Landeck existed in the flat plain at the mouth of the valley that led into the Duchy of Nauders, a thin stream running through the city itself, heading south where it thickened, fattened, and became what was known to the Merchant Cities as the Great Mother River, and to the Anglish, the Tems.

The city itself had an inner castle of tall, narrow, square buildings, all wrought in some milk-white stone devoid of color.

Beyond the castle proper and its narrow walls, a second inner ring enclosed the inner city and what was once the former Temple of the Golden Lady. Beyond that, the city itself spilled out across the plains, with bridges across the river at regular intervals.

The citizens of Landeck were not at all happy with the army that lurched out of the forest, despite being hired by them. The Seventh Seal was told in no uncertain terms that they were to maintain a “safe distance” from the city, and beyond the admission of a few people, any sort of concerted movement towards the Landeckers would be considered an act of hostility.

Aldric and Daveth traded eyerolls over this.

“Daveth, I believe this man is in need of correction.” Aldric opined. Daveth nodded and moved to call for Jonan, and bit his lip. The man was dead.

“Morden!” Daveth called. The man hustled up as quickly as he was called.

Morden looked every inch the slick-eyed villain; he dressed in black-stained leathers, a breastplate that was likewise lacquered black. His black hair, perpetually greasy, hung in tattered strings framing a narrow, sly face. Even his goatee seemed malignant.

“Flog the man for his trouble.” Daveth called.

Morden dismounted and grabbed the messenger by the hair and dragged him down, stripping off the man’s coat. He gave the man a casual knee to the groin, and as the messenger keeled over, a knife appeared in Morden’s hand as if by magic. The man screamed in high terror as Morden ran the knife down his shirt, slitting it with the deftness of a surgeon.

“Ten lashes?” Morden called, and Daveth appeared to think it over.

“You can’t do this!” The man wheezed.

“Ten more, to teach him exactly what we can and can’t do.”

“Right. Up you go friend, Ass over appetite!” Morden exclaimed, pushing the messenger over. He produced a quirt and began his work in earnest.

“You know, I think he enjoys his work too much." Daveth remarked casually to Aldric as they watched Morden discipline the man.

“He’s not exactly known for his charm or his manners, but he’s good at what he does.” Aldric replied dryly.

Morden finished his lashes, helped the man up, brushed off the leaves, dirt and pine needles off the man, and then solicitiously offered the chastened messenger his coat back.

“It’s cold here in the north friend, wouldn’t want you to take a chill.” Morden encouraged. “Now head on back to the city and tell the Mayor we expect payment promptly.”

He gave the man a hearty backslap to send him on his way, and absently pocketed the messenger’s moneypouch.

“Morden.” Daveth called warningly, and held out his hand. Morden grimaced, and tossed the money pouch to Daveth, who took a peek inside, then made it disappear somewhere under the massive bear-trimmed cloak he’d taken to wearing.

Alysia, who was riding close to Daveth, watched the entire exchange silently from start to finish. She eyed Daveth contemplatatively for a moment.

Daveth, seemingly sensing her attention on her, turned in his saddle.

“You have an opinion, Alysia?” He asked.

“I don’t understand why this was done.” Alysia stated, neither framing it as a question or accusation, yet somehow managing to bear the qualities of both.

“Aldric?” Daveth offered to his captain. “She is under your command.”

Aldric rolled his eyes. “I should put her in your ranks.” He complained, but turned his horse to face Alysia.

“The Seventh Seal chooses who it works for. Those that hire us should know what we’re capable of. But likewise, I cannot abide any disrespect. That perfumed messenger boy will run back to his master a bit wiser, since he’s learned we’re soldiers, not tame pets to be herded out to pasture at their leisure.”

He turned to Daveth, and in complete contradiction to everything that had just played out, he ordered the Seventh Seal to take up position exactly where they’d been told, visiting the city was to be kept at a minimum, and that he’d secure purchase rights for the quartermaster so that they could resupply.

*****

He knew they’d come for him. They always had, they always would, it was as inevitable as the tides. The so-called “Black Cards” were always able to cancel out his spells in a way that he couldn’t understand, hadn’t been able to understand.

It seemed, here and there, that there were people who were completely immune to magic. It made no sense, biologically speaking. Everyone had a connection to the arcane. Magic was a part of the soul. Most people weren’t capable of performing any magic, but it didn’t deny that magic was a part of every living thing.

