Crowe and Barghast stood at the top of a summit, watching the smokestacks rise from the shingled rooftops of Boar’s Head. The occasional soul could be seen darting through the streets, fighting to get away from the rain, but not a soul stirred. Still they would have to be careful. The practitioner knew nothing about the town or its inhabitants. There was only one thing he could be certain of: I can’t keep carrying on like this. I need sleep. I need food.

It was getting hard to think. Getting hard to keep things straight in his mind. He could feel it deteriorating day by day. Those few moments of nodding off while on saddleback didn’t count. The bloodstorm had scared off all wildlife in the vicinity. Now he had to resort to desperate measures. Conflicted, he hovered on the spot. So far everywhere they’d gone, anyone they encountered, proved to be unsafe. He had no doubt in his mind the necromancers had cursed, placing a spell over his eyes. Barghast’s presence shielded him from the visitations of malicious spirits, but a dark seed had been planted in his mind: a cruel voice in the back of his mind that mocked his every action, implanting doubt. You’ll never make it to the Mirror Expanse. There is not a place you can go where you will be safe, where the servants of Hamon cannot find you. By staying in this town, you’ll only condemn them. How many innocents must die so you can free Monad’s people from slavery?

A low growl pulled him from his thoughts. Barghast’s broad back was turned to him, his hackles standing on end. The constant travel and terror of their circumstances had taken every bit of a toll on the Okanavian as it had the practitioner. Since the nightmare with the man Holden - thinking of him always made Crowe nauseous - Barghast growled at everything: a flash of movement in the dark, a wreath of shadow glimpsed from the corner of his periphery. Crowe didn’t blame him. They both needed a chance to recuperate…even if it was only for a night.

Crowe sidled up beside him, reaching up to put a hand on his shoulder. “Easy does it,” he whispered.

Bringing his paws up from his sides, Barghast pressed them flat against his chest. “Scared,” he rumbled with a whine. Since last night’s horrible mistake, determined to double down on their communication, Crowe had managed to teach him a few more words. Food: a squeeze of the dominant hand as it rose towards the mouth, indicating the consumption of food; that one had been easy enough. “Scared” had been the second one; it had taken a little more time for Barghast to pick up on this one. Each time Crowe repeated the motion, he’d tried to look scared which was simple enough for the fact he was already absolutely terrified. “Torchcoat” had been the next one. That one had also been simple. Crowe only needed to shake his hands around his head as if it were on fire. Barghast’s memory, sharper than the rock, did the rest. Whenever Crowe did this he growled. “Spirits” was the last word he’d managed to teach him; this one had taken the longest of all: He circled his thumbs index finger together, bringing them together to make the number eight with the other fingers spread out; as he pulled them away he wiggled his fingers through the air.

Clothes, shelter, danger, and stay were other words he’d managed to teach him, all in the course of a day. Once more Barghast proved he had an intellect far sharper than most men. He always wagged his tail in excitement when Crowe stopped to teach him these lessons. The practitioner could not have asked for a better student. Once we get behind closed doors and I can sleep, I will teach him more.

“I know you’re scared,” Crowe said. “I am too.”

He wrapped his arms around the Okanavian’s broad waist, pressing his cheek into his chest fur. He closed his eyes, breathing in Barghast’s musky smell…not unlike wet hay and sawdust. His coat was wet and covered in blood, but the sorcerer couldn’t care less. It’s not like I smell or look that great either. It was enough just to touch him and not enough at the same time, for each time they parted Crowe feared it would be the last. Naturally Barghast responded, placing his large hands on Crowe’s rump.

Specifically on Crowe’s rump.

He panted, tongue dangling out of his mouth; it flapped in the wind like a flag made of pink muscle. The sorcerer chuckled in spite of himself. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You’re going to have to stay here while I go down there,” the sorcerer said reluctantly. He didn’t want to part from the barbarian. Not even for a second. He knew what would happen if he did. Without the lycan around to keep them at bay, the spirits the necromancers had set upon Crowe would flank him. They would taunt him relentlessly, following him wherever he went.

