The land was barren, life exempt.

For miles in every direction, little else but hard-packed, weed infested brown and yellow earth dominated the landscape. Tufts of grass were here and there, trying to cling onto life, but they looked pathetic, deserted. It was as if, long ago, life had given this landscape a try only to be stomped out and burned away by an all-consuming blight. Neven’s eyes opened and shut, opened and shut. Something desperate inside of him prayed that the next blink would produce a new picture and he could be anywhere else but here. Where was the lavender?

The clouds above were a dark, navy blue, and the sun, high in the sky, hid behind them as if ashamed of what lay upon the surface below. Not a single bird soared up there, not a creature walked on the earth that Neven could see, and he felt certain that nothing living had come this way in ages. The shady outline of a mountain could be seen far in the distant north, or it might have been a hill, Neven couldn’t tell. He imagined he might be the tallest standing object for miles, and the thought terrified him deeply. He was like a tower with eyes on a barren plain, standing watch for nothing.

So this was Tallindra. All of the sacrifice in Raithe, for this.

The homesickness was almost immediate, the yearning to be with his scattered friends crushing. Somehow the vast openness before Neven was more suffocating than the Ghastly Peaks that loomed over him and kept him trapped in Raithe for the first seventeen years of his life. The smell of the air was different, the feel of the wind at his back stronger than any natural current of air he’d felt before, and Neven ached for the dangerous and familiar forests of Raithe if only because they gave him a place to hide. Here he felt like a million eyes could have been watching him all at once in every direction miles and miles away, and with each passing moment Neven’s anxiety took a stronger hold.

He remembered a time from his early childhood, a memory long forgotten but apt for the here and now. When he was seven or eight, Neven was out playing hide and seek with Talpus somewhere along the eastern outskirts of Hamelin. He climbed a giant spruce tree to hide, and as fate would have it, he snapped loose a thin branch and sent a baby squirrel tumbling to the ground, defenseless as it bounced off the ground below. The rest of the critters living in the tree had flown or ran away from Neven, higher up the tree or back down the trunk to the surface. But the tiny thing, not yet fast or keen in the ways of fleeing from predators, had scrambled to the end of a weak branch with nowhere to go.

Neven rushed to the bottom in a panic, tears already streaming down his face. The squirrel was barely the size of a crab apple, and he knew Talpus would have stepped on it had he found it there barely moving. So he picked up the injured animal and ran for his home on Hamelin’s Ring Road, ignoring the weak scratches of protest on his palm the entire way.

His mother was not pleased. Clara Fairchild insisted that he return the baby squirrel back to the forest and let nature take its course. However, after his pleading with his mother for hours, Barlow pulled Neven aside and allowed him to raise the injured animal in the library attic on one condition: he couldn’t say anything to his mother. It was to be their little secret; one of many small lies they would share over the years.

Four months later the squirrel’s health had significantly improved. It had become quite strong, and had taken a strange liking to Neven. After his morning classes at Hamelin’s boy’s school, Neven would scour the forest for nuts and berries, and he would return home before supper to hand-feed his furry friend. His father had even allowed him to build the squirrel a tiny home with the long-forgotten attic tomes, and it happily lived there, knowing little else beyond its walls. That was until they were found out by Neven’s mother.

After putting Barlow in his place, Clara Fairchild pulled aside her son and told him to bring his pet downstairs. Neven obeyed, weeping little boy tears the entire time, and when he came down from the attic, Clara had him take the lead down the Ring Road, past the town outskirts, and to the squirrel’s spruce tree.

“Neven,” she had said, kneeling down and taking the squirrel into her hands at the base of the tree. “All life has its place. Nature is to be left alone to thrive, even in the face of death. You may have saved this animal, but what are the consequences of such an action?” Neven shrugged, pouting. “We can never know for sure until it happens, son, but know this: in bringing this creature home you have not only disobeyed me, but you have also upset the natural order of things as intended by the gods. This small creature’s home is this spruce tree and not your father’s dusty attic. No animal should be kept for amusement, even if you feel your action saved its life. You cannot know nature’s plan, Neven. Do you understand?”

