Date: 2013-09-09 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Fiction; Horror
Description: Malwynn and his twin sister Umaryn live in a small town in northern Varrland. In idyllic New Picknell nearly nothing happens, and when their day to day routine is interrupted by a skirmish between an invading patrol of the dead from The Amaranth Empire and a defending force from Varrland, their world begins to come undone. With international war looming on the horizon New Picknell becomes the center of quite unwanted attention, and the twins have their world shattered. With nothing left to lose, they set out on a mission of vengeance that will take them to places they'd never dreamed of visiti

ELMORYN

Book One:

THE WRATH OF THE ORPHANS

CHRIS PHILBROOK

Wrath of the Orphans
Copyright © 2011 Christopher Philbrook

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.

Published in the United States of America

First Publishing Date July, 2012

All characters in this compilation are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover design and interior layout by Alan MacRaffen

For For Alan, Courtland and Joe,

and all the young boys and girls

who sit around kitchen tables

rolling dice into the wee hours

of the morning, making stories

with their friends..

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Maps

Chapter 1: A Wretched Affair

Chapter 2: Normalcy Shattered

Chapter 3: The Road to Ockham’s Fringe

Chapter 4: Conversations

Chapter 5: Whatever it Takes

Chapter 6: The Tax Man

Chapter 7: A Grand Offer

Chapter 8: The House of Names

Chapter 9: Giving a Man a Shovel

Chapter 10: Potential Revealed

Chapter 11: The First to Die

Chapter 12: Dangerous Games

Chapter 13: A Noose Tightened

Chapter 14: Artifacts and Relics

Chapter 15: Into the Breach

Chapter 16: Three Questions Asked

Chapter 17: An Everwalk Settles All Debts

About the Author: Chris Philbrook

Additional Online Content

- Chapter One -

A WRETCHED AFFAIR

“We’re almost out of time. We need to move faster!” The young man said, panic ripe in his voice. He carried a small woman in his thin arms. Her head hung limp, and the arm not pinned against the man’s chest swung to and fro lifelessly. She was dead.

Ahead of him ran his younger sister. They’d just entered the fringe of the small village their farm was on the outside of. New Picknell. Quiet and safe New Picknell. As the son carried the dead body of his mother at a jog, the smaller sister searched out for the single home that would contain their salvation. The home of New Picknell’s lone Apostle resident.

“Catherine!” The daughter yelled, her voice cracking from the emotion she’d been expending since her mother’s death. “Catherine we need you!” They would have to cross the entire town to get to the small farm Catherine’s family lived in. Theirs was a good sized home still inside the town’s edge, still protected from solitude and the wilds of Elmoryn.

A woman stood up from her seat at a washboard, letting the wet laundry slide down into the metal basin. She saw the siblings running as fast as they could manage, and her face went pale. She reached down beside the washbasin and produced a mallet. Her lungs inflated to holler a warning, “Dead body in the city! Dead body in the city!” After screaming her warning she clutched the mallet to her chest. Her anxiety decreasing, she retreated to the safety of her home, where she shut the door, and barred it.

As the frightened pair ran through the small village the doors of homes either slammed shut, or swung open with an adult standing in the frame. Everyone was armed, and stared at the body in the boy’s arms. They feared it. They feared what it could become. They feared what it would become if their journey took too long.

“Catherine! Catherine!” The daughter screamed again, losing what was left of her already bruised voice. Other voices joined her, sharing the tremendous urgency. The screams of "Catherine!" were nearly deafening by the time they reached the dirt street that ended at the wooden fence that marked the edge of the family farm they had been seeking.

“Catherine please, come quick!” The son yelled, his arms failing. He had been carrying his dead mother for almost an hour at nearly a sprint, and his young body was well past its limit.

His voice pierced the home and a black haired woman opened the door. Her face was calm, reserved, and full of a timeless poise that instantly spread relief to all those in a panic outside her home’s fence. As she stepped outside her door and walked down the finely laid stone path to the sturdy gate she moved with purpose, and confidence. Her trip ended just as the daughter and son reached the gate. The Apostle flipped the latch on the gate and pulled it open, motioning for the son to bring the dead body to a stone bench that was curiously placed just off the stone walkway. Its purpose was not for sitting.

“How long has she been gone Nickolas?” Catherine asked calmly, gathering the fabric of her long cream colored dress to her hip. The garment flowed in the warm, late summer breeze. The stink of the dead body hadn’t yet come, and inside the yard the only scent was that of freshly cut grass.

The young man, Nickolas, panted as he put his mother’s body down on the polished granite slab. She looked very small and almost stately as he arranged her arms at her side. “I don’t know. She was hit by a rotting timber in our barn. It fell on her from the hayloft and struck her dead. We found her and came running as fast as we could. The trip here alone was an hour. She could’ve been dead for a few hours more.”

“Where is your father?” Catherine asked in a slow and steady cadence, inspecting the dead body with tender care. She had done this many times, and this was her way.

This time, the daughter replied, her voice almost entirely gone now, “He left early yesterday to bring a small harvest to the rails. He won’t be back until tomorrow at the earliest.” She coughed a dry cough and shed a thick tear down her cheek.

Catherine winced, “That’s a shame. He will be heartbroken, as I’m sure you both are.” She put a reassuring hand on the shoulders of the siblings. From the other side of the fence the town’s residents that were brave enough to watch had formed a line against the thick wood separating Catherine’s property from the town proper. Pitchforks, shovels, hammers, and even a few swords and axes were in their hands. They stared intently at the body on the granite surface just a few feet away.

From the front door of her home a brother and sister duo not unlike the ones that had just delivered their dead mother’s body walked out into the yard. The twins were tall, thin, and had hair black like their mother. They both shared clear eyes of a striking blue. They looked on from the step of the home with calm concern.

Catherine reached out and took the hands of the siblings that were now half orphaned. “Everyone gathered here please give the spirit of the recently departed Julianne a few moments of silence while I free her soul from the bonds of flesh that bind her.”

Everyone went silent, and Catherine began the service, her hands still clutching to the brother and sister.

Head lowered, her silken voice reached out beyond the veil of death, “All life is fragile. Today we learn that lesson yet again. The life of Julianne has reached its end, and despite the injustice of her being taken away from the world of the living, her legacy does not end today.”

Catherine looked up at the body, ensuring it was still on the slab before continuing, “Julianne’s immortal spirit is still within her, and in this moment we shall set her soul free from the body she had in life. She will roam these plains, and these hills forever, lending support to her friends and families and their descendents for all time. She shall hear the praise and adoration of the living as if she were still here. She shall lend Apostles a bit of her very essence, allowing us to perform The Way, and give mystical boons to those we can. In life she gave love and security, but in death she gives so much more, and she will do this forever.”

Catherine let go of the sibling’s hands as they slowly wept. They’d seen the Blessing of Soul’s rest done before, and to complete the ritual, Catherine needed both of her hands. The mother of three reached into a small pocket on the front of her dress and produced a handmade cloth bag. She retrieved a tiny vial of scented oil, and sprinkled a minute amount of herbs down the length of Julianne’s dead body. The herbs and the oil were essential components to the blessing Catherine was performing. They physically and tangibly bound her will to the act, and enabled her to use the Apostle’s version of The Way, or Elmoryn’s magic. Catherine’s magic was fueled by her latent talent to access the hundreds of thousands of ancestor spirits roaming the land. In a few moments, Julianne would join them.

When the proper number of oil drops had been applied, and the right amount of herbs placed on the right points of the body, Catherine placed her hands on Julianne’s body. The intimate connection of Apostle and body signaled the final moments of the blessing. Catherine reached out of her own body and soul, and into the body of the deceased woman. It was not unlike opening a metaphysical cage, and setting free a bird kept within. Her hands never moved, but behind her closed eyes she felt Julianne’s body shudder briefly as her spirit was set free. Her soul would not rot and fester in her body. She would not become the undead everyone gathered feared.

She took her warm fingers from the now cooling body and reached her full height. The young girl still wept, but when Catherine embraced her, she calmed quickly, feeling the relief the blessing had given them. The crowd gathered gave a quiet round of clapping as the tension faded from the afternoon. They filtered out quickly, letting the family grieve in privacy.

“Thank you,” Nickolas said.

Catherine smiled warmly, “You are very welcome. We can store the body until your father arrives, give you time to gather wood for her pyre.” Cremated bodies couldn’t be animated by rogue Necromancers, no matter how unlikely the chance of that happening was. Tradition was tradition after all, and since The Great Plague almost eradicated all human life from the face of Elmoryn three hundred years ago, all bodies were cremated.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll have Malwynn and Umaryn help with your mother’s body. In the meantime, head over to Jalen and Naomi’s over there, and let them know what’s happened. They’ll take care of you until your father returns.”

“Thank you Catherine. My mother would thank you as well,” Nick said softly, taking his little sister under his arm.

“With any luck I’ll cross paths with her spirit, and she can thank me herself. I’m glad you made it here in time.”

Nickolas could only nod. The thought of not making it to the Apostle in time was too much to contemplate.

A gentle gust of wind blew across the crest of the rolling hill just a few miles north of the village of New Picknell. The slender blades of bright green grass waved to and fro, tossed whimsically in the sweet air of the Elmoryn summer. Summer here in northern Varrland came late, and lasted only a precious couple months. The tiny shoots of grass grew quickly and robustly, living their simply lives to the fullest until the cold and snow came for the long winter that would surely bury them, cutting them off from the life giving sun they grew tall to touch.

The next day Catherine’s eldest children walked side by side. The brother and sister strode slowly beside each other under the late season’s sun. The brother stood only an inch taller than his sister, and both walked proudly with raven black hair. Slung over his wiry shoulder was a bow that had seen ample use over the past decade. A simple bow, one made to learn and hunt easy prey with, the bow was present more for comfort than for purpose. The quiver at his hip held only a handful of arrows. The sister, lean and strong walked with no weapons. Her bright blue eyes, the same as her sibling’s searched the expansive green fields in every direction, looking for something interesting to break the monotony of a quiet day that youth never seemed to find the ability to appreciate fully. The prior day’s excitement had already been forgotten.

“How’s the forge been?” Malwynn asked his sister. It was the first thing either of the two had said since leaving their small town. Comfortable silence was their way.

“Hot. It’s quite the job. I am very excited for when Luther teaches me more advanced techniques soon. I think I’m just as excited for when the colder weather sets in. It’ll make the forge considerably more comfortable,” the sister replied.

Malwynn looked to his sister Umaryn and smiled proudly. Much like their mother, she was blessed with a rare ability, and had taken a different route than most of the woman in his village, as well as the majority of women across their country of Varrland. Umaryn was spirit touched.

The world of Elmoryn was bursting at the seams with life and energy. Some gifted individuals were blessed with the gift of being able to hear and reach out to the spirits of the dead, gaining insight and power, channeling the very souls of the ancestors into mystical power. Others touched by the spirits were able to connect their own essence to the things that men and women had created. Across Elmoryn all crafted items, especially those of particular quality contained a smidge of spiritual energy, and Umaryn could speak to those spirits, and channel the energy inside into her own mystical talents.

People more experienced with these mystical energies called them The Way. It was said those with the gift to manipulate the many different energies of Elmoryn were said to know The Way. Umaryn was developing her skills with the spirits of the things made by man working in the forge, and eschewing the traditional roles a girl of their age took. She’d make no bread for the man that captured her heart, but she might fashion him a blade of tempered steel that would sing a song that could show him her love.

Malwynn had developed no such talent in The Way. He had managed to become a decent shot with the simple bow hanging on his shoulder, and had earned his father’s respect by working hard in the family fields. Malwynn and Umaryn’s family was small and tightly knit together. Their mother and father had traveled widely across Varrland and neighboring Duulan for many years, and their experiences had left them yearning for a quiet, safe place to raise their family. New Picknell had sufficed.

Ellioth, the patriarch of the family was a retired scholar, and veteran adventurer. Ellioth had notable skill in wielding a blade and wearing armor, and coupled with his passionate love for discovery he’d made a good living searching out treasures lost in the various wildernesses across Elmoryn. Ellioth was one of the few still living souls that had traveled deep into the Eastern Wilds far to the south. That savage, wild region was known the world over as a one way adventure, filled with death, failure, and sorrow. Ellioth had escaped the monsters and natural threats of the Eastern Wilds with tales that would turn the halest man pale white.

Catherine, mother of Malwynn and Umaryn had met Ellioth at the Cathedral in Daris where she had worked and lived. The central home of the Church of Souls in Varrland, the Cathedral of Kincaid was a massive nexus of religious energy and population. Catherine was an Apostle, a reasonably skilled user of The Way, and servant of the spirits of the ancestors that roamed Elmoryn. After meeting Ellioth, falling deeply in love, and becoming pregnant with the twins, the couple moved to New Picknell where Catherine took over as the most senior Apostle at the modest church in town. Catherine attended to the births, deaths, healing the sick and wounded, and most importantly, consecrating the bodies of the dead.

The most sacred of all duties an Apostle can perform is the consecration of the dead. It is so important to the Church of Souls, and the very survival of humanity on Elmoryn that it is the first spell taught to Apostles once their gift and devotion is revealed. Everyone on Elmoryn knew what happened to a body left unconsecrated too long… Malwynn’s mind drifted back to how close they had been to tragedy yesterday with Julianne’s death. A few minutes more, and the entire village might’ve been in danger.

“Are the fields ready for harvest?” Umaryn asked idly. In truth she wasn’t interested, but she and her twin brother had been sharing these long walks since the two could walk, and this was their way.

“Almost. Another month and a half. You know you could ask me the real question you want to. I don’t mind.” Malwynn said with a wry smile, reading his sister’s mind.

Umaryn’s eyes lit up with restrained excitement. “I didn’t want to pry. How are you and Marissa doing? Are we ready for the thought of marriage? Will I be Aunt Umaryn soon?”

Malwynn almost blushed, the skin of his thin, pale white cheeks taking on a faint redness. “Ha. You’re terribly funny. I can’t speak to children in the near future, or your ability to be an Aunt to them, but I can comfortably say that by the harvest, I think I’ll go to her family and ask their permission for her hand in marriage.”

Umaryn giggled ferociously and took her brother’s arm, shaking it happily. “Oh I’m so happy for you two! Just imagine it. Malwynn the husband, Malwynn the father. Mom and Dad will just be overwhelmed with joy. Imagine little Rynne being an Aunt too. She’ll beam!”

Rynne was their little sister, just ten winters of age. She shared the same midnight black hair and blue eyes as the twins. In just a few more years, she’d be the target of every teenage boy suitor in New Picknell.

“I’m sure she’ll be just smitten with the idea of being an aunt. However… I need to find the courage you seem to have in abundance, and find the nerve to ask her parents for her hand first. I’m sure I’ll manage. Try not to tell mom and dad though. I’m still waiting a bit longer.”

Umaryn beamed, “Not a problem. I’m happy you’ve trusted me with this little secret. It makes me feel very special.” The last bit was delivered with thick sarcasm.

“Mmhm. I’m sure you feel like the most important person in the worl-“ Malwynn stopped mid word, looking over the crest of a hill a half minute’s jog ahead. “Did you hear that?” The tall, young man’s eyed narrowed as he scanned the hill ahead.

Umaryn pointed her eyes at the same spot her brother was investigating, listening intently, trying to sense what he’d sensed. She saw and heard nothing. “I hear nothing. Too much time with the wheat? Not enough time with Marissa has you hearing things eh?”

“I’m telling you, something is happening over that hill. I swear to the ancestors I heard metal on metal. Swords clashing. You’re telling me the artificer in the family can’t sense two forged items making noise nearby? Come. I want to see what’s ahead.”

Umaryn’s eyes narrowed at Malwynn’s stinging insult, but she followed him as he took off running towards his goal. Sometimes he was infuriating.

But brothers can be that way.

Umaryn, always the faster and stronger of the siblings pulled ahead as they ran, cresting the hill and seeing the other side many seconds before her thinner, weaker brother. As she slowed her gait and took in the spectacle before her, the fresh summer air in her lungs turned stale. The coppery stench of raw spilled blood turned her belly sour.

Malwynn reached the peak of the grassy green slope and immediately put his hands on his knees, oblivious to the smell of blood and clamor below. A rapid trio of heavy puffs refilled his empty lungs, and he stood fully, immediately matching his sister’s awestruck expression.

War had come to New Picknell.

Evidence showed the battle had only just begun; there were but a few slain bodies on the ground. One man was freshly murdered. His was clad in sturdy leather armor and wore a white and red tunic over it. He had been attacked at the face and neck, and his armor had failed him. His lifeblood was spilled across a swath of the grass in long jets. His arteries had ejected his blood forcefully. His death had been savage, but quick. Two other bodies wore the unmistakable purple collars of the Amaranth Empire to the far north. The dark purple indicated that the defeated were undead in the control of one of the Queen’s Necromancers. If there were two destroyed undead nearby…

The necromancer was adorned in a rich purple robe that told of his importance in his home nation. In Amaranth the color purple could only be worn by those in service to the Queen, to wear it without her consent was a death sentence. Under the dark folds of rich cloth he was covered from head to toe in what appeared to be plates of thick carved bone. He wore it like a massive petrified insect might wear their shell. He wielded a wicked looking mace in his left hand, heavy and threatening in its blunt power. His true weapon was his bare right hand. The touch of a necromancer often carried the brutal necrotic power of their dark magic. The necromancer himself was mounted on a Gvorn. Gvorn were rare here in the rural areas of New Picknell. They were natural to the far north, and were massive war and pack beasts. Each Gvorn stood as tall as a war horse, but had a powerful set of horns that mimicked a ram. They had thick wool as well that protected them from the snow, ice, and frigid winds. The Gvorn the purple robed necromancer rode was grey like the winter sky, and had a thick coat of wool. This mount had brought him here from deep in the Amaranth Empire. Possibly from as far as the capital necropolis of Graben.

The necromancer was engaged in mortal combat with a man mounted on a Gvorn that dwarfed his. This rugged beast was a full hand higher than the necromancer’s and had been shorn of most of its heavy coat, revealing the dark grey skin beneath. Only a Gvorn from the south would be shaved that way. The man held a rugged shield with the crest of Varrland, and wore dark white and crimson robes over a suit of chain and plate mail. He wore no helm, and his long salt and pepper hair was tied back in a ponytail. It tossed violently about as he swung a gleaming steel long sword at the death mage on the opposing Gvorn. The blade bit into the shoulder of the wizard, cutting a chunk of the bone plate away, and tossing his body nearly out of the saddle.

“Arrgh!” He spat at the knight.

“Invader scum! I’ll send you back to your bitch Queen in an urn!” The knight’s breath was strong. He was barely breaking a sweat in the battle.

At the feet of his massive mount were the rest of the two opposing forces. Things were precarious for the Varrland forces. They were clearly outmatched in numbers. Still standing and violent were a full half score of undead. Their skin was pale grey, the rotting arrested by foul Amaranth magic. They lashed out at half a dozen men similar to the man missing his throat. They slashed out with short swords and decimating fingers that terminated in ragged yellow fingernails. Fortunately the undead were mindless automatons, attacking with only the barest of skill and instinct.

The worst situation was a trio engaged in battle a few horse lengths past the necromancer and knight. Malwynn and Umaryn clutched hands nervously at the crest of the hill as they watched the fatal dance play out. Two men wearing light armor, heavy cloaks edged in a purple fringe, wielding long and wickedly curved battle axes circled a younger man separated from his group. He could be only a few years older than the twins; no more than three winters, maybe four. He had short dark hair, shaved to only the thickness of the razor that cut it. Like the knight riding the Gvorn still battling with the necromancer he wore heavier armor; chain mixed with plate. Instead of the long sword the knight clearly was expert with, the younger man used a warhammer. It was long, almost the length of a grown man’s leg, and had a wicked spike opposite a heavy, hardened steel head. Umaryn admired the weapon’s elegant simplicity as he spun it in deadly circles, hand to hand. The weapon’s balance must have been near-perfect.

Unfortunately, the martial display was just that; all for show, and not for purpose. The young warrior was simply buying time until help could arrive. The two axe wielding assailants quickly had him turned sideways and flanked as he spun his weapon. Finally, after several long, agonizing seconds, the solitary warrior made his move. He looked to one of the two purple cloaked men and suddenly brought the head of his hammer up lightning fast at the other. His eyes bought him hesitation from the man he struck in the face, but he twisted just a few inches too far, and gave his back up for just a few seconds too long. As the Amaranth soldier fell to the grass with his face broken apart by the hammer his cohort struck the Varrland warrior. The foot long smile of the axe slashed down powerfully at the simple chain right beside the red and white clad warrior’s kidneys. Despite the rings of forged steel, the incredible force of the impact ruptured the flesh beneath, sending the man to his knees.

Malwynn’s mind suddenly unfroze, and he slipped his bow from his shoulder as the Amaranth warrior raised his axe for the killing blow. Umaryn watched her brother slip an arrow free from his quiver and let it fly. Spinning like a dervish the arrow flew true, past the knight’s mount only an inch from the creature’s heavy wool coat, and directly into the shoulder of the cloaked invader. The man’s hand reflexively gave way as his downward axe stroke fell harmlessly to the side. He looked savagely towards the twins, his glance threatening them. As Malwynn drew another arrow the Amaranth warrior resorted to a weapon that was still effective: his boots. He kicked the wounded warrior in the back of the skull and flattened his body in the blood stained grass. The warrior lay still as the Amaranth soldier with the arrow lodged in his shoulder came running across the melee at the twins. They had only a few seconds before he’d be up the slope and upon them.

The purple robed necromancer shrieked in joy as the warrior fell, taking his eyes off the knight almost as if a powerful narcotic was taking over his mind. As they watched the murderous Amaranth soldier charge their position the knight capitalized on the necromancer’s exultation. His Gvorn spun round at his command, putting his sword hand a foot closer to the foreign death mage, and he lunged forward, piercing the bone armor under the cloak in a weak location. The smooth blade penetrated the morbid bone armor with a strong thrust, and the necromancer’s high was quickly brought down to earth. He looked over from the fallen Varrlander man to the knight who urged his Gvorn forward, plunging the blade even further in. The necromancer coughed a thick wad of dark blood, and the knight yanked his sword free. His arm cocked back, and he sent a mailed fist into the jaw of the evil wizard, knocking him off the ghostly grey Gvorn. Umaryn and Malwynn watched as the necromancer’s neck twisted disturbingly to the side as he crunched into the ground. His body settled in a manner that planted his dead face into the grass. As his body shuddered the remainder of life inside it, and his throat released the final breath ever taken in, the armor that encased his body suddenly faded from reality. In death, the necromancer’s magic faded.

Their attention switched back to the man almost upon them. Malwynn had another arrow ready and was drawing the string to launch it as the man hefted his axe upwards with his good arm. Umaryn, ever the clever one, stepped instinctively to the side of the man, flanking him almost exactly as the two Amaranth warriors had flanked the Varrlander. Malwynn’s fingers opened, and the arrow bolted off into the chest of their attacker, piercing the chainmail. The arrow didn’t go far though, the chain was of good quality, and Mal had not drawn the string fully. Nonetheless the arrow staggered the rage faced man, and Umaryn struck. She had produced a small hammer from somewhere, Malwynn didn’t know from where, nor did he care. She snarled and sent the hammer at the rear of the man’s head with a backhanded stroke. The forge tool crunched into the base of his skull and Malwynn watched the man’s eyes roll to the whites instantly. He fell down at their feet and twitched several times as the life left his body.

“Finish them!” The knight hollered in his confident baritone. The remaining Varrlander foot soldiers had managed to quell the undead threat with their superior blades and dexterity. The undead were a powerful threat to the common folk, but to armed and armored soldiers, it would take many of the animated dead to be a true threat. Many, or more powerful kinds. As the last undead had its head separated from its body the knight brought his massive war beast over to the twins, clearly surprised at their presence. He had already cleaned and sheathed his blade, and with a silk cloth in his free hand he was wiping away the spatters of fresh Amaranth blood from his face. He stopped his mount a few paces from the panting, adrenaline crashing twins.

“What brought you two out to such a remote place today? If it weren’t for your participation against the Queen’s insurgents I’d suggest you were their allies. Are you locals?” He asked, his tone somewhat thankful.

Umaryn answered. She was calmer than her brother, “Yes… We are from New Picknell, several miles to the south east of here. We’d had a challenging day and wanted a quiet walk.”

The knight smiled, “Not what you expected.”

The twins shook their heads, taking in the carnage and devastation the fight had unleashed. It was as if a bloody sore had appeared out of the ether, and spewed forth dead bodies, and sadness.

“Boy, what is your name? You’ve some skill with that bow.”

Malwynn was lost in his thoughts and frayed emotions, but gathered himself, “I am Malwynn sir. And I’ve little skill with this bow. An ancestor guided my actions, no doubt. This is my twin sister Umaryn.”

“Greetings to you both Malwynn and Umaryn. Your family resemblance is quite strong. My name is Knight Captain Marcus Gray,” the knight said with a smile before continuing. “The dead only assist those worthy of helping Malwynn. Your skill is not to be left out of the equation son. I thank you for joining the fight against the Amaranthines here. You nearly saved Chael’s life. I’m sad to see an Apostle go. Do you know where there might be another Apostle? Is there one by chance in New Picknell?”

The two siblings were floored. They’d watched an Apostle die. Malwynn was the first to speak, “Our mother is an Apostle. Chael was his name? We didn’t know he was an Apostle. I’m... I’m sorry we didn’t save him. I wish I’d drawn my bow a moment earlier.”

The knight dismissed his apology with a sad shake of his head, “He was a warrior too, and when you take your faith to the front lines, you may die for it. He knew the risk and continued forth. He was a good man and died a good death. But now we must ensure that he does not become what he hated so. Can you show us to your mother? We have dead to attend to, and she seems to be our source for the Blessing of Soul’s rest.”

Umaryn and Malwynn nodded simultaneously, as they often did. Together, the Varrlanders gathered up the bodies that needed their souls set free, and they set off back to New Picknell.

Quiet, and safe New Picknell.

- Chapter Two -

NORMALCY SHATTERED

“We live in complicated times,” Marcus Gray said quietly the next morning. Around the long wooden table worn smooth by a decade of plates, silverware and elbows sat Malwynn and Umaryn’s entire family, as well as the large warrior. Even out of his heavy armor he was wide and tall. His hair wasn’t in the ponytail as it was the previous day during the battle; it had been let down and hung around the top of his shoulders.

Little Rynne sat in her elder sister’s lap. She was absolutely smitten with the guest, and the best seat was Umaryn’s lap. Umaryn sat directly beside the hulking warrior from the south, and Rynne leaned over her older sister’s arm, her eyes locked onto the relaxed warrior.

Ellioth, the father of the family nodded to affirm Marcus’ statement, “Things are never simple children. Your mother and I have traveled much of this world, and discovered many things, but no matter what you learn, there is always more to find. Always one more stone to turn over.”

“Why are times complicated?” Umaryn asked Marcus simply.

The Varrlander knight finished chewing his modest bite of eggs before replying, “Umaryn, to our north is a nation that has been ruled over by an unbroken line of Queens for two centuries. From each mother to her daughter the line hasn’t been broken once, and the Purple Throne has controlled that nation with an iron fist. In the Empire you pay fealty to the Queen or you serve her in death.”

“You could choose to leave. You could choose to fight her,” Malwynn offered hopefully.

Marcus shook his head slowly, “There is no choice. Graben is too far to walk, and any mounted locals trying to leave would almost certainly be caught by the Queen’s militia, or ancestors forbid, her personal Order.”

“Order?” Rynne asked in her innocent child’s voice.

“The Order of the Purple Flower. A hundred gvorn mounted elite warriors that answer to the Queen alone. They have a legion of undead in the wings for their military actions as well. Many of their numbers are necromancers as well. Necromancers of a much higher caliber than the simpleton my people faced down yesterday. He was of marginal skill, clearly.”

“Wow,” Rynne answered, only barely comprehending the full weight of the man’s answer to her.

“Things are made complicated by the Empire’s greed for territory. Things are made complicated by the Empire’s need for dead bodies to perform slave labor. Things are made complicated by their constant incursions into Varrland to satisfy these hungers. Things are made complicated by our own Varrlander pride, and sense of patriotism and independence. Don’t forget, we are only a few generations removed from the execution of our own tyrant king. Our national blood boils when we see a nation so close under so similar a rule.  It also does help that our envoys to the Realm of Duulan have not yet met with the Queen to make peace.”

Catherine leaned in and addressed the knight, “How would that help things? You think a Duulani diplomat will achieve what a Varrlander diplomat can’t?”

Marcus nodded confidently, “For whatever reason the current Queen of Amaranth is fond of the King of Duulan. She has listened to his advice many times in the past decade, averting many a crisis, and we are petitioning the King to send missives and diplomats to her to stop this reckless activity. If she does not…” Marcus trailed off, fidgeting with the remnants of food on his plate.

“If she doesn’t what then?”

Marcus looked up with cold eyes, devoid of joy, “Then Varrland would be forced to escalate matters.”

Malwynn felt the mood of the room drop as if snow had fallen fresh and piled a foot high, “You mean war. You mean Varrland might go to war with the Empire.”

“I mean that is a distinct possibility. The Empire has never sent a force this far into Varrland. It speaks of brazen aggression to send a patrol such as the one you and your sister witnessed yesterday so far into our country. It is a strong sign of things likely to come. Unless deterred by force or diplomacy, I can see no other end to this madness.”

“Surely the King of Duulan will send assistance. He must understand the urgency of the matter. War between nations hasn’t occurred in centuries. The potential for massacre without the presence of hundreds of Apostles… It could be as bad or worse than The Great Plague. All of humanity would be at risk once more…” Catherine said, worry thick in her voice. Poor little Rynne absorbed the tension and got out of Umaryn’s lap, and scurried around to her mother, seeking the best shelter from the unknown.

“Agreed,” Marcus said. “It is made more cumbersome by the presence of so many death mages in the Empire. Surely they would use The Way to animate their dead as well as ours. We would be fighting two wars simultaneously.”

“What of the Waymancers in The Northern Protectorate at the school of The Way? They’d intervene, wouldn’t they?” Umaryn asked.

Marcus shook his head negatively, “House Kulare’s presence has been the sole reason the Empire hasn’t attempted to invade the NP. If House Kulare came to our aid, the Queen would surely strike at them. The Protectorate’s quarries and natural resources are far too enviable for her to simply leave alone. The Waymancers there are focused on keeping their home safe, and teaching the new users of The Way properly. To ask them to do more would be selfish, and reckless.”

“What of the other major Knightly Orders?” Ellioth asked, rubbing his hand softly on his youngest child’s back. Rynne’s emotions had reined themselves in with her mother and father’s comforting touch.

Marcus finally nodded, indicating hope, “It is likely that we could receive aid from The Order of the Flame. They have no love lost for the Purple Queen. However, they could spare few knights. They’ve sworn an oath to the nation of Farmington and would not leave them fully, even for such a just cause. The Order of the Lacuna would certainly send warriors to our aid, but they are spread very thin. If it were to come to war, Varrland would need to carry the day expecting no help. We would need to start and finish any war on our own, or at least expect to. Let us hope that this does not come to war, and the Purple Queen hears reason from the lips of the Duulani King.”

The family was in agreement.

“Your hospitality has been enormous. I and my men are in your debt for many reasons this morning,” Marcus said, pulling his hair up into the ponytail he wore the other day.

“It’s been our pleasure to host you. I’m sure our neighbors looking after your men would say the same. We don’t get many visitors to new Picknell, never mind a knight from Daris that’s just fought off an Empire patrol.” Ellioth said with a smile.

“Nevertheless, we are in your debt. Please don’t let my warmongering affect your sleep. I am a leader of men that may be forced to war. Conflict clouds my thoughts.”

Catherine’s warm face looked to him, “If you wish it, I’ll spend some time with you and your men privately. A few blessings from the ancestors for your journey back to Daris might help clear your thoughts, and recover your spent courage.”

Marcus admired the mother, and Apostle. “Of course. My men would certainly appreciate your attention. My sincere thanks for all you’ve done. I’m going to collect my men and return here in a few hours. As a gesture of faith I would like to leave a few gifts behind, if you allow it.”

Malwynn and Umaryn perked up at the idea of gifts. Things new to their small town were rare and wondrous items, no matter how trivial. Ellioth’s facial expression indicated to Marcus that he should continue.

“I see your elder daughter works with her hands. Her deft use of a forging hammer helped save her brother’s life. With even a remote chance of threat on the horizon, I would like to give to her my Apostle Chael’s warhammer. I suspect her natural gifts might allow her to make excellent use of it. I know Chael would approve.”

Umaryn’s eyes lit up like she’d been struck by a bolt of lightning from a storm head, “You’re serious?”

“Of course I am. You and your brother risked much trying to save his life, and I feel it appropriate that you take his weapon, and give it a purpose.”

“Ancestors bless you, thank you so much,” Umaryn said, clearly grateful to the large man.

“I would also like to leave something for your eldest son Ellioth. A gift that may outshine the simple warhammer today.”

Malwynn looked around the room, waiting anxiously to hear what could possibly be more incredible than the weapon his sister had received.

“I wish to leave the Gvorn mount the death mage rode with Malwynn. I feel it will be put to much better use in your fields than underneath another warrior, good or evil. Sometimes it is important that a warrior retire gracefully, and I feel this Gvorn’s time has come.”

The family let loose a series of gasps. Gvorn were incredibly expensive, and owned only by the wealthy, or warriors who required the powerful creatures to do battle. Having one as a farm creature would be an incredible boon not only to Malwynn and the family, but to the whole village.

“I don’t even have words to express my appreciation Sir Marcus. This gift seems like too much,” Malwynn said softly.

“I thought you would say as much, and I disagree. Rename it. Give it a new purpose, and a new life that isn’t dedicated to the ruination of man. I will consider it a task appointed to you.”

Malwynn nodded solemnly.

“I will be leaving the rest of the armor and weapons from the Amaranth warriors in your care Ellioth, should you need to arm your citizens more robustly at a later date. I trust you can handle this task?” Marcus asked seriously.

The father nodded, “Of course.”

“Then I am off to gather my men. Thank you for the breakfast, and I will see you again before we depart.” Marcus stood to his full height and excused himself from the modest dining room. He looked like a shining gem dressed in his finery in the simple home. The family was too excited to say anything for some time.

In the center of the town where the largest well was, Catherine summoned the attention of the ancestors once more to give Marcus and his men a blessing. The entire population of New Picknell, all 167 souls had gathered to watch their departure. Each of the red and white garbed men took her gentle touch on their forehead as if it were a draught of cooling water on the hottest of midsummer days. They felt invigorated, and made more substantial with the support of the spirits in the world around them. To a one, they felt truly and completely blessed by Catherine and the spiritual energy she channeled into them.

Marcus shook many hands before pulling his large body up into the saddle on the back of his massive Gvorn. Taking the reins in hand, he waved and smiled at every person gathered, sharing his tremendous charisma and personal strength. The man seemed to radiate confidence and calm.  Malywnn and Umaryn stood next to one another as they waved him goodbye. Umaryn cradled Chael’s warhammer in the crook of her arm like a royal scepter, comforted in a way that only the Artificer spirit-touched could be by its presence. They watched for some time as the small group of warriors moved off into the distance, and over a gentle rolling hill.

The brother and sister would have many dark days before they laid eyes on him again.

Many days later Malwynn rested deep in a pile of hay with the young girl he was in love with, looking up at the tall apex of the barn they hid inside. New Picknell had returned to normal. The two were stealing this moment. Marissa’s parents would not approve of so intimate a moment for the two yet, and as young lovers, parental wishes were quite secondary.  The hay was old; the dried up leftovers from the prior year, and was mostly straw now. It was itchy against his pale white skin, but the soft scent of flowers wafting up from Marissa’s hair was more than enough to distract him from such a minor discomfort. He felt her wiggle her arm playfully under his back so as to fully envelop him in an embrace. Marissa rested her delicate head in the crux of his arm and looked up into his eyes.

“Strange week we’ve had,” she said quietly.

“Yeah, no doubt,” Malwynn said, meeting her gaze. He bent down and kissed her affectionately and playfully.

“My father says you were quite lucky. He thinks you and your sister are a little crazy for having done what you did.”

Malwynn snickered, “Well we’re crazy, that’s for sure, but not crazy for that. We were trying to help Varrlander knights. It might seem silly now, but we had no time to think about silliness. Just time enough to act.” The tall boy’s thoughts raced back to the moment his second arrow pierced the chain mail of the Empire foot soldier. Malwynn had been less than a second away from being hacked apart by the vicious axe that now rested in his father’s closet.

Marissa nodded, but she didn’t fully understand. There was no way for her to. “I’m glad you and your sister didn’t get hurt. There were undead there, plus a necromancer. Any number of horrible things could have happened. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you Malywnn. I think I’d go mad.”

“It wouldn’t be a far trip dear,” Malwynn said, picking on her. She retaliated by freeing her hands and mercilessly tickling him. The young man giggled until he couldn’t breathe, finally begging her for mercy. She relented. After catching their wind the two nuzzled against one another again, sinking deep into the itchy hay and not caring in the least.

“You know I’m serious. I do think I’d go quite mad if anything happened to you,” Marissa said again, seriously.

Malwynn reached down with a free hand and tilted her face up with a finger on her tiny chin, “Marissa, nothing will ever happen to me like that. And I know you love me, and I love you too. I love you more than I’ll ever really be able to explain, or understand. Nothing will change that, and from now on, I will do my best to stay safe so you don’t have to worry.”

Marissa smiled at him, this time fully understanding him, and they kissed softly, this time longer.

“I’d go a little mad myself if anything happened to you. You know that right?”

“Well THAT would be a short trip, wouldn’t it?” Marissa said before biting Malwynn’s arm with a grin.

Furious tickling ensued.

Umaryn’s face was soaked in sweat. Long black tendrils of her hair clung to the moisture on her forehead and neck, absorbing the salty liquid her pores pushed out. Her muscles burned. Every knot and cord of tendon, sinew, and ligament from the tips of her toes to the top of head ached at least a little. The slender but steely woman raised a hand clad in a thick leather glove holding a torn slip of fabric to her face. She swiped it along her brow, then her nose and cheeks, taking away the salty sweat that threatened to drown her.

“Make sure you drink water girl. There are no heroes in the forge,” Luther, Umaryn’s mentor said. He was a short man, barely reaching Umaryn’s shoulder, but he was built like a draft horse, or a Gvorn. Umaryn often joked with the shaven headed man that even his finger and toe nails had muscles. She wasn’t entirely sure whether or not they actually were muscled.

The black haired woman nodded, unable to respond with voice. She tossed the rag over her shoulder and walked over to the wooden pail the two smiths drank from. After fetching two ladles of cool water, one for her face, one for her mouth and dry throat, she finally regained her voice, “Luther how do you know there are no heroes in the forge? What of the grand creators that manage to make Artifacts? Aren’t they just a little bit of a hero?”

“Touché little one. I suppose they are indeed heroes in many people’s eyes. If you get right down to it, I often feel that you are my hero. On more than one occasion in fact.” Luther grunted, shuffling items about and getting ready for their next project.

“I’m your hero? You must be joking.”

“Not in the least. I’m simply a smith, you see. I heat raw, crude iron, and I hammer it into usable shapes. Not a minor task, I grant. But the iron doesn’t speak to me like it does to you. I’m not spirit touched like you are. I can’t hear what the iron wants to be. I force it to my will only by brute strength. You work with the iron like it is your friend, and when your skill matches your natural gift, what you will be able to create will be my envy darling. It is a thing of beauty to watch even your novice hands work. “

Umaryn blushed powerfully in the heat of the forge, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you will harness your gift. And tell me you’ll get the hell back to work. Arrogant kid. You get one damn compliment and just stop working entirely. Your generation makes me sick,” Luther said, turning away to hide the smile on his face.

Umaryn grinned ear to ear and fetched another ladle of water to slake her powerful thirst. As she tipped the drink up and let the cool water fill her mouth she looked over to the wall where her new warhammer leaned. In the recesses of her mind and soul she could almost hear the pure voice of the hammer, and wondered where it had been made, and who had struck the shape of it. It was a fantastic weapon, and she burned to match its creator’s talent. More so than ever, she wanted to put hammer to iron, and to listen to the sounds of the spirits being born underneath her strikes.

As the days wore on in New Picknell life settled back in to the normal grind. Malwynn’s life became easier as he learned to use the massive Gvorn left to him by Marcus. He chose the name Bramwell for it, and decided that he would let its coat grow out a bit as the summer came to an end. His thick coat would be a boon come winter. Bramwell was a tremendous gift to the family, allowing for Malwynn to move heavy cart loads about town much faster, as well as for riding, and general labor. He made a decision to save all his Varrland marks so he could take a train trip south to Daris to buy a saddle that was fitting for the creature. The necromancer’s saddle had a strange air about it that made Malwynn feel queasy. He kept it in the barn with the family’s two horses. The two family horses Tinder and Sky were put into quite a fervor when Bramwell first joined them, but after a full week, they were comfortable with the larger creature’s presence.

Umaryn’s hard work in the forge continued. Luther never mentioned any envy of her again, but Umaryn often wondered just how much potential she had for him to say such a thing. Luther was a modest man that spent little time complimenting anyone, or anything. If she did something perfect, he simply said, “good.” Anything less than good was met with a tirade about a lack of work ethic, and how she was wasting his time. She still loved him like a second father though, and despite her frustration with his ways, he was a wonderful teacher for her to apprentice under. She had already learned much, and she knew in the years to come she’d learn far more.

Malwynn spoke to his mother and father about Marissa as well. Ellioth and Catherine were smitten nearly as much by the pretty girl that lived down the way, and when Malwynn spoke to them seriously and full of trepidation about marrying her, their hearts swelled with pride and love. To watch their son fall in love, and reach the point of truly joyous marriage was beyond heartwarming for the two of them. Ellioth agreed it was a wonderful idea, and Catherine the same. The mother also said she would be delighted to look over the ceremony if Marissa and Marissa’s family said yes. Malwynn vowed that he’d speak to her parents in a day or two, and the family concocted a grand scheme to get her out of the home so he could do just that.

Early at dawn the next day both Malwynn and Umaryn were sitting at the same well worn table they’d shared since their early childhood. The familiar smell of Catherine’s hands, and Ellioth’s pipe smoke were worn into the wood more permanently than any stain could be. Malwynn traced faint lines where he’d pressed his fingernails into the wood as a child when forced to eat the vegetables he’d hated so. Now he ate them with relish, and laughed at the tiny gouges he’d left so long ago. Now there were tiny fingernail marks in the table from their little sister Rynne for similar reasons. Umaryn sipped on a thick mug of hot coffee she’d poured from a glass press a few minutes prior. The dark rich liquid steamed into the cool summer morning air and Malwynn savored the scent. He had no taste for the brew, but the scent tickled memories, and that he loved very much. Umaryn let the dark drink cascade warmly to her stomach and invigorate her mind.

“I think we should take Bramwell out for a ride. Maybe to the north hills? Check on the blueberries and pick some to make pies later? Or maybe we can talk mom into making her special cobbler? What do you think?” Malwynn offered the idea to his sister. Jaunts like these were common for them, though never before with a Gvorn.

“Your large friend would make gathering a few buckets of berries a lot easier,” Umaryn said between sips of coffee.

“Yeah. We could also pack a small lunch, and eat out there. I think mom was going to spend some time over at the Reegan house helping old man Reegan with his arthritis. She’ll be tied up over there for hours. He’s like a magnet, you just can’t get away from him once he gets started telling stories about the great undead outbreak in his home town as a kid. Remember when we used to go out there with dad? He’d pretend to be an Ice Bear, and we’d pretend to be rangers from the Great Land Shelf? Oh ancestors, we were silly. It was so much fun though.” Malwynn watched the steam rise off of his sister’s mug wistfully. He was reminiscing a lot lately as he mulled over the marriage proposal. It felt to him like his whole world was about to change. He couldn’t be more correct.

Umaryn smiled with him. “Let me finish my coffee. If you get Bramwell ready, I’ll grab Tinder.”

“Deal.” Malwynn stood up on legs still creaky from sleep, and headed back to his room to gather his things for a morning out. It would be glorious to ride Bramwell as his sister rode Tinder with the sun warming the day.

Umaryn savored her hot drink.

When the twins were small children Ellioth would take them out to the north hills outside New Picknell. The land was the last bump in the earth before becoming flat and heading further north into the steadily cooling territory of the Empire. Despite seeming very far away, in truth, the lands of the Purple Queen were frighteningly close.

On their tiny legs with their father leading them it would take Umaryn and Malwynn almost two solid hours of walking to reach the dark green hills covered in low lying blueberries. They’d arrive each time covered in the innocent sweat a hot child often is, with their father beckoning them to take a drink of water from his skin before they gorged themselves sick on the plump blue gems they’d walked so far to pick. Of course one or both of them would stick too many of the berries into their bellies, and they’d pay the price by sending them back up forcefully with their father shaking his head and laughing all the while. The lessons learned by youth.

This time the twins had far more patience, and on the gentle backs of Bramwell and Tinder the journey took only half an hour. Also, they were here not only to pluck the fruits, but to simply spend a little bit of time together. In truth, both knew that in a day or two their lives could and would change. No one expected Marissa’s parents to rebuke Malwynn, son of the town’s lone Apostle and most learned sage. Uniting their daughter with him was not only the right thing to do for the young couple, but also a smart move for their family. It would be a move up in status for them in the town, and it would bring the two families together. Consumed by her thoughts, Umaryn debated all the different paths their lives could take in just a few days.

Umaryn would finally have a bedroom to her own in the family home. No longer would she have to share a bed with little Rynne. Both thoughts pained her. She’d miss her brother’s presence fiercely, but she lamented the thought of not comforting her smaller sister each night as she drifted off into sleep. The dark haired apprentice of the forge wondered how little Rynne would take to sleeping alone. Umaryn would also see her brother far less as he set out and made his own home. Knowing Malwynn’s work ethic he would set out and lay fence at the edge of town near the family farm and claim it as his own. He’d take the Gvorn and ready the land for crops, and within a year his hard work would pay off with green gardens, and food to eat and sell. It was likely that before a single bite of food reached the table Marissa would be a mother. Umaryn wasn’t a fool, and knew the two of them were already making love. She envied the intimacy her brother had found with another, but she knew it wasn’t her time yet. Umaryn was focused on, no- she was obsessed with learning more about her craft. A man would come some day that would win her heart, give her another thing to obsess over and until then, she swallowed her envy away and replaced it with joy for her brother’s future. Soon she’d share a future like his.

She would of course throw herself into the work at the forge. Her life as a smith would probably flourish. No distractions like these jaunts to the countryside for berries to get in the way of her practice with Luther. All that extra time with the barrel shaped man would lead to many new skills, and hours and hours of back breaking work. As she watched Malwynn pluck sun ripened berries from dark leaved bushes she wondered how much muscle she’d put on, and whether or not it would be attractive to a man. She shrugged and went back to pulling berries like her brother.

Umaryn half kneeled to reach the fruit. Hers was a better way than his. Inside he laughed, wishing he could gather the berries with his bow somehow. The tall young man looked to the sky and over to the horizon where the ghostly faint image of the cool moon Lune could be seen. Lune’s grayish blue orb was slung just above the green grass of the hills and looked so much larger than it usually did. Malwynn wondered how long it’d be before Hestia, Lune’s smaller red sister moon appeared trailing behind it. Malwynn’s eyes registered something in the foreground, and they shifted their focus slowly, bringing it into reality. Snaking across the top of the sky above his head there was a thin, gray black smudge. Malwynn tipped his head up until he stared straight up into the sky, then a little further, and then a bit more, following the smudge back to its source over a hill they crossed to get to the blueberry patch. Malwynn had his head in the thick low lying blueberries before he realized where his eyes were pointed. He rolled over, bringing the world right-side-up, and as he was struck with horrible dread, he felt his pulse quicken.

“Umaryn,” he said apprehensively, voice full of worry.

“Yeah?” She replied, not looking to where her brother looked, or hearing the emotion underlying his message.

“Look over here. There’s smoke in the sky.”

Malwynn looked over his shoulder at her and watched as she put two and two together. “You think that’s coming from home?

“It’s an awful lot of smoke sis.”

Umaryn put her nose to the air and lowered her mental focus on the real world. As a fledgling Artificer she should have little ability to sense what was burning, especially so far away, but it was worth a try. She inhaled deeply, forcing the air fully through her nostrils and far into her belly, giving her senses a chance to filter out what the source of the smoke might be.

Immediately images of hewn wood, plaster, brick and nails flashed into her conscious. She saw wallpaper peeling, toys burning, and furniture ablaze. She caught millisecond views of thick curls of black smoke wafting menacingly out from walls and floors as bright orange tongues of flame belched free, reaching out hungry for more oxygen. The place was familiar to her. It was intimate and permanent in her mind. Umaryn was momentarily paralyzed by the inaudible screams of the spirits of the items in her vision burning, and felt their remote destruction more fully in an instant than she’d felt any physical pain in her whole life. By the time the visions passed only a second had elapsed, and her eyes were already full to the brim with thick tears, and every nerve ending in her tense body was electrified with stimulation. Malwynn watched as she reeled. Once she gained her balance Umaryn coughed, retched a dry heave, and looked to him desperately.

“Our house is burning.”

The two scrambled to their feet. They had to get home immediately.

Flames ate at every wooden surface in New Picknell with ferocity. It burned with a ferocity born of The Way, not of merely just nature. No fire could burn as hot, or spread as fast without pure magic fueling its movement and power. By the time Tinder and Bramwell carried the brother and sister back to where they’d grown up, the only thing remaining in the village was blackened frames of homes, and brick chimneys. Bodies torched in the intense heat were drawn tight by burnt skin and flesh, or split open by blades and charred. In the fields the two saw cows, goats and sheep slain by the dozen, their bodies left wastefully in pools of their own blood. Whoever had come to New Picknell came to raze and destroy it, not pillage it for loot.

Both brother and sister were overcome with emotion as they rode around the edge of the town. Unlike many other Elmoryn towns, New Picknell had no city wall. Walls in a world where the dead came back to unlife were practical for many reasons. New Picknell relied on farm fences, and around these the twins rode. The heat of the coals was still too much to persuade the two mounts to go closer, so they rode in circles over and over, watching as the final flames died out, and as the final homes crumbled, leaving nothing but memories and burnt cinders in their wake. One hand of each was wrapped tightly around the reins of their mount while the other hand continuously wiped away tears from eyes burning from smoke in the air. The stench of death was more powerful than either of them could’ve ever imagined. Malwynn felt that even the ancestors could smell the ruined town and its dead inhabitants from across the veil.

“Everyone is dead. They are all dead,” Umaryn said, her throat hoarse from the yelling and screaming she’d just given up on.

Malwynn rested his hands, still clutching Bramwell’s reins in his lap. He knew she spoke the truth, “There’s a chance someone is alive. Someone had to have escaped this, and whoever did it. Maybe my Marissa survived?”

“No. No one escaped. Marissa is gone Malwynn, I’m sorry. You know as well as I do. We’d have seen them by now,” Umaryn said, deflated.

Malwynn had no response. He simply wiped away the tear streaming to his jaw. His life had been shattered.

“Who did this? Who would come to New Picknell and murder it? Who would murder a whole village, and leave?” Umaryn asked. Her mind was dangerously close to unfurling, and spilling apart like a melon dropped from too high.

“Someone trying to prove a point. Someone who didn’t like New Picknell interfering in their business.”

The dark haired woman sat up straight in Tinder’s saddle, her emotions suddenly kindled in a new direction; towards hatred. “You think the Empire is responsible for this? You think those purple fucks rode here and smote our home because of the fight the other day?”

Malwynn was taken aback by his sister’s language, “We’ll have to see if there are many bodies left. If it was the Empire, I’d imagine they’d take many of the bodies home for their foul mages to resurrect as undead. I know we’ve seen some dead, but their bodies were ruined by the fire. If many of our townsfolk are missing, I say it points a finger directly at Graben. Straight north to the hands of the Purple Queen.”

“I’ll find whoever did this. I swear to all the spirits denied today in these deaths.  I swear to all the ancestors that have come before us, all the spirits that will come after us, and I swear to every spirit of all things made. I will find who did this, and they will rue the day they came to my home, and did this.” Umaryn said, her voice full of hardened steel, and freshly tempered hatred.

Malwynn felt the hair on the back of his neck stand as he listened to the strength of her statement, “I will be there every step of the way with you. You will not shed a drop of blood without my presence to catch it. The death of our family, and my love will not go unanswered.”

Oaths given, the two sat silently, watching their village collapse into ash forever.

Malwynn used an arm long length of hewn timber to lift and move debris off a dead body, grimacing as he saw and recognized the face. He called out to his sister, “It’s old man Reegan. He’s been split up the middle with a blade. Something big. Dead long before the fire ever touched his flesh.” Malwynn moved his piece of wood, flipping the debris up and off of the old man’s corpse. He tossed his stick aside towards Bramwell and took one of old man Reegan’s legs to drag him to a central spot where the twins had been collecting the bodies. There were very few bodies. Only thirty and they’d searched most of the town already.

Umaryn’s face was covered in streaks of black. She’d been elbow deep in soot covered drudgery since they had been able to come inside the town. It was only a few hours from sunset, and they’d yet to find a living survivor. Soon the evening chill would come, along with the winds across the plains. “I think that’s it. We can check the foundation basements, but if I had to wager on what we’d find…”

“We’ll be finding no one. You were right Umaryn. Everyone is dead.”

The two said nothing for several minutes as they looked at the pile of bodies they’d collected. It was far too large, and far too real.

“I think there is enough wood for a proper pyre. Mother had a cord of wood the other day behind the barn. The barn is gone, but the wood… The wood might still be there.”

Malwynn nodded slowly. “We will need to collect supplies. We’ve no money. No food. All our clothes are gone in the fire.”

It was Umaryn’s turn to nod, “Help me with the wood. These bodies are sure to sit back up soon and seek fresh blood unless we burn them. I’m surprised they haven’t sat up and bitten one of us yet. Mother would scold us.”

The last sentence hit both brother and sister hard. Mother wouldn’t be scolding them for anything anymore.

It turned both of their stomachs to be sitting near a funeral pyre, and to be thankful for its warmth. The sun had indeed set, as it had done every day since time immemorial, and the chill had come as expected. They huddled tight to one another with the single blanket they’d found draped over their shoulders. It was a meager shelter, but they were warmed by the pyre’s flames without, and the inner burning desire for vengeance within.

They looked up at the stars and gave each one a name. A name for a resident of New Picknell they knew.  A name for a friend they knew. A name for a dead person.

They would not shiver that night.

Umaryn headed to the forge at dawn’s first light, her skin still caked with the blackness from the night before. She watched as Hestia, the tiny red moon dipped over the horizon and hid for the remainder of the day. At the ruins of the forge she found no bodies. Luther may have died at the forge, but his body did not stay there. Perhaps, if he was fortunate his flesh and bones were consumed in the flames of the forge, where workers of metal might find peace in the afterlife. She hoped as much as she could he had met that fate, though she suspected something far darker came of his end.

Lying in the dirt of the forge she found all that remained; the heads of hammers, and the warped, twisted wreckage of tools that couldn’t withstand the overpowering flames that destroyed the workplace. There was precious little she could salvage, but she took what was still conceivably useful. She took these things less out of hope that they’d be usable, and more for their emotional value. Every piece she walked away with was one more memory salvaged in her mind.

Far away, across the expanse of the flattened village and all alone Malwynn sat cross legged in the middle of the street.  He was in front of the void that had been Marissa’s home. His eyes had no focus. The bright blue seemed muted now, filled with a grey that came from his tortured soul within. Malwynn’s thoughts lacked focus. His emotions roiled to and fro from happiness to sadness. From joy brought on by happy recollections to the unending grief brought on by his reality. He was so unhappy, and had no way to express it.

The only thing left of Marissa’s home was the large flat stone that had rested as their doorstep. Nothing else remained. Malwynn looked at and traced his eyes along the cracks caused by the heat of the flames. It had been rough before, but that texture made it safe, like the sure footing you got from sand tossed on ice. Now the stone was melted to a smoother consistency, and crisscrossed with fissures that looked like black veins. He remembered the evening last fall that he and Marissa had shared their first kiss on that stone. He’d brought her home after taking her for their third “date.” It was simply a walk around town, taking a few minutes to stop in at the forge to meet Umaryn, and watch her make a horseshoe. Umaryn had approved of Marissa that night, and he’d felt so happy he’d given the pretty girl a nervous kiss on the cheek when he brought her home. Marissa had returned his awkward advance with a retaliatory kiss on the lips before stealing away inside.

So long ago.

Umaryn fell to the ground shortly after Malwynn’s mind drifted away. She sat cross legged as he was. “Thirty two bodies. That leaves one hundred thirty five unaccounted for, assuming dad’s population count was right. What did you say that would mean?”

Malwynn blinked several times to clear his mind and return to the present, “I thought it meant this was the Empire’s deed. They animate their victims and bring them home to put them to work. Like the necromancer Marcus killed. He had undead with him.”

“Do you think the Empire did this?” Umaryn asked, dragging the tip of an old pair of pliers in the dirt of the street, drawing the shape of a segment of armor she’d imagined while daydreaming.

“Of course they did. We fought back against their patrol, so they came and ruined New Picknell. They took our dead, and left us this-, this destruction.”

“What do we do? I can’t just move on from this brother. I swore an oath to find justice and I will see to it, come Hell or high water.”

Malwynn nodded, his eyes fixed on Marissa’s doorstep, “There is no hell. Just the ancestor state.”

“Mother said the spirits know there’s more beyond where they are. Heaven and Hell. And I’m saying Hell won’t stop me from smashing the skulls of the people responsible for this apart.”

“Whatever,” Malwynn said bitterly, avoiding the bulk of the reasonless argument.

“Don’t whatever me. We need a plan Mal. Where are we going?  What are we going to do? You’ve always been the smarter one. Dad always made you read.”

