Vigil’s Balance

VIGIL BOUND

BOOK THREE

JAMES A. HUNTER

Contents

Summary

Author and Publisher Updates

1. House Hunting

2. Cleanup, Aisle 10

3. Old Friends

4. The Call

5. Fae Step Shuffle

6. Sucker Punch

7. City of Oblivion

8. Court Courtesy

9. Rules of the Game

10. Fight Dirty

11. No Place Like Home

12. Deep Rock, LLC

13. Prisoners of War

14. Manor Makeover

15. A Balanced Build

16. Tongue Action

17. Party Time

18. The Art of the Steal

19. Pit Fight

20. Spoils of War

21. A Little Trust

22. Sunny, Scenic Orezan

23. Bloodbath of Orezan, Take Two

24. The Melting Rose

25. The Clock Tower

26. Yenifer the Everlasting

27. Monster Mash

28. Cheap Shot

29. The Winner Is…

30. Death and Hell

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About the Author

Summary

There is one rule. Join the Hunt, or become the Hunted…

Boyd Knight, Marine turned Vigil, has been formally invited to join the Wyld Hunt.

To refuse is a death sentence. Participating might not be any safer.

As the Caller of the Hunt, it is up to the Queen of Oblivion to select targets worthy of the wrath of the Fae Court. Hunters from across the Wylds are unleashed like hounds to track down each target and exact bloody vengeance against those who have struck dark deals for money, fame, and power. But nothing is ever as straightforward as it seems, and cheating, murder, and treachery are all just a part of the rules of decorum when it comes to the Hunt.

Can Boyd navigate the perilous politics of the Fae Courts and survive the murderous, inhuman nobles looking for any excuse to execute him?

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1

House Hunting

“Dammit, Renholm!” I hollered, dancing backward as a furry body launched itself at my head. I shot a quick look at the pixie turned Pookah. “I could use a little help over here.”

“You’re doing fine,” he drawled, not even bothering to glance in my direction. He was sitting on the back of his trusty steed, Sir Jacob-Francis… filing his nails. I could’ve been bleeding out on the floor, and he probably would’ve said the same thing. “You’ve faced tougher enemies a hundred times over. Besides, this is your mission, not mine. You wouldn’t ask a king to help you move an armoire, now would you?”

“That’s not the point,” I growled while focusing on the feral, cat-sized rats flooding out from the hole in the dank basement wall. There were dozens of them, and they were all unbelievably fast and nimble. “You’re supposed to be my backup.”

I thrust one hand forward and unleashed a lance of fire on the encroaching horde of vermin. My Arcana gauge dipped by a hair as the flames engulfed their greasy, plague-riddled bodies. A chorus of shrieks echoed throughout the room, clawing at my eardrums, but the supernaturally conjured flame didn’t stop the rats. They were determined little fuckers.

If anything, the fire only made things worse, because suddenly there were three dozen cat-sized rats barreling toward me and now they dealt fire damage. An especially bold rodent broke apart from the pack and tried, fruitlessly, to scramble up my leg. I crushed its skull with my armored boot while the flames from its body licked at my foot.

[You have killed a Subterranean Ratling! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 25 Essence!]

“If you truly need help, or I get bored,” Renholm said, still clearly uninterested in the fight, “be assured that I will be there in an instant.”

No part of his callous indifference surprised me. Renholm was a self-serving asswad through and through. I kept him around because he could be surprisingly useful and occasionally his self-serving nature happened to benefit me. Also, begrudgingly, I had to admit that I liked him. He was the living embodiment of disdain and vanity wrapped in bacon strips of chaos, but he was also entertaining.

In the two seconds it had taken me to kill the first uber vermin, the rest of the rat bastards had managed to outflank me on both sides. Hoping to swarm me, no doubt. With a thought and a trickle of will, I conjured my Soul Bound Benelli M4 tactical shotgun. I didn’t even bother aiming the damn thing. Instead, I thrust it straight out and started unloading. Generally, firing a shotgun like it’s a pistol is a terrible idea since a 12-gauge kicks like an angry mule, and the recoil will rip the weapon right out of your hand.

But most people aren’t Vigils.

With my preternaturally enhanced strength, I barely even felt the weapon buck in my grip. The barrel belched out round after round, all made of pure Essence. I turned the flaming greaseballs into pink mist and minced meat in a matter of seconds.

[You have killed a Subterranean Ratling! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 25 Essence!]

[You have killed a Subterranean Ratling! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 25 Essence!]

[You have killed a Subterranean Ratling! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 25 Essence!]…

Thin tendrils of Essence swirled across the floor while golden notifications backstroked through the air in a rapid flurry as the rats died en masse. The few that had managed to get within melee attacking range fared no better. Diseased claws and tiny, razor-sharp teeth scratched and bit, but failed spectacularly to penetrate my heavy Stone Spider plate mail. My magic retaliated with vengeance. I was currently running a modified Valor build, complete with the Spiked Shell ability, which passively reflected physical damage back on my attackers.

Steely gray spikes of Arcana erupted outward from my body, skewering the rats and hurling them away in the process. In seconds the last of ’em were dead, their broken and twisted bodies littering the floor.

“See how easy that was?” Renholm remarked from behind me. “Honestly, I think we can both agree that was hardly worth the risk of getting my fur dirty. Or chipping a claw.” He held up a tiny hand, showcasing his minuscule talons.

“Yeah, god forbid that you get a little dirty while doing your job,” I replied, rolling my eyes and dismissing my shotgun.

“You know as well as I that the False Queen of the Oblivion Court could send riders at any moment. I need to look my best when the time comes for us to attend the opening ceremony.” He stood on Jacob-Francis and twirled in a slow circle. The cat chirped and flicked his tail in annoyance but stayed put like the good and faithful steed he was.

Renholm looked vastly different than when I’d first found him trapped in an iron birdcage back in the Grave Ghoul cave.

He was still the size of a collectable action figure, but he no longer looked even remotely human. He had the body of a spider monkey, the face of a fennec fox, and a pair of glossy black raven wings protruding from his back. He was missing a leg, which he’d replaced with an intricately carved peg. He’d also added a couple of extra accessories to his ensemble. There was a tiny golden crown perched lightly on his head and a bright red fur-lined cloak that trailed down between his wings. There was a small rapier, crafted from a Grass Hound Quill, situated at one hip.

“You may not want to admit it,” he said, “but this is what the ideal Fae body looks like. I’m fabulous, and soon everyone will have to acknowledge that reality.” His eyes narrowed as a sneer stretched his lips into a grimace. “Especially Jeffery.”

Awfully big claims for a creature the size of a candy bar, but if there was one thing Renholm didn’t lack, it was confidence. That and delusions of grandeur.

After suffering a life-threatening injury, the fairy had evolved using a Sage-Class Chaos Affinity Scale, and in doing so, he’d inadvertently dragged me into an age-old conflict involving the nobles of the Fae Wylds. More specifically, he’d drawn me into a conflict with a particularly nasty Archfae named Ionia, the Supreme Queen of Dark Tidings, who happened to be the ruler of the current Oblivion Court. It had been nearly three weeks since I’d received an inky black rose with a note attached to the stem. I had no problem remembering the words, because they’d been haunting every waking moment since.

Prepare. The Wyld Hunt rides. As a Noble of the Fae Wylds, you have been called. Heed the call. Join the Hunt. Or become the Hunted…

In Blood and Night,

Ionia, the Supreme Queen of Dark Tidings, Mother of Oblivion, Child of Chaos, Archfae of Telvyss, the Void Tree of the Endless Night

Not ominous or concerning in any way.

“Thanks, but I don’t need any reminders about the colossal heap of bullshit you’ve dragged me into. If I had any sense at all, I’d just cut you loose and let you deal with the consequences of your own actions.”

“But you won’t,” Renholm said cheerily, “because you’re loyal to a fault. Something I appreciate greatly, since it is advantageous to me. Not that dissolving our pact would help you at this point,” he quickly amended, just in case I was having second thoughts. “You’ve been called to the Hunt. Join or become prey. Those are the rules, as merciless and unflinching as cold iron. The only way forward is to participate, and you’ll need my help to survive the politic intricacies and schemas of the Fae Courts.”

“Hold that thought,” I said, raising a hand to stop the fairy from bumping his gums.

There was an odd noise coming from… somewhere. Everywhere?

It was almost like someone running a wet mop across the barracks floor.

What the hell is that?

I glanced over my shoulder and watched in equal parts fascination and horror as the gory remains of the rats crawled and slithered across the floor, merging into a giant, pulsating ball of meat.

Goddamn were Mortka gross.

It seemed like every single one of them was somehow more disgusting than the last. In seconds, the rat remains were gone, replaced by something new and even more horrible.

A hunched-back rat golem, seven feet tall, with mangy gray fur and countless rat faces protruding from its chest and arms and legs. This thing wasn’t a single entity, but rather looked like a hundred rats that had joined up to form a rabid Voltron of flesh, all fused together by powerful Essence and dark magic. It tossed back its malformed head and issued a roar that shook a fine cloud of dust from the ceiling. Great strings of black and green drool dangled from jaws filled with rows upon rows of sharklike teeth.

I didn’t wait for it to finish showing off how badass it was.

Instead, I raised my hands and unleashed another round of Unbound Blaze, hoping to flash-fry this greasy shit stain before it could do any real damage. A half dome of noxious green-and-black light exploded to life in front of the beast, deflecting the column of fire. As I cut the attack short, the wall of cancerous magic disappeared, and the beast retaliated with an attack of its own. It lurched forward and vomited out a ball of writhing tangled hair and rat tails that throbbed with disease. I narrowly sidestepped the attack before it could touch me.

It splattered against the floor near Renholm and Jacob-Francis, spraying the fairy with something unspeakably disgusting. I couldn’t help but laugh. He had it coming, after all.

Hate and fury flashed across the Pookah’s adorable face.

“You have brought doom and destruction upon your household!” Renholm shrieked, taking to the air with a flash of wings. Jacob-Francis immediately launched himself at the hair ball, which against all odds was moving across the floor like a spider on legs made from rat tails.

Great, things were getting grosser by the second.

Renholm drew his sword and pointed it at the rat golem, firing off a pinky-sized bolt of twisted purple energy. The rat monster didn’t even bother trying to avoid the attack. Why would it? Such an innocuous looking little thing.

Bad choice on its part.

The bolt of purple power disappeared as it landed, and a small violet dot appeared on the creature’s skin. Veins of black slowly crept outward like jagged bolts of lightning. Renholm had gained some significant upgrades from his evolution, including an Entropy Bolt. The spell was destruction in its truest form. It could cause metal to rust away in a matter of minutes. Food to spoil in seconds. Or, in this case, cells to break down and die. The creature was literally rotting in real time even if it didn’t know it yet.

Renholm zipped forward, his quill-sword outthrust, and immediately started slashing at the creature’s eyes, attempting to blind the beast. With every flick of Renholm’s wrist, a thin blade of purple energy erupted from the edge of the sword, carving into the mass of rat flesh.

Not wanting to waste a perfectly good distraction, I advanced with my axe raised, my jaw set in grim determination.

Renholm was dealing some decent damage, but the problem was this thing had tiny rat faces all over its body like cancerous growths. There was no way to blind it. A hundred beady rodent eyes all locked onto me as I approached. The golem rat ignored Renholm’s frantic assault, lowered its broad shoulders, and charged me. The colossus ploughed into me… and bounced back like it had just run headlong into a brick wall.

That was the Unmoving Bulwark ability at work. Another one of the many skills from the Ward of Valor I currently had equipped. I’d seen Kerra—who stood five foot nothing and weighed all of a buck twenty—use the technique to hold her ground against fearsome monsters that outweighed her by a thousand pounds or more. Unmoving Bulwark made me more or less, well, unmovable, by absorbing the raw kinetic force of an attack and dispersing most of it into the ground, while simultaneously redirecting a portion of the energy back at the opponent.

At the same time, Spike Shell struck again. Huge thorns of steel gray Arcana punched through muscle and rat bodies.

The creature scrambled madly, its filthy black talons clawing for purchase on the basement floor. As soon as it regained its balance, it wheeled around and used the wall as a springboard, leaping toward me. My Combat Sense alerted me to the attack. I could’ve easily absorbed the force of the blow, but instead I casually pivoted to one side, letting the uber rat sail harmlessly past me. I swiveled and brought my Mortka-Forged Axe screaming around in a sharp arc.

The razor-sharp blade edge sheared through one of the creature’s arms, effortlessly parting meat and bone. The limb detached and cartwheeled through the air, spraying out a gout of acidic green blood, which splattered the floor and splashed across my Stone Spider armor. The stone sizzled, and small tongues of white smoke curled upward.

Thankfully, my armor was impervious to acid damage.

A notice flashed in the corner of my eye, here then gone, as my own potent poison took effect.

[Subterranean Ratking afflicted with Hellflayer Rot – x1]

The creature let out a fresh shriek of pain and rage and launched itself at me with renewed fervor—never mind that blood was gushing from the stump where its arm had been moments before. But then a curious thing happened. Its huge foot came down on top of its severed arm and suddenly it couldn’t keep its balance. The creature slipped and toppled, landing on its back with a meaty thud.

Renholm cackled in response. “Yes! Taste the terrible power of my Hex Cloak, you fool!”

That was one of Renholm’s other new powers.

Hex Cloak was an active aura, similar to my Mantle of Strength ability, except that it created a powerful bubble of improbability, causing the impossible to be merely improbable and the improbable to be damn near certain. It brought luck and fortune for those aligned with Renholm, and calamity and misfortune for those who stood against him. Hex Cloak also had a stacking effect, so the longer someone or something stayed inside the range of the spell, the more potent the Hex would become.

The biggest drawback was that Renholm could only keep the aura running for a minute or two, tops, because it ate through Arcana like a platoon of hungry Marines fresh in from the field.

The rat golem pulled itself from the floor with a shake of its head, then dropped into a crouch, preparing to leap again.

It never got the chance.

I thrust my left hand out and let loose a burst of Arcana from my palm. A battering ram of unseen force smashed into the Mortka, swatting it back into the wall. It hit with a thump and landed in a heap, dazed from the blow. Before the creature could recover, I hurled the axe with all the strength I could muster. The blade flipped end over end and slammed into its chest, afflicting the creature with a second dose of Hellflayer Rot—not that the rat golem was going to live long enough for the disease to be an issue.

I conjured my shottie, leveled the weapon, and pulled the trigger a trio of times. The gun barked in my hand. At less than ten feet out, there wasn’t enough of the creature’s head left to fill a beach pail.

[You have killed a Subterranean Ratking! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 1,175 Essence!]

“Serves you right, you dirty, uncouth heathen,” Renholm spat, brushing off some of the gore that had sprayed his chest.

I ignored the fairy’s grumbling—it was nice to see him get a little taste of his own medicine for once—and dropped to a knee beside the decapitated corpse of what had apparently been a “Ratking.” Although decapitated wasn’t quite the right word, since I hadn’t really cut its head off. I’d disintegrated it.

Floating up from the body was a wispy golden ball of energy, attached by a thin tether of blue light. The ball of energy unfurled like a flower in bloom as I focused on it. Inside was a pocket dimension of sorts—a cubbyhole nestled within the soul of every Mortka—containing a small pile of loot. There was a handful of Affinity Scales, a single Transformation Token, and a dagger that looked to be built from bone. Or maybe it was an oversized tooth—hard to tell. I absently grabbed up everything I could and sent it all to my own Soul Vault using Fae Tether.

A grin stretched across my face as I spotted the real treasure—a glimmering ruby the size of a robin’s egg with gentle, elegant script running over its surface. As I pulled the gem free, golden words appeared.

<<<>>>

Bounty Fulfilled

House Hunting: You have cleared out the last Mortka inhabiting the abandoned Starlake Keep and captured the Heart Stone (Saint Class) as your own. As a reward for reclaiming this former domain of the holy, you have been granted +10,000 Essence and the ability to claim the Keep as your own seat of power. To proceed, bind the Heart Stone to your Soul Vault Terminus Node.

<<<>>>

2

Cleanup, Aisle 10

“About time,” I grumbled, squeezing the stone as I dismissed the bounty notice.

After defeating a team of corrupt Vigils, uncovering a vast cult nestled inside the heart of the Citadel, and saving the city of Wildespell from a political coup, I’d received some very generous rewards from the powers that be. Among those rewards was a private keep within spitting distance of Wildespell, personally granted to me by King Andreas, fourth of his name. It even came with an honorary patent of nobility. I had all the perks of being a landholding baron, without any of the shitty obligations that usually came along with a title like that.

Starlake Keep was my new home away from home.

The place was nestled in a secluded section of the Elderwick Forest. Just far enough away from Wildespell that no one would stumble across it by accident, but close enough that I could ride into the city within a couple of hours if need be.

There was just one little catch…

The keep had been abandoned for the better part of two decades, and all manner of Mortka had taken up residency in the intervening years. Starlake had originally been commissioned and built by another Vigil—a guy named Cartwey Trevorrow, who’d been a Saint-Class Vigil of Truth and an elusive hermit. Had was the operative word. Years and years ago, ol’ Trevorrow had been running down leads on some tenuous fables regarding the Hundred Years’ War and Isabella the Ghostblood when something had happened to him.

No one knew what exactly, only that Trevorrow disappeared. Gone in a blink of an eye with no one any the wiser about his whereabouts.

After twenty years, everyone assumed he was long dead, and the king was only too happy to bequeath me the keep. No one in the Citadel had protested, although I suspected most of them had ulterior motives. Unlike other Vigils, I had a direct line to Raguel, the Five-Faced God of Justice, and I got the distinct feeling that my inside connection made a lot of the more established Vigils uneasy. The fact that I’d also managed to kill four Vigils and a Chaos Aberration that were way the hell outside my weight class probably only reinforced that discomfort.

Which was why giving me this place was a win-win.

I was just far enough away from the Citadel that I wouldn’t be all up in their business, but not so far away that they couldn’t keep tabs on my comings and goings. I really didn’t give a shit, because I got a fortress to call my own and, honestly, I didn’t want anyone poking their nose into my affairs either. In my experience, there was nothing worse than having some overzealous officer who didn’t know his ass from his elbow trying to tell you how to do your job.

I bent over and slung the body of the Ratking over my shoulder, desperately trying to ignore the stench that wafted off the dead monster. With a grunt, I hauled the dripping, gore-spattered corpse up the corkscrew stairs that connected the subbasement to the rest of the keep.

Jacob-Francis chirped and padded along beside me, his tail lashing back and forth. Renholm was sitting on the cat’s back once more, riding sidesaddle, his ankles crossed primly as he held a pair of tiny reins in one hand.

I shouldered my way past the heavy wooden door at the top of the staircase and tromped into the main level of the keep, which was busy with the hustle and bustle of renovators and staff all working to get the place into tip-top shape. Twenty years without any tenants but monsters had left some serious superficial and structural issues. But nothing a little elbow grease and money wouldn’t fix. I had a whole team of carpenters, stonemasons, landscapers, and craftsmen working around the clock.

It was running me a pretty penny, but these days, I wasn’t exactly hurting for cash. Especially with all the extra coin I’d pulled in from dealing with Telent’s crew.

Aside from the keep, I’d also been allowed to loot the corpses of the corrupt Vigils, and each had been Master-Ranked, with years of accumulated items and a small fortune to their names. I’d picked up enchanted weapon skins, reinforced Mortka armor, countless fabrication components, and enough gold and silver to give the keep a facelift ten times over. Not to mention a collection of priceless archaic magical tomes and a Sage-Class Legacy Scroll, which I had tucked away in my Soul Vault.

I rounded the corner and headed into a front foyer. There was a loud squawk as Rebecca, my newly hired housekeeper, caught sight of the grisly monster.

“Gods above, not another one, Master Boyd,” she chided gently, smoothing out her voluminous skirts when she realized the monster was dead and harmless. She frowned and eyeballed the trail of blood I’d left in my wake, which would no doubt leave scorch marks on the floor. Thankfully, it was just rough, unfinished stone. The builders had ripped out the old, rotten floorboards a few days ago but hadn’t installed the new planks yet. Small mercies, because Rebecca would’ve whooped my ass, Vigil or not, for ruining the new flooring.

“If it’s any consolation,” I said with a sheepish grin, “this should be the last one. The bounty finally cleared.”

She sniffed in disapproval but nodded. “I can’t believe how ugly the things are,” she commented idly, “nor how smelly. I always heard the stories back in the Citadel, but I never actually saw any of the Mortka. Not outside of the heads that were mounted in the trophy room.”

Rebecca had grown up inside Wildespell—arguably one of the safest cities in Alkran—and had spent her entire adult life cloistered within the impenetrable walls of the Citadel, where she’d served as a kitchen porter. She’d done a bit of everything. Food prep and sous chef. Cleaning workstations. Bussing tables and washing dishes. She’d planned to work at the Citadel until she died. Unfortunately, I’d ruined that option for her. She, along with a handful of other servants, had helped smuggle me and a few of my associates past the guards and onto the Citadel grounds.

They’d been doing it for the good of the kingdom, but the Custodians hadn’t seen it that way. It was a load of classist horseshit in my opinion.

I’d been richly rewarded for “following Raguel’s guidance.” They’d been shitcanned for breaking the rules, and never mind that it would’ve been impossible for me to stop Telent or the other corrupt Vigils without their assistance. The Custodians didn’t have two shits to give about a couple of lowly servants. All they saw was rule breakers and subversives—their word—and they couldn’t have those kinds of people employed by the Citadel. Which is why I hired ’em all on at the keep.

Rebecca had gotten a promotion straight to head housekeeper. Lena had been one of the other Citadel servants to get the axe. She’d worked as a supply clerk before, so now she was my official “castellan”—a fancy word for camp logistics officer. She managed the work crew and made sure the keep was squared away and stocked with supplies. Furniture. Sheets. Food and silverware. She did it all.

“If I do my job right,” I said, readjusting the Ratking’s weight on my shoulder, “hopefully you’ll never have to see another one. Now if you could just get the door for me…”

She frowned again but moved to oblige, pushing open the enormous front double doors. I nodded in thanks and headed out into the wild tangle that surrounded the keep.

“Much appreciated,” I called back over one shoulder.

Out front, there was a trio of gardeners working to bring some semblance of order to the overgrown yard. Winter didn’t last long around these parts, and after two months of chill and snow, spring was already launching its invasion. That was even more true here than elsewhere in Alkran.

The keep had been originally constructed on a natural Nexus line—one of the places where the Material and the Etheric Realm more closely overlapped. There was a thinness to the air, like cheap single-ply toilet paper, which allowed Essence to bleed through, reinvigorating the plants. Wild vines, creeping bushes, and young saplings had run roughshod over the formerly spacious lawn and once manicured garden. The cobblestone roadway that carved through the trees had likewise been overtaken by gnarled roots and unruly brambles, while colorful wildflowers dotted the odd patches of sunlight.

A pair of yellow eyes regarded me from a gnarled tree branch, barely visibly among the budding leaves. It was just a spidery-limbed grass troll, keeping watch. There were ten of them scattered around the perimeter and twice that number in the Etheric Realm, on the lookout for the riders of the Wyld Hunt. They were technically loyal, but I didn’t trust a one of ’em, which was why I had Cal overseeing the band of fae recruits.

I ignored the troll and waved at the workers, offering them a friendly smile in the process.

They didn’t wave back.

Instead, they recoiled at the unholy sight of the dead monster casually draped over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Couldn’t blame them. Blood and guts were just a necessary and routine part of my life these days, but to normal people, dead monsters were probably pretty off-putting.

I skirted around the keep and made my way toward the stables and a patch of pastureland, which had already been fully restored and fenced in.

While I walked, I surveyed my new estate for what felt like the hundredth time. The place still needed work, but it had potential. The walls were solid granite, the doors and windows were all reinforced with steel and timber, and the former resident had even erected a ten-foot outer curtain wall with a portcullis that could be lowered when necessary. It wasn’t as impressive as the king’s castle in Wildespell, and it didn’t hold a candle to the defenses of the Citadel, but with a little help, I reckoned I could hold this place against a small army if push came to shove.

“It’s not a castle,” Renholm said, as though reading my thoughts, “but it is much nicer than your quarters at the Citadel. It will make a worthy seat for my throne.”

I snorted at the audacious claim. “What happened to ‘this is your house, not mine’?” I asked, quirking an eyebrow at the fairy.

“Well, that was then, when there was work to be done. This is now, when there are rewards to be reaped,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug. “Another lesson for you, my young protégé—never do the work when some gullible idiot is willing to do it for you, but always be quick to reap the benefit of their labor. That single guiding rule has never misled me.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, Your Majesty,” I said, my long legs eating up the distance, “but this place is not your reward to reap. This is my place, given to me by the King of Wildespell.”

“Yes, but in a technical sense, as my esteemed duke, what’s yours is mine. Being as I am your liege and all.”

“In a technical sense,” I shot back, “you can suck a big ol’ bag full of assholes. The only thing you’re technically entitled to, per our legally binding pact, is a single Novice-Class Affinity Scale or better per week. Period.”

Renholm beamed up at me. “Wielding the power of contract law like a bludgeon? Excellent. You might just survive the Fae Wylds, yet.”

I angled past the stables and around to the shores of a broad lake stretching out behind the manor. The placid, crystalline waters had an unparalleled view of the sky. At night, the stars would reflect off the surface like a thousand glittering diamonds on a field of black velvet, which was how the keep got the name Starlake. A wooden dock jutted out like a gnarled finger, and a small boat with a pair of oars was moored to a cleat hitch.

Not far from the shoreline was a circular charred patch of ground, covered in soot and ash. My impromptu burn pit. Unfortunately, Mortka didn’t just vanish after death, and disposing of their remains too near to the keep was likely to draw in predators. Having a fox or a bear sniffing around the property wouldn’t be the end of the world, but Mortka meat was infused with Essence. Which meant their corpses would invariably attract other Mortka. The only way to deal with them was to burn ’em until there was nothing left.

I dropped the body onto the soot patch with a thud. A small cloud of dirt and debris drifted up, before settling back down around the grotesque form.

I wiped away a thin sheen of sweat then casually stuck out a hand and let loose a roaring column of fire. Flames licked at the body, curling around the corrupted flesh. An acrid and nauseating stench assaulted my nose. It was somehow even worse than how the creature had smelled when alive.

“Now that that’s done, I need to go find myself a priest,” I said, turning away from the crackling inferno. “You coming with me or what?” I asked, side-eyeing the fairy.

“I’ll be along eventually.” He licked his sharp little fangs, eyes fixed intently on the burning corpse. “I find myself suddenly famished…”

I gagged at the thought. True, Essence-infused Mortka meat was a delicacy in this world, but this thing was a humanoid figure made out of the fused flesh of giant rats. I couldn’t imagine a single soul other than Renholm who would get hungry looking at it.

“Have at it,” I said, trying not to vomit in my mouth from the stink. “This is one reward I’m more than happy to share…”

3

Old Friends

I pulled out a crystalline sigil pendent, draped around my neck, and pressed it against the heavy-duty door that barred the way into my new office, situated on the third floor of the keep. Crafted from cold iron and Mortka-forged steel, the door would stand up against an artillery barrage, and thanks to the complicated runic sigils engraved into the metal, it would also keep out unwanted visitors like rogue spirits or sticky-fingered fairies. Pascow had built it for me as a housewarming gift, and insisted I install it.

Especially after I let it slip that I’d been “invited” to participate in the Wyld Hunt.

And by invited, I meant threatened upon pain of death.

The door was six inches thick and weighed three hundred pounds, but it swung inward with barely a whisper.

Although much of the rest of the keep was still in disarray, I’d focused on getting this room into working order. A huge glass window gave me a perfect, unobstructed view of the lake—though like the door, the glass had been tempered and scribed to keep out any unwelcome guests. The walls were thick granite and decorated with a variety of elaborate tapestries, gifts from various well-wishers within the Citadel. Most depicted battles from the distant past.

Armies clashing. Mortka falling to enchanted Vigil blades. Scenes of Raguel dispensing judgement and wisdom.

On the back of each, hidden from prying eyes, were even more ward sigils custom built to prevent scrying and other types of hostile astral magics. There was a sleek mahogany desk framed in by the massive picture window, a pair of leather sitting chairs, an upholstered chaise, and a dark wood coffee table. A huge hearth burned with a low fire, which dispelled the deep chill that had settled into the bones of the keep. Opposite the fireplace was a huge iron safe, with even more arcane safeguards.

In one corner of the room was a raised dais with the real prize.

It was a slate-gray altar with five sides, each depicting one of Raguel’s faces: Gadriel, the matron of Justice; Lero, the maiden of Balance; Voch, the veteran of Valor; Thuriel, fanatic of Wrath; and Akora, the androgynous mannequin of Truth. Floating above the pedestal was a glassy black orb, about the size of a softball. The orb thrummed with subtle arcane energy that sent shivers racing down the back of my neck.

When used by a priest, the altar acted as a way to communicate directly with Raguel—basically a glorified payphone that let them make interdimensional calls. For a Vigil like me, it served as a doorway to my own private pocket dimension.

Setting up the altar had been a nightmare—there were rituals to perform, costly material components to gather, and powerful bindings that needed to take place—but thankfully I’d had an expert come in all the way from Ironmoor. Hunched over the desk was said expert.

He was a bear of a man who looked more like a bareknuckle boxer than the priest he was. Though, to be fair, Arbitrators weren’t exactly like the preachers from the back hollers of Kentucky. They were battle clerics, equal parts shepherd and monster hunter. Fact was, there were just too many Mortka and not enough Vigils to go around. Seemed like the evil fuckers were hiding behind every bush, rock, and fence post. So the Arbitrators would handle the lesser threats, then use an altar to call in for heavy reinforcement when the shit really hit the fan.

On top of being an Arbitrator, Arturo was also a Steelborn noble and a former knight of the Templars of the Banner—the elite troops of the Kelkadian Crown. He was easily half a foot taller than me and half again as wide. He had a mop of unruly black hair, a thick beard, peppered with flecks of gray, a prodigious gut, and a litany of faded scars crisscrossing his knuckles and face. If his size and demeanor weren’t enough of a dead giveaway that he was not to be fucked with, those scars told anyone paying attention to keep their distance.

He was staring at a large canvas map spread out across the desktop, his brow furrowed in concentration. He absently drummed his fingers against the tabletop.

“I was just getting ready to come searching for you,” he said without looking up. “I didn’t expect it to take so long. Was there trouble down below, then?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” I replied, waving away his concern. “Just a final holdout who wasn’t interested in complying with my eviction notice. Had to see him out the hard way. But, on a high note, it’s done. The bounty finally cleared, and I got the Heart Stone.” I fished the ruby out from a leather pouch at my side and held it up, pinched between my thumb and index finger.

The declaration finally pulled Arturo’s gaze away from the map. He straightened, eyes locking on the ruby with fervent intensity. “Thank the gods above,” he said, running a hand through his beard. “It’s high time I returned to Ironmoor. I’ve just about wrapped up all I can do here, and I wasn’t relishing the ride back. Never did much care for the winter months,” he said darkly. “Better than the wet season, but not by much.” He had a heavy fur cloak trailing down behind his cassock, and he pulled it tighter around his beef-slab shoulders.

“I assume that means we’re ready to get things rolling?” I asked.

“Aye, indeed we are. I’ve officially filed all the necessary paperwork with the Kelkadian Exchequer of the Oakenward Province. They approved our mining warrant and our tax forms. Also finished chatting with the Custodians—I have the shipping exemptions right here, signed in triplicate and sealed by King Andreas.” He tapped a neat pile of papers beside the map. “They made me jump through a few hoops, but when I started bandying your name around, they eased up a bit. Being famous has its perks, it seems.”

“And to think, all I had to do to cut through the red tape is die in a war zone, get reincarnated as the mouthpiece of a deity, and then prove myself worthy by rooting out a hundred years of corruption.”

The padre snorted. “I’m afraid that bureaucracy is the one evil that shall never be entirely slain. As someone who grew up in court, I can tell you that better than anyone. The fact that you made any headway at all is commendable and worthy of a bard’s song. And though the task was mighty, believe me, the reward was worth it. Earning a patent of nobility—even if it is honorary—is going to save you a fortune. You may not realize this, but there is a long-standing trade agreement between Kelkadia and Wildespell.

“As a result,” he continued, a crooked grin stretching across his face, “the Selitrium Ore will be taxed using a flat export tariff rate instead of being labeled as an exotic good. Which, in turn, means we’ll be paying twelve percent instead of thirty-five. Give it a year, and you’ll be wealthier than half of the landed aristocracy in Kelkadia. We’ll have our first shipment ready to roll inside a week, I expect. I already have Marcus Pekkala rounding up prospective workers, and thanks to Gustav and Sigge, we have all the gear and equipment we need to get things running at a full clip.”

This was good news. Scratch that. Great news.

Trade, tariffs, and shipping routes may have sounded more tedious than digging trenches, but they were the backbone of nations. The gears that kept the war machine rolling forward.

As a Recon Marine I’d learned that the secret to winning a war wasn’t about taking out the frontline fighters. Nope. An individual battle would come down to a multitude of factors—training, terrain, discipline, numbers—but wars were all about resources, logistics, and supply management. When troops ran out of food, medical equipment, weapons, and bullets… That’s when they lost. And supplies cost money. The kind of money that the Selitrium mine would keep me swimming in for years or even decades to come.

Selitrium was an exceedingly rare earth ore that had a shit ton of arcane purposes. It made some of the most powerful weapons around and was also vital in the manufacturing of enchanted items, thanks to its unique ability to purify magical components and infuse fabrication elements with Arcana.

Naturally, Vigils used the stuff by the truckload, but it was just as coveted by alchemists, Magi, and anyone with a thirst for power. And, because it was so hard to come by, it was valuable enough to kill for. Which was precisely why Gustav, the former Magistrate of Ironmoor, had kept the recently unearthed mine buried beneath the city under wraps, even when it meant letting a Hexblight massacre a bunch of innocent people. I’d claimed the mine after kicking Gustav’s teeth in and dispensing some much-deserved justice, but it had more or less lain fallow since.

I had plans to change that, however.

I’d need all of those resources and then some because I was at war, even if the first shot hadn’t officially been fired yet. I had enemies gunning for me on every front, and the Fae Queen of the Oblivion Court had painted a target firmly on my back. She was coming for my head, and I had a gut feeling that she wouldn’t stop until I lay dead in a shallow grave. Renholm had already recruited several dozen unaffiliated fae folk and established an alliance with the Court of Petals—arguably the weakest of all the major Fae Houses—but those relationships were tenuous at best.

Queen Ionia was not well-loved by those outside the Oblivion Court, but the Fae were a notoriously fickle bunch and there was a good chance our allies would bail the second they felt the winds shift. The Fae cared about self-preservation above all else. Right now, the Court of Petals was on our team out of pure hatred, but I planned to strengthen those bonds by bribing the shit out of them. Like Renholm, the Fae folk were greedy as hell, and it turned out they had a healthy appetite for Selitrium. Especially since it was one of the few metals that didn’t incorporate cold iron.

The Fae valued Selitrium above all other metals, and I just happened to be sitting on one of the biggest active veins in Kelkadia. The Citadel was also clamoring to get their hands on more of the stuff, and they were happy to pay top dollar for any ore I was willing to part with. That put me in a unique position, and I intended to leverage that advantage to start buying some extra loyalty.

“Are you still concerned about the bandits operating between Halgem and Belmonk?” I asked. There were other routes that connected Ironmoor to the Citadel, but that was by far the fastest and easiest. Precisely the reason the bandits had set up shop there in the first place.

“Not anymore,” Arturo grunted. “I’ll admit, those boys have grown quite bold over the past few months, but the caravan guards I’ve recruited should be more than up to the task. Especially since word has gotten out that the mine is now owned by a Vigil. In truth, we could probably hire a single shepherd boy to guard the wagons and the ore would arrive untouched.

“No one wants to bring down the wrath of a Vigil upon their heads. Especially not one with your…” Arturo paused and cast a thoughtful look at me before finishing. “Your growing reputation. Divines above, but I can’t get a drink in peace without hearing some overzealous bard caterwauling about that Lake Kraken you killed in Sarugia. Or the Eldritch Horror of Willowbend. Or the Hexblight of Ironmoor—though, curiously, no one ever seems to mention my name in that story, even though I distinctly remember helping you slay the beast.”

“What can I tell you, Padre?” I replied with a shrug. “The world isn’t fair. Still, I’m glad to hear my poor life choices are paying off so well.”

“Yes, well they won’t pay off forever if you keep pulling reckless stunts, Boyd. Mark my words, eventually your luck is going to run out and then the bards will be singing a lament called the ‘Inkarnate’s Folly.’ There won’t be a dry eye in the tavern, I’m sure, but you won’t be around to appreciate it because you’ll be dead.”

“I appreciate the concern,” I replied, “but I’ve already died once—I have no intention of kicking the bucket early a second time around.”

“And yet you’ve gotten yourself firmly mired in the politics of the Fae Courts,” the priest grumbled while raising his meaty hands, forestalling my protest. “I can think of no quicker way to end up dead, but that’s the last I’ll speak on it. You’ve already heard my thoughts on the matter at length. You’re a grown man and you were picked by Raguel for a reason. Your choices are your own, and I won’t browbeat you further, especially not when I’ve made so many bad choices myself—”

Before he could finish, there was a frantic thumping on the window overlooking the lake. Renholm was hovering outside, his eyes wide in alarm and excitement.

“The riders approach,” he hissed, his voice muffled by the reinforced pane of glass. “Make haste, the time of our departure is nigh.”

“Well shit,” I muttered, pocketing the red ruby I’d looted off the corpse of the Ratking. “Looks like you’re gonna be stuck here a little longer, Padre. Grab your battle rattle and get ready to rock and roll, this shit could get ugly.”

“It always does when you’re involved,” he said with a long sigh. He tossed his heavy scale mail over his priestly cassock, snatched up his colossal war staff, then turned toward me. “What do you need from me?” he asked, now all business.

“Get the servants and builders inside. After that? Help Cal buy me a little time. I just need a few minutes in the vault.” I hooked a thumb toward the altar.

“Consider it done.” He turned on a heel and stormed out of the room, his heavy footfalls pounding against the floor and rattling the walls as he passed. The guy was a big ol’ sumbitch, and he moved like a freight train.

I put him from mind and rushed over to the altar, slapping my palm against the floating orb. A lance of Essence rushed into my arm as the faint scent of ozone washed over the room, perceptible only by my heightened senses. The whole world trembled and turned on its side and my study dissolved, replaced by the entry hall of my Soul Vault—a circular chamber of crystal, gold, and glass. A series of fluted columns rose heavenward, connecting to a domed ceiling that looked out into the vastness of the universe.

Pinpricks of light winked at me, reminding me of how small I was in the grand scheme of things, while distant galaxies churned a hundred million miles away.

In the center of the room was a reflection pool crafted of pure white marble; inside the stone basin was electric blue water, along with a pair of ever-circling koi, who moved in graceful arcs and perfect symmetry. They were the yin and yang of my soul, representing the duality of spirit and body. I focused intently on the avatar of myself, slowly rotating above. The figure was a perfect replica, a mirror reflection of myself, right down to the smallest details. He wore my scars like badges of pride, had the same muscled physique, the same metallic golden hair, and the same blistering red eyes.

A stat screen appeared as my gaze brushed over the figure.

<<<>>>

Boyd Knight

Race: Vigil Bound

Level: Adept, Gold Rank

Current Essence: 62,532

Next Ascended Rank: 65,000

Attribute Points: 0

Ward Points: +1/115

Characteristics

Brawn: 28

Verve: 25

Finesse: 23

Arcana: 32

Insight: 21

Vigil Wards 

Ward of Justice: Soul Bound Weapons (Boon)†, Armor Evocation, Weapon Mastery: Blunt, Festering Wounds

Ward of Valor: Diamond Body (Boon), Combat Sense, Purity of Form, Spiked Shell, Unmoving Bulwark

Ward of Wrath: Arcane Insight (Boon), Kinetic Blast, Warded Shield, Unbound Blaze

Ward of Balance: Language of the Heavens (Boon), Sidhe Pact, Totem Transformation, Fae Tether

Ward of Truth: Threads of Fate (Boon), Master Mentalist

Expand Ward List 

<<<>>>

I quickly glanced at my experience total then almost wished I hadn’t. Damn. Less than 3,000 Essence away from Ascending to Master and leaving the Acolyte Ranks behind for good. I’d been steadily grinding out kills by completing bounties while also remodeling Starlake Keep, and it was painful to be so close to the threshold of a major milestone.

When Vigils advanced from one rank to another, they gained +1 Free Attribute Point and +10 Ward Points to spend however the hell they wanted. And when they jumped from one class to another, they got a bonus of +3 Attribute Points and +20 Ward Points. Attribute Points were used to increase our base stats—Brawn, Verve, Finesse, Arcana, and Insight—which made us stronger, faster, more agile, and more capable of accessing and molding Arcana, which fueled spells. I could really use a bump like that, but there was just no more time.

Renholm, Cal, and Arturo would stall for as long as possible, but I couldn’t putter around in here, endlessly tweaking my stats. All I had time for was a quick skill respec, and I already had everything set up and planned out.

Going over which skills I wanted to keep and swap each time was a tedious process, but the Ascendant System that governed my avatar and skill selection was uniquely flexible and adaptable. I’d created a handful of “Skill Exemption Lists” so I wouldn’t have to reclaim all my points every time I swapped out abilities. I also had several “Custom Skill Sets” that I could quick select without having to do a whole lot of mental math. I focused on the Threads of Fate Ability, initiating the boon given to me by Akora, Aspect of Truth.

Action: Activate the Boon Threads of Fate to Reclaim some or all of your spent Ward Points. This action can be performed once every twelve hours. You currently have the ‘General Loadout – 1’ List marked as an exemption [Sidhe Pact (5), Combat Sense (4), Master Mentalist (4), Totem Transformation (2), Armor Evocation (6), Fae Tether (4), Weapon Mastery: Blunt (10); Total = 35 Ward Points]. Proceed reclamation with current exemptions in place? Yes/No

I braced myself and accepted, letting a flash of soul-flaying torment wash through my body as the rest of my abilities were reset, purging them from my soul and returning a total of eighty Ward Points to my character sheet. Although the pain was still intense, it no longer left me curled up on the floor, clutching my chest and shaking uncontrollably. Increasing my Brawn stat didn’t do much to mitigate the pain but increasing both my Verve and Arcana score sure did. I had a working theory about why. Verve boosted my body’s ability to handle damage and heal rapidly, while Arcana did the same for my spirit.

Working together, the two stats had a synergistic effect that robbed the system of some of its bite. Though only some.

I shook my head, clearing away the last, faint traces of discomfort, and pulled up my list of pre-saved “Custom Skill Sets.”

Preset 1: Jack of all Trades

Preset 2: The Machine Gunner

Preset 3: Abram McTankface

Preset 4: Slick Talker Sherlock

Preset 5: Death from Above

Preset 6: Redneck Engineer

Each set was custom built for specific purposes and maximized the available Ward Points I had to play with when paired with my “General Loadout” exemptions. The Machine Gunner build focused on ranged weaponry and overwhelming suppressive firepower, Slick Talker Sherlock was my Rogue-style build, while Death from Above was all about hard-hitting Wrath-based spells. Since I didn’t have a lot of time left and I didn’t know what kind of shitstorm I was walking into, I picked the most well-rounded option, Jack of all Trades.

[Rend (3), Festering Wound (15), Pierce Veil (10), Cunning Glamor (12), Spectral Roots (4), Warded Shield (5), Kinetic Blast (5), Electro Arc (12), Life Siphon (4), Honeyed Words (10); Total = 80 Ward Points].

Strictly speaking, it wasn’t as good as any of the specialty builds, but it had a little bit of everything. A nice blend of melee skills, some crowd control and DPS options like Spectral Roots and Festering Wound, some ranged, arcane firepower, and a few social abilities like Cunning Glamor and Honeyed Words—which would help me talk my way into damn near anywhere without a fight.

I’d recently added Pierce Veil to the list on Arturo’s recommendation. It came as no surprise whatsoever that the Fae were master illusionists and well-known for using their glamors for playing mind-fuck games. Many of them could conjure false sights. False sounds. Could summon cunning veils that would render threats invisible. Pierce Veil allowed me to dispel any low-level fae bullshit they might throw at me.

With my skills all set, I rushed past my library and took a quick pit stop in my armory. I had all of my armor sets stocked, and thanks to Armor Evocation I could swap between them at will, but I couldn’t do the same for my Soul Bound weapons. I could only have one skin in place at any given time, and I needed to be in the Vault to switch ’em out. I left my Raven’s Beak Axe skin in place but opted to change up my firearm selection. The Benelli tactical shottie was great in a pinch and had some formidable stopping power, but it was one of the slower weapons I had at my disposal, and it was dogshit past one hundred meters—even with my enhanced Finesse.

I needed something with a little better range, and since I was going into hostile territory, I wanted to be able to lay down some serious firepower if push came to shove. Over the past few weeks, I’d spent some time puttering around the Soul Forge, carefully crafting a M16 M4 tactical rifle under the watchful gaze of Pascow. It didn’t have the raw stopping power of the shottie or the sheer volume of the 240, but it was light, maneuverable, and a perfect middle ground option for up-close-and-personal fighting or ranged shooting.

I swapped the weapon skins and added on my Eldritch Wither Heart Arcanum Token to the rifle for good measure.

<<<>>>

Eldritch Wither Heart Seed

Token Type: Weapon Inset, Infernal

Class: Sage

The heart seed of an Eldritch Wither Vine brims with powerful Fae Magics and lies dormant, waiting for the ideal conditions to take root and spawn once more. In the right hands—or the wrong ones—its potent power may be harnessed, bound, and forged into a devastating weapon.

Effect 1: Equip to a Soul Forged Weapon Skin to add Vampiric Leech to all attacks, allowing you to harm enemies and absorb a portion of their health with every successful hit.

Effect 2: Plant the Wither Heart Seed into fertile ground and reawaken the power of the Eldritch Wither Vine.

<<<>>>

Skills set and gear equipped, I stepped out from the Vault and hauled ass toward my office door. It was time to go meet the Queen of Dark Tidings and show her why playing games with a Vigil was a good way to wind up dead.

4

The Call

I raced down the steps of the keep and out onto the front lawn, where things were about thirty seconds away from escalating into a knock-down-drag-out ass kicking. There were two newcomers, both very clearly not human, and blocking their way forward was a wall of Fae flesh. Butterfly-winged pixies fluttered in the air with Quill sabers clutched in tiny fists, while gangly, spider-limbed trolls wielded ash-handled spears topped by deadly cold iron.

The Fae couldn’t abide the touch of cold iron—it was their version of arsenic and slowly leeched away their powers. But so long as the trolls clutched the wooden hafts of the weapons, they were impervious to the effects of the metal.

Gnomish archers, each wearing a spiked conical red hat, had enchanted crossbows drawn and trained on the new arrivals. Like the spears, each of their bolts was tipped with an iron arrowhead that I’d mass-produced in my spare time. The gnomes were small, but they were absolute murder machines at distance, and if they managed to land even one clean hit, it would be devastating to any creature of the Fae Wylds. I glanced back over my shoulder and noted the handful of gray-skinned Tommyknockers manning a pair of heavy-duty ballista bolt throwers positioned on the roof.

The siege weapons were slow and rather cumbersome to load, but they offered unmatched get-fucked power.

Standing at the forefront of the battle line was Cal, his hands on his hips. Arturo was just behind him, his war staff planted in the dirt like Gandalf facing down the Balrog. There was no sign of Renholm, which was surprising since he’d been anxiously waiting for this moment for weeks. Then again, the fairy was notoriously unreliable, so it was entirely plausible that he was stalling for dramatic effect. Either that or he’d passed out in a food-induced coma after gorging himself on Ratking remains. It was a genuine coin toss.

“I already told you, dickweed,” Cal growled, “they’ll be here when they’re damn well good and ready to be here. We’ve been waiting on your tardy asses for three goddamned weeks, and now you roll in, making demands like you’re the Queen of freakin’ England.”

“Such is the way of the Hunt.” The speaker was what I could only describe as a purple-skinned elf with brilliant blue tribal tattoos swirling across his exposed arms and neck. He had long white hair, pulled into a tight braid, glowing eyes, and light blue leather armor, augmented with silver scale mail that covered his chest and shoulders. He was mounted on the back of a creature that had the proportions of a horse but clearly wasn’t.

Its body was a pale shade of green and covered in scales like a fish, while its mane and tail were composed entirely of lanky strands of dark green kelp. The mount stared at Cal with dead black eyes, devoid of any sign of life or reason.

“You serve at the queen’s pleasure,” the elf hissed, “and you’ll abide by the laws of the Call or see yourself hunted instead.”

“I’m an American, bud,” Cal shot back, eyes narrowing. “The last time my people gave a shit about what a monarch thought, it was right before we dumped a bunch of tea in the ocean and overthrew the British. And just so we’re one hundred percent clear, if you want to tangle, I’m more than happy to drop kick your smarmy ass right back into whatever shitty knockoff Tolkien novel you crawled out of.”

“I would watch your tongue, specter,” the elf said, his voice dripping with venom and hate, “assuming you want to keep it. Already you tempt me to call the Hunt to order and ride you down where you stand.”

“You and what army?” Cal said, glancing left and right. “Because as far as I can see, it’s just the two of you against all of us.” He swept an arm out in an arc, gesturing at our assembled forces.

“Indeed,” Arturo said, piping up for the first time. “The spirit may be prone to hyperbole, but I am not.” He channeled a thread of Arcana into the staff, clutched in a white-knuckled grip. A halo of pale golden light seeped outward from the blunt head of the weapon. “And unlike these others, I am not part of your politics or your hunt. I am an emissary of Raguel, and I have no great love for your kind, so I would tread carefully…”

“Let us not be overly hasty, my brother,” came the deep rumbling voice of the second creature, lurking a few paces behind the first. I was guessing “brother” was a term of endearment because Thing Two didn’t look even remotely like Thing One. It was a motherfucking sasquatch. Seven and a half feet of pure muscles, wild fur, and oversized hobbit feet covered in a thick mat of red-brown fur. He wore a fluttering cloak, the outside covered in colorful patches, the inside filled with countless pockets.

“Yeah,” Cal said, “best listen to your buddy before I pull your tongue out through your asshole for talking too much shit.”

“No need for things to get ugly,” I said, making my way across the lawn. The line of Fae friendlies parted for me, leaving an open path. “I’m here. Just needed to tie up a few loose ends, since I don’t know how long this horseshit hunt of yours is liable to last.” I shouldered my way past Cal so I was standing right in front of the snooty elf. Mounted, he loomed over me like a giant, but without the horse he would’ve been several inches shorter than me. He was also built like a stick. A strong breeze probably would’ve blown him away.

The elf looked down on me, a sneer curling the corner of his lips.

“Behold, the human champion we’ve been hearing so much about.”

“Correction, generic-brand night elf,” I shot back, “I’m an Inkarnate. I might look like a human, but don’t let that fool you.”

In general, I tried not to make it a habit of provoking random strangers—especially emissaries of powerful royalty—but Renholm had warned me that whoever the Queen sent would be die-hard loyalists. Loyalists who would be looking for any opportunity to stir up trouble. Moreover, the creatures of the Fae Wylds were predators by nature, and any sign of weakness would be perceived as an invitation for tomfuckery. These things respected power and they needed to know we wouldn’t hesitate to use devastating and immediate violence if we needed to.

“You don’t want to play games with us, pal,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “I can see right through all your head games, and I promise you, if you fuck around you will find out.”

The sneer turned into an outright snarl and the elf reached for a thin single-edged blade, slung low across his hips. I reacted in the same instant, summoning my war axe to my right hand, while a ball of electricity crackled around my left. Cocked, locked, and ready to rock this sumbitch right into the afterlife.

The Sasquatch moved quickly, laying a giant hairy hand on the elf’s forearm, preventing him from drawing the blade.

“Peace, Elduin,” he grunted softly. “There is no cause for such hostilities. The Queen will be displeased if we fail to deliver them to the court. Control yourself.” He turned large muddy eyes on me, Cal, and Arturo. “I am called Gobhoill,” he said, offering us a shallow bow, one hand pressed against his stomach. “My compatriot can be a little rash at times, but he means you no harm. Isn’t that so, Elduin?”

