It struck me on my trek and in my revelry, that I wasn’t as shaken up by the attempt on my life as I ought to have been.

  Eight months had passed since the last bounty hunter came knocking. That seemed like a lifetime ago. I’d almost died, which wasn’t new for me, but it was getting increasingly annoying.

  Hence my plan.

  And perhaps the fact that it was instead a jilted child instead of a battle-hardened, gold-hungry scoundrel didn’t raise the same concern.

  I’d made it out without so much as a scratch.

  Though she’d still found me, which wasn’t great.

  I was mostly just hoping it wasn’t the fact that I was getting closer to my goal that it was making me soft. That was how people ended up dead, I needed to keep reminding myself.

  But I also understood where she was coming from. Hell, I’d been in her shoes, so to speak. Family can have that effect. Though I won’t bore you with the details. I will only say how difficult it can be to throw off those shackles.

  The morning had grown yellowish as the sun hit its first zenith, somewhere beyond the tall mountains to my left. It made the air thick, and I could all but smell the latent energies in the air. It had become a more common occurrence in recent years, since the Worm. Whatever odd properties it had sprinkled over Calastros had made the sun and the moon treat the land differently.

  The skies caught various colors and I’d yet to understand why. But I did know that when it was yellow, magic was in the air. When it was red, magic was dampened. And the other colors, well, they just were. Magic waned and grew with seeming randomness.

  But it only happened ever so often. That too held no pattern I could discern. All I knew is that I didn’t like it. Just another obstacle. It had made me keep my head especially low on red sky days. And on yellow days too.

  So, I’d not be picking any fights today.

  It made me consider not even going into the town, but like I said, I was getting desperate. And a warm bed held more sway over me than I’d like to admit. So did some fresh wine.

  I passed no one on the road, which wasn’t odd. This was the outer range of…well, a kingdom, and not many people ventured this far out. The wildlands were no place for travelers.

  Another casualty of the Worm.

  It had been a small thing. And perhaps one I’d only noticed because I frequented places that lent themselves toward a kind of primordial way of being. But the realm was becoming more feral. As it had once been. In the days of the gods.

  Apologies, it isn’t often I get so…doom and gloom. But that is what you’re here for. Things are getting more interesting, that is all I can say.

  By midday I’d made it to the outskirts of a little town called…apologies again. I’m still learning to trust you. I know, I’ve already spilled where I’m going. But if any of you are crazy enough to follow me into the barrows then maybe you deserve the bounty.

  It was a quiet day and I stared up at the wooden post that held about a dozen different arrows nailed onto it. All pointing in the vague directions of distant towns.

  None were pointing toward my goal, adding to my dread and emphasizing the stupidity of my ploy.

  I am at the whims of my desires.

  Wait, ignore that. I’m trying to justify again.

  A man in light, dented armor, met me at the first building, a decrepit looking merchant’s hut. He was the first person I’d seen in weeks, besides the elf. On his hip was a dull, short-bladed sword and a dagger. His clothing beneath the armor was dirty and ragged. His eyes were heavy, and the skin of his face set deeply with wrinkles. I could not have guessed his age if I tried.

  “Halt, stranger,” he said, his voice shrill with drunkenness.

  Perhaps it was my lucky day. To meet my potential partner first thing.

  “Speak your name…” he burped. “...and tell me why you are here.”

  His eyes could barely find me.

  I raised my hands. “I am called Madcap and I come for drinks and accommodation.”

  His mouth twitched and his eyes narrowed. “There have been bandits. What do you know of them?”

  I layered on a friendly tone. “Nothing, my goodman.”

  “We’ve captured one already today. Trying to steal from us,” he said, grabbing the railing to the merchant’s hut for stability. “You look a lot like him.”

  I saw what was coming but my mood was such that I would not give the man a thing. I did have such bouts of dog headedness on occasion.

  “If I were a bandit, my friend, would I walk straight through town? Would I come bearing no weapons? Or would I perhaps try a more conniving method?”

