Solomonar Saga: Lost Contracts

The Devil’s Chapel

Part II: Of Howls in the Night

He didn’t walk far, stopping amidst the spacious courtyard in front of the church. The sun had yet to fully set, though it now peeked just over the horizon and roiling mist blotted out much of the light it managed to provide.

“Huginn, report.”

“Seven of them approaching twelve o’clock, commander included. Marksman on the roof, two streets down, same direction. One pair stalking forth on two o’clock, another pair ten o’clock. Also, the mist is getting thicker.”

“Is it being manipulated?”

“Hard to ascertain, looks more like a by-product of whatever presence clings to them. Still cannot identify that either, though it appears it also acts as warding. Won’t be easy to pull off psychic attacks without removing it.”

“Any supernatural allies in sight?”

“No, though I’ve definitely sensed malicious spirits roiling around beyond the tree line surrounding the settlement. Hardly seems like a coincidence.”

“Hardly. Maintain overwatch, report anything unexpected.”

He didn’t need to wait long for his company to arrive. Patches of dimness beyond the misty veil, the seven men directly approaching him walked at a steady, confident pace, the rifles in their hands lowered and resting. So, they will try and take me without a fight. That, or they are counting on their hidden assets to the actual work while they approach and deceive.

Alexander remained statuesque the whole time, not moving an inch as the aurochs crew came into clear view. Just as before, all of them wore patchwork camo with no uniformity, though now supplemented with ballistic vests and assorted protective gear covering their shoulders, knees and elbows. The Taurus company crest pinned to their chests gleamed in the setting sun, as did the metal of their weapons and equipment. They kept their faces uncovered, complimented by unkempt hair and thick, spiky beards. Among them, Alexander quickly recognized Shamil’s face by his smashed nose, crooked right hand and a hungry, vengeful scowl.

At the head of the group, Alexander picked out a man with a khaki cap covering long, dark brown hair. Commander Ruslan stood at almost half a foot taller than the mercenaries surrounding him, and his face belonged to a man entering his mid-forties and having led a less than healthy lifestyle. Still, his deep-set, baby blue eyes were clear and sharp, casually searching his surroundings instead of remaining singularly focused on Alexander alone. Confident. We shall see whether from experience of lack thereof.

His own eyes briefly flitting to the side, Alexander could see no visual sign of the two flanking teams, but even now he vaguely felt their presence behind the surrounding buildings. Blinking, he employed his auspex, his vision colouring with the aethereal excess of the surrounding figures – as Huginn had mentioned, the auras of all the soldiers were tarnished and discoloured, foul almost, like particles of blueish rust and rot flaking off their frames. And, due to the enhanced hearing and smell which auspex afforded, he no longer had any issues pinpointing the locations of the flanking mercenaries.

Cracking a finger, Alexander opted to make the first move. “Mayhaps there is something I can aid you gentlemen with on this gloomy eve?” He spoke the words in English, holding off on revealing the entirety of his linguistic capacity. Just as soon, the armed band halted abruptly in its tracks, the men throwing their commander quizzing looks.

Ruslan, for his part, swiftly took Alexander’s measure, leisurely scratching at his chin as his thorny eyes narrowed, peering through the haze of fog. “Thought you’d be paler,” he eventually declared in Russian, scratching at his thick dark beard. Alexander could feel a twinge of amusement stir in his chest.

“Beg your pardon?” he replied in kind. Ruslan didn’t seem surprised by his response, gesturing with one hand.

“I said, I thought you’d be paler. Ghastlier and all that, you know what I mean, like a vampire or something. Less, well, boring-looking.”

“I regret to clarify that I am not more immune to tanning than the average person,” Alexander shrugged, prompting a laugh from the assembled aurochs. “Huginn, marksman.”

“Still idle.”

“True, true, I suppose. But you ain’t no average person, are you?” Ruslan leisurely placed one hand over the butt of his holstered Makarov.

“Well, that depends on your qualifications,” Alexander countered, drawing the conversation out as much as possible. There’s no guarantee the ones left standing will have anything useful for me. “After all, you are not a mere average person either, are you? Sergeant Ruslan Vagabov?”

The mercenary’s brow tilted slightly, but his expression remained unchanged. “Aye, that’d be me. Say, what did I get so famous for?”

“Does processing humans captured by Bosnian vedi ring a bell? You were employed in that region between ninety-three and ninety-seven, is that correct?”

Ruslan’s eyes widened in surprise, though it faded just as quickly, replaced by a bemused glare. “Vedi? Dunno what you’re talking about, my friend.”

“Of course,” Alexander nodded. “I suppose running security for illegal excavations on Crete in o-seven rings no bells either?”

“None whatsoever,” Vagabov shook his head, unable to supress a smile.

“And I assume you most certainly wouldn’t know anything about the murders of the Sevastopol’s Silver Circle cabal in twenty-twelve?”

“A correct assumption,” the commander chuckled, continuing to scratch at his beard. “Sorry, friend, I fear I ain’t the man you think you’re dealing with. But you – well, you don’t look like I imagined, but you most certainly act the part, that’s for damn sure. Your reputation proceeds you, solomonar.”

Just before his name was uttered, Alexander gave a gentle whisper, barely moving his lips.

“Váʂváy.”

Caressing breeze wafted across the surrounding courtyard, stirring the mist into wonderous spiralling patterns. The aurochs’ reaction was predictable – in startled unison, all of them raised their weapons, fingers heedlessly pressed on triggers, before a hard look from the seemingly unflappable Vagabov prompted them to reassume feigned ease. Behind his expressionless mask, Alexander felt tempted to grin and instantly choked it down, revolted by his perversion.

“It better,” he instead mused out loud, his voice even and cold, “I work hard to ensure it does. And yet, it never seems to suffice in keeping the vermin at bay. I see you know my station – if that is so, there are certain other things you ought to know. Did your employer notify you?”

“There was no need,” Ruslan chuckled. “The notorious warden of the Carpathians, the Solomonar of Sevenforts has, of course, been known to our company for quite some time. How long has it been, five, six years now since you’ve made your debut?”

“Four years. I trusted Dragoș’s memory would be longer, especially given the losses he suffered at my hands back then. I did my best to make it explicitly clear that your company would operate within the Carpathian states at its own peril.”

“What mister Dragoș chooses to forget and remember ain’t no concern of mine,” Vagabov cracked his neck, faking a yawn before continuing. Despite the pretence, Alexander saw he was getting tense, the muscles of his face and throat tautening. “I don’t get paid enough to care. All I care about is there’s a job needs doing here, and I’ll take umbrage with any interference.”

“So, is that what I can thank for this little welcoming committee?” Alexander inquired, looking from one nervous aurochs to the next. “What exactly have I interfered with?”

“You smarmy little shit, quit it with the f –…!” the steadily reddening Shamil snapped towards him, but a short, sideways glance from Vagabov immediately sent the underling into awkward silence. Leisurely massaging his right temple, the aurochs’ commander considered before giving his reply.

“Yeah, I guess you could say you interfered with our job here. Can’t say I blame you, though. Shamil’s got more bull than brains in his skull, and not enough balls to substitute for either. Were it just him, I’d have probably told him to fuck off and leave it all as is. However, our employer was much more interested in what Shamil had to say than me. Apparently, they’d like to have a word with you. So that’s why I’m here, you see. To bring you to them, nice-like.”

“What is it that mister Zinder wants that he cannot come and discuss with me here?” Alexander countered, giving Vagabov pause. “What is it he wants with me at the Devil’s Chapel in particular?”

