While it was good to have a competent ally in the outer districts, the meeting with Bronco had done nothing to settle Illando's mind. He returned to the enforcer compound with his hackles still prickling and a sense of impotent anger swirling in his mind. There was something about this whole situation that made him feel sick, like the festering wrongness of the cult killings had begun to seep its way into him.

He wanted answers, and a body to nail them to.

In the command den his listened grimly to the reports from the outer districts where the extra wolfkin squads had been deployed. It was a show of force to support the watchguards, but right now it seemed he'd only confirmed what Bronco had told them just a few days ago.

"Your watchguard friend wasn't kidding," Farler rumbled, standing moodily with his arms folded. "I took a couple of trips out with some of the new squads. Kin out in the districts have got a real damned attitude problem these days."

"They attacked you?"

"Nothing quite that stupid," he said with a rueful shake of the head. "Some of the younger ones were tossing rocks and dirt, that kind of thing, but kin don't want to be near us. They don't speak. Reports were the same from all my teams. You walk down a street and every bloody door shuts in your face."

"And Gensher?"

"He confirmed it. He's done two full patrols in Gjornharr and Whaveloda, and he's heading out to Denneke tonight with Jaris's pack. So far it's been the same every time. It's like they're as afraid of us as they are of those cult mongrels out there."

"And any sign of those bloody cultists?"

His subordinate shrugged awkwardly. "A couple of close encounters, but it looks like our raid in Gjornharr set them on edge. They seem ready to scuttle whenever we get within sniffing distance of them. Found a few cleared out underground dens in some of the tunnel sections but that's about it."

Illando's eyes narrowed as he looked Farler up and down. The idea that the cultists could simply evade the wolfkin force that he'd deployed sent a tremor of anger up his spine, and he resisted the urge to rebuke the other enforcer. There should have been more to show for their efforts than some empty rooms and pawfuls of smoke.

Instead he swivelled in his seat like a turret and fixed his eyes on Noelle. The tech-breaker lounged by the door, a few sheets of printed barkpaper hanging loose in one paw. Sensing his gaze, and his mood, she straightened up expectantly.

"And how did you do?"

"Think I might have some better news for you," she replied, an impish twinkle in her eye.

Some of the tension wound out of Illando's muscles at that. "Thank the Peace'n'Fire. Did you find who printed those leaflets?"

"I haven't found the printer, not yet anyway," Noelle said. "But I might've found something better."

"And what would that be?"

"I was running a sniffer program through the howl-net, using some of the phrases. They're pretty weird, so I figured if anyone's been sending electronic copies I might be able to smoke 'em out."

"You're a sneak, girl," Farler chuckled. "So you got hits on whoever sent that stuff to be printed?"

"No, but I think I know where those robed freaks got their poetry from now." She raised the papers and shook them invitingly.

Illando's eyes lit up. "Where?"

"The Bonequill Archive." Noelle crossed the room and placed the bundle of barkpaper down in front of him.

"Bonequill?" His brown shot up in surprise. "What in the Fire have the bloody archivists got to do with this?

"Oh, no, nothing direct – I don't think," she said quickly. "But they've got a rare records section and some poor beasts are in the process of loading every scrap of it onto their shiny new computer rigs – some project to keep the older irreplaceable stuff safe from fires, vandals or whatever. I did a bit of digging around in there and I found a whole heap of those verses in their little treasure trove."

"So those pamphlets were copied from a history book in the archive?"

"Looks like it." Noelle shrugged. "They might not know what they're sitting on, but they're sitting on a lot of it. I think a little visit to the archive might be very... enlightening, don't you, boss?"

Illando nodded slowly, tapping one claw against his thigh as he considered the implications. The archivists at Bonequill were no amateurs, as devoted to their duty in gathering and protecting the history of Wildhearth as any single-minded cleric of the Great Peace. If anyone might know something about those pamphlets and the strange markings found at the murder sites, it was probably them.

"Keep the patrols running," he told Farler. "Forcing them to move should keep their operations disrupted while we get to the bottom of this, but tell the pack-leaders to sharpen themselves up. They should be able to catch up to a bunch of half-starved savages in their sleep.

"Agreed."

"Then what's the problem?"

Farler shifted his footing, his muzzle twitching uneasily. "Bronco said he didn't know who to trust. Maybe someone in the watchguards is tipping them off before we get close enough?"

