Arter's story - chpt I

*I*

It was dreary and despondent. All of it was.

The road that had curled north for miles upon miles was cobbled. The stones themselves polished and glistening wet like oiled skulls or globular scales. A haze of rain lay over the land, bathing the sullen country in grey and discomforting wetness. The road itself was hugged by dikes, in turn covered by brownish blades of grass, in attempt to keep the mud under control. The clouds gracing the inhospitable land below with their moisture seemed to cover the entirety of the heavens not unlike a bleak blanket.

Dreadful lands indeed.

The elements tugged at the barren branches absent leaves; their only foliage long strands of brown moss. In the distance pinewood stretched along the horizon, only barely visible through the rain. Fortunately for the lone rider on his poorly looking horse, a long leather waistcoat and widely brimmed hat shielded him from most of the sneering wind and cutting rain. The leather had been treated with oxen and dog lard to make it water repellent and supple, clinging to his frame like a desperate lover.

Huddled in the saddle like a crooked old man he rode on. Following the cobbled road further north, through desolate country and empty fields, for the harvest had long been brought in. The man did not stop at farmsteads or small holds, in spite of the possible warmth and calming roof over his head such places might provide, for he knew the people disliked strangers and were sooner to string him up than invite him in - and with good reason. Instead he seemed to content himself with sleeping under hedges, and what little shelter they and ditches might offer. His diet likely consisting of little else than dried or salted meat and maggoty bread.

Remarkable were the flagons of wine the stranger disposed of. If one were to look for him, one needed only to follow the trail of empty flagons and horseshit.

Even in his intoxicated state of voyage he was left alone by the usual bands of highwaymen or bandits. Because of the dangerous nature of their line of work, the rag-tag syndicates and criminal organisations kept in close communication with one another. A shady copy of their more upright civic counterparts: the guilds. Word had spread that an ominous stranger had shown up and made short work out of a group of robbers intent on relieving the traveller of his coin. The sole survivor claimed the stranger had dispatched them with the elegance of a dancer, the speed of an Eastern monk and the ferocious precision of a butcher.

As such, the stranger was free to continue on his way unharmed and unopposed.

Drunk as a sailor he entered the miserable town of Weeping. It was a settlement of decent size, living off what little the land provided and trade that passed through it. In these parts, Weeping was the largest concentration of inhabited buildings but the stranger had come from the south where Weeping would have been nothing but the smallest of provincial towns.

The local town militiamen were clad in shoddy armour: a dirty hauberk with the sigil of the land's lord was smudgy and stretched across an impressive gut which the sergeant-at-arms had cultivated over his years of service. The stranger had difficulty with making out what it was if he hadn't known it were the weeping man of Grey, with tears of blood.
"Not allowed to ride in town unless you're one of the Duke's men," the fat militiaman had said, spitting pretentiously on the muddy street just outside the gatehouse. "And err, entry fee." A big calloused hand had been greedily extended.

After having made a donation to the local association of funding for alcoholics, the stranger took his horse by the reins and followed the main street to the town's square. There appeared to be no system to its manure-reeking streets, instead it was a wild collection of twists and turns until suddenly he arrived at a cobbled square.

Cock and Bulls, the sign read, displaying a big red rooster and two green bull-heads. However, the new arrival misread in the dark and a low gargling noise emerged from his well-smeared throat. He was laughing.

The inn was an old building largely constructed out of wood and loam, yet it had a base of solid stone, making it one of the better accommodations in town. It even had coloured windows undoubtedly purchased during better times. The stranger peered across the room to find an empty secluded space to sit. Many of the Cock and Bulls' patrons were smoking tobacco and all of them were drinking a pale looking frothy ale from a wide variation of mugs, jugs and pints.

Several men looked up from their booze and eyed the new arrival with awkward suspicion, on the edge of hostility. Long ago the stranger had grown accustomed to those looks though, so he ignored and sat down in a lonely bench made into the wall; his quest coming to fruition. The alcove was badly lit yet seemed hospitable to his tastes. The pack he was carrying was nonchalantly dropped and set to rest against the wall beside the bench and table. He took off his long coat, draping it on the seat next to him before leaning back to lounge.

The droplets of collected water dripped from the edge of his wide hat, falling on a dirty white shirt covered in a black leather jacket with metal rings and scales. It fit him well but showed evidence of having being mended and refitted extensively. Additionally he wore a padded vest. Same counted for the breeches and boots he was wearing.