After a moment’s silence, the Taurus commander began to emit a slow, rumbling chuckle, even as one of his hands came to rest upon the back of his rifle. “You,” he said, pointing a finger, “you really don’t waste time, do you? I suppose the mayor must’ve let some things slip. No matter,” he snorted, spitting at the ground. As one, his fireteam aimed their rifles square at Alexander, this time with certainty. “I take it that means you don’t wanna go polite-like, eh?”

“You only figured that out now?”

“I figured I’d give you the option of saving us the trouble,” Ruslan shrugged. “What can I say? I’m lazy by nature.” The look in his eye changed then, and his voice dropped to a low bass with his next words. “Not lazy enough not to have taken precautions, though. I’ll say, solomonar, I admit I ain’t been entirely honest with you. See, I might actually have heard of the Silver Circle before. Might be the reason I’m here now, facing off with you.”

Curious, Alexander cocked his head in anticipation. “Go on,” he prompted, once again reaching out to his familiar. “Marksman?”

“No movement, no communication,” Huginn’s un-voice was as detached and clinical as his own.

“Prepare to take flight once I move.”

“Let’s say I’m aware of the kind of tricks your kind likes to employ,” Ruslan began recounting.

“So first off, your hands so much as twitch, you get riddled. You try to draw any circles on the ground, you get riddled. You so much as try chanting anything, you get riddled. Knowing that, you might try and go for direct eye contact, hypnotize us and what not.” He tapped himself on the head, grinning. “Sorry, son. I fear my lads have got protection against any interference.”

“Protection from what?” Alexander asked, heedless of the pointed weapons. “What did Zinder say he would do to you?” His calm composure evidently sat poorly with Vagabov, who probably expected him to start freaking out at this point.

“Maybe if you shut up and come with us, he’ll tell you himself,” the commander snapped back, grinding his teeth. “Though I’ll say, I kinda wish you wouldn’t. I’m kinda getting tired of your “oh so wise and mysterious” shtick you’re so desperately trying to put on. Makes me want to slug a man.” He cracked his neck, puffed like a peacock now, any semblance of joviality gone from his tone. “You magic cunts think you’re so much better than the rest of us, so much smarter and mightier than us mere mortals. But what good do those fancy incantations and rituals do you when there’s a piece of sharp metal flying at you? Jack shit, that’s what. God, I still savour the looks on those idiots’ faces when I shot their guts out halfway through their nonsense jabbering! Even faced with baboons like my company, you lot still die, whimpering like dogs, just like the rest of us. I don’t give a damn who you think you may –...”

He cut off as he noticed Alexander’s barely contained reaction, his frown morphing into a rictus grimace of anger and hatred.

Alexander rarely found things amusing, but even he could not entirely subdue an intense chuckle when faced with such overbearing ignorance masquerading as strength. Realizing what had to happen next, he quickly composed himself, though the sliver of perverse joy persisted as he spoke in turn.

“I apologize for the outburst. I had always suspected the Circle had been composed of mystics alone, but wondered whether you truly would have been so confident had that been the case.” He supressed the itch to crack another finger, before finally meeting every man’s eyes with his own. Even unable to directly interfere with their minds, the eyes remained windows to one’s soul, and Alexander was keenly aware of how disquieting the slightest interference with it could be, his mind relishing the shivers it sent down their spines while his conscience contorted in disgust. “Alas, you don’t know who I actually am, so allow me to present a formal introduction.” The urge to fire was clear in their gaze now, but clearer still was the reluctance to be the one to pull the trigger, lest they become the objects of his ire.

“I am Alexander Noctua, a Zeta Grade sorcerer at age twenty-six. I was captain in the Order of Knights Hesperite, deserted of my own volition and lived to tell the tale. I have turned the tide of the Second Transnistrian War, wrangled the Wild Hunt and bested the Lich King of the Black Mountain. I am a Slayer of Jure Grando, the Athene of Roma, the Sole Survivor of Forsaken Zerzura.” He saw confusion mixed with fear spread across the mercenaries’ faces, just as he had hoped. It doesn’t do to boast in fights, but I will take all the fear I can get before fighting outnumbered. “Now I am Solomonar of Sevenforts, the Lord of Váh and Tatras, and I lay claim to the life of any who abuses the arcane, the infernal and the supernatural. Which, naturally, includes all of you.”

Vagabov barked out a harsh, forced laugh. “Last I checked, we’re the ones holding you at gunpoint, mister hotshot.”

“With all of a dozen men?” Alexander countered, cracking Vagabov’s façade for the first time. “That won’t do, sergeant, that won’t do at all. See, mystics – the people you tend to murder – are not sorcerers. Sorcerers, well, we Þáwílⱨríʂ!”

He cast the spell midsentence, earning himself the few precious seconds of startled surprise he needed in the process. The mist flowing around him twisted and warped, enveloping him like a shroud while the aurochs around him remained too stunned to react. Hiding himself within the mist, Alexander continued with a basic veil. “Şutmáyoʂ,” he whispered, simultaneously bending the light passing around him while erasing himself from the visions of those who’d look at him – even if he couldn’t tamper with their minds directly, perception was a separate issue. Finally, already moving out of the crossfire, he whispered another spell – “Eidlánoʂ Noctua” – to create a static mirage image of himself in his previous location.

Bullets sprayed across the courtyard, all of them passing straight through the formless double. Noctua couldn’t create an illusion realistic enough to mimic motion and physical damage, nor did he need to. All he needed was a few seconds to get out of dodge. He felt the warm rush of his ʂeⱨæm, the aetheric energy stored and adapted by his body, swell within him as he augured himself, fresh strength surging into his limbs, granting him physical prowess Olympic champion might envy viciously. Still, he couldn’t move at full speed – though his veil was practiced and his scáth greatly helped maintain it, it would still “tear” itself apart if it failed to keep up with his movement.

He dashed for one of the vacant side alleys, the rattle of gunfire and Ruslan’s hollering echoing behind him. To minimize the risk of locals getting hurt, we will need to concentrate as many as possible into one area and then engage them in close quarters.

“You had them all piled up just now,” Huginn’s un-voice cut in, the raven having taken to the skies the moment Noctua first moved. Slipping past a pair of blindly firing aurochs, Noctua slightly picked up the pace before responding, shaking his head.

“Too risky to fight in a marksman’s crosshairs. Need to take him out first. Same location?”

“Yes, dark-blue rooftop two streets down. Currently still focused on your previous location.”

“I shall take it from here. Refocus on the main unit, but remain out of sight.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the raven’s disposition could quickly switch to irritation, even as Noctua knew it appreciated the value of good coordination. “Will you ever trust those around to do their job I wonder?”

He didn’t respond to the inquiry – he didn’t have anything to say. It was in his nature to control his surroundings, doubly so as a sorcerer, even as he realized the issues it could bring about.

He slinked through the narrow back alleys of the town, making sure to avoid the wider, main road by which he’d arrived for now. Even in the twilight he could easily make out both the roof and his target upon it, laid out flat and staring intently through the scope of his rifle. Too intently.

Not bothering to search for a way up, he whispered “Váʂlúgh”, jumping to be captured by a firm gust of air, launching right on top of the sharpshooter. His movement now rapid and the distance between them cut, Noctua’s veil was torn away, prompting the man to gasp in shock and try to swerve his muzzle towards the apparated attacker. In one fluid motion, Noctua landed beside the aurochs, unsheathed his athame, coiled one arm around the man’s neck and deftly slit his throat. Grasping to contain the blood pouring from the wound, the mercenary’s weight shifted and he was left to indignantly tumble from his vantage, tracing scarlet as he landed limply on the ground below.