The compliment caught Malwynn by surprise and he smiled. It was his first smile since seeing black smoke in the sky. He spent a few moments analyzing the potential future ahead of them, and then committed to a plan. “We gather what we can. We head north and west to look for the tracks of who did this. See if they headed into the Empire. If we have to, we head to Graben itself and find out who did this.”

“How will we manage that? We’ve never been anywhere Mal. We’ll stick out like a sore thumb in the Empire. We’ll never be able to find anyone there without rousing suspicion. We’d get ourselves killed like everyone here.”

Malwynn smiled in a way that made Umaryn uneasy. It was predatory, almost wolf-like. “We won’t rouse any suspicion if that Amaranth armor Marcus left for us survived the fire. Father locked it away in the basement in his metal chest. If it made it through the fire, we should be able to waltz over the border and straight to Graben. Then, it’s a simple matter of carefully inflicting pain on people until we find who did this to our families.”

It was Umaryn’s turn to smile like a predator.

- Chapter Three -

THE ROAD TO OCKHAM’S FRINGE

“I hate to say this, but the purple looks good on you,” Umaryn said, grudgingly looking at her brother in the Amaranth armor. A stroke of luck had preserved just two sets of the salvaged gear.

“If you hate to say it, then don’t say it,” Malwynn returned, adjusting the fit of the armor. It made him itchy.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Umaryn said, adjusting the fit of her own armor.

Malwynn looked and took her in. The armor they both wore was primarily made of leather. Umaryn said it was Gvorn leather, but Malwynn couldn’t tell. His sister probably whispered to the thick skin and it told her its name. He’d never understand The Way. She was right though. The armor was good looking. The smooth dark brown leather had a rich and earthy tone to it, like the delicious Oakdale chocolate their mother bought from the markets in Daris. Arranged geometrically across the entire leather surface of the armor were steel studs, or rivets, that added extra protection. Many were shiny, almost like chrome in nature, but a sizeable amount were rust colored, stained from the shed blood of their original wearer. The set of armor Malwynn wore had a hole in the arm and chest where he’d shot two arrows into the wearer, when he was still alive. Malwynn snuck a finger into the chest hole with a sense of satisfaction. He’d already killed one Amaranthine warrior, and was excited to kill more.

“That won’t do, will it?” Umaryn asked randomly.

“What? What won’t do?” Malwynn responded, his finger falling out of the hole almost shamefully.

“That hole. No front line warrior would wear a suit of armor with a hole in it like that. I can mend it, come here and stand still for me.” Umaryn walked over to her brother and squared his body to hers. The two looked strange standing in the decimated village with nothing but a horse, a Gvorn, and burnt rubble around them.

Umaryn took the collar of his armor into her hands and closed her eyes, “Armor from the land of the Purple Queen do you hear me?” She whispered softly to the armor. Malwynn heard no response, but he could tell that his sister did.

“Mmm. You must be in pain then.” She said to the armor. Malwynn judged that she wasn’t so much responding to the armor, as she was soothing emotions or sensations radiating from it. She seemed as if she was an attentive mother talking to a fitful baby. Umaryn’s hands slipped free of the collar and drifted downwards, drawing geometric shapes with the tips of her delicate, yet incredibly strong fingers. Malwynn’s mind raced with the patterns her fingers drew, sensing on some strange mystical level that the shapes carried meaning and power, but he failed to comprehend and understand fully what she was doing. As her nails and fingertips dragged back and forth and around she slowly changed their rhythm and dance to a circular motion that ringed the hole in the chest.

She began to whisper again, this time in a similar soothing tone, but full of authority, and resonance, “Let this wound to your spirit be no more. Remember the memory of your perfect self armor, and protect my brother with pride, and my admiration.” Malwynn dipped his head down in amazement and watched as the ragged puncture in the armor slowly folded in upon itself like a flower escaping from a full bloom, and resting in the night. Within just scant seconds, the hole was gone, the sheen of the leather had taken on a new brightness, and Malwynn could smell the freshness in the armor return, as if it had literally just been made.

Umaryn suddenly stood up straight, and adjusted the armor roughly on her brother, smiling, “There. Much better. Both holes are fixed too. Best repair spell so far.”

Malwynn looked at the armor where the second arrow hole had been. There was absolutely no sign of there ever having been damage, “Wow sister. That’s incredible. I will never understand how you do what you do… I am in awe of The Way.”

“You and me both. Let’s get what we can gather and get moving. The longer we take, the further away they people who did this get.”

Despite hours scouring the ruins for food, there was none worth bringing. No morsels of meat, no slices of bread, and certainly nothing sweet to take the bitter taste of ash and death out of their mouths. The twin’s bellies cramped and ached from hunger, and once they’d abandoned hope of finding anything to satisfy their need for food, they committed themselves to returning to the hills where they’d left behind the berries.

As Tinder and Bramwell bore them north to the fruit-bearing hills the brother and sister lamented their loss. Umaryn spun her horse about at a rise in the earth and stopped, looking back on the grey waste of New Picknell. What remained of the village at the bottom of the hill looked more like a smudge of memory than a town. Tiny curls of delicate white smoke escaped from underneath massive piles of rubble, heading towards a strange grave far up in the sky.

Malwynn turned his massive Gvorn about and brought it to a rest standing beside his sister. They sat quietly, reins in trembling hands, both watching the smoke rise.

“I wonder what happens to our souls when we die, and don’t become undead and aren’t set free by the apostles? Is it oblivion? Is it hell? Is it painful?” She asked him, emotionless, seeking some kind of solace.

Malwynn sighed deeply, “I don’t know. I hope it’s better than the fate of those who die and become undead. We all know that’s torment, pure and simple.”

“I think dying and not coming back as an undead is almost as good as being blessed and becoming an ancestor spirit. I think it’s just restful.”

The brother shrugged. “I wish I knew. If it’ll help you sleep at night, then I suppose it’s like restful nothingness. Like when you wake up and can’t quite remember your dreams. Although there’s no waking up. No burden of eternal existence as an ancestor, and no rage of the undead. I guess it could be worse.”

Umaryn seemed satisfied by that line of logic. She nodded slowly, letting it sway her back to a better mood, “I want everyone who did this to us to die Malwynn. And I don’t want a single one of them to be blessed. I don’t care if they become undead, but I do not want them to poison the world being spirits. These kind of people can’t be allowed to influence the world anymore. They must be removed from existence entirely.”

“Erased.”

She nodded, “Like New Picknell was.”

Oddly enough, no animals had touched the berries. They remained untouched in the finely woven wicker baskets their mother had fashioned when they were children. Both were thankful for the return to the hill not only for the dark blue berries but also for the mementos.

They had precious little evidence now that their family had ever existed. Fleeting memories pulled to and fro in their cluttered and vengeance-clouded minds. Small peeks at blue sky through dark clouds. Holding onto the baskets brought them back to their childhood and back to clear memories that were still untouched by the events they’d just experienced.

They ate a full belly of the rich spoils from the day prior, careful not to eat too much, picked a full bag more, and left heading west towards the rails where they could hopefully find a way north after their prey.

They found tracks about ten miles from the north hill. The hard ground had hoof shaped pockmarks ten paces wide heading northwest, almost the same direction as they were heading initially. Malwynn was not an expert tracker by any means, but he could read the way the dirt was thrown, and could approximately tell their direction, number, and relative speed. Whoever had ridden away from New Picknell had done so at a comfortable pace. The arrogance of might made them feel safe. Malwynn wanted badly to prove their arrogance wrong.

“I think there were about ten of them. No more than twenty. The ground isn’t that torn up. Whoever it was moved far north, away from the direct line of the rail from town. I’d bet they rode northwest, and picked up a chartered train. Who has the wealth to charter a train Umaryn?”

“The Purple Queen,” she replied.

“Exactly. Makes perfect sense. Charter a small train with an empty freight car, disgorge your mounted warriors, send them south away from the rail so we don’t see them get off the train at the rail stop near town, and that’s it, the end of New Picknell. They escape the way they came, and reverse the train back to Graben. It’s simple. Not even fancy, or hard to accomplish if you bring enough warriors, and necromancers.”

“Bastards.” Umaryn spat the word.

“What’s the name of the last town on the tracks before the border? How far away is it?” Malwynn asked, looking up to his sister from the hard ground. She still sat on Tinder’s back.

Her eyes scanned the low rolling hills in every direction, looking for something that might be watching them. She replied, distracted. “Um, I believe it’s called… something Fringe.”

“Ockham’s Fringe. That’s it. Dad said it was about a two-day ride away. We are about four hours into that trip. We can head north to there, and use what money we have left to buy a ticket to head north into the Empire. Maybe someone there will have seen the force head north, or know something.”

“Perfect. Get on your damn Gvorn and let’s get moving. Right now I want to get somewhere I can take a hot bath, that has a hot meal I can enjoy.” Umaryn felt her stomach rumble. The berries might have been nutritious, but they were not particularly filling.

“Ancestors bless us, maybe we’ll find an elk or deer on the way. Would be a wonderful gift to show we’re on the right path.”

The two pointed their mounts on a path closely following the trail left behind by the people who murdered their family.

Sense told them to rest their mounts after pushing hard that first day. Malywnn had more experience with horses than his sister, but his determination to move north caused him to forget that despite their size and strength, the creatures they rode needed a break. He persuaded Umaryn to stop at a cluster of fledgling trees in the elbow of a tiny stream to rest that night. It was the only cover in the flat expanse of plains they crossed. The horse was brushed, the Gvorn was brushed, and his thick wool freed of the many tangles under the saddle pad. Malwynn could tell Bramwell and Tinder were happy to be stopped, and they put their long necks low to the ground and ate the sweet green grasses gratefully. He took some satisfaction in his empathy with creatures. It might not be the mystical power that his sister shared with the things created, but it was still something to be proud of.

Umaryn went on at length about how they needed to sleep lightly, and wake with the rising of the sun, but she was blacked out asleep nearly the moment her head was flat on the blanket on the ground. Malwynn watched the rise and fall of her chest and the simple innocence on her face. He’d known her since birth, and he was incredibly thankful he still had her.

As the two moons of Elmoryn, one white, and one red, crept their way up into the dark blue night sky, Malwynn walked away from the shelter his sister slumbered in. He took with him his bow, and the sheaf of arrows he carried for hunting. Hanging from the thickest branch at chest height he’d slung a cotton bag filled with gathered grass and earth. As the night’s chill set in, he drew the string of his bow and sent arrow after arrow into the makeshift target. He let the projectiles fly until both moons had disappeared; his fingers were raw, and nearly bleeding. He reminded himself to ask Umaryn to cast her spell of repair on the arrows the next day. He’d dulled their tips.

Like his sister, he was asleep the moment he closed his eyes.

“There you go, all better,” Umaryn said, handing Malwynn the quiver filled with freshly sharpened arrows. It’d only taken her half an hour to accomplish the feat with The Way.

“Thank you.”

“You know you should’ve gone to sleep when I did. You’re going to be exhausted all day today. It was silly to stay up late shooting arrows in the dark. What if you’d shot Tinder, or Bramwell? What then?” Umaryn asked. Malwynn was taken slightly aback by how much she sounded like their mother. Something about her tone, and her body language.

“I put the target well away from them, as well as you. There was no danger. Besides, we both need to be practicing our fighting skills. I’m good with the bow, but I need to be better.”

Umaryn conceded his logic. “I guess if you need to rest we can tie Bramwell on to Tinder and you can flop forward in your saddle. I’ll cross my fingers you don’t fall off the saddle though. Now that would be funny.” She grinned. Malwynn nodded, smiling in return.

After getting their mounts ready to move, filling their water skins, and eating the last of the blueberries, the two left the pleasant little camp and wandered back to the trail they had followed the day before.

Their suspicions were proven quite correct by noon. Under the oppression of the hottest sun they’d felt in days the twins examined the spot at the rails where the tracks became very cluttered and complex, and simply terminated. The prints approached one side of the train rails, and then never appeared on the other side. Whoever had done this had left with all their mounts loaded on a train.

“I guess that solves that mystery,” Umaryn said bitterly.

“Indeed. If we push, we can reach Ockham’s Fringe by nightfall. Maybe a bit after. Hopefully we can find a few answers there.”

The two agreed, and they turned parallel to the rail tracks, and started to head almost directly north in the direction of Ockham’s Fringe, and the Amaranth Empire, home of the Purple Queen.

“Stop,” Malwynn said out of the blue. Only an hour had passed since they turned north at the tracks, and the heat of the day was wearing them to the bone. Skin was angry and red, and covered in salty sweat. He peered north towards the horizon, his eyes squinting against the brightness of the yellow sunlight.

Umaryn halted Tinder, “What? What do you see?”

“There’s something large ahead, down near that stream. Can you see it? It’s big, maybe another Gvorn or something? A wild horse? Any chances the ancestors are smiling on us and sent us an elk?” Malwynn could see a quadripedal creature near the edge of a small stream. Likely the same stream they’d camped at the night prior. The creature was frozen with its head down, like it had just taken a drink from the slow moving water and heard the twins coming. Just upstream from the creature he could see a small wooden bridge for the rails crossing over the water as well.

“It’s far too large to be a horse or elk. Oh dear. I think that’s a Plains Walker. Look at the front of it. It’s got horns, not antlers.” Umaryn was surprised.

Malwynn squinted a bit more and shifted where his hand was, better shielding his eyes. Suddenly the creature’s form drew into focus. It was huge as his sister said. It was much larger than Tinder, and even bigger than Bramwell. At the shoulder it stood as tall as the twins, just shy of six feet, but its girth was immense. The creature had no head, having only four thick tree trunk sized legs at each corner of its body. From piggish hoof to piggish hoof running the length of its body, the creature was nearly twice the length of Tinder, and probably more. At each end instead of a head or tail, the creature wore two strange natural body parts. A pair of curving horns as large as an Ebonvale warrior’s scimitar sprouted forth in a strangely threatening manner. Malwynn was reminded of the wild hogs he and his father hunted several summers back and their brutish tusks. Opposite the pair of tusks were two thick and tough appearing appendages, somewhat resembling a pair of tails, though they moved more like limbs might. From this distance, it was hard to gauge which end was supposed to pass for the head.

“What do we do?” Malwynn asked, suddenly trying to keep his voice low.

“I think they are dangerous. Maybe we should cross to the other side of the tracks and pass that way, far to the west so it can’t see us. Best to avoid a fight with a creature twice the size of us and our horses,” Umaryn offered.

“I have a Gvorn, you have a horse.”

“Fuck you Malwynn you know what I meant. That thing could run us over as surely as the trains that run on these here tracks. Little reason to anger it. Let’s just give it a wide berth, okay?” Umaryn said snippily.

“You’re right. Let’s go.”

Changing course due west instead of north, the brother and sister gingerly headed towards the twin rails to cross them. The straightest route had them move slightly closer to the Plains Walker far away at the stream. Umaryn crossed the rails first, guiding Tinder over the minor obstacle with impressive confidence and skill. Malwynn felt it took her no effort at all with the animal.

He did not perform the same task with the same grace. Bramwell and Malwynn had not yet fully bonded, and mount and rider still had many subtle nuances to learn of one another before something even that simple could be managed perfectly. As Bramwell crossed the tracks the very bottom of a hoof struck the iron rail, setting free a resounding metallic ping. Both brother and sister spun their heads back to the Plains Walker, wincing.

The creature’s posture had changed. It swayed back and forth, allowing its massive shoulders to feel out the air around it. The creature twisted, pivoted in place, using all four of its legs in a manner neither had seen a creature move in. The legs appeared able to move forward, backward, and side to side with equal ease. Suddenly the creature oriented itself with the two massive curved spikes aimed directly at the top of the ridge where they had frozen.

“Do you think it sees us? Where are its eyes?” Malwynn whispered over a warm and gentle breeze.

The creature answered by lurching forward at them, charging across the grassy terrain directly in their direction.

“Shit! Go! GO!” Malwynn hollered, the ruse of stealth now abandoned fully.

The two kicked hard and sent their creatures bolting forward. Umaryn, already having crossed the rails, was over the loose stone the heavy timbers sat on and was down the ridge and heading as far away as fast as Tinder could carry her. Malwynn’s thunderous Gvorn was only a few lengths behind her but his beast wasn’t built for speed, simply power. The two sped their animals straight out from the rail as fast as they could, and Malwynn stole a glance over his shoulder to see if the Plains Walker had reached the top of the raised land where the rails were. His stomach reached his feet when he saw all four of its ungainly appearing legs pumping strongly straight down the hill directly on their heels. The Walker had covered the entire distance in only a few breaths of time.

“It’s almost upon us! Faster!” Malwynn screamed, this time louder than the first. He watched as his sister’s heels dug into Tinder’s side and the resulting increase in the creature’s speed. He attempted the same on Bramwell, but the creature was already breathing as hard and running as fast as it could. He stole another glance a second later just in time to watch as the creature’s massive tusks rammed lengthwise into Bramwell’s hind quarter, sending rider and mount sprawling violently into the earth. Malwynn let loose a terrified scream as he fell sideways into the ground, his legs, hips, ribs and shoulders crumpling with horrifying force. Tumbling sideways directly in the air above him he watched as Bramwell utter a whinny and snort, itself spinning end over end, doing a wildly raucous version of what he’d just done himself. Through the stars in his vision and the spinning in his head he watched his brand new mount collide with the earth as he did.

The Plains Walker took several moments to slow itself down to a stop, its incredibly thick muscles working as breaks. Malwynn couldn’t force the air into his bruised lungs fast enough to beg his sister for help, so he reached around his body painfully, searching for his bow, and praying to the spirits of all his deceased family members that it wasn’t broken by the fall.

The creature took a wide circle to turn back on Bramwell and Malwynn, but when it straightened itself out, it pointed the massive horns menacingly at the nearly senseless pair.

“Mal!” He heard his sister yell panicked from some ways away. He could feel the earth tremble with each of the Plains Walker’s steps, as if a tree trunk was being dropped into the ground by one of the legendary Mountain Spirits.  The pounding increased in severity as the animal came closer and picked up speed. His sister’s scream caused the juggernaut to halt and twist its strange body slightly to the side. It had heard her.

Malwynn was to his knees by then, having gotten the bow off his back. Littered on the ground all around him in the yellowing grass he saw his spilled quiver, over half the arrows broken by the collision with the ground. He saw a single arrow in arm’s reach and as quick as his bruised arm could, he drew it, and sent it flying directly between the two horns on the creature. The arrow plunged into the thick hide of the monster far smoother and deeper than Malwynn imagined it would. The skin of the beast looked grey, and was pebbled like stone. He thought it would be tough, but apparently that was not the case. As the creature flinched at the sting of the arrow, he snatched up a second arrow, and let it fly at the same area of its body.

The second arrow plunged almost as far as the first did, stopping nearly halfway in its length. He grinned in exultation as the creature flinched again. What he saw next alarmed him, and stole his moment of glory. The first arrow, sank over a hand’s depth into the creature abruptly fell off, as if all of what had penetrated the beast had been simply pushed out from within. The length of the arrow, from feathers to barren tip fell to the ground as if the arrowhead had never existed. Malwynn looked up from the impotent arrow to the creature, and saw it had started to rumble towards him again.

Flanking the creature, Umaryn had dismounted, slapping Tinder to send it away from the battle. She already had her weapon; Chael’s hammer up, and was twisting her whole body into the hardest swing she could manage, directly at the rear leg joint of the Walker. Malwynn closed his eyes as he accepted his death approaching him.

It didn’t come. Instead he heard Umaryn’s powerful grunt of the swing, and the resulting wet snap of the small metal head of the hammer impacting the joint. In his mind’s eye the strike to the knee sounded wet, like a mother slapping a pile of her children’s wet laundry, yet also much like the breaking of a green tree branch. He wondered what about the animal’s nature would make such a strange noise. He had precious time to ponder the mystery though, as the creature staggered sideways, his sister’s hammer blow clearly having damaged it. On three powerful legs instead of four, the monster spun itself in a near-perfect circle, and put the side of both of the horns directly into his sister’s torso, tossing her through the air ten feet like she was a bale of hay. She screamed in pain and fear for her entire journey through the air, and landed on her ass, flattening her back and head out powerfully against the earth. She lay still while Malwynn scrambled to find another arrow as the creature turned its attention towards his sister and Tinder, as the horse backed away in fear.

Malwynn drew the bow string and sized up where the creature was vulnerable. In a split second he noticed how the creature was favoring the knee his sister had struck. He hoped strongly that the other joints were equally vulnerable, and sent his arrow into the knee of the leg closest to where he still knelt. The arrow pierced the thick skin of the creature as easily as before, but lodged in something firm very quickly. The arrow could not pass through the joint, for there was too much bone and muscle there, but the projectile stopped in the midpoint, gumming up the tender ligaments, tendons, and stopping the leg’s functionality almost completely. Malwynn held his breath as he reached around in the grass hoping that this third arrow wouldn’t fall out harmlessly. By the time he’d found another useful arrow, the knee joint was still locked stiff from the arrow.

“Umaryn, get up, we’ve hurt it!” Malwynn said as he got to his feet. She stirred slightly, the tremendous blow having tossed her consciousness around. Malwynn circled the creature as it hobbled on two good and two bad legs. It was confused now, unsure of where the danger came. The two massive horns swung side to side threateningly, not actually in danger of harming anyone. Mal took a couple quick steps in and flung another arrow into a different leg, missing the joint but piercing through the flesh just below it. The creature jerked to the side again, and suddenly lost the strength to stand. It fell sideways onto the ground, revealing its underbelly.

Malwynn caught his breath as he saw a trench in the stomach of the beast. From what he imagined to be the chest to the crotch there was a mouth running the length of the creature. He hadn’t seen the thick skin forming into lips and prehensile feelers that must have been the creature’s enormous mouth. It was so wide and long it could have easily lowered itself onto Malwynn or Umaryn, and swallowed them whole. He looked up and saw his sister, limping over to his side, giving the immobilized creature a wide berth.

“Look at this,” Umaryn said, hefting her weapon, Chael’s hammer up. The hammer’s perfectly polished head was bent, deformed, and pockmarked as if it had been immersed in flame and acid. The weapon looked ruined. Umaryn’s eyes were filled with tears over the destruction of the weapon she’d hoped to put to good use against the people who had killed her parents. Malwynn watched as her lips trembled and her teeth clenched in anger.

“Maybe you can fix it with The Way?” Malwynn asked, feeling the pain in his stomach and chest rise and fall with his breath. He wondered if the fall from Bramwell had cracked a rib or two.

She nodded, wiping away the tears, “Maybe. How do we kill this damn thing? Where is its head? Where is its heart? Is Bramwell okay? Are you okay?”

Malwynn looked back at his new Gvorn and assessed it. The animal shouldn’t be ridden for at least a day, but it appeared to be none the worse for wear. The dead necromancer’s mount was a rugged creature. “He’ll be okay I think. Although neither he, nor you or I are in any shape to ride any more today. We need rest.”

Umaryn reached a hand around to her backside and massaged her lower back. He was right. She would fold to the pain after just a few minutes of trying to ride Tinder. “Agreed. But still, how do we kill this thing? It isn’t right to let it suffer like this.”

“Your hammer is nearly destroyed from striking it. My arrows had their tips disintegrated and were shunted straight out of its flesh. Anything metal seems to be eaten by the touch of the creature.”

Both were quiet for a bit. Umaryn’s eyes opened after a bit, full of inspiration, “Help me get a large stone from the stream. I wonder if this thing can handle being beaten by a large rock?”

In fact, the Plains Walker could not withstand being beaten with a large rock. The twins found a stone almost the size of a man’s belly on the edge of the stream. The smooth oval-shaped rock was worn from centuries of water flow, and was nearly too heavy for them to lift high. Had they been in a less damaged state it would’ve been easier, but good fortune was something that had not been in their life for several days. The twins heaved the stone onto the creature’s belly multiple times, hitting so the stone would tumble end over end and land on the ground. They were fearful of touching the beast.

A score of these blows and the Walker’s breathing stopped. They’d finally ruptured something inside it enough, and freed it from the pain of having three of its limbs ruined.

“I remember talking to Luther about these things at the forge,” Umaryn said as the two slumped to the ground, exhausted.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Luther said they were a real bane to metalworkers, but were damn good eating. I wonder how we eat this thing?” She asked.

Malwynn could hear her stomach rumble from his seat next to her, “Are you serious? You want to try and eat this thing? It destroyed a bunch of my arrows, and your hammer. How do we gut it? You have a stone knife handy?”

“That’s a great idea Mal! Hold on.” Umaryn got to her feet with as much energy and enthusiasm as she could muster, given the circumstances. She hobbled her way over to the stream and searched around for several minutes, overturning rocks and using her dagger to dig through the earth. After a good time searching, she came back, holding a rock that only resembled a knife in the loosest possible way. It was perhaps eight inches long, and about as thick as her wrist, and approximately the same sharpness. She had a grin from ear to ear.

“What. The. Hell. Is. That?” Malwynn asked her, his voice dripping with sarcasm and judgment.

Still grinning she held the stone up proudly to him after crossing her legs on the ground next to him, “This is our stone knife. We’re gonna keep this around I think. Could be useful down the line.”

“I think your fall might have knocked you senseless Umaryn. I think you’ve gone loony.”

Her grin remained for a moment, but then disappeared as she produced a smaller stone from her trouser pocket. With an intensity he’d only seen from her at the forge, she cradled the larger stone and started to hit it with the smaller stone, chipping flecks and bits of rock away, shaping it into a far more knifelike state. After ten minutes of sweat inducing work, she held her new tool aloft; a less dull rock.

“Wow. That’s not much different at all,” Malwynn said, all the sarcasm from his earlier taunts still dripping in his words.

In complete seriousness Umaryn ignored his tone, “To an artificer my brother, there couldn’t be any more difference now.” Resting the hard round stone on the ground between her legs Umaryn took the knife stone into her hands fully, and cradled it as if it were a kitten, or precious treasure. She closed her eyes and began to issue forth a chant, a steady repeating of syllables and sounds that formed no words. She caressed the length of what was supposed to be the edge of the blade on the rock as she did this, and Malwynn watched in astonishment as the stone itself seemed to melt at her touch, altering its shape to be straight, and far sharper than he could’ve imagined.

“The Way. Wow. I didn’t think an artificer could use The Way on a simple rock,” Malwynn said as she ended her chant.

“This wasn’t a simple rock anymore Mal. I spent time hewing it into a tool, rough as it was. I breathed life into it with my effort, and passion to create something out of it. I gave it a small spirit, then used the Chant of Sharpness to persuade the spirit to be a little bit sharper for us, if only for a bit.” Umaryn said softly, almost in reverence of the magic she’d just brought to bear.

“I will never understand The Way.” Malwynn shook his head.

“You don’t have to understand it right now. Right now I want you to get a fire started down near that stream, so we can cook the steaks I’m about to carve out of this thing’s ass. Destroy my damn hammer. I’ll fucking eat you.”

Malwynn got to his feet quickly, sporting his own ear to ear grin.

Umaryn discovered quite a bit about the creature when she dissected it in search of dinner. It had no ears, or eyes. How it navigated the world was lost on her. The Plains Walker’s skin was leathery, and supple, but had several strange qualities to it. It had two very different layers. The interior layer was fatty, and resinous, almost like a sheath of cartilage covering the entire body. The exterior layer was very similar to the hide of a cow, or horse, but it was free of hair. Instead, it was covered with visible pores across its entire surface. Umaryn was able to press down on the skin hard enough for the pores to ooze a viscous, almost mucus like substance. The clear fluid did nothing to the stone knife she wielded, but when the substance was placed on her lucky iron nail, the results were startling. It ate away at the metal, corroding it and turning its nature to something more akin to wax, instead of iron.

Within seconds her lucky nail had lost its shape, and was gone forever. A moment later Umaryn kicked the dead creature’s body repeatedly out of spite.

The flesh of the Walker was very tough when cooked over the spit Malwynn fashioned. Neither knew if this was the nature of the meat, or if Malwynn was a terrible cook, but it didn’t matter, their hunger overpowered any complaints they might’ve had, the flavor was surprisingly good, and the two gobbled up the dark brown meat as fast as they could, eating ravenously.

They sat together, basking in the glory of their kill, completely sore and miserable for the entire cool evening by the stream. For a few moments, they were able to forget they were orphans. When the train heading from Graben to Daris passed by an hour before the sun fully set, its wheels squeaking and groaning on the iron rails, and its artificer-maintained locomotive spitting a great white puff of steam high into the air, they were reminded bitterly of the reality of their situation.

“Do you understand how much weight this poor Gvorn is carrying for you? And how badly this stinks? Umaryn it’s wretched,” Malwynn said, clutching his nostrils shut. On the back of Bramwell Umaryn had draped the skin of the Walker. She’d taken the hide off with her stone knife just minutes before, claiming if she could get it to a tanner by day’s end, it’d make right fine armor.

“I know Mal, but he’s so big. He won’t even notice he’s carrying it.” She pleaded with her brother.

“It weighs three times what I do for ancestor’s sake. It’s big enough to cover his entire body for his own armor.”

Her eyes lit up in genius, “Now that’s an idea. Gvorn barding made of Plains Walker leather? We’d be filthy rich Mal. Varrland Marks piled as high as the clouds. Puddings, steak, and fresh breads at our fingertips every minute of every day. Can you imagine it?” She trailed off, clearly imagining it.

“You are insane.”

She nodded, suddenly a bit sad, “Yeah I am. The money would never stack that high. All those coins would tip over first.”

Malwynn put his face in his hands, giving up. Umaryn climbed up into Tinder’s saddle gingerly, testing the bruised and battered muscles that kept her from riding the afternoon prior. She winced but knew the pain would be manageable if they took it slow.

“Ready?” Mal asked, shortening the reins on Bramwell.

“Almost, give me a moment to attend to something,” Umaryn said, reaching under the small blanket on Tinder’s rump and producing her deformed weapon. Chael’s hammer had stopped its wasting away shortly after Umaryn had shown it to Malwynn. It was still a misshaped lump of steel at the end of a warhammer’s shaft, a travesty compared to its former glory. Umaryn closed her eyes and lifted the weapon’s head close to her mouth, whispering to it, and dragging her fingers across the lines of the oddly shaped blob. Malwynn became uncomfortable watching her cast the spell after a moment more. It seemed too personal, too intimate, and almost sexual. He felt perverted just being nearby, and actually turned Bramwell about to give her more privacy.

After a minute or two of using The Way, she stopped. “Wow. It worked.”

Malwynn brought Bramwell about once more and looked at the weapon. Yet again he was amazed at the magic his sister wielded; the weapon was exactly as it had been before the acidic Walker’s skin had ruined it. Fully polished and in perfect condition, ready for war.

“Fantastic work.”

“Thank you. Remind me again why we aren’t wearing our armor now. And why we’ve wrapped the Amaranth axes in our blankets? I feel very vulnerable without armor handy,” She said as she slipped the warhammer back into its resting place.

“As nice as it is to wear decent armor in the wild, I think we’ll receive an entirely different welcome in a Varrland town if we ride in wearing armor from the Empire. I think we’ll be the ones answering uncomfortable questions. Better to seem forgettable right now,” Malwynn answered.

“That’s pretty sound reasoning brother. I think I’ll keep you around.”

“You’ve got little choice in the matter dear sister. Let’s get to Ockham’s Fringe. Only one train left today heading into Graben, and I’d like to get there before it leaves.”

Brother and sister, battered, bruised and sore, left the corpse of the Plains Walker behind, and headed north to the last town in their home country. It felt eerily similar to walking up to the edge of a cliff to them.

They did not reach Ockham’s Fringe in time to catch the last train passing through from Daris to Graben. They knew that when it passed them heading north before they reached the village.

Ockham’s Fringe was a traditional Varrlander village. The town proper was larger than New Picknell, nearly three or four times the size by their estimation. Every structure inside the town was encircled by a tall and thick wooden wall reinforced by earth piled against its interior. The wall was sturdy, and was designed to keep undead both out and in should something terrible happen in the village. Most of the buildings inside the sturdy walls were made of brick and mortar, with smooth glass windows framed in iron bars should the undead attempt to get in, or out.

Outside the town’s walls the first thing a visitor on the trains would see was the artificer rail station. Far larger than the solitary platform outside New Picknell, this was a building large enough to house a dozen souls waiting for a train in the rain, as well as a platform running along the rails the length of the twin’s former home in New Picknell. The roof was covered in expensive slate tile and the building itself formed of brick and mortar. On both sides of the structure sat two rows of large oak trees that had been brought over a long distance and grown to give the building more presence. It was a small icon of the power of the Artificer Guild in a tiny and remote place. Umaryn was in rapture looking at it.

They tied their mounts off outside the building and walked through the wide double oak doors into the main room of the station. To one side was a single window that had a hand painted sign above it reading; PASSAGE TICKETS. On the other side of the window sat a middle aged man with a receding hairline, and slightest touch of gray hair at the temples. He fidgeted with a block of wood and a small but sharp knife as they approached. He sat it down quickly and perked up.

“May I help you?” The artificer asked politely.

“We were looking to buy passage for two adults and two beasts of burden to Graben on the next train,” Malwynn asked, trying to feel comfortable and at ease. In reality on the inside he was knotted up with anxiety. This was the first living person they’d spoken to since New Picknell had been destroyed, and Mal felt as if the man knew their plan for vengeance.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. The last train departed about half an hour ago. Would you like to purchase passage on the midday train tomorrow?”

“Yes that’d be fine thank you,” Malwynn said back, feeling a bit more comfortable. He reached to his belt for the small bag of Varrland Marks he kept. It wasn’t much, but it was all they had.

“Well we are three quarters of the trip from Daris to Graben here at Ockham’s Fringe. That discounts the passage price from 55p to just 13p each. Passage price for two horses is another 5p each. Total, that adds up to 36p. We also take Marks and Crowns, sorry.” The artificer couldn’t have been from Varrland, despite his notable Varrlander accent. No self respecting resident of Varrland would tell anyone a price quoted in Pieces, and not Marks. Pieces were used in Duulan and Farmington, but not here when Marks were available.

Malwynn smiled and dug through his coin purse. He had a mere forty Marks in the coins minted in Daris left. Spending the money here on the tickets north would leave them nearly broke when they arrived in Graben. The look on Malwynn and Umaryn’s faces must’ve tipped the man behind the window off.

“Is there a problem?” He asked politely.

Malwynn sighed in frustration and met the man’s gaze. An urge of desperation struck him, and he gave deceit a chance, “We’ve got precious little coin left. Our family died in a fire this week, and we’re headed north to find family in the Empire. We’ve only got what was left on our persons right now. We lost everything in the fire.”

Umaryn looked to the floor, appearing to fake emotional turbulence. Malwynn saw she was trying to stifle a grin.

“That’s terrible. It’s made worse that you need to head to Graben as a way to better your lot in life. I’m told it’s quite a terrible place, all in all. Are you sure you want to head north? You might be best served by heading south to central Varrland.”

Malwynn nodded solemnly, “We couldn’t agree more, but we need to be with our family.”

The man behind the counter nodded. For the first time Malwynn saw he was wearing the steel gray robes of the Artificer Guild. He hadn’t the red trim though, so Malwynn knew he couldn’t use The Way. “Well, I could offer you discounted passage if you’re willing to do a little work for me.”

The twins perked up, and Umaryn followed the prompt, “What kind of work?”

The man smiled in a way that told them they wouldn’t like what he was about to say, “The ground near the hitching posts needs to be raked and shoveled free of horse droppings. Also, the gutters along the roof on both sides of the station here are full of oak leaves. I haven’t gotten to cleaning them out all summer, and I’m certain when my superiors come through to inspect the station I’ll be in trouble for certain.”

Neither were fazed by the requests. Their mother and father had asked them to do worse on a daily basis. Malwynn kept poised, and pressed on, “How much can you discount the passage?”

The man with the thinning gray hair mulled an offer over, “I can discount your fares from 13 Marks down to 8 each. That’d be just 26 Marks for you and your sister, plus your horses.”

Malwynn felt that was a decent deal, but pushed for more, “Tell you what. How about we rake and shovel the hitching posts, clean all your gutters, and on the way up to Graben, we ride with our animals, and clean out that freight car as we ride?”

“Oh that’d be quite helpful,” the man remarked.

“I’d say for all that you charge us 5 Marks each, and let our animals ride for free. After all, we aren’t going to be taking up a seat for a full paying customer, and we’d be leaving the train better than when we got on it.”

“You drive a hard bargain young man,” he replied with a wise smile.

“My father always said guard your coin. He’s gone now, but his advice still stands.”

The man agreed, taking note of the mention of the father, “Deal. I’ll get your tickets, a shovel and rake, and a ladder for you both if you want to start cleaning out the hitching post area.”

“I’ve also a question sir,” Umaryn asked quickly.

“Yes?” The man replied.

“Does Ockham’s Fringe have a tanner? I’ve got a hide I need worked into usable leather and was hoping to find a tanner here to do the work for me.”

“Oh yes, of course. I can recommend you to an acquaintance of mine. We crafters tend to stick together, you know,” The man said with a smile.

The two reached into the window to shake his hand, and turned to head outside. Umaryn waited until they were outside the oaken double doors before leaning in to whisper to her brother, “I didn’t know lying came to you so easily.”

“Neither did I,” Malwynn said, ignoring her accusation.

“Did father actually tell you to guard your coin?” She prodded.

“No. But it sounded like something he would’ve said.”

Umaryn stopped, and her face turned sour, “You shouldn’t do that Mal. You shouldn’t put words in mom or dad’s mouth like that. You can’t make your lie more believable by using them. I don’t think they’d approve of you using them to lie. It doesn’t seem right to me.”

Malwynn stopped, his tempter flaring. He had just saved them almost the entirety of their remaining fortune, such as it was, and his sister questioning him in this way was infuriating. He turned to her, ready to rip into her, but when he saw the hurt in her eyes, and on her face, his anger melted away. He thought of his mother, caring, loving, and honest to a fault. He delved into memories of his father, inquisitive, trustworthy, and reliable to a fault. The error of his ways was abruptly clear to him.

“I’m sorry Umaryn. Never again.” He vowed.

“Thank you,” Umaryn said back softly, and the two wrapped each other up in an embrace that only the grieving can understand.

- Chapter Four -

CONVERSATIONS

It took far more out of them to rake, shovel, and clean the gutters than either Umaryn or Malwynn realized it would. Their hands covered in redness and growing blisters from the rake and shovel handles, and both their backs sore from standing awkwardly at the top of the rail station’s ladder, they headed to the town’s twelve foot high gate in the twilight of the day.

Ockham’s Fringe was a large enough town to have its own militia force. At the gate were two men wearing a variant uniform of the typical red and white national Varrlander forces, holding spears held high, and wearing short swords on their hips. They were well equipped for a militia in such a small town. All militias in Varrland were by extension members of the national force, but small Ockham’s Fringe would very likely never be called on to support anywhere else. It was a virtual certainty if there was war anywhere in Varrland, it would start right at this tall wooden gate, with these spear wielding militia men being the first to fall, or the first to draw Empire blood.

The guards let them pass with no questions. The twins looked physically exhausted, and the guards had watched them at a distance do all the work at the Artificer station. One guard rapped on the thick iron-bound wood of the door, and another guard peered over the top. They exchanged a few words, and the door swung open to let the brother and sister pass. Umaryn, exhausted as she was, still must have looked pretty to the men, for both of them had their eyes on her until the gate closed behind them. Malwynn had forgotten that his sister was actually quite pretty, even when covered in smudges of grime, and favoring a score of sore muscles.

Malwynn slowed Bramwell down to ask a question of the two guards inside the gate, “Is there a decent inn we could get a room at sir? We’ve need of two beds, a bath, and a hot meal if it’s to be had here.”

The guards regarded them with skepticism. Strangers were always a source of ill across Elmoryn. It was a dangerous enough place to live when surrounded by people you knew and trusted. Strangers added a whole new dimension. Sickness, aggression, and bad business were always on the heels of new faces.  The guards choked down their disdain however, and sent the two tired siblings down a cobblestone main street in search of Howard’s Inn and Brewery. Home of the “border’s best ale.”

The hoped it had the “border’s best beds,” more than anything. After dropping the Plains Walker’s hide off at the town’s tanner, and agreeing to split the hide as payment, they made their way to where they’d sleep that night.

The inn keeper was also the bartender at the tavern. He happened in fact to be the Howard the establishment was named after, and showed no signs of the disdain the guards had. He was also in fact quite happy to have them in his business, and seemed even more excited to take their Marks off their hands for their needs. Malwynn and Umaryn left Bramwell and Tinder to Howard’s oldest son, and headed inside. The young boy headed off, leading the two animals into the small stable behind the tavern.

“I’ve just the room for you two. A family suite, the only one in the whole house. It’s upstairs, at the end of the hall. There’s two small beds separated by a curtain, as well as a bathtub. I’ll have my sons start on the pump immediately. We’ll get it filled with hot water from the boiler immediately for you. After you both bathe, you come right back down for some rabbit stew, and a stein of my newest ale.” Howard was a thick man, with a bulbous belly he’d grown from testing and sampling too much of his own ale. He had ruddy red cheeks and specks of redness all about the tip of his nose. He said all his words with a pipe hanging out one corner of his mouth, and the five customers in the tavern listening intently. He was putting on a show of good service for them. The two headed upstairs after leaving the man six Marks and the remaining slab of Plains Walker steak for everything, dragging their feet the whole way.

Both brother and sister felt rejuvenated after their bath. It was a rare luxury to stay at an inn that had a boiler in the basement, let alone a boiler with connected water pump that could feed fresh hot water straight to a second floor bathtub. Howard’s wasn’t quite as luxurious as the expensive hotels their mother and father told them about in places like Eden Valley and Farmington, but it certainly was far more than they expected. They washed their clothes in the tub as well as their bodies, rinsing off the fine layer of dust and ash they’d carried with them from New Picknell.

The two wore the only spare clothing they had back down to the tavern to eat that night. Umaryn wore a nightgown that hung on her frame a little loose, and draped low. Malwynn wore loose cotton pants and a sleeveless cotton shirt. They wore their bedclothes, and didn’t give a care who thought anything of it.

Fortunately Howard’s clientele were not judgmental, in light of Umaryn’s cleavage and especially after a large mug of the homebrew. The twins sat themselves at the long, beaten wooden bar and Howard immediately brought them two handmade wooden bowls filled with rabbit stew. The dark bowls filled with hearty stew were emptied twice as fast as the two mugs of ale brought over right after. Everything was delicious, even Howard’s brew. Sweet carrots, hearty potatoes, celery still slightly crisp in the broth, and the delicate chunks of rabbit meat were all seasoned delicately, and filled their bellies in a way the Plains Walker meat could not. Their hunger sated, and their minds and moods loosened by the alcohol in the ale, the two grew the courage to ask questions of Howard, and his customers.

“How long have the Amaranth forces been… uh, you know, been coming over the border here Howie?” Mal asked, struggling to get his words closest to the meaning he’d imagined in his head. He hadn’t been drunk in some time.

Howard rubbed his belly and tossed a hand towel over his shoulder, “Well that’s been happening for longer than I can recall. The Purple Queens have been sending people over the border since my grandfather was a child, and probably longer than that.”

“Wunder why?” Umaryn asked, slurring slightly.

“Power, plain and simple. More territory means more wealth. More territory means more folks to do her bidding. This Queen is no different than her mother, and her mother before that. The throne corrupts every daughter who sits in it, pure and simple. You know the old saying about people being cut from the same cloth eh? Well it fits that bloodline perfectly. They are all stamped out of a mold, and as soulless as anything made in that fashion.”

“Here here!” Umaryn agreed. To say something or someone was made out of a mold was a powerful insult, especially around the ears of an artificer, or those able to hear the spirits within the things created by hand. Items made of molds, or made in bulk were stillborn of spirit life.

“Any forces cometh through here… lately?” Malwynn asked, his tongue feeling far too fat in his mouth to be saying so many words.

A fairly sober patron from a table nearby answered his question, “Son they aren’t dumb enough to ride through Ockham’s Fringe in a full patrol. They know we’d either ride out to turn them back, or we’d send a message to Daris to summon forces to meet them. I suppose they could put a small army into a few freight trains though, if they found Artificers willing to take the bribe.”

The twins turned and digested what he said. They were hoping for the gem of insight that someone had seen the patrol, but judging by the amount of people in agreement with the customer who’d just spoken, that was unlikely.

Another man added to the conversation, “Sometimes on the trains you’ll see Amaranth people. You can always tell it’s them too. They wear those damn purple robes arrogant as all get out. Once, I even saw one of the sonofabitches with two walking dead on leashes, like pets. Turned my stomach so fast I lost my breakfast. He laughed at me he did. I could’ve struck him down out of anger and ten men would’ve helped me burn his body, but I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t thick with The Way.  A necromancer.”

“Any of those purple robed riders of late?” Umaryn asked the man. She seemed suddenly more sober.

“Of course. There are always emissaries heading back and forth between Graben and other places all over Elmoryn. Daris is a hub city ya know. You can get to almost anywhere from there, and there’s just the one rail line running into the Empire. I wish we could just pay the damn Artificer’s Guild to rip up those train tracks once and for all and cut that bitch and her crazies off from the rest of the world.”

The chorus of agreement was powerful, and drowned out any chance of a quick follow up question by either brother or sister.

Another patron spoke up, this time a middle aged woman from behind the counter, perhaps Howard’s wife, “That just won’t work though Carver, and you know it. Not only will Ockham’s Fringe dry up like a grape in the sun, but the Artificers won’t let a single rail line be harmed. It’s their duty, and their belief that those rails are sacred. They pre-date The Fall. They’re a symbol of all our pasts, Empire and otherwise.”

This time the reaction was more hushed.

“Sometimes we need to forget the past to move on darling. Even if it’s painful to do it,” Howard said quietly.

Malwynn and Umaryn looked at one another, and let the innkeep’s words resound in the silence between them.

Umaryn fell asleep before Malwynn did once again. He envied her ability to shut her mind off so fast at night. Even as small children she could close her eyes and be dreaming in half the time it took him. His mind simply refused to shut off at night. He could hear the tavern slowing down its pace through the floor of their room, and an idea struck him. He could accomplish something quickly, and easily, and then return to try and sleep again.

Mal let himself out of the bedroom quietly, carrying his change purse and what was left inside it for money. It wasn’t much, but it was everything they had left. He and his sister’s entire accumulated wealth. He hoped it’d be enough for him and sister to accomplish what they needed to do.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs and entered the single roomed tavern filled with wooden beams, the only person left was Howard, still cleaning off tables. He carried a wooden tray filled with clay mugs over to the bar and saw Mal out of the corner of his eye.

“Oy, Mal. Need another drink to get your dreams kick started?” Howard asked.

Mal smiled, “No, I came down to ask a favor of you.”

Howard sat another full tray of mugs on the bar counter as his wife carried the first away to the back room of the bar to be washed. Left alone again, Malwynn walked over to the bar, and emptied the coin purse’s contents. He slid the coins with deft but sore fingers into their values, and quickly counted what his entire worth was.

“I’ve got eighteen and a half Marks left in my pocket Howard,” Malwynn said, looking at the map with very serious eyes.

“A good amount of coin for the average man, well done son. Your father’s proud, I’m sure.”

Mal fought off the surge of emotion at the mention of his father. He took a deep breath, and continued, “Do you have Crowns here?”

Howard let loose a short laugh, “Crowns? Yeah I’ve got some. You want Crowns? They’re almost worthless you know? You can spend them here, and in the Empire, and that’s it. I mean I’ve heard some places honor their value, but that’s few and far between.”

Malwynn nodded, knowing the truth in Howard’s words.

“Wait a second.  Which direction is that train going you’re headed out on tomorrow? What are you and your sister planning?” Howard asked, suddenly serious, and worried for the young people in his care, even if only for the night.

Malwynn pushed the coins toward Howard as his response, “Eighteen and a half Marks Howard. Can you give me Crowns for this?”

“The Empire will chew you two up and spit you out, you know? It’s the place where dreams go to die. You should get on that southbound train in the morning and forget about all this.” Howard stared at Malwynn with cold eyes. Mal saw some kind of sadness in Howard’s eyes, and had to look away.

“Howard, we need Crowns please. If you can’t do it, I understand, but our path is already laid for my sister and I.” Malwynn summoned the strength to look the old man in the eye again.

Howard looked very unhappy with that reply, but turned and reached under the counter, rummaging a bit before finding a small wooden box. He opened the thin lid and then dumped out the contents. Dozens of metallic coins with a purple sheen spilled out. He started to count them out, but stopped abruptly.

“Just take them all. You’re going to need them where you’re going.”

“Thank you Howard. My sister and I will remember you. One day I’ll settle this debt, you’ve my word,” Malwynn extended his hand and Howard took it.

“You own me nothing. Take care of yourself Malwynn, and your sister.”

Malwynn let go of Howard’s hand, and filled his empty coin bag with the tainted purple coins of the tainted Purple Queen.

“The tanner says the hide will be ready in a week for me to work. I think I’ll make it into some kind of studded leather, but nicer than this Amaranth armor we have. That stuff is decent, but I think I can make better,” Umaryn said as the twins rode out the gate towards the Artificer rail station. Both were wrapped from head to hip in blankets they bought from Howard. In truth Howard let them have the blankets when Umaryn asked for them, but Malwynn left two Crowns on the table in the room they’d rented as remittance. He already felt in debt enough to the man.

The two were wrapped in such fashion because underneath the blankets they wore the Amaranth armor. Fearful of the eyes of the Ockham locals, they wanted no part of being seen wearing the armor. So instead, they suffered the midday summer heat wrapped in wool blankets. They sweated profusely.

The gate guards bid them farewell with more enthusiasm than they’d greeted them with the night prior, and the twins made their way to the platform. Two artificers were on the raised stone platform, taking tickets and managing the handful of people getting on the train. At each end of the train and spread along its length on the ground were numerous Guild warriors. Like their grey robed leaders the security forces wore light plate armor fashioned from steel, and enameled in the same shade of grey as the robes of the Guild. The Artificers employed hundreds upon hundreds of warriors to ride with the trains as they crossed the wild expanses between towns, villages, and cities. It looked to Umaryn that only five people would be boarding train, including them. Bramwell and Tinder were hitched off the platform near a ramp that led up to the freight car they’d be riding in. The brother and sister went up to the artificer taking the tickets so as to board the train.

The man taking the tickets was tall, a full hand higher than the duo. He was thin, and wore the grey hooded robe of the Artificer Guild. Malwynn felt a little nervous as he looked at the blood red trim that advertised to all those gathered that this man could wield The Way. Mal was afraid to lie suddenly.

“Sir, we’ve tickets for the midday Graben departure,” Malwynn said, handing the tall man the scripts of paper detailing the conditions of their journey.

The tall man had short, well trimmed bright blonde hair, and eyes almost as bright blue as theirs. He scanned the two slips and started shaking his head negatively, “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to ride with your animals. That’s against Guild policies.”

The twins looked at him incredulously. Their bad fortune seemed never ending. Just as they were about to let in on a tirade to save their trip, the tall blonde Artificer added to the conversation.

“The passenger cars are nearly empty today. I can simply allow you to ride with the passengers. When we arrive at the Graben rail yard, you can leave the train and clean the car, as per your agreement with the station here. I hope that’s acceptable.” The Artificer watched as their expressions changed from exasperation to gratefulness.

Umaryn nearly embraced the man, “Oh that’ll be fine sir. Sorry for our response, we’ve had a quite difficult week, and we thought you were about to make it much worse.”

He nodded, seemingly understanding, “The Guild made an agreement with you to ride this train. We’ll honor that agreement, though clearly not in the way you’d expected. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”

“It’s alright. Quite fine really,” Malwynn said.

The blonde Artificer smiled again, “Enjoy your trip. Despite what everyone says, the trip north to Graben can be very breathtaking.”

The twins nodded, gathered what they needed from the saddle bags of their mounts, and boarded the trains, still wrapped in their blankets, and still sweating heavily in the north Varrland sun.

Once inside the train they shed the blankets. Normally leather armor is uncomfortably warm when the weather is hot, but removing the blankets made both of them feel as if they were running practically naked through their parent’s backyard. Air flowed into the seams and sleeves of the leather and allowed their skin to breathe once more.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Umaryn looked back and forth to the two passenger cars they had to choose from, “Which one?”

“Um, this one I suppose,” Malwynn chose at random, and the two slid open the finely crafted car door. After they walked by the lone grey guard inside the door, they assessed where to sit.

The car was long, likely fifty feet from where they stood to the front door that led to the locomotive powering the train. The seats and couches were old plush leather dyed a rich green, and the woodwork a rich cherry. Inlaid into the fine carvings were intricate laces of brass and tin, giving the compartment an ancient, and classy feel. Umaryn wondered if this was one of the rail cars that pre-dated The Fall.

The seats were arranged in two sections. Running the entire length of all four sides of the car were the green leather seats. In the center of the car, cutting the compartment in half were two more seats, almost creating two entirely separate areas to sit in. The closest section of seats had six souls resting in it. At first glance it looked to be two families, both reasonably well-to-do, and both with a single younger child. Alone in the far end of the other section of seats sat a lone, tall figure.

Almost alone, that is.

The tall figure was garbed head to toe in a rich purple hooded robe that obscured his face. His hands were deathly white and the skin tight and shrunken. His nails were vaguely yellowed and a bit too long, giving them a sinister appearance. Sitting to his left and right were two zombies.

The undead were both large males wearing simple trousers and plain white shirts. Their flesh was grey and sunken, the rot of death arrested through The Way. Both wore no signs of a violent death, though they were both in their prime. Malwynn and Umaryn each felt their stomachs twist and churn looking at the drained expressions on the faces of the deceased men. Sitting just a few feet away was pure heresy against the ancestors. Around their necks they wore purple ribbons that supported a purple medallion, signifying that they were undead in the service of the Purple Queen. That could only mean in some fashion that the purple robed man directly served the Queen.

Malwynn debated where to sit in an instant. If they crowded into the nearest section with the two families, the entire journey would be cramped and uncomfortable. They would also be tipping their hat to the robed man that they were potentially afraid to sit near him. Malwynn felt the best course of action was to appear confident, and wear their armor like a soldier of the Amaranth Empire would, and sit near the man who they so badly wanted to stay away from.

Malwynn walked past the families, Umaryn at his side with purpose, intentionally seeming disrespectful to their presence. Not one of the six family members looked up to make eye contact as they passed. He reached the two green leather couches that sperated the train’s space and addressed the robed figure sitting at the end of the train, “Sir is this seat taken?”

Malwynn’s heart froze solid when the hood of the purple man titled up ever so slightly, allowing the eyes covered in shadow underneath enough of an angle to look directly at him. Malwynn couldn’t see the face of the figure through the blackness, but he heard the voice loud and clear, “No. Please rest soldier.”

The voice was chilling. The tone was low, and sounded as if it began deep in the belly of the man inside the robe, and rattled upwards and out, wheezing through a missing nose in a baritone that seemed to emanate from beyond death. It also had a strange whimsical quality to it, striking Malwynn in a way he couldn’t describe. Both he and his sister kept their faces stone-like, and took up seats on either side of the rail car.

It would be a very long seven hour trip.

The man on the platform had exaggerated the beauty of the Amaranth Empire’s terrain greatly. Looking out of the windows in their rail car the only thing they saw for the first four hours of the train ride was flatness. Impossible flatness as far as the eye could see. The only hint of a change in the world was the faint irregularity of hills or mountains far to the north, very far away. As the afternoon began to wane and the sun dipped down close to the horizon the clouds darkened, and thickened. It seemed to Umaryn that the world had been split in two; the flat ground on the bottom, and the dark grey rolling bulges of a storm head moving to the southeast above.  She wondered if the storms had anything to do with the presence of such evil in the Amaranth Empire.

“I’m looking forward to seeing the Snake Ridge Mountains again. It’s been many weeks since I’ve laid eyes on them,” the purple robed man said unexpectedly. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end at the low raspy voice. Umaryn looked across the car to Malwynn, seeking his support, but his head had tipped back, and he had drifted into deep sleep. She was on her own for this exchange.

“Couldn’t agree more,” she said confidently.

“What’s your name soldier?” He asked her.

She couldn’t think of a reason not to offer her real name, “Umaryn sir.”

“No last name Umaryn? Strange.” The robed man uncrossed and re-crossed his legs. She watched as his fine black leather boots slid in graceful movement. It didn’t help his aura of fear any, she thought.

She nodded, as if she’d heard that before. She had. “Our father said taking his last name was a disrespect to our mother, and that it would be better for our personal legacies if we earned a last name from those we encountered.”

“Our father you say? The other soldier is your brother then? I suspected as much, the family resemblance is there.”

Umaryn felt her worry creep slightly higher again. She did not want this man to know Malwynn was her brother. Unfortunately, the man had already devoured any chance she had at maintaining that secret, “Yes. His name is Malwynn.”

“Malwynn and Umaryn the soldiers. Interesting that your mother and father would allow both their children to join the Queen’s army. Most parents only allow a single child to join. Did your parents not care for you as much as other parents do?” The robed man asked her in a tone that nearly caused anger in her. He was baiting her, testing her patience and self control. She didn’t fall for the trap.

“We are two of three children. Our parents needed the income both my brother and I working provided. This is our way of helping to pay them back.” Her words were the truth. In New Picknell both she and Malwynn worked to help support the family.

“Ah. Duty to family. Something I haven’t experienced in some time. I focus on my duty to the Queen now.” He said, sounding somewhat judgmental. Umaryn felt her story had convinced him. She remained silent, hoping the man would leave her be.

“You’re from Graben then?” He said. Her hopes of being left alone were dashed.

“Only just recently. My brother and I actually hail from a very tiny village near the border with Varrland. We’ve just visited home, that’s why we’re heading back to Graben.” Umaryn felt a surge of confidence. She had no idea she could lie so easily to someone so dangerous.

“Small village life seems so pointless. I maintain that the military should just roll up all of these little villages and bring them to Graben. Keep all the populace in one place that’s easy to control. Does your village produce anything of value Umaryn? What validates its existence?” The thin figure leaned in towards her in an inquisitive way, clearly wanting to hear someone he deemed as lesser than he share logic.