A young woman made her way toward him, she was wearing plaid skirts and a tight fitting shirt showing ample cleavage. At least these provincials still indulged in offering something for the eye, the stranger thought.

"Your stable-boy is a retard."

"Pardon me, sir?"

"He's not right in the head." He repeated again, making a 'crazy' motion with his fingers next to his temple. "Spoke nothing but gibberish."

Instantly her cheeks reddened, but not of embarrassment, rather of anger. "He will take good care of your mount. I assure you." She put some rebellious strands of dark hair behind her ear.

"He's your brother." The stranger stated after a moment.

"H... How did you-"

"Bring me a meal and mead." Politeness was something he had given up on a long time ago. Probably around the same time when he had amputated his conscience.

The girl stayed put, seemingly distracted. Following her gaze he noticed she had been staring at his pack and bundle. It was a rather large collection of all sorts of items, a metal helmet crowning the top, strapped around the handle of a sword. "Never seen a traveller's pack before? The backwardness isn't a family trait, is it? Meal. Mead. Now." Finally the maid scurried off with a short whimper.

The porridge was served in a wooden bowl, a tarnished spoon and a loaf of bread accompanying it. Upon asking what meat it contained, the maid had simply sneered it was the edible kind of meat. The stranger thought it was most likely dog or rat. Whatever wretched creature had found its way in the cook's pot. In any case, it was nourishing.

Not long was his meal finished when a man dressed in a leather studded vest broke free of the throng of patrons standing at the bar for refills. He comported himself with an equally self-assured stature as the stranger. At his hip a long finely crafted blade swept softly with his steps.

"Greetings, stranger," he said in a voice higher than one expected from a man such as he. Two mugs of ale were put down on the table's surface, the bowl being shoved away to make place for the drink. "I am Selward."

"Evening Selward." The stranger replied with a suspicious glint in his grey eyes. The suspicion did not keep him from taking a big tug from the ale. It caused his conversational partner to smile, a fake smile if ever he had seen one. He noted the man had a rather handsome look about him.

"It is customary to introduce oneself in turn. Perhaps you shall if you know I am in charge of keeping... people safe. Law and order you might say."

"Ah," was the retort. He had been waiting for the first official to welcome him into town. "Are you the captain of the guard?" It was impossible this were a nobody in a community of ingrate inbreeds. The badge shaped in a red droplet, which could only be a hint at the weeping man with the bloody tears of the Van De Greyts - the masters of these lands.

"You might say that," a wry grin appearing on Selward's smooth face. A moment of silence was exchanged as both men tried to get a bearing of one another. The stranger had not thought to find someone like this in Weeping. "Your name." It was not a question, Selward was used to giving orders and having them carried out.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Like I said: keeping the peace is my trade. Melli said you had a blade in your pack." Selward casually informed, as if it were a light affair. However, the man kept his eyes fixed on the stranger.

The stranger shrugged his shoulders and took another sip from the ale. "The road is a dangerous place. I have got more than just a blade in there."

"I see." Selward pursed his lips and wrapped his hands around the mug. "I can't tell where you are from, you speak without accent...You came by the Old Road, from the south, did you not?"

"Didn't say I did. I might have though."

"See," Selward started, raising his brow slightly. "Some folk seemed to have been slaughtered thereabouts recently."

"As I said, captain, the road is a dangerous place."

"I heard you." A bolt of frustration flashed over Selward's face before he calmed himself and continued.
"Now, I'm not complaining for the wretches were brigands, criminals. Frankly, their passing on from this world brought me some joy even." Selward's tone could suggest a great many things. Was he truly glad with the fact the robber's met their end? Or was there something else at play here?
"It's not who that's dead that worries me. It's the manner of their deaths. Not everyone possesses skills like this to dispose of thugs that easily. An individual like that has to be watched over, don't you agree?"

The stranger nodded. "I suppose."

Selward sucked his teeth before squinting his eyes. "What is your name? I won't ask again." He had one eye on the stranger, the other on the pack containing the blade Melli had informed him of. It was clear he was preparing for any sudden moves, and some other men in the tavern had eyes on them, the stranger noticed.

"I'm known by a great many," the stranger said, the drink -by now- clearly audible in his tongue. Though some of it was mild exaggeration to have Selward think he was drunk. "But you may call me Arter."

"Arter how?"

Yes, that would do.

