Cicero adjusted his breeches. He wondered why the Blackstaff issued the vanguard these new breeches — complete with codpieces — the night before their attempt at capturing a spire.

He heard the citadel’s seamstresses and leatherworkers toiled non-stop to make them — with the design patterned after the Blackstaff’s own wardrobe.

There were complaints from his men, mostly about their appearance. The new breeches worked fine under armor. A few of his men even found them comfortable on horseback.

He had an inkling suspicion that it might have something to do with the Scourge’s healing drops. The wizard promised them some kind of miraculous healing lozenge before their departure — now suddenly, the Blackstaff was changing their wardrobe?

“Why would the Blackstaff make us wear these things?”

Cicero heard one of his men holler as he pranced around while making thrusting motions.

“They say the design came from the Blackstaff himself — does he wear these things himself?” another soldier piped in.

“Well, he’s probably not called Blackstaff for nothing.”

Cicero’s eyes widened at the last remark, panic racing through his system.

“You mean to say —“

“Enough!” Cicero roared. “Not another word about the Blackstaff — or his possible attributes.”

The captain stared at his men one by one.

“You don’t know the horror that befalls the people leaking that kind of information,” his voice dropped. “Take it from one who experienced it.”

There were murmurs from his men — most of them solemn, reflecting their captain’s mood. There were a few giggles — but the soldiers were soon stared down by the others.

Cicero could only shake his head. How could he explain the excruciating awkwardness of facing Lady Elswind as she goes on for hours about the implications of other noblewomen discovering her husband’s secret?

The few people who know about the origins of the name probably keep it secret out of amusement or to preserve the mystique and dignity of the King’s executioner — or they might have had a long talk with the Lady Elswind like they did.

Cicero shivered. He hoped none of his men would talk.

The healing drops.

The captain was sure the drops were linked to the Blackstaff’s attributes — the codpieces were a dead giveaway. Were they a permanent thing? Or did they have to take them continuously? What if someone took too many?

He shook his head, banishing the questions for another time.

It was then that he noticed the silence. The captain could hear the light sound of hooves and the occasional bray — but his men were solemn.

They were staring at him, worry in their faces — as if imagining the horrors he threatened them with for talking.

It was good that they were worried. He didn’t want another dressing down.

He nodded to his men.

“Saddle up.”

It was almost time to go.

The entire vanguard was mounted and ready. They were only waiting for their guide — the Scourge.

There was an ongoing bet on what kind of mount he would choose. A pale horse was obviously the favorite — though a black horse with red eyes was a close second.

Knowing his former commander, Cicero put his money on a riverboat. It matched the Scourge’s wardrobe — and he overheard the captain murmuring something about buying a boat for his son in one of their meals together.

It didn’t take long for the Scourge to arrive. His men opened up a path for the wizard and the three apprentice mages behind him.

One of them was clearly afraid of horses — judging from his bedraggled looks and how jumpy he was.

The Scourge saw him and quickened his steps while the apprentices started going about the men with pouches in hand.

“Are you flying?” Cicero asked. Flying was another option — but it was removed early from the betting pool. It just wasn’t a fun option.

“Of course not.” the wizard replied while handing the captain a couple of red lozenges. “I made preparations yesterday.”

Cicero watched as Jeremy gave the soldiers around him a couple of drops each before circling back. He seemed genuinely happy. He found it strange that the Blackstaff would worry about his social relations.

“Your mount?” he asked, hoping the wizard would pull out a miniature boat that would grow in size and give him the win.

“Already here.” the wizard beamed. “Come up now, Shelby.”

The ground rippled in front of the captain’s eyes and a gargantuan white snail slowly rose to the surface.

“Pale horse! I win!”

Cicero started to turn to the voice but immediately stopped as the snail seemed to vomit out a person.

“It’s for me?” the Scourge asked. “Oh, it attacked one of your pets.”

The snail looked pleased, bobbing up and down — even as the captain wondered how it was doing so.

“I’m sorry, Shelby. We have to do things for father first. After this, we can go home and deal with that man.”

The snail seemed to shrink at the mention of father. Cicero himself shrank, hoping that none of his men would connect the wizard’s words to his relations to the Blackstaff.

He watched the snail promptly swallow the man and lean against the wizard — who started to stroke it lovingly.

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“The man would be fine, wouldn’t he?” Cicero asked — his eyes widening as he realized his mistake.

“Huh?” the wizard paused. “He should be fine. Shelby only had him for—” he turned to the snail as if waiting for a response.

The snail dropped one of its flail-like appendages.

“Four days. He should be fine until we get back home.”

The captain shuddered, remembering how the Blackstaff said the snail was one of two of his son’s friends — and that the man attacked one of its pets. The man would probably experience the Scourge’s healing the way it was meant to be used.

“Here,” the wizard carefully placed his staff on the gargantuan snail’s shell. “Keep cool, Shelby. I’ll have to talk to the captain a bit before we go.”

Cicero’s eyes followed the staff — still thinking of the horrors the poor man would face, even if he probably deserved it.

Wait! Did that staff have an eye?

