Renard grimaced as he rooted about beneath the skeletal remains of Andros the Elder - still bereft of a skull - for the only hope he, Vespia, and the Empire had. “Here it is!” The Wizard drew that short knotted wand of silver birchwood forth like he had just plucked a diamond from a dragon’s hoard.
Vespia stood beside him, the fluttering lantern in her left hand cast swaying shadows throughout the cobwebbed tomb. “You’re sure you can do this? We don’t have long before the guard who dragged off the boy you bit returns and discovers we’ve escaped. It may be wiser to try and get out of here while we still can, once we’re back in the city I could call on the Watch.”
“I can do it, and we don’t have much of a choice. Now that we know the Fae are involved in all this we have to move as quickly as possible. For all we know, Andros has already carried out whatever he’s planning to do tonight.” Renard took a deep breath and flexed his fingers around the wand, “Even if we’re wrong about them wanting to do something to the heir, even if nothing is going to happen tonight, we have a duty to do everything we can to stop him as soon as possible. You as a watchwoman, and I as a wizard.”
“I’m not sure any other wizards would view it that way.” Vespia placed her lantern on the edge of the sarcophagus and leaned over it to pry the skeletal fingers of Andros the Elder from his weapon, holding the silver laden longsword up as she inspected it carefully. “Looks like it’s still sharp. If we’re doing this, I’m not going up there unarmed. You’re the mage here, Renard, how exactly do we stop a Fae?”
“The Fae are bound by an ancient contract, thousands of years old, they can’t manifest in the material realm without being invited, or being summoned. Whatever pact Andros has made with this creature, his death will break it and banish them.” The man paused, features scrunched up as he thought back to the lessons Svenja the Sorcerer had taught him, as brutal as those lessons may have been. “Unless the Fae manages to create something that can tether them to the material world. If that were to happen…It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
Vespia snatched up the lantern, swiped the weapon through the air testily and finally nodded toward Renard. “Then let’s go make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Renard took a moment to compose himself, closing his eye and holding the wand out before him like a conductor about to lead an orchestra. Then his eye opened, and his gaze was filled with a steely, dreadful determination. His time studying the journal of Syrenki had not been for naught, between those pages were secrets wizards would have - and in fact had - killed for. He began to murmur out incantations that had not been spoken in a thousand years, which had not been heard by the rock or stone or jet black obsidian buried deep beneath the world since it was young and wild and its fields had been watered by the blood of mighty heroes of legend and the veil between reality and the Wyrd were far, far thinner.
Whenever Renard opened himself up to the Wyrd and the currents of magic in the past he had always followed the instructions of Svenja and tethered at least a little part of his concentration to the material world, it was the only way to keep your sense of self together, she would often lecture him, if he gave in to the full power of the Wyrd that he would be lost to it, like a pot of dye spilled into a raging, frothing river. Now he ignored these warnings, and he let himself be cast into the river, submerged in its power.
At first, fire lit up his veins and fear licked at his heart. For a moment he faltered, stuttering out the secret words. It was not his duty to the Empire that gave him the strength to forge on, nor was it the thought of failing the challenge he had wanted to face since he was a boy. It was a bitter wish to prove Svenja wrong, to show her and himself that he was more than just a man with the stunted education of a young wizardling. That one day Renard would not be just a wizard, a seer, a sorcerer or a mage. One day he would be a Magician.
Vespia shivered as he heard him speak. She had seen the man perform incantations before, even seen him reanimate a corpse for a short few minutes. Before she had caught movement on the edges of her vision, felt a prickle at the back of her neck, and had known that magic was taking place in her heart as shadows grew deeper and darker, but was unable to tell exactly how, but this was different.
The sword in her hand was little consolation as the fire of her lantern flickered in the Wizard's remaining eye, nor as a gale wind ripped through the ancient halls of the crypt to disturb decades old dust and set Renard’s cloak billowing while the wand in his hand began to glow with a bright, multicoloured, iridescent light. She stumbled back into the daunting black walls, and started forward to tear herself out of a grip that tightened around her shoulder, eyes widening at what she saw next.
All around the tomb, deathly black figures with eyeless skulls pushed out at the obsidian walls from within them, stretching what should have been solid stone outward like it was made of some thin, shadowy elastic that was on the verge of tearing open.
Through it all she felt a pressure she could not explain crushing down on her mind, the edges of her vision started to darkened despite the light of the silver birch wand growing in intensity, like a smith’s forge that had been supplied with far too much air.
