CHAPTER 18: HARM AND HELP
“Spirits are stories, stories we tell the Aether, and it repeats back to us. The emotions and actions we pour into the world coalesce in places thick with magic. From that seed, a Spirit grows, watered, and nurtured by the world around it, shaped by countless impressions over countless years, until it forms the fragile truth we call identity.” Madam Kistine Shohgard speaking to her daughter.
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One of the key lessons impressed upon Vampires in Voivode Igori’s court is the value of life. Life, especially the thinking kind, is precious and valuable. As Lord Wolfgang stared at the five Gashadokuro he’d created, the importance of that lesson echoed in his mind. A hundred mortal souls went into each Gasha, a significant investment of a precious resource. An investment now ready to show its full value.
The town of Ludaford was one of the few remaining Holy League controlled settlements on this side of the Alidon. Its sturdy walls and stern Priesthood proved a breaker against the tide of Undeath, stymying the few probing assaults sent against it. So, as was the nature of Vampires, they decided to leverage time against the town’s mortal defenders and lay siege. This passivity didn’t suit the Duke, and he saw the Black Fly’s creations as a path to expedient victory. Thus, the potential of the Gashadokuros would be judged using Ludaford’s death.
This path suited Wolfgang just fine, except for one major issue: he was forced to work with the existing siege force. When he arrived at Ludaford, he found a pitiful collection of minor Nobles and their ill-kept soldiery treating the siege as something of a holiday. They’d blocked off the roads leading to the town and sent forth a few waves of Ghouls but not much else. The rumors Ludaford was something of a spy nest made more sense in light of this. Sitting on the banks of a tributary to the Alidon, Ludaford was the perfect place for enemy agents to slip into and out of occupied territory, especially if the besiegers couldn’t be bothered to patrol the river properly.
The laxness and incompetence ended tonight; with the Duke’s writ of command, Wolfgang took charge and prepared to end the siege. Staring out at Ludaford, the Black fly peered into the Aether, using his occult spectacles, and judged his prey. The town itself was crescent-shaped, hugging a bend in the Luda River, with a sturdy wall on the land-facing side of town. But not all of Ludaford fit inside the walls, and a second crescent of smaller buildings clung to the outside of the defenses, a common feature of League settlements. The outer town was long evacuated, its people pulled into the walled inner town, leaving a jumble of peasant-crafted structures behind them.
The Baron formerly in charge of the siege explained the outer town was more than ramshackle hovels; it was also viciously trapped. Built on a poorly drained swamp, the outer town was a mess of planned and unplanned hazards with rotting walkways, warren-like roads, and surprises left by bitter locals. The outer town was also well within range of the wall’s defenders, where magic, arrows, and ballista bolts could rain down on mired soldiers. While an Undead army wouldn’t rout, neither would it react to changing circumstances effectively. Leaving any force of Rattler or Ghouls trying to pass through the outer town confused and disorganized.
If a force could make it through the outer town, or weather the onslaught marching up the main road would unleash, they’d find a reasonably sized moat surrounding strong walls with towers and mounted ballistas. The walls were magically defended as well, but the spells woven into them needed to be activated and powered, a far cry from the mighty wards of a city like Vindabon or Harmas. Still, all told, Wolfgang could understand why the choice of sieging down Ludaford was made. Taking the town through pure force of arms would have been prohibitively expensive; until now, that is.
At the Black Fly’s command, three of the Gashadokuro lumbered towards the outer town, their thunderous footfalls and glowing eye-sockets signaling the coming attack. Warning bells within Ludaford started to ring as the Gasha reached down with immaterial hands and scooped up entire hovels, throwing them like loose pebbles over the town’s walls. The first volley of debris sailed over the walls and smashed into the inner town with a ruinous crash. By the second volley, the tower-mounted ballistas returned the favor and shot huge bolts toward the Gasha. Each of the enemy’s shots missed, unable to connect with the giant bobbing skulls and passing through their semi-intangible bodies.
