“Durandal? His full name is Durandal?” Whisper asked, disbelief all over her features.

“Klessan said the same thing,” Jack said, grinning.

The two Heroes were following a lesser known path through the woods that the Guild laid claim to. Occasionally used to take Apprentices on training hikes, today it would take them to the possible hidden camp of the Wiccermen raiders. The midday sun peeked through the canopy above them, lighting their way.

“How did that come out?” Whisper asked, twirling the stylised metal rod she carried in one hand.

“His sister,” Jack said. “Yeah, I know,” he added at Whisper's surprised look.

“Big man was keeping secrets,” Whisper said, lips quirking in amusement. No one expected the dreadlocked Hero who was already over six feet tall to be anything approaching subtle. “What is he up to? Guildmaster said he hadn't come back for another Quest.”

“He's going to be staying with his clan for a time, I think,” Jack said. “They're having some issues with another clan.”

“Trouble?”

“Well, could be. We fought off a raid, and the Fox clan had hired a Hero to help them,” Jack said.

“Really? Someone renowned?” Whisper asked.

Jack made a see-sawing motion with one gloved hand. “Maybe. His name was Duellist. I captured him, actually.”

Whisper pulled a piece of beef jerky from her pocket and chewed on it thoughtfully. “I think I've heard of him. Not bad, farmboy.”

“He outclassed me handily when I fought him blade to blade,” Jack said, “but he didn't fare so well when I started throwing lightning at him.”

“Lightning is your solution to everything, isn't it Jack?” Whisper asked, amused.

“It's worked well enough so far,” Jack said, crossing his arms.

Whisper laughed, and they fell into an easy silence as they walked. Jack occupied himself with a simple Will exercise he had come across in Maze's journal meant to strengthen Will channels. He had come across it when flicking through the book in search of answers to the highly inconvenient issue of bleeding from his eyes and nose. While he was fairly sure the issue stemmed from using expression together that placed too much stress on his body, he was still going to check with Maze the next time he saw the man. That, and ask him about the way his Will was pulsing down his sword each time he used the exercise he had found.

He glanced subtly as Whisper. She was walking in step with him, flipping and catching the metal rod she carried. So far, she had made no mention of their graduation celebration or of the events, or Event, of that night. Whatever her reasoning, if she didn't care to bring it up, he wouldn't either. As the first connection he had made after the destruction of his home, he had no inclination to muddy or strain things by bringing up a kiss that was likely nothing more than a pleasant conclusion to a night of fun.

Snorting softly to himself, he shook his head. He was likely over thinking things to a horrendous degree, in any case. He did his best to put it from his mind and focus on his Will exercise.

They walked for some hours, long enough for the bright midday sun to darken into a murky orange. The path roughly followed a tributary of the Bower River, at times drawing close, even crossing it on rickety old wood and rope bridges, before the lay of the land forced it away. The small river bore evidence of great floods in years past, with high, sheer banks carved through the landscape becoming more and more common as they left the lowlands and came to the outermost reach of the grasping fingers of the Pyrepeaks. In places, the river was more akin to a water filled canyon than the gentle stream they had encountered earlier in their hike.

Conversation was interspersed by long periods of comfortable silence. Jack had caught Whisper up on his adventures with Duran (as much as he could) and his brief reunion with Klessan. The dark skinned girl was particularly interested b his encounter with the balverine pack, having come across the tracks of one during her time with her brother. Perhaps aware of its chances against a Hero like Thunder, the beast had given the small group of merchants they were escorting a wide berth.

For her part, Whisper told her friend about the simple Quests her brother had accompanied her on, giving advice and sharing the wealth of his experience. He had also shared the basics of some of his preferred Will expressions—but only after learning to what extent Jack was talented in the field. Whisper was planning to milk her brother's competitive streak on her behalf for all it was worth, and Jack had decided to cheer her on. Thunder had really rubbed him the wrong way.

“At this rate, we won't come upon the Wiccermen until the evening, if they are here at all,” Whisper said, breaking the silence of the last hour. The birdsong in the trees and the sound of gravel crunching beneath their feet seemed quieter in the wake of it.

Jack shrugged. “I have what I need for a few nights in the woods,” he said, gesturing to his enhanced pouch. The country they walked wasn't particularly inhospitable.

“As do I,” Whisper said, thumping the bedroll secured at the top of her heavy pack. “That doesn't mean I'd care to do so given the choice.”

Jack coughed, disguising a snicker. “City-girl.”

Whisper raised a single eyebrow at him, disdainful as a sphinx. “Warm bed and bath, or lumpy bedroll and cold stream?” she asked.

Jack harrumphed, electing not to dignify the question with a response.

“That's what I thought,” Whisper said, smirking.

“I don't see why you don't just heat up the river for your bath,” Jack said, arguing for the sake of it. He kicked a loose rock along the path.

Whisper rolled her eyes. “Not all of us have the Will to throw away heating water that will flow downstream the next second.”

