The Order of the Rising Dragon seemed to take the “Rising” element of their description very seriously, and apparently believed this lamentable task should be performed daily, and on a pre-dawn basis.

Gabriel and his ilk would have been content to skip a few mornings, but the growing clamour around them strongly suggested that this would be an unpopular move. Nobody actively pressured them out of their blankets, but twelve soldiers staring at you from the foot of your bedroll does have a way of dissuading one from a prolonged lie-in.

Groggily, the mercenaries collected themselves, wiped the sleep from their eyes, and bundled up their belongings: a task that was becoming less of a chore the longer they adventured.

“Good morning!” Tulcetar greeted them with infuriating cheer, “Did you sleep well?”

A small droplet of drool escaped from Gabriel’s chin and dove to freedom, “W-, f-, d-,” he worked his jaw muscles, “very well, thank you,” he eventually managed.

Vish glared intensely at their host, but the effect was somewhat diluted by his cows lick hair and half-flattened beard.

“Excellent! I’m afraid we have lost a bit of time with our dallying. I do hope your business in Tindra is not too time sensitive,” Tulcetar said with apparently genuine concern. He seemed to be taking personal responsibility for their delay.

Grimly, Gabriel remembered that it was, but he couldn’t think of an especially good reason why anything would be time sensitive for a group of mercenary masons who had opted to take a detour through a largely uncharted forest, and so opted to dismiss the unspoken apology.

“That is good news,” Tulcetar beamed, “I am pleased we have not inconvenienced you.”

A barely perceptible peripheral movement from behind the mage suggested that a soldier or two may have frowned at that, but when Gabriel turned an eye to them he found them just as stoically impassive as ever.

“I’m afraid we don’t have enough horses for everyone to ride, but perhaps young Figo would like to hop on one of the wagons for the time being?” the gregarious mage suggested.

“Oh, no, please, I really wouldn’t want to be any trouble. In fact, I would much prefer to walk!” Figo lied.

Tulcetar looked worried, but he accepted the young archer’s request, “As you will.”

With practiced order, the caravan lined up along the road and began a steady march. They moved with surgical precision, uniformly, and without error. Their manner was so tight and rigid that they looked like a crossbow being cocked to fire. Only Tulcetar seemed to pilot anything resembling a human body, and even he looked stiff and ungainly as he politely handed his horse to a groom and trudged to the head of the pack.

The mercenaries watched the procession playout before them before they remembered that they were supposed to be a part of it, and quickly scurried to join.

Lydia slotted in neatly with the soldiers, but the rest of them danced from place to place, trying to find an opening where their ill-timed footfalls would not be too much of an obstacle to those behind. Bling treated this like a game, weaving in and out of the twin column of troops and skipping away again, whereas the other three inevitably ended up falling in with Tulcetar, who the other caravan followers seemed to treat like a young sibling their parents had insisted they bring along for the trip.

There was a subtle power shift on the road. Tulcetar was still the man in charge, but the body of the caravan seemed to have a will of its own, one which challenged the mage’s authority. The travelling pack slithered and weaved its way along the path like, well, a dragon. Tulcetar and the mercenaries seemed to rattle in its jaws, always slightly out of sync.

“So,” Gabriel began, “what,” he continued, “is,” he spluttered, “in the wagons?” he eventually spat out, wheezing a little as he attempted to match Tulcetar’s stride.

The mage cast a glance over his shoulder as if he had forgotten about the three dray-pulled carts, rattling along in tow, “Those? Oh, mostly gifts and offerings, and the like.”

“Offerings to Ruby?” Gabriel managed in one go.

Tulcetar gave the mercenary captain a lopsided smile, “Some of them, but most of them will be entrusted with our merchant contact, who will see it exchanged for good, hard coin. Funds are far more useful to The Order than baubles and trinkets.”

“Right, Goyun. Have you met him?”

“Goyun? No, but by all accounts he is an upstanding gentleman, and a true friend of The Order.”

