Eventually, the sound of mandibles gnawing on flesh died away. Beyond the narrow circle of flickering firelight, Arjasoot saw shambling, filth-caked shapes drawing closer.

“This is not good,” Arjasoot whispered. “This is eminently not good.” They snatched their brass fire-pot off the ground and retreated into the fisherman’s hut with Varayana.

Varayana, still sleeping, still monstrous, grabbed Arjasoot by the throat and tried to rip their head off.

“Gak…!” Their sword and firepot clattered to the earth. Arjasoot tugged at Varayana’s six-jointed, talon-tipped fingers, trying to pry them free. Then they stopped struggling and dissolved into a cloud of smoke, flying past Varayana and reassembling their body next to the bronze spikes that anchored Varayana’s chains to the earth.

“I don’t know if you can understand me right now, Vara,” Arjasoot said, reaching down and trying to pull the spikes free. “I know you told me to keep you bound, but events have conspired against us.”

“Hssk!” Varayana turned and snarled at Arjasoot. Her shining blue eyes narrowed into pinpricks.

“If I don’t set you free, they will kill you.” Arjasoot adjusted their grip and tugged again. The blasted spikes refused to come loose. ”Blasted thing!” Arjasoot grabbed both of Varayana’s chains in their hand and reached for their fallen sword.

Varayana slapped her huge paw of a hand down on top of Arjasoot’s sword.  Her face was inches away from Arjasoot’s, her beautiful complexion marred by eyes that had grown too large for their sockets and tusks that had torn the skin of her cheeks to shreds. Blood and slobber spilled from her ruined mouth as a growl built in the back of her throat.

On any other night, Arjasoot would have been terrified beyond compare. But now, as the chittering, hungry things moved in to surround the fragile fisherman’s hut, the Smoke Spirit realized they weren’t afraid. Of her, that is.

“I swore to keep you safe, and others safe from you,” Arjasoot told her. “I can’t do either of those things if you eat me.” They swallowed nervously. “So don’t, please?”

They reached for their sword again.

#

In the darkness outside the campfire light, the Mound Thralls finished their meal. They staggered out from the shadows, marched past the flickering campfire towards the reed-woven hut where the meat had fled.

Arjasoot burst forth from the hut’s entrance, blade sheathed at their side, fire pot clutched in both hands. The Smoke Spirit inhaled smoke from the pot, belly swelling up like a blacksmith’s bellows. They exhaled, blowing forth currents of flame from their lips, enveloping the shadowed army of the dead with tongues of orange-blue fire.

As fire flared and corpses went up like candles, Arjasoot glimpsed their attackers in full.

They were dead human corpses, but their withered, leathery limbs swung back and forth in jerking motions. The grave goods in their hands – green-tarnished swords and axes – clinked loudly against their dented plate armor. Buzzing, crawling sounds echoed from the depths of their mud-caked, paper-bloated faces.

When Arjasoot’s flames ignited the walking corpses, Thrall Beetles exploded from their flesh in the thousands, red-shelled, long-pincered insects that streamed out from the empty eye sockets, from between the brown, rotten-teeth, from the spine-like towers of mud and resin swelling from the backs of the dead…

The Thrall Beetles abandoned their corpse-hives, fleeing in terror of Arjasoot’s flames, spilling across the ground like blood or water.

Arjasoot shuddered and turned back towards the fisherman’s hut. “Vara!” They shouted, pointing towards the burning gap in the ranks of Mound Thralls. “This way!”

Varayana emerged from the hut, dragging lengths of broken chain behind her. Her Rhomphaia sword was clutched between the tusks of her maw. “Hsssk?”

“Yes. Good! With me!" Arjasoot turned and fled through the gap through the ranks of Thralls, Varayana dashing behind theme. They flew downhill, seeking safety and distance...

...but there stood the river, a vile ribbon of flowing death they could not cross.

Arjasoot turned and ran parallel to the river bank. As the hordes of Thralls, streamed down the slopes after them, the Smoke Spirit drew their leaf-blade sword.

“Your Blade becomes a hand, your severing stroke a puff of breath.” –The Copper Fern Sword Codex, Verse 6, Line 5.

A Mound Thrall’s head came flying off: termites fountained from the hole in the corpse’s neck. 

