The Blackguards

The Blackguards

The Smuggler

Wells awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in his iron cot, cold water dripping from his face and his tunic soaked. He finished the curse he'd started before he'd even woken up, and sat blinking in the flickering torchlight of his cell. Across from him, the jailer - a large man as ugly on the inside as he was on the outside - stood holding a recently emptied bucket, and with a piggy grin of satisfaction on his boil-encrusted face.

"Ah good, you're awake," said the other occupant of the cell - a man that Wells had not realised was there until he spoke.

"You know me, I hate to waste the day by sleeping," replied Wells, as nonchalantly as he could muster so soon after such an abrupt awakening.

"Quite. The model prisoner, one could say" said the man, his tone measured as if he'd given every word he spoke due consideration before opening his mouth. "But enough inane banter; do you know who I am?" Wells looked across to the man seated on the cell's other bed; he shrugged.

"Should I?"

"Not if I was any good at my job." Smiling thinly, Wells' visitor turned to the jailor and dismissed him with a wave. "My name is Bosanquet," he said as he returned his attention to Wells, "and I work for your host, Lord Mowbray."

"Host?" replied Wells, chuckling, "That's not the word I use when I think of him." He paused, looking to one side for a moment, "Same number of letters, mind."

"Indeed. More accurate to say, I work for the man to whom even Lord Mowbray is answerable, though his lordship is unaware of this matter." Wells' brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak before being silenced by a raised hand, "I shall save you the effort of thought; I work for King Octavius. Please, stop trying to speak," he said, as Wells opened his mouth again, "the expression you pull while you try to marshal your thoughts is quite grotesque. Regardless, you - Wells de Hanivel - are due to be hanged within the week, for a variety of crimes that range from the petty to the vile."

"I thank you for reminding me," muttered Wells, bitterly.

"Fortunately for you, the King has granted me leave to make a proposition to you. To wit, that you will embark upon a small undertaking at his request, in exchange for which your past sins will be forgiven, as will any fresh sins that are necessitated in the successful carrying out of your end of the bargain. I take it from your raised eyebrow that I have your interest."

"Not getting hanged does appeal to me," agreed Wells, sitting forward on his bed, "But what in the Hells can I do for dear King Two-Ways that he'd be willing to let me free from the hangman's noose?"

"A number of His Majesty's, ah, beloved, subjects in the eastern realms have been disappearing over recent months. All evidence points to our dear neighbours in Orthond but our agents have, as yet, been unable to find anything sufficiently clear and compelling to justify us declaring war."

"And the fat fool's not in the least bit soiling his breeches about Orthond being able to crush us without a second thought?"

"I am perfectly sure that particular concern has not even entered King Octavius' brilliant mind." Wells was impressed - not even the slightest flicker had passed across Bosanquet's face when he'd said that. Truly, the theatre had lost the most convincing actor of the age when he'd started doing whatever it was he did for the King.

"So why me? I'm a murderer, a smuggler, a thief, and more besides. How useless are King Fatguts' agents that he has to resort to freeing condemned men to get the answers he's after?"

"As a smuggler, you are beneath suspicion, and you are completely expendable. Should you be killed while serving your King, or captured by agents of Orthond, nobody in our kingdom would be any worse-off for it, and there would be nothing to connect you to King Octavius or the Empire of Hangelond. You are also more adept at blending in with the criminal underworld than even our most skilled of spies, being a native as it were."

"I feel so wanted," replied Wells, without conviction. "Now how are you expecting me, on my own, to succeed where the King's own spymasters have failed? And what's to stop me waving two fingers at Hangelond and starting a new life elsewhere?"

"Quite simply, you won't be on your own. We shall, of course, be issuing you with a retainer; someone who can keep an eye on you. Furthermore, we will be providing you with sufficient funds to see you on your way. You are free to use your skills to 'earn' more, and welcome to keep whatever profit you make."

"All I have to do is find out who's taking our people, and presumably 'why'?" Bosanquet nodded. "And my past sins are forgiven," another nod, "as well as any I make during this investigation?" Grinning now, Wells glanced pointedly in the direction the jailer had headed after leaving his cell. "You know, on good days he spits in my food. On bad days... well, I don't tend to feel like eating on bad days." Across from him, the King's messenger sighed,

"Oh, very well. But be quick about it." If Wells' grin had grown any further, the top half of his head would have fallen off. A sparkle in his eye, he leapt up from his sodden bed and ran out of the open door to his cell. Moments later the jailer could be heard calling out in surprise and anger, then fear and pain. A little longer after that and Wells returned to his cell, blood spattered on his tunic, and still grinning inanely.

