Solomonar Saga: Lost Contracts

The Devil’s Chapel

Part III: Of the Nature of Might

“He knew your name,” Huginn noted after Alexander shared his memories of Shamil’s possession, claws digging into his uniform’s shoulder. “He knew a bit about you as well, though not as much as I suspect he thought he knew. He certainly knew an effective method of astral projection. And he knew just enough to bristle at the insinuation he doesn’t actually know much at all. I get that right?”

“Approximately,” Noctua replied, approaching the northern edge of the town. It wasn’t difficult to identify the correct path to take – Huginn had sighted the Taurus men almost as soon as they entered the town, and there was only one path into the woods within their vicinity then.

Now, with night and mist alike thickening ’round him, Noctua couldn’t help but throw suspicious glances at the twisting, grasping branches of lean, crawling trees lining both sides of the road. Though perhaps “road” was too generous a term. Forest path was more apt, a simple muddy track only faintly discernible even to his enhanced eyes.

“In other words, he is expecting you. Has been ever since he learned of your arrival,” Huginn declared in a dry, calculating voice.

“Yes,” Alexander replied, kneeling to wipe away the clumped fog around his feet, feeling at the earth. Though it was early into the autumn, the soil around him was hard with cold and covered in frost, and as he drew back, he noticed his breath condensing in the air before him.

“And he will be watching you. If he isn’t already.”

“You tell me,” Alexander asked. Huginn’s head quickly swivelled ’round before the raven shook vigorously, as though ridding himself of filth.

“Can’t see anything in our immediate vicinity,” he concluded. “But I feel them. Even more than before, I feel them.”

“What kind?”

“Lesser things I’d wager. Likhoradkas and nochniks, for the most part, perhaps some umrltzi. But there’s a lot of ’em, and there is something greater still, guiding them, spurring them forward, out of the forests and towards the town.”

“Zinder,” Noctua concluded, cracking his thumb. “Could a non-sorcerer accomplish such a feat?”

“Theoretically,” Huginn’s wings bristled as the raven gave what amounted to a shrug. “Though unless he is a wonder-worker, he’d either have needed to practice this one spell to the point of eschewing all others, or…”

“Or he has access to a demesne,” Alexander finished. “And a very detailed grimoire.” He scratched the raven behind the ears, then bade it upwards. “Fly. Engage overwatch, and conceal your presence at all times. Telepathy-only until further notice.”

“Fine, fine,” Huginn gave his obligatory grumble, dark wings blending into the dark skies above. As he looked up, Noctua tsked upon realizing the stars too were hidden behind thick clouds now. Only the crescent moon fought through the gloom, his eternal silent keeper. Without further delay, he stepped onto the forest path, sneaking into the woods.

He walked without interference for a good long while. Save for a lingering source of disquiet ahead, Noctua could discern no proper presence surveying his approach. The forest surrounding Sulfurești was, like many of its ilk, among the oldest still left in human lands – gnarled, overgrown and wrapped all over itself, its trees and ferns locked in a vicious forever-war for both soil and sunlight. Roots wound across his path infrequently, and several bushes sprung directly in its midst. And though Noctua’s eyes took in his surroundings in full and at once, he could make out no predatory gaze, no lurking figure in the deepening gloom of the woods. In fact, no sounds whatsoever emerged from the darkness – no chirping of nocturnal wildlife, no scrummage through the undergrowth, not even crickets played their evening tunes. Either his hosts were better than him at the game, or...

Or they are saving their strength, scout work left to a little welcoming committee.

It began quietly, like a gentle itching in the small of his back. That had ever been Alexander’s most sensitive area, and soon enough goosebumps covered him from head to toe. He blinked to enable his auspex, but spirits were not easily discerned under the most ideal circumstances. Now, in the dead of night, wisps of smoke or strands of shimmering air, the most common indicators of a spirit’s presence, might as well have been fully invisible.

Thus, only when the itching on his skin transformed into a gnawing, scratching cold could Noctua definitively conclude that the festering horde of night’s denizens had finally crashed into him with the force of a baleful tide. He could sense, rather than accurately feel, as dozens, then hundreds of undiscernible presences glided over him, like sharks circling a diver’s cage, curious, enticed and hungry.

In the present day, most aetherae could never hope to harm a being of flesh and blood, owing to their lack of corporeal body, lesser spirits such as these least among them. Poorly anchored to the physical world as they were, their influence was minimal, and even in great numbers none of them could hope to overpower and claim a human of passably salient mind, let alone a trained sorcerer. Still, there were things even these wretched little things could do in their petty attempts to siphon off whatever power was released alongside strong emotions. They could stalk, they could discomfort… and they could whisper.

Killer.

Noctua couldn’t really hear the word, as he would when said by human voice. It was more a suggestion, a half-herd insinuation wrestling its way to the forefront of his mind. But it filled his head all the same, blotting out all other thoughts without resistance.

He sped up to a jog, trying to return his mind to a placid void. But to aetherae human speed was less than nothing.

Killer.

Murderer.

Butcher.

Despoiler.

Killer!

One with the world, one with the flow. But the words rang hollow and were tossed to the rear of his mind by foreign, conquering impressions.

Killer!

Traitor!

Heartbreaker!

Deserter!

Craven!

Egotist!

Turncoat!

Killer!!!

He came to a halt, his head beginning to spin as his hands spasmed frantically.

Slayer of peace!!!

Inquisitor-zealot!!!

Fathers’ shame!!!

Faithless friend!!!

Loveless lover!!!

MATRICIDE!!!

No… wasn’t like that… He stumbled, crashing to one knee, mist swirling all around, hand searching blindly for the hilt of his dagger.

CHILD KILLER!!!

CHILD KILLER!!!

CHILD KILLER!!!

Snarling like a cornered beast, Noctua tore the athame from its sheath, slashing it across his palm. The pain immediately overwhelmed the spirits’ onslaught, clearing his mind. He seized his chance, delving into the depths of his memory to fish out those moments to which he clung like a shipwrecked sailor clings to driftwood in a thunderstorm.

The summers spent reading in the branches of Old Willow… countless nights spent stargazing… the first meeting with Master… the knighting amidst lightning and thunder… his love’s first visit to his dream… the first assembly of his companions… the song and dance amidst spring flames… All this and more he summoned forth, memories faded but still potent, replaying behind his eyes as his spell was pushed from behind gritted teeth. “Súmogh!”

A spear of light parted the night and the mist as all five of Noctua’s rings shone in unison. Along with the unnatural light flew the emotions Alexander had forced himself to relive – relief, elation, satisfaction, joy – amplified tenfold by the spell’s prodding. Likhoradkas and nochniks, wretched things that fed on fear, despair and guilt, now fled from him like sparrows from a gunshot, scattering to the four corners. Still, even without the cloud of malice weighing him down, Noctua was forced to remain still, breathing deeply as he slowly, methodically began to crack every finger on his hand. A good five minutes passed before he felt ready to continue.

“That was serious interference,” Huginn’s un-voice filled his mind, a surprisingly welcome replacement to the whispers of nefarious phantasms. “I couldn’t break through to you at all.”

“I’ve dealt with worse,” Noctua countered, trying to feel unbothered. “Still, these were far more numerous than you’d expect near a tiny settlement. There should be next to nothing for them to feed on, even in a rather unhappy community. And yet, they were one and all steered and goaded, moving and attacking as a single swarm. Zinder seems unexpectedly practiced at commanding them.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning there is a chance they are precisely why he came to this place,” Alexander concluded, springing to his feet to resume his jog uphill. Still, he sensed confusion from his companion.

“Why would anyone come to the middle of nowhere to practice goetia? Your average graveyard is plenty for that, safer and more accessible to boot.”

“The better question is, why are there hundreds of spirits concentrated in a tiny location in the middle of nowhere?” Noctua asked, leaving the implications unsaid. Huginn broke off their conversation, each consumed now by their own contemplations.

With a silent chant, Noctua healed the cut on his hand and sheathed his dagger, never stopping to move forward all the while. The swarm of astrals had begun to congeal again, though now it kept its distance, burned and frayed by his first outburst of positive light and wary of another. Whether that was the spirits’ instinct, or the will of their observing master, Noctua couldn’t ascertain.

He continued to ascend the slope, the path becoming so unkempt at times that he nearly lost his way. Finally, after almost half an hour of trekking across bush and grime, he could begin to make out the outlines of a structure rising from behind the trees, jagged, uneven, and blacker even than the night sky.

Noctua slowed down, now more cautious of possible enemies. He somehow doubted Zinder had gone to retrieve Nicolescu personally while fighting was about, and despite the warlock’s considerable achievements, Noctua was not sure whether possessing a man for long enough to undertake the same journey he’d just made was within his capacity. No, no… what was it miss Gabi said?

“Huginn, search through the forest surrounding the walls of the chapel,” Alexander requested, slowing to a casual walk as the church’s outline began to clear.

“You expecting company?”

“I’m not expecting anything,” Alexander replied. “I –…”

“I try to prepare for everything, yeah, yeah, yeah,” Huginn’s retort came with annoyed acceptance. “Now, should I expect to find someone lurking in that shrubbery?”

“Probably. Either there, or somewhere behind us, stalking in my tracks.”

“How probably?”

Noctua made a brief mental calculation. “Sixty-two percent probably.”

“You seem unsure tonight.”

“I feel unsure tonight.”

“Any particular reason for that?”

“Too little of this contract makes sense for my preference.”

“Are you sure that’s all?”

“Yes,” Alexander asserted, assuring himself he was being honest.

“As you wish,” Huginn noted, his attitude betraying his insight.

