The Third God: Chapter 4 - The Lone Knights

"Who are you?" said the dwarf.

"A very sleepy militiaman," said Darien, opening a yawn that cracked his jaw.

The other snorted, holding the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He had expected the boy to have more enthusiasm for lying, given his history.

"No, for all the justice of Khalmyr. No. If you yourself don't believe in who you are, how do you expect the target to believe it?"

Darien forced his mouth shut, stifling another yawn.

"That's right, I know, the victim—"

"Target."

"The target has to find it—"

"To believe."

"The target must believe that I am the son of a baronet in trouble. Shit, but what difference do damn words make?"

The dwarf assumed his professorial tone. When he explained, he seemed to grow louder, and there was a satisfaction in his eyes that commanded authority. It was early morning, with the sun high and people busy. They were on the edges of the market, being hit by passersby and exclaiming merchandise. Darien had always thought that urban crime thrived at night, but his new mentor had taught him differently. For that type of robbery, the best thing was a comfortable situation, where you didn't expect to be attacked, and with lots of distractions. And, incredible as it sounded, with many witnesses. The more people saw the act, the more conflicting reports there would be, and the less certainty.

"Words make all the difference, my lord," the dwarf spoke as if responding to a lesser noble. "Using the correct terminology puts you in a different state. You are no longer playing or imagining. He is a professional, who knows the work jargon."

It should make sense, and Darien accepted it.

"I can't be a baronet who's so sleepy," he grumbled.

Classes with the dwarf took up a good part of his day. At night, he continued his life as a militiaman. Darien wandered around like a dead man, feet dragging and dark circles under his eyes, almost all the time. His teacher had insisted that he pursue the life of a lawman while encouraging crime. In any case, he had not returned the two thousand Tibares he had stolen from him during their first meeting. Darien needed the pay, or his knees would face a brush with his creditor's sledgehammers.

"Who are you?" repeated the dwarf.

Darien rolled his eyes.

"Well, but the clergy accepts anyone these days," he intoned, assuming the rooster posture of the fictional baronet. He turned petulantly to an empty space: "I thought our holy men knew how to address those of better pedigree."

"Pardon me, my lord," said the dwarf, bowing in reverence. He hid his approving smile behind his thick beard. The boy was a born idler, although he was endowed with an unnerving laziness.

"A request for forgiveness is not enough. — Guard! He gestured to some imaginary officer. "Take this rebellious priest to be whipped."

The dwarf stood up.

"Very good—"

"Yet dare bark at me? Why, little tuft of filthy hair—"

"Exaggeration."

"Okay, exaggeration."

It was not an activity devoid of pleasure. More fun than blowing the whistle at night, for sure. And pretending to be other people meant pretending to have other pasts. "There's the target," said the dwarf suddenly. "It's time."

Darien shook his head, cleared himself of his real mannerisms, and tried to absorb his character.

"Before," he said. "After all, what's your name?"

"Father Thulbok Farandrimm, priest of our protector and judge, Khalmyr."

"In truth?"

"I am Thulbok Farandrimm," said the dwarf simply. "Priest of Khalmyr."

"You cannot be a cleric of Khalmyr. You look more like Hyninn's cleric." Hyninn was the sly God of Thieves. A deity not unknown to Darien, although he engaged in more subtle and cunning theft than he.

"Hyninn?" said Thulbok. "I've never heard of it."

"You've never heard of Hyninn?"

"Come on, baronet," pushed the dwarf. "The target is in sight."

❖

Sir Lagnus Orchard had, in addition to title and lands, several other qualities that made him long-lived within the Order of Light. In fact, it would be difficult to point out, among all the members, someone with more talent to last years and years within the cavalry.

He had the almost supernatural ability to stay away from any risky situation. Which, according to any rational judgment (especially his own), was the first step to lasting a long time anywhere. Sir Lagnus did not consider a corpse to actually be a knight. So he had visited distant cousins in Fortuna a few weeks before the Massacre of Norm's Fall. Years before that, he had fallen ill, victim of a delirious fever that no cleric could cure, just in time to be removed from the ranks that would defend Khalifor from the Black Alliance. During Portsmouth's war of independence, Lagnus was captured on the first day of his first raid. He had been freed as soon as the war was over, having miraculously escaped unharmed from a prison camp never found again, deep in the lands of the Old Vulture. In friendly tournaments between the Order of Light and the Order of Khalmyr, he was never able to participate in the joust—all sorts of misfortunes, from threats to the death of foreign relatives, befell him before he could pick up a spear.

