Summer 3982 A.D.

Ascheriit kept his hood up as he walked into Right Here, even though there wasn't a grouchy miner or farming granny in sight that he hadn't spoken with, or at least nodded to, over the years. Every once in a while a trader from the southwest managed to make it into the human village without someone getting over to warn Dart's colony first, and better safe than dodging stabs from startled outsiders.

Though if he were honest, he'd admit the real reason he kept his hood was he'd never gotten used to that first flash of shock on other faces. All these years later, it still ached.

Pack over his shoulders, Ascheriit strode silently through hard dirt streets, nodding politely at Jakob inspecting fresh hides and dodging the odd flock of chickens wandering near Parsifal's dye-house. Robin's son had never been more than an average shepherd, but he'd grown into an excellent weaver and dyer. Both of which paid for the young man's other hobby.

Pausing at the fenced edge of the path, Ascheriit watched Parsifal glide through sword-forms under the noon sun. The young man had worked up a sweat, and Ascheriit could smell the steel of the blade from here, but he wasn't nearly as rank as he'd have been if he'd stuck it out in the dye-house. That wooden shed was locked up and steaming in the sun, indigo fermenting into the dye that would turn patchy white-and-brown sheep's wool to sky-blue laced with silvery black.

...Then again, almost nothing was as rank as working indigo. Including no few Wischtech monsters. "Curl your fingers more," Ascheriit observed. "Keep that grip solid."

"Köinzell!" Parsifal jumped, but came down in a decent guard; not bad at all for Right Here's part-time deputy and wrangler of drunken miners. "I thought you'd get in yesterday."

"Why would I have done that? Did Vaan somehow hijack an airship and get his cuttlebones here weeks early?" Ascheriit took his pack off and let it rest against the fence, taking out the wrapped spider-silk bundle of fay-worked beads and mordants that were Parsifal's share of the latest trade with Dart's relatives. "I did say Dart needed me for some scouting. We found- well, I'll give you the gory details later. Let's just say whatever ancient sorcerer thought land-going hagfish were a good idea ought to have been drowned in a bucket of slime..." He trailed off, registering Parsifal's raised brow that mingled worry and mild amusement. "What?"

"You and cuttlebone. You're almost as bad as Dart." The dyer took his bundle, shaking his head. "Ma and Uncle Artur have someone they want you to meet."

"Someone to meet?" Ascheriit said blankly. He was not as bad as Dart, not by a long shot. Besides, Robin said this far inland, sea-stuffs like cuttlebone and dried seaweed were good for all of them. "A trader? Someone coming in by dragon-back? A wandering bookseller? Some of those folk are truly foolhardy, they'll dive into a raging river after-"

Parsifal had clapped a hand to his face. "Now I know who told Elsi babies were found on the doorsteps in baskets."

"They are," Ascheriit said dryly. "Just because your Ma has that story about cabbage leaves..." Wait. Wait just a minute. "You mean she - they - isn't it too early?" Oh no. Oh gods, something was wrong, he just knew it-

"Then again, maybe Elsi was right," Parsifal said, half to himself. "You wouldn't have been much help outside of boiling water." Bending down - the boy had grown so tall - he clapped Ascheriit on the shoulder. "Go on. I know they want to see you."

One last blow to the curve of iron, and Artur nodded, satisfied. Quenched it, and hung the finished horseshoe on the side of the trough with the others. "You see that, Corcoran?"

"Yes, sir!" his new apprentice said stoutly, easing off on the bellows. "The holes have to be smaller than in one of River's shoes."

"Than any mule's shoe, like as not," Artur nodded, hammer over his shoulder. "You can shoe a mule with horseshoes, but never try it the other way. Mule hooves are just harder than a horse's. Usually. Check for yourself if you have to shoe one you don't know. There's always the chance some damn fool bred his donkey to a horse with no more hoof than a fingernail to get something out of her."

