"When asked, 'What is the name of the noblest of metals?' Thou shalt respond: 'Gold.'"
Excerpt from "The Training of the Alchemist" by Balthasar Gelt
Strand, Middenland
Falk
For all the Empire's advancements in industry and warfare, the Empire was held up from below by a foundation comprising hundreds of small villages and hamlets scattered across its length and breadth. Strand was one such village. It was located in the southern reaches of Middenland only a few days' ride from the city of Carroburg, a city Falk did not particularly like. It was entirely for personal reasons. The Carroburg Greatswords were the metric by which all other Greatsword Regiments in the Empire were measured. He did not think his own Brazen Bulls fell short of the soldiers of Carroburg, but his opinion was in the minority.
Falk and Draga approached Strand near the closing of the day, their horses moving as an easy walk. A small cloud of tobacco smoke trailed after Falk, coming from a pipe he held between his teeth. They were in the Drakwald, probably the most infamous forest in the Empire. Groups of beastmen lived beneath its dark boughs, normally clashing with each other, but every now and then multiple tribes would be united into a brayherd and go on a rampage. Not even walled cities were entirely safe from a brayherd's wrath.
Falk hoped they wouldn't encounter such a thing. He and Draga had just helped crush a brayherd in Reikland, fighting alongside the Reikland State Troops. The Truthblade had to admit, though, a straight up fight had been a refreshing change of pace that had come with a certain twisted nostalgia. No twisting mysteries or unexpected revelations, just two armies taking part in the second oldest profession. In the end, the vile minotaur Doombulll that had been leading the brayherd had been reduced to a steaming mound of bloody bone and meat by a salvo from a battery of Helblaster Volley Cannons.
There was no conversation between the two warrior-priests as they rounded a long, gradual curve in the road through the Drakwald. Small talk had a way of petering out after several days on the road with nothing eventful. That was fine by Falk. Being able to ride for hours at a time without needing to say a word was one of his favorite qualities about Draga.
The two warrior-priests reached the edge of the trees, emerging into the great clearing that encompassed Strand and its outlying fields. These were not the expansive cultivations one found in the southern parts of the Empire, but subsistence plots and a pasture for goats. Strand should have been a simple village surrounded by a rough wooden palisade, but there was a reason Falk and Draga were here, off the beaten path in this backwater, and it took the form of a gathering of tents in the blue and black of the Middenland State Troops. The banner of a white wolf's head flew over the camp. This was not a large enough force to fly any regimental standards, but oddly, there was another flag up that depicted a white-feathered owl resting on the haft of an axe, the blade of which was embedded in the top of a grinning skull.
"Looks like they've got about two companies." Draga observed as they rode towards the camp. She squinted. "Halberdiers and handgunners. Small detachment of outriders."
"Perfect guard force." Falk mused. He tapped his pipe out and tucked it into his tobacco pouch.
Falk and Draga approached the military camp. A quick glance up the road revealed the gates of Strand were closed. A pair of recently constructed watchtowers situated just outside the walls were manned by handgunners, with a dozen halberdiers stationed at the gate itself. The camp was between the warrior-priests and the village, situated with the road running through its middle, tents lining either side of the rutted path and straying into untended fields. Falk, distressingly, could here people calling out from beyond the palisade, though their words were indistinguishable.
The warrior-priests were stopped by a troop of halberdiers standing at the camp's perimeter. All it took was showing their seals to gain passage into the camp and directions to the commanding officer, one Lord-Captain Gunther Heinz-Todbringer. Falk and Draga handed their horses off and made their way to Heinz's tent at once.
Two armed men waited outside the largest tent in the camp, over which the banners flew. This would not have been unusual, excepting the fact that they did not wear Middenland blue and black. Indeed, one wasn't even Imperial. Sitting on a stool on the left side of the tent flap and smoking a long-stemmed pipe was an olive skinned man with a mustache waxed into upward curls. He wore a gleaming breastplate over a crimson arming shirt and dark trews. A rapier was sheathed at his side. On the right side of the tent was a short, almost deathly pale, hooded man carrying no less than six pistols on his person, as well as a large hunting knife with a serrated back edge. The hooded man was sitting over what Falk initially thought was a small cookfire, but the man was actually melting down small pieces of scrap metal into more shot.
"Hold it there, my friends." The man with the pipe said, smoking curling away from his lips as he spoke. "What's your business with His Lordship?" He smiled, but there was no warmth in it.
Falk looked down at the man, placing his accent as Estalian.
"None of yours. What are you doing in a war camp, civilian?" Falk challenged him.
The smile remained. "My name is Leon Montero de Costa, oaf, and you'd do well to show some respect. I've never lost a duel and I've killed men for less. Haven't I, Fyodor?"
"Mmph." The gunslinger grunted.
"Precisely. Heh, they teach many things in Kislev, but conversation isn't one of them, is it? Now, you'll state your business." Leon said.
"No. And if you continue impeding the work of two ordained warrior-priests, I'll react accordingly. Got it?" Falk said.
The smile faltered slightly. Cocky he may have been, and perhaps good with that sword, but Leon at least had some sense.
"Of course, of course." The Estalian said as he puffed on his pipe. "Just make sure your Strigany friend doesn't take the silverware on the way out."
Leon had expected a punch. Falk could see it in the way the Estalian was raising a forearm to block. Both fortunately and unfortunately for Leon, Falk didn't want to belt a stranger with a mail-clad fist and potentially do irreparable damage, and so as Leon's arm went up, Falk's sabaton was already crashing into the stool the man was sitting on. Leon flopped to the ground rather comically, cursing as he went down.
Several things happened at once. Leon scrambled to his feet and drew steel, coming face to face with Falk, who had his flamberge in hand. The Kislevite, Fyodor, had gone for his pistols, but stopped when a messer's point was pressed to his throat. All around, soldiers stopped what they were doing and watched.
"I challenge you, bastard!" Leon snapped, his cool air gone.
"What do you say, Draga? You're the injured party here." Falk said.
"Limp dick's not worth having to clean your blade, Falk." Draga replied.
This seemed to only infuriate Leon more, but at that moment, a man of middling height in a heavily decorated breastplate and Middenland uniform emerged from the tent. He had a portly frame and a head that looked almost spherical. The man wore a cavalier's hat much like Falk's, though this man's was larger, stuck with five white feathers.
"What in Ulric's name is going on out here?!" The man that had to be Captain Heinz blustered.
"Captain Heinz, I'm…", Falk began.
"Lord-Captain Gunther Heinz-Todbringer, sir, and you'd do well to remember it." The officer corrected. "You dare enter my camp and assault my men? Do you have any idea who I am? I'll have you put in stocks!"
Falk had no reply at first. He was legitimately flabbergasted at the man's outburst.
"Lord-Captain, sir, these civilians were impeding the work of ordained warrior-priests of the Imperial Cults. That is punishable by summary execution." Draga reminded him.
"Warrior…priests…?" Heinz repeated. He looked over at Leon. "Put your bloody sword away, you buffoon! And you two, get inside and state your business, and do it quickly. I have an operation to organize here, thank you very much."
Heinz ducked back inside. Falk gave Leon one last look before ducking inside, seeing the Estalian staring daggers at him.
