The Homunculus Knight

Chapter 7: On the Water and among the Towers

“The sword is the best weapon. Not cause it's the strongest or fastest weapon, but cause it's only a weapon. Hammers, Axes, even Spears have use outside killing. You ken? A sword don’t have no use outside taking the life of another person. You see a bastard with a sword, you know he’s a killer or pretending to be one. You ken?” - Words of Harold Bend-Blade. The infamous ‘Drunken Sword-Saint’ of Dun-Hoy Isle.

“A what?” Natalie asked.

Grimacing, Cole repeated himself. “A Lych. A rare and extremely dangerous type of intelligent Undead. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of them.”

Natalie shrugged. “Maybe I know them by another name? In Glockmire, we didn’t have a specific name for Grinner Ghouls.”

Accepting that, Cole started to describe Lychs. “They are Spellweavers, typically Magi, who’ve achieved pseudo-Immortality by putting their soul into an object. This lets them survive anything as long as their soul is safely sealed away. The magic involved is both complicated and cruel. Only the most skilled and amoral Magi even consider becoming a Lych. So by definition, Lychs are almost-unkillable Archmages with tenuous morality at best. They rank similarly to Elder Vampires in threat”

Natalie shrugged. “I’ve never heard of anything like that. They don’t sound like the sort of thing to star in folktales; too complicated. Why do you bring them up?”

Frowning, Cole looked out towards the west, where Vindabon awaited them. “Because one of them lives in Vindabon, and he’s probably the only person on the continent who might surpass Isabelle’s knowledge of souls.”

Eyes wide, Natalie asked. “You think this ‘Lych’ can help you learn what's happening to you?”

Nodding, Cole leaned against the barge railing. “Yes, he might even be helpful in regards to the Alukah. I’d hoped to use other options, but with Isabelle unresponsive and uncertain, the Lych might be necessary.”

It suddenly struck Natalie how little they’d planned when it came to Vindabon itself. Till now, they’d been focused on just getting there. With only some vague notions from Cole guiding them. Getting out of the Blood Duchies and to the relative safety of the City-State had been a good outline. Now with Vindabon almost in sight, it became clear more detail was needed.

Voicing these concerns, Natalie asked. “What exactly is the plan for when we get to Vindabon?”

Cole just shrugged. “I have connections in Vindabon. Both in the Ivory Tower and the Temples. I’d hoped to use them to learn more about the Alukah.” pausing for a moment, Cole sheepishly admitted. “To be honest, I didn’t have much more of a plan.”

Scratching at his scarred cheek, Cole turned his gaze towards the west again. A mix of shame and embarrassment colored his words. “I… I have never been one for long-term planning or complicated schemes. My life has honestly been one long trek with simple problems and usually simple solutions. I arrive at a place, deal with whatever threat I can, then move on.”

Getting up on her toes to kiss Cole’s cheek, Natalie said. “Well, now you have me to help plan things. So stop moping, and let's get to work.”

Smiling despite himself, Cole nodded in agreement. “I’m known among the Priests of Master Time in Vindabon. I’ve stayed at the Temple during my previous visits, but I doubt that will work now. We will need to find a good inn to stay in while we are in town.”

Accepting that, Natalie breached a difficult question she’d been gnawing on for a while. “Cole, what do we do if the Priests react like Mathias did?”

Natalie had known Mathias her entire life, and the Priest had still chastised Cole for not killing her. If that was how her hometown Priest reacted to her Vampirism. She didn’t want to imagine what the Priests of Vindabon would do.

After he was silent for a moment, Cole abashedly said: “I hadn’t considered that. I’d assumed my Mantle would be enough to wash away any problems.”

Frowning, Natalie remarked. “You being a Paladin or not, I doubt the Clergy will be accepting of me. I wouldn’t be surprised if they assumed you were under my control somehow.”

Cole looked down at Natalie, pressed against his body, and thought of her recent flirtations. Maybe the Priests had a point there. While no magic was involved, Natalie certainly had him enthralled. Brushing off those bawdy thoughts, he said. “We get lodging and I approach the Temple without you. Keeping you secret unless absolutely necessary, or my contacts prove accepting of the truth?”

Nodding at that, Natalie asked. “What about the Lych? Do you have a plan for him?”

Letting out a sight at the idea. Cole shrugged. “The temple should be able to put me in contact. If not, I can use some scraps of Isabelle’s research to lure him out. But I’d prefer not to do the second option. I’ve met the Lych before, and he was unaware of my origin. Keeping it that way would be preferable. The fewer people know about my nature and Isabelle’s research, the better.”

“You met the Lych? How did that happen?” asked Natalie, surprise in her words.

Shutting his eyes, Cole let out a weary grunt. “Three years ago, I was hunting the trail of a Necromancer who’d fled to Vindabon of all places. He’d barely beaten me to the city and hoped to use its size to hide. For a few days, it worked. I was staying at the Temple trying to find the trail when this Hearse Coach arrived at the Temple unscheduled. In the back of the Hearse was the Necromancer’s body and the Lych. Apparently, the Necromancer had come to the Lych seeking aid and a possible alliance. The Lych found the idea repugnant and promptly delivered the Necromancer to the temple for consecration.”

Bound by morbid curiosity, Natalie probed further. “What did the Lych look like?”

A momentary twitch of some undecided emotion on Cole’s face made Natalie regret her question. Still, Cole answered it. “I don’t entirely know. The Priests said he looked like a perfectly normal Nobleman. The illusion he wore showed nothing of interest. My gifts let me see something closer to the truth.”

Cole shuddered slightly, an action Natalie had never seen him do before. “I saw the smell of a thousand rotting souls distilled by a man’s denial and shaped by his will. I felt that distillation stretch over reality like so much dead skin. Taking a familiar form to be puppeteered by something old and hard as Giant’s Bones”

The groan of wood and slosh of water was the only noise for a moment. Recovering slightly, Cole shrugged. “My magic is a strange thing. My gifts deal with the Aether and beyond in ways my mind can’t quite process. Usually, my brain just interprets it as a smell or sight. Just enough for me to understand what I need to know.. Rarely, when things get more complicated my senses get… strangely poetic.”

