“Has he found them?” a question was asked.

“Did he find them?” Someone asked the same question.

“Has he found them yet?” the question was repeated.

For hours, those words swarmed through the campsite on the Lake of Ever Ice, spoken from dozens of lips. Men and women huddled in their tents, sheltering from the icy wind, looking to each other and god for guidance.

Other folk milled about, listlessly maintaining their camp with barely suppressed agitation.

In the centre of the camp, First Apostle Gabrian ministered to a congregation of the hidden church. Folk prostrated themselves on the ice before the holy man as he told stories of their God helping during trying times, but two figures were conspicuously absent.

Third Apostle Izas, and the Stalker were not in camp.

Both man and fae were a short distance away, one pacing, one standing patiently nearby. The small, bearded hunter was pacing back-and-forth—hands clasped behind his back—muttering words the Apostle could not hear. His companion watched him silently, with growing worry and impatience.

“What in the name of Lord Aenflynn?” the Stalker muttered, his eyes narrowed. “Can't be right…can't be right…”

His expression was drawn and tight, as though he’d swallowed some rotten morsel. It was a strange sight for Izas. In all the time he’d known the fae, the Stalker had been irritatingly jolly; no matter the circumstance—even in their growing frustration at the Fool’s elusiveness—the Stalker remained as unaffected as a mountain in a light snowfall.

When an ambush failed, he’d simply chuckle, snap his fingers and say: “Our foxy quarry gave us the slip again! But we'll get him next time! Hah, how exciting!”

When the hunt had stretched on—and some of the hidden church’s members began to long for their homeland—the Stalker had smiled and said: “Well, if it were easy, then the hunt wouldn't be worth it, would it? Just see it as a trial from your god!”

When the mood among the hunting party began to grow grim, the little fae had produced a set of pipes from his seemingly bottomless sack, then capered about, sharing wine and telling old stories.

No matter the circumstance, no matter the setback, the Stalker would always be of good cheer while wearing a broad smile.

Today was different.

There was no smile on the fae’s face, no light turn of a phrase, no wine, music or lively jig.

He paced across the ice like a caged beast, his expression that of a cornered wolf.

“Can't be right, can't be right, can't be right,” he whispered, licking his lips and tugging his snow white beard. “Doesn’t make sense.”

Izas cleared his throat. “Is there any way that I might aid you?”

The Stalker did not reply, still pacing.

“Stalker,” Izas repeated. “You have been in your own mind for hours now. The others begin to worry, what has happened?”

“What has happened is that I can't find our quarry,” the fae’s irritation was plain.

“You have said as much for hours,” Izas pointed out. “You asked for time to ‘concentrate’, but you seem far more troubled.”

“I'm troubled because there's trouble.” The Stalker chewed his lip. “In all my many years, I've hunted things that walk, swim, and fly. I've caught dragons in spider webs spun of moonlight. I’ve lashed sea serpents in typhoons. Skewered mortal champions on their own weapons. I rooted out an ice fairy hiding in a single snowflake in the middle of a blizzard. I tracked a single mosquito from nymph-hood through a swamp, and I was there to pull its wings off just before it reached the end of its lifespan two months later. If something lives, I can find it. If I can find it, I can kill it. It’s as simple as that.”

He finally looked directly at Izas, his nostrils flaring. “Nothing can hide from me, my mortal friend. Not if I've got its name.”

“Yet the Fool eludes you?” Izas asked.

“He does and he doesn’t. I still have his name, but it’s like it won't stay in one place,” he said. “He's been moving about all this time, true, but this is different. Before, he kept popping about, going from place to place. Sure, it made him hard to catch, but it was just a matter of tracking and hedging him in when he stopped. Now things are different. He's not just moving about and stopping, he’s moving in the way that air moves…the same way light just flows. It's like he’s in a bunch of places at once, and yet in none at the same time! It makes no sense!”

He snorted. “This has never happened to me before, never once in my millennia of hunting prey!”

“And you have no hope of locating him again?” Izas asked.

“That's it! I know where he is, but I don't at the same time! Doesn't make any sense!” The Stalker threw up his hands.

“Then, why not ask for help?” Izas asked. “We are your hunting partners.”

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“You’re my hounds!” the Stalker retorted. “I am the one that leads the hunt, you're the ones who flush out the quarry!”

Izas said nothing as the Stalker took deep breaths that shook his shoulders.

The fae paused then, tilting his head in curiosity. “Look, maybe frustration’s putting me in a funny mood, but I've got a question for you.”

“What is it?” Izas asked.

“None of you ever get sore about me calling you hounds, though you mortals tend to get a little agitated by that after a while. Why is that?” the Stalker asked.

“I know what I am. We all know who we are and who we serve. What you call us makes no difference to that. We are servants of Uldar: no more and no less. The titles that you give us are meaningless. Are you so petty that you will not accept aid from what you call mere ‘hounds’? Or do you wish to actually hunt?”

The Stalker stared at him for a long moment. “Few have challenged me like that and escaped without punishment.”

“And yet you do not ‘punish’ me,” Izas said simply. “Does that mean you're ready to put pride aside and let me help solve the problem?”

The fae gave a bitter laugh. “I'm a better tracker than all of you put together: if I can’t find him, then you can’t. But sure, let's see what you come up with. You've got some magical divinity, maybe it might help us.”

“Nothing so special, merely a suggestion and my two eyes,” Izas said. “Do you recall spies watching the sites the Fool visited?”

