The shovel made a hollow pinging sound as it struck something solid in the dirt.

"Found something!" Moss called out, wiping the sweat from his brow as he smiled up at Libro watching him at the edge of the pit. Long ago it had served as someone's larder in the now defunct town of Vale, but with all its homes burned to ash they were nothing more than empty grave sites now.

"You lot," Libro pointed at a crowd of rebels standing nearby. "Get a pulley set up so I can take a gander at the treasure my boy's have found. Hop to it now! Quick as you like!"

"You talking to me?" One of the bigger lads in the group pushed his way forward, looking Libro up and down, and clearly not liking the results. "I'm not gonna take no orders from some big mouthed shitfaced outsider."

"Then you will take your orders from me." A heavy hand clapped onto the big lad's shoulder, grabbing him firmly by the collar. He was guided, much in the same way one would guide a stubborn donkey, into the demonic gaze of Jarla Freyah and her equally nightmarish scowl.

"My...my lady..." the big lad blubbered, realizing far too late who had seized him in the first place.

"Be quiet," The Jarla said, and by some miracle the man had a quick enough mind to listen. "Do as he says and get the pulley set up. Until I say otherwise, this bigmouthed shitfaced outsider will speak with my authority." She let go of the man and he stumbled back warily, eyeing Libro in an entirely new light now.

"Well, you heard her! Get the damned pulley built!" The big lad roared, making a big show of it as he chased away the crowd, men scattering about.

"But not you," The Jarla said.

The big lad froze in his tracks. "Not me, my lady?"

"No, you're going to watch over the south roads and make sure the Right Hand doesn't know what we're up to. Any scouts you see sniffing about I want a swift report of. Quick as you like."

"Y...yes, my lady." The big lad turned, pushed his bottom lip out, and trudged off in the desired direction, all thoughts of buried treasure replaced with the drudgery of guard duty.

Like training dogs, Libro thought to himself. Keep them mean, and you'll keep them keen, or some shit. Not really a philosophy he could see himself adopting, personally. He preferred the nicer dogs.

"I appreciate the assistance, my lady." Libro stared into her one good eye, holding her razor sharp focus with his own. She may have left a bloom of bruises along his abdomen that made every tiny movement a living seven hells, but he wasn't about to show his throat to her just yet.

"Do not thank me," The Jarla said as she stalked towards a tiny pavilion, Olaf watching them from his folding seat. "They are the Bright Eye's orders, not mine."

Libro turned his attention back towards the hole. Moss and Cent, bless them both, were up to their calves in chilly muck, shirt and pants stained black, using their shovels as levers to wedge the heavy object out of the mud. With a sudden, greasy thwop, a brick the size of a man's torso popped up out of the grime.

"Nido's tits, this thing is heavy!" Cent roared as he sank down to his hands and knees. "No way I'm hauling this up alone!"

"Save your back," Libro called out. "Let the rebels do some work for a change." Over by the edge, a few carpenters had gathered around to hack up a decent sized pulley. It was a crude little thing, but the desire for perfectly crafted gears, triple corded silk rope, and a team of Imperial engineers just wasn't on the table for this little excavation.

So Libro settled with what he had. Shitty tools, inferior rope, and clay of the earth country men, but at least he had manpower, and plenty of it.

Silver linings.

"Somebody with some salt in their beard come over here and tie the rope off to my belt. Can't have you boys skinning your palms raw if we're killing royalists later on."

The rebels stared at Libro as if he'd grown a second head, before the Jarla cleared her throat audibly from her chair, making the whole lot of them jump.

"Not questioning your orders...my lord," the rebel worked the title around in his mouth as if he'd tasted something sour. "But your a bit...on the thin side to be our counterweight for all this."

"You see this?" Libro jabbed his stump of an arm in the man's face. A few of the seasoned fighters paused to stare at it. Say what you will of warriors. They may not respect your words, but they'll certainly respect your wounds. "I lost this arm a year ago. I had to completely relearn where to distribute my weight when riding a horse, or swinging my axe in a battle, or even when to take a piss." A few laughed at that, but it was enough. "And if you don't believe me, then look with your own eyes."

