I slipped from the pine as quietly as I could manage. I was no Tristan but without armour I was the quietest of our bunch. Except Gaz of course. Then again he could be really noisy, you would just never hear it. My lute became a sword with barely a thought.

That chest and its hideous death glamour had my hackles up and blood pumping.

It was wrong, an abomination. It scraped against my very soul. I could have pulled back my awareness, let whatever magic it was that had shielded him before hide the insult to the dignity and solemn nature of death from my attention, but to do so would be a risk.

What if he opened the chest?

If what I was sensing was just what little leaked through the runic bindings then only the Unseelie might be able to imagine the madness within.

I checked my little communication trinket from Gaz, but the magic in it was weak, the thick earth between us disrupting the connection. It seemed I could not call for help, and sending up a flare of smoke glamour would just alert him to my presence.

I had to take him out. I assumed it was the Sorcerer, hoping no other deranged death cultivators had joined the hermit. In terms of pure combat ability I had him beat ten times over. Not only was there the difference in our cultivation but he was not following the Knight's path. He labelled himself as a Sorcerer, and I would compare him to a Witch in terms of his reported abilities, but such a comparison would earn me at least a clip on the ear from Miss Peaches if she ever found out.

The biggest issue was the chest and the horses. I had to be careful not to unleash whatever horrors lurked there, and I had to ensure I kept our mounts safe.

I slipped towards Elphin, using the other horses and the low scrub of bushes as cover. The rest of the mounts were nickering with confusion, they did not like the smell of the foul man, but unlike simple beasts the touch of glamour in them meant they had the smarts not to bolt or panic.

They could sense my presence in their midst and trusted in me to deal with the issue.

I was glad their cultivation was not potent enough to sense the chest. Anything with any intelligence would not want to be on the same mountain as the foul thing. They would have scattered in a heartbeat and I could not have blamed them. Just approaching it made my skin prickle and my spine shiver.

The horses shifted away to leave the Sorcerer and Elphin alone, watching the interloper with careful stares. I slid through them quiet as a shadow, listening as I heard the cursed man mutter to himself.

"All my work interrupted. Fools, dimwits, brain melted cabbage heads."

Using the moss laced rocks to hide the sounds of my boots, I crept closer. Hunched beside Elphin was a crooked man, a patchwork of filth and wildness. His hair, a grey nest of tangles, stuck out in errant directions, and his feet, wrapped in rotting cloth, revealed curling toenails that resembled pale claws.

I knew that face from the bounty. This was without a doubt the Sorcerer Vermald. Our hermit fugitive looked haggard and hollow, his skin was unnaturally pale and drawn. Hair and beard tangled into a single greasy mass which, if not for his death glamour, would certainly have had things living in it.

Somehow he had slipped past the Knights. I was grudgingly impressed. The man was vermin. A true rat, the kind that would chew off its own foot to wriggle free of a trap.

From the caves, a screech rang out, half beast, half abyss. The stone amplified the sound, making it boom across the mountains in echoing thunder.

"Hehehe, yes, yes, that will sting, will it not?" he chortled to himself. "Phischer should have learned, especially after the mess I made of the last lot. Ha! His illness, curse, fetid hearth, is his own work, his mistake to lose the treasure. A king robbed blind, swindled, filched, fleeced, and now he snarls at those who come to help."

My stomach clenched. Phischer was one of our last leads, his lineage one of the few that actually stretched back to Atlantis's fall. What was this about a robbery?

I crept forward, slipping between the horses. The Sorcerer kept darting glances around, squinting over his shoulder at the caves. I wanted to rush him but he was too close to Elphin. If he had any glamour left in that ragged head, he might lash out, or worse, unleash whatever was in that chest.

I felt the glamour again and decided the chest was the greater threat. There was something potent about it that told me it was the far greater threat than some Bronze level cultivator. I just needed an opening.

Elphin gave me that chance.

Just as the Sorcerer hoisted the cursed chest onto the horse's back, my noble steed shifted again and the whole thing toppled to the other side with a clatter.

"Bloody horse. Stupid, imbecilic, hoof brained buffoon. I will cook you up into a stew, simmer you down into gelatinous juice, you four legged conveyance," he muttered, circling around, eyes flicking toward the cave, twitchy with paranoia.

Before he could grab the chest again, I sprang.

Dashing across the distance, I reached down, aiming to collect the box and then smack the sorcerer away. A sensible, simple plan. So, of course, things immediately fell apart.