He moved on, surveying the structure before him. Though the church grounds had clearly seen better days, Noctua could now conclude they had also recently enjoyed ramshackle reconstruction efforts, presumably from its newest occupants. The greatest holes in the surrounding wall had been filled with a motley assortment of rubble and lumber, while the gate in the ruin’s entrance was brand new, thick oaken logs joined together by crude iron bands. It appears the aurochs had been less guards and more workers. More importantly, what kind of foe was Zinder expecting to so fortify himself?

“Well, well. I had hoped my little friends would have given you more trouble.”

The voice was sharp and shrill, with winding, purring undercurrent to every word it spoke in rich, Swabian German. Amidst the quaintly silent forest, where Noctua’s footsteps had been the only source of sound, the voice cut through the air like a razor, and made Noctua stop just as if a physical weapon had been brandished, searching for the enemy who suddenly apparated but a few paces ahead of him.

The speaker’s slender figure was suspended in the air, as though leisurely standing on an invisible platform. He was not a large man, no more than five and a half feet at most, and he had a thin, rounded frame which spoke of a body unaccustomed to regular exercise. Much of said body remained hidden behind a dark, voluminous robe akin to an academic’s garb, with broad hanging sleeves and a coat tail which fell well below his knees. Only his spidery fingers glistened with the dull shine of several thick golden rings.

“Well, you were true to your word, and that is all that matters really. I…”

Noctua did not wait for the warlock to finish speaking. Going for his Mjolnir, he loosed three shots in quick succession at the warlock, aiming for head, neck and heart. But Zinder was just quick enough to prevent the shots from connecting, flicking his fingers to one side only to evaporate just as swiftly as he’d appeared, as though swallowed by the dark skies behind him – even so, Noctua chuckled internally at the startled yelp the warlock gave as he saw the gun being raised.

The gunshots also allowed Alexander to finally ascertain something else – they were indeed not alone. From the trees’ winding shadows, a single strand of disquiet, barely even fear, caught the attention of his auspex. He focused on the area immediately. “Huginn.”

“Yes, I caught that too. Will investigate,” the raven confirmed.

“And here I was, taking you for a man of honour,” Zinder re-emerged in the same spot, still completely unharmed. The shots would have connected had he remained still, invisible or not. Must be either enhanced speed or some kind of spatial contortion. Lack of spoken incantation almost certainly rules out sorcery – either it is thaumaturgy or some kind of contract. But a thaumaturgist of such power should have been picked up on decades ago…

“I thought you knights abided by the laws of chivalry of some form or another,” Zinder mused, his posture confident though there was a breathlessness to his first words which betrayed his surprise. “I thought it was written among those rules not to assault your foes during a parley.”

“I am not a knight, and this is not a parley,” Noctua replied trying to focus on the air around Zinder to guesstimate his method of suspension.

“Were you not a captain in that vaunted relic that is the Hesperite Order? Was your reason for desertion not their dishonourable, avaricious ways?”

“No,” came Alexander’s flat reply as he stood below the warlock, eyes darting here and there to pick out traps and secrets.

Zinder’s reply, when it came, seemed almost deflated by comparison. “I must confess I find you singularly disappointing, solomonar. I was told you were such a deliciously colourful caricature of the old, hidebound ways of our kind, yet you’ve utterly failed to take an impassioned stand against any of my taunts and provocations. Do you truly not care for “good” or “honour” or whatever it is fools call it?”

“You don’t,” Alexander countered, shrugging. “And there is no “our kind”, rest assured.”

Zinder’s responsive was a nasty, vindicated little laugh. “Oh, do tell why, master solomonar? Is it because you use your powers for “good”, or because of how “noble” and “dutiful” you are with them? Is it because of your many vaunted deeds compared to my meagre obscurity? Or because – …?”

“No,” Noctua shook his head, cutting the warlock off even though his voice never rose. “It’s because I have real power and you do not, Zinder. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Peering up, Noctua could finally discern Zinder’s shadowed face. He could see his words provoke a scornful, oversweet smile on his thin, pale lips. Indeed, his skin seemed far too pallid even in the admittedly poultry lighting, his cheeks and eyes sunk into his skull while darkened, purplish veins coiled ’round his throat and sockets. His chin was sharp and bony, complimented by a prominent, crooked nose and a mop of unruly, ashen hair. Even his eyes, sunken and shadowed as they were, remained curiously pale, a shade of glassy blue which conjured images of tiny, crooked nails being driven through flesh, leaving no inch of their object of interest unscoured and unjudged.

The warlock practically spat his reply, confirming to Alexander his assessment had been more right than wrong. “I see you at least don’t lack for the conceit of our would-be elders. Pray tell, how –…?”

“I don’t care, Zinder,” Noctua declared, leisurely loading more rounds into his revolver. “You are a small man, and to small men their own voice is ever the finest symphony. But I am not here to satisfy a petty diablerist’s bloated ego. So, I’d recommend you order your creature over there to spring its “trap” sooner rather than later, save us both the trouble.”

Truthfully, Noctua wasn’t sure about whether he should gamble with revealing his awareness of the trap, but he reckoned it was better to bluff and convince the warlock he had a firmer hold on the unfolding situation than he himself estimated. Casually revealing information was to Zinder’s ilk a greater boast than any he could make to simple brutes like Ruslan.

In response, Zinder chuckled and clasped his hands behind his back, in a display of overt unconcern so common with many unfamiliar with the art of deception. “Ah, there it is – that conceited dismissal, the defining trait of all archaic and outdated. To jilt the new and better is all you can do as you fail to compete and innovate due to adherence to arbitrary and artificial rules – “principles”, “traditions”, “honour”, or whatever your kind conjures up to excuse their lack of vision and intellect…”

“Æşoʂ!” Alexander commanded, opting for a simple fire burst to cut Zinder’s rant short. Once again, a slight of hand was all Zinder needed to vanish from the projectile’s way, reappearing seconds later with nary a scorched sleeve. Spatial manipulation, ninety-three percent.

“You wished me here, and so I came,” Noctua declared, cracking his fingers one by one. “Come then – kill me, capture me, sway me or defeat me, but by all that is sacred, stop talking.”

“Alexander…”

“I know, Huginn.”

Zinder’s blade-thin lips twisted into an ugly grin. “If you find my voice so irritating, perhaps I’ll let my companion do the talking.”

On cue, a spike of black steel erupted from forest’s gloom to Noctua’s right, an oversized scythe-blade stabbing low to gut Alexander where he stood. He had been ready for an attack and deflected the scythe, drawing his sword with his right hand while firing off two rounds with his left. The Mjolnir kicked and damn near took his arm off, but a pair of sizzling wounds in the elongated, greyish arm thrusting the massive weapon towards him validated his decision. The scythe retracted, the arm holding compressing with the muffled scratch of bones as a tall, lumbering figure began to emerge from the forest.

“After all, he is most interested in getting to spend some time with a knight of the Hesperite Order. Even a former one, as far as he is concerned. Me personally, I remain sadly unconvinced by your performance thus far, sir,” he chuckled, beginning to descend upon invisible steps. “Should your conversation end successfully, come meet me in the Devil’s Chapel, solomonar. And remember, mister Nicolescu awaits. Best pick up the pace!” With that, he was gone, vanished behind the walls.

“Coward,” Huginn derisively concluded. “Together, they might actually have given you trouble.”

“I’ve enough trouble as is,” Noctua cut him off. “Zinder can wait. Focus.”

“Oh, I am focused alright,” Huginn’s response was tinged with both awe and surprise. “So, it was the sack man after all.”

The creature emerged from the trees’ shade with nary a sound, though it stood a good eight feet in height. Swaddled in dark fabric from head to toe, most of its freakishly slender form remained unseen, showing only the skin on its arms and legs, soot-grey and corpselike. A lighter shade of grey was seen only on a fleshy, coiling lizard’s tail reaching from behind its back, swaying this way and that as though possessed of its own mind. In its right hand it carried the massive war scythe of blackened steel, its straight blade the length of Noctua’s own sword, while its left hand remained free, with only a sack made of pinkish leather wrapped around its arm. And all the while it advanced, it kept two eyes, orange and glowing like tiny, baleful embers betwixt the blackness of its hood and scarf, locked firmly on the source of its ire.

“I thought you said the torbalans had been driven to extinction by now,” Huginn noted, now circling above the gate.

“According to official Order records. Which were more like educated guesses even back in the day, and are mostly just guesses nowadays,” Alexander countered, eyeing the creature, and the sack on its back in particular, with far more concern than he had the blustering warlock. Torbalans were an ancient and ravenous witchbreed, the silent enslavers of millions, and had proven more than a match for overeager witch-hunters on many occasions. Sources differed on the best way to fight a torbalan, or whether one ought to fight them at all, but they all agreed that a torbalan’s first and favoured attack was –…

The witch-kin’s right hand extended in a brutal sideways slash, the scythe manoeuvring more nimbly than a thing so long should move. It crossed the distance in a heartbeat, aiming to bisect him. Alexander ducked, steel whistling overhead, then had to jump as the torbalan twisted its wrist fully around for a follow-up slash. This time, though, Alexander jumped forward, landing atop the weapon’s metal shaft, then using its platform to spring forward, sword ready to slash.

He cut as he landed, Hunting Tiger intent on splitting the torbalan’s head in twain. A pleasant thrum entered Alexander’s hands as he felt steel parting flesh, but he frowned upon noticing what it was he’d cut through. Lightning fast, the witch-kin had used its scaly tail to slow and deflect his blade at the cost of its narrowed, pointy tip. Grunting, the torbalan tried to withdraw its own weapon, but Noctua was intent on preventing it. He cut a Swiping Bear to gut the lanky creature, yet this time his blade parted naught but air. Disturbingly swiftly, the creature’s torso had contorted, stretching back and away as though its spine were made of pudding, the rest of its body following suit.

