It was late evening again when a soft knock finally came at the door, proceeded shortly after by Tulcetar’s wispy blonde pate poking into the room.

“Did you rest well?” the mage asked.

Gabriel looked around at his team, alert with anxious energy but sagging at shoulder and eye, “As well as can be expected.”

Tulcetar nodded somberly, “What, may I ask, is the verdict?”

Again, Gabriel looked at his fellows in turn. Lydia blinked a, ‘Yes’. Vish threw up his arms and fell back on to his bunk, sighing dramatically. Natasha gave a small, sweet smile. She looked pale and clammy, utterly unlike her normal enthusiastic self. Gabriel tried not to think about the old wives’ tales of auguries; if crows were indeed an ill omen then he hoped this one would be a portent for Hamish.

“We’re going with you,” the captain finally announced.

Tulcetar beamed appreciatively, “Then it’s time.”

“Fine, but just a couple of things first,” Vish said, halting the mage.

The mind-mapper hopped off his bed and rummaged in his civvies for Kyk, the Rodney cricket. He placed the cricket gently on the pillow.

“You stay here, little buddy. If I’m not back by this time tomorrow,” Vish’s lower lip trembled, “Then I guess you’re all on your own, friend ! Think of me, you hear?”

“Okay, Vish, that’s enough,” Gabriel prompted, “Time to go.”

“Wait! Before I go anywhere,” Vish rounded on Tulcetar, “Get me your blueist of blue robes.”

Washed up and geared up, the mercenaries followed The Order mage back to the warehouse, where they found the rest of the party assembling. Party was a bit of an understatement; they were a battalion. Gabriel was reminded of his days among The White Fangs as he watched more than two score men and women don armour, hitch swords, and shoulder quivers. There were three loose groups, keeping largely to themselves, but they all showed some degree of professionalism, and treated one another with mutual respect. They may not be unified under one flag, but they were bonded by a single-minded fixation on their mission. They were brothers and sisters in arms until the sun rose on a new day.

Vagalad was leaning against some empty crates when they approached. He had shed his luxurious velvets in favour of stiff leather. A broad sword and padded shield rested at his feet, a stylised depiction of Gladstone painted on the shield’s surface, red on a yellow background.

“And?”

“They’re coming with us,” Tulcetar answered on the mercenaries’ behalf.

The Duke grunted, “Good. Wasn’t looking forward to chasing you down.”

“Just so we’re clear, this is the end of it,” Gabriel demanded, only breaking eye contact marginally, “No matter what happens tonight, our job is done, and we’re free to go back to Gladstone without repercussions.”

“And we get paid,” Lydia added.

Vagalad looked the warrior up and down, “You’ve got some cheek,” his eyes flicked back to Gabriel, “If Hamish has my pearl, then I’ll consider the job done. Might be I have need of you afters, but we’ll negotiate that later. Current contract will be done, and you’ll get your dues, as is my word.”

“No offence, but I don’t think we’ll be doing all that much work for crime lords in the near future,” Gabriel replied.

“Ha! You wouldn’t be the first person in this room to say that.”

Screamer weaved his way through the crowd to where the others were talking.

“Glad to see you came around,” Screamer said by way of greeting to the mercenaries, and then turned to Tulcetar, “Do we know where we are going?”

“I believe we do. One of the men I sent out came back with a message,” Tulcetar’s eyebrows bounced up and then down, “Or rather he was the message.”

Screamer tried to purse his lipless lips, “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s not uncommon in our line of work, but it’s definitely frowned upon.”

Vagalad rumbled in sympathy, “Aye, makes it bloody hard to get anyone to run a message these days. Sorry, lad. It’s never a fun one.”

The mage blinked uncomprehendingly, “He came back with scripture written all across his body, didn’t you, Dale?” Tulcetar asked one of his men.

“That’s right, sir. Still some upon me. Some’ve it were in places that were right hard to scrub,” a man passing out drinks to The Order soldiers answered.

“Oh, err,” Vagalad said, with a scratch of his beard.

“I see,” Screamer processed, “In our trade, ‘sent a message’, means something rather different.”

“I really have no idea how that could be misinterpreted,” Tulcetar pondered, “Anyway, we go to Founders Hill, not all that far from the Albright Manor, as it goes.”

“Oh goody, we love revisiting the places of our greatest and most devastating failures,” Gabriel celebrated.

