ above Oakton’s deities.”

Maelen grunted. Vessa rolled her eyes and stifled a yawn.

Alric, cheeks flushed, pressed on. “Dense work, very dense. Much of the writing is difficult to understand, honestly, but the insights into arcane practice are more than revelatory. In fact…” he took another sip, and doing so allowed him, apparently, to see the blank looks on their faces. “Ah, well. That’s all boring nonsense to you, of course. Suffice it to say, yes. I’ve had my nose buried in the book. And many scrolls, besides. The Lodge is equally annoyed and pleased with me, though of course they don’t know about our, ah… excursion.”  

He chuckled, then leaned forward to them. This close, Maelen could see the intricate pattern of his headgear. “I admit. I began to think I’d never seen you both again. What, pray tell, inspired this gathering?”

“What?” Vessa answered sharply. “We can’t just catch up?”

“We’re broke,” Maelen grinned, even as Vessa huffed and crossed her arms. “And getting out of town for a bit isn’t the worst thing, besides. We’re thinking of going back to visit our friend Sarin and get his treasure, and wondered if maybe you wanted to tag along.”

“B-broke!?” Alric gasped, eyes wide. “How can that be?” He lowered his voice, showing he’d learned since the last time they’d been at this table two months before. “What about all of the, the– gold?”

“We’ve paid off our debt to the Latchkey Circle,” Maelen said. “And with the rest, well…”

“It’s not important,” Vessa said quickly, scowling. Maelen chuckled. Her friend had never met a silver thorn she couldn’t gamble, smoke, drink, or whore away. Apparently gold crowns only meant bigger nights. Maelen had awoken from her long sleep to find their debts paid and coffers gone. The last two weeks had been lean.

The scribe’s eyes flicked between them, reading the situation. He looked at Vessa and pursed his lips, and Maelen thought he’d probably guessed the story. “Oh, I see. Well, Maelen, there’s no guarantee that what Sarin guards is treasure. This Orthuun, this Blind Sovereign, doesn’t seem to care about wealth. It could just as easily be the Nightwight’s bones when he died, or his old uniform, or something else nostalgic that’s buried there.”

“See?” Vessa shot Maelen a look. “I told you. There are safer ways to make coin.”

“If there were,” Maelen growled. “We would be excluded from knowing about them from the Circle. Our debts are paid, but they don’t want to help us, Vess. How many jobs have we gotten this month?”

“So we’re treasure hunters now?” She sat back, sulking. “Sleeping in the twice-cursed woods and fighting zombies?”

Now it was Maelen’s turn to lean forward. She grabbed Vessa’s sleeve and hissed. “That little jaunt brought us more coin than we’ve ever seen! And you’ve got a warrant on your head!”

“Fine,” Vessa pulled her arm away.

A sudden commotion at the door snapped Maelen’s head around. There, a middle-aged man with his back bent by labor called out into the common room while a trio of younger men tried belligerently to quiet him. Others in the tavern had paused their conversations to see what the fuss was about, allowing everyone to hear the man’s words.

“Alric? Alric Mistsong!? I was told Alric Mistsong would be dining here tonight!”

The scribe blinked at the words and stood. As he did so, the yelling man’s gaze swiveled directly to him. He shouldered past the younger men, grinning, while nearby patrons murmured and craned for a better view.

“There he is!” the man whooped happily, pulling an empty stool over to their table and settling into it. He wore plain homespun clothes. An intelligent but unremarkable face showed receding hair and sun-spotted skin. The man slapped the scarred wood, making their mugs jump. “Alric Mistsong!” This close, Maelen could see that his mouth was missing many of its teeth, causing his speech to lisp somewhat. “Do you remember me, son?”

Alric looked him over, and then suddenly recognition bloomed across his features. “The man at the Root Gate! Back in Frostmere, was it?”

The man laughed and slapped the table again. Across the tavern, people decided there was no show to be had and returned to their own conversations. “You do remember! Yessir. Fooled those guards when they were goin’ to arrest your friends here. Clever work, that.” He wagged an index finger in Alric’s direction.

“What’s your name, sir?” Alric asked, obviously still on edge but keeping his face calm. Maelen had always appreciated the lad’s spine.

“Hadren’s my name. Hadren Kelthorn. My, look at you! Coming into your own with this magic now, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?” Alric said, his features growing in intensity.

“That’s a fine circlet you’ve wrought,” the man grinned, peering at Alric’s forehead. “And runes on the staff. My, my. A proper sorcerer now, aren’t you? Enjoying Orthuun’s favor?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the lad said, leaning forward. “Who are you?”

“But the Tome,” Hadren continued, as if Alric hadn’t spoken. He practically hissed the word. “It’s not yours, you see. ‘The hand that opens the path is not the hand that owns it; the path itself is the master, and it will choose whom it keeps.’”

It was if the man had slapped Alric. His face rocked back, eyes bulging. “How– how?”

“Come find me at the Starless Rift, Alric Mistsong, south of where you,” The man jabbed a finger at the lad with each word. “Stole. My. Book.” Then he smiled a gap-toothed smile. “Ask anyone in the dark, they’ll tell you how to find it. If it’s wealth your friends need, I’ll trade you for what’s rightfully mine. After all, ‘gold is only light trapped in metal, and the dark will melt it like morning frost,’ eh? Where we go, son, coin is but a candle to the night.”

Maelen could sense violence brewing and was done with this madman’s ranting, so she cracked her neck and moved to stand. Vessa, always able to pick up her cues, reached for the shortsword at her hip. Hadren seemed to sense it, too, and held up both hands placatingly. Maelen and Vessa paused.

“Bring me the Tome. At the Starless Rift. You can have treasure and more for your troubles. But don’t dawdle.” Then he turned to Maelen and winked.

In a heartbeat Hadren Kelthorn collapsed into himself. His skin split to soot, his robes dissolving into black ash that sifted down like spilled flour. Maelen jumped to her feet and back, her chair knocked to the floor. Vessa and Alric did the same.

Silence swept the Heart & Dagger as the three of them froze in alarm. Maelen stared at the empty stool where Hadren had been sitting moments before.

All around the chair, black ash had landed in a perfect circle upon the floor.

Next: Leandra’s Rest [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

XI.

Duskmarch 12, Stillday, Year 731.

The Heart & Dagger tavern crouched near the lakeshore, its weathered sign showing a bleeding heart pierced by a long, crooked dagger. The sign hung limply in the nighttime rain, lit by two guttering, smoky torches that did their best to survive the weather.

Inside, low lanterns lit oak beams black with soot, and the air stank of smoke, ale, and spiced fish. Dunfolk traders, off-duty Iron Thorn enforcers, and a half-dozen loud drunks all competed to be heard over the constant din. Candle stubs flickered merrily atop crowded tables, their wax pooling on warped old boards.

From their back table, Vessa scanned the entrance for the hundredth time, muttering something under her breath. Her once-shaved black hair had grown to a short, boyish cut, showcasing her sharp, freckled face. Her appearance was marred only by the bent nose and, currently, a purpling black eye.

Vessa caught Maelen looking at her and muttered something. Maelen, for her part, smiled and leaned back in her chair languidly, appreciating the full tavern. She enjoyed the vibrancy of the Heart & Dagger, its energy. She was able to appreciate the buzz of tavern life so much more since her long sleep.

“He’s late!” Vessa called over the din.

“Why wouldn’t show?” the warrior grinned, all teeth. “You say he’s been asking you to a meal for two months! Maybe the boy is smitten!”

“It’s not like that,” Vessa said, defensively crossing her arms. “He sent four letters. Maybe five.”

“Ha! He’ll come, lass,” she smiled wide, and with a meaty hand slapped Vessa across the shoulder. She rocked to one side by the good-natured blow.

A small brown mouse scampered across Maelen’s shoulder and curled into the crook of her elbow. The square-jawed woman’s face softened, like a doting mother. With a thick finger, she stroked the fur between Tatter’s head and shoulders. The little creature probably wouldn’t live another year, she thought ruefully, given the general lifespan of mice. Well, she’d enjoy their time together now. After all, who knew how much time any of them had waiting for them? Her last excursion proved that point well enough.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed before Vessa announced, “He’s here!” and stood. Then, almost immediately, she slid back to sitting in her chair. Maelen saw the shocked look on her face and peered through the smoky darkness of the common room to follow her gaze.

Alric was much transformed in the two months since she’d seen him. He was still tall, his dark hair long and falling on broad shoulders. His skin was now so pale that it seemed almost white, and he wore dark robes, glistening in torchlight with wetness from the rain. He crossed the room with the same uneven gait, leaning harder on his walking stick. One by one, drinkers eased aside—some instinct, Maelen thought, catching the quiet hint of menace beneath his kind face.

As he arrived at the table, Tatter scampered across Maelen’s arm and to her lap, disappearing into the pouch there she used to carry him. The boy leaned his stick against the edge of their table, and, in the flickering candlelight, Maelen could see arcane runes carved across the full length of the wood. In addition, she could now see a circlet of blackened metal, half crown and half thorn-briar, shadowed his brow.

