The Homunculus Knight

Chapter 22: Illumination

“The ailment appears to be endemic to the population. I use both terms loosely, but there isn’t sufficient vocabulary to describe these phenomena yet. All examined subjects appear to be affected by the condition, existing with it from birth to death without complications. In fact, my colleague’s research indicates the ailment’s presence might account for the robust immune system of the population. The ailment only becomes symptomatic under certain stimulus and then cannot be cured or otherwise treated to the best of our knowledge.”- Seventh Temple records regarding the Maro ‘long-pig incident.’

“So it’s settled? We go north, let someone with soldiers know about the Orcs, and then follow the river east towards Harmas?” asked Mina as she stared into the dull campfire the group was clustered around.

Cole nodded his ascent. “If we had more time, I’d suggest just going into the Pass and dealing with the White Orcs ourselves, but I fear getting bogged down in that sort of fighting.”

A snort of laughter escaped Alia as she leaned against a wagon wheel. Upon seeing Cole’s grim expression, she said. “What, you’re serious? You want to take on an entire clan of cannibal Orcs?”

Raising an eyebrow, Cole replied. “Normally, yes, but with our limited time and resources, it’s inadvisable.”

Cautiously, Yara spoke up then, to everyone’s surprise. “Have you fought White Orcs before Sir Paladin?”

The thrall wilted under Cole’s attention. “I have, and please, call me Cole.”

Kit puffed out his cheeks and whistled. “I bet that’s one devil of a story.”

Cole just shrugged. “Cannibals leave very nasty Wraiths in their wake; dealing with the Orcs was the easiest way to help the souls move on.”

Natalie, who’d been sitting silently throughout this discussion, asked. “How much would taking the pass slow us down?”

Alia groaned. “Not you, too! There are just six of us; we can’t take on an entire clan of people-eaters.”

Cole and Natalie exchanged looks, and Cole shook his head slightly, earning a sigh from Natalie. He knew her instinct was to take the pass, slaughter their way through the Orcs, and continue as normal. The opportunity to help the surrounding villages by devouring a few cannibals seemed to appeal to both sides of her.

Refocusing on the group, Cole said. “White Orcs don’t run screaming at you with a club like in the street plays. They don’t so much fight as hunt, isolating and crippling prey before the kill. We’d have to deal with near-constant harassment, traps, and whatever other cruelties available to them.”

Tightening her jaw, Natalie looked toward the nearby village, her concerns obvious. Placing a hand on her, Cole said. “We’ll get them help from the nearest garrison; the local nobility won’t want bandits of any kind sniffing around their land.”

Natalie didn’t look much comforted by that but still interlaced her fingers with Cole. Eyes still on the campfire, Mina asked. “The one thing I want to know is why they are here. From my understanding, Orcish portal magic isn’t easy or cheap. Teleporting an entire tribe into the Holy League just to harass some farming villages seems… inefficient.”

A dark chuckle came from Kit as he fiddled with his fiddle. “I thought that was obvious; White Orc tribes make excellent mercenaries for those with the stomach for them. If the plague is supposed to shut the river to travel, then the best way to get supplies to the front is the route we are taking. Hells, isn’t that our cover story? A group of pilgrims on our way to help fight the Vampires, which I guess we kind of are.”

An actual growl escaped Natalie as she spat. “You think the Duchies hired this tribe to raid these lands?”

Kit plucked at a few strings and shrugged. “It makes the most sense. Mercenaries aren’t worth shit defending territory, but if you want someone to go and terrorize the enemy peasants, then who better?”

Cole nodded. “We need to make contact with allies quickly. As Kit said, mercenaries aren’t much use in actual war; I’d guess the White Orcs will run the moment they face any serious resistance.”

Sighing, Natalie leaned against Cole and asked, “Why do they eat people? Are they cursed or… just crazy?”

Another wicked laugh came from Kit. “Neither, they like the taste and view it as the natural expression of power. To a Worc, anyone weaker than them is just prey, an animal to be hunted, butchered, and eaten.”

