Ignoring him, Sparrow took another tentative step and grabbed the envelop, darting back to the others and freezing all movement. There was no sign of movement from the spectre, the ghost, or whatever it was, so she broke the crumbling wax seal with a deft flick. Inside was a single sheet of paper, unfolded, the handwriting on it a meticulous cursive.

Aware of the nervous eyes now upon her, she began to read aloud:

“The 36th day of Thorec’s Wakening, 3040 years since Forsar united the land.

It is now six months since the skies turned black. Six months since from that nothingness descended a species of hell that could never have been imagined. We were fortunate in the first that one of those creatures of nightmare did not fall in the courtyard, but such feeling turned sour as all we could do was watch the beasts savage the surrounding lands. We could hear the screams on the wind for days.

As is right by law I ordered that no man or woman left their post, and to their credit most under my command did comply. At first. The initial deserters I had shot, as is duty required, but I cannot say I do not sympathise; thoughts have often turned to my husband and daughter, but we have a duty to uphold to the King and His land, so here we must stay. More than half of the garrison deserted in the first two-score days. The remnants were those either with nothing awaiting them on the outside or a firm sense of Honour. This lasted only as long as the food.

Only this eve the penultimate soldier walked out of those gates, starved and thin, but yet I remain to write this last report of Fort Vaker. There has been no word from command, nor do I expect there to be. I have barred the gates, mixed solanum with a dram of whiskey, and will commit my soul to Harnir to stand with him in the Eternal Watch.

In service, Captain Trine Arbacke, His Majesty's Army.”

Sparrow slipped the paper back into its dispatch case without another word and returned it to its position on the table, again with no sign of movement from the room’s unearthly occupant. There would be no use taking it for her ever-growing archive of books, letters, and written miscellanies. It was all that remained of Captain Arbacke’s voice and needed to stay with her body, on the off-chance there were other wanderers in the world who would stumble across it. The captain’s weapons, finely-wrought by any standards, were still on worn straps about her physical remains, and not one of the Scavengers could bring themselves to take them.

Instead, Goose and Grouse took a single bullet and paper-wrapped cartridge of powder from their own supplies and placed it on the desk.

Forsara had endured so many wars in its long life that most of the gods had taken on an aspect of battle and conflict. You prayed to Frona for sound tactics, Laraca for martial ingenuity, and to Lunn for the quick deaths of your enemies or yourself. Harnir was the god of courage and wisdom, and the patron of soldiers, considered by the Forsaran canon as the foremost in the Ninefold Pantheon, so providing a small gift to those who willingly go to join his ranks was considered the done thing to those in the armed forces. The captain would remain at her post until relieved or time itself came to a close; she would need the supplies.

With the blessing of Goose, Sparrow set about respectfully plundering the room for what little she could find in the way of maps, charts, and books. Once they were safely stowed within her bag, the room was shut away once more, and the four of them reunited with Puffin out in the corridor. The girl was still ashen-faced, staring at cold grey stone opposite without truly seeing. Truth be told, they were all a little unsettled.

‘Are we well, little bird?’ Sparrow asked her softly.

‘Yes’m,’ the girl squeaked.

‘Peacock, Sparrow, see t’ th’ magazine,’ Goose ordered. He gave the girl a pointed look, a half-cocked head, and she nodded.

*

The silent pair traipsed through silent corridors, the weight of recent history thick in the air for both them and the building, a fort turned mausoleum. Into the basement level they went, lit by a ball of luminescent energy held in an electrum-wicked lantern in the mage’s hand, stark and bright, completely unable to touch off any gunpowder by accident. It made shadows on the wall sharp and deep, and the damp stone beneath their feet shimmer.

‘Ghosts?’ Sparrow asked, if only to prevent her imagination from filling the quietude.

‘Hmm?’

‘Scops mentioned ghosts… and after what we just saw...’

Silence, filled by the gentle tap of boots.

‘Pea?’

‘I’m here. It’s... difficult to explain,’ he replied. ‘Ghosts have always existed. The soul is known and quantified, a manifestation of energy that vibrates against the Skein. Ghosts are just those that can’t - or won't - slip through into the realms beyond.’

‘Scops tell you that?’

An affronted noise from the mage. ‘I was going to be a Thaumaturgist, remember, give me some credit. I know things.’

‘Right, sorry.’

‘Then why doesn’t everyone know about ghosts?’

‘The priesthood does, the immortal soul is their purview after all,’ Peacock continued. ‘But, and this is what Scops told me, knowledge like that is just too damn unsettling for everyone to know. Imagine them, unseen and unheard, trapped in a state between life and death until the Wolf can happen upon them and pluck them free.’

Sparrow shivered, suddenly regretting her choice of topic.

‘I see.’

‘You don’t. Sjel you can see. Something happened to those ones in The End, stopping them even getting as far as into the Skein. They’re trapped on the surface, more in our world than anything else. They have no hope.’

‘What about that one?’

‘She chose to stay.’

‘Ok.’

‘Really isn’t.’

‘Right, no, no it isn’t, we can let this drop now.’

‘Good.’

A stout door appeared out of the gloom, heavy wood bound in iron.

‘Got this?’

‘Always,’ the mage wafted a hand breezily, put down his lantern, and planted his feet opposite the door, stance wide, a handful of yards between him and it. He held his fists out in front, palm heels touching, and drew them apart. Strain appeared, Peacock’s jaw tense and arms shaking as though his wrists were bound in rope. A subtle groan ran through the portal’s structure. Once the mage pulled his fists level with his feet, he switched their position, palms up, and jerked them back in a triumphant tug, the action pulling the door free from its frame to fall to the ground with a resonant thud and a puff of dust.

Grinning in the light, Peacock smoothed his hair and brushed some dirt from his brocade coat. Sparrow glanced at the door and, voice flat and neutral, said, ‘It wasn’t locked.’

‘What?’

‘It wasn’t locked.’ She couldn’t hold back now, lips tugging in a smirk.

A scowl replaced the grin. ‘Shut up.’

Sparrow snorted and picked up the mage-lamp, half expecting the man to extinguish it out of spite, held it high and looked into the room. There before them were rows of shelves laden high with firkin after firkin of gunpowder, squat and fat and filled with explosive potential. There would be enough there to keep the iron dogs of Seacrow and Otter fed for a long while, including small arms.

The shortage was at an end.

*

The fort now clear and, reunited with the other team, they began the process of loading the launch with guns and ammunition before setting off for their ship. The fortress now safe, the remaining stock would be taken off by sailors, stripping the building of anything useful, but with Goose already preparing instructions for the war room to remain sealed.

As they passed out from the shadow of the fort’s south wall, Sparrow looked towards the north bank and saw there, standing amongst the rocks and grass, three watching Frekir, patient and bestial. She shivered and fixed her eyes on the distant ship.