It was a grey afternoon. A damp sort of chill hung about everywhere like so much invisible moss, clinging and draping off everything in general. The clouded sky was like a grey-white dome of textureless marble, perfect and seamless in its oppressive enclosure of the world beneath it. Here and there a gull darted through the still air, vagabonds of the sea who had wandered inland to cadge freely in freshwaters.

The seagulls’ chosen place of vagrancy was the Dwinmere, the great ribbon lake fed from the east by the many tributaries of the River Shene, and emptying through many miles more of the river Dwinn to the sea itself in the west. For all practical considerations the Dwinmere was the slender beating heart of Gandburgh, for along either side of it’s pronounced length were the two greatest cities of the kingdom: On the north shore was Winskep, nearly as ancient as the nation itself but only recently grown to rival her sister Hemhold on the south shore, which was the kingdom’s capital. Together with the snaking Dwinmere between them these two cities formed the great metropolis of Gandburgh.

As the gulls and other birds flitted about their business in the air above the water, so too did men plough its surface. Watercraft of every description plied the length of the lake, from rickety ferries scurrying from one shore to the other to great tall ships in stately procession making their way to or from the sea, past the steadfast cannon of island forts and under the brooding spires of the Winnol, the ancient citadel of the capital. Along either shore men and women went about their affairs in the haphazard discipline with which their race always manages to get by from day to day. And presently among these, gazing thoughtfully out onto the lake’s vista from the vantage of a cobbled promenade upon the Hemhold side of the Dwinmere, was Harlow Barnstabrake.

Harlow leaned heavily on a walking stick which was sturdy, plain, and quite new. Ever since his adventures he had experienced periodic bouts of dizziness, which Doctor Ford attributed to his having received two rather severe concussions within the space of a week. The vertigo could be quite bad at times, and Harlow had found the delicate and fashionable canes of his previous inventory to be rather inadequate. But really, the fashion and noteworthiness of his accessories seemed rather unimportant to Harlow lately.

Harlow returned his attention to the letter he still held in his hand. He had read it and reread it time after time since receiving it ten days ago. The curt and enigmatic summons specified a date, a time, and the place. The date was today, the place was only a few streets away, and the time was nearly upon him.

In the distance the shrill tempo of fife and drum had been building steadily up the waterfront. A procession of soldiers was approaching bit by bit, disturbing Harlow’s reverie and recalling him to his errand. Harlow folded his letter and made his way to join the flow of humanity along the wharf as the people were making way in advance of the column.

A drum major in a high fur cap led a corps of fife and drums arrayed in bright tail coats and cocked hats. Behind this came a troop of armored heavy cavalry, followed by a detachment of fusiliers equipped in uniform of reverse colors to that of the musicians.

Harlow watched the spectacle from his vantage point in the crowd. Each mounted trooper was clad head to foot in steel armor painted in a green and black diamond check with an enclosed helmet topped by a white plume. A great sword was fastened to each man’s waist while a warhammer and brace of pistols hung from each saddle, and each trooper carried a lance with a white pennant bearing the legend “V.L.” in prominent script. It was a grand and unusual sight to be sure, for armored cavalry such as this was something of a rarity. Firearms were the mainstay of warfare in Ursiland, and although armor was still considered to be useful in close quarters the expense of equipping troops in this way was by far an excess for all but a few sections of crack mercenary regiments with many wealthy contracts. The nobility themselves could certainly afford to armor fully, but they rarely ever took to the field in modern times, and likewise most officers found anything beyond a cuirass or less to be more or less superfluous. Such a sight as Harlow now witnessed was therefore one which never failed attract an amount of curiosity and admiration, inspiring many with a sense of nostalgia for the chivalric romance of a bygone era which no one alive in Gandburgh today had ever seen or known.

Soon enough though, the splendid procession had passed Harlow by. As the crowd began to disperse, Harlow moved to follow in the wake of the receding soldiery, for he happened to be headed in the same direction.

It was September, and nearly three months had passed since the night of the May Day ball. It is surprising how quickly a place can be turned so thoroughly upside down, only to sort itself out soon enough and subsequently toddle along with the daily humdrum as if nothing at all had happened. Of course, there were the initial adulations and celebrations throughout Potham once the missing persons had at last been restored to the bosom of the hearth. And there was the rage and fury directed at the infamous way in which all had been so treacherously deceived by the now defamed and distinctly dis-Honorable Gareth Larch. No small effort was made to hunt down the man, but the energies of the neighborhood waned rather more quickly than not, with most becoming satisfied enough that the wretched man was reduced to a desperate fugitive who would likely be brought to earth eventually.

