The ceremony heralding an Apprentice's rise to a Hero was a grand affair, held in the Chamber of Fate, honouring the new Heroes alongside their year mates while their juniors and the Hero who had first sponsored them watched on. Afterwards, the Apprentices were dismissed, and a celebration held, while gifts were given by the sponsors to their newest comrades.

Jack and his fellows were surprised, therefore, when their summons to the quarters of the Head of the Guild resulted in a heavy pouch being thrown to each of them.

“You understand why we won't be putting on an elaborate ceremony after the day's events,” Maze told them brusquely as he took a seat behind his desk, illuminated by the afternoon sun shining through an artfully arranged series of coloured window panes imitating the Guild Seal.

Opening the plain brown pouches, each new Hero felt a thrill as they caught glimpse of their Guild Seals, despite the disappointing news. Tracing his finger over the design, Jack felt the moment the Seal reached out and synced itself to his Will.

“That's not to say you'll be short changed entirely, however,” Maze continued, “I can only imagine how outraged I myself would have been had I been told I would be missing out on my Hero celebration.”

The deadpan declaration by their near notoriously straight laced Guild Head brought amusement to the Heroes' faces.

“Your sponsors have been alerted to the situation, and are on their way. Whisper, I believe your brother already awaits you in the Map Room.” Maze gave the suddenly anxious to be away Whisper an amused glance before continuing, “Klessan, Duran, your own sponsors will meet you in your quarters.” He gave them a quick nod. “That will be all.”

At the dismissal, Whisper, Klessan and Duran began to filter from the tower, while Jack remained behind uncertainly.

“You utilised two new expressions of Will in the skirmish,” Maze noted coolly, sounding neither pleased or displeased.

Jack started for a moment, before processing the change of topic. “Ah, yeah—the perception altering one I only just completed last night, but it's not as good as it could be yet.”

“Elucidate,” Maze ordered shortly.

“It gives me more time to comprehend what's going on, but I still react at the same speed. It feels like trying to walk through a heavy current, and it can be tricky if I'm trying to move when the expression ends,” Jack expanded, his enthusiasm for the topic showing through.

“You have an idea on how to compensate?” Maze asked.

“I think I can work in my Quickening expression in a more concentrated form,” Jack answered. “It should allow me to move at what feels like a normal pace while my perception is enhanced. Weaving them together might be a bit tough, but if it works it'll open up a lot of room for improvement.”

“You haven't mentioned this Quickening to me before,” Maze told him with a frown.

“It's a bit of a weird one,” Jack hedged. “Not so much an expression of Will as me using my Will reserves to postpone things like tiredness and sore muscles. I pay for it down the track.”

“I see,” Maze replied, thinking it over. “And the other?”

“Well,” Jack drew the word out, procrastinating. “It was just instinctive. I'm not sure what I did.”

Maze scowled outright. “You cannot exercise your Will in such a way. An experienced hostile Will user will feel the unrestrained manner of the expression and take advantage. How will this happen and how do you prevent it?” the arch mage demanded suddenly.

“An enemy can take over an uncontrolled expression with their own Will and turn your expressions against you,” Jack recited, as he had uncounted times before. “You need to practise and engrave an expression onto your Will pathways to prevent this, or have a decisive Will advantage over your opponent.”

“Correct. I expect you to fully comprehend this force based expression before you attempt to use it in combat again,” Maze ordered.

“Yes sir,” Jack replied dutifully. Maze's insistence on the matter had puzzled him from time to time, as the only conclusion he could come to regarding his many warnings was that it had happened to the arch mage himself at some point. It had surely happened years ago, as there were few Will practitioners who could compete with the formidable Head of the Guild these days, let alone outclass him.

Maze was quiet for several long moments, pondering. “You have done well,” he said at length. “The ability to seemingly slow time around you will one day prove invaluable, I dare say. Your performance against the raiders was admirable, and your Heroic status most deserved. I am proud to have sponsored you into the Guild.”

For a long moment, Jack blinked at the overdose of praise from the normally sparing Guild Head. “Thank you sir,” he grinned with pride.

“I haven't forgotten about your graduation gift either,” Maze waved his thanks off, rummaging through his desk draws and retrieving a worn and battered book, before extending it across to Jack. “My experiments in Will, from my youth. I imagine you may gain some use from them.”

Jack's eyes zeroed in on the book that Maze was offering him oh so casually. That book represented a direct look into the mind of one of the greatest Will users of the past century. He almost snatched the book in his eagerness, remembering himself only just in time.

There was a hint of amusement in the old mage's face as he watched Jack struggle not to open the journal and begin reading then and there. “I expect you to learn, and then improve upon every expression within that journal,” he told him sternly. “Do so, and there shall be a reward for you.”

“Yes sir,” Jack nodded rapidly, clutching at the book almost possessively.

“Your enthusiasm is noted, however I don't believe your friends will forgive you for abandoning your graduation celebration to read a book,” Maze said pointedly. “Perhaps it should remain in my possession for the time being, lest it be ruined by drink?”

“That's not necessary,” Jack answered quickly. “I can take care of it.” The young Hero scowled as further amusement appeared on his sponsor's face. The normally humourless man had actually been teasing him. “If that's all sir?”

“Yes, that is all,” Maze gestured to the tower stairs. “Join your friends. Revel in your youth.”

Jack nearly ran from the tower in his enthusiasm, spirits high from the events of the day. Had he taken a moment to glance back, he would have seen an expression of cautious optimism on the Guild Head's face. For the first time in some years, the mage was beginning to feel something almost tangible—hope.

Tearing his mind from his woes, Maze turned his attention to smaller matter of the raid on the Guild. There was only one response for the foolish attack, of course. He could only wish that all his troubles were so easily solved.

If only he knew.

X x X

Jack's graduation celebration would always be a hazy blur of good feeling in his mind, even years later. His last clear memory was of helping their Instructors bring food and drink to a room set aside for himself and his friends, receiving cheerful introductions to Duran and Klessan's sponsors, before Whisper called him over excitedly, gesturing for him to try her drink. Maze and Thunder were not there of course, being too busy in the wake of the raid, but that was no reason not to enjoy themselves, and the mead really was quite pleasant...

...Duran was holding a handstand atop an open keg, egged on by Klessan and several Instructors as he began doing upright push ups, dunking his head into the keg each time...

…“Turn and fight, foul knave!” Klessan demanded imperiously from her perch on an Instructor's shoulders, brandishing a long loaf of bread as they chased another pair around the room...

...a muffled BOOM shook the room as the roast turkey exploded, the force sending Jack staggering back several paces as pieces of poultry showered the room. Groaning at the jeering that filled the room, Jack wondered why he ever thought using his Will to reheat the turkey was a good idea...

...the pair of them were curled up in before the fireplace in a deep, cushioned armchair, the only two in the room still awake. Moonlight shone in through a window, illuminating Whisper's face as she looked up at him. Feeling almost like it was happening to someone else, Jack clasped her chin gently and tilted her head back as he leaned forward. Her lips were soft...

X x X

“Get up, boy,” an unwelcome voice intruded upon Jack's sleep, accompanied several moments later by a poke in the ribs. “On your feet.”

Jack groaned and twisted into a more comfortable position, wondering when his bed had shrunk several sizes.

There was an impatient sigh. “If you don't rise within the next five seconds, I'll select your first Quest for you and leave you to salvage a Name from whatever horrible task I can find,” the voice threatened, before pausing thoughtfully. “The Guild pens need cleaning. How does 'Chicken Chaser' sound to you?”

Reality began to set in, and Jack was on his feet with a dignified, manly exclamation of surprise. Maze stood before him, leaning against the side of the fireplace with an amused expression. Looking about the otherwise empty room, Jack could see the remnants of the party, including what looked like chicken splattered all across one wall.

“Yes, I thought that might get you up,” Maze commented dryly. “Now pull yourself together, you're very nearly running late.”

Jack shook the cobwebs from his head. “Running late for what?”

“Your first Quest, boy!” Maze nearly barked.

Fully awake now, Jack grinned brightly, nearly bouncing on his feet. “Where're the others?”

“Whisper departed with her brother just after first light,” Maze replied, pushing himself away from the wall, “and Klessan with her sponsor one bell ago. Duran, however, is still in the Map Room. I believe he is waiting for you.”

Disappointed that he had slept passed two of his friends departures and feeling a curious yearning to see Whisper again, Jack set his mind to more pressing matters. “I'll need to pack,” he muttered.

A small, deceivingly heavy sack hit him in the chest. He nearly fumbled the catch, surprised by the weight. “Sir?”

“Your belongings, and initial supplies. I took the liberty of gathering them this morning, and for Skorm's sake boy, find a better hiding place for that journal of mine than beneath your mattress.”

Jack ducked his head at the reprimand, before turning a doubtful gaze at the small bag. “This has all my starting supplies in it?” he asked dubiously, looking to Maze for confirmation.

The archmage looked between him and the bag with a flat expression. Accepting the unspoken chastisement, Jack opened the bag and started at the space he could see inside. Reaching in, his arm sunk down past his elbow before his fingers scrabbled against fabric. He could hear potions clinking against each other as he examined the bag, and the scent of several fresh loaves of bread floated up to him. He looked at his sponsor in astonishment.

