Guelder's gaze wandered among the thousands of stars strewn across the Dunsward sky, seeking out the crescent of the waning moon, thinking of Baron Varn, her friend. Did the goddess of the moon care enough about him to give Guelder a little nudge in the right direction, a flap of a butterfly's wings to propel her just enough to make it in time to rescue him from whatever pickle he was in? Or was it too late even to hope?

  It was hard to find a moment of peace required for entering a relaxing nighttime trance, even though the circumstances were favourable. Tonight Guelder and her team could rest safely inside a reinforced camp, around their own little fire, without the need to keep watch. The Tiger Lords were honourable folks. They would never betray or attack their guests they had shared a meal and quite a few pints with. True, some of them had their minds clouded by dreams of restoring their ancient glory, but even those had no reason to turn against their visitors. As for their leader, Dugath, a cleric of Gorum a little past his prime, Guelder felt the same, almost stupid level of trust in him as in Baron Varn, albeit without the warmth of friendship.

  She wished she wouldn't regret it.

  Nicking a few barrels of ale and stout from the Varnhold Town inn and stuffing them into a Bag of Holding (also nicked from Varnhold Town) had been one of her best ideas ever, on a par with bringing Amiri along on this adventure. As it had turned out at the mouth of the spriggan cave, the barbarians were not from the Six Bears tribe, as Amiri had feared. The ancient tribe of the Tiger Lords was originally from Numeria but roamed all across the continent, from Amiri's homeland up north to Iobaria to the east. Also, they were much more open-minded in terms of gender roles than the Six Bears. With a female Kellid warrior in her entourage and multiple barrels of beer in her bag, Guelder had easily gained their trust. She could even persuade them without significant effort to evacuate the spriggan cave, give it back to its original owners, and escort her to their main camp in the east of Dunsward, so that she could make the acquaintance of their leader and tap the remaining barrels.

  However, what she'd found out about the barbarians' mission was not at all reassuring. Even with starlight in her eyes and a leopard-shaped body pillow by her side, she was all too keenly aware of the looming threat. One probably unrelated to the elusive vordakai, whatever that was.

  Armag, the legendary chief of the Tiger Lords, favoured by Gorum and hated by Pharasma for being indestructible, had been born again after thousands of years, and was now on a quest to make his tribe great once more. Also, he had to save the world, although it wasn't entirely clear from what. Anyway, he needed an artifact to be found somewhere in the barony of Varnhold. Nobody could tell exactly what it was, what it looked like, or what it did. Only Dugath knew, if at all, and a group of four mysterious, shrouded women called Defaced Sisters, acting as the masterminds behind the expedition, whom the barbarians regarded with awe mixed with loathing – so much that they even refused to share a table with them. This time, only one of them was present in camp, while the other three were out and about with groups of their own, searching for the artifact.

  Guelder had yet to talk to that unsettling woman, and she knew she had to prepare her questions carefully. The Defaced Sisters seemed to be more than simple witches or priestesses of an unknown deity. Amiri could not mention parallels from any of the barbarian tribes she knew of, and neither Hazel nor Linzi could dredge up anything useful from their memories, reads or conversations with certain gnomish polymaths.

  As the barbarians had shared over their mugs, they had not come from Iobaria at all. They had travelled to Varnhold through strange gateways activated by the Sisters, completely bypassing Nightvale and its border guards. The gateways had ended in grottoes with plants shimmering in the dark and magical beasts lurking among them, temporarily subjugated by the Sisters until their charges passed through. Guelder didn't need her General's input to assess the implications. In the event of a war, these Sisters could land enemy troops in the middle of a country, rendering border defence meaningless. She would have to scour her land for First World portals similar to the one in the Womb of Lamashtu or in Candlemere, and set up a military outpost next to each – in addition to her traditional border guards, the units deployed along the East Sellen to keep the river pirates at bay, and the troops used for keeping up law and order or for disaster management. She had to ramp up her recruitment, or hire mercenaries. That meant she had to raise the taxes, or...