The scribe lowered himself to a seat across from them and nodded a greeting. His handsome face looked timid and pleased when he greeted Vessa, and she shot back a quip about his tardiness. Maelen couldn’t help but chuckle at the awkwardness between these two. She’d been right about the lad being smitten, and Vessa didn’t know how to handle it, or even perhaps to recognize it.

When he turned his dark eyes to Maelen he said in a rich baritone, “It’s good to see you up. How are you feeling?”

She raised a mug and took a long draught. “It’s good to be up, lad! You’re looking…” she waved a hand. “Different.”

“Am I?” he said with genuine confusion, looking down to examine himself. “Oh, new robes, yes. And you! Any lingering effects from Sarin’s touch? Other than the hair, of course.”

Maelen brushed fingers through her hair reflexively at the comment. One of her locks had turned gray from the Nightwight’s touch, a permanent reminder of her failure in Thornmere Hold. The battle ate at her. Both young ones could be dead because of it, saved only by Vessa’s skill with a bow, the lad’s resolve, and luck. “Just the hair,” she said, maybe a touch too harshly.

“Well,” he smiled. “I’m glad. And you, Vessa? Did you take a fall?”

“Fight,” she scowled, shooting Maelen a look. Maelen hid a smile. She’d started the brawl, but Vessa had taken the bruises. Only later did they learn their foes included a noble’s son. Now the City Watch wanted Vessa for “disturbing the peace.” “It’s fine. Just a black eye.”

The scribe looked startled for a moment, concerned. “Oh, well. I’m glad to hear you’re okay.”

“What have you been up, lad?” Maelen pushed a tankard to him across the table. “Locked away, reading that book?”

“Yes, actually,” he smiled, and took a dainty sip from the mug. “It’s called The Tome of Unlit Paths, and it’s truly fascinating. I have a good chunk of it translated, but translating it is only the first step, of course. The very ideas therein are dense ones, requiring a good deal of research into the history of this city and wider region. It was written, it seems, by a blind prophet who preached that sight itself is a lie. Imagine! A blind man writing script in his own blood! He worshipped Orthuun–called him a ‘true god’ above Oakton’s deities.”

Maelen grunted. Vessa rolled her eyes and stifled a yawn.

Alric, cheeks flushed, pressed on. “Dense work, very dense. Much of the writing is difficult to understand, honestly, but the insights into arcane practice are more than revelatory. In fact…” he took another sip, and doing so allowed him, apparently, to see the blank looks on their faces. “Ah, well. That’s all boring nonsense to you, of course. Suffice it to say, yes. I’ve had my nose buried in the book. And many scrolls, besides. The Lodge is equally annoyed and pleased with me, though of course they don’t know about our, ah… excursion.”  

He chuckled, then leaned forward to them. This close, Maelen could see the intricate pattern of his headgear. “I admit. I began to think I’d never seen you both again. What, pray tell, inspired this gathering?”

“What?” Vessa answered sharply. “We can’t just catch up?”

“We’re broke,” Maelen grinned, even as Vessa huffed and crossed her arms. “And getting out of town for a bit isn’t the worst thing, besides. We’re thinking of going back to visit our friend Sarin and get his treasure, and wondered if maybe you wanted to tag along.”

“B-broke!?” Alric gasped, eyes wide. “How can that be?” He lowered his voice, showing he’d learned since the last time they’d been at this table two months before. “What about all of the, the– gold?”

“We’ve paid off our debt to the Latchkey Circle,” Maelen said. “And with the rest, well…”

“It’s not important,” Vessa said quickly, scowling. Maelen chuckled. Her friend had never met a silver thorn she couldn’t gamble, smoke, drink, or whore away. Apparently gold crowns only meant bigger nights. Maelen had awoken from her long sleep to find their debts paid and coffers gone. The last two weeks had been lean.

The scribe’s eyes flicked between them, reading the situation. He looked at Vessa and pursed his lips, and Maelen thought he’d probably guessed the story. “Oh, I see. Well, Maelen, there’s no guarantee that what Sarin guards is treasure. This Orthuun, this Blind Sovereign, doesn’t seem to care about wealth. It could just as easily be the Nightwight’s bones when he died, or his old uniform, or something else nostalgic that’s buried there.”

“See?” Vessa shot Maelen a look. “I told you. There are safer ways to make coin.”

“If there were,” Maelen growled. “We would be excluded from knowing about them from the Circle. Our debts are paid, but they don’t want to help us, Vess. How many jobs have we gotten this month?”

“So we’re treasure hunters now?” She sat back, sulking. “Sleeping in the twice-cursed woods and fighting zombies?”

Now it was Maelen’s turn to lean forward. She grabbed Vessa’s sleeve and hissed. “That little jaunt brought us more coin than we’ve ever seen! And you’ve got a warrant on your head!”

“Fine,” Vessa pulled her arm away.

A sudden commotion at the door snapped Maelen’s head around. There, a middle-aged man with his back bent by labor called out into the common room while a trio of younger men tried belligerently to quiet him. Others in the tavern had paused their conversations to see what the fuss was about, allowing everyone to hear the man’s words.

“Alric? Alric Mistsong!? I was told Alric Mistsong would be dining here tonight!”

The scribe blinked at the words and stood. As he did so, the yelling man’s gaze swiveled directly to him. He shouldered past the younger men, grinning, while nearby patrons murmured and craned for a better view.

“There he is!” the man whooped happily, pulling an empty stool over to their table and settling into it. He wore plain homespun clothes. An intelligent but unremarkable face showed receding hair and sun-spotted skin. The man slapped the scarred wood, making their mugs jump. “Alric Mistsong!” This close, Maelen could see that his mouth was missing many of its teeth, causing his speech to lisp somewhat. “Do you remember me, son?”

Alric looked him over, and then suddenly recognition bloomed across his features. “The man at the Root Gate! Back in Frostmere, was it?”

The man laughed and slapped the table again. Across the tavern, people decided there was no show to be had and returned to their own conversations. “You do remember! Yessir. Fooled those guards when they were goin’ to arrest your friends here. Clever work, that.” He wagged an index finger in Alric’s direction.

“What’s your name, sir?” Alric asked, obviously still on edge but keeping his face calm. Maelen had always appreciated the lad’s spine.

“Hadren’s my name. Hadren Kelthorn. My, look at you! Coming into your own with this magic now, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?” Alric said, his features growing in intensity.

“That’s a fine circlet you’ve wrought,” the man grinned, peering at Alric’s forehead. “And runes on the staff. My, my. A proper sorcerer now, aren’t you? Enjoying Orthuun’s favor?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the lad said, leaning forward. “Who are you?”

“But the Tome,” Hadren continued, as if Alric hadn’t spoken. He practically hissed the word. “It’s not yours, you see. ‘The hand that opens the path is not the hand that owns it; the path itself is the master, and it will choose whom it keeps.’”

It was if the man had slapped Alric. His face rocked back, eyes bulging. “How– how?”

“Come find me at the Starless Rift, Alric Mistsong, south of where you,” The man jabbed a finger at the lad with each word. “Stole. My. Book.” Then he smiled a gap-toothed smile. “Ask anyone in the dark, they’ll tell you how to find it. If it’s wealth your friends need, I’ll trade you for what’s rightfully mine. After all, ‘gold is only light trapped in metal, and the dark will melt it like morning frost,’ eh? Where we go, son, coin is but a candle to the night.”

Maelen could sense violence brewing and was done with this madman’s ranting, so she cracked her neck and moved to stand. Vessa, always able to pick up her cues, reached for the shortsword at her hip. Hadren seemed to sense it, too, and held up both hands placatingly. Maelen and Vessa paused.

“Bring me the Tome. At the Starless Rift. You can have treasure and more for your troubles. But don’t dawdle.” Then he turned to Maelen and winked.

In a heartbeat Hadren Kelthorn collapsed into himself. His skin split to soot, his robes dissolving into black ash that sifted down like spilled flour. Maelen jumped to her feet and back, her chair knocked to the floor. Vessa and Alric did the same.

Silence swept the Heart & Dagger as the three of them froze in alarm. Maelen stared at the empty stool where Hadren had been sitting moments before.

All around the chair, black ash had landed in a perfect circle upon the floor.

Next: Leandra’s Rest [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

X.

Frostmere 17, Stillday, Year 731.

A twig cracked nearby. Alric froze, hand reaching for his staff as he listened into the darkness. Nothing. He exhaled but his eyes still searched the surrounding mists.

The scribe sat with his back against a tree. Insects chittered and nightbirds called out mournfully, both sounds distorted by the fog. If he concentrated on it, he could hear Vessa lightly snoring nearby, curled on her side atop a bedroll. He groaned as he pushed himself up wearily, then shuffled his way to Maelen.

