Bilde would be another insignificant coastal town if it wasn't for its proximity to the Isle of Skala. Interest in the isle reached feverish heights after ruins, presumed to be Crontan in origin, were discovered in the heart of its verdant forest. Many scholars made Bilde their base while studying the island ruins, nicknamed 'The Glass Tomb' by pulp travel writer Eleius Reinhart. This intellectual gathering led to the construction of a grand library, considered to be the finest on the continent, with the exception of the Royal Archives of Narcys.

Extract from Calkus: her Geography, Settlements and People by Sylas Trein

Bryn crouched on a low branch, obscured by thick evergreen leaves, until the main group had passed. He counted six men. One straggled behind the others. The straggler stopped to lean against a tree and took off his soft leather boot; it was dyed black, for stealth, Bryn could only assume. That meant they were not ordinary bandits, who tended to favour roaring curse words and heavy clubs rather than finesse. He waited until the last of the hooded figures disappeared through the foliage at the far end of the clearing, then hopped lightly to the ground. He crept towards the straggler. Bryn's waved dagger flashed up to the man's throat as he reached for his own knife.

"Best not even think about that, friend," Bryn hissed.

The man continued reaching for his knife. Bryn whipped his own knife downwards, slashing the man's wrist open. His hand fell limply to his side. There was no cry of pain, no violent shudder through his body. Bryn had never encountered such discipline, such impeccable tolerance to pain. He grabbed the man's knife with his free hand and threw it into the undergrowth, before spinning the man around to face him. He lowered the hood cautiously, with his knife hovering close to the man's heart. Bryn did not know what he had been expecting, but whatever it was, it certainly wasn't this.

"Heklar?" he whispered.

Heklar was the son of a Hinterlands farmer. Bryn had met him twice before, while Duke Cilirus had been setting up supply contracts for the city of Bellais. Heklar had always sat quietly in the corner, fidgeting, as if he had something important to do but had not yet worked out what it was. Bryn couldn't think of a less likely stealth warrior than the awkward, obese teenager standing before him. Heklar stared blankly at him, with dead eyes. While there was no sign of life in the eyes themselves, Bryn still had the distinct impression that he was being watched. It was as if there was an intelligence lurking just behind the animated flesh of Heklar's body.

"What have they done to you, Heklar?"

There was no reply. Bryn realised he would be just as well questioning one of the nearby evergreen trees. One more try, he thought.

"Who sent you? Why are you tailing me?"

Heklar's thick lips stretched into a toothed grin; coupled with his vacant eyes, it made the boy look like a ravenous shark. He glanced behind Bryn and nodded his head. Bryn pushed the boy away and whirled around, ready for an ambush. There was nobody in sight. He turned back towards Heklar and was greeted by a meaty fist smashing his nose. He reeled backwards, his vision obscured by the blow. His eyes managed to make out a glint ahead of him; he instinctively rolled backwards. His eyes began to clear as he hopped back to his feet. Heklar had procured a thin stiletto blade from somewhere; most likely his boot. Bryn noticed a thin line of moisture gleaming along the edge of the blade. Poison. One glancing blow and he would surely die; the nearest physick was roughly three days travel. Heklar did not give him much time to consider this. The rotund shadow warrior lunged forward, using his stiletto as if it were a rapier. He was surprisingly agile for his size. Bryn wondered how he had managed to become this proficient in such a short space of time; it had only been six months or so since the last supply meeting, at which Heklar had been the epitome of clumsy youth. Bryn parried a blow using his knife and swept behind Heklar. As he passed, he swiped for Heklar's hamstring. While his aim was true, Heklar managed to sweep his foot upwards before Bryn could connect. Heklar drove his raised foot into Bryn's ribcage. Bryn reeled back, clutching his chest. He spat blood and raised his knife again, lowering himself into a defensive stance. He had underestimated this opponent; he had no idea how the boy was moving so quickly, but it was not natural, given his size and training. As Bryn backed off, Heklar pulled a small pouch from his pocket. He dropped a small quantity of powder onto the back of his free hand and snorted it. He spasmed suddenly, before advancing on Bryn again.

