Chapter Three: Worms

The slave's hair was as white as the ash left behind after burning alder wood, and it laid down his back in a long plait as he stood up straight to attention in the middle of the King's chamber. He looked at Wren with indignation.

"That's better," Wren held his hands together behind his back, pacing back and forth as he addressed the Khivarian, "Don't slouch, you fucking human question mark."

The slave gritted his teeth, and the lines to the side of his deep blue eyes cracked, the olive skin crinkling as he squinted at the legionary. Measuring him up in his mind, he thought of how good it would feel to pummel the smaller man into the floorboards.

Wren knew exactly what he was doing.

"You are accused of brutally murdering your overseer. Why?" he asked the question slowly, punctuating every syllable.

The Khivarian opened his mouth to reply, paused, and then simply shrugged. Wren stopped his pacing and stood before the slave. He peered deep into the two pools of azure and measured him right back. He searched there for the glisten, the certain something behind a person's eye's that only one trained in the ancient ways, as Wren was, would be able to detect. There was no trace of any kind, just the usual dullness of ordinary folk.

Wren was a little disappointed; he lived in constant hope of finding those few, rare people, those with the tiniest spark of old magic still sneaking about deep down inside of them. That's why he liked Brinkle so much after all, despite the man's complete lack of interest in the implications of his own inert power.

"My name is Wren Agodak," Wren said. "What's your name, slave?"

The Khivarian grunted. Hasrin rose from his desk and motioned to the prisoner's escort. The guardsman left his place by the door and moved to hit the slave, balling his leather-gloved fist and thrusting it towards the man's stomach. Wren, quick as a flash, brought down his elbow on the guard's forearm with a crack. The guard stumbled back in shock, rubbing vigorously at the spot through his jerkin. Wren calmly placed his hands behind his back once more and went back to pacing.

"That won't be necessary, Sire," Wren barely skipped a beat. "Will it, slave?"

The Khivarian didn't smile, not exactly, but Wren did see a telltale tremble at the corner of the man's mouth before he answered. "My name is Talorook."

"Talorook. Fine. Why did you murder your overseer, Talorook?"

"He was a bully."

"Well, of course he was a bully, he was your overseer," Wren snapped at the slave, "but why did you kill him?"

"He sold my daughter."

Wren nodded. That made sense; Khivarians were traded as easily as pothchalk and along most of the same trade routes. Poth went one way, spreading out from West to East, and slaves came back the other, all the way from the Khivarian border, where constant skirmishes and raids into enemy territory were commonplace, everyday occurrences.

"To a richster, with blonde hair? " Wren asked. "I think we ran into them outside."

He flicked off the top of the small, wooden box, concealed up his sleeve. Talorook slowly nodded and turned to look at the king with his piercing gaze.

"Well, she wasn't your daughter," Hasrin said, "not anymore. You know how this works."

The slave's body tensed, well-conditioned muscles standing out prominently after months of nothing but breaking rock. He looked back to Wren, "She will always be my daughter, no matter how far they drag her kicking and screaming."

"She didn't seem too pleased, but I wouldn't say kicking and screaming." Wren smiled. "Well, let's get down to it then, anyway."

He brought out his hand from behind his back and threw a pinch of shut-dust directly into Talorook's face. The slave, shocked, shook his head and sniffed, inhaling the powder without thinking. Within seconds his eyes glazed over, and his body went stiff. The Baron, quick to react, moved behind the man as did the guard. They held the paralysed Khivarian steady by his shoulders for Wren to work his magic on the man.

The deep azure eyes were stuck, wide open and piercing as Wren gazed into them once again. He closed himself off from the outside world, ignoring the room around him, shutting it all out. He stared into those two pools and jumped off the cliff, plummeting down and smashing through the surface, dragging the memory of the sigil along behind him. He shattered the surface of Talorook's soul and sank deep into it with relish.

It was so easy to slice through when they were paralysed, Wren thought to himself, like cutting through cream with a cleaver.