He’d come across a few in his travels with the Radiant Sons. People who spells sloughed off like water. Who could unravel magic with a touch. It was strange and horrible to see that. Unnatural, like a fish growing legs and crawling out of a river.

But he knew they’d come for him. He always laid wards, crisscrossing threads of magical power in delicate webs along the ground, in the air, wherever he was able to stop for a moment and concentrate. They always came for him. Him and his sister both. They’d been hunting him for a very long time.

*****

When he lay in his tent in meditative contemplation, he pictured his Patron in his head. His mentors had explained the mystery behind Patrons long ago.

There were many possible patrons in the world, all eager to accept whomever wished to make a contract with. For some, the decision was made before they knew it. For others, it seemed that they had made the choice at some earlier point in their Cycle. He didn’t much care for that at first. He’d argued against it.

“My patron could have been decided by me before I was even born? Decided in another life?” His mentor had laughed. “What, don’t you trust your own judgement?”

He had no idea who he was before he was brought screaming into the world, how could he trust some complete stranger that had lived and died before he had even been conceived?

Like a fool, he’d demanded the same thing any mage demanded: He wanted the Nameless Stone to be his Patron. In any case, in every case, the Nameless Stone said the same thing to everyone that asked, demanded, begged, pleaded, or wished, “Do not tempt that path. I orchestrate the Cycle, nothing more.”

*****

Some patrons were deeply interested in the world and the scurrying about of its inhabitants. They could grant power, but it came with a price. There were other patrons who didn’t care much for such things.

Altus’ patron was a giant, ancient pine. He didn’t know where the actual tree was, but it was always there in his dreams. There, in the mountains, near a magical nexus, an intersection of the Threads of Power that held the world together. The tree drank of magic and sank its roots deep, thrust its branches high and wide towards the sun.

It was aware of him as much as it was aware of the tiny ants crawling up and down its trunk in search for food. It cared about as much for him as it cared for the nesting of birds in its branches. Which was to say, not at all. It was a tree, after all, and all it wanted was to dream its slow tree dreams and grow.

Still, to Altus, it was the best possible patron. He lived a life of war and constantly being on the move. The tree, however, was patient. The tree could wait. The tree could weather the storm. The tree was there, next to a tiny burbling spring of water that gradually wormed its way down the mountainside, turning into a trickle, then a creek, a stream, a river, and perhaps even flowing to some faraway ocean. All he needed to do was rest his back against the tree, feel the gentle breezes play about his face, and at least in his dreams, he was safe, he was at peace.

But sleeping or awake, they always came for him. The Anglish. Records were spotty, but he could piece together a little: The last great Living Saint was an ancestor of his, Katarina the Relentless. Katarina Magebane. Katarina lon Pavlenko. In Ardeal they called her Izbăvitor, The Deliverer. She had sheltered her people from the storm and delivered them from the darkness.

The bloodthirsty Goddess of the Anglish had chosen her, but not before she had children. Then the War of Liberation came to the world, and when their false goddess lay broken and bleeding on the ground, the Anglish were quick to stamp out any iconography, destroy any relic, burn any book that mentioned their involvement with the Goddess.

Something of an impossibility for an empire that had existed across five continents and lasted for two thousand years, but they tried very hard to purge themselves of anything that connected them to the Goddess.

The thorn in their side was the lon Pavlenko family. Living reminders of a Saint and Betrayer. So, too, the lon Pavlenkos became a target. Also, at some point his ancestors had fought a bloody, bitter war against the Anglish, solidifying the independence of the Merchant Cities. That hadn’t endeared them to the Anglish very much, either.

He didn’t know how many of his family remained. As far as he knew, he and his sister Elayne were the last.

*****

As the last of the threads of his spells parted and melted away around his tent, he drew his sword. Magic wouldn’t work on these foes. Still, he’d make sure these so-called “Black Cards” knew who they were dealing with. He hoped at least that Elayne would survive.

*****

Daveth had been asked to retrieve Altus for a staff meeting consisting of the file leaders, himself, and Aldric. As he roved through the camp towards Altus’ tent, he appreciated the neat rows of tents. That was one of the first things drilled into recruits; know how and where to secure your tent; know where your File Leader could be located at a moment’s notice.

A woman in snug black and crimson leather staggered out from Altus tent, her hand clutching her throat. It took an eyeblink to realize that it wasn’t black and red leather; her throat had been cut and blood splased in freshets down the front of her skintight outfit.