I crossed the distance just fine, but as I tried to collect the chest into my ring, something was off. The power of my ring refused to grip the box, or rather I got the sense I could store the box but would leave something behind. I did not need a prophecy to know that was a terrible idea.

With my first attack foiled I had to improvise. So hoping it was stronger than it looked, I punted it away with a swift application of shoe leather. Nothing good would come from it being near us. The box was a heavy iron bound thing and even with some of my enhanced strength it had enough weight to it that it did not get much distance.

I dared not strike it any harder or risk breaking it open.

Still that was enough, this was the mountains and I had angled it down the hills. The foul thing tumbled away, gaining speed.

I shoulder checked the Sorcerer, my awkward correction meaning I missed out on the follow up strike I had planned. The impact was enough to send him stumbling away from me. I did not risk a slash at him as he was too close to Elphin.

The Sorcerer screeched indignantly, lashing out with a concealed dagger. Runes burned along its surface and I could feel death glamour dripping off it.

I dodged back, bringing my blade up, focusing on keeping his attention as Elphin darted away, leading the other horses to dash from our battle.

My opponent and I took a moment and our eyes to meet.

"A bard? A fool? A joculator? What is this? How dare you insult the work of the great, wondrous Sorcerer Vermald."

"What is in the box, Vermald?" I focused on him, if he wanted to talk I would let him.

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"It is my greatest prize. You churlish, feckless soul, you are not worthy of it, none are but I the great sorcerer of death, now let us add your power to my own." He lashed out with a withered claw and a wave of dark energy, a spiral of death glamour screamed out at me.

It was pathetically weak, and with a simple whistle I gently guided the glamour, soothing it. I got disorientated flashes from the remnants of its will, parts of Vermald's intent to kill and slay me, but also touches of the souls he had harvested the power from.

Handling it proved no issue, the attack was dispersed, turning into nought but a mist of malaise that might give one a chill if they were downwind of it. My fears of empowering the attack were all for naught, yet I still staggered.

The lingering will in his glamour sickened me. It was not a wound but a visceral reaction, it would be like finding he had vomited up someone's fingers. The idea of holding the will of others in myself, of not filtering the glamour and soothing those lingering emotions before taking it into my hearth made me want to gag.

It was true madness to hold the will of others in yourself.

It was a cruel miracle that this man was sane enough to string even a few words together. A miracle I was soon to end. I had questions for the man about the robbery but he did not need full use of his arms to answer them.

Shaking off the disgust, I looked up to find Vermald staring wide eyed at me. His weapons lowered. I watched for a trick, keeping one eye on the chest which had slid to a halt in a low shrub some hundred paces or more away. I was prepared for anything.

Then he started to do a little dance.

"Wonders, wonders, wonders, ceaseless, spinning, divine. Oh Paladin, radiant sword of Mercy, forgive me, I did not see, did not comprehend the divine emissary sent to reclaim me." The Sorcerer's words made my spine chill.

I paused.

Then I stood, spine straight, eyes imperious. I dusted off some imagined dust on my lapels. I had met the Paladins of Mercy only in passing but they were a grim, joyless lot. I doubted this man knew them, but on the off chance he might, I slipped into character. I spoke low and authoritative.

"Sorcerer Vermald, indeed may the Ray of Mercy shine brightly upon you. I have heard tales of your achievements and have come for you." I fed the man's madness, making use of the old mannerisms. Still I was confused, Vermald did not seem the type to be connected to the Church.

They tended to be cleaner.

"You must have come to save me from these interlopers. Your Church must have made a mistake in rejecting me. You have come to take me away, my divine power is without question. And I have such wonders, such power stolen from the kings." Vermald capered toward me, his long pale legs kicking out, showing toes bare and black with filth. Every step was a jittery dance, like a man dancing on hot coals.

This monster was so mad that even the Church had rejected him.

"We are interested in hearing about these things you have stolen from the kings, and what you know of the theft from King Phischer." I responded imperiously. Deep in my soul I knew that this was a chance, an unexpected lead I had to follow no matter how odious I found the task.

"But what of my notes, my messages, all the requests, why now?" The man's eyes were glazing over, a shiftiness creeping into his movements.

"We are left without adequate words to describe your achievements. Such is their uniqueness. It is a pity I did not find out about your situation before. When the Knights came up here I followed them." I struggled to find a way to suck up to his ego without lying. I hoped his madness was deep enough not to ask follow up questions.

Stroking the man's ego was the right choice, he calmed right down. I was not too surprised, his ego was immense, it would have to be to survive the corruption caused by taking in unfiltered death glamour.

