28

Hunter wasn’t very keen on logging out and leaving Fawkes and Fyodor alone in the mouth of the tomb, but she insisted–and it was a good thing that she did, too. His physical body back in the Happy Motel was in a dire need of food, a good stretch, a shave, and bath, and eight hours of sleep. When he popped back in the game the next morning, the storm had abated. Fawkes was sitting more or less where he’d left her, scratching a napping Fyodor behind the ears.

“We’ve got company,” she told him. “Two of them, a man and a woman, armed with bows and spears, holed up somewhere near the foot of that mound over there. Probably in the entrance of another tomb–one less occupied than the one we picked, from the looks of it.”

“…and you got all that just from sitting there and staring out of the entrance?”

“When you get as old as I am, lad,” she said with a vicious half-smile, “you pick up a few tricks along the way.”

She’d gotten her mean streak back, Hunter noticed. That was good.

“Want me to send the ravens to take a look?”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” she shrugged. “They already know we’re here, and we already know they’re there. We might as well invite them over for tea and breakfast.”

So Hunter summoned his familiars and sent them out scouting. The morning mist was still thick as pea soup outside, but that didn’t seem to hinder the two ravens at all. They came back a short while later, more or less confirming what Fawkes had already said.

“Any idea who they are or what they want?” asked Hunter.

“If they wanted to attack, they had plenty of opportunities to do so already. No, I think they’re just curious. As to who they are… Ghost Nation, I would wager.”

“I thought you said the Ghost Nation had vanished.”

“Maybe they didn’t,” Fawkes shrugged. “Telling truth and tradition from campfire stories and legends isn’t always easy with the Brennai.”

Even in Elderpyre, Hunter supposed, people had a penchant for tall tales and exaggeration. “Real life is boring,” Aries, the Dragonsong Sorceress from his raiding group used to say. “Why not pepper it with something more exciting?” She always had the craziest stories, Aries. The fact that they were mostly bull didn’t change that fact. She’d love Elderpyre, Hunter thought. She’d go totally bonkers, if she knew. Well, maybe he’d one day tell her. Non-disclosure agreement or not, some things were simply too big not to share.

Fawkes decided it would serve them to wait for the sun to rise higher in the sky and the mist to dissipate. Then they’d go say hello to their tomb-neighbors. Even if things went south, she said, it would be better for them to deal with the situation out in the open and in their own terms, rather than with their backs to the wall. Hunter had exactly zero objections to that. Getting cornered in a dirty old tomb that had been until very recently occupied by a huge-ass spider didn’t sound like an appealing scenario.

“How’s the shoulder?” Fawkes asked as he helped her pack up.

It was surprisingly fine, Hunter realized. It was still sore, but it was healing up faster than he could ever have expected. Part of it was thanks to Fawkes’s mysterious salve, for sure. Well, most of it. Even so, Hunter had a suspicion that his spectacular recovery speed had something to do with him being a transient. He asked Fawkes about it, and she confirmed that suspicion.

“You damned people have magic running through your veins”, she said. “They say you can bounce back from death’s door–what’s an old little shoulder wound compared to that?”

When she put it like that, it did make some sense.

They packed up, waited until the mist that seeped from the ground was just ankle-deep, and walked straight up to the tomb Biggs and Wedge led them to. Fawkes took point, Hunter followed, and Fyodor brought up the flank, occasionally straying to sniff or piss on something.

“When you approach strangers, how you posture and carry yourself matters a great deal,” Fawkes explained to Hunter as her blade appeared in her hand as if by some magic trick, this time still in its sheath. “You want to show them you’re armed and confident, but still appear relaxed and non-threatening.”

That was good advice, he thought. He’d have to hold on to it for his next job interview–minus the armed part, obviously. As it turned out, their tomb-neighbors were privy to that wisdom too; they emerged from the tomb entrance with a slow, self-assured gait, and with spears at their sides. One of them was a hulking man with what looked like a buffalo-skull headdress covering his head and face. The other was a woman, slender, lithe, and of medium height. Her headdress bore the likeness of a falcon, with a huge curved beak hanging over her forehead and concealing most of her face in half-shadows. Both of them wore rough clothing made of animal hides and furs, and had intricate shapes and designs tattooed on almost every inch of their exposed skin.

“Hile, strangers”, Fawkes called out to them as the two groups were getting closer. “May your days be many and your nights serene.”

“You speak in the way of the folken,” said the woman in a stern voice and an exotic accent, “but you’re clearly foreigners. These are the lands of the Cor, and our fathers, and their fathers. We are the Brethren, keepers of this vale, and we are not fond of trespassers.”