“I was perusing my old travel journals,” Maze began by way of explanation, “and came across an early passage dedicated entirely to griping about the woes of lugging about an unspeakably heavy travel pack.”

“So you wanted to spare me the trouble?” Jack asked, surprised at the sympathetic action.

“No. I also complained about it at length to my mentor of the time. This is purely to avoid future headaches,” Maze revealed, straight faced.

Jack stared at his sponsor. “Thanks,” he replied at length, dryly.

Maze grunted in response, moving away from the fireplace entirely. “On your way, boy. There's a whole world out there waiting for you,” the old man said as he left the room, his words hanging in the air behind him like a warning, or a promise.

X x X

“Duran,” Jack said by way of greeting, as he approached his friend in the Map Room.

“Jack,” Duran replied easily, looking him over. The larger man was seated upon a bulky, heavy looking travelling pack leaning against the stair wall. He was clad in brown trousers and wore a stiff leather jerkin over a plain white shirt, and his white dreadlocks had been fastened into a ponytail. At his side sat an engraved iron hammer, glowing softly with the tell tale light of an augmentation. “You'll still need to gather your travel gear then?”

Jack shook his head, patting the strap of the sack that was slung over his shoulder. “Got everything right here,” he replied, before looking over his rumpled appearance and reconsidering. “I'll need to change though. And buy a new blade at some point.”

“Might need that,” Duran agreed, accepting his word on his supplies. “We need to talk, though.”

“Yeah?” Jack asked, tilting his head to the side.

“You saved my life yesterday,” Duran began bluntly. “I owe you.”

Jack frowned, uncomfortable with the idea of having his friend indebted to him.

“I will make you a blade,” the mountain man proposed, “and we will call it even.”

“A blade?” Jack asked, somewhat confused.

“I could wait, and follow you for as long as it took to save your life in return, or I could make you a blade that will save you again and again,” Duran revealed. “A blade you can trust will serve us both better, I think.”

“Where did this come from?” Jack asked curiously. “I didn't know you could forge weapons.”

“It is a custom among my clan, and I cannot. I will have to be guided by my father,” Duran told him. “Do you accept?”

“Well, yeah,” Jack replied, at a loss for any other response.

“Oh good,” Duran sighed, slumping. “I was worried you wouldn't agree.”

“What if I hadn't?” Jack wanted to know, somewhat bemused.

“I would have had to follow you around until I saved your life,” Duran repeated matter of factly. “And that would just be awkward.”

“Fair enough then,” Jack replied with a laugh. “Have you looked at the Quests?”

“I did,” Duran began enthusiastically, “and there's one I think we should take. It's a bit beyond the norm for a first time quest, but between the two of us we can handle it easily.”

“Which one is it?” the younger Hero asked, moving over to the map of Albion that dominated the centre of the room. Dotting the map, from Oakvale in the south all the way up to Bargate Prison in the north, were Quest cards, each bearing their basic details for curious Heroes. If a quest card interested a Hero, they then took the card to the Records Room, where further information was stored.

“Here,” Duran plucked a card from the river that ran past Bowerstone, all the way from the eastern mountains to the ocean. “The barges that take ore from the mines to Bowerstone have been raided by bandits a few more times than is usual over the last few months, and the mine owners want someone to deal with it.”

“They want someone to track down the bandit camp and sort things out?” Jack asked.

Duran shook his head. “The next barge going upstream is carrying the pay for the miners for the last three months. They're sure the bandits are going to hit it, and they want extra protection. The quest is to make sure the gold gets where it's going.”

“And make sure whoever makes a grab for it doesn't live to regret it,” Jack added.

“That's it. We have to get upriver in any case, so we might as well take a quest that gets us there.”

“Looks like we have ourselves a Quest,” Jack said with a grin.

“I'll go sign us up for it, you finish up whatever you need to?” Duran suggested with a grin of his own.

“Meet you outside in a quarter of a bell?” Jack replied.

“Done and done. Let's get to it.”

X x X

A full litre of adrenaline coursed through Jack's system as he stepped through the imposing main doors of the Guild. He took a deep breath, adjusted the cheap iron blade on his back, and took the first steps on his journey to greatness—promptly trodding in dog shit.

At his side, Duran coughed hastily, unsuccessfully attempting to hide his amusement. Jack tried his luck at silencing him with a glare, but was wholly ineffective. He gave up with an exaggerated eye roll, scraping the dog shit from his boot on the grass to the side of the well worn path.

“Come on,” Duran commented, recovered from his amusement. “Bowerstone is a hard day's travel away, and we need to be there by the tenth bell tonight, or we're camping in the woods.”

“They don't allow entrance after that?” Jack asked as they began a quick stride along the long sloping path that led away from the Guild.

“Only if you're known to the guards,” Duran confirmed. “In a good way, that is,” he added quickly, giving a nod to a passing trader. The trader nodded back without making eye contact and hurried past. “Being Heroes won't help us out either,” the big man continued. “Not until we earn ourselves a bit of renown or attract the interest of a bard.”

“This quest should help us there then,” Jack observed. “Being that we're helping out the town.”

“Maybe,” Duran allowed, hoisting his pack more comfortably. “Bowerstone sees a more Heroes than most places though, so we'll likely get more recognition in the mining villages—that's if we get the bandits, of course,” the dreadlocked man said with a grin.

“Ten silver pieces says I get more bandits than you,” Jack challenged instantly.

“Done,” Duran agreed confidently.

The pair fell into a comfortable silence as they walked, passing the occasional trader or fellow traveller. Their path continued to follow a moderate incline, until Jack chanced a glance behind himself and was startled to see the Guild lay out in the distance, its walls stretching out from the main keep. He could just make out a number of small figures moving about the hole that had been blasted through the wall the previous day, already working to repair the damage.

It wasn't the first time the Guild itself had been attacked, and it wouldn't be the last—although it was the first time that sort of damage had been done. Jack shrugged off the faint sliver of worry that came with an attack on his home. It was the Heroes Guild, not Oakvale. No force of bandits or strangely armed raiders would ever be able to raze it to the ground.

“You haven't been out this way before, have you?” Duran remarked, breaking nearly a bell's worth of silence.

“I've gone deeper into the Guild woods, but I haven't left the grounds proper since I enrolled,” Jack shook his head. Maze was not one for casual outings, and if an Apprentice wanted to leave the Guild grounds, their sponsor's presence was required. “No reason to, really,” he finished.

Duran grunted, aware of the reasons behind Jack's previous lack of interest in life outside the Guild. “Just wait till we reach Lookout Point. You can see from Bowerstone to the edge of Greatwood.”

X

Some hours of trekking later, the two Heroes arrived at Lookout Point. The sun had fallen from its zenith, bathing the land about them in an orange glow. Surrounding the Point was a copse of trees, the centre cleared as a resting place for travellers and dominated by a large statue. They were not alone at the famous landmark; a pair of blue uniformed guards patrolled idly while a small Traders caravan took their rest under the shade after the arduous (for the untrained) climb to reach the Point while a trio of spaced out fishermen were slumped on one of the available benches, giggling aimlessly and making sweeping gestures to each other.

“That's Neltran, the cartographer,” Duran nodded to the statue. “The tales say he scaled every height and explored every depth of Albion. Legend has it he destroyed a bandit army by getting them lost in an underground Old Kingdom labyrinth.”

“Where did you hear that?” Jack asked curiously. He had come across the name several times before, but only as a consequence of his research into powerful Heroes, of which Neltran was not. He hadn't known Duran had held anything beyond cursory interest into past Heroes.

“He's my great great uncle,” Duran said with a hint of pride. “The clan still uses his maps today.”

“You never mentioned,” Jack observed, unsurprised. Some Apprentices made great fanfare out of being related to this or that Hero.

Duran shrugged. He had never been one to boast idly. “Come on,” he gestured to a small path leading away from the main clearing. “You want to see this.”

The path they followed did not lead them far, only through the trees surrounding the Point. It curved around a particularly thick grouping of trees, and then revealed what Duran had brought him to see.

Jack sucked in a short breath, surprised by the view laid out for him. The path cut off abruptly at a cliff edge, several hundred metres of empty space dropping down before them. What earned his attention, however, was the great expanse stretching out as far as he could see.

Lookout Point left a long shadow in the afternoon sun, its tip stretching out towards the Heroes Guild. The great building appeared no larger than a thumbnail at this distance, and was almost swallowed by the landscape around it. Beyond it, the Pyrepeak mountains loomed imposingly over Albion, stretching the length of the land as they did, their snow capped peaks shining under the dying rays of the sun.

To the south, he could see the immense reaches of Greatwood forest, its fingers almost enveloping the Point itself. He could almost make out the sinister border that marked the end of Greatwood and the beginning of Darkwood, the ill storied forest somehow escaping the light of the sun. Beyond it, however, lay his home town of Oakvale, rebuilt after the night of fire and steel so many years ago. He turned away, unwilling to revisit the memories of the destruction of his childhood home.

