1

In the following morning, Izumi and Waramoti both joined Acquiescas on the way to the City Hall. They wouldn’t turn back at the inner wall’s gate either, but followed the aged scholar into the enormous keep, past watchful guardsmen and mighty gates. They passed through a semi-circular courtyard plated with polished gabbro, and tall hallways pierced into the gray-blue gneiss of the mountain. The walls of the regal residence were decorated with conventional oil paintings of past clan heads, as well as colorful tapestries, representing the more sophisticated side of a land once so prone to violence.

At the end of the stony path, the travelers found themselves in a spacious hall that had once been the heart of kingly rule. In the shady far back, protruding directly from the wall, was a cluster of cubic rocks vaguely arranged in the form of a seat. No one sat in that chilling chair, however. At the bottom of the stairs taking up to the throne, had been brought a carved wood chair, quite regal and impressionable on its own, with pelts cast on it for cushion. In that chair sat comfortably Steward Hiyrland, the late King Axhand’s cousin, the present day leader of Dharva, waiting to receive the scholar.

Hiyrland tended to keep no guards with him, only his closest counselor and wife, Melidiba, who stood by the Steward’s chair on the right, wearing a light gray dress and a purple shawl, a noble, self-contained air about her. Both were likely in their early sixties, yet upright and august.

Lord Hiyrland’s jaw was covered by a thick but well-kept brown beard. Of the same color was also his hair, a bit grayed at the temples, and he wore a simple brass band on his brow. He was dressed like a Tudor-era lord of England, Izumi thought, with several layers of clothing, and a voluminous, crimson overcoat, and the mode of dress was more likely due to the lack of effective heating in the building, than a fashion statement. Hiyrland’s eyes were deep brown, the gaze in them somewhat humorous. Against expectations, the Steward didn’t appear too malicious or bitter, even in spite of the tragic fate of his land, but seemed almost like a jovial old uncle, receiving the guests with a cunning smile.

Besides the Steward and his wife, there were only two other people present on this occasion.

One of them was Faalan, standing some six feet left of the Steward’s seat. Between the two stood one more man, only a couple of inches shorter than Faalan, but otherwise quite different from the lightly dressed half-elf in appearance; more robust and dark. That man had hair and short beard black as the night, and no color could be seen in the blackness of his gaze either. Only slightly less black was his attire, with a tough-looking knightly overcoat, loose trousers, and knee-high leather boots. Despite his grim, even a tad sinister looks, the man had composure and majesty about him perhaps superior even to the Steward.

Acquiescas and his followers halted a short distance away from the seat of their host and greeted him with a bow.

“Van Hortz!” the Steward answered them with a cheerful cry. “There you are, hale and whole! Faalan here has regaled me with the tale of your little...adventure last night. Full glad am I to see you still in one piece, my friend! Our noble endeavor would have lost much with your experience and insight! Fortunately, it seems we have our ancestors’ blessing to proceed! That is most reassuring.”

“Thank you, your excellency,” Acquiescas answered with nervous smile, as he briefly recalled what happened. “It was a harrowing experience, believe me. But thanks to my faithful associates, my life was spared.”

“Aah!” Hiyrland gave Izumi and Waramoti a look. “For hired hands, you’ve exhibited commendable valor! And for delivering my valued business partner from undeserved butchery, you have my heartfelt thanks! If there is any way I may reward you for your efforts, pray tell, and I shall spare no expense.”

“I am very pleased that you should say so,” the scholar replied on his guardians’ behalf. “For there is indeed a favor we’ve been meaning to ask of you, your excellency, which is only in your power to grant. You see, my friends are very much of the opinion that the best reward for their efforts would be to let them continue the duty they have so kindly taken upon themselves, and have them join us on the expedition to Eylia.”

Izumi forced a smirk. There were a lot better rewards she could have come up with, but she could only keep quiet for now. Judging by his face, Waramoti felt very much the same.

“Ha!” the Steward laughed. “Faithful indeed are your friends, Van Hortz, and I marvel how you were able to find such close companions in so short a time! Far be it from me to refuse their honorable request! Is not loyalty the virtue we Dharves value the most? Moreover, their business couldn’t come at a better time. Sadly, I must confess that I have had some unexpected trouble finding enough motivated volunteers for our enterprise. Very few these days understand the value of the lessons of history, or the merits of upholding our own culture, let alone why they should risk their well-being for such things. The world is moved solely by coin these days! Highly amusing, isn’t it, Van Hortz? Men would once turn mountains upside down with nothing but grain and ale, yet now they can’t move so much as a finger without gold! These are dark times we live in, where people eat metal instead of bread.”

“That is quite witty of you, your excellency,” Acquiescas replied. “And all too true, even outside of your noble land. As you said, these are dark times—but that makes our cause all the more vital, I believe. Perhaps rediscovering the glorious past will dispel the uncaring stupor we’ve sunken into as a species.”