This was what made the Gasahdokuro so dangerous; their bodies weren’t just invisible but selectable intangible. A Gashadokuro could only be touched by what it wished to touch; only their skull lacked this property, but striking that part of them was its own challenge. In Wolfgang’s readings, he’d found the Eastern Necromancers used the Gasaha as terror weapons, unleashing them as wandering tools of death. To Wolfgang, this seemed a poor use of their potential; in the Gasha, he saw a near-perfect siege engine. Fast, durable, and horribly destructive, a Gasha could rain destruction on an enemy in ways a catapult or battlemage would struggle to do.
As the fifth volley of debris smashed into Ludaford, the town’s spellweavers finally acted. Lances of fire and light shot forward, smashing into one of the Gashadokuro’s skull. Huge chunks of splintered bone fell to Vardis as the giant Rattler stumbled and slammed into the ground with an earth-shaking crash. Seeing this, Wolfgang ordered a pack of Ghouls towards the Rattler. Damaged but still functional, the Gasha reached out and grabbed the Ghouls, dragging the unliving bodies to its maw. The walking corpses were ripped apart as they passed the Gasha’s chipped teeth, and the damage to the Rattler’s skull started healing.
The sixth volley met a shimmering force barrier stretching up from the town’s walls and made a sound like a temple bell breaking on impact. Tons of debris slid down the barrier, landing at the base of the walls. Nodding to himself, Wolfgang gave the signal to the Wyrmoi Vampire of the original siege camp. Grunting with mental effort, the lay Noble unleashed his assembled army. Thousands of bats streamed through the night sky, a roiling cauldron of screeching slaves now set against the Ludaford. These were carrion bats, a magically altered subspecies more fecund and vicious than any normal breed.
The bats flew toward the arcane barrier, slamming their thin-boned bodies into the shield over and over. Soon, the magical defense was covered in a carpet of leather wings. The Black Fly watched this through his spectacles, seeing how the barrier reacted to the teeming swarm. The constant pressure of countless bats let Wolfgang see flaws in the shield, places where the wards were more easily overtaxed. As the first streams of fire came from the town and started clearing away the bats, Wolfgang found what he was looking for.
At the Blacky Fly’s command, one of the Gashadokuro reached down to pick up a special load Wolfgang acquired for a moment like this. Hefting up a repurposed millstone, now etched with fell runes, the Gashadokuro threw its load towards a selected spot on the barrier. Wolfgang didn’t know if the flaw resulted from an inexperienced spellweaver powering the wards poorly or a pre-existing defect in the shield. What he did know was the millstone proved too much for the flaw. With a sound like a screaming infant, the shield shattered in a wave of force. Nearly half the bats attacking the shield died instantly, but enough survived to fall upon the wall’s defenders.
The three Gasha continued their bombardment, sending more debris into the town as Wolfgang prepared the next phase of the assault. With a little time and luck, the defenders could re-establish the barrier, but for now, the town’s spellweavers were helpless. All but the most hardy of them would be stunned by the breaking of their combined shield. Presenting an opportunity, Wolfgang now exploited with the two Gasha he kept in reserve.
Standing up from where they’d lain, the two Gasha stepped onto the road leading to Ludaford’s main gate. The two fifteen-meter Rattlers charged the gate side by side, their thunderous footfalls echoing across the battlefield. As their kindred launched volley after volley of debris into Ludaford, the two reserve Gasha ran forward on invisible legs.
Arrows and bolts filled the air around the Gasha as they approached the gate; few struck their skulls, and none damaged them. Some of the arrows had better luck among the tide of Grinning Ghouls loping after the Gasha in a swarm of hungry dead. As the first of the two Gasha reached the gate, it swung an invisible arm over the top of the gatehouse, clearing off defenders and crenulations like a man might bugs and crumbs. The second Gasha reached down to the iron portcullis and gripped it before suddenly pulling its phantom hands back. Silver studs in the portcullise’s crossbeams warded off the giant Rattler.
Wolfgang quashed the flicker of self-recrimination he felt; he should have guessed the Gasha couldn’t touch silver, even if it couldn’t touch them. Pulling back slightly, the Gasha slammed its invisible shoulder into the town wall, cracking masonry and scattering debris. Free from its task of clearing the parapets, the other Gasha joined its twin, and the two started ripping down part of the wall. Soon, a large gap became clear in the wall, and the Grinners surged forward, clambering over themselves to enter Ludaford.
