The pure mist of morning, glowing with the twilight of dawn, filled the silent grove. Soundless and motionless, the forest awaited the return of the hallowed sun to light its leaves and branches, and cast the dapple of playful shadows on the soft, leaf-strewn earth. The stillness was broken by a solitary figure, drifting through the muted woods like a forgotten dream. Garbed in the dark tones before the sunrise, the man wandered seemingly without aim, twisting and turning through the trees and brush. To the man, however, his path was as clear as any road that others may tread; a network of branches, roots, animal trails and spiderwebs. He alone saw the maze that marked his path, and solemnly walked this unseen lattice.

The invisible hand of fate guided his journey, and in doing so led him to the edge of the twilight-cloaked forest. The old sage lifted his hood, looking out over the landscape before him. Dew dripped from the simple crown framing his weathered face, and his eyes burned like stars in a cloudless sky. He beheld a modest farming village just beyond the clearing, its dutiful residents already hard at work in their fields and orchards. Settlements such as these had suffered the most since the Years of Dusk, utterly exposed to the dangers that roamed this new and strange world. This particular hamlet was far from the exception, as the winds of fate divined that even now it faced certain destruction. Arkos, known in whispers and rumors as the Sage of Waterfalls, saw in the river of time a horde of savage mutants stampeding from the south and laying waste to the village and its people. Squinting, he could even make out the inhuman forms of the beastmen in the distance, encroaching on the oblivious farmers. The old man hardened his heart; tragedy was a fate more common that most wished to realize.

Arkos continued along his path, taking an eastward route around the village, well out of the path of the nearing mutants. However, as the hour of the village's destruction drew near, Arkos suddenly found himself blinded by the fires of a destiny reforged. He fell to his knees, clutching his face in shock as the pain gradually subsided. As he reopened his eyes, he found himself looking into the blazing sunrise, the golden herald of fate's capricious ways. Armor cloaked in brilliant sunlight, a small company of mounted knights rode with great haste, swords drawn and banners unfurled. In the fields just short of the village the soldiers met the inhuman monsters, riding through the horde like a steel wind.

Mutants fell with every swordstroke, dying with horrific, gurgling screams. Even so, their monstrous strength overcame several knights, tearing them limb from limb or hurling bodies and horses across the field. Despite the terrible might of their foes, the knights pressed on, their courage never faltering. The battle was short and bloody, but the mutants were quickly routed. Arkos found that he had been wandering toward the battle without realizing it, and came to his sense as his sandal met the cold metal of a fallen knight. The mutants were far off now, their fleeing forms being ridden down by a contingent of the remaining knights. One of the warriors, adorned with more heraldry and plumage than most of his peers, took notice of Arkos and rode to meet him.

As he approached, Arkos was able to examine the knight more closely. His armor of shining steel, sullied by the foul ichor of the mutants, carried old dents, perforations and bloodstains. His warhorse was strong and hardy, but still grey and scarred. The heraldry of his shield had been worn greatly by many battles, the enamel chipped and discolored. Though clearly a veteran, he was far from the image of a regal and unsullied warrior of nobility. He came within speaking distance of Arkos, and lifted his visor to reveal a face not that much younger than the sage himself, caked with dirt, sweat and blood.

"You there, old man! Are you well? There is taint in this place, I would come no closer." He spoke in a voice that was tired and hoarse, but still commanded attention and respect.

Arkos ignored his question, as he had inquiries of his own. This knight had his men had done much to alter the skein of fate in this place, but at what cost? And for what reason? How did this village, or those mutants, factor into the greater web of destiny? He burned with curiosity to know why men had fought and died here; their cause, be it noble or otherwise.

"Tell me, Ser," Arkos began in his lilting Atlantean accent, and met the knight's dark eyes with his own unearthly gaze. "For what cause do you and your men ride? Why do you fight here, why do you die here?" Arkos bewitched his words, hypnotizing the man. He reached for the man's true thoughts, and the truth of his heart would be revealed.

"It is the duty of the true soldier, though my forebears may have forgotten it." The man answered, conviction gathering in his voice as he put forth the contents of his soul. "I swore an oath to defend common law and decency, even if the kingdom I swore it to no longer stands. Riches are worthless. My honor is my own to behold. I fight- all of us fight -because there is nothing else worth fighting for. What point is there in strength of arms or noble birth if we cannot protect our fellow men?" A single tear welled up in the knight's eye, rolling down his face to cut a clean streak through the grime of battle.

Arkos, satisfied, turned his attention away from the fading battle and back to the sun, steadily rising in the east. Dawn was rising over the Iron Kingdoms. The brightest dawn since a time long past.

The dawn came at last, sending bright rays of yellow and red and orange across the rocky fields and rolling hills of the Atlantean homelands. The sigil of the Arsenikos dynasty displayed a bright golden sun, with a black stag contained within. Let us hope that both suns are truly rising once more.

Ioannes Arsenikos rose from his bed, leaving his wife snoring softly within the canopy as he crossed the chamber to dress. It had been three days since the city of Helorus surrendered itself under siege to the growing Empire of Acharnae, one of the dozen remaining heirs to have been birthed from the corpses of the Philosopher-Kings. Until Helorus had capitulated, the number of claimant polis had stood at thirteen -- luckily, the self-professed king of the city had had the sense to capitulate and swear his sword (and, more importantly, his levies) into fealty towards the growing Acharnaen realm. With any luck, he would not be the last.

Ioannes had left the spearmen and archers that made up most of his army under the control of his wife, the ambitious and cunning Anthousa, whom he had married but a few months ago, as he rode with his cavalry to encircle the city and take its forces by surprise. They had swept over the farms and mills and wells that surrounded Helorus, cutting down what few scouts they came upon, and as a result the Helorians had no time to burn their fields or poison their waters in preparation for a siege. When the main armies arrived a few days later to properly encircle the city, Ioannes had called for a parley with the so-called King of Helorus and offered him a pardon if he should give up his crown. After a brief argument rife with insults, the now-lord had come to his senses and surrendered meekly enough.

For the next three days, then, Ioannes had made himself, his household, and his army a tolerated if not entirely welcome guest in Helorus, allowing time for his weary levies to recover and assimilate the forces of Helorus that were now Ioannes' to command. Ioannes had also feasted the lord of Helorus and his family for each of the nights he had imposed himself on them, and perhaps managed to convince them of the righteousness of his cause.

Ioannes was no fool, of course. He had arranged for the lord's two eldest children to be escorted back to Acharnae -- as wards to be educated by Ioannes' own family, he insisted, but the unspoken agreement was that they were hostages to their father's loyalty. And so most of the levies of Helorus had been called up to join to Ioannes' own, though the lord of Helorus himself was content to remain behind his walls when the army marched off.

Today would be the day of marching, Ioannes knew. He had commanded that the army be drawn up into ranks outside of the city by dawn -- looking out his window from the chamber, he could see them assembled just outside of the gates. Ioannes dressed quietly before rousing Anthousa, who in turn dressed and joined him as they slipped out of the city. No doubt Helorus would wake more easily to be rid of the thousands of intruders with whom they had been forced to share their homes for a few days.

As he rode to meet the head of his army, Ioannes thought on his chosen destination. There were no lack of possible opportunities. The cities of Acharnae, Ephyra and Helorus stood in a roughly straight line along the coast, but around them several polis continued to claim themselves the remnants of the Atlanteans. Beyond those, the northern savages and eastern hordes continued to sweep across the outskirts of the once-Empire, sacking what villages remained. But the most tempting targed lay east along the coast, to where the ruined city of Aquilonia stood, its marble columns broken and scattered. Ioannes was not prone to flights of fancy or fond of ceremony, but his wife had proposed the idea of being formally crowned as the next Emperor of the Atlanteans from the capital of the Old Empire. He had already sent birds and messengers to the dozen remaining independent polis, inviting them to travel to Aquilonia themselves to pledge Ioannes their fealty.

And so it came to be that when the army had finally been assembled they turned east, following the contours of the bay to their right. It would be a long march to Aquilonia, even if Ioannes followed his earlier precedent and raced ahead with his cavalry, but he was content to trot along and watch the crashing of the waves. Depending on events once his forces arrived at the capital, it might be the last moment of tranquility for some time.

The warm glow of the warband’s flickering campfires cast soft orange flashes onto the unyielding whiteness of the fallen snow, as the marauders of Mourslev sat restlessly between the rocky slopes of the valley, sharpening their swords and biding their time.

Guttural screams and sweet moans drifted in from behind the animal hide flaps of the horde’s tents of excess, locking a world of pleasure and pain away from the biting cold of the Lumerian wastes. The howling winds ripped and tore at the very flesh of the raiders, as it blasted the stone walls of the valley, and sent their wolfskin cloaks billowing about them in a frigid crack of elemental fury.

“The Gods are angry.” Grumbled Drulfar Icecrow, as he pulled his black cloak tightly over his withered form.

“And which gods would those be?” Shruboar Sharptooth chuckled over at the older man, his ox-like form resting against the fallen carcass of a long dead tree, the hilt of his long sword clutched in one gnarled hand.

“The only true Gods,” Drulfar snarled “The spirits of old; the ancient lords of Lumeria!”

“Carefull, old man,” Shruboar’s eyes narrowed into slits, as his mask of arrogance melted away “Your gods are dead. There is only Mortaroth, now.”

Drulfar spat into the fire, sending a sharp hiss through the crackling red flames “Forsake the Gods of our ancestors if you will, Sharptooth,” he grimaced “but I am not so easily broken.”

“Risk your neck, then, Icecrow,” Shruboar let out a raspy sigh “but I intend to live long enough to see the spoils of Borea, and quench my thirsts on the flesh of southern girls.”

The raiders from Mourslev had set off some weeks ago, and were marching down through the inhospitable plains of Lumeria, with their eyes set firmly on the southern kingdoms. The sheer mass of the horde, and the number of clans fighting under their queen’s banner, was staggering to the primitive northerners, whose lust for conquest knew no bounds.

Khalaevna sat away from the rest of the bloodthirsty marauders, beneath the wooden beams and colourful swathes of her own, grand tent.

“Thank you for coming to see me, Harlwarn.” She greeted the chieftain plainly, with a slight inclination of her head, whilst her pages sat huddled in one corner, cleaning the glistening steel blade of Zalewylch with wet cloth.

“Didn’t ‘ave much choice, did I?” the large man snarled, as he slipped beneath the tents flaps.

“You could’ve tried to fight,” she reasoned “then my men would’ve killed you, and I would’ve been spared the tedium of your presence.”

“Is that how the Trade Queen treats her loyal subjects?” Harlwarn scowled.

“Only the ones who lay with goats.” She smirked to herself, a slim smile spreading across her features.

Khalaevna leaned back on her vast bed, all bound up in her sleeping furs, a trail of chocolate brown hair cast over one shoulder. Her enormous form was kept decent by the sewn together pelts of many kills, whilst her gigantic stomach spilled out into her lap.

“What do you want, wench?” Harlwarn’s right hand slipped down to his leather belt, brushing lightly against the hilt of his sheathed blade.

Harlwarn was far too stupid and arrogant to swallow his pride, and would brazenly challenge the Over-Tyrant in front of her people. His plain incompetence made him easy to out-wit, which served to solidify her soldier’s faith in her, but she couldn’t allow him to keep questioning her publicly; which was why he needed to die.

“I have less than little love for you, Harlwarn.” She began. Though she needed to win him over for the ploy ahead, suddenly showing him warmth was sure to arouse suspicion. “But I have need of you and your Frost treaders.” Harlwarn believed himself the greatest warrior to ever walk Lumeria, and his tribesmen to be the greatest scouts. She would pander to those beliefs, thus pathing the way for his own destruction.

“And what would you have us do?” he asked with narrowed eyes.

“The mountain passes ahead are treacherous at best, and there’s no telling what terrors might be lurking in them.” She lied. She’d had her scouts clear them out days ago.

Harlwarn laughed. “Is the fat woman scared of a few mountain wolves?”

