Archimedes and his accompanying Fangs set a good pace on the way to Jandrir. Their path initially took them along the well-worn limestone trade-route, treading roads that were trampled smooth in the centre and deeply furrowed at the edges, where the wheels of stone-laden carts cut gashes into the earth.

The limestone ridges fell away on the eve of the first day. As the Fangs distanced themselves from the quarries, the hills shrank, and the grasses and bushes rose. The plant life here was able to stretch its roots deeper into the loamier, more forgiving soil north of the mining town. It was pleasant, easy-going travelling. There only company heading north-east was a soft breeze, and an insidious chill, both of which would join them all the way to Jandrir.

The second day they departed from the main trade-route, passing instead through the small, sleepy village of Miscus, nestled in the crook of ash-tree woodlands. The limestone traders tended to continue east, to the village of Ponbus, sandwiching the banks of the Malin. From there the limestone was loaded onto a constant stream of river rafts, which ferried their precious cargo north to Jandrir, and trinkets and wares from the city down to the Southern Sea.

If one could negotiate passage, then the river-route was marginally faster, even though the dray horses tugging the rafts had to wok against the current to make Jandrir. The White Fang’s last soiree up the river had seen them attacked by a mountain wyvern, though, and had somewhat sullied the trip. Archimedes firmly believed that lightning didn’t strike twice, but mountain wyverns he wasn’t so sure about.

Miscus was but a minor detour for a small party travelling without cargo. Besides, Violet was keen to see what herbs the locals were able to forage from the woodlands, and Archimedes saw no reason to deny her.

They overnighted in the village, in a creaky but well-built cottage that blended with the surrounding copse of trees. For the most part, they slept soundly, the whisper of wind through ancient boughs playing a lullaby for the weary travellers. Only Archimedes was restless, his mind listing countless fantastical and improbable outcomes of Gabriel and Vish’s adventure. He berated himself for the paternal worrying over his peers, but that did little to stop the concerns coming. Really, all he knew was that they had been conducting an investigation into the whereabouts of some stolen jewellery, and that now, for whatever reason, he was in possession of a cricket. It was ultimately not a lot to go on, but Archimedes was an old-fashioned sort of warrior, and his father always used to say that when a soldier’s gut tells him something, it was because it had spotted something you hadn’t.

Archimedes roused his team early, with the smell of sizzling sausages and the none-too-subtle sound of clanking pans. The other mercenaries ambled into the common room in bleary-eyed stupors, politely scarfing down their breakfast and knocking back tea much like they had ales the day before. They could sense their leader’s urgency, and, out of respect, made a point not to dally.

On the final stretch from Miscus to Jandrir, Archimedes was becoming visibly agitated.

“We should have passed more people by now. The roads are too quiet. I don’t like it.”

They had passed a few locals, mostly trappers and some farmhands working further afield, but none had any useful tidings about Jandrir.

“This road is not oft used by the traders, captain. The seasonal labourers will all have left by now as well, or else opted to hunker down for the season. The chill is starting,” Adrian said.

“You mean it’s fucking freezing,” Thomas clarified.

“I still don’t like it,” Archimedes muttered into his gorget.

By the time they had reached the outer farmlands of Jandrir, its regiments of wheat and corn cut down at their ankles by the harvest, Archimedes could wait no longer. He stopped on the first rise that offered a view of the city and pulled an enchanted lens from his pack. Carefully, he studied the Kaden metropolis.

Jandrir appeared, at a glance, like a gash in the Iron Mountains. The city actually occupied vast swathes of hills and valleys before the mountains proper, but, when viewed from the south, Jandrir was like a rent in the range, torn open in the middle at the Malin River and spilling east and west like flaps of saggy, warty skin.

Architects had argued that Jandrir was three cities stitched together, rather than one coherent whole, and with good reason.

The area around the river, pressing against its banks and eating up the surrounding slopes, was the trade hub. Here the great trade houses set up their bases. The houses and warehouses were garish, colourfully painted structures, that loomed three to five stories tall. Their faces creaked and sagged with the amount of make-up they wore. Each was trying to outdo its neighbour in enticing foreign brokers through its doors.