“Perhaps you just aren't applying yourself,” Jack said, a faint smile on his lips.

Whisper let out an uncharacteristic snort. “I'll show you applying, farmboy. I'll apply my boot to your--”

Whatever Whisper was going to apply her boot to, Jack would never know, as they rounded a bend in the path and found themselves face to face with a trio of Wiccermen. They were lightly garbed, clad only in trousers made of a strange coarsely furred material. Despite their lack of clothing and the coolness of the late afternoon, rivulets of sweat ran down their bare torsos. They were armed only with a pair of bows and a dagger each between them. The expressions they wore betrayed their surprise at seeing the Heroes; they were clearly not a patrol on the lookout for foes.

Jack was the first to react. His sword swept free from its sheath without a hint of resistance even as he stepped forward. The weapon was like a quicksilver extension of his body; he could feel the tip whistling through the air like it was his own flesh and blood. The closest of the three Wiccermen choked and fell, a spray of arterial blood staining the dirt, his throat torn open.

Whisper was only a heartbeat behind him, holding the metal rod she had been playing with all day in a two handed grip. She twisted it between her hands, and it sprung outwards from either end. The dull thump it gave was the only warning the remaining two foes received before she was laying into them with the unveiled staff. They dropped to the ground moments later, insensate and bleeding sluggishly from their temples. They had barely had time to draw their daggers.

Jack knelt down to clean his blade on the trousers of the man he had killed. He grinned up at Whisper, excitement building.

“Perhaps we will come upon the Wiccermen tonight after all,” Whisper said, her tone light, as if uncaring. The way she was twirling her staff betrayed her anticipation, however.

“Told you we'd find them,” Jack said. He eyed the two unconscious men. “We should hide the mess, though.”

The two Heroes shared a glance and took up a dropped dagger each. It was the work of a moment to do the deed, and the work of another to conceal the three corpses in overgrowth to the side of the path. Afterwards, Whisper turned to eye the tracks that the dead men had left on the path, keen gaze picking them out with ease.

“Your wisdom is undeniable, farmboy,” she said.

“I always thought so too,” Jack said, and Whisper raised her eyes skyward, as if praying for patience.

Their footsteps nearly silent, the pair moved to follow the tracks. The path wound closer to the river as they walked, and soon the sound of rushing water reached their ears.

“Waterfall?” Whisper asked.

Jack shook his head. “Rapids.”

They rounded a bend in the path, and the ground dropped off abruptly on one side. Where once there had stood a barrier of trees, time and a powerful current had worn the earth beneath them away, causing a landslide and creating a steep muddy cliff. Anchored at the base of the cliff, despite the swift current, were a pair of long, dangerous looking craft. Adorned with shields and strange, swirling designs along their lengths, the prow of each was crowned by the skull of a strange long snouted beast with far too many teeth.

Jack spared a moment to wish Klessan were here to identify the strange skull, before ducking down low, alongside Whisper. The ships were not unattended—there were Wiccermen aboard, armed and armoured.

“Well then,” Jack said, eyes alight. “I'd say we found them. Good thing we didn't make any noise back there.”

Whisper was straight down to business, already focussing on the matter at hand. “We have maybe another two hours of good light before dusk. They'll spot us the moment we start climbing down there unless we wait for nightfall.”

“Even then, if they're paying attention and have a good moon,” Jack said.

“We could assault them outright,” Whisper said. “Between my bombs and your Will--”

“Too much chance of killing the one we want alive,” Jack said, shaking his head. “We'll have to find the captain before we start sinking boats.”

Whisper frowned, denied the pleasure of raining fire on the ones who had attacked their home. “How do you suppose they got their ships this far inland?” she asked.

“Time, and a lot of muscle,” Jack said. He pointed towards the long ships. “I think those are oar ports on the side, too.”

“Wait and watch, then?” Whisper asked, already inching back into a more concealed position.

“Wait and watch,” Jack said. He moved to join her, the inkling of an idea already germinating in his mind.

X

“This is a bloody terrible idea,” Jack said, teeth chattering as he sank into the cold mountain river. He was clad only in a pair of shorts, and the naked sword he gripped reflected the moonlight back into the sky.

“Blame yourself,” Whisper said, also shivering madly as she joined him in the shallow bend of the river. She had shucked her dress armour, wearing her Guild issue trousers and a tight layer of bindings around her chest. Any ardour Jack might have felt at the sight was doused by the cold water they stood in. “This was entirely your idea,” she finished. She dunked herself and surfaced with a gasp, water cascading off the ringlets of her hair.

“It's a terrible one,” Jack said. “You should have stopped me.” He slid under the water's surface and rose slowly, his growing mop of hair soaked.

The two Heroes were half a mile upstream from the Wiccermen ships, having crept through the brush to slip past their sentries. Their other belongings had been hidden further downstream, awaiting pickup when their task was done.