“Well spoken! And I hope you are right. But, regarding our volunteers, I’ve asked all who have signed up thus far to come to the City Hall today, to carry out a quick head count, assign equipment, and so on. They will gather at the Autumn Hall, soon enough. The crew will be but thirty men strong, I’m afraid, no more. Well, thirty-three, with the recent additions. I am also placing my nephew, Gronan, in charge of the expedition.”

At Hiyrland’s words, the dark-clad man next to Faalan now took a step forward.

“I am Gronan Arkentahl,” he introduced himself with a light nod, his voice ringing powerful in the hall. “I am the head of the clan Tarpit, and the Yarl of Eor. At your service, professor.”

The Steward continued,

“While you, Van Hortz, are the brain of the mission, Gronan shall be the muscle. You are free to do your research at your leisure, as you see fit, but in matters pertaining to your survival and security, I recommend that you listen closely to my nephew. He is a seasoned hunter, a battle-hardened warrior, and knows what life is like outside the safety of our walls. His word will be the law out there. I trust that you all will honor it.”

As he said so, the Steward gave a less warm glance to Izumi and the bard. Despite all he had said, the ruler of Dharva probably didn’t trust outsiders too much.

“Of course,” Acquiescas nodded, before speaking to Gronan, “I am very pleased to have you with us, my lord.”

“Then,” Hiyrland spoke again, “I shall now go through the updated travel plan with Gronan and Van Hortz. Meanwhile, Faalan, would you kindly take our brave new recruits to meet the rest of the crew, and give them what they need?”

“As you wish,” Faalan replied with a bow, and stepped forward to join Izumi and Waramoti, while the others departed towards a doorway in the west side.

Izumi couldn’t avoid noting that Gronan Arkentahl’s sharp gaze lingered on her a little longer than was comfortable, and not necessarily due to romantic attraction.

Yikes. This guy might mean trouble.

2

The summoned champion and the bard followed after Faalan down the corridors of the maze-like keep, only the occasional ray of daylight from somewhere above to clear up their path.

“That went better than expected,” Izumi remarked as they walked.

“Don’t let your guard down,” Faalan advised her. “You don’t earn the Dharves’ trust so easily. The other clans have condemned Owlshead’s actions and removed all of theirs from the expedition lineup as punishment, but the situation is not purely beneficial to us. The fact that you were able to take on Dharvic warriors and win will make them all the more suspicious of you. And I daresay Hiyrland didn’t let you in out of the sheer kindness of his heart.”

“They can doubt me all they like,” she replied. “I’m only on board to keep you in one piece, nothing more.”

“You are placing yourself in unnecessary danger for very questionable gain,” the man pointed out.

“The way you talk all nerdy sure is kinda elf-like. Reminds me of home.”

“I fail to see how having common sense is a trait unique to the emiri.”

“Yes, just like that.”

“I have to say I’m with Faalan on this,” Waramoti told Izumi. “It’s no simple weekend tour that awaits. What you’re about to do goes well above and beyond the call of duty. Not that you are even a real knight of any lord, in official capacity. Are you sure you’ve thought this through?”

“Of course,” Izumi said. “And I told you, I don’t leave things halfway done. When I start something, I see it to the end, no matter how difficult or annoying it gets. I even got Legend and Pacifist trophies on the same playthrough of Human Revol***on, and boy was that a chore. If I need to take Mr Pretty-Boy home for a platinum, then I sure will.”

“You know,” the bard replied, “it makes selling tales of your exploits extremely difficult, when nothing you do or say makes any sense.”

Faalan listened to their exchange with a slight frown.

“...I thought I was away for only a year,” he mouthed. “But it seems a lot has changed with the world meanwhile.”

On the way, the three came to an intersection of two crossing corridors. At the same time, from the shorter left side passage happened to come a young Dharvic man in a stained, gray sweater, the top of a dark pullover tied around his waist. He looked close to Faalan’s age, his face clean-shaven, and he had even fashioned his short hair in a similar style.

Indeed, he appeared to be well-acquainted with the Silver Saber.

“Ey, Faalan!” the man cheerfully called out, spotting the trio, while wiping his stained hands in a towel. “Nice timing! We finally put the first production unit together! Come have a look!”

The visitors paused with questioning faces, and the youth turned around, beckoning for them to follow. Encouraged by the stranger’s upbeat demeanor, they ended up taking a detour and went after him.

“A friend of yours?” Izumi inquired Faalan.

“He’s Aft Canning, the acting head of Clan Wrenchfill,” Faalan introduced the man. “He’s one of the lead engineers of Utenvik, developing new technologies for mining and construction. And...other things.”