"Alright. When do I start?"

The Assassin

"As I mentioned before, you will of course be accompanied by one of our own agents," Bosanquet explained he and Wells rode away from Lord Mowbray's estate. They were accompanied in the carriage by a young lady who Wells had assumed to be a lackey or clerk in Bosanquet's employ. "This is not to say that I do not trust you to keep to your word, or that I expect you to run at the first opportunity...," the emissary paused, looking puzzled for a moment. "No, my mistake, it is exactly that. I am reasonably sure that all it would take for you to attempt to slip our leash is a five second head start." Wells shrugged and gave a genial smile; he could hardly deny the accusation. "Besides which, I will need someone reliable to provide me with missives updating me on your progress."

"You have a hired thug who can read and write? I am impressed, Bosanquet! By the by, do you have a less lengthy name I can address you by? A given name, perhaps?"

"No," replied the emissary, curtly. "Specifically, it this lady to my right who will be accompanying you. Her name is Talija, and she will be with you every step of your mission to Orthond." Wells looked over at the only other person sharing the carriage with them, his eyebrows furrowed.

"A-ha," he said, giving her some consideration. "And how old are you, young lady?"

"Nineteen," came the reply as she looked up to meet his gaze. Some seconds passed with the two regarding each other, Wells' mouth hanging slightly open as he sought for what to say next.

"And you are, what, a little over five feet tall, maybe one hundred pounds?"

"Close enough," Talija replied.

"So, if, for argument's sake, I cold-cocked your employer here and leapt from this carriage, towards freedom, how exactly would you plan on stopping me?" Talija's hand moved too fast for Wells to follow and he felt a disturbance in the air by his ear, followed by a thud as something struck the headboard behind him. He blinked, but did not look around. "That was a knife, wasn't it?"

"It was."

"I see. Well, I suppose that answers that question." As calmly as he could, he reached up to pull the knife from the wooden board and passed it back to Talija, who promptly vanished it into the folds of her travelling cloak. "What other skills of yours should I know about?"

"Talija is a Guild-trained assassin, Mr de Hanivel," interjected Bosanquet. "Indeed, she graduated at the top of her class, with honours, and is considered to be one of the most naturally talented students to have come through their ranks in many years." Wells looked at the girl again, finding himself somewhat surprised. Not because of her age or sex, but that someone apparently so talented should end up working for the Crown instead of going freelance. Ah well, he thought, not everyone has ambitions of wealth.

"I particularly excel in stealth, Mr de Hanivel, and I am also proficient with a variety of locks and traps," supplied the assassin.

"Setting or disarming?"

"Both."

"Hmm, good to know." Wells continued to watch the girl as he pondered, his fingers drumming his knee. "I will need a healer, also," he said to Bosanquet, though his eyes remained on Talija. "And a tracker, unless that's also a skill in your repertoire, Talija?"

She shook her head, "I am good at finding people in the city, but wilds tracking was not something we were ever taught."

"Lastly, I will also need someone trained in the occult or the arcane. You never know when you're going to find yourself in need of their esoteric knowledge, and it's always good to have someone who can offer magical protection."

"Anything else?" Bosanquet asked.

"Well, ordinarily I'd opt to have a great big bruiser in the group, someone who can take a hit and give plenty back. But brawlers and stealth do not mix well, so I suppose I shall have to fulfil that role." He paused, looking from Bosanquet to Talija and back again. "Has your assassin ever actually killed anyone?"

"We must complete our first contract before we graduate," replied Talija, as Bosanquet opened his mouth to speak. "I have successfully fulfilled a number of contracts since then."

"I will just assume that to be a 'yes', then," said Wells, still watching her somewhat warily. He had met a handful of Guild assassins over the years, and he never knew quite what to make of them. Regular cut-throats and hired killers he understood - you gave them money and someone got murdered. They operated in much the same circles as he himself did. But Guild assassins were a different breed, with their rules and so-called honour. Everything had to be put in writing, with a written contract for even the smallest of jobs, and payment terms and criteria all discussed and agreed. Wells was more comfortable with the sort of killers you just gave a name and a location to, then handed over a purse of coin once they'd done the deed. The Guild seemed to want to make it all legal and above-board, as if assassination should be a socially acceptable career choice. What next, a guild of smugglers? Though, now he thought about it, the Chamber of Commerce and Trade in Hangelond could pretty much be described as such.