Before the elf could make his rebuttal, the shriek of trumpets filled the air with a brassy racket. Renholm emerged from around the far side of the keep, riding on Sir Jacob-Francis. The cat had been outfitted with intricate silver armor covered in elaborate golden filigree. Renholm was likewise sporting some new armor, which accented his fur-lined cloak. Flanking him on both sides were Flame Salamanders, each playing a curved horn as they marched. A spray of sparks rocketed up from their tails like fireworks, popping in a dazzling display of pettiness.

“Make way for His Majesty, King Renholm,” croaked a squat, frog-faced creature called a Bocra. This guy was one of our newer recruits. At under three feet tall, Bocras weren’t exactly terrifying battlefield commandos, but surprisingly the little guys made amazing administrative assistants. Of all the Fae I’d met so far, they seemed like the least likely to try and rob or eat you. “Behold the glory of His Eminence,” the Bocra continued his proclamation in earnest, “the Dread Pookah of Chaos, the Lord of Havoc, ruler over the high passes of Ironmoor, scourge of Jeffrey, and the one true Monarch of the Oblivion Court with no equal.”

I snorted and rolled my eyes.

Renholm’s list of made-up titles seemed to grow longer and longer with each passing day. And if the elf had been pissed before, now he was absolutely incensed. It seemed like the “one true Monarch with no equal” bit had pushed him right over the edge. His eyes were bulging, there was a vein throbbing in his forehead, and I was honestly concerned he was on the verge of an aneurysm. Leave it to Renholm to take a terrible situation and make it a hundred times worse.

Plodding ten paces or so behind the garish parade of pure vanity was Miko, leading my colossal horse Darksilver by the reins. Miko was a hunched old man with thinning gray hair, a wispy beard, and a paunchy gut. He wasn’t a Vigil—wasn’t even a Steelborn, Mage, or Sorcerer—but he was still the best stable master I’d ever seen. The man knew horses better than the next ten stable masters combined and could work with even the orneriest sons of bitches out there, which included my own mount. Like Rebecca and Lena, he’d been fired for helping me get into the Citadel.

Needless to say, I’d been more than happy to offer him alternative employment.

Darksilver was the size of a large draft horse—eighteen hands at the withers—but simultaneously had the long legs and graceful neckline of a racing horse. He wore heavy Mortka-forged plate mail, which stood in sharp contrast to his velvety black coat. Unnatural crimson eyes that mirrored my own instinctively locked onto the elf’s shaggy green mount. Darksilver bared his teeth in open hate then pawed at the ground as though he were trying to kill the whole earth.

That probably wasn’t far from the mark.

Darksilver was an exceptionally rare Mortka-breed stallion, one of only a handful in the possession of the Citadel. No one ever told me what type of Mortka he’d descended from, but I was guessing Grim Reaper because he was a murder machine that hated pretty much every living thing on the planet that wasn’t me or the old stable hand. Kerra had gifted me the horse with the sole purpose of being a dick, but Darksilver and I had hit it off in a matter of minutes—mostly because Miko had been kind enough to fill me in on the horse’s… eccentricities.

I slipped up beside the monstrous mount and ran one hand over his muzzle in loving affection while slipping a handful of Jetru berries into his mouth. He loved those berries even more than he loathed everything else.

“Who’s a good boy,” I cooed at him, “who’s gonna help me kill all the malicious fae fuck heads? That’s right, you are. Yes, you are. Such a good boy.” Aside from the berries, he also loved to be babied. I placed a foot in the stirrup and effortlessly pulled myself into the saddle. Darksilver danced a little beneath me then settled as I affectionately rubbed the spot between his ears.

“Thanks, Miko,” I said softly, nodding at the man. “Appreciate it.”

“The pleasure’s always mine, Vigilant One,” he replied with a slight bow. “Everything alright out here?” he asked, scanning the yard in evident confusion. He reached up and rubbed his arms as though suppressing a chill. “There’s a queer feeling in the air.”

It was no wonder he was confused.

Creatures of the Fae Wylds like Renholm were largely invisible to humans without supernatural senses. They could choose to be seen when they wanted to, but unless someone had access to the powers of the Arcana, their eyes just weren’t attuned to beings of an Etheric nature. I saw a small army of fae creatures squaring off, ready to throw down in a pitched battle to the death. All Miko could see was Arturo standing in the middle of the yard, his staff burning with pale fire, threatening the air.

“Just pixie problems,” I grumbled, waving away his concern. “Nothing you should have to worry about. Thanks again.” I flicked the reins and spurred the great horse forward. “Are we doing this or what?” I asked, turning my attention on the elf and his bigfoot buddy.

“Shall I get my horse?” Arturo asked, gaze still locked firmly on the hostile fae.

“He is not welcome,” Elduin, the elf, replied in snippy tones. “Only nobles of participating courts may attend. There are few laws, but that one is ironclad. By his own admission, the priest is not a member of the court nor party to the Hunt. If he tries to follow, I shall take pleasure in gutting him like a trout.”

“Better men than you have tried,” the priest replied with an indifferent sniff. “Just as well anyway, I don’t fancy a ride through the Wylds.” He pulled back his sleeve, revealing a long scar across his forearm. “Earned that the last time I found myself in the Etheric Realm. One of your kin gave me that wound.” He looked darkly at the elf then lowered his sleeve. “I turned his hide into a pair of dress boots. I’ll stay here and make sure the estate remains nice and safe until you return, Vigilant One.”

The words weren’t really for me—they were for the two emissaries, and the threat was clear. Return uninvited and prepare for an ass-whooping of divine proportions.

The elf scowled and wheeled his stallion in a tight circle. “Come,” he barked at me, clearly unhappy with how this was going so far. “The Queen awaits, and we have already tarried here too long. Let us away.”

5

Fae Step Shuffle

I shot Arturo a brief wave, good luck, then nudged Darksilver in the ribs with my heels, urging him into a canter. Renholm padded along on Jacob-Francis, keeping pace with surprising ease, while Cal walked beside me on my right. Despite all of his confident bullshitting, my spirit guide looked more nervous than I’d seen in a long time.

“Everything okay?” I asked softly, leaning close.

He grimaced and shook his head.

“I just have a bad feeling about all this,” he replied after a second. “I know we’re already in too deep to turn back, but these Fae pricks really are dangerous, Boyd. So far your experience with the Fae has been Renholm, but he barely counts. He’s like…” He paused, rubbing at his chin. “He’s like one of those pet store alligators that kids buy because kids are stupid as all hell. Those things look cute and harmless, but they’re still alligators and eventually they get big.” He nodded at the two creatures ahead of us. “These things are grown-ass, cold-blooded alligators and they’ll turn on us the second they think they can get away with it.”

“We’ve dealt with things more dangerous than them,” I said, suppressing the tinge of unease I felt in my gut.

“You’re not wrong, but these guys are just the tip of the iceberg, man. I’ve been asking around the Spirit Realm about this Ionia lady, and she’s bad news. At least as bad as the Chaos Aberration we tangled with back in Wildespell. Probably worse. Plus, she’s got a whole army of sycophants that are willing to do her dirty work. You need to keep your head on a swivel until this mess is all done with. And since we’re on the subject, why the fuck are we doing this again? I mean, I don’t hate Renholm, but his ego isn’t worth dying over.”

Begrudgingly, I had to admit that Cal made a fair point.

From what little I’d been able to suss out about the Hunt, it was some sort of “diplomatic” way to solve conflicts among Fae Nobles, meant to prevent all-out war between the courts. According to Renholm, there hadn’t been a proper Hunt in living memory, so I wasn’t sure what it would entail, but I was guessing it would be a series of challenges. Like the TV show Survivor. But with monsters. And murder. And fairies.

Or it could be an Iron Chef cook-off for all I knew.

What everyone was certain about, however, was that once the challenge was issued and the call went out, there was no backing out. Every signatory of the ancient fae accords had to cough up a champion to participate, and refusing to participate was as good as a death sentence for reasons no one could quite explain to me.

Still, I had a sneaking suspicion that if I decided to abandon Renholm to his well-deserved fate, no one would try to stop me. Especially not Queen Ionia. She was probably praying to whatever gods she worshiped that I would see good sense and leave Renholm for dead. Monsters were afraid of Vigils for a very good reason: we were terrifying.

Thing was, though, I couldn’t bring myself to just leave Renholm. That raven-winged dickhead was one of us. Sure, he was an asshole. True, he was a treacherous little shit. And yes, he might eat my corpse if I met an untimely end. But he was also strangely loyal, despite all of his bullshit posturing.

He’d helped me find and kill the Hexblight of Ironmoor. He’d lost a leg in my service, and he’d taken it on the chin without a word of complaint. And when I’d been elbow deep in shit with Telent and the rest of the corrupt Vigils, Renholm could’ve bailed, but hadn’t. We’d been fighting for our lives against forces far more powerful, but he’d come through for me, helped rescue King Andreas’ missing heir, and had somehow managed to summon an army of soldiers and knights when I needed them the most. Sure, his ego was out of control, but he’d earned a little loyalty.

“I know we could bail,” I said softly, “but Raguel sent us here to hunt down monsters, right?”

Cal grimaced and nodded.

“Well, if this lady really is as bad as everyone is saying, then it sounds like she’s a monster that deserves to be on the chopping block.”

“And if hunting this particular monster kills us?”

I weighed his words for a long moment, mulling them over. “Then we’re gonna go out with one helluva bang,” I replied with a shrug. “I didn’t join the Marine Corps to live a life of comfort, and I’m guessing Raguel didn’t recruit me to play it safe. Now, I’m not saying I have a death wish—I want to die old, wrinkled, drunk, and with my face buried in a pair of beautiful boobs—but as far as I’m concerned, this is all bonus time. I shouldn’t have walked away from that grenade, and you shouldn’t have survived that IED. But we’re here, so I say we should make this time count. Let’s do something awesome, even if it is reckless as hell.”

Cal grinned and shook his head. “You’re a crazy son of a bitch, Boyd, but that’s what I like about you. I’m in.”

* * *

We quickly left the property behind and followed the worn path that wound its way through the gnarled trees of the Elderwick. Our guides kept ten paces or so ahead and never bothered to look back at us. The Sasquatch moved like a shadow, his big feet padding along the walk without making a sound. It was unnerving watching something that large move so silently. By contrast, Darksilver’s hooves rang out against the moss-slick cobblestones like a hammer on an anvil.

It wasn’t long before the world around us started to change.

It was so subtle at first, I almost didn’t notice.

The air grew heavier. More humid. It also grew thicker with latent Essence that lingered like spring pollen. I probably wouldn’t even have noticed the increase a month ago, but I’d leveled up my Arcana and Insight significantly, which allowed me to sense the presence of Essence more easily. Kerra and Niels—the Citadel Weapons Master—had also worked extensively with me on a series of meditative “cycling” techniques that allowed me to passively draw Essence from the environment and process it in my Core.

In theory, I could even advance through environmental cultivation, though it was way slower and less efficient than just murdering Mortka and clearing bounties, which was my preferred method. Still, I could feel the added energy suffuse my cells with every breath, lending a little extra bounce to my step. Subtly heightening my senses.

We quickly lost sight of the keep, obscured by the tangle of trees and the canopy overhead. The further west we rode the stranger things got. Between all the supply runs, return trips to Wildespell, and Mortka hunting raids, I’d taken this path fifty times at least, and as a former Recon Marine, I prided myself on land nav. Shit, those were skills that were pounded into our heads since bootcamp. Admittedly, not all Marines mastered those skills—Cal couldn’t navigate his way out of a paper bag with a compass, a map, and a machete—but I’d always been at the head of the class.

Wasn’t anybody better at reading a map, shooting an azimuth, or determining a location via dead reckoning. I had a natural gift for remembering landmarks and memorizing terrain.

Even though this path hooked and turned like the path I’d traveled so many times before, it wasn’t the same. Not even close.

The dead grass, yellowed from the harsh winter, quickly turned green. Then, within the span of a few paces, it transformed into a sea of blue that swayed in a gentle breeze. And this wasn’t Kentucky bluegrass—this was neon bright like something out of a cyberpunk novel. The trees themselves grew taller and more foreboding, looming over us like angry giants. Metallic red leaves bloomed on formerly barren branches. An unearthly wind whispered through the forest carrying the musky scent of wet foliage and rotting meat, all undercut by the sweet aroma of lilacs.

The midday sky gave way to the deep purples of forever-twilight, and a pearlescent moon appeared just above the tree line like an overripe plum.

Cal changed too, which told me we had somehow managed to enter the Etheric Realm. Curling horns jutted up from his head and wispy blue wings of energy floated from his back. A long lashing tail with a stinger on it trailed down from his waist. That stinger reminded me of Sheila the pet scorpion Cal had once kept in a Tupperware container beneath his bed while in Kuwait. His left arm was pale gray and waxy, though otherwise human, and his right arm looked like it had come off a dead gorilla.

“Damn it feels good to be home,” he said softly. “Now give me a sec, I gotta see a man about a horse.” Cal pressed his eyes shut tight, and a wave of golden light engulfed him, here then gone in a flash. When the light faded, the chimera version of my friend was gone. Cal was back, flight suit and all… except now his lower body was that of an actual horse.

He’d turned himself into a goddamned centaur.

“Really?” I asked. “Is now the best time for this bullshit?”

“More like horseshit,” he corrected. “And don’t worry about it, dude, I’m just horsing around a little.”

Cal was a master of the Etheric Realm, and as a being of pure spirit he could transform into pretty much whatever the hell he wanted even without the aid of Transformation Tokens. One of the many benefits of being a spirit guide.

“Any idea where we are?” I asked him.

He shook his head, lips pursed into a thin line as he grew serious. “No idea, broham. Someplace in the Fae Wylds if I had to take a wild stab in the dark, but past that it’s hard to know. That elfin dickweed up there is doing something to change the landscape. It’s magic, but I’ve never experienced anything like it before.”

“You are the worst spirit guide on the planet,” I grumbled, before flicking Darksilver’s reins. I brought my mount up beside the Sasquatch, who seemed to be the more reasonable of our two escorts.

“Where the hell are we?” I asked, still scanning the area for threats.

I had a feeling that everything in this new world was dangerous. Huge flowers grew just off the path, and giant glossy pods hung from the thick boughs overhead.

“En route to the Dark Queen’s Court,” the Sasquatch replied as though the answer were self-evident. “Do not fret overly much—this is the fastest route, I can assure you. Elduin is one of Her Majesty’s best navigators—the very reason she dispatched him to guide you back to the court.”

“A navigator?” I asked.

Gobhoill cast a quizzical glance at me. “Yes, a navigator,” he replied, sounding rather confused. “How else would we pass from the Material Realm into the Fae Wylds?”

I shrugged. “I just assumed you would open a portal or something like Renholm does. Or Cal. Take us right to her front door.”

Gobhoill offered me an indulgent smile and shook his head. “The ability to bend and rip space is a rare thing indeed. Only Monarchs like Ionia, with the of the power of the divine behind them, can do such things, and even they require specialized tools. Way Stones. Teleportation Anchors. That sort of thing. But for the rest of us?” He shook his shaggy head. “There are no portals. No easy way to instantly move from one place to another. Not even in the Fae Wylds.

“It is possible to step directly from the Material into the Etheric—such as your companions do—but traversing the Etheric is the same in many ways as traversing the Material, especially if you are a being of flesh. Thankfully, the Etheric Realm is more malleable and the Fae Wylds doubly so. Although creating a direct portal is not possible for most of us, those who understand the true nature and substance of the Wylds may fold it according to their will. Elduin is one such, but there are many others.”

He cocked his head and looked at me with genuine curiosity. “Do you really not know this?” he asked, voice low and gravelly. “Or is this perhaps some cunning deception to lure me into a false sense of security?”

I looked at him and shrugged. “I’m a straight shooter, partner. What you see is pretty much what you get. If I don’t know something, I’m gonna ask so that I’ll learn.” I searched his face, my crimson gaze boring into his muddy brown eyes. “But just so you know, people who underestimate me have a bad habit of ending up with their insides on their outsides, so don’t take my lack of experience for stupidity.”

“The rumors about you must be true, then,” the Sasquatch replied slowly. “You truly are an Inkarnate, stolen from another world. That would explain how a weasel like Renholm managed to enlist you to his cause—because you know no better.” He paused and sighed deeply. “I almost feel bad for you, Boyd Knight. You seem to be an honorable fellow, which is a shame because honorable fellows rarely last long in the Hunt. In my considerable experience, only the cunning survive until the end.

“If even half of the other rumors I’ve heard are true,” he continued, “then there is no doubt you are a powerful warrior, but there are many things you do not know about our people or our ways. I will give you this one lesson for free but understand that showing such inexperience elsewhere will have grave consequences. My kind value only one thing, Boyd Knight. Power. But there are different ways such power is expressed. We call them the five pillars. Strength is power. Knowledge is power. Guile is power. Authority is power. Resources are power.”

“But not honesty or courage or loyalty?” I asked.

He shook his shaggy head. “No, indeed not, for these are all false. Honesty is merely guile expressed in another form. At times, telling the truth is advantageous so that when you lie, others are more likely to believe you. Courage is merely the preservation of power in the face of threat. And loyalty is perhaps the greatest of all illusions, Boyd Knight. Loyalty is bought only with power and the perception of power.

“Why do men flock to the banner of a king? Is it out of the love of a monarch or because he is somehow inherently better than other men? They may say so with their mouths, but in their hearts, they would not follow such a man were he not born with power already firmly in his grasp. The weak die for the powerful, never the other way around. That is the true nature of loyalty.”

“That’s a dark and cynical view of the world,” I said flatly.

“Such is the view of all our kind,” he replied as though telling me water was wet. “And such is the reality of the world, whether you realize it or not. Heed this lesson well if you want to survive what is to come. Elsewise, those of the Court will see your nature as a weakness to be exploited.”

“If that’s true, then why are you helping me?” I asked.

“It should be obvious,” he said. “As with other false virtues, there is no true altruism in kindness—it is but a guise to mask guile. Perhaps I am seeking to win your trust now so that I may betray you later at an opportune moment. Or—and this is the truth, though you have no reason to believe me—I see your potential and believe you may have some small chance of unseating the Queen.

“I am not a member of her court in the traditional sense, but rather an ambassador from Disciples of the True Moon. I am loyal to her only in that she has power over me. In the unlikely event that you should succeed, perhaps you will remember me with some degree of charity. Perhaps you will recall my usefulness and spare me. And in this truth is the final lesson—self-preservation is the true goal of all power.”

He fell silent as we rounded a bend and found ourselves facing a silver wall composed entirely of mist. It cut through the forest, straight as a razor blade, and rose into the twilight sky. During my last trip to the Etheric Realm, I’d learned that walls like these were called Boundary Folds.

As the Sasquatch had mentioned, the Etheric Realm was malleable. Disjointed. Distance and space weren’t always linear. The Material Realm was like a blanket, all stretched out and flat. To move from one corner to another, you had to go across the entire blanket. The Etheric Realm was like taking that same blanket and scrunching it up into a giant, messy ball. Things connected and touched in ways that didn’t always make sense.

That silvery wall was a fold in the cosmic blanket, which connected one zone with another. There was no telling what was on the other side until we went through—though I was assuming it was the realm of Queen Ionia and the Oblivion Court.

We rode head-on into mist, and I braced myself for the pain I knew was coming.

Except there was no pain. The last time Cal had guided me through a Boundary Fold it had felt like backstroking through razor blades and rubbing alcohol.

This time, the world seemed to swim on the edges as the forest behind us disappeared. Far off in the distance, I caught sight of a massive tree rising three hundred feet or more into the bruised sky ahead. The leafy canopy was composed of ghostly blue-green leaves that pulsed gently in time with the beating of some unseen heart. Most bizarre of all, however, was that it looked like there were inverted, snaking tree roots that broke through the foliage and dug into the night sky itself.

Even without being told, I instantly knew I was looking at Telvyss, the Void Tree of the Endless Night. The source of the Oblivion Court’s power.

This thing was a god.

Or maybe a devil.

While looking up a way to kill Chaos Aberrations, I’d stumbled across some info about the divine war between the Celestial and Oblivion—a war I’d inadvertently been caught up in. According to what little I knew, the Celestials and the Chaos Titans were locked in an eternal battle being played out on a cosmic scale. There were a number of core worlds situated along what was called the Finite Arc, and whoever controlled them basically got to shape the rules of reality.

The Celestials were currently the shot callers, and they’d banished the Titans eons ago into the outer darkness of Oblivion, but the Titans were grinding and hustling to regain control. Dominance. The world I was on, Alkran, was the key world node in the Cantorii Prime System. It was a common belief that if the Titans could subdue enough key world nodes, they’d be able to flip the script, exile the Celestials into Oblivion, and impose their own vision of reality on the universe.

Telvyss the Void Tree was one of the lesser Titans—an Eldritch, slumbering deity—but also one of the select few that had somehow managed to get a toehold outside of Oblivion.

I’d been so awestruck by the sight of the tree that I hadn’t even realized that I’d just stopped dead in my tracks to stare at the incredible, impossible sight. Cal and Renholm had caught up with me while Elduin the grumpy elf and my Sasquatch buddy, Gobhoill, had moved ahead by thirty feet or so. We were in a natural valley with pale, ghostly trees pressing in on our left and right. Dark moss hung down in sheets and neon pink flowers as large as umbrellas filled the undergrowth around the clearing.

It was idyllic. Otherworldly. Beautiful.

And my combat sense screamed at me that something was very, very wrong…

6

Sucker Punch

I yanked on Darksilver’s reins.

The horse nickered and danced back a few steps, clearly agitated.

“We’ve got company!” Cal called.

A crystalline spear zipped through the space I’d occupied a second before and thudded, quivering, into the knobby trunk of a nearby tree. The entire shaft was made of clear stone that glittered in an errant moonbeam. I thrust one hand out and pulled from the well of energy inside my chest. Arcana surged outward, forming a dome of golden light, covered in an intricate pattern of cosmic scarlet sigils. The Warded Shield snapped into place just in time to deflect a second spear, hurled from my right, and a flurry of crystal-tipped arrows fired from my left.

Fuck me. That ass munch, Elduin, had led us right into an ambush.

“Contact, left! Contact, right!” I yelled, already scanning the twisted, unearthly trees for any sign of the enemy. There was a brief shimmer to the air but no obvious threat, despite the fact that something—or a bunch of somethings—were hurling weapons at us. My shield deflected more arrows, which ricocheted harmlessly to the ground. But every hit sent snaking cracks sprinting across my conjured barrier. The arcane defense was formidable but could only absorb so much damage before failing. It was also draining my Arcana gauge, so I couldn’t just sit here all day.

Renholm let out a shrieking wail and charged forward on Jacob-Francis. “To battle!” The cat leapt onto a time-worn boulder jutting from the ground and slammed into… nothing. The feline seemed to hang in midair, his claws scratching at some unseen assailant, while Renholm lashed out with his tiny sword and hurled bolts of black entropy magic.

Darksilver reared back and wheeled sharply right, attacking with a razor-edged front hoof. Even though I couldn’t see what we were tangling with, I felt the impact as the horse’s foot caught something unyielding. There was a rocky grunt, and a chip of stone the size of my fist flipped through the air and landed in the grass.

It didn’t take me long to piece together that our attackers were employing a glamor to conceal their presence. Somehow, the animals were able to see through their magic, even though my enhanced senses couldn’t. Human beings tended to rely most heavily on sight, while many animals—including cats and horses—tended to favor things like scent or hearing. Chances were, these chucklefucks had masked their presence from my vision, but had failed to obscure anything else.

Good thing I had a spell to take care of pesky little illusions like this one.

Darksilver spun like a top, this time mule kicking something with bone-breaking force. I dropped my shield at the same moment and slammed my hands together in a loud slap that sent unseen power rippling outward from me in a circle as I activated Pierce Veil. Time seemed to grind to a halt for a long moment as my wave of power hit resistance. Suddenly, I found myself engaged in what I could only call a battle of wills. When a caster used a glamor, they were essentially imposing their vision of the world on others.

See what I want you to see…

Hear what I want you to hear…

Feel what I want you to feel…

Pierce Veil allowed me to contest that vision. To break the spell disguising the truth of the world. But it wasn’t a straightforward thing. It was my magic—my will, my vision, my determination—pitted directly against theirs.

My will was stronger, and so was my magic.

The illusion held for all of half a second then fractured like a fragile mirror. Everywhere my power touched, the glamor guttered and faded.

The clearing looked exactly as it had before, but now there were ten stout golem-like figures surrounding our party in a loose circle. Each stood around five feet tall but was built like a proverbial brick shithouse. They were androgynous, neither male nor female, and made entirely from pale quartz flecked with gold. They carried no discernable weapons, which made me wonder where in the hell the arrows and spears were coming from.

I got my answer a second later when one of the quartz elementals flung one arm forward and it detached, sailing through the air toward me like a rocket.

Another one stuck both hands forward and proceeded to launch its fingers at me. They literally broke away from its body, lengthening and sharpening as they carved through the air. The missing limbs didn’t stay gone for long either. The Mortka drew strength from the ground, replacing their missing appendages with fresh dirt and rock. I canted my body and let the arrows sail past me while simultaneously plucking the spear from the air with one hand. I twirled the conjured weapon and hurled it back at the quartz golem with a flick of my wrist.

The weapon slammed into the creature’s chest with explosive force. The blow did little more than leave a small divot in its torso, which quickly refilled. I urged Darksilver forward with my heels, riding down one of the golems standing directly in our path like a moron waiting to get sideswiped by a train. My mount plowed into the Mortka, knocking it to the ground in a sprawl of earthen limbs. Darksilver didn’t stop. Its huge body tap-danced across the creature in a clop of hooves and a constant crunch of broken stone.

Cal was likewise engaging with one of the golems. He’d kept the body of a centaur, but his fists had transformed into huge sledgehammer heads that pummeled anything unlucky enough to get in range.

I turned on another one of the creatures, which was charging toward me with an arm raised—ready to launch another deadly spear, no doubt. I hit the sumbitch with a white-hot arc of lightning so bright it left a purple afterimage tattooed against my retinas. The bolt of electricity fizzled on contact and didn’t faze the creature for a moment. This thing was made of stone and seemed utterly impervious to the attack.

Because of course it was.

With a throaty roar, the golem leapt, showcasing a surprising display of agility for something so blocky and heavy. I called up a Warded Shield once again, but I was too slow by half. The monster slammed into me with a stony shoulder, knocking me from the back of my horse. I landed on the ground with a wheeze, and the air rushed out from my lungs in one big whuff. The blocky creature came down on top of me. Its weight made it impossible to move. It raised an arm, its hand forming into a sharpened spear tip, and brought it straight down toward my heart.

I was currently wearing my reinforced Basilisk Scale Mail. At this range, with my back pinned against the ground, that spear would punch through the armor like a piston. I triggered Armor Evocation, effortlessly swapping into my Stone Spider plate mail, then bucked my hips and jerked my shoulders to one side. The spear tip came down with tremendous, inhuman force and managed to pierce my armor despite my best efforts. But because of my wriggling, the tip sliced into the meat of my left shoulder instead of skewering something vital. Like my heart or lungs.

A dark bolt of entropy hit the creature, and black spider veins started to quickly spread across its stony exterior. Follow-up slashes of purple energy glanced off the creature’s stony exterior.

Still, Renholm’s flurry of attacks bought me time to retaliate.

I gritted my teeth and pushed both palms against the creature’s chest, even though doing so drove the tip of the spear deeper into my shoulder. My blue Arcana gauge flashed as I triggered Kinetic Blast. A battering ram of pure magical force ripped the creature’s arms from its torso and violently hurled it away from me. It landed in a heap ten feet away—alive, but barely. I quickly stumbled to my feet, the wound in my shoulder already knitting itself closed. With a thought, I reached through the ether and conjured my M4.

I tucked the rifle into my shoulder pocket, targeted the prone, armless golem, and let loose with a hail of pure Arcana rounds. The bullets chewed into the creature’s shoulders and face, sending a spray of rock chips flying up in a geyser. But the rounds didn’t have the power to penetrate the golem’s rigid exterior or do any real, lasting damage.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw our two tour guides watching the ambush from the safety of an elevated hillside. They made no move to help, and the rocky creatures likewise made no move to engage them. Instead, that shithead elf, Elduin, simply smirked as my rounds pinged and whined off ineffectually from the target. There was no doubt in my mind that he’d orchestrated this whole encounter and he’d picked an enemy that was perfectly tailored to my weaknesses.

The golems were immune to my Electro-Arc spell, and Festering Wounds—my primary DPS attack—wouldn’t do jack shit, because these things weren’t made of flesh and blood. There was simply nothing to infect. As for my axe, though it was technically a blunt weapon, there was no way it was going to do much damage against these things. The Queen had obviously been studying me, assessing which skills I was most likely to have equipped. Arturo had warned me that the Fae were a crafty bunch, and I was learning that lesson firsthand.

I wasn’t completely helpless, however.

With a growl, I raised a hand toward the sky. The ground beneath the sprawled-out golem rumbled, and huge, writhing roots covered in spindly spines erupted from the dirt and grass. They wrapped around the creature’s stony legs and blocky waist, pinning it in place. My Arcana Gauge barely even flickered and I noticed that conjuring the roots here was far easier than it had ever been in the Material Realm. I stowed that bit of information away for later, then let out a piercing whistle. Darksilver wheeled about, bucking wildly, and caved in another creature’s head with a well-placed hoof.

I pointed at the trapped creature and Darksilver obeyed without further instruction.

The horse rampaged forward, stomping at the ground and turning the trapped golem into a heap of glittering rubble.

None of my own spells or abilities were especially effective, but I always had one ace in the hole, tucked away for emergencies. Totem Transformation. What I needed right now was blunt weapon superiority, and I had a token in the leather pouch at my hip that would do the trick. With steady hands, I pulled out a perfectly smooth glass marble shot through with pulsing veins of red and silver. I wrapped my fingers around the marble and drew the potent energy within down into my palm.

The stone cracked and disappeared into fine motes of dust while feral, chaotic energy rampaged through my body, ripping apart my muscles, twisting and distorting my limbs, and snapping bones only to reform them into new configurations. My arms stretched and lengthened, packing on pounds of muscle at the same time. A tail, capped with a spike-studded club of bone, ripped its way from my spine. A huge, rhino-like horn erupted from my newly formed snout.

The Ku-Rodur was a rare and dangerous breed of highly intelligent Mortka that hailed from the deep caverns that dotted the mountains around the cursed Sapphire City—fortress of a long-dead Warlock, Isabella the Ghostblood. They were huge creatures that looked like the unholy love child of a Komodo dragon, a silverback gorilla, and a rhino. If anything could bludgeon these elemental sons of bitches into submission it was a Ku-Rodur.

According to Kerra, Isabella had somehow managed to form a pact with the wild beasts and had used them as enforcers during the Hundred Years’ War. I’d picked up close to fifty rare Transformation Tokens after looting Kol’s body, including a couple of these bad boys. Kol had been a Vigil of Balance and a master shapeshifter. He’d also been around the block a few times, and during his younger years, he’d even fought against Isabella and her army of Mortka.

Transforming was never a pleasant process, and consuming Transformation Tokens was costly because the only way to get new ones was to kill Mortka and pray they dropped one of the coveted tokens. But there was no point in hoarding them, especially when riding through a shit storm like this.

The transformation happened in the span of a heartbeat, but seemed to drag on and on forever. When the shift had finally run its course, I blinked open reptilian eyes and froze at the beauty around me. The landscape had been magical and captivating before, but in this form I could see so much more. Currents of Essence drifted on the air like streamers. A wide array of new and interesting smells assaulted my nostrils, carrying with them a host of new sensory inputs. I could taste the aroma of tightly controlled fear radiating off Elduin and a mixture of annoyance and disapproval emanating from his hairy partner.

There were so many sensations screaming for my attention that it threatened to overwhelm me. If I let them, I’d die. The need to survive outweighed my innate curiosity, and I focused on the task at hand. Although Cal and Darksilver had managed to take down two of the golems each, I was still zero for ten.

Time to change that.

I dropped my shoulders and barreled forward, using my powerful rear legs and my lanky gorilla arms to eat up the distance. I lowered my head at the last moment and felt something click into place inside my neck. A boney column, built to protect my spine from the direct damage of a head-on collision. I crashed into the crystal golem and a vibration shivered through my body as my horn punched a hole through the top of its chest and sent the creature flying as though it were a stuffed animal.

Its head tore away in the process, and golden light leaked out from the jagged stump, filling my nostrils with Essence.

[You have killed a Lesser Crystalline Elemental! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 650 Essence!]

Not too shabby, I thought, circling around and locking in on my next target. Jacob-Francis had scurried up a tree trunk and was hissing at one of the creatures below. Renholm was frantically launching magic at the golem, alternating between dizzying light displays, meant to disorient, and dark bolts of Chaotic power. Neither seemed to be working especially well. But with my newly enhanced senses, I could feel the Hex Aura wrapped around the fairy like a cloak. The way I figured it, the shithead elemental at the base of tree was due for a little bad luck.

I decided Bad Luck was what I would call my shiny new murder horn from now on.

I charged again, the ground quaking beneath every footfall. One of the crystal golems tried to intercept me. Bad move. I shoulder checked the unlucky pile of sentient rocks into oblivion. The monster bounced off me like a rubber ball, falling beneath my trampling feet in the process. Glass and rock crunched beneath my immense weight, and more golden Essence flowed into my body.

[You have killed a Lesser Crystalline Elemental! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 650 Essence!]

Like all Mortka, these things were killable so long as you had the right tools for the job. Turned out the Ku-Rodur was the right tool.

I kept steamrolling forward and drove my horn into the elemental at the base of the tree. It punched through the monster’s stomach, and I reared back, lifting the creature into the air; its arms and legs thrashed wildly as it tried fruitlessly to free itself. No dice. I reached up with my hug ape arms and grabbed its head in one simian hand and one leg in the other. I cranked downward, using my horn as the point of leverage, and ripped the fucker in two. I tossed the upper half away while sucking up more life-giving Essence.

[You have killed a Lesser Crystalline Elemental! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 650 Essence!]

“Yes!” Renholm shrieked from above. “Behold the power of my champion! All shall fall before us!” He took to wing and landed lightly on my shoulder. “Let us advance. Let us make our enemies pay for their transgressions!”

For once, I couldn’t agree more.

Darksilver had taken down another elemental in his berserker horse rage, and Cal had one more on the ropes. His stony fists of justice landed like hammer blows, sending more and more chips of stone summersaulting away.

Only one elemental left.

I stomped at the ground and sent a wave of power coursing down into the soil. Thick vines exploded upward, snaring my target in unbreakable roots. I narrowed my eyes and charged again, building unstoppable momentum with every step. The creature hacked frantically at the conjured roots with a jagged machete arm, but there were just too many of the damned things. When I was in range, I lifted the lower half of the last elemental I’d killed above my head and brought it down in a ferocious overhand blow.

There was a thunderclap as stone clashed with stone, followed by an explosion that sent rocky shrapnel flying out in every direction. Jagged chunks of crystal pelted my chest and face but failed to penetrate my pebbly hide.

[You have killed a Lesser Crystalline Elemental! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 650 Essence!]

Intoxicating power circulated through my veins, and the distant sound of a heavenly orchestra filled my head as golden light leaked from my pores like steam. I’d done it. I’d just ascended to the Master ranks. I felt a distant surge of excitement, but it was quickly overtaken by an all-consuming sense of rage. I turned, pawing at the ground, teeth bared in a snarl.

None of the elementals remained, but I spotted the elf staring death at me with his arms folded across his chest. His Sasquatch buddy had wisely moved a few paces away as though he knew what was coming. All I could see was red. A small voice screamed in the back of my mind that attacking an emissary of the Queen was probably a bad idea, but that voice couldn’t compete with the animal fury bubbling up like a wellspring inside of me.

My blood was hot, my hackles were up, and logic wasn’t the order of the day.

Death was all that mattered.

I snorted and barreled toward the navigator, ready to rip that douche canoe a new asshole, and consequences be damned.

7

City of Oblivion

Before I could turn the elf into meat paste, something huge sideswiped me from the right, knocking me off course.

Cal, still in centaur form.

His equine lower half melted away while his body took on more ape-like proportions. He could’ve passed as Gobhoill’s brother. He leapt onto my back, wrapping his long legs around my waist while a huge arm slipped around my throat like a python. The asshole had me in a sleeper hold. He locked in the choke with his other arm and flexed his bicep, immediately applying intense pressure to my carotid artery without crushing my airway.

A textbook perfect example of the hold in action.

The ground swam drunkenly as spots danced across my vision. Suddenly, I was lightheaded and reeling as he neatly cut off the flow of blood to my head. I stopped running out of necessity and reached back with huge hands, trying to dislodge Cal. But he was clamped on as tight as a hungry tick. So instead, I tried to jam my sausage fingers into the crook of his arm, hoping to ease the pressure around my throat. That was no use either. Cal had me dead to rights.

“Whoa boy, whoa there,” he cooed into my ear like I was a misbehaving horse. “I don’t want to put you down unless you make me.”

Renholm appeared in front of me, wings pumping to keep him airborne. “I understand your rage, my champion, but you cannot attack the emissaries. That is the real trap, you simplistic fool. You ignorant slut!”

My animal brain still wanted to maul and kill and destroy, but the rational, logical part of my brain slowly kicked back into gear. That was the one downside about Totem Transformation—my body wasn’t the only thing that changed. It affected my mind and thoughts as well. Sure, I still retained some portion of my human intelligence, but it was mixed with a truckload of primal, bestial instincts. It shackled me with the drive to hunt and dominate my territory. To utterly annihilate anything that challenged my supremacy.

“Don’t you see,” the Pookah continued, “you can only respond in violence if directly attacked. This ambush reeks of plausible deniability. Did they lead us into this death trap? Yes, obviously. But is it possible this is all just some terrible turn of misfortune? A wandering group of Elementals waylaying us as we traverse the Wylds? Stranger things have certainly happened. If you attack the False Queen’s emissaries, you will be spitting on the Courtesy of the Courts and invite retaliation from every Fae noble house in return. She likely has scouts waiting in the wings, ready to descend on us the very moment you touch that smirking buffoon.”

His words washed over me, blunting the last sharp edge of my rage.

“Do not worry”—his voice was low as he shot the elf navigator a withering glare—“we shall have our vengeance for this provocation, but now is not the time or place. I, of all creatures, am not one to preach restraint—it goes against my very nature—but in this case it is necessary.”

I grunted, nodded, and released the delicious power of the Totem Transformation. Primal energy bled from my skin as my pebbled hide disappeared, my arms retracted, and the fangs filling my mouth reverted. Transforming back into human form wasn’t pleasant either, but the change came quickly and was over before I knew it. My body ached as though I’d just gone ten rounds against Mike Tyson, but I was alive and I’d avoided creating the Fae equivalent of an international incident.

“Thanks for stopping me,” I said over my shoulder to Cal, who was back in his regular ol’ human form.

“No worries, bro. Always got your back. Especially when you’re about to do something stupid.” He patted me reassuringly on the shoulder.

“Thanks for helping us out, dicks,” I called to our Fae escorts.

Elduin offered me a nasty fuck-you grin. “The Queen tasked us with guiding you to her realm. Nothing more, nothing less. It was assumed that you could provide your own protection against the dangers of the Wylds.”

“Yeah,” I replied, “it’s just so crazy that they completely ignored the two of you, even though you were only twenty feet away. I mean, they didn’t even fire a single arrow at you. What are the odds of that?”

The elf shrugged one shoulder. “Perhaps the stink wafting off you offended their delicate senses and drove them into a fit of rage?” he suggested flatly. “You do reek of humanity, after all, and the corruption of Celestial magics clings to you like flies on dung. In truth, I haven’t been able to get the terrible stench out of my nostrils. It’s enough to drive anyone to murder.”

“Sure you aren’t smelling your upper lip?” I asked. “I’m guessing you just forgot to wipe all the bullshit off your face before swinging by our realm.”

The elf’s sneer turned into a scowl and his hand instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword once again. The Sasquatch seemed to know exactly what I was trying to do—provoke the elf into attacking us, thus breaking the laws of hospitality.

“Peace, Elduin,” he said, though the words sounded like equal parts warning and rebuke. “We’ve already wasted enough time. The Queen is waiting, and she will not be well pleased should harm befall her guests.”

Without waiting for a reply, Gobhoill turned to me. “You have my sincerest apologies, Vigilant One. And to you as well, King Renholm.” He dipped his head in evident earnestness, which was wild. Even I didn’t take Renholm seriously. “We are so very close to the Queen’s borders now, let us continue and I’ll ensure you receive refreshments and care for any wounds you may have suffered, as is befitting of a courteous host,” he finished, giving the elf the stink eye.

“Don’t sweat it, Gobby,” I said, waving away his concern. “It’s not like either of you could’ve known a bunch of monsters with the perfect skill set to undercut me would be waiting here, directly on the route you picked out. Just a big, happy coincidence, I’m sure. And don’t worry about leaving the fighting to us, Elduin,” I said sweetly. “Unlike you, I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty, because I’m not a whiny, scared little bitch. If anything, I should thank you for being such a spineless, incompetent shit weasel. These things were loaded down with Essence, and I’m gonna turn these corpses into some amazing armor.”

Elduin wasn’t smiling now. Just the opposite.

Good. Fuck him.

“Cal, Renholm, help me loot these guys,” I barked, moving over to one of the shattered bodies.

“But the Queen is waiting,” Gobhoill said before licking his lips uncertainly. “We really should be on our way.”

“You guys didn’t think getting there in a timely fashion was worth helping us kill these Mortka, so it must not be that big of a deal,” I replied.

“Well said, my champion,” Renholm piped in. “Besides, unlike your False Queen, in the True Oblivion Court we don’t turn our noses up at the Hunt. Every kill makes our kingdom that much stronger. A lesson she would do well to learn.”

Gobhoill looked thoroughly unamused with our shit talking, while Elduin was on the verge of going into apoplexy. I couldn’t have been any happier. They’d set us up to die and not only had they failed, now they looked both dumb and cowardly. The Fae seemed like a bunch of gossipy assholes, so I had no doubt word of this would spread to the other participants of the Hunt. The game hadn’t even started yet, and we were already winning.

* * *

As expected, the ten Lesser Crystalline Elementals were a treasure trove of quality loot. I ended up with four Transformation Tokens of varying rarities—which I decided to keep on hand, for obvious reasons—and twelve Elemental Quartz Affinity Scales, ranging from Disciple Grade all the way up to Master Grade.

<<<>>>

Elemental Quartz Affinity Scale

Type: Refined Quartz Conduit Affinity

Class: Adept

Ability: Consume

Primary Effects:

When consumed directly, Quartz Conduit Affinity significantly enhances the user’s resistance to all elemental-based magics, redirecting a portion of the elemental damage into the ground. Additional status effects of elemental-based attacks, such as shock paralysis or burn trauma, have a 50% chance of being nullified.

Channel Quartz Conduit Affinity into a metaphysical focal point, imbuing the item with unique benefits for a limited duration.

Note: The strength and duration of the effect is directly proportional to the quality of the Scale consumed.

<<<>>

Those would be invaluable when squaring off against other magic slingers or some of the nasty creatures that we were sure to encounter on the Hunt. Even better, when channeled into my M4, they produced rounds that had the exact opposite effect against enemies. Every hit created a stacking debuff that made the afflicted suffer additional damage from elemental magic and significantly increased the chances of receiving a long-term status effect. Paired with a couple of Wrath Spells and an ability like Mantle of Scales, the Elemental Quartz Affinity could wreck someone’s day.

On top of that, I retrieved one of their intact crystal spears and a bucketful of fabrication components: [3 x Mortka Steel Ore, Fabrication Ingredient], [1 x Mortka Horn (Adept), Fabrication Ingredient], [20 x Elemental Quartz, Fabrication Ingredient], [2 x Ichor of Earth, Fabrication Ingredient]. I wasn’t sure what Ichor of Earth was, but I knew exactly what I wanted to do with the Elemental Quartz. My Stone Spider plate mail continued to serve me well, but the Quartz was even more resilient against slashing and piercing damage, and I suspected it would offer some additional resistance against elemental attacks.

The second I got a little time to putter around in my Soul Forge, I fully intended to craft a new suit of heavy plate from the corpses of my enemies. Might turn one of their heads into a wicked shoulder pauldron. That or a codpiece, just to be a dick.

The rest of the trip passed with little fanfare.

After riding for a few more minutes in silence, the ghostly trees thinned out and we found ourselves outside a thick wall, thirty feet high and built from bricks of glossy black obsidian. More of the purple-skinned elves patrolled the ramparts, carrying delicate halberds with blades that looked to be chiseled from pale green glass.

But the elves weren’t the only guards present.

Perched on top of archer turrets were bird women, clothed only in colorful plumage that ran over lithe, well-muscled bodies. Huge wings protruded from their backs. Some had tawny, plain plumage while others were as brightly colored as macaws. The bird women had wicked talons on their feet, and the bows and spears they carried were all business. I would’ve called them beautiful, but they were beautiful in the same way a poisonous viper is.

“Harpies,” Cal whispered, following my gaze to the turrets above. “Don’t let their smoking bodies or awesome boobs distract you. They ain’t human, bro. That’s all a con to keep suckers like you from killing them before it’s too late. They’re basically like the strippers outside of Pendleton. Fun to look at, and best viewed from across a room. Trust me, they will eviscerate you and literally eat your intestines if you give ’em half a chance. They are a thousand times worse than the worst dependapotamus. Just pretend they are covered in red flags instead of feathers and you should be fine.”

A huge set of glimmering, opalescent gates stood wide open in welcome. Positioned on either side of the entryway were a pair of centaurs—though these weren’t run-of-the-mill, garden-variety horsemen. These things had the lower bodies of big cats—one a tiger, the other a panther—and the upper body of a man, though they were covered in a fine layer of fur and had cat-like faces.

The sentries all stared at us with sullen glowers as we passed through the gate, but none of them made any move to stop us.

“Behold, Mythis Syve,” Gobhoill said over one shoulder, “the Great and Wonderous Void City of the Oblivion Court. Be welcome, honored guests, and assured that no harm shall come to you, so long as you abide by the ancient laws of courtesy struck so long ago between our peoples.”

“Ditto,” I grunted while actively looking for threats.

I believed we were safe in the same way I believed that ambush back on the road was an accident.

Inside the walls of the fortress city were homes and shops, but all of ’em had been built in the trunks of sprawling trees, enormous mushrooms, and earthen huts gouged into the rolling hillsides. The roads, such as they were, weaved through the tangle of trees and otherworldly vegetation as though the city had been built around the forest. Most of the residents were purple-skinned elves, like Elduin, though there were also a fair number of the cat-like centaurs and other, even stranger, denizens.

They all cast secretive glances at us as we passed. Some looked angry or outright hostile, while others appeared to be curious or even playful. Renholm hammed up every second of the attention. He flew directly above me, hands raised, as he let off a constant stream of illusionary starbursts. As though the light display wasn’t enough, he also had to announce at the top of his lungs that we had come to liberate the people of Mythis Syve from their false rulers and usher in a new golden age for the Court of Oblivion.

Everyone made sure to give us a wide berth in case we were struck down by lightning from above for our blasphemy.

We rode through a crowded bazaar filled with a mish-mashed assortment of tables, stalls, and narrow alleys, all covered by brightly colored silk awnings. If the Queen had wanted to take a hit out on me or Renholm, there would’ve been no better place. The crowds were thick as summer mosquitos and there were a million places for an assassin to lie in wait. It was impossible to assess every possible threat, so I was banking on Combat Sense alerting me to any potential danger.

The market thrummed with the scuffle of feet, the clink of coins, and the sounds of voices as merchants haggled and hawkers pitched their wares to passersby. But a bubble of pensive, uneasy quiet seemed to follow us. Business ceased at our approach. No one talked. Everyone watched. Then, once we were sufficiently far enough away, the sound would slowly pick up as everyday market life resumed its ebb and flow. The wares for sale were as varied and strange as the city and its residents.

I spotted the standard items that seemed to be in every marketplace—steaming food, buckets of candles, wicker baskets, clay pottery. The stuff people used in everyday life no matter who they were, where they came from, or where they called home.

But there were thousands of more exotic things, readily on display.

Crystal jars filled with strange glowing liquids. Bundles of herbs and bouquets of dried flowers. Elaborate armor and clothing that appeared to be woven from spider silk. At least I was guessing it was spider silk since the merchants were humanoid spiders with dull black arachnoid eyes, weird face tentacles, and hairy legs sticking out of their backs. They looked like monsters, but they shied away from me as though I were the dangerous one.

In part, they were right. I was dangerous. I’d killed plenty of creatures from the Wylds since arriving in this world. It reminded me of the way the Iraqis would look at me as we rolled through in our Humvees or padded by on foot patrol. Their eyes would linger on our weapons, and it was easy to see fear and distrust carved into the lines of their bodies. Having people stare at you like you were a dangerous animal always stung, but I figured a healthy dose of fear might keep me breathing, so it was a small price to pay.

I spotted another vendor with bird cages filled with tiny sprites and miniature winged pixies. They looked exactly the way Renholm had when I’d first rescued him. There were wooden signs, propped up beside each cage, listing prices or services. Buy a pixie to clean your house. Or test alchemical mixtures on. Or as a quick, Essence-filled snack. I could buy five sprites for the cost of a hot meal back in Wildespell, which was genuinely horrific. Even worse, no one batted an eye at the fact that they were selling sentient creatures for the cost of a Big Mac.

Not even Renholm cared.

That callous indifference revealed the truth in Gobhoill’s words. Life was cheap here, and the only thing the Fae cared about was power. Pixies were at the very bottom of the totem pole. They had no power, which meant they also had little to no value. I had a gut feeling that the Queen probably viewed me like one of those caged pixies—a minor, powerless nuisance that would make a quick, Essence-filled snack.

It was time to go teach her that this pixie had a bad attitude and could bite back.

8

Court Courtesy

Against my better instincts, I dropped Darksilver off at the stables before heading into the palace proper, which was nestled within the base of the Eldritch tree that dominated the center of Mythis Syve. My horse wasn’t any happier about it than I was—evident by the fact that he broke the first attendant’s femur, almost killed the second handler by sinking his teeth into the elf’s throat, then snapped the hitching post they’d fruitlessly attempted to tie him to. It took a pair of cat-bodied centaurs to eventually get Darksilver into the stable.

No one tried to actively hurt Darksilver—that would’ve been like striking me, since he was my property—not that they would’ve been able to hurt him had they tried. I was pretty sure he was a demon in a horse body. Instead, they cast nasty glares my way as though it were my fault for having such a disagreeable asshole of a stallion.

I just watched them struggle in absolute amusement.

“Look on in terror,” Renholm had announced as they wrestled Darksilver away. “Even my champion’s steed is too great a threat for the ‘might’ of the Court of Oblivion. Disgraceful.” He sounded positively gleeful at their ineptitude.

From the stables, we were politely ushered into the grand banquet hall. The floors were petrified wood, polished to a mirror sheen. Huge, braided columns of living wood reached up, up, up, supporting a vaulted cathedral with a mural made from hundreds of thousands of polished gemstones: glittering diamonds and bloodshot rubies. Sunflower amethysts and deep-ocean sapphires. Picked out in meticulous detail was the cruel face of a woman in profile.

That had to be Queen Ionia, and I was guessing those weren’t knockoff gems. Having that much wealth casually displayed in a ballroom was a good way to effectively showcase that you had Fuck-You money just lying around.

Against the far wall were a set of marble stairs that rose to a platform overlooking the rest of the grand hall. A throne sat at the pinnacle of the platform. Even at a distance I could see it was made from skulls, all held together by twisting vines and a blanket of vibrant wildflowers.

Behind the throne was another mural, this one carved into the interior wood of the gargantuan tree itself.

In one panel, monstrous demons battled against an army of armor-clad warriors. One of those warriors loomed larger than the rest—its five faces were familiar.

In the next panel, the demonic titans found themselves banished to a bleak and desolate landscape with twisting spires and dying galaxies.

In the last panel, a falling star smashed into the ground, only for a curling root to emerge from the center of a smoking crater.

It was the story of Telvyss the Void Tree. This monstrous creature had somehow managed to return to this world after the primordial battle that had taken place eons ago.

