Wunther ran a thumb down the edge of his broadsword and muttered curses under his breath. Curse Redmaine for proving Tirce right! He felt a special kind of stupid, trusting the Revelry not to sour his plans—plans which they had worked out together, too. As an overly large man whose appearance matched the part, Wunther hated to be made to look the fool, and the botched assassination attempt earlier that day had done just that. Now the streets were crawling with patrols and the houses of the Shaemish were to be ransacked for ‘collaborators and secessionists’. Which meant that Tirce had been spotted at the parade. Bless the girl for doing her duty, but there was no stopping idiocy when it decided to rear its ugly head. Especially if it was wearing a Reveler’s red hat.

Things had gotten so out of hand that Wunther had considered calling off the whole affair and to hell with the political consequences. Reason had stayed his hand. But if the two most powerful conclaves could not see eye to eye, then the entire Terranist movement was in jeopardy.

They’d chosen a secluded near the outskirts of the city, beyond the safety of the walls in ruins of a village once called Maiden’s Mercy. Their hedge wizard, Goss Mintle, had selected the place for its seclusion and the many interesting ambush sites it offered.

Goss leaned casually on the top of the hayloft, a middle-aged man in a threadbare coat whose long wild hair gleamed silver in the moonlight that streamed through the gaps in the thatching. He was stroking the feathers of a tawny barn owl as it lay blinking sleepily in his lap.

“Perk up back there,” Wunther growled at him, “They’ll dropping by any minute now.”

“Let them,” Goss said indifferently, “Pig will be sure to give them a warm welcome.”

He gestured to the large double doors where their artificer squatted, diminutive and round even for a gnome. Pigafelli was busily fixing what looked like a circular saw attached to a articulated metal limb and set it at around ankle height. Chuckling evilly, Pig scuttled back to his hiding place inside an empty water trough and threw a horse blanket over himself as cover. A loop of rubber-encased copper wires cleverly masked by straw and sawdust ran out from the corner of the blanket to the lethal mechanism, and as Wunther watched, Pig produced the two ends of the loop and touched them together. With a buzz and crackle of current the arms went spinning through the air before retreating back to their starting positions. Wunther knew that somewhere in the trough with him was a bucket of salt water in which was immersed alternating plates of copper and zincum that gave force to the machine’s action, but beyond that it was sheer magicka to him.

“Mind you, Pig,” Wunther reminded him, “Don’t go hamstringing anyone that isn’t asking for it.”

“They’re all asking for it,” Pig sniggered.

“Pig,” Wunther growled a warning.

“He’s only…”

“…joking,” said the Twins, their legs and tails dangling from the rafters above. The Shaemish brothers (or sisters, it had never been clear which) were identical in every respect, midnight black of skin and hair, the only feature marking them as separate were crescent-shaped birthmarks under their eyes, placed on the left for the elder Shinivon and the right for the younger Kren.

“You’re getting to be…”

“…as dull as Tirce,” they said, “No fun…”

“…at all anymore.”

“There’s been more than enough fun for one day,” Wunther replied shortly, “Those fogging idiots. Of all the sorry-headed ideas, going after the Vestal was the worst they could’ve gone with. The people love that old hag. Killing her would have just made us out to be a pack of murderous dogs.”

“As apt a description for the Revelry as any,” Goss Mintle agreed, “Alas, through their actions we all are painted by the same brush.”

Even as he spoke the hedge wizards silently put up four fingers next to his heart and gave Wunther a meaningful look. Someone had just crossed Mintle’s faerie circle, a light dusting of mushroom spores that he’d strewn around the barn which was now alerting him to the presence of four beings approaching.

Goss was chock-full of such useful tricks, most of which he’d acquired from the school of druidism. Like so much else about the man, how exactly he had learned them remained a mystery. From what Wunther could gather, Goss owed no allegiance to the Shaemish gods of old. Wunther had never asked how the hedge wizard had taught himself thaumaturgy—so long as his talents caused the League a great deal of pain, Wunther was content.

A gust of chill wind sent hay flying up through the loft as the doors were flung outward to reveal a tall stranger standing at the threshold, his wide frame outlined against the starry night.

“Blaise,” Wunther inclined his head.

“Wunther,” the man said, stepping forward into the feeble light.

