A horse was provided for Cartus, a beautiful roan with clear, intelligent eyes, and the hunters prepared to set out once again.

Gorren was slightly surprised by how quickly the Knights set aside Exford’s little stunt. It was like there was an unspoken general agreement to forget, if not to forgive. It would undoubtedly flare up again as a topic in private conversations but right now cold courtesy seemed enough to show how much of an improperly it has been. Leon took that in stride, retiring behind the group of his personal retainers to sulk.

The hunters bid goodbye to their friends and family, receiving the blessings of their elders or the wistful gazes, mementos, or the last sign of affection from their ladies.

Then they were away, riding through the plain.

Gorren rode beside the Duke, his roan easily keeping pace with the man’s dark horse. The dogs ranged ahead of them, John actually riding one of the Dires to stand between them.

Moving as a group, they rode through the plain and plunged into the woods. The horses, smaller and more agile than the massive chargers that the nobles would use in open battle, easily moved even though the light undergrowth, trotting between the trees while the knights were careful of low branches.

The Duke led with certainty, never hesitating in choosing the direction. The man had tucked a kerchief given to him by his wife into the wrist of his armband, the embroidered cloth slapping against his hand as he rode.

Gorren smiled a little at that.

Eventually, they emerged on the top of a stunted hill. The trees gave way there and then, allowing for the sun to shed light on an irregular rock formation. Numerous hunters rested or waited there, swathed in the light brown and green needed to camouflage oneself into the forest. Shouts and cheers went and were exchanged as the nobles trotted through them, the men getting up or offering greetings to their betters.

A tall, thin man swathed in splotched green waited for them before a camp table covered with a large map drawn with charcoal.

“Alistar!” The Duke called, reining his horse in front of the man. “Any progress?” The question held the authority of a commander asking reports from a subordinate.

Alistar, that Gorren would come to know as the Duke’s huntmaster, put a closed fist over his earth and bowed.

“We found the trace, milord,” he said grimly. The man’s face was weathered by years on the prowl, the skin sunburned and stained left by previous sicknesses. “The men are following it as we speak.”

Eager murmurs passed through the nobles. Hands clenched over weapons’ handles.

The duke nodded, showing nothing of his thoughts.

“Good.” He turned to address his companions. “Shall we start to prepare, gentlemen?”

There was a general agreement, and the nobles dispersed to gather their own men.

Edward dismounted, quickly followed by Cartus.

“How long ago they started following the trace?” The duke asked. Any shred of amiability was gone from him. Here on the field, he was a hard, uncompromising, coolheaded commander.

“A couple of hours ago,” the hunter replied.

Edward looked upon the map for a long moment. “Not too long now,” he said eventually. “They can’t be lairing much further than here.” He pointed on a series of forested hills represented on the map in broad strokes. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have the time to come and go from their nightly raids. Hags like to sleep in their cove.” He turned to his man. “What’s the name of this location?”

“The hills are called the Olgas, milord,“ the hunter replied dutifully. “Dunno why,” he added with a shrug at his lord’s arched eyebrow.

The shadow of a smile passed over the Duke’s face. He drew back, adjusting one of his gauntlets. “Well, we’ll see. It’s only a matter of time now.”

His serious glance was for Cartus, that just nodded. He was ready to fight.

Gorren glanced toward the map. “We’re skirting the deep woods,” he said. “There will undoubtedly be some fey around, the worst kind if they decided to throw their lot with Hags.”

“Indeed.” The Duke seemed unconcerned. “But i am confident it won’t be a problem. This close to villages fey presence isn’t consistent, and we have eighty men on our side. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Cartus nodded slowly. He didn’t completely share the man’s confidence. Fey were always unreliable to do what humans thought they should.

“I am still quite surprised though,” he suddenly said, earning a quizzical look from the Duke. “When i heard of a hunt, i thought of boars and deers. It seems that the Knights prefer a more difficult kind of preys instead.”

“Indeed.” There wasn’t a shred of amusement in the Duke. “As Aethyr and warriors, we do what our duty ask for.” His expression softened. “The deer was just a lucky chance. The game of the day is far bigger.”

