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Book 1 Chapter 25

INTERLUDE 2D: NOT LIGHTLESS

“There are aspects of life which cannot even be discussed with those to whom a deontology of suffering has become the measure of existence. I cannot even comprehend the words they speak, for in their schema the very definition of transformation moves into one of stasis. They are unknowing adepts of Lord Tyranny, seeking after the deadworld beyond life and all meaningful suffering, the expunging of all conscious experience. Of course if one is swallowed by Lord Sorrow and his teachings one will see only sorrow wherever one looks. Even when one smiles in joy one will afterwards think it ever bittersweet.”

– taken verbatim from ‘The Maiden’s Way’ recordings, Ismethara 945 NE

She stood at the rail on the prow of the Dremmedine, the sea breeze in her hair; she’d tried to tie it back but as usual half of it had come free, and she hadn’t the heart to have another go at it. She could smell the salt, hear the soft flapping of the rigging in the wind, the waves breaking against the hull of the ship in time with the gentle motion that rocked her, rocked everything, the constant motion that’d once made her nauseated to which she’d become so accustomed.

But she could also smell the smoke, hear the shrill wails of the dying carried on the wind. The armies of hell falling upon the weak, the defenceless. And that unearthly ringing – the Bells that spoke of Mourning, as Illodin’s Lay of Memory went.

Gong! Gong! Gong!

The Dremmedine was anchored at one of Salnifast’s hundreds of docks – the marble-built harbour-town was bigger than most cities she’d seen, and was located a few miles downriver from Mund. Even from here, she could smell the destruction, hear the devastation of it all. The far-off walls of the actual city, gleaming in the night brighter than the marble stones of Salnifast, were themselves tall enough that, even at this distance, she couldn’t have easily pinched them between her thumb and forefinger with her hand held up to her face. Mund must’ve been huge.

It didn’t look so far off. She’d seen the shallow barges going upriver often-enough, oarsmen with their backs bent against the flow of the Greywater despite the wizard-wind in the sail. She could jump aboard one, or, if they were unwilling during an Incursion, even force them to take her…

It went against all her instincts to stay where she was. Derezo, an old friend who’d actually grown up in Mund, had told her more than once what Incursions were like. Her fingers had to be white upon the rail beneath her thick woollen gloves. She would’ve rather gripped her mace and shield, felt the sway of the waves of combat as she brought the light of her goddess down upon the demons. She’d only encountered a fiend once before in her entire life, and the confrontation had gone in her favour quickly – Phanar had just raised an eyebrow and left it at that, but the unspoken praise had almost made her feel giddy. Even remembering it now she re-experienced some of the same sensation. They’d all grown, as people – as ‘heroes’, even – since the catastrophe of Miserdell, but Phanar had grown the most. He was their leader, and she respected him – loved him. She’d have taken any opportunity to impress him.

The clergy rarely got a chance to show-off in combat. Derezo had never mentioned it – perhaps he simply didn’t know – but word from one of the sailors was that the Temple of Compassion in Mund fostered a Sisterhood of the Maiden who were warrior-priestesses. Evidently these ‘Infernal Incursions’ were common-enough in the city that even the pacifists had developed their own fighting-culture. She would’ve loved to have had the chance to meet one of them, share notes. Until they’d come to Mund, she’d thought herself the only follower of Wythyldwyn to take up the path of the battle-cleric.

Yet she knew she couldn’t set foot ashore. The words of the seeress were clear on that much, at least.

Meeting the child-prophetess of Kultemeren at the shrine in Tirremuir had been a singularly frightening experience. A little five- or six-year-old girl in a simple smock, raven hair cropped at the nape of the neck, shadowed by a cadre of black-armoured guardians who stopped at a flick of the child’s fingers. The seeress approached her while she was talking to the high priest, and ruined more than just her day with a few simple sentences.

A voice so morose and detached should never have emanated from such a small child.

Wherefore shall the daughter of Wythyldwyn forsake our sands for outland soil? Forsaken shall she be, broken by toil! Into the wyrm’s maw stretch her footprints in the sand; if farther, it be beyond the Judge’s hand.”

The implications were pretty clear, now that the Bells had started ringing.

If I go to help, I’m going to end up dead, somehow.

And if I don’t die here, I’m going to die somewhere in the Chakoban Mountains, devoured by Ord Ylon.

At least a dragon can’t destroy your soul…

It was small comfort. But perhaps she’d have chance, before her final moments, to ensure the ultimate victory of her friends. Prophecies were tricky that way.

Their lives, measured against the lives of those who die in Mund tonight?

But that isn’t the right calculation, is it? If Ord Ylon isn’t stopped, who’s to say how many more Miserdells will happen before someone else steps up to put an end to him?

She shivered, remembering his voice echoing through the walls of the building in which she’d been trapped as he drove his packs of dire wolves through the streets. The tumult as he’d thrown down the Tower of the Sword and rent the Cathedral of Chraunator into rubble.

She was sure she’d rather take a hundred of these Incursions over seeing something like that again.

Letting loose a sigh, she closed her eyes, turned her face from the wind, and, as she’d been taught, sought the place in her heart where there was only the mirror of self-reflection. She sat in the seat before the mirror, and it was more an upright pool of water than any glass or metal polished by hand of man; it was hard to see at first, but it rippled, and these ripples moved across the surface of the pool in pace with the speed of her thoughts.

She had the prophecy squatting upon her shoulders, whispering to her of the imminence of her own demise, and the end of her time on this plane.

I accept it.

The ripples across the surface diminished.

She had the Infernal Incursion ringing in her ears, reminding her of the day everybody died. The day they all went away, never to return.

I will see them again.

The pool was almost still.

Soon I will be as nothing, pure air, and my soul be emptied of its earthly troubles. The grace of the goddess will give me the strength to endure this night.

She had the teeth of Ord Ylon closing about her. In the darkness of his mouth there was only the fumes, and the chasm that took her into the deep pits of acid, bubbling matter dragging her blistered body under the surface with its fierce, churning currents, consuming her screams along with all the rest.

