Chapter 17: Chapter 12: The Varsha

Memory… is a powerful thing. It can be as mercurial as smoke on the wind, or steadfast as thrice-forged steel. I know that there are things I have forgotten, telling this tale. I know that there are things that I will forget, before my part is through. But as with any tale, there are things I cannot forget. Moments that, even short and fleeting, have molded me into the woman that I am. To forget… would be like forgetting my own name.

That first night with Aryssa… was one such time. Once, she told me that no one forgets their first love. It was she who first reddened my cheeks, first crumbled my brittle walls. She who first stole the breath from my chest… whose touch first kept me warm.

No one forgets their first. But for me, that night represented something rather more intimate than simply losing my virginity.

I’m not sure I can convey the loneliness I’d known in Elthysia. Beyond that—I don’t know how to explain just how certain I’d thought that loneliness to be. On my infrequent trips to Gazmere, of course I saw children playing with each other, or adults socializing in their more subdued way. But as someone who was never invited to such things, they were fantasy to me. Stories. Fiction, like the tales my father had told me of lords and ladies, or great knights and their conquests. A world that, no matter how real, was not my own. One that… would forever be out of reach.

This was a falsehood. I know that, now, but Aryssa was the first to show me my error. In one long, dark, breathless, exhilarating night, she… bade me come to a world where I was no stranger.

So maybe I fell in love too fast. Maybe she and I should have taken our time. Maybe the rest of this tale would have unfolded better had I been more cautious in my affection.

Maybe. But there’s never been a single moment… where I have regretted falling in love. Love is, as all things, a leap of faith. And not even the gods were above a bit of naivete.

In hindsight, I don’t think we could have avoided falling for each other. Little did I know… Aryssa was, in many ways, quite like me. I matched her heart and stoked her desire… and burned away a poison she had carried far too long.

Aryssa, much more experienced in these things, once told me that we were lucky. Beyond lucky—beyond her most wild and wonderful dreams. Because there are many ways a person may love or be loved. If you’re lucky, you’ll find someone who aligns. Someone who touches you the right way, who says the right words to comfort or excite. Someone who loves you, flaws and all, and who wants nothing more than to live and die by your side.

But sometimes, against all odds… you find someone who paints such a picture that, to your eyes, all other masterworks turn to dross. Their touch draws the heat to your surface and sends shudders down your spine, hot as sun-touched steel or cold as fallen snow. Their voice can soothe and slow your heart, or race it faster than a fight to the death. Someone with whom you hold no secrets, not even the withering thoughts pressed deep under the surface… because your darkness, shared, captured, only brightens the starlit sky.

Someone with whom… those things can never fade. No matter the secrets. No matter the hardship.

No matter the sorrow they may cause you once all is said and done.

For her, I was that someone. Even when, new to sex, I had a tendency to fumble or hesitate, she loved what I achieved. Even when, next to her, I felt as eloquent as a woman ten drinks in her cups, every word from my lips only endeared her more. Even when, looking back, I know the ways we hurt each other, never, for one moment, did her heart not beat the same.

This I know, because she had her way with words. She told me plainly, often, in song, in sex, in words and deeds.

But really, this I know… because she was the same woman to me.

I cannot explain it. I cannot convey every small and intimate detail of our courtship. But, even undying… my heart is not of stone. I recall her words, that night we met in Black Orchard. One can’t help their desire.

To stop loving her… it would have been easier to walk through the eye of a needle.

* * *

The very next morning, the others in our company discovered mine and Aryssa’s budding romance. I had awoken, still wreathed in her, to Azareth’s raised brow and Hemma’s iron frown. They said nothing of it, even as my skin went crimson in embarrassment, even though I could see the debate that wracked Hemma’s mind.

It was just another way I challenged her perspective, I supposed, loving a woman.

Luran, on the other hand, didn’t even seem to notice. He regarded us with the same indifferent look, the same reserved distance. It was just as well. Azareth, I thought, found some humor in it all, but I barely paid him mind. My eyes, after all, were taken by Aryssa’s green.

A small part of me fought against my feelings for her, as a lifetime of solitude can hardly be conquered in one night. She saw my reservations, clear as day, and how they fought my desire. She asked me about it, one night, as we rested against a darkwood tree just outside of the firelight.

“Sometimes, you seem uncomfortable in all of this,” she said, observing how, even now, my reflex was to tense when she touched me. “Am I doing something wrong?”

I was curled up against her, head on her shoulder, knees to her chest. She held me there, petting my hair while I fiddled with her collar.

“No, Ari. You’re wonderful.”

She looked at me, an invitation in her eyes. It was gentle. Warm. It asked that I speak of the things I held close… should I be so willing.

“I… never expected to end up with a woman,” I told her, and she smiled suggestively.

“What, did I awaken something in you?”

I blushed. She had, but… not in the way I thought she implied. “No, Ari. I’ve always preferred women.”

Her smile faded to a look more compassionate, sincere. “I can’t imagine your prospects were hopeful, living among humans.”

That wasn’t quite it either. Indeed, I would have been hard-pressed to find any sort of companion, especially one that would not hide me away for shame. “They weren’t. but… I’m actually happy about that, looking back.”

I shifted, leaning more of my weight on her, resting my head lower on her chest. I brought my hand down a few inches, smoothing over the soft bump of her breast. She only held me in silence, knowing, I’m sure, that I would continue when I was ready.

“Women don’t love women in Elthysia,” I said, lifting my eyes to lock hers. “Men don’t love men. It’s just… not the way they do things.”

She blinked. Once, twice. Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“It’s unnatural,” I drawled, tracing her breast again. “Or… against the goddess’s will.”