Hissing with rage, the torbalan opened its left hand and stabbed a gnarled, pointed nail into its palm, drawing forth dark red blood. The air around it warped, and Noctua was suddenly jerked towards the creature, cape fluttering as the witch-kin’s power continued to reel him closer. Haumathurgy. Noctua ground his teeth and dug his heels in before noticing something flash in his eye’s corner. He dropped to one knee, the scythe caressing his hair as it sailed past him. With one foot flat, it was all Noctua could do not to be flung into the torbalan’s grasp – however, he was now also in optimal range.

Raising the Mjolnir, he fired off all four remaining rounds in quick succession. Yet the witch-kin was fast too, and as soon as it saw him raise the gun its left hand reached for the pink-leather sack on its arm. The bullets, all aimed at the creature’s head and neck, never made contact – instead, they vanished mid-flight as a brief, sharp wheeze filled the surroundings.

Before Noctua could ascertain what’d happened, the scythe was on him again, black blade stabbing down at his chest. “Váʂgwaⱨ!” he cast, a concentrated blast of wind pushing him back, away from the blade and onto his feet. But the witch-kin had gained momentum. Its tail miraculously regrown, it began to spin, limbs extending and rotating as it slashed at him with blade and scale, forcing Noctua to give ever more ground. “Váʂlúgh!” Noctua followed up, leaping backwards for the wind to carry him away. As he flew, the witch’s tail wrapped itself around his ankle. Acting on instinct, Noctua dropped the Mjolnir and slashed at the appendage with both hands, severing its tip once more. This time, the torbalan screeched at the pain, a rattling, scratchy sound of shifting sand and breaking glass.

Noctua landed some twenty feet from the witch, trying to gleam new angles of approach. Perhaps now is the time for some explosives… Before he could proceed the witch hissed again, then dribbled some of its blood onto its scythe. The black blade quite literally drank the fluid, and as it did, the scythe seemed to liquefy itself, waves of dim light dancing across it. Then, the torbalan raised its right hand, and its coal-eyes briefly burned with what in a man one might call glee.

Then, the witch waved its hand forward, and the previously solid war scythe extended and flailed, now resembling a massive steel whip with a curved stinger. Noctua found he struggled to so much as track the blade, such was its new speed, and as it threatened to slice through his knee he failed to wholly avoid it, the scythe leaving a shallow gash in his calf. The second crack came, then a third and a fourth, and each time the thirsting blade drew a little more of Alexander’s blood, its speed increasing with every bloody strike.

Noctua grit his teeth, not so much in pain as in alarm. The longer I fight this, the stronger it gets. But there can be no thought of parries. I need to try something else. “Eädóroʂ!” he cast instead, raising a wall of hardened soil in the oncoming whip’s path. He barely managed to dodge as his barrier exploded to pieces, the blade scything through it with next to no resistance. Frustration briefly overtaking him, he almost failed to notice that, for the first time, he hadn’t been cut.

This might kill just me, he considered while quickly calculating the thickness necessary for his newest stunt.

“It better not,” Huginn chimed in, peering unbidden into his plans. “Our contract…”

“Remains unbroken,” Alexander cut him off, telepathy graciously slowing down his perception of time.

“And what if you do die?” Huginn didn’t sound distressed, merely irritated. It was in times like these that Alexander remembered that, despite his trust, the bird was ultimately his contractor first, and companion second.

“I shall ponder that once I’m dead. Shush now.”

“Eädóroʂ!” he cast again, his new wall a good five feet thick and as tall he was, arranged in a half-circle around him. He began to feel fatigue creeping up on him, but still grabbed his sword with both hands, eyes fixed on the whip-scythe. Taking glee in its weapon’s power, the torbalan swung the blade around its head, then waved it for another murderous reaping. As expected, the whip shattered the newest wall with little effort – but not with none at all.

One with the world, one with the flow. Slowed the tiniest bit by fraction, the whip-blade was now just slow enough for Noctua to strike. He heaved, Leaping Fox striking the emerging scythe vertically, deflecting the wobbling point into the ground. Wasting no time, Noctua stomped on the weapon with one foot and grabbed it by the shaft, paying for his audacity with a cut to his forearm. He had a split-second to keep it at that. “Morhoʂ!” He screamed the spell, hearing the air whistle as a lash of blue fire consumed the spear from socket to midsection, freezing all in a flash. With a snarl of augured strength, Noctua squeezed, shattering the blackened scythe and tossing its wobbly blade aside.

The torbalan gave an outraged, vengeful shriek, ice sliding on gravel, though it also took a step back at the display. Ignoring the pain of his cuts, Noctua stepped towards the witch, instantly regaining much of the ground he’d lost to the whip-scythe.

Then, the witch-kin gave a sudden, sharp snicker, burning eyes narrowing as it reached for the sack wrapped around its shoulder. Upon unravelling it, Noctua could finally discern the materials used in its making – after all, even flayed, twisted faces were not difficult to identify, especially on a backdrop of older, darker leather. The torbalan grasped the sack’s mouth with both hands and aimed it at Noctua.

He dodged aside on instinct, but not soon enough – the moment the sack opened, he felt a searing pain in his right arm and thigh. Stumbling, Noctua threw the briefest look behind to see what had pierced him so cleanly – he found his blood staining the silvery casing of his .44 rounds. Didn’t fly at full speed, else I’d be short of an arm right now. Still… He groaned, the pain in his right arm declaring it would not wield a sword until adjustments had been made. Grabbing the blade with his left hand, he turned back just in time to see the witch-kin opening the sack again. Reflexively, Noctua threw himself to the ground, raising up another earthen shield with a snapped command.

No projectiles came this time – instead, a series of vicious cracks sounded from the other side of Noctua’s barricade, accompanied by high-pitched wheezing, and he realized that the wall itself was being torn asunder, though not from any blow. He peaked out, immediately ducking back as he felt a terrible, sucking pressure grasp his forehead. The sack. It’s drawing the very earth into itself. The bullets, then… perhaps it is a pattern? “Şutmáyoʂ,” he cast, as quietly as he could, for all witch-kin had a hunter’s senses, hearing very much included.

His theory was confirmed a second later, as the wheezing stopped, near instantly replaced with the roar of rockslide as his cover was assailed by a barrage of riven earth and stone. By that time, however, Noctua was already on the move, having cloaked himself in shadow as he dashed for a bulky beech closest to him. Though his leg hurt like hell, he managed to cross the distance unscathed.

Unfortunately, unscathed was not unnoticed, and the torbalan soon realized its quarry had removed itself. Noctua could hear it sniffing at the air through its thick, black scarf, wheezing as it shuffled forward, closer and closer to Noctua’s location.

So, the sack seems to work on a rotating basis, Noctua considered. It also seems to have a demesne within it, though not a large one, based on the intervals between rotations. It is thus unlikely to be a major arcana, most likely the witch’s own creation. Which means…

“Móræşoʂ!” Noctua commanded, leaning from his hideaway, igniting a nest of searing flames around the torbalan. Flame, even pure flame, is uniquely destructive when it comes to enchantments. Maybe it will be enough… Before he even finished his thought, he saw the firelight dim as another bout of wheezing sounded from behind him, and he looked out to see his flames being sucked into the sack, plunging the roadside back into darkness. The torbalan gave another rattling cackle, and then Noctua’s surroundings exploded with light and heat.

“Curse it!” Noctua swore as his own flames spewed forth from the sack, setting alight all surrounding plantlife. Despite the chill, the woods caught fire immediately, and Noctua realized he needed to end the fight within the next minute if he wished to prevent a forest fire. This is exactly why I loathe using flaming spells. Still, he had no choice. Time for a gamble.

“Huginn. How large do you estimate the internal volume of that sack to be?”

“Enough for two adult humans, most like, and twice as many children,” the raven estimated clinically. “It would take an enchanter of far greater potency to create anything larger. Why?”

“What happens if it sucks in something too great for its volume?”

“I’d wager it simply fails to enter, but the rules of dimensional enchantments are wonky at best. What do you… oh, no!”

“I’m counting on your assessment!” Noctua declared, then, as burning leaves around him began getting sucked out of the woods, he grabbed an unscathed branch, pointed his sword at the ground and shouted “Móreätut!”

He reached deep beneath the earth for this spell, below the thickest cluster of the old beech’s roots, and as he found their weak spot, the earth erupted beneath the tree, tearing it out, roots and all. On its own, the tree would have simply fallen onto the forest path – but its leaves and branches had already been drawn into the torbalan’s sack, and now that its support had been wrecked, the entire massive beech was sent careening straight towards the witch-kin, and Alexander with it.

Please let it be too large…

He heard the torbalan shriek in surprise, and though the wheezing ceased immediately, its residual force kept the beech surging forward. And, just as Noctua heard the sack’s wheeze turn to thrum of expelled matter, he grit his teeth, leapt with both legs and commanded “Váʂlúgh!”

Wings of wind carried him forward and upward, over the beech tumbling to the ground and the bits of scrap crashing into it, and straight towards the torbalan, sword primed to strike. Had he been forced to fly the whole distance, the witch would surely have noticed him in time to defend itself, but the beech had covered the better part of his advance. As such, by the time the creature saw him, they were a foot apart and Noctua saw fear fill its simmering eyes.

He slashed and crashed, right into the torbalan, struggling to land on his feet and move without pause, backing away from the monster. As the witch turned towards him, simmering with anger, he saw the scarf obscuring its face had been torn away by the impact, revealing a gaunt, skeletal face with a prominent, sharp nose and a wide, lipless mouth. Hissing, it revealed a wormy, forked tongue seated amidst rows upon rows of small, hooking teeth. Yet when it tried to point at him with its bleeding left hand, its eyes widened in surprise to find naught but a flat, glistening stump dripping dark blood. Its other hand looked much the same, and the sack… well, the sack was held, but not by the same hands as before.