I… I…

The ripples didn’t stop – they only grew, and she could imagine her doom, imagine the agony that awaited her, the grinning, sword-toothed face of the Ord –

She was not nothing – it was Kanthyre standing there gripping the rail at the prow, Kanthyre whose troubles bound her spirit tight.

How could the Maiden take me up, offer me surety, safety, when I put myself in the noose and kick away the stool?

Kanthyre was alone.

She released the rail at last, then opened her eyes, looking down at the palm of her right hand.

She willed the light to come, and it did, as it had every time since Miserdell fell, suffusing her flesh as though her skin were glass trapping a living star.

But it was dim star, this time, even when she removed the warm glove that had never been an impediment before. The radiance was off, sickly, casting too many shadows. Her gift was beginning to fail her.

“You are okay?”

Phanar had approached across the deck with a quiet ease more befitting a panther than a man, yet when he spoke from her side it wasn’t startling – his voice was soft, his concern obvious.

She let out another sigh, but this time it was half a self-mocking laugh.

“I’m just… giving up, I suppose,” she replied.

She wouldn’t, couldn’t, meet his eyes. She put her hand back down, letting the star fade to darkness, and gripped the rail once more.

It felt better, gripping the rough wood without the glove on. It felt real.

This rail in my hand – will it be one of my last real memories? Will I die remembering this moment, the time when I faced my destiny and let it destroy me?

“It’s not over yet,” Phanar said, the calming effect of his voice already working on her. “If I were Ord Ylon, I would be frightened. You and Ibbalat. My sister and I. Redgate and the Night’s Guardians. We will not easily be defeated.”

He moved closer to her as he spoke. Even here in the safety of the Salnifast harbour he was clad in his heavy gambeson – the long, padded black jacket he wore beneath his armour – just as he kept his scabbarded sword strapped to his belt. The heat of his body seemed to radiate out of him, and as his arm brushed hers she felt the heat turn to electric, reawakening her hidden longings.

His long dark hair blew in the wind, mingling with her horrible ginger locks – his scent came upon her, and for a moment she dreamt that she could smell the spice-pits of the Ashen Lands; the mists upon the Black River of N’Lem; the moss upon the ruins of Chadoath…

If he kissed me now, I would even let him, she realised with a breathless panic. Forsake my vows of piety and chastity, let him crush me in his arms against the rail…

She trembled, and moved her arm away.

“I… I think…”

“This reminds you of what happened at Miserdell?”

She nodded, biting her lip before she could help herself.

“And I also,” he said; for the first time in a long time she heard a trace of the burden he had to bear, there in his voice. “Yet this, as all darknesses, shall pass. Whether we are there to see it or not.”

She was loath to interrupt him while he mused like this, looking out over the stone walls of the harbour, the endless stampede of the Mundic Sea, the barely-stirring, smoke-choked sky. She could’ve stayed like this with him forever.

But she had to. She felt the moment upon her. If she didn’t open up to him now, she would carry this weight around her neck like an anchor across the oceans, only to bury herself in a sandy grave.

“It’s the prophecy.”

It was easier, as soon as she’d said the words – it was as though she’d dammed it up inside herself, and now upon the removal of that central key-stone, that word, ‘prophecy’, she’d unleashed the pent-up flood.

“The one from Tirremuir.”

There’d been a few – but none of the other prophecies were like this one.

She nodded. “It’s got me, Phanar. I’m trapped. I want to go up there –“ she nodded towards the city-walls in the foothills “– but I’ll die if I do. And I’ll die if I don’t.”

“Or you won’t. No prophet ever saw everything. We must take each day as it comes. If you want to go into Mund, I will come with you. You will not die.”

His gentle confidence was compelling, but she’d already made up her mind to believe the seeress – and…

“You said it yourself – whether we are there to see it or not. You don’t really think we’ll survive this, do you?”

He didn’t reply at first; when he did, his voice was even quieter.

“Do you really think we won’t? Kani…” He took her gloveless hand suddenly, held it fast. “Kanthyre, you must have faith! You… you taught me that.”

They met one another’s eyes.

The wind seemed to sweep them together –

Would he kiss me?

But he turned his face aside, even as she did the same; if she saw bitterness in his expression, she knew it would only be as a mirror for her own.

He folded her into an embrace instead, and it was good. It was a thing she needed without knowing it and now that she had it she didn’t want it to end.

“In any case,” Phanar said, his head slightly above and to the side of her own, “she told you that you might survive, beyond the Judge’s hand. That is the biggest loophole I have ever heard. I would personally be very surprised if you got killed in Chakobar. It’s the rest of us who will be having to watch our backs, trust me.”

“I’ll watch your back,” she said, smiling to herself, “always.”

He seemed to just accept that at face value, and did not reply.

After some time, she murmured, “What would that even mean, anyway? ‘Beyond the Judge’s hand’? What’s beyond Kultemeren?”

The tension was melting out of her minute by minute and she knew it.

Phanar didn’t attempt to relinquish the embrace for quite some time, and they spoke together softly all the while. When his sister poked her head around the edge of the door that led below-deck and started staring at them, one eyebrow expertly raised, they finally parted. Anathta invited them both for a game of cards, but the girl already knew Kanthyre would refuse; the cleric said an awkward “see you” to Phanar who acknowledged with a single, deep nod of his head

She didn’t know quite what had done it, she reflected once he was gone, as she lifted up her hand that shone as bright as it ever had, marvelling even after so many times at the beauty of the blessing she held.

Was it the reassurance? That I’m not alone – that they have as much reason to fear as I? Was it just that we’re all in it together?

Or was it the embrace?

Was it the hair mingled in the wind?

Was – is – it love?

