The creature of flesh led the way with Quintus by its side. Hulbard came behind, close enough to catch the words exchanged between the two. He tried to keep his focus on their blood splashed surroundings as they moved, but that task was made more difficult by Skye, who'd fallen into step with him behind her Master. With her so close, it was hard to focus on anything more than the way her golden hair twisted in the raking wind, how it shimmered in the sunlight. Then again, she’d had that effect on him for a while now.

Ahead, Quintus was snapping out questions and Hulbard, despite all his ignorance of the Arts, was keen to listen in.

"I need to understand the nature of this curse," the Sorcerer was saying, "How were you kept alive for so long? How did you create this new form to outlast death?"

"I have seen many abominations roaming these steps since my death," the voice reverberated through the air until Hulbard thought he could feel it in his bones, "I refer to my own damnation, locked within myself and powerless to do anything beyond witness the world around me fall to ruin, as my curse. Whether the true nature of this evil is indeed a curse or a blessing would very likely depend on who you ask".

“As for this form I now wear, it is the result of my thoughts made manifest. I do not know the machinations behind its creation. All I know is that I willed it to be, and so it became. Many, many years ago and it has not aged since”.

“You were some kind of Knight?” Quintus asked as they climbed a tall, narrow staircase leading to a wider level overhead.

Hulbard recognised the broad question as the same kind normally used to dig for information, rather than pry it directly from a source. Shankhill often did the same whenever he was trying to swindle someone out of secrets and had called it, ‘letting them hang themselves’.

“I was sworn to defend this place,” the voice rippled through the air to mingle with the whispering breeze, “Though we were rarely called to act as anything more than an honour guard at ceremonies, we were by no means unskilled. This place was a haven for those who dedicated to their crafts. Ours was war and we were no different”.

“And the nature of your demise?” Quintus asked as they started across a narrow plaza hemmed in by low houses on all sides.

“Those we sheltered turned against their shepherds,” Darthalius intoned, “They had always been strange, these artists who called the Roost their home, but their interests began to grow more morbid over time. We became a target for their twisted attention and regrouped at our bastion. They came for us, but they were no warriors. We broke their ranks, scattered them to the steps and it should have ended there. Instead, be gave chase. We sought to reassert our authority, to protect ourselves from future hostilities with a show of force”.

Hulbard frowned at that, forgetting to scan their surroundings for a long second as the creature’s words brought to mind all the times he’d seen a line break. He saw again as men flung down their weapons and turned o run, eyes wide and mouths gaping. He remembered the surging tide of red hate that had told him to chase them down, to put an end to them. A dozen scenes flashed across his mind’s eye; some where he’d resisted that urge and some where he hadn’t. Those memories in particular left him with a hollow sense of shame that seemed somehow worse with Skye walking next to him.

“What of the sword?” Quintus’ words brought him back to the moment and Hulbard had to blink the scattered memories from his mind’s eye. “The one pinning you to that pillar?”

“My own,” the words were spoken in a soft tone with something between a snort and a grunt that didn’t translate well coming from Darthalius’ new form, “Ripped from my hands by my treacherous brother and brought to bear against me in the end. Thereafter, he reaped a terrible harvest among the defenceless while I could only watch”.

“Were you a Sorcerer?” Quintus asked, scanning their surroundings as they emerged into a wide plaza streaked with age old, dried blood.

“No,” Darthalius’ strange head half turned to glance at the thin man by his side, “I never much liked their kind”.

“Noted,” Hulbard’s companion smirked, “But then what about your King? What was he like?”

“Deeply flawed,” their guide’s voice was soft now as he plodded along with a sickening squelch of rippling flesh, “He flung himself into Sorcery with an abandon unbefitting someone of his position. If not for that, he was once a fine leader of men”.

With Darthalius leading the way, they made good time through the marble landscape of endless staircases, branching balconies and windswept streets. The higher they climbed though, the more Hulbard’s heart seemed to have migrated to his throat. An emptiness so vast it stole any thought of breathing yawned all around them and it was all he could do to stop himself from approaching every ledge they passed to stare down at the dizzying drop. That high above the ground, the wind practically howled through the ledges to tear at them, threatening to sweep them clear of the blood stained marble.