He felt the man's mind tense and spasm along with his physical body as he settled down to work. Imagining the long, wriggling worms, he probed gently through Talobrook's heart and mind. The very essense of everything the slave was was laid out for Wren to explore at his pleasure. He pictured the worms crawling over memories, wrapping themselves around feelings and binding and biting their way in spirals around thoughts. They pushed and shoved to bury themselves into all the corners and recesses of the slave's soul.

Wren watched in fascination as the disgusting creatures spread and grew, thickening and strengthening with every second they devoured. He saw the slave's character held within the horrible mass; there was courage in this slave, resolve, fierce denial of his existence and burning desire for more. Wren saw anguish and heartbreak, suffering like he had never imagined. He felt the fear of the chains, of the beatings... and of the whip, as the overseer brought it down again and again on his own precious daughter's back, great red slashes of crimson erupting from her flesh.

He cast his mind around, searching for the recent past. Over in a dark corner, behind the stench of a prison cell and the scent of shit, he saw the overseer's shattered skull and the whip on the ground, covered in pothchalk dust.

He knew at that moment precisely what these awful worms were, and what the sigil had been designed for. It was perfect in its chaos, for it made a puppet of men: the perfect slave.

Wren snatched at the tail end of the smallest worm he could picture, gripping it tightly with his focus before willing himself free from Talobrook's most private of places. He would need a leash, after all.

Baron Paegar felt the slave's body go limp as life came back to the stiff man's frame. It was usually the other way around, he thought to himself, but then everything has a habit of going backwards when it comes to this madness.

King Hasrin approached the Khivarian, straightening the sleeves of his red and gold gown. "Well, Agodak?" He said. "He seems alive, at least. Did it work?"

Wren sat down in his chair and picked up his cup of wine. "It worked, and he's fine," he said, taking a sip.

"Well, what is it then?" Hasrin stood in front of Wren, hands on hips. "Out with it."

Wren looked at the Khivarian on the floor. He looked exhausted, more drained than any day at the pothchalk mine had ever made him. The dullness was there in his eyes, nothing had changed. Wren stared closely but could see no worms writhing about in there. He imagined the small one, the leash, wrapping its black length around Talorook's neck. He gave it the tiniest of mental tugs, and the slave's head jerked towards him imperceptibly. Paegar stood to the side, watching Wren, waiting for him to answer the King.

"I think... Sire..." Wren looked up at Hasrin with a contrite look, "I took his ability to speak."

The King ruffled his beard and frowned. "His ability to speak? You mean that's all?"

"Yes, Sire, I don't think he can talk anymore. I broke his tongue."

Talorook looked up at Wren, puzzled, wondering what the sigil-keeper was up to. He could feel him crawing around inside like termites chewing through his mind. He felt a sticky, slick thing around his neck. And he could most certainly talk. He opened his mouth to prove it, but before he could yell out, he caught the look in Wren's eye, the slight raised eyebrow. It gave him pause, and he shut his mouth and listened instead.

"It's a useful sigil, really, for a messenger," Wren said. "You don't want them able to sing like sparrows if they get captured. The Wrackbone's man must have been taking messages to someone, somewhere. He's back, Sire, and he's making himself busy."

The King growled and stomped to the window and spat out, watching the globule fall out of sight to the ground below. Hopefully onto that priest's ugly, bald head, thought Wren.

"Hey, can you talk?" Paegar tapped Talorook on the top of the head. The blue eyes looked up at him, and he made a weird fluttering noise with his tongue between his lips.

"So the Wrackbone really wants another bloody beating, does he?" Hasrin seemed convinced. "Well, we'll have to see about that. Agodak, did he kill the overseer or not?"

"Most certainly, Sire."

"Then he'll hang. Take him away." Hasrin motioned to the prisoner's escort with a wave of his hand.

"Sire, if I may be so bold, might he not be placed into your brother's care instead?" Wren smiled at Paegar. "He is a murderer, after all, he'll fit right in."

"What the bloody hell are you playing at, Wrenfin?" the Baron's moustache twitched like a beached mackerel. "I don't need to babysit any more folk, even if he would be better off with us than here with these savages."