“Arms!” Daveth called, drawing a sword. He didn’t recognize the woman; he picked her up by her head and brought her face level with his own. The hilt of a one-handed short sword stuck out of her neck like a party favor. She gasped and gurgled and choked on the blood that was drowning her. He grabbed the short sword and yanked it free and let her drop; she was already dying.

He turned towards Altus’ tent; the man staggered out, splashing blood everywhere. He eyed Daveth and turned slightly towards him, but his knees buckled and he fell over. Daveth picked him up and checked for a pulse; dead.

An assassin? He moved down the rows of the tents owned by the Radiant Sons. A mangled corpse was found in each one.

“FUCKING ARMS!” Daveth shouted, and a handful of men appeared with swords, knives, hatchets, whatever that’d been close to hand.

“File leaders!” Daveth called. “Scouts!” He made a sweeping gesture. “I want this place quartered for tracks. I want to know who did this and I want them fucking dead!”

He caught Mordred’s arm. “As far as I can tell, it looks like we lost all our fucking mages. Again. No quarter.”

The man nodded and continued about his task.

“They went into the forest.” Audra called.

“Don’t fucking wait on me, find them and kill them!” He yelled back. He turned his head towards camp.

“Growler!” he shouted, and after a long, frustrating lenngth of time his horse trotted up. Daveth hauled himself into the saddle, considered which weapon he should use from horseback, and pulled out the polearm he’d found in the breeding pits of Ankar Set.

Most polearms served several functions. There was a spearpoint, a hook for pulling people down from their horses, and a blade or a hammer for chopping or crushing their victims. This one was no different, though it trailed gauzy streamers of some ancient fabric.

Daveth charged through the trees towards the sound of his scouts mounts, the shouts of his men. He nudged his horse into leaping a fallen tree and his horse came down right on top of a black-leathered man with a pair of arrows sticking out from his chest. Daveth didn’t recognize him; so he simply plowed the man over, forcing him under the hooves of his mount.

Audra rode her smaller horse over do Daveth, lowering her bow.

“Good... job, Commander.” She appraised with a ghastly look on her face at what the impact of Daveth’s horse had done to the man. “If I’d’ve known you were going to run him down I’d’ve saved my arrows.”

“What’s the situation.” Daveth ordered, laying the polearm across his lap.

She straightened in her saddle. “I’m pretty sure we’ve gotten them all.” She reported. She let out a piercing whistle and received a round of whistles in response. She seemed to count them, and then nodded to herself.

“Yep. Got them all. None in pursuit of any more.”

“You could tell that from a whistle?” Daveth asked, tugging at his ear.

Audra shrugged. “If there were wounded, or if they were in pursuit, or ... any number of different scenarios, they’d’ve whistled back differently.” She considered reaching down and tugging loose her arrow, but... ick.

“And if they were dead?” Daveth asked as the scouts returned, dragging bodies with them.

“Dead men don’t whistle very good, Commander.” She replied simply.

“So who were they?” He asked, and Audra dismounted and ordered her men to line up the bodies, several of the men eyed what was left under the hooves of Daveth’s mount, swallowed quickly, and looked away.

“Anglish leather, though no maker’s mark. Looks custom for each of them.” Audra called up. “All human.”

She passed up their weapons one by one for Daveth to examine. A handful of well-crafted steel daggers without insignia, several swords, and the shattered remains of a crossbow.

“Anything at all to identify them?” Daveth asked, shifting irritably on his horse.

Each body turned up a pitch black rectangular card with a jagged red mark on each. All of the marks were different from each other; some were zigzagged, like lightning bolts, some were looped curves, others looked similar to Urthan runes.

“Hmm.” Daveth remarked, and tucked them into his belt.

“Well, loot what you can.” He advised, and turned his horse. “I’ve got to get back to camp and assess the damage.” He ordered, and Audra glared up at him.

“We just did.”He turned back, his horse churning up bloody mud.

“Hmm?” He asked as Audra vaulted, light as a feather, onto the back of her horse. “We looted everything off of them already.” She complained, and held out her hand.

He stared at it curiously, and gave her a confused look. “What?” He asked.

“My share of the loot, Commander. I believe at least two of those daggers should be mine.”

Daveth glanced down at the gory mess he’d piled into.

“Look. There’s a couple of daggers right there.” He offered. “and a sword.”

