Chapter 12 - Les Ultras - A Coalition of Convenience


Image - The Coalition of Convenience formed at Lehmitz Tavern

Die Alten Hofs lingered in the Elven Wood longer than they had planned, their wounds not only of the body but of the soul needed healing. The forest offered some balm—its light filtered softly through the amber-green canopy, birdsong echoed like fragments of forgotten lullabies, and the scent of pine and bloom dulled the sharper pains of loss. But time, even in an Elven realm, marched on.

 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.

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