His cellphone was ringing. Nero wasn't fond of using it, the distrust of modern technology a lingering perennial thing, but he retrieved the device and answered it. After all, there was only one person who ever had serious reason to contact him. The others were occupied with their own tasks.
"So," he spoke, the phone to his ear, "what have you to tell me?"
Standing on the porch of his temporary abode, a rental on the outskirts, he listened as the reply was given. Though, realistically, all places were temporary for those associated with the Conclave, in some way or another. They were hunted and would be evermore; this would not change until the outcome was beyond dispute, and their goals brought to fruition. Yet, for Nero, his family and those of his ilk, their lives were not a choice, as there was little to decide between. To act otherwise was to deny their heritage.
How could anybody ignore the body and spirit, the flesh and blood, the very essence of the soul?
It was impossible to forsake, and he could not imagine betraying that which he was born a part of, and beholden to.
Fire.
"The Conclave has elected to send a message to our enemies: a warning that no alliance can save any from the end that awaits. The Order has been unusually careless with their secrets of late, and we have learned where to find the elder you described. Two of our best assassins were sent; the twins, Taraxes and Kerudath. Our weaker cousins will know the grievous loss of their folly, through death's blade."
"Mmmm," growled Nero, low and satisfied. Those two were experts in their craft. It was not the custom in the current day and age to speak aloud true names of the brethren in such a casual way. Many stray ears were listening for a mention of the Conclave's real identities, but there was enough privacy in this moment that it was not a problem. "Yes. This is heartening. What of the incantation?"
"It cannot be translated so easily." There was a slight lacing of disappointment in the words of his comrade. "The Conclave does not have the means. It is an art to know such language, and one that is now foreign to us, if it were ever truly known."
"How, then?" Nero gazed at the children in the neighbouring yard across a ramshackle picket fence, his feelings turning sour and ill-kept. The brats playing in the dirt were a taunting repartee to match his sentiment. Wretched creatures. "There is no way to proceed without a counter."
"Yes. We must procure a means. It so happens there are two among our enemy who can read the incantation's runes. One is their seeress, Triskeleth." He gave a pause in his reply, almost uncertain about mentioning the second. "The other is ... her."
Her.
A chill went through Nero, no further elaboration needed. "I hardly think she will be willing to help."
"Indeed not."
"Then it must be Triskeleth. How are we to find and force the seeress? Surely, they will hide such a valuable individual somewhere inaccessible and remote. They will know we need her."
"Undoubtedly." The voice on the other end was measured and confident. Always, a plan was in motion, or an eventuality prepared. Risks were taken, but there were never dead ends; just alternatives and twisting paths. "Yet, they remain unaware of the full scope of our advantages. You will attempt the direct approach, as is your style, until more subtle methods are perfected."
The direct approach?
This was what Nero wanted to hear.
"Then," his voice dropped deeper, eager, excited to know the next cause for glory, "you have a target for me? A person, or a place? Tell me what I must do."
"Oh yes, my brother, there is a target, and it is a fortuitous one. The key to finding Triskeleth and the location of the Fear; they are one and the same. The answers lie with a former employee of the Order. He knew the seeress, but he also knew something of the Fear."
"Who?" Nero demanded the answer. "Give me a name."
"He is dead now, though what we need must remain within his findings. It is the very reason we are in this town," came the reply. "Be careful, use stealth, and seek out the legacy of the geologist Terrence Wilde. Do not dishonour us with failure."
"Never, brother," he whispered. "I will see it done."
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