We wasted no time in preparing for the road to Karvosti, two hundred kilometers northwest if one were to draw it straight on a map. The choice of route narrowed to two: sail west along the Eanor River to Volgoma Lake and then north, or cut through Davokar on foot. The river was the more common way, and for that very reason the one most likely to be crawling with pirates and Korinthian agents — not to mention the river itself was hardly forgiving. The forest, by contrast, offered its own familiar terrors. Neither path would be cheap, but with Anya-Rey at our side, the balance tipped toward land. We would take the forest.
However, when we turned to the matter of provisions, we met with an unpleasant discovery: every outfitter worth the name had its shutters closed and its shelves stripped bare. Notices hung in the windows, each the same refrain — “stock seized by decree, reserved for a royal delegation inbound from Yndaros.” Soldiers, veterans, scholars, priests — a column so vast that the town already whispered of it. The word was that they were mustering an expedition of unprecedented scale, bound straight into the heart of Davokar.
We bent our ears to the rumors, and quickly learned the truth was worse than we had guessed. Not only had Korinthia’s agents stripped the city’s stores bare, but they were paying the poorest folk of Thistle Hold a pittance to vacate their own homes, making way for the delegation. It was extortion dressed as charity, but at least not as savage as Yndaros, where non-Ambrians are still chased and beaten in the streets. I suspect Lasifor Nightpitch must have been giving Captain Dekamedo his orders with gritted teeth — obey the Queen, but temper her will with civility where he could. In any case, the upheaval of this royal influx soon dwarfed the terror of the sinkhole itself, when corruption had spewed monsters onto the cobbles. Lasifor and Yagaba vanished from sight and became unreachable. The air was that of a powder keg shoved too close to a fire.
Amid this turmoil, a message reached us from the local cell of the Iron Pact. The courier gave no names, but I knew the script — Lysindra’s hand, neat and measured. She wrote that the delegation’s arrival had thrown everything into disarray, leaving her, Mearoel, and the others mired in endless damage control. Our petition to join the Pact, once a matter of earnest discussion, had been quietly shelved. More troubling, she spoke of strange reports trickling out of the nearby village of Glimmervann — vague but unsettling enough to suggest something worth our attention. The Pact could spare no one to look into it, but she hinted that if we took up the task, it might soften the doubts of those who still questioned our worth. I will admit: the letter stung. After the Halls of a Thousand Tears, after Erlaber, must we still prance like trained hounds for their approval? It reeked of Mearoel’s influence, the sort of political balancing that leaves a sour taste even when served with Lysindra’s careful words.
After much debate, we settled on a course: delaying Leslie’s mission was unthinkable, but outfitting ourselves in Thistle Hold had become impossible. Thus, Anya-Rey would take a cart west to Kurun and see what could be salvaged there, purse in hand and our trust with it. We wished her luck and let her go. Meanwhile, Boga, Murruidoso, and I would turn our attention to Glimmervann, where the whispers hinted at unrest. Sarvola and Aluin remained behind to guard the house — not out of paranoia, but necessity. With the city watch prowling the streets and — under royal orders — seizing any dwelling left unattended, even a brief absence could cost us our headquarters.
Glimmervann lay close at hand, scarcely four hours’ walk westward. The name tugged at me with a sense of recognition until I recalled where I had seen it: in the reports Sarvola had borrowed from Captain Dekamedo during the Erlaber affair. “Glimmer,” the ledger had called it, shorthand for Glimmervann, and alongside it a note of cultist stirrings tied to the name Ambreagos. Wonderful. Just when I thought Erlaber had been buried for good, his shadow contrived to crawl back into our path.
The next morning, beneath a sky pressed low with heavy clouds — the kind that promise autumn’s first true storm — we set out to Glimmervann. The road was flanked by trees already surrendering their leaves, gold and crimson scraps that the morning wind scattered into restless dances. Our packs were lighter than prudence demanded, stripped bare by the Queen’s requisitions, yet the weight of silence hung heavier than gear. Boga and Murruidoso trudged beside me without complaint, each absorbed in his own thoughts. As the fog thinned, Davokar stretched before us: a dark-green wall on the horizon, its shadow rising like a reminder that whatever secrets whispered in the rustling leaves, none of them were kind.
Not far along the road, we came across a cart stranded by the ditch, one of its wheels lying a few paces away like a discarded toy. Beside it stood a middle-aged woman, her clothes marking her Ambrian heritage — brighter in cut and color than those of the local clansfolk, though plain enough to betray that she was no noble. My own upbringing made her type easy to read: a field owner, perhaps, hauling her harvest to market, most likely bound for Thistle Hold. The cart sagged under the weight of grain sacks, while she herself seemed burdened with a different load — frustration, weariness, the kind that tightens the mouth and hollows the eyes. She glanced at us as we drew near, half hopeful, half wary.
“Good morning,” I greeted her, noting the strain in her posture. “It seems you’ve got some trouble there.”
“The bloody wheel broke midway,” she answered, weary and sweating, “and I can’t get it back on.”
I handed her my waterskin, then crouched to study the cart. The repair wasn’t complicated, but it was certainly beyond an unarmed woman stranded on the roadside. I glanced at Murruidoso, who needed no further prompting. He lumbered over and squatted beside the wagon, peering at the axle as though it were a puzzle of rare complexity.
“Good lady,” he bellowed, every word delivered as though he were shouting across a storm, “the peg’s all fucked up. It won’t hold the wheel in place. Need a new one. I can make it! You’ll reach the city, no problem!”
