Hubris - 37. Roguehaven

Roguehaven was the last settlement before the Plaesil Mountains gave way to the endless white tundra that was The Mirror Expanse. The smell of smoke and the thought of sitting by a warm fire with a glass of mead pulled at Crowe’s stomach, making it rumble with desperation. Apart from the liver of an arctic fox, he hadn’t eaten in two days. His teeth had not been suitable for the gamey, stringy meat while Barghast had no trouble devouring what the practitioner couldn’t.

They watched the town from a distance. He could see people moving about with wolf pelts wrapped around their shoulders. He saw no torchcoats, but after the trouble they’d encountered in Boar’s Head, was hesitant to take any chances. A glance at the bleak landscape beyond the cluster of wooden buildings capped by snow only served to further conflict him. This was the last vestige of civilization they would encounter for who knew how long with no idea of what dangers awaited them.

Crowe threw a look over his shoulder. Even from a quarter mile away, he could see the Okanavian’s silhouette pacing impatiently by the horse. Watching. Waiting. Worrying. Always worrying. The sorcerer hated being the source of that worry. Making up his mind at last, the herald waded through the calf-deep snow in the direction of his companion.

When he saw Crowe, Barghast bridged the distance between them, leading Mammoth by the reins.

“It’s hard to say what we’re dealing with from where I was standing,” the practitioner croaked hoarsely. When the Okanavian cocked his head in confusion, Crowe gave him a small smile and started gesturing with his hands. “I have to go down there with Mammoth.” Dipping his arm towards the ground, he made the sign for the horse, pointing the index finger on his good hand and the pinky finger of his bad hand over his head like horns. “Mammoth won’t be able to carry us through the rough terrain. We’ll need dogs who can pull a sleigh. You stay…”

He turned to walk in the direction of the settlement. He didn’t make it far before a large paw closed around his arm, pulling him back. “No,” the Okanavian growled. “I…go.”

Rather than pull his arm away, Crowe rubbed his arm. “It could be dangerous. I’ll come right back.”

“No,” the lycan insisted. “I go! I keep you safe!”

The practitioner sighed. “Aye. I suppose I can’t talk you out of it.” If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t want to go by himself. After the last time they’d gotten separated, he didn’t want to part from the barbarian any more than the barbarian wanted to part from him. “You can come with me…” He reached up, resting a hand on the lycan’s muzzle. He spoke in a firm voice until the lycan looked at him. “But no snapping at people. No snarling. Do you understand?”

Barghast flattened his ears. His tail lowered. He nodded.

Crowe nodded with satisfaction

His heart quickened the closer they got to Roguehaven. The few heads he could see within sight turned in their direction. Eyes widened. Mouths whispered. Crowe pretended to keep his eyes straight ahead, but remained tense. His hand was hidden in his pocket, ready to pull out his wand at a moment’s notice. Barghast stayed close to his side, letting the sorcerer lead the way. He, however, did not keep his eyes straight ahead. He kept them trained on the stunned onlookers, daring them to attack if they so desired. But he did not growl.

They reached the tavern.

A cloud of aether and spirits greeted Crowe the moment he opened the door. He stepped back, coughing, waving a hand in front of his face. The sound of laughter and voices raised in drunken cheer was a welcome sound. His chest loosened when he saw Monad’s sigil burned into the tavern’s frost-covered sign. The sign proclaimed the place as The Maudlin Bear Inn. Could it be he’d at last found a place where practitioners didn’t cower in fear of being discovered by torchcoats?

Stopping in the doorway, he scanned the ruddy bearded faces on both sides of the tables. The moment Barghast and he stepped inside, every face stopped to turn in their direction. Crowe reached hastily for his necklace, pulling it out from underneath the collar of his robes. He stood close enough to the lycan he could feel his chest vibrate with a hidden growl.