"Indeed, Arter Howe," the stranger said with a smug grin, nodding. In a parody of politeness he tapped the brim of his hat to Selward. In turn, the officious captain sighed and clenched a fist.

"I see you're not the most cooperative specimen. Don't make trouble, Mister Howe. Not a threat, an honest warning." Selward shoved his seat back and stood up, he hadn't touched his mug. "We don't take kindly to strangers in these parts."

"Are you going to finish that?" Arter asked without embarrassment. The tall blonde man simply looked at him a moment, before spinning around on his heels without a word, leaving the beverage.

It seemed the arms of the law were not as feeble as the stranger had first thought them to be, after seeing the fat gatekeeper. He had had to amend his view after meeting Selward, who seemed more than competent.

***

The hay had been somewhat mouldy but at least it had not contained any fleas or akin vermin. Arter stretched his tired arms and got dressed. After the dinner last night, and the chat with Selward, he had had his clothes washed and mended and purchased a new shirt from the foreseeing innkeeper. A smart business it was to keep a supply of clean and fresh shirts to pawn off to travellers.

He had not slept well. He had never slept well as far as his memory went.

Breakfast consisted of freshly baked bread, eggs and three strips of bacon. Arter particularly feasted on the bread dipped into the bacon grease. "A meal fit for a king," he said as he pulled Melli on his lap. She slapped him in the face and scurried off with what remained of his cutlery and dish. The few early patrons laughed at him, increasing the receding headache that festered in his braincase.

"Shouldn't try that, stranger. Tom here lost a finger when he tried it." A big bearded man said, motioning to his friend who could be nobody else than Tom, for he was missing a finger on his right hand - which he held up triumphantly in the air. "She snapped it right off!" He left it to interpretation whether he meant her cunt snapped it off or she bit the violating digit off.

"Do you have an alchemist around here?" Arter asked after a while, deciding some fresh air would do him good.

"What you want him for?" Tom asked, snorting loudly.

"I have this fungus growing about my-"

"Yuk, let it be. Down the Street of Steel, passed the smithies and take a right. You'll recognise it." Tom and his companion's face showed an expression of disgust, for Arter had been motioning at his groin-area. It seemed the allusion to venereal ailments still put off this unseemly lot.

Arter picked up his hat, made sure it sat well on his head and threw on his overcoat. After collecting his pack and notifying the innkeeper he would be back he exited the building. His purse was surprisingly light after having balanced his account with the fat proprietor. Undoubtedly he had snuck on a few drinks on his tab, for Arter didn't remember drinking that much. Then again...

A crisp late autumn morning, the sun dangling low in the misty sky. Outside it was fairly calm; a few townsfolk walking about, hurrying past to do their daily dealing. There had been a hoar of frost this night, heralding the coming winter, judging from the thin layer of ice on what were puddles, and he was thankful that he had slept indoors instead of under a hedge again. No point in freezing one's balls off for no reason.

As the cobbled parts gave way to the dirt road leading away from the town centre, Arter looked at the dirty windows of some of the shops. The further he got away from the square, the crispier the ground was, disregarding the defrosted areas where chamber pots had been emptied. Luckily the smell of the furnaces and molten metal blotted out the smell of urine and dung.

Tom had been right. The alchemist's shops had a sign in the form of a phial hanging just above its door. Upon closer inspection -and imaginary adding of missing letters- it spelled Isaac Nabulum - Alchemist. Curious, Arter thought, usually they were of the boasting kind. After all, alchemists tended to consider themselves scientists of the highest order; so why have such a modest sign?

A little bell rang when Arter pushed open the door. The shop was narrow and contained many cabinets and tables with glass and metal contraptions on them. A plenitude of coloured phials lined the cupboards and free surfaces, all over the place. The air was damp with the smell of chemicals and fumes. It was dusty and the shop's corners were the domain of spiders.

A tall thin man presumably in his fifties emerged from the back area of the establishment. He was wearing some old clothes in green and white, a vest of black damask covering a striped shirt. Most notably the alchemist was wearing a monocle. The sound of a bubbling pot could be heard, undoubtedly the source of the chemical stench.

"Greetings sir, greetings!" he exclaimed enthusiastically as he ran a bony hand through his wild, rebellious strands of greying hair. "Cold outside is it not? Nearly froze my nose off this morn when I went out for wood."

Arter looked around the shop and picked up a few items here and there, ogling them. "Morning, alchemist," the stranger said in return. "Making a decoction?" Arter inquired after the simmering liquid in the backroom.