She had no answer, but she knew the truth now. She faced it. Unhooked the noose about her neck and stepped down to face her terror headlong:

She had the teeth of Ord Ylon closing about her. closing about her. In the darkness of his mouth there was only the fumes, and the chasm that took her into the deep pits of acid, bubbling matter dragging her blistered body under the surface with its fierce, churning currents, consuming her screams along with all the rest…

I accept it all! Come, Ord Ylon! Let us play this deadly game, you and I. Let us see who is the stronger.

Wythyldwyn shall prevail!

And then the amber light came down upon her, bearing her far from the screams and smoke and incessant ringing, taking her to the Meadows of Mending, stripping away the flesh to leave only the shriven soul, ready to receive its blissful reprieve in the gardens of her goddess.

* * *

About an hour after the Bells stopped pealing, deep into the night (or, more likely, the next morning), Ibbalat returned at last. She saw him walking down the pier towards the Dremmedine’s mooring, his distinctive magician’s hat with its bent, pointed tip and wide brim hiding his outlander features from the torchlight – except of course the thick, tangled beard. He was too young to grow a proper beard but he hadn’t had a shave since they left Warthia, and although the facial hair made up of scruffy curls did nothing to hide his youth no matter how long it grew, she approved all the same. Wythyldwyn was all about change, and growth, and understanding.

She’d approve even more when he finally decided to shave it.

She felt she understood the mage, why he’d grown into the man he had, what had changed in him. It’d happened to all of them after all – maybe not in the same way, but it’d still happened. She’d never so much as swatted a fly in her life – she’d been the kind of kid that swore off meat at an early age, and fought other kids when they stepped on ants or pulled the wings off moths. Yet she’d hesitated for less than than a second before clutching one of the lantern-rods in the shrine, taking it down to beat the dire wolf over the head and neck, again and again, doing everything in her power to stop it eating the children – before Anathta arrived and lodged her dagger hilt-deep between its eyes.

Ibbalat was no different. He’d been a meek little apprentice, once. Now he was probably one of the most-experienced adventurers and battle-mages in the world, veteran of dozens of skirmishes and more than his fair share of dragon-slayings.

“You got back fast,” she called across the water, once he was in earshot.

“It’s quick downriver,” he replied as he plodded across the gangplank. “Plus, you know,” he waved his hands dramatically, “magic.”

“So what was it like?”

“Worse than you imagine. Worse than Derezo told us. I see now why they need so many archmages in Mund.”

He slipped through the bits of rope and netting separating them, crossing the deck to come and stand beside her.

“Really?”

“It’s Miserdell all over again, except it’s happening in ten places at once and there’s no way to tell if you’ve got them all. I was practically useless.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“You should see it, Kani. They’ve got these champions – I can hardly believe how powerful they are, any one of them could just take over the city in a single night if there weren’t fifty others all ready to stop them – and even they weren’t enough.”

“Maybe some time, I’ll get chance,” she managed to say in a voice that did actually have some hope in it. “Once this dragon-hunt’s over… Do you think Phanar’s gone far enough, then? Will one archmage do?”

“Do you remember who it is that he’s hired?”

She pursed her lips a moment in thought. “Redgate? Red-something, anyway…”

She stopped, seeing the flare of recognition in the shadowed eyes beneath the hat’s brim.

“Oh, yes,” Ibbalat murmured. “Top-tier arch-sorcerer. I saw him, and he’s got his own personal army of demons. Two thinfinaran. If any archmage is going to have a shot at Ylon for us, it’s him.”

“Thinfinaran?”

“I’d only read about them before tonight –” as he spoke his voice rose, going ever-more rapidly as the excitement took hold of him “– but they’re tenth rank and that makes them hard to command – they can summon more demons, all by themselves, and their armour’s totally impervious to most attacks – ideal for fighting a dragon –”

Kanthyre let his voice fade out as he waxed eloquent about one of his favourite topics, careful to give the correct verbal nods whenever he paused – half the reason he was saying this stuff was because he wanted to impress her with the depth of his demonology, and she never passed up an opportunity to help someone feel important, especially when it came at such a meagre cost: feigning interest.

“Oh, really?” she murmured, watching the masts of the other ships docked at Salnifast sway in the dark, a seaborne forest bending in rhythm with the endless waves. Recalling the scents of Phanar’s hair as it blew in the wind, memories that easily overpowered the salt and smoke in her nostrils.

“Yes, the gauntlets are inscribed with the Fifth Condemnation of the Broken Earth, so when they’re struck, anywhere on their armour, they redistribute forces like a shield that…”

Whatever Ibbalat thought, Kanthyre decided she’d reserve her judgement of the champion till she saw him in action.

Sorcery.

It still seemed wrong to her, but she wasn’t one to kick up a fuss. Demons and undead were tools, useful in their ways, expendable in others. But they were always abhorrent. Every priest – well, every priest of a decent deity, at least – knew that much. Whenever Ibbalat had raised something from the dead she’d been sure to give it a proper burial afterwards, Mortiforn’s rules be damned – and Ibbalat had never dared try to bind a ghost in her presence, never mind a fiend.

Then something caught her attention.

“Wait, what was that?”

“I said, I can show you, if you like? It’s quite a simple illusion; I prepared a couple this morning, and it’s a waste of hippogriff eyes if I don’t – most of it’s shaped by my memories, so –“

“Show me the Incursion?”

“Well, yes – it’s just what I rem-”

“Ibbalat!” she blurted. “Why didn’t you say?”

“Do you think… Ana, and Phanar would like to see?”

“Of course.”

Ibbalat smiled, and started moving his hands, fingers wiggling as though he were trying to play a musical instrument whose strings changed positions between the strokes. She watched for a moment but the patterns described by the motions of his fingertips were indecipherable. His beard flowed in the wind as his lips moved ceaselessly, almost soundlessly.

Kanthyre loped to the door to the cabin – despite the long journeying and harsh rationing she’d endured over the past months, she still carried quite a bit of excess weight, and anything faster than a dash was out of the question. She descended half way down the short stair (more of a ladder, really) into the ship’s hold.

“Ibbalat’s conjuring the Incursion, if you want to see?”

