“Geez, how far out is this guy planning to go?” Callan asked after about thirty minutes of skulking after Joshu. They were past the fields and well into the forest now. “I’m going to feel real stupid if we followed him out here just to watch him pick moon mushrooms or something.”

I do not believe such a species of moonlight growing mushroom exists. At least, it did not when—

“Xeph, I’m being hyperbolic.” He paused, then added, “Though with everything I’ve seen about your world so far, it honestly wouldn’t surprise me. This place is kooky-dooks.”

Yes, I can see how it would appear so. But you must remember that Earth and the Outerworld have experienced vastly different environmental conditions during their long history, which must needs predicate that flora and fauna would develop along different pathways. Take something as simple as our moons. It never failed to astound me that your world could manage with only a single satellite—

Ahead of him, Joshu slipped between some foliage and disappeared from sight. While this wasn’t the first time that had happened, each time it was getting harder to find the yeth again. Callan growled and hastened forward. He needed to catch up, but not too quickly. Wouldn’t do to be noticed now.

A hand landed on his shoulder, wrenching him to a stop.

“Gah!” Callan hissed and flailed at his attacker, who released him immediately. He spun around, stone already forming on his fists. Just as quickly he let them drop. “Rym?”

“Hello.” The emaciated yeth waved at him shyly, as if they’d just had an embarrassing run-in at the supermarket. Callan frowned and dismissed his Mountainform. With luck, the dark had hidden it from view.

“What are you doing way out here?”

“This is where I live.” Rym motioned behind him, and for the first time Callan noticed a small tent set between the trees. The glowing embers of a dying fire lay in a pit to one side.

The yeth turned back to him. “But what are you doing here, on such a dark night?”

“I, ah...”

“Oh! Never mind. You must be looking for the others.” Rym nodded to himself, then moved back towards his dying fire. “Come, sit with me a moment. I’ll take you to join the rest after.”

“Uh, sure.” Callan sat down on a log opposite. Others? Does he know where the cult is located?

Turning, Rym lifted what appeared to be a small pipe off the log next to him. He inserted it between his lips and took a long, slow pull. His eyes glazed over, and his arms fell limp to his side.

“Um...” Callan stared at the yeth, but for all intents he appeared dead to the world.

Flux, Xeph said. He is currently traveling worlds beyond the imagination. Once the drug runs its course, he should—ah, yes. There.

Rym blinked. He took the pipe from his mouth and glanced around, seeming surprised to find Callan sitting across from him. “You’re still here?”

“I literally just sat down.”

“Oh, of course.” The yeth shook his head. He glanced down at the pipe. “Of course.”

Chronodissociative. For us, several seconds have passed. For him... days. Perhaps weeks.

“Yeah, thanks, I got that,” Callan muttered.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Would you like to try?” Rym held the pipe out to him. Callan stared at it.

“I’m good, thanks,” he said at last. Rym pulled the pipe back into his lap.

“Just as well. Flux doesn’t work for most yeth, anyway. Just us lucky few.” He gave an ironic chuckle.

“So... you live out here?”

“Yes, for the last year or so now. When my mother—ah, that is, the mayor—learned of my... deficiency... she banished me from the village. It’s not so bad, though. Out here I have all the space I want, and my siblings make sure I don’t lack for anything. Food, water... supplies.”

He reached down and lifted a small, white package onto the log next to him. Callan squinted, and realized he recognized it.

Xeph, apparently, had much the same thought. That is the same package we saw Alyssa receive from her geriatric lover.

Callan, who for his part hoped he never had to hear the words ‘geriatric’ and ‘lover’ in the same sentence again for as long as he lived, watched as Rym ladled a small amount of substance from the package and into his pipe. As the yeth went to lift it to his lips again, he cleared his throat.

“Rym?”

“Yes?”

“You said you would show me the way?”

“I... yes, of course.” Rym laid down the pipe again and rose to his feet. “It’s this way.”

They set off into the forest, with only the occasional scattering of starlight breaking through the trees to light their way. Despite this, Rym seemed sure-footed, easily avoiding the roots that previously had assaulted Callan and attempted to give away his position.

Then, ahead of them, he caught a distant flicker of light.

“I’ll leave you to make the rest of the journey yourself.” Rym gestured towards the light. He glanced back towards his camp. “I need... I need to... take care of yourself, Callan.”

“Uh, sure. You too, Rym.” But if the yeth even heard him at all, he gave no indication, merely trudging back through the woods. He was lost to sight in seconds.

