“Stop scowling, Sovina,” Emalia said, glancing sideways at her companion. “It will be fine.”

  She scoffed, then pressed her lips into a thin line that meant she was trying hard not to be disagreeable. The gesture, while transparent, was nonetheless a kind one Emalia always appreciated. “But,” Sovina said, “something needs to be done. This area’s crawling with Deus cultists.”

  And so far North, too. At least they are not the Ecumenical types. She tried to wipe away the forming frown. To believe one’s god built gates into the afterlife and voluntarily let in petty mortals to join him? And starting with the barbaric hordes of Merkenia, at that? What weakness. What shallow strength! The more popular Sadovoe Nominationist Church was more agreeable, at least in the banishment of the unworthy. But these types were something else entirely. They were temporarily taking up residence in the independent city-state of Levanska. Well, independent in name, though everyone knew they were a Vasian vassal, allowed their freedom only to exert a Southern influence upon their neighbors. And, to the knowledge of only a select few, to keep an eye on Kosica and the Crown of Armagne.

  All that being said, a wandering band of self-proclaimed, so-called White Order volunteer Protectors, numbering somewhere around thirty, were lodged in Levanska’s only Ekhenist temple. She and Sovina had been searching for information on routes through the Kosican Range when the shop owner had confessed his knowledge of the inquisitors’ presence, warning them to be careful. It seemed the desolate North hadn’t forgotten the might of Rotaal after all. After thanking him, they promptly finished their business and went to scout out this temple to validate his claims. In the end, he was right. Positioned at the opposite end of one of the many city squares, standing in the shadow of a narrow side street, she and Sovina studied the short, humble, walled temple complex.

  “You think they will find Daecinus?” Emalia asked, nodding toward the church.

  “It’s their job. They hate Sorcerers almost as much as they hate the Dead.”

  “But he’s beyond the walls, as I advised.”

  “Yet, he’s digging up and stealing bodies,” Sovina said, shaking her head. “There’s been whispers of it already.”

  When she gave her guardian a questioning look, Sovina grinned and went on to explain, “When you were haggling with the guide, I was outside doing what I do best.”

  “Fussing over me?”

  “Getting to the bottom of things.”

  “Like an inquisitor?”

  She harumphed. “Like a guardian of a Column Priest. These Protectors are poor imitations—apparently, they barely even speak the local tongues.”

  “Few benefit from the education we’ve received. The typical commoner in Vasia knows less than two languages. An average of one and a half, I believe.”

  Sovina put a hand on her upper arm, pulling them further into the shadow of the narrow street. “Look.” She glanced back to the square. The gates of the temple walls were open, and a number of the inquisitors were marching out. Emalia counted thirteen of them. They wore long white robes marked with a symbol of their kind, without much jewelry, adornment, or weaponry. Oddly enough, it made her wish for her old robes again instead of the tunic and cloak she wore to make her origin more subtle. Even in Vasia, some hated the Column and all those associated with it, let alone the more turbulent outskirts of civilization, such as Lavanska, with its petty king, roughly-hewn cobble walls, and sod roofs.

  “They’re going north,” Sovina said, squeezing her arm. Meant to draw her attention, of course. To emphasize a point was all.

  Emalia squinted at the inquisitors. Sure enough, they were taking a road towards the northern gate. “We are not at the edge of the city. They have plenty of places to stop before exiting.”

  “Perhaps. Or they are going to hunt our Sorcerer companion.” Her hand lowered, resting on her blade’s pommel.

  “We sent a warning out to Oskar. He likely told Nifont, who was doing something for Daecinus. He’ll be ready, if that’s the case, and leave.”

  “You think he’s one to flee to avoid contact with inquisitors?”

  A cold, sick feeling coursed through her. “Well, they would send more if they wished to take him, wouldn’t they?”

  “They don’t have the information we do, Em.”

  “Right. Of course.” They don’t know what he’s capable of. They just hear of bodies disappearing and an abandoned home with a new, shut-in resident who may be the culprit. It was probably nothing. Probably. But after the last few weeks of travel, of speaking to the ancient, strange man, she’d come to see him as something of an acquaintance. There were few people of an educated, curious mind out in this desolate wasteland. And, Raizak forgive her, each day it became harder to imagine cutting out his heart for her cause. But none of that changed the fact that he was extremely dangerous. “We need to tail them. See if they’re going towards Daecinus. If so, we get Oskar. He’s at that tavern still, I would bet against most odds.”

