***
Brachen didn’t remember falling into the river, but his wet clothes said otherwise. He went to wring out his sleeves but found his arms bound by a twisted, pink petaled vine.
“Oh, ruined my new—” He realized he probably shouldn’t speak in the southern tongue.
Thankfully, his escort didn’t reprimand him. He struggled to see as his eyes adjusted to flashing colored lights seemingly coming from all directions, the haze of unconsciousness still clouding him.
“I suggest you keep your voice to yourself, Light monk,'' the woman behind him said. She was darker than even a northerner, like the black of pure peat. Her hair was covered with the same pink flowers that draped down her shoulders in tangled vines, contrasting the deep green fronds she wore like clothes.
“That is hard,” Brachen replied in northern. He realized he wasn’t moving. Both him and his captor were standing at the bottom of a dim dirt shaft, ringed with a ramp up along it. A small orb of red light sat nestled in an alcove on the back wall. “I do not carry weapons. My voice is my weapon.”
“You must try.” She gave him a firm push forward into the split hallway leading further down.
More lights assaulted him as they progressed into the tunnel. It was perfectly carved, an immaculate circle ceiling with wood frames at precise intervals. Brachen’s vision cleared, but he still had trouble understanding the walls were dirt and not some sort of jungle wood and polished bronze.
“You are a spirit. Yes?” he asked.
“Yes. And you—”
“What is your name?”
“Matikal. And you would do well to stay silent. Please.”
“You insist. I will do that.”
Matikal sighed. She plucked a petal from her hair with a wince. “Your Light makes us grow. Here, take a small bite. Small. Very small. It will energize you.”
Brachen obliged and felt a surge of energy. His eyes widened and color returned to his face as if he had downed a pot of soma.
“Light shine upon you.” He bowed as best he could.
The end of the tunnel was almost impossible to see past with the waving bands of blues, reds, and greens coming from within, swirling together as if making a barrier like that around his temple. Just as the color assaulted his eyes, the chorus of people talking, metal clanging, food cooking, and other general noise was bashing his ears and waking them up. Passing through, Brachen was greeted with a cavern beyond the interior of his temple ten times over, and then ten times over that. The tunnel housed a miniature city, and what he thought had to be at least half the Uttaran army. Further in it turned as if this were any other tunnel with yet more lights flashing beyond the curve. Every inch he could see was abuzz with activity. Warriors used magic infused in their spears or other objects as torches and sharpened their blades, cooked, repaired clothes, or commanded clanless porters or displaced peoples to haul supplies. Rather than a clean shaven tunnel, there were ledges on every section of the wall with bridges connecting them crossing the expansive floor. Some were basic rope, a few were wooden, but many were vine bridges just like the one Brachen had stopped at before.
To him, there didn’t seem to be any order to the activity on the tunnel’s floor or what was on which level of the wall. However, every northerner knew their place. Rather than a haphazard jumble, every clan had its own provisions, blacksmiths, and whatever else it may need in its own section. Those of the Fish, Rat. or other clans greeted their people who all bore the same marks at the entrances to their camps, but each had a plethora of clanless porters and displaced peoples working for them.
While the Clans were separated, there was some amalgamation in the passing groups. Warriors milling about in the borderlands between the camps or walking along the bridges had a variety of markings. Although there was always at least one from Clan Macaque among them, and not a single warrior from the Boar Clan was to be seen. All the while, other spirits went about with the groups, assisted blacksmiths, drew water from the ground as if pulling weeds, or swung about the roots dangling from the ceiling like vines. Those that tended the plants were the same peat black as the spirit behind Brachen while others from other clans were as abnormal as the boar headed spirit or only delineated by the bows they received.
“Please keep moving,” Matikal ushered Brachen forward. He didn’t notice that she had pulled up his hood, and it didn’t matter. His mustache refused to be contained and he certainly didn’t look like a Boar Clan prisoner. It drew the suspicious ire of the third person they passed, who yanked back his hood, and proudly declared they caught ‘that mountain Light monk’.
After this, nearly every warrior and spirit who saw him jeered, spat, or threw whatever they had at him.