Natalie looked genuinely ill for a few seconds, and Cole could practically guess her thoughts. Her existence was defined by an unnatural, horrible hunger; the idea anyone would willingly engage in acts beyond even what she was cursed to do was profoundly unsettling. Wrapping an arm around her, Cole tried to comfort his love the best he could.

Seeing the morose mood settling over the camp, Kit pulled his violin’s bow and said. “How about some music before we sleep for the night?

An hour later, Cole was lying in his tent, drifting toward sleep. Natalie was curled up next to him like normal. She usually lay with Cole until he slept, something he was deeply thankful for. Her presence seemed to ward off the worst of the night terrors. On more than one night, Cole had woken up the entire camp by screaming in his sleep, creating an inconvenient and embarrassing situation.

Enjoying the feeling of Natalie’s body next to his, Cole let himself fall toward unconsciousness. Just as the last flickers of awareness sputtered in his tired mind, a lance of pain ripped into Cole. It felt like someone was ripping his heart out with chains of cold iron. Suppressing a scream, he lurched upwards, sending a confused Natalie flopping against the tent wall. Moving with that inhuman speed of hers, Natalie was back at Cole’s side, clearly thinking he was having another nightmare. Hands clutched over his chest; Cole couldn’t hear anything Natalie said; all his mind could focus on was the near-tearing sensation inside him.

As a pained moan bubbled free from his lips, Cole felt the pain lessen from mind-breaking to debilitating. Cole was an old hand at dealing with debilitating pain and managed to wrap an arm around Natalie and hiss. “I’m awake, but something’s very wrong.”

Clutching his face, Natalie looked at Cole and said. “What do you need me to do? Get Mina or Isabelle? Do… do you need to be reset?”

Sucking in a rattling breath and trying his best not to crush Natalie while also clutching onto her for dear life, Cole managed to say. “It’s… it’s pulling at me.”

Natalie was clearly torn between not wanting to leave Cole and trying to get him help. A pained spasm went through Cole, and he let out an animalistic noise of suffering. That seemed to be Natalie’s breaking point as she started to disentangle herself from Cole, clearly planning on finding someone who could help. As she moved towards the tent flap, Cole made another sound, this one of intense relief.

Gripping Natalie’s wrist, he said. “It’s getting better, and I think I know what’s wrong.”

With her help, Cole slowly got to his feet and left the tent. Going over to his equipment, Cole dug out a small hand compass and went over to the dim campfire. Clutching at his chest and examining the compass, Cole swore. “Jagged edges.”

Looking at the compass, trying to figure out what was going on, Natalie asked. “What’s wrong?”

Rubbing his abdomen, Cole explained. “It’s the god-touch, the pull of Master Time, except so much more jagging intense.”

Staring off into the distance, in the direction the horrible cold pull was dragging him, Cole elaborated. “We need to go east; something very horrible just happened.”

Before Natalie could ask for more details, a high, steady whistle filled the night air. Cole grabbed his belt, bandolier, and boots, quickly fitting them on as the rest of the camp started to come awake, roused by the intentionally unnerving sound. After Cole and Natalie, Kit was the next one to be awake and coherent; pointing upward, he sang a magical phrase, and a sphere of light bubbled off the campfire and floated into the air. As the ball of illumination grew brighter and brighter, he gestured with his other hand, and the keening whistle stopped.

Glancing at Cole, the Magi smiled nervously. “Well, it seems my detector wards work.”

Nodding, Cole lengthened Requiem into a halberd and stared out at the surrounding fields and woods. Kit’s light ball was feeding on a steady stream of sparks coming from its mother fire and becoming bright enough to see by. There were figures at the light’s edge, barely visible to Cole. Clad in dirty pelts, the eight strangers were stopped mid-stride by the sudden illumination. Rendered as eerie outlines by the flickering magelight and the detritus-covered furs they wore, the newcomers hesitated in the face of an alerted camp.

Holding his halberd in a low guard, Cole called out. “Identify yourselves!”