Natalie thought back to her own experiences with Magic. The dark arts Isabelle had taught her and the bits she’d learned herself hadn’t been as esoteric as Cole described. They felt…more material in a way. Spending blood and carving bones, while morbid, wasn’t too outside the realm of understanding. The only things that came close to what Cole described were her experiences with the old Alukah and Master Time. One an ancient horror, the other a literal God. It seemed even her Vampiric arts only skimmed the surface of Magic’s impossibility. While Cole let himself be drowned in it without even realizing it.

The creak of the deck hatch pulled the couple's attention from the morbid discussion. Ametza pulled herself onto the deck, her hair was an utter mess, and she looked half-dead. The Werewolf let out a relieved gasp as the cold winter air surrounded her. Rubbing her eyes, she waved to Natalie and shuffled over to the railing. Grimacing, Natalie asked. “Is the hang-over really that bad?”

Ametza nodded meekly. “I should have believed them. I SHOULD HAVE BELIEVED THEM!” Slumping onto the railing, she let out a groan. “I thought the Captain was kidding about him using that stuff to strip the deck.”

The previous night Ametza and her cousins had convinced the Captain of the Stream Skipper to share his “special vintage” with them. The Captain, a Werewolf by the name of Siggurd, brewed his own liquor. Creating a concoction powerful enough to even effect a true Werewolf. Naturally, the Shohgard packs resident fullbloods had pestered the Captain until he shared.

Groaning slightly, Ametza flopped onto the deck, it's cold wood a boon to her recovering body. “I haven’t felt this sick since I was turned.”

Confused by that, Natalie asked. “Turned? Weren’t you born a Werewolf?”

Ametza scoffed. “No one is born a Werewolf, not even Werefolk. We just take to the curse better than anyone else. When a Pack member turns thirteen, the sacred number of the moon, they are bit by a true Werewolf. Most don’t become fullbloods, just getting pieces of the power, but some like me are transformed.”

Pulling herself up, Ametza asked. “What about you? How were you turned?”

Both Cole nor Natalie didn’t say anything; both of them pulled back to ugly memories. Ametza saw their subdued reaction and quickly backtracked. “Oh, bad topics. Sorry, forget I said anything.”

Shaking her head, Natalie swallowed uselessly. “No, it's fine. A Vampire tried to eat me. I fought back and injured him. His blood got into my wounds and turned me.”

Ametza winced the younger Werewolf, clearly at a loss for words. Natalie put on a brave face and shrugged. “The Vampire is dead now. Cole and I killed him. And his curse is…manageable, I guess.”

An awkward silence filled the air, only broken by the splash of water. Cole looked over the railing to see the Barge Otter had returned with a friend. He gestured towards the two dire beasts. “We seem to have caught their attention.”

Leaping at the distraction, both Ametza and Natalie rushed over to see the two frolicking Otters. The creatures spun in circles, intertwining with each other in a helix of sleek fur. Noticing they had an audience, the two Otters looked up at the barge. Their whiskers dripped icy water as they gently paddled alongside the barge. Letting out a chorus of squeaks, the Otters eyed the passengers expectantly. When no food was forthcoming, they dove under, but not before sending a mighty splash of water up toward their observers. Cole quickly grabbed Natalie and spun them both away in a twirl. Leaving Ametza to be soaked.

Shaking off the river water like a wet dog, Ametza glared at Cole. “Oh, you couldn’t have grabbed me as well?”

Cole just shrugged and smiled. Ametza tossed him a rude gesture as well and left the Barge’s deck. Soon other Werefolk made their way up to the deck. Some busied themselves checking the Wagons strapped to the Barge’s surface. Others simply drank warmed cider and talked with each other. Some even exchanged polite greetings with Cole and Natalie. The Barge’s crew was also visible. Two weary-looking Werefolk near the forward were busy with the tug-ropes while a wild-haired woman leaned over the front and jabbered at the Barge Otters. Even with her hearing, Natalie couldn’t tell if the woman was speaking a language or just babbling madly.

The woman was the Barge’s River-Witch. A hedge mage and Shaman whose skills let the hulking Barge navigate the Alidon without issue. While the River-Witch had some sort of control over the Otters, Natalie had no clue if she could actually speak to them. After a moment, Natalie realized she wasn’t the only person on the deck staring at the River-Witch. Madam Kistine stood a little ways away, her lupine eyes also locked on the River-Witch.

Stepping over to the old Werewoman, Natalie asked. “Do you know the River-Witch?”

Kistine glanced at Natalie and shrugged. “By sight only, my Pack has taken the Stream Skipper before. It's the only Barge I trust for the trip. Only one of its size big enough for the whole Pack.”

Looking over at Natalie, Kistine asked. “That ghost dog of yours. It's an impressive piece of magic. Especially for someone as young as you.”

The two women watched as the River-Witch worked, and Cole joined a group of Werefolk trying to adjust a Wagon’s straps. Natalie shrugged. “He’s something I kind of inherited.”

Kistine nodded at that. “I apologize for destroying the Squirrel. I know better than most how hard it is to replace magical tools.” The old woman looked at her wrists and the bangles there. Natalie glanced at the ornaments and did a double take. She hadn’t noticed the hundreds of intricate marks carved into the metal. Now that she thought about it, Natalie realized Kistine had worn the bangles even while operating on Cole. They clearly weren’t just jewelry.

Adjusting the metal loops, Kistine sighed wistfully. “Each Shaman of the Pack has made one of these. Passing them down to their successor. I will be the eleventh Shaman. Ametza will be the twelfth. If I can get the fool girl to properly focus.”

Surprised by how much Kistine was sharing, Natalie asked. “What do the bangles do?”

In response, Kistine slipped one off and tossed it into the air. The circle of copper spun but didn’t fall. Hanging in the air, its shiny surface made the air ripple. Squinting at the oscillating bangle, Natalie realized the shifting light was making a shape. As the loop spun faster and faster, the shape became clearer. A dove, flapping its wings. Its image projected in the center of the ring. Animated by the spinning bangle, its form shifting like a candle in the wind.

The bangle suddenly dropped, Kistine catching it with practiced ease. “Each ring marks a Spirit and the bond my Pack has with it.” Holding up the bangle, Kistine continued. “This is Gentle-Breeze-Born-Of-Loving-Wings. She is a Spirit of Peace and Healing. My Great-Great Grandfather found her trailing our caravan when we passed through St. Rosiane.”

