Olympus RPG Blog

It was a lovely day.

The smell and taste of the island air washed away the dullness of his senses, once more reminding Gabriel that he yet lived. Automatically, he flexed his hands, momentarily delighting in the strain and pull of muscles there. Around him, his allies … no, his friends were reacting to their emergence from that Underworld in various, expected ways. Mendel had already knelt in the dirt, his head bowed and his eyes closed as he thanked God for delivering them from such a terrible fate. Magnifico and Gestlin alike gave brief, almost cursory thanks to the Lord as well, but then, neither of them were especially devout. To no one’s surprise, Rainald was laughing, that booming voice of his almost seeming to rattle the ground. Dane and Merasiël were the hardest to read – the archer had removed his face-concealing wrap and was frowning at something no one else could see while the elven woman was breathing deeply, as if she had just finished a long run and was trying to recover. Gabriel watched for a moment, admiring the view, and then turned away. Not for the first time, he did not know what to do or how to honor the lost. His relationship with God had soured to the point that he held nothing but contempt for the Lord so giving thanks to Him despite having lost a good friend felt like hypocrisy at its finest and it had been years since he wept. So he fell back on the one thing that had not yet betrayed him.

Six steps carried him far enough away from the others that they would be in no danger followed by another two to factor in Gestlin’s inexplicable clumsiness, and with a flick of his wrist, he drew Misericordia in that long practiced motion. The blade sparkled in the sun and Gabriel stared at it for a long moment. Radskyrta was dead. Anger simmered within him, warring with the usual relief that it was not he who had paid the butcher’s bill, but Gabriel examined his rage, considered it, and then fed it to the mental flames he erected in his mind’s eye. In the Void, such trivial matters held no sway.

The forms came quickly, smoothly, efficiently and with them, his thoughts came just as easily. Two Hares Leaping. Snow in High Wind. Heron Takes a Silverback. Faster he pushed himself. Faster and with more precision. Kissing the Adder became Cat on Hot Sand, which flowed into River Undercuts the Bank. He was aware of the others speaking, but he did not hear their words. Mongoose Takes a Viper became Low Wind Rising. Arc of the Moon turned into Watered Silk.

Radskyrta was dead.

And yet … and yet … Gabriel found that he could not grieve.

The ground was shaking.

Hades’ roar and Persephone’s answering shriek split the air, shattering stone and striking like a physical blow. Gabriel stumbled slightly – it was still so very hard to think, to make decisions, and his mind was yet reeling from the rebirth of Persephone only moments earlier; it had been an audacious move on Mendel and Merasiël’s part, to put the necklace back on the zombie-like goddess, but Gabriel could not blame them, not with how sinister Hades had sounded when he demanded the ruby taken from his wife’s throat. Neither of the two … gods seemed capable of physically harming one another and were thus venting their rage upon their environment. Marble columns shattered into powder. Stone floors exploded, sending broken fragments spinning into the darkness. Concussive blasts erupted from Hades and Persephone alike, hurling the mindless back into walls with crushing force. Ribbons of light and energy coursed through the air from the twin powers raging in the center of the massive building, and one such brilliantly-colored stream slid across the distance and slammed squarely into Radskyrta’s chest, throwing him back to the ground where he slid a handful of yards. Coherence returned to his eyes abruptly and he blinked rapidly, glancing around as if in surprise.

“Wha…?”

“Move!” Dane exclaimed. He was already heading toward the exit as another torrent of light tore through the roof, shattering stone and cracking masonry. A rain of debris fell around them, cracking and splitting. Shocked into action, Gabriel sprang toward the confused-looking Radskyrta and pulled him sharply to his feet. Rainald was there a moment later, seizing the still staggered Radskyrta with one meaty hand and half-pushing, half-dragging him toward the exit. The air was thick with dust and debris which made the going difficult, but Gabriel darted toward the exit, hurdling small chunks of rock or unmoving, listless forms that had once been humans.

Beyond the doorway, he was greeted by another veritable horde of flesh statues, all staring at the trembling acropolis with their blank eyes. The island continued to rock, sometimes so intently that the quakes knocked many of the doomed souls to the ground. Still, there were far too many in the way…

“To the boat!” Dane ordered sharply, gesturing with one hand. “Rainald, open up a path!” The burly Northerner bellowed a laugh – it sounded so strange here, echoing strangely, hollowly, and even some of the dead looked in his direction, an expression of almost recognition on their faces – before lowering his shield and charging forward. Those in the way were knocked aside, some staggering away but managing to stay on their feet while many more fell to the ground. Gabriel paused for less than a heartbeat before throwing himself forward once more. He easily caught up with Rainald, then sprinted past him, ducking and evading around the unmoving bodies standing listlessly in clumps.

Down they fled, past the spirits of those adventurers they had slain in the ruins only hours earlier, through what felt like an entire army of the dead, all unmoving and staring at nothing at all, and finally through the hollow, vacant streets that were surrounded by empty buildings in a bizarre facsimile of a town. There were fewer of the dead here, but enough that it still slowed them somewhat as they raced toward the dock.

Behind them, the roof of the acropolis suddenly exploded.

The shockwave shattered the upper level of the small mountain upon which the acropolis rested, tearing apart the buildings on the lower levels and sending great chunks of rock and debris spinning into the darkness. One of the faceless statues that had been adorning the great building tumbled out of the night, smashing into one of the dead men only a handful of steps away from them and Gabriel recoiled away from the rain of colorless blood and bone that resulted from the sudden impact. Had they been anywhere else, he would have been unable to avoid the blood but here, it dissolved almost instantly into a fine mist that vanished entirely before it even reached him. There was absolutely nothing left of the poor, damned fool …

“There!” Dane pointed toward the boat they had arrived upon and the hooded figure standing at its tiller. It – Gabriel had caught a glimpse of the skeletal features under the hood on their first trip so he could not classify the thing as a He – was as much of a statue as the other soulless standing around and was facing in the direction of the great acropolis that even now boiled and trembled. At their approach, the … thing slowly turned its hooded head toward them. How would they get this foul creature to let them pass? He must have vocalized his question because Magnifico muttered something under his breath and Gestlin scowled. Rainald glanced back to the mountain – Gabriel did the same – and watched as torrents of blue, green and red fire consumed the once great building to its very foundations.

“To hell with this,” Radskyrta snarled. It was the first thing he’d said since recovering and, before anyone could react, he stumbled forward. Covering the distance in three long jumping steps, he reached the boatman.

And then, he punched the thing in the face.

The creature must have been as surprised as Gabriel was because it offered no defense and the blow staggered it long enough for Radskyrta to seize the boatman’s pole. He swung hard – the impact of the pole against the hooded creature echoed loudly and could be heard even over the roar of the twin gods dueling for dominion so far away. The boatman folded over the makeshift staff and, with a roar that sounded more like something Rainald might express, Radskyrta hurled the creature into the black river where it vanished with a sound that sounded curiously like a sigh of relief.

“Get in!” Radskyrta snapped.

“Move!” Dane exclaimed at almost the same time. Everyone crowded into the boat, automatically taking the same places they’d had on the first trip, and Gabriel found himself looking back at Hades’ island before he realized it. Great columns of fire and light were consuming the buildings now, though it seemed as though massive trees were sprouting everywhere as well. Was Persephone winning? Was Hades? How could they even tell? Another building fell apart, this time because of an immense tree that tore through the ground and climbed rapidly to full growth. Beside him, Merasiël stiffened and he gave her a quick look. She was staring at Radskyrta and Gabriel followed the line of her eyes. Icy shock washed through him.

Because Radskyrta was suddenly wearing a black cloak.

It had not been there moments earlier, but from the set of his face, Gabriel suspected that Radskyrta had known this was going to happen the instant he attacked the boatman. Was it because he was already dead, because the strand that connected him to the mortal realm had already been cut long before they ventured into the tunnels? Mendel was querying him, an expression of alarm stamped on the priest’s face, but Radskyrta offered no reply. Instead, he continued pushing the boat forward with his seized pole. His face could have been a mask of flesh for all of the emotion it showed but his eyes glittered with intelligence.

The boat slid through the darkness quickly before bumping against the shore. Radskyrta said nothing, even as he was peppered with a dozen questions, and then, with a single motion, he pointed toward the door where the three-headed dog was crouched. It was no longer a statue, but a living thing, and Gabriel sprang out of the boat, drawing Misericordia even before his feet touched the sand. The others followed suit, scrambling out of the awkward barge in the event that they would have to fight yet another beast to win free of this place. In the instant the last of them were off – Gestlin, of course, who also managed to trip and fall facedown into the beach – Radskyrta used his pole to shove the boat free. It drifted away, allowing them one final glance of their friend in the moment before he drew his hood up over his head.

Strangely, he was smirking as he did.

---

His arm still quivering, Gabriel held the final form – Heron Spreads Its Wings – for a single, extended moment, aware once more that the others had begun to gather their belongings. Rainald was hefting Radskyrta’s body, now wrapped in blankets seized from the other group who had caused so much trouble, and Merasiël was watching a bird dip and weave in the air while the three casters argued over something with Dane looking on. With a subtle twist of his wrist, Gabriel brought Misericordia to a ready position while facing the shrouded corpse, the sort of salute one would render to a blademaster of superior skill or prestige.

“Requiescat in Pace, my friend,” he murmured before returning the weapon to its scabbard. “I will ensure the path is cleared,” he announced.

He did not look back.

He hated swamps.

The smell, the lack of solid footing, the treacherous waters that hid all sorts of unseen dangers, not to mention the vile creatures that slithered and swam and crawled … all of it combined to create an environment seemingly crafted by a cruel and malicious God to humiliate him. Gabriel was a man borne and bred for cities, accustomed to the comforts afforded by civilization, not an insane explorer intent on viewing the very armpits of the world. There wasn’t even a single flat, solid surface here! How was a civilized man meant to fight in this slimy mudhole?