“Nice to meet ya!” Aft called back. “You’re the new recruits coming with us, aye? It’s rare to see outsiders involve themselves with us Dharvic folk. But we won’t bite! Hope it’s a sign of the times changing!”

“You’re a clan head? Though you look so young?” Waramoti questioned. “How old are you, exactly?”

“I’m nineteen!” Aft reported without shame. “But it’s just a title I inherited from my pops. It doesn’t mean much in practice, really. We’re all just average working class blokes at Wrenchfill.”

“Don’t be deceived,” Faalan interjected. “Aft is a genuine prodigy. Under his guidance, the heavy industry of Utenvik has adopted systems and devices that were a mere dream five years ago.”

“Oh, he’s just exaggerating!” Aft retorted with a bright laugh.

They followed the corridor down to a wide, rectangular hall, which looked like it had been a royal stable once. Wooden frames of horse stalls were left standing along the walls, together with random bundles of dried hay. There was also a large door in the opposite wall, through which the beasts could be ridden in and out, even in larger groups.

No sign of animals themselves could be seen now, however.

Instead, there were numerous large tables all around, where workers were busily tinkering with mechanical parts, or drawing technical plans. Various odd pieces of iron and what looked like large machine components lay here and there. Littered along the hall floor among them were oil canisters, wrenches, bolts, aluminum tubes, and what looked like leather-made belts. Up in the ceiling were attached large metal rails, with chains and hooks hanging down from them, apparently to assist with moving heavier objects around.

In short, it looked like a factory hall.

And close to the middle of the room stood something very strange.

In front of the visitors’ perplexed eyes was an object that vaguely resembled a giant beetle made of metal, with a round, smooth front part, and a slimmer back end, a narrow saddle on top, as if for a person to ride on. The thing was about twelve feet long, and instead of legs, it had two large, curved skis attached under the heavier front part.

“Eugh!” Waramoti recoiled in disgust at the sight of that enormous, bug-like monster. “What in the Eternals’ name is that!”

“That’s...” Meanwhile, a look of earnest astonishment and awe spread on Izumi’s face. “It’s a snowmobile!”

Though it was quite a bit bulkier and clumsier in appearance compared to the aggressively streamlined models she had seen in her home world, the resemblance to the Earthly vehicle was undeniable.

“Snow...mobile?” Aft repeated. “Hey, not bad! I like the sound of that!”

“But how can it be…?”

“Here, have a look at this.” The engineer smiled and gestured for them to come closer. He approached the beastly machine without fear, cranking the front casing open. Underneath were obviously no bug entrails, but a mechanical engine.

Once again, the design was a bit off from the expected. Instead of a mixed cluster of pipes, plugs, coolers, and fuel containers, there was small casket of what looked like soapstone, with thin metal lines coursing along the surface, and numerous little copper cylinders jutting out of it.

“This is the fruit of years of magitechnical research,” Aft explained, only too happy to show off his work. “See, inside here, you insert bars of refined cheruleum, purest we’ve managed to make up to date. Then, inside these cylinders are small pistons and water. The pistons have an enchantment at the top part here, which begins to emit heat when it comes close to the cheruleum. Increasing heat causes the water to start boiling, and when the water boils it builds up pressure, forcing the piston back, which also stops the heating. When the piston kicks up, it rotates this metal rod inside the engine, generating force. At the same time, the rotation pushes the piston back towards the cheruleum again, starting the process over from the beginning. It all happens very rapidly, and the result is this.”

The man closed the hood and moved on to the central part of the vehicle. There, he grabbed a handle embedded into the side of the machine, put his shoe on the side plate for support, and pulled.

The handle was tied to a string, which retracted it automatically. No second try was needed. At once, the mechanism sprang to life, generating a steady, very engine-like rumble. Since there was no gasoline ignition involved, it was more quiet than an earthly snowmobile, and neither was there foul smoke or smell, though the effect was otherwise nearly identical. Only faint vapor rose from under the hood.

“The generated force goes into winding this mattress underneath the machine, which pulls the whole thing forward, like a horse of steel!” the mechanic yelled at them over the noise. “But it can pull a lot more than an average horse would! There is a bit of a problem with overheating in indoors testing, but riding it out in the snow should keep it suitably balanced. Just need to take a break every few hours to refuel and let it cool. Very little chance of explosion!”

The man turned off the engine with a switch, and spun back to the spectators, crossing his arms with a look of self-satisfaction.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Have you ever seen anything like it before? These babes are gonna take us to Eylia. The trip that would take months on foot—we’re gonna cross it in three days tops.”

“I’d say you’ve outdone yourself, Aft,” Faalan told him. “It honestly frightens me to think there are geniuses of your caliber in the world.”

