Waves lapped at the sandy beaches of Eastwitch, the surf snarling as it struck the stones of Moldensbury, drowning out a wind from the eastern ocean carrying the whispers of a coming storm. The waves grew ever larger and darker as the days progressed, with foam at their tops like snow, forcing themselves in through the mouth of the harbour, as if violating the very bay. The dolphins, though they often gave onlookers one last dance before the winter snows, were nowhere to be seen this siamhan. It was but one more withdrawn blessing from almighty God. In this, the fourth year of the Protectorate, there were greater concerns. Let the astronomers watch for portents and the bodies of the celestial stars, drawn from the movements of the aether. The weather and natural phenonemon had not been a priority of much of the citizenry for some years.

With Sir Thomas Sewell's reforms, the great isle of Abelorn had seen ten summers of civil war, and though there was peace now, it still felt as if a keg of powder was just being lit. The Grand Army of The Realm patrolled the streets, and with them, the new law of the blessed isle. The great fire of two years passed had burned half of Galanburg, and with it much of the work and infrastructure, something the protectorate desperately grasped to remake. The old style of townhouses and apartments was still present. Symmetrical layouts and strapwork decorations, and as usual they were built as high as possible for there was little room on the ground. However, the real estate bought up by the aristocracy and merchant sultans had been remade to include a twist to the previous style, as if to make a new rosebud from the ashes of the old. With the similar designs of yesteryear, they now added much use of columns and pilasters, round-arch arcades, and flat roofs with openwork parapets. It would take some years before even half of the city's ruins were rebuilt, but what rich and well to-do there were could focus on the rebuilding to fill their time, but for the common man, food and sanitation was the worry of the day.

On the terrace of just such a structure, on Wyvern's Street, a portly bellman with the morning paper and a bell of brass rang at the mid-afternoon hour. He cried out so that all would hear his pronouncements before the supper hour. A cold wind lifted his voice in the forlorn overcast of the waning light.

"We give our thanks to Protector of the Realm Thomas Sewell, on this anniversary of the King's death! As you receive the harvest, stay with your loved ones and grow warm in their embrace, and in the embrace of the lord! On this day, the last theater of Galanburg has been shut down, to end the bedlam of vice! On this day a week prior, the Hodgepodge Boys and their band were hung by the neck, until dead! Tomorrow they shall be cut down so that they may rest in the earth. Swearing, cursing, adultery, bigamy and fornication are but the least of their crimes, but forgiveness is virtusian! We shall be a land of honest men, and virtuous women!"

The people of this isle had traded a King for a Tyrant. For every banker, churchman, and coroner that was happy, there were a dozen others paddling at the poverty line. Tellers, millers, laborers, sailors, he watched as they passed him by on the rain sodden streets, clutching their livelihoods as well as their cloaks. The apothecaries and actors not granted clemency by the church were hanged or run out of town. Hungry and destitute, or merely not seeking to be singled out, the masses went about their day with little word to one another. Good riddance, William McTaggart remembered thinking when he sailed from these shores three years prior. These Angals deserved what they did to themselves. His people had suffered enough under their lowland yolk, why can’t they feel the ache of sorrow, something that had marinated in Alban bones for a thousand years?

After what he had seen, he thought differently now, at least to an extent. These poor had not wronged him, and he would wait until they did before he passed judgement. Even the very rich, bastards though they were, weren’t the true devil he was after. While Thomas Sewell worried over the heirs of the late King James to return from the mainland with an army at their backs, Will would keep the bastard's lands safe from the occult, as best he could.

If he could.

To his left, the keening whistle of a piston carriage could be heard from Broadwind Avenue. The rails groaned under the weight of its cargo. When he was a boy, he could only dream of seeing a steam engine in action. Now? There were three in the capital, and word had it a number of the aristocracy had smaller, personalized vehicles they could use without the need of rails, powered by gears and an electric charge rather than steam. He would have scoffed at the notion before his travels, but it was mundane compared to what he had seen.

He stepped out of Wyvern's Street down Montague Abbey, and a cadre of Protectorate soldiers hustles past him. Despite the effectiveness of the new regime, the death and deprivation had led to increased poverty, which led to increased crime. The patrolmen were built for war, as if they were about to be shipped to the Continent. Their armor comprised of a buff leather coat, iron back and breast plate and a baldric, with an iron three barred lobster pot helmet. The sigil of Thomas Sewell's house was the Ram, and so the soldiers had donned small, curved horns on their helms, dubbing themselves Rammers. The lower folk, or those not in range of their swords or flintlock muskets, called them goats and other, more colorful names of that nature.

Will kept his wide brimmed hat down to better cover his eyes, though it mostly served to keep his midnight blue hair from catching the light. In shadow it looked black, but lamplight and the sun betrayed his Yr Alba heritage. Once the goats were passed, he picked up speed, his Jabbokwool cloak swaying behind him as he turned into an alleyway. He had been to this part of Galanburg before, but despite his confidence he moved with careful, wary steps. His quiet feet were even silent in the myriad of puddles, but somehow, a black cat appeared as if summoned and screeched, sprinting past him down the sidestreet. He recovered, let go of his wheelock, and found himself standing behind a reinforced door of oak and swyftiron.

Three knocks, and then two knocks twice, before a single knock. Reminded him of an auld song from his youth. An eye slit was shoved aside, and the bolt of a crossbow poked through. Guns had taken center stage in warfare, but crossbows were still popular for hunting, the peasantry, and… less noisy killings.

“What rises without sleep, and slumbers without rest?”

“The moon,” Will replied, and the crossbow was removed, the hatch was closed, and the door opened. Inside he saw draperies and carpets and many different doors to smaller rooms of unknown purpose, but Alaric had been clear. The last door of the hall, on the left. Will kept his other hand on his sword hilt as usual, walking past archways covered by sheets. The scent of hookahs and opium and other spices pinched his senses, but he ignored it. He found the portal Alaric had granted him, and he stepped within.

Before him were three hags. Fortunetellers, he had been told. Each swathed in cloth from the orient, only their keen eyes of purest black was visible, looking at him with the same alien nature as a toad. He could not tell if they were friendly, dangerous, or even if they were surprised. He saw a cushion he could sit at, but he waited for them to greet his sudden appearance. None did so, and he sighed, reaching into his coat to produce payment, before the leftmost hag raised her hand to halt him from doing so. The rightmost hag indicated the seat, and after hesitating a moment, he did as he was bid.

The first fortuneteller cried: "Hail, sir William, Hammer of Witches!"

The next croaked: "Hail, sir William, Savior of The Isle!"

The last fortuneteller crooned in William's native tongue: "Fàilt ort, sir William, leannan cìochan!"

"Do you mock me!?" He asked them, giving them a glare of warning. He had not fought in war nor slain denizens of the crypts to made into a bit of fun! Not unless he was in a tavern, mind. He was no sir, either. His father had been a cattle driver!

"Mock? No!" The central one confessed. At her side, a black cat wriggled onto her lap. If he didn't know any better, it was the same cat as before. "A storm approaches! In three days, a darkness will land in the midst of this terrible storm. Men will see portents, and dragons will fly above amidst the thunder! Whirlwinds and sheets of lighting, and a great famine will descend upon the land!"

"Dragons?" He asked incredulously, but his smile faded. No one had seen a dragon in five hundred bloody years. No, they were speaking in metaphor or allegory, but even still, it intrigued him. His fingers idly brushed the small, coarse goatee on the admirable taper of his chin. "What darkness is this? I've been searching to know..."

The left one said "One cannot know."

The middle on foretold. "Shrouded, but imminent."

"Boireannach a dh’fheumas tu a lorg!" rasped the right one.

"A woman?" He echoed. He did not like the fortuneteller on the right speaking in his mother tongue, but she would not stop speaking of a woman. One he had to find. "Is this the warning you speak?"

"She is not of the darkness, but to be consumed by it."

"Find her, and you shall find it! Together, you may weather this coming blight."

As one, the sisters murmured in a low chant. He was beginning to grow tired of this trickery. He needed to know the nature of this evil, and they could not know? And they throw some portent of a woman? Paid by them, no doubt. However, despite himself he was drawn in to their theatrics. The ball, seemingly made of pure crystal, began to grow obscure from clouds of powder, likely released by some mechanism. He could not ignore their words, but so far they had yet to prove their skills in any meaningful way, without him merely waiting the three days. How was he supposed to prepare? He had a few ideas, no thanks to these crows. Still, he watched the crystal ball intently from under his hat, and the smoky fog began to dissipate of its own volition. He saw a feminine figure, but his stubbornness led him to begin a denial before the image was clear.

"I don't need a wooooo-" The crystal ball showed a dark woman swathed in wool, satin and gossamer of purple and red. Trinkets and bracelets of bronze and faux gold and hoop earrings glinted in torchlight. She languidly stretched, an immense bosom protruding into the air as her supple arms of honeycream raised above her head. The dark waves of her raven hair tumbling to the cushioned chair beneath a plump bottom. Will's denial ended in a "-hrmmmmm."

He wasn't convinced, by Saint Anderlon, but he wasn't gallus either. At least they showed him something. With a sigh, he looked at the hags. "Where do I find her?"

Together, they spoke without preamble: "The carnival."

Carnival Row blazed with the light of hundreds of lucifierite lamps. Frosted glass gave each lamp a different color, covering the entire spectrum. The result was a shifting auroral glow that seemed to creep up the ancient stone walls, dilapidated tenement buildings, and decaying factories. The riot of color was further enhanced by by thousands of pieces of silk bunting, cheaply dyed, and secured to windows, lamp posts and the improvised cross walks which linked buildings above street level. The silk caught the fey light and reflected it in bright flickering patterns which changed with a breeze that had more to do with the breath and body heat of thousands of humans than with any natural weather pattern.

