Qolmador pumped his short legs hard to keep up with Nomad when they entered the market street. Despite the rising moon and late hour, businesses ran with plenty of patrons, which meant the market street was crowded. The smell of sweaty body odor mixed with cooked meats and rotten fruit from food carts choked the air. The sheer swell of people slowed their progress as they shoved and elbowed through, earning angry looks from angry people. None of them seemed to care that they wore the colors of the 7th, snarling and throwing rude gestures at the pair.

  Qolmador refused to be disrespected and returned the rude gestures with equal intensity. He wondered why these people hated the 7th since the goblins would never have let them in before he and Nomad cleared the city, goblins hated outsiders and tolerated them because of Ikemah. Caught in his thoughts, he didn’t see the large orc in plate armor shove him into Nomad, who was crouched, causing them to fall forward.

  Nomad caught himself and whipped around with a snarl. “What the hell, Qol,” One of his eyes changed from bright orange to black, squinting at him.

  Qol looked up at the massive orc baring his teeth. “I wasn’t me! It was zis big oaf.” He pointed up at the orc, who wore dark, gleaming plate armor with the nightmare crest emblazoned on the chest.

  The orc held a hand, the color of a fiery sunset, over the crest pushing back her slate-gray hair. “My apologies, good sirs.” Her sonorous voice was clear and loud even in the mass of people. “Allow me to correct my error.” Offering her massive hand, she flashed a pearly white smile.

  Waving her away, Qolmador wiped the grime from the street off himself and glared at the orc. “I’m quite capable, thank you.”

  Nomad took the hand, and a glint of silver sparked in the grasp. “What the hell?” Jerking his hand away, he examined it but saw nothing wrong.

  The orc gave a quick bow of her head, letting her braid fall free. “I’m Kamaka, and I would love to make up for shoving your small friend.” Again she bowed. “What do you say I find you when the sun rises in the morning for a meal?” Neither of them responded, stunned by the request. “Then it’s settled! I’ll find you tomorrow, and we’ll feast.” With that, she spun on her heels, disappearing into the crowd before either could argue.

  Qolmador started after her when a strong hand grabbed his shoulder. “Nomad, we have to go after her!” He wrenched free from Nomad’s grasp. “We cannot let zat stand, und she did something to your hand.”

  Nomad sighed, inspecting his hand until the crowd started to push into them again. He unbuttoned his coat to rest his gloved hand on the pearl-handled pistol at his hip, daring anyone to do it again; the crowd gave them a wider berth. “All right, that was odd, but we don’t have time right now.” He held up the hand to Qolmador for a quick inspection and jerked his head at him. “We good?”

  Qolmador saw nothing, pursed his lips, and nodded.

  Deftly snatching his hand back, Nomad continued. “I reckon our lizard couldn’tve gotten too far with those bullets in ‘im. Only a matter of time before he drops.” He motioned for Qol to follow and cleared a path with his gun prominently displayed.

  “Kamaka…” Qolmador mumbled, then stomped after Nomad, groaning as his feet stuck to the muck layered on the street, which sent chills up his body from the gummy feeling between his toes. If he could lock onto the lizardman’s mind again, he wouldn’t have to traverse this disgusting city. But he must be so far ahead of them that he couldn’t sense him knowing he’d have to rely on Nomad’s tracking. A memory of hunting a group of gnolls flashed into his head. It took him a week to find them behind their house.

  He hoped this time would be different, seeing Nomad duck into an alley between two food stalls and followed. They continued ducking into alleys until they reached the orange buildings of the residential district. Qolmador could feel his annoyance growing at the lack of results until they turned into an alley that smelled of copper and iron.

  In between two orange-bricked buildings, they came face to face with a truly horrific scene. Five firbolgs lay in pieces, with one having a hole seemingly melted out of his midsection. Orange fur and floppy ears splashed on the walls and floor of the quiet alley. Qolmador wondered why they were the first to happen upon this place. Nomad ignored the scene and set off down the alley past the bodies.

  Qolmador pushed his thoughts into Nomad’s mind. “What are you doing? Zere are a lot of dead firbolgs here.” He walked deeper into the alley, getting no response from Nomad. Looking down the alley to Nomad, he pushed his will into Nomad’s mind.

  In the distance, Nomad flicked his hand at him dismissively. “Stop, Qol, you know I hate that.” He knelt down and picked up a few broken chunks of stone. “Besides, they ain’t going anywhere, and we have to be close.” His eyes flicked to indigo as the finished the thought.