It was probably a pointless gesture; Cole could guess who or what was stalking the campsite, but he yelled it all the same. In answer to Cole’s demand, the strangers laughed, a low, mirthless chuckle that grew and grew into hysterical cackles. Gritting his teeth, Cole rolled his shoulders and let out a tired breath. This was one part the stories got right about White Orcs; they really did laugh as they killed. Cole didn’t know if it was some cultural tradition to unnerve their foes or just a sign of how unhinged the cannibals were; all he knew was it angered him.

Glancing behind him, Cole spat out quick commands to his friends. “They’ll go after the horses, Mina, Kit, and Yara, stop that from happening. Alia, Natalie, keep them from flanking us.”

Natalie set a hand on Cole’s shoulder and started to ask. “Are those-”

With a rustle of crusty furs, the eight strangers let their stained pelts fall to the ground, discarding the pointless camouflage. Natalie’s words died upon seeing the ambushers; Cole didn’t need to tell her what the enemy was.

Each of the Worcs was tall and broad, their bodies obscured by the strange armor they wore. Layered leather sheets hung from the White Orcs in a dress-like garment that vaguely reminded Cole of a bird’s ruffled feathers. Only the Worc’s arms and heads were not covered by the leather dress, with oddly shaped vambraces armoring their forearms. All eight of the Worcs were bald, or more accurately hairless, with the traditional tusked underbite, protruding forehead, and vestigial ears of full-blooded Orcs. Patterns of ritual scarring marked their faces, adding unnerving mottles to their skin.

Upon hearing the term ‘White Orc,’ the usual assumption was to think the cannibals were merely pale like northern folk of the western continent. The truth was revealed in the dim light of Kit’s enchanted fire. The Worc’s skin was the yellow-white of fresh bones or stained fur, not quite jaundiced but neither fully alabaster. To look at a White Orc was to see primordial sickly death staring back at you. An unnerving effect on perhaps anyone who’d not spoken with Death himself.

Cole charged the Worcs, halberd low in a brutal thrust, and ran to meet his enemy. “MAGNI MORTAE MUNDUS!”

There was a moment of hesitation among the eight cannibals; they were clearly used to their prey being startled by their appearance. Cole used that second to cut the distance between him and the Worcs in half. Shrinking Requiem into a one-handed poleaxe, Cole grabbed a knife from his belt and hurled it at the nearest Worc. On instinct, the Orc ducked, the blade whizzing over his head. Activating the enchanted quartz tied to one wrist, Cole yanked his arm back and reversed the knife’s momentum. Sixteen centimeters of sharp steel struck the Worc in the back, turning his unnerving chuckles into a pained shout.

Five of the Worcs moved to engage Cole, the other two dancing to the left or right. Trusting his allies to deal with the two or any other ambushers waiting in the dark, Cole gripped Requiem with both hands and swung it towards the Worc he’d pinked with the knife. Despite the blade sticking out of one shoulder, the Worc brought his weapon up to bear. Cole didn’t recognize the polearm with its odd crescent-shaped blade on either end, but his ignorance mattered little. Bringing Requiem down on his foe’s left side, targeting the stabbed shoulder, Cole smashed through his opponent's guard. The shafts of both polearms caught on each other, but the sheer ferocity of Cole’s blow drove Requiem’s axehead into the Worc’s shoulder, tearing through armor and flesh.

The Worc screamed as Requiem caught in his collarbone. Cole twisted and yanked his weapon, pulling it free and spinning about to face his next foe. Clearly, no stranger to combat, the four Worcs circled around Cole, using their numbers to box him in. Two were using the crescent moon staff; another carried a club and buckler, the last a huge war-axe. War-axe was the biggest and most aggressive, swinging at Cole with a brutal downward strike. Cole dodged left and parried the questing crescent staff waiting for him.

As the other staff user tried to come in from Cole’s right, he ducked under the polearm and grabbed its length. Balancing himself in an awkward squat, Cole pulled Crescent-two off his feet and onto the ground. Finding some room, Cole landed a solid kick on the fallen Worc’s skull, snapping his spine and splintering his jaw. Crescent-one took exception to this and howled foreign oaths as Cole pushed out of the encirclement.

