----------------------------------------
His skin was smooth as polished stone. High, defined cheekbones rose above a sharp jaw. His shoulders were wide and muscular. Sandy, thick hair fell across them. But, what truly stood out were his eyes. Light brown, with distinct copper sprinkled throughout the iris, so vivid and bright that even within the shade of the blackened sky, she could see them clearly.
"My, but in my wandering, I'd almost missed the song of the desert lark." He said, his voice smooth and beckoning. It sent a rolling wave of calm through Val. "Is it a mirage I see that taunts my aching heart? What is your name, my oasis beneath the cruel sun?"
She stood silently. The feeling, the warmth it brought to her, was danger hanging just out of her reach. It was not real, but she could only try to convince herself of that, as her body did not wish to believe.
"Do you not speak, the weave of the stars above? I know you by your presence; I knew you the moment you had come."
"Then why do you ask my name."
He stepped closer to her. She felt herself take in a quick breath. His movements were as graceful as he.
"I know your name, but it is sweetest from your tongue."
A shiver came as if from a breeze, although there was none here.
"Your smile is a sunbeam that warms the coldest of days."
"The sun is deadly here and only cold at night." She said.
Another step, but he was closer to her than if he had taken five. She could smell the sweet aroma of desert snowberry on him. Val could not help but inhale it, her eyes drifting closed, her mind faint.
"Your voice is a gentle breeze that stirs the leaves of my soul."
"Your winds carry only death." She felt her heart beating faster and felt his fingers on her chin, brushing across her skin, and lifting it up.
Val wanted to push him away, but her arms would not raise against his touch.
"Your beauty outshines the morning sun." He whispered, his words far closer to her ear than she had thought.
"You cannot see the sun through the storm." She whispered back, although with effort.
"Let me be the shield that protects you from the tempest." He continued.
"You are the tempest; protect me from yourself instead."
"Your eyes are like pools of moonlit water, reflecting the beauty of the night." She felt the heat coming off his skin, so close to her face that his lips were only a heartbeat from touching hers.
"Should you find water in the desert, it would evaporate before the night."
She felt him lean slightly away, and somewhere beyond them, the winds changed to become angrier.
"With each glance, my soul is enchanted by your presence." His tone was not as sweet now.
"I know that you have not the eyes to glance at me." She said angrily and felt the force closing her eyes give way. She opened them to the golds and coppers of his.
"You are the calm after the storm, bring peace and serenity to my turbulent heart and calm the unrest that is my loneliness." The words came, but they were no longer sweet at all. Instead of honey, it was as if she tasted metal.
“You have no heart.”
He stepped back, the withdrawal of his touch taking with it the thrilling feeling that’d spread through her body - leaving her feeling empty and cold.
“What are you?” He said, his voice deeper, losing the allure it had held.
“It does not matter. I know what you are. You are the Impundulu.” She said, having to catch her breath after the intensity of what had been.
“I’ll eat you, then I will find out.” The winds grew louder with his words. “I would have either way, but otherwise, you would have gone in bliss instead of pain.”
“There is no bliss that you can give me.” She said.
“Why do you smell of the Mother in the Wood?” He did not approach but began to pace slowly, his eyes not leaving her.
“Why do you stalk me through the desert?”
“I hear your soul.”
“You lie.”
His face twisted in frustration.
“I long for you, but I do not understand why.” He said, and this time his tone was plain.
“What do you want?”
“Release.”
“Do you know what that means?” She asked. Her heart was beating in her chest; what had been beautiful about him turned threatening. “I can give it to you…”
“And yet, you have refused me?” His pacing continued as a wolf circling its prey.
“So you do not know what it means then.”
His expression was puzzled but no less fearsome. She had not expected it when he again stepped forward, his body against hers, his arm around her and cradling the back of her head.
She hardly had the time to react. She did not even have to reach. In half a heartbeat, she held the thread pressed up to her chest, next to her heart. His face had grown more confused, as he did not understand what she had done.
“Hold still.” She whispered to him, as his face had been so close that to speak would be too loud. He did not move away, and she felt his every breath - and it had increased as she tethered and bound the thread.
He looked down at her hand; his eyes were scared.
“What are you doing to me…” Without letting go of her, he slid down her body and to his knees, his arms wrapped around her waist. “It burns…”
His voice was pathetic now. She felt pity for him. She felt how much the thread had heated from her hands. Through it, she felt his pain.