Neven nodded, and the tears started to pour again as he knew the time was nigh. He thought his mother was going to make him put down his pet, as things would have been had he not saved it. But she put the chattering squirrel back into Neven’s hand and held his other free hand softly in her own.

“Now, Neven. Restore the natural order,” she continued, running her hand through his shaggy, brown mop of hair. “Release the animal, turn and walk away. Leave him to the fates. You may come back and visit, but only on this creature’s terms will you ever meet again. It is the right way of things. All wild animals must be given this choice. The choice to live and die by their own choices, not the choices of others.”

Neven remembered a deep feeling of understanding overtook him when his mother spoke those words at the foot of the spruce tree. More than anything he was relieved that his squirrel would live and he might even get to see it again. So, finding the strength inside of him, he gently set the squirrel down beside the roots and soil at the spruce’s base, and, after a few persistent attempts, the small, furry creature stayed put, confused chattering the only sound perforating the evening's darkness. With Neven’s small hand in his mothers, they turned and walked away, the natural order restored.

The next morning Neven returned to the spruce tree to find the squirrel dead exactly where he’d left it. He ran as fast as his little legs would take him back to his home, back to his mother. Clara told him, as he cried himself dry on her lap, that despite being from the spruce tree, the squirrel had been removed from nature for so long that its kinship to the tree was no longer. The squirrel had died from fright, but that too, she said, was how it was meant to be. In the end, he had to see that all that had been gained from bringing the small animal home was his own pain and a hard life lesson. But perhaps that too was intended for him by the gods, she said, and she hoped that he would take some solace in that.

Now, standing alone on the open wasteland, Neven finally understood how his squirrel must have felt. The panic settled in.

Centuries ago, before The Great War, Tallindra might have been the Raithian people’s natural home – Neven’s natural home. But it had been too long since then – so many things forgotten, too many generations gone by. This place was foreign, empty. Neven’s place in nature was Raithe, not this, but now Raithe was gone and out of reach, perhaps forever, for he had been taken from his comfy, sometimes dangerous attic and left at the foot of a giant spruce to die by himself, just like his pet. A crushing loneliness overtook him.

But hadn’t he smelled lavender as he passed through the red abyss and into Tallindra? He could have sworn he smelled lavender, the scent of his mother, still alive, waiting for him here. But there wasn’t a soul in sight. Only a vast emptiness. The lavender must have been a trick of the senses, only something he wished was there.

And then there was something. The sight of life. At least he thought it was life.

To the east, a trailing cloud of dust was shooting up from the ground, approaching Neven from a great distance. A black figure led the way in front of the kicked up dirt and it moved at such an incredible clip that Neven thought it couldn't be human.

Suddenly, Neven’s palms tingled and his right arm throbbed with an aching sensation that he hadn't felt since his fight with Kreinveck in The Tournament of Hearts. He looked down at his hands, saw the V brands of Morgrath there searing invisibly beneath his skin. However, when Neven focused on the actual sensation, he realized there was no pain. The brands were trying to tell him something, like a friend tapping him on the shoulder and pointing out something obvious.

Then Neven felt his right forearm, a glossy smooth plate of some unknown and unbreakable substance surrounded by skin, stretch and shift further up his arm and toward his shoulder. It was as if the grafted plate in his arm was alive and trying to hide itself in anticipation of the approaching thing in the distance. Neven winced at the pain, and rubbed at his arm as a sudden feeling of foreboding ran over him. He knew he couldn’t let the blurry, black shape in the distance find him.

“What to do, what to do . . .” Neven muttered to himself, fumbling in his satchel for some sort of answer, trying to push back the panic. But, as he expected, there was nothing helpful there – only a book of ballads, a small, dull paring knife and a half-full water skin likely full of liquor. Maybe he could sing the approaching figure into a peaceful muse, feed it booze and then cut its throat? No, not with his voice. He couldn’t even get through a simple barroom melody without the lute player snarling at him from across the room. No, his options were two, as far as he could see it.