  Tossing his head back and groaning, Qolmador clenched his jaws and then sighed, turning back to the desecrated bodies. Nothing in the alley moved, and the residential district was winding down for the night, allowing him time to take in the entire scene. Taking mental notes, he surveyed everything.

  Five firbolgs.

  Four dead in various states of fleeing.

  One with a hole bored into it… melted through it, he corrected, craning his neck over the scene.

  Vomit on the floor.

  Pieces of firbolgs littered the ground.

  The alley reeked of burnt flesh and hair.

  Blood that was distinctively a different color was smeared along the walls. Something was already hurt coming into the alley. From the height, he guessed the creature was around eight feet tall. There was an abrupt end to the smear, right at the firbolg with the hole in it.

  Deciding he needed more information, he walked up to the firbolg near the vomit. Strange blood, claw marks on the ground, and a trickle of blood on the ground. “He tried to flee,” Qolmador mumbled, moving to inspect the body by grabbing the head. Opening the eyes of the firbolg revealed something strange.

  A branding mark was seared onto the whites of its eye near the tear duct that didn’t match any symbol he knew. Checking the rest of the body, he saw bandages and a cast from a previous injury, but they looked newly applied. Putting a hand on its cheek, it felt warm to the touch.

  “This just happened.” He muttered to himself.

  A stiff breeze carried the stench of rotten cooked meat that seeped into his nostrils. Pulling up his cowl, he let his pupils shatter to search the thing’s mind and found no activity, but there was something. A ghost of a thought lingered in the firbolg's mind, a thought that didn't belong to him, and Qolmador grasped at it, but it vanished in a puff of psychic resonance.

  Somebody didn’t want to be found.

  Looking behind the firbolg, he saw the thick unchewed chunks of elk meat; his lip twisted up with confusion. The lizard was here, but was he a magic user? No. He had entered the lizard’s head and sensed no magical prowess, only the calm of a trained mind. Chewing his cheek, he looked down the alley, with his eyes still in mandalas, and saw one of the firbolgs curled into a ball when a wave of nausea gripped him.

  His palms began to sweat, and his heart quickened; the walls around him seemed to close in. Pale green moonlight faded into a pure white nothing as his thoughts muddled together. Looking down the end of the alley, he saw Nomad pacing, looking down at the ground. At that moment, he had the clearest thought he’d ever had; Nomad wanted him dead. He stumbled backward, slipping on the slick ground forcing him to drop his psionics.

  Then his panic ended.

  Slowly but surely, the moonlight filtered back into reality, and his heart slowed to a regular rate as he wiped the sweat off his brow. Qolmador looked down at the firbolg again without his mandala eye, and realization dawned on him that one of them was alive, so he called out to Nomad to get his attention.

  “Zat one is alive,” Qolmador said in a raspy voice, pointing to the quivering firbolg.

  Peering over his shoulder with an orange eye, Nomad spun around and scanned the bodies. Locking his eye on the fetal positioned firbolg. Nomad jerked his head to him and called out. “We ain’t gonna hurt ya; we’re with the 7th.”

  Qolmador stepped one foot into the weeping hole in the firbolg’s chest and the other on his face. “Ja, we are searching for zee lizard that did this.” He approached the now trembling firbolg, placing a hand on his back, which caused Qolmador’s eyes to dilate, and his heart thumped hard in his chest. He couldn’t find air to fill his lungs. White light burned away the moonlight again.

  “Qol!” Nomad yelled, pulling him off the firbolg to stumble onto his tail. “What in the hells was that?”

  Qolmador shook his head to clear his vision and pointed to the firbolg. “He…” He took a breath and calmed his heart. “He’s in a state of shock. I… gah,” Stretching his neck to the sky, Qolmador tried to refocus his jumbled thoughts. “I cannot do anything for him without a lot of time.” Letting the warm night air wash over his scales, he closed his eyes and listened to the streets around him. Everyday life calmed his senses; it reminded him that there was more to life than his missions.

  Nomad knelt next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “That ain’t good news. The trail ends at the end of the alley. It’s the damnedest thing,” Nomad spat on the ground. “It’s almost like he healed up and vanished.” He sighed and stood, offering a hand to Qolmador.

