[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]

[prose-only 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]

[game-notes version here]

VII.

Frostmere 16, Hearthday, Year 731.

Maelen stepped into the room beyond, but both Alric and Vessa’s eyes were fixed on the gray-skinned bodies on the stone floor. With Maelen’s torch in the room beyond, only dim light remained, shrouding any details in deep shadows. Most distinct was the woman’s decapitated head, which lay at Vessa’s feet, empty pits where her eyes should be staring sightlessly at her, black tears down her drooping cheeks. Oily, black hair clung to the floor in a wide, wild pattern. She’d slit plenty of throats, seen plenty of corpses, but those black tears would haunt her dreams.

Vessa’s nose wrinkled. She had been around dead bodies before, yet there was no stench here, just the faint scent of mildew and lichen where damp has kissed the corners of this place. There was the coppery tang of the automaton impaled on the wall and lamp oil gone rancid long ago. But no rotting flesh, blood, or offal. Whatever had happened to the bodies of the things they’d just fought, it left them with only the faint scent of something acrid and alien, but so scant it may have been merely her expectations.

“Zombies, yeah?” she asked the scribe in a low whisper. “I heard tales in the guildhall once. The dead brought back to life?”

“Not life,” Alric said carefully, deep in thought. “An un-life, I’ve heard it called. Their bodies were like puppets to some darker force, their minds gone. It’s… troubling. Some arcane force twisted them in this way, left them trapped down here. Is whatever created these undead still here, I wonder?”

“And why were they locked in a vault?” Vessa built on the scribe’s words. “Had they already been transformed? If not, why seal living people down here?”

“Indeed,” he answered, rubbing at his chin. “Something about this is deeply wrong.”

“You want to stand in a dark room yapping or find what we came to find?” came Maelen’s harsh words echoing from the other room. Alric’s head snapped up. “Come here, idiots.”

Vessa followed him, sparing one last glance back at the fallen bodies. A shiver crept from the base of her stubbled head down her spine.

It was a narrow, rectangular room with a high, vaulted ceiling held aloft by stone ribs. Two wall sconces flanking the doorway held broken oil lamps, seemingly battered into shapeless brass by some blunt object, perhaps the zombies’ fists. A central wooden table, low and wide, was the room’s only furniture, its surface pitted by age and scarred with knife marks. Yet there were also broken pieces of wood littering the floor, which Vessa suspected had once been stools. Deep alcoves had been carved into both long walls, fitted with sealed copper scroll tubes and thick leather cases, many intact.

Maelen passed her torch around as she took in the details of the place. “Lad, light your torch off mine and get to searching what’s here.”

“Yes, of course,” he answered. Alric unshouldered his pack and began rummaging through it.

With a second torch lit, details of the room became even clearer. Dust covered everything, disturbed by the dragging footsteps of the zombies. If Vessa were to guess, they had rarely moved in the past many years, and touched nothing upon the shelves. Her eyes roamed over the alcoves, wondering what could be so important to create this place and hide it away from Oakton. Everything here appeared so mundane.

“Vess, come here. Look at this with me,” Maelen said in a low, urgent tone.

She cocked an eyebrow, her tongue working at the gap left by her mysterious missing tooth from two nights before, and left the scribe to begin his exploration of the alcoves. Maelen stood at the far end of the long room, facing another closed door. The broad-shouldered warrior had sheathed her sword and held the torch up close to the door’s surface for Vessa to see.

Vessa sucked in a breath as she approached. The door itself was a slab of black basalt, reinforced with copper bands etched in glyphs similar to what she’d seen on the automaton from the previous room. Built along the center of the door were three separate locks, one at knee height, one at her ribs, and the last at eye level. The lowest two locks were conventional but sturdy turn-wheel designs like one might find in any Coinmarch vault, though of a construction older than she’d seen before and each distinct. The top lock, meanwhile, was clearly an arcane seal, a recessed copper disc engraved with a fading sigil.

“By the Rootmother’s tangled knots, Mae,” Vessa breathed. “I’ve never seen something like that. It’s worse than the Argenoak vault from… from before.” Without thinking, her free hand scratched the lark tattoo on her wrist.

“Can you break in?” Maelen asked, resting a hand on her shoulder.

Vessa swallowed with a dry throat. “I have no idea.”

“Well, we’ve got time. The lad is going to be busy. Study it and see what you think.” The heavy hand landed hard on her shoulder twice, causing her to stumble.

“I’ll need to light my own torch,” she breathed, never taking her eyes from the trio of locks. “What are you going to do?”

Maelen exhaled through her nose. “I’ll wander back the way we came, see if we missed anything.” She paused, then said, “I want to find out what’s on the other side of that door, Vess. The Lodge damned well put something valuable there.” She lowered her voice to a low, hissing whisper. “Might be our ticket out from under the Circle’s thumb.” The woman’s gaze burned into the seal as she spoke.

“Yeah… okay,” Vessa nodded, licking her lips. Where Maelen had punched her the day before was still swollen and sore. She tasted blood with her tongue. “I’ll get to work,” she whispered, as if the door might be listening.

Vessa lost track of time as she studied the black door and its trio of locks. She was dimly aware of Maelen’s torch leaving the room, and of Alric muttering to himself as he unrolled scrolls and studied them. Mostly, though, her world narrowed to the mighty vault door.

It was the most daunting challenge she’d faced in her several years of thieving. The two lower locks weren’t trapped that she could see, but neither were they the flat-faced padlocks or inset cylinders she knew from modern Oakton. These were older, heavier things, seemingly meant to intimidate her with their sheer bulk, and doing a good job of it.

She laid her kit on a scrap of folded cloth to keep her tools from clinking against the stone, and found a place nearby to wedge her torch. Crouching before the first lock, she pulled a thin hooked pick and tension rod from her roll, hesitated, then swapped the hook for a stubbier probe. Somewhere behind each wheel, she reasoned, lay a stack of interlocked plates, teeth meshing in a pattern the original key would have set in one smooth motion. Without the key, she would have to feel the tumblers through the metal’s bones.

Bracing one knee against the door for leverage, she pressed the tension rod into the wheel’s side channel, twisting slowly, slowly… She felt subtle resistance and shifted her weight. Careful now. Click. The wheel sagged a fraction in its socket, not fully unlocked but on its way.

Sometime after she’d conquered both mundane locks and was sweating, Maelen returned and struck up a conversation with Alric about his findings. She allowed herself the ghost of a grin. Two down. One nightmare to go. Vessa blew out a breath and sat, giving her knees and fingers some relief and listening with a cocked ear, her back to them.

“What are you finding, lad?”

“Hm? Oh! Maelen, hello,” Alric answered with his rich baritone voice. “This is all fascinating! There are battlefield grimoires, civic decrees from hundreds of years ago, genealogical scrolls, arcane treatises, and royal correspondence. It appears as if anything the Castellan wished to hide from the Guild Council or Prince, he placed here.”

Maelen grunted. “Doesn’t sound valuable.”

“Oh, it depends, I suppose. I’m sure there are countless things here someone could use for political leverage for bribes and such, and there is more than one arcane formula. Oh! And I believe I’ve solved the mystery of our two zombies.”

“Yeah?”

“Indeed. They were,” he paused, and Vessa could hear the shuffling of parchment. “Lady Meren of the Locks and Sir Edran the Bright, both knights of Thornmere, and actually volunteered to be sealed in here to protect the vault and documents, if you can believe it. Apparently, they were given magical sustenance and enchantments to preserve both their bodies and minds. It’s truly staggering magic, but localized only to these rooms.”

Vessa turned, still seated, resting her weight on one hip to face the others. “Did the magic go wrong, then? Is that why they became zombies?”

“Not that I can tell,” Alric said carefully, tapping his lip with a finger. “They kept a log, and it appears that something tainted was creeping into the vault. ‘A dark presence,’ Lady Meren called it. She held out longer than Sir Edran, but it drove them both quite mad. Towards the end, the journal talks about,” and he moved some more parchments, laid out over the low table. The scribe held his torch over an unrolled parchment and squinted. “Orthuun, The Blind Sovereign, Orthuun, Shadow-King of the Endless Black, Orthuun, The Sightless God, Orthuun, The Eater of Lanterns, Orthuun, the Father of Forgotten Paths. It gets nonsensical after that,” he swallowed and winced. “And quite disturbing.”

The shiver returned down Vessa’s spine. “The Blind Sovereign?” she whispered. “That… That’s what Old Yara said the Nightwight was waiting for. ‘The Blind Sovereign will send a herald,’ right?”

Alric blinked, looking stunned. “By the Rootmother, you’re right! I didn’t even think of the connection there, and The Eater of Lanterns might have been why Sarin called the group the Lanternless. They talk about this Orthuun like some sort of god, but the gods only exist in the city, of course. It must be a demon of some kind. Vessa, I must say, your memory is incredible.”

She felt her cheeks flush at the words, but shook her head. “Not really, but I have eye for connections. Makes me a good thief.”

“Speaking of which,” Maelen placed a fist on one hip. “How goes the door?”

“Not bad,” she grinned. “Lower locks are done, and I have a bead on how to get the last one, but it’s arcane, and nasty.”

“You got the tools you need?” she arched an eyebrow.

Vessa rubbed her crooked nose with one finger and passed her other palm over her stubbled head. “Should do. Just need time.”

“Get to it, then, lass,” she smiled, scar on her cheek creasing. “The torches won’t last forever.”

As she finished the sentence, Maelen’s head snapped around. “Shh!” she whispered. “Did you hear that?”

Vessa listened.

There was a faint creak. Then another. And then: footsteps. Many of them. Vessa froze. She knew that sound. Hushed voices. Someone had entered descended the stairs and were making their way through the darkness towards them. Vessa couldn’t tell exactly, but it sounded like many people. Her blood ran cold.

“Pig shit!” Maelen muttered angrily, pulling the enormous sword from her back.

“What is it?” Alric whispered, his voice small. “Who could be in here?”