“What does the goddess care?”

“Something about the continuance of life.” I closed my eyes, sighing. “I don’t know. I slept through a lot of those sermons.”

“That’s… fucking weird. But I suppose it explains the looks Hemma’s been throwing my way.”

“It’s not the same way here, then.”

“Oh, Val,” Aryssa cooed, holding me tighter to her body. “I don’t think I’ve earned so much as a second glance, courting women or men. I really… don’t understand why anyone would care.”

I didn’t elaborate any further. Far be it for me to explain the prejudices held against me, even regarding those things I did not wear so openly as my horns and tail. Even so, my mind wandered.

It takes both sexes to breed. Thus, the Rising Sun declared, anything else was perversion, against the ways of propriety and nature. But, laying with Aryssa, wrapped about her feminine curves—and, later, partaking of her in a more intimate way—I could only think it natural. It felt… like I had shed a lie. Taken on a truth. That, rather than weave my hair, hide my tail, choose my clothing all for the sake of someone else’s expectations, I was allowed to simply let myself be. Whatever that meant. Whatever… that implied.

There was a beauty in that, I thought. I remembered the upper district of Orloth, with its carefully cultivated gardens of alien flowers, or the hedges clipped and trimmed to rigid shapes. Beauty that… failed to hold a candle to the effortless serenity of the dusk, or that little pond where Aryssa had lain bare the things in her heart and I had received them.

One can’t help the heart’s desire. No more than the sun can protest its nightly fall.

I think it took me some time to become accustomed to that sort of honesty. To allow myself the freedom from inhibition. To look around me and see that there were no judges, jeerers, or bandits lurking in the shadows. That I could simply be the woman I had always been, together with the woman who held my heart in her delicate, satin-soft hand.

But I am getting ahead of myself. In the early days of our romance, I was as raw and tender as a newly-suffered burn. Indeed, my heart blazed with fire, every night bringing color to my skin and sweat to my brow. Aryssa and I… we danced in the darkwood. We sang, breathless, alive at each other’s hands. It was all very new to me, so each time we made camp, I wished to experience it all again. I would petition Aryssa silently, asking for her with a look in my eyes, a touch of my hand. And she, it seemed, knew my language. The moment that I pleaded… her eyes would darken in hunger. There was no hesitation—each time, she took my hand and led me to a more private place than the firelight. Each time, the stars glimmered between wooded boughs, emboldened by the utter darkness.

Every time… her beckoning hands coaxed a little bit more of me to step beyond my citadel walls.

I was not learned enough in love to regard her with anything other than my doe-eyed adoration, but I somehow found her more and more attractive with every passing day. She taught me the secrets of her body, and with her, I discovered my own. With her, I realized that I rather enjoyed being touched. And, slowly but surely… the voices of doubt, shame, and perversion faded into a more sufferable quiet.

Our remaining time in the darkwood passed in a blur, as time held a different meaning to me, then. Maybe it was a week before the darkwood unfurled, or more. Regardless, I spent the whole time by Aryssa’s side, watching her strum, hearing her sing. She told stories of our people and sang for me their greatest songs. Many times, Azareth interrupted, asking question after question about the history of Khaldara, or the direling perspective on gods and demons. Aryssa, ever-polite, indulged him, even as my heart burned with jealousy. It was not that I felt threatened by Azareth—not by far—but because I wanted her music all to myself. The necromage, after all, regarded her words with the clinical enthusiasm of a scholar… while my blood thrummed with something altogether more romantic. And she looked at me the same. For reasons I didn’t know. For reasons I could not imagine.

For reasons… that, in time, would change me.

But our journey carried on. Aryssa told us about the Plains of Avernus—the next obstacle on our eastbound journey. There, white fog clouded the surroundings and poisoned the water. If we passed quickly, we could emerge in the foothills with little more than a mild case of plains-sickness, complete with a sore throat and mild fatigue. Otherwise, if our crossing ran even a day too long, symptoms could include blindness, exhaustion, and rampant bleeding of the gums.

Soon, we stood on the threshold between the darkwood and the plains. Avernus’ fog drifted on the subtle wind, pooling and tumbling around our feet. Before us, the darkwood came completely undone, trading the dark halls of trees for an endless white expanse. Knee-high grasses grew in lieu of knotted roots, and the fog restricted our vision to little more than a twenty-foot radius.

“Avernus is the reason very few travel to the darkwood,” Aryssa said, taking a long draft of clean water as if to prepare for the plains ahead. “And the reason why, even to the hungriest warlords, the darkwood is worth less than ratshit.”

She took a deep breath and savored the clean air. “Gilgaroth’s balls,” she said, flicking her tail. “I hate this place.”

“But eastward must we roam,” Azareth supplied.

Aryssa pursed her lips, then nodded assent, and the five of us vanished into the fog.

* * *

While the symptoms of plains-sickness had been mild at first, they grew more and more uncomfortable as hours passed. Where initially, the fog had hardly touched our eyes, its effects had grown into a bloodshot burn. My throat rasped with my every breath, tinged with a scent like rotten eggs. Aryssa said that the plains took nearly two full days to cross at a good pace, but there were parts where the fog didn’t pool so thickly, and that was where we could find our rest. At first, I had thought that distance easy to travel, but each step was becoming more and more of a labor, lungs fighting harder to take in the air. Still, it seemed as though Aryssa and I did not suffer the fog’s effects as badly as our human companions. Their conditions worsened far faster than ours, and the fact brought Aryssa particular concern. When my eyes had just started to water, fighting the burn, their tears had long dried up. Where my lungs only suffered a bearable gnaw, it wasn’t long before they gaped for air like fish brought out of water. Much to our dismay, we found frequent rests necessary, but as the day went on, even those proved ineffective at easing the journey.

