It was then that the gods intervened. As she slunk through the overgrown meadow in the town common, she noticed a faint movement in the grass out of the corner of her eye. That wasn’t unusual in itself. The tall, greenish-grey grass that covered most of the common wherever the livestock hadn’t trimmed it down was swaying gently in the wind that descended from the mountain’s peak, but this movement was different - a few blades of grass that moved against the wind.

She wrote it off as a small critter, probably just a mouse, and took a few more cautious steps forward, her eyes continuing to scan for any signs of the village’s dungeon. But with each step she walked away from the little creature, a nagging feeling in her chest blossomed more and more rapidly, an overwhelming sense bordering on a compulsion that she must go back and investigate the movement in the grass. With a muffled sigh, she gave in to the feeling. Turning around, she silently crept through the swaying meadow.

The unnatural movement was hard to track. Whatever was causing it was small enough that only the callowest blades of grass were disturbed by its passing, and it took her a few moments of watching before she zeroed in on it again. After that, it was a simple matter to catch it. Not giving it any chance to escape, she pounced on the creature as soon as she spotted it, her hands gripping tightly around it, but to her surprise, it offered no resistance and felt strangely hard.

Crouching low to the ground, she opened her hand and examined her prize. It was a small, rather crudely formed clay tortoise. Just like the votive S̆arrābī showed us. It was a welcome sight - proof positive that they were indeed in the right place, but it still didn’t tell her where the dungeon was. The little trinket was too small to have left a traceable path through the brush. Fortunately, that didn’t matter.

This wasn’t magic, after all. This was the gods' power. Annatta set the tortoise back down in the grass and bowed her head - not to the votive, but to the god enlivening it. “Lady Ummadammah,” she murmured softly, “Take me to your captured child.”

For a moment, the tortoise stood as still as the clay it was crafted from. But then a faint pinprick of light glowed in its hollowed-out eyes as it slowly, deliberately, turned around and waddled back in the direction it had come from. The pace was anything but fast - the little clay tortoise was definitely faster than its fleshy kin, but it certainly wasn’t going to be winning any races - and she tried to suppress her impatience as she followed close behind it, scooting a few feet per minute at a time.

It was hard not to shoot nervous glances at the clouded-over moon whose face was already beginning to slip again behind the horizon. There were still a few hours before night would end, but day was approaching fast.

“Lady Ummadammah,” she whispered again. “Is there any chance you can speed this up? If I can find the dungeon quickly, we still might be able to free the prisoners before the night is up.”

The tortoise paused and, with its right foot still suspended in mid-air, craned its little head to look back at her. Hope surged in her heart as she awaited whatever miracle the goddess was sure to perform. Then it shook its head slowly from right to left. No words entered her mind, but the message was clear enough. Turning its head back, the tortoise continued its slow plod across the commons.

It led her past the temple and the village chieftain’s house. It led her past the other fine homes that were clustered around the manor, where whoever passed for nobility in the little settlement doubtless resided. And it led her past even the more common homes until she reached a downright decrepit neighborhood that bordered the back of the cliff wall.

The homes here were in shambles. Large chunks of their walls and roofs were missing, with charred edges and soot-stained mortar that told the story clear enough. The trees were blackened skeletons, though a few bright green saplings that dotted the ground served as a testament to nature’s resilience. And there too, hidden in the shadow of the cliff, was a three-story facade carved straight into the stone.

The front was scorched with burn marks, and the apertures that had once ensconced delicate windows were now thoroughly bricked up, but there was something else there that she hadn’t seen elsewhere in the village - two guards posted at the door whose eyes were actually alert and watchful.

She shrunk back into the foliage immediately, waiting with bated breath to see if the silent night would soon be shattered by the shouts and cries of the guards, but she had gotten lucky. They hadn’t seen her.

With its task fulfilled, the little tortoise waddled back toward her and nudged her leg with its head. Unsure what it wanted, she reached down and picked it up. The pinpricks of light in its eyes glowed more brightly, and she quickly clasped her other hand over it. A brief tingle ran across her palm, a trickle of essence from the votive, and when she lifted her hand again the light had gone out. She had a feeling the next time she meditated, she would find a blessing from the goddess on her status, and she bowed her head in thankfulness. Now to prove I’m worthy of it.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

She tucked the tortoise into her bag and weighed her options. The plan had been for her to find the dungeon, count the guards, and then hurry back to the group with the hopes of completing the rescue in one fell sweep, but she could tell that plan was dead. Already, the night was beginning to lighten and soon Shamsha’s rays would crest the mountain peaks.

