Chapter 10: Chapter 7: The Company

I dreamed after speaking with the Grandmasters, a dream much like the recent nightmares. I sat on the streets of Gazmere, head bowed under the relentless pounding rain. Lightning flashed, scorching my eyes and illuminating the weathered thatch and wood that built the town. Rain pooled between cobbled stones, a growing stream of crimson.

I held Elegy across my lap, unsheathed. It was heavy—heavy enough that I could not lift it. Its blade, pale and blue, became obscured by the red of the rain. Lightning flashed again, and its light gleamed on dripping blood.

But I saw something else in that momentary flash. An eye, half-exposed, reflected on the bare mithril. It was blue, sky-blue, and striking. I wiped away a bit of the blood, then lightning flashed again. Now I saw hair, golden and glimmering. However bloody my cloak, I tried to clean off the blade. Then lightning came, and thunder, and I saw a face like my own reflected.

There was a woman in the mithril. She watched me with a gentle, cautious expression, long blonde hair framing a delicate, pale complexion. She seemed young, maybe a few years older than me, with faint creases of worry pressing into her cheeks and brow. And yet, her age seemed manifest not in her wrinkles, but in the deep, desperate weariness of her azure eyes. It was a look with which I was all too familiar. I… had seen on my father’s face when he’d told me goodbye.

I blinked, and she was gone. Elegy’s blade ran bloodred once again. Light began to swell over the horizon, and the sun peeked through the obsidian sky. Dawn cut through like Elthys’s radiant lance, and I writhed beneath its burn.

I jolted awake, breath catching in my lungs. There was a blanket about my chest and crust about my eyes, and I shook my head to try and shake sleep’s fog. There was a bed beneath me, large and comically soft, and the room around me was unfamiliar.

“Sleep well?” someone asked from the corner of the room. Azareth was there, seated at a small table. He looked very much at ease, less rigid than usual, with his rare, amused smile splitting his face.

I brushed the messy hair from my face and picked the crust from my tired eyes. I shifted, realizing that I still wore my gambeson, and cast my eyes about until they found Elegy resting by Azareth's side.

“I made tea,” he said, as I moved to leave the bed. “Most initiates find their first journey under the earth to be… taxing. They do not wake easily. Some find that this helps them regain their wits.”

I figured he was right. A part of me still felt asleep. I strode to the table, tail dragging behind me, and took my sword from him before taking my seat.

I pulled Elegy four inches from its scabbard. I saw, reflected in the metal, two sky-blue eyes… but they were my own. My hair hung around them, jet-black, rather than glimmering blonde. Horns stood from my head where my dream’s reflection had lacked them.

Azareth set a teacup in front of me and began to pour. “Something about the Void is… strangely enticing to us corporeal beings.” Dark liquid sloshed, steam tumbling from its surface. “Don’t you think?”

Still, I didn’t bother answering him. I blew away some of the heat, cup cradled in my hands. I realized I was very tense. “How long was I asleep?” I asked.

“Long enough that night has come and gone,” he said, nodding toward the window where dawn spread its light.

I sat back and took my first sip of the drink. It was earthy, but not bitter—hot, but refreshingly so. Quite to my liking, actually.

I remained silent for a time. Many things ran through my mind, from the woman in my dreams to what the Grandmasters had said. Eventually, Azareth set down his cup. “I would have thought you to have more questions than that.”

“You’d be correct,” I mumbled.

“Then I am here to answer them. We stood before the Grandmasters together. You know my purpose.”

I didn’t know where to start. I thought for a while, until my cup was half-drained. Deliberately, carefully, I chose my first question. I held Azareth’s unsmiling eyes and hardened my face in a look I’d learned from my father.

“Is this what you intended for me from the start?”

“What would you consider the start?”

I thought of him on the rainy streets of Gazmere. I’d thought I’d seen a smirk on his face, then, and was finding it harder to forget with every passing day. “That night,” I said. He blinked, then craned his head in a slow nod.

“I sensed power in you, remember. I knew my order could make use of that power.”

I wasn’t sure how to feel about that, yet. I wondered if there really had been no other recourse. But that was something I would decide for myself, in time. My trust in him was unsteady, but he had not harmed or betrayed me.

I set down my cup and clasped my hands in my lap. “We’re going to Khaldara. To find Gilgaroth’s heart.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He gave me an amused smile. “It is as the Grandmasters said. The Veil is stretched thin. Perhaps we could repair it, but only if we reunite what remains of the gods.”