Nor did the row stint in it’s assault on the other senses. Hawkers cried their wears, offering every trinket and goo-gaw imaginable. Jade beads from Coramandle, brass kaleidoscopes from Pradesh, brightly colored parrots from the jungles of Nankai, great feathered head dresses that were rumored to come from Nova Tirche, beaver fur hats which traders brought back by the hundred for a few metal pots and iron tools from the arctic wastes, the skulls of the beasts of the deep, ranging from the size of a thumb nail to that of a plow horse. Food sizzled in iron or clay pots above barrels that blazed green white with cheap lucifierite, rice, noodles, pasta, fried fish, cuts of venison, pork and less identifiable meats. Flat bread was shoveled from great kilns on Gun Street, where the factories had made cannons back before the New Armory was set up on the Commons. A ha’p’ney a pound, it was the universal wrapping paper and plate for every imaginable dish. Spices and curries from the East twisted the nose, as did the rich savor sources from Tarlia and the cardamon and garlic heavy scents of the east. Newer stores using sugar from the fledgling colonies in Nova Tirche and the Antribian Sea, produced candies and confections that could make the mouth water and rot the teeth right out of your head. Carmel apples hung on huge strings like Holiday Garland, each died a different color depending on its maker or its flavor.

And that was before you even reached the Carnival proper. The dour men who sycophantically served the Tyrant were all but apoplectic at the existence of the Carnival and it formed a regular topic of both fire and brimstone preaching and thunderous polemics in the House of Assembly. It was said that every kind of wickedness imaginable could be found at the Carnival: Bear baiting, bare knuckle boxing, prostitution, gambling, knife fighting, cock fighting, slight of hand, Eastern Fakiry, dancing, profiteering, smuggling, murder, alchemy, and that most abhorrent of institutions, the theatre. There were also quite a few types of wickedness that were unimaginable, if the truth were told, things that might carry off a minister or a parliamentarian in a stroke of apoplexy to even contemplate. All packed into a warren of a dozen streets, squares, and ancient rookeries at the core of the greatest city on earth. A Sodom in the eye of Heaven as one preacher had put it. There had, of course, been attempts to suppress the carnival but the populace of the city, hard pressed by the taxes and upheavals of the civil war, would only tolerate so much. One attempt to close the carnival down had lead to a running battle in which the Rammers had found themselves pummeled with chamberpots, ceiling tiles, and paving stones, in such a storm that they had been forced to retreat, an event immortalized in the public imagination as the Battle of Bean Street. Even attempts to use the army had proven unrewarding, as moving against the outer shell of hawkers, food vendors, and punters gave the more criminal elements plenty of warning to scatter down the back alleys, garrets, and sewers which served the city as unofficial thoroughfares and hide aways. Suppressing the Carnival permanently was impossible and so the great and the good held their noses and more or less left it alone.

Emmarelda was at home as she moved through the crowd. To the extent they could the crowd let her pass. Her brightly colored vest and long skirt, as well as the red, white and gold bandana that held the curled mass of her dark hair in place, identified her as a gypsy, one of the semi-nomadic people who had, days passed wandered the forests of Alamani and Western Tirche before migrating to this island. They were a clannish lot, who held themselves to be a different people from the Tirche, Alamanni, and Tarlians, though it was true they had some traits of all three. In their own traditions they hailed from Northern Basalia where their forefathers had lost a great battle to the ancestors of the Basalian Empire. A senator of that proud people had offered them a choice, keep their land and adopt the culture of the Empire or live in permanent exile. The Gypsy had packed what few belongings they could onto wagons, set their great cities to the torch, and vanished into the wilderness. At least that was how the story went. Emmerelda had her doubts, her people were nothing if not liars and embellishers of tales, but as origin stories went it was pretty good. The fact that people made way for her did not mean she did not attract attention. She was a beautiful woman with a soft heart shaped face and large green eyes that were slightly emphasised with kohl. Her figure much fuller than was the custom of women in this land, who seemed to go for a trim waifishness. Her bosom and hips were generous and separated by a narrow but not waspish waist that gave her an hourglass figure, with a slight bias towards the lower glass. Her limbs were thin and graceful despite her fondness for food and drink and her skin was beautifully smooth and clear, free of the pock marks which afflicted so many in this land. She curved her full lips into a smile as she slapped the hand of an urchin who tried to lift her purse. Older thieves knew better than to trouble a gypsy, not because of their rumored ability to lay curses, but because of the fact that they tended to be well supplied with brothers and cousins who would quickly make the life of any would-be thief unpleasant.

The Three Sisters was one of the semi-permenant structures of Carnival. It was an old cannery whose facade had long ago collapsed. A dozen Gypsy wagons had been drawn up in front of it and attached first via cloth, and later by timber and brightly painted canvas. Emmarelda doubted any of those old wagons, elaborately carved and liberally splashed with bright paint, had moved in her lifetime. They formed channels where patrons seeking various services and entertainments could visit. The central one was bright red and heart shaped, its inviting doors leading back through a canvas corridor to a bordello, to its side was a circular one painted like the night sky, which would take a punter to the room of the astrologers. Emmarelda entered an hour glass shaped wagon and moved back, passing a pair of bouncers who sat smoking and playing dice just inside. One of them grunted a greeting, the other reached up to try to grope her, and she slapped his hand away with the same motion, but considerably more force, than she had used on the pick pockets. He drew back with a yelp and sulked. The canvas hallway that lead back to the cannery was painted with arcane symbols. At various points luciferite lanterns had been set behind the fabric to make certain symbols glow as though empowered with mystical energy. The burning fluid smelled dry and astringent, like incense but with a slight sharp report of the deep sea.

“There you are Emma,” Zargela snapped as Emmerelda stepped out of the hallway and into a large room with a central table dominated by a large crystal ball and draped with dark blue silk. Arcane paraphernalia lay scattered around on shelves and on tables, carefully illuminated to deepen the mystery. Books and chests were stacked against the walls, almost all props and mummery. There were genuine items of arcane significance among the Gypsy but the were not fool enough to put them on public display. The dominating item of the room was an immense leviathan skull. It hung above, its jaws yawning a full twenty feet to display hundreds of dagger like teeth. Dozens of candles had been affixed to the top of the jaw and occasionally dripped gobs of hot wax down in a very slow rain, leaving a slightly shiny circle on the old wooden floor.

“Here I am,” Emmerelda agreed as she stepped quickly through the danger zone of falling wax and took her place at the center of the table. Zargela glowered at her. She was older than Emmerelda and less fair, her nose hooked and her eyes slightly sunken. Zargela resented Emmarelda because of her superior mystical talents, and the fact that her family stood higher in the complex social structures that governed Gypsy life. Also Emmarelda had slept with her lover once after a long night of heavy drinking.

“You were almost late,” Zargela scolded, looking peevish.

“What a strange way of saying ‘on time’ Zargela,” Emmaline observed, enjoying the way the other woman seethed. Vadoma, another girl slightly younger than Emmerelda, snickered at that but quited quickly at Zargela’s glare. Emmerelda took her seat at the center of the table and her fellow fortune tellers took their flanking positions.

“Shall we meet our first mark? Emmerelda asked with a chuckle.

Eastside was a crossroads in Galanburg. An intermediary area between the capital proper and the shantytowns and ruins of the great fire. The carnival had found prime real estate, and William actually found it uplifted his spirits that the carnival had survived the prior catastrophes when so many other things had been destroyed. He stepped down a small flight of well trodden steps that were in desperate need of resculpting, and waited as a carriage ride full of children passed. To his left, a myriad of excited parents from the lower middle class clapped and smiled and waved at their boys and girls.

He passed the road, into the carnival proper. It was a forest of white and red pavillions and lines of multicolored banners webbing the sky above the festival-goers. There were still a few hours of small daylight left, and everyone was making the most of it. The swelling crowd made the air thick, and to his surprise he heard a jaunty tune of his own people. He stepped past city folk that baltered and laughed, clapping with each step. A ghost of a smile met his face. He saw pie eating and bobbing for apples, a man in a tall hat walking on stilts, nearly colliding with William before the nimble sailor dodged the flying leg.

He saw a man in the costume of the late king setting above a dunk tank, with an arrow target one could shoot to activate the simple mechanism to send him splashing into the murk. There was an axe throwing competition next to it, with wenches and would-be gallants standing far too close to the onlookers, drawing their axes back and nearly cutting into the roudy crowd. Will practically had to leap over a gambling ring of eight men, and as he weathered it, a pander stepped in front of him, smiling a smile that showed a mouth of ivory and faux gold teeth. Will could smell yesterday's lunch on his breath.

"Care to fight the champion in a bout of swords, my goodman?" He asked simperingly. "Only five pence!"

"I'm looking for a woman," Will said, failing to hide his accent, mostly out of habit.

"What better way to woo said strumpet than by winning at a strength of arms! How would you prove-"

Will flinched when an axe head was drawn back, nearly hitting him in the face. With an annoyed grunt, he took the axe out of the careless customer's hand, spun on his heels and launched the axe. It spun end over end (through several people's paths!) and hit the bullseye, sending the King James look-alike into the dirty water. At that, he turned back to the stunned solicitor. "I'm good enough, now where are the gypsies?"

He was shakily led through the maze of colors as the skulking man faltered, smiling peevishly at William at every turn, before they found themselves before an impromptu structure of three wagons with draperies and exotic furnishing just in front of an old, ruined building. The luciferite lights gave it a warm, if ominous feeling, and he felt as if he was about to enter a den of wonders. Nice theater, he thought. At least there was still some bit of imagination in this land.

"You can go-" He began, the final word sounding like 'gooo,' but the man had already disappeared into the crowd. With that, William McTaggart drew his cloak around himself, and stepped through the small entrance. With any luck, she would be here.

“The future is clouded,” Emmarelda puzzled, her fingers stretching and clawing over the crystal ball. Her two fellow fortune tellers made low hums that harmonized just at the edge of sound. The cloudy mist within the crystal ball swirled as the heat from Emmarelda’s hands warmed the gas within. Both techniques were simple theatrics, but as always the effect on the mark was impressive. The burly merchant drew back, sucking in a lung full of the incense laced air. He immediately reddened fighting back the urge not to sneeze. Emmarelda suppressed her irritation, a coughing fit would hardly improve the mood.