“Stay?” Barghast tensed immediately. He trembled, tucking his ears back.

Crowe made the signs for clothes, shelter, danger, hide, and torchcoats. He’d changed back into his robes, hating the way they felt against his skin, crusty and itchy with dried blood. Walking into town naked as the day he was born would be one certain way to draw unwanted attention; walking into the town with a lycan following him would be the other. Even if few souls walked the streets it was a risk he didn’t want to take.

“Stay,” he said. He held up a flat palm. “I need to go down there and make sure it’s safe. There could be torchcoats down there. So you stay. I’ll come back for you as soon as I find us a room.”

He started to walk away. He didn’t get far.

Barghast made that sharp barking sound that was the Okanavian equivalent of, “No.” He grabbed Crowe’s arms, pulling him back. He curled his dominant paw into a fist, shaking the nondominant hand with the thumb up. Danger. Curling his thumb and index finger, he pulled them apart, making the sign for spirits. He pointed at Crowe. “You…” He held his palm up. “Stay…” He pointed to his chest. “Me. I keep you safe.”

“You have.” Crowe rubbed his chest, eliciting a growl of pleasure. “I never would have made it this far if it wasn’t for you. But right now it’s my job to keep you safe. In order for you to do that I need you to stay here and hide until I return. I don’t want to do this…but we don’t have a choice. Stay.”

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Barghast stepped back with a whimper. “I…hide.”

The practitioner breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

Leading Mammoth by the reins, Crowe began his descent towards the town. He stopped long enough to stow away his necklace in his robes. He’d no sooner reached the town when a familiar voice said, “If you think he’ll stick around, you’re fooling yourself. I’ve seen your future. He’ll leave you the way Bennett did.”

Crowe whirled around. He knew he shouldn’t, he knew he should ignore it, but when had he ever been able to turn away from that voice?

Petras stood in the middle of the street. Somehow he’d dragged himself out of his grave and followed Crowe hundreds of miles to the logging tale of Boar’s Head. Worms wriggled underneath what remained of his flesh, spilling on the ground, plopping into the blood water that sluiced down from the gutters. His lips had been completely devoured by ants and parasites, giving a permanent leer.

Crowe’s heart convulsed in his chest. His eyes widened. A scream built up in his throat. He shook his head in denial. “Monad help me, you’re not really standing there…You’re dead. I buried you in the fucking ground myself…”

The undead Petras laughed, the sound echoing in the herald’s head. “I will never truly be dead just as you will never truly be able to escape me.” He held up a bone-white finger to his temple. “I will always live in your mind to remind you what a mistake you are.”

“Come on, Mammoth.” Crowe pulled at the shire’s horses reins, grateful for his steer’s passivity. He squinted through the gloom, searching for the nearest tavern. I just need food and a room.

The undead Petras trailed behind him, spitting insults, decomposing with every passing second. Patches of flesh fell off him with wet peeling sounds that made Crowe’s gorge rise no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. No sooner had he turned the corner, another apparition stepped out of the alley.

“Alms for the poor?” snarled the beast through a mouthful of razor teeth. A beast with the head of a goat and a mouthful of razor sharp teeth; the beast with cloven hooves. “Spare a few coins for a blowjob?” He licked his chops with a serpentine tongue. “I’ll make you feel real good…”

Crowe jumped back with a yelp. Before he realized he’d reached for it, his dagger was in his hand. “Get the fuck away from me!” he snarled.

The demon’s face flickered only for a moment. Long enough for the practitioner to see the man behind the illusion. A man with a scraggly beard and a wild halo of hair that stuck out from all sides. His face was streaked with dark smears of dirt and blood. From where he stood, Crowe could smell the alcohol on his breath. Then there came another flicker and the demon returned. The creature grimaced, stepping back, looking hurt. “I just wanted some money for food…”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The practitioner sheathed the dagger, pulling out the purse full of coins Petras had given them for the road. It was only half full. “I can’t give you much…” Time seemed to slow as the three bronze crowns plummeted through the air, spinning towards the outstretched hoof. Once more the air winked in and out out of focus. The hoof turned back into a human hand and then a hoof again.