“Burn him!” an unmarked displaced porter yelled.
“Yeah! With his own Light!” another with the three white whiskers of Clan Rat added, lobbing a dirt clod.
Brachen couldn’t shield himself, and instead recited a simple mantra asking for them to be warmed by the Light. As he endured, he noticed some marked with the green tree and vines of the Tree Clan only looked away. They passed through a few camps, enduring bones and fruit cores with no small amount hitting Matikal as well. A few Clan Tree spirits who had been collecting the smoke from cooking or blacksmith fires and purifying it between their hands tossed the smoke at him. It burned his eyes and he blinked away tears, but did not hunch his shoulders.
“Appearances,” Matikal the Clan Tree spirit whispered. “Sorry.”
They reached the camp of Clan Macaque a ways down the tunnel. It was by far the largest with more warriors, goods, and far more spirits who were given a wide berth when resting, commanding, and coordinating. But even the regular, non-animal headed spirits made way for the multiple Clan spirits who roamed the camp in troops.
Matikal scooted aside when one group barreled through. They stopped, looked Brachen up and down, sneered, and left.
At the center of the camp was a wooden platform dangling just above the tunnel floor. The vine suspending it ran all the way to the ceiling, following which made Brachen’s head spin. Matikal raised her arm when they stepped on and the vine retracted to pull them up to one of the vine bridges. Its railing parted as they stepped off the elevator and slithered back into place. Matikal ran her hand along it to repair a clipped vine that some careless warrior had lobbed off.
Two warriors of Clan Macaque stood ready on either side of the bridge, with another two flanking the door beyond it. They had a variety of decorated northern armor, but their chest were wide open for the world to try to stab.
“What do you want, Tree Clan?” one snapped at the spirit before him, not even pretending to bow.
“I have brought a captive. I believed Atampara would like to question him.”
“Commander Atampara, Tree Clan,” the warrior chuckled to his comrade, then waved her on.
The door was covered by a boar skin, one with multiple stab wounds and soiled with boot prints and Matikal entered first.
“B-But- You can’t!” a spirit covered head to toe in glittering silver scales pleaded. “We won that fairly in battle! It belongs to the Fish Clan!”
Commander Atampara didn’t even look up from her dinner. “But you hid it from us.”
The Clan Spirit Min had nothing to say, and looked everywhere but at the commander, whose posture would have put Janurana’s to shame and pointed features resembled Dhanur’s. They were more obvious as she didn’t have a clan marking anymore, removed by a spirit, but the two Macaque Clan Spirits didn’t mind. They sat at her table like equals.
It was a simple table with a simple meal of gaur meat and root vegetables. The rest of her chambers had only a bed, and copious piles of palm leaves and dark northern clay tablets covered with Uttaran script. A short spear leaned against her chair. What her quarters lacked in beauty her spear made up for grandly. It put other bronze work to shame, shining with tendrils of gold and green and blue cycling into each other over and over in countless minute and overlapping layers of patterns. The leather and wood had carefully tended markings to mimic the bronze’s colors with either similar northern magic blended in from a Tree Clan wood worker or from a master painter. The patterns of swirls and contrasting sharp angles would had to have been touched up every night to keep the same level of detail. Next to Commander Atampara’s bed was a small collection of paint stained jars.
“You willingly deceived our warriors and possibly killed them.” Commander Atampara took a bite of meat and talked while chewing. “You do know this, yes? Hoarding such a material, it is vital to the war. The armor could have kept our warriors safe, recast and sent to our farmers to more readily able to supply crops. A stone hoe is worth less than bronze. It could have been distributed to rebuild what we had lost.”
“We lost our new lands in the Borderlands too! We needed it as well!” The Fish Clan Spirit’s jaw was agape.
“As I’m sure you did. As did the Tree Clan, the Leopard Clan, and the clanless trying to establish themselves from the Boar Clan’s confiscated lands. You would have received your share.” Atampara turned mechanically, but deliberately, making the Clan Spirits Min, Matikal, and even Brachen instinctively stand straighter. “I know you are down in these tunnels or patrolling our streams so you do not fully understand the situation, but you must understand Clan Spirit.”