“How about visitors, then?” asked Fawkes, showing the open palms of her gloved hands in what Hunter took to be a gesture of good will. “Or, might I hope, guests?”

“That depends on the reason of their visit. Let us palaver, then, lest you think us savages.”

They sat down cross-legged on the ground right where they stood, the four of them, facing each other and laying their weapons flat on their laps. Fyodor sat on his haunches, too, and the ravens took their now customary place on Hunter’s shoulders. If the newcomers were alarmed or impressed by the presence of that little menagerie, they didn’t show it. In fact, they didn’t show much of anything; they sat with their backs straight and stiff, and their faces hidden under their peculiar headdresses.

“They call me Fawkes. This is Hunter. We both are quite a long way from home, indeed, but we come to the lands of the Cor as friends.”

“That remains to be seen” answered the woman coolly. “The friends of the Cor are like the Cor themselves these days–few and far between. They call me Sister Peregrine. My companion is Brother Aurochs. Pardon his silence, for he is a man if few words.”

“If only that were the case for my own companion too”, said Fawkes, but her attempt at levity fell flatter than a poor man’s pancake. The Cor weren’t too keen on humor, it looked like.

“What business brings you to the Vale, pray tell?” Sister Peregrine asked. “The sooner it is concluded, the sooner you may be on your way back to your homes.”

“Your hospitality is touching”, Hunter snarked, earning sharp glances from both Fawkes and the two Cor.

“We’re looking for a compatriot of ours, a man who may have passed through your lands a fortnight or so ago. That is all.”

Sister Peregrine and Brother Aurochs exchanged glances under their headdresses.

“The golden-haired one. We know the man you speak of,” the woman finally said. “He has passed through our land. We can take you to him, but first there is a matter of importance to attend to.”

Fawkes raised an eyebrow.

“Speak freely, Sister.”

Whatever the matter was, Sister Peregrine seemed reluctant to continue. She threw a glance at Brother Aurochs, but the man stayed silent and expressionless, inscrutable.

“These weapons that you carry”, she finally said, “are you proficient with them? Are you versed in the drawing of the blade and the shedding of the blood?”

Fawkes let out a sigh and nodded solemnly.

“Only when the occasion demands it, and only with great responsibility.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Sister Peregrine as well as the hulking man sitting next to her. He gave her a slow and deliberate nod.

“The Brethren are no strangers to tragedy and strife, yet this dark turn of fate requires the assistance of another” Sister Peregrine explained. “One of our number had her sanity taken, her mind twisted and broken. She trespasses in the Halls of the Ancestors now, desecrating them with acts most foul. If you would travel with us and put an end to her suffering, we would be happy to take you to the one you seek.”

To Hunter’s surprise, that triggered a notification:

Follow Sister Peregrine and Brother Aurochs to the Halls of the Ancestors, and dispatch the demented Sister.

“Why do you need the help of outsiders?” asked Fawkes, ruminating over the request. “Surely you can deal with such a mercy killing yourselves.”

“Alas, we cannot,” Sister Peregrine shook her head. “To shed the blood of another of the Brethren would be to spit in the face of the Ancestors. And it must be the providence of the Ancestors themselves who sent you to our land at this time of need, because visitors are a rare thing in the Vale.”

“Even so, we are no murderers for hire.”

“It shan’t be murder, friend. It is as you said, an act of grace and compassion, a mercy killing.”

Hunter watched Fawkes as she considered the Sister’s request and her face grew dark. The notification was clear–this task was directly related to the task Arjen had given them, if not the one and the same. She didn’t seem to object to it then–but then again, the bear godling’s words and phrasing had been vague, and a subject to conjecture. Should Hunter share that knowledge with Fawkes right away, with Sister Peregrine and Brother Aurochs watching and listening to their every word? Or was he to stick to his usual “say nothing, hear everything”?

“We shall do it, then” Fawkes said, sparing him the dilemma, “if only out of necessity. Where is this Hall of the Ancestors, then?”

“Right at the heart of the Vale” Sister answered, satisfied. “No more than a few hours’ walk, even at a brisk pace. It’s best to depart at once, however, and be done within the day. Letting nightfall and the mist it brings catch up with you away from shelter as you leave the Vale would be foolish, dangerous even.”

“Would the Brethren not offer us hospitality for a single night, then?” asked Fawkes, carefully but obviously prodding the Sister, testing her reaction. “Even after we take care of your… mercy killing?”

Prodding or no prodding, it was a valid question. Even Sister Peregrine seemed to think so, because she showed no sign of taking offense.

“It would be wiser if we would not,” she said in a tone that was almost apologetic, but still had the weight of finality. “Both for our sake and yours, we shouldn’t.”