“I'd heard she cared little for sophist guile, for idle talk. She cared only about mastery. That is what first intrigued me. That she clung not to the life of a blade-merchant, and sought not the blood of a felled foe, instead adhering to some strange code of goodwill and honor. That is what fascinated me. That, and the rumor of what she did once she found the child in that cave atop the Amon'tha. Who does that? No true bladesman can call themselves a bladesman if they hold pity or sympathy for others in their heart. This was why I had to seek her out. I had to break her." – Syyd, bladesman, 720 DE (Doom Era)

A child. Whimpering. Dorja moved slowly through the cave, channeling chi up from her feet, and casting her faery lights about, looking for the source of the small sobs. She found a narrow passage and had to walk sideways to squeeze through, before stepping down a manmade corridor, turned left onto another, then right. She found the poor thing huddled in a cage almost too small to hold her, bundled in tattered clothes that were practically falling off. Filthy, stinking, she cowered there, gazing out at a world too cruel to bear.

The girl was probably no older than seven or eight in human years, but who could tell for sure? Tossed inside the cage like an animal, starved, she might only look young. Her hair was brown and tangled in knots. The little hands were covered in grime.

Once, when she was young, Dorja had discovered a kitten lost in the rain, hiding beneath a rock in some valley she’d already forgotten the name of. One of its front legs had been missing and it sat there, shivering in the cold, looking out blankly at an awful world that it had no place in. She took that kitten in, even though her mother forbade it. She hid the kitten in their small hovel, feeding it at night, giving it some of her own food. She named it Morten. When Morten died a few weeks later, Dorja wept, and that was when her mother discovered the kitten had been in their hovel all along. She hadn’t yelled or admonished Dorja, only made her bury it, and said, “You see, Dorja? You cannot save everything.”

The girl shivered like that kitten. The eyes were the same, looking at Dorja without expectation of pity, assuming that Dorja was just one more component of that cruel world that had put her in the cage.

Humans fascinated Dorja, not only because they seemed closely related to her species. They looked so strange. Their flesh was soft and their bodies were flimsy, not rough like hers. They had only two arms, which she imagined made it difficult for them to multitask. They could only wash dishes or sew, they could not do both at the same time. She wondered what that was like. They were so delicate. Like porcelain. It seemed that if you dropped them you might break them. Dorja’s mother had warned her that humans were very delicate.

The girl looked up at Dorja, her fearful brown eyes gazing through a curtain of tangled hair. Tears streaked her face, making clean lines. The sight of Dorja clearly frightened her. Dorja had that effect on people. Not intentionally. But people were often wary of her appearance.

She reached a weeping hand through the bars of the cage. The girl shrank away from her, whimpering.

This hurt Dorja. Maybe it was the only thing that truly did. She did not like making small creatures afraid. It made her feel separate. Apart. Like she would never belong. Dorja was used to being alone, though. It had become her way.

She walked around the cage and found the lock. Three hard strikes from her compristeel blade sliced the lock off and it clattered to the floor. Dorja swung the door open, then stepped back, allowing the girl the space to leave.

The girl stayed where she was.

Dorja knelt in front of her and held out her hand. She knew she must appear a fright to the poor girl, but Dorja only wanted to help. How do I make her see this? After all she’s witnessed, it must be difficult to believe someone would come for her. “Senjelica?” she said. “This creature you see before you, her name is Dorja.”

The girl gave a small gasp. The sound of Dorja’s voice could be a shock, for it was not only deep, but raspier than the average human’s, with a singsong quality that she couldn’t help, a characteristic of her species.

“It’s okay, Senjelica. You can trust Dorja.”

“I’m not Senjelica,” the girl said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Senjelica is gone. They took her.”

Dorja was crestfallen. “Who took her?”

“The bad man’s other friends. The ones in the spaceship. They brought me here from Orten. They took Senjelica off-world, and they left me with the bad man.”

“Why? Who were these men?”

“I don’t know.”

Dorja could see the girl had suffered trauma. Dorja understood trauma, and knew she could not press too hard, especially not now when other enemies might be lurking near.

“Tell Dorja your name, child,” Dorja said.

