Aeric Morholt embarked on his journey to Mount Merkuur with four companions, in the fashion of the Five Heroes of old. He felt it was auspicious. And appropriate, as he recently learned that the Five Heroes themselves made this very same journey a long time ago.

  At his left and right rode Ser Bogdan and Ser Grimgarl, steadfast friends since his youth, when he’d first come to Asgoph from the land of the Morholts. Bringing up the rear were Ser Velibor, a newcomer to their group, amicable but soft spoken, and Ser Kuggi, who came from an up-jumped family of hill tribesmen who won land and title when they foiled an attempt on Lord Arnza’s life.

  When the Blight fell, it had cast a grim mood upon all. Even Imbued Warriors such as himself and his companions. Of what use could the powers of the Imbued be, if the very folk he swore to protect became the Monsters?

  But this morning, for the first time in what felt like months but truly had only been a week and a few days, Aerin Morholt felt a stirring of hope in his breast.

  Perhaps the end of this horror was in sight.

  Perhaps all could be made right again. And soon.

  On the morning of the second day of their journey, they arrived at the foot of Mount Merkuur and began their ascent up a winding woodsman’s trail, leaving the tree line behind as they climbed toward the clouds overhead. Lush green vegetation gave way to hardier, tougher plant life at the higher altitudes, where the air began to thin and powerful winds gusted up from below.

  Ser Bogdan drew his cloak about him, shivered. “Whatever ye do, don’t look down.”

  Ser Grimgarl chuckled and lightly spurred his horse, to catch up to his comrade. “Afraid the mountain will swallow you whole, Bogdan? Or is it just the thought of flying that weakens yer knees?"

  “Well as I don’t have wings, I shant make an attempt to fly if it can be avoided,” said Ser Bogdan.

  “That fellow Helmold said Redmane can fly,” said the meek Ser Velibor.

  Aeric Morholt turned to side-eye the knight from the head of the procession. “Redmane will be dealt with soon. My father will be avenged, and his home rightfully reclaimed.”

  The conviction in his voice struck them all. Ser Bogdan nodded, his grip on the reins firm. Ser Grimgarl smirked, a hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Ser Velibor shifted in his saddle, his gaze dropping to the path. Ser Kuggi adjusted his cloak, his posture straightening as if to brace for the trial ahead.

  Ser Morholt wore the items Helmold had retrieved from the fallen Sicarius, the Sicarius Sword and Dagger, the Pearl Phantom Cloak and the God Slayer’s Oculus. It troubled him to carry such things without authorization, but he believed the circumstances justified it. If they pressed him, he would return the items to the office of the Governess at once and hopefully that would be the extent of the punishment.

  Under normal circumstances, that alone would have weighed heavily on Aeric Morholt’s mind. But he had worse problems at the moment.

  “I believe our good fortune is a blessing from the Nine,” said Ser Velibor.

  Ser Grimgarl nodded. “To find the cure to this plague of beasthood so close to our home is a fine coincidence indeed.”

  “It is no coincidence,” said Ser Kuggi. “It is divine providence.”

  “Aye,” said Aerin Morholt.

  “Now all we have to do is hope the old bastard will let us borrow his toy for a bit,” said Ser Grimgarl. “Belskaya managed it, or so that fella Helmold claims. To think, we’ll be speakin to a God of old. Such times we live in...”

  Aerin’s expression soured.

  To think, his family had been entrusted with so grave a task, and they failed so utterly.

  He would soon be kneeling before an ancient God, in an attempt to explain their incompetence.

  How was he to explain just how severely the vigilance of the Morholts had waned through the generations?

  How could he explain that he had only recently learned of these things at all?

  He felt like a fool.

  Little Redcap, they called it.

  A curiosity. A freak.

  A wretched, helpless thing.

  Father never spoke of his true nature. Perhaps he’d forgotten, or never even known. Perhaps he simply never bothered. Perhaps they were so far removed from these mythic events that they had lost their relevance in the minds of his fathers. They no longer believed in such tales.

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  And now all of Volos reaped the consequences of their failure.

  If this were ever to become common knowledge, the name Morholt would become as wretched and disgraced throughout the land as the name Little Redcap had been to the folk of H?erz Castle.

  Aerin couldn’t let that happen.

  After this matter was attended to, it may even be necessary to silence those few who knew the truth. To include the men riding at his side, bantering as ever they did, cavalier and valorous, riding to an uncertain fate with happy hearts. Aerin Morholt felt a pang of remorse at the thought he’d have to eliminate such fine friends.

  But the honor of his family came first.

  The group rode on in silence, the sound of hooves crunching against the rocky path filling the air. The trail wound upward, narrow and uneven, forcing the horses to step carefully. Loose stones occasionally skittered down the slope, disappearing into the mist below, the wind carrying the scent of pine and earth from below when it gusted up the sheer faces of the mountain. When they reached a certain height their breath formed small clouds, visible in the thinning air.

  Their path wound between two peaks, the climb ending but a new maze unfolding before them. Aerin took the lead, unfurled a hand drawn map Helmold Brecht had presented him in the library of Beroh Keep. He used it to lead them through, and soon the group halted before a great black door set into the mountainside.