What a tragic waste, Xeph muttered.

“You’re not wrong, but he’s not our problem right now.” Callan jerked a thumb towards the light. “That is.”

He crept forward, searching the forest floor with his hands for any leaves or twigs that might give away his presence. A few minutes later he was crouched at the edge of the trees, gazing into a small clearing that lay beyond.

Part of Callan wondered if this was the same clearing he had practiced in before arriving in Aos, the one where he had first encountered Lisson. It sure looked the same.

What wasn’t the same were the current occupants.

There were ten yeth gathered in a semicircle near the middle, shuffling about uneasily and talking in hushed voices. A small fire burned at their center.

Most of the gathered crowd were unknown to Callan. He couldn’t even tell which one was Joshu. Only two of them were familiar faces.

One was Dosoti, standing apart from the rest of the group and leaning against a tree, glowering.

The other was Radavan.

As Callan watched, the latter raised his hands, and a hush fell over the gathered farmers. “Greeting, friends. I welcome you to another meeting of the Bridge Builder’s Brigade. What is our first order of business?”

“I thought we were calling ourselves the Progressive Collective?” one member called.

“Wasn’t it the Anti-Mayor Task Force?” Another yelled. Arguments broke out around the clearing, and no one seemed to be able to agree to anything, much less a name.

Which worked for Callan. The noise covered up the groan that slipped past his lips.

“Seriously? Of all the people to lead the pro-bridge movement, it’s the mayor’s friggin son???”

I think ‘leader’ is too strong a term for whatever the yeth is attempting here, but yes. Xeph’s voice was like two millstone’s grinding together. Instead of finding a cabal of cultists, we have stumbled our way into a meeting of the opposition. Mortal, what is our next move? Do we interrupt the gathering, or continue observing it? Both may potentially yield a trove of information.

“I’m not going out there, Radavan knows I’m an avatar, Xeph!” Callan hissed.

Yes, but if he intended to reveal that fact, he will already have done so with his co-conspirators. Revealing yourself now will let him know you are privy to his secret and give you some leverage over his actions. Or we could simply report him back to the mayor and let her deal with the matter.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Honestly, that seemed like the best move. If he left now and hoofed it back to Aos, he might even be able to bring Belinda back here to interrupt this little gathering in person.

Before he could move, though, Radavan raised his hands and silence fell. “Alright, alright, so we are all agreed that a vote will occur next meeting concerning this organization’s name, and in the interim we shall simply refer to ourselves as the bridge committee.”

“Does it have to be a committee? I personally think—” The yeth clammed up at an angry glare from Radavan.

“If I may continue...” The farmer stepped aside and gestured to the shadows behind him. A figure stepped forward, and Callan’s hands curled into fists at the sight.

It was a cultist, draped in robes of deep purple and wearing a mask showing a laughing face. The cultist gave a small bow to the assembled crowd.

“One of Veritas’s representatives wishes to speak further with us tonight, concerning our plans for Aos’s future,” Radavan said, stepping close to the fire again. “I know that we all disagree on the proper methods, but let us not forget that our committee and the cult are still aligned in our ultimate goals. Please give full consideration to this representative’s words.”

“Thank you, Radavan.” The voice booming from inside the mask modulated from high to low and back again, making it impossible to tell its owner, or even if it was a man or woman. “I know that some of you wish nothing to do with my master, but I beseech you to heed my words—change is coming, whether you wish it to or not. Already, your mayor is making moves against you, preparing for a preemptive strike to end your efforts at progress before they even begin.”

Uh oh. I don’t like where this is going, Callan thought. Without taking his eyes from the cultist, he summoned Mountainform.

“You are all aware of the lud that arrived in town a few days ago,” the cultist said. Callan tensed. “We have learned that these lud are in fact from the village of Tok, a village which has freed itself from Zavastu’s fiery yoke.”

“You mean the Badlands are free?” someone shouted. The cultist turned their frozen face in the speaker’s direction.

“Not free, no. Tok merely expelled the cult from their village. And they did not do it alone. They had help. From an avatar.”

There were gasps in the crowd. Of more interest to Callan was the look of surprise that flashed across Radavan’s face. It seemed he wasn’t the one that had shared this secret with the cult. So how had they found out about him?

“What does that mean?” a yeth asked.

