‘Shit.’

Hawk’s expletive was a sentiment shared by them all. The blockhouse was a guttered mess, all windows shattered and the roof simply just gone, a mere skeleton of a building. At some point in the past the powder reserves must have ignited, a fireball ripping its way up and outwards, and from the looks of things it had been this way for a while.

‘No matter,’ Goose told them, even though the opposite was true, ‘We press on inwards as planned, find something useful.’

Disheartened, the group nevertheless complied with orders.

As was the case in many of their previous hunts, the buildings of Viocoumen ran the gamut from whole and practically-untouched to plots of twisted rubble mixed with the browned bones of the previous occupants. It was surprisingly rare to find skeletons out in the open; it was thought the Frekir ate them.

A pair of quickly-searched townhouses yielded a trio of books for Sparrow and the raiding of a half-ruined harbour tavern produced several bottles of sealed ale, lifting their spirits slightly. Thankfully, none of those locations were infested with Sjel. Sometimes more feared than the bestial Frekir, it was said that these shadowy, ephemeral creatures were souls that had become trapped in the Skein of magic that lay between this world and the next, writhing, contorting, and silently screaming for all eternity. Mostly harmless, they were nevertheless seen as an omen of ill portent.

Time was wearing on and they would make one last push toward the centre of the town before turning tail and heading back to the ship.

‘Do you miss it?’

‘Hmm?’

‘All of...’ Grouse gestured at the townhouse Hawk and Goose were thoroughly sweeping, ‘...this. Civilisation.’

Sparrow looked around her, at the ruins of the world.

‘Some bits of it, I suppose. Certainly the ability to walk down the street without being eaten. Amongst other things...’

Grouse nodded.

‘I understand, I do, but this is much... simpler,’ she admitted, ‘No finding good employment, or a spouse with the same, and no carefully playing the game of society. Here it’s just... survival.’

‘And monsters,’ Sparrow pointed out. ‘Not to mention elves, brigands, and much worse.’

Grouse’s reply was interrupted by a screech that had the ladies flattening themselves against the wall, hunching over and scanning the mist, that repeated itself quickly in a rapid roll of mocking laughter.

‘Bloody seagulls,’ Peacock spat from where he stood not far away.

Often in times of idle thought, Sparrow wondered how animals coped without the imposition of mankind upon the natural order of things. There was no telling whether the Frekir had turned their attentions to lesser prey, driving the smaller beasts of the land to fewer numbers too, but the things that swam or flew or climbed must be thriving.

Like stupid noisy seabirds...

‘Gull?’

Goose and Hawk had appeared, the latter having procured a gold-frogged tricorn from somewhere within, perched ridiculously on top of his woollen sailor’s cap.

‘Aye, and Pea damn near soiled himself,’ Grouse replied.

The mage in question glowered but refused to rise to the bait.

‘Mhmm. One more street then we head back.’

The group set off at a jog eastward, towards the burgeoning glow of the rising sun, the mist already becoming noticeably thinner. Sparrow guessed they probably had a quarter hour left before it was gone entirely.

Just ahead, Goose held up a hand to stop.

‘Elf-post,’ he said.

The object in question was always a pole of local wood thrust into the ground in a visible place, no taller than the average man, inscribed with sigils and runes that the point-eared natives of the continent used to communicate with other groups passing through the area. Usually they would be scrawled with things like messages, boasts, tips for hunting grounds, or declarations of territory. This one, made from the crossbeam of a derelict house, had a single phrase carved around the middle in a band of harsh lettering.

‘Sparrow, what does it say?’

The girl hurried forwards and crouched down, running a hand across the notches and grooves.

‘Fairly new, about three months I reckon,’ she told them. ‘Not a local dialect, more… formal… universal. Means something to do with... Hunting? No, the tense is wrong... Second person... Present continuous... Oh... oh no.’

‘What?’

Sparrow was already up and moving, the adrenaline of fear rushing a sheen of sweat across her brow and pricking at her neck. ‘We need to go. Now.’

‘What did it say?’

She swung around to look Goose in the eye.

‘It said “you are being hunted”, Goose.’

The man’s face visibly paled and he looked to Peacock, but the mage’s eyes were already closed.

‘I’m not getting any....’ His eyes flashed open, wide and fevered. ‘Run!’

As if on cue a chorus of unearthly howls ripped through the morning air around them, echoing from the broken buildings and overlapping to the point where guessing numbers was impossible. It was a sound that had featured in every one of Sparrow’s nightmares for the last three years and always brought with it the same bowel-clenching terror.

‘Run!’ Goose yelled. All pretence of stealth was now abandoned as the group began to run flat-out, boots slapping on the flagstones, survival becoming the only objective.

‘I notified Scops,’ Peacock puffed, ‘They’re almost back at the ship.’

A tight-faced nod from Goose was the only reply as the group fled through the town, charging the mile of winding streets back towards the harbour.

Two streets away from safety the unthinkable happened. A Frekir, large and monstrous, its hide crossed with old scars, an alien cunning in its lambent eyes, crashed through a ruined wall to land directly in their path, shedding brick and mortar as it came. The bony face opened and screeched a challenge, responded instantly by the crack of a pistol discharge as Goose drew and fired in the same breath, followed a second later by Grouse and a brace of crackling arcane bolts from Peacock.

Sparrow held fire. She knew these creatures, their habits and their bestial tactics, and they always charged when confronted. Always.

A scream and wet crunch had her spinning around. Hawk was in the jaws of a second Frekir that had snuck up on the distracted group, howling in pain as those powerful teeth broke his flesh, snapped his ribs, and scattered his entrails. Something landed by her foot; it was a fancy tricorn. Screaming incoherently in terror, Sparrow reflexively raised her carbine and shot the thing in the face with a fizz-crack-buck of ignition and a puff of smoke. The lead ball ricocheted from the creature’s bony snout, gouging a furrow but leaving it mostly unharmed. It shook Hawk, like a dog with a toy, spraying blood across Sparrow, and the man finally silenced once his neck broke.

‘Come on!’ Goose bellowed, pulling her by the arm.

The first Frekir was trapped under an onslaught from Peacock, its flesh melting and crackling, unable to rise, squealing in frustrated pain. The strain was showing and the man visibly sagged as they ran past, stoppering his powers and falling into step. An angry roar from behind spurred them on.

They were in the docks proper once again, past the half-ruined tavern, and onto the wharfs but they could hear the two monsters gaining on them as claws scraped on stone and heedlessly scattered whatever was in their path. They were on the jetty with their ship at the end, so close to succour, but a triumphant howl put the beasts right behind them.

No, no, no, no, no...

‘Down!’ Peacock yelled, backing up his words with a helping shove of kinetic power. The quartet fell awkwardly, Sparrow bruising her chest as she fell on her carbine, and she curled tight as her world filled with one great rumble of thunder.

Once her wits returned and her ears stopped ringing she opened her eyes and dared to look behind. The two Frekir were close, almost close enough to have ripped her back and torn her spine, but now they had been reduced to little more than shredded chunks of meat and bone. A well-time broadside of grapeshot from the brig-sloop Seacrow, their home and haven, had saved their lives, but at the cost of far too much precious ammunition.

‘Come on, lass, th' racket will just attract more,’ Goose urged, pulling her to her feet.

Wordlessly they stumbled onwards, down the quay and up the gangplank, a selection of hands guiding them onto the ship. To safety.