In the Mountains, The Dreams (A Cerce Stormbringer Story) Part 3.

Part 2

-

Chapter 4

Cerce fought to open her eyes. There was pain there, but she couldn't remember why. She raised a hand to rub away the sleep. Her mind felt muddled, like she'd awoken in the middle of a dream. She tried to remember. She felt that it might have been something scary, or something cold, but it was gone now. 

Sunlight was streaming through the window, warm, and Cerce wondered why she hadn't been awoken for breakfast. Sitting up, she looked down at herself. The tiny wooden bed in the corner of the big room, so much smaller than the other big bed across the room. 

Yawning, she stood from her little bed and stretched out. Her nightshirt was so long it almost touched the floor around her feet. The wooden floorboards of the bedroom had a reassuring feel to them, the curves and uneven surfaces so familiar, so distinct. She knew every tiny knot in the old wood. She trod it carefully, touching each board with her toes as she stepped across the floor and headed towards the small staircase in the corner.

She was forgetting something. Cerce stopped. Back again, the dream seemed to come close. She had the horrible feeling that she'd forgotten something important, a friend left behind. Of course! She quickly hurried back to her bed and searched in the sheets for him. 

Cerce retrieved the little cloth doll and hugged him close. The stitched on face smiled back at her. With him dangling from a hand, Cerce proceeded down to the kitchen. 

It was warm down there, smells and light filled Cerce's senses. The big old ceramic oven dominated the room, always lit and filling the house with reassuring warmth. There was food cooking, the smell of freshly baked bread. 

Standing, so tall, with her gleaming white hair bright in the morning sun, was a woman. Cerce could see her deft hands chopping at vegetables on the wooden countertop. Cerce skipped forward to hug her legs, and the woman turned, bright loving eyes looking down. Cerce cried out in joy. 

-

"Mommy...." Cerce whispered. 

Her voice was cracking and faint, and she proceeded to cough dust and blood out. Her chest pounded with pain and she blinked her eyes open. There was no way to tell if they were open or closed. Or maybe if she was blind. She knew she'd said something but couldn't remember what it was. 

She breathed in and coughed again. The air was stale, cold like the grave, chilling her lungs. Her lips were chapped and cracking, coated in dust. 

Cerce fought to remember where she was. Her head swam with thoughts. A scream, a face just like her own. A mix of relief and fear. Revulsion and recognition.

She'd fallen, she was certain of that much. Her left leg pulsed with pain, and she ran a hand down it to search for injury. It hurt, and there was a deep ache in the meat of her thigh, but she couldn't feel breaks or blood, so considered herself lucky. 

Fighting to her feet, Cerce reached out, hands waving in the darkness for purchase. It was so silent she could hear her heartbeat in her ears. Vertigo twisted her senses as she took a hesitant step forward, shifting her feet over the stone beneath them. She felt like she'd dropped far into the Earth, but had no concept of how far she'd gone, or how much further there may still be to fall.

The mountain. She'd fallen down into the mountain below the monastery. She brushed at her body, still feeling the places where hands had snatched at her, tore at clothing, ripped out hair.

She knew she'd forgotten something important. She held her breath and listened. 

Absolutely nothing, no sound found her ears, and Cerce sighed. Wherever Adam was, it wasn't close. 

She dropped to a crouch, and swept her hands around the floor. There wasn't much chance, but she had to try. The stone was smooth and cold and old, and she felt her way around the curves and lines and shapes of them. Feeling the shape of them gave her a sudden strangely nostalgic wave, like she'd done it before. She whispered, urging her hands to come across the familiar shaft of her halberd, but there was nothing.

Instead, she stood and decided to move forward. She searched for a breeze, for a sense of direction, but there was nothing. Just the ground beneath her and a feeling of emptiness. She knew she must be below the earth, deep in the cold mountain, but the strange semi-lucidity that was insistently pulling at Cerce's senses kept telling her the opposite. She tried to focus, slow her breathing, slow her pulse. Cerce knew her body was resistant to poisons, whatever affliction blighted the air she would acclimate fast. She just had to get through it. 

Every moment she allowed her mind to wander from focus, it slipped into strange places. The feeling that she was not confined continually washed over her, as if the darkness around her extended off into an impossibly huge space. 

The feeling of size and empty space was suddenly terrifying, and Cerce fought to calm her breathing. The blackness was so complete that her eyes began to fool her, and she imagined staring eyes the size of mountains glinting at her, perceiving the edges and vague shapes of things moving in the darkness bigger than the world. 

The sensation sent her tumbling forward, the hugeness of it impossible to grasp. Her hands found the ground and she fought to protect her limbs. Claws scratched on the cold stone, and the feeling of material came to her fingertips.

-

Cerce rubbed the soft material of her mothers skirts in her little fingers. She felt the reassuring tussle of her choppy hair as her mother reached down. 

Looking up into those deep blue eyes, Cerce had the strangest feeling. Like she hadn't been here in so long. It made her eyes fill with tears immediately. Her mother's voice came then, like chiming bells. The very sound of it knocked the breath from the little girl. 

She cried then, and was lifted up into her mother's arms. The welling, awful feeling of childhood impotency filled her, unable to articulate or explain. She hadn't the knowledge she needed, she didn't know the right words to use to make anyone understand what she was feeling. 

Her mother just held her, and bounced her in those arms, and cooed small reassurances in her ear. 

Soon, Cerce was placed down on the ground again. The wood of the kitchen floor warm beneath her bare feet. The house was so small, but to Cerce it loomed large. The wooden table, just a touch too high to see on top of without standing on her tiptoes, the old shelves filled with jars and books. 

The many containers on the shelves always fascinated Cerce, the multitude of coloured glass jars, ceramic pots sealed with wax or muslin. When cooking, her mother would reach for them, taking them clinking from the shelves and pulling a herb, unguent, or a glitter of spice from one. Cerce used to watch, like watching a wizard work, as her mother created magic. The musical sound of the jars clinking together would echo through the house, and as Cerce reached up to touch one of the little glass jars, they were so cold.

-

The feeling of cold glass was under Cerce's fingertips, and she gripped onto it, searching for anything in the darkness. A row of bottles, maybe. How long had she been on her knees? She wasn't sure all of a sudden.

One object tipped over and rolled aside, the empty glass ringing as it moved across the stone floor. She shook her head, her blurry thoughts making it hard to focus on any of her senses. She sniffed at one of the bottles, momentarily confused that they were empty. Having no idea what she'd expected to be in one, she placed it back down and warily rising, continued her way forward. 

Cerce turned, glancing over her shoulder. She wracked her brain again, knowing someone was just with her, a reassuring presence whose absence left her feeling so suddenly alone. She shook her head, and let out a cough, just to hear something. The noise echoed, coming back to Cerce and breaking the spell of emptiness the place held around her. It was a room, and she could find her way out. 

Treading carefully, her hands outstretched, Cerce moved on. If nothing else, the cold down here would kill fastest. Sapping strength and chilling the bone. Cerce could feel her joints stiffening from the cold, intermingling with the ache of bruises from the fall until she couldn't tell which ended where. Her lungs hurt from breathing the frigid air, and Cerce let out a growl, half of frustration, half to convince herself that her terror wasn't real. 

Just when the hopelessness of the dark threatened to overwhelm her again, Cerce's boots scuffed against rough ground. Just for a moment, but something was there. She dropped to a crouch and slid her hands across the stones, and her fingers found it. Jagged grooves, harsh on the fingertips and occasionally sharp. A far cry from the smooth edges of the ancient stone, Cerce realized what she was feeling. 

Crawling on all fours, Cerce followed the scratches as they continued, trailing a way through the black labyrinth following in whatever great object had been dragged there. The stones were hard on her knees, and the exertion of movement coupled with the excitement of making progress was making Cerce breathe faster. At the back of her throat there was a taste, a faint aroma that Cerce couldn't put her finger on. Somewhere between lavender and rot, and as she scratched along on the cold stone, it grew stronger. It was so hard to tell, she wanted it so desperately, but Cerce swore a breeze was bringing the smell to her. She continued crawling. 

It seemed an age there in the dark, the stones continuing on endlessly, following the scratches, the occasional brush of a wall, the sense of shape in the dark.

Cerce cursed loudly as her head bumped into something hard. Her claws found firm, worked edges. The heavy weight of the object having dragged scratches across the floor halfway through this place. As she slowly stood, her fingertips found meticulously fine carvings, delicate shapes. It was when Cerce found the breasts that she realized she was touching a life sized statue of a human figure. Reaching out, Cerce could tell the figure stood a few feet higher than her, both arms broken at the shoulder. She was about to move on before she gave a cry of satisfaction, finding the sconce at the statue's back. Her hands found purchase and she pulled the heavy wooden torch from it. 

The cloth wrapped around its end was hard and chilled, but seemed dry. Cerce fumbled at her belt for the pouch containing her tinderbox, the same little kit she'd had since she was a kid hammering away at things in her father's forge. She dropped to a crouch, shielding her work against the statue's side, claws working with practiced precision to get the kit producing sparks. It gave her a warm feeling, somewhere deep inside, to be reminded of her father. 

Varten had given Cerce the kit in the forge one evening. She could remember the sweat on his bald head reflecting the glow of the forge as he guided her slender hands in his great calloused mitts. A whiff of smoke caught Cerce's nostrils, and she stared down at it, the new light painful to her eyes as deep in the folds of the rag, flames began to burn.

-

Cerce felt her mothers hand on her shoulder, a reassuring squeeze as she looked into the fire of the little hearth. The house was small, and the ceilings low, so it warmed fast. Soon the fire was blazing, logs crackling away, and Cerce sat cross legged before it, watching the wood curve and twist. The warm orange glow filled the room, bathing it in deep shadow. Cerce looked back over her shoulder and watched her shadow fill the wall behind her and giggled. 

It was safe there, toasty in the room. Cerce looked back to where her mother stood, tending a boiling pot. Slowly, she circled her spoon in the concoction, before raising it to her mouth and testing the broth. Seeing Cerce peering up at her, she gave a wink and a secret little smile. Then, there was a knock on the door, a familiar, rhythmic knock. The same one he always used. Cerce sprung to her feet and scampered to the door to meet him.

- 

Cerce found she was staring into the flame atop the torch, the heat on her face soothing the freezing chill that had chapped her lips and left her nose numb. She blinked, staring into the flame. Something had roused her attention, a noise. The darkness around her was deeper now in light of the blaze atop the torch, and Cerce raised the torch in front of her, and almost jerked back in shock as a face was immediately revealed.

The stone features of the statue peered back at Cerce, a tall and beautiful figure. She was draped in a gown, the same soft white stone as her flesh, every curve and wrinkle of the material so delicate it almost moved. Cerce felt compelled to reach out to touch it, and found that sure enough, the statue and her garments were unmoving, unchanging stone. The flicker of her torch on the features gave a movement to the statue that was oddly unnerving, but somehow still comforting, not to feel so alone in this place.

