Draigkyn Manor,

Dungeon - Subterranean Hidden Chamber

A king's ransom in gold coins, jewelry, and gems was strewn about the ruined floor of the underground hall. Silas sat cross-legged with tendrils of crimson light flitting about his body, casting the ruined surroundings in an ominous shadow.

He stirred, awoken from his meditation by the medallion around his neck. He looked slightly nervous as he held the silver disc. It was a disturbing sight with tendrils of black smoke, like shadow made substance, being emitted from the center. Silas stood and drew the blood from the corpses of the dead Fangs around. Slightly pale from the effort, he manipulated it into ribbons that spiralled into the medallion combining with the black smoke.

A distorted voice emanated from it, “Have you obtained the Dragonstone Silas??"

Silas recognized it. He clenched his jaw. Of course, it had to be Treznor, "No, I almost had the stone when the barrier exploded. It almost killed me. I need to recuperate from the injuries. I have sent the Fangs…"

"I do not want to hear your excuses, Silas. You know how important the Stone is to our Master. Where is it?"

Silas swallowed at the mention of their master.

"It is with the Draigkyn brat."

"You didn't kill him?," there was a slight pause before Treznor continued, "Ah, of course, you didn't, you must have kept him alive to… satisfy your urges."

Silas could feel the contempt in Treznor's voice. He was incensed, the bastard had always looked down on Silas. "I didn't hear you complaining about my urges when I managed to find the location of the Dragonstone in the first place. Which is something YOU hadn't managed to do for fifty years Treznor."

Treznor scoffed, "Hah, how impudent. You're only tolerated because of your curse-breaking skills, Silas. You think Beth-ranked trash like you could hold such high regard otherwise?," not giving Silas a chance to respond, "Retrieve the stone, Silas. If you fail… well, you would be better off killing yourself than facing Master’s wrath."

The voice disappeared and the medallion stopped emitting smoke. The connection was cut off.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Silas was heaving with rage as he clutched the medallion. The veins in his arms bulged as the muscles in his arm went rigid; without warning, he smashed the medallion onto the ground.

A scream of rage echoed in the abandoned hall.

"TREZNOR!!!"

***

Road to Ingoldtshold - A few hours outside of Banehallow

Roderick and a small group of Fangs rode horses following Leif with the hounds. He had spread the others out with the slim chance of being able to spot Beorn.

They had to wait out the storm in their base and afterward it was impossible to pick up any trace of Beorn. The snowstorm had managed to cover any tracks he would have left even. Roderik was pretty sure he had a cabin somewhere in the Wolvenrych but Roderik had no idea where it was located. He didn’t think he would be able to find Beorn in a forest he knew like the back of his hand. The ranger practically lived there. Going into the Wolvenrych unprepared would only result in their deaths and Roderik had no intention of dying for Silas.

Roderik motioned to Leif who was struggling with their hounds. The big slobbering beasts were tugging on their leashes, with the skinny Fang barely managing to keep on his feet. He asked him, “Any luck with catching his scent?”

Beorn had left his weapons belt in the Manor, and Leif had tried getting the hounds to track his scent. Roderik didn't have much hope but he decided it wouldn't hurt to try

Leif stammered back, "N N No, the hounds aren't able to find him."

Sighing, Roderik turned his horse around. He whistled to call back the others.

"We're heading to the road to Ingoldtshold. We'll set up an ambush at the throat of the valley."

Roderick had decided the only way Beorn would be travelling was to Ingoldtshold. And there was only one road to the city. He figured Silas would take care of the rear if Beorn tried to escape with a boat. But not even he would be desperate enough to try and sail in the middle of winter.

As the surviving Fangs gathered around him, Roderik surveyed the shabby men atop their shabby steeds. The horses were starving, looking like they might drop dead any second. The men wore whatever scraps of armor they could scavenge and wielded dilapidated weapons. Roderik regretted ever taking up Silas' invitation. At the time it felt like the only chance to escape this life of banditry. But he'd never had a choice in the matter anyway.

Roderik wasn't stupid. He knew whatever mission required a Beth-ranked Blood-Mage to venture out alone into this forgotten part of the Empire was probably not legitimate. And the secrecy Silas had insisted on made him sure of one thing; he and the Fangs were simply disposable pawns. Loose-ends to tie up after they outlived their usefulness. Roderik felt the marble he'd received from Silas burning a hole in his pocket.

They only need to survive the trip to the valley. After that, one way or another the Northern Fangs are over.

"Set up at the valley halfway to Ingoldtshold. Stay in pairs, stay alert, and stay within earshot of each other. Don't try and capture him, we all know how well that went earlier. If you spot him, call as loudly as possible."