“You wretched, mad, treacherous filth-monger!” Wurhi shrieked, drawing her dagger and leaping at the knight. She was caught by the wrist and held in place like a child. “Let me go! Let me go!”

The Zabyallan struggled violently but the strength of that grip was truly pythonic - she might as well have tried to uproot one of those giant trees. The saint’s fingers were not closed completely, but they did not move even when Wurhi strained with her whole being. She tried to stab her dagger into the entrapping hand, but it scraped off the strange metal gauntlet without even marring it.

She screamed and hissed and cursed the woman, but St. Cristabel’s eyes did not spare her a single glance. Focused on Kyembe, she took in every moment as the glowing substance underwent its grim work. He continued to scream behind Wurhi until his voice wore out, collapsing into a great, trembling breath like that of an elder’s last or an infant’s first.

The saint gave a curt, satisfied nod. “Amitiyah’s will is done.”

“Why?!” Wurhi shrieked. “Why!?”

She raised her dagger, this time aiming for the knight’s face beneath her visor.

“Wurhi.”

The blade froze in her hand.

“I ask you not to put a knife in the eye of my saviour,” mused a rich, familiar voice. “It would be most ungracious.”

She whirled.

The arrows that pierced Kyembe lay on the stones; his skin bore no sign of wound. Languidly, he pulled the sling from his body and stretched his arm, rotating it at the shoulder and flexing his fingers without discomfort. His expression grew stupefied.

The odour of vitriol was replaced by a scent akin to fresh rain.

“H-how?” Wurhi stammered. “Why aren’t you mush?”

“By the mercy of another, it seems.” He transferred his ring back to its primary hand, sliding it into place where the skin was a little lighter. He gave a great sigh of relief. “Thank you.” He looked to St. Cristabel sincerely. “I owe you my life.”

“You merely owe me your name, stranger.” The saint threw her shield over her shoulder and extended a gauntleted hand. “St. Cristabel Esclanore, as you doubtless heard at the pit.”

“Kyembe of Sengezi,” he said. She grasped his forearm and pulled him to his feet as though he were an empty sack. He nearly stumbled, but clasped her forearm in greeting and to steady himself. “Apologies for the secrecy.”

The saint’s eyebrows rose. “Kyembe of Sengezi…the same Kyembe that folk call ‘The Spirit Killer’?”

“It was so when last I checked,” he grinned.

She smiled broadly in return, dimples appearing on her cheeks. The grip on his forearm tightened. “Glory be! I know you by reputation only, but what I have heard marks you as a warrior of both might and honour! Well met! Very well met indeed!”

Wurhi wondered if the knight had heard of him being a scoundrel and fool as well. It seemed not. She would have to correct that.

The Sengezian bowed deeply. “I am honoured further to make your company, Solidblade Knight. Without it, I would be dead. Again, many thanks for your aid.”

“It is by the grace of Amitiyah that you are made well, not by mine.” The glowing substance about St. Cristabel’s body dissipated. “I thought your deeds here would have pleased him and so chose to anoint you in his tears.”

“Amitiyah’s Tears,” he murmured, peering again at where wounds once were. “I had heard of their power before, but never imagined this.” He touched his arm and belly, which bore no mark or scar. “They may be burn or balm…” he repeated his earlier words to Wurhi. “And you knew they would be balm for me.”

The Traemean knight shook her head. “As I said, I thought they would favour you, but I know not Amitiyah’s will. It could have been that he found you displeasing.”

He froze. “You mean…they could have…” he looked down to the half-melted corpses by the stairs.

“Indeed. His tears of wrath are quite fatal.” She shrugged. “That is why I anointed your head. Any suffering would be mercifully quick.”

Kyembe blinked and slowly grasped the wall behind him for support.

“You!” Wurhi cut in. “You didn’t say any of that! You acted like you were killing him!”

“Did I?” St. Cristabel asked.

“You said ‘I shall ease your suffering’ or some shit!”

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

“I did.”

“Why did you say it like that!?”

“Because I did ease his suffering. By Amitiyah’s grace.”

Wurhi gnashed her teeth. “You made it sound like you were killing him!”

“Did I?” Cristabel’s lips pursed. “I suppose I did.”

“Why?!”

The saint raised an eyebrow. “Why did you quarrel so long before releasing me from my prison?”

“We-I-“ Wurhi choked. Kyembe made strangling noises.

“You, rest.” St. Cristabel Esclanore appraised the Sengezian. “I shall ensure that this large, dead cretin-” she kicked Eppon’s corpse. “-left none straggling in the dark to fall upon us. I shall retrieve my kit and procure some bounty for our supper.” She looked to the moon. “It is late, and I see no sense in camping separately.”

The knight made for the stairs.

“Wait!” Kyembe called after her. “…did you spite us?”

“Did I?” Cristabel half-turned, her face contemplative. A smile formed on her full lips. “I suppose I did.”