She nearly toppled backward at the sheer force of his voice, but when it dawned on her that we were offering help, her relief outweighed her fear.
“Oh, could you — please? I can pay you something for the work.”
“Bah, keep your coins. I can't count well in the morning, bwah!” His laugh rolled out, the kind that could scare crows from a field. “I'll fix the wagon. Just need some wood. I'll go fetch it.” With that, he lumbered off toward the treeline, scratching his butt as though the whole affair were an amusing inconvenience.
Some five minutes later, Murruidoso emerged from the treeline, hefting a thick branch he had simply torn from a trunk. Another twenty minutes of sweat and grunting followed, during which he shoved the wheel back onto its axle and hammered the branch into place with his fists, each blow echoing like a smith’s hammer on an anvil. It was ugly work, but effective — enough to see the woman safely to Thistle Hold. She looked upon the result as if the ogre had performed a miracle.
“Thank you. Thank you, sir!” she exclaimed, already fumbling for her purse. “My name is Elionara, and I don’t have much money, but—”
“No need, lady,” Murruidoso cut her off, waving his huge hand as though brushing away the very thought. “But maybe some food, eh? We've got a long way ahead, and all that work made me hungry, bwah!”
She blinked, then nodded with sudden eagerness. “Of course!” She hurried to the back of her cart, opened a chest, and at once the scent of cooked meat wafted out. From within she drew a large parcel, still wrapped in paper and bound with twine, and placed it reverently in the ogre’s hands.
He tore it open, and the aroma redoubled — a whole piglet, roasted to crisp perfection, its skin glazed from a wine sauce and still steaming. Murruidoso gazed at it as though beholding a holy relic; for an instant I thought a tear might truly fall down his cheek.
“Thank you, lady!” he bellowed, his gratitude rattling the very leaves, and for once I believed him incapable of speaking any louder.
“And thank you as well,” she said, turning to Boga and me. “If I may ask, where are the three of you headed?”
“We have some quick business waiting for us in Glimmer,” I replied, choosing my words with care. No sense in scattering too much truth by the roadside.
At once her brow furrowed, and a worried look clouded her face. “Things are ugly there,” she warned, her tone that of someone offering earnest advice. “If I were you, I’d take my business elsewhere.”
“Why do you say that?” I pressed.
“Well, most of us in Glimmervann are farmers. It’s our life — we sell our crops in Thistle Hold. But lately… the plants have begun to wither. Not like a normal plague, no pests, no rot. It’s the soil itself, turning against us.”
“Out of nowhere?” Boga asked, tilting his head.
“These sacks” — Elionara gestured to the cart — “are the last of what I could salvage. My family thinks of leaving the rest behind and moving somewhere else.”
“When did this problem begin?” I asked.
She paused, thinking. “Different harvests fade at different times, but I’d say a few months now, since the first signs. The earth grows darker, drier… and that’s not even the worst of it.”
Her voice dropped, as though speaking a secret. “Some of the older folk have begun to dream. Strange dreams. They whisper about bad omens, curses. Fear is spreading faster than any blight. If it continues, Glimmervann may not have a soul left in it.”
“Has anyone been hurt?” Boga asked gently.
“I don’t know. Not yet, I don’t think. But people are unsettled, frightened of what may come.”
By then my own suspicions had begun to take shape.
“Elionara, if I may change the subject,” I said, “have you ever heard the name Ambreagos?”
She frowned, searching her memory.
“Ambreagos… yes, I believe he owns a tannery on the outskirts of the village. I’ve never had cause to seek him out — my family, we buy our leather in Thistle Hold.”
“Have you seen him recently?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No, not for some time, now that you mention it. Perhaps he’d moved on to Yndaros?”
“Why do you think so?” Boga interjected.
“Well, he owns a tannery, but he’s always seemed wealthier than the rest of us. Carries himself like someone who’s brought his riches from Alberetor. You know how it is; even among us Ambrians, there are Ambrians — and Ambrians.”
“You all look the same to me,” Boga muttered under his breath, smirking.
“Forgive my inquisitiveness,” I swiftly cut in. “The name was mentioned to me once, and I’d tied it to the village, but I’ve never been there myself.”
“It’s not much of a place,” she said, “fifty, sixty souls at most. If you truly mean to go, there’s but one tavern worth setting foot in — Jomilo’s. He struts as though he were the village leader, and truth be told, he might as well be, since he owns the only tavern in Glimmer. If you want to find your bearings, he’s the one to ask.”
With a final round of thanks, she hauled herself back onto the wagon — not without difficulty, the years showing plainly in the stiffness of her movements — and gave us a last wave before setting off down the road. Above her, the sky hung heavy with darkening clouds, and the wind carried a sharpened chill, as though the season announced itself.
By the time we neared Glimmervann, the change in the land was undeniable. The crops bore a sickly cast: fruit rotted on the boughs; vegetables shrank into gnarled husks. The wheat fields struck me most — their stalks still pale and swaying in the breeze, but rooted in soil which had turned almost black, as if licked by fire. Stranger still, thick roots jutted from the earth and sank back into it, with no tree in sight to explain their size or reach. We walked on in silence, the weight of the landscape pressing back at us, each step confirming that the village was laboring under something unnatural.
As we drew nearer, the village wall came into view — stone, not timber, and stout enough to draw an unflattering comparison with Thistle Hold’s wooden palisade. A church tower rose above the rooftops, likewise built from stone, marking the place as small but fortified, with watch platforms where archers might one day stand guard. Yet the gate yawned open, unmanned, and no voice called out to question our arrival.
