“If talk is cheap, then being silent is expensive. And many people it seems, can't afford to buy into it.”
― Anthony Liccione
Vanessa’s eyes snapped open, and she looked at the unfamiliar ceiling. There was a remnant of a dream, a dream she should not have had as she was no longer sleeping in the traditional sense of the word. She remembered her father, he sitting at his desk and she running beneath it, hiding from her mother who wanted to bring her...and the rest was only a bit of faded memories.
Pushing the blankets aside, she sat on the edge of the mattress they had requisitioned and spoke a quick spell. A breeze laden with icy water brushed over her clothes, hair, and skin and took away all the dust and grime of the past day.
‘Should have done that sooner.’ She grimaced and gave the blankets a cursory inspection noting the smears of dirt with distaste.
Soft steps came from behind her, and she listened to the comfortably familiar cadence. “Iseret.”
“Yes, my love.”
Vanessa’s breath hitched for a moment at the blatant words, and if she still could, she would have blushed. The steps neared, and soft arms encircled her, and soon a faint breath caressed her ear as Iseret leaned her cheek against the back of her head. Clasping the woman's arms to her chest, the smaller girl sighed. “I will never understand what you see in me.”
The arms tightened for a moment, and there was a featherlight touch to her forehead before Iseret gracefully rose back to her feet. Her silhouette a dark cutout against the rose-colored dusk seen through the small window. The snow refracted the sinking sun with a million tiny lights before suddenly extinguishing as the eye of Gesserach sank beneath the mountaintops.
“We had visitors, and now we have some prisoners.” Iseret calmly remarked.
“Did someone escape?”
“Would I be so leisurely if that were the case? There were only two undead, a scout and a magus. We got them all.”
Vanessa nodded to herself and stood, brushing her hair with her fingers before shrugging and using a small air spell to brush it into a more respectable appearance. “Then let us hear what they can tell us.”
Down in the common room, a steaming kettle spread the aroma of herbal tea while some dried sausages and even drier bread served as dinner for Alea and Mireille. Alyssa sat beside her friends. Her collar pitched so that her neck- and the horrific wound on the side of it- were covered. Mostly.
“oood to shee thouu.” Drinking down an offending piece of bread with a healthy swig of tea, Mireille waved at the two coming down from above.
“Please finish eating. We have that much time, I gather.” Vanessa shook her head at Mireille’s antics but seemed quietly amused.
Alyssa nodded at her and fed a sausage to Cyrus, who grabbed it with his wing claws before ripping into it with his needle-like teeth.
Somewhere in the rafters, a shadowy cat turned on her back while batting a piece of spider web with her paws.
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All of them were gathered in the now somewhat cramped living room while Mireille leaned inside the door to the kitchen.
The three prisoners were kneeling in the middle of the room on the floor, hands and feet still bound.
“What do you want?” The mage was the first to break the silence after spitting a few times to get rid of the residue left from the cloth gag. And his eyes clearly questioned the presence of Vanessa, but he was too smart to ask.
“And who is she?” The apprentice blurted out to the pained frown from the mage.
“None of your business.” Alyssa shook her head and focused on Leomund, the mage. “Is Zygmund von Nordmark in Sevenpeaks?”
“Yes. That is common knowledge on the streets, by the way.” Leomund coughed. “Could I have a bit of water? Please.”
Jill sighed and walked over with a cup of water tilting it slowly for him to drink, nevertheless there was some spillage.
“Thank you.”
“Are there other powerful mages with him? Vampires? Other higher undead?” Iseret interjected.
“Let’s see.” Leomund looked highly uncomfortable at this line of questioning but then slumped, defeated. “I have no tolerance for pain and don’t owe them much loyalty. I will try to answer your questions, but I would like to remain alive. Will you promise me that?”
The female fighter pressed her lips together but then hung her head and looked away.
The apprentice seemed bewildered.
Alyssa looked at the others and then shrugged. “Why not. It’s a promise.”
Vanessa nodded at her.
“So. The Lord has one of those frost elves with him most of the time but he does not seem to value him much. One Ivyander or other. I had the opportunity to talk to him twice. He seemed a bit disdainful of humans, but what else is new.” He looked at Vanessa and gave a half-smile without much sincerity. “I hope you take no offense.”
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Getting no reply, he continued. “He is a powerful and resourceful necromancer and much more knowledgeable than the Lord of Nordmark. There was a vampire, a warrior of some sort, but he did not return with the troops after the defeat at Volstedt. Then there are several wights but without much in the way of intelligence. The one that had some they sent away with an escort of skeletal riders. He did not return either.”
“That can’t be all,” Vanessa spoke and regarded him sharply.
“No. There are around a dozen mages bought or raised locally. You can guess which one I am.” He grinned. “And some of the other Nordmark nobles are pretty good with a sword or magic. One is even a teacher at the Academy of the Arts in Kronenburg, Jamila von Nordstrom. And there are the undead. A lot of them.”
His face turned grim. “Whatever they did, the air reeked of void magic. They invested heavily in blood magic to complement that, but the cultists failed to show. And so we were dispatched thinking that perhaps the ritual went too well.”
“That looked more like demonology to me,” Vanessa remarked.
Leomund was silent, and then his arm twitched as he subconsciously tried to move. “Damn it. My nose itches. Yes. They did it. All of it. I don’t think it can get any worse. Demons, undead, the thrice-dammed Heartstealer, they have it all.”
