We made it to the coastal marshes in just under a day and a half. Well under the Guild's estimation, and wholly thanks to Moxie being the fastest, meanest, sons-a-bitchin' thing on four legs.

  We blew through the sands like a cyclone and the few monsters we encountered, they didn't want no part of the razorback hog or the six-gun Hunter on her back.

  Our pace slowed the moment sand and dust gave way to wet, boggy ground. By the time I could smell stagnant water and rich peat, we had come to a stop.

  I looked out over the stretch of wetland ahead. A cobbled path, slowly eroding into the bog, cut a crooked line between a sea of brown, mossy, and tall green grasses. It looked fit for a wagon, but just the one. I'd seen plenty of roads like this back in the Broken Coast and I knew just how unsteady they could be.

  Water and creepin' life had a way of undoing even the best work of man, and this road wasn't that by a long shot.

  "Think this is where we part, darlin'" I told Moxie as I slipped off the saddle and moved to rifle through her bags, "you're too heavy for these roads. And, well, if they're crawlin' with undead, you don't wanna be anywhere near the fight. You might end up gettin' bit."

  Bites from undead were noxious for causin' infection and rot. Sickness and miasma bloomed in the veins and flesh of the infected. Even a mana mutated monster like Moxie might not have the sheer vitality to resist the effects. The thought of her leaving this world in such a terrible fashion?

  Well, that made my skin crawl and my heart ache.

  Moxie grunted and snorted in protest, digging a trotter into the loamy marsh soil, tearin' up the mud and grass

  "Nope," I shook my head and met her beady eyes, "I know you're eager to spill some blood, but the things we're after now? They ain't got any. They ain't good eatin', and I won't risk you to find out."

  The razorback hog stared at me long and hard. Her nostrils flared and she gave a low growl. Then tossed her head toward the sands, puttin' her backside to me and givin' a snort.

  "Moxie, I'm not-"

  The beast turned her head and gave a low grumble.

  "Ah, you want to roam instead of waitin' here?" I asked. My pig speak had gotten rusty, sorry to say, "Well, you're welcome too. Just," I took the silver flask from the pocket of my duster and sipped it gingerly. Wasn't tryin' to get drunk, but the taste of the whiskey helped keep me level, "just, be careful. If all goes well I'll signal you from here when I'm done. Dragonfire in the evenin', you understand?"

  For a second I doubted she did. Beasts, even clever ones-

  Moxie dug a tusk deep into the ground, then done it again.

  After a second I realized she was markin' the spot. Never underestimate a hog, no sir.

  "Good, and," I cleared my throat as I set about filling a pack with food, ammo and the tools of my trade, "and if I don't come back in a week?"

  The pig lifted her head, her nostrils flared and a low, rumbling growl bubbling up from her belly.

  "You go find Miss Marry. There's a letter in your bags for her. She gets whatever the Guild pays out for me. After that, you're to keep her safe."

  I hadn't expected Moxie to react so strongly.

  She spun around and snapped her jaws, chompin' at the air. A wet roar that smelled like pork and rotten vegetables filled the marsh and she kept it up, stomping her trotters and tearing at the ground.

  "What? Why are you actin' this way?"

  She tossed her head back and forth, shaking her mane, and her eyes seemed to bulge.

  "Oh fine," I caught as she stuffed her snout into my gut, "I won't say no more on it. Now, go. Be safe, and remember, dragonfire!"

  She gave a huff and took off back the way we came. I watched her run and then, when I could no longer see her, I turned and walked on into the marsh. It took me about an hour to get the lay of the land. The road was indeed narrow and poorly constructed. Coastal rains had caused some of the heavy stones to shift into the deep mire a half dozen feet below.

  The deeper in I got, the higher the grasses rose. Like a sea before the sea, the mix of tawny brown and deep green rippled with the cool wind that come up from the true ocean beyond. I tried searching the horizon as I walked, lookin' to catch sight of any sign of the Outpost. Smoke, high walls, or even the glint of iron or metal.