Within, the mood was no more welcoming. Faces turned toward us only briefly, their expressions dulled by sorrow or weariness. Then Boga nudged my arm, directing my gaze toward an old man across the lane. Balding, with a drooping mustache and clothes that had lost their color years ago, he regarded us with a peculiar blend of suspicion and fear. His mouth hung ajar, showing gaps where teeth had rotted away, and the few that remained gleamed yellow as candlewax. His stare clung to us for several uneasy heartbeats before he bolted indoors; a moment later we heard shutters and doors slamming, as though we had carried pestilence through the gate. Strange.
We found the tavern easily enough, pressed close against the chapel whose steeple bore the radiant mark of Prios. So the sun god watched over these people, after all — though from what we had seen of their crops and their faces, His light seemed of little use to them. The chapel doors stood shut, silent and unattended, but the tavern welcomed all comers: its doors hung open, and the air was thick with the smell of stewed meat and fresh bread, the sort of simple fare that makes hungry travelers quicken their steps. As we drew nearer, a young dark-haired woman emerged from a side door of the church, her crimson robes identifying her as one of Prios’s clergy. Without sparing the church another glance, she crossed the street and disappeared into the tavern ahead of us. We followed suit.
Inside, the tavern revealed an architecture I had not expected in so small a place: a thatched roof resting on broad wooden arches, giving the room a strange, almost vaulted air. At the counter, a gathering was underway, presided over by a stocky, middle-aged man whose voice carried the weight of someone long accustomed to being heard. I assumed him to be the Jomilo whom Elionara had mentioned. The young theurg we had just seen stood in the circle, along with several villagers whose faces wore the drawn look of people who had too little sleep and too much to worry about.
We lingered nearby, listening. The talk revolved grimly around the failing harvest: the potatoes had rotted in the earth, the wheat left standing was worthless, and Elionara — as by her own admission — had carted away the last of what could still be sold. Other crops fared little better, and already three families were speaking openly of abandoning their homes, another having already left for Kurun. Eventually, the discussion turned to the theurg. When pressed, she lowered her head and admitted she had found no cure, only vowing to remain in Glimmervann until Prios saw fit to grant her the wisdom to help them. The silence that followed was heavy — not with reverence, but with the weight of hope too long deferred.
The tavern’s interior was a study in contrasts: sunlight slanting through half-open shutters mingled with the dull glow of torches along the walls, their smoke curling toward the rafters. Beneath it all lingered the unmistakable smell of pork roasting somewhere out of sight, a fragrance that made my stomach tighten in protest. Murruidoso had devoured his gift of piglet with such ferocity that I dared not ask for even a morsel. Yet I could see his nostrils flare at the scent now, his head tilting as if he meant to follow it to its source.
“You’re still hungry?” I muttered, half incredulous.
“We've been walking for four hours,” he chuckled, his voice booming over the subdued murmur of the tavern. “That little pig's long gone from my belly!”
The laughter rolled out of him, heavy and unashamed, and soon the room shifted under its weight. Ambrian eyes turned first to the ogre, wide with unease, then slid to the goblin and, inevitably, to me — and in their gaze I read the question unspoken: What Ambrian chooses such company? For an instant, I felt like the butt of a silly joke: an Ambrian, a goblin, and an ogre walk into a tavern.
Murruidoso, oblivious or perhaps simply unbothered, caught the stares and bellowed, “What?” at the cluster by the counter, as if daring them to answer. Before tensions could flare, I raised a hand, palm outward in appeasement, and let two gold coins glint between my fingers. “Easy, gentlemen,” I said, pitching my voice to carry. “Can we have some food here?” The gesture was part plea, part command — and more than anything, a bribe to buy peace.
“Be right up with today’s special!” bellowed the broad man behind the counter, before barking an order through a door I assumed led to the kitchen. I let the moment breathe, giving the villagers time to disperse. They did so reluctantly, and the small gathering dissolved into mutters and sidelong glances. When the room had thinned, I rose and made my way to the counter.
“Would you happen to be Jomilo?” I asked.
“Jomilo Stonefort, at your service,” he answered, voice firm, chin lifted as though daring me to doubt him. “And you are?”
“Mordamir of Ordo Magica, at yours,” I replied, letting the words fall with the weight they usually carried.
His expression shifted — a flicker of hope, almost relief. “Ordo Magica has come to our aid, then?”
“Not quite,” I corrected, steady but not unkind. “We are here to investigate and help if we can. But this is not official Ordo Magica business. Our errand comes at the behest of another agency.”
His eyes narrowed. “Which agency?”
“It would be better if I did not name them, for now,” I said, holding his gaze. “The information that brought us here was fragmentary, and I would rather not trumpet our presence until we understand the matter more fully. Still, you have my word — we come with the intent to investigate and, if possible, resolve Glimmervann’s plight. I see you have already sought the guidance of a theurg, but thus far it seems the Sun God has offered you little in return.”
“You’re not wrong,” he admitted at last, resignation heavy in his tone. “The crops are failing, yes. But give me a moment to fetch your food. We’ll continue this talk at the table, if you please.”
I inclined my head and made my way back, slipping into my seat.
“He did not like that talk of another agency,” Boga muttered under his breath as soon as I sat.
“And by the way they all looked at you,” I replied just as quietly, “they’re not exactly fond of the Elder Folk either.”