The air inside the tree practically oozed Essence, but it was greasy, oily, noxious. The power was… wrong. It turned my stomach and made me want to go take a bath in a vat of hand sanitizer. Golden runes twinkled in the air, resolving into a message. And not just any random message. A bounty.

<<<>>>

Bounty

Purge the Darkness: You have encountered the presence of a great and terrible evil—a foul and festering blight that is in utter conflict with the Celestial powers you serve. It is your duty as one of the Vigilant of Raguel to take up arms against the Chaos Titans and purge the realm of their vile existence. Although Telvyss the Void Tree is the weakest of the Chaos Titans, the damage it could do, should it awaken, is unfathomable. Take whatever actions necessary to issue righteous judgement and rain down annihilation on Telvyss, rooting out its evil from this core world.

Reward: +100,000 Essence, an Additional Boon from Raguel…

<<<>>>

My stomach dropped as I read over the mother of all bounties. Well, fuck me sideways. Raguel wanted me to wipe out Telvyss, root and branch? That was one helluva big ask. This wasn’t a disgruntled Hexblight killing a few miners or even a band of corrupt Vigils involved in some shady political dealings. The Chaos Titans were gods. Lower g gods, sure, and this one happened to be hibernating, but it was still a cosmic horror of unimaginable power, and I was a fish out of water who was just starting to figure out this whole monster hunter thing.

On top of that, Telvyss had an entire nation of reverent devotees who would no doubt be willing to fight and die in service to the tree and the power it offered. In my corner, I had the world’s shittiest spirit guide, an evolved pixie with delusions of grandeur, a dumpy priest with a drinking problem, an angry horse, and a run-of-the-mill house cat. Suffice it to say, the deck was heavily stacked against us. How the hell was I supposed to destroy a Chaos Titan?

I didn’t even know where to start.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. The first thing I needed to do was survive this party. If I could buy some time and get back to the Material Realm, I could debrief with Arturo and formulate a plan, however half-assed it might be.

I waved away the words and focused for the time being on not dying.

The throne itself stood empty, but that meant nothing. The Queen was probably out, meeting and greeting her guests—schmoozing like any good hostess would. Especially since the party appeared to be in full swing. The hall was already filled with what I assumed were the nobles of the other Fae Courts. We were the last to arrive.

There was a wide mix of inhuman creatures chatting in small circles or twirling across the floor in time to the orchestral music, provided by an ensemble of violet-skinned elves on a raised platform. I caught sight of big cat centaurs decked out in heavy armor. More arachnoid people with their weird, buggy black eyes. A group with skin made of tree bark and gnarled branches growing right out of their skulls. Crimson devils with curling horns and pale humanoid creatures who looked like they’d just stepped out of a Hellraiser flick.

Most of the partygoers ignored our presence completely—as though even acknowledging us might be seen as a slight against Queen Ionia—while the rest kept openly eyefucking us like drill instructors seeing fresh recruits for the first time. There was a hungry, predatory gleam in those looks. And thanks to Master Mentalist, it wasn’t hard to read their body language even halfway across the dance floor: how could they murder us and win Ionia’s favor without breaking the rules of courtesy?

We were swimming with the sharks.

But I was a shark too, and I intended to make sure all these assholes knew it. I absently patted the canvas sack hanging from my belt. A little gift I’d recently picked up for Ionia.

Hulking, faceless mushroom men circulated throughout the room, each bearing silver trays heavy laden with drinks and heavenly smelling snacks. One of the fungaloids shuffled over to me, extending a platter with something that looked like seared lamb chops slathered in a fragrant purple berry sauce. It was the kind of chow they served at the upscale Airforce bases.

Without really thinking about it, I found myself reaching toward the platter.

“I wouldn’t.” The words came from behind me. The voice was female and hauntingly melodic.

I turned to find the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen standing beside me with an easy smile on her elfin face. Her skin was flawless and as pale as porcelain. Medium-length metallic silver hair framed in a slim face with fine features, high cheekbones, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Modest antlers protruded from either side of her head. She was athletic, had an impossibly slim waistline, and wore a silver silk gown that showed off ample cleavage. A rugged fur shawl hugged her shoulders and trailed down her back.

Her beauty was intoxicating. It was also unnatural. Literally.

I could feel the gentle pull of a subtle glamor working on my senses, desperately trying to bewitch me.

“Oh yeah?” I asked, instinctively taking a step away from her. “And why’s that? Is this one of those don’t accept gifts from the Fae or they get to keep your soul sort of thing?”

She arched an eyebrow and a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Paranoid, are we? I would think one of the Vigilant would know better than to believe every nasty rumor you hear about the Fae. Admittedly, that one is true, but it doesn’t apply to you. You’re a Fae noble and an invited guest. To not provide you with basic sustenance would be a grave insult to the honor of the court. And, for what it’s worth, the Queen is definitely going to offer you a gift, and you would be foolish to reject her.”

“So why stay away from the food?”

She pointed at the purple glaze drizzled across the chops.

“Moon Berry Sauce. It’s harvested from the high plains of Valdarash, which is guarded by the merciless Voren. It’s an absolute delicacy if you’re a Fae. It’ll let you taste color and swim through the stars. But if you’re anything other than full-blooded Fae, you’ll be projectile vomiting into the punch bowl before the night’s out.” She grimaced and leaned in close, as if confiding a great secret. “I’m half human and learned that the hard way during my first royal function. Just trying to save you from suffering a very painful and hugely humiliating social faux pas.” She shrugged. “But you do you.”

I grunted and nodded. “Thanks for the tip. That’s awfully generous of you,” I replied, pulling my hand away from the platter. “So which pillar is this? You trying to use your knowledge to sucker me into trusting you, or is this some sort of guile thing that’ll come back to bite me in the ass later?”

Her smile widened, her teeth unnaturally straight and white. “Someone’s been talking with Gobhoill, I see. His outlook on the world is deeply depressing, but at least he’s not as malicious as most of the other nobles and functionaries that attend these sorts of things.” She faltered for a beat, examining me more carefully. “I must say, you’re not at all what I was expecting. But you must be doing something right if she’s worried enough to send Gobhoill along on a simple escort mission. I knew there must be a reason why my father allied himself to your cause.”

That caught me completely off guard. “Come again?”

She extended a hand. “Melwyn, Princess of Petals. Your one and only ally in the Hunt. And to answer your question, I’m helping you because Queen Ionia seems to utterly hate you, and anyone she hates this much has to be worth helping.”

Of course. Renholm had spent no small amount of effort working to build alliances with the other noble houses in our asinine war against the Oblivion Court. For the most part, we’d assembled outcasts and the fae riffraff that lived on the outer edges of society. There was one notable exception. The Court of Petals. Arguably, they were the weakest of the noble houses, but they were also the only court that had even given us the time of day.

I accepted her hand and gave it a firm pump. “Good to meet you, Melwyn. Name’s Boyd, and as long as you don’t try to backstab me or otherwise use me as a pawn, we should get along just fine.”

She cocked her head quizzically and shot me a strange look in response. “That’s very straightforward of you,” she said. “How very unlike the fae. Though, generally among the courts, it’s considered a courtesy to kiss the hand of a lady.”

I dropped her hand. “Yeah, it works that way where I’m from too. But I don’t want to give you any false hope,” I said. “I’m out of your league, so I just want to set the ground rules up front. This is going to be a strictly working relationship.”

I thought her jaw might hit the floor. My gut told me she was used to having men fall all over themselves to kiss her hand and profess their undying love the second they saw her. Bards had likely written epic ballads on her behalf while knights of renown had declared holy war. But if we were going to be working together in any capacity, then I wanted to nip that shit in the butt before it gained traction. She was hot, no doubt about that, but she also looked crazy, and it paid not to get too involved with crazy.

“May I have your attention,” a voice boomed from the dais that held the throne. Gobhoill was standing at the foot of the stairs, his hairy arms folded in front of him. The music cut off and a deep silence fell over the crowd. “Now that our esteemed guests of honor have finally arrived, it is time to begin the assembly in earnest. All kneel for the arrival of Her Majesty, Ionia the Supreme Queen of Dark Tidings, Mother of Oblivion, Child of Chaos, and Archfae of Telvyss, the Void Tree of the Endless Night.”

In a wave, every person in attendance quickly genuflected, taking a knee with their heads bowed. Even Melwyn, Princess of Petals, dropped down, her eyes transfixed on the floor.

Not me, though. I wasn’t going to kneel to anyone.

Especially not some psycho fairy who was trying to kill me. I was glad to see that Renholm took to the air in sheer defiance, while Cal stayed as upright as a flagpole. My spirit guide had gotten his hands on a tray full of hors d’oeuvres and was nosily shoveling food into his face hole. Anger flashed in Gobhoill’s muddy eyes at our insolence and impropriety, but it vanished almost as quickly as it had come. A darkness descended around the throne. Shadow bled from the air and condensed into a writhing inky mass with black tendrils that clawed at the air.

After a long moment, the ball of shadow cracked down the middle like an oversized egg and a woman stepped through the darkness and onto the pedestal. Her skin was as black as freshly turned graveyard dirt, and neon runes of power were carved into her otherwise flawless flesh. Her eyes burned fallout green and huge curling tree branches rose from her head. She wore a gown that gave a glimpse into the endless void beyond. She was as beautiful in her own way as Melwyn, but hers was the beauty of a volcano. Of an imploding star or a burning Humvee.

It was the cold, distant grace of destruction and death and bloodshed.

An immense, crushing force descended on the ballroom as she took center stage. That pressure bore down on me like a giant hand, and my legs trembled from the sudden weight. It was the sheer force of Ionia’s will. She was pissed that I’d refused to kneel and now she was demonstrating her displeasure in a not-so-subtle way. Well fuck her. I gritted my teeth, locked eyes with the woman, and fought to keep my legs from buckling under the strain. This was a war of wills, and though I could already tell she was far more powerful, I was stubborn as an ornery mule.

Marines didn’t know when to quit, even when they were outclassed and outgunned. We fought off the Germans at the Battle of Belleau Wood with nothing but shovels, earning the nickname Teufel Hunden—Devil Dogs—in the process. Against all odds, the Marines had stormed the beach at Iwo Jima, overrunning the island even while taking massive casualties. They held off over a hundred thousand enemy soldiers at Chosin Reservoir, despite being surrounded on every side.

Giving up wasn’t even an option on the table.

The tension in the air held for what felt like an eternity, then it snapped and dissipated.

“Please, rise,” Ionia said from her podium, sounding a tad bit miffed. “This is a party after all.” She laughed. There was no joy in the sound; it was like broken glass crunching underfoot. “It has been many, many long years since our noble houses have gathered beneath the same roof, and even longer since we called for a Hunt. Truly a wonderous event, and we have none other than ‘King’ Renholm to thank.” Somehow, she managed to make the word King sound like the foulest curse on the planet. “And, of course, his unconventional champion, Duke Boyd Knight, Vigil of Justice and Servant to our sworn enemy.”

While she spoke, her eyes never left me. They burned with anger and hate. With murder. This lady was trouble with a capital T, and I needed to watch my back, because she was definitely going to try to shiv me in the kidney the second I let my guard down.

“In honor of the momentous occasion, I thought it appropriate to offer a gift to our honored guests for giving us a reason to gather once more. King Renholm, Champion Boyd, please approach the dais and receive a humble offering, given from the goodness of my heart.”

Melwyn nudged me in the ribs with an elbow. “Don’t be an idiot. Now is not the time to be bold,” she hissed under her breath. “Like I said before, refusing a gift from a sovereign is gravely discourteous. Accept it and play nice.”

Reluctantly, I padded toward the throne. The crowd parted for me, creating an unobstructed path right to the foot of the staircase. Renholm beat me there, riding on the back of Jacob-Francis. The stable hands had taken the cat along with Darksilver, but apparently the feline had very different ideas about where he belonged—and it damn well wasn’t in a stable.

“Your gift,” the Queen said formally. She reached a hand into a pool of nearby shadow and pulled something out. She tossed it onto the floor without an ounce of ceremony. The “gift” rolled down the stairs with a series of wet thumps, before coming to a stop at my feet. The glassy eyes of a very dead Elduin stared up at me. A puddle of gore pooled beneath the jagged stump of his neck. “My dearest servant and advisor, Gobhoill, informed me that you encountered a bit of misfortune on the way here, and that Elduin did nothing to aid you.”

She pursed her lips and tsked disapprovingly.

“I feel truly awful,” she said. “To think, you could’ve been injured or killed while so very close to my kingdom. What a terrible shame that would’ve been, no? Elduin was an expert navigator, one of the best in the Wylds, but such cowardice and incompetence is simply not tolerated in my court. Failure is met with swift and painful justice, which I thought was a befitting tribute to you, a Vigil of Justice.”

Though she was speaking to us, it was clear the message carried a double meaning. Elduin hadn’t been punished and killed for cowardice—he’d been murdered for failure. The bloody head staring up at me was a warning to all of the other members of her court: it didn’t matter how valuable they were, if they failed, they would be punished. Harshly.

“We most graciously accept your gift,” I said, picking up the head by the bloody strands of hair. It was gross, but I didn’t let that show on my face. “Elduin’s impotence was a terrible reflection on you and your court,” I said, “so I’m glad you fixed the issue. As for this—we’ll put it to good use.” I turned toward Renholm. “My liege?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” the Pookah said, taking to wing. “The food here at your party is a joke. Finally, something good to eat.” The elf’s head was almost as big as Renholm, but it didn’t matter. Renholm lurched forward, his jaw unhinging like a python’s. His adorable, fennec fox face stretched and distorted, revealing a horrifying maw that was far too large for his tiny stature. The whole head slipped down his gullet and disappeared into his belly. A meal that size should’ve inflated him like a balloon. Instead, it disappeared by some trick of spatial magic I didn’t fully understand.

“Delicious,” he said, stifling a burp with one tiny fist.

“We actually happened to get you something, too,” I said while Renholm licked his lips free from congealed blood. “Though I really have egg on my face, since we got you the same thing.” I reached behind my back and pulled out a canvas sack that had been hanging from my belt, carefully concealed by my cloak. I yanked out what was inside and lobbed it underhand toward her. The rocky head of a Lesser Crystalline Elemental landed on top of her dais. “I figured you could pass it around to your guards so they would know what to do the next time a monster attacks one of your honored guests.”

A shocked murmur spread through the assembled onlookers like wildfire while the Queen coolly regarded the head at her feet.

Our gift had a double meaning too, one that I thought was pretty damned clear.

9

Rules of the Game

“Although I’m sure you’ve all enjoyed the lovely hospitality of my realm,” the Queen said after Gobhoill had removed my “gift,” “we have not come here simply to enjoy fine food or reminiscence about days long since past. No, not at all.” She extended a delicate hand and twirled one finger. A black rose materialized in the air, spinning slowly. I’d received a rose exactly like that one a few weeks back—my “invitation” to the Hunt.

“We have come as is our obligation and commitment,” she continued, “because I have called the Hunt—which is my right as undisputed sovereign over the Realm of Oblivion.”

A few of the guests nervously shifted from foot to foot. We’d come to the heart of the issue, and if there was going to be open violence, I had no doubt that it would happen now. I steeled myself, preparing to summon my Soul Bound weapons.

“Yet, there is one that would dispute my claim,” she said. The words were as cold as the arctic tundra. “Renholm of Greenbriar—or excuse me, Renholm, King of Oblivion.”

A round of cruel laughter broke out among the assembled guests. Queen Ionia let the laughter continue for a painfully long time before she finally raised a hand and called for silence.

“Now, such a claim obviously cannot stand,” she said. “There cannot be two Oblivion Courts. The easiest way for us to resolve our dispute is for you to relinquish your claim.” She fixed her cruel gaze on Renholm. “Admittedly, you do wield a small sliver of Chaos—a magic that is ours by right—which is the only thing giving your ridiculous claim any credence at all. But there can be no real question about who the true Archfae of Oblivion is.”

She swept a hand around at the grand ballroom.

“Esteemed guests, your eyes should tell the truth plain enough. Perhaps this miscreant draws on the power of Oblivion, but let common sense be your guide in the matter. I have ruled this court for the past five hundred years. I fought beside the Ghostblood of the Sapphire City. I’ve stared into the Void and communed with the Old Ones. An army stands ready to serve my desires, while Renholm of Greenbriar is merely a disgruntled pixie with an inflated sense of self-importance and a dank cave in the mountain passes above Ironmoor. Little one,” she said to Renholm in the most patronizing tone possible, “will you see reason and relinquish your claim?”

I resisted the urge to throw back my head and cackle. Renholm never saw reason.

Everything she said made sense, but using a logical argument was the worst possible strategy with him. She needed to stroke his ego or appeal to his greedy nature. Embarrassing him in front of these nobles was a guaranteed way to get him to dig his heels in.

Renholm floated into the air, head held high, chest puffed out in pride. “The Chaos magic flowing through my veins makes me a claimant, and I will not relinquish my claim to the Jagged Throne, because I am the one true monarch of Oblivion.”

She offered him a smile that never came close to touching her eyes. “As I suspected. And since I am also unwilling to relinquish my crown, for what should be obvious reasons, we find ourselves at something of an impasse. Of course, I could simply snuff the life from your frail, pathetic little body… You are nothing while I am the vassal for a god older and more powerful than time itself. But war…” She trailed off, letting the word linger in the air.

“I think we can all agree war is for lesser beings. A thousand years ago the Courts went to war. The Black Days we called it. Few of even the eldest Fae remember those days, but I do. I was but a youngling during the wars, but I remember them all too well. Cities decimated. Thrones shattered like pottery. Blood ran in rivers and the bodies were piled so high they seemed to brush the heavens above. Terrible weapons were built. Unspeakable acts were committed that could’ve been the death of us all. The end of the Wylds.

“When the Accords were settled, the ironclad rules of hospitality were established—set forever in unbreakable stone—and the Disciples of the True Moon took their solemn oaths for the preservation of us all.” She nodded at Gobhoill. “The Disciples are neutral peacekeepers meant to help mediate conflict between the courts so that such widespread destruction and violence are never visited upon our lands again. It is they who envisioned the Grand Hunt. Trial by combat, meant to reveal the truth and resolve such messy, ugly conflicts in a more civilized manner.

“As the offended party,” she continued, “I have called the Hunt, but it is not fitting for a monarch to fight such a battle, and doubly so since I am the Caller. Gobhoill shall act as Master of Ceremonies since I do not want there to be even a whiff of impropriety where the Hunt is concerned. It is for this reason that I am appointing Sir Jeffery the Stalwart, Herald of Eternal Twilight, to serve in my stead. He shall be my hands and feet. He shall wield my blade and draw the string of my bow. Come forth, my champion!”

The clopping of hooves reverberated off the high ceilings as the crowd parted once again and a newcomer approached.

“Jeffery,” Renholm snarled, his tiny hands curling into fists. “I should’ve known she would choose you, my eternal nemesis.”

Jeffery stood seven feet tall, was built like a tank, had four beef-slab arms, and wore heavy obsidian armor that looked like it was made from dried magma. He had a comically oversized sword that belonged in a late-night anime series strapped to his back. His legs were powerfully muscled and ended in black hooves, and he had the head of a horse, with a piercing purple horn jutting up from his forehead. He was like the unholy love child of a minotaur and a unicorn. But with four arms.

He was a goddamned manicorn.

“That’s Jeffery?” I growled at Renholm under my breath. “Are you fucking kidding me? I thought it was another pixie, not fucking Horse Goro from Mortal Kombat.”

“I will confess that he has changed some since last I saw him,” the Pookah replied softly, “but that is most assuredly him. I would know those beady, spiteful eyes no matter what face they peer out of.”

Great, as if I didn’t have enough to worry about.

“Sir Jeffery the Stalwart will command our forces, but he won’t be alone. It is known that the most challenging hunts require compatriots, and the deadliest beasts cannot be slain alone. Joining Sir Jeffery in this most exalted contest are the knights from our allied courts. Narvik, Host of the Fell. Aymer the Primeval. Shuri, Arc-Healer of the Six Nightmares. Iret, who hails from the Throne of Tears. Khapi, representing the Emissaries of the Four Seasons. Drusk, Warmaster of Araethyrea. Bogen CrowEye, of the Sibylline. Ku-Aya, Seer of the Hallowed Memory. And Elyon, Seductress of the House of Lust.”

A squad of monsters and killers formed a neat line in front of the throne as Ionia called out the names, flanking Jeffery on the left and right. Most were humanoid, though they were all far from human. Beast men, demons, elves, one of those spider people with face tentacles. There was even a guy—or maybe girl, it was hard to tell—that was just a giant praying mantis with honest-to-God swords for arms.

Some wore elegant robes while others were decked out in fine leathers, perfect for stealth, or elaborate scale male that radiated subtle magic. A few wore heavy armor crafted from bone and stone, though none wore metal of any kind. Their weapons were as varied as the wielders—daggers, bows, swords, halberds, spears—but like their armor, all were made from forged glass or sharpened obsidian.

It was a reminder that I had one advantage over these assholes. Cold Iron. It was a small thing, but something I was sure I could use to my advantage.

“And standing in opposition,” Ionia continued, “are the assorted champions and allies representing Renholm of Greenbriar, the pixie who would be king. It is with great honor that I present your champion, Boyd Knight, Inkarnate Vigil and servant of Raguel the Mad, Butcher of the Exalted Ones, and Lady Melwyn, Princess of Petals.”

Raguel the Mad? Butcher of the Exalted Ones? Those were titles that I’d never heard before. I was pretty sure that even muttering those words anywhere in Wildespell was a good way to end up tied to a stake and set on fire for blasphemy. But it was a firm reminder that there were two sides to every story, and it showed exactly how bad the blood was between my boss and hers.

While I silently mused, Melwyn scooted up beside me, her head held high even though we were vastly outnumbered. She didn’t look at all fazed by the fact that we were in an enemy stronghold, badly outnumbered and staring down some of the deadliest warriors in the Fae Realms.

Cal hadn’t even bothered to stop munching on the hors d’oeuvres, which showed just how concerned he was.

“We greet these exalted champions with the utmost reverence,” Ionia said with a slight dip of her head in acknowledgement. “The trials to come shall not be easy, but we have confidence in the strength of your arm, the skill of your hand, and the cunning guile of your mind. It has been many long years since the last Hunt and there are many newcomers amongst our ranks”—her eyes lingered on me—“so Gobhoill will graciously explain the rules of the competition.” She waved a hand toward the giant Sasquatch. “If you would?”

“Of course, honored Queen,” Gobhoill replied with a bow. He took a step forward and cleared his throat. “First, let it be known that as the Master of Ceremonies, I shall oversee all aspects of the Hunt. In this contest of strength, will, and guile, my word is as law. As is tradition, each of the Great Houses has provided a hunter to remind us that a conflict between two courts is a conflict between all. As for the game we shall pursue, our prey are not merely crude beasts of the earth—for what sport could there truly be in that with hunters as powerful as these? No, our prey is the deadliest beast. All of the human variety.”

The hairs along my neck stood stiff at attention. Come again? They wanted us to hunt what now? I had no problem hacking a Mortka into fun-sized meat chunks, but hunting people was another story entirely. I’d killed men before, and a few women too, but that was in a war zone where it had been them or me. This was different somehow. I was a killer, but not a murderer—and there was definitely a distinction.

Based on the smug look painted on Ionia’s face, she’d known I would have reservations about this.

“As the Caller,” Gobhoill said, his rich baritone carrying easily across the hall, “Queen Ionia has selected three targets, each of whom have struck a soul-bargain. Be it for coin, fame, power, health, or revenge, these men and women have made an unholy pact and reaped unearned benefits, granted by the power of a dark god—Telvyss, the Void Tree of the Endless Night. Now it is time for them to pay what is due, and you hunters shall collect the bounty. The location and identities of these soul debtors is a mystery, but I have crafted a series of cryptic clues that will reveal the truth. Each champion will receive one clue.”

A single, thick finger rose into the air.

“Allied champions shall work together with one simple goal in mind,” he said. “Be the first team to find the wayward soul and collect it before the other team can. Although doing so may not be as easy as you think.” There was a dark glimmer of malice in his eyes. “These wretched, lost souls will do anything to stave off the inevitable, and the dark power of Chaos can be… unpredictable at best. A new clue shall be given for each subsequent hunt. The first team to collect two bounties will be declared the winner of the Hunt.”

“Wait, so let me get this straight,” I said, brow furrowed in annoyance. “Not only do you want us to hunt people, but her team is going to get ten clues because she has ten champions, and ours is going to get two?”

“Indeed,” Gobhoill said, sounding a little disgruntled at the interruption.

“How is that fucking fair?” I shot back.

“I’m sorry, were you under the impression that the world is fair?” Ionia asked, scorn lacing every single word. “Because it is not. Those with power always have a greater advantage than those without. This contest is for the fate of the Oblivion Throne, and the Hunt reflects the power dynamics already in play. Look around. We are strong. You are weak. As in nature, the strong prevail and the weak end up as dinner. When you lose, you shall meet a quick death—or a slow and painful one depending on the mood I’m in. Perhaps this will teach you and your god not to meddle in the affairs of your betters.”

The affairs of your betters? The words were like a slap to the face.

People like her had been looking down on me and doubting me my whole life. They thought less of me because I came from the backwoods of Kentucky. Because I’d never gone to college. Because I knew more about coal mining and hunting than I did about the stock market or fine art. But I wasn’t dumb, and those who underestimated me had a way of ending up buried in a shallow grave. Ionia was about to find that out the hard way, no matter how rigged this game was.

“The Queen has the right of it,” Gobhoill added. “This may seem odd to one not born of our world, but to us power begets power. She has more and thus her advantages are amplified many times over. As for the rules of the Hunt, there is only one that is true and unbreakable. Join the Hunt or become the Hunted. I understand that you may feel some moral compunction against partaking, but should you refuse to participate for any reason, you shall become the new target of the Hunt. The Fae laws of hospitality continue to apply, but once we leave this place and we convene the games, your safety is your own priority.”

He reached into his patch-covered cloak and pulled out a velvety pouch. His fingers dipped into the sack and retrieved a smooth stone with a rune expertly carved into the surface. “Each stone contains a single clue about the target of the first hunt. They will be given at random and you will have two days to prepare—then the horn will sound and the first leg of the contest will begin in earnest. Strength. Knowledge. Guile. Authority. Resources. These are the tools of power. Use them wisely, for there are a great many challenges to come.”

10

Fight Dirty

The party continued to rage after the official announcement, but Cal, Renholm, and I didn’t much feel like hanging around with the inhuman assholes trying to murder us. So instead, we very politely said our goodbyes and made a tactical exit before some Fae noble got drunk and tried to earn brownie points with Ionia by challenging me to a duel or trying to roofie my drink and harvest my organs. With our escort dead—and his head in Renholm’s stomach—we had to find our own way out of the Fae Wylds, which would’ve been damn near a death sentence if not for Melwyn’s help.

Turned out, she was almost as good a navigator as Elduin, which I figured would come in handy not too far down the road.

With her behind the wheel, we made it back to the Starlake Keep without running into anything nasty enough to write home about. Sure, there were a couple of critters that crossed our path, but they scurried away the second they caught wind of us. Time worked strangely in the Fae Realm, and the sky was stained with the steel gray fingers of early pre-dawn by the time we got back to Starlake. Arturo had battened down the hatches and all the workers and servants were tucked away in their rooms while our Fae troops continued to stand watch against incursions.

Melwyn took a long look around the garden with a frown of disapproval on her beautiful face. She regarded the weeds and the winter barren patches of land as though they were sentient creatures that had dropped trou and taken a steaming dump right in front of her. The general disarray of my lawn seemed to offend her far more than getting roped into a deadly hunt and being threatened by the dark queen of the fairies. She was a lady with a clear set of priorities.

Not priorities that made a single lick of sense to me, but priorities all the same.

“Well, this just won’t do, will it?” she said, as much for herself as for me. “But it can wait, I suppose.” She pursed her lips and let out a long sigh. “It’ll have to wait. There’re too many other things to do.”

I dropped Darksilver off at the stables and went through the familiar motions of tending to him—no point in rousing an old-timer like Miko for something I was more than capable of doing myself. I fed my horse a few Jetru berries for being a good boy and slaying my enemies, then loosened the cinch, removed his tack and armor, and looked him over for any sores. He was made of stern stuff and was tougher than a concrete machine gunner nest, so I didn’t find any issues, but the process was still soothing for both of us.

After that, I rubbed him down, picked out his hooves just to be safe, then put him up in the stable.

Cal and Renholm were both already upstairs in my office, introducing Arturo to Melwyn. I could tell at a glance that the padre was both flustered by and smitten with the horned woman. It was hard not to be.

“So what exactly do you think it means?” Arturo was asking as I came into the room. He held the smooth stone Gobhoill had given Melwyn in one rough hand. He ran a thumb over the odd mark carved into its polished face.

“It’s a star map,” the princess said as though it should be self-evident. “They aren’t all that common among your people, but among ours, aligning the stars is one of the easiest touchpoints for walking the Wylds.” She bent over and lightly plucked the stone from Arturo’s hand. The priest gulped audibly and averted his eyes from the magnificent cleavage on full display. The grin on Melwyn’s face told me she knew exactly what she was doing.

She straightened and channeled a thin trickle of Arcana into the stone. The rune immediately lit up like a Christmas tree, projecting a series of glittering dots into the air above her.

“You see there? The Vermilion Vulture. And that’s the Northern Broom.” She squinted and stuck a finger out. “That cluster is the Merchant’s Wheel.”

“I was tutored by the finest minds of Brezneik,” Arturo replied rather stiffly. “Trained with the Templars of the Queen’s banner and learned untold magics from the magi of the Golden Chalice. I know what a star map is. My question is, how will this help you and Boyd locate the target?”

“Same question,” I added, shutting the door behind me with a soft click. “They taught us how to use star formations back in Land Nav, but that just generally helps with direction and orientation.”

“This isn’t like that,” she said, shaking her head, “though I understand your confusion. This is a location marker. We Fae can use a variety of unique abilities to move through the Etheric and Material to travel great distances by folding and shaping the land. This star pattern is a reflection of the sky over our destination. This alone is not enough to let us travel there, but with a few other markers it would let a decent navigator pinpoint the location. Let’s see what you got, Sir Boyd.”

“Don’t call me sir, I work for a living,” I corrected her before taking out the stone Gobhoill had given me. Mine was a deep brown to her amber and had a different rune engraved into the face. Following her example, I channeled a trickle of power into the clue. The rune flared to life, but nothing else happened that I could tell.

I shot a quizzical look at Arturo, who shrugged.

“Yeah, I got nothin’ here, buddy,” Cal replied, just as useful as ever.

“Am I doing something wrong?” I asked, cutting off the subtle trickle of power.

“For being a Vigil, you are such a human,” Melwyn replied softly, though there was no malice in her tone. “The stone releases a scent, imperceptible to even your heightened senses, it seems. But to an experienced navigator that unique smell is a story.” She paused, closed her eyes, and lifted her nose toward some unfelt breeze. “I can taste early spring. The cold breeze blowing off the high passes of a mountain. The sharp bite of a stream and the rot of leaves and turned earth. I taste chimney smoke—acrid and sharp—and the terrible reek of unwashed bodies. Of utter filth. Of death. Another location marker.”

“Is that enough for you to figure out where we need to be?” I asked, pocketing the stone.

She grimaced and shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. Perhaps, if I had a keener sense of smell. As it is, I’ll need a third location point. In truth, we were lucky to get these two. Though the last hunt happened many years before I ever took my first breath, I read the old histories in preparation. Location markers are common, but there are also riddles, puzzles, even pictures. These two are straightforward, at least.”

Well shit, that wasn’t what I was hoping to hear. “Then it sounds like we need a game plan.” I dropped into one of the leather chairs. “A game plan and another stone. More information. With ten clues, Jeffery’s team is going to have the target pinned down in next to no time and I can guarantee they aren’t going to wait for the horn to sound before they start hunting.” I drummed my fingers on the armrest as I thought. “Hunt or be hunted—that’s the only rule, right?”

“Well, technically yes,” Melwyn replied, eyeing me with curiosity, “but there are certain other rules of etiquette surrounding the Hunt. According to the lore, it’s generally considered bad form to murder another champion outright. And only chosen Hunters are allowed to participate in the Kill itself. But those are guidelines more than ironclad rules, and there is a lot of wiggle room—especially on that last point. Many Hunters utilize beasts, and knights often have a dedicated squire that may assist to some degree.”

“But, just to make sure we’re on the same page,” I said, “those are only guidelines. The only firm rule is hunt or be hunted, right?”

“Yes,” Melwyn replied again, this time sounding a little nervous. “Technically that is correct.”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Cal asked, already perking up.

“Does what you’re thinking involve murder and larceny?” I asked.

“Well, it doesn’t involve baking brownies and getting drunk,” Cal replied.

“Wait, I’m sorry, what’s happening?” Arturo said, shooting confused glances between me and Cal. “Murder and thievery? But you’re a Vigil. And not just any Vigil, a Vigil of Justice, ordained by Raguel himself. You can’t go around committing random crimes.”

“First of all, these aren’t random crimes,” I said, “these are very specific crimes. And second, Raguel picked me, not the other way around. If he wanted a rule follower, he had a whole universe to choose from. But here I am, which is an implied endorsement as far as I’m concerned. Also, there’s a bit more to the story than you might realize. While we were rubbing elbows with the Queen and her lackeys, I got the mother of all bounties from the big guy himself. Turns out, we don’t just need to win the Hunt—we need to figure out a way to bring down Telvyss the Void Tree at all costs.”

The breath caught in Arturo’s throat, and he let out a strangled croak.

“Raguel tasked you with killing a Chaos Titan? But that’s…”

“Impossible?” I finished for him.

He grimaced and ran a hand through his lank, greasy hair. “Aye, that’s probably the best word for it,” he agreed. “Though if you were going to die, I suppose there would be no greater honor than doing so to cleanse the universe of such an evil creature as that.”

“Yeah, I’ve already died once, Padre,” I said, “and like I said before, I have no intention of diving on another grenade if I can avoid it. I want to find a way to take out the Void Tree and live to see another day. And the way I figure it, the easiest way to do that is to help Renholm win his stupid war against Ionia, which means winning the Hunt.” I paused, lips pressed into a thin line, and glanced at Melwyn. “With that said, you didn’t sign up for this, so if you want out now, I won’t hold it against you.”

“That’s really big of you, bro,” Cal said. “Honestly, I was getting pretty burnt out on this whole spirit guide thing.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, doofus,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “For better or worse, we’re stuck together until the end.”

“As am I,” Renholm added with a gusto. “When first we met, I only partnered with you because you were foolish, gullible, and easily manipulated. Since then, you have proven that you can also make me wealthy and powerful. But after you saved me when I was on death’s very door, I made a pledge to serve you. As you say, we are ride or die, and my loyalty shall never waver. Unless it is convenient or advantageous in some way,” he amended as an afterthought.

“Why are you the way you are?” Cal asked the fairy. “Did your mother drop you on the head as a sprite?”

“Pixies don’t have mothers, at least not as you humans do,” he said. “We evolve from sprites which are born in egg clutches, fertilized by a passing sire—much the way salmon are born. Although there is a great deal more violence in our births. We have to fight and kill our clutch siblings for sustenance, you see.”

Melwyn ignored Cal and Renholm as they bickered; her face was an unreadable mask. “I’d be lying if I said I thought this was a good idea,” she said after a long, thoughtful pause. “I’m not even sure it’s possible to destroy a Chaos Titan, but my father has a burning hatred for Ionia that surpasses reason. If we can pull this off and unseat Ionia in the process, nothing would please him more. And since I’m a hopeless daddy’s girl, nothing would please me more.” She shrugged and spread her hands. “I’m in.”

She was hot and had daddy issues, which was a truly terrible combination. “God, but I hope that doesn’t awaken anything inside me,” I muttered under my breath.

“Well, you can count my war staff among your number as well.” Arturo stood from behind the desk and bowed his head in reverence. “There is no worthier cause and even though you have moved on and established yourself within the Citadel, I still feel some small sense of obligation to you, Boyd. I helped you find your footing in this world, and I intend to help you keep it.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Padre,” I said, “but you can’t come along for this. For the time being, I need you back in Ironmoor.”

He seemed to stiffen at my words. “I’m no coward, Boyd. Just because I think you’re a fool for getting yourself into this mess doesn’t mean I’ll abandon you in your hour of need. I owe you my life twice over, and I’m more than willing to fight at your side. Let these Fae heathens try me and see what the wrath of a Steelborn Magi tastes like.”

“As much as I value your reckless fanaticism and utter disregard for your own safety,” I replied, “I’m not doing this to protect you. I’ve seen you in a battle—I know you can handle yourself.”

“Then why?” he asked, sounding mildly crestfallen. “Surely opening the mines can’t be more important than taking on a Chaos Titan. Battling one of the Primordial Evils is the dream of every Arbitrator. There could be no greater mission or nobler death. Please, Boyd, reconsider.”

I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Padre, sometimes I worry about you. Most normal people dream about winning the lottery or having a threesome, not fighting an Eldritch evil beyond human comprehension. That’s not normal. When this is all over, I’m gonna pay for you to have a nice, long vacation. But if it’ll make you feel any better, I promise that when we finally take a run at the Void Tree you can come along for the ride.”

“I will admit that does make me feel a little better,” he said, sounding mollified, “though I still fail to see why the mines must be opened with such great urgency.”

“Because I have a gut feeling that those mines are the key to beating Ionia. If the opening ceremonies in Mythis Syve taught me anything is that we aren’t gonna win this thing by brute strength alone. We need to make friends and strip away some of Ionia’s key support among the other noble courts. Gobhoill mentioned resources several times and I think maybe he was trying to give me a hint.

“We might not have a lot,” I continued, “but one of the biggest Selitrium mines in Kelkadia ain’t nothing either, especially since it turns out these Fae chucklefucks have a major hard on for Selitrium. I’m not above buying a little extra loyalty, and I figure a cartful of precious ore will make one helluva good bride. But first, we need to get things up and operational. Which is why I need you in Ironmoor.”

“I don’t like it,” the priest mumbled, “but I suppose I see the wisdom in it.”

“Glad you’re not gonna fight me tooth and nail,” I said. “While I’m dropping Arturo off in Ironmoor, we need to figure out how to find Jeffery and the rest of his buddies. Any ideas?” I asked.

“Never fear, my blundering sidekick,” Renholm said, puffing out his sunken chest. “I had an inkling that we might need to track our enemies, which is why I managed to procure a little souvenir before leaving the ceremonies.” From a pouch at his belt, Renholm pulled out a tiny lock of hair, tied with a length of red silk.

“Is… is that hair?” I asked.

“Indeed,” the Pookah confirmed. “Taken from that cad, Jeffery.”

Cal bent down and examined the hair. “Dude, this is braided. There’s no way you stole this tonight. How long have you had this?”

“My private affairs are none of your concern, you impotent pillock,” Renholm replied with a scowl.

“First off,” Cal said, putting one hand to his chest, “no one has ever complained about my frank and beans, and second, you can’t call me a pillock. I’m pretty sure that’s super racist. I mean, it definitely sounds super racist.”

“It means bumbling idiot,” Renholm spat, his eyes narrowing to slits. “And I believe you’ve just made my point. Now, where I got the hair is immaterial. All you need to know is that I can use it to track Jeffery, and wherever he is, there we will find the other champions as well. They’ll be sniffing around him like lapdogs, hoping to eat the scraps from his table. Jeffery doesn’t value independent thinkers, which is part of the reason we had our falling out in the first place. Trust me, I can find him.”

Those two words, trust me, set my teeth on edge. I trusted Renholm the same way I trusted a hungry shark: I trusted him to do what was best for Renholm. At the same time, the Pookah had proven time and again that he could be resourceful and clever when it suited him. He was also like a bloodhound when it came to tracking people. Still, this was probably a terrible plan. But it was also the best option we had at the moment.

“Alright, here’s what we’re gonna do. Renholm, you’re gonna track down Jeffery and his crew of turd bags, but you’re not going to engage them under any circumstances. If we’re going to make this work, we’ll need the element of surprise. Once you’ve figured out where they’re holed up, I want you to report back here. Think you can handle that?”

“I’m insulted that you would even question my competence,” Renholm replied.

“The last time I asked you to track someone down and report back I found you missing a leg and bleeding out all over my bed, so I feel like my concerns are warranted.”

“That was one time,” Renholm said with a sniff, “and I have complete and unwavering belief in my abilities.”

“That makes one of us,” I replied.

“The Champions of Ionia are some of the most powerful warriors in the Wylds,” Melwyn said. “Do you truly plan to launch a raid against them? Not that I’m complaining, but surely such an attack would be suicide.”

“Only if we fight fair,” I said, “and I never fight fair, not if I can help it. Which is why we’re going to need a little help. Cal, while Renholm is out gathering recon, I need you to get your ass over to the Citadel and round up Pascow. He’s crotchety and doesn’t like leaving his workshop, but just let him know the score and that it’s urgent. He won’t like it, but he’ll come to play if you ask nicely. And if you have to sweeten the pot, tell him that I’ll make sure he gets an extra share from our first Selitrium haul.”

“This sounds like it’s going to be a disaster,” Melwyn said, clapping her hands in excitement. “I’m so glad I decided to participate in the Hunt. Things can get so dull around the Court. I want to make myself useful as well, so while you boys are all running around like mad, I’ll do a little light housework around here.”

“Not sure if you are aware, Princess,” Arturo said softly, “but the manor is fully staffed. There’s certainly no need for you to dirty your hands with chores and such.”

“That is so precious.” She beamed at him with a gracious smile. “But I wasn’t talking about sweeping the corridors or playing chef in the kitchen. No, I was talking about the manor’s perimeter defenses and security protocols. Not to be too harsh, but your battlements are a joke, the siege equipment mounted on your roof is wildly outdated, and I spotted every one of the little sentries you have tucked away in the trees. You may not believe in a fair fight, but neither do the Fae. Knowing Jeffery and his ilk, I have no doubt they have already dispatched someone to murder us all. But by the time I get done sprucing things up, I will make them pay in blood for stepping even a single toe on these grounds.”

The whole room fell silent, and Cal, Art, and I shared nervous glances with each other. Princess Melwyn was the embodiment of femininity and looked far better suited to dancing at balls than brawling on the battlefield, but she oozed confidence. Suddenly I was seeing her in a new light. She was hot, crazy, and clearly very, very capable. I needed to keep an eye on her, especially since there was a damn good chance she was going to stab me in the back at some point.

“Sounds like a good plan,” I reluctantly agreed. “And when Cal gets back with Pascow, feel free to ask him to give you a hand. He can build damn near anything. There’s just one thing. Like the padre said, we have a variety of human servants and staff living here and I don’t want them harmed in any way.”

“It won’t a problem at all, I can assure you,” she said, before turning on a heel and heading toward the door. My brain seemed to momentarily short-circuit as I stopped to watch her walk away. I wasn’t the only one. Cal’s eyes were locked on the woman as she swayed across the floor, her hips moving to some unheard melody, and Arturo was trying hard to look literally anywhere else. He was only partially successful. Her movements were downright hypnotic. She was good looking, but this was more than that. It was fae magic, fucking around with our heads.

Whatever my next build was, it was damn sure going to have Mind Vault.

“Be cautious of that one, Boyd,” Arturo said softly as the door finally slid shut behind Melwyn. He was hunched forward, forearms resting against the edge of the desk. “I know little about the Court of Petals, but I know plenty about the Fae, and the sweetest, most delectable fruits of the Wylds are often the most poisonous as well.”

“I appreciate the heads-up, but I already have a firm policy about not sleeping with potential suspects. Especially not when I’m working a bounty. The mission comes first. Always.”

“Be cautious all the same,” he said while gathering his war staff. “That one has trouble etched into every line of her body.” He cleared his throat. “Now, if there’s nothing else to do, let us be off to Ironmoor. I regret that I won’t be riding out with you, but truth be told, I could use a decent beer and I’ve grown rather found of Maggie’s sour ale.”

11

No Place Like Home

The trip from Wildespell to Ironmoor was a two- to three-week ride, depending on the weather and how hard you were willing to push your mount. I knew from personal experience because I’d had to make the trek before first snowfall… and had failed spectacularly. Which is how I’d ended up on the wrong end of a pair of Arcane Suppression Manacles with a burlap sack over my head. On Darksilver, I probably could’ve made the ride in a week, but we didn’t have a week to kill, much less two.

Thankfully, I’d discovered a loophole that let me game the system.

I absently brushed my fingers across the leather pouch at my side, feeling the fat ruby I’d looted off the Ratking’s disgusting corpse. That stone was the key to the exploit, and now that I had it, getting to Ironmoor would take a matter of minutes instead of weeks.

I grabbed Arturo’s shoulder with one hand and slapped my other against the floating orb hanging above the altar in my study. A familiar buzz of divine energy enveloped us as the world tilted on edge. My office in Starlake Keep disappeared in a blink and I stepped into my Soul Vault—though this time, I had a guest in tow. Arturo stumbled out behind me, his eyes bulging as he looked around in wonder and shock.

I’d visited Pascow’s Soul Vault while in Wildespell, but this was the first time I’d ever brought someone into mine.

“By the divine,” Arturo muttered, awestruck. “I’ve read descriptions and accounts from other Arbitrators blessed to see behind the veil, but none of them do it justice.” He craned his head back, peering at the infinite sprawl of stars above. He spun in a slow circle, taking it all in. “It’s incredible. Indescribable.” He dropped his head, gaze landing like a hammer blow on my avatar. “It’s you,” he said, beard waggling as he shook his head. “This is where you unlock your Wards, yes?”

“Got it in one,” I said, shooting him a finger gun. “Now come on. I know this is like a big deal for you, but we’ve got places to be.”

He looked gutted at my words. Crestfallen. I sighed and reminded myself that Arturo was a true believer. Getting a chance to step into the Soul Vault of a Vigil was the next best thing to meeting Raguel face-to-face.

I grimaced and absently rubbed my hands together. “You want the tour?” I asked reluctantly, hoping he would say no, but knowing he would say yes. We did have places to be, but this would only take a few minutes and it would make his week. Hell, it would make his year.

“Gods, yes,” he replied, eager as a kid on Christmas morning.

He reached into one of the deep sleeves of his cassock and pulled out a small journal, along with a stick of charcoal, used for writing on the go.

“Mind if I take a few notes? There hasn’t been an Inkarnate in more than two hundred years, and the records we have from the last Inkarnate are precious few—most of them were destroyed during the Hundred Years’ War.” He dropped his voice. “I’ve been writing a detailed account of everything that happens. All of your bounties and battles. Your history. I intend for it to be the most complete chronicle of an Inkarnate ever inked. A bit ambitious, I know, but who is better suited to the task than I?”

Arturo looked like a professional wrestler, but though he could hold his own in a fight, his two true loves were drinking and books. I wasn’t quite sure which he liked more, to be honest. If anyone was going to write all this shit down for posterity’s sake, might as well be him. And if it helped the next poor schmuck that got roped into this job, all the better.

I sighed. “Alright, this way.” I waved for him to follow me.

There were six large alcoves that branched off from the central entry hall where my avatar slowly spun. Since Arturo was such a book nerd, I started with the library, which held an ever-growing list of tomes. Many of the books lining the shelves had come stock with the Soul Vault. Divine Bounty Log. The Handbook of the Vigilant. A Vigil’s Bestiary. Pellervo’s Guide to the Soul Forge. A Brief History of Raguel the Five-Faced God. Grimoire of Virtues.

All were useful in their own way.

The Handbook talked through the basics of being a Vigil, while the grimoire covered, in detail, all of the Expanded Ward abilities that I had access to and offered recommended class build suggestions. Pellervo’s Guide taught would-be soul smiths how to operate the Forge, create blueprints, and build weapon and armor skins, while the Bestiary automatically recorded any creatures I encountered and managed to kill.

Along with the stock titles were a metric shit ton of weapon skin blueprints, many of them for firearms I’d worked with before taking one for the team and ending up here. I’d done a stint attached to the Armory, and I knew the insides and outsides of damn near every weapon the Marine Corps employed and a fair few it didn’t—at least not officially. I’d also added additional tomes and scrolls whenever I stumbled across one in the real world.

A Treatise on the Fell Creatures of Oblivion, penned by Cnaeus Avidius Galvisius, had been invaluable in taking down the Chaos Aberration stalking the streets of Wildespell. Beside it sat a trio of Legacy Scrolls, which I still hadn’t read yet.

Legacy Scrolls were powerful magic and worth more than their weight in gold—but they were also permanent, so activating one was a big decision.

Raguel had given me access to the Ascendant System, which allowed me to unlock spells, skills, and abilities from the five Wards, which represented the five aspects of Raguel—Justice, Valor, Balance, Wrath, and Truth. But those skills weren’t static. They could grow more powerful over time through use and training. Obtaining true mastery of a skill or spell could take years and years, but doing so was worth the price of admission since unraveling a deeper understanding would add additional effects to the base ability.

But there was a quicker way to get those extra effects.

That’s where Legacy Scrolls came into play.

When Vigils with Legacy Abilities passed away or died in combat, that knowledge remained behind in the form of a codified Legacy Scroll. Those Scrolls were the culmination of a Vigil’s knowledge about a specific skill, and reading the symbol enshrined on each scroll imprinted that knowledge directly upon the soul of the reader, granting them the same Legacy Ability. But—and this was key—reading the scroll destroyed it, and moreover, it was only possible to have one Legacy Ability attached to each skill, and those I couldn’t change.

Pascow had gifted me the Scroll of Celestial Scrivening, which would augment my Sage Smith ability, allowing me to add specialty sigils to weapon and armor skins I created. The second Scroll I’d taken off the corpse of Kol—a corrupt Vigil of Balance who’d served under Telent. The Path of Bestial Form Scroll enhanced the capstone ability Totem Bound, from the Ward of Balance. The last was a Fatemarked Legacy Scroll called Ruler of the Thrones, which I’d been gifted directly from Raguel for killing the Chaos Aberration.

That one was the most powerful of the bunch by far and augmented my Language of the Heavens Boon. I’d need to do something with that sooner or later, but not yet. I wasn’t ready for the trouble that was going to bring.

Arturo furiously scribbled notes as we moved from the library and into the storage room, filled with shelves, pedestals, and display cases. This was where all the items I sent through the Fae Tether ended up. There were heaps of armor. Pitted weapons. Stacks of bloody body parts and piles of fabrication ingredients. Honestly, the whole room could use a good spring cleaning and having Arturo see it in that state left me feeling a little uncomfortable. It was like having a guest over to your house for the first time, only to have a sink overflowing with dirty dishes and a turd bobbing in the toilet bowl.

Except, in this case, the dishes and turds were dismembered monster corpses.

“Fascinating,” the priest mumbled, writing down more details. “Grime and blood everywhere. Extremely disorderly.”

Goddammit.

We popped by the armory, which held my myriad of Soul Bound weapon skins, then paid a quick visit to the statuary chamber. Inside were four marble mannequins, all decked out in various gear sets. Three statues lined the back wall while one stood in the center of the room like a platoon sergeant calling his troops to formation. Thanks to Armor Evocation I could effortlessly switch between each armor set at will, all without ever needing to undo a lace or cinch tight a strap. Swapping gear also cleansed and repaired the items, which was great for fieldwork.

We spent a little extra time in the Soul Forge, with its glossy onyx walls and crystalline forge. Arturo insisted I walk him through the process of breaking down items and using the various tools to transform them into something new. This was obviously important to him, so I played along, patiently answering his questions about what each tool did and how the forge itself worked. He took detailed sketches of the equipment, labeling the various parts in his fine, flowing script.

When he was finally satisfied, we headed over to the last room. My personal quarters.

Once upon a time this space had consisted of little more than a small room with a squeaky Marine Corps cot and a woolen green blanket neatly covering the bed. At the end had sat a standard-issue green footlocker, worn from age just like the ones we’d had in bootcamp.

Not anymore.

After spending some time puttering around in Pascow’s Soul Vault, I’d learned that it was possible for Vigils to upgrade their Soul Vaults. There was even a manual explaining how to do it—a Guidebook for Soul Vault Refabrication—but it hadn’t been in the library with the other volumes. Instead, the instruction booklet had been neatly tucked away inside the footlocker at the end of the bed. The footlocker that I hadn’t bothered checking, because why the hell would I? I had an entire room for storage and other spaces custom tailored for my weapons and armor.

I should’ve checked earlier, but sometimes you don’t know what you don’t know.