But there was nowhere to run, and even less places to hide on this barren landscape. Neven thought he could maybe dig himself a hole, bury himself in dirt and hope the dark figure would fly past him. But when he removed his spinal staff from the sling at his back and stabbed at the ground, it only revealed what he had already assumed. It was hard-packed like stone, bereft of any moisture. He imagined the earth would probably groan with contempt had he spat on its surface.

So Neven ran, knowing not what else to do. The black shape was still a long ways away, still a faint blur on the horizon, and he hoped that maybe the endless landscape had an end after all. Perhaps it would miraculously change, despite what his senses told him, and he could find a place to hide, maybe a tree to climb or a boulder to sneak behind. He would’ve taken to hiding in deep, well-used latrine if it presented itself at that moment. Anything to get away from the figure in the distance.

Neven knew his thoughts were desperate, but fight or flight it had to be, and he'd had his full share of fighting the past few days. He just wanted to see his mother, was that too much to ask? His dear father, dead and lost to The Yonder, had promised Neven she was here in Tallindra. But, as it had been the last seven years, she seemed really good at not being around when Neven needed her the most.

He ran for miles, but the black shape was catching up quick. He had to repress the urge to look back every few seconds, for his pace slowed each time as he marvelled at how, despite running as fast as his legs would carry him, the cloud of dust just sallied on, covering three miles for his every one. And then he realized that the black shape was riding upon something, and it definitely wasn’t an unhitched, sure-footed ox. Back home in Hamelin, Neven had seen a few of the most well-bred oxen gallop at a great speed for a quarter-mile at most, but nothing like this. The black rider had to be travelling on something with both incredible speed and stamina.

Could it really be a horse? That fine breed of animal mentioned time and time again in The Legends of Tallindra? It was one creature that Neven always wished was real when he thought this place was fictional, but as he felt his lungs nearly exploding in his chest and his throat dry with dust and fatigue, he rethought that wish. Instead he prayed the black rider’s mount would suddenly transform into a giant boulder and crush him beneath as it rolled over him.

As much as Neven willed it, the landscape refused to change. In fact, it seemed he'd been running in one place, the only difference from before being that he was tired now. If his terrible premonitions about the rider were correct, running of course meant that and he’d live a bit longer, but what was a few more minutes in the grand scheme of the gods?

Yet he kept going, pushed on by the searing tingle in his palms and the uncomfortable shifting of his plated arm. They were willing Neven to keep on, to not give up, as if promising him some form of help if only he continued moving his tired arse across the wasteland and away from the black rider. Neven cursed to himself. Or at least he would have had he any breath to waste on such a thing.

A flash caught his attention in the distance – a flash of light impossible to miss on the dark and cloudy landscape. Neven shifted his course to the north in the flash’s direction, hoping to see another. But there was no other, and he imagined he was either seeing things or that a random quartz stone had caught an errant ray of sunlight that just happened to flash directly into his eyes.

There was no way of knowing, but Neven’s tired legs had him moving in that bearing anyway, so he pressed on, if only to catch a glimpse of the little stone or piece of glass that had given him something to focus on other than his death.

And then there was another quick flash, and Neven almost tripped over his feet as he went off a bit to his left. He’d gone off his original course, but that was hardly surprising with nothing but a flat and endless landscape in front of him. Yet something had directed him back on course, and it wasn’t far now.

The black rider was close. Neven could hear the hoof beats behind him now, rhythmic and terrifyingly loud. He could feel the rider’s presence like a thick cloud covering the hot sun and draping him in the cold, autumn shade. Nervous pricks ran down his sweating neck and back, and Neven shuddered mid-stride, nearly toppling him over. He stumbled, and lurched his neck back to catch a glimpse of the black rider that would end his life, and he immediately regretted it. Better to die ignorant of your killer. Better to die with the cold, packed dirt as the last thing he’d ever see.