“Ahaha! Praise me more!” Aft laughed loud in response. “Coming from the Silver Saber himself makes it that much more special! But well...” The mechanic resumed in a more somber tone. “It was my old man who was the real genius. I’m just piecing together what he left me.”

“It’s really, really impressive, all right!” Izumi said as well, unable to hide her excitement. “If only you put wheels in place of the skis, you’d get a real, working car too! It’s marvelous!”

“Wheels?” Aft repeated with a chuckle, raising his brows. “What are you talking about, why would I put wheels on it? They’d just sink in the snow and the whole thing would get stuck.” Then, glancing at Faalan, he added, “This is why you don’t see a lot of female engineers, I suppose.”

Looking like she had stepped on dinosaur excrement, Izumi turned disturbingly quiet.

“We should be on our way,” Faalan said.

“You’re going to the crew info?” Aft asked him. “Nice! I’ve got a little something special for y’all, you’ll see it then. Do look forward to it!”

The three bid farewell to Aft, left the factory hall, and continued on towards the place where the expedition members were expected to gather.

“Could it be, they actually like you in here?” Izumi asked Faalan on the way. “Even though you were mortal enemies only a few years ago?”

“The Dharves are honorable people,” Faalan answered her as he walked on. “They respect strength, whether it is their own, or that of their enemy. The fact that we were once trying to kill each other isn’t something they would hold against me. It is unfairness and treachery they loathe. They do not detest the Empire because they lost the war, but because of what the Emperor did to them after the fact. Punishing and humiliating those who have already surrendered, ruining their livelihood, blackmailing them through trade and sanctions, sending spies and saboteurs in their midst to sow discord—such underhanded measures they cannot suffer. And who ever could?”

Waramoti raised a brow at his words, his old mercenary blood stirring.

“Why, it’s beginning to sound like you’ve joined them in earnest,” he remarked.

Faalan remained silent for some time before answering.

“His majesty ordered me to learn what the Dharves know of Precursor technology,” he said. “Steal what is useful, eliminate anyone who might become a threat. I cannot deny that my goals may have...shifted over the course of the mission. There’s no denying that I have begun to sympathize with the locals. At the same time, I believe this is no longer about either nation’s political advantage. The Precursors’ legacy may affect the future of mankind as a whole. No, the future of all the world. There may be a reason why such power has vanished from the pages of history. It does not belong to anyone.”

“You mean to say,” the bard spoke, “that even if a method to bend others to your will happened to fall right into your hands, you would have no intention whatsoever of abusing it for your own good? You would insist that a person of your past has no ill feelings towards mankind, or the Empire?”

“I have none,” Faalan answered outright. “The Empire took me in when I had no one. I found a place there when I was alone and without a purpose. Companions, friends. The Empire is where my family is. If there is any way I may repay what I’ve been given, I will. But not with powers that are more likely to do harm than good.”

“Well, rejoice then,” Izumi told him. “I’m fairly sure our new ruler doesn’t want or need ancient super weapons. Your mission’s already over. So if and when we do find such a thing, I’ll be more than happy to bust it up for you.”

“...I am not sure I see your meaning.”

“There’s a new sovereign in Bhastifal these days,” Waramoti informed the confused warrior. “The previous Emperor’s orders no longer apply.”

“Ah, the Empress. So I’ve heard,” Faalan replied. “Be that as it may, with orders or without, I cannot allow the Dharves to uncover the Precursors’ secret. Otherwise, they are sure to have us taste our own medicine. And what we did to them—I would not wish such fate on my worst enemy.”

“...”

To this Waramoti had no retort, but he fell silent and looked away.

3

Quite a crowd awaited in the Autumn Hall, which was considerably less glamorous or atmospheric than the name suggested; a barren stone hall in the corner of the palace complex, with a low ceiling and little furniture or decorations. Not even a solitary carpet on the floor. Perhaps it had been full of dance and merry-making in the days of the past kings, but such activities were in short supply in the Dharva of today.

The Steward had kindly sponsored basic traveling gear for the volunteers, made on order, seeing as commonly available market equipment would likely not do in the extreme conditions that awaited. The handed set included large, reinforced backpacks, insulated sleeping bags, thick traveling mattresses, mess kits, sturdy hiking boots, pairs of warm mitts, sets of thermal underwear, several pairs of woolen socks, tight-knit sweaters, and neckwarmers, and more. Bringing own additions was strongly encouraged, and no armors or weapons were supplied.

There were various helpful tools handed out instead: firestones, elementally charged, which, when struck together, released a small flame for starting campfires or stoves; compact oil heaters, which could be used to warm food, boil water, or melt snow; rope, tin wire, bandage, a jar of grease for treating frostbites, a set of shaded goggles for preventing snow blindness, and so on. The organizers had spent the preparatory time wisely, it seemed.

The recruits stood or sat in the hall amid their backpacks, awaiting further instructions.

