Shireroth

The port of Tyrelwynn stood bustling in the sunshine. From one of its many pontoons on the River Elwynn, an unassuming well-dressed man stepped off a freight barge, handing the skipper a small brown bag containing some form of payment for his passage. He then proceeded into the town, not particularly noticed until he walked into the lobby of a small hotel. The old lady at the reception desk did not hear his entrance, but only noticed his presence when she looked up from her magazine to find him standing in front of her.

"May I help you sir?" she croaked.

"Indeed my dear you might", said the man smiling. "At dock I did alight. Perhaps this fine establishment might lodge me for a night"

"You're in luck sir, we have one single-bed room remaining"

The old lady took a key marked Room 13 from somewhere under the desk, and began to write on a form.

"May I have your name?" she asked.

"I'm given many names, but you may call me James. And no doubt you'll be pleased to learn my family name is Easterburn"

The old lady furrowed her brow a little at this man's strange use of poetic rhyme. She mentally dismissed his quirk as that of a method actor from the theatres of Lunaris or suchlike. She filled out the form, filed it and handed the man his key.

"Enjoy your stay, Mr. Easterburn. You're invited to settle up at the point of checking out".

"Thank you very kind my dear, tis in such faith you leap. They always ask for advance payment up in Shirekeep"

With that, the man walked off up the small staircase to his room. The old lady shook her head a little with amusement, and shortly left the desk herself as a younger woman, her relief receptionist arrived to start the next shift.

On arriving at the hotel next morning to start her own shift again, the old lady was greeted not by the duty receptionist but several uniformed members of the Tyrelwynn civil militia. The whole hotel was cordoned off, and locals stood gossiping outside. A militia captain, noticing her attempt to gain entry to the premises, approached her.

"What business have you here?" he demanded gruffly.

"I work reception.... what's happened?"

"I'll ask the questions. Were you on duty yesterday?"

"Yes"

"Who relieved you?"

"Her name was Louise, I don't know a whole lot more than that. She only started the job last week"

The militia captain motioned to a non-uniformed man, obviously his superior, inside the lobby to come over.

"Sir", the captain said, "This lady was working the front desk before Louise Lhinne"

"Is everything alright?" asked the old lady.

The man in civil clothes put on a well-rehearsed emotionless face:

"I'm afraid not, ma'am... do please come with me"

And so it was that the old lady was given the rundown of events after her departure the previous day. Essentially, that every soul in the building bar one was dead. By homicide.

What the old lady was not told was the full extent of the sight that greeted the janitorial staff early that morning. Blood seeping under the door of every occupied room. The occupants therein surgically dismembered, their limbs and heads detatched and lined up with millimetric precision in order of size on their blood-soaked beds. No sign of forced entry, struggle or bodily injury aside from dismemberment. By the pathologist's estimate the killings had taken place over a course of around four hours, the young lady receptionist being the last to die. And by all indications, the victims had still been alive when their dismemberment began.

Everyone in the building was dead and accounted for, with the exception of one guest from Room 13, noted in the now-blood-spattered records as one Mr. James Easterburn. Of him there was no sign at all.

The days following, news travelled all over the realm of the "Butcher of Tyrelwynn", and warnings were issued for nearby folk to keep an eye out for a strange travelling man who talked in rhyme. Easy enough to pick out from a crowd.

Except in Lunaris.

In many parts of Lunaris, it was considered strange NOT to talk in rhyme, riddle or simple nonsensical gibberish. And so it was that the presence of a gentleman proficient in rhyme, indeed apparently incapable of talking any other way, was not especially noted as he stepped off a seagoing tramp steamer at the town of Smotretka.

The town's mile-high tower stood over, among other things, the Cheesy Sphere Tavern, a long established drinking house on the dock. It was the slow part of the day, and the tavern proprietor watched with a half interest the tramp steamer calling in. He quietly willed one of its occupants to walk through his doors and provide him with business - customers had recently left in droves after a business rival of Elwynnian origin published a quasi-libellous newspaper article inferring that he was watering down the tavern's ale.

The barkeep smiled as one of the steamer's occupants, with a sack on his back, finally turned toward the tavern and entered through the grimy door. He smoothed his hair back to greet the visitor:

"G'day, sir. You look like a man in need of a drink. What can I get ye?"