Umaryn wasn’t sure if she should agree with him, or argue her point. She was swimming in dangerous waters. “Well sir, I don’t know what someone of your station would deem valuable. We don’t mine, nor do we produce lumber, but we do have multiple farms that produce a fair share of food. We grow more food than we eat, and we send our surplus to the Queen. I imagine the Queen’s army appreciates eating meals.”

He sat back in the plush green leather couch and chewed on her words, “I imagine they do appreciate eating. Of course we could simply kill them and reanimate them all as undead. Then we’d need no food at all.”

“We’d still need to replace their losses in battle. That means having babies, and growing them up to adults. There will always be a need for farms and food in the Empire sir. No amount of Necromancy can change that, no disrespect intended.”

The robed figure chuckled evilly, “None taken Umaryn with no-last-name. I enjoy your wit and intelligence. I suspect you’ll rise through the ranks of the Queen’s army readily.”

“Thank you sir.” She tipped her head in deference, and appreciation. She was strangely flattered by the scary figure’s compliment.

The robed figure went silent for a time.

When Malwynn awoke some time later, the train was running along the foothills of the Snake Ridge Mountains. Amaranth was a wide nation, many thousands of miles across from east to west. It was cut into three pieces by two large mountain ranges. The eastern mountain range, nearest to the Realm of Duulan was called the Giant’s Back Mountains. Ellioth had told his children that the summits along the Giant’s Back were the highest peaks in all of Elmoryn.

The Snake Ridge Mountains were nowhere near as tall, though they were much longer. It would be a very long trip indeed to span the length of the spine of the range, and the city they were headed towards was perched against the cliffs running alongside of them. The rails heading towards Graben were less than two miles from the edge of the mountains, and the location offered a view of the mountains that lived up to the Artificer’s claims. This was a natural beauty that neither Malwynn nor Umaryn had ever set eyes upon.

“The majesty of the Snake Ridge Mountains Malwynn,” the robed figure said menacingly. Malwynn sat up abruptly, unaware he was being watched. His mind raced trying to figure out how the daemon at the end of the car knew his name. His question was answered with a wave of the eerie figure’s hand. He pointed a bony finger at Umaryn, answering his question. She shrugged ever so slightly, trying to convey the entire conversation he’d slept through.

“Yes. They’re quite the thing.” Malwynn struggled to gather his wits. He’d only been awake a few seconds, and wasn’t prepared to have a conversation with someone so alien, so… un-preferable.

“Your sister here says you hail from a small town. How has life in Graben treated you? Quite the change from small village life, yes?” Malwynn felt the questions were heavier than the words used to compose them revealed. He was skeptical of what the man was actually asking.

“Oh, it’s different, that’s for sure. However, we’re kept busy, and there’s little time to dwell on silly things.”

Malwynn could swear the figure smiled under his black hood, “True words.”

Malwynn formulated a plan, and after a minute of watching the ridges and crests of the massive mountain chain pass, he launched his first question at the spooky passenger, “Might I ask your name my lord? You appear to know mine.”

The hood moved slightly, indicating a nod, “Your sister was polite enough not to ask the name of a man well above her station.”

Malwynn smiled, “My sister was always the more polite one. I’m far more direct.”

“I see this. Both aptitudes have their use thankfully. I shall grant your meager request Malwynn with no-last-name. You may call me Inquisitor Dram Sorber.”

Malwynn’s blood ran cold. Inquisitors of the Queen held tremendous power in the Empire. They served as spies, magistrates, executioners, and most were powerful users of The Way. This man was potent indeed. “You’re skilled in The Way aren’t you? A necromancer?”

The hood tilted to the side slightly, “Is it that obvious Malwynn? Does my power radiate from my body like heat comes from the sun? Can you feel my power?” Malwynn knew the man’s words were intended to intimidate, and his knowledge of Dram’s goal caused the attempt to fail.

“No. I merely made the connection with your robes, and the presence of your… escorts.” Malwynn waved his hand casually at the two zombies sitting on each side of the Inquisitor. Malwynn suddenly noted the strange smell of them. Like spices scattered on rotting meat.

Dram leaned back and looked to the twins, assessing them both. Umaryn tried to remain neutral, and kept her gaze on her brother. “Well as you’ve assessed, I am indeed one of the Queen’s Guild Necromancers, as well as an Inquisitor. I’m quite busy you see.”

Malwynn leaned back in his own couch and nodded in false approval. So much of his body wanted to draw his dagger from his belt and leap across the car to drive it up under the chin of the man near him. Whether or not Dram had anything to do with the death of his family, and the destruction of New Picknell, he felt this man deserved to die. His title alone warranted execution. Malwynn showed none of this, and continued on with his friendly and respectful demeanor, “It’s quite the pleasure to meet you Inquisitor. I’m sorry if my blunt nature has offended you in any way.”

“I’m amused by your natures Malwynn and Umaryn. Most citizens are petrified to even be near an Inquisitor. It’s a pleasant change of pace to find anyone willing to strike up conversation. They are all afraid I’ll pass summary judgment on them, and have them put to death.”

“Have you done that Dram? Have you had people put to death?” Umaryn asked.

“Well young lady, I am an Inquisitor. We didn’t earn our reputation by not putting people to death.” Dram laughed slowly, and all the color drained from the twin’s faces.

Malwynn and Umaryn struggled to stay focused as they waited at the bottom of the wooden ramp that led to the freight car Bramwell and Tinder rode on. Graben was an impressive city, far larger than anywhere they’d ever been, and its startling geography had them captivated. Graben was a city divided in half, albeit in a strange fashion.

The city rested flush against a massive cliff in the Snake Ridge Mountains. At the base of the cliff was an area Ellioth had called the Low City. Squat timber homes and buildings spread out from the side of the cliff like an urban stain on the earth. Hundreds upon hundreds of structures were arranged along shoddy dirt roads for hundreds of yards. The ripe stink of human waste and dirty animals filled the air, thick and pungent. Where they stood in the Low City, on the very outer edge was the Artificer Guild rail yard. Unlike the tiny rail station in Ockham’s Fringe, this structure was an edifice, dedicated to the Guild as well as the Queen. It rose many stories high, and was chiseled out the grey granite that formed the bedrock of the Snake Ridge Mountains. Columns, domes, intricate carvings and scrollwork, and the ever present color Purple made the building seem enormous, ominous, and cold. Where they stood at the base of the platforms gave them a view of the city unlike anyplace they could’ve imagined.

Cut into the face of the cliff and running the entire width and breadth of the Low City were doors and windows, indicating that there were homes and businesses entrenched within the stone cliff itself. Near the very center of the Low City and carved into the cliff was a perfectly rectangular space that slid upwards into the mountain until it opened up to the sky at the top of the cliff, well over a thousand feet above the land they stood on. In the channel carved from the cliff two platforms moved up and down side by side in a balanced dance. Both platforms had a footprint larger than their family home in New Picknell, and one rose at the same speed that the other fell. The twins could see people, wagons, horses and even a Gvorn or two on the platforms. From this distance they could see massive chains powering the lifts, but could not discern what controlled the mechanics. Umaryn suspected the Artificers Guild was involved.

At the top of the giant cliff there was a second city. They knew it to be called the High City, the home of Graben’s political and military elite. On many window sills, and lining the streets they could only barely see, they saw the tiny purple flowers that gave the Empire its name. Each home in the upper city was carved directly into the face of the mountain, and they were all grand monuments. The smallest palace carved into the mountain on the level of the High City was two stories tall, and beyond beautiful. The stature of the owners of these homes could be gauged by their opulence, by their size and the amount of carvings etched into their faces.

Despite all their independent beauty and character, none could hold a candle to the palace of the Purple Queen. The terrain at the top of the cliff could not have been parallel to the face, for the palace was set further back from the edge than the other residences. The cliff carvings outlining the palace reached up high, at least ten floors higher than the next largest home in the High City, and the detail and grandeur was unmistakable, and oppressive. Sinister gargoyles flanked by intricate pillars decorated the stone the entire length and width of the palace. Intermixed in, tall statues of winged men and women spread their arms in a benevolent gesture, likely meant to lure the populace into believing the resident of the palace was kind, and caring.

No Queen of the Amaranth Empire was kind, or caring.

“I find myself staring at it every time I return too,” Dram said from the platform above them. Mal and Umaryn shook the distraction from their eyes and turned to him. He towered above them even more than before, flanked by his two undead pets.

“There is something special about it,” Umaryn said before her brother said what she knew he wanted to say.

“Indeed,” Dram returned, his face still shrouded in blackness under his purple hood. The six people on the train had already left. They practically ran away from the train and Dram’s entourage. Despite being in such a massive city, they felt very alone in his presence. As they shared their moment of strange silence, one of the Artificer Guild’s laborers led Bramwell and Tinder down the ramp. Dram’s eye line dropped from the cliff down to the animals as they were brought to the twins. Tinder immediately nuzzled Umaryn as she took the reins from the laborer. Bramwell was slightly less affectionate.

“Quite the creature you have there Malwynn. Majestic and strong,” the Inquisitor said.

Malwynn smiled, truly appreciating the compliment, “Thank you Inquisitor Sorber.”

“I find it interesting that a young man from a tiny village who had to join the Queen’s army to support his family would be able to afford such a creature.”

Brother and sister exchanged glances at one another. Their story was beginning to unravel. Malwynn looked up at the robed nightmare, and tried to piece their cover back together, “Bramwell here was taken from a Varrlander we killed while on patrol a few weeks ago. He had strayed into Empire territory, and we took care of matters.”

“Hm. Well done then I suppose,” Dram said, clasping his bony hands in one another at his waist. He turned to walk away, and then stopped long enough to utter a single statement that sent the pits of their stomachs below the hard Amaranth earth.

“I find it curious that your Gvorn looks almost identical to one a close associate of mine had.” Dram spun on his heels and took his two undead cohorts away, gliding effortlessly across the slate gray stone of the rail platform.

“It’s time to get dirty my friends,” said the blonde Artificer from behind them. They turned to face him. He rested a wheelbarrow filled with all manner of tools at their feet, smiled, nodded, and left them.

Two long sighs later, they each took a tool, and got to work.

- Chapter Five -

WHATEVER IT TAKES

Twelve.

Malwynn hated this place. He hated it more than anything he could’ve ever imagined hating.

Thirteen.

The smell was horrid, even since the cold had begun to set in. Animal waste, human waste, and the incredible amount of rotting undead wandering about the city was nearly mind numbing in the odor they created.

Twenty. A drop of salty sweat fell from his brow to the old wooden floor.

Zombies everywhere. Absolutely everywhere, doing the things that people should’ve been doing. Instead of hundreds of young hard working people doing municipal tasks like digging shit and filth out of drainage on the side of the streets, it was a group of undead led by a purple clad soldier. They were ponderous, uncoordinated and did a poor job. Not only did their flesh and rot stink, but the amount of trash and feces they left behind stank as well.

Thirty.  Another drop of sweat fell.

It was already cold here, and Malwynn and his sister had only been here a month. New Picknell was far enough north that it experienced cold early, but this was something else. This was a cold that invaded you, violated you. Malwynn swore it came from that damned palace atop the High City cliff.

Forty. A puddle of sweat had formed on the floor, despite the chill air.

He hated that they were broke. Flat broke. Howard’s gift of extra Crowns had been generous, and Malwynn still appreciated that favor, but the money didn’t last. They couldn’t live on the streets; the soldiers would scoop them up and incarcerate them. So they were forced to rent a small room in a reasonably large house to share. The old couple who owned the home had nothing, and they charged a peasant’s fee for the room and the stable for Tinder and Bramwell, but even so, the twin’s money wasted away.

Fifty. Malwynn rolled over off his hands and onto his back.

Food was hard to come by here, even when they had money for it. The hard earth was unforgiving, and certainly not generous with the harvest it offered. Despite it being prime harvest season, a decent hot meal was hard to come by. Most of the spoils of the farms went up one of the elevators to the High City, or directly to the barracks where the Queen’s soldiers ate. It made a lot of sense to join the military here, even for them now. They’d argued over the idea several times now, with both siblings taking both sides.

Ten. Malwynn’s stomach already burned from the exercising.

Earning money here was next to impossible. Most jobs were taken by the undead, and those not occupied by zombies dominated by necromancers were skilled jobs neither twin was qualified for. Umaryn had tried to get a job at several Low City forges, but she was laughed away. Women couldn’t possibly work iron. She was too scared to share her abilities in The Way to convince them.

Eighteen. Muscles burned like hot coals under Malwynn’s belly skin.

Malwynn knew only how to tend fields, and shoot a bow. His two options were to leave Umaryn behind and work as a day laborer at a farm, or join the Queen’s Army as an archer. The first job was already taken by the dead, and he’d die before taking the second job.

Thirty. Almost at his limit now. Malwynn closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, pushing to go a little further than the night prior.

Malwynn and Umaryn had a single job between the two of them they could work legally, and with little inquiry by the local authorities. It revolted both of them, but paid well enough to be worth it, and seemed to be developing into a way for the twins to track down leads on who had murdered their family and destroyed their town.

Umaryn had taken a job working in a military tavern as a dancer and waitress.

Forty one. Malwynn collapsed to the floor hard, his stomach knotted in more ways than one.

Umaryn’s body moved like the inner workings of an Artificer’s machine. Well oiled and smoothly. She wore little clothing, despite the chill outside. A form fitting black cotton waistcoat wrapped her torso, pushing her breasts up higher, and her lower half was only clad in a matching pair of black shorts. Most of her skin was very visible to all the men and women in the tavern. Her long and lean body was still pale, but in the gentle lamp and firelight of the tavern, she radiated both sexuality and class. She was like an exquisite porcelain doll made to entice men into bad decisions.

She knew her brother hated her doing this, and on most levels, she herself despised it. But there was a dark glory in her role at the tavern. Here, she was in control of the men around, and not the opposite. Umaryn tried to explain it to her brother many times to no avail. Malwynn couldn’t understand that she was the one exerting domination, not the soldiers in attendance. He could only see her as being used; as an object of sexuality to be taken advantage of. He felt she was trashy. The opposite was the case, and she couldn’t make him see that.

The tavern was somewhat inaptly named The Salon. It was dark, loud, and lit by lanterns that smelled vaguely of armpits. No matter how much she tried to ignore the smell of the place, she failed. It got into her skin, her hair, and came home with her every night. It was one more thing for Malwynn to hate. Umaryn’s primary task at The Salon was to whisk small wooden trays of alcoholic drinks from the scarred wooden bar to the various tables and booths where eager mouths awaited them. She was also expected to be sensual, appealing, friendly, and not reveal that she wanted to cut every throat that tipped back to drink a lager, or an ale.

“Hey Isabel, can you fetch me another dark brew? And maybe when you bring it back you could spare a wet kiss for the Sergeant?” A voice called out from behind her. She spun on her heels, tray in hand in time to watch one of the regulars lookup from where her ass had just been.

Despite not being named Isabel, she responded to the man, “Sergeant Vardo, you know you can have the beer, but sir you certainly don’t tip well enough to get any kind of kiss, let alone a wet one.” She winked mischievously and continued on, smiling the whole way. She’d certainly get an extra half crown out of him for that flirt. Umaryn slid sideways around chairs pushed closely together, intentionally allowing the cheek of her ass to graze the forearm of a young soldier. She didn’t have to look back to know what expression was on his face.

“Gentlemen and warriors of the wonderful corner booth, I present to you your drinks,” Umaryn said, delivering the short glasses filled with hard alcohol, and the tall mugs filled with softer beer to their recipients.

“Thank you Isabel. As always, you’re a vision of professionalism, and beauty,” A Lieutenant said to her.

“Why thank you Lieutenant. You’re always welcome here at The Salon, just so long as you all keep being handsome, and remember to tip.” She smiled, trying to seem cute and innocent. For some reason the soldiers here ate that shit up. She wasn’t sure why innocence would be so sexy to them.

“Where did you say you were from? Your accent is so strange, exotic,” another officer said. She didn’t recognize him.

“I’m from the southern border of the Empire sir. Right near Varrland. I’ve got Varrlander blood in my family tree, and a little bit of their tongue too.”

“Do you speak Entch? That’s what they speak down there right?” The same officer asked with an excited look to his face.

“My mother had… family from Daris. She spoke it, and I picked up quite a bit of it,” Umaryn said. From there she rattled off multiple sentences in Entch, the tongue of central Varrland. Entch flowed smoothly, like silk. It had long vowels, and soft consonants, and was renowned for being pleasurable to hear. In truth, her mother, brother, and little sister all spoke fluent Entch, but she needed to maintain her ruse.

The officer’s eyes lit up, “That’s fantastic. The next time my unit is on patrol at the border, I would love for you to come. You’d help so much for when we find the random Varrlander farm and they play stupid with that damn language. I wish they’d just speak Lish like everyone else for Queen’s sake.”

Umaryn’s eyebrow twitched. She suddenly disliked this man very, very much. “Well I’d love that sir, just so long as Michael behind the bar gives me the time off. What’s your name sir?”

“I’m Captain Drogal Clock of the Queen’s Fifth. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance Isabel. Are you taken by chance Isabel? Is it too soon to ask for your hand to be courted?” The officer asked boldly, yet as polite as can be.

Umaryn smiled again, innocent once more, “Oh Captain Clock, I’m not the kind of woman your mother would approve of, and you just might change your mind about me after spending time in my company. I do however invite you to return frequently to The Salon. It was nice meeting you, and I’d like to serve you again.” She excused herself from the table and headed over to check on the rest of her customers. She’d be paying special attention to this Captain.

The kind of attention that you pay with a hammer.

“Thoughts?” Umaryn asked her brother. It was later that same night, and the two were in their separate beds, in the dark. The discussion revolved around Captain Drogal Clock, and his possible involvement in the destruction of New Picknell.

“Does it matter what I think? You and I both know he’s the best lead we’ve gotten on finding the people who killed Mom, Dad and Rynne. We need to keep tabs on him, and find a way to ask a lot of questions. The kind of questions we ask at the end of a dagger.” Malwynn’s voice was filled with quiet hatred.

“I was thinking at the end of my hammer.”

“Silly girl, hammers aren’t nearly as scary as a dagger. Hammers might be more lethal, I’ll grant you that, but unless you’re holding it up high, and threatening to smash in his head with it, a dagger is much more frightening.”

Umaryn snickered, “Yeah yeah. You just want the satisfaction of stabbing him before I get the chance to dash his brains out on the floor.”

Malwynn bit his lower lip in thought, “That’s a damn good point…”

Umaryn waited for him to finish his thought, but he didn’t, “What’s a good point? What’re you thinking about?”

“Ok, how do you envision this happening?” Malwynn asked.

“I… don’t know. I get him drunk and ask a lot of questions at the tavern? Maybe in a side booth?  Then maybe we find a way to get him alone to ask him tougher questions? I didn’t really get that far,” Umaryn said.

“Well that’d be great, except we can’t very well ask him those questions in The Salon. Anyone hears you asking those questions, especially the crowd he seems to run with, and we’re fucked. We need to get him drunk, then get him apart from his lackeys. Then we knock him senseless, bring him somewhere we can tie him up for as long as it might take, and then really ask him questions.” Malwynn sounded eager.

“That seems very much a one way trip Mal.”

Malwynn nodded, and then realized his sister couldn’t see him in the dark, “Yes. There’d be no way we could let him go after that. What I was just thinking of, is where would we do this? It’d have to be quiet, maybe secluded, and if we killed him, we’d need a place where we could hide his body, or at least draw no attention if we killed him.”

“You’re going to spend a lot of time thinking about this while I’m at work, aren’t you?” Umaryn said wryly.

Malwynn nodded again in the dark, “Yes sister. I think this might be the difference between us getting justice for the dead, or being slaughtered by the Queen’s minions like a pair of fools.”

“Well if that’s all that’s at stake, take all the time you need.” Umaryn rolled over and adjusted her dusty and old feather-stuffed pillow. She drifted off to sleep almost immediately.

Malwynn’s mind raced for many hours after that.

The walking corpse was held together by only the tiniest amount of flesh.  A pathetic amount of sinew and ligament was all that kept its bones from tumbling apart. The sad creature was bent at the waist, skeletal fingers, flesh worn away from an unknown amount of work, scraping up the remains of a dead kitten. The tiny cat’s ripped and torn apart body, likely eaten by some of Graben’s massive Ink Rats, was in many ways less heart breaking than the zombie picking it up. The brother wished he’d seen the Ink Rat. At least that thing would’ve been worth some Crowns to someone.

Malwynn slowed his walk very slightly to watch the undead worker. It gently lifted the kitten’s corpse up in its grey, bony fingers, and turned to place it in a small wheelbarrow another walking corpse stood behind. Just as the purple collared zombie was about to place the cat’s corpse down, it fumbled it, and the grey and white cat fell to the ground with a barely audible but still sickening crunch. Malwynn winced. With no emotion, the dead worker bent once more at the waist, scooped it up, and dropped it back in the wheelbarrow. Malwynn looked around at the complete ignorance of the Graben residents. A dozen people walked in both directions on the small dirt street and not one of them paid a single iota’s worth of attention to the two zombies picking up a dead cat’s body. It was revolting, and as he walked away he choked down the rising acidity creeping up in his throat.

Graben was a horrible place, and he hated walking around in the city. In his best dreams since arriving in Graben he imagined the High City was far and away better than this wretched pit of filth the poor called the Low City. He could only imagine though. He had no way to gain access to the elevators that could take him to the clifftop district.

It didn’t help that he’d been walking around far more than usual the past week as well. Their plan to possibly kidnap Drogal Clock required them to find a place that needed to be appropriate for interrogation, and likely for murder. Despite being a city founded on, and maintained by death, it was turning out to be remarkably hard to find a place that was going to work. He’d looked at warehouses near the rail yard, but they were all being used at nearly every point of the day and night. He’d looked for an outlying farm near the city, but there were none. He searched out abandoned homes, but every structure in Graben had someone either living in it, or keeping watch over it. Inns and taverns were out of the question. Malwynn’s last resort was the small amount of businesses that were settled on the side of the old dirt roads that made up the Low City.

Malwynn kicked a loose stone away with the tip of his boot and watched as it skipped and tumbled, taking a strange turn to the side, and sliding into a dirty alley between two buildings. He looked up from the stone and caught the dead last moment of a man reaching up to the top of a door frame for no good reason as he headed into the building. The man was large, fat really, and wore a bloody red apron under a chain mail shirt. He was a butcher. Quickly Malwynn dropped to a knee and unlaced the top of a boot. He took his time retying it so he could examine the tight alley he’d just seen the man in.

The front of the building was right at his side. Through the windows Malwynn could see the carcasses of butchered animals hanging from hooks in the ceiling. He couldn’t be sure what animals they had been in life. One might have been a goat. Above the door, written in Lish, was a modest sign that said “Quality Meats, Cheap.” There was a collection of large barrels running along one wall of the alley, and it stank enough to sicken the ancestors, were there any in this forsaken place. He quickly put it together; the door was the back exit to a butcher’s shop.

Malwynn looked around the street quickly, ensuring that the purple clad soldier with the two undead had turned away. The armored soldier had, and with no one else paying even the slightest bit of attention to him, he bolted into the alley, and ran all the way to the door he’d just seen the man enter. Malwynn was tall, and when he reached up to the spot at the top of the thick doorframe where the butcher had just reached, he realized that the man must’ve been thoroughly short. Malwynn’s fingers searched the wooden ledge atop the door frantically as he kept his eyes glued on the street, fearful someone would catch him in the wrong place at the wrong time, doing something he had no business doing.

Malwynn’s fingers felt something cold and metallic, and he snatched it up to look at it. It was a skeleton key, rusty and corroded. He looked down at the door and saw a keyhole that the key clearly was meant for. As fast as an Ebonvale mongoose he replaced the key and started walking away, escaping to the safety and anonymity of the street. As he took his final step into the street and turned to leave, he knew he’d found the place. The air all about the butcher’s shop had the faint smell of meat, and death, and there were no homes anywhere nearby. All he needed was a few more days of observation to learn the butcher’s habits, and they were in business.

Captain Drogal Clock’s house of execution had been discovered.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Umaryn asked her brother late at night a few days later.

Malwynn took a deep breath in, and considered everything, “If it means we find out who killed Mom, Dad, and Rynne, then yes. I want to do this.”

“What if he had nothing to do with it? What then Mal?” Umaryn asked, full of uncertainty.

“What if he did Umaryn? What if he’s killed a hundred Varrlanders in the name of his ancestor forsaken Queen? What if he’s raped and pillaged? What then Umaryn? What then? One way or the other this man has done terrible things, I’m sure of it. Whether or not he is behind the death of our loved ones, he’s certainly not innocent.”

Umaryn nodded in the dark, setting her mind to the task at hand.

Despite the chill in the late evening Graben air, Malwynn was sweating horribly in the Amaranth armor they’d recovered from the small battle near New Picknell. He kept telling himself that the sweat was because the armor was hot, and that the heavy Amaranth two handed axe was wearing him down, but the truth was he was scared out of his mind, and anxious.

Despite any plans he might have, Captain Drogal Clock was not heading home tonight.

Malwynn and Umaryn had planned this out extensively the past two weeks. After Malwynn had taken a few nights to confirm that the butcher went home at a specific time, and even slipping inside the empty shop using the key atop the door late at night to draw a crude map for planning, they’d set their sights on the final plan to get Drogal there.

Quality Meats, Cheap would be where Drogal died. There was no two ways about it. Once the brother and sister committed to this, as Umaryn said, it would be a one way trip for the young servant of the Queen. He could not be trusted to stay quiet about the questions they wanted to ask him. He could not be trusted to forgive, or forget. The only way he could be trusted was as a corpse.

Malwynn stood in a dark alley three buildings down from the entrance to The Salon, where his sister was hard at work achieving two very different objectives. He wiped the sweat from his brow and kept both eyes fixed on the thick black door to the tavern. He was encased in dark shadows, benefitting from favorable, cloud making weather and moon phases that saw both Lune and Hestia shedding precious little light. If all was going to plan inside The Salon, Umaryn would be exiting with a very intoxicated Drogal Clock very shortly.

Umaryn stood behind the bar and poured a large mug of ale out of a pitcher. She left the mug’s contents short of normal, only the thickness of her finger was missing. Looking around the tavern, completely packed with an army of men covered in various shades of the Queen’s purple, she set the pitcher down, and topped the mug off with a finger’s worth of grain alcohol. Drogal had downed three of these mugs already, and those on the heels of two normal mugs of ale. By the time he finished the mug Umaryn was bringing him, he wouldn’t be able to tell if he was coming or going. At that point, she’d walk him out of the bar, and into the waiting arms of her brother.

She smiled and greeted the plethora of soldiers who stared and sent sexual advances her way. On a normal night, one not intended to end with murder, she’d be rolling in coins. The nights where The Salon was packed, and the liquor and ale flowed freely were the nights where coin purses were simply left on the table for her to help herself to. She’d take a few coins to pay for their drinks, and then a coin for herself. But not tonight. Tonight her sole focus was getting Drogal completely hammered in more ways than one.

“Here you go Captain,” Umaryn said, sliding the mug across the empty booth to the young Captain. He had to lift his head off his folded arms to smile at her.

“You are the best. Isabel.”

Umaryn smiled, “I know. I’m glad you stopped coming here with all your friends every night. It makes it much easier to talk privately with you.”

Drogal nodded as he slurped a thick mouthful of the spiked ale. He swallowed it hard, oblivious to the power inside the tankard. “I know right? I feel like we’ve got some kind of a... Some sort of connection now. Can you feel it? I can feel it.”

She put on her most sincere face and nodded. She wasn’t sure if she was being sexy or not, but the expression had worked on other drunks in the past, “There’s… something, yes.”

“MMhm. Yep.” Drogal tipped the mug up and took another messy gulp, wearing almost as much as he managed to swallow.

Umaryn assessed the man quickly. “How are you feeling Drogal? I was thinking… Oh I don’t know.” She turned away, feigning modesty.

Drunk as he was, Drogal managed to catch her innuendo, “Wait what? What were you thinking Ishabell? Do you want to-?” Drogal dragged the pronunciation of her name out.

She looked back, avoiding his eyes until the very last moment, “Well I was, you know… I can leave any time tonight, and I was hoping we could go for a walk, or maybe someplace quiet. I wasn’t sure if officers had private quarters or not, but-“

“Yeah, yeah. Yeah! Let me finish this ale, and we can walk to my home. I live in the officer’s barracks at the base of the cliff. You’ll love it. I’ve got a full bed, and a nice stove, and-“ Umaryn cut him off.

“Drogal finish your drink before you say something that makes me change my mind. I’m going to tell them I’m leaving so you can walk me home.”

He nodded too fast, and tipped his mug up again to drain it as he was told. Umaryn spun and smiled as she walked away. Gulping that last mug down would help considerably. He’d be just about perfect by the time they reached the streets.

Malwynn’s eyes flared up as he saw the door open and his sister walk out, arm in arm with that monster. His emotions cycled faster than a windmill spinning in a spring storm. He felt instant rage over watching the military man simply touching his sister. He wanted to sprint down the street and split the man’s head in half with the large axe he’d been holding all evening. But he knew that’d be a death sentence. There were people all about, even at this late hour, long after sunset. If any of them made the connection to him, or his sister, they’d be facing the wrath of the Inquisitors, which were a different level of problem than they were able to cope with. He squashed down the urge to vomit as the man’s hand drifted down to Umaryn’s ass and squeezed it.

Keeping his breathing in check, he watched carefully from the shadows as Umaryn slipped her arm under his and supported him. Malwynn made note of how easy it was for her to heft his weight. She was still so very strong, benefitting from all her time in the forge aside Luther. She kept him on his feet and moving, despite his legs being rubbery. Mal watched as she steered him towards where he stood in the darkness, clearly away from the area of the city Drogal lived in. He wondered darkly what lie his sister needed to spin to get him to head the wrong way with her. Only a minute after exiting The Salon, his sister and the inebriated Captain passed the alley he stood in, and he heard them talk.

“You’re so beautiful,” Drogal said through a slur.

“Thank you Drogal, you’re quite handsome yourself,” she replied. Mal could hear her thick sarcasm. He must be completely oblivious for her to be using such language and tone. Other than grunts from physical exertion, the two were quiet for a hundred feet or so. Just as they were almost out of earshot, Malwynn stepped out into the street confidently, and began walking behind them. He carried his weapon openly, as if he were a guard on patrol. He hoped they didn’t run into any actual soldiers on patrol. To say the encounter would be awkward would be doing it no justice.

“What’s your place like?” Drogal asked, looking up to Umaryn with puppy dog eyes.

“It’s not as nice as yours I’m sure. You soldiers sure are taken care of nicely here. Must be nice to have all those hot meals, and a paying job.” Umaryn had moved on from sarcasm. She was fully into judgmental mode. Malwynn picked up his pace, fearful she’d tip their hat too soon, too far from the butcher’s shop.

“It IS nice,” Drogal said, adjusting the belt his short sword hung on. Malwynn eyed the weapon enviously. He wanted to upgrade his giant axe into something more portable, something that he could practice with in their tight quarters. Drogal seemed to entirely miss the point of her accusation, and the two continued on quietly for a bit.

“Tell me something,“ Drogal said, straightening up suddenly and stopping. Umaryn almost entirely let go of him, he stopped so quickly. “Would you kiss me right now? You should kiss me right now. Show me how you feel about me.” He leaned into her, causing the both of them to stumble backwards into the side of a building. Drogal pressed his chest against Umaryn’s, nearly pinning her against the side of a small cobbler’s shop. Mal began a run to get to her, to save her from this attack, but he caught sight of her hand low, subtly waving him off. She had it handled.

“Oh Drogal. You silly soldier,” she said softly, full of forced passion. Umaryn reached up with a hand and gently caressed his neck and ear. Malwynn watched as she traced her fingertips across his cheek, sliding them back around his neck and burying them in the scruff of his hair. She leaned forward, pulling Drogal into her, pulling him into a deep kiss.

Malwynn’s stomach felt as if a dagger had been rammed into it. Something worse than bile crept into his throat, coating it like an Artificer’s machine oil, stinging, burning, and urging him even more strongly to vomit. He’d stopped moving entirely, standing in the street watching his sister and the man they planned on killing deep in what appeared to be an affectionate embrace. Malwynn felt betrayed by his sister as he watched her run her hands up and down the arms of the drunk Captain.

After what felt like an eternity to Malwynn, she finally pushed him away, and whispered with a sly smile, “We need to keep moving. We’ll never get to a warm place if this happens again.”

Drogal nodded eagerly, pressing his nose and face into Umaryn’s neck.  Malwynn could tell as they started to walk further that Drogal was fighting a growing erection in his trousers. He knew because he too had walked that way before, often right after Marissa had done something similar to him. Thinking of Marissa made him heft the axe more. It made him angry, and highlighted the hollow feeling he tried so hard to ignore all day, every day.

A hundred yards and they’d turn left. Malwynn hoped they could make it that far before Drogal demanded another kiss. He wasn’t sure if the axe could be kept out of the Captain’s head if another kiss happened.

They made the left hand turn, and avoided another kiss. Everything was going according to plan. The butcher’s shop was but another hundred yards distant, and so long as Umaryn’s strength held, they’d make it. Drogal’s level of intoxication must have been truly epic. How Umaryn got the man to drink so heavily was beyond Malwynn. He staggered to and fro constantly, only staying upright because of the pillar that was Umaryn. He was thankful his sister spent so many hours working iron in the coals of the forge. He told himself he’d forgive his sister for all the time she spent away from him there during their childhood.

Quality Meats, Cheap was only thirty feet away. Umaryn had crossed the street to get closer to the alley where they’d planned on entering the business. Masterfully, she got Drogal all the way up to the steps that led into the front entrance of the shop itself. Malwynn had allowed more space between he and the pair, and he watched as she got him seated on the dirty stone blocks. Directly according to their script, she told Malwynn to come by adjusting her boots. He took a few jogging steps, noticing his breath in the air against the light shed by the oil lamp post distant on the far street corner.

Malwynn carried his walk as much like a soldier of the Amaranth Empire as he could, and approached his sister, and the Captain. He scraped down into his memory, and dredged up the conversation he and his sister had practiced.

“Evening ma’am. Good evening Captain,” Malwynn said sternly, trying to remove any semblance of personality from the words.

“Good evening soldier,” Umaryn said back.

“Hey… you. What’s your rank soldier? Who am I addressing?” Drogal said as he attempted to stand. His attempt failed, and he sat back down hard.

Malwynn had no idea what rank titles the Amaranth Empire used. He cursed the oversight. They were two sentences into their ‘script,’ and they were already off track. He rolled the dice and made something up, “Sir my name is Footman Hazel. Whom am I addressing?”

Drogal soaked the name and rank in, seemingly approving of both, “Very good Footman, you may go your way. This pretty lady and I are heading to a private place for private times.” Drogal grinned and Malwynn fought the urge to smash his teeth in.

Malwynn tried to think of what to say, how to adapt what they practiced, but Umaryn beat him to the punch, “Drogal, I’m very tired, and he seems very strong. Do you think it would be okay if we asked him to help us to my place? It’s only a few more buildings away.”

“I’d love to help a fine officer of the Queen’s army,” Mal threw in, straight from the script he and Umaryn had written.

Drogal stood up, wavering to and fro. He rested a hand on the building the twins wanted to question him in, and suddenly became very serious, “Wait. Which one of you said what just then?”

Umaryn and Malwynn both stifled a laugh. He was so drunk. Umaryn spoke first, “Drogal baby, the soldier offered to help.”

Drogal looked up, some clarity appearing in his eyes, “I heard what was said. I want to know which one of you said what. But I can’t get over how much alike you two sound. What area of the world are you from Footman Hazel?” He was still drunk, but the officer inside Drogal Clock had caught on to something that alerted him.

Malwynn, still smiling from what he’d thought was a drunken question, made the decision that would alter their lives forever, and put them on a collision course with a destiny they could not imagine.

Malwynn brought the haft of the large Amaranth axe upward, sending it powerfully into the jaw of Captain Drogal Clock. The intoxicated officer’s knees gave out with his consciousness, and he hit the stone steps awkwardly, splaying out on his face, then rolling onto his side. A smudge of blood was on the stone where his eyebrow had split.

“Ancestors bless us Malwynn what the hell are you doing!?” Umaryn said, grabbing the officer’s wrists.

“I’m sorry Umaryn, I wasn’t in the mood to fucking kiss him, so I hit him in the face instead. What the hell were you thinking? I saw your tongue for mother’s sake!” Mal said harshly in a whisper as he looked around for witnesses. It appeared clear, and after throwing the axe down the alley, he returned and grabbed Clock’s feet.

A cup of ice cold water poured on his head got the bound Captain back to the world of the awake. The twins had tied the officer up on the large wooden butcher’s block in the cutting room of the shop. Arms above his head, he was bound strongly with multiple strands of baling twine around both wrists and feet. To avoid unwanted attention, they kept the room very dark, with a single candle lit on a distant blood soaked bench. The room smelled of old blood, and dirty meat. Soon it would smell of fear and fresh blood.

Drogal’s face was swollen and red along the jaw where Malwynn’s axe haft had struck him. His eyebrow was equally swollen, and had leaked a stream of now dried blood. His eye would be blackened by morning if they let him survive. Despite his injuries he forced out words, “Where am I?”

Malwynn stepped close to the bench so he could speak quietly. “That’s not important Drogal. What is important, is how you choose to answer the questions we have for you,” Malwynn said matter-of-factly.

Drogal lifted his head off the butcher’s block and looked up to Malwynn. All the alcohol had drained from his blood, leaving only the clarity that fear coupled with adrenaline gives you. “You don’t scare me. I’m protected by the Queen.”

“Well for your sake, I hope the Queen gets here right fucking quick, because if you don’t answer the simple questions we have for you, we’re going to kill you.” Malwynn lifted his dagger in as unthreatening a way as possible.

“I’ll serve my Queen in death,” Drogal said, favoring the pain across his face.

Umaryn slid across the bloody butcher’s floor like the angel of death, leaning over to caress his cheek, very similarly to how she’d done it earlier. “Drogal baby, we’re not going to leave enough of you behind for her death mages to work with if you don’t talk. You simply end right here, no spirit, no undeath, if you don’t tell us what we want to know. No one will ever know what happened to you. There will be no legacy of Captain Drogal Clock.”

Drogal’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down slowly, allowing the twins to see him swallow the reality of his situation. After blinking a few times and regaining his resolve, he nodded solemnly.

“Remember when you asked where I was from Drogal? And I said near the Varrland border? That was the truth, mostly. We’re from northern Varrland, not southern Amaranth. A different side of the border my friend.”

Drogal’s eyes flared wide with betrayal, “Damn you Isabel I knew it. Your name probably isn’t even Isabel is it? I knew your accent was too strong. Both of you. I can see it now. You’re family aren’t you?”

“No, my name isn’t Isabel, but yes, we’re family. Drogal, meet my brother.” Umaryn motioned to Malwynn but didn’t offer his name. Instead she took a step back to the butcher’s table and hefted her hammer high enough for Drogal to see it. Drogal looked from Malwynn to the clean heavy steel of Chael’s hammer.

“Drogal you said to my sister that you spend time along the border a lot, correct?” Malwynn asked him, dragging the tip of the dagger across the butcher’s block their captive was tied to.  The vibrations tore his eyes off the hammer and brought them back.

“Yes. I patrol there frequently.”

Malwynn nodded, “Have you ever been ordered to go across the border into Varrland? Perhaps to raid a village, or steal something?”

Drogal took a minute to answer, clearly debating what to say and how to say it, “I’ve been into Varrland, yes.”

“To kill? To attack towns?” Umaryn asked, stepping forward, her hammer in hand.

“I’ve been ordered to attack a few small villages. Tiny ones, mostly for bodies to bolster the Queen’s forces, and to clear space for a Queen’s Guild necromancer. The Queen likes to give her loyal servants territory, and that’s an easy way to do it.” Drogal said.

Malwynn’s lip twitched, “When was the last time you did this?”

Drogal had to think, “It was in the late spring, many months ago. A small village of perhaps thirty or forty to the east of the rail line.”

Not New Picknell.

Umaryn seemed frustrated, “You didn’t attack a village about two months ago? New Picknell it was called?”

Drogal shook his head, “No you whore. I was deployed here in Graben doing civic patrols. My unit won’t deploy again to the border for a month.”

Malwynn cuffed the man across the jaw line where the axe had hit him, causing Drogal to let out a yelp of pain. When he subsided and was quiet again, Malwynn whispered a threat, “Don’t call my sister a whore.”

Drogal spat blood up at Malwynn, narrowly missing his face, “But she is a whore you moron. She prances around The Salon like a trollop, all of her goods on display like the meat at a butch-“ Drogal trailed off, finally realizing where he was. A strange expression of panic appeared on his face as all his senses came together to confirm what he already knew.

“She is not a whore, and if you say anything about her again, I’ll kill you for the trouble. I’d planned on killing you for who you were before we tied you up tonight Drogal Clock, I’ll do far worse to you if you offend me in the meantime.”

Drogal scowled, but remained silent.

“Who would’ve or could’ve attacked a large village near the rail lines in Varrland about two months ago? Who makes those decisions?” Umaryn asked him, oblivious of the entire whore conversation.

Drogal again had to think. Malwynn wasn’t sure if he was thinking about what to say, or how to say it without calling ‘Isabel’ a whore. “Usually those decisions come down from Inquisitors, or the Lords of Graben. We’re simply given orders to carry out.”

“That sounds like a guilty man’s way of saying something isn’t his fault.” Malwynn said.

“It sounds like the truth Varrlander. We do as we are told. We obey because it is the will of the Purple Throne, and our Queens. You have your way of doing things, this is ours.”

Malwynn fought off the urge to punch the man again, “Have you killed Varrlanders?”

Umaryn leaned in closer to Drogal. This was a question she desperately needed an answer to. It would validate all of what they’d done this night, and the past few weeks. She sought vindication for her thoughts, and intentions. She stifled her emotions and breathed deeply as the Captain answered her brother.

“Yes, and I’d do it again if I could. If you cut me free I’d kill you. Then I’d kill your whore sister, whatever her name is.”

“I’m sure you’d try. Sadly, we’ve no plans to cut you free tonight,” Mal said.

“So be it. I’ll tell you no more. Isabel, or whatever your name is, if you’d been real, I would’ve made you my wife. We could’ve risen to the High City and had good lives, you and I could have-“ Drogal’s skull exploded as Umaryn brought the hammer down on it as forcefully as she could. Her teeth gritted in anger, eyes flooded with pure hatred, she lifted the hammer again only to bring it back down onto Drogal’s skull. The head of the weapon bounced off the wood under the disaster that Drogal’s head had become. Her eyes were fixed on the pulpy mess she was making as she silently brought the hammer down over and over into the butcher’s block. Malwynn stared at his out of control sister as she ruined the Captain. Finally, he took a wide circle around the hammer, and eventually put his arms around her, stopping her frantic destruction. She struggled against his arms, trying to get free to continue wrecking the man she hated so much.

“Stop. Stop please. He’s dead Umaryn,” Malwynn whispered to her.

By then Umaryn’s emotions were exploding. She dropped her hammer to the floor. The night and all its events had broken her, “I kissed him Mal! I kissed that piece of shit to keep him shut up! I had his tongue in my damn mouth! He’s a murderer. A filthy killer of innocents. I’m dirty brother. Forever tainted!” She was nearly hysterical.

Malwynn seized her shoulders and spun her to face him. He was surprised he had the strength to overpower her. He chalked it up to her being overwhelmed. “Umaryn stop. Stop. You are not tainted one bit. We will wash away his stink and continue forward after this, pure and clean. Tonight, out of his blood we are born again. Born again as the executioners of those who do wrong. We will bring justice to those who escape it, no matter how far they run, and no matter what we need to do, we will destroy evil where we find it because our family cannot seek justice. Because we are the ones who need to do it for them, and for everyone who cannot.”

Something in what Malwynn said appealed to her, and she stopped her shaking. The tears still came, hot and fresh however. “Executioners?”

“Some cannot be allowed to live Umaryn, you know it as well as I do. Whoever killed our family is pure evil, and those who helped them, or support them shall feel our wrath.”

She nodded, her mind clear again, “Whatever it takes.”

“Whatever it takes.”

- Chapter Six -

THE TAX MAN

“What do you mean we need to get someone else? I thought we had enough money?” Malwynn asked. He spun Drogal’s short sword in varying fast circles around his body. What he lacked in skill he made up for in flash.

The two were alone again in their rented room on the second floor of the old couple’s home. Malwynn looked out at the stable in the back of the home where Bramwell and Tinder were stabled. He’d be taking Bramwell for a ride later after dark, when the streets were empty.

“Mal I haven’t worked at The Salon since we killed Drogal. Well, just that one night, and yeah I made good money, but Bram and Tin eat like… well, like a Gvorn and a horse, and we eat too, and we need to pay Maya and Usul for the room here. Drogal had what? Thirty Crowns on him that night? And the three soldiers we’ve done in since then have had a grand total of thirty more. We pay five Crowns a week just to live here Mal.”

“I know, I know. I just… It’s hard to imagine that we’ve become petty thieves. And the bodies Umaryn… I don’t know how many more I can dispose of. It’s got to be fouling up our souls to be doing this.” Mal stopped spinning the sword and looked at the individual snowflakes falling from the sky. The snow would not accumulate tonight, but it was a sign of things to come.

“Petty thieves steal from the innocent. We’re looking for information about who killed our family, and taking the money of those people afterwards. That’s different. As for the bodies… Don’t forget Mal, you said it yourself. Whatever it takes.” Umaryn flopped down on her back in the bed, tired for no reason.

“You’re right, but Umaryn, we need to be cautious about this. Too many missing soldiers will arouse suspicion. Ancestors forbid we get any kind of attention from the Inquisitors. We can fool the general populace, but necromancers that are trained to find and prosecute in the name of their Queen? That scares me sister. It scares me a lot.” Mal sat down on the edge of his bed, skin coated in a thin layer of sweat despite the cool air.

“You have any other ideas? I’m all ears.”

Malwynn thought about it, but knew she was right on many levels, “Maybe we just need to hit someone with a lot of money? One big hit, then lay low for awhile? If we’re smart about it, we hit someone high up that might know about home.”

Umaryn rolled over and faced Mal, “Money-wise, that’s a great idea.”

Mal nodded, “We just need to find someone high up enough that’d have money, as well as knowledge we could squeeze out of them.”

“We’ve already gone after a Captain for ancestor’s sake. Kind of rarified territory. There isn’t a whole lot of room above that for us to hunt,” Umaryn said.

“Very true. What we need to think about now, instead of going after military targets, is going after political figures, and people who aren’t in the chain of military command, but in the civil structure.” Malwynn sounded a bit eager.

Umaryn considered his suggestion. “Well, there’s one thing to consider. Something bad,” Umaryn said, rolling onto her back again.

Mal flopped on his own back, “What’s that?”

“We’re probably talking about a purple robed person right? I mean, those are the folks who have the money, are in the power structure making decisions, as well as have the potential for knowledge about home right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Umaryn looked over at her brother, “Aren’t most of the purple robed people necromancers? Are we really ready to go after someone who knows The Way?”

“You know The Way. I’ve seen you use it. If we’re smart about it, and prepare ourselves ahead of time, I think we’ll be fine.”

“You’re an optimist,” Umaryn said.

“No. I’ve just got little to lose. We’ll either be fine, or dead, and honestly for us, there’s little difference between the two right now.”

“Here Maya, sorry it’s a day late,” Umaryn said, handing the elderly lady that was half the pair that hosted them five purple coins.

Maya, the shriveled but sweet lady that owned the home they rented took the coins graciously. “Thank you dear. Are you planning on staying next month as well? We’d love to have you if so.”

Umaryn shuffled her feet uncomfortably, “Yes, it looks like we’ll be staying another month at least. We’re having trouble saving enough money to do what we want to do here.”

“Ohhh. I understand. It’s hard for young men and women to get ahead here. Usul and I only live in this home because it was willed to us. So long as we pay our taxes to the throne, it’s ours. The moment we miss a payment though…” Maya sipped her herbal tea.

Umaryn nodded, “You get a knock at the door.”

“Indeed. The tax collector comes knocking no matter what though. As they say, only three certain things in life; death, The Queen, and her taxes.”

Umaryn’s mind began to work like a machine, the gears turning rapidly, “When does the collector come next Maya?”

“Oh, about a week’s time I’d say. Right when the first snowfall comes. We had spitting flakes the other night. Us old timers say that each of the first few flakes hitting the ground every autumn are louder than the sounds of a Crown falling on the floor.”

“All your money going to the Throne, eh?” Umaryn said with a knowing smile.

Maya nodded, “Don’t tell Usul this, but I’ve never been a fan of the Queens. They’re such hard women. We’re fortunate that this Queen has only been on the Throne a decade. The Queens are much nicer earlier in their reign. They sour like milk.”

“What’s the Queen’s name?” Umaryn asked.

“No one ever knows, and it doesn’t matter. The Princesses are kept sequestered in the royal palace in the High City until the current Queen passes the Throne to her eldest. Once the crown is handed down, the daughter loses whatever identity she had, and simply becomes the Queen. We do not worship each Queen so much as the Purple Throne. Who sits on it doesn’t matter, pretty one. I would’ve thought you’d have known that. Being from a small village and all.”

Umaryn was blasé, “I suppose I already knew that, but it’s been so long since I heard my mother and father tell such tales of the Queen. In truth, my brother and I are from a very small town, very far from here, and very far from the Queen’s influence. It is only Amaranthine by the thinnest of connections.”

“Mmm. That makes a lot of sense. The Empire is a very big place.” Maya sipped her hot tea.

“Very big, and very empty. Vast expanses of nothing all over the place. Question, when the tax man comes, does he bring an army of the dead with him? Guards too I imagine. He can’t be a very popular man,” Umaryn said with another smile.

“Oh he’s alone. Though not in the strictest sense. He walks with a handful of the dead,” Maya sounded sad.

“Do they come in? I’ve seen you don’t keep dead in the home here.”

“No, he leaves them outside. There’s no room for them in the foyer, or the kitchen. We couldn’t forbid them entry even if we wanted to. He concedes and leaves them outside because they wouldn’t fit. A true Amaranthine gentlemen.” Maya laughed a bit. She was pleased to have at least won a little something off a servant of the Queen.

“Well maybe when the tax man comes, I’ll blow him a kiss, and ask him to lower your taxes on my behalf.”

“Just for the asking eh? If it were only that easy my dear. I’ve half a mind that the man is dead himself.” Maya sipped her tea again, setting the cup down.

“Well, if you’d like me to try. Just tell me a day in advance so I can get all prettied up. Dead or not, he might appreciate a nice dress and done up hair at least. It can’t hurt.” Umaryn put on her best smile, the one she couldn’t possibly appreciate enough herself.

Maya laughed again, a warm laugh that made Umaryn miss home, “Good spirit girl. Good spirit. I’ll be sure to let you know when the tax man comes.”

“Thanks Maya. You and Usul have been wonderful to my brother and I.”

“Excuse me soldier,” Malwynn said from his perch atop Bramwell’s saddle. This high up he felt strong, authoritative. Unchallengeable.

The young soldier had been keeping his eyes well averted from Malwynn, but challenged now, he looked up, clearly in awe of the Gvorn. “Sir, yes?”

Malwynn wore the dress uniform they’d salvaged off of Drogal, and wore it well. “Why exactly are you so far from your patrol route?”

The soldier, no more than sixteen years old looked around confused and a little panicked, “Sir I’m right where I belong. I walk this route almost every night.”

Malwynn shook his head slowly, indicating displeasure. He rose up and slid down out of the saddle, his feet hitting the dirt softly, “Son, you didn’t pay enough attention to the late change in orders. We’ve doubled patrols in this district due to the crimes of late.”

“I’m sorry Captain. I was unaware anything had changed tonight.” The soldier stood firmly at attention, long handled axe held at his side in deference.

“It’s nearly unforgiveable soldier. What do you propose I do with you? Report you to your commanding officer?” Malwynn was learning to love toying with these young soldiers like this. It was one of his last remaining joys in a largely joyless existence.

“Sir I think I’d be in a lot of trouble with my senior officer if you did that. Is there anything I can do to make up for this mistake? Perhaps I can cut wood for you on my day off? Do your laundry? Anything sir. A court martial for me would be the death of my family.” The kid was desperate. Missing a patrol could result in death with the wrong officer.

Malwynn smiled to put the soldier at ease. He’d kept the boy distracted long enough.

Umaryn had silently slipped in behind the boy, and with one quick backhand knocked him out cold.  His limp body stretched out on the ground, unaware of what had happened. They’d bring him to the butcher shop on the back of Bramwell next. As for after the butcher shop…

Malwynn vomited. He couldn’t control it anymore. Getting rid of Drogal had been easy. Both twins had been full of hate, and anger, and letting the rage loose on him had been easy. Dismembering his body and scattering it across various trash bins across the city had seemed exhilarating in a strange, morbid way. Now the killing had become routine, and without the supposed thrill of dealing out justice to the evil, slicing a person apart at the joint with a butcher’s knife was what it was; a crime against humanity.

Malwynn’s poor stomach heaved repeatedly, emptying its contents on the rust colored floor of the shop. He thankfully hadn’t eaten much.

Umaryn stopped what she was doing, still clutching one of the young soldier’s arms. “Come on Malwynn. We’ve done this before. Tell me you aren’t going soft.”

“Fuck you. This is wretched woman. How are you not on hands and knees with me? If mother and father saw us doing this, I don’t think they’d appr-hooooove-“ he was cut off by another heave.

Umaryn put the severed arm in a burlap sack and pulled a chair over. She sat down and took pity on her brother, “Mal I’m sorry. I know this is rotten business, and I’m sorry we’ve gotten into it. I wish we could just… walk away from it all. Go home, and forget it all happened.”

Her brother sat heavily and wiped a trail of vomit from his chin, “We’ve no home to go to. I mean, we could save up for a train to Daris, and try to start over there, but let’s be honest, do you think you’d sleep at night when we got there? I hate this. I hate it with a passion, but I can’t just walk away. It’s just… horrible horrible business.”

“Murder tends to be.”

It was an awkward silence.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said.

Mal blinked several times, debating if he wanted to hear it, “Okay.”

“I gave Maya our rent for the room yesterday, and we got chatting about how she pays taxes. I guess the tax man comes around about this time each year, with the first snowfall. That got me thinking about what kind of an opportunity that might bring for us.”

Malwynn’s mind pondered the situation as offered by her brief statement. “He’d be a fairly high up figure. What else about this idea seems good to you?”

Umaryn lit up with excitement she’d clearly been holding back, “He’s the tax man Mal. He collects money from houses all day. All day.”

Mal put two and two together, “He could be carrying a fortune in Crowns. Ancestors alive Umaryn, he could be the last person we need to kill for money here.”

“Exactly.”

“Ahh I don’t know though. A man like that would be bound to have a dozen undead guards with him, plus a unit of soldiers to boot. He’d be near impossible to kill cleanly.” Malwynn frowned.

Umaryn smiled, “Maya said he comes into the home alone. His retinue of undead won’t fit in the foyer, so he leaves them outside. If we can find a way to be the people at the door the day he comes, it’ll be just him, and the two of us. And as you said, if we prepare ahead of time, I think we can take him, necromancer or not.”

Malwynn couldn’t help but agree with her logic, “It could work. We just need a way to keep Maya and Usul out of this.”

She nodded, agreeing. “It could work. If he knows anything else too, then we’re golden. Two birds-“

“One really big stone.”

“You were always good at skipping rocks Mal,” Umaryn said.

Mal shrugged, and spat bitter flecks of acid out of his mouth. “We need to work out how we’ll question him too.” Mal sighed. “Well, before we do anything else, poor Footman… hell I don’t even know his name, he needs to be put away. We can talk more tomorrow about all of this.”

The sister had hatched a genius idea to poison Maya and Usul. She didn’t want to poison them to death, simply make them bedridden for a day or two; long enough for them to receive, and handle the tax man when he came. After a few days of warm milk and hot tea, they’d be back to full health. Neither of the two had any knowledge of the foul art of poison preparation, so they set out to gather knowledge. Malwynn had suggested they speak to a barber, one of the barbaric bleeders of Graben that might know where and how someone might obtain a substance they could use in exchange for a few purple coins.

Umaryn had a more innocent idea. She headed towards the massive lifts at the center of the city cliff, and found an apothecary, a professional medicine man whose life work was to make the sick well. It stood to her reason that if he could make the sick well, he could make the well sick.

The tiny shop was perched on a cobble stone corner amongst larger businesses. It had finely wrought glass windows, and an intricately carved door that spoke to the wealth of the business owner inside. Upon entering the shop she was struck by the esoteric odor of the place. Medicinal at first, then, comforting and warm, like incense made to soothe ragged nerves. She waited patiently behind an older woman wearing finery that cost more than her and her brother’s combined wealth, Gvorn, horse, and all. When the lady finished her business and walked past Umaryn, she stepped to the counter.

Umaryn addressed the Apothecary respectfully. He struck her as the type of person who had a large amount of powerful friends in Graben, “My aunt has come down with a strong stomach illness. We believe it to be something she ate. It appears to be passing quickly, thank the Queen, but we were wondering what she might have eaten, or drank that could’ve caused such a problem.”

The Apothecary, a short bald man with thick spectacles nodded in rapid fire, “Well there are many things that she could have ingested. Household things.”

“What’s something she might have eaten that wouldn’t have tasted off to her? Something she might normally have in the home? She’s getting a touch… let’s say senile in her old age.”

The joke was lost on the dour medicine seller, “Does she gather mushrooms at all? Many of the mushrooms that grow wild on the bark of the trees of the Low City can cause distress to the innards. Check her cupboards. Throw any mushrooms out.”

“Oh I hadn’t thought of that, thank you so much sir.”

“Most folks don’t think. It’s the downfall of the peasant class.”

She smiled. Fuck you, Umaryn thought. “Might I have some of the incense you’re burning? I find it quite soothing.”