"Sorry." Falk muttered to Draga.
"Only reason it was you instead of me was you were closer." Draga whispered back, tapping his breastplate with a grateful expression.
The level of luxury inside the Lord-Captain's tent was mind boggling. Every inch of the ground was covered in thick, plush carpets. A table in its center was laid out with two different silver platters piled with food and no less than three different bottles of spirits. There was very little room to walk around all the finely carved, heavily cushioned furniture. One wall of the tent was lined by free-standing weapon racks that could outfit an entire platoon in high quality arms. A burning brazier spread sweet incense smoke. Two liveried servants waited out of sight behind a changing screen.
"Wine." Heinz barked as he took a seat behind a desk that was scattered with papers.
One of the servants emerged from behind the screen, poured a goblet of wine for only the Lord-Captain, and returned to her place.
"Lord-Captain, it's our understanding that there is an unusual situation here in Strand and were hoping to help resolve it." Falk said.
"What, you intend to go in there and kill them all by hand?" Heinz asked.
"...what?" Falk asked.
"The villagers. They're going mad, you see. One moment, they're the perfectly docile beasts of burden that everyone of their station should be. The next, they're biting and snapping like rabid dogs, attacking each other. I see no reason to risk my men catching whatever madness it afflicting them. So, we're leaving the village surrounded until the last of the peasants finally expires. Dreadful business, but that's war, isn't it?" Heinz picked up a pen and began writing.
Falk had to bite back on a knee jerk condemnation. The man was both an officer and, judging by his name, a member of a cadet branch of the Elector Count of Middenland's own family. The Truthblade couldn't just throw his seal around and expect it to work here. Had he been a warrior-priest of Sigmar or, since this was Middenland, Ulric, it might have been a little different. But the authority of both Verena's cult, as well as that of Taal and Rhya, only went so far when it came to the ruling class of the Empire.
"I…see." Falk said slowly.
Draga met his eye. Her face was flushed with the same anger Falk himself was feeling.
"So, as you can now see, there is no need for your meddling, Herr…whatever your name was." Heinz said.
"I hadn't given it. It's Brother Falkenwulf Daur of th-..." Falk began.
"Yes, yes, as you say." Heinz said dismissively.
"Lord-Captain, I understand your time is…precious." Falk looked at the letter Heinz was writing. He could see it was personal correspondence; a letter to one Lady Wilhelmina, complete with floundering love poetry. Falk cringed, but pressed on. "So, with your permission, my partner and I would like to enter Strand and investigate what's going on."
The pen stopped. Heinz looked up with a glower.
"Absolutely not! What if this affliction is contagious? What if you spread it to my troops? To all of Middenland? No, no, and thrice I say it, no!" The Lord-Captain snapped. He snatched up his wine goblet, draining it in one long draft. When he set it down, twin trickles of maroon liquid trailed from the corners of his mouth. "You are welcome to remain and help maintain the quarantine, as well as ensuring the well-being of my men. Beyond that, you will do nothing. You would not want my cousin, the Elector himself, to hear your temples are meddling with State Troop business."
Falk closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This wasn't a front he and Draga could win a battle on. He sincerely doubted Heinz had the ear of the Elector Count. Did the Lord-Captain have close ties with someone who did? That could be just as bad.
"Of course, my lord." Falk said.
"If you want to blather on at someone about dying peasants, go talk to that damned wizard." Heinz said. "Now get out of here."
Wizard? Falk had not known one would be here. That would be worth pursuing.
The two warrior-priests left the tent. Falk could feel the eyes of Leon and Fyodor on their backs as they walked. He heard Heinz say, "wine!"
"Jackass." Draga muttered.
"First a battle against a brayherd, now an incompetent officer with a purchased commission given command because of friends in high places. Verena's bloody blindfold, I really do feel like I'm back in the army." Falk sighed. "C'mon. Let's go have words with this wizard. We're not giving up that easily."
"I should fucking hope not." Draga said.
Draga
They had not needed to ask direction to find this wizard. The golden tent stuck out like an orc in Bretonnian court attire among the field of blues and blacks. The warrior-priests headed straight for it. A small, yellow flag depicting a golden circle with an arrow sticking diagonally upward from it flew above the tent.
Draga was fuming. No matter where she went, no matter what her purpose or job was, nobility found a way to make her life more difficult. Traveling with her family in their river convoy, some nobles took the opportunity to levy extortionate tolls on the Bajra Clan for no other reason than they could. Rare was the court who would hear a Strigany's case against a noble, let alone make a fair ruling on it. So, Draga buried her frustration down into the place she usually stored it, to be brought out when the time for killing came along.
The wizard had no guards or attendants, it seemed. There was a heavy alchemical smell in the air as the warrior-priests approached the tent.
"How's some dried up ballsack with a few magic tricks going to help anything?" Draga muttered.
"It's not like they can be any less useful than the Lord-Captain was." Falk said, then asked at the tent flap. "Excuse me. Is anyone there?"
"Hm? Yes, yes, who is it?" A high voice asked from within.
"Brother Falkenwulf, Truthblade, joined by Sister Dragamina of the Blackbows. We'd like to talk to you." Falk said.
"Ah. Oh. Yes, one moment, please." The voice said.
The sounds of rummaging and a few quiet curses were followed by a tall, young man emerging from the tent. He was leanly built and pale, his hair long and black. A pair of pince-nez spectacles rested on his nose, a chain attaching them to the collar of his shirt. Rather than the voluminous robes Draga had been expecting, the wizard wore a pseudo-militaristic jacket of violet and green over breeches and riding boots. He looked drawn. Exhausted. Given the situation, Draga couldn't blame him. Even so, the wizard was handsome in a refined way.
"Good morning…wait." The wizard pulled a watch from a hip pocket and checked it, then tucked it away. "That is, good afternoon." He held out a hand. "Rikter von Bauman, Wizard of the Gold Order. Call me Rikter."
Draga and Falk shook the offered hand in turns. The wizard maintained eye contact with Draga an instant longer than was strictly necessary before letting go of her hand, clearing his throat, and looking away.
A dried up ballsack this one is not. The Blackbow thought to herself. "You're here to investigate what's going on, I take it?" Draga asked him aloud.
"I am, yes. Originally, my intent was to do so in aid to Lord-Captain Heinz-Todbringer, but in the end it seems I must do so in spite of him." Rikter said, grimacing.
"Yea. We met him." Falk drawled.
"He's quite the…ah…", Rikter trailed off.
"Shitstain?" Draga suggested.
"I was going to say 'odious little toad of a man', but I believe your brevity has served better here, Dragamina." Rikter replied with a slight grin. "Uhm, would the two of you care to come in for some tea? You'll have to forgive me, I can't offer much more hospitality than that."
"More than we got from the Lord-Captain." Draga grumped.
"I heard a commotion over there a bit ago. Your doing?" Rikter asked as he held the tent flap open for them.
"Disagreement with Heinz's Estalian attack dog." Falk said.
The interior of the tent was tidy and neatly arranged. A work bench off to one side was covered with glass tubes, flasks, and other alchemical equipment that was alien to Draga's eyes. Beside it was a small bookshelf and writing desk. A camp cot was off to one side. In the center of the room were a quartet of camp stools arranged around a low, wooden table.
