Stalking Zanada had lived for a very long time, and the ages she had spent in the deadworlds easily eclipsed those hazy memories ten times over. She would consider her wisdom to be a vast thing, as far as one could measure those more ephemeral qualities of a woman.
For eons she awoke each day in a new form, sometimes a scurrying rodent, others a swift predator, still others a gargantuan leaf-eater. For eons she had learned to stalk and kill, to run down prey, to hide herself in the undergrowth. She had learned countless Secrets of tooth and claw, blood and bone, fear and the gnashing void of hunger.
The Forest of Dragon’s Teeth was a greater paradise than any that had ever existed in the previous, shadowy world of the dead. That had been a dim place, a wan existence, and while she felt little need to venerate those who came after her, she owed the Bones an eternal debt for putting an end to that affair.
Each day she awoke with the dawn, and each day she died as the Tyrant Sun’s memory set itself down to sleep. Sometimes, she died of violence. Sometimes, she died of hunger or thirst. And sometimes, most of the time for many years now, she died of age. After a lifetime of struggle, of finding others of her kind and breeding, of raising children who then raised their own, she closed her eyes for the last time, before opening new ones as light filtered down through the canopy.
She had Secrets of those sorts, too. Of motherhood, and legacy, and the passing of knowledge. Enough Secrets that she had begun to forget them, the understanding flowing away to some nebulous elsewhere.
Today, she was a noble hoofed creature. She had six limbs padded with thick bony nails, and three horns of the same substance, each spiralling to a sharp point. Often, and today as well, she questioned if she was a creature who had ever existed in the living world. Most likely these forms were something conjured by the deadworld’s warp and weft, but even with all her knowledge she could not say with certainty.
As she had innumerable times before, she set to the task of mastering the Forest. She was larger than usual, fearing not the threatened growls and howls of lesser carnivores, but there was never such a thing as true safety; nature did not allow perfection, for the lesser would always hunger to surpass the greater.
They had taught the dragons that. It was one of the few Secrets she had taken to her grave, and the one she clung to most tenaciously.
But as time flowed on, as the life-long day passed from dawn to brightest noon, she felt a tremor rupture through the Forest. The souls of menfolk she had gathered, those twisted into the same shape as her, stilled and then arranged themselves back-to-back, instinct bidding them to protect their blind spots and form an unbroken circle of stabbing horns.
“The Beast of a Dozen Seasons Fears not the Peal of Thunder,” she whispered. She had uttered the Secret a thousand thousand times before, and more than once to these men in particular, but it steadied them regardless.
“To Turn Away from Danger is Madness,” one replied. An old argument between them, grown more comforting than annoying through repetition.
“…As you wish.” Another tremor, and her soul trembled the same as the ground beneath her hooves; this was no mere quake. “Guard the children.”
The instinct of her imposed body urged her to protect herself, but she was no beast of the earth, to be ruled by instinct alone. She was Salt, a warrior who had drunk dragon blood like water. With a flex of her power, she broke the dream of death; her three horns melted and split, becoming many-pointed antlers as she lost a pair of limbs but gained long, rending claws.
Her eyes moved to the front of her face as her teeth changed shape and her pupils became slitted, and from one breath to the next she wore the body she had died in, the body of a daughter of Stingy-Eye.
“Mother,” she spoke out into the fabric of the Forest, no sound leaving her lips. “Who intrudes on our afterlife?” She knew of the other world, vaguely, but this was not necessarily related; every now and then the other Heroes would jostle for position, their deadworlds the battleground of their spiritual conflicts.
There was no answer, and as another, larger impact rocked her soul, Zanada felt something break.
She whirled, listening to the wind, and blocked the swinging staff with her left horn before it could smash into her spine. There was pain, golden light melting the keratin, but she tugged the weapon regardless; tangled in her sharp tines, its wielder had no choice but to either abandon it, or be flung around by her strength.
It chose the former, and as the two combatants stepped around each other she brought her gaze down the length of her assailant.
Short and thin, clothed from the chin down in fabric of woven gold. Its – his, she assumed, though she could not smell a distinct sex – hair was a light and pinkish brown, his skin very close to the same colour. The pattern of callouses on his hands told her the creature was used to handling a weapon.