“It means that the inferior lud have already learned the secret to ensuring everlasting safety—allying themselves with a god! If your village intends to survive the trouble that awaits you upon opening yourselves to the outside world, you need to do the same. So declares my master, the great and wise god, Veritas.”

“What about these lud merchants? What do they want?” Callan couldn’t be certain, but he thought the question came from the same yeth as before. Did the cult have a plant in the audience, feeding questions?

If not, they were apparently asking exactly what the cultist wanted to hear. A booming laugh echoed from inside the mask. “These lud are no merchants. They are cultists to the god that now rules them. And they are here at your mayor’s behest to stop you from getting your way.”

Angry rumbles rippled through the crowd. The cultist waited until the noise died down before speaking again. “Yes, it is as you feared. Your mayor cares not for what her people want, only what she wants. If you do not stand up to her, as Veritas has warned, she will move against you, and then your only recourse will be to flee—or wear her chains.”

Now the yeth roared in anger, and the cultist raised their hands, yelling over the noise. “I have come here tonight to give you the truth, and I have done so. I will leave you now to decide amongst yourselves what you intend to do with that truth!”

With that, they turned and strode away into the forest.

“Shit!” Callan wasted a few precious moments watching the arguing yeth warily, but when it became apparent that they weren’t going anywhere, started crawling his way around the clearing after the cultist. He wasn’t nearly as careful this time and cracked several sticks under his feet, but the farmers were arguing so loudly he could have tromped through the forest at full speed and they likely wouldn’t have heard him.

Once the sounds of arguing faded a bit behind him, he took off running. He broke from the trees and caught a glimpse of the cultist in the distance, heading towards town.

I found that quite the interesting revelation. Did you find it interesting?

“Which... part... Xeph?” Callan panted. He was pumping at full speed now, the landscape passing at a blur. Ahead the cultist walked along at a casual pace, apparently unconcerned about followers. Seemed he was in for quite the surprise.

The cultist revealed that the lud are our priests but made no mention of us being here as well, Xeph continued, free to talk to his heart’s content, unhindered by such minor inconveniences as breathing. I wonder, are they withholding the information, or do they simply not know about our presence?

“Guess... we’ll know... soon!” Callan leapt into the air just as the cultist turned around. His stone-encrusted fist smashed into the mask with a resounding crunch.

The cultist collapsed backwards under the force of the attack, his mask bending inward, leaving the laughing face looking more like it had just taken a bite of a lemon. Callan shook out his fist. That had been a harder punch than he’d intended. Hopefully the cultist’s brain wasn’t scrambled in there.

Apparently not. A moment later they scrambled to their feet. “Who dares attack one of the chosen of Veritas?”

The modulation of their mask skipped as they spoke, and for a moment Callan thought he recognized the voice... but there would be time for that later. “I guess I dare. Name’s Callan. Maybe we’ve met, maybe not. But either way, you’re coming with me. Mayor wants to talk with you.”

“The... farmhand?” Yep, Callan definitely recognized that voice. If only he could place it. The cultist glanced down at his stone-encrusted hands. “You’re a priest?”

“Not exactly.” Lifting his fists up in front of him, Callan took a menacing step forward. “I won’t ask again. Chosen or no, you’re coming with me.”

“Stay back!” The cultist took a step back. “Don’t make me resort to violence!”

“Save the threats. You and I both know you don’t have any power without your avatar nearby.” Callan started walking forward. Maybe another good blow to the head would keep them from trying anything funny.

Before he got a half-dozen steps, two blades of glowing metal appeared in the cultist’s hands.

Callan wasn’t sure which of them were more surprised by the weapons’ sudden appearance, but he was the first to react, leaping backwards out of range. Holding out his hand, he summoned Wurmchain, dismissing the usual message in his vision without reading it.

“Xeph? Care to explain?”

I am unsure, mortal. Unless... it is possible that Veritas has a temple somewhere nearby. If so, it could be providing this cultist with the domain they need to operate.

Oh, great. They had all been working under the assumption these cultists would be powerless without their avatar nearby. It seemed Callan would need to reorder his list of priorities.

“I’m going to give you one chance to surrender,” he said, pointing with his chain, the end pooling on the ground. “After that, I’m going to start taking pieces out of you until you’re no longer a threat. Understand?”

The cultist quivered visibly but shook their head. Callan sighed. “Alright then.”

He launched forward, his chain swinging for the cultist’s legs. He had the range advantage, so all he needed to do was keep leaving nicks and scratches, and the battle would be over before it began.