"Fangs," Illando muttered, slapping a paw down on the table in annoyance. By the Fire how he hated these shadow games. Having to suspect half the damned city of being in league with the killers was trying what little patience he had left.

After a moment he looked Farler in the eye. "Tell the pack-leaders to randomise their patrols. If someone is watching them and tipping those scum off, they won't know where to start looking. And Farler?"

"Sir?"

"Your packs come back with empty paws again, they'll be answering to me. Understood?"

The enforcer's expression tightened uncomfortably and he nodded. "Understood."

"Good." Illando turned and pointed. "Noelle, you just booked yourself a trip to Bonequill."

The technician grinned. "Sounds good to me, boss. When do we leave?"

"Right now."

***

Bonequill wasn't the only archive in Wildhearth, but it was certainly the largest, and the most well-funded. You could see the Conclave tower from its north-western windows, the massive structure looming like a mountain a mere two avenues away. At certain hours of the day it would block out the sun.

That didn't bother the diligent archivists. Their haven rose up in the south-east quarter of the Silk. Clambering several stories above the sprawl of one of Wildhearth's universities, it was triangular in shape with flattened corners, its solid stone walls festooned with glittering windows and lights that seemed never to go out. Day and night, someone would be in there, copying, inscribing, translating and filing fresh scraps of Wildhearth's history.

Despite the circumstances that had brought him here, Illando couldn't deny his excitement at finally getting to see inside it. Noelle followed close behind, her eyes examining the place like she was sizing up a bank vault. Two crimson-clad members of Conclave security flanked the great circular slab of its main door on the north-facing side of the triangle – a rolling mass of armourglass in a hardened wood frame four meters in diameter. The construct could be rolled shut at a moment's notice, effectively sealing the archive off the from the outer world.

Some secrets were worth stealing.

The guards looked at them, straightening up at the sight of two armoured wolfkin approaching the building, but they quickly realised who they were dealing with and the otterkin on the right gave Illando a respectful nod as he stepped forward to greet him.

"Afternoon, sir," he said gruffly. "Do you have an appointment at the archive?"

"Yes."

"Can I take the name of the archivist?"

"Senior Archivist Deforre," Noelle answered, tapping the rolled up heap of barkpaper stuffed under one arm. "He's your resident in linguistics, eh?"

The guard smiled wryly. "I just work here." He stepped back, gesturing to the open door with one paw. "Go on in. Log your names at the reception desk and Archivist Deforre will be told you've arrived."

"Thanks," Illando grunted, inclining his head to the otterkin before he stepped by, passing through the massive curvature of the entrance and stepping into the Bonequill Archive's atrium.

"Wow," Noelle let out an impressed whistle. "Someone likes to make an entrance – literally."

Illando couldn't disagree. The atrium was a narrow, soaring space that must have risen the height of the whole building, despite being only fifty yards across. Illando let his head rock back for a moment as he looked up, noting the symmetrical placement of dozens of statues that climbed up either side of the grey, polished walls. A lattice of beams clustered together high above them, supporting massive skylight that cascaded light down upon them. Underpaw the floor was solid, fire-darkened wood, leading them to a desk that looked more like a battlement, with a quartet of clerks working busily behind it. Behind them doors filled the walls and he could see the large, plodding figures of the bearkin archivists that ran Bonequill.

He repeated the name of their contact to a sour-faced felkin clerk who quickly rang through the howl-net to confirm. With everything confirmed and in order, Illando and Noelle may as well have ceased to exist as the clerks went back to their work. No-one in the atrium so much as glanced at them, all engrossed in their own closely-guarded tasks. Being ignored was not a sensation Illando was terribly used to.

He paced awkwardly for what felt like several minutes, until eventually an iron-furred bearkin came lumbering from one of the doorways and made straight for them. The archivist was tall and built as solidly as the atrium itself, his heavy frame encased in a loose-fit robe of dark brown. A lazy smile crossed the bearkin's face as he reached them.

"Good afternoon," he said with a voice like gently rolling thunder. "You are the enforcer, Illando?"

"That's me." Illando gestured to his comrade. "This is Enforcer Noelle. We have some questions about your rare records."

"Yes, I know." Deforre's brow creased into a frown. "Had anyone else made such a request I would have politely declined. I assume this is important?"

