We were met with the cold touch of a heavy fog, so thick it looked almost solid in the feeble dawn of a grey morning. Were I of a mind for poetry or superstition, I'd have called it a sign. Darkness reigned here in Murkwater, so deep and total that it could defy even the Hearthmother's Gift.

  Good thing I weren't that kind of man though. I didn't need Divinity and her Sacred Fire to light my way, or to keep my soul from freezing in the dark.

  I saw through it all just fine, and the fire I wielded was made by my own hand.

  I slid two blood shells into the chamber and snapped it with a click.

  "Remember," called Margarette from behind me as she addressed the five who needed it, and the pair of hollow, silent survivors, "follow the red light." I watched her hand out the magelights that Mister Tequi, evidently something of an artificer, had altered to cast the same, crimson hue that marked my blood shell. It was yet another clever measure I'd never have come up with, one that might save lives.

  "If you are lost, or separated, make for the docks, and look for light," she continued, her voice strong and steady despite the frailty of her frame, "my ship waits. The Beavulf will not leave without all of you, or at least proof you are dead. I swear this now. I swear it on my life," she said with a nod to me, and a smile that could have meant a thousand things.

  But to me it just meant she was clever. And cruel.

  That promise would hearten all it was made too, and it was worth not a damn.

  "Little Brother," I said to the giant as he ran an oil soaked rag over a weapon that actually fit his frame. He looked up from the deck saint, the tool's iron a-glow with the blue of so much Leviathan blood, "your job is to keep our lambs safe while I clear the way. I'll move fast, faster than any of these folks can follow. You just keep to my trail and keep them from the teeth with Miss Clara and Mister Tequi."

  "Heard," said the big man in a deep rumble, "heard and understood, First Mate."

  A few looks were exchanged at that. Mostly between me and Margarette. We hold told no one, especially not the simple minded and ferociously loyal Temjun, of her little gift. His reaction was interesting though.

  No surprise, no concern, just acceptance. Maybe the big man had a deeper understanding than I'd given him credit for?

  Yeah. More and more I realized I was a fool to think him anything but wise in his own way. I just shook my head and gave the giant a stiff grin.

  "Good. As for the rest of you," I said offering a handful of my flesh-made rounds, "use these when you're in real trouble. There's magic in them that even the undead will have a hard time resisting. The things inside are nice an' hungry for all that might do you harm."

  Tequi especially eye'd the Gore Arsenal rounds with open disgust, but ultimate still accepted the six I gave him. Clara took her share with a little more grace, and nodded to me.

  Weapons were short and I'd had to spare my Dragonfire runed pistols, the same that had served me so well in the Vault, to the current cause. Ammunition was even more scarce, my original supply divided in half between the Outcast Foreman and former Guard, was just about enough to get us into trouble.

  If we spared another day of hidin' I might've been able to draw hard enough from my Ability to provide a full stock of ammo for the lot of them. But that wasn't in the cards. We didn't want to wait, and I couldn't spare all that blood.

  "Mister Roche," Vin said, the boys face hard as he gripped the rusted knife I'd used to kill the blood banshee just a half day before, "What's my job?"

  I smiled, a big grin that showed my teeth and my extra eyes, "Yours?" I asked slowly, "the same as any boy's ought to be," I pointed a single tentacle at the Captain and the two women who still refused to speak, "keep them women folk safe, and don't piss your life away before it starts."

  He nodded, his face set in a grimace and his eyes bright, "Yes sir," he said.

  I was glad be just took that. There was nowhere safe for a child than next to a servant of the Crone. Captain Margarette, even two steps from a frozen grave would be a match for anything short of a true nightmare. I'd heard tales of her Patron's blessed freezing hordes of goblins, goin' toe to toe with Winter Witches, all just to protect a single child.

  Vin would be safe here, with her. Or, if it all went to hell, he would at least die quicker than the rest of us.