The Priest

At the second polite yet insistent knocking upon the door, Jehanne stopped scrubbing her mother's apron and dropped it back into the bucket. By the time she had dried her hands and walked over to open the door, the house's visitor had his fist raised to knock a third time. Jehanne smiled politely at the gentleman - for he clearly was a gentleman, well-dressed and well-presented - and quickly apologised for her tardiness in receiving.

"Truly sorry, sir, I was in the middle of m'chores!" she said, hurriedly, bobbing an awkward curtsy at the man.

"It's quite alright, my child," replied the older man as he lowered his hand. It was then that Jehanne took stock enough of his clothing to realise he wasn't just a gentleman but a member of the clergy, his sash and robes marking him as a priest of Arin. "Is your mother home? Or perhaps your father? I had a matter of the church to discuss with them."

"Father's at the smithy, and Ma's at the mill, sir," said Jehanne, clumsily curtsying again.

"Oh please, there's no need to bend the knee to me, dear girl. I am a priest, not a lord!" He grinned cheerily, and Jehanne found herself blushing. She was used to priests being old and dull, but this one was barely older than her father and seemed most jolly and lively. "A shame that your parents are not home to receive me. Still, I have come all this way..." he paused, looking expectantly at the young woman before him, who gave only a blank look response, "Ah, might I trouble you for a glass of milk or small beer? My throat is somewhat parched."

"Oh, of course!" answered Jehanne, stepping back and beckoning the priest into her home. "Um, please do come in, Almsman." She waved an arm towards the basic table and chairs that served as the family's seating and dining area, and shut the door behind the priest as he entered, before hurrying off to fetch him a mug of small beer from the barrel in the cool-room.

"You are very kind. Your parents are, I trust, adherents of Arin?" The girl nodded at the question as she handed the mug over, and then stood respectfully off to one side, her arms clasped behind her back. "That is always good to hear. Mm, that is most refreshing," he raised the mug slightly and gave a nod of thanks, "you have my sincere gratitude, young lady." Setting the mug down, he smiled kindly at the girl as he looked her over. "How old are you, my dear?"

"Fifteen, Almsman," she replied, without hesitation.

"Ah, a wonderful age - still full of the joy, wonder, and energy of youth, but not yet weighed down by the trials and tribulations of adulthood! Tell me, my girl, do you subscribe to the same faith as your parents?" Jehanne nodded. "Splendid, splendid. So, like your parents, and like all the faithful of Arin, you are aware it is better to give than to receive, and that none are to be praised so highly as them that give to the needy?" Jehanne nodded again, her expression starting to grow somewhat vacant. "That is very good to hear, indeed. You see, dear girl, I have a need for something that you have. Will you give it to me?" Again she nodded, her eyes beginning to glaze over. "Splendid, splendid," he said again. "Tell me, what is your name?"

"Jehanne," replied Jehanne, her voice flat and without emotion.

"Jehanne? Such a pretty name. And such a pretty girl, too. Please, Jehanne, take off your clothes for me." The girl nodded again, and started to undo the lacing of her bodice, her hands moving slowly, as if she wasn't consciously controlling them. The priest smiled broadly as Jehanne exposed first her breasts, and then the rest of her as her simple and plain dress slipped down to the floor. "Ah, the flower of womanhood - how it blossoms! Come close, Jehanne, let me see if your nectar is as sweet to taste as your petals are to look at."

"Ah, yes!" cried the Almsman as he thrust into the girl again. "Arin approves of your offering, my sweet! But not, ah, not half so much as I do!" Beneath him, Jehanne moaned quietly, distantly, as if stirring in her sleep, while the priest of Arin violated her. "Oh, thank Arin for the naivety of peasant girls!" He grunted, swatting the girl's rear as his groin slapped against her buttocks. "It's hardly even a challenge to persuade you to offer your-!" The priest went silent, freezing in place at the feel of a cold steel point touching delicately against the flesh of his back. Nothing moved except his eyes as a man walked out in front of him, a smirk on his bearded face.

"You know, I always felt that religion was nothing more than a con but if I'd known it was this kind of con then, well, I'd say to myself that I ended up in the wrong line of business! Hello, Talbot." The priest's eyes bugged at being called by his real name, but otherwise he managed to remain perfectly still.

"Wells," he replied weakly, his voice coming out in a croak.