She spoke softly, so as to not wake those struggling to sleep in the hammocks.

Phanar looked over at her from his chair by the table; his eyes narrowed slightly, but she knew this was the way he looked when he was intrigued, not irritated.

Anathta, short and slim but in every other way her brother’s lookalike with her raven hair and deep, bronze-red skin, looked back and forth between Phanar and Kanthyre – then, loosing a sigh, she placed her cards down on the table face-up.

“I was totally going to win, then, Kani,” she complained. “Look – four Divinities, and only one Slimer.”

By the time they’d gotten back to the foredeck, Ibbalat held a swirling sphere of dancing lights between his arms. He was no longer chanting; he stared into the huge, weightless globe of glamour, as if studying its meaningless contents.

Then, as Kanthyre and the others halted, it suddenly steadied, resolving into discernible shapes.

Demons. Fallen buildings. Mages in the sky.

Fading in as if from a great distance, sounds started to trickle through. Screams, real-seeming enough that she could hear the raggedness of the throats that produced them. The cries of battle-commands from desperate captains. The interminable Bells.

“This is the battle at the place they called Roseoak Way,” Ibbalat said. “You can see the destruction.”

“Roseoak?” Phanar repeated with an unusual degree of trepidation in his voice. “That’s where the Tower of the Guardians is located.”

“Whereabouts?” his sister asked curiously, coming closer to Ibbalat’s illusion and tracing lines through it with her fingers, as if through empty air.

“There. Opposite that group of magisters on the roof…”

“You mean… that pile of rubble?”

The rogue pointed out a large mound of blasted stone, and Phanar didn’t reply, lowering his head in thought.

Then Kanthyre saw something that caught her attention.

“Hey! Go back, can you? Was that – are they the Sisters of the Maiden?”

She walked closer to the glamour, studying the images of the warrior-priestesses, aglow in the majesty of their goddess.

“Yes. A powerful force on the battlefield, to be sure, although I’m not sure how much of a difference they made, considering the sheer number of demons. I’ll spare you the times I saw them fall.”

The illusion whizzed on before her eyes, showing now a trio of champions destroying some putrid monstrosity.

She turned her gaze back to Ibbalat.

“The other sisters didn’t heal them?”

“They did. They… tried. Sometimes it wasn’t enough; you know how these things go…”

The same way I couldn’t heal Nulveren when he took that chest-wound, she thought. She remembered the look on Derezo’s face, the feeling of failure flushing her skin…

“And what, pray tell, were you doing all this time?” Anathta enquired airily. “Watching from a safe distance?”

“For some of it,” Ibbalat answered at once, unabashed. “I had a number of warding spells prepared, and some elemental magic. I killed over a dozen of the lesser fiends, and helped bolster the defences. Not much I could do, really, except… you know.”

“Stay alive,” Kanthyre supplied.

“Yeah. That.”

Phanar had his big arms folded across his chest, and was still looking perturbed.

“You think our helpers are going to be too busy with the rebuilding efforts to come with us?” the cleric asked him.

The warrior shook his head slowly. “Perhaps… Mund has plenty of archmages beside those willing to fight. Beside the champions. Reconstruction is industry here. And yet…” His mysterious, smoky eyes glinted in the flickering radiance of Ibbalat’s illusion. “I met them. The Night’s Guardians. They treated fairly with me, unlike the Magisterium representative I met with, and many others of Mund’s mages besides.” Phanar clenched a fist. “I do not wish them to suffer – nor their assistance to be depleted. They said they could loan or sell us spellbound artefacts.”

“We already have ensorcelled weapons,” Anathta pointed out.

“But armour? I know I would not mind some magical protection.” Phanar looked down at his midriff momentarily. “A shield or breastplate. Or something we don’t have – a spear… Even some more missiles…”

He looked at his gut, where the orc stuck him with the trident, she remembered. Where I touched the iron-hard stomach, prayed over the wound… wept upon it…

That had been the last time Phanar had taken off all his armour when sleeping in untrustworthy surroundings – and the first time she’d ever cured anyone’s injuries with her own power.

She’d run out of her stockpile of healing-waters during the skirmish, and she’d been at her wits’ end. Phanar had moved like a snake through the attackers, red ember-light glinting off his topless body, sword literally singing in his hand. It all happened so fast. A paltry orc, in a random night-time ambush, almost killed the one who would end up as the world’s premier dragon-slayer.

But her own tears had supplied the healing, and unlocked for her the gifts she now possessed. The gifts of a second-grade cleric, a true adept.

The goddess blessed my love, that night… She couldn’t help the follow-up thought: Is she not cruel?

“Ah, well then,” Ibbalat said, grinning behind the beard. “Lucky I popped into town and did some shopping this afternoon, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” the rogue asked in a conspicuously-relaxed voice, looking him up and down suddenly – Kanthyre knew that if Anathta didn’t get an immediate answer, she’d soon be ready to search the mage’s corpse for his goodies.

“Let’s see… I’m sure I’ve got something for you…”

Ibbalat smiled at Anathta and waved at his illusion-sphere, transforming it into a moon-like, pearly whiteness. The light it shed only reached ten feet, but it was enough for them to see by as the mage sat on an upturned empty box nearby, producing the demiskin from a pocket and emptying its topmost contents onto the deck between them.

Demiskins were containers which accessed a ‘localised demi-plane’ (whatever that meant) where time and space were suspended; even one the size of a sock had cost them almost the entire earnings from one of their dragon-hunts. Still, it was worth it. Wrapped in the spells of all five mageries, their ‘sock’ was a black, glossy tube of flexible material. For all that it was black under normal conditions, it looked white here, shining in the spotlight of Ibbalat’s luminous moon.

It could only contain objects that would fit inside its aperture, though, which was barely big enough to fit a hand in – but even one the size of a sock trivialised the impracticalities of the adventuring life. Loaves of bread and flanks of meat could be sliced, stored inside, and retrieved as fresh as they’d been when they came out of the fire. Hundreds of small water-pouches, hundreds of spare bits of ammunition, even small articles of clothing… The demiskin held it all.