As she looked up at the face, its sad smile sightlessly staring forward, Cerce became aware she wasn't looking at a rendition of a human figure. The ears were pointed, but not with the elegant curved helix of Elven anatomy. The lips were wide, coming out across the cheeks in a smooth bow. Cerce shook her head, finding it difficult to believe what she was seeing. 

She reached up to touch the face, to run fingertips down the cheekbones and across the lips. Imperceptible lines of familiar anatomy were here reflected with as much care and craft as had been devoted to the fine filigree of the gown she wore. In all her years, Cerce had never seen a statue of a Nadyr.  

It was a strange feeling, to look up at the face, and an overwhelming feeling of melancholy washed over Cerce as she did. Peering up at a face like her own gave her a sudden feeling of loss that sat in her chest, formless and directionless. Cerce found herself angry that the statue had been dragged down here, and was taken with the sudden urge to find a way to rescue it, to bring it back out into the sun. 

There was a noise, an echoing knock somewhere far above, that brought Cerce from her thoughts and back into the room. Raising the torch high, she realized the room had an open ceiling, a huge circular gap. Echoes of noise travelled down it from above, metal on metal, the distinctive murmur of voices. Chanting. A shrill voice cut through the darkness above the others, and Cerce found herself brushing her hair out the way as it blew into her face to listen. She realized that the ghost of a breeze blowing around her was coming from below, not with the voices from above. 

Following the stare of the statue, Cerce found herself gazing down into the depths of a great void in the floor. Her feet only a step from the edge, she was taken with a sudden swagger of vertigo, and stepped back to steady herself against the statue. Leaning, she found the breeze was coming up from the pit, a chill wind that was bringing with it the scent that seemed to permeate the whole floor. 

Extending her torch out before her, Cerce was met with a blackness so complete it gave a rise of horror in her gut, and the edges of her vision fooled her into imagining something rising from the black void below. The flames of her torch were bright, and the hole in the ceiling was well illuminated, the perfectly smooth sides leaving no hope for a handhold or a way to ascend. Below though, it seemed the light was hesitant to reveal what lay below Cerce's feet, and she took a step back, taken with the sudden dread impression that her light was slowly retreating from the darkness. It was impossible to tell how far through into the mountain the fistular pit cut, but Cerce would have believed in that moment that it went on forever. 

Far up from above in the loftier halls of the monastery, there was a cry. A yell of protest, of pain. Cerce grit her teeth. With the torch held blazing before her into the blackened hall, she strode forward, steady at first, her boots thudding against the stones. Seeking any way up through the bowels of the monastery, Cerce began to run.

-

Cerce's bare feet padded across the dirt ground of the thoroughfare and she giggled as she ran. The boy from the butcher shop was just ahead, his quick little feet darting. He looked over his shoulder, eyes wide, lips spread in a grin, and he gave a yelp somewhere between surprise and hilarity when he saw how fast Cerce was gaining on him. His laughter made him almost trip, and Cerce snatched at the back of his grubby brown shirt. She jabbed her little fingers into his side, eliciting a squeak of surprise. Cerce darted on by him, leaving him to sit in the street laughing. He pointed frantically in the direction ahead, and Cerce darted onwards. The butcher's boy couldn't play anymore, he was dead now after all. 

Thundering through the street, off the dirt road that threads through the town and onto the wooden planks that border past the stores and shops, she ran. Darting under the sign for the smithy, the next child was small enough to pass, her filthy blonde mop of hair brushing the hanging metalworking tools. Cerce came after, almost stumbling and falling as she did so. She thrust a hand out to steady herself against the wall of the little smithy. So cold, the wall was, somehow.

Quickly regaining the trail, Cerce darted again after her quarry. Furious laughter and a scatter of tiny feet alerted her where to go, and the chase began again. 

One by one she caught them as she ran, the imagined blade darting into bellies, throats. They fell, laughing to the ground as the green skinned girl continued onwards, chasing her friends down. Some days Cerce was the one running, the one hiding, hands clamped over her mouth desperately trying not to giggle, but not today. Today she was the huntress, and she was always the best at it. The sun rose into view at the end of the street, momentarily filling the world with light as Cerce ran.  

The boy whose father kept the livery was the fastest. Older than the other children, his legs were long and he ran beside horses most of his days. Cerce saw him dart around a corner, trying to escape, but she was quicker. Running to cut him off, she threw herself around the stony exterior of the old inn, the one that smelled weird. Stumbling and almost skinning her knees on the uneven stones of the building, Cerce crossed the door and out into the alley beyond, straight into the path of her quarry.

He tumbled into her, his heavy form bowling Cerce over, but she was fast, grappling at him until they crashed to the ground together. He struggled to escape, twisting at her little hands as she snatched for purchase. As he turned, his neck twisted before her face, the curve of his pale flesh stretched out before her. Somewhere, deep inside her head, there was a throb. A deep seated imperative, an instinct. The muscles at the back of her jaw twitched involuntarily, and Cerce let the boy go.

As he ran through the dust, making his way to the winning mark, Cerce rubbed her jaw. It ached. Her hands ached too, her knuckles. She looked down at them.

-

Cerce's knuckles were covered in blood. She felt splatters of it on her face, on her eyelashes. Her hands were raw and painful. At her feet, the monk gave a splutter through broken teeth. She looked down at him. His dark eyes stared up at her, and he shakily raised a hard to ward off further attack.

His other hand still gripped the improvised weapon, and Cerce stared at it in confusion for a moment. The monk dropped it, the heavy censer clanging to the stone to echo throughout the thin hallway. There was a pain in Cerce's jaw, a tensed muscle, one she hadn't used in a long time. It took her a moment to find the will to relax it. 

Behind her, steps leading down to the lower levels were spotted with blood, and the body of another monk was barely visible in the gloom, limbs splayed down the stairs, body still.  

Stepping over the quivering form of the monk as he burbled out pleas, Cerce continued down the hallway. Somewhere she'd lost her torch, she couldn't remember where, but the hall was dotted with lit wall sconces now.

The figures in the dark came for her again. Monks wielding staves, simple wooden staffs, one bare handed and screaming. The first Cerce tripped hard with a shove to his chest, her boot neatly stepping behind his own bare foot and bringing him down hard, his head cracking against the stone. The second raised his weapon in both hands, brandishing the stave as though it were a spear to run the advancing Nadyr through. Cerce made a faux leap, darting forward, and when he flinched backward, shot her claws forward to snatch him up by the collar. Hurling the monk into his oncoming comrade, Cerce brought her boot swinging hard into the sides of the men as they fumbled on the ground for footing. A second time, and the pair were sent tumbling, crying out in pain. 

The last monk that Cerce passed simply slunk to his knees, crying out in words meaningless to Cerce's ears. His palms raised up to her as if in supplication. She stared into his eyes as she strode past him, and immediately he fell prostrate, tears beginning to fall.

She moved without thinking, her feet pounding the stone, her arms rising to block the clumsy assaults of the monks that swarmed upon her. She lashed out with elbows, breaking noses, shattering teeth. Her knees met groins, guts. Her arms turned the swings of metal sconces, chunks of stone, bare clawing hands. Some monks came yelling at her, their voices sometimes seeming close, sometimes seeming like they echoed from afar. Some came in silence, in fear, like ghosts in the darkness that shied from her light. Cerce's eyes would focus, her strides finding stability and her senses drawing her ever onward, then the next moment she would seem to float, lost in reverie, the labyrinthine halls twisting nonsensically. 

Cerce had absolutely no idea how long she had been navigating the cold halls of the monastery. Time seemed to make no impact here. Grasping desperately to hold tight to her thoughts whenever they came clearly, Cerce breathed deep of the chill air. It smelled of stone and ice, incense and unguents. Occasionally a smell would waft past her nostrils. A strange scent, indeterminate and effervescent, that threatened to pull her after it, seeking an origin. She would find herself thinking of a bakery, a fish shop, remembering woodwork, fragments of faces that she could not place but that seemed so real. They teased her, alighting on the edge of memory and on the tip of the tongue, then gone again in a moment. 

Stumbling out of a stairwell and onto a flat plateau, Cerce shook herself clear of the enshrouding scent. It was becoming easier to pull herself out of the strange sensation, quicker to gather her wits. She could feel her senses becoming sharper, her thoughts ordering quicker. Her pace increased, boots thundering down the hall as she headed in the only direction she could, towards the sound.

Chapter 5

It had been only a muttered rumble at first, somewhere beyond the walls, but soon Cerce had come to recognize the sharply sang words of prayer. The strangely accented voice of Leece coming from somewhere in the darkness, raised above the clamour of the monks as they searched for her, moved through the tunnels, and above cries that Cerce was only now recognizing as those of children. The closer she came, she more she could identify the shrill voices. They carried through the darkness, reaching her and pulling her forward. A robed figure almost ran into her as Cerce turned the next corner and, flipping him fully with her own weight onto his back, Cerce stepped over him into a suddenly open space. The oppressive walls seemed to give way, and she found herself looking out onto a wide black empty space.

There were glowing red spots in the dim light now, monks carrying lit bundles. Cerce couldn't make out what they were, but they swayed back and forth among a small throng of robed figures, white smoke pouring from them, acrid stench filling the room. Here and there she saw smaller figures, some held by the shoulders, some gripped fully in the arms of the monks. The sounds of children's tears burbled under the chanting.

In the center of the room opened the great yawning pit, travelling down, down into the darkness below, and Cerce realized she come fully up the spiral to the source of the sermon. Across the pit, among the figures that swayed rapturous in his hold, stood Leece. At his feet, knelt bound before the pit, Adam murmured senselessly into a ragged gag. In the Nadyr monks arms, cradled across his body like some strange infant, was Cerce's halberd. His features were hard to make out in the dim light, but it was clear there was no strain in his face, no gritted teeth, no hunched shoulders. Leece was holding the halberd as if it truly were no more than the steel it appeared to be.

Seeing the polearm in the hands of Leece, wielded as light in his hands as any city guardsman resting on his laurels, flooded Cerce with a rush of confused jealousy. His hands slid down the shaft, fingers coiling around Cerce's weapon delicately. The thing may be a curse, but it was her constant companion, it was her burden and hers alone. To see another holding it like only she should have been able to gave her an awful sinking feeling of abandonment. Cerce was reminded suddenly and intensely of one miserable day, years back, carrying an armful of ingots, sporting an aching cheek from where she'd been slapped for talking back. She'd passed by the bakery and saw her friends, her best friends, laughing in there, without her. 

Cerce's jaw tightened, her throat suddenly hot with the choke of tears and her lips peeled back. She wouldn't be abandoned again. 

She barely felt the impact of the monks throat on her fist, or the next as she slammed him into the ground, skull hitting the stone with a slap, as she strode towards Leece. He may have been able to lift the halberd, to hold it and handle it like any other weapon, but he wasn't trained with the use of it. Cerce recognized his clear unfamiliarity with the weapon immediately in the way he gripped it in unbalanced hands. 