“You know where Elthys is?”

“I know where her heart is,” he said. I blinked, and he sipped his tea.

“In her chest?”

“Amusing, Valhera, really. Though I cannot fault you for not knowing that she has been dead for a very long time.”

My fingers drummed together. I let the silence stretch, watching his impatience grow.

“It’s a closely guarded secret,” Azareth elaborated. “The Divine holds her power because it was Elthys’s final gift—her undying heart, forever beating in her closest follower's holy chest. The first Divine was born on the eve of the Mother’s death. Though I’m sure you understand that just because something is dead does not mean its influence is gone. Elthys and Gilgaroth were two of the most powerful beings to ever exist, and their power has lived on.” He hesitated, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “But all things fade. In time. And their power is what keeps the Veil intact.”

“They weren’t always gods,” I said, and Azareth nodded.

“You are correct.”

“Then what kept the Veil intact before them?”

“Ah. That is a secret my order has been searching for… for a very long time. Since our inception. Elthys established us shortly before her death, and tasked us with finding that knowledge. Perhaps the demon-kings of old knew the Void like she and her brother did. Perhaps… Hell’s fall put a crack in the Veil. Records from that time are rare, and… records concerning the Veil are rarer still. But there is one thing I can say for sure,” he said, eyes hardening seriously. “Calamity will come if my order cannot find the Dead God’s remains.”

“Then we’re saving the world.”

He raised his cup, as if in a toast. “Not an altogether uncommon task for my order.”

“I still don’t understand why you need me. I’m not a necromage. I don’t know anything about the Dead God.”

“And yet, some inkling of his power is inside you.”

“I don’t even know what that means. Why do you think it will be any help?”

He shrugged. “Your particular skillset will be invaluable in that half of the world.”

“Azareth. I am not a warrior.”

“And yet, you wield a mithril sword.”

“If I put it in your hands, it wouldn’t make you any more a fighter.”

He raised his brows. “But I have seen you fight, remember. You have a certain… ferocity that career mercenaries, knights, even paladins sorely lack.”

I gripped the table. “You know why that is.”

“I do.” He refilled my teacup. “And I see it for the boon that it is.”

He did not smile as he spoke, this time. I held his gaze, anger bubbling in my blood, then huffed and sat back in my chair.

“My order,” Azareth began, “understands the true way of things. Even the most open-minded cardinal considers us little more than heathen. And yet, they acknowledge our necessity. Only we, in the Dead God’s shadow, can do the things that need done. There is no such thing as evil power, Valhera. There is only power exercised for evil’s sake.”

I stared at the dark liquid in my cup, and suddenly found it unappetizing. I watched the surface ripple while I tried to parse my racing thoughts.

“Seven men, Azareth,” I finally said.

“The deed is done, the penance paid.”

“It isn’t that simple.”

“Then find your redemption in saving the realm.”

I tensed, scenes from my nightmares flashing in my eyes. “It isn’t that simple.”

“What if it is? I know the dead, Valhera, and sometimes, it is that simple.”

“Do you… even know what it’s like? To take a life?”

He smiled, cold, uncompassionate. His eyes glinted, hard and sharp as flint. “Please. Spare me your self-flagellation.”

I bared my teeth, jaw clenched tight. I felt the burn of demon-fire. Crimson crept into my vision, and I tasted bitterness on my tongue.

Azareth only raised his brows at my eyes turned red.

“You’re an ass,” I said, letting out my pent-up breath.

“Think what you wish. Just assure me that you will not lose your reason. That you understand the gravity of our situation, and will not let your emotions stand in the way.”

I glared at him. He sipped his tea.

“Fine,” I said.

“Excellent. If you’re done with your vulgarities, we have preparations to make. I intend to leave Orloth before noon, but would happily entertain your impudence a while longer.”

I almost hissed another curse but managed to bite my tongue. I held an agitated silence, though in time he seemed to take it as assent.

He stood and walked past me, toward the door. I stayed sitting a while longer, soothing the anger within me. I closed my eyes and focused on the little things. Textures, smells. I put the teacup to my lips and found that its taste helped me find my center.

To Khaldara. The land of direlings… the land of the dead. I wrapped my hand around Elegy’s hilt and made to stand. I wondered what trials awaited me. What trials, and… what else. Mithril in hand, I remembered my father’s words, Sepheline never found her peace.