Brachen, Matitkal, and Min instinctively winced
“Southern scouts range our lands every day, even after knocking down the bridges they find ways across. They scale the canyon walls, use their monks to create bridges of their Light. Our enemy is resourceful and cunning. Boar Clan partisans continue harassing our patrols across the jungle, not just on your routes. We hear reports from beyond Aram and even near the Citadel that Boar Clan activity is increasing and becoming more coordinated. This war, be it with the south or against the Boar Clan for peace was and will again be beyond clans. Yours has been good to us. We have not forgotten your assistance.” She pointed to the boar skin and turned back to her meal. “You will receive your share once the supply is tallied. Return to your patrols and bring all Light monks you find yourself next time.”
Min, Clan Spirit of the Fish Clan stormed off, glaring at Matikal, who lowered her head. When Min tried to punctuate her exit by roughly pushing the boar skin off her, the Macaque warriors responded with silent mocking gestures behind the Clan Spirit’s back.
“Come,” Commander Atampara beckoned.
Matikal opened her mouth, but was brushed aside.
“Thank you, Tree Clan. We have not forgotten you either. Please relay any animosity you or your clan received with this Light monk to my generals or other spirits.”
Matikal bowed with arms at her sides and tapped the vine binding Brachen. It fell then wormed into the ground as she left.
“Do you speak the northern language?” The commander turned to face Brachen at the start of the conversation and even put aside her meal.
Brachen noticed Commander Atampara did not do that when addressing a Clan Spirit. “Oh. I no. I no no.” Brachen tried to stumble on his words. “No north man no.”
“Feh!” Kunya snorted. “You spoke perfectly fine Northern when I healed your daughter and found you outside the inn.”
Brachen finally recognized one of the Macaque Clan Spirits, but he knew for certain that he didn’t know the other. He sighed. “I do. I am not the best. But I understand you.” Brachen tried to stand up as straight as Atampara sat, but his back twinged.
Atampara looked to the other spirit, Miraku, who shrugged.
“Kunya has told me about the trouble you caused in our city, Vatram,” Atampara said. “The Innkeeper was quite adamant as well. Some sort of spirit, a disturbance at your temple. Can you elaborate?”
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“I am sorry. We did not—”
“We?” Atampara interrupted.
“Right.” Kunya tapped the table, remembering. “He traveled with some southern girl and the dhanur.” Atampara didn’t react. “You never fought her? She’s northern like us, fought for the south. Used a white bow. Red hair.”
“I don’t remember every fight I’ve been in.”
“She fought with Muqtablu.” Miraku added.
That rung a bell for the Commander. “Ah. You forgot such a detail, Kunya?”
Kunya tried not to flinch at Commander Atampara only turning her eyes to him and not her whole head. “A lot has happened since last night.”
Atampara slowly took her eyes off him. “Where are they now, monk?”
“My name, great hosts, is–”
“Where are they now, monk?” Atampara’s one octave deeper tone let Brachen know to dispense with any honorifics or pleasantries.
Brachen curled his lips. “You took me. I do not know.”
“Useful, aren’t you? Then tell me more of this spirit, of the disturbance.”
Kunya and Miraku stared into Brachen almost as pointedly as Atampara. He wiggled his mustache.
“A bad spirit, terrible spirit,” he paused, thinking of the word.
“Malevolent.” Kunya leaned forward. “What did I just say? You know the word.”
“Yes. A malevolent spirit followed my daughter, the dhanur. And the southern girl. It is not the one that was at the inn. It is different. It attacked my home. We fled to Vatram for help. You saw, yes? My daughter, she was hurt.”
Kunya nodded and leaned back. “At least you can’t fake that.”
“I do not know what that thing at the inn was. It called itself Deiweb.” Brachen continued. “It said it was at our temple when the spirit attacked. It followed us, so it is not our friend.”
“A malevolent spirit attacked you,” Atampara began, folding her hands. “You ran to our city. Then something worse followed you?”
“Deiweb said the malevolent spirit did not follow us. He then left.”
“But you can’t confirm?”
