“And he drunk, along with his companions, and though at first nothing happened, and he accused the Fey of deceit. But they told him that it took time. So he was carried out with his army, and for a week he waited. And at the end of the week, he found he could move his legs.”

Bran the Wise, The Conquest of Anwwn.

Tane Bayder, 20 September 1582 AAA. Trackford.

It was dawn; the best time for raiding, where the targets would still be asleep while the attackers would have light to see by. The streets were still in shadow, and there was no one out except for drunks and the homeless, huddled in alleyways.

Twelve men to take the front door, Sace with another twelve through the gardens and backstreets to cover Traharn’s rear entrance, hitting his house from two directions, the rest of the company back in reserve a few blocks away, “patrolling” the streets with orders to sweep in as soon as they heard shots.

“Lockpick.” Tane said, and Mene stepped up, a scarf pulled over her face, with the tools ready.

It took Mene only a few moments before Tane heard the click of the door being unlocked, before Mene gently pushed on it. She heard rattling.

“I got the lock, but it’s barred.”

Shit.

“Check the windows. See if they can be breached.”

She heard mud squelching behind her.

“Windows are barred. Can probably be levered off.” Slach said, in his thick Valadian drawl.

She glanced at the windows on either side of the door. Thankfully, they were at ground level, rather than having to climb over a fence then down to basement level to get at them, though they were protected by iron bars.

They weren’t going to be stealthy either way; might as well take the fast route in.

“Break in through the windows.” Tane said.

Slach pulled out his iron crow and wedged it in behind the bars, while another grenadier stepped up and delivered three sharp blows to the crow, ripping the top bolts loose. They repeated the process on the lower bolt, wrenching the grill open like it was a door, then began to work on forcing the window open.

The wait was agonizing. For all she knew, Traharn could have heard them coming and be systemically destroying the evidence or preparing an ambush. Normally, Mene and Morgan would be able to tell exactly where everyone in the building was or even tear off the door, making this sort of thing much simpler, but Traharn just had to cover his house in sigils.

“Six men on me, to move to the second floor as fast as possible. Corporal Carrow, you take half your lance back to the rear door to let Sace and Morgan in. The other half of Carrow’s lance, you get in then cover the window and door, stop anyone escaping.”

She stepped around, ready to take point, hefting her heavy bulletproof rondache and backsword. She could hear faint yelling off in the distance.

“Window clear!” Slach hissed, and with a muttered “calmness, vigour, and judgment”, Tane was in, swearing as she clambered through the window and instantly swinging around to clear the corners of the dark, musty room as soon as she was through. The rest of the troopers piled in after her, one at a time, with sword and axe and pistol held ready. She dropped her backsword, letting it hang from a wrist strap, and readied her pistol as she moved out into the antechamber, a snake of troopers following after her.

Dim morning light lit the staircase, coming through the small window above Traharn’s bloody fortress door.

She hissed for Mene to move up behind her as the troopers marked out for the rear moved past her.

“You see anyone?” Tane asked.

“No one on this floor or the basement. Three or four people on the second and third floor, including Traharn. He’s moving about. Attic’s blocked off by more of those fucking sigils.”

Paranoid lunatic. Granted, not so paranoid if they’re actually slowing down attackers.

She could hear the muffled voice of someone yelling up above.

There goes surprise.

“On my mark.” Tane said, glancing back to check that her lance had fallen in on her. All six of the troopers were in place.

“Move.”

They moved up the stairs, half crouched to give the grenadiers following a clear shot over her shoulder. A maid, dressed only in her shift, screamed when she saw Tane coming up into another hallway, with three doors.

“On the fucking floor!” Tane roared, barely noticing her as she swept the other doors. “Where’s Traharn?”

“Room on the right, left corner, no one else with him!” Mene yelled from behind her, flattened against the wall, blunderbuss shouldered and ready to fire.

“On me!” Tane yelled, edging in on the door, glancing at the other two doors to make sure they weren’t about to be blindsided. She didn’t look forwards to fighting room to room against a possibly immortal mercenary who’d already beaten her once before.

