The memory of that first council meeting rose unbidden as Stephan sat in his study. The captains and counselors argued about who should do what, each vying for influence over Cliffort in the intimidating war room.
That had been less than three months ago.
The chamber felt smaller, familiar, nearly a part of him, though not as much as the private library. Those same people attended the meeting, none leaned forward, none raised their voice; none smiled.
Not even Ernest. The hero of the hour displayed restraint rather than beam with joy and self-satisfaction.
“The warlock is playing us,” Stephan said once Lord Hardy, the last to arrive, took his seat, “and he’s playing the enemy as well. Does anyone have anything to say, or are we in agreement on this point?”
Nobody tried to argue. The room rang with silence for a heartbeat, the only sound the crackle of the fireplace before Stephan continued. “Then we proceed on that assumption. Had the attackers reached the walls without us noticing them, the soldiers who had assisted with the undead would have been tied up at the walls, and our losses would have been even more severe.”
Ernest straightened, and while his face remained neutral, his posture radiated smugness.
He earned it. Stephan thought, not commenting on inappropriate behavior and addressing the critical part of their efforts.
“We are investigating how the warlock did what he did, but based on what we know so far, I lean towards the conclusion that he is a Cliffort local. How much time would you need to inspect everyone?” He asked the three Priests.
“It would take a lot of time,” Hardy answered thoughtfully, “weeks probably, but that’s not our main issue. The true difficulty in finding a powerful warlock hiding amongst the population is that they can both obscure their own information and assume the appearance of another. We would have to check all loners multiple times a day just to ensure the warlock doesn’t kill them and assume their place once we’ve confirmed their identity.”
That wasn’t feasible. Even disregarding the ensuing loss of healing, the process would take too long with no way of keeping it secret, thus giving the warlock plenty of warning.
“I still think that the warlock poses a greater threat than the army outside. Please consider the ways to find him for the next meeting. Any ideas, no matter how impractical or foolhardy, are worth discussing. Now, let’s move on to other topics; how much time will it take to put the graveyards back in order?”
The session lasted almost four hours, with sanitation, disease control, and burial the major points.
Stephan had suggested burning any future dead and moving them straight to charnel houses, but his suggestion was rejected for a multitude of reasons, the most pragmatic being the limited supply of fuel. Then there was morale to consider, and traditions, and the smoke. Doing it once to destroy the undead bodies was one thing, making it a new standard something else entirely…
After the meeting, Stephan realized his mistake.
I’m trying to control everything when there’s no need. What I have to focus on is keeping people alive and as safe as possible, given the circumstances. But what about learning? Should I just ignore the world and concentrate on advancing my skills or reading books? Can I afford to disregard education?
“You said you wanted me to remain, Sir,” Silas had waited patiently for everyone else to leave before speaking.
I did? He took a moment to remember; the meeting had dragged too long.
“Right, the graveyards,” Stephan pushed himself to his feet and stretched his back. “I want to inspect them. See if there’s a pattern of some kind.”
And most importantly, he wished to prepare as much information as he could for the next life, in which he would inform Lord Harrington of all the imminent difficulties he would face. Stephan wanted nothing to do with it, one way or the other.
They stepped out into the corridor, their footsteps echoing softly against stone as they descended the murder stairs.
“Who do you think the warlock could be?” Stephan asked, halfway down the tower. “If your guess is correct, and he was biding his time and prepared years in advance, it has to be someone with access to all the graveyards.”
“That sounds reasonable. He shouldn’t be posing as an aspiring Priest, since it would be suspicious for one to go to other temples’ funerals often. I don’t think anyone pays too much attention to hired laborers or people volunteering. Cliffort has somewhere between three and ten funerals a day, spread out across all the graveyards, so it wouldn’t surprise me if the people digging the holes are the same and just move around. I’ll check once we reach the grand temple.”
“It’s possible he’s posing as a guard or a soldier,” Stephan said, wondering whether Silas had intentionally overlooked them or if there was some sort of taboo he was unaware of.
“It’s certainly not impossible.”
“But?”