Libro pulled his shirt up, revealing the dark marks the Jarla had left him. Various shades of purple and yellow blotches spiraling up his abdomen. "I went three rounds with your Jarla before she finally broke me. I remember you and a couple of your lads were in that same room with me when it happened. I highly doubt any of you could go one round against her, much less three. So I dare say If I can still stand after that, then I can be your fecking counterweight."

None of the men said anything, they just stared at him again, as if the third head was sprouting out of his ass or something. Then, without a word, one of them sauntered over and started tying the rope.

"Heave!" Libro yelled, sweat dripping down his temples, breath steaming in the frigid air, boots digging into wet slop, each precious step he took a hard fought victory. "Heave you fecking bastards!"

The rebels crowded around the rope on both sides, heaving and straining furiously to pull their precious treasure from the confines of its muddy prison. Down below, Moss and Cent were a pair of tight lipped grimaces along the edges of the pit as they pushed up from the other end.

A fat raindrop came out of nowhere and slapped Libro hard across the nose. Soon, a cold drizzle started to settle over them, turning the already wet ground into chilly soup.

"Heave!" Libro roared again, forcing his teeth to stop chattering long enough so he could be heard properly. "Heave, before I freeze my tits off!"

A crude remark maybe, but other people seemed to like that sort of thing. It made you sound like one of them, made you less of an outsider and more...something else at least.

"You heard him boys," one of the rebels cried out, smiling from ear to ear. "Whoever pulls it out first gets to keep his tits!"

*

"Once again, I wish to reiterate that I deeply hope there is no ill will between us." Olaf sat back in his padded chair as he sipped from a pewter mug. "When there's a civil war going on, it can be difficult to identify who is a friend and who is a foe in all this madness."

Libro smiled as he took a sip of his own drink, the spicy richness of hot tea filling his chilly body with a fresh ampule of warmth. The Jarla sat between the two of them, her mug empty, keen to keep whatever lay hidden beneath her bandana a mystery.

Libro let the question hang in the air for a moment before finally answering. "To be honest, I would have likely done the same in your Jarla's shoes. Discovering foreign soldiers within sovereign territory is bound to ruffle a few diplomatic feathers." Libro glanced over the lip of his drink. "And it would be an even greater shame if the Empire were to ever get their hands on the official report. It would do more than just ruffle a few feathers. It might just start a war."

Olaf smiled. "Unless of course the official report states these foreign soldiers were instead found to be on a diplomatic mission, of which their success would benefit both parties involved."

"The once and only Empress, and the once and future High King."

"Exactly." Olaf looked away as Moss and Cent trundled over, dropping what looked to be a heavy stone vault onto the muddy ground. It stood around four feet tall and about half as wide, strange runes carved along its craggy surface. There was no apparent keyhole or latch, no door to swing open or levers to turn. The vault looked more akin to a massive paving stone, or one of the bricks used in Byzantia's walls.

"Ah, I see you've cleaned up our buried treasure rather well," Olaf said.

"Things built out of solid stone by the looks of it." Cent ran a hand over the perfectly flat top of the vault, admiring its craftsmanship. "Even the joints are made of stone. Carved in a dovetail pattern to lock them all in place. It would take an army of mallets to break it open, even ones made out of Star Steel. You just can't beat this type of perfection."

"Things built to last," Moss summarized.

The Jarla turned her coppery gaze on Libro. "It's worthless to us then. No buried treasure is worth the manpower needed to crack it open. We could have been preparing ambushes, setting up logistics, or mucking the farking stables instead of us all sitting here and watching you play in the mud like a child!"

Libro wasn't listening to her. He was too busy staring at the runes carved along the vault's surface. One of them jumped out at him, a familiar carving he'd seen somewhere before. He reached out, the rest of the pavilion going silent as the others started watching him curiously.

A muscle in his arm twitched. He felt the familiar snap of magick getting caught in the invisible hooks of his scars, a gentle warmth blooming along his fingertips.

The rune closest to his hand began to glow slightly, light spreading out along the jumbled formations, the other symbols winking into existence like stars in the night sky.

"What's happening," The Jarla demanded. "What are you doing? Tell me!"

Libro said nothing, focusing entirely on the runes. There was magick in them, old magick, and very different then what he'd ripped out of the Chosen. While their magick felt cold and brittle, and made his arm go numb every time he touched them, this magick possessed a greater robustness. As if it were alive somehow, brimming with vibrant energy.