“I need you and your tribesmen to make sure that the way ahead is safe for the rest of us,” She said calmly, ignoring him “If you do this for me, you have my word that I’ll reconsider your pledge to marry Yaelwanda Deathkissed.”

“Very well, wench,” Harlwarn grinned, showing off rows of rotten teeth “I’ll do your soldier’s work for you. Then the Deathkissed bitch is mine.”

He turned on his boot-clad heel, and stormed out of the tent. He would find nothing in the valley ahead, save for the sharpened daggers of his tribesmen, as they pierced his heart and sent him tumbling down into mists below.

It was a cold morning in Borea as Emily stalked through the woods, her cloak pulled up to cover her face, eyes scanning the ground as she stepped carefully through the brush, using her rifle as a walking stick. She had left Abel, her horse, at her campsite a ways back. Others might question the wisdom of leaving one's horse, along with almost all one's possessions, unattended in a wilderness such as this, but Emily wasn't concerned - she'd set more than enough traps to discourage thieves, and all the signs she'd found told her that the beasts were in front of her, not behind.

She spied a patch of black fur on the ground in front of her, and picked it up with a gloved hand. Immediately, she caught a whiff of the stink - that same corrupt odor that hung about every single one of the monsters, the tang of evil and desecration. She placed the tuft in a small pouch she wore at her belt for such samples of the Scourge - she'd burn it later.

She was getting close, now - she was starting to smell the taint on the wind. Emily had been hunting this beast for months now - Blackmaw, the Walking Scourge, as people called it. When she'd first heard the stories, of a great monster nine-feet tall and built like a house, twisted into a bear-like monstrosity with claws like knives and horns like spears, she had thought it a mere legend, an exaggeration. But as she heard the story again and again, in more places, she had come to believe. The monster had terrorized and ravaged a path across Borea, destroying homes, eating villagers, and spreading the taint wherever it went. It was the disease made manifest, the greatest beast Emily had ever heard of, and she was going to slay it.

She'd glimpsed the monster only once, a month ago, on the night of a terrible storm. Just as lightning split the sky and illuminated the dark woods, she'd seen it, the hulking monstrosity, eyes like charcoal burning in the dark as though it was staring at her alone. She had tried to make chase through the wind and rain, but tracking the monster proved impossible in such conditions, and she had lost the trail. It would not escape her this time.

Ahead, Emily spied a small clearing in the woods, where there stood a ruined stone brick building. Time had not been kind to the structure - the roof was gone, and what walls were left were crumbling and mossy. That was it, she knew. The lair. Emily limbered up, affixed a bayonet to her gun, and proceeded inside.

Her entrance was greeted almost immediately by a howl as a beast came charging at her, a stunted thing with sharp teeth and hooves. She fired at it point-blank, blowing a great chunk out of its side and causing it to stagger back. She jammed the bayonet into its eye-socket and that was that.

Two more were coming just as quickly. There was no time to reload, and no chance of getting the crossbow out. The hunter's hand flew to her belt as she pulled a small bundle free and through it at the first of the monsters. Shattering on impact, the liquid in the vial burst into flames, making the monster howl and stagger backwards, writhing in agony as it burned. Emily shifted her grip on the gun, spinning it around to strike the second beast across the face. She pressed the delicate trigger mechanism on her wrist and her blade sprung free. She sidestepped a slash from claws that would have taken her head off and kicked the monster in the side off the knee, bending the mutated joint.

She brought her left arm up in a haymaker, punching the monster in the side of the head and then locking her elbow to block its frenzied counter attack. She gripped its mane and yanked it back with muscles like steel cords, baring the beast's throat. Shouting, she stabbed once, twice, three times, and the beast was still.

The burning mutant continued to writhe on the floor. Slowly, Emily reloaded her gun and pressed it to the back of the creature's neck. One final shot rang out in the woods, and all was still.

The huntress cast her eyes about the dilapidated structure. "... Dammit." Blackmaw was not here. She had lost the trail once again.

It took much of the rest of the day to pile up the bodies and build a makeshift pyre around them - she worked slowly and deliberately, taking care to avoid exposure to the taint. When it was done, she regarded the burning corpses for just a moment before casting the tuft of black hair onto it and turning to make the trek back to her campsite. She would have to keep searching.

He struck.
She'd gotten her guard up - he recalled she had been spending long hours at the pell under the watchful eye of Ser Gavin. She flicked her blade to the right, crossing his blade. He bounced back and cut again at her leg, but she had already slipped her foot away. He allowed himself a small smile - she had been paying attention. He feinted low, then cut at her head twice, left then right. She made the cover for the first but the second was late and she stumbled backwards on her heels. He did it again, faster this time, but she was ready and made both covers.
Time to end it, He thought, and thrust.
"Fuck," Nell said, his sword point at her throat.
Damion laughed, withdrawing his blade and sheathing it in a quick flourish. "You were excellent, besides that one cover and your draw." He paused. "Draw a hundred times, no looking at the scabbard. Then you may go get some breakfast." He smiled at her grimace. "You won't be able to test your swordsmanship if you're dead, Nell. And I'd be hard pressed to find another squire of your caliber."
Nell bowed to him, unsuccessfully hiding the wide, silly grin on her face at his sudden praise.
"I'll leave you to it," Damion said, and walked back towards the main camp.
The camp sprawled across half a mile of land, hundreds of lines of tents carefully organized from battle groups to lances. Each company soldier was responsible for the care of his equipment, unless they had a squire to worry about it for them. Meals were set at specific times during each day. Sentries were established according to a carefully-booked schedule, mainly following the straightforward hierarchy in the company. Every soldier was assigned a rigorous training program to ensure they were in top condition; based on their progress they were promoted, which meant higher pay and more opportunity for advancement. All soldiers had the potential to become belted Knights in the company.
Lord Damion ran a tight ship, and he was damned proud of it.
He spotted Ser Haljon by the mess, and called out to him. "Jon! Gather the others for a briefing. Breakfast can wait."
The big Northman grumbled but obliged, stuffing a link of sausages into his mouth before heading off to find the other Knights that made up Lord Damion's inner circle.
He strode into his tent - an enormous working of expensive cloth - and rolled out a map of the continent on his war table. The table was large and made of exotic mahogany; heavy as hell, but it left an important impression. Damion clasped his hands behind his back and waited.
He didn't have to wait long. Ser Gavin was the first to arrive, trim and clean-cut as ever. Out of all those in his inner circle, Gavin best matched Damion's personality. As well he should, Damion thought to himself. He squired for me.
Next to arrive was Ser William, along with Ser Alexios. William's youth was far behind him; grey speckled his beard and hair, and wrinkles had begun to form around his mouth and eyes. That said, he was the best damned lance in the company, and his relatively advanced age did nothing to change the quickness of his tongue or mind. In fact, he gave Damion perhaps the most thoughtful counsel out of all those in his inner circle.
Alexios was a Knight trained in the old Atlantean fashion. He had tan skin and a carefully trimmed forked beard, along with a slight accent he never could get rid of. He was the best dagger fighter in the company, along with a close second to William with a lance. Alexios was well-versed in all things of a courtly nature, and possessed a classical education. Thus he was Damion's best advisor on all things political.
Ser Catherine arrived next. The only female knight in the company, she used to be a courtesan in Thule before joining up with the company. She didn't like to talk about her past although she did not shun it, though any man who thought her an easy mark was liable to end up in the company physician's care. Regardless, she was a well-respected figure in the company and one of Damion's best commanders. Most of the other Knights called her "Cat" for short.
Lastly, Ser Haljon arrived with the two men in charge of the company's archery corps, John Redford and his right-hand Richard Smith. Haljon, or "Bad Jon" as he was known to most of the company, was an intimidating presence anywhere he went. He stood head and shoulders over most men and weighed nearly thirty stones. His great warsword was the size of a man, and his strength was comparable to a bear. Haljon had been one of the very first members of the company, and had made it clear to Damion that the only reason he had joined was to fight. A good thing too, because he was easily the best swordsman in the company.
John Redford and Richard Smith were the two best archers in Damion's employ. Out of the two of them Richard was probably the better shot, though he didn't have John's wisdom or talent for discipline. John had been a vagrant after a skirmish robbed him of his employer, a minor Borean lord. The rumor was that Richard used to be a bandit before joining up with the company, though he seemed affable enough, if somewhat vulgar and possessing of a particularly strong lust for gold.
Damion clapped his hands together, smiling broadly as his inner circle gathered around the war table. "Sorry to interrupt your breakfast friends, but we have some planning to do. It seems we have finally found a contract..."

---

"Do you think monsters are in these woods?" Harold asked, nervously rubbing his thumbs along the set of reigns he held. He looked over his shoulder. The caravan obstructed most of his view, but he could still see some of the path he and the others had traveled. On either side of the dirt path, carefully bordered with rocks and stones, was a thicker section of Borea's forests. They were a day's ride from the nearest town, which Harold only knew because he and the rest of his gang had ransacked it a day ago.

"Aye. I wouldn't worry too much about 'em, though." Jon replied. He sat next to Harold at the front of their covered wagon that had been filled to the brim with pilfered loot. Behind them was a short line of men -- The Black Ermine Company. A small but recognized band of thieves and mercenaries. Three were on horseback, two were on foot, and one was at the helm of the second covered wagon, though his was steered by two horses instead of Jon and Harold's three.

"Why not?" Harold asked, looking over his shoulder once again. He wasn't sure if it was fear or intuition, but something was following them. The hairs on the back of his neck had been raised for hours, and every snapping branch or rustled leaf seemed to make him jump. Perhaps the feeling of being watched was guilt, though Harold hadn't felt guilty for anything in a long time. Overhead, a falcon had been circling them occasionally, as if warning them. Or spying on them, Harold thought to himself.

"If we were alone, we should worry. Mutants are dumb, but they ain't dumb enough to go after eight men with big bloody swords." Jon shook his head and chuckled, uncorking a jug and taking a hearty swig. He cringed for a moment as the drink stung his lips, shaking his head once more. "Never knew you were such a delicate maiden, Harry."

"Am not." Harold replied, checking over his shoulder once more. "I just have a bad feeling is all." The falcon overhead cried once, and disappeared over the slim line of sight the tall trees granted the group.

Before Jon could respond, the loud cracking of a tree falling filled the air, and the group stopped dead in their tracks. About ten meters ahead, a tall oak tree crashed to its side, obstructing the dirt path. It collapsed loudly, cracking at the middle and sending a cacophonous roar throughout the otherwise silent forest. The sun was just beginning to set, and the only sound that could otherwise be heard were crickets and owls.

"Better get one of the new men to move it, eh?" Harold asked, distracted from his fears for a moment. It was peculiar that such a young tree had fallen over, but perhaps it was eaten by termites, or had been gnawed on by some strange forest creature. Harold paused to think about what would've eaten the tree, paying little mind to the two men making their way from the caravan towards the felled tree. Harold wasn't from a sleepy forest village, and knew little in the ways of animals that dwell outside of cities. Perhaps it was a hugely fat beaver who ate the tree, he thought.

"Looks like it'll rain s-" Harold's musings were cut short by an arrow launched through his forehead by an unseen bowman. He died instantly, and his head reeled back from the sheer force of the impact with an unsettling crack before he limply slumped onto Jon's shoulders.

"Ambush!" Jon cried, ducking down. Six swords were unsheathed behind him in rapid succession as the men scrambled to face every possible angle. Jon unsheathed two curved daggers from Harold's hips and threw him over the side of the caravan's seat, hoping to trick whoever dared attack them into giving away their location. It did not work -- No arrows were fired at Harold's body, and Jon cursed the man he was about to find and kill.

The company of men waited for what seemed like eternity, staring into the thick forests for any sign of motion. Just as Jon was about to give the order to search the forest, he saw a flash of movement in a patch of brush. Before he was able to articulate a thought, a great flash of green sprung out from the woods, covered in leaves and twigs as if it had been spat out of the forest itself. It shrieked wildly like a bobcat, launching itself towards Jon with a speed that he had seldom seen in his horse. By the time Jon raised the two daggers he had stolen from his Harolds corpse, the flash of green had already made a large hole in his neck, and had leapt off the caravan into the woods on the other side of the path. Jon dropped his daggers and grabbed at his throat, gurgling and spitting as he dropped to one knee, and then to the other, rolling off of the wagon's seat onto the ground.