Natalie swore she heard the flutter of wings and the touch of feathers on her skin. Kistine raised an eyebrow. “Oh, it seems she likes you.”

Looking at the bangle as Kistine slipped it back on, Natalie tentatively asked. “What exactly are spirits?”

Scoffing slightly, Kistine folded her hands into her dress. “They didn’t teach you anything in your homeland?”

Shrugging meekly, Natalie didn’t contest the statement. While she’d learned much in Glockmire. The town's small schoolhouse hadn’t given much of an education in matters Arcane. Natalie’s own perceived lack of talent and the Vampire Noble's policy of keeping human magical learning stunted left her woefully uninformed about such matters.

Kistine shuffled over to a bench by the Barge’s wheelhouse. Sitting down, she gestured for Natalie to join her. Once situated, the old Shaman started her lecture. “Magic is the Beyond effecting the Material. Its influence forming the Aether and our Spells. But that interaction is not one-sided; the Beyond is, in turn, effected by our World. Our ideas, thoughts, and feelings spill over into the Beyond and take strange, powerful forms. Shaping the power of the beyond into what we call Spirits.”

Before Natalie could start her questions, Kistine held up a finger and continued talking. “Most spirits are small things, concepts, and feelings given a smidgen of life by our thoughts. With few stabilizing into anything we’d recognize as alive. Gentle-Breeze-Born-Of-Loving-Wings is one of those. She is a collection of related concepts given life by our stories and thoughts.”

Kistine gestured towards Cole, who was quietly talking with Bruto nearby. “Some spirits, those born of powerful concepts, can become something greater. Their existence tied to the universe on some integral level. Living ideas that mold the universe, and in turn, we mold with our beliefs. We call those Great Spirits Gods.”

Confused but still understanding the old matriarch's words, Natalie asked for clarification. “So Master Time isn’t really Death, but the idea of Death?”

Kristine chuckled. “Is there a difference? Magic certainly effects the world, and so do Spirits. Death is real, and so is Time and anything else for that matter. The Beyond didn’t create them, but it gave those ideas a Mind. Master Time is an idea of Death, and he is Death or at least a perspective on Death.”

Mind reeling, Natalie took this information relatively in stride. It lined up with what Cole and Master Time himself said. Pausing on that thought, Natalie had to remind herself she’d actually talked with a God. Or at least the idea of a God. Rubbing her temples, Natalie asked. “This…this is a lot to take in.”

Patting Natalie on the shoulder, Kistine smiled. “Oh, it gets worse. Talk to your Paladin sometimes about the Idea of Emanation or the tides of the Beyond sometimes. But for my purposes, I don’t bother with the Gods much. The Human Pantheon does their jobs well enough, and I offer my thanks when I can. As a Shaman, I mostly deal with the little Spirits. The ones who wade through the Aether.”

“My mother always liked to use water as a metaphor for dealing with the Beyond. She likened the Material World to dry land. Solid, stable, and difficult to alter without effort. While the Beyond is an Ocean, ever-changing in its currents and easy to alter.. The Aether is the shore and the shallows. Where waves lap and water mixes with earth. Creating mud and sand, both easier to manipulate than true Rock and Stone, but not as fickle as water. In this metaphor, magic is us land-dwellers making mud-castles and ripples on the shoreline.”

Fingering her bangles, Kistine continued. “The spirits who populate the Aether instead of the Beyond proper are the frogs and crabs scuttling about the shore. Weak as they may be, they know secrets their larger, stronger kin might overlook. Being able to go places, denizens of either side of reality might not.”

More than a little overwhelmed, Natalie looked at the Spirit bangles and slowly got up from the bench. “Thank you, Kistine. This has been…interesting.”

The old Werewoman snorted in amusement. “You are almost as bad as my daughter. You don’t have a Spellweavers mind, do you? No matter, it's not for everyone.”

Feeling more than a little bit embarrassed, Natalie walked over to where Cole and Bruto were. It seemed odd how little she understood the Magical theory Kistine and others before her had tried to explain. Yet she’d learned the bits of Vampire Magic and Necromancy Isabelle shared easily. Eventually Natalie chalked it up to the Alukah’s influence or maybe another gift from her mother. That thought reminded Natalie she needed to investigate this “Strixscion family” Petar mentioned, but she had no idea where to start. Sighing, Natalie added it to the growing pile of mysteries she needed to decipher.

Refocusing on the present, Natalie realized Bruto was staring at her. Striding over to Natalie, the wiry old Werefolk shoved her hard. A surprised Natalie stumbled back but caught herself easily. Stunned, the Vampire swore. “What the Hells was that?”

Bruto glanced back at Cole and nodded. In his gruff voice, the Werefolk growled. “Her balance is poor, but she is fast. I can work with this.”

A confused Natalie looked at Cole. The sheepish Paladin just shrugged. “You need to learn how to fight. I’m no good with a sword, but Bruto is. I asked him to help train you.”

Natalie’s eyes flicked to Bruto’s waist and the long curved blade he always wore. Bruto unfastened the blade and held it up by its scabbard. “In my youth, I served as a Hussar in the army of Prince Steffan Smok of Krakusmund. I fought Men, Goblins, Orcs, and Monsters in my time. You ken?”

Swallowing uselessly, Natalie glanced at Cole and back at Bruto. Both men nodded, one in encouragement, the other in acknowledgment. “I do; teach me to use the sword.”

A ring of Werefolk watched as two monsters clashed. One was the heir to an ancient pedigree of bloody royalty. The other a weary old man with a bit of wolfblood in him. The heir had quickly learned to fear the old man. Wood cracked against unliving flesh, and Natalie let out a pained yelp as her practice sword hit the deck. Bruto had gotten past her guard and landed a painful smack on her wrist. Unbothered by his pupil's distress, Bruto gestured to the dropped wooden sword and said. “Again.”