“Maya says the man should be here tomorrow. The neighbors are gossiping that the tax man was seen right after breakfast a few streets over. You think I should go try and find him and ask if it’d be too much trouble for him to come later in the day? Tell him Maya and Usul won’t be home until later so he has more money on him?” Umaryn asked Mal as he ate a feeble sandwich. It was all they could afford to eat.

“No, that might be suspicious. Wouldn’t want to arouse anything of the sort. When do you want to try and feed Maya and Usul those mushrooms you got? Any idea on how long they take to kick in?” Mal said, swallowing his bite.

She shook her head, unsure. “I told them I’d be making them a dinner as a thank you but didn’t tell them when. Maya hasn’t started cooking yet for their dinner tonight. I was going to go tell her I had it taken care of. I think if I slip some in with dinner, then keep it in their system with tea over the night, we’d be in the clear.”

“What if we make a lot of noise and they hear us? What if we trash the place? How are we going to explain it to them?” Malwynn asked before taking another bite of the crusty bread.

“I don’t know. We can either keep them sick until we fix whatever we break, or maybe we just take off and go somewhere else in the city.”

“Are we willing to risk their lives for this? Killing Amaranth officials is one thing, but these two have been good to us,” Mal said, clearly at odds with the thought of the old couple being in danger.

Umaryn shared his turmoil, “I wouldn’t want them hurt.”

“Then we’d best make very quick work of this fucking tax man. We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t, let’s just see to it we make this as fast and clean as possible.”

“How is it?” Umaryn asked, sipping soup from a wooden spoon. She’d been very careful, ensuring none of the stomach churning mushrooms she’d gathered were in her or her brother’s bowl.

Maya nodded in a motherly way, “It’s quite good. A little spicy.”

Usul, ever the grump, was honest, “I don’t care much for it. It tastes like foreign food to me.”

“Usul be nice. The young girl went out of her way to make us a meal, and you need to appreciate it. Say something nice.”

Usul glared at his wife of forty years before speaking again, “It’s not bad.”

Malwynn cracked a grin.

“Thank you. I’m not much of a cook, but we both wanted to show you how much we appreciate all you’ve done for us since we got to Graben.”

Malwynn gulped down a mouthful of the soup, “Yes. Thank you wasn’t enough.”

Maya reached out a put one of her aged hands on Mal’s forearm, “We were young once. This is an unforgiving world. Finding a break is hard.”

The two suddenly felt very bad about the soup.

It took an hour for the mushrooms to work their natural, yet insidious magic. Maya was the first to complain. She spoke in an urgent, yet hushed tone about not feeling well, and then excused herself from the living room of the large home. Usul continued to smoke his pipe and read his book, but less than an hour later, Malwynn watched him as he shifted in his high back leather chair uncomfortably. A tiny bead of sweat appeared on his brow, and after wiping a dozen more away, he simply got up and left the room without saying a word.

Within minutes, both brother and sister could hear all the colorful sounds of intestinal distress from the upstairs washroom.

The smells came shortly after that.

Umaryn tended to them once enough time had passed. They needed them ill, but not hopelessly so.  A glass of cold water from the sink pump followed by two cups of hot tea, laced with a tiny amount of the mushroom’s oils meant the discomfort of the stomach ailment was sustained at a manageable level. Umaryn returned to the bottom floor and her brother after she’d seen the two elderly hosts put into bed.

“How are they?” Mal asked, distressed.

“Empty of water. From both ends. They’re also seeing things. Maya just called me ‘her little fairy,’ and attempted to tap me on the head with an old umbrella, as if it were an enchanted wand.” She slumped down in the second leather chair, exhausted.

“Thank you for doing that. Miserable work I’m sure.”

Umaryn nodded, looking at her hands. She looked as if she was examining murder weapons, “I just hope it’s not too much.”

“Me too. Are you going to give them more of the mushroom oil tonight?”

Umaryn shrugged, “Yeah probably. I think the visions they’re experiencing from the mushrooms are going to mask any noise we might make tomorrow. Hallucinations are wonderful distractions, so I’m told.”

“Eaten a lot of strange mushrooms Umaryn?” Mal asked playfully.

“No, but I’m starting to think some of your meals in the near future might be enhanced by one or two of them,” she replied, eyebrow rising.

Mal grinned again, until his thoughts flitted upstairs to the two people he and his sister had just poisoned. It was a strange life he and his sister were leading, so different from the one they’d led in New Picknell.

Malwynn’s blue eyes were as cold as the icicles that clung to the eaves of homes in winter, and no less piercing. He stared out of the panes of glass in the upstairs of the brick home that they shared with the old couple. He focused his attention on the short, thin man that walked patiently from home to home in the gentrified Low City neighborhood. He spent a short amount of time at each door, and each visit was precisely the same.

He’d slide up the steps to the front door, and give it three quick raps. He’d stand patiently, holding a hardened scroll case in one hand with a full half dozen armed and armored undead at his side, and heels. Neither brother nor sister had seen armed undead before, and it worried them tremendously. When each door opened, the stoic face revealed was always tinged with the presence of fear. So many undead had to chill the blood, and the presence of the purple robe made it so much worse. Each home owner would watch as the tax man unrolled the scroll from his case, read the matter of their annual taxes aloud for them to hear, and then roll the scroll up. Each resident simply handed a small bag over, likely filled with Crowns, to the robed figure, and he would turn and walk away to the next home, the taxes collected.

It had the feel of a funeral.

The armed undead were Malwynn’s newest point of attention. The undead were still very much dead, and appeared to be no more in control of their faculties than a normal undead, but the simple presence of rusted short swords, meager leather armor was troubling. To fear the bites and scratches of the dead was one thing. To dodge sword blows, and pierce both helm and armor was another entirely. Most alarming of all, was the wrought iron helms they wore.

Wrapped around and over their entire head and upper chest was an imposing helm made of blackened iron. The cold steel formed an impenetrable cage an inch from the flesh that protected the undead from decapitation or damage to the brain. Most people were taught from an early age that the best way to slay a zombie was to destroy or remove the head. Killing a zombie’s body was far harder, and required you to wreak so much damage the task was near impossible. Zombies were also renowned for their lack of cooperation in the matter. That these undead were armed as well bode poorly for anyone attempting to attack them.

Umaryn slid beside her brother and took the scene in before speaking, “That’s horrifying.”

All Mal could do was nod.

“What do you think happens to them when we kill the tax man? Will they come in and try and kill us?” Umaryn asked, worried.

It was Mal’s turn to shrug, “I don’t know, I’m not a necromancer. My guess is he’s got them dominated and slaved to his will with The Way. Once he dies, I’d imagine The Way will fade, and they’ll be free of his control. If that’s the case, then the question becomes, is there any kind of control over them after that? Is there a second puppeteer holding more strings?”

Umaryn swallowed hard, “Do we still do this?”

“Do we have a choice at this point?”

The tax man left another building and moved on to the next. The twins watched him as he repeated his task, picture perfectly. It was almost as if he were a thoughtless creature, incapable of doing anything different.

Umaryn assessed her brother. He was wearing the Amaranthine armor they’d salvaged many months before. He had his bow in hand, as well as Drogal’s short sword on his hip. Slung across his back was the quiver, filled with ten arrows. Earlier in the morning Umaryn had sharpened all their weapons using The Chant of Sharpness, and strengthened both sets of armor using a Repair spell. She’d taken a short nap to replenish the willpower spent on the magic. Now she was refreshed, and ready to wield The Way fully.

Umaryn reached into Mal’s quiver and took out all of the razor sharp arrows in a large handful. As Malwynn turned to see what she was doing, Umaryn took a seat on his bed, and rested the arrows in her lap, as she would a small child.

Running her fingertips over the feathers, and down the length of the each arrow’s shaft, she closed her eyes and felt her soul blend with the tiny immaterial spirits contained in each item. Melding together as a single entity for merely a moment, the connection was full, and intense. A dozen souls had announced their presence to her, and it made her spirit soar. She whispered, almost in reverence to the weapons of death in her lap. Malwynn watched, dimly feeling on some strange level some of the sensations his sister was experiencing.

“Spirits of the arrows, I beg of you to fly straight and true from my brother’s bow. I encourage you to pierce the armor of our foes, as they are wicked men, aberrant men, and need to be brought to heel for justice to exist. I pledge to you I will take proper care of you so long as I survive, and will show my appreciation to you and your brethren spirits for my life. I beg of you to be sharper than his armor, and faster than his reflexes.”

Malwynn kept his eyes on the arrows, hoping to see some change, some magical shift in the weapons, but nothing happened. They simply sat there, inanimate as before. Umaryn lifted her head with a large smile, satisfied.

“Did that work?” Malwynn asked skeptically.

She nodded, “Of course it did. I may not be able to do much with The Way, but what I can do, I do very well Mal. I just need to do the same to my hammer, and we’ll be ready.”

“Well you’d best hurry. The tax man cometh.”

His knock on the door came just minutes later. Umaryn had only just completed her chant on the hammer and assumed her position in the foyer. Malwynn was pressed against the wall on the stair landing, above and to the right of the door. Once the tax man entered, Umaryn was to draw him inside so the door would shut, and Malwynn would let fly with his bow, hopefully crippling the man, and ending the fight before it began. If it came down to it, Umaryn would pick up her hammer from its hiding spot behind the leg of the hallway table, and bring it to bear.

A second trio of knocks brought the twins to their senses. Umaryn straightened out the heavy gray robe she wore over her armor.  Malwynn was pleasantly surprised at how concealing the plush robe was of the armor. He wondered if they’d be returning the robe to poor, ill Usul without blood stains on it.

Umaryn turned the door knob of the heavy wooden door and stepped back, pulling it in. The cool autumn breeze carried a strange smell into the home. It was cloying and sweet, with the hint of dust and decay. Even on the breeze, it made her nose itch, and threatened a sneeze. Up close the purple robed tax man was frightening in a simple way. He was older, perhaps three decades and a half. His receding hair was gray, but not in a wise, patriarchal way. It was too white, as if the color had been drained out unnaturally over too short a time. His skin was loose, almost flabby and saggy, creating strange folds of skin that made him look like a bulldog wrapped in purple.

Before she could say a word, the odd looking tax man brandished his scroll case, and pulled the sheet out, pulling it expertly to where Maya and Usul’s name appeared. He spoke curtly, revealing a voice that was slightly high in pitch, yet still menacing, “Maya and Usul Renfro of 174 Rainwater Lane. Your Queen has assessed the value of your property for this year, and has decreed a tax bill of two hundred and fifty Crowns. Your full obligation to the throne is due immediately. How do you plan to pay?”

Umaryn had the same stoic, yet fear tinged face the same as all the others. She smiled apologetically then replied, “I’m sorry, I didn’t bring the Crowns to the door. Maya and Usul are both ill. Would you care to step inside for a moment while I fetch the money for you?”

Impassive, the robed figure cocked his head to the side skeptically. After a wait that stretched on a bit too long, he put the scroll away and simply stepped inside, and Umaryn let go of the door. It swung slowly shut behind him, and she backed a few steps away, drawing him into the foyer.

From the landing, as silent as he could manage, Malwynn held his breath, and raised the bow, drawing the string the entire time. He had a bead on the back of the robed man and after a prayer to the ancestors, he let fly. The twang of the string could not have made much noise, but somehow, the robed figure knew the arrow was in flight. He spun wickedly, reaching up with a purple sleeved arm exactly as the arrow reached him. Instead of his back, the projectile lodged in the meat of his forearm, halfway through. He let loose a ragged curse of pain as Malwynn readied another arrow.

Umaryn was panicked. The robed man should have an arrow in his back instead of his arm, and he was far too unfazed by that arrow for her comfort. Taking several steps backward she felt along the edge of the hallway table until she reached the end. As her fear scattered fingers slid along the tabletop she could sense the dim spirit inside, oblivious to the chaos right beside it. There, behind the table and resting against the wall was Chael’s hammer. Her hammer. Just feeling the leather wrapping of the haft in her hand gave her tremendous strength. She could feel the spirit of the weapon rouse in her grip, and she knew she and her brother were far from alone in this fight.

Confidently now, she ripped the heavy gray robe free, stepping forward wearing only the Amaranthine armor. The tax man’s hand was already covered in slick blood from his pierced arm, and she was intent on shattering his other arm before he could do anything mystical with it.

The aged tax collector crouched low, almost as a feral animal might, snarling with his strange features. He looked more beast than man. Umaryn grunted as she brought the head of her hammer in a giant swing at his shoulder. She could feel the exultation of the hammer as the steel head whistled towards soft, vulnerable flesh.

She was shocked by his speed. He ducked under the hammer as Malwynn’s second arrow sailed a bit too high, sinking itself into the plaster wall. The entire time the necromancer moved, he was cursing strange words under his breath, and using his good hand to fetch a weapon from inside his robe. Umaryn prepared herself for his lighting strike, expecting his retaliatory blow to be a jab with a dagger, or a slash with a knife. Instead, his good hand produced a small piece of dried flesh that he gracefully drew across a small part of her exposed forearm, where the armor was not.

Immediately she felt something… change inside her. The Way was working upon her from the inside out, and she instantly felt a turmoil the touch of the piece of flesh had given to her. The collector was a necromancer, and one of considerable power. He had managed with a brush of collected flesh to place pure evil and sickness deep inside her. Now the evil wanted out, and Umaryn’s flesh was in the way.

Umaryn’s knees gave way as if she’d been struck from behind. She dropped down to the floor, her stomach splitting in two from cramps more powerful than she’d ever experienced. A great knot appeared lower than she’d ever felt pain before, and suddenly the contents of her stomach erupted from her mouth, through gritted teeth. A foamy green slime filled with bits of her last meal spread out across Maya and Usul’s foyer floor, thick like tainted lava.

“UMARYN!” Malwynn screamed as he watched his sister fold in half into the fetal position, her treasured hammer an afterthought. The collector, a sinister grin across his face, turned to the door and twisted the knob to make his escape, or to allow his undead guards in to finish them off. Malwynn already had an arrow on the string, and he drew it faster than he ever had, and aimed it at the fleeing necromancer. Malwynn felt for a fraction of a second a feeling he had never felt before; a second presence, a second emotion near to him that was still not yet him. He felt joy, thrill, and release as the arrow sprang forth from his weapon towards the necromancer.

The knob twisted no more than an inch before the arrow reached its intended mark. It bit deep and pierced muscle, vein and artery at the midpoint between shoulder and neck. The arrow hit the dark mage with tremendous force, far more than it should have. He stumbled sideways into the living room with the pair of high backed leather chairs, leaving a huge smear of dark red blood in his wake.

Malwynn dropped the bow at the top of the landing and took the entire half flight of stairs in a single leap. He landed with a thud as the undead outside began to bang on the door. Somehow, they had realized the events inside the home. Maybe it was a twist of the knob, or some mental alarm from the necromancer. Malwynn ignored the armored undead outside and slid the thick iron bolt shut as he drew Drogal’s blade from the scabbard at his hip. His sole focus was the necromancer.

The tax collector was hurt badly. The arrow had plunged far into his chest, and as Malwynn crossed into the room with him, the man coughed wetly, and sprayed a fine red mist of blood onto the floor, and his precious robe.

“Guess who’s coming to collect now, you piece of shit?” Malwynn said, stalking the death mage across the room.

The necromancer turned slightly to face his attacker more, but his strength and coordination failed. He stumbled, landing on the chair Umaryn had sat in exhausted the night prior. He rolled over, and fell on the floor, blood running freely from both his arm and his neck. The aged user of The Way smiled, and reached into his robe to fetch something.

Malwynn had seen what the things in the robe did to people, and he took no chances, and swiped powerfully across the shins of the mage, hacking two thick gouges into both flesh and bone. The man’s legs were useless now, and the scream of pain he let loose was proof of the agony he was in. He abandoned his search for spell materials or weapons and clutched at his ruined legs. He barely had the strength to sit up.

Malwynn crouched low, holding the sword, still edged in the red blood of the dying mage. He watched impassively as the mage slowly lost the sensation in his legs and sat back, leaning against the red leather of the chair. The tax man looked at Malwynn, and took stock of him. Finally he laughed.

“You’re a heretic aren’t you? A rebel against the Queen. A red wearer. I see you for what you are.”

Malwynn could care what the mage thought of him, “Tell me before you die. What do you know of an attack in Varrland on a small village named New Picknell? Who can tell me who ordered the attack? Speak quickly and I’ll see to it your body is resurrected as a proper undead, befitting your station in life.” As he made his offer, he heard the raucous noise of the undead growing. He had but a minute before the entire neighborhood realized something was very wrong inside the home here.

The tax collector’s eyes lit up as much as they could. There was precious little life left in them. “I’ve no idea. I simply collect the taxes in my district, and maintain the undead used for public works. You’d need someone much more important than me. See to it I’m animated as a Wight please. I wish to be a Wight. I’ve always admired their recollections of life.”

Malwynn nodded, hiding his frustration. “Your head needs to be intact for that, yes?”

The necromancer nodded, his head barely able to lift itself.

“When you die, will your host outside continue to attack us? Or will they wander off, returning to their den?”

He sputtered something, but it was inaudible, and full of blood. Malwynn repeated his question, and the necromancer finally spoke loud enough for Mal to hear him, “They’ll revert to their own will. They’ve been given fledgling sentience. They’ll wander about until another necromancer finds them and dominates them as I have. You’ll be in trouble then. They’ll know I’m dead, and where I was.”

“I guess I’d better work at that not happening then eh? So sorry about your head.”

“Wha-?”

The necromancer struggled to raise his head one last time, but before he could, Malwynn’s stroke separated it from the neck. It rolled in a crazy circle, and spun under the chair the body leaned against. He made a mental note to remember to go back and collect it if they survived this. It would be a horrible find for Maya or Usul. He jogged quickly back into the foyer where Umaryn lay.

“Umaryn, are you okay?” He asked, resting his hand on her shoulder. He stole a glance over his own shoulder and saw the undead banging on the door even more violently than before. They were different now, with the death of the tax man.

Umaryn’s response was to roll the tiniest amount onto her back. Mal looked back to her and saw she was covered in her own vomit. Her skin was aflame to the touch, as hot as the coals in the fire of the forges she longed for. Her eyes were stricken with both pain and confusion. She’d never seen or experienced The Way like this before. This was a sickness, a rot formed within caused by necrotic magic most foul.

Malwynn brushed her hair out of her eyes softly with fingers tipped in red blood, and picked her up. She felt light, though he knew she hadn’t lost weight. All his exercising had paid off. He carried her into the small kitchen at the rear of the home and rested her on the heavy wooden table they’d eaten at the night prior. He leaned in close and reassured her as best he could, “I’m going to deal with the zombies. Be strong, this is almost over.”

Malwynn bolted from where she lay on the oak table and shut the kitchen door. He dragged the hallway table in front of it, barring entry unless the undead figured out how to move the table aside. He wasn’t sure what these undead were quite capable of. Malwynn ran up the steps to the landing, looking out the tall and narrow windows of the foyer door. He could see and count five of the necromancer’s pets, all chomping at the bit to get inside.  At the top of the landing he scooped up his discarded bow, and jumped down once more.

He had one plan, and with a flick of the wrist he threw the bolt, and prayed to the souls of his ancestors it would work. He notched an arrow on the string and gave the knob a twist to set the door free, backpedaling to put space between the undead and his bow.

He got five steps back before the door swung in fully, and the undead marched inside, looking for blood. Their weapons were raised, and their pose clearly showed that they knew how to use their dilapidated, corroded weapons. Despite their low quality, Malwynn knew the blades were no less deadly.

He drew the bow fully and let fly another arrow. The same as the last arrow that felled the necromancer, Malwynn felt the screaming joy of the arrow as it sailed out and split the air between two of the iron bars that encased the head of the first zombie pushing its way into the home. The arrow hit just below the eyebrow and skipped downward enough to slide into the eye socket fully, ruining the soft gray matter hidden behind the rotten orb. It fell, dead.

“I COMMAND YOU IN THE NAME OF THE QUEEN TO STOP WHERE YOU STAND!” Malwynn bellowed at full voice. He felt the strength of roar come from deep, from a place he’d rarely tapped into. He was hoping his Amaranth uniform, and the mention of the Queen would buy him a moment. Immediately the undead halted their forward progress, and lowered their blades enough to give him time to draw and fire another arrow. The second arrow sailed as true as the first, piercing the tongue and throat of its target, severing the spine far behind all the wet meat in front of it. The second dead body fell as the first did.

New violence freed the undead from their momentary stupor. By then Malwynn had already backed up a few more feet, and had enough time to fire another arrow through the woven steel cage protecting the head of another dead warrior. His aim had never been better than in this moment, and he credited his sister’s enchantment of the arrows with The Way. Without her blessing, both brother and sister would have been dead by now.

Malwynn drew and notched another arrow, but luck had finally caught up to him. As he drew the string for the last time, it snapped. He shouldn’t have been surprised. It was an old string, and he was drawing it much further than normal, much more rapidly than ever. He let the arrow and impotent bow drop the floor and as fast as he could, he drew his short sword.

He was parrying immediately. As the last two undead advanced on him they pushed him into the dead end he’d created by blocking the door to the kitchen with the table. He would win this battle, or he would die right there in the blood and vomit filled foyer. One rusty blade came at his face, and he raised his sword hand up and blocked it, sending a surprisingly powerful shock through his arm. He reached out with his free hand and grabbed the iron cage surrounding the face of the zombie, and pulled powerfully forward, toppling it into the floor. They were armored, but awkward.

Tossing the zombie aside gave Malwynn enough space to circle out into the hall, giving him a means of escape should he need it. He felt invigorated by how the battle was unfolding, and he pressed forward now, hacking at the knee of the standing zombie with his blade, sending it to the floor to join its fallen companion. In its disorganized facedown state Mal brought the blade down like he would a post-digger, and cracked the braincase swiftly. He had but a single threat to deal with, and with his sword quickly free, he booted the still awkward zombie in the rear, causing it to fall facedown and giving him ample time to plunge his sword downward into the monster’s spine.

Malwynn turned and walked to the doorway, chest huffing heavily, regaining his breath. He kept his blade in his hand and walked out onto the small porch Maya and Usul sat on before the cold weather set in. At most of the doorways within eyesight he could see locals standing, fearful of the clamor from inside.

He yelled what he hoped would calm them at the top of his lungs, “Today the Queen has brought to justice a rebel against her cause! A rogue tax collector stealing from her coffers, caught in the act! Seek shelter in your homes as the Queen’s servants deal with this traitorous scum! Your silence is of the greatest importance in this matter as we root out the foul sickness attempting to destabilize our city, and our nation!”

Surprisingly, a round of applause grew in the street. After a bit of time, he had to reissue the command for the people to return to shelter in their homes. He didn’t want a patrol to come by, and a conversation to be struck up. Something far worse than a few armed undead would come investigating.

Malwynn turned, confident he’d bought he and his sister some time. Right now, he needed to attend to her, and find out if the evil inside her was killing her.

- Chapter Seven -

A GRAND OFFER

“Did you keep any of it down?” Malwynn asked his sister softly.

She nodded meekly from her bed. Her skin was still colored wrong, like a shadow cast in daylight for no reason. She was still quite ill with the after effects of the necromancer’s tainted Way. Her throat was raw from vomit, she’d lost her voice, her stomach was still sore from the labors of having its contents emptied over and over. She’d been worse than this for days, and Malwynn considered her present state one of progress.

“Maya and Usul are much better. They’re both up and about. Up since breakfast actually. You know, this has been a bit of a stroke of luck, all things considered.”

Umaryn’s brows furrowed. She clearly did not agree.

“Well you getting sick along with them is excellent cover. Had this not happened, they might’ve considered you as the culprit,” Mal said with a smile. He sat down a cup of cool water on her nightstand and cleared the sweaty hair from her forehead. Umaryn took a sip of the refreshing water, sighed and rubbed her throat.

“Usul was very angry about his robe though. I tried twice to wash the blood out, but to no avail. I told him you took ill suddenly when it was on the coat rack. I think it’ll be a day or two before they venture outside as well, which is good because some of the graves for the dead are behind the outbuildings in the back of the yard. It’s been snowing steadily all day, and with the ancestor’s blessings, we’ll have an inch or two to cover the fresh earth. Umaryn I can’t think of a single good reason to bury a body. What a strange way to dispose of the dead.”

Umaryn snickered silently. Burial was stupid.

A knock on the door a day later got Maya up from the kitchen table. It was clean of the disaster that Umaryn had left there just two days earlier. The young girl had continued her vomiting and added much worse substances after Malwynn had brought her there.

Maya shuffled her six decades old feet across the hardwood floor that Malwynn had painstakingly cleaned. Her arthritic bones and the joints connecting them ached and moved with gritty resistance, and her body was still recuperating from the sickness of the days prior, but she moved on. The door had been knocked, and it was polite to answer it. She could see through the small window at the top of the door that whoever was knocking was very tall, more than a head above her own. She slid the heavy bolt aside, and pulled the thick door inward.

Just a foot outside her door stood a powerfully statuesque man wearing a plush robe of the Queen’s purple. He was alone, which was remarkable in and of itself. Most wearers of purple brought with them an entourage of armored undead. The gentle drift of snowflakes behind him made it seem as if he’d brought the very winter itself with him to her doorstep. His pale white hands were crossed gently at his waist, and he stood silent and passive, hood obscuring all of his facial features as he waited for Maya to greet him.

“Good day to you sir. What may I do for a servant of the Queen?” Maya asked. Her voice felt too small in her mouth in the face of this man, like whispering to a mountain.

The man’s head tilted a fraction of an inch sideways suddenly, like a bird’s. No, she thought, more like a bird of prey. He assessed her for a moment, chilling the blood in her veins a bit more than it needed to be before he spoke. “Good day to you madam. It appears as if a rather important person has gone missing in this neighborhood. Might I ask you if you’ve had the opportunity to pay your taxes this week?” His voice did her body no favors. It was deep, yet not full of warmth, or melody. She felt her mouth dry suddenly.

“I’ve not. My husband and I have been very ill for a few days, as has one of the people renting a room from us. We’ve had our tax money set aside for the Queen for weeks now, but he’s not been here yet.”

“Mmm,” the robed man responded. “That’s a shame. Although your honesty is refreshing. Might I collect your obligation?”

Maya turned immediately to go get the bag of coins but stopped, “How much is our obligation this year?”

The robed figure titled his head the other way, as if he was calculating the figure on the spot, “What was your payment to the Queen last year?”

Maya had a brief moment where she felt mischievous, and wanted to tell him a lie, but for fear of the consequences, she let the actual memory float to the surface, “I believe we paid two hundred and forty Crowns.”

“Well. As the man dutifully tasked to collect your annual dues this year, I hold your previous tax bill of two hundred and forty Crowns, payable immediately.”

Maya knew the man wasn’t a real tax collector. No tax collector ever collected the same amount two years running, but she was happy to keep the lower bill. She walked over to the hallway table and pulled the drawer out to get the bag of coins. It was all ten Crown coins, and she counted out twenty four of them on the table before putting them back in the bag, all under the watchful eye of the tall man at the door. She shuffled back over the patient figure and extended the bag out. He took it from her with fingers made of carved ivory. She could see the fine blue veins just under the skin.

“The Queen thanks you.”

Maya nodded humbly in return, “And we thank the Queen.”

“Do take good care of yourself Maya. It would be a shame if you or your two young renters succumbed to a silly stomach ailment.”

Maya was confused, and asked a question without thinking, “I never said we had a stomach ailment.”

She could sense the man smiling in the darkness of his robe, “You also never said you had two young renters, yet I know that as well. The truth is always apparent here in Graben to those that know how to seek it Maya. Mind your health. Be a good, quiet citizen.” The tall man turned smoothly and walked down her steps and away. She watched as he glided down the street towards the center of the Low City, and likely, the lifts. She slowly pushed the door shut, and vowed to never, ever doubt the Queen again.

“I love the sunsets. Do you know why I love the sunset more than the sunrise kids?” Ellioth asked quietly as the glowing orange ball gradually dipped lower and lower to the horizon.

Umaryn was first to speak, “Because you like the night better than the day?”

Ellioth smiled, but shook his head, “Good guess, but no that’s not quite right.” He adjusted the weight of the newest family addition in his arms. Baby Rynne was only a few months old, and blissfully sleeping in her father’s arms.

Malwynn admired the love on his father’s face with the tiniest amount of jealousy. He loved his new sister, but watching his parents share some of the love originally only he and his twin received made him feel a little envy. He threw a guess into the hat, “Is it because when the sun goes away, the two moons come out?”

Ellioth smiled and nodded, “That’s just about right son. I love Elmoryn’s two moons. Fat, white Lune, and small, red Hestia. We lose but one sun every sunset, and we gain two moons for the loss. I’d say sunset is quite the bargain when held against the sunrise in the mornings.”

The twins couldn’t argue with his logic.

“Plus I also love the children of the night.”

The twin’s father spoke of the small comets that danced across the night sky of Elmoryn. Against a backdrop of pure darkness the small glowing white pinpricks flew across the vision almost faster than could be seen. Some fatter comets lazily slid from horizon to horizon, and some split the difference, having a bit of haste. No matter their speed, or their size, the children of the night were seen as good omens, playful spirits, and many a wish was made when their presence was in the sky.

“I do too. They’re such strange things. Do you think they ever land here on the ground? Do you think the children ever fall from the sky?” Malwynn asked, his teenage curiosity peaked.

Ellioth sighed and spent a few moments deep in thought. “I don’t know Mal. Your mother and I have traveled nearly the entire width and breadth of this world in our years, and I can tell you, no one has ever found a fallen child of night and knew it. I hope that if one of those tiny bits of joy ever fell from the sky, someone’s wish would come true. Maybe someone has a wish that a child of night will fall some day?”

What a sad wish the twins thought. From inside their home several yards away they could smell the side of lamb that their mother Catherine was cooking over the fire. The large fireplace in the kitchen had a cast iron spit, and the kids knew she was sitting near it, likely reading, and giving the meat gentle slow turns. Ellioth, the twins, and baby Rynne were sitting far outside the house at this very moment to give the mother time alone. Raising twins, caring for a newborn, and being the village’s lone Apostle had exhausted the woman.

“Dad do you think the Guild will ever build a hall here in New Picknell?” Umaryn asked her father. He was so learned, so well traveled. She felt he knew almost anything.

Ellioth smiled again. Having such a wonderful family seemed to keep any expression other than a smile away. “Well my little artificer, I’d think that there’s little need for a Guildhall here, unless of course a local Artificer were to petition the Guild Council in Port Caelin for permission to erect one.”

The Artificer’s Guild was centralized in the ocean side city of Port Caelin, many days train ride away. Umaryn’s hopes leapt in her chest at the thought of one day practicing her skill in The Way enough to be a member of the Guild. She wanted so badly to wear the red trimmed grey robes that told the world she wielded The Way.

“I think I’d like that a lot dad. To be the first official Artificer of the Guild in New Picknell? Build my very own hall? What a dream.” Umaryn gushed.

Malwynn snorted, “Maybe you should figure out how to cast a second spell first sis.”

Umaryn shot her twin brother a glance that would melt iron, “Maybe you should figure out how to cast a first spell assface.”

“Assface? Seriously?” Mal said. The fight was on.

“Now now. You two have a little sister to set an example for now. Your mother and I won’t stand for this bickering in front of Rynne.” Ellioth’s tone was firm.

“But dad-“ Umaryn retorted.

Ellioth cut her off, “But nothing. You will be exemplary older siblings to Rynne, or I’ll start praying to the ancestors to let mice into your bedroom at night. And trust me, your mother has a very straight means of communication to the ancestors.”

The twins looked away, ashamed and just a little fearful of their father’s threat. Catherine’s gift as an Apostle was serious indeed. The last thing the brother and sister wanted was to give their mother a reason to get the ancestor’s attention turned towards them.

“Sorry dad.”

“Sorry dad.”

“Apologize to your little sister. Just think about more than yourselves for a change. You’re plenty old enough to start thinking about not only your future, but the futures of everyone around you. If Umaryn wants to build New Picknell’s first Guildhall, then by the spirit of your great uncle Victor, our family’s first Artificer, then so be it. What’s your dream Malwynn? What do you want to be when you grow up? What do you want?” Ellioth asked, his eyes focused intently on Mal.

Mal suddenly sat up in bed, startled from the dream with the burning memory of the setting golden sun shimmering on his father’s eyes. He was covered in a cold sweat in the colder bedroom.  Outside the snow continued to fall. Umaryn was still in her bed, and she slept soundly. Malwynn thought she looked better now in the dawn light than when he’d gone to bed. The orphan brother rested his head back on the cool damp pillow and remembered his dream of that warm summer night so many years ago.

Malwynn whispered aloud, consoling his grief run mind, “I know you can’t hear me, but I just want everything back dad. I want sunsets, and fields of grass, and deep piles of snow in the winter. I want hot dinners in the kitchen I grew up in, and I want to see everything that I can never see again. I want to hold Marissa’s hand in the hay. I don’t care about growing up anymore.”

Malwynn rolled onto his stomach and sobbed alone until he fell back asleep.

“I realize this sounds silly, but can we actually afford this place?” Umaryn asked her brother as they rode down the snowy cobblestone streets of the Low City. Everything in Graben had changed with the past two weeks of snowfall. Rooftops were frosted in a clean white draping, making everything seem less grubby, and depressed. It almost seemed welcoming and beautiful now.

“Why would that be silly?” Mal asked, navigating his massive Gvorn down the street. Few people walked or rode in this area of the town. Few could afford to live here.

“Have you seen the people who live here Mal?” Umaryn asked in a hushed tone. “Half of them are Imperial in some fashion or another, and they’re all wealthy.”

Mal nodded in agreement, smiling at a well-to-do pedestrian that admired Bramwell. “Umaryn, we managed to take almost three thousand Crowns off that tax collector last week. We got three one hundred Crown coins alone. The second floor of this home is only a hundred Crowns a month. I figure we’ll be here no more than six months, until spring, and that leaves us a massive pile of shitty purple money to spend in that time. We lay low for a month, eat and drink well, make sure the city doesn’t catch on to us, and then we’re back on the prowl, looking for our next lead.”

“It gives me goose bumps being this near to those damn elevators Mal. We’re so close to the palace it makes my skin crawl.” Umaryn rubbed the sleeves of her new wool coat. One of the finer purchases the death of the tax man had offered them.

“I know. But in all likelihood sister, there is a man or woman in this district that knows about home, or knows someone who does. This is the best place for us to continue on, and we simply can’t stay at Maya and Usul’s. They are already in far too much danger. What would happen if an Inquisitor came to visit them? What then?” Malwynn posed to her as they turned into a narrower street. It was lined with nice homes made of stone and brick, with wrought iron fences, and bars artfully laced across the windows. Small gargoyles made of grey granite perched at the edges of roofs in homage to the glorious and ominous homes on the cliff high above.

“Yeah yeah. The sense of it doesn’t make my skin settle any Mal. There’s something wrong about being here, and the further we get away from this city, and this nation, the happier I think I’ll be.”

Malwynn smiled in agreement, “I agree, but as you’ve said, whatever it takes sister. Whatever it takes.”

Umaryn felt the sting of her still sore throat, and dull ache of pain in her belly and felt that before this was all over, whatever it took would be horrible indeed.

Moving out of Maya and Usul’s two days later was physically easy, but spiritually difficult. Usul, despite his hard exterior, was the closest thing Malwynn and Umaryn had to a father figure since the death of Ellioth. Maya of course had welcomed the twins in warmly, and saying goodbye to her was painful.

“You’ll be safe wherever you go, right?” Maya asked them.

“Of course Maya,” Umaryn said with a smile. “We’re both bright, and with the extra money we’ve saved, and my brother’s new job with the army, we’ll be all set. Anything closer to the cliff is good right?”

Usul grunted, “Depends on how you look at it. The guillotines are near the cliff.”

Mal smiled awkwardly at the off color comment, “Well we plan on staying a good distance from those.”

“Smart,” Usul said simply before walking off into the kitchen. He’d said his goodbye.

Maya watched as her husband went into the kitchen, and made sure the door had swung shut behind him before speaking again. She leaned in close to the twins, and motioned for them to do the same, “Before you go, I wanted to tell you that when we were getting better from being sick, a man came here. He gave me a fright.”

The twins exchanged glances. Maya continued, “He was an official. Maybe a tax collector, maybe someone in the Queen’s Guild. A necromancer I think, though he had no dead in tow.”

“What did he want?” Umaryn asked innocently.

Maya looked around cautiously, as if the walls had ears, “He knew we were sick. He knew Usul and I were renting to two young people. He seemed off about it all too. As if something strange had happened, and he thought we were involved. Gave me bad dreams for days.”

Mal felt a chill in the room that he knew wasn’t there. All their plans could be coming unraveled if this little old lady had said the wrong things to this man at the door. “Was he wearing a purple robe?”

“Of course he was child. No one of importance in this nation goes without purple. I think he might have been an Inquisitor. Searching out the truth behind something. I can’t fathom why he’d think we were up to something here. Although he did say something about the tax man not coming…”

“Oh I never did get to bat an eyelash at him for you. I guess you’ll just have to pay the regular taxes after all Maya, I’m sorry,” Umaryn said flirtatiously, trying to redirect the conversation.

Maya brightened, “Oh dear, the man collected the same amount as last year’s taxes. Saved us ten Crowns he did! I guess his visit wasn’t all that bad after all.”

The twins smiled and gave her warm hugs. Umaryn gave her a blessing as she let go of her tiny shoulders, “Be safe Maya. Maybe one day we can come back and enjoy a meal that isn’t followed by a terrible bout of sickness.”

“Let us hope for that. Maybe I will make my special turnip stew for you. It is Usul’s favorite. Very filling.”

The twins thanked her many times more, gathered the scant belongings they’d left in the home to make of show of leaving, and departed. They mounted horse and Gvorn, and with a wave over the shoulder, left for their new home, away from the elderly couple.

Several streets away, Umaryn spoke, “We are fucked. Proper fucked.”

Malwynn pretended not to hear her.

“Mal we are bent. If an Inquisitor is on to us, we are done. We should turn these animals straight to the rail station and buy ourselves a ticket south. Daris here we come.” Umaryn’s eyes were flush with erratic panic.

“This changes nothing. We may not have said the exact words, but we knew when we took him down we could draw Inquisitor attention. This is fucking Graben Umaryn. The capital city of the Amaranth Empire.” Malwynn guided Bramwell closer so he could speak in a quieter voice, “We’ve been murdering soldiers for weeks. Chopping their bodies up and hiding the bits in the trash, sister. We’ve been on this path since we arrived here, and nothing has changed. We do what we came here to do, or we die trying. I won’t let the memories of our father, mother, little sister, and I sure as hell won’t let the memory of the girl I loved haunt me for the rest of my unhappy days. I’m not afraid to die Umaryn. Not if you’re by my side when it happens.”

She looked over at her brother and drew on his strength. He was resolute in the face of hopelessness, and there was something powerful and inspiring in his defiance. The moment of panic passed and they rode their mounts for some time. Umaryn thought of how these moments had struck both her and her brother, and she wondered if that was the pangs of guilt digging deep into their souls.

“Are you afraid our souls will be damned after this? Win, lose or draw?” She asked suddenly.

Malwynn pondered the question seriously, taking his eyes and focus off the world around them, “I don’t even know what that means anymore Umaryn. Aren’t we already damned? We’ve lost everything. I can’t see this getting much worse. In the end, I’d like to think our ancestors would approve of how we fought tooth and nail to find justice for our family. You can argue about the end not justifying the means, but we all know the tale of the Tyrant King of Varrland.”

“Murder the monarch to set the nation free.”

“And in the end, there was truth, justice, and equality for all. Our story is not that different Umaryn, and I’ll debate and mourn the ethics of our deeds in our old age. Right now, we’ve got things to do. Damnation and guilt can wait.”

In the city of the Purple Queen, three thousand Crowns was not a large amount of money by any means. Many of the Queen’s servants earned that amount of wealth every week, often on the backs of undead labor. Three thousand Crowns in the hands of two young, new faces in the city was a bit strange however, and they knew it. Umaryn and Malwynn’s wealth, as small as it was, would still generate questions if they flashed it about. In order to avoid any scrutiny at all, they spent the next few weeks leaving their new home sparingly, and spending frivolously when they did.

Fortunately, their space was lavish. The entire second floor of a squat home made of stone the color of sand was theirs. Bookcases filled with old tomes from the last century lined the walls from floor to pressed tin ceiling, and the two were in heaven. Both had been voracious readers in their youth- a habit learned by watching both parents spend countless hours reading.

Umaryn found a section of books dedicated to metallurgy, and she spent a full week reading each and every one of them cover to cover. Luther’s hands-on instruction had given her incredible skill, but he lacked the scientific knowledge the books offered to her. He had expertly taught her the practice of the work, but not the theory. Her desire to revisit a forge was rekindled by her reading, and she wished desperately for a way to put iron into the coals once more.

Malwynn found many books on military tactics, and swordsmanship. A book on necromancy found its way into his reading list, and he spent many hours reading the deplorable contents within. He wanted to learn the ins and outs of his foes thoroughly, and develop strategies to counteract them. He hoped the book would be a means to that end.

“I believe the spell used against you was called ‘Viral Strike’ Umaryn. Apparently with the touch of cured, diseased flesh, you can inflict a horrible curse of sickness on someone,” Mal said as he read about the spell.

“That’s fascinating. You know I had green putrescence coming out of both ends of me, right?” She replied, clearly not impressed.

He looked up, lowering the book, “Yeah, I know. If you’ll recall, I was the one who carried you around, and cleaned up after you while you had the Green Shakes.”

“The Green Shakes? Is that what that was? Didn’t dad get the Green Shakes once? In Ebonvale or something?”

“Yeah, the book says one of the afflictions commonly bestowed by the spell is the Green Shakes. And I think it was Ebonvale. East Ebonvale, near the Farmington border region I think.” Malwynn laughed suddenly, “You remember how dad told us that story? ‘Kids, I was shaking like an old man hopped up on coffee at a whorehouse, and with half the bowel control.’ We laughed so hard.”

Umaryn shared his laughter, “The good old days. Mom and dad’s stories of conquest and adventure.”

“Well there cannot be light without the darkness as they say. You need to shit yourself at least once to learn true humility dad said.”

“That he did.”

Reminiscing was good for the two, and they did much of it. Malwynn practiced his sword work in the sitting room, after moving the sofas and loveseat away of course. He practiced actual strokes suggested in the book, and learned how to chain movements and momentum together. He practiced balance, speed, and power. His victims were small logs that were ceremoniously burned in the fireplace to keep them warm.

Umaryn practiced The Way as often as possible. Sharpening the sword Malwynn claimed from Drogal was a constant task. The blade was good, but not superior in its craftsmanship, and needed constant care to remain at peak usefulness the way he had been using it. Neither dared to leave their weapons dull, or out of arm’s reach considering where they were, and what they had done.  Umaryn also practiced her Chants, the same spells she’d cast on their weapons the day they’d killed the tax man. Malwynn’s enchanted arrows had carried that day, and she wanted to more than perfect her knowledge of the spell. She had a routine of casting the spell each morning after she woke, and the repetition had done her good. She’d cut the time needed to recite the Chant in half already.

Their rest period was much needed. The two hadn’t been in each other’s company peacefully since the day they’d gone to pick blueberries. Sadness, swings of mood, and anger had consumed them, and taking even just a few weeks to isolate themselves was good for the mind, body, and soul. They did vow that in a day or two, they would return to the butcher’s shop to ensure it was still suitable for their purposes.

All the while, they were watched.

“I think we’re ready. More accurately, I think they’re ready,” the long, robed figure said from the street corner. He spoke to a single, frail female corpse standing at his side. He dwarfed the zombie. From where he stood no normal man could see inside the home the twin’s were in, but this was no normal man.

“Tomorrow I suspect we will spring our plan on them. If they survive what is put in front of them, all the more the better. If not, well… Fresh bodies always have their uses, eh Maya?” The tall man said to his lone corpse companion.

Maya’s body couldn’t answer. He hadn’t given it the ability to. He hadn’t even given it the ability to understand all of what he’d said to it.

The man turned with a flourish, and disappeared into the first few flakes of a coming storm. Maya shuffled her dead feet behind him, leaving furrows in the dusting on the road.

“I do not miss this place. I will never be able to go into a meat market, or butcher’s again without thinking ill.” Umaryn’s nose wrinkled in disgust, even though the cold room didn’t smell that bad. Her senses had succumbed to the memory of older smells, and events.

“Agreed,” Mal said.

The twins examined the back room where they’d killed Drogal, and dismembered a handful of other Amaranthine soldiers and citizens. Not one of their deaths had yielded useful information, though there was a great deal of both satisfaction and pain. More of that guilt just below the surface Umaryn thought.

“Everything is still here, and sharpened. Business must be good,” she said, putting a razor sharp blade the length of her forearm down. Every tool had a place in the room. She appreciated the order of it all, even amongst the chaos of old blood stains. She perhaps appreciated it especially amongst the chaos.

“Good. Great. I’ll check the front just in case.” Mal walked out into the nearly pitch black front room of the business where the customers would come in. The room was divided in half by a large counter made of metal, and glass. Inside the counter cuts of meat on display for purchase were kept chilled by large blocks of ice. The room was dark except for the invasion of the faint reddish glow that came from Hestia in the night sky above. Malwynn gave the room a quick once over, and turned to leave. Something in the back of his mind stopped him. He felt an odd sensation, almost like an itch inside his skull, and the oddness of the sensation persuaded him to turn again, and examine the room. He’d missed something.

His eyes, stained purple by the red light on the ice blue he’d been born with turned across the room with more intent. He slowed his breathing and opened his mind to filter his senses. He consciously focused on each and every element in the room, until he finally saw what he missed. His eyes locked on a dark spot against the wall, next to the door where no window was. A wooden chair with a high back had played a trick on his eyes, obscuring what sat in the chair.

A person.

“Who are you?” Malwynn said as he drew his blade from its scabbard. He moved slowly, and kept his sword below the level of the counter.

The sitting figure didn’t respond.

“Who are you talking to?” Umaryn whispered as she pushed the swinging door open. She saw the red glint of the moonlight off of Mal’s weapon and reached to her back to fetch her hammer. She’d heard him address someone.

Malwynn ignored her, and continued to press his authority, “I asked you who you were. As a soldier of the Amaranth Empire, I command you to answer me or face punishment.” Malwynn spoke with clout. These late night jaunts while wearing Drogal’s Amaranthine uniform had led to multiple opportunities to abuse the power that came with it. He hoped its inherent authority would carry them once more.

Once again, the sitting figure was silent.

Malwynn’s fingers clenched the sword’s grip as he formulated a plan to kill the person before they got to the door. He walked slowly to the edge of the metal and glass case, and lifted the wooden counter up to move closer to the sitting person. Once he and Umaryn were in the same small space, he issued another command.

“Identify yourself. I am Captain Drogal of the Queen’s Army. Why are you trespassing in this business at this hour? Speak now or you shall be placed under arrest.”

The body in the chair was tiny, but terrifying. The fear of the unknown was paralyzing. Brother and sister could feel the sitting figure smile. “You are not Captain Drogal of the Queen’s Army.” The voice was eerily familiar. It had depth, character, and age. It was neither female nor male, and had a hint of dark knowledge to it. They felt very exposed in the dark room with the unfamiliar sitting figure.

“Who are you?” Umaryn asked.

“Interesting question to ask. There are two very honest answers to that question young lady. Which do you prefer I answer first? Who am I, or who are you speaking with?” The small figure responded from the billowing blackness of the shadows.

“Your games do not amuse us trespasser. Tell us to whom do we speak?” Malwynn said angrily. He lifted the tip of the blade as a threat.

In the darkness the sitting figure shook with silent laughter. “You are speaking to a necromancer. One who knows all your dark, little secrets. One who has been watching you for some time now.”

“Watching us?  Then you must surely know that we’ve been idle in our home for weeks. We’ve no secrets to keep.” Umaryn said, attempting to present some kind of innocence.

“You’ve no secrets to keep from me that is for certain, Umaryn with no-last-name,” the sitting figure said, spelling it all out for them.

“Dram,” Malwynn said softly, realizing who the voice was. Pulses quickened as the situation’s truth unfolded.

“Correct. Now what will the two of you do with this knowledge, at this moment? Will you run? Run into the streets and attempt to kill all of my friends that I’ve brought with me tonight to make sure you couldn’t get away? Or will you listen to my offer?” The sitting figure said in a twisted version of Dram’s voice. It seemed to them now that the minute body’s vocal chords were straining, trying to more fully mimic the large source of the words forced through them.

Brother and sister looked up and out of the windows of the shop. Standing statue-still in the street, as thick as trees in the deep forest were dozens of the same armored undead the tax man had. They stood impassively, armed with weapons of a clearly higher caliber than the previous undead had carried. Malwynn calculated the odds of battling their way through such a force, and realized survival was very unlikely. It seemed listening was the correct course of action.

“Good. You’ve passed the first test,” the sitting figure said in the Inquisitor’s voice.

“Oh? What test is that, Lord Sorber?” Malwynn said sarcastically.

“The most basic intelligence test. Your sense of self preservation is working, happily. Now on to the reasoning test. Let’s see how honest you choose to be with me. Allow us to assume that I have evidence of your deeds against the Queen. You’ve worn her soldier’s armor, and even the uniform of one of her Majesty’s officers. Both of these offenses are punishable by summary execution, and yet, I’ve not seen to your death yet. Why do you suppose that is Malwynn and Umaryn?”

The two thought. Umaryn spoke first, “You’ve a use for us.”

“Two tests, and two passes. You’ll be my finest students. Now the third test. How truly honest can you be? Tell me why you are doing what you are doing, and do so in detail. If you lie, I will know.” Dram’s puppet crossed its legs and leaned slightly forward inquisitively.

Mal sheathed his sword and looked to his sister. “We’ve nothing to lose at this point. Tell him the truth.”

Umaryn spoke softly, “Our town was wiped out by Amaranthine forces shortly after we helped fight off a small patrol from here several months ago. That’s how we got the armor you saw on the train. We followed tracks north to the rail lines, and followed them here to Graben. When we got here, we started to kidnap soldiers, and an officer, and even a robed official. We are trying to find out who made the decision to destroy our town, and then kill them.” Her voice was as cold as the wind blowing against the flesh of the dead outside.

“Most interesting. Vengeance is such a compelling thing.”

“You’ve no idea,” the twins said in unison.

They felt the sitting figure smile again, “You’d be surprised what I know, young ones.”

“At this point, I suspect we wouldn’t be surprised what you know. What do you know Dram? You’ve been on to us since the train, haven’t you? Why didn’t you stop us earlier?” Mal questioned.

The puppet responded, “You have been no threat to me. And simply put; a few loose gears in the works keeps the mechanics on their toes, as the Artificers have said time and again. I suppose it boils down to job security. Leaving you to your self-appointed tasks and then keeping an eye on you was easy. You are motivated, but very unskilled. You are raw talent needing refinement.”

“Talent?” Umaryn asked, confused.

“Indeed. I sense The Way on both of you, even now. One of you, if not both of you carry the will to wield The Way. Never mind your expanding martial prowess. When you first started this quest for vengeance here in Graben you were clumsy. By the time you killed our poor, innocent tax collector you had increased your talents tenfold. With my assistance and guidance, you can become ten times more skilled, ten times more powerful.”

“Why? Why would you help us?” Malwynn asked skeptically.

“As you said, I’ve a use for you,” Dram’s voice said from behind them.

Mal and Umaryn spun quickly to find the Inquisitor standing behind the counter. He stood passively, leaning against the wall of the butcher shop as if he’d been there all along. He looked to be the bringer of ends, the villain in their story.

“Fuck you Inquisitor. How long have you been there?” Umaryn said, fighting the urge to lift her hammer in anger.

“Long enough to point out another of your flaws. But let’s not linger on what you cannot do, and instead focus on what I can do for you,” Dram said softly, interlacing his long, white fingers together just below the intense darkness of his hood.

“Do for us?” Mal asked.

“Indeed. You’ve been searching all along for someone with knowledge of who you seek. Ironic that the first person you spoke with had that information all along,” Dram said with the tiniest laugh.

Mal and Umaryn looked at each other, frustration festering. Mal spoke, “Who did it? And further, why would you tell us this? What’s your purpose in this… game?”

Dram’s grin under the hood could be heard in his voice, “Well then young ones, if I were to divulge the identity of the person you searched for, I would lose all my leverage in this burgeoning relationship. Suffice to say, the person who destroyed your pleasant village is known to me, and I don’t care for them. In fact, my feelings for them, in circles of people I might consider friends, could be described as hostile.”

Umaryn stifled a smile. He was frightening, but humorous, “Why can’t you simply just kill him? You’re a necromancer. Clearly a powerful one. Send your army of minions after him.”

Dram leaned forward off the wall. The motion seemed threatening, “Silly girl. It would make no sense for me to send undead after a man that has the same power over them I do. He’d simply assert his will and dominate them, or use The Way to destroy them. I cannot use tools to wage war that my enemy uses himself. Our powers largely cancel one another out.”

“So he’s a necromancer?” Malwynn asked.

“Does that surprise you? Here of all places?” Dram asked sarcastically.

“No, I suppose not,” Mal retorted smartly.

“It shouldn’t. And that’s where you come in. I can see to your advancement, and then put you in various positions to remove his power structure out from underneath him, and finally kill him once and for all. You win, I win, Graben wins.”

The twins looked at one another and mulled Dram’s idea over. It had merit. It also helped that they had little choice in the matter. If they refused his offer, they faced certain death at either his hands, or the hands of his undead legion outside.

“I saw that you can read. This is a huge boon.”

Umaryn looked offended, “Of course we can read. We aren’t stupid.”

Dram gestured apologetically with his bone white hands, “Considering your actions since your arrival here in Graben, the subject of your actual level of intelligence is thoroughly debatable Umaryn.”

“Hilarious,” she replied flatly.

“My humor is a redeeming quality. What say you? Work with me to gain your vengeance, and attain my personal goals in a mutually beneficial way? Or leave your friends and family without the satisfaction of revenge, and die here in this fetid meat shop?” All the humor had drained from his voice. This was the final test.

- Chapter Eight -

THE HOUSE OF NAMES

“I’ve never stood this close to the lifts. They’re massive,” Malwynn said, his voice full of wonder and awe. Umaryn had her head tilted upwards, the same as her brother. Her eyes pointed into the gentle falling snow to better examine the channel carved out of the cliff. It was remarkable in every way. Both wore their Amaranthine armor, and looked as if they belonged there.

Dram stood beside them a few dozen feet away from where the lifts heading downward would pick them up. “One of most inspiring feats of engineering in all of Elmoryn. Only the scope of the rail lines causes that project to be considered more impressive. Did you know the plateau of the High City is over fifteen hundred feet above us? And each lift in the channel is forty feet wide and fifty feet deep?”

“Do you need tickets?” Mal asked.

Dram shook his head, “No tickets are required. The lift operators can recognize authority figures and we may pass without question. You will need to provide them with proof of residence. I’ll have your official paperwork drafted by the end of the day today so you may come and go as needed.”

“What powers it? The Way?” Umaryn asked. She was visually unable to decipher the technology behind the massive chains and gears that powered the lifts up and down.

“You might think that, but no. The Queen contracts with the Artificer’s Guild to maintain a series of boilers inside the mountain. The steam engines power the gears, which operate the lifts, and so on. I don’t fully understand the technology. One day Umaryn, I hope you do.” Dram sounded sincere.

Umaryn nodded in appreciation, “Isn’t it a little… risky, to have just one way to the High City? What if enemies of the Queen were to destroy the lift?”

“Terrorism is a concern, and the lifts have been attacked before. Though there is ample reason to leave them be, despite what they represent, and what they do for the city,” Dram replied softly.

“What keeps the enemies of the Queen away from the lift?” Mal asked, interested.

“Most notably last on the list of reasons not to attack the lift is the wrath of the Queen herself. She’d spare no expense and effort to find anyone responsible for such a deed. What is far more a deterrent is the Artificer’s Guild itself,” Dram said.

Umaryn’s interest was now fully piqued, “Do the Artificers protect the lift? I see no Artificer guards.”

Dram shook his head as the massive lift platform descended lower, “No, they do not guard the lifts. They do however have a very clear line drawn in the sand. The lifts are sacrosanct to them. They represent a mammoth technological marvel. Many Artificers claim that the machinery of the lifts is so well made it is in fact an Artifact, imbued with The Way from the quality and majesty of its construction alone. To do damage to something so important to the Guild would mean terrible things for all of Varrland.”

“They’d stop running trains here, wouldn’t they?” Mal realized aloud.

“To say the least. The loss of imports to our lovely city would be a horrible blow, and not even the most bold enemies of the Queen dare risk the ire of the Artificers. I would venture to say that our beloved elevator is quite safe here.” Dram seemed supremely confident in his assertion.

“So you live in the High City?” Umaryn asked, already knowing the answer.

“Of course. And as of today… so do you two.”

The view from the lift platform as it ascended towards the High City was nothing short of breathtaking. All of the dirt and tarnish of the Low City flitted away as they rose higher and higher into the air, leaving only the snowy rooftops, smoking chimneys, and the tiny forms of the citizens moving about. Both twins were speechless as they absorbed the distant beauty of Graben’s Low City. Far off in the distance, an Artificer train was arriving at the Guild’s opulent and baroque rail station. The engine belched steam in a string of soft white puffs that drifted up as high as the clouds. It seemed strange to them that in just a few short months they’d come from that spot, so scared and alone, to where they were now, ascending to the highest levels of the society they’d despised so.

The awkward trio stood shoulder to shoulder at the very front of the largely empty lift. Only a small gate made of brass that lifted from the surface of the floor kept them from plunging off the edge. The closest passenger was a small stagecoach parked at the very rear. Both twins had been a little amazed as the coach driver steered his vehicle in a near-complete circle on the platform. The enormity of the moveable surface area was proven yet again. They had no idea who might be the passengers inside the dark blue coach. The lack of purple made them wonder of the possible significance of the royal blue.

As the lift reached its pinnacle, and the view of the Low City began to lose some of its detail and grandeur, they watched as the surface of the High City appeared above. Twelve heavily armored guards, garbed in luxurious purple finery and sporting halberds of epic craftsmanship, stood spread out along the three edges of the lift chasm. They watched through polished steel helms as the platform slowed, and gently stopped flush with the ground they stood on.

