Sallune

The Fractured Helm of the Comet Empire—Inward once again

It was a black day indeed. Over all the ashen wastes, over all the ashen lands, the trumpets which beckoned a glorious return were now silent. Countless had been the men and machines of the ancient leviathan. Counted and few now were the legions and their terrifying sciences. Like ghosts the tatters of troopers marched into their cities. Like wraiths their machines howled beneath their own weight as they listed into port or rolled haphazardly through the gates. To all, the scene was an obvious one: the total defeat of the offensive. Heshran remained infested. The extermination had failed. Yet failure meant new opportunities, and moment to consider just what had happened to lead to this disastrous state of affairs.

Against the resurgent Lirite remnants, clad in their empire of "Kish," a debased shadow of a true menace, the Comet had been cracked. Countless men had been thrown against this puppet empire, but despite it all the lesser breeds held their ground. Screaming the names of their lower kings and petty king of kings, they threw themselves against the Cometary Army and stopped the advance. Weeks bled into pools of thousands, and all the border now was a mass of bodies for scavengers to feast on. And for this great war, all that had been earned was loss. The Grand Cabal, ancient subjects of the Empire, had to be traded away like used goods to persuade this apparent northern power to move no further. An act of persuasion and humility which would one day be repaid. It had been enough to cause the defection of the Aery, a matter which would one day need to be repaid twice over.

Against the mockery of their betters, the Cometary Army captured the islands it coveted. Then onto the mainland it sought total victory. Instead, the lower beasts of the southern continent massed in their millions, and marched into such slaughter as to halt the turning of the gears of war. Guttered and clogged, distant and unsupported, disaster followed. The fearsome Comet Empire, the masters of all things, were made to lay in the muck by such animals. A second humiliation. A second dark day to repay. One which could not be forgotten.

Hangings would follow. Hangings and the disemboweling for the carrion to enjoy. New generals would need to be raised up once their forebearers were cut down. New troopers would need to be trained, and the breeding of better stock needed to be accelerated. Projects which had long been ignored or abandoned had to be returned to, and those occult minds which swelled around the celestial throne had to be addressed. A general restructure. A sudden waking from a dream. The victorious lower animals could cheer in their many, cheer on that the Comet had fallen, but this was all within survivable margins. The day would come, very soon now, that these lower animals would turn on one another. And as they slaughtered one another, arrogant of their own claim to mastery, they would be watching. Waiting. Preparing. The strength of the lower beasts was now understood. The Comet need only rise to this new, sudden challenge.

Furzland wrote:

Chapter 3, Part 1: A Heist
Chapter 3, Part 2: Interruptions
Chapter 3, Part 3: Unmoored

Chapter 3, Part 4: A Fly In The Ointment
“Those fools!” The Herald hissed. “How could they have failed so spectacularly?!” They paced the stone chambers of their makeshift office.

Grandmaster Porski had been bowing from the hip since he arrived about ten minutes ago. His back was beginning to hurt.

“It was a simple job and they managed to get themselves killed a MAN?!” The Herald fumed. “Do we know anything about what happened?”

“We have hardly any within the Ministries able to draw information but it appears they are treating the incident as unresolved.” Porski said.

The Herald grumbled. “Different magi loyal to us confirmed the stored magic is still in the vault. It is unlikely another party is involved. The state must believe a higher organization was involved: us. Did those fools leave any indication of what they intend to do with the aether?”

“I… Doubt it, Herald.”

“Doubt? Is that your best?”

“Yes, Herald.”

“Then it will have to do.” The Herald hissed out from under their cloak. “Invest resources in finding out everything the state knows. Bribes, enthrallment, whatever it takes. We must ensure no ministry or police inspector catches sight of us. And for the Spirits above, stop bowing!”

Chapter 3, Part 5: Something Wicked
Swit hummed to himself in the little row boat he shared with Grover. They were lazily drifting down the Barlon River, a relatively new conquest of the Empire in Hurron. This fork of the larger Grand River was less traveled by river steamers carrying goods up and down from Furzlandic ports to Canton rail connections and had not yet been burdened by industrial needs for water. At least for now, it made an ideal place for fishing and leisure between the towns on its banks.

Swit gingerly tugged on his rod, testing it for nibbling fish. “Is it not wonderful, Grover? I only wish we’d brought my daughter along.”

He turned to look as the Emperor failed to respond. Instead he found Grover leaned back, a straw hat pitched over his face and his rod secured between his folded arms. The steady rise and fall of his silken shirt and stillness showed how deeply asleep he’d managed to get.

Swit rolled his eyes. “That silly man.” His eyes shifted and refocused on a slowly approaching paddle boat tugging its own fishing lines behind it.

It wasn’t a boat of one of the royal guards, surely just out of sight but one apparently fit to approach them.

“Hello!” The pyke lady in worker’s clothes called out. Her accent was Furzlandic, not a local. Perhaps another leisure goer or a new settler. Her little boat was propelled by a handcrank, pushing a tiny set of paddles in front of it so as to not disturbed the lines trailing.

“Hello!” Swit called back. He grinned but said nothing else as she drew up next to them.

“And who might you two gentlemen be?”

Grover remained asleep. Swit answer. “Oh, just two merrygoers from the capital hoping to enjoy ourselves.”

“You picked an excellent stretch of river. The fishing here is excellent.”

Swit glanced at his catch bucket. It held a single lobster-like thing and a barely suitable bottomfeeder. “Certainly, madam.”

“Hera.” She extended her hand across the little bit of water that separated them now.

“Swit.” Swit said back and shook her hand.

“Who is your sleeping friend?”

Swit looked down at Grover. “I think it’s best that he introduce himself when he’s awake, whenever he does. It may be awhile, madam.” This lady didn’t seem to want to move on, Swit felt.

“Oh, if you insist.” Hera nodded and began to tug the little crank forward again. Just as Swit turned back to check his rod, Hera lifted a foot to kick the side of Grover and Swit’s craft. Swit gasped and clutched his fishing tackle.

“Careful, sirs. There’s some old logs in the river here.” She grinned as Swit turned around to look at her.

“Hm?” Grover blinked and sat up. “Swit, who is the nice lady?” He croaked out.

“Hera.” He said back with a flattened tone.

Hera… Grover cocked his head at her. Something about this woman reminded him of a dream, one he could not remember but felt he had… She was stunning in her own way despite him having only seen her seconds before. Certainly not his wife, but a fair lady certainly.

“I am Grover.” He got out as his mind aligned itself.

“Grover? Oh my, surely not our Emperor.” Hera whistled and grinned. Swit sighed.

“I am. Did you not notice the guard boats?” Grover tugged his line. Nothing had bitten since he was asleep.

“Well, then do two gentlemen need company?”

𒁹—Frought Beginnings

Rearing up from its thunderous gallop, the horse skidded to a halt and cried protest at the reckless rider. Yet he paid it no mind. A second set of gallops slid along through the dust, though the beast dare not raise its voice. Together, the two riders stared out ahead of them, down the slope of the lower pass with its many rocky croppings and crevices. These highland roads were always good for profit, but never good for safety.

Hopping from the horse, an older man landed with a grunt. Cape fluttering in the light breeze, he tromped over to the edge of their ridgeline and stared out along the length. It was just like the tip had said. Three wagons, overturned and ransacked, lay off on the side of the road. Wood splintered, trash heaped around through the reckless scavenging, the scene was far from unusual for a brigand attack. However, huntsmen such as himself weren’t in the employ of Kish to play frontier enforcer.

Motioning round his hand, he turned back to his horse and quickly mounted it. Kicking back, he trot on, his companion close behind as they followed along the ridgeline toward a shallow dip. Dust and dirt and stone collapsed beneath the rampaging hooves, beating a wafting screen behind them as they descended into the ravine. Shakily the horse argued, but nevertheless pushed on until making its way down. Turning his head, he saw the delicate robes bobbing awkwardly on the back of its hose, though with a far more compliant beast.

They rode to a few paces from the wreckage, before once more the lead rider disembarked. Something crunched under the thick leather of his highlander boots. Raising up a foot, he saw a crushed amulet, the weak clay figurine smashed beyond recognition. Clearly it hadn’t helped whoever was using it. Walking on he waded through trash and debris, trying his best not to disturb the scene, nor tread where faint prints lingered in the dirt. Weaving along the careful path, he found his way to the first of the three ruined wagons.

Axe marks splintered all along the thick wooden frame. Wheels hacked at during the attack, shredded canvas and splintered carriage boxes. Scanning over it all, he saw the rusty caking of dried blood over patches of timber and dirt. Speckles of black powder and flattened bullets. Yet not a body remained. Walking around, his eye swept over the ground, until landing on a faint glinting. Kneeling down, he picked up the silvery strands, drawing out their length and feeling their texture. Fur, not hair.

Squeezing the strands tight, he reached under his cape and pulled forth a small glass bottle with a cork stopper. Dropping the fur into the bottle, he pressed the cork down firmly and tucked it all away. Another for the collection. The last one, he suspected, that he’d bring with them to Udnun.

“I sense some familiarity on your brow, son of Kubin,” the woman called back with a seductively sly tone. She was always playful, even at foul times like this.

He ignored her for a moment, walking toward the second wagon and looking around. Among the dust he found more fur, this time a different coloration. Some black, some brown, all split from a blade. It seemed to him like the third wagon would be a waste of time. He knew what he’d find. Nothing useful, a dead end into a different story he had no patience for. Then again, that seemed to be the sorry state of things now. A million dramas, but none were the ones which mattered.

Retreating from the second wagon, he walked up to the saddle bag of his horse and tucked away the little vials. They clinked against other glassware, but he could care less. Their labels could get swapped, their containers could shatter, the furs could be mingled—it all pointed the same direction.

“Will the huntsman leave his work unfinished?” The woman asked.

“No,” he gruffly answered, turning back toward the third wagon. “I just hate this part of the same song and dance.”

He heard her slide off the back of her horse, the robes fluttering against the dirt as they fell around her veiled figure. Skin pimpled and hair stood on end as she approached, a serpentine glint flashing from beneath the darkness of her impenetrable hood. A strange sort of aura seemed to surround her, something invisible which made his stomach knot and twist. Yet he’d become accustomed to the nervousness it brought on. A latent fear he’d long since conquered, but always felt deep in his soul.

She reached out for him, waiting for his hand. Tentatively, he gave it. He felt his fingers brush against nails like claws, against a warmth which somehow drank in his own, giving that momentary shock of cool flesh. Looking around them, the hooded woman surveyed their surroundings for any sign of onlookers. Her eyes pierced through the thickest foliage and down the darkest crevices, sweeping far beyond mortal sight. Only once she was pleased did she pull back the hood, revealing her true self.

Gallu, as they were called all around the world, were among the eldest breeds of humanity in the world. They bore the flesh and faces of man, but the horns, ears and long thick tails of ox, and the terrifying talons of fierce eagles. Children of some ancient aetheric evolution, they had come to claim dominion over this corner of the world. So typical was their sight to him, that even despite being a man himself and not a Gallu, he sometimes felt strange seeing his own kind. Every stranger felt like they should bear horns and talons.

Nirah, as was her reckoning, was not a Gallu. A composite being like them, she instead bore the awesome terror of something altogether new. Her horns were many, two sets pulled inward like a tiara until they formed a god’s crown. Her ears were pointed and eyes slitted like a snake. Indeed, the serpent allusions were endless, as along her flesh were occasional protrusions of scale and discoloration, trailing along to her clawed fingers. Descending down her shapely form, legs gave way to talons, but perversely thickened and scaled like a reptile. She was a woman masquerading as a Gallu. A fact they always faced as every day brought the labor of affixing lapis jewelry and paints to her, concealing her divinity behind layers of cultural obfuscation and the disbelief of the onlooker. For who would believe for a moment that it was not some highlander noblewoman before them, but a goddess?

“Come, we haven’t time to waste,” she urged. “The earth is a hungry thing.”

He nodded, but didn’t move. A deep sigh instead escaped him.

Nirah paused and stood on her talons. She kissed his cheek, settling back down comfortably with an expectant look.

“Come, Lasirab. Udnun awaits. Mustn’t we join their assembly?”

Reluctantly, Lasirab, son of Kubin and rapidly aging veteran, marched on.

“It was worth a shot,” he said mournfully. “One never knows if there’s more than what meets the eye to these things.”