Vessa was already on her feet, shortsword drawn. Her eyes darted in the torchlight to the rotting fragments of wood at the far end of the room, laying scattered across the floor. There was no chance to barricade themselves in here. Whoever was down here would walk in a straight line directly to them.

“Torches!” someone yelled triumphantly, the sound echoing and distant. “We found ‘em, Night Captain!”

Then a familiar, dry voice carried to them. “Din’t I tell you, Maelen the Skinless?” Old Yara cackled. “The Night Captain is here! And he’s gon’ pay you back for whatcha done to his people!”

Next: Sarin the Night Captain [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

VII.

Frostmere 16, Hearthday, Year 731.

Maelen stepped into the room beyond, but both Alric and Vessa’s eyes were fixed on the gray-skinned bodies on the stone floor. With Maelen’s torch in the room beyond, only dim light remained, shrouding any details in deep shadows. Most distinct was the woman’s decapitated head, which lay at Vessa’s feet, empty pits where her eyes should be staring sightlessly at her, black tears down her drooping cheeks. Oily, black hair clung to the floor in a wide, wild pattern. She’d slit plenty of throats, seen plenty of corpses, but those black tears would haunt her dreams.

Vessa’s nose wrinkled. She had been around dead bodies before, yet there was no stench here, just the faint scent of mildew and lichen where damp has kissed the corners of this place. There was the coppery tang of the automaton impaled on the wall and lamp oil gone rancid long ago. But no rotting flesh, blood, or offal. Whatever had happened to the bodies of the things they’d just fought, it left them with only the faint scent of something acrid and alien, but so scant it may have been merely her expectations.

“Zombies, yeah?” she asked the scribe in a low whisper. “I heard tales in the guildhall once. The dead brought back to life?”

“Not life,” Alric said carefully, deep in thought. “An un-life, I’ve heard it called. Their bodies were like puppets to some darker force, their minds gone. It’s… troubling. Some arcane force twisted them in this way, left them trapped down here. Is whatever created these undead still here, I wonder?”

“And why were they locked in a vault?” Vessa built on the scribe’s words. “Had they already been transformed? If not, why seal living people down here?”

“Indeed,” he answered, rubbing at his chin. “Something about this is deeply wrong.”

“You want to stand in a dark room yapping or find what we came to find?” came Maelen’s harsh words echoing from the other room. Alric’s head snapped up. “Come here, idiots.”

Vessa followed him, sparing one last glance back at the fallen bodies. A shiver crept from the base of her stubbled head down her spine.

It was a narrow, rectangular room with a high, vaulted ceiling held aloft by stone ribs. Two wall sconces flanking the doorway held broken oil lamps, seemingly battered into shapeless brass by some blunt object, perhaps the zombies’ fists. A central wooden table, low and wide, was the room’s only furniture, its surface pitted by age and scarred with knife marks. Yet there were also broken pieces of wood littering the floor, which Vessa suspected had once been stools. Deep alcoves had been carved into both long walls, fitted with sealed copper scroll tubes and thick leather cases, many intact.

Maelen passed her torch around as she took in the details of the place. “Lad, light your torch off mine and get to searching what’s here.”

“Yes, of course,” he answered. Alric unshouldered his pack and began rummaging through it.

With a second torch lit, details of the room became even clearer. Dust covered everything, disturbed by the dragging footsteps of the zombies. If Vessa were to guess, they had rarely moved in the past many years, and touched nothing upon the shelves. Her eyes roamed over the alcoves, wondering what could be so important to create this place and hide it away from Oakton. Everything here appeared so mundane.

“Vess, come here. Look at this with me,” Maelen said in a low, urgent tone.

She cocked an eyebrow, her tongue working at the gap left by her mysterious missing tooth from two nights before, and left the scribe to begin his exploration of the alcoves. Maelen stood at the far end of the long room, facing another closed door. The broad-shouldered warrior had sheathed her sword and held the torch up close to the door’s surface for Vessa to see.

Vessa sucked in a breath as she approached. The door itself was a slab of black basalt, reinforced with copper bands etched in glyphs similar to what she’d seen on the automaton from the previous room. Built along the center of the door were three separate locks, one at knee height, one at her ribs, and the last at eye level. The lowest two locks were conventional but sturdy turn-wheel designs like one might find in any Coinmarch vault, though of a construction older than she’d seen before and each distinct. The top lock, meanwhile, was clearly an arcane seal, a recessed copper disc engraved with a fading sigil.

“By the Rootmother’s tangled knots, Mae,” Vessa breathed. “I’ve never seen something like that. It’s worse than the Argenoak vault from… from before.” Without thinking, her free hand scratched the lark tattoo on her wrist.

“Can you break in?” Maelen asked, resting a hand on her shoulder.

Vessa swallowed with a dry throat. “I have no idea.”

“Well, we’ve got time. The lad is going to be busy. Study it and see what you think.” The heavy hand landed hard on her shoulder twice, causing her to stumble.

“I’ll need to light my own torch,” she breathed, never taking her eyes from the trio of locks. “What are you going to do?”

Maelen exhaled through her nose. “I’ll wander back the way we came, see if we missed anything.” She paused, then said, “I want to find out what’s on the other side of that door, Vess. The Lodge damned well put something valuable there.” She lowered her voice to a low, hissing whisper. “Might be our ticket out from under the Circle’s thumb.” The woman’s gaze burned into the seal as she spoke.

“Yeah… okay,” Vessa nodded, licking her lips. Where Maelen had punched her the day before was still swollen and sore. She tasted blood with her tongue. “I’ll get to work,” she whispered, as if the door might be listening.

Vessa lost track of time as she studied the black door and its trio of locks. She was dimly aware of Maelen’s torch leaving the room, and of Alric muttering to himself as he unrolled scrolls and studied them. Mostly, though, her world narrowed to the mighty vault door.

It was the most daunting challenge she’d faced in her several years of thieving. The two lower locks weren’t trapped that she could see, but neither were they the flat-faced padlocks or inset cylinders she knew from modern Oakton. These were older, heavier things, seemingly meant to intimidate her with their sheer bulk, and doing a good job of it.

She laid her kit on a scrap of folded cloth to keep her tools from clinking against the stone, and found a place nearby to wedge her torch. Crouching before the first lock, she pulled a thin hooked pick and tension rod from her roll, hesitated, then swapped the hook for a stubbier probe. Somewhere behind each wheel, she reasoned, lay a stack of interlocked plates, teeth meshing in a pattern the original key would have set in one smooth motion. Without the key, she would have to feel the tumblers through the metal’s bones.

Bracing one knee against the door for leverage, she pressed the tension rod into the wheel’s side channel, twisting slowly, slowly… She felt subtle resistance and shifted her weight. Careful now. Click. The wheel sagged a fraction in its socket, not fully unlocked but on its way.

Sometime after she’d conquered both mundane locks and was sweating, Maelen returned and struck up a conversation with Alric about his findings. She allowed herself the ghost of a grin. Two down. One nightmare to go. Vessa blew out a breath and sat, giving her knees and fingers some relief and listening with a cocked ear, her back to them.

“What are you finding, lad?”

“Hm? Oh! Maelen, hello,” Alric answered with his rich baritone voice. “This is all fascinating! There are battlefield grimoires, civic decrees from hundreds of years ago, genealogical scrolls, arcane treatises, and royal correspondence. It appears as if anything the Castellan wished to hide from the Guild Council or Prince, he placed here.”

Maelen grunted. “Doesn’t sound valuable.”

“Oh, it depends, I suppose. I’m sure there are countless things here someone could use for political leverage for bribes and such, and there is more than one arcane formula. Oh! And I believe I’ve solved the mystery of our two zombies.”

“Yeah?”

“Indeed. They were,” he paused, and Vessa could hear the shuffling of parchment. “Lady Meren of the Locks and Sir Edran the Bright, both knights of Thornmere, and actually volunteered to be sealed in here to protect the vault and documents, if you can believe it. Apparently, they were given magical sustenance and enchantments to preserve both their bodies and minds. It’s truly staggering magic, but localized only to these rooms.”

Vessa turned, still seated, resting her weight on one hip to face the others. “Did the magic go wrong, then? Is that why they became zombies?”

“Not that I can tell,” Alric said carefully, tapping his lip with a finger. “They kept a log, and it appears that something tainted was creeping into the vault. ‘A dark presence,’ Lady Meren called it. She held out longer than Sir Edran, but it drove them both quite mad. Towards the end, the journal talks about,” and he moved some more parchments, laid out over the low table. The scribe held his torch over an unrolled parchment and squinted. “Orthuun, The Blind Sovereign, Orthuun, Shadow-King of the Endless Black, Orthuun, The Sightless God, Orthuun, The Eater of Lanterns, Orthuun, the Father of Forgotten Paths. It gets nonsensical after that,” he swallowed and winced. “And quite disturbing.”

The shiver returned down Vessa’s spine. “The Blind Sovereign?” she whispered. “That… That’s what Old Yara said the Nightwight was waiting for. ‘The Blind Sovereign will send a herald,’ right?”

Alric blinked, looking stunned. “By the Rootmother, you’re right! I didn’t even think of the connection there, and The Eater of Lanterns might have been why Sarin called the group the Lanternless. They talk about this Orthuun like some sort of god, but the gods only exist in the city, of course. It must be a demon of some kind. Vessa, I must say, your memory is incredible.”

She felt her cheeks flush at the words, but shook her head. “Not really, but I have eye for connections. Makes me a good thief.”

“Speaking of which,” Maelen placed a fist on one hip. “How goes the door?”

“Not bad,” she grinned. “Lower locks are done, and I have a bead on how to get the last one, but it’s arcane, and nasty.”

“You got the tools you need?” she arched an eyebrow.

Vessa rubbed her crooked nose with one finger and passed her other palm over her stubbled head. “Should do. Just need time.”

“Get to it, then, lass,” she smiled, scar on her cheek creasing. “The torches won’t last forever.”

As she finished the sentence, Maelen’s head snapped around. “Shh!” she whispered. “Did you hear that?”

