CHAPTER FIVE // Home is a Long Way From Here

Arha yanked her sword free from Bordon's skull, and that was that.

Though the cannibals sported far superior numbers, in truth it was always going to have been a rather lopsided fight in the exiles’ favor. Bordon's people were scavengers on the razor’s edge of survival, hunters moreso than warriors whose martial prowess was entirely rooted in animal desperation. They largely preferred to engage with those who were unable to defend themselves.

The exiles, by contrast, were all but professionally trained soldiers who had enjoyed both consistent food and shelter for the vast majority of their lives. Their bodies were regularly-maintained edifices of sinew and strength; their brains were conditioned to see a fight to the death as something both exhilarating and enjoyable.

Thus it comes as little surprise that the cannibals were slaughtered wholesale, and with relatively little effort at that. It was in fact Arha who struggled the hardest, for her body was still in wretched shape and the loss of one eye had devastated her sense of depth perception - but with a sword in her hand it was really all just muscle memory, and she still managed to put in a performance in which she could take sufficient pride. The Terror of the Dunes was diminished, yes, but against these mere scraps of men what difference did it really make?

Now, the exiles were whistling and humming a merry tune as they worked, discarding old weapons in favor of new and picking through the myriad corpses for anything of value.

"Five," Nageth said, to Makran's question.

"Six," Makran grinned in reply, jerking one of her hatchets free amidst a spray of gore. "How 'bout you, Ar?"

"Nine," Arha said, without thinking, having not even been consciously keeping count.

"You bitch," Makran laughed, punching her former Eltok a bit too hard in the shoulder. "We gotta make you fight one-handed or something."

"You think I couldn't do all that with one hand?" Arha smirked, allowing herself an indulgence of ego for just a moment - and then she saw Olta's expression, and her smile faded at once.

While his people were staring at the devastation in something akin to abject horror - they were teenagers and hunters, after all, clearly unaccustomed to seeing the handiwork of real warriors - Olta was stern as always, coldly surveying Arha and her bloodied exiles without a word of comment. But there was a hint of something else in his face, too, and the realization that he was actually scared of her hit Arha with unexpected force.

This was a moment that would irrevocably alter Arha's way of thinking - the sharp dissonance between the pride she felt as a supremely talented killer and the sudden onset of embarrassment she felt beneath the goat-man's wary gaze. The logic of the Winnower brain dictated that anyone reacting to such a display of skill in such a fashion was prey - a future victim, essentially. And yet it remained Arha's goal to befriend this man, if largely for self-serving and pragmatic reasons.

Had she felt anger instead of shame at Olta's rejection of her strength, a second slaughter might very well have proceeded the first. But it was the seed of something within her that Tekarn had long tried and failed to fully stamp out that caused her to walk over, instead, all the while feeling quite unexpectedly embarrassed - what a ludicrous concept! - at the callous and boisterous demeanor of her companions.

She saw Olta tense ever-so-slightly as she approached, and for the third time in over a decade she felt a small twinge of regret - though she was still hardly equipped to understand what it was, exactly, that she felt. Two of his hunters moved closer, too, hands on their swords, though Arha paid them no mind. At the moment her infant sense of empathy extended to one man and one man only.

"Well," she said, forcing a cocky smile as she gestured to the corpses heaped behind her. "What'd I tell you? My kin and I are warriors without peer."

"Without peer," Olta repeated distantly, his eyes roving over to the dead and the dying - the throats of whom Zekval was cutting in casual routine. "I've never seen anyone fight like that before."

"Well..." Arha trailed off, unable to make herself interpret that as a compliment. "Keep me around and you'll see that sort of thing plenty." Wait. Shit. Why did she say keep me around? Damnit.

"I believe you," he said, and she saw that his eyes were on the terrified-looking corpse of Bordon the Eater. Then, they were locked onto her own. "Do you know who he was, to me?"

"An asshole?" Arha prompted, opting for a rough New Tongue translation of a very specific Old Tongue insult.