We passed great scars in the earth, carved like rivers along Avernus’s flat ground. These scars were craggy, black, like dirt split and tilled by a plough. There, the air felt thicker, more caustic, more harmful to our companions. And, passing one particularly large, Aryssa told us the history of this place.

“Most say this fog comes from the depths of Hell itself,” she said, throat hoarse until she took a swig of water. “Drawn to the surface through these rivers of fire, it was the last act of revenge by one of the demon-kings.”

“Maybe that explains our apparent resistance,” I said, watching the humans struggle. “Our tint of… Hell itself.”

“I wouldn’t have thought direlings hell-touched enough for it to matter, but… you may be right.”

“This demon-king,” Azareth interjected, his discomfort unable to lessen his interest. “Sylt the Fire-born?”

“Big as a mountain, ten times as unyielding,” Aryssa said before pausing a moment. “He, like the other demon-kings, couldn’t be slain by conventional methods. Gilgaroth had to be… ingenious.”

Hemma, trudging next to us, chimed in. “Elthys slew the demon-kings. The Dead God had nothing to do with it.”

“Hmm. Is that what Elthysians believe?”

Azareth waved Hemma’s comment aside. “Too many, unfortunately. But that is a story I know. Tell me—what is the direlings’ account?”

“There is a song, said to have first been sung by Gilgaroth himself.”

“Oh?”

Aryssa nodded, a smile tugging at her lips. “He was, according to common belief, the first bard. Of course, music was hardly existent back then, in a world owned by demons. By their demand, people crafted weapons of war rather than lutes, lyres, pipes. But Gilgaroth knew the power music could hold. That’s why so many of his closest followers became bards… and why the tradition continues to this day. What we know of his character comes from those songs he and his followers composed. Gilgaroth did not sing often, nor loudly, nor publicly, but it is said that his voice could make the earth, the sky, the stars tremble and weep.”

I brushed my tail over hers, as if to say that I held her in the same estimation. Her eyes, bloodshot as they were, sparked in the way that ached my heart.

“Then I would like to hear his song,” Azareth said, and Aryssa sighed.

“I fear it’s a difficult tune, and that to attempt it with Avernus in my lungs would only steal my voice. I would speak the words, but such a story, told by the Dead God… it must be done full justice.”

All the more reason to leave Avernus behind, in my eyes. I could bear what discomfort the fog brought me, but the thought of it stealing her voice touched me with dread.

Azareth seemed content to leave it at that. We walked then on in silence, except for the occasional coughing fit, the muttered complaints about Avernus’s air, or the startled exclamation when Hemma realized her gums were pouring blood. We made an effort to increase our pace, but it was futile.

Hemma seemed to be having the worst time with it. Hours later, she seemed on the verge of collapsing, but stopping was our worst course of action. So, we continued. And, as the sun grew dimmer above us, Aryssa promised that we were nearing the point where the fog grew thinner.

In time, we came upon it. First, it was an array of dark silhouettes, details indiscernible in the fog, but drawing closer focused the blur. While I couldn’t make out the particulars, one thing was abundantly clear—we were not alone in our destination.

There were tents, perhaps a dozen, arrayed in a tightly-packed camp. Humanoid forms meandered through the fog, most holding upright spears. There, at the center, was the unmistakable light of a roaring fire, though its glow was dulled by the omnipresent white.

“A camp on Avernus,” Aryssa muttered, turning to face the rest of us. “I can think of one tribe that crosses these plains in any number.”

“Who?” Azareth asked, a weary look in his bloodshot eyes.

“The Varsha. They’re nomads, found all across Khaldara.”

“How do they feel about Elthysians?” Hemma asked, wiping the blood that leaked from her lips.

“About the same as any other direling tribe.” Aryssa’s smile spread. “But that’s why you have me.”

Azareth made a deferential gesture, and we walked closer to the camp, making our presence known. One of the Varsha saw us, shouted a warning, and the entire camp sprang to life like an agitated hornets’ nest. A look of confusion took Aryssa’s face when, before she’d even spoken a word, a spear was lowered at each of us.

My hand unconsciously sought Elegy’s hilt, but Aryssa tugged on my arm and shook her head. Still, I kept my stance ready, observing these direlings how I would any opponent in a fight.

There was a variety—male and female, some with horns tall and broad while others’ curled like goats’. But in their appearances, there was one common thread—none had an inch of skin exposed to the open air. Each wore strange, unsettling masks, features unable to be discerned beneath layers of leather and eyes of glass.

The direlings seemed confused as well, even moreso when they saw our three hornless companions. Hemma seemed tense, ready to draw her sword at a moment’s notice despite the weakness in her limbs and the blood pooling in her mouth. Luran gave her a certain look as if trying to talk her down, while Azareth easily raised his hands in surrender.

One among the direlings came forward, a towering bow slung across his shoulder rather than a spear in hand. His face, like all the others, was obscured by the mask, but his long silver hair hung loose around it. His horns curled upward, nearly matching my own for height, though he seemed to be of a stockier build.

“Fuck me,” Aryssa muttered, quiet enough that only I heard. There was recognition in her eyes—recognition that seemed mirrored in the masked man’s bearing.

“Ari,” he said, and Aryssa set her shoulders.

“Thell.”