Isaac rushed forward, carefully placing the touched objects to put them into -what he deemed- their proper place. The man showed clear signs of obsessive compulsories, Arter noticed. "Please, don't touch that. It's delicate. Careful!"
Once the items were thoroughly twisted and turned, until Isaac was satisfied with their position he answered his customer's question. "Oh no. That's the morning stew." He sounded proud and even smiled friendlily. "Would you like any?" Then he realised the full meaning of Arter's question concerning his cooking skills. "Why?"

The hatted man finally stopped, having gingerly manoeuvred his pack in between the tables of Isaac's business. A relatively empty table laid bare in front of him. "I have some supplies you might be interested in." Arter stated, ignoring Isaac Nabulum's question. He produced several bands and small bags from his pack, and a tiny chest. "I have come from the south and know a few things of the trade you practice."

Isaac approached the table on which his would be customer was now stalling small phials containing powders, salts and oils, as well as dried herbs and mushroom bits. "I see, I see." He muttered as he picked up a small phial containing a blue-silvery powder. "Is this powdered pearl?"

"Aye," Arter confirmed, finishing with putting his wares on display.

"And this Naezan salt? Oh and stones of Ys!" Isaac continued naming all of the essences Arter had laid out for him. The latter allowed the alchemist to admire the various substances. Only after a while did he interrupt the scientist with the crazy hair and monocle.

"I did not come here for a beginner's guide to naming alchemical ingredients. I know all of these, and clearly so do you. My question is how much are you willing to pay?"

Isaac was holding up a phial of white vinegar into the light, acquired from necrofiends. His one eye appeared a lot bigger than the other because of the thick glass of his monocle. As if the little reservoir had burned his slender fingers he put it back on the table. "How much do you want?"

"What they are worth."

Nabulum scratched his stubbled chin. "Hmmm..." he pondered while he retreated to the backroom to stir the bubbling pot. When he spoke next his voice came from the back. "I'm willing to purchase three of the pixie dust, all of the mandrake you have and the white vinegar and calcum." Calcum was used as a base for a great many elixirs and not that easy to come by, no alchemist would turn down a chance to buy it. "I'll give you fifty."

Arter laughed incredulously. "You're a fraud and a fool if you think I will let you tug off one of my nuts that easily! These things are easily worth triple that."

Armed with a dripping wooden spoon Isaac appeared in the shop again. He had an apron on and waved his weapon at Arter. "Life isn't cheap around here you know. I have a wife and three children."

"I don't see them. And I doubt any wife would allow such abysmal cooking from her husband."

"Fine. I don't have a wife nor children." Nabulum admitted somewhat nettled. "A hundred."

"A hundred fifty."

"Hundred and ten."

"Hundred forty five."

"A hundred and fifteen."

"A hundred fifty."

There was a ruckus, brouhaha and some stumbling in the back end of the shop where Isaac brewed his vile meal.

"That's not how bidding works!" Isaac yelled and jumped into his doorframe, holding the spoon above his head trying to look intimidating. He only managed to look comical.

Arter folded his arms in front of his chest. "No, but it is how I work when I'm being robbed of an honest income."

The alchemist snorted loudly and straightened his back. Squinting his eyes and pointing the spoon at Arter as if it were a blade he growled. "A hundred thirty. I won't go higher than that."

For a moment the alchemist and his patron exchanged strong glares, sparking with fervour. Finally and very slowly, Arter agreed. "Deal."
A sudden smile appeared on Isaac Nabulum's face as he marched toward Arter and grabbed hold of his hand to shake it. "Pleasure of doing business. Do I get a discount?"

"What for?" Arter asked, frowning his brows.

"For being hospitable and accommodative."

Arter's brows shot up. "Hospitable?"

"I offered you stew." Isaac claimed as if it were a valid argument.

"No."

***

At the north end of Weeping Town stood a large gate. At this hour of the day it was wide open, manned by a detachment of guardsmen who waved through traders and farmers on their carts. Outside the cobbled road stretched north, all the way to Rammert's Gate at Dagger Lake, or so Arter had been told. Many of the carts rolling in were laden with fish-oil and related products, so he assumed it to be true. Rammert's Gate was famous for its fishing oil... and the accompanying odour.