And Ibbalat’s latest purchases. The only issue with a demiskin was the delay in retrieving the right item – the things you put in first were at the bottom, and ‘bottom’ was relative in a spaceless space; it always seemed to Kanthyre that the more of a rush you were in, the slower the right item came to hand. Still, this didn’t impede the mage as he started showing off what he’d been able to find in the labyrinthine streets of fabled Mund in the hours before the Incursion struck.

There were potions – lots of potions. She recognised the murky-green fluids that glittered with gold specks as the efficacious healing philtres of the druids, at least equal in potency to her prayers and far superior to her own holy water. More importantly, they would be capable of reviving her in a flash if she were to be brought low. She knew Ibbalat had barely delved into druidry – not the healing side, at least – and she couldn’t have relied on his restorative spells to do much good in a desperate situation, even if he’d miraculously prepared them in the first place.

“What are those?” she asked, indicating some blue, transparent potions.

“Potions of Unbound Speech. Lets you speak in any language, think in any language. These,” he tapped a gleaming, pink-purple potion, “are Potions of Visible Sympathy. Makes most creatures see you as their allies. If you’re sneaking into the palace, the guards will see you dressed as another guard; when you slip inside the temple to hide, the archpriest sees another acolyte. The vestal virgins, well…”

“Why do you sound like you’re speaking from experience?” Kanthyre said.

“And why did the palace-guard chase us out of Garawen-Pir, again, exactly?” Phanar added, somewhat more ominously.

Ibbalat merely grinned sheepishly. “Hey, I made sure we got paid first -“

“Paid first, laid second,” Anathta said, almost approvingly.

Phanar glared at his sister, and she smirked back at him in that now-I’m-an-adult-I-can-get-away-with-it way that was annoying even to Kanthyre.

Anyway, an orc’s going to see you as an orc, but don’t think Ord Ylon’s going to welcome you in as a long-lost cousin or anything – they’re only going to work on humanoid things, and ones that aren’t brimming with barely-understood magic to boot. They’re all guaranteed for one hour of uninterrupted function –”

“Okay, we get it,” Anathta interrupted the mage again. “Taken together, those two potions almost make you half as good at disguising yourself as I am on a bad day… with a cold… when I’m bleeding…”

Ibbalat pulled a face. “Alright, I get it. On to the good stuff.”

He picked out the rings from the pile. Four of them.

“Ring of Bestial Distress, three charges.” He held up a silvery ring set with a single large emerald and slid it onto his finger. “Maybe I can use this on Ylon’s wolves. Buy us some time.”

He tossed Kanthyre a ring carved out of a pearl, smooth except for where it was studded with five diamonds, tiny enough that it looked as though it would only just fit on her little finger. She caught it, studied it.

“Ring of Timeless Striding. Five charges. Short bursts of amazing speed, unbelievable reaction times. Don’t waste them.”

He knows I worry about being too cumbersome, she realised. Did he read my mind, or am I really just that slow?

She nodded and slipped the ring on her pinkie all the same, twisting it around until it was both secure and comfortable. “Standard passwords? Arcanos, or…”

Ibbalat nodded. “The Arcanos Code. And for our deadly assassin, this.” He flicked a ruby-set ring, formed out of three intertwined golden bands, towards the rogue – she snatched it out of the air easily. “Ring of Unerring Accuracy. Three charges. Three attacks that will not miss their marks.”

Anathta didn’t reply; she was studying her new bauble, and the smile on her face was probably all the gratitude Ibbalat was going to get out of her.

But if he cared he didn’t show it; the mage was sitting there on the box, cheerfully gazing up at Phanar.

The warrior stared back at him for a good five seconds before he finally relented: “Out with it, then!”

Ibbalat grinned, and held up the final band: a wide, unadorned thing of black metal. There were no perceptible jewels set into it.

Phanar took it from him, and held it up before the moon-like illumination, spinning it between his fingers. If Kanthyre was reading his face right, he couldn’t see anything set into the metal either, even holding it close-up while standing next to a light-source.

The smoky eyes of the warrior flicked back to resume their stare at the mage.

“Ring of Feigned Location. Makes enemies think you’re somewhere you’re not, or at least that you’re making a move towards somewhere you won’t. Works better the faster you’re moving.”

The smile stayed on the mage’s face as he started rooting through the demiskin again.

“And?” Phanar prompted.

Ibbalat didn’t even look up. “Hmm?”

“And how many charges?”

“Who said anything about charges?”

“You mean…”

“It’s an always-on.”

At this point Phanar froze in place; Anathta made a sound roughly approximating “Whaaaat” and even Kanthyre felt her eyebrows raise in shock.

“I checked it over myself; it’s the genuine article,” Ibbalat said nonchalantly. “Infinity rune is almost perfect. Damn thing’ll probably last a millennium or more. Cost a teensy bit more than the others…” he chuckled a little, “but it was a bargain even at that price. We’re down to six hundred and seventy P’s, now.”

(They’d adopted the code after being overheard discussing their wealth of platinum in a tavern some time back, which had resulted in one unfortunate death – now any eavesdropper would hopefully think they were just particularly meticulous when it came to their vegetable inventory. Hopefully. Certainly no one eavesdropping was likely to assume that this rag-tag group of youngsters would have the finances to purchase a whole street of their Hightown’s towers.)

Ibbalat had finally found what he’d been looking for – his bag of wane. He popped a leaf in his mouth and started chewing noisily.

Kanthyre span away. The smell of the stuff turned her stomach.

Ibbalat,” Phanar said reprovingly. “I appreciate the ring, I truly do; but do you want to get us arrested, get Ulfathu arrested, just because you could not wait until we were back out at sea?”