The warrior had remained unconscious all day. He knelt, frowning, and listened to her shallow, inconsistent breathing. With his waterskin, Alric dribbled a few drops onto her lips and into the small gap of her open mouth. It was all he or Vessa could do. That and get her to a true healer.

All day and evening, they had dragged Maelen’s litter through the hills of the Greenwood Rise. Her condition had not improved over that time, though neither had it obviously deteriorated. She lay on her back, motionless atop the drag-sled made from scavenged wood, rope, and a Lanternless cloak. Maelen’s scabbarded sword stretched to one side of her, and that alien black mace stretched across the other. Vessa had wrapped the spiked head of the weapon with a second cloak.

Alric pressed fingers to Maelen’s neck. The pulse was there, slow and sporadic. He sighed and returned to sit against the tree, lowering himself painfully.

Every muscle in Alric’s body screamed with exhaustion. But, he mused, perhaps they had successfully evaded Sarin and the Lanternless. Perhaps they would indeed find their way back to Oakton and survive this whole ordeal, safe within the walls of the city. Perhaps, the thought crept in… he’d done it.

For the first time in days, Alric allowed himself to fully reflect on what he’d accomplished. Thanks to his sharp wit and ability to see connections in obscure texts, he had discovered the existence and location of Thornmere Hold. Then, through his Lodge connections, he’d found two trustworthy mercenaries with the skills to find the Hold, offer protection, and break into its inner vault. Moreover, he’d paid them with coin he’d pilfered from his family’s meager holdings, promising more that he didn’t possess.

Alric felt a pang of guilt about that last part, but the gods had seen the matter resolved. Before they’d camped last night, Vessa had dragged the chests from the vault into the glade. There, they’d counted more money than he’d ever seen. The group’s coin purses now bulged heavily, Vessa and Maelen taking the gold and most of the silver. It left Alric with almost seventy thorns for his own purse, plus handfuls of oaks, more than enough to return the money to his family. It was a miraculous thing, to have gambled his inheritance for this mad quest, only to find himself richer for it. He’d had a far more convoluted plan brewing that would allow him to escape the final payment to the mercenaries, but his scheming had proved unnecessary. This entire adventure was an example of why it was best to be bold, then worry about the consequences later.

Vessa hadn’t spoken much all day. It seemed obvious that she had been equal parts giddy at their sudden treasure trove, concerned for Maelen’s well-being, and vigilant against possible threats within the wilds. There was companionship in their shared silence, however. Although she still smelled faintly like a sewer, Alric found himself increasingly fond of the hired thief, Vessa Velthorn. Indeed, he found her sharp features and lithe figure haunting his idle thoughts, and he couldn’t shake the vivid memory of the fierce hug she’d given him. On some level, he knew his attraction was borne from their survival in the face of danger, but it made the feelings no less real. Too often, his eyes lingered on her bent nose and freckled cheeks, wondering what it might be like to kiss those full lips. Alric shook his head grimly. Thoughts for a later day, to be sure.

He flicked open the satchel at his waist. A chill ran down his spine, and for the whisper of a moment he thought he heard something. He snapped his gaze up, listened, but sensed nothing.

Shadows and the night veiled the satchel’s contents, but Alric knew that inside was a small, black leatherbound book. The Tome of Unlit Paths, its title, was written within, in a looping, ancient script that he could decipher with moderate effort. Just briefly flipping through its heavy parchment pages, Alric felt confident that he would expand his understanding of magic significantly with time to fully absorb its contents. He had thus far been tapping into mysterious forces purely on instinct, yet this book would help guide and train him, he was sure of it. He had, he knew with certainty, finally found a teacher to develop his gifts.

The trick would be to avoid its corruption, for he guessed that it was the Tome for which the vault in Thornmere Hold was built, not the black-metal mace, stacks of coin, or the magical scrolls that now lay rolled into his scroll case. It was a theory he had not shared with Vessa, and a topic he hoped to avoid. Within the vault, the book had been bound in its own case of black wood and was the only chest that had been locked. Indeed, his working theory was that it was this book alone that had so twisted the bodies of the two knights entombed within the Hold. Perhaps it was the call of the book that had prevented Sarin from dying long ago, and instead birthed him as the Night Captain. Perhaps even, if his theory about the Tome’s power was correct, a common spider had been unwittingly sealed within the vault, and the eyeless monster Vessa had killed was the result of a century in the book’s presence. All these horrors shared certain traits that made them seem disciples of this… demon, this Orthuun, the Blind Sovereign. Their sightless eyes and silent manner, for example. There were connections here, threads on a tapestry that Alric couldn’t fully comprehend yet. But, with the Tome of Unlit Paths, he now possessed a tool with which to understand.

Then, once filled with the knowledge found therein, he would bury or burn the book and be rid of its demonic influence. After all, hadn’t the corruption he’d witnessed occurred over a hundred years or more? He only needed days with it, no more than a week.

He clung to his vow: be bold, worry later. Thus far, this approach had served him well. Indeed, his life felt blessed by Oakton’s gods. Though Alric was no Nametakers priest, it was as if the Herald himself was using Alric as his mortal instrument for preserving history and uncovering the power within knowledge. The events that had led him here, to the Tome, against all odds, very well could be divine providence.

Amidst his musing, Tatter the mouse crept out from another belt pouch and scampered across Alric’s lap. It looked at him, small eyes twinkling in the moonlight, and squeaked once. Alric smiled and ran a finger across its skull to the base of its furry neck. The fact that the mouse had survived its time with Maelen and her violent lifestyle was its own miracle. At first, he’d thought the idea of a traveling pet for mercenaries bizarre, but Tatter’s presence was comforting, especially after brushes with horror and darkness. He was happy to have the mouse accompany him until Maelen awoke.

Tatter squeaked again, this time with some distress. In a flash, it scampered to his belt pouch and disappeared. Alric blinked and tensed, scanning the darkened campsite and listening intently.

All sounds had ceased. No nightbirds called out. No insect chittered. No trees groaned and cracked in the breeze. Everything had grown still and silent, much like the glade surrounding Thornmere Hold. Patchy mists drifted all around, gilded by silvery moonlight from above, the trees standing like dark, mute sentinels.

Vessa lay three strides away, too far to shake awake. Alric found his throat constricted with sudden fear, unwilling to call out and draw attention to himself. Slowly, slowly, he returned the black book to its pouch—when had he removed it?—and reached for his staff.

The light in the campsite dimmed noticeably. Alric glanced up, and his eyes went wide. The moon had begun to turn black, as if someone had spilled ink upon a white dinner plate. The blackness crept inexorably across its celestial surface, until it was nothing but a black circle, limned ever so subtly in white against the night sky. Was he still awake? His pounding heart insisted he was.

Maelen shifted, the first movement he’d seen from her since the battle with Sarin. Her face twisted as if in pain, her body twitching. It looked as if she were moaning in agony, but Alric could hear nothing.

He pushed himself stiffly up, leaning his staff into the forest floor, his back still against the rough bark of a tree. Once he’d fully stood, the mists parted to reveal dark figures moving outside the campsite. There were four of them that he could see, each tall, black silhouettes, faces hidden beneath heavy cloaks and each holding an unlit lantern. Had Sarin returned, with a host of Nightwights? Alric’s eyes rolled in terror, his breath catching. Knuckles white on his staff, he shuffled through the fallen leaves and dirt towards the silent procession. Why he moved forward and not to wake Vessa, he couldn’t say. He would only later realize that his movements made no sound, as if he’d been struck deaf.

The four figures passed by, moving in loping, smooth steps. Alric stood, heart hammering, as they proceeded through the mists, never looking at him. The mountain fog enveloped the procession, one by one, until the last in line remained. Only then did it turn its shadowed, hooded head to look at him. Alric could do nothing but stare as it raised a white, bony hand to point in his direction. Then it too was gone.

Moonlight gradually brightened the woods, and with it the sounds of insects and nightbirds. Alric heard his own gasping, panting breath as he sunk to one knee. Then he vomited into the fallen leaves.

He did not wake Vessa for her watch. As the forest slowly awakened with sound, Alric’s heart pounded and worry gnawed at what the visitation might mean.

Frostmere 18, Moonday, Year 731.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Alric wheezed. He paused for the hundredth time that day to mop his brow and stretch his back.

Proceeding down the hill towards the Root Road had been far easier than traveling up the Greenwood Rise, but keeping Maelen’s unconscious form safe on the way down had been harrowing. He and Vessa were both bruised, bloody from whipping branches, and filthy. To make matters worse, today the fog had settled overhead into a thin, dismal rain. His hair clung to his face and neck, his robes hung heavy, damp, and muddy. Every muscle, tendon, and bone in his body ached with weariness and the need to rest, his lamed leg most of all.

“What is it?” Vessa asked. Without her hair, moisture collected in her eyebrows and spilled down her face. The thief already had the habit of rubbing at her bent nose, but today she also constantly shook her head like a dog to free it of water.

