Tuesday 11 October 2016

Chapter 31 - To Bide One's Time

The shadow of dusk enveloped the silhouette of ruins as the twilight hours began. The sun hid behind the horizon, still warming the air with it’s trace of light. The flutter of stars slowly peeked from beyond the soft blue canvas of sky. As night slowly approached, Willow welcomed it from atop a teetering spire, legs hanging over the edge of what once was a simple tower of stone. The remains of the building had been left shattered and broken. Most of it’s walls had collapsed, the spiral staircase cracked and split, yet still sturdy enough to climb. It was from high above the city that she sat in silence and gazed out on the desolation of Daveryn. Most nights, she made her way here alone, to simply sit and watch the night encompass the city. She would wait, hidden in shelter as the sun fell below the mountains, before appearing as dusk came once again. It was no vision of sunset, but the arrival of twilight still held some comfort.
Tonight, she had heard the soft sound of following footsteps far behind her. It took her only a few streets to recognise the familiar stride. She was not worried, merely curious as to why she was being tailed. And so, she sat atop the stone wall, and waited to be approached.
“Do you need something, Garvana?” she asked, as the quiet steps climbed the stairs.
“Huh,” she huffed, “So you knew I was there?”
Willow smiled, still gazing across the city, “You thought you’d catch me unaware?”
“Not really,” she grouched, “But I had hoped.”
Willow turned her gaze down the spiral case, chuckling as the less than nimble woman picked her way up each cracked step. When she reached the top, she frowned, unsure how she was going to lift herself the ten feet to the wall’s peak. Willow hooked her legs tightly along the jagged stone brick and leant down, offering a helping hand up. With a few grunts of effort, the scuff of scuttling feet and a hefty chuckle from the pair, they managed to manoeuvre Garvana up to Willow’s side. The stone wall they were sitting on was quite slender, only wide enough for one as small as Willow to sit comfortably. Garvana held the wall tightly in her grasp, a look of worry as she balanced precariously atop the stone.
“This is what you do every night?” she balked.
Willow laughed softly in response, “Yes, what did you think I did?”
“Something a little more scandalous at least!” she grunted, “I thought maybe you’d taken a lover in the Fire-Axe’s rank.”
Willow grimaced, but laughed at the accusation.
“Or perhaps,” Garvana continued, raising her brows, “The Fire-Axe himself?”
Cringing at the thought, Willow shook her head.
“Nothing so vile I assure you. Though he may be mighty and fearsome, he is a tad too bestial for my tastes.”
Garvana nodded in agreement, “I would think I would like them a little less hairy.”
Willow grinned, turning her gaze back to the scene of ruin. They sat in silence for a time, simply watching the last light in the sky fade to blackness.
“Were you merely curious as to my whereabouts?” she asked eventually.
“Well,” Garvana began, “No. I… wished to speak with you alone.”
“About?”
A heavy sigh came from her chest.
“I have had much time to think of late, and my mind continues to return to the numbered runes I saw on the tombstone of Murphy Massidan.”
“And have you come up with anything?” Willow asked.
Garvana frowned deeply, “Many things. Yet none seem to fit. The best I have is that the numbers correlate with infernal letters, yet no matter how I arrange them, they speak nonsense.”
“Have you considered,” Willow speculated, “That you do not have all of the pieces of your puzzle?”
“What do you mean?”
She smiled gently, “Perhaps you have not gathered all of the numbers. Perhaps you have been given only a taste to entice your appetite for more?”
Garvana’s brow dropped lower, as she looked to Willow in confusion.
“How can you be sure? I could simply have missed something.”
Willow chuckled softly, “Perhaps. Because I cannot be sure you do not possess them in entirety, just as you can not be sure that you do.”
“You’re just as cryptic as the damn numbers, Willow,” she grunted.
At that, she laughed.
“Be patient Garvana. Whomever revealed the sliver of information, may plan to release more when they feel you are ready for it.”
“I’m ready now,” she grumbled, “But I suppose you are right. I shall wait, but I sure wish they’d hurry up.”
“That is not how you be patient Garvana,” she laughed.
Another sigh accompanied her laugh, but the two of them sat in comfortable silence as they spied the wandering linger of torchlight, marking the patrols of the bugbears below them. After a while, Willow’s mind turned to her own curiosities, though she was willing to speak little of them. As her thoughts turned to her family, she realised she knew little of Garvana’s own past.
“Will you tell me of your family?” she asked.
A guarded expression wiped the casual smile from her face.
“Why?” she frowned, “What do you want to know?”
“Relax, Garvana,” she chuckled, “I am merely interested. The only mention of them was long ago in Thorn’s manor, and that was only a brief glimpse. I will tell you of mine, if you wish. But I remember little of House Forthwise.”
Garvana sighed, “I am sorry, it is just, I do not speak of them for I think I wish to forget.”
“It is unwise to ignore your past,” Willow said quietly, “For it has a way of finding you and making you remember.”
Staring out across the expanse, Garvana inhaled deeply.
“My mother was a magnificent woman,” she began, “Countess Hervella of House Forthwise. Strong and proud, elegant and dignified. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was my world. She was everything that family meant.”
“Did she pass?” Willow asked gently, a slight frown on her brow.
“Yes,” Garvana nodded solemnly, “When I was very young. I remember little else from that age. Only the day my world fell apart. Father came home one night and told us she had been killed in a carriage accident, and I did not see him again for weeks.”
“Us? You had brothers and sisters?”
“Only a brother,” Garvana said bitterly, “I believe he still works for the throne.”
“And your father?” she enquired softly, “I remember as much to know he died in the fire.”
Garvana’s lip curled, “May he rot in whatever afterlife he resides in.”
Willow felt the bitterness seething within Garvana, with venom enough to know the hatred had not dimmed over time.
“Did he kill your mother?” Willow guessed, softening her voice.
“He may as well have,” she spat, “Abandoning your wife and the mother of your children, he may have well been the one to light the pyre.”
Willow was infinitely curious to learn more, but remained silent as Garvana smouldered with loathing. After she clenched her eyes tight and calmed her anger, she sighed again.
“I was sixteen when I found out the truth,” she said quietly, “The coward could not even tell me himself. It was my first time in court, and once the chaperone had his back turned, Welsey Armitage began to tease me about it. Consorting with the dark powers. My mother had been caught in a summoning ritual in communion with hell. And so the witchhunters had captured her, tried her, and burnt her at the stake. My father kept it secret, keeping us from court until the years had passed and he had restored our name. I could never look at him the same. He should have defended her; he should have fought to keep her alive! He should have died for her!”
She gritted her teeth in anguish, contempt for her father swarming her face.
“And yet he did nothing. He stood with the Talriens, he watched her burn. I am told he pleaded his own innocence profusely, begged for pardon, and did not shed a tear for his beloved.”
She turned to Willow, agony and tears in her eyes, “How can someone claim to love another and stand by that kind of atrocity? What is so terrible about consorting with darkness, when the woman loved you, married you and bore your children?”
Willow knew not what to say. She did not know how to respond, how to comfort Garvana in something that pained her so.
“I do not know,” she replied quietly, “It is a sin against Mitra. And that is apparently enough to nullify the love once felt.”
Garvana wiped the tears from her eyes with her sleeve, scoffing at herself.
“It would seem even now; I have tears to weep for him. Though they are not of sadness, they are of resentment. I do not remember what happened that last night. I hated him, I despised him. I was so angry at him. I had spent years knowing the truth, and yet I had never confronted him. Until, that night. I could not control myself any longer. It was the anniversary of her death, and he went about his day as if it were nothing! I remember the seething hatred; I was filled with rancour. And as the sun dawned the next day, I awoke in the ashes of the Forthwise estate.”
“And the scar?” Willow asked curiously.
“I do not know,” she shook her head, “I awoke with it seared into my flesh. The first I knew of it was the townsfolk screaming in terror at the sight of my back. Of course, the court did not believe that it had merely suddenly appeared. So I was tried and convicted for heresy, amongst other things.”
“Will you tell me more of your mother?” Willow asked gently, “Did you ever suspect she was of the Asmodean faith?”
A curious look of thought lingered in her eyes, as Garvana turned her sight back to the darkened city.
“Now I look back, it makes more sense. Before I knew the truth, I found a sealed letter hidden in the lockbox beneath my bed. I did not understand it then, the words were strange and confusing, my mother speaking to me from beyond the grave. The letter burnt with the rest of the manor, yet I still remember the words as if I were reading them aloud. Never deny the power inside you, or the greatness you deserve. You are strong, my daughter, stronger than you know. Promise me, that you will never doubt, nor sway from what you believe is right. Promise me, that you will never bow to others and that you will always take what you rightfully deserve. Promise me, that you will always follow His path…
As the words lingered between them, Willow reached out her hand to gently grasp Garvana’s shoulder. When she turned her head and they looked into one another’s eyes, Willow smiled.
“She would be proud of you, Garvana…”


Upon the dawn of Wealday, the indentured servants of the Forsaken grew restless. They had little to do within the wrecked city of Daveryn, most choosing to stay hidden in their barracks to avoid braving the raiding patrols of bugbears and beasts. When Willow heard word of yet another fight that had broken out between their men, she sighed in frustration.
“You would think they would be glad for the respite from fighting,” she groaned to the others, “Useless fools. We need to give them something to do.”
“Perhaps we should send them searching for the Duke?” Garvana offered.
“They’ll probably just get themselves killed,” Willow scoffed.
“Still,” she shrugged, “It would keep them busy.”
“Jurak!” Pellius beckoned, calling forward the guard from the other room, “Gather the men. We have a mission for them.”
“Yes, my lord,” he said, bowing his head to avoid eye contact, before rushing out the kitchen door.