Just when Cole thought his flanks were secured, an arrow whizzed through the night and caught him in the arm. Cursing, he gripped the arrow and yanked it out of him; thankfully, the bodkin came easily, and its bloody tip presented an opportunity. “Red arrow seek his marrow.”

With a flick of will, Cole sent the arrow hurtling towards Crescent-one, where it found one of the Worc’s eyes and continued on to meet his brain. The two surviving Worcs glanced at each other and started to retreat, laughing as they did. Looking down at Crescent-two, Cole realized something about the odd vambraces the corpse wore. They were crafted from carved bone and unusually thin leather. Cole knew no animal sourced the materials for these forearm guards, at least no animal that walked on four legs.

After checking to see the fleeing Worcs wore similarly macabre armor, Cole nodded to himself and said. “Pay for your sins and take a better path in your next life.”

Charging after the two Worcs, Cole lengthened Requiem and swung at Club’s knee. To Cole’s surprise, the cannibal jumped over his strike and spun mid-air, landing facing Cole. Club then returned Cole’s charge, forcing the Paladin to shift his momentum and parry a downward swing of his foe’s weapon. The strike landed with shocking force, and Cole’s hands stung from where Requiem was pushed into his skin. Sucking in deep breaths, Cole smelled something new and managed to duck just as two more arrows came his way.

Pulling back from Club and glancing around him, Cole realized his enemies hadn’t been retreating; they’d been luring him away from the campsite and into an ambush. Four more crescent wielders circled around him, and at least two archers hung back nearby. The crescent wielders had a twitchiness to their movements, never staying still for more than a second. If Cole had to guess, they probably were dosed with some kind of combat drug. Then, as if this wasn’t enough problems, Cole’s stinging hands said Club was a marital Paragon, and War-axe probably was as well.

A year ago, Cole’s current situation would almost certainly mean an ugly death for him. But as time passes, it lavishes gifts upon the worthy, and Cole certainly qualified. Meeting Club’s eyes, noting how bloodshot they were, Cole asked. “Did someone send you after us, or were you just preying upon any travelers you encountered?”

Club spoke, his voice heavily accented and interrupted by incongruous laughter. “Hehehehe, we look for meat, we find you. Hahaheehea, now die, warrior, and give strength.”

Glancing back towards the campsite, Cole asked, “What about my friends?”

The Worc shrugged, sending his cloak-dress flapping. “Weepers and breeders, weak meat for others in clan.”

Pointing his weapon at Cole, the cannibal said. “You are prize. Now you die.”

A horrible scream filled the night, a high-pitched noise cut off by a wet crunch. The Worcs looked toward the scream, many openly displaying their shock and worry; they recognized the scream's owner. Taking in the ‘ambush’ standing around him, Cole said. “I’m glad you stumbled upon us; better me and mine than normal travelers.”

Another shorter scream erupted and ended, only to be replaced by the howls of wolves. Cole noticed the Worcs weren’t laughing anymore; an occasional nervous chuckle might escape one, but they weren’t laughing. Sucking in a deep breath and feeling his power, Cole asked. “I’m assuming you thought I was the biggest threat, so you wanted to isolate and overwhelm me with your best warriors. Leaving those you deemed less worthy to attack the campsite.”

A flash of magical light illuminated the night, and the sound of wolves mixed with more screams. Icy vapor started to leak from Cole’s skin as his eyes glowed silver. “Your assumptions were poor.”

Exploding forward, Cole ignored the arrows that struck his skin; the armor-piercing bodkins clattered off his cold-hardened flesh. Requiem met Club’s buckler, denting the small shield as hoarfrost spidered across its steel surface, seeking the warm flesh bound to the buckler’s other side. Kicking out with one leg, Cole struck Club’s knee, snapping the reinforced joint with an effort. As the cannibal Paragon tumbled to the ground, Cole split his skull with Requiem and turned to his other foes.