The gate itself was part of a larger complex, which consisted of two squared stone towers, the gatehouse and ravelin itself and a small stone building jutting out into the street. The upper part of the towers and the ramparts above the gate were made of solid wood and were obviously a more recent addition. Considering there were practice dummies and stables at the back end of the building, the large gatehouse also functioned as a barracks.

To the left of the low hall which -upon closer inspection- functioned as a kitchen and dining room for the guardsmen, laid a small courtyard where several tables and benches were lined out. At one of these Arter noticed Selward sitting, talking to some townsfolk and soldiers. Apparently the fat sergeant-at-arms which had greeted Arter three days ago at the South Gate had taken up duty here for now; his nose was red and yet it was not that cold. Behind them three militiamen were shooting with arbalests at the dummies; obviously practicing their aim. Hardly marksmen, these troopers would still manage to place a bolt between your ribs if given the chance, Arter acknowledged.

"Watch where you're going," a fishmonger yelled as he steered his cart around the obvious obstruction that was Arter Howe. The driver's raspy sneer cut through the afternoon air like a whip. A woman yelped as the fishmonger had no regard to her toes.

Selward looked in the direction of the commotion, his keen eyes fixating on Arter's almost instantly. A moment of exchange followed between the two men, until Selward nodded in a manner of greeting. Arter felt obliged to return it.

The stranger took a decision and crossed the road towards the billet, carefully manoeuvring besides an oxen-pulled cart laden with wood and pelts.

A wooden sign, erected a couple of yards from where Selward and company were residing, with a rooster carved out on top of it was his goal. In this day and age it was how people placed advertisements and job offers. It ranged from the mundane to the serious business that came with pompous governance. There was a leaflet of the local barber shop, claiming it had a potion against tooth decay. Some people had torn off a couple of the coupons. Yet there also was a plaque with a bounty on, some Longshanks Norbert being its proud subject.

Arter went through a couple of the adverts, well aware of Selward's piercing gaze on his back. Moustache trainers, corsets... something about a vendor of both carrots and hats - strange combination that... Weeping seemed to provide its denizens with a wide arrange of goods and services.

"Y're looking in the wrong place," a low crude voice declared self-assured. Arter recognised the strong pronounced consonants and round vowels to not be from around. In fact, they were distinct of an entirely different brand of speaker. So it was that as he turned slightly, a paper with a woodcutter job offering in hand, he did not keep his eyes on level, but instead lowered them to what would have been the position of another man's navel.

"Ya don't look like a woodcutter or mason to me," the dwarf said, his big bulky arms crossed in front of his impressive red-brownish beard that shared colour with the bristly wild brows on a heavy arch. The top of his head was bald; the skin covered with tattoos.

"Master dwarf."

The short figure seemed to be brimming over with fervour, like most dwarves. He bowed and spread his muscular arms in a mockery of noble customs. "Isgrimni, at your service." As he bowed, an imposing looking crossbow appeared, strapped to the dwarf's back. From what Arter could see, it appeared to be masterly crafted, something between a weapon and a piece of art. Additionally he had a single bladed axe resting on his belt. "Isgrimni Cornabello, that is," the dwarf said, finishing his introduction.

"Why do you think I'm looking in the wrong place?"

A mean grin split the beard of Isgrimni, revealing teeth on the edge of yellow - he was a smoker. "You do not carry yourself as an artisan, you're not dressed fancy enough to be a banker or a nobleman or a trader, you don't have the frame of a farmer or a smith either. Oh, and you're not goofy enough to be anything else."

Arter cocked his head slightly to the right, frowning. The dwarf seemed to dispose of a large amount of deduction. "True, I am not anything of those."

Isgrimni's face clouded. "I know, I just told you." He cleared his throat loudly and spat out the flumes he had delved up from the deeps of his stentor. "Y're a hunter."

"I don't have a bow," Arter deflected.

"Not that kind of hunter, ya mongrel."

Arter's brows shot up, it had been a while since his last conversation with a dwarf. He remembered their 'short' tempers and them being rather uncouth. Pursing his lips he nodded; he also remembered getting along with most of them as well. "You got me," he admitted.

The dwarf laughed audibly, low and rumbling like thunder in the distance. "I knew it," he said merrily chuckling while waving an accusing finger at Arter. "Selward keeps all the contracts our lot pursues. Looking for work? He's your man." After having pointed with his thumb at the blonde man still sitting at the tables, Isgrimni hooked both of them behind his belt and grunted.
"Well, I gotta go feed Bessy. What inn you staying at? I just got back from Rammert's Gate."