"It was about ten years ago that the Winnowers came to my village," Olta said, and whatever remained of Arha's smug smile were quite literally obliterated by those words. "They killed just about anyone who could fight, which left us vulnerable to creatures like him."

"I'm..." Arha trailed off, because she really had no idea how to say the words I'm sorry. Memories of a dozen similar raids were playing on a loop across her vision and her pride at those successful conquests was rapidly morphing into something ugly and miserable and really, deeply unpleasant. She was not enjoying this sensation one bit.

"He's taken dozens from us over the past couple years," Olta continued, and his stern words were crystallizing into something like cold, tempered anger. "I tried to stop him and he left me with scars I'll feel for the rest of my life. So to see him just...dismissed, like he was nothing…it's a surreal sight."

Arha had no fucking clue what to say to any of that. But she was pretty sure she needed to say something, so after what felt like an eternity she said:

"My bad," and she scratched at the back of her neck. "I should’ve let you be the one to finish him off, at the very least."

And for the first time she actually heard him laugh, though really it was more of a dry chuckle and in truth she had absolutely no idea why any of what she had just said was funny.

"I'm not really one for revenge," Olta said ruefully, his wry amusement fading away as quickly as it had appeared. "Truthfully, I'm just glad to see him dead."

"Then I am happy to present his corpse," Arha said, giving a little mock-bow, which she could swear made the corner of Olta's mouth quirk up - even as his eyes grew wary with the remembrance of the extreme violence he had just witnessed.

"Hey," she said quickly, because she was finding that she liked when he laughed at her and despised when he was afraid of her, "our deal still stands, no? Food for protection?" The goat-man was eyeing her carefully, evaluating her. When his response did not come immediately she added "We're not going to hurt you or your people, Olta. You have my word on that."

"And what's your word worth, exactly?" Olta asked. It was somehow less of a challenge and more of a genuine curiosity.

"Everything," Arha answered firmly. That was something Tekarn had imparted on her at a young age - to make few promises, and to keep those few promises at all costs. Funny how, at the end, he had so readily betrayed his own axiom.

Another long pause - and then, again, it was Arha who broke the silence.

"I won't just fight for you," she said, with sudden conviction. "I can teach you how to fight, too. I can make it so that you're never helpless again. I can-" I will make you into something that nobody in this entire world can ever lay harm to. Tekarn's words died in her throat, and she spoke no further.

Olta looked like he wanted to say ten to twenty different things. But instead, finally, his expression hardened once more and he said, with little emotion, "Let's get moving. Home is a long way from here."

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

In truth, home wasn't far at all - not compared to the arduous three-day trek that the exiles had already endured. One minute, they were in the Blackwoods, surrounded on all sides by death and darkness and by that deafening, strangling silence.

And then they crossed beneath an archway of bowed trees, and with little fanfare they were in another world entirely.

Where even to begin, in describing the oasis within which the exiles found themselves? The sky was blue. Blue, clear crystal blue the likes of which not a single Wastes-dweller had ever lived to see. Blue the likes of which no longer existed on that planet, post-Calamity. And the air was quite comfortably warm and a thin line of clouds floated lazily overhead and before the exiles there sprawled plains of gorgeous, rolling green, the grass swaying idly two and fro in a gentle breeze.

These were hills dotted with cabins of planked wood and thatched roofs, many adjacent to irrigated farms and waterwheels and amongst them there must have been a hundred goat-people just like Olta and his hunters, though there was not a single adult present - only children, adolescents, and the elderly.

The exiles were frozen for some time in naked shock. Nobody had any sort of quip or comment or wry observation. They were simply entranced by the beauty and impossibility of it all.

"Welcome to Voshtarr," Olta said dryly, stepping past the exiles with little regard for their wonderment. "If any of you ever hurt even one of my people, I’ll take your head myself. Now, come on." He glanced back, hitched a thumb over his shoulder. "We'll go and see what Elder Seko makes of you."