Blaise was dressed in a sweeping black jacket with a highwayman’s sash round his waist that bristled with pistols. He was a tall man with rangy shoulders, his arms so long that he could have touched his toes without bending at the waist.

“You came early,” Blaise observed.

“Us duskies like to honor our commitments,” Wunther said with a shrug, “Unlike others I could name.”

Blaise ignored the jibe. Wunther didn’t like that, nor did he fail to take note of how Blaise’s eyes kept darting around the room in suspicion. The Twins were keeping very still in their concealed places on the ceiling, but Wunther wondered how much Blaise had heard before entering.

Blaise snapped his fingers and three of his comrades in broad hats and sword-proof buff coats stepped inside and made a show of looking around. Finding nothing, two of them took up positions outside the door watching the provincial road while the others took turns staring down Wunther, who never so much as blinked.

Paranoid and sloppy, Wunther thought.

A poor combination even at the best of times. Wunther took a closer look and saw that Blaise’s eyes were bloodshot and sleepless, his movements jittery with fatigue.

“You look a little on edge, Blaise,” he said.

“Of course I am. It took us weeks of hard slogging just to get here,” Blaise snarled, his right eyelid twitching uncontrollably, “This had better have been worth the effort.”

That explained a few things. Huge tracts of the Wasting were inhospitable due to fields of remnant magicka that could rot a man’s flesh off his bones in a matter of days, eating him from the inside with weeping boils and sores. One way of fending off the putrefaction was through blood magic, mainly through potent witchbrews taken through the nose in powdered form. Unfortunately the drug also came with unwanted side effects, some of which Blaise was clearly exhibiting. This told Wunther that their camp was somewhere in the deep north, among the ruins of the free cities once ruled by the Powder Barons, if he had to guess.

“Do you have the goods or not?” Blaise demanded, snapping him back into the present. Without taking his eyes off Blaise for a moment Wunther crooked a finger and gestured at Goss. The hedge wizard stepped forward, reaching into the folds of his coat and taking out a curious lead-lined box with a wire handle. Runic inscriptions and seals of warding lined each face of the polygon.

“Redmaine told me you were good,” Blaise said with a ragged smile, “Clearly he has a talent for understatement.”

“The warehouse was poorly guarded. Things went easier than expected,” Goss said, “Especially after that distraction you pulled at the Victory Day parade. You have our thanks.”

To his credit Blaise had the presence of mind to look confused.

“I’ve only just returned to Lufthaven,” he said, “I’m not sure what happened at the parade, but whatever it was, we had nothing to do with it.”

Blaise reached for the vestige, but stopped when Wunther raised a palm and said:

“Just a minute.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Blaise raised his voice, hand creeping toward the butt of one of his pistols.

“Just want to ask you a few questions, is all. Starting with this: have you people completely lost your marbles?” Wunther asked.

“I haven’t faintest notion what you’re talking about.”

“Bollocks!” Wunther roared, “We had a deal! Lufthaven belongs to the Dusk Troupe! You promised to let us build the Terranist movement slowly from within, one cell and turncoat at a time. In exchange we were to pass you crucial information when you needed it and allow Redmaine run amok beyond the walls. We gave you free reign!”

“Where do you get the nerve to talk to me like that?” Blaise exploded, “D’you have any idea what it’s like for us out here in the Wasting? Scraping by on this blighted ground, skirmishing with Stahlka’s rangers by day, ghouls hounding us by night? We’re the ones doing all the fighting out here while you duskies stand uselessly by!”

“It’s one thing to ambush ranger patrols, and quite another to take a swing at the thrice-beshitten Vestal of all people!” Wunther was nose-to-nose with Blaise now, showering him with spittle, “What in the name of the Mad Gods were you thinking?”

Blaise looked away sheepishly.

“We didn’t sanction the hit,” he admitted at last, “That had nothing to do with us.”

“So you deny that a man in a red hat was apprehended by the Ministry of Inquiries?” Goss pressed him.

“Yes, yes, he was one of ours,” Blaise said wearily, “One of the young up-and-coming knuckleheads named Baston. The fool never even sent word to Redmaine nor asked for his apporoval. Hells, I didn’t even hear about it until earlier today.”

“You expect us to be believe that?” Wunther scoffed.

