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THE WHITE COIL

I

There were three great lessons Ryg’s father imparted to him as a child: everyone shits, everyone dies, and everyone shits when they die. He was about to experience all three.

The outside groaned with the broken chuckles of swarming mutants. Pale, thin figures carrying a hive of white, bloated tendrils on their ‘heads’ banged against the walls, seeking an entry point, a hole they might slither into.

Ryg ignored them, as well as a rat could, focusing on his canisters of copper. Heavy barrels they were, full with a viscous serum that, once lit, could ignite in a belch of fire “that just wouldn’t quit,” Ryg put it. Only, they were meant for cast-loading in a kind of launcher or projectile device, not an unceremonious detonation.

Uninterested in having his favorite pair of trousers turn a fine shade of brown and red, Ryg fumbled with a makeshift fuse and igniter, attaching a lean wire to the mouth of one of the barrels. Crude, barbarically simple even, but enough to get the job done.

One of the windows shattered, an arm with another arm spewing into the opening, kept at bay by hastily nailed boards. Faces that were once recognizable peered in, desperate to swarm the working rodent.

Undeterred, Ryg fixed up his makeshift bombs, all neatly crowded in the disheveled living room. The trick now was to not die.

The walls shuttered once again, splintered by the endless scratches and pounds of the swarming mutants.

“I hate to leave ya’, ladies, but I got me some appointments elsewhere,” Ryg said, unraveling the long fuse line from his pocket.

“Give em’ a good show for me.”

Ryg then scurried away to the cellar, found under a hidden hatch in one of the other rooms. It was small, miserable, and good for forgetting about things. It was also Ryg’s last chance at survival.

The torrent of screams only grew louder as the Blight mutants hastened their attempts to break in. It was now or never.

Holding the line fuse carefully, Ryg put himself as low as he could to the cellar ground, took out a small copper apparatus, and flicked its lever. Tiny fire cracked to life and he lit the line, as it hissed to life, a bulb of sparks snaking along the fuse’s path.

Ryg held his ears and closed his eyes. He wondered what the percentages of his survival were. He also wondered what death felt like, and if there was an afterlife, and if he would ev-

There was no sound, only feeling. Seconds turned to eons, then back to seconds, Ryg thrown from his prone position into the hard cellar wall, the wind knocked free from his lungs. Gagging, the ground tore open as searing fire erupted into the sky.

There was a cellar, and then there wasn’t.

Surely Ryg was dead. Surely the green hell above him was a sign he was gone into the next life, soon to be greeted by a thousand devils. Surely.

His head rang like sound was death. His vision blurred. His fur felt singed. Gotta’ be dead, he thought.

But then he remembered the great wisdom of his father. Much to his semi-conscious relief, his bowels were still quite in control.

Finally, he could breathe again, and so he did, sipping air like it were the finest wine served by the finest woman. But the air was bitter, and hot, and rotting. He coughed, on all fours, wobbling about, trying to find his legs, his arms, some semblance of control.

Perhaps another century or two passed. Or, perhaps it was only a few minutes. Perhaps Ryg was going crazy.

No, instead, his hearing returned, as did his vision. And when they did, the green hell above formed into a more coherent picture. Whatever remained of the house above was gone. There was a home, now there wasn’t.

Instead, pillars of a sick, emerald inferno took its place, housing only embers instead of children. Part of the cellar was gone, but managed to escape most of the explosion, yet everything above was a splint of a splinter.

Skeletal black arms of shattered beams and walls stood like chipped teeth and all sense of property were vaporized. Any semblance that this was once a safe world to raise a family had been aptly obliterated.

Ryg coughed, standing. But what about the mutants, he thought. That was more important.

Their screams were no more. A good starting sign.

Cautiously, Ryg started to crawl his way back up to the house’s remains. He pulled free his weapon, a handy device that cast beams of green death, and looked about.

The Blighted mutants were unrecognizable. Scattered in a hundred places with their parts in a thousand more, the only remains of them were charred, burning pockets of flesh. The parasitic stalks which grew around the house had shriveled and the air began to cleanse itself of the toxic clouds brought on by the Blight. For now.

Ryg rubbed his forehead.

Technically he wasn’t paid to save the house.

II

“Quite useless.”

Elenn felt her hand implode with a wellspring of pain. It was as though fire scorched her to the bone, black and hot, boiling her blood. It remained intact, the hand. No flame enveloped it. No physical harm came to it. It was only agony.

She did not scream. Instead, eyes tearing up, she looked up to Instructor Doren, a woman who aged as finely as bad cheese.

“Does it hurt, girl?” Doren said. “It should. Until that hand is made useful, you’ll feel pain, every time.”

She circled around the young fox, a frown tugging her already warty, ancient features. “That pain is something only a foe should feel. But there it sits, in your palm.”

Elenna opened her jaw, wanting to scream. “Don’t,” Doren said. “It won’t help.”

“I’ve never seen a girl struggle with the Bleak like you,” she went on. “Perhaps that is your vermin blood.”

The fox stared at her hand, helplessly, almost buckling to the cold citadel floor. But she defied it, defied weakness.

Instructor Doren came around to face the vixen. Her deadened, milky eyes cast over Elenna with contempt, fat nose wrinkling as though something foul smelling was under it.

“Are you daft, girl?” she went on. Elenn clenched her palm, the pain fading, shaking her head.

A slap to the side of her head. “What? Speak up! Damn vermin. If you’re not daft, you must be deaf.”

Elenna winced. “N-no! No, Instructor Doren!”

“Not dumb and not deaf you say? Then, you’re wasting our time, which means you’re wasting my time, and it’s far more important than yours, vermin.”

Elenna looked down to her hand, numb it was now.

“Don’t look there for answers,” Doren reprimanded. “You’ll find it empty, like your head.”

Doren scoffed, turned, and walked back to her previous position, long embroidered cloak clinking with her many chains and baubles. She then stood once more next to a marble figure, a dummy, enchanted to test numerous arcane arts against.

“We’ll try it once more.”

Elenna glanced at the dummy, tail swishing, ears flattened. Her chest heaved with anxious breaths, the last tingles of pain leaving her. She didn’t know if she could handle another bout of it.

“Let yourself fall into the void, Elenna,” Doren commanded. “And from it pull free the Bleak.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Elenna, maw clenched.

She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. But it was not the citadel training room she saw, not the fineries nor symbols of the Scarlet Clerics surrounding her. It was a blackness, an absence. It was raw and cold, desperate endlessness.

No, it was madness! It was the end after the end! Oblivion’s purgatory, life without death for it were a realm where neither existed! Quiet cacophonies, unreasonable equations, impossible geometry. Elenna saw it, and didn’t, and felt her conscious warp.

Only a piece of her spoke: Don’t stay too long!

Yes, no, yes. Stay away from it, from this void. So easy to fall and lose oneself against the million colors undiscovered, the secrets of madness whispered in each hue.

“AGH!”

She screamed. Reality melted before her once more. The void was gone, and only the quiet stone and quieter Doren greeted her.

Elenna took what she needed from the Bleak, and that remained was to use it. Her arm leapt up, hand pressed out, aimed at the marble dummy. The madness she coveted was ready.

There were no magic incantations or strange words to let loose the Bleak, only action. The surge of cold rushed through Elenna’s arm and to her palm, then her fingertips, then. . .

An ugly spray of incandescent black energy vomited from her hand in fat drops. Bulbous, writhing beads of arcane spewed in random directions like the ripples of a heavy raindrop. This time, Elenna yelped in pain, for the agony was too great to bear.

Doren sighed, the gobs of Bleak splashing about and bursting in cracks of black fire, hissing on the stone, wreathed with impossible blues and hellish violets.

Elenna collapsed to the ground, all fours, gripping her wrist, tears streaming down cheeks, her fingers screeching in agony, bubbles of arcane erupting from her hand. She almost gagged, the intensity of the pain making her nauseous, dizzy.

Doren shook her head. “Miserable vermin.”

“You’ve wasted enough of my time today. Stand up, you useless thing.”

Elenna wanted to rise and rend the Instructor’s throat. Wanted to pull her apart in a hundred ways, put her back together, and do it again in a thousand different ways. What did she know!? How could she possibly understand what it was to walk into oblivion, steal its strength, and use it!?

“I said stand.”

Elenna’s right arm was entirely useless, quivering in agony. She wobbled, slowly coming to her knees. The vixen stared at her arm, fearing it might be lost, mutated, or worst. Yet still, it remained intact, as though its suffering was born of mind alone.

So she stood, face soaked with tears, eyes miserable and downcast.

“One day, Elenna, you’ll walk into the void, and it will keep you,” Doren said. “Perhaps you’ll do us all a favor then, and stay there?”

Elenna shook her head. “N-no, Instructor Doren, I won’t, I have to learn!”

Doren made a noise as though she’d witnessed a horrific death.

“Keep your childish notions of determinations to yourself, you stupid thing. Enough of this.”

Instructor Doren glanced as each puddle of Bleak arcane faded away, gasping in its own quiet pocket of death. She grunted, and made for the room’s door.

“Your punishment for this failing is a week of penance. Go to Hanax, explain your failings, and see fit to the duties you’re given.”

Elenna’s ears flattened once more. The chamber door creaked open, then slammed, leaving the vixen to the cold, empty citadel room.

It was colder than the void.

-*-

Elenna kept her head down and eyes glued to the floors and steps of Citadel Oxus, as though every patron, priest, and cleric knew of her failures. It felt an eternity, going through the various halls and rooms, all housing their own ecosystems of teachers, living quarters, and places of study.

She imagined what it might be like to make full use of them. Browse the endless books or learn about the missions of the Scarlet Clerics. Perhaps even get a glance at the great Chapter Master Ludven himself.

Her shame, however, vaporized once she left the citadel and arrived at the outskirts of the massive structure.

The air was cool and damp from an afternoon’s rain. The sky a sweet, quiet grey. Her footpaws fell into runny puddles and patches of mud. Beautiful.

Blaqtown was her destination. A shabby place that housed those in working service to the Citadel. Originally a lumberyard, it expanded for other various tasks the Scarlet Clerics deemed necessary. All unpaid, of course, holy duties were a far richer reward than the mortal tithe of men.

So, of course, it was a prime outlet for black market dealings and other shady affairs.

It didn’t take her long to arrive, nor did it to find Haxan’s ‘church.’ It was quite easy to notice, one of the first things a person would see once past the gates. A church turned into a hunter’s yard turned back into an “appropriated” Scarlet Cleric temple.

Haxan used it for sport and prostitution.

It was a ragged, slanted building with lanterns hung on every free limb and loose board. The iconography of the Scarlet Clerics hung unceremoniously on the gates or lazily nailed over a loose window. Clouds of incense stung the air and settled over the church’s hill like an eerie fog.

Elenna strolled through it with earned familiarity. There were mud-caked passerbys, dealers, visitors, even wayward priests looking to make a “prayer” that ventured in and out of Haxan’s temple. They were, to Elenna, better company than all the wisest creatures at Oxus.

The black vixen slunk past a few crowds as she ventured inside, soaked in warm amberlight. Knowing Haxan, he was likely in his quarters, a man of habit.

And so he was.

There was little need for Elenna to make requests or speak with the serving hands as she wandered upstairs. Most, at this point, were quite familiar with her reputation and rather counted on her to make appearances at least once a month.

Perhaps that was why Haxan left his heavy chamber door slightly ajar.

“You stink like fine roses, dear,” he said before the girl had even slipped into his quarters.

“I guess it’s easy to sniff out when everything reeks, you old crust.”

As if in expected tradition, Elenna entered and closed the door, the withered figured pooling over a stack of notes and papers near his desk.

His room was a torrent of trinkets, books, and oddities, all lopped in their own world of messy piles. Skulls hung on foreign ropes and candles danced with strange colors, while a random assortment of Oxus banners were nailed on random sections of the wall.

“I won’t have you speaking ill of my fine establishment,” he said without looking up, scribbling.

Elenna looked about, frowned, and found a seat on a stack of moldy books.

“I’ll have you know holy hands come from all over to shag with the whores here,” he went on. He stopped his writings abruptly, looked up, and snorted.

Tendrils of white hair fell over his cracked, ancient face, his eyes were plump and bulbous, and he looked to wear a suit decades old.

Legendary Blackhat Haxan, founder of Blaqtown, refuser of death.

He set aside his work, then furiously wheeled backward, then out and around his desk. His wheelchair screeched in protest.

“What fuckin’ nonsense you’ve gotten up to now, I wonder?”

Elenna offered a wide smile. “Failing Instructor Doren, wanting to die, learning about oblivion. The usual.”

He groaned. “Dull Doren threw you off to me, did she? That fat bird’s more tits than brain.”

The fox had to stifle a laugh.

“Don’t chuckle at me,” Haxan spat. “I’ve a right mind to skin you clean. You’d be more useful to me that way.”

She shrugged. “Do I get one of those fancy hunter coats?”

Haxan made a noise like he’d stepped in fresh shit. Fumbling with his coat, he pulled out a moldy wood pipe.

“That sharp humor of yours can’t save you forever, Elly.”

Haxan stuffed the pipe head with smelly, brown leaves and proceeded to light it. “And neither can I.”

Elenna’s eyes rolled. “Who said I needed saving? I can take care of myself.”

The room filled with the stench of acrid smoke. “What, you think you can keep running down here and choppin’ wood? You’re a twit, and you’re wasting my time.”

“You’re as bad as Doren!” she challenged.

“No, I’m old, got one good lung, and run a fancy ring o’ whores. Once the Clerics get tired of our shaggin’ and thieven, they’ll hang me out. And then you’ll get branded a dud, be Muted, and spend the rest o’ your days attending to some lecherous old shit.”

Elenna wobbled on the books, resting maw in hand. “I thought I already did that with you.”

The old man took a long draft of his pipe. “I may be old, but I ain’t shoving my hands up your skirt. Point is, you need to get to learnin’ quicker.”

She looked away. “Can’t.”

Haxan raised his fist. “If I had me good arms I’d wring you blue! Don’t tell me you can’t, Elly.”

The vixen hopped off the books. She started to pace about in soft, gentle strides, like stalking prey through a river.

“I don’t know what to say. I’ve studied the Bleak for as long as I can remember. It feels wrong. It fills me with pain. I just don’t get it!”

Haxan shook his head. “Ain’t supposed to feel right.”

Elenna wasn’t satisfied. “A lot of cocking good that does me.” Her tail swished in frustration.

“I’d rather be a Blackhat.”

The old man shuddered with laughter. “You get your knickers flogged twice as hard? What lot o’ rubbish is that?”

She ignored him, gazing out the room’s one, foggy window. “It’s not rubbish. Blackhats get to do all the fun things. See the world, fight monsters, bed women.”

Haxan spat a pool of smoke and wheezed with laughter. “Is that what they say men of the hunt are? Magic heroes who go huntin’ beasts and live with princesses? That’s a load of maggots n’ piss, it is.”

It hardly phased the fox. “Can’t be worse than what I’m doing now.”

Haxan stared at her. His wrinkled hand quivered, his pale, milky face turning a light flush of red.

“You stupid twit!” he spat again. “You really think that’s a life? Is it then? Twit! The Hats are dogs, you ‘ear me! Dogs!”

Elenna’s ears flicked, looking at the old hunter, his yellow teeth chattering with rage.

“While those fuckin’ holy men go about polishin’ their nobs of good work and deeds, they send the Hats to do the cuttin’ first! All the ugly business they don’t write down, all the beggars and orphans they snatch up. No names, no burials! They’re just dogs!”

Elenna smirked. “Guess I’m halfway there.”

If Haxan’s face turned any redder, all the blood of his body would’ve been used.

“As I recall, you’ve got work to do,” he hissed. He wheeled to his desk, cramming nose back into the tower of papers he was scribbling through.

He didn’t speak immediately. Tapping the pages, he pondered. Then: “Go and see Nek down at the cutters. Start choppin’ through the fallwood and see where all your glory is.”

Elenna considered staying, but it was clear Haxan had nothing left to say. She left, hopping over the gates, evening beginning to settle over Blaqtown.

At least I get to swing an axe, she thought.

III

“It’s all gone?”

Yarla Sweet-Foot was a kind, weathered woman, into her fair years and mother of thirteen healthy rabbits. She sought a quiet life out in the Green Hills with her husband, and found a quieter one when he passed not two summers ago.

Now, she was without home.

Ryg stared at the hanging tavern sign “Willow’s Nest” as he nodded. Not even a foggy brown ale could stifle this horrendous mood.

Yarla did not charge him with her own gaze. Rather, eyes sunk into hands, long ears flattening, the cheery laughs of tavern noise muted to her.

“All the stalks are gone,” Ryg offered. “Ain’t nothin’ left of them for as far as the moon stretches.”

A lie.

“Abbart built that home when I was full with our first litter,” she said. “It’s gone now.”

Ryg tapped his claws on the table, glancing about, looking for an answer, a remedy, a distraction.

She looked up at him, finally. He met her eyes, a brilliant set of starry blues. They looked dead.

“I suppose you’ll want to be paid, now.”

A quiet pocket formed. She did not move, only let the phrase linger.

Ryg scoffed. “Look. . . we all got our problems, lady.” He rubbed his head, taking a long draft of the ale, hoping it might transport him somewhere else.

“What?” he continued, setting the mug down. “Don’t be lookin’ me all crossed up. I can’t afford pity, lady.”

Her nose flared, and her gentle fingers tensed. “You can afford to ruin lives, though, can’t you Mister Ryg?”

He almost spat. “You still liviin’, ain’t ya? Maybe when you two lovers were finished shaggin’ you should’ve thought about settin’ up somewhere closer to the Tower.”

“Don’t you dare,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare question him.”

The rat looked at his empty mug, making a face. Where was a big bottomed bar girl when you needed her?

“I ain’t got time to question,” he bit back. “Just do my job. And my job was to take care of an infestation. Not make sure you kept all your nice little memories.”

Fierce eyes saddened. “Does it mean that little to you, mister Ryg?”

A brief silence. Ryg thought about the husband, the happy children, their sunny days, their cold winters, their growing children.

Then he remembered debt.

“Not enough.”

Realization fell over Yarla.

Outside, it felt colder than usual. Ryg’s hand was weighted with a bloated purse of silvers, fat with triumph.

A small part of him said to split it. Said, “just take half, work something out later.” And then, like every other time, he ignored that part and went on to his wagon.

His mind skittered over inventory and progressed to costs. Stuffing his earnings in a hidden compartment, he went over what was left of his gear after the little “goodwill” excursion.

Down four barrels of Hellbite, a crate of cast-rods used, and a dozen incendiary explosives. He made a face.

Yarla’s struggle vanished from his mind and he pondered the future, closing the wagon up. Empathy was easy when you could afford it.

He yanked the switch to his wagon’s ignition. The front end, a complex apparatus which roamed terrain via massive mechanic wheel rumbled to life and heaved plumes of black-green smoke. He perched himself in the driver’s hatch, a primitive seat protected by a small cage, and set forward.

It was a two-day trip back to the Tower and Ryg was already figuring a few dozen ways he could skinny Mulg.

-*-

The Tower was a deceptive and complex thing. It had a dozen different titles between denizens and onlookers. “The Great Southern Pike, Giant’s Finger, God Cock.”

Proudly, it stood as a festering pile of neighborhoods, floors of shaped stone homes to peasants, beggars, thieves, culprits, hunters, privateers, soldiers, and honest folk looking to make a day’s pence. Each layer was its own civilization, its own world of rules and laws and debts.

Ryg happened to luck himself a small, box-shaped room on the southern end of the lower tower, affectionally referred to as Mulg’s Bowel.

If he could get to it. Ryg’s makeshift wagon was a clumsy, angry thing which spooked the tall-legged insects and strider beasts it got near as he parked where a living beast might go. Then there was the matter of locking it up so no daft fool thought it wise to try and steal flammable, bone-melting liquid. Then there was navigating the stone intestines of the Tower’s outer rings before actually entering the damn thing.

Of course, it helped he was a rat. Ryg skittered through most of the outer crowds and shanty mobs without hassle. Lots were drunk, shagging, gambling, or selling fine pickled goose beaks. This wasn’t the night crowd, after all.

But there were still vermin and beast by the hundreds, probably thousands, outside alone. He never took count.

Through them he found his way to the massive opened doors at the Tower’s entrance, a maw wider than several homes stacked together. Boar-hog guards sat about the steps with their cleavers and tower-folk went in-and-out like an endless expulsion.

The first layer of the Tower was a hive of steps and corridors leading to yet more corridors and steps. A melting pot of confusion where families and vagabonds alike went about to their quarters.

Ryg’s layer, the Bowel, was tucked away on the third section near the third quarter, past hubs of tapestry shops, dealers, and families. Each layer, like a large square, was broken up into smaller squares – the quarters, those filled with their own ecosystems of rooms, shops, and vagrants.

The stone work was old, cracked, and yellow, while homes were cramped next to each other with little space. If you didn’t have a room, then you camped in the wide corridors.

This was the source of contempt for most, but Ryg liked small spaces. Easy to navigate, keep track of things, sneak under crates when payments were due.

It wasn’t long until Ryg was near his section once more, filled with its typical mess of chattering masses, breeds from all over the coast and surrounding isles. Hell, some were even mainland ilk, unlucky sods tossed off their lands, legally or no.