A few voice murmured in silence:

“...a lycan…”

“...this far North, away from the desert? Surely not…”

“Is he traveling with that young practitioner? In the name of Monad, he’s massive! He towers over him…”

“Oi!” called the plump woman who stood at a bar with a grease stained rag bunched in her fat fingers. “It’s rude to stare! Back to your drinks!” She winked at Crowe, eyeing the necklace. She thumbed the silvery chain around her neck, revealing she too had a necklace of the exact same design. Another glance around the room revealed she was not the only one; several patrons wore them. “Welcome, welcome,” she said kindly enough. Her voice was deep but pleasant. Welcoming. Genuine. No fear. No reproach. “Name’s Meese.”

When Crowe did not let his guard down, she lowered her voice. “You can relax. We’re just shocked to see a lycan, is all. We’ve heard of them but we’ve yet to see one.” She side-eyed the lycan cautiously, not daring to look at him fully. “...as long as he doesn’t bite, that is.”

Crowe caught the shift of Meese’s arm. The movement was subtle but deliberate. She wanted him to see it. She wanted him to know she was reaching for the weapon…most likely a rifle…under the counter if the barbarian proved to not be friendly. You’ve been welcomed, but you’re also being warmed.

The practitioner cleared his throat. “I can assure you he’s friendly and so am I. I can also assure you, we won’t be staying long. We just wanted to warm up with some mead.”

“We got plenty of mead, plenty of aether if you smoke it. Assuming you got the coin for it.”

Aye, coin makes the world go ‘round, does it not? “I do. I’ll start with two rounds of mead, ground aether, and rolling papers.”

He pulled out the small purse he kept in his pocket; the rest of the money Barghast and he had procured over the past month since the defeat of the necromancers stayed in the saddle bag slung over the lycan’s shoulder. Crowe reached into the purse, carefully counting the assortment of bronze, silver, and gold coins. He was about to hand the money over to the woman, when he noticed the dried red stain on a gold coin. A high-pitched sound made Meese jump, made him jump, made several heads look up. Only when the large woman blinked did the sorcerer realize he was the one who’d made a sound.

“Sorry, sorry,” he muttered before the woman could ask him if he was in his right mind. “I’m fine,” he told Barghast before the lycan could start nosing at him. He scrubbed furiously at the coin with the tip of his thumb nail until the stain was gone. He dumped the money into Meese’s outstretched palm.

She eyed him cautiously but asked him no questions. He was grateful for the silence. He was even more grateful when she returned with the mead and a tray with a bowl of ground aether and perfumed rolling papers set on a smaller tray. Crowe thanked her hastily, taking a stool at the bar. Barghast took the stool next to him. He could feel the lycan watch him. Always watching him. Always trying to discern the thoughts that spun through the herald’s mind like an unceasing wheel. You don’t want to know what goes on inside my head, friend. You’ll find nothing pleasant there.

“I’m fine,” he told the barbarian. The tension in his voice revealed him to be a liar.

Unconvinced, the lycan leaned forward to sniff at him with a reproving look.

Crowe leaned back. “Drink your mead. You’ll like it.” He gave his tankard a little shake to show what he meant before taking a sip. He could still see the lifeless faces of the torchcoats they’d stolen the money from…the coppery smell of blood heavy in the frigid air. That had been a week and forty leagues back ago.

You did what you had to do. You need the money. They would have killed you and Barghast for less. Simply for being what you are. Simply for breathing. You’ll have to spill more blood before this night ends. A lot more.

He sipped his mead. He rolled it around his mouth. It tasted far better than the swill the villagers in Timberford had served. He wondered if Rake had managed to lead them to Caemlyn, or if the torchcoats had burned them at the stake the way they burned everything else.

He turned his focus on the bowl of ground aether and rolling papers he'd paid for. He’d run out of the last joints Rake had given him weeks ago. Now his heart galloped like a worked-up steed in anticipation. Already he could feel the smoke curling in his mouth.

