The Homunculus Knight

Chapter 31: A Bevy of Schemes

“Each of the Gods put a different curse upon the Rabisu. Layering her with weaknesses to blight the power claimed in Red Night. Thresholds, fire, sulfur, silver, sunlight, sanctity, and being stabbed through the heart are the most obvious. But many of the curses were more subtle, like a memory rot that forced periods of hibernation or, most insidious of all, Uncle Trickster’s punishment. Unlike his fellows, the Fifth God never told the Rabisu his curse; in fact, he claimed not to have cursed her at all. But who would trust the God of Liars? The Rabisu did not, and spent much time trying to discover what weakness Uncle Trickster inflicted, which perhaps was exactly his intention. - From the Gospel of Falsehoods, a Fifth Temple commentary on the Book of Miracles.

Pankrator Marcus Gildman was no stranger to bitter cold or scalding heat. He’d tasted mage fire fighting Goblin Kozaks in the north and waded through a half-frozen swamp during a rescue mission in the Mirelands. He’d suffered burns, frostbite, hypothermia, hyperthermia, and the fever brought on by infected wounds, but none of that could compare to his current agony.

The last thing Marcus remembered before the pain was the flash of steel, of the Duke’s blade moving fast as lightning, cleaving through the War-Priest’s defenses and then his neck. Everything went dark as Marcus’s head tumbled from his shoulder and struck the barge’s deck, leaving him alone in the cold sleep of death.

When he awoke, Marcus thought he’d been cast into one of the Hells, a place of burning ice or freezing fire. He wouldn’t have been the first sanctified Soul captured by the enemy and delivered to perdition. But that singular doom wasn’t offered to Marcus; instead, he faced a far less merciful fate. Marcus Gildmen died in battle, and his remains were put to use by his killer. Arcane fire that burned and froze flowed into Marcus, scouring away his flesh and leaving nothing but bones. This flame, this occult power, did not stop its crackling hunger at the material; it scorched Marcus’s soul, transforming and binding him. He became the fire, and the fire became him, a once holy Soul reforged into something horrible.

The Necromancer who first greeted Marcus upon his transformation called him a ‘Cephalpyre Dullahan’ and crowed over creating such a rare monster. Marcus tried to punch the ugly grin off the fat Vampire’s face, but his flesh… no, his bones, no longer answered him. Clad in morbid armor crafted from some Dire-beasts’s remains, Marcus was roused from the slumber of death and puppeteered as the Necromancer willed. Freezing and burning, Marcus was paraded about like a show pony, his mind witness to everything but unable to act against the chains of magic binding him.

Marcus tried to fight his puppeteer at first, resisting the greasy Necromancer’s commands in the ways he’d been trained. The lessons imparted to survive torture or mind magic were useless against what the undead did to him. An order would be given, and his being would be squeezed into a shape capable of fulfilling it. He tried to be incompetent; he tried to follow the letter of a command to the point of absurdity; he tried, tried, tried, tried, and nothing worked.

When the Necromancer decided it was time to test his newest minion, Marcus begged his God for mercy, for an end to this cursed half-existence. Not for his own sake but to spare the eleven prisoners of war put in his path. Marcus cleaved through the near-dozen soldiers like a thresher, his blade and the accursed fire leaving nothing but broken burning corpses in his wake. When the screams finally faded, Marcus knew he was damned, perhaps not literally but in spirit. He’d dedicated his life to being a sword aimed at the wicked and a shield raised in defense of the innocent. In undeath, he existed as a perversion of everything he once stood for, a fact the Leechs found hilarious. When Marcus’s fire finished consuming the captured soldiers, their cries were replaced with another even worse sound, the laughter of the blood-hungry nobility. An audience observed Marcus’s crimes and enjoyed it like a mummer’s play.

In the wake of that horror, Marcus let his mind empty, entering a dissociative stupor to preserve what was left of him. This was the only part of his training to resist torture that proved useful. Marcus viewed events from a distance, his mind drifting in and out of awareness. He let his puppet strings do their horrible work and was presented before the Duke of Roloyo. The ancient monster wearing a warrior’s skin seemed pleased to add Marcus to his entourage. Upon seeing the Duke again, Marcus tried with all his might to drive his sword into the old tyrant’s heart. Straining so hard he felt his soul tear, Marcus made a single finger twitch. A feat that paradoxically empowered and disheartened the undead Pankrator. Resistance was possible but required strength beyond strength, something an old soldier might be able to find in fits and spurts.