Maybe that had been her, seen in my dream, reflected in this blade. Maybe she was closer than I could imagine.

Half a moment, I considered asking Azareth. But, remembering his frigid grin, I decided to keep such things to myself.

* * *

Azareth and I left the temple’s comfortable shade and stood under the glaring light of Orloth’s dawn. Although the fog of sleep had largely left my brain, I shielded my eyes against the full brightness of day. Azareth led me to a place that was familiar—the stables that stood on the west temple grounds. The stable boy was the same with his red-threaded robes and dutiful look. Azareth traded some words with him, and he went to fetch our horses. Meanwhile, two figures watched us from the stable’s shade. They seemed to recognize Azareth, and the necromage politely bowed as the duo approached.

The first was a woman, a bit taller than Azareth, but still only reaching the lower part of my nose. Her hair was a pale blonde, cut to chin-length and tied behind her head. She wore a white gambeson beneath her breastplate, pauldrons, and gauntlets that, while scratched and scarred, nonetheless gleamed with the luster of a recent polish.

She stood in a way that I found familiar, hand never far from the broadsword sheathed on her waist. Shoulders squared, one foot inches in front of the other, she seemed prepared to strike or brace at a moment’s notice. It was similar to how my father had stood, even in moments of rest—a sign of a warrior well-trained and well-fought. She seemed to be pushing her early thirties, regarding me with pale eyes just beginning to wrinkle. Her weapon looked weathered and worn with a grip of faded leather and dark iron. I could see, despite her armor, the lean muscle that accompanied a life lived on the road.

She met my eyes, and her gaze immediately flicked to my uncovered horns. Then the blade that I wore. She tilted her head, agitation crossing her face, though she gave a small grunt of curiosity. I could see a certain amount of wisdom in her eyes—the kind of knowledge that comes from knowing one’s place in the world. She held herself comfortable, confident, a woman who knew her own strength. Her eyes flitted over me again, sizing me up like the competition in a tournament. Something about me, it seemed, found her wanting, as those blonde brows furrowed.

The second figure seemed reluctant to leave the stable’s shade. He was taller than the woman, though not by much. He wore clothes similar to mine with thin cloth armor beneath a leather vest and bracers. He was thinner than the woman but bore sparse, lean muscle, much like a courier.

He looked recently shaved, though stubble poked through his chin and cheeks. His hair was a dark brown, tousled and flat. His eyes were blue, but not like mine—they were pale, cold, and bright like polished aquamarine, or… like the harsh winter frost. And they were hard, even as he stood at ease. They were eyes that had seen much… maybe too much.

Briefly, I wondered if he saw something similar on my face. If the scars on my back were so heavy that they showed in my gaze. He was closer to my age than the woman, but seemed much older, somehow. On his waist, he wore a shortsword and a long dagger, though I spotted three other hidden sheathes on his person. One on his arm, one in his boot, one on his thigh. A man who carried that many weapons was sure to have even more, I mused, hidden in places I couldn’t possibly see. However, despite being so overly armed… he didn’t strike me as paranoid. He looked as though he was waiting, not to be attacked, but to find the gap in the armor, the opportune time to strike—deliberate in his bearing, rather than afraid.

Azareth stepped forward, then, filling the expectant silence. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he said, and the pair’s eyes were off me for a moment. “Valhera, meet Hemma and Luran.” He gestured at the woman and man respectively. “Hemma, Luran… meet Valhera.”

“A direling,” Luran said simply. He met my eyes and raised a brow.

“I trust that won’t be a problem,” I replied, tail flicking behind me.

“It won’t.”

Hemma stepped closer to me, offering her hand. I took it and shook it, but found her grip to be tighter than was polite.

“Hell of a sword,” she said with narrow eyes.

Elegy felt very heavy, then. “It was my father’s.”

“Oh? I’ve never seen mithril in a direling’s hands.”

My nostrils flared. There was an implication between her words, one that stirred my first embers of anger. I thought to tell her off, but allowed my eyes to carry the message instead.

Azareth poked his head between us. “I assure you, Hemma, it is hers by legitimate means.”

She looked at him, then again at me. “Your father was in the Holy Order?”

“Adopted father,” Azareth corrected.

I lashed my tail. “He was a paladin. Many years ago.”

Her mouth half-opened, and she hesitated. “Hard to believe, even so.”

