I watch as Rourke pulls himself up over a ledge onto that marble-hewn platform, and reach up towards the rope he had clawed his way up. It’s frayed some, and rough to the touch, but has been kept dry and in well condition. I take one more look around the room before I begin to hoist myself up the rope. The other rope Rourke first pulled on hangs loosely and purposelessly, its original function used up and done. The crate he kicked across at me sits open and empty, now, crossbow secured to the back strap of my leather armor, my dagger resting at my hip. Rourke extends a hand down to me as I reach the top of the rope.

“So.”

“So.” He smiles, showing those reptile fangs once more. “If you said no, it would have been a long way back.”

“Where are we staging from?”

“A fortress sits between Il Allad and Allai-Ur. Largely unmanned, as the Emperor in all his wisdom has been focusing his forces on putting down the soldiers along the Silvered Coast, and that works out for us.”

“We’re taking an entire fort?”

“You’re not up to it, Falcon?” He looks at me now, seriously. “If you don’t think you can, turn back now. I wouldn’t have brought you alone if I didn’t think you could.”

“No. I can. We’ll take the fort. Then what?”

“Once word spreads that the fortification fell overnight, Daurellian will certainly send some troops to recapture it. That’s when we move to the next, traveling through the Earthvein.”

“You’re telling me that the Earthvein is beneath all of these fortifications, and it hasn’t been dug up yet?”

“Yes.” He says it with such confidence I can’t assume that he’s doing anything but telling the truth.

“Alright. So, this is it, then?” I find the words coming out of my mouth as we approach a trapdoor in the ceiling, barely illuminated by a small torch Rourke holds.

“Yeah. Fort Allist. A small fort, constructed during the early days of Il Allad’s flourishing, to stave off bandits, and provide a military checkpoint between the newer settlement of Allai-Ur and Il Allad.” He brushes some dust off of a rusted handle. “Since then, it’s fallen into disrepair as bandits have been largely scattered by the Emperors and their armies, pushed out into the plains or Glass Forest. Coastal, with a dock, so it has supplies, but no shipments are slated for four days. A recent military campaign just passed by on their way from the Glass Forest, apparently Il Allad was burned in a siege from the inside. Not unlike what we’re doing here.”

“How do you gather all of this information?”

“Believe it or not, a lot of people aren’t fans of Daurellian.” I frown. Rourke seems to know what he’s saying, but if everything’s true…

“What about when the situation at Il Allad is taken care of? Won’t those soldiers be turning back to fight the Glass Forest rebels again?”

“A little songbird mentioned to me that they were going to handle a skirmish with the Yellari at Dustwatch.”

“Dustwatch? Why would the Yellari attack?”

“Why would the Yellari attack?” He laughs. “The smell of blood draws out predators. Daurellian has overextended. The Glass Forest, Silvered Coast, dealing with the raiders from the Kraal and Krevil… Il Allad falls to a fire and battle within, the Hondar have made peace with Dagdan, for the time being, and can watch their own border with the Empire more closely. Vultures swoop in for the pickings.”

“Wouldn’t it be more apt to call me a vulture, then?”

“A vulture is a carrion bird, Firae. Picking at carcasses, swooping in on black wings to devour that which the hunters have killed first. The vultures will come to loot Fort Allist when we’re done. And, that’s not to mention, your name.”

“Hm?” My name? It’s Firae. I was named in the old tradition. It’s nothing special. What does he mean?

“Firae? You know? Hunter?”

“My name means ‘Hunter,’ then?”

“What, you didn’t know?” He laughs. “Alright, that’s not important, anyways. We have people to kill.” He says it with such nonchalance that it gives me chills. “Mercenary like you, you get it.” He strides up to the trapdoor, now. “It’s do or die. If you smell blood, you’ve got to start hunting. Otherwise, you give the prey the chance to lick their wounds.” He pulls back on the trapdoor, and something clicks. However, instead of swinging open, he slides it, as though it were a screen. As he does so, light illuminates the room. He sets his torch down on the ground as it goes out, then walks up to the trapdoor. With a single jump, he’s able to pull himself all the way up using only his upper body strength. He turns down to me, now. “Need a hand?”

I walk forward, and he extends a hand down, once again. I grab it and he helps hoist me up. This room is a storage room. The trapdoor’s opening seems to be slightly indented into the floor. A crate sits, recently disturbed, the perfect size to sit into it. Around us are crates and old equipment. A storage room in the back of the fortress, no doubt. He slides the crate that once obscured the trapdoor back over it. Must have had an inside man take it off in the first place.

“Through that door, there are two guards. I’ll take the one on the left, you take the one on the right. Fire over my right shoulder, you’ll hit him square in the throat.” Rourke whispers.

“How do you know?”

“Have some faith.” He creeps up to the door, and I follow behind him, slowly. Suddenly, he thrusts forward and kicks the door open with a swift, singular blow. It falls off of its hinges, and flies forward. He swings his crossbow over his back in a swift motion. I have mine ready, and follow his command. A single bolt from each of our weapons is propelled. I hit my target in the throat, Rourke’s target is hit in the eye. Both seem to collapse almost instantly, Rourke’s target is dead. My target falls to the ground, and squirms in pain. He tries to call out for help, but with a collapsed throat, it doesn’t work. He reaches up to his throat and struggles to try and pull the bolt out, but before he can, Rourke closes the distance, and grabs his hand, pinning it above his head to the wall. The man’s eyes quiver in fear.

“What’s an elf like you doing, working for Daurellian? You have no self respect?” Rourke’s alluding to the guard’s status as a half-breed, half Oak Elf and half Pale Elf. However, before he can attempt to muster up an answer through a broken throat, Rourke pulls out a dagger and guts him in a smooth motion, ripping from below his ribcage downward, entrails spilling out as the life leaves the man’s eyes. I stare.

“He wouldn’t be able to scream while he died.” Rourke says back to me, noticing my battle paralysis. “Now, Falcon, we hunt.”