In a winter garden on the large, sprawling estate of the Cemetery of the Commons, Rhoethella and six acolytes stood facing her where Leresai appeared appearing resplendent in cendal robe and riding britches sitting in the saddle of a sorrel nightmare. The assembly stared, stunned at the sight.
Rhoethella broke the silence. Her eyes cast down to the limp form of Lord Carro beneath the horse and rider.
"There is little time," the goddess commanded. "The D'jestre imbecile requires healing solvents, needle, and gauze."
Four of the acolytes lifted Lord Carro and brought him to a marble stone slab where the other two spread the requested instruments.
Leresai paid little heed to what was occurring around her; she was lost in thoughts of a remarkably perfect kiss that shattered through the horror that she felt only moments earlier. She also thought of the sorrel nightmare she rode as she stroked Sellanna's head.
"So long as I ride a nightmare I shall never get another settled night of fretless sleep again, but I will cherish this mare to my dying day."
Rhoethella surveyed her Handmaiden with a skeptical eye.
She needs not to know of our pact, Leresai, Roquín's voice brushed gently to the fore of her thought. It does not hinder her own designs in the least.
"That is the mount of Roquín the Hunter," Rhoethella whispered with some awe in her tone.
Rhoethella stroked the horse behind her ears. "Hello, Sellanna, we are graced by your presence. It has been a long time coming for us to meet again. I remember riding you in the up country hill lands when I paid a visit to your master's court a millennia ago."
Sellanna winnied for the first time since Leresai made her acquaintance. The notes she spoke echoed the musty calm of deep forest.
Rhoethella cast a wane smile and nodded, "so you remember as well, dear girl."
Then the goddess' eyes squared up again with Leresai.
"How does one acquire the mount of Roquín the Hunter?"
"I was in dire need of a ride out of the Aethyr and he was so kind as to oblige."
"Leresai, dear, your breasts, please."
Leresai pulled the banded towel down to her navel. Rhoethella's long hands spread across the geas wound.
Leresai felt a warmness spread out from the touch. A pleasant scented vapor eased through her pours and what little was left of the fire nebulae opal that had not burned away during the teleport now formed glitter on Rhoethella's fingers.
Leresai's flesh felt as if a deep itch had been relieved. Her heart felt satiated of a longing of which it had not been previously aware.
"You have fulfilled your geas, Leresai," Rhoethella declared. "Now, that saga is complete, we can commence with other matters. Tell me, Leresai, is he here?"
Our pact, Leresai.
An outcry swelled from the marble slate where Lord Carro had been carried. One of the healers had been knocked down to the floor. Lord Carro dashed off at an incredible speed.
"Roquín, I need to speak to you," Rhoethella yelled to the fleeing figure.
"Give him chase," Leresai responded. "He is going to the catacombs."
Rhoethella's long limbs gave her an advantage. Under normal circumstances, she would have overtaken the short man, but whatever spirit drove Lord Carro to sprint through the winter garden and cross a long field invested him with inhuman capability.
Once he reached the catacombs, he would have many paths to choose as it formed an elaborate labyrinth for many miles underneath the city.
Whomever that spirit was, Leresai knew it wasn't Roquín. Then she recalled the ghasts and realized what she assumed to be a pack leader was not. He grabbed her with the fist of human fingers, not claws as the ghast had.
She imagined the moment once more and set her mind to unveil the illusions. On a summit of a craig nearby stood a necromancer whose dark magics long ago contorted his form into that of a lich. Five ghasts hunched low by his boots. Together, they leered at the entrapped Sgoëthe.
She stood at the catacomb entrance by the side of Rhoethella. The goddess raised her head gazing into the corridor. She began to trimmer. Her regal bearing suddenly contorted with, for her, a very rare swear on her lips.
"Oh, fuck me," she gasped.
Rhoethella bent down on her knees wretched up vomit to the side of the door landing. After she wiped her mouth clean, she grasped the door frame and stood back up.