As the sun had set, they had watched the two ships, observing what appeared to be two full crews go about their business. There had been no outcry or furore over the three men they had slain in the time they had watched their foes, leaving them confident enough to make their attempt that night.

Jack suppressed his shudders as he stepped further out into the river, as well as the urge to warm himself with his Will. Without his glove, the brand on his palm would be a beacon for anyone who chanced to look down to the water, and ruin their attempt at a stealthy approach. Besides, Whisper would never let him live it down if he gave into temptation while she did things 'properly'.

The current grew stronger, tugging at his limbs. He kicked off the riverbed and let it take him, speeding him downstream. Whisper was right behind him.

Aided by the current, the two Heroes reached the longships within ten minutes. As they drew closer, they ceased their paddling and submerged themselves as best they could, while keeping their heads above the water.

There were oil lanterns spaced along each ship, but for the most part they were shuttered, preserving the night vision of those on watch. During their earlier surveillance, Jack and Whisper had spied three Wiccermen on sentry duty per ship, while most of their compatriots retreated below decks to sleep.

The ships were only twenty odd metres away now, and Jack took in a deep breath, sinking beneath the surface entirely. He began to kick and stroke, speeding himself onwards. The water was dark, even with the cloudless sky, and he used the riverbank to guide himself towards the ship he had targeted. Whisper was nearby, almost indistinguishable, aiming for the other end of the ship.

A dark shape loomed out of the river murk without warning, and Jack immediately reversed his body, slowing himself before he collided with the ships hull. His feet hit the wood with a light thump, indistinguishable from any other piece of debris in the river. He allowed his eyes and nose to rise above the waterline and held himself up against the side of the ship, the current trying to dislodge him and take him further downstream. When no alarm was raised and no curious sentry came to investigate, Jack looked for Whisper and sighted her further along the side of the ship. He gave her a nod, and she began to move, ducking beneath the surface once more and swimming for the heavy rope anchor holding the ship in place.

The next part of the plan was the most dangerous. Whisper would have to climb the anchor rope swiftly enough to avoid detection, while taking care not to sway it overmuch. She would then lower a rope they had noticed earlier coiled at the edge of the ship down to Jack, and he would join her as they attempted to make their way to the main cabin without detection. He was quick on his feet, but she had always been the more agile of the two. Much as he hated waiting, she was the best one for the job.

Whisper began to climb the rope, holding her body close to it to avoid swaying and using even, steady movements. Water dripped from her body, and Jack was thankful for the wind rustling through the trees around the river that masked it from hearing as it fell back into the water. She reached the top of the rope in short order, and pulled herself over the rail of the ship, disappearing out of sight. Jack's pulse picked up, and he began counting the seconds. The coil of rope they had spied should be within arms reach, and the sentries--

There was a soft surprised exclamation, and the sound of flesh striking flesh. Jack's pulse skyrocketed, and he forced himself to be still, trusting in Whisper. After what felt like an eternity later, a body was lowered, a rope fastened around its neck. Jack helped Whisper lower the Wiccerman's corpse into the water with minimal splash, making sure it was fully submerged. His friend then waved him up; he began to climb, using the rope to 'walk' up the side of the ship.

Jack slid over the rail to join Whisper as she crouched in the shadow of a stack of crates. The remaining two sentries were watching different approaches, and were not as focused as they could have been. Their comrade's disappearance would go unnoticed for several minutes yet.

“There's the main cabin,” Whisper said, nodding towards the sole construct on the main deck. “Still think the captain will be in there?”

“It's as good a place to start as any,” Jack replied quietly. “And we'll feel really silly if we search the entire ship first only to find he was in there all along.”

“Make for the cabin on three then,” Whisper said. “One, two--”

The cabin exploded.

Jack and Whisper were thrown from their feet by the intensity of the blast, a wave of sound and heat washing over them. There was a split second of stillness as the splintered remains of the cabin rained down on the deck, and then all was chaos.

Startled birds erupted into raucous flight along the banks of the river, cawing their displeasure at being woken. On the other longship a small bell began to ring rapidly, sounding the alarm to the Wiccermen who were already shaking the hold with the pounding of their footsteps. Jack staggered to his feet, squinting as he looked for Whisper. The flash of the explosion had sent this night vision to shit. Finding his friend, he hauled her to her feet, checking for injuries as the shouts and bellows of the Wiccermen grew louder and more organised. He found one; a splinter of wood had pierced her arm, going clear through.

“No bone!” Whisper shouted over the din. Her eyes were hyper alert with adrenaline, and she held her injured arm close to her body. It wasn't her main arm, thankfully.

“We need to move!” Jack answered.

“But the Quest – oh, bollocks,” Whisper said, swearing uncharacteristically.