"My true desire I ought to hide till you reveal what you provide", said the well-kept customer with a gentle smile. Without the slightest flicker of confusion at the man's thespian language the barman indicated the bottles lined up behind him:

"Well fer a homecomin' Lunatic like yerself I'm guessin, I gots all the good local brews. Inebriant of Rice, Magic Brackish, Eau de Clay, Batshit Fuel....."

The customer chose a bottle of Magic Brackish, rumoured to contain at least 20% locally sourced unfiltered river water. He declined the offer of a glass and sat sipping the brew from the bottle while a fellow customer in the uniform of air force officer, the only other customer in the tavern, looked on from three stools along. He spoke up with curiosity:

"Been anywhere interesting on your travels?"

"Why yes I have, my airman buddy", said the man. "The land where folk walk in the nuddy".

"Alexandretta?"

"The very place, you're quite correct. The ladies had me quite e-"

The barkeep suffered a sudden fit of coughing which drowned out the man's last word, but the officer grinned knowingly all the same. He shifted position and accidentally nudged the man's travel sack on the floor. It gave a loud metallic jangle, releasing as it did so the slight scent of surgical disinfectant.

"What by the Gods have you got in there?" he asked.

The man smiled and winked as he finished the last dregs of his brew. "I shouldn't show such things in here", he said. "You want to see them out the rear?" He indicated the small back access door to the tavern, opening onto a narrow alley.

"Sure, I was gonna leave that way anyway". The airman stood up, adjusting his belt from which hung a pistol in a holster. "So long, barkeep". He waved goodbye and was first out the door, the guiding hand of the rhyming man at his back. Then all was quiet ,and the barkeep waited for more suckers to arrive and sample his adulterated beverages.

It was days later when two military policemen called by, looking for an AWOL pilot from Jagdgeschwader 1, the local air defence unit near the super-secret Novaya Sorensk SDI facility. They presented a file photograph which the barkeep recognised immediately.

"That fellah's in here all the time", he said. "Ain't been here since last Vivantiaday afternoon, mind".

"Did he say where he was going when he last left?" asked the superior of the MPs.

"Nah, just said he were goin' out back with this other fellah to see a bag of tools or summat"

"Bag of tools?"

"That's what it sounded like in the bag anyway, didn't see what were in there"

"And you say he went out the back?"

"Aye"

"Mind if we have a look?"

"Be me guest, it's a public door like the front one". The barkeep led the two MPs to the door and opened it.

"Sorry about the smell", he said. "I dunno what it is, been here for a couple o' days now".

The MPs froze in their tracks on getting the first whiff. To somebody who'd smelled that smell before and knew what it was, it was unmistakable.

A few minutes' somewhat violent search around the tavern's storage yard and they found their missing pilot. At the back corner, underneath a mountain of beerbottle return crates. Limbs and head detatched. Lined up in order of size. And the whole arrangement stinking to high heaven. The maggots were well into their work by now.

The barkeep closed up shop and spent the rest of the day with his head over the toilet.

Now affecting two counties and the military, this was suddenly a big matter. A dedicated joint MoMA/Baronial investigation staff were brought in on the orders of Baron Krasniy himself. It was to be headed by one Mr. Tolyan Kamenev, an old and trusted Zemlyan bureaucrat with a reputation for embracing the details of any given matter.

The circumstances of the officer's death were as unusual as those in Tyrelwynn. No injuries other than those of dismemberment. The officer's pistol had remained in its holster, uncocked, safety on, a full clip and chamber empty. His uniform had been sliced cleanly along with his limbs, and now adorned their respective body parts without having been otherwise disturbed. His wallet and all personal effects remained on his body, similarly undisturbed. Whoever this killer was, he certainly wasn't a robber. Kamenev knew immediately that he had a psychopath on his hands.