Bryn was completely oblivious to the startled chirps of woodland creatures as he backed through the undergrowth, desperately trying to deflect Heklar's blows. Each swipe and stab now seemed to be unnaturally quick. Bryn's lifelong training and honed muscles were no match for Heklar's synthetic speed. He backstepped to avoid a brutal stab which narrowly missed his face. As he sidestepped to avoid the next swipe, the earth crumbled under his feet. He plunged down a steep hill. His instincts told him to keep his limbs close, to minimise damage. His body smashed off scattered outcroppings of rock whenever gravity allowed him to touch the slope. He finally came to a rest among the ferns at the bottom. His first move was to check his limbs. No permanent damage. He could still move his arms and legs. As he moved to get up, he was flattened by a large, soft object. Heklar. Bryn prepared himself for the final blow. It never came. Heklar stared at him with vacant eyes; he appeared to have lost his stilleto on his way down the slope. Heklar attempted to open his maw to bite Bryn's face, but Bryn managed to free an arm. He grabbed the youth's head and smashed it into a fallen tree. On the third strike, the struggle went out of Heklar.

Bryn released him and fell back. He drew breath as quickly as his protesting lungs could process it. After recovering some of his strength, he raised himself unsteadily to his feet. He glanced at Heklar. His body was limp, but the malicious presence still lurked behind his eyes, which were swivelled upwards towards Bryn. Heklar's ruined lips curled into a smile, and he let out a gravelly laugh.

"Who are you?" Bryn snarled, crouching to meet his adversary's eyes. They glided down to meet him with an eerie fluidity.

"Aza... Azarr..." Heklar whispered, bloody spittle frothing from his lips.

A wave of nausea washed over Bryn. The same word that Cilirus had spoken.

"Azarr sa lase?" Bryn forced himself to say.

"Azarr sa lase!" Heklar's possessor boomed. His eyes rolled back suddenly, and the unknown intelligence was gone.

Bryn searched the corpse, finding only a sheath of throwing knives and four small vials of clear liquid; most likely the poison. He sat down on a fallen tree and tried to piece the events together. Either the cult had been hounding him since his escape from the ruins, or they had heard about his investigations into the Crontish civilisation. In any case, they were concerned that Bryn was going to find out something that could cause them damage. This kindled his hope, as it implied that there was a secret worth killing to protect. Bryn decided he would need to take care to avoid further attackers; if the others had stronger physiques and the same combat skills that Heklar had displayed, he would be in trouble. He wondered if the boy's prowess had something to do with the ancestral memory that the scholar had mentioned; perhaps the instincts to attack, dodge and parry at appropriate moments had been fed into Heklar via the strange entity which had possessed him? Bryn sighed, realising there was no point in mulling it over until he had proof; at this point it was all speculation. What he needed now was action. He ignored the pain from his bruised body and forced himself back to his feet. He was getting close. He trudged back up the hill and found his way back to the forest path, ignoring the insistent darkness which had begun to blot the sky.

He kept to the back roads, day and night alike. He had no idea of their numbers, and they would be looking for him. The relative desolation of the cultist ruins was no indication of the cult's true scale, especially if they regularly sent groups of assassins out to neutralise threats. Bryn's stomach dropped as he thought of the mad scholar. He had probably lead them straight to his door. Hope your rapier served you well, old man, he thought.

Three nights of constant travel without sleep took its toll. Bryn's eyelids drooped, desperate to stretch themselves towards slumber. He had avoided Bellais, keeping to the less travelled roads along the Western coast. His initial plan to ask for information in the hub of the Hinterlands had become too risky; if a simple farmer's son like Heklar had been recruited, God only knew who else might try to kill him. While he wanted to get to the heart of the problem as soon as possible, his rational side warned him that his best chance to save the Duke was to approach cautiously, and keep himself out of harm's way. He would not allow his emotions to endanger Cilirus. Trepidation swept through Bryn as he saw the flicker of collected torchlight lighting the sky over the next hill. Bilde. It was a small town on the coastal road between Bellais and Gielis, the only surviving city in the Grey Swamps. As it was close to the Glass Tomb, Bilde was a common gathering point for scholars and adventurers. It was certainly a risk, but he had to find information somewhere, and it was a less obvious move than returning to Bellais. Besides, he had to get some sleep; his travel rations were running low, and he wasn't alert enough to hunt wild game. Twenty-four hours, maximum, he promised himself. Find the information, a few hours' sleep, restock, then back on the road. His weary body drifted towards the torches, which were growing sharper and clearer as he closed the distance.

Bryn slipped into Bilde under cover of darkness. The streets were completely dead; the only noise was the mewling of a cat coming from one of the many well-pruned hedges that bordered the picturesque coastal town. He passed the library; a surprisingly grand and extravagant structure for a town with such a limited population. It was well justified, however, by the roving population of scholars that pushed open the carved volcanic glass doors on an hourly basis. The faint glow of candlelight filtered through the thick glass windows, which were designed to keep noise out; it was not an unusual sight, as the library never closed. Scholars had no concept of normality when it came to time. Bryn wanted to go and speak to the scholars, to press them for any scrap of relevant information; however his exhausted body would not allow it. He needed sleep first. He trudged towards the local inn, which looked small and irrelevant in comparison to the library. The tap hall was empty; most scholars had no use for ale. Bryn managed a lethargic conversation with the innkeeper before entering his ground floor room. He only managed to remove one boot before slipping into a heavy sleep.

