The first thing I see are the crossbows, sharp steel tips glinting in the firelight on those bolts pointing right at us. My fingers start tracing through the motions for a fore bolt on their own, and I can feel the tingle in my fingertips spreading into my palms and slowly creeping up into my wrists as it builds. I don’t need to see the blue energy starting to build in my hands, I can see it well enough in the reflection in the cautious, steely eyes of the four mailed men aiming towards us, wearing surcoats and felt caps in white with silver trim. That’s what first gives me pause, then that familiar voice comes again and I can’t helping starting to relax.

It’s not strictly a spell, it’s just the way he talks. He’s been like this as long as I’ve known him, Wenrich Clearwood, First-Tier Caretaker of the House of the Silver Order, one of the most talented wizards I’ve ever met, although he doesn’t brag about it, barely ever uses serious magic to tell the truth. Calling him a Caretaker is a fancy way of saying enforcer, the kind of person the Order sends out to ensure particularly sensitive undertakings go without a hitch, or unstick a problem that’s already stuck. More often the latter, to be fair. He can do it with magic, and occasionally he does, but like the best Caretakers he’s most adept at doing it with words.

Words are his greatest skill, the way he talks. It’s not his wide vocabulary, or even his crystal clear speech, although I’m sure that’s part of it. It’s the way he speaks, his tone, his silken voice, calming and soothing and, perhaps, that thing I’ve heard people describe as seductive. To be honest I wouldn’t really know anything about that.

You really wouldn’t know any of that to look at him, of course. He’s good-looking, at least for a halfling, sandy curls framing his face in an unruly mop that could almost be styled the way it’s so artfully tousled, but it’s just like that. There are more streaks of grey in there than I remember from the last time I saw him, especially in the thick muttonchop sideburns he’s always affected. A few more wrinkles to his face too, but he’s getting on in years, must be pushing a hundred years now. He’s still spry, though, that much is clear given his carefree step as he trots out on tough, oversized bare feet, poking out under the sweeping hems of his official robes, and there’s still that old twinkle in his hazel eyes that often makes me smile.

The spell snuffs out with no more thought than I had in conjuring them. There’s no threat here, despite appearances.

“Well met, Master Clearwood.” I tip a shallow but formal bow, placing the tips of my right-hand fingers to my forehead for a moment.

Wenrich cocks a brow towards me and his lips quirk into a more casual smile as he returns my gesture. “Well met indeed, young Master Foxtail. I trust you’ll excuse me for curtailing formalities, but there’s business best done away from the possibility of prying eyes.”

“Of course.” I nod in kind, step close to Kesla’s side and place a calming hand on her shoulder as she did for me a few minutes ago. “There’s no more danger here. We should go inside.”

“And these … sharp-eyed lads here?” She relaxes a touch, taking her hand from hilt of her extremely intimidating sword, but I can still feel a subtle, watchful tension still in her. “Crossbows ain’t exactly friendly.”

“Oh no, these really aren’t for you, Mistress Shoon.” Wenrich adopts that beaming bright grin he usually reserves for the most difficult negotiations. “These are to make sure we’re not disturbed again.”

“Really?” Kesla gives a chuckle, but there’s little humour to it. “Coulda done with a hand earlier, mate.”

“Ah, but you clearly had the situation well in hand.” He spreads his arms wide in calm supplication. “If we’re to continue our business within, on the other hand, perhaps they’re more necessary.”

“It’s cool, boss.” The voice is husky and heavily accented, a bit of a guttural roll in the back of it, but there’s still warmth there. “Gael’s right, there’s no real danger here now.”

The crossbowmen all tense as one, but thankfully they’ve control enough not to fire right there, a couple of them turning enough to look behind without giving up their aim. Wenrich has no need to be so wary, turning right around without even losing his casual ease. Truth be told I doubt he’s any more nervous now than he was when this all started.