These thirty mercenaries would make real Acquiescas’s lifelong dream of unveiling the northern people’s past. And none of the thirty appeared to be in it for the cultural enrichment of mankind, archaeological interest, or even general good will. Most of them were clearly either here on their clan leaders’ orders, or else hired hands, soldiers of fortune, who endlessly roamed the continent in search of paid work.

“My, my.” Izumi sighed, looking around. “This team isn’t much of a diversity statement.”

Indeed, there was not one woman among the crew, beside Izumi herself. All in all, they looked like a band torn from the darkest alleyways and eeriest lairs of the continent, rogues without a hint of chivalry, courtesy, or empathy on their rough faces. One was more likely to see grim barbarians of this caliber burning down coastal villages of Steinvel in search of plunder, rather than aiding in the excavation of ancient pottery. Izumi wasn’t disappointed anymore; they were surely the sort of “vikings on steroids” she had been expecting to see all along. Though she never imagined she would be stuck traveling with such a lot into mortal peril.

What would become of the journey in such a company?

One man stood a distance apart from the rest, holding a slim stack of papers in his hands.

“Looks like we have all the piglets together then,” the man said, greeting the last three with a nod.

He was a local, by the looks of him, a well-fed man in his forties or so, with a thick, brown beard framing his face. His hair was of the same color, cut clean above the brows, the bangs combed apart in the middle. He was dressed in a cozy gray sweater and dark green trousers with suspenders, black leather boots on his feet, making him resemble a stereotypical Canadian lumberjack to a disorienting degree.

Showing no hint of stage fright over standing before that beastly crowd, the man urged the latecomers to come in.

“Just join the line and we’ll get started with the formalities.”

Faalan, Izumi, and Waramoti faced the thirty hardened troopers ahead. Nothing they could do but get on with the show.

Now that they looked closer, the stares directed at them were not merely suspicious, or malevolent—they were downright flabbergasted. Like seeing ghosts, some of the men stood mouth hanging agape, sincerely at a loss of words.

What could have astonished them so?

Then one of them, a red-bearded northerner sitting on a supply container, found his voice.

“Faalan?” he exclaimed, total exasperation in his tone. “You brought your friggin’ mum?”

“We are...not related,” Faalan replied, slightly taken aback.

“Eeh, are you talking about me now!?” Izumi gasped, pointing at herself. “No matter how you look, I’m not old enough to have an adult son! Gosh no! (Even though it might be technically possible...)”

“And who’s the kid?” someone else asked.

Here, Waramoti stepped forward with a haughty smile.

“I,” he announced, “I am the Wandering Bard! He, who shall record your great adventure in song, to be soon heard in all the corners of the free world, and remembered ever after!”

“A bard?”

“Indeed! And all those of you, who do not want your names to be preserved for posterity, please tell me so in advance, so that I’ll know to exclude you from the narrative. Thank you!”

He ended his introduction with a comical bow.

No one protested. Most were nodding with faces of mild approval. Having such quests be accompanied by minstrels was nothing out of the ordinary, after all.

But there was someone clearly with an issue. The red-bearded man.

He hopped off the container and stepped over the stone floor—towards Izumi.

“Bards are one thing,” the mercenary said. “The kid’s a man. A very, very dumb man, maybe, but still a man. But this ainnae trip for the womenkind, no. They bring nothing but bad luck with them, wherever they appear. And where we’re going, we need none of that.”

The mercenary stopped right in front of Izumi, a head taller, his blue eyes staring down at her. To contrast with his beard, the top of his head sported a clean burr cut. The right side of his face was cleaved by a blue tattoo of crossing lines and dots, which ran on down his neck, shoulder, and arm, bared by his sleeveless tank top. His ears were pierced with steel rings and beads, and there was a pale, old scar going across his forehead, above the left brow. The man’s body was not that beefy, but there was not an ounce of fat on him either, making his tight muscles that much more pronounced.

As such, the man was quite the grim and dangerous sight.

“Look,” he told the woman, sticking his chin out, articulating deliberately slowly and clearly. “I dunno whose nether regions you massaged to get in here. But I kindly suggest that you go back. Before somebody gets...hurt.”

Izumi exhaled a sigh, making a troubled face.

“Er, is this where I’m meant to prove myself or something?” she pondered. “Oh well, as you wish.”

Without further ado, she proceeded to give the man a swift, solid kick in his shin.

“OWWWWWWWW!” the red-bearded mercenary cried out and stumbled. He started hopping and limping around the hall in evident agony, before pausing to rub his leg. “Ow! Ow! Ow! GODS DANG IT!”

The rest turned to the howling man, looking startled.

—“Wow, are you all right, Tidaal?”

—“By the mighty! That looked like it hurt!”

—“Sheesh, so violent!”