I bristled, staring her down. Hand on Elegy’s hilt, I waited for her to continue. She knew my budding anger, though it hardly seemed to bother her.

“Hemma,” Luran said, and she spared him a glance. He raised his brows knowingly, and she let loose a deep breath.

“I apologize,” she said, though her words lacked a certain sincerity. “If we’re to be traveling through Khaldara together, I’d… hate to do it as anything other than friends.”

I watched her, chewing my lip and saying nothing. She flashed me a white-toothed smile, though it reminded me of Azareth.

The necromage spoke up, clearing his throat when the silence stretched too long. “Yes, the coming miles are long. It would be a shame for us to find enmity so early on.”

“Where are you from?” Hemma asked, but I took my time answering.

“Gazmere.”

“I don’t know of any retired paladins living in Gazmere.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think he was interested in a continued relationship with his old comrades.”

“Excommunicated?”

Again, an implication carried in that single word. As if to raise a demon-kin was tantamount to heresy, to treason.

She frowned at my silence, though seemed rather more modest about her error, this time. “Right. It would be difficult to maintain, raising a direling.” She paused, pursing her lips. “I mean no offense.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

I sighed, long and deep. “Of course.”

“What was his name?”

Inwardly, I winced. I wondered how far his fame had spread in his day—personal bodyguard to the Divine, bearer of a mithril sword, it was unlikely that his service had begun and ended in obscurity. But he had wished to forget that time. Once I had entered his life… his service to the Rising Sun had faded into his past.

I tried to conjure another name, to lie, but found that I could imagine nothing but my father himself. Azareth spared me from the silence, though I wished he’d kept his thoughts to himself.

“Stalton Marhart,” he said. Hemma took breath, mouth open, but was speechless. She looked at me again as if searching for confirmation. I did not nod nor affirm, but something about my posture told her the truth.

“I’ll be damned,” she said. “The old man… is something of a legend in the Order. Once… he alone held a bridge against an army of heathens. He protected the Divine from bestial undead, fending them off from dusk until dawn.” She shook her head, a spark of awe shining in her eye. “There are books written about his swordplay, though none have quite been able to replicate his prowess. What we know about his techniques… we only know through secondhand accounts.”

I felt very tired, then. My father, I knew, would not have enjoyed a mercenary’s praise. And, in his place, I too found it exhausting.

Hemma seemed to notice my reaction, changing the conversation’s bend. “I was once in the Holy Order. Not a paladin, but a Daughter of Dawn.”

I nodded slowly. The Daughters were a small coalition of warrior-priestesses—all female, as the Rising Sun believed women were better able to channel Elthys’s power. Each of them was trained in the healer’s art much like Ladies in White, though they decidedly belonged to the military rather than the clergy. I wondered if Hemma, too, held Elthys’s healing light in her hands, even as she now seemingly led a much more secular life.

“Why become a mercenary?” I asked.

“There were many reasons. I met Luran, for one,” she said. Behind her, he snorted. “He convinced me to accompany him for a life on the road.”

Luran leaned against the stable wall, arms folded. “And you’ve regretted it ever since.”

There were no traces of humor in his voice, though Hemma’s smile spread. “Every day,” she said, mirth apparent in her eyes. “If only a little.”

The stable hand emerged, then, with four horses in tow. I recognized Azareth’s black-as-night stallion and my humble mare. There were two more as well—one colored like caramel and cream, the other a dappled gray. We each took our respective mounts, and I noticed that mine was laden with new saddlebags, brimming with the journey’s supplies.

“I hope to make it as far as Bratonsford by sunset,” Azareth said, sitting high in his saddle. “Let us waste no time. Valhera, if you please,” he trailed, gesturing at his own head as if covering invisible horns.

I wrapped my cloak around my shoulders and my scarf around my head. I had enjoyed walking the temple grounds with them uncovered, but this was still Elthysia. I knew as well as anyone that the populace did not share the tolerance of the Order or my companions… thin as Hemma’s tolerance seemed to run.

I watched the mercenary pair as we departed the temple grounds. I found their faces and their air difficult to decipher. It was not hostile, I thought, though it would have been a stretch to call them friendly.

I sighed, slouching in the saddle. I supposed it was just as well that they remained a mystery.

Our four sets of hooves clicked on Orloth’s cobblestone road—our first steps departing Elthysia altogether.