“We’re spread thin out here,” it was Blaise’s turn to shrug, “Most of the most seasoned fighters followed Redmaine north, including myself. There’s no one left in the city but raw recruits and old gaffers, and the latter can hardly restrain the former.”

Wunther considered this and to his surprise found it plausible. The Revelry had been acting increasingly erratic ever since Redmaine’s disappearance from Lufthaven. Up until tonight Wunther had put it down to a change in tactics on their part, but now he was beginning to see otherwise. It wasn’t like them to openly admit weakness and division within their ranks. Then again perhaps Blaise was just leading him on.

“In a way, you’re mostly to blame for this mess,” Blaise told him, “You’re the one who told us the League was up to some great mischief out in the Wasting.”

“And was I right?”

Wunther felt his heart skip a beat. Redmaine would not have sent the bulk of his forces that far north unless he had a very good reason. So the tales were true!

“Hand over the vestige and I’ll tell you,” Blaise proposed, “After all, wasn’t that the entire point of this little get-together? So that I could bring you up to speed?”

“Not so fast,” as excited as he was, Wunther knew that he held the advantage here, and intended to make full use of it, “Whether or not Redmaine had a say in it, your boy’s stunt just raised hell for the rest of us. It’s going to be much harder to get anything done in the next few months.”

“Your point being?” Blaise said impatiently.

“We want some concessions,” Goss interposed, “For instance, our next delivery of powder and shot will have to be postponed.”

“But we need that ammunition!” cried one of Blaise’s bodyguards from the front of the barn, “Now more than ever!”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have kicked the bloody hornet’s nest, eh?” Wunther was unsympathetic, “Bribing members of the Commissariat was never cheap to begin with. But now? Forget about it.”

“Anything else?” Blaise asked through gritted teeth. He knew that he was being grilled now and that there was nothing he could do about it.

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“This mutual understanding that you have with the chancers. And yes, we know you’ve been selling vestiges to that blackheart Viago,” Wunther said before Blaise could open his mouth, “The Troupe wants in on that.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Twenty-five percent,” Goss said, “No more, no less.”

“Why the devil should you get a percentage for standing around and doing nothing?”

“Oh please,” Wunther snorted, “Duskies have always handled the traffic in and out of the city for the terranist movement. You’ve been using our middlemen to transport your ill-gotten gains without telling us. It’s about time our side saw a return on that.”

Blaise’s jaw tightened. For a moment it seemed as if he was about to draw on them, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against the butts of his pistols. Then he swallowed his pride, hawked up a gob of spit onto his open palm then held it out.

“Done and done,” Blaise said as Wunther likewise spat and shook his hand, “Now can we please move on to more pressing matters?”

“The floor is yours, councilman,” Wunther said with a sarcastic bow. Goss went ahead and undid the seals on the edges of the box. Springs clicked as the lid swung open to unveil a palm sized sphere that had the color and finish of polished obsidian. At regular intervals the sphere would throb, its diameter expanding by a few inches as it exposed a sucking hole in its center that to all outside observers appeared to look into a lightless abyss. Then the sphere would contract again, and the illusion abruptly vanishing.

“An empty null-globe, just as you requested,” the hedge wizard said. Goss gingerly closed the box and transferred it over to Blaise, who held it as if it were a live bomb.

“Alright, that’s our end of the deal. Now what are you planning to put in that thing?” Wunther demanded, “What did you find over there?”

“Tsk, tsk,” Blaise clicked his tongue, “Always too eager, Wunther. But if you must know…”

It was the troop rotations that had first piqued Wunther’s interest. For months the army clerks under his payroll had been whispering of Stahlka transferring men and material to the outer siegeworks, moving militiamen to the line of contact to take over the garrison duties of more elite formations. Units like the Royal Rangers, who specialized in long patrols behind enemy lines, tracking down chancers, terranists and abominations spawned by the unnatural energies of the Wasting.

This could only have meant one thing: Stahlka was tooling up for a major expedition into the Wasting. As it so happened, the Revelry was also on a major recruitment effort at the time, its numbers swelling to nearly double that of the Dusk Troupe.

Wunther heartily disliked both of these developments. Sensing an opportunity to brain two birds with one stone, he had tipped off the Vylem Redmaine’s people.