In short order they were out the door and on their way. Their force was made up of: Tulcetar and sixteen Order soldiers, their spear handles cut down for close quarters fighting; fourteen of Screamer’s enforcers, headed by Nail-Puller; Vagalad, with seven of his bodyguards; and the four mercenaries, with their cricket. It was a peculiar procession, a carnival of cult and crime.

Besides waddling along in the company of some of the most prolific brawlers and killers in The Kaden Circle, there wasn’t much else about the evening to differentiate it from any of the mercenaries’ other nights in Jandrir (which spoke volumes about the city). The neighbourhood and its people went on in their usual way, joking and drinking, bartering and trading. Lives had been lost the previous two nights, and others may well be lost this night; it simply didn’t matter. In a city of such tremendous activity, light, sound and vibrance, what was one candle, or one voice, extinguished or silenced in amongst the endless, bright cacophony? It was odd, Gabriel thought, that something so crucial to a few, could matter so little to the many.

They came to a halt at a service entrance attached to the side of a ceramics shop, no bigger than a hovel.

“Think we might have overdone it on the numbers,” Vish said, tapping his chin.

Tulcetar smirked over his shoulder and ran a hand along the outside of the door frame. His fingers brushed upon a crude drawing of a wing. He pressed at the center of the carving, causing a small compartment to pop open, just large enough to hold a bronze key, tarnished with use. Hastily, he opened the door, and flung it back to reveal a long staircase, descending into the depths of the city.

“Guessing that doesn’t lead to a pantry,” Vish checked.

“I’m afraid not,” The Order mage replied.

“Been here afore?” Nail-Puller asked.

“Not this particular place, but others like it.”

Vagalad drew his sword, “Bothers me that this Hamish fellow didn’t bother hiding the key.”

“It’s an invitation,” Gabriel guessed, “He thinks he’s ready for us.”

Nail-Puller laced her fingers, popping the knuckle joints all at once, “People often know I’m coming. That don’t ever mean they’re ready,” she said, her tongue visible through her scarce teeth as she licked the backs of her canines.

“Take it that means you’re doing the honours?” Lydia said, her hand on her hip.

Nail-Puller scowled, “Don’t mind if I do.”

The rogue and her people descended first, their footsteps echoing loudly initially, until finally there were enough of them that the sounds mixed to create one long, constant grumble. Next went the men of The Order, then the mercenaries, and finally Vagalad and his brave few.

The descent was long, and tiring. Gabriel expected the air to cool and become frigid as they sank into the belly of Founder’s Hill. Instead, the sheer volume of bodies and recirculated breath served to make the passage warm, and stuffy. The mercenaries were panting and perspiring by the time they reached the bottom, some one hundred and fifty steps below, and their clothes were damp with the humidity.

They found Nail-Puller at the bottom, leaning against the wall to the left of the staircase. Her men and The Order troops had formed a protective box around the base of the stairs. They were ready. They were alert. They were keen for the bloodshed to start. And yet…

“They’ve been like that the whole time,” Nail-Puller said once Vagalad, the last of their host, finally arrived on the landing.

“What the bloody hell are they doing?” The Duke asked, his head whipping back and forth on his frog-like neck.

“They’re showing us which way to go,” Tulcetar sighed.

The landing was vast, easily large enough to hold half a dozen carriages, and from this chamber there were six exits. Four of these six exits were blocked by Hamish’s soldiers of The Order, four across, three deep, shoulder-to-shoulder in statue-like stoicism. They were armed and shielded, but they made no move to hostility. They simply held their posts, and barred the passages.

“I feel like a couple of signs could have done that job just as well,” Vish pointed out.

“So what’s it to be?” Nail-Puller asked, kicking herself off the wall.

“I’m not sure we have all that much of a choice,” Tulcetar said, his lips twitching from left to right, “Both remaining passages seem to lead further down, and I’d wager they meet at the bottom.”

Vagalad let out a cruel laugh, “On your own, friend. If your enemy wants you to be somewhere, that’s not where you want to be. I say we go through this lot.”

“I’m not so sure. There have been no traps, no ambush, only this,” the mage waved at his faceless counterparts, their features obscured beneath the shadows of their helmets, “I think Hamish wants to talk.”

“I doubt he’s got anything to say we want to hear,” The Duke said, “And then what? Think he’ll send you on your way with a muffin and a pat on the back?”

Bling and Vish both unconsciously mouthed, “Muffin”.

“He is still a man of The Order,” Tulcetar said uncertainly.

“And a thief and a murderer to boot. Me and my men are staying here. We’ll cover your backs,” The Duke declared.

