Falrick tightened the bag he held. He made sure it was tied securely, almost as if he wanted to seal its contents.

“Well?” Lowe asked from across the room.

Falrick moved to rub at his hurting wrists, which were still numb from the effects of the shackles. “It should be thrown into the abyssal sea. Where no one can find it. Just like they should’ve done years ago,” he muttered.

“You know it won’t work,” Lowe said.

The Wizard could only curse in response. “Damn Delphine! Damn her acolytes!” That goddess could not leave well enough alone. Despite having half a century of peace, the deity had to seek out what was not her business. Because of her, Azurvale and Valenfrost were on the verge of another perpetual war.

“What do we do?” The gnome asked.

“We can try to disguise it once more. Give it an enchantment to cloud its magic,” Falrick suggested. The Wizard quickly cursed at himself again. “No… That won’t work. It didn’t work before.” He looked down at the bag. “This is bad Lowe. This is a problem.”

“I know.”

“Do you have any idea what kind of risk we are? What if someone finds it?”

“That’s why I wanted to show you this. With Yorn dead, the marauders have a means to find it!”

“No.” Falrick shook his head. “The marauders can’t find it.”

“But the crystal?”

“That crystal only points to Einar’s piece,” Falrick explained. “It hasn’t worked for years either way, so there’s no danger that the marauders picked it up.”

“Wait.” Lowe stepped up. “You mean his piece can’t be detected? How did he manage that?” The gnome moved to sit on the chair across from Falrick.

“I don’t know,” the Wizard muttered.

Einar was a man who had once faithfully served beside Yorn from before the Outsider War. He had helped Yorn win the fight against Kjor, cementing the younger Halvorson as the new face of the bear clan. Einar had been so trusted that he had been given an artifact to keep safe.

Of course, Yorn had it tracked via a special spell crystal the Wizard crafted. It was supposed to bounce the magic it emitted back to the crystal, tracking it and Einar. Yet decades ago, a couple years before the Outsider Wars, the crystal had fallen dead, signifying that it could no longer detect the artifact. Falrick back then had tried everything to find out what happened to it. No matter what he did, he could not find it, nor could he find Einar. It was a mystery back then and it still perplexed Falrick’s mind. The artifact Einar had was similar to another in Yorn’s possession, kept safely to prevent the wicked from taking it.

“Whatever happened to Einar, it took him with it.” The Wizard sighed. “He’s been gone for decades. Same with the artifact. Possibly for good.” Falrick felt the bag in his hands, feeling the cat statue inside. “I just wish I knew how he did it…” Even without looking at the statue, he knew that the rune on its back was currently glowing. A sign that it was in fact what Lowe and he feared.

The statue in the bag was a piece of Bartholomew’s Shrine, a cursed object that tore apart history. Almost everyone knew of its story but rarely anyone knew of what happened to it. Not even Falrick knew exactly what happened. All he knew was that the shrine was in pieces and they were all spread apart across Valenfrost and Azruevale.

Even if Einar had gotten rid of one of the artifacts, Falrick was sure that the shrine would still work regardless of one small piece. It was a magical anomaly, something beyond the gods themselves. He looked at the bag once more.

“I can cast its illusion spell again, but it won’t stop those who already have it tracked. Unless it's in an enchanted vault, it is discoverable through high level scrying,” Falrick explained. “Maybe if we go back to Aldren. Perhaps I can repair the vault to its original state. Then we can keep this thing hidden.”

“I don’t think that will be possible,” Lowe nervously said.

“Why?”

“The vault is… no more.”

“What?” Falrick stared in disbelief at Lowe.

“A mercenary triggered an explosion to allow our escape… It was also partly the reason why the island was set aflame.”

“Unbelievable…” Falrick couldn’t process what the gnome was saying. “Is it really destroyed?”

“Not entirely. The entrance was destroyed and the roof may have caved in, but half the vault is still there,” Lowe explained. He tried to make it sound as if the vault was simply a vase that could be put together with sap and gold.

Falrick rubbed his eyes in frustration. “You fucking blew it to pieces and you expect me to wave my hands to fix it all?”

“Well–”

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

“Silence. I’ve heard enough,” Falrick sighed heavily. The vault was valuable, even if it was empty it still held magic that was important to the Wizard. “Maybe it can be repaired,” he uttered in a breath, contradicting everything he had said prior. Lowe opened his mouth to say something but wisely chose not to. It was a correct move, as Falrick was in the middle of his thoughts, a process that he rather not have interrupted.

“If enough of it survived.” He was speaking to himself mainly, but he also wanted Lowe’s input.

“The foundation is still there.” Lowe spoke up. “Last I saw of it, before the burning started,” he added meekly.

Falrick still nodded. “If the foundation’s still there, it can be restored.” The Wizard thought up the plans he would have to form. The alignment of the ley lines. The reforming of the enchantments and the reintegration of rune protection. “Yes…” He rubbed at his chin in thought, nodding and muttering to himself.

Falrick nodded once more. “It looks as if I will stay with you and your raven clan for the time being,” the Wizard spoke out.

“You’ll stay?” Lowe asked.