Of Black Abraham few words were ever spoken. Rather, it was the scheming cynicism and apparent double life of the now renegade Mr. Larch which occupied the speculation of the public. In that curious way in which people tend to hold fast to those assertions to which they have previously given their public support, it was the opinion of the neighborhood that besides being a turncoat of the most lecherous character, Mr. Larch was in all probability also a brigand in his own right, perhaps a former member of Black Abraham’s own band. It would, after all, explain the presence of the inscribed belaying pin, and more importantly it demonstrated that everybody really wasn’t all that far mistaken after in all in thinking it was Black Abraham.

Of course, no one paid any bother to Miss Bellingham’s persistent insistence that it was Kobalds all along that had helped Mr. Larch in his vain attempt to become a Forest God. But of their own knowledge on the matter neither Harlow nor Fanny ever spoke. Neither did the Barbarians Howard, for they had long ago learned that grownups are in general only satisfied with explanations which tend to fit their expectations. And as always, no one ever saw any sign of the Kobalds, though perhaps some noted absently that there were fewer mishaps and fewer missing articles of late.

No one said anything at all about the vagrant Mr. Gates, except perhaps to mutter now and then about what a trouble the man was, loafing about in respectable villages and getting himself mistaken for pirates and all, to the inconvenience of everyone. He probably was a miscreant of some sort or other anyway, and it was quite to the satisfaction of all that no one had seen or heard anything of the man since the beginning of the whole episode. To all appearances the man had disappeared completely, and so much the better for it.

Beyond the outrage of Mr. Larch’s astounding perversity, the only way in which the neighborhood really permitted itself to be otherwise astonished was in the form of that unlikely person who proved the illustrious hero of the whole adventure. Most had hitherto found him standoff-ish, even objectionably uppish, and all had confidently discounted him as mostly bookish. But the events of June had revealed a hidden strain of steadfast persistence, iron determination, and reckless bravery in the person of that valiant gentleman, Mr. Albert Stokes. For a whole week never once was a glass raised that it did not toast the good health of the heroic rescuer who had liberated the captive women and children, slew the brigand’s henchmen and drove the traitor himself to flight. Mr. Stokes could not go anywhere without being exuberantly received wherever he came, slapped on the back and prodded and bought more drinks than he could ever consume at once. Even now, a petition signed by the Sheriff himself was in circulation at the College of Arms which if all went smoothly would see Mr. Stokes knighted by the end of the year (much to the dumbfounded consternation of Mr. Barnstabrake Sr).

Not much notice was really taken of Harlow. All agreed that he’d done well enough, considering his condition, even managing as usual to insert himself at the last moment to share a bit in the glory. It was the usual sort of thing he did. Though he did manage to get himself knocked out again after foolishly entangling himself with one of the villain’s feral guard dogs; a wiser man would have stood back and shot straight and true (like Mr. Stokes had) and not get himself all tangled up like that. All in all Harlow had shown himself as always to be a good enough sort. Hardly the stuff of heroes, though. And for his own part, Harlow didn’t much care that anyone thought so. He found tremendous satisfaction in the fact that his skin was rather still intact and his bones rather still in one piece and his volume not especially sapped of its lifeblood. After the second concussion it was a few days again before he could walk without assistance, and even now three months later he depended heavily on support of some sort.

There was a rattle on the cobblestones as a carriage rolled to a stop alongside where Harlow was walking. Harlow paused and lifted his hat to the occupant, and then upon invitation mounted the step and took as seat inside to finish his brief journey in pleasant company.

Taking the carriage rather lengthened the course than not, the vehicle being obliged to rumble slowly some feet in the wake of the parading soldiery. Nonetheless Harlow found nothing at all to object in this, for it afforded him ample time in the private company of its passenger.

Fanny had insisted on accompanying Harlow to the metropolis, despite Harlow’s strenuous objections to the contrary. Over the past few months the pair of them had spent considerable time in one another’s company, and through the experiences they related to one another in confidence it was only they two who knew the full scope of the adventure which had befallen their quiet hamlet.