Leece's face was lit with madness and excitement when he looked upon Cerce, his voice rising to a crescendo. Cerce couldn't hear his words, they were senseless to her ears. She stared at him a moment longer, halberd raised, swaying in front of the great yawning pit in the center of the room. The convocation crowded closer, bright spots in the dark 

Cerce leapt, clearing the hole in the floor with ease. As the pit yawned beneath her, a single moment of numbing chill like nothing she'd ever felt touched Cerce's flesh, and then was gone. She slammed into Adam, knocking him back from the lip. As she rose to her feet, Leece was in her face immediately, the halberd shaft thrust against her chest. 

Leece's words were in her ear as she struggled against him, the words sickly and promising, but senseless, in no tongue Cerce had ever heard. She thrust out a leg and followed it with a hip, knocking the monk back a step, and yelled for Adam's attention. This close, she could see the thief's eyes were watery red, rolling and focusing on nothing, he let out a moan of senseless despair. 

Cerce heard the heavy clang of the halberd hitting the stone at her feet and Leece leapt at her. With surprising strength Leece struggled against her, fingers finding grasp on her clothes, tugging at her hair. Pulled close, his endless hissing in her face, Cerce held him hard and tensed. Other hands gripped at her, grasping her legs, pulling down, falling about her like dead weight to the cold stone. 

Heat brushed Cerce in the face then, a flare of fiery glow, and she was caught full on in the face by one of the burning bundles emissions. The thick white smoke stuck in her nostrils, sweet in the back of her throat. She fought to stay present, to stay conscious of where she was, but she felt her mind wandering away. 

The chase. The pounding of feet on warm dirt streets. Laughing.

Cerce gave a roar of denial, her hands scratching the cold stone.

She leapt, grabbing her target. They rolled in the dirt. Laughing.

Cerce's ankles locked behind Leece's waist, and she dragged him down. In his arms, close, the monk struggled, Cerce could smell his flesh, the sweat of perspiration. The back of his neck twisting before her.

The throb came to her then, the awful familiar tension, the muscular twitch at the back of her jaw. Leece's eyes closed, and he leant into her arms, almost in submission. Cerce's jaw made a cracking sound that she felt rather than heard. 

It was automatic, instinctual, happening so fast Cerce didn't realize what had happened. 

Cerce became aware of a quieting in the monks, a swelling susurrus that spread away from her as the robed bodies cleared back. Her nostrils were full of the burning scent, and her mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood. Cerce spat, and with it came the mangled chunk of Leece's vertebrae that had crunched between her teeth. She let his corpse slip to the floor.

Cerce stood, a circle forming around her by the monks. At her side, one of the burning bundles flared, and Cerce reached for it. The bundle was crunchy to the touch, hard like bark, and Cerce tossed it down into the pit. The glow faded into the darkness without a sound.

In silence, one by one the other monks who bore the burning burdens began following, throwing their smoking bundles into the great pit. 

Cerce was on her knees, untying Adam's gag when she realized the first of the monks had tossed themselves into the pit too. She heard only the slip and momentary flap of robes, no scream, and the figure was gone. 

She clutched Adam to her, his coughing face spluttering for breath, as she watched more of the monks fall. Cerce's heart leapt in horror, until she realized the monks were not dragging their captives with them. The children were standing alone, some in tears, some staring in silence as the monks dropped into the pit. One by one they went. 

Soon only one remained. The last of the figures stood over Cerce, her face wet with fresh tears. She stooped, muttering words of thanks over and over, and touched her fingertips into the puddle of blood that leaked from the shattered neck of Brother Leece. She anointed her brow with crimson, and smiled. With another rushed prayer of thanks, she too was gone into the pit, and Cerce was left with nothing but Adam's heaving breaths and the quiet fussing of the children. 

She leaned forward, thinking to catch a glimpse of something, deep down in the pit. For all that had entered, there was nothing. It extended only down into blackness, forever. 

-

Adam was aware of the cool mountain air on his face, and licked his cold lips. He couldn't remember how he'd got there, outside again. His thoughts were a muddle of confusion, of sudden terror and darkness. He jerked forward, and found himself supported by his friend. Cerce held him up, an arm around his shoulder as he shuffled through the opening in the massive monastery door. The light was blinding. 

"What... what did I do?" he said, his tongue feeling heavy, words coming out slurred. Cerce shushed him. There was a smile on her lips, and Adam noticed soon after, a great deal of blood. There was movement around him, and he looked down to see the top of the heads of children. Cerce was shooing them out the door, and they went, two by two, hands clutching small garments around them, shivering against the cold outside. They stared as they left the darkness of the monastery, looking up into the white skies above. Adam put one foot in front of the other, his head lolling against Cerce's shoulder. 

Sniffling, shuffling, and one child skipping, the little procession travelled through the courtyard, and into the forest beyond.

Epilogue

Adam watched Cerce as she slung her heavy cloak over her head and folded the hood into place around her hair. She was standing in the street, her gaze unfocused, lost in thought as she fussed with the clasp. 

Adam exhaled a breath that seemed to be bringing with it less of a cloud, and looked out down the mountain path that would eventually take them home. Both of them were warm from the meal they'd been served in the tavern, from the brandy one of the children's mothers had brought, from the aromatic rolled cigarettes another's father had handed them. On her back was a satchel of supplies, rolled packages of pastries, breads. A few coins clinked in Adam's pockets, gifts from the people, a tiny amount to add to the paltry sum Willam had produced from the town coffers. They had been offered beds to stay in as long as they liked, but Adam had pressed them to move on after a single exhausted night. The town needed to heal, and besides that, sleep had come rough to the both of them, and they had swiftly agreed that putting some distance between themselves and the monastery would be the best cure for it.

There were spots of water on the ground, icicles growing long and translucent, dripping down from the awnings of buildings and the trees. Looking up to the pale skies, Adam thought that if you were generous, you could even say the sun might shine sometime soon. 

There was a great sigh of contentment from behind him, and Adam turned around to see Willam Black beaming at him as he walked to stand with Adam on the little wooden porch. 

"Not what you expect, is she?" Willam said, shaking his head. He folded his hands across his chest and continued looking out at Cerce. Adam watched the man from the corner of his eye.

"What were you expecting?" Adam asked. Willam gave a noncommittal huff. 

"Oh, I don't know. Not quite so friendly, maybe. Not quite so... pleasant? Agreeable? You know. You imagine something fearsome, when you hear talk of Nadyr."

"And when do you hear talk of them eh? Not many people even ever seen one," Adam said. Willam's smile faltered, before he gave a chuff of a laugh and looked away.

"It's rare, actually, to meet one. Could consider yourself lucky, even. If I were you I'd considered myself damn lucky," Adam continued. He turned as he talked, his hand resting on the curved basket of his rapier. 

"Quite..." Willam said, quietly. Adam nodded his head towards Cerce who was nodding and accepting a bundle of something in the street from a sobbing mother. 

"To be able to just call upon her, the Nadyr hero, from all the way up here, ask for her by name even, you must have had your heart set. Didn't even send out any other missives I'll bet, no other help needed. You knew just who you wanted." Adam smiled, a glint in his eye. Willam stared back at him. 

Slowly, the big man shook his head once. In spite of the chill, there was a bead of sweat on his forehead that wobbled slowly down his brow. 

"I did what I had to do, Serra. There was no...The children," he began, his voice breaking. Adam turned fully to him.

"I know. We do what we gotta do," Adam said. He slung the satchel up higher on his back, and then reached to place a hand on Willam's shoulder. A light grip at first.

"Look at her, you look at her and think about how lucky you are, yeah?" Adam whispered, his grip on the fat of Willam's shoulder tightening, "And you think how bloody lucky you are that I don't spit you like a pig for serving her up like that."

Willam gave a single nod, his jowls wobbling, red rimming the white of his blinking eyes, "I didn't have any other choice." 

Adam nodded, his hand lifted from the man's shoulder.

"We all do what we got to do, Black. Cerce would say there's nothing else for it."

The man stared after him as Adam left the porch to walk towards Cerce. As the Nadyr turned, she gave the thief a smile. It was a half smile, framed in a bruise and draped in fatigue and something else that Willam Black couldn't pinpoint. He continued to watch as the Stormbringer and the thief left, boots crunching on the wet street, people of his town calling after them, shouting their names. 

Willam watched them, and then he spat into the street before him, and turned away.

-

As always, it was a long road home. Adam felt the warmth on his face, blissfully returning as they descended the mountain. Every step away from the monastery seemed to be easing the lingering chill that gripped his guts. 

He glanced back over his shoulder to look for Cerce, who trod a dozen steps behind. Her tread quieter than usual, the heavy head of her halberd swinging in her grip. 

"What's got you so quiet, Slither?" Adam asked. 

Cerce looked up, her azure eyes taking in the grey light and reflecting clouds. 

"There was a statue...way down, back in the monastery..." She opened her mouth to say something more, then seemed to reconsider, chewing on her lip. 

Adam turned back, in time to avoid dunking his already soaked boots in another puddle, and soon enough heard the heavy footsteps of the Stormbringer striding up to keep pace. 

"Where do you come from?" she asked. She was looking ahead, down the mountain, and Adam did the same.

"Me? All over the place really. I say the Foul Mouth but, I was around before that. No idea where we were when I was born. I remember this hallway. Little and dark and stone, with a step, and window at the end, cat sleeping on the edge right by it. Don't know where it was now, no one left to ask."

Cerce was silent, staring ahead. Adam could see the hesitation on her face out the corner of his eye.

"You did what you had to do, mate."

"I know..."

"Nothing else for it," they said, almost in unison. Cerce gave a bark of laughter, and gave a slap at Adam's coat. After a moment she cleared her throat and spoke.

"I don't know where I'm from... honestly. I can say Belerion, earliest thing I remember, but it's not where I'm from. Varten sure as shit was my old man, taught me everything I know, but he was human. Who am I?" Cerce shrugged, her free hand reaching out, trying to make a gesture, something to help her articulate what she was trying to say.

"I don't know where I came from. I never got told. I never pushed it. I don't know anyone else like me. I get confused about the simplest things. The only other one like me I've seen, ever...I-"

"No one cares where you're from, Cerce. Not a single bloody soul," Adam said, "And nothing some creepy bastard in a cold church on a mountain could have told you is going to make a difference about that. But what people do think, is 'Fuck me, there goes Cerce Stormbringer. She's amazing. I heard she single handedly ended the battle of Belerion field with the lightening that blasts from her halberd. And that she felled the last Earthkin that rose from the ground in Baldhun Vale. Astride a raging Kelpie. Naked.'" 

Cerce gave a snort and smiled.

"I've heard that one too! I've never even been to Baldhun!" 

"What I'm saying is I don't care where you're from either, Cerce. I know who you are now."

Cerce gave a shy smile, her fangs showing.

"Thankyou."

They strode together through the forest, light dappling the floor through the trees above. 

"Helps the bards to have some mysterious gaps to fill at least. No-one needs to know everything. Bloody Carnaby was born on a pig farm." 