The four new crescent wielders died quickly, Requiem opening veins, severing body parts, and leaving trails of frostbite in its wake. One of the archers took a throwing knife to the gut. The other archer just ran, and Cole didn’t think this one was feint. Less than a minute after the ambush was sprung, only War-axe remained.

Just as Cole thought, the Worc was a Paragon. Strong, fast, vicious, War-axe was clearly a veteran of many fights, not all against untrained peasants. But in comparison to Dietrich, War-axe was weak, slow, timid, and unused to battle. The last Worc earned his stay of execution by the mere merit of Cole’s attention being divided by the other ambushers. That bit of borrowed time ended with War-axe’s head tumbling to the ground.

Flicking the rapidly freezing blood off his halberd, Cole turned towards the camp and ran. He doubted the other White Orcs would be a true threat to his friends, but the same couldn’t be said if Natalie lost control. She’d not been in this kind of close-quarter fight for a while, and Cole was worried.

He found the camp a mess of bodies and blood, but thankfully, only the enemy’s. Or at least mostly the enemy; Alia was sitting on a large rock and grumbling while Mina healed a nasty cut on her leg. Kit was examining one of the dead Worcs while Yara and a pack of spectral wolves worked to drag the bodies out of the campsite.

Glancing up at him, Alia grumbled. “They ambushed us, but we took care of them.”

Gritting his teeth, Cole bowed his head. “They lured me away and into a trap; I’m sorry you were injured.”

The silver light of Mina’s power dimmed, and she finished tying the bandage around the freshly sealed wound, combining magical and mundane healing for maximum effect. “We need to start making strategies on fighting as a group. This probably isn’t the last time we’ll be attacked before reaching… well, wherever we are supposed to go now.”

Cole nodded. “Very true. Where is Natalie?”

With a whoosh of displaced air and thunk, Natalie landed next to Cole, having jumped down from the treetops. “Right here.”

Dusting grime off her hands, Natalie said, “I don’t see or smell any more of them; I think we’re safe for now.”

Mina came over and started patching up Cole’s cuts and scrapes; she examined the arrow wound in his arm and made an annoyed sound. “If they’d stuck you with a broadhead, you might have crippled your arm yanking it out like that.”

Feeling the cool power of his God wash over the injury like fresh spring water, Cole replied. “I know, and I could tell it was a bodkin.”

As a strip of fresh linen was wrapped around his arm, Cole looked at Natalie. “How are you doing?”

She shrugged and smiled nervously. “I didn’t eat anyone, so I’m taking that as a victory.”

Natalie squatted down as one of her wolves padded over, scratching the phantom lupine behind its spectral ears. As the wolf’s tongue lolled out, Natalie let out a snort. “They performed well, even if Grist’s mind is having an effect.”

Alia tried to stand up then, and Mina rushed over to her and shooed the Citywarden back to her spot. Rolling her eyes at a trained healer’s attention, Alia asked. “Could we try and take the Pass then? If we dealt with these fuckers then taking that route shouldn’t be hard.”

Cole shook his head. “No, this was just a small raiding group, just a branch of one clan, not an entire tribe. Still, I think with them dealt with, this region will be a bit safer. The easiest thing to scare predators with is the smell of their own blood.”

Yara appeared then, puffing slightly from her corpse-dragging exertions. An activity she did without prompting or complaint, a product of Dietrich’s influence. “What about revenge? Could the cannibals attack the village because of what we did?”

Thinking on that, Cole shrugged. “Perhaps, but with some luck, losing nearly an entire hunting party will make them cautious.”

Natalie softly corrected Cole. “Not nearly; they lost an entire hunting party; I made sure of that.”

Cole noticed then only half the Lupus pack was busy moving bodies; he could guess where the rest were. “Ugly business, but probably for the best. I doubt the Worcs communicate much with their employer, but having our presence known would still be bad.”

Running fingers through his short hair, Cole winced at his own words. He didn’t like killing, especially when it became so… methodical. He knew dealing with the Worcs this way was the best option, but it still bothered him. It was so very easy for the powerful to become alienated from the weak, and was there any greater power than true immortality? While there was little doubt the cannibalistic bandits deserved their fate, the ease with which Cole delivered them to it unnerved him.