One of the younger bandits who had originally meant to help move the tree began to panic, sprinting into the forest in an attempt to escape, crying in terror.

"It's the mutants! The mutants!" He shouted back at the group. Within moments, his cried and thunderous footsteps were cut short with a loud thud. The remaining five men had formed a circle between the two unmanned wagons with their fifth member loading a rifle as quickly as he could, while the four held their swords out with white-knuckled grips.

If the silence of the forest was unsettling before, it was now terrifying.

The collective breathing of the group was broken only by two things; The sound of their rifleman frantically cramming powder into the barrel of his gun, and the whimpering of what was now their youngest member.

"What're you on about, lad?" A bearded bandit asked, looking at the sniveling blonde young man to his right. The young man was unable to stop from whimpering, and only nodded towards a section of the forest, pointing his sword weakly. "Lars."

The older bandit's eyes darted towards where he had pointed, filling him with a sense of dread. Hidden in the trees, their companion who had ran off into the woods was hung upside-down by his ankles, with his throat slit. His blood-soaked face was twisted into a permanent state of anguish, with his eyes and mouth wide open in terror. He swayed gently in the breeze, causing the branch he was held on to creak softly back and forth. The bearded bandit dropped his sword, and began sprinting towards the corpse of his comrade. "Lars!" He cried out, reaching for a dagger at his belt to cut him loose. The others shouted out for him to stop, but it was too late. Before he could reach the path's stony border, three arrows in rapid succession pierced his chest, sending him collapsing to his knees.

Four men were left. The rifleman stood up from his crouched stance, finally ready to fire at his target, if they could only find him.

The youngest bandit began to weep, holding his sword up as if it weighed more than himself. "Show yourself, coward! Enough of your hiding!" He gritted his teeth in anger, rolling his shoulders as if to warm up for a duel. His opponent's response was swift and uncertain -- two arrows were launched at him, one through his shoulder and one through his neck. He fell instantly, grabbing at his neck with his uninjured arm, clawing at the arrow lodged firmly above his Adam's Apple. The rifleman fired at where the arrows had come from, though his shot rang out without the sound of any impact. Too quickly for him to begin reloading, the flash of green flew out of the trees again. This time, they were certain as to what it was.

It was a ranger.

He sprinted towards the three, with nothing more than a dagger in hand. The first of the bandits swung at him with a broadsword, intent on cleaving him in two. He was too slow, and as the sword reached the peak of its arc, the ranger delivered a swift kick to his unguarded kneecap, bending his leg backwards at an unnatural angle, before sweeping him off of his feet with another kick. Before the second swordsman could swing, the ranger sprang upwards, burying the dagger in the mans heart.

There were three men still living. The swordsman on the floor, gasping wordlessly at his leg, the rifleman who had now raised his hands in surrender, and the ranger.

"Please sir, mercy, I beg of you." The rifleman's face was riddled in brutish scars, with a bald head and strong, meaty features on his face. He was not a man who normally begged.

The ranger stared at him for a moment silently with a face that lacked any sort of true emotion. The wind began to howl, as if to respond.

The ranger pulled the longbow from his back, plucking an arrow from his quiver in one fluid motion. Within a second, he had fired an arrow through the man's skull, leaving only him and the crippled bandit, as his last companion fell to the floor, momentarily raising a small cloud of dust. The ranger looked at the bandit on the floor who stared back at him, whimpering in terror at his awaited execution. The ranger kicked the bandit's sword away by the hilt, and grabbed the bandit by the cuff of his leather tunic, throwing him onto one of the horses with a grunt. He stared at him for a moment wordlessly, for there was little he needed to say. The bandit knew what he had been spared for. As a warning to the others. The ranger slapped the mare's flank, causing it to take off galloping.

The ranger watched the lame bandit and his horse until they were out of the line of sight, before turning back to collect his arrows. It would solve little to try to return the gold they had stolen, and it was getting late. He would leave what he had left, save for any arrows or rations he might find, for the forest to take.

Such was the way of rangers.

Day turned to night turned to day as the grand army of Acharnae marched through the Atlantean heartlands. The rocky, uneven landscape along the coast made for slow marching, but it was a preferable alternative to being exposed to bands of raiders and mutants in the foothills. The slow advance of his men gave plentiful time for Ioannes' messenger birds to return. Even so, very few did. A scant five returned, carrying noncommittal messages from poleis such as Thagaste and Obrimos. Some claimed to have their hands full with their own struggles, others doubted the legitimacy of Ioannes' claim to the throne. Even so, the prevailing response was silence. Ioannes had kept correspondence with most of these cities as recently as a month prior; what had befallen them in such a short span of time?

Questions continued to mount as Aquilonia drew near. Despite the late summer month, days grew shorter as the ancient Atlantean capital grew closer. Strange weather gathered overhead, unnatural cloudforms and distorted stormfronts. Animals grew scarce, and then disappeared altogether, forcing Ioannes' men to rely on their salted rations for sustenance. After some short weeks of travel, the land no longer resembled the Atlantis that the would-be emperor had learned of in his boyhood. It was a twisted and ruined land, corruption seeping into the earth itself.

At last, Ioannes crested a blackened peak with his cavalrymen, and Aquilonia was in view. Rather than the marvel of gold and marble that it had been merely fifty years ago, there now stood a blackened citadel of iron and death. The great Polis had not been abandoned for these many years, but had come under a dark new master. Great spires of twisted metal rose up into the sky, and the walls had been rebuilt at twice their height with that strange, black iron. At this distance, few details could be made out, but black riders roamed the city perimeter and manned the tower, and human slaves bound in heavy, thorned chains labored under the heavy whips of their unholy masters. Hell had come to the Iron Kingdoms, and its capital was Aquilonia.



Harlwarn trudged through the mountain pass, cloak whipping against the sharp, cold wind. He muttered to himself idly, this and that about the Deathkissed bitch and the great, fat bitch, merely trying to keep himself awake. It was death for a man to let himself fall lethargic in the cold and snow. His men marched behind him, keeping their distance as they talked among themselves. The wind was too harsh and his nears too numb for Harlwarn to hear their words, but he paid them little mind. The pass was quite clear, but he was still uneasy. He had passed half a dozen animal carcasses in the snow, all half-eaten, but hadn't seen hide nor hair of a single wolf along the pass. Somehow the lack of beastly predators in the mountains unnerved him more than their presence.

His ruminations were broken when his foot caught against something in the snow. He kicked the top layer of snowdrift off, and found a simple, metal helmet. It had not been there long, as it was scarcely frozen. Stranger still, it was of the make that the queen's scouts usually wore. His men were drawing closer now that he had stopped, and he lifted the helmet up to have them look at it and give their thoughts on the matter. Or, he would have, had a piercing scream not broken out over the howl of the wind.

Harlwarn dropped the helmet and whipped about to face his men. Four now stood where there had been five before. Their weapons were already drawn, their panicked faces visible in brief glimpses in the torchlight. The senior frostreader pushed them aside to search for the tracks of whatever had just carried off one of their men. Likely a bear, possibly a mutant, he'd soon find out. However, there were none. Only the deep ruts in the snow where his subordinate had been dragged away, and a splatter of blood in the ice and slurry.

Harlwarn scowled, and barked at his men, "Keep yer bloody wits about ye! Ain't nothin but a beastman or somesuch. Stick close, ye've done this before."

The tribesmen looked to their leader and then to each other with uneasy expressions. They put up their weapons and followed behind Harlwarn in a close formation, each looking out into the surrounding shadows wide-eyed and jittery. A lone beast was an issue to men that trailed behind, but as long as they stayed within arm's reach of each other, it likely wouldn't be an issue. So they thought.

Whatever monstrosity had claimed the previous man struck again, even bolder than before. It swept in from behind, carrying away two men and knocking the rest, Harlwarn included, into the snow. One torch went out, and they were left with a solitary flame to light the way. The screams of dying men echoed in the crags and depths of the mountain pass, and Harlwarn's two remaining men cried openly. He screamed at them to shut up, his own voice shaking nervously. He was about to issue the order to turn around, when the monster struck once more. This time, it attacked them head-on, and as it tore one of his tribesmen limb from limb, Harlwarn was able to look upon it in all of its terrible glory.

The next thing he knew, he was running. He dashed madly through the ice and snow, tripping over himself every few steps. He made no effort to draw his weapon, only desperately keeping his torch ahead of him and out of the snow. His throat bled raw from the icy air as he sprinted through the pass. The cry of his final underling dying horribly sounded some distance behind him, but Harlwarn paid that no mind. It meant only that he had a few more seconds to get away.

Some time later, as the Mourslev camp slumbered among quiet tents and the the soft glow of fires reduced to coals, the silence was broken by the desperate cries of a madman. "DEMON," screamed Harlwarn as he tore through the camp, flailing his axe carelessly, "DEMON IN THE MOUNTAINS! GODS HELP US, A DEMON!"

He crashed recklessly into the tent of the Over-Tyrant, falling onto his knees in the warm, fire-lit depths of her pavillion. His torch was gone, as was his left arm. Frost and snow covered his body as he frothed at the mouth, quivering from cold and fear. Human blood dripped from the blade of his axe, but marks of claws and teeth that no earthly beast could cause were torn through his flesh and clothes.

"A bloody... demon... in the mountains..." He muttered to the startled and awakened trade queen, before finally succumbing to the cold and his wounds.



Emily found her camp just where she had left it, unmolested by whatever other monstrosities lurked in the forest. She checked her traps, skinned the rabbit she had caught, and roasted it for dinner. There was a settlement not far from here, and she would begin her hunt anew there. The sun sank below the trees, and the forest went quiet with the dusk. Few creatures dared wander the forests of Borea at night, as strange things emerged when the sun fell. The heavy silence of the dark was broken only by the occasional cries of that which had not walked the earth in years untold. Sleep came uneasily to Emily, as always, with thoughts of revenge and dreams of hunts to come.

Dawn rose as it always had, and with it, Emily packed up her camp and set out on the road. It was safer to travel through the forest, fewer bandits, but she couldn't force her horse to ride though the bush and bramble. Regardless, she arely was harassed by highwaymen; the sight of her gun was usually enough to keep them at bay. The closest enclave of civilization was just a morning's ride away, and Emily came across it as the sun was just shy of its apex in the sky. More a village but not quite a town, she was relieved to find that this was not yet another ruined and abandoned settlement to scratch off of her maps.

Though she heard people, and there were obvious signs of habitation in the shops and houses, it took some time before Emily saw anyone. She eventually walked her horse near the center of the dwellings, finally finding a well from which to refill her waterskin. Here it seemed that the folk had gathered in what appeared to be some sort of impromptu court. A man whose tunics were slightly less dirtied than the majority of the crowd stood by a girl no older than twelve, who had been gagged and bound to a stake. Kindling was gathered at her feet, and the man at her side waved a lit torch imperiously. Emily corrected herself, this was an execution.

"...And so, as is my duty as governor, I commit this mutant to the flames, lest its taint corrupt us all." He announced with zeal, gesturing melodramatically to the terrified young girl beside him. "If you have any confessions before Ignis Divine, you may give them now; when the noon hour strikes, you shall burn, and He shall judge you in the realms above."

He lowered the gag for the girl to speak, and she immediately began to scream between her tear-choked sobs. "Please! I didn't mean to hurt her! You must believe me, I... I didn't mean to! I can't control it, please, please don't!" Her voice was hoarse, her face pale and bruised, and her matted red hair stuck against her face. An unlucky girl, touched by the North.

The crowd did not react well to this, calling out "Witch," and "Mutant;" some even throwing rocks or sticks. However, under their rage there was clearly fear. They all had the same hollow face, the same tired eyes. They had suffered much in these years, and the world became a far less forgiving place. This was another misfortune to befall them. Another tragedy to add to many.