The hills themselves were occupied by mansions, manors, law houses and bureaucratic buildings, all carved lovingly out of exquisite Tindran limestone. The structures were uniform white, and characterised by totally unnecessary arches and bridges, that gave the impression of a careless giant having dropped his bowl of vermicelli.

Tucked up against the hills, and spilling out into the plains, were the residential quarters. These were a mish-mash of brick, wood, clay, mortar, and generally anything that could support a roof. The houses were seldom as ramshackle as, say, the huts and hovels of labourers that popped up around Tindra, but you still probably wouldn’t invite your mother over for tea. The buildings here clustered oppressively against the markets, squares and thoroughfares that made Jandrir famous.

Essentially, most people who came to Jandrir came for one reason – money. Most of those people thought they would make their fortune and leave. Most of them were surprised when they were still there decades later, with three generations of their family living next door. Whether you were old aristocracy on the hills, established companies on the rivers, or a movers and pushers in the markets, this was Jandrir’s universal truth.

Archimedes scanned this mish-mash of urban body-stitching, and exhaled deeply.

“It is as I thought. I can’t see anything. No movement, no life, no fires, nothing.”

“We are still some distance away, sir.”

“Jandrir is the city of life, Adrian. It is never this quiet. It is as if the whole place has been abandoned. There is not a soul. Not a sound. Not a person in sig- Oh, wait, there they are.”

As Archimedes adjusted the lens, he spotted activity.

“What are they doing?” Eileen asked.

“Um, shopping.”

“No change there, then.”

“No change indeed. Hmm.”

“This is good news, no?” Violet said perkily.

Archimedes lowered the glass.

“I suppose it is.”

“Then why do you sound disappointed?” Thomas asked.

“Because, my good fellow, it suggests that I might be going slightly mad.”

“Happens to the best of us.”

Adrian rested a hand on his captain’s shoulder, “Come on, let’s go check it out.”

They spent some time just milling the streets, taking it all in. It was, as Archimedes had seen through the glass, business as usual. Hawkers hawked wares, peddlers peddled goods, mongers mongered. As usual, there was generally just a whole bunch of buying and selling going on. The city was still locked in its perpetual cycle of buying stuff just to sell stuff.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“Well,” Thomas decided after half a cycle, “whatever those idiots have done, it can’t be that bad.”

“That is somewhat reassuring, I must admit.”

“They still might be in danger themselves,” Violet pointed out, “We should ask around.”

They naturally went to the last place they had seen the other mercenaries: the docks. Here they spent the evening asking everyone and anyone if they had seen any combination of:

- a gangly wraith-like weed of a man

- a dark-skinned man in robes brighter than Jandrir’s future

- a red-headed whirling dervish of a lady, with bells in her hair

- a handsome blonde archer

- a warrioress the size of an ox cart, who only has one arm

They received a range of replies:

“No, I haven’t. Why? Are they dangerous?”

“Bloody foreigners.”

“I can be anyone you want, honey! For the right price.”

“That sounds like my Harry… Have you seen him?”

“Have you seen this?” one man said, grabbing his crotch.

Adrian and Thomas pushed the last gentleman into the Malin when they thought Archimedes wasn’t looking.

Their enquiry took them further away from the river and deeper into Jandrir. They moved in concentric circles, trying to cover as much ground as quickly and as methodically as possible. Still, it was fruitless. By the time the sun had long since ducked behind the horizon, and Jandrir had reawakened for its second spell of commerce, even Archimedes was starting to give up hope.

Grudgingly, the captain called it a night, and the band stopped by a local tavern, resolved to have a quick nightcap and a well-earned sleep.

“Well, that, ladies and gentlemen, was a monumental waste of time!” Thomas said, toasting with his tankard.

“Oh, knock it off, you prick,” Eileen was quick to jab back.

“No, no, he may be right. It seems I have erred on this occasion. I’m sorry,” Archimedes said so sincerely that even Thomas felt bad.