"Ah, yes. Leon. The Lord-Captain does not trust his own troops, so he hires men from outside the Empire who have no connection to its politics." Rikter said as he set out a trio of teacups and sprinkled leaves in them. "Which I do suppose makes some degree of sense, but also sends a rather poor message to one's own soldiers, doesn't it?" The wizard picked up a cast iron kettle and filled it from a water bucket.
Draga was about to ask where the man intended to boil the water when steam suddenly came hissing out from the kettle's spout. The metal was orange hot, yet did not appear to burn his hand. Right. Gold Wizard. The Wind of Metal.
"Do you have any idea about what's going on here, Rikter?" Falk asked.
The wizard was pouring the hot water into the teacups as he replied. "Some. More than Heinz, I assume, but not much. What information did he grace you with; that people in the village were going mad and attacking each other?"
"That's the long and short of it." Draga confirmed.
"Indeed. And I believe it has something to do with the local shrine to Ulric. I cannot know for certain without getting a look for myself, but espionage is not within my skillset. I am a man of books, formulas, and equations, not sneaking and spying." Rikter said as he took his own seat.
Ulric. He was a god of war, winter, and wolves. Before his own apotheosis, Sigmar himself worshipped Ulric. The White Wolf's cult overshadowed Sigmar's in the northern provinces, which were often viewed as more barbaric and backward by those in the south.
"You're no good at espionage, but you somehow know more than everyone else in camp?" Draga asked.
"Yes, ah, before the Lord-Captain decided to establish small picket camps around the perimeter to watch Strand from all angles, I was able to have a conversation with one of the villagers through the wall." Rikter explained.
"Didn't you just say you're no good at sneaking?" Draga couldn't help but tease.
Rikter blushed. "Yes, well, the picket camps were set up the next day, so that tells you how good I was at not getting caught."
"What did the villager say?" Falk got them on track.
"Right. Strand's long serving priest of Ulric passed away about a month ago. A former Knight of the White Wolf who commissioned and helped build the shrine after being injured in battle. Barely two days after the man was interred beneath the chapel, a farmer in the village claimed to have dreams sent from Ulric, dreams where he was a wolf chasing prey. The people apparently thought this was a blessing until, a few days later, the farmer, who I was assured has never once raised a hand in anger in all his days, had killed his wife. By all accounts it was…savage. Looked more like a wild animal attack than a simple murder." Rikter blanched at the idea. He stirred his tea.
"And it kept happening." Draga guessed.
"Exactly. The next person who dreamt of wolves was locked up in a shed. Apparently shrieked and howled like a daemon and tried to smash their way out. Then someone else kept their dreams hidden, a boy of sixteen who killed both parents. A message was sent to the nearest garrison, which led to Lord-Captain Heinz's arrival. I was dispatched from Altdorf shortly after." Rikter ran a hand through his hair. "We're running out of time, Dragamina, Falkenwulf. If I can't figure out what's wrong here, and how to fix it, Strand will have eaten through their stores and Heinz will be happy to let them more than one-hundred people die."
"To say nothing of their fields not being tended. Village could die that way, too, Rhya save them, even if we figure out what's wrong." Draga noted with a deep frown.
"And I will not let that happen." Rikter exclaimed, fist clenched resolutely.
Draga tilted her head. She hadn't expected impassioned altruism from one of the famously detached and eccentric wizards of the Colleges of Magic.
"Could Heinz be the cause somehow? A bid to have the village cleared so he can take it off the current liege for cheap?" Falk asked. Draga could see the deductive cogs turning behind the Truthblade's eyes.
"It's possible, but wouldn't make a great deal of sense. His family's lands are near the northern border of Middenland, while one must take care not to face south while taking a piss in Strand lest they accidentally expose themselves to the Elector Count of Reikland." Rikter said.
Draga choked on the tea she had been drinking, coughing and thumping her chest.
"Forgive me…", Rikter began with a cringe.
Draga, still coughing, shook her head and waved his apology off.
"No, not the cause, then." Falk went on. "But…but it could be he's hoping to take advantage in another way. What if he's trying to get a hold of whatever is causing the dreams and murders? Perhaps he thinks he can control whatever it is, or sell it, or…maybe he's just a fucking idiot who's incompetent even at being an opportunist. Point is, we need to get in that village."
"The men in the watchtowers are armed with Hochland Long Rifles. They've orders to shoot anyone who gets into the village, no matter who it is. But, if we can obtain proper proof, I can ensure action is taken and the Lord-Captain's sloth is circumvented." Rikter assured them.
"How?" Draga asked, taking a deep breath and recovering.
"Connections of my own." Rikter said. "My mother is a Baroness, while my father, the Baron, is Marshal of the Dawnbringers, a Knightly Order in Reikland. And I am a licensed wizard of the Gold Order. Right now, we're stymied by the fact that all we have to go against Heinz's commands are words and assumptions. With actual proof, the status quo shifts. The equation balances out."
"Good to know. Then we need to come up with a plan." Falk said. "Draga can keep us out of sight of those watchtowers. That mostly leaves actually getting inside the village. Any thoughts?"
"I have a few." Rikter said. "We of the Gold Order are called Alchemists for a reason. And now that we have someone whose specialty is stealth, we can put it into action."
The wizard smiled. He did that a lot, it seemed. Draga decided it was a nice smile.
"Let's have it, then." The Blackbow said.
Falk set out to inspect the perimeter of Strand. Being a former soldier, Draga trusted him to be able to build a rapport with the pickets, get some more information, and figure out which of them would be the right one to target with their entry plan. In the meantime, however, that left Draga with nothing to do. She remained in Rikter's tent. The wizard himself was about his work with all his alchemy equipment, mixing something that smelled pungent and medicinal.
Draga knelt before Rikter's bookshelf. She scanned along the spines, feeling herself almost getting put to sleep with how boring they all sounded. Clearly, Rikter was not one to sit with a cup of tea and a good adventure story. However, one book did catch her eye. It sat on top of the bookshelf, contained in a thick journal rather than an actual book. The cover read "Societal Transmutation."
The Blackbow thumbed open the journal.
"Is this something your working on?" Draga asked as she looked through incomprehensible chicken scratch with lots of big words.
"Yes, and you would have my gratitude if you put it down." Rikter said, sounding far more embarrassed than angry. "It's not finished."
Draga did as he asked. "What in Taal's name is 'societal transmutation?'"
Rikter squeezed a few drops of something dark brown from a pipet into a bubbling flask. "Oh, it's terribly boring. You probably wouldn't want to hear it." Yet there was noticeable anticipation in his voice. He likely didn't get the chance to talk about this very much.
"Clearly you don't find it boring or you wouldn't be working on it, would you?" Draga suggested. She sat on the bookshelf, looking at Rikter in profile. It wasn't as if she had anywhere to be.
The wizard held up his flask, peering at the contents, then produced a small, metal rod and began stirring its contents.
"Fairly put." He said. "In this book, I am postulating upon the relationships between settled societies and the concepts more commonly found in alchemy. For example, every last one of us who inhabit the Empire are components, variables in the greater formula, the output of which is production, industry, art, warfare. My hope, through this work, is to find a way to anticipate societal change."