“Do you feel the truth in you, is it choking in your throat?” Emmarelda demanded.

“I feel it!” the merchant wheezed and began to cough and splutter. Zargela clandestinely pulled the incense burner further away from the mark, blushing furiously in admission her mistake.

“The truth! It clarifies!” Emmarelda declared theatrically, drawing her hands back so the gasses cooled and became less opaque.

“Has my wife been unfaithful to me?” he gasped. Only if she is lucky Emmarelda thought disgustedly as she observed the man before her. He was typical of the class of men who were gaining power in the kingdom, men who grew fat on trade and the privileges they had been able to extract from the King and the Government over the past fifty years. He was pudding faced and round, flushed red and drink veined his eyes sunken and piggish. He wore a cologne so awful it actually managed to overpower the decades of incense which permeated the reading room.

“You must cross my palm with silver, to allow me to read the strands of fate!” Emmarelda declared theatrically. The merchant fumbled for his purse, sweat glistening on his skin. He fumbled it and spilled a half dozen silver coins onto the table. Zargela swept her hand over the table and the coins seemed to vanish. At the same time Vadoma touched a valve beneath the table and the luciferite lamps flared.

“I see! I see that her heart is true and her devotion shines like gold!” Emmarelda cried almost hysterically, then sagged back as though faint, throwing her hand up over her brow as the lights returned to normal.
“The Great Emmarelda has exhausted herself peering into the turbulent heart of a woman,” Zargela declared, “you must withdraw so your energy does not harm her!”

“Thank you… thank you!” the merchant babbled as he was quickly ushered out before he could ask for a refund for his spilled coins. Once Zargela coughed to let her know the merchant was gone, Emmarelda miraculously recovered herself and smiled smuggly.

“Not too bad,” she commented as the coins vanished into a pouch.

“Why did you tell him she was faithful?” Vadoma asked curiously.

“Well it will do no harm to the girl for one, and you dont come to a fortune teller if you want bad news,” Emmarelda explained to the younger girl.

“Send in the next…ow!” Emmarelda pulled her hand away from the crystal ball as though stung. Gingerly she extended her hand again and felt an odd prickling in the glass.

“What the..” Before she could investigate further there came a curse from one of the bouncers as a handsome man shoved his way into the room. Emmarelda sat up and made a hand sign for them to back off. People with powerful emotions were always easy to manipulate.

“I see you come here with great need…” Emmarelda declared in her most mysterious voice, accompanied by a slight flare of the lamps for dramatic effect.

Will shrugged one of the bouncers hands off his shoulder, stepping into the room. It was unintentional, but later he would recount the moment had a melodramatic flair to it, unshaven and rakish in his wide brimmed hat and jabbokwool cloak, here to rescue a woman from some unknown darkness. At that second, however, he simply wished to be out of there as soon as possible.

"It is not I with the great need," he said. A cursory glance giving him a quick scan of the room. The atmosphere was warm and mystifying, almost delphic. Bobbles and ornaments drew the eye, and shadows concealed the corners of the room and much of the walls, like as not hiding more thugs or at least ways of quick escape for the two women. The leviathen skull, for one, looked authentic. As an ex-sailor himself, he appreciated it more than he would have expected.

"You come on behalf of another," she remarked cryptically, her hands caressing the air as she bade him forward. "Have a seat stranger, and tell me what it is you truly seek."

Will glanced behind him, before eyeing the older woman who watched him with undisguised suspicion. He sat down slowly, keeping his cloak and left hand free from his right hip in case he needed to draw his sword. As he had walked through the crowd minutes before, there had been a tension in the air. Like a truth about to be spoken that would shatter someone worldview in seconds. He did not know why, but he felt as if speed was what was needed here, and yet he could not abduct her. Amongst the arcane and exotic paraphernalia, there was endless tricks they could pull on him.

"I seek a woman." He said simply. "With eyes like emeralds, and hair as dark as night."

"...very few have such a combination," she said, eyes peering at him from under her cowl. He could tell his attempt to hide his accent would be wasted on her.

"And if I said I was looking for you?" Will replied, staring back into her eyes with his own. The light would show his iris's were midnight blue, as dark as the bottom of the sea.

"Well, we only just met..." Her words were more nonchalant now, without irritation, but obviously not expecting the directness of Will's words. "As it stands, whatever you want will cost you."

"You're not the only one with a crystal ball, and from what I saw in that den on Wyvern street..." He let the words trail off, resolving something in hid mind. "You and I are leaving here, together. Now."

"You speak in velleity, sir..." the woman began diplomatically, if a bit huffy. However, she was interrupted by the older woman.

"That is enough! You've granted no coin or question beyond your desires for the madam. Begone from this place!" She demanded, having had enough. Will felt more than heard the footstep behind him, and when a hand reached for his shoulder, he rose more swiftly than one might have expected, and elbowed the gypsy bouncer in the neck in one, smooth motion. The tough stumbled back, eyes wide as he tried to breathe. A hiss of steel cut the air, and Will spun, cloak billowing in an arc, shielding him as a knife was caught in its folds. He did not know if it was the older woman or the one he came for that had thrown it, but it had nearly struck his heart. Out of the silhouette of his falling cloak, a pistol appeared, cocked and ready. The two women had gotten to their feet, but the aimed barrel froze them in their tracks. His other hand had unsheathed his sword, its point keeping two other bouncers with cudgels at bay from the door.

"You think you can leave alive after that little display?" The older wench asked, arrogantly.

"In three days, a darkness will arrive on these shores. It's searching for her!" His words were accusatory, aimed directly at Emmeralda. It stopped any reply in its tracks, at least for the moment. "If that crystal ball is worth anything, use it and look! If I'm lying, then you can bloody kill me."

Energy seemed to thrum in the air. Many strange things had graced this stage over the years but nothing like this. A ripple of impending violence was already running through the Gypsy camp, mobilizing the many layabout brothers and cousins who would be here in short order with knives and short swords to slay the invader. Either he didn’t know that, or he was too desperate to care. Emmerelda reached for the crystal ball, her fingers extending almost of their own volition. It wasn’t a conscious decision to try to read the future, it was merely an instinctive grasp for something familiar. Electricity seemed to leap into her finger and prickle through her body. The crystal ball flared a white so blinding pure that it could be seen even through hastily closed eyes. There was a southern roar and the room was plunged into darkness that carried an icy cold that shivered the bone. Freezing drops of water fell from the ceiling and the iodine stink of the sea permeated the room. Emmarelda opened her eyes to find herself sitting at the table, hands locked on the inky black globe. The table hung in the air surrounded by blackness that was occasionally swept by stinging icy spray. Her companions were gone, though the strange man still stood, his pose seeming alien and awkward with no one to threaten. Emmarelda forced her eyes upwards but instead of the leviathan jawbone she saw that its candles had been transfigured into stars glimpsed only intermittently through roiling clouds and sheets of rain.

A sound like the booming of a great drum thundered below and Emmarelda forced her eyes downward. Fifty feet below them was the deck of a ship, its great spanker sail flogging itself to pieces in the gale. Emmarelda was no sailor but the vessel must have been handsome before the storm tore her rigging into its current array of torn and shredded sails and snapping ropes. It seemed that sailors ought to be swarming up the surviving ropes, fighting the storm for their very lives, but no living thing moved on the deck. A great flash of light illuminated the ship, rendering it in a sepulchral array of grays and whites. In the momentary brightness Emmarelda saw a few sailors, but her initial impression was correct. Several men, corpse white with grey blue lips, were scattered around laying as they had fallen against the iron clad motor house or by the gangways. A body skipped along behind, tangled in a frayed line that skipped him across the heaving waves like a piece of bait. As if intent on completing the ghoulish analogy, a leviathan surged up and ripped the corpse away from the parted rope. Another crack of lighting breached the darkness illuminating a coast line only a few miles of the bows. A single light from a distant light house guttered feebly from some distant headland in vain defiance of the gale.
The interloper was shouting something at her, his bellicose posture forgotten. He might have saved his breath as not a word carried across the tumult. Emmarelda felt a chill run up her spine that had nothing to do with the icy barrage of rain. Her eyes tracked downwards toward the ship to find a figure emerging from what must have been the passenger cabin. He was tall and dark with narrow angular features that somehow seemed Continental and aristocratic. He was staring up at her, eyes glowing like coals from the deepest pits of hell. His face was flushed… not flushed, slicked with blood. It was black in the lightnings strobing illumination, running down over his chin to stain his old fashioned ruffled doublet. He could see her, she realized with a frisson of horror! The figure reached up for her, his eyes blazing with insane desire. He called three words to her that chilled her soul.

Something struck her just above the breasts and staggered her back. Her fingers lost their grip and light flared back into existence. The crystal ball cracked, echoing a final peal of thunder, as Emmarelda toppled over backwards onto the rugs that had been piled over the floor. The interloper’s dagger thumped to the ground. He had thrown it at her! Had he known it would hit her butt first? Everyone was screaming. Emmarelda forced herself up, the table was awash with icy water that poured off it like a circular waterfall. Emmarelda and the Interloper were both soaked to their skins and shivering with cold. The others were dry, save where they had been splashed by the gallons of water that had materialized on the table.

“SHUT UP!” Emmarelda screamed, so loud that it momentarily stunned two screaming Gypsy women and a trio of their male relatives to silence. The moment was broken by a cracking sound and all eyes went upwards to see the leviathan jaw breaking free of its bonds and plunging downwards. It rushed down in a disturbing inverse of a great beast breaching the depths to devour its prey spewing wax from guttering candles. Emmarelda and the Interloper jumped up through it onto the table colliding in the middle a moment before it smashed into the ground in a shower of shattering bones. Flames sprung up in a half dozen places, licking into roaring pyres as they touched spilled oils and fatty unguents to begin climbing the fabric partitions. Somewhere, further out into the carnival a racket was rising up as men screamed and beat on sheets of tin and old bells, signaling an attack from without.