The governor restored her gag, and resumed his proclamations, "The hour is nearly at hand. Are there any present that protest the proper end to this corruption? Speak now, before the mutant burns."



The contract was relatively simple on the surface; the petty lordlings that laid claim to the lands not far from Castle Blackmont were embroiled in a territorial dispute. It seemed that as greater Thule fell, the grudges held by its many vassals were finally resurfacing, and with them came great bloodshed. The Crimson Company was tasked by this self-proclaimed Lord Ashewoode to act as a raiding force in the lands occupied by the armies of the Duke of Farsil. Once his armies were lured out, Ashewoode's men would form a vice with the Company to crush him once and for all. However, this was complicated by a separate correspondence by none other than this Duke, who requested that the Company act as a protective vanguard in upcoming diplomatic negotiations.

Their promised compensation (or lack thereof) was another matter entirely. Ashewoode made no mention of payment, but also made several vague references to the neighboring territories of Castle Blackmont, which were at the time of writing nominally under the control of his rival. Farsil was far more forthcoming; gold, and the promise of future employment upon the resolution of their conflict. This was a black web of politics and deception, and if Damion was to reap the benefits of his potential windfall, he would have to keep his blade sharp, and his wits sharper.



Smoke. Flint recognized the smell immediately; the harsh smell of burning thatch, and the sickly smell of charred flesh. Not far away there was a fire, and people were burning in it. A village fire no doubt, but if a wheat field caught fire, the embers could be scattered for miles around, and start countless smaller fires in the forest. This would not do. With the most haste that he could manage while still preserving his strength, Flint dashed in the direction of the smoke. He made no effort to alert any other rangers in the area; they would be attracted to the fire just as he was.

The village was thankfully close, and indeed it seemed that half the buildings were aflame. There was no life in the narrow dirt roads and pathways, as it seemed that the inhabitants had quickly fled when the blaze began. Curious, though, were the blackened corpses scattered about outside of the burning buildings. Had they caught fire and lept to their deaths? It seemed unnatural to say the least. Flint pushed the thought from his mind as he began to set counter fires to consume the burning buildings before they could spread. That was when he heard a roar, and a plume of fire barreled up into the sky.

Flint broke away from his fire-fighting to investigate the source of this anomaly. Other rangers had arrived by now; he would leave the fire to them for the time being. He rounded the corner about a large inn, which had only just set aflame despite being quite far from the other fires, when he saw it. Walking on two legs and a pair of folded wings like a massive bat, was a monster out of the tales of old grandmothers and nursery rhymes. A serpentine, reptilian thing the height of a horse and twice as long. Called Salamander by the Atlaneans, and Wurm by the native peoples of Thule. Regardless of language, any could look upon it and know it to be a dragon.

Once he’d ceased his shouting and screaming, Harlwarn dropped to the floor of the tent, his fur-clad body cold and umoving.

“Feed him to the dogs,” Khalaevna croaked drowsily to her pages as she pulled herself up into a sitting position, her eyes still hazy with sleep “Discretely. I don’t want an incident.”

Two well-built servants dragged the Frost-treader’s haggard corpse out into the snow, his wolf pelt cloak draping limply behind him as he vanished through the tent flaps.

“Harlwarn might have been witless, but he wasn’t delusional,” the Over-Tyrant mutter, as she heaved her massive bulk out of bed, her pale flesh shuddering and wobbling as her feet hit the ground “Summon the chieftain's.” She commanded one of her pages “Whilst the rest of you help me wash and dress.”

A huge wooden tub was filled with steaming water from the nearby hot springs, whilst cleaning salts from the Soap-makers guilds of old Thalzamaria were prepared. The Over-Tyrant plopped her huge form into the tub, causing a wave of sizzling water to spill over one side, as a handful of pages set about washing and scrubbing her naked body.

The hierarchy of the Kingdoms of Mourslev was a delicate thing, built to entertain the many wants and desires of its gluttonous people. Technically, each chief was given free rule over their own “kingdom”, and was allowed to enforce whatever rules and customs they wished; just so long as they fell in line with Khalaevna’s own ambitions. Anyone not adhering the the Trade Queen’s laws was branded as a traitor, and an enemy of everything the people of Mourslev stood for. The Over-Tyrant didn’t care what religions her people practiced, but it seemed that the faith of Mortaroth seemed to be sweeping through the clans, something which she’d no doubt have to address soon.

Once Khalaevna was dressed she emerged, dripping with warm water, from the tub, and was quickly dried off by a cluster of pages with thick sheets of cloth. She was dressed in a plain white tunic, which failed to cover the bulge of her gargantuan stomach, worn beneath a flowing coat of crimson silk, inlaid with gold. They squeezed her into a pair of dark black trousers and boots, with a sturdy leather belt with a fist-sized gold clasp slung around her broad waist. The piercings and jewelry were piled on, whilst makeup made from crushed black powder was painted beneath her eyes.

By the time the Chieftains arrived, Khalaevna was seated on the tent floor, with a stream of rich foods spread out in front of her.

“Greetings, my lords and ladies,” she gave the new arrivals a quick grin, whilst licking chicken grease off of her hands “Please, take whatever you want!”

All of the Chieftains understood that if they touched anything within Khalaevna’s immediate area then there’d be hell to pay, and were careful to pick at the dishes a good few feet away from her.

“It's always an honour to join you, my queen,” said Aureus Icelake, a slender figure, with silvery blonde hair and handsome yet narrow features “to what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Aye. ‘Owe might we be of service?” grunted Jormut Beastbreaker, a giant man with broad shoulders and a scraggly white beard, as he scratched at his solid arm muscles.

“The late Harlwarn Frost-Treader informed me of demon’s in the mountain ridges beyond, shortly before his passing,” Khalaevna spoke in a slow, clear voice, making sure that each word was sharp and well-pronounced “and it would be near-impossible to reach Borea undetected, without passing through them.”

“Gah! Bloody ‘owlers,” Jormut scrunched up his face “they’re a right pain in the arse.”

“The horrors have been known to clear out entire camps of our fiercest warriors.” Gorah Darktounge nodded in agreement. She was a well-built woman, with hard, masculine features, and a closely-shaven head of ginger stubble.

“Wasting our clansmen's lives on the demons would be folly.” Khalaevna nodded solemnly, causing her double chin to quiver “Bring me barrels of oil, and wine, and pitch. We’ll light them up from on high, and send them screaming down the mountainside to meet the demons below.”

"I don't like it," Ser William said, tugging his more-grey-than-brown beard. "You can bet that this Lord Ashewoode will only join the battle at the most advantageous time. He'll graciously let us take all the casualties and finish the Duke off when he's weakened."
Ser Gavin voiced his agreement. "He must think we're fools. Though I don't doubt that the Captain could maneuver him into engaging first." He paused, considering. "And the lands could be quite a boon to our reputation and prestige."
Ser Haljon shook his head. "Ye can't pay men wit land, friend. An' aye doubt we got tha' funds ta do onything wit tha' land onyway." He grumbled, his voice reminiscent of distant thunder.
"The Duke promised future employment, did he not? His lands are known to be among the richest in Borea." Ser Alexios said. "The Duke would be a vital connection, which could open many doors."
"Do we want to stay in Borea? Lots of opportunities elsewhere - like the old Atlantean empire. Bunch of squabbling city states now." Ser Catherine observed.
"Don't think tha' Atlanteans 'ave seen bows like me boys use a'fore." John Redford said, Richard Smith grinning predatorily. "Up ta tha' cap'n though, ain't it?" John said, scratching his head.
All eyes turned to Lord Damion then, and he responded with one of his infamous small, knowing smiles. He rose from the table, and gestured at Ser Gavin and Ser William. "I have the same sentiments on Lord Ashewoode, and I have no doubt we could force his hand to engage first." He then gestured to Ser Haljon and Ser Alexios. "True, a steady income is always important, especially for such business as ours." He paused. "But..."
A few of the Knights rolled their eyes. They were all used to Lord Damion's theatrics by now. He always had to be the smartest man in the room, and he always let everyone know it. "Jus' git on wit'it!" Ser Haljon called out.
Lord Damion cracked another smile. "We could choose option three. Become a new party in the conflict."
They gaped at him, so he continued. "We take Lord Ashewoode's contract, have an easy season of raiding, and force the Duke to take to the field. We maneuver so Lord Ashewoode engages first, then finish off the pair of them when they're weak. Meanwhile, we'd have split our forces and have captured both their castles, as their garrisons would be nearly empty." He spread his arms grandly. "Thus becoming the largest, most famous company in Borea and beyond."
"So, what do you think?" He needn't have asked - there were grins all around. His men loved him, and would follow him anywhere. Lord Damion laughed merrily. "Let's get to it, then!"

Gods above. What Ioannes had always heard to have been a grand, shining city had been turned into a behemoth of a citadel, its walls black as night. From the top of the rocky bluff on which his cavalry forces sat, Ioannes could see sentries standing atop towers of twisted, hideous iron. None of the fractured polis of Atlantis could have created such a thing, nor the fierce northmen or mounted hordes of the northeast. This was something else.

Ioannes turned to his gaping horsemen, and attempted to make his voice stern and confident. "It seems that things shall not be as easy as we hoped," he intoned, and gestured towards the back of the crowd. "You, there, ride for the main army and tell them what we have seen. We must encircle the city before they have word of our arrival." He could only hope that they had not yet been spotted; the outriders and sentries of Ioannes' host reported nothing but blackened hills and twisted, scraggly trees.

"The rest of you, form into groups of ten and ride around the perimeter of the city. Keep well out of sight, and strike down any scouting parties that you come across. Do not let them know that we are here. If that means that you need to spend hours creeping through the shadows of outcroppings, so be it. We must know what we face."

In the end, when all the orders had been given, one hundred horse set off back towards the main army, while the rest began to pick their way down the bluff and into the valley that contained the horrific city before them. The sun had begun to set by then; with any luck, none would be seen as they made the descent.

Ioannes had also dispatched a rider to send word back to Acharnae, and command that his paltry fleet be brought up the bay. A blockade could hardly go unnoticed, but by then the main army would have surrounded the city -- and ships meant a reliable source of supplies to feed Ioannes' men and construct siege weapons for what might be a lengthy struggle. He did not, however, send word to the polis -- better that they think he was putting another empty crown on his head than that his army was weakened against some unknown foe. If it was revealed that that citadel was swarming with foul demons and sorcerers, well, then it might do to have a few allies -- but until such a thing was discovered, Ioannes was content not to reveal all of the cards in his hand.

The dawn had nearly come when Ioannes' own ten spotted a scout emerge from a postern gate, perhaps half of a mile away. He seemed to be heading towards their group, though with any luck that was sheer coincidence. Ioannes commanded his compatriots into the safety of a nearby forest of blackened trees, where they waited for the scout to pass.

Once the man had gone by, and Ioannes' party sat between him and the citadel, they emerged from the treeline, blades and lances in hand. The scout stood little chance against ten of the famed cavalry of Atlantis -- a lance plunged entirely through the neck of the scout's horse, and he was thrown from the saddle. One man dismounted and pulled him from beneath the dying horse, blade at his throat.

"Leave him alive," Ioannes said. "We shall see what he knows."

Turning from the well and affixing her waterskin back to the belt, Emily turned her eyes from the crowd to Able, stroking the horse's nose gently. "Shhhh. I'll just be a moment." She turned back from the animal and began marching towards the crowd, hood pulled over her face, fists already clenching in fury. No matter where you went, how far you wandered, one thing never changed - people would persecute anybody they thought beneath them, and in Borea one of their favorite targets was a girl unlucky enough to be 'touched by the North.' Emily knew.

The blowhard governor had just about wrapped up his speech when Emily reached the outskirts of the crowd. The people of the village had reached a fever pitch with their cries, all hollering and chanting abuse at the terrified girl before them. A portly man next to her attempted to throw a stone the size of his fist, and Emily almost casually ripped it out of his grasp and tossed it aside. Dramatically, the ringleader of this insane display spread out his hands. "The hour is nearly at hand. Are there any present that protest the proper end to this corruption? Speak now, before the mutant burns."