After reviewing the initial clues for the investigation, Kamenev was summoned to Baron Yastreb's personal estate in Smotretka to give a progress report. In the middle of the estate, in an office halfway up the mile-high tower, He gave his summary:

"Sire, it is increasingly likely we are dealing with the same man rather than a murderer and his copycat. Different witnesses have given descriptions to different sketch artists of the suspect's face, resulting in this"

Kamenev took a series of sketches from his briefcase and handed them to Krasniy, who studied them in detail. The faces depicted on them were identical. A kindly-looking man with a rather pointed chin and thick eyebrows. Someone you might equally see working the fields of southern Lunaris, or pushing a pen in a Shirekeep Imperial Ministry. Krasniy stood and walked to the window, overlooking the mighty River Elwynn.

"Any sightings of our suspect since the pilot's murder?" He asked.

"We do have one good lead", said Kamenev. "A man fitting his description was overheard talking in rhyme to a ship's crew outside the Craterpock Theatre, some two hours after the tavern sighting."

"So what? I see people babbling in rhyme every time I pass by there"

"Our witness states the man was too well dressed to be lost in the depths of madness, sire. And he was heard to be negotiating passage on the crew's ship"

"Do we know the name of the ship?"

"We've asked all the crews at dock, none have taken aboard casual passengers. But one ship did leave early evening on the day of the murder... we didn't get a chance to speak to the crew"

"Do we know that ship?"

"The dockmaster tells us it was the MV Avakair, a bulk grain carrier"

"Where's it headed?"

Kamenev shuffled through some papers in his briefcase. "It's scheduled to stop at H4773r's Landing, Wendor in Elsenar, Port Nevermore in Kildare, and back here to Smotretka".

Krasniy furrowed his eyebrow, then looked over at a new framed certificate hung on his wall. It featured the emblem of a fish hook on a shield. He looked back to Kamenev:

"Have a couple of reception committees ready at H4773r's Landing and Wendor. Covert ones. If a passenger does come off that ship, I want him followed"

"Yes sire"

"The fact this suspect only seems to travel by water. Does that.... mean anything to you, Tolyan?"

Kamenev shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe he wants to stay off the roads, I've had checkpoints all round town for the last twenty four hours"

"Perhaps" mumbled Krasniy. "But.... be careful. If the boys at the docks up North find our man, he's not to be approached without my express authorisation. Clear?"

"Completely, sire.... but with respect, you sound as if you might know more than you're letting on"

"You would be correct in that observation, Tolyan. But I wouldn't like my idle speculation to hamper your investigation. Just keep following your leads and have those men at the docks"

"Yes, sire"

At the docks of Wendor, the most easterly city in Benacia, the MV Avakair berthed around midday. Its stop at H4773r's Landing had been uneventful, with only its crew members being observed by the men posted to watch it. Now in Wendor the ship's captain walked down the gangway with his bosun. They passed a man in overalls at the dockside, attacking a brine-corroded length of chain with a wire brush. Unseen by the two sailors, he reached inside his overalls and switched on a microphone. Soon the captain's voice was heard in an unmarked van behind the dockmaster's office, as the microphone feed beamed through to its occupants:

"I tells ye what, we was lucky roundin' that point. There been more ships what come to grief there than I've had hot dinners"

"Aye, it were choppy alright sir", said the bosun. "Mind you I were fair impressed by our strange rhymin' shipmate, he kept his dinner down. Must know the sea, like a fish in water he were"

"Where is that feller anyway? He owes me a bottle o' Lunardeux Hooch fer the passage"

"There he be, up by the wheelhouse"

The disguised dockworker let out a cough, as a code signal that the suspect had been sighted and identified. On a nearby rooftop a surveillance operative clicked away with a telephoto camera, as the suspect walked down the gangplank carrying a similar sack to that described by the barkeep in Smotretka. Soon his words were audible in the microphone feed:

"Captain, you've brought me many miles. I'd better make it worth your while". He brought a bottle from his sack and presented it to the captain. "Lunardeux Hooch as we agreed, to satisfy your thirsty need"

"Har, thankin' ye very much mate. Ye've been a good passenger", said the captain. "And I wish ye the best for the rest of yer travels"

"And I wish you the same good fare, in all travels no matter where"

Under the gaze of several surveillance men, the captain and bosun finished their pleasantries with the suspect and made off for the dockmaster's office. From the unmarked van came new orders to the disguised dockworker through a miniature earpiece:

"Follow the suspect"

The fake docker set his cleaning tools into a bucket and casually strolled with it a good fifty paces behind the suspect, who was making his way into town. The two men soon passed out of sight of the photographers and watchmen, and for a moment only the microphone feed gave any clue as to what was happening.