Behind the guards is a tall figure whose frame should appear ungainly but which I’ve never seen move with anything other than an almost preternatural grace. Yeslee is well over seven feet tall and there’s very little meat to her, all gangly, ropy limbs and slender body, albeit with unusually broad shoulders for her build, but then she is one of the fir bolg. Broad, flat-nosed earthy features but with a clear intelligence to them, more so in her big violet eyes. Dressed in form-fitting, rough leathers she makes herself, a big wolfskin cloak-coat with wide sleeves and deep, wide hood, still up, hiding her wide, pointed ears and thick, rich hair, like milk chocolate, which she wears bound up in a long braid. It’s her best feature, but in the time I’ve known her she’s never really been comfortable with attention.

Her size could be threat enough, but it’s the massive warbow in her hands that really clinches it. Long as Kesla is tall, thick, dark wood and a pair of wicked carved bone horns on the tips, another one of those black arrows of hers already drawn and aiming in their general direction, not even a trace of a tremor despite the tension. That’s probably the scariest touch of all – Yeslee’s arrows are big, long enough to be little spears, thick black shafts with wild fletching, each tipped with a nasty big silvered steel broadhead. She’s unbelievably strong in spite of her wiriness, and I’ve seen her put those tips clean through dwarf-forged plate armour at a quarter mile.

I see sweat spring out on the foreheads of at least two of these men as they realise their situation, but to their credit they hold their ground. Wenrich just starts laughing. “Oh yes, this is rich. You certainly do live up to your reputation, all of you. The Creeping Bam. You’re a small group, but certainly effective. Just what we need. You can stand down, lads. If the lady says we’re safe, we’re safe.”

Yeslee frowns, and I’m not surprised – I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look at her with anything but cautious curiosity, and certainly she’s never been called a lady in my presence.

After a moment considering the situation, the guards start lowering their crossbows, easing off their triggers but not yet making them safe. Yeslee waits a beat longer, clearly looking to Kesla for reassurance, then eases her own draw, slipping the arrow free and returning it to her still impressively well-stocked quiver. “It’s true anyway, boss. Your half-orc lit out right after you left her, and she was the last one. None of them are left.”

Kesla clears her throat, nodding. “Yeah, figured she would. Seemed a sharp one, that lass.” She turns back to Wenrich. “Alright then, Master Clearwood, if Gael says you’re good, you’re good. We can talk inside if you want. What about your precious cargo, though?”

Wenrich clicks his fingers and a particularly large figure lumbers out through the doors, having to stoop a little to duck under the lintel. Slow moving but purposeful, heavy feet thumping hard across the disturbed gravel and mud, a stone-skinned ogre swathed in similar white and silver garments as the guards, although in this case I suspect it’s mostly just to protect the modesty of others. As the others step back in surprise, they wade through us and pick the crate up, cradling it with surprisingly gentle care as they turn and carry it back inside, although I suspect they could probably grip it with one hand.

“Well then, now that’s out of the way …” Wenrich clicks his fingers again and a figure doesn’t so much emerge from the doorway as just materialise at his side. Tall, whip-thin and paler than snow, the white and silver robes that just hang off his frame don’t do his deathly complexion and bone-pale hair any favours. You’d expect his eyes to be strangely pink like any other albino’s but they’re very unusual, one bright blue while the other is a strange pale shade of green, and the pupils are just vertical black slits. He looks at me for a moment and I’m chilled all over, it feels like he’s glancing right into my soul.

“Yes, Master Clearwood?” His voice is barely there, just a whisper of sandpaper across my nerves.

“Yes, thank you.” He indicates the scene around us. “As you can see, some unwelcome interlopers made quite a mess for us, and it needs to be cleared up. Preferably before the townsguard finally get off their lazy arses to investigate all that noise, yes?”

“Of course, sir.” He smiles then, and it’s the kind of smile that’s usually the last thing a small woodland creature sees on a particularly unfortunate night out. “My pleasure.” And just like that, he’s gone again, and my skin crawls all over again.

Seeming pleased, Wenrich gestures into the gloom to which the ogre has already returned, softening his smile some but still presenting his salesman’s ease and confidence. “Shall we?”