Yet in expansion to this they had developed a kind of mutual conviviality that struck not a few as ill suited, if not unseemly. That such a bookish woman of her age should manage to associate herself with any man other than the most musty of vintage clergymen was quite inelegantly unexpected for a woman of her position. Likewise, Harlow having found attachment in anyone at all was catastrophe enough (or would have been in the old days, at any rate), but that he should stick himself with such as Fanny Howard….well, the popular young ladies of the neighborhood could not fathom what could have possessed the fellow that he should suddenly make of himself such a dreadful bore.

The carriage was now slowly approaching a large house before which the parade had stopped and stood now at attention as the band began a stately air. Outside the great entry was an array of fusiliers arrayed in green and black and led by officers in partial armor of the same green and black check of the cavalry. A ceremonial changing of the guard was in process.

The carriage took a turn down a tidy ally to a side door of the great house. Two more fusiliers stood guard there and saluted professionally as Fanny and Howard alighted. Above the door hung a gilded sign:

“The Variburg Lictors”

Upon alighting Fanny and Harlow were greeted by a well groomed young officer who had a bit more of the bearing of a patrician salesman than that of a soldier. They we genially escorted to an elegant drawing room set with plenty of tea and pastries and lushly decorated with assorted military decor highlighting the various glories and achievements of the regiment. Harlow had always had the impression that mercenaries were grim sorts who lived off the land and drank whole taverns dry, and perhaps this was at times true. But here at least in their business headquarters they tended to foster a refined impression of doughty respectability. To Fanny, the whole thing seemed just a bit foppish and amusing, in a tiresome sort of way. Rather the way she’d once felt about the younger Mr. Barnstabrake. Their defferential host smiled and bowed and promised that mister and miss would not be detained long and would they please feel free to help themselves to some refreshments, and then departed with a well practiced if distinctly burgess salute.

Fanny and Harlow were indeed not kept long, for the solicitous officer was shortly replaced by another, a taciturn individual who entered at a brisk step with an unaffectedly crisp salute and deportment, who bade them follow him to another room. They were then led to a small inner office which was plainly decorated and nearly empty save for a clear desk and a few chairs, one of which was occupied.

Gates sat with his feet propped up onto the desk and a modest plate of food in hand. He did not arise as Fanny and Harlow entered, but he did motion them to sit down with a magnanimous wave of a chicken leg.

“Mph….Barnstabrake! Do have a seat. I see you brought Miss Howard with you, that’s good, it makes three of us. Shut the door behind you. We haven’t much fear of spies here, Colonel Drakenheart is a man I trust fully, but shut it all the same. So….”

Harlow formally drew up a seat for Fanny and then took one for himself.

“....it would of course be ludicrously obvious for me to observe that you received my letter, given your presence here on schedule and so forth. And you do recall, I should certainly hope, the purpose for which I asked you to come?”

“You were rather vague actually, but I gathered that you have been in pursuit of Mr. Larch and have at last run him to ground.”

“Indeed. I shall elucidate. But first, how are things in Potham?”

“Rather returned to normal a bit, actually. People seem to have recovered rather well.”

“You’re using a new cane though. Brain took a shake?”

“A bit, yes.”

“Head clear though?”

“Oh yes, I just get a bit dizzy now and again.”

“Hmm….well, I hope it doesn’t happen at some dreadfully inopportune moment, for we may very well have quite a few of those before we are yet finished.”

“Oh dear.”

“Mr. Gates!”

“Miss Howard. Forgive me, I had not enquired as to your well being. I shall proffer the excuse that I was intent upon business, althoug the excuse as such is over worn, as I am always intent upon business. Pardon me again, but I am interrupting you. But don’t take it personally, I also always interrupt people.”

“As is indeed apparent. However I am quite well, as you may observe by my presence here. Others, however, have not been so fortunate.”

“I should imagine not. Tell me, how fares the other young lady, you know the first one Kador took, Miss…..”

“Miss Watson.”

“Yes, Watson.”

“She has been very unwell. Indeed, she cries most of the time so I’m told, and seems hopelessly confused for much of rest. She appears to recollect very little of her experience, but has had a poor recovery otherwise.”

“Blast that witch!”

Gates set his plate down rather forcefully with a deep scowl on his features.