  “Then what?” Sovina asked, looking her in the eye. “Are you fine with the consequences of violence? If an inquisition party disappears while hunting a Sorcerer…”

  “I know. More may come in pursuit. But we can’t let them take him. Besides, they’re far from home—any news that might travel back would be slow, if at all.” Emalia bit her lip, weighing the odds, glancing at the disappearing line of robe-clad cultists. They had clubs under their robes, she thought, eying them. Let Rotaal curse their backward Souls. “And maybe we can stop them. We need to go now.”

  “Very well.” Sovina pulled her own cloak tight over her mail, throwing up her hood. “We stay unseen. If they spot us, we run for Oskar. I would test my blade against any one of them, but that number…”

  “Agreed.”

  “Good.” Sovina let out a long sigh. “Bloody necromancer. Why couldn’t he just listen?”

  …

  Oskar stared at the dice before him on the beaten old table. A two and a four. He blinked real slow-like, then squinted at them, right eye twitching a bit. He felt his mouth go dry and papery, like he’d been leaving it hanging open for days now. He fumbled for his cup and drained the rye-based kvass inside. It was thin stuff, by all accounts, but he didn’t need to get drunker—no, a smart man knows when to just ease on at where he is. A smart man doesn’t lose silver in fucking dice! he thought with a groan as he rubbed at his eyes.

  “Is what it is, I’m afraid,” the weasel fuck of a man across from him cackled in his dumb fucking eastern Kosican dialect, sounding like he was gargling sand. Oskar would’ve run him through just then if he had his blade on him. But the city had its rules.

  The little crowd gathered around was going through a whole lot of reactions. Some were cackling themselves, slapping knees and sounding like dying horses. His men were shouting and booing his opponent. Some scoffs and harsh words exchanged. There were more than a few locals here, but they weren’t the problem—it was these dumb-as-stones laborers and their weasel friend, only in the city because there happened to be an expansion of the wall. Lucky vagrants.

  The weasel went to grab the dice. “Sorry friend, but a game’s a—”

  Oskar’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist.

  “Hey!” he whined, trying to wrench his arm away. “You gotta problem with losing?”

  Oskar leaned in, twisting his face in preparation to speak—a slightly monumental task, he was so angry. Through clenched teeth of a snarl, he hissed out, “You cheated.”

  “Cheated? You accusing me of cheating?”

  “Exactly what I’m doing. Dice are loaded.”

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  “Fuck you, you old shit! I’m no cheater! You just wanna slip away from your rightful obli… obligations.”

  Oskar’s face darkened; he squeezed the man’s wrist harder. “Give me your silver, cunt. You owe me!”

  “Ah!” he cried out, grabbing at his wrist, trying to pry Oskar’s fingers away. “Stop it!”

  “Let him go, you Vasian fuck,” someone said from the side, trying to writhe his way closer to help his thieving friend.

  “What was that?” Oskar asked, turning to glare at the son of a whore. “What’d you say to me, you inbred barbarian sheep-lover?”

  “Damn you!” He tried pushing closer, but Stanilo was there, blocking him like a giant before a child.

  “Take it back,” Stanilo said, leaning down to squint in the other man’s face. “Apologize to my chief.”

  “I, uh. I don’t…”

  “The Empire doesn’t hear your regret. Speak up!”

  The weasel screamed and wrenched his wrist away, toppling backward in his chair. Oskar took the opening to point wildly to the cheater and holler out, “See that? He’s got hidden dice!” And then snatched up his silver and kicked the table over onto the bastard.

  His exclamation, however, had more than the desired effect.

  First, one of the laborers pointed back at him with a snarl. “What the fuck you say?” And then the man was punched in the face so hard, so fast, that when he went down, he skidded and bounced off the wood floor. Others jumped forward, filling his place, already swinging. But Oskar’s men had been in more than one scrap, so when the laborers came on the aggressive, his boys came together in a solid wall and met them. Oskar tottered to his feet, shaking his pounding head. Fights never did take the drunk out of him like they did some men. Rather, he had to squint to keep the world steady as he eyed the cheating fuck push the table off and stand.