It was a man, features horribly sunken, face pale as snow. In contrast, his tight-fitting jacket and pants were of the deepest black, his pocketed eyes and long hair even more so. Sharp, white buttons ran down the entire length of his dress, and he wore a black cloak that soared behind him unnaturally, as if it was alive as he was.

The look he was giving Neven was of frenzied anticipation, as if the next few moments were more important than all of those before it. His hungry eyes were fixated, and he flashed his teeth, affirming his intent. But before Neven could turn his gaze and right himself for a fight, he caught a quick glance at the rider’s black mount and fell over onto the dirt, skidding as he tumbled, but unable to look away.

The horse hadn’t any eyes. Its mouth was sewn shut, and despite moving with the swiftness and grace of a beautiful animal, it looked starved and decrepit, like some poor animal dug up from its grave and made to run on forever. And then Neven remembered the Necrot, and even thought there was no hammered fist insignia, he knew this horse and its rider had the mark of the Good Man. His premonitions were true. He had been right to run.

As the black rider approached him at a full gallop, a great billow of dust shot up into the air and the ground gave way in a great line across the wasteland. Neven staggered backward from the carnage, but as his head shot up he was nearly beheaded as a great double-headed axe flew over top of him and soared in the direction of the billowing dust.

It all happened very quickly. The black rider was unable to slow his eyeless steed in time, and he tumbled silently into the shallow pit in front of Neven. But before the dust had even settled, the black rider erupted from the trap, completely unscathed. However, that didn’t last long, as the perfectly timed throw of the twin-bladed axe somehow hit home, impaling the pale-faced rider in the stomach and shooting him back across the other side of the gap.

Two men shot out of the ground a few paces behind the rider with a spear in each of their hands, and they unloaded on their target, striking the pale-faced man four times through. Initially Neven thought it was altogether unnecessary, overkill really. An axe in the gut was usually enough. But then the black rider wobbled to his feet, snapped off the spears in its legs, arms and chest and walked toward Neven, barely skipping a beat if not for the twin-bladed axe slipping a little out of his stomach, dragging across the ground between his feet.

The expression on the rider’s face didn’t change. He still wanted Neven, still smiled as he outran the two heavily armed men behind him and launched himself across the gap. The axe dislodged itself mid-air and tumbled into the pit below. The men, who Neven recognized as almost-identical twins, remained stuck on the other side, and they bolted for the outer edges of the gap to intercept the thing they’d just impaled with spears.

The black-clad rider landed in front of Neven with a thud, rolled its shoulders up and down with a loud crack and then brushed at his legs and removed the remaining wooden spear splinters from his thighs. He walked toward Neven, not an uncomfortable movement in his stride.

What was this thing? Was this too a Necrot?

“Raithian . . .” he whispered, his voice haunting and luring at the same time. The words came out in one giant exhale, as if he’d held his breath his entire life in anticipation for this very moment. Neven didn’t know whether to be flattered or terrified, but there was no denying he felt the latter.

“Run, boy. Get away from here!” uttered a voice a ways behind Neven, likely the man that hurled the twin-bladed axe. But Neven could neither turn his head toward the beckoning voice nor could his legs do their job and get him back to his feet. Whatever this rider was, he was managing to hold Neven in place as sure as a cockroach under a heavy boot without even lifting his foot to do so. He was running nowhere.

“You smell like the witch,” said the pale-faced rider. He took in a deep whiff of air, delighted by the scent. “But your blood smells even sweeter, boy. The only question is how you’ve escaped my tender grasp with such a sweetness about you. Can you tell me, Raithian? I hate secrets.”

“What do you want?” said Neven, struggling to breath. The weight of the rider’s darkness was crushing, getting heavier with each passing moment. As he had before in times of dire consequence, he tried to dig deep for the light inside of him to fight the heavy darkness, but it was being repressed. Neven wasn’t strong enough.