The bombarding Gashadokruo changed their aim to strike the walls, killing defenders and destroying fortifications as the next phase of the battle started. Hundreds of lockstep Rattlers marched down the main road, no longer threatened by enemy attacks. The four Vampires originally in charge of the siege also moved in, eager to salvage blood and glory. At the Vampire’s heels were their minions, bound Wraiths, Gangerwights, and other pet monsters. The Vampires were under orders to quickly eliminate any enemy spellweavers but otherwise allowed to do as they pleased.
As the breech in the wall widened to the point a horse could walk through it, twin bolts of brilliance smashed into one of the Gasha. Painfully bright, the lances of magic came from within Ludaford and struck simultaneously, their silver and gold light driving back the darkness for a split second.
Wolfgang flinched as the struck Gasha was destroyed; its skull and the magic animating it were blown apart in a shower of incandescent sparks. Quickly recovering from the psychic backlash of losing such a linked minion, Wolfgang hissed. “Cleanor, deal with them.”
His bodyguard, who’d been lying nearby watching events, sighed and uncoiled herself. Buckling on her twin scimitars, the Lamia complained. “Surely our allies can handle a Priest or two? Besides, I doubt the enemy has much more left; if spells of that sort were easy, all of your giant pets would already be destroyed.”
Hesitating, Wolfgang fed blood into his ears and listened to the sounds of battle. Behind the crunch of breaking stone and clash of steel was screaming, lots and lots of screaming. Not the mad wails of the plague-infected but a genuine lament of the dying and grieving. The surviving Gashadokuro continued to pull down sections of the wall, and Rattler soldiers started to press through the gap alongside Grinners. Cleanor was right; committing her at this point would be pointless. The enemy was spent, and the cost of a single Gasha was… acceptable. Feeling at the psychic ache left by the lost minion, Wolfgang reminded himself perfection was a process.
“Your assessment makes sense. I’ll have the Gasha join the assault,” replied Wolfgang as he listened to the ever-growing sound of screams. He’d need to move closer to the battle soon; the Ghouls wouldn’t stop feeding until commanded, and having a surviving breeding population would be better than a pure massacre.
At Wolfgang’s command, two of the Gasha marched forward, joining their kin at the wall. The portcullis started to creak open then; Wights or other intelligent servants must have taken the gatehouse. Seeing the Gasha were no longer needed as siege engines, Wolfgang lessened his grip on their leash and watched the Gasha clamber over the walls, heading deeper into the town.
The Black Fly observed the Gashadokuros act on their instincts. They ripped open the roofs of buildings, reaching down with invisible hands and picking up screaming people. With palpable gluttony, the Gashas dropped people into their jaws and messily devoured them. Bits of their meals splattered down around them, falling through their jaw and non-existent throat onto the ground below. Peering into the Aether, Wolfgang watched as the souls of every consumed victim became bound to the Gasha; their spiritual weight added to the hundred souls used in its creation.
Regretting he hadn’t brought a proper notebook, Wolfgang muttered to himself. “Interesting.”
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Cole stared at a horse, and the horse stared at Cole. Carefully, the Paladin of Death brought the bucket of stream water to the equine’s snout and let it drink. Clout, the draft horse, slurped down the water noisily and pawed at the ground with a single heavy hoof. Cautiously, Cole pulled the empty bucket away and stepped back from the horse, relief flooding through him. They’d been on the road for five days, and the horses were still uncaring of Cole’s abnormalities. Whatever Natalie did to them was staying, and that brought a mix of relief and worry to the Paladin.
Glancing around at his surroundings, Cole placed the watering bucket back on its hook and stretched his back. They’d stopped alongside a clear stream running through the surrounding farm fields. Natalie, Mina, Alia, and Yara were busy washing themselves and their clothes somewhere upstream. For reasons of modesty and practicality, Cole was left behind, leaving him to watch, water, and wonder about the horses. Returning to Cuff and Clout, the Paladin cautiously reached out and stroked Cuff’s flank. Brushing the creature's coat, Cole mused on how this was the first time he’d touched a living horse without difficulty. Perhaps he could learn to like the animals; not having to walk everywhere would be a boon. Then, as if to rain on Cole’s burgeoning hopes, Cuff started to urinate, splattering Cole’s boots and legs.