Finally, at the climax of the magic, the glowing wand gave in. It flexed and inflated like a man drinking in air, before exploding with a clap like thunder that sent Renard flying back into the darkness of the tomb. Vespia was knocked back onto her rear, and silence filled the tomb.
The watchwoman groaned, hand coming up to wipe away blood where her cheek had been nicked by a flying wooden splinter. Dazed as she was, it took Vespia a moment to break the silence. “Renard? Are you OK?” She stumbled to her feet, snatching up her lantern and scrambling forth into the darkness to find the Wizard.
He was still lying on his back when she found him, his fingers singed and smoking from the explosion, blood dripping from a gash on his forehead. Vespia smacked him across the cheek when she realised he was ok.
“You almost scared the life out of me! Can you move your hand? Did it work?”
Renard tried to move the fingers of his left hand, but arcs of pain shot up his arm, and he was forced to curl it up into a smoking claw. “I’ll be fine. Help me up?” His good hand took Vespia’s, and the Watchwoman dragged him up onto his feet. “I think…”
Vespia’s ears twitched as she heard movement, the grinding of stone on stone and the clattering of ancient relics being knocked over by clumsy, dusty, skeletal hands. All around her the tombs started to open, long dead warriors, aristocrats and even the original inhabitants, the fearsome Telarothi, threw off the long shadow of death and prepared once more for battle. The dead who had known a peaceful rest beneath the Du Vogare manor found a new and magical life, their crooked, dusty bones creaking and cracking in place as they formed into fists, or curled around rusted swords and knives and spears. They stalked through the halls, out of the darkness and straight toward the pair.
Vespia held her sword close to her, for a moment she thought the spell had gone wrong, perhaps been unfinished, and that these creatures were about to rush forward to hack both her and Renard into pieces, before doing the same up above, but then Renard cast his hand forward and every one of them stood at attention like soldiers on parade.
“It worked.” The Wizard shivered as he fumbled out at the connection he had with the skeletal horde. Each and every one of them was enthralled to his will. If he focused, he could see through their empty sockets, feel the armour draped upon their withered forms, move their bodies like they were his own. The thrill was like nothing he had ever felt before, elation filled him to near bursting at his achievement, at proving he was a worthy practitioner of magic after all, not a second rate conjurer of tricks whose best days were behind him. He let out a roar of laughter. “It worked!”
And then Renard One-Eye curled his outstretched hand into a fist, and his damned army moved as one.
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Panic rippled through the Great Hall. Moving with the speed of a viper, Alain Calvert placed a hand on Heliot’s chest and pushed the young Heir behind him, his other hand unsheathing his pointed steel rapier in a single, flashing motion.
Andros Du Vogare stood in his armour, his face drained of all colour, and the silk covered mask still clutched in his hands. All about him there was chaos, aristocrats and servants both stumbled and cried as they pushed at each other to escape the Great Hall, and he watched the chance to escape the Thin Man’s grip pass through his fingers like grains of sand. This, he was certain, was a punishment from the Gods and all the Great Spirits. His own ancestors had risen to make him pay for his sins.
Meanwhile, Calvert’s gaze had shot toward the Hall’s great windows, his voice barely a whisper. “Heliot, I’m getting you out of here. We’ll take two steeds from the stables and ride them like the Wyrd toward the capital.”
The creaking of the Great Hall’s heavy wooden doors being closed, and the resounding thump that echoed about the place when it finally did awoke Andros from his stupor and a realisation hit him, if he did not make Heliot wear the mask now, he would have forever lost his chance. His features contorted into a cruel sneer, and within seconds his broadsword was swinging down toward Calvert.
It was only thanks to his renowned reflexes that the slight figured duelist was able to wrench himself out of the way of the rage fueled swing. Du Vogare’s blade barely had the chance to crack the hall’s marble floor before the Elector was on the attack again in a flurry of swings, each time the vicious blows came down they were just barely deflected by Calvert, and every savage attack made his bones shake.
The crowd - momentarily distracted from their need to escape by this shocking, impromptu duel - stood, gawking at the two combatants. One figure towering, and clad in heavy plate that deflected every pointed thrust the smaller, faster one sent toward his body.
For what felt like an eternity - but was in fact just a few moments - the two traded thrust, swing and parry with the perfected forms of two veterans. Andros Du Vogare’s stamina was greater however, and it forced Calvert to take chances. One chance paid off, and he sent a wicked red score flicking across the Elector’s cheek, buying him just a moment to back off.
