Kyembe’s mind raced.

At any other time, he would have outright refused such an offer. Open favours made for bad oaths: she could demand he do anything from stealing a god’s crown to murdering an entire village’s children for a blood rite.

…Or she might ask him to pour her a cup of chilled wine on a hot day.

There was his right of refusal to consider, but deals with wizards and demons always bore hidden daggers. The final option was that he could break his oath…but the very idea made his teeth itch. Kyembe the Spirit Killer’s word was bond. It would be as long as he drew breath.

He sighed.

The longer he tarried, trying to negotiate or hope for some other clue to appear, the more likely Wurhi would suffer any number of grim fates. Steeling himself, he lifted his hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. “I, Kyembe of Sengezi, will come to Ku-Hassandra’s aid in return for her knowledge. While I may deny any request, I will fulfil a favour to her that I approve of.”

His fist came forth and pressed to Ku-Hassandra’s knuckles.

“The oath is sealed.” She pronounced, handing him the scroll case. “I hope it is some use to you. Oh, and there is also this.”

She reached again into her robe and drew a wooden card. “Another tablet lay with the others: too worn to translate. However, it did bear this symbol.”

His gaze drew to the card.

He froze.

Upon it was etched a grim hieroglyph: a wolf consuming its own tail.

Crimson eyes grew wide. Crimson eyes that saw with the clarity of a hawk and the night-sight of an owl. Crimson eyes that had spied a symbol on a bronze bracer coiled about the arm of a certain blonde youth who plotted horrors with his companion.

A companion named Haldrych Ameldan.

A vicious smile took Kyembe’s lips. “Oh, it already has.”

“Already?” Her brows rose.

He clasped her hand. “Please pass my greetings to Thesiliea and Ippolyte.”

Without another word, he turned. The illusion began to fade before him, revealing a straight path through the snow and to the wall whence they entered. “Come Cristabel, we have a path!”

The Traemean followed eagerly, with a final glare toward Ku-Hassandra. “Truly? Where?!”

“To the Ameldan Estate. I have a feeling you might be using your god’s tears on a certain young patriarch, after all.”

He quickened his steps.

Fate only knew what horrors were being inflicted on his friend even now.

The scent of roasting meat filled Wurhi’s nostrils, its delicious aroma wetting her tongue.

“Welcome.”

Milos of Crotonia’s calm, yet thunderous voice issued from somewhere before her, quickly slaying her appetite. Mortal terror tended to do such things.

“Take off their bags.”

Rough hands dragged the sack from her head, and the sudden light stung her eyes shut.

Groaning, she squinted them open - lest death come unseen - and gasped, as did Merrick from her side.

Another cave spread before them, but this one was marked by an ostentatious chaos. Zabyallan carpets - displaying golden palaces upon red thread - softened rough stone floors while Traemean and Riyenian tapestries filled walls so utterly that the display crossed over into the realm of the bizarre.

Colours and scenes clashed as though some madman had caught a rainbow, butchered it, then splashed it about in a blind frenzy. Battles, flowers, birds and beasts were skillfully woven on the overabundant tapestries. They smothered the wall writhing together in an attempt to shoulder each other aside.

Much the same was true of the floor: carpets piled together with no care for direction or flow. Even the furs of bear and cave lion were splayed about haphazardly.

A great window yawned open on a wall, revealing the white peaks of the Midgard mountains. Beside it rose a skeleton of a sabre-toothed tiger - bound together by bronze wire - in a pose of ferocious attack.

The frigid mountain breeze was held back by the blaze of a massive fireplace carved into the stone. It bore no mantle, but instead was sculpted in the visage of twelve wolf heads writhing upon grotesquely long necks.

They howled silently at the soaring ceiling.

Upon a long oaken table steamed a kingly spread; a massive roast encased in a charred crust that sealed in its juices. Loaves of fine black bread were piled in copper bowls about it, surrounded by plates of butter, peppercorn, salt, mint and thyme.

Milos of Crotonia rose at the head of the table - clad in a brilliant white toga - with the fire lengthening the shadows on his chiseled countenance. A welcoming smile spread across his lips, but his eyes remained those of a dead man.