“Thank you,” the demon cried. “Thank you! May Elysia bless you…”

The demon seized him in a hug, and then he shambled off, cloven hooves splashing through the crimson puddles. Crowe gawked after him, wide-eyed and drunk with exhaustion. He turned, stepped forward, only to feel his leg catch on something. Before he could recapture his balance, he toppled over, his arms spinning. His knees slammed into cracked cobblestones. He grimaced, gritting his teeth against the stinging pain.

When he opened his eyes, the leering corpse of Petras stood over him. “You’re just as clumsy and useless as ever.”

“Oh, fuck you,” the practitioner muttered. He grabbed Mammoth’s reins, pulling himself to his feet. He glared at the spirit. “You can’t fool me, foul spirit. Petras is dead! I buried him myself! He’s nothing more than wormfood.”

After what felt like hours of desperate searching, he found a set of stables. Inside he was greeted by a creature with two grotesque heads attached to a neckless torso. Crowe was all too happy to pay the creature, leave Mammoth in its hands, and walk away before his fear could get the better of him. He wanted to scream the whole time during the transaction. The creature had been kind enough to give him directions to a tavern called The Staggering Pig. “Not many beds left,” the creature told him sympathetically enough in a phlegmy voice. “Everyone’s holed up, praying to Elysia to end this bloody storm. The tophouse suite might still be available, but you’ll pay a hefty price for it.”

I don’t care, the practitioner thought. I’ll pay any price. I just want eat, sleep, and feel clean again. Is that too much to ask for?

When he entered The Staggering Pig, he hovered uncertainly on the threshold. The hushed silence…the dim lighting…the smell of alcohol reminded him of the long nights Barghast and he had spent trapped in Timberford with people they didn’t know. “Different inn, different town, bigger problems,” he muttered to himself.

He stopped when every head in the room turned to look at him: Creature with reptilian skin and slitted red eyes; creatures with horns and cloven hooves much like the one homeless man he’d encountered outside the inn. Not all of them had changed into beasts. One dour-faced man was riddled with pox, blisters and boils rising up from his skin, bursting open to release a viscous white pus. A woman’s flesh was marked with the black blemishes of another plague that had eaten holes in her skin, revealing the bone underneath.

“Can I help you?” The man at the bar eyed Crowe suspiciously. Not that the practitioner could blame him. He’d been out in the storm for days, traveling nonstop. His face was still bruised from where Father Monroe had whipped him with the shotgun, his nose bent out an angle it wasn’t supposed to be in; it didn’t hurt quite as bad as it had before, but it still altered his breathing.

Crowe’s thoughts spun, trying to put words in order. Just when it seemed he knew what to say they scattered away from him. Blushing under the man’s intense scrutiny, he managed to say, “I need a room.” He reached for the purse full of coins.

“All the rooms are full except for the master suite. And she ain’t cheap.” The man looked him up and down disapprovingly.

“How much?”

“Five silvers. Or twenty bronze a night.”

The practitioner paused, running the math in his head. We have just enough for the room for a couple of nights and food. Not enough for clothes, not enough to get us to the next town.

He stopped.

Something was moving within the man’s right eye, wriggling beneath the tissue of his dark iris. The head of a parasite popped out from the corner of the barkeep’s eye with a small but audible pop. It’s not happening. It’s not really there. It’s just an illusion. The parasite toppled onto the counter, long, tubular, segmented body wriggling about. Crowe sunk his teeth into his lip hard enough to draw blood…it was all he could do to keep from screaming.

“Are you going to say something or are you just going to stand there?” the man snapped impatiently.

“Take it, take it. There’s enough in there for two nights and food.” Crowe slid the purse across the wooden counter.

The man eyed him shrewdly. “You’re not from around here. I never forget a face when I’ve seen from…”

“I’m just passing through your town, trying to get out of the storm same as everyone else,” the sorcerer scowled. “Now are you going to give me the room or not?”

The man grumbled under his breath unhappily. He slammed a bronze key on the counter. “Last door on the third floor! Now get out of my face!”

Gladly.