"Let's do introductions," continued Wells, "my colleague behind you," he flicked his hand in a lazy gesture, "goes by the name of Talija. Talija, this is Marcus Talbot, a shiftless priest and unrepentant con-merchant. Now, Marcus, I'm sure you're smart enough to realise that's a dagger she's poking you with, and that if you make any movements I don't like the look of, or if you try to charm me, then you'll find yourself missing a kidney. That in mind, let's talk." Wells paused, glancing down at the girl that Talbot was in the midst of sodomising. "Neam's tits, does that girl even know what's going on right now?" He leaned down and waved his hand in front of her face. Jehanne didn't so much as blink.

"I, um, that is to say..." Talbot cleared his throat and tried again, "No, no she does not. When the charm wears off she will remember very little of this. What little she does remember will seem to her like a dream."

"A dream that leaves her with a sore arsehole?"

"There is that," replied Talbot, shrugging carefully.

"And probably a lifelong aversion to priests, I'd hope." Talbot just shrugged again. "Well, anyway, we - that is, my colleague and I - are here to discuss business, not the merits and drawbacks of using enchanted jewellery to abuse young women."

"Business?" said Talbot, a trickle of cold sweat running down his spine and his legs beginning to cramp from the effort of holding the pose he was in.

"Business. I have been employed by a certain someone to act in the interests of a certain someone else of some quite considerable power and influence. Round these parts, anyway. Cross the border they couldn't give two figs for his tubby arse. Still, he's asking me to go and investigate something that his usual employees haven't been able to get to the bottom of, and he's given me licence to employ others who can help me."

"What," said Talbot, swallowing, "does that have to do with me?"

"Well, the thing I'm investigating is likely to upset a few people, and there's also likely to be folks who don't want to answer any questions I might have. Now I can be quite persuasive in my own right, and my colleague with the dagger certainly has her methods, but it strikes me as what we need is a real master of persuasion, someone who can tease an answer from even the most reluctant tongue. So, I thought, who's better at the art of persuasion than my dear old friend and former co-conspirator, Marcus Talbot? And here we are."

"Could I perhaps put some clothes on?" asked Talbot, his tone hopeful.

"Not a chance. Now, here's the offer - you come and help me find out what's going on in the eastern realms, and when we're all done you're a free man with a clean slate."

"I am an Almsman of Arin, what use to me is a cle-"

"How many holds are you forbidden from entering, on pain of being dangled from the gate by your knackers?"

"Ah, one or two, I must confess."

"Right. And how many noblemen have personally vowed to make you a eunuch should they ever see you again, after what you did to their daughters?" Talbot remained silent, but the look in his eyes answered Wells' question for him. "That's what I thought. You help me, then the fellow who's paying me will make sure that anyone who has a reason to do you harm will be suitably paid off. And who knows? You might even get to have a bit of fun on the way." The two men stared at each other, Wells with a cocky grin on his face, while Talbot was rather more ashen.

"Taking into account the rather close proximity your colleague's dagger is to some of my fleshier parts, do I really have a choice?"

"You could say no."

"And if I did?"

"We'd walk out the way we came in and leave you to finish emptying your nuts in the girl's back passage. Assuming you'd still be in the mood for that."

"That's it?" Talbot raised an eyebrow.

"That's it. No catches. Help us and you're a new man without a nasty past. Turns us down and we'll leave you to it."

"I would very much like to visit our fair capital again before I die..." Talbot looked down to where his flaccid member had long since slipped from Jehanne's rear, and he let out a heartfelt sigh. "Very well, I agree to your terms."

"Grand!" said Wells, clapping his hands together. "Oh, one other thing you probably ought to know is that Talija over there," Talbot let out another sigh, this time of relief as he felt the slight pressure on his back vanish as Well's colleague took her dagger away, "is completely immune to your charms, and if she catches you trying to use them on me or anyone else in our group then she'll feed you your own testicles. Understood?"

"Understood," replied Talbot, his voice almost a squeak.

"Good, good. Now, get your clothes on, say goodbye to your latest sodomite, and let's go find us a ranger."

The Huntress

"We have been trekking through this thrice-damned forest for two days and still we have not found your mysterious ranger, Wells. How much more must my feet suffer before you will admit that this is a fool's errand?" Talbot took a lazy swipe at a fern that had the misfortune of being in his path, his stave snapping a handful of stems.

"It's not a fool's errand and you complain too much, Marcus. You've gotten soft in your age!" said Wells, grinning. "Was a time you'd enjoy this sort of a jaunt."