In the same way my avatar represented my body, that humble footlocker represented my Soul Vault, and I could use it to change damn near anything—assuming I had the material components necessary. The plain barracks room, useful for sleeping and jack-shit else, was now the perfect bachelor pad. Sure, it wasn’t nearly as impressive as Pascow’s living quarters, which resembled the royal palace of a French monarch, but they worked just fine for me.

I’d swapped out the twin bed with the scratchy woolen blanket for a California king with silk sheets flanked by a pair of wooden nightstands. I’d added a table with long polished benches and a leather chair, perfect for taking a load off if I needed a little downtime. The furnishings weren’t modern, but they were a helluva lot more comfortable than the worn furniture I could find in most inns. Plus, no bugs. I’d also acquired several items from my room at the Citadel, including an elaborate coffee table and the embroidered chaise.

There wasn’t much by way of entertainment, unfortunately.

Even with the power of a cosmic deity at my disposal, it seemed getting a working TV was out of the question. But I had added a large fireplace and a bookshelf that held the half dozen storybooks I’d been able to get my hands on since coming to this world. Most of the books contained dark fairy tales with horrific moral lessons, which generally revolved around the theme of obeying society and doing what you were told, or Mortka would eat your face. Still, they were better than nothing. The Lusty Kelkadian Maid was my prized volume, especially since the advent of internet porn was still a thousand years away.

Best of all, I’d built myself a small medieval bathroom with a working shower and a toilet, which beat taking a crap over a smelly hole in the ground every day of the week.

But none of those amenities, however nice, were the reason we’d come here. There was a nondescript door set into the far wall with a single rune carved into the wood. That door connected to the altar I’d set up in the twisting mines beneath Ironmoor. But before I could escort the padre through, I needed to create a pathway back to Starlake, and with the ruby in my pouch I could finally do that.

I dropped to a knee beside the footlocker—still completely unchanged from when I’d first stepped foot in the Vault—and flipped open the lid. According to Pascow, every Vigil saw something slightly different when they accessed their Soul Vault interface. He saw what amounted to an elaborate drafting table; making changes to the elegant blueprint allowed him to add or subtract features or tweak the current layout. I saw a 3D hologram of the room I was standing in, and along the top was a navigation menu with several option tabs, each corresponding to a different section of the Vault.

I could change and customize any of the rooms or even add new sections—like a greenhouse, a trophy room, or kitchen—but the living quarters offered the greatest variety of options. The only problem was, customizing the Soul Vault consumed a lot of resources. A metric shit ton. The menu came with scads of blueprints, but I needed to gather all the necessary materials and manufacture the individual parts in the Soul Forge. Hinges and doors. Barrel slats and table legs. They didn’t just appear, they needed to be built, and I didn’t have time for that kind of thing.

I skipped over all the other tabs and selected the last one in the lineup, which read “Terminus Pathways.” The other options momentarily blinked off and I saw a small secret compartment open in the back of the footlocker. Inside was a single chunk of raw Selitrium ore with a simple rune decorating one side. It matched the symbol on the door at the far side of the room. I took the ruby red Heart Stone that I’d looted from the Ratking and ever so gently placed it in the compartment, earning myself a quick notification.

You’ve added the Starlake Keep Heart Stone to your Soul Vault Interface. Would you like to link this Location’s Altar and form a Terminus Pathway? Once added, a Terminus Pathway will allow you to use your Soul Vault to travel to the connected Location Altar. Proceed? Yes/No?

I accepted and braced myself as energy surged out of my core and into the glimmering ruby now situated in the worn footlocker. My Arcana bar plunged and hit zero in an instant. My eyes rolled into the back of my head and the Soul Vault shook and rattled, books falling from the shelf while weapons clattered and clanged to the floor in my armory.

“What is happening?” Arturo bellowed over the sudden howl of an otherworldly wind.

But I couldn’t answer.

I gritted my teeth as my Stamina bar appeared, draining almost as fast as my Arcana bar had. Forging a Terminus Pathway was an energy intensive process that took a demanding toll on the body. When I’d first established a connection with the mines beneath Ironmoor, I’d nearly killed myself in the process. This time I was ready. I pulled out a pair of Master Class Pure Affinity Scales—stripped of their Affinity signature—and clamped down on both, drawing the immense energy reserve into my Core, then feeding that power into the connection ritual.

My Stamina stopped its dramatic drop as the ritual ate through the excess energy of the scales.

After a few seconds, the rattling subsided and the roaring ethereal wind guttered and died, leaving behind an empty silence broken only by the sound of my heavy breathing. The connection had been successful, and a new Pathway forged through the Etheric Plane. Gobhoill had told me that there was no such thing as portals—no way to instantly move from one place to another in an eyeblink. Not even in the Fae Wylds.

Gobhoill was wrong.

As a Vigil, I’d learned it was possible to enter into the Soul Vault via one altar and exit through another, so long as I had the Heart Stone for that location tethered to my Vault.

I couldn’t use this method to fast travel to the Citadel in Wildespell, but I could use it to travel between locations I controlled. At this point that was just the mines in Ironmoor and now Starlake Keep, but it was still an incredible ability and a closely guarded secret even amongst the Vigils. And though I only had two Pathways at the moment, I had enough material to construct five more altars and ambitions to build a kingdom of my own.

Especially once I bit the bullet and activated the Ruler of the Thrones Legacy Scroll I had sitting in my library.

Sweat dotted my forehead as I stood, trembling from the intense exertion. A new door had appeared against the far wall, this one marked with the sigil for Starlake.

Arturo looked between me and the door in turn, his brow furrowed in confusion. In response, I beelined across the living room and pulled open the door on the left, marked Ironmoor. On the other side was a short hallway with rough stone walls that fed into a circular chamber with an altar dedicated to Raguel. Once upon a time this room had been the den of a Stone Spider Matriarch. Now it served as a Pathway between worlds.

“Come on,” I said, waving him forward. “We’ve got a mine to get up and running.”

12

Deep Rock, LLC

Using the Terminus Pathway, Arturo and I traveled from Starlake Keep all the way to the mines of Ironmoor. A journey of weeks made in a single step. The air was damp, cool, and surprisingly heavy as we appeared in the dank cave system, buried deep below the surface of the city. The scuff of our boots mixed with the gentle plink of water dripping from the ceiling. We’d cleared this place of Mortka back during our hunt for the Hexblight, and since then, Arturo had gone through the process of setting up rudimentary wards to keep more Mortka from manifesting.

The last thing we needed was another infestation, and this place was practically begging for it.

Unlike the Fae, true Mortka weren’t natural creatures. They weren’t born into this world after a daddy Mortka and a mommy Mortka found themselves deep into a twenty-four pack of Natural Ice, making bad life choices. Nope. They formed in thin places, just like this one, where Essence bled through from the Etheric Realm and mingled with the Affinity of a given location. Now that my Insight had improved, I could feel the subtle presence of Stone and Hunger Affinity, which hung thick in the air like an invisible cloud.

It was pitch dark this deep down, but Arturo strutted forward with supreme confidence, muttering a prayer under his breath. A small globe of flame appeared in his hand, and he used it to light one of the fresh oil torches mounted on the wall. Arturo was Steelborn, which meant his senses were enhanced beyond what was humanly possible, and he’d also studied with the Magi of the Golden Chalice. His magic was almost as powerful as what a natural born Sorcerer could muster. It was still leagues below what a Vigil or a Warlock was capable of, but he had a reliable set of lesser spells he could call on.

He lit another torch, pulled it down from the wall, and extinguished the flame in his palm. Together, we navigated the twisting stone passageways in the greasy, flickering orange light of the fire. The path zigged and zagged and the air slowly grew warmer as the passageway rose. After twenty minutes or so of hard hiking we heard the sounds of pickaxes and the distorted echo of human voices bouncing off the walls and ceilings. It would be early morning here—the sun barely breaking over the horizon—but in the dark of the earth, daylight didn’t matter for shit.

Miners often worked in shifts, so the clicking of pickaxes could be heard around the clock.

The passageway snaked right then straightened out, ending at a steel gate with a sign pinned in place, facing outward. Though I couldn’t see the words, I knew what it said, since I’d written it myself.

Warning: Mortka Den. Do not Proceed for any Reason! Keep this Gate Secured at all Times by Decree of the Vigilant!

It was probably overkill, but I didn’t want any of the miners poking around where they didn’t belong and potentially damaging my altar in the process. Better to just keep them out altogether. Plus, there was always the possibility that Arturo’s wards would fail and some nasty breed of Mortka would manifest in the tunnels below.

I undid the lock and pushed the iron gate open with a noisy squeal. The chamber on the other side was equal parts armory and mining camp. There were cots lined up along one wall, while racks filled with halberds, spears, and a motley assortment of swords lined another. Even more racks held pickaxes, shovels, sledgehammers, and a variety of chisels. Dusty and dented work helmets hung from a series of steel hooks anchored into the walls. None of this shit was OSHA approved, and there were enough safety violations to make any site inspector shit a brick.

Case in point: there were wooden barrels filled with fresh lamp oil sitting precariously close to one of the torches flickering on the wall. That was no good.

A thickset man with thinning hair and a face so covered in grime it was nearly black shot up from a wooden stool in the corner. He wore rough scale mail, which covered a dirt-stained tunic. There was a sword at one hip and a spear clutched in his hands. He was one of a handful of guards we’d hired to keep watch and keep the peace. He’d also been snoozing, back leaned up against the stony wall.

“Honored Vigil, Arbitrator Arturo,” he stammered, eyes wide with shock and fright. He dropped to a knee and averted his gaze. “Deepest apologies. I… I didn’t see you come in.” He stole a look at the rough wooden door that stood guard over the room. It was still shut and locked. A confused look flashed across his face as he glanced at the iron gate with the no trespassing sign. No one knew about the altar below, and even if they did, none of them had any clue that I could use it to pop in whenever the hell I felt like it.

“But how?” he asked under his breath. Then he shook his head as though the answer didn’t matter. To him it probably didn’t. Most of the people in Alkran were terrified of Vigils and wanted to know as little as possible about what we did or how our magic worked. “Forgiveness,” he said again before rising to his feet with some effort.

“None required, Goodman Kenal,” Arturo said. “There was no reason to expect us. Is Marcus in?”

Marcus Pekkala had been a line picker before working the mines under Magistrate Gustav. He was an earnest family man and had more experience down here than the next three workers combined. On Arturo’s recommendation, I’d promoted him to site foreman. Looking at the state of the camp room and the hazardous oil barrels, I was starting to reconsider that choice.

“Of course, sir,” Kenal said, nearly tripping over his own tongue to answer. “He’s not far. He thinks he’s found a fresh vein and he’s got the men working to dig out a new shaft. Been slow going but they’re making a bit of progress.” He paused and licked his lips nervously. “I’m not supposed to leave me post, but I can show you if need be?”

“Don’t worry about,” I said, slapping him on the shoulder. “I think we can find our way without too much trouble.”

We left the supply camp behind and were making the short trek into a connecting cavern when a thunderous crash rattled the ground, followed by the sharp crack of stone and an enormous cloud of dust and debris that billowed through the tunnel. I acted on instinct, pushing Arturo behind me then activating Warded Shield. A dome of power exploded to life in front of me, intercepting the plume of gritty earth before it could engulf us. My first thought was that one of Ionia’s supporters had just launched another ambush. Then I felt the ground groan beneath me, and the harsh reality of our situation flashed through my head.

This wasn’t an ambush. This was something far worse.

A cave-in.

As someone who grew up in the hollers of eastern Kentucky, I knew that coal could be the lifeblood of a community. Coal put food on the table. Coal paid the bills, kept the lights on, and employed half the men who lived in our county. My dad had left me and my mom when I was just a youngster. He’d gone out for a pack of smokes and a gallon of milk one morning and just never came back. Oldest story in the book, especially where I came from. But before he’d skipped town, he’d worked in the mine. My uncle Ricky had too.

He probably still did if he hadn’t already drunk himself to death.

In a coal town, cave-ins were the ever-present nightmare that everyone thought about, but no one talked about. Sometimes the words would come in fearful whispers or were uttered during early morning prayers, but they were never spoken openly because all of us knew what they meant. Certain death. Maybe not for everyone involved, but always for someone. And death by cave-in wasn’t always quick. Sometimes folks would get trapped where the machines couldn’t go, and they’d asphyxiate. Maybe rocks would crush their legs or pulverize their intestines, and they’d die slowly from internal bleeding.

There’s no good way to go, but dying like that had put the fear of God into me. Taking a bullet to the face or a grenade to the guts was nothing. But choking to death in the dark as the air ran dry? That’s a hard pass. Half of the reason I’d joined the Corps was to make sure I got my ass outta Kentucky and outta those goddamned mines. Ironmoor was a mining town—had been for years and years—so they would have the same fears. The same unspoken prayers.

I was guessing there were good men up ahead who were dead or dying. But between me and Art, maybe we could save ’em.

“Cave-in,” I yelled back over my shoulder as I dismissed the shimmering barrier. “Stay close to me, move your ass, and do what I say!”

Without waiting for a reply, I took off at a run, squinting my way through the cloud of choking debris that still partially obscured the passageway ahead. I emerged in a rough cavern filled with tools—pickaxes and shovels, wheelbarrows and spools of rope. There were circular timbers lined up against one wall, all covered in fine sandstone powder that reminded me of the moon dust I’d used to trek through back in Iraq. The supplies were scattered everywhere and there were bodies sprawled out on the floor.

But even at a glance, I could tell they were alive. One man sat up with a groan, rubbing a hand along his face. It came away crimson. He was a big guy with broad shoulders and a powerful frame. His silhouette instantly gave him away. Marcus, the foreman. I rushed over and dropped down beside him. He looked rattled and there was a gash running across his forehead and to one temple. It was bleeding like a real son of a bitch, but all head injuries did that. The wound looked shallow and though it would probably leave a gnarly scar, he’d survive.

“What happened?” I yelled to be heard over the groans of the other miners.

“Found a new vein,” he wheezed, waving a trembling hand toward a ruined section of wall. “The boys were in the process of shoring ’er up, when it all came right down on our heads. Got three men trapped behind them rocks.” He paused, his face transforming into a bleak mask. “Least I hope they’re trapped behind those rocks and not under ’em.” He made a hasty motion, touching his chest and forehead while he muttered a quick prayer to Raguel.

There was a chance they were already dead, but I wasn’t going to stop until I knew that for sure. And if they were gone? Well, at the very least, I’d get their bodies out from beneath those rocks so their loved ones could grieve and get a little closure.

“Arturo,” I yelled, “check the wounded out here and make sure none of them are in danger of dying. I’m going to get these rocks moved, and then I’ll need your help shoring up the ceiling so it doesn’t fall back in on us.”

“On it, Vigil,” the priest barked, already moving to the first miner, who was lying on his back, one arm bent at an odd angle.

I headed straight over to the caved-in tunnel and started working. Some of the boulders were huge—two or three hundred pounds—but with my Brawn at twenty-eight and adrenaline coursing through my body, it felt like moving Styrofoam props. The rocks came away one after another and I carefully stacked them beside the yawning mouth of the hallway—ensuring I didn’t cause another cave-in by accident. After pulling away five or six substantial stones, I saw a small hole that peeked through into the tunnel beyond.

Then I heard a voice, faint and weak.

“Help us! We’re in here. Please… Someone. Anyone. Please help us.”

“Don’t worry, I’m gonna get you out of there,” I called back, voice oddly muffled by all the debris still floating in the air.

Their cries motivated me to work even faster, and before long Arturo joined in. All of the miners in the cavern had survived with only a few minor cuts, bruises, and breaks. Nothing the priest couldn’t patch up with a prayer and a dose of magic. The man was Steelborn and built like a grizzly, so between the two of us, we made short work of the remaining rocks. The three missing miners were all crowded together inside a space not much larger than a broom closet.

One had suffered a broken leg during the collapse, but just like the others, Arturo was able to fix him up with a little priestly hoodoo. The fact that they were alive at all was a bona fide miracle, though if the padre and I hadn’t been there and busting our asses, they wouldn’t have made it long. Not with the little air they’d had access to.

Honestly, it was no wonder that the cave-in had happened.

After getting the miners back topside, I went down to survey the damage. The dig site was an epic clusterfuck. Although I was sure that Marcus was doing his best, the tools they had were pitiful and their excavating and extraction methods were archaic, which made sense considering this world was firmly entrenched in its own dark ages. They didn’t have dynamite or control blasting. Instead, they followed the ore seam and used carefully placed chisels and sledgehammers to chip away new openings.

They had timbers on hand for propping up the passageways, but from the looks of things, they just jammed single poles into place in the most haphazard manner possible. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason for where or why reinforcement poles were placed. Art said it was often done based purely on gut instinct, which was just begging for trouble. On top of that, they had to haul out the rocks, debris, and ore using primitive carts with janky wooden wheels.

In short, the mine was a trainwreck run by people that didn’t know any better.

There was a lot on the line, and I badly needed that Selitrium ore. Every single one of those miners had signed up for the work, knowing how dangerous it was. But after seeing the working conditions, I couldn’t in good conscience send them back down there until I brought the mines into the twenty-first century—or as close as I could with what little I had to work with. I wasn’t a rocket scientist by any stretch of the imagination, but redneck engineering ran in my blood. Already, a rough plan was forming in my head.

“Alright,” I said to the crowd of dirty-faced men assembled outside the mine, “we’re going to make some serious changes around here. Here’s what I need. Marcus, find me carpenters along with plenty of square timber and wood pegs. You there, what’s your name?” I thrust a finger at a rail-thin man, with a bad leg and dusty brown hair.

“Lannik, Vigil.” He shuffled uncomfortably under my gaze. “Lannik Ibsen, sir.”

“Lannik, I’ll also need a seamstress, maybe more than one, and someone reach out to the local sailmaker. We need to get all the canvas cloth they have on hand.” Ironmoor was a port town, so I had no doubt they’d be able to get what I needed. “And wagon wheels,” I added after a second, “a bunch of ’em. Arturo”—I shot a look at the priest—“let’s also throw in an alchemist, a butcher, and a mapmaker for good measure.”

Arturo squinted at me in utter confusion as I rattled off my list of demands.

“What in the bloody hell are you up to?” he asked, eyebrows climbing higher and higher with each new request.

“You’ll see,” I replied, pulling out a fat pouch filled with golden coins. “I’m short on time, so tell ’em to hurry and that I’m willing to pay extremely well…”

* * *

It took Arturo, Marcus, and Lannik a few hours to assemble the eclectic team I’d requested and the better part of a day, working in nonstop shifts, to accomplish what I had in mind. But everyone was more than happy to lend a helping hand, especially when the gold started flowing like the spring snowmelt. Although the people of Ironmoor had been in the mining business for a hundred years or more, the techniques they used were still medieval and that was because the people of this world held onto one simple principle: life is cheap.

They didn’t care about safety precautions because if there was a cave-in and people died… so what? Why bother to innovate when you could just use low-skill laborers who could be easily replaced when accidents invariably happened? You just hire new miners to clear out the rubble, stack the corpses, and get back to the grind. There was no shortage of men looking for a decent paycheck even if it meant near-certain death on a daily basis. I wanted to change things for a lot of reasons, but at the top of the list was the fact that I wanted to protect the people working for me.

Though folks north of the Mason Dixon often tossed the term redneck around as an insult for people like me and Cal, those who grew up in coal towns knew our history and embraced the term with pride.

Back in the early 1900s, coal miners toiled away in conditions not much better than the ones beneath Ironmoor. God’s honest truth, it was safer to serve on the front lines in World War One than it was to work a mine in West Virginia or backwoods Kentucky. And it stayed that way until folks banded together back in the 1920s, forming one of the first labor unions. They wore red bandanas around their necks as a badge of solidarity, which is why we embraced the term “redneck.” The West Virginia Mine Wars were some of the bloodiest battles in American history, and my great, great granddad had fought tooth and nail to make life better for his brothers.

I was a redneck to the core—it was carved into my being like the mines were carved into the soil of the hollers—and I refused to be like those corrupt, dickhole coal bosses of yesteryear.

I used the mapmaker’s cartography table to draft out some rough blueprints for proper support beams. These guys had just been jamming wooden struts up at random intervals. There was no method to it—the whole process relied on guesswork and silent prayers that the roof wouldn’t collapse if someone sneezed the wrong way. Instead, I showed the carpenters how to construct a series of square-set timbers, which created a framework of posts that would help evenly support the entire cavern. Having no single point of failure drastically reduced the chances of a collapse.

While the carpenters shaved beams and notched timbers so they would interlock without the need for nails, Arturo and I cleared out the boulders and rubble from the cavern with a little help from the miners that were up to the task. We used the rickety carts to haul the material topside. Even for someone with my supernaturally enhanced strength and endurance it was physically demanding work. The tunnelways were heavily sloped, the ground uneven, and the carts were rickety as hell with wooden wheels crafted by someone who had only a rudimentary understanding that wheels were supposed to be round.

Every rock I hit threatened to overturn the cart. It was wildly inefficient and a big part of the reason why the work went so slowly.

That’s where the sailmaker, seamstress, and wheelwrights came in. Back in the olden days, mining companies would use rail carts for transport, but there were some problems with that. Mainly, laying track was expensive as hell and once a vein ran dry there wasn’t a way to easily move the tracks or the carts—plus those maintenance costs were a real son of a bitch. By the early 1900s mining companies had gotten smart and installed a shiny new invention that everyone in the twenty-first century took for granted.

Conveyor belts.

Thing was, the people of Alkran were still centuries away from their own enlightenment period. These people had pulleys down, but just barely.

None of ’em had ever even dreamed of a conveyor belt, so they were understandably confused when I sketched out plans for a long contraption made from planks of timber with large wheels secured at either end. The seamstresses were even more flummoxed when I had them cut and stitch together huge lengths of canvas cloth, which would serve as the belt itself. The canvas was tough stuff—built to withstand sun, rain, and salt out on the open waters—but it would still wear out much quicker than something like rubber or leather.

When I attached it to the frame, I gave it a half twist, effectively turning it into a mobius strip. That way as the belt turned, both sides of the fabric would be exposed to the wear and tear, which would extend its overall durability.

The combustion engine was still six or seven hundred years away, so I needed some kind of power source for my newfangled contraption. I thought it might be possible to design a Soul-Forged Construct that could power the belt using Affinity Scales, but that would take time and energy I didn’t have at the moment. So instead, I’d have to rely on good ol’ human muscle power. I mounted the pulleys into a holding cradle and attached a large ship’s wheel, which would allow someone to manually operate the belt. Working the wheel would still take some muscle, but it would be a hundred times easier than hauling those shitty carts up a steep incline.

When I was done, the conveyor was a hundred and twenty feet long by four feet wide, and when I set it up and demonstrated how to use it, I thought the assembled onlookers would die from a series of heart attacks. These people had real magic at their beck and call, monsters that roamed the countryside, and holy knights who communed with literal deities. None of that seemed to impress them as much as a simple conveyor belt. They all thought it was some secret voodoo that only Vigils could do. Until I had Marcus Pekkala take a turn at the wheel, that is.

The wonder on his face as a load of stone, which would take five men to haul, moved effortlessly along the belt was priceless.

One belt wouldn’t be enough for what I had in mind, but once the prototype was finished, the carpenters, sail cutter, and seamstresses made quick work of the next five units. Using those, we’d be able to create a relay that would move stone, debris, and ore from the dig site to the surface in hours instead of days. It would increase the mine’s output tenfold, and it would be a helluva lot safer for the workers, which would’ve made my uncle proud.

Arturo was once again frantically scribbling notes in his leather-bound journal. “Incredible,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Truly, I’ve never seen the like. The interlocking support scaffolding. This portable land river.” He gestured at the conveyor, which the miners were still marveling over. “How did you devise this? You never struck me as a scientific savant, but perhaps I misjudged you.”

I grinned. “Naw, this ain’t nothing—just some redneck know-how, five hundred years’ worth of good ol’ fashion human innovation, and the fine teachers of the American public school system. That land river is called a conveyor belt and I don’t have a clue who invented it, but I’ve seen more than enough to figure out how to make one. As for the support struts”—I shrugged—“anyone who grew up in coal country like I did would know about that.”

“This is going to change everything,” the priest murmured. “A caravan isn’t going to be enough to accommodate the volume of ore we’ll be able to mine. I’ll have to look into chartering a sloop.” He ran a hand through his tangle of beard. “I’ll also need to look at filing a patent for this contraption—miners and engineers across Kelkadia would pay handsomely for such technology.”

“If you’re impressed with that,” I said, “just wait until you see what I cook up next. Let’s go have ourselves a chat with the butcher and the alchemist. It might take me a little tinkering, but I’m thinking they might just have what we need to make some backwoods gunpowder. Once I show these boys how to drill, we’ll really be cooking with gas. Or dynamite…”

13

Prisoners of War

I left Arturo in Ironmoor to file our tax forms with the appropriate bureaucrats, finish getting the mine squared away, and oversee my chemistry experiment. I wanted the first haul of Selitrium ore loaded on the caravan wagons by the time I finished this first hunt. Assuming I survived whatever Ionia had in store for me, I was going to need those resources to secure help in future hunts. With that taken care of, I used the altar in the mines to return to Starlake and rendezvous with the rest of my team.

Based on my best guess, we had less than a day before the horn would sound and the first Hunt would begin in earnest, so I was praying they’d had some good luck.

I stepped out of my Soul Vault and into a scene straight out of one of those Saw flicks.

All of my furniture had been pushed up against the walls and in the center of the room was a hulking wooden chair studded with iron rivets. Tied to the chair with thick, thorn-covered vines was one of the ten champions I’d seen at Ionia’s party the night before. Bogen CrowEye, of the Sibylline. Bogen was a birdman with glossy black feathers covering his torso and arms and the head of an enormous crow. His supple leather armor lay in a pile not far off, and an army of small lacerations covered his chest. They looked like cat scratches to me.

Beneath the chair was a large canvas tarp, splashed with a silver substance that I could only assume was blood. Jacob-Francis sat on my desk, licking at a bloody paw. Yep, definitely cat scratches.

“Do you think I like hurting you, hmm?” Renholm caterwauled just a few inches from the birdman’s face. “Do you think I derive some sort of sick, perverse satisfaction in peeling the skin from your body? Because I do.” He threw back his head and cackled. “This is literally the most fun I’ve had in ages, and I’ll never grow tired of this. I don’t care if you ever speak!”

“Look, man, I know how much this has to hurt,” Cal said, clearly playing the role of good cop. “Unlike my associate here, watching you suffer like this… It turns my stomach.” He leaned in and dropped his voice. “But Renholm… he’s crazy. He’s like a pit bull—once he latches on, it’s almost impossible to get him to let go. But if you just work with me a little, I might be able to put the muzzle back on him. Please, help me help you.”

“Or don’t,” Renholm added with an indifferent shrug. Before Bogen could respond, the fairy darted over to a nearby table covered in a variety of gory tools. Renholm wrestled a meat tenderizer twice as big as he was into the air. “From what little I know about you, you’re some sort of Rogue type. Sneaking. Picking locks. That sort of thing.” He took a haphazard practice swing with the hammer. “I wonder how important fingers are in your line of work, hmm?”

I darted across the room and snatched the mallet away from Renholm before he could start mashing digits. “What in the great good fuck is going on here?” I asked, shooting a glare at Renholm and Cal in turn.

“Oh, hey, Boyd,” Cal said with a sheepish grin and a wave. “Didn’t realize you were back.” He turned toward Renholm. “Ixnay on the torture-ay,” he said out of one corner of his mouth.

“Don’t hey Boyd me,” I growled. “I leave you two alone for less than a day and come back to find you committing war crimes. Seriously, what the fuck?”

“Look, I’ll admit that this doesn’t look good,” Cal said. “Things sort of got out of hand, but in my defense, most of this was Renholm’s idea. Also, it’s worth pointing out that they don’t have the Geneva convention here, so technically what we’re doing isn’t war crimes.”

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Holy hell, Cal, you’re getting to be as bad as Renholm. I feel like I shouldn’t have to say this, but for the record we don’t torture people. Killing our enemies is one thing. But this?” I waved at the bound man. “Yeah, this is fucked.”

“If it makes it any better,” Renholm offered, “the Sibylline are not human, so I’m not entirely sure he qualifies as ‘people.’”

“As much as I appreciate the input, no that does not make it any better.” I tossed the meat tenderizer onto the floor with a thunk.

“Now does someone want to tell me what in the ever-living fuck is going on here?”

“One of Melwyn’s Floral Guardians caught him trying to infiltrate the manor last night,” Cal said.

“One of Melwyn’s Floral Guardians?” I asked. What the hell was a Floral Guardian?

“Oh that’s right, you haven’t seen the grounds yet,” Cal said, seeing the evident confusion plastered across my face. He pressed his lips into a thin line. “I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but let’s just say that the Princess of Petals has been busy with a capital B since you left. She’s out right now, setting up some modified siege engines with Pascow.”

“So, I’m guessing she wasn’t too keen on cutting this guy up?” I asked.

“Quite the contrary, it was her idea,” Renholm said. “Who do you think grew those vines?” He gestured at the thorny roots securing the birdman to the chair. “It wasn’t either of us. She just didn’t want to waste time having all of us torture him.”

“Screw me sideways,” I mumbled. “I’m working with a bunch of lunatics.” I sighed, instantly feeling tired. I never should’ve taken Arturo to Ironmoor. He might’ve had a giant stick up his ass most of the time, but this wouldn’t have happened on his watch. “Well, we’ve already crossed the war crimes bridge, so does anyone care to fill me in on what info we’re trying to get?”

“Anything we can, honestly,” Cal offered. “What Ionia’s strategic capabilities are. What sort of magic the various champions have. What their game plan is and any intel he might have on the first hunt.”

“And what have you gotten so far?” I prodded.

“Nothing,” the birdman spat. He watched me with his head cocked slightly to one side. His eyes were shiny, black, and unreadable. “And you will get nothing from me, for there is nothing for me to tell. I am the least of the champions pledged to Ionia’s cause. The Oblivion Throne has never valued the Sibylline. There is a reason I was dispatched to surveil you alone. They do not trust me or my kind.”

“But you got a clue from Gobhoill just like the rest of us,” I shot back. “So you should be able to at least tell us a little something about the first hunt.”

He shook his head to the sound of rustling feathers. “Jeffery confiscated all the clues for himself as soon as we received them. No one knows anything about the Hunt save him. Which is just the way Ionia likes it. No one can betray her because she holds all the cards.”

“I’m inclined to think you’re telling me the truth,” I said slowly. Ionia definitely didn’t seem like the trusting sort, and keeping everyone in the dark and treating them like shit was a pretty common tactic among totalitarian regimes. “But not the whole truth,” I amended after a second. I glanced toward his leather armor. “Your gear tells me you’re not a brawler. Maybe they were hoping you’d plant a dagger in my back, but I sort of doubt that. Which means you’re not an assassin, you’re a spy. Maybe they haven’t explicitly told you anything, but I’m guessing you’ve noticed a thing or two that might be worth our time.”

The birdman paused. The delay was only for an eyeblink, but it told me I’d hit a nerve. And Bogen knew that I knew.

“If I talk and it gets back to Ionia, they’ll kill me,” he croaked.

I nodded my head in sympathy. Then I lifted my hand and summoned my axe with a flare of golden light. “I understand the difficulty you’re in, but here’s the deal, I’m not gonna torture you or sic the cat on you. Even the thought of that makes me sick. Which is why I’m just gonna kill you.” I twirled the axe with a flourish. “Unless you give me a compelling reason not to. See, the thing is, you represent a very real threat to me.

“I’m not going to waste resources keeping you here for the entire hunt, and I’m also not just gonna cut you loose so that you can come stab me in the back later. But if you tell me what you know, and you tell me true, it takes you off the board just as surely as killing you does. Because if you talk, it’ll ensure that you can’t go crawling back to Ionia. You saw what she did to her navigator. You fail, you die. You betray her, you die. But you talk to me, I’ll let you go and maybe you live to see another sunrise.”

“And if I lie?” he asked.

“I’ll know,” I said with complete confidence. “We Vigils have all kinds of skills and abilities that most folk don’t know about. Tricks of the trade, so to speak. Among those skills is the ability to sniff out bullshit at a thousand yards.”

That wasn’t exactly true, but this shithead didn’t know that. The Vigils had done a fantastic job of cultivating an aura of mystery around their whole order. Truth was, no one outside of the Citadel knew what we were capable of. Even the Arbitrators didn’t know the full extent of our powers.

Bogen seemed to weigh and consider his options. Then, after a long pause he begrudgingly spoke. “I saw a map in Jeffery’s private chambers. It showcased a broad section of land located in the Virtarun Empire, at the base of the Dellavant Divine. It’s some three hundred leagues from where we stand as the crow flies. There were a variety of towns marked out in Jeffery’s hand. Sligrad, Oxpond, Duzuatrad, Bernik, Kotyn. I have no idea which town the target is in, but I suspect that is the correct region.”

“Anything else?” I asked, hefting the axe. The orange firelight played along its curved blade.

The birdman hesitated. “Just one other thing. I overheard Jeffery talking in hushed tones with Narvik, Host of the Fell, about the ‘sins of the father.’” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I know not what it means, only that it seemed important. I have told all that I have to tell and made peace with my gods. Do what you must.” He pressed his eyes closed and steeled himself, obviously preparing for a killing blow. This guy fully expected me to end him even though he’d cooperated.

I brought the axe blade down in a single quick motion, severing the roots holding his left arm in place. A few more quick axe blows freed him the rest of the way.

I scooted back and dismissed my weapon with a thought. Bogan blinked his eyes open and looked down at his body in utter bewilderment.

“You’re truly going to let me go?” he asked, still sitting.

“Deal’s a deal,” I said. “You can even have your stuff back.” I hooked a thumb toward his armor.

The crowman stood slowly and inched his way toward his gear as though expecting me to betray him at any moment and strike him down. I just stood there and watched as he gathered his belongings and slipped them back on.

“There’s just one little thing,” I said as the crowman belted his dual daggers into place and slung a fanciful wooden bow across his back. “According to the rules, you need to participate in the Hunt. I know that. But if I were you, I’d drag my feet and take my sweet time getting back to your buddies, because if I see you again, I’ll cut you down on the spot, then season your corpse with a special blend of eleven herbs and spices and have a good ol’ Kentucky bird fry. You tracking with me?”

Bogan nodded, his glassy eyes unblinking. “I will heed your words and remember your graciousness.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” I said. “Cal, escort our pal here off the property, then round up Melwyn and Pascow. We’ve got some planning to do…”

14

Manor Makeover

While Cal showed Bogan off, I left Renholm to grab a bite from the kitchen. I hadn’t eaten anything for the better part of a day and my stomach was trying to cannibalize itself from the inside out. I wasn’t even remotely ready for how much my manor had changed since the last time I’d been here. Although Melwyn had left my office more or less alone, she’d given everything else a makeover.

The rough floors had all been ripped up and replaced with exotic hardwood boards, inlaid with intricate medallions of opal and mother of pearl. The walls had a fresh coat of paint, and gleaming golden wall sconces jutted out at regular intervals. In between the wall sconces were huge framed paintings—including one of me, locked in battle with the Chaos Aberration. The portrait depicted me stabbing the creature through the head with a dagger in one hand while I held an enchanted shotgun in the other. Wildespell gleamed like a majestic diamond behind me.

It made me look like the hero of a Korean soap opera. I hated it.

What the fuck had Melwyn done? I’d asked her to beef up the defenses, not turn my new manor into a Gucci flophouse.

I surveyed the various guest bedrooms as I walked. Things only got worse. Like the hallway, each had been given a facelift. There were hulking four-poster beds with silky canopies, lush carpets, enormous gilt armoires, and graceful chairs to match. Plus, flowers. So many flowers. Flowers everywhere. A hundred different varieties filled vases and jars and planters. The floral scent, hanging in the air like a heavy perfume, was almost overpowering.

The downstairs was no better. If anything, it was worse.

The floors had likewise been replaced, but there were also rich carpets and a monstrous crystal chandelier hanging from the newly exposed rafters overhead. Oh, and there were also monsters. They were slim humanoid creatures made entirely from flowers. They reminded me in some ways of the Wither Bloom Husks I’d fought back in Willowbend—except these were far more elegant and graceful. I instinctively summoned my Soul Bound weapons, preparing for an ambush, but these things weren’t interested in fighting.

Instead, they bustled around, cleaning the keep, moving furniture, hanging more paintings. I followed one into the kitchen, where I found Rebecca, my housekeeper, issuing orders to the creatures like a general commanding soldiers on the battlefield.

“Move that out into the foyer,” she barked at a passing Floral Guardian before turning on another that was busy chopping up vegetables at a nearby cutting board. “Quickly with those, now,” she scolded, waving a wooden spoon around like a scepter. “We need to get those onions in the pot right quick so they have time to caramelize before adding the meats.”

The creature bobbed its head enthusiastically and sped up, making short work of the onion before sliding it into a large wok on the stovetop.

“Rebecca,” I said hesitantly as I edged my way into the kitchen, “everything alright in here?”

“Oh, Master Boyd,” she said, wheeling about to face me. “Heaven’s above, I had no idea you had returned. Welcome back, sir. Can I get you anything?”

“Yeah,” I said, “how’s about an explanation. There are monsters all over my house, and apparently they are making dinner. How about we start there and see where things go?”

“I would hardly call these things monsters,” Rebecca said, beaming at the flowery sous chef, now meticulously working through a slab of goat. “Nothing at all like that terrible, reeking rat creature you hauled through here the other day. I mean, look at how lovely they are. Like beauty in motion, and my but don’t they smell just wonderful? They’re so helpful, too. They don’t ever seem to need a break and they follow instructions better than any house staff I’ve ever seen. They’ve managed to renovate the entire manor and you won’t even recognize the grounds.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Stunning. Simply stunning.”

“Right, but where did they come from?” I asked.

“Lady Melwyn,” she replied as though it should’ve been obvious. “This is all her doing, of course. And what a charming young lady she is. I mean this in the least offensive way possible, but I honestly have no idea how you managed to secure such a prize as she. A word of motherly advice,” she said, even though she was only ten years or so older than I was, “if I were in your shoes, I’d be spending a lot less time galivanting about fighting monsters and a little more time investigating the newly renovated master suite upstairs.”

After gently ribbing me a little more about what a catch Melwyn was and how I needed to up my game if I wanted to lock her down, Rebecca made up a plate of food for me—roast duck, creamy mashed potatoes, and something leafy and green that reminded me of boiled cabbage but wasn’t. I had to admit that although Rebecca might’ve been a little intrusive, she sure knew her way around a kitchen. The food was delicious and the beer even better—though it was room temperature. Maybe I could talk Melwyn’s flower-power goons into digging out a root cellar for me. Then I could use my Arctic Spike ability to turn the whole thing into an impromptu icebox.

No more warm brews.

Food in hand, I made my way back up to the office, where I found everyone waiting for me. Cal and Renholm were filling Melwyn in on what had happened with Bogan CrowEye while Pascow shuffled around the room, moving the furniture back into place.

Pascow didn’t look much like most of the other Vigils I’d met. He was a lanky old-timer without an ounce of fat and had thinning, wispy hair. Instead of intimidating armor, he wore woolen trousers, a white linen shirt rolled up to the elbows, and a thick leather apron, tied tight around his toothpick-thin waist. But his eyes burned with crimson fire and there was no mistaking the silvery Sigil of Truth branded on his forehead.

The old Soul Smith set down a leather lounger when he saw me shoulder my way into the room and offered me a wide, welcoming grin. “Well now,” he said, “if it isn’t the intrepid hero turned budding land baron. Good to see you, lad. You’ve been busy since the last time I saw you. Landholder, noble titles, entertaining royalty, and now a manor house of your own. And what a house it is.” I could hear an edge of humor in his raspy voice. “Much more colorful and elegant than I would have guessed, knowing what I do about you.”

I rolled my eyes and shot him the bird. “Yeah, that’s not on me. This is all her doing. Speaking of, what the fuck, Melwyn? You said you were going to upgrade my defenses.”

“Which I did,” she said with a dazzling smile. She started checking things off on her fingers. “There’s a deadly hedge maze out front. I reinforced the outer curtain wall. Planted a number of innocuous looking, but extremely deadly carnivorous plants, and added an expansive herb garden in the back for all your alchemy needs. There’s a formidable Eldritch Lotus in the lake and I also conscripted your friend here to help me add some additional siege engines. There are upgraded bolt throwers, smaller mobile scorpios, and flame spouts positioned at strategic locations around the perimeter. Not to mention a pair of catapults that hurl bees.”

“The fuck do you mean they hurl bees?” I asked.

“They hurl hives filled with Essence-enhanced bees,” she said matter-of-factly. “I feel like that should be fairly self-explanatory.”

“It really is quite impressive, lad,” Pascow said, nodding. “I mean, these bees are the size of silver Kelkadian Crowns. Completely docile, until you launch their hive through the air.” He chuckled. “She demonstrated on a wild hog. The sight was easily one of the most disturbing things I’ve seen in years, and I was there when you conjured that giant spirit bear and unleased it on Telent and his boys.”

“Cool. Attack bees. That still doesn’t explain what you did to my manor,” I growled. “Fancy chandeliers and tacky paintings hardly seem like defensive measures.”

“That’s where you are wrong, dear sweet Vigil,” she said as though speaking to a child who just didn’t know any better. “I was defending you against your own terrible fashion sense. Wood paneling, Boyd? No, that simply won’t do. Besides, I’m a princess. If I’m going to be spending a significant amount of time here, I refuse to live like a squatter in a shack in the woods. Consider it a favor. Now, if you’re done complimenting my impeccable style decisions, maybe you’d care to tell us why you’ve called this little soiree?”

“It sure as hell ain’t for the company,” I grumbled.

I edged around the side of my desk. Jacob-Francis was curled up in the chair purring softly with his eyes shut tight. I set my dinner plate down then carefully tilted the chair, rudely ejecting the feline. The orange tabby landed wide awake with his hackles raised and a hiss on his tongue. Maybe I should’ve felt bad, but I reminded myself of all the times I’d woken up with his asshole in my face. Far as I was concerned, this was just a little payback.

“My house, my chair,” I said to the angry cat, before plopping down into the seat. The cat offered me his back and stalked away around the side of the desk. My stomach let out an audible rumble of protest as the smell of roast duck tickled at my nostrils. I speared a piece of meat, dragged it through a pile of taters and gravy, and shoved it into my pie hole.

“We need to come up with a game plan and get our asses moving,” I said while chewing. “Bogen told us he spotted a map in Jeffery’s private chamber, but that still isn’t enough to go on. We can’t afford to go spend a week wandering between all the sleepy hamlets and peaceful villages clustered at the base of the Dellavant Divide. By the time we figure out where in the hell we’re supposed to be, the Hunt will be over.”

“What are you suggesting we do?” Melwyn asked, folding her arms across her chest in a way that emphasized her cleavage.

“Easy. We go on the offensive. We can’t afford to sit here twiddling our thumbs while the other team puts all the clues together. Instead, we go and kick ’em right in the teeth.”

“That is a terrible idea,” Melwyn said. “And even if it wasn’t—which it is—how would you even find them?”

“Renholm,” I said, side-eyeing the fairy. “I’m assuming you located Jeffery and the rest of his merry band of assclowns?”

“How little do you think of me,” Renholm replied indignantly. “Of course I found them. My tracking skills are unparalleled. Although, it’s not like they’re trying hard to mask their presence. There are ten of them—well, nine now that we’ve dispatched Bogen—and four of us. True, I likely have the strength and cunning of three or four champions, but that still leaves us badly outnumbered. They have no fear of us.”

While he spoke, I took the opportunity to shove another spoonful of chow into my mouth. The duck was tender and juicy, the potatoes were salty and creamy in equal measure, and the greens brought all the flavors together and turned them into a symphony of taste.

“The whole lot of them are holed up at a large hunting lodge in Mag Aisling, the Land of Desolate Dreams,” Renholm continued. “It’s a massive place of wood and stone and bone, surrounded on two sides by ghost trees and a sharp cliff to the southwest. Mag Aisling itself is a thin strip of unclaimed territory, which acts as a buffer between the Oblivion Court and the Realm of Six Nightmares.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” I said, before shoving more potatoes into my mouth. “If the target is somewhere in the valley south of the Dellavant Divide, then why are they still fucking around in the Fae Wylds?”

Melwyn tapped on her chin, then said, “They’re probably partaking in the Feast of Rohr, the Horned Lord of the Hunt. It’s customary for champions to indulge in several days of revelry and debauchery prior to the commencement of the first hunt so that Rohr will bless the strength of their arm and the sharpness of their blade.”

“Aye, it also serves as a sendoff of sorts because many of the champions don’t survive the games,” Pascow added.

While the Vigil talked, Jacob-Francis leapt up onto the desk and regarded me with large golden eyes. He didn’t look angry, exactly. He looked offended. He turned, tail flicking, then lashed out, knocking my plate off the table with one well-placed paw. The tin plate clattered onto the floor, splattering what remained of my dinner all over a nearby rug. Work done, Jacob-Francis leapt off my lap, strutted back over to his chair, and curled up into a ball.

“Asshole cats,” I grumbled, glaring at the feline. The worst thing was the cat wasn’t even trying to eat the food—he’d done that just to be a dick. “Wait,” I said, finally processing what Pascow had said. “So, you’re telling me these jagoffs are just getting shit-faced at a cabin in the woods?”

“I’d say that’s a fairly accurate depiction,” Melwyn replied with a nod.

“Well then what in the hell are we still doing here?” I asked. “We should hit ’em now, and we should hit ’em like a sledgehammer to the skull.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m still not entirely sure I understand the plan,” Melwyn said as though she couldn’t quite believe her ears. “Because it sounds like you want to launch a preemptive assault against nine of the most powerful warriors of the Fae Courts. But that can’t be right, because that would be insane.”

“Not insane,” I said with a shrug, “unexpected. Besides, it’s more of a raid than an assault. Think about it. They sent Bogen to keep eyes on us and since they don’t seem to have a very high opinion of us, they’re never going to guess that we managed to capture him. And even if Bogen decides to crawl back to them and sell us out—which I doubt, considering Ionia will slit his throat—we still have a decent window of opportunity where they won’t see us coming. These sons of bitches think they have our measure. But they’ve underestimated us and now it’s time to make them pay for it.”

“I suppose there is some truth to your words,” Melwyn said. “The Fae do have a notoriously low view of humanity. At worst your kind are a minor nuisance to be avoided, and at best you are sheep, easily sheared and eaten. Right now, every hunter fully expects the outcome of the Hunt to be a foregone conclusion. Ionia will win and the two of you will die. A brazen assault flies in the face of convention and decorum, but it will certainly signal that you aren’t to be trifled with. Risky, but I approve.”

“And what would you have me do, lad?” Pascow asked. “The Citadel has given you a wide berth to do as you will, but I doubt they’d approve of my involvement. A rogue Inkarnate is one thing—they have some plausible deniability about whatever trouble you stir up—but two of us looks like a war party. Could spell trouble, not that I much care, mind you. I’m a Sage and the head of the Builders Guild. You mutter the word and I’ll have your back.”

I frowned and shook my head. “As much as I’d love to have you laying down lead from a .50 cal, roping you into this whole mess could complicate things. There aren’t many rules, but technically only hunters, direct members of the court, and allies are supposed to participate. That doesn’t mean you can’t help, though.” I offered him a wide grin. “I need to hit up my Soul Vault and make a few changes, but in the meantime, I’m hoping you can throw together a couple of nasty little surprises for Jeffery and his buddies…”

15

A Balanced Build

I left Pascow and the others to their preparations and took a trip to my Soul Vault. The best I could reckon things, we had a little more than a day left before the Hunt started in earnest and we still didn’t know where we needed to go or who our target was. We needed to haul ass or the competition was going to leave us in the dust, but we still needed to advance with caution. Sure, Jeffery and the others were underestimating us, but it wouldn’t serve us to make the same mistake. The Champions of the Wylds were a dangerous bunch of shitheads, and if we wanted to walk away from a direct confrontation, we needed to play smart.

What I had Pascow working on for me would help, but I also needed to tweak my build and make a couple of tough decisions I’d been putting off for quite a while. I sauntered over to my avatar and pulled up my character stats with a thought.

<<<>>>

Boyd Knight

Race: Vigil Bound

Level: Master, Bronze Rank

Current Essence: 132

Next Ascended Rank: 85,000

Attribute Points: +3

Ward Points: +20/135

Characteristics

Brawn: 28

Verve: 25

Finesse: 23

Arcana: 32

Insight: 21

Vigil Wards 

Ward of Justice: Soul Bound Weapons (Boon)†, Armor Evocation, Weapon Mastery: Blunt, Festering Wounds

Ward of Valor: Diamond Body (Boon), Combat Sense, Purity of Form, Spiked Shell, Unmoving Bulwark

Ward of Wrath: Arcane Insight (Boon), Kinetic Blast, Warded Shield, Unbound Blaze

Ward of Balance: Language of the Heavens (Boon), Sidhe Pact, Totem Transformation, Fae Tether

Ward of Truth: Threads of Fate (Boon), Master Mentalist

Expand Ward List 

<<<>>>

The first thing I noticed was my level, Master, Bronze Rank. Thanks to that douchewaffle elf, Elduin, and the elemental ambush he’d walked us into, I’d finally ascended—even if I’d only done so by the skin of my teeth. The next thing I noticed was the cost required to advance to Silver. 85,000 accumulated Essence. The Essence necessary to move from Adept Bronze to Adept Silver had been 35,000 Essence. Fuck me sideways. The cost had more than doubled. It would take me months and dozens of high-level bounties to even come close to hitting that number.

Master was the most common rank among veteran Vigils of the Citadel, and I was starting to see why so many plateaued there. The cost to progress was daunting.

Then I thought about my current bounty—Purge the Darkness—which essentially amounted to assassinating a hibernating Chaos Titan. The reward for completing the mission was a cool one hundred thousand Essence. More than enough to push me up the ranks, but only if I survived long enough to collect the prize. I couldn’t help but wonder how many Master-ranked Vigils died horrible deaths at the hands of Eldritch monsters while chasing that next promotion.

I was betting a shit ton.

Thanks to Threads of Fate, I had the unique ability to respec my skills and spells once every twelve hours. Given a little time and preparation, I could be ready for any fight, no matter how challenging. Other Vigils didn’t have that luxury. Once they unlocked a Ward Ability, they were stuck with it for life. As a result, most of them were highly incentivized to move through the ranks as quickly as possible so they could unlock additional Ward Points and accumulate more and more abilities.

Advancing from one rank to another granted me one free Attribute Point and ten additional Ward Points to burn, but since I’d ascended from one class to another, I got a sweet bonus: +3 Attribute Points and +20 Ward Points. Attribute Points were used to increase my base stats—Brawn, Verve, Finesse, Arcana, and Insight—and up until now, I’d been mostly sitting on those free Attribute Points. Outside of advancement, there wasn’t really any other way to accumulate Ward Points, but Attribute Points could be bought by “Sacrificing” Essence.

At lower levels, getting extra Attribute Points was dirt cheap, but now that my Stats were in the mid- to upper-twenties, that made less and less sense. Especially since my Brawn Score was on the verge of surpassing thirty, which was considered a Major Cornerstone Threshold. I wasn’t exactly sure what would happen, but when I’d hit the Arcana Threshold, it had expanded my Meridian channels, allowing me to cast spells more efficiently and recover from Arcana loss more quickly.

I wasn’t going to get a better opportunity than this, so I decided to hold one point in reserve and drop the other two into Brawn.

Colossus Strength

Through a combination of intense training and unflinching discipline, you have raised your Brawn Characteristic Stat to 30, surpassing a Major Cornerstone Threshold. Your physical Meridian channels have expanded, allowing you to perform superhuman feats of strength, including wielding oversized weapons in one hand. Colossus Strength also allows you to tap into the power of Raguel to inflict additional Celestial damage while performing all melee attacks. +2% Celestial Damage for each additional Characteristic point added to Brawn until crossing the next Cornerstone Threshold.

I grunted. Huh, well that explained a few things.

I’d seen more than one Vigil—including Kerra—lugging around oversized anime weapons and using them with one hand as though they didn’t weigh any more than a foam LARP sword. Now I knew why. I also figured the additional Celestial damage would probably come in handy, especially since I was dealing with creatures of Oblivion, fueled by Chaos magic.