  “Like…what?”

  “Well,” I began, looking up as if I were thinking. “Like posting up at the edge of town shaking down weary travelers.”

  He blinked several times. “You calling me a liar?”

  I narrowed my eyes, affronted. “I would never do such a thing.”

  One of his meaty hands fell to the hilt of his blade. “That is an insult where I come from.”

  “Only an insult if it's true.” I shrugged. “But because you are an honest man, it is no insult at all.” I stuck out my hand and, in his stupor, he took it. “We are of the same mind.”

  He nodded. “Indeed…”

  I almost walked on but paused, “What was the name of the bandit you caught earlier?”

  The drunk burped again and said, “He called himself Gadfly.” He laughed. “Can you believe that?”

  It only made me raise my eyebrows. Though it was not a name I recognized. It sounded like a joke. Then again, I called myself Madcap.

  I nodded to the drunkard and as I walked on, I heard him mumble, “A fine gentleman, that one.”

  I’d decided he was a hair too dense to accompany me on my mission. But it had given me an even better idea. A bandit in jail? It was like being delivered gold on a silver platter. It hadn’t even crossed my mind.

  Who is more desperate than a drunk? A prisoner.

  Perhaps the fates, for all their foibles, were not above taking pity on me.

  It would be my good deed of the year, to free a man from prison. It would take multiple lifetimes to balance the scales, but this would be a good start.

  My journey would still begin at the tavern, as most great journeys do. I could not just go to the jail and ask for a volunteer so brashly. These remote villages were tight-knit, careful people. But if I were to go spend some coin, and drink with them…well, that could loosen some of their distrust.

  This is not one of my so-called Rules of Doomsday, but don’t ignore it either. Like all of this, take it with a grain of salt.

  Well, not with a grain of salt. Maybe just…on a case-by-case basis. And do note, just because something doesn't work out for me, doesn’t mean it won’t work out for you.

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  Now, pay attention. This won’t be my finest moment, but when I need to drink. I can drink. No, it isn’t a mage thing. It's the kind of thing that comes with losing the big war.

  A kind of abyss that is usually only found in men twice my age.

  This is certainly not something that is required to survive any kind of doomsday. I’m telling you more as a warning.

  The people who walked around the little village were not the kind to spare a glance for a stranger, which I usually prefer. However, when I needed something from them, it was usually better to be seen as not a distant stranger, but more a welcoming one.

  It was not difficult to find the tavern, I could sniff one out like a chicken does an antler beetle. It was a long building about halfway down the main road, squashed between what seemed to be the blacksmith and the apothecary. They both looked closed.

  The tavern, however, was bustling. I could hear it from outside. Someone was playing harp and there was quite a bit of chatter too. Maybe a dozen or so voices.

  I pushed in.

  It was a dim, long room with a circular fireplace in the center of it. The bar sat against the right wall and was empty. All the patrons were seated at the tables.

  As it happened, all the sound was coming from one table. A group of six men playing cards. They were drunk alright, and boisterous.

  Above the barman, who was an old bloke with a long white beard and bald head, sat the skull of a marsh lynx. One of the largest I’d ever seen.

  No one looked up from their drinks as I entered. The barkeep didn’t even glance my way, though I saw him give a halfhearted wave.

  Taking a seat at the bar I’d made up my mind. I would go to the loud table. I would buy them drinks. I would play their games.

  It was foolproof.

  I grabbed a stool at the bar and waited. And…waited. The barman kept his back to me, cleaning mugs that already looked spotless. I took the hint and pulled out a few coins, dropping one onto the counter.

  Still, he didn’t venture over.

  “Should I pour it myself?” I asked.

  It was like pulling teeth and the less than chipper welcoming had me second-guessing myself. A roar came from the cards table, and I turned to look. One of the men was in the face of another, yelling drunkenly while the others simply laughed.

  I thought the whole thing was going to fall apart before I made it over.