Not of the Salt, she deduced instantly. The other place. Has Bones already started swallowing their deadworlds? She had thought it would take years yet, given the pace that corpse moved, but it seemed she was mistaken. “Creature, you face Stalking Zanada, daughter of Stingy-Eye. You have made a mistake in challenging me.” She flexed her claws. No scars on the knuckles; less practised in barehanded fighting. I am disappointed. She had hoped that whoever these alien beings were, they would be fit to inherit the will of the Mother of Mothers – but it seemed they took more towards the cowardly One-Man, more inclined to arms and armour and civilisation.
The gold-clothed man did not reply, only moving forward with tensed arms. She slashed, but the man dodged with an expression of power, golden light bursting from his feet as he stepped on the air like it was solid stone – he leapt above the trajectory of her claw, cocking back an open-palm strike to slam between her eyes.
But she had hunted windspiders, shadow-stepping stags, and a hundred other creatures who moved with power over muscle – she had been those things. The ripples of roaring energy told her where to aim, and the claws it had stepped above smoothly lifted, her seemingly-casual swipe revealed to be something much deadlier. Disembowelling Cut, she intoned as the technique coated her limb, energy lengthening the subtly serrated edge until it was twice the creature’s width. “Your movements are obvious. You are no warrior.”
The edges bit into the golden fabric covering the man’s groin, eliciting a grimace of pain as the scent of fresh blood splashed out – but to her astonishment, that was where her attack stopped. The clothes shielded the man, a pulse of golden energy momentarily colouring his entire body as his palm continued forward, and with a screech like iron meeting iron she lowered her head and met his attack with her horns.
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Blood flew, as did shards of horn as they broke against each other. The man flew back, his arm a ragged mess, and she charged forward, bloodlust empowering her movements as she sought to end it while he was reeling.
The man’s eyes widened, but only for a fraction of a second; a strange calm entered his ape-like features, and with a gesture her head was tugged to the side. She lashed out with a hoof, striking him in the chest as they passed each other, and then she collided with a tree.
It shrieked, and then its neighbours echoed it, and in an instant the entire section of wood was screaming its injury out into the world. The man staggered, yet more blood collecting in the corners of his eyes, but he steadied himself with his staff.
Ah, the weapon is a part of him. Curious, he doesn’t taste like a martial artist. The man’s power was thick and sweet, something she had never encountered before. As expected of a new world, I suppose. She stepped lightly around lashing limbs, avoiding the tree’s strikes by hard-won experience.
The man was less skilled; he expended burst after burst of power, turning wood to dust as the Forest of Dragon’s Teeth itself assaulted him. Impressive killing power… But his instincts are poor. No, only a middling warrior with a strange power.
As the man fought, she withdrew, melting into the shadows. Already her horns were growing back, while the man’s regeneration seemed minuscule, if he had any at all. Her voice merged with the whipping limbs of the trees, surrounding her enemy from all sides. “You Cannot Defeat Nature, foolish child.” As the sound reached his ears, his movements became strained – while the great trees, conversely, were rejuvenated. “Die here, and feed the daughters of Stingy-Eye with your soul.”
The man whirled frantically – but then, again, that instantaneous calm. His eyes and hair became like molten gold for a fraction of a second, and the tall trees, which had stood for millennia, were reduced to splinters by a great wave of power.
She surrounded herself with cutting energy, and further weaved the power of Stingy-Eye atop to camouflage her presence. Or perhaps not middling, after all. The golden wave passed around her, parting like water around a sturdy rock. Even more curious… he seems winded, and yet the amount of energy within his belly has not diminished at all.
From deep inside, she pulled a myriad selection of energies. Blood, and protection, and nature. Shadows, and sharpness, and stolen dragonfire all crept up the back of her throat – and, from even deeper, something more fundamental: the very essence of hunger, the consumption of consumption itself. Hunger and fire, enough to topple the mightiest of emperors. Again her voice melded with the forest, surrounding her foe in waves of overlapping sound.
“The first Law of Consumption: In Order to Live, all Life must Consume Other-”
In the moment before her Secret-empowered attack completed, something pierced the back of her head. She stuttered – but she was a daughter of Stingy-Eye, had died innumerable deaths, and this would not stop her. “Other-”
“[Sinful Black World Art,]” said the voice behind her, with a casually cruel glee to rival any of her sisters.
Something sharper than newborn’s teeth cut into the deepest reaches of her soul, and Stalking Zanada knew death once again.
