“This place? Again?” said Palas. “After this, I'm gone. I can’t even smell the fish anymore, it's that bad.”

“Shut up,” hissed Oren.

Palas rolled his eyes. “They can’t hear anything. Behind the hoods and with the sound of the sea, they’re more or less walking targets.”

Oren peeked out. Two men guarded the entrance to the Fisherman's Guild. Both wore the plain purple robes she'd seen them in earlier. They had their hoods up, but she was certain they were the fishermen she'd seen earlier.

“Are these men priests?” said Serem.

Oren shook her head.

“We don't have any priests on the island. We’ve got a little temple, but that's old stuff. No one uses it for anything other than the odd wedding. This…” She watched the men in purple robes guarding the entrance.

Oren bit her lip. “I don't know. But something tells me we’ll find the missing girl inside of there. If not, we"ve just interrupted… some kind of society meeting.”

“Cult meeting. The term you're looking for is cult meeting,” added Palas. “So, we gonna go for them?” His hands went to his knives.

“We can’t just kill them,” said Oren. “They’re not swampers, they’re people.”

“That might be true, but it seems like they are kidnapping children,” Serem said softly.

“We could jump them. I could take both of them in a second.”

“Wait here,” said Oren. “Let me try talking to them first.”

She got up and moved out to the cobbles. She walked towards the men, hand resting on the pommel of her scimitar. They didn't seem to notice her in the dark.

“Hey,” she called. “On behalf of the Adventurer's Guild, I demand that you step aside and let me enter this building.”

The men in purple robes turned their heads towards Oren. She knew something was wrong, very wrong. She saw faces she knew covered in an expression she didn't: lips turned upwards in a sneer.

The worst part was the eyes. They glowed, as if charged by magic within.

They took steps towards her, arms outstretched.

Oren cursed and drew her blade. Her arm still wobbled slightly from before.

The nearest one sprung for her with surprising strength. Oren cried out as he pushed her roughly to the hard cobbles beneath. She felt her bones rattle and the wind rush out of her.

Before he could get a grip on her, she was slashing with her sword, hacking wildly against the man's side. He let out a guttural moan and his grip weakened. She dragged up a knee and took advantage, forcing him off of her.

She jumped to her feet, catching sight of the other fisherman fielding a wild attack against Palas, who leaned just out of the way of his swing. Palas then dived in, slashing into the fisherman's exposed forearm. Serem swung a punch, but the fisherman rolled out of his reach.

The one who had pushed Oren down staggered to his feet, letting out a roar of pain as he swung a chain - where had he found that? - at her. She tried to skip out of his reach, but the chain was longer than she'd calculated.

Oren could smell rust as the links smashed against the side of her head. Stars bloomed across her vision.

In the distance, she saw Palas deliver a final slash to the second fisherman. Blood trickled from his throat as he fell to the ground. Serem was on the fisherman with the chain, getting in close so that he couldn't swing his chain again - but the fisherman managed to slip away from the Osgoth's powerful fists.

Shaking, with blood dripping down the side of her head, Oren dived for the fisherman, hacking wildly - but her blade didn't quite reach.

Palas dashed in, trying to slash him, but the fisherman swung the chain fiercely - striking Palas across the hand, knocking his dagger away. Serem used the opportunity to get in closer, landing a strong punch on the man's bleeding side. He dropped the chain and let out a howl of pain.

Oren lifted the scimitar high over her head and brought it down on the man's neck. His body spasmed as thick blood seeped from the wound, before sliding off the blade and on to the ground. The glow faded from the eyes, leaving the body with an ashen look.

With shaking hands, she sheathed the blade and took a deep breath.

“It seems the time for conversation has passed,” said Serem.

Palas was too busy cursing and stretching his fingers to come up with a quip.

“What the hell is going on? Those eyes… it was like they were possessed,” said Oren. She knelt down, next to the corpse. “Look at this blood. It should spurt out of a neck wound like that. Instead it's like treacle. It's as if they've been dead for ages.”

“Creepy death magic. Told you it was a cult,” said Palas.

Oren stood up. Her vision swam. She winced at the pain.

“Has-E-Morgok.” Serem said the words in a hush tone, and then placed one massive fist in the other.

Oren felt a curious sensation, like soft rain. Her head hurt a lot less. She felt the wound. It was more or less closed, but still a little tender to the touch.