Vessa listened.

There was a faint creak. Then another. And then: footsteps. Many of them. Vessa froze. She knew that sound. Hushed voices. Someone had entered descended the stairs and were making their way through the darkness towards them. Vessa couldn’t tell exactly, but it sounded like many people. Her blood ran cold.

“Pig shit!” Maelen muttered angrily, pulling the enormous sword from her back.

“What is it?” Alric whispered, his voice small. “Who could be in here?”

Vessa was already on her feet, shortsword drawn. Her eyes darted in the torchlight to the rotting fragments of wood at the far end of the room, laying scattered across the floor. There was no chance to barricade themselves in here. Whoever was down here would walk in a straight line directly to them.

“Torches!” someone yelled triumphantly, the sound echoing and distant. “We found ‘em, Night Captain!”

Then a familiar, dry voice carried to them. “Din’t I tell you, Maelen the Skinless?” Old Yara cackled. “The Night Captain is here! And he’s gon’ pay you back for whatcha done to his people!”

Next: Sarin the Night Captain [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

VI.

Frostmere 16, Hearthday, Year 731.

“So you know there’s scrolls down there, but not the layout?” Maelen asked, rubbing her chin and studying the stone stairs into darkness. There was something unnatural about the shadows, like they had substance. Something like black fog, she decided.

“That’s right,” the lad swallowed. His voice was unexpectedly deep and resonant.

“Alright, well. You follow me, Vessa in back. We stick close, but don’t bump me from behind if you want to keep your head attached to your shoulders, understand?” She threw a hard glare at him. The kid nodded, wide-eyed intimidation taking over the hungry, eager look she’d seen a few heartbeats before. Good. The last thing they needed was him setting off traps in a vault or stumbling off to another room on his own. She and Vessa didn’t want a repeat of the debacle that landed them in debt to the Latchkey Circle in the first place.

For just a moment, the horror of that day filled her mind. There had been ten of them in the Larkhands, their band of thieves, and Maelen was their second-in-command. They’d been planning the break-in at a sealed vault beneath the Argenoak’s root foundations for weeks. When they’d breached the vault, however, instead of a mountain of coins they’d found glyph-marked relics and an ancient warding seal. Maelen could still remember their little thief Grale reaching for the seal… Maelen’s shout of warning, unheard. Vessa had been the only Larkhand within reach, so Maelen had tackled her and taken cover beneath a slab of stone. When the seal cracked and the screams began, she and Vessa had been spared. Those tortured screams, though, took a long time to stop. And their twisted bodies when the dust had settled…  

Maelen shook her head, banishing the images. She unshouldered her pack with a grunt and tugged free one of the torches lashed to its side, a rough shaft of pinewood, about as long as her forearm, wrapped tightly at one end with resin-soaked cloth. The wrapping was stained dark with pitch, a homemade mix of pine tar, lard, and scrap linen meant to burn hot and slow. It smelled faintly of smoke and tallow, even unlit.

From a leather pouch on her belt, she retrieved her tinderbox. It was a small, square tin with a hinged lid, scratched and blackened with use. She crouched by the edge of the stone doorway, opened the box, and struck flint to steel. Sparks danced, catching the charcloth with a faint red glow. She leaned close, coaxed the ember with a steady breath, then pressed the cloth into a small bundle of dry moss and bark scrap. The kindling flared. Maelen touched the flame to the cloth-wrapped end of the torch. It caught with a hungry whoosh, casting flickering orange light over the carved stone and the gaping stairwell below.

She gave the torch a testing shake, nodded, and said, “Alright, let’s go see what’s so secret that the Inkbinders locked it away out here.” There was a light scrabbling sound as Tatter scampered from one shoulder to the next. Tatter squeaked once, an unusual amount of noise from the mouse. Maelen grinned, her scar tugging. Vessa gave her a nod.

She turned her back on them, torch held out front, and descended the stairs.

Though the shadows had an opaque appearance, they were just shadows, and retreated from her torchlight, revealing a well-hewn set of narrow stairs, twenty in all, and an otherwise undecorated corridor. Orange light flickered and smoke pooled on the low ceiling of the corridor as she squinted and looked around.

Vessa was an expert in trap-finding, but Maelen’s practiced eye could spot them well enough. She spied no tripwires, pressure plates, or loose stones that might spell danger. She stepped forward cautiously, toe-to-heel, one foot after another, through undisturbed dust. The scribes who guarded this place already trapped the door, she reasoned, why trap the corridor as well? It all depended on how often they walked these halls back when Thornmere Hold was active and how forbidden the knowledge. Maelen admitted to herself that she was more than a little curious as to what they’d find down here.

As she suspected, they reached the simple door at the end of the short corridor without incident. Tatter squeaked again, tightening Maelen’s jaw muscles. Did the little critter know something she didn’t? But that was stupid, she scolded herself.

“Shh, mouse,” she lightly scolded.

Maelen examined the door carefully, but it wasn’t trapped either as far as she could see. Some faded script had been carved in an archway over the door frame. She held the torch at head height so the lad could see.

“What does it say?” she asked in a low whisper.

“It… hm. It’s an old script, but I can read it. ‘The Vigil Endures, Though the World Forgets,’” he said in reverent awe.

She could hear the excitement in his voice, so she hissed, “Don’t bloody touch anything until we know it’s safe.”

“Of course,” he said defensively as she turned to face the door, but once her back was to him, she grinned. What sort of knowledge is dangerous enough to lock in a hidden vault out in the wilds?

The door was a thick slab of hardwood, copper-banded and hanging on rusted iron hinges set in the stone wall. The iron had rusted and copper corroded, but was otherwise in decent repair.

“You okay, Mae? Need me to look it over?” Vessa asked in a low voice from the back.

“I got it,” she said, and pushed the door open. It groaned like something in pain, its hinges frozen and wood bloated from the moisture down here, but she leaned her shoulder into it, grunting.

Maelen faced a small square room, maybe five strides across. Two decorative iron wall sconces sat empty on the walls, one hanging askew, and a broken oil lamp lay discarded on the floor. Directly across from her was a shattered door, fragments of rotting wood lying both within the room and beyond. Her torchlight didn’t reach far enough to see much beyond, but she wouldn’t have been able to focus on the next room anyway. Instead, her eyes snapped to the figure near the doorway.

At first, she thought it was an armored corpse, its copper plates dulled to verdigris. As she brought her torch forward, however, she could see that its helmet-like head bore a single circle of black glass, like the lens of the dead lantern on the floor. Its limbs did not end in fingers, but instead one a three-pronged claw and the other a heavy, fingerless club. Arcane runes, worn nearly smooth, had been etched along the chest plate, shoulder joints, and encircling the clubbed hand.

She knew there wasn’t anyone in the copper armor because a blackened steel spear had been driven deep into its chest and the stone wall beyond, pinning it upright. A thin trail of scorching marked the wall behind it, as though fire had erupted from the blow. Hanging from the cracked chest and back were broken gears and empty beakers. No skeleton or body lay within, only metal and glass.

“Lad,” she whispered urgently. “What is this?”

“I– I… I don’t… Oh! It’s an automaton! Crafted by guild artificers, a dying skill indeed! I’ve never seen one, only read about them. It must have been Thornmere Hold’s guardian. Amazing!”

“But what killed it?” Vessa asked warily, and Maelen could hear her unsheathing her shortsword.

Maelen had the same question. “Hold the light,” she offered to the lad, and he took it, staff in one hand and torch in the other. Maelen pulled her blade from the scabbard across her back, settling her grip two-handed, sword pointed at the shattered, open doorway. She listened, but could hear nothing but the flickering torch and the scribe’s excited mumbling as he examined the copper guardian. Tatter squeaked and ran from one shoulder to a pouch across Maelen’s chest, seeking safety. Smart mouse.

The darkness beyond the shattered door pulsed like a held breath.

Something shuffled in the gloom beyond the shattered doorway, like slow, dragging steps. Then more, slightly further away. Maelen set her mouth and exhaled through her nose, bringing her immense sword to guard.

“What in the seven unshacklings was that?” Vessa cursed behind her.

“Keep that bloody torch up!” Maelen hissed at the scribe over her shoulder. “We can’t fight if we can’t see!”

The first figure lurched into the doorway. It was a lightly armored man, with pauldrons and bracers of steel over a leather cuirass and sturdy shirt and padded pants. Even at a glance, Maelen could see that everything he wore was of the highest quality, like a nobleman dressed for a formal duel, but old and even tattered in places. He wore no helmet, which allowed her to see that his skin was gray and sagging like melted wax. His mouth hung open and toothless, a dark maw …but no sound came out. Yet by far the most disturbing were the sunken black pits where his eyes should have been. It was as if the man’s eyes had turned black and burst, running in thick rivulets down his cheeks.

A second figure shambled behind the man, this one a woman, dressed similarly, with the same empty, weeping eyes and gaping mouth. Her thin black hair clung to her head and neck as if she’d recently taken a bath, wet and stringy, almost oily.

As he stepped into the room, the man raised his gray gnarled hands towards Maelen, the skin hanging loose at his thin wrists.

The move startled her, and the eyeless man lunged at the last moment. He made no sound—no breath, no snarl, no voice—just the soft scrape of boots on stone. Maelen stepped sideways and pushed him away with the flat of her blade, shouting in surprise. Unfortunately, the move sent the man stumbling directly towards the scribe, who, to his credit, swung that walking stick of his in response and kept the armored thing at arm’s length. Damned if she wasn’t more and more impressed with the lad.

The other figure lurched forward in a burst of speed, and Maelen saw that she wielded a spear identical to the one pinning the copper guardian to the wall in her two hands. Silently—and Maelen just now realized that the things made absolutely no noise except for their shuffling steps—the woman thrust the spear forward awkwardly. The blow had power but no grace, and Maelen parried and, on the backswing, scored a hit on her arm. The fabric of her sleeve tore under Maelen’s blade, but no blood spilled. Whatever these things were, they weren’t human. At least not anymore.