He didn’t stop to chat, nor did he ever, really. It was best to swim through them and avoid Mulg’s bruisers. Not like they had much of interest to say, anyway.

The rat finally found his way to the third quarter, sneaking to the leftmost part of the section. It was an odd mish mash of people, with the air stinking of bitter weeds, pungent alcohols, and vexing perfumes. Torches lit most of the corridors and voices called out amongst the crowds, trying to sell stews of bug guts or bird beaks.

His door wasn’t too far off. In his pockets he shuffled for a complex key mechanism, something he cooked up to keep his tiny box home nice and safe. It wasn’t far off now, just down a shallow hall, ominous faded-red door in sight.

He licked his sharp teeth and-

“RYG!”

He squeaked, buckled, and turned.

He half expected a buckler to mangle his jaw. What he saw, however, might as well have been.

A stern faced woman marched up to him, shorter than he, rather squat, but an odd mix of strength and lady. Opossum features were covered in apron and stained clothes while an ear looked to be missing a piece of itself.

An unhappy, angry Floris was worse than any deathblow Ryg could imagine.

He stood upright, claws clicking together. “O! Floris, didn’t see you there, love!”

No peace could settle her. She stalked up, yanked him by the collar, and bore fury into his eyes.

“Don’t ‘love’ me you scrawny dicked sod!”

Ryg could see her particularly nasty, sharp teeth. His heart leapt, while his insides went cold.

“Do you have any idea how long you’ve been gone! Without saying a word! Without paying Mulg!?”

The rat offered a weak smile. “Eh heh, ah, bout t-thirteen days, was it?”

She pulled him closer. “Fifteen and a half.”

The grip released, Ryg stumbled, nearly falling. He raised his hands up innocently. “Oh, wha, it was for a good cause, love! Honest! It’s just work, is all!”

Floris crossed her arms, tail smacking the ground in furious claps.

“Podge and Fleur were besides themselves. They cried, Ryg. You broke their hearts.”

For once, Ryg didn’t have something snappy. It felt like a hot spear had been run through him.

“No, come on now,” he pleaded. “That ain’t how it is! No! They ain’t cross with me, is they?”

Floris’ fury ceded to a frown. Her features sagged, heavy and wounded.

“I’m cross with you. They’re upset with you. I had to lie to them, Ryg. I had to tell them you weren’t dead, or you hadn’t run off with some floozy, and you were always thinking about them, that I had letters, I just couldn’t show them and. . .”

She stopped, looking at the ground. “You bastard,” she whispered.

The rat scratched his chin, then tapped his claws together. “Oh come on, come on Florry! I can make it right, honest! Lookit. . .”

He pulled out the pack of silvers. “Gots paid! One step closer, I am. One step closer and we can get out of this heap!”

He held it out with pitiful proudness, hoping his forced grin might offer something to the woman master of his heart.

Floris looked up and eyed the bag, but remained unconvinced. “Is it enough to pay off Mulg?”

Grin became frown. “Well, no, but. . .”

A grunt. “Gods damn you, Ryg. I don’t care about the money. I care about what you’re doing to me, what you’re doing to my family.”

Ryg’s fist clenched. “Oi! They’re my family too!”

Floris’ eyes flashed and she looked like she might crack the wall with her first. “Since when?”

“Just because you’ve shagged me doesn’t make us family, Ryg. That doesn’t mean you can treat my children like this.”

He stuffed the bag back in his coat pocket, seeing how it was useless now. “Like what? I’m tryin’ to drag us out of all this!”

“That doesn’t make you their father,” she said lowly.

Ryg huffed. He looked around, rodent eyes searching for an answer. A fat bottomed girl with an ale would be nice. Usually that was Floris.

“Can I at least see em’?”

The opossum shook her head. “No. Not until you make all this right. Not until you straighten things out with Mulg.”

He gave a nasty scoff. “Bloody why? I ain’t got nothin’ to square with that fat hog except money.”

Floris started to rub her eyes. “So you can get a working job and I don’t have to keep lying to the kids about what you do.”

She sniffed. Then, stared into Ryg. “So I don’t have to worry every night about you getting eaten alive, or killed, or worse.”

There was, to Ryg, no greater pain, no greater suffering than to see Floris worked up. Those tears might have well been fire and his body oily pitch. He reached out, uncertain.

“No, no, come on love, not that.” He touched her shoulder. She tensed, but didn’t push him away.

Despite working herself hard as a smith, Floris was soft to the touch. It was enough to make Ryg do anything, say anything, think anything, so she might be happy again.

“Dammit woman,” he said. “Right, alright. I’ll go square things with the hog, promise.”

Floris gave a single nod. She huffed. “I have to get back to work.”

The rat chittered, wanting to dare a kiss. But she turned too quickly perhaps sensing his motive.

“I’m still mad at you,” she said. “But I don’t want to be.”

With that, the smith opossum started to saunter away, leaving Ryg with an ultimatum he despised.

He stared at her haunches as she left, and reminded himself it was worth it.

-*-

Mulg stuck himself a nice position as head of the third layer, taking ill-gotten wealth and transferring it to bribery and control. Once he bought off every boar and hog, he had the meat – and metal – to square up his own authority.

He was nothing more than a thug raised above his status, as far as Ryg was concerned. But unfortunately, low opinions weren’t enough to sway the bruisers when they came sniffing for payment. Less so when Floris got involved.

He beat against the ugly door of rusty iron, bag of silvers already feeling empty.

A hatch swung open and tiny, mean yellow eyes peered through. They looked down to see the rat, paused, then squealed with laughter.

The iron frame groaned open, and a bulbous, heavy armed figure met the rodent’s gaze.

“Hogh hogh!” he bubbled, “Ratty boy, where you been lad?”

The door completely opened now, and an armored guard ushered him in. Rather, forced him in.

“We been missin’ ya!” he went on. “Boss Mulg been squealin’ a storm over ya, you know?”

Ryg scratched his cheek. “What a tart, I’ll have to send him flowers.”

Another rumble of laughter. “Oooh, from ya grave? Don’t get all smart with us, ratty boy! You’re in the mud, you are!”

Shoved along, Ryg was guided to a familiar sight. Mulg’s chamber, an entire quarter section to himself, was fashioned for eating, sleeping, and shagging. The big hog settled his business from a massive desk and, where space was available, adorned his home with the styles of every gaudy trinket he could find. This lead to a mess of statues, ornaments, trinkets, and décor completely mismatched, all shoved into open air without a moment’s thought.

The raw scent of cooked fish and salted alcohol stung the rat’s nose. The hogs weren’t known for good taste.

“Oi oi, Boss Mulg, lookie who paid us a visit!” the guard called out.

Unlike every spiky haired boar entombed in misshapen armor or random spikes. Mulg was merely a wide, bloated cyst of a creature adorning himself in “fineries.” His soft, bare head was home to only one good eye and spiky, rot-caked horns jut out from the sides of his maw.

He looked over, blinked, then stretched his snout wide with a grin, golden and silver teeth glimmering.

The rat’s tail curled and he chittered in disgust.

“Ryg my boy,” the beast bellowed, chewing through a meal of stacked fish. “We thought you’d wandered too far this time.”

Before he knew it, the bodyguard had him seated in front of Mulg. Behind him, around him, on every door and every opening, there were other guards with nasty spears and cleaving blades.

Well, shit, Ryg thought.

“You know I get concerned when you go’ a galumpin around out there,” Mulg said, pointing an accusatory fork.

“Specially when you behind in what you owes me.”

Ryg raised a hand, shuffling in his inner coat pocket. “Oh come on, you know I’m always good for it, boss.” He held back the urge to vomit.

“Look here, see?” He yanked out the angel that was a worn bag full of silvers, tossing it on the table.

Mulg glanced at it with his good eye, grabbed a stinking fish, and cracked it in half with his jaws. Then, snapped his fingers, where a guard appeared and picked up the sack, tossing it carefully.

“Well?” Mulg asked, looking back.

Cautiously, the guard unraveled it, peering inside. He shook his head. “Don’t look like no funny business, boss.”

Grunting, Mulg snatched it and poured out the coins, sifting through them in an instant.

“I like when you knows to get to the point,” the massive hog said. “But I don’t likes that you try to short me.”

Ryg blinked. “Short? The hell you say? That’s thirty silvers, easy!”

A deep laugh. Mulg looked back up, sneering. “I’ve added interest.” He stacked the silvers in neat, equal towers, ate another fish, and belched.

“You cause too much trouble, Ryg my boy. Leavin’ when you want, payin’ late. Showin’ up here and not expecting to have us rip yer tail out and shove it in yer ass.”

There was a chorus of eager laughter from the others. Ryg clenched his hand, pondering. His cast-pistol had a few good charges in it, could probably turn Mulg’s head into a bowl of bloody paste before they separated his head from shoulders.

But then he remembered Floris. “Alright, alright, lookit boss, I can make this right.”

Mulg whipped his hands, starting to chuckle. “Ain’t want you to make it right,” he said.

“Honest! Straight and clean! I can pay it all of then, I can. Interest and all. Give me a mop and a bucket, I’ll clean the shit gutters if you need me to!”

As he pleaded, Ryg fumbled with another pocket in his coat, next to the caster weapon. A bulb of brass met his claws, pregnant and wobbling with Hellbite. He wondered how Mulg might cook. . .

The hog shook his head. “Nuh. You’re too much trouble for all that. I want you out of this place, Ryg my boy. For good!”

“What?”

Mulg stood. “Ya’ heard me you stinkin’ rat. But before I throw you out, you still got a debt to pay.”

Once again, fingers snapped, and another guard came forward, placing a rolled parchment in his pudgy hand. It stunk of wax and incense, far too regal for a place like the Tower.

Mulg tapped it on the table, before setting it down. “And this is how you gonna’ pay it.”

Ryg relaxed, but only just so. His mind started to race, wonder, plan. “I can’t leave, I. . . I got promises to keep.”

Mulg offered an ugly frown this time. “Only promise you owe is to me, my boy. And that’s to pay for all the trouble you been causin’!”

He flicked the parchment towards Ryg. “Turns out, you are good for something, and all that jobbin’ you do on the side is what’s gonna save you from ending up on one of my spits.”

Ryg pulled the clean parchment open. A wax sigil held it in place, deep red, laden with unfamiliar lettering. Scarlet Clerics. He glanced at Mulg, then back to the parchment, unravelling it.

Quick eyes skimmed over, catching a few names, but noting the last part:

Reward of 500 Gold Galleons to the Arrestor

Mulg seemed to sense where the rat’s eyes went. “Half o’ that goes to me,” he said. “You can keep the rest – my last favor to you – but after that, you’re gone, Ryg my boy.”

Ryg didn’t know what to say. His mind raced, latching on to the line, eyes flicking over it again and again. Half, he thought. Half for me, for Floris for us, for a little something in a little somewhere.

The contents of the letter, however, contradicted his hopes.

“A warrant for arrest and execution?” said Ryg, peering up. “If you just wanted me dead you could do it right now, boss.”

Mulg snorted. “Dead rats ain’t pay no debts. But iffin’ you do, well, at least half me problem is gone. ‘Sides, I already latched you up for it, Ryg my boy. Told them you’re gonna be the one to lead em’ through the Bastards.”

Ryg’s nose quivered. “Told who? Told em’ what?”

Mulg bellowed with laughter. “Told em’ you the best damn exterminator around these parts and you’d be honored to lead a Blackhat through the Bastard Lands.”

The other guards laughed too. Ryg’s fingers were numb, his insides cold, his eyes roaming back to the beginning of the parchment, which read:

BY ORDER OF THE SCARLET CLERICS, DECLARED OF CITADEL OXUM, A WRIT FOR ARREST AND EXECUTION HAS BEEN ISSUED.

ISSUANTS HAVE FORTHWITH BEEN GRANTED AUTHORITY TO DECLARE THE IMMEDIATE EXCOMMUNICATION OF CHAPTER MASTER LUDVEN. RECEPIENTS OF THIS WRIT ARE GRANTED STATUS OF BLACKHAT AND COMMANDED TO BRING THE ABORHENT TO JUSTICE IMMEDIATELY.

ALL PARTIES ARE HEREIN DEMANDED TO CONGREGATE AT PORT SAAL OF THE ISLA CRUCIX.

“Congratulations,” Mulg chortled.

IV

“Liars!”

A raucous of bitter voices rattled the church. Staves, boots, and axe heads hit the floor in protest, a crowded sea of coat-wearing figures shaking their heads and muttering every swear they knew.

“No bloody reason for it, Mr. Elks,” Haxan said, wearing his best attire of moth eaten grey garbs. He sat in front of the church room crowd, hands folded, doing his best not to throw a stone or two at the lot.

“The Clerics have always been forthright with us. Make no sense to cobble up a story like this!”

“How can you be sure?” another voice sprang up. “We don’t know what those stuffed cocks get up too. This is a power grab, it is!”

“If you’re gonna waste my time with nonsense like that, Mr. Lund, kindly stop breathin’ or leave my fine establishment.”

He cast them all a scornful glance, but it did little to settle the rambunctious gathering.

“We’re running around in circles,” a calmer voice said. “It doesn’t matter if it’s lie, what matters is what we do.”

“And if it’s the wrong thing!?” someone challenged.

“Exactly when ‘ave we cared ‘bout right and wrong,” another threw in.

Arguments tore the calm, arguments souring the air. For every shout there was one higher. For every sudden motion there was a grip of cleaver, threat of axe, scent of blood.

“Fuckin’ ENOUGH!” yelled Haxan, slamming his wheelchair, causing it to wobble. The bickering crowd settled, if for a moment.

“Fine mess you lot are,” he went on. “Squabblin’ about like ruddy chickens. Clerics get their knobs in a twist over seeing us act like this.”

In the dimmest corner, where lantern light did not couch, Elenna sat quietly, ears standing at attention. She’d never seen so many Blackhats in one gathering.

“Nobody wants this to be less true than I,” Haxan said, tone softening. “Ludven had been a goo- nay, gods be damned, is still a good man. To all of us.”

“But,” Haxan went on, voice cracking, “He’s done something that warrants the contents of this letter.”

He raised a parchment, wax seal broken. “Arrest and execution. Enough that the Clerics are giving writs to others as Blackhats.”

A wave of furious grumbles churned through the crowd. Elenna, however, felt her heart leap. She leaned, hidden behind stack of barrels, breath quick.

“Quiet,” Haxan threatened. “I don’t know what he’s done. What he could possibly do for this to happen. But we are Blackhats, and we have a commitment to follow the orders we’re given.”

“Sod to that!” someone screamed.

“Fuck the Clerics and fuck their orders!” another bellowed.

Haxan’s face reddened. “You don’t get to CHOOSE!”

“You don’t get to choose to ignore an order when it’s convenient!”

There was a pocket of quiet. For a moment, there were no voices, no belligerent cries of defiance.

“I’m not going to butcher this man without knowing what he’s done,” a calm voice said. Ovanna, a years-worn wolfess, stepped through the crowd.

She peered up to Haxan, crisp, golden eyes staring through him. “You can’t ask us to do that, Tonley. The Cleric’s can’t decide who is with or without guilt.”

Haxan shook his head. “That is what they do, Ms. Ovanna. We are the arms to their order, nothin’ else.”

He pointed a withered finger across the crowd. “And if the lot o’ you have forgotten that, then you may sodding well leave.”

Faces looked about. Features tightened, teeth bared, fists clenched.

“Well be damned this place then!” an angry tone shot out. “And damn all who do the cut work of the Clerics!”

A spit. The figured turned around and pushed through others, making for the church exit. After a moment, there was a grumble of approval from the others, and more left. Soon, a steady drip of Blackhats began their exodus, only a handful remaining.

Elenna, fearing she might be seen, ducked under the barrels. The heavy footfall of mud-caked boots filled her ears. Soon, things quieted once more, and she peeked over the cover. Only a handful of black-cloaked Hats stood, wearing an unsurprised expression.

“You attract more flies with honey, old man,” one of them said, a tall, thin human covered so thickly with cloth only the sliver of eyes was visible between hat and scarf.

“You want to rely on flies, do you Mr. Edwin?” said Haxan, milky eyes staring at the church doors. He grunted, pulled out his pipe once again, and lit it.

“No, but, they do have numbers.”

Ovanna broke in. “He’s not wrong, Tonley. Ludven isn’t some blightspider or swamp-moth. We may damn well need an army for this.”

Haxan sipped from his pipe, spitting acrid smoke into the air.

“At the Crucix, no less,” another man chimed, a voice gentle behind silver mask. “It’s death.”

“Something we should ask the Clerics about,” said Edwin. “No one with any sense would go there.”

Ovanna’s tail flicked, ears flattening. “Ludven would.”

“He would,” Haxan added. “And he has. Bet me whole house of whorin’ and cheats on it.”

Still unseen, Elenna was sitting now, curled up, absorbing each word. Ludven, that was a name she knew. Instructor Doren and the Clerics often spoke in reverence of him. He was mysterious, often kept to his chambers at the highest point of Citadel Oxus. Paintings of his great deeds were common amongst the halls and priests constantly offered prayer to Ludven’s heritage, family, yet-born son.

“Careful old man, I’d take you on that bet,” Edwin chuckled. Haxan shook his head.

“You lot know it too. You know it because it’s the last place the Clerics want anyone goin’. Thieves, looters, rapists, and the Blight. Ludven’s countin’ on no one following him into that shit heap.”

Edwin scoffed, leaning on a wooden beam. “Not a bright idea. Surely he knows the Clerics love their tossaway dogs. Ah, no offense to you, Ovanna.”

The wolfess only lowered her head. “It’s to be done, and that is all,” she conceded.

Others sounded their agreement.

“You lot understand what this means?” Haxan said, lips belching more smoke.

None answered, but most knew. “That’s right,” the old hunter said, as if hearing their thoughts.

“It’s hell, you’re going to. Hell and death. And I can’t even be there right proper to keel over with ya.”

Edwin laughed. “Try to have some confidence in us, old man.”

Some murmured with chuckles, but truth stifled their bleak humor. Instead, they began quartering up strategies, which all came down to the same thing: meet at Port Saal, split into the Crucix, and execute Ludven.

Only problem was, they didn’t know their way through the island, and had less experience dealing with Blight. Small infestations here and there, sometimes the errant shambling mass or two, but never something like the Crucix.

“Well,” Ovanna said sometime later as they discussed the rest. “Saal does pass near the ‘Tower.’ You know, massive slum city, home to all chimera and beast?”

“And?”

“And might be someone who knows the area. Or has resources, weapons, anything to help us.”

“That’s quite an if,” the silver masked figure said. “One we shouldn’t rely on.”

“We’ll need all the help we can get,” said Edwin. “Can’t hurt.”

Elenna felt herself cramping as the group continued on for what seemed an eternity. But eventually, they settled with a plan. It was none too complex, but the Blackhats never were.

The vixen was ecstatic. As the congregation left the church, rusty wheels fading in the outside distance, her mind swam with possibilities. They were leaving in three suns with a small ship off the mainland coast. Then, to the Isle Chimera to visit the Tower, and after that the actual Crucix.

Simple! All the while she imagined herself in fine black long-coat, silver buttons, fineries and all. A long-hilt cleaver, or perhaps a saw-tooth axe? No, a fiendcutter at her side! Yes, something bold inspiring. No more Doren, no more waltzing into mind-shattering realms, only adventure and blood and the world.

When certain things were clear, the vixen darted from her hiding and back to small Blaqtown room.

-*-

When Tonley Haxan wasn’t spitting and swearing in his quarters, it meant he was spitting and swearing at the tavern. Only, this time he wasn’t.

When Elenna asked the tavern familiar where the crank was lurking, he grimaced and simply said “the graves.”

Before Blaqtown fell into the pits of gambling and whoring, it was once a place of respite for Cleric’s long passed. Church Uroc stood as a pillar of holy pilgrimage where travelers offered their respect to great names. Now it was an afterthought, a neglected hill of deeds long forgotten.

Elenna saw him at the hilltop, frail figure of withered man in brittle wheelchair, damp with morning’s chill. He didn’t spit, smoke, or mutter incoherent swears. Just sit.

For the first time in all her years doing work for the ancient grouch, her stomach churned with cold discomfort. She held her hands together, ears flat, tail low, strutting up through the bleached grass, minding toppled stone.

Even with the soft footfall of her paws, Haxan’s head slightly turned.

“You should be helpin’ Mr. Aggart with his field work, Elly.”

She froze. His tone was hushed, quiet. Defeated. Her eyes widened, looking somewhere else.

“Come on then, have a sit.”

Ellen hesitated. There was no bile in his tone. By this time, he was usually threatening her with a fist, chin dribbling with every variant of “fuck” known to the gods.

She came closer, sitting in the cold, dew-kissed grass.

“You satisfy that foxy curiosity of yours?” he said. She looked at him, alarmed. He didn’t meet her gaze, however, kept his eyes lost and wandering.

“What?” she offered, voice quiet.

“Don’t go thinkin’ I’m daft. All the Hats come rummaging together in the same place and you weren’t there?”

Silence. She picked at the grass, tail beating against the ground.

“Well, yeah,” she started. “So what? I did my chores. You gonna’ hang me for that?”

“It’d keep you from actin’ the fool. I can feel it on you, Elly, like a stink. I know what you’re thinkin’.”

She scoffed, throwing the picked grass. “You don’t know anything, old cuss.”