"I don't think she looks like a mutant!" Emily's shout was, perhaps unsurprisingly, totally lost in the storm of "Burn the heretic!" and "North-touched bitch!" and various other exclamations that followed. Sighing, the huntress unslung her musket from her shoulder and poured a handful of powder down the barrel. Standing in the middle of the feverish crowd, she calmly packed it in, put her dowsing rod away, raised the firearm to the sky, and pulled the trigger.

After the resulting gunshot, the whole crowd was silent, all hands frantically covering ears and all eyes turning to the source. "I don't think," Emily repeated steadily, slinging the weapon back onto her shoulder, "She looks like a mutant."

"What tha' bloody hell would you know! You ever even seen a mutant, girly?" The man whose rock she'd grabbed asked, rounding on her.

She stared the man in the eye and made a great effort to respond evenly, though she couldn't quite take the hard edge off her voice or the murder out of her eyes. "I've seen more of the monsters than you could ever know. They're huge, and fast, and evil, and wrong." She turned away from the man and began fording her way through the crowd, all of whom were eager to get out of her way as she moved towards the pyre. "What you have there is a scared little girl. Nothing more."

"On the contrary, my dear girl," said the governor in a condescending tone, stepping forward to look at her directly. "What we have hear is a witch, a vile heretic whose very existence is a sore in the eyes of our Ignis Divine. You, my dear, know not what she has done nor what she is capable of. Look," he said, taking a few strands of the girl's red hair and displaying it, causing her to redouble her futile struggling at her bonds. "She has been marked by the foul gods of the north! Only fire can cleanse this taint!"

Emily reached up and pulled her hood back, causing her head of red hair to spill out. "Marked like this, you mean?"

There was a general gasp of surprise from the crowd, followed by a few shouts of abuse. Emily casually swayed away from rock thrown at her head, and raised her eyebrows at the governor, who for his part had gone rather pale.

"I see," he said at length, "I had suspected that the forces of darkness might seek to challenge us." He stuck a wizened finger at her and shouted to the crowd, "This witch has come to protect her foul fledgling. Do not listen to her lies! It is when the blades of the holy are stilled that corruption will triumph." He grinned wickedly. "Bring up wood for a second pyre."

The crowd surged forward like a body of water, but Emily was faster. She charged at the governor, knocking him to the ground and putting her boot squarely on his chin. Her hands flew to her back and her crossbow was in her hands and pointed at the few armed guards that had begun to move towards her. The scene froze.

"I am Emily Gerhman, hunter of monsters, touched by the North, the Fire that will make this land clean. I know more of evil than you could invent, and I have slain more beasts than you have ever pictured looming just beyond the light from your fire. You know me." It was not a question - though she'd made no effort to spread her legend, she knew that it had spread far and wide - particularly in this region of Borea. She didn't seek the fame, but a tool was a tool, and notoriety often proved useful. From the looks of awe that filled the crowd, she was correct. "The girl leaves with me."

"Don't listen to her! You stupid bitch, that's a crossbow. You can only shoot one of my men before they're on you. Seize her!" The governor shouted from underneath her boot.

"He's right," Emily said coolly. "I can only kill the first man who makes a step towards me. Then I'll be in some trouble. But with that in mind, I think I might aim low. The stomach, or the bowels, give that brave first man a long and agonizing death of bleeding out while covered in his own filth. So. Anyone?" She brandished the crossbow at each of the men in turn. Nobody moved. "No? Thought so."

Holding the crossbow with one hand, Emily moved to the pyre and cut the girl's bindings swiftly with her blade. "We're leaving. Walk fast." One hand on the girl's shoulder, Emily pushed her through the crowd, still keeping the crossbow trained on the assembly, until finally they reached Able, still standing patiently by the well. Emily quickly lifted the hysterical girl up onto the horse before mounting him herself. As Able turned to leave, she spared one last look at the crowd. "There's a war on. Between everything good and pure in this world, and those blasted monsters out there. I know you're tired, and I know times are hard, but this business isn't going to solve anything. Get to work."

She rode for a while, leaving the rode and heading into the unknown wilderness - unknown, that is, to everyone except her and the rangers. Only when she was a mile or so into the woods did she halt and dismount, crouching down to speak to the still-crying girl more evenly. "Alright, kid. What's your name?"

She sniffled. "R-Ryan."

"Okay, Ryan. I'm going to be honest, I can't take you with me. I'm hunting something terrible, something dangerous, something only I can stop. I have to stop it or people are going to get hurt. Do you understand?"

The girl nodded silently.

"Good. Now, I can't bring you with me. I can't stop the monster if I have to look after you at the same time, so it's really important that we get you somewhere safe as soon as possible so I can get back to tracking it. Is there anywhere you can go, Ryan? Any family, father, mother, uncle's farm, anywhere there's someone who'll take you?"

The only response she got was another bout of tears, and Emily straightened up, somewhat guilty of her indelicate words. "Why don't you think about that while I make camp? Just, uh, stay here." Emily turned and set about the task of building a fire, trying her best to ignore the red-haired child seated in the dirt nearby.

The camp quickly began its preparations for igniting the mountain pass, and driving out the demonic taint with a deathly inferno. Warriors were woken from tents and given orders, which they set about slowly and grumbling, weary from the night’s festivities. Many had been awoken hours earlier by the screaming madman that came running through the camp, and so rumors and confusion spread quickly among the working Northmen. A demon in the pass? Were there more? What foul forces had brought about such monsters? Would these fires even harm them? The barbarians toiled as the Over-Tyrant and her pet court relaxed in her tent of excess and splendor. However, the Trade Queen, blinded by her own arrogance and avarice, failed to notice an important fact: tracks in snow are easy to follow, and Harlwarn had left a trail of blood and footprints running all the way back to the camp.

The first attack did not come as a total surprise; the men at the camp perimeter saw the approaching pack of demons some distance away, but their fatigue, terror and confusion led to them reacting slowly and poorly. At first they made for their weapons, but realized too late that they should alert the camp instead. Rather than the call of an ox-horn sounding over the camp, the screams of painful death heralded the arrival of the infernal monsters.

There were half a dozen, as far as most could tell. It was difficult to say, as their forms shimmered and sometimes vanished altogether as their anchor in this world receded or strengthened. Most of the warriors had never seen a demon before; horrific things cast in shapes that made mockery of the human form. They cackled in unearthly tones as they leaped from man to man, carving flesh from bone with teeth and claws as sharp as blades. Men gripped with fear or caught unawares died in droves, but some few men of extraordinary skill or courage managed to surround and kill the agile monsters. Unfortunately, each that died was quickly replaced, the body erupting into a plume of emerald hellfire that birthed a new demon into the world.

As the cretins carved their way through the Mourslev camp, a trio of strange figures walked slowly behind. They chanted in foul and terrible tongues, hands raised in worship to unseen forces. The skies above the camp lit up with unnatural lights and otherworldly energy. The strangers, dressed in the shamanic furs and fetishes recognizable to any Hyperborean, weaved between bodies and burning tents as they continued their mad chorus. All the while, their eyes burned with infernal, green flames.



With the superficial acceptance of Lord Ashewoode’s contract, the Crimson Company marched into the Borean lowlands to begin their terror campaign. The duchy of Farsil was a beautiful region by most accounts; rolling hills and rich forests as old as the land itself. Its people were civil, but pragmatic folk. Life had been hard since the feud with House Ashewoode erupted some fifteen years ago, and a life outside of castle walls was difficult and short. Still, they carried on, and the arrival of the Crimson Company was yet another tragedy for the smallfolk.

The early weeks of raiding proceeded smoothly for the mercenary company. The villages put up nearly no resistance to their attacks, but held nearly no wealth for looting, either. Villages were burned, fields of crops put to the torch, herds of cattle slaughtered, and entire settlements razed to the ground. The Crimson Company suffered no casualties, having lost not even a single horse to wolves at night.

As the destruction in his men’s wake grew, Damion realized that the raiding was too easy. There should have been at least armed resistance by now, if not a mobilized army hunting them down. He gathered his lieutenants for a secretive meeting, hoping to narrow down the issue and hopefully adjust their strategy. Under the silver light of a full moon, as most of his men slept, the commanders of the Crimson Company convened. As they discussed their grand plans and how to keep them from going astray, the howls of beasts unlike any that walked the earth ripped through the night, and the true battle began.

Damion quickly learned why there were no wolves in the forests of Farsil.



The scout, once returned to the Ionnes’ camp, proved less than informative. He was by all appearances an ethnic Atlantean, though he seemed sickly and starved. His flesh was pallid, his features shrunken, and his eyes dark and withdrawn. When interrogated and tortured, he spoke only in a strange tongue that resembled an antiquated form of Atlantean. Only small fragments of information could be gleaned from him: vague mentions of shadows, warriors and some sort of mouth.

Their captive died within a week, seemingly from starvation. The men burned his body within the hour of his death, seemingly unnerved by keeping the corpse in their presence. The city ceased to send forth scouts and outriders, though sentries continued to man the walls and towers. When Ioannes’ army arrived, the city was quickly encircled without resistance, and a secure supply line from his conquered poleis was established without much difficulty.

The black walls of the dark city were too tall to scale, and so Ioannes set his men to put the city under siege. The first two weeks were uneventful, as though the citadel did not even notice the army encircling it. However, as the moon went dark in the night sky, they began to strike back. Gates opened briefly, and small contingents of slave warriors struck out against the Atlantean soldiers. Slaves robed only in rags and armed with iron spears clashed against phalanxes of Ioannes’ trained soldiers, and were quickly put down. As time passed, these attacks became more frequent, eventually striking so constantly that there was no time to move corpses from where they fell.

All the while, Ioannes worked at what was once Aquilonia’s port. With the supplies brought by his few precious ships, he constructed rams to batter the metal walls where there had once been a gate. As he had suspected, the walls were weakest where they had been built over an abscess, and he was able to break into the dark citadel. A city of death and twisted iron awaited him, as well as the dark forces that corrupted the once-greatest city in the Iron Kingdoms.



Ryan sat in the dirt, clutching her knees and softly sniffling. Her eyes were cast in Emily’s general direction, but she wasn’t looking at her. Once the fire began to burn steadily, that caught her attention. Ryan silently stared into the flames, the fresh bout of tears that had nearly broken through now gone. For hours, not a single word was passed between the women with hair like fire.

Only when Emily began to roast a small woodland beast that she had caught in her traps did the girl speak up, softly. “I didn’t mean to do it. Honest. Ever since it started I’d been scared of it getting out of control. But when she started talking to me, I thought I could control it. I thought it would be safe.” Her voice was wavering, as though she was about to cry again. “But she lied to me!” Instead, Ryan screamed, and the flames at her feet screamed with her, erupting in a billow of pale, green fire. “She lied! Everything she told me just made it worse! And now they’re dead!” She was hysterical now, kicking and screaming, almost spastic. The torrent of green fire rose higher into the air, and a sound like dark laughter rose over the crackling of the flames. “I want them back! Casey and Mama! Give them back to me!”

Dratha awoke, single eye blinking open in the half-light of his tent, hand closing tightly around the Book. Asa lay beside him, pale and smooth and beautiful amid the furs of his cot. He watched her sleep for a long moment, admired her fiery hair splayed out across his pillow.

Not every woman would accompany their man on campaign, but Asa was a nordling, and the nordling women were as brave as the nordling men, but half as stupid. Made them formidable warriors and dangerous friends.

Dratha frowned at the thought, thinking of the Over-Tyrant, rumors of whose insatiable ambition and unseasonable cunning were fast filtering south.

Silently, he slipped from his cot and dressed, donning weather-beaten leathers and a cowled mantle. The Book he placed in a specially-made holster inside his shirt, close to his chest. He slipped a patch over the ragged socket where his left eye had been before the goatkin had cut it out. Dressed, he grabbed his sword and his flask and stepped out of the tent.