The north was empty of great forests, filled instead with grassy plains and meandering waterways. On one of these waterways sat Bowerstone, stone walls rising up to make themselves seen even at this distance. He cast his gaze further north still, and although he could not see it, Jack knew that if one were to wander past the grass plains, where the cold smothered all but the hardiest of plant life before it could begin, they would find a forbidding, rocky island, where stood an old, scarred prison, used to hold the most degenerate of criminals for whom execution was too good. Bargate Prison was the source of many a horror tale, and for good reason. If even a fraction of the stories of the place were true, Jack would have a hard time wishing anyone there.

“That's some view,” Jack said at length, absorbing the sight.

Duran made a noise of agreement, before falling into silence as they admired the view. It was only when the shadow of the Point lengthened further that he spoke up again. “We should get moving. We still have some ground to cover.”

Jack almost groaned at the thought of more walking. Well, at least it would be mostly downhill.

X x X

Thousands of crickets came alive as the sun dripped below the horizon. A pair of faerie lights illuminated the traveller's path as they trudged along the final approach to Bowerstone. Wearied by the quickened pace of the day's travel despite their good cheer, the two Heroes slowed as they approached the guard station that sat before the main gates of the town.

“Halt, newcomer, and state your business,” came the unfriendly greeting from the guardhouse. A moment later, two guards emerged from within, one younger, in a blue uniform, the one who had spoken, and an elder, grey haired guard in a black uniform who made his was using a sheathed sword as a cane.

“We're Heroes, here for a Quest,” Duran stated confidently, cutting off the flow of Will that kept his fae light active. At his side, Jack merely dimmed his own, guiding it into his sleeve.

“Dunloo mulah hiro temeh,” the older guard mumbled, bringing a chuckle from his partner.

“He said you don't look much like Heroes to him,” the first guard rumbled, seeing their confused faces.

“Yeah, well, doesn't look like you can see much at all, old timer,” Jack muttered back, irritated.

The grey haired guard, hearing apparently unimpaired in his old age, let out a monstrous fart in response. Duran and Jack took a full step back, faces screwed up in disgust, while both guards laughed boisterously at their response.

“I am Kendall,” the younger guard introduced himself, friendlier now, “and this is Karl. If you wish for entry to Bowerstone, you will be required to relinquish your weapons. Also be aware that none of those fancy Will tricks will work within the town walls. Are we understood?”

Jack and Duran exchanged a glance after the spiel, before nodding their assent to the guards. Duran reluctantly handed his hammer over, while Jack shrugged the strap holding his blade to his back off easily. It wasn't like he'd miss it.

A third, red clad guard emerged from the guardhouse, leaving a loaded crossbow behind him, startling the two Heroes from their complacency.

Kendall took note of their reaction and smirked, but said nothing as his fellow guard took their weapons.

“Yeh mebbe hiroos, bet yeh stall bond teh tha law. Kep tha pess, and well get long jes fen,” Karl spoke in warning, his tone forbidding even through his accent.

Kor and Duran felt their spines straightening subconsciously. “Yessir,” they replied dutifully.

“Hmph,” Karl grumbled. “Sahm hop fer yeh yit.”

A great ponderous groan issued from the town gates as they swung open.

“Welcome to Bowerstone,” Kendall said by way of goodbye as they stepped through the gates. “Have a pleasant stay.”

“What was that about?” Jack asked Duran as they passed a second, smaller set of gates.

The big man shrugged. “Making sure we knew who was boss? I can't see them trying that with Thunder, though,” he chuckled.

Jack considered for a moment. “Likely they wouldn't have to. Thunder is a known law abiding Hero, but we're still novices. Maybe that's their way of deciding who to allow in?”

Duran blinked. “That's a good point,” he admitted, and then their speculation was cut short as they emerged into Bowerstone proper.

For Jack, having lived within the walls of the Guild since the attack on his home, his first glimpse of the Bowerstone marketplace was a startling one. Peddlers and merchants hawked their wares, having come from all over Albion to do so. A fish monger who shared Klessan's tanned complexion turned an enormous side of fish on an open grill, adding to the myriad of mouthwatering scents floating through the evening air. Taking up a corner of the sprawling marketplace on its own was an open air forge, a bare chested blacksmith covered in tattoos working the bellows while a small crowd of children watched with interest as they took advantage of the forge's warmth. The sheer presence of the bustling mass of people bore down on the young Hero before he adjusted to the new experience.

“Come on,” Duran was saying. “I know a decent inn not far away.”

X

Decent, as it turned out, was a generous assessment of the inn—and the price per bed provided by a surly innkeeper were anything but. Duran had been forced to lead Jack away from the bar after the younger man had started an argument with the owner over the quality of the inn.

“Arsehole,” Jack muttered irritably, his temper already burning out.

“They were better last time I was here,” Duran shrugged apologetically. “Prices are probably up because of the Night Markets,” he added, referring to the monthly event that was filling the streets that night. “Still got plenty of time to find another inn,” he finish, unconcerned. It wasn't worth getting worked up over.

“You're the one who knows the town,” Jack allowed, calmed now. “If nothing else, we still have our bedrolls,” he pointed out.

“True,” Duran agreed, although he would much prefer to find a proper bed after the day's travel. “Let's go find some food first though.”

Jack agreed with the suggestion wholeheartedly. A day's worth of travel with only a few pieces of cold meat with cheese and a hunk of bread was enough to leave any young Hero famished.

The Night Markets of Bowerstone left them spoiled for choice. Small morsels from each vendor cost them only coppers, giving the two friends leave to sample tastes from all over Albion. The fare at the Guild was often superior, but the cost of regularly attaining some of the foods available that night left them reserved for special occasions. Jack and Duran took full advantage, wandering through the town as they took in the sights.

The gates to the upper class Bowerstone North were barred, of course—it wouldn't do to risk the gathering of the common rabble spilling onto the neatly paved streets and rousing the richer residents from their delicate sleep. It seemed that the slums proper had been tidied up for the occasion too, giving travellers room to revel and dance to the tune provided by a small group of minstrels and bards.

Uncomfortable amidst the whirling mass of people, Jack stepped away from the crowd, searching for some open space. He was leaning against a low stone wall when a flicker of furtive movement caught his eye. He watched as a group of men slipped from the shadows of a row of houses, darting quickly through the archway that led to the quay. Whistling two quick notes to Duran that the dreadlocked man would recognise, he gestured with a nod of his head, pointing out the last of the men to his friend. Curiosity roused, the pair made their way to the quay entrance, slipping through once they were sure that the few guards patrolling the crowds were looking elsewhere.

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The dock area itself was almost deserted, save for an old woman pottering about a small shanty house and a scattering of chickens. The quay itself stretched along the river for some hundred metres, several wooden docks extending from it, boats tied securely in their berths. There was no sign of the group they had seen entering the area, however, and the boats were still.

A flicker of light caught their attention. Through the high window of a warehouse tucked away against the town wall, they could see a single lantern burning brightly. Exchanging a glance, the two Heroes approached the building, unsure of what they might find. A small door, set within the much larger main doors, was slightly ajar. Pushing it open cautiously, Jack stuck his head inside.

All movement within the building stopped, as the twelve or so men within turned to look at the newcomers. They were arrayed around a series of crates that had been arranged in a rough circle, while two of their fellows stood within, one bleeding from a cut to the mouth. All were bare chested, and many had some manner of material strapped around their knuckles.

“Can we help you?” one of the men asked, his tone confident as he padded towards them. He was bald save for a spiked mohawk running across his head, and his left shoulder was covered by a dragon tattoo.

“We saw you sneak into the quay,” Jack answered with a shrug. “We got curious.”

“Is that so? Well then, let me be the first to welcome you to the Bowerstone Fist Fighters Gang,” the apparent leader greeted them with a mocking half bow. “My name is Rund. Now, which one of you will be the one to fight?”

“Who says we're here to fight?” Duran challenged.

“What we do here isn't exactly legal,” Rund chuckled darkly, his amusement echoed by the other members of the gang, “and we have a few rules to keep what we do quiet. Since this is your first night here...you have to fight.”

While always up for a good fight, Duran baulked at being forced into something on principle. “And you're going to stop us going to the guards how?” he asked bluntly.

“Why would we do that? Sure, you could go find a guard, persuade them that there is a group of men beating each other up and bring them back here while we wait patiently for your return,” Rund told him sarcastically. “Then you could spend the rest of the night answering questions about why you wasted the guards time instead of recovering from the day's rigours in a comfortable bed...” he trailed off when he saw just how little that scenario appealed to the two. “Or you could front a small fee, get your fists bloody, smash a few skulls, and maybe walk away with a nice pouch of gold.”

The mention of gold piqued their interest. Beyond the starting funds provided to them by the Guild, the two Heroes wouldn't see any more until they had completed their upcoming Quest.

“How much is the entry fee?” Duran asked, almost reluctantly.

Rund grinned. “Thirty silver per fighter. Will you both enter and double your chances, or place your hopes on one man?”

Jack and Duran exchanged a glance. The entry fee was nearly a third of their personal funds.

“You fight, and we split the fee and the winnings?” Jack offered. Back at the Guild, Duran had always won their spars when they kept purely to melee weapons.