Redmaine, who was always looking for an impossible fight, so that when he triumphed against all odds, he could lord it over the other conclaves, his legend growing out of all proportion with each improbable deed. Moreover the most likely target of Stahlka’s new operation were the Revelry hideouts west of the Engine Tombs, so it was in their interest to make preemptive attacks themselves.

To everyone’s surprise, however, the rangers had made a point of steering clear of Revelry territory, whole companies of them vanishing into thin air. All the tracks pointed north, towards the blasted lands of the Powder Barons.

It was inexplicable, really. And then Wunther recalled an old rumor he’d overheard in the closing days of the war when the League seemed on the verge of caving in. The free cities of men with their limitless ingenuity combined dwarfish industry were said to be laboring on some mighty work of high magic, a weapon to surpass the League’s mastery of psionics. Then the Wasting had manifested itself, spreading throughout the lands like a cancer, and the Axiom had withered and died.

Some said that the League had been delivered by divine intervention. Others said that the war with its unprecedented levels of magicka had caused the Wasting, unleashing hidden cosmic forces yet to be discovered by thaumaturgists. Wunther had always thought that to be a load of hogwash—the total destruction of the Axiom had always seemed too deliberate to have been an accident.

But now he wasn’t so certain. Neither was Stahlka, it seemed. At the very least they were curious enough to risk sending hundreds of experienced men into the unknown.

One way or another Stahlka would have their answers before anyone else did. Unless of course someone was foolish enough to go plunging into the hellscape after them.

Luckily for the Terranist movement, Redmaine fit that bill to a T.

“We found what was left of them on the outskirts of Wheelsborough,” Blaise said, “Or rather, they found us. Tore our scouts to pieces in a crossfire. They were dug in good and proper, but our flanking counterattack managed to dislodge them. Funny thing was, all their defenses were pointing the wrong way.”

“Inwards?” Wunther frowned, “What are you on about?”

“They dug trenches and put up palisades oriented towards the center of the city, not outwards.”

“That is rather rummy now that you mention it. Take any prisoners?”

“Hah. You know what rangers are like. Fought to the bitter end. A couple dozen of the survivors scattered into the city proper. We sent out some squadrons to run them down, but Redmaine was more keen on uncovering their work.”

“And?”

“They were digging,” Blaise said, “Excavating the rubble of some iron foundry they had over there. Huge fogging thing. Ugly, too. Forty levels high and eighty deep, by our reckoning.”

“You went in?” Goss said breathlessly.

“Course we did,” Blaise grinned, “T’was the point of whole bloody exercise, wasn’t it?”

“But what did you find?”

“We’re…not sure,” Blaise said with a reluctance that meant he was keeping some things to himself, “But the putrefaction fields got more intense the further we went in, to the point that we started losing people to the fleshrot. The blood mages told us that there was something down there giving off such powerful latent energies that it would be suicide to go any further.”

“Hence the null-globe,” Wunther finished for him, “Any idea what that thing is?”

“No, but if Stahlka wanted it that bad, then it’s got to be something valuable.”

“That goes without saying. Were there no written records left behind?”

“Nothing legible, no. Field was so intense all the paper in the city disintegrated. We did find this, however.”

And from his breast pocket the reveler brought forth a dull band of metal. It appeared jagged at first glance, but this was because it was formed with irregular polygons whose smooth faces were grafted onto each other to form something the size and shape of a horseshoe.

“A torc of Telei Metheri,” Wunther breathed, his legs going weak.

“That which was given to the lords of space and time,” Goss Mintle muttered.

“That the earth should tremble and seas run dry…”

“…to the echoes of a song from an age gone by,” the Twins said, concluding the rhyme.

“The very same,” Blaise laughed, glancing up at them, “Fancy seeing you two here. Have you been hiding up there this whole time?”

“Pretty…”

“…much.”

Wunther ignored them, his thoughts racing. A torc was one of the more obscure symbols from holy scripture, pertaining to a mythical tool given to the firstborn Ephalim when they had first arrived on this plane of existence. Had the Powder Barons been attempting to recreate that most ancient font of power?

More importantly, had they somehow succeeded?

“Redmaine’s been sending volunteers down there in the meantime, all hopped up on as much witchbrew was they can jam up both nostrils. Juiced to the gills and flying high as kites…say,” Blaise broke off suddenly, “Did any of you hear that?”