Together the four of them entered the large hall by the manor where their men had gathered, taking their place upon the small podium under the sea of fearful eyes. They stood and looked out over their small yet not insignificant force, with cold and hard faces that spoke of no room for weakness. Willow stood by Pellius’ side, arms clasped behind her back, head held high. Each time they gathered their retinue, she marvelled at the natural command Pellius took, his graceful yet merciless approach paired with the icy promise of dark retribution. He stood ahead of the others, silent and still as he looked each member over. When he spoke, his voice lashed like a whip, clean and cut commands that were impossible to ignored.
“It has been almost a year since most of you have joined us,” he began, his voice cold as ice, “And what have you done? What have you accomplished? It is true, there a few among your number who have proven at least not a complete burden. Your guard of the Horn of Abbadon was, at best, adequate. Your besiegement and and assault upon the Vale of Valtaerna was successful, only due to the large force of allies we provided, your own performance – at best, adequate. You have been rewarded. You have been rewarded with more gold than any of you could have hoped to accumulate in your pathetic lives. And when it comes time to lay low and respite, what do you do?”
His eyes flared a vibrant crimson, his voice lowered to a terrifying rumble.
“You fight amongst yourselves like feral scum! You conduct yourselves with as much tact and class as the barbaric horde of bugbears! I have had enough! You cannot be civil? You cannot simply take and enjoy this brief recess between our battles? Then we will give no respite!”
As Pellius seethed, convincingly enough to have Willow believe he was truly disgusted in their men, she took over the address.
“The former Duke of Daveryn has escaped the clutches of the Fire-Axe,” she said formally, head held high, “He is believed to be hiding somewhere in the ruins of the city. You will be split into teams, each with the same mission. It is our hope that at least this way, some of you may prove useful. Your mission is simple. Find the duke, and return him to us. Those who return successful, will be spared the punishment for misconduct.”
“Each group will be given a map,” Garvana continued coldly, “And sufficient gold, for a few well placed bribes. We shall send Raiju to watch over you, and report on your progress.”
“You have five days to find him,” Willow warned menacingly, “If you have not found him by then…”
Enough!” Pellius snapped, “You have your orders! Now, GO!”

The warmth of spring eased the cold breeze that blew along the slight hills of outer Daveryn. Striding across the farmlands upon horseback, hidden by shroud from the fatal shine of the amber star, Willow relished the wind as it rippled through her hair. While their men had set off through the city, the four of them had decided to search the humble farmlands that surrounded the ruins. When they entered the Angleton region, they came across a peculiar scene. A band of bugbears and goblin wolfriders camped far from a lone manor. Two hundred yards of barren land surrounded the estate, only littered by the bodies of bugbears peppered with bolts. The Forsaken slowed their steeds, approaching the largest of the brutes in camp.
“What have we here?” Garvana asked, brows tall in question, “You there! Tell me, what’s going on?”
The bugbear’s lip turned up, his feral growl rumbling in warning. The other in his band clenched their weapons tighter, eyes narrowing upon the Forsaken. Willow laughed, shaking her head as she pulled free a small velvet pouch of gold and tossed it towards the creature. As he caught it and the metal clinked in his hand, his growling ceased.
“Now,” Willow smirked, “Would you tell me what is going on here?”
“Bunch of hummies locked up in the house,” he grunted, “Rushed it yesterday, lost four of me brothers. We was thinkin’ of tryin’ again, but these others are all empty, much easier.”
“Humans?” Willow repeated, eyeing the large manor.
She pushed her horse forward a few steps towards the estate, spying the silhouettes of crossbowmen upon the tall stone brick walls. With straining eyes, she could barely make out the insignia marking the grand abode.
“House of Veryn,” she mused, “Of the Barcan line.”
“Do you know who lives here?” Pellius asked.
“I believe it was the Baroness Vanya,” she said thoughtfully, “If I remember correctly, she was one who apposed Darius rule, but was of course overthrown. She could prove useful…”
Willow pushed her horse forward again, sitting tall in her saddle, raising her voice loud.
“HOUSE OF VERYN!” she called, “WE CALL FOR A TEMPORARY TRUCE, A PARLEY! WE SEEK AUIDENCE WITH THE BARONESS!”
They stood upon the crest of the hill, awaiting response from inside. After a few moments, a sultry female voice called from the walls.
“Come forward slowly! Only the four of you! I have fifty veteran soldiers at my command and by the gods, we will fight to the death if you charge this manor!”
The Forsaken moved their steeds at walk, approaching cautiously, eyes peeled to the walls. As they reached the large reinforced wooden doors, the silhouette of a graceful feminine figure peered down towards them. 
“You lead this rabble?” she called down, “Most excellent. I am the Baroness Vanya of Veryn, rightful duchess of Daveryn, deposed by the damned Darian usurpers. And who might you be?”
“I am the Lady Willow of House Monteguard of Matharyn,” she replied regally, “And I believe we may something to offer one another.”
The baroness’ outline paused, before retreating from the walls as her voice lingered down.
“If you can promise to be civil and not steal the silverware, you can come in and we can discuss terms…”

Stepping inside the great hall of House Veryn, was akin to stepping into a manor estate that was surely not surrounded by burning city ruins and leagues of monstrous bugbears. The shining marble floors were clean and polished, the candles still tall and lit, the finery still draped upon it’s walls. Upon entry, they saw that instead of the fifty guards the baroness had boasted, her number sat only closer to twenty.
As they entered the vestibule, a beautiful woman dressed in fine violet silk that complemented her long roped ebony locks, gracefully began descending the ornate staircase.
“My lords,” she said, her elegant tone smoothing her words, “I am the Baroness Vanya of Veryn. It is a pleasure to finally meet someone within this atrocity with a touch of class.”
Willow inclined her head, “Likewise, my lady.”
“So,” she clipped, coming to halt a few steps above them, “You seek audience. Well, here I am. What have you come to offer?”
Willow’s eyebrow arched, “Perhaps you have somewhere more suitable for us to commence our discussion?”
The baroness raked her shrewd gaze over Willow, calculating and keen, before nodding.
“Right this way,” she said, continuing her descent, leading them to the eastern wing.
She opened the door revealing a beautifully adorned chamber, embellished with a large fine oak writing desk and an arrangement of six elaborately carved and covered chairs. They took their seats as she called for wine to be served, and once the servants had returned, she turned her gaze towards them and motioned for them to begin.
“You have a splendid estate here, my lady,” Garvana said politely, “And it is most impressive that you have weathered the sack of Daveryn so well.”
“My dear,” she sighed condescendingly, “I have been in enough negotiations to know when someone is being unctuous. Be done with the pleasantries, what is it you have come to me for?”
“We come under the banner of parley,” Willow said simply, “For we believe a deal could be mutually beneficial. We could offer much. Simple safe passage from the city, if that is your wish. Or an alliance. For when the noble ranking of the country falls, we will need strong houses to rebuild it.”
“The country falls?” she repeated, raising her brows, “You have that much faith in the bugbear horde?”
A slow smile came upon Willow’s lips. She was unsure where Varyn’s loyalty lay, but her instincts told her that when offered an alternative, it would not be with the king. In a slow deliberate movement, Willow pulled her Asmodean pendant free from behind her chestplate. She watched the baroness’ reactions carefully as the pendant fell upon her chest. It was only the smallest hint, but her brows rose slightly.
“So you are with them…” Varyn said quietly.
“The line of Darius tried to rid the country of the mighty Infernal Lord,” Willow said viciously, “We would see them and their pitiful sun god wiped from the land like the stain upon it that they are. I said we would need to rebuild the noble hierarchy; we would rebuild it with allies whose faith was true.”
The baroness eyed Willow curiously, before looking over the others.
“I have always revered the Lord of the Nine,” she replied, “For his true doctrine of might makes right.”
“It is the way of world,” Garvana nodded, “The strong must rule the weak.”
“We offer much, do we not?” Willow said, brow arched high, “What is it you would offer in return?”
“I have my veteran soldiers that I would put at your disposal,” she responded regally, “The allegiance of my house, and of course, my skills in any negotiation you may need.”
“And what would you require?” Garvana asked.
“I would have thought it would be obvious,” she said plainly, “You will of course speak to the Fire-Axe on my behalf and get rid of the filth attempting to siege my manor.”
Willow couldn’t help the small smirk that lifted her lips. Her attitude and blatant wit were things Willow saw mirrored in herself. As the negotiations continued, she saw a real potential in the alliance.
“I will require to be left alone for the hour of midnight tonight,” Varyn said formally.
Garvana frowned in suspicion, “The hour where the veil is weakest between our worlds. Who is it you will be speaking to?”
The baroness’ brows rose in indignation, “That, is none of your business.”
The conversation continued, as the Baroness Varyn bargained with the Forsaken. Once the terms had been settled, she arched an eyebrow at the four of them.
“As a show of good faith, I will reveal something to you. If you will follow me.”
They were led through the opulent hallways towards a hidden door within the library. As they followed the baroness deep into the darkened basement, they stood in awe as she lit the candles that lined the base of a grand altar. The enormous stone block was adorned with the unmistakeable iconography of hell. Leering devils cavorted with mortals across it’s face, sickly black blood stained with age leaked into each crevice and seam, carved infernal tongue in runic script.
By blood and devotion to thee,” Willow rasped in translation, O Lord of Hell, are we preserved forever.”
“It is a blood altar, though I presume you know this,” Varyn said formally, “A ritual can be performed once a year, to keep the living young and vital. I will not go into the details, unless any of you are interested, but I offer the altar for your personal use.”
Willow eyed the marvellously carved statue, a strange longing settling deep, for her own altar within her past home of the Monteguard estate. As she looked over the intricate stone, an odd thought came into her mind.
“The undead do not age…” she said quietly to herself.
Though the words were not for her, the baroness scoffed her reply, “Not all of us are so lucky…”
As they commenced their new partnership, Willow eyed the curious woman. Strong, stubborn and shrewd. An asset, worthy of their service. Slowly, they were building their foundation for the reinstatement of the lands’ rightful leader and lord. Slowly, they were paving the way, for the mighty and undying Prince of Hell.