  Another few minutes of tense preparation followed. Plans were discussed, orders given, and the whole time, I could feel the weight of my new rune, the promise made and the burden carried. I didn't know what it meant, or how exactly the old woman's magic would bind me, or what it could do if I did betray her, but for now, it didn't much matter.

  The simple clarity of what my mission in Murkwater had become was enough.

  Kill the monsters.

  Protect the weak.

  And burn this motherfucker to the ground.

  As the group moved toward the tall, steel bound front doors of the manor I separated and made for the window I had shattered in my Rush fueled flight.

  This whole gambit was predicated on my speed and natural knack for makin' a mess. While the others ran the streets below, I'd take the to roofs, drawing the revenants off their path and buying them time to reach the armory.

  I drew a chill breath as I stood before the glowin' barrier made by the mansion's sturdy wards. It sizzled and cracked with energy, sparking against the constant pressure of the Wyld and Entropic mana that filled the world outside. I'd have to balance all that too. While the Southerns and Outcast blooded, not to mention an Uruk, wouldn't much feel the influence of the ambient power, my mama's blood line would still drink it deep.

  All that power destined for the empty pearl inside of me, but on it's way, it sow madness and manic rage. A little could be tempered, a little could be turned aside, but no Northman would resist the call of Berserker forever.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  With that lodge firmly in my throat, I let instinct guide one of my new tentacles. Fool's Lesson knew the nature of this magic, I had felt it's touch and sabotaged it on the many door's of this hellish manor. As my cold, slippery flesh touched upon the haze of blue power, no crackle of warning came, and no spark of pain burned at my touch. Instead, my unnatural appendage seemed burrow and explore within the impossibly thin and through distorted space that kept safe the manor's interior.

  I felt a bit like...

  Well, some sick part of me recalled my night with Songbird, the sensation of being inside of her, the warmth and the wet.

  Another time, another place, I might've explored exactly why I was reminded of that moment of weakness and pleasure, but not now. Not here. Instead, I just pushed, slid deeper into the confinin' magic until it writhed, rippled, then gasped.

  Pop.

  And just like that, the magic was broken.

  From the streets below I could shapes in the mist, my Arcane Eye no longer blinded by the ward's magic. The black power that wriggled inside of them seemed to shift, and somehow I knew they could see me. Could smell the life, raw and vibrant, that was hidden within this sanctuary.

  "Go!"

  I roared as I tucked into a run, and exploded onto the streets below. I rolled as I hit the hard cobbles and immediately my mind worked to chart a path through the rushing foot steps and fog smothering fog.

  I heard the others behind me, even so distant and so close to the moans and please of a dozen hungerin' dead.

  "Help us," moaned one.

  "Finally, I knew we wouldn't starve!" Cried another.

  "That way!" came a small, high voice, "mama there's more that way!"

  I was already gone, my feet light and quick as I bounced up a low stone wall and bounded off it's top and up the wall of a small home like a billy goat fleein' along a mountain side.

  Boom.

  The roar of my scattergun cut through the din of the revenants with a roar of alchemical power. The dust of a Steel Winged Pix lingered in the wound I'd made in the fog, and the blue flames that rose off the three revenants I'd tagged with my shot seethed, the fire only growin' as it feasted on the magic all around.

  I felt my breath come quick and full as the Wyld filled my lungs.

  Boom.

  Another shot, this one down into the street where Margarette and the others would soon be.

  "Up!" Howled a voice from the fog, "it's on the roof! It's on the roof!"

  "Climb, climb!" Chittered a small, eager voice, "eat, eat!"

  Boom.

  I let the scattergun sing as it snuffed out the first and fastest, then used the stored power of three shots to Drift right over to the next rooftop at impossible speed.

  Then the chase truly began.

  I timed every leap, aimed every shot to piss off as many of the rotten motherfuckers as I could. One misstep, one lapse in concentration of mistake in my aim, and the folk I'd chosen to protect would set upon by the swarm I constantly gathered.