Duran nodded, slipping his travel pack from his shoulders before dropping it to the ground with a thud. He began digging around in it, looking for his money pouch, while Jack sifted through his enhanced pouch. Each finding what they were looking for, Jack counted out twenty silver coins to Duran's ten, handing them over to Rund.

“Very good,” Rund smirked. “You're up next. Try not to get hurt too badly.”

The two men in the ring of crates had begun fighting again, pummelling each other with great vigour. They weren't terribly large or fit men; one could have been a schoolteacher and the other looked like a store clerk, but that didn't stop them from doing their utmost to knock the other on their back. Their fellows cheered them enthusiastically, some jumping up on the crates for a better view.

Duran shrugged off his leather jerkin and rested it beside his pack, before doing the same with his shirt to leave him bare chested like the other fighters. He began to stretch, loosening muscles that were stiff and sore from travel.

“Don't lose,” Jack warned him, before leaving him to wait as he climbed one of the stacks of crates that lined the walls, ostensibly searching for a better vantage point. When he found a comfortable position however, near the top of the crates and well above the heads of the other spectators, he reached into his pouch and withdrew a book. He settled down to read by the light of the lantern that had first drawn their attention to the warehouse.

The taller Hero shook his head, amused but not all that surprised as his friend completely ignored the boxing match he had money on in favour of a new book. He took his dreadlocks out of the pony tail they had been in for the day, before retying them more tightly so as to keep them out of the way. Within the fighting circle, one of the men fell to cheers and boos and Rund caught his eye and invited him into the ring with a sweeping gesture. Duran vaulted the ring of crates and landed in the ring beside the victor of the previous match. He grinned down at the smaller man, who swallowed as he looked up at him. Duran cracked his knuckled and brought his guard up, an anticipatory smile on his face. He had some aggression to work through, and imagining the overcharging innkeeper in his opponent's stead would be a good start.

Up on his perch, Jack tuned out the smack of fists into flesh in order to focus on his book. Maze's journal was fantastically engaging; a fountain of ideas. He had tried reading it during the day's march, but found himself stopping repeatedly in order to read it properly. Now that he had a moment to himself, he wasn't going to waste any more time that could be spent broadening his knowledge of the Will.

So far, the book wasn't quite what he had expected. The first several chapters only recorded one actual Will expression; focusing instead on the archmage's experiments in expanding his capacity for Will. His glance flicked away from the book long enough to see Duran lift a man off his feet with a blow to the stomach, before returning. This type of detailed instruction was not Maze's normal style either—usually he was given a few separate tid bits of information and forced to come up with the entire picture himself. His sponsor was a big believer in leaving students to puzzle things out for themselves, thinking the experience worth more—and it was. Unfortunately, Jack couldn't yet see the hidden lesson in the book's words.

He frowned as he read over a somewhat dubious passage. That didn't sound right at all—and there, that passage was downright wrong! His frown deepened as he flicked back through the pages, returning to the single Will expression detailed so far, a common fireball. Rereading the guide with keener eyes, he spotted another inconsistency. He worked through the simple expression mentally, trying to get a feel for it as Maze had had him do with several other basic expressions before.

Below, Duran booted a man square in the face, knocking him into the ring of crates. Rund pinched the bridge of his nose and pointed to yet another man. At this rate, they'd be out of members and he'd have to fight the newcomer himself.

Jack scowled outright as he finished thinking the fireball expression through. With the instructions provided, he might conjure fire—of course, he'd also likely blow himself up in the process. He regarded the book with considerably less warmth than he had several minutes previous. He would have to study and cross examine each and every passage in the Skorm cursed book, just to make sure it wasn't leading him astray.

He sent a series of uncharitable thoughts at his sponsor. The old man had done this on purpose, obviously. He didn't know why he had expected such a gift of knowledge to be straightforward, but at least there was the promised reward waiting for him once he learned all it had to offer. Jack sighed, returning the book to his bag and turning his attention to his friend.

Duran and Run circled each other on the dirt floor, neither yet willing to make a move. The Hero was bleeding freely from a cut above his brow and tired from the consecutive bouts fought, already weary from the day's travel. At the beginning of the final bout, Rund, seeing his opponent's condition clearly, had attempted to finish the fight quickly, rushing Duran almost before the match began. He had gotten a few good hits in too, hammering the dreadlocked man's ribcage before Duran had caught him in a bear hug, lifting him from the ground and head butting him viciously. Rund had succeeded in breaking Duran's hold, but not before the damage was done. His nose bled profusely, clearly broken. It was that exchange that lead them to their current impasse.

Duran's patience ended first. He darted forward with a speed that belied his large stature, fists swinging. Rund dropped and rolled to the side in an effort to avoid the blows, before exploiting Duran's lack of balance with a sweep of his leg. The mountain man struck out as he fell, only to hit dirt as Rund rolled away from the blow again.

Flipping himself over, Duran rose to all fours and launched himself at Rund with a snarl, catching the other man about his midsection and bearing him to the ground. He hit him once, twice, before grasping the pinned man by the head as he prepared to smash his skull into the dirt.

“Give! I give!”

Duran released his foe and rose to his feet, breathing heavily. On the ground, Run rolled to his side and propped himself up with one arm, his free hand pressed to his face. The cheering and hooting of the defeated spectators had fallen silent as they watched their felled leader.

Run clambered unsteadily to his feet and stumbled over to Duran. The leader of the fight club grasped the Hero's hand and raised it into the air; proclaiming the victor. There was a brief pause, and then the rest of the fighters shouted their approval. Duran raised his other hand, soaking in the adulation as he roared back.

In his perch above their heads, Jack rolled his eyes at the spectacle. His friend was often mistaken to be the quiet, contemplative type, usually by those who hadn't seen him in any sort of competition. Jack, however, knew better. He sighed, vacating his perch and hopping down the tall pile of crates. He would have to speak to Rund about their winnings—there was a very real chance Duran would get caught up in his victory and forget all about the money involved.

X x X

Dawn's first light saw Jack and Duran double checking their packs by the quay, the business of the morning picking up around them. Three two decked river barges were the centre of activity, working traipsing back and forth as they loaded them up with cargo.

Duran's victory over the fist fighter's gang left them with an appreciable amount of extra coin, enabling them to make several prudent purchases. Duran's pack now jingled with the weight of several extra potions, while Jack sported a new pair of iron bracers.

Despite their purchases, they still had more coin than they had started out with, leaving the young Heroes in good cheer—the Guild gave its graduates enough money to make a start, but it wasn't enough to live on for any amount of time. The arrival of several Guards clustered around a Trader drew their attention, and one of the Black guards beckoned them over. It was Karl, the gate guard from the previous evening.

“Pheh, Hiroo,” Karl scowled by way of greeting. “Yeh Quest. Yeh prollem now.”

The cantankerous old guard turned to one of the Blue guards at his back and jerked his head towards the Heroes, and the Blue approached them with a familiar pair of weapons. Duran nearly snatched his hammer from the guard in his haste to get it back, while Jack accepted his as it was offered. Both men secured the weapons across their backs, and the guards walked away without further comment, Karl leading the way. The guards stationed at the entrance to the quay began to keep a closer eye on the now armed Heroes, wary of the unknown Guild members.

“Am I to presume you two ruffians to be the Heroes I arranged for my protection?” the Trader demanded, his elaborate moustache bristling indignantly. It continued to twitch even after the man had finished speaking, seemingly possessed of a life of its own.

Jack and Duran exchanged a glance, unsure of how to respond.

“Well?” the Trader demanded. “Speak up!”

Jack set his jaw belligerently and made to tell the Trader exactly where he could stick his protection, but thought better of it at the last second.

“The Quest card made no mention of protecting people,” Duran said, his tone light. “We're only here to make sure that lockbox gets where it's going,” he finished, nodding towards the heavy looking chest clutched possessively in the Trader's arms. It was undoubtedly the miner's pay that they had been tasked to escort.

“And kill all the murderous bandits out for your blood. Don't forget that part,” Jack added with a smile, unwilling to let the man's manner go without comment.

“Hmph. So you claim,” the Trader sniffed. “Your names?”

“Jack.”

“Duran.”

“Never heard of you,” the Trader replied, looking down his nose at them. “I suppose you'll have to suffice, however. I am Trader Thornbull, and we are running late. I bid you good day.”

Giving the Heroes a final parting inspection, the Trader bustled off, shouting commands at his people, half of which went unheeded in the hustle of the morning's work.

“Skorm take all greedy merchants,” Jack grumbled as they approached the river barge that would be taking them to the mountain mines.

Duran shrugged, amused at his friend's irritation. “We won't have to deal with him much, at least.”

“Do we need to talk to anyone?” Jack questioned as they climbed over a stretch of netting that connected the barge to the dock. Duran had been the one to read over and accept the Quest card, which in hindsight he probably should have done as well.

“The miners hired a group of rushers to protect the barge after the first few bandit attacks. I reckon we should talk to them if nothing else,” Duran replied, hefting his pack more comfortably over his shoulder as they clambered over the side of the barge. He spotted a no-nonsense looking woman directing dockworkers as they lugged various crates up a row of planks that stretched from dock to barge.

The woman spotted them as they approached, her demeanor stern. “You two,” she demanded, “why are you not—ah. You would be the Heroes my good for nothing brother arranged for.”