Cerce laughed, reaching into the bundle in her pack and taking a bite of soft grey cheese wrapped in nettles. Adam watched as a bird landed on a nearby tree, flicking moisture from its wings.

High above, in the town of Ancreed, the people told tales. 

Somewhere in Between

Groves gave another great grunt, his arms straining, cheeks puffed out, as once more he desperately tried to lift the wheel. The massive thing seemed made of steel, and budged no more off the ground the first five times the old merchant had tried to lift it.

With a great cough and a tumble of skinny limbs, Groves let go and slumped to the ground. The cart gave a worrying tilt and he scrambled to try and jam the plank back under it. The last thing he needed was all his silks spilling out onto the dirt road.

Satisfied that gravity was kept at bay for the time being, Groves stared miserably down the road. Dusty, sun baked and thick with rocks, it was more than two days home, and still hours from the gates of Truronia. Groves had to hit the one stone among a thousand that would throw his wheel off. He'd never make the market now. 

Murrey gave a low honk, and Groves waved a hand at the scruffy donkey. 

"Aw shut it. Some help you are," he grumbled. Murrey gave a further splutter and turned to graze at the meager brown grass that grew sparingly all down the road. 

He'd expected the road to be well traveled, and when he'd first thrown the wheel and been tossed, quite by surprise, onto the dirt, he'd thought someone would be by in no time. But the hours had lingered on, and the sun had grown heavier, and not a soul walked the dusty road from the north country. 

-

Groves was staring up at the sun, his vision blurry, and his tongue dry. He'd brought enough water for the trip, but not for this. He would have had something left to eat if he'd not made sport of throwing the wife's awful scones at birds along the trip.

He took a swig of the last waterskin he had left, and shook it. It was getting troublingly low. 

"What do you think, Murrey?" he asked the donkey, looking over to where the beast sat panting in the sun, "Shall we make a walk of it?" 

He could barely stand, his body was so weak. His arms and legs ached from the strain of lifting. His arse ached from the tumbled from his seat. His nose was scorched red from the sun. Groves finally admitted to himself it was lose all the silks and stagger home a begger, or maybe not get home at all. 

"What would the wife say? Eh Murrey? If the sun doesn't kill us, she bloody will I tell you that for nothing," he gave a snort. When he spoke again, it was in a mockery of his wife's piping accent.

"Lost all his wares on the road he did, on that old cart acting a todger as usual. Got nothing left, had to eat the donkey for dinner."  

He smiled at the donkey, and the beasts dark eyes stared back. Groves gave a long sigh.

"You never had any sense of humour."

He looked up the road again, the evening light tricking him into wondering if he could see the shadow of great Truronia's walls on the horizon, but there was nothing. No guards, no soldiers, nothing.

He gave a cursory glance back the way he had come, and his head turned back suddenly when something caught his eye.

He thought it must be a mirage at first, some trick brought on by the sun. 

There was a figure coming down the road. Slow and steady.

The figure was strange, hard to make out at first, seeming to be nonsensical. The blurriness from the sun was making clear assessment difficult. It looked like they were wearing some sort of hat.

Groves watched, mesmerized, as the figure strode closer, slow and steady. 

Tall, and slender to the look of it, not bulky with clothing as far as Groves could tell, but blue all over. Gods, that blue. He'd silks from Zenance he'd sold for a small fortune not as blue as that. He'd have to see where the figure came by it. Some sort of hat was definitely going on there, a tall arrangement extending beyond the figure's head. Almost like horns. 

The figure was clearly female, Groves noticed. He'd made half a century out of watching for women in the marketplace, the way they walk, the shape of their hips. All these thing he'd notice. The curve of the body, the clear shape at chest, hips, it was a woman all right. Something on her thigh was reflecting the dying light, sparkling.

Soon enough, Groves mouth dropped open. The figure was coming closer, slow and steady. It wasn't a hat. They were horns, huge upright horns that pointed towards the great open sky. They extended up from a dark veil, concealing the figure's face. The blue material of the rest of the figure was smooth, not even material like. 

Groves gave a cough and a stunned mutter when he realized the figure was naked. Her skin the most vibrant icy blue he'd ever seen. He found himself staggering to his feet. Staring, he still couldn't believe what he was seeing.

She was a beauty. A figure molded as if from marble. Strong and elegant she strode, one shapely foot in front of the other. Her toes were a softer shade of purple, and they pointed delicately as she walked. Slow and steady. Glinting silver, clasped around her upper left thigh, a coil of metal. Almost like a garter. 

Groves was overcome with a strange dissonance of emotions. To stare at the figure, to take in those legs, the curve of the hips. A modest bosom that he'd have found worth a glance even clothed, swayed bare in the sun as she walked. It made him feel like a giddy child. 

At the same time, he felt a rush of adrenaline, apprehension, fear. What manner of woman walked nude, across miles of country, bearing a head of horns and skin blue as the western seas. 

Was this death? Was this how she comes for you? Groves found himself entertaining the idea, and momentarily glanced back, half expecting to see his own dead body laying there in the dirt. 

No figure lay at his feet, and Groves turned back to find the woman now only minutes away. Within shouting distance, even. There he stood, somewhere in between home and Truronia, somewhere in between standing and fleeing for his life.

The figure came to a stop, a few feet before him, and Groves stood staring, mouth agape. His brain ceased to function for a moment as he took her in. Her face was mostly concealed by a simple black veil that hung about her head, concealing any hair, with holes to allow the horns to sprout through. Only the lower part of her face was visible. A strong, aquiline jaw, with thin purple lips. A face that betrayed no emotion. 

Her eyes were not visible, and he immediately felt shame as hie glanced down at her icy blue body, at her breasts, the dark purple nipples. Her figure was strong, like he figured a warrior must look. The muscles of a worked abdomen reminded him of a youthful body deserted him some thirty years back. He looked between her legs for a moment, a mound of snow white curls inviting him to stare, and found himself looking up directly at where he eyes must be, trying to play it off, thankful that his sunburn concealed his blush. The purple lips did not move to show any displeasure at his apparent appraisal of her bare body.

"Good evening to you, ah, ma'am. Miss." he said, stuttering. His powerful, practiced merchants bark had escaped him, and he sounded like a meek child, "Are you...are you alright, miss?"

The woman looked at him for a moment, as far as Groves could tell, and her hands came to meet in front of her hips. Strong arms, the blue colour darkening purple as it reached her fingers.

"It's a beautiful evening, thankyou. It seems you're having trouble, good sir. Might I be of assistance?" 

Her voice was unexpected and Groves was taken aback. A firm and loud voice, used to speaking, but delicately pronounced, as if speaking to reassure, to calm. Her accent was lyrical, like folk from the old country, and Groves was filled with a wave of nostalgia. 

"Your wheel is broken, might I help?" she continued, and Groves realized he hadn't responded. He raised a hand to scratch his head and turned to the cart, tearing his eyes from her beauty with some difficulty. 

"Oh, yes! Yes, the wheel. Came off on a rock. Heading to Truronia, for...for market." 

"Market day is beautiful, so much to be thankful for, all around."

"Not much to be thankful for here though I tell you that for... been in the sun a long time."

"Nonsense," the woman said, and immediately stepped forward, Groves was taken aback at her approach, and suddenly became aware of the woman's obvious strength. She stopped just before him, her head a few inches above his own, but her horns towering higher, and her lips spread in a warm smile.

"We must be thankful for the trials, and the hardships, and the suffering, good sir. Every day." 

Without a further word, the naked figure dropped to a crouch before the cart. Her strong arms reached out for the wheel, and ran a finger down it, as if appraising the construction. 

"Each day we suffer is a blessing. Each ache, each strike, each burn of the sun on our flesh is a reminder of our physical form. That we can endure, we can feel. We can do so much."

Groves opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He leant to attempt to help, but the woman raised a single hand to him, stopping his movement. 

"Please, allow me to take this burden from you. If it please you."

Looking down at her, Groves gave a shrug.

"I may not be a big lad but I couldn't move it an inch, If you think you might have better luck, you're welcome to give it a try." 

The lips smiled again, and the veil dipped in a nod. 

"Thankyou." she said quietly. 

Groves watched as she moved to grab hold of the wheel, her naked body tensing. He watched as her powerful muscles bunched, her legs braced against the road, arms tightening as she took hold of the wheel. The clasp around her thigh, he saw now, was a delicate arrangement of crossing metal. Clasped so tight was it about her thigh, that as she moved, he knew it must be digging into her flesh. 

"May it please you," she said quietly, then gave a hiss of exertion. Her hips twisted, and with a cry, she lifted the wheel clean from the ground. For a moment, the weight of the great thing was fully supported by her, shoulders tensed, body shaking, teeth clenched hard. With a thrust of her whole figure, she brought the wheel forward, slotting onto the axle with a resonant clunk. 

With one last thump of her clenched fist against the wheel, she slumped to the ground. Groves watched, mouth trembling fighting for words. The woman sat down, seating herself, chest heaving with slow, deep breaths. 

She sat there like that for a moment, her head down on a raised knee. Under her breath, Groves heard her quiet prayer.

"For every pain, for every ache, for every drop of blood I am eternally, exquisitely thankful."

Slowly, she rose. 

"That was... incredible," Groves stuttered, "How did you do it?"

The figure gave the slightest of bows to him.

"No praise is necessary, good sir. You were kind enough to gift to me your pain and hardships. I am deeply grateful."

She extended a hand to him, and for a moment, Groves didn't know what to do. Slowly, he extended his own, allowing her to take it. When her fingertips touched his, they were cold. 

Delicately she bowed, leaning forward, to bring her lips to his palm. Her kiss was soft, and as chill as her touch. 

After she released his hand, he took it back, cradling it to his chest. The sensation of her kiss remained. 

"Who...who are you, please?" he asked. Returning to her pose, hands clasped in front of her hips, she nodded briefly.

"I am Sister Thekkla, if it please you. Of the sisterhood of the martyred one, in the service of our patron The Sundered Lord."

"Well... thanks to him he sent you my way. I could have died out here if you hadn't passed by."

He gestured to her, at her naked figure, and felt ashamed for doing so immediately, but couldn't conceal his interest.

"Why are you...well, you're naked, miss. I thought you were a vision when first I saw you stroll up." 

The head inclined again.

"Penance, good sir. For my transgressions must be punished, so that I may become wiser, stronger, and closer to Him."

"Penance? You're being punished? They just stick you in the stocks where I'm from, not send you out bare naked into the sun."

A ghost of a playful smile touched the purple lips.

"I disagreed with my most exalted mother superior regarding the construction of an awning. She deemed it sufficient to weather winter storms, I made claim otherwise," she hesitated briefly, before continuing, "Twice. The second time including a... choice of language ill fitting someone of my devotion."

"Ah... yeah I've been chewed out for telling my boss to go fuck himself too."

Thekkla laughed, a musical tinkling that was pleasant on the ears.