“You don’t know what I want?” said the pale-faced rider, sniggering at the absurdity of Neven’s question. Neven didn’t know how to answer. “You really don’t know, do you? What? . . . Have you fallen from the sky? Or have these pathetic men found a way into Raithe itself and dragged you kicking and screaming into the real world?” Neven couldn’t have gulped any louder as he thought on how close he had guessed, and the rider’s laughing ended abruptly, his black, sunken eyes growing larger and larger like a reptile eyeing down his prey. The crushing feeling in Neven’s chest intensified and the man darted closer.

“Now, Thando!” screamed the man behind him.

A misplaced or mistimed explosion blasted up from the dirt several paces behind Neven’s assailant, shooting the black rider forward, head over heels, directly toward him. The grasping darkness suddenly left Neven, and he crawled backward just as the rider came tumbling down at his feet. Unaffected by the blow of the loud explosion, his head shot up from the ground and he looked at Neven with those same black eyes, their intent malicious and deadly. He grinned, mocking their efforts to stop him, and then he shot out his hand lightning quick and snatched Neven’s right ankle before he could get away.

Neven’s heart skipped a beat, and seemed to stall in his chest like a broken drum. The breath shot out of his lungs like an invisible string of involuntary vomit, and he felt his body’s moisture seep from his outer pores and leak from his internal organs. It was death he felt, he was sure of it.

There had been many close calls, so much lost just to get to Tallindra in the first place. His father, Smoke, Tyrus, and now here he was, failing on his promise to his Jagisado guardian and dying before he’d even set his sights on the Good Man. Neven was ashamed of himself. Then the dying ended.

A long, black needle slid into the rider’s head, and Neven felt his heart kick back into beating and a shot of air erupt into his lungs. He scampered back and tried to get to his feet, padding his chest and feeling himself up and down to make sure he was still alive. He felt a steadying, firm hand grab him by the shoulder, and then he stopped moving and watched the confusing scene in front of him.

Something in a white, hooded robe stood over top of the pale-faced rider, shaking as it held the needle-like sword deeply imbedded in the rider’s head. It was difficult to understand the situation, for the one in charge seemed to be more afraid than the one with the sword in the head. For although the rider seemed unable to move, he managed to keep his troubling gaze on Neven. Worse, he still had that damn smile on his sunken face.

The fingers gripping the hilt of the strange, needle-point sword were abnormally long, but like a man’s. Almost more intrigued now than afraid, Neven tried to get up close so he could get a better look at who or what had saved his life. But when he tried to pull himself up, the steady grip on his shoulder tightened.

“Just watch, boy. Watch hard and don’t forget what you see,” said the gruff voice into his ear. Neven turned his head and saw that the man was middle-aged with a great, brown beard, thick and long enough to hide a newborn child. But although the beard covered most of his face, dozens of scars, both fresh and old, tore lines across his leathery face. Most would have considered him horribly disfigured, but somehow Neven felt safer knowing this man had stared death in the face more than once, for what had just attacked Neven was certainly just that.

He gave Neven a nudge in the back with his knee, caught him looking up at him. “Don’t make me say it again, boy. Pay attention.” And so Neven did.

There was a click, and a pop, and with a final twist the hilt of the sword came off completely. The white robed figure let it drop from his hand to the dirt. Still shaking, it grabbed the tight belt at its waist and with a quick tug its robe fell to the ground at its feet. Only a black loincloth remained beneath, but that wasn’t what attracted Neven’s attention.

Across the entirety of its golden body was what looked to be deep carvings filled in with red and black ink. It was as if this man-like creature was once the trunk of an old, sad tree and someone had etched his bark with patterns that had failed to scar over and heal. And although the body looked old and quite worn, the face was not. Underneath his silver mop of hair was a face of fear and innocence, and had Neven not just watched this strange person slide a sword through the skull of the rider, he might have felt compelled to console him.

