The scene aboard the van was grim. They had all meandered to the main hall and stood in the room waiting for someone to speak up. The prisoner they had saved had long, black hair and gaunt features. She was sitting with her knees hugged to her body, chewing on her fingernails. Cherry was losing herself in thought, but spoke her mind first. “Cousin, I’m sorry. It is my fault your friends are dead. You are going to be safe here. Eat something and claim any of the empty rooms with a bed as your own.”

Cherry browsed the bottles of liquor in a cabinet. “You can tell me your story and what is happening at home tomorrow morning.” She picked up one bottle that slipped out of her hands and shattered on the floor below. Everyone watched as she bent down to pick up the glass but cut her finger. She took off her glove and look at the grizzled scars. They didn’t even bleed at this minor cut. She grabbed another glass container and smashed it, intentionally this time, while fighting back tears.

Desdin walked up and wrapped his arm around her. Her voice quivered, “I’m sorry, I need time to process that I’m dying and that we are heading to a thousand year old dungeon that didn’t help anyone then and won’t help anyone now.” Cherry clutched a third container of spirits close to her chest. Her gaze fell upon Desdin’s bandages, seeing that he was bleeding through them. “If you want me to fix that half ass stitch job the Union did on you come to my room before this bottle is victim of a vanishing trick. Take a shower first. Should be enough water in the van to last us a week or two.”

Demalyn walked after her before Desdin put his arm up before her. “Hey Dem, can you help me with getting my armor off? She probably needs a minute. She just found out she has a death sentence. We are going after the Roots of Dragsil, which she is clearly thrilled about, and she had to watch her countrymen murdered before her eyes.” Desdin sat down in front of her. Demalyn got to work at undoing the leather straps of his armor. Everyone sat and shifted in uncomfortable silence for a short time. Glancing in the prisoner’s direction, Desdin asked, “What is your name?”

The woman answered without looking up, “Brule.”

“I’m sorry Brule. We didn’t mean for you to get involved in this way. I know people in Dragonshead. They won’t help me, but I can convince them to get you back home. Do you know anything about what Arata told us?”

Brule dizzily looked at him. “No. Rabbit was the leader of our cell. I was a plant in a small town outside the Everflowing capital. My job was to help agents blend in and to provide assistance if possible, in obtaining assets. I was told nothing.”

Desdin winced in pain as Demalyn peeled off his chest armor. Blood had stuck to it and ran fresh the moment she peeled it off. “Looks like I am finally going to bandage you up!” Demalyn said with cheer, before she stepped out to find bandages and supplies.

Desdin informed Brule, “There is food stocked throughout the van. Help yourself to whatever you need, Brule.” He then exchanged looks with Tukrit. “Which tribe are you from?” Desdin asked.

“Zafron,” Tukrit answered. “We stuck close with the fisher villages of the coastline and kept watch of the clearest mountain path that acted as a road to the Devil Lands.”

“The mountain range to the western coast. Your tribe was prolific, but I rarely made it to that side of the Farland. It was the domain of the fourth Warden Rone. He serves Emeralas in Dragonshead now. We may run into him. I read that he and the seventh, Catreel, married,” Desdin said.

“I never met him. We were friendly with the Farland clans there, but kept our distance. I inherited the role of an elite tracker and the slayer of the feral. It eventually took me out to the Devil’s Land. Which led me to Ouren’s prison, then Arata, and now you,” Tukrit said.

Demalyn began dousing Desdin’s bared chest and body with antiseptic before loosely applying the bandages. “You are a terrible nurse,” he said before redirecting his attention to the large Fallen resting across from him. “I heard your name is Tukrit. I understand why you’d be inclined to leave Arata, but why join us?”

“We can talk about that in private later on. I’d rather not confuse your nurse there. Your other friend Cherry knows about it. I won’t be a waste of space, and I promise to journey alongside you as an equal. Did you kill the matriarch?” Tukrit asked to change the subject.

“Yes. She was more capable than many of the descendants I’ve been up against. I should be dead. Her mind was frail, and she burned out her abilities trying to reproduce before confronting me. I saw a glimpse of her before she became the spider. She was a kind woman. I tried to give her some peace. She also pointed me to the Roots.”

Tukrit gazed admiringly at Desdin. “That is an impressive feat. My training included slaying matriarchs. We had a cross-tribe policy to form hunting parties when one showed up in the wild. I felt confident enough to challenge weaker matriarchs myself. However, when I met this one, I was terrified. The low-end matriarchs didn’t bother naming themselves. Some called themselves weavers. This is the first one that ever called herself the Spider. I will record it for future encounters. Your name will go down in Fallen history.”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Desdin chuckled slightly. “You don’t have to go that far. Nameless warrior is fine. As a slayer, you must have come across all kinds of old relics or crazy theories. Was Dragsil ever brought up?” He inquired.