Cartus chuckled.

Their discussion was interrupted by the arrival of the priestess of Atlanta.

“Duke, sir Cartus, a moment of your time if you don’t mind.” The woman’s coldly authoritative tone showed that she expected to receive an audience.

“Of course, priestess Amaliel,” the duke said with respect. The man beat a closed fist over his chest in the traditional greetings of the worshippers of the Siblings of War.

Gorren put up an equal respectful air, hiding the fact that he watched the woman intently. Tall and wiry, apart from the armor, what distinguished her from the other hunters was the thin sword she carried at the waist. Apart from that, she looked all the parts a warrior rather than a priest.

The priestess acknowledged the formalities with a quick nod before moving straight to business.

“Sir Cartus, you mentioned that your Aethyr hasn’t exhausted even after years of lacking maintenance. I would be very interested if you could offer some explanation about it.” Despite the calm with which she delivered the question, the intensity of her gaze showed that she had raked her mind over the question a lot already.

Gorren wasn’t surprised. An unlimited Aethyr would have even the old leeches of Truvia foam at the mouth with greed.

The Duke glanced subtly toward his guest, torn between the discourtesy of such a direct question, the respect for the clergy, and his own interest. Even amidst all the matter with Exford he hadn’t forgotten about the strange Aethyr Cartus claimed to possess.

If he was concerned or bothered by it, the old man didn’t show it. Still, his expression was serious.

“It’s probably as you already guessed, priestess,” Cartus said. “My Aethyr comes from the Nightwalker.”

Edward almost jumped at that. The Death Aethyr?

“So, it’s as i thought…” Thoughtful, he priestess coolly observed the old man. Suddenly, she extended a hand. “Can i check?”

Anyone else offering something like that would have provoked outrage in the duke, but it was a priest they were talking about here. To his approval, Cartus offered his own hand readily.

The priestess grasped it and focused. Edward felt his own Aethyr react sympathetically as the woman searched inside of Cartus’ aura. Eventually, she blinked and let him go.

“Yes, the Death Aethyr is in you,” she murmured, shaking her head as to shake off some slight dizziness. “How rare…” The glance she threw Cartus’ way was suspicious. “The Bonespeakers don’t offer their Aethyr but to a very few, and even then nobody but they truly understand why. I suppose that you are under oath of secrecy about it as well?” Her tone let out a secret hope he could let out something about whatever Rite had been done to him.

Cartus nodded, face unreadable.

The priestess’ expression hardened. Without saying nothing, she bowed and stalked away.

Gorren watched her go. Rearranging his internal Mana to resemble the element of death had been easy. More pleasingly, now he had the attention of the clergy. Death Aethyr were feared or held in awe but always respected. The fame of being one would give him clout in his talking with them.

“Sir Cartus.” Edward watched him with newfound respect. Death Aethyr were rare to the point of being legendary between the ranks of the Knights.

Gorren’s expression softened.

The Duke hesitated, feeling very much like a child before an old veteran. “Forgive my asking but… did it hurt?”

Death Aethyr were as secretive as the Bonespeakers that created them but amongst the little he knew there was that the Aethyr called from the Nightwalker constantly tormented those that bore it in their chests. That was why nobody wanted to carry it, even with the advantage of having an endless Aethyr.

His question stirred Gorren’s memory. The flash of weariness and pain clouding his eyes wasn’t faked.

“Yes,” he said. “But i bear it. It’s my duty.”

The Duke remained speechless. What could he ever say?

Thankfully, a courier arrived just then, announcing that they had found the Hags’ cove. Edward immediately kicked back into a cool commander, ordering for people to move out at once.

The order was welcomed by cheers and shouts. The nobles were ready and eager, but even they couldn’t match how bloodthirsty many of the commoners present were. They lived or had friends living in the villages that had been attacked, and all knew the victims. They would see their murderers pay.

The nobles mounted up and moved, each an Aethyr charged and ready. Dozens of dogs, many having been added to the first pack, ranged ahead, their custodians running amongst them. Behind came the foot hunters: armigers of the households of the nobles or commoners that had volunteered or had been commanded to take part in the hunt.