  The door was twice as tall as a man, and wide enough to admit four or six men walking abreast. Runes covered the door, surrounding a central figure carved in relief, a ruler holding a great hammer. The image commanded attention, as if even a graven image of Vos, the First Sovereign, carried his ancient authority.

  Ser Grimgarl was the first to dismount, and did so with a fluid motion. He walked up to the door, reached out and traced a finger along the edge of a carved rune, a grin playing on his lips. The prospect of facing whatever lay beyond seemed to excite him, his spirit undaunted by the mystery.

  "Looks like we're in for a tale or two," he said, with mirth in his voice.

  Ser Bogdan leaned forward in his saddle, eyes narrowing as he studied the runes, his mind turning over their possible meanings. Ser Velibor remained seated, his gaze fixed on the rendition of Vos. He appeared contemplative, absorbing the sight with a quiet intensity, his fingers tapping lightly on the reins. Ser Kuggi dismounted and stood beside his horse, his posture firm as he regarded the door. For a long moment he simply stared at it. Then he set his jaw, gave a small nod.

  "This is where our path was meant to lead," he declared.

  Aeric Morholt dismounted last, his eyes lingering on the figure with the hammer. He felt the weight of his family's folly pressing down on his shoulders, a mix of anticipation and trepidation stirring within him, wondering how harsh the chastisement of Vos would be. But he had to proceed. To reclaim any honor at all, this is what he had to do, and so he steeled himself for what lay ahead.

  "We will not falter here," he said, more to himself than to the others.

  Aerin paused to look down at the notes Helmold prepared for him. He read and re-read the password, to make sure he had it right. It was a poem or a stanza from a song, written in the language of the old empire. The civilization before the Volosi Chiefs, before the Stahlmen, before the Five Heroes.

  He walked up to the door, looked into the eyes of the rendition of Vos, and spoke.

  In stone and shadow, the Sovereign's hand,

  Molds earth and sea, commands the land.

  With will unyielding, hearts stand still,

  Kneeling to he who shapes and instills,

  Forges the world to the Sovereign's will.

  As the final words of the passcode echoed against the stone, the runes on the door began to glow with a soft, pulsating light. The carved figure of the ruler holding the hammer seemed to come alive, the lines of the relief shimmering as if charged with energy. A low hum filled the air, resonating through the mountain itself as the ground beneath the companions vibrated gently.

  With a deep, resonant groan, the door began to shift. Dust and small stones fell from the edges as ancient mechanisms, long dormant, creaked into motion. The door moved inward, revealing a narrow gap that slowly widened. The light from the runes spilled into the darkness beyond, casting long shadows that danced across the rocky floor. As the door continued to open, the hum grew softer, settling into a quiet whisper that faded into silence. The passageway beyond lay revealed, inviting yet foreboding.

  Ser Grimgarl let out a low whistle.

  “Fancy… Maybe the Numantians could learn something from these old timers, eh?”

  The jest didn’t seem to go over well. Ser Kuggi gave him a hard look. Ser Velibor’s eyebrows went up for a moment. Ser Morholt, however, brusquely walked by them all, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  He had business with a God. And he clearly bore the gravity of the task before him.

  The companions tied up their horses and followed him on foot. They walked in the dark at first, but as they went around a sharp bend in the cavern, there was light again. Bright, warm sunlight, so much of it they were momentarily blinded as they came out of the short tunnel into a sunlit clearing.

  A most beautiful scene unfolded before them.

  The air was rich with the scent of flowers and fresh earth. Overhead, light streamed through a natural skylight, possibly the cone of an extinct volcano, bathing the clearing in an uncommon warmth for a place this high in the mountains. The tomb of Vos lay nestled in vibrant greenery and towering trees, a dark stone mausoleum standing in stark contrast to the lush foliage growing all over it. Sunlight filtered through the canopies of the trees, creating shifting patterns on the ground, while vines traced the carvings on the tomb's walls. A bed of white flowers spread out near the tomb, with a bare patch of earth at its center, hinting at the absence of something.

  Aerin took in the primeval beauty of it. But when his eyes settled on the doors to the tomb, his heart went still.

  The doors were open, and someone was sitting on the steps. Waiting for them.

  That someone noticed them at the same time, and rose to his feet.

  The man had crimson hair that flowed down his shoulders and strong, noble features which contrasted his shabby attire. He wore a black bearskin cloak that was badly tattered and frayed, no shirt nor shoes, and a pair of ripped and tattered breeches.

  The cloak, though damaged, looked oddly familiar.

  Then Aerin noticed the pointed ears, the claws sheathed in a nimbus of power.

  And the steady gaze of a predator who had just spotted his next potential meal.

  Aerin Morholt’s breath caught. His hand tightened around the hilt of the Sicarius Sword. This had all been explained to him. He understood what he would eventually face. But here and now, confronted with the reality of the one they called Redmane, the one he used to call Little Redcap, Aerin Morholt found it difficult to remember his valor.

  Slowly, a grin spread across the crimson-haired one’s face.

  “Well well… Aerin Morholt. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  PATREON