“That would be us,” Duran answered, the two young men subconsciously standing straighter before her penetrating gaze.

“I am Mistress Ivory,” the middle aged woman introduced herself. There were faint frown lines above her brow and just a touch of grey at her temples, but she still retained much of what would have been great beauty in her youth. “We cleared a cabin above decks for your use, but we were only expecting one Hero and we won't be clearing another, so you'll have to make do,” Mistress Ivory told them shortly. “I trust that will be satisfactory?” she asked, almost daring them to disagree.

“More than,” Jack assured the somewhat intimidating woman who was clearly the one in charge of the operation. She surveyed the 16 year old severely before turning to Duran, who also nodded his understanding.

“The Quest card mentioned some support we might have?” Duran asked politely, although not with the deference Jack had shown. He was two years older, and the senior Hero on the Quest—not a mere employee being paid by the hour.

Mistress Ivory hmm'd, showing her displeasure. “If they ever arrive,” she said, her lips pursed. A commotion at the other end of the barge, two workers yelling at each other, drew the matronly woman's attention. “If you will excuse me,” she said, stalking off to the shouting men with purpose. As she drew near, they quietened, although their argument continued.

The above deck cabins that Mistress Ivory had mentioned were located at the rear of the barge, lining the end. The cabins were not particularly large, but neither were they cramped. There were three total, each large enough for a small family to sleep in with little trouble. To one side, there was a gap between the last cabin and the edge of the barge, a staircase leading to the lower deck and the communal sleeping area located there.

Unlinke most river barges, which relied on oarsmen, sails, or long poles for propulsion, the mountain mines left their owners rich enough to easily afford the best. A pair of great paddle wheels sat on either side of each barge; an innovation that was still somewhat new to river travel in Albion. A team of men could take shifts on the paddle wheels, cranking them day and night to power the barge upstream.

Jack and Duran made their way to the one cabin that didn't already have belongings piled outside the door, and found it unlocked. It was a simple affair; a narrow bed and a single rickety dresser was the extent of the furniture. There was a brief scuffle as both young men dove for the bed that ended when Duran very nearly threw Jack over his shoulder after the swifter Hero darted in front of him. Duran grinned smugly as he stretched out on the bed, Jack scowling back as he retrieved his bedroll from within his larger-on-the-inside pouch.

Having nothing else to unpack, Jack left the cabin while Duran rustled within his pack for some item or another. Stepping back into the organised chaos of the main deck, Jack dodged out of the way of a pair of cursing dockworkers who were just finishing dragging a heavy net over several stacks of luggage that were stowed atop the cabins. As they left, Jack jumped onto the barge railing, balancing precariously in place, before leaping up to grab the edge of the net and haul himself up to the top of the luggage stacks, where he perched with his legs dangling over the river. Retrieving the book on Will Maze had gifted him with, he lay back using his pouch as a pillow and began to read, soaking up the rays of the early morning sun.

As he read, Jack began to enjoy the challenge provided by his sponsor's journal. As it discussed different ways to prepare Will channels, Jack felt himself becoming drawn in even as he spotted the occasional error in reasoning or dubious statement that Maze had left for him. The way his sponsor spoke of deepening certain Will channels or repeating a specific expression to encourage Will development along a desired path to enable more powerful spells later in life was fascinating. So engrossed in the book as he was, he was nearly startled off his perch and into the water when a shrill series of whistles broke his concentration. Looking up, he saw that much of the bustle around the docks had come to a stop, and the crews of the river barges were preparing to cast off.

Almost in unison, the paddle wheels on one side of each barge began to spin, and Jack felt a giddy rush of excitement as they pulled away from the dock. His first Quest had official begun.

X

Quests were slow, monotonous and almost universally boring.

At least, that was Jack's experience of them so far. For much of the day, he had alternated between reading Maze's journal and watching the riverbanks glide past.

There had been some excitement earlier in the day as they left the boundaries of Bowerstone proper, and Jack had felt the connection to his Will come rushing back. The colours of the world had never seemed so vibrant, nor the sounds so crisp. The taste of a cold breakfast of meat and cheese lingering on his tongue had hit him all over again, only tasting like it had been prepared for a nobleman's table. The fae light he had tucked under his collar the previous evening had drifted back out, energised by the joy he had felt in his Will. Bright even under the morning sun, Jack had come to his senses and clamped down on his Will after the light conjuring expression had started drawing attention from the crew.

Since then, however, the day had been naught but dull drudgery, broken only by managing a small Will expression he had found in the journal that prevented the sun's rays from cooking him to a crisp as he lay atop the barge's luggage.

Duran had almost appeared to enjoy the lack of activity on their parts, leaning against the railing to watch the scenery pass without comment. That had lasted until a trio of young women had approached him, daughters of various Traders heading for the mines, and begun chatting, seemingly interested in the way he had dreadlocked his hair. Jack noted that his friend didn't seem averse to talking about all manner of topics with the young women, and neither did they, if the furtive, smiling glances they gave each other were any indication. Inexplicably, Jack's thoughts drifted to Whisper.

That had been several hours ago, and the women had drifted off, leaving Duran to his river watching and depriving Jack of this people watching, save for the bored off duty crew playing cards in a shady corner of the main deck.

It was evening before anything of further note happened. The lead barge had slowed slightly, drawing closer to the middle barge that Jack and Duran resided on, and a heavy rope was thrown across the gap and fastened. A man jumped from the lead barge to the rope and began to shimmy along it until he reached its end, where he clambered over the rail and onto the deck. A quick discussion with a crew member led to him looking down the barge and up to the luggage area, meeting Jack's gaze. He gave the young Hero a nod and began to make his way toward him, ambling past the crew as they went about their duties.

Jack leapt lightly from his perch, landing easily and giving a short looping whistle that Duran would recognise from their Apprentice days to gain his attention. Aware of Jack's call and sighting the object of his attention, Duran pushed off the railing to meet him and the newcomer in the middle of the deck.

“Heroes,” the newcomer greeted amicably. “It's good to have you on board. Call me Birch,” the man introduced himself. He had a wiry build, Jack noted, and his hands sported thick callouses. He was deeply tanned, likely earned from a life on the river; his eyes were framed by crinkled laugh lines. A thin white scar ran from his right cheekbone to the corner of his mouth, pulling slightly every time he spoke.

Jack and Duran introduced themselves in turn; Birch appeared pleased as he heard their names.

“It's always good to work with younger or lesser known Heroes,” he said by way of explanation. “Too often the more famous ones get too big for their britches and refuse to listen to good advice.”

The two Heroes shrugged, well aware of the diverse opinions the people of Albion held of members of the Heroes Guild.

“I'm the leader of the men Mistress Ivory hired,” Birch continued. “We're spread out between the first and last barges. Figured you two will be enough protection here if any bandits are silly enough to stick their heads up.”

“Where have the attacks occurred on past trips?” Duran questioned, trying to get a feel for the Quest.

“Whenever the bastards have felt like dragging themselves from their beds,” Birch told them, grimacing. “They had a go at us within sight of the mines once.”

“No one has tried to find the bandit camp?” Jack asked, swatting a mayfly away from his face.

“There was a Quest card put up at the Guild, but it wasn't taken,” Birch told them. “The fellow who owns the mine paid for a few guards to take some men out to have a look, but it didn't end well.”

“What happened?” Duran asked.

“Only a few made it back-part of my band, actually,” Birch revealed. “It was the skill they showed that got us this operation. They've duties to attend to tonight, but if the two of you want to ask them a few questions we've got a bit of a card game planned for next evening,” the rusher offered.

The two Heroes exchanged a glance, silently conferring.

“There's to be wenches,” Birch added, sweetening the deal.

“Sounds good,” Duran agreed almost immediately, prompting an eyeroll from Jack. At least his friend was becoming predictable.

X

The first night on the river was uneventful, the three river barges putting down anchor at a broad bend in the river. An empty meadow lined the closest bank, providing no cover for any group of bandits that might think the convoy a juicy target, while an incumbent full moon illuminated the glassy river surface.

The second day passed much as the first had, Jack spending hours attacking Maze's journal with a quill while Duran did his best impression of a statue, scarcely moving from his spot leaning against the barge railing.

Thankfully, the second day seemed to pass faster than the first, the pace having grown on the younger of the two Heroes. In what seemed like not time at all, the torches that lit up the barge were being lit while Jack and Duran found themselves waiting for a rope to be thrown across from the lead barge for them to climb across.

Dusk had well and truly set in when the rope was finally hurled across, Duran catching the heavy coil easily, knotting it around the small post that stood nearby for such a purpose.

“Torches are bright tonight,” Jack remarked offhand as Duran hoisted himself up onto the rope bridge.

The big man paused, squinting past the nearest torch, out across the waters they had put down anchor in for the night. “My night vision has gone to shit,” he said by way of agreement, still hanging in place.

Jack gave their mooring a more thorough examination, having given it little thought when they had first pulled up. It was not quite as secure as the previous night's berth, being in a much narrower stretch of river bordered by trees, but still serviceable enough. Take away the sentries' night vision, however, and more than a few potential approaches opened up.