  Then the barman slammed a full cup of mead down in front of me, the foam sliding down the side and it didn’t matter anymore. I was going to go for it.

  It smelled faintly like the mulberries of the southern reach. It also had the slightest taste of staleness to it. But I wasn’t bothered by that. Half the mead in Calastros was stale. I was still going to drink it.

  And yes, I can feel your judgement.

  I couldn’t even blame it on the Worm, either. Or maybe I could. Perhaps the sprinkle of Earth Eater bone dust had tampered with the soil and the air that fermented the precious liquid. This was the most justified reason to hate the Worm and the cultists that brought it here.

  My own thoughts got the better of me.

  I should have been paying attention. Because at this point, I should have realized that something was off. Unfortunately, I did suffer from single-mindedness from time to time. I was enraptured by this slice of excitement I was about to enjoy. It was a rare thing for me to venture into such close proximity without scouting it first. Or taking the proper preparations.

  A cursory glance, even for a mere five minutes, would have granted me the kind of insight that would have left me avoiding the place like the plague.

  I drank in silence, ignored still by the barman, who’d left my coin on the table.

  It may have been something to do with my appearance, or my face, that he didn’t like, but the near complete lack of interaction made me think it was something else.

  So, when I rose, half my mead gone, I found that my legs were far more wobbly than they should have been.

  My brain knew immediately that something was wrong, and it knew, too, what had happened. But when things go wrong like that, you hope it isn’t, so your brain fumbles for other explanations. But the other explanations were useless.

  Only on my second attempt at a step did I feel the snare root seeping through my veins.

  I’d felt it before, on an occasion I wished to forget, which was probably why I didn’t recognize it.

  To my own folly, of course, I’d forgotten the foremost rule I’d come to live by: trust no one.

  Not even the barman.

  And that might sound like a dreary, half-alive way to live but guess what, I was still alive, for now.

  For being one of the most wanted men in at least four kingdoms, that really wasn’t so bad.

  I didn’t make it another step before crumpling, landing on my left arm and laying there, half hunched.

  Then someone kicked me onto my back.

  A man I hadn’t seen stood over me, the blurred faces of others hanging in my periphery. He wore long, lush green robes that hung off skinny shoulders. His hair, which hung down to his shoulders, was pale white. Not the color that came with age, but the color that I, and most of the magical community, associated with mind magics. It made one's hair discolor.

  His eyes, however, were dark green, like dirty water illuminated by sunlight. The rest of his face was caught somewhere between youth and middle age.

  He’d dabbled intensely with magic.

  Which made sense, my brain was telling me, because he was obviously a cultist.

  The Cult of Wormslung had come to the north.

  Now, my heart really did try to beat out of my chest. Which only made the snare root course quicker to the rest of my limbs. It wasn’t poison, only a paralytic, which frightened me more.

  Neither of us moved for a long time. Or what felt like a long time.

  “Who is he?” the cultist asked, turning to the barman.

  “I’ve never seen him before,” the man grunted, still cleaning his damned mugs.

  The cultist knelt over me, one of his clammy hands touching my forehead. “Another stranger…” he said quietly. “Why are you here?”

  He knew I couldn’t speak, my lips were as useless as a drunk fish.

  But my eyes were still open, and I felt him delving…delving into my mind to seek out my origins.

  It had been years since someone tried this on me. But I was no slouch when it came to mind games. One could not go through what I had without some protections. And in my paralyzed state, my mind was still my own.

  If no one has ever plunged your mind with their sticky fingers before, allow me to describe how exactly it feels.

  It’s akin to having a drunken nightmare while wide awake.

  When done in battle, the goal is often to break your opponent’s mind, or create enough chaos as to render them useless or severely weakened.

  But when death is not the required outcome, but instead information, the game becomes more pernicious. It requires a deft touch, true insight into the mindscapes of madness. To tease out the nightmares without breaking the person’s mind.