“I can't understand why people don't like us,” Murruidoso rumbled, slamming his fist on the table with such force the mugs rattled. “Three friends traveling together. Helping folk, making no trouble!” And as if to punctuate the claim, he let out a burp so loud it might have been mistaken for a warhorn.
“I can’t understand either,” I sighed, rubbing at my temples, though the corner of my mouth twitched despite myself.
A few moments later, the theurg from the Prios chapel approached our table, her steps hesitant but purposeful, and gestured at an empty chair. I rose slightly and pulled it out for her, inviting her to sit. I suspected this was going to be an interesting conversation.
“Good morning,” she began, her voice soft, almost apologetic. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, and she carried herself like someone far from home, clinging to ritual for steadiness. “I’m Vedena — from the Church of Prios, as you’ve probably guessed. Not that it’s my place to pry, but I’d like to know what brings you here. Does it have to do with the crops? If so, perhaps we can work together.”
“What’s happening here?” Boga asked bluntly, sparing no courtesy.
Vedena hesitated, then folded her hands on the table as if in prayer. “I was summoned,” she said at last. “My Order in Kurun sent me to understand what’s happening. I was told the grain supply had been disrupted. Normally, Ordo Magica would investigate such a thing, but my brethren decided it was wiser to send someone to lead a direct inquiry.”
She glanced down, fingers tightening on her sleeves. “I’ve visited the fields, and you’ve seen them yourselves. But what truly frightens me is that I’ve spent eight days and eight nights praying to Prios with no effect at all. It’s as if we are beyond His reach. On the seventh night I had a revelation — vague, fleeting — but enough to convince me that whatever is at work here predates even the first humans.”
Her eyes flicked to me as she said it, a tremor of unease hiding behind her composure, and for the first time I wondered if the Sun God’s emissary might already suspect what kind of darkness she had walked into.
“Predates the first humans?” Boga asked, incredulous. “What are you saying?”
“That whatever is going on, its source is something older than us Ambrians. Something that was here before we arrived.”
“Vedena,” I said, drawing her attention, “have you been able to determine where this thing originates?”
“No,” she replied in frustration. “All the crops show similar symptoms and the same strange roots coming out of the soil. I don’t understand any of it.”
“Have you been to the old tannery, by any chance?” I asked, the words slipping out before I could temper them. I could feel Erlaber’s shadow coiling around this village, and I all but knew he had some hand in the blight.
“As far as I know,” Vedena answered, brow furrowed, “the tannery was abandoned months ago. I’ve never seen anyone enter or leave, and the doors are all boarded shut.”
That did not bode well. An abandoned tannery was exactly the kind of refuge a splinter of Erlaber’s cult might favor — secluded, sturdy, foul enough that no decent soul would linger near it. I was turning this over, shaping it into a path worth pursuing, when Jomilo appeared at my shoulder, balancing two great trays piled with steaming plates, enough to feed twice our number.
Jomilo set the trays down before us and dragged a chair over without ceremony, as though our table had always been meant to include him. Each platter bore a whole roasted boar, its golden skin crisp and its meat tender, served with warm loaves of brown bread and a rich, wine-dark sauce. I wondered how such fare — fit for a noble’s feast — could find its way to the lone tavern of a withering village. But the question quickly gave way to appetite, and I chose, for once, to surrender to the moment.
We talked of trivial matters and ate until the platters were little more than bones and crumbs. Jomilo was gracious enough to wait until then to voice his concerns.
“I see you’ve already made the acquaintance of Sister Vedena,” he said. “We are glad enough to have a wizard of the Order among us, even if — by your own words — you come on behalf of some other agency.”
The young theurg seized on that at once. “What agency?” she pressed, eyes flicking from Jomilo to me, suspicion plain in her tone.
“What matters,” I said, setting down my fork with deliberate calm, “is that we are here to help. You are correct: I am of the Ordo Magica. And while I may not be here on their official errand, the Order’s interests and mine are closely entwined, as are those of my companions. I ask only a measure of trust in this — discretion is, at times, as much a shield as any spell.”
Jomilo’s expression did not soften. “And what matters to me,” he returned, “is the safety of this village under my watch. My questions are not personal, wizard — they are my duty. If strangers arrive in Glimmervann with secrets in tow, I must seek to know their true purpose.” He glanced toward Vedena, inviting her agreement. She hesitated, but gave the faintest nod.
“If you are here under orders of the Queen, or of the templars of Prios,” she said, “we would take comfort in knowing so.”
Jomilo folded his arms, his voice sharpening. “Especially given the… diverse nature of your company.”
Boga leaned across the table toward Murruidoso and muttered, not quite under his breath, “He means we’re ugly.”
The ogre responded with a broad grin, baring every uneven tooth in a display so grotesque it might haunt nightmares more effectively than any curse.
If Murruidoso, in some strange whim, had chosen the path of diplomacy, I found myself pulled in the opposite direction. The notion that a tavern keeper — a self-proclaimed village elder at that — should badger us so insistently, chiefly because an ogre and a goblin sat at my side, made my blood simmer. I drained the rest of my beer in a single swallow and set the empty mug down with a deliberate thump.
“Look,” I said, letting the words burn in place of all the fire I had not conjured for months, “if this is truly all so important to you, then let me be clear: we have come on behalf of the city guard of Thistle Hold. We have uncovered evidence of cultist activity here in Glimmervann, tied to one Ambreagos, the tanner. In Thistle Hold, we recently executed a cult leader of that same surname, and now my companions and I are tasked with cutting away the roots that remain. Are you satisfied with that explanation? Naturally, it would be… inconvenient if this knowledge left this table.”