The next thing to rouse Marcus from his stupor was when the Duke ordered him to remove his helmet to show a collection of monsters how well he fit in among them. Glancing over the wire-thin Vampire with glasses, a pair of odd Strigoi, and a man-eating snake-women, Marcus listened to the orders shared by this fell band. He also listened to the secret commands relayed by the Duke; whispers about potential treachery and sabotage.

These directives offered Marcus possibilities. Duke Mika tasked Marcus with watching these four servants of Voivode Igori and aiding them in their task. The Duke also expected Marcus to intervene if the Voivode’s wishes proved inclemental to his own. With a little luck, Marcus might be able to ensure his orders and that of his ‘comrades’ were in opposition. Giving the newly-created Dullahan the chance to destroy at least one of these monsters and die in the process.

The mission itself offered Marcus another source of terror and hope. They hunted Cole and the Sage’s Stone but not the Alukah. Those secrets still lay within Marcus’s mind, protected by spells and training that would require his psyche to be shattered to bypass. If these monsters sought the Paladin, they might meet their end at his halberd. But if they were victorious, they’d not just slay a divine champion and claim a holy relic; they’d recapture the font of Daywalker blood. This could not be allowed to happen; Marcus would not let it happen. He needed to find the moment where what little strength he possessed would turn the tide. Marcus doubted he could do much more than force a tiny error, but as a veteran of many battles, he knew how such a mistake could change the course of history. When the time came, Marcus would make the husk of bones and fire he inhabited falter just enough to offer the righteous a chance at victory.

If Marcus was going to find the perfect moment, he needed information about his ‘colleagues’ and this mission. So when the leader of this cursed band, the vampire called Wolfgang, sought a meeting with Duke Mika’s spymaster, Marcus accompanied the dour monster. Wolfgang, of course, hadn’t ordered Marcus to join him, but the instructions branded into the undead Pankrator’s soul by the Duke gave a certain amount of leeway when it came to protecting Umbria’s interests. Following behind this Vampire known to his ilk as the Black Fly like some alabaster shadow, Marcus intended to push the offered leeway as far as it would go.

Lord Aloysius Wolfgang glanced over his shoulder for perhaps the fifth time at the hulking Dullahan acting as his second bodyguard. The creature seemed unwilling to let Wolfgang leave its eyeless gaze, and the prickling sensation of being watched by something lethal wore on the Black Fly. As with the last four times Wolfgang checked on his armored shadow, he considered ordering the Dullahan to leave him be. But ultimately, necessity forced Wolfgang to tolerate his stalker. While in Duke Mika’s war camp, it would pay not to arouse any suspicion of disloyalty, even if that meant letting the headless Rattler tail him.

The Dullahan’s nature and purpose weren’t enough to unsettle Wolfgang. He’d been around powerful undead tasked with guarding and controlling him since birth. What kept Wolfgang’s hackles raised was the abnormal nature of this Dullahan. The psyche bound to cursed fire animating the Rattler was hostile, extremely hostile. Chained hate bled off the thing’s Aetheric presence, visible to Wolfgang’s enchanted spectacles. If given the opportunity, the Dullahan would kill Wolfgang and as many of his kin as it could before being destroyed. While the Duke spoke of the Dullahan like it was a blade handed to Wolfgang’s group, in truth, it was a sword dangling above them, ready to fall.

Every time Wolfgang looked at the Dullahan, he had to admit the sheer cruel brilliance of the Duke’s actions. With time and secrecy, it might be possible for Wolfgang to alter the chains binding the Dullahan, transferring ownership from Umbria, Caladus, or whoever created it to himself. But that hateful will straining against the chains made altering the bindings practically impossible. The moment Wolfgang tried any truly complex modifications of the spell, the stressed chains would snap, and he’d face the Dullahan’s wrath. Even if Wolfgang survived the headless monster’s attack, the destruction of the Dullahan or the reforging of its chains would tell the Duke of his schemes.

For now, the only option was tolerating the headless Rattler and hoping to find an opportunity to dispose of it subtly. But before such a moment came, Wolfgang intended to pry the former Priest’s secrets loose. The source of the Dullahan’s malice was also a potential boon for Wolfgang. Whoever created the Dullahan hadn’t bothered to carve its mind into a servile shape, as was the custom with Greater Undead. The Soul used to create the Dullahan was kept relatively intact to preserve its memories.