* * *

East of Orloth, the terrain was relatively flat with gentle hills rolling over a grassy plain. There was the occasional growth of trees, stretching up from the southern forests, but otherwise we could see for miles in every direction. The roads were gentle, the weather was serene, and I found myself dozing in the saddle on more than one occasion.

I observed each of my companions as we rode. Azareth sat at the head of the column, spine a rigid column, eyes intently scanning the horizon. Behind me, Luran and Hemma proceeded. The two of them seemed close, Hemma frequently speaking, with Luran frequently listening. The man seemed reticent, especially around myself and Azareth, and Hemma hardly seemed interested in conversation with me beyond what she’d said in the shadow of Azareth’s temple. Even so, I felt as though the pair was forever watching me.

That night, after leaving Orloth, we ended up staying in a tavern near Bratonsford. It was a quaint little town, smaller than Gazmere, but large enough to have its share of patrons and passersby. The four of us ate together by the fickle hearth-light, but conversation was sparse between the twang of the local bard’s lute and the slur of drunken singing. As usual, I hid within my cloak, downcast eyes scanning my surroundings for signs of danger.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Hemma said, in a rare moment barren of merriment’s din. She gestured at the mithril sword sheathed by my side. “A direling wielding such a blade.”

“We’ve been over this,” I mumbled, though my words were largely lost to the sounds of the dining room.

“I served the holy order for half my life. When I was a girl, I pledged to be a Daughter. I served Elthys with my every breath, and yet…”

“Hemma,” Luran said. She looked at him and sighed.

“My mentor was given a dagger,” she said, eyes returning to my own. “For esteemed service. I knew… maybe three paladins who were given such blades. I understand that your father inhabited a rather high station, but…”

“You don’t think me worthy,” I said, eyes hard as stone.

“Mithril isn’t an heirloom. It is… priceless. Precious. Reserved for… the greatest warriors. And you, Valhera, are no veteran.”

I took a bite of my meal and watched her while I chewed. “I’ve seen more than my share of bloodshed.”

Hemma laughed. “Oh? Lay low a few bandits? A mugger? Come on.”

Glaring at her, I thought of that night. It had been weeks since, and yet, I knew what nightmares still awaited my sleeping mind. I looked at my food and suddenly found it all too unappetizing.

I averted my eyes from Hemma’s and pushed away my food. I made to stand, to retire for the night, but Azareth’s voice gave me pause.

“I have seen her fight, Hemma. She has a certain… ferocity that even one such as yourself lacks.”

She tilted her head. “The direling rage?”

“Such myths are exaggerated,” Azareth said, waving her off. “But I would say she fights with fervor like demon-fire indeed.”

I stared at him for a long moment. He flashed his mask of a smile.

“How about a wager?” he asked, spearing a sausage on his fork. “Five bouts. First to score three hits on their opponent wins. Hemma, if you win, Valhera’s sword is yours.”

“No,” I growled, but he didn’t spare me a glance.

“If Valhera wins, she gets something equally precious to yourself.”

“Azareth,” I said, louder, but he only looked at me with knowing eyes.

“I have nothing so precious as mithril,” Hemma said before cracking into a smile. “But it doesn’t matter, so long as I win, now does it?”

“I’m not doing this,” I seethed, and Azareth kicked me under the table. I bared my teeth and bore my eyes into his, but he returned an equally serious gaze.

“I am doing you a favor. Do you have so little faith in yourself?”

The words touched my mind, not as sound, but as thoughts. His lips had not moved, nor had our companions seemed to hear. I remembered the way he and his Grandmasters had spoken beneath the earth, but the familiarity did nothing to put me at ease. If he could put his words within my thoughts… what else could he see?

It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t wager my father’s only memento for anything.

“She is overconfident. Do you mean to tell me that you cannot exploit such a weakness?”

I could. But over the course of my life, I had sparred with few people besides my father. And, skilled though he was, every opponent must be approached differently, their weaknesses differently struck.

“Of course. Better to let her enmity fester, then. For her to never give you a single ounce of respect.”

I bristled, clutching the hilt. Azareth only raised his brows at me.

Maybe he was right. In recent years, I had consistently triumphed over my father in our evening spars. Granted, he was only getting older, but he was not as prone to withering away as an average aging man.

“Fine,” I said, turning my eyes to Hemma, their glint making clear that I did not intend to lose. “Let’s put this to bed.”