Jumping back, Cole cursed and glared at the animal; logically, he knew the horse was just following its instincts, but well-trained paranoia whispered a more insidious motive. Checking to ensure the horses were firmly tied to a farm fence, Cole headed towards the stream to clean his boots and pants. Looking down at the babbling brook, Cole peered into the Aether and reconfirmed it wasn’t contaminated. The stream’s Spirit looked simple but healthy, showing no sign of the plague or any other danger.
During the two days of travel, Cole practiced using his Aether-sight in a more natural setting. Vindabon was a congested mess of emotions and magic; whatever Spirits inhabited the city were obscured by the sheer press of people. Out here in the farmlands, things were a bit more sedate, and Cole could achieve a better understanding. He’d spent any time not in work or conversation staring out across the fields, getting a sense of the landscape's spiritual currents.
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Generations of farmers worked these fields and poured bits of themselves into the land. Slowly coalescing into the primitive Spirits personifying this patch of the world. From what Cole could interpret, the Spirits were, by and large, simple and sturdy things. Clusters of diffuse instincts and pondering thoughts that cared for little other than good rain, good sun, and good harvests. The stream’s Spirit was a bit more lively, being both playful and sturdy, like an old woman watching over her grandchildren. It was that watchful strength Cole trusted to notice any sickness within the water.
Letting his power drop, Cole rubbed his forehead and let out a sigh. Peering into the Aether like that was more the duty of Earth Priests; his burgeoning abilities were taxed getting the insight he required. Reaching down and letting his fingers glide through the clear water, Cole offered his appreciation and apologies to the Spirit before washing his boots.
Returning to the wagon, Cole set his cleaned clothing atop the wagon’s canvas top to dry. It was one of those cool spring days where proper warmth could be found in sunlight and little elsewhere, so Cole leaned against the sunned side of the wagon and let his mind chew on the Lych’s implications. From what Natalie said, Isabelle seemed to have jumped to the worst conclusion; but Cole wasn’t so certain. Considering he hadn’t been abducted and locked away in a research oubliette, it seemed unlikely the Lych knew what exactly Cole was. It seemed more likely Leonid was referencing Isabelle’s miraculous survival rather than her research into Homunculi.
Staring down at his arm, Cole checked where he’d been bitten by a Grinner; the skin was slightly discolored but otherwise fine. Flexing his wrist, Cole bitterly noted the limb was already collecting a new coat of scars and marks. While practically spotless compared to the rest of him, the limb Dietrich ripped off was no longer unblemished. A flicker of sadness passed through Cole as he thought about his appearance. Going through life scaring almost everybody you meet is hard, especially for someone who travels to places beset by monsters.
The sound of feet on the stone road pulled Cole from his thoughts, and he looked to see Natalie approaching with a basket of laundry on her hip. She smiled at him, and Cole returned the expression. Even if his scars did frighten people, those who mattered learned to see past them. Waving to Natalie, he called out. “Hey, where are the others?”
Natalie raised an eyebrow at Cole’s lack of pants but started laying out her laundry out on the wagon’s top. “It doesn’t take me long to wash my clothes or me; another perk of undeath. I figured once I was done, I’d come back and spare you from being with the horses alone.”
Cole’s lips curled in a smile. “If you can clean up faster, then why do you spend so long in the bath? There been a few nights I swore you spent the entire time in the tub.”
Scrunching her face in a mock pout, Natalie replied. “I like warm baths, and I don’t crinkle up in them anymore, so allow a girl her vices.”
Snorting in amusement, Cole checked his pants and boots; finding them reasonably dry, he pulled them on. “I think this is our first time alone since leaving.”
Frowning, Natalie paused to think. “Yes, yes, it is.” a smile closer to a leer spread across Natalie’s face, and she replied. “Shame our time is limited; otherwise, I’d take full advantage of our privacy.”