The man pulled at his mask’s strap and peeled it from his face, revealing eyes as gray as his hair. His face was far younger than his hair would’ve indicated, and I placed his age to be a few years beyond my own. Cleanshaven, his cheeks were absent the scars and furrows I had expected to see.

“Of all the places to see you again, I never would’ve thought it to be on Avernus,” he said. He raised an open hand, and the circle of spears around us lifted, the masked warriors relaxing. “With a band of Elthysians, at that.”

“And I would’ve thought Varsha to be more kind to strangers encountered in hostile lands. What happened to the wanderer’s creed?”

“These are strange times. And our hospitality has never extended to the hornless ones.”

“They mean you no harm.”

“There are songs that sing of their treachery… and I know that you’ve never forgotten a verse.”

Her tail twitched, agitated. “I suppose you’ll have to take my word for it, then.”

The man held her eyes for a moment, then turned to the warrior by his side. “Fetch our visitors some masks. The rest of you are dismissed.”

The circle around us slowly came undone, masked direlings following their commander’s order. Many still looked at us with suspicious eyes, but I allowed myself to more fully relax.

“My name is Thellen,” the silver-haired man said, coming closer to us and lowering his voice. “As commander of this patrol, I… apologize for our less-than-friendly reception.”

“You aren’t exactly known for your warm disposition,” Aryssa mumbled, and Thellen’s frown tightened.

“Perhaps not. But even so, it’s as I said. Strange times. This time of year, my people should have settled near the Ebon Grove. As it stands… we’ve been unable to cross these plains.”

“Why?” Aryssa asked, tilting her head.

“Trouble with the undead.”

“I thought the Varsha trained the best Dreamers in all of Khaldara.”

“Such is our pride, yes,” he nodded, eyes growing distant. “But this threat is unlike any we’ve seen before.”

“Banshees? Everbleeds?”

“Nothing so mundane,” he said, a certain weight in his words. Aryssa and Azareth exchanged a brief, worried glance.

“I’d hardly call an everbleed mundane,” Azareth said, earning an annoyed flick of the eyes.

“And what do you know of the undead?”

Aryssa shook her head. “He’s a necromage, Thell. Maybe he can help.”

Thellen stared at Azareth for a hard moment, then sighed and averted his eyes. “Normally, I’d call you a fool for suggesting I turn to an Elthysian for help, concerning the undead. But…”

“Strange times?”

He grunted, turning as one of his soldiers returned. She carried masks, identical to those that the entire camp wore. Thellen handed one to each of us, pausing when he saw the blood leaking from Hemma’s lips.

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“How long have you been on Avernus?” he asked, and Aryssa made a tired gesture.

“We left the darkwood this morning.”

“They shouldn’t be this sick.”

“I know. We thought, maybe… the fog is said to come from Hell. And they don’t have the benefit of having demon’s blood.”

“You’re lucky you found us, then. These masks should protect you from the worst of the fog.”

One by one, we put on the masks. The thing was stuffy, smelling of sweat and herbs, but within a few minutes, the burn of Avernus in my lungs had dulled to a distant ache.

Thellen replaced his own, then led us into the cover of his tent. There was just enough room for all of us to sit on the bristling grass. I found my place in the corner, unbuckling Elegy and resting it in my lap. Aryssa took my side, tail wrapping around me while her fingers brushed my leg.

“You should know. Thellen… is an old flame,” she said, quiet, for my ears alone.

I let the silence sit for a while, not sure what to make of that. “How long ago?”

“Years.” She hesitated. “He was one of my first. It wasn’t too long after my mentor sent me to wander the world. I traveled with the Varsha for a while, as many bards do. We were young, thought it was love.”

“It wasn’t?”

She laughed briefly, then pulled me closer. “I’ll admit, it felt like it at the time. In hindsight, I think I just liked the sex.”

I ran hot when she said that. I tensed a bit, bracing against her touch.

“Oh, Val. I’m not talking about us. That’s the least of the reasons that I like you.”

I brushed her tail with my own. “What other reasons are there?”

“There are many.” She held my eyes, a small sadness entering her own. “But it’s… hard to explain. Even as a bard, I feel woefully unable to describe it.”

“It’s difficult… to write a song.”

“It is.” Her nails scratched along my back then through my dark hair. “But I’d wager that a song about you… would come easily. Surely.”

Warmth bloomed within me like coal catching fire. I let my body go rather limp, leaning on her with all of my weight, and she accepted me in turn.

“But how is the sex?” I asked, and laughter echoed in her chest.

“Valhera, darling. Do you have to ask?”

“Ari,” I replied somewhat indignantly. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel… like a goat. Trying to paint a delicate picture, but all I have are hooves.”

“Quite the image. Maybe you should’ve been the bard.”

“You know what I mean.” My cheeks flushed rather red, hidden behind the mask.

She gripped my side reassuringly. “Give yourself some credit, Val. You’re a very fast learner.”

I found some small confidence in her words. I had cringed to think that our dance was one-sided, but pondered her movements, her noises while we had toiled in the dark… and supposed the answer should have been obvious.

I wanted to kiss her, but the mask forbade me. Instead, I looked to Thellen, standing just outside the tent. He quietly conversed with one of his soldiers before ducking inside and regarding our company.

He cleared his throat, gathering the attention of the others who had been similarly engaged in their own conversation. “I fear,” he began, shrugging the longbow from his shoulder and resting it against the canvas wall, “that plains-sickness will soon become the least of your worries.”

“I feel better already,” Hemma said, and I wondered if she’d used her healing light to staunch the blood’s flow.

“Yes, but… there is another danger on Avernus. The fog has long made this place uninhabitable, even for undead, but… that has changed.”