A moment later, Jack saw why. A large group of Wiccermen had reached top deck, a man of imposing physical appearance leading them. He wore the shimmering scaled hide of some great beast and carried a great battle axe easily in hone hand. His head was shaven, and a spiked goatee adorned his chin; woad dye patterned his scalp. It appeared that the Wiccermen leader hadn't been in his cabin after all.

He was not quite at tall as Duran, but heavier with muscle. The Wiccer leader pointed his great-axe at the two Heroes one handed, barking a command. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Jack exchanged a glance with Whisper. Her face was tight with pain, but it was controlled, and her staff was ready in her fist.

The Wiccer leader spoke again. The language he spoke was oddly rhythmical, but the tone used was unyielding. The huge man grew impatient with their lack of compliance, or perhaps their understanding, pointing first at their weapons and then over the rail of the ship.

Jack snarled at the implied order, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword. His blade snarled with him, the whisper of a balverine's growl echoing unsettlingly over the deck. Some of the Wiccermen shifted uneasily; their leader didn't, even when Whisper conjured lightning in the palm of her wounded hand. He took his axe in both hands and stepped forward.

Wood thumped on wood as the second longship drew alongside, its deck lined with Wiccermen. The lingering flames of their leader's cabin were doused, leaving hard faces shrouded in darkness.

There was a whisper of movement, and Jack reacted instinctively. His body flared blue, clawing back the darkness and throwing the deck into stark illumination. The Wiccer leader was a bare foot away from him, ferocity in his eyes. The great-axe the man carried splintered the deck as it passed through Jack's incorporeal form.

The Wiccerman's eyes widened in disbelief as he stared at Jack's glowing form. The moment seemed to stretch into eternity as Jack met his gaze – and so Jack was the only one to truly see what happened next.

A breeze carressed Jack's cheek, stirred by the wake of something small and pointed that had shot over his shoulder. The object pierced the Wiccer leader's eye and continued through to his brain. The big man collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, hitting the deck with a thud. Jack stared down at the corpse, his expression frozen as he dropped out of his wraith form. To all watching, is appeared as if Jack had struck the man down without lifting a finger.

The Wiccermen drew back, as if wary. It was more than wariness in their eyes, however, it was fear. Fear in their voices as they muttered to each other, fear in the grips on their weapons, and fear in the signs that several made before themselves.

Jack had no time to divine the meaning of it all. Their target was dead at their feet, their Quest a failure. A fireball erupted from his hand, blasting the mast and setting the furled sails alight. Whisper followed suit, lightning arcing from her fingertips to the neighbouring ship. It was not strong enough to kill, but it provided the distraction needed. The two Heroes leaped over the rail and into the river, diving deep. Arrows pierced the surface in their wake, but were slowed by the water before they could hit. Jack swam hard, his stomach scraping the sandy riverbed as more arrows pierced the water around him. One nicked his leg, drawing blood. Thinking quickly, he conjured light, broadcasting their location – and then directed the orb of light back beneath the longship they had just escaped. The shower of arrows ceased, and Jack kicked his legs out, following Whisper's murky form. She swam straight for the bank, breaking the surface amongst the low hanging branches of a nearby willow; Jack was right behind her. The clambered up onto the muddy bank and out of sight, hidden by the curtain of willow leaves. The angry shouts of the Wiccermen echoed in the night as the light Jack had conjured died.

“Skorm claim it,” Whisper said. She shivered violently as she cradled her wounded arm. “What happened back there?”

“Someone assassinated our target,” Jack said. He scowled as he stuck his sword in the dirt, shivering as well. “How bad is your arm?”

“It went clean through,” Whisper said, inspecting the long splinter that speared her arm, wincing. “I can feel it pressing against the bone though.”

“Good thing it's only thin,” Jack said, grabbing the thicker side with one hand and Whisper's arm with the other. “Ready?”

“Get it over with,” she said, gritting her teeth.

“Ok. One, two--,” he pulled it suddenly, and the splinter came out with a squelch, blood running in its wake. Whisper groaned, equal parts angry and pained, and he cupped both sides of the wound in his hands, channelling the only basic brute force healing expression he knew through it. The flow stopped and he took his bloodied hands away, revealing an angry circle of half healed flesh.

“Good enough,” Whisper said. “We need to move before they start searching for us properly.”

“Our gear, then double time to the Guild,” Jack said, agreeing.

A flare of light burst into existence right in front of the tree they hid under, drawing all eyes on the river to its branches, and the forms of the two Heroes within them.

There was a brief pause, long enough for them to meet eyes and communicate an unspoken, 'oh shit'. Then they turned an ran, cries of the Wiccermen dogging their footsteps. A javelin speared through the branches, and a small volley of arrows pierced the ground where they had stood, but the pair were already gone, scrambling up the overgrown riverbank. The Wiccermen began to lower several small boats from their ships, and the hunt was on.

X

Jack and Whisper ran along the twisting dirt path, sacrificing stealth for speed. They had no desire to fight their pursuers half clothed, if they had to fight at all – but perhaps they would not have a choice, with the unseen foe assassinating their target and setting the Wiccermen on their trail.

