The drumming of Vanushe’s hooves hit a rhythm that soothed the worst of Ilati’s nerves. Riding was still not a comfortable experience, particularly after doing so for hours upon hours, but the knowledge she was in motion towards a goal gave Ilati a reason to continue. Morning broke across the eastern horizon, a gleaming golden disk shedding its light across the sea of grass all around her. There was little cover for miles in any direction, only flat land and the occasional thread of water, blazing brightly under the light of Ninshe’s child.

Ilati drooped in her saddle, shoulders rolled forward as she tried to keep her eyes open. She felt utterly spent, yet the road continued. Her horse grunted now with every stride, a sign that Vanushe was just as desperate to rest.

Finally, as the sun completely departed the horizon to make its climb across the sky, she slid from the saddle, too tired to continue. Ilati lay back in the grasses surrounding a twisting little stream, aching bones and muscles soothed by the cool earth beneath. She wanted to curse Eigou for sending her to chase down his vision. However, that would have required energy that she no longer possessed. She fought to keep her eyes open as Vanushe guzzled stream water with abandon.

How could she even say she knew where she was going?

Perhaps it was time to imitate Eigou. This was his vision, after all.

She closed her eyes tightly and dug her fingers into the soft soil like roots. Ilati tipped her head back and spoke the name Eigou had invoked when he showed her the growing grass. If it had worked there, perhaps it would help her here.

It was slow, not the instantaneous flash of insight that Eigou’s command had been. A quiet, tremulous sensation washed through Ilati first, as if the grass was timidly testing her resolve. Ilati pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly through her nose, sinking down into the sensation as the barriers between her soul and the souls of the grasses faded.

—her roots running down into the earth, spreading wide, drawing life from the soil, leaves reaching ever upwards to the sun—Ilati tried to picture the well in her mind, a tree bearing the scar of a lightning strike with roots curled around water—cool, deep, pooled amongst the tangled roots and ringed by mudbrick, shaped by the touch of warm, rough hands, waiting for—

Ilati’s will frayed as she started to sense the well and disintegrated before she could get more than those fleeting sensations. Still, it was enough: the roots had drawn her towards the horizon of the setting sun. It was strange, to feel that expectation clinging to something as simple as water. Then again, if it truly contained wisdom, perhaps some spirit dwelt in it. Best of all, it couldn’t be far if someone as weak as her could sense it.

“Vanushe,” Ilati called, forcing herself up. Her arms quaked under her own weight after a day’s exertion followed by a completely sleepless night. The bow slung to her saddle would be useless if she came across any foes.

The old horse looked in Ilati’s direction grudgingly, grass strands slowly vanishing behind Vanushe’s lips as she chewed. The mare’s coat was sweaty and stained by mud on her legs from their travels. Ilati knew she hardly looked better herself, covered in horse sweat and her own perspiration, mingled with the clay-like mud of Kullah.

The priestess caught hold of the saddle, using it to steady herself. “We walk together. You may graze when we reach it. Just a little further.” She didn’t know if the mare understood a word she said, but she would treat Vanushe like a person until proven otherwise.

They pressed on together for another mile, drawing closer and closer to the copse of trees to the south, no doubt clustered around some water source. They rose taller than the others, almost towering, like no other trees in this part of Kullah. The twisting branches all interwove, as did the trunks, as though…it was all one tree.

Ilati sucked in a breath as they approached. It stood as tall as a tower, the center blackened by the scar of a thunderbolt’s wrath. Yet, despite the damage, the tree flourished and stretched wide branches over a shaded area. She approached carefully, releasing her hold on Vanushe’s saddle. She grabbed the bow and quiver, even knowing she had no strength to use them. At least it would give her the appearance of a threat if there was danger.

A circle of stacked mudbrick five cubits wide, eroded almost to nothingness by exposure to rain and the elements, tangled with the roots. At the center of the circuit was only a flat piece of ground. There was no well, no water, no spirits. Such a thing had long ago dried and been buried.

Ilati cried out in frustration, gripping the bow more tightly as she stumbled towards the ring. She crashed down onto her knees at the edge of the circle and beat one fist against the ground, testing it to see if it might be some illusion, hiding the water.

The ground was firm, only earth. How was this possible? She was so certain she had felt it. Was that only a memory of the grass?

“Eigou,” Ilati hissed, covering her face with her hand. She was exhausted and for what? When she returned to camp, there would be harsh words.

Moving around the circle, Ilati put her back to the trunk of the great tree and tipped her head back, her bow and quiver in her lap. Her eyelids drifted heavier and heavier with every blink until finally the priestess succumbed to sleep’s insistent presence. As with every night, she dreamed, but this was not the fiery destruction of Shadi.

—She lay frozen on the desert sands, the unmistakable sensation of eight small legs crawling up her leg. The scorpion was back, tail poised and claws at the ready. Ilati took deep, even breaths as the creature advanced up her body. So delicate, so deadly. It stepped with a precise grace, picking its way slowly along her midsection. The only true emperor of the Desert of Kings, it stood on her breastbone with alien intensity in its many eyes.

Is a mirage an oasis, that you think dreams are water? The winds caressed her hair like a loving hand, stirring sienna strands.

