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He had to give it to them, even as well-trained as he is, Eadwulf hadn’t spotted them where they were hiding behind a snowdrift. His eyes were fixed firmly on the group who just reached the first spire of the outpost, he hadn’t been paying enough attention to his surroundings, and they had been silent enough to take advantage of that. When the group he had been tracking for the last couple of weeks disappeared from view he carefully stored his binoculars in his pocket and got up from his position, none the wiser.
A familiar sensation brushed over him, and just like that his grasp on the invisibility he had wrapped around himself was gone. He stood perfectly still, listening. Adrenaline rushed through his body, slowing everything down.
“Raise your hands, spread your fingers,” a voice in heavily accented Common told him. “Don’t twitch, don’t even think about casting a spell.”
Wulf obeyed, not wanting to take the risk of being killed outright if he tried to start a fight without knowing how outnumbered he was.
“Turn around, slowly.”
So he did, only to find that several arrows were pointed at him. A group of four archers with their bows ready to shoot him where he stood. They were flanking a man who looked like he commanded them. He didn’t have a bow, but his hand was resting on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it.
All of them were wearing white hooded cloaks.
“Kneel,” the leader told Wulf. “And drop that.”
Eadwulf knelt down, fingers still spread wide, and shook the strap of the pack off his shoulder, which fell into the snow with a soft noise.
He patiently waited for what was about to happen next. If they wanted to kill him they would have already done so, so they would probably take him prisoner. Not an ideal situation, but full of possibilities to escape eventually. It wouldn’t be the first time, although he didn’t have any particular experience with the Kryn.
The one who wasn’t holding a bow took a step towards him. “Who are you?”
“Just a wanderer, enjoying the beautiful view,” he told him, knowing that whatever lie he came up with, he wouldn’t believe it anyway.
“Sure, and I am Her Majesty the Bright Queen reborn,” one of the archers said and the others chuckled. Then, without warning, one of them released their arrow.
It pierced through the layers and layers of fabric he was wearing against the biting cold, all the way down to the skin of his thigh. Before he could do anything—attack, run, cast a spell—the world started turning on its head and he was falling, falling, falling…
Eadwulf is hanging from his wrists, has been ever since his knees gave out, unable to support him any longer. I’m getting too old, he thinks. He is not old old by any stretch of the imagination, but his profession has taken a toll after all the years he spent serving his country. Broken limbs, dislocated joints, countless scars, substances injected, inhaled or swallowed, forced on him to make him weak, to try and kill him, to make him talk. Or voluntarily, to numb the pain and to forget. He’s not exactly living a healthy life.
The room he’s in is small, although he can’t see anything in the pitch darkness they left him in. His pained groans echo back at him from a close distance, as do the curses he mutters to keep the encroaching despair at bay. The heat in this prison has left his exposed skin damp and sticky. The air is thick and stale, and humid.
It’s a crass contrast to the biting cold of the last several weeks, and as much as he hated it, now he wants it back. He’s not sure where the heat is coming from, but given the high humidity and the faint scent of sulfur a hot spring deep underground seems likely.
They’ve taken his clothes. All of them. He is naked in the darkness with nothing to shield him from whatever is about to come.
His wrists are trapped in manacles made of heavy metal, enchanted to cut him off from his magic. The skin around them is raw. He tried to slip out of them by force, determined to break his own hands if need be, but he couldn’t muster enough strength to do it. Something about the venom on the arrow that got him has weakened his muscles. He wonders if it’s a permanent effect. Hopefully it isn’t, he needs his strength. Thankfully, he knows one of the most proficient curators of poisons and venoms to help him out.
If he ever makes it out of here alive.
He tries to stand again, but pain shoots through his bad leg—the one with the formerly crushed knee that was only hastily healed in the field back then and never made a full recovery, the one that now also has a dull throbbing arrow wound — and makes him buckle, his wrists flaring in protest. He lets out a yell of anger and frustration and it helps, ever so slightly, to pull through.
Someone will come eventually. All he has to do is wait.
A voice cuts through the darkness, tearing Eadwulf from a dreamless, strained half-sleep.
“Disgusting.”
It’s spoken in Undercommon, which he learned to speak fluently many years ago. His captors don’t need to know that though. He lifts his head and blinks into the darkness, trying to make out any movement. Steps are moving closer to where he is trapped and he braces himself.