He took a long breath. “An’ why you here then? Slackin’ off? No, you’re wheelin’ about something else, I know it.”

Ears flicked. “So why don’t you say it?”

“Because you’re creepin’, come to ask me aren’t you? I want you to say it, straight from the guilty mouth.

Elenna shot up, huffing, standing in front of Haxan. “The guilt- oh sod off! I’m not guilty of anything! What’s so bad about wanting a life better than this!?”

Haxan still didn’t look at her. But his tone did not shift. “You think gettin’ yourself ripped apart right proper is a better life?”

The vixen bared her teeth. “Yeah, it is. I don’t have to deal with the priests or the way they look at me at Oxus, or, or, how Doren assigns me beatings every time I can’t shit out some weird arcane spell!”

She turned, reaching down to pick up a rock. “The Blackhats are someone, and they go somewhere. Doesn’t matter where they come from, or what they are. And I want that.”

She threw the rock. Then, picked up yet more tiny stones, little cracked grey teeth, tossing them out on the hills below, pecking random tombstones.

Haxan snorted. “Worked it all out, did ye? Come up here to tell me off, then run along to die in some gods-forsaken shithole?”

He gestured behind, vaguely toward Citadel Oxus. “The Clerics and Red Sol, what then? Gonna’ forget about ya, are they? No. Moment they find out what you’re up to you’re a Mute, shipped off to be someone’s lapdog.”

Elenna turned to stare at the old man. This time, he met her gaze.

“Only happens if somebody tells them. And why do you even care what I do, old cuss? Yeah, so I came up here to tell you I’m leaving, what of it?”

Her teeth flared again. “Better question, how are you gonna’ stop me!”

Haxan’s pale features flushed red, but didn’t move. “If I had better strength, I’d slap some right sense into you, girl.”

He looked away. “But I’m not gonna’ stop you, or even try. Even if I locked you in a cage you’d chew through it because you’re so bent on getting’ killed.”

He let out a weak breath. “I’m so old,” came his frail tone. “So old, and seen so much. I wanted something better for you, Elly. Better than the Blackhats could ever give.”

Elenna’s ears flattened. “It’s not what I want, though,” she said.

“The problem with what the lot o’ youth want is it gets em’ dead, nice and early.”

“You want me to turn into an old cuss and yell at everyone for not being you?” said Elenna.

Haxan grunted. “Be a nice change.”

Elenna crossed her arms. “There’s more to things than living long and staying angry. I can’t. . . stay here, Haxan. I’ll never be happy. Not like this.”

He shuddered. The air stung his exposed skin with a deep chill, the wind bristled, a ghostly breeze cast over the stones of all the dead.

“Happiness don’t mean much when you’re in the ground,” he said. “Gods damn your young heart, Elly.”

The vixen smiled. “Thanks, you old cuss.”

“Least do this old man some good. Stay a while.”

The smile quickly faded. Elenna looked over the aged hunter, and noticed, for once, he looked so. . . tired.

Wordlessly, she sat once more next to his wheelchair. She didn’t know what he was doing, or thinking, but might have guessed. Out and ahead of them, the sun trickled through puffs of thick clouds, shining over the pale grassy hills. Tombstones were visible as far as the hill stretched on.

Finally, Haxan spoke. “Marq, Ovanna, and Edwin are some of the best Hats round Blaqtown, and maybe all the mainland. You listen to them proper, Elly. You listen.”

The vixen almost spoke back, but decided not to. A few moments later, Haxan went quiet, starting to snore.

Carefully, she rose, and began to push the squeaky wheelchair down cobbled hill, back through Blaqtown and to his quarters. Even through all the noise of his establishment, Haxan never stirred.

Padding through his quarters amongst the rabble of papers and objects, she found an extra blanket and wrapped it around him.

“Sleep well, old cuss.”

-*-

The hunter’s lodge was the busiest part of Blaqtown, even when compared to the shady dealings of Haxan’s establishment. Often carriages would pull in with fresh Blackhats or carts full of skulls from every corner of the land, lit by strange gaslights and stranger flames.

Now, however, it was quiet.

Elenna approached it after taking inventory of what she had. There was no doubt now, she was going to find Ludven with the rest and earn her title, no matter the cost. Yet, when the tall black building towered into view, her footfalls slowed and excitement waned to see it was not littered with the same scraggly, foul mouthed characters of before.

Torches were lit still, and the windows glowed with throbbing firelight from inside. But there were no tall men brandishing blood-caked cleavers waltzing about, no smoke-burnt voices roaring with laughter.

Undeterred, she moved on, sticking her nose inside the lodge. She half expected someone to rush up and throw her off the balcony, but none came.

The door creaked in protest and the black fox stepped in. There was. . . no one?

“I’m afraid you’ve missed the last carriage, stranger,” a soft voice said. “The others have long gone.”

In a distant corner, half bathed in dim light, a man from the previous night sat. The silver mask danced with mutated ambers, gloved hand holding small book.

She looked around, ears flicking, grapping for sound. Her nose wiggled, drinking the scent of dizzying pipe leaves and bitter drink. There were others.

“I know, I saw. They were cuss mad.”

The figure shifted, lifting eyes from his read. “What’s this? You’re no Blackhat.”

Elenna huffed, waltzed about and sat in front of the bar. “You don’t know that.”

Book snapped shut. The masked figure leaned over table – his visage the shape of a laughing man.

“You’re in the wrong place, girl. We may be fewer, but this is a place for hunters, not children.”

The fox only half minded him, looking about. Her eyes darted across the wall, drinking in the strange decorum brought in by doubtless great fighters. Warped skulls, hanging trinkets, bizarre mounted weapons. She felt excited again, the thought of putting one of her own trophies somewhere flashing through her mind.

“What’s it take? A lot of swearing, right?” she said without looking at the other.

Now, he stood. “I’d rather not remove you with force, girl.”

She chirped in laughter. “Calm your cock. . . uh, Marq?” Elenna looked to him. “I’m not here for trouble, I’m here to help.”

There was a pocket of silence, save for the rasped, heavy breathing audible through silver mask.

Then, realization. “Haxan’s chore girl?”

Her tail flicked in approval. “It’s Elly, but yeah. The one and only.”

“I talked with him a while ago,” she continued. “About things and the um, Ludven guy. I want to help catch him and be a Blackhat myself, true and proper.”

Marq took a long, hoarse breath. Through the slivers of his mask, his beady eyes quivered, perhaps in rage.

“I’ll ask you once more to leave,” he said softly, “before I send you out after cutting your ears. You seem hard of hearing, so you won’t need them anyway, yes?”

Elenna turned and looked over the bar, stretching herself, scoffing. “As much as I’d love to see you try, Haxan is okay with this. Honest.”

Marq took a step, hand gripping a hilt. “Even if that were true, Tonley is old, and foolish.”

Another step. “Half the reason we are without proper arms is because of his stubborn oath to duty.”

Another. A glimmer of steel appeared at his hip. “I will not waste my time with fools and children, now le-”

A rumble of footsteps. Upstairs, boots fell, then clambered to the stairs, where another figure – tall, thin, wrapped in dark longcoat – made way down steps.

“Marq,” the figure said, “We think we might have an idea where Ludven’s gone and. . . Oh.”

Marq did not move, while Elenna had ceased her fishing for an ale. Rather she turned to see the other familiar “face.”

“Busy?” Edwin said.

Proximity did not help to see the strange man better, head and body still wrapped in black and cloth, as though light itself were an enemy.

“He’s about to be,” Elenna shot, “if he doesn’t put his knife away.”

Edwin took a wide stepped and placed himself between the two. “Now, hold on, let’s not get things messy. No one around to clean it up when we’re gone.”

“You’re getting a bit too soft,” said Marq.

“On the contrary, I kill with dignity. But I like to know the why of it.”

Edwin turned to the fox. “Young lady, this isn’t a place for the common folk. It’s clear, in fact. We don’t give charity and you can’t sleep here for the night. Kindly bugger off.”

“She knows,” said Marq. “She claims she’s Tonley’s girl and wants to be a Blackhat.”

“What?”

Elenna crossed her arms. “That’s hard to figure out, is it? Like I told your loony friend here, the old cuss is fine with it. Told me to stick with you lot, like you were special.”

Edwin started to laugh. “So he’s sending us scrubbing birds is he? We’re in shoddy affairs, we are.”

He gestured upstairs, looking to Marq. “Look, why don’t you let me settle this out? There’s more important things. Ovanna found something, give it a once over.”

Marq rasped, his dagger quivering. “You can’t seriously be considering this.”

Edwin shifted, sitting down next to the vixen, chuckling again. “Maybe.”

For a moment, Marq did not move, beady eyes stuck on the intruder. Then, he settled, pressing blade back into sheathe, turning.

“This had better be worth it. I was on chapter twelve.”

He made his way up the stairs, leaving the two, Edwin tapping his fingers on aged wood. Elly gave him a quick once over, where naught a sliver of skin was visible. A similar trait between he and Marq. Rather, the whole of his attire was a long, black overcoat with high collar. A tall, pointed hat rested on his dome and his face was neatly wrapped with crimson scarves.

“Marq is not easy to agitate,” he started, resting elbow. “But you’ve gone it done that quicker than anyone I’ve seen. Well done.”

“He threatened me with a knife,” said Elenna, not quite looking at the hunter. “I’d say we’re even.”

“You did barge into the lodge. We’re not keen on strangers, least of all now. Things are. . . tense.”

Elenna imagined all the bustling men and women who must have put themselves into a stupor with stories and drink. So many empty tables. So many people she never got to meet.

“It does look like you could use some help,” she said.

Edwin thumped the bar with fingers. “We could use an army or two.”

He rubbed his hand into face – or appeared to – pressing digits into eyes, groaning.

“I wasn’t expecting a lot of things, least of all this,” he said. “Loyal Hats who’ve been around longer than the lodge, gone. Down to a handful. No, not even a full hand.”

Edwin turned his head – at least Elenna thought he did. Difficult to tell through the high collar coat.

“You picked a strange time to prance in here and think yourself a Hat, girl. Takes more than pissin’ off old Marq for that, you know.”

“This whole thing.” He rang with laughter. “It’s madness.”

Elenna smirked. “Trust me, it could get worse.”

“Oh it always does,” he agreed. “And for some reason, you want this. This. . . suicide.”

Her tail swished. “I can take care of myself.”

“The times I can count I’ve heard that before.”

Elenna rolled her eyes, huffing. “I’m not asking you to take care of me. I’m just asking to go with you.”

“Any reason? It’s an elaborate death wish, you know.”

Elenna didn’t respond, staring at the walls again, looking over the hunter’s prizes. Each trinket, each name, all full of value and tribulations. Glory, a sense of purpose.

“Better than here,” she offered.

Edwin took a long breath, and sighed. He stood, then waltzed behind the bar, fingers gliding over shelves of various bottles. Satisfied, he tapped one tinted with green glass, setting it aside. Two glass mugs materialized on the bar, and he popped the bottle open, pouring a deep, red liquid.

“Oh if Lhars saw me pouring a 22 in beer mugs he’d hang me by the entrails,” he said, filling both in equal portions. He pushed one to the vixen, while pulling down his scarf to sip at the bitter liquid.

Elenna’s ears flicked. “Er, I don’t really drink.”

Edwin shook his head, pointing at her. “You do now.”

He raised his glass in the air. The fox sniffed at her drink curiously, made a face, and took a sip. She made a much worse face, tail bristling.

“If you can’t handle that, girl, you won’t last the roads.”

Her eyes brightened, attention snapping back to the hunter. Her heart leapt again. “Do you mean. . .”

Again, Edwin sighed, gulping down the rest of his brew, gasping aloud as he set the mug down.

“What I mean, girl, is that we are desperately short of boots and cutters. This whole thing, well. None of us are expecting to come back alive. Gods be damned, you can at least fight, right?”

Ears tall, Elenna braved another sip, tongue stinging. She nodded. “It’s Elly. And I can take care of myself.”

“You keep saying that,” Edwin said. “Well. If you don’t get in our way, I suppose it matters for little.”

“We’re short on hands,” he continued, “We needed more than what we had. And now one of the respected men in the mainland’s gone and cocked off to some place nobody ever goes.”

Elenna gave an exaggerated nod. “I have a good memory.”

Edwin poured himself another half-mug of liquor. “It bears worth repeating.”

He tapped his fingers, tone shifting. “You’re no Blackhat, ‘Elly.’ Not by any stretch. You’ve naught made the sacrifices these other good folks have. But, for some reason, you have the old man’s blessing. And. . . we need all the help we can get. And, I suppose, strange times calls for strange means.”

“You mean it?” said Elenna, tail curling. It was one thing to think, but another to hear it. “I can come with you? And be a Blackhat myself?”

Edwin looked her over. “Not until you finish your damn drink.”

Elenna responded with audible revulsion, but sipped down the rest. It burned, and the bitter aftertaste made her shudder. She wiped her maw, Edwin laughing.

It was the first thing she’d done as a Blackhat.

V

Preparations were hasty.

The Blackhats Ovanna, Marq, and Edwin had buried themselves in maps, notes, and possible routes of attack. Their actions, of course, were all based on hunch – the certainty Haxan had – that Chapter Master Ludven had indeed fled to Isla Crucix.

There were, however, no in-depth maps of the island, they soon discovered. Even sending birds to the Oxus for some assistance were met with “The grace of Red Sol shall guide you true.” Only portions and general impressions of the island were available. The rest lost to brigands, pirates, and Blight.

They conceded a guide was necessary, among the other dozens of requirements for taking a long and dangerous excursion.

Elenna had her own matters to settle, much to the uncertainty of the others. Edwin appeared to accept her as a girl with potentials, but the cold Marq and veteran Ovanna were littered with doubt. She didn’t blame them.

But, embarking with them was not a light task. She was, after all, under tutelage of the Scarlet Clerics, and Instructor Doren might not be so kind on the idea of her leaving abruptly. There would be consequences.

It didn’t matter anymore, not to the vixen. The old tit and the rest of them could toss themselves off the tip of Oxus, for all she cared. She only needed a few supplies of her own.

Her room was still cold. It had a single bed, and a few wooden boxes that related to her service attires or schooling. Some old prayer books were scattered about with a shoddy desk at the center, a tiny window hanging above.

For her entire life it was Elenna’s only home, but even now, she never felt more the stranger.

Save for one important thing. Closing the door slowly, Elenna went to her desk and opened one of the shelves. Within, there was a cloth soft to the touch, dark and violet. It was the only thing with her when the Clerics found her as a kit.

But there was more. She cupped the silk wrappings and carefully pulled them out, feeling the solid object protrude through it. Within was a small stone heirloom, marked with a symbol she did not recognize. In her years with the Clerics, none of them knew it either – or, refused to tell her.

Perhaps the path of a Blackhat would allow her to find more answers. For now, she wrapped it once again and stuffed it in pocket, rummaging around for anything else that might help her. Most was useless, a collection of prayer robes, history books, incense, candles, and dreary clothes for chores.

The only thing of any value was a scholar’s recount of Bleak arcane. It was filled with passages and details about the strange magic, and though Elenna was far from mastering the art, it was all she had to reference the art.

She grabbed it too and put it away in cloth sack, preparing to leave. Opening the door, she glanced at her only room. Her heart raced, and she challenged a smile. She was free.

Most did not bother giving the poorly clothed chore girl a second thought as she scampered through the halls and once more down the numerous steps of Citadel Oxus. Most thought her on the way to clean a floor, or help the cook’s maid with lunch, or other menial tasks. They did not even offer a contemptuous glance. For as long as Elenna knew, the followers of Red Sol saw her as beneath them. Perhaps they wouldn’t care if she was even gone.

-*-

“This is the best we have?”

Ovanna’s muzzle pulled into a frown. The map before her offered few answers. Moth-eaten, stained, and scribbled with manic lines, it was the only record Blaqtown had of the Isla Crucix. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

“I’ve checked our records and placated the Citadel for more,” Marq said, arms crossed. “But. . . yes, this is the best we have.”

She groaned, grabbed her frothy mug, and took a long draft. It was night, they had only a day left to prepare, and already things looked grim.

The map was nailed to the lodge wall, a puzzle of ink and history. Ovanna had hoped there were major landmarks and notable terrain paths they could prep for, but the map was hardly finished. Only Port Saal at the southeastern most point of it was worth noting.

“It’s still a hunch,” she reflected. “We don’t even know if Ludven is in all that.” A gesture to the map.

Marq tapped his fingers. “It’s ideal, though.”

He turned, looking towards the scribbled ink. “Blight infested, haven for brigands, few available records of locations or terrain. The perfect hiding place.”

Ovanna leaned in her chair, rubbing eyes. She took another draft of the bitter ale, licking her chops. Her ears flicked, the lodge door creaking open.

Edwin rushed in short of breath, taking excited strides. “Got something,” he said through heavy breaths.

Ovanna and Marq looked as he unceremoniously plopped a particularly dirty looking letter on the table. On it, a series of clumsy scribbles and simple writing.

“What now?” asked the wolfess. Edwin raised his hand, collecting himself. He was likely smiling through the face covering scarves he wore.

“Not much,” he said, “but something useful. A guide.”

Ovanna’s tail flicked. “For the island?”

Edwin nodded. “Only bird that came back with a response. This chap here, ah, Mulg? Says he has someone who can get us through it. Expert on killing blight.”

Marq gave a short chuckle. “You believe this?”

Edwin glanced at both of them. “No. Not yet anyway. But gods be damned, it’s the only thing we’ve got.”

Ovanna cast him a skeptical glance, picking up the letter. It reeked of hog and filth.

Blaghats,

You is need help and we can help

I am Boss Mulg of Tower, Layer Thre

We got letter from birds for help so we have our boy for you

Meet at Port Saal

We take half

M

She finished the letter, blinking. She took the last sip of her ale, and stared.

“Edwin, do us a favor and shove it back up your arse. This is useless to us.”

Curious, Marq reached to take the letter, while Edwin shrugged.

“Is it? It’s the only help we’ve got. Next to a chore girl. I don’t like it either, but we’re not exactly equipped for the long haul, are we?”

“Oh, he’s a poet, he is,” chided Marq.

“And he wants half?” Ovanna said.

Edwin caught his breath. “Well if they’ve got a writ, they’re an ‘honorary’ servant of the Clerics anyway. Let em’ have their half.”

Ovanna rumbled with an agitated growl. “There’s not enough ale in the world for this. Where’s the girl?”

“Elly went to get something from the citadel,” Edwin explained. “Should be back soon.”

Ovanna grunted, standing. “So,” she began, walking to the map. “Let’s assume this letter isn’t some jest and we have someone telling us where to go.”

She looked between the two. “What then? We haven’t discussed how exactly we’ll deal with Ludven.”

A long silence formed between the group, save for Marq’s rasped breathing. Finally, Edwin spoke.

“Always liked to improvise,” he offered.

Unsurprisingly, this did not suit Ovanna. Ludven had his legends and deeds, everyone knew. Going against a Chapter Master, even in numbers, was to chance death.

“Remember,” Marq broke in, “He’s in all that too. How is he surviving? No guarantee he’ll have the same strength.”

“Could have hideouts. Could know the land. Let’s not count on a weakened Ludven,” said Ovanna.

For a while, they traded ideas, but many came to the same conclusion: it was dangerous to fight Ludven head on, and dangerous to assume he wasn’t prepared. Splitting up wasn’t an option either. Hiring sellswords or mercenaries also wasn’t feasible, considering their limited resources and the questionable loyalty of a hired blade.

Eventually, Ovanna resigned for the night with a drink or three. There was little to figure out with strategy. Without maps, locations, or any knowledge of where Ludven was, the hunters would have to rely on instinct and Edwin’s “guide.”

Marq retired to his quarters in the lodge while Edwin remained downstairs, tracing paths from the mainland to the Tower, then Isla Crucix. It wasn’t until the high rise of midnight that Elenna returned, carrying a small sack of belongings.

“Back again,” Edwin said without looking up from one of his maps. “You missed the fun.”

The fox set her belongings on one of the empty tables, glancing at all the documents, papers, and scribblings.

“Looks like the study halls to me,” she said, sitting down.

“If your study halls focus on killing and hunting, then yes, just like that.”

Edwin straightened, crossing arms. “Nothing else to be done with it. We’ll have to play it by instinct. The true hunter’s way.”

Elenna noticed the taller man’s troubled posture, the shift in his tone. She opened her jowels to say something, but had no advice. What did she know of this, anyway? After all, old Haxan told her to listen.

Her insides were cold, and worry swept through her. What if she wasn’t useful at all? No, no. Too late for that now. She would have to be.

Perhaps Edwin noticed this, as he glanced to her. “Ah, and before we forgot. You’re no good to use in those shoddy rags.”

He shifted, talking over to a chest, pulling it open as he sifted through the contents. “Frankly, you haven’t earned these, but, suppose you’ll grow into them.”

Elenna’s ears perked, watching the lanky hunter pull free a few pieces of clothing. Shades of black leather, gray cloth, scarlet, silver, all made appearance in his arm. Then, satisfied, he took the clump of itinerary and tossed it on her table.

He gestured with head. “There. Make you a Blackhat proper.”

The fox’s eyes widened, nose wiggling at the strange new scent. Her hands immediately went to touch the clothing, just to make sure they were real. So they were.

A long-coat, much like every Blackhat she’d seen, lay in a pool of wrinkles, carrying a long, grey scarf, pale shirt, old trousers, and thick leather gloves.