Brachen sighed. “No. But we have yet to see either of them since.”
“Deiweb? That’s its name?” Miraku asked. He struggled to pronounce the name in his northern tongue.
Kunya was lost in thought, then his eyes narrowed. He hooked his finger over his nose. “Large like this, was there fire? Smoke?”
Brachen wiggled his mustache again. He heard Matikal’s urging to keep his mouth shut in his head, yet knew that feigning more ignorance would not only be sussed out as before but might also be seen as trying to cover for Deiweb. The best action Brachen determined was to distance himself from that as much as possible, no matter what. A lump where a particularly large fruit core ached under his hair.
“Yes, great hosts.” He lowered his head.
“I knew it!” Kunya shot from his seat and threw his arms in the air, then stormed toward Brachen. “You brought The Scorching to us!”
Miraku leapt up, stepped between Kunya and Brachen, and put a hand on his comrade’s shoulder. “It could just be some southern trick! He lies!”
“I will never forget the scent!” Kunya was soon held by both shoulders by Miraku. “The Daksinian spirit could be around us now! If there’s a chance The Scorching spirit is nearby—”
“Do you smell him now?” Atampara interrupted.
“No.” Kunya’s arms fell to his sides instantly.
“And you did not find him after the disturbance in Vatram’s inn?”
“No. I didn’t.” Kunya sat and crossed his arms, cowed.
Atampara fell silent, observing Brachen’s darting eyes.
“You heard the uproar,” Miraku said as he sat back down. “Let’s let the warriors have their time with him. Haven’t had a good chance for revenge since the war ended. Just sporadic southern scouts. Or maybe give him to the Boar Clan as a present?” He chuckled.
“Maybe.” Atampara crossed her legs and drummed her fingers on her knee. “The warriors are getting restless. These engagements with the Boars aren’t consistent enough to focus their anger. The Boars will charge again but never as a whole.”
“At least not yet,” Kunya said.
Commander Atampara narrowed her eyes and focused at a random spot on the floor. “The fish will swim back with the school if we have another target.”
“Provoke a second round now? Atampara, we’re not ready yet. We just broke down the bridges south.” Kunya rolled his eyes, reminding her of the obvious.
“Then perhaps we dig tunnels there instead, connect the few we have in the borderlands.” The Commander shrugged. “The south is also probing us with their scouts. If they had found a weakness, they would have attacked like the Boars do.”
“Unless their houses begin fighting. I’ve heard from some traders there’s discontent,” Miraku added.
“Feh,” Kunya scoffed then leaned over the table. “I heard they’ve all gathered at their capital. They can’t command any armies against each other.”
Both Clan Spirits and the Commander stopped dead in their conversation and blinked in unison. They all met eyes.
“Did we just destroy those bridges for nothing?” Miraku asked.
Commander Atampara snapped around and traced shapes on the table, making a mental outline of the borderlands, Vatram, and the south’s capital. “They could be discussing strategy and gathering for a combined assault,”
“I’ve heard no mention of troop movements beyond small ranging parties or personal guards,” Kunya watched the commander work. “There are less traders these days, but we’ve gotten a few Daksinian scouts to talk.”
Miraku leaned back. “But you did say they haven’t found a weakness with their scouts.”
“Perhaps they did and now they’re discussing if they can attack.” Atampara traced three lines from a knothole that represented Daksin’s capital.
“I don’t know, neither did the scouts. I still think they’ll probably fight each other before us,” Kunya traced out rough outlines of Governor Traanla’s lands near the capital with his black fingernail. “The scout did say that the house nearest the capital is angry. Well, I think he said they all are because of the scorching, but that this one was one of the most angry.”
Miraku tried to lean in and be noticed by the Commander who would not remove her focus form her map. “If you’re serious, Atampara, then they’ll have all their leaders in one target close to us with no armies nearby.”
“Except maybe this house.” Kunya tapped Traanla’s neighboring lands whose border was delineated by an old scratch. “They’ll be an enemy of the gwomoni in the capital but also us. And they’ll all be in a city whose walls can probably hold us off until reinforcements arrive, And we can’t provoke them out of that city if they still aren’t moving forces anyways.”