“Very well,” Tulcetar turned to Nail-Puller, “Left or right?”

“Aren’t you a gentleman,” she said with a mock curtsy, “Left.”

“You know, back is also an option,” Vish reminded them.

“Quiet you. You’re with me,” she grabbed the mind-mapper by the scruff of the neck and led him to the left-most staircase.

Vagalad and his men remained on the landing, along with half a dozen more, taken evenly from Tulcetar’s lot and Nail-Puller’s posse. In the meantime, the advanced parties made their way down the final staircases. As Tulcetar had predicted, they emerged at the bottom facing one another. Vish waved.

“Well, this is,” Gabriel’s eyes roamed the enormous underground chamber, “lovely.”

They were on the lowest level of a three-tier hall, with two columned galleries above them, clearly accessible by the four passageways which had been blocked. There were rows of seating just about visible at the back of the second and third floors, and the ground level was complete with lines of neat stone benches, their gleaming white surfaces reflecting rich red wall hangings and curtains that draped from ceiling to floor. Guards lined the room, eight paces apart, not a single one acknowledging the entrants. The capacity of the place was astonishing, with seating enough for easily three hundred or more. It was essentially a grand theater. A theater, or-

“It’s a church,” Vish said, marginally impressed.

“What’s that?” Nail-Puller asked.

“They’re big to the North, where the Virtues are sort of worshipped? Basically like a pub, where nobody drinks.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Doesn’t it?”

An, “Ahem,” drew their attention from one another to the front of the hall, where a black clad man with a black conical hat and a pock marked face was standing behind a lectern, drumming his fingers on a tome.

“Hamish, I presume,” Tulcetar said, crossing his arms.

“‘In the time before the rebirth, brothers will come to blow with brothers, sons will recognize the folly of fathers, and all shall be tested for their loyalty. We shall pave the way for his coming. We shall put the lands on their path, so that he may rise to a world ready for restoration,’” Hamish intoned, “Rather good, isn’t it? I wrote it myself.”

Tulcetar shook his head, “You have corrupted this institution. There is little difference between the madness you spout and the madness of the despots and tyrants we sought to undo.”

“Heresy most foul, ‘Dragon-Wing’. It is a shame, there are many who speak highly of you and your services to The Order of the Rising Dragon, but I fear you have grown soft. Soft and insubordinate. Still, many of the men here today were recruited by you, or those whom you recruited,” he waved up to the galleries, where a dozen archers stood side by side with spearmen, “and so I will allow you a chance to forsake your treacherous ways, and be baptised anew as an initiate of our beloved family.”

“Not in the name of Ruby, real or no, and not in the name of the Aether gods will I ever commit myself to your twisted cause,” the mage responded.

“Now that is a pity. It is an open offer though, to all of you who have come to visit us today. That is, after all, the only reason why you are still alive at present,” he spread his arms wide, “In his mercy, Ruby offers you one last chance at redemption. Who will join us?”

Vish made to raise his hand.

“Don’t you dare,” Gabriel hissed.

“Oh alright, fine. Um, Mr. Hamish, was it? Look, we’re not actually part of this revolution thingy. Funny story actually, we’re actually just here for some jewelry. If we could just get that then we’ll happily be out of your hair in no time.”

Hamish’s arms dropped, “Vish, the mind-mapper.”

“Well that’s never a good sign.”

“When we met back in Gladstone, I thought to myself, ‘Now there is a creature who more so than any, needs their soul saved’.”

“Probably not wrong.”

“I devoted a good deal of precious time to tracking you down, in fact. Your brazenness, your audacity, well, let’s just say it enticed me. That goes for all of you, Gabriel, Natasha, Lydia and,” he scanned the crowd, “Oh, it would appear one is missing.”

“Choose your next words carefully,” Gabriel said reflexively.

“Yeah, awesome, Gabe. Why don’t you needle the psychopath a bit more,” Vish said out of half his mouth.

“It seems then that part of my job is already done. Your souls will only be saved by the sweet release of death. Of this, I am sure. For too long you kept me from doing Ruby’s work, and for that you must be punished. However,” he inclined the brim of his hat towards Gabriel, “I recall you did Ruby a service by saving me from drowning in the Malin, and for that you will be permitted to choose the method of your execution.”

“Ooh, generous,” Vish said.

“That wyvern, it was after the pearl, wasn’t it?” Gabriel asked.