“Do it, Xolti!” said one of the twins as he approached from the other side of the gap. He had a throaty, nasally voice that Neven found most unappealing.

“Uh!” grunted his brother beside him in agreement. He jumped up and down a few times, unable to contain his excitement.

“Finish the job! Now isn’t the time for fucking cowards!” said the twin again, spitting on the limp body of the paralyzed, black rider. Xolti, the tattooed mystery, seemed to not hear either of them. The look in his blue eyes told Neven he was elsewhere, perhaps trying to make peace with what he intended to do next.

“What’s happening? What’s he going to do?” asked Neven, but the bearded man didn’t reply, only squeezed his shoulder harder.

Xolti took deep breath after deep breath, calming himself. After the shaking finally stopped he went still as stone statue, and his blue eyes sunk back into his head, revealing a dark black behind. Neven was right – Xolti was somewhere else.

Xolti drove the opposite end of the black needle into his chest a few inches, making a sick sucking sound. At first Neven thought he was going to let it pierce him through, and he nearly ripped himself from the bearded man’s grasp in a vain attempt to stop him. But it was far too late, and he could only watch as Xolti looked like he was trying to scream and couldn’t.

“Xolti destroys the demon,” said the man at his back, pointing at the black needle that linked Xolti and the black rider. “The runes on his skin protect him from the worst of it, but there is still pain in the exchange. Deep, unmeasurable pain – the kind that cannot be seen or understood.” Neven was relieved to hear compassion in the man’s voice. In contrast, the twins were watching with intense interest, like this was some spectacle to behold. If first impressions were anything, Neven figured the one twin was too much of a dullard to understand what was happening, but the other seemed smart enough and he took it in greedily all the same. “My name is Shen, the leader of this group here,” continued the bearded man, his voice low and gruff. “And what can I call you?”

“Neven,” he replied. He took a deep swallow and watched as Xolti stood upright, his golden complexion now an ugly, pale white but for the deep incisions all over his body. The needle slipped out of his chest, blood dripped from his wound, and out the top of the black needle an ash-coloured discharge bubbled out like a small fountain. Below, the black rider’s body slowly disintegrated as the discharge came to a dribble, and only the demon’s black pants, shirt and cloak remained. The air smelled putrid, like spoiled milk mixed with vinegar.

Neven noticed the red lines on Xolti’s body were no longer, only black remained. It was as if he had gone through some kind of transformation, and Neven could see he was struggling as he collapsed to one knee and grunted with pain.

“Fight it, Xolti!” said Shen, leaving Neven’s side as he ran to the unrobed man. “Remember what you were taught, and fight it!”

One of the twins unsheathed his sword and held it at Xolti’s neck. His brother followed suit, so Neven got up and rushed to Xolti’s aid. He wasn’t about to let the two dullards cold-blood kill the man who’d saved him.

“Stay back, lad,” said Shen as Neven rushed up with his staff drawn. “Mav, lower your weapon! Xolti will make it through!” Shen put a hand on Xolti’s arm, but withdrew it immediately. It looked to burn him, but Shen didn’t acknowledge the pain. “Fight it, boy! Fight it!”

Neven stopped, felt compelled to listen to Shen’s orders. For his part, Mav sneered and lowered his weapon the tiniest bit. “I don’t take no chances with demons, Shen, even if he’s just a half-breed. He turns, the head comes off, and then Gav here slices him into tiny pieces and we bury his damned corpse in the four corners of the Deadlands.”

“Uh!” Gav agreed with his brother. He too lowered his sword-point.

Suddenly, the black, incised lines all over Xolti cracked and lit up, as if his skin underneath was smouldering. Xolti winced, and groaned, crossed his arms across his stomach and dropped his other knee, doing everything possible to keep it all in. It was as if he’d swallowed something that was both terrible and still alive, and as he was trying to digest it, the thing was attempting to claw its way out. Then the smouldering lines flashed once, and twice, and Xolti looked as he did before – tattooed patterned incisions half red and half black. Neven was even happier to see his skin revert back from the deathly pale to the more natural golden bronze. Xolti got up from his knees, pulled on his robe and then clasped the large, brown belt at his waist. His blue eyes showed fatigue, but he looked better. Much better.