Numb, wordless, Arha merely obeyed, and the others merely followed suit.

-----

Walking through the Voshtarri village was not a particularly pleasant experience - not for Arha, anyway. Which was an oddity because, well, it really should have been.

The people feared them; that much was immediately clear. By the time they arrived the streets were all but empty, though Arha could readily detect a dozen pairs of eyes watching her and her fellows from between window-slits and from cover of shadow. She and her exiles made for quite a sight, after all - covered in blood and mud both, armed to the teeth, and mostly importantly carrying themselves like confident, hungry killers. They walked without fear or regard for anything, which was of course how they had been taught to carry themselves from their earliest days as neophytes. Amidst the Winnowers, this was as normal as it got. Amidst a village of peaceful farmers, it was a frightening and dangerous departure from the norm.

Arha could hear her companions whispering in the Old Tongue amongst themselves but tuned them out, choosing instead to stay close by Olta's side. Once again she found herself oddly embarrassed at the company she kept, though she still would have sacrificed her life for any of them in the blink of an eye.

"Usually this quiet around here?" she asked, trying to break the interminable silence, to which Olta gave her a pointed side-eye.

"No," he said, and that was as far as the conversation got. Gradually, an obvious fact dawned upon her - that just as she was embarrassed to be associated with her companions, Olta was clearly embarrassed to be associated with her.

They walked for several minutes before coming to a halt before a narrow longhouse stretching some several-hundred feet back, one constructed from fat logs of timber darker and older than any other structure in the village. A figure detached itself from the wall and stepped forward - a tall, muscular woman, her hair streaked with grey and a well-worn battleaxe dangling from her belt. Her horns curled back several inches - by far the largest of any Voshtarri Arha had seen thus - and her neck bore the reddened scars of a hangman's noose. She folded her arms, and her expression was one that had perhaps not ever known even an ounce of humor. She looked over the exiles now with blatant suspicion.

"Hiega," Olta said, by way of greeting.

“Olta,” Hiega said, stonily. “Have you lost your mind?”

The exiles, sans Arha, watched in little more than curious silence - still confident that there was no problem they could not solve by merely slaughtering everyone in sight.

"I assume you’re referring to them,” Olta replied, jerking his head to the five bloodied warriors. All were silent, save for Grakke who blew air from his nostrils in a sort of acknowledgement. “They’re here to-”

"They look like raiders," Hiega cut in, refusing to indulge the young Voshtarri for even a moment. Arha opened her mouth to speak up, then immediately thought better of it. She was learning the ways of a diplomat in real time, after all.

"They’re wanderers," Olta said, slowly but firmly. "Nomads, Hiega, just looking for a temporary place to stay.

"A place to stay? Hmph," Hiega grunted. "Looking for throats to slit, I reckon."

"That's not-"

"You," Hiega snapped, turning her gaze onto Arha, whose forward position clearly marked her as leader or spokesman for this pack of savage beasts. "I bear you no grudge – but still, you are unwelcome here. Leave us in peace."

Arha's every instinct, when confronted with a strong and demanding foe such as this, was to square up - to be louder, and bigger, and bolder, and to assert herself over the challenger. Oftentimes she allowed her sword-arm to do the boasting for her. Instead, however, she turned against her every instinct and made herself small.

"As much as we'd like to," Arha started, trying to figure out how to shape her voice into something that sounded compelling, "I'm afraid that isn’t an option. These people are my responsibility, and right now they are dying of starvation and exhaustion both. Surely you understand that I must do everything in my power to prevent this."

Well. That came out sounding a bit more like a threat than intended.

"What concern is that of ours?" Hiega snorted. "We are a peaceful folk." Sunlight reflected briefly and blindingly off the axe on her belt. "There is no place here for the violence you people deal in."

"I disagree," Olta interrupted, cautiously. "Hiega, these people killed Bordon the Eater - slaughtered him and his people right before my very eyes. It was five against nearly two dozen, and by Al'Varok's eye they made it look effortless. Surely you see that these people could offer us real protection."