“One Light monk will not cause them to advance,” Atampara relented and leaned back, mentally erasing the map.
“If he is a monk.” Kunya glared Brachen down. “Are you sure killing him won’t cause southern anger?”
“No. There’s always a chance, but the clans need an outlet. A night’s distraction is still helpful.”
“Great hosts!” Brachen stepped forward and steeled himself against their glares. “You seek war with Daksin?”
“Finishing what you started, monk,” Kunya growled. “Once he is given we should find his daughter. She’s probably why some of our parties never returned.”
“My daughter, the dhanur—”
“Silence, filth!” Kunya slammed his fist on the table, cracking it.
“She seeks to kill the gwomoni- The southern nobles!” he corrected himself.
“And I burned the borderlands.” Kunya rolled his eyes. “The gwomoni’s lackey going after them.”
Brachen bit his tongue, having momentarily forgotten that gwomoni had become slang for the southern nobles. “That is why we are traveling north! To find her comrade Muqtablu. They had tried once before to kill the gwomoni and place a new ruler on the throne.”
“I have heard of this,” Atampara said. “The two most glorious warriors of the south tried to kill their own leaders. It was some sort of coup. I’ve also heard conflicting reports that it involved and did not involve the… Maharaj, that’s the word, the Maharaj of Daksin.” She shrugged and returned to her meal. “Muqtablu came north and fights our best like she cannot leave the war. You wish to have her leave our supervision, monk. It does not take a genius to determine that the dhanur is responsible for yet more of our warriors not reporting today or those sent to find them. On top of joining her you bring the same spirit who burned us to our doorstep, a spirit that can destroy your own temple as well, and you’re about to ask for our help on your mission.”
Brachen knew he had nowhere to go, but didn’t dare let the conversation end as the last idea they all seemed to like was leaving him to die for the army’s enjoyment. “If we share a common foe then—”
“Enough!” Atampara leaned forward and steepled her hands. “You’ve stayed at your mountain, yes? You can tell me nothing of the capital or the south’s movements. You cannot and will not tell me of your daughter’s whereabouts. Can you tell me anything else about Deiweb? Or the disturbances at your temple?”
“Deiweb asked us to kill the gwomoni. Told us more of them are arriving from far off lands to talk with the rulers of Daksin. The disturbances, do you mean my temple? The inn? Janelsa attacked—”
“JANELSA?!” Kunya was on Brachen before any of them could blink. He seized Brachen’s shirt, tearing holes right through but still keeping the aging ascetic aloft. “That Malihabar filth is still alive?? Was she turned?? Is she a spirit??”
Atampara grabbed Kunya’s arm, but was smacked right into the wall.
“A-A spirit! But she hates the gwomoni too!” Brachen scratched at Kunya’s hand in desperation.
Kunya screamed and threw up his arms, forgetting he was holding Brachen and tossing him aside. Miraku, who was checking on Atampara, grabbed Kunya from behind, struggling to keep the raging Clan Spirit in check. The guards at the door were cowering from behind the boar skin with Matikal beside them.
“Kunya! Calm down!” Miraku yelled, trying to wrap his arms around Kunya’s.
Kunya slammed his elbow into Miraku’s stomach and lunged at Brachen again, who threw up a barrier of Light. The raging spirit broke upon it, knocked back like he had rushed a shield wall. He rolled and came to a stop, only to be bound by a writhing mass of vines that descended from above and strung him up.
“Commander Atampara?” Matikal labored to even turn her head. She struggled like the vines she commanded. Her outstretched arms shook wildly as Kunya raged inside the vines.
Miraku was still catching his breath and staggered to his feet. “His head,” he wheezed.
Matikal gasped as her leg gave out but she curled her fingers. Kunya bit at the vines that slithered around his chin to hold his head steady. Miraku tapped his comrade’s eyes, finally quieting the uncontrollable spirit with sleep while the commander was hauled up by her warriors.
“What’s wrong with him?” she asked with no sign of pain in her tone. She tapped Matikal who was a slump on the floor and determined she was still conscious, then motioned for the other warriors and spirits who had ran over during the commotion tend to Matikal. The two who had helped up Atampara quickly secured Brachen.