“You’re a runt, I’ll admit,” continued Edwin, “So finding you attire proper was a headache. But should suit you.”

Elenna’s tail flicked in excitement. She leapt to her feet, holding the long jacket before her, taking eyefuls of its prestigious make and length.

“This is. . .” she said through excited breaths.

“Those clothes will keep the muck off you, and all the poisons the wilds are keen of. Wear em’ well. Live them. Die in em’.”

Elenna barely heard him, swiftly adorning the jacket, fur tingling as the leather hugged her form. Her eyes began to sting, and her throat grew hot.

No, dammit, don’t cry for the sake of the gods. Just say. . .

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Edwin shrugged. “We’ll have to find you a proper cutter. But for now, you best eat and sleep. We’re down to our last day.”

With renewed energy, Elenna nodded and grabbed her things, stuffing the other bits of attire in her sack. She made for one of the lodge’s empty rooms, where even the tiny, cramped bed was bigger than the one at Oxus.

Over soup and candlelight, despite only knowing Haxan’s remaining Blackhats for less than a few days, the vixen never felt closer to anyone.

This was her family now.

-*-

A slice of gold cheese and Lon Tuck’s seared squid arms were among Ryg’s favorite delicacies in the third layer. Nothing stuffed a belly more than slapping crispy tendrils on a hot loaf of yellowbread.

Today, however, it might as well have been piss and vinegar.

His eyes were buried in the plate of charred arms, sometimes sipping a cup of bitterroot tea, glancing around for answers to questions that didn’t exist. Around him, the main hall of the living quarters bustled with noise, some partaking on bowls of grimey stew or trying to sell fresh cooked hopper legs.

In front of him, a most unpleasant sight: an unhappy Fleur. He had let her know at the smithy he had reached an “agreement” with Mulg and invited her to lunch.

When she had arrived, she was smiling. When he told her, his heart splintered, watching the light go from her eyes, smile melting to frown. She wasn’t angry, or scolding. Just sad.

“When. . . will you be back?” she braved, voice stiff and hot.

Ryg attempted to grin. “Oh love, you know me. Real professional, right here. Won’t even be half a moon’s turn and you’ll be throwin’ me out, heh heh.”

But the lie of it stung his tone. Fleur smiled weakly, but she, like him, knew there was no certainty, no promise. He didn’t dare tell her he was going into Crucix.

“I should’ve said something to Mulg for you,” she said, looking away from her food. “Anything. Got you as a sweeper at the smithy, or a stable boy, or anything, but not. . .”

The rat raised his claws. “Oi, hey, come off it then. It’s nothin’ for you to do. Mulg’s a shit, we all know that. But, well, I’ve run me luck into the ground. ‘Spose I gotta’ make this right.”

She sighed. “Oh, Ryg. Why did you get into so much trouble?”

He looked at her, making a face. “Trouble? Kah! I don’t want us livin’ under Mulg’s fat feet, that makes me trouble?”

She cast him an accusing glance. “If it puts the children at risk, then yes.”

He waved a hand. “They’ll be fine. I promise.”

“That hasn’t meant much coming from you.”

Ryg hid his frown with a quick drink. Damn woman knew how to hurt him most. But he didn’t blame her.

For a while more they ate in silence, or pretended to. Fleur hadn’t touched her stew and Ryg didn’t have the stomach for crispy tentacles. They reminded him too much of the Blight.

Eventually, he spoke again. “Look, I know you wanted me to square things up first but. Well. Can I see em’ before I’m off?”

This time, Fleur looked at him, not with eyes of sadness, but of fear. Her face creased with worry and her lips trembled.

“Why?” she asked weakly.

Ryg sensed her panic, and forced a grin. “Aw, what? C’mon, I just wanna’ see the little sprouts. See how much trouble they’ve been getting’ into.”

Fleur fidgeted, eyes misty. Some small part of her understood.

“Alright,” came her soft reply. “They’ll be glad to see you.”

This, at least, put some assurance back in the rat’s heart. He didn’t know what was ahead. Guiding a bunch of strangers who’d likely gut him and take the ransom for himself through an island annexed off for its infestations and dangers. Well, any rodent with half a mind of sense would stay far and clear. But Ryg didn’t think much of sense.

The two finished their meal, which equated to forcing a few chomped bites into otherwise tasteless food, then returning to Fleur’s quarters. Compared to Ryg’s messy, contraption laden hovel, it was homely, endearing. A place you could raise a family in, even for a cramped space in the Tower.

Upon entering, Ryg’s ears felt the cheery ring of two sweet voices. “Mama Fleur!” they both cried.

Little balls of white pounced out to greet the pair, but their small faces expanded like a rat in a cheese farm.

“Ryggy!” little Podge and Floris squealed.

The first and most valued lesson Ryg learned as a scoundrel was ‘protect what’s in your pockets, they’re the most valuable thing.’ There’s no treasure greater than all the things a rodent could get their claws on, and the harder it is to steal, the more it’s worth.

But when Ryg went to his knees and let the two little opossums embrace him, there wasn’t a thing in the world he wanted more than their happiness. Unfortunately, no one had great vaults or silos of ‘happy’ around.

“Ya’ little sprouts!” said the rat, hugging them close. “Oi, you getting’ all tall on me, bigger than me uncle’s nose!”

Fleur smiled, watching the pile of fur and hug. Her children were good offspring, and happy, for the most part. But with Ryg, it was entirely different.

She walked past them, unfurling her smithy apron and setting it aside, going to one corner of the room and soaking her face in a pot of ‘cleaning’ water. Ryg continued to hug the opossums, until he stood, beaming at them.

“Ryggy, you were gone for a long time!” said Floris, chewing her thumb. “Mum said you were travelling.”

“Yeah, um!” Podge broke in. “Mum, mum, she said, mum said you had a lot of work to do and um, that’s why you were gone!”

Ryg nodded. “Mum’s brighter than a rat’s moon. I was! You know, doin’ me work! Uhh, deliverin’ things to the locals.”

The pair of innocent eyes watched without judgment, unaware. Content with his explanation, they smiled again, before pulling Ryg further inside.

“Mum got me a new doll!” Floris chittered.

“Wanna’ see the weird stuff I found in the creek?” protested Podge.

Chuckling, Fleur watched her brood assault Ryg with every thought and idea that sprang into the mind over the past weeks. But he didn’t look overwhelmed, nor disinterested, only did his best to juggle the interests of two very energetic little children.

Sated, she grabbed a pipe and lit it, settling into the main part of the room with the others. Usually, it was quiet around this time, where the only noise was the distant echo of rambling voices and her children’s little snores. But now her home was filled with giddy laughter and Ryg’s crude mannerisms. It felt like family.

But it couldn’t last. It was only temporary. Ryg would leave again, soon, and this time, Fleur didn’t know if he was coming back.

It was getting late, and eventually Fleur had to put the two to bed, much to their endless protests, including Ryg’s.

“You still need your rest,” said Fleur. “Podge, especially you. You’re in charge when I’m out, remember?”

“I know, I know,” responded the pup with a loud yawn. “Get to bed so you don’t play dead. I’m goin.”

The two scuttled off to a little sleeping space made for them, as Ryg and Fleur bid them a goodnight with kisses and hugs.

Silence formed between them, but not from disinterest. Ryg bathed in the small, homely aura Fleur had made for herself. There was little in the way of room, most parts of the quarters were cramped together with the children’s toys and Fleur’s work things. But, it was still a home. Contrasted with the dark of Ryg’s contraption laden quarters, it was preferable.

Like all things, it didn’t last.

“They’re growin’ faster than a hog’s nickers at a brothel,” said Ryg.

Fleur was busy cutting through a mix of vegetables, hopper legs, yawning as the night crept in.

“Faster than they should have to,” she said. “Podge takes care of a lot of things while I’m at the smithy.”

Ryg couldn’t hold back a grin. “That’s me lad, tough as a rat.”

The opossum rolled her eyes. “There’s nothing tough about you, Ryg. Sneaky, maybe.”

He scoffed. “Oi’, come on, you don’t know half the things I deal with out there!”

He laughed, but Fleur stopped. She closed her eyes, as if trying to bat the thoughts away. Then, looked to the still sitting rat, same worried expression tugging her features.

“You have to come back, Ryg. You have to.”

Perhaps realizing his poor choice of words, he frowned. “Ahh, Flurry, love, that’s not what I meant. Er, it is I ‘spose but. . .”

She halted entirely now, focusing. “No, Ryg. This isn’t a game anymore.” Her voice was intense, though hushed, minding the pups.

Ryg spread out his arms. “Ain’t no one said nothin’ about a game! What’s all of this? You think I’m not takin’ it seriously?”

Fleur waltzed over to him, eyes wide and fearful. “Are you? Are you thinking about what I’ll have to say to them if you. . .”

She clenched her teeth. “If you die, Ryg.”

For all the ways Ryg knew how to dispense with Blight, for all the pages he could write on how to set things on fire, there wasn’t an invention in the world capable of setting a woman’s mind at ease. At least, not with Fleur.

Immediately, the rat stood, embracing Fleur at the waist, nose pushing into her cheek. She didn’t know where he was going and yet she expected the worst. Too wise for her own good.

“Lookit here, ain’t no rats dyin’, specially not me. ‘Sides, I got me a bunch o’ blokes to work with. Probably a useless lot but they’ll be doin’ all the hard work, hah!”

Fleur’s arms gripped him too. Despite working a smithy, running hot iron into every shape imaginable, lifting objects twice her size, she was still so soft.

“Where are you going?” she finally asked.

Ryg’s nose twitched like he’d found cheese in the middle of a dozen deathtraps.

“Oh, just up the mainland, near the coast. You know, where I usually have to rescue some poor sob.”

Mentally, he winced, hoping it was enough to fool her. Whether it did, or whether she just wanted to believe it, he couldn’t tell.

She leaned back to look at him now, her gaze wandering and hopeful. One of the many assets Ryg was so keen on.

“We might not see each other for a while,” she said gently. She pushed him, enough that he was seated in chair once again.

Ryg’s thin tail wiggled, his expression perplexed. “Fah, won’t even take me a whole moon’s worth!”

Fleur only smiled. Then, sat on his waist, pushing her nose into his.

“A long while,” she recanted. Her arms fell on his shoulders.

Ryg twitched again, but this time it wasn’t his tail.

“Oh.”

-*-

The day was cruel, and the night too short.

Ryg awoke, bare of clothes, on top of the lumpy fabric Fleur called her mattress, only without the owner. He groaned, pushing himself up, rubbing his head, mind skittering about for the time.

He sniffed the air, met with ambrosia of fried hash and peppers, the chirps of two excited children and one hard working mother tickling his ears.

He licked his sharp teeth. Was it a dream? No. A dream could be lucid and delightful. This was a nightmare. Because this home, these children, this woman, they were not his. He could not rise with them, eat with them, and return to them. This life he could have, wasn’t his.

The day was cruel.

Ryg tossed on his clothes and went to the living space, where a cheery Floris played and dutiful Podge set tableware.

The children met him with smiles, as though he was always there, a part of their life in permanence. Fleur, grating potatoes, smiled too, but a hint of sadness weighed over her.

“Hi Ryggy!” Floris chirped. “Mum’s making our favorite!”

Even with the reality of what lay ahead, Ryg couldn’t hold back a grin. He sat at the table and hoisted the small opossum to his lap.

“Didn’t take you for peppers and potatoes, Floris,” he said.

“Mum always gets the best ones,” added Podge, sitting next to them. “She um, she, um, she knows the guys that bring them in, cause the rest uh, have bugs!”

“Oi, bugs is the best part,” said Ryg. Floris made a face.

He snickered, as Fleur came with the skillet and dished out crispy salted hash. For a moment, Ryg could pretend he was eating with a family, as they all began to dig into their food and squabble over who might get the next helping.

For a while, it was nice. But reality began to seep through the cracks, much to Ryg’s chagrin.

He cleared his throat. “Now lookit, you two,” he started, looking to Floris and Podge.

“I needs you to take extra good care of your mum, eh? She’s a special lady, you know that?”

Bright faces dulled a little. “Huh? Why, Ryggy?” said Floris.

Fleur was seated, quiet. She couldn’t interject. What would she say? It was better for Ryg to tell them, as a father might.

In his usual cantor, Ryg only winked. “Cause it’s a special favor, and when I gets back, you’ll get somethin’ for it, eh?

To this, Floris fidgeted, features stretching with a smile. Podge, on the other hand, frowned, wearing an expression much like his mother: fearful concern.

“Back? What’s that mean? You’re not going again, are you?” He held his skinny opossum tail, wringing it.

Ryg scratched his head, looking around. A hard drink would make this so much easier. “Well, er, a little bit, I mean, just the one time, you know.”

Fleur reached over to put a hand on her son. “Just this one last time, Podgy.”

He sniffed. “But, I thought, um. I thought um. You were staying for good this time.”

Ryg’s clawed fingers started tapping together. His throat was growing hot. He watched the boy look at the floor, eyes misty.

Fleur glanced to the rat, a silent plead.

In moments of fright, a rat should hide, scurry away. Not get themselves in even worse affairs, that’s not how they survived.

Come on, don’t say somethin’ ya gonna regret, just scurry away. . .

“Even better!” Ryg shouted, standing up. They all stared.

“I ain’t comin’ back to live here! No, lad, I’m comin’ back to move us somewhere on the mainland! A big, spacious burrow with your own rooms, and a whole field, and more bugs than stars!”

Floris ticked her head. “But I don’t like bugs.”

Podge sniffed, but his frown shifted, if only so. “R-really?”

“Ryg, ah,” said Fleur, eyes wide. “That’s a bit of a big promise, don’t you think?”

Think sensible like, ol’ boy. Dial it back. Do like a rat would.

“Pah!” Ryg bellowed. “After I settle things with ol’ Mulg we’ll be sailin’ straight!”

“But only,” he said, leaning towards the children, “If you keep ya’ promise and watch ya’ mum for me, eh?”

Podge chewed on the end of his tail, sniffing, though his features brightened. Floris began to run about, giggling.

“My own room!” she said. “I want the biggest one!”

Seeing as how the girl was distracted, Ryg knelt and put hand on Podge’s shoulder. “It’s up to you then, lad.”

He looked away, kicking his feet. Then back to Ryg. “Okay,” he mumbled. “I promise.”

Fleur was silent, but her eyes were worth a hundred scornful conversations. Ryg looked at her, giving a weak smile and shrug.

But the day was cruel. Eventually, Ryg helped clean plates and set things aside for Fleur as she prepped to return to the smithy. Meals had to be made in advance for the pups and Ryg spent some time telling Floris a few stories, much to her delight. In the afternoon, he took the two down to his land-wheel – unknown to Fleur of course – showing them the fearsome mechanical contraption and how he got around on terrain.

“How’d you make this?” Podge asked in unbridled fascination while Floris prodded at the wheels various rivets and gears.

“Rats ain’t got much for brawns, but we’ve got the smarts,” Ryg had answered. “Whole Undercity is like this, and one day, I’ll take ya’!”

Afterwards they snuck back, picking up a few things for dinner. By the time the sun faded on the horizon, Ryg didn’t even realize he’d spent the whole day with them. It couldn’t last.

Fleur had come home sometime later, sooty and reeking of molded iron, met with the scents of burnt peppers and undercooked tendrils. She sighed, sitting him down, whipping up a backup of fried hopper legs and baked apple slices.

Not much time later she sent the pups to bathe and bed, cleaning herself of the daily grime. Things were quiet now, but not peaceful.

Ryg was standing, staring at the door. When Fleur returned to him, she wanted to find the words, the magic phrase to make all this better. To change his mind, or the future, hex reality into some new reality where they could live together without worry.

Instead, she could only watch him helplessly.

Perhaps Ryg sensed this. “I meant what I said, y’know.”

He looked to her. “’Bout the whole getting’ out of here proper, to some place nice. Out of these slums.”

“You’ve promised them the world, Ryg,” said Fleur, crossing her arms. “You don’t think that was a bit much?”

Ryg snickered. “Me pa’ once told me something. Give a rat sharp teeth and enough time and he’ll chew through any cage ya’ put em’ in.”

Fleur sighed, rubbing her head. “Ryg. . .”

He raised his arms in defense. “It just means, Flurry, gimme some time. I’ll make it happen, you watch.”

Fleur wanted to scold some sense into him, but there was nothing else to it. Instead, she embraced him one last time, nosing his chest.

“Just come back.”

Ryg returned the embrace and they held each other for a while.

The day was cruel, the day was gone, and now, there was work to be done.

VI

Point Commander Edrian looked out into the distance of the Crucix with a dismal complexion, his cracked cheeks tugged with a frown as another bleak night set in. Out from the walls of Citadel Vaust the Road Wormway slithered into the swampy grasp of the distant, Blight infested forests, and it was here his eyes remained.

Two weeks was too long. A small supply run for Fort Koth was supposed to be routine, doable. It was even chaperoned by Commander Brusk and his recruits, fine young men with quick words and quicker swords.

But ever since their departure, there was no sight of them. No returning blackbird with news, no sentry, nothing.

Edrian gripped the cold stone, jaw clenched. The torchlights were of little warmth in these chilled lands, and did little to comfort his battered mind.

Out in the endless dark, little flecks of ghostly blue throbbed like fireflies, mesmerizing, as if stars were falling on the forests. But veterans knew better; they were spores of Blight, growing into thick, pale stalks sprouting from flesh and earth alike.

The old commander dare not say it, but he knew. They were gone, and the supplies with them. Whether this meant Fort Koth was overtaken or slowly starving out from lack of resources, he did not know. But he could assume the worst.

Staring out at the distant cold would do him no good, he decided. Edrian returned to the safety of Citadel Vaust, or what remained of it.

Citadels of the Sol Solaris were often three grand pillars of ash-white stone that stood in defiance of heretical works and all who might oppose the Red Sol. Citadel Vaust once matched that glory, the first vanguard into the untamed wilds of Isla Crucix.

But that was before the Blight. Even with fresh recruits pouring in from Port Saal on a weekly basis, lives were lost and the land soon churned with shallow graves. Scarlet Clerics arrived with Solaris soldiers, venturing into the distant forests, only to be overwhelmed shortly thereafter. And then the brigands came, sea pirates sensing weakness with a nose for empire loot, laying siege into the Citadel numerous times.

The first pillar had been reduced to crumbled, grey teeth, shattered from incendiary devices and explosives likely bought from the Undercity. But, in glory of Sol Solaris the Citadel never fell, and even with a pillar lost was still a formidable fortress.

Edrian knew this, and assigned it the reason the empire hadn’t withdrawn from Crucix entirely. It could still act as a hub of supplies, allocating resources into the Wormway – or try to.

But he also knew it was the reason the empire of Sol Solaris was failing. He saw it in the disheveled faces of the men he walked by, the fractured prayers of what few Scarlet Clerics remained there, in the stone-work slowly cracking over from lack of repair.

He returned to his quarters not too long after, calling for one of the attending ministers. The room at least held some dignity, lofty banners of the Red Sol hanging from walls, great tower shields adorned with them to remind everyone that Vaust was the guard into the storm.

As he sat, the ministered arrived shortly, dressed in faded crimson robes with a beard as long as his arms.

“Commander Edrian, you called, sire?”

Edrian nodded. “I need to have a message sent to the mainland, regarding our current status. Captain Brusk has been lost, as well as his recruits and supplies.”

“Oh dear.” The minister nodding, fumbling with his inner pockets and a long trail of rolled parchments, pulling one free. In other, came a quill, the minister sitting with Edrian.

“You are certain of this?” asked the minister before beginning.

The commander folded his fingers together, gaze distant. “Additionally, we need to inform Lord Torvis that Fort Koth has been lost, and our endeavors compromised.”

The minister blinked, beginning to scribble down the message.

“These are grievous losses, sire.”

“We have only suffered losses since my stationing. We lack the means and the men to plant our feet further into the Crucix.”

The minister tilted his head. “Shall I. . . add that too?”

Edrian offered a brief chuckle. “No. Rather make request for rations of their best wine. Perhaps we can all drink ourselves to death before something else kills us.”

The minister paused. “Something tells me the high lords will find more affection for their drink than our soldiers, sire.”

The minister scribbled on quickly, boney fingers rushing over the clean parchment, until he signed it under name of Point Commander Edrian.

“I believe it is satisfactory, sire. And I’ve added a request for some few barrels of wine. For treating injuries, of course.”

Edrian smiled, as well as a scarred veteran could. The minister handed over the scrolled and Edrian sealed it with black wax, a symbol of dire importance.

Taking the parchment, the minister bowed. “Shall I have it sent immediately?”

Edrian nodded. “For all the good it does us.”

The robed turned to make his leave, though stopped at the door. “Oh! Why, it near slipped my mind.”

“Sire, while you were patrolling, a blackbird came with a letter from the Scarlet Clerics at Citadel Oxus.”

Edrian’s attention snapped. “What?”

“Yes, yes, I have it here. . .” said the minister, fumbling through his expansive robe of quills and scrolls. “Ah, here we are.”

He shuffled back over, handing the unsealed paper to the commander. “It’s a writ, sire. For the arrest and execution of Chapter Master Ludven.”

To this, Edrian unfurled the letter immediately, face crumpled with disbelief. His eyes scanned through the contents, the marks, and the reward.

