Blue predawn brought rain to the old fort that guarded the bridge across to the City of Five Temple. Centuries ago, its Legion had marched out through a wormhole. After a respectful wait, the local farmers had carted off the dressed stone for their cosy steadings. Now, only ravens routinely patrolled the square of ragged walls.

Even so, the gateless fort still offered a defensible camp for merchant caravans who’d missed Five Temple's curfew, and for those Wilderland lords whose retinue was too large to find welcome in the city: Five Temple treasured its independence, and did not welcome small armies through its gates.

Just such a retinue camped out on the old parade ground. Driftwood fires flared behind curtains of rain. There was a big bell tent for the lord and his knights, some barely repaired stables for the horses, and crumbling open vaults for the soldiers.

Only from the bell tent came the sound of good cheer. The common soldiers huddled in silence. However, the rain hissed on the ancient stones and the swift River Wyrd gurgled past the fort’s jagged edge so that the din of water masked the clatter of hooves on the cobbled bridge until the last moment.

A shout went up.

A column of armoured riders brushed aside the guard and splashed toward the big bell tent. Though they displayed a mixture of arms and weapons, each bore the same Black Pig badge to mark their membership of the mercenary company of that name.

The lord’s soldiers grabbed spears and bows. Some made for the stables and started to mount while cold-fingered grooms fumbled with tack.

Meanwhile, men in shirts and little else blundered out of the bell tent, swords drawn. One tripped, sprawled in a puddle.

The horsemen reined in, laughing. Their leader, Captain Marius, nudged his mount forward and called, “Lord Cinderwood! We have come as promised.” He waited. Rain rattled off the black plate armour that clad his wiry form.

Lord Cinderwood, a big bearded man, emerged from the bell tent. His rich cloak barely concealed an unbuttoned doublet hastily drawn over a soiled shirt. The nobleman ignored the newcomer until a servant led up his horse. Only once mounted and facing the other eye-to-eye did Cinderwood deign to speak. He held out a bag of gold. “Marius, I have your bribe.”

Marius stiffened. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. “Do not insult us, sir. Our contract with the city expired, and your brother outbid the Merchant Lords. What you offer is a retainer.”

Lord Cinderwood smiled weakly. “Of course.” He turned his head and ordered one of his knights, “Count them.”

“You will find the main gate unbarred,” said Marius. “The city is wide open, the towers locked,” He tossed a bunch of keys to a servant. “You would be wise not to lose the element of surprise.”

“Pah,” said Lord Cinderwood. “We shall attack once we have completed our breakfast.”

“But your brother’s orders…” began Marius.

Lord Cinderwood stuttered. His brow lowered into an appalling frown. “The sorcerer is not lord of Cinderwood!”

Marius shrugged, making his shoulder plates rattle; the fit of his armour was imperfect. “Of course, milord.” He held out his gauntleted hand for the purse.

“Thirty eight, milord,” hissed the Cinderwood knight who had just finished his count.

“Thirty eight!” boomed Lord Cinderwood. “Captain Marius! You are missing two men. Is this a trap?”

The mercenary commander shook his head. “One of our number slew the other in a duel and now awaits your mercy in a cell, along with a witch that caused some trouble to the magistrates. There was neither time for trial nor execution.”

“Pah!” exclaimed Lord Cinderwood. “A man of power is not bound by such constraints.”

“But…,” began Marius. Then, “Yes, milord.”

Lord Cinderwood frowned as he handed over the bag. “Be on your way, then.”

“As you wish, my lord,” said Marius.

It was only once the mercenaries were well down the road West that one of his lieutenants remarked, “Just how many traps did you lay for him, Marius?”

“Enough,” said Marius.

“Where now?”

“To the sorcerer’s manor, of course,” said Marius. “I may not have magic powers, but I divine that the sorcerer will shortly be in want of competent soldiers.” He threw back his head and laughed while the rain ran down his cheeks.

# # #

Sir Wolfram von Tannhausen — Tannhauser — woke from dreaming of the bowers of Venusberg and found his face pressed to a wet stone floor, and his mouth tasting of vinegar.

No, he was not with the Goddess. Nor had he been for a decade, and the years had written the tale of every fight, every injury on his aching bones.

Tannhauser groaned and reached for his sword. His fingers pushed through straw.

No sword, just cold flagstones.

His eyes snapped open, met blinding light, closed. He felt to his left and found a wall.

He lay back down. His head spun. How heavily had he drunk last night? What trouble had he gotten himself into?

Gingerly, he rolled onto one side. His bruised ribs protested. Cursing, he propped himself up on his elbow, blinked in the light.

The floor comprised an expanse of stale-looking straw strewn over stone flagstones. “Barkeeper!” he bellowed. “God’s Teeth, some thief’s stolen my sword!”

The shouting set off a pounding in his head.

“Do be quiet,” snapped a female voice. “We are not in a tavern.”

Tannhauser clutched his head. “A brothel then?” He rolled onto his knees, then rose. He shook out his aching limbs. “By Jupiter! I’m too old to pass out on the floor… who is the madam of this fine establishment?”