"I'm not really keen on company." He suppressed the urge of asking who 'Bessy' was.

"Nonsense lad! A pint always tastes better if shared. What inn?" Isgrimni repeated his question with a dangerous twinkle in his dark eyes.

"Cock and Bulls." Arter said after a while.

"Alright. I know where it is. I'll look for you tonight. Make sure the mead is cold and the women hot."

"I can't guarantee the women, Isgrimni."

"Duyvelscheiss! Then make sure the food is hot instead." The dwarf spat a brown spit into the palm of his rather large, calloused hand and put it up. "Your name, master hunter?"

Arter looked at Isgrimni's extended hand, inspected the saliva and then shrugged his shoulders. After having cast a glance at Selward, who appeared to have continued the discussion with the townsfolk and militiaman, he answered Isgrimni's handshake and question. "Arter Howe."

***

Arter sat in an alcove, the shade wrapping around him like an old lover's perfume; his long legs were stretched out in front of him. From the hearth a gentle warmth spread out into the taproom of the Cock and Bulls, carried by the soft tunes of the gleeman's lute.

He vaguely remembered the song from somewhere. As if he had heard it often in his childhood, someone close had hummed it, he recollected. Arter had half a mind to ask the bard which tune it was, before he decided not to. As ever, thinking about his earliest memories -who were always shrouded in a thick layer of mental fog, ever closer but never reaching- made him feel depressed. Ale brought solace.

The sun had set when Isgrimni entered the inn, his coat wet with precipitation. He seemed to be a hunchback, but Arter knew it was due to the large crossbow strapped to the dwarf's back.

"Evening, master dwarf," the innkeeper said, wiping his greasy hands on the dirty apron he was wearing.

Isgrimni grunted and stomped his feet, drops of water falling to the wooden planks as he did. "Terrens," he muttered, "I'm looking for a colleague."

"A colleague?" Terrens scratched his balding head and joined the dwarf in scanning the room. Arter raised his hand and Terrens paled out slightly.
"Ah, never mind," Isgrimni said, "found him." The bounty hunter made his way to the table where Arter had been lounging for the past two hours. "Drink!"

Melli the maid rushed to heed Isgrimni's demand and refilled Arter's cup simultaneously. "Thanks, lass. Oh, tell your brother not to feed Bessy any hay, just carrots. She's a prized mount, not some peasant's mule." Isgrimni mumbled as he put the pint to his bearded mouth and gulped half of its contents down, some of the froth painting his brown beard white. He burped. "Arter..." he burped again, louder this time.

The two shared a silence, something between an uncomfortable one and an awkward one until the dwarf broke it - with another belch. "Selward warned me you're not the talkative sort."

Isgrimni's drinking partner placed his mug on the table and watched the bearded dwarf intently. "No, I am not." He made a mental note to inquire after Isgrimni's knowledge concerning Selward.

"Duyvelscheiss en urgendrek! At least be polite!" Isgrimni exclaimed and slapped his thigh.

"I see you have a fine crossbow. I assume that is your weapon of choice."

"Oy," Isgrimni said as he ordered another pint and turned his empty one upside down on the table. Next he unstrapped the arbalest from his back and gingerly put it on the table.
Arter admired the weapon, and extended a hand intent on picking it up. He was intercepted by a strong, rough paw grasping his wrist like a vice. The two hunters looked at one another. "Careful with Vera," Isgrimni warned, "I made her meself."

Arter nodded and the dwarf let loose of his arm. After having picked it up he ascertained the weight. It was well-balanced, he thought, trailing his fingers along the curves and metal of it. "Chose metal over wood?"

"There are some wooden parts in Vera," Isgrimni declared as he received his new beverage and pinched after Melli's round buttox. The maid agilely avoided the dwarf's greedy violating fingers. "But I cased 'em in a steel alloy for improved sturdiness, plus, I like'em shiny." As he laughed, his yellowed teeth reappeared, before vanishing in beer.

"How fast?"

"I managed to make it semi-automated," Isgrimni answered while swallowing the alcohol. "Here," he produced a round canister from his belt and set it on the table. "Twenty-four bolts per canister, on average eight-teen per minute."

Arter's brows shot up as he heard of the dwarven ingenuity and skill. "Impressive. Lots of maintenance on her?"

"Need to keep her greased, like any woman, otherwise she won't perform," Isgrimni chuckled while winking at Arter quite sagely. "She jams and screams like an old lady with a chalky cunt if I don't oil her up. Like any good weapon she'll take care of me if I take care of her."