  There was nothin'.

  The only signs of civilization were the worn road and the occasional wooden posts marked by faded and peeling paint that assured me I was on the correct path.

  By mid-day I had made good time, and was well into the bog. Insects swarmed in thick clouds, and a heavy sheen of sweet clung to my skin. While the heat of the dunes was harsh and direct, the wet and warm breeze from the waters carried a sticky humidity with it that I resented all the more.

  I was on my second bottle of water, and a few hours worth of walking behind me when I saw the first sign of real trouble.

  A heavy, wooden wagon lay tipped over in the mire. A man was still chained to the cart, a thick collar of steel around his neck. His body was bloated, his flesh puffy and grey, and the small, biting insects of the swamp crawled in and out of his open mouth, his eye sockets, and every other hole on his nude form.

  I covered my nose with a handkerchief and bent to inspect the scene.

  The wagon was headed down the road, toward the camp. To me that meant this poor son-of-a-bitch had died well before whatever catastrophe had befallen the rest. The fact that he bore no wounds, save the blisters and bumps of insect bites, made me think he died of something mundane. Starvation or dehydration. Maybe sickness.

  Then there was the fact that he was chained.

  A slave, abandoned when the cart overturned.

  I spat in the mire and stood.

  "Motherfuckin' Imperials. If there's one of you who doesn't deserve what's comin' then I'm a godsdamned minotaur." I said to no one in particular.

  The corpse didn't reply.

  I took a little oil from a bottle in my ruck and a pinch of white kindlin' from a water-proof pouch. I rarely called on the aid of any Divine, preferring the Heretical Rites for blessin' my fire, but in cases of the undead? Well, I figured the Hearthmother, Queen Bitch of smitin' the wicked would do for makin' sure this poor bastard didn't join their ranks.

  I struck a match and touched the kindling before allowing the white flames to catch on the oil.

  Rather than the greasy smoke of burning fat and flesh, holy fire burst to life, burning away the foul taint that had been buildin' in the dead man's body. His flesh charred and bubbled, his bones were reduced to ash, and the bugs that had infested him died in droves, their carapaces crackin' under the pressure of the purifying heat.

  Soon the whole of his remains were gone.

  "Rest easy, hombre, may you find a Path beyond the veil that's kinder to you than the world was."

  A hazy spirit rose up with the ashes, formless and so weak that I could barely spy it at all.

  I almost thought I heard a whisper of thanks as the soul of that dead man joined the ash on its journey into the sky.

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  Almost.

  I kept walking.

  It wasn't long before I found the next sign of trouble. Four bodies, men, dressed in fine, silken clothes with a few weapons scattered nearby. These ones had been killed by violence. Two bore wounds from a blade, one sported a broken neck, and the other had his skull caved in. All bore bites and claw marks, each deep enough to touch bone. The violence was clumsy, the attackers many, judging by the way the earth was marked by bare soles and boots. A swarm of somethin' evil had found these men, dark justice in my mind.

  Likely these were the owners of the spilled cart, and the man they left chained to it.

  Good riddance.

  They were a lot less rotten, and my Arcane Eye spied the tendrilous traces of dark mana wafting from the gouges and cuts. They would rise soon, probably. There wasn't so much ambient mana here that the process would be quick, but enough darkness had been seeded to ensure the birth of abomination.

  I took a bit more of the holy oil, and repeated the ritual I'd performed for the slave. When the flames had consumed all the bodies, I continued on.

  I spoke no words of kindness for these dead. I had none to spare, not for men who could turn their eyes from such cruelty as I'd seen in the slave.

  The light of day was fading when I reached the town.

  Well, when I reached its walls anyway.

  Massive, jagged pillars of bone reached up into the dyin' day. The ivory ribs of giants and titans torn from the sea and assembled into a wall towering wall. My eyes watered as I looked to the gate, itself made from the jaw bones of a leviathan. The mana that bled through the ruptured wards carved into the fortifications was so potent, so malicious that the air faintly shimmered. Even someone blind to the energy of the world would mark it as spoiled by mana rich and black.