Dram, Umaryn and Malwynn turned and watched as the brass gates sank back into the surface, and the driver of the dark blue got his horses in motion. Judging from the slight urgency the man on the coach had, the twins felt as if getting off the lift quickly was a good idea. They both took off at a walk behind the coach, but Dram took his time. Umaryn and Malwynn slowed their gate, eventually letting the tall Inquisitor take the lead.

Surrounding them on all sides was opulence they never could have imagined. From far below in the Low City, so much of the spectacle of the High City was invisible. But here, high above with it surrounding them, the majesty of the Queen’s world was all around them. The two worlds never seemed more separate, more different.

Two roads of grey bricks dyed purple ran in each direction along the hundred yard wide plateau of the High City. On each side of the intricate path, framing the edges, were carved stone planters filled with all manner of hardy yet beautiful greenery. Despite the snow on them, their resilience and beauty shone through. Bright green bushes expertly sculpted into the shapes of men and women, carefully trimmed trees with branches full of ripe and succulent fruit, and most precious of all, the Queen’s very flower; the purple Amaranth.

The Amaranth grew only in the upper elevations of the Snake Ridge Mountains, and was reputed to live forever once it had bloomed the first time. The long petals of the delicate flower were a vibrant purple, and the leaves a shimmering green. They seemed perfectly comfortable blooming in the snow and cold air. To pick or disturb an Amaranth here in the Empire was one of the most illegal of all crimes, heinous beyond belief, and was punishable by immediate execution. Umaryn wondered how many people Dram had sent to the guillotine over the small flowers.

On the cliff side of the purple roads were more gardens, and lower stone structures that were clearly built so as to not obscure the view of the larger structures from below. These looked to be buildings for the guards, or stables for the mounts of the wealthy homes. They were scattered in a randomness that was too beautiful to be accidental. A grand design was hidden in the irregular.

To the rear of the plateau were the homes of the Graben elite. Nestled behind even more ostentatious and elaborate gardens, walls, and pathways were free standing structures that were jaw dropping. Pillars, statues and columns rose from the ground to hold up tiled and slate covered roofs. Walls of marble, granite, and even obsidian were everywhere, many of which were covered in sculptures and carvings so beautiful and ornate they were physically and emotionally painful to behold.

What was even more impressive and imposing though, were the edifices carved straight into the stone surfaces of the ever rising mountain. The Snake Ridge summits rose thousands of feet higher than the level of the High City, and etched into that stone were homes that sank deep into the mountain rock themselves. Rather than walls to hold them upright, the rooms and chambers were instead carved deep into the ascending granite and limestone. More carvings, these impossibly large and statuesque, outlined the borders of where one home ended, and another began. Set deep into a cleft directly behind the lift’s chasm was the most impressive of them all; the Queen’s Palace.

Black iron erupted from the stone of the plateau into a fence twice the height of a standing man. Interlaced into the strong metal were vines carefully tended to sprout thousands of the purple Amaranth flowers. Hidden behind the gates and the scores of ornate guards standing watch could be seen water fountains that threw jets of white, foamy water into the air without joy. Instead of inspiring and calming, they seemed out of place. Cold, antiseptic, placed for the sake of distraction, and not decoration or inspiration.

The palace itself rose innumerable stories high, engraved more intensely and with far more dedication than any other home on the plateau. The twins both felt that any High City edifice that challenged the beauty and overpowering majesty of the Queen’s home would be struck down. To assault the palace’s grandeur in such a way seemed foolish.

As they walked to the edge of the platform and onto the High City itself, Dram spoke, “It is imposing from below, but ever so beautiful up close. It took four hundred stone workers, gifted smiths in fact, fifty years to complete. None of the four hundred were permitted to live after their tenures, of course. They took the task of building the palace as an eternity-long commitment. Many continue to serve the throne inside as undead. Quite beautiful really. Poetic.”

“It’s a bit horrifying Dram. I can’t lie,” Malwynn said with a bitter taste on his tongue. So much death and destruction were here, despite the relative beauty of the High City. It seemed that everything in the Amaranth Empire came at a high cost.

Dram stopped and turned to Malwynn, his posture indicating displeasure. “Watch your tongue boy. You are in the High City now, and in my good graces. You’d do well to mind your location, and your good fortune.”

Mal felt a rush of defiance come on, but he bit his tongue, “Sorry Dram. I’m just having a hard time adjusting to Graben’s sensibilities. It’s a very different world here.”

Dram took a second to consider Mal’s explanation, even taking a moment to turn slightly towards Umaryn to see if she would add anything to the conversation. When she was silent, he turned and muttered softly, “This much is true.”

No more words were spoken until they reached Dram’s personal residence.

“This manor was established over two hundred years ago by an ancestor of mine, though he has not transitioned to the afterlife as your Church of Souls would have wished. The home was originally meant to be for just him and his family, but it has expanded deeper into the mountain over successive generations. It has become one of the largest homes in all of Graben, and is a source of tremendous pride for me,” Dram said as they stood outside the massive gate of his home.

Umaryn leaned in close to the hulking gate and turned to Dram after inspecting it for a bit, “Why such a large gate Dram? This must be twelve feet tall and made of solid iron bars. It’s much larger than most if not all the gates here.”

Dram nodded in appreciation, “Being an Inquisitor is not the most popular of positions. I am also a fairly senior-level Inquisitor, and thus I have many people above and below me who would be tempted to do things of an unseemly nature to either me, or my possessions. This home is a ripe target, and this fence is an excellent way to announce the dangers to anyone who might be foolish enough to attempt to enter.”

Unlike many of the homes they passed, Dram’s gardens were not nearly as well kept, and the disparity was strange to say the least. Some plants were lush, full of life and beauty, and others rotten, grayed to the root and deeper, and looked as dead as the purple clad zombies wandering the city. It seemed off-putting to have some plants thrive, while others no more than a foot away wither, and rot.

“Dram do you maintain all of these plants? Some of them look a little worse for wear,” Mal said humorously.

“You clearly know nothing. Do you have a small bag you do not care for? Something disposable?” Dram asked, amused at himself.

Mal reached around his waist and produced a small bag for coins. He emptied his pocket change out and tossed the orange velvet bag to Dram. The delicate white fingers of the necromancer snatched it out of the air with spiderlike grace. He inclined his head in thanks, and faced the imposing gate.

“Watch carefully. I think you’ll be impressed by this,” he said in a serious way. Dram flicked his wrist and sent the tiny bag sailing between two of the black iron bars. It reached no more than ten feet into the narrow paved path before the dead plants and trees erupted at it. Rather than the desiccated and dead plants they appeared to be, they were in fact angry, undead plants. Gray vines and crooked branches whipped outward into the path, smashing the small bag to the flagstones. They continued to punish the inanimate object, Umaryn wincing all the while, until the mindless guardians were satisfied that it posed no threat. The bag had been torn to shreds.

“What the hell just happened?” Mal asked. They had never seen anything even remotely similar in New Picknell.

“A necromantic spell. The Way. I’ve enchanted many of these plants to serve me in death as a manner of sentry. Anyone who attempts to approach my home through the gardens will die at their hands. It is impossible to pass through my lovely vegetation without sacrificing too much of your life’s blood to finish the journey,” Dram sounded so incredibly satisfied with himself.

“We’re going to live in there with you? How in the world are we going to make our way through the gardens to get inside without a tree beating us to death?” Umaryn asked.

“So paranoid, little Umaryn with-no-name. I’ve merely to ask them to let you pass for you to do so. Permission my dear. It all boils down to permission, and whether or not I’ve given it,” the gaunt Inquisitor said, lifting a hand to shoulder height. He twisted his fingers in a delicate pattern, tracing invisible sigils into the cold Graben air. Umaryn and Malwynn felt something stir in the air, and inside the energy of the world around them. There was a slight ripple just below the surface of reality, a minor adjustment to the flow of the natural order. With a grating clank, the lock holding Dram’s massive gates turned, and they swung outward gently on their own, shuddering through a layer of rust and vibrating the twins’ ribcages.

“I bid you welcome to Sorber Manor. May your stay here see all of our goals fulfilled,” their host graciously extended one of his alabaster hands and beckoned them to enter the garden, and move onward into the home set into the very stone of Graben.

The interior of the home had only slightly more life and warmth than the cold, half dead gardens surrounding it. It seemed to the twins that all of the color had been leeched away, save for the omnipresent purple of the Queen. Dram's loyalty to his Monarch was physically evident in every direction in the home. Umaryn wondered if the purple drapes, tapestries, and vases were strictly for show. Sorber seemed like the kind of personality that had little room for loyalty to anything but his own desires.

The light in the home came from multiple sources arrayed about. Two large candelabras hung suspended from a lower portion of the high ceiling, and there were sconces every ten feet or so that held aloft more lit tapers. For a room with no natural light, it was well illuminated. A thick purple carpeted stone staircase dominated the center of the main foyer, rising up twenty feet before splitting left and right and disappearing into halls carved into the stone of the mountain. The ceiling reached forty or fifty feet high, culminating in an arch that was impossibly beautiful and ornate. Carvings of all manner of creatures and battle scenes touched every surface, and the presence of the undead was undeniable in more ways than one.

Flanking the staircase, standing as still as statues were two of the iron adorned undead Dram had brought out the night of the red moon. The night he'd confronted them at the butcher's shop. As the twins looked around, they saw intricate and ancient suits of full battle armor mounted on pedestals, but a close look at the eye slits showed inside each set of the priceless armor were the dead eyes of a zombie in wait. Anyone foolish enough to successfully pass through the garden would find themselves surrounded by a platoon of heavily armed and armored undead.

"As you can see, I've taken much of my work home with me," Dram said with another cloak-hidden smile. "I'll be back momentarily. Please be so kind as to wait patiently here in the foyer while I inform my staff that you are indeed welcome here in the Manor."

Umaryn and Malwynn nodded nervously. They felt like a worm on a hook dangled above water filled with hungry fish. Danger stared at them from wherever they looked.  When Dram walked under the stairwell and disappeared deeper into his home, Umaryn turned to her brother and spoke.

"I'm not sure I can live here Mal. This place creeps me the fuck out." She looked around at the half dozen massive portraits of Dram's ancestors. They were all tall, with thin, wispy hair, and sunken features. She couldn't decide if the portraits were painted when the person was alive, or dead.

Mal nodded, knowing exactly how she felt, "I know, but we've little choice in the matter. Plus, it is safe here. So long as we work with Dram, we couldn't be any safer."

"What if his magic fails? What if someone kills him while we're here alone, and all these undead are suddenly set free on us? We've no chance of surviving this house let alone the damn garden to escape. I get the sick sense that we could be standing in our tomb right now," Umaryn said exasperated.

Mal nodded grimly, but replied, "Umaryn, who the hell is going to be able to take Sorber down? He's directly working for the Queen, and if you know anything about the Way, then you must have some idea of how powerful he is. I know next to nothing, and I'm sure we've got little to worry about. Dram seems like the kind of person who leaves no T uncrossed."

Umaryn sighed, giving up.

"Besides, what did Dad always say? 'Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer?' I can't think of a better way to take that advice than staying here," Mal said.

"Well we certainly can't get any closer to him. He wouldn't fit up either of our asses."

Malwynn wasn't so sure the sanctity of their bodies was off limits to the death mage, but didn't want to ruin her joke. They both needed to laugh.

Deep inside the mountain, deep inside Dram's home were what seemed to be endless passages and doorways. Some crossed one another, while others wound in gentle arcs, around large chambers.  It must've taken centuries to carve the home, just as he said. Down a set of smooth stone hallways the home opened up into a dining hall that was nearly larger than their home had been in New Picknell. The table inside was far too large to have been constructed elsewhere and brought in. It was created in that room, and would remain there for eternity. The wood was frayed though from decade after decade of use. Umaryn noted the wear and tear on the table, and everything else in the room, and the home. The silver was tarnished, the rugs frayed, the paintings fading, and the life in all the spirits of the home was diminished. The house was a fragile ecosystem of delicate spirits on their last leg. She felt a swoon of sadness envelop her, but she fought through it. She knew given time she could work The Way and bring vibrant life back to the dwelling.

Standing tall at the center of the table was Dram, pointing indelicately with his porcelain finger at a sheaf of papers. He stood motionless after beckoning them over, his posture stiff. The twins looked at the two small piles of papers and Dram finally spoke, "I've taken the liberty of starting your paperwork. Please look it over and let me know what changes need to be made. I've seen to it that you will have a meal brought to you shortly. Have a seat, ensure the paperwork is correct."

"Is all this the paperwork we need to use the lift?" Mal asked.

"Indeed, and more. I will be registering you both in the Hall of the Inquisitors as my aides. You'll have some protection from prosecution should you continue to commit crimes and heresy against the civilians of Graben. Mind you," Dram got serious suddenly, "this is not carte blanche to run around murdering soldiers and tax collectors. Foolish behavior like that won't be tolerated by other Inquisitors, and it certainly won't be tolerated by me."

The twins spoke in unison, "Okay," they said. As Dram walked away they sat next to one another and pored over the details that would create them an official life in the city. Umaryn immediately noticed something strange.

"Dram, it says here I have a last name," she said.

"Me too. What gives?" Mal asked.

Dram spun on his heels and answered them immediately, "It is Amaranthine custom to have a surname. To register you without one would've been suspect."

"How did you choose this name?" Mal asked.

Dram replied curtly, as if the question was rhetorical, "You've come a very long way on your journey. I suspect that you will travel much further before you're both satisfied. The name seemed fitting. I hope you enjoy it while you're here in Graben." Dram turned away, sealing the conversation shut.

The twins looked at their names written with the new surnames attached. They digested the taste of the words, the feel of them on the tongue before saying them aloud. Umaryn spoke her brother's name first.

"Malwynn Everwalk."

Mal smiled, surprised that he liked the sound of it before saying his sister's name in kind, "Umaryn Everwalk."

They sat at the table, looking at the paperwork, then each other, then saying the names in different tones, and cadences until both had settled on an exact pronunciation and accent that made them comfortable.

"I hate to give that freak any credit but I really like that name," Umaryn said.

"Dad would like it. Ancestors forgive me, but he really would like it. As long as that name is ours, we are always on this journey. Forever walking, forever searching. It's perfect." Mal smiled, thinking of a home gone, and a life lost. He wondered if Marissa would've liked that last name as her own.

"Well ancestors bless Dram. If anything, he's done this one decent thing for us."

"Ancestors bless him."

The Everwalk family lost their appetite to eat when a bloated dead woman brought them their food on a silver tray. Even though her flesh had been preserved by Dram's magic, she had that stink of spices, dust, and rot that pervaded everything around the undead, and when she set their plates down, made of purple porcelain of course, they couldn't bring themselves to eat anything, despite the enticing aromas from the food after she retreated away to the kitchen. Dram joined them at the massive table shortly after the food had gone cold.

"I had food brought here especially for you two. I do not know what is customary in New Picknell, but it is considered quite rude here in Graben to not enjoy a meal a host has had prepared for you."

Umaryn gulped down the awkwardness of the moment, "Dram thank you, but it is sort of appetite disrupting to have a dead body bring you food."

"Yeah," Mal said flatly.

Dram pondered it, "I suppose. I hadn't quite calculated for the cultural differences. Here in the High City most are tended to by undead servants. It's commonplace. I imagine in Varrland it's much different. So be it. Can you cook for yourselves then? I hesitate to bring any other living souls into this home."

"We can both cook. If you have food brought in we can prepare it ourselves," Mal said, excited at the prospect of a well stocked kitchen for a change.

"It will be done," Dram said.

"Wait, you said you brought food in especially for us? What do you eat?" Umaryn asked, suddenly very interested in learning more about their host.

Dram waved his hand dismissively, "In my condition, food is a very secondary concern. Leave my dietary needs out of this, if you find my servants distasteful, you'll find my diet quite disruptive to your quality of sleep."

The twins lost interest in the potential answer immediately.

"Here is our plan, brother and sister Everwalk. I realize I've said some of this already, but bear with me longer. I want no confusion about this," The Inquisitor said, moving the conversation along. "Umaryn, I've assembled several texts for your education. Many are a century old or more, and they have been brought here to help illuminate your path to progression in The Way. Artificer books. I'm sure you'll be fascinated by them, and I hope you are able to learn new spells from them."

Umaryn's heart raced. "I'm beyond excited Dram."

"Good. I've also procured access to a forge in the Low City. It is in the barracks, and is a military forge, but they've set aside an entire area just for you for the next two months. If you need more time after that, we will need to pull strings, and perhaps do favors for associates of mine. Nothing comes without a price here in Graben."

"Of course," she said, fully aware of what he meant.

"Good. My goal with you is to harvest your potential as an Artificer. Your skill in The Way is potent already, but it is unfocused. You have unskilled raw talent, and my aim is to have your studies give you that focus so you may learn more spells to bring to bear against our enemies. Spells that our foe will not be prepared to defend against."

"That makes sense, thank you."

"Thank me with your hard work," Dram replied coldly.

"What about me?" Mal inquired.

"Your skill with that bow, and your sword is notable, and as with your sister, it is still very unrefined. You seem like a natural that has not yet received proper training," Dram supposed.

"I guess, yeah. That's fair," Mal stammered out.

"When your sister works in the forge, you will accompany her and receive training with one of the empire's finest swordsman. Another personal associate of mine. I think you'll find him quite fascinating, and very, very good at making people deadly." Dram looked over the paperwork the twins had finished in his absence.

"That’s incredibly exciting. What else?" Mal leaned in.

"That’s enough really. Though I've assembled a library here on nearly every subject you might find interesting. You are more than welcome to read to your heart's content. I can have your body trained to wield a blade with skill, quickness and instinct, but you must take the personal initiative to train your mind."

"Can I learn more about necromancy? This person we're going after is a necromancer isn't he? I think it would be wise to learn as much about him as possible." Mal licked his lips, unconsciously showing his eagerness.

Dram snorted in appreciation, "Indeed he is young boy. A wielder of impressive magics, and controller of many undead. Knowing how to best counter his spells will be an asset. I'll see to it you are shown where the beginner texts are tonight."

"Excellent, thank you."

"Thank me as your sister will, with your hard work."

They nodded. Mal spoke, "Who is it exactly we are going after? You said he was another Inquisitor right? Your boss?"

Dram exhaled, clearly unsure of what to say. After nearly a minute of heavy silence, and internal debate he answered, "He is not in my direct line of command, though he is superior to me. He was responsible for your village being destroyed. As an assigned matter of course, he deals with affairs outside of Graben. Outside of the Empire in fact."

"That fucker. Why did he choose New Picknell? Why? What was it about our tiny home that he just had to destroy?" Umaryn asked, her fists curling tightly into white balls of anger.

"You ask that as if your town was part of the equation at all, dear girl. Most likely, your town was simply a place he felt like destroying for practice, or for the bodies he'd gain. A man as high up as him has little care for the details of a town like yours. Sorry."

That explanation did not help in the least.

"You think he destroyed our town, our friends and our families for nothing?" Umaryn asked incredulously, her anger boiling under her pale skin.

"No, not for nothing. But not because of anything special about your home. New Picknell was simply on his agenda. Perhaps when we finally reach the point where he's at sword's end, you can put the question to him. Persuade him to tell you the truth, if that's even possible. Perhaps the answer is far more interesting than I think it is," Dram said with a shrug.

"Who is he?" Mal asked.

"I suppose his name isn't too much to ask. I do warn you though, he will only be brought down with extreme patience over time. You are far from ready to begin to challenge him directly. His skills and influence here in the city are more than a match for us, and our steps must be carefully calculated or else he and his court will sense our hunt. We've many months of preparation, and there are others that must die before him for us to have any chance at killing him at all."

"Whatever. Give us a name Dram. We've earned that much," Umaryn demanded.

"Perhaps you have earned that much. Malwynn, Umaryn, the name of the man responsible for the deaths of all who you have ever loved, and the destruction of all you have ever known, is Lord High Inquisitor Omniri Decadra."

"Omniri Decadra," Mal spat it softly like a curse, like words too filthy to keep in his mouth. Umaryn half expected to see a wad of sooty phlegm on the table in front of her brother.

Mal's eyes were filled with something dark. Something that Umaryn hadn't seen before. He turned to her and with no emotion on his face what so ever, he asked her a question;

"Do you think he knows he's dead already?"

- Chapter Nine -

GIVING A MAN A SHOVEL

A week later as Malwynn and Umaryn left Dram's cold stone stables on the back of Tinder and Bramwell, the Inquisitor caught Bramwell's bridle in a white hand, and spoke to Malwynn.

"Study not only the techniques of the man who trains you today. Study the man himself. Understanding the warrior and his way is almost as important as learning how to wield the blade. Teaching a man how to shovel does not make him a farmer."

Malwynn nodded, not really understanding the importance of Dram's advice. The twins left for the lift that would take them to the barracks where they would learn new ways to make violence more successfully.

Malwynn's teacher was more frightening than anyone he had ever met in his life. How he met him didn't help the matter one bit. The man stood on an empty, white parade field in the Low City barracks.

His name was Ivar Brodull, and he was dead.

Even ankle deep in snow, Ivar stood a full six and a half feet in height, and in life, he must've been mammoth. In death, his gray flesh half shrunken and wasted away, he was no less intimidating. His body was dead, that much was obvious simply from the pallor of his skin. His eyes and long hair had gone a shade of white, with the color drained away, likely with his soul. Ivar's flesh was not rotten, though his visage sparked turmoil inside Malwynn's stomach. He wore plate mail very similar to the armor that Marcus Grey had worn back in the skirmish before New Picknell's destruction. There was one slight difference: the color.

The burnished steel had been somehow tinted with purple, and was trimmed and etched with ornate versions of the Amaranth, the Queen's flower. If the suit had been in a museum, it would've been a work of art, but instead he wore openly on the field, and when Malwynn first laid eyes on Ivar, he was engaged in combat with not one, but five fully armed and armored Amaranthine soldiers, his helm discarded, a joyous snarl on his face. Clenched in a massive, violet mailed fist was a hand-and-a-half-sword, wavering menacingly. The sword's blade caught a breath of sunlight and gleamed, forcing Malwynn to squint.

The five warriors surrounding him had every advantage needed to ensure a sound victory, but as Malwynn slid off of Bramwell and watched the battle begin in the center of the empty parade ground of the barracks, he felt as if the five warriors were mice caught in a mortal trap.

Ivar's head spun to and fro slowly as his opponents circled him, testing his reflexes nervously with long halberds and spears. They poked in at him here and there, seeing if they could get him to bite on one of their feints.  The young men looked vibrantly alive in comparison to the undead knight they faced, and when they made their attack on him, all their deficits were brought to a bloody red light in the blink of an eye.

Two of the soldiers lunged forward with their halberds at the same precise moment. They were opposite one another, and as the long tips of their polearms attempted to skewer Ivar inside his armor, he deftly stepped to his side, forcing one soldier to miss entirely. As he moved more into the path of the second soldier's weapon, he brought the bastard sword's blade down in powerful stroke, shattering the weapon's shaft, and rendering the man impotent. He looked up at Ivar as his weapon crumbled to the snow packed field and backpedaled. He knew how his story ended if he pressed the battle.

Malwynn watched as the other three soldiers drove in with their weapons. Two spears and a halberd seemed to spell certain doom for the purple knight.  All three weapons struck in towards the center where Ivar stood simultaneously, leaving no room to dodge anything.

Ivar grinned even more.

His blade was still traveling downward from the destruction of the first soldier's polearm, and he swirled his massive body around in a circle, twisting his wrist and momentum to force the blade upward, neatly slicing the steel tip off one of the spears. His timing was perfect, for as the steel point spun wildly away, the blunt wooden shaft of the spear rammed ineffectually into his breastplate. The remainder of his spin allowed the other spear to strike his hip plating and skip off harmlessly. Despite his impressive quickness and grace, the final weapon struck solidly.

The soldier wielding the axe-like halberd put his hips and legs into a powerful overhand chop with his weapon, and his maneuver bought him success. The edge of the axe had enough force to dent Ivar's shoulder armor and bring him down to a knee, and put a snarl on his sunken face. Ivar's rage had finally stepped out onto the snow covered field, and the man wielding the halberd was dead in its sights.

Ivar's powerful tree trunk legs catapulted him off the snow and upwards at the halberd-wearing man like a violet missile. His armored body, dead as it was, hit the soldier as powerfully as a rampaging bull might. The soldier's corpse was decimated long before Ivar's shoulder drove it through the snow and into the hardened earth, splitting it apart and spilling life blood in every direction.  Ivar was up and on his massive feet, now soaked in the soldier's blood. The bright red vitae turned his violet armor a deep, dark purple, far more akin to the purple of the Queen of the Empire. Malwynn wondered if that was by design.

Ivar roared, his dead lungs forcing dead air over dead vocal chords. The sound made the hair on the back of Malwynn's neck stand straight up, and sent Bramwell backing away.

"COME TO ME!" Ivar bellowed.

The four remaining soldiers, one already backing away, attacked immediately. They did it instinctively, out of raw fear that disobeying Ivar would have a worse consequence than dying at the end of his massive blade.

Ivar rose up to his full height as two halberd axe heads began to crash downward at him. He reached up with a steel clad fist and caught the shaft of one as the other fell beside him, nearly shearing off an arm and imbedding into the snow and earth. His iron strong grip yanked down hard on the shaft sending the Queen's warrior holding it off balance. As he struggled to regain his footing Ivar drove his longsword through the soldier's chainmail, both front and back. The warrior let out a whimper of pain as his life escaped him, and Ivar withdrew his bloody weapon and discarded the halberd. The dead warrior hit the hard packed snow heavily, long dead before hitting the ground. A crimson stain began to spread in the snow at Ivar's feet.

The soldier with the tipless spear had dropped his newly made staff in favor of the short sword sheathed at his hip. But in the few seconds that it took for him to draw it, Ivar had killed both of the other men still alive. One man had been severed in half by a backhanded stroke of the blood soaked bastard sword in Ivar's grip. Malwynn had only barely seen the stroke it had happened so fast. As his friend died in half, the severed spine flopping openly in the cold air, the other man had attempted a swipe with his long polearm at Ivar's legs, but the undead knight hopped deftly over the savage hack. The awkward attack caused the body of the soldier to twist just a little too far, and in the half second it took for him to regain his posture and bring his long weapon back into the fight, Ivar had cocked one of his legs back. He launched it into the unprepared warrior's chest, and from fifty feet away Malwynn heard a crescendo of ribs cracking. Chain Mail offered no protection from the crushing force of the armored boot. The Amaranthine man dropped his weapon and crumbled to the ground, his chest caved in, lungs destroyed, and his life quickly ending.

The lone short sword wielding soldier stood alone, fear on his face. The small blade looked infinitesimally small compared to the weapon that Ivar held in his huge hand. The dead knight surveyed the carnage he'd dealt out in just a few seconds and the same familiar grin crept back onto his taut grey face. He seemed truly pleased that he'd just killed four of the Queen's soldiers. The solitary city guard with the wavering blade stood firmly, fighting off the urge to run as far as he could, as fast as he could from certain doom.

Ivar addressed him in a baritone that rattled deep within his dead chest, "Well done warrior. Your willingness to continue the fight, to draw your weapon and stand your ground has shown you to be a warrior who has earned more time alive. Rest assured that your compatriots will continue to serve the Queen in their death."

The soldier lowered his sword, nodding in thanks to the knight that was sparing his life.

"I shall tell your commanding officer of your deeds this day. Return to your unit. Serve the Queen steadfastly, and perhaps one day I will return to test your mettle again."

The soldier ran away, horrified and relieved that he'd been given a reprieve by someone who held his mortality in his hands. Ivar and Malwynn watched as the man's legs pumped hard, taking him out of the fenced-in parade ground and past the wooden barracks buildings that housed more warriors. The man disappeared around one of the structures. Malwynn hoped he would live a good life. Second chances were rare in this world. He sighed deeply, and realized that the knight that had slain the four warriors was still in the field, no more than fifty feet away.

The sudden proximity of Ivar's voice sent an electric charge through Malwynn. "You must be Malwynn Everwalk." Ivar had crossed the distance between the two of them in only a few seconds, and had done so in complete silence. Mal's eyes traced Ivar's path from the fresh corpses and counted only a score of footprints. His legs were long.

As Ivar loomed above him, his dead white eyes surveying and judging him, Malwynn nodded, "You are Ivar Brodull then?"

The undead warrior nodded, a lock of his stark white hair drifting across his forehead, and blowing aside again in the wind, "Ivar Brodull, Knight of the Order of the Purple Flower, servant of the Queen, and for a time, your martial instructor. I sincerely hope your skills exceed that of the four men that have joined the ranks of the dead tonight. Otherwise your training will be painfully short, and a complete waste of my time. Let us begin Malwynn Everwalk. Tell me of your skill with weapons, and do not exaggerate in the least."

Malwynn shivered, unsure of whether or not it was the cold causing it, or the brutal chill that slipped off of Ivar like sheets of ice. He started telling Ivar his tale, and did not exaggerate in the least.

That day Malwynn's sister was no more than a hundred yards away as the crow flies. She was in a different area of the barracks entirely; one dedicated to the manufacture and repair of arms and armor. The forges in the base were built near a small stream for access to cold water for quenching the raw steel. Several forges were arranged side by side in large stalls very similarly to a series of stables, though instead of horses or Gvorns, the stalls held smiths, and soldiers working as laborers for them for extra pay.

The very last forge stall was left available for her use, and after she checked in briefly with the officer in charge of the area, she got to work. Since her and her brother's arrival and settling in at Dram's home she had sequestered herself away in the room she slept in. It was on an upper level of the manor, at the end of a long passage that had stone bookshelves running the entire length of it. Sorber had arranged for a sizeable collection of Artificer texts for her, and they rested on the shelves immediately outside her bedroom door

No matter how clean they were, she was sickened by all of Dram's dead servants ponderously wandering the carved stone halls of the dreary home, so she took several of the books in her room, and locked the door. She knew the door wouldn't keep Dram out, but it was a terrific relief to hide behind the wide oak planks, and the sturdy iron locks. She'd rested on the plush, long unused bed and studied several of the texts that went into glorious detail on Artificer spells until she was blue in the face.

Umaryn was never a bookworm. She was a far more able hands-on learner, and after giving herself five straight days of headaches reading, she was far overdue to put what she'd learned into practice. She had focused on a single, moderately powerful spell that she felt was within her grasp and current abilities. Umaryn could enchant weapons to be more deadly, this much she knew, and had already put that aptitude to use several times. The Chant of Sharpness was the traditional name for that particular spell she knew already. Her mission now was to start the process of mastering a new spell, one known as Strip in the books she'd read.

Strip was, by the tome's definition and assessment, a slightly more powerful spell than the Chant she knew. It was a very different application of The Way, however. It required less nurturing of spirits like the Chants she knew, and instead more flat-out intimidation of them. To master Strip, she would need to frighten and scare a weapon's spirit at a moment's notice. She would have to scare a sword dull, frighten a bow weaker, and shock a mace soft. The effect might only last a few moments, but as she and her brother already knew, most battles were decided by only a few moments.

The challenge was exhilarating. As she arrayed multiple weapons out on a large wooden table next to the idle heat of the forge, she wondered which weapons Omniri Decadra's men would be wielding when she and her brother finally went to kill him. As she picked up a dagger and prepared to attempt the spell for the first time, she hoped he and his minions would be arrogant. The joy of watching their weapons fail them in mid-battle would be an excellent treat right before they died.

She prayed to her ancestors that she could master this spell, and a few more before it came time to take on the man responsible for the deaths of everyone in New Picknell.

Three of the Queen's soldiers sat together at a meal table in the mess hall of the barracks several days later. They ate quietly in a crowded room of uniformed ruffians. The Amaranthine military was a collection of all walks of Empire life; poor and rich the same. These men had risen through the ranks a bit, and were Sergeants in the Queen's army.

One of the three Sergeants sat his tin fork down on his wooden plate and finished chewing a mouthful of a meat he wasn't entirely sure was chicken as advertised. He had a perplexed and worried look to his face as he chewed. One of the other men caught his expression, and inquired.

"Oi, what's wrong? Eat another fingernail in the mashed?" He asked.

The quizzical man laughed a bit before shaking his head and replying, "No, no fingernail. I was just thinking that I thought I saw someone the other day. Been bothering me."

"Of course you saw someone the other day. We eat lunch every day here together. Someone important you mean?" The third soldier, a beast of man said.

"Yeah. You remember that pretty waitress from The Salon named Isabel? I swear I saw her on base here the other day. I wasn't sure, I'm still not sure actually, but the more I think about it… I think it was her. Or her damn sister." The man picked up his cheap fork and shoveled in another mouthful of mashed potatoes and mystery meat.

The larger man leaned in very seriously, "The same bitch that we saw leave with Captain Drogal the last night anyone saw him?"

"Yeah, I think it was her. Same slut."

The largest man of the three moved food around on his plate with his fork, his own expression hardening, "Where was she Eli? She paying a whore's visit to an officer? Sucking some cock for Crowns?"

Eli responded, "I saw her over at the forge area working on some kind of weapon. She was riding out on a horse not long after. Hard to identify her exactly fully clothed and all. Not used to seeing her that way."

The giant nodded, probing his mouth with an angry tongue. "Show me tomorrow. If it's her, I say we make a plan to snatch her and find out what the hell happened to the Captain. Worst case, we get a piece of ass and hand her over to the Necromancer's Guild as a fresh body."

The trio nodded, and returned to their quiet meal in the loud room.

"No. You are doing it wrong. Your power does not come from your arms, moron. It comes from your hips, and your legs. Here, like this," Ivar said firmly.

Malwynn and the undead knight were in an indoor amphitheatre at the Queen's barracks. Ivar had moved them inside due to a series of snowstorms that made sparring outdoors very difficult. Visibility was next to nil in the flurries, and Malwynn's still living body struggled with the cold. Ivar clearly had no concern for freezing solid, or his own personal comfort, but at least he was cognizant of Malwynn's frailties.

"Sorry Ivar," Malwynn said. The massive knight walked through several strokes with his powerful longsword to properly perform the technique they had been working on for several days. Ivar was an impatient teacher, made even more difficult to study under because of his attention to detail, and drive for perfection out of Malwynn.

Ivar stopped his repetitive swings to address Malwynn, "Do not apologize to me. Your patriarch has seen to me being available to you for some time, and wasting your energy attempting to apologize only wastes his efforts, and my time. Focus on what I do, and how I do it, and then do it exactly the same. Do it until you no longer need to think about doing it. Do it until it simply is the way you do it."

Malwynn nodded and went back to watching Ivar's form. He admired how the deceased knight twisted his hips and put extra force into the swing. Ivar's motion was natural, and powerful. Malwynn hoped that soon, very soon, he would master the technique as well.

"That bitch can work The Way? You think she's actually doing it or you think she's plum crazy and seeing things?" The soldier Eli said to his two sergeant cohorts in the deep and drifting snow. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind whistling between and through the barracks buildings. The three Sergeants had braved another heavy squall to sneak over to the forges and steal a peek at the woman they thought was Isabel.

It took them nearly an hour of glaring through the swells of puffy white snow to come to the conclusion that it was indeed her.

The mammoth Sergeant was made larger by a heavy wolf fur wrapped around his body. It did little to warm him, but did see to him seeming even more threatening. He looked like barely restrained violence. "An Artificer. She's an Artificer. She's working The Way in a damn forge idiots."

"You think she's dangerous? You think she's powerful with The Way?" One of the lesser Sergeants asked, his eyes locked onto the small stall forge Umaryn worked away in.

"I'll tell you this; I'm a lot less worried about The Way with her, and a lot more worried about that purple sash she's got on that work table where her coat is. I'm starting to wonder who she is exactly to be able to wear purple and not get strung up for it."

"An Inquisitor?"

The giant shook his head slowly, "No. She's too young to be an Inquisitor. We need to watch her more. Follow her. Find out what she's really doing here, and who tucks her in at night. Then if she makes any mistakes, we snatch her up and find out what happened to the Captain."

"We could just ask her."

"We could also broadcast to the world that we're thinking about taking out someone wearing purple. No, no." The massive soldier turned around and started to walk back towards the part of the barracks that they belonged in. The others turned and followed suit.

"I don’t understand you Dram. You seek the impossible. How is it you plan on motivating people that have nothing left to lose?" Ivar asked.

Dram bridged his fingers, "You show them how to take something away from someone they hate Ivar. At the end of the day when you've nothing left, you always have that."

Ivar's pale white eyes took in the Inquisitor, and he nodded.

Umaryn had a short sword in a vise that was mounted on her forge's work table. The blade was horizontal, hanging out into the air with the edge upward. Wrapped in heavy paper on the bench the vise was attached to were large cuts of heavy meat. She'd stopped by a butcher's shop on her way to the forge that morning and got the meat for this experiment, and dinner later that night. She'd made sure to stay far away from Quality Meats, Cheap for her purchase.

She took the paper and unwrapped it from the food, freeing up a large piece of the meat. A thigh from a lamb. This part of the experiment was moot, but she went through the motions anyway. Taking the chunk of flesh she dragged it along the edge of the sword slowly, letting the razor sharp edge of the blade bite into the cold pink meat. By the time the piece of flesh reached the sword's tip it had been cut completely through. She caught the falling chunk deftly in her hand and smiled. She'd already known the sword was sharp.

Umaryn put the flesh back on the paper and prepared to cast her spell. She'd tried many different avenues to cast Strip. She'd tried scaring the weapons, ridiculing them, shocking them, and other ideas. She'd tried a slow build up too, but her minimal success had been best achieved with a fast utterance of unintelligible words, and a quickly clenched fist. She wasn't sure why that gesture, with that strange word worked, but somehow it did.

Umaryn took a few steps around to ready herself mentally. Pacing helped her focus. In the future, she wanted to trim down the time it was taking her to channel The Way in her mind, but for now, this would be a good starting point. She stopped pacing suddenly and faced the naked sword blade. She stared at it for few seconds then barked out the strange collection of syllables that worked best for her.

"Ichthyorak!" She spat the word out like acid at the blade, and then snapped her fingers shut in a clenched fist. Deep inside her mind and down in the rumble of her stomach she felt a warm sensation, almost like a surge of warmth, or sudden rush of cold. It was inexplicable, but she knew exactly what it was: The Way.

After the release of the minimal energy she'd brought about nothing changed. The sword didn't melt into nothingness, and it certainly didn't bend towards the forge's floor like a child's handful of taffy. Umaryn hoped her spell had worked. She went to the unraveled paper on the work bench and grabbed a second piece of meat. Just the same as the first piece she gently dragged it along the blade, allowing that same razor sharp edge to bite into the meat, to cut it in two again.

Except it didn't.

When she pulled the meat away from the blade it was still in one piece. Her examination of the lamb thigh showed there wasn't even the slightest cut from the sword. Her heart now racing, she pulled the meat along the blade again, then once more. Feeling confident, she drew her finger gingerly but firmly along the edge of the short sword. There was no sharpness to the blade's edge anymore.

She was positively giddy.

Umaryn danced around the forge for a minute or two, elated at her achievement. She knew the sword was still dangerous, even dull, but the sudden change in the weapon's effectiveness would be a huge advantage in a fight. She went back to the sword and slid the meat back and forth a few more times to ensure that she wasn't going crazy. The meat moved along the rail of the blade like a rag over a polished metal railing. On the fifth pass through, she felt the blade's edge return, and the meat bog down on the weapon. She felt some of her glee fade, but now she knew how long her spell would last. She put the meat to the sword once more, and cut the final two steaks she and her brother would eat at dinner later that night. She couldn't wait to tell him all about it.

The Everwalk twins were in Dram's massive dining hall sharing their meal of steak, boiled cabbage and carrots. They were both excited about the day.

"That's incredible. So amazing. How much longer do you think you'll need to be able to cast it in a fight? Like, really quickly?" Malwynn asked right before he shoveled another bite of the steak into his mouth.

She finished chewing through a smile before replying, "A week, maybe two. I've decided I'll work on casting that spell three times each day at the forge to fine tune it, as well as starting to work on a second new spell."

Malwynn perked up, "Another new spell? What's this one all about?"

Umaryn smiled slyly, "It's pretty straightforward. It's an old offensive Artificer spell that the Guild uses.  It's called Rope of Iron."

"Rope of Iron?" Mal sounded less than impressed.

"I know it doesn't sound all that impressive. But Mal, it allows you to turn normal, flexible rope into steel-like cable, or a metal staff." Umaryn took another bite of food.

"How the hell is steel cable going to help us?" Mal asked, genuinely missing any value in the spell his sister was going to try and learn.

"Mal we can have steel staves whenever we want. Both of us can tie a length of rope around our waists, and when we need weapons, we take the rope off, and I cast the spell. We'll always be armed as long as we can find rope. I bet I can even cast it on string to make one of those choking wires. What're they called?"

"Garrotes. That's pretty fantastic Umaryn. Pretty damn fantastic."

"Yeah. I'm kind of proud of myself."

"She left almost every day last week with a guy that's her damn dead ringer. I'd bet my daughter's life it's her brother," one of the Sergeants said.

The trio of warrior commanders had gathered a small supporting group of their underling soldiers. The Sergeants had gathered another dozen men loyal to them, as well as to their missing Captain. These were men that had hearts filled with hatred, and minds set on revenge. They had assembled late in the night in the very same amphitheatre that Malwynn and Ivar had been using to train in.

The giant, still wearing his wolf skin pelt was in the center of the posse, clearly the leader of the pack, "Where do they go?"

"The lifts to the High City. I can't ride the lifts so I don't know where they go up there," the smaller Sergeant replied.

The wolf skin wearing man mulled it over. "If we do this, we all risk death at the hands of the Inquisitors. All of us will be sent to the guillotine. We won't even rate life as a dead servant. Everyone here needs to be damn well sure they are ready to die to find out if this bitch had anything to do with Captain Drogal." He paused, giving everyone a full minute to contemplate what he was saying. He spoke again, "This is no order from any of us. If you want to keep your heads on your shoulders, and keep your honor as well with us, then walk out now. We'll hold no ill will, and tell no tales of your choice either way."

There were a few more moments of nervous silence, then five of the men left the room quietly. The man wearing his wolf skin made note that all five men had families. He nodded, respecting their devotion to more than a missing officer. Revenge would be a paltry prize with nothing else in your life.

He counted the gathered force, "Then it will be the ten of us. In three days, we will confront her in the forges. Queen willing, she answers our questions." The wolf man laughed, "Or Queen willing, she won't."

Days later Malwynn and Ivar were back at it.

"Yes, excellent. Perfect form. Your strength is much improved," Ivar said from the first row of the benches in the amphitheatre. Even without his chain and plate Ivar was massive. The ash colored man was dead, that much was obvious, but his necromantic existence did nothing to quell the intimidating nature of his natural presence. Alive he'd have still been frightening.

Malwynn stopped his rote physical exercises and turned to face his instructor, "Ivar, may I ask you a question?"

Ivar cocked his head to the side, confused, "About sword work? Of course."

Malwynn shook his head, "No, I wanted to ask something about you. About how you became… what you are."

Ivar's white, soulless eyes stared back at Malwynn for an uncomfortably long time before he responded, "You wish to know how I died?"

"I want to know how you became whatever it is you are. I know you're dead, but you're not like the other dead I've seen before. You're intelligent, you've got self control. You're… unique." Malwynn's growing sense of admiration for the knight was shining through.

Ivar's face didn't show that he was aware of Mal's appreciation. Ivar was wearing a button up tunic the color of sand that day, and before he spoke, he undid three of the buttons at the center of his chest, right near the base of his ribcage. He inserted his massive paws into the shirt and pulled the fabric to the sides, revealing more milk colored flesh. In the center of his chest, right where the stomach meets the ribcage was an open but bloodless wound. It was two inches long and ran diagonally from left to right. Ivar moved the skin a bit with his fingertip and Malwynn saw the wound spread open.

"I was engaged in a battle with separatists about three decades ago. I had been a standing knight in the Order of the Purple Flower for three years, and I was destined to rise in the ranks. I had been hailed by the Queen herself as a pinnacle of all things the Empire should aspire to." Ivar spoke romantically. His raspy voice took Malwynn to a different time, and a different place. "As I said the separatists had been stealing weapons and food from a Fort about twenty miles east of here. We rode out to make an example of them, and in the end, in a most unimpressive fashion, I was run through by a sword not unlike my own."

"You died?"

Ivar shook his head as he buttoned his shirt back up, "No, not immediately. I fought to cling to life for several days. My unit returned me here to Graben, and I was brought before my superiors. My life was forfeit, my body not repairable. I was judged to be deserving of reanimation, and as I lay dying, I was entrusted to a powerful necromancer. When I passed, he performed the necessary rites to bring my corpse to the state you now see it in."

"What are you?" Malwynn asked, completely enveloped in the story.

"I am a Wight now." Ivar said it half proudly, and half sadly. Mal wasn't quite sure what to make of his statement.

"My mother once said that word. Aren't Wights powerful undead? Aren't they rare?"

Ivar shook his head again, "Not as rare as you might think here, but yes, our kind of undead is uncommon. Most Wights on Elmoryn are made by necromancers, the same as I."

Malwynn suddenly figured out who the necromancer that made Ivar was. It was all coming together now. "Why be a knight? Why be a warrior in the first place? I understand you're enormous, but why become a dealer of death and violence? You could've been a farmer, a weaver or a smith."

Ivar smiled softly. "I wanted to protect those I loved. I couldn't walk away from my natural ability to keep them safe. I decided a long time ago that my soul, and my purity was less important than seeing to it that my friends and family were kept safe. Dying for them was a small price to pay. Now in undeath I have a second life to give for my Queen, and the descendants of my loved ones."

"You intentionally seek out violence so they don't have to experience it?" Malwynn asked, seeing the man come together.

"I would visit unending wrath on all who seek to do harm to my nation, or my family Malwynn." Ivar's voice was cold. This was a statement he'd said before. "I push you to train harder, to focus because I know more than anyone else the price you pay when your discipline fails you, even if only for a moment. Your skill is a reflection of my teaching, and if you fail after we part ways, I will have it be for no reason I had control over."

"I think you and I are more alike than I could've imagined Ivar," Malwynn said as he went back to the sword strokes his mentor wanted him to learn. This time, his practice was different.

Umaryn's practice in her forge stall had run late a few days after Ivar and Malwynn's discussion. The sun had set many hours earlier, the temperature of the night had plummeted and she knew by now Malwynn would be back at Dram's manor cooking dinner while undead servants milled about. She hoped that when she arrived he wouldn't be too disappointed in her late arrival.

Things had progressed well that day. She had trimmed down her casting time for Strip by more than half. Of course the hard work came at a price. The ages old Elmoryn expression was that Will was required to use The Way, and spending so long focusing her Will that day left her drained. It was all she could do to pack up her tools and remain on task to get everything in Tinder's saddlebags. She'd never been so drained.

The weather was stark and clear that night, leaving little but bitter cold. The clouds had finally cleared out, having emptied their white bellies of snow every day and night the past week. High in the sky hung Lune, the bright moon. Umaryn finished gathering all of her supplies and put them away in Tinder's bags. Over her shoulder she heard the faintest crunch atop the snow, and thought it was Malwynn coming to check on her. After all, sometimes he stayed late with that monstrous instructor of his, Ivar.

"Hey Ma-," she said, cutting herself off as she realized it was not her brother, but multiple Amaranthine soldiers. They had arrayed themselves in a moon shape, cutting off her exit from the stall, and the courtyard of the forge area of the base.

"You're Isabel, aren't you?" A massive man asked. He was huge, almost as big as the dead knight her brother studied under, and he wore a huge pelt around his shoulders. She thought it was a wolf skin.

"I most certainly am not. Might I ask you why you're bothering an Inquisitor's Aide? You must surely realize that impeding me would be met with harsh consequences," Umaryn did her best to appear bold and authoritative. She felt big words would help convince hopefully small minds.

The pelt wearer was dismissive, and sinister. "You're Isabel. Your eyes flinched when I said that name, and you're her. I've no doubt about that now. You're a bit of a liar, aren't you?"

Umaryn gave no response. It turned out the large man didn't have a small mind after all. She tried to focus hard to remember where exactly she'd put her hammer. It hung in a loop on Tinder's saddle, just a foot away from her hand.

"I'm not going to lie to you Isabel. We came here for answers. And either you give them to us, and they are to our satisfaction, or this here forge is where your life comes to an end."

Umaryn wondered where her brother was.

- Chapter Ten -

POTENTIAL REVEALED

As the ten men fanned out, spanning the entire entrance to her forge stall, Umaryn's mind flittered through the situation, and her options. She was weak. Her will had been spent during the day to fuel her experiments with The Way. She had one spell left inside her, perhaps two. She would have to make them count if it came down to it. The ten men were soldiers. Their armor and Empire issued weapons were clear evidence supporting that.

This all made sick sense. Umaryn and Malwynn had killed many soldiers of the Amaranthine Empire, and when she worked at The Salon, she'd rubbed more than elbows against scores of these very same men. She'd been foolish to not realize that eventually one of them would recognize her. Apparently her paranoia had been overwhelmed by her enthusiasm to be back in a forge. Now her foolishness would leave her brother fully alone if she wasn't able to escape this situation.

"What's your name, large one?" Umaryn asked the wolf pelt wearing giant.

He hefted a blunt mace from his hip and answered her, "No names from us Isabel, just answers from you."

She licked her lips against the brutal cold of the Amaranthine night and nodded. If she was to talk her way out of this, she'd need to answer their questions, "So be it. Ask what you will. Just be prepared for answers that you won't approve."

One of the men to her far left challenged her immediately, "What happened to Captain Drogal? The last time anyone saw him you'd left the bar with him alone." The man was so very angry, and nervous. He had nearly choked on his threat.

She figured this was about Drogal. "I delivered Captain Drogal to an Inquisitor that night for interrogation. I suspect he did not impress the Inquisitor, as I've not seen him since." Her answer was a complete fabrication. She hoped it would divert their anger towards Dram. He was someone far more capable of dealing with this group of murderous hooligans.

The ten men were speechless. Another of the men put forth a question, just as angry as the first, "What would an Inquisitor want with the Captain? He was a patriot through and through. Loyal as any to the Throne."

Umaryn shrugged as apologetically as she could, and tried to think one step ahead, "I am but an Inquisitor's Aide. Perhaps he isn't dead? Perhaps he was brought in as a new member of the Inquisition? If he is as big a patriot as you say, that is a distinct possibility."

The men exchanged glances, tipping their uncertainty to Umaryn. She pressed, sensing the momentum of the encounter shift, "I can send a missive to my Inquisitor if you wish. I can have him contact your unit. Perhaps there is some information he is able to share?" Umaryn tilted her head, and angled her hip out ever so slightly. Even through her heavier outdoor clothing the slight change in posture exuded some sensuality.

The men seemed to take her bait.

All but one. The huge pelt wearing leader looked at the men surrounding him as if they'd been struck by lightning. He was incredulous, and screamed at the men. "Are you all mad?! Look at her, the lying whore! She swings her hip out, and looks at us with her feminine ways to seduce us into stupidity. Can't you see she's as guilty as can be?!"

The other men stopped their behavior immediately and turned their eyes to her. Umaryn suddenly felt very self conscious ad foolish standing as she was, and as innocuously as possible, she went back to her normal posture. The men caught her guilty demeanor and their tempers flared. She'd tipped her hat in the wrong direction, and now she was in more serious trouble than ever.

"If you won't give us the truth freely wench, then we will beat it out of you," The giant said, lifting his mace and storming forward. The time for talking was over. Umaryn was in a fight for her life, and she was all alone.

She reached over as fast as she could and snapped up her warhammer from Tinder's saddle. She backpedaled a few steps to get away from her horse, as well as the men. Strange as it was, she didn't want them to hurt Tinder.

The men didn't seem to care about the horse. The giant with the wolf pelt pressed inward to the center of the stall, backing her straight into the heat of the forge. Umaryn flashed her eyes at the huge man and gave a spell everything she had.

"Ichthyorak!" She gestured at the mace in wolf-man's hand, and felt the measly surge of everything left in her rush out. She had a split second to hope the magic took effect before he brought the mace into her arm with a swing that would fell a tree.

The mace bounced off her arm with no more effect than that of a cloth sack. She watched in a half a heart beat as the shaft of the mace bent backwards, and the head caved in as if it were made of soft clay. Her eyes drew upward to the face of the wolf pelt wearing man, and the look of disbelief in his eyes. She was entirely unharmed, and unmoved by his blow.

She retaliated in kind. With his shoulders twisting him away she brought her hammer down abruptly into the side of his knee. Umaryn didn't put her full strength into the strike, but any hit with a hammer to anywhere near a knee has a catastrophic effect on anyone's ability to remain standing. The wolf pelt wearing soldier moaned in pain as his knee gave out and he collapsed to the cold hard ground.

Nine to go.

Two of the men flashed in with their viciously curved long axes. She was instantly thankful for the somewhat confined space of the stall. They couldn't properly enter the forge and use their weapons as well. That didn't mean one of them wasn’t lethal with every slash of his axe. He had the advantage of reach on her. His axe swept left to right as he moved inward on her, cutting off her ability to move, and engage. If she didn't do something quickly about her predicament, she'd be cut in half without a hope of doing anything about it.

"Kill the bitch!" The wolf man bellowed from the floor through gritted teeth.

Umaryn looked down at his massive form lying on the forge's stone floor, clutching his crushed knee. She saw an opportunity.

"Eyah!" She screamed at the top of her lungs as she brought her hammer down onto the shin of the wounded warrior. Her hammer struck with the force of a hundred punches, and shattered his lower leg bones like brittle, dry sticks.

The man screamed ten times louder than she did, and that rattled the nine others. They looked sympathetically to their now mangled leader, buying her a second to dart in past the reach of the man closest to her with the long axe. She rotated the head of her hammer around and brought it up side the man's head with a backhanded swing, caving in his exposed temple and rolling his eyes up into his skull. Blood gushed from his nostrils like a water pump. Before his axe clattered on the stone floor he was dead.

Eight to go.

She lowered her shoulder and rammed it into the next closest man, fully engaging the group in melee now. She was surrounded, and committed to the fight, no matter the ending. The man lost his wind in a white puff of steam and his balance simultaneously. He fell on his ass too fast for her to strike him with her weapon, but the man standing to his side failed to move fast enough. Her first hammer blow struck the man square in the ass, blackening the muscle underneath his breeches. The man yelped from the unexpected pain and stumbled to the side long enough for Umaryn to swing the hammer again, this time into the small of his back near the kidneys. He crumpled down with his fallen comrades, eyes shut from the agony his internal organs were experiencing. He wasn't dead by a long shot, but he was out of the fight.

Seven to go.

Umaryn's back exploded in pain as another one of the warriors returned a near exact favor to her. She was fortunate enough to still have her heavy leather apron on, and fortunate as well that the man hitting her had used one of the Empire's short swords to do so. The thick leather blunted the slashing edge of the sword enough to save her from having her spine severed, but the impact of the steel still ruined and bruised muscles. Her legs gave way to the force of the blow, and in an instant, she was on her knees, and her hammer was against the floor. She looked up in the sudden silence and saw the remaining seven men looming above her, her death in their eyes. This would be how it would end for Umaryn.

Just out of her line of vision, she heard a grunt of pain. The other men froze, turning to their comrade who'd made the noise. Umaryn straightened her battered lower back and saw that one of the soldiers had been run through with a blade not unlike the one she'd just been attacked with. The tip of the sword retracted into the chest of the man and he plummeted to the earth just outside the stall. His heart had been pierced, and standing behind where the man had died was her brother Malwynn.

Six to go.

Her twin brother moved with a grace and skill she'd never seen before, drawing all the attention from the remaining foes trying to kill her. Umaryn watched from the floor, now completely ignored.

Malwynn's face was serene, and calm. He counted through the steps of deliberate motion as if he were practicing dance moves on the Queen's ballroom floor. One step left, one step forward, then a near perfectly timed thrust put his blade through a man's torso to the hilt. He grabbed the shocked man as he would a dance partner, and twirled his body around, deflecting a massive sweep of a long axe with his partner's back. As the man died at his feet, Malwynn let the sword draw itself from his flesh. The soldier who'd just struck his fellow watched as his friend died, giving Malwynn the time to roll forward in the snow and stone, barreling into the man's knee, cracking it backwards. Unable to right himself, he stumbled, fell on his back, and Malwynn pounced. With two hands on the hilt, he lunged forward and stabbed his sword down so powerfully Umaryn heard the steel tip of it clink into the thick stone below the man's body. She watched the life leave his eyes.

Four to go.

Malwynn gracefully returned to his feet, now covered in the blood of his sister's foes. He was a righteous warrior, with the lives of vanquished foes on his blade.

"Who dies next?" He uttered over the brisk night wind.

No one saw Dram.

The dark purple robe the Inquisitor wore blended into the background scenery of the forge area of the base disturbingly well. The dark buildings were an almost perfect backdrop. Dram moved far faster than they'd ever seen him move, and he struck with gnarled, twisted hands tipped in claws that dripped foul ichor. He struck one of the four men in the throat with a backhanded rake that severed his windpipe. The man's final exhalation spouted from the torn holes as he clutched at his ruined neck. Before that man realized he was dead, Dram had taken a massive step forward into the midst of the battle. He brought one of his clawed hands up in a sweeping rip, sinking four of his pale white digits into the guts of a soldier, piercing his mail, and grabbing onto the base of his ribcage, lifting him from the ground. He whimpered as the Inquisitor threw his body aside like he would a child's doll, breaking the man's back on the wall of the forge stall.

The two remaining men stood rooted to the ground, utterly unable to respond to what had happened to them. Dram turned to face one of the men, and walked over slowly, uttering a phrase under his breath. Both Malwynn and Umaryn felt another powerful ripple in reality, as the spell weaver brought forth necromantic energies of The Way.