“A friend of the order?” Gabriel latched on to.

“To my knowledge, Goyun is not himself an initiate, but rather a sympathizer. Our presence in Tindra and Jandrir is not yet as rife as our presence in Badanis. The Kaden Circle is still opening up to us,” Tulcetar explained, “elsewhere we are more established.”

Gabriel felt like this last remark sounded a touch defensive.

“So, how do you expect to find this Goyun character,” Vish said, materializing at Tulcetar’s side and giving the mage a miniature cardiac arrest, “For all you know, I could be Goyun.”

Vish waved his hands mysteriously in front of Tulcetar’s face.

“Quite,” Tulcetar said, “Well, Tindra is not all that big, and merchants tend to want to be found. I think you are still having a little trouble grasping this “out-in-the-open” policy of ours.”

“A fair point, and well made,” Vish decided.

“Besides, um,” Mr. Dragon-Wing sheepishly pulled a folded parchment from the sleeve of his robe, “he was so kind as to send us an address where he can commonly be found and, um… an image of his likeness.”

Gabriel stared down at the paper as Tulcetar unfolded it. Strokes of black ink formed a picture against the beige background. A suave looking man with a goatee and a flamboyant, wide-brimmed hat stared back at the viewer. The man was pointing at himself with both thumbs, and winking.

It also didn’t escape Gabriel’s attention that the location where the gentleman could commonly be found was simply noted as “Chloe’s”. Gabriel guessed that this was at best a tavern, and at worst a brothel.

Images of tackling hookers for the last remnants of Vagalad’s fortune flashed unbidden in Gabriel’s mind.

Images of tackling hookers, paid for with the last remnants of Vagalad’s fortune, flashed entirely bidden in Vish’s mind.

“So, I suppose you must be heading to Tindra for the limestone quarry,” Tulcetar said conversationally.

“What? Um, sure, why not? Yes! I mean, yes,” Gabriel blurted in quick succession. He had completely forgotten about the Tindra Quarry.

“I hear that the stone there is of the utmost quality. There are even a few architects from my homeland who insist on importing from Tindra specifically. It is a stone without equal, they say. That must be quite exciting for a band of,” Tulcetar tripped on the term a little less each time he said, “mercenary masons.”

“Uh-huh, that, some might say, is a damn good reason to go to Tindra, don’t you think? Gabriel was looking straight passed Tulcetar and at his scowling mind-mapper.

“Um, yes, yes I think they might,” Tulcetar answered.

“World famous limestone is a pretty damn good reason for anyone to go to Tindra, but for a couple of masooons,” Gabriel let the word linger in the early summer air.

Vish didn’t bite, but Figo, who was trailing behind the trio, gave his captain an encouraging nod.

“Uh, indeed,” Tulcetar said, wincing away from the mercenary’s peculiarly enthusiastic grin, “Anyway!” he switched his attention to Vish, “I have been meaning to ask, would you be keen on joining me for some light sparring practice when we pause for lunch? It is seldom that I have the opportunity to practice with another mage,” his face soured as he turned to Gabriel, “uh, other mages,” he corrected, probably recalling the mercenary's violently orange and purple robes from the previous day, “what manner of mage, sorry, mages are you?”

“Oh, we’re not-” Gabriel began, before Vish cut in.

“Not mages!” Vish said, a bit more forcefully than was necessary.

Tulcetar frowned, “I see, but the…”

“Robes? Yeah, funny story really, you’re going to laugh,” Vish said.

“Oh? I would love to hear it.”

It was Vish’s turn to frown, “I’m supposed to tell it?” he caught Gabriel glaring a warning, “I’m supposed to tell it…” he realised.

Vish fiddled with his sleeve for a moment, and then started nodding to himself, “It’s the robe. The robe is magical,” Tulcetar’s forehead creased further but Vish continued, “When I was young, we moved around a lot, my mother, my father and I. We were ostracized from our community, because my father was a mage, and my mother was a witch doctor. For many years the locals tolerated us, sought healing from my mother, and relied on my father for simple magics, like, uh, making fire and, um, floating building materials and such.”