He looked up at her with his copper eyes. The beautiful young man engulfed in the barely visible tremble of flames. They were begging for something, but she did not think he knew what.
“It is Valeria.” She told him softly as the last of the threads slacked and fell.
The winds around her calmed, the dust and sand settling to the ground. Only the dark clouds above remained, and even they would burn away soon.
She stood alone next to the large dead tree, and on her gloved hand was a single burn.
“...that is my name.”
Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
----------------------------------------
“Iro-s, come on.” Yaro swiped his hand forward, urging the High Templar to his feet.
“No.” Iros did not budge.
“We are going to hunt!” Yaro pleaded. “Out there, outs-ide.”
“I do not feel well.” Iros shook his head. He’d been doubled over most of the morning, something not sitting well within him. Perhaps it had been the goat.
“Sh-it yours-elf out there. Come on.”
Leaving Iros behind, Yaro and Ivan made their way to where Anukk’a and a helper girl were bent over a stone pestle. Inside were large beetle-like bugs. The gritty crunch of their bodies yielded bright red paste, and the High Priestess watched the girl to ensure that it was so fine that pouring only a small amount of water over it made it into thick paint. Marat was there, watching their actions with distaste.
“On our faces?” He asked.
Anukk’a nodded.
“Hm.”
“Kneel.” She instructed.
Marat slowly got down on his knees, and she lifted his chin up toward her. “It will be harder to make straight lines over the scars, but they produce less sebum, and the ink won’t smear as soon as the rest.”
She took her finger and gathering a small amount of the red paste, she drew a line from his forehead down to his chin and then another across the bridge of his nose. Between them, much finer lines were drawn using only her fingernail.
“Next.” She ordered. Ivan stepped up, his face full of apprehension. He dropped down on his knees, but even then, the woman frowned. “Bend down.”
She drew the same design across his cheeks and forehead.
“My, but what blue eyes you have.” She marveled.
“S-coot over, boy.” Yaro knelt in front of her next, and his eyes shone as hers met them. As if in awe of her for the first time, he followed every motion of her hand, every movement of her eyes, and at the end, the smile she had given only to him.
They stood at the threshold of the storm at the edge of the canyon walls, their hair and skin already accosted by the winds. They were already far from the cave.
“What are we looking for?” Ivan shouted, his words getting lost in the violence of the weather.
“Rompo!” Yaro shouted back, but his voice was downwind and more muted. “Like on the wall-s.”
“Watch for my signals; if I tell you to stop, you stop,” Marat commanded him. “They hunt in packs.”
Ivan’s face had only barely shown that he had not been such a big fan of the idea.
Each pulled a scarf tightly over their head and face to protect them from the debris, further ensuring that no word - muffled or not, could be spoken once in the tempest. All were careful not to smudge the paint.
As they stepped in, the full rage of it crashed into their bodies, nearly knocking them off balance. Marat was the first to take off into a run, and Ivan followed. At the back, Yaro’s heavy steps almost immediately began falling behind.
It had been dark. Not quite as dark as nighttime but as if in a cloud of heavy smoke. They moved forward fast, although forward wasn’t particularly promised. No landscape or markers appeared, and no rock gave them warning before being underfoot. Yet, Marat went on.
Ivan saw his dark shape and turned to make sure that Yaro had been nearby. There was no sign of the large man.
“Fuck…” He muttered to himself but turned forward, not daring to lose sight of the Embe… Marat. It had not been long enough. It had not been enough time. Each night he spoke less and less, having to share a fire with the man. Each day he heard more and more about who he was. It was no longer just about the Witch.
A hand went up, and he came to an abrupt halt. The figure ahead crouched, and he followed suit.
They kept moving, everything ahead obscured by the airborne sand - only shadows of varying darkness rose around them.
The other hand stretched to the side and bent. He had no idea what these meant; the gestures were not something Ivan had recognized. He did not stop in time, and as his foot stepped forward, the sand gave way. He slid but stopped himself with his hands from going further down. At ground level, he saw the creatures before them.
As far as vision allowed, spread throughout were dark twisting shapes. Six feet in length, their spines curved up and bent down smoothly as a snake’s, ending in rat-like heads. Each was bent over something, busy.
He jerked his head to the side, but Marat was nowhere to be seen.