Nausea eddied around him, making his legs wobble.

“Not a brothel, no,” said the woman. “Clearly you don’t remember.”

Tannhauser rubbed his eyes. She did indeed sound too refined for a harlot, though you never knew. “Oh, Hel’s Tits! Your husband’s coming back!”

“I have no husband.” She laughed. “Do you even know what city you are in?”

A panic spiked though him. He forced his eyes open and willed them to work for him.

His own swaying shadow danced on the wall of a round room a pike-length across. There was one door, and one window — just a square hole in the stone above head height. “Still in Five Temple,” he said. Though that wasn’t good news. They were in one of the two drum towers making up the gatehouse that guarded the bridge over the Wyrd.

“We’re in the Bridge Gate Prison,” he said.

“What else do you recall?”

He looked at his knuckles. “There was a fight…”

His knuckles were unbloodied.

His heart dropped into his gut. “Not a fist fight.”

Yes, his knuckles were unbloodied. However, the same could not be said of the sleeve of his gore-splattered doublet, which was also badly enough slashed to show the white silk of his shirt. His forearm felt bruised, but not actually wounded. Likewise his ribs.

He screwed up his eyes and was treated to a vision of brains… human brains. “I think… I might have killed a man in a duel.”

He bit his lip. Not one of the Fencing Guild? They were just boys playing with swords really, but they reminded him of his cousins...

He had a flash of blood and smashed teeth. A bushy grey-flecked beard.

And it came back to him.

One insult too many from an under captain who did not like it that Tannhauser sported better sword and armour than his superiors;

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“Come on posh boy, can you fight? Or did you steal that sword from your sugar daddy? Painting your armour black isn’t fooling anybody, cock sucker.”

His wrath stirring. Fighting to stay out of its claws. “Do not do this, sir. I am drunk.”

“Look at the coward trying to wheedle out of a fight! We’re all drunk!”

The tavern erupts with laughter.

Then, a blur… Tannhauser’s qualms fading as he marches out to the courtyard… flickering torches… blades flashing…

And after: Looking upon the ruin of what had once been a living man while the fight went out of him, leaving him shaking and weak-limbed.

“When I am drunk,” said Tannhauser, “I lack self-restraint.”

Now he would hang and somebody else would wear his armour, wield the good Solingen sword he had carried all this time.

“I preferred it when you were raving,” said the woman. “Right now you are a puddle of darkness.”

Tannhauser turned to face her. He fell to his knees. “Goddess!”

A woman sat in the corner of the cell, priestess robes draped around her. And she glowed the way Venus had during those moments between their couplings when She neglected to fully cloak Her glory.

“I have been called many things, sir,” said the woman, “but not that.”

Tannhauser rubbed his eyes. Shook his head.

The glow did not go away, but now a twinkly-eyed woman of middle years regarded him through the haze. The light spilled off her in tangible waves.

The hairs rose on the back of Tannhauser’s neck.

Their eyes met.

The priestess did not look away. “Sir?” said the priestess. “You seem to recognise me. Do I know you?”

Tannhauser got back to his feet and brushed himself down. “My apologies. You reminded me of somebody.”

“A Goddess?”

“Do not mock, madam. She is why I can see your aura.”

“Ah,” she said. “That.”

He bowed and, fighting through nausea, said, “Sir Wolfram von Tannhausen at your service, madam. I am known as--”

“Tannhausen?” said the priestess.

“A place so very far away,” said Tannhauser, “that in wandering the wormholes, I have mislaid it.”

“Perhaps my God can help find your path.”

“Believe me, madam, when I say that I have heard that before.”

“Your path home, I mean.”

“Rather point me back to Venusberg,” said Tannhauser. “For it is where I became lost.”

She said nothing, then nodded. “Uta,” she said, remaining seated. “Priestess of Subsolanus, God of the East Wind.”

“The false seeress?”

Uta opened her hands to indicate the luminous halo that suffused the air around her. “Not so false any more… Oh, sit down Tannhauser before you fall over.”

Tannhauser eased himself back down onto the straw and sat cross-legged. “Not so false any more?”

“Five Temple falls apart. Nobody would listen to a mere spinster pensioned off to serve a forgotten god. When I claimed Subsolanus spoke through me, everybody heard well enough that I had to keep to my sanctuary for fear of arrest.”

“And did that work?” asked Tannhauser.

“I was betrayed by my own ally.”

“And now you are the true Prophet of the God of the East Wind?”

Uta waved her hand. Air rushed around the cell, catching the straw and carrying it around.

Once the straw had settled, Tannhauser said, “False prophet to true one. Was that not a risky a confession?”

Uta arched an eyebrow. “A confession to a condemned man?” she said. “Surely the safest kind.”

“There are other favours traditionally granted to condemned men,” he said.

“What? You would parley your execution into a seduction?”

“I would at least evade any consequent ties,” said Tannhauser.

The priestess laughed. Not a giggle, a deep belly laugh that seemed to intensify the radiance of her halo. “I am no man’s conquest.”