“No,” Wunther said in a distant voice, “Are you quite alright, son?”

Goss’s tawny owl screeched and went sailing out of the open hayloft in a tumble of brown feathers. Blaise had already drawn a pair of wheellock horse pistols, flattening himself against the nearby wall for cover and shying from the open door. Wunther looked over at Goss, who firmly shook his head. No living beings had crossed the faerie circle—the hedge wizard would have been alerted otherwise.

“Psst, Desmond!” Blaise hissed at his men, “See anything out there?”

One of the lookouts at the door slumped over without a sound, stiff as a board. The other followed a moment later, though not all of him; his head came away from his body with a sickening wrench and hung in the air, seized by some unseen force above the doorframe. Then it tumbled free from its hat and bounced in the dirt, once, twice.

Wunther stared as the night itself reached down with a long arm and a shadow filled the doorway, blotting out the stars. Tall and gaunt, it placed the corpse’s hat on its head and gave a low, mocking bow.

“Oh no,” Blaise moaned, his guns dropping from his nerveless fingers, “Ye gods, preserve us! It’s here. It comes for us!”

“Choke on lead, you sonofabitch!” cried one of the revelers, drawing his pistols with dizzying speed and emptying shot after shot into it. He burned through half the pistols in his brace even as the figure walked calmly through the hail of bullets, stooping as it passed over the threshold. Once more the long hand of night reached out and Wunther felt the warm spray of arterial blood as the man was torn to ribbons by what looked to be a shard of moonlight, flickering fast.

“Pig, now!” Wunther screamed, finally recovering his wits enough to give orders. Pigafelli squealed and pressed the wires. The razor saws scissored across and struck nothing—the killer had already leapt clear, leaving the hem of its cloak torn and fluttering in the jaws of the trap.

“Shit,” said the Twins. It was the first time they’d ever spoken in unison.

It was also the last.

Shinivon was the first to die, plunging from his perch like a leopard onto its prey, sickle swords hissing as they left their scabbards. Far quicker, the entity leapt upwards to intercept him, fist punching clean through his midriff and coming out grasping his spine. Wunther was stunned by the whirlwind of violence. He had barely managed to pull his broadsword out when the entity flung Shinivon’s limp body at him, bowling him off his feet.

“You…you…” Kren cried in anguish, unable to finish his faltering sentences without his sibling, “Y-you…”

“Bastard?” the creature suggested, its voice like the crackling of blackened leaves in winter. It tilted its head to one side and leered at him, yellowed fangs glistening in a smile.

“Raah!”

With a cry of inarticulate fury Kren leapt down from the rafters with his dueling glaive in hand, launching himself at their attacker in a flurry of overhand blows. The shadow bent and weaved out of his way like a stalk of grass before a stiff breeze.

“I’ll…rip…you…” Kren started to say, but then the creature took a half step back and left him lunging at nothing.

“…apart,” it finished for him, the edge hand chopping at base of his neck. Off came the satyr’s head, spinning like a top on the thin strip of flesh it was still attached to. Horrified, Wunther shoved Shinivon’s twitching corpse off him and crawled backwards, away from the dread thing that now advanced upon him, bloodless lips still wearing that unwavering smile.

Blaise was groveling on the dirt floor, clawing madly at the hay as if he were trying to burrow his way to safety. When the creature chuckled and stood over him, Blaise uttered a squeak and buried his face in his hands.

“Look at me, child,” it whispered to him, voice as soft as a silken shroud, “I want to show you something.”

As if compelled by an unseen force, Blaise lowered his trembling hands, one eye staring out through the gap in his fingers. By this time Wunther had snatched up one of the horse pistols from the floor. He aimed at the shadow’s head and pulled the trigger.

CLACK

Nothing happened. Wunther looked down in dismay and saw that the bit of pyrite had been knocked askew on its vise jaws, thus failing to spark on the pan.

The creature began to chortle, black phlegm and pus oozing through the gaps of its serrated teeth. Then it pointed its index finger Blaise, its claw lengthening into an impossibly narrow needle.

Wunther fought to realign the pyrite with his short fingers, forcing it back into the vise jaws with his thumb.