Hasrin bridled at being referred to in such a way, shaking his head at Paegar.

"You still consider us savages for keeping these monsters as slaves, brother?" He pleaded. "Need I remind you of what they do to our people in the Reaches, how they butcher us, how they butchered our father?"

"They wouldn't still be doing that if you'd just kept your fucking promise to him," Pagar's single eye glared at his sibling. "You told Father you'd protect his people after he was gone, but the kingdom has gone to shit! It's me and my men sweeping the roads clear of vermin while you sit in your castle, bullying Khivarians and swilling wine from silver goblets!"

"How dare you, of all people, moralise to me like a fucking priest of the Mother!" Hasrin was furious now, pacing back and forth, his gown billowing out behind him. "You march up and down Seleria with your little band of cutthroats, causing just as much trouble as those you claim to free us from!"

"We shouldn't have to!"

"It isn't important right now!" Wren shouted above the two of them, "The Wrackbone's back, and you need to know what he's up to, or we could all be fucked."

The two brothers stared at him, not trusting themselves to look at each other. So bloody alike, Wren thought, they both tried so hard to do their best, in their own way.

Hasrin moved back to his desk and slugged back the last gulp of his wine, before opening the drawer once more. He spoke to the guard as he began to search.

"Take the slave to the stables, hand him over to the Baron's man, Sheeper, a wobbly, spectacled fellow. I'm sure he'll be thrilled."

The guard moved to help Talorook stand, but he shrugged off the man's help and walked tall as they left.

Hasrin had found a small scroll of parchment and unrolled it, laying it out flat on the wooden desk. It was a map of Selenia, beautifully drawn by some skilled cartographer, with rare blue and green inks making oceans appear to roll and fields shimmer. The King stabbed his finger at the map, hitting a spot far to the south of Palecrest.

"Here," he exclaimed, as Wren and Paegar watched on. "Hifrim's Perch. I sent Yarwen there three weeks ago to quell some trouble. The young Lord Hifrim is getting too big for his boots, tried to tax all my people from there to the River Crindle."

He dragged his finger northwards from Hilfrim's Perch to the river, which ran across the map, about a third of the way towards Palecrest, indicating the large swathe of land that rightfully was his and his alone to tax.

"We know the place, get on with it." Paegar huffed, rubbing at his empty eye.

"If the Wrackbone's back, he's going to need allies," Hasrin went on, "so I want you to go and help her. If there're messages being sent out by him, then he's probably trying to recruit the malcontents."

"Of which there are many," Paegar huffed. He was pushing his luck.

"And here," the King dragged his finger eastwards, choosing to ignore his brother, over to the Great Forest, which split Western Seleria from the Eastern Reaches. "There's a small town, Hartford, the Baron of which is an incompetent fool by the name of Lubbrant. He can't control his bloody slaves, they're causing an uproar, and it sounds like they're damned near outright rebellion. When you're done in Hilfrim's Perch, go and see if you can't knock some sense into them. If you like the damned Khivarians so much, let's see how you deal with a couple of hundred of them calling for your head."

Hasrin rolled up the map and tucked it back in the drawer. Business concluded, and with nothing more to say, especially to his brother, he pointed at the door.

"Send word as soon as possible, then."

Paegar stormed out ahead of Wren, who paused at the door and turned back to the king.

"Thank you, Sire."

The King nodded and folded his arms, "Good luck, Agodak. Not with this business, but with him."

Wren bowed low before backing out the door and closing it tight behind him.

Baron Paegar was in a foul mood as the two of them walked the short way back down the hill, through the cobbled streets to the stables, swaggering briskly with his hand on the hilt of his sabre.

"Let's go Wrenfin, fuck Palecrest and fuck Hasrin. I like Hifrim's Perch anyway, might take it for myself if I get the chance."

"Not if Yarwen beats you to it," Wren cautioned his friend. The young warlord had made a name for herself in the past five years, in both halves of the kingdom. She had risen through the ranks of the King's forces, and Hasrin had recently appointed her commander of his personal housecarl. Paegar was bound to have his hands full with the woman, and it would be a match made in heaven.