Natalie was wearing a rather thin smock, having not yet fully dressed, and Cole was tempted to pick her up and spend their time alone in a fun but frivolous way. Instead, he did the responsible thing and tried to get answers to a pressing question. “Believe me, I’m tempted, but I want to know what you did to the horses.”
Hesitating, gently chewing on her lip, a nervous tic, Cole found strangely endearing, Natalie added. “I’ve been experimenting with animal minds, learning how to tweak minor things. It’s… it's been practice for eventually helping Yara. One of the first things I figured out how to do was stop creatures from being afraid of me. So with the horses, I just reached into them, felt the fear, and smoothed it away.”
Cole’s jaw tightened, and he shut his eyes for a second. Mind magic disgusted him, but on the scale of unpleasantries, Natalie’s efforts weren’t objectionable. “I suppose in comparison to Isabelle’s experiments on small animals, yours aren’t anything horrible.” Cole forced a weak smile onto his face, but it did little to buoy the joke as it fell flat. “I’m curious; why exactly are they afraid of me?”
Natalie glanced at the nearby horses, both busy chewing on a patch of roadside grass. “Well, there are layers to it, but most obvious is your lack of a smell, but you probably guessed that. The general odors of life and your clothes hide that fact from most people, but not animals. Animals can’t smell you, and that’s distressing to creatures relying on that sense. But horses focus on their eyes and ears more than anything else, so what distresses them about you is something more.”
Opening and shutting her mouth a few times, clearly debating how to word things, Natalie eventually said. “Animals have a sixth sense, a shitty ability to detect souls and magic. For most creatures, it's not much more than a nervous instinct or similar, but horses are different. They are much more attuned to people’s souls, sensing changes in them. It’s probably why they make so good steeds; they can sense their rider’s mood and notions. Well, horses can feel your soul, and it distresses them. Not your emotions or power, but something underneath that, there’s a… hunger in your soul.”
Shutting her eyes, Natalie tried to translate the strange perspective of a horse. “Hungry isn’t the right word; maybe ‘pulling’ is more accurate? There is a gravity to your soul, kind of like when powerful magic is worked, but more subtle and constant.”
Snapping her fingers as a clear metaphor fell into place, Natalie explained. “Imagine someone dumps a load of boiling water down a drain. If you looked at the drain, you’d see and feel the steam and heat, which is your soul. But there's also the drain current, the water being sucked down, and people don’t seem to notice it, but animals do, especially horses.”
Cole digested this uneasy meal of information and mouthed the word ‘drain.’ It brought back a memory of a nightmare and a dead man visiting it. Cole hadn’t experienced one of his falling nightmares in a while, and he’d been doing his best not to think about the strange dreams. But, try as he might to live in a state of denial, Cole couldn’t overlook the puzzle pieces coming together. Every time he used up his soul, he returned stronger, with powers roughly correlating to events surrounding his soul-death. After battling a mighty Vampire in the Alukah’s tomb, he’d become strong enough to bend steel with his bare hands. After a riot involving Werebeasts, he’d gained a lupine sense of smell. Then there were the strange dreams involving falling corpses, corpses belonging to the recently deceased, who became copies of him on a field of lightning-scorched ash. Cole was absorbing something from the dead, his soul sucking up bits of people to power his existence.
Soul-eaters aren’t unheard of; some monsters like Lychs were infamous for the practice. But when Cole first started to fear he fell into that cursed category, he’d made some checks. The souls of those seen in his dreams were intact and easily freed, waylaying the worst of Cole’s fears. So the question remained: what exactly was Cole absorbing? What was going ‘down the drain’ to use Natalie’s metaphor.
Additionally, how was it empowering him? Healing his body, let alone resurrecting him, would require significant magical energy. So many questions, and the keeper of their answers was unwilling to share them. Somehow, Isabelle’s reluctance scared Cole more than anything else. She seemed to genuinely think she was protecting him by hiding the truth, a very poor sign from a woman who views ignorance as a sin.
Leaning on the wagon, Cole let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. “Thank you for telling me.”
