Markov flipped the gold piece once more, his eyes watching the coin as it flew through the air. Once it had landed back on his palm, he quickly moved to slap it on the table.

“Call it,” he spoke to the dwarf before him.

Bjorn looked nervous, his only eye looking at the thief’s hand. “King,” he muttered in a whisper.

Markov grinned as he raised his hand off the table. The gold piece showcased the dwarf’s worst fear. The form of an imprinted phoenix.

“Damn!” Archibald cursed from Bjorn’s side.

“Drink up!” One thief at Markov’s side shouted.

Both the elf and dwarf formed an unpleasant grimace, their hands grabbing at the newly poured shots before them. They both took a deep breath before they downed the vile liquid. Skavdka was a drink more vile than the grog those navy royals had to stomach. It was a cheap drink made from the creative creatures known as the orcs. Very few places had it, since orcs were already a rarity in cities, and the ones that had it rarely ever got to sell it. The drink was disgusting and was only drunk by either desperate hobos looking for a buzz or a group of arses that wanted to play a cruel game with it. Markov and his men were the latter.

Bjorn managed to drink his in one go, his finger pinching his nose as he stomached the shot of skavdka. Archibald wasn’t so lucky. The elf only lasted a half second before he retched. The drink went spilling onto the floor and the thieves around Markov laughed at the unfortunate bloke.

“Drink!” another shouted. The shot Archibald had was quickly refilled, as he did not finish the drink.

“Are you serious?! Isn’t putting it in my mouth enough?” the elf complained.

“No!”

The men all shouted in unison, including Bjorn himself. The elf groaned and looked at his shot in misery. He downed it once more, his eyes shutting tightly as he forced it down into his gut. Everyone leaned in, their gazes focused on the elf as he swallowed. Finally, he opened his mouth, showing that he did, in fact, drink it. The entire room cheered, congratulating Archibald and Bjorn on stomaching it. Markov chuckled as he drank his honeyed mead.

Thankfully, he didn’t have yet to drink that disgusting skavdka. This was his fifth time winning, all thanks to his lucky two sided coin. He had used his sleight of hand to keep both trick coins hidden in his sleeves, using his foresight skill to guess which side those two were going to pick before they even chose.

It was nice to see the two men before him having fun, despite losing to Markov constantly in every drinking game they proposed. The one thing they obviously didn’t learn was that the master thief was a deceiver above all else, making it folly to win a game against him. As Markov sipped at his mead, a voice called out to him, interrupting the commotion of drunks.

“Markov! Sir!”

That was Johan. Why was he panicked? Markov turned to the sound of the young man’s voice. He moved to get up, his hand leaving the mug of mead behind.

“Johan? What is it?”

“Sir! It’s Holter!” The thief shouted. Markov raised an eyebrow as he left the room he was in, his feet stepping out into the main meeting room where Johan had stumbled into. Did James defeat the necromancer? Was that why Johan was so excited?

‘No, he’s not excited, he’s scared.’

Markov furrowed his brow. “Is Holter dead? Did Malik catch on to our intentions?”

“No sir! It’s worse…” Johan was breathing hard, his face red with exertion.

“What do you mean, worse?”

“They—”

The sound of something breaking cut the young man off. It was loud enough to draw out some of Markov’s men from the room nearby, their daggers drawn as they looked for the source.

Down at the bottom floor, below the balcony, the door had been forced open. Markov felt his hand grab at his dagger, ready to take on anything that rushed from the shadows of its doorway. At first, there was silence. Everyone held their breath, their blades at the ready.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice called out from the shadows.

Markov watched as three of his men were suddenly thrown into the meeting room, their bodies bound by a magical mist. Two figures walked in after them, their faces obscured by darkness. Once they got to the light, however, Markov’s surprise turned to shock.

James Holter stood there, with none other than Malik Ymir, the necromancer that had caused so many problems for the thieves guild. Both men were side by side, their expressions opposites.

James had a sincere look, his right hand wielding a short sword as his left carried a rusted shield. His eyes burned with that blue glow from before. It looked unnerving to Markov how that young man’s skull was visible behind those eyes.

On the other end of the spectrum, Malik was grinning, his fingers forming purple runes that dripped with necromancy magic. The necromancer’s magic extended into a black mist, the same one that was binding the men.

“This… This was unexpected, to say the least,” Markov muttered.

“Markov! Good to see you, friend! How’s that scar treating you?” Malik greeted joyously.

The master thief couldn’t help but clench his jaw tight, his cheek scar tingling with remembrance. “James Holter. What is the meaning of this?! You were supposed to kill Malik! Not join him on his wild antics!”

Markov turned to the blond man, his hand gesturing to the room behind him. “I have your friends captive. Do not forget!”

“Oh, I didn’t forget,” James responded. He stepped up to the center of the room, the blue glow in his eyes dimming slowly. “I didn’t join Malik,” he stated.

Markov blinked. “Yet here you are, standing next to him!”

