Two days later, tired and covered in dust, they entered Shelbivil. The town was much larger than Provints, holding nearly 2000 merchants, farmers, craftsmen, and various other professions, as well as the usual collection of less productive thieves, beggars, and minor nobles. The town was administered by a mayor, who would normally have reported to the Baron of the region, if they’d had one. But for nearly 3 decades the mayor had been in sole control of the town and surrounding area, only occasionally sending reports to the Earl who the Baron had held fealty to, but getting little in return except for an occasional lackluster demand for taxes. The merchant’s council and a few prominent figures in town funded a small militia that dealt with any disturbances of the peace, and along with some landless knights who lived in the area would occasionally patrol the roads in the areas. Not that there were a lot of bandits in the area. Outside of the valley where the town rested, the terrain was an unwelcoming blend of mountain and forest, that only hunters, woodsmen, and the occasional shepherd bothered to try to make a living in.

After arranging accommodations for themselves and their horses at an inn that Gost was fond of, they made their way down the broad street. Krosa had remained silent for most of the ride, brooding on her future and the potential fate of her father at first, and then focusing intently on keeping up with the hardened campaigners that now strode in front of her. They walked as if they had not spent nearly two straight days in the saddle and who knows what they’d been doing before that. They had respected her silence, allowing her the time to adjust to the possibility of a world without her father in it, or worse, the possibility that she may never find out his eventual fate. She shuddered slightly and spoke. “So, do you think the mayor will help us look for my father? I don’t know much about him, aside from the occasional story. Or the merchant’s council? We are members, technically, but aside from them giving us a slightly better deal on our goods, we haven’t interacted with them much.” Dyrik shook his head. “They might offer some assistance if we asked, but this is well over their head. No, we’re going to see the local Order representative, he has resources that I don’t, and I need to check in with the headquarters.”

Krosa’s head spun with unanswered questions, but she sensed she would be getting answers, or at least more information soon. New puzzles were appearing in her mind as they walked, and new pieces adding to the ones she already had for Dyrik and Gost. She had learned more about them in the last two days than the previous six months combined. It was the environment, mostly. In the sleepy town of Provints they had seemed almost comical, with their odd ways and carefree demeanors. But that had been a facade over who they truly were. On the road, she had seen them in their natural environment. They’d ridden through the forest like predators. Vigilant, prepared for violence at a moment’s notice, ready but never anxious, tense but calm, like drawn bowstrings. And in spite of the grim circumstances, they seemed almost glad to be under the threat of imminent danger. She knew she had much to learn about what they had been through, what they could teach her. But for now she was content to sit back and follow, and glean what she could just from observing. The time for questions was later, when she knew what to ask to get the most from the responses, and when her father was safe at home or safely buried.

With these grim thoughts for company, she strode after her friends as they set a quick pace to the market district of Shelbivil. Soon, they turned into an alley next to a bakery that wafted the smell of bread from its open windows onto the street. The aroma tugged at her stomach as they rounded the corner and she appreciated once more Gost’s statement about following her gut. Down the alley, a familiar sign hung above a narrow door, through which Dyrik led the small group. Inside, tall shelves full of books greeted her. The sign outside had been a near-perfect copy of the one that hung over Dyrik’s shop in Provints, an open book with a feather quill overlaid, crossed with what she had always thought was a letter opener but now she suspected was a sword.

By the time she got her bearings, Dyrik was already speaking to the man behind the counter. He was on the shorter side and wore wire-framed spectacles along with a slightly pointed hat pushed well back on his head. She noticed that the lenses on the spectacles did not distort the side of his face at all and wondered if they had some sort of magical purpose or if they were merely an affectation. The man’s almost robe-like tunic and ink-stained fingers certainly made up the picture of an academic. Dyrik, by contrast, was fastidiously neat and while he could always be found in the company of books it never seemed to suit him quite like it did the man behind the counter. Looking around the shop, she saw a similar layout to Dyriks, including many of the same titles and even identical shelves used. As she refocused her attention on the conversation, she learned the name of the man behind the counter as Dyrik addressed him.

“Cherna, I’d love to catch up, but we’re in a bit of a hurry and I need to borrow your expertise and maybe some equipment.” In clipped tones Dyrik laid out in precise terms the story of the last few days, and what they feared they were dealing with. As he did so the shopkeeper, Cherna, began drawing books from beneath the counter while simultaneously producing a steaming coffee pot and 4 cups. By the time the story was finished, books had begun pulling themselves free from shelves near the ceiling, floating through what appeared to be solid glass in locked cases, and a few she could have sworn appeared from nowhere. One book left a shelf and opened mid-air, releasing a smaller book that flew to the growing stack on the counter while the larger book reshelved itself neatly.

While all that was happening, Cherna poured coffee, adding various amounts of cream and sugar to each cup then handing them to the weary travelers. Keeping the last cup to himself, he handed a cup to Dyrik just as he finished the story. Dyrik sipped appreciatively, and continued “So you see, we’re in a bit of a spot of trouble. I don’t know how much the Order can spare right now but anything would be appreciated, and this isn’t exactly my area of expertise.” Cherna raised an eyebrow at him as he lowered his own cup. “Have you tried setting the woods on fire?”

Gost barked a laugh “That’s what I suggested! But no, we’re not sure that would work, and even if it did we’d rather avoid any…collateral damage.”