Natalie picked up the weapon and held it ready. No quicker had she settled into the stance Bruto had taught her, then the old soldier charged. His faux blade was a spinning blur of brown, hungering for Natalie’s suffering. Parrying the attack, Natalie fell back slightly, letting herself fall into the cadence Bruto had demonstrated. Blades clashed, and Werefolk cheered as Natalie tried desperately to hold her own. Stronger and faster than Bruto, she barely managed to keep him at bay. Fighting constantly on the defensive, trying to spare her poor hands any more punishment. Her efforts were token at best. Soon, her knuckles tasted Bruto’s edge for the sixth or seventh time. “Again.”

Clicking his tongue, Bruto attacked with almost lazy assurance. His blade was slow but incredibly precise. “Never stop moving, Natalie, don’t ever let your weight settle. Keep up the dance. You ken?”

Glaring at the unflappable Wereman, Natalie grumbled. “I ken.”

Jaks and Jokin sat nearby with Cole and Ametza. Upon hearing her words, Jokin let out a pained groan, and Ametza gave him a gentle punch. Hollering at Natalie, the younger Werewolf said. “Dammit! I thought you’d last longer.”

A confused Natalie spared him a glance just to receive a blow on the hip. Bruto jabbed his faux sword at her ribs. “Pay attention. You ken?”

Grumbling under her absent breath, Natalie leaped forward, her wooden weapon lashing out with new aggression. Bruto easily slipped past her strike and cracked her on the knee as she passed. Spinning, Natalie let her leg buckle and spun out with her free leg to try and sweep Bruto from his feet. The Old Soldier simply jumped over her strike. But he stayed his blade as Natalie scrambled to her feet. “Good, improvise more. Swordplay is a dance, but not any stuffy ballroom waltz. Take the basic moves and then make them your own. You ken?”

So the spar continued, Natalie slowly but surely learned how to “dance” with the Old Soldier. As they watched, Cole leaned over to Ametza and asked. “What was that about with Jokin?”

The young Werewolf snorted in amusement. “Oh, that. Well, Bruto teaches everyone in the Pack how to fight. Usually, just the basic spear thrusts and some grappling. But any he takes under his wing will eventually pick up that phrase of his. We bet on how long it will take. Jokin said a week; I said less.”

Chuckling, Cole nodded toward Bruto. “A Hussar, huh? Did he leave the pack for a time?”

Ametza looked at Cole, confused. “He didn’t tell you? Haven’t the two of you been spending nearly every morning together?”

Cole shrugged. “We don’t talk much.”

Rolling her eyes, Ametza made a noise most any woman would recognize to mean ‘Men…’

As Natalie parried a particularly cruel strike, Ametza gestured at Bruto and spoke. “Most Pack Members leave the family for a few years sometime in their life. We call it Hatifaal, dream-chasing. When Bruto took his Hatifaal, the Pack was in the East, near the border with the Goblin lands. War was brewing, and the Prince of Krakusmund needed soldiers. Particularly Werefolk soldiers. Those false-wolves the Goblins breed fear us, apparently. So Bruto did a tenner in the light cavalry and another fiver as an instructor. Then he rejoined the pack and has been our best armsmen ever since.”

Chewing on that, Cole asked. “Do you want to go on Hatifaal?”

Ametza shrugged. “Maybe? It's supposed to be a way for you to pursue a dream outside the Pack. Then maybe bring back new skills and experiences to share. I’ve never had much interest, though. I guess maybe I’m simple like that. A good hunt and good company seem to be all I need.”

Just then, Natalie let out a particularly loud curse. “JAG! OH, JAG, THAT HURTS!”

The young Vampire was clutching her hand to her breast. Having just received a cruel strike to the ends of her fingers. Dropping the practice sword, she stalked over to where Cole sat. Eye’s narrowed, Natalie pointed an accusatory finger at him with her uninjured hand. “You… How did you talk me into this?”

Smiling, Cole Reached out, grabbed Natalie’s hand, and pulled her into his lap. Taking her injured hand, he delicately kissed the healing fingers. Letting out something between a purr and a groan of annoyance, Natalie rolled her eyes. “Not what I asked, but I guess this is acceptable.”

Bruto walked over and kicked the dropped practice sword toward Natalie and Cole. “The only business you have with your lover is if he joins us in practice. You ken?”

Grumbling, Natalie unfolded herself from Cole’s lap and picked up the sword. To her surprise, Cole followed after her. Stopping only to grab an unused mop from nearby. Both Bruto and Natalie watched the approaching Paladin with surprise. Seeing their expressions, Cole shrugged. “Learning to duel is useful, but not every foe is a fellow bladesmen. Natalie has the basics down. Let us add some spice to this exercise.”

The crowd of onlookers gave Paladin and Vampire space. Natalie held her wooden sword ready, and Cole casually twirled the borrowed mop between his fingers. Bruto leaned against a nearby wagon and seemed amused with this turn of events. His mustache hiding what might have been a flicker of a smile. As the two combatants circled each other, Natalie asked. “You are going to go easy on me, right?”

Cole smiled at her, shrugged, and said. “Kind of.'' Then he charged, his mop shooting out with surprising speed, its soaked head sending a storm of flailing rags toward Natalie. The Vampire spun beneath the thrust and charged right into Cole's waiting palm. The open strike wasn’t meant to hurt but instead teach. Natalie let out a surprised ‘oof’ and stepped back. Cole didn’t give her the opportunity to regroup but simply whacked her in the head with the Mop’s strings. The face full of grimy fabric made Natalie yelp and step back even farther. Another soft blow poked her in the stomach, and her every attempt to counter-attack was easily parried or dodged.

With almost casual ease, Cole carefully pushed Natalie to the edge of the barge. Until Natalie found herself fighting with her back pressed against the railings. Only then did Cole knock her faux weapon away with a powerful strike. Not hitting her fingers like Bruto did but using raw force to disarm her. Weaponless, up against the railings, Natalie looked at Cole, who leveled his mop against her. Pouting, she put her hands up. “I concede. I thought you said you were going to go easy on me?”

Cole dropped the mop and approached Natalie with a shrug. “I did. Your fingers and the rest of you are unharmed. While pain might be a good motivator in cadence practice, it does little for the two lessons I am trying to teach.”

“Oh, what lessons would those be?” asked Natalie.