The ragged column of northmen plodded up a thin dirt track, winding its way into the mountains. It was a smallish raiding party, not more than two hundred men and mutants. A mere splinter of the warlord Avikogerix's great horde, sent into the Teeth to test the strength of the Witch King and his storied Legions.

Dratha was hunkered down between a boulder and the gnarled trunk of a baya tree, an unlit pipe jutting from the corner of his mouth. Legion scouts and archers were likewise scattered out of sight in the scrub and rocks to either side of the path, bows and muskets aimed at the enemy column, awaiting the signal to fire.

Dratha studied the northerners, his single, glittering eye flitting from barechested brave to twisted mutant, his gaze appraising. Finally, it settled on a hulking beastman with an antlered head resembling a stag- albeit, a stag with bleeding lips and long, crooked fangs. Dratha muttered something in a soft, strange tongue, something that caused the legionaries crouched next to him to shudder and wince.

The stag-thing bellowed, eyes suddenly wild, and took the head off of the northman marching next to it with an angry swipe of its claws. The raiding party erupted into chaos then, as more and more of the beastmen began attacking their allies and each other with frenzied violence, their unexpected rampage spreading up and down the line of northerners like a virus.

Dratha gave the signal, and the legionary scouts opened up in a hail of arrows and musketry. The chiefs of the nordlings bellowed and tried to rally, but were shot down by their unseen enemies or cut down by their former allies.

It was over in less than an hour. The beastkin were dead. The northmen were mostly dead, though the more cowardly or intelligent had thrown down their weapons towards the end.

Dratha took a long drink from his flask, washing the Dalean brandy over his gums and relishing the spreading numbness. It burned deliciously going down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sauntered over to where the surrendered northmen were assembled, on their knees and surrounded by legionaries.

"Well," he said in the dialect of the northern tribes, "I am Othman Dratha, Lord of Sepulchrave, called the Witch King by your leaders. The Iron Legion is always recruiting, will you join?"

One of the northmen, a great gap-toothed warrior tattooed with the sigils of the northerners' heathen gods, spat at Dratha's feet, snarling something about never serving some upjumped hedge witch who defied the will of the stars.

Dratha frowned and shrugged.

Quite suddenly, the defiant northman screamed, then exploded in a shower of gore, bathing his comrades in blood and viscera. Gasps of shock erupted from the nordlings and legionaries alike.

"Any other requests for religious exemption?" Dratha asked his prisoners.

Haltingly, Emily reached her hand to where she'd left on the pack and wrapped a hand around her crossbow. She'd heard the accusations and vague statements the crowd had made about the girl's 'witchcraft', but she'd written them off as lies told to justify the fearful townspeople's actions - the notion that the girl might actually be possessed of some power hadn't occured to her.

As the pale fire rose, the light seemed to bleach from the clearing. Emily's breath caught in her throat and a cold wind prickled her face, making her break out in gooseflesh in spite of the enormous fire. The dark laughter thumped in her chest and a dull buzzing sounded in her ears. Slowly, Emily brought her hand from her face to her chest in a gesture her father had taught her - to 'ward off evil in the woods'. She took a deep breath and clutched the crossbow, bringing it to bear on the flailing child.

Time froze for a second, as Ryan carried on screaming and kicking and Emily took aim at the girl's forehead with an increasingly shaky hand. Most of the girl's rambling meant nothing to her, save a few aspects - she was guilty. She was afraid. She'd lost people, 'Casey and Mama'. "I want them back!" she screamed again. "Bring them back!"

"I can't!" Emily replied, setting down the crossbow and walking cautiously over to the child. She pulled the girl up into a sitting position and sat down next to her, on hand awkwardly on the girl's shoulder. "Nothing can, Ryan. That's the first thing you have to realize, nothing can bring the people you love back."

This lead to a bout of crying that caused the fire to flare up even further, but Emily stayed resolute. "Hey. Hey, Ryan. This isn't going to help."

"I didn't mean to do it!"

"I know. I know you didn't, but that doesn't matter now. All that matters is what you're going to do next." Emily turned to stare into the child's eyes. "Casey and Mama are gone, Ryan. But do you think they'd be happy if they saw you like this?" The girl sniffled, and Emily continued. "All that you can do now is be brave. Don't you think they'd want you to be brave?"

At length, the girl nodded, and gradually the green fire began to die down. Emily gave Ryan a strip of cloth to wipe her face off with and stood some distance away while she did so, staring into the woods, lost in thought. Until she started to hear the howling some distance away.

The hunter whipped around and automatically began to throw her possessions back together and re-tie Able's saddlebags. She was halfway through loading her musket and slinging it around her shoulder when she saw Ryan staring at her in the middle of camp. "What are you doing?" the girl asked, and sniffled.

"I, um... there are people who need me. I'm the only one who can help them, so I have to go. You stay here, or... no, I guess you have to come with." Emily crouched down and put her hands on Ryan's shoulders. "This is going to be scary, Ryan. Very scary. I need you to be brave. Can you do that for me?"

Ryan nodded, and Emily smiled and mussed her red hair. "That's my girl. Stay quiet, stay low, and if you see anything scary, find me and tell me where it is." She lifted the child onto Able and then hauled herself up, immediately galloping in the direction of the howls.

"Are we looking for those wolves I heard?" Ryan asked, and Emily shook her head.

"There are no wolves in Farsil."

Outside the tent, and in the encampment beyond, the demons ripped through the ranks of the Clansmen. Steel hacked through tainted hide, but nothing seemed to be able to halt the hellish assault. Tooth and claw tore the petrified warriors to bloody tatters,whilst greater and greater numbers of the flickering savages came pouring out of the night, leaping upon their hapless prey with joyous bloodlust.

The laughter of the feral monsters chilled the hearts of even the bravest soldiers, as the skulking husks wove beneath the clumsy strikes of the clansmen, cackling and giggling in twisted voices that were neither animal nor human in tone, but rasped and crackled with each warped hiss.

Few beings were able to keep a cool head in the face of the nether spawn, and fewer still had the pragmatic mindset required to turn the situation to their advantage. Fortunately, the Over-Tyrant was quite the tactician.

Whilst she was supreme ruler in name, the tribes of Mourslev still held allegiance to their chieftains above all else. The Trade Queen had been devising several different plans to kill off her second-in-commands, and truly assert her dominance, but it had been a slow and intricate process, with only a few of the lower-ranking leaders meeting their end under suspicious circumstances.

Now the barbarians were at the gates, and she had all she needed to send those which shackled her screaming into oblivion.

“We must act quickly, or risk meeting out end!” Khalaevna heaved herself up off of the floor. She had no time for armour, but her magic-bathed blade was within reach. Zalewylch was almost weightless in her hand as she scooped it up; a gleaming metal saber with a crossguard riddled with ancient runes, and a fine steel blade which was honed to perfection.

Just then, the tent flaps were torn open, and a thrashing mass of warped pink spikes and stretched flesh came screeching into view. A nest of whipping tentacles snapped at the air, and five cavernous mouths barked and growled like some crazed hellhound. The void-like black orbs which served as its eyes fixed on Khalaevna, and a set of slobbering tongues lashed out of its mouths with unconcealed greed.

The demon stormed right past the chieftains, leaping over them as they gazed on in horror. It had found a feast in Khalaevna, and a plentiful one at that.

It's five mouths snapped and snarled as the ravenous beast came charging towards her, certain that it had found an easy meal. Whilst Khalaevna was large and slow, she was by no means weak, and the magic blade in her hand only added to her might.

Just as the creature came shrieking down upon her, the Over-Tyrant slashed upwards with Zalewylch, its gleaming blade singing through the air and cleaving through the demon’s monstrous flesh.

The creature screeched and stumbled backwards, grasping at the new slit in its muscular mess of a body. The skin around the wound seem to retreat backwards, taking on the complexion of broken glass, as the demon’s bridge to this world began to crumble. By the time the demon should’ve struck the floor, it's twisted form was gone completely; returned to the realm which had birthed it.

“My queen...I am sorry,” Aureus spluttered in disbelief “I was too slow to react, I-”

“You’re right, Icelake!” Khalaevna snarled “The beast was inches from taking my life. If it weren't for my own intuition, we’d all be dead.”

“Apologies, your grace.” Gorah Darktounge bowed her head solemnly.

“Redeem yourself,” she snapped “Get out there and prove your worth.”

The chieftains rushed quickly out of the tent to join the fight, leaving the Over-Tyrant to plot her next move.

The twisting black iron walls of Aquilonia, so monstrous and threatening from afar, did not seem quite so looming now, Ioannes noted as he rode the length of his drawn-up battle lines. The walls were large, that was to be admitted, but they were not made of thick stone but sheets of hammered metal, and while it would be impossible to grapple over them it would not be so difficult to tear through.

He had chosen to set the rams to work where he gauged that the city's original gate should have been. That gate had fallen long ago, and a new one had been erected in turn from black iron on the other side of the city, but Ioannes judged that if they could break through the walls there the main street into the city should provide room to maintain his soldiers' ranks.

The siege had been a strange one, to be sure. For some weeks not a single sortie had emerged from the walls to challenge the invaders, and the gaunt-eyed scouts atop the towers did not seem particularly concerned. Eventually the rotting egg of the city had hatched, however, and hundreds of ill-armored and unskilled slave soldiers had emerged. Ioannes had commanded his sergeants to strike at the enemy commanders and let the rest break without pursuit.

And the enemy armies had broken, that was to be sure. After the frontlines collapsed the rest had scattered every which way, as men in black armor atop black horses tried to maintain order. Crossbowmen and archers dealt with them, and Ioannes and his cavalry had swept in between the army and its city, leaving the fleeing soldiers to run in any other direction. They were not followed; Ioannes hoped, though he knew it foolish, that they might recover from whatever foulness engulfed the city in the wilds and come to rejoin civilization.

Such a battle had repeated over and over, with ever-increasing frequency, as Ioannes' rams and trebuchets came closer to punching a suitable hole into the city's walls. With each sortie the slaves seemed more desperate, though many refused to break -- in fear of what might happen if they were recaptured? -- and instead died on the spears or lances of the phalanxes of Acharnae. There had not been time even to bury the dead before the next wave emerged, and so they had been cleansed in great bonfires against the city's walls.

A messenger had arrived at Ioannes' camp in the dead of night, however, and informed him that the walls had been broken. The city had not yet noticed. As the moon shone bright above, Ioannes drew his remaining armies -- perhaps a fourth of them had been lost to battle or attrition -- into tight columns, with his cavalry at the head. They would ride ahead to surprise the enemy, and behind the main force would storm into the city and recapture it.

As was to be expected, the scouts in their towers noticed as Ioannes led a wedge of mounted lancers through a newly-made gap in the walls. The air filled with shouts and commands in some guttural ancient language, but it was not soon enough. The wedge tore through the bleary and half-assembled slave ranks like a knife through supple cloth as they raced ahead towards the city's inner sanctum.

Ioannes supposed that the center of the city must once have contained a great marble forum. Now, however, it was a fortress in and of itself, the only building inside of the city's walls that had been rebuilt. Where the roads leading up to it had been all sun-bleached, half-destroyed facades and pillars, this one shone darkly in the moonlight. Drawn up in front of it was a more worrying force -- a line of horsemen to meet their own, armored all in black iron plate that seemed the same material as the fortress itself. They lowered oiled lances and charged to meet Ioannes' wedge along the road.

The first few seconds were chaos, as lines met and horses wheeled. Ioannes' lance wedged itself deep into the gorget of some poor fool, and as he dropped it he unsheathed the orichalcum-lined blade of his forefathers. Around Ioannes the line had broken up into two dozen individual duels, and further back the main infantry had fallen upon the broken lines of the Aquilonians.

Ioannes chose his target, raising his sword towards a man taller than most on a spotted destrier. The knight turned and met his gaze, and both charged. Horses wheeled around one another as both fighters landed blows on one another's shields and armor. The rest of the world fell away, and for a few moments all that existed was the sword in hand and the sword in his foe's hand and the song of steel. Ioannes parried the black knight's longsword aside with his superior blade, and buried his sword to the hilt in a chink in the man's pauldron. He was rewarded with a pained grunt and the sound of a sword clattering to the ground. Ioannes drew his blade back out and lodged it with a thrust deep into his enemy's visor. As he pulled it out once more for another swing, the knight toppled lifeless from his horse.

