Lothar studied his ledger. A loss of over ￡5 was an eye watering amount—one that would have bankrupted him not that long ago. Even with his newfound financial security, he needed to examine his outgoings. ￡3 to restore Dorwich after the goblins’ depredations was a one off expense. It was worth it, to get Galazu’s second city back on its feet. Rosalind and Foberoy had told him he should invest in the future, and so he had.

  The largest expense had been Rosalind’s mission to the north. The best mercenaries did not come cheap, and Rosalind and Wynter had added The Harvester to his roster. But I can hardly complain about that, either, Lothar told himself. Better to employ the most expensive mercs yourself, than have them go work for someone else.

  “Speaking of which,” he muttered to himself as he closed his books, relatively satisfied. “Time to meet the next batch.” Lothar opened his chest, and fished out the last of his magic items.

  He took a table downstairs, and waited for their arrival, while the light from the sword’s pommel bathed him in a golden glow. He drummed his fingers on the top, as his mind ran through the missions his squad had completed. He wondered if it was all getting too much. He had them divided, heading off to the four corners of this new world. He worried about losing control of it all. But what was the alternative? Each mission The Rotten Apples had taken on made sense. Perhaps it was time he trusted his mercs to get the jobs done. Stop all the micro-managing. Relax, just a little.

  The hush that descended on his inn let him know his latest recruits had arrived.

  Elves often had that effect. Especially in a place like Avolo, far from the elven homelands. On this occasion, however, the two elves who made their way to Lothar’s table weren’t the sole cause. Their companion, the tiefling, was more of a sensation.

  Of course, it was the horns and the tail that did it. Hard to look past, even if both were quite modest on Oripione. Otherwise, she looked much like a human woman. Lothar had seen tieflings with unusual eye colours, but hers were sea blue. Her skin was pink, true enough. But then some humans had very pink skin. No, it was mainly the horns and the tail, and the insinuations that came with them. Rumours of devilry followed tieflings most everywhere they went. Lothar knew nothing of magic. On topics about which he was ignorant—of which there were many—he refrained from passing judgement. Most people, however, aren’t like that.

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  Her appearance made her two elven companions look more ordinary. Both men had the same athletic build—lean, hard, strong, and supple, all at once. They had the leaf-shaped ears of their race. It was the eyes that Lothar always noticed. They had knowing, worldly eyes, set in a youthful face, a combination that left him feeling uncomfortable.

  “Please, sit,” he said, gesturing.

  Seregin, the older elf, took a chair. His grey eyes drifted from Lothar to the weapons. The other two remained standing, no doubt some hierarchy at play that Lothar was oblivious of.

  Well, I’m damn well placing my arse back down.

  “Let’s start with this,” he said, passing the wand to Seregin.

  The small wooden rod drew all of the elven wizard’s attention. He held it lightly, in both hands, as if it were a delicate lover. He closed his eyes. “A wand of paralysis,” he said. His eyes opened. “Seven charges left. A most useful tool.”

  “Good. I guess you get this, too.” Lothar handed him the cloak.

  Seregin inspected it with the same reverence. “An elven Cloak of Protection. It defends its wearer from extremes of heat and cold. Worthy items, Lothar. And you said you found them in a tomb?”

  “They were in the fourth and final barrow my squad explored. In a hidden chamber. The rest of the barrow had items that had once belonged to a dwarf, halfling, and a gnome.”

  “Most peculiar.” Seregin’s hard grey eyes studied Lothar’s, as if not wanting to believe what was clearly true. “It must be that these items have lain undiscovered for centuries. Truly, from another age. And the bow?”

  Lothar passed it to Seregin.

  “Dragon Spine,” he said, reading the inscription carved down its length.

  When he had finished with it, the elf passed it to Valnor, who examined every inch of the stave. “A fine weapon!” he declared, with enthusiasm.

  “Good!” Lothar said. “I know this to be as well. We have named it Goldblade, the brother of three other swords we found, all with a different gemstone in the hilt. They glow when a certain type of enemy is close. As you can see.”

  “It helps with the killing of humans?” Seregin asked him. “Strange, that you should give us such a weapon.”