"Die," Dram said quietly as he caressed the soldier's face. The touch could not have been gentler, but the effect of the magic transferred by it was devastating. The warrior's flesh drew tight on his skin as if he'd been dried a month in the desert sun in a heartbeat. His eyes rolled up into his skull, becoming bloodshot as if injected with red dye. His breath wheezed out of his lungs through a collapsed windpipe, and he fell to the ground lifeless. He barely moved the snow when he hit down. Malwynn and Umaryn were speechless.

The single soldier remaining watched as Dram's white, claw like fingers twinkled back and forth menacingly. The warrior couldn't move. He knew if he ran he'd be killed by the necromancer with no chance of mercy.

Dram stepped close, and interrogated the man, "Why did this happen soldier? Why am I finding two of my closest Aides under assault by a half score of the Queen's soldiers? Mind your answer. The wrong words will fetch you a much slower death than that of your fellow servicemen."

The warrior, a young one by the lack of hair on his chin, struggled to get a chest full of cold air to answer, but he did. "We saw the woman, Isabel. We thought she might know where our Captain might be. She left The Salon with him, he's been missing ever since."

Dram nodded, as If expecting that answer, "And you decided to assault her? Did she identify herself as an Inquisitor's Aide?"

The soldier nodded, "She did my lord. I'm sorry, we've failed you."

"You've failed the Queen. Your failure to me is quite secondary. Know this; any transgression towards an Inquisitor, or those in the employ of an Inquisitor is the same thing as marching upon The Purple Throne itself. It is punishable by immediate death."

"I see sir, I do not beg for your mercy," the young man said before dropping to his knees in the snow and offering up his soft white throat.

Dram seemed intrigued by this gesture, and he turned to Malwynn and Umaryn as the sister rose to her feet, "Are either of you injured?"

Umaryn responded as Malwynn slipped an arm under hers to support her, "My back has seen better days, but I'll be fine with a glass or two of brandy."

"Good. Were they worse off soldier, I'd have your life, and the fading lives of the men whimpering on the ground around us. Gather your wits and find your section necromancer to get these bodies dominated before they run rampant in the city. If your wounded friends are still alive after that task, then tend to them."

"Yessir!" The young soldier said before standing up and disappearing off into the cold night on feet fueled by fear.

Dram addressed the brother and sister, "You are both quite late. You are lucky that I was free to come down to check on you."

"I think we'd have made it out of that fight, though we'd be worse the wear. Thank you for your timely reinforcements," Mal said as he got Umaryn to the bench. Several of the soldiers moaned in pain below them, their bodies damaged.

One of the bodies, the man that Malwynn had stabbed through on the ground suddenly twitched and sat straight up. His eyes had gone white, the rotten soul inside tainting his flesh and animating it. He had risen as undead. He was only an arm's length away from Umaryn, and her stiffening back would cost her. The zombie reached over, attempting to snatch up her leg.

Malwynn roared at the zombie "Stop!"

And for a moment, it did. Malwynn leapt forward, and skewered the zombie where it sat on the ground, destroying the brain in a fell stroke. He yanked his sword free and the body fell backwards where it had been just moments before.

"What was that?" Dram said urgently, stepping forward and grabbing Malwynn's shoulder to spin him. Mal noted that Sorber's hands had reverted to the normal, white skin and nails.

"What was what?" Mal asked in reply.

"When you commanded that dead body to stop. What did you do just then?" Dram seemed almost desperate to hear Mal's answer. Angry even.

"I don't know. I yelled at it. I must've gotten its attention," Mal was shaken by Dram's aggressive questioning.

"No. You commanded it. Compelled it. I felt The Way from you."

Mal shook his head and laughed, "No Dram. The only person in this family that's still alive and able to work The Way is my sister the Artificer."

"Have you ever yelled at undead before? Stopped them in their tracks, even if only for a second? Think hard young boy." Dram pressed closer, obsessed.

Malwynn looked around, and when his eyes reached his beloved sister, he realized there had been a moment. The day they had killed the tax collector, when Umaryn had been felled by necromantic magic, Mal had stopped the rush of undead with his voice, but he had thought little of it. "Maybe once before. Once."

"Fascinating. Indulge me Malwynn." Dram turned to another dead body and dropped down, crouching over it. He gestured with his fingers and muttered words of archaic power once more. Umaryn and Malwynn felt the familiar surge of strange energy in the air again, and as Dram got to his feet, the body slowly sat up, animated as undead.

"What… what are you doing?" Umaryn asked.

Dram turned to Malwynn, "Tell this zombie to stand still. Do so quickly, before it realizes you are there."

Malwynn was completely shell shocked, "I uh-. Stop. Stand still. Stop zombie."

Dram shook his head as the zombie got to its feet, "No. Be confident. Tell it what to do. Don't ask or suggest. Tell it as you would a disobedient pet."

Malwynn gathered his focus and wits quickly, and looked at the zombie. He moved in a half circle around it to face it. After a few seconds, the zombie's eyes lifted up, and Malwynn caught them with his gaze, "Stop moving." Mal's tone was firm, as was his gaze.

The zombie froze as if it were the disobedient pet. After a few seconds of stillness, it broke free of Mal's will and lunged savagely at him. Mal snapped his sword up and across the forehead of the dead body, lopping the top of its head off, and ending its existence once more.

Umaryn looked on in confused horror, unsure of what she'd just witnessed.

As Dram clapped slowly in the sinister, stark cold of the blood scented night, he clarified for her exactly what she'd just seen, "Welcome welcome little Malwynn Everwalk, to the folds of those rare few who are able to harness that power most wonderful, necromancy."

Malwynn's mouth went dry, and his blood went cold.

The twins were together in Umaryn's bedroom in Sorber Manor. Umaryn sat cross legged on her bed as Malwynn paced. "I've made up my mind Umaryn."

Umaryn was as angry as she'd ever been. Possibly angrier than ever. Her brother had decided to develop his newfound fledgling necromantic powers. "You can't be serious. You want to be one of them? One of the very same people we've come to kill? Mal that's such a disgrace. I'm sickened. I could kill you right now for the idiocy of this. The insult."

Now Malwynn was angry, "Listen sister. This isn’t a damned honor contest. This isn't about the fucking moral high ground anymore. Face it. We are murderers. We are thieves. We are liars. You strutted your body around like a slut to trick men into telling you secrets, and together we used your body to lure a man to his death at our own hands in a butcher shop. Where people get their food Umaryn. We have lost any and all opportunity to claim that we've got honor to save in this life. This is about wreaking vengeance on those that have wronged us and those we love. And if I have some talent that I can cultivate to achieve the ends I seek, then so be it. I'll make up for my deeds today long after this task is done."

"Mother would not approve," Umaryn said, letting a sad sob out. She wiped hot wet tears from her cheeks.

"No I imagine she wouldn't, and neither would father, but they are dead Umaryn, as is our little sister, and the woman I wanted to marry. We've both done things that our parents would disown us over. But Umaryn, I can turn this gift back on those who have used it against us. I can learn every spell that they know against them, I can manipulate their undead, and use their magic to rend and destroy their creations. This is a gift wrapped in paper most foul Umaryn and I am fully aware of it. See this for what I can make of it, not what others have."

She shook her head, still crying, "It will take me some time to accept this. I don't know if I'll ever approve of it."

"I don't need your approval Umaryn. I love you, but as you said pretty clearly once before, whatever it takes. Whatever it takes."

Sorber was eager. "Your progression as a warrior will be slowed as we work on your development in The Way Malwynn. I've taken the time to inform Ivar that your classes with him will no longer be five days a week, just two," Dram said to Malwynn in his study.

The large study was buried deep in the labyrinthine passages of the Manor. It was elevated above the entrance level, that much Malwynn knew, but its exact location when compared to the rest of the home he was at a loss for. It seemed to take ten left hand turns down five endless passages as well as stairs both up and down to get here. He guessed he was above only due to there having been more steps up, than down. He'd debated leaving a trail of breadcrumbs to mark the way but he knew Sorber would spot the tiniest flecks of debris and mark them for what they were.

"How did Ivar take the news?" Mal asked as he studied a row of impeccable books on a lengthy shelf. There had to be a hundred tomes in the study, all twice Mal's age

"He was disappointed that you would not be able to learn at the rate he felt was best for your progression."

Mal nodded. He knew exactly what Dram meant. Ivar had high hopes for him as a warrior and he knew the sudden shift in training regimen would disappoint him.

"When I see him next I'll make sure to pass along that I'm doing my exercises here. Perhaps that will alleviate his concern for my progress," Mal said.

"Do not worry about Ivar. His feelings about you and your progress are quite irrelevant, for many reasons. Besides my young friend, this development of you finding your potential will be far more effective in achieving a few of our early steps in my plan." Dram was dismissive, and teasing all at the same time.

"What are our early steps? When do we begin?" Mal turned from the bookshelves and asked Dram the question.

Dram looked up from his elaborately carved mahogany desk, hood still obscuring all his features. "I don’t think it would be prudent to share the details at this moment Malwynn. I can tell you this; our first step will be to kill one of Omniri's closest allies. Knowing a small amount of necromancy will make that task much more attainable for you and your sister. As far as when, I cannot say. It largely depends on how fast you can master the few spells that will be most useful to you. Weeks at the earliest."

"Is this ally undead?" Mal asked, taking a seat in one of the fine chairs at the desk.

Dram nodded, "He is. Your fighting skills, mixed with your sister's Artificer spells and her martial prowess would have been enough I suspect, but add to that your ability to disrupt the undead with The Way… This is much more exciting. My confidence in this is much improved."

Mal smiled, eager to kill the allies of his sworn enemy. "I'm glad then."

Dram lifted a large leather bound book and handed it to Malwynn. He hefted as the large necromancer handed him the book effortlessly. Dram must be incredibly strong Malwynn thought.

"You will need to read the most basics of Neomancy as well as Necromancy. I've pointed out a few Neomancy spells that I want you to read up on. Once you've had a few days to go over the incantations, we'll return to here and attempt to cast them. After that, we'll move on to Necromantic spells." Dram said clearly. He already had this planned out.

"What is Neomancy?" Mal asked befuddled. He looked down at the pages of the book, looking for a clear answer.

"Each different type of wielder of The Way powers their spells primarily through one of several basic means. Apostles funnel the energy that is created by the ancestor spirits they worship. Artificers like your sister are able to contact and channel the energies inside the spirits of handmade items. Waymancers are unique in that they channel energies directly from the fabric of reality, without any kind of direct spiritual source. We, as necromancers, use the energies that come from rot, ruin, decay, and death."

"Okay that much I understand, but what is Neomancy exactly?" Mal continued to study the pages of the book.

"Malwynn, each of the different sources of The Way feeds a specific style and practice of magic. Apostles are far more able to do restorative and healing effects, whereas a necromancer cannot heal without something in sacrifice. Likewise, Artificers can affect constructed items with ease, whereas a Waymancer cannot. There are boundaries you see. A balance between the schools of The Way. However, shared amongst all the users of The Way, are a common set of spells that all different spell casters can share. Basic formations of spell energy shared across all of the users of The Way. I'm sure your sister knows some of these spells. In fact it might be to your assistance to ask for her help in mastering them."

"She doesn't necessarily approve of me learning necromancy Dram," Mal said sadly.

"If she is as intelligent as I know her to be, she will look past her need to approve of you harnessing your talent. This is a boon for both of you and she needs to see it as such. Pressing her will hopefully show her the error of her close-minded ways."

Mal shrugged, "Dram, aren’t you afraid to teach me about the magic you use? I find it hard to believe you don't see that as some kind of assault to your own personal power."

Dram leaned back in his massive swivel chair and interlaced his fingers again, "Mal, you observe the balance of power well. I'm glad you've thought of this scenario already. Have you rationalized any potential reasons for why I might be so eager to teach you what I know?"

"I've some ideas, but they all come back to me believing that you are more paranoid than you are confident. And that's not an insult Dram. I mean paranoid in a good way. Cautious I guess is the right word." Mal tried to backpedal, worried he'd insult the massive death mage.

Dram responded with a belly laugh that shook dust from the crack in the stone ceiling. "Oh Mal, so very funny, and not that far from a solid truth. I've survived as long as I have because I am indeed paranoid. Well said. But you must realize this young one; my success in this existence can be greatly moved forward by you being successful in achieving what we both want done. Teaching you this in large part will help advance me, and make me far more powerful in the end."

"I guess that makes sense. I suppose I'd just focused too much on you seeing us as a threat to you when this is all said and done."

"Will you be a threat to me Malwynn? Will you take up spells and arms against the man who led you to the vengeance you so desperately seek? Will you then seek the blood of that same man who shared all these skills and resources with you?"

Mal shook his head firmly.

"I thought as much. I am not your enemy now, and so long as we can work together, or choose not cross each other's paths, then we shall not ever be enemies. And if the time should come that we do cross one another and violence becomes the only solution…" Dram leaned forward, more menacing than ever, "Well Malwynn, let us just say that there are quite a few deadly skills that I won't be sharing with you or your sister."

- Chapter eleven -

THE FIRST TO DIE

The heart of the Graben winter passed slowly for the Everwalk twins. The season was filled with long nights with no sign of the sun's warmth, and short days that passed with only a moment's light. The cold blowing in off the plains was brutal enough to freeze steel so thoroughly it snapped like an eave's icicle, and every sensible person stayed inside as long as possible. The risk of frozen flesh was a high price to pay for anything that wasn't vitally important.

Malwynn and Umaryn took that advice to heart, and remained isolated deep inside Dram's High City cliffside home, letting their injuries heal, and their physical pain subside.

Umaryn worked diligently on two forms of training. As before, she spent hour upon hour wracking her mind trying to wrap it around the rote instructions to new Artificer spells. She explained the struggle to Malwynn one day over dinner, as he too was attempting to learn The Way.

"Have you gotten to a spell that just doesn’t make any sense Mal?"

"What do you mean, make sense? All of The Way is a little nonsensical. Thinking in esoteric patterns, gesturing as if you're a stage actor with little training, handling strange materials that smell. None of it makes sense to me yet." Mal was still frustrated at that early point in the winter, when his learning was at its slowest.

Umaryn grinned. She was happy on a selfish level he was struggling. At last she held something over his head. "I know what you mean by that. I guess as you get better at it, some spells make sense to you more than others. Do you remember when I used to say that making horseshoes came easy to me?"

"Yeah," Mal said nodding.

"Well that Rope of Iron spell was like making a horseshoe for me. I get it. I learned it quickly. But this new spell I'm starting, Message Spirit, is like trying to teach a fish how to walk on land. It's so damn alien and bizarre."

"Now that, I can totally identify with."

Umaryn learned the spell after many arduous hours of study and practice. As it turned out, when she crafted an ornate message cylinder out of etched tin, the magic of the spell contorted into a form that her mind absorbed. She also applied her time to an opportunity that only came up when Malwynn turned away from his martial studies; learning how to wage war with her hammer. With Ivar's time suddenly free she booked him for her own purposes, and she was as fast a student as Malwynn. When the spring thaw was only a few weeks away, she was ten times as lethal with her hammer and now able to use swords, staves, and armor effectively. She was becoming the battle-Artificer of her wildest dreams, all on the coin of an Inquisitor of the Purple Queen.

She then understood why Malwynn had been so eager to learn Necromancy. It was a form of revenge.

Malwynn spent his winter similarly. Malwynn had always been the more bookish twin, so sitting down at an opulent desk and burying his nose in a dusty tome dedicated to harnessing the power of death was an easy, albeit morbid task for him.

Necromancers sought out the energies caused by natural means. Decay, rot, disease and death were all natural to the world. Everything decays over time unless an outside source prevents it. All organic matter rots away, cycling into nutrients for future life. Diseases exist in a million forms, causing sickness, mutation, and death. And nothing truly lives forever, thus death is natural. All of these sources of energy were essential and vital components to the function of life on Elmoryn, and necromancers had learned to tap into that reservoir of natural energy.

Malwynn felt like he had become part of an enormous cycle of life that been hidden from him his whole life. It mattered even more that with all this newfound knowledge of necromancy, he felt even closer to his mother, and her version of The Way. Apostle magic came from the spirits trapped in that half world between permanent death, and the afterlife. No spirit made the final jump to a peaceful oblivion on Elmoryn; such was the way of the world. All dead blessed by an Apostle went to this transitional world, and their presence was a font of The Way. Without death, there would be no spirits, and thus no Apostles. Many of the books that Dram had on his shelves argued that Apostle magic was less natural than necromancy, and their claims were not without some merit.

Despite those assertions, Malwynn came to realize that winter that without death, both he and his mother would not be able to wield The Way. Intrinsically, they were cut from the same cloth in more ways than one. He missed her more than ever.

Under Dram's tutelage Malwynn learned all of the basic neomancy spells. The generic uses of The Way available to all spell casters were somehow the hardest for him to learn, but once the first spell clicked, and he was able to start a fire with the power of his will alone, everything came together for him. By winter's end, he had nearly mastered the four easiest neomancy spells, as well as the four most basic necromancy spells.

Malwynn's favorite spell was entitled Intensify Rot. With just a touch of a rare plant called Obrinnor's moss found in The Commonwealth of Yokia, a distant nation on the east coast of Elmoryn, Malwynn could render a zombie dead again. The rancid flesh would turn black and moldy instantly, visiting a year's decay on the body, reducing it to nothing more than debris. The spell worked on any form of undead as well, not just zombies. Though against a more powerful form of the undead, it would likely not straight out kill them, merely maim them, and cause great harm.

He couldn't wait to put it to use against Omniri's sycophants.

When the icicles began to melt, and the cobblestone streets of Graben were almost bereft of their coating of snow, Dram gave them the first opportunity to strike at their foe.

They were not prepared for their target.

"Omniri's strengths are many. Chief amongst them as I've alluded to is his mastery of necromancy, and his station within the Empire that affords him," Dram said somberly from the head of his freshly polished and restored dining hall table. Umaryn had been practicing not only new spells, but fine tuning older ones, such as her Repair spell. Thus, the subterranean home was starting to look new, and lush.

"Second among them, is his inner circle of servants and acolytes," He followed. Dram shuffled a stack of papers on his desk, organizing his notes almost out of habit.

"And we need to remove his base of power before tackling him, right?" Umaryn asked just as her brother was about to.

"Correct. We are not fighting a single man, but an organization he has created around himself over the years. Select people in his… entourage must be removed."

Malwynn appreciated the idea of a systematic destruction of Omniri, one piece at a time. "Who do we start with? Who is our first target?"

"Ivar Brodull."

The twins went as white as the melting snow outside the manor.

"I’m sorry, Ivar?" Malwynn asked.

Dram nodded impassively, as if the fact was of no consequence, "Yes, Ivar Brodull. The man who spent months of his time teaching you swordplay. It is now your task to destroy him. Do you recall the day I stopped you Malwynn? And told you to study not only techniques of the man, but the man itself?"

Mal nodded. He remembered the moment clearly. "You weren't the necromancer that brought him back to life, were you?"

"No I was not Malwynn. And now you know. This was the true reason all along." Dram's tone deepened, becoming even more serious, "You are to kill him."

Umaryn and Malwynn were both numb. Over the course of the months of intense training the two had actually become almost friends with the Purple Knight. The thought of needing to kill him now was nearly unconscionable.

"Are you serious? He's so powerful. Malwynn watched him slay four soldiers without breaking so much as a sweat. He'll destroy us with ease," Umaryn said. She'd seen the goliath warrior cleave barrels in half with a single swipe of his sword. He had strength speed, and experience. She knew they'd be no match for him in anything resembling a fair fight.

"I think you underestimate your skill set young lady. You and your brother are not the twins that arrived here in Graben last fall. The autumn and winter have treated you well, and you are more than a fair match for him now."

Mal snorted, "I fail to see how we could beat him in a matched battle, even two on one."

Dram leaned back, abandoning his paper organization. "Umaryn, have you not spells that can render his blade dull, and slow?"

After some hesitation Umaryn nodded.

"Have you not a spell that can increase the lethality of both your hammer, as well as your brother's blade?" Dram inquired.

She nodded again.

"He does not know you are an Artificer, which is a strength. Have you both not learned uncounted hours of martial skill at his feet?"

They both nodded.

"Clearly you've not considered the fact that it is almost entirely certain that Omniri sent Ivar to carry out the task of New Picknell's destruction first hand? Think long and hard about that brother and sister. Ivar Brodull is quite likely the man that swung the sword that took your family's life."

Umaryn's jaw clenched. That reasoning struck a chord deep inside her, and changed how she felt. Malwynn still seemed conflicted.

"And Malwynn, do not forget that you have learned necromancy. You can rend his flesh with but a touch. You needn't skill at all, merely good fortune. You need only to be close to bring his end about now. But do not mistake; even with all your newfound skills and abilities, killing Ivar Brodull the Wight will not be the easiest of tasks. He is sure to test your mettle, though I am fully confident that you will succeed."

"Where do we start?" Malwynn asked, feeling the tiniest pulse of confidence return.

"There is a very old saying that pre-dates The Fall, Malwynn. It says that good fortune is preparation meeting opportunity. Now we prepare. Our opportunity is soon. And besides… possibly you alone know Ivar's single weakness now. It is a matter of engineering a situation where all your skills can be brought to bear against what he cannot defend against." Dram leaned in, and the planning for the final death of Ivar Brodull began in earnest.

The plan the trio hatched was incredibly simple. So simple in fact that the two felt it would be transparent to Brodull, the experienced and wary warrior. The plot had been developed for weeks by Dram, and it took them three full days of detailed discussion and hands on planning for them to reach a point where they felt it could be attempted.

But they would need to be perfect. Possibly more than perfect.

"I don't know Malwynn. I can't say for certain. I can tell you that if you encounter the Shadow Wolves in the wild, it will be a fight to tell your grandchildren. Assuming you survive them at all," Ivar said as he moved through a complicated routine of strikes with an iron shod quarterstaff. Malwynn watched at the steel tips of the ash staff spun impossibly fast around the giant's frame. Ivar seemed to know proper and precise ways to kill everyone with anything.

"Our father told us stories about them. They sound like awful creatures," Mal clumsily attempted to copy the attacks Ivar glided through.

"They are."

The two repeated the exercise a dozen time as Malwynn attempted to not think about how they would be trying to kill him in a few days. Mal kept running the scenario over and over in his head, and every time in the end his imagination ended the tale with Ivar's fist lodged wrist deep in his skull. The man was impregnable, like a fortress on the coast that waves and armies crashed uselessly on.

"Umaryn and I wanted to ask you about working on our unarmed skills next week? And what do you think about having us combine our sessions if we do that, to free up more of your time?" Malwynn intentionally rushed his questions. He wanted to sound eager, as if he hadn't thought it through yet.

Ivar seemed to take the bait with a grin that revealed all of his teeth. Malwynn thought they looked a tinge blood stained. "Combining the time with your sister seems sensible, especially for unarmed combat. Assuming of course you and your sibling do not distract one another."

"I think we'll manage. Do you think you can teach us to fight with our armor on and off? Is there a difference?" Mal asked this question as he swung his staff around. This was the true question, the one that would determine their chances of success.

"We would start unarmored. Once you had reached some level of skill, we would add the restriction and tactics armor would bring into the equation." Ivar seemed to move his staff around even faster. Apparently his routine was only at quarter speed. Malwynn wasn't pleased with this revelation.

"Fantastic. When can we start?"

Ivar slowed to think, "Next week should work. Have your sister attend what is your normal end of week session, and we will begin."

"You are too kind Ivar."

Ivar agreed unhappily, "I am Malwynn. Far, far too kind."

"He agreed to it?" Dram asked rhetorically later that day.

Mal exhaled, trying to hide the small amount of displeasure he still had. Despite his wish to find and murder Omniri, he still had some fondness for the dead knight.

Umaryn harbored no such good will. She was certain Ivar was in New Picknell the night it was destroyed, and killing him would be the most satisfying thing she could imagine.

Several days later, their plan came to a head.

"We will have one chance at this. If it goes even slightly awry, we bail and try again another day. There is no reason to force this today," Mal said as they rode their mounts through the Low City barracks towards the amphitheatre. Bramwell seemed very excited to be out of the stone stable at Sorber Manor. Tinder was more subdued underneath Umaryn.

"I'm aware Mal, thank you," his sister replied.

"Umaryn I'm serious. You're angry right now. You do very dumb things when you're angry. I've known you since birth and I can see it on your face. You gotta squash this emotion down if we're going to make this happen. He'll see your hatred. Read it. We'll be dead long before we can strike him."

Umaryn brought Tinder to a halt. Malwynn did the same with Bramwell.

"Mal, trust me please. I'm angry, yes. I want this man dead, really dead, yes. But I am not about to be a fool and get my brother killed because I lack patience. We stick to the plan. Now shut up, and let me calm myself down. You're pissing me off." Umaryn eased Tinder forward as Malwynn watched.

He looked up to the bright blue sky of the Graben morning and asked his ancestors for good fortune, and guidance. As he urged his own mount on, he wondered if the ancestors responded to the prayers of necromancers.

True to her word, Umaryn had calmed herself down. When she and her brother started their new training session with Ivar, she was warm, playful and serious all at the same time. Malwynn felt she was very normal.

Or what passed for normal since their lives had been thrown upside down.

"Your lesson today starts under the assumption that you will be fighting wearing no armor, and wielding no weapon. You have been forced into a battle where you were caught with nothing but your wits, and physical prowess," Ivar said. The knight had shorn his armor for this lesson. He would be teaching agility and quickness to the twins. The twins simply wanted his purple plate out of the way.

Killing him unarmed, and unarmored might be possible.

Might be.

"We've left our armor at home," Umaryn said. "We're ready to learn Ivar."

Ivar nodded, happy that the two had come at least a little prepared. "We'll begin immediately then."

The knight wore only a white button up tunic, and a pair of breeches that were both loose and stretchy. His pale white flesh and ivory hair made him seem almost ghastly in the lantern light cast inside the sunken amphitheatre. As he moved it seemed as if he were taking steps between two worlds, half here, half somewhere else.

He was ready for a day of activity as always, and started the pair off the same way he started them off individually, with a series of stretches to loosen their muscles and ligaments.

As the brother and sister started their leaning and stretching the moment to decide if today was the day came. Malwynn tried to ignore the pounding inside his chest as he listened for Umaryn's decision. His regret for having set up the plan to be her final choice was sudden and powerful.

"You know… I'm going to use the restroom before we get started in earnest. I'm sorry." Umaryn looked apologetic as she backed away and left the amphitheatre.

Ivar nodded at her, understanding the need, though he likely hadn't gone to the bathroom himself since his death.

Malwynn continued his exercises as his mind raced with all the possibilities that were only a minute away.

Umaryn shut the door of the outhouse and sat down. The dark wooden structure stank something fierce, despite the bitter chill of the early spring breeze. Her heart pounded just as hard as Malwynn's was back with Ivar, and she wiped a bead of sweat away from her temple.

"Collect yourself. Calm down. Focus," she whispered to herself, running her hands up and down along the tops of her thighs trying to distract her errant and frightened mind. She had been scared of impending battles before, but this was different. In previous encounters she had been afraid of the unknown. Afraid of what might happen. Today, with the murderous intentions for Ivar that she and Malwynn had, she was deeply afraid because of what she expected to happen. Ivar was a more than deadly foe, and no amount of delusion could sway that reality. After a series of deep breaths her heart settled out of its staccato beat, and she started what she came to the bathroom to do. Inside her new calfskin boots was Malwynn's dagger. The steel blade was finely crafted, freshly forged by Umaryn herself just a month prior as a test of her burgeoning weapon forging. It was the finest weapon she'd forged to date, and she'd gifted it to her brother.

If all went well, it would be the weapon that killed Ivar Brodull.

She began her chant softly, quiet enough that no one happening by could hear her. When she finished, she steeled herself, and hurried back to the amphitheatre before the spell's energy waned.

They were a minute away from someone's death.

When Umaryn returned from the outhouse she had the enchanted dagger hidden in the sleeve of her own loose blouse. When she closed the door behind herself and walked over, she caught Malwynn's eye, and they knew. The twins didn't need The Way to read each other's mind in that moment.

Ivar was executing a special kick from the hip that looked powerful enough to fell a tree. He paid little attention to her as she slid into the center of the stage and let the dagger fall from her sleeve. The hilt thudded quietly on the sand floor near Malwynn's feet and her brother played his part perfectly.

"Damn it," he said softly, reaching down to scoop up the errant weapon. He picked it up and slid it into the empty sheath that hung on his hip. Ivar paid the exchange no notice.

Now the ball was in Malwynn's court.

Malwynn's heart raced faster and more powerfully than ever before. Conflicted feelings of loyalty to Ivar for the training he'd given to Malwynn and the raw hatred of the people who'd killed the woman he loved, and the family he cherished. He reminded himself that despite Ivar's gift of training, there was virtual certainty that this tall, dead warrior was one of the men that looked over the wanton destruction of the town he grew up in. He wondered if Ivar snarled over Marissa right before he killed her, as he snarled at the soldiers he killed the day the two first met.

Malwynn's heart slowed to a normal pace. A deliberate pace.

A murderer's pace.

He stopped his exercises, reached into the waistband of his pants, and produced a small handful of Obrinnor's moss. Deep inside his mind, down in the darkest recesses that he'd learned to connect to the energies of The Way that came from all things dead and dying, he channeled energy into the moss. The energy moved inside him tangibly. It felt like a burst of heat from a funeral pyre, followed a gust of cold wind from an abandoned mausoleum. The Way slid down his arms like a snake slithering to his finger tips finally coalescing into the dark green handful of the moss in mere moments, and the spell was ready.

Umaryn stopped her exercise and walked quickly to her satchel, where she'd put her own set of weapons; forge hammers.

"Ivar," Malwynn said softly.

The warrior turned to look at Malwynn, and that was the moment Mal waited for. Mal was only an arm's length away from the mammoth knight, and he used that short distance to full effect. To release that stored necrotic energy in the moss, Mal needed only to touch it against the flesh of an undead.

Before Ivar could react, Mal reached up and smeared it across the white giant's face.

The results were instantaneous, and spectacular.

The green moss brushed against Ivar's white flesh and tore it away like tissue paper. The grey muscles and bones were laid bare and exposed as grey blood sprayed out across the amphitheatre in a fan that covered Mal's face. The moss was to his flesh as a rake is to soil. Ivar let out a roar that could curdle milk as he took a step backwards. His massive hand reached up and felt the damage on his face, and inadvertently spread small bits of the moss left behind up into his eyes. He barked out in pain and fused them shut.

"WHAT IS THIS TREACHERY?!" He screamed, stepping further away, backing instinctively towards where his enormous blade lay sheathed on a theater bench.

The twins ignored his challenge, and pressed forward. Umaryn had her bag opened by then, and had fished out both her hammers. She'd asked Ivar to teach her how to fight with two of the small hammers, and deliciously she closed in on him.

"We have to get his shirt off!" Malwynn said loudly to her as he drew the dagger she'd just enchanted. They didn't have long before the spell's effect faded, perhaps two or three strikes.

"I got it," Umaryn said softly. She ducked under one of Ivar's massive, wild swings and smashed both hammer heads into his ribs. Even from several feet away Malwynn could hear the snapping wet branch sound of the dead man's bones collapsing. She'd visited great destruction on his torso.

Ivar didn't react in the least.

Despite the flesh on his face continuing to waste and drop off, and one eye fused shut from damage, he smiled, and rifled a punch into Umaryn's stomach. All the wind vented from her lungs, and then she took her own turn backing and stumbling away.

Malwynn's anger grew. This was already going bad. He was hoping that the lack of snapping noises from Ivar's strike meant that all of his sister's ribs were still intact. With his free hand he reached into his waistband and grabbed another small patch of the moss and with his free will, he reached down deep, and channeled The Way once more.

"May you rot Ivar Brodull for what you've done to our family!" Malwynn screamed in rage. He yelled standing high, giving Ivar a clear spot to listen and fire a punch off at, but Malwynn feinted low, and smashed his moss filled hand straight into Ivar's groin.

This time, Ivar reacted.

The warrior dropped to his knees, blinded and now numb with Way infused destruction. One hand clutched at his ruined face, and now the other was planted firmly over the tender flesh that was disintegrating inside his trousers. Malwynn was glad to see that even in death certain body parts remained sensitive.

"Umaryn?" Mal asked of his sister. Ivar stifled a moan of pain, attempting to save honor and dignity.

She was on all fours, heaving air back into her lungs. Within a moment, she was up on her feet, and angry again. She spoke in a strained voice, "I'm fine."

Ivar moaned in pain, "Why this betrayal? We had a pact. An agreement. Your master purchased my time to train you. What is the sense in this betrayal?"

"Get his fucking shirt," Mal said, fist wrapped tightly on the dagger. He felt a tingle from the enchantment his sister had put on the blade.

Umaryn walked behind the knight and smashed a hammer powerfully into the side of his head, decimating an ear and rocking the undead warrior. She used the moment of surprise from the blow to tear his shirt straight from his back.

"Noo!" Ivar screamed, trying to wrest the scraps of the fabric back from Umaryn. She was stronger for the first time, and Ivar's milky flesh was exposed. She walked around and saw what they'd needed to see; the old wound that had done Ivar in when he was alive.

"Scared we'll drive this blade into your wound Ivar? Isn't that your worst fear? To die again the death that you've had already? Your blighted wound? A Wight's nightmare," Mal said sinisterly.

Brodull's destroyed face looked up with the one remaining eye. The other had succumbed to Mal's spell, and was running down his face in smear of grey sludge. "Why?"

"You killed our family," Umaryn hissed.

Ivar was motionless for a few seconds, and then nodded sadly, "I've killed many families. I suppose it is time for someone to hold me accountable for my actions. So be it. End me. I lived a noble life serving my Queen, Lord, and family. May you protect those you love as long as you can, and find the vengeance you seek. May you accept your end as nobly as I have." Ivar lifted his chin proudly and spread his arms wide, baring his open chest wound. Umaryn watched as the parted skin moved over gray muscle and bone underneath the surface.

"Do it," she said.

Malwynn nodded, then turned to his former mentor, "Ivar please know that what you have taught us will be used to protect those we love. I'll give you that satisfaction for what you've given my sister and I. But know also, that I hope you find no peace. May you rot eternally for what you've done to my family, and the village of New Picknell."

Ivar nodded again. He knew the game.

Malwynn grunted, and slammed the enchanted dagger blade directly into the decades old wound that had refused to heal. Malwynn felt the spell's effect on the dagger notably as it slid home inside the Wight. The blade not only stabbed the flesh, but it bit it, and ate at it, freeing dark blood and rending grey flesh. The small blade stabbed more powerfully than a sword.

Like his spell, the effect was instantaneous. Ivar erupted in a powerful explosion of grey mucus and dust. Both twins were plastered with the foul mixture, and they stood resolved against it. Umaryn wiped a dark slick of it from her chin with the back of a hammer wielding hand.

"This should feel better that it does," Malwynn said, looking at the massive stain seeping into the sand at the bottom of the theater.

"Give it time, it will. Gather your things. We should leave before anyone comes in and sees us with this mess on the floor. I suspect our agenda here in Graben will need to be sped up considerably."

- Chapter Twelve -

DANGEROUS GAMES

"Masterful on every level," Dram said from his familiar seat in the study. To Malwynn and Umaryn, he seemed animated, excited, or nervous.  Normally he was still, his emotions held impassively in check, but with news of Ivar's demise the day before, and all the gritty details of the battle, he was clearly motivated.

"It was difficult.  He nearly killed us, without armor or weapons.  If our plan had been even a little off, we would've certainly died yesterday," Umaryn said from her plush leather seat.  She looked tiny in the high backed chair, sunken low due to her sore body.  Ivar had punished her body in the fight, and she'd be feeling the pain for days.

"The spells were incredible though Dram.  I was able to cast them quickly, and easily as well," Malwynn said, his voice full of some pride.

Dram eased his slightly frenetic energy and nodded, "From what you've described, your casting was at its peak.  Flawless possibly.  All foes struggle to escape the grasp of a necromancer on his game.  Certainly any foe, no matter who they are, will struggle against the Everwalk twins.  You two will be a truly dangerous force for as long as you seek to wield your skills."

The twins exchanged pleased looks.

"But what is now most worrisome is that our real enemy, Omniri himself, will surely be aware of the death of his most skilled and powerful warrior.  The death of a servant the likes of Ivar will be felt immediately.  Ivar was under the impression that my hiring of his services was for the Queen's work, and such hiring is quite common here in the High City.  If we are lucky, then Ivar will have thought nothing of it, and failed to mention my name to the others in Omniri's employ."

"What it we are not lucky?" Umaryn asked.

Then Omniri himself will be investigating me, and obviously you both.  Your exit from the barracks was likely observed, and if he manages to find a witness, or asks enough questions, he'll inevitably be on to you."  Dram said all this with no fear or trepidation in his voice.  His confidence was unabated.

"Isn't that an incredibly bad thing for us?"  Mal asked, his confidence swaying.

"It is certainly not the best scenario, but it is unavoidable, and necessary.  It means nothing to us.  Our agenda continues forth, with no changes," Dram said, suddenly reaching around on his desk through a sheaf of papers for something pertinent.

"What is our agenda?  What is our next step?"  Umaryn asked.

"Omniri travels with a small cadre of hangers-on.  He sports an apprentice necromancer that is a powerful user of The Way in his own right, as well as three well trained veteran warrior guards.  In order to bring him to his knees, and see this finished," Dram paused, "those four must die."

"So our task is to find a way to separate them I take it?" Mal asked.

Dram leaned back in his study chair, "That would make the most sense, yes?  The difficulty is that those four rarely travel alone anywhere, and all reside in Omniri's personal residence."

"Is it similar to your manor?"  Umaryn asked.

"Yes.  Sunken into the stone of the cliffs of the Snake Ridge the same as mine.  Sneaking into a back entrance isn't really an option, if that's what you're hoping for."

Umaryn smirked.

"So what then do you propose?  Do we create some kind of event to lure one of them out at a time?  Are we stooping low enough to threaten a family member of one of the four to divide and conquer?"

"That's certainly an option, though a weak one.   I suspect these men aren't the type to care about whether or not their family members live, love or die.  I suspect they're either completely loyal to Omniri, or so deathly afraid of him they'd ignore most things of the like we could do."

"That sounds bleak and final Dram.  I would've thought a man like you in your position might've had a bit of planning and research already completed for our next step," Malwynn said, disapproval in his voice.

"Indeed, that does sound bleak and final.  As you say, finding a way to lure them out would be a good way to proceed.  And as you might imagine, the death of Ivar might be exactly the kind of event we'd be looking for, eh?"  Dram leaned forward on the desk, interlacing his long white fingers.

"Did we kill Ivar for the sole purpose of luring them out?"  Umaryn asked bluntly.

Dram shook his head slightly, "Not entirely.  Ivar was present at the eradication of New Picknell, and your vengeance would’ve been incomplete without his final death.  It was also certain that if Omniri felt threatened, he would've brought Ivar into the equation."

Mal snickered, "But really, killing him was just a convenient way to get Omniri and his lackeys out and about so we could get at them easier?"

Dram shrugged in a guilty fashion.

"You're a clever fuck, you know that Dram Sorber?  Downright evil."  Umaryn said approvingly.

"Why thank you Umaryn.  A person in my position would consider that very high praise."

"So, theoretically knowing where they are coming from, do we simply stake out Omniri's home and wait for them to split up?  Take them out as opportunity arises?"  Mal asked.

"That would be ideal, though if everything is as it should be, by now Omniri is already well on to the two of you.  He will be asking many difficult questions of the soldiers at the barracks, and undoubtedly by now, they're given up what they know of your identities."

"Oh dear.  You rat bastard," Malwynn muttered quietly, realizing the full extent of their situation.

"What?" Umaryn asked concerned.

"Your brother has seen the, as they say, writing on the wall," Dram said quietly.

"What does that writing say brother?"

The Everwalk brother shook his head, a lost smile lingering on his lips, "Dram's set us up dear sister.  All of this was engineered so Omniri would find us.  The location of the barracks, Ivar as a trainer, your use of the forges.  All of it was calculated so Omniri only had to ask a few questions, easily asked to be on our trail immediately."

Umaryn stood up, suddenly furious at the necromancer, "You complete asshole.  What the hell will we do?"  She winced in pain as her sore body betrayed her.

"See this through to the end my dear young woman.  You've the skills most certainly.  And now I've arranged for opportunity.  The city of Graben is your battlefield, and you know your enemy, and where they roam.  Make use of what you have."

The twins weren't sure if they should be furious, or thankful.

They felt like targets.  Giant archer's bull's-eyes on their backs, the twins moved about Graben with their eyes scanning every face, and every movement.  Everyone was a threat.  Every sword in a scabbard was a dire situation about to turn south, and every purple robed servant of the Queen was death incarnate, looking for a moment to turn its attention towards them. Their pulses beat at an erratic rate every time they left Dram's fortress.

The trio formulated that the best way to find Omniri and his servants was to force them into public spaces.  Even an Inquisitor would need exceedingly good reason to incite open violence in the city against another Inquisitor's aide.  They felt that they were safest when surrounded by innocents.  They still felt very unsafe.

A good portion of the Low City was unusable for them as well for other reasons.  Their confrontations at the barracks, as well as Umaryn's time masquerading as Isabel meant anything in the district of the Low City near the military was dangerous.  Any unit of soldiers wishing to make a step up in Graben's power structure could make an attempt on the brother and sister, and that wasn't what they wanted to happen.  They had no love for the military of the Queen, but murdering misled soldiers for zero gain, in self defense or not was no longer their game.

A central observation point was critical, and the city's unique design afforded them a near perfect spot to do just that.  To pass from Low City to High, everyone needed to use the city's Artificer operated lift system, and they knew that Omniri and his entourage would be investigating them in the Low City, but returning to the High City.  It stood to perfect reason that if they were to find a public place that was near the lift, they would see them come and go, and hopefully before they did the same in kind.

Malwynn moved ahead of Umaryn almost always.  If they were to be seen moving together that would or could tip off anyone watching them.  Malwynn left Dram's home and headed to lift, and only when he was getting on the downward lift did Umaryn leave the manor to follow.  Malwynn sought out threats ahead, while Umaryn watched to see if her brother was tailed.  They would switch the order randomly from time to time to make it slightly more difficult for anyone doing the same to them.  It was a carefully staged subterfuge that they hoped wouldn't backfire.

Near the base of the lift in the Low City was a large collection of upscale businesses.  Umaryn had visited them just prior to their murder of the Tax Man.  She'd seen a small café, and they both knew once they'd passed through it that the seating area with the windows facing the main thoroughfare would be perfect for a day or two of observation.  Much longer, and they risked exposing themselves to the enemies that were most assuredly looking for them.

Malwynn let himself into the small establishment early in the morning on the third day after Ivar's death with a tiny ring from the bell above the sturdy door.  A cold breeze from the late winter day threatened to cool off the brewed and baked goods inside the café, and Malwynn sealed the door shut to ward it out.  At the fine oak counter he ordered a carafe of brewed tea, and a half dozen baked sweets to snack on.  The pretty owner's daughter who took his order carefully brought out a polished tray to him where he sat.  His small round table with the creamy cloth atop it was chosen specifically.  It afforded him a view of the street, the lift, and the door to the café.  There was no approach to him he could not see.

As he snacked on his sweets, and sipped the spiced tea he read a treatise on necromancy openly.  It was accepted and common for those in power to do so, and he wanted to convey a certain level of personal authority to be left alone, and left unquestioned.  He was polite, but unapproachable.

Umaryn stringed along the other businesses on the main street leading to the lift, taking her time in each, giving her brother a full pair of hours to observe the constant movement between levels of the city.  She visited a perfumery, an apothecary, a furrier, an establishment selling only fine daggers and knives, as well as various other clothiers.  She was only interested in the dagger shop, but she feigned interest to stay near her brother should something go wrong.  Her eyes were never far from the café.

When the allotted time passed, she went to the café and just like her brother, she ordered a carafe of something hot to drink, and something warm and freshly baked to eat.  As she placed her order, Malwynn slipped the last cookie into a pocket in his robe, and polished off his cup of tea.  He made sure to slip out of the shop before the help could see the family resemblance.  Malwynn assumed his sister's role immediately, dreamily wandering the same businesses as she, looking for that one item that could quench his retail thirst.  Of course, there was nothing he wanted, but the reasonably friendly shopkeepers looking to free him from his Crowns sought to find something to fulfill that need.  He smiled, and thanked them kindly, and moved on.

That day ended with nothing sighted.  The twins made their separate ways back up the lift to the High City, and then to Sorber Manor.  Fortunately, the man who had caught sight of them in the Low City wasn't able to relate their ultimate destination.  Deflated, he returned to his master with news that their prey had been sighted.

"We must proceed with some caution," Omniri said somberly to his gathered servants.  The necromancer sat in a large room carved out of the deep stone of the mountain, seated far in the back of his fortress-like home.  They were gathered on a raised portion of room nearest to the city street that overlooked the massive torch lit room, and the geometrically arranged pillars of stone supporting the ceiling.  Omniri was not the opposing physical presence Dram was.  He was short, and far squatter, and his head wasn't obscured by the hood of his dark purple robe.  His hair was thin, black and wispy like curls of ebony smoke.  They clung to the pasty flesh on his white skull like seaweed left on a cold, wet beach.  His eyes were the source of his power.  They were dark, and intense, radiating a piercing quality that would make most men look away when challenged by them.

Omniri's apprentice, Makar, agreed with his mentor, "Indeed.  Anyone capable of killing Ivar must certainly be dangerous."  Makar resembled his patron in many ways, save the eyes.  Makar's eyes were a forgettable brown, sunken deep in his skull, and almost hidden away like a lost pair of unwashed gems.

Three warriors wearing supremely crafted chain mail stood aside as the two spell wielders discussed the affairs of late.  Their skin was clean, not dirty and sweaty like many other warriors of Elmoryn.  A soldier's weapons are always cleaner than his body, but protecting Omniri afforded these men the time to maintain both.  The trio was each armed with daggers, short swords, and hand axes hanging off of belts menacingly.  They stood with competent ease, ready for action even in the depths of their safest refuge.

"I am worried less about the two who landed Ivar's deathblows, and more about who motivated them, and why.  It is safe to assume Ivar had his share of enemies here in the Empire, but who do these two serve?  And why would killing Brodull be necessary now?  I fear in killing Ivar's murderers we reveal a secret we are unaware others are in search of."  Omniri's dark eyes roamed the depths of the dim cavern he called home.  The flickering light of the torches played on the hundreds of shadows in the room, comforting him where others would fear.

"Lord Decadra if it pleases you I can confront these two and dig deeper into their motives.  I am certain of my ability to get them to talk."

Omniri considered his gifted apprentice and nodded ,"You are a skilled spell caster Makar.  You also are wise, and can represent both myself and the Queen admirably.  Dig into Ivar's recent activities as well.  We have been woefully out of touch this winter, and I am at a loss for what he might have been filling his time with.  Then seek out these two and ask them who they serve, and what their ideals are.  If they refuse to answer, then we are left with dwindling options."

Makar nodded, a sinister smile already playing across his face.  He beckoned for the three warriors to follow, and they all left the massive room in the heart of Omniri's lair.  The Lord High Inquisitor sat alone, gazing out into the room where he kept his legion of armed and armored undead, a hundred strong.  Shoulder to shoulder they filled the hall, waiting for his command to go to war against those who would threaten their master.

Omniri smiled.  He loved to play games.

The following morning Malwynn was already in the bakery, seated and awaiting the day's first batch of savory treats.  They'd brought him his tea already, and he sipped a cup of the warm, sweet drink as he inhaled the delicate aromas of expensive and frivolous delicacies.  The windows of the café were fogged up from the heat of ovens churning in the back of the café kissing the glass against the cool air of the late winter morning outside.  As the warmth of the sun took the bitter chill out of the dawn the fog died away, and the heat of the ovens claimed a victory in the name of comfort.

Malwynn felt almost relaxed for the first time in days as the owner's teenage daughter brought out another silver platter of treats.

"Sir, we brought you a few extra.  Our way of apologizing for the wait," she said with a curtsy and an apologetic smile.

Malwynn thought she was cute, and felt a small rumbling where he hadn't in a very long time, "Oh it's quite alright.  The tea has kept my stomach company admirably, though I won't refuse your generous natures.  Thank you."

"Our pleasure sir," she said with a more genuine smile before spiriting away behind the counter.  She'd be baking the rest of the day.

He daydreamed what mundane activities would be in store for her in the rest of her day, and her life.  Malwynn wondered as he watched her disappear how the rest of his life would play out.  Would he survive this single minded mission of vengeance in Graben?  Would he survive even this very day to see another?  He thought of his lost fiancé to-be, the woman he didn't even find the chance to propose to, Marissa.  He thought of the curl of her hair, the smell of her summer sweat, the dimples she tried desperately to hide when he had her laughing.  He shook his head and steeled his mind.  Such wistful thoughts were dangerous at a time like this.

Malwynn continued to read his book on the art of necromancy as the shop bustled around him.  Customers, most of whom were garbed in fine clothing and clearly noble elite made their purchases and left, but some took a seat in the café to enjoy their delight and the comings and goings of other elite socialites.  After a half hour of unremarkable reading and observation of all the passengers of the Graben lift down the way, Malwynn's mind and eyes caught on to a café customer that had been sitting at a small table the same as he, though on the other side of the restaurant.  Malwynn had seen dark brown eyes peering in his general direction and when he looked up to meet their gaze, the man had looked away already.

He was short, and had clearly eaten well in his life.  He had soft hands, and wiry black hair that hung limply.  He was dressed in finery edged in purple, denoting that he held some form of official office, though not one of high rank.  Malwynn, were he interested in showing off his status as Dram's aide might wear something similar.  The man sat innocently drinking from a white cup as Malwynn watched him intently.  For no good reason, Malwynn felt powerful in the moment, like he'd caught the enemy fox in his steel trap.

The man looked up and Malwynn grabbed his gaze.  Once the two men were aware of each other'spresence, the man with the stringy hair smiled deviously, and stood slowly.  He gathered his carafe and cup, and walked over to the table Malwynn sat at.  Mal's sword hand dipped below the table to the dagger his sister forged and rested on its hilt.  He wondered if it would slice up this man as well as it ended Ivar's life.

The man with the bad hair spoke first, "Sir, I can't help but notice you've given me a bit of an eye.  It seems rude to gaze so brazenly at an Empire official.  Might I inquire what your interest in me is?"  The man asked politely.

Malwynn took stock of him and instantly knew he was not a warrior.  His posture, stance, and eyes were all off.  If he wanted to, Mal knew he could piston the dagger into his gut before he had time to move out of the way, and somehow, that knowledge helped.  What stopped him from doing that was the unknown quantity of what other skills the man might be able to bring to bear should a dagger to the midsection prove to be not fatal fast enough.

"I apologize good sir.  You've been sitting here in the café for some time now, and I've noticed your eye upon me as well.  I was starting to think you had some kind of interest in me that was of a strange, possibly romantic nature," Malwynn said boldly.

The man's eyebrows furrowed down, clearly insulted by Mal's taunt, "You realize you insult an Inquisitor's Aide?  I could have you locked up for a month for such a comment."

"What Inquisitor do you serve?"  Mal asked, happy that the man took his bait.  Anger was an ingredient in the recipe for bad decisions.

"I serve Lord High Inquisitor Omniri Decadra, I'll have you know.  He only an arm's length from the Queen at any moment.  What gives you such disrespect of the Throne to say such things to me?"  The man's tone was rising, and other customers of the café were starting to back away from the unfolding scene.

Mal had all he needed to know now.  This was Omniri's apprentice, he was sure of it.  Malwynn smiled disarmingly, "My name is Malwynn.  Clearly we're gotten off on the wrong foot here.  Have a seat, and please share with me this tray of sweets.  I can't eat them all and stay fit as well."

The apprentice's fury suddenly diminished as he surveyed the handful of cookies and pastries still on the silver platter.  Malwynn gestured diplomatically at the other chair at the small table, and the man moved around to sit in it.  Once seated Malwynn pushed the tray forward, and inclined his head, offering them to the spell caster.

"My name is Makar," the man said just before nibbling the edge of a fig filled pastry.  He went from the nibble to a full bite after deciding it was delicious.

"And I suspect you already knew my name was Malwynn," Mal said with a wry grin.  He gently closed the old necromantic tome and picked up his cup of tea.  His sword hand still sat near his lap, only a few inches from the hilt of his dagger.

Makar nodded, "My Lord has been looking for you.  He has many questions to ask you."

"And yet he sent you to ask them?  How curious.  He must be intensely confident in your ability to see important things through."

Makar couldn't decipher the true message of Malwynn's statement. Was it insult, or compliment?  Makar pressed on, "I have served my Lord admirably for many years.  He understands fully what I am capable of."

Mal nodded, "But does he understand fully what I am capable of?  I guess that's why you're here, eh?"  Mal sipped his hot tea again.

Makar nodded, washing down his pastry with a mouthful of his own drink, "There are bigger questions in play Malwynn."

"Ask away then," Mal offered.

"Why kill Ivar Brodull?"  Makar asked.

Malwynn opted for honesty, "He had wronged my family once too many times.  A man like Ivar does not live as long as he had without accumulating many enemies.  It was a question of how long it took for him to collect enough of the wrong kind of enemies for his life to become forfeit."

"You did this alone?  You serve no master?"  Makar asked.

Malwynn shook his head and took a small bite of a cookie before answering, "Anyone I would have done this for would be quite capable of removing Ivar from this world on their own.  I did what I did for personal reasons."

Makar seemed to agree with Malwynn's statement, "You realize that my Lord was the necromancer responsible for bringing Ivar into his state of undeath?  He was put out considerably when Ivar was killed.  Compensation is in order."

"Monetary compensation you mean?"  Mal asked, suddenly curious as to where this conversation could go.

"Possibly.  Omniri might require that you repay his loss in service, or in a Queen's Dungeon.  This sort of behavior isn't acceptable.  Justice must be served Malwynn."

"I couldn't agree with you more."

Makar looked at Malwynn, clearly taking stock of him, "Then we are agreed.  You should surrender yourself to Omniri immediately.  Along with your female accomplice."

Mal was unhappy that this Makar character knew about his sister, but he squashed his emotion about it.  It was to be expected.  He leaned in and whispered forcefully to the necromancer across the table, "I didn't say that in the least Makar.  I will offer you this; meet me here in two days at high noon, and I'll be more than happy to speak with your Lord.  I will say this though: your Lord, as powerful as he is, does not scare me, and nor do you.  I am beyond fear Makar.  I am a man that has already lost everything, and has nothing else to lose.  If you choose to pursue this in a manner of violence, I will see to it that all those sent my way with harm on their mind will meet an end that does not make your master happy.  Ivar was not the first to fall to me, and he won't be the last.  You make sure you take good care that your master doesn't become the next person who crosses me and ends up dead.  Fully dead."

Makar' eyes blazed with hatred, though he said nothing in anger in return.  After draining his last sip of tea he stood up, and started to walk out.  He stopped and turned before getting out of earshot, "Two days from today, at high noon we shall meet again Malwynn.  We will see how your fears stack up on that day."

Mal tipped his head in acknowledgment and Makar left.

He hoped he hadn't said too much.

"Was he alone?"  Mal asked Umaryn in Dram's dining hall later that night.  Dram sat at a nearby chair, listening in and calculating the situation carefully.  The mood of the room was tense.

"I watched through the window as you talked with him.  He left the café, and went directly to the lift.  I moved to another shop after maybe fifteen minutes, and watched again there for another half hour, but no one moved about in a suspicious way," she answered, unsure of whether or not she'd done the right thing or not.

Dram caught on to her feelings, "It is good you did not attempt to come to your brother's aid.  If you had, and Makar had brought along more of Omniri's sycophants, then you would've tipped your hand.  As of now they still do not know what you look like, or what your relationship is to Malwynn."

She nodded, feeling a bit better, "I still wish I'd followed him and smashed his skull apart.  I mean, if that was Omniri's apprentice, and he was alone, separated from those three bodyguards you speak of, then we missed an opportunity today."

Dram shrugged, "It is very unlikely an attack like that would’ve been successful.  Makar is powerful in his own right, and I find it hard to believe that he would have left the protection of the guards behind.  He is not foolish.  There also would've been the matter of attacking a purple garbed official in open daylight.  Your arrest would’ve been immediate."

Umaryn sighed.

"So we have two days to plan this meeting.  I'm definitely open to suggestions," Mal said.

"We most certainly do not have two days," Dram countered.

"What?  Why do you say that?"  Mal asked, a little lost.

"Omniri will have spoken to Makar by now.  That they are not knocking at the gate of my garden as we speak means that they have not connected you to me, which is a good thing, but I guarantee you they will not allow us two days to plan their demise.  They will strike at you at the next opportunity."

"Why do you say that?"  Umaryn asked.

"Because that's what I would do. Your conversation will enrage Omniri.  You practically spat in his face Malwynn.  You are a threat, clearly a capable one, and to let that threat potentially grow in power without taking direct action immediately is foolhardy.  Omniri risks little to no reprisal from anyone here in Graben if you're found dead, especially in the wake of your confession to Ivar's death.  The only thing he risks is the deaths of his servants, which I am sure he does not do so lightly, but in all honesty, they are simply means to an end.  Tools to break, as it were."

"I don't care for that comparison Dram," Umaryn said.

"I'm sorry my little Artificer.  I hope you see through to my meaning."

The twins nodded in unison.

"So we leave the manor here and wander around until they attack us?  Like worms on a damned hook."  Mal cursed.

"You say that as if we still do not have nearly all the advantages Malwynn.  You are still unknown to them, an undefined and powerful threat.  So is your sister.  We also know that they are coming for us, and we know, to a certain extent, when they will come for us.  We also have the ability to control where they come for us.  Things are well in our control."

"They sure feel like they are out of our control," Umaryn said.

Only a few thousand feet away in a home built into the cliff face, Makar sat at a table not dissimilar to Dram's, telling his master all of what had happened in the café between he and Malwynn.  Omniri was not pleased with the exchange Makar described.  Insolence was not an attitude Inquisitors suffered, and the fact that this Malwynn person appeared omnipotent, even to a Lord Inquisitor's aide infuriated Omniri.  A challenge to Makar was a challenge to Omniri.