If only he'd been thinking. The last time he'd rolled his own joint, he'd had all ten of his fingers. He'd tried exercising his left hand - anything to increase the strength and coordination in it - but there was no denying that the stronger hand and the damaged hand were not one in the same. The Crowe that went into Fort Erikson is not the same Crowe who came out.

The practitioner laid out a small line of paper on the table. He used a spoon to scoop up a bit of the herb. His arm started to shake. He steadied his wrist with the other hand; he noted that the empty space where his fingers used to be had almost completely healed, stabbed flesh giving way to paler newer flesh. He paused. He could feel the fingers - the ghost fingers - wiggling. No, he told himself. It's just your silly brain telling you they're there when they aren't. Forget them. Quit crying over what you'll never get back.

A bead of sweat descended down the side of his face. He could feel Meese watching him as she wiped down the counter, like she'd been doing for the past quarter of an hour now; he could feel the cold weight of her pity. Look away! he wanted to shout at her. I don’t need your pity!

A large paw engulfed his wrist all the way up to his forearm. He turned from the small beady eyes of the bartender to the large amber ones that held him with a different regard. Not pity, but love. Hot, all-encompassing love, like the sun. Even after all these weeks they'd spent traveling together, even after all they'd endured, there were times when Crowe wasn't sure he could stand the heat. Even now there was a deep-rooted part of him that wanted to turn away before the fire of the barbarian’s gaze could consume him completely.

Barghast raised his eyes long enough to give Meese a piercing glare. He growled. She looked away hurriedly. The barbarian leaned towards Crowe, wrapping a large furry arm around the herald’s bony shoulders. The upper half of his body formed a tent that shielded the sorcerer from view. His muzzle hovered close to his ear. “Mgah'ehye ya ymg' hafh, ya beloved. Ah nafl feel ashamed…”

Giving into the soothing rumble of his voice, Crowe reluctantly relinquished his death grip on the spoon. The Okanavian wiggled his fingers at the tray. The practitioner slid it across the counter, cocking an eyebrow in amusement. His amusement immediately turned into slack-jawed surprise when Barghast picked up the spoon; he held it with great care. He sprinkled the herb on the paper. He rolled the paper into a tight bundle with his claws. His eyes never left Crowe’s nor did his deliberately cocky grin. He topped this act of love by rubbing his thumb and index digits together. Matches.

“Been watching me, have you, you furry sneak?” Crowe grinned, fishing in his pocket for the matches. Lipping a joint, he held the tip out to the offered flame. “It wasn't my intention to become a bad influence. I appreciate it.”

This earned him a wet kiss on the cheek.

Once his nerves were settled, Crowe turned his attention back to Meese. “I need to get to the Vaylin Ruins.”

The round-faced woman laughed caustically. “I knew you had an air of danger about you. Farm boy looking for adventure?”

“Something like that,” the practitioner said dryly.

“You'll get yourself killed.”

“How so?”

The Mirror Expanse'll do it.”

The practitioner’s jaw clenched with determination. “Can you be more specific?”

“Well let me put it this way. Do you want to know why this place remains untouched by Pope Drajen's torchcoats. They've lost interest in the place. The only reason they come this far North is to reach the Vaylin Ruins. I don’t think they ever make it that far. They certainly never return. Reevers.”

Crowe lit a freshly rolled joint with a match. The tip bloomed bright in the dimly lit tavern. “Reevers?”

“That’s what we call them. The creatures who live in the underground caves near the glaciers. They come out at night to hunt. Mostly they’ll hunt foxes or wolves…if they hunt in packs of three they can take down a polar bear.” She smiled, as if she was merely telling the practitioner of a tourist destination he simply had to see before he left Roguehaven. “If you rent a room and stay for the night you might even get to hear one. Lately they’ve been rowdy, venturing closer and closer to the settlement. They’ve broken into homes in the middle of the night and taken a few of our own.” She shook her head. Her smile fell away, turning into a frown of worry. “Something’s got them all stirred up. Monad only knows what it is.”