  Despite, despite knowin' the need to keep my head, every breath, every Drift, I began to sink into the Rush, conscious thought becoming instinctive action. My eyes grew wider, my ears sharper, my heart beat harder, and the Wyld mana seethed in me. I smell the rot and salt and the hole I'd traded for power yawned wide as exploded from one rooftop to the next.

  Minutes passed in something like success as the horde that raced, crawled, howled after me swelled from a dozen, to a score, to hundred and more. I saw the shapes of children, of old men, of young women and hardy laborer. I saw the twisted faces of things that had been good folk and sorry fools, innocent souls and wicked men.

  I spared none of them the sanctified wrath packed into each of my supply of Scaras made shells. The old bug's arms might have been shit against a demon, but they tore through Entropic flesh like a hot iron through the belly of a man condemned.

  It wasn't until I could almost see the squat shape of the armory through the sea clouds that shrouded all of Murkwater that things went wrong.

  Pop.

  The sound was distant, too distant. I might've been ridin' the edge of mania and madness, but I was still sharp enough to know about where my people were-

  Where they ought to be.

  I peered from the top of an old general store to spy six motes of red amongst the writhing grey and black and blue. Six and not seven.

  "Fuck."

  Another shot popped off from a hundred paces behind the group. I watched in dawning horror as some of the things climbing up to get at me turned and dropped.

  "Look!" shouted something little and rotted, "there are more! And that one is slower!" Hissed a horror in a tattered floral dress.

  "Mama, mama, let's have those for dinner instead!" she said, and all of sudden, things went to shit.

  I sent two loads of consecrated silver and lead into the crowd as the began to flow away, a tide of rot receding' to drown the lone man who had fallen behind.

  Mister Tequi.

  That dumb son-of-a-bitch, he was makin' for the Processin' Plant, the whisp of the mana inside of him streaking as he ran fast, far faster than any of the others could've. I could almost smell the lifeforce he was burning as the left the cleared wake of the survivors for the narrow alleys, north and west toward the true center of this rotten port.

  Why?

  I tried to puzzle an answer as I chased, Drifts hurling me through space after blast after blast torn wounds into the fog.

  Was he tryin' to make a sacrifice? Be some rear guard while we ran ahead?

  No.

  There'd be no sense in that. the plan as working, the armory, and it's protective wards, damn near spittin' distance from Temjun's spearhead.

  Much as the thought made me sick, there was only one answer I could come up with. Mister Tequi was a coward, a liar, or a traitor.

  His plan was to abandon us all, maybe. Just go and get his people and steal the ship we all depended on?

  Possible.

  A cold wind whipped through Murkwater, settin' the fog to tumble and swirl, like seas growin' rough just before a mighty storm.

  I rolled as I reached a rooftop above him, the horde on both of our heels as we raced into a narrow space between a pair of tenements. I had to find out, had to know. The part of me givin' itself to the Wyld was fixated on the truth of his acts, even while my sane mind insisted it was better to just let him run and die.

  "Tequi!" I roared over the cacophonic wail of the dead, "where the fuck are you going!?"

  The Outcast speak at first, didn't break stride as the mist swirled all around, breakin' just enough for our eyes to meet.

  He looked at me, his face blank.

  Then, with the same cold, calm expression, the runes on the side of the pistol's barrel, the same one's Shorty had carved for me months ago, flared to brilliant life.

  His eyes, small and dim behind his round spectacles crinkled in something between a smile and the prelude to tears.

  Boom.

  The sound of betrayal wasn't a subtle thing, and neither was it's burnin' pain. I felt the round, mundane lead taken from my own stock, wreathed in a gout of hateful flame, tear through the bloody crystal of my cheek, as Fool's Lesson's made my body recall all the other times I had been shot.

  The imperfect dodge spared me from a quick and painless death, and instead, tugged me right off my feet. Right off my feet, and into the open harms of a hundred hungry things below.

  Even now, even when you do right Roche. Even when you play hero and mean to make some part of this all right...

  Even then, you're still a fuck up.

  Always, and forever, the great bloody fool.