“Well, I’ll be damned, he did it,” said Mav, rather unconvincing in his relief. He and Gav both sheathed their giant swords. “I had some serious doubts you had it in ya, half-breed. Serious doubts indeed.”

Xolti ignored Mav and looked at Neven for a long moment, his silver hair falling over his face, leaving little else to see beneath his robe except for the intelligent, blue eyes. He leaned over, picked up the hilt lying on the dusty ground at his feet, and snapped it back onto the black blade of the needle sword with a twist. Demon’s blood, or whatever strange substance that had come out the top of the blade, still ran down the thin, cylindrical shaft, so Xolti turned to Mav and wiped it on the twin’s brown pant leg, leaving an ashy, slimy residue behind.

“You little prick! I’ll cut your throat in your sleep!” snapped Mav, shaking his leg wildly as he danced about trying to flick off the globs of black sludge.

“Huh! Huh! Huh!” laughed Gav at his dancing brother, guffawing like the big oaf that he was. It took the stiffness out of the otherwise tense moment, and Neven couldn’t help but smile at his mirth.

Even stone-faced Shen chuckled, his smile strange and crooked beneath his thick beard. He drew a piece of cloth from a small pouch on his side, passed it to Mav and said, “Give yourself a wipe Mav, and lighten up. We’re still alive. If you hadn’t noticed, that was a Brother Peacekeeper we took down. And we couldn’t have done it without every one of ya. Even you, Neven.”

“The boy makes good demon bait, I’ll give ‘em that. Had the Brother Peacekeeper drooling like a starving beggar outside a butcher shop!” returned Mav, wiping the black stain off his leg. “Ain’t never seen a demon so keen on someone before.”

Xolti flashed Neven another piercing look, grabbed the cloth from Mav’s outstretched hand and wiped down the rest of the sludge on his black needle-pointed sword. He then pulled back the slit on the front of his robe and the strange sword disappeared inside. Neven watched as he walked a ways away from the group, grabbed a near invisible string of rope sticking out of the ground and yanked, revealing a cache of supplies below. He pulled a bag out, removed a small, hand-sized book from a small sleeve on the side, and began to read.

“Don’t mind Xolti,” Shen said to Neven. “It’s just his way.” Neven nodded but couldn’t stop staring at him. He was tongue-tied, couldn’t figure out how to respond to this strange group of men.

What the hell was Xolti? He seemed to be human, but like the demon who’d nearly killed Neven, he was different. Maybe he had the Blessing like Neven? Smoke had said the Blessing manifested itself in different ways, so maybe Xolti used some sort of power to kill the demon? Could he be Raithian too? As always Neven had more questions than answers.

“Mmmmm, so it would seem our little plan worked. Grand,” uttered a dull, monotone voice behind them. Neven turned around and saw a tall, lanky dishevelled man with spectacles and a large pack over his shoulder, burgeoning with supplies. Disinterested, he looked past Neven at Shen. “Sorry about the delay on the blast, Shen. I was slightly . . . preoccupied.”

Mav grunted and spat on the ground. “Not for the first time.”

“My calculations were off, likely the result of being in these miserable Deadlands for weeks,” he replied. He removed his glasses and wiped at the lenses with his white shirt, shaking his head. “This land – it fatigues the mind, eats the soul.”

“That it does, Thando. That it does,” replied Shen.

“I would hope that we plan on making the trip to Adrea soon. We’ve done what we came to do, haven’t we?” asked Thando, looking down at his long, kempt fingernails.

“Aye, we have,” agreed Shen. “Humour me though, Thando, and tell me what you see in the distance. This boy here might not be the only thing to come out of nowhere and into your distant vision.” He shot Neven a probing look, not altogether unfriendly, but unsettling all the same.