Dyrik nodded at his friend in appreciation. “Yes. Collateral damage is bad. For now, our first priority is to recover Polenach. I believe you’ve met him yes?” Cherna nodded. “He comes in a few times a year, more before you opened up your shop. Traded me bookends for books, fantastic carvings on them. Always up for chatting about the news of the world for a bit.” He looked over at Krosa. “I can see the resemblance, he always spoke of his daughter who loved books so much. I had hoped to meet you someday, but of course under better circumstances.” He slapped the books on the counter gently. “This is all I have on monster generators, camouflage spells, feedback creation algorithms, and a few other odds and ends that might come in handy. If I’m being honest, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anything quite like what you’re describing. If I had to guess, I would say it’s a powerful curse of some kind. Sounds like there are elements of an Abhorrent Forge, but those require constant maintenance and power to keep producing and are almost impossible to camouflage. This sounds like it’s self-sustaining, possibly using existing resources in the area to produce those twisted creatures you saw. Less powerful, but potentially more numerous.”

Krosa spoke up then, “The roads always get more dangerous every few years, then less. Almost like a pattern. Usually it’s just extra predators like wolves and bears and things like that. I’ve never heard of anything like what attacked my father. We never thought much about it, just figured that’s how things were…” she trailed off as Cherna pulled an extra book off a nearby shelf.

“This goes beyond simple camouflage” he said, flipping through the pages of the tome intently. Stopping midway through, his finger pointed at a paragraph that he read to himself before sliding the book across to Dyrik. “There, whatever this curse is, it’s messing with more than just scrying and navigation. It’s corrupting memory, subverting suspicion, who knows what else. ” Dyrik read the passage, then read it again before closing the book gently and sliding it back to Cherna. “I was afraid it was something like that. There are questions that keep coming up, but slip from my mind before I can seek an answer. Questions like what happened to the Baron who used to rule this region? Why hasn’t the Earl replaced him? Where is his keep?”

“The Baron died in the war, everyone knows that.” Krosa volunteered.

“And the Earl is a lazy bastard who neglects his duties, everyone knows that too” Gost added with a grin.

“But what about the keep?” Dyrik directed the question to Krosa. She frowned, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. She answered slowly. “Lost…Lost in the war I think.”

“Which war?” Dyrik pressed. “No war in a hundred years has touched that part of the kingdom.”

Krosa’s eyes widened as she was forced to reexamine truths she had known her entire life to see if they were as solid as she had thought. She felt as if her entire world was crumbling around her.

A large atlas wrestled itself from a bottom shelf behind Krosa, and flapped open to a map of the area. They leaned over it, finding Provints quickly. Sure enough, only a few miles from the town was a tiny portrait of a castle, labeled “Zevir Keep”. Gost tapped the page thoughtfully. “See that road that leads to the keep? That’s almost exactly where the attack on your father occured. That’s also where I’ve been seeing the most beast activity the last few months.”

“And it’s where there is now no road, and if you walk into the woods, you find yourself back where you came from. Or at least, we did.” Dyrik added.

The room was quiet as the four absorbed that information.

“Well, that settles it.” Cherna sighed. “That’s where the curse is.”

***

Hours passed in animated study and discussion. Cherna closed the shop and sent for bread and pies from the bakery next door. Krosa wondered if the fact that both bookshops were located so close to establishments that had hot sweet and savory pies available was a coincidence, but decided that was a question for much, much later. As the evening wore on, they came to several conclusions. The Baron had somehow pulled a curse down on himself, the curse had affected the keep and surrounding area, and the curse was incredibly powerful. Cherna had removed his pointed hat when he had closed the shop, and now ran a hand through thinning, mousy brown hair. “This is over our head Dyrik. This is probably going to take a full tetrahedron of Magi, or even a Pinnacle.”

Dyrik snorted. “Well the odds of either of those showing up out are slim at best. I’ll submit a request to the Order, but if they’ve likely got bigger fish to fry. Even if they are able to help us, it probably won’t be for a long time.”

The group sat in silent contemplation. A tear rolled gently down Krosa’s cheek as she felt hope fade. Her father was dead, or perhaps trapped by some horrific curse. Nobody had said it out loud, but Krosa had read enough of the material Cherna had pulled out to guess that there was a chance that the curse might twist her father into some distorted, monstrous version of himself. Like the beasts of the wood, who had been pulled into the curse and twisted into the creatures who had attacked her father. She felt a comforting hand on her shoulder and looked over at Gost, who had kept uncharacteristically quiet during the discussion of magic and curses. His expertise was more in the material world, and although Krosa had read all that Dyrik had lent her on basic magical theory and practice, the level of discussion that Dyrik and Cherna had been in engaged in surpassed both of them.

Aside from occasional questions and observations, or bits of local lore from Krosa, neither of them had contributed much. Gost spoke quietly to Krosa as the two mages continued on their own. “I’m sorry Krosa, I know it doesn’t look good. But your father is a resourceful man, and now that we know about the curse we won’t stop until it’s broken. No matter what. Also, I’ve seen no sign in the forest of anything that might have once been human. Which means that the curse may not pull in people, or what it does to them is more benign. It’s not much to cling to but believe me when I say there is still hope.” He stood and drew her to her feet. She swayed, exhausted both physically and emotionally. She let herself be guided to the door, and Gost led her back to the inn. “There’s nothing more for us to do tonight but rest. Those two will be at it until the rooster crows if I know them. I don’t know how they do it, probably something in that coffee they’re always drinking.” He smiled wearily. “Good night Krosa. In the morning we’ll have a plan, I promise you.”

As she closed the door to her room, she heard the heavy sound of his boots on the wood plank stairs down to the inn’s common room. She suspected that as tired as he looked, he was likely to leave the wizards to their coffee and find himself some ale. Back in Provints, he would always visit the inn when he came back from a hunt, no matter how long he had been out. She sometimes wondered if he drank because he enjoyed the ale and the company of the Lodge so much, or if he had other reasons.