He pushed the errant thoughts away as he paused, exchanging a quick look and nod with Merasiël before stepping closer to help Dane to his feet, which was not an easy task in this damnable bog. The archer was grimacing with pain – the skeleton only just dropped by Mera had caught Dane by surprise and had somehow torn a vicious chunk of flesh from his face. Blood was gushing forth freely and as Gabriel pulled him upright, Dane wobbled. This was not good. If he slowed even more, they would not make it.

“Push through the pain,” Gabriel murmured, glancing up as he tried to locate Mendel. “You’ve had worse.”

“Gyns’Vail Swamp,” Dane said by way of agreement as he staggered forward. Gabriel nodded.

“We survived that nightmare,” he said as he pulled the archer toward more steady ground. “We’ll survive this.”

Eight Years Ago, The Otherworld

The situation had just gone from bad to worse.

Muttering darkly under his breath, Gabriel scrambled over the soggy terrain and crouched alongside Dane. The archer was kneeling in the muck, peering over an overturned, half-rotted log and staring into the mist-shrouded swamp. For a change, he’d pulled down his face-concealing cloth mask, though Gabriel had no idea why, not with the horrid stench all around them. On the bright side, he did not have to guess at Sardock’s mood, not with the dark scowl stamped on his features.

An eerie-sounding horn rolled out of the mist and was quickly joined by another and another and a third, all sounding from different locations around them. It unsettled the men and elves on this bank – even that pretty one with the cold eyes and lethal grace they’d found in that … Mortuturesihad, wasn’t it? – but Dane simply held up a hand and they quieted.

“And to think,” Gabriel murmured, “I almost stayed with Wallace.” Dane grunted in reply before glancing briefly at the small group of warriors arrayed around them. Numbering a little over fifty, they were visibly exhausted from the forced march, especially the three Huallapans who generally served as translators or local guides. One of them was also a fairly capable spell-weaver, though he was nowhere near as competent as Patch. Getting these three to the Bear Clan had been the primary objective but somehow, the damned Vasar had tumbled onto their plan. For the last three days, they tried to shake the pursuing bugs and Dane had finally opted to try this swamp, hoping that the Vasar’s inability to float would prevent them from pursuing. Unfortunately, it seemed that too had been anticipated.

“We have too few to hold long,” Dane growled. His eyes flickered to Gabe and then away. “We need reinforcements.”

“Rainald is closest,” Gabriel replied with a frown, “but he’s on the other side of this swamp with the Bear Clan.” Again, Dane grunted. Almost at once, Gabriel caught the line of his thoughts and flashed a grin. “You do not have to ask,” he said before gesturing for the spell-weaver to approach. The cold-eyed elf beauty – damn. What was her name again? It was so close to Miratáriel’s name – drew closer as well and was studying him and Dane. Of course she’d likely overheard … all of the elves probably had. No matter. “Friend,” Gabriel began in his halting Huallapan, “Need weave. Point me to … Bear Clan.”

“You mean to leave us?” the man asked rapidly. Another horn sounded and he visibly jumped.

“Get help,” Gabriel replied in the same tongue before giving Dane another look. “I hope you’ve been brushing up on your Huallapan,” he added in Anglish, earning yet another grunt.

“Alone?” the Huallapan asked, his eyes widening. Gabriel shrugged – based on personal observation, he was the only one who could outrun a Vasar on solid ground and, as much as he loathed swamps, they provided plenty of places to hide if he got himself into a tight spot. The spell-weaver added something else that Gabriel could not begin to translate before shaking his head. “I will add another protective weave to help.”

“As long as they don’t have an Alpha,” Dane murmured, “I think we can hold this spot for a few days.”

“Right.” Gabriel shucked his travel pack – it would only slow him down – and checked the straps on his armor. He gave their surroundings a foul look. “Have I mentioned how much I hate swamps?”

---

He set out an hour later, his skin tingling from the bizarre magics woven around him. The six elves tracked his departure, their bows strung and nocked, and he felt more than heard the whistle of twin arrows flash by him, thunking heavily into a Vasar warrior creeping through the swamp toward their tiny island. It recoiled, stumbling back into its equally hidden comrade, and the two made such noise that Gabriel was able to slip by them without notice. He paused briefly, looking back at the island – the mist shrouding everything made it nearly impossible to see anything, but he thought he could almost make out the shapes of the elven bowmen. With a grin, he tossed off a jaunty salute in their direction and turned away.

When the sun began its descent some hours later, darkness set in fast. Gabriel’s progress, already slowed due to the absolutely terrible footing – he ended up doing more swimming than walking or running – came to an almost standstill. He knew which way he needed to go thanks to that Huallapan’s weave, but being unable to see a damned thing made for slow going. Thankfully, the other weave worked marvelously: the lizards and snakes and other swamp denizens gave him a wide berth.

He crept along for hours, pausing to rest or to wait until the moons provided enough ambient light to illuminate his path, but after nearly breaking his neck for the tenth time, he sought out a suitably solid land-mass and settled in to wait for dawn. The many long hours of effort demanded their price and he quickly slipped into a light doze. It was far from restful – the noises of the swamp kept startling him awake and as tired as he was, his instincts could not ignore the danger he was in – so he was up and preparing to move the moment the sun began peeking over the horizon.

And to his absolute horror, he realized that he’d somehow managed to camp out in the middle of a fairly large Vasar contingent.

Most were simply collapsed on the ground, though if they slept, he knew not, but a handful walked the perimeter of the landmass. There were dozens present, most of a hundred perhaps, far too many for even a would-be blademaster to handle alone, but they had not appeared to notice him just yet. Strange-looking boats were shoved upon the shore and he wondered how in the name of God he’d failed to see the damned things the night previous. Gabriel slowly climbed to his feet, wincing at the sharp protests his muscles made, and quickly calculated the best escape route. It would take him … there, right past the Vasar … the awake Vasar who was looking right at him.

Reflex took over. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and he sprinted forward, drawing his father’s sword even as his long stride ate the distance. Already, the Vasar was beating its wings in that too familiar sound of alert and it was scrambling for its glaive. Gabriel reached it a heartbeat later, slipping around the creature’s wild swing. The forms came smoothly, instinctively – Kissing the Adder, followed by Snow in High Wind – and the Vasar fell with a hideous gurgle. Its brothers were moving.

So Gabriel ran.

Later, he would never quite be able to remember the running fight in the swamp and would instead recall only momentary flashes. Five Vasar in hot pursuit and a nightmare sprint over partially submerged crocodiles. The sound of insectoid screams as the reptiles, startled awake by Gabriel’s steps upon their broad backs, bore the Vasar under water. Another trio of bugs trying to corner him and the sword forms flowing into one another. Apple Blossoms in the Wind. Mongoose Takes a Viper. Leopard in High Grass. Bundling Straw. Blood and ichor splashed – one Vasar would fall and two more would take its place. The fierce swamp creatures became his unwitting allies – the Huallapan weave rendered him invisible to them somehow but they perceived the bugs well enough. Even the water was useful as the Vasar seemed incapable of traversing it easily. And always, Gabriel kept moving. To stop, to slow, even for a moment, that was death. He used every trick in his repertoire, took advantage of any misstep or hesitation by the Enemy, and somehow, someway, he won free.

He stole one of the smaller boats and used it to put as much distance between himself and the Vasar as possible, but this quickly became a losing proposition. They crowded onto their skiffs and pursued frantically, nine or ten or more strong rowers to just him, so Gabriel grounded his boat on the nearest landmass and sprang out. Once again, luck was with him as the ground was solid. They were not yet out of the swamp, but this was most definitely the periphery. The magical weave that acted as an internal compass tugged him in that direction and he threw himself forward. Now, more than ever, he needed speed.

How long he ran, he knew not. The bugs were still there, hot in pursuit and making so much noise that surely the dead could hear them. He stumbled, tripping over a concealed root, but managed to roll back to his feet just as the Vasar reached him. There were too many. Gabriel grinned then, fiercely, madly, and drew his rapier. If he was meant to die here, then so be it. But he wouldn’t be alone.

And then, he wasn’t.

Rainald charged past him, bellowing that ground-shaking warcry of his, and a wave of Huallapan barbarians followed, howling their own challenges. There was no precision to their attack, no grace or beauty, only raw strength hurled at the Enemy. Gabriel shook his head slightly, took a long moment to reclaim his breath, and then joined them.

“Running like rabbit, lítillbróðir,” Rainald said with a laugh as soon as Gabriel reached his side. Snow in High Wind felled another of the bugs and he gave the Northman a foul look.

“Dane sent me,” he hissed. The Falling Leaf redirected a glaive into the dirt rather sloppily and Rainald took advantage, smashing Gramjarn through chitin and carapace. “Surrounded and need aid.”

“Hah hah!” Rainald smote another of the Vasar, though this one mostly parried … which left him wide open to Kissing the Adder. “Many much fighting to do then!” He powered forward, laying about with that hammer and shield. “To swamp!” he roared and the Huallapan barbarians cheered, though it was likely they didn’t have a clue what the burly Northman had said.

And despite his bone-deep weariness, despite the heaviness of his still sodden clothes, despite how utterly filthy he felt, Gabriel followed. After all, he had promised Dane that he would be back.

God, he hated swamps.

It was a surreal experience. He was dead – they were all dead, though somehow they yet spoke and breathed and bled – and even still, in this impossible place, there were these moments of exquisite beauty. The melodies drifting from Magnifico’s lute were both haunting and ethereal, tugging at the parts of him not entirely rendered callous by the experiences of life, and the urge to dance was overwhelming. Merasiël was at his side, her expression pinched as she forced herself to sit still even as the others – Rainald, Gestlin, even Dane – swayed alongside the music the one-time hunchback crafted.