Looking him over for a moment, Kesla breathes out a little sigh, then turns back to us and cocks her thumb towards the doors. “Might as well, eh folks?” She gives me a pointed look and then starts to head through.

I turn, look to the others. Krakka’s watching me close, bright amber eyes locked on me as he cocks his head in obvious curiosity, while Art just grins, pushing back his hood as he steps up and ducks after our leader. Krakka gives a nondescript chirp and follows, tipping me a little nod on the way past, his warhammer rested easy across his shoulder. That just leaves me and Yeslee.

She gives me a far longer, deeper look than Kesla did, and while I’ve always found it hard to read what exactly is going through her head I know full well what she’s thinking this time. This was my call, Kesla just went along with this job off my recommendation because I said it was good money from someone I trust. We didn’t even expect any trouble coming into it, and then we got caught in this mess. Gods, I nearly burned her alive …

Deciding to avoid the confrontation, I break away first, plucking my staff from the mud and heading through the doors. I can’t hear Yeslee following me but I know she does, and once again I marvel at how anyone who’s built the way she is can be move quite so quiet and graceful as she does. Once inside I turn back and she glides right past me, giving me a subtle side-eye on the way that makes my cheeks flush, and I can feel the cold dropping sensation inside me again, that nervous shame. Great, just bloody fantastic.

Wenrich strolls in last as if he hasn’t got a care in the world, but his guards stay outside. He mutters something under his breath and moves his fingers for a moment, pointing them back over his shoulder. The doors both shunt in their frames for a moment, then glide closed behind him, the latch lifting and clicking down on its own, the bolts shooting without the aid of external influence too. He catches me looking and gives a little wink, and it does help raise my mood a little.

“It’s good to see you again.” he says, voice low and just for me. “It’s been too long.”

“It has. Things have been … when I set out I thought I knew everything. It’s been quite the learning experience.”

“Well you could’ve fooled me. Three years on your own and you’ve flourished. I’ve heard great things about your little party here, and your name is mentioned as much as any of your friends.”

I feel myself blushing again. “They’re incredibly capable. I’m just trying to keep up.”

“If that was all it was, I’m sure they would have left you behind long before now. You were one of the finest students the Order’s ever had. I can’t imagine you’ve stumbled much out in the real world.”

That one makes me grimace. “I’ve had my share. It’s so much more complicated out here than I ever expected it to be. I thought growing up in the Academy was hard enough, so anything I faced after that would be simplicity itself. I was more than a little naïve with that sentiment.”

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“We’re all very proud of what you’ve achieved out here, and what you’ve become. Your father especially.”

My pulse quickens at that, and I can’t hide my excitement. “You’ve spoken to him lately then? I haven’t had word from him in months. Is he home, then?”

“Darion’s working still, like always. Powerful wizards are always in demand, especially the particularly wily ones like your father. You should know as much about that as he does about all that by now.” His smile grows a little more playful, but his tone is nowhere near as teasing as his words might suggest. I get the feeling he really is impressed with me. “That’s why I reached out. This job came out and it was clear we needed some help, so I immediately thought of you. No-one else I could even consider for this.”

“So it wasn’t just that we happened to be working out of Hocknar anyway, then?” I cock a brow, trying to seem more sly than I feel.

“That didn’t hurt, but no. I would have sent for you anyway. I couldn’t trust anyone but a Foxtail to safeguard this mission.”

My blush grows at that. The fact that he’s genuinely comparing me to my father should be purely flattering, but it makes me unbelievably nervous all the same. Darion Foxtail is one of the greatest living wizards in all of Rundao, his shadow one of the biggest I’ve ever encountered, and it’s one I couldn’t get out from under if I tried.

“Anyway,” Wenrich touches my elbow, seeming thoroughly unperturbed that he has to reach up to do it, and nods towards my friends. “Given the business at hand …”

“Of course.” I let out a deep breath and turn to head out in the direction he’s guiding me, the rest of the party waiting patiently for us a little ways off. Clearly they wanted to give us a little privacy to catch up, and I feel a wash of gratitude to my friends then that immediately makes me feel even worse for putting them in so much danger just a few minutes ago.

