Before the Dawn

By S. P. Ringwell

Four hundred years ago, the world of Mërn saw the first demon invasion. The Empire of Minraden fought valiantly until the Lightbringer finally expelled the forces of evil from the world, perishing in the process.

In modern days, the Empire has dissolve

• Language: English
• Publisher: S. P. Ringwell
• Release date: Jun 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9788794209014

Book preview

S. P. Ringwell

The White Book: Before the Dawn

Copyright © 2021 by S. P. Ringwell

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

First edition

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To my inspirations: Al and Tomson

May your light never go out

Contents

***

Prologue

I. THE HEART OF THE MARSHLAND

1. Gwen: The Meeting at Wellspring

2. Ollie: The Iridescent Hawk

3. Rhona: The Third of the Salamanders

4. Gwen: The Journey Westward Begins

5. Rhona: The Sunrise Palace

6. Gwen: The Poison of the Marshland

7. Ollie: The Lord of Cylorn

8. Malefer: The Homecoming

9. Rhona: A Necessary Alliance

10. Gwen: Bedside Manners

11. Malefer: The Old Bonds and the New

12. Rhona: Naralen Day

13. Malefer: A Game of Chora

14. Gwen: The Declaration of War

15. Malefer: Squad Four

16. Rhona: The Silvergate Society

17. Malefer: The Purple Velvet Folder

18. Noel: The Mentor

19. Malefer: The Glowing Whip

20. Noel: A Conspiracy Unveiled

21. Gwen: The First War Council

22. Malefer: The Lonn Grammar

23. Noel: The Escape

24. Noel: The Two Enforcers

25. Rhona: The Sacrifice

26. Malefer: The Reminiscence of the Full Moon

II. THE CRACKED CROWN

27. Noel: A New Life

28. Malefer: The Failed Spell

29. Noel: The Arrival of the Others

30. Malefer: Ramiro’s Melancholy

31. Rhona: The Flight to the North

32. Malefer: The Lesson

33. Gwen: The Second War Council

34. Malefer: An Excursion by Night

35. Noel: The Stone Table

36. Noel: The Exchange of Prisoners

37. Gwen: The Aftermath

38. Noel: The Father’s Word

39. Malefer: The Corpse Grounds

40. Rhona: The Arrow and the Sword

41. Gwen: The Third War Council

42. Malefer: The Seal of Aracamri

43. Noel: Where Loyalties Lie

44. Gwen: The Scaffold

45. Rhona: The Journey’s End

46. Malefer: Revelations

47. Noel: The Mother and the Daughter

48. Gwen: A Crisis of Faith

49. Rhona: The Hours before the Dawn

50. Malefer: The Deepest Point

51. The Battle of Ruenelle, Part I

52. The Battle of Ruenelle, Part II

Epilogue

Excerpts from the Master’s Book, translated from Lonn into Modern Arkhein

***

Behold! Here comes the early dawn.

We’re leaving, never to return ―

To war. We lay to rest our pride;

Our hopes to tame the rising tide

And ride it to the top; the claim

To fortunes, victory, and fame.

The war drums used to guide our hearts

As one last time the rhythm starts

They flutter, and the beat goes on.

Amidst the death, for life we yearn

And wish that we could see someday

Our children’s whiskers turning grey.

The day would end before its time ―

For many of us, in our prime.

But counting everyone we lost

We’d still say: it was worth the cost.

Our flags in hand, our swords unsheathed

We gave our lives today. You lived.

— Unknown

Prologue

Waterdusk 19, 1321 FoA

A candle had been left burning low on the table.

The solitary source of light barely sufficed to illuminate the large circular room. Still, it dispelled the darkness enough that it was possible to find one’s way without stumbling over the sparse furniture. The large window opposite the entrance looked out into the starry night but drew little light in; the moon hung over the other side of the tower. Whoever wished to visit at this hour had to know the room well to navigate it confidently in such poor lighting conditions.

Malefer knew this particular room very well.

She tiptoed up to the door that stood slightly ajar, making sure to breathe as quietly as possible. The room’s owner was not around that night ― she’d made double sure of that ― but her fear at the mere idea of him discovering her trespassing was so potent that rationalities did not enter into consideration. She stood at the door for a few minutes, just listening, gathering the courage to enter the room and thus commit to the plan. While she was at the entrance, she could still entertain the fantasy that she was only looking in to check if he was there. She wasn’t planning anything outrageously reckless.

With a quiet sigh, she walked in.

Her steps were so careful and near-undetectable that she might as well have been an elf crawling through their native woods; she took her time advancing and stopped to listen every few seconds. All was quiet.

Suddenly, a soul-rending screech came from one of the dark corners, farthest from her. Malefer gasped and stepped back ― or, more accurately, jumped back ― her heart hammering out such a frenzied dance tune that her vision began to swim. She stared into the dark corner, fighting a powerful urge to flee the room. There was a sound of wings flapping, and a large bird of prey flew up into the spot of light coming from the candle, circled majestically around the room, and settled back onto the top shelf in the corner. It had observed the surroundings, recognized Malefer, and was reasonably sure that no danger loomed over its home.

"Dumb bird," Malefer breathed out and wiped her brow.

It took several minutes for her to calm down and convince herself that proceeding with the plan was still a better choice than retreating. She had, after all, come so far: she stood a mere five or so paces from the table. She could see the inkwell ― the object of her quest ― right next to the candle. Its glass glistened, reflecting the flickering light, beckoning her.

She approached the table, staring at the inkwell. If only she would find it empty, she could turn back and walk out of the room. What an easy way out that would be! Malefer’s breathing grew heavier; as she picked up the inkwell, she saw with a shudder that it was half-full. The deep, visceral excitement and the feeling of wrongness about what she was doing were almost more than she could handle. A wild, combustible mixture of fear and elation coursed through her body. She felt like her blood was on fire.