Even now, Jack could hear them through the dark of the forest, spreading out to search for their trail. It would not take them long to realise that their quarry had not gone to ground.

“We will outrun them at this pace,” Whisper said, breathing steadily. There was no sign of any pain in her tone.

“So long as they're not pointed our way again,” Jack said. He winced as soon as he finished speaking.

Whisper glared at him as they ran. “You really had to temp--”

A tall oak, just off the path, was briefly consumed by a gout of flame. The fire didn't take, but it did the job intended – every human eye in the vicinity was drawn to it.

“Farmboy,” Whisper said, her voice a study in disappointment. They quickened their pace into a sprint.

“Not nearly my fault,” Jack said, arguing despite the pace.

“Completely. You handed Skorm a gilded invitation.”

“You've been reading too many of Duran's ghost story books, citygirl,” Jack said.

“...shut up and run, farmboy.”

They reached the unassuming bend in the path where they had stashed their gear ahead of their pursuers, but not by much. They could be heard shouting to each other, and undoubtedly their scouts were even closer. The Heroes hurriedly uncovered their gear and donned their clothes and armour, before turning their attention to Whisper's large pack.

“My pack is too much of a burden to run with,” she said.

“Take what can't be replaced and throw it in my pouch,” Jack said. “We'll have to leave the rest.”

Several trophies, a small bundle of letters and a number of potions, one of them glowing gold, were added to Jack's pouch before they concealed the pack beneath a layer of foliage once more.

Were it not for the silence of the forest, the attack that came in the next instant would have wounded Jack grievously. As it was, he had a split second warning as he heard the buzz of a loosed arrow. He flinched at the thought of imminent danger and dropped instinctively into his wraith form. The path was bathed in blue light and the arrow shot through his back harmlessly, disappearing into the woods. The brush with death dumped a litre of adrenaline into his system, and the light his incorporeal form gave off flared brighter.

Whisper reacted even as he turned to face their attacker. She produced a slim dagger from her belt and sent it flying end over end into the chest of an unarmoured Wiccermen holding a bow. A second foe, this one armoured in the strange grey hide they preferred, charged towards the Heroes, blade raised. He was stopped in his tracks by a bolt of lightning from Jack's outstretched hand and dropped to the dirt, flesh sizzling, even as Jack grunted from the strain.

More Wiccermen emerged from the brush and approached along the path, too many to fight with any surety of walking away alive. They eyed the Heroes warily however, their eyes reflecting some manner of primal fear in the blue light cast by Jack's form. Some even tried to shy away from it, half concealing themselves behind trees and shrubs.

The strain of maintaining the Will expression was too much to maintain however, especially after casting lightning from within it. He allowed it to end, dropping back into tangibility.

Whisper prowled up to his side, staff extended and at the ready. She moved like a cornered mountain lion, her gaze shifting rapidly. “I don't suppose you've learned to teleport yet, have you?” she asked, voice low.

“No,” Jack said, shaking his head. Whatever hesitance had come over the Wiccermen at the sight of his wraith form was already fading, and he could feel their intent building. “Got any blast globes?”

“Three.”

“Throw them all, wide spread, and run. Don't bother lighting them. I'll be right behind you,” Jack said. He whetted his lips. The enemy were seconds from attacking, and they were too spread out for any one attack to keep them at bay. They were going to be overwhelmed.

Whisper didn't question him. Her free hand dipped into a pouch at her belt and flicked out, hurling the three clay spheres at their foes in an arc.

The enemy charged. A fireball wouldn't be big enough, and he couldn't cast them fast enough to do what he needed.

Jack closed his eyes. His pathways were ready. He had the need. He knew the steps. His grip tightened on his sword as it thrummed in time with his heartbeat. His jaw stretched open and he vomited forth a torrent of unceasing flame, bathing the path in the breath of Skorm, building a wall of flame. The blast globes detonated, blasting those unfortunate enough to be anywhere near the forming wall with scorching hot shrapnel.

Jack cut the flow of Will to the expression with a grimace. His throat and mouth were parched, devoid of all moisture. He turned tail and ran, doing his best to ignore the screams of the few Wiccermen that were burning alive and the memories of Oakvale that they conjured. The wall of flame would not last forever.

Whisper fell in beside him, having refused to run more than a few steps before he joined her. They ran in silence. The trip back to the Guild would be a long one, made longer by the unseen threat that might still be lurking in the shadowed forest, dogging their footsteps. Stealth had never been a talent of Jack's, and short of burning the forest down around them, he had little chance of getting at the illusive foes. It was not a feeling he enjoyed.

The run back to the Guild was a long one.

X

“...we didn't catch so much as a glimpse of whoever was setting the Wiccermen on us,” Jack said, grimacing. “And the Wiccermen wouldn't have cared; so far as they know I killed their leader.”