“This’ll be fun,” she said as she stood. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave you unarmed, after. You can have this old thing,” she continued, patting the worn steel sword hanging on her belt.

I stood as well but wasted no breath on taunts or jabs. I shouldered past Azareth toward the tavern door, and stood outside under the vast night sky.

The others followed. It was not so late that the streets were barren, so a small crowd gathered around us, sensing conflict about to stir. I looked at what few stars I could see through the town’s polluting light while Hemma drew her sword—the soft sound of steel on leather.

“No need to worry, girl. I know how to hold myself back. None of my cuts will be so deep.”

She watched me, smiling like a cat toying with its prey. Azareth seemed endlessly amused. Luran looked on with folded arms and a face like stone. There was chatter among the small crowd around us, and the tavern door opened to bring out a few more onlookers.

I pulled the hood and scarf from around my head. I undid my cloak’s clasp and let it fall in a pile behind me. Horns and tail now bared, I heard a few gasps from the audience. As I sighed, the hubbub around us grew. Every time I blinked, it seemed, another man or woman came to witness the brewing commotion.

It was just as well. My life had taught me nothing if not how to weather a few Elthysian stares.

I drew Elegy, savoring the strange timbre it had, leaping from its sheath. The blade felt… determined, somehow. Its mithril edge gleamed in the fickle moon and lantern light, and I watched Hemma down its edge. She extended her blade similarly, and I found within myself an impossible calm.

She made the first move, advancing with her guard held high. First, a low-committal thrust that I sidestepped, then a horizontal slash that I caught on my blade. I pushed her weapon upward, to the side, and it seemed as though she hadn’t been expecting such a swift response. Her eyes widened, her stance shifted, and for half a second, she reeled. It was all the advantage I needed. I stepped in, parrying her frantic overhead, and drove my foot into her stomach.

She fell onto the street, panting as the impact drove all air from her lungs. She looked at me with wide eyes, then shook her head and redoubled her focus. She regained her feet, the first beads of sweat forming on her brow.

I knew her next approach would be all the more cautious, so I decided on a more aggressive strategy. The moment she held her blade ready, I lunged, bringing my weapon down. It clashed against hers, so I followed up with an upward slash. She stepped aside and I twisted, sword aimed for her flank, but it bounced off her guard. I leaned back, inches beyond her riposte, then parried, pivoted, and brought Elegy down.

The blade’s tip grazed her cheek, shallow as a paper-cut. Even so, she reeled, touched it, and stared at her bloody fingertips. She looked at me, anger and indignation settling in her eyes, though I allowed my own face no emotion.

Had I extended my arm another few inches, I would have carved her skull or slashed out her eye. But I had shown my weapon to be a part of me, as controlled and easy as another long limb. That fact, alongside her brush with death, rendered her all the more aggressive.

She swung at me, and I dodged. She thrusted, missed, and slashed, but I caught it. She stepped back, then forward, throwing a feint and an overhead. I caught the strike on my sword with one hand, and drove my knuckles into her eye with the other.

Hemma swore, dropping her weapon and falling back while it clattered on the cobblestone. She touched the forming bruise and winced, then hung her head as she sniffed the blood back into her nose. Her eyes, full of anger and wounded pride.

I crouched in front of her. “Let those little wounds remind you… that I am my father’s daughter.”

She watched me, desperately clinging to dignity. Then, she lifted a hand. Much how Lady Gazmere had channeled light into me following my condemnation, glowing tendrils wreathed Hemma’s spread fingers. She pressed her palm against her face, allowing the goddess’s power to mend what I had broken. Her bruise began to fade, becoming a distant red.

She held my glare until her healing hand left nothing damaged behind. I stood, shaking my head, and cast my eyes over the people around me.

The crowd was silent. I supposed it would’ve been untoward for them to applaud a direling over a former Daughter of the Dawn. I sheathed Elegy and made to return to the tavern. Azareth, I saw, was beaming. His white teeth shone, laughter lines crinkled, eyes glinting with humor. Luran looked on, arms still folded, though his icy eyes seemed to spare me a glimmer of respect. He dipped his head as I passed, and I once more stood in the hearth-light.

I looked to the remnants of my dinner and decided I’d rather not finish. Exhaustion came over me, all at once, and I dragged my tail as I made my way to my room.