“Hey, a man’s gotta eat,” Ibbalat protested. He licked his teeth, folded up his bag of drugs and shoved it back into the demiskin. “It’s been a very stressful night, and I’ve got enough magic left to stop a simple city-guard from finding –“

“This is Mund,” Phanar hissed, the gravity of his voice startling in contrast with Ibbalat’s genial tone. “You try to enchant a guard, you do not get the run of the city for a week – you get us all executed. We spoke about this, before we came. The rules are not to be thrown aside the moment demons invade the streets… I even said that exact thing to you.”

“Okay, okay,” the mage said sullenly. “Once we’re back out at sea.” He clapped his hands down on his knees, then levered himself back up to his feet. “When do you suppose that will be?”

Phanar frowned, but when he replied he spoke again in his level, cordial voice. “Much depends on Redgate and the Night’s Guardians, now that Roseoak Way has been destroyed. I… I think that they make less of these Incursions than we might, being outsiders. I hope that they will be here. We were supposed to sail at seven. If they do not come, I’ll re-enter the city, and discover what is amiss.”

“How long can we wait?” Kanthyre asked. “I mean, if the archmage ends up not coming, will we have time for you to find another?”

Phanar’s expression darkened. “We might have already been away too long. If Ord Ylon leaves his lair… Tirremuir and all its people might be ashes by the time we return.”

It was the answer she’d expected, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

* * *

Day stole over the harbour so subtly that she almost missed it. One minute she was feeling like the night would never end; the next, she realised it was already morning. A swathe of clouds separated in two as if sliced by a giant sword, exposing the bare, white-blue flesh of the dawn sky.

Kanthyre and her fellow adventurers had settled into a rhythm over the past months; she’d gotten used to having someone up on watch, to prevent a repetition of catastrophes like the orc ambush, and she’d been on-edge all night anyway – it wasn’t like she could’ve slept even if she’d tried. They’d be sailing on out over the open sea soon enough, and she could rest through the day, at ease in the knowledge that stepping onto those ‘outland’ shores was no longer an option for her. It would be so easy to cross the gangplank now, with the Incursion already over, just to prove a point – but it would only turn out that her doom was to die at the hand of some unscrupulous cut-purse rather than to get skewered by a demon. Prophecies were twisty that way. No, far better to wait on the ship, wait for them to set sail once more.

Fate locked-in.

Decisions made for her.

But the crew were waking. The sailors were up at the crack of dawn – the Dremmedine’s captain, Ulfathu, would apply the threat of a lashing to those who didn’t pull their weight. (She’d never heard of him actually having to use it, thankfully – it seemed the mere possibility of a flogging was plenty motivating.) He woke with the sun no matter how much ale he drank to put him to sleep, no matter the season, the weather. Already she could see him stalking the aft-deck; Ulfathu wore a leather coat over loose pants, but despite the early-morning autumn chill he wore no shirt – his chest was covered in a rug of thick hair, which she guessed must’ve been enough to protect him from the cold. His black eyepatch was hard to pick out against his dark skin; it almost looked from a distance as though he were just squinting with his left eye, so cunningly-designed was his accessory. He went around, ‘squinting’ at those of the crew who’d made it above-deck in time for the meagre sunlight to make its entrance. Once he’d completed his checks he stomped back below-deck to make sure the others were working at their various tasks, granting them a close-up of his curled whip and perhaps even brandishing it in their faces. Anything to apply the proper incentive for a morning of good, solid labour.

She watched them at work for a few minutes, clambering all over the rigging, the languor of fatigue in the motions of some of them. Those who’d stayed up latest at the ale-cask, most likely.

She raised a hand towards them.

Maiden, bless these poor souls. Fill them with vitality; drive away their maladies!

The radiance in her hand was as clear as it’d ever been, like a white lantern, shining out over the sailors.

They all stopped in unison for a second, dazed, then quickly gathered their thoughts and continued their tasks with renewed fervour. A few thanked her with murmurs and nods. One ran to the port rail and was sick noisily over the side, but when he recovered he too flashed her a toothless grin and inclined his head in gratitude.

She wondered what beer tasted like, and not for the first time. It was a banned substance for the clergy of Wythyldwyn. Many faiths allowed their faithful to sample alcohol – some even encouraged it (priests of Nentheleme and Ismethyl were famous for it, and who knew about the cultists of gods like Vaahn and Mekesta?) – but not the Maiden of Compassion’s. It seemed to drive many men wild with the desire to consume more and more of it, until they were acting like babies, or even completely insensate. Why anyone would willingly subject himself to such a substance was beyond her. It had to taste amazing. Yet Phanar, a sensible person who only sipped the stuff and never had too much, said that most alcohol tasted horrid the first few times. ‘An acquired taste,’ he’d said.

Then why acquire it in the first place? That was a question to which, seemingly, no one had the answer.

The harbour was abuzz with movement now. Dock-workers unloaded crates by the hundred. Rat-faced fellows met one another beside those boats that looked to be filled with more dubious contents, talking quietly as they cast glances around. Dozens of ships were heading out of port at any given moment; the winds were unfavourable, so some moved by oar-power, others by wizardry, aided by the morning tide. Meanwhile, dozens more replaced them, sails filled with mage-wind, the waters around them sluggish despite the currents that should’ve pushed them away from the shore. There were red-gold schooners from Myri, loaded with great casks of wine; dark-blue ships marked with the sigils of the Amranian war-fleet, heading to the yards on the eastern end where the shipwrights were based; a sleek silver vessel, surely bearing nobility on some pilgrimage or mission of diplomacy, cutting above the waves, heading straight for the river mouth of the Greywater on wings of wizardry.

It was then that Kanthyre spotted the sorceress, walking alone along the pier, careful to avoid the sailors carting buckets of tar up and down the rows of ships. The cleric guessed sorceress due to the gold-trimmed black robe, its hood thrown back to reveal the face of the woman. Her features were studious but pretty rather than plain. She was perhaps in her early forties, her curly brown hair pulled tight into a little bun.