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him that angry before,” Miraku said, keeping his eyes on Kunya to make sure sleep was taking him.
“Who’s Janelsa?” Atampara turned to Brachen.
“She ruled the south before the Maharajs. The southern leaders.” Brachen said between the warrior’s spears, leaning against them.
“He… Would be that old,” Miraku said, tapping Kunya’s eyes again, then scoffed. “Let’s just string that one up.”
Atampara looked Brachen over, who kept his mouth shut lest he say something to enrage another spirit.
“Maybe. Or maybe we can bring him to Aram, make a full spectacle of him.”
“Ha! Southerner on southerner! You wanna see Muqtablu monk? We’ll help!”
“String him higher. No spears to jab him. Low enough for bones though.” Atampara nodded to Matikal who bowed and bound Brachen again. “We’ll bring him north tomorrow. His companions will most likely try something to spring him then. We’ll draw them out, capture them, bring them north as well. We can interrogate them, learn more about the south.”
“The dhanur and Muqtablu? I love it!” Miraku laughed. “Alright, I’ll see if we even have another spirit his age and ask about Janelsa.”
Atampara nodded. Every warrior and spirit took the signal and returned to their duties. Matikal had recovered after being being given a chunk of charcoal to chew by another Tree Clan spirit and easily held Kunya over her shoulder like a sack. Brachen was escorted by the guards.
Commander Atampara then rifled through the leaves and tablets stacked about in neatly organized piles, none of which had anything to give proper context to the last meeting. Most were scouting reports, tallies of traders going to and from Vatram, the jungle, Aram, the Citadel, any other northern city, or the ports, records of skirmishes with the Boars or other clans that needed reminding of which held the north, a few general overviews of the last war and Scorching and other such trivialities. She knew it was a fool’s errand hoping she had something as old as Kunya, but she had never seen him get so mad either. When he lost battles during the war he would slam his fists and leap right back into organizing a retreat. Even after The Scorching he didn’t raise his voice for a week and simply stared out over the devastation in silence.
Atampara turned to reports on the southern leaders.
“Gwomoni.” She chuckled at how a southerner used the same insult for his own leaders as them. “I should have asked him if they actually drink blood,” she said to herself.
But the name Deiweb hung in her mind. She had noticed it wasn’t just her who had trouble pronouncing it. It even sounded unnatural to a Light monk’s tongue even though he spoke the Uttaran language. The name of whatever burned their Borderlands simply seemed off. Some spirits, especially the oldest ones, could have odd names and she had heard plenty of even odder words from port clans and their trading with far off lands. If anything, Deiweb sounded more like the language what she had heard a one eyed gwomoni speak down in the Borderlands after the war. It wasn’t like most of the stories of gwomoni she had heard, where they were normal people who drank blood in exchange for a spirit’s strength. That gwomoni wore purple clothing with vaguely bird shaped markings that Atampara had never seen and used a magic no northerner had ever shown despite the gwomoni having darker northern skin. Her magic was somewhat like Uttaran weapon summoning, conjuring a pile of throwing spears, but from a swirl of shadows rather than typical blue or green tendrils. She was clearly foreign. And the monk had said more were coming.
‘More of them? Why?’ Atampara thought, seeing what little information she had on the southern rulers. A few leaves and stolen tablets said their Maharaj was in charge, but that was it. ‘If I were him, I would have said more warriors were gathering. Perhaps that is what he meant. Their allies are coming to end us once and for all. But he must have heard us speaking about a lack of troop movement. Why would he correct us though? The monk may have been trying to gain favor by using our word for them.’
Atampara’s head swirled with too many questions and not enough answers. She drummed her fingers on a tablet, looked to where Kunya had been and shrugged. In the end, Atampara knew it made no difference if the southern leaders were actual monsters. At least she could use going north with a prisoner as an excuse to head beyond Aram and speak with the Clan leaders at the Citadel or just look through more records if she still felt curious.
Regardless, the dhanur was closer and Atampara knew she would have more information than the monk.