Both Jomilo and Vedena gaped, jaws slack. My words were a braid of truth and fabrication, just tight enough — I hoped — to hold firm under their scrutiny.
“The city guard of Thistle Hold, you say?” Jomilo stammered, clearly wrong-footed.
“Jomilo,” Vedena interjected, placing a hand on his arm, “I know little of Thistle Hold’s politics, but it’s plain they have come to aid us. Perhaps we shouldn’t press their goodwill further. I have prayed for eight days without answer; I know not what else remains to us.”
The tavern keeper’s brow furrowed, but Vedena’s quiet plea seemed to draw the sharpness out of him.
“Tell them how this began,” she said, turning to him.
Jomilo cleared his throat, his voice steady despite an undercurrent of fear. “The first to notice something amiss was old Demeon. He spoke of the roots, and before long he stopped making sense. He withdrew from everyone, muttering about how the roots would pull him under the earth — that the death of his wife had somehow been his fault. It’s a thoroughly tragic case, but he was the first to see the signs.”
“What happened to his wife?” I asked.
“Ellia — may Prios keep her soul — died two years ago, after a fever that pinned her to bed. She passed in her sleep, and Demeon never recovered. They had no children, worked the fields side by side. After her death, he kept at it as best he could, but grief hollowed him out.”
“Next question,” I pressed. “These roots you speak of — what are they?”
“Demeon has always cultivated carrots,” Jomilo said. “Then one day he began talking about roots that weren’t his. Thick, not connected to any tree anyone could see. In a matter of days, the soil turned barren, and his crops died where they grew. At first, he was paranoid — thought it was sabotage — but soon enough every field in Glimmervann was suffering, and I told him so. It silenced him, but didn’t calm him. He grew more erratic, glaring at people, muttering. Grief, we said. Age, we said. But…”
“Has anyone tried to dig them out?” I asked.
Jomilo leaned closer, lowering his voice. “That’s a subject most here would rather not touch. They’re frightened of it. Demeon raved about digging into the roots on his land and ‘finding something,’ but it’s hard to separate sense from delusion. Still… perhaps there’s something to it. I shouldn’t even be telling you this, but many here whisper the same thing: that the roots… speak. Haunting voices rising from the soil, growing louder if the roots are disturbed.”
“That is a strange enough tale,” I mused, leaning back. “As I see it, two paths present themselves. We should speak with old Demeon, certainly — but before that, I’d like to set eyes on the tannery, if only to make sure no loose ends are hiding there.”
“I’ll see to the table,” Jomilo said, pushing back his chair, “and then I can take you to the old tannery. Are you coming as well, Vedena?”
“Of course,” she replied without hesitation. “I’ll walk with you.”
Jomilo brought yet another serving of boar à la Glimmervann for Murruidoso, who fell upon it with voracious glee. While the ogre made short work of his seconds, the tavern keeper returned to my side.
“I owe you an apology,” he said, the words dragging as though each cost him dearly. “I am now convinced your presence here may be a boon.”
“I know what you can do with your gratitude,” Boga muttered, without looking up.
“What was that?” Jomilo bristled.
“Nothing,” Boga answered, flashing a grin lined with sharp teeth. “What’s for dessert?”
As soon as we were done with lunch, the five of us made for the tannery, as I had insisted. It lay on the northern edge of the wall, and though some distance away, the village was small enough that it took us only minutes to reach. The place was every bit as abandoned as Vedena had described. Weeds choked the yard and pressed against the boarded façade, making the front door almost unreachable. The shutters were nailed tight with rusted iron, and there was no sign of recent passage. Dust and cobwebs clung to the stones.
We forced the door and searched the place from end to end — prying at walls, tapping floors, even probing for hidden compartments. Nothing. The tanning vats lay dry, the barrels empty, and the few scraps of leather left behind were shriveled and useless. Whoever had worked here seemed to have simply walked away one day and never looked back.
“Sir wizard,” Vedena began hesitantly, “I know it is not my place to question, but why are we here? What has this place to do with the blight on our fields?”
“The matter is not this place,” I told her, “but the man who owns it.”
“Has he been arrested?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, a little sharper than intended. “You might know more than I. Elionara spoke of a name — Ambreagos. Jomilo, surely you recall?”
“Of course,” the tavern master answered, blinking at me as though the memory had only just caught him. “The tanner. His name is Erlaber. Erlaber Ambreagos. But he does not live in the village.”
The realization struck me like a hammer, and I wanted to strike myself just as hard. All this time I’d been clinging to the notion that another Ambreagos had operated there, because Dekamedo’s report recorded Erlaber saying he had never once set foot in Glimmervann. Not for a single moment had it occurred to me that the man might simply have lied — which, of course, he had. Stupid. Stupid wizard.
I pressed my face into my palms, before finally forcing the words out through clenched teeth: “We’re wasting our time here. Erlaber lied when he claimed never to have come to this village. Let’s go — we need to find the old man Demeon at once.”
We passed beyond the stone wall and into the fields, and I walked in silence, still simmering at my own mistake. The land ahead was a web of roots, dark and swollen, crawling through the soil like veins. I caught sight of Boga and Murruidoso clutching their temples, faces tight with discomfort, and raised my voice so all could hear: “Whatever you do, don’t step on these roots.”