Suddenly a body presses up to him, a hand grips his hair, twisting it into a fist, pulling his head back. The invisible visitor is wearing armor that hurts where it digs into Eadwulf’s exposed skin. He hisses in pain as his weight is shifted and pain shoots through his arms. He tries to force his legs into obedience, to hold him up at least now that he is not alone. But as he straightens them his knees start to shake and that feels even more embarrassing than hanging limp so he gives up on it.
The breath of his captor is warm and smells of chamomile and peppermint as he leans close to his ear. It’s an odd scent in this place, Eadwulf thinks. You’d expect something more sinister than herbal tea, but in the end we’re all just mortals.
The voice of his captor is low and masculine. There is a rasp to it that might stem from an old injury to the throat. Their accent is undeniably Kryn. “Tell me what you were doing, why you have invaded our territory, Volstrucker.”
Eadwulf laughs, he can’t help it. As if it would be that easy.
“Did I say something funny?” A threatening growl.
“No,” Wulf says. “But the fact that you think I’d tell you is laughable.”
“And why is that?”
It’s a situation he rehearsed over and over again. Until he earned the words they want to tell him in case he is ever captured by heart. So he speaks them, even if they aren’t true. “Because I’d rather die.”
“That can be arranged.”
Suddenly lights spring into existence above him, and he has to clench his eyes shut at the sudden brightness. When he opens them again something flashes and he looks down to follow the movement.
The blade slides into his stomach with ease and precision, the hand that holds it pushing until the hilt of the dagger hits skin. The air goes out of his lungs and he gasps like a fish out of water, feeling the cold grasp of death spread through his torso. For a moment, the drow holds the dagger in place and looks him in the eye, before he steps back.
The blade glides out. With it a flood of crimson following behind. Wulf watches his blood spill over his legs and onto the floor, feels his mouth go dry and his vision blurry.
He coughs, a futile attempt at getting air into his lungs, and tastes blood.
Cold eyes watch him as he slowly bleeds to death.
Being dead is not like he ever expected it to be. A man of faith, he had been sure that his Matron would come to collect him, to shepherd him off to whatever place she deemed suitable for his afterlife. An end to all mortal pain, a journey to new shores.
But when he wakes up everything hurts and his body is heavy all around his core. Either all the priests were wrong or—
“We will try again,” a familiar voice tells him.
Wulf tries to make his limbs move, to figure out where his body starts and ends in the pitch darkness. Chains rattle as he manages to lift one arm and he learns that he is lying on the ground, on his back, shackles around his wrists and ankles. The rough floor is sticky and smells of blood. His blood, most likely.
When he tries to sit up the chains don’t let him. He’s trapped like a beetle that has been turned on its back.
He lets out a sigh. “So, what now?” he asks. “Are you gonna try to kill me again, crick? You did a shitty job the first time.”
“You will address me as Qu'el'ator.“
“And if I don’t, crick?”
A heavily armored boot kicks him in the ribs, making him cough and squirm, despite his best efforts to play it off.
“You are wasting my time,” his captor tells him. “But I will tell you what will happen. We can’t bring back those who have undergone the holy ritual of consecution, but Empire scum like you? How many times do you think you can die and come back before you lose your mind?”
Wulf doubts that he truly was dead, merely unconscious, saved last minute with the help of magic, but the words still make him pause. His goddess isn’t fond of those who take the undertaking of raising the dead into their mortal hands. He wonders if she watches him right now. He wonders what she would want him to do in a situation like this.
“I will ask you again, why did you spy on us?”
He decides then to put his cards down, he’s not exactly protecting state secrets here. And a small, treacherous part of him hopes that the truth might buy him an advantage. Someone to speak in his favor even.
“The people who came to your outpost. I know them. Maybe you can—”
“Don’t waste your breath, they are long gone.”
Long gone? What did that mean? Had they been taken prisoner too? Executed?
His hope is dwindling at the realization that he is all alone, truly.
Another kick into his ribs makes him cough and fight the chains again. He wants to curl up, protect himself, cater to his pain.
His captor speaks again. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts, but rest assured that this isn’t over yet.”
The next time someone comes for him, it isn’t the man who wants to be referred to as Qu'el'ator. It’s four soldiers he hasn’t seen before—and they bring light with them. They unchain him from the floor and make him stand up, which he only manages by leaning on the wall for support.
“Can you walk?” one of them asks.
“I don’t think so.” It’s futile to deny it. His legs are barely functional at this point. He has no idea how long he’s been without food or water, and he lost a lot of blood even though at some point they healed him somewhat.