She gave him a disgusted look, but dismounted.

“See you back at camp. Good work, by the way.” He called, as he rode back, waving.

Audra eyed her fellow scouts. “Well?”

Each of them shook their heads. “Oh this is going to be so gross.” She muttered to herself.

*****

In a chance twist of luck, the Radiant Sons apprentices were elsewhere, and so survived the massacre. When Daveth passed over the black cards to Aldric his eyes widened. He shuffled them, fanned them, spread them out, then swept them all up.

“And that is that.” He muttered defeatedly, and tossed them into a brazier.

“What-” Daveth bagan, but Aldric shook his head.

“Those were Black Cards, Daveth. Assassins sent by Her Majesty the Queen of bloody fucking Angland.”

“What-?”

Aldric stared at his boots, and combed his beard with the tips of his fingers.

“I never liked assassins, but the Black Cards were the worst.” he muttered, and then looked up at his giant commander.

“Raised from birth, trained in the killing arts from the time they could stand on their own.” He shook his head. “Barely even human.”

“Audra reported they were human.” Daveth replied.

Aldric slapped his hand down on the conference table with a crack. “A human, Daveth, has some fucking dignity. A human has a name. A human has a home. A life.” He stood up and pointed. “Those things weren’t human.” he shook his head. “Oh, sure, they were squeezed out of human wombs when they were born, but they weren’t given names. They weren’t given lives. They didn’t have a home to go to. All they had was a was a fucking target.”

Aldric wiped his eyes. “You don’t even get it, do you? Altus and I- we go way back, you know?” he shook his head. “Went. Past fucking tense.” He spat. “How can I repay him the debt I owe? War with Angland for revenge?”

Daveth raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

“We could sneak in the Seal into Darnell a bit at a time, and then blitz rush the palace.” Daveth offered thoughtfully.

“We don’t even know if this was directed at us or the Radiant Sons.” Morden offered from the tent flap. “Sorry sirs, your voices carried.”

“Come in.” Daveth offered, and Morden stepped in.

“Whoever they were, they were pretty systematic in attacking the Sons. None of our guys were touched.”

Aldric backhanded the man. “They weren’t the ‘Radiant Sons’. They were as much the Seventh Seal as the rest of you. As the rest of us.”

“Retaliation?” Daveth offered again, as Morden pushed himself too his feet, touching his lip and grimacing at the blood.

Aldric sighed. “Tempted. So.... so very tempted.” He let out a long and shaky breath. “You have no idea for how long I’ve wanted to just-” he cut himself off. “No. No. We stay on task. We stay on mission. We’ve got a job in Nauders waiting for us.”

“What is the job in Nauders?” Morden asked curiously.

“You’ll be told on a need to know basis. Get the men ready to move at first light.” Aldric snapped.

*****

The Duchy of Nauders was a natural and gigantic cul-de-sac between the mountains of the Spine and the solitary peak they called Anzeige.

The Capital of Nauders was a fortified city, with massive, bone-white walls and broad gates. Each tier of the city grew successively taller until you reached the palace, a grand thing with narrow towers and spires. The buildings in the city were just as grand as the palace itself, if not as decorated, with clean lines and broad stairs, fluted fountains and paved roads. A thin stream of people entered and left the city’s main gate.

“Mmm.” Daveth remarked as he considered the city. To the east was a low hill that the city butted into, the palace itself forced its bulk against one of the shattered foothills of the Spine, the range of nearly impassible mountains that separated the lands on this continent from the north.

Aldric called a halt. “Daveth and I will proceed into the city. The rest of you hang back. After we speak with our client, we’ll get you access to the city; more importantly, we’ll get the Quartermaster and those he’ll grab to assist him into the markets. Until then, just sit tight. No fighting.” He ordered, and gestured to Daveth.

“They could kill us, you know.” Daveth mentioned casually as they approached the city gates. “We’ll be cut off from any assistance.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’re not thinking that at all, Daveth.” Aldric replied, but he adjusted the sword at his hip.

“They could, though.” Daveth replied.

“I’m sure you’d put up a fight that would be legendary, Daveth.” Aldric replied casually. “Why are you so on edge? This is no different from Azsig-Noth.” He asked. "Walk into the local palace, listen to the offer, discuss terms, and if wecome too an accord, we do the job."

“Something...” Daveth started, and shook his head. “I’m not sure. The place is too clean, I guess. I haven’t seen a tavern since Landeck.”