The little one hid her face in her hands, sobbing. For Dorja, it was always strange to see someone weeping into their upper hands, their only hands. Ever since she was a girl it had been natural for Dorja to weep into her lower hands. Her mother had told her that was normal for their people, but humans made do with only two.

“Tell Dorja your name. Come now.”

The girl just hid her face and sobbed. She drew herself in, back into the cage, into herself, hiding like a turtle.

“It’s all right, little turtle. You can tell Dorja. You can tell—”

“No!” the girl screamed. “No, you’re just like them! You’re just like all the others!”

“Turtle, understand now, and be so certain, Dorja is not like others.

“Then why do you have a blade?”

“Because Dorja’s enemies have blades,” she smiled.

“Wh-who are your enemies?”

“Anyone that would hurt you, Turtle. Dorja swears it. She swears it by her candle.”

The girl peeked over her tiny, filthy hands, her tear-filled eyes gazing at Dorja with terror. “What c-candle?”

Dorja had to be careful here. For sharing her candle with anyone, even letting others know of its existence, was a dangerous thing. “The candle inside Dorja’s chest. It is a secret thing. Dorja’s mother put it there. Dorja holds nothing else more sacred.”

“W-will…will you…hurt me?”

“Dorja will cut out her own tongue and eat it before she lets harm come to you. If you do not believe her,” Dorja said, taking out one of the knives the swordsman had disarmed from her. She had reclaimed it after their battle, and now held it over her left reaching hand. “Dorja is your servant. Command her, and she will cut your name into her own arm, or cut off one of her own fingers. Dorja will do whatever Lady Turtle needs to believe her.”

The girl sniffled, wiping her nose. She looked at Dorja with new curiosity. She gazed down at the blade, then up at Dorja, confused. “Wh-who sent you?”

“The Light sent me.”

“Who’s that?”

“The Light is not a who, it is a what. It is what’s inside here.” Dorja’s weeping hands touched her chest. “This is where you put the candle to keep it safe, so that no one can blow out its flame. The Light emanates from there. It illuminates all else in the darkness, it erases the shadows, and it reveals what was always hidden inside.”

“I…I don’t understand your words. If no one sent you, why are you here?” The girl wiped her nose again.

“There is only one thing you need to understand, Turtle. Dorja is Dorja. And as long as she draws breath, help is always coming. This is her vow, the Oath of the Candle.”

Those big brown eyes blinked back tears. Then they looked around at the cage, at the cave itself. “I heard you fighting the swordsman. Is he…dead?”

“Dorja does not kill.”

“Oh.” The girl sniffled, swallowed, wiped her eyes again. “There is…a m-monster down here. He’s big, and mean. He will kill us if we try to leave.” Her voice had retreated back to a whisper.

Dorja held out one of her reaching hands. “Perhaps if we move fast enough, and secretly enough, he will not see us?”

The girl looked warily at that blue hand. Then she looked into Dorja’s eyes for a long moment.

Turtle stepped tentatively out of her cage. Dorja stepped back, giving her space, not forcing her to do anything she didn’t want to do. She had to be patient—she was on the girl’s time now, giving her room to explore and be sure. So far, Turtle hadn’t taken Dorja’s hand. Dorja tried not to be hurt by that, but in truth while she could tolerate the disgust and fear of others, it was the reaction she got from children that hurt the most.

“Where is this monster you speak of?” Dorja whispered.

“I don’t know,” Turtle said. “It comes and goes.”

“What does it look like?”

“Big. Covered in black cloth, with fur and bones sticking out. And blades. Lots of blades sticking out of it. And…wiggly things. Tent…tentacles?”

Dorja nodded. “All right. Follow Dorja. We must be so quiet.”

Dorja took the lead. The wee girl followed, walking softly on bare feet, clutching her raggedy clothes to her. They passed by the unconscious body of her captor, and Turtle shrank away and hid behind Dorja. At least she no longer equates me to the enemy, she thought.

“What happened to him?” Turtle whispered.

“He’s fine. Dorja just ruined his day.”

“What happens when he wakes up?”

“Dorja is sure he will have much to think about.”