Almost one hundred men, moving as one. Even Gorren felt touched by the feeling of the hunt, of the united sense of purpose of so many moving together toward one enemy. Beside him, the Duke’s eyes blazed with intensity through his helm.

At regular intervals, they meet other hunters, sweat-covered men left to signal the path to take.

The group moved through the forest and then through rugged terrain, rocks and bushes making the path treacherous. Still, the hunters were experienced in their craft and moved nimbly across it. Even the horsemen barely slowed down in their going, their mounts trained to move through that type of terrain. Eventually, they emerged from the trees to watch down on a basin-like valley. The forest ended on the rim of sharp decline, all ragged terrain and stones, settled in a short plain and then ascended again into a desolate ridge where only shrubs and scattered rock formations lay. The ridge ended in a rocky hill topped by a tangle of twisted trees, their leafless branches stretching outward like skeletal fingers. Crows circled the sky above.

As they looked upon the hill all knights and hunters felt a shiver. There was an evil power nesting there, hidden and waiting.

The Duke pushed his horse to the rim of the decline, looking over the place with calm coolness.

“Alistar,” he called, and the dark hunter seemed to materialize at his side. “What do your scouts say?”

“That’s the place, milord,” the hunter said grimly, bow in hand. “The traces all end up there.” He nodded toward the eerie hill.

“That is the first of the Olgas, i suppose.”

“Yes, milord.”

“Does this small valley has a name?”

“They call it No-Eyes’ Cup, milord. And that ridge leading up, that’s Bone Ridge.” The hunter frowned. “Not for a good reason, i am told.”

“Mh, what of your scouts?”

“They are moving as they speak, milord. They’ll make sure there isn‘t any bad surprise around.”

Edward didn’t reply, looking down in silence. Methodically, he took in the terrain, analyzing the sharpness of the incline, thinking about the best routes of approach, the energy his warriors would need to come down and then up, the noise they would make and dozens of other details, each as second nature to a veteran of warring with the Fey like him.

“Convey to your men my satisfaction,” he said eventually. “They did well.”

Alistar bowed.

“From here, it’ll be the work of steel.” The Duke turned to Cartus. “Sir, i will have to be impolite enough to ask you to step away. Me and the other commanders have to convene for a strategy.”

The old man accepted graciously. Until then, he had been treated as an honored guest but now it was wartime and, as much as respected he was, a place in the war council wasn’t something that could be given at a first-time member.

Watching the old man trot away, Edward wondered about that strange figure that managed to stir his emotions in such a way. A Death Aethyr, a great warrior, a great man, and who knows what else? It seemed that the riddle known as Lucius Cartus wouldn’t ever stop of putting him in awe.

His lieutenants of the day joined him quickly: all Counts sworn to fealty to the Crofford, both brothers and sisters in arms and trusted friends. Edward watched them all. There were three of them: Lise Heather, Michael Oakroot, Mason Avery. Owen was present as well, acting as his second. Soon after them came the priestess, Amaliel. As well as her honored position, it was her Goddess’ domain that allowed her a place in the council: Atlanta was a goddess of strategy where her Brother held sway over brutality.

The Duke went straight to the point. “Gentlemen, the hill you see before you is likely the lair of your quarry. I’d like to hear your suggestions about a plan of attack.”

“First of all, we must be certain that the Hags are inside.” Lise, prim and beautiful, was the first to speak.

“It’s very likely. Hags hate remaining outside during the day.”

“Can we be sure they haven’t be forewarned of our arrival?” Michael asked, the man the very image of dutiful attention.

“We cannot. We lost the certainty of surprise when we missed our mark this morning.”

The thing still stung but none of the three made that present. That wasn’t a place for recriminations.

“I watched the terrain, milord,” Owen said. “It shows signs of excavations.”

“They’ve been digging for something?” Mason asked. Despite being built like a bear, the man looked almost puny beside the massive Owen.

“More like burying,” the priestess interjected. “The Hags worship Magog, a God so vile that not even the Greenskins abide. Among other things, the monster provides them with knowledge about how to perform necromancy.”

