Chapter 11: A Beast in the Mist

Their number was seven now, though three of them were still recovering from being poisoned. Their leader felt a strange peace inside himself, like the demon was content. It seemed that being completely honest with himself was the way to reach harmony with the forest spirit inside of him. With his inner world in a state of tranquility, Sherlock found a new clarity of thought that made applying himself to the task of leading his people much easier.

The small group made their way back south to Holmes Castle, where they could all be assured of a certain amount of security while they amassed resources to fight a war. Mycroft revealed to them the existence of a room which Molly had never seen when she had first been there. At the center of this large room was a circular table surrounded by seven chairs with runes carved in their backs. The one directly facing the door was particularly ornate and it was not at all hard to guess who it was for, especially given Sherlock's initial discomfort regarding the room. This was clearly the meeting place of the Order of Diogenes.

Without any prompting, they one by one took their places at the table, as if they each knew exactly where they belonged. Anthea remained at Mycroft's side, leaving the last chair unoccupied.

"The beast master's seat is empty," Sherlock commented when he sat back to take in the sight before him.

"Then we must fill it," Mycroft answered and his brother raised an eyebrow at him in skepticism. "There are still a few of them out there. We can find them easily enough."

"And who among us do you propose should look for beast masters?" Sherlock did not sound at all convinced, much to Mycroft's annoyance, though this was how they usually behaved to one another.

"Obviously you must personally offer the position to a candidate, so you will go. With you, I suggest you take Molly and Anthea. Molly's presence will make you more diplomatic and Anthea has power enough now as a seer to guide you in your search."

"Why not come yourself?"

"I'm far more useful here. There is scrying to be done and traveling with you is not conducive to accurate work, if indeed any got done at all," Mycroft explained. He was right of course, but that did not mean that Sherlock was entirely happy about it. Still, he complied.

"Very well. What say the rest of you?" The crown prince opened the floor to the others, a sign that he was learning how to be a proper ruler.

"I will go with you," Molly agreed, entwining her fingers with his. He looked to Anthea, who gave a silent nod.

"Who will be in charge here while you're gone?" John asked, frowning slightly.

"The chain of command falls to you, John, as my Storm Captain. Which reminds me, I need to knight you. Come with me." Sherlock abruptly got up from his seat, beckoning to his best friend, who appeared to be more than a little surprised. The prince walked briskly from the room and the others all followed, some more confused than others. He led them to a long room with a high ceiling. Black banners bearing the Holmes crest lined the walls and at one end there sat what was unmistakably a throne.

The Throne of the Old Ways was intricately carved from a dark wood which, despite its many years of use and disuse, looked as if it had been made that very morning. Dark branches wove together to form the arms and legs of it. Adorned upon the back of the seat was a pair of enormous black feather wings not unlike Sherlock's own. The crown prince went to stand before it, turning to face his friends in the most regal manner he had ever dared to affect.

"Come forward, John," he instructed and the blond obeyed. Sherlock prompted him to kneel down and he did so, albeit somewhat apprehensively. That was understandable given his lack of experience with the Old Ways. "You have earned the trust of this house and displayed valor in battle. You hold the respect of your commanders, peers, and subordinates. I therefore extend to you an honour which has been passed from wizard to wizard since the dawn of the last age. Do you accept it?"

"I do."

"Do you swear your loyalty unto this house for as long as the Fire of Life burns inside you?"

"I swear."

"Then by the power invested in me as the crown prince, I proclaim thee Captain of the Storm Guard and Defender of the Old Ways. Arise, Sir John." The man got to his feet and Sherlock pressed his right hand over the new captain's heart. Blue arcs of lightning danced over John's body, coaxing forth beautiful golden markings on his skin. It was a dazzling sight to behold. The knight drew in a deep breath, his eyes going wide as if some overwhelming sensation had come over him.

"Lady Lotus, I have a task for you," Sherlock addressed Soo Lin when he stepped away from John.

"Yes?"

"I'd like you to forge for John a suit of armor and a sword to mark his new status," Sherlock instructed and Soo Lin's dark eyes lit up with the prospect of a challenge.

"Consider it done," she told him.

"All of you are to follow his lead in my and Molly's absence and we shall be leaving quite soon, I should think. Anthea, you have an hour to pack provisions for yourself." With that, Sherlock swept from the throne room, Molly at his side. There was no time to be wasted. His ravens had already whispered to him that Moriarty had rallied every sorcerer in the land willing to fight under his banner with promises of vengeance for every drop of magic blood spilt by the House of Lestrade and the beginning of an Age of Sorcery. Moriarty had at his command not just sorcerers, but dragons, and there was even a rumor of a necromancer. The king's forces stood little chance against that kind of power. Moriarty would attack Capital City soon and was probably on the march already. It frustrated Sherlock to think that the king was beyond his help at this point.

"We'll find our beast master, I'm sure. We are using every resource we can," Molly soothed, slipping her hand into his. He said nothing in return and simply pushed is way into his study. They gathered supplies for their journey and met with Anthea in the stables, mounting their horses and heading for the young seer's first guess at a location of a beast master.

