‘Are you sure? Just flew off like that? How strange…’ muttered Rolundin.

‘It’s not strange, wizard. It’s a shade.’ Grimm’s voice, strained by his injury, had become a gruff bark. ‘I didn’t recognise it. Didn’t realise until the thing was flying off. Fighting that fucking thing almost cost me more than a bit of old chainmail, and it wasn’t worth even a ring.’

‘I don’t suppose you can ask to be reimbursed by your- Steady, steady!’ cried the old wizard; his hand having slipped from Grimm’s wound as the giant slammed a fist into the desk. Rolundin pressed the soaked rag to the gash again, and waited. ‘This may start to sting after a while. Elderroot and Homulia will cleanse the wound, but the healing balm is not often a pleasant one to experience. I don’t envy you, Grimm.’

‘I don’t need a healing balm. I need magic,’ Grimm spat, flexing his fingers. They had already begun to ache.

‘You are a strong man. I’m sure you can recover from something as slight as this without need of-’

Grimm growled suddenly, and tore the rag from his chest. ‘I told you it would sting,’ the wizard said in a frustrated tone.

‘I don’t need magic to heal. I need it to…’

‘To stave off pain. Or should I say, to stave off the pain of not consuming magic. Yes, I know a thing or two about your kind. Very susceptible to…’ Rolundin trailed off as his eyes met Grimm’s and found them brimming with fury. ‘Then again, I am but a lowly court mage and have not the faintest clue about the wild world’s arcane addiction- Er, I mean… Arcane ailments.’

‘Just give me my shirt,’ said Grimm, sourly. Rolundin did so, but lingered by the giant’ side, stroking his tangled beard.

‘You did us a great favour today, Grimm. I won’t forget it, and neither will Prince Huburn. He has given permission for you to visit him as soon as you are able. I should think he has a sizeable reward to give unto Volaira’s saviour – probably a cartful of coin,’ the old wizard added, winking.

‘And then what?’

‘Well- Er…’ stammered Rolundin, a little perplexed. ‘I suppose I can try and send you off – er, with your loot of course – though I will need to consult a spellbook… I’m not quite sure how these things tend to end, you see.’

Grimm shook his head. ‘I can’t leave,’ he said.

‘But why-ever not? The beast is dead – or will be soon if your report of its wound is the truth of it – and the city is safe! What else…’

‘I told you already. You have a shade.’

‘We… have…?’ asked Rolundin, his brow furrowed.

Grimm’s stern face cracked into a smirk. ‘You don’t know what a shade is, do you, wizard?’

‘I am afraid I am rather hazy on cryptids and crawlies. I recall reading a book in my youth on the subject – Monstrosities of Skalmorun, by Edjar Harte – The cover was by far the most interesting aspect. A pair of Nixies nude in a lake – rather easy on the eyes. They were drowning a fellow, mind… Now, I’m a little old to be chasing maidens, but I can’t say I’d mind going out like that, I’ll admit.’

Grimm gave a sharp laugh. ‘Not entirely unlike a wizard,’ he said. He paused as Rolundin too laughed, and then began to explain in a darker, more severe tone. ‘A shade is a dark spirit. A vengeful ghost – but not a ghost.’ As Grimm spoke, the old man took a seat opposite him, and listened with an eager look. ‘They weren’t really people in life. Not whole people, anyway. Shades are spawned from black souls – souls that are suffering, or enraged, or tortured in some way, before the end. When their host dies, the shade is set free – to do what all angry spirits do: Wreak havoc. They crop up around battlefields most often. Places where men tend to die screaming. But even then, it’s rare. It takes a lot to spawn a shade. You might see twenty thousand men torn apart and still not catch a shade. That’s why I didn’t recognise yours. You don’t see them in places like this. You just don’t.’

‘Well, that is all very intriguing,’ said Rolundin, hopping to his feet. ‘But if I’m to understand you, you’re suggesting quite plainly that we shan’t see a reoccurrence! Wonderful news. I’m afraid I still don’t see why-’

‘Sit down,’ growled the giant. The wizard fell slowly back into his seat. ‘Shades are not living. They’re not even half-living. They can’t be killed. Do you see? Defeating a shade just sends it back to its host. It might be a week, it might be a day, but it will recover, and when it has – it’ll be back.’

The old man stared, agape, as Grimm slid from the desk and began to dress himself. It wasn’t until he was fiddling with the holes in his chainmail that the wizard did finally speak.

‘So we’ll need you again before long. You will stay, won’t you? You said you would.’

‘I will. I have to. For more reasons than a fix,’ he said, shooting the wizard a look of aggravation. ‘When you called for me, and I accepted, we entered into a binding contract. I can’t accept payment or leave until your problem – it being magic-based in nature – is dealt with. Breathe, wizard. You’re stuck with me for now.’

‘And this contract… Magic, is it?’

‘It is.’

‘What are the consequences for-’

‘For me? Not good.’

‘And what if you don’t receive payment? Is that part of the contract?’

‘No.’

‘No? So what happens then? Surely some must have refused to pay?’

‘Yep,’ answered Grimm. ‘They tend to end up dead.’

‘So the contract does-’

‘And I have to clean my sword a second time.’

The wizard’s brows shot upward. Under the giant’ stern glare, he shuffled uncomfortably in his seat.

‘You have never broken a contract?’ he asked, deflecting the topic of their conversation slightly.

Grimm looked down. ‘Once,’ he said. There was something in his tone which did not encourage further questions.

With a weary sigh, the old wizard returned to his feet. He tied the two ork-tooth fastenings of his robe, and then wagged his arms until his rolled-up sleeves fell far below his fingertips.

‘I am keeping you from vital work, I think,’ he said, with an air of finality. ‘Feel free to explore as you please. I must go and inform Prince Huburn of the lingering danger. A horrid endeavour. If there’s any man in Volaira who I would least like to bring foul news, it is most certainly the Prince.’

‘He has a temper, this Huburn?’

‘No. Not any moreso than you or I,’ said Rolundin. Grimm arched an eyebrow. The fury of a giant was a thing all who knew giants, knew to fear, or so he thought. ‘No, you misunderstand. It is not for that reason. I am not sure I am at liberty to… Hel, I am sure you’ll find out soon enough if you do mean to stay,’ added Rolundin, shrugging. ‘The royal family are cursed with rotten luck. It has taken but one short year for our Prince to go from the runt of a sizeable litter, to the last remnant of a dynasty. Tragic, truly. Delivering further tidings of misfortune to Prince Huburn is not a task that I am looking forward to.’

‘I see.’

‘Once I have spoken with him, I imagine he’ll desire to speak with you, most urgently. You will visit him won’t you?’

‘Sure. As good a place to start as any other.’

Grimm watched, still absently prodding the holes in his mail, as the old wizard gave a polite nod, and left. For a moment, he pondered the coming task – the shade whose host he must find, and the inevitably bloody battle that would follow – and as he did so his finger crept ever closer to his wound, through the missing rings and torn fabric of his shirt, until a sharp sting shook him free of his daydream.

Warm pain still throbbing within him like the drip-drip of a leaky tap, and with his joints hardening as though caked in sawdust and oil, he slid the shining red blade back into its sheath, and set off in the wizard’s footsteps.