However, he had never missed a parade.

And so, Sir Lagnus Orchard had been able to live a long, prudent, and already gray existence, collecting the laurels of his position without involving himself in the unpleasant business of blades and shouting. He had matured contentedly, along with his wife and his army of daughters. In the midst of so many women, the gods had blessed him with a son, who had already earned his spurs and proudly displayed the coat of arms of the Order.

Sir Guthrin Orchard, son of Sir Lagnus, did not share his father's talents. He insisted, no matter how much he was advised, on getting involved with every kind of mess that came his way. He cursed himself for being away, along with Lagnus, when Norm needed him. He tried to make up for this in every way, volunteering with more bravery than common sense in every mission the cavalry came up with.

Sir Lagnus had been waiting for years for that phase to end. Guthrin needed to let go of his youthful ways, his excessive courage, and focus on what was important: good marriage, production, business. Unlike other nobles, Sir Lagnus liked business. He would like to see the piles of money get bigger, the numbers on pieces of paper become bigger numbers. It was a beautiful game. And a business opportunity had come to him a few weeks ago, drawing bigger stacks and higher numbers in his imagination.

He wasn't used to such stealthy activities. It seemed to him the way of evildoing, although it wasn't so different from the disguises and stories he made up to keep his head turned from the body. He walked with the pace of a nervous ant, hidden by a floppy hat. It attracted more attention than it would if he raised his head. He wasn't used to the market, but his future partner made a point of meeting there. A small sacrifice, in exchange for winning the game.

Worrying about going unnoticed, about blending in with the commoners and merchants, about playing the right way, Sir Lagnus still had to worry about his son. Guthrin, once again, had crammed horribly crooked ideas into his blond head. With a misplaced wounded pride, the boy, along with several others of his generation, wanted to undertake a journey to Trebuck (a "quest," he called it, as in a story about heroes). A crusade of fools, formed by young people who, due to fate, had not been involved in the Fall of Norm. They wanted to prove that they were not cowards or traitors — and, therefore, they would risk their lives by joining the Kingdom's Army. The High Commander didn't approve, but the boys were tough. The gold for their weapons, horses, and supplies would come from the Orchard family, and they would leave in secret.

Sir Lagnus would never part with his gold for this. Except, of course, for the fact that Guthrin threatened to reveal the non-existence of relatives in Fortuna, as well as several other creative interpretations of the truth by Guthrin. Blackmailing his own son had been a stab. Lagnus Orchard still didn't know how to deal with it.

"Sir Lagnus?" someone whispered.

He turned on his heel, and there was the man. His image, unexpected as it was, brought a twinge of tears to the knight's eyes. Here was a proper young man—so different from his son! Haughty, without arrogance. Well-dressed, but still fitting in with the market folk. Between one tent and another, he looked like a bourgeois son. Just a detailed look revealed his aristocratic posture.

"My lord," said Lagnus, with a bow appropriate to a nobleman of slightly greater stature.

"Enough, enough," hissed the young nobleman, looking around. "Don't make me regret it, sir."

"Not at all!"

The boy opened his lips, inhaled, gave up. He let his forehead fall, hesitated, and finally faced the knight.

"Sir Lagnus, there was a problem."

A cold, swift snake crawled up Lagnus's trunk. He noticed now: the other seemed haggard. He had deep circles under his eyes.

"Our business...?" said Lagnus.

"Seriously threatened," said the boy. "My father."

"Did you fall into the hands of your enemies?"

"We don't know," he pursed his lips. "This is the worst, sir. We don't know. And we have no way of finding out."

"Without him—" began the knight.

"Everything will be lost. We need your signet. Your signature. There will certainly be clerics to verify that he was the one who approved the transaction. Maybe even wizards. The world of gold was fascinating, but labyrinthine."

Lagnus felt the world shake. After being so close, it was unfair for it to be ripped away from him. He had prayed to Khalmyr (he liked to think he had made a deal with the god) that anything wrong would show itself early on. At that point, it would be divine cruelty.