"In those days," said Talbot, his tone indignant, "I would at least have hopes of catching some fair maiden out collecting berries."

"Well, the lady we seek is by all accounts no maiden, and if she were collecting berries it would probably be so she could distil poison from them. But I believe she is at least fair of skin."

"I suppose I'll have to settle for that," replied the cleric, sighing. "Why do we need her, anyway?"

"There are three main ways of getting to Orthond, my dear friend. By boat, by road, or by traversing the woods. Unfortunately for us, Orthond has very good border controls, and they are excellent at documenting official visitors to their realm..."

"Meaning we need to be unofficial visitors." He sighed again, and Wells nodded in confirmation. "Arin save me, we're going to spend weeks trekking through the bloody forests just so we can sneak in, aren't we?" He could tell from his companion's grin that he had guessed correctly. "Bugger and damnation," muttered the priest, wearily.

"Sounds like an accurate summary of your li-," he paused and went very still.

"Wh-?" started Talbot, before being shushed by his friend. Silencing and stilling himself, his eyeballs swivelled madly as he tried to spot anything out of place. Beside him, Wells nervously cleared his throat.

"I um, I suppose it's too much to hope any of you can speak but I presume you can understand what I'm saying, or at least that someone who is listening in can understand." There was silence in the forest, and Talbot fancied he saw a low, dark shape hidden in the undergrowth ahead of him. "We're looking for Keturah Rom" continued Wells. "We have need of her considerable skills," he added, when only silence greeted his previous statement. "We can also offer assurance that she will be extremely well paid for her services, and not just in money." A shadow moved, and Talbot fought the urge to void his bowels. "I also have a royal pardon, signed by the royal fat shit himself." Added Wells, hoping that this last would be enough to catch Roms interest, even if the rest had not.

"I'm listening," said a low female voice, far, far too close behind Wells for his liking. Beside him, he heard a squeak of gas escape from the nervous priest's backside.

"Ah, Keturah Rom I presume? Any chance that my friend and I could stand up properly without being ripped to shreds?"

"I suppose," came the reply, after an excruciatingly long pause. Wells nodded in relief and straightened himself up, while Talbot dropped down to his knees to offer up a prayer of thanks to anyone who was listening. When Wells turned around to face the ranger, he found himself rather surprised. He knew of Romonly by reputation, and from the report that Bosanquet had passed to him.

Like many rangers, she preferred life out in the wilds to a civilized bed, but unlike most she had come to completely shun human contact. As far as Wells knew, he was the first actual person to speak directly to her in several years. He had been expecting a mud-covered hermit, ungroomed and unkempt, looking like they had not only slept in a hedgerow but had also brought most of the hedge with them. What he saw before him was nothing like that mental image, however. Keturah Romwas tall, slender, and with delicately defined features like a porcelain doll. Her cheekbones and eyes awoke in Wells darkened soul a sense of poetry he probably never knew he'd possessed, and for the first time in his adult life he found himself completely at a loss for anything remotely sensible to say.

"Shut your mouth," snapped the ranger, interrupting the choir of angels singing in Wells' head, "Will attract flies."

"Sorry, I... I uh... Sorry," managed Wells. By his side, Talbot gave his friend a quizzical look.

"My, oh my, the great Wells de Hanivel at a loss for words. I never thought I would live to see the day." Turning to face the ranger, he offered his most winning smile as he delicately rubbed one of the golden rings on his fingers. "I am Marcus Talbot, Almsman of...," he hesitated; he had not studied Bosanquet's report as thoroughly as Wells, but he had at least skimmed through it, "that is to say, devotee of Chailanri," he admitted, seeing no reason to keep up the Arin fade. "And this is my dear friend, Wells de Hanivel, a smuggler of some renown. You must be Keturah Rom the ranger of the wilds. I am delighted to see that you are even more beautiful than the report suggested!" He held his smile, even as Keturah glared at him in forbidding silence.

"Friend talks a lot, Wells," she said to the smuggler. Wells smirked; his delight at seeing Talbot's charm fall completely flat helped him to regain his own composure.

"Part of why he's joining me on this little jaunt. Sometimes a sharp tongue is more useful than a sharp dagger." Keturah grunted in response, suggesting that she felt otherwise.

"Other friend not talk so much. Like her better." Wells and Talbot both turned to look in the direction the ranger nodded. After some moments squinting, de Hanivel spotted Talija lurking in the shadows of a split tree. He had known she was following them, of course, but he'd lost track of where she was almost as soon as they'd entered the woods.