The leviathan skull crashed around the man and woman, splintering wood, the serrated teeth nearly scything through their skin had they not both clung together in surprising urgency. Beyond the danger, Will was intently aware of how nice her lush form felt against his, but he shoved that thought aside as they both looked up, making certain the jawbone was not toppling one way or another. Satisfied, they were about to pull apart from each other, unfamiliar as they were to one another, before there was a shout and a crash. The scattered gypsies had left the doorway unguarded, and out of the light stepped two goats, with their pig iron breastplates and haughty eyes. One was bearded, and the other had a mustache that looked like a scruffy rodent clinging to his upper lip.

Each held a sword out, but the bearded one sported a pistol cocked and ready. Will reflexively pulled the gypsy woman tighter in an embrace to cover her with his body as he raised his own pistol. By all accounts, the Grand Army soldier and the mercenary raised at the same time. The gypsy woman's eyes widened, and she ducked behind Will's shoulder like a mouse scurrying under a hole. What happened next was so quick, it wasn't until hours later that Will could fully appreciate it.

Will's pistol ignited a split second sooner, striking the armsman in the chest. However, he hit the thickest area of the breastplate, and so it protected the man from harm. However, the pistol ball ricocheted and pierced the temple of his companion in the same brutal instant, and simultaneously the force of Will's shot staggered the arsman. His own shot went wild as a result, missing Will's head by scant inches. As the mustachioed guard fell to the floor, blood spurting from his skull, the other guardsman was bewildered as whisps of smoke lazily wafted between he and the two ne'er-do-wells.

"Gods above..." Will remarked breathlessly, and the beautiful woman poked her head up once more. Her eyes flicked to Will, who glanced at her in turn. "You always this lucky?" She shrugged in answer. "Right," he said, as what gypsy men there were tackled the remaining goat, wresting his sword and trying to overwhelm him.

"What now?" She asked, greater worries spilling into her mind.

"Come with me if you want to live," He said, taking her by the hand. Either because she believed his story, or felt she had little choice, she did not fight him as he led her past the tussling men into the festival proper. She gasped at the sight, and even Will was surprised at the pandemonium that had erupted during their brief meeting within. A multitude of squads of the Grand Army tore down banners and festive decorations, burning shops and putting anyone who resisted to the sword. It was like stepping into the very heart of a riot.

"Pomana Priskasa!" She exclaimed under her breath. "What do they want?"

"If I had to guess, you." He said, but realized how callous that was. He was unsure how much she truly knew, or if she even was an instrument of the darkness. But until he knew, he wouldn't treat her as such. "But don't blame yourself fully, the bastards were looking for a reason." He pulled her to the south, through the back 'streets' which were simply a hodgepodge collection of crates, tents, and makeshift shelters behind the booths and lines of shops. Men and women scrambled, a plump woman rushed across their path with two clucking chickens under each arm, but a few more carnival-dwellers were cleaning bloody knives or loading flintlocks as the violence escalated. Will passed by a knickknack shop just to get blocked by a trio of goats, one pulling his blade out of the back of a merchant who had the audacity to protest their demand for his expulsion.

"You! Stop right there!" The leading one demanded, but they could tell by the way Will moved he was not going to comply. Two men who had experienced enough fights did not need to be informed of intent. Will's sword met his blade in a flash of sparks, the other two men trying to maneuver themselves over crates and an overturned chair to get around them. The gypsy woman produced a plump tomato from her bodice and struck the right one square in the face, causing him to sputter and gag, and Will finished off the first man, piercing him in the throat before turning to handle the leftmost one.

In the tussle, Will and the woman got separated.

As Will had to sidestep a thrust, someone grabbed the gypsy from behind. With impressive alacrity, she slipped out of her shawl and danced away. The goat groaned in annoyance and threw the piece of fabric to the ground, only to see the woman had another shawl on her shoulders as if by magic. In her tanned hands, she held a jingling purse of coins, a lowland family crest etched upon it.

The soldier gave a start, then felt for his own purse as realization dawned on him. "You!" He growled, unsheathing his sword. "We'll add thievery to your many crimes, witch."

"You're the one who smells so poorly it's a crime," she replied, pinching her nose with her free hand and retching. Her smile bloomed upon her face swiftly, however. "And I'm not the one who can't pay their bail." She teased smugly. As the man advanced on her, she blinked, patting herself just above her chest as if she was about to belch. As he was right atop her, she couldn't hold it any longer, and a gout of flame burst out of her mouth from seemingly no source. The soldier screamed in fright, the loose hairs beneath his helm now alight. Will dispatched his opponent with a counter riposte, getting a bad cut on his calf for the trouble. At the edge of his vision, he did a double take in amazement as the gypsy woman spun, lifting her shawl to obscure their assorted vision for the briefest moment, before the fabric finished its spinning and fell to the ground, the woman having simply vanished.

"'Ave I goon dafty?" Will muttered incredulously, his accent spilling out in full at the ridiculousness of the situation.

Somewhere beyond, there was an immense whistling, accompanied by a booming. Sparks and lights ignited from somewhere to the north, someone having evidently set off the collective fireworks. The goats around them cried out "find the gypsy woman!," and as a few turned in his direction, they found he had already begun to retreat in the madhouse of a crowd. Will kept himself moving, desperately searching for the woman. Carnival goers shoulder past him, wild eyed and screaming. If he had lost her, this was all for naught! As he stepped past a mob of strong men throwing shorter fellows aside, he saw a goat pulling a small, crying child from a weeping mother, an unconscious man in similar garb on the floor. Memories flashed in his mind, and before he could convince himself otherwise, he leaped in the midst of them and pommeled the guard in face with his sword, shattering his nose and sending him to the floor. The little girl, pigtails matted, ran to her mother who caught her in an embrace.

"Get out of here!" Will cried at them, and as they did so, his sharp eyes caught a familiar sight across the street. He noticed green eyes gazing at him from underneath a cowl, watching him with uncertainty in her gaze. She stood beside an abandoned stall, lingering as if deciding something. The woman! He was about to try and wade through the street, but iron hands sprang out from behind the stall! She squealed, but more men swarmed her, one man going so far as placing a knife to her throat as another tore the cowl off to reveal her exotic heritage and raven hair. Before she could scream, they gagged her with a cloth, and the crowd surged as Will tried to reach them, only to be too late. They were gone five heartbeats before he could reach them.

"Bastards!" He yelled in frustration. He cursed himself, cursed the devil, and cursed the bloody regime. The only saving grace was that he had a good idea of where they would take her. However, it made him no more comfortable to have that knowledge. Not many left that place whole...

Emmarelda woke to a violent jolt that hammered her against something hard and unyielding. Against her better instincts she opened her eyes only to find her instincts had once again been right. Judging by almost continual spine rattling jolts she was in a buttertub. Buttertubs were another wartime innovation that had been brought to the streets by the goats. They were armored wagons, framed with wood but with axels and crude armor fashioned from iron. In battle they were used as mobile fortifications and block houses, with narrow slits cut in the armor to allow crossbowmen and arquebusiers to ply their trade. In the city they provided mobile bases and block houses for the goats, as well as prisoner transport. Emmarelda tugged at the chains that had been wrapped around her wrists. Further chains encircled her ankles and her waist, all leading to an eyebolt in one of the walls. She couldn’t move her finger, a glance downward revealed that quilted gloves had been pulled over her hands, from the way it felt they had been stuffed with oakum to stop her from moving her fingers.

“Mrrmmmf,” she said eloquently, discovering that a gag had been forced between her teeth. That seemed like overkill. Two goats sat on the bench across from her, short truncheons drawn and eyes suspicious. Through the narrow aperture of the crossbow ports the medieval architecture of Fae Gate was rolling past. This was one of the few parts of the city that had escaped the ravages of the Great Fire, largely because it was rich and built of stone, its crenelated rooftops and gargoyle encrusted buttresses proof against mere fire. It helped that it was adjacent to Court street and the palace, rich folk who had the money to hire firefighters and buy the space that protected them from the flames. That meant they could only be going one place. A frisson of fear trembled through Emmarelda’s body as they turned onto Crow Hill.

The Black Fort stood atop Crow hill, its talons reaching deep into that modest rise. It was a hundred feet of gray basalt, all that remained of an ancient fortress that dated all the way back to the Basalian invasions over a thousand years before. It had been rebuilt many times and served many functions over the year but for as long as anyone could remember it had been a prison. Not just any prison either, it wasn’t for the common thief and pick pocket like Goldbrick or Kupford. The Black Fort was where the King had been held before his execution, where hundreds of Royalist nobles had been tortured and executed during the worst days of the civil war. The heads of those men and women had been nailed to the walls for all to see and despite the years, stains of blood could still be seen on the masonry.

It wasn’t the place's reputation that chilled her. It was the image itself. As they climbed the ancient stone streets of the Black Fort it made an almost perfect replication of The Tower from the Tarot. First the strange man, clearly the Page, then the Leviathan and sailor on the rope, a representation of the Hanged man. The appearance of so many arcana in the real world never augured anything good. Well she was chained up and being dragged to the most infamous prison in the country so maybe her prognostication wasn’t that impressive.

The heavy oak gates boomed shut as the buttertub pulled into the courtyard of the Black Fort, the four heavy dray horses snorting and puffing with the exertion of dragging such a weight up even a shallow incline. The guards stood and began removing her chains from their bolts with long clattering rattles. They then tugged her like a leashed horse out of the buttertub and into a courtyard. It was after midnight but the moon was huge and bright. A half dozen luciferite lanterns blazed on poles, bathing the courtyard in a bright yellow light. A squad of goats stood at attention, their gear neater and less rusty than the normal run of the mill. In front of them stood a neat little man in an orange silk doublet and a pair of green hose. He had a pencil mustache and his dark hair was oiled back. He held an embroidered handkerchief to his nose against the smell of horse ordure, sweat, and oiled steel.