“For the time being,” Falrick reiterated. “I need to contain the artifact and make sure that the fail safes are idiot proof. After that, I’ll take my leave.” Despite the news that the Wizard was only staying temporarily, Lowe looked as if he was going to jump for joy. “Don’t smirk like an idiot, gnome. I’ll only be here acting on my own volition. I won’t take orders and I won’t follow your leader like a blind fool.”

Lowe nodded. “Of course.”

“Good.” The Wizard let out a breath of exhaustion. “Now then, let’s get your shaman in here so I can set my terms.” With that, Lowe headed off to the hut’s door, leaving Falrick alone inside. The Wizard took a look around, his eyes settling on the banner that hung nearby. He had seen it many times throughout the town, but now was the first time he was actually examining it.

The white raven was starting to look more and more intimidating. Falrick wasn’t sure why, but he felt a terrifying familiar aura from it. Its crude nature reminded him of Yorn's original coat of arms. The symbol of the bear’s roaring maw had once been intimidating and fear provoking. It was only after Yorn settled down that he changed it to a simple bear paw.

The Wizard couldn’t help but get a sense of wistfulness whenever he looked around Yorktown's current state. It was like a spitting image of Halvorson’s roots, back when Yorn was building his base in Svendgard. Despite only seeing James Holter from a distance, he could see the similarities with the late Yorn. Crazy and determined. Aldren was the first sign and the battle at the harbor was confirmation that the man was something much more interesting. Falrick couldn’t place it, but it reminded him of the old Jarls. The ones that ruled before the Outsider War. The Wizard doubted he would ever work for him, but he could still see himself advising the young man, not unlike he did for Yorn.

Falrick chuckled. Holter was an interesting case, yes, but so were many others. Many had come before, showcasing his level of recklessness and luck. The reason why no one had ever reached the Yorn, outside of a select few, was because most died before they could be recognized.

The Wizard believed that Holter was no exception.

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

Deimos wiped the blood from his mouth, the bruises of his knuckles and face swelling slightly from the pain. Yet he could only laugh.

“Crazy bastard!” He shouted in glee. Deimos reached forward and grabbed the deformed head of Blood-Kro, forcing the downed orc up to his knees. “You could’ve killed me with that!” Deimos kicked the orc’s dismembered hand, which was smoking and twitching. It had just casted an Arcane Bolt, something that nearly took half of Deimos’ exposed head.

“Smart move. Keeping your castings as a last resort. Unfortunately, you underestimate me once more.” Deimos reached for his ax, which had half its length gone. Still, the Red Death could wield it like the weapon it always was.

Blood-Kro spat into the ground, his breathing growing heavier by the second. “Finish me. I am a failure to my name and a traitor to my brethren.”

“Not just yet.” Deimos used his ax’s head to lift up the orc’s chin. “Where is your brother? Blood-Irk.”

“I do not know.”

“Quit the shit slopping out your lips. Where is Blood-Irk?”

Blood-Kro’s eyes flashed hesitantly. Still, he spoke. “Last I remember, he told me he was going to the southern edge. Valenfrost’s border, he says.”

“Why?” Deimos demanded.

The orc gritted his teeth. “He wants to find the one who commands Dremor’s damned. The one who burned the hidden island. Blood-Irk wants his head.”

“His head,” Deimos repeated. “Is he going to attack this man soon?”

Blood-Kro did not answer. As a result, the chieftain placed his thumb over the orc’s milky eye. He pressed hard. The orc struggled but he was too weak to properly fight back. Deimos pressed until the eye made a satisfying ‘pop’. Blood-Kro screamed in pain as white pus and fluid erupted from the socket. It stained Deimos’ gauntlet, the fluid running down and mixing with blood.

“He’s not going to attack! He told me he was going to survey the south and make a base around the western islands!”

“Are you sure?” Deimos asked, his other thumb going for the orc’s remaining eye.

“Yes! Yes! I am certain!”

Deimos sighed and pulled away, his hand lowering. He looked at his surroundings. Orcs and humans alike watched on, their faces contorted into fear, shock, and disgust. The Red Death chuckled at the audience.

“How does it feel, Blood-Kro? To be made an example of and to be seen as nothing more than a pathetic failure?” Deimos asked.

The orc didn’t respond. He only clenched his jaw and started at the floor in shame. Deimos knew that the crippled greenskin wouldn’t be able to fight back. Not with both his hands gone and his leg broken.

Deimos rotated his neck, the bruises on his face and body insignificant. He had taken damage of course, what man wouldn’t during a duel? The only difference between him and Blood-Kro however, was that Deimos only had temporary wounds, while the orc had life threatening damage that would certainly kill him if the marauder didn’t finish him off. In a way, he was doing the savage a mercy.

Deimos raised his ax. “Any last words?”

The orc looked up at him. He scowled. “I can only wish that your death comes painfully and everlasting. When the boatman drags you to Dremor’s domain, I can only hope that it will be painful.”

To that, the Red Death only smirked. He brought down the ax, finally decapitating the orc and ending him in an instance.

As the head of Blood-Kro rolled, Deimos looked to the orcs by the gate. He spat the blood in his mouth. “Marauders! Kill off the rest of these disgusting creatures.”