Tukrit replied, “They spoke his name in reverence. But it is usually within that same breath that they curse the Oldest. So, it is a complicated matter. I was never interested in the Roots or Dragsil itself. Some of the ancient Fallen were witnesses to him. Some even saw the Roots. They couldn’t coherently relay anything reliable. It isn’t surprising that she knew the location. The Fallen that live now only want to exist and don’t concern themselves with such matters.”

Desdin motioned his head in agreement. “I have never known any of the current tribes to be openly hostile to outsiders. Every tribe that came close to our towns in the Farland dealt with us with fairness and transparency.”

Tukrit reflected on the current situation. “We’ve been forced to branch out because of the loss of the Glass Road. We’ve brought the same policy we applied to diplomacies with the Farlands to the Union. It is slowly progressing. Our folks have also established communities in some of the larger cities that will have us. Despite all of his creepiness, Arata helped found a Fallen ghetto within the Everflowing capital.”

Desdin whistled. “That is new. I never expected the Union would acknowledge the presence of the Fallen. I would still be wary of Arata. I’m certain he has other motives in his designs. So why are you out here instead of helping your people at home?”

Tukrit admitted, “I have a duty to my people. First is to hunt the feral ones to continue our legitimacy. And for me, based on what I’ve read and seen, I believe our ancient king and queen may still be alive in some capacity and may be able to help our tribes recover. My goal is to find them.”

Desdin beamed with interest. “Our specialty. Crazy stuff. You and I are not so different, Tukrit.”

Tukrit watched Demalyn carefully as she was pulling the bandages tightly around Desdin, perhaps injuring him further. “What should we expect in Dragonshead? I’ve only been through once and hurried through like I do most big cities. Especially this close to the Union.”

“It is a free city. Everyone is welcome. Even the Fallen. Although I’d still cloak up if I were you. Emeralas, the Queen, is the oldest of the descendants of this age since Jonah died. They were supposedly childhood friends, but she betrayed us by not showing up at the decisive battle with the Dakken Union. Esthea may want revenge, especially if she discovers Emeralas covered up the location of the Roots from Jonah. She has a short fuse.” Desdin motioned for Demalyn to stop patching him up.

With an arm resting on the table, Tukrit spoke on Esthea. “She was very popular in the Everflowing. Her history as a warden isn’t common knowledge. She is portrayed more as a Farland diplomat and consort of Seric. She advocates for the people in the slums, including the Fallen tribes.”

While struggling to undo the mass of bandages covering him Desdin continued his tale to Tukrit. “Dragonshead has a complicated history. Slave traders congregate there and the black market is especially prevalent. The matriarch called it the place where the Dragon’s mate fell. Few would know what that means. Jonah told me the story a few times. When the Oldest was making the world a ‘paradise’, they demanded the Dragon’s submission. Ivalic wanted to prove the Oldest were greater than a dragon. So, he murdered the last remaining sire. It was no easy feat even for the Oldest. The reason they never stepped foot back into the Farland was because the Dragon herself would reduce the realm to ash to avenge her mate.”

Tukrit undid his leather jacket and armor. He set his sword against the wall and started off towards the rear of the van. “I’m sure we could swap stories all night my friend. I’m going to find a bunk. I expect that even in this floating death trap, it will take us a while to reach Dragonshead. We’ll have plenty of time to get to know one another.”

Desdin stood up and grabbed the first bottle of liquor he saw and offered it to Brule. She shook her head, and he opened it to take a long swig. “If you won’t drink, then our friend Demalyn here can offer a mark to help you sleep easier tonight. It is harmless and will disappear the next day. I need Cherry to check this knife wound while she can still see straight. I’ll see everyone in the morning.” He walked out of the chamber.

Brule went on sitting in her chair. The whites of all her nails been chewed down to the quick. Demalyn brought her sweet bread and milk. “Marking is a technique from ancient times. They say the older the regal spirit used in making the mark, the more effective it is. And none is older than mine. So, how about a giant frog? You came here with the snake hoping to devour you, but you managed to hop away.” Demalyn smiled at her and clasped her hand. Brule looked up and into Demalyn’s lavender eyes. She could see a faint deep purple glimmer deep in them.

“No, but thank you for the food,” Brule said. Demalyn squeezed her hand gently before exiting to her bedroom. “Why do I feel like I escaped from one snake to a much larger snake?” Brule inquired of no one in particular.

When Demalyn entered her room, she looked around in the dark. When she looked at her vine bracelet, she noticed it had changed. It was solid in appearance now. Less like a bracelet and more like a gauntlet that was spreading over the back of her hand and up to her forearm. Within the mirror, she could make out her own shadow with glowing purple eyes. Gold swirled around the border between her pupils and the vestiges of darkness.

She could hear the faint somber music calling to her singing, we’re waiting. She reached into her bag and grasped the orb. A gold pulse shivered through the room. In the mirror, above her, was a shadow without form with two illuminated red eyes. She whispered to herself, “My lord.”