Helga was the first to
leave. Ever restless, her heart called to the salty wind of the sea. “The tides
will not wait for grief,” she had said. “And Helgoland does not forgive delay.”
She embraced each of her companions with a firmness that belied her sadness,
but by the time the party woke the next morning, she was already gone—her trail
fading into the eastbound paths of the forest.
Sundras vanished next. No
words, no farewells—only the silent departure of shadows. One of the Elven
scouts swore they saw a flicker of dark movement under a crescent moon, heading
west. But no one knew for certain. Such was the way of the Assassin. Sundras
had come like a blade from the night, and he returned to it just as easily.
Gwendolyn chose to remain.
The Elves welcomed her, sensing in her the fire of old magic. Under the
tutelage of silver-robed scholars and starlit rituals, she delved into the
deeper mysteries of spell-craft and lore, her path winding away from that of
her comrades—but not forever.
It was Drugen and Jederman
who took their leave together, boots crunching over frost-rimmed moss one grey
morning. Neither said much, the silence between them filled with unspoken
brotherhood and the ache of absence. At Wallaman Falls, roaring and ghost-white
with snowmelt, they paused. There, Drugen turned south. “The mines call me,” he
said simply, clasping Jederman’s forearm. “And my kin will want the tale of
Eryndor.” He looked away, the mention of the name still raw. “We will meet
again. In battle or in beer.”
And so, Jederman rode alone,
the frost ever-thickening around him. The road home felt strange, empty of the
camaraderie that once made such journeys a joy. His heart was heavy. He longed
for simpler days—when the smell of blood and gold was enough, when his only
worry was who could lift the heavier cask. In his mind, one name repeated like
a drumbeat—Hockrup.
The Lehmitz was just as he
remembered it: dark wood panels soaked with old songs, hearth-fire crackling in
defiance of the growing chill outside, and the smell of roast boar and spilled
beer a constant. But something had changed. At a back corner table, half-hidden
by shadow and smoke, sat Hockrup—the old rogue, looking like time had caught up
with him in a dark alley and left bruises.
He didn't rise when Jederman
entered. Just lifted his tankard slightly in greeting. Jederman crossed the
room without a word and sat opposite. No laughter. No cheer. Just two warriors
adrift in their grief.
The name Eleri was not
spoken. It hung in the air like incense, too sacred for clumsy words. Hockrup's
eyes were sunken, and Jederman’s were red rimmed from drink and memory. They
drank long, flagon after flagon, until the pain was just a dull throb in the
corner of their minds. And then something shifted.
On the far side of the
tavern, a group began to form at a large oak table. One by one, notable figures
entered and took their seats. Hockrup’s eyes flicked toward them, sharp again
for the first time in days. He nudged Jederman.
“What we need, my man, is a
rip-roaring adventure. Gold. Beer. Fighting. That’ll shake us out of this
bloody stupor.” Jederman raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak. Hockrup leaned in.
“And I might just know where we can find one.” Jederman followed his gaze. The
group now seated was not just any gathering of sell-swords and drunkards. These
were Les Ultras—a legendary free company spoken of in whispers from the Broken
Coast to the Granite Reaches.
Arcan the Wise—his silver
beard and sapphire staff unmistakable—sat deep in thought, nursing a goblet of
blue firewine. To his left, the stern and broad-shouldered Yllness de Medici,
clad in steel etched with holy runes, spoke softly with Armond Albeck, the
Witch Hunter whose black coat bore the burn scars of too many infernos. And
then she entered.
Slipping through the tavern
door with barely a sound, Lenita Gentil moved like a shadow under moonlight—an
Elf Wardancer, lean and coiled with potential energy. Her eyes scanned the room
like a predator before settling on the Les Ultras table. She sat, and though no
one greeted her, the group shifted slightly to make space—as if she had always
belonged.
Jederman blinked. “Didn’t an
Imperial Noble of the Four Fourth Suns run with them?” “He did,” Hockrup
nodded, “but he’s not here. And I’ve not seen him in town for weeks.”
The moment crackled. Hockrup
downed the last of his beer and stood, brushing crumbs off his coat. Jederman
rose with him, towering over the room as they approached the table like two
revenants called back to life.