“It can’t be. . .” he whispered.

Edrian read over it, again and again, and each time strength left him. This couldn’t be right. This was some kind of Cleric’s trick to depose one of their own.

Face reddening, he stared back at the minister. “This slipped your mind, did it?”

The old man offered his deepest bow. “Sire, a thousand apologies! I meant not to displease you! But, the contents are troubling, and you have much to attend to as is.”

Edrian rubbed his temple, tossing the writ aside. “That’s not a decision for you to make.”

“It matters little now. Send the letter as I requested. I’ll. . . see about this writ, in the meantime.”

The minister offered yet more bows, then scuttled off without another word.

Edrian was still for a long while, enough that the candles in his quarters began to fade, leaving him in the dark. The idea of Ludven hunted like some common thug was beyond him. By gods, they were sending Blackhats after him.

His mind flashed with thoughts of Fort Koth again. The supplies sent were enough to feed a barrack’s worth of men for at least a month.

But what about a single man?

-*-

Ryg felt his guts churn and jaw slack open as he lurched over the edge of the Thornpike, relinquishing what little food he had eaten earlier. The black water yielded no mercy, stinking of foul salt and rotten fish, tossing him about with frothy waves and turning his innards to water. Midday son baked his sick on the side of the ship walls, fermenting into a nasty concoction, one that encouraged yet more sick reactions from the rat.

This happened much to the amusement of the ship’s small crew and their captain, a long haired southcat who chuckled each time Ryg needed to empty his bowels, whatever direction it was.

“For someone who likes cut squid arms, you sure don’t like where they hail from, do you boy?”

Ryg ignored him – or rather didn’t have the stomach to offer sarcastic wit when his mouth was already full of old food.

Rodents weren’t meant for this kind of travel, Ryg learned quickly. It was supposed to be routine, load up supplies on the ship, meet up at Port Saal with these estranged mercenaries Mulg had gathered up, and be done with it.

But the waters weren’t so forgiving. The first night a deep north born chill set over the ship, forcing everyone into its bowels. This knocked a day off their course, forcing the ship to anchor for a night’s worth. Then the travel towards Crucix was met with especially choppy waves and turbulent winds, throwing the Thornpike far off her course. Ryg was half concerned his gear might be lost in all of it.

And now, of course, the seasickness. The ruddy odor of barnacles and sweater was enough to put Ryg out for hours at a time, the nausea only subsiding when they anchored off a small sand bar.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t now. Pushing himself off the ship’s edge, he hobbled back to the ship’s lower level, back to his shoddy cot, hoping he might just wake up and Port Saal would appear.

After a while of lying in the cot, the ship groaning and creaking as waters hammered it from one side, he discovered sleep was impossible, only the rot sickness in his belly. His ears flicked as an unhelpful pair of footsteps caught his attention, making him groan. He hid his eyes with palm, hoping they’d go away.

“Thought you rats we’re s’posed to be travelers of the world?” a feminine voice barked. Ryg looked through claws, making a face.

“Might you do me the kindest favor and sod off,” Ryg grumbled. “Ain’t interested in gabbin’ with one of you lot.”

She scoffed. “Stuff it, rat. I’m here to get you squared up. Getting real tired of scraping your muck off the decks. Brought this.”

Ryg’s nose wrinkled as the alluring scent of boiled something caught his attention. He lowered his claw and looked to see the crewmate – a fox with a sprawl of marks down her side – had a bowl of steaming soup.

“Boiled shrooms and crawler toes, settles the stomach every time,” she said, shoving it into his hands.

Ryg sat up, fumbling with the small ceramic bowl, glancing at it with skepticism.

“Looks like boiled piss.”

The fox snarled. “You got shit for manners, rat. I made that so you could get your sealegs and stop makin’ us clean up your entrails.”

She pointed at the bowl. “If you don’t drink it, we’ll throw you offboard. Don’t care how much that fat pig paid us.”

Ryg chittered, and opened his jaw to say something. Then, his stomach bubbled and a renewed sense to vomit overcame him.

Swearing, he gulped down a few sips of the liquid, lips tingling from the heat and spice.

The vixen watched him intently, as if to make sure he took it all. Her ears twitched at his slurping, the rodent greedily downing the hot soup like it was the finest ale around.

Wiping his lips, the need to void himself faded away. The strange, churning pain rotting in the deep tunnels of his abdomen began to subside, and for the first time in days, Ryg could move without a sick malaise overcoming him.

“Huh.”

Chancing his newfound wellness, one clawed foot went to the ship floor. Then another. Before Ryg knew it, he was standing, and could hold the contents of whatever he ate last.

“Like a babe taking his medicine,” the vixen said. She took the bowl back with a yank, watching Ryg with suspicious eyes.

She sighed. “Ain’t your fault, I s’pose. You rats like your tunnels, don’t ya?”

Ryg rubbed his temples. “I ain’t interested in your tunnel, ya damn water scag.”

Her tail flicked, her teeth bared, and she chucked the bow at Ryg’s head.

“Oh you cockin’ prick! Think you’re real clever then, do you? You oughta’ know the last lad who gave me a stare too long, I nailed to the ship’s mast!”

Ryg only heard half of it. Without the foggy hold of nausea gripping his senses, he could think again. Realization returned, about where he was, and where he was going. He shuddered.

“Thanks for the soup,” he said, eyes wandering. “You lot still got my cargo?”

Though the fox was a shade of fiery amber, he could steel see her cheeks flush. “I’m warnin’ you rat, test me again. . .”

He raised his claws. “Right, right. Nailed to wood.”

She huffed, tail tossing. “I’ll go tell the captain you’re done shittin’ yourself like a child. And your garbage is still in storage, lower level.”

She turned, stomping off to the upper deck, while Ryg went about checking on his gear.

In the deepest pit of the Thornpike, she carried essentials and supplies for the crew. But unknown to them, Ryg’s devices were likely more valuable than the entire hull itself.

He couldn’t take the wheel with him, it was too heavy and clunky for most of the travelling ships. Or at least, most of the crews were unwilling to drag something so cumbersome on their decks. The rest, however, was still usable.

Cannisters of Hellbite sat together like quiet family, enough to fill several dozen explosives. His caster rifle – Stench – was also propped next to them, along with about a hundred charge rods which could get him through most trouble in Crucix. He hoped.

The other gear was for survival alone. Blight had a tendency to fill the lungs with spores if you lingered too long, so Ryg had fashioned himself a breathing mask which could filter most of the floating cysts while he worked.

The rest of the devices were a shoddy assortment of makeshift weapons he’d whipped up: lockpicks tied to a charge rod to fry open keyholes, primitive launchers which could take viscous Hellbite and spit it at an enemy, tiny needs launchable from a simple trigger device wearable around the wrist.

He frowned. It wasn’t enough. This cache was okay for dealing with a few infestations, but a whole island’s worth?

He began to return to the mid deck, and the ship groaned. Swearing, Ryg was thrown off his feet as the ship violently swung to the side, knocking him into the hull. Through the decks, he could hear shouting.

Pirates, his mind thought.

“Piss and runny cheese,” he hissed, scrambling to all fours and going to his cache. He snagged Stench and a handful of cast rods, heading for the top. He didn’t know much about the ocean, but he figured a ship lurching to its side was a bad sign.

As he neared the top, sharp voices rang out, including the husky voice of the captain.

“Bagras, up the nest! Chen, Karx, check the sides and make sure we ain’t haulin’ fat!”

Another voice cried in protest. “Cap’n, we’re losing light! What is this!?”

Ryg didn’t quite understand as he clambered deckside. It was still sun out, wasn’t it?

No. Light had all but gone, seeping through a distinct, thick fog of pale grey that choked the Thornpike and her crew in a strange cloud. Ryg squeaked, hackles flaring. He recognized it.

“Fucken’ cockin’ shit, it’s sodding Blight!” he screamed amidst the running crew and barked orders.

The veil of spores soon overwhelmed the Thornpike and obscured the sun, while tiny, pulsing spores of an incandescent blue began to float through the air. Ryg held Stench tight, teeth clenched, looking for the source. Normally it was some overgrown polyp or pale, writhing stalk. Maybe a collection of bodies all rung together in a machine of flesh and infection. But there was nothing.

“The hell you say?” one of the crew mates said.

Ryg wasn’t listening. “We need to steer outta’ this, NOW!”

A loud, hoarse laugh. The feline captain pointed at Ryg from his helm. “I’ve run course with Man O’ Wars and Siege Galleons, boy! Cap’n Roste bows to no challenge!”

Ryg let his gaze dart around, ears tall. Searching, waiting for some broken screech or aberrant chuckle. Just the ship cutting through black water, for now.

“Listen to me you third-rate cast off!” Ryg yelled, barely able to see Roste through the thickening clouds. “You’re gonna’ have a belly full of worms if you keep through this! The lot of you will! This is Blight, an-”

A loud whistle. “Ship off of starboard, cap’n!”

A pale ghost of scarlet rushed through the mist – the fox with the tribal marks. She was pointing in the distance, where a blurred, mangled silhouette trickled into view.

Ryg snapped his gaze there too. The Thornpike coasted along, ever closer, as the small shadow swelled in size. The closer she got, the larger it was.

“Pirates?” the vixen said. Captain Roste roared in laughter.

“Fools, if that be! Grab your arms lads, grab your arms!”

Another moment of realization swept over Ryg. The massive shape, now something like a bloated galleon, wasn’t getting closer because of the Thornpike, it was moving towards them. But something was wrong.

Ryg rushed to the ship’s edge, but this time not to void his bowels. Instead, he peered through the infectious mist, spying the approaching galleon’s size and noticing how off it looked. Where ships had uniform construction, this one looked. . . deformed. Like sporadic growths were growing from its hull like-

“Shit!”

A dreadful groan rumbled the air, the chuckles of a bloated giant. A violent sloshing broke the black waves as the mysterious ship came closer and closer, tearing through the water. Here Ryg saw the whole of it was infested with bulbous, white tumors, growing on it like the galleon itself were alive. The undersides rippled and trembled as fat, thick tendrils pulled through the water, as if sensing prey, pulling the object closer to the Thornpike.

“Captain, it’s getting closer!”

Soon, the infested galleon was no longer a strange, distant shadow, but a heaving mass that towered over the Thornpike, belching fumes of festering fog into the air.

“Oh, she’s a big one!” Roste laugh, wrenching his wheel to the side.

There was no wind to carry her to safety, however. The approaching mutant vessel was free to assail its prey.

Ryg loaded his rifle and looked around for some method of escape. But out in the deep waters, there were no holes to hide in, and the damned fool of a captain was sentencing his crew to death.

One of the crew yelled out orders, while others began loading arms – primitive rifles and sabers, likely expecting pirates. The rest prepped cannons, what few the Thornpike had, while Ryg found himself seeking some form of cover.

Through the spore filled mist choking the air, he bumped into the marked fox, who scowled.

“This ain’t the place for you,” she said. “Get down below deck and stay out of our way!”

Ryg ignored her, watching the galleon. These sods had never come across anything like the Blight, he knew.

She nearly slapped him, but abrupt screams caught her attention.

“Something’s on the edge!” the voice said.

A thing indeed, white, long limbs stretched over the side of the pulsing galleon, slithering and stretching across the wood. And then another. And then more. Arms, in the dozens, squirmed along the hull of the massive ship, tugging along what appeared to be its body.

But instead of recognizable shape, it was some hodgepodge of torsos and limbs flung together in a machinery of mutated flesh. A dozen faces of a dozen dead mean melded together in an unrecognizable, throbbing mass of Blight, massive, glowing polyps beating like external hearts across its malformed shape.

“Sea monster!” a fool cried.

The marked vixen felt her insides run cold, eyes wide, limbs weak. “Goddess. . .”

This thing was not alone, however. Chortling and moaning with a hundred dead voices, other “figures” emerge from the broken hemorrhages of the galleon, like worms erupting from a tumor. They too reached out, falling in the black depths, scrambling towards the Thornpike.

The largest one sent a single, vine-like limb onto the Thornpike. Then one more. Then other, tinier hands clawed and gripped the sea-wood, anchoring itself like a malignant growth.

“Oi, open fire you worthless retches!”

Roste’s voice snapped the watchers out of their horrified daze, and sudden cracks of fire bit the air. They were soon accompanied by loud, booming bellows from the cannons, a spray of hot metal erupting into the sides of the infested galleon.

Ryg lifted Stench and pulled its trigger, a seething crackle of green energy bolting from its brass tip – straight at the mass of infected dead.

It was the only meaningful effect. The ignition of little metal pellets did nothing to abate the approaching of other Blightspawn, while the cannons shattered an uncaring ship. To their even greater horror, the splintered wood revealed the innards of the death ship pulsed with the glowing, fungal mass, though it were tissue instead of lumber.

The green spike of energy scorched the creature, however, causing it to violently shake and relinquish some of its grip. Again, Ryg fired, sending bolts of death into its pulsating mass.

“Hey!” he roared between shots at the fox, “I know you ain’t one for standin! I need you to help!”

She looked at him, a mix of confusion and resentment tugging her features.

“I don’t take orders. . .”

Ryg stared at her. “It don’t matter! If we don’t leave, we are piss on cheese_! We’re dead!”_

Undeterred by the random shots, the mass of dead bodies and infectious fungus threw yet more appendages into the Thornpike, forming gashes in her hull. The ship groaned and slanted, throwing the crew off their feet, sending gushes of water into the belly of the hull.

Roste swore, tumbling from his wheel, while others were nearly tossed overboard. Ryg found himself on his back, sputtering breaths and swears. He stood, wobbling, and to his horror watched as other figures began crawling over the Thornpike. He took aim and fired, hoping to fell the invaders as they approached, but their numbers began to swell.

In moments, Roste and his men were overwhelmed with Blightspawn. Screams rattled the veiled air and chaos set over the ship. The captain himself struggled to repel the bulbous creatures, while the largest of them found its way onto the Thornpike.

Ryg knew this was death for anyone that stayed. He frantically looked about. Could he hide below deck? No, for once going underneath danger was not the solution. But there was another option.

A single lifeboat clung to the Thornpike, and it was all Ryg cared about now. He leaned over the side, checking the ropes, hearing roars of pain and death as swarms of infested spawn crawled their way aboard.

His mind flashed with thoughts of Fleur, the offspring. If it took a whole barge of strangers dying in the cold, black abyss to see them again, well, he’d see them in hell.

Ryg didn’t look back, throwing himself over the ship’s side and into the boat, cutting its ropes as the small scuttle collapsed into the dark water. It rumbled and nearly overturned, while the larger Thornpike was yanked further to the side, soon to topple completely.

“Shit!” He swore, grabbing two oars and began to throw them against the water. The boat hardly moved, but it was an inch farther away from the dying vessel.

Cracks of desperate cannons went off and frightened cries filled the foggy air. Ryg recognized them all too well, and closed his eyes. Just focus on leavin’. They didn’t listen, they got themselves to blame.

The water splashed again. A hoarse voice gasped and rambunctiously fought against the cold depths.

“Wait! Wait!”

Her cry was weak and frightened. Ryg glanced back to see the marked fox, eyes bulbous, paws furiously ripping toward the boat. She seemed so far, and if he stopped the Blightspawn might see him. . .

“Dammit,” he said, reaching over the escape vessel. “Get on with it!”

She heaved herself through the cold dark, until reaching the small scuttle. Ryg gripped her reaching hand and yanked her on board. She coughed, hacking breaths of saltwater and blood, body trembling.

Sparing no time, Ryg once again began to row away from the breaking Thornpike, the whole of overwhelmed with Blightspawn.

“Wait,” the fox coughed, “No, no, I can’t leave them. . .”

Ryg continued rowing, as the fledgling ship grew farther away. It splintered and groaned, toppling to its side now, where what few screaming voices remained echoed through the air.

“Please. . .” she whispered, lacking strength to raise her voice.

She reached out to it, as though she might catch it in her paw and bring it close. But the ship shrunk into a dismal silhouette, harder to see through the veil of Blight-made mist.

Ryg began to slow his movements, but did not cease. Soon, things were quiet. The Thornpike sank into the bleak, dark depths, consumed by its hunter. In his mind, the rat assumed it was enough to keep the mutants busy while the pair made their escape – otherwise the galleon would soon chase them down.

But as the mist faded, light began to trickle through the sky once more. The sickening fog dissipated, and all that remained was the water, the sun, and the vixen’s ragged breathing.

Ryg stopped, looking around. Shit, he thought. Dunno’ where I am.

“Shit,” he said. “Lost me weapons.”

Dreary quiet waded between the two as he sat in the floating scuttle, defeated. Reevaulation was necessary, and things didn’t look good.

Now, he was down to a single cast-rifle and a few rods for ammunition. The precious Hellbite was long gone, as was the rest of his supplies. Better yet, he was lost at sea with an emotionally shattered vixen, with no true sense of where Isla Crucix was. He could make a guess, based on the direction his transporters were taking him: somewhere northwest?

Though even if that were accurate, he had no measure of distance or sense of time. Ryg was no beast of the sea either, he had no instinct to carry him safe across the waters. All he could do was think with the only tool left to him: his weapon.

A while longer passed and Ryg had spent some hours staring at rifle, contemplating some way he could disassemble it and perhaps fashion it into some kind of propelling tool. The fox was quiet all the while, curled up, injured in ways beyond the flesh. Lucky, as far as the rat could tell, since her flesh hadn’t ruptured with blossoms of Blight.

The water carried them along, and Ryg knew that if he didn’t find a solution, they might drift into an endless abyss with no land in sight – much less the Isla Crucix.

As the sun fell into afternoon, drawing close to the horizon, the fox finally rose. Her movements were slow, hobbled, like a babe learning to walk.

“Oi, you been out a bit too long,” Ryg grunted. “Have a fancy time feelin’ all frightened like while we’ve been drifting?”

She turned to him, an realization set in, the shock of the previous events starting to fade. Surely, if she possessed the strength, she might have clawed Ryg across his jowls.

Instead, she asked a question as if it might bring back her crew. “What was that?”

Ryg was fiddling with his charge-rods, gaze affixed to them as if an answer might spring out of them.

“S’called Blight. It gets everywhere, grows everywhere, and kills everything it touches.”

She shook her head. “Cap’n Roste isn’t dead. He’s been through worse.”

Ryg rolled his eyes. “Yeah? Well look here, eh. . .” It dawned on the rat he didn’t even know her name.

“Jen.”

“Jen? If your fancy cap’n comes sailin’ through to save us I’ll shit me knickers and work as a cabin boy for the rest of my days.”

He offered a wide gesture. “But until that happens, you and me is driftin’, and if we don’t figure things right quick, thinking about who is and isn’t dead will be the least of our troubles.”

Jen sat up more now, wincing. She was bruised and twisted and broken, as far as the rat could tell.

“This is your fault,” she said, baring her fangs. “You killed us!”

Ryg scoffed. “Thought your boys were still livin’, eh?”

A knife gleamed in the sun as Jen pulled it from her side. “Bloody rat, I’ll cut you down and use your blood for chum!”

To this, Ryg snapped Stench from the boat and aimed it square the vixen’s head. It wasn’t loaded.

The vixen frozen, body quivering in a silent rage.

“Now I realize you’re a little miffed right now,” said Ryg. “So I think you needs to have a bit of a sit down. I tried to warn you lot, after all.”

Jen didn’t budge. He could tell she wanted to end him, or herself, here and now.

“Don’t be stupid,” he continued. “Ain’t worth whatever you’re tryin’.”

Like a trapped animal, she did not settle, and Ryg didn’t want to throw a free carcass overboard. Might attract the Blighted ship and leave him to die alone.

“Fine,” he said. “Make a deal with you. You help me find us a shore and I won’t blame if you try to gut me honest like.”

Her eyes quivered, trembling with a silent fury, but finally she relented. She collapsed to her haunches, knife falling from hand, features sagging.

“It wouldn’t matter,” she said, gaze downcast. “I can’t bring them back. They’re just. . . gone now. Last night I was having a drink with Apson and Hoxley. I shaved barnacles off the hull with Henner the morn before. . .”

Ryg regarded her for a moment, noting the distance between fingers and knife. Folk were quick to change their minds when emotions dulled their sense.

“Thought you lot had blows with privateers,” he said. “Figured it’s something you were prepared for.”

She gave an apathetic chuckle. “Pirates are just men with guns and rotten teeth. But those. . . that Blight. . .”

Ryg returned to his ‘work’ with the charge rods, which boiled down to aimlessly staring at them and hoping for a solution. Maybe if he combined them together, he could force an explosion. But for what?

“Guess it ain’t common on the waters,” he said amidst his thinking. “Well, anyways, you won’t have time to dwell on any of it if we don’t find shore soon. You knew the route better, where the hell are we?”

She did not reply for a while, her eyes distant. Ryg swore internally – it was futile to continue trying to work at a solution without her help.

He rubbed his head, setting the charge-rods down. “Look, m’sorry about your mates, alright? Gods know I seen that more times than I’d like.”

Jen looked up, disgust tugging her lips. “Sorry? What does that do for me, rat? How does your ‘sorry’ bring back the dead? What’s it worth to me? Shit all!”

“Shit all,” Ryg agreed with a nod. “Blame me all you want for the good it does you. But ain’t none of it my doin’. You think I was askin for that? Blimey, don’t be a fat tit.”