“What if he comes after us?”

“Then Dorja will ruin his day again.”

They returned to the chamber lit by candles and a torch, all of which had been knocked to the floor during the fight. Dorja let the girl huddle around the flames for a moment to get warm. When they started down the corridor, Dorja opening her weeping hands and casting her faery lights, so that they might see down the dark passages.

Turtle gasped.

“Do not worry,” Dorja said. “These are only Dorja’s faery lights.”

“Are you…a witch? I’ve heard witches eat children.”

“Dorja is Dorja. She does not use magic, she uses chi.”

“What’s chi?”

How does one explain the anima that flows through everything, that which science long ago discovered interacting with zero-point energy, influencing the zero field and the fundamental powers of the universe—gravity, electromagnetic force, gravity, and strong and weak forces? “Chi is a power we all have, which stems from the anima. It is mostly invisible to those who do not pursue it, and grants power to those who do. And Dorja is not a witch,” she reiterated, deciding it wasn’t worth the lengthy explanation. “Now, come with—”

“You promise you’re not a witch?”

“Dorja is Dorja, she told you. Now come.”

“Are we really leaving?”

“Yes. Please be quiet.”

“What about the others?”

Dorja stopped short. Turned to face the girl. “Others?”

“Yes. The others in the green water.”

Dorja felt a needle of ice thread through her heart. “What does Turtle mean?”

The girl pointed down another passage. “They’re in there.”

“More children?”

Turtle nodded.

“Show Dorja.”

* * *

They traveled down a corridor so narrow they were forced to walk sideways, barely squeezing through. Dorja took the lead in case anything ambushed them. The passage widened at a four-way junction, clearly artificial, no cave had naturally made these halls. There were torches on wall sconces, and a few orblights that drifted harmlessly through the passages, off on some unknown errands, a couple of them were grouping together in the air, mating.

Turtle pointed Dorja to an archway that opened into a large chamber. And here, Dorja felt her heart seize in agony.

There were children floating in huge, cylindrical, transparent vats of murky green liquid, their eyes all closed, hoses running into their mouths and into their nostrils. Dorja looked at the scene. It was horrible. The children all appeared to be asleep. Tables filled with computers stood at the center of the chamber, with wires running from large server towers into the vats themselves. Every so often, the arc of blue electricity snapped from one of the wires, and a trail of green light coursed through the murky waters where the children floated.

There were vials of black liquid with a faint glow sitting on dirty metal shelves up against the walls, as well as bins filled with strange, liquescent materials that appeared as technorganic parts one might see in an augmented human: blobs of synthware, old, rotted, mostly like something that had been replaced.

“Are they always like this?” Dorja whispered.

Turtle moved towards Dorja and clutched a piece of her armor. “Yes. But I don’t know why,” she whispered.

“Dorja knows why.”

“You do?”

She nodded.

“What is all this?” asked Turtle.

“Black science.”

Tears fell from Dorja’s cheeks. She stepped over to one of the transparent vats and placed a reaching hand against the glass. She looked at the child inside. A small boy, a little younger than Turtle perhaps, sans soul, completely drained of life. She could sense it. Dorja’s weeping hands came up to her face and wiped the tears.

Senjelica, she thought. Are you one of these? Did Dorja fail you? Was she not strong enough to get here faster?

Dorja thought she heard the Amon’tha laughing at her.

Then, she saw the face of another child in one of the vats. A familiar face. Dorja’s heart broke when she saw that it was the boy whose spirit she had met in the cave.

In a moment, she steeled herself. She still had Turtle. She had come for Senjelica but was too late, and now another child needed her help. There would be time to mourn later, but for now—

“Did you hear that?” Turtle hissed.

Dorja spun around. She did hear it. A clank of metal. A scraping noise, metal against stone. A loud whistle, like hot tea escaping the kettle. A few mechanical clicks and clacks, getting closer. A high-pitched squeak, like a rusty hinge. A deep, resonant hum that reverberated off the walls. All machine sounds, all coming from the passageway across the room. Dorja stood in front of Turtle to shield her, and brought up her glaive in a defensive posture.