"Either that," Köinzell's voice drifted from the smithy door, "or they take a mule's toughness for granted and don't even check their feet after a day's work. A mule may be smart enough to kick if you try to overload him, but that means it takes a stubborn person to keep checking their hooves. And let's not even get into trying to shoe riding birds."

Corcoran yelped, stumbling back almost into the neat pile of iron rods before he stood his ground. "Master Artur, what-?"

"Ah, Köinzell," Artur said casually, glancing at the cloaked part-fay as if he were no more startling than Granny Annka down the lane. Here's the acid test, boy. I hope you pass. "This is Corcoran, Jakob Tanner's cousin by way of his elder great-uncle Gunter, gods' peace rest easy on him." Which was a polite way of saying war orphan, dumped through a dozen relatives already, now tossed up like flotsam here.

Which was pretty much how Right Here had gotten most of its few new souls, over the years. Even now, no one came to the Forest of Death who had better options. Any better options.

"Corcoran, this is Köinzell." Artur turned to watch the boy's face work, awed and scared and gruesomely curious. "I'm sure you've heard plenty of stories about our scout already. The one about the chickens is completely false."

"Well, mostly," Köinzell said dryly. "If Granny Annka asks you to get that silver-laced banty rooster of hers out of a hemlock tree, say no."

Artur choked back a snicker. That was one reason Köinzell had all but joined the family whenever he was in town. The man could laugh at himself, even if the end of the story had him dripping bits of egg, feathers, and hemlock needles. "The story about the fire-worm in the abandoned cellar, though - that's true. I was there."

"He saved my life," Köinzell nodded. "Remember that if you ever need to tackle your own fire-worm. With any large monster, your chances are a lot better if you can hit it from two directions at once."

Wide-eyed, Corcoran nodded. Artur kept his face neutral and smith-grim, wondering what the boy was thinking as the forge-light cast some of Köinzell's face into view. Wouldn't do any good to tell the newcomer that while the part-fay might look twisted and just a bit off, nine years ago he'd looked worse.

Don't know how that's happened, but it's true, Artur reflected. The longer he's been coming into the village, the more human he looks.

Though it seemed to come in fits and starts, especially if whatever monster Köinzell had faced off with pressed him hard enough to pull on the moons' power. Bits of him always seemed to go a little more awry after that.

It's as if he hates his own magic.

Well. That was a bit to chew over another time, when he wasn't trying to get a young apprentice to look past scars to the person. "Köinzell comes in and makes nails when we need a hand," Artur said casually. As if it weren't at all strange that someone so fay as Köinzell would know his way around a human forge. "We end up needing a lot more than most villages." He winked at Corcoran, and plucked a few caltrops off the shelf to drop into startled hands. "Partly because they don't all get used as nails. Nothing like a few of those in the right place to make a behemoth think twice!"

Though throwing caltrops where you might have to ride was always risky. They were fortunate to have made an alliance with Dart's colony in more ways than one. Fairies could smell iron. Meaning no stray caltrop could hide under leaves and ambush an unsuspecting horse later.

Gulping, Corcoran gave Köinzell a respectful nod. "I'll... look forward to working with you, Master Köinzell."

"Just Köinzell," their monster-hunter replied. "I haven't the fine skill yet needed for a true smith." A pale finger lifted; remember this. "A smith has to be agile as well as strong. There's nothing as discouraging as realizing you've ruined a set of hinges by bringing the hammer down just slightly wrong."

"Y-yes, sir."

Startled and wary, but not screaming, Artur judged. Good enough for now. "Get a cool drink, then sort the iron rods from the steel," he directed the boy. "I'll be at the house. Mind you get-"

"Some salt with the water, yessir," Corcoran sighed, heading off to do just that.

Köinzell traded a glance with him as Artur banked the embers, then ghosted out the door while the smith made one last check of the forge for stray sparks. "Last I saw that child, he was under Jakob's roof. Tanning didn't work out?"