"It relates to an ongoing investigation." He exchanged a glance with Noelle before continuing. "The murders in the outer districts."

The bearkin's brow rose again sharply. "What could that have to do with our archive?"

"We were hopin' you could tell us." Noelle sounded apologetic as she unfurled the roll of paper and pulled free one of the pamphlets they'd found at the cultist hideout. "Take a look, friend. We found a bunch of these little beauties with some ... suspects. I tracked them back here."

Deforre snatched the paper from her with surprising alacrity, holding the little pamphlet up to his narrow dark eyes. After a moment of examination he let out a snort of unease.

"I see," he muttered. "It is best we discuss this in private. Please follow me."

"Lead the way."

Deforre lapsed into silence, keeping his eyes forward as he stumped off towards the same door he'd entered the atrium from. Illando fell into step, Noelle alongside him, the knowledge that their trip had not been wasted making him both relieved and uneasy in equal measure. They followed Deforre through as series of vaulted passageways to an ornate-looking lift – all black furnishings and copper trim.

With a mechanised heave of effort the lift rose, dragging them upward and depositing them several levels higher. Deforre said nothing in that time, his face stern, eyes front, and he kept his silence as they stepped out onto the Bonequill Archive's upper floors. The two enforcers followed, twisting into the bowels of the building, away from windows to regions lit only by sizzling lamps of off-white hue. Other bearkin shuffled around up here, sparing curious glances at the outsiders, but saying nothing when they saw one of their own leading the way.

They entered a room that looked like a library to Illando, its walls crammed with bookcases that climbed to the ceiling. The small of paper and adhesive filled his nostrils, along with a faint hint of pipe leaf smoke. There were no actual desks, but several worn looking armchairs and smaller tables littered with books, reams of parchment and scribbled notes. In one corner a computer rig sat idly glimmering, its dark casing blending against the walls.

Only when the door closed behind them did their guide finally speak.

"It is not common knowledge what we have in our rare records," Deforre said as he trudged past them towards one of the chairs, waving the pamphlet in the air. "How did you know we possessed these pieces?"

"I can't be giving away trade secrets, I'm afraid," Noelle replied breezily. "At least not yet. Maybe when this is all said and done with, maybe you can book me in freelance to take a look at your encryption protocols. Security ain't what it used to be, you know."

"Quite." The archivist smirked. "Perhaps I will be in touch." Then he beckoned them forward. "I take it you have more to show me? The paper, please. Then make yourselves comfortable."

Noelle handed over the bundle and flopped herself down in one of the chairs, slinging one leg up onto the nearest table and lounging without a care in the world. Illando took a more sedate approach, lowering himself into the seat nearest Deforre and forcing himself to wait patiently as the archivist flicked through the pictures and drawings. Some of them were carefully cropped photos from the murder sites, while others Noelle had recreated by paw. It formed a collection of the bizarre script that they had yet to identify, together with a selection of pamphlets they'd 'borrowed' from the cultists.

"Very interesting," Deforre breathed, barely loud enough for even Illando's sharp ears to pick it up.

"Does all that mean something to you?"

"I believe it does." Deforre leaned back in his seat, fixing Illando with searching gaze. "Where did you find these pamphlets?"

"In the paws of possible suspects," he replied vaguely. "Why?"

"They are extremely rare works. The only known copies of such texts in the south are in this very building."

"What are they?"

Deforre's frown deepened. He placed the pamphlets down on his desk, clasping his big paws together in front of him.

"Accordin' to your rare records collectors," Noelle chimed into the ensuing silence. "They're called Kendris Verses, eh? What does that mean?"

"You're very thorough." The bearkin shot her a wary look before continuing. "Yes, these are the Kendris Verses – one of our most complete collections of writing from the time of the Savage Fire."

Illando could feel his hackles rising with unease. "Who – or what – is Kendris?"

"According to what little information we have from that period, Kendris was a hynakin warlord."

"Hynakin?"

"A breed long extinct I'm afraid." Deforre sounded genuinely disappointed, as though he'd been robbed of a crucial piece of a puzzle. "Kendris was one of the leaders of a reaction against the Peace. As you can see from the verses, they hold a common theme, railing against technology and unnatural constraining of our savage urges. These... writings were taught to his followers, not unlike the teaching of the Great Peace from our own clerics, but with a rather different intent."