Her eyes flitted across the facade, honing on an aperture where it was clear the brickwork had been recently damaged. The opening had only been partially rebricked, and a small gap was left at the top that looked wide enough for her to wriggle through. She hesitated a moment, considering just heading back to the group.

There was a real risk of getting trapped, and she had no desire to join the scouts in their cells. However, she hadn’t gathered the intel she needed to know. The facade might be burn-out now, but she could still tell that it had once been an impressive edifice, and it was difficult to guess just how deep into the cliff it might stretch. And then there was the question of the guards. Just two stood outside, but more were likely hidden inside.

No, she decided reluctantly, I need to get inside. Her gaze swept back to the two guards standing at the front day. Try as she might, she could see no way of reaching the broken window without being spotted by them.

Her hands drifted to the knives strapped to her waist, fondling their grips. It would be a simple enough matter to take them out and, frankly, she itched to do so. The S̆addu’â disgusted her - savage brutes who rejected everything she believed in and sullied the good name of the Djinn. Their deaths would be no loss. But…. She let the blades drop back into their sheaths. Killing the guards would undoubtedly attract too much attention. No, she needed something subtler.

Placing her pouch on the ground, she rooted in its depths until she found what she was looking for. A small glass orb, only an inch or so in width, was perfect save for the small hole on one side. She pulled out two small vials, one with a pinkish-looking powder, the other with a clear liquid that, if held up in just the right light would glow with a faint greenish hue, and set them down on the ground. A small cork plug was next, and then she was ready.

The powder and liquid were quickly combined, and her hands flew like lightning as she hastened to snap the cork in place. Annatta shook the mixture up and watched in satisfaction as vapor began to swirl around the small glass bulb. Then, she took careful aim.

The small grenade flew true. With the tinkle of breaking glass, it smashed into the grass about a foot away from the guard on the left. Both of them responded immediately, one bending down to examine the source of the noise while the other stood watch beside him, furtively searching for any signs of an attacker.

“It’s nothing but a bit of glass…” A soft slur crept into the guard’s words as he examined the mysterious object, completely unaware of the gas that crept unhindered through his armor. His mate breathed in it, too, and when the two retook their posts, it was already working its way through their systems.

Annatta waited a few minutes before sticking a cautious hand out of the brush. There was no reaction from the guards. They stood at attention, their backs as stiff as board, their eyes wide open, but the alertness was gone, replaced by a dull, vacant stare. She smiled. The dubbubis̆ potion had done the trick.

She dashed quickly across the clearing, knowing she was on a timer. The potion only lasted for a few minutes before dissipating, leaving the guards entirely unaware of their brief lapse save, perhaps, for a slight headache. She scaled the facade quickly and pulled herself into the opening on the second floor. Dropping down onto the ground, a grin split her face.

A narrow hallway stretched in front of her, filled with row upon row of barred doors. She had found the prison, and the dumb mountain Djinn had even seen fit to provide a convenient exit. Things were looking up.

She slipped down the hall as silently as a wraith. Her footfalls made no sound on the chipped stone, and even her breathing was so controlled that none save the sharpest of ears could have detected even a trace of it. The prisoners in the cells were not blind, however.

Gasps and cries for help rang out as she passed, most of them, fortunately, muffled almost as soon as they began as the prisoners realized the folly of raising a ruckus at their potential savior. One of them was clearly possessed of less sense than the others, banging on the bars while screaming for help. She silenced him immediately, striking him hard in the temple with the pommel of her blade. He fell mutely to the ground; whether dead or alive she could not tell.

But she hadn’t found her quarry yet. The prisoners here were a motley mix of Djinn and their mountain brethren, with a heavy percentage of men of a certain age that suggested to her that the villagers of Zēl-Qabūri were preying on merchant caravans. I doubt the lord of Dūr-Ēkal would be too happy to learn about that. She filed the suspicion away for the moment, wondering if it could be used for leverage in the future. But she still had not found the scouts.

A hundred feet passed, and then another hundred before she finally stumbled across them. The first two she encountered were an odd pairing. On the one side was a young lad who leaped to the door with eyes full of hope corrupted by bitter doubt. He seemed vaguely familiar to her for some reason, and despite the ragged scouting uniform he wore, a veritable cloud of essence seemed to surround him. A mage? She dismissed the thought immediately. No mage would be wasted in the scouts.

On the other side was a much older man. He made no move to rise and beseech her for release, no move at all safe to offer a quiet nod of his head. A calm, confident light shone in his eyes, and in his hands, Annatta spied the unfinished start of a clay deer. The votive maker.

She paused, crouching down beside him.

“It seems your goddess has sent you some help. What can you tell me about the guards?”