The rain falling through the forest canopy only made the summer afternoon more humid than it already was. The rain helped to mask the sound of their horses' hooves, but also made tracking their quarry all the more difficult.
Watchleader Kendrick tugged the edge of her cloak’s hood over her horns to give her some relief from the drops. Her mount, a brown stallion named “Bill,” needed no guidance from her. He followed the mare in front of him, who followed her dismounted rider as his armored form led them.
Dushon was an accomplished scout, one of the best scouts in the Hillfort Pathfinders. She had seen the Tabaxi track orcs through the night to their hidden camp. She had seen him uncover mimics lurking in the ruined towns to the east of Dinklefart. He’d even flushed out a Lycanthrope that had eluded other pathfinders for days in the Drakkenfells themselves. This was the first time she’d seen him struggle.
Kendrick’s spade-tipped tail flicked in annoyance, but she knew better than to ask Dushon his business. She and the four other pathfinders, each outfitted in matching blued-steel breastplates, silver mail, imperial purple cloaks seemed to have sprung from the pages of legends. Though their armor was new, they were painstakingly produced copies of original imperial-era suits kept within their guild hall. Their chapter did as much as they could to emulate their ancient forebears who tamed the wilds and guarded civilization itself against a world bent on its destruction. They were Pathfinders. A single vampire would not elude them.
Dushon’s silky voice called through the muffled rain, “Watchleaderrr,” he said. “The trail is fading. He turned northwest from here, but if we do not find his spore soon I may… I may lose him.” He looked up from where he crouched over what might be the impression of a boot heel or just a puddle. Dushon’s golden eyes look up at her.
Kendrick gave him one of her rare smiles, “If he can be found, it will be by you. We continue!”
Dushon led them on. Sometimes from horseback, sometimes on foot. Further and further northwest they went, hunting the bane of their fair city. Alikir the Handsome had perverted everything that was good and noble in the Temple of Ilmater. A pillar of their community was quickly crumbling in the wake of his discovery.
When the mutilated bodies of his victims were taken from the catacombs beneath the temple and word spread of the monster’s activities, angry crowds had gathered. Hundreds, possibly thousands of pilgrims had travelled to Hillfort to seek Ilmater’s blessings. Many sacrificed their health, safety, and even lives for the greater good in Dwarven mines. Their broken forms taken to the temple to be healed or blessed by the martyred god. What many got, rather than absolution, was the dubious honor of being the meal of a vampire. Violence had not yet broken out when Kendrick’s Watch had rode from the city in pursuit of Alikir, but she would not be surprised to return and find that more innocent blood had been spilled because of him.
Hours passed. The trail grew more faint as the rain increased and the sun, hidden though it was, made for the horizon. They were far off the beaten paths, now. Kendrick reckoned that they were several days north of Dinklefart now. They were far from the lands they normally patrolled. They had to be getting close to the border now. That would pose its own problems if they didn’t find Alikir first.
“Shh,” whispered Dushon and Kendrick raised her hand. Instantly, her pathfinders halted and stilled both themselves and their mounts. Dushon poured from his saddle and disappeared into the woods. Kendrick immediately lost sight of him, and saw nothing but the oaks and ash trees surrounding them. She heard nothing but the rain and her own breathing. She felt Bill tense beneath her, and saw his ears swivel in the direction Dushon went. Her right hand tightened around the haft of her spear.
A bush rustled slightly to her left. She raised her spear to strike. She lowered it again. It was Dushon. “There is a mansion ahead. It appears abandoned. The tracks lead onto the grounds.”
Kendrick didn’t like the sound of that. “Are there any roads he may have taken from here?”
“No, Ma’am.,” he said. “There were once roads, but the forest has reclaimed them. It comes right up to the compound walls.” Not simply a landmark then. A destination.
The sun was dipping further and further towards the horizon. “We cannot waste the light of day. Dismount and ready your weapons. Let’s take a look at this place.” As her Pathfinders did as they were bidden, she asked Dushon, “Was there a seal or mark on the mansion? Something to identify it?”
Dushon nodded. “I saw a name carved into the gate. I assume it’s the name of the family, or maybe the estate. I know not.”
“What name?”
“Fallowdown.”
