Calaf thrust his spear through the eighth dire-gecko of the day. Bluish blood splashed against his shield, and the creature was slain.

  “Thank you so much!” cried members of the church youth auxiliary pilgrimage caravan.

  Lightly guarded, these young ones set out down the path in the off-season armed primarily with their faith. Brave, faithful, and foolish.

  “Truly, your arrival is a blessed miracle! Praise be the Menu!” proclaimed more of the kids.

  “Wait for a proper caravan at the next watering hole,” Calaf suggested. “Trust me. There are worse things further up the path.”

  A good deed done (and a paltry amount of experience and gold gained from the rescue), Calaf continued south.

  Not but an hour later, he discovered another caravan under threat from a medium-sized golden dire-tarantula. He offered his stone-walled defense to them, and this more well-equipped party was able to fell the beast. Rewards were split between the large group, but Calaf felt accomplished all the same.

  He wanted to help people. If not for some divinely ordained code of chivalry, then at least for his piece of mind. Old habits die hard, he supposed.

  Opportunities to help were a gold piece a dozen down in the southern deserts. Monsters were swarming all over the place. And with pilgrimage season well in the past, there were fewer high or mid-level adventurers milling about to rescue beleaguered initiates.

  Calaf helped who he could, benefiting his self-esteem immensely at the cost of slowing his pace down the path considerably. Days passed before he saw even a whiff of the lively greenery of the river delta. The level difference between the brave Squire and these monsters was so high that self-respect was his primary reward.

  It was in this headspace, saving lives and clearing out dire-cassowaries for local farmers for the sake of a job well done, that Calaf encountered some old, familiar faces.

  A standard party of four awaited at a crossroads deep in the swampy river delta. Their team vanguard held the broken remains of a bear trap in his hands.

  “It got away!” thrashed the team leader – a Paladin in armor typical of Autumn’s Redoubt.

  Beside him, stood the team vanguard. No doubt in town to try and rank up.

  “I can’t believe you let it get away!” yelled Jorge.

  “It’s a Legendary Beast,” said Gerard. “We all saw it. Didn’t we, Isaac? No trap would contain that thing.”

  A third member, the team mage, peered into the overgrowth as if looking for some path.

  “Look, the sooner we find this thing, the sooner we can get to the Battletower for my rank up,” the mage said dismissively.

  A fourth member of the party stood away from the rest, gazing at the dirt along the road.

  Sarah continued to look down as Calaf approached. She glanced up enough to make eye contact but did not seem to register or recognize the Squire.

  “Hello,” Calaf said as he approached the group.

  Gerard’s face registered a flicker of recognition right away. Isaac nodded but otherwise returned to his work poking through the bushes. Jorge looked up at Calaf and scowled.

  “You…” Jorge began. “You were at Fort Duran. Among the rebels”

  “That was a mission from the church, clearly,” Gerard said. “He was at the victory ceremony.”

  “Yes, yes.” Jorge shook his head as if chasing away a thought. “Keep expecting to find deserters or rogue militia still operating on the road.”

  “They say the regular army is still mopping up people coming out of the hinterlands,” Isaac added offhandedly.

  “Well, we could go join them if we could catch this damnable fox, we could be down there helping.” Jorge paced around and stomped the ground.

  “What are you trying to catch?” Calaf asked.

  “Big fox monster with a lot of tails,” Gerard said simply. “Likes to disguise itself as a more mundane dire-vulpine.”

  Jorge gritted his teeth. “Scouts are trailblazers. Mages are monster-slayers. What are we missing here!?”

  Oh. That creature. Calaf’s guiding forest spirit.

  “You’ll never catch it,” Calaf warned. “If you did, you’d never defeat it afterward.”

  “And how the hell do you know that?” Jorge scowled.

  “It’s level ninety-six.”

  Gerard and Isaac started coughing profusely. Even Sarah took notice.

  “The demon king was barely level ninety-eight,” Isaac managed.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  “Yes, well, it’s a very old and very powerful legendary beast. Unlike any seen before. What are you even trying to trap it for?”

  “To rank him up.” Jorge motioned brusquely at Gerard. “Rumor has it that if you catch this dire-fox thing you get a Cat’s Paw of the Thief.”

  “Scout,” Isaac corrected.

  “Cat’s Paw of the Scout, that thing, right! And that allows you to rank Vanguards up to Scout without trudging through Ye Olde Docks. Which we can’t manage to find for some reason.”