If Olta's words were intended to ease suspicion, their effect was quite the opposite, for now Hiega was scrutinizing the exiles with almost blatant hostility, her shoulders tensing in what Arha knew to be the universal signifier of one preparing for a fight. In her eyes the exiles had just shifted from an unknown to a threat.

And the exiles had seen it as well, of course. Every little tell-tale sign was there: the vein bulging in Grakke’s neck, the crooked little smile creeping across Makran’s face, Zekval’s fingers nervously drumming against the hilts of his daggers and Nageth’s entire body growing far too still.

"Who are you people?" Hiega demanded, her hand drafting to the battleaxe – realizing, perhaps, the incredible danger in which she had just found herself. "From what tribe do you hail?"

Things were spiraling fast, so fast. A stern hand was required. Arha whirled around – shot her honor guard the most visceral calm-the-fuck-down look she could muster – then turned back to the old Voshtarri with open palms and a weak smile plastered onto her face.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

"As I said, we're just nomads," Arha said, holding up her hands even as every Winnower bone in her body was telling her fight! "Travelers from a place far, far north of here, of a name I am certain you will not know." She risked another glance over her shoulder, saw that Grakke had dutifully taken over her glare-at-everyone-to-keep-them-in-line duties – but also knew full well that Grakke was holding them back only because he was waiting for Arha to make the first move. He would support her without question, it was true, but that didn’t necessarily mean he would agree with her.

"They've offered us protection," Olta added, before Hiega could offer a retort. He and Arha were actually making for a half-decent team – jumping in on the ends of each other’s sentences, picking at Hiega’s defenses from two sides at once. If Olta was aware that Arha’s companions wanted very badly to murder him, he was doing an exceptional job of concealing it. "And all they ask in exchange is food and shelter.”

Hiega stared at them for a long, long time, some silent calculation playing out behind her narrowed eyes as the exiles grew increasingly restless by the minute.

Arha was wondering if, in the event that Hiega sent them away, there was any possible method by which she could convince her honor guard not to slaughter the Voshtarri people.

Grakke was wondering just what the hell his closest friend was doing, exactly, and was finding that with each passing day she seemed less and less like herself. He was also growing increasingly angry and restless, and within him there was a certain shapeless desire to smash someone’s face in – it didn’t really matter who.

Makran was wondering how long it would be before she would finally get to fight something again. Her blood was still hot after the slaughter of the cannibals, and this conversation was so mind-numbingly boring that she was half-tempted to just bury a hatchet in Olta’s skull and kick this whole thing off. But this clearly mattered to Arha, and Arha was her friend, and thus she remained patient.

Nageth was wondering if any of the Voshtarri sans Hiega and Olta would prove to be an actual threat. Hiega herself, though clearly well-experienced, was also old and likely quite sluggish, and Olta for his part was but a novice who carried himself like a veteran. He came to the well-reasoned conclusion that his people were in no real particular danger, and felt some sense of contentment at that.

Zekval was wondering – or rather, praying – that he would not have to kill any innocent people. He, too, had noticed a change in Arha’s demeanor, though unlike Grakke he very much hoped that this change would be a permanent one. Even so, should conflict erupt he was fully prepared to loose one of his knives into Hiega’s neck from all the way at the back of the group. She would be dead before she could even blink, which also brought Zekval some mild form of reassurance.

Finally, that silent calculation had resolved itself – and Hiega merely hitched a thumb over her shoulder.

“This is a matter for Seko,” she grunted, and before anyone could say a word she had set off, leaving the others scrambling to catch up as she strode in silence towards the double-doors of the vaunted longhouse. Arha and Olta exchanged a look – and a small twinge of victory passed between them as the Voshtarri gave her a small nod.

“That’s good?” she asked, quietly.

“That’s good,” Olta agreed.

Arha did her best to ignore her honor guard, all of them whispering to one another in frantic Old Tongue as she passed through the doors – one marked with a one-eyed stag, and the other with a nightmarish creature of countless eyes and mouths – and into the heart of the entire Voshtarri village.