Heh. So Köinzell had known the boy had been here a week, and just never let the lad see him. Why was Artur not surprised? "He's at the break-everything stage," the smith said wryly. "Don't suppose you recall what that was like."

"Someone gave me a wooden sword and started me hacking on targets," Köinzell replied, just as wry. "I'm going to guess skins didn't fare as well."

"That they didn't," Artur nodded, tucking away that odd fact with all the other scraps he'd gleaned over the years. Together they had to make a pattern, even if he had no idea what that pattern could be. Köinzell looked fae. Dart treated him as one of her own, if a bit bigger and sadly flightless. Yet every fragment of past the swordsman had let slip fit with someone who'd been raised human.

Or elven, Artur admitted to himself. He might have been an elf before he was maimed. "Jakob tried, but Corcoran broke the last straw the day before yesterday, when... well, you recall that satinsnake pelt you brought in?"

"Vividly." Köinzell's hand waved toward his neck; he cleared his throat, as if checking that he could breathe.

Ah, yes, ouch. That one had been a bit close, from what the swordsman had admitted. Mainly because the bloody idiot had dashed right in to pit his own unnatural strength against a magical constrictor, while fairies had swarmed the satin-strangling fur to pull their tiny children loose from deadly hairs.

Then again, after holding his own little one yesterday, Artur couldn't blame Köinzell one bit. "Let's just say, Jakob now has three pieces of a fur."

"How did- Jakob never would have let a new apprentice work on a rare... never mind, I don't think I want to know."

"Likely wise," Artur chuckled, heading up to Robin's porch. His porch now as more than mere uncle; even after the past three years married to Robin, that still gave him a glow of joy. "Any road, I'm going to wear him out hammering for a few weeks. Then we'll see if he can start working the awkward out. In the meantime he's out of trouble and I get some boring work done." He waved to the three ladies currently seated on his porch, Elsi's hair bound up in a crown of gold braids as the apprentice healer used a leather trumpet to listen to a fidgeting girl breathe. "Afternoon, Elsi, Miss Cord. Gwen has the wheeze again?"

"Yes," Miss Cord grumbled, keeping a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Again."

"I don't think it's anything catching," Elsi said cheerfully, taking the trumpet off Gwen's back. "Gwen, if the hay makes you cough, then stay out of it."

The little brunette looked downright mutinous. "But Simon said-"

"Simon's not the one who's kept up nights making sure you still breathe!" her mother scolded her. "If this happens again, I'm tanning you and Simon, I don't care who started it! And Miss Harper agrees with me, so you can just tell Simon and his friends to chew on that and choke on it!" She huffed, handing over a few copper bits and a basket of fresh greens. "Thank you, Elsi. I'll see your mother and - what did you say the name was, again...?"

Prying old gossip, Artur thought sourly, watching Gwen jump and flinch behind her mother as she realized Köinzell was there. The smith probably had at least a decade on Cord himself, but a gossip was a gossip no matter how young. If it weren't for the fact that she spun some of the finest thread in the village, she'd hear quite a bit more tongues wagging about her. "You'll hear it soon enough, when Robin's a bit more rested," Artur said mildly. "Good day, Miss. Little miss." He stumped past her to the door, Köinzell following in his wake like a leather shadow.

"Oh! Oh." Miss Cord bustled past Elsi, as if she meant to get between Köinzell and the door, but didn't quite dare. "Are you sure that's... proper, such a frail little thing and..." One hand grasped in the air for the most decorous words to imply leather-clad fae mutt straight out of the Forest.

Manfully, Artur only took a deep breath. Stepped forward, callused hands seizing Miss Cord by the waist, and bodily picked her up and out of the way. "Good day, Miss Cord."

Köinzell slipped inside, and closed the door after Artur stepped through. "Does she really think that attitude will get her anywhere?"