“Perhaps so,” she answered as they drew nearer the last wagon. “Yet seven times now we’ve done this. Seven times seeking the thorny fronds of the enemy, and seven times being greeted by this instead.”

“So it seems,” he answered. “All I need are some results.”

“We’ll find them. It’s just a matter of time.”

It greeted them with a foul odor when the wagon’s canvas door was thrown aside. Flies wafted out with the miasma, and the familiar maggoty stench he’d come to know pierced his senses with that sickly aroma. Yet it was his eyes which cringed, having seen this scene so many times before. Ruined at the far end of the wagon was, presumably, the former lead of this caravan. Though no body remained, in pulp or print or echo, his did.

Horrid in all its twisted contours, the beheaded stranger was slumped against the backboard of the opposing driver box. His head rested in open palms, each cut with bloody cuneiform protests. Stripped naked, the cuneiform crept every upwards, until pooling into spirals around the branded image of a hand grasping a ring. The horns and talons of the Gallu, as was always the case, were gone. Sick trophies for the victors of this massacre, joining a horde of untold many. But the final defilement was that most treacherous, and most worrisome to him. A dusting of silver always glittered over the severed neck of the dead captain, as well as his shoulders; and always, with the greatest trademark of all, a silver ring pierced the nose of the severed head.

Lasirab dragged the corpse from the splintered bed. It was crude, improper and impious—but too many times had he done this now. Too many times had he pulled the body away and set it on the ground. Too many times had he dug the grave for the poor man and set the stranger and his severed head into place. And too many times had he then stood by and waited for Nirah to do her work.

As the body collapsed into the pit, Lasirab stepped away, and allowed the goddess to approach. A deep sadness wreathed her features, with downcast eyes and quivering lips. For an onlooker, the monstrosity of the mutilation would’ve been the immediate tip. But he knew better.

Long ago, months upon months beyond his measure or care now, he had found Nirah in a sorry state. She, a wonder pulled from a Briar Court slave wagon, clad in her serpent fears and highland divinity. He had taken her in, agreed to return her to a home far in the north, to her beloved Khatub, only to find that it had been leveled and its people defiled. In each body she put to rest, she saw an echo of that dark day. Of the headless many of Khatub, and she the clinical mother piecing her children’s corpses back together. Forever alone in this world, alone except for him.

She lowered her hands into the pit, and a radiance seemed to clad her. Divinity showered her outline, and on a twisting impulse Lasirab looked away. He’d seen this thing before, this arcane consumption, as she reached into the dead and drained them of traces of aether. A revolting, but necessary, procedure.

Nirah had been wronged by the Briar Court—that collection of occult monstrosities who had lost the great war in their silver coup. Rendered bands of underground arcanists and marauders, it was his purpose in life to seek them out. To crush the last vestiges of the occult that sought dominion over all the Empire, and to avenge their dark deeds in the last days of the war. A dream of ashes, to render unto those cremators the same fate they rendered unto once-mighty Kubin. Yet his mission had become fraught with troubles. Through Nirah he had found hope, found signs of grand conspiracy and occult sciences. However, since those days he’d found less and less. Some months ago the Briar Court had launched its gambit to kill the royalty, yet in its failure the dealings of the court had stagnated. Echoes of their activities prevailed, but it seemed to the powers of Kish that the lame hydra of the silver crown had finally collapsed. But he didn’t agree. Lame as the hydra may be, it still yet breathed.

She rose from the side of the pit, and stood aside. Hands clasped in prayer, Nirah looked up toward the heavens. Lasirab searched her eyes, seeing such incredible divine depth in them. Yet there was a mortality to them—a lingering humanity from her Lirite birth no doubt. Tears welled in them, pooling her anguish as she searched for her immortal parentage for answers. But Subarri never answered her. And Imkur never showed a sign nor care from his perch in heaven.

“Nirah,” he said, daring to approach and place a hand on her shoulder. “Go to the horses. We’ll be riding again soon.”

She leaned into him, and shook her head sadly.

“Blood begets blood. How can you mortals be so foolish as to commit such incredible evil?”

He looked down into the pit, at the unsettled final moments of that man’s life.

“Was there aether on him? Any trace of the court?”

Nirah shook her head. The typical negative.

“This Nirazu must be a demon of a man. He clads himself in liberty and good will, but commits his people to such incredible evil.”

The name was poison to his ears, forcing him to suppress a sneer.

“Silver rebels. They only want to change who holds the rope—just like they did during the war.”

“Foolish man,” she snapped back. “If your slavery of their evildoers weren’t so broad, weren’t so unjust, then this upstart would never have come to be such a problem. Look what your Kish has done. How are we ever to find the blighted briared while Nirazu runs amok?”

He had no answer. He knew well her complaint—that the increasing burden placed on the khimerine war-slaves and the bondage of their descendants had finally created a rebel movement. But it was the proper thing to do. In freedom their fathers had rushed to make slaves of the lords of the land, and in vengeance they had ruined Kurimgal from high to low. These khimerine couldn’t be trusted with freedom. A silver prince would be all the inspiration they needed to once again start a war. Yet now there was Nirazu. And Nirazu had all but distracted Kish from its true enemy.

“They’ll find him and kill him,” he answered dispassionately. “Just as we’ll find the Briar Court, and tear out their roots.”

Nirah studied him for a long moment, before shaking her head and slowly releasing his grip.

“By their foundations. And nothing less.”

She plodded away, her talons tugging through the dust, while he turned to his blackened task. Grabbing the hilt of the all too familiar shovel, he stared down at the closed eyes of the hornless Gallu. Muttering his own prayer to Subarri, Lasirab dug in his spade, and threw down the first heaping of dirt.

A Night Out

Stefaan waited around the corner from the wine bar for the signal from his colleague down the street. The war with the Comet empire was over and the Grand Duke’s forces finally returned from their harrowing ordeal. Despite the war taking place at the other end of Sinarrum the empire’s awakening gave rise to a new problem in Vaalder: the “Returnists”. The Bureau of Public Tranquility was tasked with investigating this new sect of traitors.

Stefaan, despite his youthful appearance, took the disguise of a wounded soldier. He’d practiced a limp for the past several weeks and used an old cane. His clothes were tattered, but clean enough to not stick out amongst a crowd. Tying the whole disguise together was a bushy brown beard, and specks of dirt flicked across his face. He was unrecognizable.

His colleague gave him the signal. A subtle three fingers pointed and waved towards the bar. Stefaan hobbled down the street and around the corner. Noise from the bar grew louder and louder as he approached. His stomach began to turn when the smell of stale alcohol mixed with horse manure from the street reached his nostrils. Dodging the droppings he finally reached the bar, his colleague took up a position across the street in case anything turned sour.

The air was hot and sticky, he felt as if he was wading through a bowl of soup. Sawdust littered the floor, great for soaking up spilled booze and mud from the street. Pushing past drunk labors and proud soldiers he finally reached an open spot at the counter. The bartop shimmered in the dim light as a bartender cleared his section tossing aside bottles and wiping down empty glasses.

“What can I get ya?” a red-faced clean shaven gallu with small grey horns moved to take Stefaan’s order.

“Oh, a canon of marc please.” The gallu nodded.

A soldier’s drink Stefaan thought to himself. He scanned the bar. It was mostly laborers and factory workers. To his left sat a group of soldiers fresh from the front. Finally at the end of the bar tucked away in the corner was his mark. Clad in a black velvet coat he was a particularly vocal returnists of the First Seed sect the BTP had been tracking for weeks. He quickly formed a plan by the time the bartender returned.

“Anything else?” He asked as the glass clinked on the metallic counter.

“Another chopine for my comrades in arms!” He nudged the soldier next to him. “They’ve got the dust of the Empire in their throats.” Stefaan tossed a few coins on the counter making a soft ring as they landed.

“Much appreciated comrade!” The soldier, a peculiar Khimerine with ears and a tail like a horse and matching hooves, boomed with joy. “Where’d you fight, soldier?”

“Ikh-Taiajek. Nearly lost my leg in the fight and got sent home.” Stefaan tapped his cane on the ground.
“Aye. That was a mean fight. Lost some good men in that one.” The soldier gazed off into space, reliving that fateful moment. “Melen.” He snapped back to reality, thrusting his hand towards Stefaan.

“Magnus.” Stefaan shook his hand and took a sip of his drink. It was potent and went down rough. He did his best not to react. “You must’ve just got back from fighting the empire.”

“The Cendres. That’s what we call ‘em. Any even meaner fight, they wore all-black…” Stefaan eyed his mark as the soldier prattled on. The slur got his attention and each word seemed to provoke him. “Somes gods. They didn’t look too godly with a bayonet in their throat.” The soldier chuckled.

The man in black slammed his hand on the counter, his eyes bright with dangerous fervor. “You speak of victory as if you’ve done anything more than bruise the hand of your father. They are the true gods.” he cried, his voice cutting through the tavern’s low rumble. “They will rise again when the comet calls! We’re nothing but dust under their boots. To fight them is to fight the very blood in your veins!”

A heavy silence fell. The soldier slowly stood up, a pair of medals on his chest clinked like a funeral knell.

“I saw what they do to their people, Monsieur.” the soldier said, his voice a low growl. “They enslave, they harvest, they burn. I buried forty of my men in the ash and mud who were dust to your gods. To us, they were brothers.”

Stefaan watched intently waiting for the powder keg to explode. He nodded to his colleague as if to say ‘Get ready’, and pulled the hammer back on a revolver he hid in his coat with a sharp click.

“You’ll join them soon.”

That was it. That was the match. In a fury the soldier lunged across the table grabbing the man by his neck. The whole tavern went into a frenzy. The man in black broke his drink over the soldier's head forcing him to release his grip as a stream of bleed flowed across his face. He recoiled in pain. Before Stefaan could react a pair of soldiers grabbed the man arm in arm while a third began to beat him to a pulp.

Bang bang bang Three shots clear and sharp made the whole room freeze. Through the smoke Stefaan stood arm raised, his partner by his side, debris from the ceiling clattered to the floor.

“BTP! Everyone out!”
Stefaan’s partner grabbed the mark before he could flee. He wreathed in pain while his hands were tied behind his back. Stefaan approached the bloodied soldier.

“The duke thanks you for your service.” He handed him a small bag of coins and motioned towards the door. The soldier, confused, held the bag in one hand and his wound in the other, and ran out the door, his comrades not far behind. All who remained were Stefaan, his partner, and the man in black.

“Léon Pélissier, you are charged with sedition and inciting a riot. How do you plead?”

“Not… guilty.” The man coughed and sputtered as he spoke. Blood flew from his nose onto the floor.

Stefaan nodded. As expected. He raised his gun and fired. The man crumpled to the floor, blood poured from his skull.

“We’re done here.”

Act V: A Princess of Albion

Chapter I:

Vicary

The seawater was harsh and acrid. It salted his skin and irritated his face, and although Vicary was no man partial to seasickness, to be half keel-hauled off the back of a moving boat made him feel more than a little queasy. The seawater was churned up beneath the boat, but with every maligned wave, the water sprung up - or more accurately, brought the boat down - and covered his face, and he caught a mouthful of seawater. A week ago, he had been captured by Nisaryan. The Cerapheti, he had come to learn. ’Better than the Rukaphet’ He had thought to himself, those strange and wild animals that were the most numerous of the lot, and had the most barbaric traditions of all of them.

Soon enough, the boat came to shore, and he felt it bury itself into the sand with a sudden jolt. The Nisaryan aboard began to disembark, and as the men stood up, Vicary felt the business end of a stick jab itself into his back.

“Get up, Salbayan.” The voice was harsh and heavily-accented, but it knew enough Sascan to tell him where to go, and where to shove whatever complaints he may have thought to raise. He groaned quietly, and attempted to stand, but spending so long upon his stomach only left him struggling to sit upright. His hands, tied tightly with rope behind his back, offered no aid. He was kicked this time,

“Up, Salbayan!” The voice belonged to a particularly large and nasty Nisaryan, with thick green scales that were pock-marked with enough wounds and scars to reveal much of his thick, leathery hide just beneath. He was either ignorant, or plain vindictive, because he brought the stick down to jab at Vicary’s chest.

“Now, now!”