With a roar, Maelen gave her no chance to recover. She’d seen one of those spears driven through the breastplate of the automaton and into the stone wall. These things may not be fast or skilled, but they were strong. She swung her longsword in a horizontal arc, cleanly lopping off the woman’s head. The head rolled with a wet flop, the oily hair clinging to the stone like seaweed.

Maelen allowed the momentum of her attack to spin her towards the armored man. Without pausing the swing or her battle cry, the blade sunk into man’s leather-clad side with a thunk. It turned its eyeless head towards her, mouth gaping horribly and silently. It began to reach out towards her with gray, withered hands.

A flicker of motion at the edge of her vision, and then Vessa was there, her short blade buried into the back of the thing’s neck. The tip of her blade erupted from the man’s throat, again bloodlessly. Without a sound, it slumped to the stone floor and did not move.

The three of them panted and Maelen pulled her sword free of the cuirass to point at the shattered doorway. She stood, stance wide and ready, for several heartbeats. Nothing else emerged from the darkness.

“Torch,” she barked at the scribe, empty hand outstretched. He blinked at her in the firelight and then nodded quickly, handing it over. Maelen stepped forward, light in front of her, into the doorway. Shards of old, rotting wood crunched beneath her boot.

“Did you see their faces?” the lad was saying behind her. “Black tears, like the Lanternless! What does that mean?”

“There’s no blood,” Vessa’s voice added. Maelen could almost hear the frown in her voice. “And look at the scrollwork on this armor, Alric, and the tower emblem. These were humans once, I think. Worshippers of the Herald. But why would they lock their own down here and seal the door? What did they become?”

“Shut it, both of you,” Maelen said, moving her torch around in the shadows. “Come here. We’ve found your secret knowledge, lad. Let’s find out what they were guarding, eh?”

She stepped into the dark, and the dark seemed to lean closer to embrace her.

Next: Vault of the Sightless God [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

V.

Frostmere 16, Hearthday, Year 731.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Alric muttered in awe.

Alric had been shaken awake before dawn, and they’d all eaten their rations, prepared their travel packs, and studied the map in relative silence. Maelen didn’t say it aloud, but it was clear that she still worried the Lanternless and Sarin the Nightwight would seek vengeance for their fallen comrades. Yet other than the trill of morning birds and chirping of insects, it seemed to Alric that they were utterly alone within the forested hills. The morning felt peaceful, reverent, and clear of danger, and he found himself smiling in anticipation of the day.

They’d camped near the ridge of the Greenwood Rise. In only a few dozen steps they’d reached the crest, and it was as if they stood atop the world. Above them was the blue, clear dome of sky. Below them, as far as the eye could see to the east, fog blanked everything. Only the top of the great Argenoak was visible, like a leafy island amidst what seemed an endless field of snow.

Maelen stood at his shoulder and the two looked out over the soft expanse of whiteness. She said nothing and her face was as hard as ever, but he took her silence as shared awe. The moment lasted several heartbeats, and then Maelen asked him, “Ready?”

Alric sighed and turned his back on the field of fog. To the west stretched forested foothills, though it seemed their perch reached higher than any of the western hills. Well, all except Dragon’s Mount, which sat like a shepherd overlooking the other hills, far on the horizon. Alric’s eyes studied the view, comparing it with the mental image of his map. He pointed. “It should be there,” he said. “Perhaps two-thirds of a day at my pace, nestled between those two hills.”

Maelen squinted at the map, across the hills, and back a few times. “Good,” she nodded, and clapped him on the shoulder. It was a friendly gesture, but felt like colliding with a warhorse. “Vess will trail us again, keeping watch. Let’s go.”

With one last glance eastward over the fog-packed expanse, he slipped the rolled map into the scroll case at this belt, adjusted his travel pack, gripped his staff, and followed.

Traveling downslope at first seemed far easier than up, and they set a good pace. By midmorning, however, his knees ached, and he found that he must constantly watch his footing or stumble. When they took their first break of the day for water and rations, the forest had swallowed them, making it nearly impossible to discern the surrounding hills. He studied his parchment map, tracing a fingertip across their route.

Vessa took a long swig of water and asked, “We’re almost there, yeah? So are you going to tell us finally where we’re going and what we’re looking for?”

Alric looked up from the map, blinking. “Oh! Of course. This afternoon we’ll reach Thornmere Hold.”

Vessa and Maelen traded a glance. Vessa shook her head. “Never heard of it.”

“Ah. No surprise there. Long ago, it was a place where scribes of The Herald stored knowledge too dangerous or heretical to catalog in the Tower of Public Record. The Inkbinders Lodge has done its best to purge any mention of the place, but I found a scroll referencing it and was able to, eventually, uncover its location. It’s been abandoned for more than a hundred years.”

“What sort of dangerous knowledge?” Maelen said, her broad face dour. “What’s so scary on scrolls that they have to put it out here?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Alric said excitedly.

“You don’t know?” Vessa asked incredulously.

Alric blinked again, confused. “It’s forbidden knowledge. How would I know?”

Maelen chuckled and Vessa shook her head.

“What?” Alric asked. “You seem disappointed.”

“We thought it was treasure, is all,” Vessa shrugged. “Should’ve known. The boy hires two blades for a scroll hunt.”

“What’s more valuable than knowledge?” Alric asked, genuinely baffled.

“Yeah, okay,” the thief rolled her eyes, stood, and stretched her back. “Let’s find it and get home, then. The day isn’t getting any longer.”

“But–” Alric sputtered. “You don’t understand…”

“Shut it, lad. It’s your coin. We’ll get you there and back to Oakton, your arms full of dusty, scary scrolls.” She raised her eyebrows at this last bit, mocking.

He kept his face still, but inwardly Alric winced at the words. What had he hoped for? That they would be so enamored with this quest that they wouldn’t demand the second payment when they’d returned to the city? For the hundredth time, his mind worried over how he would conjure forty silver thorns by the time they’d returned. He’d been so concerned they wouldn’t take the job with what he had to offer that he’d pushed the problem to later, a tendency about which his master at the Lodge had scolded him more than once. Yet his mind offered no answers. Every journey was simply a collection of steps, he reminded himself. Next step, find Thornmere Hold. He’d figure out something about the missing coin.

In the relative quiet of the moment, Maelen turned her attention to Vessa. “No sign of being followed, then?”

Vessa shook her head, running a palm over the stubble. Alric wondered, why had she shaved her head before their journey? He knew so little about these mercenaries he’d trusted to guide him through the wilds, and Vessa in particular was an enigma.

“But you marked where Old Yara said the camp was?” the hard warrior asked.

“Of bloody course,” Vessa said testily.

“Wait, why?” Alric swallowed. “You want to know where their camp is so we can avoid it when we return?” He looked between both mercenaries. They traded a look with each other, and Maelen smiled, the scar on her face tugging.

“That,” she said. “And Vess and I are likely to come back, looking for that buried treasure Sarin’s guarding. After we’ve taken you home, lad. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“But,” he found himself standing abruptly. “I told you: He’s a Nightwight! You can’t possibly hope to–”

“As I said,” Maelen held up a hand, her voice taking a keen edge. “Nothing for you to worry about, lad. Drop it.”

He did, and the beginnings of an idea began forming at the edge of his imagination. Perhaps he could avoid the second payment after all. Every journey is a collection of steps, he told himself again, like a mantra, and the next step is to find Thornmere Hold. But after that… Well, it might work. He felt a twinge of guilt but quickly pushed it down. One step at a time.

Without further discussion, they followed a valley between two low hills as it snaked westward. Though the canopy overhead kept the forest shadowed and cool, the blue sky peeked through above. Birds and insects filled the valley with sound while Alric’s shuffling steps and Maelen’s heavy stride rustled the undergrowth. Vessa, for her part, followed behind them, but even when he tried, he couldn’t hear her passage through the forest.

Sometime past midday, something in the woods changed. A hush fell upon them, devoid of any noise but their steps. Maelen stopped them, listening. Heavy silence hung all around.

“What is it?” Alric whispered. His heart began to pound, beating in his ears.

“Shh!” Maelen hissed angrily. Her eyes darted around the trees, which had grown denser, weaving together overhead like shuttered windows.

Vessa appeared at Alric’s shoulder, and he squawked in surprise. He would never get used to how she moved through the forest like smoke. Maelen shot him a poisonous look and then leaned towards Vessa.

“Predator?” the muscled woman whispered. Vessa chewed her bottom lip, her freckled face swiveling to look all around them, and shrugged.

Alric sensed a hum in the air, not a sound exactly, not anything perceptible by his human senses. But it was there, nonetheless. He closed his eyes, trying to still his frantic heart and labored breathing.

“Not a predator,” he murmured, reverent, but not soft. He opened his eyes to see Maelen and Vessa staring at him. “It’s magic. We’re here.”

“Lad!” Maelen barked at him in a harsh whisper, but Alric limped forward, leaning on his staff.

He looked down and smiled. Below one foot was a flattened, worn stone. A steppingstone, marking a path but barely visible amidst the fallen leaves and moss.

Maelen appeared at his side, and Alric had the sense she’d meant to drag him back. But she followed his gaze and widened her eyes. He smiled when she looked at him questioningly.

What remained of Thornmere Hold was nestled in a hollow glade where the earth seemed sunken, like the land itself had tried to bury the place. Once within the glade, the steppingstone path was more obvious and led to faint stone steps that descended from the forest’s edge into a ruin overgrown with vines, moss, roots, and black lichen. At the heart of the ruins, half-toppled, were a crumbled half-circle of standing stones. Beyond those lay a fallen obelisk, broken into three large pieces of stone. Something had been carved into the stone, but the forest and weather had obscured any details.

Alric stood at the top of the steps, marveling at the place. The magic here was like standing near the embers of a fire, but it wasn’t warmth he felt. It thrummed in his jaw, in the bones of his fingers. He swallowed, unsure whether it comforted or warned. Otherwise, there was simply silence.