“Again, I didn’t join him. He joined me.”

“What?!” The master thief was stunned.

“It’s true!” Malik called out. “He’s the reason these guys of yours are still breathing.” The necromancer raised a hand before snapping his fingers. The spell that held Markov’s men suddenly dissipated, dropping the thieves to the ground. The men groaned and rolled around, obviously still alive.

“You never said I was supposed to kill Malik. Only that I was supposed to stop him from killing your guys,” James called out. “So I stopped him. By making him my follower.”

Markov could only stare at the unlikely duo, his thoughts trying to make sense of it all.

“It’s time to uphold your end of the deal, Markov,” James snapped the thief out of his stupor.

‘That little…’

Markov gritted his teeth in anger at first, his hand gripping onto the railing with force. But soon, his angry thoughts suddenly faded. Before he knew it, a smile formed on his lips. The master thief couldn’t help but chuckle.

“You truly are something special.” Markov shook his head. “James Holter, a man of surprises! I should’ve seen it at the beginning.”

Markov waved his hand at the men by his side. “Free the two mercenaries,” he ordered. His men looked at Markov in disbelief, but they said nothing as they moved to carry out his wishes.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“No hard feelings?” James called out to Markov.

The master thief chuckled. “If I’m being honest, no man has ever made me so angry. Any ordinary man would’ve gotten his balls fed to him. But I will admit, there is no use of antagonizing you,” Markov leaned into the railing. “You have impressed me, James. Whether it is stupidity or promise, there is something in you I can respect. For now, we shall be allies. No more hard feelings.”

James blinked in surprise, his eyebrow raising. “Alright, allies sound good.”

Markov’s smile faded. “But do not get carried away with this privilege, Holter. Let it be known that if you pull another act like this, it will not be forgiven. All the shadows of Vindis shall be turned against you. Do you understand?”

“Understood…” James responded, his eyes glinting with magical energy once more. Markov and James had continued to stare each other down, until Archibald and Bjorn were returned to the blond man.

Both the dwarf and the elf seemed bewildered, their gazes moving between Markov and James. Bjorn, however, seemed to have changed his reaction rather quickly.

“You crazy bastard! I knew you could do it!” The dwarf turned to the thieves above the balcony, his hand waving towards them. “This is the man I follow! James Holter! Don’t forget his name, you dungheads!” Bjorn was yelling out his affiliations with gleaming pride, his hand clapping at the painted white raven on his chest.

James’ stoic expression had turned to second hand embarrassment, his cheeks red with shame as he dragged the dwarf away. Archibald was suffering from the same effect as well, since the elf was covering his face in humiliation.

Markov watched in amusement as the four men left in their hurry, leaving a room full of confused thieves. There was an awkward silence permeating the holdout once they left, the men in the room looking at each other in confusion. One man spoke up to break it.

“Markov, what was that?” One asked. His initial question was then followed by hundreds of other inquiries, all of them about what the hel had just happened.

“Was that the necromancer?”

“Why did you let them leave?!”

“What was that?”

Markov raised a hand to shut them all up. The room quieted down almost immediately, everyone’s breath now held.

“One at a time,” Markov stated. He pointed to the first thief, a young man whose clothes showed he worked in the valdora district. The picked man blinked and stuttered his question out.

“M-Markov, just who are we dealing with? That was no man…”

The master thief smiled at the question, his arms crossing. “You’re right to assume he’s no ordinary man. It seems as if we are dealing with the most recent myth of the south.”

“Myth?”

“James Holter, it seems, is none other than the Draugr himself.”

----------------------------------------

The flames that burned Buravon to the ground were still lit, their heat almost unbearable to Gwenyth and her allies. The disguised elf stepped carefully through the town’s streets, her eyes peering around the charred buildings.

“It’s empty,” Arthur called out as he stepped out of a blackened house.

“Same here,” William added from his side of the street.

“There’s no one. Not even a body,” Gwenyth muttered. This was getting stranger and stranger.

“Perhaps they evacuated?” William questioned.

“Let’s hope so.” Gwenyth peeked her head into a half collapsed tavern.

The party made their way to the rear of the town, where its walls met with a small forest that was on the island. The last time Gwenyth was here, the forest was dense and big enough to support wildlife. Now it was sparse enough to see through clearly. Tree stumps spotted the grassy ground, which was thankfully untouched by the flames. Barely any tree stood, their branches bare. It seemed like Bloom had not reached this forest as of yet. Gwenyth blinked, her eyes focusing on something strange ahead.

“What in Delphine’s name…” Arthur muttered behind her. He, too, saw it.

William raised an eyebrow at the both of them. “What are you looking at?” He questioned.

“There’s a structure ahead,” Gwenyth pointed out. “I’m not sure what it is, but it doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before.” She stepped closer, her eyes squinting as she neared it. Soon enough, her party followed, their footsteps muffled by the tall grass. As they neared the structure, Gwenyth could make out three other figures at its base, their silhouettes resembling people.