It was late that night that one of the bands of the Forsaken returned to the manor. Although they had not managed to capture the Duke of Daveryn alive, they had brought his desecrated corpse, still donned in his house livery. Though his face had drained of all blood and colour, Willow recognized his thin crooked brows and sunken beady eyes. They called for Sakkarot’s lieutenants to return the body to the Fire-Axe as confirmation of his death. As their five successful servants piled most the wealth they had found in a horde upon the chamber’s floor, Willow was pleased to see that it was her own underling Cassandra that lead the group. They piled useless things; silver candelabras stolen from churches, brass rimmed metal pulled from decorative doorways. The only thing of real note was the impressive amount of liquor they had procured.
“Is that all?” she said, arching her brow at one of the men.
The tall muscled brute in front of her, stared back into her eyes, seeming to question his own answer. Smartly, he decided against blatantly lying to Willow, pulling out another bottle of fine elven wine from his sack. She knew he was concealing more. They all were. But she cared little for their pathetic trinkets and few pieces of gold and silver.
“You have done well,” she said plainly, looking down over the five of them, “As reward, you may return to your barracks and rest. Do not tell the others of your success. It is their punishment to continue the pointless search, while braving the city and its inhabitants.”
“And they will continue,” Pellius said sternly, “Until we are ready to leave Daveryn. Now go, get out of my sight.”
Cassandra made show of bowing low to her masters, making eye contact with Willow before inclining her head and turning for the door. When they had cleared the room, Willow retrieved three of the bottles from the stack of piled treasure.
“Nine bottles of Viander Vino,” she smirked, “Two bottles of Harper’s Malt, two Gattletale’s and four bottles of Crystalshine?”
“Out of all the things they could find,” Garvana frowned, “I wonder why they would focus on so much liquor?”
Willow turned to the others with a wicked grin, “I propose that tonight, we drink. We have come far and achieved so very much. And for now, we are merely biding our time until we must continue and return to our missions. I, for one, think we should use this time and celebrate.”
Bor laughed a hearty chuckle, mirroring her grin, “I strongly agree!”


The four of them lounged in the parlour of the manor, dressed in simple and comfortable clothing, easy conversation flowing. It had been a long time since they had found time to relax in each other’s company, to simply sit back and rest, to simply laugh. Garvana had used a small arcane trick to summon a playful melody from the ether, that drifted through the halls in cheerful song. After quite a few drinks, Bor even accepted Willow’s invitation to dance, the large brute stumbling over his own feet as she twirled beneath his arm. They laughed in companionable joy, lighthearted fun that carried on throughout the night. As the drinking continued, the four of them recalled their most impressive and memorable battles.
“No!” Bor laughed, “I believe Garvana’s greatest one was the dragon! When she exploded into that red creature, and just caved in his head!”
“Oh, you were so ugly like that,” Willow giggled, “Like an overgrown turnip!”
“Hey!” Garvana frowned, though she could not help but laugh, “I looked mighty and imposing!”
“Yes!” Willow exclaimed, “A mighty and imposing overgrown turnip!”
The four of them burst in laughter, grin’s wide and intoxication high. Garvana turned to Bor, a look of humour tinting her flushed cheeks.
“For me,” she said with slightly slurred words, “My favourite was that guard you crushed through the arrow slit back in Balentyne!”
“Oh that was disgusting!” Willow called out, grimacing through her giggles.
“I do not know how you made him fit,” Garvana said with feigned seriousness, “He should not have fit. It should not have been possible. But you did it. I am unsure whether to congratulate you or hope you never try that with me.”
“Garvana,” Willow said, arching her brows, “Look at the size of him, he would be used to getting big things to fit where they shouldn’t…”
The two men threw back their heads in laughter, yet Garvana simply frowned towards her. While she stared, Willow bit her lip to contain her giggle, bursting into a fit as the shocked looked dawned when Garvana finally picked up on the insinuation.
“I didn’t mean-…” she stumbled, “No, I don’t want you to- I mean-…”
The hysterics continued as Garvana fumbled through her words and her cheeks shined a crimson red. Willow quickly rose from her chair, scuttling to Garvana and planting a kiss firmly on her lips. As the blush only intensified, Willow giggled her way back into her seat.
“Alright, alright,” she grinned, “I will leave you alone now, Garvana.”
Bor took a long swig on the Harper’s Malt, before turning his gaze to Willow.
“Yours was that storm giant,” he smirked, “Such a little vicious thing, you were wroth with him after you thought he’d killed Pellius. You soared through the air with your broken heart and massacred him in one foul swoop!”
“Excuse me,” Willow said in joking indignation, “I was not broken hearted, I was merely inconvenienced.”
“Inconvenienced, my lady?” Pellius laughed, “When I came back up, you were so livid with me, I thought you were going to throw me back down!”
The others let out a great guffaw as Willow simply grinned.
“I should have,” she sniggered, “Would have saved me the trouble, next time you go trying to die like that. So inconvenient.”
Willow winked as he faked outrage at her reply.
“Well,” she said to him, “Your own would have to be the duel with Sir Valin. Glorious and heroic, fighting as my chosen champion. Like a legendary tale from a novel!”
“Oh come on, Willow,” Bor groaned, “That’s not how this game works.”
Willow held up her finger to silence him.
“It was truly magnificent, a great show of your battle prowess, your unwavering bravery, your endless might and sure to be fabled strength…”
Bor and Garvana groaned and whined, though Pellius’ brow arched high, awaiting the rest of her words.
“And then, we faced small balls of ooze…” she smirked as the chuckles began, waving her wine glass dramatically, “And you fell asleep and missed the action…. twice…”
The laughter exploded from the room, as Pellius merely grinned with his brows raised.
“And even though I kicked you,” she continued, “Repeatedly. You continued to snooze and let me handle the rest. My champion…”
As Bor and Garvana roared with laughter, Pellius stood from his seat, a sly grin on his lips.
“You, my lady,” he said darkly, slowly strolling towards her, “Have had far too much to drink.”
As he stood over her, he looked down with the dark promise of retribution in his gaze. He bent low to her, eyes piercing into hers as she leaned forward to bring her face inches from his.
“That mouth,” he said quietly, “Is getting far too loose. Let us see if we cannot find a better use for it...”
Without warning, he grinned and gripped Willow by the waist, lifting her from her seat with ease as he flung her over his shoulder. Her glass went flying from her hand, shattering against the wall, the remains of the red liquid splashing along the white stone.
“Pellius!” she laughed, writhing in his grip, “Put me down!”
As the others chuckled, he turned back to them with a grin.
“Goodnight to the both of you,” he said in mock formality, before heading for the stairs.
As he began the climb to their bedchamber, Willow grinned mischievously as she saw her chance. Using the wooden railing as leverage, she propelled herself upward with her hands, forcing her chest up and over his shoulder. As he struggled to hold his balance and his grip on her at the same time, she slid herself down and wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, bringing herself chest to chest and face to face. She grinned sinfully as she stared deep into his flaring crimson eyes. She spoke a wicked rasp as her fangs slithered low and she traced her tongue along the lobe of his ear.

“Tell me… of these other uses…”

Chapter 30 - Plunder and Pillage

A cold breeze drifted softly against the rolling hills of white dust and feathered mist. The sun lifted from beyond the mountains, lighting the speckled green that broke through the last grasp of winter. With a week until the dawning of spring, the Forsaken began their eastward march. They chose to ride on horseback, leading their small retinue of men across the lands of melting snow and ice. The hippogriffs circled high overhead, watching the progress as the men trudged through the harsh terrain. Along the journey, they passed desolate towns and quiet villages, either ransacked by bugbears or deserted by conscriptions of the kings’ army.
Willow sat tall in her saddle at the head of the march, always by Pellius’ side, eyes always scanning the horizon. Although she knew the king would have to still be at least two months from them, the paranoia was impossible to ignore. They could face down divine beings and vile daemons, but an army that size would overwhelm with ease and outnumber them by countless leagues.