It was Gabriel’s turn to watch in fear as someone else ran their mouth, for once. He wondered how much, if any, of the story was true: Vish was normally so cagey about his life before they met.

Tulcetar seemed intrigued, but that might not spell good news.

Vish coughed, without covering his mouth, “Yeah, but then the local… Warlord? Decided to weaponize magic, and insist that all magic users be part of his army. Anyone not fighting for him was declared an abomination, and hunted down. Before long, our own neighbours had sold us out to the authorities. We had to run.”

Figo was on the edge of his metaphorical seat, and even a few of the soldiers seemed to have moved a little closer.

“We made it as far as the South-Eastern edge of the Dbhorin Desert before they caught up with us. They must have been a dozen, no, two dozen men, soldiers and mages, all armed to the teeth. They chased us down, closed in on us, and surrounded us. Dad zapped a couple with some crazy lightning skills, and my mum killed three guys with a poisoned blade. I even took out a guy with my bare hands,” he said.

He stared at his hands as if he feared they might kill again.

“How,” Gabriel said, hating himself for asking, “how old were you, Vish?”

“Uh, six.”

“Six?”

“Six,” Vish said firmly.

“Six…” Gabriel said, massaging his temples.

“Anyway, they finally realized we were more of a threat than they had bargained for, and so they sent forward four of their best mages. Now these guys were proper, maybe even channelers, or aether mages, or something.”

Gabriel groaned.

“They closed in on us and they bathed us in fire so intense that it was like,” he had a moment of inspiration, “dragon breath,” Vish said, and gave Tulcetar an accusatory glance.

Amazingly, the mage looked ashamed.

Vish went for broke, “At the last minute, my dad chucked this robe over me, casting a spell on it which saved me from the flames. The others were roasted on the spot, uh, mum and dad, I mean, but I was saved. I was saved by the magic my father imbued this,” he smoothed a crease in his garment, “imitation silk with.”

“We’re dead,” Gabriel muttered wordlessly.

An eternity passed whilst everyone digested Vish’s wild story.

Eventually, Tulcetar spoke up, “That… is a most extraordinary tale. So, the robes are enchanted?”

“I think most of it has worn off by now?” Vish hedged.

Tulcetar considered this, “Perhaps that would explain the peculiar signature I sensed from you,” his frown relaxed into a look of sympathy, “I am dreadfully sorry that you have suffered at the hands of my kind. I hope that you never again have cause to fear magic users.”

“Eh, I’m kind of over it,” Vish shrugged.

“Indeed… You are a peculiar fellow,” Tulcetar looked like he wanted to say more, but an outrider approached, and he dutifully broke away to hear the soldier’s report.

“Wait, don’t you want to hear why I was wearing a robe,” Gabriel asked.

“Perhaps another time,” Tulcetar smiled thinly, and stalked away to his duties.

“Feeling left out?” Vish asked once they were alone.

“No! I just,” Gabriel cleared his throat, “thought it was odd that he didn’t ask, is all.”

Figo tugged at Vish’s sleeve, “That’s incredible, Vish. I had no idea!”

“Pretty good, right?” he smiled triumphantly.

“What do you mean? It wasn’t true?” Figo was aghast.

“When will you learn, Figo, everything Vish says is bullshit, even when he is telling the truth,” Gabriel said.

“Seemed to do the trick though. He was lapping it up,” Vish pointed out.

“Personally, I think it might have elicited more empathy if you had not included sound effects,” Gabriel sighed.

That evening Tulcetar joined them for dinner, and they did a passable job of keeping the conversation light and suitably vague. There were a few questions about masonry, which the mercenaries deflected on the grounds that they were tired of talking about work, and a few questions about their pasts and origins, which the mercenaries deflected on the grounds that they were anti-social bastards. Otherwise, talk leaned towards the mundane, and most of the comments made were about the quality of the pigeon stew, and the origin of the rather delectable beer.