The glass was cool to the touch and clean. Inside, a brownish dried-up mass stuck to the walls, and within the crust sloshed a pool of dark-red liquid with a slight green iridescent gleam. A curious shape with a multitude of appendages was etched on the outside of the glass. Malefer traced her finger over it and observed that it was a sea creature ― a squid or a cuttlefish, perhaps. She spun it around thoughtfully in her hands.

The importance of the moment was daunting. Somehow, Malefer felt like she was standing at a juncture that had the power to decide her fate.

Did she have to do this? Was there no other way?

Her mind conjured up a blonde woman’s face with a cold, indifferent expression. The woman had not been pleased with her progress. She was going to get thrown out of the Castle, she had said to Malefer. It hadn’t been an empty threat ― merely a polite warning of someone who wanted to make it very clear that they were giving Malefer one last chance.

She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to return to a life outside the Castle. A part of her was reasonably confident that it was a fate not more attractive than death by any degree of significance.

Please work, she whispered to the inkwell.

She inhaled the faint smell of iron coming from the liquid and grimaced. It was probably going to taste awful.

Without losing another second ― she wouldn’t be able to gather her courage a second time ― Malefer pressed the inkwell to her lips and turned it upside down, drinking its contents in one gulp.

The bird produced another screech, and this time it sounded truly dreadful ― a belated warning. The inkwell fell from Malefer’s hands, dropped onto the uneven stone floor, and shattered into many pieces. One of the glass shards grazed her ankle, drawing a diagonal cut across it. Malefer took no notice; she was bent over the table, gripping its edge, choking on the liquid ― salty, with an edge of something rotten. It left a horrid aftertaste, and she had to fight hard to keep it down.

That concern was abruptly forgotten as a burning sensation awoke in her chest. It felt like a kind of acid was eating away at her heart with unendurable ferocity. A stifled moan escaped her lips. Simultaneously, she felt like something new and foreign crystallized inside her: a kind of icy shard forming around her ribcage that had a familiar feel. Almost mechanically, she clapped her hands and observed in wonder as a bright green light spread between her hands, forming a magical field. She had never been able to summon it so quickly before. Just as she stood there, staring at her hands, she felt a second sharp pang of pain and failed to suppress a yelp. The pain was getting worse with every second.

Just as she concluded that all of this was still an acceptable tradeoff for her newfound abilities, thunder rolled in the distance.

Malefer froze. Storms seldom happened in these parts without reason, especially not in the middle of a cloudless night. She turned to make for the door and felt broken glass being ground into dust underneath her heel. She looked down.

This venture was beginning to show all the early signs of having been a terrible mistake.

She had hoped that if all went according to the plan, he would never learn of what she’d done. Now, there was certainly no chance of him missing the broken remains of his inkwell. Malefer could not believe she had been so sloppy.

A terrible foreboding feeling came to her then. He had warned her about crossing a certain line. Standing there in the middle of his room, staring at the broken glass, she imagined that it demarcated that particular line very clearly. In one moment, she was panicking and could hardly breathe; in another, a second celestial rumble ― closer, louder ― shocked her out of the stupor and forced her into action.

Malefer rushed out of the room. Her chest was seized by a kind of agony that would have prevented her from walking under normal circumstances; in this case, overwhelming fear was just about enough incentive to fight through the pain. Every other feeling was discarded in favor of the urgent need to escape.

With a series of groans interspersed heavily with curses, she dragged herself down the winding staircase of the tower, gripping the railings tightly. Once or twice she nearly fell down the steep stairs, misstepping in the treacherous lighting of the flickering torches. Every time she stumbled, she only had to remind herself of what the man was like in a fury to find the energy to keep going.

A little over ten minutes later, she found herself standing in front of the door to her room with little memory of how she had gotten there. As she grabbed the handle and staggered in, she saw Ollie; he took one look at her and paled.

Theirs was a tiny room with barely enough space for the two beds, two torches, several bookshelves, a small, square writing table, and a chair. It was the sort of typical dreary living quarters that Castle inhabitants had to contend with. Malefer knew that the confined space bothered Ollie a lot, perhaps because it reminded him of a period of his life he would have rather forgotten. She was fine with it in general; the fact that they even had a window already made it luxurious compared to most.

Now, though, it seemed too small and dark even to her. The walls seemed to press in from all sides. It felt rather like the sort of jail where prisoners go missing and die unnoticed.

What in the name of Shakk’s taint have you done this time, Malefer? Ollie said, helping her stand and guiding her to one of the beds.

She sat down and wiped her brow, trying to catch a breath. She was frantic with fear. "It would take too long to explain. We can’t stay here. We must leave right away. We must go now, Ollie! Before he comes back and sees what I’ve done."

Leave and go where? Ollie’s eyebrows crept up slowly. "Are you feeling alright, Malefer? I mean, obviously not, but are you mentally sound is what I’m asking."

She thought about that for a second. I really couldn’t say, Ollie. I can’t believe I’ve done something so dumb, I… But never mind that now. What matters is that I’ve put myself ― and you, by extension ― in deadly peril. One which we must escape quickly because it is already at our doorstep.

Is it the kind of peril that wears black robes with a large hood and has a haughty voice? Ollie was beginning to catch on.

Exactly!

That made an impression. Let me get my things. Do you want me to pack yours too?

"I don’t fucking care what you pack! Just take something, and let’s go, for Cirtai’s sake!"

There was another roll of thunder, this time very close, almost directly above the roof over their head. Malefer jumped to her feet, her pain forgotten for the moment, and gave a shriek of horror. They were nearly out of time.

It had started to rain heavily. Malefer kept staring out of the window as if she expected some ghastly figure to appear in the air opposite the glass. Ollie’s hands were a blur as he threw clothes and a few of his other prized possessions into a large bag that he had pulled from beneath his bed. Portal? he asked tersely.