With a shrug the shadow thing sent the needle straight through Blaise’s eye and into his brains, leaving him to spasm wildly on the floor.

“B-back to the pit with you, demon!” Goss Mintle quavered even as he stepped forward to protect Wunther, “Back to the howling waste from whence you spawned!”

The hedge wizard put out a yew wand and aimed it shakily at the creature’s pale, bloodless face.

“What are you going to do, little wizard? Turn me into a dancing frog?” the monster cackled. It was a pointless gesture and they all knew it. Goss had no offensive spellcraft in his repertoire; his thaumaturgy was all about subtlety and misdirection.

Which suited Wunther just fine.

“Something like that,” he said, thrusting Goss aside and firing the pistol again at point-blank range.

The creature twisted aside with preternatural speed, just as Wunther had expected it would. What it did not avoid, however, was the puff of gun smoke that came out the end of the barrel, wrapping its head in a blinding, stinking cloud that obscured its vision long enough for Wunther slam into its midsection.

It could sway and contort its torso out of the way all it wanted, but a body as a whole moved slower than its parts. Still, it proved a slippery customer, and as Wunther wrapped his thick arms around its waist and tackled it across the barn it managed to rake his side with its claws. Thankfully it was off balance and the blow was glancing, for otherwise it would have disembowelled the terranist on the spot.

Wunther grabbed its ankles towards the end of their tumble and held it in place near the threshold, crying out:

“Pig, again!”

Pigafelli obliged. Out came the razor saws, and this time the creature could not avoid them. Everything from its knees down was lopped off in a messy gout of black ochre. The top parts fell over with a squawk of indignation, leaving Wunther holding a pair of legs. To his amazement they started trying to walk by themselves, kicking at him petulantly. He flung them away into the darkness with a shout of disgust, then saw the amputated monster scuttling back towards him on its arms, mouth hinging open like a beartrap and stretching to impossible dimensions.

Wunther tore the hot wires out of Pig’s contraption and jammed them both into monster’s chest, sending jolts of lightning coursing through its body and knocking it back once more. Then he sprang back inside and pulled the doors shut, barring them with his broadsword just before the creature slammed bodily into them.

“Yeearrghh!” it screamed, sheer inhuman bloodlust and frustration freezing Wunther’s blood. Goss took him by the shoulders and shook him.

“We need to go, now!” the hedge wizard screamed. Wunther snapped awake, saying:

“Through the hayloft. Pig, Goss, go!”

“But…but it’s outside. W-waiting for us!” Pigafelli whimpered. The gnome was staring at the ravaged corpses of their crew, open-mouthed. But Wunther wasn’t in the mood for argument. He took the gnome by the crotch and neck and slung him out of the hayloft like a sack of oats, wailing as he flew. Then he dashed over to Blaise and freed the lead-lined box from his stiffening body, taking the null-globe with him.

“He hasn’t got any legs, so we should be able to outrun him,” Wunther told the Goss as they both jumped down after Pig.

“Should?” Goss shouted as they ran.

“If we can’t shake him, then we’ll head over to the stone bridge over the river,” Wunther picked up Pig and slung him over his shoulder.”

“Why there?”

“Just go!”

They sped through the tumbledown rubble of Maiden’s Mercy, conscious only of the rush of the night wind at their backs and the growing sound of pitter-pattering hands that were swiftly gaining on them.

They reached the foot of the bridge. Wunther was about to hand over Pig and tell Goss to leg it when a knot of figures emerged from under the archways and accosted them, saying:

“Halt in the name of the High Radiance! We’re the Queen’s own rangers, and you’re under arrest on charges of terranism!”

Steel crossbows twanged as some of them fired warning shots over Wunther’s head. There had to be at least twenty of them, clad in hauberks all blackened with soot for night raids. The three duskies reached for the sky, rendered temporarily speechless.

“Say,” one of the rangers idly wondered, “Why are you lot all out of breath? Been running, 'ave you?”

“Aye,” Wunther said, looking at Goss out of the corner of his eye, “And honestly? So should you.”

“Ey, what’s that over there?” another ranger asked, peering over Wunther’s shoulder.

Wunther and Goss flung themselves to the side just as the creature caught up to them, hurling itself into the midst of the rangers with atavistic fury. And so the three of them waded across the river, the screams of the dying echoing after them far into the night.