  “You piss poor fucking loser,” the weasel was saying. “I’ll rip your eyes—”

  Oskar kicked out and caught him in a lower rib, wrenching a nice oomph and the feeling of something crack. “Cheating prick!” he yelled, kicking the man again, this time in the face, sending him dozing in unconsciousness, blood splattering out a broken nose.

  Right before he could turn and assess the rapidly shifting, wobbly battlefield, something slammed into his hip and took him a few surprised steps to the side before crashing into a long bench. His left arm hurt something fierce, as did his ankle.

  “Agh,” he groaned, blindly shoving out at whatever had hit him. “Fucking Dead…”

  Pinned as he was, he couldn’t get enough leverage to shove off the fat bastard squatting over him, raising a bunched-up fist that looked like a bundle of tightly-wrapped sausages. Oskar let out a snorting laugh as the fist came down and crashed into his forehead.

  Oskar shook his head and snarled out something nonsensical, then bucked up to get enough wiggle room to squirm his hips out from under the human anchor. Before the man could hit him again, Oskar grabbed him by the collar and wrenched him down, then slammed his bruised forehead into the fat bastard’s chin. He heard the crack of teeth and felt a burst of sharp, cutting pain. But before Oskar do it again, someone kicked his attacker off him and extended a massive, looming hand to help. Stanilo, the beautiful bastard.

  Oskar grinned wide and took the hand, standing on trembling, half-dancing feet. Always got that way with adrenaline and a little drink. “Wh—” he tried, then coughed and spit to the side, “shit, alright. What’s the status?”

  “Status?” Stanilo’s brow went up. “About over.”

  Oskar squinted around the dark room and found his men entangled with the laborers nearly all over. The swing of the fight had initially been in the laborers’ favor with their numbers, but that had subsided quickly enough as more than half of them were rolling on the floor or hiding near the edge of the tavern’s walls, nursing wounds. Stanilo was right. It was almost done.

  “One second,” he muttered, then stumbled over to the weasel and shoved his squirming body over to expose his coin purse. “For trying to cheat me, you sniveling ass.” He pulled it off and gave the bastard a kick to the stomach for good measure.

  “Was that necessary?” Stanilo asked, giving him the lightest of frowns.

  “Yup.”

  “Alright, well—”

  Whatever he was going to say was cut off as one of the mercenaries shouted a line no man wanted to hear in a casual brawl, “Knife!”

  Oskar swung his head around and caught the shining piece of iron near the entrance. One of the laborers had a little dagger out and pointed at one of his men who’d been getting the better of him just a second ago. The knifeman was hissing out all sorts of threats, waving it around like a bloody wand or something. Pulled it outta fear, most likely. Oskar looked at his eyes—they were angry, real angry. Might just use it. Shit.

  “Back off, Miras!” Oskar shouted out, striding toward the two of them, Stanilo just behind.

  “This whore’s son pulled a bloody knife on me,” Miras said as if none of them had eyes.

  The man in question didn’t like that much. “Fuck you! I’ll gut you!”

  “Now, now!” Oskar was nearly halfway there. Still not close enough if it got bloody. “Let’s keep it civil, yeah? Just having a little fight, ya hear? No—”

  The man pointed his knife at Oskar, jabbing it forward to emphasize his words. “We didn’t cheat. You was lying. Now you get what’s coming, ya hear?”

  This gets fatal, the city’s not gonna be pleased. Gonna point fingers, that’s a certainty. Oskar frowned. Didn’t take a genius to figure anyone in power might side with the laborers building shit for their city over some passing mercenaries. A fight was one thing, but a death was a whole other. Then again, what was he expected to do? His men sure wouldn’t like a call to retreat.

  “Keep that knife on me then, why don’t you?” he asked.

  “Sure can. Put it in ya, too!” The man took a step forward. The blade’s point was bobbing up and down.

  Oskar scowled. “Maybe you can get me, but think you can get him?” He jerked a thumb at Stanilo just over his shoulder, tall and wide. “He eats the Dead’s broken bones in his oats. Crushes them up with his hands. Yeah, that’s what I thought. And you’ve never seen him in a shield wall, now have you? Ever even seen one? Well, we know them, friend. Know blades bigger than that too. Now, why don’t you run on outta here while the night’s not quite over for you, eh?”

  The man’s eyes flicked between them, doubt seeping in. But then one of the laborers stumbled over to his side and growled out something in a language Oskar didn’t know. The meager reinforcements buffeted the knifeman’s morale, and he stood a little taller. “Fuck yous!”

