Profane Wisdom

Although the horizon remained a streak of green and blue, Zandaborough had changed into a decidedly more southern coat. Streams, more numerous and rapid, laid glittering ribbons onto the prairie. The tallgrass, the undisputed potentate of the northern plain, now shared the expanse with its shorter, broad cousins.

“Strange,” said Lisharotte as they paused to let their horses drink. “I requested from Father escorts to meet us halfway.”

“Your father?” asked Gilvantes.

“Lord Gevallan is an arch mage,” chimed Linsk. “I can’t imagine him turning down Captain’s request.”

“Could Karambell have no men to spare?” asked Gilvantes.

Zafini narrowed her red eyes. “Or something happened to the escorts.”

“Aren’t you delightful?” growled Linsk, wrinkling his nose.

“I’m charming like that.”

The unpredictable downpours of Zandaborough returned, forcing the pilgrims to wade through the waist-deep waters. Having experienced the flash flooding firsthand, Gilvantes finally realised why they had only passed a scattering of houses after days of riding. With each building they passed, however, Gilvantes found himself leaning more towards Zafini’s assessment.

“Nobody here either,” reported Linsk, returning from his excursion into a residence. “Rotting food.”

Gilvantes drew Skyrend just enough to spill some of its luminance and closed his eyes. Within an instant, his vision soared to the sky, giving him a full view of their surroundings. After days of practice, he had finally managed to do this without the nausea. The image had sharpened but still blurred at the slightest movement. Hador had insisted this would all become second nature. He wasn’t as confident.

“Gil, Hador, see anything?” asked Lisharotte.

The prince creased his forehead some more. “There’s a... stable for shelter if we—”

“The spoiled prince wouldn’t even know what to look for,” vented Zafini. “Let me investigate.”

“We’re being watched,” said the captain. “And if I’ve noticed, then you’ve certainly noticed. Why would I trust you when you keep such secrets?”

“Because,” cried the exasperated Phantom, “I initially thought they were other Phantoms. They’re not, and it’s starting to scare me.”

Gilvantes shivered, breaking his focus. A Phantom did not jump at shadows.

“Might as well investigate until we can cross the rivers,” said Lisharotte. “Stay in my sight at all times and don’t touch anything. I know how resourceful you can be.”

Zafini raised her tied hands and rolled her eyes. “Urzu my witness.”

Curious, Gilvantes followed the two women into the abandoned shack, leaving Linsk to care for the horses. The first thing he noticed was the stench of mould and spoiled meat. Water dripped through the leaky ceiling while the flies happily buzzed around a table. A few sticks of fresh timber lay beneath a rusty, black cauldron that smelled of curdled milk. This had all the appearance of a temporary camp rather than a residence.

“At least two people died here,” she said. “Quite recent too.”

Lisharotte frowned. “How do you know?”

Zafini nudged a bug-ridden rug with her foot. “Doesn’t belong. Pull it aside.”

Sinking her spear under the tattered mat, Lisharotte flicked it aside, uncovering a dark patch. Gilvantes, covering his nose, took a step back. The smell, not nearly as foul as the spoiled food, was unmistakable. It was old blood.

“What killed them?” asked Gilvantes.

“I’d rather not find out,” said the Najar. “If you wish to spend your night here, then you better do it—”

“Captain!” cried Linsk, bursting into the house, his face ghastly pale. “It’s… it’s Hador. I s-saw him. Out there.”

Hador flared in alarm, causing Gilvantes to draw Skyrend. He closed his eyes and surveyed the landscape, espying a dark spectre. He didn’t know why, but this silhouette of their deceased friend terrified him more than the Seedlings.

“7th Cavalry,” Lisharotte barked. “Defend the emperor!”

Linsk straightened at the command. “Yes ma’am!”

Charging outside, the scarlet knight whistled. Mamut, with an excited neigh, sprinted to his master. Linsk trailed his captain with sword and shield at the ready. Suddenly, Gilvantes found himself alone with Zafini. The Phantom, with a contemptuous snigger, looked him in the eyes.

“I can kill you right now,” she threatened, advancing. “One sweep, and a stomp to the neck should do it.”

Empowered by Skyrend, Gilvantes was unfazed. “One more step,” he breathed frost, “and I kill you before you can blink.”

Zafini stiffened at this unexpected turn. More surprisingly, she believed him. This boy, having yet to hit his growth spurt, had the bloodlust of a feral beast and the calm of a veteran. She’d be impressed if her legs were not shaking with instinctive fear.

“Good,” concluded Gilvantes, lowering Skyrend. “How did these folks die?”

The Najar exhaled. “Most likely sorcery,” she said, “but not a spell I’ve seen.” She stared at the dark patch some more. “Misha would know.”

“Shouldn’t Phantoms be skilled at removing bodies?”

“If our cleaners could do this, they wouldn’t be asking us to strangle targets all the time.”

A loud crackle of thunder rushed Gilvantes into the pouring rain. Lisharotte and Linsk were nowhere to be found. He quickly closed his eyes and began searching from above, finding the two riders in the distance. There was the tell-tale crater of Lisharotte’s sorcery, and in it lay the fake Hador, its body slowly crumbling into nothing. Lisharotte leaned on her spear while Linsk, tossing away his weapons, splayed himself over the wet grass.

As soon as he sheathed Skyrend, heart-pounding anxiety set in. That demon was so dangerous that Lisharotte had to cast a spell despite having Linsk for backup. How close had he come to losing her?

“That demon was no brother of mine,” fumed Linsk, his knuckles white. “They toy with us.”

Lisharotte patted Linsk on the shoulder. “I sensed it weaving a spell,” she said, “but it’s not an element I’ve ever seen.”

“But you killed it, right?” asked Zafini.

“That’s the problem,” said Lisharotte, staring in the direction of her crater. “The thing claimed it wasn’t alone.”

Gilvantes felt a tingle in his spine and touched his shoulder. This encounter was all too reminiscent of the Plaguemother.

“It seems to have a deep hatred for Urzu,” recalled Lisharotte, “and great contempt for humanity. You wouldn’t know of such a demon, Gil?”

The pieces began to fall into place. A doppelganger. A spell beyond Walthurian sorcery. The bloody patch in the hut. A collective. Gilvantes shuddered.

“This demon partitions itself,” the prince recited with a remote gaze, “and assumes the shape of the dead it encounters. Frightful stories tell of its flesh-melting touch, a spell which renders the subject into a puddle of blood.

“Some believe it was once a priest of Urzu who incurred her wrath for turning to Bagroth. Regardless, this demon harbours a grudge against the Goddess and all her creations. For a creature with an insatiable thirst to defile all living things, there can only be one name: Necrotaint.”