He's not joking, Artur knew, seeing the tightness in his friend's shoulders. "Köinzell, one day our prim and proper Miss Cord is going to figure out that half this village has some drop of elf blood. You'll hear the shriek all the way out at Dart's, and I'll invite you to the funeral after her poor heart can't take the shock."

"Are you teasing Miss Cord again?" Robin's voice was soft as she rocked by the fire, a warm bundle against her bosom.

"Ah, love, she makes it too easy." Artur crouched down to look into a tiny yawn. "Has she opened her eyes yet?"

"No. But early babes often don't for a while." A few blonde wisps escaped her sensible braid as Robin grinned at them both. "So, did Artur ask you yet?"

"Ask me what?" Köinzell said warily, hanging his cloak by the door.

"There's a custom in the clans I grew up in," Artur said matter-of-factly. "The magic in our veins can help or harm us. So... we have a few old tricks to make us safer. The little one's got her true name, known to me and her Ma. But she needs a use-name for everyone else. Something to keep dark spirits and nosy neighbors at bay."

"And according to Artur, if there are no grandparents to suggest a good one, you ask a friend," Robin finished, tilting her head so her good ear was more toward them. "I thought Artur was going to ask you last week-"

"...Gurye."

Artur's brows shot up. "Haven't heard that one," he admitted. "Sounds western."

"Believe me, that name ought to scare off anything evil with sense." Köinzell's smile was shy and distant. "She's... she was a swordswoman, too."

Interesting. "Gurye," Artur sounded it out. "What do you think, Robin?"

"I think it sounds brave." She traced the line of a small cheek up to still-crimped ears. "Gurye. So when will these uncurl?"

"Oh, that'll be a few months yet," Artur reassured her. "Right, Köinzell?"

"I... honestly don't know." Köinzell's face was oddly pink.

"No?" Artur said skeptically. "I know Elsi still giggles about 'babies come in baskets', but-"

"I did."

Artur tried not to let his jaw drop. Oh.

Glanced at his wife, and saw some of the same quiet determination in her eyes. Well. Now we know part of why the man's so shy of people, Artur thought, giving her a subtle nod. Time to work on that.

Safe. Ascheriit let out a sigh as he hid out on the back porch, watching the fading twilight. He'd almost thought he would have to escape to the roof. The noise inside, even if it was a happy, welcoming noise...

Only it's not really noise, is it?

Ascheriit winced, as moons near full peeked through the clouds again. He couldn't deny the sense of peace and well-being moonlight brought; like a crackling fire in winter, or cool lemonade in summer. But with that peace, lately, had started coming other things.

If this is what Dart feels all the time, no wonder fairies keep their distance from humans.

Happiness, with the sense of a sigh at work to be done tomorrow; probably Elsi. Blade-sharp focus on family, with a fumbling joy of new kin; Parsifal. Sleepy-warm-safe, definitely Gurye. And that odd harmony of joy and contentment and no little bit of lust-

Groaning, Ascheriit buried his face in his hands. He was glad his friends were happy in their marriage. He truly was. But there were some things no man needed to know.

I just wish I could stop being surprised.

At least he'd stopped feeling as if he were going to collapse once the moons went down. And he wasn't trying to grow feathers anymore.

I'm glad Artur doesn't know about those. Ascheriit wrapped his arms around his knees, trying to smile. I don't think the chicken story would be nearly as funny if people knew what really set the rooster off.

Though if he were going to tell anyone, it would be Artur. The smith was the first villager he'd known who had elvish blood; and while Artur might not make it obvious, with his hair and his headband, he hadn't hesitated to admit why he hadn't risked venturing into the sorcerer's mansion.

Damn it. That place still bothers me.

Footsteps, and a sense of friendly resolve. Ascheriit sat up, determined not to look anything less than confident and relaxed. "Artur."

"Half thought I'd find you on the roof." The smith sat on the edge of the back porch, looking up at the cloudy twilight. "You look like a man thinking hard. And not about a new little niece in the family."