Next, I glanced through my current list of preset builds: Jack of all Trades, The Machine Gunner, Abram McTankface, Slick Talker Sherlock, Death from Above, and Redneck Engineer. None of ’em were going to work for what I had in mind. Plus, if the elemental ambush had taught me anything, it was that Ionia did her research. She’d hand selected enemies that were perfectly suited to counteract my skill set. No matter which build I went with, there was a damned good chance that Jeffery and his buddies would have something nasty in store for me.

Which meant I needed to think outside the box. If they thought I was going right, I needed to swerve left. The best way to do that was to reverse engineer the situation.

But first I needed to reclaim my Ward Points. With a thought, I activated the Threads of Fate skill and reclaimed a total of eighty Ward Points, while leaving my General Loadout Exemptions in place, which consisted of Sidhe Pact (5), Combat Sense (4), Master Mentalist (4), Totem Transformation (2), Armor Evocation (6), Fae Tether (4), and Weapon Mastery: Blunt (10). Thanks to my advancement, I also had an additional twenty Ward Points, giving me a total of a hundred points to play with.

I pulled up the Expanded Ward List and noodled over the seemingly endless list of abilities available to me:

<<<>>>

Expanded Ward List

Ward of Justice

Boon of Gadriel: Soul Bound Weapons (Unlocked)

Ranged Weapon Mastery

—Overcharge; Cost: 4

—Quick Hands; Cost: 6

—Maximum Penetration; Cost: 9

—Guided Shot; Cost: 15

—Automated Sentinel; Cost: 20

Melee Weapon Mastery

—Rend; Cost: 3

—Peerless Warrior; Cost: 5

—Crippling Strike; Cost: 8

—Festering Wound; Cost: 15

—Juggernaut; Cost: 25

Warforged Mastery

—Armor Evocation; Cost: 6

—Weapon Mastery: Unarmed; Cost: 10

—Weapon Mastery: Blades; Cost: 10

—Weapon Mastery: Blunt; Cost: 10

—Weapon Mastery: Range; Cost: 10

Ward of Valor

Boon of Voch: Diamond Body (Unlocked)

Bastion of the Protector

—Combat Sense; Cost: 4 

—Matchless Endurance; Cost: 6  

—Purity of Form; Cost: 10

—Spiked Shell; Cost: 14

—Unmoving Bulwark; Cost: 18

Bastion of the Healer

—Empathetic Healer; Cost: 5

—Plague Doctor; Cost: 10

—Heal Wounds; Cost: 15 

—Circle of Restoration; Cost: 20

—True Resurrection; Cost: 27

Bastion of Presence

—Mantle of Strength; Cost: 5

—Mantle of Authority; Cost: 8

—Mantle of Sanctuary; Cost: 10

—Mantle of Scales; Cost: 14

—Mantle of Healing; Cost: 22

Ward of Balance

Boon of Lero: Language of the Heavens (Unlocked)

Bestial Magics:

—Totem Transformation; Cost: 2

—Bestial Vigor; Cost: 5

—Ravenous Feeding; Cost: 12

—Rabid Infection; Cost: 18

—Totem Bound; Cost: 22

Fae Magics

—Fae Tether; Cost: 4 

—Sidhe Pact; Cost: 5

—Pierce Veil; Cost: 10

—Cunning Glamor; Cost: 12

—Fae Footed; Cost: 28

Elemental Magics

—Spectral Roots; Cost: 4

—Absorb Elements; Cost: 6

—Water Wright; Cost: 10

—Earth Sculptor; Cost: 10

—Metallurgy Manipulation; Cost: 10

Ward of Wrath

Boon of Thuriel: Arcane Insight (Unlocked)

Path of Violence

—Warded Shield; Cost: 5 

—Kinetic Blast; Cost: 5

—Unbound Blaze; Cost: 12  

—Arctic Spike; Cost: 12

—Electro Arc; Cost: 12

Path of Retribution

—Upheaval; Cost: 12

—Rain of Fire; Cost: 15

—Storm Caller; Cost: 17

—Circle of Banishment; Cost: 20

—Raguel’s Divine Retribution; Cost: 30

Path of Death:

—Life Siphon; Cost: 4

—Soul Jar; Cost: 6

—Mind Vault; Cost: 10

—Ritual Reanimate; Cost: 22

—Soul Storm; Cost: 28

Ward of Truth

Boon of Akora: Threads of Fate (Unlocked)

College of Rhetoric

—Master Mentalist; Cost: 4

—Calm Emotions; Cost: 8

—Honeyed Words; Cost: 10 

—Greater Suggestion; Cost: 16

—Grave Communion; Cost: 24

College of Deception

—Stealth Step; Cost: 5

—Deft Touch; Cost: 8

—Wyld Wisdom; Cost: 15

—Dream Thief; Cost: 15

—Crystalline Shell; Cost: 25

College of Reason

—Sage Smith; Cost: 10

—Mortka Forger; Cost: 10

—Affinity Retrofitter; Cost: 10

—Arcane Transmuter; Cost: 10

—Alchemic Mastery; Cost: 10

<<<>>> 

As I considered my choices, I reminded myself that I wasn’t dealing with regular ol’ run-of-the-mill Mortka this time around. Mortka were dangerous, and though they could be clever, mostly they were animals, driven by basic instincts and predatory urges. Driven by the desire to kill, to eat, to protect their territory. The creatures of the Fae Wyld, on the other hand, were cunning sons of bitches, one and all. My relationship with Renholm was proof enough of that. These fuckers were going to try to get into my head and tap-dance on every one of my senses.

The best defense against that bullshit, hands down, was Mind Vault. That was the very first thing I added to the list.

Presumably, we were also going to be spending a shitload of time inside the Etheric Realm, which held its own dangers and challenges. So far Melwyn had been able to help us navigate the Wylds, but what if something happened to her? What if she died? Or sold us out to Ionia, which was still a very real possibility. I’d known this lady for all of twenty-four hours—I wasn’t ready to put all my eggs in her basket, so to speak. If things went south with the Princess of Petals, Cal, Renholm, and I would need a way to get around in the Wylds on our own.

It just so happened there was a capstone ability in the Ward of Balance called Fae Footed, which would enable me to do just that.

I’d read over the description a handful of times, but I’d never seriously entertained the notion of using the ability for a lot of reasons. One, I still didn’t really understand what it did or how it worked, which made me uneasy. Two, the last time I’d fucked around in the Etheric Realm a nightmare creature equal parts giant toad and Kaiju angular fish had nearly eaten my soul. I still had nightmares about the mimic, and that freakshow was only half as scary as the ass reaming Kerra had given me for my recklessness. Last, and certainly not least, at 28 points, it was expensive.

Fae Footed

By their very nature, Vigils are born of two worlds. As creatures of flesh with a soul blessed by the divine, they have one foot in the Material Realm and the other planted firmly in the Etheric Realm. Fae Footed lets Vigils draw on this split nature, allowing them to mold, transform, and move through the Ether.

Effect 1: Burn Arcana to propel yourself through the Ether, instantly teleporting to a location within line of sight.

Effect 2: Use the malleable nature of the Fae Wylds to travel great distances by bending, shaping, and conforming the physical world around you to your will.

Effect 3: Unleash a burst of Arcana to fully plane shift, allowing yourself and up to ten others to step from the Material Realm directly into the Etheric Realm. The effect happens instantaneously. Exercise great caution while plane shifting—what lies beyond the veil is often a mystery and far more dangerous than anything in the Material Plane.

Recommended Attribute Minimums: Insight, 25; Arcana, 30; Verve, 22

Recommended Skill Selections: Totem Transformation

As I read over the skill description, a thread of doubt worked its way through my stomach. Admittedly, the ability to instantly teleport myself across the field of battle sounded supremely useful and absolutely badass, but jumping into the deep end with planar shifting seemed downright reckless—especially since I was four points short of the recommended Insight attribute. Although there were no hard and fast rules that prevented me from unlocking any ability, I’d learned the hard way that not listening to the recommended minimums and skill selections was a good way to get dead.

But another good way to get dead was to get stranded in some nightmare hellscape with no way to back to the Material Ream. When viewed in that light, Fae Footed seemed like the lesser of two evils.

Adding Mind Vault and Fae Footed to my arsenal of spells took care of a few of my most immediate concerns, but there was still the Hunt itself to consider. As I examined the Expanded Ward List, I found myself drawn back to the Ward of Balance time and time again. Outside of a handful of Utility skills, I’d barely scratched the surface of what Lero the Aspect of Balance had to offer. Now seemed like a perfect opportunity to rectify that little oversight. Similar to the classic DnD Druid, Vigils of Balance—commonly referred to as Totemists—primarily focused on kicking ass and taking names through the power of bestial transformation.

Need to tank? No problem. Simply slip into the skin of a Stone Spider. Want to stalk through the shadows, completely unseen? Just consume a Profane Dread Shade Token and become a literal shadow. That kind of added versatility was exactly what I needed if I was going to square off against Jeffery and his buddies. Transforming into a rhino-horned Ku-Rodur had saved all our asses during the elemental ambush, and the heightened senses of a Mortka would help me in the Hunt without a doubt.

Still, there was one big catch.

The Totemist Build was heavily resource dependent. Transformation Tokens were rare and picking them up from resellers in the Citadel could run you an arm and a leg. But I’d been mulling this over for a while and had a pretty good workaround.

Totem Bound was one of the Capstone Abilities from the Balance Ward. It would allow me to “Harmonize” with one specific form so I could transform at will, without the need for a Transformation Token. I’d also be able to draw on some of the traits of my chosen Totem Form, even while in human form. From what I’d gathered, most Vigils selected the True Transformation Form, since those tokens were among the rarest and hardest to come by. But I had an extra ace in the hole. If I wanted to take a leap of faith, I could read the Path of Bestial Form Legacy Scroll I’d looted off Kol’s body.

Doing so would allow me to “Harmonize” with up to five different Mortka Forms, instead of just one. It was a big commitment, but with the deck so stacked against me, I needed any edge I could get. Desperate men will grasp at anything, and there was no denying that we were in a desperate situation.

As much as it pained me, I pulled the trigger and selected Totem Bound. Then—since I’d made up my mind about leaning into the Totemist build—I decided to pick up Bestial Vigor as well, which came with a slew of impressive passive benefits. It allowed me to double the amount of time I could remain in a given totem form, and similar to Matchless Endurance, it passively boosted my Verve by 1% for every minute I spent in bestial form. The longer I remained transformed the more powerful and resilient I would become.

Between Mind Vault, Fae Footed, Totem Bound, and Bestial Vigor I’d already burned through sixty-five of my one hundred available Ward Points. I was a little less sure about what other skills I should add to the roster.

Since we were actively hunting down some shitbird who’d made a deal with the devil, I wanted to pick up Wyld Wisdom, but at fifteen points it was extremely pricey, and I reminded myself that I had Renholm in tow. His uncanny ability to find clues, turn up leads, and locate targets was due in large part to a skill very much like Wyld Wisdom. That paired with his Chaos Cloak—which made the improbable merely unlikely—meant he would be a better sleuth than I could ever hope to be. In short, he was the perfect hunting dog.

I also briefly considered adding Cunning Glamor to my repertoire. As a Vigil, I didn’t exactly blend into a crowd, and standing out like a road flare on a dark night was a great way to paint a giant target on my back. But just like Wyld Wisdom, that was another twelve points I just couldn’t afford to spend—especially since Melwyn clearly had the ability to conjure glamors of her own. That same line of thinking extended to Pierce Veil; if she could cast illusions, chances were she could see through them and dispel them as well.

Plus, with Mind Vault locked in place there was a good chance I’d naturally resist any attempts to fool around inside my head.

Instead, I added one of my favorite abilities, Festering Wound. It was a powerful DPS spell that afflicted enemies with deadly necrotic damage that literally rotted the flesh from their bones. Even better, the ability stacked, so each subsequent hit could cause additional instances of Hellflayer Rot.

That left me with twenty Ward Points, which felt like damn near nothing in the grand scheme of things. I had enough points for Automated Sentinel, which is what I really wanted, but without the recommended Ranged Weapon Mastery, the capstone ability would be next to useless. I could also pick up a single hard-hitting Wrath Spell—like Unbound Blaze, Arctic Spike, or Storm Caller—but there was a problem with that too. Namely, there was no telling what kind of bullshit I’d be facing. It was a dice roll at this point, and if I got unlucky, I could end up with a costly spell that had no combat utility.

What I needed was maximum versatility, and there was one spell that could give it to me:

Mantle of Scales

Affinity Scales are a powerful tool in any Vigil’s arsenal—they can be consumed directly to recoup Arcana or heal grievous injuries, can offer invaluable buffs and resistances, or can be wielded as an offensive weapon to inflict crippling wounds against adversaries. When Mantle of Scales is activated, it allows the Vigil to extend those effects, for good or ill, to those within the vicinity.

By activating Mantle of Scales – Charity Form, the effects of a consumed Affinity Scale radiate off the caster in a thirty-foot aura, adding those same benefits to all allies within the Area of Effect. The strength and duration of the effects are directly proportional to the quality of the Affinity Scale consumed.

By activating Mantle of Scales – Reckoning Form, the caster uses their aura as an active metaphysical focal point, transforming the Affinity Scale energy into an AoE weapon and afflicting all enemies in the Area of Effect. The strength and duration of the effects are directly proportional to the quality of the Affinity Scale consumed.

A caster can effortlessly switch between Charity Form and Reckoning Form simply by refocusing their combat intention while the Mantle is activated.

Recommended Attribute Minimums: Arcana, 22; Verve, 20

This build wouldn’t have much by way of offensive magic, but with Mantle of Scales, I could easily use Affinity Scales to fill in the gaps. And it also left me with six Ward Points—just enough to snag Warded Shield. The spell had saved my ass more times than I could count, and I didn’t relish the idea of wading into a fight like this without at least a few defensive capabilities. Once I’d made my final choices, I spent a few extra minutes saving this build as a preset, then labeled it Wolfman Warlock.

Finished, I suppressed a yawn with my fist and headed over to my library. It had been more than twenty-four hours since the last time I grabbed a bit of shut-eye, but we didn’t have time to waste. There was no telling how long Jeffery and the others would be getting shitfaced, and we needed to hit ’em before they moved on. Worst-case scenario, I would catch a few minutes of rest in the saddle. I had a little light reading that was guaranteed to put me to sleep no matter how rocky the terrain was.

I found the Legacy Scroll I’d taken from Kol’s body after our battle in the Citadel and slipped it from the shelf. Unlike the other scrolls, which were made from vellum or fine silk, this one looked to be inscribed onto a wolf pelt. I ran my hand along the outside, feeling the bristly fur brush against my skin. The scroll thrummed with subtle hunger. Faint images of a white-dusted pine forest flashed through my head, accompanied by the metallic scent of blood floating on a distant breeze. I could feel snow crunch under my paws and my heart race as I tracked wounded game through the underbrush.

The power of the scroll called to me. It urged me to shed the flesh of a man, to take up the skin of a beast and join the hunt.

It was high time to heed that call. Legacy Scroll in hand, I left my Soul Vault behind.

16

Tongue Action

I stepped out of my Vault into one of the most awkward situations imaginable.

Cal and Renholm were nowhere to be seen, but Melwyn was standing in my study, half naked. And by half naked, I mean completely naked. The revealing toga she’d worn before was pooled around her ankles and there wasn’t another stitch on her body. A legion of gold and silver tattoos ran over pale ivory skin, following the contours of her lithe body. They cupped her breasts and swirled along her arms and thighs. They were sigils of power, written in a tongue older than mankind.

Jaarik, a symbol for growth.

Yordhul, the celestial sigil of renewal and sometimes rebirth.

Odhoric, the sign of spring.

There were dozens more that I didn’t know, even though Arturo had been doing his best to pound the celestial runes into my thick skull. That was really the least of my concerns at the moment, however. The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight at attention and goosebumps raced along my spine. I got the very real sense that I’d just stepped into an ambush. I’d been puttering around in my Soul Vault for the better part of an hour. She’d had ample opportunity to make whatever preparations were necessary, but here she was, waiting for me.

Alone and naked.

I’d never seen more red flags on a play.

Instead of taking the bait, I shouldered past her. “Going to war naked is a bold choice,” I said over one shoulder. “Not one I’d be willing to make, but hey, you do you.”

She was quick and managed to slip in front of the door before I could get it open.

“Men have thrown themselves at my feet just to get a glimpse of what I’m freely offering you. They have fought and bled for the chance to be this close.” She reached up and trailed her fingers down the side of my face. “Yet you don’t seem to care in the least. Why is that, I wonder. Perhaps your tastes drift in a different direction?”

I could feel the subtle pull of magic clawing at my head, trying to worm its way into my thoughts and past my mental defenses.

I reached up and pulled her hand away. “Don’t flatter yourself, lady. Trust me, I’m batting for the home team. Have you ever considered that maybe you’re really not as hot as you seem to think you are?”

“No, not once,” she replied simply. “Beauty is in my blood and I’m a very good judge of such things.”

“Fair enough, but looks aren’t everything. The truth is, I don’t trust you. Not even a little. You’re royalty, you’re used to getting your way, and I’ve got a hunch that you’re more than willing to walk all over people like me to get what you want. Right now, we’re on the same side, but we both know that could change. If selling me out benefits you, I think you’ll do it in a heartbeat. I also think you use your beauty and charm like a weapon just as surely as I use an axe.

“If sleeping with you now makes me hesitate when shit hits the fan—even if only for a split second—I could wind up dead. But here’s the thing, lady. I have no intention of dying, I’m not going to be your braindead lackey, and I sure as shit don’t plan to sacrifice myself for you in some gallant act of chivalry. So, unless you are actually planning to fight like a suburban mom at a nude beach for the first time, then I recommend getting your goddamned battle rattle on because we have places to be.”

She regarded me through hooded eyes, her lips pressed into a tight, thin line. “You are not at all like what I was expecting,” she said after a beat. “Nothing like the stories make you sound.” She raised a hand and twirled a finger through the air. A purple lotus with wriggling roots materialized above her palm.

“Yeah, and how exactly do the stories make me sound?” I asked.

“Bold and courageous,” she replied, “but also extremely rash and foolish. I’m beginning to think there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

Moving without any sense of urgency, she plucked the blossom from the air and pressed it against her breastbone. Instantly, the petals unfurled, and the flower bloomed. Snaking roots raced across her skin—twirling, curling, and encircling her body in a matter of seconds. They crisscrossed and zigzagged, transforming into a woven suit of flexible mesh armor. Pauldrons of gnarled wood covered her shoulders while thick bracers and greaves studded with wicked barbs protected her forearms and legs. A cloak made entirely of lush, colorful wildflowers trailed down her back and brushed the floor.

“Almost as sturdy as scale mail but as light and flexible as supple leather,” she said. “Now, if you’re done staring, we can go. Cal and Renholm should be down in the courtyard with our mounts, and Pascow finished the items you requested.”

I grunted a noncommittal reply and headed out of the office and down the stairs, pausing just long enough to give Rebecca a couple quick words of instruction: Don’t leave the grounds for a few days. Keep the house locked whenever feasible. Don’t trust anyone who showed up until I returned. Listen to Pascow.

Just like Melwyn had said, my friends were waiting for me in the newly manicured courtyard. Miko was there as well, holding Darksilver’s reins and running an arthritic hand reassuringly over the horse’s flank. My horse was decked out in glittering silver plate mail and had a pair of heavy saddlebags slung across his flanks, loaded down with provisions and camping supplies for the journey. Lena, my castellan, had made sure we’d have all the food and supplies we could need and more. We had aged cheese, hard biscuits that would keep for days, a sack of fresh apples, and pounds of dried deer jerky.

Not a feast, but a damn bit better than the cold MREs I’d choked down day after day while in Iraq.

Pascow was ready with a leather sack filled with some nasty surprises for Jeffery and the rest of the champions. The bag was heavy and rattled with the clink of iron as I looked over the traps before securing them to Darksilver’s back.

Meanwhile, Melwyn took a knee in a patch of vibrant grass, not far from where Cal waited. I watched, intrigued, as she pulled a small, yellowed skull from a woven pouch at her belt. The skull, not much larger than a chicken’s egg, appeared reptilian and had some sort of red binding rune engraved into the bone. With deft fingers she scooped out a small divot in the grass and buried the talisman, then leaned forward until her face was nearly brushing the freshly unturned dirt and whispered something I couldn’t hear.

She stood gracefully and moved back a few paces as the ground rumbled and bucked. Huge roots erupted upward, quickly knitting themselves together into the shape of a massive crocodile, easily five feet tall at the shoulders and thirty feet long from snout to tail. Like her armor, its body was composed entirely of thick roots, green leaves, and colorful wildflowers. All except for its head, which was a grown-up version of the yellowed skull she’d planted. The creature opened massive jaws and let loose a guttural hiss that left even Darksilver tap-dancing away.

“Don’t mind Seral,” Melwyn said, vaulting onto the monster’s back with ease. The creature didn’t have a saddle or any sort of discernable reins, but that didn’t seem to bother the Fae princess. She leaned forward and rubbed a hand between the gator’s shoulders. This time, it let out a pleased hiss and blinked deathly black eyes in utter contentment. “She’s a sweet, clever girl. Unless you get on her bad side.” Melwyn straightened, still caressing the creature’s head with the flat of her hand. “If you get on her bad side, she’s a hungry girl. She’s a lot like me in that way, I suppose.”

Melwyn pressed in lightly with her knees and the gator darted forward, gliding across the ground as though swimming through a marsh.

“Right hand to god,” Cal said, watching with his mouth agape, “that is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s like a Meatloaf album cover. She reminds me of Steve Irwin. But like a hot, female version of Steve Irwin.”

“Nope,” I said, swinging up onto Darksilver, “not gonna touch that one with a ten-foot pole, dude.”

* * *

After a quick round of goodbyes, our hunting party left the keep behind and struck out for the Wylds with Renholm and Melwyn leading the way. The two fairies conversed with one another while I brought up the rear, with Cal keeping pace beside me.

“How long do you think it’ll take us to get there?” I called as we passed into the thick tangle of trees that made up the Elderwick.

“At a guess, five hours or so,” Melwyn called back over one shoulder. “That’s assuming your king here truly does know his way and that we don’t run into any trouble.”

“Perfect,” I said before pulling free the animal hide scroll I’d taken from the Vault. Cal froze and his eyes bulged comically when he caught sight of what was in my hand.

“Dude, what the fuck are you doing with that thing?”

I broke the waxy seal with my thumb. “I think it’s pretty obvious what I’m doing.”

“The fact that I have to be the voice of reason here is total bullshit,” Cal said, “but I feel the need to remind you that I was there the last time you used one of those Legacy Scrolls. You started bleeding from your eyes, nose, and anus—”

“I definitely wasn’t bleeding from my anus,” I interjected.

“Nope, I have a very clear recollection of what happened, and you were definitely bleeding from your anus,” Cal shot back. “That and just about every other goddamned orifice. And then you projectile vomited all down the front of your shirt and passed out for like seven hours. I legitimately thought you died. Honestly, I’ve seen corpses that looked more alive than you did the last time you laid eyes on one of those things.”

He was definitely, one hundred and fifty percent wrong about the anus thing, but much as I hated to admit it, he was spot on about everything else. Although I now had three Legacy Scrolls to my name, I’d been more than a little gun-shy to use any of them because my last encounter had been… traumatic. And the stronger the Scroll was, the worse the effects were likely to be. That was one of the other reasons I’d picked Mind Vault. Without some mental protections in place, even a weak Legacy Scroll would melt the eyes out of my sockets and turn my brain into hot mush.

The Path of the Bestial Form was a Sage-Ranked Scroll. Using it was going to suck an entire bagful of dicks.

“Those are all good points,” I replied, then pulled the scroll open. “But we don’t have a lot of options here. I need the information in this scroll to not die horribly, and I can’t afford to take a ten-hour nap somewhere safe and warm like my Soul Vault. Which is why I’m going to multitask and why you’re going to make sure nothing bad happens to me. Besides, my Brawn and Verve are way higher than the last time, so I should bounce back a lot quicker,” I said, though I knew I was trying to convince myself more than I was trying to convince him.

“Bro, I love you,” Cal said, “I want you to know that. But I also want you to know that this is even more stupid than when you used yourself as live bait to lure out that lake Kraken. Remember that time in Kuwait when we caught that scorpion and I kept it in a Tupperware container under my bed, then later found out it was an Arabian Fat-Tailed Man Killing Scorpion—one of the deadliest scorpions in the world—and I still kept it under my bed? Yeah, that’s where we are right now, buddy. We’re in Arabian Fat-Tailed Man Killer territory. This is a dumb idea, and that means a lot coming from me.”

“The clocks ticking,” I said, “and it’s only dumb if it doesn’t work. Keep me safe.”

I traced my thumb along a red leather band that sealed the scroll. My hunger increased and I could taste blood on my lips. I carefully unbound the leather strap tying it shut, and golden writing swam across my field of vision.

Path of Bestial Form

The Path of Bestial Form is an ancient, primal technique that dates back to the time of the first Vigils. There are those who say that Vigils and Mortka are just two sides of the same coin. Those who follow the Path of Bestial Form would agree. Embracing their primal nature, those who tread in the footprints of monsters understand the true nature of a Mortka and can bind with up to five different Totem Shapes, allowing them to transform seamlessly from one form to another without the need of additional Transformation Tokens.

Legacy Binding Location: Totem Bound

Recommended Attribute Minimums: Insight, 20; Verve, 24; Brawn, 24

Recommended Skill Selections: Totem Transformation, Mind Vault

Would you like to proceed by reading the Path of Bestial Form? Yes/No

I hit yes and the glimmering golden words faded from the air. I fully unfurled the scroll while Cal watched with concern etched into the lines of his face. This wasn’t my first rodeo, so I had some idea of what to expect.

I was completely wrong.

The last scroll had contained an intricate, circular sigil composed of thousands and thousands of incomprehensible occult symbols and diagrams, all interconnected through an elaborate series of overlapping geometric patterns seemingly written in fresh blood. Inside this scroll was a circular, undulating mouth filled with thousands of razor-sharp teeth. Carpeting the rest of the scroll were hundreds of black, gleaming eyes. Spider eyes, raven eyes, oddly humanoid eyes. And all of them were staring at me.

What. The. Fuck.

Then the scroll attacked me.

It lunged from my hands and latched onto my mouth like one of those face-huggers from the Alien franchise. Suddenly, I couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear. Couldn’t breathe. Darksilver bucked beneath me, throwing me from the saddle. I landed on my back in the dirt and the force of the fall knocked the rest of the air from my lungs. I wheezed desperately and clawed at the furry scroll, frantically trying to pull it away, but my fingers couldn’t seem to find any purchase. Meanwhile the monstrous face-hugger constricted tighter around my head and something wet and slimy forced its way past my teeth and into my mouth.

Gross. I was getting tongue action from this thing.

“Damn it, Boyd,” Cal called, though his voice was muffled and oddly distant. “I told you not to read that thing. This is what happens when you don’t listen to me.”

I tuned Cal’s rants out and focused on the monstrous scroll trying to eat me.

But then, slow horror dawned on me as I realized it wasn’t trying to eat me.

It was trying to force its way into me.

Sharp claws fish-hooked each side of my mouth and forced my jaws open wider and wider. I wheezed, gagged, and tried desperately to pull in even a single lungful of air. But nothing would come. The scroll continued to wriggle its way inward, deeper and deeper, forcing itself down my throat. Finally, I could see again, but white stars danced across my eyelids while my vision narrowed, black invading from the edges. Then the darkness turned to light and resolved into the image of a man sitting on a throne.

He wasn’t really a man, though.

He only had the shape of a man. His body was a crude jumble of different creatures. He was made of teeth and claws, tentacles and fur. His head was a grinning deer skull with the horns of a great elk protruding from either side. Strewn about the horns like fucked-up Christmas decorations were gray ropes of intestine and decapitated heads. Men, monsters, animals. This thing, whatever it was, didn’t discriminate. The terrifying being regarded me for a long moment with burning eyes that glowed like twin suns.

Finally, it nodded and spoke. Its voice was the roar of a bear. The cackle of a crow. The howl of a wolf and the distant cry of a deer, dying as its belly was ripped open. It was the voice of the hunter and hunted.

“BE AS WE ARE. MAN. BEAST. DEVOUR. FOOD. WE ARE LIFE AND DEATH. WE ARE THE HUNTER. THE HUNTED. THE HUNT. SEE. KNOW. COMPREHEND.”

The words weren’t English. Weren’t any tongue spoken by man. It was the primal language of monsters. Somehow, I understood every word with perfect clarity. The furry scroll was no longer in my mouth but had somehow crawled down my throat and curled up inside my belly. I could feel it wriggling and squirming in the pit of my stomach. Already tendrils of bestial energy reached outward along my meridians like questing fingers. Blood gushed from my eyes as the monstrous figure disappeared, replaced by an avalanche of images.

Mortka. Hundreds of them. Thousands even.

I’d always thought of them as evil because of the things they did, but in that instant, I knew they were no more evil than a hurricane bearing down on a coastal city. No more malicious than a coyote looking to fill its stomach. They were the result of vast energies coalescing to fill a vacuum. Nothing more and nothing less. That didn’t mean they didn’t need to be hunted or killed. The Mortka was to the Vigil as the sheep was to the wolf. My kind were the ultimate hunters, culling the herd and bringing balance to the world.

There were several Transformation Tokens in the leather pouch attached to my belt, and I felt each of them singing out to me. Still sprawled out on my back, I slipped numb fingers into the opening of the leather sack and rooted around for a minute until my skin brushed against a token that resonated with my soul. I pulled it out and drunkenly held it up, rotating it between my index finger and thumb. I felt the smooth texture and the gentle thrum of power caressing my skin. This particular token was unique.

Unlike the others, which allowed me to transform into a variety of creatures, this one allowed me to transform into the monster that lived inside my soul.

Acting on the knowledge the Legacy Scroll had just imparted to my mind, I took the stone and popped it into my mouth, then dry swallowed it with a grimace. It seared my esophagus as it moved toward my stomach. That heat intensified into a burning wildfire as the stone landed in my belly and scorching tongues of flame raced through my muscles and attacked the pool of energy at the center of my being. My body shook, arms and legs convulsing, as the power tried to eat me up.

But, thanks to the scroll, I knew what needed to be done. I grappled that energy with my mind and wrestled it into submission, then slowly fed it, piece by piece, into my core. The power of the token lunged for my metaphorical jugular, but my will to survive was stronger. As wispy strands of primal energy tried to escape, I rounded them all up and forced them back inside my core, first condensing the energy, then systematically breaking it apart into packets of raw Beast Affinity that my body could more efficiently process.

In seconds the trembling in my limbs subsided and the roaring fire dwindled as the foreign power became a part of me. Instinctively, I knew there would be no going back from this. No way to untangle this power which had suffused every cell and provided my brain with a detailed blueprint. The token had branded the knowledge of fangs and claws, fur and muscle, into my soul. Then, as quickly as it came, the flood of images guttered and died. The revelation and sudden insight faded into the back of my mind like a dream half remembered.

The world around me swam back into focus and I blinked open my eyes. I was still on the ground, while Cal, Melwyn, and Renholm were standing around me in a circle looking down on me with deep concern.

I forced myself to sit up, leaning back on my palms.

“Don’t worry,” I mumbled drunkenly, “I’m totally—”

I was about to say fine, but the word wouldn’t come. Instead, I turned and promptly projectile vomited all over Cal. And because we had transitioned into the Etheric Realm, chunks of stew splattered across his boots. I fell onto my side and blackness swept over me, pulling me down toward sleep. The last thing I heard before passing out completely was Cal.

“Goddammit, Boyd.” Then he sighed. “Well, someone help me get him onto his horse…”

17

Party Time

When I woke up it felt like the world was rocking beneath me, even though I knew I was flat on my back. For a long beat, I thought I was on a ship, sleeping off a wicked hangover after a long night out on shore leave. But then I remembered that dusty street in Fallujah. The squat, tan buildings and the fine dust that coated everything it touched. I remembered the IED. The Humvee burning around me while Cal cooked below. The whine of sniper fire and the matte green M67 frag grenade rolling down the stairs.

A suffocating feeling settled over my chest and suddenly it was hard to breathe.

I was dying all over again.

Then I realized what was really happening. There was a cat ass on my face.

I lurched upright, trying to get my bearings, but was momentary blinded by a sea of orange and white fur.

There was an angry hiss and a flurry of razor-sharp claws digging into my skin as I propelled Jacob-Francis off me and blinked my eyes open. The cat landed gracefully, shot me an evil glare and a flick of his tail, then padded toward a crackling fire nearby. We were in a small clearing with dirt, leaves, and dried pine needles scattered across the ground. It was night and though moonlight trickled through the branches, the canopy was too thick to get a good look at the sky overhead.

There was a woolen blanket spread out beneath me and another covering my legs, though my chest was bare. My cobalt blue basilisk scale mail sat propped against a mossy rock, and it looked like someone had taken the time to clean it, since it was free of blood and vomit. I spotted Darksilver tethered to a gnarled spruce, while Melwyn sat on the opposite side of a low fire ringed with weathered river stones. It didn’t take me long to find Cal and Renholm; they were leaning against a felled tree, laughing their asses off at my expense.

“Goddamn it, you two,” I growled. “That wasn’t funny the first time, or the second time, and it sure as shit ain’t funny now.”

“Agree to disagree,” Cal said, trying to suppress a self-satisfied cackle. “There is nothing funnier in the whole world than dropping that cat onto your face while you’re snoring.”

“Indeed,” Renholm added, “as far as I’m concerned, it will never cease to be comical.”

“Jacob-Francis weighs like thirty pounds, you dickbags. He could legitimately suffocate me. That or claw one of my eyes out.”

“Relax,” Cal said, flippantly waving away my concern with one hand, “you’re a Vigil, dude. There are literally ninety-seven-year-old cat ladies who have cats sleep on their face every single night. Honestly, if you can’t survive this, you probably don’t deserve to live. Plus, Renholm’s right. It is really funny and, in our defense, we were bored. Which is entirely your fault since we were waiting for you to wake up.”

“I tried to stop them,” Melwyn called out.

“I find that hard to believe,” I said, glowering at the princess. “You have magical plant powers and ride a giant vine crocodile. If you really wanted to stop them, you would’ve stopped them.”

“That’s not fair,” she replied with a playful pout. “I did try to stop them. I just didn’t try very hard. They seemed quite dedicated, and I would’ve had to get up from my cozy seat here by the fire, which was more effort than I was willing to commit to.”

“Assholes, every single one of you,” I grumbled under my breath.

I sat up the rest of the way and ground my palms into my eye sockets. I was still groggy and disoriented and my head felt like I’d spent the night taking shots of apple pie moonshine with Cal back behind the Wendy’s. That described pretty much every Friday night of high school. My mouth also tasted like cat shit, though I suspected that had less to do with Jacob-Francis sitting his fat, furry ass on my face, and more to do with the bestial book that had crawled down my throat.

“Where the hell are we, anyway?” I finally asked once the world stopped spinning beneath me.

“Mag Aisling,” Cal said. He picked up a small stone and absently chucked it into the woods. “The Land of Desolate Dreams, in case you missed the memo. We’re about two miles, give or take, from the hunting lodge where Jeffery and the rest of the champions are partying it up like it’s 1999.”

“Wait, they’re still here?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Yep, and they’re fucking wasted,” Cal said with a grin. “They’ve got one guy standing watch—the weird spider guy with the creepy face tentacles—”

“Ku-Aya, Seer of the Hallowed Memory,” Melwyn added helpfully.

“Yeah, that’s the one”—Cal shot her a finger gun—“but ol’ Spider-Face McGee seemed almost as bored as we were. Despite all those eyes of his, he didn’t see me or Renholm. Right hand to God, their defensive measures are a joke. I’ve seen better security at a Limp Bizkit concert. I’d be embarrassed if I were in their shoes. The lodge itself is a great big ol’ place with half a dozen entrances and exits and a ton of windows. There are a handful of wards placed around the perimeter, but it seemed more like a formality than anything else.”

“I don’t know why you all are so surprised by any of this,” Melwyn said. “These are some of the most powerful warriors of the Wylds. These are knights and lords in service to the monarchs of the realm. To attack them would be to declare war against every Court and the bring an unimaginable reckoning down upon yourself. Only a fool or a madman would even consider doing what we’re about to do.”

“Let’s just hope we’re madmen and not fools,” I said. Then to Cal, “Did you manage to get an exact head count?”

“Eight all told,” Renholm said. “There are no squires, diplomatic attachés, or servants present—such are forbidden from participating in the sacred Rites of Rohr. It is for hunters only. It also seems that Bogen CrowEye wisely heeded your warning and stayed away.”

I did a little quick and dirty mental math. Even without Bogen CrowEye the numbers didn’t add up. “We’re one short,” I said.

“Yeah,” Cal replied. “We couldn’t get eyes on Narvik, Host of the Fell. He was the great big ol’ centaur motherfucker. Had a giant bow on his back.”

I knew exactly who they were talking about.

“Any idea where he might be?” I asked.

“The Host of the Fell are Queen Ionia’s most ardent supporters,” Melwyn replied, her brow furrowed in thought, “and Narvik is a master huntsman and tracker. He and the rest of his kind are more at home in the forests and plains of the Wyld than they are in the cities of men. Chances are he is out scouting the location for the first hunt while the others indulge in the Feast. But it’s equally possible that he simply chose not to partake. The Fell are a horribly grim people and have some very rigid notions about honor and what they consider ‘debauchery.’ The long and short of it is that they hate fun.”

“Which means he’s likely out of the picture for the time being,” Cal chipped in.

“I would say that is a fair guess,” Melwyn agreed.

A twisted smile slowly stretched across my face. Eight champions, all shitfaced. Terrible security protocols and only one guard on watch. Hell yeah, we could definitely make this work. Sure, the raw numbers still weren’t in our favor, but we were madmen with the element of surprise and a bagful of nasty party favors. I almost felt bad for the hurt we were about to lay on these sons of bitches.

But only almost.

“This is gonna be like shooting fish in a goddamned barrel,” I said, rubbing my hands together.

“What a queer thing to say,” Renholm replied, cocking his head to one side. “Why, pray tell, would one want to shoot fish in a barrel? If you’ve already caught the fish and put them in the barrel, what further need is there to hunt them?”

“You’re missing the whole point of that analogy,” I said flatly. “It has nothing to do with catching the fish. It’s just a figure of speech where I come from that means something will be super easy, barely an inconvenience.”

“Ah, so like burning orphans in a boarded-up orphanage,” Renholm replied, nodding in agreement.

“Wait. What? No. Not like burning orphans in a boarded-up orphanage,” I said. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Well, if you know another way to kill a gaggle of orphans in an easier manner, I’m all ears.”

“We’re not killing orphans, Renholm,” I said. “And, for the record, you should never kill even a single orphan, much less an entire group of orphans.”

“What if the orphan is really bad?” Cal asked. “I mean, if Raguel gave you a bounty to kill an evil orphan, I feel like you’d have to follow through. Right?”

“Why do I even try?” I said, tossing up my hands. “Look. Forget about the fish and forget about the orphans. I feel like we’re getting lost in the weeds. The point is we’re gonna take these Fae fuckheads out and it’s going to be easy. Easy and fun.”

I stood with a groan, headed over to Darksilver, and pulled out the leather sack full of traps Pascow had crafted for us. I upended the bag, dumping its contents onto the ground with a metallic clatter. Renholm and Melwyn subconsciously scooted away from the deadly iron glinting in the firelight.

Iron spears. Hundreds of tiny, spiked caltrops. A trio of heavy bear traps. All the good stuff.

“Cal,” I said, “go check Darksilver’s saddlebags. There should be several extra bottles of booze tucked away in there.”

“I’m not sure getting blitzed before we blitz is the best idea,” my spirit guide offered.

“Don’t worry, this liquor ain’t for drinking. I have another thought in mind.”

“And just what is this great plan of yours, oh wise one?” Melwyn asked, glancing between me and the pile of deadly iron weaponry.

“This won’t mean anything to you,” I said, “but where I come from there’s an epic tale of the great warrior Macaulay Culkin, who managed to defend his homeland from dangerous marauders. In this ballad, the marauders are far stronger and more numerous than Macaulay Culkin, so he has to use his wits and homefield advantage to win the day. That’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to Home Alone this forest. And here’s how…”

I used the tip of a crossbow bolt to sketchy out a rough map.

“This sounds very much like burning orphans in a boarded-up orphanage,” Renholm said as he surveyed my battle sketch. “Especially considering how much fire is involved.”

I had to admit he wasn’t wrong…

* * *

It was nearly daybreak by the time we finished our preparations and got into position around the hunting lodge. The lodge was a hulking three-story structure crafted of wood and weathered cobblestone, with thick tangles of vine crawling up the western face of the building. It sat on a steep incline overlooking a small placid pond below. The tree line had been aggressively cut back so the guards would have a clear view of anyone coming from the south and east.

In theory it should’ve been impossible to approach from the lake side, since scaling the sheer cliff face would be impossible to do without being seen. Except that Renholm and Cal could both fly.

I glanced toward the skyline, which was the ghostly purple of a fresh bruise. Just an hour or so to true dawn. By my best reckoning, the horn signaling the first hunt would sound sometime in the next few hours. We were cutting it awfully close, since we still didn’t have enough clues or location markers to point us in the right direction of the target, but I had full confidence this plan was going to work. I’d posted Renholm as a scout while Melwyn, Cal, and I worked tirelessly to Home Alone the area surrounding the lodge.

Aside from Spider Face—the poor schmuck stuck on fire watch—the rest of the champions were passed out, snoring loudly and sleeping off their drunken revelry from the night before. We were gonna hit ’em like a wrecking ball and they wouldn’t ever see it coming. Now all that was left to do was kick the hornet’s nest and watch all these little Fae shit heels scurry out and right into all of our carefully placed traps.

With a thought, I reached out and drew my Soul Bound firearm to me. Instead of the familiar Colt 1911 or my Benelli M4 tactical shottie, I’d opted to go with one of my favorite weapons in the world. The M240 Golf medium machine gun. It was a gas-operated, belt-fed badass capable of laying down seven hundred and fifty 7.62 rounds per minute. Sure, it didn’t pack the kick or raw stopping power of the ma deuce, but it was a whole helluva lot easier to carry and fire on the move.

Golden runes shimmered on the 240’s receiver and buttstock, while thin fingers of glowing orange and red light spiraled along the length of the barrel. My weapons and armor could be augmented with Arcanum Tokens, which offered a number of different benefits, from granting elemental damage to added disease resistance. Since I didn’t have any Wrath spells with this build, I’d decided to add my Elemental Flame token to the 240 so it dealt some nasty fire damage with every hit.

I was in the prone, belly pressed against the cool earth, and had the buttstock pressed tight into my shoulder pocket. I lined up my shot, focusing on the vines carpeting the western side of the lodge. In the Material Realm we were still in the tail end of winter, but here in Mag Aisling everything was in vibrant bloom. The vines should’ve been green and lush, but instead they were brown and withered, skeletal things without a hint of moisture in them.

That was Melwyn’s handiwork. I’d also had Cal and Renholm dose the vines with the cheap liquor I’d brought along for just this purpose. A trail of alcohol led away from the vines and decorated the base of the building on two sides.

I took a deep breath and pulled the trigger as I exhaled. The bark of rounds was thunderous in the unnatural stillness of the early morning. The muzzle flashes would’ve given away my position, but I’d concealed myself in a thicket dense with lush foliage. My Arcana rounds peppered the vines and they immediately burst into flames. Hungry tongues of orange spread fast, lapping at the dried-out greenery before spreading to the back side of the lodge.

The retort of the gunfire startled the spider-faced guard out of his half-awake stupor. He let out a squawk and scrambled off the sprawling wraparound porch and into the open, gripping his light crossbow in one hand. The blazing firelight glinted off his numerous arachnoid eyes, and even though he wasn’t human, I knew panic when I saw it. The spider man tossed his head back and let out an undulating cry. I easily could’ve killed him before he ever had a chance to give his buddies warning.

But I wanted him to warn them.

The goal here wasn’t to slow roast these fuckers while they slept. For one, there was no way we’d get all of them, and for another, the goal here was to win the Hunt—and for that we needed clues. And to get those clues, I needed Jeffery and the rest of his douche brigade out of the lodge so Renholm could do what he did best… Steal shit.

In seconds, alchemic lights flickered on inside the lodge and I saw flashes of movement through the window. Everyone was officially awake now and realizing that there was something very, very wrong. The smoke from the fire was starting to flood in through the open windows—helped along by some subtle wind magic, courtesy of Melwyn. Unless they were completely braindead it wouldn’t take them long to realize the lodge was on fire and that the only unobstructed exit was through the front door.

They’d cleared away the trees from the front of the cabin to make sure they had optimal visibility, but that also had a drawback. They were going to be in the open without anything to take cover behind. And I had a machine gun…

18

The Art of the Steal

The heavy front door to the lodge banged open and the first champion rushed out onto the covered porch. He was a huge, lumbering son of a bitch, just shy of eight feet tall and weighed down with thick slabs of crimson muscle. If my mama would’ve been here, she would’ve called the thing a devil, and she would’ve been damn close to the mark. His red skin was covered in intricate swirls and patterns, created by thick black scar tissue. Huge ebony horns curled up from his brow. He wore heavy black obsidian armor and carried an enormous butcher’s cleaver in one gauntlet-clad hand.

Aymer the Primeval, tank and all-around damage sponge.

The thick plume of acrid smoke streaming out behind him made it look like he really was a demon pulling himself free from the pits of hell.

Ol’ Spider Face scrambled toward the tank, but he didn’t make it more than two steps. Even with my enchanted rounds, I knew I’d never manage to get through Aymer’s formidable armor. Spider Face, on the other hand, wore a combination of supple leather and light scale mail. Perfect for sneaking, creeping, and stopping the slashing edge of a blade, and absolutely shit against blunt and piercing damage.

I scooted my hips, readjusted my aim, and squeezed off another concentrated burst of fire. Spider Face let out a strangled cry as a flurry of 7.62 rounds punched through his left thigh. Bright green blood sprayed as he tumbled to the ground, alive but badly injured. At this range, and with my superhuman Finesse, I could’ve put three through his neck with my eyes closed. But the truth was, out of all the champions, Spider Face was the least of my worries—there was a reason he’d been stuck on fire watch. He was weak.

Besides, leaving him alive served me far better than killing him straight away.

Aymer the Primeval swiveled toward Spider Face but didn’t bother to stop and help him. Instead, he stormed forward, directly into the open space surrounding the front of the lodge like the giant, overconfident mook he was. Cool and calm, I lined up my shot and squeezed the trigger tight, letting the machine gun buck against my shoulder. Rounds chewed up the ground directly in front of Aymer, sending up rooster tails of grass and dirt. From the outside it looked like I missed my mark and botched the job.

Really, I was deliberately giving away my position. I couldn’t make what I was doing too obvious. If I stood in the open, flapping my arms while I shouted “come and get me,” these chucklefucks would know that tomfoolery was afoot. But anyone could accidentally pull a shot while under the stress of combat—especially someone they already thought was incompetent. The tanky fighter with the meat cleaver let out a roar and charged with renewed vigor, his footsteps shaking the ground.

I readjusted my sights and sawed the barrel from left to right, walking a steady stream of fire up his legs and into his chest. Without a handful of ranged abilities like Overcharge and Maximum Penetration, the rounds just didn’t have enough oomph to even leave a dent in his armor. They pinged and whined harmlessly away. Even though I was tucked away in the brush, Aymer had officially triangulated my position. He course-corrected and picked up even more momentum with every step. He was seeing red, but he was so fixated that he wasn’t really seeing anything else.

Certainly not the cluster of bear traps I’d laid out in the field. I’d covered them with a bit of loose brush and dried grass, then Melwyn had used some of her fancy fae magics to slap an added glamor over the top.

His right foot came down and the Mortka-reinforced steel jaws snapped shut with bone-crunching force. His obsidian armor prevented the razor-sharp teeth from chomping into flesh, but Pascow had anticipated that might happen. Which is why he’d also gone to the trouble of enchanting the thing with a pair of Kinetic Blast sigils. I channeled a thin strand of raw Arcana into the trap and the runes triggered. A concussive wave of force exploded inward toward Aymer’s ankle from either side of the trap.

I wasn’t quite sure what would happen, but I certainly didn’t expect the blast to rip his whole fucking foot off, which is exactly what happened.

Aymer let out a roar of pain as he toppled over like a felled tree and landed on a second trap, which clamped right onto the side of his unprotected neck. A vibrant stream of scarlet spurted out in an arc while more blood gushed from the stump where his foot had been not long before, puddling in the churned dirt. He wheezed, hands groping at his ruined throat as he tried to desperately pry the iron jaws from his neck. But it was no use. He was losing blood fast and the iron was sapping his strength and magic.

While the obsidian-clad shitkicker was bleeding out in the grass, more of Ionia’s champions were streaming out from the lodge with weapons drawn and shock plastered all across their collective faces.

Even without Master Mentalist it was easy to read those looks.

The impotent rage at being caught off guard.

The utter disbelief that this could happen to them.

The fear that if we could take out someone like Aymer, then maybe we could take them out too.

An elven woman with golden skin wearing a pitch-black gown was the next through the door, followed in short order by a slender lizard man wearing a heavily embroidered robe with the deep cowl pulled over his scaly head. The woman carried a gnarled shepherd’s crook and had vials and pouches hanging from a leather bandolier slung across her body. Shuri, the Arc-Healer of the Six Nightmares. Her cool, calculating gaze swept across the already bloody battlefield. She considered Aymer, but quickly moved on—he was too far gone and getting to him would expose her.

Ku-Aya—aka Spider Face—was crawling toward her using the segmented legs protruding from his back. He left a slick trail of blue blood in his wake. She nodded to herself then took off at a sprint, covering the distance between them in a few quick steps. She dropped to a knee, trying to reduce her profile, and quickly began to fish out potions and salves. She was only ten feet from the porch, but that was exactly where I wanted her.

I pulled out a Heartfire Affinity Scale and drew its power into my body. An influx of Essence rushed through my system, giving me a heady rush, but it wasn’t the surge of energy I was after. When consumed, Heartfire Affinity gave me an additional resistance to fire damage. Thanks to Mantle of Scales, I could spread those helpful benefits to any of my allies in a thirty-foot radius. Or… I could activate Mantle of Scales – Reckoning Form and turn the Heartfire Affinity into a deadly AoE weapon, making all enemies in a thirty-foot radius far more vulnerable to fire damage.

Shuri and Spider Face were just inside my range. How convenient.

I let out a sharp whistle, signaling both Melwyn and Cal.

Thick, twisting roots erupted from the earth, curling around the healer’s legs and torso, pinning her in place. At the same time, circular glass bottles sailed out from the ghostly tree line, one right after another. As they passed over the temporarily pinned healer, I raised my muzzle and blasted them from the air—just like clay pigeons.

Except these pigeons were filled with a deadly combination of high-proof liquor, iron caltrops, and a handful of other ingredients I’d picked up while in Ironmoor. Namely, concentrated saltpeter—commonly used by butchers to cure meats—some finely ground charcoal, and a dash of sulfur. The three essential ingredients that made gunpowder. I’d been helping my cousins reload from the time I was big enough to walk. As a boy, I’d played with gunpowder the way other kids played with action figures.

I’d also taken a shit ton of courses on ordnance and munitions handling during my stint in the armory, which detailed the expansive history of gunpowder, including how they made it back in the good ol’ colonial days. I’ve always had a pretty good head for numbers, so the formula had stuck in my mind, even all these years later. Seventy-five percent saltpeter, thirteen percent charcoal, twelve percent sulfur. Just grind, combine, and handle with care.

I held my breath and prayed this would work since I hadn’t had much time to test this shit out.

My arcana rounds shattered the glass and the fire affinity ignited the crude black powder. There was a huge whomp as the two improvised hand grenades exploded. Glass shrapnel and razor-sharp caltrops shot out in all directions. At the same time, the potent liquor ignited and rained down on the entrapped healer below.

I heard a “whoop” of excitement from off in the distance and knew it was Cal. I couldn’t help but grin through my teeth. Sure, I may not have had any hard-hitting wrath spells, but sometimes a little redneck ingenuity, combined with Marine Corps know-how, was all it took to level the playing field.