Up close, they were even stranger — curling into rough circles that brought to mind runic patterns, though I’d need a higher vantage to be sure. An oak stood nearby, its limbs thick enough that Murruidoso could’ve sat on one without bending it. I tried to climb, but the branch snapped under me like rotted cork, sending me tumbling into the soft earth. My dignity suffered more than my bones, but the incident told me something more important: whatever blight had settled over Glimmervann, it wasn’t only poisoning the crops. It was seeping into everything green.
My next best option was an abandoned barn, in even worse condition than the tannery. I hauled myself onto the roof and took stock of the fields from above. The pattern became undeniable: the roots weren’t growing at random. They curved and intersected in deliberate ways, inscribing vast symbols across the soil. I couldn’t decipher their meaning, but they bore the mark of old Symbaroum craft, runes etched in living matter.
I dropped back down, dust clinging to my cloak, and gathered the others.
“These roots,” I said, pointing towards the fields, “they’re not merely choking the earth. They’re writing on it. I cannot yet read the words, but I’m certain they’re the source of the corruption. The bigger question now is — who, or what, is causing them?”
“These roots are making a terrible noise. Can't you hear it?” Murruidoso protested, clutching his head. “It's loud! It hurts my head!”
“I hear nothing but whispers,” Boga muttered, eyes narrowed.
For a fleeting moment, the answer seemed simple: fire. Burn the fields, scour them clean, leave nothing but ash. But then Ka’eroan’s warning pressed on my mind. I could not let flame be my only language. I forced the thought aside and turned to Jomilo.
“Are these roots everywhere?”
“Yes,” he said grimly, “but nowhere are they worse than on Demeon’s farm. Folk avoid it for good reason.”
“Then everything points to him,” I concluded. “We should go to this man’s farm at once. Agreed?” Boga and Murruidoso both nodded.
Vedena and Jomilo led us on, and soon we neared the edge of Demeon’s land. The silence struck first. By the way Murruidoso’s shoulders eased, I knew even the voices had gone quiet. No insects hummed, no birds stirred, and scarcely a leaf rustled in the wind. The barley cracked beneath us like stale bread as we pressed on, the old man’s house looming in the distance.
Suddenly Vedena and Jomilo froze, and we saw why. Before us yawned a shallow crater, forty paces across, its soil blackened as though the earth itself had been charred from within. Roots jutted from its rim in grotesque profusion — some no thicker than a finger, others wide as tree trunks, and a few arching overhead like crude gateways. The pit was too circular to be the work of wind or weather; along its edges the roots twisted into symbols that stung the eyes when I tried to focus, shapes that repelled the mind as though in self-defense. Some of the roots glistened with veins resembling exposed muscle, dripping black ichor into the soil, which hissed faintly as it drank the corruption.
“Well, that’s a mad sight,” Boga muttered.
“And too familiar,” I said, recalling the black ooze that plagued us in Davokar. “We should speak with the old man at once. Boga, how about you take the panther around the back while we knock at the front? No harm in being cautious.”
“Good plan,” he grunted, already tugging Maria Alice along.
I watched Boga and the panther disappear around the house. I gave him a few breaths to scout the place, then we closed in. Before we could reach the porch, an old voice erupted from inside — hoarse, furious: “Out! Get out! Away from my house!” A crash of breaking glass followed.
Jomilo hurried forward, hands raised. “No, Demeon — we come as friends!” he called.
“Off my land, or I’ll put a bolt in your belly!” the man spat back.
For all I knew, Boga might already be in trouble. The front door was shut and, likely, bolted. Lucky for us, we travel with our own kind of locksmith.
“Murru,” I said, as calmly as I could manage, “give the door a gentle push, will you?”
“Easy-peasy,” the ogre answered, and then delivered a kick so true the wood splintered like a biscuit. The door fell inward in a spray of debris.
“Please, don’t hurt him!” Jomilo protested, hands clasped in panic. “He’s an old man — demented perhaps, but harmless. He doesn’t know what he’s doing!”
“He may already be corrupted,” I said, stepping between the tavern keeper and the threshold. “If so, this is not only one old man’s madness — it is a contagion that can rot the whole village. Look around you, Jomilo. The whole farm’s tainted. I’m sorry, but we cannot gamble with this.”
“Corruption? Here?” he blurted. “How is that possible? We’re not even near the forest!”
“Please leave us to our work,” I urged, and I rapped Murruidoso once on the back, signaling him to follow. With that, we stepped through the breach and into the house.
The smell inside the house was sickening, an earthy rot that made me want to gag. The rooms were dark, with only thin slices of sunlight slipping through the shuttered windows. It took several seconds for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I saw him — motionless, watching us from a corner of the living room.
He was undeniably old. About eighty, perhaps. As I suspected, he was the same man who had fled from sight when we first entered the village. What worried me, however, was not his age but his skin: all that was visible was covered in a web of pitch-black strands. He seemed catatonic, muttering the same phrase again and again: “The roots speak in the deep! The roots speak in the deep!”
As he rocked lightly from side to side, I thought I heard his wife’s name buried in the litany. But the mantra grew unstable, his voice deepening into a guttural prayer. Then his own flesh abandoned him: the skin of his left arm sloughed off and struck the floor with a wet slap; blood poured out, red at first, then black — and I knew what that meant. Black thorns burst from his balding scalp, twisting into a tortured crown. “THE ROOS… EEK… IN… THEEP,” he gargled. Old Demeon was gone. An abomination stood before us.
