Fragment 1

Their path was lined with crosses.

Thousands of crosses, in every conceivable shape and size, lay scattered along both sides of the roadway like the pieces of some insane, half-finished fence. Some stood upright; some tilted at dangerous angles or lay on their sides. For every ornate metal marker showing clear signs of craftsmanship there were dozens, hundreds of hastily-erected bits of wood that wouldn’t even be recognizable as crosses if not for the presence of their brethren.

Jacob walked alongside the cart, holding the fractured base of a wooden cross he’d pulled from the ground as they passed. He could just make out the words “WE MISS YOU” scrawled on the bottom in fading black marker.

“So many dead,” he said, steadying himself with one arm against the cart. “Did they bury them standing upright, do you think?”

From his seat atop the cart, Cormac scoffed, shaking his head. A large fly had settled on his broad forehead; he plucked it from the air as if fled and squeezed it, then rubbed his palm on the edge of his coat. Jacob felt along the bottom of the cross where it had been sharpened to a point and wondered, not for the first time, if he would have to kill his new employer.

“There is no one buried here.” The wizard’s voice boomed like distant thunder. “The people who walked this road before us left these markers for a different purpose.”

Jacob scratched his cheek - three weeks on the road had left him with a face full of stubble - and dropped the cross back to the ground. “Why’d they leave these, then? They were running for their lives. Why would they bother to stop?”

“By the time these were planted, there was nowhere left to run,” the wizard said, his jowls quivering. “They left these markers behind to remind us - not us specifically, mind you, just whoever might be left - that they were here. That their loved ones were here, the ones that were taken by the Fever. They wanted us to remember their names.”

Jacob scanned the sides of the road, where the asphalt was cracked and torn in chunks by encroaching weeds. If the markers had once born legends, they were as blank as still water now. “Seems they didn’t do a very good job,” he finally said.

“Yes,” Cormac said with a wicked grin. “They failed.”

Your Possible Pasts

        For seven centuries, the city of Job's Bet has flourished, it's residents growing powerful and wealthy under the protection of the Angels - majestic creatures of enormous power who descended from the sky to save humanity from the horrific Imbibers. Within the Shroud, an enchantment that keeps demonic entities from entering the city, Job's Bet has become an oasis: the center of culture, education and commerce for the whole continent. But as the city prepares to celebrate the eighth century of the Angel's Peace and coronate it's new ruler, it finds itself more strained than ever before. Dangerous, reality-shifting beasts plague the surrounding lands and the streets hum with plots of insurrection, spurred on by the radical fanatics known as the Moab. To the north, an ancient evil stirs in it's slumber, waiting for it's chance to strike. Only the Shroud, and it's attendant legions of Angels, protect the city from being torn down and swallowed into the dust.
   
       Yesterday, the Angels disappeared - and the Shroud went with them.

A Taste of Things to Come

"And I say to you, the Lord your God is pleased by these three things above all others: the bringing of light, the creation of coin, and the smiting of the heathen."

~The Book of Light and Gold, Book of Bayuz 3:17-19

Outside in the street, something exploded.

Arnoz glanced up from his workbench long enough to determine there was no immediate danger of the walls or ceiling of his home collapsing, then brought his head back down to concentrate on his work. The sword lay on the table before him, bright and gleaming. It had taken dozens of benedictions, the slaughter of an adult swan and most of the afternoon to get the blade into a condition where it would not be unclean for a Seraph to wield it. Blessed.

He stood up, and pulling a thin, diamond-tipped stylus from his smock began to place the finishing touches on the massive weapon, striding down the long table to scour it from hilt to tip. After a count of twenty, he glanced at the base of the blade and the inscription scored into it, checking that it had not disappeared or changed. The words were a craftsman's seal, a guarantee of quality. If one jot or tittle was to change during the process, the blade became unclean and unworthy to be wielded by one of the Holy Order. All of his work would be to waste. And Arnoz needed to sell this sword very, very badly.

The explosion troubled him. That was too loud for a Moab attack, he thought, exertion bringing beads of sweat to his forehead, and there's never just one explosion with those bastards. Maybe that damn fool charms-maker down on the Street of Silver finally blew himself up making his love potions.

With a crash, the door of his workshop swung open. Arnoz spun around, his eyes already searching the cramped space for some kind of weapon. He was no stranger to sudden Moab attacks: the area he’d set up shop was chosen for affordability, with safety a distant secondary concern. He thought of the slim blade he kept stored in a drawer on the far side of the table - too far to reach. For an instant, he had the absurd, blasphemous thought that he should pick up the sword and wield it against his attacker. The idea of lifting that heavenly, newly-consecrated sword, designed solely for the province of the Seraphim...it froze his blood.