“We’re close,” Alric sighed, nodding with his chin to the road. “Here is where you’d turn up the hills to Skywarden Tower. If it were a clear day, I suspect we’d be able to see the Argenoak already.”

“Great,” Vessa smiled, then shook her head, spraying droplets of water. “I need a warm fire, a dry blanket, and a bed.”

Unwittingly, the vision of a tall, cloaked figure pointing a bony finger at him filled Alric’s mind. He winced and banished the image.

“That makes two of us,” He said wearily. Then, before they began dragging the litter once more, he asked, “What will you do now? With the gold?”

“Mm,” Vessa mused. “Get Maelen a proper healer first, of course. Then… well, we have debts.”

Alric scoffed. “Surely not more debt than you have gold, now?”

Vessa shrugged a thin, pale shoulder. She’d used her cloak to reinforce Maelen’s litter so was unprotected from the rain and chill of the day. “I guess we’ll see. And you’re sure you’re fine with us keeping the gold and mace?”

Alric cocked a grin. “If it will help your debts, yes. I have little need for gold once our expedition is done. I have the scrolls and book, which is more than I could have hoped for.”

Vessa shook her head in disbelief. “I’ve never met a person who refused gold, but I’m thankful for it. Mae will be too. So… that’s what next for you? Reading in an uncomfortable chair in a cramped room somewhere by candlelight?”

“That’s right,” then added somewhat defensively. “It’s a nicer vision than you make it sound.”

She smiled with white teeth, and his attraction stirred. Vessa looked like a drowned cat in this weather, but it made her no less lovely. “If you say so.”

“When Maelen is recovered,” Alric said, returning the smile. “Let’s have dinner, the three of us.”

“Done,” she nodded. “Now let’s get going. It’s not getting drier or warmer out here.”

“And you’re paying!” Alric added as he leaned to pick up his side of the litter.

She laughed. It was a wonderful sound, her laugh, full of surprise and wit, and utterly genuine.

The sound almost pushed the ominous foreboding of the night before out of his mind.

Almost… but the image of that cloaked procession… the pointing white finger… the blackened moon. Those images still sat there, etched into his waking thoughts, all through the dreary slog to Oakton.   

END STORY 1: THORNMERE HOLD

Next: Level 2 (warning: all game notes)

Then: A Message For Alric [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

X.

Frostmere 17, Stillday, Year 731.

A twig cracked nearby. Alric froze, hand reaching for his staff as he listened into the darkness. Nothing. He exhaled but his eyes still searched the surrounding mists.

The scribe sat with his back against a tree. Insects chittered and nightbirds called out mournfully, both sounds distorted by the fog. If he concentrated on it, he could hear Vessa lightly snoring nearby, curled on her side atop a bedroll. He groaned as he pushed himself up wearily, then shuffled his way to Maelen.

The warrior had remained unconscious all day. He knelt, frowning, and listened to her shallow, inconsistent breathing. With his waterskin, Alric dribbled a few drops onto her lips and into the small gap of her open mouth. It was all he or Vessa could do. That and get her to a true healer.

All day and evening, they had dragged Maelen’s litter through the hills of the Greenwood Rise. Her condition had not improved over that time, though neither had it obviously deteriorated. She lay on her back, motionless atop the drag-sled made from scavenged wood, rope, and a Lanternless cloak. Maelen’s scabbarded sword stretched to one side of her, and that alien black mace stretched across the other. Vessa had wrapped the spiked head of the weapon with a second cloak.

Alric pressed fingers to Maelen’s neck. The pulse was there, slow and sporadic. He sighed and returned to sit against the tree, lowering himself painfully.

Every muscle in Alric’s body screamed with exhaustion. But, he mused, perhaps they had successfully evaded Sarin and the Lanternless. Perhaps they would indeed find their way back to Oakton and survive this whole ordeal, safe within the walls of the city. Perhaps, the thought crept in… he’d done it.

For the first time in days, Alric allowed himself to fully reflect on what he’d accomplished. Thanks to his sharp wit and ability to see connections in obscure texts, he had discovered the existence and location of Thornmere Hold. Then, through his Lodge connections, he’d found two trustworthy mercenaries with the skills to find the Hold, offer protection, and break into its inner vault. Moreover, he’d paid them with coin he’d pilfered from his family’s meager holdings, promising more that he didn’t possess.

Alric felt a pang of guilt about that last part, but the gods had seen the matter resolved. Before they’d camped last night, Vessa had dragged the chests from the vault into the glade. There, they’d counted more money than he’d ever seen. The group’s coin purses now bulged heavily, Vessa and Maelen taking the gold and most of the silver. It left Alric with almost seventy thorns for his own purse, plus handfuls of oaks, more than enough to return the money to his family. It was a miraculous thing, to have gambled his inheritance for this mad quest, only to find himself richer for it. He’d had a far more convoluted plan brewing that would allow him to escape the final payment to the mercenaries, but his scheming had proved unnecessary. This entire adventure was an example of why it was best to be bold, then worry about the consequences later.

Vessa hadn’t spoken much all day. It seemed obvious that she had been equal parts giddy at their sudden treasure trove, concerned for Maelen’s well-being, and vigilant against possible threats within the wilds. There was companionship in their shared silence, however. Although she still smelled faintly like a sewer, Alric found himself increasingly fond of the hired thief, Vessa Velthorn. Indeed, he found her sharp features and lithe figure haunting his idle thoughts, and he couldn’t shake the vivid memory of the fierce hug she’d given him. On some level, he knew his attraction was borne from their survival in the face of danger, but it made the feelings no less real. Too often, his eyes lingered on her bent nose and freckled cheeks, wondering what it might be like to kiss those full lips. Alric shook his head grimly. Thoughts for a later day, to be sure.

He flicked open the satchel at his waist. A chill ran down his spine, and for the whisper of a moment he thought he heard something. He snapped his gaze up, listened, but sensed nothing.

Shadows and the night veiled the satchel’s contents, but Alric knew that inside was a small, black leatherbound book. The Tome of Unlit Paths, its title, was written within, in a looping, ancient script that he could decipher with moderate effort. Just briefly flipping through its heavy parchment pages, Alric felt confident that he would expand his understanding of magic significantly with time to fully absorb its contents. He had thus far been tapping into mysterious forces purely on instinct, yet this book would help guide and train him, he was sure of it. He had, he knew with certainty, finally found a teacher to develop his gifts.

The trick would be to avoid its corruption, for he guessed that it was the Tome for which the vault in Thornmere Hold was built, not the black-metal mace, stacks of coin, or the magical scrolls that now lay rolled into his scroll case. It was a theory he had not shared with Vessa, and a topic he hoped to avoid. Within the vault, the book had been bound in its own case of black wood and was the only chest that had been locked. Indeed, his working theory was that it was this book alone that had so twisted the bodies of the two knights entombed within the Hold. Perhaps it was the call of the book that had prevented Sarin from dying long ago, and instead birthed him as the Night Captain. Perhaps even, if his theory about the Tome’s power was correct, a common spider had been unwittingly sealed within the vault, and the eyeless monster Vessa had killed was the result of a century in the book’s presence. All these horrors shared certain traits that made them seem disciples of this… demon, this Orthuun, the Blind Sovereign. Their sightless eyes and silent manner, for example. There were connections here, threads on a tapestry that Alric couldn’t fully comprehend yet. But, with the Tome of Unlit Paths, he now possessed a tool with which to understand.

Then, once filled with the knowledge found therein, he would bury or burn the book and be rid of its demonic influence. After all, hadn’t the corruption he’d witnessed occurred over a hundred years or more? He only needed days with it, no more than a week.

He clung to his vow: be bold, worry later. Thus far, this approach had served him well. Indeed, his life felt blessed by Oakton’s gods. Though Alric was no Nametakers priest, it was as if the Herald himself was using Alric as his mortal instrument for preserving history and uncovering the power within knowledge. The events that had led him here, to the Tome, against all odds, very well could be divine providence.

Amidst his musing, Tatter the mouse crept out from another belt pouch and scampered across Alric’s lap. It looked at him, small eyes twinkling in the moonlight, and squeaked once. Alric smiled and ran a finger across its skull to the base of its furry neck. The fact that the mouse had survived its time with Maelen and her violent lifestyle was its own miracle. At first, he’d thought the idea of a traveling pet for mercenaries bizarre, but Tatter’s presence was comforting, especially after brushes with horror and darkness. He was happy to have the mouse accompany him until Maelen awoke.

Tatter squeaked again, this time with some distress. In a flash, it scampered to his belt pouch and disappeared. Alric blinked and tensed, scanning the darkened campsite and listening intently.

All sounds had ceased. No nightbirds called out. No insect chittered. No trees groaned and cracked in the breeze. Everything had grown still and silent, much like the glade surrounding Thornmere Hold. Patchy mists drifted all around, gilded by silvery moonlight from above, the trees standing like dark, mute sentinels.