The clean, warm, welcoming interior of the warehouse is surprising given the battered, worn-down, decidedly dilapidated appearance it presents from without. Various torches and braziers give off a warm, golden light around the vast, open space, along with several candlesticks burning bright to counter the gloom that should hold sway given the grime-darkened glass in the windows set high in the walls. The space is broken up with pillars and partition walls, while a large, wide staircase leads up to a substantial platform some eight feet off the ground in the centre of the interior, from which there’s an even brighter glow from stronger illumination still. No more guards, but I catch a glimpse of the ogre moving around somewhere near the back, more of a guarded patrol than any purposeful travel. That must be where the package has been delivered to, then.

“Nice place.” Kesla says as we rejoin them.

“It’s one of our outposts.” Wenrich replies, already heading for the stairs. “Somewhere for us to conduct some of our more … private business, away from prying eyes.”

“You mean the provisional government, I take it?” Kesla’s fallen into step beside him, climbing with slow, casual ease in order to compensate for his far more modest gait. “The Terrors got a habit of sticking their noses in, don’t they?”

Wenrich chuckles, clearly amused by her use of the one of the Tektehran Empire’s less flattering sobriquets. “That they have, Mistress Shoon. We find it infinitely simpler to keep as much of our more arcane business off their books if it can be helped. They have an unpleasant habit of attempting to … weaponize anything that has even the smallest potential for destruction.”

“Given what I heard they gotta put up with in the Borderlands you can’t entirely blame ‘em for that.”

“True, true.” Wenrich chuckles again, looking up at her. He’s a wily one, and he’s a master at presenting a pleasing demeanour when it’s needed, but I get the distinct impression that he’s genuinely warming to her. I don’t blame him – Kesla’s an incredibly easy person to like. She’s honest, forthright and kind, but she’s also one of the strongest, toughest people I’ve ever met, intimidating far beyond her physical self, although that’s certainly built to fit her personality. Tall and powerfully strong, with her jet black mohawk greased back out of her face, hair shorn stubble-close in the undercut, she looks like a walking warning of violence, but there’s a fierce, striking beauty to her too, from her cool, smoky skin to her fathomless dark eyes. Not to mention all those scars, a few quite prominent on her face, which really don’t disfigure her at all, instead giving her a compelling air of danger, although perhaps not that sizeable notch cut out of her left ear. She’s a warrior born, all you have to do is look at her to know it.

“I’m told there are whole swathes of their own lands that have become entirely uninhabitable now due to what’s been able to come through from the Night Lands. Rumours of monstrosities taking full advantage of the long nights and cold climate. Three centuries ago Bulvaric was lost to them, and they’ve failed time and again to take it back.”

Kesla stops in her tracks, looking down at him. Wenrich climbs another step before realising she’s halted, and turns to gaze back at her. “I thought that was just a myth.”

“Afraid not.” His smile’s gone now, and for perhaps the first time he’s presenting the rest of our party with his own, entirely honest face. Right now he looks solemn, and genuinely a little old. “Things have held fast for more than ten thousand years since the Sundering, but it’s all started to change. I suspect the Night Lands have been encroaching on our side of Tao for far longer than we ever thought possible.”

“Thorin save us all.” Kesla mutters it under her breath, but it’s loud enough that she clearly doesn’t care if we hear. It’s an odd prayer, calling on the Stormlord, a god of war, to protect us from eldritch horrors from beyond the veil of eternal night, but Kesla’s a warrior, was raised all but from birth to be a warrior, so all she really knows is a warrior’s god. I’m a little taken aback seeing her so discomforted in this moment, and it gives me my own deep chill to wonder what images Wenrich’s words must put in her head. In my own, for that matter, even though my own education has taught me enough already about what we really know about what lies beyond the Borderlands, which is frighteningly little.

The conversation stunted for the moment, we continue to climb in silence, Wenrich’s tiny legs making the progress slow for the rest of us as we hang back to show deference to his lead. Still, it gives me a chance to gather my thoughts again, at least until I notice Art’s come up beside me.