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

The exiles found themselves standing awkward and uncomfortable and decidedly out of place in an empty dining hall, one warmly lit by a pair of roaring, crackling fireplaces. Empty benches and tables flanked them on all sides, running parallel from the back wall to the front. The walls were adorned with all manner of multi-colored and finely woven tapestries, each telling the story of some great hunt or achievement.

At the center of the back wall, in a rickety wicker-chair, their sat an old, grey-haired man in a dark green robe with bony hands folded over his chest and a vibrant twinkle in his eye. Hiega took up position beside him at once, perched like a hawk over the frail old man, while Olta stood sentinel at the back door - arms crossed and utterly removed from the conversation that would soon follow.

It was very warm in there. Despite the nature of her situation, Arha was honestly quite comfortable. But then, of course, her heart was pounding, because now she had to say the right things at the right time to the one man who would decide their fate. Or who would, rather, be unknowingly deciding the fate of his own people.

"Come in, come in," the old man was saying, beckoning with a bony hand. "Al'Varok's bones, it's freezing in here! Aren't you freezing?"

His pale, silvery eyes locked onto Arha's own. A question directed at her, then.

"Not really, no,” Arha said, choosing to answer honestly - to which the old man gave an unexpected snort. He shifted in his chair, squared his shoulders, and suddenly Arha felt as though she were looking at a much younger man, a man possessed with great vitality and practiced cunning both.

"Maybe I’m just old,” he said, smiling wryly. “Well, then, let’s get down to business, shall we? My name is Seko. The other Voshtarri are quite insistent on calling me Elder, and truth be told I kinda like the sound of that, so…that’ll be Elder Seko to you. And you are…?”

"I am called Arha," the former Eltok said, bowing at the waist. Diplomat or no, respect before a superior was something Arha understood well. Failing to properly prostrate oneself before a higher-ranking Winnower was an easy way to lose one’s head. "These are my companions - Grakke, Makran, Nageth, and Zekval."

There was a shift in Seko's expression, one so imperceptible that Arha stood not even a chance of detecting it.

"Eugh," the old man said, wrinkling his nose. "Hideous names, if you don't mind me saying so. Grok? Mack-ran? What sort of place do you hail from that hands out names like that?"

There it was - the same pointed question Hiega had asked, but with a key difference: Hiega's had been a brute obstacle, a blunt instrument delivered straight to the face. Seko's was casual, well-meaning, innocuous - slithering into the midst of a friendly conversation like it was no big deal when in fact the answer to such a question was without a doubt an immensely big deal.

Arha may have been no diplomat - but she knew perfectly well the shape of a duel when she saw one. And she fully understood now that this man's diminished appearance belied a dangerous mind and that she would have to tread very, very carefully.

"We’re from a tribe in the far north," Arha said, consciously matching Seko's tone with a light and informal delivery. "Even farther north than the Mudlands. I could tell you the name but I suspect it would be just babble to your ears, Elder Seko."

"I highly doubt that," the Elder smiled. "These old bones have seen more in one lifetime than most people experience in five. Try me."

Arha hesitated.

"The Tzchos tribe," she said, finally.

For a moment, Seko's face was perfectly still. And then:

"Nope!" he laughed, shaking his head. "Damn! Well, fair enough, fair enough. Alright, Arha of Tzchos, let's talk – why are you here, exactly? Hiega’s told me a fair bit, but I’d really like to hear your own words from your own mouth, if you don’t mind."

That was an easy one, at least.

"I'm here to offer you a barter," Arha said, which made the old man's eyes light up at once.

"How vague and exciting!" he said, appreciatively. "Go on, go on."

"My people are starving," Arha explained, pushing past the waves of uncertainty that invariably followed after admitting that she, a Winnower, was in any way weakened or in need. "We've been wandering for a long, long time, and the Blackwoods have not been kind to us."