"That doesn't sound…well, possible." Draga admitted.
"Iron bonds with carbon when heated and forms steel. Water and oil in the same container don't mix. These are empirical, indisputable facts. It is my belief that all it would take is simply finding the right properties and how to measure them. Even on a small scale, look at individuals. We, each of us, are bonded to other people; family, friends, rivals, lovers. Interlocking formulas." Rikter countered, growing more and more enthusiastic as he spoke. He set his flask down in a wire rack, then knelt to look through a small chest of corked jars and vials.
"Yeah, well, steel's always going to act like steel. Water's always going to act like water. My Uncle Vadim drank exactly two pints of beer with dinner for ten years. Then, one day, on a lark, he decided he only wanted one." Draga recalled.
Rikter paused, looking over at her. "What happened?"
"It wasn't enough and he went back to two the next day." Draga shrugged. "What I'm getting at is no one is really predictable. Even animals aren't. I've hunted almost everything the Empire has to offer. I can tell you how a deer or a rabbit is going to probably act, which ones are going to migrate when and where, but they've never stopped finding ways to surprise me."
Rikter pinned her with an odd expression, a mixture of amusement, pensiveness, and interest.
"So what you're saying, intentionally or unintentionally, is that perhaps it is futile attempting to find an exact prediction, but rather we should treat it as my colleagues of the Celestial Order treat the weather; find patterns and make educated guesses." The wizard mused.
"Definitely unintentionally. But, yeah, that makes sense to me." Draga said. "Sorry if that ruins your book."
"No, Dragamina, what you've done is partaken in the scientific process with me, and I believe I have come out the other side better for it." Rikter decided. He finally selected a few things from his ingredient chest and resumed his alchemical work. "It is funny how beliefs can feel so strong when unchallenged. But they, like all else, cannot be immutable. So I thank you for your perspective."
"It's not exactly my usual idea of a first date, but I guess it's an interesting change of pace." Draga said, as if off-handedly. In truth, she just wanted to see the wizard squirm a little, which he did.
Rikter cleared his throat, "yes, ah, quite." He grew even more intent on his work.
Draga decided to stop tormenting him. "I'm going to go see if there's any good forage. Lots of mushrooms around here." She stood up from the bookshelf and headed for the tent flap.
"Before you go…", Rikter held up a hand.
Draga paused, halfway out of the tent.
"No one…no one's let me talk about my writings before. Outside of my family, anyway. Those that have asked before, mostly other wizards of the Colleges, did so with, uhm…less than kind intent." The wizard revealed. "Which I know must seem like a silly thing to fret over to a warrior-priest. You must face such dreadful things…"
"You're out here ready to risk your ass for this village, Rikter. I don't care what either of us have faced before now." Draga cut off his dissembling, her words firm but not unkind. "As far as the writing goes, it's important to you. You're obviously putting your heart into it. Anyone who wants to give you shit for it deserves a broken nose."
That smile of Rikter's crossed his face. Yes. A nice smile.
"Thank you, Dragamina. And good luck." The wizard said.
With that, the Blackbow left.
Scaling the wall without being seen would have been possible, if difficult, with the fall of night as things stood. So, it had been up to Draga to even the odds, and as it turned out, that wasn't difficult to do. The soldiers stationed around Strand were complacent, their morale in the gutter as they helplessly watched an entire village starve to death and worried about the affliction plaguing it spreading to them.
Slipping into the picket camp nearest to the temple of Ulric and spiking the cask of small beer the soldiers in it were drinking from had been simple. Within an hour, Rikter's mixture had the squad of sentries passed out. It was a double-edged sword of a strategy. If they didn't find what they were looking for inside the walls, the repercussions of this action could be dire, but Draga, Falk, and Rikter all agreed they would take this risk.
The three interlopers approached the wall near the disabled picket camp. Falk threw a rope over the wall. There was no grapnel on the end to clank and clatter against wood. Instead, when the rope was over the wall, Rikter pulled a small ingot of lead from his belt. He touched the pyramidal spear point of his sigil covered staff to the rope. The ingot seemed to sink into his palm, and moments later, the rope was made of solid metal, held rigid and securely hooked over the top of the wall.
One by one, they scaled the wall, climbing down the now leaden rope on the other side. Strand was quiet, but Draga knew that would change in a heartbeat if any of its residents spotted them, to say nothing of the sharpshooters in the watchtowers. The buildings around them were mostly log cabins with thatched roofs. Their destination, only a stone's throw away, was the only stone building in the village.
Draga had expected…more inside Strand. She had expected to see bodies in the streets, refuse scattered, maybe even groups of villagers gathered out of sight from the watchtowers, plotting to make their escape. Draga heard a few distant sobs, a masculine voice raised in hoarse anger, and underscoring all that, someone giggling and rambling to themselves. It was disconcerting, but nothing that couldn't be explained away as the logical conclusion of locking people up and waiting for them to starve to death.
These people will turn to cannibalism before long, if they haven't already. Drag thought to herself, a grim frown forming on her lips.
The shrine to Ulric was as modest as one would expect of a rural church, but it was still large enough to hold everyone who lived in the village. Draga, Falk, and Rikter crept towards it, thankfully unopposed by anyone as they went. The layout of Strand was roughly circular, but there was no order to how its buildings were arrayed. Even so, Draga felt like the shrine was oddly isolated. With how close the rest of the structures in Strand were, there was something strange about what amounted to only a few feet of extra space around the squat, stone chapel and its neighbors.
They wasted no time. The three investigators circled around the shrine only to find its front doors were wide open. The door was flanked by stone statues of wolves sitting on their haunches, vigilant watchdogs for the White Wolf himself. The open door gave the trio brief pause, but Falk led the way inside, his flamberge held at the ready. Rikter went next, with Draga bringing up the rear, an arrow on the string of her bow.
Again, Draga had been expecting more when they entered the shrine. Rikter muttered a word of power and the end of his staff glowed with golden light that didn't quite reach all the corners of the room. Two rows of pews were lined up in a mostly unadorned room, the only thing adorning the walls being animal pelts. Three wolf skulls were mounted on the wall above the altar at the far end of the room. The brazier beneath the skulls, which should have held the shrine's sacred flame, was cold and dark. This was a bad sign, indeed. Devout Ulricans would never allow the flame to go out.
Then again, given their current situation, they don't have much reason to be devout. Draga thought. Ulric was brother to Taal, and both of them shared a similar philosophy of helping those who helped themselves. The situation in Strand begged the question of how these people could even hope to help themselves in a way that didn't involve confronting soldiers that were far better armed, far better trained, and not being deprived of food.
"There is something in the air here." Rikter whispered as they slowly walked up the center aisle of the shrine. "There is a…ripple in the Winds of Magic."
"Can you glean anything from it?" Falk asked.
"It most certainly doesn't come from faith in Ulric." Rikter replied. "Beyond that, I don't know. It's faint. I believe it's coming from beneath our feet."
"I'd rather not go underground again after what happened in Marienburg." Draga said to Falk.
"Don't think we have a choice." The Truthblade replied.
"What happened in Marienburg?" Rikter asked.
"Beastmen." Draga and Falk said at almost the same time.