"A matter of relics, antiquities, oddities, wonders from bygone ages that I have mastered. It is such a waste that a Phischer was such a useless caretaker or I would have had more."

"You have an artefact from Atlantis." I felt my mouth go dry. Was this how our search ended, a mad hermit and a cursed box.

"My chest, my tools. You knocked them away." The man went still. I felt his manner cool. It was like he was remembering the violence for the first time. His jaw set and the dangerous glint returned to his eyes.

"It was a precaution, I did not recognise your…worthiness to carry such a respected artefact at first." I responded, trying to work us back to our neutral state.

"It is an artefact, and you kicked it! Booted and struck it. You are no Paladin of Mercy, you are another interloper."

"I have been ordained under the Rays," not that I was happy about it. I paused as I tried to find some way to stroke his ego without lying but my disgust for the man's nature tied my tongue. Finally, after a too long pause, I managed to spit out something. "You are more than worthy of the Ray of Mercy's attention."

"More than worthy? Ha. A flicker of sense at last. But no, no, no, I know honeyed dung when I hear it, you serpentine flatter monger. I am the great, majestic, mystical Sorcerer Vermald."

"Well this is not going to be fun." I grunted, before whistling a mournful note to control and guide away another death glamour attack. The question was not if I could take him down, now he was separated from the chest. I felt confident he would not have anything that I could not handle.

Taking him alive was the real problem. His glamour was unstable, too much strain and he would burn himself out. Worse, even a flicker of it left in his veins would be enough for suicide.

I circled around him, the horses had long distanced themselves from us, they watched from behind some trees. I was seeking a solution when he provided one for me.

"I curse thee. Oh powers of old, take my power and scour my foe's soul." I felt him begin to use some manner of curse magic, and with that, knew what I could do. Death glamour was not known for its restraining capacity, but it did excel at curses. And there was a type of curse I had become familiar with in my studies.

I formed the concept of a curse in my mind. His power over his own glamour was fractured and weak, it would not take much to break it with the remnant will stuck to his ill gotten power. The little book of death curses had outlined all sorts of different manner of curses. Words and intent were important, you had to give will to the glamour, empower it with a meaning beyond bringing death. It would still seek to kill but the path to the realm of the dead was infinite in its scope.

You just had to guide its steps. Give it a target, give it a purpose.

You who fed on stolen breath Filth of life, usurper of death Let every drop you ever drained Return as rot through cracked veins.

My curse took form as he finished his first own verse. His words were ones of spite and grandiosity, promising me an ignoble death. I deflected it easily, a wall of ash rose between us, my intent empowering it.

From the ashes shall rise beautiful chaos

My aura refused his power, neither this sorcerer nor his curse was beautiful, my ash would not let it rise. Instead my power tore it apart into a haze of unaligned death glamour that my superior cultivation shrugged off.

I continued with my second verse, bringing together the power I needed, shaping the intent, hastening his demise by purging him of the power he did not deserve to wield.

The dead you bound now find their breath Their chains dissolved in dusk and death They rise, not yours, and walk once more Not to serve, but to settle the score.

He tried to run, even in his insanity he could sense the power I had gathered. But the curse followed, slamming into him. The glamour he held trapped erupted in all directions. He staggered in place, eyes blinking, his power drained. I switched to my lute, not caring that he might see it, he would never live long enough to tell another soul.

As the wilful glamour expanded from him I soothed it, cleansing the last dregs of will from it. Letting it grow stable and peaceful with a set of mournful notes.

Vermald blinked at me, staring at hands that were withered and thin, his body hunched and he seemed more like his mortal age. A vile old man.

He was still a cultivator though, and he gathered the last of his vitriol and drew a gaudy rune covered dagger from his hip and charged at me screaming. His voice incoherent and his pupils contracted to cruel dots as all reason left him, so consumed with madness he could only think of attacking me.

I remained unworried, his charge was more of an extended stumble. I gathered more of my ash and prepared to trap him. Dense balls of ash were rarely powerful enough for actual combat but seemed enough for the weakened cultivator.

Then I could try and extract more about these artefacts he knew so much about.

I was already thinking about how I might extract some knowledge when the earthen spike slammed into his chest.

"Take that you rat bastard." Bors erupted from the earth, a wide grin on his face.

I looked at him horrified. The giant's grin quickly slipped away as he felt my aura go wild as my emotions seethed.

"Erm, did I interrupt something?"

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