A gust of chilly wind made its way through between the wooden covers of the window. Not that strange for early autumn nights to get nippy; after all, the City of Henet was closer to the Northern Reaches than any other of the civilised nation-states. But considering the roaring fireplace and the multitude of slowly burning candles, it was strange that Chronicler Weiss took notice of it. Like a knife, the frosty draft cut through his flesh, biting gently at his very bones, demanding his attention. With a resigned sigh, he dropped the last coin in the whore’s hand and slammed the door in her face before she could open her mouth to shower him with false flattery. It was how their weekly sojourns usually ended. Everyone who mattered knew of the Chronicler’s tastes, and no one cared about how he spent his stipend as long as it was done in private. However, the House of Annals - and the Archive Wing housed within - was the furthest from being private. If the Crest Guards saw her exiting the Archive of Duty, he would be knee-deep in trouble. Although Chroniclers were treated with significant leeway considering the laws which applied even to the nobility, there were limits to what could and would be excused. Being lashed or beaten would be the least he might get away with for allowing an outsider in here. Access to the Archive of Duty and Archive of Memory was strictly regulated. Even most mages, let alone ordinary people, had trouble obtaining the required permits to visit. This was a point that his predecessor tried to hammer into Weiss’ head and which he, in turn, was ruthlessly teaching his assistant and future successor.
There were too many secrets in the Archive, which the Mages of Luth, the Crest Guard and the rulers of the City of Henet would very much prefer never to see the light of day. The contents of the unfinished tomes arranged carefully on the shelves in this room alone were enough to spark wars between the City States for the next hundred years. That was beside the point since he would be far more surprised if the whore could actually read a single word in the documents stored in this place. For the best part, he had trouble reading them himself, and he was a Chronicler. The cyphers and cryptograms his Order used were as much a part of him as his need to indulge his carnal needs. Bringing the whore inside the Archive of Duty had made her far more receptive to some of his more depraved requests. Still, after giving it a little thought, it might be prudent to follow the whore to ensure she left without notice.
No, he was more interested in the unexplained chill he felt, which gave Weiss an idea as to the origin of this oddness. He had been serving the Crest Guard and the Mage Council for long enough to know when one of the crystals was going to cease its glow. The sensation was never the same and differed from one Chronicler to the next, and more often than not, it was false. It was Weiss’ firm belief that such occurrences were an indication that something worth noting in the tomes was happening. Alas, he could only guess since the creator of the crystals hadn’t left any notes on how they worked due to his sudden death some four hundred years ago. All the Chroniclers could do was make new ones following a rather short instruction brief.
No sooner had he turned on his heels when the cold increased, drawing him to the further side of the spacious room. On top of the bland wall hang an unfinished map of the North. Several of the bright-green finger-sized crystals covered the vast area. Compared to the hundreds on the map of the City of Henet, it was laughable to think the Council was serious in its claims to bring the Northern Reaches under control. What caught the Chronicler’s attention was the one precious gem slowly fading. As he let out the breath he was holding, the crystal shattered into fine salt. Another Guard lost. Shaking his head, Wiess carefully deposited the crystal salt so as not to miss a single spec onto a silver saucer before opening the heavy tome on the pedestal before the map. With a steady hand, he turned over the worn pages, searching for the correct entry. It was irritation he felt. So many wasted expeditions, so many wasted lives. Nothing the Chronicler should worry about; his duties involved only noting down what happened to the Crest Guards.
“Hmm. Yes, here it is,” he murmured to himself. “Victor of Obrecht, son of Ferdinand. Couldn’t wait till morning to die, couldn’t you?” Weiss voiced his displeasure at having to work throughout the night because of this fool.
Well, if he was to be denied a good night’s rest, it would not be fair for his assistant to enjoy such a luxury. “Arthur, get your lazy ass over here, boy,” he yelled at the top of his voice as he prepared the writing equipment. “Go and fetch the Chronic of Victor of Obrecht from the Archive of Service.”
It would take the youth an hour to get there, find the proper tome and return to the Archive of Duty. As such, Chronicler Weiss did the only reasonable thing, he closed his eyes for a quick nap, hoping he would regain some of the strength the whore had drained from him. Not that he minded spending his otherwise dull life in such a way, but he was starting to feel the weight of his age.