“I don’t like this place,” Vessa said, standing at one of Alric’s shoulders and crossing her arms over her chest.

“Shut it, Vess,” Maelen grumped from his other shoulder. “Where are the scrolls, lad? What are we looking for?”

“I… don’t know exactly,” he said reverently. “But there must be a door somewhere.”

“Well, let’s go then,” Maelen said, stepping forward and taking two steps towards the sunken glade.

Alric and Vessa followed her lead. It was eerie in a place so quiet. The shadows in the glade felt deeper somehow. It must have been near midafternoon, yet any hint of the sky overhead had vanished. Instead, it felt as if Thornmere Hold was in a perpetual gloom of twilight.

They searched the glade carefully, making as little noise as possible. Without discussion, Maelen drifted right, Vessa left, and Alric middle. The deeper he stepped into the area, the more he felt as if the place was watching, waiting. Hungry, that was the word. Not for food. For something else.

At one point, he lost himself at the center of the fallen standing stones. Here, chosen scribes of the Inkbinders Lodge had performed rituals, discussed history, and defended the banished texts from outsiders. What must their lives had been like? How had they been chosen for this sacred task? Had the glade ever fallen under attack? And why had the place been abandoned, so many years ago? He sighed, yearning for the stones to speak to him and share their vigilant observations.

“Here,” Vessa’s voice broke the silence. Alric blinked and shook himself out of his reverie, searching for the source of the voice. The stubble-headed, lithe woman in leathers crouched just beyond the base of the fallen obelisk, rubbing at her nose and frowning down at something. He and Maelen picked their way through the clearing to her.

Vessa crouched beside a stone disk half-sunk in the earth, its face etched with runes worn smooth by centuries and swallowed by moss and black lichen. Had the carvings once been script or images, it was impossible to tell. The disk was wide, flush with the earth, carved into the hollow like a massive stone plug. Alric saw now that its edge formed a faint seam—not a true lid, perhaps, but a seal. Something meant to be kept closed.

“It’s a door,” Vessa said, pointing a thin finger. Alric supposed fine hands were good for a thief. “See here? There’s room to swing it aside. The scrolls must be below ground.”

Maelen grunted. “Think the two of us can lift it?”

“It’s sealed,” Vessa said, rubbing again at her nose. “And maybe trapped. I’ll take a closer look.” She dropped to her stomach in the grass, her face close to the stone.

For several heartbeats, Maelen and Alric stood mutely watching the woman as she squinted and touched the edge of the circular stone. For Alric, it meant constantly feeling the low hum of magic everywhere in the glade, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It was both intriguing and maddening in equal parts.

Vessa crawled the perimeter of the door, grunting softly as her fingers traced the edge.

“Definitely trapped,” she mumbled. “Not mechanical. Magical, maybe? But they’d leave a bypass…” She grinned suddenly. “There. Got it.” Her tongue peeked from the corner of her mouth as she dug into the mossy ground, then paused to breathe deep. Vessa glanced up at them.

“You might want to step back,” she said with a wry grin. “Just in case.”

Alric blanched and shuffled backwards several strides. Maelen, frowning, took two cautious steps backwards but stayed closer to the door.

“You got it?” Maelen asked, voice low and taut.

The woman had fished some tools from a belt pouch and was digging at the same spot with them. “I got it,” she breathed. “Probably. Here goes.”

For a moment, Vessa’s face turned red as she struggled with something Alric couldn’t see. The moment stretched, quiet as breath. Then, with a sharp exhalation of triumph, she smiled up at them. The woman stuffed her iron tools back into the pouch, scrambled to a crouch, and dipped both hands beneath the stone. There was a crack and pop, like a wine flask opening for the first time, and then Vessa was pushing the stone with steady effort.

As she’d predicted, the stone door swung wide, scraping along the ground as it went. When Vessa had pushed it aside and stood, slapping dirt from her front and grinning, they all looked down. The door left a circular opening into the earth, still partially covered by the stone. Worn, stone steps led down. Shadows pooled in the stairwell, impossibly deep for daylight, as if night waited just below.

The accomplishment of what he witnessed overwhelmed him a moment. He’d done it. He’d found the right skills to get him here from Oakton, to find and open the vault. And here it was, waiting for him. Not just hidden knowledge, but perhaps a key to understanding the magic he felt just beyond his reach.

Thornmere Hold opened like a waiting mouth, silent and expectant, beckoning him forward.

Next: Into the Darkness [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

V.

Frostmere 16, Hearthday, Year 731.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Alric muttered in awe.

Alric had been shaken awake before dawn, and they’d all eaten their rations, prepared their travel packs, and studied the map in relative silence. Maelen didn’t say it aloud, but it was clear that she still worried the Lanternless and Sarin the Nightwight would seek vengeance for their fallen comrades. Yet other than the trill of morning birds and chirping of insects, it seemed to Alric that they were utterly alone within the forested hills. The morning felt peaceful, reverent, and clear of danger, and he found himself smiling in anticipation of the day.

They’d camped near the ridge of the Greenwood Rise. In only a few dozen steps they’d reached the crest, and it was as if they stood atop the world. Above them was the blue, clear dome of sky. Below them, as far as the eye could see to the east, fog blanked everything. Only the top of the great Argenoak was visible, like a leafy island amidst what seemed an endless field of snow.

Maelen stood at his shoulder and the two looked out over the soft expanse of whiteness. She said nothing and her face was as hard as ever, but he took her silence as shared awe. The moment lasted several heartbeats, and then Maelen asked him, “Ready?”

Alric sighed and turned his back on the field of fog. To the west stretched forested foothills, though it seemed their perch reached higher than any of the western hills. Well, all except Dragon’s Mount, which sat like a shepherd overlooking the other hills, far on the horizon. Alric’s eyes studied the view, comparing it with the mental image of his map. He pointed. “It should be there,” he said. “Perhaps two-thirds of a day at my pace, nestled between those two hills.”

Maelen squinted at the map, across the hills, and back a few times. “Good,” she nodded, and clapped him on the shoulder. It was a friendly gesture, but felt like colliding with a warhorse. “Vess will trail us again, keeping watch. Let’s go.”

With one last glance eastward over the fog-packed expanse, he slipped the rolled map into the scroll case at this belt, adjusted his travel pack, gripped his staff, and followed.

Traveling downslope at first seemed far easier than up, and they set a good pace. By midmorning, however, his knees ached, and he found that he must constantly watch his footing or stumble. When they took their first break of the day for water and rations, the forest had swallowed them, making it nearly impossible to discern the surrounding hills. He studied his parchment map, tracing a fingertip across their route.

Vessa took a long swig of water and asked, “We’re almost there, yeah? So are you going to tell us finally where we’re going and what we’re looking for?”

Alric looked up from the map, blinking. “Oh! Of course. This afternoon we’ll reach Thornmere Hold.”

Vessa and Maelen traded a glance. Vessa shook her head. “Never heard of it.”

“Ah. No surprise there. Long ago, it was a place where scribes of The Herald stored knowledge too dangerous or heretical to catalog in the Tower of Public Record. The Inkbinders Lodge has done its best to purge any mention of the place, but I found a scroll referencing it and was able to, eventually, uncover its location. It’s been abandoned for more than a hundred years.”

“What sort of dangerous knowledge?” Maelen said, her broad face dour. “What’s so scary on scrolls that they have to put it out here?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Alric said excitedly.

“You don’t know?” Vessa asked incredulously.

Alric blinked again, confused. “It’s forbidden knowledge. How would I know?”

Maelen chuckled and Vessa shook her head.

“What?” Alric asked. “You seem disappointed.”

“We thought it was treasure, is all,” Vessa shrugged. “Should’ve known. The boy hires two blades for a scroll hunt.”

“What’s more valuable than knowledge?” Alric asked, genuinely baffled.

“Yeah, okay,” the thief rolled her eyes, stood, and stretched her back. “Let’s find it and get home, then. The day isn’t getting any longer.”

“But–” Alric sputtered. “You don’t understand…”

“Shut it, lad. It’s your coin. We’ll get you there and back to Oakton, your arms full of dusty, scary scrolls.” She raised her eyebrows at this last bit, mocking.

He kept his face still, but inwardly Alric winced at the words. What had he hoped for? That they would be so enamored with this quest that they wouldn’t demand the second payment when they’d returned to the city? For the hundredth time, his mind worried over how he would conjure forty silver thorns by the time they’d returned. He’d been so concerned they wouldn’t take the job with what he had to offer that he’d pushed the problem to later, a tendency about which his master at the Lodge had scolded him more than once. Yet his mind offered no answers. Every journey was simply a collection of steps, he reminded himself. Next step, find Thornmere Hold. He’d figure out something about the missing coin.

In the relative quiet of the moment, Maelen turned her attention to Vessa. “No sign of being followed, then?”

Vessa shook her head, running a palm over the stubble. Alric wondered, why had she shaved her head before their journey? He knew so little about these mercenaries he’d trusted to guide him through the wilds, and Vessa in particular was an enigma.

“But you marked where Old Yara said the camp was?” the hard warrior asked.

“Of bloody course,” Vessa said testily.

“Wait, why?” Alric swallowed. “You want to know where their camp is so we can avoid it when we return?” He looked between both mercenaries. They traded a look with each other, and Maelen smiled, the scar on her face tugging.

“That,” she said. “And Vess and I are likely to come back, looking for that buried treasure Sarin’s guarding. After we’ve taken you home, lad. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“But,” he found himself standing abruptly. “I told you: He’s a Nightwight! You can’t possibly hope to–”

“As I said,” Maelen held up a hand, her voice taking a keen edge. “Nothing for you to worry about, lad. Drop it.”

He did, and the beginnings of an idea began forming at the edge of his imagination. Perhaps he could avoid the second payment after all. Every journey is a collection of steps, he told himself again, like a mantra, and the next step is to find Thornmere Hold. But after that… Well, it might work. He felt a twinge of guilt but quickly pushed it down. One step at a time.