“Kador and his kind are truly dregs, no matter how much they may cover themselves with dark glory. Miss Watson has been violated by magic of the most foul sort, the kind which strips away a person’s very will and bodily liberty. You can’t just walk away from an assault on the mind such as that, it takes a long time to heal, and even then the scars are permanent. The young woman deserves far better than to be left to put herself back together in isolation, but I’m afraid that’s the best she’ll get in this part of the world. The trouble with living in a place that’s largely free of witchcraft is that nobody really knows how to deal with it when it at last turns up. There are those who could do much indeed to help Miss Watson heal, but they’re not around here. She’ll have to be sent to the Hinterlands. When we’re all finished with this business I think I’ll take a quiet trip back to Potham and address myself to her family. I can put them in contact with persons who can help her. They can tell the neighborhood that she’s gone to the South to heal in the warm climate or something.”

“What was it all about in the end, though? What did Larch really want to achieve in doing all that he did?”

Gates leaned forward, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“Kador...or rather Larch...is not his own agent. While he indulges himself grossly at every turn he does so within the scope of his mission, the work that he and his fellows all bend themselves to. You see, powerful witches though they are, they are really not all that different from any other low brute that stalks the earth; in the end what they really want is power. Power and dominion over everything they can possibly manage. All of their black magic, all their assorted and demon craft and diabolism, it all comes back power. Power to do whatever they will, and power for sake of power itself.

Witches are trouble wherever you find them, but whenever they manage to come together for some common purpose (without devouring one another in the process that is) they are a terrible thing to reckon with.

Long ago, there was a coven of witches that managed to do just that. Their goal was to found a kingdom for themselves, and they succeeded most diabolically well. Indeed, at its height their empire spanned the breadth of the continent and beyond. Well nigh all of Ursiland was once a part of their dominion.

The changing nature of life is a burden that ever vexes the human spirit, but it has its advantages. Nothing lasts forever, and the great empire of witches was no exception. Various fragments of it remain to this day, and there are those who seek to restore what once was. That is Kador’s business, to spread the influence of his masters like a cancer. For centuries they have not been in a position to assert themselves openly beyond their own strongholds (though I believe that to be changing now). For nigh on a millennia they have instead worked to conquer nations from within.

I believe that Kador was sent to Gandburgh for just this purpose: To build or perhaps to expand upon a network of trusted agents and informers within the upper echelons of Gandish society. Kador, of course, went about it in his usual vile, aggrandizing and risky way of doing things. Instead of attempting to make slaves of wealthy and attractive young women he would have done better to try and blackmail a butler or two. As it is, the whole enterprise hasn’t turned out well for him at all, certainly not in Potham, and nowhere else either, I believe. ”

“He seems to have been very foolish. Even had he succeeded in bending both Miss Watson and myself to his purpose, what was he to do then, after having kidnapped us? We could never be returned to society without eliciting considerable remark, to be sure.”

“One can only guess, though I fancy that his ultimate plan involved some kind of elaborate mock rescue. I suspect that the much publicized adventures of Black Abraham inspired Kador to execute his mission by way of a similar crime, laying the blame on Black Abraham while simultaneously setting himself up to be the hero. I thoroughly ransacked his apartments in Potham back in June and I found information suggesting that he was in the process of acquiring a ship, a fast and well armed vessel of the sort which are often used pirate hunters. My theory is that once he was confident that he had total control over the minds of his prisoners he would depart from the neighborhood on the pretense of searching for the missing women. He would then return a few months later with the ladies in tow, claiming to have secured their release (probably in some spectacular fashion). This would serve both to re-introduce the ladies into the community and to ingratiate Kador to the whole neighborhood, setting him up for future advancements. All very risky, theatrical, and stupid, exactly the kind of thing I should expect of the man. Men of his stamp always do things in such a uniquely grand, obnoxious way that leaves all sorts of interesting little loose ends about for people like me to to start pulling at and tying together to our own amusement, to which occupation I have been merrily engaged these last three months with most satisfactory results, if I dare say so myself. For you see, I have tracked him down.”

“So you have found him!”

“Almost. I know his whereabouts down to the neighborhood. The particular apartment I as yet do not know, but that will soon be remedied. Which is why I sent you the letter. I’m going to get him, and I am not foolish enough to believe I can do it without help.”

“But what has he been up to all this time!”

“Well, I may be flattering myself, but I do believe that back in June we managed to thoroughly discommode him. I think he was wholly overconfident in his security at Potham, and when everything came falling down about his ears he panicked and fled to what little he had prepared for himself elsewhere, and he is quickly going broke. I’ve become well acquainted with a number of his various creditors (he hasn’t managed to put jinxes on all of them). He’s running out of money fast, and that’s not his only problem. His superiors can’t be happy with him either.”

“But we are going to get him?”

“Of course we are. But first, another round of chicken is in order, I think.”