The shambling mass that entered drove Dorja’s old childish fears from wherever they had been hiding all these years and brought them into the light. Vash’tik. The thing was huge, twice as tall as Dorja but able to fold itself so that it came pouring through the small passage. It was as wide as a tractor, orb-like in shape, a tangle of fur and metal claws and tentacles with seven glowing red eyes. It poured itself into the room, even though it had no feet.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

No feet!

Dorja saw that the creature moved on magnetic repulsors. Kirek had said Vash’tik left no tracks, and now she knew why. It levitated like a spirit, drifting as carefully as a cat about to pounce on its prey. Serpentine limbs slithered out from its spine, metallic and multijointed, hooking the walls, feeling across the tables, like fingers groping in the dark. Crab-like claws, as big as Dorja’s whole body, clicked as they extended from the underbelly. Black fur hung in moss-like curtains from its huge body.

Dorja’s fears did not flee, yet she had a revelation.

It is no monster. No animal. The fur…someone put it there as a farce. Vash’tik is not a demon, it is a machine.

“You have upset the Work,” it said. The masculine voice came from inside Vash’tik, blaring from unseen speakers.

“What are you?” Dorja asked. She was shaking, but trying not to show it. “What is all this?”

Behind her, Turtle peeked around Dorja’s thigh to see, then buried her eyes from the horror.

“Return the child to her keeping-place,” Vash’tik said. “You may not upset the Work.”

“What work? What is all this? What have you done to these children?!” she shouted, pointing at the small bodies in the vats.

“The flesh-vessels are batteries. They maintain the Keeper. They help him stay young so that he may, in turn, keep me in stasis. We are each other’s means to immortality. You may not upset the Work.”

“You…” Dorja swallowed the lump growing in her throat. She looked around at the bodies. Tried to put it together with what Vash’tik was saying. It took her a moment. Many times, her Master had accused her of being slow to put things together. The word he used was naïve.

At first, Dorja could not fathom a use for the children, or what the monstrous machine meant by batteries and stasis…and the Keeper. Slowly, it dawned on her, and she curled her lip in revulsion. “You drain the children of their life essence. You give the essence to the swordsman, your Keeper, and in exchange for immortality he keeps you repaired. You keep him alive and he keeps you alive. Immortality for immortality.”

“This is the Work. This is the way it has to be,” Vash’tik intoned, with all the reverence of a priest saying the words of sacrament. “It is how They left us, to piece ourselves together. Ask the Keeper. This is how we fend for ourselves.”

This offended Dorja in more ways than she could say. She didn’t know who “They” were, or what original purpose this machine had once had. Was it built by men or by Machine Gods? Was it animal, construct, or somehow both? “What are you?” she said.

“I do not know. I was left here by Strangers, augmented by humans, abandoned by Them.”

Dorja found that hard to believe. The Strangers were a race of beings that vanished from the galaxy millions of years before any other races took to the stars. Little evidence was left that they had ever existed, the same could be said for the Inheritors, the race that immediately followed them and occupied the Strangers’ temples before they, too, vanished.

“I have been here since time immemorial. My principle programming is to preserve myself and wait for the day when They return. Pity me, for long have I waited. This has been my Work.” Its seven glowing eyes pulsed at different levels of intensity. It was obvious some of those eyes needed replacing. Its metal tentacles, too, were old, showing various levels of rust up and down their length. The metal crab claws snapped excitedly, and Dorja did not know if that was meant to be a threat or not.

Then, Vash’tik began to hover over to her. Slowly at first. And its tentacles began to undulate in concert, feeling along the floor, coming towards her and Turtle.

“Dorja cannot let you continue your Work.” A silken rage had started growing within her. The small faces all around her…floating lifelessly in the murky waters…it was too much. No one had come for them. No one. Not the castellan, not the steward, not Kirek.

And not Dorja.

They died alone and afraid.

“I must conduct my Work,” said Vash’tik, inching towards her. “It is what I am programmed to do. Pity me. For I wish not to hurt these children. Yet I must obey my programming, just as you must obey yours. Pity me.”

“Your Makers were monsters, and they made a monstrosity!” Dorja said, backing up. “And I do not pity you!”