The gentle footstep sounds the fake docker had been making were suddenly heard to falter, then stop completely. And in the back of that van, the last words ever heard of him were recorded on tape:

"By the Gods... scales... I..."

A swift and loud metallic scraping sound deafened the listening monitors through their headsets. Then silence.

His fellow agents were at the location in seconds with weapons drawn, but all they found was the bucket of tools sitting upturned in a pool of blood. More blood was spattered on a nearby wall. They raided the nearby buildings, searched every inch within a half-mile radius, and put the local civil militia on full alert. It was not humanly possible to escape that quickly. But nothing more was seen...

...until the next day when the fake docker floated gently onto a beach a mile away.

His head and limbs detatched and sewn upside down with fishing line around his torso.

In order of size.

Krasniy sat with his head in his hands as Kamenev played the tape recording for the eighth time. When it had finished, there was a long silence in the office. Finally Kamenev spoke up:

"We've talked with the crew of the Avakair, sire. They say the suspect gave his name as Victor Hedgeman. He was civil and polite throughout the whole voyage, no sign of violent intentions"

There was another long silence before Krasniy finally spoke up. "We're focusing on the wrong things", he mumbled. "Tell me what you know about the victims so far... regarding especially their social standing"

"Well most of the victims of the hotel killings were from a delegation of personal injury lawyers on their way to a conference. Financially comfortable, but generally shunned by those who weren't of their own kind. When you build your career on hanging round infirmaries sniffing around for the potentially litigious, I suppose it's hard to make friends among good honest people"

Krasniy nodded slowly. "And the pilot?" he asked.

"I've had a hard time getting hold of his unit personnel file, the MoMA are being hardasses about the necessary security clearance. But a few of my people have been talking to his comrades at local taverns, and a few things came up"

"Such as?"

"Seems he was a bit of a maverick. Remember the time some planes from his squadron decided to do gunnery practice on that village out in the Tea Fields? He was leading that flight. He got hauled through a court martial and demoted, but kept his position on the Jagdgeschwader. According to his comrades he still regularly fires the odd cannon burst at peasants in the fields. Apparently he used to say target practice was all that Lunatics were good for"

Krasniy nodded some more, now doubting less by the second the possibility of a situation he'd suspected for some time. "So that leaves us with our poor surveillance agent. What evil has he done?"

"Well, sire, it turns out he was a middle-ranking participant in a weapon and slave smuggling ring up in Wendor. Known to shoot first and ask questions later. The operation was busted recently, and his superiors got away but he was caught. The lawmen made a deal with him that they'd waive his inevitable trial and probable execution if he informed for them and did some odd jobs on the side, of which the job that took his life was one"

"Alright, that seals it", said Krasniy. "Firstly, let it be known that I'm kicking all MoMA personnel off the investigation team. We cannot afford to have the Khan elbowing his way into things at this critical stage. The interests of him and his Ministry are suspicious if nothing else. Secondly, have you ever heard of the Piscatores Alexandrii?"

"Aye, sire... they're in a few of my kids' storybooks"

"They're more than a work of fiction, dear Tolyan", said Krasniy. He took from a drawer the signed Ducal document conferring him to the position of Arx-Piscator, and handed it to Kamenev who read it with astonishment. Krasniy continued:

"As of now, you yourself are inducted into the ranks of the Piscatores. Your own staff in the Baronial investigation office are now subordinated to the Piscatores, and shall be augmented by daemon hunters from across Brookshire. Because it's certainly a daemon we're dealing with. Most likely The Daemon"

"You mean... th...th....THE Daemon, sire?"

"Yes, Tolyan. You heard the tape recording. Scales. A power to emulate mortals to poetic perfection. And a ritualised yet superhumanly swift manner. This is no ordinary daemon. And once in a while an entity of his kind comes up from the underworld to stalk the Earth, looking to take a few corrupted souls for company in the depths of Balgurd"

"So what now?"

"He knows we're onto him. He'll want to return to Balgurd and lie low with his freshly reaped souls as soon as possible. It's our job to cut him off before his work is done"

The telephone started to ring. Krasniy picked it up.