“Hardly a waste,” Adrian said, “Now we know a thing we didn’t, and we’ll all sleep sounder for it.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Archimedes smiled, “What the hell, let’s have one more and call it a night.”

“And I’ll drink to that too. Barkeep! Another round.”

A harried looking waitress soon brought them their flagons, spilling them slightly as she plonked them on the table.

“Perhaps there really was nothing to worry about after all,” Archimedes said ruefully, but still couldn’t help himself from asking the waitress, “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a long-haired mercenary captain, his sister and his mind-mage, have you?”

“You mean Vish? You can tell that arsehole that if he comes back the boss is going to skin him alive!”

She deliberately spilt the last tankard.

The Fangs watched in muted bafflement as the waitress stomped off.

Thomas gently placed his drink on the table, “Why the fuck didn’t we think to look for those idiots in a gods’ damned bar?”

There enquiries were a lot more fruitful from then on, but also a whole lot more confusing.

They went from bar to bar and asked the same questions. Alarmingly, they received the same answer in literally every, single, pub. Yes, the three of them had been there, and with quite a ragtag band in tow. They had drunk, eaten, sang, danced, and then left the place like a tornado had passed through. Some places reported that they had splashed gold like it was going out of fashion, others claimed that the whole bunch of them had skipped on their bill entirely, and almost bankrupted the place in a single night.

The trail of licentiousness eventually took them round to the Winelands, where their prying saw them brought before a thoroughly sozzled local kingpin named Tinto.

Archimedes was not personally familiar with Tinto, but he knew the crime-lords type, and knew to tread carefully. Admittedly, he did feel somewhat safer in the gangster’s lair after seeing that the mobster was incapable of holding his drink, much less a sword.

“It sheems you’ve been asking around about some,” Tinto hiccoughed, “mutual friends.”

“Perhaps so,” Archimedes said, stiffening.

Tinto leant forward, swaying. It was hard to imagine how the pot-bellied, scrawny-limbed man had become a notorious criminal, but that only made Archimedes more cautious. Anyone who could command fear and respect when they looked like they would lose in a fight to your average child, probably had a few tricks up their sleeve.

“And why, pray tell, do you want to know where they are?” the red-faced man drawled.

Archimedes was not lying type, “They are very old friends.”

“Friends,” Tinto rolled the word around his mouth like he was swilling wine, “Interesting.”

“He means, like, acquaintances. You know?” Thomas elaborated.

Tinto grunted, “Well, I’ve got news about your friends.”

Archimedes sucked in a breath.

Tinto, the wine-lord, edge even closer, “They are,” he took a swig of his drink, “fucking legends!”

The whole hall cheered in agreement.

“I’m sorry?”

“It was the strangest damned thing! First, they came here and pretended to be the aether god of wine, you know, Wine. Then, they basically tried to depose me! And I was, woah, these guys will tell you, I was pissed off. I was like, royally pissed off!”

There were some enthusiastic nods of agreement.

“Ah, that kind of legend.”

“No, no, no! That’s the thing. I tellsed them. I telled. I tollsed? Whatever. I said I would kill them if I saw them again. I would properly kill them. I had plans. It was going to be gruesome. Then? Then the fuckers turn up the very next night, drinking in one of my taverns! The fucking audacity!”

“Quite.”

“So nashurally I went out to give them the old Tinto treatment, you know? Lots of blood. But, one thing led to another, and we all just,” he shrugged, “started drinking! Can you believe that?”

Archimedes studied the table full of empty carafes, “I think I can.”

“So, we’re drinking and drinking and drinking. There was music, there was feasting. It was bloody epic. Shoulds’ve seen it. Best pish up in years. That one girl, whatserface with the white hair?”

“White hair?”

“Yeah, yeah. She had this awesome drinking game where you drink whenever you, whenever you, what was it again?”

“Breathe, my lord,” one of his guards said.

“Breathe! That’s it! Fucking hilarious. Inspired, truly inspired,” Tinto said between gulps.

“And do you have any idea where they went next?”

“Not a damn clue. Probably another pub. The legends.”