“Have you gone mad, man? Are you bewitched?” He exclaimed, free hand bringing his pistol up and pointing it at the Elector. “Stand fast, or I’ll put a bullet through your skull!” It was only Du Vogare’s status in the Empire that stayed the man’s hand. A fatal mistake.
Andros batted the pistol aside with the flat of his blade, and then he slashed the weapon down in an overhand strike, screaming out a blood curdling battle cry as he embedded his sword into Calvert’s shoulder with a sickening crack.
He pulled his broadsword free, pushing Calvert to the ground with his sabaton clad foot, and turning his attention to the dismayed Heliot. “Boy. You’ve yet to accept my gift.”
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The dead tore through the manor like a tide of rotted, mummified flesh. Screeching debutantes fainted at the sight of spider infested skulls, boastful duelists revealed their true colours, scraping their way out of windows into a howling storm or hiding themselves away within servant cupboards, and everywhere the Knights of the Tattered Banner danced the dance of death with opponents who had long since left this mortal coil.
Wherever the dead fought the living their taint curdled the fine exotic wines, rotted away cuts of lamb, venison and pork, made perfect floral arrangements wilt and die. Golden candelabras had been thrown and scattered about the rooms, setting floral patterned curtains alight and feeding a growing fire,
The clatter of fresh steel against rusting relics echoed all around, but the Knights found that they were overwhelmed by numbers. Inevitably, those boney, groping hands would pull them down onto the floor, restraining them under a stinking pile of armoured bone.
A particularly dim witted noble had thrust his rapier toward the heart of a skeletal corpse that wore a robe of spiderwebs, only to lose the weapon between the ribs of the hollow vessel, and find himself on the receiving end of the haft of an axe.
Renard and Vespia strode through the chaos, the crushing flow of panicked party goers forced open for them by their undead minions. A Knight of the Tattered Banner came toward the two in a roaring charge, only to be dragged down by three skeletal figures twice the size of an ordinary man, with rubies set upon their bleached white foreheads and of a lineage even Renard could not place.
Vespia clutched at her silvered sword, flinching at the rampaging undead. She couldn’t help but think that Renard looked every bit the spitting image of some necromantic dread lord as he strode down the polished halls with a relaxed and undoubtedly languid air, his face was thin and gaunt from captivity, his blackened and empty eye socket was on clear display, and he wore a tattered doublet of the darkest black. If it wasn’t for the fact that the horde was very clearly restraining itself, doing everything that it could to incapacitate as opposed to killing or maiming, she might have thought the power had started to go to his head.
“Renard?” She furrowed her brow. Renard was pale and sweating, his messy locks plastered to his features. “How are we going to find the heir in all of this?”
The Wizard stopped, his hand coming up to cut Vespia off. He closed his eye, and a look of utter concentration crossed his features. “The…I think they’re within the Great Hall. The doors are shut, they haven’t been found anywhere else.”
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“How can you tell?” She glanced around at the creaking wights, licking at her dry lips. “Can you see through them?”
“Not quite see. Feel, almost. I have a connection to them now, to their spirits. I can’t quite speak with them, but we can communicate.” He released his breath, not having realised it had been caught for so long, “It’s like hearing a language you only know a few words of. I can pick up the basics. Come on, we should hurry.”
When the two arrived before the walls of the Great Hall it was with a far smaller regiment of undead. The manor was extensive, and the horde had split off to hold back rallying forces of Knights and particularly brave nobility that had mounted a counter attack from the front lobby of the building. The fire had grown in intensity too - with quite a few of those aforementioned cowardly duelists shrieking in fear as undead hands tore them out of their hiding spots and threw them out of open windows before they could be roasted alive, while the rest wisely retreated from the combined force of roaring flames and burning undead - and a low lying, smokey mist had filled the corridor.
“If the heir is anywhere in the estate, then he is past these two doors.” Renard clasped both of his hands behind his back and massaged at the fingers of his still blackened left hand. He was starting to get more feeling back to it, unfortunately that particular feeling was one of pain, but at least he could flex his fingers. “Our goal is to stop Andros Du Vogare. Anything else is secondary, even our lives.”
Vespia readied her blade between both hands, her grip readied about the blade. “Oh, don’t you worry about me Renard. There is one thing, however.”
“And what would that be?”
“If I die…” She jerked a head to the squadron of dead figures surrounding them, “Make sure something like that never happens to me.”
Renard responded with a solemn nod, and then brought his good hand up to motion his minions forth.