I saw one earlier in the portal chamber, unattended. We’ll have to take it and hope it doesn’t lead us straight into Shakk’s flaming rectum, Malefer said with a shudder.

You know, said Ollie, throwing his bag over his shoulder and hurrying after her. If what you say is true, I might still prefer it over staying here.

I definitely do, she said, breaking into a run. At least it’s got to be warmer!

I

The Heart of the Marshland

1

Gwen: The Meeting at Wellspring

Bloomwind 10, 1322 FoA

The day was so deceptively pleasant that it didn’t feel like the world was coming to an end. Around this time of the year, the typical weather in the northern parts of the continent could at best be described as challenging and, at worst, as life-threatening. In particular, the high winds and the torrential storms in the coastal area tended to decimate at least a couple of fishing villages each year; it was inconceivable why anyone thought settling there would end in anything but misery. Then again, some people considered Nerramione to be a fine country to settle down in. When expressed out loud, that notion could only be met with a long, pensive silence on the part of the listener, filled with musings on whether they should make an immediate escape from the vicinity of the speaker.

Still, despite the calendar showing the tenth of Bloomwind, the sun was out, and it was unusually hot. There was plenty of budding floral activity and a general idyllic air all around. The brightness of the day was altogether inconsistent with the large-scale events at hand but enjoyable and uplifting. Beneath the grimy coat, Gwen felt the stirrings of something suspiciously resembling hope and immediately attempted to discard it. It was not that he did not believe in hope universally; for him specifically, it was a distraction, as he tended to operate best under the pressure of total and unrelenting despair. Then he would indeed be willing to do whatever it took ― such as enlisting the help of the dark mages, for instance.

As the outline of slanted roofs and wooden barns came into sight, he recognized that it was one of those instantly forgettable, generic farming villages, of which he had seen more than enough in his travels. Ordinarily, he would find it questionable that such a person as his contact could reside in this cheerful little community, but there seemed to be little room for doubt: the source of his intelligence was trustworthy. Gwen had been expecting something flashy and impressive from someone who was said to be a dark mage, like a glowing castle, or perhaps a disappearing magical abode in the middle of the forest. In fact, he would have expected anything but this.

As he entered the Wellspring village, Gwen found its streets full of bustling activity and an excessive amount of children and dogs running around. Once or twice, an absent-minded child failed to clear his leg and bumped into him at full speed; one pair of twin girls took to giggling and running around him in circles until their mother called them off, looking suitably stern. He was used to attention from people as his appearance stood out among the Minradenians: he was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a long mane of intensely red hair. He carried a large sword on his back and was clad in a suit of chainmail armor, his long white cloak trailing behind him as he led his strong grey horse by the bridle. Even the city guards instinctively stood a little taller and appeared to suck in their bellies when he drew closer. Gwen could never imagine how he looked to others, but he supposed he must have had an official, severe sort of air about him. He wondered how many of them could recognize the white cloak and the badge on his chest; this far out of the capital, probably very few.

He found the tavern soon enough. The sign above the door proclaimed Little Moth; it was the largest building and the primary hub of the entire village. Gwen left his horse in the stables, threw a few coins to the gangly youngster in charge of the animals, and made his way in. Once inside, he approached the bar and addressed a middle-aged man that had the physicality of a sack of potatoes and a thin line of reddish hair on his upper lip ― the apparent owner of the establishment:

I hear there is a witch in this village. I will pay you fifty coins if you tell me where I can find her house.

Why, sir, you offend me, said the owner. Offering just fifty coins for such valuable information? Only if you care to buy some mead.

She’s right here, said a squeaky voice at his elbow, and Gwen turned to see an adolescent server who was presently standing beside him with a tray full of empty cups. You might as well pay me instead.

You’ll be the ruin of me, the owner said, throwing his arms up. What on earth are you hanging around here for, Shabby? Attend to your duties, or by Cirtai ―

A small purse had found its way into Shabby’s outstretched hand, and the lad instantly disappeared into the kitchen at an impressive speed, robbing the other man of the opportunity to complete his threat.

She’s here, then, said Gwen thoughtfully. In one of your rooms, I presume?

And why should I answer any of your questions now? the tavern master eyed him. Buy some mead first ― then we’ll talk.

I do not typically drink on duty, said Gwen, pointing to his badge.

Huh? What in Shakk’s flame is that thing you’re showing me? the man peered at his chest, straining to discern the symbol upon the badge. Are you some kind of official man, then?

You do not recognize the badge? asked Gwen curiously. I’m a Servant of the Eleven.

I do not recognize that title, either, the large man puffed as if Gwen was talking nonsense. We don’t have that sort of thing here, though I’ve seen plenty of your kind. You people from the capital always think you’re on an important errand.

Gwen doubted very much that any "of his kind" had so much as set foot so far out into the northwest, but he had a feeling that the group he was attributed to was a more general one than the Servants. With a sigh, he dished out a few more coppers and placed them on the counter.

Just answer me one question, he said. Have you heard any rumors about that witch? Anything you know might help.

Not a thing, said the man, sweeping the coins into his large hand with a satisfied expression. "She’s a quiet sort, doesn’t leave the room much. She lives with a boy, but I think they might be siblings or something. A bit jumpy ― has a guilty air about her, if you ask me. I’d say she’s in hiding for some crime or other, but seeing as that’s none of my business, I’ll state for the record that I haven’t said that."

That is well understood, Gwen said, finding his assessment rather intriguing. Nothing else you’d care to mention?

No.

Which room is hers?

Third to the left. Up there, he gestured to the stairs that led onto the next floor. "Come by later and buy some booze once you’re off duty."

It was all in his voice what he thought about official men from the capital running around on important errands, refusing to buy his mead.

The stairs creaked and groaned under Gwen’s feet as he ascended. He followed the corridor leading to the left until he reached the third door, and knocked.