  Again, I had to rely on stories of old to make sense of what I saw.

  My mama often spoke of the forests of Kairwoad, those that covered the whole of the North before the Imperials came to reap my homeland's bounty.

  "When you see the thick and shimmer, son, when you see the world strainin' to hold back the mana of the Wyld, then you'll know you're walkin' on the edge of damnation." She would tell me, "the Wyld, that's what we called the mana that had no master. No Entropy, no Divinity holds the shackles of it. It has a will, and that will is change."

  She'd whisper when me and Alice sat near her at the hearth.

  "Change, my children, change is the will of the Wyld. It can make monsters," she'd mutter, castin' witch weed into the crackling flames, "or miracles. But no matter what the end, the means is always the same. Beware the places of the Wyld, for mutation and madness grow rampant in its grip."

  Good poetry and bedtime stories to scare children, but a powerful tool to understand the world as I did. The Wyld, the unaligned mana, it loved my mother's kind, my kind. Northmen, since before the Great Green Sea sprung from the taiga and tundras, had always been most easily touched by its call.

  My arms, the tendrils that made them, each one seemed eager to escape from the leather prison of my gloves, eager to drink in the power that lay barely contained by the magic in the walls.

  A bad sign. Too much mana here, too much even for me.

  Further proof of this sat perched high on the walls above.

  Iridescent feathers and sharp red eyes watched me from the spear-tips of the rib-wall.

  Strix.

  Heralds of the Lady Death.

  Monsters born only when enough mana has been spilled in battle, or when the Wyld bleeds through the fabric of reality and twists the world to its whims. They were watching me, crows of death, waiting to pick the flesh from my corpse, or from those I offered.

  They weren't a danger much, so long as you didn't piss 'em off anyway. Sure they could fill your head with visions of terror, shear muscle from bone with their talons, or peck your eyes and throat out when they swarmed, but, well, that was only if they decided you were a threat.

  I whistled up at them, and their red eyes gleamed brighter as they looked down and gave a ragged greeting.

  I didn't speak bird like I spoke pig so all I heard was screechin' and cawing. The Arcane eye, though, saw the mana flowin' from their beaks to my ears.

  Doom.

  First came the word, then the truths. Nightmares of fire and deep-blue oil rushing from spilled cauldrons, soakin' into the earth and the water, burnin' and givin' life to terrible things. Things I had no name for, no understanding of.

  Then another image flashed, disconnected, yet, I knew it must have been seen with my own eyes.

  A cleansing sun that swallowed it all, born from the heart of this darkness. My hand reached out, and as I grasped it-

  The dream, nightmare, omen, turned to ash.

  I fell to my knees.

  "Fuck..."

  The Strix watched, and then, as if the show was over, they turned their backs and fluttered off. One by one the birds took wing, and one by one they flew off into the twilight.

  I rubbed my achin' eye and made sure not to go askin' strange questions to stranger things. Likely there was truth in the mess they'd projected into my head, but just as likely they were fuckin' with me. Tricksters, every servant of death was.

  Yet, there was a message.

  Burn it to the fucking ground.

  And maybe I’d have to, but first, I needed to make sure none that breathed were yet left.

  I sighed and shook my head, then pulled the scattergun from my hip and checked the ammo.

  Two silvery shells in the chamber, the rest of the belt around my shoulders.

  I'd have to move quick once I went in. The longer I was exposed to the magic the more it would affect me. At first the mana would feel good, energizing and restorative. All the fatigue of the long ride and walk would fade. My mind would sharpen, my senses would reach out. Wounds would heal fast, and my Abilities would be at their best.

  Then, after a few hours of exposure, the magic would begin to twist.

  My mind would go wild. A Mana Rush would set it. My ancestors had used it like a weapon way back. Ridin' the madness of the Wyld, they'd become unstoppable. Berserker warriors that could kill and kill without fear, without pain. Heal through mortal wounds, conjure spells without runes, and summon forth the spirits of nature to lead them in war, and often, to an early grave.