The clear blue sky stretched to the horizon on all sides while Dalághast, impossible in its immensity, sprawled below. As they drew closer to the summit, the balconies and ledges came together to create a wide platform beneath the apex of the arch. From here, a solid stone staircase wound out into empty space and swept overhead, onto the outer peak of the Marble Roost.

“We are close now,” Darthalius’ voice hummed from his wide chest.

“It’s a long way down,” Knox commented from the edge of the platform, cloak snapping in the wind as he leaned over the drop.

“It was a long way up,” Quintus told him with a wince as he stretched out one knee. “I would have been better off taking my chances on the ground”.

“Awh,” Skye crooned with a smirk, “Are your old bones starting to act up?”

“My one solace in life is the hope that when you get to my age, you wind up with a smartass Apprentice twice as bad as you’ve ever been,” he told her acidly, rubbing at his knee with one gnarled hand.

“Admirable,” Shankhill said, stepping smoothly between them, “But my hopes and dreams for the future rest on the idea that we haven’t climbed all this way for nothing”.

He raked his sweat drenched hair back from his handsome features and shook the lank strands out.

Hulbard could have pointed out that however unpleasant Shankhill’s climb had been, his own had been ten times worse; beneath his helm, sweat was pouring down the warrior’s face. The heavy plate armour he wore made every staircase a test of endurance and, after days of travel, his muscles were starting ache abominably. Even so, he said nothing as Shankhill gestured towards the staircase.

“Lead on”.

Darthalius slid into a low, six limbed lope across the marble and scampered up the thick marble steps with a sickening fluidity that made Hulbard wince. Regardless, he was quick to follow in the creature’s footsteps, keeping pace with Skye behind her Master. Again, his focus turned to her when it should have been on the death defying view all around and he couldn’t help smirking at the fact that, despite her barbed comments towards Quintus, she seemed just as tired as everyone else.

Surmounting the curved staircase, they followed Darthalius into a wide plaza hundreds of feet above the ground and perhaps fifty across.The stone wall surrounding the staircase they’d just climbed spread before them to create a waist high barrier encircling a faded mosaic of faded blue, green and red tiles that swirled together into a design long since lost to the elements. The walkway continued on to meld seamlessly with the circular outer wall of their destination. A tall, lean building rose ahead of them, climbing into a towering spire to loom high overhead. Buttresses fanned outwards from its corners in an intricate web of graceful arches, bedecked with slender spikes.

An iron gateway stood open ahead of them, leading into a small courtyard within those high walls. A set of large wooden doors were set into the stonework of the building. Here, the wind was at its worst; it clawed at their clothing and hair, whistled through the iron gate and moaned through the buttresses to create a symphony of lilting noise.

“What was this place?” Quintus asked, grimacing against the elements.

Darthalius straightened up from his six limbed hunch and slowly surveyed the scene. Something like a dull sigh echoed from his body.

“This was where the three most sacred ideals of the Marble Roost were observed,” the creature said evenly, “Artists of every creed would meet here beneath the warm summer sun to share their labours. Painted canvases stood next to sculptures of every shape and size. Other’s recited verses from plays, songs and poetry. They were all displayed here in place of any deity, at the very height of Dalághast’s greatest artistic triumph”.

That lump of a head swung left and right before Darthalius seemed to stretch; his shoulders rotated in their sockets with a loud, wet slurp and his arms spread wide before settling back into place with the gentle cracking of loosened bones.

“This is where my brother’s and I practiced our own arts,” he continued, “We held demonstrations of arms here for hours at a time. We never thought a day would come when we would be called upon to use our weapons in earnest, but those were better days than any that have come since. Simpler days”.

Hulbard could sympathise with that, at least. Nothing had been simple since they’d arrived in Dalághast and he found himself thinking back to when it had just been him, his brother and the suit of armour he still wore. At the time, those days had been as shit as any other, but looking back, there’d been no looming monsters of flesh with four arms leading him anywhere. Simpler days.