  Guelder cast a furtive glance at Hazel. Unlike herself, the ranger had no issue going into trance: they were resting peacefully, their body relaxed, their face bathing in starlight. The baroness followed their example and put the emerging financial questions out of her mind before they would send her spiralling into panic. She had just enough problems chewing at her nerves without those.

  Despite all appearances, Varnhold's fall had not been caused by the Tiger Lord incursion. Being often employed in mercenary service themselves, the barbarians knew about the Varnling Host and grudgingly respected them as colleagues and competitors, but had not encountered them since the start of their expedition. They had nothing to say about the psychic warfare mentioned in Darlac's note, either, apart from apprehensive remarks about the Sisters' ability to annihilate people with a mere glance (which Guelder took with a grain, no, a tablespoonful of salt).

  So many questions, and so much beer. If not for that awful fever episode in the First World, making her immune to poison (including alcohol), Guelder would have blacked out long ago. Thankfully, her heroic deeds as sung by Linzi and her newfound formidable alcohol tolerance had gained her respect in the Tiger Lords' eyes, which, in turn, had made it possible for her to feel out their mood a little better. There were some (like Bolga, the half-orc woman leading the group lodged in the spriggan cave) who believed in Armag the Twice-Born with all their hearts, ready to follow any instruction received from the Sisters and eager to do their part in bringing back their ancient glory. But there were many who didn't like this at all. They were careful not to criticise Armag openly, but the toil of digging fruitlessly amidst ruins infested by giant undead made them resentful. They had casualties, more and more by the day, and nothing to show for it.

  The Nightvale garrison would soon arrive in Varnhold Town. Would Restov send reinforcements? Or did Lady Jamandi consider her job done by alerting Guelder of the issue? And where was Darlac in all this? Would she return to Varnhold with auxiliary troops, making it necessary for Guelder to mediate between her and the barbarians? Or would she sit it out in Restov? Had she made it to Restov at all? Why was her mind inaccessible to Sendings by worried friends like Guelder, fearing the worst?

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  Thinking of Darlac instantly robbed the baroness of any chance for a night rest.

  She sat up, letting go of the stars. To her surprise, she noticed that she was not the only one awake. Harrim was sitting at a distance from the others, gloomy as always, clutching his mug full of steaming anti-nightmare tea. This was his third dose tonight.

  He had every right and reason to seek solitude. As part of the effort to restore the three dwarven fortresses in the Narlmarches along the ancient Shield Road, he'd been tasked with helping Clan Skjegge, the original owners of Adamantine Shield Fortress, to retrieve some ancient property from the ruins. By the time he'd emerged from the bowels of the fortress infested by haywire golems and vengeful ghosts, he'd understood why he'd never been able to successfully forge even a single horseshoe. The reason was not that he had been cursed or abandoned by Torag, the god of his people and all artisans and crafters, but that he had been blessed with the opposite ability, that of unmaking objects that had outlived their usefulness. Harrim had yet to process this newfound knowledge and purpose, and so did Guelder. She wondered if this ability could be put to use against living (or, even better, unliving) matter as well.

  Guelder settled down beside the dwarf.

  "How are you doing, Harrim?"

  "Hrmph. Was doing fine until someone felt the urge to come wag her tongue at me."

  Still, his eyes were haunted by the shadow of a smile that never reached his beard.

  "Sorry to disturb you. Just two things. First, I wanted to let you know how proud I am of you. Amidst all that drinking tonight, your resolve did not waver in the least."

  The danger had been real. As poor Linzi had found out the hard way, the protective potion brewed by Bokken using Guelder's blood sample was utterly ineffective outside the borders of Nightvale. In a land the baroness was not one with, it didn't even dampen or delay the effects of ingested harmful substances.

  "Meh," said Harrim. "Stupor is for the weak. The strong can face the end of all things with a sober mind. What's the second one?"

