A FIRE BURNED in the ruins. I saw it from a ways out, even as I crept up the stony flank.

The stubs of crumbled walls met at odd angles and ends tracing out the irregular perimeter of what I thought might be a garrison, or perhaps a stronghouse, that once overlooked that sinful, black river. Odd, that such a thing might exist here in the bowels of hell, but no stranger than the church of Elarm I’d only just left behind, or the endless warrens that traced a path of madness below it.

Yellow light painted strange shadows on the broken stones above me. I couldn’t hear voices, but a fire meant someone was up there. Someone who might be dangerous.

Step by step, I closed to gap between me and the nearest wall. My bare feet kicked scree loose as I went, and the tumbling pebbles seemed loud as an avalanche against the greater quiet of the black sands around us. I hunched, keeping Bloodfang propped on my shoulder, ready to swing into action.

Dragon. The thought drifted across my mind only a moment before a huge black shadow swept low over the plain, as large as a castle in ponderous flight. I threw myself down on the stones, ignoring the sharp pains and covered my head with my hands. The greatsword clanged to the ground beside me. Eight great wings beat a hateful gale as it sped overhead, rattling the stones of the ruins. Its black tail writhed overhead, slicing through the air like a whip, and then it was gone. Vanished nearly as quickly as it had come to some other, darker range.

I held there for a moment, staring at the sword. No more strange words came. I snatched it up and scurried the rest of the way to the wall, stealth be damned. I didn’t want to get hauled off like a cat by some passing hawk.

Back pressed to the unsteady stone wall, I slid down to the nearest break. There, the wall had collapsed to about chest height, piling a heap of bricks right at my feet. I leaned over and peered deeper into the ruin. The broken perimeter wall traced a square, within which was the skeletal remains of a square house. I wracked my empty memory, but could find no trace of a place such as this. My people, I thought, built with timber more than stone. Like the church, this must be an echo of some other place, some other time.

But no one was in the yard. The firelight came from the stone structure at the middle, a little brighter, but the yellow had the look of cowardice rather than warmth and security. It was sour, somehow, fragile, like these ruined walls.

I had nearly eased out around the corner when I saw a shadow move in the dark. It shifted slowly, and then stumbled out into the yard opposite where I stood. I watched it with hunter’s eyes, making out details despite the cavern’s unrelenting gloom. Splashes of yellow caught it, and I saw it was another man, like me. But worse.

His flesh was gray and dry, and cracks like seams ran all up and down his naked arms and legs. He wore a black tunic, patched and stitched in a dozen places, and an iron pot helm over his head. His lips were pulled back in an eternal snarl, shriveled in death over brown, rotten teeth. His eyes were dark, void of any light or life. He was one of the Faded, lost and doomed to wander the plains. Zeniel had spoken of them, and Dasoclese. Wretches. A dagger swung loose in one hand. His other hand scrabbled almost blindly against the stronghouse wall, seeking a gap to crawl through.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The Faded hadn’t seen me. Whoever had started the fire might not be aware he was creeping up on them. That was all I needed to know to act.

I slid out around the corner of the wall and closed the gap in a few quick steps. I was nearly upon the Faded when a black thing whirled around the stone wall of the stronghouse like a devil. The shambling wretch cried out, a hoarse, desperate cry, as a silver blade sliced the backs of its knees, tearing them out from under it. The attacker kept spinning, flowing like a leopard through shadow, and planted a curved silver knife in the Faded’s chest with a hard, wet thump. It heaved once, and fell still.

“Behind you!”

I spun in time to catch a new assailant’s blade with Bloodfang. I turned the cut aside, seeing another despairing, empty face. It gurgled at me, senseless words pouring out of a lifeless mouth. I shoved it back, driving it off balance. The thin-bladed sword it clutched wheeled off to the side, leaving it wide open. With a cry of triumph, I planted Bloodfang in the joint of its neck with all my might. The weight of the heavy sword brought it down so deep I nearly lost my grip as the Faded wretch fell backwards. Its helmet rolled off into the gloom.

A little light threaded up from the Faded, but I was already moving. I felt the warmth like a breath on the back of my neck as I crashed into the next stumbling attacker. Two more emerged from beyond the wall, each of them wearing black tunics and iron caps, and flailing with rust-licked weapons. This one was faster; perhaps it had a little more life than the last. A little more radiance left in its decrepit bones. It grabbed me with one hand and thrust a broken hilted sword at my belly. I twisted, narrowly evading the worst of it, but still I felt the edge tear through my tunic and cut a bad one just above my hip.

“Dog!” I snarled. Unable to get my own blade down effectively, I hammered at the Faded’s helmet instead, slamming it twice, three times as hard as I could. It knocked a murderous dent in the metal and clanged like a hammer on anvil.

“The crows!” it shrieked, fetid breath hot on my face. “The crows! My eyes!” On the third blow to the head, it let go of me. I leaped back and brought Bloodfang across in a sideways cut, smashing through its meager defense and nearly cutting the Faded in in two. It crashed to the ground with only a weak kick.

I turned and found the black-swathed figure watching me. The other Faded lay dead at its feet. Warily, I fell into a fighting crouch. Silence filled the little hill, and yellow light danced through gaps in the stone.

“Those men were mine to kill,” the figure said. A woman, I thought. Her voice was dry, as parched-sounding as my own surely was. But welcome nonetheless. If she was talking, she was not likely to stick that dagger into my gut. She let down the black veil that covered her face.

“You drew those things here on purpose?”

She shook her head and sheathed her silver dagger. Her eyes were a faded sort of green, like old bronze, and they nearly shone in the dark. Her eyes fell to the Cindermark on my chest, glowing even now through the thin fabric of my tunic. A little brighter now. “You are Cinderborn?”

I wiped Bloodfang off on the nearest body, and settled it neutrally on my shoulder. “Are you?”

“No,” she said, and turned on her heel.