He grumbled under his breath, some slur he’d picked up on the mainland, which his captor did not hear. He finally came to his feet, stumbling upon the boat’s deck. The Nisaryan grabbed him by one enormous hand and pushed him off the boat, and he landed face-down upon the beach. He groaned, still for a moment, before he begrudgingly began to rise once more to his feet. The warriors who had captured him were jabbering away in their barbarian tongue, so quickly that Vicary could hardly pick up a word. They were beginning to walk away from the shore, towards where golden-coloured grasses grew waist-high. A jab in his back told him that he was to follow.

Where were they going? They did not say. All he heard was their voices, and the hissing laughter of the warriors as they joked and japed. Vicary knew some of their language, it was impossible to live in Khandar without gaining at least a cursory understanding, but they spoke so quickly and so brazenly that he could scarcely make out the words: ‘Capture’, ‘Hunt’, ‘Mountain’, and strangely enough, their native word for ‘female leader’.

The hike continued all day. The sun rose to its highest peak, and then began to fall in the sky, but still they continued to climb up the long and winding mountain path. Grasses had receded, replaced with enormous trees that grew vines as thick as a man’s arm, but even these grew spotty as they rose far above the jungle’s canopy and up into the highland terrain that overlooked the coast below. It was a clear day, and he could see out far into the distance, where small black dots that he knew were boats bobbed upon the water. It was such a beautiful day, the perfect day for sailing. He grit his teeth, not in response to thinking of himself captive, but rather for the fact that he was wasting this perfect day in captivity at all.

Soon enough, the path narrowed out into a winding road that took them below the crest of a waterfall, which turned Vicary’s clothes quite damp with mist, and around the circle of the mountain’s great summit. There, nestled within the crook, was something like a castle keep. It was a foreboding structure, made of dark greyish-black stone. It rose high, buttressed against the cliffside, with four immediate towers surrounding a wooden roof, which was covered in a web of winding vines and growing moss. In some places it was patched up, obviously reinforced by thick planks of wood, and there was some kind of water-wheel installed where a brook ran down into the valley as a gentle waterfall. Despite the heat of the day, from one of its towers rose the black smoke of a fire, and Vicary could only guess that it was some kind of forge, or perhaps a bakery. It proved that the place was inhabited, at least.

The men stopped in front of two heavy wooden doors, which seemed to have been freshly repaired with wrought-iron straps to reinforce the planks. One of their own stepped forwards, opening up the doorway, which appeared to be lit by a blueish, baleful light. They ushered their captive inside.

-

Despite all his worldliness, Vicary had really only ever seen a Pirigan in the flesh once. It was during a pilgrimage to the monastery at Mt. Idris. He had been praying in the chapel alone, when he heard behind him the thunderous footsteps of quite a massive creature. He looked up to catch a robed figure, a monk, trundling along between the pews, before coming to the tabernacle and bowing low before it. He supplicated himself in prayer for quite a while, before finally coming to stand. Vicary remembered how it turned its lumbering head towards him, only for a moment, and he caught a glimpse beneath that hood of an enormous hooked beak-like snout, and the fur that seemed to grow like feathers at his ruffled neck. He always remembered his eyes, which in the drawings had always been so small and beady, but in the flesh had appeared so wide and curious. He must have been a young Pirigan, an acolyte of some kind.

But a Pirigan stood before him, sitting atop a large ‘throne’ in the midst of one enormous atrium. Around the room there were various displays of science and technology: There was some kind of desk, upon which was placed various glassware and large flasks, within which bubbled all kinds of strange and exotically coloured liquids. Between two flasks, there ran a tube filled with some kind of orange steam, which occasionally billowed from the mouth of another flask when the pressure grew great enough to release a flap at its entrance. In another corner, there were some stovetops and countertops, equally wrapped in thick wires and strange pneumatic tubing, and in another corner there were various tables covered in maps, inscriptions, and weathered books whose titles Vicary could not read. The whole room was dark, but gently illuminated with that baleful light, which seemed to emanate from every direction and fill every space. In the center of the room, surrounded by a series of black glassy candles upon which flickered a bright blue flame, there was an enormous bowl of water sat upon a stone altar. Vicary was made to stand before it, and look upon the enthroned woman.

The first thing he noticed was that this Pirigan was not young. She was old, old beyond old, and the years had left their mark upon her weathered and grizzled form. She wore a long brown cloak, but had no hood, which put her whole hideous face on show. She had a long muzzle, with teeth that grew snaggletooth from between two thin, leathery lips. Her ears, pronounced on other Pirigan, had practically been cut away, and the remaining skin was as bare as a mole rat’s behind. The fur around her muzzle and snout was grey, like a dog of too many years, while her horns grew long, wild, and unkempt almost two feet above her head, which was covered in a thick tangle of fur-like hair. All the way down her body, there grew matted fur and wild dark feathers, and the fur alternated between a shocking whitish grey and a dark ebony black. These features were pronounced especially around her claws, which although not overly long, were cracked and aged, with fur sticking out as tufts of greyish hair between thick patches of pink, leathery skin. She was a creature worn down by time. Those features that could decay had decayed, and those features susceptible to growth had grown to their fullest size. She looked at him with a pair of glassy, cloudy eyes almost made blind by cataracts.

“Ah, they said they were bringing me a Salbayan …” She spoke. Her voice was as aged as herself, a thin and crackling thing, so weak that it was almost lost upon the wind. But it carried with it a power that, as far as Vicary saw, subdued these brutish warriors absolutely. “And a Salbayan like you … how rare.”

She allowed a smile to cross her leathery lips, humming to herself quietly, before continuing,

“Tell me your name, man-thing.”

Vicary wasn’t sure if he should respond. Was it a trap? Was he to be killed here, for the pleasure of some strange old woman? Or was it a trick of some kind, the nature of which he could not yet deduce? But judging by the mean looks of the Nisaryan behind him, he could know that he didn’t have much of a choice. So he spoke,

“My name is Captain Vicary Fox.” He said, “I am an officer of the Commonwealth Republican Army.”

The old woman made a curious noise, a ‘Hmm!’, and spoke, “Yes, quite! A rare find. For me, yes … you may call me Mistress. I am the chief captain of the Ceraphet, the foremost people upon this island. I serve his highness the Urmad-Dur, to whom all Albian captives shall be sent.”

“You wish to send me to the Urmad-Dur.” Vicary frowned. He could not hide that his hopes had been dashed: The man had all Nisaryan under his sway, it seemed. “Then why have I been brought before you, and not killed or put to the mines?”

“I serve the Urmad-Dur as you serve the Lord-Protector,” She answered, “But the Ceraphet are his loyal ally, not a grouping of subordinates. It is my custom that I review all the captives of import, you amongst them.”

“You say you are the foremost on this island,” Vicary noted, “And yet you take orders from him? Would that not make you subordinate?”

A Nisaryan behind him hissed, and ‘Mistress’ made a curious grumbling sound.

“You have a foul mouth, Salbayan.” She said, crowing. “And you know nothing. It is the nature of this war that concessions be made, and offerings be made to those who hold captaincy over all the armies of Khandar. Nonetheless, I need something from you.” She continued the usage of that name, ‘Salbayan’, as if he had not given her his name.

Vicary frowned, “I have nothing to give, you are wasting your time.”

She made a sound like the cry of a crow, “You know nothing, Salbayan! All I need is what I would require of any guest,” She said, “You of all people, are a very special guest. Your coming was not unexpected …” She made another curious noise, “All the things I obtain, I obtain for a purpose. Nothing is given to me that I shall not, with enough of my own intelligence and good patience, utilise.”

“So what would the Ceraphet want of me?” He said, “Or their rambling leader?”

She let out a snort of good humour, “Not the company of a beast so disrespectful!” She pointed a long bony claw towards the font, “Come forwards, Salbayan. And look.”

Vicary stepped forwards. As he did, he noted how large it truly was. From his position, it was about chest-level, and as he approached he grew a full appreciation of its size, as large as a warrior’s shield. It reminded him of a baptismal font, he thought. Only larger, and filled near to the brim with a deep, blueish water whose bottom he could not quite see. It grew hazy, as if it had been diluted with a helping of salt, refracting the light in strange ways.

“Tis’ all I ask of you, Salbayan.” She said, “Place your head within the water and see.”

Vicary scoffed, “You crazy old bat,” He said, “Is this a trick?”

The Pirigan scowled, her lips pulling back to reveal her jagged teeth.

“I ask this now, Salbayan.” She said, “Obey, or I shall not ask it again.”

Vicary suddenly had the vision of his head being held underwater, drowned by force. He despised this. He would have appreciated it more to be handled roughly, so that there was no impression that he was cowed into it, but he supposed that it would certainly be more dignified not to make an example of himself. So he approached the bowl and dunked his head in the water.

For the first few moments, he felt only the water upon his face. He wondered if it was a practical joke of some kind and this was only a prelude to the sound of their barbarous laughter, or perhaps the pretense to some exotic method of execution, the kind he had read about as a child in those terrible pulp fiction books they distributed for three pennies a pop. But then there was a burst of sudden, bright light, and he was on the streets of a city. It was a city he remembered, for it was the streets of Avalonia. In fact, he knew the very street. It was St. Zuan’s Square, complete with familiar shops and a bustling, protesting crowd. They were picketing, some armed, some holding signs, while others sifted and fled through the crowd. He saw through the billowing dust and the smoke the coming approach of grenadiers through the street ahead, from beyond a great barricade that separated the writhing mass of humanity from a long dusty stretch of empty street beyond. They had their swords drawn and their horses were in full gallop. He yelled, but found that he could make no appreciable noise. The crowd panicked as the horses pushed past the flimsy defences, and them onwards into the mass of men, and it was a stampede. He saw men fall like dominoes, and saw the gushing gouts of blood erupt as they were cut down in their many, their throats and bodies cut through their scarves or clothes. He looked away, but he could still see the streets run red, and heard with his ears familiar heads crushed like so many eggshells by stomping hooves.

When he looked back, he was no longer in St. Zuan’s square, but rather it was a cathedral. A vast stone cathedral, resplendent, with so much marble and gold and great icons that covered the great ceiling. There were statues which flanked the altar, although this was not the focus, and a great crowd of faceless figures that cheered and whooped in a cacophony so loud that it became deafening, and Vicary felt the need to cover his ears. They stood before a platform three steps high, atop which there stood one enormous golden throne, upon its seat an occupant whose face he could not see. But in a pair of hands above his golden hair, there was a delicate crown like a set of laurel leaves. They were patterned like the roots of a great tree, twirling and shaping around one another, before they came to a heavy-set emerald as vibrant as a spinel encrusted upon the front, which joined many other gemstones which were hidden amongst the branches until they grew high into the air like the horns of a great elk. He watched the crown as it was placed upon his forehead, and heard the cheers grow and grow, until they were so loud that he could not bear it, and he clutched his ears so fiercely that he swore he would have ripped them from his head.

But then they stopped, and felt the fires consume that as well, burning and burning until the acrid smoke was rising into a gloomy sky, overcast with jet-black, churning clouds. Foul raindrops fell upon his forehead, and he felt the stink as he rose to stand. In the far distance there rose colossal brick-chimneys, and the orange glow of a dozen moving steel-mills. There shambled men unlike men, tired, confused, and hungry, and in a clearing between the clouds far above there hovered the red and ominous glow of a faraway star. But around him, arising from the black mud, there arose the coiling silhouette of a great enormous body. It was long and thin like a snake, for it was a snake, this fact revealed by the rising of an enormous head that burst forwards from the terrible, sucking mud that was now swallowing his legs. Vicary tried to move, but he found that the mud had stuck him, and he could not become unstuck. He was entrapped, for circumstances beyond his control, and could not even move his arms for they were as heavy as stone.

He struggled and writhed, feeling the mud as it rose, from knee to thigh to hip, consuming him like quicksand. But when he looked down, he found within both hands the hilt of an enormous sword, which was as bright as starlight and glowed as if it were aflame. But even with all his might, he could not lift it, not until it was upon him - not until it had opened its foul mouth, with its fangs as thick as tree trunks. Only then he lifted it upwards, and buried it into the head of the beast through the roof of its mouth. Its lizardly eyes, thin-slit before, now widened, then burst, and erupted with great gouts of flame. Fire burst from the smouldering sockets of its eyes, like smoke billowing from a chimney, and it screamed and screamed until Vicary opened his eyes,

And there was silence. He sat upon the floor, heaving, his face dripping with water, and tried to breathe. His breath was light, and despite all his trying, he couldn’t quite breathe deep enough - and so he kept on going, heaving, until he fell onto his back and groaned. He knew that the Pirigan was before him, and her soldiers behind him, but he felt as if he was going to faint.