Cole nodded towards the mop. “First is the importance of reach. No attribute is more important in the melee. If you are going to be using a shortsword, knowing its main weakness and accounting for it will be crucial.”

Getting closer, Cole wrapped an arm around Natalie and brought her in for a kiss. A number of Werefolk who’d been watching the duel whistled and jeered. Breaking the kiss, Natalie looked up at Cole, his imposing form towering over her, and a little breathlessly asked. “What was the second lesson?”

The wooden shortsword Cole had been hiding behind his back came out and gently smacked her on the butt, eliciting a surprised squeak from Natalie. Playfully shoving Cole away, she glared at the amused-looking Paladin. “That was the second lesson. Never let your guard down when in a fight.”

Swatting him on the shoulder, Natalie grumbled. “I almost prefer Bruto’s sadism to your trickery.”

An uncharacteristically roguish smile split Cole’s scarred face. “Then I will let you get back to it.”

Sighing, Natalie stalked back to the center of the deck, where Bruto waited. Cole tossed him his hidden weapon and went back to sit with the Werewolves. Rolling her shoulders, Natalie realized her shoulders and hair were wet. Cole’s vicious mop attack had soaked her. The new work clothes she’d bought in Holderbruck were stained by the mop. Glaring at Cole, she threateningly gestured at him with her wooden weapon. While she might not be able to extract a pound of flesh in recompense, she would surely get that much blood from him over the coming weeks.

With every passing day, the River Barge faced greater and greater traffic. The mighty Alidon was congested with all manner of vessels. Dinghy, Barges, Ferries, Yachts, and every other breed of river-craft devised competed for space on the semi-frozen river. The flowing two-thirds of the Alidon trying to hold a number of boats it would struggle with in the Summer.

Soon the Stream Skipper was stuck at a glacial pace. It's Barge Otters doing little more than giving the hulking thing half-hearted tugs to keep it from smashing into its neighbors. The reason for this slowdown was plain for all to see. Vindabon was in sight.

Natalie stood at the foredeck, staring out at the incredible vista before her. A stew of ramshackle buildings covered the shore and beyond. Stretching as far as the eye could see. Hundreds of houses, shops, businesses, warehouses, and every other form of structure crowded together in a morass of civilization a dozen times larger than Glockmire. But this startling display of life and livelihoods wasn’t what had Natalie’s attention. What she’d first assumed to be Vindabon was, in fact, little more than the accreta of urban living built up at the foot of the city walls.

Impossibly tall slabs of salmon-colored stone stuck up into the sky. Forming a colossal wall that stretched around Vindabon-proper. Beautifully carved ramparts were broken up by baroque watchtowers, each overseeing a hulking gate of oak and steel. Behind the mighty walls were hints of the true city. Spires of silver and stone peeked up from behind the pink walls. Tantalizing tastes of the City-State hidden by those defenses.

Upriver, just in sight yet still an eternity away, was the Grand Canal. A split in the Alidon, where part of the river was channeled through Vindabon and then returned to its mother. A bypass crafted through clever engineering, magical secrets, and pure grit. Where countless ships entered Vindabon through the Canal-spanning Wine Gate and unloaded their cargo into the City of Music and Dreams.

Natalie drank in the incredible sights of the city's exterior and was practically buzzing with excitement. After everything, after all the loss, madness, and suffering. She was finally here, in the City she’d fantasized about since her youth.

Next to her stood Cole, his own mood much darker. An insistent cold tug pulled him towards the city. Master Time wanted him here, and some gut feeling told Cole his and Natalie’s questions weren’t the reason. Leaving Cole to wonder what possible reason a Paladin would be needed in Vindabon? A few possibilities came to mind, none of them good.

Slowly but surely, the Stream Skipper made its way down the Grand Canal. The walls of Vindabon growing closer and closer. The Wine Gate was now truly visible, and Natalie drank in its details. The river-spanning Gate was too large to be barred by traditional means. No grated doors or mammoth portcullises hung over it; instead, a system of heavy chains stretched across the river and held up near the Gate’s arch. At a moment's notice, any or all of those chains could be lowered to some other section of the gate. Sinking into the river to keep out deep-keeled vessels. Or hanging loosely in great metal curtains to catch the wings of Monsters. Maybe simply covering the entire gate in loose bands of steel. The Wine Gate could be adjusted to defend the city from any threat while also keeping the Canal open to friendly traffic.

As the Barge started to pass beneath the Gate, the grinding clatter of thousands of chains blowing in the winter winds became audible. Natalie looked up at the bizarre contraption and marveled at its engineering. Even now, small figures in gray robes scampered up and down the wooden gantries that ran through the mechanical edifice like veins through a body. The Clockmonks hard at work, Natalie guessed.

Kistine soon joined Cole and Natalie. The matriarch was followed by four young children, the newest members of the Shohgard pack. Who’d never seen Vindabon. The little Werefolk stared up with wide eyes and slack-jawed amazement. Natalie was right there with them. Beyond the Gate, the true wonders of Vindabon were visible.

A hundred docks of all manner of sizes contested the river while fields of warehouses fought over the shoreline. In the near distance, a huge structure hung over the river. At first glance, Natalie saw its size and assumed it to be a castle, but on closer inspection realized it was a bridge. A monster bridge held up on pillars of quarried stone formed five arches over the river. At the apex of each arch was a huge statue of marble. Each depicting a winged man with arms outstretched. The Four Brothers, Lesser Gods of the Winds. The Patrons of Travelers welcoming all to the city.

Farther away, the gothic spires of true Castles and other structures were visible. Above all others were ten towers spaced across the city. Each the Belfry of one of the ten Temples, one for each God. Elsewhere a trio of domes marked the Opera Houses. While a silver spire covered in golden runes hid close to the City center. The Arcanum Scholastica of Vindabon; its Ivory Tower and center of magical learning. Overshadowing all of this was the hulking fortress-palace of the Elector-Prince. The primary holdfast of the City and its seat of government. While not particularly beautiful like its rivals on the skyline. It carried a brutish presence making it impossible to ignore. The sleeping dragon among its treasures. Awaiting anyone foolish enough to steal from it.