  “Gnomes, too. It may be that you discover it does the same with elves.” He glanced at Oripione. “And tieflings, of course. I forgot to test it on the dwarves, I’ll admit.”

  “There are dwarves in Gal’azu?” Valnor demanded, his pleasure at receiving Dragon Spine evaporated.

  “Only two. As I said, we discovered weapons of dwarven design in the same barrow. The same invitation was sent to the dwarven realms as the elven.”

  “Naturally,” Seregin, raising a hand in Valnor’s direction, as if to quieten him. He held out a hand, and Lothar passed him Goldblade’s hilt. “I see,” the elf said, as soon as he gripped the weapon. “Its bonus applies to what my people call the Elder races. Humans, elves, dwarves, and all our cousins. Which makes one wonder, who made this sword, and with what purpose?”

  “I suppose so,” Lothar said. His wonderment tended to be confined to the here and now. “Will Oripione be wielding it?”

  “Oripione is a talented warrior. It would be well suited to her.” Seregin passed the sword to the tiefling.

  “Thank you, lord,” she said, with a tilt of the head.

  “These gifts are most gratefully received,” Seregin told Lothar. “It does make one wonder what you expect of us in return.”

  “I expect you to join The Rotten Apples, and work as I direct.”

  “For how long?”

  “For at least a year. I think that’s reasonable.”

  “It’s perfectly reasonable. We have travelled all this way. I am not yet ready to leave. Perhaps, though, you could be more precise about what work you expect from us?”

  “Well, the mission that most needs your help actually involves these weapons. In each barrow was a map. By accident, really, I discovered that when the maps were collected, they identified a fifth location. I sent my best team to investigate. They’ve tried to locate our missing scout, with no success. Next stop is the Deepwood itself, where the maps seem to be sending us.”

  A strange expression had appeared on Seregin’s face. It was an expression Lothar didn’t much like. “You mean,” asked the elf, “whoever established these four barrows, provided maps as to their whereabouts, and to a final location?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your scout has gone missing? Close to this final location?”

  “Well.” Lothar wasn’t quite sure what Seregin was getting at, but he could feel his insides quiver. “Yes. I suppose.”

  “Anything else?”

  “An entire village went missing. Nearby. We never got to the bottom of it.”

  “Missing people? Any signs of dark sorcery? Perhaps connected to these barrows?”

  “Not that I can think of. There was certainly magic. Well, I guess you could describe the skeletons in the first barrow as dark sorcery. Could you?”

  “Skeletons?” Seregin stood, his chair scraping backwards. “How many on this mission?”

  Lothar was now so unnerved that he also got to his feet. “Six.”

  “Tell me you sent a sorcerer with this squad, Lothar?”

  “Yes. Rosalind.” Oh shit. Rosalind. What have I done? “They’re in trouble, aren’t they?”

  “How powerful is this Rosalind?”

  Lothar racked his brains, trying to recall her stats. “Shunned Scholar,” he remembered.

  Seregin’s mouth twitched.

  Lothar wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

  “And she is the only one in the squad?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what other sorcerers do you have?”

  “Bletcher. He’s the opposite. Blessed Dolt.”

  “Lothar, we need to reach this Deepwood as quickly as possible. I fear there is a powerful necromancer behind the events you have described. Gather the rest of your mercs, and we’ll set out.”

  “Ah. That’s going to be harder than you might think. They’re a little…spread out.”

  “Spread out?”

  “We’ve had all sorts going on. Blood Fiends in the north; a mission in Kuthenia.” He gave a little grin, even though he didn’t feel like smiling. “Spread out.”

  “Well, how many here in Avolo?”

  “Here? In Avolo? That would be just us.”

  Seregin looked at him like he was mad.

  I don’t think I’m mad, Lothar told himself. But this elf had him questioning all his recent decisions.

  “Then we go, the four of us. Pick up whoever we can on the way. Time is of the essence now. We must grab the best horses in Avolo and make all speed.”

  “Ah. Horses. That’s even harder, I’m afraid.”

  The two elves and the tiefling all looked at him with expressions somewhere between astonished and pitying. It was the kind of look he’d received on the regular back in the old world.

  “In fact, it’s impossible. There aren’t any. I hope you’re all wearing your walking boots?”