Wurmchain swung towards the cultists leg—only to come up short. Callan reared back in surprise and discovered a thin line of silver wrapped around his hand, pushing the chain away. He tried to shake it off, but to no success. It moved with him, restricting his movements.

Then the cultist was beside him, blades swinging downward for the kill.

Only a hasty block managed to push the blades aside, sparks flying as they skidded off the stone skin of his arm. Callan grunted, releasing Wurmchain and allowing it to puff away to sulphureous smoke, then summoned it again in the other hand. He swung.

The chain connected awkwardly with the cultist’s shoulder, tearing away fabric, skin, and a bit of the mask as well. The cultist let out a howl of pain. Callan’s main hand became free again as the metal retreated, flowing back into the cultist’s sleeve.

Right, metal shaping. Alyssa warned me about that. Callan eyed his opponent warily. No telling how much metal he’s got hiding on his person. I can’t let him get the drop on me again.

They eyed each other warily. Callan cracked his fingers, waiting to see who would make the first move.

Mortal—

“Not now, Xeph.” Callan tensed, watching the cultist. Any moment...

There!

A lance of metal launched out of the priest’s robes at the same moment Callan dove to one side. He swung his chain as he fell, but the length of the weapon worked against him now, flopping uselessly through the air, missing the cultist by nearly a foot or more.

He landed with a grunt, rolled over, and leapt to his feet. His Wurmchain swung behind, already moving in for another strike, but that was as far as he got. Callan strained, but his arm refused to move.

Turning, he realized that a spiral of silver now encircled him from wrist to shoulder. The metal dug painfully into his skin wherever it wasn’t protected by Mountainform.

Slowly, his arm began twisting towards his chest, moving Wurmchain towards his throat. Callan let the weapon puff away. Before he could summon it again, his other arm tightened. Another band of metal had snaked its way around him.

“I’m sorry about this,” the cultist said, walking towards him. Callan twisted first one direction, then the other, trying to free himself. “You just stay put here until... just stay.”

He stopped in front of Callan and extended his hands. Two more bands of metal slipped from his robes, curling around Callan’s legs and pulling them tight.

The cultist turned away. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”

“Like Hell you will.” Callan’s arms might have been restrained, but his hands weren’t. He activated Shape Stone.

The ground around the cultist’s feet burst apart as stone rose up to grasp him. The priest let out a yelp of surprise. He almost fell over as the stone sealed around his legs.

“Seems like neither of us is going anywhere,” Callan said with a smirk.

“Why you—if that’s how you want to do it.” The metal bands around Callan began to grow tighter. His legs and upper arms screamed in protest.

“Shit! Shit!” No matter how he struggled, the metal wouldn’t give. Every time he strained against it, the bands holding him just turned liquid and settled in a new place.

Callan! Listen! Xeph’s voice broke through his panic. You have your dispensation, yes? Use it!

Oh. Right. Callan had forgotten about the ability he’d earned after recruiting Kivi’s village. “How do I—?”

Just concentrate on the enemy priest!

Despite the pain spreading through him, Callan narrowed his eyes and stared at the masked cultist. After a moment, a message appeared.

Dispensation: Wane activated! Cost = 1 Conviction per use

Please select one or more of the following bounties:

1. Shape Metal

2. Velak Gaze

3. Sword Dance

While he didn’t know what power the last two granted, Callan had a pretty good suspicion about the first one. He selected Shape Metal.

Immediately, the pressure on his arms and legs cut off. A surprised gasp slipped from within the cultist’s mask, but Callan ignored it. Without the priest actively using his orison, the bands were now little more than ordinary metal.

And while they might be wrapped around his arms, they were thin and brittle. And he was an avatar with a good eighteen Brawn.

With a flex that would have made Arnold Schwarzenegger proud, he cracked the metal on his arms, the pieces dropping to the ground around him with soft thuds. Arms free, he reached down and tore away the bands around his legs.

“But... how?” the cultist asked incredulously.

“Take a friggin guess.” Callan socked him in the side of the head. The mask, already damaged by his first punch, broke apart as its occupant crumpled to the ground in a boneless heap.

From the dim light of the stars above, Callan could just barely make out the face of Rictee lying at his feet. He was surprised by that revelation, but only mildly.

“What now?”

Now, we get this priest somewhere secure—and hopefully outside of their temple’s range.

A sigh of resignation slipped from Callan’s lips as he hoisted Rictee’s comatose form onto his shoulder. “Farmhouse jail it is, then.”