  Calaf controlled his breathing for a bit. Maintained his calm.

  “If it will help you on the path, I can show you where the docks are located.” Calaf paused. “If they’re still there.”

  Jorge scowled, but a quick, whispered conversation with Sarah turned things around.

  “Okay. Better than our current scouting options,” Jorge said much to the consternation of Gerard and Isaac. “Lead the way.”

  One last time, Calaf joined this party and provided his guidance. Before he was the over leveled mentor, but now they were all well ahead of him on their journeys.

  Sarah said nothing as the group trudged through the swamp. It was as if she wasn’t even there. Isaac and Gerard proved more talkative, but there was an air of tension between them and the party’s de facto head.

  Calaf had his crude map out, having led the group back towards Port Town and then out through the very gate he’d exited so long ago now. The remains of the old camps were still there, often with tent stakes still embedded in the ground. He was able to retrace his steps well enough.

  The burnt-over underbrush of the swamp was already beginning to reestablish itself along the path. But that gap between mighty trees remained, offering access to the centuries-abandoned wharves now buried well inland along a dried-up delta river finger.

  Ye Olde Docks. This patron dungeon of Scouts and Thieves changed little since Calaf’s last, brief interlude here. However, there was one addition: a new party of level seventy-somethings lay sprawled out in the riverbeds. Hit points hovering thereabouts -20.

  “They must not even have made it up to the piers.” Calaf grimaced at the scene. “You should burn these bodies. I can do it if you can’t for whatever reason.”

  “Are we going to try this?” Isaac asked. “At this level?”

  “We cleared Fort Duran a full week before the heretics moved in, and the Bastille Sepulchre twenty levels under par. We can do it.” Jorge ended every sentence with an authoritarian click of his tongue. “Two more. Just need to clear two more dungeons. The easiest ones. And then it’s over.”

  “Jorge, are you okay?” Calaf asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “About what happened at the Fort…”

  “What about it? We put down a bunch of heretics. Killed ‘em all.” Jorge grinned madly.

  Sarah sobbed, which went unnoticed by the Paladin.

  “You were responsible for cutting off the escape of anyone fleeing the refugee camp,” Calaf said.

  “We were, same with the rest of the swords for hire while the church militant took the Fort itself. What of it? Cut ‘em down left and right. With a bunch of level fifteens and the like it wasn’t so hard. We did our duty. Got accolades signed by General Perarde himself!” Jorge’s eyes were wide. “Now if we can drag the rest of the party up to max rank, they said they’d let us join the regulars. Can’t have been for nothing. Can’t have been for… can’t have been.”

  Jorge kept repeating this mantra even as he urged his party forward. Sarah was the last to follow, having to will herself forward with each step.

  “Sarah,” Calaf called out.

  She turned to look at him with her sad, defeated eyes.

  “I’m looking for a woman. One with shaved reddish hair. Hailed from the plateau around the Olde Capital. You probably saw her back at… back at the Fort.”

  Sarah shirked away at the very mention.

  “It’s vitally important that I find her. Did you happen to know where she went?” he asked hopefully.

  But Sarah only shook her head and ventured into Ye Olde Docks.

  “Oh, Sarah, one more thing…”

  A defensive blessing surrounded Sarah and her party.

  “May that aid you on the road ahead,” he said softly.

  “T-thank you,” Sarah said, barely audible over the noise of the swamp and Jorge’s domineering commands from up on the boardwalks.

  It was the first time Calaf had heard her talk since that victory ceremony in Autumn’s Redoubt.

  Another good deed done for its own sake, Calaf traveled the short distance back towards Port Town.

  Jelena, Enkidu, and their new charge arrived in Japella before sunrise. They moved quickly and furtively, avoiding all possible combat with dire-beasts.

  “Home again, home again,” Jelena Turandot whistled as they ran through the mostly abandoned northern outskirts of her tribal desert village.

  “Nice place you’ve got,” Zilara said. “Real homey, Hoss.”

  “You should’ve seen it in its prime,” Jelena said with a smirk.

  They returned to a familiar scene near the village center. The burnt-over ruins of the church mission.

  “Hmmm. Residual remains of charcoal in the air,” Zilara said. “Can see it in the deeper Menus.”

  “Freak lightning storm hit the thatched roof,” Jelena explained. “All the other buildings are made of stone. Mission burnt, nothing else did.”