Again, more silence. Jen was no longer rising to his insults, or much reason for that matter. Ryg coiled his tail in impatience, the thoughts of never seeing Fleur or the sprouts again flashing through his mind. And he wasn’t even on the bloody island yet.

“Are you really gonna’ just sulk there for the rest of eve?” he said. “I took you for some kinda’ fightin’ fox. Reckoned those marks of yours meant something. Was I wrong?”

Here, she finally stirred again, barely looking at him. “They are the marks of the white chain, binding me to those I fight with. There’s no one left to fight with.”

Her features softened, but this time to something more muted. Lost. Then, Jen glanced at Ryg’s weapon, gesturing to it.

“How does that work?”

Ryg tapped his claws and pulled Stench closer to him, sensing a shift. But at least she was talking, so he humored her.

“Load it up with one of these rods in the cylinder mechanism. Rod’s charged with somethin’ we in the Undercity call ‘zap.’”

He held it up to show the fox, but not close enough she could do something dangerous.

“I pull the trigger, needle hits the rod, zap gets all riled up and shoots out the tip. Handy.”

She blinked, nodding slowly. “So, you just squeeze the trigger then. Hm.”

Ryg peered at her, mind running with calculations of danger. Those weren’t healthy questions to ask in a situation like this. But, she was also weak, bruised, and showed signs of serious fatigue. Could barely hold a knife, much less physically fight. Worse yet, the two hadn’t eaten in a while, so all strength was precious.

Jen broke his thought with another gesture, pointing to the northwest.

“By the night’s count you’re only a day’s worth of rowing from the Crucix, and the waters are heavily guarded by Red Ships. Likely to run into one of em’ so long as you don’t run south of the sun.”

Ryg’s nose wiggled as if something had changed. He looked in the direction Jen pointed, heart lightening a bit. Finally, some common sense.

“We should trade rowing duties. I’ll take first shift.”

Now Ryg knew something was off. “Oi, you losin’ your mind worse now? You ain’t in no shape for that.”

Ignoring him, the fox positioned herself to grab the two oars, looking to the dark waters to mind any currents.

“Just get some rest, rat.”

Ryg grumbled, watching as the vixen began to rotate her arms and push the scuttle along the indicated direction. To be safe, he noted the position of the near setting sun, making sure Jen hadn’t gone mad and was leading them to death. Of course, he had no way of knowing if she was telling the truth, but he had no choice but to trust her.

Still, he watched her from the side for a long while, keeping Stench close. Hours stretched on and the sun danced on the horizon, the clear blue sky painted with flourishing purples and hot reds. Despite her pains, Jen was dutiful in her approach, and did not falter. All the while, Ryg felt his eyes grow heavy.

The sweet embrace of warm, inky oblivion settled over the rat. His nose wiggled as he dreamed of a nice yard on the mainland. Podge and Floris were grown a bit, tilling the land. He was watching them grow older right before his eyes as seasons changed without warning. Then, he turned. Fleur was standing in the door of their home. She was smiling, all proud and humble. Then, she was bare, holding a mug of his favorite drink, beckoning to him. . .

He felt a twitch.

His eyes snapped opened, and his claws went for his waist. Stench wasn’t there.

The silhouette of Jen met his glance in the dark, starlight night. His heart grew cold and he froze. Then, he stared a while longer, and her shape formed into coherence.

He reached for her, but it was too late. Jen’s hand held the rifle, and the rifle was not pointed at him, but at herself. The brass tip nuzzled her temple, back to him. Finger squeezed trigger.

An ugly spray of star touched crimson stung the air as a loud hiss of green energy drove itself through her skull. She went limp in an instant.

“Oi, what the fuck!?”

Jen’s body limped over the side of the scuttle, and Ryg remained motionless, heart racing. For a while he didn’t want to move, as if the fox might return to life and take aim to him next.

Sense returned, however, and his father’s three rules filled his mind.

“Gods dammit,” he muttered. Ryg pushed himself up, and quite briskly, shoved the vixen’s body off the side. The blood and filth might attract predators, or worse.

Her body sunk into the cold, unforgiving depths. She was living, and then she wasn’t.

Ryg rubbed his head, shaken. That was no way to go – not out in the endless dark like this. No kind words to spare, no funeral pyres. In the Undercity, a rat might go with their possessions to make an offer with the Lords of Chance, mourned by family and kin. What good was dying if there was no one to remember you?

He bowed his head. “Jen was a good lass. Fought to the last breath. Cured me sick, she did. Hope she finds her peace.”

The scuttle shifted on the bleak water as Ryg positioned himself next to the oars. He could not afford to sit idle too long, even to give the fox her rites of passage. Looking up, he squinted at the dark sky littered with stars, orienting himself towards the vague northwest direction. Or, what he hoped was the right way, at least.

He started to row, alone in the endless dark.

-*-

Ryg’s arms were swollen with fatigue, his palms sore and bleeding, his stomach rumbling with hunger. The sun sapped of him strength and bequeathed him with the gift of thirst, and all he had was the deep instinct to keep moving. To remain still was death.

Each motion was a little harder, and each motion he cursed the vixen more. He was dead, he must have been! This was her revenge from the grave for the loss of the Thornpike and the crew. Give him false hope and grind him into nothing. What else was he to do?

Mocked by the deep, black water, his tongue was chapped and dry with scabs. If only he could lean over and take a sip. . . but that surely would kill him quicker.

Finally, he collapsed. He had been rowing all through the night, and had no proper way to orient himself save for relying on the rising sun. But even it was his judge, not his savior. As he fell to his back, eyes staring into the endless blue sky, he thought again of Fleur, of their future home, of everything he’d ever done.

An exhaustion took him, heavier than anything he’d ever experienced. He wanted to rest. But if he did, Ryg knew he might not wake up again.

He closed his eyes.

A gentle ringing shook him awake.

His ears quivered, and he rose, wobbling. No, not a ringing. Something like a distant bell. Was he going mad now, hearing sounds as his mind devoured itself from lack of food?

Again, a bell cracked the air. No! He wasn’t going mad. Raising his cramped body completely, he looked about. Out on the distant horizon there was a dark shape. At first, he thought it might be the galleon, come to claim him for good.

But no, this shape was different. Even from a distance, it had large, brilliant sails of rich scarlet and move quite swiftly on the dark waters.

Ryg’s eyes widened. It was one of the vessels Jen had told him of before, one of the Red Ships.

“Oi,” he croaked, “Over here you lot.”

His voice was as dry as sand, and he had no strength to shout. He swore internally, every swore spat by ever man, beast, and rat. If that ship got away he was going to die, rot on this tiny scuttle.

He had but one idea. He snatched up Stench, and took aim at the sky. He squeezed the trigger as ravenously as he might a barmaid’s tit, letting loose hissing sparks of green energy. They rattle the air, fizzling out at their zenith of distance.

Now Ryg wasn’t quite sure what strange thing dwelled on the black seas, but he doubted there was something quite like this.

He could not tell if the Red Ship saw him, however, so he continued to fire until his finger bled from the motion. The distant vessel rang its bell, but was it a response to him? Again, he fired, until all his raw strength was gone, until he’d depleted every scrap of energy from the charge rod.

Cursing, he collapsed. The bright sky went dark, and he was sure that once he closed his eyes, they would not open again.

-*-

Ryg shuddered to life, his vision blurry. Surrounding him were quizzical complexions of pale-faced men, each one a visage of scars and saltwater.

One in particular, with a regal coat and pitch black hair looked him over, rubbing his chin.

“Am I dead?” the rat rasped.

The one of grandiose attire and clothes shook his head. “No, I should say not.”

He went limp. Voices chattered between him, muddled. Get him below quarters, one said. Only survivor, another added.

In the still functioning corners of his mind, Ryg had one thought: Thanks, Jen.

VII

Port Saal sprang into view like a sprawl of broken fingers, a mess of fragmented buildings and skeletal structures. It was the only beacon of neutral civilization, the one last fragment of safety before the Wormway roads lead far off to Citadel Vaust.

Elenna felt a spring of cold run up her back, raising the hackles of her black fur. This was it. There was nothing left to reconsider, as she gazed from the deck of the Sea Licker. No turning around, no hiding back in her room at Oxus to be scolded by the Instructors, only the Crucix.

It was hard to soak in, as the transport vessel glided its way over the dark waters, making its way to one of the open ports. The last few days held an eerie calm, where not even the other Blackhats had time for arguments or quips. And perhaps, much to everyone’s secret despair, there was nothing that interfered with the Sea Lickers route. No storms, no rogue privateers, no gales to knock them off course – as if the isle itself was waiting for them.

Her stomach churned just looking it over. While Saal was a broke mess of sickly lumber, the air itself was thick, almost caustic. Everything was heavy, and a gentle fog seemed to waft through everything, blotting out sunlight and turning port fires into fat, blurry flies of orange.

A dismal chime caught her attention. The Sea Licker’s crew rang one of their haunting bells as it rattled off in the cool air. Three heavy chimes. Soon after, a matching set of chimes returned from the port. A few voices hailed each other and the ship started to prepare for anchoring.

Once docked, Marq, Ovanna, and Edwin emerged from the lower holds, no doubt planning for the trials ahead. They got off the ship wordlessly, Elenna following behind, as ship hands started to remove their supplies from cargo.

The small group was halted by a haggard group of three guardsmen once off. They were not, however, draped in the familiar blood scarlet of Red Sol. Torches lit up their swollen, pale faces, their armor as mismatched as their teeth.

“Hold, you lot,” the center one said. “Nobody settles in the Saal without the Port Master’s approval.”

Ovanna had lost her patience three sun’s ago when they’d left Blaqtown.

“This ‘lot’ happens to have a writ of execution ordained by the Scarlet Clerics, an-”

He raised his hand. “I know what the bloody writ says, beast.”

She snarled. “Then you know what happens to those that defy the will of the Clerics?”

A roll of the eyes. “I’m aware. You can threatin’ the Port Master with all that as you please. Now, you’ll be coming with us all peaceful like, or we’ll toss you out on the black water, understand?”

Elenna’s tail twitched. She opened her maw to say something, figuring these thugs could use a could bite on the ear. Edwin, however, spoke first, raising his arms.

“Why that sounds lovely, kind master. We’ll be happy to sort this out with your Master. . .”

The guard’s expressions did not change. “Hagan.”

“Keep your arms to yourselves or they’ll be trouble,” the guards warned, gesturing at the Blackhat weapons each carried.

Spitting, they promptly turned and lead the group up to the base of Saal, which looked less like a traditional port and more an improvised military fort.

Indeed, a winding set of hills were guarded off by thick, sharpened stakes of poisoned lumber, crowned by a base wearing banners of both the Sol Solaris and something else. A pale, white sea snake emblazoned on a black standard. Elenna recognized it, having seen it on one of the visitors at Haxan’s brothel. Privateers?

She didn’t like the smell or look of them. Each face they passed was uglier and crueler than the last. Bodies that stunk of saltwater, smeared with tattoos and marks, mouths full of rot and silver. Elenna didn’t know much about how the rulers of Sol Solaris conducted themselves, but she figured them for polished armor and order.

Eventually they reached an opening where the main encampment was seated, heralded by the same two story building. Other guards leered at the group of Blackhats as they were ushered inside, until they were trapped in the belly of some rotting beast.

Inside was little better, where hasty stonework met hastier lumber beams, torches lighting halls with dreary light. Eventually, the patrol pushed pat a set of doors, leading to a much larger room – or at least, the largest available to the place.

He was instantly visible, sitting in his chair like some hulking thing, knives hanging off his attire while two bulbous eyes of scarlet peered out from a sea of ashen fur. The air stung with the scent of rum while a small fire crackled in its hovel.

Half-chewed ear flicked as the guards lead the Blackhats in.

“Master Hagan, the lot you requested, sir.”

Elenna saw Marq grip the handle of his blade and sensed Ovanna’s hackles raise. Easy to understand, as the beastly Hagan rose from chair, a nasty cut of yellow teeth flashing from his muzzle.

Hagan peered, gesturing wide. “Ahh, well, let’s have a look then.”

The wolfess cut in once again. “You might spare us a look and explain why you’re wasting our time, Port Master Hagan. You think the business of the Scarlet Clerics is something to toy with?”

Hagan glanced at her. Then to Edwin, Marq, then Elenna. The fox shivered as his gaze of solid crimson touched her.

He flicked his hands at the patrol. “You can run along now, I’ll manage things from here.”

Nodding, the squat faced guards gave one last leer at the Blackhats and left, shutting them in with the beast Hagan.

For a moment things were quiet, save for the gentle rasp of Marq’s breathing and the crackle of fire. Hagan sniffed at them, his pale rodent nose wiggling, as if testing them for something.

This time, Edwin broke the silence. “Any reason you’re a cryptic shit? We have things to do, you know.”

Hagan rumbled with a dry, alcohol soaked laugh.

“You did, but now you don’t,” he answered, returning to his desk. He plopped in the chair, a claw reaching over a series of letters, all bearing a familiar seal: the wax symbol of the Clerics.

“Certainly, you have the filth of Blackhats. Ugly cutters too. Oh yes, I’d recognized those cleavers any day – cut right through bone like it was butter, eh?”

Ovanna snarled. “If you’re so familiar, then maybe you know what happens to those who get in a Blackhat’s way?”

Hagan continued to sort through stacks of papers. No, not papers. The writs.

“Funny thing is,” he said, rubbing his maw. “Been getting a lot of so called ‘hats.’ Taking up supplies, filling up my ports, getting in brawls with the good lads around here. Sure didn’t fight like them, though.”

Elenna could sense the tension rise like a pillar of heat from the trio. Uncertainty settled between the great beast and the Blackhats. His subtle threat had not gone unnoticed.

“If you’re going to try and kill us,” Marq rasped, “you better do it fast.”

Hagan sipped a deep breath, like he might a barrel of rum.

“Mmm. No, don’t think there will be any killing. Leastways not yet. Because, as it turns out, we were expecting some hats in from one of those fancy Citadels. Ollux? Ort?”

Edwin tilted his covered head. “We?”

Hagan yanked free one of his knives, began picking at the long, sharp teeth infesting his mouth with it.

“Aye. M’self and Lord Edrian of the Vaust. Something got him riled up fierce, I tell you. These vagabonds and miscreants, all who been givin’ fancy writs, they haven’t made it any easier for him.”

The wolfess stepped forward, her bush tail swinging. “Get to the point, master Hagan, or we’ll get to it for you.”

Hagan laughed again. “Oh missy I hope you’re as fiery in the bed as you are here.”

Ovanna didn’t rise to his comment, but likely thought of a few new ways to hack the rodent in pieces.

“Problem is we were expecting a full crew in a few days earlier than you hats. Except, only one of them came in. Some land-rat claimin’ he was a guide, said he’d been attacked on the sea. Came in from that fat crock o’ shit, Mulg, he says.”

Marq and Edwin glanced at each other. Elenna kept her ears propped, clinging to every detail.

“So, on that, I’m assuming you are the Blackhats proper he was supposed to be with?”

None of them spoke at first. Perhaps they were deciding on a different form of response.

“We were supposed to meet a guide, yes,” Elenna piped up, stepping past Mart and Edwin.

“Someone who knew the land well or, could deal with the um, Blight.”

Hagan regarded the vixen with an eerily pleasant calm.

“Hmph,” grunted Hagan. “Certainly got a mouth on him, he does.”

Edwin took charge. “Is there a reason you’re askin’ us this?”

Hagan sighed, returning his stare to the others. “Impatient lot, you are. But alright, I’ll humor you. Not too long back we had a surge of chaps sporting fancy writs. Seems the Clerics were in a damn hurry to issue them out, and I suppose every fool with a gun figured to come here.”

Satisfied with his teeth-picking, Hagan set the knife down.

“Now I’m in charge around here, keeping affairs in order for Lord Edrian. So I’m not keen on believing half these shits are true Blackhats. Some try to break through us, get killed. Others leave the port, also get killed in the mists.”

He pointed at the group. “Then I’m getting word from one of my boys, a Cap’n Roste, whose leading someone who knows how to hold their own against the Blight. I know Roste, worked with him all me life, and he knows the old tosser Mulg. So, your story is startin’ to add up.”

Marq rasped. “You’re going in circles, you’ve told us this.”

Hagan chuckled, raising his hands. “Now, now, patience.”

“Edrian heard you and this land-rat were comin’. But you didn’t together. In fact, he shows up and the entire crew he was with is dead, or so he says.”

“Pirates are not our problem,” snapped Ovanna.

“T’wasn’t pirates,” said Hagan. His muzzle sagged with a frown. “Just more problems.”

“As it is,” he went on, “Seems you’re the only right group of Blackhats comin’ in Saal. All for a man I don’t know, and don’t care about. Sure got m’lord pestered though. Never seen him like that, told me to snag the Blackhats when they came in.”

“This doesn’t explain why you’re holding us up,” Ovanna said.

Hagan leaned over his table, claws folding together. “I know the stink of Blackhats. Can’t forget it. And I can tell you’re who you’re supposed to be. Certainly, a bunch of stuffed cocks.”

“You’re not going the way you think you are, hats. We’ve got your ‘guide’ held up right now. But before you go wandering off like you know this damned isle, you’ll be answering to Lord Edrian, first.”

This time, Marq laughed, rattling off like dry ash. “I don’t think you understand the extent of our authority.”

“I understand perfectly well. But this isn’t your world, this is the Crucix. No Clerics are here to enforce their word. Fuckin’ hell, they don’t even send us proper soldiers. Boys around here are on my payroll.”

Hagan stood, firelight twisting in his crimson eyes. “Lord Edrian has a very specific task needs doin, and you hats are gonna help.”

Ovanna’s snarl faded. Instead, it twisted into a dangerous, wolfish smile, her fangs visible in the dim room.

“What makes you think we won’t cut you down here, ‘port master?’ You’ve caused us enough trouble. No one of the law will come after us for it.”

Hagan flashed her his own grin. “I like your fire, missy, I do. But aside from having the whole damn port guard to deal with, we might just give you some help in your searchin’ around. We know why you’re here, but unless you’ve got a galleon with more hats, you won’t last a night out in the Crucix.”

Hagan sighed. “Save your energy. You’ll need all of it.”

Neither Marq nor Ovanna settled their posture, but Edwin saw the futility of it.

“Ah, damn, he’s right,” he said. “Don’t know about you three, but I’d rather not add an entire fortress of men on my list to kill. Job’s hard enough as it is.”

Ovanna was quiet for a moment. She turned her head, eyes still on Hagan.

“We decide as one. Marq?”

The silver-masked hunter shook his head. “You know me. I’m with you, Ovanna.”

She scoffed. “Helpful as always.” The wolfess looked to Elenna. “Elly?”

The vixen froze. This was the first decision she had to make as a Blackhat which could affect them all. She looked between the hunters, and then Hagan. She played everything out in her head, how it might transpire. Surely, with a bit of her Bleak magic and their cutters, Hagan was no match. But a whole port of hired thugs?

And what for? They didn’t know the lands ahead, and this was the closest point of civilization. Hagan cared little for their authority, either. None of it would go well.

“We. . . we should go with the port lord,” she said, looking to Ovanna. “We don’t know anything about the island, and he has our guide. He’s full of shit, but what pirate isn’t when they get a position of power?”

The wolfess’s expression did not change. Rather, she nodded, then returned her glare to Hagan.

Hagan chuckled. “Good to hear you lot have more sense than belts.”

“Believe we need to fetch the other one, now.”

-*-

The ground beneath Ryg’s clawed feet bubbled, a throbbing pitch that pulsed as though it were flesh. Translucent, yet solid. Formless, yet with shape.

He could not move. The air around him tasted bitter and flickered with ghostly sparks of white light, buzzing about him like lazy flies. The world around him was grey and thick, an endless fog that nothing pierced through. He tried to speak, but his voice was crushed by some unseeable force.

The dark beneath him ruptured now, a violent spasm of shapes running through it. Soon, it was not bubbles emerging from its satin membrane. . . but faces. They tried to claw through the vicious portal, but could not. They opened their jaws to scream, but were silenced.

But he could hear them! No voices pierced the black veil, but in his head, their yells of horror were as clear as the sky.

“Help us! Don’t let us die!”

Ryg tried to wrestle himself free, but still, his form refused to move. Don’t let us die, they chanted. Their arms started gripping at his legs, mutated nubs yanking him into the dark beneath.

He tried to move, tell them stop. No, he was sinking now. Surely, he would sink and suffocate.

The shapes watched him, surrounded him. Chanting, chanting.

Then he saw, he recognized one. It was Jen, her eyes fat with fear, reaching out to Ryg.

“Don’t let us die!”

They pulled him into the deep sea, and Ryg’s lungs collapsed from crushing weight.

His leg twitched.

The black consumed him, and he felt hands and teeth rip at his flesh, tearing him asunder.

His leg stung.

In one terrible harmony, the dead screamed:

“Oi, wake the fuck up, would ya!”

Ryg’s eyes peeled open. Piss covered hay met his fur while a damp chill cloaked him like a blanket. His mind pulsed to life through the fuzz of exhaustion, a fat-faced figure swimming into his gaze.

A slack-jawed guard looked over him, torch in hand, nudging the rat with mud caked boot.

“Won’t ask you again, vermin. On your feet, or next hit’ll come from a club.”

Ryg grunted, forcing himself on haunches. The dream – no, the nightmare – faded from his conscious, but the screams rattled his thoughts. He could scarcely recall where he was.