  Letting himself get pulled to his feet, he looked up at Nomad. “Let’s go to the Jrekil tree. Zee firbolg had a branding on his eye, which could be a clue. Und we can get word to the 7th from there.”

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  Nomad nodded in reply and added. “Qol, I pumped him full of lead; ain’t no way he did this.” He motioned to the dead firbolgs.

  Qolmador scratched his chin while jutting out his lower jaw. “Zat was my thought.” He continued to tap his chin. “He has a friend.”

  Rubbing his eyebrows together, Nomad groaned. “The next time you make a play, ask me first.” Grinding his teeth, he turned and walked down the alley. “Jrekil’s north; let’s go.”

  As Nomad turned out of the alley, Qolmador closed his eyes and felt the sleep he hadn’t had in weeks coalesce in his mind. A great weariness washed over him. Focusing it into the palm of his hand, he blew out an ethereal mist over the firbolg. Its shivering mass instantly softened into shallow snores. Raising an eyebrow, he considered diving into its mind but ran after Nomad instead. Catching up to him had been easy but keeping up proved more difficult. His mind kept wandering to the alley and the dead firbolgs. Who else was with the lizardman? How had he not succumbed to his wounds?

  Or did he succumb? The creature with him might have been large enough to carry him away; that would be problematic. And who were the firbolgs? What was the branding for? All the questions started to make his head hurt when he heard Nomad interrupt his thoughts.

  “We’re here; pay attention.” Nomad thought.

  They made it to a side entrance to the central plaza where four giant ebon trees stood. The trees created a diamond surrounding a park full of people. Stone pathways cut through the park, leading to one of the trees and the district they protected. Surrounded by storefronts, the southernmost tree grew tall and had a tunnel at the bottom for foot traffic. The east tree, where they entered, stood before the residential district, while the west tree guarded the palace row. Reaching over the middle of the plaza with bright red leaves, both trees created a natural shade for the park below. The last tree to the north was thicker and taller than the rest, stretching to the heavens. It guarded the holy obelisk of Ikemar.

  As far as Qolmador knew, it was the only religious icon Ikemah allowed in the city. Rolling his eyes, he recalled the ritual of ‘desanctifying’ the grounds and Ikemah’s self-serving speech about being praised. As if on cue, the doors to the church opened, and a stream of people exited.

  Wearing Ikemah’s colors, several cultists strode out of the church, walking through the plaza in tight formations. Watching the cultists, he wondered if they had the silver strings that made them puppets of the new goblin king. Nothing would surprise him about Ikemah; he focused on the group, prepping his psionics.

  “Look alive, Qol,” Nomad broke into Qol’s mind. “This place is too big for me to match every face,” The annoyance in his thoughts permeated through Qolmador’s head. “The lizardman ain’t gonna just pop up; we need your mind here.” Nomad guessed what Qolmador intended.

  Qolmador looked at Nomad skirting around a large group of cultists moving toward a wall between stores. “Ja, okay.” He turned his mind to the crowd when he saw a drow walk into the square from the palace row—nothing special about the drow except for the large green lizardman following him. “Nomad. Our lizardman just popped up.”

  Honing in on the lizardman, Qolmador cut across the verdant park, passing the wide oak benches and moon blossom bushes. He made his way to the gaudy fountain of Ikemah in the middle of the park. Taking a deep inhale, he allowed himself a moment to bask in the fragrant aroma of the moon blossoms. It was essential to calm his mind before he fought.

  “I have eyes on zem. Where are you?” He thought to Nomad but felt the thought dissipate into the ether. Surveying the outskirts of the plaza, he couldn’t see Nomad anywhere. “Hey! Where did you go?” Confused, he spun around to where Nomad had been only seconds ago. All he could see was a solid red-bricked wall and a group of cultists in a semi-circle going to the residential district. He felt his heart sink at the abandonment, growling at the thought of Nomad.

  “ARGH!” He groaned, unable to find his friend. Gritting his teeth, he refocused on his target, watching the lizardman and his drow over the fountain's edge. Refreshing mist splashed on his face as he monitored their every movement. People muttered under their breath whenever they walked past him. He brushed them off and kept his eyes on the lizardman while psychically reaching out to Nomad to no avail.

  The pair moved southward to the merchant tree, moving in and out of shops along the plaza’s perimeter. Despite himself, a smile crossed Qolmador’s face every time the lizard exited a store because his tail would dip into the pocket of unsuspecting shoppers, none the wiser. From his vantage point, Qolmador saw the drow talking nonstop and wondered how these two met. Based on the lizard’s constant sighing and eye rolls, he didn’t think they knew each other for long. They paused in front of a divinity store with a bright ‘TAROT CARD’ display at the front.