“Keep an eye out tonight then?” Jack suggested, hoisting himself up onto the rope as Duran pulled himself along. The mountain man made a noise of agreement, and they completed the rest of their crossing in silence.

Birch was waiting for them on the other side. “Glad you came,” he greeted them, smiling. “Cards are set up below. Come on!”

The Heroes followed the rusher as he led them towards the staircase that twisted down to the lower deck. The occupants of this barge were an altogether different sort than those on their previous. Made up mostly of new workers for the mine, there were also a number of less affluent Traders headed upstream to ply their wares. Dotted around the deck was also a small number of young—and not so young—women wearing low cut dresses.

The atmosphere became darker and smokier as they left the main deck behind, descending below. The only light sources came from several oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. Low support beams forced Duran to stoop down to pass as Birch led them further in, , past rows of hammocks and over to a corner that was shielded from view by a set of heavy curtains.

“Boys!” Birch hollered over the confined noise as he drew the curtains back. “I brought the Heroes!”

A chorus of 'Eyyy!'s' greeted them as they were ushered through the area the rushers had set aside for themselves. The rushers were a rough and tumble sort, but respectable enough.

“Boys, these are the Heroes. Heroes, this is the boys. Take a seat,” Birch rattled off the introductions as he directed Jack and Duran to open places in the card circle the rushers had set up around a low table. “Jack, you sit there. Duran, you'll want to be over next to that empty spot; Rosie sits there. You'll like Rosie.”

Jack and Duran found themselves on opposite sides of the circle, a mug of ale pressed into their hands. From the good cheer of the game, it seemed that they'd been playing and drinking for some time without any great losses on anyone's part.

Taking a small sip from his mug, Jack managed to avoid pulling a face at the bitter taste. He made a decision to stick to mead in the future, even as he pretended to take another swig of ale to be polite. Duran drained half of his own mug in one swill, having been stealing ale from the Guild kitchens for the last year of his Apprenticeship, before sitting back to nurse it.

'Deal em in!' came the cry, and a fresh deck of cards was doled out for a new game. It was one Jack was familiar with, and he was able to keep most of the small copper coins he had brought with him in his own pile. The next game was new to him, leading the young Hero to beg off. The game was a fast paced on; each player concentrating intently on an array of cards set up in the middle of the table. Jack was left to watch the players as they slapped cards down on the pile with ever increasing speed. The rushers, Duran as well, all wore their excitement clear on their faces, all except Birch; his face was a mask of concentration. The game came to a climax in some sort of duel between Duran and Birch, each taking and adding cards to the pile on the table in a frenzy. Finally, Duran gave a great shout, arms raised in triumph, while Birch sagged back in defeat.

“Can't win em all, I suppose,” Birch told them, gracious in defeat. “Just most of them,” he winked.

Laughter abounded; a fresh round of cards and ale were handed out. Jack accepted his without comment, most of his previous mug having made its way unobtrusively to the floor.

“Birch,” Jack called, drawing the man's attention away from the fresh round of cards he was dealing. “You said some of your men had fought the bandits raiding the barges?”

“Ah, yeah,” Birch nodded, gesturing around the room. “These boys here. They were the only ones who managed to escape the ambush alive,” he said, almost proudly.

“Describe the ambush?” Jack asked.

“How many people did you lose?” Duran added, giving Jack a short glance.

Rather than answer himself, Birch gestured to another of his men; a wiry muscled man who wore his hair shaved short.

“Came outta nowhere,” the rusher shook his head. “We were followin' a game trail when it happened. Didn't hear a sound before the bastards were on us.”

“Like they dropped from the trees,” another, larger rusher piped up. “Whoever planned the ambush had to have known the woods like the back of their hands,” he finished soberly, taking another drink of his ale.

“The strange thing is how close we were to the Heroes Guild,” the first man picked up again. “You wouldn't think bandits would wanna lair themselves anywhere near there.”

Jack remembered the group of bandits killed by himself and Whisper within the Guild Woods only two days ago and held his tongue. He deliberately avoided thinking of the assault on the Guild that ended with Heroes dead within its walls, even if their revival had been possible.

“Two Blue guards and a mob of the miners were with us,” the larger rusher said in answer to Duran's question. “Few of them got out with us, but injured. Most didn't make it back to the mines. Only fella who did died in the night.”

“And that got you this job?” Duran prodded.

“Foreman at the mines was impressed, hired us almost on the spot,” the shorter rusher shrugged.

“Seems unusual,” the mountain man observed.

“I've worked with the man before,” Birch spoke up. “He knew my men would be good for it. Now, ready for another round?”

The rushers agreed enthusiastically, seemingly eager to leave the topic of the ambush behind. Looking over to Duran, Jack shrugged. They could always question them more tomorrow. The game picked up once more, and the Heroes settled back in to enjoy themselves.

Several games later, Jack was watching a game he had been eliminated from early, taking the chance to work the kinks from his back and examine his fellow players some more. It was as he looked around the room that he saw the curtain walls shift, revealing the latest arrival to the game. A woman, crimson haired; all sensuous curves with dark, wicked eyes full of promise. Her clothing was less revealing than that of some of the women on the top deck, yet it stirred the blood all the more for it as it clung and shifted about her form as she moved. By chance, the woman was looking directly at Jack as she entered and she froze, like a doe caught before a hunter's bow. She recovered quickly, however, and before long a naughty smile was in place and she winked at the equally startled young hero, earning a light blush for her efforts.

The rest of the men had noticed the entrance of the woman who could only be Rosie, and were watching enraptured as she swayed her way around the table, moving away from the only open seat, and rewarding her admirers with light touches here and there. As she passed Jack, he felt sinking disappointment when there was no brush against his back. That disappointment was stamped out when he felt a delicate touch on each shoulder and soft breath on his neck. Rosie leaned in and traced the edge of his ear with the tip of her tongue, before nibbling gently on his earlobe. Jack slumped bonelessly into his chair as she moved on, and he could feel her smirk burning into his back. Unbidden, the thought came to him that had he lived a normal life, he might have made a great fool of himself chasing a girl very much like Rosie back in Oakvale.

Rosie continued on, only stopping briefly to whisper something to Birch, who frowned slightly, before shrugging and replying with a smile. Moving on to the seat conveniently left free next to Duran, Rosie perched herself archly on its edge, leaning forward with one hand resting on Duran's thigh. Judging by the attention the big man was giving the redhead, he didn't mind her presumption one bit.

It was a few minutes into the next game that Rosie spoke up.

“So, Heroes,” the redhead began with a lilting smile. “What is it like?”

Jack blinked, broken from his contemplation of his less than stellar cards, while Duran, already folded, lowered his mug to ask, “how do you mean?”

“The adventure of being a Hero,” Rosie expanded with a grand gesture, as the game continued without them. “Travelling to far away places, meeting exotic people, slaying great beasts.”

Jack frowned at the romanticised notion of a Hero's life that Rosie seemed to hold.

“Well, the exotic people are just grand,” Duran told the redhead flirtatiously, receiving a playful smack on his arm in return. “And we're on our way to the Northern Pyrepeaks now. My clan lives there, and I have not seen them for many years,” he said somewhat wistfully, before perking up. “But having a Hero in the clan is a good thing, so it will be worth it in the end.”

Rosie laid a hand on his shoulder for a brief moment, before turning to Jack. “And you, Jack? “ she asked with a smile. “What made you want to be a Hero?”

“Seemed like the thing to do at the time,” Jack answered with a careless shrug. His closest friends knew why he had become a Hero and what his ultimate goal was, but that was it, and Avo be damned if he was going to open up to a room of strangers about it.

“How old are you, anyway?” Rosie questioned, seemingly off on another tangent. “About sixteen years?”

“Last Avossuns Day,” Jack acknowledged with a nod. “Why?”

“Just curious,” Rosie answered. “You must be quite skilful to be a Hero so young.”

Jack shrugged again, uncomfortable with the attention. Rosie seemed to be curiously happy, but thankfully her attention returned to Duran, who seemed to enjoy it more. The question about his age struck him as odd, however—she couldn't be that much older than him, if she was at all.

The games continued for several hours, some the Heroes knew and some they didn't. Jack was on a streak of luck, his pile of copper coins several times larger than what he had started with. Rosie, meanwhile, had migrated to Duran's lap, and was whispering advice in his ear, while Birch watched all before him with a measured eye. The ale flowed freely, and Jack had almost taken enough small sips to convince himself that maybe it wasn't as bad as he had first assumed.

It was during one of the games that Jack was sitting out that he heard what could have been a faint, piping scream. He sat up straight, shaking off the dullness that had come over his senses.

“Did you hear that?” Jack questioned the rusher next to him, gaining the attention of several others around the table as well. The rusher in question shook his head blankly, but then Birch spoke up.

“I think I did,” the heavily tanned man opined. “Some lout will have had a few too many and fallen overboard.”

There was another shout, clearer this time without the ruckus of the game.

“And that will be his mate diving after him,” Birch chuckled, shuffling the cards he held. “Come on now. Let's finish this round and have a few more drinks.”

Birch's suggestion was met with enthusiasm from his rushers and indifference from Duran, who had his lap full of a wriggling Rosie, but Jack was suddenly struck by the notion that their Quest was to protect the barges, not play cards.