Without further discussion, they followed a valley between two low hills as it snaked westward. Though the canopy overhead kept the forest shadowed and cool, the blue sky peeked through above. Birds and insects filled the valley with sound while Alric’s shuffling steps and Maelen’s heavy stride rustled the undergrowth. Vessa, for her part, followed behind them, but even when he tried, he couldn’t hear her passage through the forest.

Sometime past midday, something in the woods changed. A hush fell upon them, devoid of any noise but their steps. Maelen stopped them, listening. Heavy silence hung all around.

“What is it?” Alric whispered. His heart began to pound, beating in his ears.

“Shh!” Maelen hissed angrily. Her eyes darted around the trees, which had grown denser, weaving together overhead like shuttered windows.

Vessa appeared at Alric’s shoulder, and he squawked in surprise. He would never get used to how she moved through the forest like smoke. Maelen shot him a poisonous look and then leaned towards Vessa.

“Predator?” the muscled woman whispered. Vessa chewed her bottom lip, her freckled face swiveling to look all around them, and shrugged.

Alric sensed a hum in the air, not a sound exactly, not anything perceptible by his human senses. But it was there, nonetheless. He closed his eyes, trying to still his frantic heart and labored breathing.

“Not a predator,” he murmured, reverent, but not soft. He opened his eyes to see Maelen and Vessa staring at him. “It’s magic. We’re here.”

“Lad!” Maelen barked at him in a harsh whisper, but Alric limped forward, leaning on his staff.

He looked down and smiled. Below one foot was a flattened, worn stone. A steppingstone, marking a path but barely visible amidst the fallen leaves and moss.

Maelen appeared at his side, and Alric had the sense she’d meant to drag him back. But she followed his gaze and widened her eyes. He smiled when she looked at him questioningly.

What remained of Thornmere Hold was nestled in a hollow glade where the earth seemed sunken, like the land itself had tried to bury the place. Once within the glade, the steppingstone path was more obvious and led to faint stone steps that descended from the forest’s edge into a ruin overgrown with vines, moss, roots, and black lichen. At the heart of the ruins, half-toppled, were a crumbled half-circle of standing stones. Beyond those lay a fallen obelisk, broken into three large pieces of stone. Something had been carved into the stone, but the forest and weather had obscured any details.

Alric stood at the top of the steps, marveling at the place. The magic here was like standing near the embers of a fire, but it wasn’t warmth he felt. It thrummed in his jaw, in the bones of his fingers. He swallowed, unsure whether it comforted or warned. Otherwise, there was simply silence.

“I don’t like this place,” Vessa said, standing at one of Alric’s shoulders and crossing her arms over her chest.

“Shut it, Vess,” Maelen grumped from his other shoulder. “Where are the scrolls, lad? What are we looking for?”

“I… don’t know exactly,” he said reverently. “But there must be a door somewhere.”

“Well, let’s go then,” Maelen said, stepping forward and taking two steps towards the sunken glade.

Alric and Vessa followed her lead. It was eerie in a place so quiet. The shadows in the glade felt deeper somehow. It must have been near midafternoon, yet any hint of the sky overhead had vanished. Instead, it felt as if Thornmere Hold was in a perpetual gloom of twilight.

They searched the glade carefully, making as little noise as possible. Without discussion, Maelen drifted right, Vessa left, and Alric middle. The deeper he stepped into the area, the more he felt as if the place was watching, waiting. Hungry, that was the word. Not for food. For something else.

At one point, he lost himself at the center of the fallen standing stones. Here, chosen scribes of the Inkbinders Lodge had performed rituals, discussed history, and defended the banished texts from outsiders. What must their lives had been like? How had they been chosen for this sacred task? Had the glade ever fallen under attack? And why had the place been abandoned, so many years ago? He sighed, yearning for the stones to speak to him and share their vigilant observations.

“Here,” Vessa’s voice broke the silence. Alric blinked and shook himself out of his reverie, searching for the source of the voice. The stubble-headed, lithe woman in leathers crouched just beyond the base of the fallen obelisk, rubbing at her nose and frowning down at something. He and Maelen picked their way through the clearing to her.

Vessa crouched beside a stone disk half-sunk in the earth, its face etched with runes worn smooth by centuries and swallowed by moss and black lichen. Had the carvings once been script or images, it was impossible to tell. The disk was wide, flush with the earth, carved into the hollow like a massive stone plug. Alric saw now that its edge formed a faint seam—not a true lid, perhaps, but a seal. Something meant to be kept closed.

“It’s a door,” Vessa said, pointing a thin finger. Alric supposed fine hands were good for a thief. “See here? There’s room to swing it aside. The scrolls must be below ground.”

Maelen grunted. “Think the two of us can lift it?”

“It’s sealed,” Vessa said, rubbing again at her nose. “And maybe trapped. I’ll take a closer look.” She dropped to her stomach in the grass, her face close to the stone.

For several heartbeats, Maelen and Alric stood mutely watching the woman as she squinted and touched the edge of the circular stone. For Alric, it meant constantly feeling the low hum of magic everywhere in the glade, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It was both intriguing and maddening in equal parts.

Vessa crawled the perimeter of the door, grunting softly as her fingers traced the edge.

“Definitely trapped,” she mumbled. “Not mechanical. Magical, maybe? But they’d leave a bypass…” She grinned suddenly. “There. Got it.” Her tongue peeked from the corner of her mouth as she dug into the mossy ground, then paused to breathe deep. Vessa glanced up at them.

“You might want to step back,” she said with a wry grin. “Just in case.”

Alric blanched and shuffled backwards several strides. Maelen, frowning, took two cautious steps backwards but stayed closer to the door.

“You got it?” Maelen asked, voice low and taut.

The woman had fished some tools from a belt pouch and was digging at the same spot with them. “I got it,” she breathed. “Probably. Here goes.”

For a moment, Vessa’s face turned red as she struggled with something Alric couldn’t see. The moment stretched, quiet as breath. Then, with a sharp exhalation of triumph, she smiled up at them. The woman stuffed her iron tools back into the pouch, scrambled to a crouch, and dipped both hands beneath the stone. There was a crack and pop, like a wine flask opening for the first time, and then Vessa was pushing the stone with steady effort.

As she’d predicted, the stone door swung wide, scraping along the ground as it went. When Vessa had pushed it aside and stood, slapping dirt from her front and grinning, they all looked down. The door left a circular opening into the earth, still partially covered by the stone. Worn, stone steps led down. Shadows pooled in the stairwell, impossibly deep for daylight, as if night waited just below.

The accomplishment of what he witnessed overwhelmed him a moment. He’d done it. He’d found the right skills to get him here from Oakton, to find and open the vault. And here it was, waiting for him. Not just hidden knowledge, but perhaps a key to understanding the magic he felt just beyond his reach.

Thornmere Hold opened like a waiting mouth, silent and expectant, beckoning him forward.

Next: Into the Darkness [with game notes]

[game-notes version here]

IV.

Frostmere 15, Goldday, Year 731.

The afternoon had grown long within the Greenwood Rise, golden light dappling the small glade. Vessa’s head and stomach both felt hollow, raw and carved out like a melon. She still had no idea what happened last night. Woke in a barn with a dog licking her face, a missing tooth, shaved head, and a government writ-seal in her pocket. Lotus leaf and drink, but what else? Whatever had happened then, right now what her body yearned to do was spend a full day in darkness, retching and clutching her stubbled skull. Instead, she’d been tromping slowly west of Oakton, up and up through the forested hills, following a lamed scribe and stumbling upon a group of outcasts.

She took no pleasure in sneaking up on the one whose throat she’d slit. The bald man with the black tar-marks on his cheeks wasn’t the first nameless idiot who’d died without ever seeing her approach, and he bloody well wouldn’t be the last. But killing left her in a foul mood, and her mood had already been foul. Vessa spit a glob of bile, briefly remembering the man’s choking gasp, the hot blood that spilled down his dirty shirt. With a grimace, she pushed the images away and focused on the woman in front of her.

The crone must have been four times Vessa’s age, back bent by labor and hair white and wild as loose spider webs. She regarded Vessa with a natural look of distaste on her wrinkled, leathery face, thin lips pursed. The same black streaks as the man she’d slain decorated her cheeks, and she wore a dirty homespun shift and a bulky necklace of—Vessa squinted—blobs of wax? She decided that the old woman was poor as dirt and, glancing at her almost black feet, had been living out here for a long, long time.

“Ye killed ‘em, then? The others?” the woman asked into the growing silence with a dry, papery voice.

Vessa shrugged, rubbing at her crooked nose, an old injury that flared whenever her temper did. Her shaved head felt too cold and tingly in the autumn air, and she moved her hand to brush over the unfamiliar stubble. Gods, she needed some proper sleep.

“You’re not the one asking questions,” Vessa muttered. “So shut it.”

The old woman crossed her thin arms, little more than loose flesh dangling from bones, and squinted hard at Vessa. Dammit all. Vessa knew that she wasn’t particularly charming in the best of times, but she’d fumbled their interaction already. She saw clearly that this woman wasn’t going to tell them a bloody useful thing.

“We did kill them,” Maelen said, stepping forward in a crunch of leaves. “They friends of yours?”

“Not as much. Bah,” the woman scoffed, turning her attention to Mae. “They woulda done the same t’you, I s’pose. Sorry fer it, though. Good people, hard workin’.”

Maelen sighed. “I was coming up to talk to you all when I tripped. Then there was yelling and people coming down the hill at me with weapons.”

“Heh,” she smiled wearily, showing three withered teeth in otherwise empty gums. “Didn’t expect you, eh? Big warrior wif a sword bigger’n they’d ever seen, I bet. They weren’t soldiers. Jassel was a chimmy-sweep. Bran a lampligh’er. Karn was a stablehand.”

“The bearded one with the club? His name was Karn?” Maelen asked.

The woman nodded, sucking at her top lip.

Maelen turned to show the side of her leather vest. It was scarred with two small tears in the leather. “He hit me one good. Strong fellow. A different day, it could have been me in the dirt.”