"I have engaged the Scent but he obscures with his own counterspell that turns my senses all too keen and turns the Sent against me."
Leresai followed the goddess down a flight of stairs, and they listened into the interior. It became evident the necromancer possessed Lord Carro masked the sounds of the catacombs as well as his scent.
Active listening made the catacombs swell with the echo of noise until the tension in Leresai's ears became unbearable.
"Izdun is free," she announced.
Rhoethella's silver white bangs flipped up as she just caught the gist of the words the Sgöethe said.
She gazed back, silently for a moment before speaking.
"I be damned. He gave up on his immortality, but why? Did Roquín tell you this?"
Leresai nodded.
"It sounds as if the two of you became fast friends along those transit grounds of the Aethyr."
They walked forward pass a series of caryatids in front of a raised dias where seven sarcophagi dedicated to the lady paladins of the Cowled Brigade sat. Famed in legend for ridding the Suüdlands of daimon djinn over a millennia ago.
Rhoethella stopped in front of the central statue. A diminutive figure bearing stern eyes. Rhoethella kissed the statue on the forehead.
The goddess was growing sentimental, thought Leresai. The catacombs were not chambers of the entombed for her. It was a memory palace.
After giving Rhoethella her moment of prayer, Leresai answered.
"Indeed. He revealed an assortment of matters to me in our confrontation. We were at cross-purposes, so he had to be persuasive.
"There exists a society of Suüd ardents dedicated to Izdun's cause. They have beguiled Roquín with their chants to serve their ends, and they wait for him below.
"I don't believe he would have attempted to use me as he did if they did not force his step. His errant nature seems too noble to rely on such base action.
"They must have taken possession of his phylactory. When he is here, on Mundi, in need to partake of the hunt, he is forced to indulge Lady Insatiable's mad jest of a penance."
"The Roquín I know," Rhoethella began. "From a millennia ago, I would fully vouch for your words. I will tell you this in confidence, my Handmaiden, Roquín was a good ruler of his kingdom. He was a good man, even. The brother to one who was once very dear to me. If not for his key role in Izdun's empire, and his refusal to switch alliances, there would be no justifying the Sœurarchy's decisions of exile and penance.
"With Izdun deposed, the people wanted Roquín to be their King. Not some society of elven witches who claimed to be gods. They rejected us utterly, Leresai, even myself with my prior experience which is why after nearly a century of misrule on our part we restored a royal house and its vessels, then declared the eldest female heir would sit on the Azure Throne in Meizsol as the Empress of the Western lands of the Northern Isles, the Nin, the Midvries, and the vast region of the Suüd.
"I digress to a degree. The exile we imposed upon Roquín was certainly cruel. He inhabited a tiny chateau on Mount Despumate in isolation. Each day one of his senses would be lost to him, and only be reacquired that evening through sincere meditation on his frailties as a man.
"If he neglected to do so, another sense would be lost as well on the next following day. It was meant to teach him humility, as some within our Sœurarchy desire to impose on all men.
"He would be sentenced for five hundred years, but none of us bothered to unlock a portal so he could leave. Until the five hundred and eighty-seventh year with that irrepressible sense of justice and fairness in her stubborn bones, Rozzenblunde took it upon herself to do so.
"However, the man, now, from what I heard through the spider webs and moonbeams of my netting works, is insane."
To those last words, Leresai felt an unnatural hunger in her gut. The taste of very rare cooked and spoiled venison, a memory of which now thick on her tongue. Something else was there, another memory. A much more pleasant one.
In a dark theater, when she had taken Brietess to the Suüdlands, she insisted the olive skinned Ninci experience an authentic off mainline Suüd sex romp for herself. They sat in the dark, as they watched Renua and the Wyvern. Brietess had the look of utter disdain on her face.
"Glorified donkey show," she uttered.