"What happened to him?"

"I cannot say with complete certainty," Deforre admitted. "But after the wars Kendris and his kind instigated, the hynakin were hunted down and wiped out – considered too great a threat to the Great Peace to be left alive. As far as we know, Kendris was killed in that purge. An episode our erstwhile clerics would rather forget, but also one that made the founding of Wildhearth and her sister cities possible. Kendris and the Hynakin would never have accepted... this." He made a vague gesture to their surroundings.

"Perhaps you can explain how some under-city thugs were found with copies of these?" Illando asked. The bloody revelation of how the clerics had cemented their hold on the continent did not surprise him. Any rise to power left bodies in its wake, no matter who ended up at the top.

"I cannot." The archivist shrugged apologetically. "The originals are secure in our rare records vault under lock and key. That room is guarded day and night. However, if they have someone as resourceful as your friend here, perhaps they were able to copy them from the archive's digital repository?"

Noelle nodded thoughtfully. "Could be done. Though you'd need someone with some damn fine skills and access to Conclave overrides to bypass the archive systems." She winked at Deforre. "Don't feel too bad, friend. Your system's a good one. I just have a few tricks most folk don't get to see."

"How reassuring," he grunted, rising up out of his chair. "However they managed to source these writings, I do not think it should be your main concern."

Illando's brows rose. "No?"

"The other markings you found," Deforre rumbled uneasily as he ambled over to one of the book cases. "Are more worrying."

"And why is that?"

"It is a dialect that was supposed to have died with the hynakin warlords, belonging to a group that followed Kendris's teachings more fervently than any other." The bearkin ran a gentle claw along the spines of the books, examining them closely as he moved, hunting for something specific.

"Which group?" Illando asked.

"They were known as the cult of the Savage Fire," Deforre replied without looking round.

"Sound like a fun bunch," Noelle muttered.

"Quite." The archivist tugged an immense tome from his shelves, blowing dust from its cured-leaf cover. Thin spindles of wood reinforced the spine and cover edges and Deforre turned, gently easing the book open with the care of an expert.

His large paws moved with impressive deftness as he turned through the crinkled, yellowing pages. When he found what he was looking for, he turned the book around so that the enforcers could see a double page spread. The book was written free-paw, inscribed elegantly in black ink, and the symbols on those pages were almost identical to the ones they'd discovered in Wildhearth's tunnels.

"I believe these match the symbols you discovered?" Deforre asked.

Illando nodded, a sick feeling rising in his gut. "They were painted on the walls at the site of each murder."

"In the victim's blood, I suspect?"

"Now, how would a booker like you know that?" Noelle asked, cocking her head to one side as she regarded the archivist.

"The Savage Fire cult were devout followers of Kendris who practised, among other things, blood sacrifices."

"Fangs, what for?!"

"To prove their devotion. They were zealots, believers that the fighting and killing that almost destroyed this continent was the natural order of things." Deforre's expression darkened and Illando saw the big bearkin's muzzle curl briefly to flash his canines. For a student of history and rationality, the ideology of the cult must have been complete anathema. "My concern is that we have no digital records of these markings," he continued. "At least not yet. Whoever painted these did not get the knowledge from us. This book is the only copy I have that actually contains the full list of symbols."

"So whoever painted them had to already have known them?"

"It seems that way." The bearkin shrugged. "I know of nowhere else in Wildhearth you could learn such things. I must stress that neither of the things you have shown me today are common knowledge outside the walls of Bonequill."

"Peace, so we got the bad poetry and these paintings," Noelle said, looking from Illando to Deforre. "That's more of a coincidence than I'm gonna ignore."

Illando nodded his agreement. "It all fits." Even as the words left his mouth he could feel his brain reacting against the conclusion. Desperate kin doing bad things to survive, that he could wrap his mind around, but this was straying too far into the realm of myths and nightmare tales, stories told to hush up cubs before bedtime.

But the evidence was staring him in the face. Someone in Wildhearth had taken it upon themselves to try to finish what Kendris and the hynakin warlords had started uncounted centuries before.

Deforre closed the book, his face grim.

"It would seem," the bearkin said, "that the cult of the Savage Fire is not as dead as we would like to believe."