Sir Lagnus was on the verge of tearing up all the old papers and replacing them with new ones, with much larger numbers. On the verge of burying his Tibares stacks with monetary mountains. He had received a letter a few weeks ago. The son of a baronet asked for his help. The man, a landowner on the border between Bielefeld and Portsmouth, found himself besieged by enemies who accused him of black magic and planned to take over his possessions. Powerful enemies — big names within the Order of Light. The baronet asked for help from Sir Lagnus, to escape with his family and court. He was, despite his shallow title, one of the richest men in the kingdom. He wished to transfer his possessions into the Orchard family name, using the snaking corridors of banks and loan sharks, so that Sir Lagnus bought everything necessary for an escape and new life. It was dangerous to act in their own lands, as enemies were everywhere, infiltrated. And, in exchange for the help, Sir Lagnus would receive a quarter of the baronet's immense fortune.

The knight had conducted research, investigating as discreetly as possible. The name of baronet Iedran appeared in several records as a minor nobleman. He decided to take a chance. After all, what was there to lose?

Then there were complications. It was necessary to pay couriers to arrange the business details. The baronet didn't trust anyone outside his own circle, and so one of his vassals, a stocky, bearded man, had been put in charge of the missives. Each round trip had a high cost, always paid for by Sir Lagnus—with his unattainable assets, the baronet needed every Tibar just to survive. It took a hefty bribe just to get a local banker to agree to carry out the transaction (the sum was transported by courier, once again). Finally, Sir Lagnus Orchard had paid for the intricate journey of the baronet's son, who had first contacted him, to Roschfallen. They would take care of the last details and finally sign and bless the parchments that would guarantee the wealth of the Orchard and the freedom of the Iedran.

But:

"We don't know where he is. Could be dead." The boy shivered, with his face in his hand.

"Never," hissed the knight, touching the young man's shoulder. "The baronet is alive. There has to be a way."

"We have no men, sir. Either way, we think our own guard is compromised. My father's disappearance can only be explained by the presence of a traitor. We can't trust anyone."

"Men from afar, then. From outside their lands."

The boy swallowed, his eyes widened. "You would do that, sir? Would I lead knights to my father's lands, to face the ruffians and find him?"

Sir Lagnus took a step back. "That would be risky. Knights would attract attention. We could put your father's life at risk."

"You're right," the young man kicked the dirt.

Lagnus concealed a sigh of relief. "There is a possibility, sir."

The knight's face lit up. "No," said the boy. "It would be abusing your trust."

"Say, my young lord."

Reluctant.

"There is a mercenary company, sir Lagnus. Specialized in delicate rescue, with discretion. They act infiltrated or hidden in forests. They are called 'Night Eagles.'"

"Night Eagles?"

"Night Eagles. But forget, sir. They are very, very expensive."

"How expensive, my lord?"

❖

The answer was: expensive enough to dry the coffers of Sir Lagnus, except for a tiny splash of coins. The knight's chest rumbled, but the promise of a quarter of the baronet's riches danced like a mistress in his future.

They found the captain of the mercenary company. A dwarf, burly and sharp, with a braided beard, sat bolt upright at a gloomy table in an innocuous inn. "Martine Geodon," the dwarf introduced himself.

"Sir Lagnus Orchard," they greeted each other. "From the Order of Light." He breathed a little lighter. The gods seemed to be encouraging him, because Martine Geodon even resembled the Iedran messenger a little. This gave him an instantly more confident air.

"Is there no way to persuade you to lower your price, Master Geodon?" said the baronet's son.

"I'm sorry, boy. We are the best, and we charge like the best." The boy looked at Sir Lagnus, half asking for forgiveness, half asking a question. "Right," said the knight after a moment. "Consider yourself hired, Captain Martine Geodon. But—" he turned to the young man, suddenly stiffened, with his finger raised—"one room will not be enough. I want a third of your father's gold."

The boy clenched his fists. "Whatever. A third then, sir. I just want to get out of this nightmare."

It was the three (Sir Lagnus in front) meeting the swollen, scaly guys who guarded the rich's money. There was an uproar, but Sir Lagnus transformed his papers and numbers into coins and jewels, which the dwarf put on his back with great difficulty.

"Be careful, Master Geodon," said the knight. "There's my life."

"Wrong," said the dwarf. "Here is the life of the baronet."