“I'm going to have a quick look above,” Jack decided, rising to his feet.

“Ahh, do you have to?” Birch bargained. “Wait one more round.”

Shrugging in response, Jack stepped away from the table and attempted to squeeze past the other rushers.

“If that's the way it has to be,” Birch said, sounding resigned. “Boys!”

Jack froze in place as he felt a pair of blades pressed into his sides. Duran made a strangled sort of half yelp and jack looked over to see Rosie holding a pair of thin blades, one at the big man's throat and another at his balls.

“Easy there, Heroes,” Birch warned, his tone no longer jovial. “There are some of us who don't want this to end in blood,” his gaze drifted to Rosie for a brief moment.

“You're working this from the inside,” Jack realised as he was forced back into his seat.

“Right in one,” Birch agreed, spinning a strange edged weapon around one finger. It had a circular grip in the middle and two blades of differing length extended from each side.

“You might have gotten the drop on us, but you can't expect to take on two Heroes with the men you've got,” Duran pointed out almost arrogantly, although Jack, knowing his friend well, could see his uncertainty.

“An experienced pair of Heroes, perhaps,” Birch grinned. “But you are not experienced. In fact, I'd wager this could be your first Quest. In any case, it doesn't matter,” he finished dismissively. “We've been lacing your drinks all night.”

“Try and throw a punch,” one of the rushers grinned. “I want to laugh when you fall on yer arse.”

Jack almost smirked after the rusher spoke.

“What?” Birch demanded sharply as he caught the subtle change in Jack's demanour.

“You might have taken our strength,” Jack began, meeting Duran's gaze. “But you haven't taken our Will.”

A savage grin came over the mountain man's face, and the Heroes acted. Duran's torso swelled and bulged, his muscles thickening as he nearly doubled in size. With both hands, he grabbed the arm holding the knife that threatened his manhood, ignoring the small blade that dug impotently into his thickly muscled neck. Rising to his feet, he disarmed Rosie and grasped her by the neck, hurling her across the table and into a small cluster of rushers.

As Duran had acted, so had Jack. His form turning insubstantial, the blades at his back found only air as their owners attempted to run him through. He swept through the table and reformed, grabbing the rusher at Duran's side by the arm. A single bolt of electricity coursed through him, sending the bald man into convulsions on the floor.

Their numbers reduced by half in the first exchange, the rushers seemed hesitant to continue until three of their number could extricate themselves from under Rosie. The short stand off was broken when Birch hurled a small object across the table at the two Heroes before diving under it himself. Not a second later, the object exploded in a cacophony of light and sound. The Heroes, familiar with such devices from their friendship with Whisper, had the fortune to close their eyes and cover their ears instinctively in the instant before the blast. The rushers, caught wholly unprepared, were not so fortunate.

When the smoke cleared, Jack and Duran were left in a room of incapacitated rushers, while Birch and Rosie were nowhere to be seen.

“The lockbox,” Duran said in realisation, his body returning to its natural size. “They'll be trying to beat us to it.” He made to lead the way from the room, only to stumble, the drugged ale taking its toll. He cursed. “I'll catch up. I'm not failing our first Quest!”

Taking the direction for what it was, Jack sprinted across he lower deck to the stairs, taking them three at a time. On the main deck, he found the crew and passengers clustered together at one side. Forcing his way through to the front, he came across the spectacle they were watching.

The Trader Thornbull and his sister, Mistress Ivory were held hostage along with the three young girls that had approached Duran earlier in the trip, roughly a dozen bandits gathered about them. Their leader, a tall brute covered head to toe in tattoos was strutting back and forth, a wicked looking cutlass in one hand. Another five bandits stood next to each of the hostages, also bearing naked steel, save one who held a loaded crossbow.

Jack's attention was drawn to the youngest hostage, a girl of no more than thirteen years. The bandit holding her was pressing himself against her body, leering at her frightened whimpers as she tried fruitlessly to escape.

Flame flickered at the edge of his vision, and Jack was taken back to the attack on his home all those years ago. The degradations a small group of bandits had forced a ten year old girl through as he lay hidden and unable to do anything but watch forced themselves back to the forefront of his mind, and the world about him fell to silence as the memory of her screams burst back to the forefront of his mind.

Tunnel vision set in, and he threw all he had learned of tactics and hostage retrieval at the Guild to the winds. His form blurred, and the distance between the two barges seemed to stretch into infinity. Then he was standing in front of the bandit he had targeted, wrath and death in his eyes. He gripped the bandit's wrist with one hand as the man tried to bring his weapon to bear, rage bubbling within his chest, even as he slammed his fist into his foe's face, again and again, the desire to cause the man pain dominating his actions. Jack brought his hand back to deliver another blow, only to open his fist and flex his fingers, a dancing blue flame dancing to life in his palm. He bared his teeth in a silent snarl, and then he grasped the face of his victim with his burning hand.

The bandit's face molded around his fingers, eyeballs bursting messily under the heat. Screams of immeasurable pain burst forth, distorted and wet, as his foe flailed wildly in an attempt to escape his doom. Jack held on until he felt skin sloughing off under his grasp, and then he let the weakly moaning body fall to the deck. He turned to the remaining bandits, quenching the flame in his fist. Almost as one, they took a step back, before realising that they faced only one foe, a kid even if he was a Hero.

Jack shook with anger as he watched his enemies. Without breaking his gaze, he leaned down to pick up the axe the dead bandit had been holding against his hostage. Raising the weapon high, he brought it down with a wet thud into the dying man's stomach, deliberately increasing the agony of his last moments. The girl he had saved flinched as blood splattered her dress, apparently equally terrified of the vicious bandits and the brutal Hero who had rescued her. With a messy wrench, Jack freed his new weapon from the guts of his victim and hefted it experimentally, feeling its weight. He smiled at his still surprised foes, like a shark questing after the scent of blood.

Had they been smarter men, they would have heeded the fell chill that clawed up their spines in that moment and fled. But they were not, and so they charged the Hero to a man, intent on destroying what their subconscious minds recognised as a bigger predator.

The young Hero rushed forward again, his blurred form almost glowing blue in the night. Ignoring the leading bandits entirely, Jack suddenly became solid in front of the last man, axe already mid swing. The steel head bit deeply into his neck, and Jack wrenched it free in a spray of blood, turning with its momentum to bury it in the back of the next bandit. The bandit collapsed, his scream of pain alerting his friends to the threat at their backs. A bolt of lightning erupted from Jack's free hand, lighting up the deck as it arced between two foes. The scent of cooked meat began to waft over the water as the bandits realised their number had been reduced by a third after a single exchange.

Beginning to show signs of panic, the bandits looked around as if for their hostages, only to realise that Jack now stood between him and them, and that the girl he had liberated first had fled to the cabins, wisely locking herself in. The crossbow wielding bandit took aim and loosed, only for the bolt to pass through the Hero's ghostly form harmlessly.

Returning to his solid state, Jack belatedly thought of the hostages behind him. He turned slightly to confirm their well being, relieved when he saw them crouching at the barge rail, the girls shielded protectively by Ivory and Thornbull.

Small tremors ran down Jack's arms, the intense period of Will use taking its toll. He drew his anger and rage at the bandits back to the forefront of his mind, drawing strength from it. As he regathered himself, the bandits began to spread themselves out in an attempt to lessen the damage he could inflict with his Will, and Jack made to take advantage of the distance between them. He blurred towards an enemy on the edge of the group, axe raised for a killing blow. His target flinched violently, unable to react to his sudden appearance, and Jack took pleasure in the fear in his eyes.

The swish of metal through air was his only warning, and he dropped instinctively, rolling to the side to avoid the blade that would have cleaved his arm from his body. The hulking bandit leader had leapt to the point he would arrive at the instant he had blurred into motion, somehow anticipating his Will expression. His original target, spared from death, brought his own blade back for a vicious blow, and Jack was forced to blur away again, putting distance between himself and his foes. He fought the urge to lower his axe and use it as a crutch. Keeping his focus, Jack drew on his anger once more, although even that source of strength was beginning to flag.

Sensing weakness, the bandits began to advance. In retaliation, Jack electrocuted another of their number, leaving him twitching on the deck. The two sides regarded each other warily, neither able to advance without disadvantage. The remaining bandits were on edge against another bolt of lightning, and Jack finally began to come to his senses, assessing the situation as he had been taught.

There were seven bandits facing him, and four civilians at his back. His enemies were learning to predict where his rushes would take him, and his Will reserves were beginning to run low. His mind flashed back to the attack on the Guild, and the warning the Guildmaster had given him about the dangers of using his very lifeforce to power his spells. He hefted the axe he had liberated; it was a good weapon, and fairly light. He didn't have the time to kill all the bandits, more the pity, as there were two more foes possibly making off with the objective of the Quest as he wasted time. The situation needed to change.

Duran chose that moment to make his entrance. Legs almost impossibly huge, he leapt the distance between the two barges in a single bound, crashing down on top of an unlucky bandit. As they stared in shock at the Hero with legs nearly twice as long as his body, Duran lashed out again, catching a foe square in the chest with his boot. The bandit was sent flying across the deck, before coming to a sudden stop against the railing with a nasty crack. He didn't get up.