The thief and the demon killer gawked long after her steps had disappeared down the stairs.

A sour sigh slipped from Wurhi’s clenched jaw. “I hate her.”

Kyembe nodded emphatically.

“I also want to marry her a little,” she added.

Kyembe nodded emphatically.

----------------------------------------

“Dead?” Avernix threw his goblet, striking a hapless slave. The overlord of Garumna stared at his wizard. “Are you certain?!”

“Yes,” Lukotor the Wise pronounced grimly. “I was communing with the vessel as his life ceased: His last thoughts were-”

“Do not!” the overlord stopped him with an upraised hand. “Who did this?! Those demons from the southlands?”

The old wizard nodded grimly.

“How can this be?” Avernix rose from his oaken throne woven with the skulls of conquered Garumnan kings. “I sent half a hundred warriors with Eppon! My best trackers! My hounds!”

Lukotor glowered at an empty point in space. “Our enemy is a cunning one.” His brown, tangled teeth clenched in his jaw. “And seems to have a devil’s luck.”

The old man recounted how the Solidblade Knight had entered the battle. What she had said about Eppon giving her offence, and how she had slaughtered until none were left. Avernix turned paler listening to the wizard’s words until, devastated, he fell back in his throne. “…my son…that’s who he…” His calloused hand grasped his face. “…where are they now?”

“Before the Three’s power passed from the vessel, I heard thoughts turn toward making camp.” Lukotor glanced southward. “Though if they remain there now, I know not.”

“You know not?” the overlord snapped. “Why aren’t you still watching them?”

Irritation flashed through the old wizard, but he kept it from his face. “My overlord, the Three must have more sacrifices before they will lend their power to the vessel again, and it will need time to recover its energies, lest it shatter from the strain. It is no matter; we will reach Gergorix’s city before them.”

“No matter?” Avernix bristled. “My sons are slaughtered and their killers feast in celebration and you say ‘no matter’? Tell me exactly where they are! Now! I will rouse the army and I will have my vengeance!”

“My overlord,” Lukotor said quickly. “It would be wise to wait until morning.”

The conqueror’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Speak carefully, Lukotor.”

The old man’s head bowed. “It is dark. We could wander until our enemies gained the egg or escaped our grasp.” He shook his head. “Patience, my overlord. By dawn, the vessel’s energies will have renewed and the Three will be well fed. We will then be better able to lay ambush for those southlanders and this new companion. All without risk to us.”

Avernix seemed ready to spit back some retort, but the wits of a war leader stayed him. His rage receded beneath the surface, replaced by a cold contemplation. He had long mastered his own temper. “…there’s sense in your words. Go then. Prepare the sacrifice so that the Three are ready to find them at first light. At first light, Lukotor, and not one heartbeat later.”

“As you command, overlord.” Lukotor bowed and turned to depart.

“Oh, and Lukotor?”

“Yes, overlord?”

“Speak no more of this until I say so.”

“Understood, overlord.”

When the old wizard left the tent, he nearly tore the jewels from his hair. His teeth clenched so hard that-

Crunch.

One cracked in his mouth. Ignoring the pain, he spit blood and tooth.

The army of Avernix filled a forest valley around the wizard, mired in erecting tents, deciding watches and boiling thick porridge. Warriors ranged into the forest with bronze axes and saws of hardened copper, harvesting low hanging branches and dried brush.

They fed an unlit bonfire, where he later would summon The Three Who Dwell in Ash. Ten poles towered around the woodpile, each bearing a whimpering captive struggling against their bonds as the fuel of their grisly fate piled higher before them.

Pickets held the small herd of horses and oxen brought with the horde. The beasts eyed the trees with lolling eyes. Nestled in the confidence granted by their demonic protection, the soldiers spooned their steaming pottage by small fires and japed to each other over rising lines of smoke outlined by the moon.

Lukotor’s own thoughts were empty of cheer and heavy in doubt.

Thrice these nameless southland thieves - who he was starting to think must have not been so nameless - had come from seemingly nowhere and caused catastrophe upon catastrophe. This was to be his last push to final triumph, not this fell trial. He had paid his due. His personal power was at its peak and his sacrifices were on the cusp of bearing the sweetest fruit.

Yet, the sons of his overlord lay dead, and their killers sought the egg. Unease stirred in him. The old wizard looked to the northern tree line, considering making for the ruin alone, but dismissed the thought. Uncounted were those that had sought the egg and never returned.

Did the ogres and beasts of the forest truly claim them all? Demons only knew what horrors King Gergorix had left to guard his treasures. There were reasons why he’d gathered a great force to accompany him. He did not live to earn the moniker ‘The Wise’ by flying off like a fool.

“A little more,” he promised himself, making for the bonfire.

Even as he pacified his own doubt, a familiar sound rose in the corner of his mind.

His master’s wet cackle.

The same one that echoed after his back the night he’d left to start his journey.