Hamish cocked his head, “An astute observation. I suspect the beast was doing Ruby’s bidding, yes, but in its single-mindedness it failed to recognize a fellow servant of the grand dragon. No matter, his will shall be done regardless.”

“Why is the pearl important?”

A smile cracked across Hamish’s face, accentuating the pits in his cheeks, “Haven’t you heard that dragons like shiny things?”

“Oh for gods’ sake,” Gabriel rolled his eyes.

“Enough of this nonsense, Hamish!” Tulcetar called.

There was a glint in Hamish’s eye, “I fully agree.”

With a flick of his wrist, Hamish plucked the flames from the sconces behind him, and sent them launching towards Gabriel and Vish. As the flames crossed the hall, they grew in size and intensity, until a great spout of flame stretched from the channeler to his targets.

“Oh shit,” Gabriel said.

“Why me?” Vish said.

A horse’s length from the pair of mercenaries, the flame arched upwards, and splashed along the balcony, bathing several of the archers and Order soldiers in intense fire.

“I recommend you find a different toy to play with, Hamish; fire is sort of my thing,” Tulcetar challenged.

“Very cute, ‘Dragon-Wing’, but you’ll have to do better than that.”

Hamish raised his hands yet again, but was slightly put off by two of his men plummeting from the second floor into the hall. One bounced several times, the other was bent in two over a stone pew. They were both very much dead. The channeler looked up to see more of his soldiers being felled. Vagalad and his men were pushing through the human barricades, their sights set on the archers behind. The Order might have superior numbers, but most of them were little more than idealistic youths, whipped into shape by dogma and fanaticism. They were not soldiers at heart. That, and the fact that Vagalad wasn’t one to wait for an invitation before starting a fight, meant that the visitors were quickly overwhelming Hamish’s cultists.

“How uncivilized,” the channeler tutted.

Hamish closed his eyes for half a second and, as he did, globs of water developed in front of him. The drops amalgamated, until they formed lances, the length of a man’s arm. Then, just slow enough for the eye to follow, they froze into a dozen pointed icicles. With a shunt of his chin, Hamish launched the icicles at the invaders in the gallery. They struck like javelins, some shattering on the stone columns, but others skewering unsuspecting men and women, launching them off their feet and throwing them back towards the staircase.

Gabriel and Vish quickly found that they were the only ones still watching the show. Nail-Puller led a charge down the left flank, whilst Tulcetar’s men surged down the right. The mage himself was drawing from his own personal reserves, using this link to the aether to generate fireball after fireball, which peppered the archers above, sending embers and sparks flying overhead. Lydia and Bling were also on the offensive, engaging those guards nearest them with ruthless efficiency.

“We should probably, um,” Gabriel started.

“Hide?” Vish suggested.

“You know, just for the time being.”

The pair of mercenaries drew their weapons and ducked down behind the nearest bench. Gabriel peeked over the top and tried to make sense of the intense clashes throughout the hall.

“Are we winning?” Vish asked.

“Might be a bit soon to say,” Gabriel said, ducking again when a telekinetically propelled urn came hurtling in their direction.

“Cool. Let me know when it’s over.”

“We might be able to take out that guy over, oh no, he’s dead. Perhaps we should help Lydia with, wait, nope, he’s dead too.”

“That sounds positive!” Vish encouraged.

“Yeeeah, still hard to say,” Gabriel observed, as one of Vagalad’s men landed with a shriek in the aisle in front of them.

“What was that? That didn’t sound great.”

“Didn’t look great either, to be honest,” the captain grimaced.

A woman who had followed Nail-Puller into the fray, little more than a girl, really, came sprinting past them, her cloak and hair on fire. She made for the stairwell but clipped the wall in her panicked state, knocking herself out long enough for the flames to finish their grim work.

“Right,” Gabriel decided, “I’m going to give Natasha a hand. That’s the least I can do.”

“I could do so much less,” the mind-mapper realised.

“Come on. We go on three. One. Two.”

Vish waited expectantly, “Trouble counting there, bud?”

“Oh, fuck it, three!”

Gabriel jumped up and then immediately jumped back down again as an arrow whizzed in his direction.

“You showed them, man. You showed them.”

“Oh, shut it.”

Losses were heavy on both sides, by this stage. Vagalad had punched a hole through one of the barricades, using his enormous body as a battering ram to burst through their shields, and was doing an admirable job of clearing the third-floor balcony above Nail-Puller’s cohort. His efforts had drawn the attention of the archers on the opposite side, who took pot shots at the ogre-sized man when Tulcetar wasn’t busy hammering them with fireballs. The mage’s men were not fairing quite as well. They were sorely missing the length their spears would have afforded them, having misjudged the space that would be available. The right flank crumbled, even as the left advanced.

