“Hey!” the Elf called as they ran up alongside the sprinting Dwarf. “How goes it?”
“It’s been interestin’!” Gorm huffed. “Ye two find anythin’?”
“Got some documents that look important.” Kaitha patted her satchel with a wink. “You?”
“Nabbed a magic dragon rock.” Gorm held up a red gem that occupied most of his fist.
Somewhere behind them, a drake roared. Another flash of electricity cast the entire cavern in pale blue and black. Kaitha could feel her hair rising into the air, errant sparks of static playing beneath the auburn strands.
“Also, I set a few angry drakes loose next to some highly flammable barrels,” the Dwarf admitted.
“That doesn’t seem like a great idea,” breathed the Elf. They were only a few feet from the mouth of the cavern now, but it lacked any stairs or ramp by which to descend.
Gorm gave a small shrug. “Least they ain’t set off any—”
A thunderclap sounded behind them. The walls of the cavern were bathed in fiery crimson for a split second before a wave of heat and force carried them out the mouth of the cavern like leaves on a summer wind.
Kaitha rolled in the air so that her forward foot hit the slope below first, and she let the momentum carry her in a frenetic sprint down the shale. But even her Elven grace quickly found its limits, and she wound up twisting her ankle and falling into an ungainly roll down the hill. Above her, several perturbed drakes launched themselves from the smoldering remains of the dens and took off into the sky, trailing smoke behind them as they fled.
It was several minutes before Gaist walked over and helped the ranger to her feet. The doppelganger had resumed the familiar form of Iheen the Red, though he still wore the robes of the diminutive acolyte of Tandos. He looked like an onyx giant crammed into a child’s dress.
As soon as the ranger could stand and her ears stopped ringing, she staggered over to the crater that marked Gorm’s landing. “Sometimes it’s like you’ve never even heard of Nove,” she told the Dwarf as he righted himself.
“More like I don’t see what worryin’ about some dead sage will help,” Gorm grumbled. He shoved the gemstone, still clutched in his dusty hand, into his belt pouch. “Ye two good to go?”
“Yeah.” Kaitha tested her ankle as she looked back at the cavern. Flames danced within the mouth of the mountain, making Wynspar look like an angry demon preparing to rain fire down upon the unrighteous. “We’ve got to move.”
Gaist nodded.
Together, the trio hobbled down the slope, avoiding the frantic Tandosians running about the site. Above them, sparks rose into the gray night sky. Most of the lights were embers, red and orange specks dancing on currents of heat. Several, however, were a brilliant pink, and once they reached sufficient altitude, they flew south over the mountain.
“Messenger sprites, sir,” said the clerk, an Imperial woman in smart, severe robes. She set a scroll on the black leather surface of a cherrywood desk. “From the north site. I think you should read the transcription.”
One of Weaver Ortson’s eyes opened slowly. The other was lost in the folds of his mottled, unshaven face as it rested on the desk like a lump of moldy suet. His monocular gaze fell upon the empty bottle next to him, swiveled up to the stacks of unfinished paperwork on his desk, and finally found the clerk standing before him.
“Fnerf,” he said.
“Sir?”
He sat up, stretching a long trail of spittle from his lips down to the desk. He wiped his mouth, rubbed his eyes, and tried again. “I did not wish to be disturbed, Maive.”
“Yes, sir. But this s-s-seemed important.” The clerk’s voice wobbled as she walked the tightrope of explaining something very obvious to someone very powerful.
Ortson grumbled and cleared his throat as he picked up the scroll and broke the seal. The words on the parchment hit him with the full force of sobriety, a day-long hangover packed into a singular moment of despair.
“How…” His lips flapped uselessly as he wrestled with the message. “How long—”
“They flew in moments ago, sir.”
“And who else has—”
“Nobody, sir. Just us in Special Projects and you.” The clerk thought for a moment. “But presumably the temple and the king have been alerted as well.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Ortson, already struggling out of his chair. He swung his arm in a wide gesture that sent his glass sliding along the desk. “Send for my carriage!”
The glass of amber liquid slid along the bar into the waiting hand of Heraldin Strummons. He raised the whiskey in a toast of thanks to the barman and turned around to survey the taproom of the Winking Cyclops.
It was a bar of Heraldin’s favorite sort, a run-down tavern on the Ridgeward side of the Sixth Tier. The drinks were strong, the beer was cheap, and the tips were usually good for a bard with daring tales. Such establishments were perfect for earning some coin and spending it well.
The bard’s brow furrowed as he caught a glimpse of a familiar face in the crowd; a misshapen nose crisscrossed with scars beneath a mop of furiously orange hair. The man had acquired more crimson lines on his face since Heraldin had last seen him, and the bard had changed as well—he was no longer possessed by an animate hook, for example. Beyond that, Heraldin now had a sense of integrity, albeit a flexible one, and so he took it as his duty to warn the proprietor of the Cyclops about the danger lurking in the crowd.
“Don’t look,” he muttered to the proprietor. He leaned back on the bar in a manner that might be mistaken for relaxing by someone who didn’t understand how spines work. “Your bar is in danger.”
“That so?” The barkeep had the physique and temperament of a Dire Bear. His face was set in a laconic scowl that suggested if anyone was going to be frightened at the Winking Cyclops, he intended to be doing the frightening. He polished his glass in an unconcerned manner. “How?”
“That there is Rod Torkin, safecracker and demolitions expert for Benny Hookhand.” Heraldin nodded toward the scarred man, who had arrived at a table with four other rough-looking individuals. “The man’s a genius for getting through vault doors and complex locks. And there—sitting next to him—that’s his sister Bettel Torkin. She specializes in magic locks. If those two are here, they’re either plotting their next hit or—worse—in the middle of it now.”
The barman glanced over to the group of rogues, and then smirked. “Very funny.”
“This is no joke, friend,” Heraldin insisted. “I’d know those faces anywhere.”
“More like you’ll spot ’em anywhere, even where they ain’t.” The barman picked up a glass and started rubbing it. “They ain’t criminals. Them’s Rod and Grettel Sparklit, and the group they’re with is the Golden Dawn—King Johan’s new party of heroes. If they’re plotting anything, it’d be how to stop these dragon attacks and sort out the Red Horde.”
“Those are Johan’s new crew?” Heraldin couldn’t hide his skepticism.