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Victor knew that things would only become worse. From the moment he and the naïve Scribe had entered the Inn to Nowhere, he had had a bad feeling. And he was a man who had learned the hard way that ignoring the advice of his instincts was a terrible thing. For a short while, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, having stumbled to this place because the two of them had not had a roof over their head for over a week. Stumbling across this place was awfully convenient; however, traversing the Northern Reaches had pushed his will and constitution to the limit. As such, Victor chose to turn a blind eye to the oddness that someone would build an inn in the middle of what was pretty much nowhere. That was until the elf entered the small one-story building. She caught his eye, despite the fact that she was not human.
It was not that uncommon for people of the two races to mix. It wasn’t something encouraged, but it wasn’t something that was frowned upon either. At least such was the case in the civilised world. Sure, there were small settlements and hamlets which clung to their idea of purity of the blood. And although Victor would like to claim that elves were more guilty of this, he couldn’t without lying to himself. But here, way up north, he had scarcely seen an elf or a drakin. From what little he had heard, the few non-human villages apparently preferred to live in isolation and as far away as possible from the ever-spreading humans.
After spending months with that little chatterbox Anna, the elf was a pleasant distraction. Not that he had anything against the junior Scribe. Her shoulder-length black hair framed her youthful face quite nicely. And those inquisitive black eyes could drive a man insane if only she knew how to use them properly. That was the main issue. Victor could appreciate the strong and honed body of a girl who was just a couple of years shy from her twentieth summer. But Anna did not know how to act her age. She acted like an old jaded man, preoccupied with her books and inks.
The elf, on the other hand, knew she was a woman. This Sága Vulpa had entered the Inn to Nowhere, demanding all attention to her. She had wanted everyone to look at her. Victor had done exactly that, uncaring about her title or status. True, he had challenged her claim to be a Sága, but what did the Scribe expect – he was a member of the Crest Guard. However, he was ready to admit his mistake once he had heard the story and witnessed Vulpa’s skill. To be in the presence of a true Sága was an honour few could claim, and Victor would bring shame to himself and the Crest Guard if he didn’t ask her forgiveness for doubting her.
That was when the world lost its mind—first, the ruthless and unwarranted killing of the hunter. Then the crying sobs had mutilated themselves, in a fine example of the old traditions the Mages wanted to eradicate. None of the Sága in the south had demanded a blood toll in over a hundred years. But in this forgotten place, the old barbarous ways were alive. To make matters more confusing, the elf had demanded a kiss from him. If he was honest, Victor did not mind paying her price in this way. Contrary to what the common people believed, the Crest Guards were not beholden to vows of celibacy. The only reason he and his comrades avoided mingling with the general populace was because of the nature of their work and the secrets they were sworn to keep hidden. Although ashamed to admit it, Victor found the sensation of the elf’s lips quite invigoration and pleasing. What he didn’t appreciate was that she was so careless with her fangs when she bit his lip. The way she drank the blood as she separated from him was revolting. Her enjoyment of doing it was disturbing to the point it made his gut tighten into a knot.
As if all that wasn’t enough, the dead man began to laugh as soon as the elf had spoken her warning. Insanity and madness were the only explanation. The vividness of the Sága’s skill stunned Victor. It was on a level far beyond that of Sága Edrik. The renowned Story Teller could make the shadows dance to enhance the tale he had prepared. But this elf woman, she had made the impossible a reality. It took the Crest Guard a moment to realise that this was not part of the tale the woman was telling. This was a proper argument with a dead man who had refused to die he was witnessing. Quickly Victor drew his sword and pushed the confused Scribe behind his back.
“Stay behind me and take that bloody knife out of its sheath, less you think you can bore that monster to death with your talking.”
The last thing he wanted was for the girl to restrict his movement. That way, he could both protect Anna making sure she didn’t get in the way, and she could defend herself for a few seconds should the monster slip past him. The man observed in horror as the hunter’s face rotted away and became a death mask while it spoke with the Sága in that cursed Northern dialect. If he was calm, Victor would have no problem understanding it, but at this moment, he was preparing for the inevitable clash with the monster. His eyes tracked every movement either Vulpa or the creature made.
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“M’Tar”, the thing hissed. The word shook the man to the core of his being. A cloud of grotesque, twisted faces emerged from the elf’s shadow and sang a chilling melody. The same melody from the Sága’s tale. Victor did not need to be Scribe to understand what he was seeing. A cracked smile formed on the monster’s decayed face, and it pulled out a rusty axe with an abused and notched head. The fur rose on the Ice Wolves’ backs, and one, or it might have been both, of the servant girls behind him, screamed.