Eleven.

Swiftly disassembling the man’s discarded rifle, Alexander swerved back, drawing a new veil around himself as he wiped the blood off his dagger. “Location,” he reached out to Huginn, listening in to try and ascertain the thud of heavy boots and muffled grunts of the remaining aurochs.

“Split into groups of three, three and five,” Huginn’s report was instant – one of the many benefits of telepathic communication. “Group of three at two o’clock is closest, group of five’s hanging back, ready to reinforce either vanguard.”

“Which one is closest to the main road?”

“Group of three at ten o’clock.” His tone took on an edge of surprise. “You want to take the fight to the main street? It’s the most open area in town.”

“Which means they won’t hesitate to utilize their numerical advantage. I’ll draw them out, use the earth and mist for cover and minimize the risk of shredding house walls and the people behind them.”

“They might be too close to be drawn out piecemeal.”

“A risk I’m willing to take.” He let the wind-born wings carry him over the next roof, silently coming to a halt above the first three men, backs pressed close to each other as they scanned their dim surroundings. He paused briefly, allowing his ʂeⱨæm to flow into his bones and muscles, auguring himself with the energy stored in every strand of his soul before descending upon the soldiers like a raptor.

His athame slid cleanly through one man’s clavicle, turning his stunned gasp into a wet gargle as his chest quickly became soaked with blood. Noctua’s descent simultaneously knocked a second man off-balance, and before the third aurochs could turn, he snapped his fingers in the man’s direction, loosing another spell. “Fíagwaⱨ!” From up close, the burst of kinetic energy blasted the soldier clean off his feet, sending him tumbling some seven feet backwards to lie sprawled on the main street.

Dagger ejecting from the bleeding aurochs, Noctua swirled his improvised shield around just as the staggered soldier unloaded his rifle into his dying comrade. While bullets tore through fibre and flesh, Noctua peaked out to gain a clear view of the man’s neck as he raised his left hand. “Fælen!” he commanded, as the gleipnir unbound itself from his wrist, striking like a serpent to wrap itself around the aurochs’ throat. Eyes bulging, the man dropped to all fours, aggression forgotten as he clawed at his throat. “Dawaş,” Noctua added, bidding the silvery cord to fully constrict its victim, crushing the man’s trachea as he scratched his throat bloody trying to tear the untearable fabric.

Nine.

“Quintet one o’clock!”

Passing the choking men, Noctua drew his first handgun, seeing the man dazed by his blast rising, shotgun raised. He shot him twice in the chest, dropping him again, then put three more rounds into his neck and head for good measure.

Eight.

As he tried casting another veil, however, company arrived – the five-man squad, emerging further down the main street and opening fire on sight. “Eädóroʂ!” he cast in the nick of time, a handful of bullets whizzing past him as the puckered concrete of the street cracked, giving way to a six-foot wall of hardened mountain soil. Ducking into cover, he tried to return fire but, for all their flaws, the Taurus weren’t rookies. Fanning out, the mercenaries continued spraying down his improvised trench from all angles, and Alexander’s remaining shots were spent firing stray pot-shots.

“Second trio six o’clock!”

They spilled onto the street just as Noctua had cocked his second sidearm, unloading its contents into them without halt. The first aurochs to enter got a bullet through his thigh, collapsing to the ground as red gushed from a severed artery. His two comrades, one of whom Noctua recognized as Shamil, fast-tracked into the opposite alley, though not before Noctua could run a bullet through mercenary’s left shoulder, making him yelp and fall to the ground.

Just as he was about to refocus on the quintet, Noctua’s enhanced hearing picked up the tell-tale sign of a grenade pin being pulled, and he turned to see a small sphere flying from a decommissioned bus stop where the wounded aurochs had dragged himself to. “Fíafæl!” he cast, freezing the grenade in mid-air and briefly holding it before gently flicking it backwards. The bus stop’s concrete frame exploded to bits, but luckily none of the surrounding houses appeared too damaged.

Seven.

Noctua reached out to Huginn’s mind again. “Show me,” he bade the raven, closing his eyes. When next he opened them, he was soaring above the main street, looking down as five armed men continued spraying an earthen barrier with incessant fire. He quickly memorised each of their positions, already preparing for the actions to come. “Track the two rear-guards,” he commanded, withdrawing back into his own mind as Huginn cooed in assent.

Holstering his handgun, Noctua gripped his dagger with his right hand while pressing his left against his makeshift wall. “Þúeätut!” he cast, power flooding into the earth, sending spiderweb cracks across its length before exploding outwards. As pieces of hardened soil bombarded the scattered aurochs, Alexander was already moving, sprinting forward at a speed envied by the finest athletes. The first man to see him had retained his wits and his weapon, so Noctua threw forth his athame to cast another spell. “Váʂtoⱨʂæþ!”. A sling of air caught the flying dagger, launching it forth like an arrow, directly beneath the man’s chin.

As his first target collapsed from the strike, Noctua already refocused on the second closest mercenary. “Craⱨvríþ!” he cast, feeling his fingers itch as his nails morphed into unnatural, triangular claws while the skin behind them hardened, becoming bone-like. As the man noticed the approaching danger, he yelped and tried to shift his weapon. Noctua caught the rifle by the fore end, squeezing to feel it give beneath his grip as his other hand stabbed beneath the mercenary’s tactical vest and straight through his stomach. He could feel intestines sliding around his hand as he twisted, claws shredding tissue with abandon as he spun the man around to face the remaining soldiers.

Five.

Two Chechens had lost their weapons in the grapeshot, drawing their handguns to open fire at their dying comrade’s back. One still had his Vityaz ready, so Noctua casually flicked a hand towards the submachine gun. “Fíafæl” he cast, snatching the weapon away and tossing it onto a rooftop. Barking with surprised hate, the three remaining aurochs seemed to agree on taking their chances in close quarters, brandishing bayonet knives to charge their foe. Noctua tossed aside the gutted man to take the Viper stance, flicking blood from his claws as he crossed his arms to meet them.

He caught the first man’s wrist and pulled, dragging him off his feet, then pointed at the third man’s foot and cast “Fíagwaⱨ!”, knocking him off his feet before coming face to face with Ruslan. The sergeant’s face was a mask of rage and terror as he slashed at Noctua’s throat, pushing him back as Noctua parried his cuts with Hare stance, using his coat’s bracers or the hardened skin of his hands, though the blade did leave bruises even so. Finally, Ruslan overstretched, allowing Noctua to catch his right arm and twist, cracking it in two places to Ruslan’s agonised screams. He tried to use his left, but Noctua exploited his opening and closed his claws around the man’s throat, ripping out muscles and veins as Ruslan gargled in surprise.

He let the leader go just in time to deflect an underling’s attack, then spun around to catch the third man’s bayonet and squeeze, snapping the blade in half and jabbing the tip through its owner’s forehead as he was carried forth by momentum. The last fit aurochs hesitated before renewing his assault but was either too angry or calculating to try and flee. They exchanged several cuts before Noctua could throw the man’s arm aside and deliver a Horse punch to his chest, cracking several ribs and knocking out his breath. As he collapsed to his knees, Noctua finished the mercenary off with a kick to the neck, hearing the spine snap.

Two.

