“I have to leave,” Arjasoot confessed to Varayana. “Not right away, mind you…”

They twirled in place, their skyward leaf-blade descending to earth. Tempered bronze split a rotten skull: fleeing termites gushed forth from the gap of bone as the Tomb Thrall crumbled.

“...but after you finish your business here, I must go,” they explained.

“Why are you telling me this?” Varayana asked. Her Rhomphaia flashed like a ray of dawn, removing a Tomb Thrall’s head, like the cap from a wine-skin. “If you want to go, go. I’m not your mistress, and you’re not my slave..”

“I want you to…”

Arjasoot paused for a moment to blast a curtain of fire from their bulging cheeks. The cone of flame poured through the gaps in the tarnished bronze shields, immolating the pair of corpses that held them.

Arjasoot pounded their chest and coughed a few embers from their lungs. “...I want you to understand my circumstances,” they said to Varayana. “Selfish as it sounds, I’m hoping you won’t think ill of me if I explain myself.”

Varayana sighed, sheathed her sword and seized the last Thrall in her embraces. Blue fire consumed the Thrall, flesh and termites swiftly dissolving to ash: a tarnished sword and burial cuirass clattered to the ground.

“I’d appreciate it if you could get to the point,” she said to Arjasoot, shaking the ash and grave-dust off her arms.

Arjasoot glanced up and down the narrow, twisting street. No new Thralls seemed to be coming, and the half-rotten tree roots overhead appeared to be quiescent.

“The Drowning Court controls one of the Sunken,” they explained.

“...what?” Varayana said.

“They don’t truly control it, per se,” Arjasoot allowed. “They’re more like a bug hanging from the brow of a starving Sailback, dangling fresh meat from a string in front of their nose…”

“Arjasoot,” Varayana said. “Breath in.”

They took a deep breath.

“Breath out.”

Arjasoot exhaled and felt much calmer. “My homeland has a knife held to its throat,” they explained. “The Drowning Court has threatened to unleash Yemish, the Crushing Depth upon my Hearth-Vale... unless my people give them an offering.”

Varayana took out a cloth and wiped coagulated black blood from the edge of her sword. “What kind of offering?” she asked.

Arjasoot took a deep breath, hoping that their next four words wouldn’t upset their human friend too much.

“An offering like me,” they confessed.

Varayana went very, very still. “Ah,” she said. “So that shrew of a Foam Spirit…?’

“An agent of the Court,” Arjasoot explained. “One who could have put my people in grave danger if they told their masters about my wanderings outside my homeland.”

“And you’re wandering outside the Hearth-Vale…?” Varayana trailed off, letting the unspoken question hang.

“Because I was looking for a way out of the mess I was put in,” Arjasoot said, a rueful smile crossing their lips. “A prophecy, a wise teacher, a magic sword…” 

“Or a relic like the Godcarver...” Varayana mused, the final piece of the puzzle slotting in place for her.

“That was the choice I was given,” Arjasoot said, their voice hardening. “To put my faith in myths, or surrender my life to tyrants.” They ran their fingers over their blade, kindling a strand of fire along their nails to scrape away the rotten ichor. “Do you think I made the wrong choice?”

Varayana averted her eyes: “No.”

“Are you sure?” Arjasoot snapped. “You don’t think I’m a coward? A pest? A burden?” Bitterness, deep and dark, welled up from within: “If you don’t want me around any more, I can accept that...but I can’t stand not knowing how you feel!”

Varayana flinched.

Arjasoot’s inner fires flickered, drowned out by the tides of shame. You wretch, they thought. This woman’s city has drowned in corrupt divinity. Her loved ones are probably dead. And you lambast her for not showering kindness upon you...?

A sharp, musical chime echoed down the deserted streets.

Arjasoot’s head snapped up. They strained their ears. Somewhere past the caustic clouds of mist...yes: the unmistakable sound of clashing bronze. And more sounds than that: the crunch of sundered wood, the wet pop of rending flesh...a loud contralo, a feminine war-shriek.

“A survivor!” Varayana exclaimed, reaching for their blade.

Arjasoot tore past their human friend, flying down the misty street-stones, their borrowed cloak fluttering in the wind.

"...No! Arjasoot, wait...!"

Mist and dew crept past their protective garb, moistening their smoke-flesh and stinging at their eyes. The very act of drawing breath sent chills through Arjasoot’s form….

...but that didn’t matter, they thought. If they were quick enough, they could save a sliver of Varayana’s old life.

If they were good enough, they could lift a fragment of her grief.

#

It was a woman with an axe.

No, Arjasoot realized, as their eyes saw true.

It was a priestess with a massive, double-bladed axe.

She stood on the plinth of a broken statue, a stone peak in the middle of an abandoned market square. Thronging hordes of dead swarmed around her, skittering like the termites that infested them. Withered, rotten hands grasped for the woman’s ankles, clutched at the base of the stone plinth to pull themselves up.