"Besides, I'll have to catch up with you," Wren continued. "It's not young Hilfrim that's our main concern, though I'm sure the Wrackbone really will try to recruit him, might have already, even."

His friend stopped marching and pulled Wren to the side of the road as a heavily laden cart, being pulled by two big shire horses, rumbled by.

"What do you mean, you're not coming?" He asked, letting go of Wren's arm. "What's going on?"

"The sigil, Paegar. It doesn't halt your tongue, it's a bloody slave-maker!" Wren's eyes gleamed. "It makes you a fucking puppet! That Khivarian will do whatever I say, without question! He won't have to like it, but he'll do it!"

Paegar seemed to consider this for a moment. He twirled his moustache with his fingertip and began to walk, slower now.

"A slave-maker? So the Wrackbone wants to make slaves?"

"I think he wants to make slaves out of slaves, Paegar. I'm going to Hartford, to stop that uprising."

"By Mother Moon, Wren. This is getting serious."

The two friends headed off down the hill quickly, to find the Lucky Legion and get them back on the move. The men wouldn't be happy about it, either.

"Right then, never mind that weapon, Korbax!" Baron Paegar came blustering into the stable, yelling at the spearman. "Get that saddle back on, we're off South!"

"Bloody hell, Captain," the legionary looked distraught at the news. He was sat on the ground with half a dozen of the men, using his saddle for a pillow as he ran a small whetstone against his spear's tip. "Already?"

"Yes already, man, now get a move on," Paegar stomped off to round up the rest of the legion, "You too, lads!"

The men grumbled and swore as they got to their feet and started packing up all their odds and ends. The men had a habit of settling in and making themselves at home

"Where's Brinkle?" Wren asked. Korbax dropped his spear, got to his feet and heaved his saddle back onto his steed with a pissed-off grunt.

"He took Flick and went off with the others, some of the boys 'volunteered' to find an inn, lucky buggers," Korbax looked around the cramped stables, legionaries and horses milling about and getting in each other's way. "We're packed in tighter than a nun's cunt, here."

"Can you be ready quick, like?" Wren wanted the dependable fighter with him at Hartford. Korbax had grown up in the woods and forests of the midlands and would be useful. "Follow on behind me, I'll be with Baron Paegar."

"Aye, alright." Korbax didn't ask any questions. He watched Wren as he ran to catch up with their captain. As Korbax packed his things, he couldn't help but feel excited; it had been far too long since he'd been off on one of Wren's little jaunts.

Paegar found Sheeper and was apologetically consoling the frustrated quartermaster as he tried to re-saddled his horse. The animal wouldn't cooperate, baulking the saddle and shying away from Sheeper, as well as from the mere idea of getting back on the road so soon.

"Sorry, Sheep," Paegar consoled his friend, "but there's still plenty of time before Mother Moon's up, we'll be a third of the way to the Perch by dusk."

"Alright, alright," Sheeper said, tucking his ledger into his saddlebag. "But you did say we'd be in Palecrest overnight, did you not, Paegar?"

"Aye, that I did,"

"Which means we're still low on a few essential supplies that I had planned on procuring this evening. Alas, tis not to be," he rolled his eyes. "We've still plenty of victuals, but we need sewing thread, beeswax for the blades, more spoons, . . ." the quartermaster began listing off items on his fingers.

It was what he was good at, and what Paegar was terrible at. The Baron was very glad to have Sheeper around, especially now that there were so few of them left for the quartermaster to badger.

"Alright, Sheep, alright," Paegar threw his hands up in protest. "You've made your point. It'll just have to wait, okay?"

"Sheeper, did a guardsman bring a Khivarian to you?" Wren interjected, before the two started bickering like a pair of old hags.

"He did, and I gave the slave some armour, but he'll have to find his own weapon," Sheeper pointed over to the far corner of the stable, where Talorook stood with his elbows resting on a wooden fence post, watching the three men as they talked. He was wearing an old, rusty coat of mail and looked uncomfortable.