  This oaf with long hair and pretty robes was a neophyte.

  If I could have laughed, I would have.

  In my lost years, roaming mindlessly through the wilds of Calastros, I was submerged into my own psyche for days on end. I knew my own mind like the back of my hand, so to speak.

  If this puny cultist wanted anything he’d have to do better than the trickle of magic, he was seeping into my mind. No doubt taught to him by some poor sod who thought he’d plodded the eternal depths of men’s minds.

  Apologies, I’m waxing on. I’ll try not to make a habit of it. But it isn’t often I find myself able to flex a skill I’ve rarely found an equal in.

  I guess part of this too is the fact that I’ve let myself be caught by evil cultists.

  It doesn’t look good for me.

  The cultist’s psychefingers prodded my mind like a bull oliphant that thought it was a field mouse.

  The good host that I am, I led him down a veritable maze of my Madcap persona. I could feel his curiosity, his trust, distrust, and all the emotions he thought he was hiding. Like most people, he was a naturally defensive psychic. But to truly play the game, one must be unafraid of having parts of one’s mind laid bare.

  It was like setting snares for small creatures.

  I’m waxing on again.

  I’ll say this: I’d almost had my mind broken, obliterated, splintered, by a man far more delicate and vicious than him. He could not ride the coattails of that demon if he’d tried.

  I’ll say no more for fear of you thinking I’ve got a big ego.

  The cultist’s hand grew warm and when he finally withdrew it, he rubbed it on his robes, as if it had been smeared with something vile.

  He rose, his darkish eyes leering at me. “Take him. Put him in shackles. We may have use of him.”

  The comment sent my heart to racing, but I’d expected it. Hell, I’d played my cards so this would be the case. He knew I was a mage, I couldn’t hide that. The cultists had well-tuned noses for such things.

  But I’d tried to lead him to believe I was nothing more than a lowly mage. Which was true. But if they thought I had latent amounts of magic in my blood then they would drain me like a Solstice hog and be done with it.

  Hands attached to unseen bodies grasped my limp limbs and I was lifted skyward, near the tavern’s cobwebbed ceiling.

  My head hit the doorframe on the way out, to which they did not slow, despite my hissing objection.

  The sky and its yellow tinge did look heavenly as I was carried. The limpness of my body I’m sure would look like I was a corpse.

  We went through two large double doors and into what I assumed was the Commons. It was a long room, with a tall ceiling and an old iron chandelier. Of the dozen or so candles set in a circle, only five were lit, giving off a warm, dim glow.

  I could see little else of the place.

  But I could smell it.

  And what I smelled made the hair on my paralyzed body stand on end.

  The place reeked blood. And lots of it.

  The room was thick with the stench of fresh and stale blood.

  If I could have gagged, I would have.

  Then we were in a different room, and I heard the metallic click of a lock. I was carried into a cell and laid on a wood bend. My hands were shackled with coarse iron.

  The cultists, who I wore the same green robes, did not spare me another look before leaving.

  The smell of blood was still overwhelming.

  In a brief moment of despaired mourning for what was to become of my life, I felt the seeping dread of something more sinister. The feeling that I had been set up. That I’d played into some game. Unwittingly or not.

  Someone was out there, playing with me.

  But who?

  The elf?

  Baron Grey?

  I hadn’t the faintest clue and I couldn’t tell you what made me think this was the case save for my razor-sharp instincts. My natural distrust and the itch that now scratched my brain.

  I knew when to listen to it. I would eek out my answers, or I’d be drained of blood. Maybe both.

  There was nothing for me to do, except muse over my predicament.

  That was until a man’s voice came from the other side of the cell, accompanied by the jingle of chains. The voice was a gravelly thing, and somehow barbaric. It lacked an air of caring or maybe just held a cultivated drone of life’s cruelty.

  “So, I wasn’t the only idiot to walk into this mess?” He grunts and then chuckles darkly. “At least I won’t die alone.”