“It’s not as if the crown could punish them more. Rebellion should be pretty much the worst offense, isn’t it?” Mireille yawned.
“It’s only so that we know what to expect,” Alyssa replied.
“Expect? Are we going to storm the city?” Mireille’s eyes widened. “Why don’t I know about that?”
“I think we should try to stop them from committing further atrocities. How can you be so calm when you hear all that?!” Jill exploded after she had been quietly fuming in the background.
“We are students, not soldiers, not vigilantes, not templars, students. Why do you sound so accusatory? We try to help anyone we meet and fight with undead, mad dukes, and mages. Isn’t that enough?” Mireille shouted back. “Alyssa died for this town she did not even know the name of a week ago.”
Jill looked at her silently and then worried her lips before saying, “That is a good point. I forgot what you are and that you have no more responsibility to stop this madness than any citizen on the street.”
“Mh.” Mireille snorted but looked slightly mollified.
Leomund looked between them and cleared his throat. “Does that suffice for my part of the bargain?”
“No,” Iseret answered this time. “I still have some more questions.”
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Jamila grabbed another book and forcefully stuffed it into a backpack before grimacing at what was left of the books, scrolls, and jewelry strewn about the floor. The chamber was generously sized and doubled as a bedroom and study. The wood-paneled walls shone with polish and gave everything a warm look. The large windows were blinded by frost but would have had a nice view over the lawn in front of the mansion nestled inside the old castle grounds.
The old halls were full of tradition, drafty, and nearly impossible to keep clean. So some more modern-minded ancestor had built the mansion. It was rumored that, at first, it had been meant for a mistress, but that rumor was hardy and unsubstantiated at once.
“Milady, the duke requests your presence, and he is also impatient with your...delay.” A supercilious male voice sounded from behind the closed door.
“I was bathing when you called and am just trying to get my things in order. Tell grandfather I will be with him soon.”
“Very well.” She heard footsteps walk away, growing faint before falling silent once again.
“Damn them all.” Jamila cursed, pressing the last book deeper before decisively latching the pack close. If a guardsman she had done some favors had not warned her, she would have walked to her death with a faked smile on her face. But she was not ready! The pince-nez glasses she affected to wear were carelessly stuffed in a pocket of her sturdily made leather jacket. Something she had had no cause to wear for years. Not since she finally broke with Calvin. Her hair was bound in a messy ponytail without any of the discipline and art she usually employed.
She remembered the summer day, long had it passed her by, when she stood in Illimens study decrying the presence of one Alyssa Miner trying to get the dean in trouble to help the chancellor.
But what had all her scheming and scraping gotten her? Her personal power had soared at first. It had been the resources, the forbidden or rare texts she was suddenly able to access, that had catapulted her past her prior limits and made her one of the youngest teachers in the academy. But then it had all stagnated. Her past services only led to more of the same and hardly as well paid. Her time was often wasted on politics and socializing. Not that that had not been pleasant sometimes, but her growth had all but stalled.
Looking around, she sighed deeply. A life compressed into one sorry backpack. Hefting it, she winced as the leather straps bit into her shoulders, but a small spell toughened her, and another lessened her overall weight. With a look of distaste, she spoke another spell and discarded books, and a blanket shimmered before taking on her appearance. She critically inspected her work and was satisfied with the slackjawed impression on her double's face and the deathly pale color of her skin. Gripping a candle holder, she gave it a vicious twist, and with a grinding sound that forced another wince from her, a wardrobe rotated and revealed a small opening leading to a very narrow spiral staircase.
It was time to leave the sinking ship.
A rat chittered somewhere ahead in the darkness and she marveled at both the unfortunate symbolism and the hardiness of the rodents.
Turning one last time she mouthed ‘Good riddance!’ Before descending the stairs while the opening closed behind her
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A person in a red robe with a mask made of cloth covering everything but the eyes raised a gloved hand and dripped a reddish liquid into a steaming beaker with precise and measured movements.
The walls were mortared bricks, but where those had crumbled, bare earth could be seen. Dampness and the smell of old blood pervaded the air, and the small mage globe barely illuminated a corner of a much larger room, the ceiling vanishing in the darkness. Several passages led into the darkness while missing the doors that would normally have secured a bit of privacy.
The laboratory was not in good condition, having been assembled with an emphasis on speed while neglecting much else. The robed figure gestured behind its back, and a hulking form lurched forward and placed an open barrel half-filled with a churning liquid beside her. With an angry seeming gesture, the contents of the beaker were thrown into the barrel, causing the liquid to bubble furiously for a while.
“That wasn’t it either.” Mumbling to himself, the robed persons stroked several boxes and bottles before settling on a large bulbous flask containing a small amount of a pale white liquid.
Flirring, a rune sparrow shot through the wall and hovered before the person. A scratchy, old male voice sounded, “The creature failed miserably and only wounded the personal knight. We expected more from your merchandise. Especially for the price. Contact us as soon as possible.”
The sparrow then disintegrated into motes of blue light.
Stroking his chin, the robed person seemed to ponder something and then snapped his fingers again as the hulking creature took the barrel away again. Heavy footsteps vanished into a side passage.
“They have no appreciation for the art.” The robed person shook his head before finally settling on the pale liquid, pouring it into the beaker to begin the tests anew. "Not like poor, poor Vadislav." A cackle followed the monologue, and then it was quiet.