“Gara,” Tulcetar answered, when quizzed on the ale.

His answer sent a wave of tension through the small gathering.

“Why-” Figo began.

“Don’t,” Gabriel said, a touch too late.

“Do you have beer all the way from Gara?” Figo finished.

Gabriel slapped his forehead.

“Because that’s where I’m from,” Tulcetar smiled uneasily, “I hope that’s not an issue.”

“Why would that be an issue?” Figo asked, catching Gabriel’s death stare a breath later, “What? Oh. Ooh. I’m sorry! No, really, it’s no issue!”

“Uh,” Gabriel cut in, taking the reins of the conversation, “sorry about the war.”

Tulcetar smiled with his mouth only, “It’s all in the past. It is my sincere hope that Gara and the Kaden Circle can mend their relationship once more. I bear no grudges,” he swirled his cup thoughtfully, “Besides, I hardly think I could hold a couple of mercenary masons accountable.”

“Nothing to do with us,” Vish confirmed.

Bling looked from face to face and drew in air to say something.

“Bed time!” Gabriel shouted, loud enough that the men on watch turned their heads, “I mean,” he said more quietly, “I think perhaps we should get to bed. We are going to need our energy tomorrow for all of that… Limestone.”

Tulcetar left a little quicker that night.

The next morning the mercenaries woke with a little less coaxing. They packed up the blankets they had been using and returned them to the wagons, relieved that this would be their last night with the slightly creepy members of The Order, even if it did mean the end of a fairly decent run of meals.

As they walked the last stretch to Tindra, Figo approached Tulcetar.

“Mr. Dragon-Wing,” the archer said, slightly embarrassed, “yesterday you asked Vish what kind of magic wielder he was. Were you asking about the type of magic? Is fire magic different to other magics?” he rubbed his shoulder meekly, “I used to go to taverns back home to hear the bards’ stories, but I didn’t know there was a difference between mages.”

Gabriel was reminded that the mild-mannered hunter was somewhat lacking in the formal education department.

Tulcetar snorted, “Typical bards, they think every spell-slinger is a sorcerer!”

Figo glowed strawberry red and bit his lip.

The mage grunted, “Apologies, I should not blame you for your ignorance. I sometimes forget that the common folk are not always so well versed in aether lore.”

“I didn’t mean to offend…” Figo said.

Tulcetar sighed, “No offence taken. It is I who should apologise. Generally speaking, there is no difference in the type of magic a person can use, except in very rare cases. The difference lies in where one gets their magic from, and therefore how much they have to call upon,” he lectured, “A channeler, for example, draws magic from their surroundings, from the natural energies of the world, whereas an aether mage can tap from the aether itself. These are both very exceptional, and very powerful magic users. A spell-slinger, on the other hand, has just enough magical ability to unleash magic that is stored in an item or rune, and tends only to be able to use whatever “spell” is bound to that totem.”

“But you’re,” Figo tried to read the mage’s face, “not a spell-slinger.”

“Absolutely not,” Tulcetar near spat, but he deflated before saying, “Regrettably, I am somewhat mid-range, in ability. I am what is commonly called a mage, in the proper sense, in that I draw upon an internal reserve of aether energy, and bend that to my will.”

“Why not just do what a channeler does?” Lydia asked bluntly.

Tulcetar looked a little hurt, “That type of magic is not my lot. Drawing from outside of one’s self can have terrible consequences for those without sufficient aptitude. Many a mage has perished attempting to wield more magic than nature intended for them. It would be akin to me asking you to lift a mountain. You might be strong, but that is strength that was not meant for you.”

Lydia looked like she objected to the implication that she could not lift a mountain, but she kept her peace.