I heard the terrified cries of Jomilo and Vedena behind me, and the sound of their feet as they fled, but I did not take my eyes off the abomination. We’d faced worse odds and survived, I told myself. This is only one, I told myself. Every instinct urged me to seize my staff and blast the thing into fiery oblivion, but I couldn’t risk burning Murruidoso, who was already charging with his bastard sword in hand. He swung, yet fighting at close quarters with such a weapon is never simple — the blade struck a pillar, never reaching its mark.
No fire, I reminded myself. There has to be another way. I reached for my bow and conjured every memory of my training with Lysindra. I drew, steadied, loosed. The shot was perfect — until the creature lashed its tentacles through the air, cracking against the arrow and sending it harmlessly wide.
I gaped, bewildered — the thing was far more agile than I had imagined. Almost at once, it closed the distance between us with a ferocity I could not escape. A tentacle struck me square in the chest. My vision went black, and all that remained was a searing pain. My senses fell away, and I drifted in darkness. Was this death?
“Nay. Not death, but a lesson. Shame and abasement, forsworn of the flame that once did lend thee worth. Thou hast renounced the fire, and thereby unmade thyself. Behold what remaineth — a withered husk, fumbling with bow and shaft, struck down as a child might be. Where now is thy pride, thy promise? Where now is the dread flame that made thine enemies tremble? Vanished. Thou art but a whisper in the dark, sad wizard, and the dark careth not for whispers.”
The next thing I remember is Murruidoso dragging me by the arm, my body scraping against floorboards and stone until, at last, we stopped. Every part of me ached, yet I could move again. We were outside the house now, a dozen paces from the threshold, when Murruidoso hauled me to my feet. I was bruised, shaken, dazed — but in the pit of my soul something stirred, then tore loose, rising towards the surface, demanding release. Contempt. Scorn. Violence.
I seized my staff and raised it before me. And then I opened the gates: the flames came rushing, roaring. They felt heavy as I hurled them upon the house in a sweeping arc, a Brimstone Cascade that consumed wood and stone, drowning the world in fire. In moments, the whole façade was aflame, the dwelling transformed into a monumental pyre.
The creature burst through the front door, wreathed in flame, its twisted crown ablaze. It staggered forward a few paces, flailing blindly, before its legs failed it. Collapsing to the ground, it writhed once in defiance, then lay still as the fire finished its work.
As the rage that had sustained me burned itself out, the pain returned. My legs gave way, and I sank to the dirt. I lay there, watching as the house caved in on itself, the last remnants of old Demeon reduced to cinders with it. My chest burned with every breath — the blow had likely cracked a rib or two — and for a time all I could do was lie there, drawing air in shallow gasps. Then I saw Boga and Maria Alice returning from around the house — whole and unharmed, thankfully — and I forced myself upright despite the fire in my ribs.
“I found something,” Boga said, his voice grave. “You should see it.”
With their help, I staggered around the smoking ruin until we reached a patch of freshly turned earth. A crude excavation had been abandoned there, tools scattered, spades half-buried. At its center, resting in the loose dirt, was a sphere the size of a man’s head, black as polished obsidian and etched with flawless Symbarian runes. They pulsed with a sickly green glow, forming phrases I could not translate, arranged in perfectly geometric patterns.
I felt the corruption radiating from it before I could think to touch it, and that gave me pause. This was the source — this small, unassuming thing was poisoning an entire village. To remove it might restore the land, but wherever it was carried, ruin would follow. I looked at the scattered tools and thought of Demeon: he had unearthed the artifact, and it had consumed him. Perhaps even standing near it was enough.
I was weary of ignorance — of staring at runes that surfaced wherever corruption festered and never grasping their meaning. Enough. That would change.
“I think we need to destroy this thing,” I told Boga and Murruidoso, “but first I’ll record its design. If I can study it later, perhaps that will grant us an advantage in the future.”
“You’re the wizard,” Boga muttered with a shrug. “I’ll scout the farm, see if Vedena and Jomilo are still breathing.”
With that, he and Maria Alice retraced their steps toward the entrance, Murruidoso lumbering after them. I remained, lowering myself onto the dirt a few paces from the artifact. I opened my journal across my lap, steadied my hand, and began studying the pulsing runes.
I traced the outlines of the sphere, its flawless geometry, and soon the whispers began. Faint at first, like echoes through stone, then swelling — a multitude of hushed voices converging into one chant: “Masters of iron! Masters of iron!” over and over. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to stay on task, leaning closer so I could capture every rune with precision. Stroke by stroke, I recorded each curve and angle. But the voices pressed harder, muttering in countless tongues, until the chant shifted, deep and insistent: “Defile the land! Defile the land!”
I had managed to record most of the exposed runes, and though I would have needed to turn the sphere to complete the design, I knew I had already pressed my luck too far. Rising unsteadily, I circled the object once more to be sure no critical detail had escaped me — and felt it then, the cold grasp of corruption, reaching out with intent as clear as any hand. My skin crawled. I snapped my journal shut and staggered back, searching for Boga and Murruidoso, but the world had already begun to blur. A fog closed in around me, obscuring everything beyond a few paces, while the chorus shrieked in my ears like hammers on iron. Somehow, I stumbled as far as the ruins of the house before I collapsed, clutching my head against the cacophony.
Then, suddenly, the clamor thinned, and I heard the tolling of a great bell far beneath the earth. The fog thickened around me, and a presence leaned into my mind — not in words at first, but in a warmth that tasted like the inside of a closed book left too long in the sun.
“Ah… a wizard. How fortunate. How very fortunate. I can help you.”