“Thank you, this has been most illuminating.”

“Don’menshion it. And, hey, if you see them again tell them to come say hi!”

They left the Winelands in silence and made a beeline for the Eastern bank, where they would be able to get free lodging at the mercenary guild there. They were tired, hungry, and not really any the wiser.

Archimedes paused on the bridge over the Malin and gripped the railing.

“Everything alright, captain?”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t really make any sense. When last I saw them they were penniless, afraid, and trying desperately to keep a low profile. Now it seems that they spent the majority of their time in Jandrir drinking and partying.”

What Archimedes didn’t know, which would later be filled in for him, was that Gabriel and Vish had accidentally resurrected an ancient dragon lord, and somewhat carelessly plonked its soul into Natasha. Pearl, the newly awakened dragon, had done precisely what most entities do after being awakened from a centuries’ long hibernation, and gone on a massive bender. Jandrir was indeed safe and sound, but only because, for the first dozen cycles of her rebirth, Pearl had been absolutely shitfaced.

“Hoi-hoi, bleached locks,” a vagrant called to Archimedes.

He sighed, “Can I help you?”

The ratty looking woman approached with a band of thugs and rogues in tow.

“Maybe you can, or maybe I can help you.”

“I can tell you now that if you are looking to mug us then this is going to end very badly for you.”

The woman spat over the railing, “Easy there, pretty-boy. If I were going to rob you then you’d never see it coming,” she grinned with a mouth largely absent of teeth.

“Then to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Looking for the same people, you an’ I. Name’s Nail-Puller. Natasha and her lot were running errands for our boss, Screamer. That was before they went all cooked in the head and started hanging out with the competition,” she nodded back over the bridge towards Tinto’s turf.

Archimedes took note of the fact Nail-puller had cited Natasha as the leader, rather than Gabriel, “You say they were working for Screamer?”

“Yeah, you know him?”

It was a silly question, everyone did.

“I know of him.”

“Then you know he doesn’t take kindly to turncoats.”

“I’m sure there must be some explanation for this.”

Nail-Puller sniffed, “Lucky for you, that’s what Screamer thinks too. He said that lot were wildcards, but he doesn’t reckon them traitors, at least not naturally. He wants to know what’s what. He’s pissed, for sure, but they helped get The Order of the Rising Dragon out of Jandrir, and that pleases him. He’s prepared to hear ‘ém out for that.”

“The Order of the Rising Dragon? The cult that worships the dragon lord Ruby? That’s who they got caught up with?”

“One and the same.”

Archimedes mouth was set firm, “We will do our best to find them.”

Nail-Puller hesitated, it was clear she had something she wanted to say.

“Yes?” the leader of the Fangs prompted.

When she spoke again, her manner had changed. It was clear that Nail-Puller was no longer speaking as a messenger, but as herself.

“I was there. There when it happened, I mean. I don’t like keeping secrets from the boss, but, I didn’t know how to explain this one.”

“What do you mean?” Archimedes tensed.

“That mind-mapper. I’m sure it was him. He did sommin’. That Natasha girl was dead one minute, an’ the next she was dancing up and down like a lassy on her wedding day, only…”

“Only?”

“Only her hair had gone all white, just like yours, and, uh, and she grew wings.”

“She grew wings. Natasha grew wings.”

“S’what I said, innit?” she growled.

“And you’re sure it was Natasha.”

“Little redhead? Hellova fighter? I’m sure.”

“What happened next?”

“That Gabriel fella ushered ‘em out of the place right quick. I told him we’d be ‘avin a chat as soon as we was done there, but the bugger legged it while me and the boys were cleaning up. Not long after, we start getting reports of the three of ‘em drinking merry in every pub in town, and drinking with Order boys, no less. We couldn’t do nothing as long as they were in Tinto’s territory.”

“Are they still around?”

“Last I heard they skipped town and went out West.”

“Thank you. This has been invaluable. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Nail-Puller nodded curtly and pulled her men away with a whistle.

The Fangs stood on the bridge, digesting this new information.

“Could still be nothing,” Thomas shrugged.