Bryn slept for twelve hours. This allowed his active mind plenty of time for dreaming. One in particular stood out. He stood outside a ruined tower, watching black-clothed figures with poison daggers as they stared at him out of the elderglass windows. The knowledge he needed was inside the tower. He was afraid of the figures, but that was not enough to keep him out. As he approached the door, an insistent, indistinct voice began scratching inside his brain. He reached for the door handle; the voice became clearer and louder. Suddenly it was screaming, tearing his brain apart from within by the sheer vibration of its pitch. Azarr sa lase. Azarr sa lase!

He woke up just as his dream counterpart had sunk pitifully to his knees. Sweat coated his brow It was troubling how much the word "Azarr" scared him, even in his dreams. He got out of bed and pulled on his remaining boot. At least he felt rested; it was time to hunt for scholars. He skipped breakfast, nodded curtly at the tavern owner, and pushed open the front door. He emerged into the brisk, breezy west-coast afternoon.

Bryn followed the clifftop path towards the library. The breeze playfully tousled his hair. The distant caws of gulls echoed from their nests further down the cliffs; the sound dissolved into the gently lapping waves while the breeze whistled through the tall grass. Such a calming composition. Bryn couldn't help thinking of Cilirus; he would have loved it here. Anywhere with a relaxing atmosphere suited the Duke; he seemed to become less sarcastic, less severe, as if the mellow nature of these places seeped into his own personality. Well, no relaxation for me, Bryn thought. Not until I sort these cultists out and rescue his honourable self.

After a short and pleasant journey along the cliff path, Bryn arrived at the library. The doors were propped open, welcoming any who pursued knowledge. Bryn accepted the invitation and stepped into the building. The carved stone walls emitted a feeling of chill; this was fortunate, as the thick windows would otherwise trap too much body heat. Humidity would be bad for the books too, he supposed. He wandered up to the counter. A young man, in his early twenties, was slouched back in his seat. He gazed at a small book he had propped open lazily, using only one hand. He did not acknowledge Bryn's approach. Bryn cleared his throat. Nothing. Bryn hammered his closed fist on the wooden counter. That had the desired effect, as the youth almost fell from his chair. He shot a venomous look at Bryn.

"Oh, apologies, friend! Didn't see you there," Bryn said.

"I'm sure you didn't," the youth sighed. "I'm never going to finish this with all of you scholars bothering me every five minutes. What are you after?"

"I need some information on the Crontans," Bryn said. He didn't wish to give too much away; it could put the youth in danger. Luckily, the youth did not seem to find it a strange request, or perhaps he simply didn't care.

"That man, over there," he nodded towards a severe looking gentleman.

Bryn judged him to be in his early thirties. A greasy mass of black hair obscured most of his face; the heavy tome he was lost in managed to hide the rest of his features.

"Careful though, he's not having the best day," the youth said. "Almost bit my head off when I asked him to sign for the books."

"Thanks, boy," Bryn placed a coin on to the counter.

He turned to leave, but his curiosity got the better of him. Bryn couldn't think of any scholarly articles that a youth as lazy as this would be interested in.

"What are you trying to finish, anyway?" Bryn gestured towards the book.

"Glass Tomb by Scribe Eleius," the youth said. "It's not bad, I suppose. Adventure, fighting, women, that kinda thing. Have you read it?"

"Can't say I have," Bryn said. "It sounds like complete horse shit. Most travel writing is."

"Each to their own," the youth shrugged.

Bryn left him to it. He approached the scholar.

"Excuse me..." Bryn said.

He was interrupted by a bony finger, cutting the air as it shot up. Bryn stared at the scholar as he continued to stare at the book. After a few moments he snapped the book shut, placed it delicately on the table and swept the matted black hair from his eyes. Huge, dark pouches nestled just underneath his eyelashes, suggesting that he may have been the same scholar who was burning the midnight oil the night before. Uneven patches of hair sprouted from his face.

"Normally I would ignore you, but that tactic doesn't seem to work in this town," the scholar said. "So I suppose I might as well deal with you."

"Well... thanks, that's very kind of you."

"It has nothing to do with kindness. What is it that you want?"

"Information on the Crontans," Bryn stated.