Pankrator Marcus had been war leader of the barge fleet thought to be transporting the Sage Stone. Whatever schemes the mortals and their godly masters concocted to hide the Stone and the Homunculus Knight, Marcus knew something about them. Why else was his mind so well armored against intrusion? Priests of Aunt Seeress and Uncle Trickster wove truly impressive psychic fortifications into the Dullahan’s memories. Even after suffering death and undeath, the Pankrator’s mental locks stood sturdy. Tearing through those defenses while preserving the fragile memories within was practically impossible.

Which is why Wolfgang did not intend to batter down the psychic vault door of Marcus’s mind; he instead would leverage a simple truth of necromancy to his favor. No mind, no matter how strong, went unaltered by undeath. The clever and adaptable learned to manage this change, finding a new normal; most others were simply warped like damp wood. Pankrator Marcus’s secrets couldn’t be pulled from him, but with time and pressure, they might start to leak.

Checking on the undead Priest for the sixth time, Wolfgang felt the old itch of unquenchable curiosity rise within him. All Strix knew that sensation, which drove most of the breed, but Wolfgang wouldn’t let it dominate him; he’d take his time getting every last scrap of information from Marcus. But before that source of secrets could be cracked open, Wolfgang needed to negotiate with another.

Lord Yezhov Arici, the Duke’s spymaster, was perhaps one of the few Vampires among the Roloyo host that Wolfgang truly respected. So naturally, the spymaster was insidiously intelligent and profoundly dangerous. Responsible for waging a shockingly effective shadow war against his counterparts in the Holy League while simultaneously managing the countless schemes hatched by Roloyo’s more ambitious nobles, the Moroi Goblin proved to be one of Duke Mika’s most valuable subordinates.

As a testament to the spymaster’s importance, he laired near the heart of the camp, among the field crypts. The Duke’s inner circle did not sleep above ground, where assassins and saboteurs could rely on the sun to aid them. No, a series of complex tunnels carved by magic and undead labor hosted the most important Vampires of the army. These field crypts were stark but well-made fortifications, with a separate army to protect them. Even at this late hour, Wolfgang caught sight of the tagma thralls tasked with guarding the unliving during daytime. Marked by the heavy silver torques worn about their necks, the soldier-slaves were formidable fighters and incapable of disloyalty.

A pair of these tagmata stood watch over Wolfgang's destination; both were large men wearing solid armor and carrying long polearms. Their flat, broad features and prominent eyebrows marked them as members of Clan Bubo, a selectively bred family created by Wolfgang’s own sire for different purposes. Where Clan Tytos was bred to produce scions and Clan Otus servants, Clan Bubo were a lineage of soldiers. Wolfgang knew how much the Voivode charged for Wights created from these warriors, let alone living specimens. The fact the spymaster kept two with him at all times spoke to the Goblin’s connections and caution.

The tagmata stood watch over a pavilion tent Wolfgang knew to contain the spymaster’s office and the entrance to whatever subterranean dormitories he claimed. They stood aside at Wolfgang’s approach and let him and his headless shadow enter the tent. A more ignorant or arrogant guest might assume the lack of security theatre indicated a lax attitude from the bodyguards, but Wolfgang knew better. Lord Yezhov Arici did not waste time with pointless displays of power, like demanding Wolfgang be searched for weapons.

Surprisingly well-lit, the inside of the tent held a simple desk, multiple scroll racks, and an enchanted map covering one pavilion wall. The rug-sized depiction of Erebu held hundreds of ruby-tipped needles, sticking into countless locations. Each ruby glowed, some faintly, some bright enough to cast the room with a scarlet hue. Wolfgang's eyes quickly found the cluster of pins marking Vindabon and Harmas. None of the Harmas rubies shone; the gemstones seemed dull, unable to properly reflect their siblings’ light.

“We haven’t received word since the tide was unleashed. The Spirit protector of Harmas appears to be expressing its outrage by hampering our communications.”

Wolfgang turned his eyes from the map to a figure sitting in one corner of the room. Perched on a cushion, his legs crossed beneath him, a scroll in one hand, the spymaster matched Wolfgang’s red stare with one of his own. Short by human standards, tall by goblin, Arici’s skin was a pale bluish grey like a cold corpse’s. His prominent, pointed ears contrasted with soft, almost androgynous features. Sired in his mid-teens, Arici possessed a youthful beauty accented by his non-human heritage. Long black hair ran down his back in a braided tail, and he wore well-made but not extravagant clothes. If it wasn’t for the cold, cruel intellect visible in Arici’s eyes, it might be possible to mistake him for some Boyar’s cupbearer.