Soon, he was already organizing the departure of his company. Left alone, young and old, noble and knight, they exchanged their last pleasantries: "Thank you very much, sir. I was right to trust you."

"Learn this, my young lord. Not all knights are fools, and not all are scoundrels. Some just want to help you."

Saying goodbye, Sir Lagnus found a pang of pity for the boy. Still naive. He had been tough, demanding a third of everything, but he must think of himself. All that was left was to wait for the Night Eagles to free Baronet Iedran, and for him to swim in gold.

❖

"Night Eagles?" said Thulbok.

"Why, that was a good name," Darien smiled. "A toast?"

"A toast."

They clinked glasses, enjoying the end of daylight before Darien went back to hunting the kind of people he was. He felt a satisfaction that he hadn't felt in a long time, a mission accomplished. He had experienced it for the last time as a squire of Sir Orion Drake. He decided to drown that memory and convince himself that no, it was nothing like that.

"Congratulations, Darien," said the dwarf, wiping foam from his beard. "Today you completed your first major coup."

It was just another piece of jargon. A normal blow lasted a few minutes or hours. A major coup could drag on for weeks, months, or even years.

"Portsmouth, for example," said Thulbok. "A big blow. A bald con artist with the title of count, lying to thousands of people for over a decade. I wish I had so little shame on my face."

Darien meditated for a while, orbited his beer. "But isn't it a little cruel?" he said finally.

"Oh. We've reached the point."

"Point?"

"What is cruel?"

Darien moved his hands away, as if showing something evident in the empty air above the table. "Stealing knights."

"Stealing knights?"

"Steal knights from everything they have. We take it all away from Sir Lagnus, right? And he is a knight."

"And you like knights," Thulbok smiled.

"No! But he has daughters, and they need dowries, and he has servants, and... and things. And he's a knight."

"And you love knights. Write their names on small pieces of scented parchment, along with hearts, unicorns, and rainbows."

"I don't like knights."

"You want to rub against them, don't you? Until you get that knightly smell that you love so much. You dream of knights, collect the hairs from their armpits—"

"I don't like knights."

"Right. So, no problem."

Silence.

"Speak, and I'll explain," said Thulbok.

"Say what?"

"That you like knights."

"I hate you."

"But you like knights."

"I don't like!"

"Then I don't explain."

Nothing.

"I like knights."

"Higher."

"I like knights!"

"Say that you would like to be the saddle of their horses, so that they can sit on their noble asses—"

"Exaggeration."

"Right, exaggeration."

He took a sip.

"Tell me, Darien, my passionate pupil: do you think I like knights?"

Darien shrugged.

"You mean to tell me I have to be like you?"

"I'll charge you a hundred Tibares for every question you answer me with another question."

"No, I don't think you like knights. I think you hate the bastards." Sip.

"Very good. Why?"

"Why do you hate them or why do I think so?"

"One hundred Tibares. Why do you think this?"

"You just stole a gigantic amount of gold from one of them. Without worrying about the future of the family. And you pose as a cleric of Khalmyr, who is the patron saint of the Order of Light."

"I am a cleric of Khalmyr."

"It doesn't matter. Well, it seems like you spend a lot of your time thinking of ways to get rich at the knights' expense, and the rest of your time executing those plans." Thulbok coughed a laugh.

"Have you ever been near a distant kingdom called Trebuck, Darien? Have you ever heard of this enchanted land?"

"Bad taste," Darien frowned.

"Okay, bad taste. In short, no one knows better than you the mountain of excrement that is piled on Trebuck. Do you think a group of idealistic young riders could make a difference there?"

"Honestly, no. They would all die."

"That's what I think too. Then Sir Guthrin Orchard, son of Sir Lagnus, was about to set off on a journey to Trebuck, along with other idealistic and flighty knights. He doesn't know that one of his companions on this cunning crusade thinks he is a traitor and planned to kill him along the way."

"Is that true?"

"I never lie."

"You lie all the time."

"Sir Guthrin Orchard would die, murdered by one of his esteemed colleagues. This would likely precipitate discord among the group, and everyone's death. This would certainly transform Sir Lagnus from a harmless poltroon into a man full of money and a grudge against the Order."

"And what changed?"