"Ah." Rikter said. "Skaven."
The two warrior-priests gave the wizard surprised looks.
"My father was a Sewer Jack in Altdorf for a decade. Trust me. I've heard all the stories. Now, let us focus on the task at hand." Rikter said.
Wondering how exactly a Sewer Jack could become the Marshal of a knightly order, Draga nodded in silent agreement.
A narrow stairwell led down into the shrine's undercroft. The stairwell had been blocked by a heavy door and lock, but Rikter turned the lock to rust with a spell. It would be a place for the internment of the chapel's priests or particularly devout individuals rather than the general populace. As such, only one of the alcoves set into the walls was occupied by a stone sarcophagus. There was another door, protected by another lock, down a passage that ended approximately under the church's entrance above.
"A person doesn't use this many locks for no reason. A priest doubly so." Falk noted. "Rikter. Can you get us through that one as well?"
"Naturally." The wizard assured him. He walked that way. "The aura I sensed above grows stronger with every step."
"Is it of the Ruinous Powers?" Draga queried, her aim firmly on the door.
"I…can't tell. The source is not obvious but it is…ancient." Rikter said slowly. He reached the door, touching the lock with his staff. "Huh. The lock has been warded. Ulrican blessings. It will take me some time to overcome them."
"Not a good sign. Be careful." Draga said.
She heard stone grind against stone. Falk was moving the lid of the priest's sarcophagus.
"Falk?" Draga said.
"A hunch." The Truthblade replied.
Within the sarcophagus was the embalmed body of a long-bearded old man. His sole remaining hand clutched a scroll to his chest. Draga furrowed her brow.
Falk drew out the scroll and unfurled it. He read it aloud.
"'This very scroll is but a salve for my cowardice, I know, but time is short. My prayers alone could not purge what infects the blessed relic, only keep it at bay. I saw this as the battle I could fight with my will, as I could no longer fight with a weapon. If you are reading this, take the relic, drop it into the Sacred Flame, and ensure it burns to nothing. May Ulric forgive me.'"
Draga felt her blood grow cold as Falk read.
"Rikter? Did you hear all that?" Draga asked, trying to mask her anxiety.
"I did." The wizard replied. His staff still touched the warded lock, his free hand making arcane gestures. "Falkenwulf, can I ask you to go above and light the Holy Flame? I don't want to use my magic to heat it and somehow foul its sanctification."
"On it." Falk assured him, hurrying toward the stairs. "I'll smash up some pews if I have to."
"What do you need from me?" Draga asked Rikter.
"Watch my back. If I make a single mistake here, well, I'm not sure there's going to be enough of me left for Morr to shepherd to the afterlife. This priest's faith was…astonishingly strong to create such holy wards." The wizard said as sweat began beading on his forehead.
"You've got it." Draga assured him, getting into a ready stance that would let her draw and fire in barely a second's time.
"I am almost through, I think." Rikter muttered as the lock began to glow red-hot. A high-pitched keening made itself known to Draga's ears.
Something snapped. The lock struck the floor. Draga smoothly turned and aimed her bow at the door, ready to loose the moment anything leapt out.
"Cunning Ranald, may my wits stay with me." Rikter intoned the god of luck. He pulled the door open.
The light of the wizard's staff illuminated a wooden pendant on a leather cord resting on a blue pillow. The pillow, in turn, sat atop a wooden lectern that had been carved with Ulrican symbols. Rikter waved his staff over the lectern, then wiped his brow on a sleeve.
"Alright. When I grab this, there's no telling what will happen." The wizard warned.
"Why would anything happen?" Draga asked.
"The priest's prayers were keeping the thing dormant. I suspect it was always attempting to…corrupt, I suppose. Gods, maybe it's been planting seeds of corruption in the village all this time. Now, even sitting here behind holy wards, this specimen was able to infiltrate minds here in Strand, cause people to become savage beasts, figuratively if not also literally." Rikter looked back at her. "I will try to contain its influence. You and Falkenwulf, you are blessed individuals. If you keep to your faith it should be enough."
"...what about the rest of Strand?" Draga asked, almost too quiet to be heard.
There was a long pause. Too long. There wasn't enough time for such delays. Yet, Draga didn't rush Rikter. They both jumped as they heard Falk smash a pew to flinders above them.
"This object is what Heinz wants, though he doesn't know it yet." Rikter replied. "He'll take it away from here. Then it won't just be Strand that's in danger. It will be all of Middenland." His voice grew hard, yet there was a tremor in it. "We…We might…"
"Rikter." Draga said, gently as she could manage. "We both know how this sort of thing gets handled by Imperial authorities. It doesn't matter what we do from here. Once word gets out that a corrupted artifact is to blame, Strand is dead. All we can do now is ensure it ends before it really begins."
"You're right. You're right." Rikter said, drawing in an uneven breath. "Gods forgive us."
Rikter drew a leather glove from his hip pocket, slipped it on, then snatched the pendant from its resting place.
Falk
He hadn't been speaking with hyperbole when he suggested smashing up the pews. First, Falk snatched a lantern off a hook on the wall at the top of the stairway. He set it beside the brazier that was meant to hold the Holy Flame, then approached the nearest pew. His flamberge sundered through it with ease. Falk chopped and stomped until he had an armload of wood, which he tossed in the brazier. After that, he poured the lantern's oil onto the wood, setting it alight with his flint striker.
Unsure of what else to do, Falk crept to the front door of the shrine and peered outside, leaning his flamberge against one shoulder so he could draw his pistol. Thus far, nothing was happening. With the amount of noise he just made, he had little hope of remaining undetected. They weren't exactly swimming in options, unfortunately.
This was Falk's least favorite manner of job, assignment, mission, whatever word best applied. Verena's wondrous wisdom, he had so little to go on he didn't even know what to call what they were doing here in Strand. Circumstances had dictated acting quickly with next to no information, improvising more than planning. Falk wasn't overly fond of improvising if he could help it. It felt like the last time he really had his feet under him was the investigation back in Reinesburg. Hopefully, after this…
There. Movement. Falk swore he saw it through the doorway of a house. Was it a curious onlooker? Someone infected by the madness? Something worse?
He was startled as Draga and Rikter came rushing up the stairs. The wizard rushed over to the Holy Flame and dropped something into it. He let out a sigh of relief.
"Thank the gods. It's done." The wizard said.
"Uhm…Rikter?" Draga said, gazing into the flames.
"Yes?"
"It's not burning."
Claws on the roof. It was an unmistakable sound. Something scratched its way along the wooden shingles, causing them to flex and roof beams to flex. All three occupants of the church looked up. Falk aimed his pistol upward, Draga her bow, Rikter the glowing point of his staff.
"Why. Won't. It. Burn?" Draga question was a quiet but sharp hiss.
"There…There must be some component to the fire that is missing. That's the only answer I can think of." Rikter replied.
Falk heard a gunshot. It was followed by an unearthly howl of pain. Another gunshot. More howls. Then the unmistakable sounds of battle.
"Oh, Verena's bloody blindfold." Falk cursed.
The roof of the chapel exploded inward as a humanoid figure fell through it. It was uncanny, with gangly limbs, taloned hands, a warped visage of flesh over a skull that refused to fully crack and deform into a wolf-like snout.