By then the main battle lines had caught up with the cavalry, and the remaining black knights -- perhaps half of those who had originally rode from their stronghold -- fled for safety. Several were met with well-placed crossbow quarrels, and one was spilled from his horse as it collapsed dead to the ground. Ioannes' own had fared slightly better, though not by any great measure; many of his companions lay dead on the paved stones, and their horses milled aimlessly or sprawled over their corpses.

The battle was not won, of course. As the gate of the stronghold was encircled, Ioannes and his remaining cavalry rode to the city's new gate and raised it for the rest of his army to enter. Another block of slave fodder marched from the inner sanctum, and were quickly slaughtered or shattered.

The dawn had arrived when Ioannes' battering rams broke down the gate of the main fortress. With the first rays of morning light spilling over the ruins of a once-great city, he rode into the gaping maw of the city center.

The camp was in chaos as Damion and his inner circle burst through the flaps of the command tent. Men ran in every direction, and officers shouted orders over the chaos. Bodies flew through the air like dolls, as if some unholy being with strength that pushed the limits of human comprehension had idly tossed them aside. "Alexios, William, Catherine, Gavin, Rich! Gather your men and set a counter-offensive - ware beasts. Haljon and John, you're with me!" Damion yelled, striding forward and yanking his sword from its sheathe. "Nell, where the fuck is my horse?"
Nell suddenly appeared by his side with his beautiful warhorse, Grendel. Without a moment's pause he vaulted into the saddle. Haljon and John soon followed suit. Nell had brought her horse as well, and rode up beside Damion. He paused, nervous, then nodded. "Stay behind Haljon and I. Do not directly engage." She swallowed, then nodded back. Damion stirred his horse, and the party was off.
They rode through the camp, Damion shouting orders and directions, gathering loose men around the camp into units. Fortunately most had the sense to have slept in their armor, and long hours of drilling had spared the company of the confusion that usually accompanied such night raids. There was heavy fighting towards the north of the camp, and as Damion and his small party drew closer they heard the din of combat. A bestial roar split the night, sending shivers of fear down all four of their spines. John Redford had turned a pale sheet of white. "They be Werewolves milord!"
Ser Haljon cursed, drawing his massive greatsword. Nell and Damion readied their blades as well, even as John shakingly notched an arrow to his bow. They broke through a mass of torn tents and destroyed furniture, and suddenly were in the midst of a battle. Fifty or so of the Crimson Company had formed an ordered square, surrounded by their partially collapsed camp. Opposite to them were dozen or so of the beasts; even as Damion watched one of them grew brave and charged, taking down two men in a flurry of blows before being repelled.
They charged in. Damion did not hesitate—hesitation led to death, and he would not allow any more of his men to perish to these unholy beasts. He raised his sword high and spurred Grendel forwards, the rest of his party close behind. He saw an arrow strike a werewolf in its shoulder, spinning it halfway around and to the ground. Damion glanced behind him, watched as John Redford nocked another arrow.
And then they were on them. Damion swung his sword wide and felt it bite flesh; he wasted no time, and managed to seriously wound another of the beasts before breaking through the pack. He turned, watched as Ser Haljon cleaved a werewolf in twain with his great blade and as Nell lost her sword in another's guts. John Redford had halted up the hill and fired shot after shot into the pack, all of them finding their marks.
The company soldiers besides them gave a ragged cheer at their appearance and charged. The werewolves put up a token resistance, managing to cell another half-dozen men, but they had lost their bloodlust and their opponents were no longer cowed. What remained of their number gled back into the night.
Damion turned to the officer in charge of the group of soldiers. "Report. What happened?"
The officer was a grizzled veteran with flecks of grey in his beard. He radiated an attitude of no-nonsense. "Got into our camp somehow sir—must 'ave snuck past our sentries, or killed 'em. Lost four lances worth a'fore I got everyone organized." He said, scrunching his nose in disgust.
Damion nodded. "Find out what happened, and send a man out to tell Ser Gavin where we are." He paused, then added grimly, "Seems like we got attacked all over. Gods damn them." Damion dismissed the man and turned to his party. "Nell, find your sword! I have a feeling this isn't over yet."

Emily could see the fires now, flickering through the trees - there was a great warcamp ahead. They must have camped for the night, thinking they were safe with no enemies or beasts nearby. So few knew the truth of these woods, the reason even Emily avoided them when she could.

The truth was underscored with another chorus of howls as Able drew closer to the camp. "Hang on, Ryan," she said the the girl clinging onto her back. "Whatever happens, stay with Able. He'll keep you safe." She was close enough to see the fighting now - the hulking monsters and the brave, foolish men being torn apart by them. As the horse charged through the trees and into the camp, she knickered softly to Able and rolled out of the saddle.

The horse and his young cargo carried on running just as she'd signalled him to do - his long exposure to his mistress's line of work had given him sharp survival instincts. He would stay clear of the monsters, find someone to hang around, and keep both himself and Ryan safe. No, the real danger was Emily's.

She landed in a half-crouch, planting a knee and a forearm to the ground to check her fall. She rose, unslinging her musket from her back as one of the werewolves turned to snarl at her, tossing aside the mangled remnants of the sellsword it had been mauling.

The beast charged her just as she brought her gun to bear on it. The lead ball took it in the side and blew a great chunk of meat free, causing it to howl and stagger, its charge ruined. Blood oozed from the wound and matted the monster's fur, but it was not dead.

Swearing, Emily crouched down and began to reload the gun, practiced fingers speeding the ardous task. The werewolf snarled again, began to lurch towards her, blood dripping down its fangs and murder in its animal eyes. It seemed to know with some triumph that the weapon was not reloaded when it was on her, claws raised to strike...

Though perhaps the look of surprise that crossed its face when she pulled the crossbow from her back and fired was her imagination. The werewolf staggered back, the quarrel lodged in its throat. It gurgled, collapsed, and was still.

Emily turned to look after Able, trying to make out where he had carried Ryan off to. So preoccupied with this task was she that she barely turned in time to see the second werewolf barreling at her. The monster bowled her over, knocking her to her back and causing her to skid a few feet, and then it was on top of her in another instant. She punched hard in its face and attempted to push it off with her legs, but the monster was only momentarily stunned and raked its clawns along her shoulder, making her cry out in pain as it lunged forward, desperately trying to bite at her throat.

Emily shouted and thrust an arm up, gritting her teeth as the beast's powerful jaws closed around the meet of her forearm instead. She clicked her boot heels together and the blade on her left heel sprung free. Immediately, she drove it up into the monster's underbelly, tearing at it with her foot like a great bird of prey might, the monster leaned back in surprise and pain, howled, and she drove the blade at her wrist into its throat.

The werewolf went limp quickly, but she stabbed it a few more times for good measure. Grunting, she rolled its corpse off of her and stood up, taking a moment to feel at her wounds. They were painful, but not serious - she could get them seen to when all this was over, provided anyone survived. A few feet away there was a young man, garbed in red as a soldier, pale and shaking in the dirt and smeared with blood. It seemed he was the only survivor of this group. He was staring at her in wonder, and Emily grabbed her gear and walked over to him.

"What's your name?" she asked shortly, offering her uninjured arm to help pull him up. He accepted it and rose - it seemed aside from a few cuts, he was unwounded.

He swallowed sharply. "T-Tobias Kelner, m'am. Crimson Company. Third Lance."

"Crimson Company. Hmm." This was more of a confirmation of Emily's theory than anything - she'd taken this to be a sellsword army, and the Crims were the most renowned in Borea.

Tobias shook again before grabbing her by the shoulders and beginning to weep profusely into her chest. "Oh, bless you," he said again and again, "Bless you, bless you, bless you... they killed everyone, they were going to kill me, but you... the huntress with the hair like fire..."

Emily pushed him off and peered flatly into his eyes. "Yes, yes, you're welcome. Look, Tobias, it's not over yet. More of those werewolves might show up, and before that happens we need to get out of here. Can you take me to where your leader is camped? That should be safe." Emily also didn't mention that that was the likely place Able, and Ryan with him, had ended up - Able always tended to break for where people were.

Tobias sniffled and nodded. "I-I will. This way!"

The business that followed the battle was dealt with quickly. Those that turned their cloak over to the Iron Legion were given quarters, and those that resisted were put to the sword. Dratha retired to his tent, and called for water to be heated for a bath. The musk and grime of battle had settled on him over the last few days, and he sought to cleanse himself of the foul stench of the North. His attendants set fires for his brass bathtub as one of his advisors regaled him with the word that carried over the land.

One item interested Dratha in particular: news that Arsenikos of Acharnae had put Aquilonia under siege. He knew little of the man himself beyond what most knew; a conqueror in the Atlantean tradition of old, who had already claimed three poleis in his growing empire. Aquilonia was a curious matter, however. He had been far too busy fending off Northmen in recent years to bother himself with expanding his domain, and the ruins of Atlantis meant little to the pragmatic Witch King. However, the fact that the ancient capital was under siege was a curious thing. He had always assumed it to be little more than ruins, perhaps populated by barbarians or squatters. What conventional military force could possibly be controlling it?

Something else piqued his interest, as well. The Book, held securely against his breast, seemed to react at the mention of the polis. It warmed against him, and seemed to almost tug him toward the West, pointing in the direction of the ancient city. However, when he faced the western hills, the sun descending behind them, he felt a chill run through him. Aquilonia was a place of death. It was not the Book that told him this, but the animal instinct buried deep in his brain, a primordial fear coded in him since man first walked upright upon the earth. And yet the Book still pulled him forward. It did not whisper to him, as it usually did. This too seemed far more like a natural reaction than any logical endeavor. Aquilonia attracted the Book, but repelled the King. A curious thing indeed.

Regardless, this was a point worth discussing with his lessers. Was it worth aiding the would-be Atlantean Emperor? Or perhaps the city could be snatched out from under him? Aquilonia was a fortress foremost, and it would be a boon to the Iron Legion to have walls for barbarians to break themselves upon. Interesting times laid ahead of the Lord of Iron, interesting and deadly times.



Emily stepped gingerly through the ruined campsite, avoiding both the corpses and wounded men where she could. It was rare that she should encounter such a large battle; she was not used to smell of death so heavy in the air, nor the myriad cries of dying men. The corpses of werewolves particularly bothered her, their glassy eyes and gaping maws seeming not very different from living monsters. In Emily's experience, mutants were not creatures clever enough to play dead, but she was unsure of werewolves. It was only once before that she had battled one, and she learned much from nearly losing her life in the experience.

The clouds shifted overhead, and the light of the full moon was broken. No longer cloaked in silver light, the dead werewolves scattered about suddenly transformed, utterly startling both Tobias and Emily. It seemed as though the fur and sinewy muscle of the monsters melted away, leaving behind naked human corpses. However, what was most unusual was that these were not Northmen. Not even Lemurians, nor Atlanteans. Common Borean people were the faces behind these monsters, hardly different from the villagers that populated this region. Though each one bore many silvery runes inscribed upon their skin. Very strange, but Emily didn't have time to consider it; she had a mercenary lord to consult.



The slaughter continued as the Trade Queen paced her tent, mind furiously working to devise some manner of counter attack. Too much had been lost already; it was very unlikely that she would be able to regroup her forces. Their morale had been shattered, and many that had not yet been killed ran screaming off into the night. Khalaevna's thoughts turned to her own survival. Could she flee in the midst of battle? Would she be able to survive the mountains on her own? Would a small contingent of servants be able to escape with her?

Her thoughts were broken by the flap of her tent opening once more. Her hand immediately went to her sword, and she hoped that she still had the strength in her to fend off another demon. However, rather than the frantic pace of the monsters, the intruder seemed to have a more human calmness. The familiar face of Aureus Icelake appeared, and Khalaevna was momentarily relieved. However, something was amiss; his mouth hung agape and his eyes were screwed shut in an expression like agony. A moment later, and it was clear that Icelake's severed head was stuck on the end of a staff, and her true guest entered.