"Sir Lagnus would finance the expedition. Now, without money, there is no shipping. Problem solved."

Darien stared at him for a while.

"There are other ways to resolve this."

"For sure. But that's my way."

"What will happen now?"

"Sir Lagnus will find a very valuable jewel, an heirloom from his family. This will guarantee the future of his daughters, servants, and everything else. In fact, this jewel is almost ready. Sir Guthrin will discover by chance that his little friend hates him. I don't know what he'll do with it, but given his temperament, I suspect a duel. And I will order copies of excellent literary works that I have not yet had the opportunity to read. They are handmade, you know? By monks of Tanna-Toh. They cost fortunes."

Darien blinked. "Does this mean that all this was to help the knights?"

"And myself."

"Do you like knights?"

"I love it," Thulbok smiled. "I consider the Order of Light to be one of the most honorable and, pardon the platitude, genuinely kind institutions that exist in Arton. High Commander Alenn Toren Greenfeld is the greatest man to ever walk the earth, and the knights defend the people of Bielefeld with overwhelming detachment. There are rotten fruits, yes, but the Order is a solid trunk and, above all, fundamental."

"But...?"

"But there are things that knights don't do. There are depths to which they do not descend. There are boogers that they don't get their noble hands dirty with. And that's how it should be. For the Order to remain strong, there needs to be tradition. Honor. Limits. I descend to the depths; I get my hands dirty."

"And what do they think about it?"

"I suspect if they knew, they would disapprove."

Open mouth.

"They—"

"The name of the game is help the knights without them knowing, Darien. Preserve Order. That's what my friends and I do."

"And now is the time when you take me to meet your friends?"

"No. Now is the time for you to get up and go to work. There are thieves in this city, you know?"

Darien finished his beer.

"In the morning, you will meet my friends."

"In the morning, I'll sleep."

"Clean your ears. I said in the morning you will meet my friends. Do I need to stage a coup to change your mind? Do you think I'm incapable of convincing you of anything, Darien?"

Sigh.

"Cheer up, boy," Thulbok also dried his mug. "That's why we recruited you. Because you drool over knights. Because you get wet when you see riders. Because you would like to marry all the knights in the world and live as one big happy family, and find a way to give birth to little knights, already mounted and in armor."

"Don't deny it, you unfortunate man. You are a cleric of Hyninn."

Thulbok showed all his teeth. "I've never heard of it."

❖

Darien could feel thick sand creeping behind his eyes. He had stolen sleep here and there during the night, in the most unsuspecting places. A few minutes of wakefulness in a deserted area turned into a standing nap. A visit to the latrine gave rise to dreams. Miltham found his slowness strange and amended a speech about the sacrifice required of the militiamen, who exchanged the day (the domain of good citizens and honest lives) for the night (the province of evildoers). The militiaman, said Miltham, forced himself to live among the scum who fought.

Darien wished the scum would agree with Miltham, and that they would all agree to live in one shift so that he could sleep now and then.

It was morning again, and the sun had an offensive shine that Darien only knew from dawning with a hangover.

"Go away, you son of a bitch. I want to sleep."

"Are you talking to me or Azgher?" said Thulbok.

"Both. You and your gang are getting together to kill me."

"Good to know that the Sun God is part of my class. Well, cheer up. Here we are." Roschfallen, the capital of Bielefeld, was not the most important city. In the kingdom, Norm, the headquarters of the Order of Light, emerged. And even for this reason, Roschfallen allowed itself a lighter existence as a prosperous center of the bourgeoisie under the king's arms. An example of such prosperity was the market. Another was the portentous wine house in front of which they stood.

"Shall we drink?"

"Not here, believe me."

They entered. A wide, closed hall, smelling of wood. Long boards covered the walls, floor, and ceiling. Magical and alchemical lights gave it a cozy cave feel. Ornate amphorae and dark-colored barrels littered shelves and sides, and pennants of noble houses hung in discreet pride. At that time of the morning, no one came in.

Someone who could only be the owner approached. A tall, well-mannered man, with the short snobbery of someone used to serving the very rich. A monocle sat over his left eye, and a cup of steaming tea gave him an air of morning aristocracy.

"Can I help you, Father?" said the dandy, with a bow to Thulbok and a snort of slight contempt for Darien.

"I'm looking for green wine," said Thulbok.

