Athir paused when she got close to The Cloven Shield and slipped into the shadows of a narrow alleyway.

Dim yellow light bled from the upstairs windows and a single red piece of fabric flapped in the breeze. That was the warning she had organised with the Taverns owner. There would be no time to go back and get any of her things. No time for her to say goodbye. Not that she had many things to take or farewells to make.

“Thanks Horice,” she whispered.

Her senses were heightened as she slipped out of the city, moving from shadow to shadow and watching for any signs of pursuit. What she needed was as much gold as she could get her hands on, and she knew just where to get it.

The buildings were fewer outside the city and the naked moon shone bright in the night sky. There were few places to hide in the open countryside and she broke into a run.

She arrived at the Shambles covered in a light sheen of sweat and crept around the back of the slaughterhouses; animals shifted inside and the smell of blood and faeces stuck in her nose.

The small house at the end of the settlement was dark, as were all of the houses around it. In the silence an uncomfortable feeling prickled at her senses. She had considered that Dwendle could have fled, but it looked like the whole neighbourhood had moved out.

The door still hung off of its hinges from where she had battered it down and the smell of blood was as strong as in the slaughterhouses

She drew her sword and stepped inside, already knowing what she would find.

Dwendle the gnome was dead, the living had more blood in their bodies. There was no sign of Brutha.

“What did you do this time?” she whispered, as she inspected his body.

There was something in his mouth and she pried out a token engraved with the hawkish features of the Father. Her instincts screamed at her to run, flee, to be anywhere but here, but she mastered her fear with a steady breath.

Dwendle had mentioned he had friends, but they weren’t from the Lost Coast Council. He had gone to temple of the Father obviously hoping that they would want her badly enough to solve his problem for him. Now Dwendle knew how the Father dealt with problems.

She spent an hour methodically searching the shack, finally locating a heavy bag of gold coins behind a number of loose bricks in the back wall. Then she took the southern road out of the village. The road followed the river all the way to the Lost Coast and it was several weeks journey on foot, but with the money she had she could find a decent horse in one of the smaller towns.

It felt good to be moving again, she hadn’t needed a drink since this morning and whatever had driven her to Tajar was obviously over. She would go south and put this episode behind her.

Up ahead on the road a cloaked figure waited.

Athir let her pack slip off of her shoulders onto the road. To her left was the river, and to the right open farmland for as far as the eye could see. Neither mattered, she wasn’t much of a swimmer, and she didn’t run.

The figure pulled back their hood as she approached, revealing the face of the Father. The tokens and statues all looked broadly similar, showing his pointed chin and high cheekbones, and his thick black hair swept back around slightly pointed ears which were almost elven. But it was the eyes that no sculpture could ever hope to capture. They were red storms, like the skies of the Echo.

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“Do you remember me?” the champion of the Father said. As well as his features, the fathers champions even had his voice, rich and intelligent, as if they knew just what you were thinking.

“You all look the same to me.”

The figure pulled off the silken scarf around his neck revealing a thick rutted scar.

“Sloppy, but I shouldn’t judge my early work. Is he here?” Athir asked.

The champion cocked his head to one side as if he were listening for something. “He is otherwise engaged, but I wouldn’t be here if he was.”

“He’s off enjoying the pleasures of the flesh so to speak? Tsk Tsk, what would the mother say?”

A grimace passed over the champions features and Athir gave a hollow laugh. “You can’t even bear the insult can you? So sensitive, so devoted. You lot are far too close to him.”

“You shouldn’t be here, we had an agreement.”

“I had to visit a friend, but I’m leaving now.”

“You should tell your friend not to get involved in the games of the small gods.”

Athir paused, she knew what she was and had long ago accepted the consequences, but Konrad didn’t deserve any of this. “Why would the Father care enough to send you?”

“He doesn’t.”

That left the Mother, but why would she care about a bickering match between two puny gods?

“Get out of my way or they’ll have to find your head this time before they can pin it back on.”

The champion rubbed at the scar with a gloved hand. “It would be a shame to leave without a re-match.”

He drew his black sword.

“We had a deal,” she hissed drawing her own sword.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you.”

The champion of the Father took two rapid steps and attacked. He moved with the grace of a dancer, his cloak trailing as he twisted and brought down his sword, the force of the blow sending stinging shockwaves into Athir’s arms.

“You’ve been drinking,” he whispered, his face to hers. The sharp features of the Father sneered at her.

Athir growled and pushed him back. She leapt up and her foot found an invisible step in the air that she used to launch herself high before bearing down on the champion. He managed to deflect the blow at the last minute, but the power sent him stumbling backwards.

He unclasped his cloak and let it fall to the ground, then with lighting speed he threw a fine knife at her head.

Athir desperately threw up a shield and the knife hit the pale barrier and dropped to the floor.

He attacked hard, not giving her a chance to gather herself. His sword darted out like a striking viper, but Athir seemed to flow from one stance to another without occupying the space in between. She parried until she saw an opening and plunged the tip of her sword deep into his thigh.

The champion fell back and the face of the Father roared. Athir stepped forward but he flung out his hands and she felt the air constrict.

A wave of fear was unleashed upon her and an image of an ancient figure chained to a burning surface filled her vision. It’s eyelids fluttered and it’s head lolled from side to side.

“No, don’t wake up,” Athir begged, but the eyes opened and the screaming began.

“No,” she cried, trying to swat the image aside as vomit rose in her throat. “It’s not real.”

The champion advanced on her, and she pulled every ounce of focus she had, burning hundreds of hours of careful meditation to quell the fear he was inflicting on her. A calm descended and she exhaled softly, pulling her short sword and catching the blade of the champion as it came down to cleave her in two. The blow forced her down onto one knee and in the heat of the fight Athir smiled.

“That’s new,” she said, her voice hoarse.

“I’ve learned a lot since the last time we met.”

“So have I, you bastard,” Athir hissed, and vanished.

The champion fell forwards, his blade thudding into the dirt road. Athir was behind him in an instant, her sword raised and ready to plunge through his neck.

“Yield,” she growled.

The screaming began.

Athir’s sword clattered to the ground and she clutched at her head falling to her knees. The whispers and screams invaded her senses as the ancient creature woke up and realised that the nightmare was real and the pain was unending; even a descent into madness had not lessened it.

The champion kicked her blade away and leaned close to her, cocking his head to listen.

“How can you stand it?” he whispered, the faintest hint of pity in his voice.

Athir tried to fight the tears but they flowed freely and several wracking sobs escaped her. She tried to block the sound but her concentration was shattered.

“We had a deal, which I will honour. Leave Tajar and go south, go home,” the champion said, sheathing his sword.

“There’s nothing there, you killed them all,” Athir raged, spittle flying from her mouth.

The champion emptied out the contents of her pack on to the road and bent down to pick up a bottle of strong liquor. He tossed it in front of her before turning and walking back to the city.

Athir seized the bottle and chugged greedily at the liquid, ignoring the burning in her throat as she tried desperately to drown out the howling of her mad god.