The mention of that dark magic, darkest even amongst all the forbidden practice, set a dark cloud over the meeting.

“So they’ve been burying bodies…” Mason mused. “Ready to be called back up when the need arises.”

Edward thought about it for a moment. “There may be more to it,” he said. “Alistar informed me that this place is called after the Nightwalker. I suspect some type of graveyard.”

“You suspect that we will be swamped with undead the moment we set foot in that basin?”

“Less of a suspect and more of a certainty.” Edward frowned. “Hags are just crafty enough to come up with something like that. And the position of the lair is obviously a precise choice.”

“We’ll smash through then!” Mason exclaimed. The other Counts nodded in approval. Hags lacked the magical proficiency to summon very powerful undead, and they had enough Aethyr and warriors there that they could bust through even a thousand zombies.

“I advise caution,” the priestess said. “These creatures always hold some measure of unpredictability. And it’s likely they have enlisted the help of other Fey.”

That drew the grudging assent of the Counts. They fought enough of the beasts to know how things went after all.

“Yeah, i approve,” the Duke agreed. “Still, we’ll have to reach that hill to shut down the Hags. So count that they will make their spells rain down on us as we deal with the undead. And no horses of course. The terrain doesn’t allow for it.”

They passed some more minutes discussing before finally coming to an agreement that satisfied everybody, especially the priestess, that showed herself to be quite demanding when it came at strategy and cared little for noble titles when it came to speaking her mind.

After having decided, they busied themselves spreading the plan and organizing their men. Eventually, Alistar returned with news from the scouts: the surrounding areas seemed clean. It came as a surprise to no one: Hags were notorious in their ability to scare away all but the toughest neighbors. More importantly, the Duke had conducted extensive questioning of the local farmers: the area wasn’t known for hosting many fey.

Confirmed that, Alistar, under orders from the Duke, sent his scouts out to surround the hills. Moving stealthily, the brown and green garbed men spread out to form a wide net around the monsters’ lair, cutting off any chance to escape.

Some of the most impatient nobles complained about the long wait, those not under the direct employ of Crofford the most vocal, but the Duke wouldn’t be swayed. Edward moved his subordinates with slow, methodical patience that tried to leave nothing to chance.

Eventually, the net was completed, and the hunters prepared for the assault.

An approach by stealth was impossible. There was a long trait of open terrain they would be forced to move through and they would undoubtedly be spotted long before reaching the hill.

Following the priestess’ suggestion, the Duke divided his men in four groups, each to play its part.

One, the strongest, would force its way straight through the basin, charging the lair in a frontal assault. Edward himself would lead it, followed by the strongest Aethyr and warriors. Exford was at his side, the young man stubbornly clamoring to have a part in it despite some of his friends trying to dissuade him.

The second and the third group were respectively led by Mason and Lise. They would skirt the sides of the Cup, taking longer but safer routes. A fourth group, led by Michael, would remain in reserve, ready to be deployed wherever the need arose. Cartus acquiesced to the duke’s personal request to join this group. He was always a guest after all.

The nobles were ready and eager, readying weapons, and exchanging words. Some even joked and laughed. Others exchanged challenges and friendly banter or murmured prayers. The air around them was one of focus but not of tension. They were all veterans, and that hunt was nothing but ordinary administration for them.

The duke passed one last time amongst his men, giving nods and encouragements and receiving the welcome of a long-trusted commander and friend.

In the end, they were ready, and the command was given.

Edward was the first down the incline. Gravel and loose dirt gave way under his boots as he carefully climbed down. His men, Owen at the head, came right behind him and soon the entire group was moving down the ridge, small avalanches of dirt marking their progress.

“Can’t find a damn solid spot.” Barley grumbled. The Aethyr was close to the Duke, eyes pinned at where he put his feet. “Did those heathens revolt every palm of this wretched place?”

“Not likely,” the Duke replied, his own gaze careful for loose spots. “Digging in such a sharp incline would be counter-intuitive. This is likely just the terrain.”

The reply didn’t seem to satisfy the veteran, that just spat a curse.