“They were wary enough of your wraith expression,” Whisper said. “Seems they thought you could strike them dead at will.”

The Guildmaster regarded the two young Heroes seated before him with a frown on his face. Events had not at all played out as he had arranged them. It was not a situation he had faced for some years now. “And you saw nothing of the assassin themselves?” he asked.

Whisper shook her head, disgruntled. “I did not even see the dart that slew our target.”

“Can't even be sure there was only the one assassin,” Jack added.

“I see,” Weaver said. He laced his fingers, pondering.

Jack gazed about the Guildmaster's office, savouring the comfort of the seat he rested in. They had pushed themselves hard on the return trip to the Guild, on top of having travelled through the day already. Dawn was approaching, and he was cycling his Will through his channels in an effort to remain alert. He could only imagine how Whisper felt, although the bags beneath her eyes and the slight trembling of her hands spoke well enough.

“The outcome of you Quest is far from ideal, but it could have been worse. Neither of you suffered serious injury, or were killed,” the Guildmaster said at length, regarding them with a serious gaze. “However, this was a Quest issued by the Guild itself. I expect the pair of you to better yourselves so that we might have more confidence in you should we need to call upon you again in the future.”

Jack and Whisper straightened despite their tiredness. The Guildmaster's words, along with the sting of defeat from their first failed Quest, steeled their resolve. They exchanged a glance, and unspoken words passed between them. They turned back to the Guildmaster and nodded as one.

“Dismissed, Heroes. Rest and recover. Tomorrow is a new day.”

Weaver watched as they left his office, concealing his satisfaction. The Quest was a failure, but his students continued to grow, and there was a new obstacle to turn his mind to. Life as the Guildmaster was never dull.

X x X

Jack woke many hours later, suddenly aware. The lack of gradual awakening combined with the surrounds of his old Guild room left him blinking in confusion for several moments before the events of his previous Quest caught up with him. Sitting up, he glanced around. Whisper was asleep in her bed, snoring. Her jaw hung slack and there was an open book resting precariously against her chin. He smirked, glancing out the window. Night reigned, but the moon was obscured by clouds, and he couldn't determine if the witching hour was yet to come or was already gone.

The young Hero's stomach rumbled loudly, informing him of his ravenous hunger. He must have slept for some time. Sliding out of bed, he grabbed his shirt and trousers, slipping them on. He found one glove and covered the brand on his palm with it, before scrounging around for the second. Hunger made him impatient, however, and he gave it up as a lost cause. He padded silently from the room, closing the door behind himself with a faint click.

The kitchen ovens were already being stoked by the tireless Guild cooks when Jack arrived in the main eating hall, telling him that daybreak and breakfast was still a short way off. One of the cooks was kind enough to ladle him out a bowl of the previous night's stew, and he settled down at one of the empty tables to devour it. He was halfway through his meal when he was joined by another.

“You're up early, boy. Decided a full day's sleep was enough, did you?”

Jack looked up at the sound of his mentor's voice. The old mage was dressed simply, clad in trousers and a long tunic, and he had a bowl of leftover strew for himself.

“I can breathe fire,” Jack said, unable to help the grin that came over his face.

Maze raised one silver eyebrow. “I'll alert the Bards. What Name should we suggest? Flame-tongue? The Immolator? Phoenix?”

“How about 'The Dragon Reborn?'” Jack said.

“Oh yes, marvellous idea. I'm sure you won't face a single bit of mockery from your peers for that choice,” Maze said, his tone as dry as the Samarkand desert.

Jack rolled his eyes at his mentor. “I doubt any Bards would be terribly impressed by my career so far.”

“You would think so,” Maze said, confusing his pupil. “Tell me of your progress with my journal,” he commanded, changing the topic.

“I told you only recent like,” Jack said.

“You say you've not made any further progress?” Maze said.

“I can breathe fire, can't I?” Jack said, indignant.

Maze fixed him with a stern look, drumming a pattern on the table, and the young Hero hastened to answer the question.

“I've been focusing on the internal Will manipulation and channelling it without an expression to release it with,” Jack said. “I thought with the whole,” he gestured with his glove covered hand, “thing, I'd see how quickly I could improve my control.”

“And your conclusions?”

“It's helping, quite a bit. To the point I feel more able to invoke precise expressions down that side over my other.”

“Truly?” Maze said, scratching at the stubble on his chin as he pondered. “it would seem you are more than just compatible with the runes, but attuned.”

“The Hero who branded his followers with runes from the Focus Site, did any of their notes survive?” Jack asked.

“No,” Maze said. “Scythe saw them all destroyed.”

“Damn,” Jack said, frowning.

Maze stroked the line of one of the runes that marked his face. “However...it sounds perhaps that you may benefit from some symmetry.”

“Sir?”

“You say that you feel more control when you channel your Will through your branded side. Would then branding your other palm not be to your benefit?”

