The wide river shone in the evening sun like a line of fire in emerald lands. An orange sky hung in the wake of the sun above rolling hills and the last towering sentries of the Forest of Giants. Early fireflies danced above the current like sparks kicked off the flaming sunset, and water lapped against the hull of the dugout, pulled along by two oars powered by inhuman might.

St. Cristabel Esclanore rowed, her armour and kit packed away lest she were to tumble into the water by accident and sink like a stone. She’d washed, and her chestnut curls poured down over shoulders to her chest and back. Broad shoulders led to arms corded with powerful muscle made visible by her short-sleeved tunic.

Kyembe of Sengezi’s eyes drifted downward as he watched her work. Eppon the Bear-Breaker had mentioned the size of her chest when describing her to his brother. He had to admit, the dead Garumnan might have been crude, but he certainly hadn’t been blind. A glance to Wurhi and he saw her gaze lingered on the same thing.

They exchanged a nod of understanding before turning away lest they were discovered.

Yet more notable to him was the saint’s seemingly endless vitality. She hadn’t paused rowing once since they’d gotten into the boat.

“Are you sure you do not want a break?” he offered, as he had several times already.

She grinned, her oars cutting through the surface. “They say I have the strength of a hundred men. This is no trouble to me.”

He looked at her arms, noting sourly that they were thicker than his. “You’re exaggerating,” he said quickly.

“Perhaps,” St. Cristabel shrugged. “I have not had the pleasure of testing it. Perhaps I should. Were I to gain a rope long enough-”

“Hold on!” Wurhi suddenly sat high in the boat, her green eyes sparking with anticipation. “Here it comes!”

The three travellers watched the last of the giant trees drift by.

At long last, they had exited the Forest of Giants.

“Yeeeeeees!” Wurhi crowed, kicking her feet. “We’re free! Free! Hell to you, filthy forest! Hell to you, drooling ogres! Hell to you dead, ashy wizard! Freeeee!” she pumped her fists in the air. “Aaaand rich!” She laughed, pulling out Gergorix’s treasures as she had many times. “We’re going to sell youuuu.” She caressed the golden goblet. “And yooou.” She caressed the golden talisman. “Not you, though.” She clutched the egg preciously. “You’re going to go right on display when I buy a palace. No! No! Maybe I’ll turn you into a pendant again!”

She handled it fondly. “But we will sell youuuu.” She caressed the silver-bladed sword.

“Wait, may I see that for a moment?” Kyembe interrupted her.

He turned the blade over in his hands, the evening sun playing over the silver edge and jewelled hilt. “Oh myyyy,” he mused. “I would keep this. There’s magic in it.”

“Really?!” She snatched it back. The glitter of its emeralds reflected in her green eyes, and she gave it a few test swings. Well-balanced, and despite its length, it was quite light. Yet she still frowned. “I don’t know how to use something this long. I can stick people with the pointy end but not any of that fancy stuff you do.”

“Simplicity itself to solve!” he laughed. “I shall teach you! With your reflexes, you would be a natural!”

“I don’t need anything like tha-” She paused, suddenly remembering how she’d run afoul of demons, warriors, wizards and ogres ever since she’d met Kyembe on that abandoned dock back in Zabyalla.

She looked at the Sengezian, who made it his business to hunt demons and raid conquerors. Then she looked at the Traemean, a - hopefully temporary - member of their little band who seemed to think only of fighting the biggest, nastiest thing she could.

Wurhi blinked and sighed. She looked at the Sengezian very seriously. “When can we start?”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The river took them toward Laexondael, where Kyembe the Spirit Killer promised he would look into Ku-Hassandra’s whereabouts if the wizard had made it that far. He still needed that drink with Ippolyte and Thesiliea. Where St. Cristabel Esclanore, the Solidblade Knight, would visit the Temple of the Weeping God to sing her new tales to him, and then listen for where the swift wind to glory would blow her next. Where Wurhi the Rat would carouse until she was sick, then rob the merchants and trove guardians blind.