Thando pulled a tiny cylinder from his pack, and with a flick of his wrist it made a sliding sound and became a three-foot long, cone-like tube. The end was circular, domed glass, and it caught a flashing ray of sunlight that made Neven turn his gaze. Whatever it was that Thando held had saved Neven’s life.

Thando put it to his right eye and looked through it in the direction from which Neven came. After combing the horizon, he shook his head, squished the long tube back into a cylinder the size of a shot glass and said to Shen, “Nothing for miles. Unlike this boy, the Brother Peacekeepers are hard to miss.” There were grunts of agreement from all sides. “So we go to Adrea then. Besides, my supplies dwindle.”

Neven looked at Thando’s huge pack again, saw that it could barely contain what he already had. If he sincerely thought his supplies were dwindling, then Neven couldn’t imagine what Thando thought of his small, mostly empty satchel hanging at his waist.

“Yes, a trip to Adrea is in order,” said Shen, turning to Neven. “As for you – the gods would agree that your business is your own, Neven, but I know not what would possess a young lad to scour the Deadlands on his own. If your destination is Adrea, you may join us on the trek and leave us there if you wish. The Deadlands are no place for the young and forlorn.”

Before Neven could give a definitive ‘yes’, the sound of hooves on rock rapped up against the sides of the shallow trench. All of their eyes diverted to the snaking hole in the ground, including Xolti’s.

Neven walked to the edge of the trench and saw the black mare. It was on its hind legs, clapping its hooves against stone, panicking at the loss of its master. Underneath the horse was Shen’s twin-bladed axe, ornate and undoubtedly expensive. Shen sighed, and called over Gav.

“Gav, put an arrow between its eyes. Put it out of its misery. One never gets used to seeing these beautiful creatures turned,” said Shen, walking away from the trench.

Gav pulled a bow from his back, one that Neven hadn’t seen due to Gav’s huge frame. He reached into his shirt, pulled out a silver-tipped arrow, nocked it and let it fly.

The arrow hit the abomination between the eyes, and it slid through its solid skull like a silver needle, in one end and out the other. The poor creature staggered back, raised its cracked hooves into the air one last time and then fell over onto its side, silent as it should have been. Neven’s heart caught in his throat.

He’d dreamed of seeing these creatures his entire life. In better times, this could have been one of the fearless war-mounts of the great Sohm Sea army he’d read about in the Legends of Tallindra. Instead, it was a rotting and suffering creature. The work of the Good Man.

Shen jumped down into the trench, retrieved his axe, and held the handle up to Gav.

“Grab that arrow while you’re at it,” snapped Mav, pushing away Gav’s reaching hand. Shen looked up at him and rolled his eyes. “What are you looking at? Payment in fucking demon blood is nice and all, Shen, but the poon in Adrea prefer to fill their closets with fineries, and that arrow’s silver is worth at least a few nights in The Good Matron.” Shen shook his head, pushed the limp horsehead aside and flung the arrow back up at him. Mav caught it and motioned for Gav to pull Shen to the surface. With one great tug on the axe, the bulky, awkward twin yanked him up.

“I’ll come with you,” said Neven, as Shen dusted himself off. “If you’ll have me that is.”

“Have you seen my company?” said Shen, smiling at the lot of them through his beard. “I’m not picky, especially when travelling with me has you hunting demons.”

“You couldn’t beg me to do anything else. Call it a passion of mine,” said Mav, grinning. He and Xolti’s eyes met again as the white-robed man shouldered his pack and took to walking. The rest of the group followed suit, each grabbing their pack from the cache before setting their direction on Xolti’s back. Neven trailed at the back, just thankful to be among people that didn’t want to kill him.

And then he heard Mav mumble to his brother as they sauntered on ahead, “No, Gav. We can’t go bashing his brains in for no reason. Just wait for him to give us one.”

Well, not yet, anyway.