"You said we weren't going to drink—" Darien was ignored.

"I recommend the vintage from five years ago—"

"I want something from before the Storm arrived. I haven't trusted grapes since."

"The grapes resist the Storm."

"But the hangover can be terrible."

They both smiled.

"Welcome, Thulbok. I imagine this is our new bad guy?"

"Yourself. Don't make the unfortunate guy recite the passwords; it's nonsense anyway, and I didn't teach it."

Darien rubbed his eyes. He considered the possibilities of a quick exit before the number of crazy people increased and life became too weird.

"Nice to meet you, young man," the man now behaved with much less snobbery and offered Darien a frank and firm handshake. "I am Felix Jannon." Darien felt a sting in his palm, saw a drop of blood welling up. He jerked his hand back. Felix Jannon was examining a ring with a small thorn, dipped in red. "Come on, Jannon," Thulbok snorted. "Aren't passwords enough?"

"Doppelgangers, my friend. We need to be careful; they are everywhere. Featureless creatures that take the place of people, take on their appearance. And you know very well that passwords are not my idea."

Jannon walked to a barrel, followed by Thulbok. He turned a piece hidden in the oak strips, and the sound of creaking stone filled the room. The lid of the barrel opened like a trapdoor, the entire structure unfolded, revealing a staircase that led underground.

"You are a sszzaazi cult," Darien stayed behind. "Or a cabal of vampires. Or they'll lock me in a basement and take advantage of my manly beauty."

Felix Jannon laughed. "Do not be afraid, young Darien. Would Thulbok lie to you?"

"Always."

"But not me. Between. Let's go."

Unable to decide on a god, Darien decided to say a quick prayer to everyone who might be listening. And went down the stairs.

❖

"In case of a dragon attack, you wouldn't last five minutes," said the stranger.

"Right. Good. Thank you." Darien tried to maintain his best smile as he looked the man in the eyes and slowly backed away.

"You won't find it funny when the attacks come. The Storm! The dragons! The Black Alliance! We may be attacked at any time, boy. And the important thing in this situation is to survive."

"Right," Darien thought. "This is the strangest one." But the truth was that he couldn't make up his mind.

The armed and camouflaged man certainly stood out. Tall and hairy, bursting with muscles, long braided hair, and a face smeared with black paint. Greenish and brown clothes, as if he had just returned from an expedition into the woods.

"Crawford is our survival expert," Thulbok said, patting the giant on the back in a friendly manner. "You can find something to eat in any environment, even after a demon attack or something like that. You need to see your house. It is a fortress, with a reinforced hold that can withstand the most powerful dragon breath."

Crawford crossed his arms and puffed out his chest with pride. "When the enemies come," he said. "Not 'if,' when. My family will survive. I would like to see some undead or wizard tear us from our home and resist our weapons. Do you know how to use weapons, boy?"

Darien stammered yes.

"Excellent. My daughters started training when they were four years old."

"I started later."

"A common mistake."

Darien turned his attention to the rest of the room. The basement of the wine house was as large as the building itself and full of strange things. The walls were decorated with a variety of stuffed heads—some so exotic they resembled anything but heads. There were shelves full of curiosities, from small beings in formaldehyde bottles to locked safes that moved from time to time.

"My collection," said Felix Jannon, gesturing around. "Look freely, but don't touch anything."

The man was a collector of the bizarre. The stranger and more lethal a creature, the more it aroused his passion. Listening to the group's chatter, Darien was able to deduce a life that did not match his appearance as a sycophantic nobleman. Jannon had traveled to the three corners of Arton, hunting and seeing everything he could.

But Darien's gaze always drew to the immense table that dominated the basement. Buried with parchment, leaves, quills, and trinkets, surrounded by vertical panels covered in scribbles and numbers. On a nearby wall, a screen several meters long displayed a map of the continent, an endless number of notes, drawings, and stretched threads connecting places, figures, and words.

"Don't disturb Ambrose," Thulbok repeated. "He'll talk to us when he's ready."

Ambrose was the last of the madmen. A shaky, disheveled figure, writing on a thousand papers, consulting books and notes at a neck-breaking pace, muttering to himself. Every now and then, he would get up, nail a parchment to the large canvas, and stretch a thread until it connected to another element. He wore glasses so thick it was difficult to see his eyes. His blond hair was greasy and unruly. Worn black clothes, losing their darkness, were actually typical of an aristocrat, but much younger.