Anticipation burned in three pairs of eyes as they looked west.

Ahead, where the river joined one much greater, lay Laexondael.

One of the greatest city-states north of the Sea of Gods. Crossroads of trade. A city of riches, temples and intrigues.

What awaited them there, they knew not.

Neither did they know what they had left behind.

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Overlord Avernix of Garumna crashed through the trees, his breath ragged and his eyes bloodshot. His feet bled. His beard and hair were matted. Somewhere in his days-long flight he’d lost his helm and crown. Yet hope lay ahead.

Hidden, he’d witnessed Lukotor’s deserved fate, then pushed through the forest for several sleepless nights and terror-filled days. He was finally reaching the eastern end of these infernal trees, where the remains of his army should still be encamped. His eyes swam with exhaustion, but they blazed at the plans he’d solidified behind them.

He would find his remaining officers. He would rally his forces. He would recruit more boys from the villages to grow his horde again. He would tell all of Lukotor’s treachery, saying that the wizard had slain their tribal demons in some mad gambit to gain the egg, before he himself was killed by Avernix’s hand. He would gain the patronage of new demons. Find new wizards if he could. He would go to his wives and plant his seed in each until he had more sons.

Then. Then.

His teeth ground together.

He had glimpsed the three wretches that ruined his army. He would chase them down. Sack whatever city they hid in. He would castrate the man and crucify the two women. He would offer their souls up to whatever demons he’d gained. No, no he would torture them first! Yes, perhaps he would take boiling lead and-

His head shook, bringing him back to focus.

He had all the time in the world to conjure the most creative punishments later.

Reaching the end of the trees, he cupped chafed hands to cracked lips. “Warriors! I have come! Your overlord has returned!”

In the distance, galloping hooves approached.

He sighed, the relief taking him so completely that he nearly collapsed.

Finally exiting the trees, he looked up in anticipation.

His breath failed.

Ahead of him, in a line parallel to the forest, hung his remaining army.

They had all been crucified.

In all that had transpired, Avernix, Lukotor and Eppon had spared no mind to what was not even an afterthought to them; the Bear-Breaker’s slave boy. The boy that had been released by Kyembe of Sengezi. They could not know how that boy had waited while Avernix’s army rode into the trees, leaving behind just enough to guard the captives. They could not know how he’d hidden in the encampment, slowly visiting the other captives at night, parting their bonds and arming them with weapons left behind. They could not know how they’d risen up the same night that the ogres had butchered the main force, doing much the same to their own guards.

Or how they’d waited.

Or how they’d plotted their revenge, and how a mass of enraged voices had come together to conjure torture upon torture, each more unspeakable than the last. It was these who had reclaimed their own freedom and now rode to the exhausted, lonely overlord. It was them who rode him down and bound him when he’d feebly tried to flee. It was these freed captives who dragged him screaming, back to camp.

“We were waiting for you, father of my master,” Eppon’s slave-boy stood among the circle of folk that bore burning brands, bronze hooks, horse-whips and spiked scrapers. To the despairing overlord, they looked like a gathering of demons. “It’s too bad you’re alone. I would’ve liked to repay that fat fool you chained me to in kind. Oh well, we’ll just take his share from your flesh.”

He pointed. “Take him! But make sure you’re gentle! We want him to last!”

Avernix screamed as the mob surged toward him from all sides.

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In those days, the legend of the Egg of Gergorix finally came to a close, but a new legend - the Fate of Avernix - was born.

The horrors worked on the overlord’s body were spoken of only in whispers, save by those that committed them. They shouted out their deeds loud enough for the stars to hear.

Watching it unfold from the branch of a high tree was a crow.

A lean crow with feathers white as clouds and eyes as red as blood.

It stayed on the branch, still as death, until the overlord’s last sobs echoed and died.

Then it took to the air with a single beat of its wings. In its claws it clutched a pouch which contained the ash that was once Lukotor the Wise.

As it flew off, a strange sound seemed to follow in its wake.

An old woman’s mocking, wet cackle.

The End

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