Sighing, Cole looked to the group and said. “There is another reason we can’t take the pass.”

Tapping his chest, Cole continued. “Something bad is happening in the east, towards Harmas; I think we need to go in that direction.”

Mina frowned and asked. “The Paladin god-touch?”

Cole nodded, and Natalie reached out to his chest. “How bad do you think it is?”

Expression stoney, Cole said. “It wasn’t like this even when I was fighting in the Alukah’s tomb.”

Natalie sucked in a nervous but pointless breath. “Oh jag…”

:: The Alidon River, just north of Harmas ::

Pankrator Marcus Gildmen couldn’t sleep; not an uncommon problem for him, but still annoying. Leaning against the fore railings of a large river barge, the Warrior-priest stared at the dead city ahead of them. The ‘aid fleet,’ as some of its members had taken to calling the collection of barges and boats, was docked at the Mausern Isles. The collective term for the dozen or so small islands in this wide part of the Alidon. Here at the southernmost island, they were as close to Harmas as was safe.

Not as young as he once was, Marcus couldn’t see much in the heavy night, just the barest hints of Harmas’s walls and, if he really squinted, the prince’s palace. Unlike Vindabon’s colossal ramparts of pink stone, the walls of Harmas were minor things, honestly more comparable to a seawall than proper fortifications, which made sense considering the chief defense of the city. The Alidon did more than just cut through Harmas; the river was split in three and circled around the city in a massive moat, essentially turning the entire settlement into an archipelago.

This moat was the source of Marcus’s woes, being far more than the usual damp ditches dug around castles. One of the early rulers of Harmas, a Shaman of considerable skill, put years of effort into making her island capital impregnable. Nothing crossed the moat without permission, and it seemed no one left on Vardis had that right. From what the scouts said, anything that entered the moat was pulled under the water by flowing chains. It was possible to navigate the section of river cutting through Harmas, but not easily. Apparently, a trio of Magi spent a week and a shocking number of enchanted rowboats mapping out the usable narrow passage.

Even flying into the city wasn’t feasible. A great cauldron of carrion bats nested in Harmas, growing fat and fertile on the city’s dead. The mutant creatures mobbed anything larger than a songbird, attacking with the sort of viciousness the Vampires bred for. By Marcus’s reckoning, it might be possible for a single hippogryph doused in subtly spells to make it into Harmas, but getting out would be another problem.

Ultimately, Marcus was stuck with two difficult and contradictory tasks. He needed to impregnate the impregnable city and make damn sure no one else cuckolded him. Preserving the city’s chastity, to continue the metaphor, was a higher priority, but Marcus was never one to stray from a challenge; in fact, he had a bloody religious obligation to. Such was the lot of those serving Misbegotten War, to face any trial or tribulation the world could muster and come out perhaps not victorious but alive.

It was partly why Marcus came up to the deck when he couldn’t sleep. To rack his mind for ideas and to remind himself of why he needed to do more than just simply keep the quarantine intact. The Pankrator’s aged eyes could still make out the distant sparks of light in Harmas. No longer did the city shine at night, but nor was it completely dark. Flickers of candle, torch, and glowstone light were visible in a smattering across the city. Evidence that despite months of isolation and degradation, people still survived in Harmas.

Marcus just needed to find a way to evacuate those hardy folk without letting the thousands of Ghouls assailing them escape as well. A true corpse tide drowned Harmas, its Aetheric rot visible for kilometers around, and some days when the river was calm, Marcus could hear the low groaning of the unquiet dead.

Turning to look at the small armada of barges clustered around the Mausern Isles, Marcus knew his assets were limited. The aid fleet made good time reaching Harmas, the lack of river traffic compensating for the inordinate amount of bureaucratic hiccups they experienced. But he’d not had much luck recruiting fellows of the Eleventh; most of the lodges were practically abandoned, their members headed south for the war. Not that Marcus blamed them; if he were twenty years younger, he’d be the first to go.