Reaching out, he took Natalie’s hand, seeking comfort in her touch. Seeing his stress, Natalie leaned against him. “Hey, Cole, it doesn’t matter what you are; it matters who you are.”
Squeezing her hand, Cole started to say something when he smelled the rest of their group returning. “They are back.”
The three women appeared along the stream bank with fresh clothes and clean bodies. Alia was animatedly telling a story involving a crossbow, judging by her pantomime, and the other two were listening to her: Mina with amused patience and Yara with cautious uncertainty. Natalie wrapped her arms around Cole and gave him a large hug. “Don’t stew in your worries, please?”
Mixing a smile and a grimace, Cole replied. “I’ll try.”
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Mina stared at the map and then at the thick forests surrounding them. They’d traveled another day and finally passed from the Norican farmlands into Norican woodlands. If Mina hadn’t managed to get them horribly lost, the group was between the Great Marsh and the Alidonian Mountains. Taking a route parallel to the Alidon River but deeper south, using the old imperial road to reach the border of Norica and the Southern Marches. If all went to plan, they’d be in the forest for a few more days before the landscape opened back up into the Lesser Marovian Plains. Once there, they’d need to pass through the Alidonian Mountains and reach Albareg. Then, Gods willing, they’d be able to make contact with allies and be near their missions' end.
Until that point, the group was passing through rough country with little support and a lot of potential dangers. To wit, Cole and Alia walked on either side of the wagon, keeping their senses on the surrounding forest. Both mundane and magical Predators stalked these wild places, and a lone wagon was the exact sort of prey to attract the most desperate or dangerous examples.
As for the other three not on guard duty, Mina and Yara sat on the wagon’s bench as navigator and driver respectively, while Natalie slept the day away behind them. The day-walking Vampire needed to enter torpor at least once a week to avoid problems. She’d been keeping watch every night and staying up with them every day, so before things got ugly, Natalie was due for some rest. Glancing back at the sleeping Vampire currently nestled between two crates of supplies, Mina felt a stab of worry. Isabelle was still dormant, but how long that lasted was anyone's guess. Despite her new miracles and responsibilities, Mina was not keen on facing the older Vampire again. Hopefully, Isabelle wouldn’t put Mina in that situation, but somehow, the Priestess doubted it.
Turning back to face Yara, Mina asked. “Do you want me to take the reins?”
The red-headed Thrall just shrugged. “I’m fine.”
Stretching the best one could on a wagon’s front seat, Mina offered a new question. “Where did you learn how to tend horses?”
Yara shrugged again. “My mom worked at the stables back home.”
There was no elaboration, no additional details, just a quick answer, but it was better than the monosyllabic responses Mina got before. After days of trying to strike up a conversation with Yara and failing, Mina felt she owed Natalie an apology for her behavior on the first day they spent together. Trying to be civil or even friendly with someone who refused to make the barest conversation was not easy. Glancing to the right, Mina debated getting off the cart and walking alongside Alia for a few kilometers. Navigation shouldn’t be much more than keeping the wagon on the road for the next day or two, so perhaps she could spend some time with her girlfriend.
No sooner did those thoughts go through Mina’s head than Alia trotted into view and grabbed Cuff’s bridle. An intense frown was on the Citywarden’s face, and she said. “We need to stop. I hear something.”
Yara tugged on the reigns and made soothing noises at the horse team, both of which were suddenly skittish. Unslinging her crossbow and spanned a bolt, Alia called out. “Do you hear that Cole?”
From somewhere to their left, the Paladin replied. “No, what is it?”
Alia checked her crossbow and said. “Screams.”
Mina and Cole spoke in grim unison. “Jag.” Screamers this deep in the wilderness was not a good sign, speaking to the plague’s spread and also proving a major impediment to their trip. Mina wasn’t worried they’d be overwhelmed and slaughtered by throngs of infected; she was more concerned about what to do with all of those infected once subdued and cured.
Reaching to her belt, Mina started to grab the mace she kept for combat but realized there was a better option. Turning to Yara, Mina said. “Can you wake up Natalie?”
The Thrall nodded, handed the reins to Mina, and scrambled back towards the sleeping Vampire. A moment later, a grumbling Natalie appeared, blinking away the dappled sunlight. “What’s wrong?”