“This is the one?” the stranger asked.

“Yes Vicount Cranborn,” one of the goats declared. The perfumed nobleman sneered and looked the gypsy girl up and down.

“Well I can’t say I see what all the fuss is about. Throw her in a cell till the Count arrives.”

The journey had been uncomfortably long, and even considering the handholds and the neat underplanks to slip his feet into, Will thought he would let go and lose the warcarriage an hour ago. It was only, legitimately, through sheer for of will that helped him stay still and quiet for so long. It seemed an eternity, but finally, when the buttertub halted and he heard the rattling of chains and the heavy thuds of feet, he gently lowered himself to the ground, having snuck under the wagon and kept himself hugging its bottom for miles upon miles. He let his burning arms drop to the cobblestones, and he lay panting quietly as the woman was presented before the Viscount. Evidently it was a blackguard named Cranbon, a name he had never heard before, but then again he had only been back on the mainland just over a week.

Had he pulled this stunt at noon, he would have been seen and executed immediately. Luckily, even accounting for the moon, his dark cloak and similarly dark features helped him blend into the shadows of the courtyard as he slunk away, finding himself crouching behind barrels of unknown use, though they smelled strange, and watching the woman be led away into the confines of the fort.

He held no love for any men of the Grand Army, but as a soldier himself, he knew what it was like to be a small cog in a larger machine, and when the opportunity presented itself, he merely knocked out a watchman rather than killed him. He still had a small sense of honor, he often lied to himself. He knew it was beyond repair, but old habits, and values it seemed, died hard. He hastily donned the helmet and breastplate, and the baldric as well. He couldn't change apparel fully. He did not have the time or space. But it would do unless he was inspected closely, and he made his way into the fort, the oaken doors leading into a warmly lit but otherwise very spartan and stark stone architecture.

Within minutes, he understood why there were so many stories of the horrors of this place. Every hall, every room was built with chokepoints to keep a prisoner in rather than hold an enemy from without, and the claustrophobia of various rooms felt overwhelming. Impenitrable darkness and heavy doors reinforced with iron were almost every dozen feet. Luckily, a few men off duty let slip that a comely prison was placed on the far end of this very wing, in rooms with a bit more space. He hurried off into the darkness, before finally finding what he sought.

There was a corridor lit with torches, with cells of iron bars and loose piles of hay in various corners. Chains hung from the ceilings, that could be used to shackle a prisoner at a guard's convenience. Glassless gaps in the walls, also barred, let the moonlight stream in. It caught the glitter of green eyes watching him with contempt, the gypsy's body swathed in her multiple layers of clothing, before Will approached the cell and dramatically unburdened himself of his helmet. He saw her beautiful eyes blink in incredulity, before widening with recognition. She swiftly got to her feet, tumbled waves of black hair cascading off her shoulders bounced like liquid shadow as she approached the bars.

"How?..." She started, but Will placed a finger to his lips. This close, he could smell her breath, and her fingers curled around the bars as she whispered. "Your hair..."

"Don't see many Albanic men, aye?" He asked her softly, fishing for his assortment of lockpicks.

"Who are you?" She asked.

"The only one that you can trust, at this point." He said, but his eyes met hers, and his sense of urgency gave way for a moment. "Will... Will McTaggart. You?"

"Emmeralda." She said. He had begun to try and pick the lock, feeling the latches within fall and go rigid from a poor try.

"Beautiful name." He said. "Far better than William."

"No, I like it. Good, strong name." She said with a rough imitation of his accent, and he smiled even before he saw her grin. Will silently cursed himself. He was not supposed to be finding a rapport with her. She could be in league with whatever the hell was arriving in just two days time, for all intents and purposes. Yet somehow...he knew she was not. The hags never mentioned such a thing, either. It was hard, and he was new to this entire thing.

"Who's there?" A rough voice called, and a wan light appeared at the end of the corridor. Emmeralda gasped, and a guardsman stepped into the corridor, eyes peeled.

The corridor was empty. He walked over to Emmeralda, who was now lounging against the iron bars. He glared at her, the torch in his hand hot as he approached. "Get back to the floor, witch." He told her, and when he reached for her, she danced away and stuck her tongue out. He gave her a lewd gesture, and sneered. "I don't know what they intend for you, but it's less than you deserve. Your kind sucks at the Protectorate's throat like a leech."

"Trust me, little mush, you and your protectorate simply couldn't handle a woman like me. Why else would I be in these chains?"

He growled, and took out the keys. Whatever he was going to do to her, it would not be pleasant.

Above him, Will hung precariously upside down from one of the dangling chains, holding his breath. He watched both like a hawk, and thought Emmeralda was quite clever for not even daring to look up, and to keep the man's attention on her. As soon as he spied the keys, he found his chance. Will let his feet, once planted on the ceiling, swing downwards and strike the man full in the face like an iron ball. He felt teeth break and bones shatter, and the torch dropped as a gurgle sounded from the fallen guard. Will hit the floor with an athleticism that had Emmeralda whisper 'Kushti!' appreciatively, though he didn't know what that meant, exactly. As Will gathered up the keys, Emmeralda rushed to the door, eager to be out of these bars.

"Do you have a plan to get out of here?" She asked.

"Yes," he said, opening the door. She tried to squeeze past him, but he stopped her with an upraised hand. "Through the window."

She raised an eyebrow and turned to look at the small opening. "Excuse me?"

He lifted a small vial of liquid from his pocket. "It leads outside, yes?" He asked her, closing the door behind them. Striding over the moonlit stones, he wiped some mud off his face from the journey to the fort, and uncorked the vial carefully. Slowly, he dabbed green liquid onto the bars, and used straw the coat the entirety of the iron with it. Even as the straw moved, the iron began to erode before their eyes. "Alchemical acid. Now if only we..."

He turned and looked at her, considering.

"What?" She asked.

"You go first. I want to make sure yer, um..." She looked at him expectantly. He sighed, exasperated. "Ye got huge chebs and a rump that can swallow a man whole, I want to make sure ye can fit top an' bottom!"

Her jaw dropped, but footsteps drew both their attention away, along with a distant exchange of words. Emmeralda gathered her skirts, not having time to process whether she should be flattered or offended. "Let's find out."

With a few shoves from Will, they were out in the countryside beyond the road before anyone knew what had happened.

The old wagon clattered down the country lane, the ancient nag huffing and blowing as it strained at the traces. Daniel Crook resisted the urge to lash the beast with the reigns only with a supreme effort of will.The village of Popley-on-Stow was typical of many villages in the country, little more than an inn, a few crofts and an old mill. Even before the war it had been losing people as the young ones were inevitably drawn away to the cities and enclosure made it harder and harder for a man to make his way as a farmer. Crook scowled at the thought. Everywhere you looked the old ways were fading away to be replaced by bastardized new ideas which took men further from the Truth. The wagon creaked into the half ruined coach yard of the old inn. The ancient two story structure was beyond dilapidated and had developed an alarming lean. Cannon balls had blasted several holes in its ancient plaster walls during the recent war where partisans of one side or another had used the inn as a base of some kind. Crook smiled as he climbed down from his covered wagon and patted his horse. The war had been good for the Ancient and Honorable Order of Swine Butchers, the mendicant meat sellers who travelled the land in their red painted wagons. One the arrival of a swine butcher in any village had been a herald of the coming winter and their arrival would be greeted with fear and excitement. In those days people had recognized that the slaughter of animals was a sacred thing and believed that the butcher took the violence of an animal's death upon himself. Like so much else that truth had faded over the years and most Swine Butchers were little more than figures of fun at harvest carnivals. Crook strode through the door of the inn and past the ancient, faded, sign that proclaimed the Slaughtered Calf. Not for much longer.

The interior of the inn was every bit as dilapidated as the outside, dust and cobwebs eddied in the draught and the cold was kept at by only by a huge fire which had been kindled in the ancient stone fireplace. An evil looking tapster with one eye was laddeling sour smelling ale into wooden tankards for the dozen men that occupied the room. With the exception of the tapster each man wore a mask made of an animal skull, mostly pigs though several cows and horses were also present. The skull was the only unifying motif. They men gathered were young and old, some dressed in the simple attire of the country while others were unmistakable city men. The call of blood could be felt even in the cities, praise be to Old Night, and some of the most enthusiastic members of the Order plyed their trades in alleys and knackers yards. The other figure who stood out was a young man who hung suspended upside down naked save for a filthy hood and struggling feebly.
“Brothers!” Crook called theatrically as he was framed by the doorway, “I bring you glad tidings, for old Night has whispered to me in my dreams! The long wait is over! The Days of Blood are at hand!”

“You dare speak to us with your face uncovered!” a cattle skulled man demanded, springing to his feet and moving towards Crook.

“You profane the…” the man’s objection ended in a choking gasp as Crook drove his hand through his chest. In place of fingers he now sported a trio of boney talons, six inches long and razor sharp.

“Look upon his blessingings and rejoice!” Crook howled, shoving the objectionable man back into the tap room. The stricken man’s mask tumbled to the ground with a crack as he tried frantically to staunch the flow of blood.

“Take him,” Crook directed holding up his unnatural appendage to emphasize his point. Cultists sprang forth and seized the dying man. A rope was looped around his legs and he was hoisted to the rafters beside the other victim. Blood pattered to the ground as his throat was cut, his blood dripping from his chin into waiting buckets. One of the butchers began to open his stomach, drawing forth his entrails with the practiced care of a craftsman.

“The Days of Blood are close brothers!” Crook repeated, flexing his fingers which seemed once again to be nothing more than the calloused digits of a man used to hard work.

“Old Night himself has returned to our shores and spoken to me in my dreams. He has work for us…” One of the butchers began peeling the skin from the unfortunate objector with a flensing knife.

“And we will discuss it while we eat…”

________________________________________________________________________

A hound brayed on the moor as Emmarelda led the way along the Old Road. It was still an hour or two until dawn and the darkness was alleviated only by the light of the city on the horizon.