"I find the jackasses adornment quite convincing," Leresai responded.
"Oh, gods," Brietess gasped. "Did she just put all of that up her cooch? It must be some kind of stage trickery. Oh, gods no!"
If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
The Ninci girl's hands went to her mouth. Her dark eyes now appeared nearly all white.
At that moment, Leresai slid a hand down into Brietess' evening wear. In spite of all her protestation, her loins were drenched wet.
After the climatic event on stage, Leresai tugged Brietess' sleeve to follow her to a shadowed niche. Once there, she propped the Ninci girl up, pulled her evening wear to the side, plucked the menses rag out, and feasted hungrily on her pretty blood glistened mound.
How she loved the sight of Brie's earthy brown pussy lips. Nuzzled up to her face as she pinched on them. Pulled on them. Folded Brie's lips against her vulva mound to form a pretty pink butterfly. However, what invaded her tongue and appetite now was nothing to be desired.
It won't be long, my dear Northern Princess, before you are free of me. The appetite for doe menses won't persist. Roquín spoke gently.
It is most vile and unnatural. Leresai protested. She quelled a feeling of nausea.
One hour in my boots would destroy the minds of most men, but I have faith in your strength, Leresai.
Her thoughts were still on her Ninci lover. Brietess was nearby, and ready to enjoy another Winter Garden Eve, but Leresai had to indulge yet another escapade even after this matter of catching Lord Carro was complete.
Through the next corridor, they came upon an atrium with four exit way passages ahead of them.
"How do we find those Suüdland ardents," Rhoethella spoke, clearly frustrated by the limitations the necromancer imposed upon her senses.
"In the Aethyr, Roquín told me to listen for them, and with my mind I was able to sense through the space between spaces past soil and stone and the ritual concealment they used to conceal their existence and I could see and hear them as clearly as I now observe this room."
"Stand in the middle here, Leresai," Rhoethella requested. "Now expand your senses."
For several flickered instances, she saw the hunched form of Lord Carro walking through the halls of the catacombs. His hands clenched and unclenched like claws as they held low by his knees. It wasn't his natural physical disposition which tended to be upright and stiff in posture, but that of the necromancer who possessed him.
To Leresai's surprise, he slowed down to study a set of frescoes that told the story of the Battle of Veld's Rest. Leresai overwhelmed with nausea collapsed and wretched out her guts.
Her fingers clutched the druse sediment along the rock surface. She heaved until nothing else could come up.
"Oh my, you Lady Wolves," Leresai cursed at her sovereign. "This creature. He has somehow made it all too sharp in focus, too overwhelming in all its details. A damn clever trick. He spoils the clarity of our visions."
Leresai's head throbbed intensely. She needed to breathe fresh air. She wanted to rush out of the catacombs. An irrational fear engulfed her that if she did not do precisely this she would die. Rhoethella grabbed her shoulders.
"Easy girl. Breathe easy and relax. It will come to pass soon."
"Rhoethella, you shit. You knew that was going to happen at that extreme."
The goddess smirked. With a folded kerchief, she wiped at Leresai's brow, and kissed her gently on the forehead.
"Forgive me, darling. Did you see anything?"
Leresai suddenly realized she knew exactly where the necromancer was going. That caused her to hesitate.
"Well …," the goddess coaxed.
"Rhoethella…"
"Spit it out, girl. We need to make up for distance lost."
"...Veld's Rest. He is in the Tomb of the Fallen."
With those words, Rhoethella pinched her lips tight as she muttered an "oh."
She led the goddess through a storage quarters used to hold coiled ceramic vessels with the reliefs of monstrosities on their faces made to ward off evil spirits. They had gathered dust for centuries without being distributed to the mausoleums.
"I know of a way there that will shortcut the labyrinth," Leresai told her. "It goes through a rather abhorrent smuggling operation."