"Thanks," Wren said. "Where are Brink and Flick?"

"They took the young lady Sarephel, to get drunk at the Crushed Cat," Sheeper grinned. "She was in for a good night, by all accounts."

Paegar stroked his chin and furrowed his bushy eyebrows in his habitual fashion. "She came around quickly! Wrenfin, take her with you, why don't you? Keep her out of my way, the bloody devil-woman."

Wren sighed, shaking his head in amazement as he walked off to find his and his friend's horses. His two companions laughed as he went, Sheeper calling out after him, "Good luck in Hartford, Agodak!"

Once he had found the four mounts belonging to him and his friends, he picked out a suitably sturdy-looking fifth, and after leading it over to Talorook, he offered the slave the reins.

"Can you ride, then?" Wren inquired.

"I can," Talorook replied. "Where are we going?"

"First to find my friends, then off to the woods. You'll have to find some better armour, and a weapon. Up you get, then." Wren climbed smoothly up into his own saddle as the Khivarian did the same. "Let's be off. Korbax!"

Wren sat up straight in his saddle and scanned the stables, his head turning back and forth like a mongoose watching for predators as he searched to pick out the spearman in the crowd.

"Here, Wren," Korbax's reply came from right behind Wren, startling him. "Don't forget her, Brinkle won't forgive you if you do."

Korbax was holding up Plucky the chicken, who for once was not flapping and trying to escape, but sat perfectly still, seemingly asleep.

"Bloody hell, where am I meant to keep that thing?" Said Wren.

Korbax dug the heel of his boot into his horse's flank, guiding it alongside Wren's mount. He leant over and placed the chicken inside the fur hood of Wren's cloak.

"A nice little nest, that," Korbax joked. Wren once again shook his head in amazement, watching as tiny feathers fluttered in the air around his face. The chicken let out a little squawk, and settled in behind his head.

"Come on then, let's go," Wren wheeled around his horse and trotted towards the cobblestone streets once more. "Meet Talorook, by the way, he'll be coming with us, to Hartford."

"Hartford?" Korbax looked pleased as he saluted the slave. "Why we going there, then?"

"I'll tell you later, when we've found Brink."

The three of them rode out of the stables and back into the dim, shaded streets of Palecrest. They were truly comfortable for the first time in a while as they made their way to the Crushed Cat - Father Sun having made good progress back down towards the horizon now. The scents returned, perfumes and spices from storefronts, the stench of the tanners at the outskirts, and the occassional pile of horse shit on the ground. A merchant could be heard, yelling at his slave to "Get outside, and clean that mess!"

"This is a nice city," Korbax said. "I'd live here."

Talorook looked at the spearman as if he were insane, before turning to Wren and asking, "What are you?"

Wren scratched his head. "What do you mean? I'm Selenian. Can't you tell from my handsome good looks and lovely dark beard?"

The Khivarian wasn't amused. "You are a sigil-keeper. You are inside me, I can feel you in there still, wriggling."

Wren's eyes widened in surprise. "What do you know of sigil-keepers?"

"I know what I know," Talorook continued. "You are one, and you did something to me, with your old magic - "

"Wait, wait," Wren raised his hand to stop Talorook. "Really, what do you know of sigil-keepers? Not many remember, these days, even here. How would a Khivarian know what I am?"

Talorook thought for a moment before replying. "I met a sigil-keeper, once, after your King Hasrin beat the Wrackbone. The same Wrackbone I heard you discussing with the same King Hasrin not half an hour past. And now you're taking me to Hartford, you say? For what?"

Wren pictured the worm, black and cold around Talorook's neck.

"Because he's back, that's why," Wren pulled on the worm with his imagination. Talorook jerked forward, clutching at his steed's neck so as not to fall from the horse.

"By the Father, what did you do?" Talorook looked terrified. He grabbed at his head, feeling around under the skin. "I can feel you, worming around in there!"