Rising from his cushion with liquid grace, Lord Yezhov approached Wolfgang, his unblinking eyes reflecting the enchanted rubies’s glow. “But judging by events and other signs, the product of our last collaboration is still safe.”

Gesturing to the chair opposite his desk, Yezhov took his own seat and pulled a stack of papers towards him. Wolfgang sat down while the Dullahan stood nearby, staring at the map in apparent interest. Watching the animated bones, Yezhov said. “The protections on its memories are annoyingly competent and worryingly drastic. I’d fear total ego collapse and memory shredding if I really pushed the issue. Whatever is locked within him is important.”

Looking at the continent map, Wolfgang asked. “How did you manage to breach the defenses of Harmas? If we can access the city, then our issues with plague’s cure can be resolved.”

A noise related to a laugh escaped Yezhov. “Typical Strix. Unable to let go of one obsession even in the face of greater problems. The Duke commands I aid you in your hunt, and instead of asking for valuable information, you pry after a finished project.”

Not rising to the bait, Wolfgang responded. “The Sage’s Stone and its protector are being used to combat my plague; the issues are interconnected, and the project is unfinished.”

Rolling his eyes, Yezhov acquiesced. “If you must truly know how the city was breached, then… Well, I can’t tell you.”

For a moment, Wolfgang lost control of his facial features and wore an expression of genuine shock. Seeing this, Yezhov just shrugged. “I’m not omniscient; our messages in and out of the city have been intercepted almost constantly. I can make some educated guesses based on the last coherent reports I received, but not much more.”

Taking one of the papers from his desk, Yezhov slid it over to Wolfgang. Stained and torn, the paper showed an architect's sketch of a fortress. “Some of the survivors within the city were planning a breakout attempt, trying to find a way to escape Harmas without unleashing the tide. One of my agents managed to imbed themselves among these survivors and was planning to alter the plans, forcing a failure that would allow some of the corpse-tide to escape. It seems this agent was far more successful than he had hoped.”

Looking over the sketch, Wolfgang realized it was a crude replica of a much more detailed drawing. The margins of the paper held scribbled notes, rendered practically unreadable by water damage. Wolfgang could decipher two of the notes, the most important judging by how big they’d been written. ‘Focused entropy imbalance’ was the first, and ‘Alchemist’s Vault’ was the second.

Frowning at the words, Wolfgang looked up at Yezhov, who explained. “Judging by reports, they blew the western bridge fortress of Harmas into the moat and created an ice bridge for our Ghouls to cross. I’d guess someone combined alchemical explosives and some complicated cryomancy to do the job. The bridge didn’t last long, just enough for perhaps a quarter of the city’s undead population to be freed.”

Wolfgang’s frown deepened significantly. “Using both Mundane and Aetheric phenomena on that scale? The attention that could grab from the Grey Beyond…”

Yezhov raised an eyebrow. “Considering what you summoned up and where I helped you bind it, I think you are the last person to voice such concerns.”

An uncharacteristic noise of annoyance escaped the Black Fly. “I placed the Broodmaiden there to mask its presence! It would be hidden unless someone did something like this!”

Taking the illustration back from Wolfgang and adding it to another pile, Yezhov clicked his tongue. “I remember being a young prodigy like you once. I also remember learning I couldn’t account for every factor and how that lesson has kept me existing. Try to understand the concept before I end up delivering your ashes to Igori.”

Forcing his rapidly growing concerns to the side, Wolfgang tried to move to the more pertinent topic. “What information can you give me about the Paladin and his movements.”

Yezhov smirked at some unspoken victory and said. “He’s been causing a large fuss in Vindabon; you should read some of the reports I have from the solstice ball. Or, at least, if you were authorized to read them, that is.”

Information about the rogue Scarlet Knight Dietrich and his accomplice, the Ashen Agent Scapin, was scant to come by; in fact, events surrounding both were teetering on being unacceptable knowledge among the middle and lower nobility. The Archduke seemed very much unwilling to let stories of how two hand-picked agents betrayed him spread. In fact, this enforced enigma was proving to be a problem in Wolfgang’s hunt. Details about the Paladin spotted in Glockmire and his later activities were hard to come by.

Leaning forward across his desk, Yezhov said. “I think your theory about him being Isabelle’s pet abomination is correct.”

Hiding his nervousness at Yezhov’s pronouncement, Wolfgang asked. “Why?”