“I do normally harness the power of fire, if that’s what you’re asking, but only because fire tends to suit my needs. It is a raw expression of energy that I can unleash and, to some extent, manipulate. I would be no less capable of doing the same with water, but I find I seldom need to get people wet,” Dragon-Wing said with a glint in his eye.

Figo smiled back.

“I see what you did there,” Vish added.

“Oh, grow up, Vish!” Figo said, and stormed off as well as one can when everyone is following the same, linear road.

“Gods… Did you see that? Gabe, did you see that? Bling?”

Gabriel ignored Vish, whilst Bling failed to hear the mind-mapper over her own off-tune whistling.

“Screw you guys,” Vish said, fetching his cricket out from his robe, “Did you see that, Rodney? I finally broke Figo! Tonight, we celebrate, little buddy.”

A shudder wracked Gabriel’s body as he tried, and failed, to keep quiet, “You are utterly detestable.”

Vish gave Gabriel a smug smile, and placed Rodney on his shoulder so the cricket could get some fresh air.

Late in the morning they spied the vast quarries that cut the landscape on their left. The shimmering white stone had been chiseled over centuries, and resembled colossal steps descending the limestone ridge that ran North-West of the large town of Tindra. The quarry was a hive of activity, strewn with scaffolding that striped the walls like latticework. Cutters and porters littered the ledges and ramps, picking, prying and hauling their goods, like ants dismantling a deceased Rodney.

Tulcetar made a few banal comments about how excited his “mercanic” friends must be, but in truth Gabriel and his people did not have to feign awe. The quarry was on a scale that was almost inhuman. Looking at the sun-bathed, ivory coloured stone was even physically challenging, adding to its air of celestial beauty. Averting one’s eyes was more than a necessity; it seemed only appropriate.

Tindra itself was no less magnificent, even if it was dwarfed by the quarry which was its lifeblood. The laymen lived in shacks and hovels, true, but the genuine artisans were permanent residents, and they had made their mark.

The majority of the people who worked the quarry were migrating workers, who flocked to the town in the spring and summer, and were washed away again in the cold, wet winters. Navigating the slippery limestone slopes became treacherous at this time, and trade along the roads to Badanis and Jandrir slowed for the season. Those who remained behind were the masons and sculptors, who would ready the enormous rough blocks into more easily transported bricks, columns or statues. These, and the other native Tindrans, lived in bricked houses, fashioned from the stone they breathed life into.

The limestone buildings – homes, taverns, guild halls, municipal buildings, and the like – spilled from the centre of Tindra like milk poured into tea. They bled out from the opulent epicenter and painted the landscape in off-white brilliance. It was here that they found Chloe’s, a double-storied structure with slatted windows and an ornate porch, jutting from its entrance like a muzzle.

“It would appear that this is where we part ways, friends. It was very kind of you to escort us this far, but I am eager to meet with our associate,” Tulcetar said pleasantly.

“It was really no trouble. We wanted to see the town centre before we began our work,” Gabriel only half-lied this time.

“I wish you well in your endeavors,” Tulcetar said, shaking their hands in turn, “and pray that your opinion of The Order has been rectified.”

“May you have a pleasant stay in Tindra,” was Gabriel’s reply.

Tulcetar eyed the building appreciatively, “I have high hopes for valuable discourse.”

At that moment the door of Chloe’s flew open, ejecting a small, thin man, with a wide-brimmed hat and a goatee. The gentleman did not seem to notice them. He staggered into the street, battling to stay upright. He was almost knocked off his feet by the force of his hiccups.

“Say, isn’t that, uh…” Gabriel said.

Tulcetar Dragon-Wing solemnly consulted the portrait in his hand, “Why, yes. Yes, I believe it is.”

Goyun stumbled across the road, oblivious to the twenty-five strong crimson battalion an arm’s length from his right elbow, and relived himself on a shop front.

Tulcetar slowly scrunched up the paper he held.

“Well,” Gabriel said, “he seems delightful.”