Jack felt slightly nauseous at the idea of subjecting himself to the painful branding process again. “Would it really be that helpful?”

Maze thought on his answer for a moment. “Consider if one side of your circulatory system was more efficient than the other. Balancing your channels would be the prudent course, if nothing else.”

“I suppose,” Jack said, still thinking of the idea with distaste.

“I would suggest applying the rune to your heels as well, but that would perhaps be venturing into the realm of overkill,” Maze said.

Jack blanched.

“One would think Ja—Skorm himself had just strolled in, with that expression on your face,” Maze said. “Oh, and don't worry about the pain. Unless you plan on finding another faerie to purge from your system while you apply the brand.”

“You're sure that's why it was so agonising?” Jack asked suspiciously.

“Not at all. But it did wipe that ridiculous expression from your face.”

Jack grumbled several unkind things under his breath about crotchety old archmages that Maze pretended not to hear.

“I suppose I'll head north again then, before I turn south,” Jack said.

“South?” Maze asked.

“I'm going back to Oakvale to look for my-for Theresa,” Jack said. His will was firm. “I'm going to track down everyone on the scroll you gave me and ask them what they know.”

“You think they will tell you what they may have hidden from me?” Maze asked. There was no judgement in his voice.

“I think they might tell more to a young man searching for his sister than an old Hero looking for a little girl after a raid,” Jack said. He finished his stew.

“And if your search does not lead to a happy conclusion?” Maze asked, his face grave.

“I will track down and slaughter everyone even remotely connected to the raid,” Jack said, face carefully blank. He would refuse to acknowledge the possibility that his sister was anything but alive and well until he found unassailable proof otherwise.

Maze raised his cup to him. “Then I wish you luck. Avo smile on you, and guide you safely to your sister.”

Jack rose and departed from the hall after a shallow bow to his mentor. Maze watched him leave, gaze inscrutable.

X x X

Jack stood at the edge of Greatwood, at the intangible border where it ended and the Darkwood began. A faint sense of apprehension lingered in his gut, unwarranted but there nonetheless. All his childhood he had been lectured and warned of the dangers that lurked in the fell forest; of what fate would befall him should he venture past the safe meadows of Barrow Fields. Now he stood on the far side, preparing to strike through it and return to the small hamlet he had not visited since he was but a weak child.

He was not a child now. A magical pouch was fastened at one hip and his sword rested at the other. He wore a dull chain mail gorget around his throat, while his arms were protected by steel vambraces. His torso was unprotected, but then, it took more than just hitting him to actually strike a blow, and all that extra metal would just make his wraith form all the more draining. He still wore the simple shirt and trousers issued to him by the Guild, and each hand was covered by a tight leather glove.

The young Hero took a deep breath and let the cold air fill his lungs. Very few of the russet leaves still clung to their branches, and winter was almost upon the land. It was the season that would give him the best chance of finding any who might know something about his sister. He took his first step into Darkwood, and -

“Ahoy there, Hero!”

Jack turned, taking in the gaudily dressed man approaching. He wore clothes of a fine cut that looked more appropriate for a dinner party than traipsing through Greatwood. He was an eye-catching shade of blue from boots to hat; the hat itself was more form than function as it sat cocked jauntily to one side.

“I am the up-and-coming Bard Markus, soon to be the most renowned Bard in all of Albion! Who might you be, Hero?”

Jack stared. He had never met anyone quite so capable of trilling every word the said. “I'm..Jack. Just Jack.”

“Oho! Yet to earn a Name? I can help you there!” Markus said. “Escort me through the Darkwood to Barrow Fields and I shall pen a song in honour of your deeds.”

Jack was only able to offer up a bemused agreement in response.

x

“You don't think 'the dark and sinisterly gloomy woods' is overly trite, do you lad?” Markus said, barely an hour’s walk into the dark and sinisterly gloomy woods.

“...drop the 'dark'. Your audience already knows we're in Darkwood.”

“yes, quite so. 'The sinisterly gloomy woods were fraught with all manner of Skorm cursed peril, as the intrepid Hero guided the handsome Bard Markus, first of his name, through their shadowed trails...'.”

x

A howl rattled through the black, leafless trees, raising the hair on the back of Jack's neck. Markus' mumbled composition, a constant since they had reached the true blight of the Darkwood, stuttered to a halt.

“What in Avo's name was that?” the Bard asked fearfully. Keeping his mind on his passion had seemed to calm him, but the eerie howl had pierced his composure. “A wolf?”

“Balverine,” Jack said. “Only one by the sound of it though.”

“Oh, only one,” Markus said, pale as a sheet. “That's fine then.”

x

“Hobbes!” Markus yelped, alerting the squat fiends to the humans' presence. “Watch out!”

Jack manfully resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and summoned fire to swirl in the palm of his hand. He would blow them apart with a fireball when they clustered to attack.