Hamish kept any contenders for the center at bay, crushing some, flinging others, freezing, igniting and shocking where he was afforded more time. He was a channeler, one of the most skilled magic users in all the lands, but he was unaccustomed to battle, and a terrible sucker for theatrics. Each enemy the channeler dispatched, he did so with flare. One man was left with his limbs rotated in their sockets, another was doused with caustic acid, and a third had his heart literally ripped from his body. Hamish was enjoying himself. The madman was actually enjoying himself. Luckily, that slowed him down.

By contrast, Tulcetar generated great waves of fire. He lashed, threw, launched and tossed one attack after another. Tulcetar only checked whether or not he had hit when he came around for seconds. His priority was numbers, and his MO was as much damage in as little time as possible.

A casual observer to the room would be forgiven for thinking this was very much a magic users’ show. It was, after all, hard to miss the great coils of smoke and twisting geysers of water that surged from ceiling to floor. In reality, though, everyone was doing their bit. Swords and axes met spears and bows, and before long dozens were injured or dead. The attackers moved with savagery, the defenders held with passion, and both sides witnessed casualties aplenty.

The situation on the right flank soon worsened to the point where Hamish’s men were within reach of Tucletar, harrying the mage sufficiently to prevent him from keeping the archers in check. This led to an inevitable turn in the tides, as the few remaining archers fired into Nail-Puller’s contingent before they could make the plinth which Hamish still stood behind.

Bling led a small party of Screamer’s crew to Tulcetar’s aid, attacking The Order troops from the side, and halting their progress. The motley army was further aided when two of Vagalad’s men, struggling for room up top, came down the stairs in time to repel the forward most troops, freeing Tulcetar up again for some more fire-wrangling. Gabriel finally mustered the courage to aid his sister, and even Vish joined in, using his captain as a human shield while he waved his curved sword at anyone who looked their way.

So it went, to and fro, to and fro, until the attackers had whittled down Hamish’s men to the extent that only the channeler seemed to remain as a threat. It was at this point that Lydia broke free from the rest, and made a charge for the cult propagandist.

Hamish could hardly ignore the bull-sized mass of iron charging towards him, and tossed away the corpse he had been playing with to address this new threat. He greeted Lydia with a sardonic smile, and a wall of fire.

Lydia had been so intent on pressing the advantage that she almost ran straight through the oncoming inferno, and was definitely too late to run from it. She skidded to a halt but was unable to turn before the flames bore down on her. It was with some surprise that she found herself seconds later miraculously not alight.

When Lydia had made a beeline for Hamish, Tulcetar had dropped back to offer his support. The mage detached himself from the fighting in his corner just in time to halt the flames that threatened to engulf the mercenary warrior. He held them back with all of his internal might, using every drop of his depleted energy to prevent the fire from sweeping over her.

It took Hamish a moment to realise what had happened. One moment the flame was obeying his will, as all things did, the next it had halted in his tracks. That was a pity, he had so looked forward to watching the warrioress pop and sizzle in her oversized tin pot. He was annoyed at first when he spotted Tulcetar, both arms outstretched, willing the fire away, and then he was amused. The mage was sweating profusely, and his eyes looked hollow, his face gaunt. Hamish couldn’t help but laugh. How frustrating it must be to have a taste of the aether, but only be able to access the tiny thimbleful with which you were born. He was a channeler, second only to the aether born in mastery of the great force that connected them. His power was limitless.

Tulcetar didn’t even see the lightning strike out from behind the fire veil, but he certainly felt it. The bolt struck him in the gut, throwing him off of his feet and setting every muscle in his body to spasming and convulsing. He could smell his own flesh burning. He bit through his tongue as the electricity coursed through him. He lost control of his fingers, of his limbs, and he lost control of the fire he had kept at bay.

No sooner had Lydia breathed a sigh of relief that the fire had halted, than it started again. She didn’t even have time to guard her face before she was enveloped. The fire held her like a lover, kissing the iron armour that had protected her for so long, and heating it so that every inch was a brand against her fragile skin. She cried out, but the fire only answered by extending its warmth into her throat and stealing her voice in its own. It held her until it sucked all she had from her. It was ravenous. It was unyielding. All she could do in response, was drop to her knees, and lie down.