“Aye, I noticed them when your scouts pointed them out.” The Stalker ran a hand through his beard.

“We let them be because they were not relevant to our task. But now, we need a new path to our quarry. Why not see what they were doing at those sites?” Izas suggested.

“...well, that's a terribly mundane solution…” the Stalker mused. “But, sure why not. I'll be pacing a trench in this ice lake, at this rate.”

###

The Guild member of the Red Mouse crouched in a hidden trench, watching for any sign of the Fool of Thameland. A spyglass was pressed to her right eye. Behind her, her partner peeked through a gap in their shelter, his own spyglass pointing toward a mountain peak.

A cold wind blew through the trench, sending snow swirling by. The pair had lost track of just how long they’d been there, waiting, watching for the Fool’s return, while also keeping an eye on the group following the Fool.

So intent were they on what was ahead, that they never noticed the figure rising from the snow behind them.

The short figure with a white beard, and predatory eyes.

###

Night had fallen.

Snow covered mountains loomed under the deep, unbroken dark of a new moon. And the Stalker was humming. It was not a melodious sound, it was unpleasant, like the grinding of metal on glass. Most folk would have grimaced at the tune, but Izas and Gabrian showed no reaction.

All others cringed, but were forced to listen.

Two members of the Guild of the Red Mouse were bound with rope. The Stalker looked at them hungrily as he continued humming with his hands clasped behind his back.

"I see that you're watching for the Fool," he said. "And what would you be doing that for?”

“None of your business, bastard!” one of the thieves sneered. He glanced at his partner with a steely jaw. “Do you all think this is the first time someone’s tried a shake down on me? I've been in a Sorkovon prison, I’ve had my nails pulled out, and hot iron pressed against my skin. You don't scare me.”

Gabrian opened his mouth.

The Stalker waved him off. “I'm in a bad mood, let me do this.”

“As you wish,” the First Apostle said.

“What, ‘good guard, bad guard’? Is this really what you're going to try?” the female thief laughed.

“That stopped working on me by the time my nards dropped,” laughed her male counterpart, his bravado growing.

The Stalker looked at him evenly. “You've got a stout heart, don't you?”

Another sneer from the thief. “What are you complimenting me for? Are you trying to get all swee—”

Without another word, the fae plunged his hands into the man's chest. Flesh rippled like water as the thief began to choke. His partner's eyes widened; words died on her lips as the Stalker felt around inside the man’s rib cage, as though he was searching for something he’d lost.

He smiled the moment he found what he was looking for, withdrawing his hands, cupping the man’s beating heart in them.

“I don't like being thwarted,” the Stalker said. “So I'm not going to play with you two. Not nicely.”

He squeezed the throbbing organ, watching it shudder like a frightened bird. The male thief choked, his face washing stark white.

“What are you doing?” his partner screamed.

“I'm holding his heart in my hand. Look how stout it is, all full of nasty defiance. But that's the thing about mortal hearts, one squeeze…” His grip tightened. The man whimpered like a suffering dog, “...and it'll pop as easily as a water bubble. If I drop it, my power stops its connection with his chest. If I pitch it against a wall…well, you know what happens. Point is, he dies, heartless and choking. Now you mortals have a habit of getting self sacrifice-y and whatnot. If I ask him questions—even if he could speak—he still might not answer, just to spite me.”

He fixed his eye on the other thief. “So, this is what I'm going to do. I’ll give you one chance to save your partner. He can't talk, so you'll have to be his lips. And before you say anything—because you morals can be selfish too—if you keep your mouth shut, I'm going to do the same to you. But I won't start with your heart. I'll start with your kidneys. One then the next. Did you know you can live like that, at least for a bit? Not well though, it's not a good way to die. So, I’ll have mercy on you, and take one of your lungs next. If you aren’t talking, then you don't need two. I can take your organs out of you one by one before I finally decide to take your heart. Now, I’ve given you two incentives. Save your partner's life, and save yourself a lot of pain.”

The fae leaned forward, baring his fanged teeth. “So you're going to tell me why you're watching this place, why you're waiting for the Fool, and who put you up to this. Sound fair?”

The thief— who'd been smirking and laughing moments before—could hardly breathe through her fear. Her wide eyes were fixed on the still beating-heart in the fae’s hand.

“What sort of sorcery—oh by the gods, I'll tell you whatever you need to know!” she cried. “We're watching for the Fool to see if he finds an old sanctum! Our leader thinks there might be treasures waiting inside! We're supposed to wait until he finds the entrance, and then get rid of him!”

“And who is this leader?” the Stalker asked.

“I don't know his real name, but we call him Warder! I promise you, everything I said is true! Don't hurt us!” she begged. “You'll never find him by yourself, you need us alive!”

The Stalker gave her a look that was half smile and half feral snarl. “My mortal friend… You just told me his name…” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I've already found him.”

“W-What?” she stammered.

The Stalker looked at the First and Third Apostle. “You don't care what I do with these two, do you? I’ve got a mighty frustration to work out.”

“We have no stake in foreign thieves,” Gabrian said.

“Wait, you said you wouldn't hurt us if we talked!” the thief screamed.

He looked at her closely. “You're not very bright are you? I said what I’d do to you if you didn't talk. I never told you what I’d do if you did.”

Before the thieves’ horrified eyes, he held up the throbbing heart as its beat quickened.

His grip tightened.