“You are unlike any other species I have seen,” said the machine-monster, still hovering closer. “Surely you must understand what it is like. I do not wish to be this way, no more than you do. We are alike. Pity me.”

Dorja stopped backing up.

Suddenly, the machine stopped advancing.

For a long moment, none of them moved. Turtle whimpered. Dorja set herself in a Form Five stance. She spoke to Turtle, but never took her eyes off of Vash’tik. “Turtle?”

“Y-yes?”

“Run!”

Dorja leapt at her foe.

* * *

The machine’s many tentacles came at her, and Dorja had to adopt a more fluid style, shuffling sideways, diving and rolling across the floor before springing up and slashing one of the tentacles off. One of the pincers came at her and she brought her glaive down on top of it, hewing the rusty claw in half. Vash’tik gave off a computer-sounding gurgle as it recalibrated itself, extending more bladed limbs from its spine and spinning to face her.

Dorja saw Turtle running back into the passageway from whence they came. One of the machine’s tentacles lashed out at the girl and Dorja screamed as she brought her glaive down, hacking at the limb. Her compristeel blade became snagged, embedded in the twisting limb, and a viscous black liquid, like oil, came spewing out. Dorja yanked twice to free her weapon, just in time to deflect three tentacles that snapped at her like vipers.

Vash’tik advanced.

Dorja push-stepped backwards, stepping around tables and throwing some of them into her enemy’s path. Vash’tik hovered high enough that its belly barely scraped any debris, and one of its crab claws shot out at her with such speed it nearly took her head off. She ducked, but the claw cut across her brow, bringing fresh blood.

She dove again and rolled away, springing up into a defensive posture. Vash’tik’s many tentacles went into an excited and coordinated thrashing. Dorja spun her blade between all four hands, batting away the attacks. One of them got through and stabbed deep into her chestplate, puncturing her left breast. Dorja screamed and leapt back. The next tentacle that came her way she cut in half, and the next one.

The crab claw swatted at her. She ducked. The claw smashed into the glass cylinder and the murky green water spilled out onto Dorja. The body of the child fell out, too, and landed on the cold stone floor.

“Hateful Vash’tik!” she screamed.

“You will not upset the Work,” it warbled, and lashed out at her again with a flurry of metal tentacles and claws.

Dorja’s rage had focused her for a single moment, and she ran through the field of attacks, all four arms working in concert, parrying and slashing limbs, their circuits and wires becoming exposed and oil spilling and arcs of electricity snapping out from the wounds. The metal fiend’s frame was limned by flashes of blue flames that jetted out from its backside. She leapt up at Vash’tik and buried her blade into one of its eyes, and when she pulled it out a waterfall of glowing red liquid fell onto the ground, fuming and hissing like some corrosive acid.

Vash’tik flinched like a wounded animal, backing away from her. Seizing the initiative, Dorja came at her foe and swung at its bulbous middle, spilling some of its wiry guts. She reared back to do it again—

When a mule kicked her in the gut.

That’s what it felt like when the tentacle came out of nowhere and slammed into her stomach. Dorja had been so focused on seizing the moment that she had lost focus on the enemy’s many weapons, and now her breath left her lungs and she went flying across the room, landing hard against the cold stone floor, dropping her glaive. One of her weeping hands shot out to catch it. She gasped for breath, even as Vash’tik rampaged at the far side of the chamber, thrashing at nothing, covering its wounded eye, smashing into more of the vats, knocking over tables and computer towers like a blind predator crashing through woods.

Then, Vash’tik turned its remaining six eyes on her, and came for her.

Dorja summoned all her will and forced herself to her feet. Still gasping for breath, she batted away the first attacks, parried the blades that stabbed out from Vash’tik’s spinning body, ripped off another of its eyes, then another, then shuffle-stepped backward and tried to gain space.

She let Vash’tik charge.