Snorting in bleak amusement, Yezhov pulled out another sheet of paper, this one a tawdry news print about the Paladin and his scandalous relationship with the Alukah. “The idiot didn’t even use an alias. Cole was what the former Countess Gens Silva named her creation, and that’s what this Paladin is calling himself. Combine that with his appearance and whatever evidence you and yours have scrounged up, and it's obvious. Of course, it could be misdirection, but for whom and for why? No, what makes more sense is your sire wasn’t as thorough in disposing of the freak as he claimed.”

Oddly, this new piece of evidence unnerved Wolfgang the tiniest bit. An intellect capable of copying Isabelle Gens Silva’s work wasn’t the type foolish enough to go around getting this much attention and leaving this many clues. That is… unless…

Looking at Yezhov, Wolfgang spoke quietly. “I don’t think he’s an idiot; I think he’s trying to get our attention. For seven years, we thought him truly dead, but then he reappears only after stealing one of the Archduke’s most prized secrets. After which, he managed not just to evade capture by two powerful Vampires; but kill them both in the most public way possible. Next, he uses Isabelle’s knowledge to cure my plague before even the Lych can act. Now, he’s heading for the frontlines with a powerful relic under his protection.”

Meeting the spymaster’s eyes, Wolfgang continued. “I think Paladin Cole has spent the last seven years preparing to avenge his creator. Even going as far as making a deal with Death himself for the power to succeed.”

A slight frown creased Yezhov’s handsome face. “How accurate are the stories of the Homunculus’s regeneration?”

The two Vampires met gazes, and after a moment, Yezhov sighed dramatically. “I will tell you some of what I know about the solstice incident if you share your account of the Homunculus.”

Nodding in agreement, Wolfgang said. “I don’t know what your reports say, but… I doubt they accurately capture what the creature could do. It wouldn’t stay dead, no matter what was done to it; within a few days, the Homunculus would be physically healed. But its mind… well, when I saw it, there wasn’t much left, just pain and rage.”

Yezhov’s frown deepened. “How did it escape?”

Wolfgang hesitated. “I can only guess for now. But from my understanding, its gaolers thought themselves successful. The Homunculus finally stayed dead. Don’t ask me how and why they assumed that, I wasn’t involved.”

Pondering this for a few moments, Yezhov nodded. “Francesco Scapin, the Ashen Agent allied with Dietrich, was under scrutiny for divided loyalties. A suspicion he proved by assassinating Count Olafar and stealing five vials of Alukah blood a few weeks before the solstice. Word of this betrayal hadn’t reached the Scarlet Knight, and we think Scapin tricked Dietrich Freymond into treachery, but we don’t know for certain.”

Trying to wrap his mind around the implications, Wolfgang asked. “Why tell me this? Why that information in particular of everything?”

Yezhov glanced down at the paper depicting Paladin Cole and the new Alukah. “Because we have to consider the possibility that Scapin was turned by Paladin Cole or his allies.”

“What?” asked Wolfgang, genuinely confused.

Tapping the paper, Yezhov said. “Dietrich’s public attack on Vindabon’s elite changed matters. Your plague was in place at Harmas and slowly growing stronger while we amassed forces behind the River Tya. Prince Franz’s host wasn’t nearly this large or prepared before the solstice incident. My spies and agents were doing a very good job convincing the League this was just another squabble between whatever mortal ruled Harmas and my liege. If the enemy labored under those assumptions for a little more time, this war might already be over.”

Licking one of his fangs, Yezhov continued. “Paladin Cole came out of the solstice ball a hero, and true war was declared between us and the League. Additionally, he secured the Alukah protection from the Temples and nobility of Vindabon. To further complicate matters, I have multiple believable reports about Dietrich’s death but nothing substantial about Scapin’s fate. All any of the accounts talk about is Cole dueling Dietrich; they barely mention Scapin’s death and then with little detail.”

For Wolfgang, the idea of hunting this immortal Paladin felt considerably more dangerous than just an hour before. Facing a ‘normal’ divine champion was never easy, so the idea of an unkillable Paladin with the political accum to outplay the Red Empire of Dracon on multiple occasions was harrowing. Thinking on this, Wolfgang asked. “What can you tell me about his relationship with the new Alukah?”

Yezhov actually shrugged. “He has some way of keeping her controlled and docile. That much is obvious from the fact she hasn’t devoured Vindabon. As for why he’s taken her as a lover? Well, it seems likely he’s replaced Countess Isabelle with something better. Perhaps he enjoys having one of the ancients as a pet, as some kind of reversal of his relationship with Gens Silva. I can’t really tell you much else, but the livestock seem convinced they're in love.”