“Ralu-mata!” The Pirigan crowed, “Remember it! Burn it into your memory! All those things you saw are yours, yours!” Her voice grew to a fever-pitch, almost avian in its screeching, “You see what I see now, and know that I am not ‘crazy’.”

He managed to catch his breath, and placed his hand upon his chest. Then he closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and after a moment gathered enough strength to sit up. He sat up, but placed one boot upon the ground and bent his knee so that he could rest his head against it. Then he spoke,

“What did I just see?” He said, “You wretched thing, did you drug me?”

“Drugs!” ‘Mistress’ crowed again, “Funny man-thing! No drugs! Truth!” She cackled, “Truth alone, and the truth that shall set you free! You have seen your future, Salbayan. Tell me now,” She leaned in, focusing those hazy eyes upon him, “What did you see?”

His first instinct was to lie, but he knew that it would not be possible. Was he not only dishonourable, but stupid? His gut, too, knew that this was by design. So instead he denied her,

“I would tell you nothing.”

And she hissed, then laughed again. “As if you can risk it!” She cackled, “You inquisitive Salbayan, do not fall silent now. I am the only woman who may answer those many questions you are so fond of asking.”

He grimaced, then relented.

“I saw …” He said, his desire to answer was almost instinctive, as if he waited any longer that he would lose the memory in his mind, “A crowd, and soldiers tearing them down. I saw a man with a crown placed upon his head. I saw …” He stumbled on his words, “I saw mills, and devils made of men, and a sword I could not lift and a snake that almost devoured me,” He paused, “That would have devoured the whole world, until I thrust my sword through its head.”

She crowed again, “So it spoke to you! You kill all beasts that come to consume your flesh?”

“It was going to kill me,” He said, “I had to kill it, lest it do the same to me.”

‘Mistress’ laughed, a cruel cackle that continued for as long as she pleased, until she slumped back in her chair and laid two bony hands to rest upon her robed lap.

“You are a curious man-thing,” She said, “You Salbayan, you are all the same! So desperate for all the easy answers - aha, but the world is so complex! So fickle, such thin threads, such strange things. All the world asunder, but you can pick out amongst all of them - yes, all of them - a plan! A plan for us all, a series of strange and wonderful moments, which in the end come together. Tell me, Salbayan! Why were you so desperate to slay such a beast? Why are you so desperate to live?”

Vicary was suddenly quite taken aback. It was a question he had never seriously pondered. ‘Why don’t you want to die?’, it could have been phrased. It seemed self-evident to him, but when confronted with justifying his decision, his mind was blank. He settled on what came to mind,

“I’m not fond of dying.” He answered. ‘Mistress’ seemed to find this hilarious, and fell into hollering laughter. She repeated the joke to her subordinates, in their own tongue, who similarly joined into a cacophony of hissing and japing.

“Good creature!” She said, still laughing. “Yes, good creature you are! All things intend to keep living, even if you are as old as I! But your brain is so empty, Salbayan. Such a gift of intelligence, and you fill it with nothing! Little above the animals, to kill to live, but you shall learn. No easy answers shall come to you, Salbayan. But you know now,” She snorted, “And I know what I know, and that is suitable to me. Keep it in your mind, Salbayan. Keep it close to yourself.”

Mistress seemed content with that. She made a sound like the humming of an engine, and waving one long bony claw, beckoned for her subordinates.

“Take him away,” She said to her guards, in the tongue of the Nisaryan. “Take him to the Urmad-Dur, yes! My gift to him.”

She laughed as he was taken away, and her lips twisted cruelly around her snaggletooth fangs. But Vicary could not tell if she was laughing at him, or at something else.

-

They travelled on for a few more hours, as midday turned into afternoon, and as the cool morning air transformed into something hotter, humid, and far more uncomfortable. Vicary knew very well from the traditions of the Albians, those stories taught from childhood onwards throughout life, that the Khimerine were not native to this part of Avestar. At times like this, when the sun was hot and he was sticky with sweat, he was quite sure that they were not. His Nisaryan captors, meanwhile, were perfectly adapted. They slithered across the terrain without difficulty, whether dusty rock-trails or over the deadwood that littered a thin traversable trail across the floor of some tropical forest, and they did not sweat. ‘They are cold-blooded’, Lucia had once told him, ‘The sun invigorates them. We spend all our time keeping ourselves cool, and they spend all their time keeping themselves warm.’

She always spoke like that. In quick, witty phrases that felt far too simple. He knew now, after so much difficulty, that she was right. Better to be general and quick than complex and dead. Soon, however, he spotted the long trailing black clouds of smoke between thin and wispy white clouds. Then, when they crested over the top of a small hill, he spotted the beginnings of a camp!

What a camp it was! Tents seemed to sprawl for miles, little moving dots that seemed to mix between a stupendous number of colourful tents, hanging tapestries, and roaring fires. As they trundled down the hill and entered within its makeshift walls, he had the sudden impression that he was in a primitive version of some Avestan marketplace, with all the bustle and business that he could have expected. There were strange Nisaryan peddling stranger wares, children slithering across the dusty beaten paths that passed for streets, soldiers marching in column amongst civilians attempting to beg, or to steal, or to peddle strange circus tricks on street-corners. There were scantily-dressed women that were obviously prostitutes, and conservatively-dressed women who were obviously priestesses and oracles. There was the smell of cooked meats, or the overpowering smell of fresh spices, and even the smells of incense or burning charcoal. There were the billowing clouds of hookah-smoke and the sounds of marching feet, as well as the accompanying shouts as men were ordered around, and there was the hypnotic drum-beat of some strange exotic music.

It had begun as some kind of army camp, it seemed. Then, as time went on, it had grown until it was something like a tent-city. In the center of town, he would soon see real stone and wood buildings, and businesses with hanging signs and wagons carrying their produce. Give it a few years, he thought, and this would have surely become a true city, fit with paved streets and palatial estates. For the first time on this island, Vicary thought, he was actually impressed.

When they came to an intersection between the tents, Vicary saw another crowd of well-armed Nisaryan soldiers approach. He was unsure of them at first, but he knew from their matching red sashes and the duller, slightly darker colouration in their scales that they were surely Rukaphet, that most prominent of all the Nisaryan tribes in Khandar of which he was so well-acquainted. They stopped in front of the Cerapheti procession, and the two Nisaryan at the front of each column began to converse with one another.

It gave the rest of them the time to look at one another, Ceraphet to Rukaphet, and he heard slight hissing from those Nisaryan on his side of the confrontation. As if they were contesting street-gangs! He looked over these Rukapheti warriors, and apart from the nasty looks upon their faces, he found nothing particularly interesting about them. That is, until a Nisaryan stepped forwards from the group to join in the conversation at the front of the column. There, between a gap in their mob, he saw a woman.

For a moment, he could not believe his eyes. It was not a Nisaryan. Rather, it was a Khimerine!

He looked upon her, and knew that she was Albian. She was pale-skinned, although unevenly tanned from unwanted exposure to the sun, and Vicary felt himself stunned by her beauty. She had long curly blonde hair that ran down to the length of her waist, a third tied loosely into two braids. The rest of her hair was tied only at the very end, allowing the rest to show off its volume. Her face was soft, with the exception of her jaw, and her eyes were a bright clear blue. She was adorned in fine golden jewelry, with a jewelled necklace and a beautiful crest upon her forehead, the top of which was shaped into the head of a snake. It accompanied a white silken top and a long skirt, and Vicary was astounded to see that much of the silk that ran over her shoulders was transparent. Her midriff, too, was completely bare. He blushed to behold an Albian so undressed.

But he did not look away, as his moral mind said to do. He was too excited! He never thought that he’d have been excited to see red lips, hair, or even legs, but he was, for all he had seen until now were sharp fangs, scaled hoods, and bothersome long tails. She appeared bored, but as soon as she happened to spot Vicary, her eyes widened in shock and she could not hide her smile. Vicary immediately knew that it had been a long time since she had seen another Albian, too. She raised her hands, which were untied, and waved.

Vicary did the same with his manacled hands. But as he did, one of the guards seemed to notice, and moved forwards. He seemed to be one of their leaders, and wore a nice bandolier and a bright colourful headdress. He hissed, as if in jealousy, and slithered right up to Vicary. There was barely a foot between them, and the enormous snake looked down upon him, opening his mouth and revealing his sharp fangs in an attempt at intimidation. He had not even raised his rifle, he was so confident, and so eager to humiliate his prey in a fit of masculine challenge.

Vicary had always found that was not fond of himself being tested in this way. He felt the urge to step back, or to supplicate himself, but he did not. He was not in the business of bowing before strange snake-men, and his natural character did not lend to being disrespected, not since he was a short-statured child being picked on by the older boys in the academy. So when the Nisaryan leaned forwards, extending its tongue and hissing in an almost mocking manner, he pulled back his fist and punched him in the gut.

His opponent had not been expecting that. He wavered for a moment, his jaw hanging slack, and he made a sound like exhalation. Knowing the short amount of time he had, Vicary withdrew his fist again and then punched the warrior in his face. He dropped his rifle and toppled over, falling onto the floor. He was unconscious. There was a moment of stunned silence as the other Rukapheti warriors looked on, unsure of what they had just witnessed. Then, most erupted in a fit of hissing laughter, that ugly sound that Vicary had already heard far too much of. Two of them pushed through the crowd to corner Vicary, but a Cerapheti warrior - the one who had just been pointing a bayonet at Vicary’s back - jumped forwards to defend him, while the other warrior grabbed him by the back of his neck and ingloriously pulled him backwards.

They hissed, and exchanged words that Vicary could understand,

“Ours!”

“Criminal!”

And in the noise and the calamity, Vicary lost sight of the woman, who seemed to have disappeared under the shoulders of the Rukapheti warriors around her. The Ceraphet were still laughing, and one shoved the butt of their musket at one of the approaching warriors. After some pushing and shoving, the Rukaphet were made to move on, leaving their fallen comrade alone upon the ground. They did not seem to care for their humiliated brethren, and neither did the Ceraphet, who after recovering themselves from their laughter and threatening, pulled Vicary forwards and began to frog-march him once more. They did not stop, and when Vicary tried to turn his head to look back at the fallen warrior, his guard quickly smacked him with the back of his hand.

-

For the whole trip to the Cerapheti side of the camp, Vicary had visions of cramped cells, manacles, and cold stone walls. He was not sure how the Nisaryan would manage this, considering they always seemed to travel in tents, but he was sure that his captors had cooked up something suitably malicious in order to punish this uppity Khimerine for his mere existence. But when Vicary arrived at his place of captivity, he found nothing of the sort. They were sparse, yes: It was a round, circular tent with several large poles holding it up from the middle. The floor was covered with one enormous rug which was strewn with sand from use. The only thing that kept him in place were a set of chains around his legs and arms, which hobbled his movement. But by the end of the day Lydris had taken these off so that he could help her move around some large barrels of water that needed to be collected for the guard-towers the following morning.

Of the women that had been tasked to care for him, the most prominent was the one named Lydris, who had no fear. She was large, even for a Nisaryan, and knew that if Vicary tried anything that she could grab him with all four arms and subdue him without a problem. He had managed to knock out Getaman because the big idiot had gotten cocky, and because at the time he still had free movement of his feet and hands. She had done away with those advantages. Still, she seemed to treat him kindly, and had some sympathy for his situation. She even found the time to say, when the others were not close enough to overhear them,

“That chieftain you felled, he was Getaman of Tarsis. If you knew him, you would understand that I think such an act was right of you to do.”

There was an odd sense of calm, Vicary noted. Despite their obvious distrust, there was almost an honourable agreement between captive and captor: ’You shall die. Perhaps soon. Perhaps tomorrow.’, it said, ’Everybody must die at some point.’ By the time the work was finished, Lydris and two other women took the opportunity to bathe Vicary, which was a venture of great embarrassment for a man whose nakedness had only been seen by his wetnurse and his mother. When he asked if he could do the deed himself, he was informed by Lydris,

”It is not according to custom.”