The mountain man hefted a heavy length of wood in his hands easily as his legs returned to their normal size. He eyed the remaining bandits, who were now clearly wishing they were somewhere else.

“This all there was?” Duran asked, eager to do violence.

Jack looked around, taking note of the spectators on both other barges. “Probably. There's still Birch and Rosie though. What about the rushers?”

“Sleeping soundly,” Duran chuckled somewhat nastily, hefting his makeshift weapon once more.

A bandit, emboldened by their apparent lack of attention, made a run at Duran. He was clobbered across the jaw for his efforts, the bone breaking with an audible crack. His mates followed quickly, aiming to overwhelm the dreadlocked Hero.

“I've got this lot,” Duran shouted over the melee as he came to blows with the bandit leader. “Get after the gold!”

Trusting Duran to be able to handle a few bandits, Jack turned and strode to the cowering civilians, crouching beside them and grasping the Trader Thornbull by the arm. “Where is the lockbox?” he demanded of the man.

“Our cabin,” the terrified man replied, “where Olivia hid,” he stammered, referring to the young girl Jack had saved first.

Jack rose to his feet and blurred across the entirety of the deck to the cabins, bypassing the fight completely. He leaned against a cabin door and sucked in a heavy breath, winded after his continued use of Will. Blocking out the shrieks coming from the bandit Duran was using as a club, he listened at the door, hearing only silence. Trying the handle, he found it locked. His boot had better luck, breaking the flimsy door wide open and leaving it hanging drunkenly from one hinge.

The figures within froze at his entrance. Birch was halfway to the cabin window, lockbox in his arms, while Rosie had Olivia against the wall, finger held across her lips and knife at her throat. The redhead had ditched the dress she had worn previously and was now clad in breeches and shirt; perhaps she had been wearing the breeches underneath all along. Olivia made a frightened whimper at Jack's entrance and Rosie ave him a guilty look, reminiscent of a child caught with their hand in the jam.

“Well,” Birch started slowly. “This is a dilemma. I didn't expect you to be able to shake off the ale so quickly.”

“I never drank it,” Jack told him, keeping an eye on all three of them.

“So I see,” Birch replied, making no move to put down the lockbox. He glanced from Jack to Rosie. “However, we do appear to have the upper hand here, so I think we'll be leaving with our prize, if you don't mind.”

In response, Jack brought his hand up and let it fill with lightning, aiming at Birch.

“Ah,” the tanned man said. “So we're at an impasse.”

“No,” Jack shook his head. “You've got about two minutes to leave before my friend finishes with those bandits and I don't have to let you escape.”

“I'm sorry,” Birch blinked. “Hostage?”

“Can't protect you when she's dead. Kill her and you're next,” Jack promised.

“Ok, how about this then,” Birch began, his tone turning hard. “Rosie cuts the little miss just enough to make her bleed and we walk away with the gold while you choose between saving her life and giving chase. How do you like that on, Hero?”

Jack hesitated, hearing the promise in Birch's words. He glanced at Olivia; her eyes were wide and frightened as Rosie held her in place. She clearly believed he would leave her to die after what she had seen him do to the bandit holding her, and he felt a short flicker of guilt, before pushing it down ruthlessly. He stared hard at the redhead for a long moment as a suspicion formed in his gut.

“Maybe you'd leave the poor girl to bleed out for money,” Jack acknowledged, flying by the seat of his pants, “but I'll bet you all the gold in that lockbox that Rosie wouldn't.”

There was a pregnant pause as Birch considered Jack's words. Rosie looked between the two men, her blade drifting away from the young girl very slightly and Jack felt a surge of triumph.

Birch swore sulfurously, his hand dipping into his pocket and flashing up even as he dropped the lockbox. Jack jerked his arm up reflexively, catching a small dagger in his forearm. He lashed out blindly with a bolt of lightning from his uninjured arm, but succeeded only in scorching the bed. Yanking the blade form his arm, he looked up to see Birch already gone and a flash of red hair disappearing through the window. The dull thump of boots on wood drifted up through the window and Jack rushed over to it, halting himself instinctively in the instant before he would have stuck his head through it. Not a second later, another small dagger passed through the space his head would have occupied, sticking into the low ceiling where it quivered in place.

Waiting for another long moment, Jack looked out through the window when no more daggers were forthcoming. The river surface outside was shrouded in darkness, moon hidden behind the clouds, and whatever small water craft the pair had dropped down into was nowhere to be seen. Briefly, Jack considered conjuring light, but then rethought the wisdom of pinpointing his location for another knife throw.

Vaguely noting that he'd been stabbed through the arm, Jack pulled the blade from his flesh and went to Olivia helping the girl to her feet and checking she was uninjured. She gave a shaky nod, silently assuring him of her well being and he made his way over to the lockbox, securing it properly. He lifted it with his uninjured arm, surprised at its heaviness, and guided Olivia from the cabin, the sounds from Duran's fight having fallen silent. They emerged just in time to see that Duran had found time to retrieve the hammer he had been gifted by his sponsor as a graduation present, and was about to use it to execute the bandit leader. The hammer came down, and a wet squelch echoed across the deck. Jack noted that a number of the spectators on the other barges were looking rather nauseous, and that several other bandits appeared to have met a similar fate. For a brief moment, Jack could have sworn that the runic engravings on the hammer had glowed green, but then the moment passed and he was left unsure.

“You've got the lockbox,” Duran said breathlessly, still exhilarated from the fight. “And the other two?”

“They got away,” Jack replied, “but they left gifts,” he finished sardonically, showing his friend the throwing knife he had plucked from his arm, still wet with his blood.

“He got you then. Show me the wound,” Duran ordered, adrenaline high over and his usual calm attitude reasserting itself.

Jack offered his wounded arm up for inspection, the pain starting to register in the wake of the fight, as well as the depleted state of his Will reserves. He watched as the crew and passengers of the other barges, spectators up until that point, began to attempt to cross over, trying not to pay attention as Duran poked and prodded at his arm.

“You were lucky,” Duran spoke. “Blade went in right between your radius and ulna. An inch either way and we'd be dealing with a chipped bone.” A white light suffused his hands as he held the wound. “Still, all good now.”

Jack took in a deep breath, holding it for several counts before letting it out, seeking to calm himself after the night's excitement. “We did it,” he said with a bit of a grin. “We beat them.”

“We did indeed,” Duran said with a grin of his own. “Pity you didn't have another one of those thrown at you,” he said with a nod to the dagger. “We could've had matching trophies.”

“Check the ceiling in the cabin,” Jack suggested, turning to watch as the other barges were drawn closer, occupants eager to get close now that the danger had passed.

“Ha!” Duran slapped him on the back, enormously pleased. He looked over the growing group of people beginning to mill around them, looking as if he wanted to say more, but thought better of it.

“Here come the admirers,” Jack observed with decidedly mixed feelings. The accolades of people he had helped in his Quests had always featured prominently in his day dreams, but that the moment was here, he almost wished he was somewhere else.

“Trophy up,” Duran said, bumping him with his shoulder. “Let's give them a good show.”

Taking his friend's advice, Jack lifted the bloody blade high into the air, a cheer from those they had protected rising with it. As the hostages they had rescued stepped over the bandit corpses to be the first to thank them, Jack felt a smile tug at his lips. Perhaps he could get used to it.

X x X

The Guildmaster regarded the mangled hunk of flesh before him on the table. Bereft of its limbs, only blackened stumps remained. Squares of flesh had been flayed from its chest, and one ear had been cut from its head. The sole surviving raider who had dared to assault the Guild of Heroes was a pitiful remnant of the warrior he had been, but still he remained defiant—or so the man thought.

With exacting precision, Weaver reached out and plucked a blue orb from the raider's head, leaving a partially healed socket. With a flex of his fingers, the orb shattered into uncountable pieces.

“Liars and thieves, you know not what is in store,” the mostly dead raider ranted, his remaining brown eye teetering on the brink of madness.

“Your language is a surprisingly lyrical one,” Weaver remarked, watching his subject over steepled fingers. The raider froze as his native tongue rolled across his torturer's lips.

“How?” the raider demanded, struggling feebly against his binding even with his injuries.

“Die unknowing,” the Guildmaster condemned, slicing his subject's throat neatly.

The man gurgled once, before finally succumbing to his wounds. Weaver immolated the corpse with a brief flicker of Will, a frown marring his usually serene visage. The knowledge he had dredged from the raider's mind was troubling, and could lead to dark times for all of Albion. If they—the Wiccermen, as he now knew they called themselves-- had stumbled upon Albion's shores by chance, then their disappearance would be written off as the result of a foolish endeavour by their countrymen.

But if they had voyaged through the wintry seas of the far south purposefully seeking them...well. The possibility, added to the great sense of wrath and betrayal he had gleaned from the Wiccerman's mind was enough to make the powerful Guildmaster err on the side of caution.

It would serve no purpose to start a panic, but a few strings here, a whisper there, a word of advice to certain promising young Heroes...he was not called Weaver by passing fancy.

The Guildmaster strode from the Guild dungeons, purpose in his step and war on his mind.