Vessa lay three strides away, too far to shake awake. Alric found his throat constricted with sudden fear, unwilling to call out and draw attention to himself. Slowly, slowly, he returned the black book to its pouch—when had he removed it?—and reached for his staff.

The light in the campsite dimmed noticeably. Alric glanced up, and his eyes went wide. The moon had begun to turn black, as if someone had spilled ink upon a white dinner plate. The blackness crept inexorably across its celestial surface, until it was nothing but a black circle, limned ever so subtly in white against the night sky. Was he still awake? His pounding heart insisted he was.

Maelen shifted, the first movement he’d seen from her since the battle with Sarin. Her face twisted as if in pain, her body twitching. It looked as if she were moaning in agony, but Alric could hear nothing.

He pushed himself stiffly up, leaning his staff into the forest floor, his back still against the rough bark of a tree. Once he’d fully stood, the mists parted to reveal dark figures moving outside the campsite. There were four of them that he could see, each tall, black silhouettes, faces hidden beneath heavy cloaks and each holding an unlit lantern. Had Sarin returned, with a host of Nightwights? Alric’s eyes rolled in terror, his breath catching. Knuckles white on his staff, he shuffled through the fallen leaves and dirt towards the silent procession. Why he moved forward and not to wake Vessa, he couldn’t say. He would only later realize that his movements made no sound, as if he’d been struck deaf.

The four figures passed by, moving in loping, smooth steps. Alric stood, heart hammering, as they proceeded through the mists, never looking at him. The mountain fog enveloped the procession, one by one, until the last in line remained. Only then did it turn its shadowed, hooded head to look at him. Alric could do nothing but stare as it raised a white, bony hand to point in his direction. Then it too was gone.

Moonlight gradually brightened the woods, and with it the sounds of insects and nightbirds. Alric heard his own gasping, panting breath as he sunk to one knee. Then he vomited into the fallen leaves.

He did not wake Vessa for her watch. As the forest slowly awakened with sound, Alric’s heart pounded and worry gnawed at what the visitation might mean.

Frostmere 18, Moonday, Year 731.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Alric wheezed. He paused for the hundredth time that day to mop his brow and stretch his back.

Proceeding down the hill towards the Root Road had been far easier than traveling up the Greenwood Rise, but keeping Maelen’s unconscious form safe on the way down had been harrowing. He and Vessa were both bruised, bloody from whipping branches, and filthy. To make matters worse, today the fog had settled overhead into a thin, dismal rain. His hair clung to his face and neck, his robes hung heavy, damp, and muddy. Every muscle, tendon, and bone in his body ached with weariness and the need to rest, his lamed leg most of all.

“What is it?” Vessa asked. Without her hair, moisture collected in her eyebrows and spilled down her face. The thief already had the habit of rubbing at her bent nose, but today she also constantly shook her head like a dog to free it of water.

“We’re close,” Alric sighed, nodding with his chin to the road. “Here is where you’d turn up the hills to Skywarden Tower. If it were a clear day, I suspect we’d be able to see the Argenoak already.”

“Great,” Vessa smiled, then shook her head, spraying droplets of water. “I need a warm fire, a dry blanket, and a bed.”

Unwittingly, the vision of a tall, cloaked figure pointing a bony finger at him filled Alric’s mind. He winced and banished the image.

“That makes two of us,” He said wearily. Then, before they began dragging the litter once more, he asked, “What will you do now? With the gold?”

“Mm,” Vessa mused. “Get Maelen a proper healer first, of course. Then… well, we have debts.”

Alric scoffed. “Surely not more debt than you have gold, now?”

Vessa shrugged a thin, pale shoulder. She’d used her cloak to reinforce Maelen’s litter so was unprotected from the rain and chill of the day. “I guess we’ll see. And you’re sure you’re fine with us keeping the gold and mace?”

Alric cocked a grin. “If it will help your debts, yes. I have little need for gold once our expedition is done. I have the scrolls and book, which is more than I could have hoped for.”

Vessa shook her head in disbelief. “I’ve never met a person who refused gold, but I’m thankful for it. Mae will be too. So… that’s what next for you? Reading in an uncomfortable chair in a cramped room somewhere by candlelight?”

“That’s right,” then added somewhat defensively. “It’s a nicer vision than you make it sound.”

She smiled with white teeth, and his attraction stirred. Vessa looked like a drowned cat in this weather, but it made her no less lovely. “If you say so.”

“When Maelen is recovered,” Alric said, returning the smile. “Let’s have dinner, the three of us.”

“Done,” she nodded. “Now let’s get going. It’s not getting drier or warmer out here.”

“And you’re paying!” Alric added as he leaned to pick up his side of the litter.

She laughed. It was a wonderful sound, her laugh, full of surprise and wit, and utterly genuine.

The sound almost pushed the ominous foreboding of the night before out of his mind.

Almost… but the image of that cloaked procession… the pointing white finger… the blackened moon. Those images still sat there, etched into his waking thoughts, all through the dreary slog to Oakton.   

END STORY 1: THORNMERE HOLD

Next: Level 2 (warning: all game notes)

Then: A Message For Alric [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

IX.

Frostmere 16, Hearthday, Year 731.

“What are you waiting for? Help her!” Vessa blurted. Tears streaked her cheeks as she sat by helplessly. The stone floor bruised her knees and the cut on her arm burned, but none of that mattered right now. All that mattered was her friend.

Maelen lay sprawled on her back, arms splayed as if after a night of carousing. Bloody drool trickled from the corner of her mouth and down to one ear. Maelen’s skin looked ashen and sallow, her closed eyes sunken. For some reason, most disturbing to Vessa was the wide lock upon Maelen’s head that had turned a dull gray amidst her otherwise black hair. What had Sarin done to her? She couldn’t die and leave Vessa all alone. And yet, Maelen’s desperate and hopeless scream would haunt her dreams for years to come. How could she still be alive after the Nightwight’s dread touch? Was Vessa doomed to witness all the Larkhands’ deaths but never join them? Was she… alone? New tears blurred her vision.

The scribe hadn’t answered her. He had a hand on each side of Maelen’s head, above each ear, and he was murmuring something, eyes closed. Vessa wanted to throw him off her friend and beat the boy senseless, but she knew on some level that he was trying to help. Had he banished Sarin’s darkness, or had the magic disappeared when the Nightwight vanished? Vessa could have sworn she’d seen Alric, as the blackness had dissipated like lingering smoke, with eyes closed and murmuring just as he was doing now. Could he use magic, this lamed, ink-fingered scribe?

Suddenly, Maelen inhaled once, sharp and deep, her back arching. Then she exhaled with a moan and stilled. Alric’s eyes fluttered open and he looked down, releasing her head and frowning.

“I… I’ve done all I can,” he said weakly. He sounded… uncertain. Fragile. “She lives, for now. But I’m no healer, and don’t truly understand what’s hap–”

Before she realized she was doing it, Vessa lunged at Alric and fiercely embraced him. It was awkward with them both on their knees, and they almost toppled over. He stiffened, and then hesitantly returned the hug, patting her back with one hand.

Vessa released him without a word, sniffled loudly, and set to caretaking Maelen. She wiped the drool from her face, cut the shirt from the tracker she’d killed and used it to wrap Maelen’s hip where she’d taken a sword wound, and then pushed her friend’s bedroll beneath her unconscious head. Tatter, still nestled in a belt pouch, appeared unharmed. She left him there, hoping his presence might comfort Maelen. That done, she used yet more Lanternless shirt to bind her arm wound, then went about carefully extinguishing two of the torches to extend their chances at retaining light. When she felt satisfied, she looked up to find Alric’s back to her. He was studying the black, basalt door at the back of the room.

She stood, limbs protesting, and approached him. “This torch won’t last much longer,” she said into the silence. “And the other two won’t either. We need to get ourselves and Maelen out of here.”

“Mmm,” Alric said thoughtfully, his voice his own again. “And yet, wouldn’t Maelen want us to see what the Lodge has been hiding, all these many years? I can almost hear her berating us for not opening the door.”

She cocked her head. “For all we know, a whole host of silent zombies will spill out of that door.”

“I doubt it,” he said, turning to regard her. “The knights Meren and Edran had volunteered to guard this place for eternity. I don’t imagine that there is another company of noble warriors waiting beyond. The documents in this room are fascinating, but it’s not why Thornmere Hold was built.”

“What do you think is there, then?” she asked. Her stubbled scalp was still novel and startling, and she found herself rubbing a palm across it, watching him.

“I… don’t know, honestly,” he exhaled. “But I can sense… something. Some sort of power.”

“Which could be something that will tear our limbs off…” Vessa said with a smirk.

She had meant it as a joke, but he scoffed with irritation. “Aren’t you a thief?” he said, mouth twisting. “Don’t you want treasure? There is something important in there.”