  Oskar sighed. “Shit.” He took a deep breath and raised his voice, ready to make a call to run for it, but an opening front door, purging the murky dimness of the alehouse with midday light, took the voice out of him, and all he managed was a squeaky, “Eh?”

  In a quick rasping of steel on leather, Sovina had her Column’s saber pressed up right against the knifeman’s neck. “Mine’s longer than yours,” she said with a wicked grin.

  If Oskar could ever look past the robes of the Column, gods be damned, he figured he could marry her just then. The man froze, knife arm flat and shaky. Then he dropped the blade, and Oskar let out a deep sigh of relief. For once, he was thankful for religious city guards not wanting to offend the Column and letting Sovina walk around the city with her sword on.

  Emalia slid past them and met his eyes. “Daecinus is in trouble. Maybe the others, too. I’ll explain outside.”

  Now that’s a good excuse to pack up and run. “Alright then, men, let’s get moving!” He came forward, trying not to stumble or totter too much, especially with the pairing of condescension from Sovina and impatience from Emalia. “I’m coming,” he muttered, waving at them.

  Somewhere in the back of his head, a small thought of paying for all the drink and damages rang out. And, more-so, the dangers of not doing so, with all the ruckus he’d made. Being a mercenary didn’t win you any friends—much the opposite, in fact—and any lawbreaking would rile the guards on him like greedy boyars to a weak tsar.

  Squeezing the coin purse in his fist, feeling the coins clink inside, he let out a long sigh and shouted, “Innkeep, here!” He tossed over the weasel’s coin purse and forced a grin toward his men. “On me, you cheap fuckers. Let’s get moving.”

  And that they did. And it was a good thing too, for how Emalia was waving them along, impatience and something akin to panic stretching her eyes wide. Must be bad, Oskar thought, tugging up his belt and hurrying outside, but he couldn’t be in danger from a couple of unarmed fanatics, could he? Nevertheless, he kept up a good pace just behind Sovina and Emalia, the former with her hands always near her weapons as if the enemy might jump out at any second and attack. She reminded him of himself more than a few years ago: excitable, too dutiful for his own good, and the worse kind of na?ve—where he thought he knew how the cards might fall when it came down to it. There was nothing more dangerous than that, sure enough.

  “Gotta grab our weapons,” he said, nodding off toward the stables not too far away.

  With the others, Oskar approached the young stablehand who leaped to his feet, staring at them with fearful shields-wide eyes.

  “Um, yes, sirs?” the boy asked. “Would you like—”

  “Going in. Keep an eye on things while we’re out?” He went to walk inside.

  “Of course, sir. Of course!”

  “Good boy.” He nodded to Stanilo. “Give him a coin, ey?”

  “Me?” the big man asked.

  “Yup.” Before he could protest back, Oskar had strode inside with a bit of a cocked smirk. It took less than a minute for everyone to grab their weapons and get moving again, not that the Column women were happy with the detour. Takes the impossible for that to happen, of course. As if they’d read his mind, they took off in a jog back north. Oskar told one of his men to stay behind and bring the mule up after them to stow the likely-to-be-bloodied weapons on the way back in. Couldn’t be too careful with such things, he knew better than most.

  After a minute of making good time on a less-seen side road north, he asked between huffs, “They know about Daecinus?”

  “We don’t know,” Sovina said, staring ahead, “but we followed them out to the city gates. They’re going for him.”

  “Maybe they’re goin’ for a stroll.”

  Emalia glanced back to him. “There is no reason for such a significant party to leave the city bearing north. It’s him.”

  Their lack of gasping and exhaustion frustrated the Soul out of him, but he just nodded along and kept up. The drunk had worn off a good amount with all the activity, sure enough, and he was starting to feel pretty alright again. Or, at least, like he wouldn’t vomit anymore. And that was something. They made it out the city gates before too long, earning more than a few looks and even a shout from a guard. One of the men yelled back something about having a women to visit, which got a round of laughs from the mercenaries.

  “Got trouble with the Dead!” Oskar shouted to them. “Gotta help! Sorry!”

  That seemed to work enough, though he knew the way back in would be a tad tricker, of course. To complicate things further, Sovina pointed to the snow-dusted dirt path splitting northwest toward Daecinus’s abandoned home, grunting. There were tracks. A whole lot of them.