Two adult humans… or one large witch, perhaps?

Noctua didn’t allow the beast to try and flee. Pointing the sack’s mouth at the torbalan, he opened it wide, immediately catching it within its radius. The witch-kin tried to resist, digging in its heels, but its coiling tail alone was not support enough. Its already freakishly slender features deformed further as the torbalan was sucked, headfirst and shrieking its lungs out, into its own skin-sack.

Working quickly, Noctua let go of the arcana with one hand, grabbing grenades from his belt and tearing their pins off with his teeth before chucking them into the sack. Then, with all his remaining strength, he spun the burden, throwing it towards the chapel’s newly fortified gate, turning to run the other direction and throwing himself to the ground just before a deafening boom tore across the clearing.

As pieces of burning debris rained around him, Noctua rose, now painfully aware of his sustained wounds, and dragged himself to the church gate. There was nothing left of the skin-sack, and of the torbalan, only severed hands and tail-tips remained. Noctua set them all on fire, just in case, then turned towards the other, larger fire eating away at the forest.

“That… well, that was something,” Huginn remarked, seating himself on Alexander’s shoulder. “Before you see to the fire, see to your wounds. I won’t have you collapsing from blood loss.”

“The forest comes first,” Noctua growled, biting his cheek at the flooding pain now that both his ʂeⱨæm and adrenaline began to fade.

“Not for me it doesn’t.”

“Good thing you’re not the one casting then, isn’t it?”

“Please, don’t be stubborn,” Huginn croaked annoyedly. “You’ll only exhaust your reserves more before the healing, and what good will that do?”

“And if I heal first, acres of woods might burn, not to mention the settlements within them,” Noctua concluded with a note of finality. “My pain can wait.” He planted both feet as firmly as he could, then focused on the tongues of flame dancing across the trees and bushes. He tried to guess the fire’s true scale, its level of heat, he whispered “Þáæşvár”.

In an effect akin to the sack’s vortex, the raging fires began drawing closer to Alexander, sucked away from their kindling to gather in a single, roaring orb before him. He held it there, wincing as the blazing energy threatened to overwhelm him, until he was sure it had sucked even the last, smallest flame. Then he threw the ball up, as high as he could, before allowing it to detonate in a shower of fireworks.

Dropping to the ground, Noctua’s fingers shook as he reached into his pockets for ambrosia. He winced as he spread the whitish paste across his wounds, laying it thick across the cut on his forearm, then pulled out his nectar and took a longer sip than usual, promptly reprimanding himself for indulgence. His head was pounding, the strain of so many spells cast in swift succession finally coming home to roost. Noctua pulled out a handful of dried aglaophotis petals to chew on, their bitter aftertaste clearing his mind almost as well as their alchemical properties. Only then did he finally begin reciting a healing mantra, his wounds tickling as they slowly, reluctantly sealed.

Still, even if he could heal his wounds and refocus his brain, there was precious little he could do about the mounting fatigue, especially with Zinder still at large. He needed to conserve what ʂeⱨæm he had, even though…

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“Huginn,” Noctua spoke up, using what time he had before his cuts were fully sealed. “How quickly are your reserves of ʂeⱨæm refilling here?”

“… Come to think of it, it seems they’ve barely emptied,” Huginn mused, flying off to sit on a scorched tree branch. “Even though I used a bit up while guiding you in Sulfurești. You think it’s because of this place?”

“It seems likely now,” Alexander considered, trying and failing to rise. “Laszlo mentioned that the warlord who ruled here found something beneath the church, specifically some place. He said it was either a tunnel or the Devil’s own castle. I believe it could have been both.”

“It would explain how Zinder has enough power to control so many spirits…” Huginn nodded along, “and might even be the reason why he came here.”

“He is using a demesne,” Alexander nodded, now completely certain. “The question remains, for what? And why does he need sacrifices for it?”

“One way to find out,” Huginn shivered, looking to the wrecked gate. “Should I accompany you within?”

“No. Whatever the demesne is, it’s bound to be underground, and it’ll do no good to have you flying in tight spaces. You watch over the church while I enter, see that Zinder calls no more friends to the party.”

“As you command,” Huginn nodded, unusually deferential. Noctua grinned as he realized the raven’s ploy. “And, would you perhaps…?”

“Catch,” Noctua called, throwing forth a strip of dried meat from a pouch. The bird soared, deftly grasping the treat mid-air and began messily snacking on it.

“You are the finest master one could ask for, did I ever tell you that?” Huginn’s thoughts chimed in, his beak too full of food to talk.

“Our contract suggests otherwise,” Alexander noted, resulting in an awkward silence.

Steeling himself for what had to come, Alexander quickly cracked all his fingers in succession, the grunted with effort as he pushed himself to his feet, staggering briefly before regaining his footing. He collected his revolver, retrieved and cleaned his sword, took one last look across the scorched, smoking battleground, then walked through the ruined gate, into the Devil’s Chapel.

***

The building itself was rather unimpressive. It was certainly majestic, once upon a time – Alexander could clearly make out the skeletons of broad domes, support columns and a flat slab of stone which used to be the altar. It was also certainly larger than he would have expected from a minor church tucked away amidst the mountains. Yet age and damage had taken their toll – no wall remained intact, wind blowing freely through the church’s interior, while tongues of mist carpeted its floors and mounds of cracked brickwork clustered in its corners.

The church ground likewise was littered, though not only with rubble – over a dozen large tents were spread around the central building, as well as a number of portable chairs and tables. Noctua didn’t have time to search those now, but he did briefly inspect all of them for any signs of aurochs reserves. Only once he’d fully surveyed its surroundings did Noctua enter the church itself.

He didn’t expect there to be a readily obvious entrance into the demesne itself – as Pockets only partially connected to the physical worlds, a demesne’s entrance was already rather fluid and malleable to begin with, and Zinder had almost certainly further obscured it since arriving. Noctua slowly surveyed the dilapidated walls, puckered, cracked and devoid of all their once vibrant colours, but could see no obvious disturbances – no strange light reflections, unseemly shadows or anything else betraying a curtain. Guess we’ll have to do this slowly.

He reached for his pouch of gwáluɗ, irately cracking a finger at its inadequate weight – even if used sparingly, he was unsure whether he’d brought enough for this purpose. Then, reaching for a handful of the sparkling dust, he scattered the mix of silver, salt, moonstone and herbs onto the nearest wall. Nothing happened. He tried again, and again, throwing a handful of the mixture onto every surface within reach, to precisely no effect. Were he to strike an illusion, the dust would make it sizzle and sparkle, but alas, no such effect took place.

Perhaps not the walls then. But I don’t have enough powder to search all of the floors, and cursed fog as well… He paused to consider. Though unused, natural Pockets could spring up basically anywhere, “settled”, utilized demesnes were a different matter. They required a firmer anchor, a particular location, a specific symbol… sure, the church itself would do, but perhaps within the church…

Noctua walked up to the slab of altar stone, running a hand along its surface. What in the gloom initially seemed like random scratches and dents, he now could see were signs – writing, and not in any language. Confident, Noctua spread a handful of moondust along the stone. The glyphs along its length immediately shone with bright, piercing light, revealing their true nature. Goetic glyphs.

Now but to find the key. Alexander tried to read sigils, but they turned out to be a random collection of phrases, invocations and seals, with no rhyme or reason to them. “Huginn,” Noctua called out. “Recommendations?”

“Looks to me like you’ve got composite seal there,” Huginn declared after a short consideration, perching himself atop a nearby wall. “Bother. Even if you break one, the others will hold until it reseals itself. No way to pry this open easily, I fear. You might just have to unlock it the old-fashioned way. Can you read any of that writing?”

Noctua inspected the markings, then cracked his thumb in ire. He could decipher a decent portion of the chants, but not nearly enough, and what was worse, he could not read any of the full sentences they created, his knowledge always failing him partway through. Perhaps…

“Wait,” Huginn chimed in again. “Could it…?” Then, the raven burst into a fit of gleeful cackles, flapping his wings excitedly. “I get it. Compare the separate markings to each other. See any commonalities?”

At first, Alexander couldn’t see what Huginn was pointing out. All the symbols were different, all loops and knots and crosses and… A smile slowly spread across Noctua’s face.

“A double knot and a double cross in every chant, is it? I see it now,” Alexander nodded. “The Leviathan cross?”

“Not in every one,” Huginn corrected. “Only on some. You would need to look at it from above to see it, but the chants containing the Leviathan’s components form another, perfect Leviathan filling out the entire altar. I think we found our password,” the raven couldn’t help but caw smugly. Still, Noctua hadn’t the time to reprimand the bird for his arrogance. Huginn did, after all, oft reflect his own tendencies.

He reached into one of the pouches lining his belt, pulling out a small vial of thick glass, filled with crystalline yellow powder. Hoping he had enough for the seal to accept, Alexander sprinkled a handful of sulphur onto the altar. The effect was instant, the chants forming the larger Leviathan symbol shining with a crimson-gold light.

Then, the demesne’s entrance appeared. There was no dramatic popping of a veil, no sudden parting of old masonry. The broad rectangular entrance simply lay where moments prior there’d been solid stone, as though it’d always been there – as was the case, after a fashion. Stepping closer, a thick sense of fear and death hit Alexander – the miasma soaking the demesne, wafting out in thick, invisible bursts.

“You sure you want to go there?” Huginn asked. Alexander was surprised to hear genuine concern from him, instead of the usual calculated hesitance.

“You know I have to,” Alexander replied, peering into the darkness.

“You don’t. You could just collapse the place, crush Zinder and this entire hell-pit. You owe that man nothing.”

“I do.”