“I crossed Avernus a month or two ago, by myself,” Aryssa said. “I saw no undead.”

“Then Gilgaroth indeed blessed your path. My people were not so lucky.”

He bowed his head before continuing. “We spent our summer in the darkwood, as is our tradition. We visited the sites of the old wars. Our Dreamers listened to the earth and told us its stories. The season ended, and we made our heading across the plains, splitting into smaller groups for efficiency. A third of our companies never made it to the other side. There were some stragglers. Blood-soaked, tattered clothes, shouting that their families had been slain by horrifying undead. They told us… of the mistmen.”

“Mistmen?” Azareth asked, and Thellen spared him a glance.

“Yes. They are like nothing in any of our Dreamers’ tales.”

“Truly?” Azareth seemed intrigued by the fact. “Describe them.”

Thellen’s reflex, it seemed, was to bristle. But his eyes jumped to Aryssa, then he bowed his head in a rather weary look.

“Pale skin, white as the fog itself,” he began, voice dropping lower. “Their mouths open wide… far too wide. Inside, there are rows and rows of teeth that crunch through armor and bone. Their arms drag along the ground, far too long for their body, and… their breath can kill or fill your lungs with blood.”

“What about their behavior?” Azareth returned.

“Coordinated. Rather like wights.” Thellen hesitated. “But aggressive like nothing any of us have seen.”

“Do they seem possessed of any intelligence?”

“I don’t know. In truth, my company was spared the horror of seeing them. We managed to locate one’s remains from one of the ambushes, but the Dreamers have gleaned little from it.”

“So you have returned, intent to find your people, even dead as they are?”

Thellen paused. There was something haughty in Azareth’s voice—a tone I had been on the receiving end of, that bloody night in Gazmere. When he had smiled, cold, beneath colder eyes.

With the mask on his face, perhaps it was less unnerving. Even so, Thellen adopted a more defensive air and stance.

“The Varsha do not abandon their own. Not even in death.”

“Even if it means many more may die?”

Thellen’s voice became a lower growl. “I would not expect an Elthysian to understand.”

I couldn’t be sure, not seeing his face, but I thought Azareth smiled at that response. With mirth. Humor. Even on the subject of death.

“I am a necromage,” he countered, voice steady and slow. “I am perhaps the only one who understands. There is little point in sacrificing the living for the sake of the dead. It is… rather wasteful.”

“I don’t have to justify the ways of my people to the likes of you.” Thellen shook his head, anger apparent in the clench of his fingers. “And I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were asking for a spear in the ribs.”

Azareth sighed, though it only seemed to fog his mask’s beady eyes. “Very well. Let us not resort to crass threats of violence. If you would benefit from my help, I would think it only fair, given what help you have given us.”

Thellen nodded curtly. “We have driftweed, if you need it.”

“I am no Dreamer. Only… show me this corpse you discovered. Perhaps I can intuit something from the remains.”

“Fine. Come with me.”

He moved to exit the tent, and Azareth stood to follow. Before the necromage quite ventured outside, however, his gaze turned imperiously to me.

“Come, Valhera,” he said, grin visible in my mind’s eye. “I think you may be of some help in this.”

Reluctant, I pulled my head from Aryssa’s shoulder. “What do I know about undead?”

“Not much, surely. But it would seem… that you possess a rare sensitivity to these things.” He gestured once more that I follow. “Come.”

I did not relish the idea of spending time with Azareth, but knew he would only vex me further if I declined. So, to save myself some measure of headache, I traced Aryssa’s arm as a goodbye and stood.

We walked through the Varsha camp, between their small collection of tents and passing the rudimentary fortifications that had been erected—pointed stakes driven into the earth, shallow trenches dug to slow any aggressors. Along our path, Azareth spoke to me, quiet, as if to hide his words from Thellen’s ears.

“You felt something, seeing Gazmere’s undead. Did you not?”

I looked to him. His eyes were hardly visible in the shade beneath his mask, but I knew how his brow rose, accenting the question. I also knew that he knew the answer. It only took me a moment to compose my simple response.

“Yes.”

“Not the wail, of course. Before that.”

I sighed. “Yes.”

He only grunted. A few moments later, Thellen gestured that we enter one of the camp’s many tents. I ducked in after Azareth, and though I had seen my share of death, though Thellen’s description had been vivid in my mind’s eye, I was not prepared for the sight that greeted me.

Once, perhaps, it had been a direling—a tail lay limp on the ground, companion to the gnarled horns on its head, but that was where the similarities ended. Its eyes were clouded, as though the fog of Avernus issued from its skull. Its nose was shriveled and crooked, seeming to have shrunk to accommodate the impossible breadth and depth of its mouth. It lay, slack-jawed, dry tongue flopping past rows of vicious teeth to rest on the grass like a worm poking its head from carrion. Wisps of hair clung to its skull, thin and sparse and scabbed as if blemished by mange. The body, too, seemed drained of its excess, skin hugging the skeleton tight, stretched and taut like the head of a drum. The arms lay at odd angles, lengthened, akimbo, as the fingers bent in footlong furls. The legs seemed so small, so short in comparison, though they would have been a normal length on any living humanoid.

I took in air, sharp, hands wringing at each other as I worked through my surprise, my dread, my revulsion. Azareth, however, had no such inhibitions. He walked a circle around the thing as though patrolling his temple grounds, then knelt near the face.

“We found this one a mile or so to the east,” Thellen supplied, maybe sweating in the silence. “Dragged it here, hoping it could help the Dreamers in our main camp, though… they’ve likely had their fill of corpses.”