"Thusly, must I walk at precise pace to Truronia, to the church of the Lost Martyr, to receive a mark upon my back from the disciplinarian. At the exact correct pace, I should have been back before dawn."

"Through Truronia? Like that? You're not afraid you'll be... you know." he gestured down the street, at the specter of the great and luminous capital city.  

"I fear nothing, good sir. And there is no hardship that can be visited by man that my body would be unprepared to endure."

Groves exhaled, glancing again across her body. The curves of it, the cords of muscle, the beauty and strength of it. It was mesmerizing. If he could sell artwork of that body he'd pack in the silk trade altogether and be a rich man. 

Thekkla gave a bow then, a deep and gracious curtsy, her arms spreading out, before bringing her hands back to clasp over her heart.

"Be well upon your journey sir, enjoy the markets. And take pleasure in the hardships visited upon you. Should you ever again face hardship you cannot overcome, bring them to me at the monastery above Marazion Village. I will welcome you."

He stared, awestruck, wanting then deeply to find some hardship. 

"That I will, be sure of that."

Thekkla turned, and began walking back the way she had come, into the evening light. Slow and steady. 

"Truronia's that way though!" Groves blurted out, pointing down the street. 

Without turning, Thekkla stopped, and spoke.

"The pace to complete my penance is quite precise. Mother superior will know I have dawdled. I must return now, and begin anew. Be well, good sir."

With that, Thekkla strode down the dirt road, her bare feet stepping over sharp rocks. 

Groves watched after her for some time, until her naked flesh was just a pale ghost in the moonlight far in the distance. 

Livin' on a Thin Line

Findan sat up to rest on his elbows and watched the Tiefling as she reclaimed her clothing from around the floor. She turned yellow eyes towards him, and he got that thrill again. Dark eyes full of laughter and promises. He still couldn't believe his luck. Years of courier work and never had a job ended like this. 

She stood up, her dark red skin almost the colour of blood in the dim light, her body hidden only by a barely-there chemise.

"Well it's been a pleasure doing business with you, sir, I do hope we can arrange it again sometime," she said. Her voice was husky, with a lyrical accent Findan wasn't familiar with. He spread his hands wide and grinned.

"You got that right, where can I find you when I'm back in town?" 

"Oh, I'll find you first," she purred, slipping back on a deep blue shirt and buckling the front around her stomach. Findan's satchel lay on the floor nearby, bulky and heavy. He had been sick of carrying and watching the thing all the way from Icewind Dale. 

When the Tiefling was fully dressed, standing tall in low-heeled riding boots, a frilled skirt and a small jacket, she knelt to take up the satchel and slung it over her shoulder.  

"Until next time..." she whispered, and blew the courier a kiss, Findan watched her go, and decided to get a few more hours sleep. 

-

Tormyr was gnawing on the second hunk of dried meat he'd purchased from the nearby stall when Findan finally appeared, trotting down the watery street with a spring in his step. The Dwarf gave a grunt of acknowledgement as the courier approached and flashed a smile.

"I said noon. Not noonish, Finn," Tormyr grunted, waving the meat at him. Findan gave a nod and fluttered a hand in apology.

"Oh come on, I'm barely late. Sometimes in life you have to take the time to relax, Tor. Don't you ever take a day off?" 

"Not really, s'matter of fact. Why y' so perky?" Tormyr asked, his eyes narrowing under his great bushy salt and pepper eyebrows. Findan gave a laugh.

"It was a good night, sometimes all it takes is a change in luck to brighten up the whole world, you know?"

"Apparently so. Coulda' fooled me though, looks like another shit morning in Waterdeep f'rall I see though. The meet go well then?" the Dwarf asked.

"I tell you, If you'd told me what the contact was like before I would have taken this job weeks ago," Findan gave a whistle. Tormyr stared at him curiously.

"Oh aye? The Tiefling yeah? Scary looking bugger isn't he?"

Findan hesitated, looked down at the dwarf, hands on his hips, and gave an incredulous half-laugh.

"He?" 

"The Tiefling. Your contact. Koziel. Big bugger with horns out to here," the dwarf gestured, extending his arms either side of his head, "What do you mean?"

Findan was silent a moment, and he looked out down the wet streets, chewing on his lip. Tormyr's moustache gave a concerned wiggle, and he prodded the courier. 

"Why...who'd you give the package to, Finn?"

"Erm... I think there might have been... a misunderstanding somewhere. I met a Tiefling at the dock... she said she was the one I was looking for."

"She? Well did you ask for the password? The one the contact was to give you?" Tormyr thundered, his gruff voice echoing off the cobblestones.

Findan scratched at his head sheepishly, the colour having suddenly drained from his face. 

"I... I fear it slipped my mind," Findan said, all trace of levity gone. Tormyr stared up at him, moustaches quivering in rage.

"Who'd you give the package to Finn?!"

-

Treave looked up at the polite knock on his door, and cautiously called out. 

"Yes, yes?" 

"It's me," came the voice from beyond. Quiet, distinctive. 

Treave's face lit up and he tucked his paintbrush behind his ear and scampered across the room to unlock the door.

"Koshka! Koshka my dear come in, quick quick!" he stood aside to make room as the Tiefling crouched to fit through his miniature studio door. The red-skinned woman gave the tiny Gnome a hug that almost covered his figure entirely in her frilly shirts and great skirts. Treave gave a quick glance out the door before he closed it behind her. Koshka slumped a clattering satchel on the ground. 

"Is this it? Is this it? Well done girl! How on Earth did you get it from him?" Treave said as he cleared aside his easel and paints, eagerly tugging at the drawstrings of the satchel. 

Koshka gave a low shrug and smiled.

"People'll believe anything if you give them enough reason to."

"Clearly, clearly so!" Treave chuckled. The contents of the satchel displayed, he tugged an elegant loupe from his shirt pocket and placed it to his eye. 

"Well...what have we got?" Koshka asked hesitantly; watching the Gnome work. 

Taking items from the satchel one by one and carefully examining them, Treave nodded slowly.

"Hm, it's definitely magical cargo alright, looks like a wonderous item horde. Let's see now..."

Koshka clutched her hands together in anticipation and bit her lip with a sharp fang. Treave proceeded to meticulously examine the contents of the satchel item by item, sniffing stoppered bottles, tapping on something here, listening intently to something there.

"Wig of many styles... Self inking quill... oh!" he lifted a thumb-sized dull metal object, "Unpierceable thimble of defense!"

Koshka's face started to fall, as Treave continued to sort.

"Goblet of goblins... Evergrowing cheese... Abacus of counting..." 

"Is it all... trash?" Koshka ventured. Treave gave a shrug.

"Depends on your view of trash I suppose, there's always a market for novelty magic items you know. This Bag of endless beetroot? Might get a few silver for that at the market." 

Koshka slumped back, dejected.

"Where's the good stuff? The Potions of longevity? The Rings of wishes? Girdles of giant strength?"

 Treave looked up at her and gave the Tiefling a comforting smile. 

"There there my dear. They can't all be dragon's hordes. But, don't be too down," he was sniffing at a tiny metal flask, pearlescent liquid sloshing within, "Because I happen to know that a certain masked Lord will pay at least 30 gold for this one." 

He tossed the tiny item to Koshka, who cradled it in her hands. 

"What is it?" she asked reverently. Treave gave a wink.

"Potion of hair regrowth. He's been trying to employ a wizard capable of giving him back his curls for years now."

Koshka shook her head and sighed.

"Thankyou Treave. I'll leave the rest with you?" 

Treave gave a nod, shoving the bulging satchel aside. 

"Of course, of course! Anything I find a home for, I'll be sure to kick you back your percentage." 

She leaned to give the gnome a small kiss on his prodigious protruding nose, and made to leave.

"Oh, if you still want to earn a little more, you know you can always come model for me, dear!" Treave called after her. 

"You haven't got the gold, Treave!" she called back playfully. 

-

Koshka stood in the rain outside the tiny door, clutching the potion to her breast. 30 gold would be enough to tide over the debt for now. 

Taking a quick glance either way down the street, she sped off towards the dock, heels clicking on the hard cobblestones.

-

Treave listened as the footsteps trailed off out of earshot, and once more made sure his door was locked.

Digging into the bottom of the satchel, he pulled out the metal bracers from the bottom. Etched in filigree and gleaming silver. They seemed heavier than they should be. Treave kicked the rest of the satchel and its contents aside, and placed the bracers carefully upon his work desk. 

"Now then, let's see why they wanted you so badly..."

-

Part 2

In the Mountains, The Dreams (A Cerce Stormbringer Story) Part 2.

 Part 1

-

Chapter 2

"Bloody hell..." crooned Cerce as they crested the rocky rise and the scope of the monastery came into view through the trees.

It was a building devoid of light, even among the dim moonlit forest it was a hulking black shape deeper than shadow. It sat hunched on the hillside like a gargoyle, with creeping towers reaching out into the forest. There were no fires burning, no signs of habitation, only darkness.

"Now that is not a welcoming place," Adam said as he came up to stand beside Cerce. "Proper good spot to get murdered right up, that is."

"You're not wrong. What do you think they're worshiping up in there?"

Adam put his hands on his hips, fingers toying with the hilt of his rapier.

"You're asking me? I don't know, love. Could be one of them monks suddenly figures he's a prophet? That's not uncommon. Or they dug up a book, standard Old God stuff, miserable forgotten type who likes child sacrifices and dreariness?"

"Yeah, if we're lucky. If that's the case all we got in there is a bunch of zealots to knock about," Cerce frowned.

"You worried it's something else?"

"Well the other option in these sort of times is that these fuckers found something horrible in the dark and decided it was a God," Cerce said as she peered through the mist towards the monastery. 

"Hm. Doesn't sound promising."

Adam tugged on his belt, testing the smooth draw of his rapier from its clasp. Satisfied, he nodded towards the shape that seemed to crouch upon the hill before them.

"Shall we?" he asked.

"Nothing to be done," Cerce nodded.

Together, they began the climb.  

-

The stones of the monastery walls were crumbling. Ivy crawled among the cracks, brittle and dying from the chill in the air. 

Cerce placed her hand upon a column as the travelers stepped from the barely-there path and into a flat dirt courtyard. 

She retracted her hand with a sudden hiss, and Adam looked over to her.

"Something sharp?" he asked.

Cerce looked at her fingers.

"No...no it's cold. It's like ice."

Adam put a hand to his brow and looked up at the looming monolith of a building before them. Cold, empty, silent. Blackness yawned from every empty stone window.

"I don't see fires. Looks like a tomb. If they aren't keeping warm somehow in there, it's going to be one."

"I don't like this one bit, Adam," Cerce said. She was peering up into the darkness of a window far above. Something was drawing the eye there, but nothing stared back from the empty black stone hole. 

Cerce narrowed her eyes. 

"Well, sooner in, sooner out, eh?" Adam said. He pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulder and gave a shiver. "And the stone has to cut a bit of the wind out at least." 