Without asking, Hockrup sat
casually at one end of the table, resting his arms upon it. Jederman loomed at
the other, hands planted like twin stakes, eyes locked on each face in turn.
“Well met, friends,”
Jederman rumbled, and with a cheeky grin added. “Seems to me you might need two
strong pairs of hands.” He let the silence stretch just long enough. “Now
then—how may we be of service?”
The table was silent for a
heartbeat too long after Jederman’s greeting. Mugs and eyes shifted slightly,
tension flickering like heat lightning. Then Arcan the Wise leaned back slowly,
brushing a wisp of his silver beard with long fingers. “You arrive at an
opportune time,” the old mage said, voice smooth and deep as the roots of the
mountains. “Though whether that is fortune or doom, I cannot yet say.”
Armond Albeck gave a dry
chuckle and leaned forward. “You’re interrupting a council of fools and
dreamers, you understand,” he said. “And if you stay, you’ll become one of us.”
Yllness de Medici, arms
crossed over a breastplate etched with the sunburst of the Cleansing Flame,
gave a slow nod. “We’re about to enter a place where logic has no hold, and
only madness gives you the map.”
Jederman’s eyes narrowed
slightly. “You have my interest.” Hockrup raised a brow. “And my confusion.”
Lenita Gentil, the
Wardancer, grinned—a flash of sharp teeth and brighter madness. “We seek the
Waygate,” she said. Her voice was melodic but dangerous, like a knife in the
dark. “It lies hidden in the heart of the Harksheide Labyrinth beyond the
Spiders Lair.” Hockrup blinked. “That’s not real.” “Oh, it’s real,” Armond said
grimly. “Too real. The Harksheide swallows’ men whole—noblemen, mercenaries,
entire regiments. It shifts. Changes. It remembers.” “And it hates intruders,”
added Yllness. “The deeper you go, the more it becomes… aware.”
Jederman grunted. “Sounds
like a laugh.”
“But why?” Hockrup asked,
frowning now. “What could possibly be worth crawling into that nightmare?” It
was Arcan who answered. He pulled from his satchel a thin scroll, brittle with
age, and unfurled it slowly. The parchment glowed faintly with a silvery sheen,
runes crawling like fireflies across its surface. “We seek the Pentacles of
Soloman,” he said, and even the tavern seemed to hush at the name. Jederman
tilted his head. “That sounds made up.”
“It’s not,” Armond said.
“It’s legend. Myth. Madness. A relic from the Dawn Epoch. Five artifacts forged
by the Arch-Wizard Soloman in a time when mortals ruled the stars and bent
reality to their will.”
“Together,” Arcan continued,
“we must first pass the Infinity Chambers—a place of pure possibility, lost
somewhere beyond the fabric of our realm. Power, knowledge, transformation.” At
that last word, Jederman’s hand tightened slightly on the edge of the table. “But
to reach the Infinity Chambers,” Yllness said solemnly, “one must first find
the Waygate.”
“And the Waygate,” Arcan
said, pointing to a shifting mark on the map, “is said to lie deep within the
Harksheide Labyrinth.”
Lenita leaned in, her voice
a whisper. “Cursed halls. Shifting staircases. Beasts older than the written
word. Echoes of your own thoughts that take form and turn on you. Men go mad in
hours. Others vanish. Some are found decades later, unchanged... or worse.”
Hockrup sat back, exhaled
sharply, and looked over at Jederman.
“So,” he said, smirking.
“You were saying something about needing cheering up?”
Jederman met his friend’s
gaze, and slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. A moment passed.
Then he let out a bark of laughter, loud and full of life. Heads turned across
the tavern.
“Monsters, madness, a cursed
maze, and ancient treasure we’ll never live to spend?” Jederman slammed his
hand down on the table with a grin. “By the gods, finally! Now that’s a plan.”
Hockrup raised his mug. “To
lunacy, then.”
“To the Labyrinth,” said
Arcan.
“To death or glory,”
muttered Armond.
“To the Pentacles,”
whispered Lenita.
The mugs clashed together,
and in the clatter of flagons and foam, something stirred—something old and
reckless and right. Two battered warriors had found their cause again.
The road to the Harksheide
Labyrinth awaited.