He briefly surveyed the carnage around. All the Taurus men lay dead, except for Ruslan, who, despite the gaping hole in his throat, managed to remain kneeling, bloodshot eyes focused on Noctua all the while. Noctua pulled his athame from a corpse’s throat and rammed it into the sergeant’s eye in turn. Murderer or not, he wasn’t here to make people suffer needlessly.

“Location, two stragglers.”

Just then, a gunshot followed by a high-pitched scream sounded from a few streets away, deafening in the silence setting on the carnage. “Two streets down, before the inn,” Huginn chimed in. “You might want to hurry. We’ve a hostage situation.”

Quickly retrieving his equipment and allowing his claws to recede, Noctua ran in Shamil’s footsteps, the screams ahead turning into whimpers as he advanced, mingling with angry barks and shouts. “Hold!” Huginn’s thoughts warned him as he came up to square before the inn. “They’re expecting you. My sight.” Dutifully, Alexander closed his eyes, seeing the world from above when he opened them again.

Shamil and his accomplice – Goran, as Noctua recalled – stood at the entrance to the inn, with a sobbing and panicking Gabi’s head stuck beneath Shamil’s armpit. With his healthy hand, the lanky aurochs swivelled a Makarov around wildly, while Goran scanned his surroundings with the barrel of a shotgun. The doors to the inn lay open behind them, and there was no sign of Laszlo.

“Oy! Trench-coat! Or solomonar or whatever the fuck you are!” Shamil was shouting, his voice bordering hysteria. “I’m done with your shit, you hear me?! Done! Absolutely done! So now, you got one minute to come out, or I shoot this bitch’s brains out right here and now!”

“Course of action?” Huginn inquired.

“I need one alive,” Noctua began calculating, time seemingly slowing as the communication unfolded. “Disarming would be preferable. But I can’t forgo the shotgun, nor can I risk him hurting her without a gun. I need to grab Goran’s attention…” He paused, noticing a movement in the doorway behind the mercenaries. A shimmer of satisfaction coloured his thoughts as he gave the next command, retreating into his own mind. “Wait for a mirage, then disarm Shamil. Goran will be neutralized.”

“You think I’m fooling ’round?!” Shamil shouted, firing a round next to Gabi’s head, prompting the girl to squeal in terror. “Come out you –!”

“Eidlánoʂ Noctua,” Alexander whispered, peeking out to look to a spot in front of the inn. As his illusion materialized from the thickening mist, Shamil jerkily swung his handgun towards him. He never got to fire before a dark, feathered smudge swooped down from the sky to deftly snatch the weapon from his hand, cutting his fingers in the process. Out of Noctua’s sight, there was a booming gunshot, followed by a wheeze dying men emit.

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“Kuegwa Craⱨvríþ,” Noctua cast the spell while sprinting towards the last standing aurochs, feeling his palm tingle as it was covered by rows of tiny needle cells laced with neurotoxin. As he approached, he saw Shamil turn to look at him, whimpering in fear as he tried to raise his one good hand to defend himself. Noctua effortlessly slapped him across his face – a painful experience regardless, but when combined with the sudden shock of jellyfish poison filling every inch of skin on his cheek, Shamil devolved from whimpering to pathetic, pained screaming, falling to curl into a foetal position on the ground. Noctua finished the battle with a right hook to his temple, silencing the wretch.

As he rose, Noctua noticed Goran slumped face-first in the dirt, back shredded by buckshot despite the tactical vest he was wearing. Laszlo stood in the doorway behind him, a rather archaic double-barrelled shotgun in one hand and a hysterically crying Gabi in the other, her head buried in his shirt. The innkeeper had a grim, wary expression as he regarded Alexander, fear mixing with anger.

“Guess I know what ya meant by “advance payment” now,” Laszlo spat his way. Alexander didn’t reply, instead looking to Goran’s corpse.

“What happened here?” he asked, though he’d guessed a rough answer.

“Shit, boy. Shit happened,” Laszlo growled, then, as the girl’s crying died down slightly, he replied in earnest. “Was nae in the room when they grabbed her. Guess they needed a hostage and figured I had one. I’d thank ya for the help, ’cept this is all your fault. Anyone else hurt?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Alexander replied, grabbing the unconscious Shamil by the collar and effortlessly dragging him towards the door. “I’m going to need a little bit of privacy; a small room would do. I’ll pay for the inconvenience, if you’re willing to…” he trailed off as he noticed something, something that, for the first time that day, gave him pause.

Goran’s body twitched.

At first, he dared hope it was but the last vestiges of life flowing away from the aurochs, but then it twitched again, fingers curling and bunching as a hand began to twist. Then the other hand, then both legs, until the entire corpse was writhing as though it had fallen on an anthill. Laszlo and Gabi watched the display with unbidden horror, while Noctua’s face set in a grim mask as he saw the tell-tale transition of nails into claws and hair into fur. Idiot. Why would you assume that the presence clinging to them would only be used to shield them?

“Goran” began emitting a soft, intensifying growling, the twitching transforming into spastic, pained movement as his body began to change. The wounds in his back tore open, the blood he bled now tinged with black, while his musculature bulged and tore at his skin and clothes, thick black fur sprouting from red flesh. With a bark, the body spun around, eyes very much alive and now coloured a bright, shining amber. His teeth were barred, extending into fangs from a lipless, drooling mouth contorting into a snout from which a deep, angry growl rumbled…

With the first step, Alexander drew the sword. With the second, he cut. The creature’s head flew off mid-transformation, a gout of silvery fire followed by a geyser of blackish blood erupting in its place. With the third, he stabbed the falling corpse through the heart, twisting to further the damage while tongues of white flame licked at the wound. The mutating corpse spasmed briefly, then ceased and began to sizzle and shrivel, releasing a horrid reek as smoke rose from its burning fur. Its severed head gave a few more angry clicks, then began to burn in kind.

“Wh–…” Laszlo began, then grew quiet, unable to find the right words. Noctua turned to him, whispering for the gleipnir to slide forth and tie Shamil’s limp hands behind his back. He quickly checked the man’s pockets, confiscating three ammo packs, a switchblade and a pair of hand grenades.

“Get inside. Lock the doors. Line your porch and windowsills with salt. Call all your neighbours and tell them to do the same. Now.” He grabbed his prisoner by the collar and literally threw him into the inn with augured strength, Shamil crashing limply against the counter. “And keep an eye on this one for me, will you?”

“Won’t… he?” Laszlo asked, still half-mute from shock.

“No, he won’t.”

“What –?”

“Pricolici,” Noctua briefly explained. “A form of corrupted shut, common in this part of the world. Shades of those who lived and died like beasts become bestial after death. Poetic, in a sense. Except someone else ensured it would happen to this lot right after they died.” He cracked a finger. “That one’s still alive, so he won’t turn. The others –…”

Just then, a long, chilling howl sounded a few streets away. A howl sung by many throats.

“Get inside. Warn the others. Go!” he bade the pair, already moving towards the outbreak. He sensed Huginn soaring above him all the while, the howling growing louder, angrier and hungrier with every step he took.

***

Sprinting through the narrow alleys ahead, Noctua was grateful he couldn’t see any sign of light or movement in the surrounding houses. Threshold or not, it was better not to draw a pricolici’s attention, especially given the locals would barely know what was going on.

“Ambush, twelve o’clock,” Huginn’s report came. “Two perched on the rooftops, one to either side, nine feet ahead.”

