Lawrent Joan

I glared at the young mage before me, the weight of my anger causing her to shy away in fear. She was dirty and unkempt, and with the darting fear on her face, she seemed nothing more than a prey animal instead of a proud mage.

“I said, speak!” I snarled, clenching my fist over my desk. “You are the only one to return from the Clarwood Forest expedition. That is unacceptable, and I will have answers!”

The woman flinched at the heat in my words. Were I in a more amiable mood, I might have enjoyed the reaction. But the glaring problem of Blood Joan’s doomed convoy boiled the blood in my veins.

“I- we made it to the nest just fine, sir,” she stuttered. “All the mages made it there. Lost a few unads, but nobody cared about them.” The woman looked at me, then averted her gaze. “We planned to attack the nest before dark because the beastwards would go bad if we waited through the night. We got set up to attack the nest just fine. You know, throw them at the hive then detonate them?”

The woman licked her lips. The light was low, but the light from the sconces on the wall highlighted the sheen of sweat over her dirt-stained forehead. “Yeah, we managed to do that just fine. Knocked the awful hive out of the tree, then slew the queen. Our unads started harvesting the acidbeam paper not long after. Didn’t go as fast as a mage would’ve, though.”

The mage peeked behind her at Kaelan, who stood silent as a tomb a few paces back. My sister’s posture was rigid and sharp, taught like a bowstring ready to fire. No, it was closer to a barely restrained viper waiting to lash out. Through my own simmering anger, I noted that. Kaelan was deathly angry as well.

“They got along for a few minutes, but then we heard it.” The woman shuddered, clutching at the wand held in a holster at her side. “The buzzing, like a thousand tiny lightning spells coming for us. It grew and grew, and we knew that something was coming for us…”

Kaelan’s eyes flashed. “Tell him what you told me,” she said with a growl. “About the mage.”

The caster nodded. “Yes, sir. Before we saw what was coming, a mage leapt from the trees. Someone not from our convoy. They threw fire at the horde, but it barely killed half a dozen. There were hundreds.” The caster shook her head. “There was another nest somewhere.”

I resisted the urge to call my mana into my hands and smite the ground. “Another mage, you said? And this was a person not with the expedition?”

“They were dressed in dark colors, and when the monsters surrounded us, I didn’t get a chance to see him better. They started raining hell from above. It was awful. Some of us managed to put up shields; protect ourselves. But the screams, the buzzing… I was lucky to get out alive.”

I slammed my fist into my desk, sending a tremor through the wood. It creaked from the pressure I forced into it, and I had to restrain my urge to break it in two. The girl yelped, stumbling back at my display.

“Tell me. About. The mage.” I annunciated through clenched teeth.

“Right, sir. I’m sorry,” she said, shuffling in place. “Later on, he came to me in the area–I was holding a shield over myself–and told me to go to the rest of the shields that were holding out from the attacks. But I didn’t stay. They were all doomed.”

“What did he look like?” I interrupted.

“He had a dark metal mask,” she said. “An old vicar’s mask. It had the horns and everything. But the voice was strange, grating and painful. He told me to help–”

The recollection of a few days ago when I had discussed the last survivor of Named Blood Daen lurched to the forefront of my mind in dreadful clarity. Pieces began to fall into place in my head as the girl continued to ramble.

“--And so I left. They were going to die, and they wanted to take me with them,” she said with a stammer. “I wasn’t going to stay around with them!”

I exhaled a snarl, and a bolt of lightning arced from my breath. It struck a spot near the whining mage, causing to her stumble back in fear. She fell onto her rear, covering her head and muttering apologies, but my mind was already elsewhere.

Toren Daen had dared to interrupt our operations once more. And if he was working with the Rats, what the upstart boy had just done went leagues beyond simple robbery. He had gone out of his way to hurt us. To bleed our Blood. And without the nest paper, Blood Joan wouldn’t be able to keep up production of our premium product. Our control would slip even further. We’d fall down to the nobodies we were before my father wiped Named Blood Daen off the map.

“You said you left them?” I said, mana thrumming in my veins. “Is there any chance that they could still live? The rest of the convoy, or the strange mage himself?” I asked.

The girl shook her head. “No, there was no chance. It was an entire hive, sir. Emblem mages have died to less,” she said.

At least the Daen was likely dead now. It was a poor solace for the utter damage his actions had caused. He should be alive now, whimpering in the dungeons as I stripped him of his flesh. I should be peeling the skin from his bones.

Dornar strode into the room unannounced, a smirk on his face. I ground my teeth as I watched him break protocol, the sound causing his smile to stretch slightly.