“They will be sending patrols, we should get off the road,” Wil cautioned. Emmarelda nodded.

“It isn’t too much further,” she said with more confidence than she felt. Once upon a time the Gypsy clans had roamed the countryside, but since the war they had been forced to stay put in the relative safety of the city and Carnival Row. Emmarelda’s first instinct had been to return to her people, but with the Goats on the offensive and hunting her in particular she knew that would be the first place they would look. The vision of what she had seen in the crystal ball continued to trouble her. The strange man had seen her somehow, beheld her through the ball as clearly as if it had been him instead of Wil sitting across the table. She didn’t have a tarot deck to consult but she felt in her bones that he was the tip of something dark and terrible.

“Stand and deliver!” a voice shouted from the darkness. Wil shoved Emmarelda to the ground a heart beat ahead of a shattering boom. A second crack sounded almost simultaneously with the first and there was the thud of a body hitting the ground. Wil was still for a moment then helped her up, reloading his smoking pistol one handedly. A raggedly clad man with a mask over his face lay in the ditch by the side of the road, an ancient fowling piece still gripped in his dead hand.

“Bloody highwaymen,” Wil grumped. With the armies disbanded, the roads were awash with discharged veterans of both sides, and wise people did not travel by night or without strong guards.

A few minutes later they turned off the road and headed down a weed choked path that looked like it hadn’t been used in many years. After a half mile they came to a tumble down ruin of arched masonry which had once been a monastery. There had been many such buildings once before old Queen Kate had defied the Arch-Prelate and declared herself the head of the Church. Now a days the Old Church was proscribed and its few remaining adherents practiced in secret or had fled to the continent into the Imperial Territories.

Emmarelda lead the way into a ruined chapel. Inside an old coat room she began to probe the stones with her fingertips till she found the stone she was looking for. She pressed it in and there was a long groan of grinding masonry as a section of wall withdrew revealing a steep narrow stairway. She gestured Wil inside then followed him, sealing the door behind them. At the bottom of the stair was a large room that might once have been a cellar. Several pallets lay against the wall and barrels of food and drink stood under a canvas tarp.

“What is this place?” Wil demanded.

“Followers of the Old Faith use it to hide their priests,” Emmarelda explained, “Despite the best efforts of the Protectorate, they still slip here and there to preach their gospel.”

“We will be safe here,” she added, “... at least while the sun is up, I have a sense that after sunset we would be wise not to trust anything.”

Will felt oddly safe, at least for the moment. He let his hand run along the wall, but the candles in the room flared to life at once, Will seeing Emmeralda finishing a small movement of her hands. As if in a dance, she stepped into the shadows, disappearing into the darkness only to impossibly appear just beside him. Will flinched and nearly yelped in alarm, Emmeralda clearly amused at surprising him.

"Is this how you-" he began, but he nearly swooned, and her amusement turned to concern as she watched him nearly teeter over. She grabbed at his jerkin.

"When was the last you slept?" She asked, grabbing his chin and turning his head as if she had known him for longer than a mere day.

"Two days," he breathed. "But I don't think that's the problem."

He opened his cloak, and Emmeralda's eyes widened at the blood caked shirt. She gave a small squeak at the state of him. The gypsy ushered him over to a small, disheveled cot and bade him sit down. He did as he was told, and she pulled up a chair before she helped strip him of his shirt and cloak. Fortunately, while he had bled a fair amount, the cut wasn't deep. The way it looked, it appeared to be a cut from when they had first met, not the second time he had saved her. The thought had her attentive and gentle. She poured a small bit of alcohol she had stashed underneath the cot on his wound, and other than a small intake of breath, he didn't complain.

He took it from her gingerly when she was done, and took a swig of the whiskey as she dressed the wound and wrapped it up. Despite how tired he was, he felt his heart race a small bit faster as her soft hands slipped around him as she did her work.

"Thank you," he said, tiredly.

"Hush, you've saved my life twice. If I did not help, the evil eye would be upon me." Emmeralda said, but after a moment she raised an eyebrow and gave a deadpan: "Bit too late for that, actually."

Will burst out in laughter, but after a moment a spike of pain caused him to groaned achingly. "Oh lass, doon' maek me lauff." His accent prominent from how exhausted he was.

"Sorry," she confessed, though she giggled regardless. "So, who are you? Who are you, really?"

There was a pause as Will tried to figure out what to say.

"Names the same. I'm..." he took a deep breath, moving the fringe of his hair out of his eyes. "I was a soldier. I was a young man in the clans when the King called for us, and I spent six years in the war. I saw things that..." He turned and looked at her. "Dark things. I saw...corpses move. I heard trees whisper. I once saw a beast that shouldn't be real. And there I knew, I wasn't fighting one war. I was fighting many, and we all are, whether we know it or not. I left the isle after our defeat. The damn goats had won, and I traveled as a sailor and privateer, but I came back when village shaman told me of darkness spreading the isle where I lost me heart. A darkness that would be arriving in less than two days from now, and then three hags told me to find you." She watched him intently, having finished the bandages, though her hand still lingered on his skin.

"Couldn't tell if you were a part of the darkness, or a victim." He gave her a tired grin. "I think at this point, I know which."

Emmarelda deliberately prodded the wound, eliciting a grunt of pain from Wil.

“What the hell!?” he demanded.

“That is for thinking I was the the Bride of Darkness,” she informed him tartly.

“In my defense I had it on the authority of the most reputable hags!” he half squeaked. Emmarelda relented and let go. She plucked a thread of silk from her scarf and gently tugged it free, drawing the bright red thread slowly until she had about a yard of silk. That accomplished she drew a needle from her cuff. She snapped her fingers and a small flame sprang into existence above her pointer finger. She thrust the tip of the needle into the flame and heated it, then quenched it in the whiskey with a pungent hiss.

“What are you…”

Emmarelda thrust the needlepoint into will and began to sew, tugging the silk through in a series of neat stitches.Wil winced each time she sunk the point and tugged the thread but he refrained from crying out.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a seamstress,” he admitted as she tied off her handiwork.

“We are a practical people,” she replied enigmatically.

“What should we do now?” Emmarelda asked, sitting back on her own palette and taking a slug of whiskey. She shook her fingers and the blood staining them dried and flaked off with unnatural efficiency.

“The man you saw on the ship.. did you know him?” Wil asked. Emmarelda was silent for a long moment.

“No… I… I don’t think that it was a man. There are legends of those whose deeds were so abominable that Il-who-broke-the-earth cursed them to roam the earth forever. There was something about him… something old and vile…”

“What else do these legends say?” Wil asked, leaning forward eagerly despite his evident exhaustion.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“You don’t know?” he demanded. She shrugged her shoulders.

“This is something that old people say when they are drunk! No one believes it!” she snapped, her own exhaustion and fear fraying her nerves.

“Well whatever he is, he needs to be stopped, we should get moving…” Wil tried to sit up but Emmarelda put three fingers on his chest and pushed him down without difficulty.

“The roads will be swarming with Goats, and you are exhausted,” she pointed out. “He cannot travel by day and he was still at sea.”

“He looked like he was about to make landfall last night, I could see the coast!” Wil objected.

“That hadn’t happened yet,” Emmarelda replied absently.

“Hadn’t… happened? Like it is in the future, how do you know?”

“Have you ever scried with a crystal ball?” Emmarelda demanded.

“Uh…no?”

“Then either cross my palm with more silver or take my word for it,” she snapped. THere was a brief awkward silence.

“Fine. So he hasn’t arrived yet, how does that help us?”

“If we can get to the shore before he reaches it … I might be able to stop him from landing,” she admitted.

“Like… stop him how?”

Emmarelda sighed tiredly but looked up at Wil, her large eyes almost luminous in the dark of the chapel.

“You are from Alba, you know better than most that a land has a … a dusa… what would you call it,” for a moment she struggled with the language unused to thinking in magical terms beyond her native tongue. “A spirit? A soul?” Wil nodded his head in understanding so she pressed on.

“If you know where a person will first set foot in a land there are ways to make it anathema to them, to set the very earth against them,” she explained.

“Will that kill him?” Wil asked.

“I mean… unless he is a really good swimmer,” Emmarelda replied with a tired smile.

Will slept for half the day, having fallen asleep from the gentle words of Emmeralda. Vaguely he recalled a song that had played from her lips, and as they walked through Galenburg under the fading afternoon sun, he wondered if she had cast a spell on him. Either way, the sleep and the small bit of mutton they had managed to scrounge up had done him well. Emmeralda seemed healthy, though she looked rightly perturbed at the circumstances. She had a charming way of being both bubbly yet pragmatic in her manner.

The two went by Kolchester Tower, passing numerous patrols of goats, risking it only so they can hail a waterman by the River Valans. The water was rank from the smell of fish and sewage, and yet moving water seemed comforting somehow to the pair. Emmeralda kept herself hooded, and Will kept his hat on, never looking anyone in the eyes. A schilling got them to a crossing point two miles down river, and by that time, the sky was red with the last vestiges of a weary sun. They arrived at Plattertown, a smaller suburb of poorer folk, run by the merchantmen who preyed upon them and set up shops with everything from chocolate to callgirls. The place never truly slept, though it grew less lively once the night descended. Will had been here once, years back with his da and brothers, mostly to watch bear baiting after visiting a cobbler.

Predishi rugs were being rolled up by a vendor, and scented candles from across the Antribian Sea were being placed back in crates as sizzling meat could be smelled, intermingling with the cloying scents of perfumes from the ladies of the night in some gaudy building up the street. A few vagabonds with swords moved about, but their blades were shortened. Any sword seen by a guard that's over 9/10ths of a meter will be broken or confiscated.

"What is it?" Will asked, and Emmeralda's hand let go of his arm. She had been clutching it tightly.