Cerce looked about the courtyard, her blue eyes peering across the old stone, the dirt, the green ivy eating up through the cold walls. 

A spot they crossed bore the marks of something long there only recently moved, plants growing in perfect lines, and Cerce noticed scratch marks upon the stone, as if something of great weight had been dragged off, towards the doors.

"Yeah," Cerce said absently, and followed the scratches to the giant set of wooden doors that stood to the front and center of the monolith building, the only portal not black and staring. 

The doors were ten feet tall, with holes where Cerce assumed a handle would once have been. She put her fingers through one and gave a tug. The doors could have been made of solid stone as much as they moved.

Cerce dropped to a squat and put her eye to the hole. 

"Woah, woah, don't... don't do that!" Adam waved. 

Nothing but a void peered back as Cerce stared through the little hole. 

"Nothing back there," she murmured. 

"No I mean that's how you get a big hook or rusty spike or something jammed through your eye up into your..." Adam's fingers made jabbing motions towards his face, accented with a hook of the finger and a tug, "Gak!"  

Cerce stood up, frowning. 

"Well, warn me before I do it next time. If I get gakked you're the one who's got to walk home all by  themselves."  

"Aren't you glad you brought me along?" he said, giving the bottom of the door an experimental kick. Cerce watched his lips turn down in sudden pain.

"Didn't work? Why not give it another try? Definitely getting somewhere," Cerce chuckled. Adam flapped a corner of cloak at her.

"Oh shut up and help me, here," Adam said, putting his shoulder to the door and half crouching, jamming his foot against a rise in the stone floor and shoving. Cerce fell in beside him, her arms up and pushing, and with a great creak that split the silent air of the courtyard, the right door gave an inch inward, a sliver of black nothing showing between the doors. 

Grunting, Adam strained against the door again, before Cerce elbowed him aside.

"Just needs a little encouragement, is all." 

Taking her halberd, Cerce jammed it between the gap in the doors and gave it a twist. With a great pull, the door was forced open another few inches, enough for Cerce to get a little more leverage, and with a second tug, the door crunched against the stone ground enough to admit them.

Adam took a bow and gestured politely.

"After you." 

"Oh, charming," Cerce grumbled as she slid sideways through the opening and into the darkness beyond. 

Adam stood for a moment, looking out over the quiet courtyard, before he held his hat to his head and followed.

The moment Adam crossed the threshold, he was so aware of the silence it was startling. Adam's hands rose to his ears almost automatically to brush the lobe of his ear, testing if his hearing was still with him. He blinked, and blinked again, unable to tell whether his eyes were open or closed. 

"Cerce," Adam said, an edge of panic to his voice the Nadyr immediately recognized.

"It's okay," she responded. Her voice coming back to him from a few steps up ahead. Her words were flat, no echo bouncing back through the blackness.

"Stand still a moment, you'll be able to see," she said. 

Adam looked around himself, seeing nothing. The world was empty for a moment, and the horrible sensation of staring down into nothing made his stomach lurch with vertigo. Through the blackness there came movement, and Adam's hand jerked for the hilt of his rapier as Cerce's hand reached out to grab him. 

Her fingers closed around his wrist.

Cerrce pulled him closer, his body coming up against hers. Automatically, Adam put his arms around Cerce's waist, and they stood close to one another. 

An inch or so taller than he was, Cerce's mouth was near Adam's ear, and he could hear her shivering exhales. 

The cold in there was indescribable, an awful chill that seemed to suck air from the lungs with every breath. The cold crept up through their boots as if they stood barefoot upon the dark stone beneath them, and nothing but the black masonry was visible as the sepulchral interior of the monastery slowly gained shape. 

There was a sound that came to the ears, low at first, but slowly rising in the stillness.

"What is that?" Adam whispered. He heard Cerce hold her breath as she listened, the barest glimmer of light reflecting from her eyes through the darkness.

"Wind. It's wind blowing from somewhere. Below us," she let the breath go, air warm on Adam's cheek. "This place goes down into the mountain."

"We need light. Light and heat, or we're gonna die in here Cerce."

He heard Cerce shift, her head glancing this way and that. White hair fell over her shoulders, and Adam could barely see it, grey amidst layers of black. 

"Check beside the doors, these old place are meant to have sconces for torches."

"Me check? Can't you see in the dark?" Adam hissed. He heard Cerce give a sigh of disbelief.

"Why would I be able to....you seriously think I can see in the dark?" she shoved at his chest with her elbow. 

Adam raised a hand out, peering through the darkness ahead of him, split only by the moonlight coming through the crack in the door. 

His hands touched the bare stone behind the door and he recoiled, the temperature so cold he couldn't tell if it was freezing or scorching. 

"There's one here but it's empty," came Cerce's voice from the other side of the door. "couple feet in, about my head height."

Adam slid his hands across, reaching up and across, and his wrist banged into something protruding.

"Got it, there's one here," Adam said as he gave a tug on the wooden torch and felt it grind loose. Dust trickled to the floor surprisingly loud. The head of the arm length torch was wrapped in a filthy rag, cold to the touch, brittle.

"No way this thing'll light, it's been here forever," Adam grumbled. 

"Adam..." Cerce whispered. 

"Ey, you still got that flask from Carnaby? The good Redroov Mountain stuff?" Adam fished on his belt, fumbling in the darkness for his flint, "might help it take."

"Adam there's...something there." Cerce's voice held a chill that made Adam freeze. 

He looked up, the torch in one hand and his other reaching for the hilt of his rapier. 

Deep in the darkness before them, a light was bobbing.

Adam saw Cerce shift in the darkness, her tall shape lowering, her legs stepping apart. The line of moonlight through the door glinting on the exposed head of her great halberd. Adam heard a deep exhale pour from the Nadyr's lips. 

 

The wild, aggressive way that Cerce fought had seemed chaotic and mindless to Adam the first few times he'd seen it. Like a dervish, twisting and swinging the great blade, her body writhing in the eye at the center of the storm. Long days at Cerce's side had taught Adam differently. 

Adam drew his rapier, silently and swiftly, and took his usual place just behind and to her right. She felt his presence, and took a step forward. 

"Who goes there?" Cerce yelled at the slowly wobbling light that approached through the darkness.

 The light illuminated as it went, shedding fluttering light on the grand hallway they seemed to be standing in. Cerce narrowed her eyes against the apparent optical illusion, the room so long that the monastery must surely extend far into the mountain upon which it stood.

"A humble servant, no more!" came the reply. A soft voice, steady. 

The flame came to a stop, and the figure who held it lowered the torch so as to illuminate himself. Sending a great shadow far behind him down the hall he'd appeared from. 

Yellow light spilled around him, lighting the entrance hall and making Adam inadvertently raise a hand to his eyes for a moment. Cerce stood sentinel and unmoving, adrenaline relieving the shivering cold for a brief moment. 

At first, the man had the impression of being broad, brawny. Shoulders high and wide, a body thick, but the gauntness of his face and the depth of the sockets his eyes were sunk into made it clear that the man was simply bundled into multiple heavy layers of thick brown robes.

"Just a humble servant, am I, welcoming new travelers to the home of the Blazing Light."

Adam gave a scoff of disbelief.

"You can't be serious." he said, and the monk turned his head to pointedly look at the thief.

"Light is found in the darkest of places, my quick-to-presume friend."

Adam raised an eyebrow, and found his eyes met when they darted to Cerce. 

"Prickly, for a monk, aren't we?" she asked. 

The man lowered his torch further, peering over the flame at the two friends. 

"Many who come here seek to disturb us. We may be a humble order but we have much work to do."

Adam gave a derisive grunt, but the monk continued undisturbed.

"I am Brother Locke, and here we tend the fires, to keep the cold at bay."

"Where's the rest of your people?" asked Cerce, partially lowering her weapon. She was straightening slightly, her guard dropping. Adam was still alert, his blade drawn, his eyes roaming the hall for others. 

Apart from the fire burning around Locke, there was only blackness.

"We are below, in the temple. The old monastery is so cold in the winter, we relocate below."

He extended the torch into the area between them, his sunken features seeming to wobble into distorted shapes in the moving light cast by the flame.

"I fear you've a wasted trip if you seek shelter though. We fast in the nights, and have little to spare. Perhaps you can seek your warmth elsewhere, travelers?"

Locke took another step forward, silent on the cold stone, and he jerked to a halt as his light fell upon Cerce and he came to look upon her.

"Oh," he stumbled over his own speech, his face suddenly animated, a smile spreading, "Oh my goodness look at you. You've come so far, haven't you?"

Cerce hesitated, before she placed the end of her halberd to the ground where it rested with a dull thunk. 

"We come north up from the Foul Mouth, called up here by..." she began, before she was almost immediately interrupted. Locke had stepped forward, careless of the harsh light that he was shedding upon the two travelers. Just a few steps away from Cerce Locke stopped to examine her.

"Goodness no, you've come some much further than that. So far, to get here, I'm so sorry it took so long."

Cerce darted a look back to Adam, whose eyes glinted back at hers in the dim yellow light. He gave the slightest of shrugs. 

"You've been... expecting us?" he asked, and was ignored. The monk only had eyes for Cerce.

"We've been waiting, I... The others will want to meet you immediately, miss. Please, what shall we call you?"

"I'm Cerce. I...came to help." she said. The monk positively beamed. His body vibrated with excitement and he made a grand show of inclining his head before her. 

"Cerce, Cerce," Locke repeated, drawing out the syllables long and slow. 

Sir-see. He practically hissed. 

Just as she became visibly uncomfortable with his sycophantism, the monk straightened and jerked the torch back the way he came. 

"Please! Come, come. The others will be so eager to look upon you," he stopped half turned, and looked as if he meant to attempt to take Cerce's hand, before he apparently thought better of it and began a brisk walk down the corridor. 

Cerce glanced back at the door, at the sliver of moonlight creeping through. The light from Locke's torch was already receding, plunging the doors into darkness and shadows, surging along the ground to swallow them once more. 

With a quick look at one another, Adam and Cerce began to follow.

Chapter 3.

Adam fixed his rapier to his belt once more, his pace quick and the heels of his boots clicking on the stone floor to keep pace behind Cerce's long and quiet strides.

Locke scurried forward ahead of them, a glowing orb in the darkness, continually half turning and tossing his gaze back over his shoulder to make sure he was being followed. 

"As the cold approaches we move below to stay as warm as we can, down in the old quarters," he explained as he walked, gesturing into the black void beyond each portal or archway they passed.

"Little up at this level now, the old hall is empty, the upper kitchens, and all above," he waved a hand nebulously above his head, "All empty now!" 

His voice verged on manic, his eyes wild as he glanced back to look at Cerce.

"How many stay here, Locke?" Cerce asked quietly, and he spun to walk backwards momentarily, his eyes on her.

"Oh just myself and the current order, and the new supplicants, any others left. Too cold for some, the work we do here. They all left, to find somewhere warmer."

"What's a supplicant?" asked Adam. Locke spared him a brief glance but ignored the question.