Alexander didn’t break his stride at the news, instead drawing the long, bulky Mjolnir from its holster and scanning the surrounding rooftops for enemies. They made effort to conceal themselves, but were still unaccustomed to their bulky forms and he could quickly guesstimate both their locations, only stopping once he was close enough to fire on the right one. The Mjolnir kicked like a frenzied mustang, and Noctua had learned long ago auguring was basically unavoidable should he wish to fire the handgun one-handed. The revolver’s .44 silver-jacketed rounds smoothly passed through stone, tiles and flesh alike, eliciting a pained howl before both pricolici descended from their vantage.

They’d almost finished their transformation, now akin to massive, six-foot wolves with disturbingly long forelimbs and short snouts, black and grey fur covering elongated bodies while hateful yellow eyes focused on their quarry. They wasted no time growling, charging straight for Noctua with speed belied by their size. He fired off two more shots at the grey one, first taking off its foot while the second hit it in the snout, turning half of its skull into paste, though neither managed to destroy the heart.

Then the second wolf-thing was upon him, claws outstretched in a feline manner as it grasped for his throat. “Máfíagwaⱨ!” Noctua cast in the nick of time, the burst of force knocking the beast aside. Its trajectory tilted, it landed behind him, managing to remain on all fours and immediately going for another attack. Noctua dropped his sword to Boar guard, luring the wolf-thing into an opening before slashing upwards. Uncoiling Serpent missed the neck by an inch, instead catching on the still-equipped tactical vest, leaving a deep gash in its shoulder as the pricolici twisted mid-air to avoid a mortal blow. Still, white flame was now dancing across the beast’s bleeding wound, making it halt and scratch at the spreading fire with pained grunts. Before it could realize its error, Noctua put a round through its skull, dropping it flat.

Eight.

He moved between the corpses, stabbing each through the heart to definitively sever the connection between spirit and flesh, before resuming his advance. Drops of blackish blood sizzled on his blade, falling off in tongues of burning silver.

Pricolici were large, swift and nimble, but they weren’t keen on tactics and lacked a real wolf pack’s cooperation, making them easy to goad, isolate and destroy. They were the imprints of savage, brutish killers, and savage, brutish killers was all they would ever be.

Upon reaching the spot where he’d killed most of the mercenaries, Noctua could witness the last two corpses rising to transform, these still a disgusting blend of humanoid and canine features with scraps of their old skin and equipment hanging off them. Of the other beasts there was no trace, though Noctua took notice of the chunks of the man blown up by his grenade still lying in the rubble, apparently too damaged for a spirit to possess.

“Two flanking behind you,” Huginn informed him seconds before Noctua heard the scraping of claws on the tiles behind him. An ambush then. He needed to divide, quickly.

“Qorsþúoʂ!” he cast, stomping a foot towards the humanoid pricolici as the pair began charging at him. The ground rippled in the space between them, and the next step the duo took found them sinking knee-deep into what had been solid ground and asphalt seconds prior. Though strong and dextrous, the pricolici were still unsteady on their new feet, and both beasts howled in frustration as their squirming only served to sink them deeper into the improvised pit.

“Ɗuştírʂæþ!” Noctua cast the spell while turning, hearing the thuds of an ambushing pricolici landing on the ground behind him. At his command, a tide of sharpened spikes erupted from the ground, angled to impale the charging wolf-thing askew. The spikes pierced its neck, chest and forelimbs in seven separate places, but with how it remained wriggling and scratching Noctua concluded he’d failed to stab through the heart.

The second ambushing pricolici leapt off the rooftop, jaws snapping an inch from Noctua’s ear as it descended. It began circling him, drawing Noctua’s gaze to the ruined bus stop behind it. He fired the Mjlonir at its head, the creature easily jumping out of the bullet’s way – just as Noctua had wanted it to. “Ɗuşnánɗú!” he commanded, and pieces of rubble were reforged into makeshift projectiles to be launched at the pricolici by an unseen force. The first cracked against its head, dizzying it, while the others pounded against its torso in quick succession, crushing it against a nearby fence. Noctua gasped as the spell took its toll, but was pleased to see the beast now buried beneath a veritable tomb of rubble.

Six.

He spun to face the humanoid pricolici, finding they’d already managed to crawl out of his weakening swamp spell, charging at him while their features further deformed. He tried to fire off his last round, but they were quicker than he’d expected – one of them slashed at the firearm with elongated claws, sending it flying off, then spun to stab at Noctua’s chest. He jumped back only to feel the base of his earthen spear behind him, along with the intensifying growling of the impaled pricolici. He’d been cornered.

I’ve time for one more spell at best; I need to make it count. Thus, he finally reached for his ace.

“Morhoʂ!” he screamed, feeling the spell drain helium and heat from the surrounding atmosphere, gathering it all between the curled fingers of his left hand as he pointed at the monster. Then, with a quiet pop, it was unleashed, freezing helium superheated by a concentrated heatwave, sending forth a tide of blueish fire to consume all in its way. The pricolici raised its hand to instinctively protect its face, but instead of burning, this fire froze all it caressed, sprouting patches of frostbite across flesh while it halted the blood in its veins. The pricolici’s pained howl was quickly drowned as its vocal cords turned to ice-cubes, as did its throat, skull and, eventually, the heart. It collapsed instantly, frozen flesh cracking to allow warm, steaming blood to seep through.

Five.

Noctua turned the tide towards the creature’s companion, but he’d been too slow – though the blue fire blistered the beast’s forearms which it raised in defense, it hadn’t been able to kill it. A bulging, half-healed left eye betrayed its original identity, and the new Ruslan slashed at Noctua’s throat with clawed hands, spittle flying with every livid bark. Noctua backstepped to avoid the blow, then again, feeling himself pushed against the root of his earth-spear. Emptying his mind, he grabbed the sword with both hands, selecting a desirable stance on instinct. One with the world, one with the flow.

He cut. Uncoiling Serpent cut off three taloned digits and left a burning gash in the monster’s snout. The left paw thrust towards his abdomen. Leaping Vixen let him spin out of the blow and slash simultaneously, opening a deep gash across the wolf-thing’s chest and shoulder. He jumped aside as the healthy hand slammed down to crush him, severing it with the Kicking Horse. Not-Ruslan stumbled and Noctua continued into Stinging Wasp, aiming straight for the heart. He missed, the sword burying itself deep inside the pricolici’s sternum instead. The beast, now burning and mad with pain, still pulled itself closer, intent on taking its slayer in turn. Grunting with effort, Noctua pulled the blade out, ripping through the ribcage and shoulder in a feat of inhuman strength, then brought it back with Swiping Bear, sending Not-Ruslan’s snarling head flying atop a geyser of white and black.

“To your right…!”

The sound of cracking stone reached him an instant before a mass of fur and tooth rammed into him, slimy jaws closing around a hastily presented silversilk bracer as his sword was sent flying. The fabric’s unique properties were put to the test as the pricolici bore Noctua to the ground, flailing its head from side to side in a wild effort to rip the offending limb off. If the three thick spikes embedded in its torso bothered the creature, it gave no obvious sign of pain. Dazed by the assault and struggling to breathe, Noctua found his left hand couldn’t reach the athame strapped to his waist, nor could he see his sword. Yet there was one thing he did see, and, sucking in a pained breath as he felt jagged fangs meeting soft skin, he could only try to recall. Was it five or six?

“Fíafæl!” he called, caught the Mjlonir flying into his hand and aimed it straight at the wolf-thing’s forehead. Let it be five. The hammer clicked, the barrel boomed and the beast’s skull came apart in a shower of bloody brains.