Tannhauser shrugged. “Conquest was far from my mind.” That last came out as a croak. He cast around the cell. “There’s no water.”

“No,” said Uta. “Nor food. Not for weeks. For theological reasons.”

Tannhauser rubbed pinched the bridge of his nose, furrowed his brow. “No, sorry, that didn’t make any sense.”

“They can’t execute me for sedition,” she said, “because I am an anointed priestess. It would bring down a curse and the commons would turn on whoever was responsible. They are, however, under no obligation to feed or water me.”

“I see,” said Tannhauser. “But, shouldn’t you be… less healthy than you seem?”

She wiggled her finger to recall her summoning of the wind.

“Ah. Lacking a divine patron, I must contrive my own escape.” Tannhauser rose and bowed. “Excuse me, madam.”

“Of course,” she said.

Tannhauser turned away from her and went to stand under the tiny window.

Outside, wooden-soled shoes clattered in the cobbled street that ran around the base of the city walls. A little further off, blades clashed.

“To Hades with this.” He backed off then took a running jump for the little window. His fingers found the ledge. He dug his boots into the stonework, scrambled. Grunting, muscles straining he pulled himself up until his face was level with the opening.

The vent through the thick walls was more tunnel than window. The far end gave him a view of the Tasset and Pauldron Inn. In the Bridge Market in front of it, the dozens of young men swung practice longswords, wrestled, or simply stood around chatting.

Tannhauser’s muscles began to shudder. He ignored the pain and listened. Tannhauser pushed his face into the tunnel and sang out until his dry throat blazed, “Hey! Hans! Ha-ans!”

“The guards will come,” said Uta.

“Then I’ll fight them thirsty.” Tannhauser repeated the call. He dropped back to the stone floor and waited while his heart raced. Could he cope with a fight? If only he weren’t so hungover.

A muffled voice came through the window. “Tannhauser?”

Tannhauser repeated his leap. This time his arms shuddered and twitched as he braced. “Hans, is that you?”

“What on Earth are you doing in there?” asked Hans.

“Got in a fight…” Tannhauser’s fingers started sliding off the narrow ledge. “Be a friend and bring me some food and drink! You may need to bribe the guards.”

“Sure. Hang on.”

Tannhauser returned to the floor and waited.

After an age, Hans returned. “The gatehouse is locked up. No sign of the guards.”

The hairs stood up on the back of Tannhauser’s neck. He had a queasy feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with last night’s Falonian red and everything to do with why he had been drinking. Captain Marius had ordered his men to discretely ready themselves to abandon their posts just before dawn. They’d all had enough of their wages being so far in arrears, but Tannhauser had sensed something else going on. Several times, he’d spotted Marius in the company of mysterious gentlemen who wore no livery badges.

He didn’t try his leap again. Instead he stood below the little window. “Tell me, Hans, is the drawbridge down?”

Pause.

“What’s this?” asked the seeress, rising. She was tall.

Tannhauser shook his head.

Finally, Hans’s voice came: “Now you mention it, Tannhauser, as a matter of fact, yes the drawbridge is down.”

Tannhauser smiled without mirth. “And is the portcullis raised?”

“Um. Well yes, actually.”

“And the doors to the gatehouse still locked?”

“…Yes, all of them.”

The seeress clutched his arm. “You must save the city!”

“No!” said Tannhauser. “This is just an exchange of overlords. Not worth dying over.”

“At least the Lords Merchant are native,” said Uta.

“What’s this?” asked Hans. “Speak up, my friend.”

“Tell the Fencers to go home,” said Tannhauser. “Shut themselves up in their houses. Keep their families safe.”

“Why…? Oh now I see! No, my friend, I think we’ll damn well keep them safe by closing the gates.”

“Stop!” cried Tannhauser, but he footsteps pattered on the cobbles outside. Hans’s young voice cut through the morning hum.

He sighed. “Idiot.”

“So Marius and his mercenaries have betrayed our city,” remarked Uta. “And you don’t care.”

“I care for my friends, madam,” said Tannhauser. He strode over to the cell door and stooped to examine it. It was old, the wood shrunken from the frame. “I’ve been teaching longsword to those boys for more than a couple of years.” He stooped to unlace his shoe. Dried blood caked the thong. “Now they will get themselves killed over a change of flag.” He straightened and held out the shoe.

Amusement bubbled through Uta’s words. “Is that a… magic shoe?”

Tannhauser grinned. “In a way.” He jammed the toe of the shoe into the gap between door and frame. “The things I do…” The sole was stiff enough that he could get the toe into the crack by the breadth of a couple of fingers. He dragged it up, wincing at what he was doing to the supple leather.

“So will you save your friends and save our city?” asked Uta.

Tannhauser shrugged. “One problem at a time, madam.”

The door chose that moment to swing open.

Tannhauser dropped into a fighting half-crouch.

The guardroom was empty.

He exhaled, knelt, replaced his shoe.

“I surmise,” said the priestess, now behind him, “that Subsolanus sent you to guide me to freedom.”

“I would be a better guide had my sword and armour not been stolen,” said Tannhauser.