Tallis stood by one of the many portals leading into Tuath Den dressed in his best outfit. He paced back and forth in front of the portal, fidgeting, making sure his tie was straight, smoothing the wrinkles from his jacket.

Callan caught him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him to a halt. "Please, Tallis, please stop that. You are driving me crazy."

"Sorry. Just nervous."

"Don't be. The Justicar is here to help and I promise they won't bite unless you give them a good reason."

Tallis pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it. "Have you worked with this Justicar before?"

Callan sat on the low step in front of the raised platform that housed the portal. "Personally? No. The higher members of our order don't tend to involve themselves in day to day issues. They typically stay in their towers and delegate, unless the situation is exceptionally bad."

Tallis took a long drag on his cigarette. "I'm not sure if that makes me feel any better."

Callan let out a grim chuckle. "San Tempes is a necropolis now where it used to be a home for the living. A city burned to ash, Tallis, I think we passed "exceptionally bad" a few months ago."

"Fair enough," said Tallis. He was about to start pacing again when the portal behind Callan flickered to life, filling the hall with a violet glow.

The High Justicar was the rich gold of a sunset, with orange scales running over their forehead and down the bridge of their nose. Deep wrinkles creased their face and they were bent with age. They were dressed in a simple black robe and carried a knotted walking stick.

Tallis moved to help them down the short flight of steps but the Justicar shooed him away with the walking stick.

"Easy, boys," said the Justicar. "Just stay where you're at and I'll come where you're to."

Callan stood and bowed.

The Justicar hit him in the shin. "None of that fawning and tom foolery now. Spirits of blood and thunder, there's a war on. Spies see you going on like that and kicking up a fuss, I'll wake up tomorrow with a knife in the throat. Best not give me any fancy titles or "yes sirs" or "no sirs" either. Just call me Fionn and treat me plain and we'll be grand."

"I don't think there are any spies here," said Tallis. The comment earned him a rap on the shins of his own. He darted backwards with a wince.

"If you suspected there were spies, they wouldn't be very good spies now, would they?" said Fionn. "Does that little bar on the third level still serve that mulled wine I like?"

Fionn didn't wait for an answer. He shuffled off into the city at the quickest pace he could manage.

Tallis and Callan trailed a few steps behind him.

"He's not quite what I was expecting," Tallis whispered. "I thought he'd be more of a fighter."

"Well, he's certainly good with that damn stick," Callan grumbled.

"And I can hear very well," said Fionn.

A rush of heat crept up Tallis' cheeks and he followed the old man in silence until they found the bar he was looking for. It was a snug little spot grown into a hollow in the city's trunk. The bar was lit with globes or translucent sap filled with glowing grubs, and each table was sat in a private booth made of moss covered wood. The place smelled green and alive, and a muted hush filled the bar, like the deep silence that followed a heavy snowfall.

Fionn ordered a cup of wine for each of them and sat in a booth at the back of the bar. "Smokes, let's go," he said, holding out a hand towards Tallis and snapping his fingers.

Tallis handed him a cigarette and lit it for him.

"Right on, boys," Fionn continued. "Should be safe here. We can cut the bullshit. Bring me up to speed." He sat straighter and a predatory glint came to his eyes. Some of the wrinkles disappeared from his face and the Fae looked twenty years younger.

"I'll try my best," Tallis began. "But I'd have an easier time if I had some of my maps and notes from my office."

"Hold on a minute," Fionn interrupted. "Your office? You running things or what?"

"Trying to," said Tallis with a shrug. "Weirdly enough, in a town full of shops, saloons, and gambling halls, there weren't any strategists willing to coordinate the war."

"Gods, and ghosts," said Fionn, taking a long drag on the  cigarette. "Things are worse than I thought. A human leading a Fae warhost. Now I've seen everything."

Tallis tensed and balled his hands into fists under the table. "And what's wrong with that?"

Fionn held up his hands in surrender and smiled. "Nothin. Nothing at all. Just a bit strange. Does it feel strange fighting against your own side?"

"Cold Iron is not my side. My side is here with the Fae."

Fionn sipped his drink and spent a moment lost in thought. "That actually makes me feel better." He leaned his elbows on the table and looked to Callan. "So tell me, you're in the Order, what do you have to say about this one? What makes him so special?"

He had been traveling with the Faerunners for months now, but he still felt more than a little nervous over what Callan might say. A small, nasty part of his mind was convinced that all of the good times they'd shared had somehow been a lie.

Callan cleared his throat and sat up straighter. "To put it plainly, Tallis fights harder than he has any right to. He’s stubborn. He’s foolish. He’s always throwing himself into danger to protect others. And that's why I'd follow him anywhere. When he gets an idea in his head he's unstoppable. We wouldn't be doing half as well without him."

"Sounds like a glowing recommendation to me," said Fionn. "And what about you, Tallis? How well do you think you're doing?"

Tallis felt himself deflate and he slumped in his seat. "The truth is, I'm barely keeping it together. Every choice I make gets someone hurt or killed. We're winning an inch or two each day and losing a yard by the end of the week. Every choice I'm making is the wrong one.”

“Do we have anyone getting close to Cold Iron agents?” asked Fionn.

Callan nodded. “Lots. Tallis has been doing a great job getting our gamblers, traders, and storytellers, basically anyone who’s a natural born liar, trained on how to blend in with the agents. We even have Summer craftsmen making uniforms for us.”

“Good. We’ll see how much damage we can cause with a few well placed rumors and horror stories. I want panic. I want confusion. I want every Cold Iron officer to be afraid of their own shadows.” Fionn reached into a pocket on the inside of his robes, pulled out a worn sheet of paper, and spread it flat on the table. On the sheet was an ink drawing of a Pinebarren Devil. “How accurate are these rumours? This has to be propaganda right?”

“Sadly, no,” said Tallis with a sigh. “Cold Iron has some power over the devils. They keep using them to sniff out our agents. The damn things are drawn to magic.”

“I fought one once. Damn near impossible to kill. That goes a long way to explaining why we’re struggling.”

Tallis sat a little straighter and took a sip of his wine. “Exactly. It’s hard to do anything when one of those things could swoop down at any moment and wipe out a whole crew of people. We’re using Cold Iron crossbows and rowan wood bolts on them where we can but those weapons are well guarded and hard to come by.”

“Smart,” said Fionn. “I think I have what I need to take over. Our craftsman should be able to turn out bows for us no problem but Faebane arrows will be a little more difficult for us to handle. He stubbed out his cigarette and sighed.  “Leave it to me. I’ll figure something out. I want you to take a week to rest up, and get your strength. You look like you’ve been all whiskey and no stew.”

“That …” said Tallis. “Isn’t too far from the truth.”

“Right, I’ll keep the home fires burning here for you, while you put a team together.”

Tallis looked over to Callan and the bigger Fae nodded. “Already done.”

“Good,” said Fionn. “I hope they’re our best, because I’m sending you into the deadlands. We’re going to solve this Devil problem once and for all.”