“Well, Hel yeah, that hurt, what do you expect!” the man called Tidaal kept grimacing, kneeling on the floor, and turned an accusing scowl at Izumi. “What the crapolio did you do that for!?”

“Ah, I’m sorry?” Izumi apologized, tilting her head in confusion. “Was I not supposed to do that? I thought this is the scene where I earn approval by kicking your butt?”

“I was only trying to give honest advice!” he insisted. “Kick an arse that’s not mine, for Fou’s sake!”

Izumi turned a helpless look at Waramoti, who merely shrugged.

“Just leave him be.”

The commotion died down eventually and the Dharvic headsman was able to get started with his introduction. Holding in his hands a name list, he gave everyone a quick look and began, sounding about as formal as someone hosting a hunting club gathering.

“Gentlemen...ladies. Welcome to the house of Steward Hiyrland of Utenvik. Enjoy your stay, brief though it will be. My lord asked me to express his regret at not being here to receive you, but he is currently occupied elsewhere, going through some final checks with the big brains. As for myself, I am Marcus Orellus of the clan Tarpit, the second-in-command for this expedition, and also something of a personnel manager. Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you, and if I don’t know the answer, then it doesn’t matter.”

He paused for a bit, letting everyone digest his words, before resuming.

“First of all, I’d like to thank you all for showing up. As you can see, our crew is quite small, but don’t let that bother you. You’re all known as professionals who get things done, hand-picked for this mission, and we have unwavering confidence in your ability to see things through.”

Izumi could only assume that she and the bard weren’t included in this, seeing as the organizers couldn’t have known the next thing about them.

“As you all should know, we depart from Utenvik tomorrow morning, at sunrise. Our goal is the lost city of Eylia, estimated to stand about five hundred miles northeast from where we are, give or take. According to our unbelievably optimistic travel plan, we are to reach there in three days or so. What happens at the destination, we’ll see once we’re there. No one really knows. My guess is, there’ll be some digging, and snow, and ice, and everybody will be cold and pissed, maybe we’ll find something worth a lot of money, or maybe we won’t. The chance of failure is always there. But don’t worry, you’ll get your pay. Unless you die and never come back, then you won’t.”

Marcus held up a paper, which was apparently a copy of the document everyone had been made to sign, before explaining,

“The small print in your contract here says we take no responsibility for whatever happens to you, or compensate your families in case of death. You ‘accept all the risks that are inherent to such ventures and result to dire natural conditions, and agree to join this expedition at your own peril.’ I’m sorry, I know this is terribly boring, but I am obligated to tell you this. Just, so that no one can come complain afterwards about how they didn’t know what they signed up for. Now you know; you signed up for nothing good. I must also remind you that you are, as of the moment you signed the contract, under a ‘non-disclosure agreement’, and are not allowed to tell anybody about what we’re doing or where we’re going. The NDA is in effect for sixty years, so you may tell your great-grandchildren, if you’re still alive then.”

“What about the bard?” someone interrupted him to ask.

“What?” Marcus paused and glanced up.

“What about the bard? He said he’s gonna sing about us around the world. Isn’t that against the, eh, N-D-A?”

“Shut up, Vikland, let the kid dream.”

The curious mercenary was quickly silenced.

Swapping the placement of his papers, Marcus moved on.

“As you may have already heard, the Gronan Arkentahl will lead the expedition. Yes, the very same. You all know him, and you also know the leaf-eared man standing over there. The Silver Saber will be coming with us, and he is the third in rank, responsible for the internal security of the crew. If you’ve got any questions, don’t ask him, he will only tell you the truth, and that’s no fun.”

The mercenaries laughed at the comment, whereas Faalan himself showed no hint of a smile. He wasn’t particularly expressive, as Izumi had noted. Maybe it was in his blood?

“Next,” Marcus continued, “representing clan Tarpit beside myself and Gronan, we have Tordith, Orik, and Vikland. All present. Glad you could make it. Check.”

He marked the names off the list with a pen as he called them.

“Representing clan Wrenchfill, we have Aft—who’s not here—and Till, who’s...ah, right there. You’re too small, I could barely see you. Stand up, or something. Aft and Till are our mechanics, by the way. They’ll take care of all the little gadgets and other overly complicated shit we’ll be bringing with us. Please lend them a hand with that if you can. It’s going to be a major pain in the ass, you just know it.”

Izumi wasn’t quite sure if a revolutionary invention like a functional snowmobile could be dismissed as “overly complicated shit”, but the round went on.

“Representing clan Alelard, we have Joort, Ehtys, and Minsk. They are our provisions experts. Our cooks, in the Common Tongue. If you’ve got a problem with the food, like there not being any meat in the meat soup, take it to these braves—I don’t want to hear a word of it! None. Okay?”

The three cooks looked anything but happy with the introduction, their professional pride deeply wounded.