Ilati shuddered at the sound of her goddess’s voice, coming from everywhere at once. Even with a clear sky above, she felt the roll of thunder in her bones with every syllable. The scorpion perched on her poised its tail to strike when she moved, little eyes staring deep into her soul.

Afraid of such a little thing?

“Their sting brings death as surely as an assassin’s knife.” Ilati forced herself to be still in hopes of soothing the creature, but it remained ready to strike.

But is it the sting that you are afraid of, my poet, or the uncertainty of whether or not it will use it? The voice seemed to come from the scorpion itself now, though it stood completely still with its tail curled to strike. You lay beneath your killer still and yielding, offering no hint of resistance, because you do not understand that the uncertainty goes both ways.

Ilati focused on the scorpion, poised with its claws and tail ready, but let her hand close around her scarf. If she understood K’adau…

Uncertainty is advantage, my poet.

The moment the scorpion’s stinger twitched, the priestess swept it off her chest with one hand, using the wrap of cloth to catch the deadly spike before it could pierce her throat. She threw hard, casting the scorpion down the slope of the dune, and sprang up to her feet.

K’adau’s voice purred like a lion, deep and resonant. Better.

She stared in shock as the scorpion fled, one hand coming up to cover her throat. “It could have killed me. When I met it in the desert, it just walked away.”

The goddess’s presence enveloped Ilati again, sharp claws running down her spine. A valuable lesson in many respects. When you wake, remember the scorpion. He holds in his tail the insight you seek, the insight your sorcerer promised.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Ilati nodded and turned, the winds whipping up around her in a column—

A horrible sound woke the priestess from her sleep: the dying scream of a horse. Ilati shot to her feet with her bow, body aching but considerably more energized. On the western horizon, the sun set in a blaze of orange. She had slept the day away at this empty place, far too long. Her first thought was Vanushe, but the horse was nowhere to be seen.

A deep, sonorous caw split the air and the priestess looked up. There, in the tree above her, was a large black bird. Its head swiveled down towards her, taking in everything about her. The intelligence in the avian’s eyes pierced her to her core like a needle. Something about it was frighteningly human, as if she was matching gazes with not the bird, but its master.

Birds of ill omen do not fly at night.

It was day. The priestess felt a sudden stab of cold fear as the bird launched itself upward with a sudden beat of wings. It flew faster than any bird she had ever seen, racing into the distance like the arrow of a dark god.

Ilati slung her bow across her back and climbed into the great tree’s branches to get enough of a vantage to see where Vanushe had gone. The answer, swiftly found, knotted her stomach into a hard stone.

Six men in armor stood over the bloody corpse of the mare, one with a dripping sickle-sword gleaming crimson in the dying light of the sun. Their own horses were saddled nearby, whinnying on the other side of the tree. They had not yet made their way around to find her.

One, his square beard braided with a crimson ribbon, pointed at the others. “Spread out and find the scout. Sut Resi are never far from their horses. No survivors.”

The priestess swallowed hard. There was no way on earth that she could fight with six Nadaren soldiers. They would find her and kill her. That much was absolutely certain.

At least, if she stayed to fight. Ilati thought of the scorpion, poised on her chest. Certain death, but at the right time…

She turned, grabbing the roughened bark of the tree. She climbed quickly with arms strengthened by archery and hands callused by bowstring, paying attention only to the amount of noise she was making. So great were the branches of this behemoth, they barely moved at all when bearing her weight. Ilati focused on going higher and higher while the men below spread out, until she was high enough that the trunk split. Surviving this would not be enough, not if they could go on to attack her friends. Besides, without Vanushe, she was without a way to return to the Sut Resi. They would move on and abandon her, or search with no way of knowing where she had gone except Eigou.

“What were they even looking for? Natan said this whole route would be abandoned,” one grunted below, rounding the trunk to approach the stone. “Surely not water.”

“The grass here is flat!” his partner said, bounding forward. “Someone slept here.”

Ilati sucked in a deep breath as she maneuvered through the higher branches towards their horses, then started easing herself down. She had seconds to do this and she was nowhere near as brave or trained as Shir Del or Menes. Beneath her, the horses shifted, flicking their ears. They had a minder, so their reins were not tied.

“Bark! They are up in the tree! They are up in the tree!”

The man watching the horses looked up, directly at Ilati. His eyes went wide as she dropped the last six feet, landing directly on the saddle of the lead horse. She cursed in pain and almost fell, but grabbed the saddlehorn as the horse shot forward like an arrow from a bow, startled by the sudden acquisition of its passenger.

Almost immediately, the first arrow zipped after Ilati. Fortunately, she was essentially laying on the back of the horse, trying to fumble vainly for the reins that were hanging down from the bridle rather than back on the saddlehorn where she might have been able to use them. The next arrow grazed her leg, leaving a burning laceration in its wake as it passed her. These were not the bone-tipped barbs of the Sut Resi: these were metal broadheads, wide and wicked.