A wry grin appeared on Arter's face as he nodded in agreement. "As you say, Isgrimni, as you say."

***

The ravelin contained several long oaken tables with a wide collection of chairs and benches. Judging from amount of seats, Weeping's contingent of guardsmen was much larger than Arter had originally estimated. The walls were lined with chests and weapon racks.

"I hear you met Isgrimni." A known voice greeted him from a sideroom.

"Saw, you mean," Arter corrected while a tall blond man emerged from the pantry. He was munching almonds.

Selward shrugged his shoulders and took a seat directly opposite to Arter. "Both actually." Today he was wearing a different leather jerkin, but still the tear-shaped badge.

Arter's suspicion was confirmed: Selward had kept his word and watch over his dealings. He probably knew about his trade with Isaac Nabulum as well.

"What can I help you with, constable?"

"I see Isgrimni managed to teach you some manners," Selward said as his eyes settled on Arter. "I'll be honest with you. I told Isgrimni to seek you out."

"I figured."

"Hear me out," a flash of irritation shot over Selward's visage. He clearly not used to being interrupted.
"You are a new arrival, an unknown element. You show up suddenly and without a clear goal but apparently not without talent." The constable created a pause as he took a deep breath. "Talent I can use."

"Go on." Arter enjoyed the look on Selward's face. This was a proud man and Arter liked poking at proud men like a child poking at a bee-hive.

"I keep Weeping safe. I don't tolerate banditry or criminals within these walls. Justice is swift and clean here."

Selward sounded like a self-righteous prick, singing his own praise. However, Arter simply nodded, deeming it the wisest course of action.

"Thieves lose their hands, liars their tongues, murderers their heads, deserters their feet or knees, adulterers and rapists their... well, you get the image." Selward grinned maliciously. "I can handle those without problems, but there are other things..."

"Can we get to the point?" Arter asked, not necessarily impolitely. Crossing his arms in front of his chest he leaned forward to hear what Selward would say.

The constable made a dismissive gesture with his hand and chewed on an almond before continuing. "The land is riddled with supernatural vermin. It always has but lately it's gotten worse. They venture closer and closer to the inhabited areas every night. The reports from New Sorrow, Rammert's Gate and other towns and villages claim the same. Isgrimni and the other contractors can't take it all on at once. We lost Vander and Silas last week and your kind isn't exactly easy to come by."

"Can't your guards help?"

"Unfortunately not. They're good lads, but they usually lack the... stomach for this kind of thing. There are some, but they need more experience." From Selward's expression it was clear he had lost a few men in some futile attempts of 'pest-control'.

"Green boys make bad hunters." Arter commented, putting his finger in the wound, poking the bee-hive more.

Constable Selward frowned and even chewing on nuts he looked rather intimidating -for regular folk that is. "I care for my men. I'd rather sacrifice a hundred of you than lose one of our own."

"Fair enough. What is the most urgent problem you have on your hands?"

"Who's this?" an unfamiliar voice demanded to know. A very tall yet thin man entered the room. His appearance immediately reminded one of that of a scarecrow: long slender limbs, a scrawny face -pale skin tight across the bone- with a clear reference to a skull. The white pigment of his skin contrasted starkly with the black robes he wore.

Selward was obviously annoyed with the interruption. "Constable Venerad," he said, turning round to meet his colleague's gaze. "This is Arter Howe, hunter."

Venerad's eyes flashed open momentarily, like a predator cat catching the scent of prey. "I see." He spoke with a lisp.

Arter's eyes narrowed in response. The fellow had an ominous air about him, like that of a vulture. "Constable Selward was about to offer me work."

"Do you have experience? Any credentials?" The question was thrown at him while Venerad pulled a chair closer to deposit his bony rump on it. "Or just a death-wish?"

The hunter laughed in reply. "Maybe I have both?"

"Don't be irreverent," Selward stated. "Do you want coin or not?"
"I do." Arter licked his lips. Finally they were getting somewhere apparently.

Venerad the Vulture was frowning like a bloodhound. His eyes were ice. "They're all uncouth. Maybe we should wait for Styft to come back?"

"And find another body in the morning? No, Venerad. Styft won't be back for another week. Let's take our chances with him."

"I appreciate the trust," Arter commented cockily.