"The Dead Zone is indeed no place for kindness," Seko nodded sagely. "It was one of many things that the Bile-Wolf devoured, in his time."

"Your people, the Voshtarri, have a paradise here," Arha continued, brushing past whatever that was about. "And I think it’s only natural that I want such a thing for my own people as well. They followed me into these cursed woods, and it is my duty to reward them with comfortable and happy lives."

Seko was looking down at her with his chin resting on one bony fist and a look of dry amusement writ large across his face. He was also looking at her as though she were a particularly interesting sort of bug.

"So," Seko the old man observed, dryly. “You’re here to beg.”

"I do not beg," Arha said, perhaps a bit more forcefully than she had intended. Old habits died hard, after all, and they were hardly even old habits at this point. "As I said, Elder Seko, I'm here to barter. I don't believe in charity and I certainly won't ask it of you, a stranger who has never known me."

"Well...?" Seko asked, spreading his arms. "What can five starving nomads offer the Voshtarri? Out with it - I'm curious to hear what you have in mind."

Arha opened her mouth to reply - and then on some odd, nameless, errant little instinct she closed it instead. And then, in a sly fashion inspired by the old man himself, she asked: "Tell me, Elder Seko - what is it that you actually want?"

"What do I want?" the Elder chuckled, hand on his chest - clearly delighted to have the tables turned on him in such a fashion. "Come now, that’s an easy one."

And then the old man’s smile dropped like a stone.

"The death of my enemies," he said, and those words were as cold and unforgiving as eternity itself. They spoke of old, simmering hatreds, of grudges that had persisted for a lifetime and that burned evermore in the chest of a man who had never truly been able to let go. They spoke not just of murder but of extinction; of obliteration, of a great scouring from the surface of the earth.

Seko leaned back in his chair and folded hands laden heavy with a dozen rings over his chest, and looking up at him now Arha could only wonder to herself what terrifying iconoclast this man had been in his youth.

“Well, you’re in luck,” Arha said, not missing a beat. She was far more impressed by the Elder Seko than she was in any way intimidated by him, even as she could quite literally feel the weight of his gaze pressing against her skin. “Because death just so happens to be our profession, and that’s exactly what we intend to offer you.” She permitted herself an arrogant little half-smile, harkening back to her days of boasts delivered before the roaring crowds of the arena.

"Oh, that's obvious," Seko scoffed, waving a hand, and like a switch had flipped he was back to his impish, nonchalant self. "I've met more than enough killers to know the look by now. You've got the eyes, all of you. Or – eye," he tapped his left to mirror the absence of Arha's own. "But that's not the point. Why would the Voshtarri want five starving, half-dead nomads for soldiers?"

"Elder Seko," Olta spoke up, for the first time, from the back of the room. He bowed his head at once. "If I may."

"Come now, Olta," Seko said, his expression brightening, and he beckoned for the young man to continue. "You of all people should know that your voice is always welcome within my hall."

"Thank you, Elder," Olta said, bowing again out of what was clearly sheer force of habit. "With respect, these five slaughtered Bordon the Eater."

"Bordon's dead?" Seko asked, arching an eyebrow. "Good riddance to a nasty piece of shit, I say.”

"Not just Bordon," Olta pressed, shaking his head. "They killed his entire crew. Alone."

Seko's head snapped around as though on a swivel, and now his gaze was flaying each and every one of the exiles down to the bone, laying their insides out and getting a good, long look at the true shapes of their souls.

"Who are you people?" he demanded, and once again all trace of friendliness had vanished as though it never existed at all.

"I told you-" Arha started quickly, trying in a sudden panic to defuse the situation.

"No starving rat kills five times his own weight," Seko cut her off, his voice growing louder by the second. His words were echoing off that vaunted ceiling, swarming around Arha and assailing her from all directions. "No wandering nomad emerges from a battle like that wholly unscathed. Nor would any poor scavenger be in such exceptional physical condition such as yours. So, I shall ask again, and this time you will answer me honestly - who are you?"