The priestess struggled to settle into the saddle. It was entirely different from a Sut Resi one, sculpted to suit a different style of riding. This horse likely knew none of the whistle-cues and different calls that she’d learned to steer a horse. She would have to rely on pressure. As soon as the horse started to slow, out of its fright, she pressed tightly with her heels against its sensitive sides, driving it forward again.

A glance back revealed what she’d been afraid of: the men had quickly mounted their own steeds and given chase, one horse at the back carrying two riders. That was not the one that would spell her end, of course. It was the leader.

Think of the scorpion.

Ilati drew her bronze blade and cut away the saddle bags, nicking her own hand in the process. It was razor sharp enough that she barely felt it, even as the blood began to run down the heel of her hand towards her wrist. The heavy load on the saddle lightened immediately, leaving her horse an ease for speed. This would be endurance, not just the immediate escape. They would hound her all the way back if they were even halfway competent riders.

They had to be. They were able to fire arrows at her from horseback. Perhaps not as well as the Sut Resi would, but there were definite similarities to the style of draw. Their bows were bigger, though, more unwieldy on horseback than her own.

She slid the blade back in the sheath once the horse’s load was significantly lighter, everything extra cut away. Behind her was the relentless drumming of hooves, coming closer and closer. Ilati abruptly changed course by grabbing the horse’s mane and tugging to one side as she pushed on the other side with her hand. It was cruel and she hated to do it, but this was ride or die.

“You will not escape, cur!”

Ilati turned her horse to the west and pressed her heels tighter, riding it like a demon with the setting sun shining directly into her pursuers’ eyes.

Something moved to her left and she turned her head sharply, expecting to see a lion.

A horse charged out of one of the moist gulleys, hooves churning the soft earth. The priestess knew the mare’s identity without a thought, that burning link between them suddenly flaring: Youtab. Youtab had followed her.

The Sut Resi horse let out a war scream and kicked out at an angle as she came even with the flanks of the lead horse, shattering that horse’s leg from the side. It fell, trapping its rider, and Youtab surged forward.

“Shoot that horse!”

Ilati heard that command and her heart seized. Instead of panicking, she fixed her will on the image of a great sweeping gust that would blow any arrows off course. “Night winds, do not forget your daughter!” Her answer was an immediate, burning agony in her hand, where the blood suddenly flowed in the patterns of sigils before spattering against her leg and the side of her horse.

A howl split the thunder of the hooves as they raced across the open terrain, a great wind arising from the east. It hit just as the archers let their arrows fly, driving their murderous projectiles away from Youtab.

The priestess grabbed an arrow from her tightly packed quiver, almost fumbling as she put it to the string. Ilati turned, keeping her thighs tight to the horse and isolating her upper body, like a dancer…or a Sut Resi about to use their famous parting shot. She looked towards the second rider, who had lost his grip on his bow in the great wind.

“Be still a heartbeat, breath of my mother,” Ilati prayed. The blood dripping down her arm seemed to crackle with the power of lightning, flowing across flexing muscles.

The split second the winds died, she loosed her arrow like the stinger of a vengeful scorpion.

Fletching seemed to sprout from the throat of the third man back and he fell like a stone. Ilati cursed when she realized she’d missed the foe she was aiming at. A lucky shot, at least, to have felled one. She turned back to face the path her horse was traveling, bow in hand still.

It felt like something struck her hard in the back of the calf, like a punch that ended in a rip. When she looked down, she saw that an arrow had sprouted from her lower leg. Another sliced across her ribs, dangerously close to actually penetrating and doing damage. The pain hit her a second later, sharp and stabbing held somewhat at bay by the surge of strange energy through her body as it pushed her through flight. It was like a sudden jolt of anger, to see a Nadaren weapon draw her blood again. She turned again, fingers this time far more confident on the string. She sensed Youtab’s approach to the man’s right. If she could unseat him, surely Youtab could send the other horse fleeing.

She waited until the rider was barely more than a spear’s length from her to fire her next shot, correcting her aim position. This time, the arrow hit her intended mark in the shoulder, ricocheting off his armor but jostling him just enough to knock him out of position. Not even entirely off his horse, but enough.

Youtab caught the man’s arm in her teeth and yanked him off his horse now that he was within her reach, then stomped him to death with her hooves in a series of sickening cracks. Ilati paled at the sight and the sound, bile rising in her throat. Apparently an enraged Sut Resi horse was something to fear. That, or Youtab’s wildness made her savage.

The rest of the Nadaren riders hesitated for a moment, testing her sudden stillness. Ilati let her fingers dance on the bowstring in pale mimicry of Shir Del’s confidence. They broke contact, racing their horses northward. She didn’t know if they meant to cut her off ahead or if they were joining with some other force.

Even untrained in the art of war, Ilati knew that wisdom was to warn Artakhshathra of the threat. He and Tahmasp would know what was best.

Ilati looked down at her dripping hand. The pain there was coming back to her as well. She turned to press on with her stolen horse, hurrying as fast as she was able. Youtab followed close behind, almost as if shepherding Ilati back to the herd.

It was the dead of night when she reached an overlook of her friends’ camp. Flames greeted her, not the burning cookfires of Sut Resi, but great gouts of conjured fire sweeping up into the night sky. It seemed the sound of battle came from every direction.

Her fight was far from over.