“Mmh,” Azareth grunted. He touched the thing’s open mouth, skimmed a finger over its teeth, prodded his nail into the tongue. He peeled back the eyelids, lifted the pallid hand, then turned the corpse on its side, letting go so that it fell onto its emaciated belly.

There was a wound on its back, stark red against the veritable white of its flesh. It had soured, turning a darker shade, but Azareth nonetheless stretched it open. “Slain by simple steel, it seems,” he said, looking to Thellen for confirmation.

“It was the few survivors’ saving grace.”

“They have not risen since? None?”

Thellen paused, arms folded about his chest. “Not that I know of. And of those we’ve recovered, our Dreamers have assured us there is little risk of the bodies moving again.”

Azareth nodded, then his gaze flicked to me. “Valhera,” he said, a command, gesturing that I come closer.

I complied, even as my instincts told me to run far away from the thing. There was an unsettling air about it, something… I could not describe. Only… when I looked at its skin, bone-white, bone-bare, some deep and instinctual part of me… swore that it should not exist.

“What did you feel, meeting the griever in Gazmere?”

I tensed, thinking of that bloody night, but for once, Azareth did not seem to be prodding me. Not intentionally, at least.

“I don’t know. It’s… difficult to explain.”

“Try.” He took a rare tone. Almost… patient.

I thought back. I blocked out the prelude to my encounter, and the aftermath. Rather than focus on my father’s blood, on my neighbors’ blood, I narrowed my eyes to only see the creature that had brought my demon-fire roaring forward.

Of course, I could not consider it without remembering what else had happened. But my fingers pressed and passed each other, touching each other’s subtle little gnarls. And, as I continued to rub and feel, I managed to banish the darkness that stood on either end of Azareth’s question.

“Sorrow,” I said, surprising myself with its simplicity. “Sorrow, like… I was far from home.”

Azareth dipped his head in a brief nod. “Do you feel such sorrow here?”

I looked at the corpse’s blank, clouded eyes. I shivered, taking in the jagged, leering line of its jaw.

“No.”

He lifted his mask, regarding me plainly. His eyes were narrowed in concentration, his lips tensed in a perfect line. His nostrils flared while he contemplated, and his eyes…

I could have sworn his eyes were smiling.

“What do you feel?” he asked, and the response squirmed within me.

A hundred words felt insufficient to quite capture it. I felt as though I lay in a dream, seeing this thing, as though it had been conjured, unreal, from the depths of my fearful mind. I felt as though this creature would henceforth lurk in every shadow cast, ready to spring and rend my flesh any second I let down my guard. I felt a strange sort of dread, as if I was the thing that lay in the grass… as if I would transform into it, should I die.

But one word broke past all the others. It did not convey the fathomless depth of the feeling… and yet, another fear was that nothing quite could.

“Wrong,” I said.

“Wrong,” Azareth repeated. “Wrong,” he enunciated, as if tasting the word itself. He leaned forward, eyes closed, hands braced on the thing’s bony back, and held his breath for a few moments of utter silence.

“Wrong,” he said, withdrawing and settling to a more upright position. He lowered the mask over his face—but not before I caught the smirk eating at his lips. “I think that is a fair way to put it.”

“What does it mean?” Thellen asked, seeming farther away, as if he had taken a step in retreat.

“I cannot say for sure for some time.” Azareth waved him away, directing all of his focus onto the corpse. “But my order has never before encountered something of this kind… at least, not for a very long time.”

“It sounds like you have a theory,” Thellen said. Azareth, moving toward the thing’s wound, seemed to remember that he should not do his gruesome business in the presence of such company. Rather annoyedly, his head craned toward Thellen.

“I do. But it is only that. A theory.”

“A theory my people deserve to hear.” Thellen’s arms folded, stance firm as adamant stone.

“Do not worry yourself with it. I am likely mistaken.”

“I’d rather our Dreamers help make that call.”

Azareth stiffed, the subtle twinge of budding anger present in his hands. “Oh? You would beg my help then doubt my expertise?”

“I would think them far more familiar with the dead.”

Azareth held still, silent for a long, agonizing moment. It was agonizing to me, at least, as I knew the tone his voice would carry next. His toothy, dark grin flashed behind my eyes. Seeing the image, I retreated an inch.

But Thellen did not know the necromage’s tells. He regarded us both carefully, though he tensed when Azareth’s words came forward.

“I have tread beyond the Veil,” he said, hard as flint, sharp as steel. “I have cleansed entire villages, towns, countrysides of undead. I have cast my eyes toward the Void for longer, I would wager, than you have been alive.”

I could hear his smile, how it touched and tinged every word. “Do not think me a common Elthysian, good Varsha.” He seemed larger, then, as if casting a monstrous shadow. “Do not be so inane.”

There was a change in Thellen’s stance—subtle, but I had an eye for such things. One foot had drifted back behind the other, bracing to stand his ground… or to run. To his credit, he did not lose his composure—rather, he dug in his heel, gritted his teeth, and hissed a response.

“These things have slaughtered my people.” He shook his head, great strands of silver hair shaking like tempestuous waves. “Brothers, sisters… friends. The least I deserve—that my kin deserve—is to not be kept in the dark.”

Azareth held his stare. The air was heavy, stretched and strained. I sweated, knees to my chest, desperately rolling my gambeson’s skirt between my fingers as if it would quell the breaking storm or bring me comfort from the touch.

But... Azareth sighed. “Forgive me,” he said. “At times, I become so wrapped in process and study that I forget the… humanity of it all.”

He dusted off his hands and made to stand. I rose with him, eager to get away from this place, from that thing. But Thellen still watched us expectantly, up until Azareth uttered a single word.