The hobbes did not attack, however. Grumbling and growling to each other, they sidled off the path, keeping Jack in their sights until the last minute, before turning and dashing away. Jack couldn't help but blink at the strangely comedic sight.

x

The balverine howl came again, closer this time, and Markus forced a smile.

“There's that blasted balverine again, eh? Good thing there's only one of them,” Markus said. “And that we're so close to the Trader's Rest...”

There was a second howl, then a third – both from different directions. The stagnant water of a nearby pond stirred to the faintest ripples.

Markus tittered anxiously. “Ehh heh heh...shall we flee?”

Jack drew his sword in response, and if it snarled rather than rang as it left its sheath, Markus put it down to the slavering beast that chose that moment to drop from a tree down before them.

The Hero was behind it in a rush of blue light, the tip of his blade seeking and finding its foul heart. A second balverine bounded out of the woods and Jack raised a fist crackling with lightning to meet it.

x

“...it was marvellous, simply stupendous, the way he dispatched the beasts!” Markus said, revelling in the attention he commanded from the patrons of the tavern at Traders Rest. His hands shook as he raised a cup of well deserved whisky to his lips, be he ploughed on. “The first was slain with a flash of light and a single sword stroke, the second smote with lightning directly from the heavens! The third and fourth...”

A Trader, less enraptured in the tale, sat off to the side at a table adjacent to Jack's. He eyed the young Hero speculatively. “Did you really slay a pack of nine balverine by yourself?”

Jack shook his head as he finished making himself a sandwich of cheese and cold meat; food at the tavern was prohibitively expensive due to its isolation. “Only three. The last nearly got past me while I dealt with the first two though, so that one must count for more.”

“How old did you say you were?”

“Sixteen summers.”

“Bloody hell,” the Trader muttered to himself. “My nephew is sixteen; he spends his days loafing about me sisters' shop and writing bad poetry about Lady Grey.”

Jack shrugged and focused on his sandwich. He was already looking forward to what would be his first night of sleep in a proper bed since he set off for Greatwood.

x

The path forked, and Jack came to a halt. The main path continued on, muddy and churned, wagon tracks and hoof prints all over it. The second was...strange. Ages past, it had been paved, and although the stones were cracked and twisted, no weed grew up from between them. Faint dusty outlines of boot prints betrayed the infrequent traffic upon it, and the road stretched far into the distance before turning out of sight.

“Markus, what lays down that road?” Jack asked.

The Bard glanced down the path and shivered. Like all who had travelled the Darkwood before, he had been trying to ignore it. “It leads to the Chapel of Skorm. Few who visit the dark citadel ever return, and those who do are changed.”

A gust of wind blew a flurry of leaves onto the fell path, and Jack watched as they shrivelled and crumbled into dust before his eyes. For a brief moment, he was nearly overcome by the urge to turn his Will loose and leave the road a cratered mess. The moment passed, and Jack turned away. They continued on, leaving the gateway to the Chapel behind them.

x

“What in Albion is that?!” Markus said as they closed on the exit to the Darkwood, pointing at a looming, boulder like shape that blocked their way.

“Earth troll,” Jack said.

Markus squawked in alarm.

“It's dead, don't worry.”

“You're sure?” Markus asked.

In response, Jack pointed out the deep tracks that had been carved out of the troll's body. “It'd say this had been done by someone using twin blades if the wounds weren't so big. Whoever killed it took its gemstone eyes, too.”

“You sound most knowledgeable about the creatures of Albion, Hero,” Markus said.

“No, that's my friend Klessan,” Jack said. “I only know about trolls because my friend Duran and I killed a rock troll our first week as Heroes.”

“Your first week, you say?” Markus asked, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “Yes, I can use that, oh yes I can...”

x

“Barrow Fields! Oh, thank Avo you were there to guide me through those treacherous woods safely, Hero!”

“It was no trouble,” Jack said. In spite, or perhaps because of the Bard's overly exuberant manner, the man had grown on him. “Take care of yourself.”

“Oh, I will, no fear about that! I shall take care of you too, ah, Jack. Tales of our adventure through the Darkwood will keep me fed and sheltered in Oakvale through the winter,” Markus said. “What of yourself, Hero? Do you plan on wintering in the south?”

Jack shook his head. “I'm...on a Quest. I'll be spending my winter in the southern fringes of Darkwood, where the nomad tribes roam.”

“A Quest, you say? All winter long?” Markus' nose twitched at the thought of the story to be had. “Do be sure to look me up when you wish to be further immortalised in song, Hero! Farewell for now!”

Jack raised his arm in farewell as Markus hoisted his pack and strode off across the fields that surrounded his childhood home. It had taken them a week to make it through the Darkwood, but Jack had no appetite for the comforts of civilisation just yet. He turned back towards the forest he had just left. Somewhere out there, in the more habitable southern fringe, someone knew something that would help him discover the ultimate fate of his sister.

Avo have mercy on any who had harmed her, because he wouldn't.