2: The West Wind Blows
There are many philosophers, poets, and bards who say that civilization's war against the natural world was lost long ago. In lamenting lyrics, they sing of the fading glory of the Old Empire, of order's unravelling, and the inevitable fading of us all from the pages of history. Watchmaster Kendrick usually paid such dramatic dimwits little heed when she heard them in the taverns of Hillfort. As she entered the broken gate of Fallowdown however, saw the lightless and forlorn mansion before her, the walled grounds overtaken with foot deep piles of leaf litter, the rows of what must have once been orderly bushes turned into wild and thorny hedgerows, and the tall surrounding walls of carefully laid masonry pulled down in places by the mighty roots of trees, she could begin to agree with them.
It was difficult to assess the size of the estate. Their were remains of outbuildings peaking out through the brush, and the mansion's size implied that it had a similarly large plot of land surrounding it. Dushon had estimated the grounds were about 300 yards square. The Tabaxi led the patrol along a brush strewn walkway behind what must have once been a carriage house or stable, and concealed them from the mansion's shuttered windows. The five Pathfinders all had weapons drawn, their cloaks pulled back or rolled up and put away in preparation for what may come.
Kendrick peered around the corner. Fallowdown may have seemed quaint had it been built along the noble avenues of Hillfort's middle district, but deep in this forest, the two-story stone structure seemed to strain against the canopy of trees that struggled to shield all light of the sky from this place. It felt huge, foreboding, but also dead. Most of the windows had their shutters drawn, and those that didn't lacked shutters altogether. No light, sound, or movement disturbed the place. The rain had stopped, and unmoving air left the estate soaking in the smell of peaty decay and neglect.
The sky was beginning to darken. They had perhaps an hour before night drew a shroud over them. Baiglor, a powerfully built orc and an accomplished mercenary before he came to the Pathfinders, let out a long breath. "If he's in there, he'll only be vulnerable for a little while longer. "
"If he's in therre, my friend, he came for a purpose," Dushon retorted.
Kendrick's grip tightened around her spear, "Either way, we have a mission to complete." Kendrick passed her spear to Baiglor and reached into a pouch on her belt. She produced a small piece of paper, and in tiny script she recorded the final details of their path to this place. Then she wrote, Located ruin: Fallowdown. He may be within. Came for reason. We enter. She reached under her breastplate, and retrieve a red leather pouch. It was rectangular, like a small envelope or courier's bag. She carefully slid the paper within the pouch, tied it shut, and pushed it back under her breastplate.
"Dushon, take Vaelan and check around back. Baiglor and Crag with me to the front door." She could have said more. She could have told them to be careful, or to not underestimate their foe. She didn't need to. They knew their trade. They knew their quarry. They knew her mind. She said nothing, and the five went.
They kept low, moving smoothly and as quick as they could without making too much noise. The air was so still though. Too still. Each fall of Kendricks boots sounded like a drum beat in her ear. Her heartbeat and breathing filled her ears. Still the building was quiet and dead as a tomb. The stone walls loomed larger before them. The windows were all shut on the ground floor. As Kendrick reached the first of the steps leading to the front door she noticed two things. First, the door was ajar and the lock lay in a smashed piled just inside the doorjamb. Second, a rush of wind suddenly blew in from the west and rustled the soggy trees above them. She felt a splash of warm water land on the back of her neck. Then she heard armor strike pave stones.
Kendrick turned, and saw Crag and Baiglor face down on the ground behind her. An arrowhead, silver and beautifully wrought, quivered on the end of its shaft embedded in Baiglor's neck. The wind blew again. Her instincts took over. She brought her spear up over her head and crouched in a defensive posture. As her head came up, she saw a figure dropping from the trees above. As the dying light of day struck the figure, Kendrick saw golden armor, a cloak the color of a summer forest, and a silver blade. Their blades met and the battle was joined.
3: New Blood
Maxim Trevalian, Baron of Oppah's Mill and Knight of Whitecaster, had no authority over the Pathfinders. True, their guildhall was in his city. Yes, they had previously worked together for the good of his fiefdom and people. And indeed, they were allies in the defense of Casteria. But the law stated, written in ages past when divine beings called "emperors" walked among mortals, that the Pathfinders take orders only from the Imperial Throne. And that throne fell into shadow long, long ago.