When it did, Dorja ran right at it, then dove to the ground, sliding beneath its repulsors, coming up behind it. As soon as she sprang up, she buried her blade into the machine’s backside. The wound bled smoke, and a bright blue bolt of electricity shot out of it, and likely would have killed her if her shaft wasn’t made out of wood. Vash’tik seized. Its whole furry exterior caught flame. Its tentacles shot straight out for a moment, then wheeled about madly as the machine shot towards the wall. Dorja hung on to her glaive, which was still buried in the machine’s backside.

Vash’tik slammed first into one wall, then another. It let out another computer-like warble. “You—the Work—will not—upset—the Work—you—” it sputtered.

Suddenly, Vash’tik’s repulsors kicked into overdrive and the machine levitated higher. And Higher. And higher still. Dorja hung on, until the machine crashed into the ceiling and her glaive came loose. She plummeted twenty feet and landed on one of the tables and crashed through. From above, oil spilled in a harsh downpour, as Vash’tik, still aflame, scraped across the stone ceiling and its tentacles appeared to be clawing for a way out.

Then, Dorja heard a small pop, followed by an explosion. Smoke and fire shot out of its sides as the hum of Vash’tik’s repulsors suddenly died and the machine came falling down. Dorja barrel-rolled out of the way, just in time to evade the machine, which crashed in a heap beside her. Its tentacles were still living, and, like some animal with its head cut off, the body was still trying to flee or fight. Claws and blades snapped in all directions and Dorja deflected them as she shuffled back against the wall.

Panting, trembling, her body now awash with adrenaline and fear for little Turtle and sadness for the children in the vats, Dorja looked at her dying enemy. She had a feeling it was already dead, these were just its death throes. Blood fell from her brow, down into her eyes. She also felt blood leaking from her left breast, down onto her belly and legs. It did not seem severe.

A putrid, sewage smell emanated from Vash’tik’s corpse, as well as an odor not unlike burning oil. The flames licked higher from its body, but eventually guttered out.

Dorja coughed and fanned the fumes away. She tried to walk. Stopped. She felt a sharp pain in her side where the metal tentacle had struck her. She tried to take a deep breath. It was difficult. Might be cracked, she thought. That would require a wrapping, along with the stitches for her various cuts.

With tremulous steps, she walked slowly away from the horrific scene. She could not bear to look at the wee children anymore. She would tell the castellan about them, and they could send someone to fetch the bodies. If they couldn’t, she would come back and fetch them herself. She would not let them lie like this.

“Turtle?” she called.

No response.

“Turtle!”

“In here,” came a tiny voice.

Dorja moved through the passage. She called to Turtle twice more, following the sound of her voice, until she came to a similar chamber to the one she had just left. Here, though, were men. Kirek’s men, she thought. The men were inside similar vats as the children. Turtle stood before them, gawking.

“Avert your eyes, Turtle,” Dorja said. “A child so young should not see such things.”

Turtle did as she was told, and looked up at Dorja, lower lip trembling. “Is it dead? Is the monster gone?”

She nodded. “Yes. Let’s go home.”

* * *

They made their way to the mouth of the cave. Dorja moved slowly. A pain was creeping up her left ankle now. It might be sprained. She didn’t know when that had happened. Could have just been overexertion. As she walked, Turtle stayed close to her side. Dorja heard the whispers of the spirits all around her. Though she did not see them, they sounded excited. Elated, even. “Dorja did it!” one of them said. “She did it! The monster is dead!”

They filled her mind with their whispers. Dorja wanted to do something for them. Bring them back. Rescue them. But that was not within her power, or anyone’s. She had just one soul to attend to now, and that was Turtle’s.

When they reached the cave exit, the girl took one look out at the dark skies. Night had fallen. Wind still howled and snow flurries swirled around them. It was so very, very cold. Dorja was exhausted. The climb, the battle with the swordsman, and the battle with Vash’tik had completely drained her.

“How do we get down?” Turtle said. “Won’t we freeze?”

Dorja sagged to her knees, and looked around. Her camping gear bag was exactly where she left it at the mouth of the cave, half buried in snow. “Here,” she said, hefting the bag and handing it over to Turtle. “Does Turtle know how to set up camp?”

“Um…not really.”

“Just lay out the blankets and spread all the supplies out.” She climbed back to her feet. “Dorja will be back.”