“Then, clan Innsland! Tomas, Ren, and Vil. Also known as, ‘dead weight’. Yep, all here.”

The Dharves called Tomas, Ren, and Vil, weren’t too happy with the label either and protested loudly.

“Yes, yes,” Marcus added as an afterthought, “they’re pretending to be some kind of historians, helping that—what’s his name again? You know, the mad professor? Bet none of them could tell a third cycle helmet apart from my aunt’s piss-pot, but that’s none of my business.”

“One of those is the thing you drink from!” Vil yelled at him.

“Don’t talk to me like that, I’m your boss,” Marcus retorted, and carried on. “Representing clan Helmstruck, we have Miklas, there, Ritol, there, and Siphis too. Our heavy weapon and armor specialists. If somebody has trouble getting to sleep at night, ask these guys, they’ll make sure you never wake up again. Or if you do, it’ll be with a Hel of a headache.”

Though no battle appeared immediately forthcoming, the aforementioned Dharves were clad in heavy armoring from head to feet, and somewhat difficult to recognize. Only the one called Miklas didn’t cover his crumpet, showing his ugly, scarred bald.

Why were such heavily armored troops needed on an archaeological expedition? Likely for the same reason all those innocent space voyages in the sci-fi movies involved marines armed to the teeth, Izumi assumed.

“From clan Rawround,” Marcus continued, “Ames, Selver, Phos, and Trod. All present. Yes, you can count on these guys to be there when money is involved. They’ll be responsible for cataloging and appraising any items we come across on this trip, jewelry, gems, minerals, metals, ancient turds, you name it. Before you put anything in your pockets, show it to these guys first. That’s no joke. It’s in your contract, you have to. All loot will be divided absolutely fair and square. We catch any of you carrying off stuff unannounced, I’ll have metal mom there kick your shins.”

Everybody laughed, except Izumi. And Faalan, of course, who seemed physically incapable of it. Izumi was a little insulted by how hard Waramoti was laughing.

“Then, from clan Knobout, we have Weller and Tuberkan. Our nature, mountaineering, and wildlife experts. If something out there happens to eat your face, they’ll be able to tell you what it was. They’ve probably tasted it too. The animal, I mean, not your face. You should cover your mugs while you sleep, just to be sure. The upside is, they can be our cooks after wolves eat our actual cooks, and things can only get better from there.”

The trio from clan Alelard maintained their sour silence.

“Ah, then there’s our dedicated medical team,” Marcus introduced. “Helmich and Elvir, a pair of brothers of different mothers. The best they can do is wrap you up in bandages and drown you in vodka, so please, please, do not get hurt. Helmich claims he’s got some kind of magic gifts, but that’s just him trying to get ladies. And failing miserably.”

Helmich and Elvir were quite young, among the most normal-looking members of the crew, and cheerfully raised their hands at being mentioned, not letting the poor humor offend.

“Wow, this is one long list,” Marcus remarked, “I don’t think I’ve read this many words in my whole life up until this point. But there’s still more. We didn’t want to put all of our own eggs in one basket, so we’re feeding the wolves some outsiders too. Unaffiliated: Tidaal Virnan, a mercenary from the Highlands.”

The red-bearded man shot his fist high up and looked around. “Yep, that’s me, folks!”

“Our expert at trash talk, apparently. Well, every trip needs its clown.”

“Hey, I am a man of my word!” Tidaal protested. “No bullshit.”

“You may also remember this guy’s name from that ill-fated raid in Fienna a few years back,” Marcus added. “But let’s not talk about that here.”

“Uh, that was my brother, not me,” the mercenary claimed, and kept quiet for some time after.

Meanwhile, Marcus went on,

“Next up, we have Mr Gubal Tari, a wandering mercenary from the isle of Estua.”

Gubal was a dark man in a hooded crimson robe, a wide, sharp-looking scimitar hanging from his belt. Only the whites of his eyes could be seen from under the hood.

“I’ve never heard about this guy before,” Marcus said, “but he was okay with one hot meal, ten coppers per day, and standard share of the loot. Respect.”

Judging by their expressions, the others appeared to feel more pity than respect for Gubal’s ascetic demands.

“Next is...am I pronouncing this right? ‘Hrugnaw Mal’wahrak’? A crulean mercenary from the Northern Continent. As you can probably tell.”

Though she had heard the term mentioned various times before, Izumi had never seen a real crulean before.

Now, it was very hard not to see him.