"Don't be a cunt," Selward said. Venerad snorted condemningly at the swearing. "It's quite simple. Either you try and fail, which means I'll have to find another solution - or you try and succeed, in which case you get paid and there are no more victims."

"You assume I concur."

"If you don't I'll have you thrown in a damp cell for tax evasion."

"Tax evasion?" Arter was perplexed.

"You didn't pay the tax on trading in goods. Plus there's an additional fee because you smuggled in dangerous substances. Then there is the fact you own weapons and a horse. In total you're about five hundred in debt. That commutes to about a year working the sewers or fields."

"You're blackmailing me."

"True. Very keen of you." Selward admitted without scruples or any shame whatsoever. "Then again, as a contracted hunter you would be exempt from all of this."

Venerad nodded with what he believed was authority, as if it would influence Arter's decision.

Arter felt the vice tightening around his balls. What was that word again, he thought. Right! Duyvelscheiss!

***

She tasted the air with her tongue. It tasted cold and dusty and of darkness. A low hiss escaped her as she moved a granite slate which four man would be needed for to lift. The scraping sound resonated in the dark room, obscuring the sound of dripping in the distance.

She was underground.

Slowly the young woman erected herself, her eyes adapting to the gloomy black that enveloped her. She fluttered her eyes several times. Where was she? Who was she?

Attempts of recollection and thinking were met with a searing pain in her head, like a thousand icy knives driving into her brain. She screamed; a high-pitched bloodcurdling sound that went straight through one's bones and vertebrae.

She didn't remember. She couldn't remember. A rage spread out throughout her underbelly as she leapt from her resting place. Jerking her head from left to right and right to left she tried to make out her surroundings. It took a while for her to recognise the place, for she lacked the proper words, which enabled the necessary way of thinking. There was rust on the wheels of her mind.

Someone spoke to her, a low voice vibrant with triumph, yet she could not understand what was said. Turning around a tall figure distinguished itself from what little pale light crept into the room. Like a cornered animal she slunk to the floor, on hands and knees, growling and bearing her teeth.

A small bundle wrapped in cloth was laid down five steps from her. It smelled deliciously fresh in the place of dust and death. The young woman smelled the answer to an inexplicable thirst that suddenly came over her, blocking out everything but instinct.

When she was sated, her arms, chin and chest were no longer coloured white, but crimson. She licked her lips.

"Is that better?"

Startled by the sudden interruption of her assuagement she turned around and looked at the mysterious bringer of appeasement with anger born of confusion and disorientation. She nodded apprehensively in response.

"I thought so." Ominously the stranger took a few steps forward, his heels clacking loudly on the dusty tiles. A silence stretched out, covering the scene in a blanket of stillness until he spoke again. "Do you have any idea who you are?"

The young woman shook her head in denial.

"The answer is in this room, my sweet."

She had no clue what he was talking about. Was he mad? No, was she mad? Why were her arms and front covered in a warm sanguine liquid? What did she... Did she? There was something clawing at the back of her mind, something corrupt and evil; something debauched...

Her eyes went wide with amazement and horror. It couldn't be, she thought shocked and appalled. This was all just a bad dream. Desperately she tried to remember who she was.

However, she felt it was a very intimate memory that tied her to this place. Something that had struck her at her very core; raw. Suddenly her anger and fury made way for fright. A memory had returned to her, like a messenger bird carrying a piece of her identity and mind.

Slowly she stepped forward, drawn to the place where she had awakened. Her bare feet left prints on the floor which had collected dust over the years. Small red droplets mixed with the layer of grime.

The man to her back opened the door some more, allowing more of the moonlight inside of what she now had come to realise was a tomb - a mausoleum. In front of her, in the centre of the room, stood a large stone coffin. It was open.

It did not make any sense for a coffin like this to be open at all. There was only one explanation: she had come out of it.

"Go on, dear." The stranger in the night encouraged.

Light fell on the lid which was richly carved and engraved, showing wealth and station.

Strange, her heart should have been beating like crazy. But it laid calm inside her chest, extremely calm. In fact, her heart did not seem to pump at all, only very faintly... Just a bad dream, a nightmare which would evaporate with the coming of day.

Her mouth dropped.

The lid revealed who she was, or had been rather. It read a well-known name, a name of great meaning and matters.

No, nothing mattered any longer. She didn't scream, nor weep, she just turned around and stood there. A great calm came over her as her head was filled with the knowledge and memories of a past life. For with it came the realisation of what she had been and what she had become...