“You can heal?” she asked.

Serem shrugged. “A little. An Osgoth ability.”

“Are we going to kill a bunch of cultists and rescue a child, or are we going to pat ourselves on the back?” said Palas.

“I'm supposed to say that,” said Oren. “I am the Guildmaster, after all.”

“About that,” said Palas.

“What about it?” asked Oren.

Palas and Serem shared a look.

“You are quite young to be a full Guildmaster,” said Serem.

“No one else wanted the job,” Oren said in a quiet voice. “They were going to close the Guild.”

Palas shook his head. “No wonder you fight like a child. You are one.”

“Shut up. I'm still the Guildmaster, and you’re coming with me.”

“Never said I wasn't.”

Weapons drawn, they approached the Fisherman's League. It was dark inside, save for a few blue flashes Oren desperately hoped were not the eyes of more purple-robed fishermen.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Raising a finger to his lips, Palas crept ahead into the darkness. Oren and Serem stood, waiting with bated breath. She listened as they waited. She could hear a strange, low sound from within. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

Palas reappeared.

“There's four of them. The dwarf and three others,” he said.

“And the girl?” said Oren.

He nodded. “She's tied up, but they haven’t… Not yet, anyway. We should move quickly. Can you Castanother one of those Quicken spells?”

Oren bit her lip. It would be nice to go into battle with their speed picked up, but what if Balhook sensed her casting it out here? It would ruin the element of surprise. She shook her head.

“I've got a better idea. We’ll jump them - but let me get in there first.”

The other two looked at each other. Palas shrugged.

Oren crept into the cavernous warehouse, the others close behind. Fish carcasses hung on the walls, the faint light casting long, alien shadows along the wet floor. She hated this place: she always had. She'd loved fishing with her father, but this place… it had always stunk of death to Oren.

As they got closer to the light source, the noise became clearer. It was a chant, soft and low and sonorous. In the lowlight, she could see them, the three men in purple robes - and Balhook. They stood in a circle, with the trussed up body of a small girl inside.

Balhook stepped forward, a ceremonial knife in his hand.

“Delay!” cried Oren, pressing her palms together. A silvery cloud spread out over Balhook and the fisherman, then disappeared.

Before they could react, Serem and Palas were upon them. Palas dashed forward, daggers glinting in the low light. He slashed one of the fishermen deep across the chest. He grunted and stumbled back, but he didn't fall.

Serem was next, slamming a heavy fist into the next fisherman. The fisherman swung back, landing a glancing blow on Serem.

The remaining fisherman roared and charged at Oren, slamming his fists in a wild pattern. She sidestepped and took a light blow to the shoulder.

“What’s going on here?” cried Balhook. “You dare interrupt our sacred rites?

“It’s over, Balhook! I know that you’ve been behind the killings.”

Balhook let out an inhuman scream as he raised his hands. A dark ball of energy grew between them, crackling with power. He launched it at Serem.

The ball struck the big Osgoth. He screamed in pain as it exploded over him, launching him off his feet. The slashed fisherman dived on top of him, but Serem managed to roll out of the way of the blow, returning a fierce strike to his head. The man stilled and rolled away.

“Balhook!” Oren dashed forward, raising her blade to slash the stocky dwarf. He was too enthralled with the effects of his magic to catch sight of her until it was too late - she cut him deep across the stomach. He let out an inhuman scream of pain as blood soiled his purple robes - but he stayed up.

“You don't understand!” Balhook was looking at her now, eyes mad with fury.

“You're a killer! You killed Misha Moorie, and now you're killing again!”

“A killer?” Balhook let out a guttural laugh. “No, child… I'm saving this island. If one has to die as an offering to the Deep One, then so be it! I have fed our people for years.”

Oren gasped as the realisation sunk in. All the disappearances over the last decade, hadn’t they coincided with the changing fortunes of Brightsail? The boats that had once been so desperate they had fished for swampers in marshes now returned from sea so heavy it took several crews of men to drag them out.

Balhook raised his hands and generated another ball of dark energy, launching it at Oren before she had a chance to react. It exploded over her and she felt pain. She fell to one knee.

Balhook grinned as he stepped closer to her, the ceremonial knife in his hand.