  "I need a Sending to Lady Jamandi."

  "At this time of the night?"

  "Yes. If she knew all that I know, she, too, would spend the night awake, preparing to stave off the danger. Are you ready to memorise the text?"

  "Mhm."

  "Guelder checking in from Varnhold. Tiger Lords on the move. Not responsible for the Vanishing, but still a risk. Is General Darlac there with you?"

  "Got it."

  "Then find a quiet place and Send my message, will you?"

  As Harrim departed to search for a convenient spot, Guelder noticed a third insomniac in camp. This one was observing their moves from inside a grey shroud wrapped around her entire being, including her head, only leaving an open slot for her eyes. Guelder walked over to the Sister to distract her from Harrim's activity. This was as good a time as any to ask questions.

  The Sister's yellow-green eyes focused on her, and Guelder could barely stop herself from frowning. The scent she'd picked up during her quest in the First World and smelled again during her last encounter with Nyrissa, that note distinct from the smells of nature the nymph liked to wear and flood her victims with, surrounded the Sister beneath the layers of smoke and dust.

  Oh. So this is why the Tiger Lords do not tolerate her at their table. They know better than to eat with a fey. So much about Nyrissa not being involved!

  As usual, the explanation brought a hundred new questions in its wake. Was this artifact business still about the item Tartuk had stolen from the heart of the Old Sycamore, or was it just Nyrissa's habit to make people search for artifacts they didn't know the first thing about, on a once-you-find-it-you-will-know basis? Or was this all part of another game, distinct from Nyrissa's one, played by the Horned Hunter, Darlac's nemesis from Lostlarn Keep? Could millennia-old games, played by fey in neighbouring areas, even unfold independently from each other?

  "Hard to find sleep tonight, isn't it?" said the Sister in Common.

  "What is keeping you awake?"

  "My worries for my sisters. I haven't heard from them for days."

  "This is what this place does to people, apparently. They just... vanish. Like the people of Varnhold I am here to find. Strange, is it not?"

  "Perhaps we could help each other out," said the Sister. "Alas, I am not allowed to leave Dugath's side, but you can move freely to your heart's content. Find my sisters, and I will share with you everything I know about the missing people."

  "And also about the vordakai, if you do not mind."

  The Sister paused for a moment.

  "You need not concern yourself with that. Give me your map."

  Guelder retrieved the updated map from Hazel's stuff, careful not to disturb their rest, and conjured an orb of light to help both of them see better.

  The Sister put three red X marks upon the map. One was due north from the barbarian camp, the other a little southeast from Varnhold Town, and the third down to the south, deep in the Tors of Levenies.

  "If all goes according to plan, my sisters should be at these three locations. Find them, contact them, send them back to camp, along with the... results. If any of them is dead, I lay claim to whatever she has recovered from the ruins."

  "Understood," said Guelder. "What do I say to them, if they ask who sent me?"

  "Our names and faces are of no importance. Only the mission matters. Just tell them Dugath sent you, and they will know."

  "I will do so," said the baroness. After a little hesitation, she added: "Please go get some sleep. Everything will be all right, one way or another."

  "Do you think so?" The Sister's voice trembled a little. She was either great at playing pretend or genuinely distressed.

  Guelder fell silent for a moment. She remembered another starlit night in the east, gazing at the horizon from Varnhold Keep with the baron, exchanging stories and smiles without a single care in the world. The passing of time and the ordeals they both had gone through since that night only made the memory more beautiful and heartwarming. She would not lose him like this. Not even if she had to descend to Abaddon to retrieve him.

  She reached out and squeezed the fey woman's arm, making her flinch.

  "I am not giving up, and neither should you. Goodnight, Sister."

  The Sister scurried away, apparently unprepared to deal with unsolicited touch from a mortal. Just in time. Harrim had finished his session and was heading back to the fire. Guelder rejoined him.

  "Lady Jamandi thanks you for the heads-up, Your Grace. And no, the lass is not in Restov."