Gloved hand forced him up, yanking his arm. The jail-door behind the guard had creaked open. Ah, yes. The prison. Well, either Ryg was about to be executed, or freed. Or both.

“Come on already,” said the guard. Ryg concocted a few clever things to say, but lacked the strength to squeak it out. Once more, he was a bit tired of wearing bruises instead of skin.

The guard huffed, turned, and began leading Ryg along. Cocky bastard, he thought. No extra men or precautions to see if his chains were in order.

As the guard began leading him out of the bowels of the makeshift dungeon, the rat couldn’t make sense of how much time had passed. The guards of Red Ships took him in for questioning, demanded to know where his escort crew was, then promptly tossed him in a cage to die. Not the worst way to go by rat standards, but Ryg hadn’t seen daylight for. . . days? Weeks?

Eventually they came to an entrance quarters where other prisoners were processed. A man sitting at table looked at the guard and Ryg, casting an uncertain glance.

“Good bloody luck for you, beast,” he said, scribbling something on a parchment. “Turns out you weren’t full of shit after all.”

He stood now, coming to Ryg, unlocking his wrist-shackles, though with a begrudged expression.

“Get him to the port house,” he said to the guard.

“What? Why?”

“Cause he ain’t a prisoner, and Hagan will chop our balls off if we ask too many questions. Now get.”

Ryg ringed his claws around the raw skin and fur, looking between the guards. What he wouldn’t give to have Stench.

The guard grumbled, gazing at Ryg’s freed arms, concern cracking his features. “Bloody well fine. Come with me, and don’t try anything.”

In a dark tunnel or the dead of night, maybe, Ryg thought.

The outside air was no more refreshing than his cell. There was a bitter ambrosia too it, heavy with death. The unmistakable odor of Blight, mixed with seawater, carried miles from what Ryg could only fathom were infestations the size of cities. The sun could barely penetrate the veil of grey above, while the air whispered with a quiet, north-brought cold.

They did not linger long, perhaps with a mutual dislike of the outside and the ills it brought. Ryg kept pace with the near-jogging guard as he brought him to a small building just east of the port’s makeshift fort. It was familiar, like the Tower – layered as if to host a great number of people.

Once inside, the guard was met by a group of other better armed thugs, draped in plates and black symbols.

“Bout’ time. You stop along the mud and get yourself a fat pie?” one of them spat. The guard flushed.

“These red boys are all slow behind the ears, ain’t never seen a fight. Don’t have respect neither,” another snickered.

Ryg felt himself stumbled forward as the guard pushed him into this new cavalry of armed brutes.

“Piss off,” said the guard. “He’s your problem now.”

Quick as he was to kick Ryg, the guard had left, leaving him inside with the others. He recognized them at once though – bootlickers to Hagan. Privateers dragged off from the sea that only stayed around for a lazy payday.

One of them loomed over Ryg, grinning with a mouth full of silver. “Alright you little shit, turns out you’ve got some friends. Come with us. Boss is waitin’ for ya.”

Ryg flicked his tail. “I got legs and a nose, can find your ruddy boss on me own.”

“You can also find yourself with a spear up your arse,” another thug said, this one missing an eye. “Nobody trusts a beast. Now keep your mouth shut.”

Ryg wanted to snap. But he was bare, no coat of improvised explosives to fall back on.

Satisifed, the trio of Hagan’s finest pushed him along further into the building, which revealed itself like a tavern and barracks. Likely it was the latter at some point, before changes were made to accommodate new arrivals.

Walls were draped with a mix of black banners and mark of Sol Solaris, while kegs of bitter ale sat neglected in corners. A few halls were filled with guards, some eating old cheese and imported yellowbread. Others fried blackbird legs, scuttle salmon, or whatever else they could find.

Eventually, Ryg found himself in a large mess hall, big as a whale’s belly. No doubt a place for soldiers to congregate. But here it wasn’t full of swords of the Red Sun. No, the bastard Hagan had made himself comfortable long table, along with several more armed guards and. . .

“Aw shit,” he muttered. Yes, they were unmistakable. Before leaving the Tower, Mulg told Ryg of who he was working with, the fabled Blackhats, hunters of beasts and executors of the Scarlet Cleric’s will.

Except it wasn’t an army. Not a squadron, a platoon, barely a private guard. Ryg glanced around as the others took notice of his arrival – looking for others. Upstairs maybe? Some others coming by boat?

Hagan was busy cracking through the leg of some creature, until his bulbous scarlet eyes spied Ryg. He chortled through bits of cooked flesh.

“Ahh, there it is, vermin of the hour.”

Seating along the wide table, the others were darkly clothed. The rat sniffed them out quickly. A fox, a man, a wolf, and a diseased man. One was quite young compared to the others. It did little to settle his growing anxiety.

The patrol pushed Ryg along, until he was forced to sit at the end of the table, where plates of food awaited him. The others regarded him at once.

A quiet grew between the Blackhats and Ryg.

He broke the silence, gesturing. “Piss and runny cheese, tell me this ain’t it.”

One of them, a man in accented fineries and a face covered with wrappings, crossed his arms.

“Funny, was about to say the same thing.”

The wolf – or wolfess, Ryg noticed – snarled and turn to the amused Hagan. “This is a jest to you? We needed a guide, not one of your slave rats.”

Ryg hissed, while Hagan and his bootlickers laughed.

“No jesting here. That’s your lad. The map, the survivor, the expert exterminator,” said Hagan.

“He’s barely armed.” This voice came from one in a silver mask, though his throat sounded like it was cut to slivers.

“You’d be too if you almost drowned,” said Ryg. “Blightspawn. On the water. Only survivor.”

“We heard,” the tall Blackhat said.

Hagan pointed a knife at Ryg. “You oughta’ eat lad. I know I don’t feed my prisoners well.”

Ryg boiled with contempt, but was sapped of his strength. And the food did smell edible, at least. Wasn’t fried hopper legs from home, but it would do.

He grabbed a cooked bird, and before he knew it, was devouring the juicy meats. Hagan laughed again.

“Good, good. You all are gonna’ need to get to know each other. There’s work to do.”

-*-

Elenna smelled a deal when it was on the table. She spent too much of her life overhearing conversations from travelling monks or forgotten lords, as they chuckled over brandy and whores about breaking bread.

She recognized Hagan too – nothing more familiar than the white coil banner of a privateer. And though he was like this Ryg fellow, shaped as a rodent, he was also completely different. How he came to perch himself working with the Red Sun she didn’t know, but it wasn’t by fighting the good fight.

Their supposed guide, the one even Elenna wasn’t sure was legitimate, had eaten his way through wedges of old cheddar, salted beer, and whatever else was in front of him. Hagan found it amusing, while her Blackhat mentors weren’t so taken.

But one didn’t attempt to have visitors hung and then invite them to dinner without wanting something.

“You’ve come a long ways I hear, all of you,” said the ashen furred beast. “Across a dark sea, whipped by your masters to do the tasks they’re too lazy for, eh?”

He didn’t wait for a retort. “That’s a fine problem in this Isle. The Clerics and cockends and lords think they have some kind of authority. Hah! Ain’t so. Only law is mine, and I answer to Edrian. Guess what that means?”

Ryg spat out a wad of charred flesh. “Means get to the bloody point you overgrown sea-rat.”

Hagan grunted, ignoring this. “You answer to Edrian. And turns out he’s been needing outside help for a long time now, except the sunny boys and religious nuts are content to feast and fatten, leaving us with piss all.”

Marq interrupted. “Do you even know why we’re here?”

“I only know because I have to,” said Hagan. “Fancy lad come through these parts, that’s the rumor, is it? Well, you hats aren’t getting past the big fort till you hear Edrian out. And you will. I’ll make sure of it.”

Elenna studied Hagan, fox tail swishing. “That’s a lot of loyalty for an old pirate, isn’t it?” she said.

“A bootlicker for an arm of Red Sol? The kind of people who hunt privateers down for a living? Something’s odd about that, don’cha think?”

Hagan’s blank, scarlet eyes came upon her, his maw stretched with a forced grin.

“I like being paid and I like power,” he said. “And as it is, this power has a job for you lot. Before you go on some big quest searchin’ for a loon, you’ll be doing the lord’s work first.”

He said this without looking away from the vixen, but her own stare did not falter.

Ovanna snarled. “You’ve seen Ludven?”

Finally, Hagan looked away. “Ain’t no stranger come through my ports that I didn’t know about. Better to ask the lord, a’fore he sets you in the isle to die.”

It was strange, watching the authority of her mentors find a wall they could not pass. Elenna always thought the title of Blackhat held enough respect to quell any obstacle, but here. . . were things bad enough it no longer mattered?

Ear hears flicked, as Ryg belched. “All of this is a load of shite, you know that?

“None o’ this matters, because ain’t knowing asking the right questions. How are we gonna’ be dealing with Blightspawn? All my good supplies are gone, and we don’t know the kind of infestation we’re looking at.”

He turned, looking at Hagan. “You even been past this crackshit fort? Infestations are so bad they’re getting’ on ships now!”

There were some grumbles, some sighs. Elenna, however, was curious.

“What are they like?” she asked.

The rat glanced at her, almost in disbelief. But he saw the honesty in her eyes, the innocence of her question.

“They’re like the kind of things you don’t wanna’ be dealing with. Blight grows on everything. When it does, starts making spores. Makes more of itself. You wanna’ know why the air ‘round here tastes like shit? It’s because this isle is cocked up with Blight!”

Hagan cut in, laughing. “Exactly why Edrian wants a group of experts to settle his matters for him.”

Ryg snorted. “It’s a death sentence, if we’re not squared proper. We’re being sent to die. You fancy hats okay with this?”

The wolfess looked between Hagan and Ryg. “We’ve already decided what we’re going to do.”

Hagan folded his clawed hands together. “Aye, you’ve done the smart thing. But there’s nothing wrong with a few proper arrangements, so settle yourself land-rat, you’ll get what you need.”

Edwin tapped the table for attention. “We keep talking about preparations and deals, but you haven’t even told us what this Edrian fellow wants.”

“M’lord likes his secrecy, and I only know you’ll be helping him recover some lost assets and patrols. The rest he’ll tell you in person.”

Elenna’s ears perked. Was it that Edrian was secretive, or didn’t trust a pirate with all his information? And if that was the case, they might use that ignorance to their advantage somehow. . .

Ryg didn’t look satisfied, rubbing his cheek, looking around. Elenna imagined the contents of the isle had him greatly concerned. What did that mean for them?

Not much remained of the conversation aside from eating and squabbling. Elenna was content to sip the provided soup which had salted potatoes and crab meat. Might as well now, as the future remained unclear.

They retired not much long after. Hagan had their supplies stored in the port house while Ryg was free to make his own preperations. A night’s rest and then they were to meet Edrian at Citadel Vaust.

Elenna found her room easy enough, noting the port house was littered with brutish guards and thugs. None of them were uniformed like the men of Red Sol, save for a few distinct men outside. It was clear, Hagan owned this place. What happened that a lord commander needed help from a privateer?

Small as it was, the room was far better than her cramped one at Citadel Oxus. The wood stunk of driftwood and salt, though had enough pleasantries to feel. . . cozy. It would do for the evening, at least. Enough time to give the fox practice.

It had been a week at least since she last ‘touched’ the Bleak, and it was the only thing that gave her a chance at survival. She knew this, for all the attitude and training of skilled hunters was not enough, if Ryg’s words were anything to go off of.

Setting aside the leather longcoat, along with the rest of her protective attire, she pulled open the bag of extra belongings she’d brought with her.

In it were a few trinkets and baubles: glass membranes of viscous medicine, tea leaves, igniters, a hand torch, and lastly, two books on the Bleak arts taught by the Scarlet Clerics. Pulling out the black-spined tome, she glanced at it with a moment of unease. Her muzzle frowned, thoughts of Instructor Doren and all the others flashing through her. She could see their mocking faces, feel the sting of the ‘correction rod.’

But she had to harness whatever skill she could. Swinging an axe wasn’t going to be enough for this Ludven, not with the earnest fear he put in the others.

She set the book down on table and began sorting through its pages. Most of it was dry scribblings by the numerous authors who edited and added their own discoveries in the ways of the Bleak. Specific, technical, but left little for questions. Rigid understanding was the only way, for if one had to ask questions, how were they worthy of the black fires at all?

Elenna came upon the page which caused her so much frustration before. On it, diagrams and symbols flooded one page while explanations detailed what the intended effect was. It was supposed to be simple – anchor oneself to the void, oblivion, where restless souls went as hapless shards, and exhume from them the power necessary to cast the arcane.

Huffing, her fingers traced over the words, hoping some new answer might spring forth. None did. It was a matter of execution, just like the other times she attempted it.

Taking a deep breath, the vixen closed her eyes. Kneeling, her mind tore through the locks and barriers of the merging worlds – living and oblivion. To see through the mortal coil and witness the magical ether all Bleak arcane birthed from.

Like muscle memory, it did not take long to ‘reach’ it. It was like a familiar memory bubbling inside her, a surge of feelings that signed she had touched the Bleak, and now, had to form it into something useful.

Small, she thought, start small. We can’t be stupid here. We have to do it right!

She held out her paw-hand, and let herself ‘grab’ the Bleak ichor. The black magic coursed through her arm, but this time in careful portions, not the stormy rush her instructors demanded of her. Pain started to trickle through her veins, her fingers, like a burn that gnawed at her bones. She winced, but dared not falter.

“Come on, dammit, come on. . .” she snarled, her right arm starting to quiver. Bulbous sparks of incandescent blues and blacks started to bubble in her hand, like a cauldron of meat.

It began to sting worse now, but was nowhere near the pain she had experienced numerous times before. That was a start.

Now she had to focus more, shape the mass into a lethal form of magic. But the more she pressed, the worse it hurt. Soon, the driblets of magic crackled in her palm and trickled into thick orbs of strange energy. All the while it felt like her hand was starting to splinter open.

Elenna swore, gnashing her teeth, determined to force it to work. The bubbling dark soon overtook her hand, and the searing burn deepened. Though her skin and fur remained intact, it felt as though she’d stuck her arm into hot coals.

“Fuck you!” she spat, staring at the arcane in her hand, forcing it to remain a wobbling sphere. It barely held its membrane, dribbling bits of black fire onto the floor. Her fingers trembled, her right arm quaked, but she held as long as she could. She wanted to scream.

Tap tap tap.

Her concentration snapped, her legs buckled, and the energy sputtered and dissipated. Just like all the previous failures, the outcome was the same: in pain, hunched over, no closer to accessing the powers of the Bleak.

Tap tap tap. Her ears flicked. Someone was knocking at her door. Stumbling, she stood, attempting to make herself look presentable.

“Come in,” she said.

The scent of pipe smoke and stern ale met her nose. Ovanna yanked the door open, stepping inside, without longcoat or any of the Blackhat leathers. Rather, she was dressed quite. . . elegantly.

Wincing, Elenna glanced at the entering wolfess. She realized she never saw Ovanna in anything else. She was a strange creature of sable fur and gold eyes. Gentle, even, despite her previous moments of ferocity.

“Ma’am?” Elenna said, respectfully.

The wolfess chuckled. “You can just call me Ovanna, Elly. The others do.”

Ovanna immediately noticed the hang in Elenna’s posture, the wince in her eyes.

“I came to check on you, before things progress,” said the beast. “Looks like I was right to make the call?”

Elenna cast her eyes elsewhere, ashamed. “No, it’s nothing, I’m fine. Just reading.”

Ovanna shook her head. “Oh, I don’t think so. You might have gotten away with that at home. Tonley too, curse the old bugger. But me? Elly, don’t ever lie to me again. You look like someone cleaved you in the sides, so it’s not ‘nothing.’”

The fox grunted. “Hey, I didn’t ask to be yelled at.”

“We didn’t ask to have a sproutling like you come with us,” challenged Ovanna. “But here we are. And if you’re injured, you weaken the whole unit.”

Elenna’s ears flattened, tail smacking against the bed. “I’m not hurt.”

Ovanna stared, then let her gaze roam around the room, sniffing the air as if seeking the scent of blood. Her eyes came upon the open book.

“Meddling with cursed books? Oh, no. Even worse.”

The wolfess went to the black-bound tome, letting a finger scroll over the pages.

“Cleric arcane. Foul stuff. Built on the souls of the dead and dying. And you were just using this liberally?”

The vixen growled. “I know what I’m doing. That’s what I was taught at Oxus!”

With her back to the fox, Ovanna flicked through various pages, clicking her tongue.

“And I assume that’s why you’re in pain?”

Elly frowned, still looking away. “What would you even know about it.”

Ovanna snapped the book shut, taking a seat. “Plenty enough,” she said.

“Seen Clerics of all sizes make use of it. Guess they decided the light of Sol Solaris wasn’t good enough for them.”

There was quiet. Then.

“How else am I supposed to be useful?” said Elenna.

“By listening, and learning. Hopefully doing it fast. It’s why I came to check with you, Elly.”

From a pouch at her side, the wolfess withdrew a long redwood pipe and loaded it with smelly pipe leaves. Then, lighting it, she gestured to Elenna.

“Fancy a pipe?”

Elenna shook her head. Shrugging, Ovanna sipped at it, blowing tails of smoke from her muzzle.

“You were aching to leave your home and join up with a bunch of strangers on a deathwish contract, you know. Have to wonder how you’re feeling about things, now that you have a taste of what’s to come.”

Before the fox could answer, Ovanna continued.

“Enough to think you have to dive back into profane arts. Not surprised you left Oxus, but didn’t think you’d take the burden with you.”

Elenna sighed, flopping into her bed, the trickles of pain still rumbling through her arm.

“If you already knew how I felt, why’d you come to see me?” she challenged.

“I didn’t,” said Ovanna. “But I’m putting a picture together.”

Like you know who I am, thought Elenna, staring at her room ceiling. Her thoughts came to the symbol engraved stone, the one found with her as a babe. There was nothing about in the Oxus library, nothing about her own history. So how could Ovanna even possibly understand?

She shifted subjects instead. “You sure know a lot about the Clerics for being a Blackhat.”

Ovanna, however, did not yield. “One gets to know them after working as their personal cutthroats. But I’m not here to talk history, Elly.”

The wolfess sipped her pipe. “All things considered, our situation looks pretty grim. The rat didn’t sound too pleased. Hysterical, even. The local force around these parts don’t even respect the pillar of authority they want to exploit. Port master’s a privateer with cutthroats. We’re in the thick of shit.”

Elenna shrugged. “Sounds typical to me.”

Ovanna was quiet, looking the fox over. Young thing, probably not even in her maiden years. A child in the eyes of many.

“You don’t have to come with us, you know,” said Ovanna.

Elenna’s gaze went to the wolfess. She growled, raising from the bed, teeth baring.

“What the hell are you talking about? Did you really think I came all this way just to run?”

Ovanna’s features sagged with a frown. “Listen to me, Elly. This isn’t a game. This isn’t a grand adventure like in a story book. This is worse than anything you could ever imagine.”

She stood, towering over the fox. “Look around you. Smell the damn air. It stinks like death, and we’ve no one to rely on but ourselves. This attitude, this nonchalance about what we’re doing here, it ends now, Elly. Because I’m not putting my men at risk because you wanted to ‘get away from it all.’”

Ovanna puffed one last time, before extinguishing the ashes to her pipe.

“If you make a mistake here, you’ll die. You’ll die in a puddle of your own filth. We won’t bury you, we’ll burn you, and you’ll be forgotten in the guts of this god forsaken shit hole.”

Elenna kept her teeth flared, and a thousand curses and words filled her mind. But she could not find them. She didn’t have the strength to retort because. . . Ovanna was right.

The wolfess sighed, rubbing her head. “You can leave, Elenna. This doesn’t have to be everything for you. Don’t let our desperation decide your fate.”

She looked at the still-open black tome, scoffing. “Especially if you think Bleak arcane will save you.”

The wolfess turned, exiting the room. As she opened the door, she said one last thing:

“I arranged for a small scuttle ship to take one person back to the mainland in the morning. If you get on it, no one will blame you.”

The door closed, and the black fox was left with her thoughts, a mix of anger, doubt, and guilt. Tears stung her eyes, and she looked helplessly between the open book, the Blackhats leathers, and her still pained arm.

Realization swept over her: to them, she was still a child. Or worse, a liability.

For a while, she didn’t move, lying in her bed as thoughts drifted through her mind. Then, she stood to remove the stone carved symbol from her personal sack, staring at it for a long while.

Before sleep came to her, a final, lulling through drifted through her mind: I’m not leaving.

VIII

The mess hall had collapsed, half the barracks were overtaken, and Brusk’s men were backed into what few rooms and corridors remained at Fort Koth. Even though, it was a desperate respite. The wood and rock throbbed as veins of pale white came sprawling through the crackles, wormy fingers slithering across the stonework.

The windows were webbed with writhing arms of Blight fungus and the ground outside seemed to hum like a spectacle of stars, signaling death to any who tried to flee. Fire kept spawn at bay, but just barely. Supplies were trickling to their last, ammunition too, and the hope of the remaining soldiers remained frail.

Brusk leaned over his table, a map of the Forth laid out. Most of it was inked with scarlet marks, signaling the areas no longer accessible. Only his command room, some bed chambers and the west hall were safe. The doors leading to them were barricaded, manned by the paltry patrols left.