An old, ragged Northman, wrapped in many robes and furs, crept into the tent. The staff holding the head of her deceased chieftain carried a handful of other skulls, bones and miscellaneous trinkets. Similar fetishes, carved with runes and strange symbols, dangled from the intruder's hood and cloaks, or were woven into his long, grey beard. Most striking of all were the man's eyes, which carried a mystifying green glow. Khalaevna fought to keep herself from becoming entranced in the man's gaze, and went to her sword at once.

"Still your blade!" The man barked, and thunder seemed to crack outside as he spoke. "Hear my words if you wish to live. The Mourslev are mighty in battle, but weak in spirit. Mere mongrels that forsake the gods of their people, and for this they have been punished." He banged his staff against the ground, and Icelake's head bounced gruesomely against another bleached skull. "The gods are mighty and their will is absolute, but even the Mourslev are not beyond repentance. We have seen your conquest, Over-Tyrant, and we are impressed. So much gained without the blessing of the gods; think what could be accomplished with their favor." The man then knelt before Khalaevna, laying his bloody staff at her feet. "Accept the true gods of the North, and they will give you power beyond imagining. Forsake them, and this place will be your grave. Decide now, while you still have a head to decide with."



The conquering king rode into the black heart of Aquilonia, where he discovered a strange tranquility. All seemed still and quiet in the city center, as though it were utterly detached from the battle raging just outside its iron walls. The fortress was strangely partitioned with crude, metal walls, making it difficult for two men to ride abreast. Ioannes' cavalry slowly entered the dark citadel, hearts thundering with anticipation and anxiety. This place was already so wrong, but that feeling only intensified where they were.

The soldiers passed strange and gruesome sights, but saw not a single enemy after the initial rush of slaves. Mutants, their features twisted into the visages of bats and and wolves, lie dead on racks. Most had seemingly starved, though others appeared to be warped beyond that which their own sickness had twisted them. Piles of dead slaves were scattered about. Some had killed themselves, others died by unseen blades, while others still seemed partly eaten. The Atlantean soldiers grimaced and covered their faces as they passed these horrific sights, avoiding the tainted corpses where they could. Some whispered small prayers to their gods or ancestors, though such words echoed hollowly in the iron corridors of Aquilonia.

The very center of the city was eventually reached; a courtyard paved with intricate stonework. At its center was a fountain that once displayed a representation of lost Atlantis, the home of the Dragon-Kings of myth. Now it stood profaned, its spires shattered and black ichor filling its pool. Ioannes' men rode out into the courtyard, trying to space themselves well enough to avoid getting in the way of each other. They felt dark eyes on them, peering at them from the shadows cast by the spires of iron overhead.

The first one emerged from the shadows once Ioannes himself entered the courtyard. It had the shape of a man, from what he could tell, but its aura was indescribably unsettling. Black armor, not unlike the riders they had encountered before, but of far stronger make and with heraldry unlike any Ioannes had ever seen before. The eldritch symbols inscribed on his shield seemed to distort before his very eyes, and it ached Ioannes' head to look at it for long. The twisted steel of the knight's helm obscured his features, but he stood a head taller than Ioannes, and the sword on his back was nearly as tall as he was.

Others appeared soon after, auras stronger than the dark riders they had seen before, but not as malignant as the first to appear. Some dozen dark knights emerged, all armed, but none with their weapons drawn. Ioannes signalled his men not to attack, wary of a trap. For a time they stood inert, each force facing each other silently. Just when Ioannes decided to break the stalemate by calling out, the first of the knights spoke over him.

"You who rush so blindly into death..." A voice as cold as a mountaintop grave called out, and Ioannes felt an icy grip on his heart. "Who interrupt our great work... Who dare intrude upon the sanctum of my masters... Shall die under the weight of your own arrogance..."

Ioannes wasted no time giving the command to attack, and so his men rode in to attack the dark knights. He had the advantages in men and horses, but these cramped quarters made the mounts more a disadvantage. The dark knights were swift, despite their size, and each seemed terribly strong. Their apparent leader made no motions to join the fray, but faced across the courtyard from Ioannes. Though he could not see his face, he had the unshakable feeling that he was being stared at by the otherworldly warrior. It was then that the knight lifted a gauntleted fist, engulfed in unholy power, which made Ioannes' sweat run cold to look upon. He slammed his fist down to the ground, falling to his knees, and a great shaking overtook the citadel, not unlike an earthquake.

Throughout the city and the lands surrounding it, a dark and terrible work of sorcery took place. Fallen soldiers of both sides rose up from where they laid, like puppets on invisible strings. Their eyes were the solid black of frozen flesh, and they carried themselves as though ill at ease in flesh bodies. Their fatal wounds mattered little to them, nor did any that were inflicted on them. They advanced on Ioannes men, often from behind their ranks, swinging their weapons wildly. They were clumsy and slow, but they were many, and they were as tenacious as the grave. Even when hacked into spare limbs and flesh, the crawled along the ground, the will of their masters not allowing them to die.



Damion was utterly puzzled. He scowled furiously, though it was hidden behind his helm. What was seconds ago a dead werewolf stared up at him with a Borean commoner's face. He felt like it was mocking him. Northmen or mutants he could understand, but what was all of this? A resistance force? Was the Duke in command of these monsters? The questions continued to pile up, and Damion was not any happier for them. He rode through what was left of his camp, barking orders at men where he found them. He wanted new sentries, the number doubled. A perimeter of torches. The wounded were to be brought to the center of the camp. The dead had to be burned. Much to do, all while still under the impending threat of another attack.

The Lord of Blades cursed quietly. His lieutenants bickered loudly, but Damion's conflicting thoughts were silent. He was a soldier, a mercenary, not some damned huntsman. He had killed his share of mutants, but this was something else entirely. It was something he felt entirely unprepared for, and knowing that killed him. The humiliation of this surprise attack burned him like hot irons, and he was utterly determined to not allow it to happen again. He just needed information, leverage even. These were men wearing the skin of monsters, and if he could capture one, he could get it to speak. That said, he wasn't an expert on taking wild beasts hostage. Perhaps if he were a trapper, a ranger, or a hunter...

Damion's thoughts were broken by a soldier approaching him. Third lance, if he was reading his epaulette correctly. Beside him stood a girl Damion had never seen before, with hair like fire. "An important visitor to speak with you, Milord."

---

It was a misty morning, and the path was terribly muddy. Every step Safiyyah was a labor; lifting her foot out of the crud felt like yanking her leg out of the grip of some slimy animal, and every time she put it back into the earth it sunk down with an unpleasant splat. Morning dew gathered on her face and her clothes, and it seemed as if the path grew steeper and steeper as she came nearer to the castle.

These distracting thoughts were cast aside. Safiyyah stared up at the castle above. It was occupied, certainly, which was good; that meant resting in a warn bed, as certainly an alchemist would be welcomed in a lord's keep. The Atlantean she was told ruled the place, Lord Phaedreus, was rumored to be knowledgeable of what secrets lied in the ruins of the surrounding lands. And if one of these ruins might hold the stone...

"Safiyyah," came a voice from behind her, low and deep and gentle.

"A moment, Buzo," said the woman in yellow, rubbing her cold hands together to warm them. "See the tower on the far right? It is windowless." And it was. All the other towers the Castle on Lofty Peak had had windows, clearly visible windows even as far as this. But that one did not. "If this Lord Phaedreus is hiding anything precious, it will be stored there. He's rumored to have maps of -"

"Safiyyah," the man behind her repeated, more firmly this time. "On the right, on the hill."

The alchemist went quiet, then flicked a glance in that direction without turning her head. Chibuzo had keen eyes: there, lurking about in the trees above, were a pair of barely visible archers. They wore leaves over their furred armor, and Safiyyah would not have noticed them on her own.

"Not soldiers," she muttered to herself, resting her left hand on her hip. "Not watchmen, either." She fingered one of the pouches of her shirt, found what she was searching for: a pair of small metal balls. She tucked them into her hand, careful not to click them together too hard. "What do you think-?"

"Waiting," Buzo answered, now walking next to her. He was a tall man, his skin a dark brown and the top of his cleanly shaven. His goatee was as handsome as always - his scarred, exotic face made northern girls swoon - and his eyes were alert as ever, searching.

"For?"

"The right chance to strike. They're distant, and there's a wind about. They might miss." So there was: a light wind, but enough to throw arrows off the mark, Safiyyah would wager, especially the sort of shoddily fletched arrows the bandits of this region usually had...

"There," he said, pointing on forward with the spear he used as a walking stick. His voice carried through the mist. "That is a good campsite." And it was: not far down the road was a cave that went into the mountains. It would be a good place to rest on a normal day...

And it also would trap them, assuming it had an end, which it likely did. At least, that's what those archers hunting them would think.

"Already?" groaned Safiyyah, gripping her head with one hand and waving the other theatrically. "I'm tired of these rocks and this mud and this - this - this drudgery!" Partly true, but really not. She wasn't this insufferable.

"It's a cave," Chibuzo answered flatly, stepping on forward a bit faster. "It's dry, it's shelter, and it's going to rain soon. Pick up your skirt and hurry it up."

Safiyyah let out a loud, frustrated noise, grabbing at her head and huffing. Secretly, though, she was grinning. Good thinking, Buzo. Good thinking.

---

It didn't take long to set the trap. It wasn't complicated: Safiyyah used a set of spare clothes and some straw (useful stuff to have, straw) to make a dummy of herself rolled up on a sleeping mat near a small campfire they'd mad. Sweet little Ghada, her mule, was pretending to sleep next to it, and all the valuables she'd been carrying were spread out beside her.

Chibuzo himself went on and found a hiding place deeper inside the cave where he waited with his spear. Safiyyah hid beneath some stones and stalagmites not too far from the entrance, holding the two metal balls from earlier in her hand. She had a cloth wrapped around her face, as did Chibuzo, and had sniffed a formula that clogged up the olfactory sense. Breathing was a little harder, but that was a necessary evil.

The two archers crept on in through the cave entrance, cautiously approaching the fire. The man in front took a good, quick look about, probably looking for Chibuzo, then gestured on forward. His friend padded on in silent as a mouse and went straight for the dummy with a rag in one hand and a dagger in the other.

That was when Safiyyah clicked the little balls together. It was audible, and it echoed through the caves; both men stopped what they were doing and started looking around. Then, Safiyyah threw them over the top of the stalagmites she hid behind, and as they struck the ground near the two men a green cloud started to come out.

The man nearer the entrance succumbed quickly, being much closer to Safiyyah. He coughed and stumbled about, but then fell onto the ground in a heap. His friend, though, started to dash for the cave entrance; but he'd paid no heed to the white mule and was tripped by her outstretched leg. He, too, began coughing, but was doing a better job of staying conscious, scrambling to his feet and covering his face with his rag. But he, too, was subdued, this time with a loud THWACK! followed by silence.

Chibuzo stepped on out from the smoke and strode on over to Safiyyah, offering a hand to help her up. She accepted, and he glanced on back behind them at the two unconscious bandits.

"What do you want done with them?" he asked.

"I'll tie them up and gag them," answered Safiyyah, glancing over to make certain that Ghada was okay. She was: the mule was smart enough to get up and stay awake from the sleeping cloud after years of traveling with her mistress. The two men were still unconscious, as well. "Once they wake up, we'll question them and take them with us to the castle. I'm sure Lord Phaedreus will be happy to hear how you dispatched two criminals in his land..."

"Hm." That was the only sound Chibuzo made for several seconds. "Hm. You do not think they were sent by him?"

"I doubt it," she answered with a smile, pulling the cloth down from her mouth to show it. "But I guess we'll find out once they're away, no?" And with that, the alchemist replaced the cloth and started over toward Ghada to get the rope.

Today is going to be a good day, she thought as the rain began to pitter-patter outside the cave.