“I do not dance,” she had said in that flat, irritated tone of her’s when Gabriel had urged her to join him. She’d explained briefly that others had attempted to teach her but all had failed, which frankly surprised him. In combat, she was so very graceful.

“My first instructor with the blade was also my dancing master,” he said with a smile. For a moment, he almost mentioned Harkwood, but at the last moment, wisely held his tongue. He had some pride, after all.

Twelve Years Ago

The urge to draw his father’s sword and simply murder the incompetent fools in front of him was hard to suppress.

Fidgeting slightly, Gabriel shifted awkwardly, a false smile plastered upon his face as he tried very hard to determine how best to say what he was thinking without insulting the four fools in front of him. They were all nobles of sufficient rank that he was, ostensibly, supposed to bow and scrape to them, but this identity Miratáriel had devised for him, this Maestro Gavriel Costigan was just quirky and difficult enough to avoid that sort of thing. He was an artist, after all, and nobility of any real standing vied for the ‘pleasure’ of his time. Thus, his Megalan accent was thick, his gestures grand and his temper short. He wore strange clothes and carried a strange (to Caithness eyes) weapon on his person at all times. Why, he even lived mostly with the elves and to these provincial fools, nothing was stranger. And because of those foibles, these Harkwood nobles would smile, nod, and inwardly laugh at him.

Gabriel hated Maestro Costigan.

“No, no, no,” he said crossly. “You must move faster, yes? Be the air!” He tried very hard not to look at the ridiculous hats that were the latest fashion – thankfully, this identity allowed him to scoff at such things, but he had little doubt Miratáriel would try to get him in one later simply because she could see how much he disliked them. How she had convinced him to playact as this chattering fool continued to elude his comprehension. “Like this,” he added before flowing into a heavily modified version of Willow Embracing the Breeze. One of the noblewomen frowned, something resembling recognition flickering in her eyes, and Gabriel stepped closer to her, elbowing her idiot husband and his feathered hat out of the way. “Count begin,” he ordered the musicians along the far wall before leading the woman through a couple of steps. Her dress made it difficult to judge her footing but of the four, she was the only one with anything resembling grace.

“Maestro,” the feathered fool began, a frown turning his already plain face ugly, and Gabriel stepped back, allowing the man to retake his place.

“Again!” Gabriel declared loudly. He caught sight of Miratáriel lurking near the doorway, her eyes dancing with glee, and gestured toward her in the imperious manner that Maestro Costigan favored. For a moment, their eyes locked and he could see her brief irritation, but he only smiled again. This stupid job had been her idea, after all, and Gabriel had gone along with it simply because he had not wanted to deal with finding other work. He hated the necessity of it – he’d had a need for money enough to live on and a place to recover from his injuries that was large enough to practice the forms, and nothing good had come of him selling his sword in recent years – but if he had to suffer, then he would share his misery. “Come, Mira!” he said loudly. “Let us show them how it must be done!”

“You will pay for this,” Miratáriel hissed in Elven as she joined him, but he only flashed her a grin before reaching toward her hand.

And then, they began to dance.

They twisted and spun and twirled, their feet constantly moving. She was a feather in the wind, a doe bounding through the woods, or perhaps a falcon swimming through the sky, and it was so much better that the heavy footed stomping that the nobles here called dancing. Back and forth they went, never actually touching because that would thoroughly ruin the tease. The four nobles watched, sometimes laughing, sometimes frowning, but never silently, and finally, Gabriel let himself spin away from Miratáriel, arresting the half twirl so he stood before the nobles.

“Much better than the clumping around like horses, no?” The other nobleman – not Feathered Fool, thankfully – scowled and Gabriel once more donned a fake smile. “Tomorrow, we shall increase the tempo, yes? Speed and grace!” He gave them all a bow that was only a half shade away from looking totally insincere and waited until they and the musicians had departed before rounding on Miratáriel. She was leaning against the wall and grinning.

“You look ridiculous,” she said in Anglish and Gabriel had to grunt in agreement. He tore his lacy jacket free and tossed it aside, not really caring where it landed.

“I do not think I can do this much longer,” he said as continued to strip the accoutrements of Gavriel Costigan off. Clad only in his pants, he drew his father’s sword and stared at it for a moment. “A dancing master,” he muttered darkly. “My first fencing master called himself that, but he never dealt with fools like that.”

“How do you know?” Miratáriel pulled two of the sparring blades from where they were cleverly concealed … on the wall, in plain sight where fools like the ones who had just left would barely glance at. She gave him a questioning look and Gabriel nodded. He placed his father’s rapier atop the nearby table and caught the sparring stick she tossed toward him. Almost before he’d even accustomed himself to its weight and balance, she slid forward aggressively. Their blades clashed.

And for a second time, they danced.

In this, Gabriel knew himself to be far better, so he stayed on the defense, calling out pointers and corrections to her stances. Her inability to connect clearly irritated so Miratáriel did as she always did when she was losing: she played dirty.

“My father wishes to speak with you,” she said and Gabriel grimaced slightly. He batted aside her clumsy thrust before twirling around her follow-up swing.

“How lovely,” he lied before falling into The Grapevine Twines. Miratáriel’s sparring sword clattered the ground. “We must work on your grip, my dear,” he said. She smirked then and he read the thoughts in her eyes. When she pounced this time, he willingly offered no defense.

And for the third time that day, they danced, though this one was more pleasurable than most.

 

He was bleeding memories.

It was a bizarre sensation – cool without being cold yet warm simultaneously, while being both draining and fulfilling, all at the same time – and Gabriel watched as another rainbow of color broke free from his body before dissolving into nothing. He felt different but could not explain why. His skin crawled, as if it was too small for his body, and the dragon-mark tattoos itched and burned and froze. Something was wrong…

It would be so easy to just give up. He was bleeding and aching and so very, very cold. Snow hung heavy in the air around him, blanketing the woods with white. Biting wind curled through the trees, cutting through his sodden clothes as if they were not there. The surviving ambusher was gone along with his allies, confident that Gabriel was dead and that he was safe from retribution. No one would care or even notice if he let the cold take him and right now, it would be so very easy …

Gabriel blinked and fought back the urge to shiver. Of course there was something wrong, he snarled at himself. He was dead. They were all dead. He didn’t know how the others fell … no, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d seen Gestlin die, trapped in the grip of that beast that killed them all. And then, it had seized him, tore at him, ripped him apart…

Kneeling before his father’s cooling corpse, Gabriel fought the urge to just give up. There was a whimpering man behind him who held the secrets in his heart but Gabriel wondered … was it worth it? He could simply kill the man and vanish into the multitude of people in this wretched town, could forget that he had ever been an Auditore or that he possessed a certain skillset. Disappearing into the crowd would be so very easy and he would no longer have to struggle …

At his side, Merasiël shivered, though he didn’t know why. She was still gripping Angrist tightly and, while a part of him felt strange seeing someone else with the knife, Gabriel did not regret passing it on to her. If nothing else, he’d seen a flash of actual emotion on her face and that alone had been worth the gesture. It had not been a smile, but God help him, he would coax one out of her yet.

He stood quietly on the hilltop, concealed by trees heavy with leaves, and stared down at the crumbling ruin now swarming with activity. Auqui was dead. He’d seen the boy fall, seen him buried under stone and masonry, and the part of him that had kept him alive for so very long whispered that a strong man could survive such terrible injuries. Gabriel shook that away and concentrated on his next step. Auqui was dead and his damnable bishop yet lived. Challenging a man with that much political and spiritual authority … it was to court death and Gabriel was tired of this chase, tired of this life. It would be easy to turn away, to vanish into the populace. He could go elsewhere, Araterre perhaps, or that rumored Sahud far to the north. No one would know and it would be so easy.

“I feel … strange,” Rainald murmured, though even that was louder than it should have been. He waved one hand around, frowning at the after-image of light and color left in his arm’s wake. Mendel murmured something – it may have been a curse or a prayer; with how strangely the priest had been acting, Gabriel did not know which was more likely – and Magnifico danced a strange little number before pronouncing something Gabriel did not understand in that overly elaborate style of his. Gestlin and Dane stood apart from everyone else, frowning. They were all staring at the whispers of lost dreams and forgotten memories.

“You look like you want to quit,” his father whispered to him from twenty-five years earlier. The madness that would send them fleeing from Craine was three summers away and the rest of Gabriel’s family yet lived. “When life becomes difficult, everyone wants to quit. They look for the easy path, the one that provides the greatest reward for the least amount of work. So what you must ask yourself, Gabriel, is whether you wish to be like them or if mean to take the harder path.”

No. Gabriel’s hand automatically sought out the weapon at his side. The familiar sensation of the rapier’s hilt grounded him, reminded him of who he was. Surrender? Bah. Had he surrendered when facing that beast in the water with only Angrist to strike with? Had he surrendered when they stared at hills black with Vasar? Yield, hell. He had just gotten here.

In the snow, aching and bloody and wounded, Gabriel ground his teeth together and kept walking. Three months later, he would kill the crossbowman who had tried to murder him.

Staring at his father’s body, Gabriel thrust aside his grief and honed it into a weapon. He would leave this Caithness town in four weeks time, leaving behind nineteen bodies and one missing lordling who would never be found.

Concealed by the trees, Gabriel turned away and took the first steps on a new hunt. It would take him to the Fortress of Tears where he would earn his dragon-mark and then across Megalos to far-distant Serrun where he would become the Angel of Death.

And in the land of the dead, surrounded by listless ghosts and the only people in this world or the next he considered friends, Gabriel Auditore straightened. By God, he would not quit now. How did that quote go? Into the shadow with teeth bared, screaming defiance with the last breath, to spit in Satan’s eye on the Last Day.

“There,” someone called out. It was Dane, of course, with his eyes that could see the wings of a gnat at a hundred paces. He was pointing at an impressive structure atop the hill. Every ghost stared at it, expressionless faces somehow betraying their … longing? Yes. Longing. They had given up. Gabriel frowned as he glanced around. Well … this certainly looked like the Shadow to him.