Mina answered. “Screamers, can you help stop them?”
Natalie frowned and shut her eyes; after a few seconds, the Vampire said. “That's… that's not a Screamer.”
Getting off the wagon, Natalie grew a set of black claws and moved forward like a cautious predator. Alia glanced at the newly awakened Vampire and asked. “How can you tell?”
Mina finally jumped off the wagon as well, joining Cole, Alia, and Natalie standing in front of the horses. Staring down the road they intended to travel, Natalie said. “Screamers just scream; they don’t swear and panic like whoever is coming towards us is.”
Cole brought his halberd to bear. “Friend or foe?”
Natalie squinted down the road. They were on a long, straight track of imperial stone flanked by old trees on either side, shadowing the path beneath a tunnel of budding branches. Beyond the sight of mundane eyes, Natalie saw something in the distance. “I don’t know, but they are being pursued.”
Mina’s ears then caught what Alia and Natalie could hear: a long scream punctuated by shouts. Weapons drawn and muscles tensed, the group waited as the screaming figure came closer and closer. Cole glanced at the others and said. “I’m going to go help.”
Alia shook her head. “It might be a trap; we don’t want to get separated.”
The Paladin frowned in displeasure but stayed with the group; he clearly wanted to rush ahead but was willing to follow their advice. Another noise interrupted the distant screaming, a low, sonorous note any who travel the wilds knows and fears, the howl of a wolf. Nodding to himself, Cole said. “Alia, stay with Yara and defend the wagon; Natalie, scout ahead; Mina, come with me in case they are injured.”
Natalie slipped into the forest, fading into the foliage, and Cole charged forward. Mina hesitated, and Alia cursed. “Fuck it, just do what Cole says; he probably has the most experience of all of us.”
Mace in hand, Mina charged after the Paladin and Vampire, following Cole’s flapping cloak. As they got closer, Mina could make out more of the stranger’s screams. The man wasn’t just yelling in fear or pain; he was saying something.
“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUUUUUUCCCCK!!!”
Catching up to Cole, Mina got a better look at the situation they were entering. A lanky man with shaggy blond hair was running down the road in a dead sprint; at his heels were a pair of wolves, snapping at him as they got close. But every time the wolves lunged, they seemed to stumble, the man barely dodging their snapping jaws.
By now, the stranger had seen them and was waiving his arms frantically. “HELP! HELP! I CAN’T STOP THEM FOR MUCH LONGER!!!”
In answer to his pleas, Natalie exploded out of the brush, a blur of black and white that overwhelmed the two wolves instantly. A spray of red signaled the first’s death, but the second simply toppled over like a dropped puppet. It took the running man another dozen meters or so to realize he was no longer pursued. Skidding to a stop not far from Cole, he nearly collapsed, puffing out wheezing breaths as he tried to recover himself. Carefully, Cole and Mina approached the man, both half-expecting a trap of some kind.
The stranger’s build was tall and wiry, a runner’s physique, which was probably why he still lived. Clad in expensive traveling clothes and carrying a heavy pack, the man seemed to be in his mid-twenties with a roguish countenance. Clutched in his arms were a pair of cases used to hold delicate instruments.
Looking to his rescuers, the stranger smiled, an expression Mina supposed would be charming if he wasn’t still red in the face and slick with sweat. “Thank you so much! I’d be meeting Master Time if you’d not found me.”
Blinking away some sweat, the Stranger looked over at Cole and laughed nervously. “I suppose maybe I’ll still be meeting him in a way today.”
Natalie returned then, with the surviving wolf padding behind her. The stranger spun to look at her and the blank-eyed lupine at her heels. To Mina’s surprise, she saw recognition in Natalie’s eyes. “What are you doing here?”
Cole stepped forward, asking. “You know this man?”
Looking at her boyfriend, Natalie gestured at the stranger. “Yes, and so do you! He’s the fiddler, the one at the market square and the Ball!”
Beaming at them, the fiddler’ fit both instrument cases under one arm and offered a hand. “My name’s Kitthar Marono and the Ivory Tower sent me to help you.”