“I’m sorry, Vara,” Arjasoot said, stabbing another Mound Thrall in the face. “You chose yourself a poor guardian…or maybe you chose the best one you could under these circumstances!”

The Smoke Spirit inhaled more smoke from their pot and breathed fire again. This gout of flame was weaker, more a shower of sparks and ash than a proper inferno; still, they set three more Mound Thralls alight, the paper-mud hives on their back burning away into fragments. 

“Forward!” Arjasoot shouted to Varayana, old instincts of war coming back to them. “Through the gap! Don’t let them adapt!”

A fresh band of corpses pushed past their immolated brethren, these ones bearing square, bronze-riveted shields linked together in a phalanx formation.

Arjasoot tried to breath fire a third time, but only succeeded at hacking up a few pathetic embers from their lips instead. “Vara,” they wheezed, brandishing their sword at the advancing formation. “Stay behind me!”

Varayana sprang past Arjasoot, a howl bursting from her mangled lips as she threw herself at the phalanx formation.  She twisted her hips around mid-air and lashed out with her hind legs, a double-kick that smashed the wall of half-rotten shields to splinters and knocked several Thralls over their feat.

“Oh,” Arjasoot whispered. Then, with more passion: “Oh!” They flew after Varayana with a renewed passion, drawing in fresh smoke from their fire-pot to strengthen their flesh, the war cry of their people bursting from their lips as they raised their blade overhead. 

“Alala! Victory! Victory to the Hearth!”

With a single cut from Arjasoot’s sword, the tarnished blade of a Thrall fell to the ground, followed by the arm that held it. Insects poured from the mangled stump. Arjasoot stamped on them with a graceless fury, slimy pulp and guts staining the soles of their feet.

Varayana fought by their side with the grace of a savage, slashing open withered tendons with the blade in her teeth, knocking the Thralls off their feet, raking her talons against the mud-paper hives on their backs, the mere touch of her flesh kindling sparks of azure flame. 

Such was the savagery of Arjasoot and Varayana, so sudden and so brutal that the Mound Thralls and the beetles within them fell back in disarray. In that moment of respite, Arjasoot took a shuddering breath and frantically thought: how could they make their escape? Where could they go that the Thralls wouldn’t follow?

Arjasoot noticed something out of the corner of their eyes; the fisherman’s longboat, bobbing up and down in the river, tied to the narrow wooden dock. 

“Oh, great Deiuos,” Arjasoot cursed. “Tell me there’s another choice.”

The Deiuos did not respond.

Arjasoot made a noise similar in tone to steam hissing from a kettle. “Varayana!” They shouted. “This way!”

Varayana seized a Mound Thrall by their mud-caked face and slammed its to the ground, crushing the mud-paper towers growing from its back.

“Vara, now!”

Varayana growled and broke away from the battle, following Arjasoot down to the dock where the reed boat was moored.

Arjasoot tossed their fire-pot into the front end of the boat and pulled Varayana into the boat with them. They took up the crude oar by the stern and hacked through the mooring ropes with their sword. They pushed the boat away from the river bank and paddled with a fierce and fiery energy.

"Nngh!"

Water droplets flew through the air with each oar-stroke, landing on their bare arms, sizzling into steam on contact. Arjasoot clenched their teeth and kept rowing, driving the boat further and further down the river....

After twenty such strokes, they turned to look back.

The Mound Thralls stood at the river bank, unwilling to immerse themselves in its rushing depths. They stood in silent formation, watching as Arjasoot and Varayana slipped farther down the stream.

Varayana let out a howl, her sword falling from her teeth and clattering to the base of the reed boat.

"...hah!" Arjasoot said. With more confidence: "HAH! What say you now, foul parasites?" They brandished their leaf blade, shaking it in mockery at the legions of exhumed dead. "You can’t touch us now, not with water between us!"

Arjasoot took a second to think about what they just said.

"Sweet Deiuos have mercy," they whispered, grabbing their fire pot and clutching it close to their chest like a talisman. "Great flames preserve me from this evil stream."

Before receding out of sight, the Mound Thralls on the river bank stirred. A thousand voices spoke as one, voicing words that roused a stomach curdling dread in the Smoke Spirit.

“There is no safety. You seek to flee us, Spirit, but only dive deeper into our jaws. The Sunken SHALL have his exemplary prize.”

Next Chapter: Chapter Five