A trio of axe wielding wights surged forward, their axe heads falling down onto the wooden door in a frenzied series of hurried hacking motions. Wood and splinters flew through the air, accompanied by the astounded screams of the crowd - no longer were they transfixed by battle amongst their own, and they had all apparently remembered the seriousness of their situations at the same moment, like some great enchantment had just been lifted - as they scrambled to flee through the wide windows of the Great Hall and out into the thunderous storm filled night.
The Knights of the Tattered Banner who remained were frozen, confused, unsure of whether their loyalty lay to the Elector who had just slain the protector of the Imperial Heir, to the Heir himself, or to their own skins. Most decided it was the latter, and threw their steel to the floor as they joined the crowd.
And so the floor was set for the twin doors of the Great Hall to be hacked open in a cloud of splinters, and for Renard and Vespia to stride forth into the room flanked by a small number of ancient knights with rusted plate armour and heavy axes in their gauntleted hands, the mist of the smoke trailing behind them and curling about their feet like teasing, sooty black fingers as the Empire’s most esteemed personages demeaned themselves in their terrified flight.
Many years later a wizened historian - or at least an individual who claimed to be so - would recount the entrance as being heralded by rusted brass trumpets that made men think of all they had lost in their lives, that the horde at the pair’s back had been a thousand strong, and that Renard had simply raised his hand and the remaining Knights of the Tattered Banner had been smote by the thrown obsidian spears of chariot riders that flew through the apocalyptic storm outwith the manor. An account which might make one wonder why, if it was true, the Wizard would have needed the thousand strong horde of undead in the first place.
By then Andros was holding the blond haired Heliot by the scruff of his neck, and was dragging the boy ever closer to the ivory mask that sat upon the marble floor. He paused only for a moment to glare at Renard and Vespia’s entrance, before waving a hand toward his Knights. “Kill them already!”
The last of the Knights loyal to Andros Du Vogare charged forth and were quickly intercepted by a matched group of undead. Here neither side held back - Renard knew that to falter now would be to fail, and if it meant the deaths of some Knights who had watched their Lord drag the heir to the Empire toward its doom, so be it - and a vicious melee between a set of elite warriors and deathless knights took shape around the room, even as flames started to lick in from the corridor.
Renard’s gaze went wide as he saw the mask upon the floor. This, he could feel in his bones, was an artefact of unrivalled power. Whatever it was, he was certain that it played a crucial part in their enemies' plan. “Vespia! The mask, I need to get the mask! Save the heir.”
The Lieutenant glared at Andros, remembering back to the many hours she had spent training with the sword against her father’s advice, then charging past a helmeted Knight battling one of those giant skeletons to swing at the Elector.
Du Vogare parried her blow with ease, releasing Heliot and sending a bone crunching elbow strike toward the boy’s nose that saw him collapse on the floor. His eyes went wide as he noticed the weapon that Vespia wielded, his fathers, and he growled. “Upstart peasant bitch!”
Vespia responded with a leap and another swing of her sword that made to slice open his throat, but was forced to wrench her body off to the side as his own blade struck out with the speed of a snapping lion in an attempt to cleave her in two. It left her off balance and open, and the only thing that saved her life from the next swing was the foresight to immediately push backwards with all the force she could muster on the balls of her feet, jumping out of its arc just a hairs’ breadth away from being cut in twain for the second time in as many heartbeats.
The two engaged in attack, counter attack and circling backpedalling in equal measure from there. Where Calvert had outmatched Andros in skill but not savagery the opposite was true with Vespia. With each of her blows came a bellowed warscream that put one more in mind of the wailing of the wyrm riding steppe peoples than any sort of civilised watchwoman, and it forced the already weary Elector onto the backfoot. All the while the fire moved its way up about the Great Hall, melting ancient gold filigree and setting the house banners alight, burning away the fine chalices embroidered upon them.
Renard had sprinted over toward the Ivory Mask, immediately kneeling down to snatch it up. The moment his fingers touched the flawless bone he froze. Standing in front of him, looking at once perplexed and incongruously elegant amongst the chaos of the evening, was someone he had seen before. The Thin Man offered him a smile, and a small little chuckle. He wore a look of surprise that didn’t suit his features, the quizzical arch of his brow seemed inhuman and cruel, as if the face he wore had not been designed to take such a form. “Renard. Why, I didn’t expect to see you here. Did Andros tell you to touch the mask? I’m certain he must have, the vile traitor! Not to worry, I can sort all of this out, Renard.”