"I just... hope my people are alright." She confessed. Will understood, Plattertown wasn't quite the carnival, but it was close enough to remind her of home, if a nomad could truly call any place home. "Some say the world is growing safer, but I say they don't see the world as it is. Sewell and his lot are worse than any king, and that bar is so high, I couldn't land it with a pole at hand."

She seemed lost in thought as they moved through the darkening streets, what few lamps there were unlit, as of yet, save for a few lights in the windows. Will answered by taking her hand in his, and she looked at him.

"If we live, I'll help you find out about your people." He promised, wondering what led him to do such a thing. "But one monster at a time, yeah?"

With Wil's maritime experience, it didn't take long to identify the lighthouse they'd seen in the crystal ball. It was half a day's ride up the coast, perched on a deserted promontory guarding a storm-wracked peninsula. The sky was already darkening—a herald of the storm Emmarelda had foreseen. Black clouds began piling high, causing sailors to shake their heads and pull on their tar-stained coats.

"We'll need horses," Wil said as they shared a small loaf of rough bread they'd bought from a street vendor.

"I think I'm eating our last few coppers," Emmarelda replied, her mouth full of bread. The goats had confiscated her purse and the few magical tools she had hidden on her person.

"Well, it won't be the worst reason I've ever stolen a horse," Wil said, scanning the area. Just down the road, a modestly prosperous-looking inn stood, its large stable visible behind it, long lines of smoke issuing from its three ancient brick chimneys.

"You wait here. I'll be right back," Wil told her, strolling off toward the hopefully unattended horses. Emmarelda lingered in the mouth of the alley, brooding over what might be happening back in the city. The Goats might assume she was hiding among them, and who knew what they'd do to force them to turn her over? That raised the question of why the Goats wanted her at all. Wil had given vague hints about a dark prophecy, but even if that were true, why would the Goats care? The Protectorate was almost constitutionally allergic to superstition. Their view of religion was stern and puritanical, with no room for wonder or curiosity. Why, then, would those grim old men pay attention to the whispers of the very witches they despised? Who was this Duke, and who was the stranger on the boat?

While Emmarelda was lost in thought, she failed to notice a knacker’s wagon pulling up across the mouth of the alley. The tired dray snuffled in irritation as two middle-aged men, husky from a lifetime of butchering horses, climbed down and sauntered toward her, wooden mallets in hand. A gust of wind, perhaps the leading edge of the coming storm, sighed down the alley, stirring the knives and pots hanging from the skeletal frame of the wagon.

Emmarelda looked up just in time to see the knackers lunging toward her. With a startled cry, she threw up her left hand. There was a flash of light, followed by a sharp crack. Both men staggered back, crying out and clutching their eyes. Wasting no time, Emmarelda dashed between them while they were off balance. The knackers grabbed at her, but she wriggled free with the skill of a street urchin.
She was almost at the wagon when something struck her in the back. She staggered forward, dropping to her knees, as a second wooden mallet whistled past and thudded off the wagon. Emmarelda screamed, scrambling under the wagon. One of the men seized her ankle and yanked her across the cobblestones. She twisted in his grip, a short-bladed knife appearing in her hand. She slashed it across his outstretched hand. The knacker recoiled, screaming, blood spraying as he lost a finger.

For a brief moment, the two men struggled to regroup. She flicked the blood off her blade and yelped a series of words. The mortar between the cobblestones crumbled, and black mold spread up the walls as though time had suddenly accelerated. Both men fell to the ground, retching blood. The nag in the harness screamed and bolted forward.

Emmarelda barely had time to leap aboard the wagon before it tore off down the street toward the coaching inn.

"-and with the revenues, me wife up and left, and even took the damned goat..."

Will shook his head solemnly, showing the fellow just how much he agreed with the sentiment. It had all been an act, but the ex-soldier knew all too well the flaws inherent in the system that the whole island had to deal with now. Even stableguards weren't exempt from being victims of the latest land litigation. Will clapped a hand on his shoulder, the ale sloshing in the wooden mugs from the brief contact.

"Won't be this way forever, my friend. The king's son is on the continent. He'll set matters right, I think." Will replied soothingly. It was treason to say such things, but the stableguard was already inebriated, thanks to the muddlehead poultice Will had slipped in it when the Albanic had offered the brew.

The guard waved it off. "Won't bring the wife back, or my favorite goat, but aye. 'Least there will be some reckoning." He paused a moment, before the tears began to brim, and he took another swig of his mug. Will was impressed at how quickly he finished the pints, and did his best to catch the fellow before he tumbled over, already beginning to sway. "Make- HUC-... make shure nbo one shteals ny hors...hhorses..."

"Werry no' on tha'," Will replied, his accent returning as he helped the man to the hay covered floor. "Jest go t' sleep, me boy." Soon the man was snoring, and Will knew he needed it. Muddlehead only caused someone to sleep if they hadn't in a long while. It saved him the trouble of knocking him out, at least. As he pulled the man into an empty stable, he looked up and spied the guard's discarded musket leaning against a wooden rail. Outside, thunder crashed and the horses whinnied nervously as he went for the weapon. On closer inspection, it was technically a musketoon, or the shorter carbine version of the standard wheelock. It would serve on horse, and shouldered it before finding a nice black gelding, calming the beast as thunder rolled in the distance once more with soft words of his mouth tongue.

"Socair a-nis a bhalaich, bidh a h-uile càil gu math." He whispered, running a hand over the beast's snout. There were old tales that the men of Alban could speak to the beasts of the forest like old friends, and it lead to them being fine horsemen. Much of the rumors came from old takes from a thousand years ago, and kept alive by the Albanic's themselves. Truth be told it was mostly rubbish, as far as Will was concerned. No language could soothe beasts better than another. Still, he felt more comfortable with his mother tongue when speaking softly, and so he used it when speaking to skittish horses or dogs. It seemed to work here, and soon he and the gelding were out of the stable, and Will thanked Saint Finbar there was no rain as of yet.

"Alright, now let's let you meet the missus that'll-" He started, interrupted by the clatter of a wagon. A team of horses streamed past he and his new mount, with Emmeralda hanging on for dear life in the back of it. Will's eyes met hers for a brief moment, and before three heartbeats passed, out of the darkness of the trees came three riders clad in black. Their cloaks billowing in the wind, they chased after the runaway carriage as it careened down the road.

Will took a full two seconds to overcome his stunned reaction. Had Emmeralda not been thirty meters down the road, she would have guffawed at his expression. He had never met a woman who was such a contradiction in great luck and the poorest luck imaginable. The juxtaposition was driving him up the bloody wall. He groaned audibly. "By the solemn blood of Bartholomew Bracha!" Quickly, he made up for lost time and mounted the black gelding, setting the mount off at a gallop, hoping beyond hope the wagon wouldn't crash or the riders wouldn't catch up to her in time. They wouldn't shoot her, he theorized. It took too much effort to capture her for them to simply kill the woman, but it was small comfort at the wild situation.

Emmarelda squawked as the wagon bounced up to swat her on the ass. The blow flung her into the air to hit the canvas roof of the wagon before dropping her back into the bed in a pile of rattling clattering tools and pots. The knives and bonesaws of the knackers trade jingled as she scrambled forward, the rough cobblestone of the road doing its best to hammer her to pulp. The nag was well and truly terrified all but frothing at the mouth as it pounded up the road. A few minutes of this and the damned beast would probably have heart attack, which would make Emmarelda’s life significantly easier. She clambered up and onto the drivers bench and snatched up the reigns, only to realise she had no more idea of how to drive a wagon than she did to declaim a Brasilaian eulogy. For a moment she was frozen watching the thickening woods whip past. She tossed a glance over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of dark riders coming up behind her. She let out an undignified shriek and cracked the reigns, urging the gasping draught horse onwards.

A barrage of raindrops the size of marbles slapped at Emmarelda as she frantically flogged the draft horse. The violent hammering of the cart on the cobblestones grew even worse. It seemed that the cart left the ground all together at times, crashing back down with bone jarring force. The nearest of the riders was coming up along side her, leather cape fluttering like a storm crows wing. He had a black silk mask across his face and his eyes were bloodshot. He reached up to grab at her but Emmarelda seized one of the clattering saucepans and hurled it into the man’s face. His eyes opened wide as the pan struck him in the nose with a crack that was audible even over the clatter. The masked man reeled back, over balanced and spilled from his saddle. The man’s horse, now riderless, stumbled towards the wagon, one of the spinning wheels snagged the bridle and tangled it, yanking the horse into the wheel. Emmarelda screamed in terror at the colossal crack as the horse was dragged under, its thick neck shattering the wheel and dropping the rear quarter of the wagon to the road with a deafening screech of tearing metal and shattering timber. The whole wagon slewed sideways, the momentum ripping the tired dray horse from its feet with a whiplash so violent it shattered bones. Emmarelda, still screaming, eyes wide with terror, leaped from the developing catastrophe, arms flailing. She crashed down into some bushes beside the road, the thick foliage saving her from breaking bones. She rolled off the wet slap to land in the ditch by the side of the road. The remaining two riders raced past her, hauling on their own reigns to avoid being caught up in the ruin. Emmarelda leaped to her feet and ran unsteadily into the woods, the wet leaves slapping at her.

Emmarelda had no destination in mind. Her only goal was to get off the road and away from her pursuers. By now the rain had began in earnest. It hissed down on the canopy above, only one drop in twenty getting through the leaves. The result made her skin crawl, as though she were waiting for a second more violent storm to break. The terrain dropped away into a creek filled with moss covered rocks. Very little light made it through the gathering storm but there was enough for Emmarelda to pick her way along the creek. She could hear shouts behind her in the distance but she had obviously gained some distance on the riders as they either dismounted or tried to force their horses through the woods. Her heart felt like it was trying to break its way out of her chest but she forced herself to calm down. There was little chance she was going to outrun two men in the woods in the dark. She slowed her pace and stepped behind the lichen covered ruin of an ancient watermill, forcing herself to be still and calm. The voices of her pursuers grew louder and louder until it sounded like they were right on top of her. Abruptly a one of her dark cloaked pursuers splashed across the stream close enough to her that she could have reached out and touched him. The smell of blood and sweat and horse tickled her nose and she screwed up her face to avoid sneezing.