Calmness, vigour and judgement.

“Come out and yield!” Mene yelled.

“I’d rather not.” Traharn answered.

“Do it or we start tilting the room.” Tane said. Morgan would be coming up soon; she’d rebound the hellhounds she’d used killing Corentin and running off Brenna.

“I’d still rather not.”

“Tilt him.” Tane said, and then a yell of “Brace for tilting!” from Mene as gravity warped. Tane relexify dropped to her knees, supporting herself with her shield rim as the building creaked around them and furniture went flying. She heard muffled screaming and yells of alarm around her, and then gravity righted just as suddenly as it had shifted. Mene had tilted it so that Traharn had fallen into the corner of his room in direct view of the doorway. He staggered to his feet.

He was dressed only in his nightshirt, doubled over. She noted, with no small amount of satisfaction, that his nose was a black-and-red mess from where she’d struck him in the duel.

“We have you.” Tane yelled.

He began to advance on them, hands raised.

“Is there nothing the Commonwealth won’t stoop to-“

“We have search warrants and evidence. We know what you’re planning.” Mene snapped, pulling her scarf down.

“Get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head.“ Tane said.

“You really going to sell out your own father to the Commonwealth?” Traharn said, looking Mene dead in the eyes, ignoring Tane.

“You only now decide to acknowledge me?“ Mene said, as realization crossed her face. “Wait, father?”

“Hands on your head” Tane repeated. “You want to argue genealogy, you can do it from a cell.”

“Yes, father.” Traharn said, grinning. “If you can claim you’re my daughter, I can claim to be my own… grandson, actually.”

He really is fucking immortal.

“Aim for the knees and head.” Tane said, trying not to let her voice shake.

A moment later, Morgan came tearing up the staircase, screaming “Brace minds!”, at the same time as Mene called out “Demon!”

It was as this point that all hell broke loose. Tane began to brace against witchcraft, but before she could something tore into her mind, burrowing up from her subconscious, making her knees give out like an undermined wall as the world blurred around her. Pain lanced through her. It felt like an eternity, though it could only have been seconds. Someone screamed, and she heard the thudding report of a blunderbuss and Morgan’s cold bark of “Hellhound off leash!” The spike withdrew from her mind, like an arrow being torn from a wound.

“Dispelled!” Morgan yelled, and then “Witch!”

She began to pull herself up from her knees, swearing in frustration as she swayed and nearly fell. Traharn was gone, replaced by a hole in the air.

Christ-Horus, that demon did a number on me…

“Fuck, Tane, you alright?” Mene asked, offering her a hand. She took it.

“What the fuck just happened?” she asked, pointing wordlessly at the hole in the world.

“Something tore a rift. There’s a Fey in the building.” Morgan said calmly, scanning the room, her sword and pistol held ready. As she spoke, the hole began to fold in on itself, almost vanishing.

“A fucking what? Isis fucking Osiris!” Tane yelled as another spike of pain tore through her.

“Fair Folk. He’s on the third floor. Casting. Not at us, looks like he’s opening another rift. I’m putting pressure on him.” Morgan said.

Calmness, vigour, and judgment, calmness, vigour and judgement. Traharn escaped, but we can catch his witch.

“Hellhound him, then rush in.” Tane grunted through another flash of pain. Getting hit by a demon was worse than getting bloody stabbed, though she didn’t have the experience to compare it to getting shot.

“Hellhound off leash!” Morgan barked.

Tane started moving towards the door, letting Morgan’s lance move ahead of her, taking the stairs up to the third floor. They’d avoided the worst of the demon, and where free to take point ahead of her. The grenadier on point, Carthos, halted as he rounded the corner, swearing under his breath. Tane came in after him. A man was lying on the ground, shaking and shuddering, bald and pale. Tane kicked the pistol lying on the ground next to him away. He rolled over, his mouth opening and closing. She didn’t hear what he said; she was too busy staring at his face.

Milky skin, solid black eyes that were too damn big, pointed ears, a half opened tear in the world like the one Traharn had escaped through in front of it. Facial features that were just wrong.