Perhaps … perhaps it was time to begin screaming defiance.

“Let us go say hello,” Gabriel declared with a smile.

A cleaved head no longer plots.

The Northern proverb uttered by Rainald kept rolling around in Gabriel’s head, even as he climbed down the rope ladder, although he knew that he should be focusing on the task at hand. It was a statement that was both simple and yet obvious, and something he would have to keep in mind for the future. How many of those he’d encountered in the past had returned to haunt him because he held back from finishing them or erred by not finding a way to end them as they deserved? Gabriel scowled. Zabka was certainly one…

Eight Years Ago

They were arguing again.

It was the usual disagreement – his student wanted to join the fighting and he had forbade it – but there was a touch more anger in Auqui’s voice than Gabriel had recalled hearing of late. Anger and sullen defensiveness, neither of which should have surprised him, not with Auqui having entered those difficult years where he was no longer a boy but not quite a man. For his part, Gabriel was too exhausted to deal with this nonsense at the moment, not to mention hungry and cold and sore. All he wanted to do was find his blankets, curl up underneath them, and forget this day ever happened. Such a thing was not feasible, not with tonight’s planned raid against the Vasar’s lines.

Though there was no ice on the ground, winter had not yet completely lifted its icy grip from the Huallapan land, which should have given them a massive advantage over the Vasar, but thus far, they had yet to take this damnable Hive. Coordinated assaults by the crusaders were a thing of the past, with the leaders of the rebels and royalists factions both jockeying for overall command. Lives were being spent liberally – the older knights especially seemed more interested in dying heroically than actually accomplishing anything useful – and senseless attacks were ordered on an almost hourly basis. Though he’d long ago sworn off returning to old habits, Gabriel was seriously considering assassinating some of the more intransigent fools in command on both sides just so someone else could lead.

“No,” he said in response to Auqui’s latest entreaties. “You are not ready.”

“I’m better with a sword than half of these fools!” the boy retorted fiercely.

“More than half, I’d wager,” Gabriel replied with a tired smile. “But you are still reckless and too confident by a large margin.” He held up a hand to stop Auqui’s next line of reasoning. “Your leg still has not fully healed,” he pointed out, which immediately caused the boy to flush in embarrassment, “and I well remember how you gained that injury.”

“I could have handled it,” Auqui muttered sullenly.

“If Dane had not shot it,” Gabriel retorted, “that bug would have killed you.” He did not bother pointing out that Auqui was not even supposed to be in that particular skirmish, nor that the boy had ignored explicit instructions to stay out of it, mostly because his student too often only heard what he wanted to hear. Instead, he took a seat on the large rock that Rainald had declared ‘the singing rock’ … though what that meant, no one but the Northerner knew.

“This is not fair,” Auqui said. “When you were my age,” he began.

“When I was your age,” Gabriel interject calmly, “I was arguing with my father who kept telling me that I was reckless and overly confident.” He smiled softly, intent on remembering those days instead of the ones of terror and fear that came later. He was about to add more when he noticed the approach of a man he had little desire to interact with. “Your grace,” he greeted as Bishop Zabka drew closer. A lifetime of Catholic teachings drove Gabriel to his feet but he did not offer to kiss the man’s ring nor did Zabka offer it.

“Sir Gabriel,” came the calm reply. The honorific still felt uncomfortable, though even the royalists had taken to treating him as a knight, no matter that the status was bestowed upon him by Lord Wallace. “And … Auqui, is it not?” His pronunciation was wrong, but only slightly.

“It is … your grace,” Auqui replied, stumbling over the title. The boy’s Anglish was still heavily accented, but he improved daily and it was certainly better than Gabriel’s Huallapan and quite frequently, more comprehensible than Rainald’s attempts at speech. Together, Gabriel and Auqui had developed a curious pidgin tongue that used both of their native languages. Zabka’s eyes widened slightly.

“You speak Anglish well for one of your world,” he began before looking back to Gabriel. “The Church has need of translators, my son,” he said before he glanced back in the direction he just came. Gabriel followed the line of his gaze to a larger group of tents – a handful of armsmen were watching over a cluster of Huallapans while a pair of harried-looking priests visibly struggled to communicate with the former slaves. “Would your young student be so kind as to assist us in our time of need?”

“May I, Master Gabriel?” Auqui had slipped back into his native tongue and the eagerness pulsed off him like a living thing. “I want to help and this could be important!” Gabriel almost frowned – he saw through Auqui easily enough. This was an opportunity for the boy to strut around in front of his fellow Huallapans and be the focus of their awe since he was clearly a warrior and not just a fisherman. Had anyone but Zabka been involved, Gabriel would not have hesitated to give permission, but with this man …

“Go,” he ordered after a moment of consideration. “Be back before dusk,” he added as Auqui’s grin lit up his face. The boy nodded and then turned away, almost instantly falling into the arrogant strut that was Cat Crosses the Courtyard. His limp spoiled it a little, but only to Gabriel’s expert eye.

“Many thanks, sir knight,” Zabka said as they both watched Auqui attract exactly the kind of attention the boy sought. “My flock were ill prepared for this crusade so this will assist tremendously.” Gabriel said nothing, though he did offer a slightly nod. “We began poorly, I think,” the bishop said abruptly. Gabriel gave him a flat look.

“You tried to have an innocent woman murdered because you thought she was a witch,” he replied in as cold a voice as he could manage.

“For which I have sought atonement and absolution,” Zabka stated. “I have asked for the Lord’s forgiveness for my sins.” His gesture encompasses the whole of the crusader host. “Is any man or woman here without sin?” Gabriel observe none of the expected tells that would see in a man speaking a mistruth, but then, an exceptional liar would know to hide such a thing and if there was anything he’d learned in his nearly thirty years of life, it was that men of Zabka’s station were often such exceptional men.

“And yet, your grace,” Gabriel said slowly, “I find that I mistrust you.”

“An honest reply.” The bishop smiled. “And understandable to one who has known only conflict.” He glanced away. “I remember you,” Zabka said abruptly. “From Craine.” His expression darkened. “And I remember well Abbot Publius’ sins … may God have mercy on his poor, tormented soul.” He crossed himself and, automatically, Gabriel followed suit. The bishop eyed him for a moment. “We have similar goals, I think,” he began, “and I would not wish to have us as enemies.”

“Goals?” Gabriel gave him a look. “My only goal is to train my student to become the best swordsman he can be.” For a long moment, the bishop was silent.

“An interesting application of your particular talents, scion of Auditore,” he said. “We shall speak again, my son.” He made the sign of the cross before Gabriel. “Go with God,” he added before turning away.

And, exhausted by a day of bitter, harsh fighting, Gabriel let him go, not entirely registering the implications of the bishop’s use of his family name. He might have even puzzled it out if given a moment to relax but Dane’s approach distracted him.

“Come with me,” the archer ordered. “I have need of your eyes.”

“You cannot have them,” Gabriel replied. “I am rather attached to them, actually.”

“I think I know how we can get into the Hive,” Dane said in an irritated voice. He was hiding it well, but to those who knew him, there was no hiding how insulted he was over not being allowed to command due to his birth.

“Well, then,” Gabriel said as he straightened. “You have my attention now.”

The stench of blood was still thick in the air.

Gabriel leaned heavily against a shattered stone column, trying very hard to ignore the throbbing agony in his leg. After all, with how close they had just come to dying, with Magnifico grievously wounded, Rainald missing an eye and Radskyrta dead, it would seem the height of folly to complain about a simple arrow wound. He scowled. Four of the five hostiles were dead, the fifth missing … and Gabriel still didn’t know what this nonsense had been about.

“Here.” Merasiël drew alongside him. Like nearly everyone else, the elf was badly injured. Automatically, Gabriel shifted slightly to give her room so she could get off her feet, which seemed to irritate her at least a little though the slight grimace of pain she made when she took the offered seat hinted at injuries worse than he thought. Wisely, Gabriel held his tongue and waited. She offered one of the strange-looking pronged weapons to him. “Thought you might want to look at this.” Gabriel accepted it, tested its balance for a heartbeat, before finally grunting softly. It reminded him of a main gauche, though he would be the first to admit that he had only rarely used a parrying dagger. By his calculations, it had been almost twenty years since Father first showed him the basics with such a blade and, though he had used one infrequently throughout the decades since, he was long out of practice with it. Abruptly, he realized that Merasiël was studying how he held the weapon – what was the bloody name of this thing again? – and a flash of amusement stabbed through him despite the grim circumstances. Of course she had an ulterior motive. Didn’t everyone?

“A sai,” Gabriel said suddenly. “This is called a sai.” Merasiël gave him an impatient look and Gabriel offered her a tight smile. “My father taught me to use a weapon like this. It was a parrying dagger.” That certainly drew her attention, but she was a connoisseur of knives, so was that any surprise? “I am somewhat rusty, but once my leg is attended to, I will be happy to show you what little I know.”

“There is something wrong with your eye,” Mendel was telling a seated Rainald. The monk looked somewhat the worse for wear himself, but was still seeing to the injured.

“This thing?” the burly Northman exclaimed loudly, jabbing a finger toward the practically-empty socket. “Gone! Like Odin!” He frowned darkly. “Hildra will not like, I think maybe.”

“Who is Hildra?” Merasiël murmured under her breath in Elvish. Gabriel grinned and responded in kind. If for no other reason, he enjoyed having Merasiël around because it let him use Elvish. It was such a beautiful language…

“His wife.” He twirled the sai around one finger, then casually swapped it to his other hand with an expert flourish. Yes. This would be a nice weapon to use. “You would like her, I think.” Automatically, his eyes returned to Radskyrta’s unmoving form.

And he remembered.