Shuri and Spider Face let out inhuman wails of pain and agony as the iron debris peppered their skin and the fire seared their flesh. They were both powerful magic users, so I doubted the attack would kill either one—I was pretty damn sure they had regenerative powers through the roof, just the same as me—but those burns were sure gonna sting. Might sideline both of ’em for the first hunt as well, which would be a boon in our favor.

The lizard-headed magic user seemed at a loss for words.

He stared in open-mouthed awe as the conflagration burned out of control, sending up the sickly-sweet smell of cooking meat. That was a smell that still turned my stomach. It reminded me of the stink that wafted off Cal’s corpse after the insurgents hit us with that godforsaken IED.

Jeffery—in all his four-armed, manicorn glory—and two more champions stormed out of the lodge and took stock of the chaos unfolding right on their stoop.

“Well don’t just stand there, you morons,” Jeffery barked. “Khapi, extinguish them.” He thrust a thick finger at the still burning champions on the lawn. “Then start strafing the eastern edge of the woods. Root them out.”

The lizard man in the embroidered robes moved with a new certainty he hadn’t had a few moments before. He thrust both hands straight out and his slender fingers flashed through a complicated series of movements. The air directly above Spider Face and the blazing healer burbled, bulged, then promptly dumped a dump truck worth of water onto the pair, quenching the hungry flames with an abrupt hiss. That done, the lizard man turned and raised his hands once more, this time targeting the section of woods where Melwyn and Cal were hunkered down.

I was sure both could survive whatever this dicknoodle had to throw at them, but for the time being I wanted the attention fixed firmly on me. I stood, breaking cover, raised the 240 into my shoulder pocket, and fired off a concentrated burst of fire at the scaly spellslinger. Jeffery moved fast, hurling the lizard mage out of the way before I could paint the lodge walls with his brain matter. A glimmering half dome of twisting purple light erupted in front of the manicorn, deflecting the rounds before they could do any damage to Ionia’s chosen champion.

Now was the perfect opportunity to piss them off and get them to make more terrible life choices. Like splitting the party. I swapped out the enchanted 240 for my Soul Bound axe and walked confidently into the open. The great big ol’ murder machine in the obsidian armor was dying but he wasn’t dead yet. Now was the perfect opportunity to fix that. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t gloat. Or rub it in. Before anyone could react, I brought my war axe screaming down and planted it in the warrior’s neck, finishing the grisly work the bear trap had started.

I picked up the demon’s head by one of his black horns and lobbed it at the lodge. It landed on the wooden stairs with a meaty thud, then rolled across the porch before stopping at Jeffery’s cloven feet.

“Another gift for your Queen to add to her collection,” I called while slowly backpedaling into the trees. I could see the rage and fury burning in Jeffery’s face and was praying he would take the bait and follow me into the woods where I’d be able to isolate him from the others and cut him down at the knees. In my experience, people made stupid choices when they were angry, and I was hoping to cut the head off this snake here and now.

Unfortunately for me, Jeffery was too smart for that.

“Drusk.” The manicore grabbed the mantis guy with sword blade arms. “Go out there and kill that rat bastard before he can do any more damage.” He shoved the insectoid warrior down the stairs then turned on a gorgeous woman with a dusky complexion and a tantalizingly sheer white-and-gold vestment studded with gems and jewels. The whole outfit was so thin it left little to the imagination. “Well?” he hissed at her.

I’d seen this lady at the opening ceremonies because she was impossible to miss even in a room full of monsters and angels. Lady Elyon, Seductress of the House of Lust. Melwyn might’ve been the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, but Elyon was a close second. She was softer than Melwyn—had less hard muscle, a fuller figure, and more curvaceous lines. She had dark hair that cascaded down her shoulders and over her substantial chest, but most interesting of all were the prominent black cat ears protruding up from her head.

She was a furry. There was no way around it.

Goddamned, but my life had gotten weird over the past few months.

“Never fear, my lord,” Elyon replied, with a lascivious smile despite the blood and fire filling the air. “I’ll send my forces out to sweep the woods.” She pulled off a string of golden beads slung around her neck and nestled in her cleavage and casually tossed it onto the ground. There was a flash of sparks and smoke as the golden beads expanded and took the form of two dozen dead-eyed satyr women. All had creamy pale skin. All were topless. And all of them carried cruel whips made from yellowing bone.

Perfect. Just what we needed more of. Furry sex demons with some kind of BDSM fetish.

“Spread out and find them, my lovies,” Elyon said, shooing them away with one dainty hand. The satyr women moved without thought or worry or fear, promptly fanning out in a half circle. Several pushed toward the woods while others flocked toward the downed champions, writhing in the dirt from their wounds.

“Iret,” Jeffery bellowed at a willowy woman with elegant silver moth wings jutting from her back. “I don’t know why you’re just standing there. Are you a part of the Hunt, or aren’t you?”

“Not by my own choice,” she said, disgust evident in her voice. Thanks to my bestial hearing, I picked up every word. Not that Iret was trying to be discreet. “You and your queen instigated this quarrel, knowing full well that you were pitting us against one of Raguel’s chosen warriors, and an Inkarnate no less. Perhaps you should go out there and do something about him, instead of sending others out to suffer for your ineptitude.”

The manicore backhanded her across the face, splitting her lip open wide.

“Just get into the gods be damned air and pin them down, Iret. Give our warriors some cover fire, unless you want us to start delivering your cousin’s fingers to you one digit at a time.”

“There’s no need to be nasty,” the moth woman replied with a scowl. “Besides, we both know you won’t hurt Cassius. The trade my father brings is far too valuable for that. But I will do my part as honor dictates.”

She pulled a silver rod from her belt, which looked almost like a police baton. When she lifted it up and whispered some trigger word, the baton crackled with electricity and beams of blue-white light erupted from either end, transforming the simple rod into a recurve bow. Weapon in hand, the moth woman leapt into the air, quickly taking wing. She circled once, then twice over the premises then open fired.

Jagged bolts of angry lightning streaked down into the woods, blasting trees and leaving smoking craters behind. That bow of hers couldn’t lay down as much firepower as my 240, but damn did those bolts pack a wallop.

It was time to get clear before she dropped one of those things on top of my head. Besides, there was no point in sticking around—I’d already accomplished my main objective. There was chaos everywhere and I’d drawn out seven of the eight champions, giving Renholm and Cal the opening they needed to raid the lodge and grab the clues we’d need to win the Hunt. The fact that I’d also managed to take out one of those assclowns was just an added bonus.

19

Pit Fight

The hulking mantis, Drusk, had almost made it to the thick tree cover, and following hard on his segmented heels were a handful of Lady Elyon’s lust demons.

Too bad for them. They should’ve just stayed away and licked their wounds.

I cleared my mind and reached inward toward the Totem power I’d incorporated into my core after reading the Path of Bestial Form Scroll. I could feel that primal, inhuman energy surging through my veins, whispering hungry words in the back of my mind. It urged me to throw off the shackles of humanity. To run on all fours and rip through fur and meat with razor-sharp teeth. Instead of resisting the call, I embraced it, letting those words wash over my soul.

My body twisted and my bones effortlessly shifted and elongated, while my mouth turned into a muzzle filled with too many teeth. My skin hardened—morphing into a rocky hide crisscrossed with fissures of molten magma—while black obsidian talons emerged from my fingertips. The change came in a flash and unlike the other times I’d shifted, this didn’t hurt at all. Transforming felt as natural and easy as switching between my armor sets did when using Armor Evocation. One minute I was a man, the next, I wasn’t. As simple as that. My mind was also far less cloudy than during previous transformations.

The primal instincts were still there—screaming at me to run and hunt and kill—but now it felt like I had ’em on a short leash.

I turned and loped into the trees, making sure to leave an obvious trail as I moved on to the next set of traps. I spotted a small marking on a nearby tree—two arrows crossed—then effortlessly scrambled into the branches to bide my time. With my sharpened senses I could easily hear the screams from the clearing, but I blocked those all out, focusing instead on the rustle of brush and the soft footfalls moving through the undergrowth, drawing closer and closer to my position.

Drusk emerged up ahead, moving slowly as his large, buggy eyes restlessly scanned the ground for signs of my passing. They were plentiful and easy to spot. In fact, they were too easy to find. Melwyn and I had staged this juncture, so there were four paths all running off in different directions. One even doubled back toward the lodge house. If this schmuck was even a halfway decent tracker, he’d immediately realize the “true” path continued straight ahead, deeper into the ghost trees.

At least, that’s what we wanted him to believe.

The lust satyrs caught up to the champion a moment later and stopped, milling around uncertainly. Drusk wasn’t human—he wasn’t even in the same ballpark—but it was still easy to see the fear and frustration carved into his body. He kept glancing around nervously and rubbing his sword arms together in a way that made me think he was dry washing his hands.

“Alright you lot,” he said to the satyrs. “Break up into pairs. You two follow that path there.” He pointed to a thin trail snaking its way east and south. “You two take that way.” He gestured with a blade arm toward a path leading in the opposite direction of the first. “You, with me. We’ll keep bearing straight.”

I ignored the two groups of satyrs.

They were summoned minions, not worth my time to run down. Plus, Melwyn would handle them in short order. Lady Lust wasn’t the only one with hired help. Although Melwyn had some formidable earth- and plant-based magics, I’d come to learn that she was a summoner class by trade. There was a large group of her flower guardians waiting to the south and east, all armed with iron spears mounted on wooden hafts. To the west was a carnivorous Venus flytrap the size of a Volkswagen beetle. The poor lust satyrs weren’t gonna last long against that monstrosity.

I focused all of my intention on Drusk, Warmaster of Araethyrea. He was the real prize.

Now that I wasn’t busy decapitating my enemies, I had a chance to size him up for the first time. His segmented legs and pronounced thorax were covered in green, interlocking chitinous plates: natural armor that would be difficult to penetrate. Iridescent scale-mail armor covered his torso, and a slender gorget protected his willowy neck. His arms were bare and though he carried no overt weapon, his scythe-like arm blades looked sharp enough to carve me up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Although Drusk looked twitchy and high-strung, I had a feeling he would give me a run for my money in a fair fight.

Which is why I had no intention of fighting fair.

I activated Fae Footed and instantly teleported to another large bough where there was a burlap sack waiting for me—right where I’d left it. Inside was a heavy crossbow fitted with iron bolts.

With the weapon clutched in one clawed hand, I watched from the shadows of the canopy as the satyr woman faltered and paused a few steps behind the champion. She’d caught sight of something shiny in the bushes. I knew exactly what it was: a golden Kelkadian Crown dangling from a wire so thin it was nearly invisible. She reached into the brush, wrapped her hand around the coin, and gave it a gentle tug. A sharp twang warbled through the air. Drusk wheeled around, his buggy eyes bulging even wider in shock and horror.

“No, touch nothing!” he hissed.

Too late.

The coin came away with ease, releasing a half-ton battering ram suspended from a heavy chain. I’d also pounded four spearheads into the blunt face of the wood. The satyr woman saw the log swoop down and tried to lurch away, but she was too slow by half. The heavy battering ram smashed into the side of her face, driving the spears through her skull. She was dead in an eyeblink, but instead of falling to the ground, her body just hung there, limp and lifeless from the end of the log.

“You should’ve stayed away.” My voice was guttural and inhuman. It echoed off the bark, making it sound like it came from everywhere at once. “You’ll never make it out of here. Not now. Your best bet is to run, little rabbit. Run for your life.”

I hefted the crossbow and fired the first bolt. It slammed into the ground at Drusk’s feet.

I could see the panic take over him as he turned and scuttled deeper into the woods, following the natural game trail that meandered through the tress. Coming into the forest was his first mistake. Not retreating was his second. Sticking to the path I’d laid out was the third, and most unforgiveable mistake of all. I followed from the treetops, and Fae Footed made it ridiculously easy to teleport from branch to branch. Reloading the crossbow felt like it took forever and a day, but finally I fired off another shot, this time grazing Drusk’s shoulder.

He let out a high-pitched cry then vaulted over a large, moss-covered trunk blocking the path. Drusk dropped down on what appeared to be firm, leaf-covered ground…

Then he passed right through the illusion Melwyn had woven. We’d excavated a pit, twenty feet long, twenty feet wide and ten feet deep. It would’ve taken a backhoe the better part of a day to dig out something like that. But between Melwyn and that giant vine gator of hers, it had taken less than an hour. I’d mounted the rest of the spear tips Pascow had crafted to rough-hewn wooden handles then lined the bottom of the pit. Sprinkled in between the spikes were more of the cold iron caltrops.

Drusk swan dived forward, his scythe arms pinwheeling madly, before landing face-first with an inhuman screech. He’d gotten damn lucky. A spear had punched straight through one of his legs and another had punctured his thorax, but the wounds looked largely superficial. Real damn lucky. Still, in a fight like this, having a crippling leg injury was as good as a death sentence. But he was lucky again, because I didn’t intend to kill this jackoff. It would’ve been much easier to just burn the fucker alive, but I needed him to answer questions.

Not to mention, the goal here wasn’t to kill all of the champions. It was to win the Hunt, and to do that I needed allies, not a stack of corpses.

I discarded the crossbow and drew out a Barkform Affinity Scale. I’d picked up a bunch of ’em after mowing down a horde of Wither Husks outside of Willowbend Township. When consumed directly the Scales caused a thin layer of bark to form along the skin, granting extra protection against slashing and piercing weapons. And, even better, they drew Essence directly from the earth itself, increasing passive health regeneration while the Scale was active. That, combined with the extra Verve from my Bestial Vigor ability, would hopefully let me go toe to toe with this asshole and come out on top.

Reinvigorated and covered by bark skin, I teleported into the pit, easily avoiding the spears.

Drusk stared at me, and his alien face made it impossible to know exactly what he was thinking.

“Doesn’t need to end here for you,” I growled, flexing my claws. “Just tell us what you know about the Hunt, and maybe you walk away from this alive.” I paused and glanced at the spike impaling his leg. “Well, maybe you won’t be walking, but you get the idea.”

“You obviously know nothing of Araethyrea,” Drusk replied, his voice as hard and cold as the iron jammed into his leg. “Pain is nothing to my people.” With a clicking hiss, he ripped the leg clean off and stood on the remaining limbs. Green goop dripped and oozed from the wound, but in seconds that green goo hardened and formed an entirely new limb. Holy shit. This guy healed even faster than me. “And now there will be no more tricks. No more running. You will fight me and taste the might of my people.”

He raised one sickle arm. The ground trembled as the spears embedded in the earth uprooted themselves and rose into the air. They hung there, suspended in the air by some unseen force. Then, with a flick of his arm, the cloud of spears shot toward me from every direction all at once.

Fuck me sideways.

I batted the first spear out of the air with my hand and sidestepped another—which slammed into the dirt beside me—but there were so many of them. Another grazed the outside of my thigh, slashing through my hide and leaving a deep furrow in its wake. A fourth blindsided me and punched clean through my left bicep, pinning me to the wall. A wave of agony rolled through my body, and only a sudden surge of adrenaline kept me from passing out on the spot.

Unless I did something fast, Drusk was going to turn me into a pincushion and watch me bleed out. Then he’d probably try to eat my head or otherwise defile my corpse because he was a giant praying mantis.

Another spear rocketed toward my throat and this one was a death blow.

With a snarl I summoned my Warded Shield. The dome of light erupted to life, deflecting the spear at the last moment. Golden sparks flew as the spear ricocheted away, and I used the momentary distraction as cover. In a blink, I teleported through the cloud of floating spears and appeared directly beside Drusk. My claws dug into the turned earth as I barreled toward the mantis and slammed into him like a professional linebacker.

I wrapped my arms around his waist, drove my furry shoulder into his side, and took him to the ground. He landed with a surprised hiss and a sharp jangle of armor. This close in, his enormous scythe arms were next to useless. I laid into him with my fangs and jaws, slashing through his chitinous exterior and leaving bloody wounds behind. Drusk buzzed in pain and lashed out at me, but his attacks glanced off my stony hide, no more effective than getting swatted with a goose down pillow.

Some part of me knew that I needed this guy alive. Separating one of these assholes from the pack had been part of our plan all along. But with every fresh ounce of blood I spilled, it was harder and harder to remember that. Drusk was weak. Powerless. At my mercy. But I had no mercy to give. The hunger inside me demanded I finish the job. Demanded I kill and eat my fill. That was the natural order of things. Predators hunted and prey died as was right and proper.

My claws burned with unnatural heat as I shredded one of Drusk’s arms and ripped it off at the shoulder. Sticky green blood was everywhere—all over his armor and splattered across my chest and face. With his one remaining arm, Drusk fought desperately to defend his long slender neck, but it was a useless attempt. Another brutal strike, quick and almost surgical, removed his other arm, revealing his buggy face and vulnerable throat. There was nothing to stop me.

I ran my tongue along the tips on my fangs and imagined hot blood filling my mouth. Unable to control the hunger, I lunged forward…

Then gagged.

A long, thorny vine had slipped around my neck. It pulled tight like a noose while a small army of roots snaked and twisted around my arms and chest, pulling me back like an attack dog on a very short leash. In rage, I wheeled around and saw Melwyn standing at the edge of the pit, looking down at the gory scene.

“I knew there was something monstrous inside you,” she said, though there was no condemnation in her words. She turned her sights on Drusk. More vines lurched up from the ground, wrapping around the bloody champion then rudely hoisting him into the air. He was barely breathing and looked like someone had shoved him face-first into a woodchipper.

It was me. I was the woodchipper.

“You look decidedly worse for the wear,” Melwyn said sympathetically, “but you’re still alive, which is more than can be said for your compatriot Aymer.” Thanks to my heightened senses and Mind Vault, I could feel potent Arcana thrumming beneath her every word. She was bewitching Drusk with some form of Honeyed Words, forcing the mantis to lower his guard and make him more agreeable. “You can continue to stay alive, just so long as you play nice. All I need is one word. The location of the first hunt. Just give us that and you can go free.”

“How can I trust you not to kill me once I give you what you want?” Drusk gurgled, his words wet and bloody.

“You can’t trust me. But you can say a prayer and have a little faith that I’m being honest,” she said, “although it’s not like you have much of a choice. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’ll release the Vigil Inkarnate and let him gut you like a fish. It won’t be pretty and it won’t be quick.”

I growled as though on command and lurched forward, letting the vines dig into my hide. They barely held.

Drusk considered me for a long moment with bulbous insect eyes, then did as he was told and offered up a silent prayer. No words came out, but I could see his triangular mandibles clicking and moving at a rapid pace. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was asking for forgiveness or making peace with his god. Finally, he let out a long, low sigh, green blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. “There’s a village three or four leagues to the south of Sligrad. Orezan, it’s called. That’s all I know.”

He looked away and his body tensed as though preparing for a final blow he was sure would land any moment.

It was like watching our interrogation with Bogen played out on repeat. Every single one of these champions truly and honestly believed we were going to murder them whether they cooperated or not. Renholm had told me once that amongst the Fae there was no honesty. No loyalty. Only utility. He said you survived only so long as you were valuable, but the second that stopped being true was the second you ended up with your head on a pike. I’d assumed he was exaggerating because he was a drama queen.

Now, I was starting to think otherwise.

I’d saved Renholm after suffering a nearly mortal wound by giving him a Chaos Scale. That one act had moved him to swear genuine loyalty to me. I hadn’t really understood why at the time—helping your brothers was just something you did—but now I got it.

“Cut him loose,” I growled, pushing down the animal urge to rip out Drusk’s throat and bathe in his blood.

The vines wrapped around the overgrown mantis retreated and disappeared back into the ground at the same time the ones holding me in place withered and died. Drusk slumped forward, bleeding profusely and breathing hard. He regarded me with a weary gaze as I retrieved one of his scythe-like arms from the churned earth and held it in one clawed hand. I turned it over this way then that, examining the razor-sharp edge in the early morning light now streaming in through small gaps in the tree cover.

I’d seen lots and lots of weapons, but I’d never seen anything even close to as sharp as the edge of the scythe.

Drusk flinched and hunched in on himself as I approached. I stood before him with his sword arm resting against my shoulder. I could’ve struck him down then and there and I got the sense that he wouldn’t even try to resist. Instead, I released the raging, bestial power roaring through me. My body shifted as I shed my true form and stepped back into human skin. For a thin moment I just stood there and stared at him. Weighing him. He refused to meet my gaze.

“Consider this a warning,” I said, my voice soft. “We make better friends than we do enemies. Ionia, she’s gonna lose this fight and those who help us will be richly rewarded for it. But this is the only warning you get. Next time I see you on the field of battle, I won’t hesitate for a second to cut your fucking head off and I’ll do it with your own goddamned arm. Do we understand each other?”

He issued a series of clicks and bobbed his head. “Aye, we understand each other indeed.”

I nodded, then turned, offering him my back. It was a risk, but a calculated one that showed him two things. One, that I was extending him a measure of trust—he’d been at my mercy, and now I was at his—and two, I was so sure I could kill him that I was willing to turn my back on him. He got the message and didn’t even budge. I teleported out of the pit and sent the scythe arm in my hand back to my Soul Vault. It would make a great dagger when I had a little more time to do some crafting.

“We’re done here,” I said to Melwyn. “Did Renholm and Cal get what we needed?”

“Everything we needed and more,” she said. The ghost of a small and curious smile played across her lips. She was trying to figure me out just the same as Drusk. I could practically hear the questions running through her head.

Was I a barbaric, bloodthirsty beast or some kind of diplomatic savant?

What was my true goal?

Could I really be trusted?

I had no intention of answering any of those questions. I still didn’t know if she could be trusted and I wanted to keep her on her toes, just the same as the rest of them.

“Let’s get moving. They’re going to be licking their wounds, but that’ll only buy us so much time. That was a solid opening salvo, but we still have a war to win…”

20

Spoils of War

“Those fools never saw what hit them!” Renholm crowed at the top of his lungs. He threw his head back and cackled, while Jacob Francis licked his paws, unconcerned by the lesser affairs of mere mortals like us. “The way they scurried about like fat, ugly beetles fleeing from a kicked-over log. It was delicious. And the look on Jeffery’s face.” He closed his eyes as a full body shudder shook his tiny frame.

“I’m pretty sure that was sexual.” Cal scooted away from the Pookah.

“As someone who knows a fair deal about sexual dalliances,” Melwyn said, “I agree completely.”

“Oh, it was definitely sexual,” Renholm confirmed, flopping down into the short grass of our rendezvous site.

“How in the hell did I end up with such a group of degenerates?” I muttered, rubbing at one temple. These three were giving me a headache. Then, to the rest of the group, “Renholm, that’s gross and you should feel bad about yourself, and that’s coming from a guy who just decapitated someone after watching them fall into a bunch of enchanted bear traps. Please never do… well, whatever that was again.”

“I cannot promise any such thing, my esteemed Duke. We Fae never lie, and I wouldn’t want to deceive you.”

Cal snorted. “You lie all the time. You’re literally lying about not lying. Lying is like your second favorite pastime, just after stealing and just before murdering.”

“There is truth in your words,” the fairy agreed. He opened his eyes and propped himself up on his hands. “Though I wonder where general debauchery would fall on this list of yours—”

“Hopefully, somewhere after not fucking dying,” I interrupted with a scowl, “which is what we’re currently trying to do, in case you forgot. Now, if we’re done bullshitting and patting ourselves on the back, maybe we can do an after action? What did you two manage to turn up?”

“Everything,” Cal replied with a giant shit-eating grin. “Show ’em, Ren.”

The fairy bounded lightly to his feet and strutted over to Jacob Francis with his little chest puffed out in pride. They’d fitted the feline with a small saddle, which was perfectly Pookah sized and came equipped with a pair of miniature saddlebags. He flipped open one of the pouches and pulled out a handful of circular tokens, similar to the ones we’d received from Gobhoill at the opening ceremonies.

“They were just sitting on a table in plain view,” Cal said, shaking his head in disbelief. “There were maps on the walls. Those dinguses even left their notes out.”

He nodded to Melwyn, who dropped onto a knee and unfurled a parchment map depicting a large stretch of land at the base of the Dellavant Divide. There were two cities circled in black ink. Sligrad and Orezan, which squared with what Drusk had told us during our friendly chat in the death pit.

“There were a bunch of cryptic notes that had to do with ‘sins of the father,’” Cal continued after a beat. He shrugged. “What can I say, dude, these bad guys are dumb as shit. Every single one of ’em needs to take a primer in information security and classified materials handling. I would say it was like taking candy from a baby, but honestly it was easier than that.”

“Indeed,” Renholm added. “As someone who has taken literal candy from a literal baby on more than one occasion, this was far simpler. Babies have surprisingly good hand strength, and they tend to cry at the drop of a hat, which can rouse their guardians. Very annoying. Best to wait for them to slumber.”

I probably should’ve been surprised that Renholm had stolen candy from a baby, but I wasn’t. In the same way that all cats were assholes, I suspected that all fairies were kleptos—it was just part of their nature. I was also starting to seriously think there was no moral rock bottom for Renholm, but that wasn’t really a surprise either. He was a tiny, murderous monster, but he was my tiny, murderous monster.

I grabbed the first token and held it up, examining it in the early morning light. There was a jagged rune carved into one face that I didn’t recognize. I channeled a thin thread of raw Arcana into the sigil and watched as it lit up like a bonfire and projected a flickering image into the air.

It was night and the moon hung large overhead, shedding watery silver light on a small village surrounded by a crude palisade wall, constructed from simple spiked logs all banded together with bits of rope. The buildings were rough gray stone with thatched roofs, and the center of the quaint village was dominated by a large stone church, which stood empty and silent. A thin layer of late winter frost lay on the hardpacked roads and dusted the eaves, but no smoke rose from any of the chimneys. No torches lit the streets. No townsfolk milled about in doorways or shuffled along the walkways.

The whole village looked deserted…

No, scratch that. The place looked dead.

“Sligrad is a sizeable trading city situated deep in the Dellavant Divide,” Melwyn said, staring at the image with a furrowed brow, “which means that has to be Orezan. But what in the world happened there?”

“Let’s see if the rest of these things have any answers,” I replied.

The next stone was another location marker. When activated it gave us sound. The gentle howl of the wind. The chittering of curious squirrels. The creak of wooden shutters. The lonely cry of a songbird in the distance. I still wasn’t quite sure how to use the location markers to navigate the Wylds, but Melwyn seemed encouraged that we could now find our way without much trouble.

The third token contained another image, though this wasn’t a place but a person.

A fresh-faced girl of maybe sixteen with pale ivory skin, gently brushed with freckles across the ridge of her nose. A mess of wavy red hair framed in her heart-shaped face and cascaded down her shoulders. Her eyes were a pale blue, and though the image was static, there was something sad hiding beneath the surface of her gaze. With no other context to go off, I was guessing that she was our likely target—though that was heartbreaking in its own way.

Why in the world would a teenage girl feel the need to make a deal with the figurative devil?

For the first time, I had a little pang of worry about this quest. Hunting down monsters was one thing, but I wasn’t about to kill some innocent kid just because she’d made some shitty life choices. As a general rule, kids are fucking dumb—which was the reason why they couldn’t enter into contracts or get face tattoos. Hell, at sixteen Cal and I had been a couple of active trainwrecks in human form. And it wasn’t just me. When fresh-faced Marines hit the fleet for the first time, the jackassery they managed to pull off was the stuff of legends:

Holdman bought a used Mustang GT at twenty percent APR. Castro married a stripper named Saffron on his first weekend off base. Morgan got caught drinking vodka out of a goddamned camelback while walking through Oceanside in civvies. He was nineteen. Like I said, kids are fucking dumb. And those were kids that the US government had trained to fight wars.

I wasn’t ready to execute a teenage girl for being an idiot. Still, I didn’t have the full picture yet, so I’d just cross that bridge when I came to it.

The next clue had a rune shaped like an arrow on it, and when I channeled a thread of magic into it, the stone hovered an inch or so above my palm. The arrow pointed almost due west of our position, and whenever I readjusted my body, the arrow would shift and orientate on the same fixed location. Hol-ee shit. It was a magical compass. I wasn’t quite sure how it worked, but I planned to give it to Pascow to see if he couldn’t repurpose it after we were through with this hunt. Having what amounted to an in-game Quest Marker would be wildly useful in tracking down future bounties.

Melwyn held the last clue in her hand—a glossy black stone with a silver rune inscribed into its face. She traced a slender finger over the sigil. Silver light waltzed through the air like curls of cigarette smoke, resolving into wispy words that Melwyn read in her most alluring voice.

“Black and mean and deadly streets, all filled with hungry teeth in rows,

Four leagues south of Sligrad’s Cross, a ghoul arises from repose.

Bodies stacked in piles towering, bloated corpses, food for crows.

The plague spreads, the damned to walk, a rotting cancer to expose,

To the east of West Vonskoth Road, Gray and Dreary knows new lows,

Twisted fate, a devil’s pact, a father’s tears now juxtaposed.

Head ye to the Melting Rose, for blighted love must be deposed…”

Perfect. A goddamned poem. Or maybe a riddle. Fuck if I knew which, since the last time I’d studied poetry had been in Mr. Fink’s tenth-grade English class. A class that I’d squeaked by with a D…

“That’s just what we needed,” I grumbled as the smoky silver words faded and the sigil went dark.

“I told you to pay attention in Mr. Fink’s English class, dude,” Cal admonished. He sounded smug, which was fair. Cal had never had much of a head for math or science, but he’d always been a word nerd at heart. He’d even tried out for the drama club a time or two, though he’d never made the cast since he had the acting range of a moldy loaf of bread. Still, Cal loved him some Shakespeare. “You said,” he continued, “and I quote, ‘why do we even need to learn this bullshit, it’s not like we’ll ever use it in real life.’”

“Yeah, well, I stand corrected,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. “Maybe I should’ve kept Arturo around. This sounds like the kinda stuff he loves.”

“Thankfully,” Melwyn chipped in, “we also appreciate poetry in the Court of Petals.”

She reached over and grabbed the second map, laying it out beside the first. This one depicted the larger of the two cities, Sligrad, in extreme detail. It was a sprawling metropolis composed of carefully partitioned parishes, each seemingly walled off from the others. An intricate lattice of streets crisscrossed each section, and all had been meticulously named and annotated on the map.

“The first map confirms that Drusk was being honest with us. The small walled village we saw? I’d wager that is Orezan,” Melwyn said. “And four leagues to the north is Sligrad, colloquially known as the crossroad city because it is a major trade hub between four different provinces. ‘A ghoul arises from repose’ tells me that whatever evil we are hunting, Orezan is its origins. But it seems likely that it has since moved on. North, into Sligrad proper. The next wrinkle is that Sligrad is a large city—easily home to twenty or thirty thousand souls. It could take days or weeks to dredge up leads…

“But thankfully,” she said after a long pause, “the latter half of the poem tells us where, specifically, to look. ‘To the east of West Vonskoth Road, Gray and Dreary knows new lows.’” She traced a finger along the city view of Sligrad. “This is West Vonskoth Road, and east of it is a parish known locally as the Dreary. The poem has seven lines, each with fifteen syllables apiece. That is no coincidence, I think.” She counted seven streets east from West Vonskoth Road and down fifteen spots, landing at an intersection. “And low, we find ourselves at an intersection—Gray Street and 15th. Unless I miss my guess completely it is there that we will find our target, inside someplace called the Melting Rose.”

Cal looked at her like she’d just grown a dick on her forehead, and I realized that my own astonished expression mirrored his perfectly.

“What?” Melwyn said, shrugging one shoulder innocently. “You didn’t just think I was a pretty face, did you?”

“Course not,” I said. “That was solid detective work. Although, it does make me a little curious about why you know so much about Sligrad, a city you claim to have never been to. I’m new to this particular game—and maybe I’m just being a little paranoid—but it seems like this all came together too easy. The ambush. The clues. You suddenly knowing the whole history of some random city in the ass end of the Virtarun Empire.” I paused and stared at her, my crimson eyes boring into hers. “Like maybe this could be some kind of setup,” I finally finished.

She rolled her eyes and pulled out a leather-bound journal.

“I’m not a Virtarun scholar, it just so happens that my parents taught me how to read. But maybe you missed out on that bit of education.” She tossed the journal at me, the pages fluttering and flapping before I snagged it with one hand. It was Jeffery’s diary and inside were copious notes. Some of the entries were rather… personal. Turned out the four-armed Manicore really had a thing for burly spider guys and leather. I quickly skipped past those pages, having no desire whatsoever to see what kinks a champion of the Wylds had, then grunted when I saw a section regarding the hunts.

It was all there in painstaking detail, including the info on Sligrad.

“It could still be a setup,” I grumbled, closing the book and tossing it back to her.

Renholm intercepted the notebook before it made it into her hands.

“I’ll take this,” the Pookah said, his nimble fingers tapping on the leather cover. “For reasons that none of you want me to explain.”

“Is it another weird sex thing?” Cal asked, sounding both horrified and morbidly curious.

“Do you really want to know the answer to that?”

Cal seemed to think about it for a long beat, then finally shook his head. “I’ve seen some dark shit, but there are some things too dark even for me. I think this is the line.”

“It’s not a setup,” Melwyn said, ignoring the drama playing out between Cal and Renholm. “And I’ll take that resigned tone as your apology. Now, if you’re done suspecting me of setting you up—which I’m not—then perhaps we should set out. All of the location markers seem to be for Orezan, so we’ll have to travel there first, then make the rest of the trek into Sligrad on horseback. But Orezan is still a good three or four hours out, even traversing through the Wylds.”

“Yeah, fair enough,” I said, scooping up the clue stones and slipping them into a leather pouch at my side. I glanced up at the pale blue skyline and frowned. It was officially morning, which meant the first hunt should begin in earnest any time now. “We’re burning daylight and I aim to end this thing before sundown if we can help it…”

21

A Little Trust

“For what it’s worth I don’t blame you for not trusting me,” Melwyn said as we left Mag Aisling in the dust and slowly made our way through the distorted landscape of the Fae Wylds and toward Orezan. “Does your suspicion irk me a little?” she asked when I didn’t immediately reply. “Of course. I’ve done nothing but help you at every turn. Still, I also understand your reluctance. In my experience, those without a healthy fear of the Wylds don’t live long, and I was in the same position, once upon a time.”

I stole a sidelong look at her. “You were in the same position?” I snorted. “Why do I find that hard to believe? I’m an outsider from a different world who somehow got wrapped up in a fight I never wanted, which happens to be part of a war that goes back a hundred times longer than I’ve been alive. You’re a privileged Fae princess who grew up in one of the most powerful courts in the Wylds. No matter what you think, we ain’t the same, lady. I can’t ever see you being in my position.”

“I can also understand why you might think that,” Melwyn replied, “but you’re wrong. Contrary to what you might believe, the Court of Petals is the weakest of the recognized houses. We are just powerful enough to matter, but not powerful enough to stand our ground or demand our way. I am well accustomed to being pushed around, manipulated, and lied to. Me and my kin are only ever pawns in the never-ending games that others play. And Queen Ionia is the biggest offender. She treats my people like a beaten hound and expects us to beg for the privilege of her table scraps. So yes, I know what it is to be in your place—and doubly so, because I didn’t grow up in the Wylds.”

That caught me off guard. “I don’t follow,” I said, genuinely confused. “Where’d you grow up, if not the Wylds?”

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes hazy and out of focus as though seeing through time to some distant past.

“In a small rural village in the far southlands called Stillbreach.” She reached up and tucked a strand of hair back behind one pointed ear. “It was peaceful there. Beautiful. The forests were filled with leafbeech trees and crimson maples. The grass was as verdant and green as polished emeralds. I remember well the fields of wildflowers in more colors than there are names for. The shepherd boys would tend the flocks in the high passes and hunt rabbits and wild pheasants. They’d live off the berries that spread like wildfire through the hills and dales.

“My older brother Brice was a shepherd, and I spent many a summer tagging along with him, minding the sheep. My father was a farmer by trade. Stillbreach is one of the few places that can grow sweet drakesage.” She seemed to notice the confusion on my face. “It’s a type of weed. Once it’s dried and cured, people smoke it in their pipes,” she explained. “It’s a very popular but temperamental plant. It requires the right soil and a very gentle hand. I’d help my father prepare to plant in Amberfair, sow the seed in Solglow, and reap the bounty in Fellwane.”

She smiled, and it looked like there were unshed tears lurking in the corner of her eyes.

“He and I would reap the harvest, wrap the crops into bundles, then carefully hang the bales to cure in the barn. We’d work late into the night as the sharp nip of winter bit at our toes and fingers. Then we’d head back to our house, just a little cabin, really, and my father would tend the hearth while I scrounged up whatever meat we had in the cooling cellar for stew. We always ate well during the harvest. Then, once the meal was done and the dishes scrubbed, he would read me a few pages from the Travails of Theodoric Wrathheart as we curled up by the fire.”

She glanced at me as her giant crocodilian mount slithered along the path. She was obviously looking for some flash of recognition, but the name meant nothing to me.

“Theodoric Wrathheart was an Inkarnate like you, you know,” she finally said. “The last Inkarnate, in fact. He was also the most renowned Vigil of any age. He slew the Iron Leviathan of Karlsborn. Buried the corrupt village of Rakja under a deluge of fire from the heavens. Slayed the Chaos Titan, Dremrud the Primordial Pathfinder, and stole his magics. Rescued Princess Birgit, the lost daughter of Fate. He was a great man with a thousand tales and adventures to his name. Although I’m not terribly surprised that no one has bothered to tell you about him, since his fame was eventually eclipsed by his infamy.”

“What exactly did he do that put him on history’s shit list?” I asked.

“Not something he did,” she replied, “so much as something his daughter did. Her you’ve likely heard of, I imagine. Isabella the Ghostblood.”

My blood ran cold. Now that was a name I recognized.

I’d been hearing terrified whispers about Isabella the Ghostblood from the moment I set foot in this world. No one talked about her openly. Only ever in whispers, as though mentioning her name too loudly might conjure her up from the grave. What I’d been able to piece together so far was that she’d been a powerful Warlock with incredible magic who had waged a war against the Citadel and the assembled armies of men. A war that had lasted for the better part of a hundred years.

This was the first time I’d ever heard about my predecessor or that he had such a direct connection to the greatest villain in the history of this world. It also explained why the other Vigils had been so cagey around me. Sure, I was hand chosen by Raguel and plucked from across the stars, but the last time Raguel had picked a champion, he’d gone on to usher in a new dark age. Which begged the question—what did my presence mean? What horrors would I unwittingly unleash just by being here?

“There are those who hate Theodoric,” Melwyn said when I didn’t reply. “Those who won’t even speak his name. Not me or my father, though. Theodoric was a complicated man, but a good one. As a little girl I always dreamed he would come and whisk me away on some grand adventure, just like he did Princess Birgit.” Her face fell. “But it wasn’t him who showed up on my doorstep, and it turns out that being whisked away isn’t as much fun as the storybooks make it sound. It’s cold and scary and lonely. So very lonely.”

We were quiet for a time. The clopping of Darksilver’s hooves and the dry rustle of leaves across the ground were the only sounds between us.

“That still doesn’t explain how you ended up as the Princess of Petals. Seems like a big change for a simple farmer’s daughter—”

Before she could answer, the call of a brassy, brazen hunting horn rolled in like a heavy morning fog. I didn’t hear the sound with my ears so much as it resonated inside my chest and bounced around inside of my skull. Cal seemed completely unaffected, but I saw Melwyn flinch at the exact same instant, which told me I wasn’t just imagining things.

“What the fuck was that?” I asked, swaying in my saddle.

“The first hunt has officially begun,” Melwyn said, suppressing a shudder.

“Yeah, no. I get that,” I said. “But why did it feel like someone was playing my rib cage like a goddamned xylophone? That’s not a normal horn.”

“Indeed not,” she said. “The Call is a type of summoning spell. All we champions are oath bound to the Hunt. It is the same sensation bonded familiars feel when summoned to their master. It is not a physical thing, but a sort of soul tether so it can be felt no matter where you are or what you are doing.” She turned and glanced south. “The others will be moving fast. Best we pick up the pace.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said, not letting her off the hook quite so easily. “How exactly did a farmer’s daughter wind up as the princess of a Fae noble court?”

“That… Well, that is a story too long and tragic to tell here,” she answered softly. “And certainly not a story I wish to tell sober. Perhaps if we survive this first hunt, I’ll let you buy me a few drinks and pry the answers out of me.” She batted her eyes at me. “Maybe you can pry a few other things out as well. For the time being, suffice it to say I understand well your distrust of my people. Is there anything I might be able to do to lessen your suspicion?”

I thought about it for a moment, then nodded.

“Yeah, actually. There is one thing,” I said, rubbing at my chin. “You could teach me how to navigate the Wylds. I have this ability that lets me bend and shape the Etheric Realm, but truth be told I don’t really know how to use it. Unlike the rest of the Vigil’s out there that train from the second the Citadel identifies them, Raguel sorta just pushed me into the deep end without teaching me how to swim.”

She offered me a flash of brilliantly white teeth. “I’d heard rumors that there were those among your order who had the talent. The old stories say that Theodoric could Realm Walk better than even the best navigators, but I wasn’t sure if it was true or not. You Vigils do an admirable job of cloaking yourself in an air of mystery.”

“But you can teach me?” I pushed.

“If that is what you wish,” she said. “Although I never developed the talent for it that a true navigator possesses, I know the basics as good as anyone. Better than most. Honestly, I should’ve asked earlier. If you can Realm Walk, it will allow us to cover the distance far more quickly.”

“How’s that work?” I asked, confused. Suddenly it felt like I was back in Mrs. Jensen’s eleventh-grade geometry class, and I was learning how to do goddamned Proofs all over again. Just why they hell did I need to prove it was a triangle anyway, when my eyes could see it was a triangle plain as the nose on my face? “It’s not like the distance between where we are and where we’re going is going to change, right?”

“Yes and no,” she said. “Realm Walking is all about folding and aligning spatial points. Frightfully simple in nature, but unimaginably difficult in execution. It’s easiest if I show you.” She pulled out one of the location markers and tossed it to me. “But this will work much better if you transform into your bestial form. Although you Vigils have heightened senses compared to most humans, they are woefully inadequate compared to the Fae. The Wylds run in our blood, so we are attuned to it in ways outsiders are not.”

I grunted noncommittally, closed my eyes, and reached for the inhuman power that circled restlessly around my core like a hungry wolf. That feral energy seemed almost sentient, and it regarded me with distant animal eyes. It was weighing me. Measuring me. Urging us to become one. But instead of allowing that totem power to run through me wild and completely unbound, I drew only a small portion of its strength into my body. I cracked my eyes and looked down at my hand.

Totem energy surged along my arm and my fingers elongated, forming into stony claws that pulsed with molten power.

I grinned and felt razor-sharp fangs fill my otherwise human mouth. Not only could I transform without the aid of a Transformation Token, the Path of Bestial Form also gave me unparalleled control over how I shifted and to what extent. I dismissed the trickle of Arcana circulating to my hand and the claws retreated into my flesh. Gone in an instant. Next, I reached out to the beast’s other power.

I drew on its superior eyesight.

Its uncanny hearing.

Its unparalleled sense of smell.

A heady rush of new sensations momentarily overwhelmed me.

My senses might’ve been feral, but my brain was still all too human, and it wasn’t accustomed to handling so much raw sensory data. But after a second, the queasiness passed and the world burned with colors even my enchanted Vigil eyes couldn’t see. Essence swirled and danced through the air. I could taste Dream Affinity—sweet, heady, and ephemeral—mixed with Fear Affinity, which was noxious, sour, but oddly intoxicating. I could hear Melwyn’s heartbeat. The gentle flutter of Renholm’s wings. The snap of a distant twig.

A horde of new aromas assaulted my nose as well, drowning everything else out.

Melwyn’s scent was complicated and layered—dried sweat and the perfume of a bouquet of flowers. Darksilver reeked of turned earth and musk while Melwyn’s crocodilian mount smelled of bleached bone, decaying logs, and rotting eggs. Jacob-Francis let off a pungent, ammonia-like stink, signaling to every female cat in a five-mile radius that he was single and ready to mingle. Renholm tasted like spiced wine and a deeper, overpowering smell that reminded me of a skunk. Only Cal was completely odorless, but even that told me something.

Now that my senses were firing on all cylinders, I fed a trickle of Arcana into the location marker in my palm. Instantly a barrage of new sensations assaulted every one of my senses.

Decomposing leaves, damp earth, a sharp dusting of snow and wet moss thriving in the forest undergrowth. And warring against them like a counter tempo was the sweet smell of trees budding and wildflowers being reminded of their purpose. Loitering underneath was the bitter stench of a deer carcass, long since picked over. The smell was far too faint for any human to pick up, but it sang in my nose.

In my ears, the wind rattled through the skeletal trees with a rustle and crackle, scattering fallen leaves while sending a gaggle of local birds fluttering in the air. That same wind whipped down through a gradual valley and cut into the narrow alleys and boulevards of a distant village. It whistled upwards through cold chimneys and inward through the wooden slats of shuttered windows. Then, onward it blew, finally dashing itself against a jagged mountain range that framed in the village to the north.

The sounds, the smells, the feelings… They all painted a perfect picture inside my head. It was like I’d visited the valley a thousand times before. I’d never had much talent for art, but I felt like I could break out a canvas and paint a perfect snapshot of the place, Bob Ross style—complete with plenty of happy little trees.

“That’s it,” Melwyn encouraged me. “Those sensations are your map and your guide. When navigating the Fae Wylds, you cannot simply step from where you are to where you want to be. But, because the Fae Wylds are malleable, they can be influenced. Folded. Start with just one element. The sound of the birds in the air, for example. As we walk, you need to focus on that one singular facet, enforcing your will on reality so that the birdcalls of that distant land become the birdcalls you hear all around you. The act of drawing those unique sounds to you through the Wylds pulls the actual location closer as well.”

I pressed my eyes shut tight and took a deep breath, feeling the world around me—contrasting where we were with where we needed to be, which was hundreds of miles away. The differences were subtle, but they were also legion. I did exactly as Melwyn suggested, focusing on the soft twitter of birds calling out in the early morning hours. The birds here made a whistling sound, followed by a staccato trill, while the birds of the vale were sharper in pitch—though there was also a note of melancholy in their song.

I exerted my will and gently tugged on that sound like a loose thread, drawing it to me. My Arcana gauge appeared in the corner of my eye and drained ever so slowly as the world wobbled on the edges. Surprised, I drop the thread and the world snapped back into focus.

“That’s a step in the right direction,” Melwyn said, nodding in approval. “But consistency is the key. And the more pieces you’ve locked into place, the faster the process will go. Once you’ve fixed one reference point, move on to another. The smells. The sounds. The chill bite of the wind. You are their master. Draw them all to you, and as you do, the world will become as you make it to be. I’ll be doing the same thing. We can’t change how far we have to travel, but we can change how fast we pull ourselves through the Wylds. Instead of moving at a steady canter, with the two of us working together, we’ll be able to run at a gallop. Does that make sense?”

I sighed. “About as much as anything else does in this ass-backwards world…”

* * *

As we moved through the dense woods outside of Mag Aisling, the forest slowly began to change. Dead branches and drab looking pine trees gave way to a lush, swampy jungle filled with enormous bugs that buzzed in the deep shade. Not long after, the entire path vanished, and we had to slowly pick our way over gnarled roots and dense undergrowth. Melwyn’s reptilian mount slithered through the brush like a croc swimming through water, but it was hell on wheels for Darksilver.

Thankfully, after half an hour, a cobblestone road appeared, just wide enough to easily accommodate our mounts, though it looked as if no one had used it in years. Decades even.

“I don’t understand,” I said to Melwyn as we continued pushing forward. “None of this stuff looks like what I’m sensing from the destination markers.” I swept a hand around at the humid jungle. “Are you doing this, or am I?”

“It’s a bit of both,” she said. “I explained the basics of Realm Walking, but there are countless other tricks that experienced navigators use to speed along the process. For example, I pulled this roadway from a far-flung region of the Wylds to make it easier for your mount to navigate the terrain.” She closed her eyes and the road beneath us seemed to melt away into the grass. But the second she opened her eyes again the road reappeared and solidified. “The Etheric Realm is endlessly pliable for one who knows how to shape it.

“Most of this, though, is your handiwork,” she said. “For what it’s worth you’re doing an admirable job, but you need to temper your expectations. The journey is quick, but not instantaneous. You’re pulling us through the Wylds—dragging us closer and closer to where we need to go. But there are many places between here and there and they don’t always overlap or connect in a way that makes logical sense. We are simply passing through those fold points on the way to our final destination.”

We walked for the better part of three hours, then took a brief break for lunch in a grove filled with wildflowers the size of trees.

Melwyn had made the process sound easy. It wasn’t. Not even a little bit. The slightest lapse in concentration could undo my work if I wasn’t careful. In a lot of ways, it reminded me of a paint by numbers picture. The location stone provided me with the outline and the colors, and it was my job to methodically fill in every little detail. Navigating the Wylds also ate through an enormous amount of Arcana. Only a steady stream of Affinity Scales kept me from passing out in the saddle.

After our short respite, we were right back on the road, weaving through a variety of shadow worlds that ranged from magical to downright alien. We passed by the ruins of a giant castle built from black crystal stone. Forged through an underground cavern lit by bioluminescent moss, then onward through a seemingly endless desert of yellow hardpan dotted with bony spits of rock. Huge, black tornados roared across the desolate landscape in the distance, sending huge plumes of dust into the air.

There were Mortka, too, though most of them kept their distance.

Most monsters were opportunistic by nature, and tangling with a Vigil, a Fae princess on a plant crocodile, a demonic murder horse, and a diabolical Pookah riding an angry tabby was a bad gamble. A couple of the more territorial Mortka did take a swipe at us, though it didn’t turn out well for any of them. A gorilla-like creature with the tail of a scorpion tried to take us out when we passed through a small desert oasis; I ripped his tail off and beat him senseless with it, then speared him through the throat with the stinger.

Funnily enough, none of the other Mortka in the area wanted to tangle with us after that.

It took us another two hours of hard riding before we eventually emerged into a clearing that sloped gradually down into a green valley. To the north, a set of rocky stone peaks cut across the horizon like broken teeth. At the base of the mountains, bathed in the brilliant light of the noonday sun, was an enormous walled city that could only be Sligrad.

Sandwiched between us was the much smaller outpost village of Orezan. Thanks to one of the destination markers we’d lifted off of Jeffery, I instantly recognized the wooden palisade wall and the squat homes of stone and thatch. The place was beautiful. Idyllic. The kind of place I’d expect to find on a Swedish travel brochure. Except there was something deeply, terribly wrong in Orezan. The hairs along the back of my neck stood stiff, and even though I couldn’t see anyone, I could feel a hundred invisible eyes tracking my every movement.

Something was here. Waiting for us. And it tasted like death…

22

Sunny, Scenic Orezan

“Dude, I’m getting some serious horror movie vibes from this place,” Cal said as we all watched the scenic village from the dense tree cover.

“You and me both,” I replied grimly.

Everything was so still and lifeless. No movement on the streets. No smoke billowing from the chimneys even though there was a chilly bite lingering in the air. Hell, I didn’t even hear the squawk of chickens or the gentle bleating of goats. Small villages like this often survived off subsistence farming, which meant they always had farm animals milling around.

Not in Orezan, though.

“Let’s just wait to see what Renholm comes back with,” I said after a pause, “then we can decide what our best course of action is.”

“Fuck that.” Cal grimaced, looking truly repulsed by the village. “We already know whatever monster we’re hunting isn’t here.” He turned his head and nodded toward the distant city to the north. “‘The plague spreads, the damned to walk, a rotting cancer to expose. To the east of West Vonskoth Road, Gray and Dreary knows new lows.’ I mean, the poem straight up told us that whatever we’re after is in Sligrad, not Orezan, so why spend time dicking around here?”

“He makes a fair point,” Melwyn conceded with a shrug. “This place is sick. Diseased. That much is obvious, but I think moving on is the best thing to do given the circumstances and time constraints.”

I grunted, weighing their opinions.

Truth was, they both made good points, but my gut told me that we weren’t just spinning our wheels here. Maybe Orezan really was just a pit stop, but then why did all the destination markers lead here? Gobhoill could’ve made it so we ended up in Sligrad proper and not four leagues to the south on the edge of a creepy ghost town. There was something here we needed, even if it wasn’t apparent yet. If we didn’t kick this stone over, I was sure it was going to come back to bite us in the ass.