The old woman nodded. “Kinda you to say,” she said. “Wha’s yer name?”

“Maelen. Yours?”

“Yara. Folks call me Old Yara if’n ‘cause I’m older’n the sun.” She smiled her gummy smile.

Maelen chuckled. “Seems to me, all the young ones are lying dead in the leaves and you’re still here, Old Yara.”

“True ‘nuf,” the woman nodded once. “I’m a survivor.”

“Yes ma’am,” Maelen cocked her head. “What’s with the black goop on your cheeks?”

“Oh,” Old Yara waved a hand dismissively. “Jus’ somefin’ the Night Captain makes us do, to be part ‘o his gang. Calls us the Lanternless, and I never met anyone hates the light much as him. Don’ even like us makin’ fires at night, so I’ve got used t’eat’n meat raw.”

“He an outcast from Oakton too?” Maelen asked casually, and even amidst Vessa’s hollowed-out haze, she admired the mercenary. Whereas Old Yara immediately hated Vessa, Maelen had used her streetwise charm to turn her around. If they’d been in the city, the old woman would have been offering them tea. Quietly, Vessa drifted back from the conversation, letting Mae take the old woman’s full attention.

She glanced over at Alric, the scribe, who had found a place to sit and stretch his legs out beneath him, back against a tree. The man’s eyes were watching Old Yara and Maelen intently, probing. She decided not to interrupt his eavesdropping. The last thing they needed was for the kid to yelp in surprise and break the spell Maelen was weaving with the old outcast. Keeping her eyes scanning for anyone approaching, Vessa brought her attention back to the conversation.

“He was a lamplighter too, then?” Maelen was saying in response to whatever Old Yara had answered. “Like the one in your group?”

“A lampligh’er, aye, like Bran. Had a pole ‘n whistle his whole life ‘n wore the city’s colors. When the Night Captain talks ‘bout Oakton, s’like he’s still walkin’ its bones,” the old woman bobbed her head. “But he did his work long ago, mind. Long time.”

“So he’s got the age of experience like you, eh?” Maelen folded her thick arms casually, a move Vessa thought was to remind Old Yara of her strength while seeming relaxed.

The crone waved a hand, shooing away Maelen’s words. “Naw, naw… he’s older’n me but you got the wrong idea.” Her eyes twinkled in the dappled sunlight. “He ain’t human, see. He’s been walkin’ these woods longer’n any o’ us.” She paused. “The Night Captain’s a ghost.”

Alric shifted, sitting up straighter and practically buzzing with questions. Vessa cocked an eyebrow herself. What in the bloody mists was going on out here?

Thankfully, as if reading her thoughts, Maelen asked. “A ghost? Now why would a bunch of outcasts band together to follow a ghost out here in the wilds?”

The way she posed the question clearly hit Old Yara badly, as if she suddenly realized she were being interrogated. Or perhaps there was some other offense in the words none of them understood. Whatever the case, the woman’s face hardened, and she crossed her thin arms, mirroring Maelen’s posture. “Well, we’re outcasts, ain’t we? Gotta survive. The Night Captain’s tougher’n anything we meet out here, includin’ you and your pups. If he was here, you’d be skinned and hangin’ from that tree, sure as night.”

Maelen saw that she’d struck a nerve. She held up a hand in peace. “Now listen, Old Yara, I didn’t–”

“I think,” the woman spat, barreling forward and getting herself riled up. “You’ll be hangin’ there soon anyway. Night Captain’s not gonna like you cullin’ his flock none. How d’you think it’ll feel, when your skin comes off in strips and your pups are screamin’ while he pulls their tongues out one by one?” Something unsettling filled the old woman’s voice, hard and mean. “Will ya be so tough then? Your big sword won’ do squat to the Night Captain. You’ll die wailin’ and beggin’ tonight, sure as night. And I’ll be watchin’ and laughin’ the whole time!” She cackled.

Maelen’s lip curled, the patience slipping like bark from a burned tree. Then, quick as a snake’s strike, she backhanded the old woman. It wasn’t a strong blow, and done so casually that Maelen’s expression looked almost bored. Old Yara spilled to the ground with a surprised yelp, and when she looked up from her hands and bony knees, fear flickered across her face.

“That’s enough of that,” the warrior said. “I’m just trying to have a conversation, Old Yara. I don’t need you scaring the lad and lass. Okay?”

The crone scampered to her knees on the forest floor, wiping blood from her lip with the back of one hand. Her eyes had gone flat and distant.

“Sure, sure,” she said. “Ask yer questions, then.”

The light was fading by the time Maelen had finished her conversation. They left Old Yara tied sitting to a tree, using a shirt from one of the dead men. When Alric protested that the old woman would die left like that, Maelen assured him that Sarin and the Lanternless would seek out their patrol when it didn’t return and so would find her long before she succumbed to hunger or thirst. She also argued that, if the Lanternless had claimed this part of the Greenwood Rise as their territory, the chances of a predator finding Old Yara before her gang were slim. Alric didn’t seem convinced but wisely didn’t push the issue.

Instead, all the scribe wanted to talk about was the gang’s leader, Sarin the Night Captain.

“It’s a Nightwight, I’m sure of it,” he said breathlessly to Vessa as they pushed through some underbrush. “Several scholars have written about them, but I don’t believe anyone has seen one in more than a generation!”

Vessa scanned the forest for danger but had stayed by Alric’s side to help him keep Maelen’s pace. The warrior had said they needed to gain as much distance from Old Yara and where she’d said the Lanternless’ camp was as possible, and soon darkness would make stumbling through the forest foolish. They still crawled at a frustratingly slow speed because of the man’s limp, but Vessa had to admit that he was pushing himself without complaint.

Despite herself, she was curious. “What’s a Nightwight, then? Is it a ghost like she said?”

“More solid,” Alric panted. “A corpse risen and filled with spirits, not a spirit itself. But powerful and consumed by some purpose that keeps the body moving. For Sarin—ow!” he yelped as a branch thwacked him across the cheek. “For Sarin, it seems it’s whatever he has buried at their camp that the woman said he wouldn’t let any of them see. What do you think it is? Is he guarding it or waiting for something to happen related to it?”

“Old Yara said he was waiting for a sign. ‘The Blind Sovereign will send a herald,’ she said. What do you think that means?”

“I have no idea,” Alric said, frustrated. “But I want to ask some people at the Inkbinders Lodge when we’re back. It’s remarkable, don’t you think? I mean, it’s all utterly terrifying, but still… this could be something–”

“By the Rootmother’s teat, shut up you two!” Maelen said from the deepening shadows ahead. “Keep up and keep your ears open and mouths tight.”

Maelen continued to push them hard. Vessa wouldn’t have minded, especially at the scribe’s halting pace, except for her pounding head and sour stomach.

Eventually, long after Vessa thought advisable, it became clear even to Maelen that the woods had become too treacherous to continue safely. The three of them found a space amidst a copse of trees and large stone that Maelen pronounced “as defensible as they were likely to find in the twice-cursed darkness,” ate a dinner of trail rations and dried jerky, and unrolled their bedrolls. Maelen decided that, based on the conversation with Old Yara, they would avoid making a fire. Wind gusted across the ridge of the Greenwood where they’d stopped, chilling their small camp in the autumn night.

Alric had done well against the challenges of the day, Vessa thought, though he was nearly asleep on his feet, and snoring as soon as his head touched the bedroll.

“You sleep too, Vess,” Maelen grunted, grinning down at the scribe and shaking her head. “I’ll take first watch. I have to repair my jerkin and see to my ribs. That bloody club tagged me harder than I admitted to Old Yara.”

“You need any help?” Vessa asked, stifling a yawn.

“Nah,” Maelen chuckled in the darkness. Clouds off the bay had swept across the Greenwood Rise, and chill fog wound through the trees, swallowing the forest whole. Beyond their circle of breath and silence, the world seemed to vanish. “You looked at bad as the lad when we stopped. Get some rest.”

Vessa nodded, this time yawning fully and loudly. Gratefully, she stretched herself down on her bedroll, resting her head upon folded arms.

Eyelids heavy, she said, “Mae?”

“Mm?”

“We’re going to go steal that thing the old woman mentioned, right? Sarin’s buried treasure?”

“Damned right we are,” Maelen answered.

“Good,” Vessa murmured, the grin audible in her voice. She closed her eyes. The world went black.

Next: Thornmere Hold [with game notes]

[prose-only version here]

IV.

Frostmere 15, Goldday, Year 731.

The afternoon had grown long within the Greenwood Rise, golden light dappling the small glade. Vessa’s head and stomach both felt hollow, raw and carved out like a melon. She still had no idea what happened last night. Woke in a barn with a dog licking her face, a missing tooth, shaved head, and a government writ-seal in her pocket. Lotus leaf and drink, but what else? Whatever had happened then, right now what her body yearned to do was spend a full day in darkness, retching and clutching her stubbled skull. Instead, she’d been tromping slowly west of Oakton, up and up through the forested hills, following a lamed scribe and stumbling upon a group of outcasts.

She took no pleasure in sneaking up on the one whose throat she’d slit. The bald man with the black tar-marks on his cheeks wasn’t the first nameless idiot who’d died without ever seeing her approach, and he bloody well wouldn’t be the last. But killing left her in a foul mood, and her mood had already been foul. Vessa spit a glob of bile, briefly remembering the man’s choking gasp, the hot blood that spilled down his dirty shirt. With a grimace, she pushed the images away and focused on the woman in front of her.

The crone must have been four times Vessa’s age, back bent by labor and hair white and wild as loose spider webs. She regarded Vessa with a natural look of distaste on her wrinkled, leathery face, thin lips pursed. The same black streaks as the man she’d slain decorated her cheeks, and she wore a dirty homespun shift and a bulky necklace of—Vessa squinted—blobs of wax? She decided that the old woman was poor as dirt and, glancing at her almost black feet, had been living out here for a long, long time.