As the initial surprise and wonder at the city wore off, Natalie looked to the nearby wharf. Where dozens of other barges were docked. The crew of each scurried about unloading goods in a never-ending stream of bodies. Soon the Stream Skipper started to turn slightly, its complement of Otters carefully nudging it towards an open berthing. Before long, the first ropes were thrown from the Barge to the wharf, the Sailors working together with their Barge Otters.

Safely in her berthing, the Barge’s crew finished their final checks and let out a loud cheer as the boat’s Cook appeared from downstairs holding a steaming vat of soup. Setting it down, the Cook started to ladle out bowls of the soup to the crewmembers. Natalie was forced to cover her nose as the smell hit her. Pungent and fishy the broth was painful in its potency. Once the last Bargemen was fed, the Cook took the vat over to the boat’s side and whistled. Glancing over, Natalie saw a dozen furry faces poke out of the water. Carefully the Cook poured the remainder of his creation into the river below. Excited squeaks and chirps erupted as the Otters feasted on their portion.

Bewildered, Natalie looked to Kistine, whose nose was also wrinkled in disgust. It seemed only Cole, and the Crew were unbothered by the smell. At Natalie’s unspoken question, Kistine just shrugged. “It's a custom. One of those strange things Sailors tend to develop like calluses.”

Nearby a loud thunk echoed across the ship deck as the first gangplank was set down and the Barge officially made port. Approaching Cole, Kistine spat into her hand and held it out for him. “I believe this marks the end of our arrangement Sir Paladin. But if we ever cross paths again, my family would be glad for your company. May Moonlight guide your hunt and fortune favor your family.”

Cole returned the handshake, spit, and all. “Thank you for your hospitality, First Mother. I hope your Pack has a successful Moonmoot and a good New Year.”

Turning her focus to Natalie, Kistine narrowed her eyes. “While our meeting was inauspicious, I am glad my fears about you were unfounded, Natalie. My offer to the Paladin stands for you as well. I hope you find whatever you are looking for in Vindabon.”

The rest of the Pack gave their farewells to Cole and Natalie. Jaks and Jokin giving Natalie a necklace of boar teeth. Ametza exchanged hugs with both of them. Bruto presented Natalie with a crudely carved practice sword and instructions to continue her training. While a quick nod shared with Cole was a fitting conclusion to their odd friendship. Backpacks ready and debts settled, the odd pair of Vampire and Paladin left the Barge, exchanging final waves and entering the city of Vindabon.

Cole pushed through the crowded dock while Natalie followed behind. Relying on Cole’s height to keep from getting lost. The bombardment of sounds, smells, and sights was dizzying. Natalie repeatedly found herself stopping to gawk at something. Street vendors offering food she didn’t recognize. Extravagantly dressed nobles and their entourages. All of it was proving as intoxicating as it was disorienting. Yet Cole made sure to gently pull her with him every time. His presence and intimidating appearance doing much to protect Natalie from any who might see an obvious country-bumpkin as an easy mark.

Finally, squeezing from the mad bustle of the docks. The pair found themselves on a relatively empty street lined by four-story tenements. Finally able to breathe, or at least pretend to breathe, Natalie gripped tightly to Cole’s hand and asked. “You know where we are, right?”

Cole shrugged. “We’re in Weinstadt, the thirteenth district. We need to find an Inn. But I need to make a quick stop before that.”

“Oh, where?” asked Natalie, curious to learn more about the city and its layout.

Gesturing at an alley not far off, Cole said. “I can sense something. I want to make sure it's nothing important.”

They approached the alley and, upon entering, were greeted by an annoyed-looking Guard. Clad in loose leather armor with the City Seal of Vindabon painted onto them, the Guard leaned against the alley wall, his spear propped up next to him. Seeing them, the Guard stifled a yawn and said. “Oi, no looking about.”

Cole looked past the Guard to see part of the alley was partitioned with sheets emblazoned with the City Seal. The Guard snapped his fingers at Cole. “Turn back now. This isn’t a place for civilians.”

Unconcerned, Cole kept looking at the partition, the cold throb in his chest growing stronger. “What happened here?” he asked quietly.

The Guard tried to shove Cole back, failing to do more than ruffle the Paladin’s cloak. “None of your business, now run along!”

Never acknowledging the Guard, Cole turned and left the alley, Natalie right behind him. Sparing a glance at the annoyed guard, Natalie tightened her scarf around her face. “What was that about?”

Shutting his eyes in momentary sadness, Cole answered. “Death and an ugly one. Something bad happened in that Alley. I can feel it. It seems I might have other business in Vindabon.”

:: An Army Camp in the Southern Marches. ::

Varga was a soldier. He had lived as a soldier and honestly expected to die a soldier. The officer who came to his village when Varga was sixteen had used silver coins and a silver tongue to get him to join. Twenty more years of digging ditches, polishing armor, and cutting up turnips had robbed him of anything resembling hopes and dreams. Now an old man by the measure of soldiers, Varga just carried on as he always had. Following orders during the day. Then spending his coin on cheap liquor and cheaper whores during the evening. Creating a life others would consider sad and lonely. But for Varga, it was the only one he’d ever known.

This pitiable path had led him to his current post. Standing in a rickety watchtower at the edge of a fresh Camp. In the middle of the night, his only company was the cold weather and the half-asleep green boy standing next to him. Varga gave the boy a swift kick in the shin, rousing the dozing recruit from his stolen sleep. The recruit, who Varga thought was named Orban, yelped in pain but otherwise didn’t respond. Orban knew better than to mouth off to the old veteran sharing the watchtower.

Staring out at the blackness beyond the camp's walls, Varga watched as snowflakes swirled down. Finding patterns in them was his only form of entertainment. It had been like this for five hours already, the engrossing life of a soldier. Varga didn’t mind. Having survived a war, a Giant hunt, and years of minor skirmishes, he’d learned to appreciate the boredom.

The rattle of wheels and crunch of snow pulled Varga from his petty amusements and brought him instantly to full alert. Someone or something was out there. While his camp was far away from the front, existing to train fresh meat. A Night Raid wasn’t impossible; in fact, considering they were fighting the jagging Leeches, it was almost likely.

“Who goes there?!” Varga bellowed into the night. His words escaping in a great plume of frost.

The creaking of wheels stopped, and a voice shouted back. “Uh…I’m a villager from Marmezo. I found something while looking for firewood and was told to bring it here.”