Renholm zipped out from between the wooden gates, which stood slightly ajar, drawing me from my thoughts.

“What’d you see?” I asked as he buzzed to a stop a few feet from me, hovering in the air on his outstretched wings.

“A feast,” he said with a diabolical grin. “A veritable banquet of bodies and limbs and organs, stacked up as nicely and neatly as you could want.” A short, pink tongue darted out between his lips and licked at his foxlike muzzle.

“You found corpses,” I clarified, just to make sure we were on the same page.

“Oh yes. Hundreds of them. Men. Women. Children.” He sounded a little too enthusiastic about mass murder for my taste. But Renholm was Renholm, and caring about others—especially strangers and especially human strangers—was outside of his wheelhouse. “The bodies are quite bloated. I’d guess they’ve been dead for days or even weeks. Some of them have truly horrific wounds. Slashed throats. Bellies split open and disgorged.” He paused and cocked his head to one side. “Though they are curiously preserved for being dead so long. I would’ve expected to see more rot and decomposition and there is no sign of flies or maggots, nor other carrion feeders.”

I scanned the trees. There were an abnormal number of glossy black crows perched in the trees surrounding Orezan. They didn’t move, though. Didn’t make a sound. That was strange, too. I wasn’t entirely surprised there were corpses, especially since the riddle more or less told us what to expect. But why weren’t the crows eating? We had some big ol’ flocks that would routinely congregate in the hollers back in Kentucky and they never overlooked a chance for a decent meal.

I sighed, knowing this was gonna suck sweaty nutsack.

“We need to take a look,” I finally declared. “We’ll make it quick. I know we need to get to Sligrad, but there’s something important inside. I can feel it.” I looked back at the others over one shoulder. “We’ll leave the mounts out here—that includes Jacob-Francis. I don’t want to be worrying about that asshole cat if we need to make a break for it. Cal, Renholm, I want you two scouting the side streets. Look for threats or clues. Anything that might explain what happened inside. You see anything wrong, you find us.”

I turned and stared at Renholm, making damn sure he met my burning crimson eyes.

“Although I feel like I shouldn’t need to say this out loud, I’m going to anyway: No eating the bodies. I know your customs are different than mine, but this is important. Something terrible happened to these people and nothing we can do is going to fix that. But we can honor them and work to bring justice where justice is due. Which means no eating the bodies. You tracking with me?”

“What if I took just a little nibble?”

“I swear to whatever god you pray to, Renholm, if I see you desecrating these corpses, I will stick my foot so far up your tiny little ass you’ll be tasting leather for the next month.”

* * *

Melwyn and I padded across the twisting road that led to the main gate as Renholm and Cal disappeared over the walls. The gates stood wide open, and the squat guard hut was empty, though there was a long smear of dried blood on one wall. Inside, we found more of the same everywhere we looked. The hardpacked dirt streets were seemingly devoid of life. The buildings were empty, and unsecured doors and shutters creaked and banged as an unnaturally chilly wind whistled through the streets.

Like the guardhouse, there was blood everywhere. Streaking the exterior walls. Splashed across the covered wooden walkways. When I glanced inside what appeared to be an empty tavern, I saw more gore splattered on overturned tables and broken chairs. There were tin plates on the floor and a handful of tipped-over beer steins on the few tables that were still upright. Most of the glass bottles stashed behind the bar top had been smashed, and the alcohol inside had long since evaporated.

There were no bodies inside, but it was obvious that someone had made their last stand here and that they hadn’t gone easily or quietly into the night.

Good for them.

In my experience, you can’t choose when you’re gonna go, but you can damn sure choose to meet your end on your feet, fighting tooth and nail all the way to the finish line.

We kept moving, angling our way toward the large stone church that stood at the center of the town. Even at a distance, I could tell that it wasn’t dedicated to Raguel, but that didn’t mean much. Alkran had no shortage of deities and all manner of cults and priests to venerate them. Even though I didn’t know what god they worshiped in these parts, I knew the church was at the heart of the village for a reason—because their faith was at the heart of these people. When shit really hit the fan, that’s where the survivors would have gone—to band together or, at the very least, seek some measure of solace in their final moments.

If anyone was still alive and kicking, that’s where they’d be hiding out.

We stumbled across the first stack of corpses a few streets over. The heap was so high that, at first, I almost mistook it for sheaves of wheat or firewood piled up for the winter. But there was no mistaking the odd arm or leg sticking out, pale fingers dangling lifelessly. A quick and dirty count revealed nineteen bodies, most of them men, though there were a few women and children thrown into the mix as well. As I moved closer to examine the devastation, golden words swam across my vision.

A new bounty, though this had nothing to do with the Hunt. At least not directly.

<<<>>>

Bounty

The Bloodbath of Orezan: Something terrible has transpired in the outpost village of Orezan. The whole village reeks of a festering, creeping evil. If left unchecked, such an insidious force could spread far and wide, leaving nothing but death and desolation in its wake. No city is safe. Cleanse the creatures that have infested the village with extreme prejudice, then locate the monster responsible for spawning them and kill it before it can infect others with its blighted life force.

Reward: +15,000 Essence, 1 x Saint Class Transformation Token

<<<>>>

I read over the prompt then waved it away with one hand.

The words confirmed what I already knew—something heinous was afoot—but getting the bounty was also something of a relief. It meant I was no longer freelancing. I was officially on the clock. It was also an indication that Raguel was looking down from on high, knew exactly what bullshit I’d gotten myself into, and was giving me the clearance to fuck shit up, Vigil style.

“Divines above,” Melwyn hissed. She crouched down and peered deeply into the slack face of a small boy, maybe eight or nine, with sandy brown hair. He had no eyes. They’d been plucked clean out and there was a ragged gash that ran across his slender throat. She pulled down the edge of his bloodstained tunic and revealed a second, narrower slash across his upper chest, which ran parallel to the first.

“That’s not the work of a blade,” she said with a grimace. “The wound is too thick, and the edges are too ragged. And look at the tapering… How the injury trails off to a fine point at the end there.” She brushed her fingers across his skin. “These are claw marks. If I had to guess, I’d say whatever made this was roughly man sized.”

The other bodies were equally torn up, and after looking over a few, it was easy to see that Melwyn was right on the money. Something hungry had gone to work on these people. Interestingly, most—though not all—were missing their internal organs, though one and all had been drained of blood. Other than the gore splattered across their clothes or on the buildings, someone had given them the ol’ juice box treatment. That probably accounted for the reason they didn’t smell. I mean, there was a faint stink of old piss and unwashed armpits, undercut by the sharp metallic scent of blood, but it didn’t make me want to puke.

It should’ve made me want to puke, especially with my newly heightened beast senses.

Something was definitely fucked here, and it wasn’t just the dead bodies piled under cloth awnings or carefully laid out in alleyways. We were being watched, I was certain of it.

Melwyn and I passed more and more corpses as we steadily made our way to the church. We stopped at a crooked intersection not far from the chapel, where five jumbled roads intersected. In the center of the intersection was yet another body, this one of a young woman. Her arms, legs, and head had all been neatly ripped away from the torso, which lay, chest up. The limbs and head were still present, but they all lay evenly spaced from the body, carefully placed at each of the five street junctures.

A symbol was carved into the woman’s chest, right above her heart. A circle with five intersecting lines that all joined in the middle. In some strange way, the symbol itself reminded me of the way the body had been carved up and displayed for the world to see. Written above her head in dried blood were words: “And so True Death comes for us all.” There was another oddity, too. Unlike the rest of the bodies, this one stank to high heaven. The skin was withered and desiccated, and it looked like the crows had already been to work on her face.

“What do you think this is all about?” I asked, gesturing toward the corpse as I covered my mouth and nose with my other hand. It didn’t help much.

“A warning maybe?” Melwyn offered. “Or a message?” She shook her head and shrugged. “I’m not sure which. Or even if it means anything at all.”

Cal and Renholm were waiting for us at the church. The building was tall and stately, carved from great slabs of gray mountain stone. Baked brown ceramic tiles covered the roof, and a symbol that looked like a shepherd’s crook surrounded by a triangle jutted upward, standing defiantly against the sky.

“Anything inside?” I asked, nodding at the building.

“Not sure about the inside, but there’s a fuckload of wards on the outside,” Cal said. He hooked a thumb toward several stained-glass windows that ran along the building. “Someone put ’em on the windows too. Honest to god, I’ve never seen so many in one place—other than the Citadel, maybe. Makes Arturo’s chapel in Ironmoor look like amateur hour.”

“Alright, give me a sec.” I knelt down by the door and ran my fingers over the dusty ground.

It wasn’t hard to feel the steady thrum of power radiating outward. I pressed my palm against the cold earth and unleashed a flood of raw, unfocused Arcana, overpowering the runic scripts. My blue Arcana bar flickered in the corner of my eye and perspiration broke out across my forehead and trickled down into my eyes. The power contained within the protection sigils was vast and intricate, but it was custom built to keep something specific in, not to keep us out.

A wave of lightheadedness washed through me, and my vision momentarily narrowed as my Arcana gauge dropped below fifty percent. I was expending a shit ton of power and I was doing it quick, fast, and in a hurry. But the gambit paid off a second later when I felt something break inside the wards. Instead of picking the lock, I’d just used the metaphysical equivalent of a crowbar to break the door down. There was a bright flash of silver light as the energy contained within the sigils turned into Essence and quickly dissipated.

I stood and swiped my hand across my brow, then pulled the doors outward with a screech.

Melwyn doubled over and promptly vomited into the dirt.

It wasn’t very ladylike, but I couldn’t blame her.

The reek that emanated from inside the stone chapel made up for the lack of odor from the corpses. Whatever the place had once been, it was now a hellish monument to slaughter and death. I hesitantly stepped into the foyer and immediately wished I hadn’t. The paved floor was covered with blood and fluids that were still somehow wet and sticky. Missing organs—hearts, lungs, kidneys, livers, strings of intestine—covered every inch of the walls. In the center of the temple was a huge iron cage, but the barred door had been snapped from its hinges and lay nearby.

“I’m not going in there,” Melwyn declared as she straightened. She turned away and refused to look back into the chapel. “I’ve seen some terrible things, but nothing like that. I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again.”

“It’s fine,” I said, waving away her concern. “You guys just wait outside. No need for all of us to be psychologically mind fucked. Just keep an eye out, will ya? Nothing about this sits right with me and I still can’t shake the feeling that we’re being watched.” I put them from my mind and focused on the horrific scene ripped straight out of a Clive Barker flick. It was mostly gory carnage, but there were a few things that stood out. First off was a pair of wide boot prints—definitely male—that led away from the cage.

Someone had been here, and they’d left alive and well.

The second thing I noticed was a rolled-up sheet of parchment, bound with a red ribbon. It was sitting on top of the cage in plain view, as though whoever had left it wanted the scroll to be found. I headed deeper into the church, my boots squelching in the gore. I wasn’t squeamish, not by a long shot. I’d killed men. Seen them die in front of me. Hell, I’d watched my best friend get slow cooked and had fought an insurgent while holding my own guts in one hand.

Somehow, this was still worse.

But I had a job to do. Now wasn’t the time for nerves.

I untied the silk thread and unrolled the scroll, holding the ends open with both hands. I half expected to see some sort of arcane ritual—anything that might explain what I was looking at and why it had been done. Instead, it was a simple note, penned in blood.

It’s been four months since my beautiful Yenifer was returned to me, but I can’t pretend it’s really her. Not anymore. It may wear her face during the day, but at night its true face is readily on display. I tried to contain her, but the more she ate, the more her appetite grew. And with it, her power. When at last I realized what I’d done, I roused the watch to help me put her down…

She killed them all and broke free from her bonds.

Then she feasted, unchecked, on the people of this town. The same people I swore to protect and guide. Now the flock is beyond my help, resigned to a terrible twilight fate. ’Ware them, for they are nearly as hungry as my Yenifer, and tied to her spirit. They are the family she could never have.

Afterward, I prayed for death. Prayed for the justice or the wrath I so rightly deserved, but none came.

It seems Tharnir has forsaken me, after all. And despite my efforts to slay her, my dearest Yenifer spared my life, as did her Thralls. Little of my daughter remains, but it seems her love for me endures. I am ashamed to say that afterward, I tried to take my own life but could not—though not for lack of trying. I slit my wrists. Hanged myself from the chapel’s central beam. Even tried to drown myself with a large rock tied to my ankles. But my life, it seems, is entwined with hers, and until I snuff out this evil I have called into the world, there will be no respite for my soul. If you find this, know that I am sorry.

She’s fled north to Sligrad, so now I follow.

— Martien van Walgien, Cleric of Tharnir, Lord of the Mysteries

As I finished reading, a new fear bloomed inside my belly. ’Ware them, for they are nearly as hungry as my Yenifer… Although the monster we were hunting had moved north, the note made it sound as though there was still something here. Something hungry and biding its time. We needed to get gone and we needed to do it yesterday. I rolled up the parchment, slipped it into my belt, and beelined for the exit.

I froze as Cal’s voice drifted into the chapel. “Hey Boyd, you better get your ass out here! The goddamned corpses are walking…”

23

Bloodbath of Orezan, Take Two

I rushed out of the chapel and skidded to a stop. Cal, Melwyn, and Renholm had edged toward me, placing the church walls at their backs. To our front were the dead bodies we’d passed on the way in… Except they weren’t so dead after all. There were nearly thirty of ’em lurching and shuffling toward us. Many were missing limbs and almost all were gutted, but that didn’t seem to bother them too much. Their pale, ghostly eyes—clouded with death before—now burned with ravenous hunger.

But these things, whatever they were, weren’t just zombies. Their mouths had split wide open, and a pair of mandible-like protrusions extended from their lower jaws. Each had a long fleshy tongue, which hung down from its open maw, undulating back and forth like a wiggling worm.

These things were way worse than any of the Mortka I’d fought before, in part because these things weren’t Mortka—or, at least, they hadn’t always been.

They’d been human once, and not so long ago. Now they were just twisted lumps of meat. People defiled by something… unholy was the only word that came to mind. Anger burned inside me at what had been done to them. A month ago, they’d been living their lives. Raising families, working to make ends meet, navigating heartbreaks and pursuing dreams.

All that had been stolen from them, and even in death they didn’t have rest.

Well, fuck that and fuck whoever did this to them.

I knew what needed to be done. And it didn’t involve running.

“We’re gonna cleanse this place,” I said, my voice distant and cold. My mind flickered back to the dead girl I’d seen at the intersection and suddenly the message scrawled above her head made sense. And so True Death comes for us all. Someone had told us exactly how to put these things down for good. “We gotta rip ’em apart. Literally. Arms, legs, and head. Just like the girl we found back in the road.” I reached into a pouch at my side and pulled out a Transformation Token, though it wasn’t for me.

Now that we were back in the Material Realm and no longer trudging through the ever-shifting landscape of the Etheric Realm, Cal was nothing more than a specter once more. I flipped him the coin with my thumb. He snagged it from the air and clamped his hand down tight around the token, drawing its power inward. In a flash, Cal was gone, replaced by a boar the size of a minivan with four enormous tusks protruding from his face and more curved spikes running along its back. A Razorback Swine.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” Renholm said, gaze shifting between me and Cal. “There’s never a dull moment, and so much Essence to consume.” He leapt lightly onto Cal’s head and grabbed a fistful of wild hair, holding on as though it were reins. He drew his Quill sword and raised it high, preparing for a charge. “I. Am. Havoc!” he shrieked at the top of his lungs as Cal lurched into motion, building powerful momentum in only a few steps. Cal slammed into the encroaching wall of undead flesh and sent bodies cartwheeling through the air.

As the undead flew and tumbled, Renholm twirled his sword, making great sweeps and slashes in the most dramatic fashion possible. Thin ribbons of blue-black power exploded from the edge of the blade, neatly severing limbs that crossed their path. In seconds, arms and legs, heads and torsos were raining down from above. Cal proceeded to trample the bodies as they landed, pulverizing bone beneath his razor-sharp hooves.

Gross, but extremely effective.

I summoned my 240 then spun and teleported to the church rooftop so I’d have a better angle of fire. As soon as I was in position, I fired into the crowd from the hip, not even bothering to aim. The 240 wasn’t exactly a precision weapon—it was built for situations just like this one, when quantity was far more important than quality. I raked the muzzle left to right and cut down the undead where the stood.

[Vampiric Grub Host resisted Hellflayer Rot]

[Vampiric Grub Host resisted Hellflayer Rot]

[Vampiric Grub Host resisted Hellflayer Rot]…

These things were resistant to my Festering Wounds ability, which didn’t surprise me much. For one, they were already dead—or the next best thing to it—and for another, they were basically walking, festering open wounds already. I couldn’t imagine there was any disease on the planet that could put a dent in these guys.

Thankfully their resistance didn’t matter a whole lot. As we shredded the bodies—damaging them beyond the point of salvage—large leech-like creatures crawled out from open mouths or pulled themselves free from ruined bellies. Each was about a foot long, oily black, and came equipped with the same mandibles I’d seen on the hosts. One wriggled across the town square toward Melwyn, squealing as an errant beam of sunlight washed over its feeble body. Its skin bubbled and hissed; thin streams of acrid smoke drifted upward.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Vampires. We were dealing with honest-to-goodness vampires.

Sure, these things didn’t look like the vampires I was familiar with, but all the signs were there. They drank blood, reanimated their human victims, and hated sunlight. Despite all the crazy shit I’d seen since waking up here, this world still had ways to surprise me.

Before the sun could finish baking the little shit weasel alive, I teleported from the roof and splattered its guts across the dirt with one firm stomp of my bootheel. It was surprisingly cathartic.

[You have killed a Vampiric Grub! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 125 Essence!]

“Spread out,” I yelled to Melwyn. “Leave no survivors. We can’t let these fuckers multiply.”

Without waiting for a reply, I reached inward and embraced the full power of my true totem form. The fury of the beast rushed into me, and my body changed as I ran.

Since Cal and Renholm seemed to have the town square covered, I took off down a side street, letting my nose guide me to the next pocket of Grub Hosts. I found a pack of eight or nine shuffling aimlessly around outside a tavern called the Blackwater. If it weren’t for the dried blood coating their clothes, they could’ve passed for sloppy drunks stumbling out after closing time. I looked back over one rocky shoulder and saw another group of Hosts making their way toward me from the opposite end of the street. They were trying to hem me in.

That was their mistake, because I wasn’t trapped in here with them, they were trapped in here with me.

I Fae Stepped through the ether, appearing on an adjacent rooftop with a clear view of the street. I fished out a Frost Affinity Scale that I’d looted off a group of Ice Imps who’d been living in the attic at Starlake Manor. A renewed wave of Essence surged through me, replenishing my Arcana pool and fueling my bestial rage. But instead of hanging onto that energy, I directed it outward, turning it into a devastating AoE aura using my Mantle of Scales - Reckoning Form.

A glittering coat of ice crept across the street and crawled up the legs of the encroaching undead. The sheer cold left black frostbite in its wake. These things were already dead, so I doubted they minded a few flash-frozen fingers and toes, but the cold also worked its way into their legs and joints, slowing them down until they were crawling along at half speed. I briefly considered summoning my machine gun and just cutting these fuckers down where they stood, then reluctantly decided against it.

Shooting these monsters wasn’t enough to end them. The only way to drive the Vampiric Grubs from their Hosts was to damage the bodies so badly they became uninhabitable. That meant no limbs and no head. Some jobs required a hammer, others a screwdriver.

This job required a meat cleaver.

With a blink, I teleported into the crowd and hurled myself at the nearest Host. My claws sheared through a neck and sent a head tumbling to the dusty street.

[Vampiric Grub Host resisted Hellflayer Rot]

I wheeled around, pounced onto a bearded man with a prodigious gut, and latched onto his throat with my jaws. Skin and meat tore, but there was no blood. The Vampiric Grub tucked away inside the body had already drained its victim dry. I used my claws to shear through his joints, delimbing the man with the ruthless efficiency of a butcher. When the Host body was finally too badly damaged to operate, the grub crawled free, squealing as it tried to attack me with its insectile mandibles.

The undead Hosts were strong and impervious to disease and pain.

The grub, on the other hand, was as weak and vulnerable as a newborn kitten. It was slow and squishy, and its mandibles couldn’t even get close to puncturing my stony hide. I turned it into meat paste with one well-placed paw.

[You have killed a Vampiric Grub! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 125 Essence!]

Golden light leaked from the leech’s splattered corpse and rushed into my nostrils, filling me with life and power.

I systematically worked my way through the crowd in gory and efficient fashion, leaving corpses and a sea of golden mist in my wake.

When I was sixteen, I’d spent the summer with an aunt who lived in Cromwell—this unincorporated dirt speck south of Owensboro, Kentucky. I’d filled the hot, hazy days working at a local poultry processing plant, which was one of the few good paying jobs that didn’t involve being a thousand feet underground. Better than mining, but it was still grueling, backbreaking work that left my whole body sore at the end of every day. Plus, it stank to high heaven. We had to wear special masks to help with the smell that seeped into damn near everything.

They used machines to process, kill, gut, and defeather the poultry—then the birds would go on to the chiller baths, where they’d soak for a few hours to help sanitize the meat and kill the legion of bacteria that existed in the plants. My job started after they came out of the baths.

The pale, featherless bodies would roll in on a conveyor belt and I’d hang each one on a suspension rack, then use a scalpel-sharp poultry blade to portion ’em up. Breasts, wings, thighs, drumsticks. At first, it took me two or three minutes to carve and reset the suspension rig. By the end of the summer, I could turn out sixty chickens an hour. Quarter the breast, trim the skin, slice the tendon, break the bone at the hip, pull and twist the legs.

Killing the hosts felt just like that.

Chop, sever, pull, rip, squash. Reset the rig and begin again.

For the next three hours, my crew and I turned Orezan into an industrial meat processing floor. Melwyn used vine walls and thick hedges to cordon off parts of town that we’d already cleared, while her flowers guardians patrolled the perimeter, making sure none of the stragglers got away. Cal and Renholm herded the hosts into special corridors where I waited, ready to do the bulk of the dirty work.

Chop, sever, pull, rip, squash. Reset the rig, begin again.

It was messy, ugly business and the number of undead seemed unending at times. But it was just like my job at the poultry plant, I told myself. Those plants could turn out fifty thousand chickens a day, and no matter how many I processed during my shift, there were always more. So I just clocked in, put my head down, and did the work.

I teleported through the mass of vampire younglings like a wraith of vengeance, using my claws to sever limbs and my jaws to tear through unprotected necks. A few of the hosts had some fight in ’em; they would use rusted swords, pitted knives, and even the occasional frying pan as makeshift weapons. But compared to the other Mortka I’d fought, these things were nothing. I breezed through them like a farmer harvesting wheat. And I didn’t even get winded doing it—not with golden Essence lingering over the streets as thick as morning fog.

Every kill topped me off and then it was on to the next one.

Chop, sever, pull, rip, squash. Reset the rig, begin again.

Despite my best efforts to keep Jacob-Francis at bay, I spotted that damned tabby within the first hour. I didn’t know if Renholm summoned him or if he was just drawn by the smell of blood and meat, but he showed up either way. Initially, I tried to shoo him away, but quickly gave up, both because getting him to leave was impossible and because he ended up being extremely useful.

More often than not, the Vampiric Grubs would attempt to flee once their hosts were compromised, and if I wasn’t watching closely enough, they could make it under rickety staircases or beneath dusty floorboards. Places where it was hard to get at ’em. But not Jacob-Francis. He could go anywhere and ended up raking up more Grub kills than anyone other than me. Like I said, extremely useful—though I had a few concerns. After clamping his jaws over one particularly bloated leech and shaking it to death, I could’ve sworn I saw golden Essence creep into his feline mouth…

As far as I knew, regular ol’ run-of-the-mill humans and animals couldn’t absorb Essence like that. But my eyes were painting me a very different picture. That was a worry for later, though.

We were a few hours from sunset when I finally got a bounty update, informing me that Orezan had finally been purified.

<<<>>>

Bounty Update

The Bloodbath of Orezan: You have officially cleansed the outpost village of Orezan from the last of the Vampiric Grubs, ensuring that they will never reach adolescence. The creature responsible for the slaughter is still at large, however. It must be killed before its spawn can reach maturity, at which point they will be able to reproduce on their own.

Reward: +15,000 Essence, 1 x Saint Class Transformation Token

<<<>>>

Unless my math was off, we’d managed to kill five hundred and seventeen of the Vampiric Grubs. I was responsible for at least half of those kills, which meant I’d reaped over 30,000 Essence. Some part of me should’ve felt ecstatic—with a few hours of work, I’d climbed a third of the way to my next ascension. I felt no joy, though. No excitement or even satisfaction. All I felt was a numb rage. That number, five hundred and seventeen, was the only thing I could think about.

It burned in my head like a neon light.

It was the number of people murdered in cold blood. Whatever had done this was still out there, but I knew the real monster behind these deaths. Queen Ionia. Someone had made a deal with the devil, and though they were partly to blame for what had happened here, it was Ionia’s power—the power of the Void Tree of the Endless Night—that was truly responsible. Five hundred and seventeen, that was the number of people killed so that we could play this dumb fucking game of hers.

I was going to win this Hunt, and come hell or high water, I was gonna cut Ionia’s fucking head off. But before I could do that, I had a monster to put in the dirt.

24

The Melting Rose

Sligrad was a dreary place. Not even the vibrant streaks of color from the setting sun could do much to give the bleak metropolis a facelift.

A formidable stone wall surrounded the city; dirty-faced guards with pitted scale mail, patchwork leathers, and rusted halberds lethargically patrolled the walls. More guards skulked around by the gatehouse, letting foot traffic and carts trickle through from both directions without even batting an eye. During my time in Iraq, I’d spent time with the Iraqi Security Forces, and they’d moved with the same listless energy as the guards on the wall. Bent backs, hooded eyes, and busted gear all spoke to broken men who were doing too much with too little.

There was a good chance our party of monsters and miscreants could march through the gates without anyone batting an eye at us. No one seemed to have the energy to care.

But banking on someone else’s ineptitude or apathy was a good way to get dead. All it would take was one guard who still had even a single shit to give to get us into a heap of trouble. Plus, we didn’t want to alert the rest of the hunters that we’d arrived—not until we absolutely had to. True, we hadn’t seen any sign of Jeffery or the others, but that didn’t mean jack shit. We’d burned most of the day cleaning out Orezan, which meant those ass clowns were definitely lurking around somewhere.

So, we played it safe. I begrudgingly shifted back from my bestial form and Melwyn dismissed her summoned swamp gator before casting a mass glamor over our band of merry misfits.

Her spell was similar to my Cunning Glamor ability, but far more powerful than what I was currently capable of. I’d been practicing with the spell a fair bit over the past month, but the best I could do at this point was mask my appearance or tweak a few relatively minor details in the world around me.

Not Melwyn, though. The lady didn’t even break a sweat when she dropped a veil that turned us both into lowly, dirt-stained merchants wearing linen clothes and heavy woolen cloaks. She also transformed Darksilver into a mule so gaunt I could see every rib in excruciating detail. It was impressive work. She didn’t have to do anything about Jacob-Francis—since he was just a cat—and Cal and Renholm were both invisible to any onlookers who didn’t have preternaturally enhanced senses.

Like the rest of the traffic trickling through, the guards didn’t spare us a second glance.

After spending so much time in my totem form, being a regular ol’ human again—or human shaped, at least—was kind of off-putting. I’d grown so used to my heightened senses that now it felt like I was moving through the world half-blind. But once we got into the warren of houses and shops, I got my first whiff of rancid body odor and human waste, and I was glad I didn’t have a supernatural nose anymore. Just the thought of breathing in the disgusting array of smells made me gag.

I’d often shared a field tent with Cal during our days in-country. Showers weren’t exactly a luxury afforded to Recon Marines deployed on the front lines, so we relied heavily on “baby wipe” showers to keep from smelling like dank ass cheese. During a training op in Twenty-Nine Palms—a place Cal and I both affectionately referred to as the Devil’s Taint—he’d forgotten to restock his supply and had run dry of wipes after two days. I shared my limited reserves, but that meant I was out a week early. By the end of that op, the smell coming off us was so bad, our company CO suggested with a completely straight face that we burn the two-man tent we’d used.

The whole city of Sligrad was like that.

The houses were all constructed from wooden shingles and rough gray brick that matched the cobblestone streets. Despite the chill, most of the homes didn't even have doors—at best, they had dirty curtains that blocked out prying eyes.

Sadly, many didn’t even have that.

The insides weren’t any better, either. Damp black mold clung to the walls and thick clouds of pungent chimney smoke loitered in each room—a telltale sign of poor ventilation. Most rooms held only a few items. A simple bed. A set of chairs. A broken table or the occasional nightstand with a chipped porcelain basin filled with dirty water. Seven out of ten times, they were just empty rooms with people sleeping on disgusting straw mats strewn haphazardly across the floors.

I spent a lot of time in a lot of shitty places, including several that were active war zones, and I’d rarely seen poverty this bad. The shantytown outside of Wildespell—affectionally known as the Sprawl—looked like the Ritz compared to Sligrad.

The buildings were in an equally poor state of repair and were pressed in claustrophobically tight together. Still, the streets themselves had been laid out in a meticulously organized manner, meeting at precise intersections marked by wooded signs on each corner.

“Behold, noble fool, we have company up ahead,” Renholm whispered into my ear as we rounded a corner and found ourselves on a large thoroughfare congested with clopping horse-carts and hollering merchants. The fairy landed on my shoulder and his eyes narrowed into slits as he pointed through the crowd. A pair of men and a woman were moving toward us, their eyes roving over the building faces. It was clear they were searching for something, though what exactly I couldn’t say.

All three looked human enough, but there were subtle tells that indicated they weren’t natives of Sligrad. Everyone here was dirt poor, but these three wore expensive-looking armor and carried themselves with an obvious, otherworldly grace. Most damning of all, they were clean. Immaculately so. They moved in a pocket of space, earning curious glances from the people who passed them.

I couldn’t see through whatever glamor they were casting, but I didn’t need to.

“Narvik, Khapi, Shuri, from Houses Fell, Four Seasons, and the Court of Six Nightmares respectively,” Renholm informed me, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. “A powerful trio and close allies. I’m not surprised they’re slumming it together. Narvik is as sharp as a river boulder, but Shuri and Khapi are a cunning pair.” He paused and hunched forward. “All three of them glimmer. They’re onto something,” he said with a sneer.

We were still blocks away from the Melting Rose, which meant they were probably running down another clue. Although splitting the party wasn’t generally a good move, we were the underdogs in this situation. If we wanted to come out on top, we were going to have to take a few calculated risks.

“Cal, Renholm. I want you to shadow ’em,” I whispered under my breath, never taking my eyes off the other champions. “Keep your distance and don’t engage unless they have you backed into a corner.”

Cal grinned. “Don’t worry, dude. You weren’t the only one who was recon. I know the drill. Eyes and ears. They won’t pin us down.”

“Yeah, I’m not worried about you,” I said, side-eyeing Renholm. There was an even money chance that the Pookah would get bored and end up insulting one of their mothers just for fun. “Keep him on a leash. Melwyn and I will head over to the Melting Rose and see what we can dig up.”

Before the other champions could get closer, I grabbed Melwyn by the hand and turned, dragging her back around the way we’d just come from. Darksilver trotted along behind us, snorting and stamping his hooves in annoyance. I shuffled through a tight crowd then ducked down a connecting alleyway with the fae princess and my reluctant mount in tow.

“You sure know how to show a lady a good time,” Melwyn said as I forcefully pulled her along. “I haven’t had this much fun in ages.”

I ignored the sarcasm bleeding from her words.

It took us a few more minutes to navigate through the streets clogged with unwashed bodies, but eventually we emerged from a narrow cross section and found ourselves at the corner of Fifteenth and Gray. It was one of the bigger junctures we’d come across, forming a large square with a fountain that depicted a pious-faced man wearing lumpy robes. The statue held a jug outward, and a stream of dirty water spilled from the mouth, splashing nosily into the basin below. Despite the chill, half a dozen grubby kids splashed and played in the fountain.

A brassy bell tolled in the distance, and the sound carried on the breeze like the wail of a lost child.

My gaze drifted past the statue and landed on the building that occupied the corner of Fifteenth and Gray. It was three stories of gray stone and wooden slats just like every other building in the city. The windows were fogged with dirt and grime, but buttery light filtered through and spilled onto the street. An arched entryway of stout timbers leaned out drunkenly over the cobblestones. A wooden sign dangled down, so faded by the sun it was almost impossible to read. But it wasn’t hard to make out the crude shape of a rose carved into the wood.

The Melted Rose.

There didn’t appear to be a stable, but there was a hitching post out front with another pair of lean horses tied up. Reluctantly, I tied Darksilver up alongside the others and gave him a handful of Jetru berries while softly telling him what a good boy he was. I was a little worried about leaving him alone out here—especially with all the hungry looks he was getting—but then I reminded myself that if anyone tried to take him, they’d be in for a very nasty surprise. He might’ve looked two steps away from starvation, but he could kill anyone who got handsy.

I shot a quick glance at Melwyn, then shoved my way through a heavy door made from oaken planks banded with rusty iron. The air inside the tavern was thick with the aroma of roasting pork and mutton and the heady punch of alcohol and stale beer, all undercut by the sour smell of piss and dank BO. The common room was absolutely packed. Patrons sat along rough-hewn tables, eating, drinking, laughing, and gambling while a middle-aged woman strummed a lute and belted out a raucous tune that involved a fearless Vigil fighting a lake kraken while completely naked.

Fuck my life.

While the song embellished certain aspects of the battle, it was closer to the truth than I cared to admit. Arturo was right, I needed to make better life choices. I’d start just as soon as I killed the Dark Queen of the Fae and murdered the slumbering god of chaos giving her power.

Women wearing colorful hoop skirts and caked in makeup circulated through the room, delivering drinks and flirting shamelessly with the customers sitting at the benches. More than a few wore corsets so tight it looked like their boobs were about to explode right out the top.

Melwyn and I weaved through the press of bodies and over to the bar. Finding a seat was impossible, but there was just enough space to squeeze in beside a hulking guy wearing a leather apron covered in dried blood. The dude had more crimson stains splashed across his hands and forearms. He looked like a serial killer but based on the worn and well-used cleaver hanging from his belt and the pungent stink of offal, I was guessing he was just a butcher. Still, it wasn’t hard to imagine why everyone else gave him such a wide berth.

He side-eyed me curiously as I pressed into the bar, but he seemed more interested in nursing his beer than he did in starting shit with me. I appreciated that. Just ’cause he looked like a shitkicker who could eat nails and bend horseshoes didn’t mean he was a bad guy.

I waved down the barkeep with a raised hand and ordered a pair of brews for myself and Melwyn. With an inarticulate grunt, he brought over a pair of warm beers in two of the dirtiest tin glasses I’d ever seen. I paid him a pair of copper Kelkadian coins, which earned me an odd look, but the bartender disappeared the money without saying anything.

“So what do you think we’re looking for?” I asked Melwyn, leaning into her side.

“Over east of West Vonskoth Road, gray and dreary knows new lows” she replied, turning so she could survey the rest of the common room. “Twisted fate, a devil’s pact, a father’s tears now juxtaposed…” She cocked an eyebrow, raised a finger, and pointed across the sprawl of tables at one particular patron tucked away in a private alcove.

He was a big ol’ son of a bitch—easily as large as Arturo—with meaty arms and beef-slab shoulders, thinning hair, and a great tangled beard that hung down his chest. He wore a priestly cassock, cinched tight at the waist with a leather belt that held a battered long sword and a practical short dagger. Over the top of the cassock was a stained crimson tabard with a black symbol embroidered on the chest. A shepherd’s crook surrounded by a triangle.

It was the same symbol I’d seen on the chapel roof in Orezan.

The guy had a beer in front of him, but he hadn’t touched the thing, and although every other table in the tavern was bursting with bodies, this guy sat completely alone. Not hard to figure why. On closer inspection, I noticed that his tabard wasn’t red, it was white. It just looked red because it was so heavily stained with blood. And no one was going to confuse him for a butcher. There were also several large holes in his tabard and cassock, which had been crudely stitched together, but based on the pattern of the wounds, this guy had seen some shit.

The kind of shit you don’t come back from.

Unless you couldn’t die…

I picked up my beer and made my way across the room, sidestepping servers and stumbling drunks with casual ease. There were several open chairs at the priest’s table, and I plopped down with a huge grin plastered across my face. Melwyn took the other seat, primly rearranging her skirts as she sat. A palpable tension grew in the air and more than a few bargoers shot uneasy looks in our direction. People continued to talk, to gamble, to drink and eat, but the noise noticeably dropped a few decibels as folks overcome by morbid curiosity bent an ear in our direction.

“Beg your pardon,” the priest said, his voice deep and hoarse, “but this table is occupied.” He regarded us with steely gray eyes that looked red from lack of sleep. Or maybe unshed tears.

“These seats look open to me,” I replied with a shrug. “Be a sport, me and the lady are just taking a load off.”

“Be that as it may,” he said stiffly, “I prefer to drink alone. Find another table.”

I took a long pull from my beer—it tasted worse than it smelled—then slipped a hand into my pocket and pulled out the stone engraved with the arrow into one side. The one that presumably pointed toward the target. It was pointing right at the priest.

Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

I slipped it back into the pouch at my side and pulled something else free.

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid,” I said. “My friend and I have traveled a very long way.”

“Is that so?” the man asked more slowly. His eyes sharpened and he sat up a little straighter in his chair. “And what, pray tell, brings you all this way?”

“Looking for someone. A man, I think. Big guy, bald head, bushy beard. Might be, he’s a priest. Wrote this letter and left it in a village a few hours south from here.” I took out the scroll I’d found in the chapel and laid it on top of the table. “It’s a little place called Orezan. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

He picked up the scroll and unfurled it with trembling fingers. “Who are you?” he asked, eyes darting between me and the parchment.

“Show him, Melwyn,” I said under my breath. “Just a glimpse, though. Wouldn’t want to alarm anyone.”

The glamor concealing my face wavered, just for a moment. It was only gone for a few seconds tops, but that was more than long enough for the bedraggled priest to get a glimpse of my burning red eyes and the golden sigil of Justice branded onto my forehead. A symbol that marked me as one of the Vigilant, Chosen of Raguel. A symbol everyone and their brother knew without a second of hesitation.

He let out a great sigh of relief and his body slumped forward and relaxed as though some great weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders. Tears streamed down his cheeks, cutting rivulets in the grime and dirt that coated his skin.

“Praise be,” he said quietly. “He hasn’t left me yet. After everything that happened, well, I... I... I thought my Lord had abandoned me,” he stammered. “I prayed to Tharnir for intercession. Prayed that he would end my suffering. That he would send someone to do the thing I cannot before… before it’s too late.” He reached forward and clamped a calloused hand over my forearm as though he couldn’t quite believe I was real. “Yet here you be. Thank you, Vigil. Thank you for coming.”

25

The Clock Tower

“Hey, keep it together,” I said, hunching forward. “There’s a lot more to this story than you know.” My voice was little more than a whisper. “We’re not the only ones out looking for you and your daughter, and if the other people investigating this find us, we’re all gonna be fucked.”

The man sniffled then nodded, his lower jaw still trembling. “Who are these others?” he asked, finally cutting off the waterworks.

“Who they are isn’t important,” I said. “All that matters is that they don’t find us, you understand me?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said with a terse nod. “My apologies, Vigil. I didn’t mean to question you. By Tharnir’s crook, I’m just glad you are here. You must understand, I’ve tried to kill my Yenifer a dozen times over, but she’s too strong, and growing stronger every day. It certainly doesn’t help that several of her hell spawn have advanced into adolescence. They aren’t as powerful as she, but they are more than capable of killing a normal man—or even a Steelborn warrior such as myself.”

He motioned toward the great holes in his cassock.

“I attacked them a night ago. Managed to slay one of the beasts, but the others damn near tore me apart. If not for this ill-fated curse keeping me alive, I’d already be hanging from the rafters in that nest she’s built herself. But we have no time for this.” He stood suddenly, the chair legs screeching on the wooden floor. He hurried over to one of the cloudy glass windows and looked out. “We must go. Twilight lingers still. If we leave now, we may have just enough light left to make it to the tower before she wakes for the night and begins to kill again.”

“Whoa, wait a minute,” I said, standing to face him. “You can’t really expect us to just follow you to some random location. Not before you fill in some of the missing puzzle pieces—like how the fuck this all happened, and what kind of shitshow we’re going to be walking into. Hell, for all I know, you could be preparing to serve us up to your daughter on a silver platter.”

“Why would I do such a thing?” he asked.

“People don’t always make good, rational choices when love is involved.”

He flinched at my words. “Aye, that’s a fair assessment, I suppose. But believe me when I say this isn’t a trap, Vigil. I just want this nightmare to be over, and although I understand your hesitation and your doubts about me, this much I can promise you. If we do not leave, now—right this very moment—more innocent blood will be shed before dawn breaks. That blood will always and forever be on my hands, but it will be on yours as well.” He faltered and dropped his head. “Please. Please help me end this…”

I looked at Melwyn, what the hell do we do here?

She shrugged her shoulders. “For what it’s worth, I believe him.”

Against my better judgment, I did too.

* * *

The three of us hightailed it out of the Melted Rose, leaving behind the heat and warmth and merriment for the cold, bleak streets of Sligrad. I pulled out the quest marker and held it above my palm, expecting it to reorientate, but it didn’t. No matter where Martien moved, the runic marker swiveled to follow him. I kept that fact in the back of my mind as we took off at a jog, heading toward a looming clock tower that stood at the center of the city—a monument to the relentless passage of minutes, days, and years and a firm reminder that we were running out of time.

We raced against the dying light with Martien guiding us up and down streets and alleys, hopping over stone retaining walls and cutting through doorless houses filled with somber-eyed men and women. No one said anything to us, though. Like the guards out front, none of them seemed to have enough energy to care. This place wasn’t dead, not like Orezan, but there was a different sort of lifelessness to it.

Eventually we scaled a three-story building and scrambled onto a raised stone aqueduct that cut across the city, straight as an arrow. It passed in close proximity to the clock tower.

“I never meant for any of this to happen, you know,” Martien confided as we moved along the ledge of the elevated, man-made river. “It was an accident that took my dear Yenifer. A cruel, tragic, senseless accident.” He grimaced. “A startled horse kicked her in the head. I’ve seen men get clipped by a horse like that, but never saw one die from it. But Yenifer was a waif of a thing. And the hoof landed just so. Cracked her skull and broke her neck all at once. She was dead before there was anything to be done for her.

“I prayed, of course,” he continued. “Called out to my god for healing. For salvation. But he was silent to my tears. Indifferent to my words and supplications. Still, for weeks I fasted, interceding day and night for his mercy. He never answered, but eventually something else did. Something called to me from the shadows. She said she would give to me what my Lord Tharnir had so cruelly and callously denied. She would bring my daughter back, if only I pledged her my service.” He touched his chest with tentative fingers. “She wanted my soul.

“I was aggrieved, you must understand. Sleep deprived. Half starved.” He dropped his head, though he never slowed his pace. “Yet, none of those are adequate excuses. The truth is, Yenifer was my reason for living. With her gone, it felt as though my soul had already perished. It was no bother to give away something that had withered and died. So, I heartily agreed. And the darkness… it lived up to its end of the bargain. The very next night Yenifer showed up behind the chapel, still clad in her mourning gown, covered in dirt. But she was whole and hale. Alive.”

A small, fond smile parted his lips.

“I’m gonna hazard a guess here,” I said, “and say that Yenifer wasn’t exactly the same sweet girl you remembered.”

The smile turned into a frown, his lips just a thin slit in his bushy beard. “Not at first. There were curiosities to be sure. Her pallid complexion. Her aversion to sunlight and unwillingness to venture out even on an overcast day. Her compulsive need for secrecy. But other than that, she was the sweet girl I had always known and my own joy blinded me to the truth. She stayed in the church and I would bring her meals, but she couldn’t stomach any of the food I made. She would eat and vomit up blood. Every day it got worse. She grew weaker and weaker, fading to just a shadow of her vibrant self.”

“What changed?” Melwyn asked curiously from the far side of the aqueduct.

“She caught a cat,” he said softly. “I often kept them around to help with the rats. It wandered in one day and she…” He wavered for a beat. “She had snapped its neck,” he finally finished. “She didn’t eat the poor beast but rather slit its throat with one nail and drained it of every drop of blood. Then, just like that, she was her old self again. Happy and smiling and vibrant. I began to hunt animals for her after that. Rabbits and the occasional deer, but soon that wasn’t enough either. During the day, she was my Yenifer, but at night…”

He trailed off, and his silence spoke volumes.

“That’s when the first townsfolk started to go missing. I tried to keep a watch on her, but she was quick and could deceive my senses. Not but a week later, I found several bodies in the old storage barn behind the church. They were piled up, one on top of the other. Dead, but not dead.” He looked at me. “You’ve been to Orezan, so you know what I mean. I couldn’t bring myself to hurt her, so instead I built the cage. The cold iron combined with the holy sigils worked for a time, but she soon began to wither away.”

He sighed, and it was the sound of a man who was tired all the way to his soul. If he even had a soul to be tired.

“I tried to feed her the animal blood, but she wouldn’t touch the stuff. Didn’t matter anyway. Eventually her offspring came for her. They ripped the doors off the cage. Free again, and hungrier than ever, she went on a killing spree. She spared no one, save me. Then, with nothing left to feed on, she came here. She left the young Grubs behind in the safety of Orezan, but her adolescent attendants are here, waiting in the tower with her. She’s hunted more slowly since coming to Sligrad. There’s a cunningness to it that I can’t quite suss out. But I’ve seen her handiwork, alright, and she is up to something.”

“These things, they spread like a disease,” I said when he’d finally finished his telling. “Best as I can figure it, she’s basically a walking plague vector. Sligrad is a hundred times bigger than Orezan, so she can’t just go on a killing spree without bringing every guard, soldier, and Arbitrator of Raguel down on her head. Chances are, she’s probably playing the slow game. Picking victims that won’t be missed.”

“And spreading out her kills so that the disease expands more effectively,” Melwyn added.

“That’s what I would do if I were in her shoes,” I agreed.

We’d made it to the clock tower without a minute to spare. The lingering pinks and ghostly purples painting the horizon were the final remnants of daylight clinging to life. It didn’t have long. Which meant we didn’t have long.

“During the pupal and adolescent stage, the affliction is tied to her,” Martien said. “None of her offspring have grown to full maturity. If we can kill her, here and now, her spawn will die with her. If we fail, they will continue to grow and spread. And once they reach maturity, her offspring will be able to reproduce at will. It will be the end of this great city. Thousands will die. And countless more as they spread across the countryside. Sligrad is known as the Crossroad City for a reason. From here, they will travel through caravans to every nation.”

“Well, let’s make damn sure that doesn’t happen,” I replied, already reaching for the totem power calling out to me from my core.

* * *

There was still no sign of Cal or Renholm, which was concerning, and we hadn’t seen any sign of the other champions either, which was somehow worse. I knew Jeffery wouldn’t just be kicking back and cooling his heels, which meant he and the rest of the Fae were out and about causing trouble somewhere. This wasn’t their first rodeo, so there was a damned good chance they were already here and kicking Yenifer’s vampire teeth in. We were so close, and I refused to lose the Hunt now, not after how far we’d come.

With that thought spurring on my feet, I followed Martien van Walgien, former cleric of Tharnir, up a curling wooden staircase that almost certainly led to a trap.

My gut told me that Martien was on the level—all the beats of his tragic story rang true—but that didn’t make it any less of a trap, because there was definitely something waiting for us up above. Vampires, fae champions. Maybe both. I hadn’t fully embraced my Totem form just yet, but I’d equipped the beast’s enhanced senses like a set of armor. Which was why it was impossible not to hear the scampering of razor-sharp talons scritch-scratching across wood and stone. Or miss the odd chittering noise that reminded me of the bats that roosted in the boarded-up coal shaft out by Tate’s Creek.

The reek of blood was also unmistakable; the odor wasn’t nearly as potent as what I’d smelled back at the church in Orezan, but that also squared with what Martien had told us. His sweet, not-so-innocent daughter was just getting warmed up. There was also another smell so intense it nearly overwhelmed the blood scent. A heavy musk, undercut by ammonia. And lurking beneath those more obvious odors was an intoxicating mixture, equal parts burnt orange and fresh asphalt. I’d never smelled anything close to it, on this world or any other.

The stairs shot straight up through the center of the clock tower, and other than internal scaffolding, there wasn’t shit else inside. At least not on the lower levels. Eventually a wooden door striped with iron bands appeared on the right. The stairs kept going up, but this was the first opportunity to get off the ride.

“There shouldn’t be anything in there,” Martien said, pausing long enough to wipe away the sweat beading on his balding head. He’d mentioned that he was Steelborn, but I was starting to have my suspicions about that—especially considering how hard he was huffing and puffing after running up a few flights of steps. “That leads out onto an enclosed walkway that runs behind the clockface. The friars use it to oil the hands and change the alchemic globes that light the face. It’s exceedingly narrow, though, and receives too much sun exposure for Yenifer’s ilk.”

“I’d still feel better if I gave it a look,” I said quietly, brushing past Martien and taking up a position just outside the door. “I’d hate to have a bunch of bloodthirsty monsters hitting us from above and below. Best to keep this battle to one front if we can help it.”

I summoned my 240—ready to unload on anything unlucky enough to be on the other side—and shouldered the door open. I turkey-peeked the entry. Nothing. Just a narrow walkway, barely wide enough to accommodate a man. There were several large alchemic glass crystals attached to the wall, lighting up the space. There was no sign of anything out of the norm.

“They’re higher up,” Martien insisted again as I pulled the door shut and bolted it closed. “The next room holds the clock mechanism. Beyond that is where they’ve made their lair. The spawnlings are holed up in the friar’s quarters, beneath the belfry. But not my Yenifer—she is higher still. In the lookout with the bells. We’ll have to fight our way past her spawn if we hope to take the battle to her. I’m afraid this won’t be easy.”

“I’ve been in this business long enough to know that nothing is ever easy,” I replied with a grin and a shrug. “Plan for the worst, and you’re never surprised.”

We pushed up another flight and paused at the next door. I cleared the next room, but other than a mess of cogs, gears, pulleys, and ropes, it was empty. The clank, clatter, and groan of metal churning against metal echoed off the walls. There was no motor, but rather a system of huge, suspended weights that seemed to act as a rudimentary pendulum. The room smelled of oil and dirt, but if these vampire shitheads really were of Fae origin, then it made sense that they’d give the gear room a wide berth—especially considering how much cold iron was scattered through the space.

The brand on my forehead began to burn and throb when we reached the next landing. A cold shiver ran along my spine, and I instinctively knew we’d arrived. This close, the aroma of burnt oranges and tar was nearly overpowering. According to Martien this was where the monastic bell friars had lived and worked, prior to Yenifer and her ill-begotten children moving in like the giant cockroaches they were. I held up a hand, motioning the others to stop, then crept forward and pressed my ear against the door.

The scritch-scratching was louder now and when I closed my eyes and pushed my senses outward, I could even hear the thump of several different heartbeats. I counted a total of seven distinct hearts—six of them beat slower than turtles fucking, but the seventh was pounding out of control. Racing along like a galloping horse. Someone else was in there with them, and if I were a betting man, I’d say they were terrified out of their minds.

The presence of a hostage complicated things.

Now I couldn’t just go in there, guns blazing, and wipe these slimy fuckers off the map with a concentrated burst of gunfire. I sighed. We were gonna have to do this the hard way.

Why was it always the hard way?

“Martien,” I hissed at the priest. “You said you can’t die, right?”

“I’ve been cursed, it’s true,” he said solemnly.

“You say cursed, I say blessed. You’re heading in first. Go in big and loud. They’ve got a hostage in there, so I want you to draw these things away. Melwyn, you focus on getting the victim to safety, then barricade the doors so these things can’t make a break for it. I’m gonna try and push past them and get up to the belfry so I can deal with Yenifer.”

“You want me to go first?” Martien asked, the color draining from his face. “But you’re a Vigil. And they’ll skewer me.”

“Yep, I’m counting on it. But you can’t die, so it’s all gravy.”