“Why do you always play this game?” Huginn wheezed, the avian equivalent of a sigh. “Why always overburden yourself with the fates of those who provide nothing for you? Why clean up messes other people have made?”

“Because no one else will,” Noctua shrugged. On this, his mind had set too long ago. “Guard the entrance, Huginn.”

“…Yes,” the raven cawed back.

Noctua unsheathed his athame, holding it pommel-first against the darkness as he whispered “Sáien”. Both the pommel – or, more accurately, the object within the pommel – and his five rings lit up with piercing silver-gold light, illuminating a twisting stairway. Noctua noticed a difference immediately – where the church above ground was withered and ruined, the staircase beneath him showed no signs of wear or tear, the convoluted designs on its walls as clear and vivid as the day they’d been carved.

Time moves queerly in demesnes. And oft it moves not at all – such is their mock nature.

Master’s words ringing in his ears, Noctua stepped onto the stairs without hesitation, walking briskly but not recklessly – hurry though he may, no good would come of hurrying into a trap. As he went, the carvings on the surrounding walls became steadily more detailed, turning from words and symbols into abstract yet eerily unsettling images and impressions. He could hear nothing before or behind him, and felt the vague presence of a sentient, malicious intellect lounging somewhere deep below him like a bloated, cunning spider.

He didn’t need to descend long – after about two minutes, he could see his arcane light dispersing into a large, open space. Seeing the opened space below had its own illumination, he cut his spell short and was again plunged into darkness. “Şutmáyoʂ,” he whispered, veiling himself once more – this time, though, he could feel the spell actively pulling at his strength, tautening his muscles and stabbing at his brain. I need to ration my power now. Can’t go headfirst on the offense anymore.

He slid towards the stairway’s exit, peaking out to observe the space beyond. He was only somewhat surprised to see the chapel look identically to the church above, or rather, to the church as it had been prior to its ruination. Twelve massive columns lifted up from a mosaic-covered floor, each set with a burning brazier shaped like a dragon’s head. The impressions on the walls now became paintings, mockeries of the frescoes found in real churches – scenes of destruction, debauchery and defilement, armies clashing, towns burning, monsters and devils ravaging men, women and children in a hundred brutish ways, all rendered in inhuman levels of detail, all criss-crossed with that same spiderweb of glyphs covering the entire complex. And, finally, Alexander understood. Vessels. Whoever first built this place was trying not to harness its own power, but use it to amass powers from the surrounding areas. But why…?

As his eyes traced along one of the sigil vines, Alexander finally saw what covered the floor. It took all his self-restraint not to crack his fingers and betray his position, though he could feel his teeth grinding with sudden, biting outrage. The bodies strewn behind the pillars were in differing states of decay – some were already red and reeked of decomposing organs, others, including one wearing priestly robes, still green and bloated, and only two, a parent and child dressed in hiking gear, were still somewhat unspoiled. Wounds were visible upon them, slit throats, gutted bellies and open ribcages – clean, clinical cuts, which somehow only enhanced their grotesque nature.

He felt a surge of guilt well up in him and stomped it down – time enough for that later. It was foolish to expect any survivors after Zinder failed to mention them before. Only… He searched for Nicolescu amongst the bodies, but instead his eyes caught a flash of movement. In the far back of the reversed church, he could make out a tiny, huddled figure violently shaking on the ground behind the altar, chained by the wrist to a large and evidently modern portable table containing countless maps, books and surgical instruments.

Should I rescue him before…? That would be the safer option, but crossing the length of the church unmolested twice was probably not feasible. And besides…

No. He dies first. Painfully.

Fighting down his rage, Noctua stepped into the main hall, watching for tripwires or traps as best he could. The miasma around him was becoming overwhelming, so thick he had no hope of discerning particular enchantments within it.

“So, you’re finally here.”

Zinder’s voice was coming from everywhere and nowhere, echoing from all surfaces to create an omnipresent menace. Still, Noctua tried to discern its source – if not Zinder himself, it might at least be try his method of distortion.

“The witch gave you more trouble than I expected. I almost grew bored waiting. But then, you never fail to disappoint, do you, Alexander Šarkan?”

Despite the distraction, Noctua kept moving forward. If I reach Nicolescu before he decides to attack…

“It’s unfortunate, in a way. I’d hoped you’d be a potent counterweight whenever you arrived, for me to test the limits of my new abilities before I made use of you. Alas, it seems you’re but a poultry fellow – you cannot even prevent me from sensing your presence, veil or no veil.”

Definitely not a sorcerer. Most likely not a thaumaturgist either. A conjurer then – and if this place is anything to go by…

“Do you know how vexing it is to finally be able to acquire powers so enticing, only to not be able to properly test them out? Especially when you have to so carefully weigh the purpose for which you sacrifice every test subject you acquire.”

Definitely a diablerist.

“What with all the breaking and questioning and enthralling that entails. A surprisingly scientific field it is, spellcasting. Of course, you probably wouldn’t see it like that.” Somewhere, Alexander heard a gun cocking. “Would you?”

He threw himself aside as a trio of bullets passed over his head in quick succession. Before he could catch his breath, the bullets swerved and spun back at him, still flying at full speed. Huntsman’s bullets. That is one taxing contract. I could… It was a split-second decision, but Alexander chose not to nullify the impact, raising his scáth over himself instead. Zinder believes himself clever. If so, then I shall show him what he wishes to see.

He paid for that decision dearly. Scáths were designed to break spells from the outside and enhance them from the inside, much like the stellula swords. The bullets, though ensorcelled, had still built up a kinetic charge behind their motion, however. And even after passing through the cloak and being forced to run on fumes, their velocity was still sufficient to bury all three missiles deep in his chest’s silversilk protection, knocking out his breath and making him gasp, thoughtlessly dropping his veil.

Writhing in pain, he caught Zinder vanishing in the corner of his eye, and even through the haze of pain he slotted another piece of information in place. He needs to appear for an attack. Coughing, Noctua forced himself on his feet, scrambling on all fours behind the nearest pillar.

“After all, your kind sees magic as some sort of ancient, venerable force one can never truly understand, am I correct?” Once again, Zinder’s voice echoed across the room. “Something bound by tradition and ceremony, something not fit for proper, scientific study? What a load of hogwash.”

Noctua knew a follow-up attack would not be long in waiting, and sure enough. This time, he caught Zinder appearing to his right, smirking as he blew onto a handful of sand in his hand. Mid-flight, the sand grains caught fire, lemon-yellow flames cascading towards Alexander. He threw himself behind the pillar, landing upon one of the mutilated corpses. The young man’s decomposing features in a rictus grin of terror, his rotting eyes wide and still with agonized despair. In the lower pit of his stomach, Alexander could once again feel his rage coiling ’round.

Still coughing and gasping and keenly aware of the pain stemming from at least one broken, Alexander’s mind still tried to work on overdrive. He needs to move physically – no warping.

“Magic is power, as is everything else in this world. Nothing less, nothing more. Nothing incomprehensible or hallowed about it. It is a tool, like any other, and tools are meant to be used, shared and thus improved. But that is not what you and yours do, is it? Like avaricious wyrms, your kind hoards all the arcane and then has the gall to claim that is for our own good. The self-centred hypocrites…”

Just as Noctua finally managed to gasp a ragged breath, Zinder was there again, behind him, sending another wave of yellowed heat streaming towards him, ravenously consuming his harvested victims. Noctua ran, narrowly the dodging the flames as he fell into the centre of the hall. Only then did he hear the crackling of high voltage behind him. Turning, he saw Zinder grinning, his right hand wrought with dark, sparkling lightning which drank in the meagre firelight.

This one, Noctua couldn’t dodge… and he needn’t. Instead, he raised his scáth again as the black lightning struck, cringing at the smell of bile and ozone. It was a hefty dosage, but scáths were sown to withstand a dozen times its volume and the attack was dispersed harmlessly.

Yet that was not the impression Noctua displayed – instead, he fell back, huffing breathlessly as he scrambled behind the opposite pillar, goading Zinder on. He has far too many contracts to be able to pay continuously – he cannot last in an attrition fight. Unfortunately, Noctua had no interest in attrition either.

“You’re even more stupid than I thought. What compelled you to walk into my trap so weakened? Was it duty? Devotion? Honour?” Somewhere, Zinder spat. “The dying delusions of a dying culture ever espoused by thuggish oaths and witless tyrants. Such notions have no place in a rationally ordered society, even less those who espouse them.”

This time, the attack came from above – Noctua saw Zinder appear as the latter outstretched his hand, air shimmering in his open palm before a swarm of slimy, pale tentacles ripped their way forth. Noctua tried to jump aside, yet two of the appendages grabbed onto his foot as he leapt away, then began reeling him in. Snarling, Noctua whipped out the Mjolnir and shot wildly at the swarm, prompting the devil-spawn controlling them to throw him aside. He landed in the chapel’s centre with a grunt, Mjolnir once more flying from his grip.

“Or do you actually mean to tell me you came here to save him? You? Don’t make me laugh. Remember, I know what you are, Alexander Šarkan. Your outdated “titles” are not “protector of the people” or “shield of the innocent”, no, nothing of that sorry sort. You are “the slayer”, “the hunter” – a killer by any other word. You don’t care for others, elsewise killing wouldn’t come so naturally to you.”

Noctua scrambled to his feet, grateful for every second Zinder spent yapping away, even as he tried to exaggerate his weakness. If I am correct, then right about now he should…

Zinder appeared right next to him – it was as though a screen was lifted besides Alexander, unveiling a robed man with a face twisted by vicious indulgence. The diablerist threw a punch – as he did, his fist shimmered and vanished, just as his whole body always would. I could evade… not yet. This one won’t be debilitating. And I still need to crack his veiling method…

Just before Zinder’s fist connected, he felt another, different impact shatter upon his chin – a sensation wholly unlike getting punched by a fist, but rather like a sheet of glass cracking on impact. Though Noctua had braced himself, the surprise still made him stagger and turn aside. Even stranger, when the fist followed up for a second hit, it had barely a tenth of the expected effect. Oh, Zinder had certainly enhanced himself – his speed and strength were beyond what a regular human could produce – but he still moved with the clumsiness of one unaccustomed to their own strength, and his punch was weak and stretched, sending Zinder himself careening to the side before vanishing again.