There was no answer. Gwen knocked again and ― just in case she was weary of unannounced guests ― introduced himself to the door:

This is Gwenned of the Servants of the Eleven, here on a crucial mission by decree of Her Majesty. Please open the door, as I will not leave until I accomplish my mission.

This had the desired effect. The next instant, the door flew open, and he found himself face-to-face with a young woman ― probably in her twenties ― with the olive skin and the near-black eyes indicative of an easterner. Her face showed an intense mixture of surprise, curiosity, and apprehension. They stared at each other for a moment.

She had a remarkable face: lively, full of expression and movement. He wouldn’t have called it very refined, except for the elegant almond shape of her eyes, but there was a certain attractive quality about it. Perhaps it was the ever-changing current of emotion that made it interesting to observe. It was framed by wavy black hair that ran down to her chin. She was dressed like a typical Minradenian traveler: a linen shirt and pants, an oversized, multi-layered jacket strewn with colorful patches where holes had been mended, and a pair of soft leather boots.

Gwen’s warrior instinct kicked in, reacting to the strong, violent aura of magic around the woman. His muscles tensed, and he consciously commanded his body to relax so his body language would not appear hostile.

"So, the big deal kind of people sent you, then? And what does Her Majesty want with me?" she asked with a noticeable singsong accent that confirmed his supposition that she must have originated from Nerramione.

It’s a conversation best conducted within the walls of a room, thin as they may be.

She regarded him with raised eyebrows for a few more seconds, then stepped away from the door and gestured for him to come in. Gwen observed that she had a jerky, not entirely natural way of moving that reminded him strongly of some of his fellow female Servants raised in a predominantly male environment and taught to fight from an early age. She had the look of someone who had never worn a dress in their life.

The room was relatively small and unattractive, although uncommonly clean. There was nothing much in it beyond a bulky double bed, and a small table tucked into one of the dimly lit corners. There was a small window high on the wall that hardly let any light in. The overall impression Gwen got from the room was somewhat depressing, and being stuck there for hours seemed like an unpleasant prospect.

A skinny and rather short figure was hunched on the table, watching the newcomer with a blank expression. It must have been the boy the proprietor had mentioned; he appeared to have a less than friendly disposition. His eyes ran over Gwen, and a deep frown settled upon his face.

It is best if we talk alone, Gwen said. The matter is rather sensitive.

Ollie is not going to blab. No more than I will, at least, she giggled. You’ll have to sit on the bed, your Excellency. Not much in the way of chairs in this hole.

I don’t mind. And you do not have to use honorifics when addressing me. The Servants of the Eleven are not nobility.

Gwen sat down as instructed; the woman closed the door and leaned against it, crossing her arms on her chest. She and the young man who was perched on the table both watched him closely, and neither appeared to be too excited by his presence. Gwen decided, therefore, to skip the pleasantries and jump into the meat of the conversation.

Her Majesty is assembling an army to defend the kingdom against the demon invasion. Her Servants have been dispatched to all corners of the country to find more allies in this war. I was sent here to find you so we may obtain the allegiance of your… kind. I was told you do not speak for them, but you may be able to introduce me to someone who does.

The two residents of the room exchanged a long look. An amused expression crossed the woman’s face; the man was much less entertained. His frown deepened until his dark brows rested firmly on top of his eyelashes.

How much do you know about me? the woman asked Gwen.

Very little. I was told only your location and your name. You are Malefer, correct?

The tension in the room grew palpable. The woman cocked her head sideways and looked at Gwen appraisingly; he did not like that look at all. There was something vicious about the way her jaw had set, and her eyes glared from beneath her long dark eyebrows. Ollie shifted nervously: he had also observed the change in her. Gwen’s arm itched to jump to his sword, but he forced himself to remain calm under her scrutiny.

Who gave you that name, I wonder, she murmured, and though she tried to speak calmly, he could hear the quiver in her voice.

She raised her hands and pressed them together as if in prayer. At this, Ollie visibly shuddered and pushed himself to the wall. Gwen, having fought mages on a few occasions, knew the meaning of the gesture: she was about to fire off a spell ― and from what he’d heard of dark mages, he would very likely have no chance to dodge it at this distance.

He slowly raised his hands in a gesture of peace and chose his words with extreme care. I’m not here to harm you. I know you are used to thinking of Minraden’s agents as your persecutors and ―

"Used to thinking? You’ve killed hundreds of us ― possibly thousands! she interrupted furiously. What in Shakk’s flame am I supposed to think when you show up here?"

Just hear me out. I promise you won’t regret this. Here, take my sword, if you wish, he said, unbuckling the sheath. I’m here as a negotiator, not as an executioner.

He put the sword down at his feet and gave it a good kick, sending it flying toward Ollie’s table. The young man stared at it like it was a living snake and raised an incredulous glance at the woman. The gesture seemed to have calmed her down somewhat: she huffed derisively but lowered her hands. The danger had passed for the moment.

It appears that there’s little point in denying that I am Malefer now, she remarked. So you wish to talk to us. And do you know anything about the group you are asking about? What they are like, who their leader is, and so on?

Almost nothing. The intelligence was minimal on this matter. I only know that they are a powerful group of mages, separate from the Hierarchy.

There was more information in Gwen’s possession, but there was no need to disclose any of it for the time being. He wished to hear how much Malefer would say, and whether she spoke truthfully would indicate the degree to which he could trust her. The presence of the silent observer in the corner unnerved him slightly as the conversation continued.

And you want me to introduce you to them? she asked in a tone that suggested she was just making extra sure that she had not misheard his request.

Yes. We do not know where they are located or who is the right person to speak with ― but we had hoped you might provide that insight. You would be greatly rewarded for this service to the crown.