* * *

The next morning, the four of us woke early to make full use of daylight. We tended our horses, preparing them for the ride. I was alone in the stable’s stall, whispering to my mare the same way I’d whispered to the goats in my father’s fields. I told it my secrets, my hopes… the fragile things I had never spoken to another soul. As I told it about how I missed my father, it blinked at me with soft, brown eyes. It dipped its head as I described my most recent nightmare, and allowed me to run my fingers through its mane as I told it of last night’s duel.

“That’s sweet,” said a voice behind me. Turning, I found Hemma leaned against the stable wall, arms folded. “Talking to your horse, I mean.”

I spared her little more than a glance before returning my attention to the mare. I tossed the saddle blanket across its back, adjusted it, and waited for Hemma to continue.

“You said you grew up on a farm. Must’ve spent a lot of time talking to animals.”

I stopped, turning to face her. She averted her eyes.

“I mean… it makes sense. Animals are probably the only things that… don’t look at you differently.”

I found my patience running thin. “What do you want, Hemma?”

“To apologize,” she said quickly.

“For what?”

“For looking at you differently.” She met my eyes again. “I meant what I said in Orloth, you know. We have many miles to travel together. I’d like to do it as friends.”

I watched her warily. “You didn’t seem to think that, last night.”

“Yeah. And we saw how that ended for me, didn’t we?” She smiled, but I didn’t find the situation very funny.

“Is that what this is about? Trying to save face?”

“If I was trying to save face, I wouldn’t be speaking to you at all.”

I heaved the saddle onto my horse’s back, stroked its mane, and took my time answering. “I’ve never been one for friends, Hemma.”

“Something tells me you haven’t been offered the opportunity before.”

My jaw tightened. “Spare me your pity.”

“Right.” She breathed in deep, then let it all out at once. “I’m not going to argue with you about this. I’ve been an ass, and I want to start again. You’ve shown me that you deserve my respect… and I wanted to offer an olive branch. I have nothing so precious as mithril… but I could offer you my loyalty.”

“You don’t have to give me anything. The wager was stupid.”

“It was,” she nodded. “I suppose… just know that come what may, you have a Daughter of the Dawn on your side. If you have need of my healing light… you need but ask.”

I looked her over, barren of last night’s wounds. No black eye, no shallow cut. She noticed me staring, and turned her head as if to hide. There was an amount of shame, there, and I wondered how often she’d lost a spar.

“Thanks,” I said, before finishing my horse’s preparations. “If that’s all, I think the others are waiting for us.”

“Right. Don’t want to keep them waiting.”

I mounted, and Hemma retreated to find her own horse. Soon, I met up with Azareth and Luran, and the four of us started on the road, leaving Bratonsford behind.

After some time on the trail, Azareth slowed his horse to keep pace with mine. Hemma and Luran quietly conversed some distance behind us, but Azareth still spoke softly so that they wouldn’t hear.

“I saw Hemma approach you this morning,” he said, a knowing smile splitting his face.

I offered no reply. He urged his horse closer.

“What did she want?”

“To be my friend,” I said, slowly fixing my eyes on his.

“Hmm. An interesting proposition.”

“Is that why you suggested the wager?”

His grin stretched wider. “Do you, Valhera, think me so clever?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He snorted, directing his eyes once more to the road before us. “Hemma, Luran… they are mercenaries. They make their living in violence and bloodshed. Such men and women have an unspoken language… valuing deeds far above words. Loyalty cannot be persuaded, only proved. Respect cannot be reasoned… only earned.”

“Then I wish you luck.”

“What for?”

I held his gaze a long moment. I shrugged, turning away, silently regretting that I had prodded.

“I know the bitterness you hold against me,” he said. “And I will waste no further breath on vain persuasion.”

“Hell Below, Azareth… you’re only proving my point.”

His smile turned tight-lipped. “And what point is that?”

“You’re a fucking blatherer. Never dealing in deeds, but… promises. Lies.”

His smile didn’t fade, but… it adjusted forms. His eyes were hard, threatening above the curl of his lips. “I saved your life. Is that not such a deed?”

“Don’t pretend it was for anything more than your benefit.”

“The world’s benefit, Valhera. Are you so blind to that?”

We stared each other down for a long moment. His smile became a thin, pink scowl.

“I’m here,” I finally said. “Aren’t I?”

He blinked, then sighed. “You are.”

“Let that be enough.”

“This will be easier if you trust me.”

“Then think of me as a mercenary. Show me that you deserve it.”