  Enkidu grumbled about, milling around the confessionary hall.

  “Most cathedrals have the same general layout,” he said.

  “Seen one you’ve seen ‘em all,” Zilara added. “Library should be in the back, ‘round near the Pryor’s quarters.”

  “Right you are,” Jelena said.

  The trio walked over behind the confessionary hall and through some cinder-charred pews to the pryor’s living quarters. The position had never been filled, and the chamber was mostly occupied by interim deacons for the duration of the church’s presence in Japella.

  There, through a hole in the wall, sat the Japella Mission church archives. A modest library lined with church records and holy texts. It was a small collection compared to any dozen cathedrals or churches encountered along the pilgrimage route. The ceiling had all burnt away with most of the books, leaving the room exposed to the cloudless night of the desert sky.

  “We’d started collecting everyone’s birth records here,” Jelena explained. “Collected all the verified family trees we could in a series of long scrolls.”

  Jelena started rooting around under a burnt-over desk while Zilara watched, and Enkidu paced the room.

  “My job for the first year was to transcribe these scrolls often in triplicate and then ship them off to the cathedrals at Firefield, Deepwood, and the Demon Lord’s Fall.” Jelena fiddled around with some kind of box. “The master copies were left in a Steel Safe of Fireproofing down here. I handed those off to gram-gram before leaving town. Probably still in the ol’ house. But in their place, I stuffed all the books that didn’t burn.”

  “So, we’re not breaking and entering, taking back some books on loan,” Zilara said.

  There was a click as the safe was unlocked. Jelena swung a door open on thick, rusty hinges.

  “Here we go.” Jelena pulled open a few books. “Let’s see. Hymnbook, Testament of the Ancient Heroes of Yore, another Hymnbook, town tax records...”

  Jelena frowned. “Hmm. This is the smaller of two safes. Could have sworn I put it here. Enkidu, move that bookshelf, will you?”

  Enkidu picked up a burnt-over bookshelf and moved it one-handed. Beyond was a false wall less charred by the conflagration that had consumed the rest of the mission. Evidence of exceptionally sturdy construction.

  “Ooooh.” Zilara chuckled under her breath. “So that’s what’s going on.”

  “Just let me find the correct combination of boards to press here.” Jelena poked about on the wall, ear to the wooden siding. “There we go.”

  A false compartment was detached, to be likewise carted off by Enkidu. Within was a Large Steel Safe of Fireproofing. The complex locking mechanism was intact, but the door swung open.

  “Huh.” Jelena peered into the waiting safe. “It’s all been…”

  A few books still littered the floor of the safe. Spare papers.

  “Sounds like somebody beat us to it,” Zilara said with an airy tone.

  Jelena nodded. She leaned in to pick a few books off the ground.

  “Hmm. Here’s what I was looking for.” She presented a book, A History of Church-Approve Daemonology: A Grimoire.”

  Zilara held her hand up and selected ‘Use’.

  “There we go,” the holy child said, soaking up the combined knowledge. “But I don’t think this book will have what you seek.”

  Frowning, Jelena flipped through the book the old-fashioned, Brandless, way. She frowned harder.

  “Well. It’s… missing.”

  A great chunk of the middle section of the tome was torn and missing. Entire entries on types of demons ripped right out.

  “Who else knew of this trove?” Enkidu asked.

  “The church, one assumes.” Jelena tossed the book back into the safe. “Probably going about collecting old records. Took most everything else by the look of it.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Zilara’s eye-Brands began to glow. She scanned the room.

  “Tell Auntie Turandot and big brother Enkidu what you’ve found, now,” Jelena said.

  “Never say that again,” said both Zilara and Enkidu.

  Jelena crossed her arms in mock indignation while the holy child did another scan.

  “Detecting traces of bard magic around here.” Zilara put her finger out to catch some mote or particle that her unbranded caretakers could not see. “A song that triples movement speed.”

  “Someone wanted to get here before us, specifically,” Jelena concluded.

  “That stench.” Enkidu sniffed the air. “The arbiters have been here. At least the bard. Knight and the one with the long sword too.”

  Jelena turned to Enkidu. “Perarde was here?”

  “Days ago. Yes.”

  “Guess they were desperate for whatever was left in the archives.” Jelena rubbed her hands together. “Well, the plan always was to head over to Deepwood and consult the official archives after this. C’mon, use the old deaconess quarters to crash sometimes. We’ll leave at dawn.”