"Right, she said, glancing at her companion briefly. Well, too bad that I can’t help you ― I would rather appreciate a reward! But there’s nothing I can do for you. I do not know how to find them, and even if I did, I could not possibly go there. I have been exiled with no right of return."

Malefer’s face had become inscrutable. The hardness of the mask told Gwen that she wasn’t telling the truth ― at least not the complete truth ― and was trying to conceal it. Something else attracted Gwen’s attention: the man in the corner whom Malefer had called Ollie jerked his head when the reward was mentioned in the conversation the first time, then twitched again when Malefer talked about it.

Are you certain? You might want to reconsider that. We will pay plenty of gold for your help ― enough to purchase a house in the capital and live quite handsomely ― perhaps in the Trade Quarter or the Harbor District. With chairs and everything else you might wish for.

That provoked the response Gwen was fishing for. Ollie stared at Malefer with indignation, clearly thinking her mad for refusing the offer. She ignored him.

"As I said, I wish I could help. But there is nothing I can do for you. You might try finding someone else ―"

"Are you completely fucking insane?"

Ollie’s voice was probably rather high-pitched in its natural state; now that it cracked under barely restrained outrage, it was little more than the squeak of a poorly oiled door hinge. He looked at Malefer in a way that suggested he was not far from physically tackling her. She gave him a cold stare and shook her head warningly.

Yeah, right! I’m not going to shut up. This could be our chance to go back to a normal life, Malefer!

"I couldn’t possibly call our life here abnormal, she snapped. Settle down, Ollie. You know damn well that there is no way I can go back there."

I know what it is ― you’re just scared, aren’t you, he spat. I’m not going to sit by and let your damned cowardice rob me of this beautiful opportunity.

She sighed demonstratively and hid her face in the palms of her hands.

Ollie, you are so lucky that you have a loyal, forgiving, big-hearted friend in me. A lesser woman would stab you for this.

She said it with seeming conviction, but Gwen’s senses told him Ollie was in no real danger from her ― and that Ollie was acutely aware of that, too. The thin lad jumped down from the table and came closer to Gwen, hands hidden casually in his pockets.

What exactly do you need us to do? Just lead you to them? No way we can ensure they’re even going to listen to you.

That is acceptable. Your end of the bargain is fulfilled once I am there and can speak with their leader. I will then disclose the location and time where the money transfer can take place.

What’s to guarantee you’re not going to double-cross us? Ollie inquired, his eyes squinting with suspicion. He leaned down slightly to be at eye level with Gwen. Sorry, but your credential as the supposed agent of the Queen is not cutting it. We need more proof.

Naturally. I have with me the document that guarantees the validity of our bargain, signed by Her Majesty and stamped with the Royal seal. You can take it to any expert you like ― they will verify that the document is authentic.

Gwen reached down into his bag, rummaging around for the scroll that contained the officially sanctioned promise of reward. A few seconds passed as he grasped for the paper in vain; with a sinking heart, he lifted the bag to what little light trickled through the window and saw that the scroll was no longer there. There was absolutely no way it could have gotten lost anywhere ― yet the contents of the bag could not lie.

Gwen dropped the bag on the floor in dismay. The embarrassment was almost more than he could bear. He looked up, trying to invent a decent explanation, and froze.

Ollie was fumbling around with a scroll, attempting to tear up a purple wax seal depicting a raised sword on top of the shining sun: the symbol of the royal dynasty.

This little thing, you mean? Ollie asked, finally succeeding to unstick the two edges of the paper and unraveling the scroll.

Yes, but how…. Gwen was at a loss for words.

My friend has what you might call a talent, Malefer remarked. What’s in there, Ollie?

The young man, who was rapidly becoming a severe threat in Gwen’s eyes, was staring at the writing on the paper.

Malefer, it’s…. His voice trailed off, and she scowled at him. "It’s a really pretty sum."

His eyes turned dreamy. Malefer came closer and tore the paper out of his hand. She did not seem to find its contents as appealing as her friend: her expression was marginally less blissful. With a huff, she handed the scroll back to Ollie. He reread the message several times, looked at the paper from various angles, and finally pocketed it with a shrug.

It’s all there, but we’ll have to do what you suggested and get it checked, he said. In the meantime, you should probably hang around, so we can find you easily once we’re done.

I will stay at this tavern until you inform me of your decision.

What if we don’t want to help? Malefer interjected.

Then I would appreciate some notice from you. Until then, I am prepared to wait. The Queen feels this mission is important enough to postpone all of my other duties.

Malefer grimaced. "The Queen must be soiling her silk breeches hard on account of this demon invasion if she’s seeking help from the likes of us ― and sending her bodyguards to annoy people."

Gwen made a mental note that Malefer seemed to be more aware of his status as a Servant and what it entailed than the general populace of Wellspring, as demonstrated so far. He looked at her curiously. On top of the heavy eastern lilt, he thought he discerned the slightly jerky manner of speech characteristic of the capital dwellers. It was even more pronounced in Ollie’s demeanor. The man even looked like something that could have crawled straight out of Tenebrium.

If you’re staying around, maybe you could help us out by paying for our room? I’m sure that will reflect most favorably on our consideration of your offer, said Ollie with a mocking undertone. I mean, it’s not going to take a large chunk of your stash by the looks of it.

A cold dribble of sweat ran down Gwen’s brow as he stared down into his half-open bag once again. There appeared to be no sign of his purse anywhere in sight. Ollie fished it out of thin air with a chuckle and handed it over, bowing slightly.

Don’t worry ― I’m not stupid. You look like you could bash my skull in with a thumb, he said as Gwen accepted the coin purse in silent bewilderment. But as I said, some reimbursement of accommodation will go a long way to start our relationship off on the right foot.

It’s already been started on the wrong one, Malefer huffed. Don’t promise anything on my behalf, Ollie. I’ve already said I’m not going back there.

She’ll come around, said Ollie quietly, patting the pocket where the royal scroll had been stuffed. It will be fine, you’ll see.