The palm rubbing across her scalp stilled and she regarded the man before her. He leaned on his staff with both hands, knuckles white as they clutched the wood. His dark eyes almost pleaded with her, though they darted around, never lingering on one thing overly long. He was terrified, this young scribe, and yet desperate to see what lay beyond the heavy black door. Vessa considered for a moment whether Alric had known all along what lay in Thornmere Hold and had withheld it from them but quickly discarded the idea. It was the mystery beyond that door that was battering at him.

“Fine,” she shrugged a shoulder.

Before Sarin and his Lanternless had arrived, Vessa had worked out how to slip past the arcane seal on the vault door without triggering whatever would happen if opened. She’d also already unlocked the two wheel-locks, untrapped, with her tools. As a result, it took her remarkably little time to open the large, black door before her. She barked clipped instructions for Alric on the position of the dwindling torch, and, thanks to a series of fingertip presses in a complex pattern she’d worked out based on the slight wear of the inlaid bronze. The seal hissed like escaping steam, rotated with a click, and pulsed once with a sickly green light before fading.

Then silence.

The dying flame of the torch was almost entirely gone. She lit a second torch from the first just before it died, the new flame sputtering weakly. Alric took it, but it already burned with a desperate flicker.

“We don’t have much time,” she said. “Let’s see what’s inside.”

Legs straining, she leaned forward and pushed the central wheel lock. There was a crack as the seal of the vault door broke free from its frame, but the door swung open easily and without incident.

“By the Herald,” Alric whispered in awe. He stepped forward, torch held aloft.

It was a small room, perhaps five or six strides across each side, with the same high ceiling as the previous chamber. Flickering light showed three iron-bound wooden chests upon the stone floor and a fourth, smaller than the others but entirely iron, lay nestled in a corner. Upon the wall, displayed by two iron hooks, hung a large, spiked mace that was entirely black and unlike anything Vessa had seen before. A fancy gilded lantern hung from a hook near the door, but upon inspection it contained no oil with which to light it. She did spy, however, the detailed, inscribed emblem of the stag upon the lantern, a symbol of the Princehold of Calvenor, not Oakton or one of its guilds. She didn’t know why a symbol of the Princehold hung here, so far from the Tower of Public Record, but she’d seen that stag stamped on royal warrants before, and if the lantern’s filigree was real gold… the lantern itself might be worth more than Alric was paying them for this job.

Her lips tugged into a grin. Alric had been correct to push them to open the vault door. She guessed that at least one of those chests contained coins. There could be ancient artifacts here. Magical trinkets. The contents of this place might even pay off her and Maelen’s debt to the Latchkey Circle!

“We don’t have much light left,” Vessa said, clapping Alric on the shoulder and stepping into the center of the room. “Let’s see what we can carry, and we’ll come back for the–”

She paused. Alric stood still and unmoving, staring up and wide-eyed. She followed his gaze.

The ceiling was vaulted with stone ribs, like the previous one, meant to prevent collapse. Yet here, strung across the space above was something like spiderwebs, though appearing jet black in the fading light.

Clinging to those dark webs was an enormous spider. Its massive, bloated body looked as large as a person and covered in chitinous black plates, the smooth surface reflecting the torchlight below. Perhaps most unnerving, unlike a spider it had absolutely no eyes… just a black, shiny ball for a head, bristling with mandibles. At first Vessa thought it was a desiccated husk, until one long limb twitched, cracking the webbing as it moved.

Without consciously deciding, Vessa was backing up, moving as silently as she’d been trained to do. Alric hesitated a heartbeat, then did likewise. Once they both had exited beyond the vault door, the scribe stumbled and backpedaled with a gasp.

Whether it was the sudden sound, movement, or a chance at freedom, the enormous eyeless spider dropped to the stone floor. It bobbed once on its long, shiny black legs, and then it advanced without sound.

Vessa dashed towards the room’s entrance. When she’d stripped him of the shirt she’d used to bind both her and Maelen’s wounds, she’d placed the tracker’s bow and quiver of arrows aside. Vessa was a competent shot with a bow, though she generally disliked the feel of wearing them on long journeys and the labor involved in maintaining the bowstring. She had no desire to engage the enormous black spider in melee, however.

By the time she’d raised the bow and nocked an arrow, the creature loomed over Alric, two long legs raised like it was going to embrace him. Once again, she found herself impressed at the young scribe’s moxy. He held the dwindling torch in front of him, swinging it back and forth and yelling to keep it away. As she pulled back the arrow’s feathers to her ear and aimed, however, the spider lunged forward, its head descending near Alric’s shoulder. He cried out and she loosed. The arrow buried itself in the thing’s bloated body and it jumped off Alric as if shocked. It didn’t make a single sound, however, just like the zombies. Whatever magic was corrupting the creatures in Thornmere Hold, it seemed to rob its victims of their eyes and voices. The effect was wholly unnerving.

With practiced grace, Vessa pulled a second arrow from the quiver lying on the floor at her knee. From the crouch she readied another shot. The giant, shining spider reared up again, raising its two front legs over Alric’s stagging form, torch faltering and almost out, and Vessa fired.

The arrow punched through the black shell of its head, and the spider reared violently. Its limbs curled as if in pain, then it collapsed in a heap, twitching once more before going still.

Only Alric’s shuddering gasps and the hammering of Vessa’s heart broke the silence in Thornmere Hold.

Next: Unlit Procession [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

IX.

Frostmere 16, Hearthday, Year 731.

“What are you waiting for? Help her!” Vessa blurted. Tears streaked her cheeks as she sat by helplessly. The stone floor bruised her knees and the cut on her arm burned, but none of that mattered right now. All that mattered was her friend.

Maelen lay sprawled on her back, arms splayed as if after a night of carousing. Bloody drool trickled from the corner of her mouth and down to one ear. Maelen’s skin looked ashen and sallow, her closed eyes sunken. For some reason, most disturbing to Vessa was the wide lock upon Maelen’s head that had turned a dull gray amidst her otherwise black hair. What had Sarin done to her? She couldn’t die and leave Vessa all alone. And yet, Maelen’s desperate and hopeless scream would haunt her dreams for years to come. How could she still be alive after the Nightwight’s dread touch? Was Vessa doomed to witness all the Larkhands’ deaths but never join them? Was she… alone? New tears blurred her vision.

The scribe hadn’t answered her. He had a hand on each side of Maelen’s head, above each ear, and he was murmuring something, eyes closed. Vessa wanted to throw him off her friend and beat the boy senseless, but she knew on some level that he was trying to help. Had he banished Sarin’s darkness, or had the magic disappeared when the Nightwight vanished? Vessa could have sworn she’d seen Alric, as the blackness had dissipated like lingering smoke, with eyes closed and murmuring just as he was doing now. Could he use magic, this lamed, ink-fingered scribe?

Suddenly, Maelen inhaled once, sharp and deep, her back arching. Then she exhaled with a moan and stilled. Alric’s eyes fluttered open and he looked down, releasing her head and frowning.

“I… I’ve done all I can,” he said weakly. He sounded… uncertain. Fragile. “She lives, for now. But I’m no healer, and don’t truly understand what’s hap–”

Before she realized she was doing it, Vessa lunged at Alric and fiercely embraced him. It was awkward with them both on their knees, and they almost toppled over. He stiffened, and then hesitantly returned the hug, patting her back with one hand.

Vessa released him without a word, sniffled loudly, and set to caretaking Maelen. She wiped the drool from her face, cut the shirt from the tracker she’d killed and used it to wrap Maelen’s hip where she’d taken a sword wound, and then pushed her friend’s bedroll beneath her unconscious head. Tatter, still nestled in a belt pouch, appeared unharmed. She left him there, hoping his presence might comfort Maelen. That done, she used yet more Lanternless shirt to bind her arm wound, then went about carefully extinguishing two of the torches to extend their chances at retaining light. When she felt satisfied, she looked up to find Alric’s back to her. He was studying the black, basalt door at the back of the room.

She stood, limbs protesting, and approached him. “This torch won’t last much longer,” she said into the silence. “And the other two won’t either. We need to get ourselves and Maelen out of here.”

“Mmm,” Alric said thoughtfully, his voice his own again. “And yet, wouldn’t Maelen want us to see what the Lodge has been hiding, all these many years? I can almost hear her berating us for not opening the door.”

She cocked her head. “For all we know, a whole host of silent zombies will spill out of that door.”

“I doubt it,” he said, turning to regard her. “The knights Meren and Edran had volunteered to guard this place for eternity. I don’t imagine that there is another company of noble warriors waiting beyond. The documents in this room are fascinating, but it’s not why Thornmere Hold was built.”

“What do you think is there, then?” she asked. Her stubbled scalp was still novel and startling, and she found herself rubbing a palm across it, watching him.

“I… don’t know, honestly,” he exhaled. “But I can sense… something. Some sort of power.”

“Which could be something that will tear our limbs off…” Vessa said with a smirk.

