They roamed between the verses,

dwelling in a non-place beyond its reach,

futilely seeking a way in.

Not so their spawn.

Aj returned to slow-fading Sunset.

With compassion

to save them from a slow death

Aj killed

everyone it found.

All except

a lone Valeer.

Aj found the ancient,

rusting iron prison

where the Dynasty

sealed away

the demons

that it could not kill.

Aj studied the heavy, imposing gate

and shattered it.

Inro limped from the corpse-strewn battlefield, deafening himself to the cries of the maimed an dying. Even the Libwe suffered significant losses as the brutal end of the conflict wore down and flaked off much of their thickly-painted coatings of Limn. By the end, it provided little more protection than the crude paint their opponents adorned themselves with.

It didn't matter. They won.

Battered Libwe warriors and the remnant's of Arca's tribe gathered at the base of the rise leading up out of the camp. They leaned against one another, too tired to do more than stare across the swath of burned shelters, sprawled bodies, moaning wounded, and the fragments of six other tribes coalescing around the edges of the desolation to weep for their dead.

Though Arca's people took the brunt of the tribe's vengeance and barely a man or woman among them stood unbloodied, Arca forbade them to yet mourn their losses or tend their wounds. A hurled stone had mangled Arca's right eye, leaving it an ugly ruin amid a discolored swath of bruise. They'd made a deal with the Libwe, but Inro's centuries of Dynastic politics made him wary.

Bertali, the Libwe Warchief, loomed over them. No one could accuse Inro of being short, yet Bertali stood almost a head taller, the man's adult son close at his flank and matching him in height if not yet width of shoulder or mass of thigh.

The Warchief stopped close enough to punch Inro, the swirls of paint masking his face running in smears on his neck and chest with the sweat of battle. A deep voice rumbled from his broad chest as he slowly took Inro's measure.

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Arca translated. "Libwe chief say victory as we promise, more fight at end than promise."

Bertali examined Arca then looked back at Inro with a look of something like contempt as he spoke again. The pause before Arca spoke translated told Inro much. "Don't make his words pretty, Arca. Tell me exactly what he said."

"Bertali say man not speak One People tongue and only is lizard wear man skin."

Judging by the size of the lizard skin and skull cap that Bertali wore, Inro didn't take that entirely as an insult. He'd seen enough bite and claw scars on the tribal warriors to know those headdresses never came easy. But it didn't matter what this barbarian thought of him. If the Ebon Saga told true, Inro only needed enough Limn to paint a doorway into the Subterrane and maybe one out again. Then he could forget these wasteland savages completely.

"Tell Bertali lizards have teeth that bit his enemies. Lizards climb cliffs and they might have stolen victory had we not warned Bertali in advance. Tell Bertali our people paid full price for how the battle ended and we deserve our reward."

Inro shifted his weight to take pressure off the bloody spear wound in the back of his knee and watched the Libwe intently as Arca spoke. The Warchief carried a flaw Inro had found often among strong leaders: Bertali held little value for subtlety and disdained those who hid how they felt. No need for a strong man to govern his words or expression for who would dare challenge him if they didn't like it?

Before Arca even began to translate, Inro knew the man wanted more than their initial bargain. By the undisguised greed with which the man regarded Inro's weapons, he knew exactly what the man wanted. Powerful status symbols should he wear them. Beyond that, he'd seen Inro used them on the battlefield and likely assumed he could be as formidable. Inro wore steel armor and had trained with the sword for centuries; this savage would likely cut himself open the first swing he made.

As Inro turned to Arca for the translation Inro made a big show of reacting angrily. Arca caught on instantly and stepped close to Inro as though counseling him to give in.

"What you did when first met, do again?" Arca mimed draw-and-slice motion. "You kill Arca chief met, now Libwe kill same?"

Inro glared at Bertali as though yielding to Arca's pressure, but resenting it. "I'm not sure how it will interact with the Limn. The paint has clearly lost vibrancy; see where it fades, dries, cracks, or smears? I will have to focus entirely on him to be sure he goes down. What happens if he dies?"