“That was quite something out there.” He grins up at me, strolling like we’re on a day-off jaunt in the Picture Gardens of Bavat. Once again I start feeling the way I always do under that bright and surprisingly shrewd emerald gaze, which is distinctly uneasy, but not in an entirely unpleasant way. Our bakaneko prowler is a strange one – he acts like he doesn’t care about anything, that he can just waltz through life without a care, that all the world’s troubles just slide right off his back, but underneath it all I sense deep reserves of feeling, and a fierce intelligence. In the six months I’ve been with the Creeping Bam I’ve never quite been able to work out exactly what to make of him. I like him, you just can’t help it, but I never feel at ease around him.

Swallowing hard, I put on the bravest face I can and just dive right in. “Yeah, it was a mess. I think I might have buggered up a bit out there. That fireball was –”

“Hell no, It was awesome. I mean sure, we seen you do ‘em before, but never like that.” He chuckles, and it’s an endearing, bubbly sound. “Phwoom!” he imitates the sound, puffing out his cheeks as he cups his hands and then spreads them outwards. “I mean … wow. That was really something.”

“Something, yeah.” I’m blushing again. “I still haven’t gotten the hang of that spell, I really shouldn’t have let one off in the middle of us like that. I could’ve killed Kesla.”

He stops then, just stares up at me, looking genuinely surprised. “Are you kidding? You saved her life. I saw those raiders going for her out there. She was in a tight spot. You did the right thing, an’ I guarantee she don’t blame you in the slightest.”

I stop in my tracks too, taken aback by his words, and as I chance a sidelong glance up at Kesla I see her standing on the top step, looking right down at me. Clearly close enough to hear our conversation. She watches me for a moment, thoughtful, then smiles. Just a little one, but there’s warmth there, and I feel a kind of relief that a whole conversation with her might not have been able to give me.

“If we may?” Wenrich waits at the top, perfectly composed despite the climb.

“Of course.” Kesla cocks a brow my way before she follows him, and I have to smile. The others start to speed up their descent then and I follow suit, so we’re all stood at the top in moments.

Once again, the space is definitely not what you’d expect looking at the exterior. There’s a roomy but very comfortable office up here, the walls lined with well-stocked bookshelves and well-arranged furniture with well-upholstered in soft leather. There’s a rug underfoot which looks thick, rich and very complicated in its pattern, meaning it must have come from some exotic market in Abharet, while the whole back of this makeshift chamber is taken up with a massive desk of lustrous dark wood. Behind which, sitting in a particularly stylish high-backed office chair, is someone I’m really not too thrilled to be seeing again.

“Ah, yes, there you are.” Taphun Saxiros places his clawed hands on the leather top of the desk with exaggerated care that I’m sure is wholly affected, and pushes himself to his feet. “Where on this ill-fated earth have you been and what was going on out there?”

“The delivery was hijacked at our front door and a band of shabby but extremely well-trained ne’er do-wells nearly made off with the artifact, Master Saxiros.” Wenrich sighs, his cool composure slipping just the tiniest sliver. I’m not surprised – no-one back at the Academy much liked the Senior Quartermaster of the House of the Silver Order when I was there, and I’d be surprised to learn of it being any different anywhere else in our wide-reaching organisation. “As I warned you would happen.”

“Yes, yes.” He waves his claws in a wholly dismissive manner. “Wherever would we be without your peerless divination talents, Master Clearwood?”

“Up Shit Creek, without a doubt.” Wenrich growls back without the slightest attempt at decorum. “Paddles nowhere to be seen.”

There’s the slightest narrowing to Saxiros’ sickly yellow eyes that could be taken as threatening, but it clearly doesn’t have any effect on Master Clearwood. I’ve known several dragonhalfs in my time – they’re a naturally gifted race when it comes to magic, so there’s always quite a few cycling through the Academy, as well as teaching there – and they’re always intimidating, but while he’s certainly imposingly tall with a suitably regal bearing, there’s precious little to respect about this one. The white and silver robes of the Order can make anyone look stately, but Taphun Saxiros is nothing more than a glorified bookkeeper. Perhaps it’s because, like all green dragonhalfs are purported to be, he’s filled with acidic bile, although in his case it’s clearly given him a particularly chronic case of indigestion. I’d certainly be hard pressed to call him a credit to his kind.