Arha didn't want to kill this man. She really, really, really did not want to kill this man. Because killing this man would mean killing Hiega, and killing Hiega would mean killing Olta and that was something she simply would not allow to come to pass. Yet even as these thoughts raced across the surface of her mind she could feel her honor guard bristling behind her, their hands moving surreptitiously or not-so-surreptiously to their weapons. She could already see how it would go - Grakke barreling forward and killing Hiega before she could even move, while Zekval descended like a shadow upon Olta and cut short any cry for help. And she would step forward and run her sword right through Seko's chest, and then-

Think, she ordered herself, in a harsh and uncompromising voice that unconsciously resembled Tekarn’s own. You're a poor liar, Arha. So keep it simple. What's the simplest lie you can tell?

An honest one, of course.

"We're exiles," she declared, cramming in every ounce of Eltok-authority she could muster. And all around her the other Winnowers were exchanging confused glances, wondering if this was how she was about to begin the slaughter. Why bother revealing their true nature to a man who was already dead?

Seko, for his part, was unimpressed.

"So you were cast out from Tzchos, then," he repeated. "What for?"

"Treachery," Arha answered honestly.

"Yours?"

"Theirs."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"You needn't be."

"And what were you, before your exile?"

"What do you think?" Arha shrugged, casual as she could manage under pressing circumstances. "Warriors. The finest of our kind."

"That's quite a boast, relative to a people I've never known."

"Didn't you see what we did to Bordon?" Arha asked, hitching a thumb over her shoulder.

"I heard what you did," Seko corrected dryly.

"We can take you there, if you like," Makran offered, speaking up for the first time. "The big guy had a pretty funny look on his face when he died."

"I'll pass, thank you," Seko said. Arha truly had not even the faintest inkling what the old man was thinking about all of this. She had never been much a study of human behavior, but Seko especially was a cipher, a chameleon constantly shifting before her very eyes.

"So..." Arha trailed off, apropos of nothing, because she truly hated drawn-out silences. "Not a bad deal, eh? Protection for food and shelter."

"Mmh," Seko grunted, a noise that conveyed nothing. "You claim death is your profession."

"It's the only thing we know," Nageth declared proudly. Nobody moved to stop him or shut him up because what Winnower would have a problem with a statement like that?

Seko's eyes narrowed.

"Tell me, then," he said. "You who would cloak yourselves in Endings. What is to stop you from one day turning your blades upon the Voshtarri people? After all, it is one thing to allow a dog into your home." He leaned forward, and his gaze was hooded in shadow. "It is another thing to invite a wolf."

Arha blinked. Thought for a long, long time. And then, she said:

"What are you talking about?” she demanded. “I would never do harm to a helpless innocent."

The words were like bile in her throat, all the more so because all of a sudden she wanted them to be true, even though they were quite thoroughly and indisputably anything but.

Seko burst into laughter.

Arha was paralyzed, rooted to the spot like a specimen under a microscope.

"By Al'Varok's hooves, don't look so offended!" Seko said, still chuckling to himself. "It was a fair question, wasn't it?" He let out a small, quiet sigh - then clapped his hands together. All ten of his rings sang out from the impact, filling a hall with an oddly melodic one-note chime. That sound was enough to break Arha from option paralysis and bring her quite firmly back into a realm of the living.

"Alright, alright, I've jerked you all around long enough," Seko declared, folding his hands. "You seem like decent enough folk to me. You're clearly not one to beg, Arha, which tells me you really do care for your people. And they did choose to follow you, which is a rather positive signifier as well."

"I told you, this isn't a charity," Arha interrupted. "We are bartering-"

"Bartering is still begging when I've got everything you want," Seko yawned. "But as I was saying - that's two points in your favor right there. The third and final nail in this particular coffin is that you're strong fighters who haven't lost their damn minds and can speak rationally and calmly, when called to do so. And, well, truth be told we really could use your rather specific and unpleasant talents around here - so, shit, that's good enough for me!"