And received no further answer. After he had been sponged, cleaned, perfumed, and dried, they sat him down in the center of the room and began to trim him. They shaved off the stubble at his neck, pruned his teeth with a fine brush, and began to carefully ‘braid’ his hair behind his head. He should have known better than to protest at this point, and when he said,

“Look, this really isn’t necessary -”

He received a curt tap on the head. When all was done, it was three days and an evening until he learned what was going to happen to him next.

-

The Nisaryan slowed down when the sun set. The air grew cooler, and it became more necessary for them to preserve their energy, and so they grew lazy and communal. They sat around campfires, or on watchtowers, and drank warm drinks while talking about the news of the day. Nisaryan scarcely talked during work hours, but when it came time for relaxation, they never stopped. All the women had curled themselves up circling a large campfire with skins of some kind of alcohol, and talked and drinked.

Vicary had exited the tent, and sitting some distance from the fire to keep himself cool, listened in. He was permitted that amount of freedom, and they did not seem to have much fear of or even concern for him. He could make out some words, for they talked slowly and softly, unlike the near-incomprehensible jargon of the guards which he had overheard before.

“They have decided to take that captive Salbayan we have to the arena,” A larger, red-scaled Nisaryan said. “For the celebrations tomorrow, for the victory on the mainland.”

“Sad. He is a good-looking one,” One of the women shrugged, “The wild beasts for him, I see. What of our other captive?”

“She is as she was before, safe in that tent. They are bringing her to his highness the Urmad-Dur as well, so that she may watch her countryman die. Or something or other to that affect,”

Vicary felt his stomach drop. So that confirmed it. He took it well, he thought. In all the stories, men dropped to their knees and begged for mercy, or wept bitter tears as they considered their deaths. But he accepted it, passively, if with some sadness. A small part of him believed that he was not going to die, and instead be taken to the mines with so many other Albian captives, but he supposed that he had never really thought about it before. He was discomforted by that. He continued to listen,

“I have heard rumours that they will stop treating her so fondly.” Another woman spoke up, she had a darker colouration to her scales and a long, blue veil around her hooded head. “That they will stop giving her those silks and furs to sleep on and so much nice food and drink. The Salbayan do not want ransoms: They do not accept ransoms during times of war such as these, strange they are.”

One of the other women said, “I think they will try to get her to turn … and the Urmad-Dur will marry her to one of his lordlings.” She turned to Lydris, who had been silent so far, reclining on a large rock. “You know her well, Lydris. Do you think she would do such a thing?”

Lydris bobbed her head in thought, and then shook her head. “She is like you, Sylla.” She replied, and she said something else, but it was a series of words that Vicary could not quite understand. “... but she is very proud, and very homesick. I would hope she obeys the commands of the Urmad-Dur, if only to keep herself alive. She tells me frequently of the wonderful sights of the islands of the Salbayan. She tells me too that, amongst them, there are those who are unfavourable to war with us. That if it was not for the Rukaphet, who took up arms so aggressively, we would not be at war with the Salbayan at all!”

“Lydris,” The woman who had been called ‘Sylla’ replied, “Do not say such things! Not so loudly,” Her voice came low to a whisper, “His highness the Urmad-Dur tells us that it is better to live free and embattled than at peace and enslaved. It is a price we gladly pay if some of those enslavers are made uncomfortable. She should be grateful that she is alive at all, and should obey the words of her captors.”

“Perhaps,” Lydris replied, “But she has never harmed us, and we always speak of every Salbayan as if they all seek our destruction. But as long as the Rukaphet have ruled over us, it has been one continual bloodshed, and I have seen many an opportunity to make peace that has been overruled by the desires of our Rukapheti captains. They seek all of Khandar for themselves! Meanwhile, we shall be made devoid of our freedoms, and of our love for even the mild and beautiful Salbayan woman in our captivity.”

“You yourself are mild, Lydris.” The other woman said, “In a time of war, those sentiments are only a weakness. Sylla is right: We pay this price so that we may love our own children, the ones we ourselves have brought into this war-weary world, before we go around loving weak pale women for whom we are made to do laundry.”

The women laughed their hissing laughter at that joke, and the conversation changed soon after. Vicary was left tuning them out once more, staring idly at the ground. But after a long while of thought, he stood up and came to the reclining Lydris, whispering in her ear.

“May we talk, ma’am? Privately.”

Lydris’ hood rippled slightly, as if she were perturbed, but she nodded in that kindly way she did.

“In a moment, Salbayan.”

-

Vicary had left the others and gone into the tent some minutes before, which was entirely empty apart from himself. Lydris entered soon afterwards, slithered up beside him, and lowered her voice to ask:

“What is it, Salbayan?”

“You were talking about the girl.” He said, “I heard.”

“It is not the privilege of captives to listen to these conversations.”

“I don’t mean to cause offence,” Vicary said, wary of his words. “But I did hear your words of sympathy. She has been here for a very long time, I assume. Who is she?”

Lydris narrowed her serpentine eyes, judging Vicary with a gaze that was almost predatory. But she refrained, and gave in to her gentler instincts. She nodded her head,

“Yes, she was.” She answered. “Her name is Cordelia. She is a fine Salbayan woman who is favoured by his highness the Urmad-Dur. I tend only to her laundry.”

“Cordelia ..." Vicary had heard of the name before, but he wasn't quite sure where. "Do you speak to her?”

Another narrowing of the eyes.

“On occasion, we speak. It is how I know of your tongue, Salbayan.”

“I see.” He paused for a moment, mulling over what he was going to say. To speak wrongly now would certainly spoil his chances, but he wouldn’t miss his shot, and felt himself overcome by that strange courage that one often feels at a deadline, or when rushing to catch the last train before midnight. “Would I be able to speak with her?”

She hissed, in that manner that Nisaryan did when they were amused, and fell back to sit upon her tail. She shook her head,

“She is not for you, Salbayan.” She said, “And it would be far too much of a risk to do such a thing, and for what purpose? So that a warrior may sabotage the favoured woman of his highness the Urmad-Dur?”

“I heard what you said. About the war, and about the Urmad-Dur. I am not a warrior, truly. My name is Vicary, of the house of Fox, and I do not intend to speak to the senses of your king, but rather to the senses of your mercy and pity. I know that tomorrow I shall die, in some terrible way most surely. When I think of my home that I have not seen for so long, my stomach turns. But if I could meet with her, I would die knowing one of my own, and she might not be so quick as to lose hope in her predicament. It would be a kindness.”

Lydris took a moment to think, her thin tongue slithering out of her mouth. Then she replied, “You have my pity, yes. But I shall spare no mercy for an errand as foolish as this. We have given you all the kindness that you shall have, and it is a gift from the atavism of the Ceraphet. I shall not grant you this. Goodnight, Salbayan.”

He knew that it was not the character of an Albian gentleman to beg, but at this moment, he was sure he wanted to. He had the opportunity, a chance, to meet another Albian. To see another face, to speak to a fellow countryman, before he was thrown to the arena to be torn apart by whatever beasts they were of the mind to send his way. Most importantly, in the back of his mind, there turned the part of his mind that was always working, always looking for some way out of these terrible situations. It was selfish, desperate and perhaps unheroic. But was he heroic? No! His chance was in that woman, he knew.

He gnashed his teeth to think that he would be granted such an opportunity - such a kind-hearted woman, from a race to whom he had been accustomed to viewing as consisting entirely of savages - only to have it pulled from his fingers at the very last moment. But it was so. Lydris turned, slithering from the tent to join the others in continuing their conversation.

He sighed, sitting back on his pillow. It felt so strange, to be so comfortable in the den of the enemy. It felt stranger yet to be so comfortable, and yet be so close to death, and to know it so well that he could tell you the time and date of his coming execution. He missed three days ago, where after the march to the Urmad-Dur’s camp, he had been so tired that he had slept until long after sunrise. Now he was not so active, and it was much more difficult for him to get any rest at all. But he steeled his nerves, closed his eyes, and did soon drift off to sleep.

-

He was awoken by the rustling of movement. The tent was entirely dark, bare of even the soft orange glow of campfire light that had peeked in through the slit in the doorway. He turned his head, but saw in the darkness only the shadowy figure of some enormous thing, visible only by its silhouette as a Nisaryan.

He immediately went to sit up, but one strong hand clamped itself firmly over his jaw, shutting him up and sending him down onto the rug. He made a noise, but the response was a firm, hissing, ‘Shh!’

The silhouette leaned in, and he made out the blueish glow of scales, reflecting the meagre light of the tent. The voice was quiet, so quiet that he could barely hear it,

“It is me, Salbayan.”

It was Lydris. His nerves were soothed. His ‘flight or fight’ was securely put to rest.

“I have been convinced,” She went on, “I shall take you to the Salbayan woman. But you must promise me these things,”

She leaned in, so that the thin slits of her eyes shone in the light, and as his vision adjusted to the dark he could begin to see that her face was inches from his. He felt almost crushed, sincerely worried that Lydris didn’t quite understand how enormous she truly was, but she seemed not to notice the worry in his eyes.

“I shall bundle you into a sackcloth, along with the laundry. I shall pretend to visit the Salbayan woman for my duties, which is to care for her nightly duties, as I do every month - the men do not question such things. For this, you must be quiet. As quiet as the mouse in the field. You must be still, as still as the water that does not flow. And unquestioningly, you must do as I say. Do you understand, Salbayan?”

She did not take her hand from his mouth, and so he was forced to nod, an assent that she seemed to approve of.

“Make not a noise.” She commanded, and took her hand away. He did as he was told, and she lifted up a sackcloth filled with - thankfully clean - women’s laundry. He didn’t get a moment to breathe before she had, in a movement so swift that she did not lose a single article of clothing, forced the sack over his head and pulled his entire body inside. She tied the drawstring tight, and leaving him in the darkness of the sack, heaved him over her shoulder and slithered out the doorway.

-

Vicary spent the voyage in silence. Although Nisaryan, on account of their locomotion being dependent upon their slithering tails, were naturally more comfortable to be carried by, the rocky terrain and Lydris’ almost clumsy carrying meant that by the time he’d arrived at the tent, he was almost upside-down.

“Sorry,” Lydris had whispered, as she maneuvered herself down a cliffside and into the camp. Vicary had a sneaking suspicion that her apology wasn’t genuine.

He felt the bag drop a little, and then the shuffling of heavy fabric, and then he saw dim orange pin-pricks of light bleeding between the threads of the sackcloth. Lydris dumped him onto the carpeted floor, and pulled upon the rope to release her cargo.

She helped Vicary to his feet, who - covered in sweat and looking more than a little disoriented - held onto Lydris’ arm for some sense of stability as he tried to catch his surroundings. He was in some kind of tent, with an enormous circular roof that was enclosed completely around the top. It was held in place in its position to the ground by several large poles, upon two of which hung a pair of paraffin lamps which lit up the space splendidly. Despite being a single room, various large sheets of fabric were draped from the ceiling, each patterned and distinct. Most were semi-transparent, including those draped around the smallest division, which was practically a bed of pillows beside a single small knee-high wooden table.

Sat upon the ‘bed’ was a woman, instantly familiar to Vicary. It was Cordelia! She was dressed differently than she was before, as she’d removed her jewelry and headdress. Rather, she was now dressed in a long muslin gown, which at least covered her shoulders, and fine silk slippers were upon her feet. Her long blonde hair was undone, and it now flowed beautifully over her shoulders. He felt as if he were looking at a painting, so relaxed she was, or a woman from a classier, more wonderful time.

She spoke, and for the first time, he heard her full voice - not parts of it, interrupted by the yammering of tribesmen - but the full, gentle tone of an Albian noblewoman;

“Lydris, dear.” She said, beckoning lazily with a single slender arm. “Bring me the whisky, if you’d please.”

Lydris obeyed, bringing to the woman’s side a silver platter. It contained upon it a bottle of whiskey, two empty tumblers beside it. Lydris poured a fresh glass into both. Cordelia took hers, and then nodded at Vicary,

“That one’s for you, Salbayan.” She said. Vicary took it, knowing that if it came from the same bottle, he could at least come to trust her.