They crossed that empty plaza in silence save for the wind and he was glad when they ducked through the iron gates and into the shadowy shelter of the walls, despite how his back itched with that building looming so ominously overhead. Darthalius stepped up to the scarred, iron banded wooden doors and set his huge hands against it. Digging his feet into the tiles underfoot, he leaned into the opening and Hulbard winced as he saw naked muscle standing rigid across his four shoulders, bulging with inhuman strength.

Slowly, the doors were forced open with a loud, creaking groan from the ancient wood. As they swung open, their rusted hinges squealed in protest, echoing into the space beyond and grating on Hulbard’s nerves. Beyond the opening was a wide hallway lit sparsely by weak sunlight streaming through stained glass windows set high to either side. The shafts of multicoloured light illuminated the body of a plain hall scattered with the remnants of rotting furniture. Thirty paces distant, a spiral staircase of elaborately wrought iron wound its way up into the darkness high overhead.

Hulbard’s eyes were still getting adjusted to the gloom when he saw it; a shape beneath the staircase that seemed out of place. The furniture in the hall had all but fallen to pieces, but this outline seemed more solid, bulkier and more angular. As the doors rattled open on their screeching hinges, he glimpsed a half turned head, the gleam of an eye in the murk.

“There,” he snapped, pointing as they stepped across the threshold.

Hulbard caught the distinct motion of a head bowing and a helmet being slipped into place before the figure rose and turned to face them. A shiver of unease crept up his spine but he sought solace in the fact that the figure ahead at least appeared human. A stray shaft of gold tinted sunlight rippled along the edge of a longsword as it was hefted in one hand.

“Who is he?” Knox hissed.

They were spreading out as they advanced into the hall, like they always did when it looked like a fight could be brewing. This time though, Hulbard slid left, letting Darthalius lead the way forward. Not that the creature even seemed to notice.

“Doesn’t matter!” Shankhill whispered gleefully from behind, “Look what I found!”

Hulbard spared him a glance and saw the slender man pointing to one side of the doorway. A statue nearly twice as tall as he was stood there on a plinth, with one hand outstretched towards the hall and from those marble fingers hung a gleaming gold chain. And dangling from that again was an emerald the size of his head.

“Shit,” he breathed in something close to awe, mouth practically watering at the sight of that great gem, before their guide’s voice snapped his attention back to the staircase.

“You are no knight of this place,” Darthalius spoke grimly, his voice ringing loud in the otherwise silent hall.

The figure ahead slid smoothly into a beam of stained sunlight. The armour they wore was utterly archaic in design; the breastplate too broad to effectively deflect blunt weapons, the work at its joints simple and exposed, the pauldrons heavy and constrictive. Steel spikes had been driven into them to pin a ragged cloak in place. The warrior’s features were covered by an angular visor set into a winged helm, the likes of which Hulbard had only ever seen on age old battlefields where fallen equipment had been left to rot. Sheltered from view behind Darthalius’ bulk, Hulbard shrugged his pack from his shoulders and slid his war hammer free of its place by his hip.

“I am not,” the voice was deep and masculine, ringing hollow within the ornate helm, “But I have found purpose here even so. Though not bound to defend these hallowed halls by oaths of iron, I would do just that should the need ever arise”.

“Where do you hail from?” Darthalius said and there was an edge to his tone now that told Hulbard there would be blood.

“It does not matter,” the armoured warrior told him, “All that matters now is that I am here, standing beyond the horrors that have consumed the rest of Dalághast and that here, within these halls, I have claimed some measure of peace”.

“There is no peace to be found here,” Darthalius told him, shoulders rotating restlessly with a sickening, wet click, “And that blade you hold is not your own”.

“A creature such as you could never understand such things,” the knight chuckled, “But perhaps your companions, odd as they may seem, can hear the eternal choir within these walls. Perhaps they can see the beauty etched into all things atop The Marble Roost, above the blood stained streets and beyond the grasping claws of maddened beasts”.