Six Months Ago

He was not sure how he had been roped into this.

Walking alongside Cometes, Gabriel listened to the unintelligible gibberish that passed for a language among Rainald’s family. Hildra was driving her cart with expert skill while somehow managing to keep the two boys under control with little more than a stern look or sharp word. Clearly, it was some form of magical ability he did not comprehend.

“I take Uncle to monk-healers,” Rainald had said some hours earlier. “Go with family to village for me. I owe you favor.” Hildra had exchanged some forceful words with her husband, but had finally agreed after several long minutes of loud argument. It was so very strange to see the big Northman back down from such an unassuming woman and, if he was honest, Gabriel would have to admit that was at least most of the reason he’d agreed. Any woman who could make Rainald obey her had to be an impressive lady. Besides, he very badly needed to replenish his own travel rations and a mug of decent ale (or, since this was Caithness, flavored piss that passed as such) would not be unappreciated.

So here he was, several miles out of a village he didn’t know the name of and wondering if there was any way he could convince Hildra to pick up the pace. He was on foot and moving faster than her damnable cart.

As the terrain smoothed out, Gabriel could not shake the feeling he had been here before. There was something terribly familiar about this place, something … ah. Yes. He, Rainald and Dane had killed a handful of deserters near here some years ago. There should be a collapsed windmill somewhere nearby, although that had been six or seven years ago. It might have collapsed entirely by now. He frowned. Zabka had pointed them to this place. Had that been part of his grand scheme even then?

The road curled through the woods, drawing closer to the small village, and Gabriel immediately felt familiar instincts begin tingling. They were being watched. He fell into Cat Crosses the Courtyard without thinking, noting immediately how Hildra broke off her comments in mid-sentence. Very softly, she called out his name in that curious accent of hers, but he ignored her. Where? Where were they, dammit?

Six poorly dressed men carrying rusty axes and swords stumbled out of concealment. None of them had anything resembling actual armor – one carried a battered, much abused shield that probably could not protect the man from a stiff breeze, and the rest wore tattered rags that might have once been clothes – but they had numbers. Had he been alone, Gabriel would have not hesitated to attack but his eyes darted to the cart and the three inside. Rainald would be displeased if he let harm come to them…

“That’s close enough,” he said flatly as he took a ready stance in front of Cometes. With an almost casual gesture, Gabriel flicked his cloak back, exposing the burnished gauntlets bearing the dragon-marks upon them. Here, so deep in Caithness territory, it was a toss-up whether any of these men even realized what they meant, but at the very least, they’d see he was both armed and armored. “Take another step and I will kill you.”

The calmness of his words, the casual confidence in his posture, and the fact he wore steel upon his chest when they did not gave them pause. One of them – the nominal leader, Gabriel guessed – glanced back and forth between his men and the cart, before licking his lips.

“We only want the cart,” the man said. His expression darkened when he looked at Hildra. “And the woman,” he added as he took a step closer.

So Gabriel killed him.

After so many years of dealing with hardened warriors and deadly Vasar, these men were no more dangerous to him than a blind and dumb ten year old wielding a wooden practice blade. As Gabriel sprang forward, his father’s rapier whispering free from its scabbard, the men reacted with open surprise that turned abruptly to panic when they saw their ‘leader’ suddenly stagger back, his throat opened by Arc of the Moon, and Gabriel flowed through the forms like water rushing down a mountainside. Kissing the Adder dropped another of the men and Kingfisher Circles the Pond batted aside a wild swing from a panicked defender, leaving the fool wide open to Mongoose Takes a Viper. A fourth man fell, his body pierced through by a spear – so, Hildra was not totally useless in a fight, then – though he was not dead, and then the fifth shrieked as Gabriel disemboweled him with Snow in High Wind. At this, the sixth would-be robber turned to flee but Gabriel barely hesitated: the familiar weight of Angrist fell into his hand as he twirled in place and he hurled the elven blade with every ounce of his strength. It was a lucky shot – he’d simply hoped to strike the man, perhaps to slow him down long enough for Gabriel to reach him and finish him with the rapier, but in mid-step, the would-be bandit stumbled over a half-buried root. Angrist punched through the back of his skull with a meaty thunk. The man staggered forward another three steps before spilling forward onto his face. He twitched twice, and then a third time when Gabriel summoned the knife back to his hand.

“I did warn you,” Gabriel said as he drew abreast of the one with the spear through his belly. He was still squirming in agony and had no time to do more than jerk in agonized surprise when Gabriel thrust his father’s sword into the man’s heart. He twisted the rapier, then pulled it free. “Good throw,” he remarked calmly as he pulled the spear free before glancing up toward Hildra. She had retrieved another spear and a battered old shield. To Gabriel’s surprise, the oldest boy who could not be more than five was off the cart, armed with a knife, and ensuring that the fallen would not be getting back up. He should have been horrified, but Rainald’s casual acceptance of violence over the years implied a far less civilized upbringing.

Says the person who killed his first man when he was little older than this boy, Gabriel mused darkly. He frowned before tossing the spear back to Hildra.

“Safe?” she asked as she snatched the spear out of the air. Or at least, he guessed that was what she said. Her accent was even thicker than Rainald’s. Her eyes quickly tracked across the fallen men, then back to Gabriel. This was the first time, he realized, that she’d seen him do more than simple form practice and if Rainald was any indication, Northern warriors were accustomed to skirmishes made up of long, protracted exchanges that relied more on strength and toughness than anything like precision.

“Safe enough,” he replied with a nod and a shrug. If she understood him, he had no idea – how exactly did she intend to negotiate with the townsfolk? – but he guessed she understood the gist of his intent as she snapped another order to her eldest son and he went to work checking the corpses for valuables. Naturally, he found nothing of use – these bandits had been desperate to have struck like they did – but Gabriel simply watched, his attention more focused on their surroundings in case there were more of these fools than those on the ground. The forest was oddly quiet, so if there were any more, they were wisely staying hidden. He yawned.

“Ready?” he asked when the boy had rejoined his mother at the cart. They’d thrown the rusted weapons into the back, possibly to sell, though Gabriel doubted they would get much for them. Hildra gave him a pointed nod and flicked the reins. The sullen-looking pack animal snorted angrily and set off. Gabriel glanced at the bodies before him once more, then gave the forest another look. He was almost certain that there were others watching now.

Before he realized what he was doing, he’d dug a handful of silvers from his purse and tossed them onto the ground. Cometes blew out an irritated (or perhaps amused) breath as Gabriel climbed into the saddle.

“See to these fools,” he called out. “And reconsider this life. You’ve seen how it ends.”

One day, Gabriel mused, that would be him in the dirt, bleeding out.

But not today.

---

“Not today,” he murmured as he stared at the corpse that had once been a friend. Merasiël gave him another sidelong look and Gabriel forced a smile on his face, no matter that he did not feel it. “You’re holding it wrong,” he said. “Ease up on your grip. Yes, like that. Better?”

“Better,” she replied with approval.

After a moment, Gabriel began to suspect that she was intentionally trying to distract him from his darker thoughts – he had been thoroughly useless during this fight thanks to that damnable force dome and the dead archer, and because of that, Radskyrta was dead; it was taking every bit of his self-control to hide the rage swimming in his belly, rage that was focused almost solely inward – but he did not call her on this, even if it gave lie to her oft-stated lack of concern about the feelings of others. Merasiël was far more layered than she pretended to be. But then, aren’t we all? Gabriel mused briefly before turning his focus back to the elven woman before him.

He would find a way to repay this kindness, one way or another.

Though it had been already cured thanks to Gestin’s magery, the smell of the beast’s poison was still rank in Gabriel’s nose. He could not help but to scratch the rapidly fading scar on his cheek. It itched fiercely – was that a side effect of the magical healing or something he was simply imagining? – but he thrust it away and gave the dead beast another look. The head of a lion, a goat and an asp? Gabriel shook his own head in disgust and glanced around.

Rainald was muttering darkly under his breath – he had been late to the fight for some reason, though Gabriel knew not why – and Radskyrta was standing off to one side, visibly elated over having survived yet another fight. As was so often the case, Dane was silent as he watched their surroundings, but Gestlin more than made up for that with his incessant rambling about everything and nothing simultaneously. At the moment, the strange wizard was attending Merasiël – so, she too had been bitten; Gabriel gave her a quick once-over to ensure she was otherwise uninjured … apart from her pride, of course, before letting his eyes continue their transit. Mendel and Magnifico were discussing the other dead creature even as the clown’s two dragons tore it apart. Gabriel watched the large beasts for a heartbeat longer before looking away once more.

And still, the stench of poison would not go away. It was so very like…

Twenty Years Ago

His blood was still hot, his temper frayed, but Gabriel swallowed the rage and struggled to find control.

Four of the would-be murderers were already dead – two others had fled when the fight turned poorly for them, but Gabriel recognized their faces and knew where they would run to – but a fifth was on the floor, moaning over the stump that had once been his sword hand. He was too deeply in shock to flee, but still, Gabriel did not turn his back to him, not even as he knelt before the dying man twisting and turning on the filthy cot.

The murderers had struck without warning, smashing through the doors of the hovel Gabriel shared with his father and attacking with a ferocity that was unexpected. Here, in this tiny little hut, tucked in the slums of this miserable town, it had been harsh, bloody knife work, though Father had drawn the family blade near the end, after they had felled two of the slayers. That had not been enough. One man had managed to penetrate Father’s defenses with a lucky strike.

And the poison on that murderer’s blade had almost instantly dropped him.