Squinting his eyes at the dark, Varga shouted. “Approach slowly, no sudden movements; I have a crossbow trained on you.”

Jabbing Orban, Varga pointed to the crossbow and then out at the dark. The bewildered green boy grabbed the weapon and aimed it out at the dark. The rattling started again, and soon a slim figure pulling a hand cart came into view. Confused and a little nervous, Varga ordered the recruit to keep watch and then descended the Watchtower. Arriving at the camp gate, he grabbed the two soldiers there and went to see the cart-puller.

On closer inspection, the stranger was a waifish-thin girl with bright red hair and skittish eyes. Meekly putting her hands up, she started to babble. “My father said to bring him to you as soon as possible! Please don’t shoot me.”

Varga pushed past the girl and looked at the cart's contents. It was a Knight, or at least what was left of a Knight. A suit of dented armor lay in the cart, its stinking contents giving no question to the wearer's status. Symbols of pedigree bedecked the armor, and its intricate make gave clear signs of what sort of person it belonged to. Varga had a dead fucking noble on his hands.

Cursing, Varga motioned at the girl and her cart. “Bring him inside.” Then he gestured at one of the two gate guards. “Go wake up, the commander. Tell him we have a dead Knight on our hands.”

Soon Varga and the Girl found themselves in the Captain’s tent. Standing across the desk of Captain Jeks One-Fist. The scarred old officer tapped his remaining fingers on the cheap wooden table he used for business. “So what you are telling me is you were looking for firewood in the forest near your village, and you found our dead Knight there?”

The girl nodded vigorously. “Yes, m’lord, I-”

Captain Jeks One-Fist cut her off with a wave of his stump. “I’m no lord. Call me Captain or Sir. Now first, what's your name?”

Varga’s lips quirked at that. One-Fist was like him, a peasant boy who’d joined up. Finding a place in training fellow peasants after his maiming. Happy to be away from the Nobles and their glory-seeking ways.

The girl collected herself and spoke. “I’m Mara. And as I was saying, I was looking for firewood and found what I thought was a downed tree. But it wasn’t a tree. It was a dead Hippogryph all covered in snow!”

Mara then pointed behind her in the vague direction of the cart. “And he was there with the Hippogryph. All rotten and stuff.”

One-Fist cursed and shoved a nugget of Pipeherb into his maw before asking. “You see anything unusual around your village? Or anything in the area?”

Mara shrugged weakly and said. “Things have been in a bad way. You lot have run off most of the bandits, but before the army came, we had some disappearances. Farmsteads abandoned, peddlers not making it to the next village. We’ve kept our heads down, so I don’t know.”

Just then, the tent entrance flapped open, and a sour-faced Priest in stained robes entered. Eyes wide and mouth peeled in a grimace, the Priest ran to Captain One-Fist. His necklace of amulets and totems jangled as he went. Once to the Captain, the Priest hissed something into the officer’s ears. One-Fist’s expression became deathly calm. Getting up from his table, he grabbed his sword from where it leaned against his desk and calmly strewed out of the tent.

Varga grabbed the Girl, and they followed behind. Finding One-Fist barking orders at any soldier near-bye. “Rouse everyone! Get the Battlemages up and ready. Priest. check the wards. Someone find the Seer and get her ready to send a message.” turning back to Varga, the Captain pointed at the girl. “Soldier Varga, keep watch over her. Make bleeding sure she never leaves your sight”

Within minutes the camp came to life. Three units of Scouts galloped out of the Camp. While squads of nervous Green Boys stood at attention near the four gates. The Priest could be seen circling the outer wall, making strange marks with Ochre and Salt on the ground and palisade. While two sleepy-looking Magi, neither older than twenty-five, sat by a campfire, twisting its flames into crude shapes to amuse themselves.

Eventually, One-Fist stomped back over to Varga, having finished haranguing his soldiers to action. Pointing his stump at Mara, the Captain growled. “That Knight you found was killed by a Vampire. This whole situation went from a mess to a potential disaster. I need details, anything you can remember, and I need them NOW!”

Trembling, Mara looked frantically around, her eyes darting about like a frightened animal. Only stopping as some recollection pulled itself to the forefront of her mind. “That wood, where I found the bodies. I’ve seen people near it, strangers. But that was weeks ago!”

The Captain grunted. “The body was there for a while, even starting to stink in this cold. Go on, girl.”

Mara made a disgusted face but kept talking. “Two of them on the road. One was a giant, not an actual giant but the tallest man I’d ever seen. He wore a black cloak, and his face was scarred. I thought he was a mercenary, but he traveled with a woman. At least, I think she was a woman. She was covered head to toe in a shawl. But she moved like a woman, and the big man listened to her.”

Listening to this, the Captain asked. “The scarred man, where were his scars?”

Mara let out a nervous snort. “Where weren’t his scars? I thought he might be a Ghoul when I first saw him. His face… it was just covered in marks. And his eyes were wrong. They were too blue and kinda unfocused. Like he wasn’t really paying attention.”

Recovering herself, the girl continued. “They passed through my village maybe two or three weeks ago. They bought a Pig from my uncle and asked for directions. They were headed North-West, I think.”

Shutting his eyes, the Captain sighed, an exhausted noise heavy with worry. “You did good bringing this to us, Girl. Stay in the camp till dawn, then return home when it's safe.”

Nervously, Mara asked. “Uh… Can’t I leave now? I want to get home to my parents. They will need my help in the morning.”

The Captain gave her a serious look. “It's not safe to be out this late. It was foolish of you to bring the Knight to us. Brave, and I thank you for it, but it was still foolish. Especially with Vampires and their minions nearby.”

This didn’t seem to change the Girl’s opinion at all. “Sir, please! My Father is missing a leg and needs my help with the morning chores. I need to get home.”

One-Fist waivered for a second but stayed resolute. “Girl, how would your parents get on if you died to a Wolf or worse. Be smart.” pointing to Varga, the Captain ordered. “Keep an eye on her, and make sure she is comfortable. She did a good thing bringing this to us, even if she’s now being stupid.”