With reflexes honed from years of training, Victor spun around. He quickly absorbed the situation. Anna was a step away from him by the fire. Beyond it, the Northerners were turning into the same dead creatures as the hunter by the door. The Crest Guard hated to admit it, mainly because the notion itself was admitting madness, but the dead had refused to rest in their graves. Never would he have believed the rumours to be true. However, what he was seeing was hard to ignore. Most of the fiendish pack moved towards the crying girls and the bewildered innkeeper. Not wanting to waste any more time, Victor shoved the Scribe aside and kicked the burning wood from the fire towards the dead men. It was unlikely that his action would do any actual damage to the things, but it would give him the opening he would need to fight a group of opponents.
His hand was steady, despite the fear he felt. Contrary to its decrepit state, the monster he had targeted raised its knife and parried the sword. Victor used his free hand to deliver a punch to the skull of the one next to his target. Taking advantage of his momentum, he hit the thing in front of him with his chest, forcing it to take a couple of steps back. Trusting his training, the Crest Guard plunged the tip of his blade through the dead thing’s heart. No matter what kind of twisted creature this was, nothing could survive such a wound. To his horror, the monster opened its decayed mouth and attempted to laugh as it grabbed his sword. A blade empowered the magics of his Crest, which had put an end to all manner of creatures without fail. For a moment, Victor froze, unsure what to do. There was a commotion behind him, and he heard Anna scream. Most likely, it was something that demanded his attention. At least, it forced him to act. The Guard planted his boot in the thing's stomach and pushed it to the ground, cutting its fingers in the process.
Victor turned in time to see the bloody tip of a hunter’s knife poke through the back of the Scribe’s back. With a yell of desperation and rage, he embedded his weapon in the dead Northerner’s skull and grabbed the girl. Gently, he guided her to the floor, his eyes fixed on the wound in her stomach. Only a skilled healer could help her now. All he could do was watch her bleed to death. He had failed his duty to protect the naïve girl. He would not allow her remains to be defiled by these creatures. However, before he could spring to his legs and unleash the fury he felt, pain blossomed in his mind as something sharp bit into his back. Victor felt the second strike and tasted blood in his mouth. At the third strike, the darkness embraced him. The last thing he saw before death claimed him was Anna’s worried gaze as she realised death was coming for her too.
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The laughter sent chills down Anna’s spine. It was a sickening, gurgling sound which no creature should be capable of making. She turned her head to see the dead hunter free himself from the jaws of the Ice Wolf while the beast moved away, snarling at him.
“Months it took us, but we finally found you,” the fiend rose to his legs, dark blood staining his pale, torn flesh. “I told them you could not resist the allure of this place. I knew you could not resist trying to protect these meat sacks. You always fail.”
The Sága crooked an eyebrow, pity written on her face. It was comfortable to see the elf keep her calm, but at the same time, she was just a Story Teller, not a fighter. Victor, on the other hand, was one of the most skilled warriors Anna had ever seen. At first, the Scribe was surprised the man had not advanced within the ranks of the Crest Guard until she traded a few words with him. If anything, he was far too liberal with using his sharp tongue and voicing his opinions, a trait which annoyed her to no small amount and one which infuriated his commanders.
“Stay behind me,” Victor said as he pulled her by the arm. “And take that bloody knife out of its sheath, less you think you can bore that monster to death with your talking.”
It took her several attempts, but Anna’s trembling hands pulled the weapon from her belt. During that time, the two Ice Wolves had returned to the elf’s side. Vulpa gently stroked the beasts with the tips of her fingers and smiled.
“You wound me, Öthar. I’ve never hidden from you. I became tired of you…”
“How dare you?!” The monster screamed, the skin of its face cracking and decaying. “How dare you try and ignore us! How dare you try and discard us after cursing us like this!”
“Playing the victim?” Vulpa chuckled. “Why? You are Öthar, Terror of the Wastes. Every man, woman and child know of the horrors you command,” the elf stopped and glanced at Anna and Victor. “Is it because of them? You hope the Southerners would end your suffering?”
“The girl has the power…”
“Oh, please!” The Scribe could see the Sága roll her eyes. “She is but a dying ember compared to me. Now be an obedient dog and call the others inside. I do not want to waste an entire night hunting you all through the forests.”
“You cannot command us, abomination!” The horror shrieked. “We serve M’Tar now.”