The bright morning dawned as they crested the hill by the outskirts of Daveryn. But even the shining sun was overshadowed by the littered expanse of ruin and fire that was once the city view. Sakkarot had clearly not waited for their arrival. Smoke and ash lingered above the scene, a cloud of destruction that shadowed the husk of a town. Pellius instructed Rajiu to stay with the men, keeping out of sight until they returned with further orders. The four of them kicked their mounts into a canter, striding through the burning hollow of the Angleton region. As they slowed to a trot by the broken entrance to Bandlethyn, a carob furred bugbear approached from the gates.
“Fire-Axe bids you welcome,” he grunted, “He awaits you in the the City Hall.”
Without waiting for their reply, he turned on his heel and returned through the gate. Willow looked to Pellius, awaiting his command.
“Do you know this city?” he asked her.
“I once did,” she nodded, “The city hall is in the centre of Duward to the east.”
“Lead the way if you will, my lady,” he replied.
Willow hooked her heels into her steed and set off through the gates, following the main road that she had travelled by coach once upon a time. Although, the scene she rode by now, was nothing like the bustling streets of the once great trading port of Daveryn. Far travel from the centre of the city, the paths and streets fell a deathly quiet. Their large plazas and markets were silent and lifeless. Hearths stale and cold, stores and taverns, once boisterous and busy, now desolate and quiet. They strode passed buildings that were nothing more than crisp shells of their former glory, blackened char coating the jagged stone that remained. It was apparent that only thanks to a heavy rain the previous evening, the majority of the raging fires were extinguished. All that remained within the outer rim of the city, were ghosts and ashes.
As they drew closer to the centre of town, the savagery begun. Sights of barbaric horror were to be seen everywhere. Bodies impaled on spikes, strung from ceilings and pinned to the walls. Most still wore the tattered remains of armor and livery of Talingarde and House Daveryn. Entrails and bloodied bones littered the streets and hung from the doorways in gruesome decoration. Flocks of crows and hordes of scavengers feasted on the newly dead. Everywhere that the bugbears camped, they built great bonfires from what remained of wrecked homes and shops. Ogres, trolls, goblins and giants moved amongst the detritus and debris searching for spoils and survivors. As the Forsaken moved through the repugnant crowd, turning sight from the atrocities that the feral army of brutes were partaking in – the league of eyes followed them. It was clear they were not unknown within the horde of the Fire-Axe. It was clear, that they were feared. A sure sight of foreboding menace they would have been. Clad in robust and wicked ebony armour, strapped with malicious blades and arms of steel, midnight steeds adorned with the five pointed star of the Lord of Darkness.
Willow kept her head high and her face cold as ice, as she rode her steed towards the city hall. Sith prowled protectively by her left, snarling in warning to the feral beasts, the fearsome warhound’s blazing coat of flame a perfect mirror to the simmer of her firesilk cloak as it undulated in trail behind her. Pellius sat tall in his saddle by her right, a proud regal might to the tilt of his chin, looking every bit the infernal commander that he was. Willow heard the whisperings from the shadowed array, that spoke of the Fire-Axe’s unholy allies and elite servants of darkness. Such an odd thing, she thought, to be feared by beasts so inhuman and heinous. These were mindless brutes who knew only savagery and bestial blood-thirst. Although the utter revulsion she felt grew the further her mind wandered, and the more of the foul creatures she passed, she kept her head high and continued her march onward.

Entering the grand city hall of Daveryn, they saw the Fire-Axe once again. Sitting atop the gleaming throne, flanked by his lieutenants and allies. He struck an impressive figure, no longer squeezed in ill-fitting stolen knight’s steel, now clad in a black suit of infernal armor. He truly looked the part of the dread bugbear tyrant of the north. The city hall was crowded with bugbear lords, ogre chieftains, hill giant thugs, scampering goblins and even a frost giant jarl that stood uneasily beside the Fire-Axe. As the Forsaken entered the hall, all eyes turned to them and a sudden silence cast over the room. Sakkarot rose from his throne.
“My lords!” he bellowed, “Welcome to Daveryn! With your skill at throwing open gates, I had hoped to have your aid. But it seems this city could not wait to fall beneath my killers’ blades!”
A clamorous yell and chorus of bestial howls came from the assembled throng. Willow stepped forward, inclining her head respectfully while arching an eyebrow.
“Your impatience is not unexpected,” came her rejoinder, “I fear men of all races and kinds have the same problem with achieving their goals, prematurely.”
As Sakkarot threw back his head in laughter, their barbaric audience and most of the Forsaken did the same. Garvana stepped forward, either having ignored or completely missed the jab, as she lowered her head in respectful greeting.
“It is good to see you, Sakkarot my friend,” she said warmly.
He grinned his toothy maw towards them, “And you all too. Come, we have matters to attend to.”
Once again, they met within a chamber deemed a war room. Desks littered in parchment maps and scrolls, lists of names and places, thin daggers pinpointing past and present victories. They stood within the mayor’s chambers, much finer than the accommodations that the horde had procured in their last battles. Fire-Axe commanded fine wine be taken from the larder of the duke, and for his lieutenants and underlings to clear the room. Willow couldn’t contain her laugh as the thick red wine was poured for them into decorative golden goblets that the bugbears clearly did not realize were purely for garish show. As Sakkarot took the remainder of the bottle for himself, he turned to them as the door closed and they were left alone.
“Are you here on a mission?” he asked.
“I suppose now the city is already taken,” Willow responded, “We are merely awaiting our next orders.”
“Huh,” he grunted in agreement, “Aren’t we all. Well I have one for you, if you’re interested. The Duke of Daveryn has escaped me. It’s possible he’s just gone. He may have had some magical means of leaving the city, so it may be a fool’s errand. But I suspect not. Duke Martin famously hated wizards. I suspect he’s holed up in the city somewhere, but so far my killers have failed to find him. I would love to have him dragged before me in chains. It would be good for morale.”
“Duke Martin,” Willow frowned, “Yes, I think I remember him. Beady little man? Little daft in the head?”
“Ha!” he laughed, “Accurate description. Other than that, enjoy the city. I care not what you do to this place. I’ll be rid of it soon enough. There are pockets of resistance here and there I’m told. You are welcome to deal with those however you see fit. Or you can simply loot the ruins. I’ll warn you though, my killers are thorough. If you want the best treasure, you’ll have to find places they can’t get. Ah, look at me. Lecturing you like you were whelps. You know all of this.”
He took a long swig of wine, leaning back into his chair.
“I hear great things of your mission in Valtaerna,” he said, sounding more relaxed, “Night-mane and the head takers reported a mighty victory.”
“It was a grand feat,” Garvana agreed proudly.
Sakkarot chuckled as he looked to Willow, “Hekkarth said you even let him build a pyramid of skulls.”
“Yes,” Willow said, her lip curling, “Your brutish warriors proved competent.”
“Competent?” he laughed, “Such a compliment, little one.”
Willow shook her head as she smiled. He took another drink from his bottle, his beast-like features taking on a look of melancholy.
“Truth told, that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. This city was so easily taken because the Duke was an idiot and it was lightly defended. The baron of Westkirk revealed a secret entrance from the sea caves to the palace. Anyone with any sense would have collapsed it as soon as my army drew near, but Duke Martin imagined he could escape through it if things got bad. I have captured a hollow city. Most of the army was missing. They mass in the south under the king’s banner. Thanks to you, Shagaroth and his band have confirmed it. An army marches towards me led by King Markadian himself. It is an army I cannot hope to defeat on the open field. Do you know anything more of this?”
“We received the same report as you,” Pellius replied formally, quite comfortable sitting by the head of the war table, “We only surmised that it would be headed this way. And it seems, we were correct.”
Sakkarot slammed his fist upon the table, anger furrowing his furry brow.
“What is Thorn’s plan to deal with the king’s forces?” he growled, “He must have one! Yet whenever I speak to the devil-harlot Tiadora all I get are sneers and japes. Do you know Thorn’s mind? What does he intend?”
Willow reached out and put a soft hand on the bugbears forearm, her voice calm and reassuring.
“We must trust in our master,” she said softly, “Have faith that he knows the next move, and that all the pieces are falling into place.”
“Faith?!” he barked, “Ha! I am sick of simply being guided by faith. I feel as if I am being led to the slaughter!”
“There is more going on than the eye can see…” Garvana began.
“I was supposed to be victorious against the armies of Talingarde!” he snarled, “I was supposed to crush them! That was always the plan! I was only to lose to…”
He stumbled upon his words, searching the faces of the Forsaken, suspicion paired with a strange longing in his eyes.
“To who?” Garvana asked softly.
The large bugbear frowned, clearly troubled greatly and unsure on whether to continue. Willow gently squeezed his forearm, drawing his sight to her.
“It is alright,” she said, “You know us to be the Ninth Knot, brothers and sisters in arms, only working to insure our Infernal Father’s reign. Our loyalty will always be to the Infernal Lord, before all others, the cardinal included. You can tell us…”
He sighed, a bestial gust of frustration, before slowly dropping his head.
“When Thorn found me,” he began solemnly, “I was dying, poisoned and weak. I had been outcast from my tribe and branded across my chest with a giant slash from a shaman’s obsidian blade – the mark of the defeated and the banished. I was cast out into the ice to die alone and unmourned. Thorn took me in, healed me. He drew the poison from my wound. And with his magic, the scar of the outcast was remade into the Asmodean star. He marked my flesh and my soul – I was then and forever bound to the Cardinal and to the Lord of Hell.”
He looked up from his lap, a harsh acceptance coming over his brutish features.
“Do not think me a victim. Willingly I gave myself to his service. What did I have to lose? All that remained of my old life was death and disgrace. Thorn set me upon another path. The Cardinal said that if I would but serve him, he would give me all I wished for. He has been true to his word. He has made me mighty amongst my people. He has erased the dishonor of banishment and given me a new name. He has bestowed me with mighty gifts. I am most famous for my axe, true enough, but even more than that, he gave me this.”
He reached up and remove an iron circlet, much like their own, that had blended into his black fur.
“This crown of iron,” he continued, “It makes me wise and wary. I am able to speak to my people with authority. It makes me truly worthy of being a king.”
As he replaced it upon his head, it once again faded from view.
“But there was always a price. In time, I will face an army not of Talireans but of those under the banner of Asmodeus. And when I face that army, I will lead my force to utter destruction and defeat. All those who chant my name and honor me now, I will betray. My killers have become like my children, and upon the altar of war, I will sacrifice them for the glory of Asmodeus the most high.”
Willow’s eyebrow arched, his words confirming her prior suspicions.
“That is how he plans to endear the Asmodean faith upon the Mitrans,” Willow commented, “Have them become the victors, the saviors.”
“Yes,” he nodded, “But with the might of the King’s army heading this way, I do not see how it is possible. Do you know any more? Thorn has to have a plan!”
“I do not know what information is mine to share,” Willow said carefully, “But I can tell you, we have not been idle while you have conquered the mid lands of Talingarde.”
He huffed a slight laugh, raising his eyebrows in question.
“Can you say nothing more? To put my mind at ease?”
She smiled, “I will leave it to your mind to decipher. But I will add, that along our travels we did spend eight long months within the halls of pestilence, to retrieve the gifts that dwell in the abyss…”
“The archdeacon?” he frowned, before his brows shot high in understanding, “His gift?”
Willow merely smirked in response.
“What of you after?” Garvana asked, “Surely you are not to be sacrificed along with your army?”
Sakkarot shook his head, “I will go to the Throne of Iron far in the north. I will serve there for the rest of my life at the side of Thorn. My time of glory will be over. Then begins my time of service to pay for what I have been given.”
He drew another deep drink from the bottle, emptying the wine from within.
“I enjoy every day of my dominion. I savor every moment of my prize.”
With a scowl pulling his brow tight, he threw the bottle against the far wall and watched as it exploded in a shatter of glass.
“But I know,” he said bitterly, “It will not last.”
Willow watched the shards of green crystal slide down the the stone walls encompassed in foaming red liquid. As the mess pooled at the base of the wall, her mind churned.
Her voice grew quiet and solemn, “Nothing ever does…”