"I found it," said Ambrose, raising his head.

"Here you go," Thulbok muttered.

Ambrose seemed to notice Darien for the first time, jumped in fright, and glued himself to the wall, starting to crumple parchment.

"Relax, Ambrose," Thulbok said. "This is Darien."

"It is not a doppelganger," said Jannon.

The other breathed. "Excellent. Excellent." He muttered something to himself. "We're going to need more people. It was good that I chose this one."

"What did you discover?"

"Black Skull," said Ambrose, adjusting his glasses.

Darien was torn between heart in mouth and joking. But around everyone was very serious.

"Black Skull. I am sure. Listen to me."

Ambrose began to rattle off a litany, showing notes, points marked on the map, and the threads that connected everything. This was just one of several mysteries he was working on, but it was the most urgent. According to his research, Ocean, the God of the Seas, planned to sink an uninhabited island. To do this, he had recruited the help of an unknown race of mermaids from the dry world. The mermaids, secretly in cahoots with necromancers, wished to colonize the island so that the colonists would die and be raised as zombies. The chosen population (for reasons that would require advanced knowledge to be understood) were the halflings. What many didn't know was that halflings were distantly related to entities known as Chaos Demons. The fairies, in an eternal secret war against the Chaos Demons, infiltrated the Elder Halflings (a group of tiny immortals who secretly controlled the crown of Deheon, the Capital Kingdom of the Kingdom). And the plot continued, increasingly complex, with the threads stretched back and forth between notes, important points, and drawings.

"This is crazy," Darien whispered. "That man is a lunatic."

"True," said Thulbok discreetly. "But he's very good at research and deduction, and he has an impressive network of contacts. Pay attention; there is always something worth it." In fact, Crawford took notes on some things, very attentive to the speech.

"And finally," panted Ambrose, "we come to the Lords of the Storm. Everyone knows that the attack on Trebuck last year was just a hoax."

"Now, Ambrose, that's too much," said Jannon. "What would it be like—"

"Listen. Of course, it was all a hoax. A plan, you understand? From the Lords of the Storm themselves."

"To deceive us?" said Jannon, still with his eyebrows crooked in disdain. "To trick Black Skull?"

Silence.

"They wanted to strip Black Skull of his humanity. All morality, everything that made him a person, even a criminal. Do you understand? They wanted to turn him into a perfect pawn."

"For what?" said Thulbok.

"I still don't know. I don't like to speculate about what I'm not sure about." The others looked at each other.

"But what do I be," said Ambrose, "is that Black Skull is about to act. I don't know what he wants, nor what the Lords' plans are. But I know he will take the first step. Get the first element."

Break.

"The blood of the greatest of all dragons," Ambrose hissed, as if his enemies could hear him.

"What does that mean?" said Jannon, already very serious.

"Impossible to know, for now. According to everything my contacts managed to intercept, with all the signs that were revealed in secret societies, with the clues hidden in occult paintings, with what more than one informant gave his life to discover, it is: 'the blood of the greatest of all dragons.'"

"The greatest of all dragons is Sckhar," Thulbok stroked his beard.

"Is Black Skull going to kill Sckhar?" said Jannon. "That's impossible."

"With a good plan, you can just extract the blood," Crawford said. "We don't know how much he needs."

Everyone nodded their heads in agreement.

"Anyway, something needs to be done," Thulbok said.

Darien felt a slight shiver, as if someone was about to have a really bad idea that was going to come crashing down on him.

"That's what Ambrose chose you for, Darien," Thulbok said.

"Ambrose chose me?"

"The name of the game is to help the knights without them knowing. And we all know who is the knight most interested in hunting the Black Skull, who won't hesitate for a moment to do so, who won't let himself be tied down by the Order's bureaucracy. Who will simply do the work, whatever the cost."

The name hung unspoken, like a curse.

"And only one of us has ever been a squire. Sir Orion Drake, right?"

"Sir Orion hates me," Darien said.

"Then prepare yourself for your first really big blow, my pupil. Alone. Why do you need to convince Sir Orion that speaks the truth?"

Eyes on him.

"Darien, you idiot," Darien muttered.