Renard tried to speak, but all he was able to do was swallow. His mouth felt suddenly dry, and he started to forget exactly why he had been so worried. This was a party after all, no? He loved parties. A party with rapidly burning decor perhaps - points would have to be taken off for that - but a party nonetheless. Something at the back of his head tickled, and then it felt like some growing pressure.
“Now, Renard. Simply take the mask to the handsome young fellow sleeping quite soundly off to the side, the one with the blond hair. Place it upon his head, and all shall be well. You’re very fortunate I was looking out for you. If anyone else had touched the mask…well, it’s not meant for polite conversation.” The Thin Man’s voice dripped like a poison in Renard’s ear, but alarm filled his voice a moment later. “Your hand! Oh, no, no, no! This won’t do Renard. The single eye, of course, lends you an air of irresistible mystique which is needed in your profession, but a blackened, burnt up hand? That shall not do.” The Thin Man placed both of his hands around Renard’s, and when the Fae removed his grip the appendage seemed as perfect and white from the exterior as if it had just been grown yesterday, though the Wizard still felt a distinct jolt of pain run through it whenever he moved his fingers.
He stood with a jerky, unnatural movement, he was trying to think through the haze that filled his mind. Something wasn’t right here. Something about parties. All the parties Renard had ever gone to had been filled with sycophantic lackeys eager to kiss Svenja the Sorceresses feet, or with eager young nobles more interested in his far more fashionable older brother. Renard didn’t love parties or balls at all. In actual fact, he abhorred them. All of it clicked in place then, and he stopped in place. “You’re the Thin Man.”
“That is one of many titles I’ve been given before Renard but I really do not see how it’s relevant at the moment.” The figure - which Renard now realised wasn’t quite fully there, he could see through it, as if the Thin Man was mist that had coalesced together and which might be parted with a wave of his arm. “Now, be a good friend and place the mask upon the boy’s face, wouldn’t you?” There was a hint of impatience in the figure’s voice then.
“I’m no puppet to dance upon strings for you, creature.” Even with this realisation Renard still hadn’t quite come to his senses. His vision was blurred, the movement of others had slowed to a crawl, and the sounds of battle seemed dimmed and distant to his ears. “I’ve come to destroy you.”
“Renard! What has Andros been saying to you, what vile lies has he fed you to make you feel this way? I have only your best interests in mind.” The Thin Man motioned about the Great Hall, “Is all of this not so dull, and pedestrian? Not like you or I. I wish to make you my friend, and to bring you up to the greatest of heights. There was a time where this land was beautiful, you know. When the nobility were wise and good, and the peasantry well aware of their place. It also just so happened to be when all listened freely to my advice and counsel, and held it in the highest of esteem. Not just in matters of state, no, but in matters of fashion and taste! Look how disgustingly mundane this party - which gathered the so called ‘greatest’ of personages to it - was. Not a single beheading, not one disembowelment, an utter lack of lithe concubines slathered in jewels of every hue. These are all things I could give to you.” The figure’s voice hardened then, “But only if you put the mask on the boy’s face, Renard.”
“I am not your friend. I am not even your acquaintance. We are, and always shall be, enemies. As I am with every single one of your debauched, cruel, decadent race. I am going to destroy you, here and now, with this mask.” The Wizard glanced down at the artefact, willing all of his power into the bone.
“I do not understand why you are so obsessed with making an enemy of me Renard, has Andros really corrupted you this much? Very well, then we shall be enemies. Perhaps my connection to this world isn’t strong enough to affect you, Renard, with that stubborn arcane knowledge swirling about in your head.” The misty figure turned toward Vespia and Andros at that, watching the two duellists slow movements - like they were fighting a battle underwater - and with a sigh he pressed a digit against Vespia’s chest, sending the woman flying backwards. “You surely are not naive enough to think that destroying the mask will kill me, are you Renard? It would weaken my connection to this realm enough to banish me perhaps. But for how long? A year? A decade? A millennium? I’ve lived through plenty of them. Eventually, this land will be a haven for my race once more.”
“But not today.” Renard willed up one last exhausting flow of magical energy directly into the mask - which was itself a potent magical focus - and a sickening crack filled the hall as a great fracture ran down the middle of the skull mask.
Suddenly, the world came back into focus, time returned to its normal flow and Vespia was sent clattering to the floor, groaning as she landed beside the body of Alain Calvert.
Confusion filled Andros Du Vogare’s features, but it swiftly left them as he jumped to the side of a smouldering roof beam that came crashing down toward him. By this point only a few Knights of the Tattered Banner remained, all heavily wounded and close to death, but with their undead opponents hacked into useless pieces. Many of the rest of the horde, Renard was aware, had been burnt into cinders throughout the manor or trapped under rubble.