Ivan remained still. None of the shadows seemed to hear him in the winds.
Thunder rolled in a deep growl above.
This seemed to startle the things, and some looked up.
At him.
At once, they took off toward him - and in the same breath, as if from nowhere, came a shadow. The sword glinted in the one source of light to break through. Kladenets swung, and a creature went down. Another after it, so fast that it was hard to believe the blade had been raised twice.
Caught off guard but not incapacitated, Ivan drove his into the first of the creatures to make it to him. Another lunged, and its head was promptly crushed by a mace breaking out of dust clouds. He heard a yell but could not tell what it was. The large man leaned down as close as he could.
“Don’t damage the head-s!” The words reached him, and he looked down at the mass of brain matter at the end of Anushka.
He nodded.
They kept coming, but between the three, all had been slain in minutes.
It was the very last. It crept up on Ivan’s side, where the wrapped scarf had made it hard to see. It swiped with its large padded claw.
It missed, but it dragged the scarf's fabric across his face, wiping a part of the ward from his cheek.
The immediate sensation overcame him. Sand filled his lungs. He could feel its warm, scratchy roughness in his chest. He could not breathe.
----------------------------------------
Careful not to damage the bodies too much, Marat drove his sword mostly through their ribcages. Those were deadly strikes and would be opened anyway. They could not let too much blood, could not dismember them, and could do nothing that would make them difficult to carry back.
When he could see no more, he looked behind. Yaro had been crouched over Ivan, who was writhing on the ground.
“Fuck.”
He ran back, kicking up sand as he drew to a stop and fell on his knees. He glanced over the man, but no wound was evident. He looked to Yaro, but his eyes were just as full of questions.
Sudden realization.
Marat ripped the scarf from Ivan’s face where a blurry, splotched line had been completely out of place.
----------------------------------------
He felt the faintness draw in as air became more scarce. Something had been crushing him to the ground in waves as if in rhythm with the flap of a bird’s wings. Ivan saw the two men hovering above him, but they could do nothing.
Until one did.
He saw the slimmer man bite into the fabric of his own sleeve, the other bringing the sword up to chest level. He slid it carefully across the top side of his forearm, blood swelling where the blade withdrew. Quickly, Marat dabbed his fingers in it and dragged one across Ivan’s cheek - completing the line.
Ivan rolled over and spit the sand out. He coughed and heaved repeatedly until it felt mostly gone. A hand grabbed him under his arm and hauled him up. Yaro handed him the headscarf back and turned to where Marat was tying the bodies together. They picked the ones that remained most intact and swung them up on their shoulders.
The trip back was far slower, their heels digging farther into the sand.
As they returned to the canyon walls, all three dropped their cargo, collapsing beside the fleshy heaps, and ripping off their scarves to breathe freely.
None said anything for a while.
“What were they doing…” Ivan was the first to break the silence between hard breaths. “How did you know to look for them…”
“They’re scavengers,” Marat said, equally winded, “Corpse-eaters. I followed a trail back to the caves. Anyone caught out there would have tried to run back - and failed. Their death attracted the rompo. They found the bodies, even so long after the storm had begun.”
“That is incredible,” Ivan admitted.
All his years as a pathfinder could not have taught him this. It was not long ago that a devil in the woods had scared the piss out of him. And then the Witch came along… now this. Corpse-eaters. In the desert. A god’s blood smeared across his face.
“Yaro?” Marat called, but the man was lying on his back and wheezing, unwilling to converse. The rise and fall of his chest had indicated life, which had been good enough.
“Marat,” the name felt strange to say out loud. It carried so much weight. It was what the Witch had called him all along, Ivan thought. “Thank you.”
The man shifted uncomfortably and did not reply.
“You could have left me. It was not long ago that I feel you would have.”
“I wouldn’t leave you to die like an animal.” Marat sighed. “If I were to end you, I would do so like a man.”
Ivan felt a tightening in his stomach, but when he looked, Marat was grinning.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Ivan smiled.
They carried the creatures back into the cave, where Iros immediately met them. His meticulously clean clothes visibly contrasted their completely dust-crusted rags, and he looked at them with just a hint of judgment despite having stayed behind and lounged all day.
“We got all six.” Marat dropped the two from his back, but the look on Iros’ face stopped him from saying anything else.
“Marat, Valeria is gone.”
----------------------------------------