I shall be content with paying for your room for the time being. I hope the answer you return with will be favorable. Remember that your service to Minraden will be very appreciated, Gwen said. You will fulfill your duty as citizens of the kingdom and as Her Majesty’s subjects by agreeing to her offer.

At that, Malefer pulled the door handle sharply and pointed to it in a curt and self-explanatory gesture.

Gwen rose, picked up his sword, and crossed the room with a slight bow to both of them.

Thank Cirtai, Malefer muttered as he passed by her. This room is not big enough to contain your magnificence.

I’m looking forward to talking to you soon, said Gwen in lieu of goodbye.

I wouldn’t hold your breath, your Excellency, Malefer said and slammed the door shut behind him.

2

Ollie: The Iridescent Hawk

Bloomwind 18, 1322 FoA

He had expected Malefer to be pigheaded about the issue — but he hadn’t thought she could make him so profoundly angry. He genuinely considered punching her — more than once — in fact, that very idea was currently at the top of his mind. Sitting across from her at the narrow tavern table presented an excellent opportunity to proceed with the attack or possibly go for a more dramatic splash of ale in the face, followed by a smack on the head with the empty tankard.

Shakk’s flaming butthole! he said. Look, you will be just fine. You said it yourself: he probably doesn’t even concern himself with your existence anymore. It’s been way too long for him to stay angry.

"Yes, well, I meant that he wouldn’t care as long as I stayed away, Malefer said, impressing the importance of the difference on him by slapping the table repeatedly. Somehow, waltzing back into that place and actively reminding him of my existence just seems like a terrible idea."

You are such a fucking coward! Deep down, you know it will probably turn out fine, but you’re scared shitless anyway.

Indignance flushed her cheeks at that. That’s rich, coming from you! I’d love to see you put your neck on the line for something ― just once.

This is not about me. This is about ―

It’s about your insatiable greed, Ollie. Be honest, you just can’t contain yourself at the thought of becoming a rich prick with a giant house and a pack of half-naked maidens to serve you sparkling wine in the morning. That is the most horribly banal and unimaginative picture I can conjure up, and that is probably exactly what you’re dreaming of.

Sure, because poverty is so much less banal and unimaginative. All the awesome and interesting things we get up to these days, am I right?!

We don’t have to take that jerk’s money to get ourselves out of this, she said, pointing in the general direction of upstairs, where Gwen had taken up a room disturbingly close to theirs. We can just go back to what we did before. You know, start up the Company again in another, better place. Maybe Centara ― we could stay with your folks for a while! On second thought, forget Centara; they probably still remember our faces there. What about Ruenelle? Or actually, you know what, screw Minraden, why not the southern kingdoms? The food’s better, the weather’s better, and nobody knows us there. I’ve heard they’re way more relaxed about crime, too.

I’ve been hearing all of this for the last six months, Ollie yawned demonstratively. Haven’t exactly made great progress. Not to mention, I don’t particularly enjoy being a thief. I’d much rather ―

"Yes, you’d much rather sit on your ass and do nothing all day. I get that, believe me. But the reality is this, Ollie: there is no way you can convince me that going to that place is a good idea. Not for all the money down to the Singing Sea. So if you have another plan, you can start working on that instead ― otherwise, you’re just wasting your breath."

"I do have another plan, Ollie realized, managing to surprise himself with the revelation. I know the location of the Hundred Year Old Castle too, you know. I could show him how to get there."

That is the most asinine plan I’ve heard from you, and you say a lot of dumb shit, Ollie, Malefer said, shaking her head ruefully. No one there would be the slightest bit inclined to listen to you. They don’t even know who you are.

Ramiro must remember me. And he knows people.

Ramiro’s position on the Castle’s social ladder is so low that if you imagine that ladder to start on the first floor, he’d be underground. No one is going to take you seriously.

"I don’t mind trying, at least. I have risked my life before ― been forced to risk my life, to be precise ― with some of the jobs we did. And never for a payoff like this! I think this plan is beginning to sound rather attractive."

Alright, let’s imagine for a moment, hypothetically, that this works. You somehow find your way through the Nether Marshes without getting sucked into the swamp. You show up, everybody’s absolutely fine that a random pair of unwashed apes just walk into our sanctuary of hidden knowledge ― no big deal. Then you go to see Mort. What do you expect he will say?

Er… Something along the lines of ‘Good to see you, Ollie ― I’m glad you brought a friend, too ― how can I help you?’

Malefer laughed so hard that patrons from multiple tables turned to give her a glare.

"First of all, there is no fucking way that I’m not going to come up in that conversation. And he will get angry when that happens. Do you know what he’s like when he’s angry?"

Does he just… yell very loudly? Ollie hazarded.

"He’s more of a ‘straight to violence’ kind of character. And second, what do you reckon his reaction will be on hearing that redhead’s proposal? ‘Why, the Queen wishes to obtain my allegiance? And is the Queen willing to suck my dick in return?’"

That’s way too crude. He would put it more like ‘Is the Queen willing to perform a counter-service as a sign of goodwill, such as fellating my nether regions?’

See, you get my point, Malefer chuckled. There is no way this is going to end well for either of you. You know how it is: messengers get killed all the time.

Fine, maybe it’s a bad idea for me to go. Ollie decided to switch tactics. "But I still think you should do it. I know you really want to go back there. Imagine how much more powerful you can become! You might even be able to wipe the floor with that annoying blondie someday."

Which one? Malefer said contemplatively.

The pissy one, with a bad attitude.

Ah, you mean Meliera. That’s fine ― I’m over that whole thing. I am more mature than you think. It would be rather petty of me to go back just for the sake of revenge.