She stopped when she saw the look on the practitioner’s face; all the blood had drained from his face. He could hear Petras’ creaky voice in his head, telling him stories of the creatures who came down from the mountains to snatch naughty children from their beds.

“You’ve heard of them,” she said with a knowing glint in her eye.

“I thought they were just stories.” I’d hoped they were just stories hung in the air between them. The lycan remained silent but watched them closely, his tail flicking back and forth anxiously.

“They ain’t just stories. They’re real and they’re right nasty. Where else do you think the stories come from? We’ve set up sentry stations…you haven’t seen them yet, but you will if you stick around long enough to explore what little there is of Roguehaven.”

The practitioner repressed a shiver. In his mind he saw the little boy with raven-black hair and raven blue eyes who hid under the covers while the mountain winds buffeted the house. Waiting for the reevers to break into his house. Or crawl out from under the bed - convinced they lived in darkness and could pop out anywhere as long as it was nighttime. Convinced they would snatch him away, drag him deep into their dark home where they would devour him.

“I’ll take a room for the night,” he said. He fished for coin once more.

                                                                …

Another tavern, another room. A future lined with taverns, with rooms in different locations that all looked the same. There was always the chance this was the last tavern. The last room. That a cruel twist of fate would cut their journey short.

But for now everything was quiet. For now he could think. The only sound was Barghast’s loud snores. The lycan sat on the bed, with his back pressed against the wall, his head slumped in dreams. Occasionally his tail would flicker in his sleep or he would let out a low whine before settling back into whatever scenario played out in his mind.

Crowe sat in an armchair before the fire. He set a fresh log in the hearth. The fire rose, eager to consume. Half-drunk, half-high and with nothing to distract him, the practitioner could only think of the coin. The coin with blood on it. The blood money and the guilt that came with it - for nothing comes free, he thought, everything comes with a price.

A high piercing shriek shattered the silence, making him jerk upright in his chair. He rose from his chair, going to the window. In the hours since Crowe and Barghast had arrived at Roguehaven, the wind had picked up, blowing drifts of snow past the window. The practitioner squinted. His face was close enough to the window he could feel winter’s chill through the glass. He looked over his shoulder at the Okanavian. The barbarian had yet to stir from his slumber. Good, the sorcerer thought. Keep sleeping. You’re going to need it.

Not more than a week ago, Crowe had heard such a scream. High-pitched. Animal-like. The kind of sound an animal makes when they’re afraid; the kind of sound they make when they’re afraid. Only the scream hadn’t come from an animal - or from the vocal cords of a creature he’d hoped only existed in stories.

The cabin, windows shattered, the door hanging off its hinges from where a torchcoat had kicked it down. The smell of smoke. The screams. The laughter. Just like the night he’d found Barghast bound to the tree, the centerpiece of a ring of torture.

He remembered how Barghast and he had crouched behind the fat trunk of a pine tree. Watching. Waiting. Trying to decide whether or not they should get involved. The man burning. Bound to a stake, his arms twisted behind his back by rope. The smell of his flesh cooking. The woman’s screams - was she his wife, his mother, his sister? The sound of the torchcoats laughing. There were five of them. Barghast whining beside him, slobbering with hunger.

When he could no longer stand the screams, Crowe started to move out from behind the trees. Once he’d almost abandoned another to this fate. He would not hesitate again. Before he could raise his rod, Barghast grabbed his arm, yanking him back behind the trees with a growl.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Stay,” Barghast rumbled. He shook his head, glancing in the direction of the torchcoats. “We go.”

The woman rose to her feet, screaming something. A name. The man’s name. Her husband's, Crowe thought. Her voice was drowned out by the agonized pitch of his. She started to run towards the flaming pyre only for a torchcoat to intercept her. A gauntleted fist slammed into her belly. She doubled over, dropping back into the snow. She whimpered something under her breath. Crowe thought he caught the word, “Monad”, but it was impossible to tell from this distance.