“Wait.” Gwenyth stopped suddenly, her eyes focusing ahead.

On closer inspection, the elf recognized what the structure was. It was an image of a snowflake, made up of branches and blackened wood. Wrapped bundles were placed in front of it, candles lit to illuminate it. Gwenyth looked at the figures ahead, her hand grabbing at her saber. Those figures were doing something, their arms slowly falling towards the snowflake shrine. Realization hit her. They were praying for the structure.

“What the fuck?” William let out, his thoughts coming to the same realization. His involuntary cursing alerted the figures ahead, their heads raising suddenly. Gwenyth unsheathed her saber.

“Dammit, William!” she reprimanded.

The three figures rushed to the party, their hands carrying axes and bludgeons.

Gwenyth stepped forward, her focus now on the first one to come at her. Once the attacker came close enough, however, the elf nearly lost her balance. It was not human. The thing looked undead, its body covered in burnt flesh and disgusting crystals. Its skull was half burnt, showcasing bone and raw tendons. Crystals covered its left eye, leaving its right to burn with a blue glow.

“Tributes to the void! Consume and kill!” It shouted out in its ethereal voice. Gwenyth snapped out of her stupor, her jaw clenching as she readied her blade.

The elf stepped forward to the abomination, ready to strike. She swung at the thing’s head, her blade contacting the crystals that engulfed half its skull. Instead of breaking through, however, her weapon bounced off. The recoil made her and the undead stumble back, their footing off. Gwenyth repositioned her center of gravity, forcing herself to move towards the thing in front of her. She swung again, this time aiming for the abomination’s weapons arm. Hit. Her saber cut clean through, slicing the piece of undead flesh right off. The thing screeched in pain, its lone eye burning with hatred.

Gwenyth focused on its head once more, this time focusing on its exposed scalp. Her saber flashed quickly and the abomination’s skull split open like a melon. Black blood speckled her, and the scent of rot reached her, but the elf didn’t care. She forced her saber out before striking once more. Second time was the charm.

Her saber cut clean through its head, the magic in its single eye dying soon after. The elf kicked the body back, panting as she wiped the blood off her blade. She hadn’t fought in such a long time that it was no surprise that her swordplay was rusty. Still, there were bigger things to worry about.

Arthur and William were still alive, their weapons covered in black blood. Their undead were on the ground, heads destroyed.

Arthur looked at the elf, his hands wiping the blood off of his face. “Are you alright?” He asked.

Gwenyth stepped up to the man, her hands shakily sheathing her saber. With no warning, she punched him, her fist connecting with his chin. Arthur stumbled back, the sudden strike surprising even William.

“What the fuck are we hunting?!” she shouted out.

“What are you talking about?” Arthur moved to wipe his mouth, which had started to bleed.

“This is not what I signed up for. The briefing was: we were supposed to hunt simple undead!” Gwenyth argued.

“These are simple undead!”

“Those are not simple undead!” The elf exclaimed. She gestured to the bodies. “What are those crystals? Why did they talk?!”

“Those crystals are just anomalies. As for the talking, they’re just dumb zombies. Those undead mumble and say nonsense all the time,” Arthur explained.

Gwenyth could feel her anger grow. “These aren’t dumb zombies.” She pointed at the structure behind them. “They were praying to that thing! These things worship something. They called us tributes!”

Arthur was silent at that, his jaw clenching as he stared at the elf.

“You two, stop bickering!” William shouted out, interrupting the tense moment. The elf and former apostle turned to the snowflake structure, where William now stood. The herald was examining the area, his face a deathly pale. “I found them. The villagers.”

Gwenyth turned to where William was looking. Upon taking a few steps, she saw what he was looking at. Her eyes widened at the sight, a pit growing in her stomach as she tried to find her voice. Before her was nothing short of horrible and nauseating.

Bodies of all sizes and shapes were strung up on branches and makeshift posts, their skin pale and rotted. Their torsos were cut up and opened, the skin stretched out as if to showcase their insides. Yet there was nothing but exposed ribs and spine. Their organs were harvested from the looks of it, the same going for their eyes and mouths. Gwenyth looked back at the snowflake shaped shrine, where there were bundled up items that bleed through their wrappings. She could fathom a guess as to where the organs went.

Gwenyth had seen many things in her travels and centuries of life, including body effigies crafted by crazed cultists. Yet she never saw it to this extent and certainly not to this level. This was something that outdid even the damned orcs.

William gagged and stumbled off to vomit. Arthur simply stared at the sight, his expression showcasing surprise and disgust. Gwenyth herself was trying her hardest not to follow William’s reaction. Slowly, bitter anger replaced her disgust and shock. The thing she had been hunting was something beyond her understanding. Its cruelty had no bounds, it seemed, and it targeted everything in its path.

“Arthur,” Gwenyth muttered through clenched teeth.

“You are going to explain everything. Now.”