Ollie’s thoughts had completed a full circle back to the original idea of punching her. He stood up and walked over to the fat man behind the counter and ordered another pitcher of ale to take a break from the conversation. He was going to order as much booze as necessary to get Malefer to agree, even if it took the entirety of his saved-up coin to do so. There had to be a point where she would break. As he returned to his seat, he spotted Gwen coming down the stairs, no doubt intending to have his evening meal. Gwen caught his eye, gave a curt nod, and proceeded to take up the table at the other end of the room.

Don’t stare, but the ginger is back. He’s just over there near the wall.

Damn, he’s probably onto us, Malefer said worryingly. Does he seem like he’s onto us?

How in Shakk’s flame should I know?

Well, does he look suspicious? Is he staring while pretending not to stare?

Why would he do that? Ollie couldn’t see what she was getting at. He could just walk over and talk to us if he felt like it.

You don’t get it! Malefer said, throwing her hands up. "It’s been what, a week already? He’s probably figured out we’ve already confirmed the authenticity of that scroll, and we’re just killing time at this point. Once he’s absolutely assured of that, he might act."

Act how?

I’m an outlaw, Ollie! And he knows it. You know how these damned officials are: you play nice with them because when they get angry, all bets are off. He’s probably going to notify the authorities that I’m here, and then it’s the Shakk’s fires for me. Actually, in his place, I would probably threaten me with it first and see if the prospect of a hanging rope is enough of a stimulus for me to reconsider.

That… does not sound too implausible, Ollie had to admit. What are you going to do about it?

We need to flee ― tonight or tomorrow at the latest. If he’s not suspicious, all the better, we’ll get a good head start. Cirtai knows we’ll need all the advantages we can get. Maybe we’ll go south and catch up with Rhona! She was heading to Trescent last I’d heard, Malefer said, lowering her voice.

Ollie took a few gulps of his ale and watched Malefer do the same. A thoughtful, heavy silence hung in the air between them. Malefer was wearing a deep frown, with a kind of pained, unhappy look in her eyes. Her whole appearance was disheveled, and her hair looked like it had needed washing for at least a week. He sighed. The life of a persecuted dark mage was not something he would wish on his worst enemy, let alone his friend. He felt that he owed it to her ― and to himself, of course ― to make one last attempt at convincing her to re-think.

Are you really so afraid of him that you’d rather live your life like this? Once you start running, you can never stop again. Trust me, it’s not a life full of rose petals and singing choir boys, Ollie said.

Cirtai, why do you have to make this so hard for me, Malefer complained. "Of course, I hate the idea of running. But if I so much as think about confronting him over what I did, I start shivering uncontrollably. Maybe you’re right, and I am a coward, she added, draining her cup with impressive speed. But I would very much like to see you, or anyone else, step into that room and feel the cold hand tightening around your heart and not lose your wits when that happens. You don’t know what it’s like to be in his presence and feel that you’re pinned down by his inner sight, every thought running through your mind as clearly visible to him as the light of day ― and that dreadful coldness…."

As her voice trailed off, the cup she’d been holding slipped out of her fingers and tipped over. Ollie’s quick reaction was just enough to catch it before its entire contents spilled out. Malefer looked pale.

Don’t drop that ale ― you look like you need it, Ollie pushed the cup back toward her, not knowing what else to say. The whole description she gave sounded rather dismal.

Ollie, just in case you think you’re being very clever here: I’d have to be dumber than a sack of bricks not to see through your devious plan of getting me purposefully drunk, Malefer declared, some of the color returning to her face. And while I’m no Dalin Rayon, you have to agree I’m not exactly at the level of any clay-based building materials.

It’s not that I don’t think you haven’t seen through it, Ollie scratched his head. I was just hoping you would kind of go along with it. I know deep down you actually want to be convinced.

Malefer suddenly slammed her hand on the table, and Ollie jerked back in surprise, spilling some of the ale on himself.

No fucking shit, Ollie! It doesn’t take a genius to see that I haven’t exactly been happy since we left, does it? In fact, I’ve made Noel and Rhona so miserable that they had to invent an idiotic mission just so they don’t have to be around me anymore. You think I don’t realize that?

Ollie opened his mouth in astonishment. Whether Malefer realized it was irrelevant compared to the fact that he had apparently missed all of it. Ollie had taken Rhona’s mission at face value and was sure that Noel’s decision to come along was motivated by the fellow’s overwhelmingly doting attitude toward her. He quickly closed his mouth and tried to get his facial expressions under control. Fortunately, Malefer didn’t seem to be paying attention.

Of course, I know you realize that. It’s ― er ― an unpleasant state of being for you, I understand. Going back, though, would be the best way to resolve all of this.

Sure, except if you consider that there’s a fifty-fifty chance he has murderous intentions toward me, it’s only the best way about half the time, she said darkly. He might be completely fine with what I did. Or he might kill me on sight. I can never predict. And frankly, I’m not ready to throw my life away for the dream of being rich.

Let’s drink to not throwing our lives away. No matter what, they are still pretty good lives, Ollie said, raising his mug.

At least we have someone to whine to about them, Malefer agreed and finished her cup of ale. From what Ollie had observed, this appeared to be a record time for her. "Oh Cirtai, I really want to whine my fucking soul out. The whole thing is just such a mess. And all my fault, as usual."

As usual, indeed, Ollie sighed. You know, whining is damn near the only thing you do these days anyway. A little more of it is not going to kill me.

If it does, you’d make a pretty good undead slave. A lot less of backtalk would work wonders for you.

If you think you can shock me with shit like that, you forget that I also lived at the Hundred Year Old Castle for a few months. I’ve seen enough there to be completely desensitized. Having said that, I’d like to bring your attention to the fact that what you just said was a pure fucking Castle-ism.

