Three days ago

The Cluster moved with life and purpose. Not an individual of his troop stood still or loitered. He was proud of each of them, one and all. Every single one of them was an achievement, a word of worship to the Giltspore itself.

They were ready for this.

Behind his golden, plate-shaped mask, Z’iki’jaga looked down on his people from the third story of the cultivated cave and smiled. He was particularly focused on the young buds maintaining the Vine-Thorn. They were practiced, but their youth made them clumsy. Yet, their reverence for the glorious tool of change incited them to move with the utmost care.

“Fon Z’iki,” a familiar, deep voice sounded from his left near the cutout steps leading to the floor where he stood. Only his blood was allowed to call him that name and title. Z’iki didn’t even turn to his brother, but waved a massive hand to signal his presence was welcomed.

“Come, D’ago, approach me,” Z’iki said. Under his headwear, his voice came out deeper and very tonal, like a horn echoing through the alleys back home. “We are almost ready to move on the unclean’s main cluster.”

D’ago’jaga thumped over on his armored boots to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him, allowing Z’iki to feel a sense of irritation and urgency from his blood. His brother was usually impatient, but this mess with the Snake-Devil had him bristling with concern.

He wore his helmet like always; it wasn’t a plate mask like Z’iki’s but a perfectly-fitted golden piece that framed the spaces where his eyes would be visible if not for the yellow cloth covering his entire face. His giltshell sword, a long, single-blade that required both hands to wield, was tied to his back.

“My linked-troop received another message from the filth calling himself the Tether,” D’ago growled. He proffered an unbroken canister to him. Z’iki didn’t doubt for a moment that his twin had kept himself from looking inside as ordered. “It took two days for them to deliver it.”

“That fool makes too many demands,” Z’iki said, taking the little container. “He is unworthy of the gilding, unlike the Blood-Witch.”

He clasped the lid in his large, gloved hand and popped it open, then dumped the roll of paper onto his palm and unrolled it. His mask painted everything in a honeyed hue, but the dark words scratched onto the page stood out.

‘FIVE DAYS,” it started. ‘STORM DEVIL MOVING ON BLACK TOWER. MUST STOP OR ALL ENDS. BLOOD-WITCH STAYS UNHARMED. HURRY.’

Z’iki rerolled the page and put it back in its canister, then pocketed it in the clothes under his armor.

“What does the unclean priest say?” D’ago put an idle hand on his weapon as if already imagining the blood it was going to spill.

“Our plans change,” Z’iki said, crossing his arms. His giltshell plates clicked together pleasingly. “The Snake-Devil is moving. We will bring the Vine-Thorn to the Black Tower and dismantle his army. Then, we will gild their quarry and take their people.”

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“My Spore wants death,” D’ago said. “Will it have it?”

“You will be filled with death, brother,” Z’iki assured him. “So much to satiate you for years. Go and prepare. We leave within the hour.”

“I am eager, Fon Z’iki,” D’ago said. “With this, we expand gold to farther reaches than ever before.”

“Patience, D’ago.” Z’iki moved his mask to shine on his brother’s face. “The best spores are those that move carefully. Go.” His blood needed that reminder at least once a week, otherwise, he’d rampage and raze every little settlement they came across.

D’ago’jaga thumped off with blood on his mind and a desire for violence weighing down his shoulders. Z’iki stared after him for a moment, then turned away from his scrutiny of the Vine-Thorn's care and walked up the flight of carved steps to his right. His own armor clicked and clomped on the giltshell of the structure on his way up.

One of his troop, a smaller bud brandishing a bloomgun saluted to him, then moved out of the way without a word. Z’iki never told anybody to get out of his way, a result of his station and size. He opened the barred door to the cell of their captive.

The small, unclean woman whimpered at the sight of him and shrank into the farthest corner. Z’iki still didn’t know her name. She was such an insulting sight to him, especially her hair. He’d long ago shorn his own off, but he remembered it being gold with speckles of black. Hers was also black but ruined with that bright, garish color that pierced his mask’s tone filter.

How vile.

“What’s happening?” she asked with a small voice. “Where’s T’imi’bala?”

Was that who’d been caring for this prisoner all these weeks? No wonder she looked healthy and well-fed; T’imi was soft and heartfelt, especially to young women. Ever since her daughter died, she’d been far too compassionate to even the most unclean if they were young girls.

Z’iki said nothing to her, just took a loop of spore-vine from the guard, and approached steadily.

“No, no, no!” The prisoner kicked at him, but her weak feet bounced off his torso armor like small pebbles. Z’iki grabbed both of her wrists in one hand, pulled her up until her feet left the ground, then punched her in the face. Her eyes rolled back at the impact and she went limp, dangling in his grip like a wet stretch of cloth.

Z’iki bound her wrists with the vine, then dropped her in a heap and dragged her unmoving figure out of the room, down the steps, and outside the main chamber of the Cluster before tossing her into a nearby prison cart.

“Kon Z’iki’jaga,” one bud greeted him with a salute, using his full name and formal title as ordained by the Attuned. “Should the unclean prisoner be fed on the trip?”

“No,” Z’iki said. The bud nodded, then returned to his duty of preparing auhorns for travel. It was a three-day trip at the pace they’d make and they’d be traveling heavily with the Vine-Thorn, so he equipped their biggest beasts with the best ropes.

A healthy host of gildgrown flowed out of the cave some minutes later, over one hundred strong. They made space for the Vine-Thorn's massive bulk as it emerged from the tunnel to loom above them, almost two heads taller than Z’iki was.

Once all was ready for travel, he stood before them and raised his hands, palms to the sky. Then he spoke, and the power of his words called to each of his troops and their Spores within.

“Soon!” he bellowed, “Soon, we cleanse the Snake-Devil, the Blood-Witch, and all that follow them! Come, brothers! Let the Giltspore guide us to new lands!”

The gildgrown cheered and screamed with their masks donned, producing a sound like screeching, wet metal. D’ago riled them up further with his unsheathed sword, which he waved about like a standard.

Z’iki heaved himself onto the nearest auhorn that could hold him and pulled his own sword: a longer, double-bladed beast of a giltshell blade that shone glossily with golden hues in the pale light of day.

He swung the weapon forward.

And the gildgrown began to move as one towards the Black Tower. Towards the Blood-Witch. Towards the Snake-Devil.

Yes, let us show them, he prayed to the Giltspore residing in his heart. Let us show them the glory of gold.