“I can still feel the pain,” he grumbled. “Although, I suppose I deserve no less for unleashing this nightmare.”

“Save the guilt trips and self-flagellation for later,” I said, patting him on the shoulder, “we’ve got people to save and monsters to kill.”

I lurched forward and smashed the door in with one swift kick. Thanks to my increased Brawn, the wood cracked on impact and the door exploded inward like a bomb blast. I grabbed Martien by the back of his priestly cowl and shoved him into the room before he could get cold feet.

26

Yenifer the Everlasting

Martien stumbled into the room with a surprised squawk.

Throwing a grieving father into a room full of hungry vampires probably wasn’t my proudest or kindest moment, but he did sort of have this coming—plus, he couldn’t die, even if he still felt the pain of his wounds. I, on the other hand, had no idea what to expect and could absolutely die. Overall, this seemed like the better play, though it also struck me as the kind of thing that Renholm would do, which left me feeling a little uneasy.

I was starting to worry that the murderous fairy was rubbing off on me, which was legitimately horrifying.

To Martien’s credit, the guy didn’t even bat an eye. He caught his balance in a few steps and smoothly unsheathed the sword at his hip, then drew the short, workmanlike dagger with his other hand. He flipped the knife over so the hilt ran along the outside of his forearm. He wasn’t in great shape, but maybe he hadn’t been lying about the Steelborn thing after all. Even at a glance, I could tell the guy handled his weapons well. He held them with a comfort and familiarity that spoke to competence.

With a roar Martien charged straight toward a cluster of wide-eyed freaks, staring at the sudden intrusion in a mixture of curiosity and shock.

I took the room in in a single pass, searing the details into my memory.

Wooden boards, now amply stained with blood, covered the floor. What little furniture had been in the room before—a couple of chairs, a plain table, a few pallets—were all piled up in one corner, broken and splashed with gore. Organs and body parts covered the walls, eerily mirroring the Church of Tharnir. Dangling from the ceiling was a series of thick braided ropes, which I suspected were used to work the bells in the belfry above. There was also a series of fleshy gray pods hanging haphazardly from the ceiling like rotten fruit.

One of the monsters was still in its pod, staring at me with luminous yellow eyes the size of oranges. The others were scampering across the floor, and they looked like they were getting ready for breakfast. Tied up in another corner was a paunchy, terrified-looking middle-aged man who was getting ready to be breakfast.

The creatures themselves were flabby, gray and had upturned noses, large ears, and mangy fur covering their shoulders, chests, and backs. They shuffled about on short, squat legs and impossibly long and delicate arms that reached to the floor. A thin black membrane spread between the arms and body, forming what could only be a set of wings. They didn’t look even remotely like the Hosts we’d wiped out back in Orezan, but then they were also further along in their evolutionary transformation.

I was guessing that the disgusting grubs we’d curb-stomped by the truckload turned into these fuckers given enough time. The host body was just a fancy eggshell to nourish and protect the grub while it grew.

The creature hanging from the pod pulled itself free with an ear-splitting hiss and launched its rubbery body at Martien. It slammed into the cleric with a meaty thwap but bounced off as though it had just run headlong into a brick wall.

I took it back. Martien was definitely, one hundred percent certified Steelborn. Only someone with a supernatural constitution could withstand a hit like that and keep on trucking.

The creature quickly regained its feet and launched a renewed attack against the cleric. Long, hooked talons flashed out lightning fast and slashed through Martien’s cassock, sending up a spray of blood. The priest lashed out with his dagger, severing one of the monster’s spidery fingers in a single clean stroke.

Another creature broke off from the pack and turned on Martien; it opened its jaws and vomited out a ball of rancid, seething light that sideswiped the priest. Tendrils of green and black goo crawled across the priest’s skin, leaving acid burns in their wake.

Martien had his hands full, but since he couldn’t die, I would leave him to soak up the damage. I spotted the circular spiral staircase near the back of the room, which would take me up into the belfry. I skirted around the outside of the chaos, trying not to engage with the flabby, gray meat sacks. Unfortunately, they were smarter than they looked and figured out what I was doing pretty damned quick. One of the monsters darted over to the base of the staircase and posted up, while another raced toward me like an angry junkyard dog—which was pretty much what these things were, now that I thought about it.

The one bum-rushing me got a size-twelve boot to the teeth for its trouble. Then I summoned my axe and brought it screaming around in a tight arc, burying the blade in the creature’s shoulder, damn near hacking his arm clean off. But the second I pulled the weapon free, strands of gray flesh began to pull the wound closed.

[Adolescent Vampire resisted Hellflayer Rot]

Great, so these things were tough and resistant to disease and poison. Shoulda figured.

Time to find out if they were bulletproof, too. I swapped my axe for the 240. The machine gun appeared in my hands, and before the creature could fully mend its wounds, I slammed the muzzle into its chin and unloaded at point-blank range. The magical rounds ripped through its skin and turned its head into a fine pink mist. Its body dropped, but even without a head, it continued to crawl across the floor.

Melwyn was there for the win.

Wrist-thick roots sprouted from the floorboards and wrapped around the vampire’s arms and legs. One great tug and the poor bastard came apart at the seams, finally falling still. Golden mist crept across the floor, filling me with a renewed sense of power and purpose. And just in time too. Another vampire hit me from behind. It leapt onto my back and wrapped its scrawny legs around my waist. Jagged fangs sank into the side of my neck. Blood spurted out. At the same moment it felt like liquid magma had been injected into my body.

[Cursed! You have been afflicted by Bonesnap Toxin. A potent poison courses through your veins with every beat of the heart, causing your body to seize and spasm so intensely it snaps bones in the process.]

Fuck me, that didn’t sound good.

I reached back, my hands transforming into claws, and ripped the sneaky son of a bitch off my back. Holding it at arm’s length, I crushed its windpipe with one hand, then used my 240 to remove its head just like I’d done to its friend.

The creature flopped to the ground, but I joined it a second later.

A wave of agony rolled through me, and it felt like every one of my nerve endings had been doused in gasoline and set on fire. My back arched and my muscles contracted so hard I thought I was going to dislocate my joints. The contraction passed after a heartbeat, but I knew another would be coming along before too long. In that moment, I deeply regretted every bad life choice I’d ever made, and at the top of the list was my failure to add Purity of Form to my arsenal of abilities.

Purity of Form offered total immunity from all disease and poison, but I’d just had to have Mind Vault.

But then it occurred to me that I had something tucked away in my belt for just such an occasion. I pulled out a Plague Affinity Scale with trembling fingers. I drew the power of the Scale downward into my hand and felt immediate relief as a lightning bolt of life-giving Essence surged through me, burning away the Bonesnap Toxin before it could strike again. With a groan, I pushed myself to my feet then forced the effects of the Plague Affinity Scale outward, turning it into a beneficial aura using Mantle of Scales – Charity Form.

Now, the others would be covered too.

Martien and Melwyn had corralled the remaining Adolescent Vampires, pushing them away from the stairs.

“Go,” Melwyn barked at me. She kept the shithead vampires at a distance with a slim rapier made from spun glass and roses, while her living vines did most of the actual killing. “We can handle this lot. The quicker you get to Yenifer, the quicker this all ends.”

I didn’t need to be told twice.

I covered the rest of the room in four long strides, then took the stairs two at a time, racing up into the belfry; the sounds of chaos and violence faded as I passed through the ceiling. Five bells occupied the belfry, the largest in the center, with four smaller bells of varying sizes arrayed around it in a square. As I suspected, thick ropes descended from each bell, disappearing down through narrow holes drilled into the floor. There were no alchemic lights here, casting their warm yellow light, but it wasn’t too hard to see.

Moonbeams streamed in through a series of horizontal wooden slats, casting a striped pattern of light and shadow across the floor. More moonlight spilled in through a circular stained glass window sitting above an archway that let out onto a wide balcony, which offered a commanding view of the city below.

Standing on the balcony, looking right at me, was a girl.

Slim. Young. Maybe sixteen or seventeen. She had ivory skin, a band of freckles across her nose, and fiery red hair pulled back into a braid that hung over one shoulder. I’d seen her before, in one of the clue stones we’d lifted during our raid.

I’d finally found my target. Yenifer van Walgien. Yenifer the Undying.

“I was wondering how long it would be before one of you came for me,” she said, her voice soft and small and sweet. “In truth, I’m surprised it took so long. So many have already died. Hundreds. Maybe more. I’ve been looking over my shoulder for weeks, expecting to see one of your brethren staring back at me with those fabled red eyes.” A small smile crept across her lips and her pale blue eyes glimmered and flashed, turning red and hungry. “I have to admit, it’s something of a relief to finally have you here.”

“Because you want me to stop you before you hurt anyone else?” I asked hopefully.

She looked up at me and any pretense of innocence was gone. There was nothing human lurking behind the gaze of the young woman before me. Only something monstrous and hungry, hiding behind a human mask.

“Why would I want you to stop me?” she asked. “I’ve never been stronger. My power increases every day, and my children grow in numbers and in power. Soon, I’ll have an army.”

“Then why is it a relief to have me here?” I asked, already preparing to attack.

“So I can see just how strong you truly are, of course,” she said matter-of-factly. “And so I can stop fretting and worrying endlessly over it.” She paused and stared at me with open curiosity. “Some small part of me also cannot help but wonder what sort of creature will emerge from inside you, after I kill and gut you.”

“You want to see what sort of monster is inside me?” I replied with a crooked grin. Honestly, she couldn’t have set me up with a better one-liner if she tried. “Let me show you.”

I surged forward and let my totem power free. Fingers turned to claws. Mouth transformed into a muzzle, filled with tearing fangs. My arms and legs lengthened as my armor disappeared and rocky hide clothed vulnerable flesh. In three steps, I was five hundred pounds of muscle and death. I threw myself at her, arms extended, jaws wide—

She moved like smoke and shade.

Yenifer lashed out with a casual backhanded blow so fast I could barely see the motion, even with my enhanced vision. One second, I was charging forward, the next I was flipping ass over teakettle through the air like a rag doll casually tossed away by an angry toddler. I smashed into the largest of the bells and it let out a thunderous but melodic clang that echoed off the domed ceiling of the belfry. I reached down and ran a hand across my chest. A jagged crack ran across my breastbone.

Holy fuck, but she hit hard.

“You’re not the only one that is more than they appear to be.” The light in her eyes flashed again and something terrible tore its way free from the fragile body giving it shelter.

27

Monster Mash

The thing that emerged from the ragged remains of bloody skin vaguely resembled the creatures below, just more and better in every way. Tight muscle sheathed in midnight black skin. The same bat-like features—flat, upturned nose, large luminous eyes, oversized ears—but surprisingly the creature looked more human, not less. I could still see vague traces of the girl this monster had once been. Enormous leathery wings folded around her body like a cloak. A long lashing tail with a cruel hook on the end extended from her waist.

She opened her mouth and let out a high-pitched screech. The sound exploded outward, reverberating off the bells and bouncing around in my skull. Something popped inside my head and suddenly everything sounded dull and distant, as though I were hearing underwater. Screw me sideways. She’d just ruptured my eardrums. Perfect. While I was still staggering and reeling, she thrust a hand forward and launched a bolt of bloody red light that seethed and pulsed with veins of black power.

Corruption radiated off the ball and I knew that Bonesnap Toxin was the least of my concerns if that thing landed. My Arcana gauge lit up as I cast Warded Shield. The ball of red death smashed against the conjured barrier with a flash of white light so bright it was blinding. The barrier spell held, but I couldn’t see jack shit. And with my sense of hearing abruptly out of commission, I was fighting at a serious disadvantage. As I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my vision, I felt the subtle movement of air and caught a sharp whiff of orange and tar.

Time lurched, and I sidestepped left.

Her arm whiffed past me, missing me by inches. I spun, and though everything was still hazy, I could see the rough outline of the monstrous creature Yenifer had become. Then, I watched as a shadowy version of her body shifted and moved; it wasn’t her, but rather an Essence projection that showcased where she planned to be. Combat Sense let me anticipate the movement of enemy combatants, but this was the coveted Precognition ability, which had a two percent chance of activating for every thirty seconds I was engaged in battle.

I shifted my body right, dodging the impending blow, then shot straight in and slammed my claws into her gut. My burning talons shredded flesh and liquid warmth poured over my hand and covered my wrist. I wrapped my other hand around the back of her neck and yanked downward while rocketing my knee straight up, into her chin. There was a deeply satisfying crunch of bone and Yenifer let out a howl of rage. Instead of pushing my luck, I retreated a step and blinked a few more times, letting my vision slowly recover from the eye-searing burst of light.

When things finally started to swim back into focus, I saw Yenifer standing on the balcony, staring at me with a mixture of fear, hate, and cold calculation. She had one hand clutched to her stomach, staunching the flow of fetid blood so red it looked almost black. More blood streamed down her face, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. When she withdrew her hand from her stomach, I was annoyed to see the gaping wound had already sewn itself shut.

The blood and gore from the injury had somehow congregated and coalesced in her palm. She extended a hand tipped with hooked claws and the blood flowed, taking the shape of a comically oversized bastard sword. With a hiss, she drove toward me, sword blade outthrust and ready to skewer me clean through. I Fae Stepped behind her at the last moment and pulled the same nasty trick on her that the adolescent vampire had pulled on me below: I leapt onto her back, wrapped powerful legs around her midsection, and latched onto her throat with my teeth, ripping free a chunk of inky-black meat.

It tasted like burnt rubber.

While she gagged and choked, I savaged her leathery chest and torso with my claws.

I wasn’t even remotely ready when something sharp jabbed into my belly, sliced its way through my guts, and pushed out through my back in a single, fluid motion. I dropped away, coughing up scarlet phlegm as I ran fingers over my blood-slick abdomen. I looked up at her with unbelief plastered across my face as she turned and regarded me. The giant anime sword she’d summoned was lodged in her torso. She’d used her inhuman strength to drive the weapon through her own goddamned body in order to impale me.

It was the single most metal thing I’d ever seen. I was so impressed I couldn’t even be mad. I mean, I was probably going to die, but what a badass way to go out.

With a wince, I moved into a crouch and bared my fangs as she slowly crept forward. The massive wounds I’d dealt her were already healing over, and the sword protruding from her stomach turned to liquid and flowed back into her outstretched hand, before reforming into the formidable blade. She smirked—a smug, self-confident look that left my blood cold—and charged again. Clearly, that sword of hers was Ginsu sharp and more than powerful enough to gut me, even in my Totem form.

Which meant I couldn’t just use brute force to overwhelm her.

I summoned my axe before she ran me through for a second time and narrowly parried the tip of her blade. But she pressed her advantage, moving from one form to another with such fluid grace that the best I could manage to do was keep her from chopping my head off. It didn’t help that I had a hole running through my center and was bleeding profusely. Some part of me wanted to transform back into a more comfortable, human shape, but at this point, Bestial Vigor was the only thing keeping me in the game.

It passively boosted my Verve by one percent for every minute I spent transformed, and though one percent wasn’t a lot on the surface, it compounded over time. By now it was probably closer to eight or nine percent. I still wasn’t sure it would be enough to help me survive.

Onward the attacks came. Rising cut. Diagonal slashes. Aggressive thrusts and artful remises after each clumsy parry I made. She was an unstoppable machine, and she was quickly pushing me toward the balcony, where I would be good and truly boned if I wasn’t careful. The second she boxed me in, I’d be done, and we both knew it. Thing was, that was my plan. It was obvious she was stronger, faster, and the better melee fighter. We both knew it. Which meant I wasn’t going to win this battle fair and square. I needed to outsmart her.

And I had a foggy idea of just how to do that.

I could’ve teleported behind her or to some other point in the room at any moment, but I didn’t. I wanted us both out on the balcony, fifteen stories up from the cruel, cold cobblestone streets below.

A frustrated and slightly bored look flashed across Yenifer’s inhuman face as we danced slowly but steadily backward. “All this time I’ve been so worried. I shouldn’t have been,” she said. “In truth, I was expecting more, though I’m sure that’s not the first time you’ve heard such complaints.”

“Low blow,” I huffed, fending off another rapid flurry of thrusts and slashes. “Especially coming from you. With how busted your face is, I’m guessing the only way you can get a date is to kill him and drag his body back to your clock tower.”

Something nasty glimmered in her eyes. Yenifer was still buried deep down in there somewhere and I’d just genuinely hurt her feelings. I had mixed feelings about that. Dogging on a dead sixteen-year-old felt like a moral low point. Even worse than shoving her father into a room full of fledgling vampires.

It did the trick, though. I’d gotten inside her head.

“I’ve had enough of this game,” she growled. She placed both hands on the huge broadsword and pulled them smoothly apart. The bloody weapon split, reforming into two smaller swords, each with an elaborate cross guard. “You’re slow. Weak. Barely holding me at bay as is. Let’s see how you fare against two blades.” She surged forward, her dual weapons an unstoppable whirlwind.

Begrudgingly, I let go of my totem form.

I needed Bestial Vigor to help prevent the wound in my stomach from bleeding out, but surviving the next couple hours wouldn’t help me if I couldn’t survive the next two minutes. As my body shrank down and reverted, I triggered Armor Evocation, swapping out my cobalt blue Basilisk Scale Mail for my bulky Stone Spider full plate. It was ten times heavier and drastically reduced my mobility and speed, but that didn’t matter. After all, I hadn’t been fast enough to fend off her barrage of blows even without armor.

Hopefully, the plate mail would provide a little additional protection.

Her dual swords fell, and I responded as best I could, fending off the attacks aimed at my head or joints—places where she could land a critical strike without much effort. The rest of her blows smashed against my chest plate and pauldrons, my thick gauntlets and the formidable greaves protecting my thighs. Her blades were as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel and left deep gashes in the rocky armor, but thankfully they couldn’t penetrate no matter how hard she tried.

She’d finally maneuvered me out onto the balcony. I was running out of landing strip and Yenifer seemed to know it.

“Perhaps I should’ve given you a bit more credit,” she said, letting off the gas for the first time since we’d started exchanging blows. I used the brief respite to palm a metaphorical ace in the hole from the pouch at my side, then sent up a silent prayer that this would actually work. “You are hardier than you look,” she taunted. “Still, I wonder just how well you fly.”

Before I could respond, she fast-balled one of her crimson blades directly at my face. I batted the weapon aside with my axe, but I knew the move had been a flashy distraction and nothing more. A heartbeat later, she careened into me; her shoulder dug into my guts and her long arms wrapped around the back of my knees in a perfect double leg takedown. Over the wrought iron railing we went with her on top. We were fifteen stories up, and as resilient as Vigils were, we weren’t that resilient.

But the real question was, could she survive a fall from this height?

I could’ve disengaged from our battle at any point using my teleport ability, but I hadn’t because I wanted us careening toward the cobblestones below. Melwyn had told me on more than one occasion that we Vigils did a bang-up job of clouding our abilities in a certain degree of mystery and secrecy. I was counting on the fact that Yenifer didn’t really understand how my Fae Footed spell worked or what its limitations were.

Her wings expanded outward as she tried to disengage from me, but I wouldn’t let her. I wrapped one arm around her neck and activated the item I’d pulled from my pouch a few seconds ago. A Stoneform Affinity Scale. When consumed directly, Stoneform Affinity transformed the body, temporarily causing a thin layer of stony calcification to cover my skin. Basically, it provided me with natural armor. But when weaponized against an enemy, it turned that same process inward—calcifying their joints and injecting crystals of stone into the muscles.

It was an extremely painful process. And I also figured it would make flying a tricky endeavor.

Yenifer screeched as I activated Reckoning Form and the Affinity Scale went to work. Stone rapidly spread through her body. She tried fruitlessly to flap her wings and gain the lift necessary to stop our tumble, but the leathery appendages didn’t seem like they wanted to cooperate. In the meantime, I used my preternatural strength to flip us over, so now I was on top and she was on the bottom, her winged back facing the rapidly approaching ground.

I leaned in and whispered into her ear, “Better luck next time.”

When we were mere feet from impact, I triggered Fae Footed and teleported effortlessly through the ether, appearing on the roof of a nearby seamstress shop called the Final Stitch. The named seemed fitting.

I touched down lightly on slick roof tiles bathed in moonlight just as Yenifer slammed into the street like an angel falling from heaven. Dust and debris kicked up from the impact, making it hard to see. But even without my sight, it wasn’t hard to make out her pained mewling; she sounded like an animal that had been hit by a semi but had somehow managed to cling to life. The fact that she’d survived at all was both impressive and worrying. I knew she wasn’t faking her injuries, but I also knew that it wouldn’t take her long to heal from her wounds, no matter the severity.

I was never going to get a better chance to end this.

With a blink, I teleported to her side, my raven’s bill axe summoned and raised high for the killing blow.

28

Cheap Shot

Yenifer was on the ground in a shallow crater and her body was in shambles. Her back twisted at an odd angle. Spits of bone jutted up through pearly white skin. She no longer looked like a monster ripped out of a horror novel. She was just a sixteen-year-old girl again and one who was dying and in pain. Cynically, I knew this was probably just a survival mechanism. The creature wanted me to hesitate long enough for her to heal her most grievous injuries.

The shitty thing was, it was sort of working. I hesitated.

“Please,” she croaked, voice small and weak and pleading. “Please don’t kill me. I didn’t mean to hurt those people. I just couldn’t help myself. But I can do better. I’ll only hunt animals. I can change.” She was crying now, great heaving sobs wracking her already mangled body. “It’s not fair. Please… I don’t want to die. Not again. Please don’t send me back to the bad place. You don’t know what it’s like…”

“You’re right,” I said with a grimace, “it’s not fair. And I don’t know what the bad place is like, but I’m guessing I’ll find out one day. Especially after this. I’m sorry.” I brought the axe down with every ounce of strength I could muster, driving it into her neck. The blade parted flesh and sliced through spinal column. I saw some faint glimmer in her eyes that might have been relief.

Or even a thank you.

Or not.

Probably it was just my own mind, trying to find a way to feel less guilty about killing a kid.

Then, before I could second-guess myself further, I raised the axe again and carved off her arms and legs with quick, workmanlike strikes.

I knew the end had finally come when her pale blue eyes clouded over and golden mist leaked out of her legion of wounds.

[You have killed a Vampiric Monarch! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 4,200 Essence!]

Siphoning up the Essence felt dirty, somehow, even though I knew I’d done the right thing. Golden runes drifted through the air as a bounty update materialized, confirming that I’d delivered justice in one fashion or another. Still, it felt hollow because I knew the truth. This girl had been turned into a monster, but she was a victim too, and the real perpetrator was Ionia, Queen of Darkness. She’d made the bargain. She’d unleashed this dark and terrible power into the world. She was the responsible party, and I was going to kill her for it.

<<<>>>

Bounty Fulfilled

The Bloodbath of Orezan: After cleansing the outpost village of Orezan and tracking the beast responsible for the slaughter to Sligrad, you have finally confronted and slain the Vampiric Monarch, formerly known as Yenifer van Walgien. As a reward for a job well done, you have been granted +15,000 Essence and 1 x Saint Class Vampiric Monarch Transformation Token.

<<<>>>

As I read the update, I felt an object materialize in my hand, as if teleported by the gods themselves. It was my reward. A Saint Class Vampiric Monarch Transformation Token. I turned it over in my hand, running my fingers thoughtfully along the surface. I could feel cold hunger, creeping darkness, and an unhealthy sickness seeping from the token. It smelled faintly of burnt orange peels and old tar. Just like Yenifer had. I knew the fact that I’d received this as a reward not but a day after activating the Path of the Bestial Form was no coincidence.

Raguel was giving me another weapon to add to my arsenal. A weapon that could regenerate at an insane rate, had access to powerful magics, and had the ability to fly… Still, as good as it was, there was some part of me that recoiled at the idea of bonding with the token. Letting that noxious presence have access to my soul was deeply unsettling for reasons I couldn’t quite put into words.

There was a flurry of movement on my right. A sparkling shape shot out from a nearby alley. It was Renholm, his eyes large and frantic. His usual casual demeanor was gone and there was something close to panic stamped into his movements.

“Gods below, there you are. I’ve been searching everywhere for you.” Renholm’s high-pitched voice drew me from my dark musings. I slipped the token into a pouch at my belt. I’d decide what to do with it later, when I had a chance to clear my head and look at the situation a bit more objectively. Staring down at the body of a dead teenage girl certainly wasn’t the time or place for major life decisions.

“Nice of you to finally show up,” I said, turning to the fairy. “And just like always, you have the most impeccable timing. Right after the monster is dead and all the work is done.” I paused and glanced around the broad boulevard. The street was mostly empty, though I spotted a few people huddling in open doorframes or peeking out from cloudy glass windows. I realized that Melwyn’s glamor had failed sometime during my battle with Yenifer, so it wasn’t hard to imagine why everyone had made themselves scarce.

It wasn’t every day a Vigil fell from the sky with a dead girl in tow.

The one thing I didn’t see, however, was my spirit guide.

“Where the hell is Cal?” I asked.

“Gone,” Renholm said, panting. “And so must we go. They were expecting us. Cal saved me, bought me enough time to escape, but it was a near thing. This whole thing is a trap! A setup. We’ve been bamboozled! They’ve been following us since Orezan.” He spun frantically in the air, eyes trying to look in every direction at once. “They’re close. Probably watching us, even now!”

“Well, let ’em watch,” I replied with an indifferent shrug. “They’re too late to do jack shit.” I waved at hand at Yenifer. “That’s the target right there, and they don’t get much deader than that. The first hunt goes to us.”

“No,” Renholm said, shaking his head vigorously, “that can’t be right. The horn will sound again, just as soon as the prey has been dispatched. It has not sounded, which means the game is still afoot.”

I squinted, confused. What the hell was he talking about? Even though it had gutted me, I’d killed the girl twisted by Ionia’s dark magic. What the hell else was there to do?

There was a clatter at the base of the clock tower as the door violently swung open and Melwyn charged out with Martien trailing behind her, slumped and limping. The Princess of Petals was decked out in her floral armor, which was now liberally coated in blood. Other than that, she looked no worse for the wear. Martien, on the other hand, looked like twenty pounds of dogshit shoved into a ziplock bag. His cassock had been shredded and there were dozens of cuts and lacerations across his legs, arms, shoulders, and face.

The fledgling vampires hadn’t used the kid gloves this time around. Still, despite his injuries, he’d managed to carry the hostage down in his beef-slab arms.

The second Martien set the hostage down, the terrified guy turned tail and fled into an alley as though the Devil himself were riding his ass. Not hard to understand why. The poor hostage had been minutes away from winding up as a human snack pack and now he was staring down a blood-drenched Vigil. I would’ve gotten the hell outta Dodge too, had I been in his shoes.

Martien didn’t bother to watch the man go. He only had eyes for his daughter, now dead and disfigured at my feet. Tears ran down his cheeks as he shuffled over, wincing with every single step. Renholm flew close and tugged at my hair, trying to get me to run. I ignored him.

Martien dropped down and ever so gently scooped up Yenifer’s broken body, cradling her head in the crook of one arm. He bent forward and buried his face against her, great sobs causing his body to hitch as he mumbled a prayer into her chest. I didn’t have any kids—at least none that I knew about—and thank god for that. Not only would I make a shitty father, but I couldn’t even begin to imagine how painful it would be to bury your child.

The only thing more painful would be burying them twice.

I turned to go when something caught the corner of my eye. Just a flash of movement on the periphery, so quick I almost missed it.

Then I heard a meaty thump and a wet gurgle.

I turned back toward Martien with goosebumps racing up and down my arms.

I was already too late.

A pair of dull black arrows protruded from his chest while a third inky shaft had pierced clean through his throat. Martien moved his mouth up and down like a fish pulled from the water, but no words came out. Just a trail of bloody foam and thick saliva leaking down onto his chest. He still held Yenifer with one arm—her body draped across his lap—but the other reached up, running fingers along the arrow in his neck as though he couldn’t quite believe it was there.

Then, without a word, his hand dropped limply away, and he slumped forward, the life leaving his body all at once. With Yenifer dead, the unnatural bond that had kept him alive was finally gone. And during a moment of grief and vulnerability, someone had peppered him with a volley of arrows.

There was a shimmer of light near the mouth of an alley as a complicated illusion disappeared. Jeffery strutted into the open accompanied by a burly centaur with the lower body of a tiger and the upper body of a man. Narvik, Host of the Fell. Queen Ionia’s closest ally and the one champion who had missed out on the ambush back at the lodge. Narvik wore dark leather armor and carried a quiver near to bursting with black shafts. Jeffery held an oversized bow made of glossy raven’s black wood in one oversized hand. The string was still quivering.

There was no doubt who had struck the killing blow against Martien.

Hell, if anything, Jeffery looked proud of himself.

Proud that he’d managed to callously assassinate a grieving father while he held the body of his dead daughter.

I hadn’t known Martien long. We certainly weren’t friends, and the guy had a laundry list of crimes to pay for, but he’d still deserved a better end than that. An arrow through the throat. I was starting to see why Renholm had such a hard-on for murdering Jeffery. The manicore had sure as shit just moved to the top of my to-kill list. Although I wasn’t sure I’d live long enough to scratch his name off that list…

Several roads and alleys all fed into the paved square at the base of the clock tower.

More champions trickled in from each of the connecting streets by the second, their weapons held at the ready. The golden-skinned healer, Shuri, and the scaly lizard man, Khapi, came from the south. Spider-faced Ku-Aya and the reluctant champion Iret, with her magical lightning bow, boxed us in from the north. Elyon, Seductress of the House of Lust, made a grand appearance from the west, surrounded by a detail of topless satyr women. There was no sign of Bogen CrowEye or the mantis warrior Drusk, but with Jeffery and Narvik cutting off our egress routes to the east…

Well, we were good and truly fucked.

I could feel the noose tightening around my neck by the second.

They’d set a trap and played us like a fiddle.

“Want me to finish this one off?” Narvik, the tiger-centaur asked Jeffery. “It’d be easy enough.” He reached for an obsidian hatchet at his belt and idly traced a finger along the edge of the blade while he openly eyeball fucked me. “Just give me the word and I’ll dispatch him and his little fairy friend. No need to carry on with the needless pretense of this hunt.”

He made sure to speak loudly enough that I could clearly hear his threats.

I held his gaze and flipped him the bird with one hand. “Try it, motherfucker, and I’ll throw your ass into a bear trap just like I did to your buddy Aymer. He thought he was hot shit too, right up until I cut his head off.”

A deep growl built in Narvik’s chest.

Jeffery grabbed Narvik’s forearm in a steely grip. “No, not until the Queen gives the word. We serve at her pleasure. Besides, why cut the fun short?” he asked with a smug grin. “I haven’t enjoyed myself this much in a hundred years.” He handed Narvik the black bow, which the centaur slung across his back.

I was right on the verge of summoning my 240 and delivering a concentrated burst of “fun” right into Jeffery’s smarmy face when the call of a brassy hunting horn rolled across the city like thunder, bouncing off the buildings and resonating in my bones. It was impossible to miss. As the horn faded and died, there was an audible pop and two figures stepped through the veil between realms and materialized beside the now dead priest.

The first was Gobhoill—the hulking Sasquatch and Master of Ceremonies—and beside him stood the Supreme Queen of Dark Tidings in the flesh, Ionia.

29

The Winner Is…

“Stay your hand,” Gobhoill boomed at Narvik. “Now is not the time for such violence, but for celebration! The first hunt has come to an end and there are protocols and rites to be followed.”

Narvik sneered. “The Vigil didn’t seem overly concerned about following the protocols of the Hunt when he set fire to the champions’ lodge and slaughtered Aymer.”

“But that was during the normal course of the contest,” Gobhoill announced indifferently. “Although their methods were unorthodox and, perhaps, they flouted the customs of our people, they broke no rule. I will not allow you to strike him down now, in my presence. Such would violate the rules of hospitality and decorum and there would be swift and terrible repercussions for you.”

“Enough, Narvik,” Ionia snapped, sounding annoyed. “The death of Aymer is of no consequence. Yes, perhaps ‘King’ Renholm and his pet Vigil managed to kill one of our own, but what does it matter? In the end the champions are disposable—only the Hunt matters. And we unequivocally won the first round.”

“Bullshit you did,” I growled, feeling my blood rise. “I killed Yenifer.”

“Indeed,” Ionia said, her voice oozing fake sympathy, “but you failed to finish the task. By now, even you must realize that the girl was never the target. She may have been the overt vassal of my power, but it was not she who made the illicit deal. It was Martien van Walgien, Cleric of Tharnir, who struck a bargain with me in exchange for his very soul. It was he who brought his dear sweet Yenifer back from beyond the veil and unleashed all this evil upon the world. The girl was merely a symptom, but he was the disease.”

She paused and tapped one dark nail against her chin.

“True, he could not be killed while she lived,” she said, as though she were just realizing it for the first time, “so I suppose I should thank you for doing all the heavy lifting. Vampiric Monarchs are formidable creatures, after all. I should know since it was I who bestowed the power upon dear, sweet Yenifer. It’s almost as though we made sure you had the clues necessary to locate her.” She reached into a pocket of darkness and pulled out a familiar looking leather book. It was a mirror replica of Jeffery’s journal. “I’ll admit, you are a powerful attack hound.” She paused and flashed me a vicious smile. “Good thing you’re too stupid to be truly dangerous.”

The rest of the champions chortled at her words.

Goddamn it.

We’d done everything in our power to level the playing field and she’d still managed to come out on top.

I noticed there was one person who wasn’t laughing, however.

Gobhoill.

The giant Sasquatch looked serious as a heart attack and there was a subtle gleam in his eye that told me I was missing something important. I quickly ran through the little conversation we’d had on our initial journey to Mythis Syve, the City of Oblivion. He’d told me the Fae believed in power above all else, but that power expressed itself in five different forms.

The five pillars: Strength. Knowledge. Guile. Authority. Resources.

Sure, Jeffery and the others had technically won the hunt. But they’d done so through guile. Tricking us into rounding up Martien, gaining his trust, then using him to hunt down and ultimately kill Yenifer. They’d demonstrated one kind of power, but I’d demonstrated another. Strength. It was a gamble, but if I could pair that with another kind of power—Authority—maybe there was a way to turn this around and snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.

I lifted my hands and did the most offensive thing I could think of.

I slow clapped in the most condescending way possible.

“Let me be the first one to congratulate you on your victory. You technically won, and I sure do know how much you Fae love technicalities.” The slow clap had gotten their attention. My words cut off their amused chuckling like a headman’s axe. Now was my time to strike. To deliver a true finishing blow. “And to think”—I let the clap fade then die—“you did it by being a weak, scared, conniving, powerless piece of shit. By throwing your allies to the wolves. By letting me set them on fire and decapitate them, all so you could show us how smart you are.

“At least, that’s what you want us all to think, right Jeffery? That you were smart and not a scared, cry-baby bitch?” I let the accusation hang in the air. “But you ain’t fooling me or anyone else here.”

All the champions were now standing frozen as though they’d just walked in on daddy hitting mommy.

“They might not say it,” I taunted, “but they’re all thinking it. I mean, really think about it.” I wasn’t actually talking to Jeffery, but to all the other assembled champions listening. “You started out with greater numbers, more knowledge, and a thousand times more resources. This should’ve been a blowout, and instead you won by the tips of your fingernails, and you lost one champion in the process.”

Jeffery advanced a step and opened his mouth, ready to make his rebuttal.

I shut that down hard.

“I’m not done,” I barked, using the same gruff voice drill instructors through the ages had employed to instill utter fear in new recruits. It was the voice of absolute authority. “I’ll let you know when it’s your turn to talk. Now, where was I?” I paused, just long enough to demonstrate without a doubt that I was in control of this conversation. “Oh right, the champion you got killed by showing off how clever you are. Back at the lodge, you sent Aymer to his death. You didn’t even think twice about it. Then you happily ordered Drusk to follow me into the forest, knowing it was almost certainly a death sentence.

“And I could’ve killed him, you know. I had him dead to rights, but I spared him because I value my allies and my potential allies. But not you. These people”—I swept a hand outward in a circle—“these people mean nothing to you. You treat them like meat shields, and we all know why. Because you’re weak and scared. Scared of me. You’re a jackal. A vulture. A scavenger, hiding in the shadow of a lion, waiting to sneak in after the fight is won and claim a kill you could never make on your own. That’s why you didn’t fight the Vampiric Monarch and why you didn’t come for me at the lodge. Because you’re not a hunter.”

The silence at my sheer audacity spoke louder than my words had.

“Now, you may speak,” I said after a long, tense beat.

“You, you would dare insult me,” Jeffery stammered. He looked like he was on the verge of having a mental break. I was guessing no one had ever talked to him like that. Not in all the many long years he’d walked this earth. “You would call me a vulture? A scavenger? How, how dare you!”

“Oh, I dare plenty, dickweed,” I replied nonchalantly. “Besides, I just calls ’em how I sees ’em. And we have this saying where I come from—if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it’s probably a duck. And you look like a dildo with wings.”

“I know not what a dildo is,” Jeffery said, “but it rings of insult, and I will not be mocked by the likes of you.” The four-armed champion took a menacing step forward and drew a comically oversized sword that belonged in a late-night anime series. The monstrous weapon looked like it had been forged in the heat of a dying star and the blade shimmered with subtle rainbow light. “I could strike you down right now,” he growled, brandishing the weapon.

“Except you didn’t when you had the chance,” Renholm added in, picking up on my scheme. The fairy fluttered over and settled lightly on my shoulder. “It is as my vassal said, you had an opportunity to pursue him at the lodge, but you faltered. You posture here and now, when all eyes are upon you and the horn has already sounded, but you are a coward. I said as much a thousand times before, which is why I was ousted from the court in the first place.”

“Renholm’s right,” I said, piling on. “This is all just for show. It’s one big bluff, and I’ll prove it.” I stuck one hand straight out and called my axe. As it materialized, the fingers on my left hand shifted and elongated, forming into burning magma claws. “I’m ready to go right now. I’m more than happy to accept your challenge, but I have the oddest feeling that your momma won’t let you off the leash long enough to fight me.”

I sure was hoping it really was a bluff, because I had a sneaking suspicion that Jeffery was an absolute murder machine who would hand me my ass in a straight-up fight. But I was also hoping that Ionia didn’t know that. Right now, I’d spun our loss into a backhanded win, and if Jeffery took a swing at me and failed… Well, she’d have champions jumping ship left and right.

Everything was balanced on the edge of an axeblade.

Ionia gave a quick, curt shake of her head. The motion was so fast and so subtle that I almost missed it. But only almost. I was pretty sure that the rest of the champions had seen it too.

“Yep, that’s about what I thought,” I said, dismissing my weapon.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ionia spat, obviously aware that she was losing ground here. “We will not debase ourselves or bend the rules of decorum to placate a barbarian. You lost the first hunt. The only thing you’ve demonstrated with your little outburst is that you are utterly deluded. Now, if your bold talk is over, the games have only barely begun, and we have business to be about yet.”

“You’re right about that, lady. This is just the first hunt and I’m getting more powerful, not less,” I replied. “You’re down one champion already, and since I don’t see Bogen CrowEye or Drusk in your pack of jackals, I’m guessing they both had enough good sense to steer clear of me, which means you’re actually down by three. Believe you me, it’s only gonna get worse from here. I’m gonna ruin everything you love. And for those who harbor old grudges”—I took the time to stare at each of the champions in turn—“we’re taking applications, and unlike the false Court of Oblivion, we value our friends.”

Ionia stared daggers at me for a long beat then sniffed. “Master of Ceremonies, please proceed. My patience for the bluster of fools is officially gone.”

“Of course, my Queen,” Gobhoill said, dipping his head in acknowledgement. “As Sir Jeffery the Stalwart, Herald of Eternal Twilight, and champion of the Oblivion Court, struck the killing blow against Martien van Walgien, the first Hunt goes to Queen Ionia. As a reward, Sir Jeffery will receive a treasure, taken from the Vault of the Void—the Obsidian Court’s own private treasure storehouse.” He produced a silky blue sack from his robes. It had a wide opening but was surprisingly shallow. It also looked completely empty.

I watched, head titled, brow furrowed as Gobhoill stuck his hand into the sack and pulled out a single arrow, which looked like a hole punched in reality. Light seemed to bend toward it and the pinpricks of distant stars glittered along the shaft.

“Crafted from the heartwood of the Void Tree itself, this arrow will pull anything it strikes into the Chaos Realm, banishing it to the outer dark where it is neither day nor night and the wails of the damned never cease.”

Jeffery accepted his prize with a solemn bow then pointed the arrow straight at me and drew a line across his throat with the tip. Then he made an “O” with one meaty hand and proceeded to shove the arrow into the hole over and over again. The message was loud and clear, with all the subtlety of a brick to the face.

“In addition,” Gobhoill continued regally, “Sir Jeffery will also receive an additional clue during the next leg of the hunt—”

“Good,” I said, cutting him off. “With Aymer dead, you’re gonna need an extra clue just to break even—and that’s assuming none of your champions leave you high and dry before the next hunt begins.”

Gobhoill ignored my interruption and Jeffery’s profane game of charades, trying his damnedest to bring some level of dignity to this trainwreck.

“It is customary to give the hunters a chance to rest and recuperate from their injuries. Until that time, I expect no foul play. If I sense any duplicity, I can assure you the offending parties shall not like the consequences.” He glanced at Jeffery and then me. “Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

I grunted and nodded. Jeffery did the same.

“Excellent. Then we shall reconvene in five days’ time, at which point I will dole out the clues for the second hunt.” The Sasquatch turned toward Renholm. “As the loser of the first leg, hosting duties fall to you. I don’t expect that to be a problem?”

“None at all,” Renholm said with an enormous grin. “Prepare to be dazzled.”

Renholm’s assurance made me far more nervous than all of Jeffery’s bullshit posturing. The only land Renholm actually owned was a dank bone-filled cave, high in the hills above Ironmoor. How were we going to throw a party fit for Fae nobility? I didn’t know, but I suspected that I would get stuck doing one kind of horseshit or another. That was generally the way our relationship worked—he ran his mouth, then I had to figure out how to keep his lies from blowing up in our faces.

“Five days,” Gobhoill said. “Use the time wisely.”

Ionia shot me one more nasty glare, turned on her heel, then took one step and vanished in a swirl of black shadow. Most of the other champions followed suit in short order, disappearing back into the Fae Wylds like nightmares vanishing upon waking. Honestly, the entire experience felt a bit like a fever dream. But it wasn’t, I reminded myself. The dead bodies of Martien and Yenifer, huddled together at my feet like a perverse vision of the Madonna and Child, reminded me this was all too real.

This game had consequences, and we were playing with the lives of innocent, powerless people.

Before long, only Gobhoill remained behind.

The Sasquatch glanced furtively around—searching for prying eyes—then shuffled over to me.

“That was well played,” he confided softly. “A truly impressive display.” He paused and squinted at me, as though trying to get my measure once again. “I knew there was something about you. A glimmer of greatness. But know this display of yours will only take you so far. There are only three hunts.” He stuck three fat digits into the air as though to emphasize his point. “If you do not win the next round, no amount of clever guile or eloquent speech will save you.”

“Don’t worry, Gobby,” I said, slapping him on the shoulder. “I won’t lose again. Not now that I know how the game is played. Trust me, I’m just getting warmed up.”

30

Death and Hell

We collected Martien and Yenifer’s corpses.

I didn’t know Martien, not really, and my only encounter with Yenifer was while she was actively trying to eviscerate me, but I couldn’t just leave them there, hunched over and bloody in the center of town, their grief and death on display for the whole world to see. Even though we didn’t owe them a damned thing, taking the bodies and giving them a proper burial seemed like the right thing to do. I collected Darksilver from out front of the Melting Rose, slung the bodies over his back, and began the journey south to Orezan.

This time around, Melwyn and I didn’t bother masking our appearance.

I was sure rumors about the battle had already spread through the city like the plague, so there was no reason to hide. We earned more than a few curious stares from the townsfolk and the armored guards, but no one tried to stop us. No one even bothered asking us a question.

There was a tiny graveyard behind the church in Orezan with timeworn tombstones sticking up from the hard ground like blunt teeth and curls of dead wisteria creeping up the back of the chapel. It somehow seemed right to put them in the ground where this all began. Then—because I’m a jackass who has an annoyingly persistent conscience—I spent the remainder of the night rounding up the dead of Orezan and laying them to rest in a single mass grave, which Melwyn helped me excavate.

I sorely missed Arturo as I dumped the last of the churned earth onto the grave.

These people deserved more, a proper funeral with a proper priest saying the proper words, but what they got was me. I’d spent most Sundays down at the Baptist Church with Cal and my momma, but despite that, I’d never been particularly religious or devoted. I was a believer, sure—the majority of the good ol’ boys from Kentucky were—but I mostly just tried to keep my head down and stay on God’s good side.

Don’t murder. Don’t steal. Don’t be a dick to your fellow man. The big ones.

Looking at the grave, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d done a shit job at that whole don’t murder thing. These people had already been mostly dead when I cut them into pieces, I reminded myself—I’d just given them that last, final shove.

I muttered a prayer that Chaplin Leonard had said more than enough times to commit it to memory. “God of infinite love and mercy, draw near to us in this hour of grief.” I spoke softly, staring at the night-black dirt. “Open our hearts to your comforting presence and our eyes to the realities of eternal life.”

I couldn’t help but think about all the friends I’d lost. Sanchez and McInnes, back in Fallujah. Matill and Rodriguez outside of Ramadi. Cross to a sniper attack in Haditha. And, of course, Cal. Good ol’ Cal, who was also gone for the time being. Killed again, even if he wouldn’t stay dead for long. I got choked up a little, thinking about my friend. He was a jackass sometimes, but I wished he were here with me now.

But he wasn’t. Jeffery had done that. As far as I was concerned, Ionia’s champion had a little well-deserved wrath and retribution coming his way, and I intended to make sure he got paid in full.

I finished the prayer alone.

“May the darkness of death give way to the dawn of eternity, and the present pangs of separation to the joys of future reunion.” I cleared my throat and looked away. “Amen.”

It was full dark, with the moon hanging large over us by the time we finished the gruesome work. I was exhausted to the core, but the idea of spending another minute in the too-quiet ghost town—let alone sleeping there—made me want to puke. So instead, we packed up and pressed on, traversing the Wylds through the wee hours of the morning. That held its own dangers, since there were far more Mortka that prowled the twisting and ever-changing landscape once the sun set. But camping for the night wasn’t any safer. Not with a target on our collective backs the size of an aircraft carrier.

Even though Gobhoill had made it plain as day that he wanted us all to play nice until the next leg of the hunt, I had no illusions that Jeffery or his pals would let up. They might not come at us directly, but they would come. They’d just make sure to have plausible deniability, like when that douchewaffle, Elduin, marched us right into an ambush.

Thankfully, it was an uneventful trip, filled with thoughtful but companionable silence. We had lots to talk about—plans to make and schemes to set into motion—but no one could muster the strength to do anything more than ride. Ride and navigate. Even Renholm seemed more serious than usual, though I was guessing that had to do with the fact that Cal wasn’t around to play grab ass with.

It was false dawn by the time we clopped beneath the iron portcullis guarding the way onto the keep grounds. Melwyn’s flower guardians patrolled the perimeter, trudging along as regular as clockwork, all lugging around wood-handled halberds topped with huge iron axe heads.

I caught glimpses of the rest of our fae soldiers secreted around the grounds, keeping a careful eye out for anything unusual. The trolls blended in so well with the hedges that they were nearly invisible. The Gnomish archers manning the siege weapons stood at attention and shot me a salute—Cal had taught the little buggers that trick.

Even though it was early as balls, Miko and Pascow were both waiting for us on the front steps. There were also a trio of squat, frog-faced Bocra waiting on bended knee for the arrival of their liege, Renholm, and his noble feline steed. After a few quick words, Miko gladly took Darksilver to the stable, cooing gently at the horse while liberally slipping him chunks of fruit. The Bocra, likewise, tended to Renholm. They rolled out a literal red carpet for the pompous fairy.

I’d mentioned one fucking time that celebrities back on Earth had red carpets and Renholm had insisted the Bocra acquire a red carpet for his own personal use.

They’d also built a miniature palanquin for Jacob-Francis, constructed from an embroidered pillow mounted on a pair of polished wooden sticks. The cat padded over to his chariot and sniffed at it with barely concealed disdain, before finally, begrudgingly, climbing onto the pillow and curling up into a ball. The two Bocra grasped the wooden handles and lifted the cat with a heave, then lumbered into the foyer, their webbed feet slapping as they moved in unison.

“I’ll never get used to those critters,” Pascow noted, watching them vanish through the doors. “Useful, though. Better than any ’prentice I’ve ever had in the forge. Loyal to a fault, they jump when you say jump, and they work until they fall over from exhaustion. Truth be told, I’m thinking about bonding a couple, right and proper, when this mess is all settled. I stand by what I said about pixies—useless little monsters—but maybe not all Fae are bad. Could be there are a few useful ones out there.”

“Sounds like things are going well enough around here.” I suppressed a yawn with one fist. Even with Vigil-enhanced strength and resilience, I could barely stay on my feet.

“Aye,” he said with a crinkled smile. “Well enough indeed. And certainly nothing that can’t keep until you’ve had a few hours of shut-eye, I’d wager.” He slipped one arm around me and pulled me toward the door. “Come on, lad. Let’s get you to your room. Tomorrow’s problems will all still be waiting for you as soon as you wake.”

“Afraid I can’t do that, old timer,” I said, shrugging off his arm. “You know what they say, ain’t no rest for the wicked. Much as I’d like to hit the rack and sleep for the next ten hours, there’s a war coming. This thing with Ionia, it’s only going to get worse. She’s like a rabid lion. Tonight, I managed to keep her at bay, but she’ll take another bite before too long and I need to be ready when she does. My gut tells me that whatever she’s cooking up is going to be nasty.”

I shot the wiry Vigil a wave and headed for my office, schemes of my own already kicking around inside my skull.

If Ionia wanted to play rough, I’d be more than happy to oblige.

As I walked, a line from the book of Revelations drifted through my thoughts. “Before me was a pale horse, and his name that sat upon him was Death, and Hell followed with him.”

The fun and games were over.

I was on the war path, and I was gonna bring all manner of Hell along with me…

* * *

THE END

Vigil’s Balance

Vigil Bound Book 3

The Hunt continues on July 4th...

Pre-order here: https://shadowalleypress.com/VigilsWrath

Yancy Lazarus is having a bad day, and it's about to get a whole lot worse... 

Did you love Boyd Knight in Vigil's Justice? Need more shoot first ask questions later characters in your life? It’s your lucky day. I'm offering the first full-length novel in my Yancy Lazarus series to my readers.

Get this novel FREE and start this 6 book series by clicking here.

The Hunt continues July 4th...

… in Vigil’s Wrath (Vigil Bound Book 4).

When the Wyld Hunt rides, no one is safe. Not even the most Vigilant.

Marine turned Monster Hunter, Boyd Knight, has found himself trapped in a deadly game of cat and mouse with the Fae Queen of Oblivion. Although the first leg of the Wyld Hunt has drawn to a close, there are still two more Hunts to go, and the targets will only get deadlier.

After slaying a Vampire Monarch and being cheated out of victory, the time for fun and games is officially over, and Boyd is ready to unleash some good ol’ fashioned fire and brimstone on anyone who gets in his way again. But it’s not just the nightmarish monsters and Fae champions that Boyd has to worry about—the Dark Queen has some nasty tricks up her sleeves, and if Boyd isn’t careful, he could find himself facing off against some of his closest allies.

If Boyd has any hope of survival, he’s going to need to make a few dark deals of his own to level the playing field and deliver some well-deserved Old Testament Wrath in the process…

Full of heart-pounding, shoot-’em-up action and suspense, Vigil’s Wrath is a must-read for fans of LitRPG and fantasy alike. Grab your copy today and join Boyd on the Wyld Hunt of a lifetime!

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About the Author

James A. Hunter is a full-time inkslinger and the bestselling author of Viridian Gate Online, Rogue Dungeon, Bibliomancer, Shadowcroft Academy, and Vigil Bound! In addition to writing, James is also the creative director and acquisitions editor for Shadow Alley Press, an industry leader in Fantasy, Science Fiction, and LitRPG books.

James is a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). He’s also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s totally a real thing. And a spaceship captain, can’t forget that. Okay … the last one probably isn’t true. When not writing or spending time with family, James occasionally finds time to eat and sleep.

Vigil’s Balance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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