A week passed and everyone at Holmes Castle spent it doing nothing but making preparations, sending and receiving messages, and giving shelter to wizard folk seeking refuge from the slaughter of their people by witch hunters and other non-magic people loyal to the Council. Mary found herself feeling quite overworked in trying to keep everyone calm and focused with her music. Her people were afraid, so afraid, even the ones who kept up the appearance of serenity. She saw the untouched plates of food and heard the forced laughter as she sat in the corner of the grand dining hall and tried to think up the last few lines of a new song that would brighten the atmosphere.

If she was honest, Mary was rather anxious herself, but she was one of the ones who put on a brave face. She did it for those who could not, for those who trembled in their boots and struggled to tell their children why they couldn't go home. She sang her song for them and filled their hearts with promises and hope, even though she had no idea what would become of them. Her voice carried through the hall and she felt better for seeing shoulders relax and bouncing legs still. When her song was done, a little girl, the daughter of a wizard from the north, came up to her shyly, worrying the hem of her own sleeve.

"Is it true that the Raven Prince is going to save us?" she asked and Mary smiled.

"Few things of such importance are certain, little one, but Prince Sherlock is brave and strong and he will defend us 'til his life fire goes out."

"Is it true that he slayed a dragon?"

"It is. Sit here with me and I'll tell you the story." The little girl crawled onto Mary's lap, eager to hear the tale. The woman cleared her throat and began to sing.

Hearken now to a frightful tale,

Of a dragon and of a man,

A wizard slewing a great beast,

With naught but his sword in his hand.

Now Jeffer the Dragon was mean,

Full of greed and wrath and such hate,

That he came down upon Brunton,

And dealt its people a fiery fate.

The king swore vengeance for this deed,

And sent forth the cleverest knight,

A man who walks in the shadows,

And did not fear this wyrm to fight.

Prince Sherlock of Holmes was his name,

And with him his soulmate he took,

Molly Healer this lass was called,

And for the dragon they did look.

They found him in a mountain cave,

Sleeping upon his golden hoard,

Their presence woke him from slumber,

And in his fierce anger he roared.

Standing proud before the monster,

Sherlock drew his powerful blade,

Brave was the great Raven Prince,

Heeding no threat the dragon made.

The pair clashed like the kings of old,

For near equal were blade and claw,

Their stalemate ended with Molly,

Throwing acid in the beast's maw.

Sly Sherlock saw his chance to kill,

And thrust his sword into the heart,

Where the foul dragon's fire did live,

And dark corruption played a part.

Thus was slain that terrible wyrm,

Who fell down dead at Sherlock's feet,

The victors he and Molly were,

The hoard theirs and the task complete.

A look of awe came upon the child's face as Mary sang and the bard's smile broadened at the sight of it. When the ballad was done, she politely waited for the little girl to respond.

"Wow..." the child gasped. "I wish I was that strong."

"Oh, you are. You just haven't discovered it yet," Mary encouraged and the girl beamed until her father called her and she scampered away.

"You're very gifted," a familiar voice spoke up and Mary looked over to see Sir John standing nearby. "You give hope to those who have lost theirs." The bard blushed at this.

"You make it sound as if I manufacture the feeling for them, when in truth, I merely nurse what little they have."

"It's still impressive. Here you've sat tirelessly, seeing to the wellbeing of others, without a thought for yourself."

"I still say you give me too much credit, sir," Mary insisted, smiling at the handsome knight.

"Call me John. Please." She could see then that this man was rather taken with her and her smile broadened into a grin.

"Very well, John. You may call me Mary." She offered him her hand to shake, not expecting what happened when he took it. Their skin markings appeared, his golden and hers scarlet, meeting perfectly at each of their points of contact. "Oh," the bard gasped.

"It seems we have a lot to talk about."

"Indeed."

Fortune did not appear to be in their favour. A week and a half had passed and yet they had found no tangible sign of a living beast master. They had come upon the grave of one, but there was no record of his descendants. Molly saw how frustrated it made Sherlock with each passing day. She did her best to soothe him, but she knew he felt a pressure that would never fully go away. In accepting his position as heir to the throne, he had accepted all the responsibilities that entailed. The fate of their people was on his princely shoulders and the role of leader was not one that came to him naturally. She never felt such profound respect for him as when he sought her council and trusted it. That more than anything showed her how far he had come and how ready he was wear the mantle of leadership. She believed that a leader who was always completely confident in their own judgement and did not feel the need to listen to the thoughts of others was no friend to their people.

"Our time is running out. You're assurances that we will find what we're looking for are becoming meaningless, Molly. What will we do if this is all for naught? Have you thought of that?" Sherlock snapped at her one night as he paced in front of the campfire. She maintained her calm as she looked back at him and replied.

"If that happens, then we'll go home and do our very best in the face of this war, to our deaths if we must." The light of determination was in her eyes and Sherlock must have seen it, because it affected him.