“But warlocks don’t get weapon familiarity skills or ones with armors and shields. They prefer to hide amongst Artisans and Commoners, since those two classes have fewer skills and they can learn to emulate them through hard work. For example, if a Commoner had something akin to Veteran Digger, it would be difficult to discern from someone who simply has had a lot of practice digging.”
That gave Stephan an idea. “Which class could I pose as?”
“A Knight of roughly equal level, a Priest about half your level, a novice Healer, a Sentry, Commoner, or Artisan ten levels above yours. All of those would come naturally, but require you to hide a part of your abilities. As for what you could achieve if you focused on it?”
Silas considered it before speaking. “I would say the sky’s the limit. The Paladins of old were all philosophers; some could outperform Bards, others designed buildings and weapons no Artisan ever dreamed of. Scholar would probably be an easy class to emulate, assuming you are well-read, and not to brag, but the late Lord Harrington could have passed for a Scholar of the same level.”
The mirth died in his voice. “The Scholar of war.”
Stephan contemplated the matter. Could he even hide if he had the opportunity? Would he pretend he was a weak Healer when people around him were under attack? Would he pretend he couldn’t heal a wounded man just because he was impersonating a Sentry?
Of course not. But it could buy him a sliver of anonymity for a while.
Despite wearing a regular soldier’s uniform, walking with Silas drew the cityfolk’s attention to him. Gawain still followed him like a shadow whenever he left the castle, and Mark was probably watching over from the rooftops.
I’m taking all of this as if it’s natural. I never even had a conversation with Mark, and I don’t know whether he’s my man or just following the last orders he got from Harrington.
“Gawain, did Captain Anita tell you to guard me?” Stephan asked without turning. There was no need; the Knight was two-three steps behind.
“Yes, Sir. Robert and I have been taking shifts ever since the incident at the castle graveyard.”
I didn’t even notice Robert. Sure, I saw him once or twice, but I thought he had some business of his own.
“We’re going to have a spar later, if you don’t mind.” Stephan wanted to see how far behind one of the Cliffort’s strongest Knights he was. Gawain was twice his level and more than twice his age, most of those years spent fighting and training.
“How frequent were fae incursions?”
Gawain chuckled, but it was Silas who responded.
“Unlike fiends, Fae aren’t organized enough to launch incursions. They are highly individualistic creatures, and that makes them more dangerous and unpredictable. There are countless examples of people acting a certain way with a fae and always getting a good deal out of it, but when they suddenly went through the same motions for the tenth or twentieth time, the fae would turn berserk and slaughter them or a whole town or village.”
A cart rattled past them, wheels grinding against the cobbles.
“You mean there are local fae who live normally, then go crazy every once in a while?”
“More or less, Sir,” Silas said. “By our standards, they are insane all the time, but there is a method to their madness. Those who find the patterns live in harmony with the fae and often profit greatly. Those who misstep die. It sounds like something rare, but fae prefer this part of the kingdom. There’s a couple to every village, and there are hundreds of villages.”
Stephan focused for a moment and concluded there were thousands of fae constantly interacting with humans.
“Does that mean one goes berserk every month?”
Gawain laughed at that. “Before we retreated to Cliffort, there were two or three fae attacks per week. And the thing is, even when you kill them, they come back after a while and act like nothing happened. I asked one why she went crazy, and she said she would gut everyone wearing a red cap as soon as she saw them.”
Stephan recalled another fae with a grudge against someone wearing a red cap.
“Was she a gremlin? Blue or green, yay tall?” he motioned with his hand.
“Nah, your height. Real pretty too, flowers for hair and yellowish-brown skin.” Gawain put his hands to his breasts, cupping them. “A massive pair on her, and she wore no clothes.”
Silas cleared his throat.
“Right, we have a child present,” Gawain chuckled. “I’ll tell you more about my encounter with her later, Sir.”
Stephan didn’t want to know, but there was a detail he was interested in. “And you killed her, right?”
“Ran her through with my sword.”
Silas cleared his throat again, glaring at the Knight.
“Really did. She was dead as dead can be. Then, the next year I passed that place, she was there again, talking to me excitedly—”
“We’re here,” Silas stated the obvious to interrupt Gawain, or perhaps because a graveyard wasn’t a good place for Gawain’s rowdy topics.