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Ren of the city of Providence drew in a breath, then let it out, feeling his racing heart still as the frenzy and panic of battle was replaced with serenity. That one was stronger than the others. Are we finally reaching the centre of this hellscape?
He sent out a prayer, and for a long moment stood still, patiently waiting. Then the Emperors picked him out from amongst his two-thousand nine-hundred ninety-nine blessed brothers and sisters, and holy benediction scoured the shallow wounds from his body. To pierce my flesh through Heaven’s light – even diluted between the entire crusade, that is an unreasonable level of strength.
Finally he turned to his… companion, a large-boned woman impatiently tapping her foot. “Are you done yet, little boy? You didn’t kill a single one, while I had to take care of all five. What use even are you?”
He forced his annoyance out with a sigh. Matriarch Black Cloak was a difficult person to get along with, for a great many reasons. One of them was her expression as she berated him – a hideous mix of lust and bloodlust, which he was certain even the most deviant man would find unwholesome despite her generous and generously-displayed figure. He was far from celibate, but the woman in front of him was ample reason to consider the habit.
And then there was her mode of dress; draped across her bosom was a necklace of what the most hopeful part of him prayed were animal bones, but which the rest of him placed as identical to the remains of child-sized fingers. The bangles she wore were black Hellish gold, and even her earrings seemed to be carved from the spiritual foundations of her fellow cultivators.
He was certain that at least some of it had to be for show; evil of that magnitude would not be allowed even in the lawless wilderness of Greengrass. But even if nine-tenths of it were showmanship, the remaining tenth put her amongst the most heinous people he had ever met.
“If you do not wish the burden of carrying me, then feel free to go on ahead.” Despite her dark nature, he was hoping she wouldn’t call his bluff; thus far the orthodoxy had managed to avoid casualties, something that couldn’t be said of the cultivators attached to them, and he didn’t feel the need to become the first.
Despite her perfectly white teeth and flowing northeastern locks, her smile only made his hindbrain scream danger. “Aww, so quick to get rid of me? You’ll have to try harder than that, little boy.”
We are in the middle of enemy territory – literally inside a stomach, if my understanding is correct. Would your head burst open if you were serious for five consecutive seconds? Rather than voice his thoughts, he took another calming breath. “As you say. Let us continue.”
The dark and hungry wood stretched on, seemingly never-ending, as a terrible parody of Heaven’s light shone down on the small clearing the brief battle had made. His companion put on an obnoxiously fake pout before dissolving into smoke, and Ren of Providence said a quick prayer as he moved further in. Oh Heavenly Emperors, protect your servant from evil as he traverses this accursed place.
Your light is my sword and shield, the very ground beneath my feet. Carry me, so that I might bring that light to the darkness, and snuff it out forever.
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The transition from Salt to Earth was interesting, at the very least. The space between was much like the broken sky, though far less dangerous; there were no shapes or colours, only shifting impressions like the bottommost dregs of a fading dream.
Junk Dog could not see himself, but from his wake he thought he might be something like a flat disc, smashing through the ethereal substance in disregard of all laws of motion. In front of him was a light, a headlamp cutting through darkness and murk like the tip of a pick, or the edge of a sharpie’s tooth.
The previous Junk Dog had managed to pull ahead, through some mechanism he was ignorant of. It would have widened his grin, if he had either a grin or a width; he did so enjoy a race. Amongst them was a nebula of different energies, his soldiers dutifully pressing forward with all their hearts.
Somehow, he felt the edges of his non-existent face pull further apart. “Ha ha! Is this not incredible?” There was no energy around him, and yet he did not feel starved; whatever rules this place had, it seemed the laws of consumption were not currently among them. “Come on, push! Are we going to let an old man beat you there?”
The liminal void was filled with cries of challenge, not through sound, but something stronger. Junk Dog could feel them, each man’s heart still beating as one despite time’s uneven grip flinging some ahead as it left others behind. “That’s the spirit! Did you think it would be easy?” Energy circulated through him on a layer somewhere far beneath, ripples pulsing out as his words reached metaphorical ears.
He caught them and pulled, or perhaps pushed, and like dragging a stubborn waste worm from its hole, his men began drifting into his orbit. They circled him like bog spirits, a thousand forms somehow conjoining into one.
He rushed past his predecessor, waving as he went. The light bobbed, disgruntled, and then became a rope reaching up into the sky.
Two Junk Dogs exited the portal and set foot on the floating island, just in time for it to be struck by a falling star.