They aren’t especially gentle about it, but two of them still pull his arms over their shoulders to half-carry him from two sides, while the other two make sure he’s not trying to attack anyone—as if he was in any state to do so. The lights vanish again and he is blind and left at their mercy, as they make their way out of his cell and down what feels like a corridor with a rough stone floor. A cold breeze makes him shiver, and he wonders if after the heat they will make him freeze on purpose, to further grind him down.
Instead they take him into a dimly lit room that looks like a makeshift infirmary, with a sturdy narrow bed as the centerpiece. The air isn’t as warm here as it was in his cell, but not cold enough to really cause him discomfort, even naked as he is. “Lie down,” one of them tells him in broken Common. “A healer will come for you soon.”
He obeys and they chain his hands to the headboard, not bothering to cover him up with the blanket that lies neatly folded at the bottom of the bed.
“Do you like what you see?,” he asks the guard that is currently locking the chain that holds him down above his head. He doesn’t get a response.
They leave him to it then, two guards standing in the doorway with neutral expressions and their weapons ready. Everything falls silent. Lying on a soft surface is a blessing, it is odd that they would provide him with such comforts.
He wonders, briefly, what time of day it is outside.
It doesn’t take long until a person who is obviously not a soldier enters the room. The healer is a young half-drow with an amulet depicting the Luxon Beacon on display. She doesn’t look into his face as she leans down to examine the not fully healed wound in his stomach and his injured leg, as well as the impressive bruises on his ribcage.
She turns around to one of the guards. “He needs to eat something.” Her accent is heavy and Wulf suspects that she’s not speaking Undercommon for his sake, which he is grateful for, even though it’s technically not necessary. The guard responds in the same language, probably out of habit, he doesn’t look like he would give a damn about Wulf understanding him.
“Our supplies are sparse, he is Empire scum.”
“I don’t care, I was ordered to heal him and this is part of my treatment. Feed him. And bring him something to wear while you're at it.”
She stares the man down until he shrugs and leaves the room.
“You have trouble breathing, yes?” she asks him and Wulf nods.
“Your ribs, they are—” she looks helpless, clearly looking for a word. “Broken?” he offers. She nods. “Yes, I will make them better.”
Her hands are gentle and soft where she places them on his torso, and soon healing light spreads out underneath them, sinking into his chest. He immediately feels relief, as the pain subsides and he is able to take a deep breath for the first time in days.
“Better?” she asks.
He nods. “Yes, thank you. What’s your name?”
“Lyrah.”
“Thank you Lyrah.”
The guard returns, with a small plate of food and a stack of clothes. His own, Eadwulf recognizes, even if it’s only part of them. Enough to not be exposed anymore.
“Free him,” Lyrah tells the guard.
“It’s not safe,” he protests.
She scoffs. “I thought that’s what you were here for.”
Eadwulf gives the guard a disarming smile. “I’ll behave, I promise.”
The guard mutters a curse, one that Eadwulf can’t decipher with his Undercommon vocabulary. He is patient and still while the chains are unlocked and then gets dressed, denying Lyrah’s offer to help him. His legs are still weak and his hands are shaking lightly, but he manages to put on the shirt and trousers they have given him.
“Try to sleep,” Lyrah tells him and gets up. “Your body needs rest to heal fully.”
She shoots the guards at the door a bitter look before she vanishes out of sight.
The guard frowns at him and then pulls the door shut, locking it behind him. Eadwulf is alone. He lies back, and does as Lyrah told him.
Eadwulf is woken up by the door opening and an unfamiliar man stepping inside. Although, stepping isn’t the right word, he’s floating at least two inches above the ground. Eadwulf knows immediately who he is, he learned enough about the Dynasty to know about that particular quirk and who it belongs to.
The Shadowhand is small and slender, something Eadwulf knows instinctively even with all the layers of fabric and fur. It’s the way he holds himself, in the delicate features of his face and the long, pointed ears pressed flat to the sides of his head, maybe out of anger, maybe because of the cold. Elf ears have always been a mystery to Eadwulf.
The Shadowhand doesn’t bother to introduce himself, instead getting straight to the point.
“You know Caleb Widogast?”
For a moment Wulf is confused. Caleb…? Oh, right.
“I do,” he says, not correcting the man on the name. He doesn’t really know Caleb Widogast, but he’s intimately familiar with Bren Aldric Ermendrud. Well—was.
“Were you following him?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“Why?”