There was an ugly scar running from her hairline to her eyebrow on the left side of her face, but she’d done nothing to hide it, instead wearing it like a badge of honour.

It soon became apparent that she was heading for their ship.

The cleric moved towards the rail beside the gangplank and, when the sorceress was well within earshot, she called, “Night’s Guardian?”

“Rala Ainsbothe, at your service,” the older woman replied in an exquisite accent, contrasted with the smile on her face that was a little grim. She halted at the other end of the gangplank, then went on, “You would be Kanthyre Vael?”

“Come aboard, Rala Ainsbothe,” Kanthyre said, gesturing. “If you’re as good with your spellcraft as your guesses, you’ll be a welcome addition to our expedition.”

The sorceress crossed the bridge. “It’s with some regret that I have to inform you: Lord Ghemenion and I will no longer be travelling with you.”

Kanthyre moved aside, drooping against the rail, and Rala joined her. Now that she was up-close Kanthyre could see the same tiredness in the mage’s face that must’ve been in her own. A few of the crew gave the pair of them a second glance, but that was the extent of their intrusion. They’d learned the hard way not to meddle in the adventurers’ business without dire need.

She pulled her attention back to the sorceress. “Oh? I’d been told the two of you were keen on coming.”

“My lord Ghemenion was injured during the Incursion. Worse than I.” She said it with pride, waving a hand at her scar. “He’ll recover, so long as I ensure he gets his meals regularly… and that they’re cooked by the right chefs. He can be awfully picky that way, you know? And… And I shall have to have this healed, of course – once the critically-injured have been prioritised…”

The eyes of the sorceress were suddenly wet, and Kanthyre wordlessly offered her a clean square of cloth from her pocket.

“My thanks,” Rala murmured, dabbing at her eyes. “I’m sorry; I haven’t slept, and –“

“Don’t be silly,” the cleric said gently. “Your husband was hurt –“

“Husband?” Rala tittered, “Oh no, dear child; he is the Master of the Night’s Guardians – I’m merely his, ah, assistant.”

Kanthyre heard Anathta’s voice going ‘Assistant – yeah – right…” inside her head.

“I see,” was what she actually said aloud.

“In truth, I’m… glad,” Rala went on. “I saw Phanar’s memories. I saw Ord Ylon. I’m impressed with your bravery, Sister of Wythyldwyn. I had in myself the desire to see a dragon, to fight it. I… I’m no longer certain it’s something I want to put myself through.”

It isn’t, Kanthyre thought.

“Would you like me to heal you?” she asked.

“Ah – no, thank you, Sister.” Rala smiled mysteriously. “These things go under expenses, don’t you know, and we have insurance to consider. If I sought treatment outside the licensed bodies, well… Let’s just say it means even more paperwork next time I make a claim.”

Trying to go over the pertinent bits of information in her less-than-perfectly-responsive mind, doing her best to ignore the pervasive madness of Mund and these Mundians – Kani said, “And what about Redgate?”

Rala merely spread her hands, careful to keep hold of the handkerchief.

Great. Ibbalat’s going to be so disappointed.

And we’re definitely all going to die.

She shook her head. Others could think selfish thoughts in the time of another’s need – she couldn’t.

“Your tower? It was in the thick of things?”

Rala laughed brittlely. “It seemed to erupt on our doorstep, as though the demons came to that place in particular, seeking revenge upon us for our magic. The automatic barriers gave us time to rescue most of the personnel, salvage nine out of ten of our grimoires, our records.”

She knows how many books perished, but not the number of people, Kanthyre noted.

“Yet – that tower had stood almost a hundred years – a hundred years of success for the Night’s Guardians, a hundred years of growing power – torn asunder in less than an hour. So much has been lost. The Guardians, incapable of guarding ourselves… What will become of us now, I wonder? A slow decline… a fall into obscurity? Perhaps I’ll take an early retirement, go into the ensorcellment trade…” Rala sighed heavily. “Speaking of ensorcellment, our companionship was not the extent of the arrangement with your spokesman. We feel it would be remiss of us not to offer you the armaments we had discussed. Is… Phanar…”

The sorceress looked around pointedly, and the cleric shoved herself away from the rail, murmuring as pleasantly as she could manage, “Give me a minute.”

Kanthyre set off down into the hold, stumbling a little; her feet were unresponsive bricks of flesh. There were no beds – aboard the Dremmedine both guests and crew alike slept in hammocks, drawn down into a deep sleep by the motions of the waves.

She quickly found Phanar and, after a moment’s hesitation, went to place her hand on the side of his face.

But she didn’t get to touch him.

He awoke so suddenly it was she who leapt back, stopped from tumbling only by the fact he’d instinctively snatched her wrist in a grip of iron.

“Kani!” he gasped softly, immediately loosening his hold but maintaining contact with her to help her find her balance. “What is it? Trouble?”

The cool eyes were smoky again, no trace of bleariness in them whatsoever.

She was so taken aback, for a moment she entirely forgot the reason she came to wake him, then –

Within thirty seconds they were both back on-deck, Phanar looking disappointed that the sorcerers weren’t coming on the quest – but nowhere near disappointed-enough that he’d refuse to look at the Night’s Guardians’ armaments. He started inspecting the items Rala had brought in her own, larger demiskin bag, discussing the terms of remuneration.

Kanthyre had turned away from them, gripping the rail again, just wanting this to all be finalised. To set sail. To get it all over and done with.

To be back on my way to meet my fate.

Phanar was holding, and discussing, a steel helmet with a white plume and pointed visor, when Kanthyre saw it, up there in the air between Mund and Salnifast.

A red shape, hurtling down from the sky, vast wings spread, angled to slow the tremendous descent.

“Oh, my,” she whispered.

It only took a moment for Rala and Phanar to follow the cleric’s gaze, and the sorceress said, “Ah. So he’s decided he still wants to come after all.”

Kanthyre already didn’t like him. The sorcerer reminded her too much of a dragon.

He beat his wings, coming to hover over the Dremmedine.