A yawning gap in the wall caught Cerce's eyes as they passed, enough light flicked into it to see nothing but the blackness it led to.

"How far below does it go?" she asked.

"Oh all the way down," Locke responded without turning, before immediately going on.

"Do you know when others will come?" he asked Cerce enthusiastically.

Cerce looked to Adam, shrugging.

"Others? You mean other monks? Why would I..." Cerce was cut off as Brother Locke turned and raised the light above his head.

"All the others! We're expecting everyone here! We can't wait forever!" he gave a brief and sudden laugh. He looked at Cerce as he continued down the hall, his shuffling backward steps uneven. 

"Brother Leece said you'd come soon, but we've waited so long for you. I was beginning to think.. well...we went through all the others, as we waited, how could he expect us to wait forever?!" his voice was losing clarity. Tears wet in his eyes, glittering in the swinging light of the lantern, "The ones who left! Ha, they...they'll see now, won't they?" 

"Wait, the supplicants? The children from the town? The children are still here?" Cerce asked. 

"Everyone's here," Locke said, "There must always be supplicants."

Adam realized he could no longer see the wall behind her when he looked to Cerce. The sloping stone on his own side had become harder to see too, curving off into the darkness beyond the circle of the lamp that Brother Locke held aloft. 

The monk was moving faster now, his feet slapping and scuffling on the ground beneath him, his breathing ragged. He gave a half laugh, then a sudden whoop of joy that disappeared into the dark without echo.

"She's arrived!" he suddenly blurted out, "She's here! She's finally here!" 

Cerce strode forward, her halberd gripped in her freezing hands, and made to reach for Locke's robe as it flailed behind him. 

Before her claws could snatch at the ragged material, the light was snuffed out. 

The darkness was absolute. So sudden and so startling it stopped Cerce in her stride as if she'd walked into a wall. She heard Adam's boots click to a halt, the uncertain shuffling of heels skidding as he turned this way and that. 

"I can't see anything, I can't..." he said, panic in his usually measured voice. 

Cerce was breathing through gritted teeth, her fangs bore at the corners of her lips. The dark fooled her, and she had the impression of reaching hands, of shapes moving, deeper black against the already complete darkness that gripped her. 

She hissed at Adam for silence. 

It was as absolute as the darkness, no wind, no echos. Cerce could hear her own heartbeat hammering in her chest like a drum. She began to be aware of a scent, hard to place, familiar. Like ozone, moss, mold. 

"Where are you?" she said quietly. 

"I'm...here?" Adam said, from just far enough away.

With a great swing of her arms, Cerce brought her halberd around and overhead in an arc, the blade striking and scraping across the floor, sending sparks flying and filling the halls with the deafening crash of metal on stone. 

In the flash of sparks, the figures were revealed. A circle around the two travelers, just visible on the edges of vision. Their robes brown, looming just a few feet away now.

As darkness descended once more, the smell came back again. Strong this time. Wet and clammy, floral, dank. The smell stuck to the back of the throat, thick and choking. 

Cerce found herself taking a deep and hurried breath, and heard Adam doing the same.

"I feel weird..." Adam moaned. Cerce blinked hard, feeling her eyes watering and a tightness in her throat gripping. 

"When I move, get ready to run," she whispered. She felt Adam's presence at her back, moving close behind her. She heard him respond, but somehow the words were lost, meaning seeming to flee into the darkness.

She became aware that the grip on her halberd was loose, the shaft resting on the ground. She curled her fingers again around it, trying to remember what she'd just said to Adam. She frowned, it was gone. 

Light slowly shone between the figures that massed around the pair. The illuminated brown robes of the monks shifting and swaying in the darkness. A figure was stepping forward, holding a low burning lantern in one hand, and seeming almost to float, so silent were their steps on the cold stone. From beneath the hood, a chuckle came.

The voice, when the figure finally spoke, was soft and calming.

"Brother Locke, thank-you for bringing our guests forth."

The accent was unfamiliar, the cadence lyrical. Cerce fought to listen, the weight behind her eyes increasing as the light was brought closer. The figure gave a deep and appreciative sigh.

"Oh. Oh my. The light shines upon all of us today, brothers and sisters."

The voices of the assembled came back in response.

The light shines. The light shines.

"We've all been waiting... so long, here, for you. I have waited." 

Locke leant forward into the light, his hands gripped before him, shaking.

"She wants to be called Cerce, Brother Leece."

"Thank-you Locke. I'm very grateful for everything you do," the figure named Leece extended a hand to touch Locke on the shoulder, and Locke dutifully retreated to the throng of monks.

"It's a beautiful name, Cerce. I had always wondered what they might call you," Leece said. His voice had a soporific quality, and Cerce stared into the darkness under his hood as he moved forward to her once more, now within arms reach. 

Cerce tried to speak, but found her speech slurred.

"Who're...who are..." she mumbled.

"I am Brother Leece. First among the Blazing Light. And you, are very, very welcome."

Leece raised the lantern in his hand, illuminating him. Beneath the heavy hood were vibrant, soulful blue eyes, staring from a startling and handsome face. Curls of white hair were visible around his sharp cheekbones, and at the corners of a wide curving smile were sharply pointed teeth. His skin was green.

"Our most dear sister."

Cerce stood frozen as Leece reached for her face. His fingertips brushed her cheek. 

Cerce was shoved aside and the world spun as Adam hurled himself into Leece with his entire weight.

She heard the great clang that rattled her ears and after a moment realized she'd dropped her halberd. She reached out for it desperately as movement in the darkness all around broke out. 

The lantern was snuffed out and hisses of orders and cries from among the ranks of the monks seemed to come from all directions. 

Cerce heard Adam scream for her to run. 

Hands surged from the blackness, gripping at her ankles, snatching handfuls of her hair, tugging at her clothes.

A hand gripped at Cerce's ear and pulled, jerking her head aside sharply and making Cerce cry out in pain. 

Leece's voice cut through the darkness, raised to a shout.

"DON'T. TOUCH. HER!"

The hands retreated, Cerce pulling herself free of the throng and scrambling across the cold floor. Getting her feet beneath her was proving difficult, and she stumbled drunkenly as she tried to move, the strange smell filling her senses. 

Her hands found a wall, and she clung to it, her legs feeling like she was wading through water. The sounds of the scuffle was getting further away. She heard a scream, and the sound of Adam's blade against stone. 

The wall seemed to give way, and as she stumbled forward to reach out for it again, found the floor beneath her abruptly drop. She fell, first a few feet, crashing into the vertical stone, then down again.

All light fled as she fell, spiraling, further into the blackness below. 

-

Part 3

In the Mountains, the Dreams (A Cerce Stormbringer Story) Part 1.

Chapter 1

Cerce Stormbringer wiped rain from her eyes and held a hand to her brow, she was staring through the torrential storm at the village nestled among the mountain shadows.
The quaint little place had been a bastard to find, and her heavy cloak, together with everything she wore under it, was sopping wet from the ceaseless downpour. 

For the last hour it had seemed that every step had got colder. Trudging one foot after the other, a shiver had started somewhere deep in Cerce's limbs.
Using her halberd as a walking aid, she continued off up the steep incline, her boots crunching over thick green undergrowth. 

Once lush, the green was going brittle in the cold, the touch of glimmering ice hanging to branches as the two travelers passed. 

She glanced over her shoulder and gave a smile to Adam, who followed a few paces back. He gripped his grey cloak around him tightly, and just the glimpse of his stormy blue eyes peering out from beneath his wide brimmed hat made Cerce laugh.

"You look like a cat that got left out in the rain, mate," Cerce said, giggling at her friend.

"I'm well aware. We don't do well in the wet," Adam grumbled.

"Then you live in the wrong part of the country then don't you? Come on, not far now."

The town of Ancreed was practically invisible, hidden as it was in the rainy mountainside, and as Cerce and Adam trod their squelchy boots onto the first of the cracked cobbled streets, it didn't look like the outside world was missing much.

A lone piglet scampered across the deserted street, and Cerce found herself peering up at the buildings that tilted over her, expecting ghosts at every dark window. Fountains of rainwater fell from the corners of every building to splatter noisily to the street below, and a small flood surged past in the gutters of the road, trailing off on it's merry way down the mountain. 

The buildings were threaded through with creepers and vines, and the entire town seemed to tilt a little, like it was about to fall asleep and tumble off the mountain any moment. The door to the local inn was wide and heavy, and Cerce had to put her weight against it before the thing shifted in and opened into the dim room beyond.

The rush of warm air from the inn's hearth was instantly welcoming, and Adam began shaking off his cloak the moment they entered the building. His wide travelling hat placed on a nearby hook, his ashen hair fell carelessly about his face. 

"Soaked to the skin I am. Typical. You see the state of this place? If I find pigshit on my boots..." Adam cursed.

The thief tossed his cloak from his shoulders and onto the nearby hooks, and turned to his companion.

It was deathly silent in the little inn, and every face within the room was turned up and towards the new arrivals. Adam gave a low cough of embarrassment.

"Nice...nice sort of spot isn't it? Cozy like," he said. Cerce gave him a wink.

"Cozy enough, yeah. You got the, ah...?"

Adam fished into the pocket of his tight grey trousers, and handed Cerce the little folded paper.

The Stormbringer placed her halberd down with a heavy thunk, the gleaming silver head resting against the wall. Cerce strode to the bar, unfolding the letter in her gloved hands. Adam slumped into the closest chair and kicked his sharp heeled boots up. He felt eyes on him, but that was to be expected.

The unique culture found within the drinking holes of the Isles was a subject in which Adam Serra could confidently say his opinion was expert. The faces within this locale, however, were haunting. Each face belonged to a man of prematurely advanced age, weathered hands grasping wooden cups.

The old men showed none of the standard animosity for the noisy stranger in his outlandish clothes. Neither were there the commonplace hateful or suspicious looks darkening the air towards Cerce, rare race that she was, as she stood leaning at the bar.

Her heavy forest green cloak now hanging from the wall, Cerce was in a blood red leather jerkin and white shirt. Her long legs were draped in a black skirt that clung to her damply, and she gave a shake of her muddy riding boots as Adam watched her exchange a few words with the bartender. Her thick white hair was partially tied up with twine, the rest hanging down her back in a simple plait.

Adam tried to smile when the bartender looked over his way, and the old man gave a curt nod instead.

A lanky teenager appeared from behind the bar, and with a few signals from the bartender, was sent sprinting off out the front door, hands over his head to shield from the rain.

Adam watched the rain pour down out the door for a moment, and looked up when Cerce returned to seat herself at the table with a pint in each hand.

"He'll be along soon, sit tight." She said.

Cerce placed one cup down in front of Adam and slumped into the chair opposite. Adam immediately reached for it and placed it to his lips. After he'd taken a deep gulp from it he replaced the tart cider on the table and exhaled loudly.