Malefer looked crestfallen at that. She hunched forward, dropping her head on her hands, and groaned. Ollie used this opportunity to check on Gwen. He seemed to be working his way through his dinner at a suitably dignified pace. No matter what the bastard said, his whole demeanor just reeked of nobility. He stood out among the typical clientele of the establishment like a sore thumb, even with his dirty cloak and his overall unremarkable clothing. The fiery red locks falling to his shoulders were enough to ensure he was instantly noticed wherever he went. The white cloak and the colossal sword guaranteed that he would also be avoided by a wide berth.

My soul has been irreversibly tarnished by the Castle, Malefer admitted forlornly. I can never go back to a normal, peaceful existence again. Can’t go back there either. Everything about my life feels so wrong. I fucking hate this place, I hate my life, and I hate myself. I only wish I had one small ray of hope shining through all of this, something to cling to ― but there isn’t anything at all.

Ollie was beginning to feel concerned for her; it appeared that when Noel mentioned quietly to him that Malefer might have a problem, he actually meant she might have a big fucking PROBLEM. It was typical of Noel to worry over nothing, so Ollie hadn’t paid attention at the time. Looking at the version of Malefer sitting across the table made him realize he nearly didn’t recognize the woman. The vigorous and passionate glow of her eyes had been replaced by an empty stare that could have belonged to a Castle zombie. He recalled the dreadful creatures and winced. He remembered too well what it was like to encounter one in the middle of the night on the way to the bathroom.

You know, now that I think about it…. Malefer said, staring with a perfectly stiff, lifeless expression into the distance. "Maybe I should go back after all. Maybe it’s fine if he kills me. It can’t possibly feel worse than this, can it? I’m having trouble imagining that death might feel more hurtful than a hopeless life. For one thing, it’s instant, and then you’re free forever."

For Cirtai’s sake, Malefer ―

This really feels like the worst fucking thing ever, Ollie.

He was not prepared for the conversation to go in such a grave direction and fumbled around for words. This was really not his forte. Actually, nothing could be further from his forte than this. It would have been fine for Noel to sit and mope around with Malefer about the golden days of their past ― Noel having had a somewhat similar experience of leaving behind a place he loved ― but how was Ollie to contribute to the conversation? His great idea of happiness was good food, a nice house, and not a day of work in his life. As long as he had those three things, he was pretty sure he would be happy anywhere, be it Ataré, Nerramione, or Shakk’s fiery asshole.

Well, I can’t say I like your reasoning, but the conclusion sounds good to me, Ollie said carefully, wondering if he was violating any unwritten rules of friendship by condoning potential suicide. As you said, it’s a fifty-fifty chance, so he’d only kill you about half the time.

She raised her glistening eyes at him, and they narrowed slightly. Then, a sudden commotion broke out at the other end of the tavern. They both turned to look; before Ollie had even realized what was happening, Malefer gave a shocked yelp and jumped to her feet.

Ollie turned to her just in time to see her deathly pallor and her weak half-sob, followed by a stagger. He rose and caught her with a "woah" just as she slumped down onto the bench, momentarily unconscious.

What’s wrong, Malefer?! he yelled, propping her up against the backseat of the bench. Can you hear me?

Her eyes opened slowly. It’s the green hawk… she breathed out.

"What?"

Turn around, she said, staring at something above his right shoulder.

He looked. Beneath the shadows of the ceiling, he saw a large bird of prey sitting on one of the beams, looking down with a haughty expression. It had evidently flown in through the open window next to the counter; the whole crowd in the tavern went silent and sat staring at it in wonder. Its feathers had a dark coloring, near-black, but with a green iridescence, barely visible in the torchlight. It appeared to Ollie that it was staring directly at them, and the realization unnerved him.

Malefer gently pushed Ollie aside and extended a trembling hand to the bird; it flew from the beam and floated down, landing on her forearm. This elicited a few gasps from the patrons as though Malefer performed a circus trick. Ollie was acutely aware that the entire crowd was staring at the two of them.

He gulped.

There’s a message on its leg, Malefer said breathlessly. Can you help me untie it?

A message? What, is this some sort of an evolved species of the mail pigeon?!

Nevertheless, he saw right away that there was indeed a folded piece of paper attached to one of the bird’s clawed feet. The string that held it in place was tied fairly securely, and he recognized that both hands would be required to untie the knot.

Does it bite? he asked cautiously.

No, said Malefer, looking at the bird with a wild mixture of terror and longing. She looked like she might try to pet it. Just hurry up. It’s not exactly a lightweight.

Ollie started on his task. A few minutes of cursing followed as he struggled to undo the knot with his nails while keeping his face and most of his body firmly outside of the reach of the dangerous-looking beak. Finally, with a triumphant cry, he snatched up the folded paper. The bird, managing to somehow look annoyed at his incompetence ― though this might have just been Ollie’s imagination ― flew up again and landed on the same beam as before. He stared at it in confusion, not understanding why it wouldn’t just fly away. Is that blasted bird expecting payment?!

Give it to me, Malefer said, tearing the paper out of Ollie’s limp fingers.

She unfolded it with trembling hands. For a few minutes, she stared at it, holding her breath; then, she made a sound that seemed to be a cross between a sob and a soft moan and looked up at Ollie. Her eyes were glistening.

It’s from Mort.

Shakk’s burning snot, Ollie swore. What does it say?

She handed him the note. It was written in a heavily slanted hand, with a near-geometrical precision of lines, characteristic of someone accustomed to writing a great deal. The letters were small but legible, with none of the elegant flourishes that nobles typically applied to their capital letters, but still fairly refined-looking.

It read as follows:

You’ve outdone yourself this time, Malefer. I’ll keep this short: know that any semblance of anger I might have felt on account of your escapade has been blown out of the water by my displeasure at the troublesome task of tracking you down. Now that I have you, kindly do the intelligent thing and return to the Castle. The longer this idiotic behavior of yours continues, the less likely I am to take a forgiving view of your infraction. I presume you know well enough what we do to traitors here?

P.S. Portal at midnight near the large