So Varga was stuck watching the nervous girl as the Camp awaited the scout reports. The Mara-girl said little, just looking about skittishly. This suited Varga fine. He was exhausted. His shift had almost been over when the Girl and her mess of trouble arrived. As his head started to throb and his eyes ached, Varga was reminded of his age. Staying up all night wasn’t something he could do as easily anymore. Getting close to the nearest fire, Varga warmed his hands. The heat felt so good, and his bones ached from standing watch all that time.

Yawning, Varga shut his eyes just for a second, letting his heavy lids fall. The next moment a swift kick knocked him onto his back. Stunned, Varga looked up to a furious Captain One-Fist. “ONE JOB! YOU HAD ONE FUCKING JOB!”

Confused, Varga looked around and realized two important things. It was dawn, and the girl was gone. “Shit,” the old soldier exclaimed.

Red-faced, One-Fist roared. “YES, SHIT! YOU LET THAT GIRL RUN OFF TO HER FUCKING DEATH!”

Even more confused, Varga said. “She knows the land, the stars are bright, she’ll be okay.”

One-Fist growled. “The scouts have found three destroyed villages just in the last four hours!”

Eyes wide, Varga started to sputter in confusion before One-Fist cut him off. “That brave, stupid Girl might have just saved all our lives. Something has been culling the locals over the last three days to amass an army. She probably left her village just before it was destroyed. We’ve already lost two scouts to Ghoul ambushes, and Appo’s Squad isn’t even back yet.”

Pointing at Varga with his stump, the Captain continued. “I expect better from old meat like you, Varga. Now go prove to me you aren’t a complete cock-up. Get the Greens ready; we don’t know how many Rattlers and Ghouls are out there.”

One-Fist stomped away, shouting. “AND SOMEONE FIND ME, THE BLEEDING SEER!”

When Dietrich Freymond awoke from his daily slumber, the news was good. His improvised army had been massacred. Normally that would be poor news, but the bones and flesh he’d conscripted proved their purpose. Stirring up the local Soldiers and spreading the information he wanted spread.

Slowly, Dietrich started to flex his body. His armor scraped against the frozen ground, entombing him. Getting a pocket of free space, the Vampire found some leverage and started to push up. Cold hard soil cracked and snapped as the Vampire pushed himself up into the early night. Exhuming himself from the improvised lair, Dietrich looked over to the small camp next to his burial. Yara sat by the fire, warming herself, but upon seeing him, scurried over. A large smile on her face.

Bowing to her master, the thrall spoke. “Master, it went all according to plan.”

Nodding, Dietrich wore a tight smile. Sending Yara to the camp with the Knight’s corpse had been a serious gamble. But one that might have paid off. “You gave them the description of our quarry, correct?”

Yara nodded vigorously. “I described the Paladin and said the girl was wearing a Sun-Shawl. I didn’t say what it was but gave a good description, I think.”

Certain spells and techniques could let a Vampire stay awake during the day. They were costly and rarely useful since they did nothing to protect from the Sun’s rays. But in the rare times a Vampire needed to be out during the day, they would combine those techniques with a Sun-Shawl. Praying to the Red Night, the thick multi-layered covering would be enough.

Dietrich assumed the Natalie-girl would wear one or something close to it. Not wanting to advertise her nature to the living or the dead. Combining that with the Paladin’s…memorable appearance and the massacre Dietrich had committed. Word of his prey would spread, fear and distrust going with it.

Putting a gentle hand on Yara’s shoulder, Dietrich said. “You did well, very well. You continue to impress me, Yara.”

A shiver of pleasure ran along the thrall's body at his words. Her eyes filled with adoration and subservience. In taking Yara with him, Dietrich had not realized how useful she would be. In retrospect, it was obvious. Raised by a drunken father and battered mother. Spending her teenage years among Vampires and their schemes. Yara had become a talented liar and competent manipulator. Much of this scheme's details had come from the Thrall. Dietrich had been skeptical at first, but after tonight he would be a fool to deny the asset that fell into his lap.

Brushing her short hair to the side, Dietrich leaned down and bit into Yara. Injecting her with the Sting and sipping just a few drops of her blood. Yara collapsed into Dietrich’s arms, the potent drug of his venom doing its work. Pulling his fangs free, Dietrich licked the wound shut and set a trembling Yara onto the ground next to him.

Half-delirious, with pleasure, she murmured. ‘Th-thank you, Master.”

Letting her fall into a drugged stupor, the Scarlet Knight shut his eyes and reached out with his magic. Seeing through the eyes of his undead minions and his avian spies. They told him an interesting story. Of boys playing at being soldiers fighting desperately against his army. While the local garrison braced for an attack that wasn’t coming. Through the eyes of owls and the ears of bats he heard a one-armed Captain spread the word of a Scarred Warrior and a Day-Walking Vampire. The old veteran clearly recognized what “Mara” had described for him.

Soon everyone worth a damn would be on the lookout for a Vampire far from the frontlines. Just not the one they should be really looking for. Dietrich was scoring two birds with the same arrow. Causing chaos behind enemy lines while pursuing his goal. Yet somehow, this brought little contentment to Dietrich.

All this scheming didn’t suit him. Fitting like another man’s armor. Dietrich would much rather track down his enemies and face them with steel and blood. Not dance about in the shadows letting others do his dirty work. While intellectually, he could see the value of robbing the Paladin of allies and alienating him from places of safety. In his cold dead heart, Dietrich wanted to settle this like a warrior. Forgoing all the lies and elaborate plots for the simplicity of battle.

Running his tongue along the socket where his fang once had been. Dietrich knew he’d surrendered the right to be picky when he failed the first time. His quest was one of redemption and grim practicality. With no room for any foibles or pickiness. Looking down at the drugged Yara, Dietrich found himself again surprisingly thankful he’d brought her along. Having a capable and devoted aide who knew the ways of shadow and subterfuge would be useful.

Deciding to let her rest a little and enjoy the reward. Dietrich started planning out his next move. The mortals would do the job of flushing out his quarry for him. He just needed to be at the right place and at the right time to catch them before anyone else. Another problem to be solved, but not an insurmountable one. Dietrich was used to hunting scared running prey. Driven from their dens and denied any help, the Paladin and the Alukah would prove far easier prey than Dietrich had feared.