  “Draw a fortune to enhance your own.” The lettering on the window read. Qolmador had seen this store before but never bothered to go in. Now, the pair were talking about something before they entered. Scanning the crowd again for a sign of Nomad but coming up empty, he ran across the park to the Tarot Card shop. “If you can hear this, I am going to zee divinity shop.” He thought out to Nomad.

  Running through the park, an errant thought fluttered into his mind, not his own; it was one of fear and regret. Scrunching his brow, he squinted at a strangely dressed cultist placing a box next to the merchant tree. It had the dark robe and silver trim of the cult but also a deep purple liner which he had never seen before. He noticed the cloaked figure standing still, staring at the black box until it took awkward steps away. It appeared to have never used its legs before or was fighting itself from walking. Logging the odd scene to memory, he continued toward the divinity shop.

  At the large window of the shop, he peered in to see the drow talking with a half-elf woman with short dark hair. There was an easy air about her, even through the window, and the drow spoke vividly with his hands. The shop walls were filled with single Tarot cards, and the counter had several complete decks. Then there was the lizardman watching their animated conversation intensely.

  When she turned her back, Qolmador watched the lizard’s tail snatch a deck off the counter. He stuck it under a hidden pocket where his tail met his body. Qolmador’s smile and admiration of a creature able to steal from a divine shop grew, affirming his decision to help him was the right one.

  He let his mind find the calm oasis of the lizardman’s and entered. “I saw zat.”

  The lizardman froze, only using his eyes to dart around the store; he locked eyes with Qolmador. He thought back. “Your a persistent little shite.” Out loud, he said something to the elves and excused himself from the store. Stepping out, he glared down at Qolmador, eclipsing the kobold. “Wot do you want?” He stretched his neck side to side in two loud pops.

  “At first, I wanted your ability,” Qolmador admitted. “But now, I need to know why you killed zee firbolgs.” He tilted his head and slanted his eyes. “We may not be Sunspire, but killing for no reason is still frowned upon.” Qolmador watched the lizard’s eye flick to the drow when he mentioned the firbolgs.

  The lizardman grunted. “Wasn’t me.”

  Qolmador nodded. “No, I didn’t think so. It was elegant and arcane, though I wonder why zee small firbolg was killed. He was young.” He lied, waiting for a reaction.

  The lizard’s jaws clenched, and he bared his teeth but not at Qolmador. “Bloody wanker.”

  Qolmador narrowed his eyes as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry. I lied. Zee little one is sleeping in the alley, very much alive.” His smile grew at the lizard’s sigh. “You are quite zee interesting fellow. What is your name?”

  Reducing his eyes to slits, the lizardman tilted his and answered. “Zoil. You?”

  Qolmador gave a slight nod of his head. “Qolmador. “Und your friend?” Qolmador asked.

  Zoil said nothing.

  Unperturbed, Qolmador continued. “He’s a powerful healer, ja?” He pointed to the scar on his shoulder and hip.

  “Yup,” Zoil replied, curling one lip to bare his teeth.

  Qolmador took a deep breath, licking his lips. “I—” He started to respond when he saw the small firbolg he put to sleep stumbling toward an alley. Cocking his eye, he recognized the purple lining of his cloak. How had this firbolg woken from his spell? Where did get the cloak from? More than that, why was he setting down random boxes?

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zoil follow his gaze and straighten up. They stared at the firbolg taking fumbling steps, disappearing between two buildings. Exchanging looks, they walked toward the alley when a thought popped into Qolmador’s head.

  He slapped Zoil’s thigh. “He put a box in zee park; I think I should investigate it.” Peeling away from Zoil, he looked over his shoulder. “Follow our friend, und I’ll find you again.” He tapped his head with a knowing look, sprinting into the park. Quickly, he found his way back to the black box. He picked it up without hesitation to see a mess of wires dangling from the bottom. Raising his brows with bulged eyes, he realized his mistake and started to put the box down. Before he could let the box go, a shock coursed through his body, seizing up his muscles.

  “Qolmador Siverius Tempna Veth the Third! VERE HAF YOU BEEN!?” The professor’s thoughts screamed, paralyzing him.