“Where is the bitch!” he snarled.

“She must still be ahead!” another voice cried out from somewhere off to the left. Emmarelda her breath for a long moment and then the men rushed on off into the darkness. She forced herself to breathe slowly, trying to remain calm. This became much more difficult when a snuffling sound drew her attention to the opposite bank. A pair of huge golden eyes regarded her from the darkness. A great white wolf, larger than any pelt Emmarelda had ever seen, padded silently down the river bank. It paused at the edge of the water and looked at her. There was an almost electrical jolt as their eyes met. The weight of the wolf’s regard hit her like a medicine ball and it was all she could do not to cry out. For a long moment they stood staring at each other, then the wolf cocked its head and let out a chuffing sound that sounded amused. As suddenly as it appeared it was gone. Emmarelda flung herself out of her cover and turned to run back the way she had came only to crash headlong into Wil. The pair of them went down in a pile of flailing alms, splashing into the shallow creek.

The last time he had seen her, she had been hurtling down the road, but he had a sense of these kinds of chases. As soon as the black riders had peeled away, Will had doubled back and tore his way through the brush to reach the old mill and the creek. It wasn't an area he was too familiar with, but the tail end of the stream was close by the inn, and so he figured it was his best bet. Running into Emmeralda in a crash of flesh was not exactly how he had figured to valiantly find her, but it would do.

His head plunged under the water, and with her weight, it took him a few seconds before he could gasp for air again.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Emmeralda professed.

"Damn, girl!" He complained, his cloak and trousers soggy, not to mention his whole head. He got an eyefull of her soaking chest, the clothing clinging to her soft skin. It only took him by surprise for a second, though, and he pushed her up and helped himself to his feet. The day was cool, the rain was cold, but the creek water was frigid. Will coughed up some of the drink, but he was none the worse for wear. He shook his head like an old hound, but noticed her fatigued look. He softened. "Are you alright?"

She nodded, appreciating the question. Within seconds she was back to her salacious, sybilline self. "Takes more than a few blackguards to get rid of me," she boasted in jest. Will's eyes widened, which was the only warning Emmeralda got before Will pulled her down and spun. The saber of the cloaked figure cut across Will's shoulder, Will eliciting a yelp in pain after having flung himself in the way of the blow to protect her. Idly, he realized the cut would not have been fatal to her, and was likely aimed to wound and disorient, but when Will got in the way, it had been intended to cause more damage. Luckily his heavy cloak and jerkin kept him from the worst of it.

A fistful of gravel and sediment was thrown into the man's face, Emmeralda obviously too flummoxed to have any magical tricks ready on the fly. He cried out and grabbed at his eyes with one hand, flailing his sword with the other. However, even with the wound, Will was deadly with his blade. It was out of the scabbard in the blink of an eye, and Emmeralda watched him parry a wild swing, and she covered her eyes just before he killed the man with a thrust to the neck. When she peeked again, the figure was half in the water, red seeping into the creek. She saw Will grimace as he rolled his shoulder, softly cursing in his native tongue. The overcast of the day gave him the forlorn look of a wounded wolf.

"Are you alright?" She asked, echoing his words from not minutes ago.

"Aye, I'm good." He assured her with a pained grin. "Let's not wait for them to come back, aye? Got us a horse, by the way. Seems you went horse thievin' on your own."

"I am a self made woman, after all." She joked, and they kept close as Will escorted her to the black gelding. The horse seemed calm, and Will insisted he helped her onto the steed. She tried to take the reins, but gave a squeak as the horse kicked for a moment. Will grabbed the reins with a quick hand, smirking. "You're not stealin' this one, gypsy."

The Gypsys were a travelling people. Once they had roamed half the world in their covered wagons. Emmarelda had some distant memories of those days but she had been young before the convulsions of the civil war made travel unsafe. The Gypsys had retreated into the Carnival becoming a fixture of urban life. Every so often one of the elders suggested returning to the road but there was little appetite for it. Emmarelda thoroughly agreed with the younger crowd. Who would leave a warm house to ride through the night in the rain. She gripped Wil around the middle laying her head against his back to try and keep the rain from her eyes. This strategy did little to keep her dry but it kept the water out of her eyes.

She didn’t quite fall asleep but when she opened her eyes the eastern sky was beginning to grow light. Wil was guiding the horse up a long shale path that wound its way up a bluff. At the top of the hill stood an ancient looking light house. A mirrored beam stabbed out into the rainy darkness but it didn’t rotate as it should. It gave the place the look of a corpse, eyes fixed in death. Emmarelda shiverd as Wil reigned in the exhausted horse at the base of the lighthouse. The door hung open, banging forlornly in the gusty storm tossed air.

“Abandoned?” Emmarelda asked. Wil shook his head and nodded towards a dilapidated stable where a horse lay among a pile of bloody hay. Emmarelda was no veterinarian but she wagered that the cause of death was the giant bite in its throat. Wil slid off the horse and drew his sword, eyes darting around.

“Are we too late?” he asked.

“I’m not sure…” Emmarelda replied, climbing down beside him. There was a fay energy about the place, but it didn’t seem like the energy of a man.

“Let’s climb,” she suggested and followed Wil into the building. They climbed the winding steps till they reached the top where a vast oil lamp guttered on the last of its oil. The view out over the gray sea was breathtaking, white caps rolled out amidst surging storm clouds that flickered with distant lightning.

“We are too late,” Emmarelda said somberly, extending her hand to point down the coast. A quarter mile distant, a ship was run aground on a spur of jagged rocks. Her rigging was shredded and ragged but there was no doubt it was the same ship from the crystal ball. Emmarelda moved to a spy glass mounted on a tripod and turned it the ship. It was a good glass, powerful enough that she could read the lettering on the ships prow: Demeter.

“What do we do now, can you still do your ritual?” he demanded.

“Maybe… maybe something a little different… I need to find a gallows tree and I’ll need you to defend me,” she explained.

“Defend you from what?” he asked. As if on queue a bone chilling howl came from somewhere close at hand. Emmarelda swallowed hard.

“Whatever comes,” she said simply.

"Whatever comes..." He breathed, echoing her words. Not out of mockery, rather he spoke it to himself as if in litany. He did not looked at her witchery; not at first, anyway. A portion of himself felt the incantation she was performing was exactly what he had dedicated his life to expunging from the world, but he pushed the thought away. That was not true. Emmeralda was odd, conniving, and even a criminal likely, but she was not evil. It was nothing he himself had never done before. Her magic, if it could be called that, was not the enemy.

As she began to weave her hands and chant, he set his traveler's pack onto the hard clump of sand on the dilapidated floor where the earth met the beach, and produced a clump of berries, picked from a flying rowan. He unsheathed his sword with his right hand, crushed the berries in his left, and smeared them along the blade. As he did so, the iron bit his hand, drawing a small stream of blood. He placed the coated blade on his lap, took his right hand, and smeared his fingers across the bloodberry concoction, before he drew an elaborate, twisting knot upon his forehead.

There was a low, feral rumble that emanated from the shadows. It was hard to hear over the soft movement of the surf and Emmeralda's spellweaving. The wind whistled, carrying over the waves like a living thing. No, there it was again. A low rumble. It was unmistakable.

Will had heard the growls of feral dogs. Will had heard the guttural screams of wolves. He had even heard the desert hounds of Khandal and their strange laugh. However, he had never heard something so malevolent. He grabbed the torch he had brought, plucking it out of the sand and holding it high. The flame flickered in the wakening wind, his slick sword dripping fresh blood, staining the white sand. The growling grew louder, and as he watched, one of the shadows amongst the shrubs came alive. It drifted closer, a ghastly thing that seemed incorporeal until it stepped onto the sand, giving it shape and form. Red eyes stared at him, and a fanged maw, too stout for a wolf, opened to reveal jagged teeth. Will was no coward, but he felt his pulse racing at the sight of the huge, deadly thing. It was the size of a small pony, if he had to guess, and it did not seem a stupid beast.

Its details were hard to make out in the oppressive gloom, but other than the rough form of a canine, it was unlike anything he had ever seen in the world. One moment, he thought its back was covered in spines, and the next he felt its paws were human-like hands. Just as he imaged its tail was spiked, it was a shadowy blur, a snarl erupting simultaneously with its movements. Will held his sword out, point first, keeping his torch before him like a beacon against the darkness. He saw the creature loping impossibly fast, and as it hit the sandbank and spun to charge him, he whirled, but kicked out with his foot. Sand flew into the beast's face, but the dirty trick didn't deter the thing, only the torch seemed to cause it to flinch. He sidestepped its flying body, slashing with his blade. It bit the thing's flank, and he was rewarded with a yelp.

He felt a renewed sense of relief, perhaps even a bit of hope. It could be hurt, which meant it could be killed. A bullet would likely do nothing, but the sword could wound it. He followed the path of its launching body, but as he turned, he found it was gone. Suddenly he was hit from behind, heavy claws digging into his back. He flung the torch behind his head, causing the thing to scream so loud, he felt it was near the keening wail of a banshee. He knew if he had not thought quickly, it would have bitten his head off. He flipped his sword and stabbed, the point burying itself in something solid behind his back. He twisted the blade, a terrible sucking noise and the stench of something foul followed.

Will stumbled forward, but spun to face the thing, and got a his left leg bludgeoned by an immense blow from a paw for the trouble. Blood bubbled from the wound, but it looked to be the last effort of a dying beast. It roared, albeit weakly, red eyes alight and mangy, blue-grey fur visible in the light of the fallen torch. Will grimaced at his wounds, but held his feet steady just long enough to drive his sword blade into the dark face of the shadow-hound. It squealed loudly, but even as it began to slump, its body melded into the shadows once more, sliding further into the darkness before it disappeared for good.

"Shite..." he breathed hoarsely, and fell on his ass promptly.