Crowe scowled at the lycan. “You want us to leave them the way I almost left you?” He ran a finger along a scar that marked a pale line through the Okanavian’s gray fur. He cocked his head in the direction of the commotion. “They would have done the same thing to you they’re doing to them had I not intervened.” The thought of how close he’d come to leaving the barbarian to his fate made his stomach cramp with guilt. Not more than four yards away a new ring of torture played out.

The bitterness in his voice reached through to the lycan. He stepped back. He shrugged his shoulders, his tail drooping between his legs. He grumbled something in Okanavian. The meaning was clear: I’ll do it, but only for you. He unshouldered his rifle, already taking aim.

Crowe unsheathed his dagger. “It’s not a complete waste of time.” He shook inwardly at the note of the eagerness he heard in his own voice. The way his pulse quickened in anticipation of the torchcoat blood he was about to spill. “You love killing torchcoats.”

After counting to three, the herald burst out from behind the trees. The crack of Barghast’s rifle exploded behind him. A bullet whizzed past Crowe close enough he could feel the parting of air - but the shot was not meant for him. A torchcoat dropped into the snow with a heavy thud. Before the four remaining torchcoats could break away in wake of the attack, the practitioner leapt onto the back of another. Wrenching his head back, he drew the blade across his throat.

Movement to his right.

Another was sprinting for the trees. Without thinking, Crowe threw the dagger with all his might. It spun through the air, whistling towards the torchcoat. The throw should have missed its mark - it had been sloppy and uncoordinated. But somehow, perhaps by the grace of Monad, the blade sunk into the meat between the torchcoat's shoulderblades.

Distracted, he didn’t see the torchcoat charging towards him until they slammed into him with the force of a freight train. The large man fell on top of him, knocking him into the snow. Before Crowe could react, a steel gauntlet slammed into his face. Stars exploded behind his eyes. The torchcoat snarled something under his breath, hands seizing him around the throat. Squeezing with the intent to kill. Weight pressing down on him. Crushing him into the snow.

The torchcoat was so intent on killing him with his bare hands he didn’t see the practitioner see the handle of the revolver sticking out of its holster. He didn’t see Crowe reach for it until the sorcerer pulled it free. His eyes widened when Crowe pressed the muzzle to his forehead. He started to say something, but the herald didn’t give him time to finish before he pulled the trigger. The man fell back like a heavy weight.

Crowe rolled onto his knees.

Another voice screamed at him. More movement from his left. A bayonet flashed towards his face. The revolver almost slipped from the practitioner’s sweaty, broken grip. He had to use both hands to keep it steady. He drew back the hammer. He squeezed the trigger. The chamber turned once. The gun shook violently in his hand, almost knocking him off balance.

The torchcoat stopped. Her eyes widened. Crowe watched the blood drain from her face. She dropped to her knees, placing her gloves over the smoking hole in her throat. He pulled the trigger again, his face set in a tortured grimace. Her head snapped back with a boneless crack.

He staggered to his feet.

A twig snapped behind him.

He whirled around. He drew back the hammers. Barghast halted a meter in front of him. He raised his paws in surrender. “Twin o’rre,” he breathed.

The herald let the revolver drop towards the ground. He tried not to think about how close he’d come to pulling the trigger.

The man who burned at the stake no longer screamed, no longer moved. His body had been completely blackened by the flames, the shape of his face a charred ruin. The woman huddled on the ground before the pyre. The tangle of her hair hid her face but there was no mistaking her grief. Her slender shoulders shook from the force of her sobs.

Crowe waved for Barghast to stay back. The smell of charred flesh made his eyes water. He knelt down in front of the woman, keeping the revolver at his side. He reached for her cautiously. “Hey,” he said. “They’re dead. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

She jerked back on her haunches, flinging her hair back from her face with a toss of her head. One eye was swollen completely shut. Her cheeks were swollen and puffy and dark with bruises. Her lip was split. Her dress was torn. Her life was ruined. “What do you want? You want me to thank you? You want to fuck me? You want to finish what they started? Go ahead.” She shook her head. Her voice broke. Crowe watched the single eye she could see through fill with tears. “Take what you want. Do what you want.” She eyed the smoking body that had once been someone she loved. “I don’t care. You’re too late.”