Aldric laughed. “You haven’t been looking, my friend. The town we passed through to get here, Courland, had a few.”

Daveth blew out a breath. “You’re right, then.” He finally admitted. “I’m just on edge.”

“Well, keep that edge,” Aldric suggested, “But don’t get wired up. I need you alert, not paranoid.” Daveth nodded silently.

“Another thing.” Aldric added with a gesture. “And this is something you need to know right off the bat before we go any further.” He paused, and pontificated for a moment. “Well, you might’ve noticed it in Landeck. All the guarded looks people were giving you?” He asked Daveth, who shrugged.

“People act like that around me all time, Aldric.” he replied patiently.

“Well, Nauders has warred with giants in the past. I’ve already let them know about you, but... be prepared for...” He trailed off.

“Hatred, hostility, and awkward silences?” Daveth asked, and he shrugged. “I won’t start anything, but if they do, I will plant them in the dirt, Aldric.”

Aldric shook his head. “You’d better fucking not, Daveth. No killing unless I authorize it, and frankly at this point I do not.”

“What the fuck?” Daveth cursed. “I can’t fucking defend myself?” Daveth roared. “That’s bullshit.”

Aldric raised his hands placatingly. “I didn’t say you can’t defend yourself. Just don’t kill them.” He encouraged. “Things may change where we’ve got no other choice, but for right now, we’re not killing.”

*****

Aldric spoke to the gate guard, leaning down from his horse. He waved a letter Daveth hadn’t noticed before, and one of the guards mounted a horse and dashed into the city. The guardsman nodded at something Aldric asked, and then waved them through.

“See? No trouble. We’re expected at the palace, where the Duchess will receive us promptly.” He announced, and stowed the letter in his coat.

They dismounted in front of the palace, and Daveth swung a massive cape around his shoulders. It was lined with the fur from a bear, a gift from the wolf sisters, Lynnabel and Alysia. Well, Alysia said it was from the both of them, but Daveth suspected it was from Lynnabel. Alysia was too sour for gifts, he guessed.

“What is that?” Aldric joked, “A tent? By the old Gods, Daveth, you could bed two people of normal height inside that thing.” Daveth made an obscene gesture at Aldric as they climbed the stairs to the entry hall of the palace, and Aldric laughed briefly.

The entry hall was long and narrow, and seemingly comprised exclusively of white marble. Thin grooved pillars in double rows marched along the sides to the throne room. The effect was dizzying to Daveth and he felt exposed and uncomfortable in his heavy dark clothes.

“It’s not too late, Aldric.” Daveth muttered. “Say the word and we can be out of here as quick as a coney.”

Aldric glanced up at him briefly. “Relax, Daveth.”

Daveth shook his head. “All this white... it’s hard to look at. And we stick out.”

Aldric nodded, but kept walking.

Under his heavy cloak, Daveth adjusted his bracers and the belt on his hips, in case he needed to react quickly. He touched the sword at his waist to reassure himself of its weight, and wiggled his fingers in anticipation of a quick draw.

*****

Duchess Elenora Edelweiss watched the two men approach the throne and glanced at her older brother Falki, who stood at her side, spear in hand.

“I hope that they are as reasonable as I have been led to believe.” She murmured in a very low voice as the two men approached, and her brother gave her a tiny nod, agreeing. As the two men approached her eyes narrowed at the two, and then widened. “Torbjorn?” she blurted, startled, and Falki glanced at her with a raised eyebrow, and then he looked back at the two men.

“You stand before her radiance, the Duchess of Nauders.” Falki announced, but Elenora was examining the outlanders carefully. One was obviously a Noble, or perhaps a lesser Royalty with the way he carried himself, and he wore a proper Anglish coat with epaulettes on his shoulders, but the other, he was the one that had caused Elenora to blurt something unthinkable.

In a word, he was a giant. He was a full and generous head and shoulders over his captain. A massive mountain of a man, a bear given human form. Thick brown hair, a short beard, a square, obdurate face. He wore heavy leather pants, a leather cloak large enough to function as a tent draped over his thick shoulders, and a leather vest. He looked like he’d stepped out of an epic the bards sang of in the tales; a warrior bred and born on the battlefield. His head was up and alert and he eyed everyone and everything critically, and a weary frown twisted his face. When he met the Duchesses’ eyes, a jolt of adrenaline squeezed her heart.