The creature falling into the room received an arrow in the ribs and a gut full of buckshot for its trouble. It smashed into a pew and collapsed. Another broke through another part of the roof. A third leapt through a window, smashing through the shutters.
"Horns of the hunt!" Draga declared as her bow thrummed. The beast that emerged through the window suffered an arrow in the gut but kept going.
Rikter swiveled his staff point to aim at the charging wolf-beast. Falk expected a spell. Instead, the wizard set his feet, his staff lancing forward in a textbook thrust that took the wounded monster in the throat. Falk hewed down the third beast, its body mangled under the cleaving, crushing flamberge. It thrashed on the ground, somehow still alive and with enough strength to move, so he cut off its head.
"So the wizard knows how to fight, it seems." Draga noted to Rikter.
"Sometimes, the equation of battle is best answered with the simplest arithmetic." Was all Rikter had to say, but he could not hide a triumphant smile.
Falk was about to tell them to stow the flirting and figure out what they were missing when the front doors of the church burst open. More of the wolven villagers were storming in, and firing his grudge-raker's remaining shell into them felt like tossing a pebble against a runaway wagon. He grit his teeth, taking his flamberge in both hands.
A wave of golden comets met the horde. The molten metal melted skin and fused to flesh. A wolf-beast that managed to scramble on all fours under the missiles received an arrow through the eye, another one was pinned to a pew through the shoulder. A twisted villager leapt over its screaming, twitching compatriots, jumping onto a pew and springing at Rikter. Falk's flamberge swept up. "Cutting the apple from the tree", the maneuver had been called by his old drill sergeant. It bisected the thing at the waist, spraying Falk with blood.
Spitting out blood and wiping his face, Falk saw the church was clear for the moment.
"The fire…probably requires something holy to Ulric." Rikter said. He was pale and sheened with sweat, leaning on his staff. The wizard took a deep breath and visibly steeled himself before standing up straight.
Falk nodded. The sounds of battle outside were drawing closer. The soldiers were pushing into the village. The Truthblade knew from the sounds alone that it was a bloodbath. The question was; why would they attack into a place that would break up their formations so badly.
The answer came just as Falk figured it out, a pistol shot from the doorway passing Draga's arrow as she returned fire. Falk saw the Kislevite, Fyodor, ducking away, Draga's arrow dragging away a chunk of the gunslinger's ear and pinning it to the church door. Falk had a hard time feeling good about that, for he'd already heard Rikter cry out and drop to the floor.
"Shit!" Falk snarled, ducking behind a pew.
Draga dragged Rikter behind the knave's altar.
"Where's he hit?" Falk asked his partner.
"Looks like the shoulder. Won't be using the arm anytime soon but probably won't die." Draga said.
"Praise be to Shallya's mercy." Rikter managed through clenched teeth.
A silver lining, then, but they were exposed. Too many windows. Too much space. If Falk's new hunch was correct, his brewing plan might just even the odds. Simple, but audacious. He had seen Fyodor. It supported Falk's reasoning that Heinz's entire reason for sieging Strand was to clear his way to the shrine of Ulric. The Lord-Captain, like Rikter, had managed to figure out the chapel was the center of this mess. Since Heinz didn't trust his own soldiers, he was probably nearby, waiting for his hired muscle to clear the shrine. Taking out the Lord-Captain and his pair of goons could buy them the necessary time to figure out what the Holy Flame needed to destroy the corrupted pendant.
"I have an idea. Can you hold things down here? Keep the artifact and Rikter safe?" The Truthblade said. He quickly reloaded his grudge-raker.
"Count on it." Draga replied without hesitation.
It hadn't really set into Falk's mind until that moment. He'd been traveling with Draga for about eight months at that point, ever since they converged during a mutual hunt for a cult of the Changer of Ways in Ostland. Falk had lost count of the number of times they'd saved each other's lives in that period, but it wasn't until right then, when Falk had asked her to do something without giving any details into his plan, she hadn't asked for clarification. She hadn't questioned if he was running away or tried to tell him to do something differently. Draga had simply agreed and trusted him, and deep down, Falk knew he would do the same if their roles were reversed.
Even as he sprinting for the nearest window, about to leap out into uncertain amounts of danger, knowing he went with that sort of camaraderie at his back lit a fire in his soul that not even faith in Verena could kindle. Falk would be worthy of that trust. It wasn't a matter of trying. He would do it.
Falk easily smashed through the shutters that held the window closed. He found himself in one of the too-wide alleys that surrounded the church…
…and almost directly on top of a certain Estalian duelist who had been attempting to sneak around the building.
Falk tried to raise his pistol. Leon knocked the weapon from the Truthblade's hand with the pommel of his rapier. Falk struck back with the pommel of his own weapon, dealing a glancing blow to the Estalian's shoulder that served to knock Leon back a few steps. The Diestro moved with the blow, spinning back and away, leveling his rapier to keep Falk from charging in on him. Falk didn't want to do that, anyway. When it came to dueling, he had trained in the style of the famed greatswordsman Kristoff Drexel, as many of his fellow Brazen Bulls had chosen to do in addition to their standard training. The Drexel dueling style focused around switching between three different stances.
"What an unpleasant surprise." Falk said, raising his flamberge into Gerbeck, the High Stance.
"For you, perhaps." Leon said with a sneer. Around them, conflict raged. At least one burning house was reflecting baleful orange light from smoke above the village.
Falk let his sword fall. Gerbeck was a power stance, neither aggressive nor quick, but forceful. Gravity and the user's strength led to thundering blows that could simply break other swords.
Leon easily darted around the ponderous strikes. He didn't dare parry, lest the flamberge bend or break his thin blade. But the Diestro was a master of footwork and Falk hit nothing but air. Leon danced around Falk, choosing a moment to stutter step, then faint, then lunge for Falk's throat. Falk managed to gather one gauntleted hand into a fist and backhand the rapier aside, throwing his shoulder into Leon. It was a solid impact, but did little damage, again forcing the Estalian to fall back.
Falk hadn't expected Gerbeck to work. He'd wanted to take Leon's measure with the stance least suited to dealing with the Diestro's style. He shifted, bringing the flamberge down and in, gripping it by the ricasso with one hand. Bittner, the Forward Stance. Controlled, quick, and defensive.
Leon raised an eyebrow, but did not delay for long.
"It makes no difference how you hold the blade. I'll still be showing you your own innards!" Leon declared as he charged.
Falk's grip on the blade decreased his reach, which meant Leon could move into reach more easily. A trio of rapid thrusts followed, Leon making Falk fall back. The Truthblade managed to dip his flamberge, blocking two of the attacks, trusting his breastplate to stymie the third. Falk countered with a stab of his own. Leon barely managed to slide out of the way, laying his rapier over his left shoulder and allowing the flamberge to scrape along it rather than into his flesh. It was, Falk had to admit, and impressive move.