"Of course, it's always good to have a dagger as an option," said Wells, letting out a small laugh. When he next looked at the tree the assassin had been in the shade of, she was gone. He was not surprised. "Anyway, that you have decided to grace us with a face-to-face suggests you are at least interested in hearing my proposition. Am I correct?" Keturah nodded curtly, and Wells found himself fervently hoping that the next and final person on their list would turn out to be a little friendlier than either Talija or the ranger. If he was stuck with just Talbot for conversation for the duration of their little errand, he might end up killing him.

"We're heading to Orthond, and we need to get across the border without being noticed. Our employer suggested you would be the perfect person for this task." The ranger still said nothing, so Wells continued, "Once in Orthond, your talents would continue to come in handy; I understand that you're a very capable tracker, hunter, and marksman as well as a forest guide." Keturah nodded again. Wells was surprised to have found someone less talkative than Bosanquet's pet assassin, though Keturah was at least better looking. Quite a lot better looking, really. Her almost total lack of discernible personality aside, Talija was so plain that even Talbot had professed her to be not worth fucking. Although he may have just been trying to cover for his nervousness around her. "Would it help if I barked or so-," Wells blinked as a blade appeared in the ranger's hand, "Okay, okay, bad joke, I apologise," he added hurriedly.

"Payment?" asked Keturah, slipping the dagger back into a sheath hidden under her thick cloak.

"Our employer's advisor suggests you have no interest in physical currency...," he left the statement hanging in the air, then nodded when it seemed Keturah was not about to correct him, "but that you might be interested in not only a pardon for all the crimes-, for all the alleged crimes you've committed," he corrected himself as the ranger's eyes narrowed, "but also to be named official Warden for these forests." Keturah blinked, and her head tilted quizzically to one side. "That is to say you would have full reign over these forests, officially, and be subject only to the King's own word. Which he would, of course, very decently ensure you never heard, on the understanding that you, ah, how can I put this? Play nicely whenever you're in a settlement. You would also be free to deal as you see fit with any poachers in these lands."

"Already do," replied Keturah.

"Yes, well... now you'd be able to do it legally and officially." The ranger shrugged indifferently. "You're a hard woman to please, Keturah."

"That's what the report said," quipped Talbot with a smirk, which he regretted almost immediately as he came under the ranger's dagger-like glare. "Um, I meant that it said you had little interest in human, ah, currencies and customs." The glare abated, and Talbot let out a small sigh of relief.

"You'll get to go to Orthond and probably kill a lot of people, as well as meet plenty of new forest creatures," said Wells, somewhat exasperated. He hated trying to deal with hermits - they so rarely had the decency to be as greedy as regular people.

"Think about it," said Keturah at last. "Answer at sunset." With that, she turned and left the pair where they stood, not saying another word.

"Um, great! Well, we ah... we'll just make camp here and wait then, yes?"

"But perhaps let's not light a fire?" Suggested Talbot, as Keturah moved out of sight amongst the trees. Wells looked around - he could see no sign of the creatures, which he fervently hoped were wolves, that had been lurking in the undergrowth.

"Good idea, Marcus." He looked up, trying to gauge what little he could see of the sky beyond the tree canopy. "Should only be an hour or two at most."

"Splendid. So, am I to assume that I am the only member of our little party who'll be contributing anything by way of charm and warmth or do you have someone else with social skills lined up next?"

"A necromancer," replied Wells. Talbot rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Lovely. A cut-throat, a beast-fucker, and next a corpse-lover. Why, oh why did I agree to this, Wells?"

"Because you crave adventure and excitement, even if you won't admit it to yourself." The priest regarded him in stony silence. "That and you're excited by the prospect of violating a few Orthond women."

"Ah, now that sounds more likely a motive."

"Anyway, Greslet is by all accounts a very pleasant old man who wouldn't hurt a fly."

"You said he was a necromancer...,"

"I said he wouldn't hurt a fly. I never said he wouldn't defile its corpse and use it for ungodly purposes."

"Wonderful," muttered Talbot as he sat himself down on a fallen log.

The Necromancer

Wells de Hanivel and his steadily-growing adventuring party had been in the small port down of Tastow for nearly four days, during which time it had rained constantly. Indeed, the rain's unrelenting nature was matched only by Talbot's complaining; the disgraced priest had moved past merely starting to regret accepting Wells' offer, and was settling into the comfortable misery of full-on remorse.