“Gabriel.” Father’s voice was harsh, tortured, strained. His muscles twitched and spasmed. Ligaments groaned at the strain. Father was weeping tears of blood even as crimson poured from his nose and ears. Gabriel tightened his hold on the family blade, casting a sharp, fierce glare at the prisoner, before leaning closer to his father. “Need you to be strong,” Claudius Auditore hissed through clenched teeth. “Remember promise.” At that, Gabriel nodded tightly, even though he had no intentions of obeying it. A year ago, when they first came to this place, this miserable, stinking town where they could keep their heads down, his father forced him to swear he would seek no vengeance against the Megalan houses who had been behind the death of their family. Father groaned again – he clearly tried to say more, but the pain was too great – and Gabriel inhaled deeply. He fought for control, clawed for the Void where he could feed his every emotion.

“I will be strong, Father,” he murmured as he set aside the family sword. He drew his long knife, trying hard to not shake. This poison was known to him, after all. The Widow’s Kiss, it was called, and if the victim was not hurried on to the Afterlife, they would linger in unspeakable agony for days, sometimes even weeks on end. This miserable town barely had a church worthy of the name and the priest who ran it was a lazy drunk who could barely craft a passable sermon, let alone heal deadly poison.

“Do. It.” Father rasped. Gabriel hesitated.

And then, he pushed the blade home.

Long moments later, after the light had gone out of his father’s eyes, Gabriel forced himself to his feet. He turned to face the cowering man on the floor. The would-be murderer’s gaze instantly locked onto the bloody knife in Gabriel’s hand and he paled even further.

“You and I are going to have a discussion,” Gabriel said coolly. “This will not be over quickly,” he continued, smiling at how the man tried to press himself back even further against the hovel wall. “You will not enjoy this. But I will know the truth of who sent you here and why.” Words began tumbling from the man’s lips, names and places and amounts, and Gabriel listened quietly, intently, until the confession faltered. “Not enough,” he said darkly, gesturing toward the still form of his father. “Not enough by half.”

He set fire to the hovel when he departed, burning his father’s corpse in a manner the northern barbarians would approve of, with the bodies of Claudius’ slain arrayed around him. The blaze spread quickly, consuming the small house and quickly spreading to the other homes here in the slums of this Caithness town. It pained him to do this – the fire endangered hundreds of innocents, but there had been seven or eight such blazes this particularly dry summer, so everyone was well prepared for another – but he needed the cover it provided to escape undetected. Enraged grief thumped through him, but he clung to the last tatters of his self-control. There would be time to mourn later, when he was not in this damned city that stunk of horses and shit, when he was not hunting the fools who should not have accepted this contract.

His father’s sword was at his side and three of the poisoned dirks were safely secured in protective scabbards designed for this sort of thing. He intended to return these weapons to their proper owners, blade-first, and then…

And then, he would turn to Megalos. There were men and women there who needed killing.

Behind him, alarm bells began to ring.

Auqui.

Standing on the deck of the Gleaming Endeavour, his hands gripping the railing tightly, Gabriel stared at the Templar who had bared his head and revealed his identity. Shock had rooted him in place, had stolen every bit of his strength, and he stared at the boy … no. He was a man now.

And he stood with the enemy.

Fury chased the surprise, overwhelmed it, seared it into nothing. Gabriel tightened his hold on the ship’s rails, aware that Dane and Mendel were both quizzing him, having recognized the figure on the beach as well. How was this possible? How was Auqui still alive?

How?

Four Years Ago

On the first day of summer, atop the crumbling ruins of a long abandoned fortress that dominated a lonely stretch of beach, Gabriel Auditore faced his lost student.

The day was glorious – wind that smelled of rain caressed his face while gulls circled overhead, intent on the many fish that danced in the bay, and the feel of the warm sun just now peeking over the distant mountains that dominated the far horizon was pleasant – and Gabriel inhaled the soothing scents. This interminable hunt had dragged on for so very long that he no longer knew quite where he was anymore; this abandoned keep could be Megalan, or might have paid homage to the masters of al-Wazif, or perhaps even belonged to Cardiel. None of that mattered, though. The hunt was finally over.

He did not have long to wait. Auqui, wearing leathers rough with wear, approached slowly, each step deliberately placed upon the decaying stone walkway that loomed over the beach many yards below. The facial scar Gabriel had given him an eternity ago had healed nicely – one could only see if one knew it was there – and the boy moved with an easy grace hinting at lethality. Seeing the hint of facial hair was jarring and a solemn reminder that the Huallapan was no longer a boy. He wore no armor and carried only a long, thin rapier at his side. Gabriel turned to face him and bent his head formally.

“Auqui.”

“Gabriel.” The lack of an honorific stung, but Gabriel thrust it away, buried it under a layer of icy control. “You should not have come here.” Auqui’s faint accent was barely noticeable, but the cold anger in his eyes could not be hidden.

“I sought a reckoning,” Gabriel replied softly. He met the boy … no. Not a boy. He met the young man’s eyes. “Did you kill her?” he asked. There was no need to identify Kira, not by name, not to Auqui.

“No,” Auqui said simply before frowning. “But I made no effort to stop those that did from murdering her.” Rage swelled and Gabriel swallowed it, concentrated on control. His emotions vanished into the void. “She learned of my master’s plans and had to be dealt with.”

“Your master.” This time, it was Gabriel’s voice that could have cracked ice and the fleeting half-smile Auqui gave him was mocking. “Is he here?” Gabriel asked, his eyes flicking to the crumbling ruins. “I would greatly like to greet him as he deserves.”

“He is not.” Again, Auqui offered that mocking smile. “His business is elsewhere.”

“So. There is only us.”

“As it should be.” The boy dropped his hand upon the sheathed weapon at his side. “Will you do me the honor of discarding your armor?”

“You stood aside and let those men torture and murder her,” Gabriel replied tightly. “I owe you nothing.”

“Then let us be done with this, Master,” Auqui snarled, his blade whispering free. He glided forward, too aggressive by half as always, but Gabriel was waiting, his father’s sword glinting in the sun. The Kingfisher Circles the Pond met Courtier Taps His Fan. Back and forth they danced, the sharp shriek of metal against metal echoing through the air. Watered Silk batted aside The Falling Leaf. Stones crumbled underfoot as the ancient bridge shivered and trembled under their weight. Gabriel fought the instinctive urge to use The Mongoose Takes a Viper – how often had Auqui seen him use it? – and Two Hares Leaping met Striking the Spark.

Gabriel’s footing faltered slightly upon the rocks and Auqui pounced. Kissing the Adder sparked off the elven corselet and the boy grunted with frustration before throwing himself into a diving roll as Gabriel nearly took his head with The Heron Spreads Its Wings. His apprentice was back on his feet by the time Gabriel had recovered his footing and they circled once.

No words were offered.

Auqui came in low – The Kingfisher Takes a Silverback – and Gabriel caught the attack with Branch in the Storm, redirecting his onetime student’s longer blade away before countering with Black Pebbles on Snow. Blood flew as the Auditore family blade scored a glancing cut and Auqui snarled at the pain. He came on strong once more – The Dove Takes Flight followed by a very rapid Lightning of Three Prongs – but Gabriel flowed away from the assault, springing up and over the onslaught. Rocks fell free as he pushed off of the side, smashing into fragments on the beach below. He landed lightly and instantly retaliated with The Wolf Lunges. It was a rare form, one that he’d used only a handful of times, and the hilt punch caught Auqui completely by surprise. Blood streaming from his nose, the boy barely managed to evade the follow-up overhand strike.

Again, they circled.

Gabriel could see the doubt beginning to creep into his former student’s eyes. They had exchanged a dozen blows and already, Auqui was bleeding from multiple wounds. Neither were particularly life-threatening, but the fact that Gabriel had avoided using any of the more advanced techniques was something that could not be ignored. That, better than anything else, betrayed the depth of his anger at his student. This was meant to be humiliation and Gabriel noted the very instant comprehension sank in.

He gave Auqui no time to rest and came in fast – Threading the Needle, another simple strike taught to students very early – and then batted aside a surprisingly sloppy Parting the Silk. Anger trembled on the edge of the void, but Gabriel pushed it aside. River of Light very nearly took Auqui’s arm and, as the boy met it with Kingfisher Circles the Pond, Gabriel let slip his fury.

And then, he really attacked.

Back Auqui fell, offense abandoned in the face of Gabriel’s determined onslaught, but it was not enough. Snow in High Wind gave the boy another bloody stripe across the chest and Bundling Straw badly injured his left arm. Their blades clashed once more and in Auqui’s eyes, Gabriel could see fear. It should have given him pause, should have stayed his hand or urged him to mercy.

It did not.

Mongoose Takes a Viper came faster than it ever had before and he felt the sudden, all-too familiar shiver of his father’s sword sinking through flesh. Auqui gasped.

“Requiescat in pace,” Gabriel murmured as the boy staggered back, his own weapon sliding out of her nerveless fingers and clattering to the stone. Stepping back, he let Auqui stagger back, dark blood staining the boy’s jerkin and pants. The stone masonry shivered once more and Gabriel had just enough time to throw himself back before the entire section Auqui stood upon collapsed.

Without a sound, the boy vanished from sight, tumbling down among the falling stone.

A quartet of arrows striking the stone masonry around him was Gabriel’s first warning that Auqui had lied about being alone and he grimaced at the sight of the archers now manning the ruined battlements of the fortress. There were only a handful, but he had seen how much damage even a single well-trained bowman could do, especially as there was no way for him to reach them! He risked a quick glance over the side – Auqui wasn’t moving and was at least partially trapped by stone debris; a fall from this height would likely not kill, but with the bridgework collapsing around him? – before kneeling quickly to retrieve his onetime student’s fallen rapier. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it spinning toward the nearby ocean as he backed away, eyes flicking between the archers and the unmoving form below. The wise option was to retreat. Arrows continued to rain down around him but he was clearly out of their effective range at the moment. Descending to give his betrayer the Widow’s Kiss would give them a chance to drop him. And there was still at least one other man who needed to die. He looked once more at the unmoving body below him. Yes, Gabriel decided. Auqui was dead.