Regardless, Baron Trevalian smirked as his moral authority had forced Guildmaster Waylis to relax for once in his gods damned life. There he sat, across from Maxim, submerged up to his neck in the purifying hot water of the castle's great bath. The back of his head rested on the smooth rounded stonework, with his eyes closed. The careworn wrinkles and crows' still gave Waylis the look of a man far older than he truly was. Yet, for the moment at least, the perpetual strain of his duty was absent from his face. Maxim's only concern at this point was if Waylis might have fallen asleep and manage to drown himself in this moment of peace.
"It's a good thing we don't have one of these in the guildhall," Waylis said with a contented sigh.
"And why's that?" Maxim asked, knowing the answer.
"None of use would get anything done." The leader of the Pathfinders splashed some water on his face, rose and draped his shoulders over the edge of the large rectangular pool. There was enough space between the two men that an ox cart could have driven between them. "It's hard enough keeping the new blood on track. If they could look forward to this every day they'd never go beyond the wall."
"How are your new recruits faring?" Maxim asked. "I heard one of your parties returned yesterday."
Waylis nodded, "Mordred brought Ivaebhin and Aezra back from the coast, along with a recruit from the Saerloon chapter. They've been gone a couple months." Waylis reached behind him and picked up the bottle of wine sitting at the edge of the bath. He took a long pull.
Maxim watched him. "And?"
Waylis looked up at the vaulted ceiling for a few seconds before looking back at his old friend, "And they got themselves on the trail of a no-good necromancer who seems to have dreams of world domination."
Maxim chuckled, "Necromancy seems to be in season at the moment."
Waylis shot him a look, "Don't get me started on that whole crystal carnival thing." Maxim chuckled. "Don't laugh, we nearly died!"
"So they're turning out well?"
Waylis frowned. "For the most part. They've been able to track down threats beyond the walls, but they keep sticking their nose into business within them, too. There was that whole mess with your sister in Selgaunt, and apparently, they decided to take on a thieves' guild in Saerloon."
Maxim nodded. A letter came in from Anya, and she told him about what happened. He understood Waylis' concerns, but he couldn't argue with their results. "Their actions demonstrate they have noble hearts within them," Maxim said. "As for their tendency to stick their heads into affairs beyond their purview, they'll be in good company with that other mob of yours."
The guildmaster's lip twitched briefly into a grin. "I assume you mean the award-winning contestants of the Crystalline Carnival? The banishers of shadow dragons? My esteemed vampire hunters?" He rolled his eyes and let out a long exasperated breath. "The vigilante founders of the Dreyes Pathfinders?"
Maxim started chuckling to himself as Waylis listed his flagship recruits' exploits. By the time he mentioned the positively dismal little town built on pine tar and pine tar accessories, both men were laughing hysterically. Maxim could still see the look of absolute disbelief he had on his face when Zall, Teagen, Selene, Gita, Mordred and now departed Callum had laid out their story of averting regime change in that backwater settlement. "That is, in fact, the mob I refer to," Maxim said wiping a tear from his eye.
Waylis took another sip of his wine. When he put the bottle down, a faintly paternal smile came over him. "They would be in good company. I shudder to think what they could achieve together." The smile fell. "My only fear is the damage their good intentions could do to us."
The statement caught Maxim by surprise. He narrows his eyes at his old friend. "You trust them don't you?"
"I do," he nodded. "They did the right thing even when they didn't necessarily trust me."
Memories of the poor Basil and Sadie, their friends from childhood, came back to Maxim. They had been turned into vampires by Alikir the Handsome years ago, and their children stolen from them. Maxim was the only other soul alive who knew Waylis had been sheltering and supporting them in their forsaken homestead all these years. That was, of course, until his recruits found out. It turned out well enough. Alikir's influence over them was broken, the vampire had fled, and the farmers' children were discovered in Hillfort shortly thereafter.
Waylis clenched his jaw and looked down at the water. To Maxim's regret, the strain started to work back into his friend's face. "It's not about trusting their intentions. I do. I trust all of them." Waylis said quietly. "However, you and I both understand the precarious nature of the relationship between the Pathfinders and the states we operate within. The Old Empire's gone and our charter is just words to the powers that be. As long as our actions benefit all people and we stay out of the affairs of the realm your piers indulge us. If we meddle too much, that indulgence could end."