"You sneak into someone's house with an assassin and interrupt me mid-stroke, then you drag me out into the deep forest to recruit the world's most antisocial ranger - no offence, Miss Rom" Keturah merely grunted by way of reply, "and now here we are in a shitheap of a fishing port, soaked to our undergarments by this interminable rain, looking for a man whose practices even my goddess finds immoral!" Wells glanced across at his miserable friend and gave the man a half-smile; Talbot merely glared in return.

"Look," said the ranger, pointing off through the torrential rain at a human-sized shadow standing over by a door. Wells squinted and lifted his hand up to his hood to better shield his eyes from the downpour.

"Well, either that's a prostitute who's a long way behind her quota for the week or our friend of the shadows has found Mr Greslet's abode." They turned to head in the direction of the person lurking in the rain, Wells leading the way. "Good day, Talija," he said when they got close enough to be sure it was indeed their assassin escort. "Is our necromancer in?" Talija gave a nod, and Wells stepped up to knock on the door.

"That's it?" demanded Marcus Talbot. "You surprise me with an assassin, Keturah we have to stalk, but for the necromancer we just knock on-," the door opened to reveal a small, unassuming man of advanced years, unremarkable save for the deep black robe he wore, and the sigil of Mazel the Festering on a silver chain about his neck.

"Oh, yes, hello," said the man, offering the group a friendly smile. "My, I see the rain has still not stopped. Come in, come in! You must be soaked! I have plenty of dry clothes for you and the fire is roaring away nicely," he turned to walk back into the main room of his small dwelling, continuing to talk. "I think, yes, I think I might even have some cold cuts somewhere. Actually, you know, I am sure of it." He stopped then, realising nobody had followed him. "Um?"

"Sorry, just to be sure, but you are Ansell Greslet?" said Wells. The old man smiled and nodded.

"Well, who else would I be? Come now, let's get you all in out of that horrid rain!" Looking to each other, Talbot and Wells shrugged and followed Ansell into his home, with their less sociable companions shortly behind them. "Just plop your cloaks and clothes over there in the corner, won't you? Mary will be right out to take care of them."

"Our, ah, clothes?" asked Talbot, somewhat uncertain about the whole situation.

"Oh yes, your clothes. Don't want to catch yourselves a chill now, do you? You'll warm up much more quickly without those sodden things all over you.

"He would know," commented Talija, before taking the lead in disrobing. The others followed suit, though Keturah apparently drew the line at removing her underwear. Ansell beckoned the four to sit down in front of the fire, where he had already arranged a motley selection of chairs, cushions, and blankets.

"Yes, well, thank you," mumbled Wells as he sat his naked rear down on one of the chairs and pulled a blanket up around his shoulders. "Interesting scars, Keturah," he said conversationally, before catching Talbot's eye. "Try not to stare, Marcus old chap."

"You have scratches on back, I get scratches on...," the ranger paused, sniffing the air for a moment before standing up fast enough to send her chair toppling over backwards. Seeing her react that way, Talija was also up on her feet, while the two men looked around, bewildered. "Undead," stated Keturah, a growl in the back of her throat. Sure enough, someone who was clearly no longer counted amongst the living lurched into the room from the back, their left foot dragging on the floor.

"Oh, I am sorry," said Ansell as he bade them all to sit back down and relax, "did I not mention Mary? I thought I did."

"That is Mary?" Talbot's voice was shrill and the hand that pointed to the creature was shaking.

"Why, yes, she is. Lovely girl, is Mary. Ever so helpful!" Smiling genially, he turned towards the zombie. "Mary, these are our guests. Would you be a dear and take their clothes away to dry, please? Oh, and I think everyone could do with a hot drink, yes?" He turned back to the still shocked group. "There's this lovely drink I discovered while travelling out east. Made from the leaves of a plant. A little bitter but a drop of honey in it and it is most refreshing. Perfect for chasing out the chill of a rainy afternoon!"

"Mary... is a zombie?" Talbot practically shrieked.

Ansell looked at the priest as if he were mad for even asking such a question, "Well, of course. I mean, look at her. What else could she be, looking like that?" He chuckled cheerily and shuffled over to pick Keturah's chair back up for her, waving for her to sit down again. "Now, I know what you are all thinking but really it is quite alright. Mary's ever so well behaved. Never a bother to anyone! Though, ah, I'd be grateful if you didn't mention her to anyone, all the same."