Bor left the group to give instruction to their men, while the others sought out accommodation for their stay within the ruins of Daveryn. Sakkarot had offered them shelter within the city hall, but Willow had recoiled at the thought of sharing space with the leagues of brutes, not eager to sleep under the cover of blood and gore smeared walls.
Most of the regions surrounding the great city hall were overflowing with bands of bugbears and goblin wolfriders, filled with the booming raucous of brutality, howls of beasts that echoed through the morning sky. The three of them strode upon horseback through the vile streets further through the city to seek a somewhat more peaceful place to lay their heads.
It was in the district of Tythers that they found a row of manors that had been left relatively unmolested. The region was known as the religious district, containing the homes of the head’s of the church and one of the four great cathedrals of Talingarde; the Cathedral of Mitra Beneficent. It was only the bugbears innate superstition and distrust that had kept the region as intact as it was. The few brutes who were brave enough to enter, spread word of holy guardians that protected the church, striking fear to keep the rest of the horde far away.
By mid afternoon, their own small force had followed Bor’s lead into the city. Pellius designated barracks for their men, while the four of them took up residence within the nicer of the homes that remained mostly unscathed. Before dusk fell that evening, they decided to face whatever dwelled in the grand cathedral, none of them keen to rest while the threat of divine guardians loomed so close by. Together the four of them approached the white marble building, eyes and ears strained for any sign of movement. The structure was marvelous in its architecture, an impressive edifice; every inch covered in intricate decoration that celebrated an endless procession of saints and heroes of the Mitran faith. Familiar aphorisms written in both common and celestial adorned the stonework.
The sun may set and winter may come,” Willow read from above the arching doorway, “But always there will be another dawn and summer will return triumphant.”
Great flying buttresses, stained glass windows and a mighty facade that completed the cathedral. It was truly a place of awe and reverence for the exaltation of Mitra. Pushing open the hefty marble door, Willow’s brows rose in amazement. It appeared as if the place had weathered the sack of Daveryn completely unaffected. Though it hadn’t been dusted in a few days, it was as if a congregation could file in and start their prayers without a moment’s pause. The golden fixtures and sacramental vessels were still neatly positioned on the central altar. Unlike most Mitran temples, that were embellished with art and pieces of silver, this one housed older artifacts from the time where most religious paraphernalia was largely made of gold.
The Forsaken quietly stalked into the vast hall, weapons at the ready, eyes searching the shadowed corners of the chamber. The echo of Pellius and Bor’s heavy footsteps ricocheted off the smooth walls, but no further sound could be heard. The farther into the church they drew, the more paranoid they became. Even as they reached the grand altar at the head of the hall – no guardians swooped down to defend their sacred home. While the others searched the side rooms and nooks, Willow scanned over the dais. It was only through deep seeded suspicion, that her eyes noticed the faintest of outline of a recent footprint pointed out from beneath the altar, in the fine layer of dust that coated the floor. Silently, she lowered herself into a crouch. As she lifted the azure sheet that fell from the platform, she found a well concealed panel, that formed the shape of a cellar door. There were no locks or traps upon the plank, just a subtle crevice, wide enough to latch a finger into. She signaled to the others and quietly tucked the cloth atop the altar. With a silent countdown, Pellius threw the door wide and Willow slid herself into the small reliquary with her daggers held tight. What she saw crouched in the corner, had a small smile grace her lips. A man, dressed in musty white robes, startled wide eyes staring back at her. She moved with swift grace, tumbling behind him and gripping his shoulder, blade held firm to his throat before he had any chance to react.
“Cardinal Ignatius Mark,” she greeted, a voice far sweeter in contrast to her hostile actions.
“Who are you?!” he trembled in her grasp, “What do you want?”
“Not a great deal that you can offer I’m afraid,” she scoffed.
“I have no gold!” he whimpered, “I have nothing! Just take what you will from the church, I will not stop you!”
“How gracious of you,” she laughed.
As Garvana and Pellius stepped down into the small chamber, Willow smiled towards them.
“Lord Albus,” she said darkly, “You’ll be pleased to meet his eminence, the great cardinal of Mitra, Ignatius. One of the most important and influential men in Talingarde…”
Pellius grinned as Garvana brandished her weapon threateningly.
“You have information,” she rasped, “What you have to share may just save your life.”
“Never!” he cried, a strange bravery piercing through his fear, “I am a devout and loyal servant of Mitra, I will never aid such villainous scum as you!”
Willow pulled the blade tighter around his throat.
“It is a pity,” she said quietly, “For you, anyway. We have ways of making you talk, and some of us are dying to see it through.”
Willow smiled at Pellius’ hungry gaze, his hands itching to delve back into where his talent truly lay. Though he did not revel in the infliction of pain itself, he relished the art that was tortuous interrogation.
“He is all yours, my lord,” she said callously, pushing Ignatius towards him.
With a wicked grin and a single hand, Pellius gripped the cowering man by the robes, dragging him back up the wooden stairs and into the hall. As he cleared the altar with the swipe of an arm, he lifted Ignatius and slammed him upon the dais. Willow had no desire to watch the torment take place, trusting in Pellius’ skill to retrieve any useful information, and Bor to guard his progress. She made her way back to the manor with Garvana, as the slow procession of darkness brought the night forth.