“Can’t say I do,” Shankhill’s voice was loud and confident, “Doesn’t matter anyway. We’re here to sack the place”.

He waved a dismissive hand towards the knight. Hulbard heard the distinctive click of a crossbow loosing. The figure ahead lunged haphazardly to one side and Semekt’s bolt shattered against the staircase behind.

“A pitiful cause for pitiful creatures,” the hollow voice rang out as he strode purposefully forward.

“Oh...” Shankhill stared, “Fuck”.

“Nice job!” Skye snapped at him. “Idiot!”

“There’s eight of us and one of him,” he shot back, but he was already ducking back between Hulbard and Darthalius.

“But I am Laertus,” the Knight called, “And you are not!”

Knox lifted his bow and loosed an arrow in one smooth motion, but his target lurched to one side and let the shot sail wide. He moved with a strange combination natural speed and an utter lack of grace, swaying back upright with an ungainly lurch. Hulbard felt his heartbeat quicken, fresh strength rushing into his aching limbs as he marched forward to meet Laertus head on. Darthalius dropped to all six limbs and prowled left, while Trastgor slipped right. The heavy khukri rasped free of its sheath over his shoulder, loud in the quiet hall. Quintus thrust his staff into Skye’s waiting hands and delved into the pouch by his side, face set in a grim scowl.

Between the lancing light between two windows, they came together. Hulbard had been watching that sword and saw it lance low as he came within range. He shifted his shoulder, just enough to catch the blow and leave him enough room to swing back, but the sword twisted and whipped high instead. The blade crashed against his helmet with a deafening clang and enough force to send Hulbard staggering drunkenly to one side. Ears ringing from the impact, he half tripped over his own feet before finding his balance and whirling back to face Laertus, who’d nimbly ducked back to avoid a hacking slash from Trastgor.

Hulbard shook his head in an attempt to clear it, but that only made pain bloom above his left eye. Blinking hard, he saw the Knight lunge, sword stabbing for the Kurgal’s throat. It struck Trastgor’s shield instead, screeched across its surface and snapped several of the slender spikes in half with its passing. Laertus slid aside from Darthalius’ snatching hands as their guide charged into the fray, and his blade wove into a series of looping slashes that tore more spikes free of Trastgor’s shield, leaving deep dents in the metal beneath.

He suddenly jerked backwards as another one of Knox’s arrows slashed past his shoulder, moving with that same strange lack of grace as before despite his speed. Laertus backpedalled to avoid another sweeping lunge from Darthalius, ducking left and right to dodge those long arms. Hulbard prowled after, chest heaving and eyes straining to see past the dancing spots pulsing across his vision. He caught one of Darthalius’ arms a glancing blow, knocking a crushing punch wide, before that sword flickered in the dull light.

Hulbard heard the unmistakable sound of honed steel sliding into flesh. The blade slid through their guide’s lower back with a wet tearing slurp, embedded to the hilt in his gut. Instead of crumbling though, Darthalius’ arms folded in around the Knight and hauled him into the air.

Their struggle was fierce but brief before Laertus managed to wriggle free with all the supple grace of a ferret and drop back to the floor. He grabbed the handle of his sword as he fell past it and used his momentum to drag it free with a wet rasp. He threw himself away from them, struck the ground with a clatter and rolled back into a ready crouch in a heartbeat, blade high.

A new plan formed in Hulbard’s head as he stalked forward; he had to catch the bastard, to either claim all his attention so the other’s could bring him down, or bring the Knight down himself. The fact that Semekt wasn’t wreaking havoc in the thick of things meant that he was skulking somewhere close, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Lightning sizzled across his armour as the warrior lurched into a charge, breath rasping in his throat.

Laertus leapt to meet him head on. Hulbard’s hammer crashed against his sword and swatted it aside. He leaned into the charge, leading with his shield, but the slender Knight managed to dodge that too. The war hammer came around in a quick, precise stroke, but Leartus slid past his range, sidestepping to buy himself distance, keeping those at Hulbard’s back in view.