“This was captured by a raiding party on the mainland. Some trading mission, I think. It was fully stocked with the stuff. It’s not the best Albion has to offer, and off the rocks too …” She sighed, “That’s what I miss most, ice. You get it in Albion, they ship it down in big boxes from the mountains in canal-boats, and it comes down in such abundance that they serve it for free at restaurants.” She scoffed, “It’d blow away these red-fanged savages, to see something like that. Now, if they’d captured a few nice bottles of red wine, I’d be more pleased.”

She took a sip from her glass, and nodded again at Vicary. He did the same. When he didn’t speak for a while longer, she turned to Lydris.

“Did they take his tongue?”

Before his minder could make some quip, Vicary spoke up.

“No, madame. I’m only …” He frowned, and casting an eye upon the feather-stuffed silk cushions she laid upon, paused for a moment. Then he continued, “Well, I didn’t expect to be brought to you like this.” He blinked at her idly, catching his muddled mind. He must have looked like a right idiot, he thought. “You’re really from Albion, aren’t you?”

“Never seen an Albian before? I was born in a manor in Cambria,” She replied, “But I lived most of my life alternating between Zion and Avalonia.”

“I’m from Avalonia.” Vicary said. Even if he understood that she was Albian, and knew from her accent that she was Albian, to see another one of his kind in the flesh - and not some green-scaled captor of his - was almost unbelievable. “I thought I’d be seeing snakes for the rest of my life,” He went on, “You think they’d get easier on the eyes, but …”

Vicary saw a mischievous glimmer appear in her eyes, and she leaned in, whispering so that Lydris couldn’t hear her.

“Ugly things, aren’t they?” She laughed, “I’ve got it harder. I’ve spent ‘dinners’ with the Urmad-Dur - good God, the noises they make when they eat …”

“You’ve met the Urmad-Dur?” Vicary’s eyes widened, “What’s he like?”

“Big and ugly, like the rest of them. A real charmer, though.” She leaned back, raising her voice. “But he speaks Sascan - and in an Albian accent. I suppose he thinks that makes us ‘buddies’. Carries himself as the ‘civilised’ type, and so very ‘dignified’.” She raised her voice to a nasally tone, mocking him with the condescension that only a true noblewoman could master, “Really, it’s quite pathetic, to see a man like that preening amongst that den of savages he keeps at table.”

Vicary couldn’t bring the smile from off his face. For him, this little mote of good humour was as satisfying to his mind as a meal after a long fast. Then he caught himself quite suddenly, and realised his rudeness.

“Ah - I’m sorry, I should say. It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. My name is-”

“No,” Her head shot up and she interrupted him loudly, in a manner that was almost instinctive. “Don’t tell me your name.”

Vicary was puzzled. She was almost startled, as if his introduction had crept up behind her shoulder and suddenly frightened her.

“I didn’t mean to offend you -” He went on, but she shook her head.

“No, you didn’t.” She replied, returning herself to a sense of politeness. “You know who I am, and that’s enough. Whether I know your name or not, everything will be the same.”

Vicary had no space to argue. He was a guest in her home, after all. So he went on, trying to skirt around it,

“Of course. Ah, I don’t mean to be rude, but … you’ve met the Urmad-Dur? For dinner? Does he do that often with his guests?”

“It was with many others,” She explained, “The man never dines alone. Something to do with the Rukaphet, it’s a way of showing all good things come from the chief.”

“I was under the impression that the man was a savage. But the way you speak of him - this tent, the cushions, the pillows.”

“Courtesy of the Urmad-Dur as well,” She replied, “Personally.”

“But I was told you were a captive. Like me. And that there are many other Albian captives on this island.”

“Cages come in many shapes and sizes, Salbayan.” She said, “I’m quite an expensive captive, but I’m a fairly worthless slave.” She stretched out one slender arm casually. “The calculation is that I’d make far less money mining gemstones than I would as a ransom, and so they handle me nicely. Trust me, if it swung the other way, I’d be down in the mines with the rest of them. Or married off as a concubine to some sneering chieftain …” She rolled her eyes, scoffing to imagine such a fate.

“Does he treat any of the other captives so ‘nicely’?” He asked.

“I wouldn’t know. But I’ve never met one. If they can’t watch us, they keep us separated. You’re the first Albian I’ve met in …” She pursed her lips as she thought, “Two months. You see the slaves, of course, but I’m forbidden to talk to them. Of course, they watch most of them. They put you with the women,” She explained, “Because that’s the tradition of the Ceraphet. They like to appease their gods by pampering their prisoners before an execution.”

“One of the women I met told me.” Vicary said, although he could not help to hide his frown at remembering the words of ‘Mistress’. “I assume they’d get some kick out of throwing an Albian officer to the lions. Is braiding my hair supposed to make me feel better?”

“You’d have to ask Lydris,” She answered, “But it’s not so much a kick as superstition. All life, to the Ceraphet, returns to the soil. They never bury their dead, but leave them upon mountaintops to be picked at by crows. They show respect to every warrior that falls in battle, friend or foe, even the animals they hunt and kill. Sounds ‘nice’, but it doesn’t really make a difference to me: They kill them all the same. That’s why I wanted you to come here. I saw you down that warrior in the camp. It gave me a little pleasure to see someone put some sense into that beast,” She didn’t hide her smile, “But more importantly, you defeated him. Word hasn’t got around yet, but you just put a chieftain on his back.”

“That just sounds like I’m in more trouble.” Vicary didn’t quite understand why she looked so happy, “What more can I do, I suppose? If I’m already going to the pits.”

“Technically, you are. But … not quite. You see,”

She withdrew a tightly-wrapped piece of cloth from her dress, cleverly hidden in her sleeve.

“In Rukaphet culture, it is traditional that when a warrior defeats his enemy, he inherits his spirit.” She explained, “With it comes his position and his possessions. They are relegated to a lower station, stripped of everything associated with their rank, and everything they personally own. Their valuables, their house, even their wife and children. It is given to the victor. He is virtually made a slave of his chieftain, retaining only what has been given to him by higher authority, as if he were an adolescent slithering out from those brutish nurseries of theirs.”

“His wife and children?” Vicary asked, the expression on his face turning from one of quiet intrigue to complete puzzlement.

“If he was married, yes.” She said, “But even if he was, I’m sure it’s not a Nisaryan wife and child that you are looking for. Maybe he’ll be allowed to keep them if you refuse - maybe not. More importantly, it does not forgive you of your crimes, but it does give you the rights and respect of a Rukpahet man, and a chief warrior at that. Knowing the Urmad-Dur, even that would not be sufficient to save your life, but …”

“But?”

Her painted lips curled into a mischievous grin, and her personality finally shone through all that dazzling beauty. She looked up at him,

“A chief carries with him the right to plead his own innocence. Unlike a captive,” She waved a hand at him, as if to say ‘you!’, “Who has no rights in a Nisaryan court.”

“So I’d be able to plead my case in a court of law? They have those?”

She seemed to revel a little in being the arbiter of information, and laughed quietly to herself at Vicary’s innocence. It was as if she was imagining a battalion of sharp-suited Nisaryan lawyers with ties and briefcases, slithering into the court to argue on behalf of some plaintiff. “No, Salbayan. There’ll be no court proceedings. The rule of the Rukaphet is the rule of the mighty, conferred under strict cultural rules.” She explained, “You’re going to ask for a trial by combat, under the name of the chieftain whose headdress you took. What was his name, again?”

“Getaman,” He said, pondering on that fact. “Of Tarsis.”

“Getaman of Tarsis. Try to remember the faces of the men who took you. But for the most part, you’ll show them this,” She held up the cloth, and unravelling it, revealed it to be a sparkling headdress - the very same headdress that he had seen upon the head of the Nisaryan he had defeated. “And they’ll get the idea. These things don’t ‘end up missing’, or get lost in the wash. Got that?”

“I think so."

"Good," She smiled sweetly, "Hand out, now.”

He outstretched his hand. She placed the folded-up headdress in his palm, and wrapping her fingers around his hand, held it securely. She looked him in the eye,

“Burn this into your memory. Tomorrow, I expect nothing less than to see you take this headdress from your clothes, present it to your audience, and declare that you have defeated Getaman of Tarsis and wish to plead your innocence in a trial of combat.”

He closed his eyes, going over the list in his mind. Then he nodded, “I will.”

“Good. That right hook of yours might have just won you a golden ticket out of here.”

Lydris spoke up again, peering in from the doorway. “I don’t wish to interrupt - but I wouldn’t want to wait too long and look suspicious, madame.”

She nodded, sitting up on her bed.

“You know, Salbayan, I like you.” She said, “And I made a big risk convincing Lydris here to come and fetch you for me.”

“I appreciate it, ma’am.”

“So when you go up there tomorrow, can you do me a favour?”

“I can try.”

She leaned in, and with a familiarity that she had certainly not known him long enough to deserve, pinched his cheek.

“Don’t die.”

He went a bit pale. She turned to his minder,

“Lydris! Take him away now, if you would.”

-

The morning was not far from breaking. Unburdened by the Vicary-sized sack of laundry that she had taken back to her tent, Lydris had arrived back at Cordelia’s tent to finish up the agreed-upon appearance of her ‘tending’ to the woman’s nightly needs.

“His name is Vicary,” She said, with all the weight of reporting on the weather. “Vicary Fox.”

Cordelia looked up from her lounging position upon the bed, sighing at the defeat. “Why would you tell me that?”

“I saw the way you were looking at him.”

“Lydris,” Her voice rose to a higher pitch, “I shan’t dignify that with a response.”

“It is not undignified,” She shrugged, “To be interested in a man. And you are too distant, anyway. You isolate yourself.”

“I don’t see how that’s avoidable, considering that every Albian coming my way has ended up dead,” She lamented, “Or rattling their chains in some Khandar emerald mine. That’s why I don’t want to know his name,” She turned to face her, “Or even who he is.”

Lydris picked up a silver platter and went to clean up Cordelia’s tableside, picking up the bottle of whisky and the two empty glasses and putting them away. She noticed that the bottle was about two glasses emptier from when she had last poured it out. As she finished up, she said off-handedly,

“This one will not.”

“Oh?” Cordelia appeared amused, “Do you have a crystal ball?”

“No,” She replied, “But I have lived long enough to judge men from afar. I know also from the warriors who brought him here that he came before their boss.”

“The Witch-Queen?”

Even Cordelia was a little fascinated by the idea of the Mistress-Atop-The-Mountain, she had to admit. Lydris went on,

“He was the sole man in the battle in which he was caught, and earned an audience with one of the most powerful women in Khandar. I know men, but if I know not men, I know the Mistress-Atop-The-Mountain, and she sees things us mortals do not. I believe he will not die.”

“Or perhaps it’s nothing,” Cordelia interjected, “And some crazy old bat on a mountain is no guarantor of a man surviving the fighting pits of the Urmad-Dur.”

“I don’t think you believe that.” Lydris said flatly, “And if you do, then it is only a gut feeling. But do not lie, for you would not have brought him here under such danger and taken such risk if you did not believe in it more than you betray here to me.”

Cordelia huffed. “I’ve got to give it a chance. Even if it’s doomed.”

“Ah, nonsense.” Lydris almost snorted, imitating the hiss-like laughter of her kind. “You have hope. You Salbayan,” Lydris said, lifting up the tent door and going to slither out. “You always have hope.”

Silence & Thunder

With Ilein's death, the family gathered to decide its future. The meeting stretched over two days of feasting, drinking, and quiet betrayal before the final vote was cast. In the end, the choice lay between caution and ambition. Hwaeirsa won by a single ballot. Her father commanded the strength and loyalty of the dock crews, but saw solutions only as fights to be won. Hwaeirsa presented a strategy built on intelligence and leverage. The ballot was secret, but whispers insisted that even her father had voted for her.

Meanwhile, news of the rediscovered city was spreading like wildfire. Without taking the matter to the Council, Hwaeirsa starting making her own plans. She needed to understand this trade. Where were the goods coming from? Why were they buying supplies Kamsa'ra's own navies needed?

In the end, she sent for three people. Kael was an ex-mercenary cavalryman, his face leathery from a thousand desert suns. He could read the land and the weather, tracing a week-old track like a printed page. Laira was a sniper back from the east who had declined lucrative work with the Comet Empire campaign. Her left ear was a knot of scar tissue, but her eyes were perfect. The third was Biin, officially a quartermaster for House Qemir. He knew engines and lift, but, most importantly, he knew how to make official assets disappear on a ledger.