“Eleutha!” The Priestess cried, swinging her double-bladed axe in a sweeping circle. “Eleutha, your children languish chained! Eleutha, they cry out! Eleutha…!”

Her axe, forged from a single piece of bronze, swept through the ranks of Mound Thralls like a harvest sickle. And…

...there was no rending of limbs or splitting of heads. There was no scorching fire or sizzling meat.

Where the war-axe touched, the flesh of the Dead dissolved. Meat and sinew, bone and ichor...it all collapsed into clouds of dust, grey, sand that drifted away with the morning dew, leaving only tarnished plates of armor, discarded weapons and scurrying insects bereft of their homes.

Arjasoot slid to a stop and sheathed their blade. With cheeks like bellows and a gut full of flame, they sprayed fire across the soggy bricks and immolated the parasitic termites before they could fleet to safety.

A thousand carpaces sizzled and popped under the Smoke Spirit’s flames. A few Mound Thralls tried to make their escape, fleeing towards a tangled grove of tree roots for shelter…

The Priestess was among them in an instant, greataxe swirling like the wings of a dragonfly, cutting and rending until only piles of dust and wriggling insects remained.

The termites scurried into the shadows. The Priestess let them go, resting her axe on her shoulder and staring down silently at the dust she had made.

She had the look of a warrior about her, Arjasoot mused: large, tall, with a plump frame that hid iron-hard sinews. Her white dress fluttered in the breeze, the hem curling around two long, thick legs. Strands of long, curly brown hair escaped from the brim of her red cap.

Her calloused hands, hardened by the heft of her weapon, were clasped together in prayer with a surprising degree of gentleness.

“...set them free,” she murmured. “Let their fetters be broken. Give them wings with which to soar.”

Two tears ran down the cheeks of the Priestess. Arjasoot suppressed a shudder and raised their voice:

“Priestess…” they said. “How do you fare? Do you need any help?”

“Hmm?” The Priestess turned and looked at Arjasoot. “Ah.” She shook her head. “Your offer is treasured, Kindly Spirit, but not needed.” She took her axe from her shoulder and slammed it bust first into the ground, tiles cracking beneath her feet. “I’m not the one kept from wandering free.”

“I...see,” Arjasoot said, having not the faintest idea of what the Priestess was talking about. “In any case, hail and well met!” They sketched a courtly bow, keeping one hand on the hilt of their sword. “I am Arjasoot of the Vale.”

“And I am Ina of the Axe,” the Priestess replied, inclining their head ever so slightly. “Forgive any seeming rudeness on my part. A Priestess of Eleutha bows to no one, be they human, spirit or God.”

“Arjasoot!” Varayana came running down the road, the polished links from her metallic dress clinking together with every stride she took. “Don’t run off like that! Despite the circumstances, I still enjoy your company…”

Varayana slid to a halt. Her wide, dark eyes narrowed to thin points as she caught a glimpse of the woman before her.

“Ina,” she said cooly.

“Lady Varayana,” Ina said in reply. “You have finally returned.”

“Now that all the clerics are gone, it was child’s play,” Varayana replied. She sneered: “They were so keen on banishing me as a threat to the city and blight on the Gods, but when a real Demon showed up…”

Ina let out a long, soft sigh. “I tell you again and again, Varayana, and you do not listen,” she said. “The Deiuos are not your enemy.”

“Is that so?” Varayana said, snarling. She reached out with her hand and grasped a rotten tree root that had curled around nearby house. The strand of wood burst into flame, blue fires tracing a line of ash across the wall. “I suppose these five curses are just party favors, then!”

“Peace, Varayana,” Ina said, holding up her hand. “I know this is a bitter issue between us...but we don’t have time for a debate.” Her serene expression grew tainted with visible concern. “They don’t have time.”

“They?” Varayana said, blinking. “What do you mean, they?”

Arjasoot let out a soft gasp. “Other humans, you mean?” They asked, their heart flame surging with excitement. “There are other humans still alive in this city like you?”

“Indeed there are, Good Spirit,” Ina replied, voice thick with sorrow. “But this is no cause for joy. They are bound in the Crypt Dome, the heart of Wedwel Dom. Kanwah, the Strangling Root, seeks to claim her.”

“Claim her…?” The color drained from Varayana’s cheeks. “No,” she whispered hoarsely. “No, you can’t mean…”

Arjasoot looked from one woman to the other, utterly perplexed. What on earth could drive these two contrasting humans to such identical heights of dismay…?

Oh, they thought. With greater passion:

Oh No.

I’m sorry,” Ina said earnestly. “Your fathers and your mother Varavel are trapped in Kanwah’s Crypt.” She gave a helpless shrug. “The Sunken God wants a new Priestess, you see.”

Next Chapter: Chapter Ten