“Requiescat in pace,” he repeated before turning away.

He never looked back.

With a loud clash of metal, Rainald met the guard’s attack with his own shield and held. There were two of them, armed only with what could be donned rapidly and still with sleep crusting their eyes, plus the Templar and the crossbowman. Merasiël was already in the great room, having tumbled past one of the soldiers, but Gabriel’s attention was on the Templar. He was holding his weapon aloft, lips moving in what could have been a prayer but was more likely as spell. Gabriel grinned wolfishly – this was just like fighting the Vasar all over again.

Well … almost.

Eight Years Ago

The hills were black with bugs.

They flooded down toward the vanguard from both sides of the mountain pass, their great legs eating up vast distances in great chunks. War horns – human, elven, dwarven, Huallapan – sounded as the crusaders fell back into practiced formations. Already, flags were flashing as the commander of this host – Sir Dane Sardock – issued rapid commands and instructions for placement. The slap of bowstrings echoed around them and hundreds of charging Vasar stumbled as arrows slammed home. Enough of the creatures fell that their surprise assault was blunted just long enough for the last of the crusaders to fall into place.

To Gabriel, the noise of the battlefield was of little importance. He focused on control, mentally envisioning a flame as he fed all of his emotions into it. Around him, the soldiers of the infantry formation he was ostensibly in command of shifted anxiously, muttering and grumbling with poorly concealed fear. More than a few glanced in his direction – he was, Gabriel had to admit, the least armored of them, though to a man, they had witnessed his lethality in battle – and he let their gazes wash over him without visible reaction. Here, in this place, in this moment, none of that mattered. Inhale control. Exhale emotion.

“Hold!” the serjeant bellowed, his words resulting in the soldiers firming up their shield wall. In all matters, he was the true leader of this company, not Gabriel, and no one thought otherwise. The Vasar drew closer …

Boom. The bugs smashed into the braced pikes and spears with a teeth-rattling crash. Blood and ichor flew as the creatures struggled to overwhelm them. Men screamed. Metal clashed against chitin. The screams of wounded and dying warriors, human and not, filled the air like a shrill cacophony.

And still, Gabriel stood, unmoved, unreacting, unyielding. His eyes flickered over the Vasar’s numbers. Where? This many could not be controlled easily. So where? There!

He sprang forward, using the bent back of a soldier kneeling to reload his crossbow as a springboard to hurdle up over the shield wall. Cries of surprise rang out behind him as he landed in the middle of the Vasar formation, rolled forward and then darted up. He twisted around one of the bugs, spun around another, and kept running. A moment later, he reached his target.

The Alpha shrieked and hissed in surprise as Gabriel attacked. He opened with Arc of the Moon and the bug threw itself back, narrowly evading his decapitating strike, and then tried to retaliate with its glaive. Gabriel caught the surprisingly light weapon thrust with his rapier, expertly redirecting it into the dirt. With the bug momentarily out of position, he flowed into a favored strike. The Mongoose Takes a Viper put the creature even further out of place and his rapid follow-up thrust punched through the armored chitin. Again, the Alpha shrieked, though this time it was in pain, and the Vasar it was psychically connected to visibly trembled. Even as the bug staggered back, Gabriel struck again with Snow in High Wind – ichor flew as the Alpha dropped to its knees. It had just enough time to look up at him before The Thistledown Floats on the Whirlwind took its head.

Instantly, chaos erupted amongst the Vasar attacking his unit. Some went insane with fury, attacking anything, including their allies, within range. Others simply froze in place and stared stupidly at the crusaders who were killing them. Yet others simply continued on with what they were already doing, in some cases utterly ignoring their now insane brothers stabbing at them from behind.

It was … glorious.

“Push now!” the serjeant roared. Spears and pikes and swords flashed. Gabriel eyed the results, nodded, and flowed forward, his sword dancing. Stones Falling Down the Mountain became The Tower of Morning. The Leopard’s Caress crippled the leg of a bug, opening it up for Kissing the Adder. The Falling Leaf caught a glaive attack, and he slid easily into Watered Silk, leaving behind another twitching corpse. “Well done, my lord!” the serjeant exclaimed as Gabriel almost leisurely flowed from Lightning of Three Prongs to Low Wind Rising. The soldiers advanced another step, allowing him to step back behind their shields. He glanced to the west where Rainald was assigned and smiled – the North-Hammer was in the midst of the battle, laying about with that ridiculous hammer of his, but it seemed he too had opted to target an Alpha at the first opportunity. On the other side of the northman, the unsmiling elf woman, Merasiël, was attached to another formation, but they were too distant for Gabriel to see.

He shook his head, pushing the random thoughts out of his mind, and went back to work. There was killing to be done.

---

“You dance the forms well,” a dark-haired stranger said later that evening. The camp was in a jubilant mood – the Vasar ambush had cracked like a nut thanks to expert placement, and the thunderous approach of the Royalist detachment led by that mountain of a man, Malfoy, had sent them scattering. There had been casualties, of course, but they were few compared to what could have been and the field was littered with slain bugs. Even better was the sheer number of local Huallapans present who had witnessed the decisive victory. They chattered with awe and excitement, many already pleading to join the army.

“Not well enough,” Gabriel admitted with a scowl. His arm still stung from where a Vasar glaive had eluded his defenses and scored a cut. Mendel had given it a look and then ordered it wrapped, but was too busy with the truly wounded to waste his magical skills upon such a tiny scratch. Rainald had mocked its very existence – loudly – and then tried to convince everyone within hearing distance (and some beyond) that he could have held the bugs himself.

“So say we all,” the stranger said with a smile. He was wearing the arms of a Megalos footman, but bore a single-edged long-blade that curved slightly instead of the usual broadsword so prevalent in this army. The man stood with both hands clasped at the small of his back, but at a simple glance, Gabriel knew he was in the presence of a true blademaster. It was in the man’s posture, the easy, poised way he stood, or perhaps the cool composure in his eyes. Likely a combination of them all. “Who trained you?” the man asked.

“My father,” Gabriel replied. “He never formally tested for dragon-mark and died before he could finish my training.”

“By what I saw, Friend,” the dark-haired man said, “you have seen to that yourself.” He unclasped his hands and offered one. “I am Gaius, late of Quartedec.” The gauntlets upon his arms bore the unmistakable sigil of a dragon-marked master of the sword and the tattoo upon the back of his ungloved hands.sparkled in the sun.

“Gabriel, late of Wallace.” He clasped the man’s hand. “You are far from Quartedec, Master Gaius,” he added.

“I was traveling through Caithness when this expedition was assembled.” The master flashed a smile. “What sort of swordsman would I be if I made no efforts to join it?” His eyes flickered with amusement the moment he saw Auqui practicing nearby. The dark-haired half-elf girl who had somehow attached herself to them both- Kira, Gabriel thought she was named – was there as well, watching with those laughing eyes of hers. “You have students,” Master Gaius said with something undefinable in his voice.

“The boy lost his father some years back,” Gabriel replied slowly. He frowned – Auqui was being sloppy with the forms again; he would never be as good as he wanted if he didn’t learn to focus! – and continued carefully. “Instructing him … he and I feel into this arrangement by circumstance, not intention.” Master Gaius nodded. “The girl … she has asked to learn the blade but I have not answered.” Girl. Was it accurate to call her thus? She was half-elf and could easily be twice his age.

“Still,” the dragon-marked master said, “your name is well known within the camp. The men of Caithness accord you the respect of a blademaster.” Gabriel dipped his head slightly in simple acknowledgement of this fact.

“Kill enough of them and even Caithnessers will take note,” he replied wryly, earning a short bark of laughter from the blademaster before him. “I was about to have dinner,” Gabriel added. “Would you join me?” The dark-haired man shook his head.

“Alas,” Gaius said, “I have other duties to attend.” He drew his weapon in single, fluid move, falling into a ready stance even before the blade was out. For his part, Gabriel had already spun away, his own weapon whispering free of its scabbard. “Let us see if you are worthy of the acclaim I hear,” the dragon-marked man said. He flowed forward.

And they began to dance.

Never in his life had Gabriel been this hard-pressed, not even when he’d first touched a sword and his father began to instruct him. The Kingfisher Circles the Pond narrowly batted aside Courtier Taps His Fan. Master Gaius was faster than anyone he’d ever faced, even those damnable dark elves, and the whole world constricted to this single moment. Twisting the Wind met Kissing the Adder. Sounds fell away, leaving only the void. Ribbon in the Air nearly disemboweled him, but Watered Silk almost took Master Gaius’ left eye. They circled.

“You dance the forms exceptionally well,” the older man said. “I had my doubts with that shorter blade …”

He attacked even before he was finished speaking – Lightning of Three Prongs – but Gabriel was retreating, slipping sideways to counter with The Mongoose Takes a Viper. It slid past Master Gaius’ defenses and would have struck home had the blademaster not twisted away desperately at the last instant. Again, they circled.

“What is this madness?” someone who sounded a great deal like Wallace bellowed. Gabriel gave Master Gaius a questioning look and the older man nodded slightly. Together, they stepped back from each other, lowering their blades in smooth, practiced motions that almost mirrored one another, and finally bowed slightly.

“A test, Your Grace,” Gaius said. He sheathed his sword. “I wished to see the talents of your young knight firsthand.”

“By trying to kill him?” Wallace was glowering, though most of the warriors around him looked either bored or annoyed that he’d broken the contest up. Rainald was definitely irritated and stood in a ring of men that Gabriel knew to all be inveterate gamblers. Money had not yet changed hands and now seemed unlikely to do so.

“Without challenge,” Master Gaius said simply, “one cannot test their limits.” He bowed his head quickly, first to Wallace and then to Gabriel. “Another time, young blademaster,” he said with another smile before gliding away with an easy grace that hinted at lethality.