The rapier flicked up. Falk tried to lean back, but he felt a line of fire erupt across his face, starting with his left ear, scoring across his cheek, and ending at his nose. Blood immediately began streaming down his face. Leon laughed triumphantly as he tried to step back. He may have been in too close for a sword strike, but Falk grabbed him by the front of the Diestro's shirt, yanking him into a headbutt. Falk felt Leon's nose shatter against his forehead. He tried to follow this up with a knee to Leon's groin but the Diestro anticipated this, shifting so the knee glanced off his thigh. Falk was forced back by Leon trying to stab the rapier up under the Truthblade's chin. The angle was awkward, making the attack slow, but it served the purpose of breaking them apart.
The duelists faced each other, both spitting blood from their mouths. Falk shifted into his final stance. Metzger, the Back Stance; the most aggressive of the three Drexel forms. He gripped the flamberge's hilt with both hands, holding it so the crossguard was level with his right ear. No more words. Falk saw the hatred in Leon's eyes.
The Estalian lunged forward, dancing from side to side, making his advance unpredictable.
Then Falk threw his flamberge at the man, pommel first. It would have been a stupid move if Falk wasn't otherwise armed, but he was. It was a gamble, but their respective skill was too even to be confident about a continued straight up fight.
Leon had just enough time for his eyes to go wide before the greatsword smashed into his already damaged nose. The Diestro stumbled, clutching his face in response to what must have been excruciating pain, blindly laying about himself with his rapier as the flamberge clattered to the ground. Falk drew his falchion. A single slash took off Leon's sword hand, then the Truthblade stabbed the Estalian through the breast. Leon drew in a gasp, too in shock to scream. Falk twisted the sword in the wound before roughly ripping it out, which pitched Leon to the ground.
No time to recover. Falk got moving at once.
Draga
Draga heard rather the clash of steel outside in the alley. Leon. It had to be. That left her to deal with Fyodor.
"Stay here. If I fall, hit the damned pendant with all the magic you've got left." Draga told Rikter.
Rikter nodded. He was taking deep breaths, squeezing his eyes shut every few moments, but overall was taking getting shot fairly well.
Keeping low, Draga leaned out and snatched a piece of the broken pew that Falk had shattered. She tossed it into the air. It exploded into splinters as another pistol fired. Draga dashed in a crouch, hearing another gunshot, this one actually blowing apart the taxidermied head that was still attached to a bear hide on the wall. She popped up from behind the front rank of pews and spotted Fyodor. The Kislevite was dashing past where his severed ear was pinned, trying to take cover at the back of the room. Draga launched an arrow his way, but the gunslinger ducked out of sight and the arrow struck the wall, clicking down to the floor.
Draga thought hard. She had no way of knowing how many of Fyodor's half-dozen pistols were still loaded. Had those been his last two after fighting through the village? Doubtful. Best to assume they weren't, anyway.
Something hit a wall, wood against stone. Draga almost popped up, but instinct kept her down. Fyodor had tossed a piece of destroyed rooftop to try to draw her out. Instead, Draga crept along the pew she was covering behind, peering around the end of it. All she saw was a pair of dead wolf-beasts with rapidly cooling metal slagged around their bodies. Draga moved down the aisle, switching her bow from one hand to the other. That was one trick Fyodor probably wouldn't expect from her.
Draga dared a quick glance up, feeling like a groundhog looking for danger outside its burrow. She saw nothing. Draga considered speaking up, trying to reason with Fyodor, telling him he didn't have any reason to stay loyal to a heretic. She suspected the Kislevite wouldn't care. Falk was the one who read people, but Fyodor hadn't seemed like the sort of person that had some complicated agenda. Money and the chance to kill someone. Maybe that's all he wanted. But maybe not.
"What do you think's going to happen if Heinz takes this relic out of here?" Draga asked the room in a raised voice. "Your people have been on the frontline against the Ruinous Powers for centuries. Why would you spread more of its influence in our lands? That's just more trouble on your southern border."
Draga didn't think he'd reply as she turned and sneaked back the other direction.
"Fyodor…don't care…of Kislev." The man replied in broken Reikspiel.
So it was all he wanted.
Draga looked in the direction she'd heard Fyodor speak. She saw him rising, a pistol in each hand. Draga drew back the string and fired on the run, making to slide feet-first back out of sight. Both the Kislevite's guns reported and Draga hit the ground hard as one shot grazed the right side of her waistline. Her slide was ruined and she tumbled, but heard Fyodor let out a pained groan. Gut shot. She'd seen it go in. Draga drew another arrow, intending to go on the offensive down the center aisle between the two rows of pews.
Fyodor was already a few steps away, his big knife in hand, a broken arrow jutting from his abdomen.
Draga couldn't get her messers out. Fyodor stabbed at her. The Draga lifted her bow, letting the gunslinger stab through its middle, then yanked up the string pulling Fyodor's hand with it. Then she stabbed the arrow she held into the man's eye, driving it in as far as she could. A ghastly cry escaped Fyodor's lips and his legs gave out.
Draga clutched at her side. The bullet had glanced off one of her ribs and cracked it, she was almost certain. Every breath hurt to take in. She sat back against the altar on the opposite side from Rikter.
"Still alive?" She asked the wizard.
"Distinctly." He responded.
Someone else came in through the front doors. Lord-Captain Heinz carried an eight-barreled pistol. Whether or not he was a good shot wouldn't matter. The distance was close enough and Draga was immobile, trying to catch her breath.
"You'll pay for this, you Strigany filth!" Heinz roared, raising the gun, aiming at Draga, and opening up.
Just as Heinz fired, something fell in front of Draga. At first, she thought she had been killed and was in some dark afterlife. But she heard the repeated gunshots, heard them sparking and ricocheting, then heard two more, louder shots, followed by Heinz screaming.
Draga crawled to the side of the curved shelter that, she now realized, was part of the altar's top, thrown over her like a blanket and transmuted into lead.
"Sacred Taal…", Draga breathed as she clambered the rest of the way out and stood up.
Heinz was still by the entrance, rolling on the ground and squealing in pain, cradling one hand, his right leg a mangled, bloody mess below the knee.
"What…?" Draga said, turning around.
Rikter leaned on the altar, looking bleary.
"Falkenwulf shot him through the window", he said, pointing over his shoulder at the Holy Flame. "But better than that, look."
Draga followed his thumb. The flames were brighter, closer to white than orange and yellow. Draga wondered what had changed, but then she saw it. One of Heinz's bullets had ricocheted off the cover Rikter had created and struck one of the hanging wolf skulls above the brazier. Shards of bone had fallen into the flames. Even as she watched, a daemonic face seemed to rise from the pendant, which was blackening and emitting deep violet sparks. The face was formed of flame and smoke, silently screaming and gnashing its teeth. Then, as the pendant turned to ash, the face dissipated into nothing.
"Taal and Rhya be praised." Draga sighed, resting her hip against the end of the altar. "Smart trick with this." She tapped the leaden cover Rikter had made.
"My instructors at the Gold College would likely cut out my tongue and turn it to lead if they knew how sloppily I'd worked the incantation." Rikter muttered.
"Would be a shameful waste of a perfectly good tongue." Draga replied.
"Shallya's mercy…", Rikter breathed.
"Not done yet." Falk grunted as he walked into the church. At first Draga felt panic rise in her chest as she saw the blood across her friend's face, but when the Truthblade silently pointed at it and made a dismissive gesture, she relaxed. Not imminently in danger of bleeding out.