For an instant, Noctua feared the intense ringing in his ears would spell the same fate for his own head, briefly allowing the pricolici’s body to collapse atop him, gasping in sheer exhaustion. Finally, he ditched the carcass aside, standing to regard the battleground. By now all corpses had begun sizzling and withering away, as was custom for the bodies of possessed. Those killed by bullet and blade additionally burned with the white fire of woven magic severed by the touch of silver, bathing the street in a sombre, ominous glow.

Three.

Grabbing his sword, Noctua quickly inspected pierced those pricolici hearts still intact, then loaded more rounds into the Mjlonir while inspecting the bite on his left forearm. Though the fangs had pierced his flesh, the wound should not be debilitating if treated immediately. From one of his pouches, he fished out a vial containing viscous, golden liquid, popped its cork off and quickly spilled almost half of the vial onto his bitemarks. Inspecting the vial, he briefly considered taking a sip as well, before sighing and returning it to its place. Can’t afford to be wasteful with nectar these days.

“Ah yes, a cheapskate to the bone,” Huginn commented. “Might want to hurry though, there’s another pair harassing some locals. Can’t get through the threshold, but I wouldn’t wait till the civvies decide to do something stupid.”

Cloak billowing behind him, Noctua ran in the direction the raven pointed out, finding the maddened pricolici pair in no time at all. Both beasts were in the midst of assaulting a nearby house, one barking madly into an open door through the occupants’ terrified screams, the other leaning into the living room through a broken window and hissing as the lived-in house’s threshold singed its paws and snout.

Noctua whistled on approach, grabbing both wolf-things’ attention. They gave a challenging roar and charged as one, hunter’s instincts forgotten in the face of available prey. “Mórœnoʂ!” came Noctua’s next spell, the mist around him vanishing as its moisture was squashed against the ground and frozen, turning the road into an ice-rink. Deft though the pricolici were, their paws weren’t made for traversing such terrain, and they skidded and spun as their velocity carried them involuntarily onto the frost.

Noctua had no such issues, having spent much of his life learning to leverage icy terrain. As the beasts’ charge turned into a tumble, he slid leisurely between them, slashing one’s upper skull off with a sideways Uncoiling Serpent, spinning and cutting through the other’s spine with a Hunting Tiger. It proved tougher than expected, the overgrown tactical vest resisting his cuts, but with the first blow paralyzing it, the butchery was swift enough.

One.

Arms and face soaked in blackish blood, Alexander stabbed through both creatures’ hearts before making his way to the open house, letting silvery flames thaw out his frost.

“Sulfurești is unsafe tonight,” he declared walking towards a terrified couple huddling in the door before him. “I would politely ask you to close your doors and windows, line them with salt and remain indoors until morning.” They gave him flat, wide-eyed stares, faces frozen with disbelieving fear. Then, as though woken from a deep sleep, the woman slapped herself across the face and rose on shaking legs, stepping closer to him.

“Ma’am, I have to advise you –…” Noctua began and ceased as the woman walked out the door right past him. Hesitating, he nevertheless grabbed her by the shoulder, revulsion wriggling down his arm. “Ma’am, I must insist –!”

“Let me go! He’s out there!” the woman turned around, tears streaming down her face. “Michal’s out there, I have to find him!”

Noctua’s felt himself crack a finger in dread. “Your son?” he asked, passing into his mother tongue.

She shook her head, sobs beginning to wrack her as her courage gave, leaving her swaying like a windblown willow. “I never noticed how quickly night fell today, and when the gunshots began I..!”

“Stay inside,” Noctua commanded in an unyielding voice, though he pushed the mother back into her house as gently as he could. Her husband, who’d meanwhile regained his senses as well, quickly enveloped her in a protective embrace, staring back at Alexander with blatant suspicion. “I shall see to it. You close your doors and spread the salt. And warn any others you –…”

“Noctua, problem,” Huginn cut in, un-voice unusually perturbed. “Our survivor’s not in the vicinity. Can’t see him nowhere.”

Suddenly Noctua wanted to slap himself bloody. Of course, I killed the marksman a block away. No reason for him to have joined with the pack.

A hungry, victorious howl sounded among the rooftops in that moment – the triumph of a predator chancing easy prey.

Instinctively, Noctua called upon the wind to carry him onto the rooftop, leaping from house to house at frenzied pace as howl’s echoes vanished. Misty streets passed as Noctua’s eyes darted from shadow to shadow until finally, he found it – a massive, grey pricolici crouching over a porch’s wooden staircase, tearing into something with wild abandon.

For a brief second, Noctua felt the chilling hand of failure grasp at his heart and begin to squeeze, eager to claim yet another piece of him for its eternal hunger. Fortunately, his auspexed eyes quickly picked up an important detail – what the wolf-thing tossed aside with every vicious tear and bite was not flesh and bone, but darkly lacquered wood, albeit chewed to splinters. And, more importantly, even his normal ears would have had no trouble hearing the high-pitched wails of absolutely sincere horror coming from below.

There was no time for spells, nor was Noctua focused enough for them. He jumped right off the roof, feeling his feet ache at the drop, darted towards the massive beast and slid his sword beneath its throat, grabbing the tip with his free hand. Then, he pulled. He wasn’t so much slicing as he was dragging, forcing the creature away from the gaping hole in the stairway through which two pairs of terrified eyes gazed up at him. So focused had the monster been on its prey, it initially offered no direct resistance, and by the time it had begun to struggle, argentinid steel was buried deep within its throat, its burning blood flowing across the shining white blade, mixing with Alexander’s own in the open cuts on his palm.

Sensing its demise, as if to spite him, the monster pulled itself forward, closer to the children, massive jaws continuing to clack within the hole while the grotesque body spasmed and shook in its death throes. Alexander snarled in turn and, with a single, vicious jerk, finally severed the spine at the nape. Gargling and burning, the lifeless head fell snout-first into the hole it had made. As the body in turn slumped to the ground, Noctua pushed his sword through its ribcage with a final, weary sigh.

Kicking the burning carcass aside, he reached out to remove the head and winced at the deep cut in his left palm, heavily laced with blackish blood. Putting down his sword, he reached for a small tin can in one of his pockets, scooping from it a smidge of shiny, buttery ointment to spread over his wound. He felt the ambrosia take effect immediately, numbing the pain while burning away the sting of cursed blood, and reached out once more to throw away the rapidly withering pricolici skull.

A pair of small, fearful eyes met him from beneath the stairs. “Are you alright?” Alexander asked Michal, though the boy seemed not to register the words. He then repeated the question towards the equally shocked Toma, receiving the same response. He noticed that the boys were completely soaked in pricolici blood, which by now had begun to dry and cake on their cheeks. Sighing, Alexander sheathed his sword, pulled the unresponsive children out from their hiding spot, cringing at the touch, then slung them both over his shoulders, carrying them like small potato sacks as he ran back to Michal’s home.

He tried to think of words to say, something to get a response and pre-empt the inevitable horror and hysteria that would set in once the boys’ minds had cleared. But there was nothing for him to say. He knew no way, and had no right, to gently speak to children.

The sun had set completely by the time he returned to Michal’s home, finding both his parents diligently standing behind their house’s threshold, albeit wracked with fear. All that vanished when Michal’s mother recognized her son hanging limply from Noctua’s shoulder, sobbing hysterically as she ran out to embrace her child. Noctua handed him over, then placed the similarly limp Toma into her husband’s hands, snapping his fingers to draw the parents’ attention.