They walked a ledge through a set of curved limestone corridors where tidewater had been coerced beneath. They reached a set of sculptures of ebon aquatic nymphs with trumpets made of sea urchins holding up branching archways made of smoky driftglass in semblance to the entrance Gates of Domdaniel.
The triforium above was aligned with red wreaths. Suüd motifs of death evidenced in every emblem, carving, and relief. Bodies were laid out on slabs of marble within side wall niches. Barrels were stacked along one wall.
"Someone is nearby," Rhoethella warned as she drew her scimitar. "Careful with the silver, dear. Roquín seems especially adept at counters."
When Leresai went for her twin daggers, something lept from the shadowed arches. She rolled left and faced him. She saw the man in full. A disorder fell upon thieves who preyed upon the catacombs and made chance of disturbing the dead.
Called the Band'wa due to their penchant to dress in bands of leather and cloth of green and black to mark their outcasts from the above side world.
A cancer riddled them that not only shortened their lives but altered their physiology where they came to resemble rats. Even their voices squeaked, screeched and dripped of syllabic dislocation.
They grew feral over time. Many of them still operated within the guild but those too far relieved of their good sense slipped into a dementia that more resembled animal cunning than human intelligence. They lived on the periphery of the Band'wa pack like guard dogs.
This was one of them.
He leapt and tumbled towards Leresai. As he rolled to raise up he attempted to cut her down at the feet with a pole that bore a long sickle. He swiped high on the next stroke.
She knocked his blade up with the broadsides of her twin daggers crossed. With her right foot kicked out, she caught him in the side of the abdomen.
He rolled with the kick, lept a way to the side with another role to prevent her from following up with a thrust that would have taken him out of the fight.
Leresai attempted to corner him as the goddess covered the exit.
He lept eight feet in the air, twisted around with his enlarged feet, four well-padded fat appendages in the place of normal toes. The small toe on each foot tended to blend into the neighboring one in the advanced stages of their disease.
The toes clasped the rim of the arcade support. He crouched into it before springing forward. A sweep of the sickle caught Rhoethella in her neck where it stuck.
Immobile, the sickle threw the Band'wa off of his balance. He fell on his side, smacking the floor with his head and slamming on his right shoulder with a severe crack of dislocation.
Leresai quickly took advantage of the slip. She slid her right hand dagger up into his belly, disemboweling the man. Letting his screams serve warning to the others to stay away.
Rhoethella smirked insolent as she removed the sickle. She examined it then she threw it against the wall.
"I could have smacked it away before the wretch bore down on me, but why rob him of his fleeting moment of glory?"
She tore cloth wrapped along the Band'wa man's leg and she used it to wipe blood off.
Leresai heard a gasping "tweek, tweek" from the arches above where she butchered the Band'wa man.
"You. Up there. We require safe and quick passage."
"Deadsift. You want Deadsift."
"Safe passage," Leresai repeated. "We will move on. We will be out of your way."
"No Deadsift. All barrels bought. None left for you."
"We don't want any damn Deadsift."
"You won't get any damn Deadsift. Go away. From where you came."
Leresai turned towards Rhoethella and muttered a curse. "God's thrice-damned. Excepting present company, of course. As pleasant as slaughtering these dregs would be, there is no time for this."
Rhoethella shook her head. Her neck healed already. For the goddess no spells were necessary.
"We will press ahead," she said.
Leresai took the lead finding a stairway. The creature above yelled a, "chht! Chht! … Chht!," warning cry. Scurrying sounds came from the darkness below on the next level down.
Rhoethella shook her head.
"Give them a moment. They'll lose their nerve."
Leresai whispered a curse but backed up, realising patience was required given the limits placed upon the silver. She pointed to their surroundings after she did a quick surveil.
"Care to tour this distillery, my lady?"
As Rhoethella nodded a curt bow of her head, Leresai continued.
"Deadsift is a blend of two quantities." She picked up a small five-pound sack. Opened it. "This is a concentrate of argot from the rye."