Wolfgang remembered how the Homunculus Knight screamed in its cell, how the creature bashed its own brains out repeatedly. “I don’t know if whatever Isabelle created is capable of love. Perhaps it imprinted on the Alukah, like a lost hatchling.”

Making a noise of disgust, Yezhov got up and approached the wall map. Wolfgang joined the spymaster and watched as the Dullahan stepped aside, its baleful focus on them both. During the intense meeting, Wolfgang almost forgot about his headless shadow. Glancing at the armored undead, Wolfgang did something he rarely did: act impulsively.

“What can you tell us about this Paladin Cole?”

Twisting its body so the empty helm and the cursed flames within could meet Wolfgang’s gaze, the Dullahan spoke. Its voice was like grinding steel and crackling fire. “Night of the equinox, when the Wyverns flew over the city, one landed intact. Paladin fought it, won easily.”

Surprised and concerned, Wolfgang exchanged looks with Yezhov. The Dullahan couldn’t lie to them; the necromancy animating it stopped that. Reaching up with an armored hand, the Dullahan pointed at Wolfgang and said. “I look forward to when you hear Cole's Requiem.”

A noise like wet wood sizzling and popping came from the bone helmet, and it took Wolfgang a moment to realize the Dullahan was laughing. Pique, born of confusion and worry, flowed through Wolfgang. “Leave us!”

The Dullahan complied, passing through the tent flap. Recovering his composure, Wolfgang looked at the map and asked. “The Duke seemed confident the Paladin is heading for Harmas, do you agree?”

Yezhov nodded. “The Sage’s Stone would turn the tide of the battle for Crowbend, but if taken to Harmas, it could lose us the war. The army here is more than enough to ensure the Paladin never makes it into Crowbend, so it will fall to your coterie to stop them from reaching Harmas. If the Paladin takes the pass, the Worcs will make enough noise to let us know and give us enough time to reposition forces to intercept. So, with the river and pass unnavigable, the only real option for passing through the Alidonian mountains is the caverns.

Staring at the map and seeing the mark denoting the ancient tunnel beneath the mountain, Wolfgang pursed his pale lips. “Turul’s Tomb isn’t under our control; it would be easy for any ambush we laid to be reversed upon us. The Dwarves who hold those tunnels would gleefully help a Paladin.”

A wide, wicked smile spread across Yezhov’s face, and he tapped a trio of pins sticking out of the marker for Turul’s Tomb. “I have puppets in place; all they need is someone to tug on their strings, and I’m happy to give those threads to you.”

Wolfgang slowly nodded. “That is generous; I know how careful you are with your sleepers.”

Huffing in annoyance, the Moroi Goblin replied, “After Crowbend, my usual methods won’t work anymore. Word of how I create my sleepers and keep them undetected will spread quickly. It's better I use as many of them now rather than let my threads get cut prematurely.”

Shrugging as if he was casting off those concerns like an old cloak, Yezhov added. “I’ll give you the activation phrases and try to clear the way best I can. Capturing or, preferably, truly killing this Paladin is an extremely high priority. Don’t fail.”

Turning from the map, Yezhov asked. “Do you have a plan to deal with the Paladin? Something that doesn’t rely on the Tall and the Short? Don’t misunderstand me; they are capable, but I’ve got a sense capable might not be enough for this situation.”

Thinking of the two knives hidden on his purpose, Wolfgang said. “I do. Thank you for your aid, and please keep me informed about the situation at Harmas if possible.”

Yezhov smiled. “Of course, who else will I blame if the Broodmaiden breaks free from the Goat-song?”

Choosing to ignore the sour joke, Wolfgang left the spymaster’s tent. Feeling the daggers strapped to his chest, Wolfgang wondered which one would end the Homunculus Paladin. Would it be the cursed hunk of polished obsidian gifted by Pater Epulo? Or would the Stargent dipped stiletto be enough?

Wolfgang hadn’t lied when he told Yezhov about not being involved with the Homunculus Knight and its escape. He also hadn’t volunteered every theory and possibility known to him. Wolfgang read the final execution report when he was researching Isabelle Gens Silva’s work for his plague. He’d noted how the thirteen Stargent spikes worked where nothing else did. Wolfgang didn’t know if the void-born metal would work again, but it was good to have options.