“Have you… have you had any strange dreams of late?” Garvana asked.
The pair had set themselves up in the parlour of the estate, their servants having lit the hearth to soften the last of winter’s chill. Willow sat by the fire wrapped in lengths of warm fur, legs draped over the side of the arm chair as she sipped on a fragrant cup of exotic tea found in the kitchen stores.
“Strange?” she asked lazily, “What kind of strange?”
Garvana turned her head to see if they were alone and out of reach of the servants’ ears.
“Strange, as in, peculiar. Things you had not imagined before.”
“You may have to be more specific,” Willow frowned.
“I…” she began slowly, “I have been dreaming of a hunt. Being part of a hunt. But, I am not myself. I am in the shape of another… in the shape of-
“- a wolf?” Willow finished for her.
“Yes!” she said, eyes wide, “You have had similar dreams?”
“I have,” Willow said quietly, “Though I know not what they mean.”
“Do you suppose it has something to do with the curse?” Garvana asked.
Willow shrugged, “I can only guess.”
“Have you…” Garvana continued, “Have you had any… urges?”
“Urges?” she laughed, “Oh, I have urges alright…”
“Willow!” Garvana sighed, “Not like that, I mean… hunger urges?”
“For blood?” she frowned.
“Yes, I… I have found myself staring at the throats of those who are bare. I have been experiencing these, urges…”
Willow’s brows rose, “I do not think I have, though I am unsure how that all works, or when it is we are to start… feeding… from the living.”
“I had never noticed how thick the veins upon Bor’s neck were…” Garvana whispered.
Bursting into a fit of laughter, Willow grinned with adolescent glee.
“Oh what a pair you two would make,” she laughed, “Both brooding in mutual misery, and the sex!”
“Willow!” she called in indignation, though her grin simmered her anger.
The two of them giggled childishly as they sat back into their cushioned chairs, trying to muffle their excitement as Bor and Pellius entered the room. Willow winked at Garvana, ignoring Pellius’ quizzical look. Excusing himself politely, he retreated to the bathing chamber to clean the worst of the blood from his hands and change into more comfortable attire.
“I suppose the Cardinal did not live through the interrogation?” Garvana asked Bor, blatantly ignoring Willow’s childish grin.
“He lasted long enough,” Bor shrugged.
“And what did he have to say?” Willow queried, still unable to lower her smile.
“Pellius will give you the full report,” he said, pulling the cork free from a bottle of wine as he relaxed back into one of the armchairs, “Knew a fair bit about a lot.”
“Very insightful,” Willow joked, rolling her eyes.
He smirked, taking a long swig on the bottle. It was only a short time later that Pellius returned to the parlour, dressed in loose fitting pants and a long shirt that was unbuttoned low enough to bare his collarbone and throat. As Willow eyed the firm muscles that joined his neck to his shoulders, she felt the strangest sensation drift through her mind. Arousal was nothing new when it came to eyeing him freshly bathed, his wet tousled hair falling free from its usual sculpted groom. But it was more than that; it was hunger. She felt the sharp points of her fangs quiver, as they tried to lower and flare. She felt a strange need threaten to overcome her, an odd impulse to bite deep into his flesh. She suddenly knew the urges that Garvana had been speaking of. As he drew closer, the need only strengthened. She shook her head and rose from her seat to distract herself, walking to the glass cabinet and pulling free a bottle, pouring two glasses of the fine brandy. When she turned to face them, she noticed that there were only three seats in the parlour. Almost reluctantly, she indicated for Pellius to take the chair she had been in, handing him a glass as he sat and sitting herself upon the armrest. As he spoke, she forced herself to ignore the rapturous need that began to burn inside her.
“The cardinal had much to say,” he began, “He told me of what remains in Matharyn, now the king is campaigning across Talingarde. The High Inquisitor, Lord Solomon Tyrath, has been charged with the defense of the Castle Matharyn and the Old Palace while the king is away.”
“Ugh,” Willow scoffed, snapping out of her slight daze, “Yes, I remember him. The man wouldn’t know a joke if it slapped him in the face. But he was always fearsome, he is a great threat and a very powerful man. We should be wary of him when we finally take the city.”
“This is what the Cardinal said,” Pellius nodded, “Moreover, he insisted the king takes the security of his daughter Bellinda very seriously. This is no surprise, but apparently he has paid an immense sum of money to have a golem of solid mithral constructed to defend the Adarium. He said there are other lesser golems in the Adarium, but all together they pale before this monster.”
“Golems,” Bor snarled, “I hate golems.”
“He also spoke of the king’s surprise ally,” Pellius continued, “He has been in communication with a powerful creature of living flame, named Brigit of the Brijidine.”
“The one we found the letter from in Valtaerna?” Willow queried, “This does not bode well for us. She’s known as the queen of fire beneath the mountains, and is revered as a goddess amongst the Iraen. For years I thought her only a tale, her glory has been spoken of for generations.”
“The cardinal said that by convincing her of the eminent threat of Asmodean followers, Markadian hopes to gain the Iraen’s aid in the war. Already an Iraen delegation awaits within the Adarium.”
“This is not good,” Willow frowned.
“He told me that the king’s second in command,” he continued, “Is the masterful elven general, Vastenus Barca. As the cardinal believes, he is one of the great tactical geniuses of this age.”
“Barca?” Garvana questioned, “Perhaps he may be of use to us? His loyalties may not solely lie with the Markadian line?”
“It is possible,” Pellius nodded, “But he has served the king since before this Markadian‘s reign began.”
“We should think on it for later,” Willow agreed.
“Lastly,” he finished, “And possibly more directly relevant, he spoke of Polydorus the Seer; the only wizard in Daveryn of any note. His tower apparently guarded bizarre magical defenses.”
“The tower of Polydorus?” Willow asked, “Did we not hear the bugbears speak of it? Those that get near get rained in magic, so it lays untouched. Perhaps the seer remains within it?”
“It is most likely,” Pellius said, “We should see to it while we search the town. By the sound of it, it matters not if it is tomorrow or next week, the beasts cannot get to it.”
With matters concluded, he sank back into the chair and drank down the last of his brandy, savoring the taste for a moment, as he let his eyes slowly drift close.

“Do we know where we are going tomorrow?” Garvana asked.
“The docks,” Bor grunted, “Bugbears are afraid of ships, sea and sailing. Best bet is the docks haven’t been touched.”
“Indeed,” Pellius said, standing from his seat, holding his arm out to Willow, “We shall search the docklands tomorrow after dawn. For now, I will bid you two good night.”
Willow stood and took his arm, following him through the manor as they climbed the stairs. It was the realization of their close proximity that had her feelings of irrational need and hunger return. It took every ounce of willpower she had to restrain herself and keep her feet continuing forward. When they reached their bedchamber and he released her arm to walk forward, beginning to strip his shirt off, she whimpered as her fangs plunged down and tore her lip. As he pulled the fabric over his head, and her eyes followed the pale flesh of his back to his neck, she trembled with aching need. She had never felt such a peculiar and overwhelming sensation, something unlike anything she had ever experienced before. He craned his head to the side, stretching the muscles along his neck to release the built up pressure and tension. It was as the muscled clenched and flexed along his throat, that the groan slipped from her lips. He turned to her, his bare chest strong and firm, his wide shoulders broad and toned. Quickly, she spun away from him, clasping her hand over her mouth.
“Willow?” he asked worriedly, walking towards her, “Are you alright?”
“I am fine,” she rushed, swiftly stalking passed him towards the dressing room.
As she thought she was free to hide within the small chamber until the feeling passed, a firm grip on her wrist wrenched her backward. With ease, he pulled her around and forced her to face him. For only a moment, her eyes found his, before they flew to the bare column of his throat. She whimpered aloud, her fangs throbbing in ache, her lips struggling to keep them within her mouth.
“What is the matter with you?!” he demanded, frown furrowed deeply, “Tell me, now.”
Her eyes painfully drifted back towards his, and upon seeing the clear command within his gaze, she could do nothing but obey. Slowly, she let go of her lip, allowing her fangs to stretch to their full length. It took a moment for him to understand, but as it clicked, his forehead smoothed as his sly grin lifted. As he chuckled, the movement clenched and retracted his neck, drawing her sight rapidly back to its target. A rasping growl of a hiss expelled from her lips, as she struggled to keep control of herself. His eyebrows rose at the sound, and his grin only widened.
“It is merely the bloodlust,” he said casually, “It will pass. You can still consume food, so it is not imperative that you consume blood. Either way, we will find you someone to feed on tomorrow.”
Willow ‘s temper flared, chafing against the idea of being denied what she so desperately desired. She knew how easily he would overpower her if she tried to take what she wanted, so she prayed that he would feel the same need when presented with a willing and eager host. As he turned away from her to finish undressing and preparing for sleep, she silently undid the buttons of her high necked blouse. She stripped the shirt free and dropped it to the floor, her black corset cinching tightly on her waist, with her neck, chest and shoulders bare to the cold breeze drifting through the window. Although her skin felt the chill of the wind, the bloodlust swarmed in heat through her veins. She waited, slowly unlacing the strings of the corset, until finally he turned back to her. As he did, and her corset followed her blouse to the ground, she saw exactly what she was looking for. His fangs plunged from his mouth, his eyes alight with fiery hunger, an aching need coming over his face. For a moment, he hesitated. As if he abhorred the idea of either allowing her to feed from him, or allowing himself to feed from her. But the bloodlust must have been coursing through him as it did her, for he stepped forward with complete dominance and seized her in a frightening grip. Her breath came in short ragged bursts, her limbs trembling as the anticipation ached within her. With one swift plunge, he drove his fangs into her neck and quickly drew the blood from her veins. Her head flew back and she cried out in blissful agony, as he drank deep from the two slits on her throat. She felt her own hands clawing to gain perch, digging into his skin as she pulled her head upwards. A rasping hiss blew from her mouth as she found his neck, sinking her fangs into the column of his pulsing throat. As the scarlet warmth flooded her mouth, she whimpered in euphoric ecstasy. She had never imagined the taste of blood to be so sweet. She greedily gulped it down, drawing as much as she could between each breath. They held each other crushingly tight, mouths locked to their throats, groans of enraptured delight breaking the strange silence that had come over the room. Willow’s head began to spin, her legs weakening as she felt herself falling further into his embrace. As the pair slowly sank to the floor, knees intertwined and hands and nails clutching skin, she felt her sight darkening. Suddenly, the agonizing pull from her neck ceased, as she was torn from her hold on his throat. Haze clouded her eyes, hands trembling and knees straining to hold her weight. His baritone voice came through the fog.
“Too, much,” he growled, dragging her from her knees, throwing her towards the bed, “Too much.”
She felt her weight falling through the air, floating almost, as the soft caress of the mattress met her back. Her legs were lifted from the floor and dropped atop the bed, when his heavy weight fell next to her, shaking the padding beneath them. He drew her close, the heavy breaths tearing through his chest, mirroring her own. Slowly, the haze began to clear. Her acute senses sharp to feel every movement he made, every turn his blood made through his veins. As the strength slowly returned to her limbs, she was unable to stop herself from climbing atop his body. She slid her thighs on each side of him as he rose to meet her, his hands wrapping around the bare flesh of her back. As his lips met hers in a languid dance, she sighed deeply into his mouth. She felt utterly exhausted, in the most wonderful of ways. But as his kiss deepened and his hands searched further; the simmering fire within her built to frenzied roar, only matched by the one within him. Her touch became almost desperate. Hungry, aching, starving for more of him. With one hand in a frightening grip in her hair, the other crushing her waist, he threw her to the side and his weight crushed her beneath him. As he thrust her head back to bare her throat, and his frustrated growl rumbled as he forced himself to keep from biting her again, he ripped her belt and trousers off in a single tear. When she saw the blazing inferno within his eyes, she knew it would be a long time before the night came to an end…