“Many apologies, my lord,” Gabriel said, directing his words to Wallace and successfully pulling the man’s attention away from the departing Gaius. Departing from a man of his rank without seeking his permission could be considered as something of an insult – the fact that Gaius chose to use the arrogant saunter that was Cat Crosses the Courtyard indicated it was obviously intended as such – but Gabriel did not want Wallace to act without thinking. Again. There was already enough trouble with the royalists, especially if the rumors about the lord and that Simonton merchant girl had any basis in truth; they didn’t need to create even more trouble with the much needed Megalan mercenaries. “I will see that this does not happen again.”

“Damned fools,” Wallace muttered as he stomped off. He was flanked by Dane who offered only an amused shake of his head, and a moment later, Gabriel stumbled back a step when Rainald stabbed a meaty finger into his chest.

“I lose much silvers on you,” the burly northman grumbled. Gabriel blinked.

“We did not finish our duel,” he said.

“Five moves and dead,” Rainald retorted, gesturing sharply with one hand that held up four fingers. “Less probably, then with the dancing off and stealing more of my deads.” He glared halfheartedly and Gabriel frowned, mentally translating the big man’s words into something understandable.

“Your deads,” he repeated. “Your kills?”

“Yes, this. You know I mean this. Next time, making better, lítillbróðir.” He walked away, bellowing for someone to break out the ale in that ground-rattling voice of his. Or perhaps he was asking for the privy. With his accent, sometimes it was difficult to tell.

The feel of eyes upon him drew his attention and Gabriel almost winced at the too-bright gaze of Auqui. As before, the boy was staring at him with stars in his eyes, so desperate for glory that he refused to look at the hard work still ahead. Try as he might, Gabriel still had not instilled in the lad the understanding of what it truly meant to be a blademaster. The constant work, the fanatical devotion to the Art, none of that sank in. All Auqui saw was the end result and he wanted it now.

“Snow in High Wind!” he snapped, suddenly cross. To his credit, Auqui responded quickly enough and with adequate grace so as to not entirely look the fool, but Gabriel scowled as if disappointed. “Arc of the Moon!” he ordered as he drew closer, his critical eye noting the weaknesses in his student’s form. The young woman, Kira, drew her own weapon and followed Auqui’s lead – she had a natural grace and speed that the boy needed to work for, but her inexperience with the stances resulted in sloppy forms – and Gabriel blew out another frustrated breath. “Terrible,” he muttered, including both of them. “One quarter speed,” he said as he assumed the ready stance himself, nodding when they did the same. “Cutting the Wind,” he instructed as he flowed into the proper stance.

There was a lot of work to do.

It was strangely enjoyable working alongside someone else.

Gabriel ghosted through the shadows outside the Order compound, three or four steps ahead of an equally silent Merasiël. This would require knife-work in the dark and there was no one in this band of theirs he trusted more for that. Rainald and Dane were fine in open combat, and the casters invaluable at so many other times, but here? Now? He much preferred the company and skills of someone who understood the meaning of stealth.

They reached the wall without incident and Merasiël gave him a questioning look that he answered with a sharp nod. Being the taller of the two, Gabriel laced his fingers together and half-crouched. A moment later, Merasiël was there, her foot in his hands, and he heaved up. She scrambled over the wall with barely a sound, and Gabriel followed, using as a springboard one of the many wooden stands normally populated by vendors during the day. He touched down in the shadows of the stable a heartbeat later, noting without surprise that Merasiël had already drawn Angrist. Seeing someone else carry the weapon that had belonged to him for nigh on a decade was … odd but necessary given her lack of supplies. Besides, it did not mean anything. It was merely a temporary loan. Yes, she was attractive and of elven ancestry and they shared more similarities than not, but that didn’t mean … he wasn’t …

Oh. Oh, dammit. Not again. He shook his head in slight disgust and focused on the mission ahead of them. There would be time to evaluate this later. He wanted to scowl. Well, at least he had not humiliated himself in front of her as he had when he first met Miratáriel so very long ago…

Twelve Years Ago

He was being watched.

His first instinct was to reach for his father’s blade, but Gabriel shoved the reflex aside and continued his slow plod forward. By his admittedly muddled reckoning, Harkwood was close and with these ridiculous Caithnessers still trying to murder one another in this senseless rebellion, it stood to reason that the small city would have scouts deployed, especially if the rumors were true about the new elven defenders augmenting the guard. If he was honest with himself, that was one of the reasons he’d decided to strike out for Harkwood following that catastrophe at Blythe – in his four and twenty years, he’d only seen an elf in passing or at a distance and curiosity, ever his bane, set his feet upon this path. Abruptly, Gabriel scowled. It was not as if he had anything else to do at the moment.

The feel of being watched never waned as he continued along the well-trod path that should have been a road but most certainly could not be considered such a thing even by the most liberal of definitions, though Gabriel was too busy trying to keep from grimacing with each step he took. His entire body ached, but it was the poorly healing wound in his side that concerned him the most. He had taken it during the mad retreat from Blythe, when the townsfolk fled screaming before the reptilian onslaught and the few men capable (or willing) to stand in defense of their homes broke before the attack. Few were as lucky as he – Fat Tom, his employer, was dead as was every other member of the merchant’s guards – and for that he was thankful. He simply wished the pain would stop.

Did Saurians poison their blades, he wondered as he continued his slow walk? Or even clean them? Filth from poorly cleaned blades could kill a man as quickly as steel. He had done what he could after escaping the battle, but the ragged gash was hot and inflamed. God, but it hurt. He needed a healer. How many days had it been since Blythe? How long since he saw Fat Tom swallow a yard of steel and die screaming? How much time since he escaped those maddened lizards, descending upon his lamed horse to devour it like starving beasts? All of the days blurred together now – he remembered the many fleeing refugees, scattering in all directions, and the screams of the dead and the dying, and the smell of death and blood and shit.

Wait. He smelled blood now. His reflexes, dulled by exhaustion and pain, finally began to rouse and he started to reach for his father’s sword.

“I would recommend against that, warrior,” a melodic voice instructed him. Seeming to materialize out of the very woods themselves was a distinctly feminine form, though he could not see her face, not with that dark hood covering her head and the sun so low in the sky. She carried a bow of exquisite craftsmanship and at a glance, Gabriel could not but to admire her visible grace. It was as if she floated across the earth instead of walked. Never before had he seen anyone move that well, not even his late father who was as close to a blademaster as any man could be without bearing the dragons. He shook the thought away and tried to focus through the haze of fog in his head.

“I’m heading toward Harkwood,” he said through a thick tongue. His head was swimming and he was so hot, which made no sense. Spring was only just beginning and he had not pushed himself that hard today.

“Then you are walking in the wrong direction,” the woman said. She nodded back the way he came. “Harkwood is that way and nigh on two nights travel.” Gabriel frowned, glancing back. Had his fever so dulled his wits that he missed a turn? Where did this trail lead? “You are injured,” the woman said as she glided toward him. This close, he could make out her face – she had strong features, with cool, hazel eyes that studied him with a calculating gaze. There was something distinctly non-human about her appraisal of him. She was an elf, he realized.

“A scratch,” he murmured in response. “Pay it no mind.”

“Scratches do not stink of infection, warrior,” the elf said wryly. ”Come. The day dwindles. I have a camp nearby. We shall attend your wound and upon the morrow, I shall take you to Harkwood.” She turned away, as if his obedience was a fait accompli, and after a long moment of consideration, Gabriel followed. If he truly was lost as it would seem, then having a local escort was a very good idea. Damned Caithnessers. Why could they not place signs or markers as Megalos did?

They passed the source of the blood he smelled on their way to her camp – it was a trio of dead orcs, each with twin arrows standing out of their chests. Their throats had also been slit and, by the look of one of the three, they had died hard. Gabriel paused briefly, examining them with open curiosity, and the woman gave him a look.

“You act as if you have never seen the dead before,” she said in a light voice.

“Not dead orcs,” Gabriel replied. “Men, yes, and Saurians as well, but I’ve had few dealings with orcs.”

“Then I envy you,” she said. There was a volume of grim history in her voice and Gabriel wondered who she had lost. “Come,” she ordered sharply.

Her camp was expertly concealed and located in a very defensible location just within an immense but mostly hollowed-out tree. There was only the one bedroll and the impression he immediately got was one of order. The ring of stones surrounding the small fire formed an almost perfect circle, the three small pots were arranged from smallest to largest, even the bedroll was tight and square in terms of placement. Gabriel took this in, noting how the woman unstrung her bow, then placed it in the very center of her blanket, going so far as to nudge adjust it slightly though he could not for the life of him see what she changed.

“Saurian,” the elf woman said as he was fighting against a sudden urge to just sit down for a week or five. “You said Saurians.” She pushed her hood back, revealing hair the color of ripe wheat. “You come from Blythe, do not?” Gabriel nodded as he eased his own travel pack to the dirt, grimacing as his muscles pulled at the fire at his side. He noticed her frown but it did not register for absurdly long moments. His head began to pound and his vision swam. Did he have any water left? He was suddenly unbearably thirsty.

“I was there when it fell,” he muttered. “I am Gabriel.”

“Of Megalos, by your accent,” the elf mused. “My name is Miratáriel.” She added something else, something liquid and long and impossible for him to repeat, let alone comprehend, and Gabriel blinked again. Was that her entire name? Merciful God, that had to be hard to say fast. He paused, opened his mouth to reply and, without thinking, offered her his hand, intending to thank her for her hospitality.

That, as it turned out, was a mistake.

The movement pulled at the wound in his side and what had been a small fire erupted like an inferno. He felt something tear – likely his poor attempts to stitch together the injury – and the sudden, unexpected pain drove him to his knees with a gasp. A cool hand touched his forehead and he heard Miratáriel speak from a hundred leagues away.

“You’re burning up!” she said and Gabriel tried very, very hard to smile.

And instead, he threw up on her boots.