"Cheers girl. I needed that. I thought we'd wander that bloody forest forever." Adam sighed. He leaned in a little, straightening the frilled white cuffs of his shirt, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Not a well trodden path was it? Good job he was sharp with the directions, this guy." Cerce said between sips. She was looking down at the little piece of paper she had shown the bartender, her eyes squinting. She waved the letter to Adam, and he took it.

"'Willam Black'," Adam read, "Good old fashioned name isn't it?"

"He didn't say much else right?" Cerce asked, tapping the page. Adam shook his head, he'd read the thing a dozen times over on the way here.

"'They need help' is the general gist of it, not a whole lot more forthcoming."

Cerce tapped her nails on her cup and chewed on her lower lip.

"Why they always come to me, Adam?" Cerce asked. Adam spread his hands wide.

"Don't knock it, love, there's a lot of ways to make money in the world, not many of them involve helping people. You should be happy for that, y'should."

Cerce stopped the drumming of her fingertips to look Adam straight in the eyes. Her eyes were brighter and bluer than his, attention grabbing in any situation. She pointed a long black nail at him.

"When I first arrived in the Foul Mouth, you know what you were doing?" Cerce asked.

Adam took up his drink again and mumbled something into it in response.

"You were ripping off new arrivals to the port for everything they had."

"It wasn't my idea, it was an established racket, I was simply..." Adam fought for words.

"Simply ripping off people for everything they had."

"Well yes. But what I'm getting at is, that's one way to do things. I heard stories of a certain Nadyr highwaywoman knocking over carriages on the western roads outside of Truronia not long before we met. And you know Carnaby got his start in the mercenary business because he'd show up to camps pretending to be a commissions officer and then scarper with everything not nailed down in the middle of the night?"

"Ha!"

"Yeah, we've all done some dirty shit to get by, my lovely. But now you're a hero, and people will send you letters asking for your blessing, or your very divine presence, and occasionally genuinely asking for help..."

Adam smiled, and Cerce rolled her eyes.

"I know. I shouldn't knock it. Still... I didn't ask for that."

Adam nodded to the huge head of Cerce's halberd, leaning against the wall nearby.

"You knew something was up when you chose to pick up that big bastard for the first time. You made your bloody bed, now do some heroics in it."

The teenager returned shortly, his floppy brown hair soaked, and trailing in behind him in a heavy winter coat was a large elderly man who Adam thought bore more than a passing resemblance to a giant boiled egg.

Willam Black raised a hand in greeting to the bartender, but strode straight to Cerce and Adam's table.

His expression as he greeted the two travelers was almost pained, a strained smile crossing his wide features. Cerce stood to receive him.

"Judge Black?" Cerce asked, the man extended a meaty hand and took Cerce's.

"Yes, Willam, if it please you, Madam. I can't tell you how thankful I am you've come. May I?" he gestured to the table.

"Of course, and just Cerce, please."

Adam took his boots down as quietly as he could, but by the time he was about the rise the other two had seated. He instead gave a straightening pull of his shirt and gestured to the bartender for another round.

"This is my friend, Adam," Cerce said, nodding towards the thief. Adam extended a hand, and Willam looked at it for a moment before taking it.

"Adam Serra, we've met before," Willam said, his deep set eyes scanning the cut of Adam's clothes up and down. Adam regarded him, curious, for a moment, before shaking his head in acknowledgement.

"Now, I thought that name seemed familiar," Adam tilted his head to Cerce, but kept eyes on the judge.

"Judge Black here used to dispense law out of Truronia, if I'm not mistaken."

"And Mr Serra here is well known to anyone who dispenses justice, isn't that right?"

There was a moment where the two stared at each other.

Cerce extended a green fleshed hand and placed it over one of Willam's pale, calloused ones. The man looked down at it; surprised.

"Adam has been my closest friend for years now, Mr Black. Willam. Without him I'd not be the woman I am today."

She lifted her hand, as the bartender arrived with a round. As the drinks were placed down on the table, Cerce kept eyes on the Judge, and smiled.

"Adam was just telling me to appreciate the things we have at the moment, and I'm very thankful for him."

Adam was genuinely blushing, and looked down at himself.

Willam dropped his gaze too, and laughed. He pointed a chubby finger at Adam and waved it.

"You always were the very smoothest of talkers, Adam, and you're right. You never know what you might lose any moment. I'm not the man I once was either, Serra. I learned to enjoy life, believe it or not. Still," he paused, taking up his drink, "one day you will have to tell me how you escaped the Truronia gaol that time, I never could figure it out."

The Judge stared at the foam on top of his drink, but made no move to take it yet.

Cerce shifted, rubbing hands up her shoulders.

"Is it always so bloody cold up here? I saw ice on the trees not far out from town."

The man awkwardly fumbled with the buttons on his jacket. 

"It's... unseasonably cold for the time, it certainly is," Willam mumbled, before finally placing his hands flat upon the table in front of him. 

"Miss Cerce we need you," he said, shaking his head slowly, "I'm so glad you came. We don't know who else to turn to."

"Your letter was...brief, Willam. I don't know why I'm here," Cerce said.

"I'm sorry for all the mystery, yes. I didn't know if it would even reach you. I mean, a waterfront tavern in the Foul Mouth?"

Cerce shrugged,

"You wouldn't believe the places I've met people. Your letter said you needed help?"

Adam became aware the faces in the tavern were watching them. Men, peering towards the quiet conversation happening with sullen eyes.

"We do indeed, miss Cerce," Willam started. He ran a hand over his bald head and knotted his fingers together before him, "It's... the monastery in the hills."

Adam arched a gray eyebrow immediately. Willam quickly raised a hand to him.

"No, no it's not like you think. They're good people up there. Well, they used to be. I don't know."

"Start at the beginning, Willam," Cerce said, she folded her arms and nodded encouragement.

 The Judge sighed, and slowly began.

"The monastery has been there a long time. Since before the Shattering, even. It was a place for travelers could stop on their way to the east, or Truronia. It was here when Ancreed was built. Monks were said to have come down and helped with the cornerstones of the town. They were good people."

"Where did they come from? The Monks?" Adam asked.

"Oh, all over the place. It was seen as a calling, a safe place to go, respected even. We had a town guardsmen join their number, decade or so ago now. His family would go up and see him come the solstice, sometimes. They couldn't go in, but they'd be able to see him outside, said it was nice up there. Animals, goats and the like, you know."

Cerce and Adam gave a glance at each other simultaneously.

"I think I know what's coming. When did they start getting weird?" Adam asked. Willam chewed on his tongue a moment.

"I suppose it was about...four years ago they started to get on the reclusive side. We'd hear from them less, hear from them even less than that. Far as we know, no supplies went up to them anymore, so they must have everything they need up there. Time went past and we'd not see them anymore at all. The first time we saw them in months was when they first come down asking for the criminals."

"Oof. Yeah, I see where this is going," said Adam. Willam nodded slowly.

"Didn't even really consider it at the time, you know. Good people, holy people. They'd taken in the misguided before, thieves, what have you. People who might be on the road to worse. They were meant to be a place to learn to be good. Wasn't till months later, after we'd sent six men up the mountain, that one of the town kids went up there and saw...well, what they saw."

Willam met Cerce's gaze, his little eyes were wet.

"We didn't believe her at the time, the girl. She came home with horror stories of what the monks were doing up there, dark stuff. Dark. We chalked it all up to the usual fears of the forest, and the dreams people had been having. You know how it is, one man talks about horrible nightmares you'll all start having them. But a few days later, in the night. The monks, they came for her."

Willam looked across the room, at the faces staring back at him.

"Young men in the town put a group together, six men went up there to get her back."

Willam hung his head.

"The next time there was motion up on the mountain, we thought the men were returning. But it wasn't. The monks came back. They took them all. Gods forgive me, they took all the children."

"Shit," whispered Adam. Cerce was staring into her drink.

"How many of them?" she asked.

"The children? Twelve, twelve of them gone," Willam muttered.

"The monks, how many are there?" Cerce clarified, her voice stern.

"We have no idea. No one has been inside the place in decades. Can't be many surely, but..."

Adam sat up,

"What's the monastery for? Who do they worship?"

Before Willam could answer, an old man spoke up across the room.

"Horrible things, up there. Horrible Gods, they worship. Monsters," the old man said. His voice was breaking with anger, and he pointed a gnarled finger at Willam, "and you should've listened to her, that girl, when she told you what they was doing up there. It's your fault, Judge!"

The man turned his head away with a great grunt, gripping his cup tightly.

Willam, flustered, stammered over his words.

"I'm not the man I once was, I'm old, I'm fat. I can't look after this town. I don't know if ours are still alive up there, I don't know what horrors have taken that place, but we need your help, we need the Stormbringer."

Cerce was leaning back in her chair. Her hands draped around her cup.

"I've seen zealots before," Cerce said, "I've seen what happens when religious men get turned about. It's the scariest thing in the world. There's a point somewhere, some step, and once they've gone off that step nothing you can say will get them to climb back up it again. You can't reason with them, you can't talk to them, and you can't make sense of it. If it's not in their book or their hymns or their holy symbols, then it just doesn't matter as far as they're concerned."

She exhaled and drained the rest of her cup.

"But you'll help?" Willam asked quietly.

Cerce looked up at him, shocked.

"'Course I will."

She smiled, Willam breathed.

"Thank you, Cerce, I..."

"How far is it to the monastery?" Cerce asked.

"About two hours hike, up through the forest."

"Can you get us something to eat? We'll warm up, and leave as soon as the sun's down."

Willam rose to his feet, his energy renewed.

"Of course, of course! Barnaby, food!" the Judge shouted to the bartender, "thank-you, Madam Stormbringer, all of Ancreed thanks you; really."

Cerce inclined her head, and Willam reached to enthusiastically grip her hand in his great grip.

"Please let me know if there's anything you need," the judge said.

"Just good directions, that's all." Cerce responded.

"Immediately, I shall return!" Nodding so that the fat of his neck wobbled, Willam rushed to claim his cloak.

The inn was left in sudden silence after the man left, but the mood had altered. There were nods of friendliness from the patrons, raises of cups. The bartender had left to busy himself with food.

Adam watched Cerce from across the table.

"Not one word of payment, you notice that?" he asked. Cerce shrugged.

"Heroics, right?" She said.

"Yeah. Looks like we're getting dinner out of it at least."

"That you saying you're coming along then?" Cerce asked. Adam stared back at her levelly.

"Of course I will. Come on love, it's kids. I may be a complete bastard but...you know. Besides, I'm not letting you go up a hill to get sacrificed by monks alone, Cerce. Even you need rescuing once in a while."

"What is it with the sacrifices? It's every time isn't it? Always a naked girl," Cerce said, finishing off her second drink. Adam agreed enthusiastically.

"Two ways to get a woman naked easy," he counted down two fingers, "artist, religious cult."

"You told me you were a painter the first time we met."

"Well, don't have the look of a cult leader do I?" Adam pouted.

Cerce gave an exasperated laugh and shoved Adam's shoulder.

"Glad to have you with me, you dirty bastard."

"The pleasure is always mine, Cerce."

-

Part 2