“They are unharmed, but in a state of shock. Get them cleaned up – warm water will do them good. Then bundle them up in blankets and lay them to sleep. Contact his parents,” he nodded at the larger boy, “if possible, but do not leave the house until sunrise. Do not question them. Do not bring any of this up. Pretend tonight never happened.” He took note of their looks of confusion. “I mean it. If they ask you about what happened, tell them they had a nightmare. Won’t be far from the truth either way. With any luck, you will all forget about this eve in no time. Oh, and take this,” he fished in his jacket, drawing an unopened bar of chocolate. “To get their endorphins surging. Give them as much as they will eat, tonight and tomorrow as well. Make it a cheat day.”

The couple said nothing, fearfully and curtly nodding along at his every word. When they realized he was done with instructions, they hesitated, awkwardly throwing glances at each other before the woman spoke up in an uneven voice. “Th-thank you, sir,” she began, tears flowing freely from both eyes. “W-we…” She stopped as her son, as though awakening from the day’s nightmare, began wailing in her arms, in that sincere and overwhelming way that only children knew. Toma soon joined him, and Noctua found his feet carrying him away of their own volition before their cries could properly get under his skin.

“Well, that about wraps them up,” Huginn chirped, landing on Alexander’s shoulder as he made his way back towards the church, finally allowing his auguring ʂeⱨæm to recede while smacking down the usual surge of nausea and fatigue. “What now?”

“Did you check to see if the wraiths had been properly banished?”

“None of ’em have risen since you put them down the first time, and pricolici aren’t usually clever or patient. Methinks you’ve banished all of ’em effectively.”

“Pricolici also don’t usually possess the corpses of those who spawned them, not right away at least,” Noctua considered. “Takes them more time to mould and congeal after death, hours at the very least, days more often.”

He could feel the raven’s claws dig deeper into his shoulder. “So you believe…?”

“Yes, Huginn. Someone put a curse upon these men. Someone was most likely watching to ensure that it went off.” He sighed, halting in front of the church. “And we’re about to find out who.”

***

The church was empty.

Alexander’s suitcase lay in the same place as before, none of the items on top of it missing or damaged. The interior of the church was likewise not any different than when he’d left. No signs of scuffle, skirmish or assault. Only the mayor himself had vanished.

Noctua cracked three fingers in quick succession, supressing his frustration. He quickly inspected the temple’s interior and side rooms before packing up his equipment and venturing out, back into the mists. With all the recent commotion in front of the building, he had scant chance of tracking Nicolescu’s footprints, and a brief survey of the ground left him predictably leadless.

“Maybe he went home?” Huginn suggested, perching on a nearby rooftop. Alexander shook his head immediately.

“Amidst a firefight? The man’s not a coward, but it takes a bit more self-control to move through a warzone. No, I was confident he’d stay in place until I returned.”

“So, what now?” the raven inquired, shivering in the night’s chill.

“Now I’ve still got one lead I can follow,” Noctua concluded, breaking into a run as he sped towards the inn, the ever-thickening mist parting behind him in a swirling ripple.

He found the inn’s porch rimmed with a thick line of kitchen salt, and checked to see the same makeshift defences decorating the front windows. “Keep watch,” he bade Huginn, prompting the raven to once again perch itself atop the inn. “The aurochs may be dead, but I suspect our enemy still has minions to spare. Anything comes up…”

“I know,” Huginn crowed, bristling. “Have I even once failed to inform you of something so important?”

“Yes, actually,” Alexander paused, beginning to recount. “Belgrade, two months ago, when the botchling…”

“That was a rhetorical question, smartass,” Huginn hissed spitefully. “Go on, get in before I get bored and fly off again like the lazy vagabond you purport me to be!”

Weary of Laszlo’s shotgun, Alexander called from beyond the door. “It’s me, the not-detective! I’m coming in, so I’d politely ask you not to shoot me.”

Slowly, he opened the door, finding a gloomy Laszlo sitting across him, shotgun slung across one knee. He’d dragged Shamil’s still unconscious body away from the bar, within comfortable range of the shotgun shells. Gabi was nowhere to be seen, though Alexander could intuit a faint sobbing coming from one of the storage rooms.

“You… done?” was the first thing the innkeeper asked, his voice even despite the underlying shaking. Walking over to inspect his captive, Noctua suddenly noticed Laszlo’s gaze now drawn to his hands. Only then did he realize they were still utterly coated with blood, both red and black.

“May I use your sink?” Alexander asked. Huffing in surprise, Laszlo simply jerked his head backwards.

“Behind the counter. Ain’t very warm though.”

“Not an issue,” Alexander countered, walking over to wash away the worst of the filth. “Has mister Nicolescu come here while I was gone?” he asked, betraying no alarm. Still, Laszlo had proven time and again to have a sensitive nose for trouble.

“No. Why? What happened?” His voice grew hard as he spoke. “Were the soldiers called –?”

“No, not by him. Much as I suspected, mister Nicolescu is not the culprit behind Sulfurești’s misfortune.” He turned from the sink, ignoring the inaudible sigh of relief from the innkeeper as he continued. “He does, however, possess information valuable to me. I wished to question him further before we were interrupted, but –…”

“Why don’t you come and ask him, if that is so?” A third, familiar voice suddenly cut in, and Noctua’s revolver was out and aimed at Shamil’s smiling face in an instant. Except this was not exactly Shamil’s face – it was drawn in an expression too knowing and confident for the man himself to have ever worn. Likewise, the voice which now spoke from Shamil’s poison-swollen mouth had a grating, echoing cadence not dissimilar to Huginn’s un-voice.

“What the Devil ?!?” Laszlo shouted, aiming his shotgun in what even he had realized was decidedly unnatural – not least because, instead of broken English or boorish Russian, Shamil now spoke in clear, pristine German with an unmistakably Swabian accent.

“What do you want with Nicolescu, Zinder?” Noctua asked, his hand relaxing ever-so-slightly as he surveyed Shamil’s body. Still bound with the gleipnir, the man remained motionless and Noctua doubted a mere mage, be he warlock or proper sorcerer, could empower the puppet to break through the bonds. Nevertheless, casting spells through a medium was possible, if extremely difficult. But this one has already proven he has the skills and resources to cast complex spells.

“Why, I see our introductions have already been made,” Helmut Zinder shook his borrowed head in mock exasperation. “I’ll have to remind dear old Horia what exactly a non-disclosure agreement stands for. Amongst other things.”

“No need,” Noctua countered, walking around the counter while keeping the Mjolnir aimed at the possessed. “You can rest assured none shall know of what fate befell you here tonight.”

Zinder barred his teeth in a crooked smile. “And how do you imagine ensuring that, master solomonar? Shall this entire town be laid to rest to keep our little secrets?” From the way his facial muscles remained taught and cringed, Noctua realized that, however meek, Shamil still tried to wrestle back control over his body.

“I’m not one to throw out the baby with the bathwater,” Alexander countered, trying to gauge the other mage’s expertise in maintaining a continuous spell. “There are better ways of cleaning out vermin than burning down the barn.”

“Vermin? My, what archaic rhetoric. Truly, the title of knight befits you – just as mindlessly adherent to useless old dogmas, and just as zealously savage in their enforcement as the genuine articles from ages past. A purebred crusader, groomed into bigoted oppression of all he wilfully deems foul.”