One of his soldiers, Juret, tumbled in, sweating profusely with his caster rifle clenched in hand like a babe.

Commander Brusk barely regarded him, trying to make ends of any possible escape. Or, fashion a meager defense as the time of he and his men grew shorter.

“Sir!” said Juret with a brisk salute. “Locked off the mess hall as instructed, but some of the under tunnels are collapsing!”

Brusk looked up from his position, jaw grim and clenched. “Thank you for your report, son. What’s left of the pitch and fire?”

Juret shook his head. “Not but too casques left, sir. We can burn off entry for a day but, after that. . .”

The old commander paused, looking over his Koth blueprint once more.

“No, no,” he muttered, drawing a finger over the under tunnels. “Waste of resources. Take the casques and position them with our stocks at the west wing. Get the others out from patrols. Who’s left?”

Juret didn’t answer immediately. “. . . I am, sir.”

Without missing a beat, Brusk gestured to the door. “Then retrieve the casques and rally with the other men.”

Juret saluted with a weak ‘sir,’ though did not move. His skin was almost as pale as the corruption engulfing the fort.

“How many. . . how many are left, sir?”

Brusk was about to rebuke the young man for lacking the ability to count. Then he remembered the Blight grew upon bodies as well as earth.

He tapped his finger, estimating losses from Jaret’s report.

“Eleven,” he said. “Including myself.”

He watched the soldier’s expression tug with solemn horror, and he could sense the dread coming from within him. But duty was duty.

“Retrieve the supplies, soldier,” he reminded.

Wordlessly, Juret nodded and left, leaving Commnder Brusk to his crippled defense. The table trembled, the walls shook, and the sounds of growling and screaming filled the walls.

Even the glowing light of Sol Solaris could not pierce this dark place.

-*-

Bells rang out over Port Saal in grim command as every bootlicker and soldier with an arm rushed about in preparation. Three immense wagons, large like houses, were linked by chains and lead by dusk-crawlers with openings for small cannons and firearms to pierce through. The wood looked to be reinforced by iron bars and plates of spiked metal like supplies were loaded into each.

It was worse than Ryg could have imagined.

He sat on the front of the port house, watching as ugly hogs and sea-kissed thugs shoved fat barrels into one of the caravans, while armed guards began lining up as though preparing for an invasion. This was, apparently, Hagan’s way of crossing the Wormway to reach Citadel Vaust: load several carriers like you would dung in a heap and hope for the best.

Slow, clunky, and full of valuables. If the guards lining up were meant to escort the caravan, they were nothing but warm blood and empty vessels for the Blight. Didn’t matter how many blunderbusses or swords you had, the infection found a way onto everything.

The plan itself wasn’t much better, since no one bothered to ask the ‘guide’ what to do or how to safely traverse infested lands. Clumsily ram as much arsenal up the only accessible road to meet with Edrian for new orders. Based on the hastiness of it all, Ryg could only guess this was some fatalistic mission bound for failure. Well, when everyone was a wobbling curse, he sure as shit wasn’t going to stick around.

So consumed with his scorn of the massive caravan he didn’t even hear the soft paw-steps behind him. Or perhaps that was just her nature as a sneak.

“You really don’t like any of this, do you?”

His ears twitched and he saw the youngest Blackhat walk next to him. She was like a ball of dirty sooth, with a mouth full of venom and an attitude which exposed her age. Too young to be in a place like this.

“Ain’t got the energy for more squabblin’,” he said.

She scoffed. “I’m not here to argue. I just want to know why. All you have to do is point us in the right direction and leave, right?”

Ryg’s gaze tightened. Was the girl daft? No, worse, she was innocent and naïve.

“You been fillin’ your ears with wax, girl? Maybe blockin’ your eyes on purpose? Listen to what everyone’s saying. Look at where you are. Think I want to be cockin’ around some hellhole like this?”

He squeezed his hands. He felt naked; he might as well have been, without his weapons, equipment, or means to build new ones. It just made him angrier.

“No, girl. I’ve got to lead you lot wherever it is you’re planning to get. That means keeping you suicidal shits away from Blight like mold on cheese. You’d be dead in an hour without me.”

Elenna propped her face up on the ledge of the port house, undeterred by Ryg’s venomous tone.

“It’s that dangerous, huh?” she said. “I’ve never seen any of it. The Blight, or whatever it’s supposed to be.”

Ryg didn’t like his odds, less so no. “Hope you never have to,” he said.

“Gets on everything. Grows everywhere. Fills the air with poison. Uses the bodies of the things it kills as means to spread itself further. How this whole island got the way it did, I dunno, but it’s the shittiest possible thing, and we ain’t prepared.”

Elenna laughed, gesturing at the massive caravan. “Really? That’s not enough? There’s like a hundred soldiers at least with more swords than I’ve seen in my whole life.”

The rat grunted, turning away from it. He looked over the fox, confused as to the why of her being here.

“More bodies around, the better for the Blight. It’s like feedin’ em.”

Elenna’s eyes went downcast, ponderous. “Damn.”

Ryg recognized that look. “You’re thinkin’ of leavin. Smart.”

Her tail swayed, and she sighed. “I have the option. But I didn’t come all this way just to run.”

Ryg squeaked in laughter. “Girl, if I could I’d leave this pile of dung and let these fools try to sort out the mess they made. Whole isle should be sanctioned off or burned. All this for chasin’ after some bloke they don’t even know is here.”

She didn’t respond immediately, only kept her eyes in the ground, perhaps weighing the odds.

“Elly,” she said after a moment. “Not ‘girl.’ Elly.”

Ryg rubbed his nose. “Don’t expect me to remember that for your tombstone.”

She started to laugh. “Everyone’s so ready to die here, and I just feel like I’m alive for the first time.”

Well, at least it wasn’t for honor or something as bloody stupid, Ryg thought.

“That the reason you’re sticking around for this little suicide trip? Your posse don’t seem to favor their odds much – and you say you’ve got the option to leave? You outta’ your mind, ‘Elly?’”

She looked at him, and the old rat swore internally. Damn her, and damn her eyes. Young, naïve, innocent. A sweet girl in the worst place. Like a child. Like little Floris.

“Hum. Guess I don’t want to be a coward.”

He grunted, sensing the lie.

“Bravery means shit all when you’re swimming in a sea of your own filth.”

She laughed, this time much harder. “You sound like someone I know.”

“Sounds like it was a bloke with their head on straight,” said Ryg.

A quiet settled over them, and for once, Ryg didn’t mind the company. They watched the rest of the caravans load up with various supplies, weapons, and medicines. Bells rang out in a chorus once the job was complete, armed thugs and bannermen began to load themselves inside and around the massive wagons.

“They’re gonna call for us soon,” Ryg said. “Better decide what you’re plannin’.”

The fox didn’t respond, and when he turned to glance at her, she was gone. Hopefully, from the island. But, he knew she wasn’t that bright. Stubborn young pride, pursuing death when they barely lived. Doubtful anyone was going to help her get through this.

Ryg groaned and swore to himself. Just another thing to take care of.

-*-

The massive land-stride screeched and chittered as it felt the enormous pressure spikes dig into the back of its thorax. Shuddering, it fluttered its cracked wings and began lumbering forward, long skeletal legs digging into the ground and hauling its load as shouting voices swirled around it.

The exit gates to Port Saal swung open as it moved, while chains rattled in unison as the massive caravan began to move.

Each wagon was bloated in both size and armed men, with privateer thugs and servants of Sol mounted the sides. Dismal light poured through the misty air while long torches hung on arms around the supply run did what they could to provide weak illumination.

The enormous wagons were filled with supplies and ammunition, as the caravan marched its way into the dark of the Isla Crucix.

-*-

Blackness swallowed the sky.

Ryg had never seen anything like it. Often, on his patrols and extermination jobs, there was need to camp, sleep under a night sky littered with stars. But this was nothing like it.

Hours into the caravan’s march, his flesh crawled. His nose sniffed an air layered with death and disease, while sight became a precious resource. Within the confines of his caravan room, a cramped box with a single window opening, he could see only a dark outside, and a sky as dark as pitch. Except here, there were no stars.

He shifted in his cot. It was becoming an eerily familiar situation: locked in the bowels of some great vessel, surrounded by danger and dark. His ears flicked at sounds that didn’t exist, his claws seeking weapons he no longer had. Well, piss to this.

He hopped from his cot and decided to go ‘downstairs,’ or, the second layer to the caravan wagon. The whole thing was like a house on wheels, equipped with a small living room area and an upper balcony where the Blackhats and he were to sleep.

As he did, he wasn’t alone. In the mid-sized compartment was a single table, and already it was populated by one of the Blackhats. The angry beast, the wolf, who looked a hundred times more displeased than before.

The makeshift room was lit by glass bulbs housing tiny embers, the floors and table infested with papers and letters. Perhaps written by the guards on this suicidal venture.

The wolfess’s ears sprang up as Ryg made his way down, though she did not look at him. Her muzzle nursed a thin, black pipe, stinking the room with scents of burnt roses and smoke-leaf.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” she said.

Ryg looked about, as if expecting some unseen threat to leap out at him. Satisfied, he sat, the floor beneath trembling and bucking as the caravan moved.

“Ain’t my nan,” he said. “’Sides, I do best at night.”

Ovanna breathed deep, as if lost in thought. “It’s not evening yet.”

He glanced at one of the windows, eyes meeting the veil of darkness.

“Sure about that?”

Silence. Not too his surprise, she lacked the ‘humor’ of the others. One of those moments where even the cheapest of piss-swill ale could help.

Eventually, she spoke. “Elly decided to stay.”

He wiggled his nose at her, features scrunched. “Eh? Well what of it? She’s a kid. Kid’s don’t make smart decisions.”

He peered at the wolfess, as if trying to inspect her. “That keepin you riled up, is it?”

Ovanna’s stare was distant and long, peering through a landscape of memories unknown to Ryg. Then, she shook her head, dousing the pipe and looking to him.

“You don’t seem too confident in our odds,” she said, shifting subjects. “But I am to make those odds as best in our favor.”

Ryg scratched his head. Something about the girl was a real sore spot, but he didn’t want to pry. Rather, he didn’t care enough to.

“I’ve seen enough to know when things ain’t lookin’ good,” he said. “But if you really want to change those odds, we should leave.”

A dry laugh. “You know it’s not possible. Once more, we have a task that cannot be ignored.”

Ryg rolled his eyes. “Why not?”

Ovanna folded her clawed hands. “Because betraying your order is an unforgivable slight, rat. I don’t expect you to know much of loyalty – but we cannot permit Ludven to go on for what he has done.”

Ryg only sneered. “Seems like a lot of trouble for some old shit. I say, let em’ fuck off and die. If he came here, then he ain’t long for anything.”

“Unfortunately for us both, the authority of the Scarlet Clerics is absolute.”

Ryg didn’t quite buy that. Blackhats he’d heard about in story and myth, most of it has them as ruthless cutthroats. “Holy orders” didn’t quite fit their motif. There was a point of obsession here, enough that a handful of crazies were willing to die over it.

“Now tell me,” Ovanna continued. “How are we to survive this Blight? It’s put you in a panic, that much is clear.”

Ryg looked the other squared in the face, wanting to laugh. “You’re the ones what with the cutters and cleavers! You’re askin’ me?”

A low growl. “Enough games, rat.”

“It’s Ryg. And as far as survivin’. . . well, I don’t even have the things I need to sort m’self out. Our chances are shit.”

He leaned back in his chair, ropy tail coiled around one of the legs. “It’s as dark as death out there, and that tells me the Blight infestation is so bad its fogged up the whole gods damned road.”

“Fire keeps the spores off. Keeps you from breathin’ it in. I reckon these thugs are guarding in shifts, otherwise, they’re lungs would fill up like a sack of worms.”

Ryg wiggled his nose again. “And they stink. Stench of sweet death. Worse the infestation, worse it is.”

Ovanna released the grip of her fingers, tapping them. “It sounds like you only hide from them, not fight.”

He shrugged. “I don’t ‘ave the means to fight for m’self anymore as is. So yeah, I hide. If things were different, I’d give em’ a bit of Hellbite, but that’s gone the way of the devil now hasn’t it?”

The wolfess tilted her head. “And that is?”

“The good stuff. Sticks to the bone and burns to the soul. Fuel for fire-belchers and everything in between. Used it all the time. But I ain’t got any left. Don’t have the stuffin’ to make more of it, neither.”

Ovanna sighed, rubbing her eyes. “So, aside from a glorified sniffing hound, you can’t help us.”

He grunted. “Says you. Might be the only thing that keeps you alive in this shithole.”

Ovanna opened her maw to respond, but was violently thrown from her chair as the caravan groaned and shook. Ryg’s chair collapsed and ear met floor, as chains rattled and supplies bang within their containers. Shouts and loud yelps echoed outside, some confused, some angry.

Ryg swore, head ringing. He stood, wobbling, letting a string of curses drip from his mouth.

“Pissincheeeserunnyshit,” he muttered. “The hell was that?”

Ovanna leapt to her feet, ears flagged, looking around. After a moment, her eyes went wide with uncertainty.

“I’m getting the others,” she said. “Get somewhere and hide, Ryg.”

In a flash, she dashed upstairs, leaving Ryg to a gesture a few rude things in her direction. His ears twitched, the outside bubbling with confused voices. And something else.

He looked outside in the deep blackness. He couldn’t make out much, save for pale ghost-grass and cracked stones jutting from the earth like broken fingers. In the distance, it looked like twisted trees or buildings writhed in the horizon. Or perhaps the shadows were playing tricks.

“Somebody find out what that was!” he heard. Near the wheels of the caravan, thugs and guards ran about with torches in their hand, while commanders called for weapons. In the lower parts of the huge wagons, thin rifle muzzles poked out from safe openings, preparing.

Ryg’s felt the hackles of his fur raise. ‘Something caught one of the wheels,’ he heard a voice say. Then laughter.

Laughter?

His ears perked. Out in the far black, something carried over the foggy air. It was near inaudible, like the thick chuckles of a heavy man. Then hissing. Then something like a cackle. Like a buzzing wasp it started to grow louder. It sounded. . . wrong.

“Fucking shit!”

He leapt from the window, realization sweeping over him. It was impossible to not recognize.

The earth started to tremble. What sounded like heavy raindrops turned to heavy thuds, as though an army were charging. And something was. Blight.

Someone must have recognized an approaching threat, as a distant shot cracked the air. Then others. Then, panicked yells and screams as guards and onlookers realized what was happening. A chorus of bells yelled out over the blackness, and there was an uproar of rifle shots ripping into the yet seen hordes.

“Form a fucking line!” someone screamed. “They’re coming!”

Ryg didn’t know how man were approaching, but the sound was enough. He’d never heard a swarm so large, and the chorus of mutated groans and deformed laughter crashed over the caravan like a wave of horrible music. He swore curses he didn’t knew existed, praying to gods he didn’t believe in, searching the room for any weapon or means of protection available.

There was a knife and a pocket shooter.

Grabbing them both, he felt the caravan buckle as something rammed itself into the sides of the wagon. There were other screams, the bite of steel cutting wind, and sounds of combat rattling about. More bumps. Pale, mumbling figures were visible below, a siege of white death crashing against the caravan, gunshots breaking against the echoes of grim laughter.

“Get the pitch, get the fucking pitch!” a voice yelled.

Moments later, one of the Blackhats appeared. Edwin, Ryg remembered. Cloaked and brandishing a long-hilt cleaver.

“Fun started, has it?” he said to Ryg, who’d found himself a comfortable corner.

Ryg gave him a morose glance, ears flattening as more thuds came below. He dared to ask where the others were, but before he could. . .

The caravan lurched and groaned. A crowd of shrieking men lost themselves in the dark as, out of nowhere, some force lobbed itself against the side of the unmoving machine. Ryg buckled, up became left, his head met his legs, and the ceiling became the floor. Glass cracked supplies rattled the walls, Edwin grunting as the whole of the vessel was thrown to its side like a toy. Cracks tore apart at the weaker fragments of wood while the iron bracings bent. Guards screamed as they were crushed beneath it, curses soon to follow.

It was like the home all over again. Ryg’s ears filled with a damp ringing, his body sore. He twitched his tail. Then his clawed fingers. His toes. Legs. Nothing was broken.

Lifting himself up, he looked around, realizing the caravan walls had cracked open. Some guards at the upper layers of it had fallen through, unconscious or dead. Edwin was a crumpled sack of leather and shadow, but appeared to move still.

He felt his coat pockets. Still had the weapons, whatever good that was now.

“Oi! We gotta get out! Get out now!” he called, stumbling toward Edwin. The Blackhat started to shift, a long moan leaving him.

“Nng,” he muttered. “Feel like I got split sideways.”

Ryg reached him, trying to pull him up. “You ain’t gonna’ have a side if we don’t get outta’ this thing.”

Indeed, his ears flagged, as thumps and screams neared. Whatever had enough to force to send the caravan flying would be on the soon, and Blightspawn were relentless.

Edwin took his aid and stood, shaking, hat gone. A head wrapped with deep scarlet and pale, moonwashed hair was visible, sore eyes peering through gauze.

“We need to find the others,” he said. “Not leaving without them.”

Ryg hissed. “Do it after we know we ain’t dead too!”

Wordlessly, Edwin ignored him, and moved back into the rubble of the caravan. He had to climb, the stairs above, calling for his fellow Blackhats.

Ryg did no such thing. He found an opening in the caravan side and dove through it, meeting the horrid dark air. Ahead of him the remaining caravans were under siege by mutated white shapes, while lines of fire surrounded the transports to keep them at bay. Gunfire rang out like a storm and the crunch of flesh meeting steel whistled over orders and screams, as Ryg started to make his way back to the fighting soldiers.

They were like shadows in a haze, only visible from the lines of fire guarding them like a wall. But Ryg could see the Blightspawn in all their recognizable horror, strange beasts with twisted forms rotten with glowing spores. Faces and heads hinged on shoulders, legs splayed backwards, some crawling on arms not their own.

He coughed. The air stunk with the scent of bitter death, thick with infection. The fire did what it could to burn away the clouds of Blight, but the darkness hung over the limp caravan all the same. Fear took him, as he clutched the knife and pocket-shooter like it were his own babes. This couldn’t last, they were all terribly exposed.

Scrambling toward a line of red-banner guards, the other remaining caravans reigned spews of lead on the encroachment of yet more Blightspawn. They had created a moment of distance where small hordes of the mumbling beasts were knocked back, enough that Ryg could find safety. But for how long?

One of the guards, a servant of Red Sol, noted the approaching rat and regarded him with curious frustration.

“You!” he cried out as others formed a shield wall. “The bloody hell are the hats?”

Ryg barely heard him, glancing at the scarred face of the no-doubt veteran, then back at the massive wagon. It had been thrown several meters, out in the foggy dark.

“Ain’t my job to fight for em’!” Ryg said. “How’d that get knocked over anyway?”

This concerned Ryg the most. He hadn’t seen any great beast on the field, and doubtful the smaller flotsam spawn could topple such an immense object. So where was the terror with the strength to do it?

The veteran shook his head, sweat and blood caked on his brow. “Stay behind us,” he coughed, before returning to his forward position.

Ryg didn’t need to be told twice. Still, his eyes lingered on the distant caravan, where a fool’s death likely awaiting the Blackhats.

A part of him hoped Elly was okay.

-*-

Warm blood formed a patch of dripping scarlet on Elenna’s head, her ears screaming and her sight blurred as the world ebbed in and out of focus.

She was so heavy, like her arms were turned to metal. She tried to move, lift herself, but found it too difficult. Strength and weakness flooded through her. The will to live bubbled inside her, yet she lacked the means to stand.

A bubble of sounds wafted over her, mutated and strange. They, like her vision, were muddied. Then, there was a shape, dark and tall, looming over her. It made noises at her, and she wished it would stop. Just go away, she wanted to rest.

Like a black tendril something reached down, and she wanted to recoil. It gripped her. Carefully, but firm enough she was moved. The sounds kept coming.

The ringing began to fade.

“Elly!”

It sound dry, whispers and acid made voice. The fox blinked. She looked up. Or down? Some direction.

The form started to clear, and soon, she recognized him. Silver masked, partially cracked, covered in skin-hiding fabric.

“Come on, come on, you must rise!”

Marq, she thought.

“Marq?” she mumbled.

He ignored her, leaning down. His arms snuck under her shoulder and lifted. As she stood, she shook, but managed. However, the world no longer made sense. It was tilted, strange, wrong. Where was she?

“I don’t. . . what’s happening?” she said, voice as weak as a child’s breath.

The Blackhat’s rasping was worse than ever, a panicked drag of putrid air.

“We’re being attacked,” he said. “Ovanna was talking with me and. . . damn, something must have come out of the ground.”

He started to lead her forward through a tunnel. A tunnel? Indeed, if this was the caravan, it was a ruinous pile of broken wood and warped metal. The hallway had merged the layers and rooms surrounding it. Dead men were crushed between the impact of shattered splinters forming a crimson paste, and small fires from broken baubles littered pockets of the sieged wagon.

. . .

_My dear reader, thank you much for going this far. I hate to abandon you with the characters stuck in such a desperate plight. But, I lacked the discipline to continue this piece, and so it serves as a reminder that a writer needs more than just inspiration. _

Perhaps one day I'll return to this idea with another draft.

Yours,

L. Briar