“Just got more news of the expedition, brother!” he said with fake cheer. “A few of the men made it back! Barely got out of that forest alive I hear, but at least they have their skin!”

I exhaled thunder from my nose. “And why did you dare to interrupt me now?” I asked, calculations on how to recover our distillery’s operation running through my head. What did we have left?

Dornar spared a glance at our sister. “Well, they have an interesting story to tell about how they got out of the Clarwood Forest, one that I think you’d all like to hear.” He peered down at the mage that was still on her rear, the weight of his attention causing her to whimper. “In fact, I think this one would love to reunite with her good old companions.”

The mage curled into a ball, making Dornar’s smirk curl up at the edges.

“Tell me what is so important, Dornar,” I said, knowing that any display of emotion would simply fuel his antics. I needed to control myself. “Why have you burst into my study again?”

“Wellll,” Dornar said, holding the last syllable. “The few men that got out alive have a remarkable tale to tell! Daring escapes, fabulous heists, glorious battles–”

“The point, Dornar.”

“--And dashing heroes, pulling them from their doom! In fact, such a hero is very familiar to us. His tale sounds like those out of stories, too. With how everything is lining up, we must be mighty fine villains for his little saga.”

“Toren Daen lives?”

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“That he does!” my brother said.

I couldn’t contain my rage any longer. It burst from my chest in a guttural growl. Lightning coalesced around my fist as I slammed it into my desk, splitting the precious wood in two.

Toren Daen

I looked the structure up and down. It was a relatively large, rectangular building, with architecture reminiscent of older medieval times. The mortar was cracked in a dozen places, with paint that had dulled years ago. It was tall, with barely visible engravings around the smashed stained glass.

I was in the true slums of Fiachra. Toren had lived on the outskirts of East Fiachra all his life, but he had never delved deeper into the poorest district of the city. On the edges, he could masquerade as lower-middle class.

He was lucky.

Further east into the district, I was forced to see true despair. Rundown buildings, dirtied streets, and a surprising lack of waterways. The canals that formed the lifeblood of the Fiachran economy simply dried up in the depths of this place, circumventing the poor like arteries avoided a tumor.

I kept to the rooftops, but small huddles of grizzled men and women surrounding a burning firepit were not uncommon. People in rags slumped on the side of the road, ratty blankets covering them poorly. The first snow might not affect me nearly as much, but it clearly would reap terrible tolls on the downtrodden of the slums.

Many had distinctive yellow-green patches visible over their uncovered skin, perhaps from some sort of disease. If so, it was disturbingly common.

When I first crossed into East Fiachra, I was surprised that the people were not overtly hostile, more consumed by exhaustion. But I could sense the anger simmering in the atmosphere here, like a starving canine bearing its teeth at anything that got too close.

This all lead me to a very uncomfortable state of mind as I stood before my destination. I was dressed in my Dusk getup once again, clothed in all black with long, fingerless gloves and a trailing hooded cloak. My mask sat snugly on my face, the weathered metal faceplate trapping my warm breath from escaping into the afternoon air.

I withdrew the letter that drew me here from my dimension ring, reading it over one more time for good measure.

To Toren Daen,

Hello, good sir! We of the Company of the Rat hope this letter finds you in good health. Considering your current endeavors, it is understandable if your health does not agree with your actions. Nonetheless, our merry band would like to extend you an offer; one that would be unwise to ignore.

If you wish to parlay, meet at the old temple in East Fiachra before Dusk. What we have to offer is certain to catch your attention. After all, you are not the only one with debts Blood Joan must pay.

Signed,

The Rat

I traced over the words for the dozenth time, confirming again that the Company of the Rat knew my identity. ‘Before Dusk’ was rather obvious. I wasn’t sure if the mention of the offer being ‘unwise to ignore’ was a subtle threat or a genuine assumption.

I peered over at the temple from a short distance away, crouched on a nearby rooftop. It was taller than most of the buildings this deep into slum territory and might have once been grand, but time had stripped it of any glory it once enjoyed. I could see from the remains of periodically placed windows that it was once ornamented in stained glass, but now it was mostly boarded up.

I spied one of the window slots. After a quick check down nearby walkways to make sure none were watching, I dropped to the ground silently. I moved quickly to the wall of the temple, then scurried up it with a combination of telekinesis and reaching for obvious handholds. Then I slithered through a smashed window, quickly surveying my surroundings.