"Hello, Baron Yastreb speaking"

"Sire, this is the Lune Villa civil militia commandant", said the panicked voice at the other end. "I regret to inform you it seems this limb-hacking murderer has struck within my area"

"Go on"

"Three dead in the back of a truck, sire. Heads and limbs cut off and...."

"Lined up in order of size", said Krasniy completing his sentence.

"Yes sire. And we're getting reports of another murder on the road South. Dismemberment also, but we don't know the details. My men are on their way to the scene now".

"Very well, keep me updated", said Krasniy, and put down the phone. He turned to Kamenev once more:

"He's moving fast, Tolyan. Doesn't like being so far inland, you know. Being a fish and all"

"So where is he going?"

Krasniy took a scroll from the shelf behind him and unrolled it, revealing an ancient map of Lunaris from the reign of Her Eternal Transmogrificence. He pointed to a lake-like feature marked at a point which now was occupied by dry Orchid fields west of Erianamor.

"Lacus Conticinium", he said. "A place of mysterious evil for aeons. The crops fail there at random times in the year, and most locals steer clear of the place. Our Daemon has been doing a gradual spiral toward this location. And I'll eat the contents of my waste paper basket if it isn't a Gods-damned gateway to Balgurd"

From the outskirts of Erianamor, a heavily-armed convoy rushed westward. Among its number sped an armoured limousine, in which Arx-Piscator Yastreb sat with Kamenev by his side. They were getting close now. Kamenev put down a the carphone into which he had been speaking, and turned to Krasniy.

"Sire, the first militiamen are in place. All roads into and out of the Conticinium zone are now barricaded"

"Who do you have in the zone itself?"

"Only a small unit of local militia at present, reinforcements are on their way from the south"

"Very good. I must warn you that we don't know exactly what we're looking for, so anything suspicious at all in there is to be reported"

"Yes sire"

It was only a few minutes before the convoy rolled up to the zone perimeter. A checkpoint stood across the road, and the vehicles halted in front of it. Some time passed with nothing happening, and Krasniy looked forward through the bulletproof glass of the limousine to see what the delay was. Nobody appeared to be manning the checkpoint. A gruff-looking militia sergeant hopped out of the front truck with a detatchment of his men, and entered the small hut looking for its occupants. Kamenev laughed:

"Bloody rural Lunatics. They're probably asleep on duty. Why do they see the need for a siesta in a cool climate like th-"

He was stopped short by the yells of the militiamen from the hut, and a few shouted orders later the whole convoy's security contingent had disembarked from their vehicles and were assuming defensive positions around the vehicles.

"What is this crap?", sighed Krasniy. He stepped out of the vehicle, pushing aside his bodyguard who pleaded with him to remain inside. Kamenev followed cautiously as Krasniy marched up to the hut, yelling at the militia sergeant by the door:

"What do you think this is, a theatrical production? We haven't got time for fun and games. That fishy daemonic sack of merde is on his way here as we speak!"

"Sire", whimpered the sergeant. "With respect you might wish to see what's in the hut"

Krasniy and Kamenev brushed past the sergeant and entered the hut, to find the two militiamen originally manning the position lying quite obviously dead on the floor. The blood was drying already.

"The Daemon", said Kamenev. "Has he beat us here?"

Krasniy leaned over and flipped one of the now-stiff bodies onto its front. In the poor militiaman's back was buried a knife, the handle of which was carved out in a twisting snake design.

"He's not here yet, Tolyan", said Krasniy. "But his friends are. I should've known"

"Friends, sire?"

"The Hand, Tolyan, The Hand. I guess it was foolish to think the Daemon would turn up all alone. In fact he's probably led us here on purpose". Krasniy looked around at the endless fields of head-high crops. "His mortal servants will be here, they'll have foreseen his arrival. We're supposed to be fishermen. But the way things are going, the first mouth to be hooked will be mine"

Krasniy began strolling back to the limousine.

"So what do we do, sire?", asked Kamenev.

"Stay close. Scouting the area is out, we'll get picked off like petals. We can only act when the time comes"

"And when will that be?"