That’s the question, isn’t it? On the surface the answer is clear, he was given orders and he followed them. But the matter is more complicated than that.
He hasn’t just been following them, he also trapped a pack of ice spiders waiting for prey behind a wall of force until the Mighty Nein had passed them by, none the wiser about the fight they just escaped.
He hasn’t just been spying on them, he also kept an eye out for any other hunters on their trail, in case they were in danger.
He created artificial fog behind them, when they were running from the tomb takers.
And then they entered the outpost and just teleported away.
“Why would that be any of your business?” he asks instead.
“Because you trespassed into my outpost uninvited.”
Eadwulf inspects him openly, letting his eyes take in every inch of the man. “You must be Shadowhand Essek Thelyss then,” he says, as if it isn’t blatantly obvious.
“You did your homework I see. That is indeed who I am. And you, you are an Empire spy caught in Kryn territory. My orders about how to handle situations like this are very clear, as you probably know.”
“No hard feelings,” Wulf shrugs. “Occupational hazard.”
“Do you really believe that?”
Does he?
He changes the topic, unnerved by the question. “What about the Mighty Nein? Did they get what they came to you for?”
“They did,” Essek says. “They didn’t stay long.”
Maybe Eadwulf is imaginaning it, but for a brief moment he’s sure to catch something like bitterness in the Shadowhand’s tone. So he begins to dig deeper. “They returned your beacon, wasn’t it so, Shadowhand? We never met in person but—”
“Careful with your next words, Volstrucker, or they will be your last.”
“It must have been quite the shock for you.”
“It was a day of great joy for our people.”
“Sure it was,” Eadwulf says, satisfied with the way Essek’s spine stiffened even more, his face a frozen mask.
Eadwulf lets the silence settle a bit longer before he asks “Now what?”
“I don’t care what happens to you, but you were once important to Caleb and I don’t want to make this decision without him. I will send him a message, and if he tells me he doesn’t need you anymore I will do what I must.”
With that he leaves the room.
“Fair,” Eadwulf murmurs, trying to figure out how his chances look. Bren—Caleb—tried to offer his hand at the dinner with their master, and Eadwulf and Astrid had refused him. Then, later, there had been a break-in at the Sanatorium, aided by Astrid. It was the last he’d ever heard of him until he was ordered to track him in the north. And Caleb hadn’t known that Wulf was behind them—shielding them from harm even.
What will he think, learning the news? Will he think Eadwulf has turned against him? Will he gladly pull the lever of the gallows once they placed the noose around his neck?
What a ridiculous twist of fate that his life is now in the hands of the man who broke all those years ago.
Maybe he can still escape. Kill some guards, hells, even kill the Shadowhand himself. Of course he tells himself. Piece of cake
When the Shadowhand returns his brows are furrowed.
“You have powerful friends, Eadwulf Grieve. And I cannot deny the saviors of our holy beacon this favor.”
“How very unfortunate for you,” Wulf remarks dryly. “So now what?”
Essek’s face stays perfectly neutral. “Teleporting away from here is not easily done. Are you willing to take the risk?”
Wulf shrugs. “I don’t really see another option for me.”
“Then I shall provide you with some chalk.”
Essek leaves the room and Wulf is left alone with his bewilderment. This new turn of events is puzzling. He was fairly sure he would die here, or crawl out on all fours, bleeding in the snow. And now he’s even been provided with the necessary components to leave. All because of Caleb.
And indeed, when Essek returns next, he orders the guards to release him and then—to Eadwulf’s astonishment—dismisses them.
“You’re not a threat to me,” the Shadowhand tells him. “Not without this.”
From somewhere he gets out Eadwulf’s spell book.
His fingers itch at the sight of the tome, years and years of hard work, the source of his power, now in the hands of the enemy.
Essek gives him a long, thoughtful look, then hands the book over.
Eadwulf takes it and drops his jovial, sarcastic mask for a moment. “Thank you,” he says, with genuine gratitude.
Next Essek hands him a piece of chalk, and Eadwulf crouches down to draw his circle.
He’s not ready to return to his master, he’s also not ready to let the enemy know the runes to the circle in the heart of the Empire. Instead he draws the circle to one of the safe houses on the Menagerie Coast.
He has a lot to think about.
“Tell Caleb—” he hesitates, the piece of chalk hovering over the last rune to complete the circle. “Tell him to stay safe.”
He doesn’t wait for Essek’s response, before he steps into the circle and is whisked away.