“I still think you owe me, not Groth, for digging you out,” Waldmer said, walking beside Erwell and Groth as they left the throne room.

Groth groaned. “Still going on about that?”

“It’s just the way you said ‘yer welcome, sir,’ like you did the digging! It was me and my griffons that did all the hard work while you just stood off to the side with your gimp leg.”

“Me and my griffons, he says. You did bugger all too. It was your birds that did the heavy lifting.”

“Which they only did because I directed them to. You have a dip pouch on you, by the way? I’m empty.”

“What makes you think I have any tobacco on me?”

“You’ve had a horseshoe in your bottom lip since you nabbed it from one of my riders!”

“It was a fair trade!”

Erwell closed his eyes and shook his head, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming. The two had been at it the entire journey back from the mountain, stopping only for the debrief with the King. The young monarch had cut an impressive figure, despite being the most underdressed person in the room. While his people had fobbed about in expensive finery, the Royal Chamberlain being the worst offender, the king sat on his throne in a simple shirt and trousers. He was neither rigid nor relaxed, taking in every word Erwell delivered with sharp focus. When the report was done, he had thanked the trio for their service and dismissed them. From his tone of voice as he summoned a few key members of his court, there would be the Pit to pay for the problem progressing as far as it did.

He grimaced at his internal choice of words. He still wasn’t sure about Phillip’s assertion the place was real. The mages in attendance at the debriefing had been strenuous in their objections. There was no proof such a place existed outside the pages of mythology textbooks, and there was no known magic that could open doorways, to different places within the world, let alone between completely different realms. The only person who had seemed remotely intrigued had been Oliver’s replacement, the new spymaster’s eyes boring into Erwell from his vantage point at the back of the room.

But that still left a glaring question; what happened to the army in the mountain? The spy network, sans Oliver, had gone snooping in Aderath, and there was no trace of the force within their borders beyond a paper trail showing Resonance Ore shipments disappearing into the mountains. A thousand fighting men had gone into the earth, and vanished. All in all, the whole thing had been just shy of an unmitigated disaster; Oliver was dead. They still had no actual idea what transpired, and worst of all, they hadn’t been able to pin anything definitive on Politis.

The two special forces soldiers behind him kept bickering, their prattle fading to background noise as Erwell stewed on the army’s fate. It was an unfamiliar voice that snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Captain Erwell, may I have a moment of your time?”

The three soldiers stopped and turned, taking in the newcomer. He was average in every way. Average height, average build, sandy blonde hair in a no-nonsense style. The only thing that stood out was the eyes. The eyeballs themselves weren’t anything special, a regular pale blue, but the intensity of the gaze was anything but normal.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

It was the spymaster.

Erwell nodded to Waldmer and Groth to go on without him, watching as they departed, their argument punctuated by the clack of Groth’s crutches on the floor.

“You must be Oliver’s replacement?” Erwell asked before turning around.

“Correct. I was due to formally take the reins after this mission. A shame he didn’t make it back.”

Erwell tensed. He had dodged the specifics of Oliver’s death, attributing it to the general chaotic melee with Dalion’s forces. But something in this man’s tone suggested he wasn’t fooled. Sensing Erwell’s shift, the spy held his hands up in a placating gesture.

“I don’t need to know specifics. Whatever happened, I’m sure you had your reasons.”

Erwell turned to face him, narrowing his gaze. “I would have thought you more invested, mister…”

“Call me Peter. And truth be told, I had some concerns about his state of mind. He wouldn’t divulge his source to me, said it was too hard to explain without proof. I don’t suppose you gleaned anything useful?”

“You’re more interested in his informant than his death?”

Peter huffed and put his hands on his hips. “Look, I know this seems callous, but Oliver wasn’t himself before he left. Kept making cryptic references to gods and demons and other such nonsense. It happens to people who have been in the trade too long, sometimes. They go a bit loopy. But somewhere in all the prattle was the tip that a foreign army was poised to invade. I need to know who the source is, how they knew, and if there’s anything else coming our way. I’ll settle for an answer to that last question, though.”

The two men stared at each other as Erwell debated what to tell him. He couldn’t say the invaders opened a portal to the Pit and were torn apart by demons, or that Oliver and an unreliable eyewitness both believed it to be the truth. But he had thought on it during the return to Griffon’s Keep. Something had happened down there, something very, very far out of the ordinary.

“There’s something, Peter. Gods, I wish I knew what it was, but I don’t. The invaders either destroyed themselves or were destroyed by something else.”

“So you think it was demons, too?” Peter asked, his face curiously devoid of judgement.

“I wouldn’t say that. There was talk of monsters and magic experiments. But all I saw were scared men digging too deep into the earth.”

“Cabin fever?”

Erwell nodded. “I’ve heard of a condition called Resonance Madness. It’s caused by excessive use of items made from the Ore. I imagine it’s possible that being stuck underground, surrounded by the stuff for months on end, could induce a similar effect?”

It was as good an explanation as any. Certainly more plausible than portals to the Pit spewing forth a horde of monsters.

“Hmmm,” Peter mused. “Makes sense. And no information on the source?”

“None, I’m afraid. My relationship with Oliver ranged from professionally courteous to rather frigid. He never told me more than he deemed was to be the bare minimum required.”

“I see. Thank you very much for your time, Captain. I doubt we’ll see each other again.”

They shook hands and Peter turned, striding down the hallway and out of sight. Erwell shook his head and resumed his own march, eager to rejoin his company and receive the next mission. As he left through the doors of the King’s castle, Olic greeted him on the steps.

“Morning, sir,” he said, snapping a lazy salute.

“Good morning, Sergeant Olic. How’s the company?”

“Preparing for the Sergeant Major’s send off. It’s going to be a mighty piss up, you coming?”

Erwell smiled and shook his head. Groth’s wound would never heal properly. His career as a soldier was over. He wished he could attend the company’s send off for him, but knew it wasn’t his place.

“No,” he said. “I doubt anyone wants their commander at something like that. I’ll say my goodbyes privately beforehand. Besides, the Crown is setting him up with a nice place in the upper district and a generous pension. I’ll be dropping by whenever I’m in town.”

Olic returned the smile, a hint of relief on his face. “Good call, sir. Company’s waiting to be dismissed. You ready to address them?”

“Let’s. I’m sure they’re eager to start.”

*

Peter watched the captain and his bear of a subordinate from a window as they set off into the city. There was a degree of risk there, but removing the captain would be more trouble than it was worth.

Besides, he thought as his features melted, the visage of the replacement spymaster giving way to his true face. He may prove useful in the near future.