The beam of dawn sun light slowly traced its way across the room, eventually finding her still form as she stared into the mirror. As the fierce glare had burned harshly against her pale flesh, she had sealed the blinds and sat by glowing candlelight. Willow’s gaze pierced the glass plate, as a cold chill settled deep in her spine. There was no reflection staring back at her. She sat upon the cushioned stool, directly in front of the vanity, yet she saw only the chamber behind her.  She could feel the tears that had welled in her eyes, as she pictured each arch of her bone structure, each dip of her lip line, each smooth swell of colour along her complexion. She knew every detail of her face, pristine skin and deep red swirling eyes. Yet, she saw nothing. She could only pray that she would not forget herself.
She had awoken early, sore and sated, held tightly within Pellius’ arms. Yet, when she had risen from the bed, her legs had only been mildly stiff, the aches of her flesh only meagre and minimal. There had been nothing gentle about the previous night. The riotous way in which they had sated themselves should have left her almost unable to walk. But bar a few discoloured light bruises and a tender stiffness of the legs, she felt refreshed and eager to get moving with the day. She had checked over her neck by feel, yet the marks of his bite had completely disappeared. Somehow, she was healing faster. While he slumbered unaware, she had checked over Pellius’ throat and found no evidence of the night. If it weren’t for the slight smear of blood along the floor and pillows, she would have believed that it had all been a rather lecherous dream.
“Is something troubling you, my lady?” Pellius yawned, dragging his legs to the side of the bed.
“Nothing important,” she dismissed, unwilling to voice her thoughts.
As she looked to see him in the mirror, her brows lifted. He too, cast no reflection upon the glass. She turned to him, unable to control her grin as she eyed his glorious naked form.
He arched his brow to her, a sly smile on his lips, his hair as much a mess as hers.
“You are rather chirpy this morning,” he said, slowly strolling to her, bending down to gently kiss her on the cheek, “I was afraid I had actually been too rough last night. That is a first with you, I assure you.”
Willow grinned a mischievous smile, “Certainly not. Though, it seems as if something has changed, I feel nothing of the consequences of last night.”
“Nothing?” he asked, a harsh reprimand of warning in his tone.
She slowly arched her brow, “… nothing.”
His grin turned dastardly, “Alas, I will have to try harder next time.”
Willow quivered in excitement and premature anticipation at his dark promise. As he chuckled and turned to gather his clothes for the day, she thought over the peculiarity of the bloodlust and feeding.
“You do not suppose,” she asked awkwardly, “That each time we feed will be like that, do you?”
His hearty laugh echoed through the chamber, “I’d hope not, that would be quite troublesome. Not every meal would wish to follow through with the things we do.”
Willow smirked at his answer, but couldn’t shake the worrying frown.
“What will it be like?” she asked.
He turned back to her, a reassuring smile upon his lips.
“It will be like all other meals. Some nicer than others, but all much the same. There will be no sex involved in your meals. Well, most meals.”
He chuckled at his own joke, but Willow could not bring herself to follow.
“Pellius,” she said quietly, “I am serious. If it is not usually like that, then what is it like? And why was last night the way it was?”
“You did not enjoy yourself?” he asked skeptically.
“Of course I did,” she snapped, waving a dismissing hand, “But please, explain it to me.”
He sighed, pulling his loose trousers on before walking to her and taking a seat by her side.
“I had a contact in Cheliax who was afflicted by the vampiric curse, and he lived a very normal life. Well, normal as a vampire can be. When we met over dinner, he would simply feast on the servants. He knew enough to know when to stop to keep them alive and able to continue their duties. There was no desire for carnal satisfaction, they were merely food. Last night was probably more than just simple feeding. When the bloodlust takes hold, you can end up in an uncontrollable frenzy, that is why it is imperative to feed regularly. I had assumed as we are still coming into the transformation and can still tolerate food that we would be safe from it for a while longer. But perhaps paired with another uncontrollable need, the bloodlust manifested in unison.”
Willow smirked at his insinuation, but understood his meaning clearly. It was an intimidating prospect, the knowledge that she knew little of something so vital as feeding herself. Soon, she would not need the intake of food. Soon, she would crave only the blood of sentient beings.
She thought on the hazed memory that she had, vaguely remembering he had been in control enough to stop them when they had begun to go to far.
“You stopped us,” she said, “You said we had taken too much.”
“Yes,” he nodded, tracing his fingers over her neck where the bite marks should have been, “You can drain a vessel completely. If you keep drinking, they will fall unconscious and eventually die. We were drinking far too much; we could have easily killed each other. Though I am unsure whether that is possible. I have never heard of two vampires being able to drain each other, as they are usually undead, and the undead have no running blood to drink.”
“Undead,” she repeated, still getting used to the idea, “It is a strange thought.”
He smiled, leaning forward to lay a gentle kiss on her forehead before standing from the chair and returning to his morning ritual.
“You will get used to it,” he said easily, “You do not have much choice any longer.”
“No,” she said softly, turning back to the empty mirror, “I suppose I do not. It has already truly begun. Do you know what I will miss? The dawn rise of the sun. Moreover, I will miss the setting at dusk.”
“My lady,” he said gently, “You are focusing on the negatives. Think not on what you are losing, but rather all that you are gaining.”
“I am not focusing,” she shook her head, “I am merely longing. The cycle of the world has always been a fascination. Mitra speaks of the sun rising to usher away the darkness, yet the darkness will always return. It is a fitting metaphor. We are the darkness, come to usher out the ways of the Shining Sun’s light.”
He returned to her side as he lifted her chin to his sight.
“Then, my lady,” he smiled, “I shall find a way to bring the sunset back to you…”

Clad in full armour and weapons, dark and menacing steel of black, they prowled the streets of the ruined city. Bor had been correct in his assumptions, superstition and fear had kept the bugbears from thoroughly looting the warehouses along the docks. They searched through the cold buildings that were left stale and silent, and strolled along the quiet boardwalks that lingered over the sea. The treasures they found were not piles of golden and silver coins, but strange curiosities and peculiar rarities. Willow found a small trinket, shaped like a paint brush, imbued with strange magic that painted small creations into life. She had never been particularly skilled with a paintbrush, so as she tested the trinket and tried to paint a small blade, she ended with a crooked and jagged chunk of steel. She laughed as she threw the chunk into the pile of debris that had amassed by the door, slipping the brush into its box and stowing it in her pouch.
They spent most of their day scouring the harbor in leisure, collecting the strange contraptions and various trinkets, pocketing a small fortune of wealth along their travels. As they decided lastly to search an abandoned alchemists hut, before turning in for the evening, Pellius dragged the jarred wooden door open. The side of the shop had been hit by something large as it had thundered passed, the eastern wooden wall lay in splinters along the floor. As Willow toed through the room carefully, her slight frame putting little pressure on the destruction beneath her feet, she eyed a row of untouched potions along the far wall. As she picked her way delicately along the debris, she felt the distinct crush of glass and liquid beneath her foot.
Get out!” she cried, instinctively diving from the wreckage towards the door.
The ruins rumbled with forceful arcana, a great blazing inferno rippled from beneath the wood, flaring high from the sides of the debris. Willow was quick enough to tumble passed the others, narrowly avoiding the reach of the searing lick of the flame. Pellius was not as lucky, his hefty solid armour slowing his escape, the brunt of the fire scorching his flesh and clothing. As they retreated swiftly, a trembling pulse shuddered the ground beneath them. It was a vial of alchemist’s fire that had crushed and released, its unchecked rage blazing within the wooden hut, the tremendous heat melting the other vials upon the shelves. In a catastrophic explosion, the wood blew apart, an array of coloured beams in different hues and tones swarming high into the sky.
“Is everyone alright?” Willow panted as they watched the magnificent inferno from afar.
“Mostly,” Pellius grunted, bright red skinned patches upon his hands and face.
“I think that is enough for one day,” Garvana huffed, “That was far too close for comfort.”
Pellius scoffed, “Agreed.”