When they arrived at the shipping offices, Hwaeirsa bid them sit and began without ceremony. "What I'm about to tell you shouldn't be spread around, though it undoubtedly will be. Our city faces a severe economic threat. Another city, hidden in the desert to the south, is bleeding us dry. No one has noticed because they're selling, and everyone is eager to buy. But there is no trade balance. So much money is leaving that our banks are months, maybe weeks, from collapse. The goods they sell aren't grown in the desert. They are middlemen, and I intend to find out for whom. That is where you come in."

The squat musteloid khimerine leaned back against her desk, her broad tail twitching. "I need the three of you to find where the desert trade route terminates."

Kael nodded. “On foot? That’s a long walk into nowhere.”

“You’re not walking.” Hwaeirsa’s gaze shifted to Biin. “You know those supplies we've been hoarding? We've been building something. I intended to save it, but this seems reason enough. You will conduct your spying from the air."

Laira touched the scar on her ear. “They’ll have lookouts. Possibly rifles.”

“You’ll run at night, rest during the day. Stay out of sight.”

Kael looked from the airman to the spotter. “And when we find this terminus?”

“You mark it. Note everything. Then you bring that information back to me. Nothing more.”

—————

The craft they found was not a proper airship. It was a skeletal frame of lacquered ash and tensioned wire, swathed in panels of treated, dun-colored silk. It hung beneath a segmented, tear-shaped balloon filled with hot air from a compact, shielded furnace. It had no engine. Instead, a series of rigid, fan-like kites on articulated arms lined its flanks. By angling these kites and manipulating the balloon’s vents, a skilled pilot could achieve a semblance of steerage. It would be slow enough and stable enough for observation.

They lifted off from a hidden canyon yard at last light, the furnace a contained glow, the balloon barely visible against the twilight. Unless someone was looking for it, it could be mistaken for a Biin manned the furnace and kite controls with a thief’s nervous intensity. Laira lay prone in the observation sling at the prow, her eye pressed to a longscope. Kael watched the desert unspool below: a map of shadows and silvered dunes.

For three nights, they followed the ancient trade route. By day, they deflated the canopy and hid the frame under camouflaged nets in rocky scarps, sweating in the stillness. They watched caravans pass in the heat haze: lines of burdened sauropods and rugged steam-wagons guarded by riders with long rifles slung across their backs.

On the fourth night, the route changed. Kael had expected it to continue south along the river, but it turned decisively east-northeast, carving through a brutal landscape of fractured mesas. Laira tracked the caravan lights, whispering bearings to Biin, who adjusted the kites with minute precision. Their craft, the Whisper, drifted on the cold, high air flowing from the desert interior toward the sea.

By the eighth night, the dry, mineral scent of the desert was cut by a new dampness. The mesalands fell away into a broad, gentle coastal plain. The temperature dropped sharply. Below, the perpetual dust haze began to clear. On the ninth night, Laira hissed at something she saw through her scope. “Lights. A lot of them.”

Kael moved to her side, taking the second scope. Docks thrust into the water, outlined by the lantern-glow of late-berthed ships and all-night dockworks. Warehouses lined the shore. Snaking from the desert gate were the unmistakable, lamp-lit lines of caravans disgorging their cargo.

“There’s a city there. Small. More of a trading port,” Kael confirmed. The goods were being offloaded here from coastal lighters, ready to head west.

But the real discovery lay across the water. Laira’s scope panned slowly across the dark bay, then stopped. “So that’s the tap,” she murmured.

Kael followed her gaze. Across a strait of black water, perhaps five miles distant, lay an island city. Its lights were fewer than the nearer port’s, but they marked a dense, fortified perimeter; it was no small town, but a modest, self-sufficient citadel. From its harbors, they could see the compact, deep-bellied merchant schooners that would ferry goods across the waters. There, the cliff city’s agents would buy them, mark up the price, and send them west to bleed Kamsa’ra.

The pieces locked together in Kael’s mind. Hwaeirsa was right. The cliff city was a parasitic middleman. This island was its lifeline to the real wealth of the east.

“Mark it all,” Kael said.

Laira was already sketching furiously, noting the defensive batteries on the sea wall, the patrol patterns in the strait, the vulnerable cluster of merchant ships at anchor. Biin fought the controls, holding the Whisper in a wide, slow turn over the open desert.

As the first true rays of sun painted the island’s high peaks gold, Biin vented hot air. The Whisper began a silent, sinking descent back into the shadowed mesalands. They had found the terminus.

—————

The return trip was a tense, silent drift. They saw the desert with new eyes. It wasn't just an empty wasteland. Not anymore. Every distant caravan dust cloud was gold flowing the wrong way. They landed in the hidden yard just after moonrise on the seventh night. No one spoke. They secured the Whisper and went straight to the offices.

Hwaeirsa was waiting, a ledger open but ignored on the desk before her. The badger khimerine’s posture was rigid, her broad hands flat on the wood. “Report.”

Kael laid it out plainly. The route east to Sian. The island across the strait. The schooners. “They’re not the market. They’re the supplier. The cliff city buys from the island, marks the goods up, and sells to us. Cut off the island, and you strangle them.”

Laira placed her sketches on the desk. “The island is fortified but complacent. Its batteries cover the main shipping channels. There’s a blind spot to the north, here, where the cliffs are steep. The garrison looks routine. Their navy is a customs flotilla: fast for chasing smugglers, not built for a stand-up fight.”

Biin added the crucial detail. “The merchant ships cluster in the western anchorage. They’re fat and slow. Most fly the island’s flag, but a few are independents.”

Hwaeirsa studied the sketches, her amber eyes tracing the lines of fortification and ship placements. The silence stretched. Then she gave a single, sharp nod. “Good. You’re done. Collect your pay from the factor downstairs. Speak of this to no one.”

The three exchanged a glance and filed out. The door shut.

Alone, Hwaeirsa let her plan form in her mind. The entire House fleet would sail. The two corvettes, Stormcutter and Harbinger, would be the hammer. They would use the northern blind spot at dawn, their guns smashing the seaward batteries to slag. Behind them would come the transports: four heavy steam freighters crammed with two hundred Qemir marines and fifty hired mercenaries. They would swarm the docks the moment the guns fell silent.

The real work would begin after the landing. A full naval blockade. The caravans would pile up at the port, but that would only make them more desperate for the goods that would flow again under her control.

They would seize the port authority, the treasury, the granaries, and the coal bunkers. They would control every crate of spice and every pound of steam-coal on the island. The public story was simple: the island had harbored pirates targeting Kamsa’ran interests. This was a protective quarantine, a necessity.

Control the island, and you control the price of everything. The cliff city’s lifeblood would not just be cut off; it would be siphoned into Qemir holds.

Hwaeirsa began writing sealed orders for the ships’ captains that she would use. The fleet would sail in three days without anyone ever knowing there was a fleet, not even its constituent ships. The blockade would begin at dawn one week from today, and the Council would never know.

—————

It was nearly two weeks later instead of one when the Qemir fleet assembled a few miles off the eastern coast of the island. Seventeen vessels in total. The two armored corvettes led the procession; the rest were armed freighters and converted merchantmen. They had waited for the slowest ships, the colliers and the ammunition freighters. Now they were all here.

Aboard the Stormcutter, Hwaeirsa watched the island through her glass. Dawn was coming. The plan was simple. They would hug the steep northern cliffs where the fixed defensive guns above could not depress their barrels enough to hit them. The scouts’ sketch had revealed the weakness; now they would exploit it.

"Signal the line," she said. "Follow the Harbinger. Hold fire until you see the batteries."

The fleet moved toward the cliffs. The light found their gun barrels. A flare shot up from the island. Drums sounded an alarm.

Hwaeirsa lowered her glass. "Open fire. Hit the western fort. Then the next one."

The Stormcutter fired first. The Harbinger followed. The thunder began. The island’s guns answered, their shells screaming overhead to explode harmlessly in the empty sea behind the fleet. The tactic worked perfectly; the high batteries could not reach the ships nestled below.

The Qemir fleet hammered the stone positions until they broke apart. A magazine exploded in a sudden flower of orange fire. The guns stopped.

"Shift fire," Hwaeirsa said. "Target the ships in the western anchorage."

The guns turned. The island’s flotilla was trying to move. Shells tore into the cutters and paddle-sloops. One ship disintegrated. Another listed, stricken.

A proper warship then emerged from the main port: a steam frigate. It turned to fight. "Concentrate fire from both corvettes," Hwaeirsa ordered. "Cripple it."

The Stormcutter and Harbinger turned their full broadsides on the advancing frigate. There was a long silence as the gunners raced to lower their guns before the frigate could come in range. It managed to fire first, a ragged volley that sent one shell across the Harbinger’s deck, scoring a long scar through the wood planks before it screamed off into the water.. The Qemir corvettes answered with a coordinated salvo. Their breech-loading guns fired faster and hit harder than the muzzle-loaders charging at them across the bay. Iron shot punched through the frigate’s older wooden hull. A boiler exploded amidships, venting a scream of steam. The frigate’s momentum died. It began to drift, burning.

With the guns silenced and the island's navy broken, Hwaeirsa gave the next order. The fleet spread out into a wide, watchful arc, its movement deliberate and final. The island was now isolated. Hwaeirsa signalled for the colliers and coalers.

The bombardment began not as a constant roar, but as a grim, punctuated rhythm. For the first hour, the Stormcutter and Harbinger methodically shelled the port facilities: warehouses, the grain elevator, the coal bunkers. Black smoke rose in pillars. Then, conserving their limited shell stock and letting their overheated guns cool, they fell silent.

This became the pattern over the next two days. Periods of intense, targeted fire, followed by long hours of watchful stillness. Ammunition lighters crept out from the colliers to resupply the corvettes in a slow, dangerous dance. The fleet’s smaller vessels maintained the picket line, watching for any desperate sortie by the island’s remaining vessels. Each fresh salvo was a reminder that the Qemir fleet could strike at will, and that the island had no real recourse.

On the morning of the second day, a white flag rose over the citadel. A boat came out bearing the island’s councillors. Hwaeirsa met them on the deck of the Stormcutter. They signed her terms: unconditional control of the port, the treasury, and a Qemir garrison. It was done. The cliff city’s supplier was now a Qemir asset.

For Hwaeirsa, the real game began now. She had no intention of saving the economy of Kamsa’ra. At least, not until the banks had been broken. When they were selling notes for a fraction of the price, Qemir shipping could buy them up with the very money that had leaked from the city in the first place, and then her position would be unassailable.

Chapter 17: Words to Keep the Cold Away

The march south continued without ceremony or urgency. It simply resumed each morning as if no other option had ever existed. Snow lay thick across the road, pressed flat by boots and wagon wheels, then erased again by the night wind. The sky remained a dull gray, low and unbroken, offering no sense of time beyond the ache in the legs and the hunger in the belly. Sasha walked near the center of the column with Mikhail at his side. His friend was stronger now, able to walk without leaning, though the wound slowed him. Each step was careful. Each breath was visible. They moved because stopping was worse. No one spoke at first. The silence was heavy, not peaceful. It made the cold sharper. It reminded everyone of how far they still had to go.

After an hour, Sasha began talking simply because his mind felt like it was freezing.

“I once tracked a wolf for two days in weather like this,” he said quietly. “It never stopped moving. Even when it rested, it kept its body tense. Like it was afraid sleep would kill it.”

Mikhail nodded. “Did you catch it.”

“No. It crossed onto rock and vanished. Smart animal.”

Klara walked a few steps ahead of them. She turned slightly. “Why tell that story now.”

“Because it keeps my teeth from chattering,” Sasha replied.

She considered this, then said, “Then tell another.”

So he did. He spoke of hunting elk in the northern hills, of following tracks half buried by snow, of learning to read broken twigs and disturbed moss. He kept his voice steady, not loud enough to draw attention, but firm enough to carry to those nearby. Others began to listen. Not all at once. Slowly. A woman behind them leaned closer. An older man adjusted his scarf and tilted his head. Words traveled better than warmth. Mikhail added to the stories, recalling summers in the village, the river thawing, the sound of children splashing at the banks. He spoke of ordinary things. Bread baked too long. A roof repaired poorly. A goat that refused to stay penned. The march remained dull and painful. Boots soaked through by midday. Fingers numb despite gloves. But the talking helped. It gave shape to the hours. At the next brief halt, they drank melted snow from iron cups. The water tasted of metal and ash. A Peshtu stood nearby, watching the road ahead. Sasha noticed the way its ears twitched slightly at every sound. Alert even in stillness.