Andros turned his gaze on the Wizard, and the mask in his hand. The figure of the Thin Man - more and more like dissipating mist - urged him toward it. Off to the side, Heliot had regained the beginnings of consciousness, and groaned in pain.
The Elector brought his sword up one last time, taking a deep breath as he readied for a charge against Renard, only for a clap like thunder to fill the air and his breath left him. Beside the body of Alain Calvert, lay Vespia, the dead man’s flintlock pistol smoking in her hand. “Noble cunt.”
Andros Du Vogare looked downward in surprise, the front of his plate armour had held up as the bullet travelled through him, leaving only the back of his aquamarine sash to be marred with blood. And then, a moment later, he crumpled to the floor with the clunk and rattle of metal.
“Vespia! Are you ok?” Renard wrapped the cracked bone mask up in its silken covering as control of his limbs gradually returned to him, jumping over a smouldering beam as he made his way to the Watchwoman.
“I’m fine. I’m fine!” She had hefted herself up onto her feet, using the sword of Andros the Elder to prop herself up. “Go get the heir, before this ceiling caves in!”
Heliot, the two found, was relatively unharmed, a broken nose was the extent of his injuries. He looked on forlornly at the body of his fallen bodyguard, but did not linger long as Vespia and Renard hurried him off toward one of the shattered windows, the trio clambering out into the stormy night, and then scrambling away from the building. It was only once they had made it a safe distance away, atop a small hill five minutes south of the estate, that he seemed to notice his nose, the adrenaline wearing off. “Argh! Gods, that hurts. We should get to the stables - Calvert was right. We have to get back to the capital as soon as possible.”
“I think by this point all of the horses will have been taken. News will reach the capital in good time.” Renard replied.
Vespia, however, tutted at the Wizard. “All I know is that we can’t stay out in this storm, we’ll catch our deaths. There are bound to be a few farmers' houses around here, we’ll find one and stay the night there. By that point the Royal Guard will be here to look for him.” She turned toward Heliot, turning the young man about to face her, and bringing her hands up toward his nose. “A friend of mine, Ulbert, taught me this.” There was a crunch, and Heliot let out a cry of pain as his nose was reset. “Now you won’t lose your pretty looks.”
The Heir couldn’t hide his wide eyed astonishment at Vespia’s forthrightness, and he also couldn’t stop himself from asking the next question with perhaps a tad too much eagerness toward the beautiful - if also rain, sweat and gunpowder smoke covered - woman before him. “Who are you?”
“I’m Lieutenant Vespia Larue, your grace.” She removed her cap, offering him an incline of her head. “And this…This is Renard the Black. We were being held captive by Andros Du Vogare. He was conspiring with otherworldly forces to see you dead.”
Renard nodded in agreement with that, “The Fae.” He still held that silk covered mask in his hands, and for just a moment he felt the compulsion to force it upon Heliot’s face, but he pushed it down and hid the mask within the folds of his tattered black clothes. “If you had worn the mask Andros was about to give you, I believe it would have made you a conduit for one of them. The two of us realised something was going on while we were in the dungeons, and put a stop to it.”
“Vespia Larue and Renard the Black. I’ve read about the two of you, about the murder that you solved, about the body you raised up in Undine’s Cathedral.” Despite their current rain soaked, wind buffeted conditions he still somehow managed an air of stateliness when he spoke, “I’ll make sure that the two of you are greatly rewarded for this. Not only have you done a service to the Empire, but Andros killed my friend. I’m glad someone…” He glanced toward Vespia at that, and a blush of colour crossed his cheeks - from the cold, certainly - “Was able to avenge him so swiftly.”
“Once this is done, hopefully they can recover his remains. Give him a proper burial.” Vespia placed a hand through the Heir’s arm and made to lead him away from the fires - it was a position Tabitha Sotheim, who was currently running through a muddied field in broken high heels - would have killed to be in. She paused though, when she noticed that Renard still stood upon the top of the hill, looking out over the fires. “Renard! Are you coming?”
The Wizard started, nodding. “Of course, just…” Then he took a deep breath, and he released his hold on the souls that he had forced to do his bidding that evening. “I’m coming.”
Renard didn’t give a second glance to the burning ruins of the Du Vogare estate as he followed the pair, and despite the torrential rain that battered their ancestral home that night the blaze did not stop until every memory of House Du Vogare had been burnt to ashes.