“Phanar of N’Lem, I presume,” he called down, his voice that of a boy born with a platinum spoon in his mouth.

Confident, though. Self-assured in a way that had nothing to do with wealth and prestige. No, this was personal power.

An army of demons, at his beck and call?

The crimson robe was spattered with symbols that resembled barred archways, portcullises, each embroidered in a slightly different red. Upon his face was the loathsome visage of a spider. The wings were metallic, black against the virgin blue sky.

Right from the off, Kanthyre saw only an enemy.

Most of the crew managed to keep their mouths shut, but every pair of eyes on the deck was glued to the floating arch-sorcerer, and a few in the crow’s-nest and rigging cried out in alarm.

“Settle down.” Phanar rarely raised his voice, and when he did everyone heeded him, going back to their work.

“My lord,” Rala called back. “You came.”

“I said I would, did I not?”

The champion sounded enthusiastic, almost overly-so, yet there was something more to it – Kanthyre would have to get Anathta’s opinion on the matter of this interloper. The girl had the knack of reading people.

Redgate landed softly on the figurehead of the sea-serpent at the front of the ship, and walked along the protrusion, folding his wings which seemed to disappear entirely as he hopped lightly down to the deck.

Rala went on, “I had merely thought, with the events of last night – the loss of a fellow arch-sorcerer like that –”

“Let’s not bring that into this, Miss Ainsbothe,” he said curtly. “We’re here to execute a dragon. I’ve plenty of time to be there and back again before the next Incursion comes due.”

He cast about, then approached Phanar. A pale, unblemished hand emerged from the scarlet sleeve, and the warrior took it firmly.

“Redgate. I am indeed as you say Phanar, of N’Lem. Might I introduce Kanthyre Vael, Sister of the Maiden?”

The champion’s hand was soft in Kanthyre’s, his grip gentle, almost tender.

She wished all of a sudden that she could see his face, read the expression hidden there behind the eight dark lenses, the mandibles and hairs all styled into the dark iron.

Then he released her hand and turned again to Rala. “Where is Ghemenion?”

“You weren’t informed? He was wounded in the battle. He’s currently in the care of the Unwilted Bloom, and there’s much to be arranged. He’s insisting on a larger personal library when they’re completing the rebuild… I’m afraid neither he nor I will be able to come with you.”

Redgate nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture of acceptance, as though he had already predicted this but asked only to make sure.

“Of course,” he said. “Quite understandable. Pass my best wishes on to the chap for a speedy recovery, and a library of magnificent proportions.”

“I will, my lord,” Rala replied.

“Well – Sister Vael?” He turned back to her and, with some effort due to the disconcerting mask, she met his unseen gaze. “An unusual name. I see Miss Ainsbothe and your leader are engaged in a haggling match.” He indicated the demiskin, the assorted items they’d placed on boxes while they debated fees. “Won’t you introduce me to the captain, and the rest of your merry band?”

She was caught – she could hardly refuse, could she?

With a swift backwards glance at Phanar, she led Redgate to the door to the cabin.

* * *

“In truth they were going to travel with us more as observers, interested only in the prominence to be gained by taking part in the slaying of an Ord.” Redgate was explaining his nonchalance at the fact the two of his fellow Mundian sorcerers weren’t coming with them, his primary audience an enraptured-looking Ibbalat. “I’m not even a little concerned. I hope Phanar is as discerning as he seems, and saves your cash; I have enough power to deal with the dragon, I’m quite certain.”

“How are you going to do that? Exactly?” The young mage was just full of questions. “I saw your thinfinaran -”

“There will be plenty of time to discuss tactics. First, strategy. Where is this lair? How is it defended?”

Kanthyre saw Ibbalat’s eyes brighten, his lips part –

“Master Ibbalat,” Ulfathu called from the doorway above them. “We’re settin’ sail. Might I ask ye t’ say a word or two t’ the wind again?”

“Of course. Would you excuse me?” Ibbalat stood.

“We’ll join you on deck, no?” Redgate replied, looking at Kanthyre.

The cleric merely shrugged. Words and thoughts came sluggishly to her now – she was so exhausted.

She went last up the ladder-stair, and Ibbalat was already engaged in chanting by the time she was topside, sprinkling insect-wings and other weird spell-components into the air. In the distance, she could hear the yells of the harbour-master or one of his delegates.

“Anchors aweigh!”

The sails billowed, and the prow cut through the water like an arrow.

For the next ten minutes, Kanthyre was at the rail again, the salt breeze in her hair, spray in her face; it was refreshing, reassuring. She looked out over the bay, the other dozen-or-more vessels working their way out onto the Mundic Sea.

Finally – she was on her way. Her way to her grave, or Ord Ylon’s. Either way, it would be the end of her trials. She could take her own very early retirement from her adventuring career, open her own temple.

Or she could rest in the arms of the goddess, content that she’d done all she could to stop the terror in whose vast belly her remains would forever reside.

She turned away from the sea, deciding to make her excuses and head off for a sleep – when she saw Redgate, sitting by Anathta on a crate, his legs spread casually in an easy posture. She paused, watching.

He was raising his hands to his face, drawing both the mask off and the cowl back in the same motion.

Handsome. Too handsome by far to be interested in a plain, uncivilised cleric like her; his interest in the lithe, supple rogue was obvious, though. His strong jawline contrasted with the boyish cheeks, the haughty gaze with the gentle smile on his lips. Lengths of straight brown hair framed his face.

Glancing at Phanar’s sister to catch the reaction, Kanthyre knew Anathta had already fallen under his spell.

Hopefully not literally.

She looked back out at the sea, and almost went to sleep there on her feet. When she came back to herself, just a few minutes later going off the ship’s position, for a moment she forgot where she was and almost fell.

She held the rail in her hand one last time, then the cleric turned, bade everyone a belated goodnight, and made her way to her hammock.

This time, just as she prayed, the dreams took her too deep for her to remember them and, for that much at least, she was glad.

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