A gust of wind combed through the trees, blowing flecks of ash into the air. Crowe looked at the broken windows, at the sagging door. The cabin was the only shelter they’d found for miles. Had the woman and her husband woke up that morning with any idea that their lives would end in tendrils of smoke? He watched Barghast circle the corpses of the torchcoats, freeing purses full of coins from their pockets. He forced himself to turn his attention back to the woman.

“I’m not just going to leave you here,” he told her in a high-pitched voice, not his own.

“Then kill me. Shoot me yourself.” The woman gave him a sharp look that put any doubts he had as to whether or not she meant it to rest. “Pull the trigger.”

Useless words caught in his throat. All he could manage to say was, “No”, and shake his head like a fool. The revolver still hung at his side. He wished he’d never picked the revolver up, but now that it was in his hand he couldn’t drop it. With two less fingers than he used to have it would make a useful weapon for desperate measures.

The woman surprised him by spitting on his boots. Spit reddened with blood and snot. A string of curse words, ugly and acerbic, streamed from her mouth. “You’re nothing but a cock-sucking coward!” she raged. She crawled towards him, seizing him by the robes while still crouched in the snow. Her movements mirrored that night in the cave when Barghast had begged to join his pilgrimage. “What was the point in wasting your breath, then? Why bother?” She waved a hand at the blaze from which tendrils of black smoke rose in earnest. “What is there left to keep me anchored to this life? You should have just let the damn torchcoats finish what they started.”

He sucked in a breath. He exhaled through quivering lips. “What do you want me to do?”

Tears fell down her cheek, freezing to her skin. “Shoot me. It'll be a faster train to Inferno than the one my husband took.”

He took a step back.

The woman laughed caustically. The voice issuing from her bruised throat rang with hysteria. “I'm sure your beast companion wouldn't hesitate…”

The practitioner cocked the revolver at her forehead. His finger weighed on the trigger, a hair from pulling it. The woman froze. Her breasts heaved. Her eyes bore into his. Pleading with him silently to vindicate her. “How dare you!” he spat. “Don’t ask me to be the hand that snuffs out Monad’s flame! If you want to throw your life away so easily then pull the trigger with your own finger!”

He tossed the revolver into her lap. He would find one in Roguehaven; until then the rod was proving more than adequate. Walking away, he signaled for Barghast to grab Mammoth and follow him. The silence that followed the report of the revolver made it impossible to sleep that night.

The next morning, he would begin counting through the money they'd lifted from the torchcoats. Letting them spill into his hand. Feeling the individual weight of each coin after weeks of being broke. Only when he dropped them back into the purse did he see the blood on his hands.

In the present, another shrill, inhuman scream pulled him back into the present. This was followed by the crack of a rifle. And then the other. Barghast was on his feet in an instant, reaching for his rifle with a snarl. “You’re safe,” the practitioner whispered. He crossed the room. Barghast’s arms closed around him, pulling him in until Crowe’s back rested against the barbarian's belly. “We're both safe.” For now hovered over the room like a black cloud.

He wasn't sure how long they stood there holding each other before they heard a third crack, followed by a fourth, a fifth. Each report made Crowe’s blood skitter inside his veins. He wasn't the only one who was curious. He could feel the Okanavian’s heart kicking powerfully against the back of his shoulder. The practitioner raised his eyes from the frosted window to the lycan's. “Should we go see?”

This earned him an eager tail wag. “See,” Barghast rumbled.

If the patrons inside The Maudlin Bear heard the gunshots, they showed no signs. In fact, when Crowe looked around the tavern he could see no signs that anything had changed at all. The violin music still played. Slurred voices cursed at the game table where bearded men were bent intently over a card came, while whores sat on their laps, ooohing and ahhhing over the potential victor. Meese had been replaced by a stick-thin man with a narrow face and a long, slightly crooked nose.