“Where are you going?” The girl suddenly reached out to touch Dorja’s weeping hand.

Dorja looked down at the girl’s hand. How long had it been since…?

The only time other people’s hands touched hers was in combat.

Dorja smiled. “Dorja must go and see about the bad man, make sure he won’t be a problem for us. She will be back and together we will set up camp. Tomorrow, Dorja and Turtle will find a way down the Amon’tha. But for right now, stay here,” she said, hefting her glaive. “Dorja has to finish this.”

* * *

The swordsman glared daggers at her. He’d awoken slowly, blinking in confusion. Dorja had stripped his robe from him and used them as bonds, tying him down. “Vash’tik is no more,” she told him as she finished up the last knot. She rolled him onto his side. “Your key to immortality is gone.”

The swordsman’s baneful gaze remained locked on her. “I thought you said you never kill.”

“Vash’tik is a machine. Was. Dorja only turned it off.” She added. “Permanently.” She stared down at him with contempt. “What was your job? Tell me!”

The swordsman was surprisingly honest. “Vash’tik could not get all the materials it needed to repair itself, the people of River Wails would’ve chased it, destroyed it. That High-Regius Castellan would’ve seen to that. Vash’tik couldn’t get all it needed to survive. That task fell on me. Sometimes it needed a human to travel to places only humans could go. Into marketplaces. Sometimes off-world trips. I brought it back the materials it needed to keep us both alive.”

Dorja’s upper lip curled in a moue. “How could you do it? How could you allow that machine to come reap those children? Was immortality really that important to you?”

“What do we live for?” he asked. “The Brood devour our worlds. One day, perhaps very soon, there will be nowhere else for us to go. All living beings will be snuffed out by those titans.”

“And you see that as an excuse to do as you please? Where are you morals?”

“When there is no hope, how can there be any morality?” he retorted. He rolled onto his back and glared up at the ceiling. “Once, we all lived long lives. The universe was ours for the taking. We spread far and wide. Everyone had access to regens, our flesh regenerated, as did our organs and bones. That wasn’t so very long ago, not even a full century. Now look at us. Mere shells of our once-great selves.”

“There is more than one way to live forever,” Dorja told him.

The swordsman looked at her hopefully. “How?”

“Through our deeds. Our actions. Those live on, even long after we’re gone.”

The swordsman was clearly disappointed. “Oh. I thought you meant you knew of some other source of regens. You’re merely talking more philosophy. Foolish creature.” He sighed. “Will you leave me like this? Bound and without food?”

“I ought to. It is better than you deserve. But I told you, Dorja does not kill. She will take Turtle back down the mountain and have someone sent for you.”

“Turtle?”

“The girl.”

“Ah. So you found her.”

“I did.”

The swordsman smiled. “Good for you. May you both indulge one another in the fantasy of hope, right up until the very end, right up until the Brood take us all.”

Dorja turned to leave. She did not wish to hear his prattle.

“Dorja?” he called.

She turned back to him.

“I’ve never fought someone as skilled as you. Your adaptability is peerless. Who was your Master?”

“Jerrod Geraadik.”

The swordsman’s eyes widened fractionally. “I know this name. He was one of the Unsworn.”

“Yes.”

The swordsman closed his eyes. Chuckled. “Had I known, our fight might have gone differently.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Unsworn have a weakness in their style and training.”

“What weakness?”

“Untie me and find out.”

A smile touched the edges of Dorja’s lips. “Stay as you are, bladesman. And try not to struggle too much. The bonds are such that, if you do, they will only become tighter and cut off your circulation.”

“I know a rizen knot when I see one,” he shrugged. “I’ll be here. Waiting.”

Dorja turned. As she stepped over him, she lifted a bloated burlap bag lying in the corner. Inspecting it, she found only filthy clothes inside, bundles of bread, a cask of water and a liter of frozen wine. She found something else. A cube the color of obsidian, small enough to fit in her palm. There was a tiny indention on one side. Fingering it, a hologram emitted from it, showing a dark hooded figure—

“Don’t touch that!” the swordsman bellowed.

“Why not?” Dorja asked.

“It’s mine!”