“Charming, of course.” His unsettling eyes scan across us one at a time, lingering on me for an uncomfortably drawn out moment with a particular scowl of offended recognition. He has no love for me either, truth be told. “I take it your own band of … how was it you put it again? Ne’er do-wells? We have these similarly colourful fellows to thank for preventing them, then?”

“Yes, we do.” Wenrich takes a deep breath, and I’m sure he’s counting to ten while he does it. “You know young Mistress Foxtail, of course, and these are her companions. Art of Shadows, a thief of impressive skill, Krakka, a respected cleric of the moon goddess Serena, Yeslee Toll, a seasoned hunter from the far North, and their leader, Kesla Shoon, a warrior of great renown. They operate under the moniker of the Creeping Bam.”

A snort of derision escapes Saxiros at that, but I’m sure he’s just been holding onto it for the right occasion. Otherwise he looks thoroughly unimpressed. “Our saviours indeed. Well, ladies and …” His eyes linger on Art and Krakka both for a moment. “Gentlemen, the sincerest thanks of the Silver Order to you all for this great service. We can handle it from here.”

“We discussed this, Taphun.” Wenrich sighs. “The resources at our disposal will not be enough to get this to Bavat, not with what’s coming after it. The mess outside should be clear enough indication of that. We need these people.”

“A sellsword, a reprobate, a conjurer, a talking bird and …” This time Yeslee is the target of his disdain, and I find myself bristling a little to see it. “Whatever this thing is? You want us to trust that artifact to their safekeeping? Nonsense. This whole operation is my responsibility, and I will not stand for it.”

“You don’t have to stand for it, though, do you?” Wenrich takes a step forward, and there’s so much steel in his voice now, such intensity in his eyes that, despite his modest stature, he’s dominating the entire room. “I know your mandate in this full well, but you know mine, too. You were sent to make sure this all went smoothly, without a hitch, while I was sent to clean up your mess should something go wrong, and take over should it be deemed necessary. You hired amateurs, who were summarily slaughtered to a man, and our artifact was nearly lost. Whereas the people I brought in just in case were instrumental in rectifying the situation, so I daresay that qualifies my taking over as necessary, wouldn’t you agree?”

This time Saxiros’ eyes genuinely seem to flare, and for the first time ever I’m actually a little intimidated by him as he starts to move around the desk, although the urgency of the action is undercut by the distance he has to travel. “You jumped-up little shit, if you think I’m –”

“I couldn’t care less what you think or what you might do, Taphun. I warned you, and you didn’t listen. This isn’t the first time, and the Council are mindful of such things. Perhaps you should stop before you dig yourself a hole too deep to climb out of.”

They stare at one another for what feels like a very long time, Saxiros barely holding onto his rage while Wenrich is the tensest I’ve ever seen him, and I see Kesla step back on one foot, clearly readying herself on the off-chance this all kicks off. Clearly she’s read this as well as I have. I find myself flexing my own fingers too, just in case.

Then Saxiros lets out a strangled growl and throws his arms up, and I swear I see Kesla’s hand twitch for a moment, as if about to draw her sword. She probably was. But this isn’t an attack, he just thumps his fists down on the desk hard enough to shake the whole room before giving us all one last look of the deepest, most hateful contempt imaginable. Then he lifts his head high, all the more impressive with his tall horns, and, clearly pretending we’re not even here, walks with a brisk and barely controlled fury right through the centre of us and on down the stairs.

Wenrich waits until he’s entirely gone before he lets out a breath I didn’t even realise he was holding in, clapping his hands together and assuming a perfect, carefree smile. “Right! Now that that unpleasant business is out of the way, we might as well get started. Tea?”