Cleansing Fire
Chapter 3: The Hunt

Ioman spat onto the dusty stones at his feet. He hated being kept waiting. He knew he couldn’t leave though. A summons such as this had to be obeyed, no matter the time or who he’d been occupied with at the time. Still, it was hard to not wish for a return to the warmth and camaraderie of the tavern. That bastard Rodin had probably stolen all his winnings by now – it was harder to keep that man’s hands off neglected gold than to hook a Grunter at night. He was just considering whether it might be worth his while to take off anyway when he heard a creak outside the door. In a flash, he had one of his knives out, glinting in the moonlight that filtered through the dirty window. With a blade almost as wide as his hand, the Dolme was something of a speciality weapon. His fingers slid easily through the finger holes, the wooden grip slapping into his palm quietly.

“There’s really no need for theatrics,” intoned a dry voice from behind him. Cursing, he spun around, blade coming up to hover in front of his face. He hated dealing with Initiates! Always big on the tricks, anything to throw a man off. Next time we’ll see how clever you are with a bit of steel between your ribs, he thought darkly. People tended to think that because he only had one hand, he would be easier to deal with. Many had learned their error over the years.

To his eyes a shimmering human shape stood before him, light seeming to fall off it like water. The light fell towards the ground but never seemed to make it all the way to the floor. So it was to be disguises tonight. Well enough, it suited him to not know who his employer was. Much safer that way. As long as the gold was real, he could live with some mystery in his life. He sheathed his knife and inclined his head, never taking his eyes off the figure. Just because you haven’t tried to kill me yet doesn’t mean I’m going to let you catch me like a flounder.

“You know why you’re here. I have an order that requires your… particular expertise. We want it done quietly and carefully. Bring him back alive and you’ll receive double your fee.”

His face must have betrayed his shock because the figure laughed. With the illusion in place it really was impossible to tell if it was male or female. The laughter bore a passing resemblance to silvery chimes more than anything a human was capable of producing. He grimaced again, beginning to feel uncomfortable in the presence of so much obvious magic.

“Got a picture for me? Or a description at least. I’m good but I need something to go by,” he couldn’t keep the slightest touch of impatience out of his voice. If the figure noticed, it gave no sign, seeming instead to be considering his request.

Smoothly, it drifted forward, eerily soundless.

“Better Ioman, much better,” it said as it suddenly reached forward and gripped his head on both sides. He gasped and his protesting arms dropped to his sides as an image was burned into his mind. Gods, he hated dealing with Initiates! One day they’d all be penned the way they should be and then people could go about their lives with no cursed interference. Before he could react much, the figure was back on the other side of the room, regarding him calmly.

“You have the image? With that, you should be able to recognise her anywhere, in almost any disguise.”

Trying to get the taste of copper out of his mouth, Ioman thought of what had just been placed in his mind. He knew everything about him; age, name, mannerisms. Distasteful it might be but it was certainly effective.

“Yes. Everything. I know everything. If that is all, I’ll have my half now.” And if I manage to do this without ever seeing you again, I’ll die a happy man.

The figure pursed its lips and produced a clinking bag from somewhere within the shimmering form. The bag bounced on its palm and he could hear the gold meeting with each impact.

“First, recite it all. I want to make absolutely sure you know who your target is. Then we’ll talk about money.”

Somehow, Ioman managed to not grind his teeth as he started to roll off the information in his head. It was almost not worth it. Almost.

“A farm, outside that cesspool Dunriver…”

It was quite some time before his hand closed around the leather purse but when it did, he didn’t care so much about Rodin and his thieving anymore.

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