Wren wiped the smile off his face and looked deadly serious. "Imagine you're the Wrackbone, and imagine you need an army to wage war on Hasrin and take Selenia for yourself. What better army than the slaves that Selenia has come to rely on so much, growing corrupt and lazy in their opulence, letting Khivarians do all the hard work while the wealthy of Selenia turn into fat-fucks, and let the fucking Church of the Mother dip into their pockets as they please!"

Talorook understood now. He nodded slowly at Wren, looked at Korbax, who was listening with rapt attention, then back to Wren. "You made me your puppet. And the Wrackbone wants to make all my people his puppets, to wage his war."

"Now you're getting it," Wren reached over and slapped Talorook on the back. "Don't worry, I don't intend to keep yanking you around. Not if you don't make me."

The slave raised an eyebrow suspiciously.

"No, really, I hope I don't need to. I saw what you did to that overseer. I know why you did it. And if you help me, maybe, I'll help you get your daughter back?" Wren phrased it as a question, then shrugged, "Maybe."

"I will not be your slave," Talorook growled.

"You hate whips," Wren said, waving his hand with an imaginary flail. "So let's shove the Wrackbone's right up his sweaty arsehole. And you're not a slave, not anymore. Don't let the worms fool you. I won't use them if you don't make me."

Talorook was silent the rest of the way to the Crushed Cat. He watched Wren and Korbax out of the corner of his azure eyes, and thought about the situation he found himself in. These men were savage, brutish bandits, that much was clear from the way they moved, the way they talked. And yet the one-eyed Baron especially seemed to hate slavery, and this sigil-keeper who had violated him so callously, now he offered him the return of his daughter and his freedom. 'You're not a slave,' the sigil-keeper had said. For now, he would do as they asked. He would bide his time. He rubbed his head, the worms were still now, but for how long?

The Crushed Cat Inn was a big stone building with a wooden sign hanging above the door. Painted on the sign was a slab of pothchalk with four cat legs poking out from under it. The three men dismounted and were just about to hitch their horses to one of the posts lined up along the wall, when a thunderous crash was heard from inside, followed by the unmistakable roar of Brinkle the Big.

"Every sun-damned time," Korbax sighed, grabbing his spear and running to the door.

"Come on," Wren followed, beckoning Talorook over to the door. "I know you can fight."

Inside, Brinkle was wielding a wooden stool like a battering ram, hammering it against an old Selenian's groin over and over again. He let the unfortunate man crumple to the ground as he heard Korbax, who was shouting at him to "Knock it off, Brinkle, you big fool."

Brinkle turned and smiled at Korbax, utterly oblivious to two more drunkards as they attacked him from behind, one punching him hard in the back of the head, the other booting him in the back of the knee. The big man went down, and they were on him like hounds; the man who had punched Brinkle now clung to his back and kept up his assault, blow after blow smashing down powerfully into the back of his skull. Brinkle felt his lip split as his face was slammed against the hard stone floor.

Wren and Talorook blew into the room right behind Korbax just as the spearman reversed his weapon; brandishing it like a quarterstaff, he set about whacking the two locals. Flick appeared at his side after shoving his way through the small crowd of onlookers, having finally found the courage to step in now that his friends had arrived. Sarephel still sat at the table where he had come from, drinking her ale and thoroughly enjoying the entertainment.

Korbax had managed to push back the two individuals from Brinkle's back, and now he stood facing them, brandishing his spear and holding them off.

"Fucking cunt, he's killed Nintud," one of the men shouted. He was a strong-looking fellow with big arms and a chest like a barrel. "He's an old man, for fuck's sake!"

The locals were rightfully upset. A rumble of disapproval spread through the crowd as Wren opened his pouch.

"Watch out, Talorook," he cautioned the Khivarian. "It's about to get scrappy."

The big, drunk local charged at Korbax like a bull, head down, trying to tackle his way past the swinging spear shaft. He was a little too slow and caught it in the temple with a loud crack. His momentum still took him ploughing into Korbax, and the two of them crashed to the floor. More locals came to help their friend, and Flick, suddenly worried, jumped back towards Wren and Talorook. Wren shielded the boy with his arm and with his other hand, brought from his pouch a small, glass vial. He pulled out the cork with his teeth and held it aloft.