The captain was sure that the staff locked eyes with him.

***

Staffany.

Snail.

How was the trip?

It was glorious! I brought pain to both the enemies and allies!

Shelby could not believe what she was hearing. She knew that Staffany was a pain — but she was surprised that he was proud of being one.

Still, her master probably had reason to hand her the irritating staff — and he did say to keep her cool.

The master talk to you?

No, the staff seemed forlorn — but its mood changed quickly. But there were people who loved me! They craved my touch! The delicious pain I gave them!

Shelby gave a snail’s equivalent of a sigh.

It was a mistake talking to the staff. It sounded more insane than before. She should probably just ignore it the way the master did.

No. She was probably given the task of reforming Staffany. She just didn’t want to start then and there.

That’s good Staffany.

If only she could roll her eyes.

***

Jeremy rode atop Shelby, a glowing scythe in his hand.

He was leading the charge towards a spire — not because he was the only one who knew the way, but because the horses couldn’t hold their formation near his gargantuan mount.

The spire they were heading to was a new one. The ground was clear of ice, allowing the vanguard to use their mounts. The rest of Evergreen’s forces were held at bay — waiting for the result of their foray.

The addition of Shelby was a great boon to the vanguard’s forces. Close to four dozen spears were stacked on her shell, as well as more than a dozen quivers. She said she could carry more, but she had problems explaining how.

Jeremy was troubled that he couldn’t deal with Shelby’s prisoner. He was troubled that she even had a prisoner! She said something about him attacking one of her pets. Knowing Shelby, she probably meant one of the farmhands instead of one of the smaller snails.

That was probably a sign that he should head back. He had done enough for his father — investigating the spire should cement his achievements.

It would be nice to be back home, though he would miss the men of the vanguard.

No. He wanted to miss them. He would probably forget about them in a week or two, though he expected to remember their captain.

His mind was constantly flooded with thoughts — most of them not his own. Remembering names and faces was difficult at best — which is why his mother insisted that he always take notes.

After an hour of riding, with their destination still another hour away — Jeremy saw their first hurdle.

Four ice drakes flew on the horizon. They were more likely scouts — too small to be passable defenders.

The captain expected a dragon or two. They even brought two wagons with mobile ballistas.

Jeremy wondered if he could incorporate similar weapons on Shelby — dismissing the thought almost immediately. His mount was a weapon on her own.

“Flyers!” he signaled their numbers with a raised hand, with Shelby mimicking him using her flails.

“Good counting, Shelby. You think you can take them?”

She was noncommittal — they were flyers, after all.

However, the staff in his hand started to pulse.

Of all the times in the —

Jeremy gave it a harsh shake before holding it and one hand and repeatedly knocking on it with a closed fist.

He didn’t expect to have problems with his staff so soon. Perhaps it was the plane travel — or perhaps he shouldn’t have used it as a melee weapon. He would have to talk to Siege about repairing the thing — maybe replacing its wooden base for something more durable.

“Problems?”

Jeremy turned to see Cicero riding alongside him. He promptly shook his head.

The captain rode closer, grabbing one of the spears that were stacked on Shelby’s snail. She was probably using some grabity trick to keep them there.

Cicero smiled at him, pointing to the drakes.

Jeremy stood from his spot and patted the snail.

“Take the farthest one Shelby.”

He nodded in the captain’s direction — only to find that he wasn’t there.

Jeremy jumped — arching into a backflip, expecting to land behind his mount for maximum effect. His father did say that flashy moves raised the morale of the soldiers.

It was a mistake.

As he was parallel to the ground, Jeremy realized why the captain wasn’t where he expected him to be. Shelby had rushed at an astonishing pace — fast enough that there was no hope of him landing safely or with dignity.

There was no time to cast a spell — but he had his staff and its magical bands.

Mithril — all it did was create an ethereal blade and move it around.

Bronze — fortification. At least his staff would make it without breaking.

Copper — time and space. If only he invested in more than just knowing the time and his own location.

Steel — temperature and humidity control. Well, it was comfortable.

Gold — pain. I had great plans for that, but I haven’t had the opportunity to use it properly — and this is not the time.

Silver — a pin-sized gate. That’s just for breathing.

Iron — healing. He could stab himself and recover as he landed — but that wouldn’t spare his dignity.

Wait — the gate!

He remembered how the first blast of air made him fly more than ten steps. Sebas said something about pee ass eyes.

His butler was probably the one who stuck that eye to the staff and he considered the gate some kind of gas function.

To think his butler would play pranks on him. He thought Sebas didn’t have a sense of humor.

Jeremy smiled as he aimed the pin-sized gate away from his body.

***

The men of the vanguard saw the wizard jump from atop his gargantuan snail. They were expecting him to sprout wings or fly. Instead, he curled his body and held his scythe with the blade pointing forward.

The wizard was unpredictable, but very few expected that he would start spinning — turning himself into a whirling disc of death that hurtled towards the enemy.

They could even hear the sound of the scythe’s blade as it sliced through the air. A keening sound — like a hitch-pitched shriek that chilled the bones.