She had meant it as a joke, but he scoffed with irritation. “Aren’t you a thief?” he said, mouth twisting. “Don’t you want treasure? There is something important in there.”

The palm rubbing across her scalp stilled and she regarded the man before her. He leaned on his staff with both hands, knuckles white as they clutched the wood. His dark eyes almost pleaded with her, though they darted around, never lingering on one thing overly long. He was terrified, this young scribe, and yet desperate to see what lay beyond the heavy black door. Vessa considered for a moment whether Alric had known all along what lay in Thornmere Hold and had withheld it from them but quickly discarded the idea. It was the mystery beyond that door that was battering at him.

“Fine,” she shrugged a shoulder.

Before Sarin and his Lanternless had arrived, Vessa had worked out how to slip past the arcane seal on the vault door without triggering whatever would happen if opened. She’d also already unlocked the two wheel-locks, untrapped, with her tools. As a result, it took her remarkably little time to open the large, black door before her. She barked clipped instructions for Alric on the position of the dwindling torch, and, thanks to a series of fingertip presses in a complex pattern she’d worked out based on the slight wear of the inlaid bronze. The seal hissed like escaping steam, rotated with a click, and pulsed once with a sickly green light before fading.

Then silence.

The dying flame of the torch was almost entirely gone. She lit a second torch from the first just before it died, the new flame sputtering weakly. Alric took it, but it already burned with a desperate flicker.

“We don’t have much time,” she said. “Let’s see what’s inside.”

Legs straining, she leaned forward and pushed the central wheel lock. There was a crack as the seal of the vault door broke free from its frame, but the door swung open easily and without incident.

“By the Herald,” Alric whispered in awe. He stepped forward, torch held aloft.

It was a small room, perhaps five or six strides across each side, with the same high ceiling as the previous chamber. Flickering light showed three iron-bound wooden chests upon the stone floor and a fourth, smaller than the others but entirely iron, lay nestled in a corner. Upon the wall, displayed by two iron hooks, hung a large, spiked mace that was entirely black and unlike anything Vessa had seen before. A fancy gilded lantern hung from a hook near the door, but upon inspection it contained no oil with which to light it. She did spy, however, the detailed, inscribed emblem of the stag upon the lantern, a symbol of the Princehold of Calvenor, not Oakton or one of its guilds. She didn’t know why a symbol of the Princehold hung here, so far from the Tower of Public Record, but she’d seen that stag stamped on royal warrants before, and if the lantern’s filigree was real gold… the lantern itself might be worth more than Alric was paying them for this job.

Her lips tugged into a grin. Alric had been correct to push them to open the vault door. She guessed that at least one of those chests contained coins. There could be ancient artifacts here. Magical trinkets. The contents of this place might even pay off her and Maelen’s debt to the Latchkey Circle!

“We don’t have much light left,” Vessa said, clapping Alric on the shoulder and stepping into the center of the room. “Let’s see what we can carry, and we’ll come back for the–”

She paused. Alric stood still and unmoving, staring up and wide-eyed. She followed his gaze.

The ceiling was vaulted with stone ribs, like the previous one, meant to prevent collapse. Yet here, strung across the space above was something like spiderwebs, though appearing jet black in the fading light.

Clinging to those dark webs was an enormous spider. Its massive, bloated body looked as large as a person and covered in chitinous black plates, the smooth surface reflecting the torchlight below. Perhaps most unnerving, unlike a spider it had absolutely no eyes… just a black, shiny ball for a head, bristling with mandibles. At first Vessa thought it was a desiccated husk, until one long limb twitched, cracking the webbing as it moved.

Without consciously deciding, Vessa was backing up, moving as silently as she’d been trained to do. Alric hesitated a heartbeat, then did likewise. Once they both had exited beyond the vault door, the scribe stumbled and backpedaled with a gasp.

Whether it was the sudden sound, movement, or a chance at freedom, the enormous eyeless spider dropped to the stone floor. It bobbed once on its long, shiny black legs, and then it advanced without sound.

Vessa dashed towards the room’s entrance. When she’d stripped him of the shirt she’d used to bind both her and Maelen’s wounds, she’d placed the tracker’s bow and quiver of arrows aside. Vessa was a competent shot with a bow, though she generally disliked the feel of wearing them on long journeys and the labor involved in maintaining the bowstring. She had no desire to engage the enormous black spider in melee, however.

By the time she’d raised the bow and nocked an arrow, the creature loomed over Alric, two long legs raised like it was going to embrace him. Once again, she found herself impressed at the young scribe’s moxy. He held the dwindling torch in front of him, swinging it back and forth and yelling to keep it away. As she pulled back the arrow’s feathers to her ear and aimed, however, the spider lunged forward, its head descending near Alric’s shoulder. He cried out and she loosed. The arrow buried itself in the thing’s bloated body and it jumped off Alric as if shocked. It didn’t make a single sound, however, just like the zombies. Whatever magic was corrupting the creatures in Thornmere Hold, it seemed to rob its victims of their eyes and voices. The effect was wholly unnerving.

With practiced grace, Vessa pulled a second arrow from the quiver lying on the floor at her knee. From the crouch she readied another shot. The giant, shining spider reared up again, raising its two front legs over Alric’s stagging form, torch faltering and almost out, and Vessa fired.

The arrow punched through the black shell of its head, and the spider reared violently. Its limbs curled as if in pain, then it collapsed in a heap, twitching once more before going still.

Only Alric’s shuddering gasps and the hammering of Vessa’s heart broke the silence in Thornmere Hold.

Next: Unlit Procession [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

VIII.

Frostmere 16, Hearthday, Year 731.

Alric’s mouth went dry. The Nightwight was here?! In Thornmere Hold? But… but there were no other exits! The air felt suddenly thinner, the stone walls closer. The heavy vault door at their backs may as well have been a cliff face. There was nowhere to run. His mind whirled. They were trapped.

“Now, now Old Yara,” a hollow voice echoed in the underground chambers, somehow both raspy and resonant. The words entered the vault room like a physical presence, making the torches flicker. “I come with… curiosity. Who are these little fireflies, who kill my Lanternless? And where has their meager light led me?”

In a panic, Alric spun to look at his two companions. Maelen was adjusting the grip of her huge sword, swearing softly, eyes searching for some sort of tactical advantage in the room. She had jammed her torch into a wall sconce to wield her weapon two-handed. Vessa, face shining with sweat, was busily trying to extinguish her own torch.

“Keep the light,” Alric hissed at her urgently. She stopped and regarded him, eyes wide. “It’s a Nightwight. He shuns it!”

“What does that mean?” Vessa whispered back. “I’m better if I can hide.”

“Shut it,” Maelen grunted. “They’re here.”

The three of them had congregated at the back of the long room with alcove-riddled walls, near the immense black vault door. Vessa let out a low curse and shuffled quietly towards a corner, yet he was grateful that she kept her torch in hand.

The first through the doorway on the far side was skinny, long-limbed man with a shiny bald scalp riddled with scars. Thick, tarry lines ran under each eye, the signature of the Lanternless.

“We got ‘em, Night Captain!” he called over his shoulder, then hocked and spit to one side. “They’re in ‘ere.”

Two more human figures stepped through the doorway, one after the other. The man was a broad-shouldered bruiser, scalp shaved to stubble like Vessa, with leather armor and longsword. The woman was squat, pig-nosed, and dour, carrying a battered wooden shield and a woodcutter’s axe. The two of them moved in opposite directions, flanking the doorway like palace guards. Alric supposed it made sense that, if the Lanternless had been hunting them since the encounter on the hillside, Sarin would have brought seasoned warriors. The first man, then, was probably their tracker. These thoughts passed through the scribe’s mind like a catalogue of facts, distant and detached. His panic had given way to abstract interest. It was like watching an artist carefully lay out her paints and brushes—these were to be the instruments of Alric’s demise, and he found himself in as much wonder as terror as it unfolded.

Old Yara followed the pair, smiling with gums that held few teeth. The white-haired, stooped woman rubbed her dry palms together as she entered the room, as if anticipating a feast. Her black eyes glittered with malice in the torchlight.

“Now you done it!” she cackled, hopping ahead and out of the way. “Sarin the Night Captain is ‘ere!”

Alric held his breath, waiting. The figure who entered the scroll-room was so tall that he had to duck slightly through the doorway, leading first with a long lamplighter’s pole, its iron hook bent. When he straightened, Alric guessed he towered over seven feet high, his figure unnaturally gaunt and skeletal beneath a heavy black cloak. His face was uncovered, skin pale as parchment stretched thin across sharp cheekbones, proud nose, and jutting jaw. Veins, dark as ink, traced visibly along Sarin’s neck and temples.

But it was the Nightwight’s eyes that were most disturbing. The sockets were sunken and hollow, but where his eyes should have been were pools of ash-gray light that managed to dance and waver without noticeably illuminating the room. Alric found himself staring fixedly at those simmering werelights before blinking and pulling his gaze away forcibly.