"We'll know it, Tolyan. By the Gods we'll know it". Krasniy opened the trunk of the limousine and took from within its spacious darkness a MoMA-issue grenade launcher. "Now answer me this, Tolyan....who will help us in our effort?"

"The Gods?"

"Very good. And how is the wrath of the gods best expressed?"

"By the B0O0/\/\, sire?"

"Correct", said Krasniy as he loaded a chunky cartridge into the launcher. "The more the better"

Night had fallen. Somewhere in the middle of the zone of exclusion, Krasniy and his large entourage sat in a clearing of a field. Among the group were heavily armed elements of local and expeditional militia, fellow Piscatores armed with conventional weapons and phials of assorted strange substances, as well as B0O0/\/\ist priests holding nothing but books of prayer and elaborately decorated sacks of hand grenades. All had converged on this spot a half-mile in diameter, found by following bizarre electromagnetic readings from the Piscatores' measuring equipment. Somewhere within this great patch, the Demon Fish of Balgurd would make his bid for home.

The Hand were nearby. Three militiamen had gone off into the tall crops to empty their bladders, and never returned. The last was heard to scream briefly as his assailants struck. Then the order was given that no man should leave the line of sight of his comrades. The Hand preferred to operate in the shadows, and would not attack a large group.

Not a breath of wind stirred and the crops in the soil, although tall, were lanky and appeared to barely cling into life. Miles from any settlement, the stars shone brightly and Krasniy looked up at them, quietly bidding the Gods to lend him direction. For a long time the group waited.

It was Kamenev who heard it first. He stood up to listen, then ordered the chattering band of fighters to silence. When they did so a low, distant chanting could be heard. It grew slowly louder:

"Descendi Es Valde. Piscis Es Valde. Tribuo Nos Quoque Locus Per Legio. Quod Nos Vadum Solvo Rrakanychan"

"Descendi Es Valde. Piscis Es Valde. Tribuo Nos Quoque Locus Per Legio. Quod Nos Vadum Solvo Rrakanychan"

"Let's go", said Krasniy. "Carefully"

The assembled bands picked up their weapons and equipment, and as one formation they slowly crept through the undergrowth. Kamenev led them, with Krasniy close behind flanked by two priests. The chanting continued ever louder as they approached. After a half minute of moving, it was apparent that no assassins lay in wait for them. They were all in one place chanting. The crops were now illuminated in a fiery glow, as the lead group stopped just short of a giant clearing.

Krasniy and Kamemev now saw with their own eyes what few people see. What even fewer live to retell. Many, many hooded figures standing ankle-deep around a shimmering doughnut-shaped pool, at the centre of which lay a great glowing red hole in the ground, emitting the stench of rotting flesh and the echoing sound of maniacal laughter. At the edge of the chasm stood a familiar figure, the facial structure of whom was known from countless witness sketches and surveillance photographs. But the structure was all that was familiar. What was the skin had peeled off leaving only a few hanging spots remaining. Underneath were row upon row of shimmering iridescent scales. The fingers were webbed, and the eyes radiated a piercing golden glow.

The hooded figures, each carrying from their belts a serpentine-handled kris knife, stood in a great circle around the Fish. Then one would step forward, be lightly touched upon the head by the Fish and hurl himself into the gaping fiery chasm, followed by another repeating the process. The remaining figures continued their chanting throughout.

It was with a silent prayer and no further hesitation that Krasniy slipped the safety catch off his grenade launcher, aimed it squarely at the Fish, and pulled the trigger.

A bang louder then expected announced the discharge of the grenade round, which whizzed through the air and hit the Fish square in the face as it turned to look at it. A cloud of fire and debris consumed everything, and several of the hooded figures flew through the air with limbs missing. The smoke then cleared to reveal the Fish standing completely unharmed. It raised its webbed fin-like hand.

Instantly all the crops around Krasniy's men were ablaze, and the hooded figures seized their knives and disappeared into the crops behind them. Krasniy's assumption that they were fleeing was arrested by the hissing rustle of the crops as they approached invisibly and quickly to outflank his men. Chaos ensued among a cacophany of screams, gunshots, and the desperate prayers of the priests. Krasniy himself ran for cover, knowing the assassins would converge on him if his Arx-Piscatorial face was identified. Kamenev was gone in the confusion, only the Gods knew where.