They’re used to the chaos, the practitioner thought as Barghast and he left the toasty interior of the tavern, stepping out into the arctic chill. Living at the edge of the world where human civilization ends, they know how to live in the moment. He felt a growing respect for the people of Roguehaven.

The snow-covered streets and alleyways of the settlement had taken on a purgatorial glow. Sharp-tipped icicles hung from the sills of windows, catching the stray ray of moonlight that peeked through the smoky wreath of clouds. Taking his hand, Barghast led him past the settlement’s only well. The warmth of his fur and reassuring weight of his arm around Crowe’s shoulder kept the chill at bay.

They found the guard posts on the Eastern edge of the town. The shelters stood nine feet off the ground, held aloft by sturdy looking stilts. Excited whispers and laughs sounded from atop the shelters. “Who goes there?” a voice shouted when Crowe and Barghast drew closer.

The muzzle of a musket glared at the practitioner, daring him to take a step closer before he stated who he was. The practitioner raised his hands above his head; Barghast followed suit.

“Just a traveler passing through your settlement.” The herald fought to keep his teeth from chattering together. “I heard the gunshots. I hear you have an issue with reevers. I’ve never seen one before…” He paused for a moment, trying to sound casual. “Neither as my companion. We wanted to take a look.” As an extra measure of caution he held his necklace up to the dome of light shining down from the gas lamps grafted into the side of the building.

Crowe’s answer was met with a lengthy response in which the only sound was the moan of the wind. The herald was about to draw back when the man’s voice said, “Alright. Your friend…he doesn’t bite, does he?”

The sorcerer resisted the urge to suck in a breath. You better get used to being asked. It’s better than being shot at. “He’s friendly enough as long as no one gives him a reason not to be.”

Another hesitation. And then a hand waved at him. “Come on up! You might be able to see a few from this distance. We’ve dropped a few. They’ve been bold tonight.”

A ladder led up through a trap door in the bottom of the shelter. For a moment the practitioner worried the ladder wouldn’t be able to bear Barghast’s weight, but the lycan quickly put his fear to rest. In spite of his size, the Okanavian once more proved himself to be the agile predator, squeezing his bulk through the trap door. Three pairs of eyes watched them with open curiosity. Two men and a woman. The two men stood at the window overlooking the expanse of land that gave way to the open tundra. In the distance he could see clusters of ice and rock that stuck out of the earth like the molars of giant dead animals buried beneath the snow. Somewhere beyond that…the Vaylin Ruins. The woman was huddled in the corners with a patchwork quilt wrapped around her shoulders.

“Name’s Hargreaves,” said the man who’d spoken earlier. Even in the dim of night the long tangles of his hair and beard were as brightly orange as a carrot. Bright blue eyes scanned Crowe intently from head to toe, measuring him up. The practitioner could feel his companions doing the same. “This is Topher.” He pointed at the slimmer shorter man who blew tobacco clouds from a pipe. “The lady over there is Faux.”

“Crowe.” The herald hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Barghast.” He pointed at the window. “May I?”

Both men stepped back, giving him and Barghast room to take a look.

It took a moment for Crowe’s eyes to adjust. The pools of moon reflecting off the ice and snow made it to parse the gloom. Barghast nudged him excitedly. “Twin o’rre,” he whined. He raised his paw, pointing.

Were it not for the Okanavian he would have mistaken the smaller mounds sticking out of the ground for tiny seracs. A longer look showed him they were not so mundane. Their shape was too angular. And rocks didn’t have limbs folded at an angle only achieved in death…

Barghast tensed beside him. He growled.

Crowe jerked in spite of himself. Only now did he realize he’d been holding his breath for the last minute. “What is it?” he gasped.

“Did the beast see something?” Hargreaves heavy footfalls sounded behind him, his voice tense.