With a company of Vindabonian elite soldiers, his Temple fellows, and the Eighth Priestess under his command, Marcus was not powerless, but neither was he equipped to infiltrate and defend an entire bloody city. The Cantus family was ready to head back to Vindabon. They’d completed their part of the contract, delivering aid to the dozens of river settlements. Argentari managed to negotiate the use of three barges for Marcus and his force to be left behind as an ‘exterior garrison’ for Harmas. But all the same, Marcus would feel better with the ruthlessly effective merchant guards of House Cantus supporting him.

To the aid fleet’s chagrin, not much assistance had come from Crowbend Castle despite its close proximity. The Marcher-Lady in charge of the fortress was drowning in refugees and practically every other problem a commanding officer could have. She’d sent three squads of local soldiers and was working to keep supply lines open, but not much else.

So far, Marcus and his token force could not do much more than watch Harmas and help those desperate fools who came to the dead city seeking aid, unaware of how bad things were. The morass of farming villages surrounding Harmas were almost abandoned, their residents having fled into the city or countryside when things got bad. The exterior garrison was making do by setting up watch points in these abandoned villages and gambling with scout birds.

These birds managed to get reasonably close to Harmas thanks to potent enchantments. A small collection of Magi and Shamans from the surrounding regions lent their talents to the aid fleet, guided there by the Ivory Tower and the strange Aetheric currents Shamans were attuned to. The magical aid was useful but not enough to actually help the people of Harmas, just keep them imprisoned.

Lost in his thoughts, Marcus reviewed a lifetime of personal and studied strife for any answer to this quandary. The easiest solution seemed to be sending one or two extremely capable agents into Harmas and having them work inside the city to help people. Except such a mission was practically suicide, and there wasn’t exactly an abundance of people who could even think to attempt such a thing. Ah, to be thirty years younger, Marcus would have been stupid enough to try it and strong enough to maybe succeed.

All of this speculation and scheming was rendered mute by an explosion the likes of which Pyromancer’s dream about tearing through the night. Marcus whirled about to stare at Harmas as the dark city was illuminated by a truly colossal fireball. Marcus could physically see the shockwave surging through the air towards the fleet. Gripping onto the railing with all his considerable strength, Marcus withstood the deafening blast as it rocked the barge like a cruel mother’s cradle.

Swallowing and opening his mouth like a startled fish, Marcus tried to regain hearing using an old warrior’s trick. The Pankrator had seen Archmagi clash before, but even that paled compared to what just happened. A column of oily smoke thundered up into the sky, and soon, alarm bells were ringing across the fleet. Squinting in the direction of the explosion’s origin, Marcus felt his gut drop into his boots. A terrible thought just occurred to him, and he needed to ensure it wasn't a terrible fact.

Running towards the gangplank of his barge, the Pankrator passed two of his subordinates, trying desperately to fit on pieces of their armor as they reached the deck. Pointing at them, Marcus barked. “Traje, Auro! I’m taking Sarmat to inspect the damage. Get everyone ready for combat; if I’m not back in an hour, prepare to evacuate up-river.”

Before any questions could be asked, Marcus left the barge and headed towards the island meadow the fleet was using for pasture. Whistling with his fingers, Marcus saw a large flat rock up ahead and, more importantly, the huge feathered shape sleeping on it. At his whistle, Sarmat the Griffin looked up and towards his rider. Reacting like any true beast of battle, the Griffin lept off his makeshift nest and loped towards Marcus.

Meeting the hulking monster, Marcus stroked his old friend’s beak and said. “We need to move quickly, no time for a saddle. Can I trust you not to drop me?”

A deep rumble came from Sarmat, a purr sized for such a large creature. Scratching a spot where feathers and fur met on the Griffin's side, Marcus hoisted himself up onto his steed with an annoyingly loud grunt. Even with Sarmat’s help, getting situated on the beast was difficult; Marcus’s hips and knees would have something to complain about tomorrow.