“Necromancy,” he said. Each syllable seemed like a needle stuck into Thellen’s spine.

Thellen did not move—hardly did he seem to breathe.

“Surely… a farce,” he said.

“I would never.”

The two men watched each other. Thellen held his arms about his chest, tight in the shoulders, tail lashing back and forth through the grass.

“It’s impossible.”

“It is unlikely,” Azareth conceded.

“Necromancy? It was… the perversion of demons.”

“To raise the dead and command them.” Azareth stepped forward, over the corpse, then gestured that I follow. “One of many reasons they kept our ancestors as livestock.”

“Are you saying… Hell has returned? A demon has done this?”

“I am saying,” Azareth replied, sounding rather tired, “that it is a theory. There is nothing to suggest that demons have wandered this world since the days of Elthys and Gilgaroth. It is only… that no undead may rise without sorrow, anger… grief. Other things may linger past death, surely, but they do not manifest in something such as this.”

Azareth moved as if to return to our tent, but Thellen’s voice stopped him. “I know our Dreamers would like to hear your account. I fear… I couldn’t convey such a theory.”

“I am not concerned with the affairs of your tribe,” Azareth replied, though he seemed hesitant.

“Surely the return of necromancy would worry Elthysia as well.”

“My purpose here is singular, and no less dire.”

Thellen gesticulated, tail thumping as it beat the canvas wall. “Then what of you, your companions? Left untended, their plains-sickness could have blinded them. Or killed them, before too long.”

Azareth said nothing, only holding the man’s stare.

“This is the least that you owe my people,” Thellen continued. “Besides, it takes time to recover from the sort of affliction your company has suffered. A few days. A week, maybe. It would be unwise to travel in such a state.”

Azareth seemed to think on that for a while. He looked past Thellen, past me, to where the perverse thing lay. He took in a deep breath, then shivered as it ran through his body and down his spine. He held himself in such a way that, had I not known better… I would’ve thought him glad to be so delayed.

“Very well,” he said, and Thellen visibly relaxed. “Your Dreamers shall have my help on this matter, for a time. But should my theory prove wrong, should I be able to provide no assistance or insight… I will be on my way.”

Thellen’s head dipped in an appreciative nod. “I understand.”

“This environment is not ideal for study, but… I would be a poor necromage if only able to work in castles and towers,” Azareth said. “I will do what I can with this one specimen until we arrive at your main camp, but do not expect much.”

Thellen nodded at the admonition. “Regardless, I… thank you, necromage. I’ll assign a guard to your door to stick the thing should it stir.”

“No need,” Azareth waved, but Thellen didn’t seem to hear, already moving to accomplish his intent. Then, as we two were left alone, Azareth’s attention turned to me.

“I have no further need of you,” he said, gesturing the direction we came. “Go, be with your sweetheart.”

Something about his tone put me off. It wasn’t the suggestion of his words—from the way he regarded Hemma and Luran, too, I understood that he simply had no patience for romance, no matter what form it took. Rather, I turned his words over and over in my head, even as he shouldered past, beginning his work behind the screen of that canvas door.

The mask had barred his face, but I felt I had known him long enough to know the ways his brows rose and turned, the ways his eyes widened, narrowed, or gleamed. The suggestions of every wrinkle on his face…

The nature of his many smiles.

I couldn’t shake the image from my head. It was simple—a memory. His lips curled, broad, showing teeth wet and white. Brow tilted in a subtle look of sympathy. His eyes… hard. Excited. Barren of compassion.

It put a chill in my blood. But I did not want to dwell on it. Instead, I followed his suggestion, more than happy to return to Aryssa’s lovely arms.

* * *

Hours passed in that camp, and at Thellen’s invitation, Aryssa and I rested around the campfire among the other direlings. She played her lute in the idle silence, fingers meandering contemplatively across the strings without her voice as accompaniment. She hummed along with the music from deep within her chest, and I, close enough to touch, found myself lost in its sound. Still, I ached to hear her sing, but absent her vocals, I could better appreciate her skill and dexterity. She did not play fast, but her music ebbed and flowed, fierce as fire or slow as the tide. The mask hid her face, but I imagined what lay beneath. Lips creased in a smile, irises green like the first weeks of summer. I thought of her in that pond in the darkwood. Her touch, her lips… her words. It was almost too much.

Unable to do much else, I drew. I had already drawn pages and pages, images of her face, her body, all in an attempt to capture what I saw in her. But, using my simple tools of charcoal and the small, cramped space of a sketchbook’s page, I found it difficult. Even so, it didn’t stop me from trying.

I wondered if she knew the power she held over me. I… had never before found myself so infatuated. I looked to Thellen, resting nearby, and wondered about their history. Had he heard her songs the same? I found it all rather difficult to comprehend, but contented myself with enjoying the music.

Then the sound of a horn, low and rumbling, sliced through her song and ripped me from my reverie. The Varsha, all at once, sprang into motion like arrows from a bowstring. Blades unsheathed, voices thundering—all were vying for attention amidst the din. Aryssa fumbled a chord, hand migrating to the small sword she kept by her side.

A shriek emerged from the noise, deafening, blood-curdling. Luran and Hemma came out of Thellen’s tent, weapons unsheathed. Azareth poked his head from his interim workshop, brow furrowed somewhere between irritation and concern. I stood, Elegy singing as it sprang from its sheath, mithril shining in a way I could only describe as trepid—maybe my own emotion reflected. My sketchbook tumbled, forgotten, into the long grass. My eyes darted around the camp, hoping, wishing that someone would explain why all Hell had so suddenly broken loose.

