113

You descend the slick, slime-covered stairs, fading from the light of the flood lamps into the tunnels you arrived through. As your eyes adjust to the dark, you notice a robed figure lying in wait with their back turned to you, nearly indistinguishable from the shadows. The clamor of combat ringing through the tunnel above masks the sound of your footsteps as you approach.

The robed figure remains still. So still in fact that you begin to doubt your senses. If you didn't know any better, you'd think there wasn't even a person beneath the fabric….

A familiar voice whispers from the dark: "I admire your restraint." You blink in surprise—the voice came from the nothingness, certainly not from hanging robe. Kashif Salik appears from the shadows several feet away from his decoy.

"Kashif?" you stutter. "What are you doing back here?"

His eyes feel like they're boring a hole into your soul, and you take a step back. "The Sheriff believes that he has outsmarted his quarry, but I know better. The Usurpers are a wily foe—otherwise they would not have avoided the Children of Haqim's judgment for so many centuries."

"You think they'll come from the flank while we're distracted?"

The vizier nods gravely. "It is spectacle. Our mercenaries fighting one another. You see it as well as I; that is why you are here."

A mist springs up from your feet, slowly creeping up to your ankles and then your chest. In a matter of seconds the two of you are surrounded by a thick, wet fog. You look to Kashif questioningly.

He pulls a curved, obsidian dagger from the sleeve of his robe and speaks to it in a language you don't understand. When he finally returns your gaze, his eyes have gone dark. "They arrive. Prepare yourself."

The Warlocks are hoping to confuse and bombard you with sorcery as you cower in their conjured fog, but you won't give them the satisfaction or the opportunity. Kashif moves in lock-step beside you, radiating righteous fury as you barrel into the fog together. Shots ring out through the mist and you hear Kashif grunt as a bullet hits him in the chest, but he keeps moving forward, teeth set in grim determination. Now that the enemy has given away their position, the fog has lost much of its power.

Kashif howls a terrifying war cry as the two of you burst through the gloom and nearly collide with two darkly dressed men aiming rifles directly at you. They fire, the muzzle flares strobing through the mist, echoes rebounding from the walls in a deafening clamor. You feel two bullets thud into your left arm and chest, but you push through the pain, bringing your right fist down on your attacker's head with supernatural strength. He drops his weapon and reels back—momentarily dazed—but recovers quickly. As you move in to press the advantage, he draws a knife from his belt and licks his lips nervously, sparing a glance for his partner as Kashif fillets him with his obsidian dagger.

You dart forward, attempting to duck beneath the knife, but your assailant reads your intentions and redirects the blade, slicing deeply into your shoulder. You stagger and he presses his advantage, driving the weapon further into your flesh as he murmurs an incantation. Suddenly, your Blood feels like it's on fire and unbelievable pain courses through your veins to every extremity of your body. You drop to the floor, limbs spasming as you desperately try to crawl away, filthy grit biting into your hands and tearing at your fingernails. Just when you expect the killing blow to fall, you hear a scuffle followed by a grunt of pain. Immediately the agony is gone, chased away by a dull numbness. You get to your feet on wobbly legs, blurred vision slowly focusing on Kashif standing over your attacker, hacking at his neck until the head falls lazily to the side, eventually coming to rest in a small channel at the edge of the sewer tunnel.

Kashif looks up at you, rising from his crouch as the fog dissipates. His eyes are dark and haunted. "Justice has been served, Mekuztli. You did well."

Kashif scoffs at your words. "These Tremere have threatened me with destruction since the moment I arrived in this forsaken land of ice and snow. Do not mourn them; they are not worthy of your compassion." He wipes his dagger's glittering black blade on the fallen Warlock's coat and brings it to his lips, whispering to it. He looks back to you and rises to his feet. "Come. We must rejoin the others."

Next

You follow Kashif up the sludge-eroded steps toward the main concourse, keeping a close eye on your surroundings lest another pair of ambushers try to get the better of you. The silence is nearly deafening—your ears are ringing after several minutes of sustained exposure to gunfire in a tightly enclosed environment. If you were mortal, you might have been worried about permanent hearing loss.

"Dead," Kashif says, barely audible. "They're almost all dead."

It takes a moment to focus on the larger picture—the Tremere who resisted the Hunt have met final death. You can count at least five of them, bodies standing apart from those of the mortals by their advanced state of decay. None of the mercenaries left in the room are alive.

Uuntezazk pulls at your pant leg and scurries up into your pocket. "Fighting done?" he asks. You pet him reassuringly.

Jordan stands alone atop the platform where the Warlock leader had stood. "Two of them ran away," she shouts. "Qui and Lucca went after them. Bouchard's wounded. Had to retreat with one of his underlings." She waves you on. "Come on, we have to catch up!"