“No need for such lofty titles. I am naught but a ratcatcher nowadays. Why, just today I caught a veritable swarm of pests transgressing on my property. Would you happen to know what such loathsome rabble might have been doing in these parts?”

“Looking for you, naturally,” Zinder replied, straightening Shamil’s back as if to try and deliver a formal message. “For you see, master solomonar, much as you are an old, rusted thing of the past, I am a man of the future. I am a scientist, a disciple of truth, reason and knowledge. And, as I recently came to understand, certain knowledge can only be gleamed through unorthodox methods. Methods which, occasionally, require input from antiquated relics such as yourself.”

“And mayor Nicolescu, I take it?” Alexander inquired.

“Mister Nicolescu, it seems, has broken the terms of our contract, something I cannot abide. Thus, I felt meeting with him personally was required to… admonish his indiscretions.” The grin on Shamil’s face widened and distorted as puppet fought puppeteer. “Fortunately, I only have so much time to spare dealing with contracts which by now have run their course. And utilizing your properties, master solomonar, would be of far greater value to me.”

Alexander nodded, curt and business-like. “You would have me arrive at the Devil’s Chapel to release the man.”

“An awfully blunt way of putting it,” Zinder replied without denying.

“You’re not going to set terms?”

“Would you obey them were I to do so?”

“No,” Noctua admitted, cracking a finger in irritation.

“Then I merely ask you come visit me in my current whereabouts. Though I advise you not to dally.” Shamil was spasming now, fingers curled as Zinder had to struggle to force words through gritted teeth. “As I said, my time is valuable and if my career has taught me one thing, it’s that one can always procure substitutes, no matter the product in demand.”

“I find myself wondering how long your career could have been if that is the lesson you chose to take away,” Noctua commented, moving steadily closer to the possessed now. For the first time, he could see a flash of anger colour Zinder’s eyes, ire native to the proud and the overmighty.

“Certainly not as long as your own, Alexander Šarkan,” the warlock spoke, biting into every word, “nor as fraught with loss and failure. And if you do not wish to add another failure to your resume, come meet me at the Devil’s Chapel before the sun rises.” This time, an utterly wicked smile was forced onto Shamil’s lips as his head began to turn, twitching and shaking, to a decidedly unhealthy degree. “Let us see who truly deserves the title of solomonar, shall we?”

Noctua moved, but it was too late. With a manic, hyenic cackle, Shamil twisted his own head fully around with a sickening pop, dropping limp. Quickly drawing his athame, Noctua stabbed the corpse through the heart, then dragged it out to toss it next to what was left of Goran. He waited for a full five minutes, only turning his back once he’d confirmed no changes would wrack the body in the near future, finally untying the gleipnir from the dead man’s hands.

“Master Laszlo,” Alexander turned to the innkeeper, who kept his composure remarkably, even if the display had forced him to sit back into his chair. “I am afraid I require further assistance from you. What is the Devil’s Chapel? Official documents state that Sulfurești has in its custody the Church of Saint Sava the Goth, but nothing is written of the structure itself. Is that the chapel in question? Why is it called so?”

The innkeeper remained unresponsive, utterly numb to the world.

“Master Laszlo,” Noctua repeated, snapping his fingers in front of the man. Stirring, the old man looked as though awakening from a nightmare, his face aging before Alexander’s very eyes. He tried not to let it bother him. “I need to know all that I can of that place. Why is Saint Sava’s Church known by you as the Devil’s Chapel?”

Laszlo shook his head, knuckles whitening as he gripped the shotgun as though it were his only lifeline in a roiling ocean. “What in the… what devil… what madness… what…?”

Alexander sighed, steeling himself for what he knew must come now. You needn’t forgive me. Kneeling in front of the man, he looked Laszlo directly in the eye for the first time, steel eyes capturing brown as Noctua raised two fingers to his lips to whisper another spell. “Glámæmíþ: Speak truthfully.” Slowly, the innkeeper’s dark eyes took on a distorted look, pupils widening as his posture relaxed, mouth hanging slightly agape. Swallowing his disgust, Noctua wasted no time with the questioning.

“What do you know of the Devil’s Chapel?”

“Chapel… the church up on the hill?” Laszlo asked, his words slurred and sloughing. Alexander tsked – this was but one more reason why he so despised hypnotising people. Too slow and imprecise. However, his other options were no prettier – viewing one’s memories through psychometry was a process far too invasive to use on innocent people, circumstances be damned.

“Yes, the church on the hill. What is it? Why is it called that?”

“Old stone church… ruined… folk don’t go there no more, haven’t fer centuries… say it’s haunted, I don’t believe a word of it…”

“Why? Why is it haunted?” Noctua bade the man, wrestling with internal impatience to keep his voice calm and amiable.

“There was a lord… a great warlord, ruled these lands once too… got overthrown, chased outta his castle… when the crescents came from the south. Didn’t accept that, oh no… led his retinue against ’em… killed their soldiers, killed their servants… killed all who betrayed him… dragged ’em back into the mountains, dead or alive… Folk say they was sacrifices, offered to Old Scratch himself… for their souls, the lord received knowledge, knowledge where tae strike next, where victory could be had… received other queer powers too, later… folk said he commanded fire n’ blood n’ shadow… said he could not be killed… said he weren’t human no more.” Laszlo paused, giving a blissful, ignorant smile. “S’all horseshit if ya ask me, young mister. Nothin’ but fairy tales to tuck ’em kids intae bed at night.”

“But why Sulfurești? Why your chapel in particular?” Noctua pressed, certain there had to be more.

“Dunno,” Laszlo shook his head, slightly amused even. “Although… folk do say the lord found somethin’ in the chapel. Some say ’twas an escape tunnel, stretchin’ through the town’s goldmines. Others say ’twas the guest hall of the Devil’s castle. Methinks ’twas just a cave though, young mister.”

“That may be,” Noctua concluded grimly, rising to his feet. I would like to share in your optimism. Hesitating, he decided to afford Laszlo a few more minutes of blissful ignorance while he checked through his suitcase, restocking his supplies of ammunition. Finally, he walked behind the counter, walking through a door to find Gabi huddled in one corner, hugging her knees.

“Come, miss,” Alexander told her, beckoning for the fearful girl. “Your warden needs you. See he doesn’t get hurt after I leave.”

“Leave?! You’ll leave us, mister?!” Gabi peeped, then gasped and quieted, as though surprised by her boldness.

“I have to. People will die if I don’t. Remember what I told you. Lock the doors. Maintain the salt lines. Do not go out until sunrise. And keep quiet if possible. If I do not return before sunrise, you need to get the other townsfolk to abandon this place, at least for a time.”

“Abandon our home?! But… but where will we go?!” Gabi squealed, growing silent upon seeing Laszlo’s placid expression. Ruefully, Alexander shook his head.

“I am sorry, miss. I truly cannot help you with that. But I know that, if you remain should I fail, a lot of your people will die. No help will come, and by the time the broader public might take notice, the damage will have already been dealt. You must get your people away, whatever it takes.” He pointed to the innkeeper. “Relay my words to him as well.”

“But doesn’t he…?” Gabi inquired, falling silent as she noticed her warden’s eerily placid expression. With a snap of his fingers, Noctua broke the spell hypnotizing the man, making Laszlo gasp and fall down to his knees.

“Await the sunrise,” Noctua repeated, slinking out of the door without looking back. By now, the mist had risen to an absurd height, reaching well past his knees. “Protect your kin.” With that, he slipped out, his scáth blending into the gloom of the night.