“Ah,” Sarin said, thin lips grinning like an indulgent grandfather. “Here we are. Where have you led us, little fireflies?”

“What happened on the hill was a misunderstanding,” Maelen said grimly, sword held in front of her. “Your people attacked us before we could talk. We meant them no ill will.”

“Mmmm,” Sarin said thoughtfully, thin lips pressed together. “And yet, this is not the question I asked.” Once again, when he spoke the torches flickered as if buffeted by a wind only they could feel.

Alric swallowed. The detachment filled him, so that when he spoke his voice was clear and calm. “It’s called Thornmere Hold,” he said, and the Nightwight’s gray lights focused on him. “A former vault of the Inkbinders Lodge. We had hoped to find treasure, but it’s merely historical documents. You’re welcome to them.”

“Now, see?” Sarin intoned. “This firefly can answer a question. But lo, there is something else about this place, something perhaps you cannot sense. Orthuun, the Blind Sovereign and my eternal patron holds sway here. Did you not feel his influence outside? The silence and shadows are his domain. And here, there is yet more evidence of his blessing, including those two servants of Orthuun you’ve slain in the room beyond. Yes, the Shadow King favors this place.” The Nightwight turned his head, taking in the entirety of the vault, as if savoring a beautiful hilltop view or an enticing aroma. Alric noted that when his gaze passed over the torches, Sarin seemed to squint and recoil somewhat, and the flames did the same, their light dimming. The scene made Alric’s stomach roil with nausea, breaking through the detachment.

The Nightwight waved his free hand. His knobby, thin fingers were too long, like the branches of a dead tree. “And so, I claim this place as sanctuary and holy ground for my Lanternless. Thank you, little fireflies. As boon for leading me here, I will forgive your earlier transgressions.”

Alric blinked.

Maelen’s eyes narrowed. Instead of relaxing her grip, she tensed. “So we can leave, then?”

“Oh,” Sarin chuckled, and when he spoke next it was with no more nor less singsong gravity than before. “I’m afraid not. You are forgiven your earlier sins, but now I find you trespassing upon my lord’s holy place. This will not do.” His bony hand waved again. “Kill them. Their blood will anoint our new church.”

The two warriors let out a whoop of violence and rushed at Maelen, feet stomping the stone floor. The burn-scarred woman got there first, swinging her axe in an overhand arc. Maelen parried with a clang! of iron, but then the musclebound man was upon her. His longsword bit into Maelen’s hip, eliciting a snarl of pain and anger. She kicked the axe-wielding foe away and chopped horizontally with her sword. The blade sliced across the bald man’s exposed throat. Blood fountained from the wound and he dropped his weapon, clutching at his ruined neck and falling sideways.

Intentional or not, Maelen had kicked the woman towards Vessa. With a fierce snarl, Vessa lunged with her shortsword, plunging it through the woman’s back. The red-smeared steel erupted from her chest, and then Vessa pulled her weapon free with a yank. The woman dropped her axe clattering to the floor and slumped forward, gurgling and wide-eyed.

Alric couldn’t believe it. In the space of three heartbeats, the Lanternless’ two hulking warriors were down. The tracker with the hunting knife seemed equally startled, and he paused his charge to stare wide-eyed at the carnage.

“C’mere, boy!” Old Yara spat, dancing towards him in the torchlight. Her eyes glittered with malice, and she held a small knife out front, jabbing out in jerky thrusts.

Perhaps he was inspired by his companions’ prowess, or perhaps it was the surreal, detached acceptance of his death returning to him, but Alric curled his lip and swung his staff out one-handed. Before the white-haired elder could close on him, the end of the staff struck her across the head. She screeched momentarily, then went down in a heap.

Vessa hissed in pain and Alric’s head whipped to see her arm wet with blood. The tracker’s shirt was also stained from a wound, and his face shone in the torchlight with sweat. The two wiry combatants danced and circled between the central table in the room and one of the alcoved walls.

She caught Alric staring and flicked him an angry look. “I’ve got it! Help Mae!”

The central table blocked a straight path, but Alric angled around it toward the front, near the arch where Sarin still loomed over Maelen. The warrior whirled her sword down and across in a diagonal slash, and it seemed to connect. Yet the long black robe did not tear. Instead, it seemed to pull and flow around Maelen’s blade, like she was chopping through thick, black mud. Sarin grunted, almost like reading a clever line in a poem, but showed no other effect. Alric suddenly wondered if their weapons could damage a Nightwight, something he hadn’t even considered until now.  

“Enough!” Sarin intoned, and as he said the word he stretched his free hand out in front of him, spindly pale fingers curled like an enormous spider. The Nightwight muttered something in a language just beyond Alric’s hearing, but the back of his throat and spine itched as some part of him registered the words. Sarin the Night Captain was using magic.

A wave burst out from the Nightwight, unseen but causing the three torches in the room to dance madly as if caught in a sudden gale. As it did, Alric’s jaw locked, and his stomach heaved in abject terror. This was not the fear of seeing a wolf in the forest; it was the fear of knowing that an entire pack of unseen predators watched you in the darkness, waiting for you to drop from fatigue. It was an anticipatory, abstract, and primal sort of terror, and for a moment Alric’s eyes rolled and he meant to drop his torch and staff, fleeing and screaming from Thornmere Hold.

“No!” he yelled, his voice resonant and echoing in the vault, and as he said it the fear retreated. He didn’t know what words he muttered next, only that they weren’t his. They rose like echoes from a memory of a dream, strange syllables that burned on his tongue. His torch’s flame ceased dancing, and the scribe stood straighter. Ahead of him, Maelen paused and lowered her guard for a fraction of a moment, and then, snarling, raised the sword defiantly and swung again at the tall, thin creature before her.

Sarin was faster than his deliberate speech and fluid steps would suggest, and he brought the lamplighter’s pole up to block the sword. Then, quick as an adder’s strike, his still-outstretched hand fell upon Maelen’s head.

Whatever happened next—the Nightwight’s palm atop the crown of her head, the long fingers reaching down across her skull—Maelen screamed, a voice high and desperate and undignified. She dropped to the ground lifelessly as Sarin released her head like an overripe piece of fruit.

“Maelen!” Alric yelled. Before he understood what he was doing, he had surged forward, torch cocked back like a mace. He swung it with all his strength and, when the torch struck the creature’s black robes, the fabric seemed to wither and retreat from the flames. Sarin hissed in surprise and pain, those gray ember eyes looking down upon him incredulously.

Without conscious thought, Alric swung his torch back and forth, yelling and beating at Sarin’s tall, cloaked form. But he was not a trained fighter like his companions, and the Nightwight seemed to flow away from each blow, avoiding the flickering fire. His pale, dark-veined face peered down, thin lips snarling.

“Irritating firefly!” Sarin rasped, “Begone!” He began murmuring again in susurrant, alien words. This close to the Nightwight, Alric could… almost… understand…

And then the world went black.

It was as if someone had thrown a hood over his head. This was no absence of light. This was light swallowed whole. At first, Alric thought that perhaps he’d inadvertently closed his eyes, but as he stumbled backwards into a wall, he blinked and stared wide. He could feel the wall at his back, his staff in one sweaty hand, torch in another. He could even, bizarrely, hear the telltale guttering of the flame at the end of his torch. But though he could feel these things, everything in Thornmere Hold was utterly and completely without light.

“Alric?” he heard Vessa’s voice call out from several strides away. “Are you there?”

“I’m here,” he said. “He’s cast a spell. We’re either blind or this is darkness.”

“Where is he? Where’s Sarin?”

Alric swallowed, his eyes uselessly darting left and right. The Nightwight could kill them at his leisure now, with both of them defenseless. They were doomed. He pressed his form against the alcoved wall, shuffling back towards the vault door and away from where he’d just seen Sarin looming over him.

In desperation, he began murmuring once more. Alric could not have said what words he spoke, nor their meaning. He called on the feeling when he’d first stepped into the glade above Thornmere Hold, that lingering sense of… something, just beyond his senses. He called on the barely remembered syllables he’d just heard from Sarin the Night Captain. And, most especially, he called on the words from the slim, leatherbound book, etched in a script that never stayed still when he looked at it too long, which lay stuffed deep within his travel pack. As he spoke, all muscles in Alric’s body slackened, and he almost lost his grip on the torch and staff. Then he closed his eyes, concentrating on pulling the energy around him apart, like fanning away smoke from a fire.

When he opened his eyes, the darkness was gone. Three torches—one in his hand, one in Vessa’s, and another mounted in the wall—burned weakly but illuminated the long room in dull orange and yellow light. The thief stared back at him with round, frightened eyes.

Sarin was gone, but five bodies lay sprawled across the stone floor: The two fighters and tracker, all in widening pools of dark blood, and Old Yara, bloody face staring sightlessly at the vaulted ceiling with her mouth agape.

And there, near the doorway, was Maelen Marrosen, face down and still.

Next: The Black Vault [with game notes]