He’s not a beast, the practitioners almost said, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. His eyes remained fixed on the rocky formations ahead, unable to see what the Okanavian could. Barghast unslung his rifle, taking aim. His teeth flashed like silver needles in the dark.

Crowe saw them a second or two later. Pale, reptilian limbs bounding across the snow. Shrieks sounding from pointed muzzles parted in blood-thirsty rage. A nightmare hybrid of human and amphibian. For the moment the practitioner was glad he couldn’t see more. Watching them move across the ice so easily, the stories Petras used to tell him replayed in his mind, evoking childhood fears. He heard someone shout something at his back, but he couldn’t make himself move. He couldn’t even reach for his rod which was just within hand’s reach.

A hand pulled him back from the window roughly. Hargreaves took the vacated space.

Barghast backed to Crowe’s side while the three guards stood at the front of the shelter. Crowe could only watch as they fired, his chest tight, his blood thick. The reports from their rifles lit up the night, washing the ground in white fire. Kill them! he wanted to scream. Kill them all! He didn’t have the air in his lungs to form the words. His fingers fumbled for the Lion-Headed Serpent.

The creatures shrieked, slipping easily over the ice. Bullets slammed into the ground, kicking up puffs of snow. In spite of the firing squad, the reavers continued to advance towards the settlement. “Load!” Hargreaves roared.

Three rifles bucked in unison. This time one of the shots hit its mark, catching a reaver in the leg. It rolled over the ground, coming to a stop in a sprawled heap. The other two continued their charge unabated. Hargreaves cursed under his breath. His legs disappeared through the trapdoor. Crowe watched him fall past the final rungs; the snow cushioned his landing. He sprinted towards the ambush, a machete in hand.

The practitioner marveled at the man’s bravery. The way he sprinted towards the creatures with a war cry, weapon raised over his head. These two men and woman were risking their lives to keep the abominations from breaching the settlement. Just when it seemed one of the reavers would crush him to the ground, Hargreaves swung the machete. The blade sliced through a limb, spraying dark green ichor into the snow.

The skirmish lasted less than a minute, but for Crowe it seemed he stood there for an hour, frozen in silent anticipation. The tightness in his chest followed him through the trap door, down the ladder. Hargreaves grinned at him from where he stood next to a carcass of one of the dead creatures. Even on all fours, even unmoving, the lifeless creature rivaled him in size. Crowe gaped at the scaly features that were both incredibly inhuman and not; the smell of ash and sulfur surrounded it. Inferno.

“You can get closer,” Hargreaves drawled. “It’s dead. It's not going to hurt you.”

“This is close enough,” the practitioner heard himself mutter. He glanced at Topher and Faux who had joined them from the guard post. “The three of you took out these three creatures on your own with no help.”

Hargreaves cocked a bushy eyebrow. “What's your point?”

“If you can keep them at bay then what's stopping the Theocracy from reaching the Vaylin Ruins?”

The man chortled humorlessly. “That was just three of them. Out in the Expanse they hunt in packs of half a dozen or more. In the past we've worried about one or two trying to get in town and those incidents used to be sporadic. For the past month something has got them more riled up. They happen two or three times a night now. We shoot the bullets faster than the blacksmith can make them.”

“What do you think has frightened them?”

“I don't know, but whatever it is it's enough to get them to come this way. That doesn't bode well for Roguehaven.” An odd glint sparked in Hargreaves’ eyes. “You’re not thinking about going out there, are you?”

Crowe bit back a scowl. “We don't have much of a choice. There's something out there we need.”

“It must be something if it's worth dying for…because that's exactly what will happen if you go out there,” the man replied in the same voice he might have used to talk about the weather. He flicked a glance in Barghast’s direction. “The both of you. Especially with the storm coming. It'll be here anytime.”

“All I need to know is the best way to get across the ice. What we do with our lives is our problem.”

Hargreaves eyebrows due together. He took a step back. “Dogs,” he said. “You need dogs and a sled.”