Had it not been for the crazed look in his eyes, Dorja might not have found her interest piqued. Turning back to face the holographic form, she said, “What is it?”

The swordsman smirked sardonically. “Like you don’t know.”

Dorja’s eyes widened fractionally, and she looked back at the hooded figure in the hologram “Who are you?”

The hooded man answered with a question. “How much do you wish to know of the Ten Exalted Fists?” His voice was deep and resonant. His face was almost totally ensconced by the shadow of his hood, but what parts Dorja could see were a latticework of scars. “How much do you wish to know?” he asked again.

“That is mine!” the swordsman screamed.

Dorja looked at him, then looked back at the hologram of the Blademaster and tried to see his features. But the hologram’s image was unclean, filled with static and dark shadows, and the hood around the Blademaster’s face didn’t help. She switched the hologram off and put the cube in her pouch. If it was something the swordsman was this desperate to have, she wasn’t comfortable letting him keep it.

As she walked away, she was tempted to untie the swordsman and test this “weakness” in her style that he spoke of. His sword was in one of her weeping hands—a katana made of smooth, rigid compristeel. She could give it to him, see if he was bluffing…

No, she thought. Dorja has responsibilities now. She has Turtle.

Even so, the swordsman’s words lingered into the night, followed her into her dreams, and would be there when she woke the next morning.

* * *

When Dorja returned to the mouth of the cave, she found Turtle there, huddled against a rock and hugging herself tight to keep warm. She was looking up at the few stars peeking through cloud. When she heard Dorja approach, she gasped and jumped up. “Is he…?”

“Dorja told you. He won’t be a problem.”

“Was he…was he going to do to me what he did to the others?”

Wincing, Dorja knelt, slowly, and began rummaging through her supply bag, looking for the medkit. She looked over at Turtle and considered whether or not to tell her. She decided on honesty. “Yes, little Turtle. He was going to do the same. But he won’t now. Because you are safe. Turtle is safe with Dorja.” Dorja found a water bottle, still frozen, and was about to pull out the firemaker to warm it up.

“Where’s home?”

“What?”

Turtle sat beside the rock, hiding from the wind. She pulled her knees close to her chest and hugged them. “Back in the cave, after you killed the monster, you said ‘let’s go home.’ Where’s home?”

Dorja tilted her head. “What does Turtle mean? It’s wherever Turtle lives.”

“I don’t live in River’s Wail.”

Dorja squinted, confused. “Then where is Turtle from?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does Turtle mean by that? She must know.”

Turtle shrugged.

“How did Turtle get here?”

“Somebody brought me to River’s Wail on a ship.”

“What ship? Who brought Turtle?”

She shrugged again.

Dorja winced at a sharp pain that went up through her chest. She sat down. Slowly. Then, she took a deep breath and looked over at the girl. “Dorja will raise you.”

“What?”

Dorja nodded, as if she’d given it long hard thought and come to an undeniable conclusion. Beneath her, the Amon’tha quaked. This was her final defeat of the mountain, the last blow against its evil heart. It does not get to win. “Dorja will raise you. She will raise Turtle. Until someone comes along who can do it better. Dorja is no parent but she knows how to love things, how to take care of them.” She looked at the girl meaningfully, and at first Turtle shrunk away from the four-armed alien. “And Dorja will share her candle, so that Turtle has one. A candle with a strong, bright flame, and cannot be blown out.”

She said the words before she knew they were forming. It hit her in that moment what she was saying, and it shocked her. The vulnerability of sharing her candle…her mother had warned her how easily it might be snuffed out if she shared it with the wrong people, or if she shared with the right people and someone hurt her friends, her candlebearers.

Dorja almost wanted to take it back. She was afraid to love Turtle. Afraid of what it might mean for them both. This was new territory.

Turtle looked, by turns, frightened, sad, relieved, curious, and confused. “Where is the candle?” she asked, shivering.

With her weeping hands, Dorja touched her bleeding chest. “In here.”

“Then how do you light it?”

Dorja clutched her glaive, lifting the blade towards the night sky. “With this.”

image [https://i.imgur.com/f6fHUfp.jpeg]