He was glad this scholar was more straightforward than the last one he had met. He had no time for games or nonsense.

"Specifically?" The scholar steepled his fingers under his chin.

Bryn had clearly managed to arouse his curiosity. He debated how much to tell the man. More information would allow him to help more accurately, however it could also put him in danger. He realised he would have to take that risk, if it could help him rescue the Duke.

"This is going to sound ridiculous, but a man I know has been acting strangely, as if he's been possessed. I've encountered others who act in the same way, as if an outside intelligence controls them."

The scholar nodded thoughtfully. He stared at Bryn.

"The rest of the story too, traveller."

"A term keeps coming up... Azarr sa lase." The involuntary shiver ran through him again. The scholar raised an eyebrow at his reaction. Bryn recovered, cursing his weak mind, and continued.

"I spoke to another scholar on the Southern Coast. He told me it might mean, 'shadow will return.'"

"Indeed, it could mean that."

"So what's the link? How can I stop the possession?"

"You're involved with that cult, aren't you?" The scholar fixed Bryn with his dark eyes.

"I'm fighting them," Bryn said.

"How can I know that? What if helping you puts me in danger? I'm too close to finishing my life's work on the Crontan language. I refuse to be killed now."

"Listen-"

"No. I'll continue my work at the inn if you refuse to leave me alone. I will not help you." With that, he dropped a stack of books into his travel bag and marched out of the front doors, ignoring the protests of the youth at the counter.

"He's not supposed to take the damn books out," the youth muttered as Bryn swept past.

"I'll see what I can do, kid," Bryn said.

He followed the scholar out into the late afternoon sun.

He kept at a distance, following the scholar from behind a low stone wall which bordered the clifftop path. The whistling breeze helped to cover the sound of his movement. He didn't want to do anything drastic, but the scholar was leaving him with few options. Hopefully a little bit of a scare would shake the information loose. Otherwise... Bryn banished the thought from his mind. He would worry about that when it happened. Besides, it wasn't anything that he hadn't done before. The border wars hadn't been kind to anyone involved, and neither had Bryn. He suppressed a shiver as he recalled the animalistic brutality he had displayed towards other men in those days. All in the service of a misinformed High Ruler... no. He wasn't going to go back there again. There was nothing he could do to change the past. No point in dwelling on it. He focused on his target, making sure to keep himself obscured by the wall. He noticed that the scholar ignored every male that passed him, with the exception of shooing any young boys that dared to come near his path. His reaction to the young women was entirely different. He would bow or wink to every fisherman's daughter that walked down the path, asking how they were on this fine day, and if they would like help carrying their heavy baskets of fish. Luckily the young women had too much sense to trust the creep. Bryn realised he could use this. He continued following until they were a few minutes' walk from the inn. He slipped out from behind the wall and crept up behind the scholar. His dagger flashed out from under his cloak and jabbed lightly into the scholar's back. He whispered into the scholar's ear.

"You're coming with me. Make a sound, I'll kill you."

The scholar made an amused sound in his throat.

"What would that achieve? You need information from me."

"I do, but you're not the only scholar with that information. I'm desperate, I'm running out of time and, honestly, I'm getting a bit sick of your attitude. I could certainly use the stress relief."

He jabbed the point of the knife more firmly into the man's back, piercing the skin.

"Fine, fine," the scholar muttered. "Lead the way, then."

Bryn led the scholar along the path behind the inn, towards the forested cliffs which separated Bilde from the Hinterlands. He kept the dagger at the scholar's back, underneath his cloak. Thankfully, they met no other travellers on the path. Before long, they came to a dilapidated wooden warehouse. Some of the rough wooden planks which made up the walls had fallen away, and most of the roof had collapsed. Still, it would do for his purposes. Bryn pushed the scholar on to a rotting pile of wood. When he tried to rise, Bryn smashed his fist into the side of the scholar's jaw. The scholar learned his lesson and sat awkwardly on the scraps of wood. Bryn took his knife and cut two long strips of cloth from the scholar's coat. He held the knife between his teeth as he began to bind the man's hands and feet. The scholar looked over his shoulder.

"Don't even think about it," Bryn growled through a mouthful of steel.

"I told you, I'm not helping you," the scholar said. "Violence will not change my mind, and killing me is pointless. You gain nothing."

"I get the feeling some kind of violence might change your mind," Bryn said, as he secured the final strap around the man's feet. He stood up and moved in front of the scholar, slapping the flat of the knife against his palm.

"What's your name?" Bryn asked.

"What does that matter?"

"Humour me."

"Selenas."

"Well, Selenas, it's like this. I'm a very good judge of people. I only watched you for a few minutes on our way up here, and I already know the things you value the most."