At the mention of the name, the elf’s face hardened. Anna could see a cloud of grotesque demonic faces form around Vulpa. Some screamed in torment, others laughed like lunatics, and there were some who whispered words in an unholy language. The sight alone was enough to make a hardened soldier piss himself, and the Scribe felt her blood get colder and her limbs become numb.
The monster by the door laughed. “You haven’t changed as much as you think, abomination. I can see your emotions; you fear the Great One.” Öthar placed his hand at his back and retrieved a rusty axe. “You are the same ignorant fool who refused us death. And it is time you pay for your sins!”
Anna nearly stumbled in her effort to turn around as one of the serving girls screamed. All but one of the gathered men had brandished their improvised weapons. It wasn’t this action which had caused such a reaction from the poor girl. It was the rotting flesh which covered their faces. The monsters’ gaping maws and empty eyes shook the Scribe. They had been surrounded, and because of this Sága, she and Victor would die.
From the very start of their journey, they had been tasked with confirming the wild rumours that the dead had risen. Something no one in the City of Henet believed. It was supposed to be the ideal excuse to send an overly inquisitive Scribe and a trouble-making Crest Guard up north. The two of them had to map the Northern Reaches and the Wastes without violating the fragile peace between the Clans of Asha’Tar and the Southern Kingdoms. The Council of Luth could pretend to be a neutral party all they wanted, but it did nothing to loosen the knot in Anna’s gut. She knew the Mages wished to spread their influence and get their hands on anyone who possessed the slightest hint of ability, in fear that someone might have the brilliant idea to form their own Council.
Something heavy and large pushed her to the side. The fact she wasn’t dead meant it had to be Victor. True enough, as soon as she pulled herself on her elbows, the Scribe saw the man kick the burning wood and barrel into the grotesque creatures. In the proper fashion of the Crest Guard, he charged at the monsters showing no fear. To see one of the protectors of Henet in action was rare and awe-inspiring. There was no hesitation in his movements, no wasted motion as he switched from one strike to another. Sadly, no matter his skill and courage, Victor was one man. Crest Guard or not, there was just so much he could do. She had to do something, but what remained a mystery to her. Anna was no warrior. She could barely defend herself from the other girls in the Covenant of Knowledge when they bullied her during the years spent training and learning to be a Scribe. True, she had talent in using magic; however, that was limited to lighting her candle at night. In time, she might learn more, provided a suitable tutor took her in, but as things were shaping out, the chances of that happening were questionable. The sound of steel meeting iron brought the Scribe out of her mind and back to reality.
Victor had engaged two of the fiends. Another was rolling on the worn floor, trying to doze the fires which had caught its clothing. The remaining ones were busy butchering the shrieking serving girls and innkeeper. Each stab with a knife, each strike with an axe, brought jets of blood and rent meat. Yet, the begging for help or mercy didn’t stop. No soul deserved such torment in its final hour. Anna saw the warrior’s sword stab through the heart of one of his opponents. The triumphant smile on the Crest Guard’s face turned to despair as the monster grabbed the enchanted blade. Nothing could withstand the potent magics; that was what the Mages claimed. A comfortable lie for the ignorant masses. However, a stab through the heart with a blade empowered by a Crest should have been as certain a death blow as it was certain the sun rose in the morning.
Before she knew it, the Scribe was on her feet. Her knife pierced the rotten skull of the second creature, saving Victor from the deadly strike aimed at his back. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, and her breathing became laboured. The fear she was feeling was winning, threatening to consume her. This brief moment of courage was the most the Scribe could master. Sharp pain in her gut froze her blood. Anna lowered her eyes to see the monster had used its own knife to stab her. This was it, she thought. The wound might not have killed her outright, but with no one around her capable of helping her, she would slowly bleed out.
“No!” Both Öthar and Victor screamed at the same time. The Guard let go of his weapon and embraced her just as the dead thing rushed in their direction. To the young Scribe, it all looked unreal. The colours of the world around her became sharper as the sound drained. She imagined she would feel pain or burning, but she felt nothing, and it frightened her.
Anna could only look in confusion as Victor laid her on the floor. She had to warn him that one of the dead things loomed behind him with a woodsman’s axe held high. Time slowed to a crawl as the blade bit between his shoulder. Once, twice, three times, the weapon struck, but Victor stood as a wall between it and her. She saw the moment life left the Crest Guard’s eyes, and as his body fell on top of her, a large shadow tackled the monster, putting an end to the wanton butchery. Black was all Anna could see, and she slowly closed her eyes, knowing that, at the very least, his suffering was brief.