Noctua remained standing this time, carefully watching his surroundings to catch Zinder’s next emergence. All the while, the warlock continued running his mouth.

“What was that like!? Have you ever been punched by a baseborn person, oh mighty knight? Ever been harmed by someone not born into your privilege!? Ever been bested by one who has had to earn their power instead of winning the genetic lottery!? Tell me, what is more painful – my blows or the fact a person such as I, whom you never considered your equal, managed to inflict them upon you!?”

The next attack was aimed at his gut, and once again the punch was preceded by a sense of something hard shattering against him. It’s almost like…

“Doubtless you’ll say there is no compare between us, for I have killed others to achieve my power! Well, so have you – not to acquire it, but to maintain it! To conserve your antiquated, oppressive system which keeps you privileged and powerful, while I have made sacrifices to deepen man’s understanding of the world and its opportunities!”

And with the next punch to his cheek, Alexander finally understood. He saw Zinder’s poorly-closed fist shimmer and vanish, then reappear right after the elusive barrier had been broken – except it didn’t exactly vanish, it was covered by something. And there was only one such thing…

Air. That’s it. He is solidifying air itself into blocks to use as both cover and armour. Probably mobile as well. Which means, even when he vanishes, he still exists in this plane. He looked to dust scattered during Zinder’s attempts at pyromancy. And I’ve just the way to ascertain his location.

First, he needed to break Zinder’s offence. Still faux-reeling from his last blow, he whispered “Kuegwa Craⱨvríþ”, feeling new growths itch on his cheeks, then looked up, baring bloodied teeth in a defiant grin.

“That’s it. That’s all you can ever do, grin smugly at the truth which holds you in contempt!” Zinder screamed, though even the echo couldn’t mask his juvenile fury. “The virtues of the ignorant! In the end, you’re no different from the other fools lying here – no progression, no vision, no ambition! You are but the embodiment of repulsive stagnation. What do you even know of true pursuit of truth?!”

Predictably, when Zinder next appeared, his punch once again aimed for Alexander’s cheek. Predictably, the wall of air slapped across it first, bursting into pieces. Predictably, the warlock’s fist followed. And, predictably, that’s when the screaming began.

Zinder recoiled in horror, clutching at his limp fist as though it had been burned. Indeed, he may have wished it were, for the pain stemming from it quickly spread to wrack his whole body, raising his voice to a near hysterical levels.

“I know scientists ought to wear gloves when working with unknown samples,” Noctua hissed, spitting a bloody glob as he massaged his aching jaw, letting the jellyfish needles on his cheeks disappear.

With that, he threw his own punch, a right hook straight into Zinder’s cheek. The warlock was sent spinning to the ground, and when he looked up, his pale eyes wore a familiar mix of indignant hate and teary shock. “Your first punch to the face, I assume?” Alexander inquired, voice never rising. “Not the last, I assure you.”

Zinder tried and failed to scramble away, get some distance between them. Noctua wouldn’t let him. He grabbed the warlock by the collar, hauled him up and headbutted him, feeling the blood from Zinder’s nose soak into his eyebrows. He then kneed the man, savagely, into the stomach and then the groin, making him yelp and bend over with pain. Looking down, he saw the warlock sobbing bloody tears, eyes narrowed in hatred as his body crackled with thorny black lightning.

Noctua jumped away, sliding a throwing blade into his hand and tossing it upwards seconds before the lightning struck. The bolt followed the blade, which was both ensorcelled and at a higher altitude, but when Noctua looked around, Zinder had vanished once again. Wiping the blood from his forehead, Noctua made a show of casually picking up his gun and holstering it before continuing. “Nothing more to say, master Zinder?” He extended his hand, feeling at the myriad particles of sand and dust clouding the room. “Unfortunately for you, our real talk has only just begun. Máluɗⱨríʂ!”

As one, the chapel’s grime lifted into the air, blowing this way and that in a tempest of movement, covering every inch of the temple – except for a conspicuously warped, circular piece of space moving rapidly towards the chapel’s altar.

“Morhoʂ,” Noctua hissed, blue flame exploding around the anomaly. Zinder screamed again, more from fear than pain, his veil collapsing around him. As Noctua allowed for his sandstorm to recede, Zinder regained a measure of composure and attempted to stem his advance, pulling forth another handful of sand and blowing upon it. This time, Noctua was ready.

“Æşgöþos!” came his command, and the onrushing yellow flames twisted and curved, coalescing into a football of plasma swirling before his hand. Leisurely, Noctua flicked the ball back, tearing the pillar next to Zinder to gravel and knocking the man on his ass.

“Since you are so studied, master Zinder, surely you know the first rule of sorcery?” Noctua inquired, steadily cutting the distance between them. “All magic is deceit. You certainly know much and more of deceit, yet you fail to apply it to your spells. Why is that, I wonder?”

Snarling, Zinder launched another burst of tentacles at him, thicker and longer than before. “Váʂækmén,” Noctua countered, and a whistling blade of hyper-pressurized air cut through the grasping limbs like hot knife through butter. “I would wager to guess it is as with any bratty child handed an expensive toy – their first thought is to show it off, to lord their new status over others, all the while carefully concealing from themselves their moral bankruptcy. If only the world was fairer, kinder, wiser, then their genius would be appreciated and their status amended! But alas, it is not, and so it is only right that they change it to be so, by any means necessary. And how convenient – finally a reason to swing that toy around, caution be damned! Am I correct, master Zinder?”

The warlock now slumped against the altar, eyes widening in what Noctua’s inner beast recognized as pure, hopeless fear. Zinder jerked his hand forward, a new wave of black lightning surging around it, then screamed again, descending into a grisly coughing fit which saw him vomit up a hot, steaming mess, red with blood and draped with pieces of torn flesh. Wheezing, he slumped to the ground as Noctua approached, looming over Zinder like a raptor.

“And the saddest part? It wasn’t even your own toy you abused. It was borrowed, ephemeral and corrosive. Like a two-dollar whore you sold yourself for delusions of parlour tricks, not a thought wasted on the sanctity of your soul or your coveted knowledge. My power is a burden, but at least it is mine to carry, every waking moment. That, Zinder, is something your ilk can never comprehend. You are a deluded dreamer, always living in what could or should be, but never reckoning with what is – with what you yourself have wrought.”

“Curse you to Hell and back!” Zinder screamed, terrified and furious. “I have learned too much! I have achieved too much! I have sacrificed too much! And I will not be mocked!” With that, his despair overcame his caution, and he drew a Glock from his robes with a shaking hand. One, two, three bullets he fired – the Seventh, still too craven to use. This time, however, Noctua was ready.

“Váʂbanos,” he declared leisurely. The bullets streamed towards him, then froze in place as a small whirlwind coalesced in front of him, its winds just strong enough to keep the homing projectiles at bay. Leisurely, Noctua plucked all three from his wind-shield, throwing Zinder an expectant look.

On cue, the warlock shrieked in agony, tearing at his sleeve as his gun-hand spontaneously sprouted open sores, his skin blackened and sloughed off and his fingers rotted and crumbled to mush. Whimpering, Zinder tried to crawl away, but now found Alexander staring right at him, crouched at eye-level.

“I have seen men learn so much in their pursuit of betterment, their minds broke from their findings, leaving them babbling wrecks. You have learned nothing.” He cracked a finger. “I have seen men achieve wonders, through valour and devotion, only to be betrayed and forgotten. You have achieved nothing.” He pointed at Zinder’s reeking, wafting stump. “I have seen men give limbs, lives and loves, knowingly and willingly, for ideals greater than themselves. And I have seen others order such sacrifices and live with the burden. You have sacrificed nothing.” He casually threw the plucked bullets aside. “And know that, should I decide to take you seriously,” his voice grew very low now, as he allowed himself to warp a little, wreathing his body with the purple-black mist which aped the shape of his soul, “you will be praying for the rest of your body to wither and die before the night is through.”

With that, Noctua grabbed Zinder by the collar and hauled him up, then slapped him across face, hard enough that the warlock keeled over the altar. As he grabbed him again, Noctua could see a Seal of Solomon carved into the altar’s stone, dark red with dried bloodstains. He had to restrain himself so as to not snap Zinder’s neck as soon as he grabbed him by the throat.

“Now I will ask and you will answer. Is that clear?”

“I don’t –…!”

Noctua kneed him in the groin, feeling something squelch as the warlock howled in pain. “Is that clear?” Pained panting was his only response. “Who are you working for?”

“I don’t –…!”

Noctua grabbed Zinder’s healthy hand and ripped off a fingernail. More wailing. “Who are you working for?”

“I don’t –…”

Another fingernail was sent flying. Wailing turned to shrieking. “You are not wise or studied enough to have become this powerful without guidance. You also possess too many valuable resources and connections. Someone is backing you. Name them, and consider carefully whether you insist on knowing nothing.”

“I…,” Zinder hesitated, whimpering, all pretence of confidence gone from him. “I can’t!”

Noctua drew his athame, leisurely resting its point against Zinder’s eye. “You can.”

Zinder whined, tears streaming from his face, but Noctua already saw he’d give in. Then, a strange sensation came over him, and the small of his back stung with disquiet.