"You're right," he said simply, much of his restlessness and irritation fading. He sat himself down beside Molly with a resigned sigh. "You are far better suited for this than I am, Molly."

"Perhaps that's why I'm your soulmate," the healer teased, leaning her head on his shoulder, and he let out a small laugh, putting an arm around her.

"Perhaps."

"My lord," Anthea called and the pair looked over to see the young seer with a pigeon perched on her shoulder.

"What news?"

"There is a hollow in a moor south of here. I'm told the animals there behave unusually," Anthea reported and Sherlock's face lit up.

"Then we shall go there at first light." Having a direction at long last brought new life to Sherlock and seeing that delighted Molly.

As the sun rose, Sherlock, Molly, and Anthea gathered up their things and headed south to open land and rolling hills. Sherlock wasn't fond of such places. There was little to see and there were no trees to provide perch for birds or shelter to any manner of creature, human or otherwise. The wind was not gentle and it often battered them mercilessly, but he endured it knowing that there might be a beast master at the end of the journey. Molly's constant presence was also helpful. Her tranquil, confident nature gave him strength, for which he was grateful. He could admit to himself now that he loved her and he didn't know where he'd be without her. Admitting it to her and the rest of the world was a different matter. He had taken the first steps toward the former and that had led them to an understanding, one that allowed him to show Molly his affection in unspoken ways. His favourite thing was how she would come into his tent and crawl under his blanket at night to curl up with him and fall asleep with her hand in his. It made the days less dreary and allowed him to sleep better than he otherwise would.

Anthea was more than proving her skill in leading them to the hollow she had spoken of. She organized her pigeons well and used them to scry when they stopped for the night. Sherlock made a note to himself to tell his brother that the young woman was perfectly ready to leave her apprenticeship. Mycroft wouldn't release her without a bit of prodding, he suspected. Anthea never spoke of it, but it was clear that there was something between her and her master, some sort of affection that went beyond professional respect. Sherlock somewhat envied their ability to function whilst denying their feelings until he felt Molly's touch and he was reminded of what advantage there was in accepting these emotions, especially when it came to the creature inside him.

The demon stirred when they approached the hollow and their horses suddenly stopped and would not move another inch. There was a definite magic about the place. It was in the very fog that swirled around them.

"We'll have to go on foot from here. Our horses are in the power of whomever resides on this land," Sherlock announced, climbing down from his steed. The women followed suit and they cautiously proceeded. The fog grew thicker as they climbed down into the hollow and Sherlock reached out to grasp Molly's hand in his own while Anthea rested her hand firmly on the healer's shoulder. It would not do for them to lose each other.

A distant, deep growl sounded from every direction. It almost seemed to be within their very minds. Each of them tensed, but especially Sherlock, who was feeling more and more out of sorts from the sensory deprivation enforced by the dense fog. The growl resonated again, much closer this time, and Molly drew in a sharp breath.

"What is that? Where is it coming from?" she inquired anxiously. The Raven's Will squirmed inside Sherlock, not with a desire to be free, but with something he could only describe as excitement. It was uncomfortable, to say the least. The growl came again and it felt as if it were right between his ears. Sporadic spasms shot through his body and he gritted his teeth, his eyes becoming catlike and his canines elongating briefly. "Sherlock! Are you alright?" Molly gasped.

"There's another demon here," he responded grimly. Before anything more could be said, the three of them were knocked to ground and suddenly there was someone on top of Sherlock, attacking him. He saw fierce, red orange eyes, sharp teeth, and skin marked with red orange light. He knew he would die if he remained prone like this and so for the very first time, he willed his demon to come forth.

Transforming did not hurt as much as he expected it to this time as he grabbed the shoulders of his attacker and pushed back. The strength came to him immediately and soon he was on equal footing with his adversary. He could see better through the mist and there was indeed a man possessed by a forest spirit before him, the Wolf's Wrath, according to the little voice whispering in his ear, which also told him that this creature was an ally and should not be harmed. Unfortunately, the rage of this demon was making things difficult. He considered knocking him out, but he didn't have to go through with it. Molly's hand reached out from the mist to touch the Wolf's Wrath and pet his hair in a soothing gesture. Instantly, the demon calmed and stopped struggling with Sherlock.

The haze slowly cleared, revealing Sherlock and another young man standing there, breathing heavily, locked in a wrestling grappling with each other. The prince stepped back when the stranger let go of him and watched in astonishment as Molly's tranquilizing touch caused the man's demonic features to recede. What was left was a shaking, terrified young wizard. Molly pulled him into a comforting embrace, wisps of green light flowing around her hand as she rubbed the young man's back and whispered to him. Sherlock was suddenly filled with admiration and affection for her. She was truly amazing at her craft, to be able to calm a demon with her mere touch.

"What's your name?" Sherlock asked quietly after reigning in his own demon. The young man looked up at him from over Molly's shoulder nervously.

"H-Henry. M-My name's Henry."