"The books? They can be replaced." Selenas snorted.

"It wasn't the books I had in mind."

Bryn leaned down and wrenched Selenas' thighs apart. He placed his own knees on the lower legs, keeping the scholar's thighs separated.

"I was in the army once, Selenas," Bryn said, making a point of studying his waved knife. "You wouldn't believe some of the things I did in service of this country, while I was young, patriotic and foolish."

"What does this have to do with anything?" Selenas snapped.

"Well, one of my jobs was interrogating spies for information. I became especially good at that task, better at it than I would like to admit. You see, it's all about finding out what the spy values more than anything. That way, you find the most efficient means of torture."

Bryn placed his knife against the man's upper thigh, on the left-hand side, about half-way up.

"I know you're particularly fond of the ladies. So we're going to play a game. I'm going to make a little cut, right here."

He brought his knife down quickly. The cloth of Selenas' trousers yielded as easily as fine parchment to his honed knife. He opened the skin on the scholar's thigh with a tiny cut. Selenas winced, but continued staring defiantly at Bryn.

"Now then, either you tell me what I need to know, or we keep going. Each cut gets bigger, and I'll do each one more slowly. Guess what happens when we get to the middle of the crescent?"

Bryn displayed his best attempt at an insane smile. It took a lot of effort. Bryn really hoped the man would crack. The fact that he was even threatening him in this way made him feel physically ill. This was the reason he had left the Calkus National Army; inflicting pain on others, often for irrelevant information, had almost destroyed him. He had expected to become desensitised to the suffering of others. It never happened. The cruel physical and psychological torture that Bryn had been subjected to as part of his training always seemed preferable to inflicting that pain on others. However, he had no time to play nicely with arrogant scholars. He made another cut, slightly higher up. As promised, he cut deeper, longer, and more slowly than before. This time, Selenas cried out in pain. He thrashed against his bounds, trying feebly to escape Bryn. Bryn faked a laugh. He grabbed Selenas' chin with his free hand and forced his eyes downwards. Bryn placed the knife just underneath Selenas' crotch. The fury disappeared from Selenas' eyes; all that remained was terror.

"Fine, fine, I'll tell you! Don't go any further!"

Bryn barely restrained a sigh of relief. He sheathed his knife and waited for the scholar to calm down before pushing for the information.

"Now. I need details."

Selenas had clearly considered all the clues previously. It was only the fear of repercussions from the cult that had held back his response, until Bryn had provided a more immediate threat.

"Pekerin, near the outer cities," Selenas began, "There's a stone. The Thinking Stone."

"I know where Pekerin is," Bryn said. "And I've heard of The Thinking Stone. What does a superstitious tourist attraction have to do with any of this?"

"W-well, people say they gain ideas when they're near it. Others say they, they hear whispers. Inside their mind."

"And?"

"I've studied it, in person. The stone is of the same type the Crontans used for building structures. You mentioned that you had encountered people who acted as if they were being controlled by a foreign intelligence, yes?"

Bryn noticed that the scholar had temporarily forgotten his fear; it had been superseded by his passion for Crontan mysteries. He nodded for Selenas to continue.

"Well, is it too far-fetched to assume that one of these disembodied entities became trapped in the stone? That would explain why only some people can hear the whispers; in much the same way that you shiver whenever you hear 'Azarr sa lase', and I am completely unaffected."

"Still sounds ridiculous to me, scholar. Lucky for you, at this point, I'm willing to try anything. I'll check it out."

"I think that would be best. You can get a ship from the Eastern Docks. Better that than risking an encounter with the mountain tribes."

"Anything else you're holding back, scholar?"

"Yes, but we could be here forever while I tell you. Best that we leave immediately."

"We?"

"Of course," Selenas said. "You didn't think I was going to let you unravel this mystery without me, did you? This is my life's work. Besides, you seem more adept at the... unsavoury work, but I imagine you'll need my keen intellect to see the truth."

Bryn chose to ignore the insult to his intelligence. He still felt guilty for torturing the scholar. Besides, he couldn't refuse any help which might lead him towards Cilirus' rescue.

"Fine. Gather your things, we leave at first light."

Selenas nodded eagerly.

"You'll need a weapon. Can you use a sword?"

"I had two and a half years of training in the art of the Volcanic Staff when I was a youth."

Bryn sighed; a few years of training with an unwieldy staff was unlikely to be of much use against lightning-quick assassins.

"That will have to do."

They walked back to the inn together as the molten sun drifted below the grassy lip of the cliffs. The next morning, their journey began.