"What do you mean?" Draga asked.
Falk didn't answer. He just started dragging Heinz outside, leaving a trail of blood all the way.
"Stay here. I'll get that bullet out of you soon." Draga said.
The wizard simply seemed grateful for the excuse to sit back down.
Draga limped her way to the exterior of the chapel, still clutching her side. She heard Falk speaking in a raised voice and realized the sounds of fighting had stopped.
"...so tell them, Lord-Captain. Confess! Or I start cutting!" Falk's words fought against the crackle and roar of houses burning.
Draga emerged to see Falk holding his flamberge to Heinz's neck. Soldiers were gathered around, halberds and handguns pointed at the Truthblade. Heinz was in the dirt, blubbering and begging incoherently.
"Confess! Tell them why you were forcing them to starve out an entire village instead of trying to protect it!" Falk roared, and there was real fury in it.
"Shoot him! Kill him now!" Heinz pleaded with his troops.
Though their aim remained steady, not one soldier obeyed. Many were wounded. All looked hollow-eyed.
The point of Falk's flamberge sank into Heinz's shoulder. The Lord-Captain wailed as it slowly pushed deeper.
"This waste of breath wanted the very same relic that turned these villagers into monsters." Falk informed them. "That's why he wanted the village to starve. That's why he trusted mercenaries over all of you."
"For Middenland!" Heinz cried. "Our wizards would have learned to control it! Our strength would be unmatched! I did it for the Empire and the White Wolf!"
The flamberge fell.
Heinz's head came away from his body.
"And there we have it. A confession." Falk said. He looked at the soldiers. "Get those fires out. Round up the surviving villagers. And get a courier to Carroburg for more support."
The soldiers didn't move. They lowered weapons and glanced around uncertainly.
"On the double!" Falk barked at them.
The Middenland soldiers got moving. Falk and Draga watched them go.
"You alright?" Draga asked her friend.
Falk sighed. He leaned on his sword.
"My face fucking hurts." He grumbled. His attempted levity fell flat.
Draga offered a pained smile, going along with the shared lie that they were both fine and unaffected by the senseless tragedy around them. "No uglier than you were already."
"Good to know." Falk replied, clapping Draga on the shoulder. "Now. There's still work to do."
The bitter irony in the aftermath of the so-called Strand Incident was the fact that the best way to keep its citizens contained until support from Carroburg arrived was to once again lock them within their village. At least food wasn't a concern, given many villagers had been killed and nearly half of the soldiers that had been besieging the town were dead as well. Falk ensured everyone was getting fed. The peace around Strand had been tense and oppressive, but it had held until three full regiments of Middenland State Troops arrived. Once that was done, Falk had passed command, and responsibility, on to the general leading the detachment. The supernatural threat had been contained. It was no longer in the domain of the warrior-priests to deal with.
Draga had spent most of her time hunting and foraging around Strand. It wasn't for lack of supplies, but because she wanted to spend as little time in close proximity to the village as possible. It felt selfish, but the forest was Taal's domain, and for all its dangers, it was where she found peace. If nothing else, Draga could salve her guilt with the fact that she was not just bringing back meat, berries, and mushrooms, but medicinal herbs for the many wounded soldiers. Rikter was spending much of his time with a poultice crafted by Draga over his gunshot wound.
Speaking of the wizard, Draga found herself in his proximity on more than one occasion in the hours after the sun went down. He had a way of roping her into more intellectual discussions like the one they'd had about societal transmutation. Draga wasn't sure if she enjoyed the conversations themselves or simply Rikter's way of presenting them, with enthusiastic ranting with tangential stories and points spinning off, occasionally peppered with unexpected jokes and curses.
But, eventually, the time to leave arrived.
Draga was securing the last of her belongings to the saddle of her horse. Falk was off having a few final words with the general in charge. So, when she heard footsteps behind her, she knew who to expect.
Rikter's arm was still in a sling, but it wouldn't be for much longer. He had several day's growth of beard on his face now.
"I wish you the very best of luck in your travels, Dragamina." Rikter said as he approached.
"Same to you, Goldy." Draga said.
Rikter grinned at the initially teasing nickname, then opened his mouth. He closed it again a moment later. His nostrils flared as he breathed in.
"Yes?" Draga prompted him.
"I would like to…that it, if you would be agreeable…I was wondering if I might have your permission…", Rikter filtered through multiple beginnings.
Damn it, Dragamina, you're not supposed to find this charming. The Blackbow thought to herself.
"...may I write to you?" Rikter finally asked. "I am aware you travel a great deal, and thus correspondence might be difficult, but all the same."
Draga finished tightening down a girth strap, then leaned against her horse's flank. "Now, do you mean write, or write?"
"The latter." Rikter said with a deep breath out, deflating like a balloon.
"Goldy, you're fun to be around. I like you. And you're not bad to look at, either. But you're a nobleman. Somehow, I doubt your family will be terribly excited about you writing yearning letters to a landless Strigany, and so we're clear, I don't do 'affairs' or 'dalliances.'" Draga said. She was speaking with firm, concise words, but ensuring there was no ill will in her voice.
"As I mentioned before, my father was a Sewer Jack at one point, and as I probably hadn't mentioned, a member of a criminal gang in Altdorf before that. Trust me. They wouldn't mind. But, if you'd rather I didn't, I would still enjoy a friendly correspondence. I would still consider myself blessed by Ranald's dice to call you a friend." Rikter assured her.
Draga was thoughtful. It had been a long time since anyone had expressed interest in her, and she didn't tend to feel that way about people. When she'd told Falk "if you don't, then I will" about Bianca, Draga had never had any real intentions about the warrior-priest of Myrmidia. Draga had simply seen the way the two of them kept looking at each other when they thought the other wouldn't notice and needed to them to do something about it before it drove her insane. Regardless, Draga thought back on how much Rikter had managed to make her laugh over the previous days, even in spite of the grimness of their situation, and of the long hours they'd stayed up too late talking. Perhaps this was something to pursue further. Perhaps this meeting of minds was Rhya's doing. Who could say? There was only one way to find out.
"I'd like that." Draga decided. "Letters. Figuring out if we both really are about this idea. A good place to start."
A smile brighter than any of the spells Draga had seen Rikter cast split the wizard's face. Yes. Indeed. It was a nice smile.
"Then I suppose all I can say now is may Ranald's luck go with you, Dragamina." Rikter said, offering her a bow.
Draga rolled her eyes, stepped forward, and drew the wizard into a hug.
"May Rhya's bounty always find your table, Goldy." Draga said, giving Rikter a squeeze, then a quick peck on the cheek before releasing him.
Draga saddled up shortly thereafter, and when she gave one last look over her shoulder, she saw Rikter was remained stunned and wide-eyed, a hand on his cheek where Draga's lips had barely touched.
Falk was already waiting just beyond the camp. The wound across his face was scabbed over. He was missing his left earlobe and part of his left nostril now. The altered appearance didn't seem to bother him as much as the scab's itch.
"You look awfully happy." Falk noted as Draga rode up.
"Good. I feel it, too." The Blackbow replied.
Falk said no more, simply offering a lopsided grin. The Truthblade tapped his horse's flanks and set off at a canter. Draga did the same a moment later.