She displayed for the goddess the dried-out mold product. Sitting it down she smacked the barrel. Two dozen of which covered the wall.
"This is sylphwood. It serves as an antitoxin in the aging process, for inside is wine produced from the grossebelladonna berry. Highly lethal if not aged properly in the sylphwood."
"So far, this is all natural enough. The blend of argot and belladonna is a potent mixture quite capable of sending the mind of man to a higher state surpassing the limits of Mundi without resorting to necromancy. But the Deadsift requires a most evil substance for the aim of the concoction to be true."
Leresai kneeled and found a box on one side of the shelves beside the alembic tubes. She brought out a square that appeared to be silk the size of her palm.
"One goes in here on the alembic where it filters the steam. The other goes over here where the condensation drops into the glass container. The process is repeated four times. The substance of this -,"she held up the square patch for Rhoethella to inspect, " -is highly porous."
Rhoethella pinched it between two fingers, and brought it up to her face to inspect.
"What is it? Is it what I think it is?"
"Even worse. An abomination. The skin of the First Dead."
Rhoethella appeared quite shocked as her brows wrinkled.
"No wonder I knew nothing of this. The magics that must be involved to keep Pestilence from scrying means there is great wealth involved in this operation.
"If the Plaguemonger knew what was occurring here, she would be greatly angered, greatly vengeful. The entire city would pay the price for this abhorrent design. What were the fools involved in this thinking?
"Pestilence is an elder god. We have no way to stay her hand."
Rhoethella looked back on the other side of the chamber for something they both ignored when they arrived and were too busy searching for danger.
"You stay back," she said to the Band'wa man who kept to the shadows of the arcade while pointing with her scimitar.
Leresai followed the goddess to a slab where a body was covered with a canvas sheet. Rhoethella lifted the canvas with her scimitar edge.
A corpse of a beautiful woman was revealed. Dressed in Suüd fashion of fourteen hundred years previous. Simple terry cloth robes covered in elaborate blends of lacquered and bejewelled leather straps and belts fastened around the waist.
Another set crossed at the breast with a third smaller set wrapped around just above the abdomen that served as a bustier.
The plague left the woman perfectly preserved. The lips turned bluish but the flesh otherwise was left undisturbed. Leresai thought of Brietess who was also taken by plague and left in the same condition, unaffected by entropy.
There was something not quite right about this corpse. Rhoethella raised an arm. On the back of the arm, the skin had been flailed off carefully.
From a second slab, Leresai lifted another canvas. The corpse beneath had been entirely stripped of its skin.
"When I have time, Leresai," she whispered, "I am personally coming back here, and slaughtering the entire lot of them. I will also find out who finances this, and I am murdering them as well.
"This has to be entirely covered up, and made ridden. Pestilence can never know of this.
"These women were chosen by Pestilence for their great beauty to be resurrected for the Grande Ball Eternal. If she were to see them so mangled and flayed, I pity the world for the plague she would bring to compensate for such loss.
"Come along, my moiselle."
She motioned for the Sgoëthe to help her lift up a barrel. Together they lifted one to the edge of the stairsteps where below the Band'wa men waited to fight. They threw it down the steps where it burst below, causing much scampering amongst the rat men.
"Safe passage or we will destroy all of the barrels," Rhoethella yelled in command.
"No waste Deadsift," the Band'wa man yelled from behind them. He dropped down from where he hid, swinging a cudgel over his head that had blades twisted along the weapon's fist.
"Safe passage," Rhoethella demanded once more.
"No Deadsift for you!"
Ruthella nodded. They proceeded to grab another barrel.
"No more waste of Deadsift," the rat man screamed. His anger providing another preposition to his words in emphasis.
"Safe passage."
"All right, then. Safe passage," the Band'wa man conceded. He yelled a command in Old Suüd, "fall in line. Don't interfere with the strangers," down the stairway.