"He was also reading a very esoteric book on The Way my Lord.  A tome of Necromancy.  One I've seen in your personal library.  It is not a book for those casually studying The Way.  It is certain he has at least some skill in our arts."  Makar was positive of his assertion.

Omniri considered the information, "That would explain some of how the two were so able to defeat Ivar.  As a Wight he would be susceptible to many of our spells."

"Indeed sir.  And it would seem that this Malwynn person had hired Ivar to teach him swordplay."

"Devious.  Lure your target out into a private place and strike him down.  I should think that if we don't kill these two, we should hire them," Omniri said.

"I would be more comfortable with them as your undead slaves my Lord," Makar said.

Omniri's bright black eyes gleamed in the candlelight as inspiration struck him, "I wonder how capable they are of defeating a living opponent?  If they’ve relied heavily on The Way to do what they’ve done so far, I think they'll be unpleasantly surprised when confronted with living, breathing, lethal opponents."

"I wonder how they'd fare when they are the ones outnumbered?"  Makar supposed, his eyes drifting over to Omniri's three bodyguards.

"I was wondering the same thing Makar.  Make sure their bodies are returned here to me.  I very much enjoy the thought of them replacing Ivar in my stable of undead."  Omniri grinned in his devious way, as one more game piece was put into play, and one more move made.

- Chapter Thirteen -

A NOOSE TIGHTENED

The night that the twins were ambushed at the military barracks, and Malwynn's necromantic power had been first ascertained by Dram, Mal was given his first horrifying lesson in what you must do to master the darkest of arts.  That night, so many weeks ago, had been the first step on a path that neither twin could've truly appreciated the importance of.

Dram had leaned over one of the warrior corpses that night in the frigid cold air and produced a wickedly long dagger from the folds of his robe.  The blade slid into the moonlight, cutting the air like a ray of blue sun.  It screamed of ancient deeds that were foul, and should not be spoken of.

"Realizing fully that you will not approve of what I am about to do, there is a distinct need for you to learn quickly, and this is a convenient opportunity for a brief, and visceral lesson," Dram said to Malwynn.

Malwynn's mouth was still dry and locked shut from the events of the night, and the fact that he had come to the realization that he was gifted in The Way.  He was oblivious to the true state of the moment.

"Harvesting bones and organs is a source of tremendous power for us Malwynn.   You will not approve of this as I said, but over time as you appreciate the gifts a dead body can offer you, I'm sure you'll come around."  Dram looked up to Umaryn and saw the blank look of horror on her face and continued, "I am not so sure your sister will come around."

Dram turned down with the slender dagger in hand and drew the edge of it along the man's trousers from his waist to his feet.  The blade parted the fabric effortlessly.  Malwynn's estranged mind realized that the knife must've been sharper than a razor to achieve such a cut.  His suspicion was confirmed when Dram repeated the incision again, only deep into the man's leg.  The thin blade glided through the heavy muscle of the leg as if it were no firmer than the snow the body laid upon.  Glistening red flesh gave way to expose the upper leg bone, then the knee, then the shin, and the second leg bone underneath.

Dram was speaking aloud, but neither brother nor sister was truly listening, "-And once that incision has been made, it's merely a matter of cutting through the connective tissues at the hip, and knee-…"  His words were lost on them as he deftly cut the entire leg free from the corpse proper.  Dram wiped the dead man's blood on the dead man's sleeve, and stood, holding onto the leg as a grim trophy of their victory.  A hunter about to head home with his kill.

Malwynn and Umaryn were sickened by the fact that the entire scene of Dram cutting the corpse so efficiently and without remorse had no emotional effect on them.  They were anesthetized to gore, and violation of the man.

"Why the leg?  Why not bring the entire body back to harvest if there's so much power in it?"  Malwynn asked softly, confused.

Dram finished sheathing his surgical weapon and addressed the young man, "Do you feel like carrying the entire man's body back?"

"No, I guess not."

Dram tossed the limp limb to him and turned, "The leg is all you'll need for some time Malwynn.  But that lesson is for another day.  Come along."

Malwynn looked down at the leg and finally felt a twinge deep in the pit of his stomach.  He couldn't tell if it was nausea, dread, or guilt.

That night, he couldn't quite bring himself to make eye contact with his sister again.

Many days had passed since then for the twins, and much had changed in that time.

Malwynn's fledgling skill in necromancy and The Way had turned into burgeoning, true skill in The Way.  Under Dram's tutelage Mal had been able to learn almost ten spells over the course of the winter.  One of which would save his and his sister's life today.

Umaryn had tripled her knowledge in The Way as well.  Unlike her brother, she had failed at mastering even a single of the basic Neomancy spells, instead focusing on her Artificer spells to fully master them.  Umaryn was dedicated; more than her brother or Dram could hope to appreciate.  She suffered for perfection in everything she intended to master, no matter how long it took.  Asking her to give up on something was wasted breath.  Quitting was not in her nature in the same way that breathing water was not in a horse's nature.

Umaryn was deeply invested, no-, obsessed in the perfection of a spell commonly known amongst Artificers as Rope of Iron.  With it, she could make any length of rope turn into cable as strong as steel, or a rod made of iron.  She was convinced that the spell and its potential to arm them at a moment's notice would be the difference for them when their lives were on the line.

She had no idea how true her suspicion would turn out to be.

Kemmin, Danglere, and Roybeth had been in the employ of Omniri Decadra since their adolescence.  They all hailed from the same neighborhood in the Low City.  The same neighborhood that Quality Meats, Cheap was in.  If the twins had ever discovered that fact, they might've found it ironic.

The three warriors who now were veteran guards and murderers had been caught quite literally red handed after they'd killed a Graben noble's horse.  The noble had been fool enough to leave it tied to a hitching post on the side of the street while he impregnated a woman of ill repute at length.  The boys killed the horse only a few blocks away for food.  After all, a single butchered horse could feed all three of their families for a month that winter.

Omniri had simply been in the area passing through, and caught the smell of an evisceration.  There are some scents that are simply too hard to hide.

The three young men, boys really, tried to kill Omniri when they were caught.  It was pointless of course.  Omniri was a capable adult, and with a single spell he was able to paralyze them, and take full stock.

Kemmin was tall, and lean with a shock of blonde hair.  He had muscles like taut cords, quick reflexes, and with training, he could become a fearsome warrior.

Danglere was shorter, thicker, and even at that young age, sported a thick black beard that made him look much older than he actually was.  He was brutish, simple, and stout. He was the enforcer even at their inexperienced age.

Roybeth was perhaps the least remarkable of them all.  He split the difference between both his friends in both height and weight, being wholly unremarkable.  His crown was adorned with red hair the color of ripening strawberries, and his skin covered in tiny brown freckles.  Over time, he was the worst of all of them when it came to cruelty and malice.

Omniri struck them down with The Way, and offered them a single out from the crime they'd committed: join the military, learn how to be warriors, and serve him for a decade.  In return they'd live through this grievous error in judgment, and Omniri would see to it their families were provided for.  Omniri had bought a trio of loyal, young warriors to serve as his bodyguards that day, and it had cost him nearly nothing.

That was just over a decade ago.  The three men had been assigned to a very difficult instructor, and were then assigned to a very difficult unit that was deployed in the far north where the most dangerous Ice Bears roamed.  Despite the incredible losses the unit sustained over the years, the three men managed to use their wits, training, and a little bit of luck to stay alive, though not without a few scars, and a few enemies to show for their efforts.  Despite their agreement of a decade of service having lapsed, the men knew protecting Omniri afforded them status, wealth, and a fair amount of power.   Few ever attempted harm against a Lord High Inquisitor, or those that were in their employ.

Until now it seemed.

Kemmin, Danglere and Roybeth kept their master's apprentice in eyesight at all times.  When he'd left the small café and headed towards Graben's lifts Roybeth left the shoe polisher's stand abruptly to join him.  Kemmin and Danglere would remain behind, and catch up later to assure no one knew their true number.

"The man is high born.  He is educated, and likely a necromancer.  I do not know who he serves but he will be an adversary for certain.  Omniri will wish him dead most hastily," Makar said to Roybeth as the lift ascended.  Roybeth could hear anger in his voice.

"You seem angry.  Has this man gotten under your skin?"  Roybeth asked, a sliver of taunt in his voice.

Makar's face snapped to Roybeth, and he rebuked him, "Watch your tone warrior."

Roybeth did his best to hide a smile, "My apologies Makar."

"I have no use for apologies from anyone Roybeth.   Speak in the manner to me that you should.  Remember where you come from."  Makar was furious.

"I will never forget where I hail from sorcerer, certainly not with you reminding me all the damned time."

Makar's eyes flared as he turned to face the ex soldier to challenge him.  The necromancer reached slowly into the folds of his purple robe to fetch the arcane items that would allow him to cast a spell.  His patience had reached its limit, and the lowly warrior speaking out of turn needed to be reminded of his place.

"Now, now Makar.  Let us not waste our resources on a petty argument.  Omniri would certainly sanction you were you to kill one of his men at this strange point in time.  Ivar is dead and his paranoia is at peak you know?  You aren't even angry at me.  Tell me what bothers you.  Confess your troubles."  Roybeth, ever the master manipulator calmed the situation.

Makar took his deep breath and removed his hand from the robe, empty of a threat.  "His audacity infuriates me.  He isn't scared of me, or Omniri, or the threat of an Inquisitor's ire.  He personally insulted me as if there wasn't a force in the Empire that could hold him accountable.  It makes my blood boil."

"Well at the end of the day then, we've but two things to consider."

Makar's eyes narrowed, "What two things are those?"

"Well he is either an arrogant, overconfident prick who we will kill in short order, or he is the real, genuine article, and we are in very a very dire situation.  Either way, our direction is clear.  We are to kill him, or die trying."

Makar didn't appreciate Roybeth's frank assessment.

As the three warriors and Makar already knew, Omniri wanted the man named Malwynn, and his female accomplice killed.  No one of power in the Empire wanted prisoners.  Dead bodies were just as useful, and answered almost as many questions.

Because of the vagaries of the man and his female ally, the murders had to be carried out with tremendous care.  Any patron of theirs would certainly see the assassination coming if it were carried out carelessly.

The trick would be finding them outside of wherever they were hiding.

Omniri's three warrior-assassins had stalked prey in the capital of the Empire before.  Graben was a familiar hunting ground.  In a not so strange coincidence, the three used the lifts as their central examination area.  However, unlike their prey they set themselves up at the top of the lifts in the High City.

It was better than the Low City for many reasons, but only one reason was good enough to matter; there were simply far less people moving about.  When Malwynn came down the central avenue of the High City heading towards the lift, Danglere saw him easily amongst the wealthy and powerful few moving about.  The tiny amethyst colored Amaranth flowers stood out amongst the returning green of the garden of the High City as Malwynn walked by, clearly keeping a wary eye searching about.  Danglere chose an interesting place to stand watch that day.  He was standing at attention near the entrance to The Queen's palace.  There were a dozen other guards moving about, and Danglere knew most of them from his time in the army.  They were more than willing to allow his presence and lend him a uniform for a handful of Crowns.

Danglere watched and assessed as Malwynn stood waiting for the lift.  He'd put his eyes on this Malwynn person before.  Just a day earlier when he'd left the café when Makar confronted him.  He'd seemed confident, and capable.  He was in very good physical fitness, carried himself with noticeable balance, and that spoke of martial training.  At his hip hung a dagger, and on his back was an old, ratty bow.  Danglere had to laugh at the sight of the terrible weapon.  It certainly didn't scare him.

Danglere glanced down the avenue of the High City and caught the eye of his friend and ally Roybeth.  Roybeth was leading a small group of undead that was tending one of the trimmed hedges that lined the street, and was dressed as a necromancer should be.  His light purple robes denoted a low rank, and he had his hood down as a sign of respect to The Queen.  When the two looked at one another, they both knew one of their future victims was walking directly into their trap.

Malwynn stepped onto the massive lift platform and waited patiently once more while it gathered those about to head down.  After a minute or two of waiting, Danglere hustled away from his false post, and stepped onto the lift.  A moment later Roybeth joined them as well, and the first steps of the hunt were on.

As the Artificer engineered feat of wonder glided down on cogs powered by steam and The Way, Umaryn stood at the top, looking down at the two men who'd attempted to join the elevator with her brother with no one looking.  One was dressed as a Queen's guard, and the other wore a robe of light purple. It was comical that he'd left his trio of undead standing still, abandoned at the greenery he'd been pretending to maintain with them.  Umaryn smiled as their identities were spoiled.  Now there was but one more threat to identify for her to know all three of Omniri's warriors.

"You don't seem all that unhappy to have just missed a lift milady." A thin and frail old man said from near her.  She turned to him and saw his excessively fine clothing, and twin undead dressed nearly as fine as he.  He must be quite well to do for such finery she thought.

"Well if it was meant to be, I would've caught the lift.  I suppose this just gives me time to enjoy the view."

The old man smiled, "A good way to look at life."  He looked up to the vast expanse of the Low City below them, and the rolling plains that tumbled forward to the northern horizon.  It really was a breathtaking view.

Umaryn smiled again and turned her gaze to the descending men below her.  She was looking at an entirely different view, for entirely different reasons.

Kemmin was dressed as a city guardsman at the base of the lift in the Low City.  Much like his ally Danglere above, he knew the guards, and with a small handful of Crowns he was able to stand with them as one of them.  Years of service could often buy you access to places where mere coin would be insufficient.  Kemmin knew he could've intermingled with the men without the gift of Crowns, but appreciation in the form of wealth showed the men that their assistance was valued.  The next time he needed to do this, there would be no questions by them, their cooperation would be immediate, and they'd be glad to have done it.

Kemmin's sole purpose on that day was to wait and watch for either Danglere or Roybeth's arrival.  If they had descended to the Low City, then they were on the trail of the Malwynn man, or the woman that he worked with.

He saw Danglere first.  Danglere was hard to miss, with his barrel sized torso and thick, ruddy beard.  Even wearing a nice uniform like the one the High City guard wore he was unmistakable.  It took a few seconds of searching to find Roybeth in the necromancer's robes.  Kemmin continued to chat it up with the other lift guards as his two friends departed, clearly following the man they'd seen the other day leaving the café.

He would be killed today, as soon as he went to a place where they could do it without drawing excess attention.  Kemmin thanked the men for their help, and excused himself to join the other men on the hunt.

The man they were following had to be on to them.  He was taking a very circuitous route through the city that had no rhyme or reason to it.  A certain amount of random behavior was normal, but after a point, the randomness became a pattern.  He was visiting no businesses, or residences, yet he went from neighborhood to district with purpose.  Roybeth wondered if he was scouting for something.

No matter where he went he was always on a thoroughfare that had a handful of potential witnesses should they attempt to strike at him.  It hindered their plans even more when they had to split up and rotate off to ensure that they were never seen all three at a time, thus tipping off their presence and numbers to the man, or anyone working with him.

Over the course of the multi-hour hunt Roybeth was reduced to taking off his purple robe and discarding it to change clothing, as was Danglere and Kemmin.  Their patience wore thin, but their experience held their hands.

Kemmin was in the lead of the group, closest to Malwynn when he finally went into a business.  It was a butcher shop in a seedy neighborhood of the Low City.  The shop had no customers, and through the windows in the front Kemmin could see that it had no customers.  He looked back and nodded to Roybeth, indicating this was the time.

Quality Meats, Cheap, would be the site of another round of murder.

"He went inside?"  Danglere asked as the last to catch up.  They had gathered just down the way in an alcove between two tiny shops, out of sight of anyone inside the butcher's.

Roybeth nodded, "A minute ago.  He's speaking to the owner at the counter.  Simple work.  There are no dead bodies for him to reanimate or dominate around if he's a necromancer, and the only witness is the shop keeper, who we can kill easily enough.  If we steal all the Crowns as well it'll look like a robbery.  The fool set the scene for our cover."

Danglere drew his sword, "Then let's see to it."  Kemmin and Roybeth showed their agreement with the hiss of their blades unleashing.

Danglere and Roybeth leapt up the steps to the door of the butcher's and yanked the door open.  Their swords were drawn and hungry to spill red blood.  Inside they saw Malwynn, standing casually at the counter, watching them as they burst in.  He had a straight length of rope hanging from his hand to the floor, and he looked to be resting on it as if it were a cane.

Danglere struck out first, sliding his arm in a savage backhand towards Malwynn's unguarded arm.  Roybeth moved deftly to flank Malwynn, pressing their advantage of numbers.  It was obvious the two had fought together.

Malwynn's response was simple, and completely unexpected.  He raised his wrist in a snapping motion, tossing the length of rope upwards, centering it in his hand.  He then spun his hand and the rope in it, in a fluid motion, and used the rope to parry Danglere's blow away from his body.

In the moment the sword stung the rope it should've cut straight though, and severed Mal's arm at the elbow, but instead there was a loud ring, the sound of metal on metal.  The rope had the qualities of iron.

Malwynn's expert parry placed Danglere's face nearly in front of his own.  The grunt's momentum had carried him a bit too far to remain safe.  He stopped the spin of the iron rope in his hand and whipped it in his own backhanded strike, bouncing the steel hard rope off of Danglere's chin with the force of a sledgehammer.  Through a ruined mouth the bearded brute grunted as his body collapsed to the butcher's floor.  His already devastated jaw impacted the hard wood floor, doing more damage.

The meat cutter, rooted to the floor in confusion up to that point suddenly realized he was in grave danger, and bolted into the back of the shop to escape out the back door.

Roybeth watched as his friend went down.  He'd seen the massive man take a serious blow before, but this was different.  His jaw would never work the same again if he stood up with any sense left in his head.  It also meant Roybeth's numerical advantage had been entirely negated.  To win this fight and save his longtime friend he needed assistance, and he needed it now.

"KEMMIN!"  Roybeth barked out.

Outside Kemmin heard the plea for support, and turned to give the assistance called out for.

Umaryn had been following the men the entire time.  She had to suffer the same indignities her prey had, changing clothes twice, and running ahead more than once to give the illusion she was in a hurry.  Twice she had changed her clothes to look like a man.  She'd spent all the Crowns in her pocket to buy replacement garb from the poor standing in the streets as they moved.  But the anonymity was worth any price.

She'd managed to get to within fifty yards of the blonde man outside butcher shop without him noticing.  He was spending too many seconds looking over his shoulder as his two compatriots ran inside after her brother.  The shop was intentionally chosen.  Mal and Umaryn had taken Dram's advice and led their stalkers to where they were comfortable.  The shop was perfect.

Well, perfect enough to give it a go.

Umaryn had worked on a variant of the Rope of Iron spell.  She'd mastered the original spell to the point where she could cast it with but a thought, and she had on several occasions been able to cast the spell, but then delay the spell's effect.  It allowed the rope to remain flexible for some time, but when a command word was spoken before the spell's energy faded, the rope became as rigid as the iron the spell was named for.  As her twin Malwynn had been able to utter the command word and trigger the spell the same as she, so they wagered their lives on the rope and spell working.  She hoped The Way wouldn't fail them today.

The tall black haired warrior woman crouched low next to wooden barrels that were being used to gather trash.  The smell was horrid, but the cover it gave her was good.  She peered over the tops of rotten heads of lettuce, watching the blonde man.  Umaryn only barely heard the yell come from inside of the shop, but when he turned and bolted into the butcher shop, she knew one of two things had happened.

The two men that had gone inside to kill her brother needed help to accomplish the task, or her brother was already dead, and they needed help carrying his body.

She hoped for the former, and not the latter.  Umaryn stood and began a full sprint to the shop where her brother's mortal fate hung in the balance.

Malwynn didn't know who this swordsman was, but after a few parries of his coordinated attacks there was no mistaking his skill.  The man was efficient, wasting little motion or energy in his strikes, and he struck hard.  Mal's sword hand and wrist were numb from the ringing blows of the sword and rope clashing, and they'd only been at war for perhaps half a minute.

When the shop door burst inward, and another warrior joined the fray, Malwynn knew he was outmatched.  He'd have to fight while his mind figured out the answer to this violent puzzle.

The new addition to the fight was a substantial man.  Malwynn gauged him as a half a hand taller and wider than he was.  He entered the building with a short sword drawn and when his eyes took stock of his companion laid out on the floor and dead or nearly dead, he brought his blade to Malwynn in anger.  Malwynn played off that anger.

The first man in the fight was forced to back away as his associate rampaged into the battle.  Malwynn turned his attention to the threat and spun the iron rope around to meet a driving thrust.  The rope rang out again and turned the point aside.  The man yanked the blade back furiously and thrust it forward once more, and Malwynn met the blade similarly, sending it aside and into the counter the meat seller made his business on.

"Raaaah!" the man screamed as the tip of his weapon lodged itself in the thick wood.  Malwynn used the man's rage and dexterously stepped on the affixed sword.  He leapt atop the counter to get over it, where he could escape from the back room into the alley beyond.

Mal felt the pain from the stab only after his feet landed on the floor.  He planted his foot and attempted to bolt into the room where he and his sister had tortured and killed so many, but his right thigh screamed in agony, and instead he only limped forward.  He let out a stifled yelp in pain.

"That's right little Malwynn, Roybeth's sword stings, doesn't it?"  The first man quipped.  Malwynn didn't return his insult, instead shuffling away as fast as he could as the second man struggled to free his stuck weapon.  Mal looked over his shoulder and saw the man named Roybeth start to climb over the counter the same as he.  His friend appeared even more enraged that a second person had used his weapon as a step.  Mal also caught a tease of a glimpse of one more person coming up the steps outside to join in.  He only saw bright blue eyes.

The same eyes he had.

A smile beat away the grimace from the pain in his leg, and he pushed deeper into the house of murder.

Umaryn had her hammer up and ready before she even stepped inside.  The weight of the weapon comforted her, invigorated her.  The spirit within the weapon silently whispered in her ear, and made her feel invincible.

She watched as a man disappeared into the back room of the shop after her brother.  They'd already discussed the plan to escape out the rear should the fight happen inside.  She then brought her full attention to a man who had just removed his weapon from the wood of the counter.  He still didn’t know she was there.

Umaryn whispered a prayer to her weapon as she brought it down from on high, and felt The Way cascade through her hands, bringing out the power in the steel.  Her victim heard her words, and turned to face her just as the hammer smashed down into his shoulder.  Her spell had alerted him and saved his skull, but he still paid a dear price with an annihilated shoulder.

His scream stopped the man running after her brother for a moment, and for that she thanked her ancestors.  The man with one working arm lunged forward with a piercing thrust that nearly ran her through.  She sidestepped it by a slim margin, and felt the hiss of the blade's edge kiss a scar into her leather armor.  She could hear the spirit of the blade as it passed near her flesh, and the rite of another chant came to her mind.

"Ichthyorak!"  She belted out, and unlike the time she'd said the spell during winter at the wolf man behemoth's mace this time there was an ample, overwhelming surge of The Way.

The rabid dog of a warrior used the time she invested into the spell to draw his weapon back and launch it forward once more.  This time, Umaryn made no attempt to dodge the lethal blow.

The tip of the blade started to pierce the toughened leather of her stomach, and for half a moment she thought she was wrong about the spell.   Then the spirit in the blade heeded her will.  The blade buckled, and folded in half, the hilt pressed against her belly, the steel edge and tip made useless.

As he snarled in rage, she let loose a smile that was eerily similar to her brother's.

Her hammer didn’t fold against the man's skull.

In his wildest dreams Malwynn knew that in a close quarters fight this Roybeth man would slay him.  The wound in his leg was leaking at a steady flow, and the damaged tissues under the skin had robbed him of his quickness.  Roybeth had no such hindrances, and also benefitted from years of experience in battles just like this.  That Malwynn was still alive was a blessing from the ancestors.

But Malwynn knew he had a hope left.  He needed just twenty feet of space to make it happen.  Maybe even less, maybe just ten feet.  Ten feet would allow him to leverage what Roybeth could not; The Way.

Malwynn had wedged the iron rope into the wood of the door that exited into the alley.  It wouldn't stop Roybeth long, but he only needed a couple of seconds.  As he limped to the end of the alley he heard the iron rod slip on the stone of the alley floor, and the door itself fling open.  Mal thought about how ironic it was that he'd taken so many to their deaths inside that door, and now death had followed him out of it.

By the time Roybeth had stepped into the alley, Malwynn was standing in the center of the street, his bow in hand.  Roybeth saw the farmer's weapon and laughed.  Malwynn could see the disdain plainly on his face.  Malwynn drew the string, and let fly a very special arrow.

The arrow had been fashioned out of the leg bone Dram had carved off of the warrior they had killed that night so long ago.  It had taken months to clean and purify the flesh and bone, and render it useful for the spell Dram had taught him.  But now, the sliver of bone that served as the arrowhead was the conduit for a very lethal source of necromantic energy.

The arrow struck Roybeth in the thigh, sinking a hand's width deep and mirroring Malwynn's wound.  Omniri's lackey froze in the alley in pain.

Malwynn could feel The Way release into Roybeth's body, and he could see Roybeth realize what was happening inside his flesh.

Necromancers for hundreds of years had fashioned the bones of the dead into weapons.  Daggers of bone, blades dipped in the flesh of the tainted, and especially arrowheads that carried the rotten soul of a dead body.  Such was Malwynn's spell.

The Soul Sliver carried exactly that; a bit of the original man's soul, contained within and festering with hatred and unadulterated necromantic energy.  When the flesh was pierced, the arrow let loose some of that hatred, and some of that energy, and it withered, and corrupted.

Malwynn watched the man's leg desiccate inside his trousers, and knew the fight was over.  The Way had won the day.

Roybeth couldn't even stand on his mutilated leg, and as the evil coursing through his veins and arteries spread, his muscles cramped, and he collapsed to the dirty stones.  Mal put the bow back over his shoulder and drew the dagger his sister had forged for him.

Roybeth was rolling side to side in the alley, his hands alternating between the arrow in his leg, and the muscles that had curled up into torturous shapes in his belly.  Malwynn almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

"You serve Omniri, don't you?"  Malwynn said, stopping short of the man's reach.

He coughed, and Malwynn caught the scent of rot on the man's breath, "Fuck yourself murderer.  Traitor to the Queen!"  Roybeth's eyes were overflowing with seething anger towards Malwynn.  It made sense.  Malwynn had just nearly killed the man's friend.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Roybeth spat, the sticky wad sailing wide.  Mal used the man's convulsion and stepped forward, planting a sturdy boot to the man's sword hand.  The same hand that had made Mal's hand turn numb earlier.  Roybeth struggled, but Mal was too heavy, and his body now too weak.

Mal crouched down, and without ceremony or honor, put the tip of the blade into Roybeth's throat.  He jammed the dagger upwards, through jaw and tongue, through palate and brain.

Roybeth, servant of the Lord High Inquisitor Omniri Decadra, and Empire veteran of a decade, died in an alley behind a butcher's shop.

Umaryn had caved in the skull of the man her brother had broken the jaw of before she left.  She knew enough about loose ends in a fight to make sure no one could stand up and become a threat if there was any chance.

She made her way out the back door of the alley and stopped immediately.  Her brother stood over the corpse of the third guard, and was chanting in his own dark fashion.  She could sense waves of power coming from his act, and she didn't care for the scent, or taste of The Way he wrought.  It felt old, and dark, and very unnatural.  Dark lights swirled around the tips of his fingers and danced across his lips, moving downward like falling stars made of blackness.

The motes of energy sank into the flesh of the corpse and it twitched, moving about as if the life stolen from it was being returned.

Umaryn's stomach pitched to and fro wildly as she realized what her brother was doing.

"Malwynn… no.  Please not this.  Anything but this."

Her brother ignored her and finished the necromantic spell.  The corpse of Roybeth got to its feet and stared about the alley with undead hatred in its eyes.  It was moments away from attaching either her or Malwynn.

Her brother snapped his fingers, and the zombie spun its head to the noise.  Malwynn's bright blue eyes caught the now rotting brown eyes of Roybeth, and their gazes locked.  Umary felt another massive surge of The Way as Malwynn brought his will to bear on the zombie.  After a moment of the insubstantial, invisible war, the zombie's body slackened, and the hatred left it.

Malwynn owned it, body and rotting soul.

Umaryn was drained, both by the spell she'd witnessed, and the revelation that her brother was now able to reanimate the dead with necromancy.

"You said you wouldn't.  You said you'd never use The Way for this, only to stop the people who killed our mother and father."

"And I still am.  I think Omniri might take facing his most loyal servants in battle poorly sister.  I aim to use his own men against him."

- Chapter Fourteen -

ARTIFACTS AND RELICS

Sometimes fate is fair, sometimes fickle and capricious.  A good man might go his whole life doing good deeds, and see only beneficial results.  Occasionally fate decides to turn on a person.  Another man who walks the same path living the same life might have bad fortune at every turn.  Bad men are punished, and bad men go free all the same.

Malwynn couldn't help but wonder if the festering wound in his right thigh was some kind of punishment for his recent deeds.  The stab wound had taken sour immediately as they left the alley next to the butcher shop.  The brother and sister had only just left the meat shop with their three brand new zombies in tow when the wound started to turn flush red, and ooze a thick blood that looked to be swirled with the first glimpses of pus.  The hole in his leg burned with hellish fury.

If there ever was a time that Malwynn wished he had his Gvorn Bramwell, this was it.  The beast could've gracefully carried him back to the lift at the center of city with minimal pain, and he longed for that so.   Umaryn walked near him at first, giving her brother space that she needed more than he.  Having just watched him resurrect the dead into the cruel form of the zombie only minutes before, she was not excited to even stand near him.  He seemed tainted now in her eyes.  All that changed when his limp became so pronounced he was slowing them down.  She tossed aside her loathing and remembered only who he was; her injured brother.

"Thank you," Mal said with a furrowed brow and gritted teeth.

His pain must've been intense.  "No problem," Umaryn replied softly, sparing her breath to help support his frame.  She could feel all the muscle he'd put on.  When they'd left New Picknell he had been a wiry farm boy.  Strong, but thin.  Now he was thicker, with wider shoulders, thighs and calves.  He was nearly twice as strong here in this cold city now as he ever was on their family farm.

"We need to get back to the manor, and quickly.  I think the weapon I was stabbed with had poison on it.  Or maybe it was enchanted with The Way to carry disease.  I don't know.  There are necromantic spells that can do that.  Maybe that was it."  Mal looked down to the uneven street, carefully placing his feet one step at a time.  A tumble now would be devastating.

"We're on our way brother.  Lean on me."

Malwynn looked to his sister and in that moment, appreciated her more than he ever had before.  He lingered on that happiness for as long as he could, for it made his pain fleeting.

"Roll onto your stomach," Dram said coldly.

Malwynn was climbing onto the long pitted table in Dram's study.  The worn wood was stained from decades of dead blood, and rotting flesh, and stank of pain.  He hoped getting on the table wouldn't make his leg worse.  He listened to the Lord Necromancer and rolled over onto his stomach, revealing the tear in his trousers that obscured the wound he suffered from.

"This is grievous Malwynn.  This is the kind of wound that can end a soldier's career.  You're nearly hamstrung.  The walk back here likely tore the muscle further.  You should've hired a cart, or a horse to bring you here."  Dram sounded frustrated, possibly even angry.

Umaryn spoke before Malwynn could, "We weren't really interested in walking main streets Dram.  We stayed out of the eyes of the city guard, or anyone who might've been working with them.  We still haven't accounted for the apprentice."

Dram contemplated her explanation under his purple hood for a minute before returning his attention to Malwynn's wound.  Almost punitively he slid a long nailed white finger into the gash, eliciting a yelp of pain from the young man.  Dram's nail came out covered in pink blood, stained white by the presence of more pus.

"Will he be okay?"  Umaryn asked.

"I know anatomy, but I'm no more a healer than you, woman.  I fear without outside assistance your brother may never be the same again."

"You know I'm right here?"  Mal said angrily, still in considerable discomfort from the wound that was the subject of discussion.

"My apologies good Malwynn.  I've been callous.  Clearly you're in pain and worried of your fate.  Let your anxiety abate, I've a solution to this that might be adequate.  Umaryn, be a good sister and fetch for your brother clean water and linen for bandages. You might be a great sister and fetch for him a few fingers of whiskey as well."  Dram turned and walked away, heading into a dark back storage room off of his study.  Neither of the twins had been in the room, and its contents had stirred their curiosity.  Umaryn rubbed Malwynn on the shoulder and stole away to get the water and whiskey to ease her brother's pain.

"As I hope you have come to realize, I am a man who spends excessive time hedging against misfortune," Dram said as he returned from his back study.  In his bony hands he carried a lacquered red box that was no larger than a thick book.  It was covered in intricate golden inlays and script, as well as a fair amount of dust, and looked thoroughly expensive.

"What is that?"  Umaryn questioned gently.

Dram's hood turned up to her abruptly, halting her line of questioning.  He wasn't done talking yet.

"I have held many titles and carried out many tasks during my years in the service of my Queen.  Some of my tasks have taken me far from the confines of my dear Graben, and while I consider myself a prudent man, I am guilty of spending many coins on things I simply wish to have."

The twins took a chill when his tone turned possessive.

"From time to time as I move through my existence, I find myself needing resources.  I procure those resources as needed.  When those resources become tarnished, or broken, I procure ways to repair them, or I obtain replacements.  Many of these resources I find myself wanting come from places quite far from where we stand at this moment.  With Omniri and his henchman so close to us, I do not have the time to replace you Malwynn, nor the desire to, hence, I shall repair you.  Though I find it distasteful and personally inadequate for my beliefs and reality, your Church of Souls does provide an irreplaceable service in the lesser world outside of my Empire.  Are you two knowledgeable of their Tonics?"

Malwynn nodded, "I've heard of them, but I don't know much of them.  My mother spoke of our parents using them when they were more active roaming the world.  They're restorative in nature I believe?"  Malwynn said softly, the tone of hope appearing in his voice.  Dram's voice had served to dull the pain in his leg a bit.  The aged necromancer was captivating.

"Next to the body of a properly interred Saint, the Apostles of your precious Church of Souls place fifty gold-plated flasks in a particular rack, in a particular way.  You might've seen these racks at one of your major Cathedrals?"  Dram saw that the twins shook their head.  They'd never been to a city large enough to house a Cathedral, or a Saint for that matter.  "These flasks are prepared in such a way so as to absorb the remnant spirit still inside the Saint's body.  There's no proper way to know how long each flash takes to absorb enough essence to transform into a proper Tonic, but once per year each Cathedral opens their sealed rack, and examines them for the presence of The Way, thus telling them which flasks have become Tonics, and which remain as well water for a year more.  Each Cathedral maintains fifty flasks all brewing up so as to continue the miracle of healing that is called the Tonics."

"That's incredible.  The power of the spirit is never-ending, it seems."  Umaryn was impressed.

"Indeed.  Some of us draw upon the spirits of the items we create, or the souls set loose in the world, and the rest of us simply rip the souls straight from their dead bodies to harness,"  Dram said dryly, and just a little sarcastically.  The twins weren't impressed.

"So what's in the box?"  Umaryn asked again.

"Kind of you to ask young lady.  I'm sure by now you've already put two and two together."  Dram opened the red enameled box, revealing two long golden flasks set in plush forest green fabric.  One end was rounded and smooth, while the other end had a screwed on cap.  "These are Tonics drawn from the aura of Saint Kincaid where he lies in Daris."  Dram withdrew the smooth metallic flask from the green velvet interior of the box and motioned for Malwynn to sit up.

"Do I just drink it down? What will happen?" Mal winced as the underside of his thigh came to a rest against the foul table.

Dram wrapped his fingers around the lid and unscrewed it from the Tonic's thin container.  He lifted it to his hood and sniffed at the liquid within.  "Drink it all down at a comfortable pace.  As I have never imbibed a Tonic, I am not entirely sure when the magical effect will happen, but I am led to believe it will be rapid, and noticeable.  This will be a learning experience for all of us."  He handed the flask to Malwynn and took a step back as if an Artificer chemist might after combining two reactive substances together.

Mal sniffed at the Tonic.  It carried no perceptible odor, fair or foul, and after taking a deep breath, he put it against his lip and tipped it up, allowing the smooth and cool fluid to slide out and into his mouth.  It had the clear earthy flavor of creek water.  Easily he swallowed the entire contents of the drink in a mouthful and a half.  He lowered the flask and looked down at his leg, waiting for something to happen.

"Do they expire?"  Umaryn asked as she stared at her brother.  It felt as if too much time had passed.

"Not so long as they remain stoppered.  I wonder if the magic in the draughts act slower over time?"  Dram was fascinated.

"Wait, I feel it," Malwynn said.  He could feel the Tonic indeed.  Malwynn closed his eyes and let the sensation of the Way-infused drink take over.  It felt like the spreading warmth of powerful liquor in his stomach, veins and muscles, radiating outward from his belly.  It left a trace of tingle and relief in its wake, like the feel of a good stretch as you wake in the morning.  His eyes unclouded from the sting of pain, and his thoughts became less muddied as the warmth spread.  When it reached his toes and abated, he realized he was smiling.  It had taken but a few seconds to run its course through his system.  Neither Dram or Umaryn had seen anything happen with their eyes, other than the briefest rapture on Mal's face.

"Let's see it."  Umaryn gestured at his leg.

Malwynn rid his face of the silly smile on it and turned his hip to reveal the tear in his trousers where the infected wound had been.  Just from the fluid way he was moving Umaryn could tell he was better, if not entirely healed.

Dram used both hands to pull the trousers open, revealing the puckered pink skin of a scar where the wound had just been fresh and open.  Dram's head bobbed up and down slowly in approval.  "How does it feel?"

"Almost as good as new."  Mal flexed his leg at the knee, testing the hamstring muscle that Dram had feared was severed or damaged beyond repair.  It felt tight, but there was no pain.

"Stand.  Test it easily."  Dram took a step back.  Umaryn did as well.

Mal slid off the table slowly, putting both feet on the cold stone floor hesitantly.  The last thing he wanted was for the leg to give way now.  Thankfully, it didn't.  No lightning bolts of pain ran through him, and despite the earlier stiffness, he was able to move about comfortably, and gracefully.  Mal bent at the knees and hopped a few times to illustrate the incredible improvement.

"Fantastic.  Thank the ancestors," Umaryn said.

"Well, it isn't as practical as Rend Corpse or Drain Soul, but it will have to do.  I will trust the final Tonic to you Umaryn, in the understanding that your brother is the one most likely to suffer further wounds."

Umaryn took offense, "Is that meant to be sexist Dram?  Will he be hurt because he's a man, and will be the brave one at the forefront of the battle?"

Dram laughed, "No woman.  It is because you are the sensible one right now.  Your brother is starting to feel omnipotent, and has taken too many risks.  I trust that you are the one to make the best decision right now.  Don't make me change my mind due to your oversensitive feelings."

"You know I'm right here?"  Malwynn said again, frustrated.

"Only due to your sister's hard work and love for you.  Come.  Let us plan the next phase of our operation.  Time is short, and our prey is moving to attack or elude us."

"Is moving to?" Umaryn asked as Dram walked to the doorway of the cold study.

"Is moving to.  You think you are the only operatives I have wandering the city of Graben this day?  I've had someone watching Makar as the opportunities arise.  They are aware that something is amiss with their three hunters.  Come.  I'll speak more of it in the dining hall.  A meal should be prepared for you by now."

And a meal was prepared indeed.  Dram had instructed his undead servants to cook a ham, and they'd managed a good job of it.  Mal wasn't quite capable of imbuing his three new undead with any form of intelligence yet, but he knew that was well within Dram's capabilities.  From his readings Mal knew that most necromancers taught their undead minions how to fight with weapons and armor, but Dram had seen that many of his servants were given more domestic skill sets.  Some could cook, others clean.  The ham was moist, smoky and salted, and was most welcome as it melted in the twin's mouths.

"Makar has gone to ground in Omniri's keep in the High City.  It is virtually guaranteed that he will not leave until they are prepared for another confrontation.  It seems we will need to go after teacher and apprentice simultaneously," Dram said, sitting at the head of his dining table, fingers interlaced together.  He paid the delicious meal no attention.  They'd never seen him eat, or drink.

"Won't they be petitioning the city guard for assistance in this?  Shouldn't we be worried about them getting support from the Queen's forces?"  Umaryn asked through a mouthful of meat.

"Not necessarily.  A Lord High Necromancer calling out for assistance in this manner would be a terrible embarrassment.  Career-ending, potentially.  The Queen might laugh at his ineptitude to protect himself.  We should also be very mindful that both Lord and apprentice should have a substantial amount of undead in their midst.  It will not be a battle of merely two versus two."

"I've got the three undead I created earlier.  That will help to even the odds."

"Yes Malwynn, it will help some, but it will not come close to evening the odds.  Makar is likely to have three times that under his sway alone.  I've heard rumors that Omniri keeps a small legion of the dead in his home to protect from incursions.  When he roams the city he brings six armed and armored everywhere he goes, even to the Queen's Court in the Palace.  Should he feel threatened, he's apt to bring three times that number or more."

The twins ate a little slower with that news.

"So what do we do?"  Mal asked.

"We need some form of great equalizer.  Some way to lure them out of the keep, or some way to assemble a massive force to bring in with you should you need to go in after them."  Dram laid his hands flat on the large table, and then began to tap his long fingernails rhythmically.

"Can we bring your undead with us?  You've got a substantial force," Umaryn asked.  She loathed the idea of bringing undead to battle at her side, but to see the man that had issued the death sentence for nearly her entire family, she'd stomach the revulsion.

"I could only spare perhaps ten.  And even then I'd be forced to come along with you.  That in and of itself would be a great equalizer I speak of, but there are considerable problems that would come along with my presence."  Dram continued to rap the table with his fingernails.

"Such as?" Mal inquired.

"For one, the risk of personal injury or permanent death to me.  I'm not fond of dying again you see, and the entire point of this endeavor for me is to advance my station here in the Empire, not to die trying.  Also, if I were to be connected to this in any fashion, it will all be for naught."

"Dying again?"  Mal asked, almost frightened of the answer.

"It's a long story.  One I prefer not to tell."  Dram sounded apologetic, but firm.  That story would not be told.

Umaryn missed the exchange as she chewed a chunk of ham and thought.  She shared an idea, "What about fire?  Can we get our hands on some oil and smoke them out of the keep?  Fire is a great equalizer.  I think it'd also be damned satisfying to burn them to a crisp the same way they burned our village flat."

"Oooh, I like fire.  Can we do fire?"  Malwynn pleaded to Dram.

"No.  Fire would draw the attention of the Queen's Fire brigade.  A home aflame in the High City would draw intense attention.  Fire won't work for our purposes."

"Damn.  I'm starting to think the ancestors are looking away in our time of need," Mal said exasperated.

Umaryn agreed, "We could use a little assistance from the dead right now."

Mal's eyes widened in revelation.  He turned to Dram, "How much do they know about what happened to the three men we killed earlier?"

"I can't be sure.  They are aware that their men have not returned yet, which bodes poorly for their success.  If Omniri has spies as I do, then he will know of the skirmish in the Low City soon."

"Then time is of the essence."  Malwynn stood up urgently and stabbed a huge mouthful of the savory meal with his fork.

"What are you thinking?"  His sister asked.

"If Omniri and Makar are still unaware that their trio is dead, then we can use them to enter the keep.  If we clean up their bodies and dress them to hide their wounds, I think I can get them to walk us to the front door."

"You will need makeup for their skin.  And one of you should be dead.  One of you at least.  It will seem more believable that way."  Dram's mind had all gears engaged on the plan.

"I'll be dead.  Put me in a cart and throw an old blanket over me.  It'll seem less suspicious and likely that they are undead if I am dead.  My sister can act the part of the captive well enough.  All we need is the door opened."

Umaryn nodded confidently.  "What about our great equalizer?  Once inside the home we'll be at the mercy of traps, guards, and undead.  What then?"

Dram stood.  "See to the cart, and a mule or horse to pull it.  The stable should have what you require.  Have the three guards cleansed and redressed.  I'll have my servants provide clothing.  Arm and armor yourselves for the final push.  Tonight, you get the justice you've sought for so long."  Dram took his leave, heading to the hall.

Umaryn stopped him with a question, "Where are you going?"

"I might have something I could offer to you.  An equalizer of a sort.  Move with haste my associates.  As Malwynn correctly said, time is of the essence."

Umaryn got a small cart out of Dram's stone stable in his overgrown and frightening garden.  She took a minute to caress Tinder and ensure that she properly said goodbye.  Her brother's massive Gvorn stood impassively in his stable.  Bramwell was more a beast than Tinder was, despite Tinder's considerable girth as a horse.  The Gvorn were savage creatures made for war, and she wished they could bring the creature into Omniri's home for this confrontation.

She hitched one of Dram's pack horses to the cart and made certain that it was ready to go.  Back in Sorber Manor she readied her weapons and armor, and assessed her ability to go to war once more that day.  Her armor was pristine; maintained by her spells to a perfect degree, as was her brother's.  Her weapon, Chael's hammer, was also in as good a condition as was possible.  She comforted the spirit in the weapon and gave it the ability to blossom into full health regularly.  The weapon's power would not betray this day.

Deep inside her core she turned inward, testing her fortitude to manipulate The Way.  It took singular focus and concentrated effort to speak to and bend the spirits in things to her wishes.  Casting each spell drained her a bit, and if she was going into this with anything but her full abilities, it could be the last time she and her brother stood back-to-back against a threat.  She could not fail tonight.  Would not fail tonight.

Her assessment told her she was ready.  Eating the full meal and resting for a few hours saw her reserves of willpower filled, and she knew she'd be ready and capable.  As she walked down one of the myriad staircases set into the dark and deep stone of Sorber Manor, she hoped her brother was as ready as she thought she was.

Malwynn's leg felt good.  Good enough to forget about for the night.  His armor, the stolen armor of an Empire soldier, was also good.  His sister's need for perfect maintenance of their things of war meant he was never left wanting for a sharp blade, or well taken care of armor.  He did wish for a better sword, but leaving the manor to find a smith wasn't prudent with his prey so close to slipping away.

Dram's voice carried through his bedroom door, "Malwynn, come to the study when you're prepared."

"Very well Dram," Malwynn replied as he adjusted the fit of his armor.  He looked into the six foot tall mirror mounted on the wall and took his reflection in.  He despised the purple of the Empire, but he appreciated the cut of the armor on his body.  He wished his father and mother were here in this moment to appreciate the man he was becoming, the man he had become.

Instead he was left with merely memories of a family murdered, and the raging anger that had motivated him to seek such lengthy vengeance.

He did not wish for his father and mother to see that side of the man he'd become.

They were back in Dram's study.

"I've held onto this prize for nearly a decade.  It came into my possession when I was asked to prosecute an investigation against the wearers of red.  The rebels that seek to unseat my beloved Queen.  They had this stored in the home they were meeting at."  Dram held a small lantern aloft.  Gold, silver, and platinum were worked in a fine interweave up the length of the glass bulb that was intended to contain the wick and the flame.  It was made with tremendous skill, ornamented with jewels, etchings, and scripts in various languages.  Neither of the twins could read the words, but the lantern itself was beautiful nearly beyond belief.

"What does it do?" Umaryn asked.  She had a better feel for the lantern than her brother.  In her mind the essence of the spirit in the lantern was strong, practically speaking to her.  The lamp was far, far more than what met the eye.

"It is an artifact.  An enchanted one no less.  It is a marvel of skillful crafting, spirit harnessing, and The Way all in one."  Dram said the words more fearful than proud.

"What does it do Dram?" Malwynn asked.

Dram sat the lamp down on the table Malwynn had bled on earlier.  He thought lengthily for an adequate answer before replying, "To be honest, I do not know the specifics of what it does."

Umaryn snapped back, "Are you serious Dram?  You say this is an equalizer but don’t know what it does?  This is a poor time for a joke."

"I was unable to exactly pinpoint the effect the lamp creates, but I do have a strong suspicion as to what it achieves.  I have been unsuccessful in determining the spells of the lantern's creation, and I suspect there are spirits involved in its creation, but I know that both Artificer as well as Necromancer magics are contained within it. The lantern was designed by the rebels to destroy large amounts of undead in one fell swoop.  It is tremulous though.  The magic the lantern creates has finite uses, and is unrefined."

"So we light the wick, and the lantern flares with The Way?  Killing undead?"  Malwynn asked, his eyes fixed on the arcane device.

"That is the idea.  I believe that when the light from the lantern shines on the flesh of undead, it causes detrimental effects.  How long the lantern's power lasts, and whether or not it can be relit again is beyond me.  Not long and not again I suspect."  Dram pushed the lantern slowly across the table towards the twins as if it were poisonous.  He seemed almost afraid of the thing.

"I guess it is better than nothing," Mal lifted the lamp and looked it closely.  It was a beautiful thing.

Umaryn took the lantern away gently.  "Trust in this thing.  I can sense the power within it far better than either of you can.  The Way is strong with it, but the spirit inside is so much more than you can conceive.  If it is as powerful as I think it is, and we survive long enough to light it, it will carry the day."

"Then as the artificer says, I suggest you survive long enough to light it.   It might interest you to hear that near the lantern I found a small book detailing the creation process.  I've destroyed the book, but the lantern had a name.  The rebels called it The Illuminator of Truth.  It is time for you to leave."

Umaryn was angry that Dram would destroy the book that told of how such a magnificent item was forged, but she was still too enthralled by the lantern itself to express that anger.  As they left she carried the lantern as if it were priceless, as if it were her firstborn child.

Malwynn watched her leave and wondered how much life might be saved by the lantern in her hands.

The wheels of the cart creaked angrily.

Mal lay beneath a musty, dingy blanket that had lived inside Dram' stable for ancestors knew how long.  It smelled of horseflesh, fleas, and mold.  The hard wood of the cart's bottom rattled his spine and shoulder blades as it rolled over the stone surface of the High City road.  The trip would not be long; Omniri and Dram lived agonizingly close to one another.  Mal thought the irony of having your greatest enemy so close was humorous.

In truth, the horror of being inside the covered cart, pretending to be dead was suffocating him.  It was hard to breathe, and he wouldn't be able to see his doom before it reached him.  When next he heard voices, his reaction would need to be swift, for his life would certainly depend upon it.

His mind played tricks on him, filling in the gaps of what his eyes could not see.  Walking in front of the cart, leading the horse were the three zombies that Mal had made of Omniri's men.  They'd been dressed in spare clothing Dram had about his manse.  Their original clothing was discarded.  Mal and Umaryn had spilled too much blood, or poked too many holes in them.

It took effort for Mal to control them.  As a novice necromancer he hadn’t the unconscious gift yet to issue simple commands and have the undead follow them unerringly.  It took effort and concentration to imagine their walking, and loosen their joints and muscles to appear more human, more alive.  He had given them the instruction, the notion to follow his sister.  He could hear the faint shuffle of her boots on the stone in between the creaks of the cart wheels and the steady clip-clop of the horses' shoes.  He could only hear her because sound and scent was all he had left under the mildew soaked blanket.  Her hands were bound behind her back with shackles that weren't properly fastened. With a tug, her hands would be free.  He hoped his sister would be able to throw the blanket off him and get her hammer from the cart net to where he lay in time to defend herself.

Beside the hammer was the lantern.  Malwynn didn't understand the artifact like his sister did, but he was used to that.  For many years he didn't understand her love and mastery of The Way, but now he did.  He hoped and trusted that her confidence in the lantern would prove as right and true as her confidence in The Way had been all their lives.

He felt the cart slow, and then take a turn.  They were at the entrance to Omniri's home.  His heart slid up his neck into his mouth, pounding strong.  Dram had described an open entrance to the courtyard at the face of the home, a circular drive that allowed for large wagons and carriages to come and go.  Omniri didn't entertain much, but his home was well suited for even the most ostentatious of visitors.

But Mal could only imagine it in his mind's eye as he focused on maintaining the gaits of the dead men that were his to control.  This was the minute that would matter most.  If Mal failed now, they'd be cut down in the garden drive before they had the chance to get inside.  If they died inside… at least they were taking the battle to their greatest enemy.  But to die here, on the slope of the mountain that had taken them so long to climb…

Mal felt the cart lurch, and stop.  With the horse still, and no feet to move about on the stone of the drive, all that was left to his ears was the sudden absence of the door opening.

Knock on the door.  Mal sent mentally to the large dead man.  Every single ounce of mental fortitude and focus went into the message.  He scripted the motion of the walk, as well as the knock on the door.  He'd identified the shorter, thicker one as the body he wanted to control most.  Dram had taught him that the undead he could mentally picture best was the one to rely on controlling more.

Mal heard the firm triple tap of knuckles on a powerfully thick door.  Oak, Mal thought absently.

The scent of the blanket threatened to gag him.  He stopped the rise and fall of his breath to still the motion of the blanket as well as fight down the slide of bile moving up in his throat.  If his stomach betrayed him at this very moment, he and his sister would be null and void.

He waited in the dark under the blanket for the sound of the heavy oak door to open.

- Chapter Fifteen -

INTO THE BREACH

Umaryn watched as the short fat zombie her brother controlled knocked again on the door.  He was moving well, almost as if he were still alive.  Malwynn had to be exerting sweat inducing control with his mind over that one for him to be limber like the living.  The dead man even stood with an impatient tone to his body language between knocks.  The other two undead, the warriors that Omniri had sent to kill them, were also standing at ease.  Malwynn had managed to get them to turn away and face the street on the other side of the circular stone drive that their cart was parked in.  Anyone at the door would see the backs of their heads and not the dead lifeless orbs in their eye sockets.  It was a small detail her brother had taken control of from under the mildew covered blanket, but it could prove to be a lifesaving detail.

For her part, Umaryn looked beaten and bloodied, though she wasn't.  A small amount of makeup under the eye made it look as if she'd caught a strong fist to the face, and with a smear of her own blood from a tiny self-inflicted cut above the eyebrow, she looked in remarkably bad shape.  Completing the captive's look were the shackles that weren't fully clasped on her wrists behind her back, fresh tears brought on by forced recollections of her dead little sister, and a hip that was absent of weapons.  She felt naked with her hammer in the cart next to her brother.  Her hand was where the weapon belonged.

But right now it needed to be in the cart beside her brother, and his weapons, and the enchanted Artifact lantern that Dram had lent to them.  The lantern that could be their deliverance from the horde of undead they expected on the other side of that thick oaken door.  She knew it had tremendous power.  The spirit inside it was practically vibrating with intensity, and she could sense it standing where she was, despite it being under a blanket several feet away.

Omniri's home was nearly as remarkable as Dram's Manor.  It rose two score of feet high, carved straight into the cliff of the Snake Ridge Mountains, the same as nearly all of the luxurious homes in Graben's High City.  There were a few small windows, slits in the stone really, all decorated with elaborate carvings and sills.  Extending out from the stone face of the wall above the front entrance was a sloped and tiled eave supported by two carved pillars that sat in the middle of the circular drive.  It was meant to serve as protection from the weather for those arriving or departing.  Everything on the outside of the home gave the appearance and expectation of a sumptuous interior.  Flanking Omniri's front door eave were two long and ornate purple tapestries that reached twenty feet up.  The home was beautiful, and it scared her.  There was no way to know how deep into the cliff it was carved.

Umaryn's heart skipped a beat when she heard a heavy deadbolt throw from inside the home.  The future of the Everwalk family was now in the crucible.  They could be struck down dead here on the front steps of this home with no justice served, or they could wreak terrible vengeance inside on those that had wronged them.  One way or the other, Umaryn knew that their quest ended today.

Umaryn watched the door open inwards, time slowing to a crawl in her mind.  Striking down the person opening the door was paramount.  With them able to shut the door, they were still very much on the outside looking in.  Their plan was simple, and it relied on Umaryn to act first.

"Mal!" She yelled quickly.  It was a signal to her brother to command the undead, and as he tossed the nasty blanket off of his body and the cart, the undead warriors lurched forward, their mental leashes cast away.  All three suddenly violent forms launched their dead bodies up the stone stairs and into the frame of the door, forcing it open.  Someone or something inside fought back aggressively, leaving the door teetering between open and closed.

Malwynn had sat up by then and tossed Umaryn her hammer.  She caught it deftly with her unshackled hands and relished the feeling of the weapon's haft, and the weight of the hammer's head. Umaryn stepped forward up the steps toward the door and whispered to her weapon as she went, "Strike hard, strike fast, and deliver my will through your strength."

Inside the weapon she felt pride and power flare.

"Press!"  Malwynn bellowed from a few steps behind her.  The three undead surged forward with renewed vigor, pushing the door inward just enough for Umaryn to slide in behind them, entering the home of her worst enemy.

Directly behind the door, fighting opposite Mal's undead were three more.  They were dressed in dark purple finery befitting the servants of a Lord of Graben.  They struggled with no emotion, simply physical exertion despite the severity of their situation.  With relish and fury Umaryn hammered one at the temple, caving the hard skull in as it were tissue paper.  She could sense the matching glee of her hammer as the door flung inward ferociously.  The two undead pressing outward were no longer a match for Mal's dead men.  Mal's warriors collapsed on the two undead that had been shoved inward and began to tear into them.  Umaryn was suddenly happy they were there.  The three dead soldiers ripped the two others apart in short order.

The hall they stood in was wide, almost ten feet so.  It was carpeted in dark greens and purples, and tapestries and paintings of immense value hung everywhere.  The colors mixed together to create a garish scene, as if someone had stolen all their lives, and chose to keep and decorate their space with a hundred themes and ideations.  Umaryn's stomach revolted at the thought of such ugliness brought together.

"Where do we go?" she asked urgently.

Mal handed her the lantern as he drew his sword from the sheath at his hip, "He'll be buried deep.  Where his power is.  If he truly has a legion at his disposal in this home, he'll put every single one of them between us and him before we reach him.  The way to him will be wherever we find undead in our path."

Umaryn lifted her hammer happily, "Then let us pray to our ancestors we find a thick and long path of the dead in our way."

Makar's firm voice trembled with the slightest panic, "They are here.  They have entered the foyer and are sure to head deeper.  Omniri, what would you have me do?"