The diamond-tipped scorer lay before him on the table; he reached behind himself and flexed his fingers around it.

“Arnoz! Arnoz! Lux and Lucre, man!”

The arrival slammed the door behind him, and only now did Arnoz see who it was: Bellin, the local fleshmerchant. He did not relax - if anything, his grip on the scorer grew tighter. Arnoz wasn’t a trusting man at the best of times, and he’d been far from secretive about the fact that his new commission was for the Seraphim. A holy sword was a prize many in Job’s Bet would kill for, blasphemy or no.

“What are you doing here?” Arnoz’s voice flashed with anger.

Bellin held a finger to his mouth in a shushing gesture. Only then did Arnoz see the boy. A pale, sickly looking youth clung to Bellin’s robe, looking like a tick on a dog next to Bellin’s girth. He fixed Arnoz with a terrified stare, his lip trembling. Tears ran down his cheeks. Almighty above, the boy is terrified.

“Quiet!” Bellin whispered. “There is a monster in the street.”

“A monster? You’ve told me many a tall tale, Bellin, but that’s a stretch even for you.”

“Sssh! Quiet, you fool!” Bellin fixed the swordmaker with a frenzied gaze.

Now that Arnoz had a moment to look the fleshmerchant over, he saw the obvious: Bellin was just as terrified as the boy, maybe more so. His jowls shook with fright; he looked as if he had seen death incarnate walking the streets. He frowned and put a hand on Bellin’s shoulder.

“There’s an Imbiber out there, Arnoz, I saw it! I saw it eat a man’s brain! If you don’t quiet down, it will kill us!”

Arnoz sighed and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, his eyes soft with concern. “Calm down, man. The Imbibers cannot enter Job’s Bet - the Shroud protects and keeps us, as do the Seraphim.”

“But-”

“I heard the explosion in the street a few moments ago, Bellin. Your brain is addled from a Moab attack - you are seeing monsters where there are only terrorists. The Seraphim will be here any moment to bring peace to the area.”

As if responding to his words, there was a sudden banging on the door. Before Arnoz could react, Bellin sprang forward and brought down the heavy wooden brace behind the door, locking it in place. The man jumped backwards as it fell, whimpering.

“It’s the monster! Arnoz, the sword, the sword!”

Almighty, Arnoz thought, of all the days for Bellin to lose his mind. “Don’t you dare touch that sword, Bellin,” he warned.

“We have to,” Bellin whispered, his hand moving steadily towards the holy blade’s jewelled hilt. “It is an abomination...”

“Open this door,” came a gruff voice from behind the thick wood. “This is the City Watch.”

“Lucre, Bellin, it’s just the Watch,” Arnoz said. “I’m sure they’ve come running to secure the area.” He rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, cursing himself for his thrice-damned  luck. The Watch would probably want - coming from them, more like demand -  to use his shop as their base of operations while they investigated. The thought of Questioners trampling all over his delicate tools, defiling the holy sword...it was an awful waste. A waste Bellin caused with his foolish decisions.

“I’m coming, Sir Watchman,” Arnoz said, stepping towards the door. “My friend here-”

The boy - how had Arnoz not seen him? - grabbed him by the sleeve. “You can’t open the door,” he whispered, his voice utterly certain. “It’s out there.”

For some reason, the boy’s words struck a chord inside him that Bellin’s panic had not. His eyes flitted to the door and back to the boy. All at once Arnoz was sure the child wasn’t seeing wood and iron and brass but what was behind it, at the thing that stood on the other side. Ice water filled his stomach.

“Open the door,” came a second voice, this one feminine and high-pitched, impossibly old. “We need water; there’s been an accident. A child is hurt! You must open the door.”

Arnoz backed away from the door slowly, his eyes widening in horror. “There is no water here,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “Try the charms-maker down the street.”

“OPEN THE DOOR!” The voice was horrible now; it sounded as if an entire crowd were crouched just behind the door, squeezed into the same space. Hundreds of voices spoke as one, contorted by hate. “YOU CANNOT BAR MY ENTRY!”

Arnoz flinched, fighting the urge to dive beneath the table. He knew instinctively what it was behind that door, had heard the same stories as every child raised in Job’s Bet. The creatures who ate souls. Who wore the voices of each of their victims like pieces of a decaying mask, hiding a face to horrible to look upon.

“Imbiber,” he breathed. Bellin was not insane; what a pity.