Maxim shook his head, "Aside from the actions of those involved, the nobility wouldn't turn on your whole order. No offense, but with the number of pathfinders you have now you're not exactly a threat to the kingdom."
Waylis' head rose and his cold eyes fixed on Maxim's. For a split second, fear gripped the Baron's heart. It like being stared at by a hawk. Or a dragon. Waylis said, "Our successes over the past year are making our numbers start to grow again. Fairwinter has told me that this is true across all of the chapters he has contact with. In a few years, instead of a handful of pathfinders in most towns and cities, you could see dozens. Maybe even hundreds. Will your noble brethren still tolerate the Pathfinders when we are an army garrisoned within their walls? Will they tolerate that army's presence when its soldiers take issue with how they run their fiefdoms?"
Maxim swallowed. "I see." He picked up his own bottle, popped the cork, and raised it to his friend. "Here's to the tightrope that you, me, and your pathfinders have to balance upon."
Waylis smiled and raised his in return. "Here's to not falling off."
4: 2 Blades
The sand of the fighting pit crunched beneath Mordred’s boots as he stepped into the setting sun’s light. His armor, carefully mended and lovingly polished, seemed to blaze with golden sunlight. Though he was armored in chainmail, helm, and gloves, he wore no sword or shield. The red and yellow tabard of his order and the strength of his spirit were all he bore with him into the arena.
Opposite him stood a man in a worn but well-loved breastplate of blued steel. The tanned face and gray eyes of Waylis looked back at Mordred. “Your order requires that you train with all manner of weapons, yes?”
Mordred nodded. “We do.” The two, five paces apart, began to circle. Mordred watched the older man. He noted each step, each shifting of his balance, the relaxed stillness of his hands.
“They teach you that to face an opponent, one-on-one, is the true test of you both?”
Mordred nodded, “It is.” Before the words had fully left Mordred’s mouth, Waylis had closed the distance. His sword, that tipless two-handed executioner’s sword called Drakesbane, appeared from nowhere and nearly removed the helm from the cleric’s shoulders. Mordred stepped back just in time, felt the wind of the blade’s passing, brought his own long sword up and deflected the follow-up attack to his right before following up with a cut at Waylis’ head. The older man deflected the blow with the flat of his sword and disengaged.
“You wield that blade well, Mordred,” Waylis said. Mordred didn’t respond, taking a high guard position. Waylis continued, “You do Tempus’ disciples credit.” He came in, faking left, then right stabbing for Mordred’s flank. He blocked it, shoving the spent blow aside and rammed forward with the point of the crossguard, pushing Waylis back. Mordred followed, wrapping his left hand around the midpoint of his blade and shoved Waylis back again, aiming to throw him off his balance. Waylis backpedaled, and when Mordred made a sudden slash at his legs, the guildmaster slid back and stumbled. Mordred’s sword rose high and drove down, all the cleric's power applied. Waylis blocked it, but fell, his feet finally coming out from under him.
Waylis threw up a hand, halting the finishing thrust. He smiled, and Mordred gave the older man a hand as he came to his feet. “Single combat with blade against blade is a fine contest. Against an opponent of equal skill, traits like insight, strategy, and patience can tip the balance.”
Mordred nodded. “Tempus bids us to challenge ourselves thus. An equal contest is where we truly see who we are.”
Waylis faced Mordred again, standing easy, his sword tip in the sand and his hands resting upon the pommel. “What about unequal contests? What does your god say of them?”
Mordred rested the flat of his long blade over his shoulder as he gathered his thoughts. “We can never truly know a contest is unequal until the battle is joined. Sometimes the foe is boastful and masks weaknesses that battle with reveal. Others lay traps that a dauntless attack may spring prematurely and fail. Others truly are unequal, and if we survive we learn from them.”