A glow appeared on Zinder’s chest, obscured by his robe’s fabric, like a scrap of red-hot metal. Zinder’s eyes bulged with shock as he bent over, hissing with pain as he grasped at his chest. Cautiously, Noctua stepped back, watching the warlock grow pale and taut.

“No! No! Wait! I didn’t say, I didn’t say!” Zinder reached out, grasping at the abyss. “I didn’t fail! Wai–…!”

Then, with an ear-splitting clap, Helmut Zinder burst. He didn’t explode, no, it looked more as though he’d been squashed by some massive, unseen hand, popping like an overfilled balloon. Even his guts and bones were crushed, reduced to tiny bits of gore pooling into a thick puddle of blood and cloth.

Zinder was dead, but the force which had killed him did not abate. Noctua, who had shielded himself with the scáth to avoid being painted with gore, saw a braid of green light emerge from Zinder’s remains. The light expanded, finding one of the winding glyph sets adorning the temple and instantly spreading across the entire complex. Then, the Devil’s Chapel began to crumble.

“Curse it all!” Noctua hissed, kneeling over Zinder’s robes to try and extract something useful from him. No documents or notes, of course – he was fairly certain Helmut Zinder was also not the diablerist’s real name. Still, he did find something – a slender, gold talisman on a silver string, still faintly glowing with power. He chucked it into his pocket, then quickly made his way around the crumbling altar to the worktable spread with maps and books.

As though in mockery, the papers waited until he was a foot away before bursting with ravenous, bright green flames. “Devil take it!” Alexander cursed, engaging his auspex to try and memorize what little he could make out on one of the vanishing maps. Just a few seconds, that was all he needed…

A weak cough interrupted his concentration. Nicolescu. Alexander turned, finding the mayor weakly reaching out to a small picture on the floor, apparently deliberately placed just outside his reach. His other hand was chained to the wall, the wall which now was threatening to fall on top of him.

Snarling, Alexander dashed towards the prisoner, grasping the chain before casting. “Ɗæşgölos!” Rust devoured the metal links in seconds, and Noctua crushed them to haul the mayor to his feet. “Can you walk?” he asked the man, who, as though still in a haze, nodded absently, then spontaneously collapsed to the floor. Noctua saw bruises on his face and neck, and didn’t doubt more were hidden by his tattered clothes. Without further questions, Noctua hauled the man over his shoulder and, using the last vestiges of his ʂeⱨæm for auguring, ran for the exit.

Stones fell around him, mosaics crumbling underfoot, threatening to knock him to the ground, and still he ran. One rock left a gash in his forehead, flooding his left eye with blood, and still he ran. He reached the stairs just before the entrance frame collapsed, he could feel the stairs giving way beneath his feet, and with every step he prayed to see the exit.

He saw it soon enough, or what was left of it – a growing pile of rubble. No getting through that – he would need to blast it away. But after that… well, after that, he would need to get them both out with his human strength alone.

“Fíagwaⱨ!” Noctua shouted the spell at the top of his lungs, the mound exploding outwards to collide with other bits of falling debris. His legs instantly turned to jelly as the last vestiges of his ʂeⱨæm were consumed by the outburst, Nicolescu growing three times heavier while the stairs beneath his feet turned to gravel.

Still, he ran.

Gliding on inertia alone, Noctua skidded out of the stairway and was nearly crushed by a falling windowsill. The whole church was crumbling, blocks of stone falling like bombs, but Noctua had no time to halt and plan a course between them. If he stopped, even for a moment, he knew he couldn’t run again.

“Turn left!”

Huginn’s un-voice – Noctua obeyed instinctively, hearing a loud thud to his right.

“Right! Slower! Faster! Left! Slower! Left! Faster, faster, faster!”

With a snarl of defiance, Alexander ran out of the collapsing chapel, stopping only once he felt the soft grass beneath his boots and could hear the last crash of stone behind him. Then, without realizing, Noctua fand himself lying on his back, looking up at the sky.

For an eternal, blissful moment, he remained in stupefied vagueness, letting dew wash his burning skin. Then, he simultaneously realized two things. The mist was gone – not a smidge of it remained, all evaporated or stuck to the grass blades around him. And, more importantly, the clouds were gone as well – for the first time since he arrived, Noctua could see the stars. Slowly, a soft smile spread across his lips. Through hardship to the stars indeed, Master.

He began to rise when he heard a soft, regular sound beside him. Cautiously, he looked down, still only somewhat upright, and saw Horia Nicolescu crying. They were not the pathetic whimpers Zinder had displayed in his truest moment, no – they were gentle, defeated sobs of an irreparably broken man. The mayor was curled up, hugging his feet with one hand while holding a scrap of paper in the other. Now, Alexander could see it was a photo – a younger Nicolescu holding a lovely woman and two comely girls in his arms in front of a circus tent. And through tears, Alexander could hear the man whispering…

“… see them… just wanted to see them… to hold them… just wanted to see them… just wanted…”

Alexander sat back up – with the Chapel’s demesne ruined, his ʂeⱨæm was once again refilling at a normal pace, but he’d salvaged enough to at least remain straight. “Your family, I presume.”

“Didn’t want to hurt no one…” Nicolescu murmured, still looking at the photo. “Just wanted to help this place… help my people… to see them again…”

“Were they kidnapped?” Alexander asked, then paused. No, not kidnapped, not by Zinder at least. Laszlo mentioned something…

Horia gave the barest shake in response. “Ana left. Couldn’t stand this place. Said I could come with or stay, she wouldn’t. I tried to make things better… get her to return… then, two years ago, I lost all contact. Couldn’t find them. No one could. Don’t have a clue what happened. Whether…” He swallowed hard. “But he knew. Said he knew, at least. Lied about that too, most like. And I…” he closed his eyes in pain, “I gave my people to that…”

Finally, Nicolescu weakly rolled to the side, looking Noctua in the eye. “Kill me.”

In response, Alexander rose to his feet. A familial weight settled on his shoulder, and both sorcerer and raven now stood, glowering over a mound of misery. Then, Alexander gave his reply.

“No.”

“Please,” Nicolescu spat. “I heard you talk, to the Chechens. About the punishment for consorting with evil… do it… execute me please…”

“No.”

“Please!” the mayor screamed, weakly pounding his fist against the grass. “I can’t go back and look them in the eye! You said those like me should be punished – punish me, I beseech you!”

Noctua knelt to be at eye level with the man, knees aching and muscles burning with every movement. “There is no punishment I could conjure which would achieve a fraction of what your own conscience shall inflict upon you. Trust me. I know.”

A tiny, ashen body crumbling in his arms…

“But if punishment you desire, so be it. Horia Nicolescu,” Alexander rose back up, drawing his sword and planting it into the ground, “for consorting with practitioners of diablery, goetia and witchcraft, I, Alexander Noctua, sentence you to serve! Your punishment shall be setting right what you have wronged, helping those whom you have hurt, slaying lies with truth, fear with courage, pain with comfort! I sentence you to live and see to it others live lives happier than yourself! And know that of no greater suffering could I ever conceive.” Finally, Huginn cawed three times in turn, sealing his decision.

For a moment, Nicolescu simply stared up in shock, puzzled by what to him must have seemed a hopelessly archaic form of ritual performance. Then, understanding filled his eyes, and, huffing, he dragged himself up to one knee.

“Just please… tell me… does it ever go away?” he asked, his voice taking on a new, sadder yet stronger undertone. He understood his punishment now – understood the overbearing, crippling guilt which he would now have to carry, without distraction or respite, until his last breath.

“I wouldn’t know,” Alexander replied, proffering Horia a hand. “I never let it go.”

***

By the time the sun had climbed over the mountains, he was struggling not to fall asleep while waiting on Sulfurești’s tiny, muddy bus-stop. He dared not drop his guard in the open, even after ascertaining no hostile forces were left in the town’s vicinity. Still, after a night of constant moving, fighting and working, his meditation was on the verge of giving way to dreams.

After the Chapel’s collapse, Noctua searched the surviving Taurus tents, scouring them for resources and information. He collected as many identity verifications from the slain Chechens as he could – IDs, photos, diaries, dog-tags – scalps to deliver to Dragoș’s doorstep in due time. Afterwards, he set the camp on fire, destroying any traces of its presence.

Helping Nicolescu descend the mountain, Noctua decided to drop the mayor off at Laszlo’s inn, reasoning the man was better off with company for the time being. He found the establishment more crowded this time – evidently, not all locals heeded the warnings not to leave their homes, and by now a sizeable crowd had gathered within, hungry for news. At first, Noctua reconsidered letting the mayor confront his neighbours quite so early, but Nicolescu’s despair had since given way to determination. “I have to do it before doubt sets in,” he declared, and Noctua could not disagree. He watched the mayor hobble into the inn, greeted by cheers and cries of relief. He didn’t wait for the silence to set.

Instead, Noctua busied himself with cleansing Sulfurești for good. First, he dragged the aurochs’ corpses, human and pricolici alike, ways off from the town, into a forest clearing nearby – that process alone took him two hours. He then salted the remains before setting them on fire, cremating the corpses to ash. With that done, he gathered the ash into an orb and tossed it upwards, to be scattered by the winds. Best leave no anchors for malicious spirits to flock to, no matter how thoroughly exorcised.

In the meantime, he’d had Huginn surveying the town’s borders, identifying the largest flocks of spirits drawn to the town by Zinder’s rituals and the locals’ resultant unease. He then scattered them all, though none proved as troublesome as the swarm gathered to devour him on his way to the chapel. Without the same guiding force, it was likely the aetherae would again disperse, drifting through wilderness as per usual. By the time he was finished, he was pleased to notice his breath was no longer misting.

Still, I wonder… what did he hope to achieve by…

“Uhm… pardon me, sir not-detective?”

He blinked in surprise to find Gabi standing a few feet from him, nervously holding a wicker basket.