That’s when Semekt erupted onto the scene, his blades a flickering blur as they chopped into the Knight’s armour. In the space of a heartbeat, Leartus was wrong footed, sent stumbling. The scimitars wove a gleaming arc around the Dramaskian. They slashed across Laertus’ pauldrons and gorget, stabbed for his throat and visor. Semekt splashed shallow grooves across the armour, raining down a hail of steel with stunning speed and accuracy.

He’s done, Hulbard thought, already circling for the kill, waiting for the knights legs to give out so he could end him with one swing from his hammer. He saw the sword in his hand rise though and before he knew it, Laertus had leaned to one side, let Semekt’s blades scrape across a pauldron and lashed out with the blade in a murderous arc. The Dramaskian was forced to coil backwards, creating an instant of breathing room and the Knight used it to dash backwards, bringing his sword to bear against all four of them in an instant again.

“Move!” the command echoed through the hall.

Hulbard chanced glancing over her shoulder. Quintus stood tall, one hand held aloft with a roiling orb of iridescent fire caged between his fingers, eyes shining deep purple in the gloom. He ducked one way and Trastgor the other. Semekt and Darthalius both flung themselves backwards as Laertus’ helm swung to the Sorcerer.

Quintus’ fingers closed, extinguishing the flames between them in a puff of grey tinged steam. A second orb of fire, just like the first, blazed into life above Laertus. The Knight just had enough time to look up before a torrent of flames engulfed him from above with an undulating roar that filled the hall to the rafters. It engulfed the Knight and Hulbard braced himself against the wave of heat that followed the blast. He saw Semekt rear backwards, trashing and shielding his eyes as the flames bellowed their fury.

The torrent of Sorcerous fire died after a moment, but now the hall rang with a high pitched, warbling screech of agony. Cloak burnt to ash, armour reduced to a charred and blackened husk, Laertus swung wild with his sword while his free hand clutched uselessly at his body.

Snatching his staff back from Skye, Quintus levelled it towards the warrior with a frown. The sapphire embedded into its tip winked into life. A lance of purple light split the air with a sizzling snap, spanning the distance between them in a heartbeat. It struck Laertus’ breastplate head on and blasted clean through, spraying chunks of armour and flesh across the cold stone floor. The Knight was ripped from his feet and flung to the ground with an unceremonious rattle.

Silence descended on the hall, save for the crackle of still smouldering flesh. Hulbard stared at the blackened, charred and steaming corpse for a long second, just as stunned as everyone else by Quintus’ display of power. They’d all seen him wreak havoc before, but rarely had it been so brutally efficient. The longer he went without using his powers, the more impressive it always seemed when he did.

Thankful, and not for the first time, that he was on their side, Hulbard gulped, still trying to get his mind around just how quickly the fight had been brought to a close, how fast the Knight had been brought low by an old man with a staff. Hulbard drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. His muscles loosened, started to ache as they relaxed. Slowly, shoulders sagging with exhaustion, he fumbled the war hammer onto the hook by his side, swung the shield over his back and reached up to drag off his helm.

It took him a single breath the regret that decision. The acrid, mouth watering taste of burning flesh and scorched armour caught in his throat. Blinking sweat from his eyes, he turned away from the corpse and spat.

“Why didn’t you just start off with that?” Shankhill was the first to break the silence, “It seemed pretty effective to me”.

“I made an educated guess,” Quintus’ voice was soft, steel grey eyes shifting slowly away from the corpse, “If he could dodge an arrow or a crossbow bolt, he could have dodged that lance. I had to distract him first and nothing tends to break someone’s focus like being set on fire”.

“Can’t argue with that logic,” Shankhill mused.

“Good work,” Hulbard said, “Damn good work”.

“I do what I can,” the Sorcerer bowed his head.

“You are bleeding,” Trastgor’s growl came from one side.

“Huh?”