Waylis laughed sullenly, eyes staring through the arena’s floor, “‘If you survive them,’ being the key.” Mordred saw pain on the man’s face, perhaps regret. When Waylis’ looked up though, his gray eyes were as hard as steel. The blow came suddenly, as if he was punched in the face, and Mordred’s helmet was jammed back into his face, skewing his vision. Instinct brought his sword off his shoulder in a lateral warding swing and he shook his head and reseated his helm. Through the vision slits he saw Waylis approaching. But instead of Drakesbane, he held a rapier. Its long elegant blade pointing at him, as if marking him for death. In Waylis’ off hand was a dagger nearly a foot long. Both had matching quillons guarding the hands; a matched set. They were beautiful to behold, artfully wrought, but their aesthetics masked the strength and bloody nature of their purpose. “Let us see if two blades against your one is an unequal contest.”
The rapier, its blade 40 inches long, shot forward like lightning. Mordred parried, brought the tip of his blade down to counter but was forced back by the dagger coming the other way. It barely missed him. Waylis struck again, dagger coming from low right, rapier high left. Again, Mordred had to back away, fending the longer blade away with his own. A flurry of strikes like this rained down on him, and though he blocked, side stepped, countered, he could not get the initiative back.
Waylis lunged, the point rising to take Mordred through the slits of his visor. The War Cleric had had enough. He turned slightly, letting the attack pass by his head and drove his sword forward, aiming to cleave through quillon, guard, and hand. But the dagger deflected the blow, and before he could get out of range he felt the blade jab through the rings of his mail. The armor didn’t break, but he was forced back. He felt blood from a puncture in his chest, not deep, but could have been. His heart raced, adrenaline surged. He stared at Waylis. The Guildmaster of Pathfinders, an ally and mentor, wore the look of an executioner across his set face. His eye, no longer gray, burned with an inner fire. Waylis spoke, but not with his own voice. “Bravery and aggression will only get you so far when your opponent, your equal though he may be, brings two blades to the duel. Fight your foe on his terms, Mordred of Greensea, and you will find death.”
Mordred shook. He knew that voice. He knew those eyes, and the radiant fire that burned within. “What must I do to defeat such a foe?” he asked, raising his guard in what would likely be the final bout.
Waylis, but not Waylis, squared up with Mordred, just out of range. The fire regarded him, and for a moment, the executioner’s face fell away to show Waylis' warm paternal smile. “You have the will to endure, and the strength to win. As do your companions. You also have the wisdom to see a way forward if you look back upon what you’ve been taught.” Waylis’ smile grew into an amused chuckle. “It’s far simpler than you think.”
The phrase rang in his ears like a rung bell. His father used to say that whenever Mordred got frustrated in their own duels when he was a novice. It was usually because the boy, smart he may be, often over thought the problem. Mordred shook his head, his chuckle muffled by the helm.
“‘When your foe brings two blades to the fight, bring two of your own.’” He said. Mordred’s blade thrust forward, no longer the longsword. His rapier crossed with Waylis’. Waylis brought his dagger forward at the same time, aiming for his heart. Mordred caught the thrust on a dagger of his own. Two blades to face two blades. Battle commenced in earnest. Each rained blow after blow. Cuts, thrusts, feints, and flurries of combinations. Each was countered, deflected, blocked.
Their breaths came hard and fast, their muscles burned with fatigue, and all thoughts but that of survival fell away. The two stood apart, equally fatigued, their form sagging. The being in Waylis’ guise spoke, “Shall this continue forever? Two equal opponents bound for mutual annihilation?”
“There’s one truth you never speak to your followers, but that we all learn on our own.” Mordred said. “Many of us mortals are similar,” his words came out piecemeal as he fought to manage his breathing. “We may be taught the same, walk the same paths, but we are all individuals. None of us are the same.” He gathered himself. “There is no such thing as an equal contest.” Mordred lunged. So did Tempus.
Mordred’s eyes opened. He was sitting in the bleachers of the Fighting pits, surrounded by dozens of Oppah’s Mill’s various and sundry townsfolk. They were all on their feet cheering. He felt a coldness on his leg. When he looked down, he saw he had poured his ale into his lap. He’d fallen asleep. Cursing, he shot up onto his feet, pointlessly wiping at his soaked tabard. When he looked up, he saw why everyone was cheering. Ivaebhin and Aezra stood in the center of the arena, hands raised in victory. Their opponents, beaten and bloody, rising to their feet to shake the victors’ hands. Two blades against two.