Hrugnaw was enormous, at least eight feet tall, and looked like something sculpted directly out of rock. Vaguely resembling a mix of a buffalo and an alligator, on two feet and without a tail, his rough hide was dark brown, and covered here and there in stony scales. From under a pair of thick, curving horns gazed a pair of red bovine eyes. The creature’s arms were the most humanoid part of the odd form, though much thicker and heavier than the limbs of any man, with wide, shovel-like hands, and five thick, clawed fingers. The wide chest was covered with a simplistic armor plate, and he wore metal-colored trousers of some strange fabric, fastened on with numerous belts. The stubby legs were stuffed in heavy, steel-reinforced boots, and a small child could have likely hidden in one completely.

“It went pretty well,” Hrugnaw commented on Marcus’s pronunciation in a low, rumbling voice, like that produced by the shifting of tectonic plates, his sharp fangs flashing. “Stress on the last syllable. Hrug-naaw.”

“Oh. Okay,” Marcus nodded and marked the name on the list.

“Um, excuse me,” Izumi felt forced to interject, raising her hand, “why is everyone here acting like there’s nothing weird about having a gigantic monster that looks like a balrog in here?”

“—Uuuuuhhhhh,” everyone cringed hard at her comment.

“What?” she looked around. “It’s pretty strange to me!”

“Thanks,” Hrugnaw muttered, looking away. “I really needed that.”

“Eehhh...? Did I hurt its feelings now?” Izumi asked, even more astonished.

“Hey.” Waramoti elbowed her, wearing a look of disbelief. “Why are you being such a bully today?”

“Eh, but...!” she insisted. “Are you telling me this is normal around here?”

“Faalan,” Marcus spoke, “could you tell your mom not to be such a racist and apologize to Hrugnaw? We will be having none of that on this mission.”

“I’m not doing it on purpose!” Izumi cried. But ended up apologizing anyway.

After this bizarre exchange, the introductory round was able to go on.

“Then, we have Taun Pinrhost, a hunter from Cotlann,” Marcus said, going down the list.

Taun was—a hunter from Cotlann.

Not a hunter of monsters, by the looks of it, but that of raccoons.

As if he’d merely lost his way on a casual Sunday stroll, Taun looked like a regular middle-aged man dressed in a coat made of pelts, a hat like that of Davy Crockett, and he carried a long, wooden crossbow on his back. A slightly detached look on his otherwise friendly face, Taun stood out in the grim crowd almost as bad as Hrugnaw.

“Taun got lost on a hiking trip and ended up wandering to Dharva, apparently,” Marcus explained. “He was okay with one hot meal a day and 0.2% cut of the loot, so I made the deal of the day there.”

“Yeah, I’m happy with that,” the man called Taun insisted. “It’s reasonable.”

The mercenaries struggled not to laugh. The standard cut of the loot was one percent, so Taun had been royally fooled.

“Next up,” Marcus went down the list without a hint of shame. “...Is Onslow. That would be Taun’s dog.”

A large dog with drooping ears and wavy, cream-colored fur sat on the floor next to Taun. At the mention of its name, the dog let out a singular, heavy bark.

“Woof!”

“Oh, who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?” Marcus leaned over to babble at the dog. “Yeah, you are! I’ll get you a bone, you’d want a bone, wouldn’t you, a big juicy shinbone?”

“Woof!” the dog barked again.

“What is up with this expedition…?” Izumi mumbled, feeling an imaginary sweat drop on her brow. They really had to have been short on volunteers. By now, the claim about everyone being a handpicked professional had proved a terrible lie.

“What? Don’t tell me you’ve got a bone to pick with dogs too?” Marcus heard her and asked.

“No, not at all!” Izumi exclaimed. “I actually like dogs a whole lot!”

“Grrr...” Onslow looked at the woman and lowered its head, letting out a low growl.

“Well, the dog doesn’t like you,” Marcus observed.

Izumi hung her face in shame.

“Finally, we’re nearing the end of the list!” The man announced, picking up. “The next person is...Eez...Ezh...How on earth do you pronounce this? I’m getting tongue-tied. Eezy?”

“Ah, could it be me?” Izumi asked. “I’m Izumi, Itaka Izumi.”

“Eth...Etha-ga...Ezoo...Can anybody here actually repeat that?”

Marcus looked around. Next, the thirty people in the hall attempted to repeat Izumi’s name aloud, the way she had said it, with varying levels of success. And Izumi hid her flustered face in her hands, wishing the earth would swallow her.

“Okay,” Marcus finally concluded the experiment. “You’re Faalan’s mom. End of discussion. There, it’s on the paper.”

The man crossed over Izumi’s name and wrote a replacement entry, while Izumi was too dumbstruck to even protest.

“We are not related by blood,” Faalan insisted.

“At least call me his sister!” Izumi requested, on the verge of tears.

“The bard’s the last. ‘Mr Bard’. Done,” Marcus declared, not listening, checking the last name, before putting away his pen and rolling up the list. “That’s it, that’s all of us. We’re finished here, and I’m never doing name-calling again, ever. Now, who’s hungry?”