“Guide your steps, untangle your doubts.”
This voice was smooth as a river-polished pebble, and it slid beneath my ribs with the confidence of a hunter that knows its quarry. I felt a flicker of that old, hungry curiosity — the same itch that had once made me kneel over tomes by candlelight, the very essence of why I’d first decided to become a wizard.
“How?” I asked aloud, because on some level one always asks.
“I can give you knowledge without pain. Truth without cost, power without fear.”
The offer sat in the air like warm bread. It was absurd and obscene and utterly tempting.
“What would you have in return?” I heard my own voice ask, dry and careful.
“Take me with you. Bear me from this pit. Yours will be knowledge undreamed of.”
I tried to steady myself, summoning the Halls of a Thousand Tears into my memory.
“Mordamir… the elves have lied to you. They have starved you of truth. Take me, and their lies will crumble.”
My feet moved before my reason had finished protesting. Two steps. The sphere lay like a black pupil in the dirt, and the runes pulsed at the motion of my boots.
“What do you wait for? I can show you Mermes — alive, yet not as you think. I can show you everything. Carry me.”
A name emerged from the mist.
“So, her name is Lysindra. Do you wish to save her? I can teach you how.”
A warmth flared, not wholly unwelcome, and with it came a desperate, feral clarity: the voice was offering answers, the kind that could unknot a man, set him free. And it promised her.
Just then, I heard a familiar voice — distant at first.
“Have you lost your mind? Who are you talking to?”
Through the fog, I heard Boga as if from far away — yet he was standing right next to me, staring into my face with a mix of confusion and concern. Murruidoso loomed behind him, gripping a bec de corbin and scanning the mist as though expecting something to lunge from it.
Boga’s voice had cut through the haze, and that moment of clarity probably saved me. Summoning every shred of will left in me, I turned, lunged at Murruidoso, and clutched his arm.
“Destroy it! Destroy the stone!” I shouted, barely recognizing my own voice. “Break it now!”
It was the first time I ever saw the ogre look unsettled. Still, without hesitation, he hefted his weapon in both hands, stepped forward, and swung in a wide, decisive arc — the point of his bec de corbin driving straight into the sphere’s black surface.
The impact came with a sound that was not a sound — a rupture in the world’s breath. The air convulsed outward in a shockwave that rippled through the earth beneath our feet. The runes flared a blinding green, then inverted into blackness so absolute it seemed to devour the light around it.
A pulse of corruption surged from the shattered stone, distorting the fog as it spread. Murruidoso was thrown back as if struck by an unseen landslide, his roar breaking into a guttural cry as black veins lanced across his skin. His weapon flew from his hands and clattered into the dirt. Boga, though already retreating, was caught at the edge of the blast and fell to one knee, clutching his head as blood seeped from his nose.
I was spared, though I could not tell why. The corruption swept past me like a cold tide that refused to take me with it. For a heartbeat, I thought I felt it hesitate — as though I were somehow unworthy of it, or perhaps the corruption resented me for spurning its invitations. More likely, I was — again — lucky.
The air reeked of burnt soil and iron, and when my vision steadied, I saw what remained of the stone: fragments no larger than teeth, scattered across the ground and bleeding faint tendrils of smoke that writhed like living things before vanishing into the soil.
Murruidoso groaned, rolling onto his side, his breath heavy and ragged. His eyes burned with a dim, feverish light. Boga dragged himself upright, pale and unsteady. The explosion had doused what remained of the house fire, leaving only smoldering ruins and the bitter stench of ash. The whispers had fallen silent, and an uncanny stillness settled over the farm — not peace, but the hollow quiet that follows great violence. We’d removed the sphere as one removes a thorn from the paw of a great, wild animal.
As we staggered back toward the village, we saw that the smallest of the strange roots had already vanished. The larger ones lay shriveled, severed from their unnatural sustenance. Color crept back into the soil beneath the fading light of another strange day — and with it, the promise that life, in time, would return as well.
Unfit for travel, we were offered quarters in Glimmervann free of charge until we recovered our strength. For two days, Vedena tended to our wounds with grateful diligence. Boga told me that he and Murruidoso had found her and Jomilo collapsed in Demeon’s barley fields — Jomilo had fallen during their flight and broken his leg badly, leaving him another of Vedena’s patients. They had carried both back to the village before returning for me, only to find me trapped in that bewitched state.
Jomilo was nothing if not thankful, and he made it known publicly at the tavern, before a gathering of the remaining inhabitants of Glimmervann. Some still spoke of leaving, but others regained a flicker of faith, and the village began to breathe again.
As a token of that gratitude, Jomilo offered a reward — fifteen thaler for each of us, collected from neighbors who had pooled their meager means. Looking at them, we saw at once that the money would serve them better than it ever could us. So Boga, Murruidoso, and I conferred briefly and declined their generous offer, with two conditions: that they remember who had helped them — the Five Roots, if ever the name should matter — and that they supply Murruidoso with food for the trek back to Thistle Hold.
The four-hour walk back home was uneventful. Boga and Murruidoso exchanged notions on what had transpired, but I followed them in silence. Beneath the excitement of our triumph, a memory haunted me: while I lay on the ground, in pain, watching Demeon and his house enveloped in the fire I had summoned, I felt relief — relief that I wasn’t useless. And the question I had set out to answer three months earlier echoed in the hollows of my heart: If you took the fire from me, what would remain? I was quiet because the answer I feared had already formed, and I did not want to look it in the eye.