Arca stomped around cursing as though rebuffed by Inro. He returned and thrust his finger in Inro's face. "His son order kill Inro."

"Then you must kill the son as I kill Bertali. Can you do this?"

Brief hesitation, then a nod.

Inro wondered if this would work again. He supposed greed was the same whatever the verse or situation, so maybe they had a chance. Hopefully stories of Inro's first use of the play hadn't spread yet beyond Arca's tribe. "Good. If we pull this off, put your back to mine as soon as they are dead and tell the rest loudly exactly what I'll tell you now..."

A minute later, Arca shoved him. Inro wailed, pulled at his hair, gnashed his teeth, then tore at his sword belt. Bertali stepped back and raised his hands, shouting some command.

"What now?" Inro hissed, hands frozen on his belt buckle.

"He want make official to Great Walkers. Inro, Arca people serve Libwe," Arca said, voice strained. "Make all swear."

"I'll mumble whatever gibberish gets me closest to his throat," Inro growled.

Arca clearly felt more conflicted, turning as Izbali pushed forward, the shaman looking fiercely-grotesque with her new necklace of human innards. Dark blood smeared across her cheeks. As the two conversed, Arca's look became increasingly pained.

Inro walked over quickly before Arca made the wrong decision. "What's going on?"

Tears ran from Arca's good eye, more than fell when he'd lost the other one. "Arca cannot break Great Walker oath."

"Rotter's balls you can." Inro pointed up to the towering pinnacle where they'd met the tribal leaders before the battle. "You swore an oath up there and broke it without flinching."

"Oath to men. Men break oaths for Arca people all time." Arca shook his head. "Not Great Walker oath."

Inro wished he could kill them all. Instead, he gritted his teeth, mind racing.

Then it clicked. "Great Walkers. Gods?"

Arca gave him a blank look.

"Giant creatures like walking mountains? Huge beasts?"

Arca looked astonished. "How Inro know Great Walkers?"

"You know how the place I come from consists of verses in the hundreds?"

"Yes."

Bertali bellowed with impatience.

Inro spoke as fast as he could without overwhelming Arca's impressive-yet-still-limited grasp of Ebon's tongue. "Every verse has its own Great Walkers, they aren't unique to yours. They even build cities on a few. Some worship them, yes, but most see them as little more precious than that lizard you wear to war. Would those lizards still be holy just for rising as large as that bluff over there?"

As Arca wavered, Izbali muttered something. Inro glared at the shaman and spoke even faster.

"Even if the gods are displeased, you can come with me when I leave. You know I told you to tell them that, but I meant it." He hadn't, actually, but the beauty of words lay in their malleability. "Flee to someplace they can't touch, find new gods to worship, or be free of them entirely."

This time Bertali's son yelled with his father.

Inro stood. "I'm going to swear the oath and kill Bertali no matter what you decide. The Aj may already stalk through The All waist deep in rivers of blood bobbing with corpses. Rivers growing deeper every heartbeat I waste here. Make up your mind. Stay true to your lizard-oaths, watch me die, and live a slave to Bertali's son. Or fight beside me, leave this place behind, and become Warchief of not a tribe, a valley, or even a verse, but a hundred verses."

Turning his back on the agonized Arca, he knelt before Bertali. A moment later, Arca knelt beside him, his face tight. Arca spoke the gibberish words for Inro to repeat. He spoke them like a mantra to prepare himself for battle.

Whatever Arca decided, Inro was committed. If Arca acted with him, they might forge a way out. If not, Inro would take as many of these menial savages with him as he could when he died.

The words complete and the gloating Bertali satisfied, Inro unbuckled his belt. Extended it before him. As the Libwe chief reached for them, Inro spotted a patch below the man's ribs where the Limn paint wore especially thin.

A deep breath. A moment of peace as time seemed to slow. His weapons slid free. A calm fell upon him as he launched towards his fate.