One by one the light from the runes began to wink out, perhaps in some code or cypher to signal the vault's unlocking, or merely to disarm whatever power kept it shut. Either way, as the last rune faded way, there was a soft hiss as the lid slowly came open.

"How very interesting," Olaf said. This time it was the Jarla who was speechless.

"Lets see what we have here," Libro gingerly peeled the door open and peered inside. The air smelled much as the Deadways had all those years ago, stale and dry, and with a lingering reminder that nothing alive had been inside for a very long time.

Three scrolls lay tucked side by side one another, their edges still crisp and sharp as the day they'd been sealed inside. Libro took one out with care and popped the seal, spreading it out along the table, the eyes of both Olaf and Jarla widening as they scanned its contents.

"This is...," The Jarla breathed.

"A map of Kel Dracon," Olaf said.

"Even better," Libro said. "It's a mason's map of Kel Dracon."

"What's the difference?" The Jarla demanded.

"A regular map is meant to show you where to go." Libro tapped a spot on the diagram, a jutting edge along the outer eastern wall. "A mason's map is meant to show you where not to go. Look here, and tell me what you see."

The Jarla's brows beetled together in what Libro could only guess was from the result of a very deep scowl. She snapped her one good eye over to Olaf, but the old man was all smiles about it, as if he was enjoying this little exercise between them.

"By all means," the Olaf said. "Please continue."

"I see jots and lines and scribbles," The Jarla said.

Libro would have pushed his lower lip out in jest, but knowing what the Jarla's fists felt like made him think otherwise. "The jots you see are the outer and inner portions of the wall. The lines within represent the hidden passage cutting through it. The scribbles around the margins is stonecant, a universal language written and spoken exclusively between other masons. They could be from opposite ends of the Cont, and still be able to read each other's diagrams if needed. Quite ingenious, really."

"And how do you know that? I have never heard of such a thing."

Libro smiled. "Because my father was a mason, and he tried to make me his apprentice before the Imperial army pressed me into service and shipped me off to the front lines. The man was a bastard, but he was smart, and even after all these years his lessons still stick with me."

You could find them easily, along the deep jagged scar marks across his back. Each line produced from the lashing of a wooden switch, made for every word misspelled, for every sentence miswritten.

"The thing about walls," Libro continued. "Is that most have a gap inside them. A little crawlspace for the mason to squeeze through in case of internal damages caused by, let's say, the continuous freezing and thawing of water as it dribbles in through the cracks. Like tiny little picks, working at the seams one season at a time. They would normally have a passageway to scamper through into the inner portion, but it's not surprising to find an outer crawl space as well."

Libro paused to look up at Olaf. "You know, just in case. You can call it a hunch, but I've noticed that masons and soldiers tend to think the same way. We're a tightly spun bunch, if you think about it."

"Very clever, Captain." The old man ran a hand through his gnarled beard and smiled, easily putting two and two together. "I take it you're wanting to use this little, let's call it a hidey-hole for now, to sneak your way inside the Right Hand's prison."

"Exactly. Once inside, I can dismantle their outer defenses and open the gates for your people to get inside."

"Hah," The Jarla scoffed. "With you and what army?"

Libro extended a hand out to Moss and Cent. "These are all the men I need."

"You must be joking?"

"I never joke about such matters," Libro leaned towards the Jarla, pulling the iron mask down in a hard grimace he'd seen old Captain Dux give to people. "I besieged an entire city with only two thousand soldiers a year ago, and I burned that farking place to the ground. I believe two is more than enough for that tiny lump of rock and ice you call a castle."

Had it been his imagination, or had the Jarla leaned back just now? She glared at him with her one good eye, hands balled up into fists beside her, no doubt imagining what his guts looked like stretched out over the ruined town. But he could see it. He had her. The little sliver of doubt he'd tossed her way had pierced her stony heart, wedging itself in the miniscule cracks in her defense.

The Jarla looked away, seeking guidance from the one person here who truly held the cards in all this

Olaf's smile grew ever wider. "We should continue this little discussion of ours over some tea. I always find myself quite parched when it comes to making deals."

***