Ascheriit shrugged. "You mentioned that those with elvish blood need to take precautions. So... I was thinking about sorcerers."

"Hmm." Artur tapped a finger against his knee. "We've not seen any sign of a sorcerer around here for nine years. Stray monsters, yes. But nothing that could be traced back to one source."

"He could be dead," Ascheriit admitted. "He could have been dead before we ever found the mansion. Before I faced the first wolf."

"But?" Artur asked.

"The wolf corpses we found," Ascheriit stated. "I counted... about eight skulls. The one after the sheep makes nine. Wolf packs don't get much larger, even if you head to the Far North."

"Hmm," the smith nodded.

"Then there's the way they were all tangled up in that gully, with mandible marks on the bones," Ascheriit went on. "As if they'd been fed on and dumped there."

"Hmm." Artur tapped his knee again, thinking. "So you think the sorcerer played with the wolves, and the ones he didn't like he fed to his fire-worm."

"Yes."

"And if he could do that," the smith reasoned on, "then he had pretty good control over his beasties, and odds are they didn't eat him."

"It's not impossible that they did," Ascheriit allowed. "But everything I saw inside looked normal and tidy before Ian and Jakob opened the cellar door. In my experience, Wischtech monsters may have a lot of power, but they usually can't pull a chest on top of the door they're locked under."

"That's so," Artur said unhappily. "They did say things looked neat in there. Drawers, cabinets, books bundled up in oilcloth; like a man had packed up and meant to be away all winter."

"I didn't see much before the gas hit me, but that was what it looked like," Ascheriit nodded. "But above all that? Artur, how did those supplies get there? This is the middle of the Forest. We have a hard enough time shipping iron and salt out when the roads are dry in summer, or sledding it out in winter. How did someone get a whole library of books through? Not to mention food. There's no way in hell he was living off the land there. I know; I've tried it. If you have no farm and no help, there's barely enough hours in the day to keep yourself fed and out of monster guts. And sorcerers need time to perfect their monsters. Time to study, tinker, vivisect-"

Ascheriit pressed his hands to his face, willing away flashes of bloody memory. The things the four of them had seen, journeying to strengthen the seal against the Land of Shadows... he didn't know how he'd stayed sane. There'd been weeks he wished he hadn't.

"The only reasonable way I can think of," Ascheriit said raggedly, "is by air. Dragonback or a maschinendrache."

"Either way, implies he had people to back him, and he doesn't need the roads," Artur nodded. A strong hand reached out, resting gently on his shoulder. "Köinzell. Are you all right?"

"Bad memories," Ascheriit admitted, straightening. That closer touch of worry, want to help, slipping in with the warmth of Artur's fingers wasn't helping.

"Hmm." Artur didn't lift his hand. "So. An organized sorcerer. But it's been almost ten years. If he were going to come back-"

"That's where the Empire's always failed," Ascheriit said grimly. "We didn't know what we were dealing with. Why should we? We met Wischtech monsters on the field that took out battalions in a single night before they burned themselves up - because that's what they were designed to do."

Artur pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. "You mean, they can design things that... don't."

"Oh yes," Ascheriit said darkly. "Some of their creatures - the valuable ones, those not just meant as living firebombs - some of them can last a very long time." He took a breath. "And so can Wischtech sorcerers."

"Gods." Artur's voice was level, but his fingers tightened. "So we're men who think in terms of the next field of grain, while they're thinking of the next stand of trees?" He muttered a few choice curses. "So even ten years later, you're worried. And I thought you were just wondering how much you should trust humans again."

"Again?" Ascheriit said warily.

"Well, you were raised by humans, weren't you?" Lifting his hand away, Artur shrugged. "That's what Robin and I thought. Why else wouldn't you know about baby ears?"

Why else, indeed? "I was raised by humans," Ascheriit admitted. It was, after all, the truth. "By a blacksmith, in fact."