Krasniy moved away from the burning crops into thicker growth. The second he stopped a black hooded figure sprang from nowhere with dagger raised. Krasniy had levelled his Makarov pistol sidearm at the figure, put a bullet in its head and dodged the descending blade before he even knew he'd done it. More crops nearby rustled with the approach of somebody, so he darted off again.

Either the fighting had moved away or Krasniy had moved from it as the screams, explosions and automatic gunfire sounded a little more distant. He found he'd circled the clearing and was approaching it from the other side. Another assassin rustled near, but was unaware of Krasniy's presence so he remained silent and let the hooded figure pass. Somewhere beyond the clearing the gunfire was sounding less sporadic and more intensely organised. In the clearing itself Krasniy saw the Fish standing still, directing lighting bolts of some kind which struck down anybody who came near the edge of the clearing. Any bodies within its reach the Fish then hurled into the fiery chasm.

The crops behind Krasniy rustled again. He fired three shots from his Makarov in the direction out of sheer surprise, and a hooded figure fell at his feet struggling. He put another bullet in its head and moved off around the clearing a little more. The assassins appeared to be losing ground, as Krasniy's men could still be heard shooting in organised fashion across the clearing and now seven priests stood at the clearing's edge. They held up gnarled wooden staffs and recited a prayer in such quickfire fashion it was impossible to understand. But whatever it was, it was preventing the Fish from smiting them immediately. Five more priests appeared and recited a different prayer, which caused the Fish slight difficulty in movement. The tide was turning.

Then a small band of Piscatores escorted by surviving militiamen arrived. A brave Piscator took a grenade-like device and hurled it at the Fish's feet, spewing a thick purple smoke which caused the Fish to hiss and gutter with discomfort. Now the Fish retreated across the shallow water to the great glowing hole. Krasniy felt newly defiant and stepped into the clearing. Above the priestly chants and the gunfire of the surviving militiamen fast forming a defensive ring around the clearing, Krasniy called out:

"Back to Balgurd, you aquatic abhorrence. This is not your place, nor your time. Not one more soul is coming with you".

The Fish glared at him with its glowing golden eyes. With a gurgling bark, it spoke:

"Khwwwone mwoar schoul ish all it takes, for gghhyour eturghhnal ghhrief to make"

The Fish hauled up a body near the glowing hole's rim. It was Tolyan Kamenev. Krasniy's professional partner, friend and confidant for aeons. Two kris knives were lodged in his back, and his face was horribly burned. But he was still alive, barely clinging into his last few minutes of life. His eyes intermittently opened and looked around. Krasniy slowly levelled his grenade launcher at the Fish, who gurgled again:

"Hghyyyou are shhutch a fool Krashghniy, gghhthat shilly ghthing ghwill not hurrrght me"

"It's not you I'm after, vile creature", Krasniy turned his aim to Kamenev's fast withering body. "Balgurd be buggered, Tolyan. The Celestial Temple awaits you"

And with a pull of the trigger, another grenade flew from Krasniy's launcher and buried itself in Kamenev's Torso, detonating and showering the clearing in flesh and bone fragments. The fireball that rose into the sky briefly formed itself into a humanoid shape, and soared into the heavens.

At that moment Krasniy motioned to the waiting Piscatores, who tossed another two of their peculiar smoke grenades at the Fish's feet. Among the purple cloud its angered gurgling coughs were heard once more, and finally it turned and threw itself headlong into the depths of the gaping portal. The priests rushed up to peer after it, but Krasniy held them back:

"Keep away, unless you want to go with him"

With a deafening rumble the ground beneath their feet quivered, and the red glow in the hole became dimmer. A torrent of rock and soil spilled up from its depths and tumbled out over the ring pool. Soon all was quiet, and only bare soil and body parts lay where the gaping hole had been.

Krasniy looked around. A faint blue glow was visible on the Eastern horizon. Dawn was breaking. He let out a long sigh, and turned to the assembled priests.

"This portal must not open again. Make it so"

Brushing the dirt and gore off his jacket, he set off with two dozen bodyguards toward home.

THE END

Andreas the Wise wrote:if it wasn't a demonic murder, I may not have read to the end, murder's not quite my thing ...