“Ye killed ‘em, then? The others?” the woman asked into the growing silence with a dry, papery voice.

Vessa shrugged, rubbing at her crooked nose, an old injury that flared whenever her temper did. Her shaved head felt too cold and tingly in the autumn air, and she moved her hand to brush over the unfamiliar stubble. Gods, she needed some proper sleep.

“You’re not the one asking questions,” Vessa muttered. “So shut it.”

The old woman crossed her thin arms, little more than loose flesh dangling from bones, and squinted hard at Vessa. Dammit all. Vessa knew that she wasn’t particularly charming in the best of times, but she’d fumbled their interaction already. She saw clearly that this woman wasn’t going to tell them a bloody useful thing.

“We did kill them,” Maelen said, stepping forward in a crunch of leaves. “They friends of yours?”

“Not as much. Bah,” the woman scoffed, turning her attention to Mae. “They woulda done the same t’you, I s’pose. Sorry fer it, though. Good people, hard workin’.”

Maelen sighed. “I was coming up to talk to you all when I tripped. Then there was yelling and people coming down the hill at me with weapons.”

“Heh,” she smiled wearily, showing three withered teeth in otherwise empty gums. “Didn’t expect you, eh? Big warrior wif a sword bigger’n they’d ever seen, I bet. They weren’t soldiers. Jassel was a chimmy-sweep. Bran a lampligh’er. Karn was a stablehand.”

“The bearded one with the club? His name was Karn?” Maelen asked.

The woman nodded, sucking at her top lip.

Maelen turned to show the side of her leather vest. It was scarred with two small tears in the leather. “He hit me one good. Strong fellow. A different day, it could have been me in the dirt.”

The old woman nodded. “Kinda you to say,” she said. “Wha’s yer name?”

“Maelen. Yours?”

“Yara. Folks call me Old Yara if’n ‘cause I’m older’n the sun.” She smiled her gummy smile.

Maelen chuckled. “Seems to me, all the young ones are lying dead in the leaves and you’re still here, Old Yara.”

“True ‘nuf,” the woman nodded once. “I’m a survivor.”

“Yes ma’am,” Maelen cocked her head. “What’s with the black goop on your cheeks?”

“Oh,” Old Yara waved a hand dismissively. “Jus’ somefin’ the Night Captain makes us do, to be part ‘o his gang. Calls us the Lanternless, and I never met anyone hates the light much as him. Don’ even like us makin’ fires at night, so I’ve got used t’eat’n meat raw.”

“He an outcast from Oakton too?” Maelen asked casually, and even amidst Vessa’s hollowed-out haze, she admired the mercenary. Whereas Old Yara immediately hated Vessa, Maelen had used her streetwise charm to turn her around. If they’d been in the city, the old woman would have been offering them tea. Quietly, Vessa drifted back from the conversation, letting Mae take the old woman’s full attention.

She glanced over at Alric, the scribe, who had found a place to sit and stretch his legs out beneath him, back against a tree. The man’s eyes were watching Old Yara and Maelen intently, probing. She decided not to interrupt his eavesdropping. The last thing they needed was for the kid to yelp in surprise and break the spell Maelen was weaving with the old outcast. Keeping her eyes scanning for anyone approaching, Vessa brought her attention back to the conversation.

“He was a lamplighter too, then?” Maelen was saying in response to whatever Old Yara had answered. “Like the one in your group?”

“A lampligh’er, aye, like Bran. Had a pole ‘n whistle his whole life ‘n wore the city’s colors. When the Night Captain talks ‘bout Oakton, s’like he’s still walkin’ its bones,” the old woman bobbed her head. “But he did his work long ago, mind. Long time.”

“So he’s got the age of experience like you, eh?” Maelen folded her thick arms casually, a move Vessa thought was to remind Old Yara of her strength while seeming relaxed.

The crone waved a hand, shooing away Maelen’s words. “Naw, naw… he’s older’n me but you got the wrong idea.” Her eyes twinkled in the dappled sunlight. “He ain’t human, see. He’s been walkin’ these woods longer’n any o’ us.” She paused. “The Night Captain’s a ghost.”

Alric shifted, sitting up straighter and practically buzzing with questions. Vessa cocked an eyebrow herself. What in the bloody mists was going on out here?

Thankfully, as if reading her thoughts, Maelen asked. “A ghost? Now why would a bunch of outcasts band together to follow a ghost out here in the wilds?”

The way she posed the question clearly hit Old Yara badly, as if she suddenly realized she were being interrogated. Or perhaps there was some other offense in the words none of them understood. Whatever the case, the woman’s face hardened, and she crossed her thin arms, mirroring Maelen’s posture. “Well, we’re outcasts, ain’t we? Gotta survive. The Night Captain’s tougher’n anything we meet out here, includin’ you and your pups. If he was here, you’d be skinned and hangin’ from that tree, sure as night.”

Maelen saw that she’d struck a nerve. She held up a hand in peace. “Now listen, Old Yara, I didn’t–”

“I think,” the woman spat, barreling forward and getting herself riled up. “You’ll be hangin’ there soon anyway. Night Captain’s not gonna like you cullin’ his flock none. How d’you think it’ll feel, when your skin comes off in strips and your pups are screamin’ while he pulls their tongues out one by one?” Something unsettling filled the old woman’s voice, hard and mean. “Will ya be so tough then? Your big sword won’ do squat to the Night Captain. You’ll die wailin’ and beggin’ tonight, sure as night. And I’ll be watchin’ and laughin’ the whole time!” She cackled.

Maelen’s lip curled, the patience slipping like bark from a burned tree. Then, quick as a snake’s strike, she backhanded the old woman. It wasn’t a strong blow, and done so casually that Maelen’s expression looked almost bored. Old Yara spilled to the ground with a surprised yelp, and when she looked up from her hands and bony knees, fear flickered across her face.

“That’s enough of that,” the warrior said. “I’m just trying to have a conversation, Old Yara. I don’t need you scaring the lad and lass. Okay?”

The crone scampered to her knees on the forest floor, wiping blood from her lip with the back of one hand. Her eyes had gone flat and distant.

“Sure, sure,” she said. “Ask yer questions, then.”

The light was fading by the time Maelen had finished her conversation. They left Old Yara tied sitting to a tree, using a shirt from one of the dead men. When Alric protested that the old woman would die left like that, Maelen assured him that Sarin and the Lanternless would seek out their patrol when it didn’t return and so would find her long before she succumbed to hunger or thirst. She also argued that, if the Lanternless had claimed this part of the Greenwood Rise as their territory, the chances of a predator finding Old Yara before her gang were slim. Alric didn’t seem convinced but wisely didn’t push the issue.

Instead, all the scribe wanted to talk about was the gang’s leader, Sarin the Night Captain.

“It’s a Nightwight, I’m sure of it,” he said breathlessly to Vessa as they pushed through some underbrush. “Several scholars have written about them, but I don’t believe anyone has seen one in more than a generation!”

Vessa scanned the forest for danger but had stayed by Alric’s side to help him keep Maelen’s pace. The warrior had said they needed to gain as much distance from Old Yara and where she’d said the Lanternless’ camp was as possible, and soon darkness would make stumbling through the forest foolish. They still crawled at a frustratingly slow speed because of the man’s limp, but Vessa had to admit that he was pushing himself without complaint.

Despite herself, she was curious. “What’s a Nightwight, then? Is it a ghost like she said?”

“More solid,” Alric panted. “A corpse risen and filled with spirits, not a spirit itself. But powerful and consumed by some purpose that keeps the body moving. For Sarin—ow!” he yelped as a branch thwacked him across the cheek. “For Sarin, it seems it’s whatever he has buried at their camp that the woman said he wouldn’t let any of them see. What do you think it is? Is he guarding it or waiting for something to happen related to it?”

“Old Yara said he was waiting for a sign. ‘The Blind Sovereign will send a herald,’ she said. What do you think that means?”

“I have no idea,” Alric said, frustrated. “But I want to ask some people at the Inkbinders Lodge when we’re back. It’s remarkable, don’t you think? I mean, it’s all utterly terrifying, but still… this could be something–”

“By the Rootmother’s teat, shut up you two!” Maelen said from the deepening shadows ahead. “Keep up and keep your ears open and mouths tight.”

Maelen continued to push them hard. Vessa wouldn’t have minded, especially at the scribe’s halting pace, except for her pounding head and sour stomach.

Eventually, long after Vessa thought advisable, it became clear even to Maelen that the woods had become too treacherous to continue safely. The three of them found a space amidst a copse of trees and large stone that Maelen pronounced “as defensible as they were likely to find in the twice-cursed darkness,” ate a dinner of trail rations and dried jerky, and unrolled their bedrolls. Maelen decided that, based on the conversation with Old Yara, they would avoid making a fire. Wind gusted across the ridge of the Greenwood where they’d stopped, chilling their small camp in the autumn night.

Alric had done well against the challenges of the day, Vessa thought, though he was nearly asleep on his feet, and snoring as soon as his head touched the bedroll.

“You sleep too, Vess,” Maelen grunted, grinning down at the scribe and shaking her head. “I’ll take first watch. I have to repair my jerkin and see to my ribs. That bloody club tagged me harder than I admitted to Old Yara.”

“You need any help?” Vessa asked, stifling a yawn.

“Nah,” Maelen chuckled in the darkness. Clouds off the bay had swept across the Greenwood Rise, and chill fog wound through the trees, swallowing the forest whole. Beyond their circle of breath and silence, the world seemed to vanish. “You looked at bad as the lad when we stopped. Get some rest.”

Vessa nodded, this time yawning fully and loudly. Gratefully, she stretched herself down on her bedroll, resting her head upon folded arms.

Eyelids heavy, she said, “Mae?”

“Mm?”

“We’re going to go steal that thing the old woman mentioned, right? Sarin’s buried treasure?”

“Damned right we are,” Maelen answered.

“Good,” Vessa murmured, the grin audible in her voice. She closed her eyes. The world went black.

Next: Thornmere Hold [with game notes]