Whistling again, Marcus braced himself as Sarmat started to run forward, pumping huge wings. Sarmat leaped into the air, pushing off his feline back legs and taking flight. Furious strokes of Sarmat’s wings pushed him and Marcus higher and higher. Gripping onto some of his mount’s back feathers, the Pankrator pulled on them gently to guide the Griffin towards the explosion’s source.

Keeping low in case the carrion bats caught their scent, the rider and steed flew towards the westernmost edge of the moat. Bronze light burned in Marcus’s eyes as he enhanced his vision with several spells. Suddenly, he could pierce the dark, see distant foes, and even sense vague magical auras, not a bad trick for a battle-worn old man.

Sweeping his eyes along the stretch of city rocked by the explosion, Marcus witnessed what he’d feared. A major road came into Harmas from the west and entered the city where the moat was narrowest. The great bridge once spanning this section of water was ruined, dragged beneath the moat by the Spirit inhabiting it. But ruined did not mean obliterated; debris clogged this section of the moat, creating a small strip of shallows.

The potential weakness this bridge represented was not overlooked by the various rulers of Harmas; a strong holdfast was built at the city end of the bridge. Providing protection and, more importantly, toll revenue to Harmas. It was this holdfast, really a small castle, where the explosion was centered. Whoever was responsible for the shocking display of magical power knew what they were doing, and literal tons of stone were launched into the moat, adding their mass to the shallow sections of redirected river.

A crude path now stretched from Harmas to the shore, a bridge of rubble and debris surrounded by islands of hurled rock. This alone wasn’t enough to panic Marcus; the moat’s Spirit would wash away any who tried to cross the precarious path. What did chill his blood was the quickly growing stretch of ice wrapping around the debris bridge like white moss. The ice spread out, connecting to the rubble islands and sinking down into the water. This was the one weakness of the Spirit defender of Harmas; when the river froze, it became sluggish and indolent.

Even as the spread of the ice slowed and its full extent became clear, Marcus knew the situation had just become untenable. The colossal explosion he witnessed wasn’t the act of a superbly powerful Pyromancer or insane Alchemist. No, someone or something created that huge blast just to make a bridge and unbalance entropy, allowing for the obscene act of ice magic now binding the river. Only a Priest or Shaman of incredible power and skill could hope for such a feat.

Moving Sarmat closer to the moat, Marcus could see unnatural waves crashing against the ice bridge, adding their frozen mass to its sides, creating a chilly banister. In time, the ice magic would fade, and the Spirit protecting Harmas would destroy this bridge just like all the others, but for now, it faced a truly potent arcane enemy. Until the Spirit emerged victorious, a clear path out of the dead city existed, one the majority of its residents were already taking.

Marcus could see a shambling tide of Ghouls clamber over the remains of the castle and onto the icy bridge. Eager Grinners pushed through their slower kindred, running and sliding over the frozen water and fresh debris.

Sarmat dived then, heading towards the bridge as Pankrator Marcus held up one hand, a spear of bronze fire blossomed into existence, and with all his strength, Marcus hurled it towards the bridge, right where the first Grinner was. The bolt of power struck with a sound like two shield-walls clashing, and a trio of Grinner’s were rended into paste. Marcus put a sizable crater in the bridge, but the ice went from the surface of the moat to its very bottom. It would take much more magical wrath than he could muster to crack the bridge.

Pulling up from his dive, Sarmat suddenly wheeled through the air, forcing Marcus to hold on for dear life. He barely saw the bolts of power hurtling after Sarmat and simply trusted his experienced mount to fulfill his side of their partnership. Dancing through the air, fleeing back towards the barges, Sarmat let out a pained shriek as a gout of magic struck one of his legs. Marcus quickly put one hand on his old friend’s neck and sent a healing pulse through the Griffin. In a testament to his mettle, Sarmat kept his wings steady and carried them both beyond attack range. As the last streak of energy flew past them, Marcus looked over his shoulder and cursed. A tide of corpses was streaming out of Harmas, thousands of Ghouls, and other nastier creatures directed by an unseen master.

Glancing up at the sky, Marcus addressed his god. “I’ll do my best, but… but don’t expect any miracles, or at least none you aren’t providing.”