  After the rush would come the real danger though. Goin' bronto shit crazy while high on mana was a treat compared to the crash that came after. Some said bein’ as strong as the massive bugs was worth it, the change that followed after?

  That was a cost, even to Named Men and time-lost heroes.

  I figured I'd changed enough already, I didn't want more tentacles, didn't want claws or horns or a tail. Had no need for dragon's wings or a serpent's tongue.

  So move fast, aim well, and get the fuck out.

  I moved to the great gate, stood beneath the maw of a dead legend, its spiny baleen replaced with dark wood and steel, and pushed.

  The door opened without a sound, the oiled hinges moving easily, a frigid gust of air washed over me, carrying the stink of rot so sweet it made my mouth water. My tendrils writhed in anticipation, pushin' at my gloves. They wanted to eat, they wanted to kill. They wanted to exalt in this feast of power, and they wanted to bring me along for the ride.

  No.

  My will slammed down hard as I stepped foot beyond the arcane barrier, the wards softly cracklin' with my passage.

  No I would not be indulging in any of that mess. You sons-a-bitches are my tool, not the other way round. Indulgin' that instinct might've saved me against the transformed Songbird, but here in this ruin of a town? No, it'd be a one-way ticket to a shallow grave and an afterlife trapped in my own, putrid bones.

  No fuckin' thank you.

  As I passed through the threshold of the wall, another wave of cold washed over me and this time it set in. Already my body was absorbing the Wyld, making everything I saw, smelled, tasted and heard more and more real.

  And gods I wish it wouldn't.

  A massacre.

  A hundred paces before me down the narrow lane between the false fronts that lined it, sat a heap of humanity.

  Men. Women. Children. Dogs, cattle, and even the great serpents and fish that had come in from the sea. All of them, piled in a mountain of flesh and bone. Like the walls that ringed them, they were woven together, their bodies half melded. Their limbs bent to a purpose that defied the needs of the living.

  Clouds of flies and bitin' bug swarmed over the mound of corpses, and from the cracks in the flesh, I spied the writhing forms of maggots and carrion worms. Hatchin' and living in the sick like the lords and vassals of a kingdom made for rot.

  The smell of death was so thick that even my strong stomach soured. I bent double and puked on the boards, the whisky and bile burning my throat as it came up.

  And as I rose, wipin' tears from my eyes and bile from my mouth, that's when I heard them. The moans, the shuffling steps. The sound of bare feet on the wooden planks, the drag of a broken limb, the low groans of hunger.

  Then came the whispers.

  "... hungry."

  "Cold and tired..."

  "Smell it fresh..."

  A hush of horror drowned out the buzzing of flies and the feeble words of the ocean winds, and I felt my blood freeze as the first small form wandered out a nearby building.

  It was a little girl. She couldn't have been more than eight or nine. Her blonde hair hung limp and wet across her face, the strands clumped with dirt and mud. Her dress, some frilly pink thing, was tattered and stained with the filth of her grave, and the front had been torn open, her guts dangling to the ground, ribs glinting in the evening sun.

  She clutched a bloody boning knife in one skinless hand, a patchwork doll in the other.

  Gods...

  A thousand thoughts rushed through my mind as I stared at the girl. Frozen like a rabbit beneath the strikin' serpent.

  This was no shamblin' corpse. This was no mindless beast of rot and rage. This little girl was a revenant, a soul trapped in a body that had gone beyond the Veil. She could think, she could feel, she could remember.

  And she, she hungered.

  "Hell mister," she said through a partially broken jaw, her teeth blackened, her lips pale and cracked, "you gonna play with me before we eat?" she asked as two more horrors, a man and woman, each as wretched as her, crept from the dark.

  And then came a dozen more, and dozen after them. The whole of the town, every last man, woman and child, had come to welcome their newest guest.

  "Fuck..."