Omniri steepled his fingers and cast a wicked grin.  His black eyes almost sparkled, "Makar you say that as if it were a bad thing.  Dispatch your minions to the entryway, and let them fight through each and every one of them.  By the time they reach the inner sanctum they'll be spent, and ripe for the slaughter."

Makar nodded, absorbing some of his master's confidence.  He spun on his heel and left quickly.

Before he exited the massive stone room Omniri caught him, "Makar."

The thin necromancer stopped and turned to his teacher, "My Lord?"

"Do accompany them.  Your presence and will shall bolster them, and if necessary, bring rot and ruin personally to these two interlopers.  I'll not have them meddling in my affairs any longer.  This ends today."

Makar swallowed hard and nodded, "As you wish my Lord."

Killing the caged headed zombies inside the manse was difficult.  Nigh impossible really.  The necromantic sense of clamping a cage of wrought iron bars around their head was validated over and over as Malwynn was forced to slash and hack their bodies apart to break their soul free.   A single powerful blow to the head would normally suffice, but these undead were completely immune to that.  Perhaps one in five would fall to a lucky stab to the eye socket, but that was a paltry ratio, and the labor rending them limb from limb caused was muscle testing.

Malwynn brought the sword down over his shoulder in a powerful slash.  He aimed for the shoulder joint of yet another well dressed zombie.  As his blade descended downward he watched as the poor creature's rotten teeth ground together, seeking his flesh to tear apart.  The razor edged sword bit into grey flesh, severing tendon, muscle, and bone alike.  The blade hacked completely through to the armpit, but left the limb dangling useless by a strip of flesh.  The blow rocked the undead man sideways, stutter-stepping him and giving Mal's sister the time to slip around behind it and bring her hammer powerfully into the center of its back.  Mal heard the spine crack, and that was enough.  The zombie fell down lifeless to the floor of one more candle lit guest room.

Umaryn bent at the waist and rested her hammer filled hands on her knees.  Malwynn did the same after wiping his blade free of gore on the body and sheathing it.

"How many more can there be?"  Umaryn said between gasps for air.

Mal coughed once then replied, "Dram said there would be a legion in here.  He's been true to his word on that account."

One of Malwynn's undead had succumbed to the press of the enemy.  The tall blonde dead man had stumbled when they had been surrounded by the caged headed foes, and two of them had grabbed his neck and in an image reminiscent of the twin's dirty work in the butcher' shop, they separated most of his head from his body with sharp nails and digging fingers.  Malwynn felt a strange metaphysical sense of loss when his creation was destroyed.  A nearly tangible cord was severed with its destruction, and he was almost nauseated.  He wondered how his sister would feel if one of her creations was lost or destroyed.  Mal and Umaryn had hacked those two undead apart the same as the others in the house, and now here they were; theoretically closer to the men they wanted to run through with a rusty blade.

Another zombie shuffled in through a doorway that led to a perpendicular hall.  He was tall, broad of shoulder like a farm hand, and was armored in thick leather.  Like all the dead before him, his skull was sheathed in the metal cage.

"Take his legs," Mal said as he stalked to the side of the room.  The two undead still under his command started forward from the back of the room, but Mal made a motion with his offhand and they stopped.  This was a foe for the siblings only.

Umaryn had already moved counter to Mal's movement, spreading out and giving the armored zombie pause.  These threats were not skilled at engaging wary opponents.  It looked to Umaryn and began to lunge but Malwynn shouted at it, and the creature turned.  Through the cage he noticed it had long black hair that had been torn out in chunks.  The raw red flesh below still oozed with thick blood, showing the man was only recently dead.

"Face me you tortoise shelled numbskull," he taunted.  It took the bait, and sent a long step his way.

Umaryn skipped to the side to get behind the creature as it moved away from her.  Her feet planted firmly on the fine rug she swung her hammer almost underhanded as a lumberjack would, and expertly sent the heavy metal head into the side of the giant's knee.

With his leg destroyed, he fell like a rotten tree in an ancient forest.  Mal's sword was already rocketing down, the tip timed to pierce the skull.  As the cage bounced off the floor hard his blade slipped between the iron bars and pierced the head right in front of the ear.  He had sent the sword down with such force he felt it nearly buckle against the stone floor beneath the rug.

"If only they were all that easy," Umaryn said.

"Truer words have never been spoken dear sister.  I suspect we will see far more of this kind from here on in."

The twins heard the shuffling of many feet from the hallway beyond and knew exactly what it meant.

Umaryn spun her hammer in her hands and reminded herself that there was joy in vengeance.  The twins stepped forward into the breach once more.

Makar listened from his hiding spot at the end of the hallway.  He was just around the corner from where he heard the young man and woman decimating his undead horde.  While not nearly as impressive or lethal as his master Omniri's force, it was nothing to scoff at.  Nearly a score of heavily armored laborers and dead soldiers were at his beck and call, and he sent them forth two at a time to test his foe.  It was a slow and deliberate tactic to painfully draw out their reserves of energy, and expend all their will to fight.  Eventually, they might give up on this fool's errand from fatigue, and niggling injuries if his zombies weren’t able to kill them directly.

Makar kept his eyes closed and focused on manipulating his undead's position and aggression.  It was difficult work, keeping them arranged two by two, and making sure that they focused on harassing both enemies at the same time, but it was worth it.  He could hear the grunts of the man and woman as their weak, living flesh fought against his minion's superior reanimated bodies.  His slaves would never fatigue, never give up, and never beg for mercy.  They were better in every way.

There was a sickly wet sound of something hitting the floor.  A limb, or an internal organ no longer inside perhaps.  One of his undead would be put down soon undoubtedly.  With a mental push he sent another of his dead around the corner of the hall he stood at and into the fray.  There must be no relenting now.  No taking of breath, and certainly no mercy.

Makar would enjoy reanimating these two.  It would be sweet to control them in every way.

Malwynn watched as another of the gargantuan zombies rounded the corner at the end of the hall.  It seemed as if they were all massive and wearing that damned heavy leather armor now.  At his side Umaryn swung her hammer once more, shattering the shoulder of one of Omniri's undead.  The thick body swung sideways and stumbled backwards, and a scant moment later the arm gave way and simply fell out of the socket.  The sound of it hitting floor reminded him of his childhood, when his mother would drop an armload of wet laundry on their floor at home in New Picknell.  He shook the memory as fast as he could and twisted his frame to launch a powerful stab into the neck of the cage-headed brute.  He felt the sudden resistance of the spine followed by the sensation of it breaking.  The zombie crumpled down in the hallway and the twins leapt over as another undead approached.

Malwynn instantly had a revelation; the timing of this was too perfect.  In order for him to control and mete out the presence of the undead such as this, he would've had to have been right on the spot.  Within earshot at the very least…

Makar or Omniri could only be steps away, and at the end of the hallway, Malwynn could feel the presence of something more, something alive, and something manipulating the way.  He felt like a child dreading the presence of something under the bed in the middle of the dark, cold night.  It was like a cold slickness running from neck to ass, raising pimples on his skin.  If he could get to who or what was giving him that feeling, this marathon of pointless murder could be stopped.

"Follow me," Mal said abruptly.  As his sister reacted and attempted to keep up, Mal reached into a small pocket that hung on his waist and pressed forward.  He'd hand sewn the belt and the pouches himself just a month before.  It kept the things he needed for his spells organized, and at his finger's reach.  From one of his pouches he produced a small handful of the Obrinnor's moss, and with his sword hand, he savagely hacked a giant rent in the chest armor of the undead nearest to him.  Faster than the eye could see, he gathered the will to fuel a spell, and punched the fist that clutched the moss into the hole in the armor.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Mal's fist carried the Way-infused moss straight through the chest of the monster and right out its back, spraying blood, gore, and ageless undead wreckage the length of the passageway.  The zombie's animating essence was annihilated, and it dropped to the floor, destroyed.  Malwynn pushed down the hallway, intent on reaching the end where the manifestation had seemed to come from.  One more large undead remained in his way, and Malwynn reached into his pouch once more for the moss that enabled The Way.  As his fingers wrapped around the tiny green bit of fluff, his mouth was already speaking the words that formulated the energies for the spell.

Umaryn feinted a crushing lunge with her hammer causing the undead to move in counterattack.  Her thin and light body retracted like a pit viper coiling for a bite, and instead the girl spun her hammer in her hand like a ballerina holding a baton, and as she dropped to a knee, her hammer smashed the foot and ankle of the beastly zombie to a pulp.  With his base destroyed the zombie tilted to the wall, unable to move forward, enabling Malwynn's killing blow.

Mal tossed the moss through the wrought iron cage around the zombie's head and watched as it landed on the flesh and seared it away.  The grey skin puckered and sizzled like bacon fat on a pan.  The monster's head began to decay away under the sway of the spell, and both twins knew their foe was decimated.

"OMNIRI!" Malwynn screamed from the base of the gut.  The sound of his hatred reverberated in the hallway and actually managed to startle Umaryn.  She was shaken by the power of his seething anger.  She watched as her brother's fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword.  He was set afire now, and she feared for why.

A long hand rocketed around the corner of the hallway as Malwynn came to it.  Umaryn saw only a blink's worth of motion, but she saw a skeletal hand with gnarled knuckles and blackened fingernails that tapered to flesh-rending points.  The hand struck her brother up side his head and she watched as a spray of her family blood erupted into the air.

Malwynn stumbled away and careened into the wall as a living foe stepped into the hall challenging her.  It was Makar, the wispy sycophant of Omniri's.  It was his hand, warped by necromancy that had struck her brother, and suddenly, powerfully, she knew the hatred her brother felt.

"I'll rip your cunt in two with my pretty little hands my dear girl," Makar said, his voice low and sexual.

"We'll see who has their tiny bits intact in ten heartbeats you piece of shit," Umaryn said quickly.

For a moment, the two stood still, eyes locked.

One heartbeat.

Makar moved first.

His hands moved like poisoned talons in the air, slashing left and right, cutting the air like a blade.  She could've heard them if she closed her eyes.  He was fast, as fast as anyone she'd gone toe to toe with, but she too was quick.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw as her twin brother started to push off the floor to get up, and her heart soared.  His wound was not fatal.

Three heartbeats.

Immediately on the defensive, she weaved back and forth, dodging his wild and vicious swings.  Umaryn took one step backward after another, nearly stumbling over the bodies of the armored undead this very man had sent after her and her brother.  The necromancer's claws looked like bloody railroad spikes at the tips of his fingers, and she knew that if he connected her flesh would part easily, and never be the same again.  Makar let slip a guttural scream and swung again, leaving his flank open for a moment.

Umaryn was off balance but she managed a half swing with her hammer into his side.  The gore covered hammer head bounced off his ribs and with an evil smile she felt at least one rib give in.

Makar gasped for air and paused his assault.

Five heartbeats.

Umaryn's assault began in earnest.  As a larger and larger rictus grin spread across her face, she began to swing her hammer to and fro, pushing Makar backwards as he had just done to her.  She saw a flash of fear in his sunken eyes as he too realized how quickly his fortunes had changed.  He had broken bones, and was now locked in a battle with a woman that would die to see him dead.

Makar turned and attempted to flee.

Seven heartbeats.

For no reason Umaryn would ever be able to explain, as Makar took his steps to escape she thought of her father splitting wood back in New Picknell.  One warm memory occurred to her in the moment.  She had been very little, perhaps six, and her pestering brother; the same one with the side of his head ripped open just feet away, was off doing some filthy boy's errand.  It was a time for her, and her father.

They had laughed as he'd placed one log on the chopping block after another.  His lean but strong arms would lift the axe up, and then bring it down on the log, cleanly splitting them into fireplace sized pieces over and over.  She remembered getting her hands dirty as she picked up the logs and stacked them on the pile haphazardly as a six year old would.

When they'd finished that day, her father had turned to her.  "Watch this trick Umaryn.  I learned this in the Eastern Wilds."   Her father then lined up the axe in front of his body, both hands on the long haft.  He brought the axe above his head and flung it cleanly and directly at a maple tree that had stood in their backyard.  The woodcutting axe spun through the air end over end until the blade of it lodged firmly in the tree, handle vibrating.

Right here, right now, deep inside a stone mansion that might turn into her and her brother's place of death, she held her hammer in front of her face as her father had held that axe, and lifted it high as he had, and she flung her hammer at Makar's back, just the same as her father had thrown that sharpened work axe at that maple so long ago.

The hammer didn't pierce the fleeing necromancer as the axe had parted the bark of the tree, but the steel head struck true right at the base of the bastard's back, and he let out a yelp of pain as his legs gave out.  Makar's long, oily black hair spilled out on the carpeted floor as his forehead cracked down.

"Please no, I beg of you mercy!"  Makar said as he awkwardly rolled over onto his back.  Umaryn's grin spread impossibly wider as she watched a thick river of blood run down his face from a deep cut.  She realized then the man was broken.  His back was in two, and there would be no escape.

Nine heartbeats.

Umaryn reached down and scooped up the hammer.  Makar saw what was to be, and began to conjure up The Way one last time in a final attempt to save his own life.

Just like her father had brought that axe down onto the logs that day, Umaryn swung the hammer strong and clean.

She split Makar's log in two, just as easily as her father had split those logs that day, long ago during the childhood she so missed now.

Ten heartbeats.

Makar's screams were more than agony, more than understandable by any human empathy.  His groin was laid entirely asunder, and blood stained his grey trousers, and spread into the rich carpet faster than any man should bleed.  He abandoned any attempts at The Way, instead clutching at his ruined genitals.

"I told you," she said before turning away to tend to her brother.

- Chapter Sixteen -

THREE QUESTIONS ASKED

"Ancestors help you Mal, your head is split nearly in half," Umaryn said softly.  She'd crouched low next to Mal's sitting form to take a closer look at the giant rent in her brother's head.   The bloody gash ran from his left temple over his ear and to the back of his skull where his hair line ended.  The flesh had pulled away, revealing the bright pink skull bone beneath his scalp.  Umaryn squashed a lurch in her stomach.

"Is my skull broken?  I don't have a headache," Mal said as he lifted his hand again to try and touch the wound.  Umaryn slapped his hand away.

"Stop fucking with it Mal," she said brusquely.  Umaryn slid her small backpack off and removed the lantern that Dram had given them.  Just touching the artifact made the tips of her fingers tingle, but she had no time to admire the thing's energy.  She fished out a roll of clean white cloth to use as a bandage.  She unrolled it tight but gingerly around her brother's head, using her free hand's fingers to push the gap of flesh together.  She winced; her brother's eyes rolled up into his head and he faded from consciousness.

As her brother's two undead slaves stood passively blocking the stone passage that led deeper into Omnirr's fortress, she worked quickly.  She feared Omniri's undead forces dearly, but she also feared her brother's two zombies as well.  He'd told her a dozen times the his undead would not stray from his will unless he died, but she was no necromancer, and had no love or trust for the darkest arts of The Way.

Fortunately, the two dead soldiers stood true to Malwynn's word, keeping anything that might come at them at bay.   Umaryn felt some appreciation for their presence, but it was tempered by mistrust and fear.  Give her steel, give her wood.  In these things she could place faith and trust.

"Am I all better?"  Mal asked, startling her.  She hadn't realized she was spacing out.

"Um, yeah.  Sorry.  You blacked out for a moment there.  I've bandaged the wound, but with no tonic to give you, you are what you are right now."  Umaryn stood, and extended a hand down to help her brother up.

Malwynn took the hand graciously, and joined her standing in the hall, mostly due to her strength.  His head swooned and he saw stars.  When his vision cleared he saw the fresh blood on the stone and rugs.  He knew it was his.  It was still sticky underfoot.

"Soon I'll be able to restore my flesh with necromancy, but I've not studied the spell enough yet.  Timing is everything it seems.  Do we still have the lantern?" Mal asked, tenderly feeling at the bandage around his chin and forehead.  His flesh felt tight.

Umaryn had to laugh.  He looked ridiculous, "We still have it.  Ready to be lit whenever we need it most.  Probably should have already lit the damned thing eh?"

Malwynn smiled at their predicament, and then laughed a bit with her.  It felt good to laugh, even in this den of evil.  He let the moment finish, and assessed their next step.

Umaryn spoke again, "We need to move forward.  If there's an exit from here, Omniri will surely be heading for it by now.  That or he's mustering his most powerful defenses for his last stand against us."

"Yeah," was all the response Mal could come up with.  He was still thinking about what to do next.

"Can you reanimate these dead bodies?  The zombies wearing the armor that we've been killing for half an hour?  They'd be perfect."

Mal shook his head, "No.  Once they're destroyed the soul inside is rendered useless, void.  I can no more reanimate them than I could a turnip, or your hammer."

"If you did any of your necromantic bullshit on my hammer Mal I swear to god I'd send it so far up your ass you could drive nails with your nose."

Mal laughed again.  Umaryn did the same.

"Look Umaryn, this won't be good.  I'm already hurt, we're both tired.  We've likely seen less than half of what Omniri can send at us, let alone Omniri the necromancer.   He's likely to be as powerful as Dram, or more so."

"At least we have this lantern.  I know Dram had little faith in its power Mal, but I can sense it as clear as the moons on a cloudless night.  There is such power in it."  Umaryn closed her eyes and rested her fingertips atop the lantern.  Her skin prickled with joy at its touch.

"Then let someone else's failure be our deliverance.  Perhaps the ancestors smile on us at long last dear sister."

"A fool's errand, this vengeance," Umaryn said softly, realizing they could die in just a few minutes.

"Justice.  Justice for our mother, our father, and our little sister.  Justice for my Marissa.  Justice for the entire village of New Picknell.  Call it vengeance if you want, but I did not do the things I did with you to give up now.  We're a hundred feet and ten minutes from watching the man that murdered our parents bleed out on the floor in front of us."

"Let the ancestors bear witness."

"And let us hope there's an apostle nearby to usher our souls into proper rest should we fail in our task here."

The Everwalk twins grasped bloody hands for a moment, and after Umaryn slung her backpack, and picked up the lantern, they headed deeper down the passage towards where they hoped to find Omniri.

And the strange, ruthless justice they'd sought for so long now.

The thick necromancer sat on his raised dais like a bloated preacher.   Before him stood his self made congregation of undead, lined up in long rows.  A lush purple velvet chair wrapped its folds around his ample flesh a little too tightly to truly be comfortable.  Omniri's vanity and love of the gift the Queen had given him would never allow for a different seat.  If the chair was taken from him he would simply never sit again.

Past the heavy oak double doors that Makar had sealed behind him when he left Omniri could sense precious little presence of the undead.  It was a relatively easy trick of The Way to reach out with his mind and feel the essence of the reanimated dead, and Omniri had performed this parlor trick several times now.  It was a waste of his mental fortitude, but his obsessive need to know prevented him from relaxing.

He closed his eyes and extended his will out from his body, and through the thick granite walls of his home.  Like pinpricks of light in the night sky he could see less than a hand's worth of the dead in the void beyond.  One twinkle of undeath disappeared, signaling the ruin of yet another of Makar's minions.  Omniri gnashed his teeth together and stood, full of anger.  The chair gripped his sides, hesitant to free his prodigious body from its embrace.

These two miscreants…  These two foul spawns of a whore's ass would pay for all the trouble they'd caused him.  He would not be embarrassed here in his very home by two unknowns from Graben's gutter.   They would repay him with their death.

There was a sound at the door.  A scratching, then a slight rattle as the door shook.  Omniri turned and watched as the twin doors to the hall moved ever so slightly.  Someone was trying to pull them open.  The same fools then tried to push them in to no avail.  His doors would not give way to any strength they could muster.

"Let them spend what remains of their strength there, failing to operate something as simple as a door, my pets.  Then we shall show them what it means to truly face a necromancer."

Lined up scores deep and scores wide before him was the personal army of Omniri Decadra.   Their dead mouths fought and failed to salivate inside their wrought iron cages.  They wanted the warm flesh of the intruders almost as much as their master did.

"How do we get it open?"  Mal asked, looking at the wide and sturdy double door.  When he grabbed the handles and gave them a yank earlier he immediately knew that he had no chance of kicking the door in.  The hall they stood in terminated at the thick door, and there was nowhere else to go.  Omniri had to be on the other side.

"I don't know.  I have no knowledge in The Way that can open this door.  Not yet at least."  Umaryn shook the door handles like her brother had a moment before.  There was no give.  The doors were well crafted, and the large tumbler lock in the center looked ornate, and expensive.  It was likely built by an artificer somewhere outside of Graben.

"Nor do I.  How sad to be turned away at the final door because we haven't an axe to cut it apart with."  Mal clenched his fists and sat on an ornate mahogany bench just aside the door.  "Could we make a ram of this bench?"

Umaryn looked at it and shrugged, unsure of the idea. "Probably.  Maybe."  Her frustration grew as the moments passed.

"Can we set it on fire?  Will the door burn down?"  Mal proposed.  He liked fire.  It was cleansing, purifying, merciless.  In this moment, it seemed a fitting weapon to use.

Umaryn's eyebrows peaked.  "There's an idea.  Though it would take some time, and what's left of our energy."  She sighed, "I wish I knew where the damned-" She stopped suddenly, a grin on her face.  "Wait here, rest a bit."  She turned and jogged down the hall, clearly with a purpose.

Mal watched her leave around the corner.  It felt insane to be a little relieved that he had a moment alone to sit.  He was buried deep under the stone of a mountain he'd been taught to be fearful of his entire life, and he was sitting beside a door that undoubtedly led to a room filled with undead, led by an arch-necromancer responsible for the death and destruction of everything he loved.

Malwynn shrugged and closed his eyes to rest.  If death came for him at this very moment, he would risk it.

"Mal.  Wake the hell up.  Who takes a fucking nap at a time like this?  Ancestors bless me, my brother is an idiot."  Umaryn slapped his cheek and he came to.  He'd fallen asleep.

"I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I'm just- I'm so tired Umaryn.  I just needed a few minutes to close my eyes.  I'm sorry."

Umaryn looked at her twin brother, so fragile here in this dark hallway.  Together they had come so far, but they were both spent.  Exhaustion had the better of them, and there was no chance they could relent now.  To give up at this doorway, on this bench would mean everything they had done was for nothing.

Umaryn crouched in front of him and took his hand in hers again.  Her tone was apologetic, but positive, "Don't fret brother.  I've good news."

Mal sat up a little straighter, his body invigorated slightly at her mention of good news, "What have you found?  Another way into the room here?"

Umaryn shook her head smiling, "No.  But I realized that such a door with a lock so special, so expensive must have a key.  And I wondered to myself who might have been carrying that key?"

Mal beamed at her, "Makar."

"Makar indeed my nap taking, foolish brother."

"So then here we are.  No more barriers."  Mal looked over at the still locked doors.  They had seemed so strong and immobile just minutes before, but now with the key in their hand it seemed flimsy, and nearly transparently thin.  Impending violence raged a hair's breadth away.

"No more excuses, and no more death to deal."  Umaryn was grim but relieved.

Mal turned back to her, fragile seeming again.  His incredible strength had faded away for a moment, leaving only the little boy she grew up with that was scared of thunderstorms. "Umaryn if I never have to draw my sword again I'll die happy.  I'm fed up with all this violence.  I've had nearly my fill of vengeance."

"I know exactly what you mean.  All this has changed us.  Not for the better I think either."

Mal nodded in agreement.

"It's time brother."  Umaryn stood, and offered her hand to Mal once more.

He took it, and when he reached his feet this time there was no wobble, no lack of clarity in his eyes, and like a dark butterfly leaving its cocoon, she watched as that image of the fragile boy was left behind, leaving only the strong and powerful young man she'd grown to rely on, and love.

Without thinking, Umaryn blurted a confession, "If I don't get to say this, remember that I love you.  You've been a better brother than I've ever deserved."

Mal's cheeks lit with a warm smile, "I could never have asked for a better sister.  You've always had my love, and hopefully we walk away from this, and we can tell each other we love one another more.  One day if I can ever fall in love again I can explain to my wife and children how lucky they are to have you in their family."  The twins shared a caring moment on the precipice.  "Let's be done with this.  Give me the key, you ready Dram's lantern.  I suspect if we survive this, it'll be your hand guiding that artifact you have so much faith in."

Umaryn got the lantern out of the pack and ensured that the wick was raised enough to be lit easily.  She gave the lantern a little shake and listened for the sloshing of the oil inside.  They had only a minute's burn at the most, and the lantern had no way to be refueled.  She fished a flint and steel from her pack and readied it for striking.

"Let me have that."  Mal beckoned to the fire starting tools.

"You are complete shit at starting fires Mal.  We've established that over many years."

"That was before I knew The Way.  Give it here."  Mal gestured again, this time showing no wasn't an acceptable answer.

Umaryn was unsure of what her brother was capable of, but the look on his face told her she didn't have to worry.  He was confident, and that was all that mattered.

"Ready?"  Mal asked her.

"No."

"Perfect then.  Let the Everwalk twins take a few steps more."  Mal inserted the slender golden key into the ornate locking mechanism, and gave it a twist.

Omniri stood on his dais, his heart throbbing in his chest in exultation.  He heard the tumbler rotate in the door.  It sounded so loud to him, as if a bear trap had suddenly snapped shut on the leg of an animal.  His prey had finally stepped on the strands of his sticky web, and soon they'd be consumed fully.

Omniri summoned The Way and motioned for two doors in the corner of the hall to swing open.  The telekinetic spell worked perfectly, pushing them outward, and allowing the two groups of special, armed and armored undead standing before them to shuffle away into twin secret passages.  The passages would open into the hall that the two intruders stood in.

There would be no mercy, and no escape for them.

Malwynn pressed through the door and into the massive hall, leaving the key in the lock so as to draw his sword.  Once inside the room he immediately regretted the decision to come to Graben on the train so many months ago.

His mind absorbed the scene; the hall was fifty feet wide, maybe more, and lit by strings of torches along its outer walls.  Eight columns of dark stone supported the ceiling, each as thick as he was tall.  More torches were hung in sconces around each column, casting their flickering light across the room's abundant inhabitants.  The damp expanse ran deep into the mountain, like a death filled womb.

From side to side his eyes ran across row after row of dominated undead, extending to the back wall of the sloped roofed room.  Mal's poor brain tried to do the math but stopped when the calculations passed a hundred.  Any number he came to after that seemed pointless.

At his side Umaryn strode into the room, then had her own moment of pause.  She gripped the handle of the enchanted lantern in her free hand out of fear as she accepted the reality of their situation.  Both their eyes stopped on the far left side of the room where a raised stone platform ran the length of the floor.  Atop the platform stood a shorter and fatter version of the man Umaryn had killed earlier.  This man's eyes pierced like icicles fallen from a castle spire.  They both knew exactly who he was.

Omniri spoke, "Welcome to my parlor Malwynn.  Might you introduce me to the lady who you've brought today?"  His voice was silky, yet menacing, like silk dragged across the scales of an Oakdale alligator.

"My name is Umaryn Everwalk.  I share the same surname as my brother Malwynn."  Umaryn's voice was defiant, and bold.  She was careful to stand in such a way that her body shielded the lantern from Omniri's cold eyes.

"Yes, I see the resemblance.  Your eyes betray your false courage young girl.  I see how your bright blue eyes fade to grey when they gaze across my pets.  You speak large words, but inside you are very small."

Umaryn flared in anger, but turned when she heard the clink of metal behind her and her brother.  To their rear in the hall they'd just left, Omniri's ten undead had exited the secret passages and now stood, clogging up any chance of an easy exit.  The zombies wore chainmail, and instead of the crude iron cages that sat atop their fellow's shoulders, they instead wore steel helms that a living warrior might.  In their hands they capably wielded well made flanged maces.  The sharpened steel blades surrounding the mace heads were still tinged with the blood of whoever had last died on them.  These were special undead, imbued with skill.

"As you can see, you've conveniently delivered your bodies straight to your grave.  I owe you a debt of gratitude."  Omniri sounded implacable, arrogant.

Malwynn wanted to rip his throat out with his bare hands.

"I suppose I should ask you who you serve before I kill you.  If only to see if you are honest with me before death, rather than only after it.  Everyone can be made to be honest to a necromancer when they're dead you see."

"We serve ourselves death mage," Malwynn said contemptuously.

Omniri shook his head as he paced on his platform, closer to them.  His voice was skeptical, "You lie.  Someone in Graben that is high in station has led you to my doorstep.  Your wrath is not your own."

Malwynn took a single angry step towards Omniri but the entire room of undead lurched forward to match him, halting him.  "Our wrath is most certainly our own you insolent bastard.  Your actions alone have brought you into our path, and the seeds you sowed in New Picknell will be harvested this day."

Omniri looked confused.  "New Picknell?  Where is this place you speak of?  I feel your wrath has been sorely misplaced."  The fat necromancer's confusion slowly turned back to impatient anger as Malwynn replied to him.

"At the end of this past summer your servants, Ivar Brodull, and Makar, and many more, rode south into Varrland to a small village called New Picknell.  You and your craven minions set flame to our home, and murdered every single soul there.  My sister and I have lost everything because of you.  Everything.  And now, we're here to settle that score."

Omniri's bloated face spread into a devious smile.  "Oh. That place.  Then by now you certainly would have seen a familiar face or two here in my hall."  Omniri gestured proudly to his army of the dead.

Mal and Umaryn simultaneously felt an incredible dread.  They had both been consumed with their rage in the presence of Omniri that they had paid no attention to the army of rotting corpses arrayed before them.  They had given the faces of the dead no consideration.

Until now.

In the front row of undead Umaryn saw a face she'd never expected to see again.  What was left of Luther, her barrel chested, smooth headed teacher in the forge stood passively, his grey and bloodied flesh wilted and withered.  His head was encased by the same rough iron that all the others were protected by, and he wore the tattered peasant's trousers and blouse that all the dead in the room wore.  Her heart lurched, skipping several beats as she swallowed down overpowering emotions.  Her eyes swelled with tears, and her mind soured into a strange madness.  She had never been more furious.

And just like that, her thoughts turned to her brother.  Standing beside Luther was the reanimated corpse of a girl in her late teens.  Umaryn's detached mind realized she was pretty, prettier than most, even dead.  She was also very familiar with her dark brown curls collected at her shoulder inside the iron bars surrounding her head.  She was almost as familiar as Luther, or family.  Umaryn heard a guttural sob from her brother beside her, and she turned to him, hoping to attend him in his sudden grief.

What should have been a triumphant moment of vengeance had evolved and decayed into an experience of grief so powerful it threatened to end everything they had worked for.

Malwynn dropped to his knees, crying and calling out, "Oh dear ancestors Marissa…  What has happened to you?!"  His sword slipped from his fingers and clanged loudly in the near silent room.  Mal was disarmed in every sense possible.

"Mal stand, please.  We must grieve later.  Now is the time for action."  Umaryn was desperate.  She felt the armored undead behind them come closer, threatening to strangle them with their sheer presence.

"I should've suspected this.  I should've known Umaryn.  I should've seen this coming all along.  What now?"  Mal's blue eyes, the same as hers turned up to her and she felt his hurt keenly, as only twins can.  It stretched through her soul like dry brittle skin cracking on a cold day.  It stung, it ached, and it lingered.

"Mal," she was firm.   "We must kill him to release her.  I need you."

From his dais, Omniri mocked, "She needs you Mal.  Your sister needs you."

That did it.  The sound of the fat man's shrill voice poking fun at his pain snapped Malwynn's resolve back into place.  The tears ceased immediately and he stood, leaving his sword impotently on the floor.  Omniri's face lost a moment of the sickening confidence he'd displayed so boisterously.

"Sister," Mal said in a voice that was stone cold.  His eyes were locked with those of his dead fiancé, only a few feet away.  Umaryn feared more for his soul in this moment than ever before.

"Mal?"  She asked in return.

"Give these people peace."  Mal's empty hand dropped low, and pointed to where she held the lantern.

"Absolutely," she said, her eyes locking with Omniri's.  She reveled in the sudden look of fear on his face as she lifted the lantern high, and allowed her spirit and soul to connect with the lantern.  The process required precious little effort on her part.  This was her gift, what she was born to do.  It felt like a flood of warmth through her veins and skin, tingling her from head to toe like the sweetest nectar imaginable.

"Kill them!" Omniri screamed.  He jabbed a thick finger at the twins, and as if set free from invisible bonds, the entire town of New Picknell, made undead and wholly evil, surged forward to kill the remaining two survivors.

In Mal's still closed hand he held the flint and steel tightly.  Without fear or hesitation, he conjured forth a small taste of The Way, and squeezed the two items together, imagining the wick inside the artifact lantern.  His will sent the magic.

Umaryn watched as the oil soaked wick sparked, and took flame.

She felt The Way surge out of the lantern.  A powerful resonance filled the room, vibrating the stone of the mountain, and the chests of the living and dead alike.  The power of the magic released pushed her backwards, and she had to plant both feet firmly onto the stone to keep from sliding backwards into the rearguard of undead.  She was fighting a metaphysical tug of war with the spirit and power inside the lit magical item.

The light flooding forth from the lantern was brighter than a small flame could've ever hoped to achieve.  The spirit in the lantern rang true in the luminescence, showing the innate and divine power of the spirits within all things created in Elmoryn, and all the ancestors that roamed the surface of the world.

The yellow-white rays hit the undead and stopped them in their tracks as sure as if they had stepped in flowstone.  They were pushed back after just another second, and only a second more after that their flesh started to wither, pucker, and melt away into nothingness.  Hot water poured on snow was the only thing Umaryn could imagine.

Mal's vision tunneled.  All he could see was the face of the woman he'd planned on marrying.  Even in death she retained beauty.  However she had died, it had left her face untouched and pristine save for the color of ashen skies.  Her eyes were pale and vacant, and Mal knew her soul was lost forever.  Inside he wept for the future that had been stolen from them, and for the memory of that last time they had lay in the hay together, enjoying the comfort and safety of each other's embrace.  He watched as the light touched her skin, and slowly at first, began to dissolve her away, leaving nothing behind.

"Goodbye my love," he whispered.   A heartbeat later her entire body was eradicated by the light, like sand blown away by a hard desert wind.  He watched as the iron basket that had protected her head fell and bounced loudly off the stone floor.  A weight came off his chest.  He could breathe again.

As Umaryn lifted the lantern high she pressed further into the room, pushing the horde of undead back with her light.  She was wrathful, and unimaginably powerful with the artifact in her hands.  Mal looked to the raised platform and saw how Omniri shuddered in fear.  He reached down and picked up his sword.  Then, walking at first, then running, he went at Omniri.

The necromancer snapped to his senses as Mal approached, and summoned The Way.  Appearing at the center of his chest a bony carapace came into being.  It spread over the rest of his torso like a fast moving army of linked ants, then over his arms, legs and head, encompassing all of his exposed flesh, leaving only a slit visor that eerily reminded Mal of a demented, one eyed skull.

"Your head is mine Omniri Decadra!"  Mal bellowed as he leapt atop the dais, sword in hand.

Muffled slightly by his bone armor, Omniri met his challenge, "This is your end, not mine child!"

And then it began.  As Umaryn used the powerful lantern to bring final death to her fellow villagers, her brother fought to end the man that had started it all.

Omniri took several steps backward, far more adeptly than Malwynn could have expected.  Despite his girth the death mage was agile.  His hands came up, and Mal felt it as the other necromancer summoned will to power The Way again.  As Malwynn slashed angrily with his sword, attempting to disrupt the spell, he watched as Omniri's hands took on a shadowy essence, as if they'd suddenly been coated with oil mixed with ash.  Mal knew the spell was one of great power, and he knew that if Omniri's hands were to simply touch him, half his soul or more would be stolen.

He feared he had too little soul left to spare.

Mal paused, and Omniri pressed.  It was Mal's turn to backpedal as the large necromancer swung his hands wildly back and forth.  The spell caster was madly aggressive, and Mal was tiring quickly.  His head throbbed, and his muscles ached fiercely.  This was an unfair battle; Mal needed to find a chink in the skeletal armor to harm his opponent even a bit, but all Omniri had to do was simply brush a finger against Mal and the dark shadow of The Way would steal his soul.  The touch of one finger could mean death for the Everwalk man.

Off the raised stone and down on the hall floor proper Umaryn held her own against the encroaching tide of undead.  She felt like she stood in the center of a whirlpool, with all the anger and violence in the hall draining straight at her.  The lantern's effect was powerful, unbelievably powerful, but it was like a winter blizzard; gradual, and unstoppable.  It took several seconds for the undead to be pierced by the light, and a few seconds more for them to be annihilated by it.  Out of the corner of her eye she tried to keep an eye on her brother as well.  His battle seemed to be faring poorly, as he was on the defensive, trying to dodge the reckless blows of the now armored necromancer.

An armored zombie swung a mace at her and she stepped back, dodging it.  Despite their relative skill with the weapons, the special zombies were still clumsier than a living opponent, and Umaryn was more agile than most.  She was able to hold the lantern aloft and plant a forceful front kick into the chest plate of the dead warrior, sending him stumbling backwards where he eventually tripped and fell onto his back, armor clanging loudly.  It was a small victory, but it bought the lantern enough time to disintegrate another handful of the dead.

She felt the tiny slosh of the remaining oil, and started to pray to her ancestors that it would bear out the rest of the battle.  She stopped her prayer realizing it was the wrong one, and refocused it.

Whispering under her breath, instead she prayed to the lantern itself, and the spirits of the things within, "Giver of light, I beckon to your spirit, your soul, that you find it in your good graces to burn long, and burn hard this day.  I beg that you do so to save my life, and especially the life of my brother.  We seek only justice in this, I thank you."

She had no more than finished her prayer to the lantern and the spirits of all the things of Elmoryn when the lantern's light flared up more powerfully than before.  The light burst forth like an exploding sun, releasing a concussive blast of sound and brightness, searing her vision white, temporarily blinding her.

Mal's back was to the lantern when its power exploded.  The shockwave of The Way blew his cloak around him and tossed him forward a half step.  His vision faded out for a moment, but returned in time to see Omniri stumbling backwards, clearly blinded.  It was now or never.

Mal surged forward and closed the gap between the two of them.  It was necromancer versus necromancer, and Mal used the tip of his short sword to gain the power in the battle.  He could afford a single strike.  His blow could not be to wound, or to maim.  Omniri's spell in waiting could be set loose on his flesh unless Mal's first blow was a murderous one.

He had a single opportunity to end the battle, and save his own life, as well as his sister's.

Mal drew his blade hand backwards at shoulder level, the point even with his chin.  He stepped into the thrust, twisting his hips as Ivar had instructed him, getting what remained of the power of all his tired and exhausted muscles, and drove the needle like tip of the sword directly at the slot in the bone armor's helm where Omniri's eyes were.

He thought of Marissa.

The blade slid a half inch low, and skipped on the bottom edge of the bone armor visor.  The ancestors smiled on him though, and guided the blade upwards, allowing it to drive home deep into the core of the helm where Omniri's face resided.  Mal felt the blade pierce bone, cartilage, and brain.  It stopped on the back wall of the necromancer's skull, lodged firmly.

He let go of the blade as Omniri's immense weight went limp and crumbled down to the cold hard floor.  Malwynn was satisfied, but empty.

The room was still as the lantern's light faded.  The Way infused device had given them one last burst of power suitable enough to destroy all the dead.  It seemed as if all the spirits of Elmoryn had smiled upon them this day.  Now all that remained in the room were the clothes, weapons, and iron cages that had belonged to the dead.

Also left behind was the corpse of Omniri Decadra, his bone armor fading from view, all his magic spent.

"Mal we've got to leave.  If anyone comes here and finds us we're beyond dead."  Umaryn clearly had not realized the extent of their victory.

Mal ignored her as he fished a small steel jar from a belt pouch.  "I need half an hour to cast a spell.  Pilfer what you can from this place.  We'll be leaving Graben on the last train out tonight and our Crowns will be useless outside of the Empire.  Grab only what we can put on Tinder and Bramwell."

"What spell could be so important that we're to risk our lives and capture for it?  You're not going to make him into one of your undead are you Mal?  Mal?"  Umaryn had misplaced fury for her brother suddenly.

Mal turned to her impassive, and calmly responded, "Remember how he said the dead couldn’t lie to a necromancer?  I am a necromancer.  I plan on asking him a few last questions.  I'm not satisfied just yet."

Umaryn's frustration faded, and she agreed.  She turned and jogged away, theft on her mind.

Mal opened the jar, revealing an ointment that smelled of spices, lotions, herbs, and death.  He used the dagger Umaryn crafted for him to split Omniri's robe open, then began to apply the thick white substance to the dead man's flesh.  Everything had to be just so for the spell to work, as this was a bit of The Way he could not afford to fail.

Umaryn stood at Mal's side as the spell took hold.

Malwynn felt a tether form between his mind and what remained of Omniri's.  The dead man's essence still resided in his fresh corpse, and roamed around it angrily.  For the first time Mal could truly feel the brutal rage the dead felt.  Omniri was lost inside his own body, and soon that soul would overtake it again, turning it into undead, and becoming murderous.  Such was the way of the dead of Elmoryn.

This spell would only afford Malwynn a few questions, and if Omniri's soul and mind chose to resist it, the questions might be answered with lies.  He had to convince the dead necromancer to answer truthfully.

"Lord Omniri Decadra, I greet you once again, though now on different terms."  Malwynn said.  The speech was silently sent through the magical tether with The Way.

Mal felt Omniri's mind reel away from his touch.  After a few moments he felt it return, interested in playing this one last game, "Malwynn Everwalk you are a necromancer indeed.  Makar's suspicions were correct."

Mal didn't answer.  The more he chose to speak to Omniri the less he could ask of him.  Mal needed to choose his words carefully, or risk losing the spell entirely.  "You have my word Lord that I will see to it that your corpse is disposed of properly.  I assure you that I will not reanimate or dominate you, and neither will anyone else.  I cannot grant you life, but I can grant you dignity in death.  I do these things for a few answers, to a few questions."

Several minutes passed as Omniri weighed the deal set forth.  Finally, he responded, "Answer me one question and I shall answer all of yours truthfully."

Mal didn't respond, he simply let the dead man's question lay for a bit until Omniri continued of his own accord.

"You had to have had an accomplice in this.  I would've known of you had you been able to do this on your own.  No one rises in Graben or the Empire to where you are without my knowledge. Someone had to have lent you assistance.  Tell me who."  Omniri's tone, even dead was hateful.

Malwynn saw no harm in answering, "Dram."

Mal felt Omniri's soul burst out in rage, and his dead body shook suddenly.   It took several minutes for his soul to calm down and entertain Mal's questions.

"Go.  Ask me what you will."

Mal asked the one real question he wanted the answer to, "Why did you destroy New Picknell?"

Omniri's soul and mind hesitated, and Mal felt a turbulence that could only be caused by the presence of fear.  He suddenly wondered why a man already dead and guaranteed peace would have fear of anything.

"I was paid to."

Mal's blood ran cold.  The realization that there was another layer to this made his heart struggle to beat in his chest.  His palms started to issue forth a cold sweat.

Mal kept his cool, and continued, "Who paid you, and why?"

Omniri let loose a sinister laugh before replying, "Won't this shake your world to the core?  This will be worth an eternity of oblivion.  I was paid to kill a man and a woman in New Picknell, and take a small chest from their home.  I was to kill an Apostle named Catherine, and the town's mayor Ellioth.  Do you know these people Malwynn?  I was told to kill everyone else and raze that village to the ground to ensure no one would know they were the true targets all along.  Are they close to you?"  Omniri baited Mal, played with his heart.

Mal's mind reeled again as his stomach began to revolt.  He had one more question, two at the most left.  He could vomit after.  "Who paid you?  How did they pay you?"

"Let this rattle around in your pea brain Varrlander.  Let it rot everything you hold near and dear; I was paid by an Apostle from Daris.  Someone high in the Church of Souls had something to hide, and had something to get their holy, grubby little hands on.  Catherine and Ellioth knew their secret, and had this thing, and everyone in your village died because of it.  Now they have what they wanted, and no one's the wiser."

Mal couldn't hold it together any longer.  His mind had been too torn up by the revelations to keep the spell maintained, and he slumped onto his back, severing the tether.  He rolled onto his side as his stomach emptied itself onto the floor powerfully.  He pointed at Omniri's body as it started to shake and convulse; the first signs of reanimation.

Umaryn still stood beside her brother as he had sat cross legged performing the spell.  Her hammer had been in hand the entire time, and when Mal fell backwards, vomited and pointed, she brought it down on the dead necromancer's skull, hammering it flat and ending any chance it had of rising.  She crouched at her brother's side as he sat up, wiping bile from his lips.

Mal set what he had learned free, "He was paid.  He was sent by someone in Daris to kill mom and dad, and take something from our home.  He was told to kill everyone to hide it.  So no one could know they were meant to be the ones killed.  They all died for mom and dad, and something he took from our home."

Umaryn absorbed everything before replying, "Then we find this person.  We go to Daris, and we take this the next step.  Now we have time, and even more feathers stuck in our cap."

"I fear what we will uncover, if anything at all."

"I fear for them, when we find them."  Umaryn offered her hand to her brother one last time in Graben, capital of the Amaranth Empire.

- Chapter Seventeen -

AN EVERWALK SETTLES ALL DEBTS

"Absolutely not.  You must leave immediately," Dram said as the twins entered Sorber Manor.  Dram stood near the foot of the massive staircase that led up to the higher level of the stone fortress.  He towered above them.  Dram shook his pale white hands repeatedly, ushering them at the door in an attempt to get them to leave.

"We will be gone in five minutes Dram.  Let us gather our things," Umaryn said hurriedly.

"Please Dram," Malwynn pleaded.

Dram's protests slowed then stopped.  "Where are you leaving to?"

Mal answered, "We're getting our things then heading immediately to the rails.  We hope to get on the last train out of Graben tonight."

"Back to the ruins of New Pickell?  Are you to rebuild what was destroyed?"  Dram asked.  Mal and Umaryn heard the tiniest fleck of hope in Dram's voice.  It was a strange but welcome thing.

Mal shook his head, "No.  It appears that our journey to get to the root of all of this isn't over, even with Omniri dead.  He was paid by an Apostle in Daris to destroy New Picknell.  We aim to find this Apostle."

Dram's head cocked to the side, intrigued by this news, "I had suspected something of the sort.  This is more worrying than you can imagine.  It speaks of conspiracy.  It speaks of war.  This bodes of dark times for both you and all of Elmoryn.  It does appear though that the name I have given to you continues to be apropos."

The twins looked at one another, unsure of what Dram really meant.

"Nonetheless, your time here has been beneficial to me, and I shall reap the rewards of our relationship soon I am sure.  Gather your things.  Before you depart I have some things to give you.  A parting gift as it were."  Dram spun, sending his cloak in a flurry around his body, and he glided up the stairs ethereally.

Mal and Umaryn looked at one another and shrugged.  They followed Dram up the stairs to get their things.

Mal packed a final tome into his backpack and tossed it over his shoulder.  His head wound hurt fiercely, more so now than when they were deep inside Omniri's lair.  Time might heal all wounds, but healing meant pain.  He grabbed a large sack filled with the purple coin of the Queen, ensured nothing was left behind, and exited his quarters, heading down to the foyer where they had met Dram.  Umaryn was already there.

Dram addressed her, "You can replace your tools in Daris, or any sizeable village along the rails.  Fret not.  Bring the books I procured for you, the ones with the Artificer chants.  They are quite expensive, and will continue to serve you for some time.  I don't anticipate bringing any other artificer mages into my home any time soon."

"I have them, thank you," she said in return.

The tall cloaked death mage turned to face Mal, "Malwynn, have you the tomes I instructed you to read?"

Mal nodded, "I do.  I wouldn't leave without them."

"Good.  Be mindful that the study of death magic outside of my beloved Queen's empire is often a crime.  If your new, true nature is revealed you might face dire consequences."

Mal nodded again, "I'm aware.  I'll do my best to keep my secret.  Thank you again for teaching me all you have."

Dram shook his head dismissively, "Nonsense.  I simply pointed you towards where you could learn what you were meant to learn.  Things happen for reasons.  Call it fate, call it the will of your ancestors, call it what you will, but it was no accident that we three crossed paths."

"Shall we call it good fortune then?" Umaryn offered.

Dram seemed to approve, "Let us call it that.  How many Crowns are you leaving the Empire with?"

"We've got perhaps ten thousand," Mal said holding the heavy sack up.  He was glad the coins were made of a light metal.

"Mmm.  They'll be useless in Varrland, or wherever you go.  Give them here.  I have something you can take in return."  Dram reached out for the sack, and Mal handed it to him.  Umaryn picked a similar sack up off the floor and handed it over as well.

Dram spun again and dropped the sacks off near an ornate parlor table.  He tugged on the drawer and after a few seconds of searching, he produced a thick wad of small papers the size of an envelope.  He riffled the pile carefully, reading what was written on them, and then strode back over, splitting the thick wad into two roughly equal stacks.

"Here, take these" Dram said, handing the twins a stack each, "They are Yokian dollars.  You will not get their full face value in Daris, but you'll certainly get more than what you'd get from the Crowns.  Not to mention explaining a large quantity of Commonwealth money will be easier than a large amount of Empire coin.  Less prying questions will be good."

Mal looked at the colorful paper money.  It seemed fake.  He and his sister had only seen coin money up until now, "How much is all this worth?"

Dram shrugged, "In Daris?  Hard to say.  If you were to ride the train straight to Yokia and cash them in there, you'd get the full value, somewhere around 10,000 dollars.  In Daris, I'd guess at seven or eight thousand, depending on how good you are at haggling the exchange."

The twins were suddenly thankful.

"Thank you."

"Thank you."

"Crowns are more valuable to me here.  This exchange benefits me more than you.  You should leave.  By now there is good chance that someone has realized that Omniri or Makar are not doing something they should be doing.  You will have safe harbor at the rail yard, and aboard the train.  The Guild and The Queen have an arrangement, and the death of an Inquisitor will not warrant the defiance of that agreement."

The twins nodded.  A strange silence fell upon them.  Mal and Umaryn looked around the lavish manor room, realizing that it would be their last time there.  The entire home had taken on a far better tone with Umaryn's care.  Her mending spells had restored the home to a glory not seen in decades, or perhaps longer.

"Then we'll be off.  Dram, if only there was a way to adequately thank you for all you've given us," Mal said, extending a hand to the necromancer that had changed their lives.

Dram's hooded head looked down at the hand extending the alien gesture.  He awkwardly sent his own white hand out to grasp it.  Mal noted how cool the flesh was.

Umaryn put her hand forth after the two men finished their shake.  Dram took her hand the same, shaking it firmly.  She too felt the cold emanate from his body.

"I wish you well," Dram said with finality.

The Everwalk twins thanked the man that had given them their name once more, and they left Sorber Manor for the last time.

The ride down the lift from the High City was more remarkable than ever.  The pale white snow of the winter was fading away in the warming sun of spring, leaving the green of the fields revealed.  The lush grasses were already springing up from the earth, eager to taste the life-giving sunshine that had been taken from them for the long winter months.  Mal and Umaryn felt that more color and life had returned to the world.

The low city was wet and soggy, as it ever was.  Once past the establishments of higher standard they were in the industrial portions of the city, and then on the edge of slums.  They did not pass near Maya and Usul's home.  That might've been too much of a tipoff to anyone following them, and it certainly would've been another painful goodbye to endure.

They gave the butcher's shop as wide a berth as could be.  Call it pragmatic, but there was shame in their decision.

The ornate rail station carved with its columns and scrolls was a welcoming sight.  The train heading south was already in wait, and as they rode Tinder and Bramwell up the stone ramp to the top of the loading platform, they were happy to be on time.  One more night in Graben might be far too much to bear.

After they had seen to Tinder and Bramwell's storage in the freight cars, Mal and Umaryn took their seats in the passenger cars.  They had bought their tickets from the same blonde artificer that had ridden with them on their original voyage north.  The very same man that had brought them a wheelbarrow filled with tools to clean the freight car with.  This time they had no need to barter for their tickets.  They paid with a small handful of Crowns Mal kept in his pocket.

The train whistle blew loud and strong as the sun began to set on the Snake Ridge Mountains.  Mal and Umaryn looked at one another, and on the vast expanse of the city of the Purple Queen, and smiled as the massive locomotive surged, taking them away from the rail station.

The tickets purchased in Graben were only to Ockham's Fringe.  The twins agreed they would purchase tickets to Daris after staying there a single night to wrap up business.

It was later in the evening when they arrived at the rail house.  The train only stopped long enough for the twins to exit and get their mounts out of the freight car.  No new passengers awaited to head south, so the train continued on, and was nearly at the horizon by the time they passed the town guard.  Both Mal and Umaryn had donned heavy cloaks to cover their purple armor again, the same as the first time they'd visited.

They needed no advice or guidance to find where they would stay.  Howard's Inn and Brewery was in the same place as before.  As the last time, Howard's son took their mounts graciously, and stabled them.  This time they were able to leave him with a Crown as a tip.  It was a healthy showing of generosity.

Inside the tavern Howard's crowd was as thin as before.  Five customers sat arrayed around the room, eating and drinking Howard's fare.  A fresh earthy scent of new ale caught the nose, and the twins suddenly wanted it.

Howard was behind the counter, and puffed up happily when they entered, "Oh!  Tis the twins that headed north!  Faces I'll never forget.  A long time it has been.  Welcome to my inn and brewery once more.  What it is I can do for you this night, besides have my daughter tend to your bandaged head?"

Howard's smile was contagious, and Mal matched it, "Good to see you again sir.  We require a meal and a room more than your daughter's attendance, though I won't say no if she has medicinal skills."

Howard acted as if insulted, "You couldn't say no if you wanted to.  I'll have her sent right up to your room with clean water and a poultice that'll knit your flesh as sure an Apostle."

"My thanks.  Will this do?"  Mal showed the innkeep a handful of purple Crowns and hoped the man would have an interest in them.

Howard's smile faded a bit, but he nodded, "Those will spend well enough."

"I believe I owe you as well.  Take these," Mal dropped the same coin bag he'd filled at the bar months ago.  This time it was filled with twice as many of the purple coins as he'd taken.  Howard's gift had funded them as they headed north, and now Mal felt the debt was even.

"I told you that you owed me nothing boy, and I meant it," Howard said sternly.

"And you also told me that the Empire was where dreams went to die, and my dreams thrive.  An Everwalk settles all debts.  Never let that be forgotten."

Howard didn't look pleased, but after a bit of time spent staring with Mal, he nodded, and took the coin bag from the counter.  "After you bathe and my daughter sees to your wounds, I'll expect you down here for a mug of my new ale, and a capon, roasted fresh.  I'll not accept your payment here without something in return, and I'll have no argument about it."

Mal and Umaryn grinned.  Howard's insistence was noble, and the twins saw no value in turning down food and drink.  Howard tossed a large skeleton key at Mal and pointed to the stairs.  They headed away to their room, and the bath that awaited them.

Howard's ale was a violent drink.  Even at the next midday after consuming three large steins of it the ale was still punching and kicking at the inside of both twin's skulls.  It would take several skins of water to drown the beast into submission.

Mal reached the platform first, and had already seen to loading Tinder and Bramwell once more.  The blonde artificer was not on the train this day, but Mal did recognize the man at the ticket counter as the one they'd bartered with before.  This time his hairline was receded a bit more, and the touch of gray had eaten a bit more of the color.  He offered more work to Mal, but Mal simply smiled, and paid the man with the last of their Crowns.

Umaryn had gone off on business alone, and she returned carrying a massive burlap sack filled with something heavy and awkwardly shaped.  She loaded it onto the freight cars next to the horse and Gvorn, and joined Mal as they boarded the passenger car.  They took their seats. Shortly after, the train pulled away.  The small border village of Ockham's Fringe quickly disappeared into the twin's past.

"What was in the bag?"  Mal asked her.

Umaryn fetched a small piece of salted beef from a wax paper wrapping and let it soften in her mouth.  Around the meat she answered him, "You remember when we were here the last time?  And we killed that Plains Walker?"

"Yeah?"

"Well I dropped the hide off at that tanner.  It's been ready for months.  It'll make superb armor, once I get to a place to work it."  Umaryn's eyebrows kicked up happily.

Mal laughed, "Always the crafter sister.  Some things never change."

"Well dear brother, I figure in Daris, purple armor won't be in fashion."

"No, I imagine it won't."

End of Book One

Coming Soon

Book Two of the Kinless Trilogy:

The Motive for Massacre

- ABOUT THE AUTHOR -

CHRIS PHILBROOK is the creator and author of Elmoryn as well as the popular webfiction series Adrian's Undead Diary.

Chris calls the wonderful state of New Hampshire his home. He is an avid reader, writer, role player, miniatures game player, video game player, and part time athlete, as well as a member of the Horror Writers Association. If you weren't impressed enough, he also works full time while writing for Elmoryn as well as the world of Adrian’s Undead Diary and his newest project, Tesser; A Dragon Among Us.

- FIND MORE ONLINE -

Visit elmoryn.com to access additional content. Learn more about the world of Elmoryn, contact the author, join discussions with other readers, view concept illustrations, and receive the latest news about other upcoming projects from Chris Philbrook. In addition, Chris Philbrook’s game development company, Tier One Games LLC, is developing a roleplaying game which allows players to explore the world of Elmoryn, creating their own original characters and adventures. Visit elmoryn.com to access the ever-expanding game content as it is released.

Follow Chris on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ChrisPhilbrookAuthor for special announcements about his many ongoing projects.

Immerse yourself in Chris Philbrook’s epic zombie survival series, Adrian’s Undead Diary. Having just barely survived a world consuming apocalypse of the undead, Adrian Ring’s diary chronicles his battles with the zombie hordes and his ongoing struggle with survival.  Read and understand exactly how he completed his hero's journey, avoiding starvation, zombies, injuries, fellow survivors, and sickness, as well as sharing in his humor and his horror. Visit adriansundeaddiary.com to learn more.

Read Chris Philbrook’s latest epic series as it unfolds in Tesser: A Dragon Among Us. Meet Tesser, the Dragon. He who walks in any form, and flies the skies free of fear. He has slept for millennia, but now he has awoken in a world ruled by human hands, where science has overshadowed even the glory of old magic. Follow Tesser as he seeks to understand why he slept for so long, and where all the magic has gone. Visit adragonamongus.com to learn more.