He watched me, wordless, for a while, then spurred his horse to ride, once again, at the column’s head. I sat lower in my saddle and glanced behind me at Hemma and Luran.

The former noticed, and offered a friendly wave. The latter had his attention somewhere else, a distant look in his icy eyes.

Hemma had been right. Friendship was not something I’d been so freely given. I waved back, wondering how this companionship may run its course.

* * *

That night, we made our camp beneath the shade of verdant trees. We had not yet discovered our nightly rhythm in setting up fire, shelter, and cooking our meal, so as I worked at flame, Hemma and Luran discussed the other duties yet unfulfilled. Within a few minutes, they arrived at an agreement, quietly asking me to dig a latrine as they readied food and firewood. Silent, I assented, taking a spade from my saddlebags and finding a suitable spot downwind.

I returned some time later, finding ample wood piled beside the fire. Luran idly stirred a pot resting on the coals while Hemma tended to her equipment. Behind them, Azareth paced, the smoke of his pipe joining the fire’s acrid gray in the forest canopy.

“Hemma. Luran. Valhera,” he began, looking to each of us in turn. “Before we make our heading into Khaldara, I feel it is time that I discuss with you the exact objective of our journey.”

Hemma scraped her whetstone once more along her blade before meeting the necromage’s eyes. “We’ve done work for the Order before. Luran and I… we know how you like to keep your secrets.”

“Is that so? How much were you told before signing the contract?”

She shrugged. “That we would travel into Khaldara. The journey would last a few months. And that it would pay well.”

Azareth smoked for a while, seeming to think on that. “Indeed. That all is true, but surely you’d like to know more.”

The two mercenaries exchanged a glance. “If it’ll help the job get done,” Hemma said, “then I suppose you’re right.”

Azareth nodded, his circuit of the camp passing where I rested. “Of course. The exact purpose of our journey is not something I may share lightly. Suffice it to know that the stakes are great. Should we fail, the repercussions would be far greater than a bounty unpaid.”

He took breath to continue, but Luran raised a hand as if asking for a pause. In the silence, his low voice rumbled out. “Right. Half of our contracts with the Order have been so dire. I’d rather… you simply tell us what needs to be done.”

“Pragmatic.” Azareth dipped his head appreciably then watched his smoke rise as he pondered. “Very well. First, you should know that Khaldara is an unforgiving place. That it is not well-charted, and thus not easily navigated. To that end, my order has enlisted help from an associate on the other side of Lesmyne. We will meet them as our first heading, then follow their path deep into the eastern mountains, to a city called Risnium.”

“Risnium,” Hemma said, as if to taste the word. “Right. What’s there?”

“Should rumors be believed, it is unique among Khaldara’s valleys. Where most have been torn by war and death, Risnium is a place of plenty. It is, in the style of Khaldara, governed by a warlord. This man, Felrost by name, has held the valley for many decades, effortlessly destroying all those who would threaten his walls. He is not a man to be taken lightly, old though he is—in war-torn Khaldara, it is wise to fear those that live beyond their years.”

“Fine,” Luran mumbled. “But why do we care?”

Azareth smiled wide. He met my eyes first, and a chill ran down my spine. “Because he possesses something that may avert a coming catastrophe. Something that he will not surrender so long as he lives.”

Hemma and Luran exchanged a glance. While both seemed intent to hide it, it seemed a flicker of doubt touched both of their faces.

“Assassination, then,” Hemma said. Azareth bowed his head.

“Sometimes, one must die so that many more may live. Surely you understand.”

Luran seemed hesitant, but Hemma caught his eyes. Something in her stare eased the tension in his shoulders.

“A truth I think we both have learned,” she said.

“Good.” Azareth flashed one more smile before settling on his folding stool. “Only a poor mercenary would not prepared for bloodshed.”

I tensed at his choice of words. Despite my physique, my skill, I was not eager to lift my sword against another person again with the intent to kill. I had spilled enough blood… for an entire lifetime.

But such was the path for me to tread. Such were the fruits of my damnable deeds. I had no place in Elthysia, I knew—and, I thought, no place in Khaldara but where our path may lead. So as Hemma and Luran asked their questions, coming to terms with the nature of our journey, I leaned against a great, green tree and closed my weary eyes.

Coming here, I’d known the score. Even so, I was a fool to believe that I would be unaffected by the course Azareth planned.