The Kurgal lifted a clawed finger to tap at his own skull clad face, just above his left eye and Hulbard mirrored the motion, wincing as his iron shod fingers met the tender flesh of his forehead. They came away streaked in blood. It stung like the skin had been split open and ached like he’d have a good sized bruise for a few days to come. Reaching down, he caught the hem of his cloak and dabbed at the flesh, mopping up the droplets of blood threatening to drip into his eye.

“Just a cut,” he reported when Knox appeared by his side.

“I don’t think we have much to complain about, if I’m honest,” Shankhill said, stretching like he’d just fought a hard won battle when he hadn’t even drawn his sword, “Especially when our newfound friend over there just got run through with a sword and we don’t hear him whining about it”.

“I wasn’t complaining, Shankhill,” Hulbard told him irritably, still dabbing at his eyebrow.

“I decided to cut you off before you could start,” the rogue smirked.

“How about I cut something off you?” Hulbard grumbled, but his eyes were already being drawn to Darthalius.

He was in no mood for Shankhill’s practiced, if good natured, goading, but he’d spoken the truth about their guide. He’d been skewered with a sword and not only had he not died from the wound, he hadn’t even missed a beat during the fight. The creature was hunched over the Laertus’ corpse, the Knights sword in one massive hand. He turned it this way and that, watching the sunlight ripple along its scarred edges. There was no sign of his near evisceration; the flesh looked like it had melded back together without leaving so much as a scar behind.

That complicated things. If he ever had to face Darthalius, to put him down, he’d have to move with care. A plan was already forming in his mind, how he would use his enchanted armour to keep those grasping arms at bay, to send the muscles into spasms so he could get close and bring him to his knees, but Hulbard forced himself to focus. If need be, he was sure Quintus had something up his sleeves that could deal with the situation.

“So...” Shankhill drawled loudly, idly nudging a nearby piece of furniture with the toe of his boot, “Gold, eh?”

Catching his meaning, Darthalius stood and lumbered back towards the statue Shankhill had spotted just inside the doorway, Laertus’ sword still clasped in one meaty fist. He ran the fingers of another two across the ancient stonework for a long second before uncovering a hidden doorway lost within the deep shadows and heaved it open on grating hinges. Standing to one side, looming higher than the doorframe, he gestured towards the opening. Beyond was pitch darkness.

Shankhill quickly struck a lantern into life and its beam played across the top steps of a broad, downward bound staircase.

“Sneaky,” he commented brightly, before beginning the descent with his lantern leading the way and Hulbard close behind.

They descended a short flight of steps before emerging into a wide vault carved into the very marble of the Roost itself. Shankhill raked the beam of his lantern from left to right, revealing their prize; dozens of thick wooden chests filled that room, most piled one atop the other in neatly arranged stacks, though here and there, several looked like they’d just been haphazardly dropped into whatever space could be found at the time.

Holding the lantern high, eyes wide and gleaming with barely suppressed excitement, Shankhill settled its light on the nearest chest. Leaning down over the container, Hulbard gripped its lid and heaved it open. Within, lit by the rosy glow of Shankhill’s lantern, was more gold than he’d ever seen in one place before in his entire life. Row up row upon row of gold coins had been neatly stacked in the chest, octagonal in shape and maybe just over an inch in diameter.

Shankhill made a sound more suited to a brothel than their surroundings and handed his lantern over to the next nearest person before sinking to his knees in front of the chest, mouth open but for once at a loss for words. His twitching hands tentatively reached down to caress the glittering gold, as if afraid they would suddenly vanish in a puff of smoke and, when they didn’t, he plunged them deep into the clinking coins. Lifting a handful, he let the coins trickle through his fingers, rattling and clattering as they landed on the rest in the chest.

“That...is a lot of gold,” Knox breathed the understatement they were all thinking.

Shankhill was the first to start chuckling and after their time in Dalághast, with something finally to show for it, there’d never been a more infectious sound. Breathless smiles and wry smirks turned into laughter, nudging, clapping each other on the backs, filling the vault with the sound of their relief. Another chest was flung open and another mountain of gold revealed, but it was only the first of many.