Wurhi’s bestial instincts screamed at the sight of him, but half a dozen cultists flanked her, Crixus and Merrick. Their swords were already poised for violence, and several more stood in the entrance behind them: only death lay in that route, and she doubted she’d reach the window either.

Only one passage from the chamber remained, but it was behind Milos and obscured by a silk curtain. It rose twice Wurhi’s height, and she did not wish to learn why it had been carven so large.

“Come, you have fought like wolves, and battle makes for a mighty hunger.” Milos gestured to the curule seats lining each side of the table. A hundred scars coiled about his forearm. “Sit. Drink. We wait for other guests. Crixus, it is good to see you at my table again.”

The bald man had approached with no hesitation and clasped forearms with the Sacred Alpha. Wurhi wondered if he had gone to madness.

“It’s good to eat real food again.” Crixus eyed the roast with undisguised greed.

“If it brings you to my table, I will keep serving it.” Milos gestured for the pit fighter to sit. “This is your fourth victory in Lycundar’s arena?”

“Only the third.” Crixus sat a few seats away from the Sacred Alpha.

“Ah, no matter. Three mortal battles are a good many to come through alive and unspoiled. Lycundar would be most pleased. Hmmm, you are still in one of the pits on the lower levels?”

Crixus thumbed his moustache. “It’s better than the one I got when I first arrived.”

“But not fitting for a champion.” He looked to one of the cultists by the door. “Ruecrov, is there an available cell on the first level?”

“Yes, Sacred Alpha,” the acolyte lowered his head. “It has been vacated and cleaned. There is a window in it. A small one that overlooks the river.”

“Good. Very good. I will have you moved there at once, Crixus. It is not freedom…but it is a step to better things.”

The Garumnan’s brow furrowed. “I…I see…”

Milos cocked his head. “Do you have a concern? Speak your mind.”

A silence hung between them.

“I…I appreciate what you’re doing, I do. I could have been sold into worse circumstances …but those that I lead. I do not wish to abandon them.” Crixus grimaced.

“They have not done as you have, Crixus. Their victories are fewer and less glorious. That is why you eat at my table this evening and they do not.” The cult leader glanced to the fireplace, his eyes lingering on the silent wolf heads. “But your actions have pleased Lycundar and fed him much. Fine, then. Let it not be said that the pack is not generous: your companions will be moved with you.”

Crixus’ face softened and his head bowed. “Thank you, my Lord!”

Milos waved a hand. “Raise your head high: one who Lycundar is pleased with should not grovel like a lamb.” His cold eyes fell upon the thieves. Wurhi shuddered beneath that gaze. “Did I not say to sit? I did not mean only Crixus.”

Merrick and Wurhi exchanged an uneasy look, but neither could raise objection. They quickly chose seats that placed the big Garumnan between them and the cult leader.

An acolyte came forward and poured from a clay pitcher into polished bronze goblets. Merrick eyed his cup as though it were a spitting cobra.

Sniff.

Wurhi’s nostrils flared. No strange scents emanated from the contents.

“It is but water.” Milos raised his goblet and drained it in a single motion. “See? I do not foam at the mouth and collapse.”

He looked at them expectantly as the acolyte came to refill his chalice.

Grimacing, Wurhi raised the goblet to her lips.

Only the cool freshness of mountain water met her tongue. Its taste brought forth a yearning she had all but forgotten: she had not had a sip of liquid since she had been captured. Her thirst burned terribly.

The acolyte refilled her chalice thrice before she finally stopped quaffing.

Milos cocked a brow. “It is good: from a mountain spring as fresh as the morning dew on a dryad’s tree. I am sure you are accustomed to stronger things, but I do not serve liquor at my table.”

“It’s good, Lord Milos,” Crixus gave assurance.

Merrick’s large eyes remained cautiously on the cult leader, but Wurhi could not bear to look upon him. His mere sight had driven her instincts to panic, and combined with his scent - now close enough for her sharp nose to detect…

She doubted any of the other humans could smell it.

If they had, they would already have leapt screaming through the mountain window. What emanated from Milos was the paragon of a predator’s musk; it burnt away the air to leave a concentration of fear and savagery.

A promise of death made manifest in a single odour.

She glanced to Crixus; if he only knew the nature of the thing they supped with.