Edward threw him a quick glance. “Think later of your apprentice’s loose tongue, friend,” he said. “You’re a good soldier, and i need you to keep your wits about you now.”

Barley hesitated for a moment, then lowered his head and clenched his jaw.

“As you command, Duke.”

Edward nodded, pleased by the focus hidden in those words. “Good.”

As soon as they touched the middle of the incline, he threw a hand upward, signaling the other two groups to advance. He didn’t turn to see if his order was executed: he had full confidence in his subordinates.

The warriors moved as quickly as the terrain allowed them to, giving up on any attempt at stealth. They were wide in the open; hoping for passing unnoticed now would have been foolish. Still, they had almost reached the bottom of the Cup by the time they were spotted.

A scream tore through the air. It was brutish, like if a gorilla was trying to imitate human speech, but it was tinged with unmistakeable surprise. It had barely ended that it turned into a howl of anger and alarm. Others quickly followed, similar to the first but with slightly different timbres.

“About time.“ Sir Ruthwald said with a grin. The knight lagged slightly behind, struggling to find good footing.

“They seem to have been lax in their guard,” Owen noted. The hulking man moved with a grace completely at odds with his size, easily moving from a solid spot to the other.

Close by, Amariel didn’t comment, The priestess’ steely gaze was all for the knot of vegetation at the top of the hill.

“If they thought themselves safe after pillaging our lands, they set a new low even for all their misbegotten kind.” The Duke raised his voice. “Let’s show them why it’s man that rules over these lands! With me!”

The duke completed the last stretch by sliding and then jumped down on the bottom of the valley, dirt coming loose all around his feet. As he did, he unsheathed his weapon. The great sword was a magnificent piece, its glinting like ice. It had been passed through generations of Crofford, bathed in the blood of monsters and blessed by the clerics of all Gods. Its name in the old tongue was Durind, the Hornbreaker.

Seeing it, the hunters cheered and followed, sliding down to join their leader. Swords were unsheathed, maces and axes and shields unslung.

Exchanging a nod with Owen, the Duke sprinted forward. The earth there showed clear signs of having been disturbed again and again in the past. A feeble stench of rot still wafted from it.

As he ran, Edward looked up. There were three grotesque figures on the hill now, having emerged from the vegetation.

The crones were tall and wiry, enough to tower over the tallest warrior if it wasn’t for their heavy hunches. Their skin was the color of stagnant water and hung in flaps there and then. Their eyes were globes of putrid green burning with malice, sunk deeply into brutish faces. The only clothing they wore were pieces of fur that seemed to have been ripped by the fistfuls while the owners were still alive.

The three Hags shouted and howled at the attackers, banging at their thighs with gnarled fists, stomping their feet, kicking dirt down the incline, or throwing roots and stones.

Here it was: the Woods, the unthinking savagery of the dark places against which the men of Avurran had struggled and fought for centuries; against which Edward had fought all of his life. When he was a young man, his foes provoked a zeal mixed with hatred and disgust to surge into him. The years hadn’t changed that. The only difference was that he didn’t shout like he once did. Now, he just clenched his teeth, armored his heart with noble disdain and ran forward, blade at the ready.

The Hags each held a differently twisted staff that looked more like an unrooted tree than a true tool. Almost seamlessly, the trio passed from their shouting at waving them around, disorderly at first but soon with growing synchronization, like if something was showing them a well-rehearsed play to follow.

“Here they come!” Amaliel shouted.

Edward didn’t need the warning. Even without the gift of Sight of the Hunters, he felt the magic conjured by the Hags as a clammy hand upon his skin.

At unison, the trio brought down their staves. From the points of impact, lines of blazing green energy raced down the incline and toward the bottom of the valley. As they did, they multiplied, until a blazing network of lines covered the Cup. It flashed once, then disappeared.

And then, the earth started to move.

First a hand, then another, then another. Skeletons and half-rotten bodies pushed their way through the dirt. Earth fell from empty sockets. Worms wriggled through rotten flesh. Soundlessly, the undead rose at the call of Magog.

“Hold fast!” The Duke called, not slowing down even as the undead rose all around him.

Atop the hill, the Hags laughed harshly.