“I will kill all of you! He will be most pleased with me, yes…”

There were two tracks to the Blue Caster license. She’d made good use of Chronocastery - time magic - so far, but she’d also gained the basic Mimeocastery technique as well. It didn't work for spells, but with the technique a Blue Caster could mimic an ability used on her at the cost of her own mana.

She felt the sour bile rise in her throat. Then she spat it, with furious force, into Balhook's eyes. The stench brought her back to the Swamper King, who had spat the same noxious substance at her. Mimeocastery was never as strong as the original, but it was still something.

Balhook cried out, reaching for his eyes.

Oren jumped up and hacked at him with her sword. She cut him again, this time in the shoulder.

He stumbled back, scratching the gunk out of his eyes. They were a furious red. Brandishing the knife, he slashed at Oren, cutting a wide gash on her forearm.

Oren winced in pain. Much more of this and she'd pass out in no time. Time for another Mimic technique. She clenched her fist and called out the words she'd heard from Serem earlier.

“Has-E-Morgok.”

The same soft sensation of rain. She felt stronger - but the wound on her wrist didn't close at all. Arcane damage, she thought. No healing spell would work on that.

She turned her attention back to Balhook. He was charging another shadow ball. She easily dodged it and prepared to attack again.

Balhook looked terrible: drenched in blood, his robes torn and covered in fluid. There didn't seem to be much strength left in him. That was good. She could take him. She glanced around - the others were finishing off the fishermen. If she passed out, they would be able to finish the job.

On the other hand… she must have looked no better. Every bone in her body ached. She felt weak from the lack of blood. She stood up, holding the sword out. She found the strength inside her for one final attack. Then she charged him with the blade, letting out a battle cry as she buried the blade inside his chest.

Balhook made an odd gurgling noise as she removed the blade.

“His servant will come for you. The Chaos Servant, he will free the Deep One.”

Then he died.

Oren looked around. The trail of corpses lay around her. Palas and Serem stood nearby, looking as injured as her. She nodded to them, and they nodded back.

Oren knelt down and began to untie the terrified child.

The sun was rising above Brightsail. It bathed the sea and the sky in pastel shades of blue and pink.

Oren hadn’t slept, but her injuries had recovered - except for the slash Balhook had made to her wrist. The wound had closed, but it had left a nasty scar. It was likely it would never heal properly. Arcane damage didn’t. She flexed her fingers. They were stiff, but workable. She was lucky he hadn’t caught her sword hand.

Yawning, she walked over to the old map that hung in the common room of the Guildhouse. She could see Brightsail - or Dourbog, as it was listed here - in the bottom right corner, the paper marked with the grime of a thousand fingers. It had been a long time since anyone other than her had touched this map and dreamt of a life outside Brightsail.

The map showed an endless archipelago of islands - some big, some even smaller than Brightsail. All of them had one thing in common: they weren’t Brightsail. If Oren wanted to get on with her life, this wasn't the place for it.

Her hometown was forever tainted with memories of the corruption Balhook had wreaked on this place. What would happen now that Balhook was no longer making his sacrifices, she did not know. Nor did she care very much. She just wanted to leave.

She was taking the map off the wall and rolling it up when Serem and Palas walked in.

“Oh,” Oren said, startled. “I'm not stealing this map.”

The two of them looked at each other, then shrugged.

“It’s your Guildhouse,” said Palas.

“We were just going to come and say goodbye,” said Serem.

“Where are you going?” asked Oren.

“Anywhere,” said Serem, his thoughtful eyes regarding her.

None of them said anything for a short while.

“Can I come with you?” said Oren.

Serem looked again at Palas, who gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Forty-two gold pieces will get us quite far. Assuming you didn't spend it all at the tavern,” Oren said, looking pointedly at Palas.

“I went back to settle up. They wouldn"t hear of me paying it. Said heroes drink for free on this island.” Palas stretched his arms in a languid, irritating fashion.

“Are you ready to go?” said Oren. “There’ll be a westward boat leaving shortly.”

“Are you?” asked Serem.

Oren looked about the dusty Guildhouse. Where the map had been was a less grimy section of wall. The hearth had burned cold. A rack of tattered shields lined above it. Maybe one day she’d hang her own trophy there.

Oren turned to Serem, fierce Osgoth Brawler, and Palas, mysterious Rogue. She nodded.