I didn’t wait long for my answer. Behind me, a Varsha screamed, and whirling, I witnessed a pallid creature tearing them apart. Hooked fingers ripped into cloth and flesh, pulling out the bleeding bits. Teeth, far too many, crunched as they crushed the collarbone. On its head, a crown of mangled horns, and on its back, a whipping tail. Luran lunged, one sword finding the creature’s neck, the other burying between its ribs. He shoved it writhing off, then pierced its brain with a knife through the chin. Gasping, twitching, it soon moved no more.

Luran peeled the mask from the direling’s face, but his efforts had been too late. A boy, some years younger than me, stared emptily back, foam and blood dripping from his mouth. Standing again, Luran retook Hemma’s side, concern written in every movement of his body. Azareth, however, had no such reservations. He crouched over the monstrous creature, prodding at its flesh, fingers sampling its sour blood.

“It attacks with no sense of self-preservation… perhaps intent only on slaughter.” Pensive, he wiped his hands with a handkerchief, then turned as if only remembering the rest of us were present. “They are like nothing I’ve ever seen, these mistmen.”

“This isn’t the time for fucking study,” Hemma growled. One of the undead rounded the tent behind her, and her blade snapped upward, catching it on the chest and chin. As it reeled, she lunged, pivoted, and slashed its belly open. It toppled, and she sank her sword into its chest, one final strike. She panted a moment, voice hoarse from the plains-sickness. “How many of them are there?”

The shouts and shrieks of combat around us barely gave us an answer. “Many,” Luran growled, and as he took a defensive stance next to his spouse, I aimed to help Aryssa.

In one hand, she held her small sword. The other hovered around her pocket, hesitant. She didn’t wear the same shade of panic as the rest, and instead seemed deep in thought.

“Stay behind me,” I told her, and she twitched to attention. Nodding, she briefly squeezed my arm—an ounce of comfort, just before the throes of battle.

One of the mistmen hurtled toward us, and I tasted the curse’s bitter blackness pooling on my tongue. Its crimson crept into my eyes. I looked once more at Aryssa, and mused that I would gladly suffer my hellborne madness to protect her. Though we had not known each other long… she had given me something far valuable than all the world’s gold.

The demon-fire roared through my veins, unfettered, unleashed. The ichor freely flowed from my mouth, pooling between my mask and lips. That would be an issue. I ripped the mask away, and shook out my long hair. I imagined myself, red-eyed, blackness dripping from my lips, black hair framing my horns and face. Something about the image made that mad part of me smile.

The mistman came within range of my blade, and my mithril sang as it pierced the ribs and crunched into the spine. I pressed forward, driving the monster back, withdrew my blade, and slashed the other way. Its throat came open, hissing breath escaping, and when it fell, I ground my boot into its skull.

My demon had had its first taste of blood, and its fire ached for my body to continue. So, when another mistman came into my view, my diagonal slash bit deep into its shoulder. It continued forward, and my offhand fist bore into its eye. It staggered, stumbling, and I brought down my pommel, caving its skull.

As the mistmen continued, more and more Varsha were driven toward the camp’s center. Soon, those that remained formed a circle between the toppled tents. The circumstances dire, they were spreading too thin. The line could not hold for long. Every single one fought with the desperate fervor of a cornered viper, but the tides of mistmen seemed impossible to break.

I dealt death with every swing of my blade. Where Elegy passed, blood rained down. It split mistmen’s skulls. It spilled their guts and cleaved their hearts. Mithril carved through bone: ribs and necks and vertebrae. The few times it got stuck, an arrow pierced the victim’s eye. From behind the line, Thellen stood, his enormous longbow shivering with every arrow shot from its string. He caught my eyes once, his demeanor filled with some mixture of awe and dread. But I, burning with demon-fire, spared him no thought. There was, to my thrill, still blood to be spilled.

One mistman lost its head and shoulder together as my blade bit through the collarbone and ribs. One managed to get a fistful of my gambeson, but my riposte cut off an arm, then half the head. Another clawed at me from behind, but a Varsha surged forward, spear skewering the thing off-balance, and I whirled, sword ripping out its throat with the force of my spin.

My chin was stained black; my eyes were throbbing red. My blood burned while the bliss of battle danced in my ears. My downward strike cleaved a mistman’s head, continuing halfway through the chest. My upward cut grinded against another’s femur before a Varsha finished it off. One more pallid creature loped at me with claws bared, but my sideways slash tore through its spine. It tumbled, two dead halves thumping at my feet.

Then, there was quiet. I stood, breath heaving in the growing silence. I looked around and saw no more enemies to slay. The remaining Varsha looked back, faces inscrutable from behind their masks. One shouted their victory. Then another. Before I knew it, the entire camp was roaring with the sounds of triumph.

My demon-fire began to fade. The ichor receded into my throat. My head began to ache, and my tongue tasted of blood.

My nose, throat, and eyes all burned like furious fire. Some mixture of Avernus’ fog and the mistmen’s breath. It was suffocating. Absent the roaring adrenaline, I was left to feel the toxin’s horrible burn.

I remember feeling wet. I remember looking at myself and being unable to see the pink of my skin beneath the blood that covered me, head to toe. I remember… being confused. The fog in my head, as if I’d forgotten how to think.

Aryssa came to me, peeling back her mask to reveal the concern in her eyes. Seeing her, I dropped my sword. My eyes rolled into my head. She caught me as I fell forward, and held me as my stomach heaved. The vomit washed over both of us, and she nearly dropped my body’s weight.

I closed my eyes, and my lights went out.