And without further ado, the old man spat into his palm and extended it to Arha with a lopsided grin on his face.

This was it? Seriously? After all that?

Arha decided not to question it. She stepped forward - matched his grin with one of her own, because damn it all, the old man's moods were infectious - and shook the hand that was offered.

"Welcome to the village!" Seko bellowed, as if suddenly seized by some powerful force, and Arha wiped her hand on her tunic with a look of mild displeasure. "Grok, Nag-Geth, Zevkal, Mack-Ran - all of you are Voshtarri now. All of you shall live as we do, in the shadow of Blessed Al'Varok, and I shall watch over you all as though you were my very own."

He turned to Hiega, clapping his hands like an excited child.

"Well?" he demanded. "Let's get them some food! Ah, hell - let's make it a damn feast!"

"I'll speak to the-" Hiega started.

"And get our new protectors some beds!" Seko continued, quite unstoppable now. "The Winnowers made it so at least half these huts are empty now - find 'em some adjacent ones and turn 'em loose!"

"I'll see to it," Hiega said, inclining her head, and then the towering old woman was gone, and Seko's wild eyes were turned back to Arha once more.

"Between you and me," he whispered loudly, leaning forward in his seat. "Things were starting to get very dull around here."

Ah, hell. Arha couldn't help but like the old bastard.

"Well, you're in luck," she grinned. "Nobody's ever accused us of being dull."

"Heh," Seko chuckled. "I'll hold you to that."

And then Arha was out the door, out into the beautiful summer air, and her honor guard were around her like a swarm of black flies with more questions than Arha could possibly even begin to answer.

Nageth wanted to know how Arha intended to play at this before they turned on the Voshtarri (as Arha had just denied they would do). Makran wanted to know if she could kill someone now, because she was bored and there was a teenager over there with a coat she wanted. Zekval was quietly in favor of simply acting out the deal as-was, though he made no effort to be heard over the din and clamor of the others.

And Grakke? Loyal, faithful Grakke just watched in silence. Just watched and waited for his Eltok to speak.

"Look," Arha said, finally, and all voices came to immediate halt. "This is a pretty good deal, no?"

"What? Becoming housecats for a village of weaklings?" Makran scoffed. "That appeals to you, Arha?"

"You might not like it, but it'll good for you," Zekval cut in, before Arha could do the same. "Think about it, Mak, a couple days here and you'll be right back in peak shape."

"What?" Makran demanded, furrowing her brow. "I'm always in peak form!"

"So it's a long game, then?" Nageth asked, turning to face his former Eltok. "We just relax and milk ‘em for a while?"

"Okay, okay," Arha said, holding up her hands. "Here’s my ultimatum – we spend one month here, and then we leave. Alright? One month. We rest up, eat up, get good clothes and good weapons and a good cache of supplies. Then we go north." She pointed at where she could only assume north might have been. "To the Mudlands, where we'll fight as mercenaries."

The Mudlands were essentially one gargantuan, unending battlefield, one comprised of ten thousand different factions that were constantly splintering and merging and none of which fought for any cause or ideology because in the Mudlands you just fought to fight.

Paradise for a Winnower, in essence.

"Well, shit," Makran grinned at once. "You shoulda said so sooner. I'm in."

"Works for me," Nageth shrugged.

"Sure," Zekval said, quietly, glancing away.

That left Grakke - steadfast, unshakeable Grakke, who was about to open his mouth and say, as he always did, I got you, Arha.

"Just one month?" he asked, instead, and Arha found herself utterly taken aback.

"I-" she started.

"Promise me, Ar," Grakke said, his eyes locking onto her own. There was an exceptionally rare sense of vulnerability in his voice. "One month. No longer."

Arha looked at him - looked at all of them - and knew then that she loved them all too much to see them die face-down in the mud.

"One month," she repeated, nodding her head. She reached out, clasped her Shadow on the shoulder. "No longer."

It was the noblest lie she had ever told.