"You have a zombie as a housemaid?!"

"Is your friend alright, Mr de Hanivel?" asked Ansell, his eyes on the terrified priest as he spoke to Wells.

"Almsman Talbot is merely... stunned by just how impressive your skill of the dark arts is," said Wells, as diplomatically as he could manage. Across the fire pit, Talija and Keturah had at last returned to their seats, though the ranger was still visibly on edge.

The Warlock

I awake cold, damp, naked. A fire burns in front of me, lighting up enough of my surroundings that I see I am in a cave. I drag myself towards the fire, accepting its warm succour. On the other side of the fire sits a woman, cross-legged and clothed in a shapeless dark robe. I panic for a moment but she does not see me; her eyes are closed. I wonder if she sleeps but I notice that she is speaking, muttering under her breath words that I do not know. By her side lies a knife, its blade curved like a crescent moon. I push myself slowly up from the floor, rising to a crouch as silently as my stiff limbs will allow me. The woman mumbles to herself still, not noticing me even as I creep around the fire to squat near to her. I reach out, hesitantly, to take the knife, mindful not to let it drag against the stone cave floor as I lift it. Still she mumbles, still her eyes are closed. I grab her forehead and pull the blade of the knife across her throat in a quick motion. The knife cuts deep, the fire spits and hisses as her blood sprays onto it. It feels like I have done this a thousand times before. The woman clutches at her gaping throat, her eyes wide open and her mumbling replaced by gurgling. I watch as she collapses to the floor, her flailing and struggling growing rapidly quieter, till she is still once again. I close her eyes; the dead should not stare at the living world. I know this, but I do not know how, or why. I look around the small cave and quickly find a table against one curved wall. Atop it is another knife, straighter than the one I hold and less bloody; a robe like the dead-woman's; some small glass phials containing I do not know what; and a book with a stained leather cover. The book smells human. I put the robes on and shove the collection of phials into a deep pocket stitched onto its front.

As a I walk away from the table, past where dead-woman is still slowly leaking onto the cold stone floor of the cave, I hear noise. Noises. Voices. I turn to face these voices, walk towards them slowly. I see what I thought was a shadow but is a tunnel leading to another cave. The voices grow louder as I walk, my bare feet padding silently on stone. There is light glowing down the tunnel. I turn a corner and find myself in a room, like dead-woman's but smaller. Two men stand there; also in robes. The voices stop when they see me. They are surprised but not scared. One of them shows me his teeth and raises his arms towards me. I stab him in the abdomen, twisting and wrenching the knife to pull his entrails out. He falls, shrieking. Now the other is scared. He moves away, quickly, but I am quicker. The knife enters his back, finds his vitals. I stab again, again, again, till he stops trying to prevent me. He falls to the floor and twitches, eyes closing as he dies. The first man still lives. He sits on his knees, his bloody bowels pooled in his lap and his hand trying to scoop them back up. He makes a bubbling noise in his mouth. I crouch before him, ask him who he is, where I am, what they are doing, why I am here, why I was naked. He makes words but I know not their meaning. I leave him there to futilely try to put his insides back inside. The room has four beds. Cots really. Wooden platforms to keep straw-filled bedding off the damp ground. Dead-woman, dead-man, dying-man. Where/who is the fourth? There are shoes there, a satchel. I take both, wear them. The phials I put in the satchel, glad to no longer have them bumping against my body. The satchel has a small pouch inside it, containing several small metal discs. I do not recognise them. I take a ring from dead-man's hand. It has a rune carved into it. It fits my finger well. Dying-man no longer babbles or tries to pick up his guts. He does nothing, now. He is dead-man too, his eyes closed. I look around but there is nothing else of use here, so I leave.

I walk past dead-woman again. She has stopped leaking, and seems cold despite the fire. I pick up the other knife on the table, put it in the satchel. Dead-woman also has a ring, like first dead-man's. I take it but it is too small for me so it joins the knife, pouch with metal discs, and phials in the satchel. I sniff the air. Somewhere there are pine trees. I close my eyes and feel a slight breeze on my face. It is colder on my left cheek, so that is the way I turn to walk. Another cave-room, that way. No bodies, living or dead. Still no four. I walk through the room, up a slope that leads to where the breeze comes from. Smell of pines stronger, now. I leave the cave. It is night. Above are lights. Stars. Many many of them. Away from the cave are more lights, I see them through the sparse pine trees. They flicker. Fire lights. I head towards them.