“How far is Lyongrad,” Klara asked, not to the Peshtu, but to no one in particular.

Mikhail shrugged. “Weeks. Maybe less if the roads are clear.”

“They are not,” she said, glancing at the snow.

The Peshtu did not correct them. It simply shifted its weight and looked south.

When they moved again, the wind picked up. It slid beneath coats and gnawed at skin. The talking resumed, slower now, more fragmented.

An older villager named Yaroslav fell into step beside Sasha. “Do you think the capital will let us in.”

“They would be fools not to,” Sasha answered.

Yaroslav frowned. “Cities do not like mouths they did not make.”

Sasha had no reply to that. He spoke instead of the way hunters shared meat in lean seasons, how refusing someone at the fire was a bad omen.

Yaroslav smiled faintly. “Kings do not think like hunters.”

Neither did revolutionaries, Sasha thought, but he did not say it.

By afternoon, feet dragged. Conversation thinned. Words took effort. When someone stopped speaking, it took time for another to begin. Silence crept back in, heavy and dangerous.

Mikhail broke it. “When we reach Lyongrad,” he said slowly, “what will you do.”

Sasha did not answer immediately. He watched his breath fog the air. “I do not know. I have never thought beyond the next season.”

“I think I would like a roof that does not leak,” Mikhail said. “Just once.”

Klara laughed softly. It was a dry sound. “Luxury.”

A child farther back began to cry. The sound was weak, exhausted. Its mother murmured to it, words too quiet to hear, but the tone was steady. The child eventually quieted. The march continued.

They passed abandoned farmsteads buried in snow. Roofs collapsed inward. Doors hung open. No tracks led in or out. People had left long ago, or not at all. No one stopped to investigate. The cold discouraged curiosity.

As dusk approached, Sasha felt the familiar dull pain behind his eyes. Hunger and cold mixing into something sharper. He told another story. This one about getting lost as a boy and following his own footprints in a circle until his father found him laughing and furious at the same time.

“Did he punish you,” Klara asked.

“No. He made me eat first. Then he explained why pride gets men killed.”

That earned a few nods.

When they stopped for the night, the camp was assembled with practiced efficiency. Fires were small. Everyone crowded close, backs turned to the wind. The Peshtu stood watch, shapes half lost in the falling snow.

Mikhail sat heavily on a log. “If this is what the road to the capital is like,” he said, “I do not envy those who must march away from it.”

Sasha stared into the fire. “Roads go both ways.”

Around them, villagers spoke quietly. Some prayed. Some argued about rationing. Some simply stared at the flames as if memorizing them.

No one mentioned the future beyond tomorrow.

When Sasha lay down to sleep, wrapped in stiff blankets, he felt the march still moving in his bones. Southward. Always southward. Lyongrad remained unseen, unreal, a word more than a place.

But as long as they could speak, as long as someone told a story or asked a question, the cold did not win entirely.

That was enough for now.

Furzland wrote:

Chapter 3, Part 4: A Fly In The Ointment

Chapter 3, Part 5: Something Wicked

Chapter 3, Part 6: Tricks and Tips
“This seems highly illegal.” Swit said from under his crude mask.

“It probably is.” Grover nodded from under his wide brim hat and own, more covering mask.

“It is.” Hera confirmed.

The port city of Raine had existed before Furzlandic movement into the area and now represented a tense mixture of old Hurron and new Furzland. The Furzlanders had made it the primary commercial port of the region and there were aspirations to make it a navy port as well with its natural and acceptably deep harbor.

It was a rapidly budding breeding ground for the outcasts, oddities, and misfits of Furzlandic society to burn with old Hurron as Furzland pushed anyone they could there. Tonight was such an evening where the misfits had their fun.

In a side street by the port, about 200 people had gathered, most on each side of the tar road and all in masks of varying usefulness. Organizing on the street were a gaggle of sorts. To one side, a collection of young men and lean horses like the best that could be found in Gazzstolica’s horse tracks, in the center sanctioned and independent tinkers sitting atop and tweaking various machines and contraptions meant to reach concerning speeds via steam dynamos and liquified coal, and lastly a mix of local magi and errant members of the Maidly Orders based in the region prepped brooms, poles, iron rods, farm implements, and whatever other long factors that could be sat on and compelled to float with magicks.

This was one of many illegal races conducted on public streets throughout the year here. It was a public spectacle open for anyone willing to find it. The gendarmerie had failed to discourage them and had a habit of arresting spectators when they could not catch the racers during and after the races, ergo the masks.

A scraggly Pyke in a top hat far too tall for him and a suit much too gawdy walked to the front of the racers. They began to make final preparations.

“Come on.” Hera waved Swit and Grover onto a wagon with a few other spectators. The wagon driver didn’t look much different from the racers and the wagon was pulled by four automaton horses.

“Is this safe?” Swit asked Hera. The driver answered by turning around and winking. “Don’t worry, the wagon frame is reinforced.”

“Take your places!” The Pyke called out in a shrill voice. The racers took seats, ignited engines, and spurred their horses. “You have all reviewed the racing path and the finish line. There will be no attacks on racers by other racers or against the track. Doing so will get you expelled from the Raine Racing Club. Awards for best place in each category and overall will be presented later when it is convenient to do so.” The Pyke raised his hand. He looked across at the racers and their faces, letting them simmer. He dropped his hand and in an instant the low noise of people was overpowered by thundering hooves, clanking metal, and flaring magicks.

The wagon driver cracked his reins and the mechanical horses yanked forward in a weak showing to keep up with the group.

For the benefit of spectators both on the ground and atop wagons, the track looped back on. The wagon lurched at speed through a collection of side streets to a new position. Swit, Grover, and Hera arrived just in time to see the leaders: a green cloaked magi riding a vine covered broom and a mechanist riding a steam dynamo driven bicycle. The rest of the pack followed close behind with the horse jockeys bringing up the rear.

The race maintained much the same complexion over the next five minutes and the crowd got to taste the wind coming off the race at each stop on the track they could get to in time.

“Thrilling!” was the best Grover had as they gathered at the finish line. The gendarmes had failed to arrive or were busy trying to chase the horse riders. It was about the only group their own horses could catch up to without cutting them off the race. Swit was too busy looking for gendarmerie that could ambush the spectators. Hera was watching Swit.

“There!” Grover called as the first racer passed the final turn. The dirt road threw up dust behind his motored bicycle and the machine looked red hot with steam and fumes. The green magi was close behind with a group of Maids on much plainer brooms and they followed by the assorted gaggle of racers.

The scraggly pyke walked back into the street with a bright white banner.

“Swit, look!” Hera urged him in the last few seconds. All eyes were on the neck-and-neck race. The motoring thump and whirlwood of magic reached a roar and they flew past. The pyke waved the flag and the rest of the procession bolted past the watching crowd. The motorist raced his fist into the air in victory as the magi loudly cursed.

Grover snapped his head around to hear Swit cry in distress. He tumbled from the wagon and onto the road. A motorist on a four-wheeled buggy barely avoided the nobleman sprawled on the ground trying to crawl back to the gutter but a horserider was unable to force her horse towards a neighboring motor contraption and out of the way of Swit in time. Hera had pulled back her offending hand before anyone noticed how Swit had taken his tumble.

The Sight - II

Aurorosįlanka, Loth
Avestar

The nights here were truly beautiful, something more than what Adelina had known back north. She had heard of the curtains of light, even seen hints of them on the approach, but to rest now beneath them was something else entirely. She didn’t know what breezes could influence them, but they danced about in their own celestial rhythm. It was art unlike anything else she had bore witness too, yet they were not why her gaze was cast upwards. The golden star was getting brighter, closer, and she could feel something hugging her mind. Something was happening soon, something that would bring much of the world’s attention down upon Avestar, and the lands beneath. She hoped that most would ignore it, for the last thing she wanted was this omen to be one of anarchy. The Comet had brought so much change with it, that any hint of another spurred waves of zealots across the Cantons that sought to repent for their sins and purge the tainted to earn the Lady’s favor. It was a flawed effort, but the Lady, and her Maids, understood how deeply the memory of the impact that came in the wake of Soter’s sacrifice.[/i[

[i]Her thoughts were disrupted as the light flickered, something changing in the air. The single dot grew brighter, then longer, and all at once became a shimmering streak of gold. From the back of her mind she could feel a choir of notes as something calling out to her, promises and praise as its descent continued. The taste of copper, then iron, filled her mouth as the voices grew louder. Her mind was assailed by images, visions of foreign lands and distant vistas. Sand and rock turned to sea, turned to coast and forest, turned to tundra. Wisps of light flicked around the visions, until her ears were pierced by a deafening shriek. The ground shook and a blinding flash of light tore across the camp, the quakes causing flows of snow to avalanche in the surrounding hills and mountains. Her escorts were roused from their tents and out into the night, looking around for any sign of threat. Their concerns would fall prey to the same awe as she felt as they saw the smouldering lights just beyond the horizon.

The wise thing to do would’ve been to wait until dawn, the terrain already hazardous to traverse without the added instability of the impact to consider. They were far away from any major settlements, and few liked to traverse the lands this far south. Yet, Adelina couldn’t bring herself to find comfort in those facts and limitations, the idea of one of the bandits of the south for rogue feugradi hold outs being the first ones to find the site almost sacreligious. Whatever had descended, it had chosen her to speak to, and she owed it her best effort to make contact with it. Taking the other maids would be a mistake, but the paladins were more than capable of surviving the terrain.

Were they fit to travel, at least. It didn’t take much searching to recognize that the light had held some impact upon them, many weeping a sickly tar as they wretched up blood. Once the initial rush of the event had settled, her maids were too busy helping the paladins to notice much else. Least of all to stop her. A simple letter upon her bed would be sufficient explanation for them as Adelina set out, the worries of provisions far from her mind. She needed to make it to the fall above all else, returning from it wasn’t as necessary.

The only wild life the khimerine encountered as she trekked through the frigid crags was too occupied with fleeing to offer her much challenge, though the lands themselves seemed disheveled by the impact. Clear signs of landslides and avalanches could be seen across the region, though to her benefit they seemed to have cleared a slim path ahead. She knew it was almost certainly providence rather than chance, though it did little to calm her nerves. The air itself felt electric, akin to the gasp before lightning struck the earth, setting her hair on end. As much as it felt like static, the closer she got to the steady golden glow past the peaks the more signs of aether she could bear witness to. Arcs of energy jumped between wisps of golden aether, the gentle buzzing almost like whispers. A voice carved from something molten, sounding out vowels and consonants as it tried to emulate speech. She couldn’t understand the words, her head was already ringing, but she could feel the intent.

She needed to approach.
She needed to see.

Cresting the hill, Adelina cast her gaze down into the crater, the scent of coal and iron filling her breath.

A writhing mass of molten gold swirled around the rock and ice, grasping out in the aurora hued night. Taloned digits at the end of long lankly limbs bent and snapped at unnatural angles, trying to find purchase somewhere above them. Something akin to cloth seemed to be caught above the mass, stretching out as a long tattered cloak broken by two scorched wings carved front the same coal as the body. But above it all was an unbroken halo of blinding white light, flanked by three pairs of thin wings, orbiting the halo. Beneath it the cracking form of a monstrous spiral coming into shape, the darkened segments broken up by rivers of gold between. As it rose past the halo, she realized it for what it was, a broad horn. Another was next to it, broken past the base though the halo seemed to settle between them. The tattered cloak seemed to cover whatever the face of this being, save for the golden imprint of a singular eye.

As its focus fell upon her, Adelina fell back slightly, the wind stolen from her lungs as the voices grew louder, the choir of songs repeating themselves as the being crawled forward. The shards of light that seemed to be long feathers rested above the burned pair of wings, its talons pulling the being forward as pair after pair of limbs produced themselves from the mass.

She needed to see.
She needed to bear witness.
She needed to understand.

A single hand finally reached out, a talon brushing a strand of hair out of her face before pressing against her forehead.