"Huh. That makes sense," Artur said, half to himself. "But the way Elsi found you out there, years ago - you weren't sure who you could trust. Even now you won't stay in town a week before you duck back into the Forest. Which gives a man the notion you feel safer out there with fairies and monsters than with the kind of folk who raised you. And you're watching, always watching, anyone new who shows up before you let them see you." He cleared his throat. "And given I've seen you take on everything from a fire-worm to an angry banty rooster without a flinch, whatever you're worried about is something that damn well worries me. So what happened? Did something go wrong in your village? Or did Wischtech... well." Hands spread, empty except for shared pain.

"It... didn't happen in my village," Ascheriit said cautiously. What does he know? What can I tell him?

Gods. What do I dare tell him? I know who my enemies are. Even a rumor of what they did - from what Kfer told me, the Electors aren't shy about eliminating rumors.

He hadn't believed his noble friend. Not then. They were all citizens of the Empire. They were heroes. How could the Emperor who'd given them the Holy Lances allow anything like the plots Kfer had warned him of?

Glenn is the Emperor's son.

Which summed up his biggest problems in a nutshell. So... Artur deserved the truth. Just, not enough to be dangerous.

"When I was old enough to fight, I was part of a group that battled Wischtech forces," Ascheriit said carefully. "At one point, things looked very dangerous. Some of the group turned back."

"Not you," Artur said bluntly.

"No. Though if I'd known what we were up against, I might have." Ascheriit shook his head, feeling oddly numb. "The things we saw, the tormented souls who begged to die rather than kill..." He shivered. "I hate Wischtech. I will hate it to the day I die. And then I might hate it some more."

"That's two of us," Artur agreed. And waited.

"Well," Ascheriit said faintly, "we did it. We finished our mission. And then, about twenty miles that way," he pointed out, into the Forest, "we ran across our cautious companions. They invited us into camp. We... were glad to see friendly faces. We ate, drank, bedded down for the night..." He rubbed his lips, remembering a bitter under-taste that had turned into deadly numbness. "And during the ghost watch, they murdered us all."

"Good gods," Artur whispered.

"I wasn't quite dead when they left," Ascheriit stated; trying to just report events, and not touch the bloody memories. "I'm not sure how I survived. I was... fading in and out a lot. But Dart decided to help me, and about two months later I tracked a spell-warped wolf near your village. And the rest you know."

The smith exhaled a long, slow breath. "And you haven't tried to go home. Or send a message saying you're alive."

"More than one of those who slew us was of noble blood," Ascheriit said neutrally. "A message might be... intercepted." His lip curled in a snarl. "And I don't want them to have any warning."

"Warning?" Artur's shoulders stiffened, wary.

"As they left me cold and dying," Ascheriit said, very quietly, "I swore I would have vengeance. For myself. For my friends. For every oath of comrades and battle-brothers they betrayed." For a moment, the world was nothing but red. "I will kill them, Artur. I don't know when. I don't know how. But I will find them and I will kill them."

Breathe. Think of something else. Sunlight through the trees. That idiot rooster. A warm hearth, and warm hearts, that you'll never have until it's over...

Face in his hands, Ascheriit wept.

In the wind, there was a buzz of wings.

The swordsman lifted his gaze, to meet a somber fairy in the moonlight. "Dart." He coughed, cleared his throat. "Is there trouble?"

Silent, she nodded.

Artur gave a rumbling sigh. "Lass, he's in no shape-"

"Artur." Wiping off tears, Ascheriit almost laughed. "You're a good friend. But right now... I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing than hunting trouble." He met violet eyes. "Really."

Artur growled under his breath, then shook his head. "Be careful."

"Oh, I will," the swordsman assured him, picking up his cloak. "I have something very important to do."

A/N: It's canon Ascheriit was found in a basket. What else would he tell a kid?

Maschinendrache - dragon airship.