The inside was a wide and open space, not dissimilar to the layout of churches in my previous world. There was smashed furniture about, along with a persistent coating of dust across nearly every surface. Support beams held the ceiling aloft in regular positions, but several visible breaks in the roof allowed the elements through. What looked like an altar stood broken near the end of the building. The late afternoon light streamed through a broken window pane, illuminating the old area of worship in a hazy glow.

At the very back of the temple, a faded mosaic of a basilisk’s human form was shrouded in black fire, small mortals supplicating at its feet. The scarlet red eyes of the asura seemed to bore into me from across the room, digging into my secrets with barely a stare.

I suppressed a shudder.

I quickly checked my surroundings once again. Seeing I was alone, I bounded up into the tall rafters, crouching down and settling in for a long wait. I had arrived early intentionally, as I needed some way to offset the power balance of this initial meeting.

The Company of the Rat held all the cards. They ‘invited’ me to this meeting, disclosing they knew of my identity openly. They set the time and place, not giving me room for input. It was clear who held the power in this, but the act of arriving early allowed me to be more precise. Check for traps, scout the area, and make sure I wasn’t being goaded into any danger.

So far, I spotted no obvious traps, so I was in for the long haul. It was several hours till dusk, which was the ‘agreed upon’ meeting time.

As I waited, I ran over what I knew about the Rats. I had helped two of them escape Blood Joan’s pursuit: an older man and a young woman. The young woman called herself the Young Rat, and had botched a thieving attempt against the Joans. Afterward, she provided me with the time and location of Blood Joan’s Clarwood Forest expedition.

I still felt like I owed the woman for that, which was part of the reason I was here at all. I didn’t like feeling so powerless. But from what the Company had given me once before, I knew their information could be credible.

I was taken out of my reverie by the sound of small feet pitter-pattering on the ground. It wasn’t uncommon for me to pick up on the noises of rodents out and about in the streets of Fiachra, and even moreso in the darkness of the Clarwood Forest. My sense of hearing was far better than I expected any other comparable mage to have.

I tuned out the sound reflexively, acknowledging it and letting it drift past. It was almost dusk now, and the ‘meeting’ would be any time now.

“What’re you looking for?” A voice whispered against my ear. I whirled in surprise on the thin beam of wood that served as my perch, drawing and slashing with my dagger in one instinctive motion.

I knew before I was done with my strike that I had missed. There was no feeling of contact; no slight resistance of steel parting flesh. Instead, a man outlined in a misty aura backed away from the edge of my knife, narrowly avoiding the cut. He backpedaled across the beam, his hands locked behind his head. A familiar masquerade mask that mimicked an exaggerated rat’s snout adorned his upper face. A light bandana was pulled over his mouth, but I could hear him whistle.

“You’ve got bite, Dusk!” he said, balancing with ease across from me. The man flickered, then dispersed into a light, foggy mist.

“I like that,” the same voice said from below. “That shows initiative.”

I cursed, then looked down at the ground. The man was now lounging on the altar. The sunlight framed his body brilliantly, making him look like some sort of macabre sacrifice being taken up by gods of the sun. The way he splayed would’ve looked better on the cover of Vogue, though. “Instincts like that aren’t easy to train,” he said conversationally. The mist that floated around him in coasting ribbons refracted the light strangely.

I dropped from the rafters, landing soundlessly on the floor. I narrowed my eyes at the man. “You’re the Rat, I presume?” I asked with mild annoyance, inferring from the signature at the bottom of my letter. I had perched up there for several hours to avoid this exact kind of situation. Something about the man seemed wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on what.

This man had snuck up on me without alerting any of my senses. I hadn’t even heard him approach, much less noticed him until he made himself known. Habits built in the Clarwood Forest insisted I run, escaping from this unknown factor. Unknown meant dangerous, and dangerous meant you died.

I forcefully quieted those feelings. I couldn’t back out now.

The Rat didn’t move, still lounging on the altar. “You presume correct, young mage,” he said. I heard a few footsteps across the wooden floor of the temple. I turned to see two familiar people moving from the side to flank their leader. The Young Rat, her shoulder-length black hair framing her masquerade mask, moved with graceful confidence as she strode into position beside her leader. The axe-wielding mage leaned against a support pillar a few feet away, casually pulling on a cigar. The smoke drifted up, a strange mirror to the dense water vapor whirling around the Rat.

The Rat shifted positions to stand once more, giving a theatrical bow. As he swept his hand down, the sun lit up at his back, casting the man in an outline of light. I recognized the gesture from how the Young Rat introduced herself to me the first time, but this introduction somehow seemed more grand. Where before I was witnessing an imitation, this had an air of mastery about it.

“We are the Company of the Rat,” the man introduced. “And I think we can do much to help you.”