She’d never seen one in the flesh before, but she recognized it just the same. Fey. Just like Morgan had said.

Good fucking lord, we’re in over our heads here.

Calmness, vigour and judgement.

“Get the prisoner secured! Morgan, get pallweed in him.”

That would disrupt a witch’s soul enough to stop them casting, making disarming them actually practical.

“Sace, check the windows, see if anyone’s out on the streets. Anyone injured?”

A lot of shaking of heads.

Oh, thank fuck.

She glanced at the Fey, still thrashing and struggling while Slach and Amos poured pallweed down his throat and Morgan kept him suppressed.

“Carrow, take your lance to clear the rest of this floor and attic. Mene, go with them. I don’t want any more surprises.”

The troopers scurried off.

Tane marched back into the hallway, and then Traharn’s bedroom. No evidence in immediate sight. His window was big enough for someone to climb through, and unbarred; the gap in the defences of the fortress he’d turned his house into. Her head swam again, and she leaned against the door, panting. Fucking demons.

“Captain? Captain!” Sace’s voice called.

She rushed back out into the hallway. “Yes?”

“That fairy, he set the attic on fire, a whole room, it’s spreading fast, and there’s people out on the streets calling for us to come out and die.”

Shit, shit, shit.

“We need to clear the house, Carrow, get out there and call fire, wait, make it clear the house is on fire, not that I’m trying to kill them.”

Being able to search the house was a priority. Not burning to death was a higher one. She could already smell smoke. They probably had minutes, at most; wooden buildings go up alarmingly fast once a fire really caught.

“Morgan, get the fairy downstairs. Mene, you take a lance to make sure everyone’s out of the house. Grab anything interesting while you’re at it.”

She thudded downstairs, to see how bad the situation was. “Hayne! We got a clear route out the back?”

“Uh, there’s people trying to climb the fence into his garden. They’re not getting over, but they’ll work it out sooner or later.”

Better to take the front, the rest of the Grenadiers and Artorius’s boys will clear an escape route for us any minute.

“You have permission to use warning shots. Only shoot to kill if they directly attack you.”

He nodded, repeating her orders to the rest of his lance.

She jogged back through the house, glancing out the front window they’d entered through. There were people out in the streets, trying to work out what was going on, and someone yelling “Death to Tyrants!” and “Call the Militia!”.

Thank fuck this is Newtown rather than the bog, otherwise they’d already have rioted.

A brick smashed into the wall inches from her face, showering her with fragments that rattled off her helmet. She ducked her head back in, repeated her orders to the guards, and jogged back to the second floor. The smoke was visible now, drifting down through the house as it filled the upper levels. A servant was dragged down, coughing, and another two had apparently fled down the stairs of his own volition. Only three servants?

“Everyone here?”

They did a fast, ragged version of a company rollcall, only with a dozen and a half soldiers present. No one trapped with the fire.

“Alright, let’s move. Make sure people see the fairy, but don’t let him get away from us.”

A grenadier stepped forwards and threw the bolt of the door open, while Amos covered him, ready to shoot anyone who rushed in.

“Go!” she rushed forwards onto the street, raising her rondache to deflect an incoming brick. There was more yelling; her own soldiers yells of “fetch the fire companies!” and Morgan yelling the age-old warning of Fey raiders, “The wild hunt is coming!” and people screaming threats back at them or fleeing. She could hear fire bells ringing already, and thick smoke was belching from the chimneys.

Then someone must have spotted the Fey, because she heard “In the name of the Father, is that a fairy?” and then the familiar tramp of hoofbeats as the grenadiers under Bydevere’s command started sweeping in, spare horses in tow, civilians scrambling back out of the way. Another brick skidded off the cobblestones, spraying her with “mud”.

Let them see it.

She grabbed the Fey, stunned, squirming, by the collar. “This is what Traharn was harbouring! A Fey! The old enemy!”

There was stunned silence, the shock palpable. Then the yelling started again, cries of horror and fear, and the bricks started coming down again.

“What are you waiting for? Mount up!” Bydevere yelled at the assaulters.

Good advice. She took it.