It was on the return trip through the outskirts of Tythers that a scuttle of boots upon gravel pricked Willow’s ears to the east. She stopped in her tracks, signaling for the others to continue as they made move to stop along with her. Willow quietly crept back to the intersecting roads they had passed, peeking down the eastern shadowed alley. At the far end of the passage, she saw a man dressed in peasant’s clothes scampering in a hurry around the corner. She felt herself grinning, the temptation of the chase too delicious to ignore. She quickly signaled Pellius, telling him to continue on for her to meet up with them later at the manor.
Vystrynivvi,” she whispered, activating the arcana within the ring on her finger.
Her skin rippled as the invisibility took hold, running on light feet down the cobblestone road in pursuit of the mysterious man. When she reached the corner he had turned down, she slowed her steps, prowling silently ahead. She followed him through the winding back streets of Tythers, eyes sharp and keen, stride soundless and sleek. When he finally came to a stop, he looked around warily to be sure he had not been seen or followed. Willow smirked as he bent and lifted the metal grate to the sewers, before he lowered himself down. She waited until his soft footsteps echoed away before silently following him into the passage. Tiptoeing by the right of the putrid stream, she tracked him by the sound of his steps, winding through the underground system of tunnels. She stilled to a halt as she rounded the corner and saw him pulling aside a cluster of hanging vines that fell from the grate above. He carefully pulled a hidden lever, one so well concealed that Willow was unsure if even her keen eyes would have been able to find it. As he hefted his pack on his shoulder, a doorway opened inward and he stepped through. She heard the lock click as the door closed behind him, and quietly crept forward in approach. Her fingers traced over the lever as she strained her ears to listen to the cavern within. She heard the chatter of a group of men, restless jabs and rumbling laughter, the sound of a band of mercenaries.
“Aint got much this time, Brueder,” grunted a voice in a thick slang, “Tythers been cleared out. New group in town, aint bugbears, they human. Don’t look like the type ya wanna cross. Got passed ol’ maggie’s an’ got outta there.”
“They workin’ with the bugbears?” Breuder responded, “And the bugbears haven’t eaten them?”
“Seems if they scared of the humans,” the man replied scandalously, “They steer clear of ‘em!”
As the other men began to speculate on who the new visitors were, Willow silently lifted the lever, quickly stepping through the doorway. She knew their eyes could not perceive her, though she was still cautious to keep her movements slow and utterly quiet.
“Barney ya twat,” whined one of the men, “Ya left the door open again.”
Barney, the scout that had led Willow to their den, rose from his seat and sighed. He took a few clips to the head as he trudged to the door, passing directly by Willow, who had flattened herself against the wall. He pushed the door until it clicked shut, pulling on the handle a few times to make sure it had closed. When he returned to his seat, Willow took the time to look around the small chamber. At quick count, there were roughly twenty men and four women lazing about the room, dressed in tattered stained clothes and roughly worn scuffed boots. Either holstered to their hips or resting by their sides were short swords and daggers of shoddy and poor quality. Sitting at the head of the rabble, was a man who looked more like he should have been behind a desk in an office rather than crouched within a hidden chamber in the sewers. Dark and tousled hair, slight rough stubble on his chin, keen and shrewd blue eyes. With a finely made curved blade strapped to his belt, a somewhat dusty satin button up shirt, Willow figured he was the leader and the one they called Brueder. As she watched him laugh easily with his men, she was struck with an idea. There was opportunity to be had, though she knew not what he could offer her yet. She drew her blade from its sheath and silently crept along the outside of the chamber. As she approached him from behind, his brow furrowed, noticing something was wrong – a few seconds too late. Taking lead as Switch would, she swiftly wrapped her arm around him, drawing her blade tightly to his throat. As her invisibility vanished and she rippled into sight, the men let out startled and stirred shouts.
“Woah woah there missy,” Brueder chuckled hastily, staying his men with his hands, “There’s no need for any rash actions.”
Willow grinned towards the crowd, knowing her point had been well made. She released him, spinning her blade in her fingers. She traced her hand along his shoulder before pulling the nearest wooden stool towards her, turning to face him and sitting, leaning her elbows casually upon her knees.
“That’s quite the introduction,” he laughed, hushing his band and dismissing their worry, “Quite the skillset you’ve got there too. I’d be guessing you’re running those new folks in town.”
She smirked, “You’d be guessing correctly.”
“Ah,” he nodded, “Don’t claim to know your business, but I hear you guys got the bugbears running scared. You working with the Fire-Axe?”
“Perhaps,” Willow shrugged, “And you? You’re quite content hiding in the sewers?”
“Well no mam we ain’t,” he chuckled, “But here we’ll stay ‘til the army clears out. Figure they’ll be here only ‘til they find somewhere new to go. You guys, you got a mission. I respect that. And I don’t want to get in your way. Me, I’m just a business man. My family did business before anyone ever heard of House Darius. And we’ll still be in business when they’re long gone. My stock and trade is information. All sorts of useful information. I could help you in ways you don’t even know.”
Willow cocked her head to the side, amazed at his easy and casual demeanor.
“I am listening,” she grinned.
“Daveryn,” he continued conversationally, “This is town is chump change. This isn’t what you want. You got your eyes on the big prize. Am I right? You want the crown and that means Matharyn.”
Her eyebrow arched high in intrigue.
“My name is Anton Breuder, cousin to Nicholas Breuder. Nikki, he’s based out of Ghastenhall but he’s got his fingers everywhere. He’s got people in Matharyn right now. You play ball with me, I’ll introduce you to them. I’ll set you up. The Fire-Axe took down Daveryn real easy. Let me assure you, the capitol is a different matter. They will defend Matharyn to the bitter end. You need people on the inside and I can provide that. You kill me,” he said with raised eyebrows, “And you’ve proven that you easily could – you get nothing. What do you say? You want to make a deal?”
With her blade still twirling in her fingers, she couldn’t help but grin. She liked his confidence, she found nothing more pathetic than cowering. She had heard of Nicholas Breuder, though she had never met him. His men had been the ones to put her in contact with Switch, so very many years ago. She smoothly sheathed her dagger, leaning casually back against the wall.
“This deal of yours,” she said lazily, “Do you require anything more than keeping with your life? Safe passage through the city?”
He lips lifted into a smirk, “No thanks missy, rather stay here. The bugbears’ll leave eventually.”
“Then you’ve got a deal,” she shrugged, looking over the room, “I’ll have my men bring some food stores, rather pitiful what you’ve got here.”
“Much appreciated mam,” he nodded in thanks, “What we do have is some real Cerulean whiskey. Hey Sammy, fetch a couple’a glasses.”
The small man muttered his protest, but disappeared through the doorway and returned with two dirty tumblers. Brueder wiped the worst of the dirt away with his shirt, filling the cup with the dark liquid from the shining blue bottle he pulled from his side. When he held it out to her, she eyed it suspiciously with a raised eyebrow.
“Missy,” he chuckled, taking a showing sip from the glass, “I’m not so eager to die that I’d try poison’n you. You’d probably have my head clean cut off before you fell down.”
She conceded his point with a grin and took the glass he offered.
“Say, you folks staying round for a few days?” he asked, “Can probably help ya with your search. Us boys know a thing or two about the town.”
“I am not entirely sure how long,” Willow shrugged, “But I’m not one to turn down information.”
“Girl after me own heart,” he chuffed, “Right then. Well for the best looting you’d wanna go to Seaward.”
“There’s not much left after today,” Willow admitted with a laugh, “Most of it went up in flames.”
“Ah,” he frowned, “Well then, speaking of fire, ‘spose you know of ol’ Polydorus?”
“We’ve heard mention of him,” she replied.
“Right, you’d know the Seer has a tower named after him. Well he’s still there, throwing spells and fire at anyone who gets close. The other tower is in Duward, the Sable Tower, where the ducal regalia is stored. It’s all still there. There’s a camp of bugbears around it, but they haven’t gotten in yet. Beats me as to why, though we see ‘em go in, and only half of ‘em come out.”
“Interesting,” Willow commented, “Yet not unexpected. If the entrance takes more than brute force, they’ll be there until they wither themselves away to nothing.”
“Think you’d probably want to know that Harbold is still alive,” he said scandalously, as if the name warranted a dramatic response.
Unfortunately, Willow had not heard of him before, so the theatrics were lost on her.
“And he is…?” she asked.
“One mean ugly scarred son of bitch,” Brueder scoffed, “Captain Ricon Harbold, a die hard watch captain. Known for having the most elite and least corrupted squad in Daveryn; Harbold and his Heart-Breakers. The word about town is that he’s the one leadin’ the resistance.”
“Resistance?” Willow inquired, “I have heard only little of it. What do you know?”
“Heard reports of bugbears bein’ murdered in blind alleys, by somethin’ other than other bugbears. Apparently, they found an ogre head impaled on a iron spike.”
“And do you know where Harbold is hiding?”
“Think it’s somewhere in the sewers,” he shrugged.
“Anything more specific?” she droned.
“Sorry mam, when they show up, my boys don’t stick around.”
Willow threw back the last of the smooth whiskey, declining his offer for another.
“Lastly,” he finished, “Tandengate Prison in Cliffward is still secure. It’s been held by the warden, Arnon MacAnders. Ain’t no one breached that wall yet.”
“Well,” she said, leaning forward into a crouch upon the stool again, “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful. I’ll send my men along this afternoon.”
With a grin, she ripped her dagger free and pounced to his side in the blink of an eye, her blade pressed firmly into his neck as it forced his head up against the wall. Though startled and caught unaware, she appreciated the sly smile that lifted the corner of his lip.

“Think of turning on me,” she warned, her voice rasping with wicked sin, “Or your men think of taking more from mine than they offer – and next time, I wont be so nice…”