“It’s Alexander, miss Gabi. Alexander Noctua. Apologies for not introducing myself earlier,” he nodded. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Actually, there’s… I… I wanted to… here!” she stammered, presenting the basket. Cautiously, Noctua walked towards her, curious despite himself.

“There’s no need for payment, young miss. My contract was not with any of you,” Noctua countered, to which the girl merely shook the basket more urgently.

“Then… make it a gift! Yes! Something to remember us by!”

Alexander cocked his head. “Did master Laszlo send you?”

Gabi’s eyes dropped as she shook her head. “No…”

He nodded in understanding. “How is he?”

“He’s… alright. Grimmer than usual, if that’s even possible. Especially after mayor Horia returned and talked with the others. They all seemed… sad. And he mentioned you a lot, mister Alexander.” She seemed ashamed. “Not in a good way. He’s proper angry for whatever you did to him last he saw you.”

“He has every right to be,” Noctua nodded approvingly. “I’m angry at me for that. If you’d be so kind, do tell him I apologize for my intrusion and ask no forgiveness.” Won’t be the first ally I’ve turned against me through callousness. “Then who sent you, if I may ask?”

“I came by myself!” Gabi protested, then paused and slowly added. “And the Brackýs.” Seeing Alexander’s raised eyebrow, she continued. “Michal’s parents. I went to see ’em first thing come dawn, and they told me to give you somethin’ if I see you. They don’t dare move from the boys.” She hesitated before asking the obvious question. “Will they… will they be alright?” Will I be alright too, Alexander could hear the unspoken question.

He cracked a finger, considering briefly, then sighed in acceptance. “Back when I worked in a larger group, the general estimate of annual supernatural incidents worldwide stood at roundabout ten-thousand cases. However, my organization has grown indulgent and negligent, so I and some friends worked on an updated, broader and more accurate model. We found out the actual number could be five times higher, if not more-so.” He shook his head dismissively. “You never hear about it on the news though. Never read of it in papers, rarely even hear of it through word of mouth. And not because of some grand, world-spanning conspiracy, Gabi. There are no sophisticated systems hiding events you witnessed tonight from the public for fear of mass panic. In my experience, most organizations aren’t competent or intelligent enough for such a feat.”

Gabi shuffled, puzzled. “Then…?”

“The greatest barrier between humanity and the supernatural lies here,” Noctua tapped at his temple. “Magic is not of this world, Gabi. Even millennia later, it is still alien to us and all other natural creatures. Our brains realize humans were not designed to deal with it. And so, our brains do what they always do when humans encountered things they were unable to face. They remove it.”

A spark of realization lit up in the girl’s eyes. “That’s why I…!”

Noctua nodded. “At the end of the day, our life and our identity are continuous streams of memories. Tampering with those memories, to us, might as well be tampering with reality itself. After all, was there ever actually a sack-man, if everyone who’d seen him forgets about him?” He snapped his fingers. “Vanished, just like that. And with it go all the circumstances surrounding it, as the mind tries to construe a calmer, more rational set of events. In other words, in a month’s time at most, you will all forget I was ever even here.” He tried to make the process sound comforting, regardless of how disturbed it always made him feel.

To his surprise, Gabi frowned. “But… but if I forget, won’t it all just happen again someday? If it does, I’ll be just as clueless, just as…” She trailed off, though Noctua knew where. Just as powerless as she’d been tonight. Clever child. He couldn’t help but smile softly at the sentiment, even if it was bound to cause her pain.

He’d switched back to his overcoat after the battle, and now he pulled from it a handkerchief, one of his prettier, embroidered ones, and an ink pen. “Lend me your hand,” he told her, to which she consented with some surprise.

He placed the cloth upon her palm, then wrote, both into it and into her. Tradition and ritual are solutions to problems long forgotten. Beware all fables, folktales and stories, for in them such problems still lay. Respect the sacred, shun the arcane and guard against the infernal. And when in doubt, turn to what is good and true and human. This is the verse against all the unnatural.

“Read this every day. Try and learn it by heart,” Alexander prompted the surprised girl. “It’s what my organization teaches its non-sorcerous members first thing to help them overcome their block. You’ll most likely forget me, certainly you’ll forget the sack-man… but if something like this should ever happen again, these words will act as an anchor to help you remember this night, and also guide you towards prudent action.” He nodded encouragingly as he saw her grip the cloth. “And share it with all who will care to. Shouldn’t do no harm.”

The girl nodded slowly, a reassured smile spreading across her face at the thought. Then, she looked back up at Alexander and gave a full-on grin. “And now ya can’t refuse our gift neither, mister.”

Shaking his head, Alexander finally gave up. “Very well.” He reached out to take the wicker basket from the eager girl, noticing red still staining his gloved hands. Hurrying to hide it, he huffed, surprised by the basket’s weight. Opening it, he was stunned by the sheer volume of jars packed into it, everything from jams and honey to canned fruits and vegetables, interspersed with slices of cheese, bacon and ham. At once, he felt Huginn’s claws dig into his shoulder as the raven descended from its resting spot to observe the bounty.

“Mine,” the bird declared loudly.

“You wish,” Alexander shut him down, turning back to Gabi. “I am truly grateful, but this is too much, young miss. I see how strapped you are for money, and this is at least a year’s worth.”

Gabi waved a hand dismissively. “’Tis nothin’ we can’t recover in a harvest, don’t you worry. Besides… well, ya believed me, ya saved me, ya saved Michal and Toma… all this really is nothin’ compared to that.”

Despite himself, Noctua felt a chuckle rising, a deep, throaty laugh. “Well, at least I certainly know how to put this one to use. My grandmother is going to fume seeing someone outdid her in supplying me with canned goods.” Gabi’s puzzled expression made him laugh even more.

Suddenly, the buzzing of an engine sounded from the distance, and Noctua could see Sulfurești’s old, battered bus wobbling towards them, recognizing yesterday’s driver. “That’s my cue to leave,” he turned to the girl, giving her a final, courteous salute. “Fortune guide you, young miss. You deserve that at the very least. And if you wish to stand against the dark, heed the words I left you.” Then, he briskly turned around, grabbing his suitcase and basket, and walked towards the bus, not looking back.

He could feel her watching, feel the rest watching through her, but forced himself to move all the same. I won’t always be here for you. I thought I was good enough for that once, but I know better now. I don’t deserve gratitude for letting people die.

He boarded the bus, nodding to the wizened driver before sitting down. To his credit, the man did a fine job of pretending not to notice the raven clutching his shoulder.

“So, young mister… I take it your contract’s fulfilled?” he asked, trying and failing to sound casual.

“Almost,” Alexander sighed, pulling out an old, bulky flip-phone from his suitcase, dialling out a number. The response was as prompt as ever, and he lowered his voice for the call. “Noctua speaking. Contract complete. The cause behind the Sulfurești vanishings identified and eliminated. All residue removed. All the missing to be confirmed as deceased and their relatives informed. Retrieval of remains unsuccessful. Have everyone previously working on the case investigated and jailed for corruption, there will be evidence. Look into anyone who has had dealings with one Helmut Zinder, though be careful not to press. Payment as per usual. Over and out.” He closed the phone, sighing. “Now it’s done.”

“And, so… was it a success, ifin’ I may ask?” the driver pushed.

“No,” Alexander concluded, gazing out of the window as the bus began to move. “Not for me, at least. Just business as usual.”

They remained silent for a while after that, Alexander ever more tempted to slip into dreaming, when he remembered something else. He rummaged in a pocket, pulling out the talisman he’d snatched off Zinder’s remains. In the light of day, he could finally make out its components.

“Those are –…”

“A pair of serpents forming a double helix, yes,” Huginn agreed, switching to telepathy both to avoid startling the poor driver and not to leak sensitive information. “Except their heads are topped with...”

“The malocchio,” Noctua concurred, gazing at two big silver-and-onyx eyes set between the scales of the snake heads. “Ever seen an amulet like this?”

“Not a once,” Huginn answered, resentment echoing through him. “And it doesn’t look very old, but look at that quality! The writing on it is tiny, yet immaculately precise and multi-layered, I can already gleam at least three different functions…” His thoughts became grin as they reached their conclusion simultaneously. “This was made by someone far beyond your skill.”

“Agreed. And since it was given to a fool like Zinder, its creator either had higher expectations of him, or could afford to lose it.” They both knew which was likelier. “In any case, I assume it served primarily as a spying device. It killed Zinder the moment it sensed treachery from him, and I’ll be damned if it didn’t report every piece of his research he might have failed to mention.”

“But why?” Huginn shivered, feathers bristling from beak to tail. “This was all way too elaborate an operation for an exploration of a minor demesne in some Carpathian wilderness. Taurus, the torbalan, Zinder’s contracts… someone gave this man ludicrous resources, all to draw spirits to a small mountain town.”

Slowly, Noctua recalled back the images of Zinder’s burning research, reliving the moment in full. And though he couldn’t make out everything due to the green inferno, one word stood out clearly, written multiple times in bright, bold lettering.

“Zinder’s main goal was to draw as many astrals as possible to his location, to gain information. Any demesne would have been well-suited for that – it amplified the dread emotions of his tortured victims manyfold, like pouring buckets of blood into the ocean. But more importantly, the place he was searching for had a deep and intimate connection to the man who had inhabited both it and the Church of St. Sava at some point in his life. Curses, he might have actually created the latter, considering its nature.”

If ravens could pale, Huginn certainly did in that moment. “You cannot mean…”

“The Devil’s Chapel was the Impaler’s lair after his overthrowal,” Noctua confirmed, frowning at the jagged Carpathian peaks passing them by. “So, the real question remains – what was Helmut Zinder’s benefactor trying to accomplish by locating the Scholomance?”