  The crew slept light. By the time the sun rose over the desert, they were ready to depart.

  Almost wish I could visit gram-gram, Jelena thought as they got packed and prepared to leave town. Alas, probably best to leave a light footprint if the arbiters are on our trail.

  The trio walked casually down south out of Japella, aiming for a quick route down to Port Town. Enkidu held a hand up and stopped them as they neared the old ‘Welcome to Japella’ sign.

  “Someone comes.”

  An impossibly lanky figure emerged from behind the nearest building. He wielded a curved blade longer than he was tall.

  “That explains the stench,” Enkidu said, deadpan.

  “Have you heard the tale of the most wanted criminals, who returned to the scene of the crime to revisit a great arson?” Came a voice from far above.

  A second church hunter stood on two translucent, shimmering blocks in midair. He was crouched over, observing like a dire-owl.

  “It’s said they led the brave arbiters of the church right to their ancestral stomping grounds, and the whole town was put to the sword for apostasy.”

  Sand whipped along the trail in front of them as an uneasy stalemate ensured.

  “Threatening gram-gram, are you?” Jelena muttered through gritted teeth.

  They would have to cross Japella off the list of safehouses indefinitely.

  “What were you doing looting the mission archives?” Jelena asked. “Two arbiters for a simple gofer mission?”

  “Four,” Zilara said.

  “Hmm? Oh, right! Four arbiters. We know that Bard helped you march here lightning fast. Is Perarde here?”

  Baldr frowned from his high perch. “You presume a great deal. If Perarde were here your entire hometown would be a smoldering ruin already.”

  “The Hammer of Faith is off securing more valuable reliquaries,” Walter said from over near the building. “As is our bard.”

  “Leaving us stranded here with no movement buffs.” Baldr sighed. “It was pure happenstance that we caught you. Waited about to see what fell into a trap, like those dire-tarantulas out in the desert.”

  “Hey, kid.” Jelena subtly pulled Zilara closer. “There are smoke bombs on the belt at my waist. See ‘em?”

  “Uh, yeah!” Zilara said.

  High above, Baldr’s frown worsened.

  “The holy child. I was wondering who dissipated my barrier back at the fort. Well, we’re cleaning up all manner of loose ends today. Surrender the child and perhaps you may be granted the honor of Branding before your execution.”

  Jelena glanced down at Zilara. “I can get two shots off before this guy’s right on top of us. Go wild with the smoke once that second shot goes off. We’ll escape to the south.

  Over between the two women and Walter, Enkidu prowled, sword drawn and ready.

  “It’s going to take more than the two lesser church hunters to bring in the great Jelena Turandot,” said the thief.

  “What do you mean ‘lesser’!?” Baldr spat.

  “Do your worst, Baldr. Or, wait, what was it, Baldr’natch?”

  A most inhuman growling noise came from Baldr’s perch. He didn’t like people sharing that name. His fingers twitched, ready to start spamming magical barricades.

  Jelena drew first. She pulled out a long, slender pistol and fired off a shot.

  The bullet shattered one of the barriers Baldr was balanced on, sending him tumbling to the desert floor. The pistol itself was smoldering; it would be some time before it was ready to fire again.

  No sooner had the bullet squarely ripped out of the muzzle with a flash was Walter in the air, sword swinging for Jelena’s neck in a wide arc. Enkidu blocked the path with his body and parried the long blade with his own, ancient short sword. A swift kick sent Walter reeling back to the nearby building, and Enkidu was off in pursuit. Swords clashed, Walter’s blade taking massive chunks out of the adobe dwelling as the duelists moved at inhuman speeds.

  Jelena pocketed her spent weapon for later reloading once they were in the clear. She pulled out a second (and final) firearm and leveled it at the falling Baldr.

  For his part, Baldr arrested his fall with a complex couch of summoned barriers. Then he surged forward, propelled by a barrier summoned at his back. His left arm was held high, ready to gouge at Jelena’s remaining eye as soon as he got within reach.

  With the gun leveled at Baldr’s center of mass, Jelena fired. Right on cue, Zilara started yanking smoke bombs off the older woman’s belt and chucking them everywhere.

  “Head south, into the desert! Enkidu, cover our backs! Go, go!”

  Anything to lead the church arbiters away from the quiet, dilapidated, unassuming village of Japella.