"Stop, wait!" he cried. There were maybe half a dozen angry, drunken Palecrest residents moving in to surround the small group of troublemakers. "Don't say I didn't warn you!"

They didn't know what to make of this, but it certainly wasn't going to stop them. As the closest man moved to attack, Wren brought down the vial in a swooping arc, sending a pale green liquid splattering over the closest few. They were halted for a moment, shocked at the unexpected turn of events. It was all the time the alchemy needed to get to work; a fierce, burning itch began to spread out from anywhere the potion had touched their bare skin, causing the flesh to blister and bubble.

The closest man jumped at Wren, shoving him back and sending him tumbling to the floor. As he hit the ground, his head snapped backwards, hitting the stone floor with a thud. The man stopped and stared in awe, certain for a moment that he had accidentally murdered his opponent.

Wren's skull had surely been shattered, yet amazingly, before the man could react, the sigil-keeper staggered to his feet and launched a vicious blow to the man's kidneys. He gave out a yelp and retreated as his fellow patrons began to yell and paw at themselves, forgetting Wren in their sudden concern; the flesh-rot was sizzling their skin to a crisp.

Korbax was back on his feet, and he punched the closest man in the nose as hard as possible, shouting for his comrades to get stuck in. They took to it with real passion, fists battering and beating as they made their way through the tormented locals to the door. Korbax thrust the shaft of his spear into one man's gut, sending him to the ground with a gasp, before motioning to Talorook to help him drag Brinkle outside. It took both of them, each one hooking an arm under one of the big man's own and pulling him along the floorboards. Wren and Flick covered their friends, the youngster hopping around delivering smacks to the preoccupied enemy.

"Come on, Sarephel, we're leaving!" Flick's yellow hair was bouncing about as he jumped out the door. Sarephel sighed, knocked back her ale and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, before getting to her feet.

"Good show, Wren," she laughed as she moved past him, pointing at the flesh-rot afflicted men rolling about on the ground, clutching at themselves and moaning in pain. "Will that stuff kill them?"

"No," Wren answered, then shouted at the men, "Just put ale on it!"

Outside, Korbax bent over Brinkle and slapped him hard in the face. "Brink, come on, we have to go."

Brinkle let out a moan and opened his eyes. He sat up, leaned on one elbow and spat a thick glob of blood into the gutter.

"Hello," he smiled, revealing a new gap in his teeth. "Where are we off to now, then?"

"Get him on his fucking horse," Wren snapped. "You bloody nuisance, Brinkle."

They helped the huge drunk to his feet and over to his horse. The animal looked absolutely terrified, shying and bucking as he attempted to clamber up into the saddle.

"Right, everyone ready?" Wren asked the strange little group. "Let's be off then. Flick, help me here, would you?" He leaned down to one side as Flick brought his horse alongside.

"What is it?" Flick asked.

"Get this bloody chicken out my hood, would you lad," Wren plucked a feather from his beard. "It saved my life, but I think it may have given its own in return."

"Bloody hell, Wren," Flick pulled Plucky from the grey fur hood and held her up to examine her. The plump bird didn't move.

"Sorry, Brink," Flick showed him the chicken.

"Oh, bloody hell, I just got her!" Brinkle exclaimed. He looked crestfallen.

"Well, it serves you right for causing trouble," Wren wheeled his horse about, pointing it's head downhill towards the city's main gatehouse. "Now, let's go!"

As the six galloped away from the Crushed Cat, a young priest slipped from the shadows behind the inn and climbed up onto his own big, black warhorse. He was dressed in heavy plate armour, painted pitch black, and wore a longsword by his side and an old-fashioned bascinet on his head. The only sign of his faith was a small silver pendant on a silver chain worn around his neck, a small crescent moon. The priest clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and the black horse began walking down the hill.